“Shouldn’t we put a stop to it?”
“We don’t have the time,” he said. “It takes forever to explain things to Arends. If we move fast enough, maybe we can slip by before the Grolims are ready.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then we’ll do it the other way. I’ve got to get to Zedar before he crosses into Cthol Murgos. If too many things get in my way, I’ll have to be more direct.”
“You should have done that from the beginning, father. Sometimes you’re too delicate about things.”
“Are you going to start that again? That’s always your answer to everything, Polgara. You’re forever fixing things that would fix themselves if you’d just leave them alone, and changing things when they don’t have to be changed.”
“Don’t be cross, father. Help me down.”
“Why not fly down?” he suggested.
“Don’t be absurd.”
Garion slipped away among the mossy trees, trembling violently as he went.
When Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf returned to the clearing, they roused the others. “I think we’d better move on,” Wolf told them. “We’re a little vulnerable out here. It’s safer on the highway, and I’d like to get past this particular stretch of woods.”
The dismantling of their night’s encampment took less than an hour, and they started back along the woodcutter’s track toward the Great West Road. Though it was still some hours before dawn, the moonbathed fog filled the night with misty luminosity, and it seemed almost as if they rode through a shining cloud that had settled among the dark trees. They reached the highway and turned south again.
“I’d like to be a good way from here when the sun comes up,” Wolf said quietly, “but we don’t want to blunder into anything, so keep your eyes and ears open.”
They set off at a canter and had covered a good three leagues by the time the fog had begun to turn a pearly gray with the approach of morning. As they rounded a broad curve, Hettar suddenly raised his arm, signaling for a halt.
“What’s wrong?” Barak asked him.
“Horses ahead,” Hettar replied. “Coming this way.”
“Are you sure? I don’t hear anything.”
“Forty at least,” Hettar answered firmly.
“There,” Durnik said, his head cocked to one side. “Hear that?”
Faintly they all heard a jingling clatter some distance off in the fog. “We could hide in the woods until they’ve passed,” Lelldorin suggested.
“It’s better to stay on the road,” Wolf replied.
“Let me handle it,” Silk said confidently, moving into the lead. “I’ve done this sort of thing before.” They proceeded at a careful walk.
The riders who emerged from the fog were encased in steel. They wore full suits of polished armor and round helmets with pointed visors that made them look strangely like huge insects. They earned long lances with colored pennons at their tips, and their horses were massive beasts, also encased in armor.
“Mimbrate knights,” Lelldorin snarled, his eyes going flat.
“Keep your feelings to yourself,” Wolf told the young man. “If any of them say anything to you, answer in such a way that they’ll think you’re a Mimbrate sympathizer—like young Berentain back at your uncle’s house.”
Lelldorin’s face hardened.
“Do as he tells you, Lelldorin,” Aunt Pol said. “This isn’t the time for heroics.”
“Hold!” the leader of the armored column commanded, lowering his lance until the steel point was leveled at them. “Let one come forward so that I may speak with him.” The knight’s tone was peremptory.
Silk moved toward the steel-cased man, his smile ingratiating. “We’re glad to see you, Sir Knight,” he lied glibly. “We were set upon by robbers last night, and we’ve been riding in fear of our lives.”
“What is thy name?” the knight demanded, raising his visor, “and who are these who accompany thee?”
“I am Radek of Boktor, my Lord,” Silk answered, bowing and pulling off his velvet cap, “a merchant of Drasnia bound for Tol Honeth with Sendarian woolens in hopes of catching the winter market.”
The armored man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Thy party seems overlarge for so simple an undertaking, worthy merchant.”
“The three there are my servants,” Silk told him, pointing at Barak, Hettar, and Durnik. “The old man and the boy serve my sister, a widow of independent means who accompanies me so that she might visit Tol Honeth.”
“What of the other?” the knight pressed. “The Asturian?”
“A young nobleman traveling to Vo Mimbre to visit friends there. He graciously consented to guide us through this forest.”
The knight’s suspicion seemed to relax a bit. “Thou madest mention of robbers,” he said. “Where did this ambush take place?”
“About three or four leagues back. They set upon us after we had made our night’s encampment. We managed to beat them off, but my sister was terrified.”
“This province of Asturia seethes with rebellion and brigandage,” the knight said sternly. “My men and I are sent to suppress such offenses. Come here, Asturian.”
Lelldorin’s nostrils flared, but he obediently came forward. “I will require thy name of thee.”
“My name is Lelldorin, Sir Knight. How may I serve thee?”
“These robbers thy friends spoke of—were they commons or men of quality?”
“Serfs, my Lord,” Lelldorin replied, “ragged and uncouth. Doubtless fled from lawful submission to their masters to take up outlawry in the forest.”
“How may we expect duty and proper submission from serfs when nobles raise detestable rebellion against the crown?” the knight asserted.
“Truly, my Lord,” Lelldorin agreed with a show of sadness that was a trifle overdone. “Much have I argued that selfsame point with those who speak endlessly of Mimbrate oppression and overweening arrogance. My appeals for reason and dutiful respect for His Majesty, our Lord King, however, are greeted with derision and cold despite.” He sighed.
“Thy wisdom becomes thee, young Lelldorin,” the knight approved. “Regrettably, I must detain thee and thy companions in order that we may verify certain details.”
“Sir Knight!” Silk protested vigorously. “A change in the weather could destroy the value of my merchandise in Tol Honeth. I pray you, don’t delay me.”
“I regret the necessity, good merchant,” the knight replied, “but Asturia is filled with dissemblers and plotters. I can permit none to pass without meticulous examination.”
There was a stir at the rear of the Mimbrate column. In single file, resplendent in burnished breastplates, plumed helmets and crimson capes, a half a hundred Tolnedran legionnaires rode slowly along the flank of the armored knights.
“What seems to be the problem here?” the legion commander, a lean, leather-faced man of forty or so, asked politely as he stopped not far from Silk’s horse.
“We do not require the assistance of the legions in this matter,” the knight said coldly. “Our orders are from Vo Mimbre. We are sent to help restore order in Asturia and we were questioning these travelers to that end.”
“I have a great respect for order, Sir Knight,” the Tolnedran replied, “but the security of the highway is my responsibility.” He looked inquiringly at Silk.
“I am Radek of Boktor, Captain,” Silk told him, “a Drasnian merchant bound for Tol Honeth. I have documents, if you wish to see them.”
“Documents are easily forged,” the knight declared.
“So they are,” the Tolnedran agreed, “but to save time I make it a practice to accept all documents at face value. A Drasnian merchant with goods in his packs has a legitimate reason to be on an Imperial Highway, Sir Knight. There’s no reason to detain him, is there?”
“We seek to stamp out banditry and rebellion,” the knight asserted hotly.
“Stamp away,” the captain said, “but off the highway, if you don’t mind. By treaty the Imperial Highway is Tolnedran territory. What you do once you’re fifty yards back in the trees is your affair; what happens on this road is mine. I’m certain that no true Mimbrate knight would want to humiliate his king by violating a solemn agreement between the Arendish crown and the Emperor of Tolnedra, would he?”