"They play for keeps, don't they?" Barak observed.
"Why do the legions allow it?" Mandorallen asked.
"The legions stay neutral in these affairs," Wolf said. "It's part of their oath."
The inn to which Silk had directed them was a neat, square building surrounded by a low wall. They tied their horses in the courtyard and went inside. "We might as well eat, father," Aunt Pol said, seating herself at a table of well-scrubbed oak in the sunny common room.
"I was just- " Wolf looked toward the door which led into the taproom.
"I know," she said, "but I think we should eat first."
Wolf sighed. "All right, Pol."
The serving-man brought them a platter of smoking cutlets and heavy slabs of brown bread soaked in butter. Garion's stomach was still a bit shaky after what he had witnessed in the square, but the smell of the cutlets soon overcame that. They had nearly finished eating when a shabby-looking little man in a linen shirt, leather apron and a ragged hat came in and plunked himself unceremoniously at the end of their table. His face looked vaguely familiar somehow. "Wine!" he bawled at the serving-man, "and food." He squinted around in the golden light streaming through the yellow glass windows of the common room.
"There are other tables, friend," Mandorallen said coldly.
"I like this one," the stranger said. He peered at each of them in turn, and then he suddenly laughed. Garion stared in amazement as the man's face relaxed, the muscles seeming to shift under his skin back into their normal positions. It was Silk.
"How did you do that?" Barak asked, startled.
Silk grinned at him and then reached up to massage his cheeks with his fingertips. "Concentration, Barak. Concentration and lots of practice. It makes my jaws ache a bit, though."
"Useful skill, I'd imagine - under the right circumstances," Hettar said blandly.
"Particularly for a spy," Barak said.
Silk bowed mockingly.
"Where did you get the clothes?" Durnik asked,
"Stole them." Silk shrugged, peeling off the apron.
"What's Brill doing here?" Wolf asked.
"Stirring up trouble, the same as always," Silk replied. "He's telling people that a Murgo named Asharak is offering a reward for any information about us. He describes you quite well, old friend - not very flatteringly, but quite well."
"I expect we'll have to deal with this Asharak before long," Aunt Pol said. "He's beginning to irritate me."
"There's another thing." Silk started on one of the cutlets. "Brill's telling everyone that Garion is Asharak's son - that we've stolen him and that Asharak's offering a huge reward for his return."
"Garion?" Aunt Pol asked sharply.
Silk nodded. "The kind of money he's talking about is bound to make everyone in Tolnedra keep his eyes open." He reached for a piece of bread.
Garion felt a sharp pang of anxiety.
"Why me?" he asked.
"It would delay us," Wolf said. "Asharak - whoever he is - knows that Polgara would stop to look for you. So would the rest of us, most likely. That would give Zedar time to get away."
"Just who is Asharak?" Hettar asked, his eyes narrowing.
"A Grolim, I expect," Wolf said. "His operations are a little too widespread for him to be an ordinary Murgo."
"How can one tell the difference?" Durnik asked.
"You can't," Wolf answered. "They look very much the same. They're two separate tribes, but they're much more closely related to each other than they are to other Angaraks. Anyone can tell the difference between a Nadrak and a Thull or a Thull and a Mallorean, but Murgos and Grolims are so much alike that you can't tell them apart."
"I've never had any problem," Aunt Pol said. "Their minds are quite different."
"That will make it much easier," Barak commented dryly. "We'll just chop open the head of the next Murgo we meet, and you can point out the differences to us."
"You've been spending too much time with Silk lately," Aunt Pol said acidly. "You're starting to talk like him."
Barak looked over at Silk and winked.
"Let's finish up here and see if we can't get out of town quietly," Wolf said. "Is there a back alley out of this place?" he asked Silk.
"Naturally," Silk said, still eating.
"Are you familiar with it?"
"Please!" Silk looked a little offended. "Of course I'm familiar with it.
"Let it pass," Wolf said.
The alleyway Silk led them through was narrow, deserted, and smelled quite bad, but it brought them to the town's south gate, and they were soon on the highway again.
"A little distance wouldn't hurt at this point," Wolf said. He thumped his heels to his horse's flanks and started off at a gallop. They rode until well after dark. The moon, looking swollen and unhealthy, rose slowly above the horizon and filled the night with a pale light that seemed to leech away all trace of color. Wolf finally pulled to a stop. "There's really no point in riding all night," he said. "Let's move off the road and get a few hours' sleep. We'll start out again early. I'd like to stay ahead of Brill this time if we can."
"Over there?" Durnik suggested, pointing at a small copse of trees looming black in the moonlight not far from the road.
"It will do," Wolf decided. "I don't think we'll need a fire." They led the horses in among the trees and pulled their blankets out of the packs. The moonlight filtered in among the trees and dappled the leaf strewn ground. Garion found a fairly level place with his feet, rolled up in his blankets and, after squirming around a bit, he fell asleep.
He awoke suddenly, his eyes dazzled by the light of a half dozen torches. A heavy foot was pushed down on his chest, and the point of a sword was set firmly, uncomfortably against his throat.
"Nobody move!" a harsh voice ordered. "We'll kill anybody who moves."
Garion stiffened in panic, and the sword point at his throat dug in sharply. He rolled his head from side to side and saw that all of his friends were being held down in the same way he was. Durnik, who had been standing guard, was held by two rough-looking soldiers, and a piece of rag was stuffed in his mouth.
"What does this mean?" Silk demanded of the soldiers.
"You'll find out," the one in charge rasped. "Get their weapons." As he gestured, Garion saw that a finger was missing from his right hand.
"There's a mistake here," Silk said. "I'm Radek of Boktor, a merchant, and my friends and I haven't done anything wrong."
"Get on your feet," the three-fingered soldier ordered, ignoring the little man's objections. "If any one of you tries to get away, we'll kill all the rest."
Silk rose and crammed on his cap. "You're going to regret this, Captain," he said. "I've got powerful friends here in Tolnedra."
The soldier shrugged. "That doesn't mean anything to me," he said. "I take my orders from Count Dravor. He told me to bring you in."
"All right," Silk said. "Let's go see this Count Dravor, then. We'll get this cleared up right now, and there's no need for waving your swords around. We'll come along quietly. None of us is going to do anything to get you excited."
The three-fingered soldier's face darkened in the torchlight. "I don't like your tone, merchant."
"You're not being paid to like my tone, friend," Silk said. "You're being paid to escort us to Count Dravor. Now suppose we get moving. The quicker we get there, the quicker I can give him a full report about your behavior."
"Get their horses," the soldier growled.
Garion had edged over to Aunt Pol.
"Can't you do anything?" he asked her quietly.
"No talking!" the soldier who had captured him barked.
Garion stood helplessly, staring at the sword leveled at his chest.