Pawn of Prophecy

talk sometimes when they don't think I can hear them. This all seems terribly important, but I can't tell if we're running away from someone or looking for something."
    "It's confusing to me as well, Garion," Durnik admitted. "Many things aren't what they seem - not what they seem at all."
    "Does Aunt Pol seem different to you?" Garion asked. "What I mean is, they all treat her as if she were a noblewoman or something, and she acts differently too, now that we're away from Faldor's farm."
    "Mistress Pol is a great lady," Durnik said. "I've always known that." His voice had that same respectful tone it always had when he spoke of her, and Garion knew that it was useless to try to make Durnik perceive anything unusual about her.
    "And Mister Wolf," Garion said, trying another tack. "I always thought he was just an old storyteller."
    "He doesn't seem to be an ordinary vagabond," Durnik admitted. "I think we've fallen in with important people, Garion, on important business. It's probably better for simple folk such as you and I not to ask too many questions, but to keep our eyes and ears open."
    "Will you be going back to Faldor's farm when this is all over?" Garion asked carefully.
    Durnik considered that, looking out across the rainswept courtyard of the inn.
    "No," he said finally in a soft voice. "I'll follow as long as Mistress Pol allows me to."
    On an impulse Garion reached out and patted the smith's shoulder. "Everything is going to turn out for the best, Durnik."
    Durnik sighed.
    "Let's hope so," he said and turned his attention back to the horses.
    "Durnik," Garion asked, "did you know my parents?"
    "No," Durnik said. "The first time I saw you, you were a baby in Mistress Pol's arms."
    "What was she like then?"
    "She seemed angry," Durnik said. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone quite so angry. She talked with Faldor for a while and then went to work in the kitchen - you know Faldor. He never turned anyone away in his whole life. At first she was just a helper, but that didn't last too long. Our old cook was getting fat and lazy, and she finally went off to live with her youngest daughter. After that, Mistress Pol ran the kitchen."
    "She was a lot younger then, wasn't she?" Garion asked.
    "No," Durnik said thoughtfully. "Mistress Pol never changes. She looks exactly the same now as she did that first day."
    "I'm sure it only seems that way," Garion said. "Everybody gets older."
    "Not Mistress Pol," Durnik said.
    That evening Wolf and his sharp-nosed friend returned, their faces somber.
    "Nothing," Wolf announced shortly, scratching at his snowy beard.
    "I might have told you that," Aunt Pol sniffed.
    Wolf gave her an irritated look, then shrugged.
    "We had to be certain," he said.
    The red-bearded giant, Barak, looked up from the mail shirt he was polishing.
    "No trace at all?" he asked.
    "Not a hint," Wolf said. "He hasn't gone through here."
    "Where now, then?" Barak asked, setting his mail shirt aside.
    "Muros," Wolf said.
    Barak rose and went to the window. "The rain is slacking," he said, "but the roads are going to be difficult."
    "We won't be able to leave tomorrow anyway," Silk said, lounging on a stool near the door. "I have to dispose of our turnips. If we carry them out of Darine with us, it will seem curious, and we don't want to be remembered by anyone who might have occasion to talk to any wandering Murgo."
    "I suppose you're right," Wolf said. "I hate to lose the time, but there's no help for it."
    "The roads will be better after a day's drying," Silk pointed out, "and wagons travel faster empty."
    "Are you sure you can sell them, friend Silk?" Durnik asked.
    "I am a Drasnian," Silk replied confidently. "I can sell anything. We might even make a good profit."
    "Don't worry about that," Wolf said. "The turnips have served their purpose. All we need to do now is to get rid of them."
    "It's a matter of principle," Silk said airily. "Besides, if I don't try to strike a hard bargain, that too would be remembered. Don't be concerned. The business won't take long and won't delay us."
    "Could I go along with you, Silk?" Garion asked hopefully. "I haven't seen any part of Darine except for this inn."
    Silk looked inquiringly at Aunt Pol.
    She considered for a moment. "I don't suppose it would do any harm," she said, "and it'll give me time to attend to some things."
    The next morning after breakfast Silk and Garion set out with Garion carrying a bag of turnips. The small man seemed to be in