“Silk, we can’t even get out of the palace right now—much less the city. We’ve stirred up a fight, and now we’re going to be caught right in the middle of it.”
Silk nodded glumly. “I know,” he said.
“I’ll have to go to ’Zakath,” Garion said. “Tell him the whole story. He can have his imperial guards disarm everybody.”
“If you thought it was hard to come up with a way to get out of the palace, start thinking about how we’re going to get out of the imperial dungeon. ’Zakath’s been polite so far, but I don’t think his patience—or his hospitality—would extend to this.” Garion grunted.
“I’m afraid that we’ve outsmarted ourselves,” Silk said. He scratched at his head. “I do that sometimes,” he added.
“Can you think of any way to head it off?”
“I’m afraid not. The whole situation is just too inflammable. Maybe we’d better tell Belgarath.”
Garion winced. “He won’t be happy.”
“He’ll be a lot less happy if we don’t tell him.”
Garion sighed. “I suppose you’re right All right, let’s go get it over with.”
It took quite some time to locate Belgarath. They finally found him standing at a window in a room high up in the east wing. The window looked out over the palace wall. Beyond that wall fires ranged unchecked in the stricken city. Sheets of sooty flame belched from whole blocks of houses, and a pall of thick smoke blotted out the starry sky. “It’s getting out of hand,” the old man said. “They should be pulling down houses to make firebreaks, but I think the soldiers are afraid to leave their barracks.” He swore. “I hate fires,” he said.
“Something’s sort of come up,” Silk said cautiously, looking around to see if he could locate the spy holes in the walls of the room.
“What is it?”
“Oh, nothing all that much,” Silk replied with exaggerated casualness. “We just thought that we’d bring it to your attention, is all.” His fingers, however, were twitching and flickering. Even as he spoke quite calmly, improvising some minor problem with the horses for the edification of the spies they all knew were watching and listening, his dancing fingers laid out the entire situation for the old man.
“You what!” Belgarath exclaimed, then covered the outburst with a cough.
—You told us to devise a diversion, Grandfather— Garion’s hands said as Silk continued to ramble on about the horses.
—A diversion, yes— Belgarath’s fingers replied,—but not pitched battles inside the palace. What were you thinking of—
—It was the best we could come up with— Garion replied lamely.
“Let me think about this for a minute,” the old man said aloud. He paced back and forth for a while, his hands clasped behind his back and his face furrowed with concentration. “Let’s go talk with Durnik,” he said finally. “He’s more or less in charge of the horses, so we’ll need his advice.” Just before he turned to lead them from the room, however, his fingers flickered one last time.—Try not to walk too softly on the way downstairs— he told them.—I need to give you some instructions, and wiggling our fingers takes too long—
As they left the room, Garion and Silk scuffed their feet and brought the heels of their boots down hard on the marble floor to cover Belgarath’s whispering voice.
“All right,” the old man breathed, scarcely moving his lips as they moved along the corridor toward the stairs leading down. “The situation isn’t really irretrievable. Since we can’t stop this little brawl you’ve arranged anyway, let it go ahead and happen. Wewill need the horses, though, so, Garion, I want you to go to ’Zakath and tell him that we’d like to isolate our mounts from the rest of the stables. Tell him that it’s to avoid having them catch the plague.”
“Can horses catch the plague?” Garion whispered in some surprise.
“How should I know? But if I don’t, you can be sure that ’Zakath won’t either. Silk, you sort of ease around and let everybody know—quietly—that we’re just about to leave and to get ready without being too obvious about it.”
“Leave?” Garion’s whisper was startled. “Grandfather, do you know a way to get out of the palace—and the city?”
“No, but I know someone who does. Get to ’Zakath with your request about the horses as quickly as you can. He’s got his mind on so many other things right now that he probably won’t give you any argument about it.” He looked at Silk. “Can you give me any kind of idea as to when your little explosion is going to take place?”
“Not really,” Silk whispered back, still scuffing his feet on the stairs as they went down. “It could happen at any minute, I suppose.”
Belgarath shook his head in disgust. “I think you need to go back to school,” he breathed irritably. "How to do something is important, yes, but when is sometimes even more important.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
“Do. We’d all better hurry, then. We want to be ready when this unscheduled little eruption takes place.”
There were a dozen high-ranking officers with ’Zakath when Garion was admitted to the large, red-draped room where the Emperor was conferring with his men. “I’ll be with you in a bit, Garion,” the haggard-looking man said. Then he turned back to his generals. “We have to get orders to the troops,” he told them. “I need a volunteer to go out into the city.” The generals looked at each other, scuffing their feet on the thick blue carpet.
“Am I going to have to order someone to go?” ’Zakath demanded in exasperation.
“Uh—excuse me,” Garion interjected mildly, “but why does anybody have to go at all?”
“Because the troops are all sitting on their hands in their barracks while Mal Zeth burns,” ’Zakath snapped.
“They have to start tearing down houses to make fire breaks, or we’ll lose the whole city. Someone has to order them out.”
“Have you got troops posted outside the palace walls?” Garion asked.
“Yes. They have orders to keep the populace away.”
“Why not just shout at them from the top of the wall?” Garion suggested. “Tell one of them to go get a colonel or somebody, then yell your orders down to him. Tell him to put the troops to work. Nobody can catch the plague from a hundred yards away—I don’t think.”
’Zakath stared at him and then suddenly began to laugh ruefully. “Why didn’t I think of that?” he asked.
“Probably because you weren’t raised on a farm,” Garion replied. “If you’re plowing a different field from the man you want to talk to, you shout back and forth.
Otherwise, you do an awful lot of unnecessary walking.”
“All right,” ’Zakath said briskly, looking at his generals, “which one of you has the biggest mouth?”
A red-faced officer with a big paunch and snowy white hair grinned suddenly. “In my youth, I could be heard all the way across a parade ground, your Majesty,” he said.
“Good. Go see if you can still do it. Get hold of some colonel with a glimmer of intelligence. Tell him to abandon any district that’s already burning and to tear down enough houses around the perimeter to keep the fire from spreading. Tell him that there’s a generalcy in it for him if he saves at least half of Mal Zeth.”
“Provided that he doesn’t get the plague and die,” one of the other generals muttered.
“That’s what soldiers get paid for, gentlemen—taking risks. When the trumpet blows, you’re supposed to attack, and I’m blowing the trumpet—right now.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” they all replied in unison, turned smartly, and marched out.
“That was a clever idea, Garion,” ’Zakath said gratefully. “Thank you.” He sprawled wearily in a chair.