"He works for his uncle, the King of Drasnia," Garion explained. "From what I understand, the Drasnians have been at this sort of thing for centuries."

"We've got to stop and pick up the rest of the packs," Silk was reminding Mister Wolf.

"I haven't forgotten," the old man replied.

"Packs?" Lelldorin asked.

"Silk picked up some wool cloth in Camaar," Garion told him. "He said it would give us a legitimate reason to be on the highway. We hid them in a cave when we left the road to come to Vo Wacune."

"He thinks of everything, doesn't he?"

"He tries. We're lucky to have him with us."

"Maybe we could have him show us a few things about disguises," Lelldorin suggested brightly. "It might be very useful when we go looking for your enemy."

Garion had thought that Lelldorin had forgotten his impulsive pledge. The young Arend's mind seemed too flighty to keep hold of one idea for very long, but he saw now that Lelldorin only seemed to forget things. The prospect of a serious search for his parents' murderer with this young enthusiast adding embellishments and improvisations at every turn began to present itself alarmingly.

By midmorning, after they had picked up Silk's packs and lashed them to the backs of the spare horses, they were back out on the Great West Road, the Tolnedran highway running through the heart of the forest. They rode south at a loping canter that ate up the miles.

They passed a heavily burdened serf clothed in scraps and pieces of sackcloth tied on with bits of string. The serf's face was gaunt, and he was very thin under his dirty rags. He stepped off the road and stared at them with apprehension until they had passed. Garion felt a sudden stab of compassion. He briefly remembered Lammer and Detton, and he wondered what would finally happen to them. It seemed important for some reason. "Is it really necessary to keep them so poor?" he demanded of Lelldorin, unable to hold it in any longer.

"Who?" Lelldorin asked, looking around.

"That serf."

Lelldorin glanced back over his shoulder at the ragged man. "You didn't even see him," Garion accused.

Lelldorin shrugged. "There are so many."

"And they all dress in rags and live on the edge of starvation."

"Mimbrate taxes," Lelldorin replied as if that explained everything.

"You seem to have always had enough to eat."

"I'm not a serf, Garion," Lelldorin answered patiently. "The poorest people always suffer the most. It's the way the world is."

"It doesn't have to be," Garion retorted.

"You just don't understand."

"No. And I never will."

"Naturally not," Lelldorin said with infuriating complacency. "You're not Arendish."

Garion clenched his teeth to hold back the obvious reply.

By late afternoon they had covered ten leagues, and the snow had largely disappeared from the roadside. "Shouldn't we start to give some thought to where we're going to spend the night, father?" Aunt Pol suggested.