Belgarath the Sorcerer and Polgara the Sorceress: 2-Book Collection. David Eddings

      ‘It’s not Tol Honeth, by any stretch of the imagination,’ he agreed. ‘When we first found out about this crazy man, I was going to take him to Boktor, but he was born here, and he goes wild when you try to take him away from the place. We decided that it’d be better just to leave him here. The scribes don’t care much for the idea, but that’s what I’m paying them so much for. They’re here to write down what he says, not to enjoy the scenery.’

      ‘Are you sure they’re writing it down accurately?’

      ‘How would I know, Belgarath? I can’t read. You know that.’

      ‘Do you mean you still haven’t learned how?’

      ‘Why should I bother? That’s what scribes are for. If something’s all that important, they’ll read it to me. The ones here have worked out a sort of system. There are always three of them with the crazy man. Two of them write down what he says, and the third one listens to him. When he finishes, they compare the two written versions, and the one who does the listening decides which one’s accurate.’

      ‘It sounds a little complicated.’

      ‘You made quite an issue of how much you wanted accuracy. If you can think up an easier way, I’d be glad to hear it.’

      Our ship coasted up to the rickety dock, the sailors moored her, and we went ashore to have a look at the Mrin prophet.

      I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anyone quite so dirty. He wore only a crude canvas loincloth, and his hair and beard were long and matted. He was wearing an iron collar, and a stout chain ran from the collar to the thick post set in the ground in front of his kennel – I’m sorry, but that’s the only word I can use to describe the low hut where he apparently slept. He crouched on the ground near the post making animal noises and rhythmically jerking on the chain that bound him to the post. His eyes were deep-sunk under shaggy brows, and there was no hint of intelligence or even humanity in them.

      ‘Do you really have to chain him like that?’ Polgara asked Dras.

      Bull-neck nodded. ‘He has spells,’ he replied. ‘He used to run off into the fens every so often. He’d be gone for a week or two, and then he’d come crawling back. When we found out just who and what he is, we decided we’d better chain him for his own safety. There are sink-holes and quicksand bogs out in the fens, and the poor devil doesn’t have sense enough to avoid them. He can’t recite prophecy if he’s twelve feet down in a quicksand bog.’

      She looked at the low hut. ‘Do you really have to treat him like an animal?’

      ‘Polgara, he is an animal. He stays in that kennel because he wants to. He gets hysterical if you take him inside a house.’

      ‘You said he was born here,’ I noted.

      Dras nodded. ‘About thirty or forty years ago. This was all part of father’s kingdom before we went to Mallorea. The village has been here for about seventy years, I guess. Most of the villagers are fishermen.’

      I went over to where the three scribes on duty were sitting in the shade of a scrubby willow tree and introduced myself. ‘Has he said anything lately?’ I asked.

      ‘Not for the past week,’ one of them replied. ‘I think maybe it’s the moon that sets him off. He’ll talk at various other times, but he always does when the moon’s full.’

      ‘I suppose there might be some explanation for that. Isn’t there some way you can clean him up a little?’

      The scribe shook his head. ‘We’ve tried throwing pails of water on him, but he just rolls in the mud again. I think he likes being dirty.’

      ‘Let me know immediately when he starts talking again. I have to hear him.’

      ‘I don’t think you’ll be able to make much sense out of what he’s saying, Belgarath,’ one of the other scribes told me.

      ‘That’ll come later. I’ve got the feeling that I’m going to spend a lot of time studying what he says. Does he ever talk about ordinary things? The weather or maybe how hungry he is?’

      ‘No,’ the first scribe replied. ‘As closely as we’re able to determine, he can’t talk – at least that’s what the villagers say. It was about eight or ten years ago when he started. It makes our job easier, though. We don’t have to wade through casual conversation. Everything he says is important.’