Читать книгу Belgarath the Sorcerer and Polgara the Sorceress: 2-Book Collection - David Eddings - Страница 40

We spent the night in Hatturk’s house and went down to the harbor the following morning to sail to Kotu at the mouth of the Mrin River. ‘I want to thank you, Hatturk,’ I said to the clan chief as we stood on the wharf.

‘My pleasure, Belgarath,’ he replied.

‘I’ve got a word of advice for you, if you don’t mind listening.’

‘Of course.’

‘You might want to give some thought to keeping your religious opinions to yourself. The Bear-Cult’s caused a great deal of trouble in Aloria in the past, and the Alorn Kings aren’t particularly fond of it. King Algar’s a patient man, but his patience only goes so far. The Cult’s been suppressed a number of times in the past, and I sort of feel another one coming. I really don’t think you want to be on the wrong side when that happens. Algar Fleet-foot can be very firm when he sets his mind to it.’

He gave me a sullen sort of look. I did try to warn him, but I guess he chose not to listen.

‘Does Dras know we’re coming, father?’ Polgara asked me as we were boarding the ship.

I nodded. ‘I talked with a Cherek sea-captain yesterday. He’s on the way to Boktor right now. His ship’s one of those war-boats, so he’ll get there long before we reach Kotu.’

‘It’ll be good to see Dras again. He’s not quite as bright as his brothers, but he’s got a good heart.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I guess I should have a talk with him when we get to Kotu. I think it’s time that he got married.’

‘Don’t look at me, father,’ she said primly. ‘I’m fond of Dras, but not that fond.’

Kotu is one of the major seaports in the world now, largely because it’s the western terminus of the North Caravan Route. When Pol and I went there, however, trade with the Nadraks was very limited, and Kotu was hardly more than a village with only a few wharves jutting out into the bay. It took us two days to make the voyage across the Gulf of Cherek from Darine to the mouth of the Mrin River, and Dras was waiting for us when we arrived. He had a fair number of his retainers with him, but they hadn’t come along to see me. It was Polgara they were interested in. Evidently, word had filtered into the various Alorn kingdoms about the beautiful daughter of Ancient Belgarath, and the young Drasnians had come down-river from Boktor to have a look for themselves.

I’m sure they weren’t disappointed.

When we’d gone to the Isle of the Winds for Beldaran’s wedding, the girls had only been sixteen, and they’d never been out of the Vale. Polgara had made me very nervous during the course of that trip. But she was older now, and she’d demonstrated that she knew how to take care of herself, so I could watch those young men swarming around her with equanimity, and even with a certain amusement. Pol enjoyed their attentions, but she wasn’t going to do anything inappropriate.

Our ship docked in mid-afternoon, and we took rooms at a somewhat seedy inn, planning to sail up-river the next morning to the village of Braca, where the Mrin Prophet was kenneled.

Bull-neck and I talked until quite late that evening, which gave Pol the opportunity to break a few hearts.

Dras leaned back in his chair and looked at me speculatively. ‘Algar’s going to get married, you know,’ he told me.

‘It’s funny he didn’t mention it,’ I replied. ‘He went with us to Riva’s Island.’

‘You know how Algar is,’ Dras said with a shrug. ‘I suppose I ought to be thinking about that myself.’

‘I’d been intending to bring that up,’ I told him. ‘Ordinary people can get married or not, whichever suits them, but kings have certain responsibilities.’

‘I don’t suppose …’ He left it hanging tentatively in the air between us.

‘No, Dras,’ I replied firmly. ‘Polgara’s not available. I don’t think you’d want to be married to her anyway. She has what you might call a prickly disposition. Pick yourself a nice Alorn girl instead. You’ll be happier in the long run.’

He sighed. ‘She is pretty, though.’

‘That she is, my friend, but Pol’s got other things to do. The time might come when she’ll get married, but that’ll be her decision, and it’s still a long way off. How far is it up-river to Braca?’

‘A day or so. We have to go through the fens to get there.’ He tugged at his beard. ‘I’ve been thinking of draining the fens. That region might make good farmland if I could get rid of all the water.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s your kingdom, but I think draining the fens might turn into quite a chore. Have you heard from your father lately?’

‘A month or so ago. His new wife’s going to have another baby. They’re hoping for a boy this time. I suppose my half-sister could take the throne after father dies, but Alorns aren’t comfortable with the idea of a queen. It seems unnatural to us.’

You have no idea of how long it took me to change that particular attitude. Porenn is probably one of the most gifted rulers in history, but back-country Drasnians still don’t take her seriously.

I slept a little late the next morning, and it was almost noon before we got under way.

The Mrin River is sluggish at its mouth, which accounts for the fens, I suppose. The fens are a vast marshland lying between the Mrin and the Aldur. It’s one of the least attractive areas in the north, if you want my personal opinion. I don’t like swamps, though, so that might account for my attitude. They smell, and the air’s always so humid that I can’t seem to get my breath. And then, of course, there are all those bugs that look upon people as a food source. I stayed in the cabin while we went up-river. Polgara, though, paced around the deck, trailing clouds of suitors. I know she was having fun, but I certainly wouldn’t have given every mosquito for ten miles in any direction a clear invitation to drink my blood, no matter how much fun I was having.

