7. The Empire
Garrow headed back to Carvahall with Serafyna trailing behind.
"Well, what do you think, uncle?" asked Serafyna.
"I'm going to get more information before I make up my mind. Take the stone back to the wagon, then do what you want. I'll meet you for dinner at Horst's."
Serafyna nodded, then dodged through the crowd and eagerly dashed back to the wagon.
Trading would take her uncle hours, time that she planned to enjoy fully, despite her disappointment regarding the stone. Though now she had even more questions regarding its nature.
Harder than a diamond... yet hollow? She shook her head. It made no sense.
She hid the stone under the bags, then set out into town with a cocky stride. She walked from one booth to another, evaluating the goods with a buyer's eye, despite her meager supply of coins.
When she talked with the merchants, they confirmed what Merlock had said about the instability in Alagaësia. Over and over the message was repeated: last year's security has deserted us; new dangers have appeared, and nothing is safe.
Later in the day, she bought three sticks of malt candy and a small piping-hot cherry pie.
The hot food felt good after hours of standing in the snow. She licked the sticky syrup from her fingers absentmindedly, wishing for more, then sat on the edge of a porch and nibbled a piece of candy.
Two boys from Carvahall wrestled nearby, but she kept her distance from them.
As the day descended into late afternoon, the traders took their business into people's homes. Serafyna was impatient for the evening, when the troubadours would come out to tell stories and perform tricks.
She loved hearing about magic, gods, and, if they were especially fortunate, the Dragon Riders.
Carvahall had its own storyteller, Brom—a friend of Serafyna's—but his tales grew old over the years, whereas the troubadours always had new ones that she listened to eagerly.
Serafyna had just broken off an icicle from the underside of the porch when she spotted Sloan nearby. The butcher had not seen her, which was fine with Serafyna. She was in no mood for another confrontation with the man.
Wanting to put some distance between them, she ducked her head and walked around a corner toward Morn's tavern.
The inside was hot and filled with greasy smoke from sputtering tallow candles. The shiny-black Urgal horns, their twisted span as great as his outstretched arms, were mounted over the door. The bar was long and low, with a stack of staves on one end for customers to carve.
Morn tended the bar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The bottom half of his face was short and mashed, as if he had rested his chin on a grinding wheel.
People crowded solid oak tables and listened to two traders who had finished their business early and had come in for beer.
Morn looked up from a mug he was cleaning. "Eragon! Good to see you. Where's your uncle?"
"Buying," Serafyna replied with a shrug. "He's going to be a while."
"And Roran, is he here?" asked Morn as he swiped the cloth through another mug.
"Yeah, no sick animals to keep him back this year."
"Good, good."
Serafyna gestured at the two traders. "Who are they?"
"Grain buyers. They bought everyone's seed at ridiculously low prices, and now they're telling wild stories, expecting us to believe them."
Serafyna understood why Morn was so upset. People need that money. We can't get by without it. "What kind of stories?"
Morn snorted. "They say the Varden have formed a pact with the Urgals and are massing an army to attack us. Supposedly, it's only through the grace of our king that we've been protected for so long—as if Galbatorix would care if we burned to the ground. Go listen to them. I have enough on my hands without explaining their lies."
The first trader filled a chair with his enormous girth; his every movement caused it to protest loudly. There was no hint of hair on his face, his pudgy hands were baby smooth, and he had pouting lips that curled petulantly as he sipped from a flagon.
The second man had a florid face. The skin around his jaw was dry and corpulent, filled with lumps of hard fat, like cold butter gone rancid. Contrasted with his neck and jowls, the rest of his body was unnaturally thin.
The first trader vainly tried to pull back his expanding borders to fit within the chair. He said, "No, no, you don't understand. It is only through the king's unceasing efforts on your behalf that you are able to argue with us in safety. If he, in all his wisdom, were to withdraw that support, woe unto you!"
Someone hollered, "Right, why don't you also tell us the Riders have returned and you've each killed a hundred elves? Do you think we're children to believe in your tales? We can take care of ourselves." The group chuckled.
The trader started to reply when his thin companion intervened with a wave of his hand. Gaudy jewels flashed on his fingers.
"You misunderstand. We know the Empire cannot care for each of us personally, as you may want, but it can keep Urgals and other abominations from overrunning this," he searched vaguely for the right term, "place."
The trader continued, "You're angry with the Empire for treating people unfairly, a legitimate concern, but a government cannot please everyone. There will inevitably be arguments and conflicts. However, the majority of us have nothing to complain about. Every country has some small group of malcontents who aren't satisfied with the balance of power."
"Yeah," called a woman, "if you're willing to call the Varden small!"
The fat man sighed. "We already explained that the Varden have no interest in helping you. That's only a falsehood perpetuated by the traitors in an attempt to disrupt the Empire and convince us that the real threat is inside—not outside—our borders. All they want to do is overthrow the king and take possession of our land. They have spies everywhere as they prepare to invade. You never know who might be working for them."
Serafyna did not agree in the slightest, but the traders' words were smooth, and people were nodding.
She stepped forward and said, "Oh really? And how do you know this? I can say that you mind what you eat and watch your weight, but that doesn't mean it's true in the slightest." She raised an eyebrow. "I presume you have proof to back up your claims?"
The two men glared at him while the villagers waited silently for the answer.
The thin trader spoke first. He avoided Serafyna's eyes. "Aren't your children taught respect? Or do you let girls challenge men whenever they want to?"
The listeners fidgeted and stared at Serafyna. Then a man said, "Answer her question."
"It's only common sense," said the fat one, sweat beading on his upper lip. His reply riled the villagers, and the dispute resumed.
Serafyna returned to the bar with a sour taste in her mouth.
She had never before met anyone who favored the Empire and tore down its enemies. There was a deep-seated hatred of the Empire in Carvahall, almost hereditary in nature. The Empire never helped them during harsh years when they nearly starved, and its tax collectors were heartless.
She felt justified in disagreeing with the traders regarding the king's mercy, but she did speculate about the Varden.
The Varden were a rebel group that constantly raided and attacked the Empire. It was a mystery who their leader was or who had formed them in the years following Galbatorix's rise to power over a century ago.
The group had garnered much sympathy as they eluded Galbatorix's efforts to destroy them. Little was known about the Varden except that if you were a fugitive and had to hide, or if you hated the Empire, they would accept you.
The only problem was finding them.
Morn leaned over the bar and said, "Incredible, isn't it? They're worse than vultures circling a dying animal. There's going to be trouble if they stay much longer."
"For us or for them?"
"Them," said Morn as angry voices filled the tavern.
Serafyna left when the argument threatened to become violent. The door thudded shut behind her, cutting off the voices.
