About halfway to the imperial platform, however, a blond Melcene girl in a low-cut gown caught his eye. She stood stricken with awe, unable to curtsy or even to move as the most famous man in all the world approached her.
Belgarath stopped and looked her up and down quite slowly and deliberately, noting with appreciation just how revealing her gown was. A slow, insinuating smile crept across his face, and his blue eyes twinkled outrageously.
"Nice dress," he told her.
She blushed furiously.
He laughed, reached out, and patted her cheek.
"There's a good girl," he said.
"Father," Polgara said firmly.
"Coming, Pol." He chuckled and moved along the carpet toward the table. The pretty Melcene girl looked after him, her eyes wide and her hand pressed to the cheek he had touched.
"Isn't he disgusting?" Ce'Nedra muttered.
"It's just the way he is, dear," Garion disagreed. "He doesn't pretend to be anything else. He doesn't have to."
The banquet featured a number of exotic dishes that Garion could not put a name to and several which he did not even know how to eat. A deceptively innocent-looking rice dish was laced with such fiery seasonings it brought tears to his eyes and sent his hand clutching for his water goblet.
"Belar, Mara, and Nedra!" Durnik choked as he also groped about in search of water. So far as he could remember, it was the first time Garion had ever heard Durnik swear. He did it surprisingly well.
"Piquant," Sadi commented as he calmly continued to eat the dreadful concoction.
"How can you eat that?" Garion demanded in amazement.
Sadi smiled. "You forget that I'm used to being poisoned, Belgarion. Poison tends to toughen the tongue and fireproof the throat."
Zakath had watched their reactions with some amusement. "I should have warned you," he apologized. "The dish comes from Gandahar, and the natives of that region entertain themselves during the rainy season by trying to build bonfires in each other's stomachs. They're elephant trappers, for the most part, and they pride themselves on their courage." .
After the extended banquet, the brown-robed Brador approached Garion. "If your Majesty wouldn't mind," he said, leaning forward so that Garion could hear him over the sounds of laughter and sprightly conversation from nearby tables, "there are a number of people who are most eager to meet you."
Garion nodded politely even though he inwardly winced. He had been through this sort of thing before and knew how tedious it usually became. The Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs led him down from the platform into the swirl of brightly clad celebrants, pausing occasionally to exchange greetings with various fellow officials and to introduce Garion. Garion braced himself for an hour or two of total boredom. The plump, bald-headed Brador, however, proved to be an entertaining escort. Though he seemed to be engaging Garion in light conversation, he was in fact providing a succinct and often pointed briefing even as they went.
"We'll be talking with the kinglet of Pallia," he murmured as they approached a group of men in tall, conical felt caps who wore leather which had been dyed an unhealthy-looking green color. "He's a fawning bootlicker, a liar, a coward, and absolutely not to be trusted."
"Ah, there you are, Brador," one of the felt-capped men greeted the Melcene with a forced heartiness.
"Your Highness," Brador replied with a florid bow. "I have the honor to present his Royal Majesty, Belgarion of Riva." He turned to Garion. "Your Majesty, this is his Highness, King Warasin of Pallia."
"Your Majesty," Warasin gushed, bowing awkwardly. He was a man with a narrow, pockmarked face, close-set eyes, and a slack-lipped mouth. His hands, Garion noticed, were not particularly clean.
"Your Highness," Garion replied with a slightly distant note.
"I was just telling the members of my court here that I'd have sooner believed that the sun would rise in the north tomorrow than that the Overlord of the West would appear at Mal Zeth."
"The world is full of surprises."
"By the beard of Torak, you're right, Belgarion -you don't mind if I call you Belgarion, do you, your Majesty?"
"Torak didn't have a beard," Garion corrected shortly.
"'What?"
"Torak -he didn't have a beard. At least he didn't when I met him."
"When you-" Warasin's eyes suddenly widened.
"Are you telling me that all those stories about what happened at Cthol Mishrak are actually true?" he gasped,
"I'm not sure, your Highness," Garion told him. "I haven't heard all the stories yet. It's been an absolute delight meeting you, old boy," he said, clapping the stunned-looking kinglet on the shoulder with exaggerated camaraderie. "It's a shame that we don't have more time to talk. Coming, Brador?" He nodded to the petty king of Pallia, turned, and led the Melcene away.
"You're very skilled, Belgarion," Brador murmured.
"Much more so than I would have imagined, considering-" He hesitated.
"Considering the fact that I look like an unlettered country oaf?" Garion supplied.
"I don't know that I'd put it exactly that way."
"Why not?" Garion shrugged. "It's the truth, isn't it?
What was pig-eyes back there trying to maneuver the conversation around to? It was pretty obvious that he was leading up to something."
"It's fairly simple," Brador replied. "He recognizes current proximity to Kal Zakath. All power in Mallorea derives from the throne, and the man who has the Emperor's ear is in a unique position. Warasin is currently having a border dispute with the Prince Regent of Delchin and he probably wants you to put in a good word for him." Brador gave him an amused look. "You're in a position right now to make millions, you know."
Garion laughed. "I couldn't carry it, Brador," he said.
"I visited the royal treasury at Riva once, and I know how much a million weighs. Who's next?"
"The Chief of the Bureau of Commerce -an unmitigated, unprincipled ass. Like most Bureau Chiefs."
Garion smiled. "And what does he want?"
Brador tugged thoughtfully at one earlobe. "I'm not entirely certain. I've been out of the country. Vasca's a devious one, though, so I'd be careful of him."
"I'm always careful, Brador."
The Baron Vasca, Chief of the Bureau of Commerce, was wrinkled and bald. He wore the brown robe that seemed to be almost the uniform of the bureaucracy, and the gold chain of his office seemed almost too heavy for his thin neck. Though at first glance he appeared to be old and frail, his eyes were as alert and shrewd as those of a vulture. "Ah, your Majesty," he said after they had been introduced, "I'm so pleased to meet you at last."