On a sudden impulse, Garion carefully pushed out his mind toward the Grolim, probing very gently, but the thoughts he encountered showed no particular awareness and certainly none of the aura that always seemed to emanate from the mind of a sorcerer.
‘Don’t do that,’ the voice in his mind cautioned him. ‘It’s like ringing a bell or wearing a sign around your neck.’
Garion quickly pulled back his thoughts. ‘I thought all Grolims were sorcerers,’ he replied silently. ‘These two are just ordinary men.’ But the other awareness was gone.
The two Grolims passed, and Yarblek spat contemptuously into the street. ‘Pigs,’ he muttered. ‘I’m starting to dislike Malloreans almost as much as Murgos.’
‘They seem to be taking over your country, Yarblek,’ Silk observed.
Yarblek grunted. ‘Let one Mallorean in, and before long they’re underfoot everywhere.’
‘Why did you let them in to begin with?’ Silk asked mildly.
‘Silk,’ Yarblek said bluntly, ‘I know you’re a spy, and I’m not going to discuss politics with you, so quit fishing for information.’
‘Just passing the time of day,’ Silk replied innocently.
‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’
‘But this is my business, old friend.’
Yarblek stared hard at him, then suddenly laughed.
‘Where are we going?’ Silk asked him, looking around at the shabby street. ‘This isn’t the best part of town, as I recall.’
‘You’ll find out,’ Yarblek told him.
They rode on down toward the river where the smell of floating garbage and open sewers was quite nearly overpowering. Garion saw rats feeding in the gutters, and the men in the street wore shabby clothing and had the furtive look of those who have reason to avoid the police.
Yarblek turned his horse abruptly and led them into another narrow, filthy alleyway. ‘We walk from here,’ he said, dismounting. ‘I want to go in the back way.’ Leaving their mounts with one of his men, they went on down the alley, stepping carefully over piles of rotting garbage.
‘Down there,’ Yarblek told them, pointing at a short, rickety flight of wooden stairs leading down to a narrow doorway. ‘Once we get inside, keep your heads down. We don’t want too many people noticing that you’re not Nadraks.’
They went down the creaking steps and slipped through the doorway into a dim, smoky tavern, reeking of sweat, spilled beer, and stale vomit. The fire pit in the center of the room was choked with ashes, and several large logs smoldered there, giving off a great deal of smoke and very little light. Two narrow, dirty windows at the front appeared only slightly less dark than the walls around them, and a single oil lamp hung on a chain nailed to one of the rafters.
‘Sit here,’ Yarblek instructed them, nudging at a bench standing against the back wall. ‘I’ll be right back.’ He went off toward the front part of the tavern. Garion looked around quickly, but saw immediately that a pair of Yarblek’s men lounged unobtrusively beside the door.
‘What are we going to do?’ he whispered to Silk.
‘We don’t have much choice but to wait and see what happens,’ Silk replied.
‘You don’t seem very worried.’
‘I’m not, really.’
‘But we’ve been arrested, haven’t we?’
Silk shook his head. ‘When you arrest somebody, you put shackles on him. King Drosta wants to talk to me, that’s all.’
‘But that reward notice said—’
‘I wouldn’t pay too much attention to that, Garion. The reward notice was for the benefit of the Malloreans. Whatever Drosta’s up to, he doesn’t want them finding out about it.’
Yarblek threaded his way back through the crowd in the tavern and thumped himself down on the grimy bench beside them. ‘Drosta should be here, shortly,’ he said. ‘You want something to drink while we’re waiting?’
Silk looked around with a faint expression of distaste. ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘The ale barrels in places like this usually have a few drowned rats floating in them – not to mention the dead flies and roaches.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Yarblek said.
‘Isn’t this a peculiar sort of place to find a king?’ Garion asked, looking around at the shabby interior of the tavern.
‘You have to know King Drosta to understand,’ Silk told him. ‘He has some rather notorious appetites, and these riverfront dives suit him.’
Yarblek laughed in agreement. ‘Our monarch’s a lusty sort of fellow,’ he noted, ‘but don’t ever make the mistake of thinking he’s stupid – a little crude, perhaps, but not stupid. He can come to a place like this, and no Mallorean will take the trouble to follow him. He’s found that it’s a good way to conduct business that he prefers not to have reported back to ‘Zakath.’
