King of The Murgos

boat can sort of forget to stop by the customs dock at the end of a voyage—or he can locate some quiet place to store things until he finds customers for them."
    "That's smuggling!"
    "Why, yes, I believe some people do call it that. Anyway, I'd guess that every sea captain in the world has dabbled in the business at one time or another."
    "Not Murgos," Urgit insisted.
    "Then how is it that your captain knew of a perfect hiding place not five leagues from our present location—and probably knows of hundreds more?"
    "You're a corrupt and disgusting man, Kheldar."
    "I know. Smuggling is a very profitable business, though. You ought to give some thought to going into it."
    "Kheldar, I'm the king. I'd be stealing from myself."
    "Trust me," Silk said. "It's a bit complicated, but I can show you how to set things up so that you can make a very handsome profit."
    The ship rolled then, and they all looked out through the windows along the stern to watch the waves sweep by as the steersman pulled his tiller over hard and the ship came about. Far astern they could see a half-dozen red sails looking tiny in the distance.
    "Are there any Grolims on board those ships, Pol?" Belgarath asked his daughter.
    Her lavender eyes became distant for a moment, then she passed one hand over her brow. "No, father," she replied, "just ordinary Malloreans."
    "Good. We shouldn't have too much trouble hiding from them, then."
    "That storm the captain mentioned is coming up behind them," Durnik said.
    "Won't it just hurry them along?" Urgit asked nervously.
    "Probably not," the smith answered. "Most likely they'll come about to head into the wind. That's the only safe way to ride out a storm."
    "Won't we have to do the same thing?"
    "We're outnumbered six to one, my brother," Silk pointed out. "We're going to have to take a few chances, I think."
    The advancing wave of darkness that marked the leading edge of the oncoming storm engulfed the red sails far astern and came racing up the coast. The waves grew higher, and the Murgo ship bucked and plunged as the wind picked up. The timbers shrieked and groaned in protest as the heavy seas wrenched at their vessel, and high overhead there was the heavy booming of the sails. Garion actually listened to that booming sound for several minutes before the significance of it began to dawn on him. It was an ominous grinding noise from amidships that finally alerted him. "That idiot!" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet and snatching up his cloak.
    "What's the matter?" Sadi asked in alarm.
    "He's carrying full sail! If his mainmast doesn't break, we'll be driven under!" Garion whirled, dashed out of the cabin, and staggered along the lurching companionway to the three steps leading up to the deck. "Captain!" he shouted as he dashed out onto the rain-swept deck. He caught one of the hastily strung lifelines as a wave broke over the stern and came rushing knee-deep down the deck, sweeping his feet out from under him. "Captain!" he shouted again, hauling himself hand over hand up the rope toward the aft deck.
    "My Lord?" the captain shouted back with a startled look.
    "Shorten your sail! Your mainmast is starting to tear free!"
    The captain stared aloft, his face filled with sudden chagrin. "Impossible, my Lord," he protested as Garion reached him. "The men can't furl sail in this storm."
    Garion rubbed the rain out of his eyes and looked back up over his shoulder at the tautly bellied mainsail. "They'll have to cut it away, then."
    "Cut it? But, my Lord, that's a new sail."
    "Right now it's the sail or the ship. If the wind uproots your mainmast, it's going to tear your ship apart—and if it doesn't, we'll be driven under. Now get that sail off the mast—or I will."
    The captain stared at him.
    "Believe me," Garion told him, "if I have to do it, I'll sweep your deck clean—masts, rigging, sails, and all."
    The captain immediately began giving orders.
    Once the mainsail had been cut free and allowed to kite off into the storm, the dreadful shuddering and grinding eased, and the vessel ran before the wind more smoothly, propelled only by a small foresail.
    "How far is it to the mouth of the Gorand Sea?" Garion asked.
    "Not far, my Lord," the captain replied, mopping his face. He looked around at the storm-lashed morning and the low, nearly invisible coast sliding by on their right. "There it is," he said, pointing at a scarcely visible hillock jutting up a mile or so ahead. "You see that headland—the one with