Pawn of Prophecy

and war axes. At one forge an apprentice was hammering out arrowheads, and at another, a lean, one-eyed man was working on an evil-looking dagger.
    Durnik and the smith talked together for most of the remainder of the morning while Garion wandered about the inner courtyard watching the various workmen at their tasks. There were coopers and wheelwrights, cobblers and carpenters, saddlers and candlemakers, all busily at work to maintain the huge household of King Anheg. As he watched, Garion also kept his eyes open for the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak he'd seen the night before. It wasn't likely that the man would be here where honest work was being done, but Garion stayed alert all the same.
    About noon, Barak came looking for them and led them back to the great hall where Silk lounged, intently watching a dice game.
    "Anheg and the others want to meet privately this afternoon," Barak said. "I've got an errand to run, and I thought you might want to go along."
    "That might not be a bad idea," Silk said, tearing his eyes from the game. "Your cousin's warriors dice badly, and I'm tempted to try a few rolls with them. It would probably be better if I didn't. Most men take offense at losing to strangers."
    Barak grinned. "I'm sure they'd be glad to let you play, Silk," he said. "They've got just as much chance of winning as you do."
    "Just as the sun has as much chance of coming up in the west as in the east," Silk said.
    "Are you that sure of your skill, friend Silk?" Durnik asked.
    "I'm sure of theirs." Silk chuckled. He jumped up. "Let's go," he said. "My fingers are starting to itch. Let's get them away from temptation."
    "Anything you say, Prince Kheldar." Barak laughed.
    They all put on fur cloaks and left the palace. The snow had almost stopped, and the wind was brisk.
    "I'm a bit confused by all these names," Durnik said as they trudged toward the central part of Val Alorn. "I've been meaning to ask about it. You, friend Silk, are also Prince Kheldar and sometimes the merchant Ambar of Kotu, and Mister Wolf is called Belgarath, and Mistress Pol is also Lady Polgara or the Duchess of Erat. Where I come from, people usually have one name."
    "Names are like clothes, Durnik," Silk explained. "We put on what's most suitable for the occasion. Honest men have little need to wear strange clothes or strange names. Those of us who aren't so honest, however, occasionally have to change one or the other."
    "I don't find it amusing to hear Mistress Pol described as not being honest," Durnik said stifliy.
    "No disrespect intended," Silk assured him. "Simple definitions don't apply to Lady Polgara; and when I say that we're not honest, I simply mean that this business we're in sometimes requires us to conceal ourselves from people who are evil as well as devious."
    Durnik looked unconvinced but let it pass.
    "Let's take this street," Barak suggested. "I don't want to pass the Temple of Belar today."
    "Why?" Garion asked.
    "I'm a little behind in my religious duties," Barak said with a pained look, "and I'd rather not be reminded of it by the High Priest of Belar. His voice is very penetrating, and I don't like being called down in front of the whole city. A prudent man doesn't give either a priest or a woman the opportunity to scold him in public."
    The streets of Val Alorn were narrow and crooked, and the ancient stone houses were tall and narrow with overhanging second stories. Despite the intermittent snow and the crisp wind, the streets seemed full of people, most of them garbed in furs against the chill.
    There was much good-humored shouting and the exchange of bawdy insults. Two elderly and dignified men were pelting each other with snowballs in the middle of one street to the raucous encouragement of the bystanders.
    "They're old friends," Barak said with a broad grin. "They do this every day all winter long. Pretty soon they'll go to an alehouse and get drunk and sing old songs together until they fall off their benches. They've been doing it for years now."
    "What do they do in the summer?" Silk asked.
    "They throw rocks," Barak said. "The drinking and singing and falling off the benches stays the same, though."
    "Hello, Barak," a green-eyed young woman called from an upper window. "When are you coming to see me again?"
    Barak glanced up, and his face flushed, but he didn't answer.
    "That lady's talking to you, Barak," Garion said.
    "I heard her," Barak replied shortly.
    "She seems to know you," Silk said with a