Guardians of the West

anything was broken, spilled, or tipped over, someone in authority would appear. There was never an opportunity to tidy up, and so such situations always presented themselves in the worst possible light.
    The double doors at the far end of the ballroom opened, and Polgara, regally beautiful in blue velvet, stepped inside.
    Her face was grave as she regarded the guilty-looking pair lying at the foot of the stairs in their piles of cushions, with a positive blizzard of goose down swirling around them.
    Errand winced and held his breath.
    Very softly, she closed the doors behind her and walked slowly toward them, her heels sounding ominously loud on the marble floor. She looked at the denuded chairs lining each side of the ballroom. She looked at the marble balustrades. She looked at the boys with feathers settling on them. And then, without warning whatsoever, she began to laugh, a rich, warm, vibrant laugh that absolutely filled the empty hall.
    Errand felt somehow betrayed by her reaction. He and Kheva had gone out of their way to get themselves into trouble, and all she did was laugh about it. There was no scolding, no acid commentary, nothing but laughter. He definitely felt that this levity was out of place, an indication that she was not taking this thing as seriously as she ought. He felt a trifle bitter about the whole thing. He had earned the scolding she was denying him.
    "You boys will clean it up, won't you?" she asked them.
    "Of course, Lady Polgara," Kheva assured her quickly.' "We were just about to do that."
    "Splendid, your Highness," she said, the corners of her mouth still twitching. "Do try to gather up all the feathers." And she turned and walked out of the ballroom, leaving the faint echo of her laughter hovering in the air behind her.
    After that, the boys were watched rather closely. There was nothing really obvious about it; it was just that there always seemed to be someone around to call a halt before things got completely out of hand.
    About a week later, when the rains had passed and the slush had mostly melted off the streets, Errand and Kheva were sitting on the floor of a carpeted room, building a fortress out of wooden blocks. At a table near the window Silk, splendidly dressed in rich black velvet, was carefully reading a dispatch he had received that morning from his partner, Yarblek, who had remained in Gar og Nadrak to tend the business. About midmorning, a servant came into the room and spoke briefly with the rat-faced little man. Silk nodded, rose, and came over to where the boys were playing. "What would you gentlemen say to a breath of fresh air?" he asked them.
    "Of course," Errand replied, getting to his feet.
    "And you, cousin?" Silk asked Kheva.
    "Certainly, your Highness." Kheva said.
    Silk laughed. "Must we be so formal, Kheva?"
    "Mother says I should always use the proper forms of address," Kheva told him seriously. "I guess it's to help me keep in practice or something,"
    "Your mother isn't here," Silk told him slyly, "so it's all right to cheat a little."
    Kheva looked around nervously. "Do you really think we should?" he whispered.
    "I'm sure of it," Silk replied. "Cheating is good for you. It helps you to keep your perspective."
    "Do you cheat often?"
    "Me?" Silk was still laughing. "All the time, cousin. All the time. Let's fetch cloaks and take a turn about the city. I have to go by the headquarters of the intelligence service; and since I've been appointed your keeper for the day, the two of you had better come along."
    The air outside was cool and damp, and the wind was brisk enough to whip their cloaks about their legs as they passed along the cobbled streets of Boktor. The Drasnian capital was one of the major commercial centers of the world, and the streets teemed with men of all races. Richly mantled Tolnedrans spoke on street corners with sober-faced Senders in sensible brown. Flamboyantly garbed and richly jeweled Darwinians haggled with leather-garbed Nadraks, and there were even a few black-robed Murgos striding along the blustery streets, with their broad-backed Thullish porters trailing behind them, carrying heavy packs filled with merchandise. The porters, of course, were followed at a discreet distance by the ever present spies.
    "Dear, sneaky old Boktor," Silk declaimed extravagantly, "where at least every other man you meet is a spy."
    "Are those men spies?" Kheva asked, looking at them with a surprised expression.
    "Of course they are, your