Sorceress of Darshiva

blue-banded hawk perched on a dead limb, busily preening his feathers with his hooked beak. As they approached, he swooped down, and Beldin stood in the trail in front of them, muttering curses.
    "Something wrong, uncle?" Polgara asked him.
    "I got caught in a crosswind," he growled. "It scrambled my feathers a bit. You know how that goes."
    "Oh, goodness yes. It happens to me all the time. Night breezes are so unpredictable."
    "Your feathers are too soft."
    "I didn't design the owl, uncle, so don't blame me about the feathers."
    "There's a crossroads tavern just up ahead," Beldin said to Belgarath. "Did you want to stop and see if we can find out what's going on down there on the plain?"
    "That might not be a bad idea," Belgarath agreed. "Let's not ride into trouble if we don't have to."
    "I'll wait for you inside then," Beldin said and soared away again.
    Polgara sighed. "Why must it always be a tavern?" she complained.
    "Because people who’ve been drinking like to talk, Pol," Belgarath explained in a reasonable tone. "You can gather more information in five minutes in a tavern than you can in an hour in a tearoom."
    "I knew you'd be able to find a reason for it."
    "Naturally."
    They crossed over the top of the wooded pass and on down the shade-splotched trail to the tavern. It was a low building made of logs crudely chinked with mud. The roof was low, and its shingles had curled with the weather and the passage of years. Buff-colored chickens scratched at the dirt in the dooryard, and a large speckled sow lay in a mud puddle, nursing a litter of happily grunting piglets. There were a few spavined nags tied to a hitch rail in front of the tavern, and a Karand dressed in moth-eaten furs snored on the front stoop.
    Polgara reined in her horse as they approached the tavern and the first whiff of its reeking interior reached her nostrils. "I think, ladies, that we might prefer to wait over there in the shade."
    "There is a certain fragrance coming out that door, isn't there?" Velvet agreed.
    "You, too, Eriond," Polgara said firmly. "There's no need for you to start picking up bad habits this early in life." She rode over toward a grove of tall fir trees some distance away from the tavern and dismounted in the shade. Dumik and Toth exchanged a quick glance, then joined her there with Velvet, Ce'Nedra, and Eriond.
    Sadi started to dismount in front of the tavern. Then he sniffed once and gagged slightly. "This is not my sort of place, gentlemen," he said. "I think I'll wait outside as well. Besides, it's Zith's feeding time."
    "Suit yourself," Belgarath shrugged, dismounting and leading the way toward the building. They stepped over the snoring Karand on the stoop and went on inside.
    "Split up and spread out," the old man muttered. "Circulate and talk to as many as you can." He looked at Silk. "We're not here to make a career out of this," he cautioned.
    "Trust me," Silk said, moving away.
    Garion stood just inside the door, blinking to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The tavern showed no signs of ever having been cleaned. The floor was covered with moldy straw that reeked of spilled beer, and scraps of rotting food lay in heaps in the corners. A crudely built fireplace smoked at the far end, adding its fumes to the generally unpleasant odor of the place. The tables consisted of rough-hewn planks laid on trellises, and the benches were half logs with sticks drilled into their undersides for legs. Garion saw Beldin talking with several Karands over in one corner and he started over to join him.
    As he passed one of the tables, his foot came down on something soft. There was a protesting squeal and a sudden scramble of hoofed feet.
    "Don't step on my pig," the bleary-eyed old Karand sitting at the table said belligerently. "I don't step on your pig, do I?" He pronounced it "peg," and Garion had a little trouble sorting out his dialect.
    "Watch yer fate," the Karand said ominously.
    "Fate?" Garion shrank back from that word just a bit.
    "Fate. Them thangs you got on the end of yer laigs."
    "Oh. Feet."
    "That's what I just said—fate."
    "Sorry," Garion apologized. "I didn't quite understand."
    "That's the trouble with you outlanders. You can't even understand the language when she's spoke to you plain as day."
    "Why don't we have a tankard of ale?" Garion suggested. "I'll apologize to your pig just as soon as he comes back."
    The Karand squinted at him suspiciously. The old man was bearded and he wore clothing made