"She's married to his uncle," Durnik said firmly. "Who made up this scandalous story?"

"n.o.body made it up," Garion said. "I was watching his face when he talked to her yesterday. It's pretty plain the way he feels about her."

"I'm sure you just imagined it," Durnik said disapprovingly. He stood up. "Let's look around. That will give us something better to do than sit here gossiping about our friends. It's really not the sort of thing decent men do."

"All right," Garion agreed quickly, a little embarra.s.sed. He stood up and followed Durnik across the smoky hall and out into the corridor. "Let's have a look at the kitchen," Garion suggested.

"And the smithy, too," Durnik said.

The royal kitchens were enormous. Entire oxen roasted on spits, and whole flocks of geese simmered in lakes of gravy. Stews bubbled in cartsized cauldrons, and battalions of loaves were marched into ovens big enough to stand in. Unlike Aunt Pol's well-ordered kitchen at Faldor's farm, everything here was chaos and confusion. The head cook was a huge man with a red face who screamed orders which everyone ignored. There were shouts and threats and a great deal of horseplay. A spoon heated in a fire and left where an unsuspecting cook would pick it up brought shrieks of mirth, and one man's hat was stolen and deliberately thrown into a seething pot of stew.

"Let's go someplace else, Durnik," he said. "This isn't what I expected at all."

Durnik nodded. "Mistress Pol would never tolerate all of this foolishness," he agreed disapprovingly.

In the hallways outside the kitchen a maid with reddish-blond hair and a pale green dress cut quite low at the bodice loitered.

"Excuse me," Durnik said to her politely, "could you direct us to the smithy?"

She looked him up and down boldly. "Are you new here?" she asked. "I haven't seen you before."

"We're just visiting," Durnik said.

"Where are you from?" she demanded.

"Sendaria," Durnik said.

"How interesting. Perhaps the boy could run this errand for you, and you and I could talk for a while." Her look was direct.

Durnik coughed, and his ears reddened. "The smithy?" he asked again.

The maid laughed lightly. "In the courtyard at the end on this corridor," she said. "I'm usually around here someplace. I'm sure you can find me when you finish your business with the smith."

"Yes," Durnik said, "I'm sure I could. Come along, Garion."

They went on down the corridor and out into a snowy inner courtyard.

"Outrageous!" Durnik said stiffly, his ears still flaming. "The girl has no sense of propriety whatsoever. I'd report her if I knew to whom."

"Shocking," Garion agreed, secretly amused by Durnik's embarra.s.sment. They crossed the courtyard through the lightly sifting snow.

The smithy was presided over by a huge, black-bearded man with forearms as big as Garion's thighs. Durnik introduced himself and the two were soon happily talking shop to the accompaniment of the ringing blows of the smith's hammer. Garion noticed that instead of the plows, spades, and hoes that would fill a Sendarian smithy, the walls here were hung with swords, spears, and war axes. At one forge an apprentice was hammering out arrowheads, and at another, a lean, one-eyed man was working on an evil-looking dagger.

Durnik and the smith talked together for most of the remainder of the morning while Garion wandered about the inner courtyard watching the various workmen at their tasks. There were coopers and wheelwrights, cobblers and carpenters, saddlers and candlemakers, all busily at work to maintain the huge household of King Anheg. As he watched, Garion also kept his eyes open for the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak he'd seen the night before. It wasn't likely that the man would be here where honest work was being done, but Garion stayed alert all the same.

About noon, Barak came looking for them and led them back to the great hall where Silk lounged, intently watching a dice game.

"Anheg and the others want to meet privately this afternoon," Barak said. "I've got an errand to run, and I thought you might want to go along."

"That might not be a bad idea," Silk said, tearing his eyes from the game. "Your cousin's warriors dice badly, and I'm tempted to try a few rolls with them. It would probably be better if I didn't. Most men take offense at losing to strangers."

