"Will you be all right here?" Aunt Pol asked her. "We have to leave, but we'll be back. Do you need anything?"

"A little light, maybe." Taiba sighed. "I've lived in the dark all my life. I think I'd like it to be light when I die."

"Relg," Aunt Polt said, "make her some light."

"We might need it ourselves." His voice was still stiffly offended.

"She needs it more."

"Do it, Relg," Belgarath told the zealot in a firm voice.

Relg's face hardened, but he mixed some of the contents of his two pouches together on a flat stone and dribbled a bit of water on the mixture. The pasty substance began to glow.

"Thank you," Taiba said simply.

Relg refused to answer or even to look at her.

They went back up the passageway, leaving her beside the small pool with her dim little light. She began to sing again, quite softly this time and in a voice near the edge of sleep.

Relg led them through the dark galleries, twisting and changing course frequently, always climbing. Hours dragged by, though time had little meaning in the perpetual darkness. They climbed more of the sheer faces and followed passageways that wound higher and higher up into the vast rock pillar. Garion lost track of direction as they climbed, and found himself wondering if even Relg knew which way he was going. As they rounded another corner in another gallery, a faint breeze seemed to touch their faces. The breeze carried a dreadful odor with it.

"What's that stink?" Silk asked, wrinkling his sharp nose.

"The slave pens, most likely," Belgarath replied. "Murgos are lax about sanitation."

"The pens are under Rak Cthol, aren't they?" Barak asked. Belgarath nodded.

"And they open up into the city itself?"

"As I remember it, they do."

"You've done it, Relg," Barak said, clapping the Ulgo on the shoulder.

"Don't touch me," Reig told him.

"Sorry, Relg."

"The slave pens are going to be guarded," Belgarath told them. "We'll want to be very quiet now."

They crept on up the passageway, being careful where they put their feet. Garion was not certain at what point the gallery began to show evidence of human construction. Finally they passed a partially open iron door. "Is there anybody in there?" he whispered to Silk.

The little man sidled up to the opening, his dagger held low and ready. He glanced in, his head making a quick, darting movement. "Just some bones," he reported somberly.

Belgarath signalled for a halt. "These lower galleries have probably been abandoned," he told them in a very quiet voice. "After the causeway was finished, the Murgos didn't need all those thousands of slaves. We'll go on up, but be quiet and keep your eyes open."

They padded silently up the gradual incline of the gallery, passing more of the rusting iron doors, all standing partially ajar. At the top of the slope, the gallery turned back sharply on itself, still angling upward. Some words were crudely lettered on the wall in a script Garion could not recognize. "Grandfather," he whispered, pointing at the words.

Belgarath glanced at the lettering and grunted. "Ninth level," he muttered. "We're still some distance below the city."

"How far do we go before we start running into Murgos?" Barak rumbled, looking around with his hand on his sword hilt.

Belgarath shrugged slightly. "It's hard to say. I'd guess that only the top two or three levels are occupied."

They followed the gallery upward until it turned sharply, and once again there were words written on the wall in the alien script. "Eighth level," Belgarath translated. "Keep going."

The smell of the slave pens grew stronger as they progressed upward through the succeeding levels.

"Light ahead," Durnik warned sharply, just before they turned the corner to enter the fourth level.

"Wait here," Silk breathed and melted around the corner, his dagger held close against his leg.

The light was dim and seemed to be bobbing slightly, growing gradually brighter as the moments dragged by. "Someone with a torch," Barak muttered.

The torchlight suddenly flickered, throwing gyrating shadows. Then it grew steady, no longer bobbing. After a few moments, Silk came back, carefully wiping his dagger. "A Murgo," he told them. "I think he was looking for something. The cells up there are still empty."

"What did you do with him?" Barak asked.

"I dragged him into one of the cells. They won't stumble over him unless they're looking for him."

Relg was carefully veiling his eyes.

"Even that little bit of light?" Durnik asked him.

"It's the color of it," Relg explained.

They rounded the corner into the fourth level and started up again. A hundred yards up the gallery a torch was stuck into a crack in the wall, burning steadily. As they approached it, they could see a long smear of fresh blood on the uneven, littered floor.

Belgarath stopped outside the cell door, scratching at his beard. "What was he wearing?" he asked Silk.

"One of those hooded robes," Silk replied. "Why?"

"Go get it."

Silk looked at him briefly, then nodded. He went back into the cell and came out a moment later carrying a black Murgo robe. He handed it to the old man.

Belgarath held up the robe, looking critically at the long cut running up the back. "Try not to put such big holes in the rest of them," he told the little man.

Silk grinned at him. "Sorry. I guess I got a bit overenthusiastic. I'll be more careful from now on." He glanced at Barak. "Care to join me?" he invited.

"Naturally. Coming, Mandorallen?"

The knight nodded gravely, loosening his sword in its sheath. "We'll wait here, then," Belgarath told them. "Be careful, but don't take any longer than you have to."

The three men moved stealthily on up the gallery toward the third level.

"Can you guess at the time, father?" Aunt Pol asked quietly after they had disappeared.

"Several hours after midnight."

"Will we have enough time left before dawn?"

"If we hurry."

"Maybe we should wait out the day here and go up when it gets dark again."

He frowned. "I don't think so, Pol. Ctuchik's up to something. He knows I'm coming - I've felt that for the last week - but he hasn't made a move of his own yet. Let's not give him any more time than we have to.

"He's going to fight you, father."