David Eddings: Demon Lord of Karanda

“Yes, sir,” the captain replied, drawing his sword even as the startled colonel jumped to his feet.

“Much better,” Atesca told him. “Now, let’s begin over again. Do you by chance remember how to salute?”

The colonel saluted smartly, though his face was pale.

“Splendid. We’ll make a soldier of you yet. Now, one of the people I was escorting—a lady of high station—fell ill during our journey. I want a warm, comfortable room prepared for her immediately.”

“Sir,” the colonel protested, “I’m not authorized to do that.”

“Don’t put your sword away just yet, Captain.”

“But, General, the members of his Majesty’s household staff make all those decisions. They’ll be infuriated if I overstep my bounds.”

“I’ll explain it to his Majesty, Colonel,” Atesca told him. “The circumstances are a trifle unusual, but I’m sure he’ll approve.”

The colonel faltered, his eyes filled with indecision.

“Do it, Colonel! Now!”

“I’ll see to it at once, General,” the colonel replied, snapping to attention. “You men,” he said to the soldiers holding Ce’Nedra’s litter, “follow me.”

Garion automatically started to follow the litter, but Polgara took his arm firmly. “No, Garion. I’ll go with her. There’s nothing you can do right now, and I think ’Zakath’s going to want to talk to you. Just be careful of what you say.” And she went off down the hallway behind the litter.

“I see that Mallorean society still has its little frictions,” Silk said blandly to General Atesca.

“Angaraks,” Atesca grunted. “Sometimes they have a little difficulty coping with the modern world. Excuse me, Prince Kheldar. I want to let his Majesty know that we’re here.” He went to a polished door at the other end of the room and spoke briefly with one of the guards. Then he came back. “The Emperor is being advised of our arrival,” he said to them. “I expect that he’ll see us in a few moments.”

A rather chubby, bald-headed man in a plain, though obviously costly, brown robe and with a heavy gold chain about his neck approached them. “Atesca, my dear fellow,” he greeted the general, “they told me that you were stationed at Rak Verkat.”

“I have some business with the Emperor, Brador. What are you doing in Cthol Murgos?”

“Cooling my heels,” the chubby man replied. “I’ve been waiting for two days to see Kal Zakath.”

“Who’s minding the shop at home?”

“I’ve arranged it so that it more or less runs itself,” Brador replied. “The report I have for his Majesty is so vital that I decided to carry it myself.”

“What could be so earthshaking that it would drag the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs away from the comforts of Mal Zeth?”

“I believe that it’s time for his Imperial Exaltedness to tear himself away from his amusements here in Cthol Murgos and come back to the capital.”

“Careful, Brador,” Atesca said with a brief smile. “Your fine-tuned Melcene prejudices are showing.”

“Things are getting grim at home, Atesca,” Brador said seriously. “I’ve got to talk with the Emperor. Can you help me to get in to see him?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Brador said, clasping the general’s arm. “The whole fate of the empire may depend on my persuading Kal Zakath to come back to Mal Zeth.”

“General Atesca,” one of the spear-armed guards at the polished door said in a loud voice, “his Imperial Majesty will see you and your prisoners now.”

“Very good,” Atesca replied, ignoring the ominous word “prisoners.” He looked at Garion. “The Emperor must be very eager to see you, your Majesty,” he noted.

“It often takes weeks to gain an audience with him. Shall we go inside?”

Kal Zakath, the Emperor of boundless Mallorea, lounged in a red-cushioned chair at the far end of a large plain room. The Emperor wore a simple white linen robe, severe and unadorned. Though Garion knew that he was at least in his forties, his hair was untouched by gray and his face was unlined. His eyes, however, betrayed a kind of dead weariness, devoid of any joy or even any interest in life. Curled in his lap lay a common mackerel-striped alley cat, her eyes closed and her forepaws alternately kneading his thigh. Although the Emperor himself wore the simplest of clothes, the guards lining the walls all wore steel breastplates deeply inlaid with gold.

“My Emperor,” General Atesca said with a deep bow,

“I have the honor to present his Royal Majesty, King Belgarion of Riva.”

Garion nodded briefly, and ’Zakath inclined his head in response. “Our meeting is long overdue, Belgarion,” he said in a voice as dead as his eyes. “Your exploits have shaken the world.”

“Yours have also made a certain impression, ’Zakath.” Garion had decided even before he had left Rak Verkat—that he would not perpetuate the absurdity of the Mallorean’s self-bestowed “Kal.”

A faint smile touched ’Zakath’s lips. “Ah,” he said in a tone which indicated that he saw through Garion’s attempt to be subtle. He nodded briefly to the others, and his attention finally fixed itself upon the rumpled untidy form of Garion’s grandfather.

“And of course you, sir, would be Belgarath,” he noted. “I’m a bit surprised to find you so ordinary looking. The Grolims of Mallorea all agree that you’re a hundred feet tall—possible two hundred—and that you have horns and a forked tail.”

“I’m in disguise,” Belgarath replied with aplomb.

’Zakath chuckled, though there was little amusement in that almost mechanical sound. Then he looked around with a faint frown. “I seem to note some absences,” he said.

“Queen Ce’Nedra fell ill during our journey, your Majesty.” Atesca advised him. “Lady Polgara is attending her.”

“Ill? Is it serious?”

“It’s difficult to say at this point, your Imperial Majesty,” Sadi replied unctuously, “but we have given her certain medications, and I have every confidence in Lady Polgara’s skill.”

’Zakath looked at Garion. “You should have sent word on ahead, Belgarion. I have a healer on my personal staff—a Dalasian woman with remarkable gifts. I’ll send her to the Queen’s chambers at once. Our first concern must be your wife’s health.”

“Thank you,” Garion replied with genuine gratitude.

’Zakath touched a bellpull and spoke briefly with the servant who responded immediately to his summons.

“Please,” the Emperor said then, “seat yourselves. I have no particular interest in ceremony.”

As the guards hastily brought chairs for them, the cat sleeping in ’Zakath’s lap half opened her golden eyes and looked around at them. She rose to her paws, arched her back, and yawned. Then she jumped heavily to the floor with an audible grunt and waddled over to sniff at Eriond’s fingers. With a faintly amused look, ’Zakath watched his obviously pregnant cat make her matronly way across the carpet. “You’ll note that my cat has been unfaithful to me—again.” He sighed in mock resignation. “It happens fairly frequently, I’m afraid, and she never seems to feel the slightest guilt about it.”

The cat jumped up into Eriond’s lap, nestled down, and began to purr contentedly.

“You’ve grown, boy,” ’Zakath said to the young man.

“Have they taught you how to talk as yet?"

“I’ve picked up a few words, ’Zakath,” Eriond said in his clear voice.

“I know the rest of you—by reputation at least,” ’Zakath said then. “Goodman Durnik and I met on the plains of Mishrak ac Thull, and of course I’ve heard of the Margravine Liselle of Drasnian Intelligence and of Prince Kheldar, who strives to become the richest man in the world.”