Part 18 (2/2)
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 coa.r.s.e woolen hose of serviceable peasant brown were exchanged for ones of a much finer weave in a l.u.s.trous 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 embarra.s.sed 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. ”n.o.ble guests aren't expected to bathe themselves. I hope you didn't hurt him.”
”I'm not a n.o.ble, 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 n.o.body 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 suppose,” she said finally, absently adjusting the collar of Garion's doublet. ”Give me your arm, Old Wolf, and let's find out what the King of the Sendars wants with us.”
Mister Wolf rose from his bench, extended his arm, and the two of them started down the corridor. Captain Brendig hastily a.s.sembled his soldiers and followed them all in some kind of ragged order. ”If you please, my Lady,” he called out to Aunt Pol, ”permit me to show you the way.”
”We know the way, Lord Brendig,” she replied without so much as turning her head.
Count Nilden, the Chief Butler, stood waiting for them in front of two ma.s.sive doors guarded by uniformed men-at-arms. He bowed slightly to Aunt Pol and snapped his fingers. The men-at-arms swung the heavy doors inward.
Fulrach, the King of Sendaria, was a dumpy-looking man with a short brown beard. He sat, rather uncomfortably it appeared, on a highbacked throne which stood on a dais at one end of the great hall into which Count Nilden led them. The throne room was vast, with a high, vaulted ceiling and walls covered with what seemed acres of heavy, red velvet drapery. There were candles everywhere, and dozens of people strolled about in fine clothes and chatted idly in the corners, all but ignoring the presence of the king.
”May I announce you?” Count Nilden asked Mister Wolf.
”Fulrach knows who I am,” Wolf replied shortly and strode down the long scarlet carpet toward the throne with Aunt Pol still on his arm. Garion and the others followed, with Brendig and his soldiers close behind, through the suddenly quiet crowd of courtiers and their ladies.
At the foot of the throne they all stopped, and Wolf bowed rather coldly. Aunt Pol, her eyes frosty, curtsied, and Barak and Silk bowed in a courtly manner. Durnik and Garion followed suit, though not nearly as gracefully.
”If it please your Majesty,” Brendig's voice came from behind them, ”these are the ones you sought.”
”I knew you could be depended upon, Lord Brendig,” the King replied in a rather ordinary-sounding voice. ”Your reputation is well deserved. You have my thanks.” Then he looked at Mister Wolf and the rest of them, his expression undecipherable.
Garion began to tremble.
”My dear old friend,” the king said to Mister Wolf. ”It's been too many years since we met last.”
”Have you lost your wits entirely, Fulrach?” Mister Wolf snapped in a voice which carried no further than the king's ears. ”Why do you choose to interfere with me - now, of all times? And what possessed you to outfit me in this absurd thing?” He plucked at the front of his white robe in disgust. ”Are you trying to announce my presence to every Murgo from here to the hook of Arendia?”
The king's face looked pained. ”I was afraid you might take it this way,” he said in a voice no louder than Mister Wolf's had been. ”I'll explain when we can speak more privately.” He turned quickly to Aunt Pol as if trying to preserve the appearance at least of dignity. ”It's been much too long since we have seen you, dear Lady. Layla and the children have missed you, and I have been desolate in your absence.”
”Your Majesty is too kind,” Aunt Pol said, her tone as cold as Wolf's. The king winced. ”Pray, dear Lady,” he apologized, ”don't judge me too hastily. My reasons were urgent. I hope that Lord Brendig's summons did not too greatly inconvenience you.”
”Lord Brendig was the soul of courtesy,” Aunt Pol said, her tone unchanged. She glanced once at Brendig, who had grown visibly pale.
”And you, my Lord Barak,” the king hurned on as if trying to make the best of a bad situation, ”how fares your cousin, our dear brother king, Anheg of Cherek?”
”He was well when last I saw him, your Majesty,” Barak replied formally. ”A bit drunk, but that's not unusual for Anheg.”
The king chuckled a bit nervously and turned quickly to Silk. ”Prince Kheldar of the Royal House of Drasnia,” he said. ”We are amazed to find such n.o.ble visitors in our realm, and more than a little injured that they chose not to call upon us so that we might greet them. Is the King of the Sendars of so little note that he's not even worth a brief stop?”
”We intended no disrespect, your Majesty,” Silk replied, bowing, ”but our errand was of such urgency that there was no time for the usual courtesies.”
The king flickered a warning glance at that and surprisingly wove his fingers in the scarce perceptible gestures of the Drasnian secret language. Not here. Too many ears about. He then looked inquiringly at Durnik and Garion.
Aunt Pol stepped forward.
”This is Goodman Durnik of the District of Erat, your Majesty,” she said, ”a brave and honest man.”
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