Pawn of Prophecy

Silk said, squinting up into the rain. "It would be much more pleasant to devote the time to wetting one's inside in some friendly tavern."
    "That's difficult when one doesn't have much money," the watchman suggested hopefully.
    "I'd be more than pleased if you'd accept some small token of friendship from me to aid you in your wetting," Silk offered.
    "You're most kind," the watchman replied with a slight bow.
    Some coins changed hands, and the wagons moved on into the city uninspected.
    From the hilltop Darine had looked quite splendid, but Garion found it much less so as they clattered through the wet streets. The buildings all seemed the same with a kind of self important aloofness about them, and the streets were littered and dirty. The salt tang of the sea was tainted here with the smell of dead fish, and the faces of the people hurrying along were grim and unfriendly. Garion's first excitement began to fade.
    "Why are the people all so unhappy?" he asked Mister Wolf.
    "They have a stern and demanding God," Wolf replied.
    "Which God is that?" Garion asked.
    "Money," Wolf said. "Money is a worse God than Torak himself."
    "Don't fill the boy's head with nonsense," Aunt Pol said. "The people aren't really unhappy, Garion. They're just all in a hurry. They have important affairs to attend to and they're afraid they'll be late. That's all."
    "I don't think I'd like to live here," Garion said. "It seems like a bleak, unfriendly kind of place." He sighed. "Sometimes I wish we were all back at Faldor's farm."
    "There are worse places than Faldor's," Wolf agreed.
    The inn Silk chose for them was near the docks, and the smell of the sea and the rank detritus of the meeting of sea and land was strong there. The inn, however, was a stout building with stables attached and storage sheds for the wagons. Like most inns, the main floor was given over to the kitchen and the large common room with its rows of tables and large fireplaces. The upper floors provided sleeping chambers for the guests.
    "It's a suitable place," Silk announced as he came back out to the wagons after speaking at some length with the innkeeper. "The kitchen seems clean, and I saw no bugs when I inspected the sleeping chambers."
    "I will inspect it," Aunt Pol said, climbing down from the wagon.
    "As you wish, great lady," Silk said with a polite bow.
    Aunt Pol's inspection took much longer than Silk's, and it was nearly dark when she returned to the courtyard. "Adequate," she sniffed, "but only barely."
    "It's not as if we planned to settle in for the winter, Pol," Wolf said. "At most we'll only be here a few days."
    She ignored that.
    "I've ordered hot water sent up to our chambers," she announced. "I'll take the boy up and wash him while you and the others see to the wagons and horses. Come along, Garion." And she turned and went back into the inn.
    Garion wished fervently that they would all stop referring to him as the boy. He did, after all, he reflected, have a name, and it was not that difficult a name to remember. He was gloomily convinced that even if he lived to have a long gray beard, they would still speak of him as the boy.
    After the horses and wagons had been attended to and they had all washed up, they went down again to the common room and dined. The meal certainly didn't match up to Aunt Pol's, but it was a welcome change from turnips. Garion was absolutely certain that he'd never be able to look a turnip in the face again for the rest of his life.
    After they had eaten, the men loitered over their ale pots, and Aunt Pol's face registered her disapproval. "Garion and I are going up to bed now," she said to them. "Try not to fall down too many times when you come up."
    Wolf, Barak and Silk laughed at that, but Durnik, Garion thought, looked a bit shamefaced.
    The next day Mister Wolf and Silk left the inn early and were gone all day. Garion had positioned himself in a strategic place in hopes that he might be noticed and asked to go along, but he was not; so when Durnik went down to look after the horses, he accompanied him instead.
    "Durnik," he said after they had fed and watered the animals and the smith was examining their hooves for cuts or stone bruises, "does all this seem strange to you?"
    Durnik carefully lowered the leg of the patient horse he was checking.
    "All what, Garion?" he asked, his plain face sober.
    "Everything," Garion said rather vaguely. "This journey, Barak and Silk, Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol - all of it. They all