Polgara the Sorceress (30 page)

He blinked.

‘Thou art a Mimbrate Arend, my Lord,’ I reminded him. Though it is entirely possible that thou couldst singlehandedly assail a fortress, an outright lie is quite beyond thy capabilities. Let us therefore seek out a priest of Chaldan to perform the necessary ceremonies. I will become thy niece, Countess Polina, the flower of an obscure branch of thy family. Thus may I, all unnoticed, seek out the truth in this matter.’

His expression grew slightly pained. ‘That is a flimsy basis for deliberate falsehood, my Lady,’ he objected.

‘Common purpose doth unite us, my Lord, and thine intimate acquaintanceship with mine agéd father doth make us e’en as brother and sister. Let us formalize our happy kinship, then, so that we may in joyous union proceed toward the accomplishment of our goal.’

‘Have thy studies perchance taken thee into the murky realms of law and jurisprudence, Lady Polgara?’ he asked me with a faint smile, ‘for thy speech doth have a legalistic flavor to it.’

‘Why, uncle Mandorin,’ I said, ‘what a thing to suggest.’

The ceremony was a charade, of course, but it satisfied Mandorin’s need for a semblance, at least, of veracity at such time as he’d be obliged to announce our kinship. We went down to the ornate chapel in the baron’s castle as soon as we had changed clothes. Mandorin wore black velvet, and, on an impish sort of whim, I conjured myself up a white satin gown. On the surface, at least, this ‘adoption’ very closely resembled a wedding.

I’ve never understood the Arendish religion, and believe me, I’ve spent a lot of time in Arendia. Chaldan, Bull-God of the Arends, seems to have a fixation on some obscure concept of honor that requires his adherents to slaughter each other on the slightest pretext. The only love an Arend seems really capable of displaying is directed toward his own sense of self-esteem, which he cuddles to his bosom like a beloved puppy. The priest of Chaldan who formalized my kinship with Baron Mandorin was a stem-faced man in an ornate red robe that managed to convey a sense of being somehow armored, but maybe that was only my
imagination. He preached a war-like little sermon, urging Mandorin to carve up anybody offering me the slightest impertinence. Then he ordered me to live out my life in total, unreasoning obedience to my guardian and protector.

The fellow obviously didn’t know me.

And when the ceremony was over, I was a full-fledged member of the House of Mandor.

You didn’t know that we were related, did you, Mandorallen?

Given the response of the Dagashi I’d encountered in Wacune and Asturia, I knew that I was going to have to ‘do something’ about the white lock in my hair if I wanted to maintain any kind of anonymity in Vo Mimbre. I knew that dye, the simplest solution, wouldn’t work. I’d tried that in the past and found that dye simply wouldn’t adhere to the lock. After a bit of thought, I simply designed a coiffure that involved white satin ribbons artfully included in an elaborately braided arrangement that swept back from my face to stream freely down my back. The more I looked at the results in my mirror, the more I liked it. I’ve used it on several occasions since then, and it’s never failed to attract attention – and compliments. Isn’t it odd how an act born out of necessity often produces unexpected benefits? The style was so inherently attractive that I won’t demean it by calling it a disguise. Then, once that identifying lock had been concealed, Baron Mandorin and I, ostentatiously accompanied by twenty or so armored knights, went to Vo Mimbre.

A great deal of nonsense has been written about Vo Mimbre, but say what you will, it
is
impressive. The terrain upon which that fortress city stands is not spectacularly defensible. It’s no Rak Cthol or Riva by any stretch of the imagination, but then, neither is Mal Zeth in Mallorea. The builders of Vo Mimbre and Mal Zeth had obviously reached a similar conclusion that, put in its simplest terms, goes something like this: ‘If you don’t have a mountain handy, build one.’

Mandorin and I – and our clanking escort – entered Vo
Mimbre and rode directly to the ducal palace. We were immediately admitted and escorted directly to Duke Corrolin’s throne-room. I cannot for the life of me remember exactly why, but I once again wore that white satin gown, and I entered that great hall that was decorated with old banners and antique weapons with a faintly bridal aura hovering about me. It was probably a bad idea, since I wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible, but I’m constitutionally incapable of blending in with the wallpaper or furniture.

