Enchanter's End Game

shadows.
    "How did he know?" Garion asked. "That I'm a wolf sometimes, I mean?"
    "It shows. A wolf is very alert to that sort of thing."
    Silk came out from under the tree where he had been sleeping. The little man's step was wary, but his nose twitched with curiosity. "What was that all about?" he asked.
    "The wolves wanted to know what we were doing in their territory," Belgarath replied. "They were investigating to see if they were going to have to fight us."
    "Fight?" Garion was startled.
    "It's customary when a strange wolf enters the hunting range of another pack. Wolves prefer not to fight - it's a waste of energy - but they will, if the situation demands it."
    "What happened?" Silk asked. "Why did they just go away like that?"
    "Garion convinced them that we were just passing through."
    "That was clever of him."
    "Why don't you stir up the fire, Garion?" Belgarath suggested. "Let's have some breakfast and move on. It's still a long way to Mallorea, and we don't want to run out of good weather."
    Later that same day, they rode down into a valley where a collection of log houses and tents stood beside a fair-sized stream at the edge of a meadow.
    "Fur traders," Silk explained to Garion, pointing at the rough settlement. "'There are places like this on just about every major stream in this part of the forest." The little man's pointed nose began to twitch, and his eyes grew bright. "A lot of buying and selling goes on in these little towns."
    "Never mind," Belgarath told him pointedly. "Try to keep your predatory instincts under control."
    "I wasn't even considering anything," Silk protested.
    "Really? Aren't you feeling well?"
    Silk loftily ignored that.
    "Wouldn't it be safer to go around it?" Garion asked as they rode across the broad meadow.
    Belgarath shook his head. "I want to know what's going on ahead of us, and the quickest way to find out is to talk to people who've been there. We'll drift in, circulate for an hour or so and then drift on out again. Just keep your ears open. If anyone asks, we're on our way toward the north range to look for gold."
    There were differences between the hunters and trappers who roamed the streets of this settlement and the miners they had met in the last village. They were more open for one thing - less surly and distinctly less belligerent. Garion surmised that the enforced solitude of their occupation made them appreciate companionship all the more during their infrequent visits to the fur-trading centers. Although they drank probably as much as the miners, their drinking seemed to lead more often to singing and laughter than to fighting.
    A large tavern stood near the center of the village, and they rode slowly along a dirt street toward it. "Side door," Belgarath said tersely as they dismounted in front of the tavern, and they led their horses around the building and tied them at the porch railing.
    The interior of the tavern was cleaner, less crowded, and somewhat lighter than the miners' tavern had been, and it smelled of woods and open air instead of damp, musty earth. The three of them sat at a table not far from the door and ordered cups of ale from a polite servingman. The ale was a rich, dark brown, well chilled, and surprisingly inexpensive.
    "The fur buyers own the place," Silk explained, wiping foam from his upper lip. "They've discovered that a trapper is easier to bargain with if he's a little drunk, so they make the ale cheap and plentiful."
    "I suppose that makes sense," Garion admitted, "but don't the trappers know that?"
    "Of course they do."
    "Why do they drink before they do business, then?"
    Silk shrugged. "They like to drink."
    The two trappers seated at the next table were renewing an acquaintanceship that obviously stretched back a dozen years or more. Their beards were both touched with gray, but they spoke lightheartedly in the manner of much younger men.
    "You have any trouble with Morindim while you were up there?" one was asking the other.
    The second shook his head. "I put pestilence-markers on both ends of the valley where I set out my traps," he replied. "A Morind will go a dozen leagues out of his way to avoid a spot that's got pestilence."
    The first nodded his agreement. "That's usually the best way. Gredder always claimed that curse-markers worked better; but as it turned out, he was wrong."
    "I haven't seen him in the last few seasons."
    "I'd be surprised if you had. The Morindim got him about three years ago. I buried him myself -