Garion laughed. “I couldn’t carry it, Brador,” he said.
“I visited the royal treasury at Riva once, and I know how much a million weighs. Who’s next?”
“The Chief of the Bureau of Commerce—an unmitigated, unprincipled ass. Like most Bureau Chiefs.”
Garion smiled. “And what does he want?”
Brador tugged thoughtfully at one earlobe. “I’m not entirely certain. I’ve been out of the country. Vasca’s a devious one, though, so I’d be careful of him.”
“I’m always careful, Brador.”
The Baron Vasca, Chief of the Bureau of Commerce, was wrinkled and bald. He wore the brown robe that seemed to be almost the uniform of the bureaucracy, and the gold chain of his office seemed almost too heavy for his thin neck. Though at first glance he appeared to be old and frail, his eyes were as alert and shrewd as those of a vulture. “Ah, your Majesty,” he said after they had been introduced, “I’m so pleased to meet you at last.”
“My pleasure, Baron Vasca,” Garion said politely.
They chatted together for some time, and Garion could not detect anything in the baron’s conversation that seemed in the least bit out of the ordinary.
“I note that Prince Kheldar of Drasnia is a member of your party,” the baron said finally.
“We’re old friends. You’re acquainted with Kheldar then, Baron?”
“We’ve had a few dealings together—the customary permits and gratuities, you understand. For the most part, though, he tends to avoid contact with the authorities.”
“I’ve noticed that from time to time,” Garion said.
“I was certain that you would have. I won’t keep your Majesty. Many others here are eager to meet you, and I wouldn’t want to be accused of monopolizing your time. We must talk again soon.”
The baron turned to the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs. “So good of you to introduce us, my dear Brador,” he said.
“It’s nothing, my dear Baron,” Brador replied. He took Garion by the arm, and they moved away from Vasca.
“What was that all about?” Garion asked.
“I’m not altogether sure,” Brador replied, “but whatever he wanted, he seems to have gotten.”
“We didn’t really say anything.”
“I know. That’s what worries me. I think I’ll have my old friend Vasca watched. He’s managed to arouse my curiosity.”
During the next couple of hours Garion met two more gaudily dressed petty kings, a fair number of more soberly garbed bureaucrats, and a sprinkling of semi-important nobles and their ladies. Many of them, of course, wanted nothing more than to be seen talking to him so that later they could say in a casual, offhand fashion, “I was talking with Belgarion the other day, and he said—” Others made some point of suggesting that a private conversation might be desirable at some later date, A few even tried to set up specific appointments.
It was rather late when Velvet finally came to his rescue. She approached the place where Garion was trapped by the royal family of Peldane, a stodgy little kinglet in a mustard yellow turban, his simpering, scrawny wife in a pink gown that clashed horribly with her orange hair, and three spoiled royal brats who spent their time whining and hitting each other. “Your Majesty,” the blond girl said with a curtsy, “Your wife asks your permission to retire.”
“Asks?”
“She’s feeling slightly unwell.”
Garion gave her a grateful look. “I must go to her at once, then,” he said quickly. He turned to the Peldane royalty. “I hope you’ll all excuse me,” he said to them.
“Of course, Belgarion,” the kinglet replied graciously.
“And please convey our regards to your lovely wife,” the queenlet added.
The royal brood continued to howl and kick each other.
“You looked a bit harried,” Velvet murmured as she led Garion away.
“I could kiss you.”
“Now that’s an interesting suggestion.”
Garion glanced sourly back over his shoulder. “They should drown those three little monsters and raise a litter of puppies instead,” he muttered.
“Piglets,” she corrected.
He looked at her.
“At least they could sell the bacon,” she explained. “That way the effort wouldn’t be a total loss.”
“Is Ce’Nedra really ill?”
“Of course not. She’s made as many conquests as she wants to this evening, that’s all. She wants to save a few for future occasions. Now it’s time for the grand withdrawal, leaving a horde of disappointed admirers, who were all panting to meet her, crushed with despair.”
“That’s a peculiar way to look at it.”
She laughed affectionately, linking her arm in his. “Not if you’re a woman, it’s not.”
The following morning shortly after breakfast, Garion and Belgarath were summoned to meet with ’Zakath and Brador in the Emperor’s private study. The room was large and comfortable, lined with books and maps and with deeply upholstered chairs clustered about low tables. It was a warm day outside, and the windows stood open, allowing a blossom-scented spring breeze to ruffle the curtains.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” ’Zakath greeted them as they were escorted into the room. “I hope you slept well.”
“Once I managed to get Ce’Nedra out of the tub.” Garion laughed. “It’s just a bit too convenient, I think.Would you believe that she bathed three times yesterday?”
“Mal Zeth is very hot and dusty in the summertime,” ’Zakath said. “The baths make it bearable.”
“How does the hot water get to them?” Garion asked curiously. “I haven’t seen anyone carrying pails up and down the halls.”
“It’s piped in under the floors,” the Emperor replied. “The artisan who devised the system was rewarded with a baronetcy.”
“I hope you don’t mind if we steal the idea. Durnik’s already making sketches.”
“I think it’s unhealthy myself,” Belgarath said, “Bathing should be done out of doors—in cold water. All this pampering softens people.” He looked at ’Zakath. “I’m sure you didn’t ask us here to discuss the philosophical ramifications of bathing, though.”
“Not unless you really want to, Belgarath,” ’Zakath replied. He straightened in his chair. “Now that we’ve all had a chance to rest from our journey, I thought that maybe it was time for us to get to work. Brador’s people have made their reports to him, and he’s ready to give us his assessment of the current situation in Karanda. Go ahead, Brador.”
“Yes, your Majesty.” The plump, bald Melcene rose from his chair and crossed to a very large map of the Mallorean continent hanging on the wall. The map was exquisitely colored with blue lakes and rivers, green prairies, darker green forests and brown, white-topped mountains. Instead of simply being dots on the map, the cities were represented by pictures of buildings and fortifications. The Mallorean highway system, Garion noted, was very nearly as extensive as the Tolnedran network in the west.
Brador cleared his throat, fought for a moment with one of ’Zakath’s ferocious kittens for the long pointer he wanted to use, and began. “As I reported to you in Rak Hagga,” he said, “a man named Mengha came out of this immense forest to the north of Lake Karanda some six months ago.” He tapped the representation of a large belt of trees stretching from the Karandese Range to the Mountains of Zamad. “We know very, very little about his background.”
“That’s not entirely true, Brador,” Belgarath disagreed. “Cyradis told us that he’s a Grolim priest—or he used to be. That puts us in a position to deduce quite a bit.”
“I’d be interested to hear whatever you can come up with,” ’Zakath said.