David Eddings: Enchanter's End Game

The old sorcerer nodded. “I met him about thirty years ago. Polgara had come to Gar og Nadrak to find out a few things. After she’d gathered all the information she wanted, she sent word to me, and I came here and bought her from the man who owned her. We started home, but an early snowstorm caught us up here in the mountains. He found us floundering along, and he took us to the cave where he holes up when the snow gets too deep. Quite a comfortable cave really—except that he insists on bringing his donkey inside. He and Pol argued about that all winter, as I recall.”

“What’s his name?” Silk asked curiously.

Belgarath shrugged. “He never said, and it’s not polite to ask.”

Garion, however, had choked on the word “bought.” A kind of helpless outrage welled up in him. “Somebody owned Aunt Pol?” he demanded incredulously.

“It’s a Nadrak custom,” Silk explained. “In their society, women are considered property. It’s not seemly for a woman to go about without an owner.”

“She was a slave?” Garion’s knuckles grew white as he clenched his fists.

“Of course she wasn’t a slave,” Belgarath told him. “Can you even remotely imagine your Aunt submitting to that sort of thing?”

“But you said—”

“I said I bought her from the man who owned her. Their relationship was a formality—nothing more. She needed an owner in order to function here, and he gained a great deal of respect from other men as a result of his ownership of so remarkable a woman.” Belgarath made a sour face. “It cost me a fortune to buy her back from him. I sometimes wonder if she was really worth it.”

“Grandfather! ”

“I’m sure she’d be fascinated by that last observation, old friend,” Silk said slyly.

“I don’t know that it’s necessary to repeat it to her, Silk.”

“You never know.” Silk laughed. “I might need something from you someday.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“I know.” Silk grinned and looked around. “Your friend took quite a bit of trouble to look you up,” he suggested. “What was behind it?”

“He wanted to warn me.”

“That things were tense in Gar og Nadrak? We knew that already.”

“His warning was a great deal more urgent than that.”

“He didn’t sound very urgent.”

“That’s because you don’t know him.”

“Grandfather,” Garion said suddenly, “how did he manage to see my sword? I thought we’d taken care of that.”

“He sees everything, Garion. He could glance once at a tree and tell you ten years later exactly how many leaves were on it.”

“Is he a sorcerer?”

“Not as far as I know. He’s just a strange old man who likes the mountains. He doesn’t know what’s going on because he doesn’t want to know. If he really wanted to, he could probably find out everything that’s happening in the world.”

“He could make a fortune as a spy, then,” Silk mused.

“He doesn’t want a fortune. Isn’t that obvious? Any time he needs money, he just goes back to that river bar he mentioned.”

“But he said he’d forgotten how to find it,” Garion protested.

Belgarath snorted. “He’s never forgotten anything in his life.” Then his eyes grew distant. “There are a few people like him in the world—people who have no interest whatsoever in what other people are doing. Maybe that’s not such a bad trait. If I had my life to live over, I might not mind doing it his way.” He looked around then, his eyes very alert. “Let’s take that path over there,” he suggested, pointing at a scarcely visible track angling off across an open meadow, littered with bits of log bleached white by sun and weather. “If what he says is true, I think we’ll want to avoid any large settlements. That path comes out farther north where there aren’t so many people.”

Not long afterward the terrain began to slope downward, and the three of them moved along briskly, riding down out of the mountains toward the vastness of the forest of Nadrak. The peaks around them subsided into forested foothills. Once they topped a rise, they were able to look out at the ocean of trees lying below. The forest stretched to the horizon and beyond, dark green beneath a blue sky. A faint breeze was blowing, and the sigh of its passage through the mile upon mile of trees below had a kind of endless sadness to it, a regretful memory of summers past and springs that would never come again.

Some distance up the slope from the forest stood a village, huddled at the side of a vast, open pit that had been gouged, raw and ugly, in the red dirt of the hillside.

“A mine town,” Belgarath noted. “Let’s nose about a bit and see what’s going on.”

They rode warily down the hill. As they drew closer, Garion could see that the village had that same temporary kind of appearance he had noticed about Yar Gurak. The buildings were constructed in the same way—unpeeled logs and rough stone—and the low-pitched roofs had large rocks laid on them to keep the shingles from blowing off during the winter blizzards. Nadraks seemed not to be concerned about the external appearance of their structures; once the walls and roofs were completed, they appeared quite content to move in and devote their attentions to other matters, without attending to those final finishing touches which gave a house that look of permanence that a Sendar or a Tolnedran would feel absolutely necessary. The entire settlement seemed to reflect an attitude of “good enough” that offended Garion, for some reason.

Some of the miners who lived in the village came out into the dirt streets to watch the strangers ride in. Their black leather clothing was stained red by the earth in which they dug, and their eyes were hard and suspicious. An air of fearful wariness hung over the whole place, seasoned with a touch of defiant bellicosity.

Silk jerked his head toward a large, low building with a crude painting of a cluster of grapes on a sign banging in the breeze by the double doors at the front. A wide, roofed porch surrounded the building, and leather-garbed Nadraks lounged on benches along the porch, watching a dogfight in progress out in the middle of the street.

Belgarath nodded. “But let’s go around to the side,” he suggested, “in case we have to leave in a hurry.”

They dismounted at the side porch, tied their horses to the railing, and went inside.

The interior of the tavern was smoky and dim, since windows seemed to be a rare feature in Nadrak buildings. The tables and benches were rough-hewn, and what light there was came from smoking oil lamps that hung on chains from the rafters. The floor was mud-stained and littered with bits of food. Dogs roamed at will under the tables and benches. The smell of stale beer and unwashed bodies hung heavy in the air, and, though it was only early afternoon, the place was crowded. Many of the men in the large room were already far gone with drink. It was noisy, since the Nadraks lounging at the tables or stumbling about the room seemed all habitually to speak at the top of their voices.

Belgarath pushed his way toward a table in the corner where a solitary man sat bleary-eyed and slack-lipped, staring into his ale cup. “You don’t mind if we share the table, do you?” the old man demanded of him in an abrupt manner, sitting down without awaiting a reply.

“Would it do any good if I did?” the man with the cup asked. He was unshaven, and his eyes were pouchy and bloodshot.

“Not much,” Belgarath told him bluntly.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” The Nadrak looked at the three of them with only a hint of curiosity, trying with some difficulty to focus his eyes.

“I don’t really see that it’s any of your business,” Belgarath retorted rudely.