Bull-neck’s ship captain dropped anchor at sundown. The channel was clearly marked by buoys, but it’s still not a good idea to wander around in the fens in the dark. There are too many chances for things to go wrong.

Dras and I were sitting in the cabin after supper, and it wasn’t too long before Pol joined us. ‘Dras?’ she said as she entered, ‘why do your people wiggle their fingers at each other all the time?’

‘Oh, that’s just the secret language,’ he replied.

‘Secret language?’

‘The merchants came up with the notion. I guess there are times when you’re doing business that you need to talk privately with your partner. They’ve developed a kind of sign-language. It was fairly simple right at first, but it’s getting a little more complicated now.’

‘Do you know this language?’

He held out one huge hand. ‘With fingers like these? Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘It might be a useful thing to know. Don’t you think so, father?’

‘We have other ways to communicate, Pol.’

‘Perhaps, but I still think I’d like to learn this secret language. I don’t like having people whispering to each other behind my back – even if they’re doing it with their fingers. Do you happen to have someone on board ship who’s proficient at it, Dras?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t pay much attention to it, myself. I’ll ask around, though.’

‘I’d appreciate it.’

We set out again the following morning and reached the village of Braca about noon. Dras and I stood at the rail as we approached it. ‘Not a very pretty place, is it?’ I observed, looking at the collection of run-down shanties huddled on the muddy riverbank.

‘It’s not Tol Honeth, by any stretch of the imagination,’ he agreed. ‘When we first found out about this crazy man, I was going to take him to Boktor, but he was born here, and he goes wild when you try to take him away from the place. We decided that it’d be better just to leave him here. The scribes don’t care much for the idea, but that’s what I’m paying them so much for. They’re here to write down what he says, not to enjoy the scenery.’

‘Are you sure they’re writing it down accurately?’

‘How would I know, Belgarath? I can’t read. You know that.’

‘Do you mean you still haven’t learned how?’

‘Why should I bother? That’s what scribes are for. If something’s all that important, they’ll read it to me. The ones here have worked out a sort of system. There are always three of them with the crazy man. Two of them write down what he says, and the third one listens to him. When he finishes, they compare the two written versions, and the one who does the listening decides which one’s accurate.’

‘It sounds a little complicated.’

‘You made quite an issue of how much you wanted accuracy. If you can think up an easier way, I’d be glad to hear it.’

Our ship coasted up to the rickety dock, the sailors moored her, and we went ashore to have a look at the Mrin prophet.

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anyone quite so dirty. He wore only a crude canvas loincloth, and his hair and beard were long and matted. He was wearing an iron collar, and a stout chain ran from the collar to the thick post set in the ground in front of his kennel – I’m sorry, but that’s the only word I can use to describe the low hut where he apparently slept. He crouched on the ground near the post making animal noises and rhythmically jerking on the chain that bound him to the post. His eyes were deep-sunk under shaggy brows, and there was no hint of intelligence or even humanity in them.

‘Do you really have to chain him like that?’ Polgara asked Dras.

Bull-neck nodded. ‘He has spells,’ he replied. ‘He used to run off into the fens every so often. He’d be gone for a week or two, and then he’d come crawling back. When we found out just who and what he is, we decided we’d better chain him for his own safety. There are sink-holes and quicksand bogs out in the fens, and the poor devil doesn’t have sense enough to avoid them. He can’t recite prophecy if he’s twelve feet down in a quicksand bog.’

She looked at the low hut. ‘Do you really have to treat him like an animal?’

‘Polgara, he is an animal. He stays in that kennel because he wants to. He gets hysterical if you take him inside a house.’

‘You said he was born here,’ I noted.

Dras nodded. ‘About thirty or forty years ago. This was all part of father’s kingdom before we went to Mallorea. The village has been here for about seventy years, I guess. Most of the villagers are fishermen.’

I went over to where the three scribes on duty were sitting in the shade of a scrubby willow tree and introduced myself. ‘Has he said anything lately?’ I asked.

‘Not for the past week,’ one of them replied. ‘I think maybe it’s the moon that sets him off. He’ll talk at various other times, but he always does when the moon’s full.’

‘I suppose there might be some explanation for that. Isn’t there some way you can clean him up a little?’

The scribe shook his head. ‘We’ve tried throwing pails of water on him, but he just rolls in the mud again. I think he likes being dirty.’

‘Let me know immediately when he starts talking again. I have to hear him.’

‘I don’t think you’ll be able to make much sense out of what he’s saying, Belgarath,’ one of the other scribes told me.

‘That’ll come later. I’ve got the feeling that I’m going to spend a lot of time studying what he says. Does he ever talk about ordinary things? The weather or maybe how hungry he is?’

‘No,’ the first scribe replied. ‘As closely as we’re able to determine, he can’t talk – at least that’s what the villagers say. It was about eight or ten years ago when he started. It makes our job easier, though. We don’t have to wade through casual conversation. Everything he says is important.’