Baron Mandorin introduced me, and, since he was Mimbrate to the core, rather incidentally noted that he would do vast violence to any man offering me the slightest impertinence. After I’d curtsied to Duke Corrolin, delivered myself of an appropriately girlish and empty-headed greeting, I was gathered up by the ladies of the court and whisked away while the menfolk got down to business. I
did
have time to note the presence of a dozen or so men wearing Tolnedran mantles in the crowd before I left, however, and when I sent out a probing thought from the middle of that gaily-dressed throng of young Mimbrate noblewomen who were rushing me away, I caught the now familiar dull black tinge that identified Murgos – or Dagashi – and I also sensed some red auras. Evidently, Kadon had raided Ctuchik’s treasury for enough gold to buy up several real Tolnedrans. What troubled me the most, however, was a momentary flicker of glossy black. There was Grolim somewhere in the crowd, and that in itself was an indication that what had happened in Vo Wacune and Vo Astur had been peripheral. The core of Ctuchik’s plot was here in Vo Mimbre.

It pains me to say it about my own gender, but young women, particularly young noblewomen, are a silly lot, and their conversation is top-full of empty-headed frivolity – mostly having to do with decorating themselves in such ways as to attract attention. I take a certain amount of comfort in the fact that young men aren’t much better. From a clinical point of view, the condition has a chemical basis, but I don’t know that discussing it at length right here would serve any useful purpose.

The white satin ribbons braided in my hair drew many compliments – and not a few imitations later – and the style made me appear younger, so the gaggle of giggling girls assumed that I shared their views on life, and they’d graciously ‘rescued’ me from tiresome discussions of such boring topics as the onset of general war and the mass extermination of virtually everyone on the western side of the Eastern Escarpment. I was thus treated to a fascinating afternoon of intense speculation about the impact of hemlines and hairstyles on the world situation.

Although Baron Mandorin – dare I say, uncle Mandy? – had been alerted to what was really happening and could report the details of discussions from which my gender and apparent age excluded me, there would be things happening of which he would not be aware. I needed to be present at those discussions, and, now that I’d been brought up to date on current fashions, I felt that it was time to move on. I ‘just happened’ to come down with a very bad case of sick headache the next morning and shooed my playmates out of my rooms. Then I went to the window and ‘went sparrow’, to use my father’s rather succinct characterization of the process.

It was still summer, so the windows of Corrolin’s palace were all open, and that gave me all the opportunity I needed to eavesdrop on the discussions of the Privy Council. I settled on the window-sill, chirped a couple of times to let everyone know that I was only a bird, and then cocked my head to listen.

Duke Corrolin was speaking to a squinty-eyed, swarthy fellow in a pale blue Tolnedran mantle. ‘I must advise thee, worthy Kador, that word hath but recently arrived from the northern duchies which doth advise us that Duke Oldoran hath fallen gravely ill by reason of some obscure malady. The governance of Asturia hath been placed in the hands of an aged earl yclept Mangaran.’

‘Yes,’ Kador replied, ‘my own sources have confirmed this as well, your Grace. The initiative in the north, however, lies in the hands of Duke Kathandrion, and I’ve heard nothing to indicate that he’s changed his mind about invading Asturia. It doesn’t really matter who holds power in Vo
Astur, since our plan hinges almost entirely on what’s taking place in Vo Wacune.’

The thought I sent out was so light as to be virtually unnoticed, and the color which responded to it was dull black. Kador was
not
the Grolim. That startled me more than a little, and it troubled me even more. If I started probing every mind in that room, the Grolim, whoever he was, would eventually sense that
someone
was looking for him.

Then a rather ordinary-looking Tolnedran – a servant, judging by his clothing – came forward and murmured something to Kador. ‘Ah,’ Kador said. ‘Thank you.’ Then he turned back to the duke – but not before a momentary flicker of hard, glossy black ever so briefly touched my awareness. I’d found my Grolim, but I couldn’t quite fathom out exactly why he’d chosen to remain in the background. From what father and my uncles had told me about the Angaraks, it was decidedly unGrolimish for a priest of the Dragon-God to assume the guise of a servant.

