Krachack shrugged. ‘So? Ctuchik doesn’t care about Arendia, and he doesn’t really care about what happens to her. If Tolnedra annexes her, though, the Alorns will be dragged into it, and that’s what Ctuchik really wants – a war between Tolnedra and Aloria. Once that starts, Ctuchik can go to Ashaba and hand Torak a divided west on a platter. Ctuchik will be Torak’s most favored disciple, standing above Zedar and Urvon, and the Malloreans will come across the Sea of the East. All of Angarak will fall on the divided kingdoms of the west and annihilate them. Torak will become the God of all humanity.’
I’m sure that Lelldorin will recognize the general pattern of the scheme. A Murgo named Nachak tried something very similar in Arendia a few years back. Ctuchik did tend to repeat himself.
Kathandrion and I questioned Krachack the Murgo until almost dawn, and then we had him quietly taken down to the lowest level of the dungeon. The Wacite Duke was more than a little startled by the complexity of Ctuchik’s plot. ‘It astounds me that any man can be so devious, Polgara,’ he admitted. ‘Are all Murgo minds thus?’
‘I rather doubt it, my friend,’ I replied. ‘Ctuchik studied at the feet of Torak himself, and then he had centuries to practice his art on his fellow-disciples, Urvon and Zedar. There’s no love lost between those three, and Torak prefers it that way. The Dragon God brings out and exploits the worst in human nature.’ I considered the situation. ‘I think I’d better go on to Vo Astur directly,’ I mused. ‘I’m fairly sure that events there are moving to a head as rapidly as they are here – and in Vo Mimbre as well. These assorted plots almost have to be coordinated to reach their culmination at roughly the same time, and what’s been happening here is rapidly coming to a climax.’
‘I shall provide thee with an escort, Polgara.’
‘Kathandrion,’ I reminded him gently, ‘you’re technically at war with Asturia, remember? If I go to Vo Astur with a Wacite escort, aren’t people likely to talk?’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I did it again, didn’t I?’ He looked a bit embarrassed.
‘I’m afraid so, my friend. We’re going to have to work on that. Don’t be concerned, Kathandrion. The Asturians won’t even see me – until I’m ready for them to.’
I left later that same day, and after Lady and I had traveled for about an hour, I probed the surrounding forest with my thought. There weren’t any Arends in the vicinity, but there was someone else. ‘Well, father,’ I said aloud, ‘are you coming along or not?’
His silence was just ever so slightly guilty. ‘Keep your nose out of this, Old Man,’ I told him. ‘I think this is one of those “tests” you’re so fond of talking about. Watch, but don’t get involved. You can grade me after it’s all over. Oh, I’m going on ahead. Since you insist on trailing along after me, why don’t you bring Lady with you.’
I love to do that to him.
Events were moving at a quickening pace, so speed was very important. I’d decided earlier to forego my favorite alternative form and to use a falcon instead.
Vo Astur was constructed of granite, and its grey walls were thick and high and surmounted by grim battlements. It was a depressing city that crouched on the southern bank of the Astur River. There were centuries-old feuds going on in Asturia, and every nobleman of any consequence lived inside a fort. The seat of the Asturian government was no exception. Asturia was filled to the brim with intrigue, plots, ambushes, poisonings, and surprise attacks, so caution was the course of prudence, I guess.
There was no real point in going through the inevitable interrogation at the city gate, so I spiraled down toward the ducal palace instead as evening drew over the fortified city. I settled unobserved in a secluded corner of the courtyard and resumed my real form. Then I slipped around the outer edge of the flagstoned yard, approached the ornate door of the palace, ‘encouraged’ the guards to take a brief nap, and went on inside.
My father had frequently impressed upon me the idea that there are times when it’s necessary for us to be unremarkable in the presence of others, and he’s devised many ways to achieve that. My own favorite is to exude a sense of familiarity. It’s a subtle sort of thing. People can look at me without actually seeing me. They’re sure that they know me, but they can’t quite remember my name. In social situations, this can be very useful. In effect, I just become a part of the background.
Kathandrion had advised me that the Asturians spoke an ‘outlandish dialect’, so I loitered in a long, dim corridor until a group of gaily-dressed courtiers, both men and women, came by, and I joined them and listened carefully as they spoke. I noted that the Asturians had discarded ‘high style’ and spoke to each other in a more commonplace fashion. Asturia was bounded on one side by the Sea of the West, and she had far more contact with outsiders than did either Wacune or Mimbre. The people here yearned to be ‘modern’, and so they rather slavishly imitated the speech of those outsiders with whom they came in contact. Unfortunately, many of those outsiders just happened to be sailors, and sailors probably aren’t the best source of linguistic elegance. I devoutly hoped that the giddy young ladies in the group I’d joined didn’t fully understand the meaning of some of the words and phrases that tumbled from their lips.
Since all three of the Arendish dukes had royal pretensions, each of their palaces had a ‘throne-room’, and Astur was no exception. The cluster of nobles I’d joined entered the central hall that served that purpose here, and I drifted away from them and worked my way through the slightly tipsy throng toward the front of the hall.
Over the years I’ve had occasion to observe drunkenness in its assorted forms, and I’ve noticed some variations. A man who’s over-indulged in beer or ale is rowdier than one soaked in wine, and those who prefer distilled spirits tend toward open belligerence. The Asturians preferred wine, and wine-tipplers either giggle or weep when in their cups. The Arendish fondness for high tragedy made them lean in the direction of melancholy. A drinking party in Asturia is a gloomy sort of affair, rather on the order of a funeral on a rainy night.
Oldoran, the Asturian Duke, was a small ratty little man, and he was obviously far gone in drink. He sprawled morosely on his throne with a look of profound suffering on his pouchy little face. A man in a Tolnedran mantle of an unappetizing yellow color stood just at his right elbow, frequently leaning over to whisper in the duke’s ear. I carefully sent out a probing thought, and the color that came back from the supposed Tolnedran was not red. It appeared that I had another Murgo on my hands.