There was a stir near the front of the tavern, and two heavy-shouldered Nadraks in black leather tunics and pointed helmets pushed their way through the door. ‘Make way!’ one of them barked. ‘And everybody rise!’
‘Those who are able to rise,’ the other added dryly.
A wave of jeers and catcalls ran through the crowd as a thin man in a yellow satin doublet and a furtrimmed green velvet cloak entered. His eyes were bulging and his face was deeply scarred with old pockmarks. His movements were quick and jerky, and his expression was a curious mixture of sardonic amusement and a kind of desperate, unsatisfied hunger.
‘All hail his Majesty, Drosta lek Thun, King of the Nadraks!’ one drunken man proclaimed in a loud voice, and the others in the tavern laughed coarsely, jeering and whistling and stamping their feet.
‘My faithful subjects,’ the pockmarked man replied with a gross smirk. ‘Drunks, thieves, and procurers. I bask in the warm glow of your love for me.’ His contempt seemed directed almost as much at himself as at the ragged, unwashed crowd.
They whistled in unison and stamped their feet derisively.
‘How many tonight, Drosta?’ someone shouted.
‘As many as I can.’ The king leered. ‘It’s my duty to spread royal blessings wherever I go.’
‘Is that what you call it?’ someone else demanded raucously.
‘It’s as good a name as any,’ Drosta replied with a shrug.
‘The royal bedchamber awaits,’ the tavern owner declaimed with a mocking bow.
‘Along with the royal bedbugs, I’m sure,’ Drosta added. ‘Ale for every man not too drunk to swill it down. Let my loyal subjects drink to my vitality.’
The crowd cheered as the king pushed toward a stairway leading to the upper storeys of the building. ‘My duty awaits me,’ he proclaimed, pointing with a grand gesture up the stairs. ‘Let all take note of how eagerly I go to embrace that stern responsibility.’ And he mounted the stairs to the derisive applause of the assembled riffraff.
‘What now?’ Silk asked.
‘We’ll wait a bit,’ Yarblek replied. ‘It would be a little obvious if we went up immediately.’
Garion shifted uncomfortably on the bench. A very faint, nervous kind of tingle had begun just behind his ears, a sort of prickling sensation that seemed to crawl over his skin. He had an unpleasant thought or two about the possibility of lice or fleas migrating from the scum in the tavern in search of fresh blood, but dismissed that idea. The tingling did not seem to be external.
At a table not far away, a shabbily dressed man, apparently far gone in drink, had been snoring with his head buried in his arms. In the middle of a snore he raised his face briefly and winked. It was Belgarath. He let his face drop back onto his arms as a wave of relief swept through Garion.
The drunken crowd in the tavern grew steadily more rowdy. A short, ugly fight broke out near the fire pit, and the revelers at first cheered, then joined in, kicking at the two who rolled about on the floor.
‘Let’s go up,’ Yarblek said shortly, rising to his feet. He pushed through the crowd and started upstairs.
‘Grandfather’s here,’ Garion whispered to Si
lk as they followed.
‘I saw him,’ Silk replied shortly.
The stairs led to a dim upper hallway with dirty, threadbare carpeting on the floor. At the far end, King Drosta’s two bored-looking guards leaned against the wall on either side of a solid door.
‘My name’s Yarblek,’ Silk’s friend told them as he reached the door. ‘Drosta’s expecting me.’
The guards glanced at each other, then one tapped on the door. ‘That man you wanted to see is here, your Majesty.’
‘Send him in.’ Drosta’s voice was muffled.
‘He isn’t alone,’ the guard advised.
‘That’s all right.’
‘Go ahead,’ the guard said to Yarblek, unlatching the door and pushing it open.
The king of the Nadraks was sprawled on a rumpled bed with his arms about the thin shoulders of a pair of dirty, scantily dressed young girls with tangled hair and hopeless-looking eyes. ‘Yarblek,’ the depraved monarch greeted the merchant, ‘what kept you?’
‘I didn’t want to attract attention by following you immediately, Drosta.’
‘I almost got sidetracked.’ Drosta leered at the two girls. ‘Aren’t they luscious?’
‘If you like the type.’ Yarblek shrugged. ‘I prefer a little more maturity.’
