The giant smiled slightly, then nodded his agreement.
"Have Silk and Urgit managed to get up yet?" Garion called to them.
"Hmm?" Durnik replied, his eyes fixed intently on his brightly colored lure bobbing far back in their wake.
"I said, are Silk and his brother up yet?"
"Oh—yes, I think I heard them stirring around in their cabin. Toth, we're definitely going to need something to weight down the lines."
Belgarath came up on deck just then, with his shabby old cloak pulled tightly around his shoulders. He looked sourly out through the drizzle at the half-concealed coast sliding by to port and went forward to stand amidships.
Garion joined him there. "How long do you think it's going to take us to get to Verkat, Grandfather?" he asked.
"A couple of weeks," the old man replied, "if this weather doesn't get any worse. We're a long way south and we're coming up on the stormy season."
"There's a faster way, though, isn't there?" Garion suggested.
"I don't quite follow you."
"You remember how we got from Jarviksholm to Riva? Couldn't you and I do it that way? The others could catch up later."
"I don't think we're supposed to. I think the others are supposed to be with us when we catch up with Zandramas."
Garion suddenly banged his fist on the rail in frustration. "Supposed to!" he burst out. "I don't care about what we're supposed to do. I want my son back. I'm tired of creeping around trying to satisfy all the clever little twists and turns of the Prophecy. What's wrong with just ignoring it and going right straight to the point?"
Belgarath's face was calm as he looked out at the rust-colored cliffs half-hidden in the gray drizzle. "I've tried that a few times myself," he admitted, "but it never worked— and usually it put me even further behind. I know you're impatient, Garion, and sometimes it's hard to accept the idea that following the Prophecy is really the fastest way to get where you want to go, but that's the way it always seems to work out." He put his hand on Garion's shoulder. "It's sort of like digging a well. The water's at the bottom, but you have to start at the top. I don't think anybody's ever had much luck digging a well from the bottom up."
"What's that got to do with it, Grandfather? I don't see any connection at all."
"Maybe you will if you think about it for a while."
Durnik came running forward. His eyes were wide in stunned amazement, and his hands were shaking.
"What's wrong?" Belgarath asked him.
"That was the biggest fish I've ever seen in my life!" the smith exclaimed. "He was as big as a horse!"
"He got away, I take it."
"Snapped my line on the second jump." Durnik's voice had a peculiar pride in it, and his eyes grew very bright. "He was beautiful, Belgarath. He came up out of the water as if he'd just been shot out of a catapult and he actually walked across the waves on his tail. What a tremendous fish!"
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to catch him, of course—but I'm going to need a stouter line—maybe even a rope. What a fish! Excuse me." He hurried toward the bow to talk to the Murgo ship captain about some rope.
Belgarath smiled. "I love that man, Garion," he said. "I really love him."
The door to the aft companionway opened again, and Silk and his brother emerged. Although Garion was usually the first one on deck, he had noticed that, sooner or later during the course of any day, everyone came out to take a turn or two in the bracing salt air.
The two weasel-faced men came forward along the rain-slick deck. Neither of them looked particularly well. "Are we making any headway?" Silk asked. His face was pale, and his hands were trembling noticeably.
"Some," Belgarath grunted. "You two slept late this morning."
"I think we should have slept longer," Urgit replied with a mournful look. "I seem to have this small headache—in my left eye." He was sweating profusely, and there was a faint greenish cast to his skin. "I feel absolutely dreadful," he declared. "Why didn't you warn me about this, Kheldar?"
"I wanted to surprise you."
"Is it always like this the next morning?"
"Usually," Silk admitted. "Sometimes it's worse."
"Worse? How could it possibly get any worse? Excuse me." Urgit hurried to the rail and leaned over it, retching noisily.
"He's not handling this too well, is he?" Belgarath noted clinically.
"Inexperience," Silk explained.
"I honestly believe I'm going to die," Urgit said weakly, wiping at his mouth with a shaking hand. "Why did you let me drink so much?"
"That's a decision a man has to make for himself," Silk told him.
"You seemed to be having a good time," Garion added.
"I really wouldn't know. I've lost track of several hours. What did I do?"
"You were singing."
"Singing? Me?" Urgit sank onto a bench and dropped his face into his trembling hands. "Oh dear," he moaned. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear."
Prala came out of the aft door wearing a black coat and a smug little smile. She carried a pair of tankards forward through the drizzle to the two suffering men. "Good morning, my Lords," she said brightly with a little curtsey. "Lady Polgara says that you're to drink this."
"What's in it?" Urgit asked suspiciously.
"I'm not sure, your Majesty. She and the Nyissan mixed it up."
"Maybe it's poison," he said hopefully. "I would sort of like to die quickly and get it over with." He seized a tankard and gulped it down noisily. Then he shuddered, and his face went deathly pale. His expression was one of sheer horror, and he began to shake violently. "That's terrible!" he gasped.
Silk watched him closely for a moment, then took the other tankard and carefully dumped it out over the side.
"Aren't you going to drink yours?" Urgit asked accusingly.
"I don't think so. Polgara has a peculiar sense of humor sometimes. I'd rather not take any chances—until I see how many fish come floating to the top."
"How are you feeling this morning, your Majesty?" Prala asked the suffering Urgit with a feigned look of sympathy on her face.
"I'm sick."
"It's your own fault, you know."
"Please don't."
She smiled sweetly at him.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he accused.