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 of poorly tanned furs. He wore a hat made from the whole skin of a badger— with the legs and tail still attached. He was very dirty, and Garion could clearly see the fleas peeking out of his beard.
"I'm buying," Garion offered, sitting down across the table from the pig's owner.
The old Karand's face brightened noticeably. They had a couple of tankards of ale together. Garion noticed that the stuff had a raw, green flavor to it, as if it had been dipped from the vat a week or so too soon. His host, however, smacked his lips and rolled his eyes as if this were the finest brew in the world. Something cold and wet touched Garion’s hand, and he jerked it away. He looked down into a pair of earnest blue eyes fenced in by bristly white eyelashes. The pig had recently been to the wallow and he carried a powerful odor with him.
The old Karand chortled. "That's just my peg," he said. "He's a good-natured young peg, and he don't hold no grudges." The fur-clad fellow blinked owlishly. "He's a orphan, y'know."
"Oh?"
"His ma made real good bacon, though." The old man snuffled and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. "Sometimes I miss her real bad," he admitted. He squinted at Garion. "Say, that's a mighty big knife you got there."
"Yes," Garion agreed. He absently scratched the half-grown pig's ears, and the animal closed his eyes in bliss, laid his head in Garion's lap, and grunted contentedly.
"We were coming down the trail out of the mountains," Gallon said, "and we saw a lot of smoke out on the plain. Is there some kind of trouble out there?"
"The worst kinda trouble there is, friend," the old man said seriously. He squinted at Garion again. "You're not one of them Mal-or-eens, are you?"
"No," Garion assured him, "not Mallorean. I come from farther west."
"I didn't know there was anythin' to the west of the Mal-or-eens. Anyhow, there's whole bunches of people down there on the plains havin' some kind of a argument about religion."
"Religion?"
"I don't hold much with it myself," the Karand admitted. "There's them as do and them as don't, and I'm one of them as don't. Let the Gods take care of theirselves, I say. I'll take care of me and mine, and we're quits on the whole business."
"Seems like a good way," Garion said carefully.
"Glad you see it like that. Anyhow, there's this Grolim named Zandramas down in Dar-sheeva. This Zandramas, she come up into Voresebo and started talkin' about this here new God of Angarak—Torak bein' dead an' all, y'know. Now, I'm just about as interested in all that as my peg is. He's a smart peg and he knows when people is talkin' nonsense."
Garion patted the pig's muddy flank, and the plump little animal made an ecstatic sound. "Good pig," Garion agreed. "Peg, that is."
"I'm fond of him. He's warm and good to snuggle up against on a cold night—and he don't hardly snore none at all. Well, sir, this Zandramas, she come up here and started preachin' and yellin' and I don't know what all. The Grolims all gives out a moan and falls down on their faces. Then, a while back, a whole new bunch of Grolims comes over the mountains, and they says that this Zandramas is dead wrong. They says that there's gonna be a new God over Angarak, right enough, but that this Zandramas don't have the straight of it. That's what all the smoke down there on the plains is about. Both sides is a-burnin' and a-killin' and a-preachin' about their idea of who the new God's gonna be. I'm
"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 of poorly tanned furs. He wore a hat made from the whole skin of a badger— with the legs and tail still attached. He was very dirty, and Garion could clearly see the fleas peeking out of his beard.
"I'm buying," Garion offered, sitting down across the table from the pig's owner.
The old Karand's face brightened noticeably. They had a couple of tankards of ale together. Garion noticed that the stuff had a raw, green flavor to it, as if it had been dipped from the vat a week or so too soon. His host, however, smacked his lips and rolled his eyes as if this were the finest brew in the world. Something cold and wet touched Garion’s hand, and he jerked it away. He looked down into a pair of earnest blue eyes fenced in by bristly white eyelashes. The pig had recently been to the wallow and he carried a powerful odor with him.
The old Karand chortled. "That's just my peg," he said. "He's a good-natured young peg, and he don't hold no grudges." The fur-clad fellow blinked owlishly. "He's a orphan, y'know."
"Oh?"
"His ma made real good bacon, though." The old man snuffled and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. "Sometimes I miss her real bad," he admitted. He squinted at Garion. "Say, that's a mighty big knife you got there."
"Yes," Garion agreed. He absently scratched the half-grown pig's ears, and the animal closed his eyes in bliss, laid his head in Garion's lap, and grunted contentedly.
"We were coming down the trail out of the mountains," Gallon said, "and we saw a lot of smoke out on the plain. Is there some kind of trouble out there?"
"The worst kinda trouble there is, friend," the old man said seriously. He squinted at Garion again. "You're not one of them Mal-or-eens, are you?"
"No," Garion assured him, "not Mallorean. I come from farther west."
"I didn't know there was anythin' to the west of the Mal-or-eens. Anyhow, there's whole bunches of people down there on the plains havin' some kind of a argument about religion."
"Religion?"
"I don't hold much with it myself," the Karand admitted. "There's them as do and them as don't, and I'm one of them as don't. Let the Gods take care of theirselves, I say. I'll take care of me and mine, and we're quits on the whole business."
"Seems like a good way," Garion said carefully.
"Glad you see it like that. Anyhow, there's this Grolim named Zandramas down in Dar-sheeva. This Zandramas, she come up into Voresebo and started talkin' about this here new God of Angarak—Torak bein' dead an' all, y'know. Now, I'm just about as interested in all that as my peg is. He's a smart peg and he knows when people is talkin' nonsense."
Garion patted the pig's muddy flank, and the plump little animal made an ecstatic sound. "Good pig," Garion agreed. "Peg, that is."
"I'm fond of him. He's warm and good to snuggle up against on a cold night—and he don't hardly snore none at all. Well, sir, this Zandramas, she come up here and started preachin' and yellin' and I don't know what all. The Grolims all gives out a moan and falls down on their faces. Then, a while back, a whole new bunch of Grolims comes over the mountains, and they says that this Zandramas is dead wrong. They says that there's gonna be a new God over Angarak, right enough, but that this Zandramas don't have the straight of it. That's what all the smoke down there on the plains is about. Both sides is a-burnin' and a-killin' and a-preachin' about their idea of who the new God's gonna be. I'm
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