Pawn of Prophecy

beneath the wagons. The ground was hard and cold, but the exciting sense of being on some great adventure helped Garion to endure the discomfort.
    The next morning, however, it began to rain. It was a fine, misty rain at first, scattering before the wind, but as the morning wore on, it settled into a steady drizzle. The musty smell of the turnips in their wet sacks became stronger, and Garion huddled miserably with his cloak pulled tightly around him. The adventure was growing much less exciting.
    The road became muddy and slick, and the horses struggled their way up each hill and had to be rested often. On the first day they had covered eight leagues; after that they were lucky to make five.
    Aunt Pol became waspish and short-tempered.
    "This is idiocy," she said to Mister Wolf about noon on the third day.
    "Everything is idiocy if you choose to look at it in the proper light," he replied philosophically.
    "Why wagoneers?" she demanded. "There are faster ways to travels wealthy family in a proper carriage, for instance, or Imperial messengers on good horses - either way would have put us in Darine by now."
    "And left a trail in the memories of all these simple people we've passed so wide that even a Thull could follow it," Wolf explained patiently. "Brill has long since reported our departure to his employers. Every Murgo in Sendaria is looking for us by now."
    "Why are we hiding from the Murgos, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked, hesitant to interrupt, but impelled by curiosity to try to penetrate the mystery behind their flight. "Aren't they just merchants-like the Tolnedrans and the Drasnians?"
    "The Murgos have no real interest in trade," Wolf explained. "Nadraks are merchants, but the Murgos are warriors. The Murgos pose as merchants for the same reason that we pose as wagoneers - so that they can move about more or less undetected. If you simply assumed that all Murgos are spies, you wouldn't be too far from the truth."
    "Haven't you anything better to do than ask all these questions?" Aunt Pol asked.
    "Not really," Garion said, and then instantly knew that he'd made a mistake.
    "Good," she said. "In the back of Barak's wagon you'll find the dirty dishes from this morning's meal. You'll also find a bucket. Fetch the bucket and run to that stream ahead for water, then return to Barak's wagon and wash the dishes."
    "In cold water?" he objected.
    "Now, Garion," she said firmly.
    Grumbling, he climbed down off the slowly moving wagon.
    In the late afternoon of the fourth day they came over a high hilltop and saw below the city of Darine and beyond the city the leaden gray sea.
    Garion caught his breath. To his eyes the city looked very large. Its surrounding walls were thick and high, and there were more buildings within those walls than he had seen in all his life. But it was to the sea that his eyes were drawn. There was a sharp tang to the air. Faint hints of that smell had been coming to him on the wind for the past league or so, but now, inhaling deeply, he breathed in that perfume of the sea for the first time in his life. His spirit soared.
    "Finally," Aunt Pol said.
    Silk had stopped the lead wagon and came walking back. His hood was pulled back slightly, and the rain ran down his long nose to drip from its pointed tip.
    "Do we stop here or go on down to the city?" he asked.
    "We go to the city," Aunt Pol said. "I'm not going to sleep under a wagon when there are inns so close at hand."
    "Honest wagoneers would seek out an inn," Mister Wolf agreed, "and a warm taproom."
    "I might have guessed that," Aunt Pol said.
    "We have to try to look the part." Wolf shrugged.
    They went on down the hill, the horses' hooves slipping and sliding as they braced back against the weight of the wagons.
    At the city gate two watchmen in stained tunics and wearing rustspotted helmets came out of the tiny watch house just inside the gate.
    "What's your business in Darine?" one of them asked Silk.
    "I am Ambar of Kotu," Silk lied pleasantly, "a poor Drasnian merchant hoping to do business in your splendid city."
    "Splendid?" one of the watchmen snorted.
    "What have you in your wagons, merchant?" the other inquired.
    "Turnips," Silk said deprecatingly. "My family has been in the spice trade for generations, but I'm reduced to peddling turnips." He sighed. "The world is a topsy-turvy place, is it not, good friend?"
    "We're obliged to inspect your wagons," the watchman said. "It'll take some time, I'm afraid."
    "And a wet time at that,"