King of The Murgos

awoke the following morning feeling more refreshed than he had in weeks. He dressed quietly to avoid waking Ce'Nedra and went out into the main pavilion.
    Silk and Delvor sat at the table talking quietly. "There's a great deal of ferment going on here in Arendia," Delvor was saying. "The news of the campaign against the Bear-cult in the Alorn kingdoms has stirred the blood of all the young hotheads—both Mimbrate and Asturian. The thought of a fight someplace that they weren't invited to attend fills young Arends with anguish."
    "There's nothing new about that," Silk said. "Good morning, Garion."
    "Gentlemen," Garion said politely, pulling up a chair.
    "Your Majesty," Delvor greeted him. Then he turned back to Silk. "The thing that concerns everybody more than the casual belligerence of the young nobles, though, is the unrest that's arisen among the serfs."
    Garion remembered the miserable hovels in the villages they had passed in the last few days and the hopeless looks on the faces of their inhabitants. "They have reason enough for discontent, don't you think?" he said.
    "I'd be the first to agree, your Majesty," Delvor said, "and it's not the first time it's happened. This time, though, it's a little more serious. The authorities have been finding caches of weapons—fairly sophisticated ones. A serf with a pitchfork isn't much of a match for an armored Mimbrate knight. A serf with a crossbow, however, is an altogether different matter. There have been several incidents—and some reprisals."
    "How could serfs get those kinds of weapons?" Garion asked him. "Most of the time they don't even have enough to eat. How could they possibly afford to buy crossbows?"
    "They're coming in from outside the country," Delvor told him. "We haven't been able to pinpoint the source yet, but it's fairly obvious that somebody wants to make sure that the Arendish nobility is too busy at home to get involved in anything anyplace else."
    "Kal Zakath, perhaps?" Silk suggested.
    "It's entirely possible," Delvor agreed. "There's no question that the emperor of Mallorea has global ambitions, and turmoil in the Kingdoms of the West would be his best ally if he decides to turn his armies northward after he finally kills King Urgit."
    Garion groaned. "That's all I need," he said, "one more thing to worry about."
    When the others joined them in the main pavilion, Delvor's servants brought in a huge breakfast. There were whole platters of eggs, heaps of bacon and sausage, and plate after plate of fruit and rich pastries.
    "Now this is what I call a breakfast," Silk said enthusiastically.
    Polgara gave him a cool look. "Go ahead and say it, Prince Kheldar," she said. "I'm sure that you have all sorts of interesting observations to make."
    "Would / say anything about that excellent gruel you offer us every morning, dear lady?" he asked with exaggerated innocence.
    "Not if you're at all concerned about your health, you wouldn't," Ce'Nedra said sweetly.
    One of the servants entered the tent with an offended expression on his face. "There's an obnoxious, filthy hunchback outside, Delvor," he reported. "He has the foulest mouth I've ever run across and he's demanding to be let in. Do you want us to chase him off?"
    "Oh, that would be Uncle Beldin," Polgara said.
    "You know him?" Delvor seemed surprised.
    "I've known him since I was a baby," she replied. "He's not really as bad as he seems—once you get used to him." She frowned slightly. "You probably ought to let him come in," she advised. "He can be terribly unpleasant when people irritate him."
    "Belgarath," Beldin growled, roughly pushing his way past the protesting servant, "is this all the farther you've come? I thought you'd be in Tol Honeth by now."
    "We had to stop at Prolgu to see the Gorim," Belgarath replied mildly.
    "This isn't a grand tour, you blockhead," Beldin snapped irritably. The little hunchback was as filthy as ever. The wet rags he wore for clothes were tied to his body here and there with lengths of rotten twine. His hair was matted and had twigs and bits of straw clinging to it. His hideous face was as black as a thundercloud as he stumped to the table on his short, gnarled legs and helped himself to a bit of sausage.
    "Please try to be civil, uncle," Aunt Pol said.
    "Why?" He pointed at a small pot standing on the table. "What's in that?"
    "Jam," Delvor replied, looking slightly intimidated.
    "Interesting," Beldin said. He dipped one dirty hand into the pot and began