Magician's Gambit

now."
    "We'll get them back for you," Garion promised impulsively.
    She gave a bitter little laugh. "I don't think so. The Murgos gave them to the Grolims, and the Grolims sacrificed them on the altar of Torak. Ctuchik himself held the knife."
    Garion felt his blood run cold.
    "This cloak is warm," Taiba said gratefully, her hands smoothing the rough cloth. "I've been cold for such a long time." She sighed with a sort of weary contentment.
    Belgarath and Aunt Pol were looking at each other across Taiba's body. "I must be doing something right," the old man remarked cryptically after a moment. "To stumble across her like this after all these years of searching!"
    "Are you sure she's the right one, father?"
    "She almost has to be. Everything fits together too well - right down to the last detail." He drew in a deep breath and then let it out explosively. "That's been worrying me for a thousand years." He suddenly looked enormously pleased with himself. "How did you escape from the slave pens, Taiba?" he asked gently.
    "One of the Murgos forgot to lock a door," she replied, her voice drowsy. "After I slipped out, I found this knife. I was going to try to find Ctuchik and kill him with it, but I got lost. There are so many caves down here - so many. I wish I could kill him before I die, but I don't suppose there's much hope for that now." She sighed regretfully. "I think I'd like to sleep now. I'm so very tired."
    "Will you be all right here?" Aunt Pol asked her. "We have to leave, but we'll be back. Do you need anything?"
    "A little light, maybe." Taiba sighed. "I've lived in the dark all my life. I think I'd like it to be light when I die."
    "Relg," Aunt Polt said, "make her some light."
    "We might need it ourselves." His voice was still stiffly offended.
    "She needs it more."
    "Do it, Relg," Belgarath told the zealot in a firm voice.
    Relg's face hardened, but he mixed some of the contents of his two pouches together on a flat stone and dribbled a bit of water on the mixture. The pasty substance began to glow.
    "Thank you," Taiba said simply.
    Relg refused to answer or even to look at her.
    They went back up the passageway, leaving her beside the small pool with her dim little light. She began to sing again, quite softly this time and in a voice near the edge of sleep.
    Relg led them through the dark galleries, twisting and changing course frequently, always climbing. Hours dragged by, though time had little meaning in the perpetual darkness. They climbed more of the sheer faces and followed passageways that wound higher and higher up into the vast rock pillar. Garion lost track of direction as they climbed, and found himself wondering if even Relg knew which way he was going. As they rounded another corner in another gallery, a faint breeze seemed to touch their faces. The breeze carried a dreadful odor with it.
    "What's that stink?" Silk asked, wrinkling his sharp nose.
    "The slave pens, most likely," Belgarath replied. "Murgos are lax about sanitation."
    "The pens are under Rak Cthol, aren't they?" Barak asked. Belgarath nodded.
    "And they open up into the city itself?"
    "As I remember it, they do."
    "You've done it, Relg," Barak said, clapping the Ulgo on the shoulder.
    "Don't touch me," Reig told him.
    "Sorry, Relg."
    "The slave pens are going to be guarded," Belgarath told them. "We'll want to be very quiet now."
    They crept on up the passageway, being careful where they put their feet. Garion was not certain at what point the gallery began to show evidence of human construction. Finally they passed a partially open iron door. "Is there anybody in there?" he whispered to Silk.
    The little man sidled up to the opening, his dagger held low and ready. He glanced in, his head making a quick, darting movement. "Just some bones," he reported somberly.
    Belgarath signalled for a halt. "These lower galleries have probably been abandoned," he told them in a very quiet voice. "After the causeway was finished, the Murgos didn't need all those thousands of slaves. We'll go on up, but be quiet and keep your eyes open."
    They padded silently up the gradual incline of the gallery, passing more of the rusting iron doors, all standing partially ajar. At the top of the slope, the gallery turned back sharply on itself, still angling upward. Some words were crudely lettered on the wall in a script Garion could not recognize. "Grandfather," he whispered, pointing at the words.
    Belgarath glanced at the lettering and grunted. "Ninth