‘My Lord,’ Kador was saying to Corrolin, ‘all is proceeding according to our plan. The remainder of the legions will be in place before the week is out. If I might be so bold as to suggest it, might this not be a good time for your knights to begin their journey toward the Ulgo frontier? The general in command of the legions will order his troops north as soon as his force is fully assembled. Your mounted men will move more rapidly, of course, but they have much farther to travel, and the terrain in the foothills of the Ulgo Mountains will make for slow going. Timing will be all-important when we move against Wacune.’

‘It may well be as thou sayest, worthy Kador,’ Corrolin admitted. ‘I shall dispatch an advance party to the east on the morrow. When the legions of His Imperial Majesty do interject themselves into northern Arendia, my knights will be in place.’

In that single phrase ‘the legions of His Imperial Majesty’ Kador had summed up the core of my problem. Bribing an individual Tolnedran posed no particular difficulty, but bribing forty legion commanders? That might be a bit more challenging.

Then a rather horrid suspicion began to intrude itself upon me, and I did something I haven’t done very often. Baron Mandorin, resplendent in his armor, sat at the long table with the other members of the Privy Council, and I sent my thought – and my silent voice – out to him.
‘Uncle,’
I said to him,
‘don’t look around, and don’t let your face show any sign that I’m talking to you. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I want you to think the answers. Don’t say anything out loud.’

“This is a wondrous thing, Lady Polgara,’
his thought responded.
‘Canst thou truly hear my thought?’

‘You’re doing just fine, Uncle. Now, then, has anyone other than Kador and his henchmen actually seen the legions that are supposedly encamped a few miles to the south?’

‘Their watch-fires are clearly visible from the south wall of the city, my Lady.’

‘Anybody can light a fire, Mandorin. Has any Mimbrate at all bothered to go down into Tolnedra to actually count the soldiers who are supposed to be camped there?’

‘The Tolnedrans do not welcome incursions into their territory, my Lady, and in the light of our current delicate negotiations it would be discourteous in the extreme for us to intrude upon the ancestral home of our ally to the south.’

I said something I probably shouldn’t have at that point.

‘Polgara!’
Mandorin gasped in shock at my choice of words.

‘Sorry, Uncle,’
I apologized.
‘It just slipped out. Will you be in your chambers after this meeting breaks up?’

‘An it please thee, yes.’

‘It will please me, uncle. I’ll be gone for the rest of the day, and when I come back, we’ll need to talk, I think.’

I fluttered away from my listening post on the window-sill of the council chamber, found another window that faced out from an empty chamber, and transformed myself into the falcon that was always the alternative to my preferred form. Owls
are
conspicuous in the daytime, after all.

It didn’t take me long to confirm my suspicions. Although there were mounted patrols of men in legion uniforms near the south bank of the River Arend that marks the boundary between Arendia and Tolnedra, when I flew on, I saw no
more men. There were several standard legion encampments in the forest with all the usual appurtenances of legion camps – log palisades, neatly pitched tents along what could only be called streets, and legion banners fluttering above the gates – but those camps were empty. My suspicions had just been confirmed. There were perhaps fifty men in legion uniforms patrolling near the border, but that was the entire extent of the supposed invasion force.

I flew back toward the border and swooped down to settle on a tree limb for a bit of constructive eavesdropping.

‘This is the most tedious job I’ve ever had, Ralas,’ I heard one unshaven fellow complain to his companion as they rode under my tree.

‘Oh, it’s not so bad, Geller,’ Ralas replied. ‘We could all be back at the lumber-camp chopping down oak-trees, you know. All we have to do here is ride up and down the river and tend a few fires at night.’

‘I don’t see any point to it, Ralas.’

‘We’re getting paid for it, Geller. That’s the only point that matters to me. If Count Oldon wants us to patrol the northern boundary of his estate, I’ll be happy to oblige him for as long as he wants. The horse does all the work, and that suits me right down to the ground.’

‘We could get in trouble for wearing these uniforms, you know,’ Geller told him, rapping on his breastplate.

‘Not a chance. If you look very closely at your cloak, you’ll find the count’s crest embroidered on it instead of the imperial one. Nobody but an idiot’s going to mistake us for
real
legionnaires.’

‘Nedra’s teeth!’ Geller swore, slapping at a mosquito. ‘Why do we have to stay so close to that accursed river?’