"That's him," Silk said.
"He's been about the area," the farmer said, "looking - or so he said
- for an old man and a woman and a boy. He said that they stole some
things from his master and that he'd been sent to find them."
"How long ago was that?" Silk asked.
"A week or so," the farmer said.
"I'm sorry to have missed him," Silk said. "I wish I had the leisure to look him up."
"I can't for my life think why," the farmer said bluntly. "To be honest with you, I didn't care much for your friend."
"I'm not overfond of him myself," Silk agreed, "but the truth is that
he owes me some money. I could quite easily do without Brill's
companionship, but I'm lonesome for the money, if you take my meaning."
The farmer laughed.
"I'd take it as a kindness if you happened to forget that I asked
after him," Silk said. "He'll likely be hard enough to find even if he
isn't warned that I'm looking for him."
"You can depend on my discretion," the stout man said, still
laughing. "I have a loft where you and your wagoneers can put up for the
night, and I'd take it kindly if you'd sup with my workers in the
dining hall over there."
"My thanks," Silk said, bowing slightly. "The ground's cold, and it's
been some time since we've eaten anything but the rough fare of the
road."
"You wagoneers lead adventuresome lives," the stout man said almost
enviously. "Free as birds with always a new horizon just beyond the next
hilltop."
"It's much overrated," Silk told him, "and winter's a thin time for birds and wagoneers both."
The farmer laughed again, clapped Silk on the shoulder and then showed him where to put up the horses.
The food in the stout farmer's dining hall was plain, but there was
plenty; and the loft was a bit drafty, but the hay was soft. Garion
slept soundly. The farm was not Faldor's, but it was familiar enough,
and there was that comforting sense of having walls about him again that
made him feel secure.
The following morning, after a solid breakfast, they loaded the
wagons with the Tolnedran's salt-crusted hams and bade the farmer a
friendly good-bye.
The clouds that had begun to bank up in the west the evening before
had covered the sky during the night, and it was cold and gray as they
set out for Muros, fifty leagues to the south.
Part one sendaria Chapter Nine
THE ALMOST TWO WEEKS it took them to reach Muros were the most
uncomfortable Garion had ever spent. Their route skirted the edge of the
foothills through rolling and sparsely settled country, and the sky
hung gray and cold overhead. There were occasional spits of snow, and
the mountains loomed black against the skyline to the east.It seemed to
Garion that he would never be warm again. Despite Durnik's best efforts
to find dry firewood each night, their fires always seemed pitifully
small, and the great cold around them enormously large. The ground upon
which they slept was always frozen, and the chill seemed actually to
seep into Garion's bones.
His education in the Drasnian secret language continued and he
became, if not adept, at least competent by the time they passed Lake
Camaar and began the long, downhill grade that led to Muros.
The city of Muros in south-central Sendaria was a sprawling,
unattractive place that had been since time immemorial the site of a
great annual fair. Each year in late summer, Algar horsemen drove vast
cattle herds through the mountains along the Great North Road to Muros
where cattle buyers from all over the west gathered to await their
coming. Huge sums changed hands, and, because the Algar clansmen also
commonly made their yearly purchases of useful and ornamental articles
at that time, merchants from as far away as Nyissa in the remote south
gathered to offer their wares. A large plain which lay to the east of
the city was given over entirely to the cattle pens that stretched for
miles but were still inadequate to contain the herds which arrived at
the height of the season. Beyond the pens to the east lay the more or
less permanent encampment of the Algars.
It was to this city one midmorning at the tag end of the fair, when
the cattle pens were nearly empty and most of the Algars had departed
and only the most desperate merchants remained, that Silk led the three
wagons laden with the hams of Mingan the Tolnedran.
The delivery of the hams took place without incident, and the wagons
soon drew into an innyard near the northern outskirts of the city.
"This is a respectable inn, great lady," Silk assured Aunt Pol as he helped her down from the wagon. "I've stopped here before."
"Let's hope so," she said. "The inns of Muros have an unsavory reputation."
"Those particular inns lie along the eastern edge of town," Silk assured her delicately. "I know them well."
"I'm certain you do," she said with an arched eyebrow.
"My profession sometimes requires me to seek out places I might otherwise prefer to avoid," he said blandly.
The inn, Garion noted, was surprisingly clean, and its guests seemed for the most part to be Sendarian merchants.
"I thought there'd be many different kinds of people here in Muros,"
he said as he and Silk carried their bundles up to the chambers on the
second floor.
"There are," Silk said, "but each group tends to remain aloof from
the others. The Tolnedrans gather in one part of town, the Drasnians in
another, the Nyissans in yet another. The Earl of Muros prefers it that
way. Tempers sometimes flare in the heat of the day's business, and it's
best not to have natural enemies housed under the same roof."
Garion nodded. "You know," he said as they entered the chambers they
had taken for their stay in Muros, "I don't think I've ever seen a
Nyissan."
"You're lucky," Silk said with distaste. "They're an unpleasant race."
"Are they like Murgos?"
"No," Silk said. "The Nyissans worship Issa, the Snake-God, and it's
considered seemly among them to adopt the mannerisms of the serpent. I
don't find it at all that attractive myself. Besides, the Nyissans
murdered the Rivan King, and all Alorns have disliked them since then."
"The Rivans don't have a king," Garion objected.
"Not anymore," Silk said. "They did once, though - until Queen Salmissra decided to have him murdered."
"When was that?" Garion asked, fascinated.
"Thirteen hundred years ago," Silk said, as if it had only been yesterday.
"Isn't that sort of a long time to hold a grudge?" Garion asked.
"Some things are unforgivable," Silk said shortly.