Barak grinned. "I'm sure they'd be glad to let you play, Silk," he said. "They've got just as much chance of winning as you do."

"Just as the sun has as much chance of coming up in the west as in the east," Silk said.

"Are you that sure of your skill, friend Silk?" Durnik asked.

"I'm sure of theirs." Silk chuckled. He jumped up. "Let's go," he said. "My fingers are starting to itch. Let's get them away from temptation."

"Anything you say, Prince Kheldar." Barak laughed.

They all put on fur cloaks and left the palace. The snow had almost stopped, and the wind was brisk.

"I'm a bit confused by all these names," Durnik said as they trudged toward the central part of Val Alorn. "I've been meaning to ask about it. You, friend Silk, are also Prince Kheldar and sometimes the merchant Ambar of Kotu, and Mister Wolf is called Belgarath, and Mistress Pol is also Lady Polgara or the d.u.c.h.ess of Erat. Where I come from, people usually have one name."

"Names are like clothes, Durnik," Silk explained. "We put on what's most suitable for the occasion. Honest men have little need to wear strange clothes or strange names. Those of us who aren't so honest, however, occasionally have to change one or the other."

"I don't find it amusing to hear Mistress Pol described as not being honest," Durnik said stifliy.

"No disrespect intended," Silk a.s.sured him. "Simple definitions don't apply to Lady Polgara; and when I say that we're not honest, I simply mean that this business we're in sometimes requires us to conceal ourselves from people who are evil as well as devious."

Durnik looked unconvinced but let it pa.s.s.

"Let's take this street," Barak suggested. "I don't want to pa.s.s the Temple of Belar today."

"Why?" Garion asked.

"I'm a little behind in my religious duties," Barak said with a pained look, "and I'd rather not be reminded of it by the High Priest of Belar. His voice is very penetrating, and I don't like being called down in front of the whole city. A prudent man doesn't give either a priest or a woman the opportunity to scold him in public."

The streets of Val Alorn were narrow and crooked, and the ancient stone houses were tall and narrow with overhanging second stories. Despite the intermittent snow and the crisp wind, the streets seemed full of people, most of them garbed in furs against the chill.

There was much good-humored shouting and the exchange of bawdy insults. Two elderly and dignified men were pelting each other with s...o...b..a.l.l.s in the middle of one street to the raucous encouragement of the bystanders.

"They're old friends," Barak said with a broad grin. "They do this every day all winter long. Pretty soon they'll go to an alehouse and get drunk and sing old songs together until they fall off their benches. They've been doing it for years now."

"What do they do in the summer?" Silk asked.

"They throw rocks," Barak said. "The drinking and singing and falling off the benches stays the same, though."

"h.e.l.lo, Barak," a green-eyed young woman called from an upper window. "When are you coming to see me again?"

Barak glanced up, and his face flushed, but he didn't answer.

"That lady's talking to you, Barak," Garion said.

"I heard her," Barak replied shortly.

"She seems to know you," Silk said with a sly look.

"She knows everyone," Barak said, flushing even more. "Shall we move along?"

Around another corner a group of men dressed in s.h.a.ggy furs shufted along in single file. Their gait was a kind of curious swaying from side to side, and people quickly made way for them.

"Hail, Lord Barak," their leader intoned.

"Hail, Lord Barak," the others said in unison, still swaying. Barak bowed st.i.tpy.

"May the arm of Belar protect thee," the leader said. "All praise to Belar, Bear-G.o.d of Aloria," the others said. Barak bowed again and stood until the procession had pa.s.sed.

"Who were they?" Durnik asked.

"Bear-cultists," Barak said with distaste. "Religious fanatics."

"A troublesome group," Silk explained. "They have chapters in all the Alorn kingdoms. They're excellent warriors, but they're the instruments of the High Priest of Belar. They spend their time in rituals, military training, and interfering in local politics."

"Where's this Aloria they spoke of?" Garion asked.

