David Eddings - Queen of Sorcery

The houses along the wide streets were imposing, with white marble facades and heavy doors, quite often guarded by private mercenary soldiers, who glared belligerently at passers-by.

“The Imperial City seems awash with suspicion,” Mandorallen observed. “Do they fear their neighbors so?”

“Troubled times,” Silk explained. “And the merchant princes of Tol Honeth keep a great deal of the world’s wealth in their counting-rooms. There are men along this street who could buy most of Arendia if they wanted to.”

“Arendia is not for sale,” Mandorallen said stiffly.

“In Tol Honeth, my dear Baron, everything’s for sale,” Silk told him. “Honor, virtue, friendship, love. It’s a wicked city full of wicked people, and money’s the only thing that matters.”

“I expect you fit right in, then,” Barak said.

Silk laughed. “I like Tol Honeth,” he admitted. “The people here have no illusions. They’re refreshingly corrupt.”

“You’re a bad fan, Silk,” Barak stated bluntly.

“So you’ve said before,” the rat-faced little Drasnian said with a mocking grin.

The banner of Cherek, the outline of a white war-boat on an azure background, fluttered from a pole surmounting the gate of the ambassador’s house. Barak dismounted a bit stiffly and strode to the iron grill which blocked the gate. “Tell Grinneg that his cousin Barak is here to see him,” he announced to the bearded guards inside.

“How do we know you’re his cousin?” one of the guards demanded roughly.

Barak reached through the grill almost casually and took hold of the front of the guard’s mail shirt. He pulled the man up firmly against the barn. “Would you like to rephrase that question,” he asked, “while you still have your health?”

“Excuse me, Lord Barak,” the man apologized quickly. “Now that I’m closer, I do seem to recognize your face.”

“I was almost sure you would,” Barak said.

“Let me unlock the gate for you,” the guard suggested.

“Excellent idea,” Barak said, letting go of the man’s shirt. The guard opened the gate quickly, and the party rode into a spacious courtyard.

Grinneg, the ambassador of King Anheg to the Imperial Court at Tol Honeth, was a burly man almost as big as Barak. His beard was trimmed very short, and he wore a Tolnedran-style blue mantle. He came down the stairs two at a time and caught Barak in a vast bear hug. “You pirate!” he roared. “What are you doing in Tol Honeth?”

“Anheg’s decided to invade the place,” Barak joked. “As soon as we’ve rounded up all the gold and young women, we’re going to let you burn the city.”

Grinneg’s eyes glittered with a momentary hunger. “Wouldn’t that infuriate them?” he said with a vicious grin.

“What happened to your beard?” Barak asked.

Grinneg coughed and looked embarrassed. “It’s not important,” he said quickly.

“We’ve never had any secrets,” Barak accused.

Grinneg spoke quietly to his cousin for a moment, looking very ashamed of himself, and Barak burst out with a great roar of laughter. “Why did you let her do that?” he demanded.

“I was drunk,” Grinneg said. “Let’s go inside. I’ve got a keg of good ale in my cellar.”

The rest of them followed the two big men into the house, and they went down a broad hallway to a room with Cherek furnishings—heavy chairs and benches covered with skins, a rush-strewn floor and a huge fireplace where the butt end of a large log smoldered. Several pitchsmeared torches smoked in iron rings on the stone wall.

“I feel more at home here,” Grinneg said.

A servant brought tankards of dark brown ale for them all and then quietly left the room. Garion quickly lifted his tankard and took a large swallow of the bitter drink before Aunt Pol could suggest something more bland. She watched him without comment, her eyes expressionless.

Grinneg sprawled in a large, hand-hewn chair with a bearskin tossed over it. “Why are you really in Tol Honeth, Barak?” he asked.

“Grinneg,” Barak said seriously, “this is Belgarath. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

The ambassador’s eyes widened, and he inclined his head. “My house is yours,” he said respectfully.

“Can you get me in to see Ran Borune?” Mister Wolf asked, sitting on a rough bench near the fireplace.

“Without any difficulty.”

“Good,” Wolf said. “I have to talk to him, and I don’t want to stir up any fuss in the process.”

Barak introduced the others, and his cousin nodded politely to each of them.

“You’ve come to Tol Honeth during a turbulent period,” he said after the amenities were over. “The nobility of Tolnedra are gathering in the city like ravens on a dead cow.”

“We picked up a hint or two of that on our way south,” Silk told him. “Is it as bad as we heard?”

“Probably worse,” Grinneg said, scratching one ear. “Dynastic succession only happens a few times in each eon. The Borunes have been in power now for over six hundred years, and the other houses are anticipating the changeover with a great deal of enthusiasm.”

“Who’s the most likely to succeed Ran Borune?” Mister Wolf asked.

“Right at the moment the best would probably be the Grand Duke Kador of Tol Vordue,” Grinneg answered. “He seems to have more money than the rest. The Honeths are richer, of course, but they’ve got seven candidates, and their wealth is spread out a little too thin. The other families aren’t really in the running. The Borunes don’t have anyone suitable, and no one takes the Ranites seriously.”

Garion carefully set his tankard on the floor beside the stool he sat on. The bitter ale didn’t really taste that good, and he felt vaguely cheated somehow. The half tankard he had drunk made his ears quite warm, though, and the end of his nose seemed a little numb.

“A Vorduvian we met said that the Horbites are using poison,” Silk said.

“They all are.” Grinneg wore a slightly disgusted look. “The Horbites are just a little more obvious about it, that’s all. If Ran Borune dies tomorrow, though, Kador will be the next Emperor.”

Mister Wolf frowned. “I’ve never had much success dealing with the Vorduvians. They don’t really have imperial stature.”

“The old Emperor’s still in pretty fair health,” Grinneg said. “If he hangs on for another year or two, the Honeths will probably fall into line behind one candidate—whichever one survives—and then they’ll be able to bring all their money to bear on the situation. These things take time, though. The candidates themselves are staying out of town for the most part, and they’re all being extremely careful, so the assassins are having a great deal of difficulty reaching them.” He laughed, taking a long drink of ale. “They’re a funny people.”

“Could we go to the palace now?” Mister Wolf asked.

“We’ll want to change clothes first,” Aunt Pol said firmly.

“Again, Polgara?” Wolf gave her a long-suffering look.

“Just do it, father,” she said. “I won’t let you embarrass us by wearing rags to the palace.”

“I’m not going to wear that robe again.” The old man’s voice was stubborn.

“No,” she said. “It wouldn’t be suitable. I’m sure the ambassador can lend you a mantle. You won’t be quite so obvious that way.”

“Whatever you say, Pol.” Wolf sighed, giving up.

After they had changed, Grinneg formed up his honorguard, a grim-looking group of Cherek warriors, and they were escorted along the broad avenues of Tol Honeth toward the palace. Garion, all bemused by the opulence of the city and feeling just a trifle giddy from the effects of the half tankard of ale he had drunk, rode quietly beside Silk, trying not to gawk at the huge buildings or the richly dressed Tolnedrans strolling with grave decorum in the noonday sun.