Demon Lord of Karanda

lips. "In a way, I'm rather glad about that. I've never taken much satisfaction in hunting rabbits." He shaded his eyes with one hand, although the light in the room was not particularly bright. "But what I can't understand is how you managed to spirit him out of the Drojim Palace and away from the city. He has whole regiments of bodyguards."
    "You're overlooking something, Zakath," Belgarath said to him. "We have certain advantages that aren't available to others."
    "Sorcery, you mean? Is it really all that reliable?"
    "I've had some luck with it from time to time."
    Zakath's eyes had become suddenly intent. " They tell me that you're five thousand years old, Belgarath. Is that true?"
    "Seven, actually -or a little more. Why do you ask?"
    "In all those years, hasn't it ever occurred to you simply to seize power? You could have made yourself king of the world, you know."
    Belgarath looked amused. "Why would I want to?" he asked.
    "All men want power. It's human nature."
    "Has all your power really made you happy?"
    "It has certain satisfactions."
    "Enough to make up for all the petty distractions that go with it?"
    "I can endure those. At least I'm in a position where no one tells me what to do."
    "No one tells me what to do either, and I'm not saddled with all those tedious responsibilities." Belgarath straightened. "All right, Zakath, shall we get to the point? What are your intentions concerning us?"
    "I haven't really decided that yet." The Emperor looked around at them. "I presume that we can all be civilized about the present situation?"
    "How do you mean, civilized?" Garion asked him.
    "I'll accept your word that none of you will try to escape or do anything rash. I'm aware that you and a number of your friends have certain specialized talents. I don't want to be forced to take steps to counteract them."
    "We have some rather pressing business," Garion replied carefully, "so we can only delay for just so long.
    For the time being, however, I think we can agree to be reasonable about things."
    "Good. We'll have to talk later, you and I, and come to know one another. I've had comfortable quarters prepared for you and your friends, and I know that you're anxious about your wife. Now, I hope you'll excuse me, but I have some of those tedious responsibilities Belgarath mentioned to attend to."
    Although the house was very large, it was not, strictly speaking, a palace. It appeared that the Murgo governors-general of Hagga who had ordered it built had not shared the grandiose delusions which afflicted the rulers of Urga, and so the building was more functional than ornate.
    "I hope you'll excuse me," General Atesca said to them when they had emerged from the audience chamber. "I'm obliged to deliver a full report to his Majesty -about various matters- and then I must return immediately to Rak Verkat." He looked at Garion. "The circumstances under which we met were not the happiest, your Majesty." he said, "but I hope you won't think too unkindly of me." He bowed rather stiffly and then left them in the care of a member of the Emperor's staff The man who led them down a long, dark-paneled hallway toward the center of the house was obviously not an Angarak. He had not the angular eyes nor the stiff, bleak-faced arrogance that marked the men of that race.
    His cheerful, round face seemed to hint at a Melcene heritage, and Garion remembered that the bureaucracy which controlled most aspects of Mallorean life was made up almost exclusively of Melcenes. "His Majesty asked me to assure you that your quarters are not intended to be a prison," the official told them as they approached a heavily barred iron door blocking off one portion of the hallway. "This was a Murgo house before we took the city, and it has certain structural peculiarities. Your rooms are in what once were the women's quarters, and Murgos are fanatically protective of their women. It has to do with their concept of racial purity, I think."
    At the moment, Garion had little interest in sleeping arrangements. All his concern was for Ce'Nedra. "Do you happen to know where I might find my wife?" he asked the moon-faced bureaucrat.
    "There at the end of this corridor, your Majesty," the Melcene replied, pointing toward a blue-painted door at the far end of the hall.
    "Thank you." Garion glanced at the others. "I'll be back in a little while," he told them and strode on ahead.
    The room he entered was warm and the lighting subdued. Deep, ornately woven