"All around us," Barak said with a broad gesture. "Aloria used to be all the Alorn kingdoms together. They were all one nation. The cultists want to reunite them."

"That doesn't seem unreasonable," Durnik said.

"Aloria was divided for a reason," Barak said. "A certain thing had to be protected, and the division of Aloria was the best way to do that."

"Was this thing so important?" Durnik asked.

"It's the most important thing in the world," Silk said. "The Bearcultists tend to forget that."

"Only now it's been stolen, hasn't it?" Garion blurted as that dry voice in his mind informed him of the connection between what Barak and Silk had just said and the sudden disruption of his own life. "It's this thing that Mister Wolf is following."

Barak glanced quickly at him. "The lad is wiser than we thought, Silk," he said soberly.

"He's a clever boy," Silk agreed, "and it's not hard to put it all together." His weasel face was grave. "You're right, of course, Garion," he said. "We don't know how yet, but somebody's managed to steal it. If Belgarath gives the word, the Alorn Kings will take the world apart stone by stone to get it back."

"You mean war?" Durnik said in a sinking voice.

"There are worse things than war," Barak said grimly. "It might be a good opportunity to dispose of the Angaraks once and for all."

"Let's hope that Belgarath can persuade the Alorn Kings otherwise," Silk said.

"The thing has to be recovered," Barak insisted.

"Granted," Silk agreed, "but there are other ways, and I hardly think a public street's the place to discuss our alternatives."

Barak looked around quickly, his eyes narrowing.

They had by then reached the harbor where the masts of the ships of Cherek rose as thickly as trees in a forest. They crossed an icy bridge over a frozen stream and came to several large yards where the skeletons of ships lay in the snow.

A limping man in a leather smock came from a low stone building in the center of one of the yards and stood watching their approach.

"Ho, Krendig," Barak called.

"Ho, Barak," the man in the leather smock replied.

"How does the work go?" Barak asked.

"Slowly in this season," Krendig said. "It's not a good time to work with wood. My artisans are fashioning the fittings and sawing the boards, but we won't be able to do much more until spring."

Barak nodded and walked over to lay his hand on the new wood of a ship prow rising out of the snow. "Krendig is building this for me," he said, patting the prow. "She'll be the finest ship afloat."

"If your oarsmen are strong enough to move her," Krendig said. "She'll be very big, Barak, and very heavy."

"Then I'll man her with big men," Barak said, still gazing at the ribs of his ship.

Garion heard a gleeful shout from the hillside above the shipyard and looked up quickly. Several young people were sliding down the hill on smooth planks. It was obvious that Barak and the others were going to spend most of the rest of the afternoon discussing the ship. While that might be all very interesting, Garion realized that he hadn't spoken with anyone his own age for a long time. He drifted away from the others and stood at the foot of the hill, watching.

One blond girl particularly attracted his eye. In some ways she reminded him of Zubrette, but there were some differences. Where Zubrette had been pet.i.te, this girl was as big as a boy - though she was noticeably not a boy. Her laughter rang out merrily, and her cheeks were pink in the cold afternoon air as she slid down the hill with her long braids flying behind her.

"That looks like fun," Garion said as her improvised sled came to rest nearby.

"Would you like to try?" she asked, getting up and brushing the snow from her woolen dress.

"I don't have a sled," he told her.

"I might let you use mine," she said, looking at him archly, "if you give me something."

"What would you want me to give you?" he asked.

"We'll think of something," she said, eyeing him boldly. "What's your name?"

"Garion," he said.

"What an odd name. Do you come from here?"

"No. I'm from Sendaria."

"A Sendar? Truly?" Her blue eyes twinkled. "I've never met a Sendar before. My name is Maidee."

Garion inclined his head slightly.

"Do you want to use my sled?" Maidee asked.

"I might like to try it," Garion said.

"I might let you," she said, "for a kiss."

Garion blushed furiously, and Maidee laughed.

A large red-haired boy in a long tunic slid to a stop nearby and rose with a menacing look on his face.