Pawn of Prophecy

be everywhere at once. That part of his mind which sometimes spoke to him in dry detachment told him that his fears were probably groundless and that his gawking made him appear to be a doltish country bumpkin.
    Count Nilden led them directly to a part of the corndor where there were a number of highly polished doors. "This one is for the boy," he announced, pointing at one of them.
    One of the soldiers opened the door, and Garion reluctantly stepped through, looking back over his shoulder at Aunt Pol.
    "Come along now," a somewhat impatient voice said. Garion whirled, not knowing what to expect.
    "Close the door, boy," the fine-looking man who had been waiting for him said. "We don't have all day, you know." The man was waiting beside a large wooden tub with steam rising from it. "Quickly, boy, take off those filthy rags and get into the tub. His Majesty is waiting."
    Too confused to object or even answer, Garion numbly began to unlace his tunic.
    After he had been bathed and the knots had been brushed out of his hair, he was dressed in clothes which lay on a nearby bench. His coarse woolen hose of serviceable peasant brown were exchanged for ones of a much finer weave in a lustrous blue. His scuffed and muddy boots were traded for soft leather shoes. His tunic was soft white linen, and the doublet he wore over it was a rich blue, trimmed with a silvery fur.
    "I guess that's the best I can do on short notice," the man who had bathed and dressed him said, looking him up and down critically. "At least I won't be totally embarrassed when you're presented to the king."
    Garion mumbled his thanks and then stood, waiting for further instructions.
    "Well, go along, boy. You mustn't keep his Majesty waiting."
    Silk and Barak stood in the corridor, talking quietly. Barak was hugely splendid in a green brocade doublet, but looked uncomfortable without his sword. Silk's doublet was a rich black, trimmed in silver, and his scraggly whiskers had been carefully trimmed into an elegant short beard.
    "What does all of this mean?" Garion asked as he joined them. "We're to be presented to the king," Barak said, "and our honest clothes might have given offense. Kings aren't accustomed to looking at ordinary men."
    Durnik emerged from one of the rooms, his face pale with anger. "That overdressed fool wanted to give me a bath!" he said in choked outrage.
    "It's the custom," Silk explained. "Noble guests aren't expected to bathe themselves. I hope you didn't hurt him."
    "I'm not a noble, and I'm quite able to bathe myself," Durnik said hotly. "I told him that I'd drown him in his own tub if he didn't keep his hands to himself. After that, he didn't pester me anymore, but he did steal my clothes. I had to put these on instead." He gestured at his clothes which were quite similar to Garion's. "I hope nobody sees me in all this frippery."
    "Barak says the king might be offended if he saw us in our real clothes," Garion told him.
    "The king won't be looking at me," Durnik said, "and I don't like this business of trying to look like something I'm not. I'll wait outside with the horses if I can get my own clothes back."
    "Be patient, Durnik," Barak advised. "We'll get this business with the king straightened out and then be on our way again."
    If Durnik was angry, Mister Wolf was in what could best be described as a towering fury. He came out into the corridor dressed in a snowy white robe, deeply cowled at the back. "Someone's going to pay for this," he raged.
    "It does become you," Silk said admiringly.
    "Your taste has always been questionable, Master Silk," Wolf said in a frosty tone. "Where's Pol?"
    "The lady has not yet made her appearance," Silk said.
    "I should have known," Wolf said, sitting down on a nearby bench. "We may as well be comfortable. Pol's preparations usually take quite a while."
    And so they waited. Captain Brendig, who had changed his boots and doublet, paced up and down as the minutes dragged by. Garion was totally baffled by their reception. They did not seem to be under arrest, but his imagination still saw dungeons, and that was enough to make him very jumpy.
    And then Aunt Pol appeared. She wore the blue velvet gown that had been made for her in Camaar and a silver circlet about her head which set off the single white lock at her brow. Her bearing was regal and her face stern.
    "So soon, Mistress Pol?" Wolf asked dryly. "I hope you weren't rushed."
    She ignored that and examined each of them in turn.
    "Adequate, I