‘That’s good, too,’ Drosta admitted, ‘but I love them all. I fall in love twenty times a day. Run along, my pretties,’ he told the girls. ‘I’ve got some business to take care of just now. I’ll send for you later.’
The two girls immediately left, closing the door quietly behind them.
Drosta sat up on the bed, scratching absently at one armpit. His stained and rumpled yellow doublet was unbuttoned, and his bony chest was covered with coarse black hair. He was thin, almost emaciated, and his scrawny arms looked like two sticks. His hair was lank and greasy, and his beard was so thin that it was little more than a few scraggly-looking black hairs sprouting from his chin. The pockmarks on his face were deep, angry red scars, and his neck and hands were covered with an unwholesome, scabby-looking rash. There was a distinctly unpleasant odor about him. ‘Are you sure this is the man I want?’ he asked Yarblek. Garion looked at the Nadrak King sharply. The coarseness had gone out of his voice, and his tone was incisive, direct, the tone of a man who was all business. Garion made a few quick mental adjustments. Drosta lek Thun was not at all what he seemed.
‘I’ve known him for years, Drosta,’ Yarblek replied. ‘This is Prince Kheldar of Drasnia. He’s also known as Silk and sometimes Ambar of Kotu or Radek of Boktor. He’s a thief, a swindler, and a spy. Aside from that, he’s not too bad.’
‘We are delighted to meet so famous a man,’ King Drosta declared. ‘Welcome, Prince Kheldar.’
‘Your Majesty,’ Silk replied, bowing.
‘I’d have invited you to the palace,’ Drosta continued, ‘but I’ve got some house guests with the unfortunate habit of sticking their noses into my business.’ He laughed dryly. ‘Luckily, I found out very soon that Malloreans are a priggish race. They won’t follow me into places like this, so we’ll be able to talk freely.’ He looked around at the cheap, gaudy furnishings and red draperies with a sort of amused toleration. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I like it here.’
Garion stood with his back against the wall near the door, trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible, but Drosta’s nervous eyes picked him out. ‘Can he be trusted?’ the king demanded of Silk.
‘Completely,’ Silk assured him. ‘He’s my apprentice. I’m teaching him the business.’
‘Which business? Stealing or spying?’
Silk shrugged. ‘It amounts to the same thing. Yarblek says you wanted to see me. I assume it has something to do with current matters rather than any past misunderstandings.’
‘You’re quick, Kheldar,’ Drosta replied approvingly. ‘I need your help and I’m willing to pay for it.’
Silk grinned. ‘I’m fond of the word pay.’
‘So I’ve heard. Do you know what’s going on here in Gar og Nadrak?’ Drosta’s eyes were penetrating, and his veneer of gross self-indulgence had fallen completely away.
‘I am in the intelligence service, your Majesty,’ Silk pointed out.
Drosta grunted, stood up, and went to a table where a decanter of wine and several glasses stood. ‘Drink?’ he asked.
‘Why not?’
Drosta filled four glasses, took one for himself and paced nervously about the room with an angry expression. ‘I don’t need any of this, Kheldar,’ he burst out. ‘My family’s spent generations – centuries – weaning Gar og Nadrak away from the domination of the Grolims. Now they’re about to drag us back into howling barbarism again, and I don’t have any choice but to go along with it. I’ve got a quarter of a million Malloreans roaming around at will inside my borders and an army I can’t even count poised just to the south. If I raise so much as one word of protest, ‘Zakath will crush my kingdom with one fist.’
‘Would he really do that?’ Silk asked, taking a chair at the table.
‘With just about as much emotion as you’d feel about swatting a fly,’ Drosta replied. ‘Have you ever met him?’
Silk shook his head.
‘You’re lucky,’ Drosta told him with a shudder. ‘Taur Urgas is a madman, but, much as I hate him, he’s still human. ‘Zakath is made out of ice. I’ve got to get in touch with Rhodar.’
‘Ah,’ Silk said. ‘That’s what this is all about, then.’
‘You’re a nice enough fellow, Kheldar,’ Drosta told him dryly, ‘but I wouldn’t go to all this trouble just for the pleasure of your company. You’ve got to carry my message to Rhodar. I’ve tried to get word to him, but I can’t catch up with him. He won’t stay in one place long enough. How can a fat man move so cursed fast?’
‘He’s deceptive,’ Silk said shortly. ‘Exactly what have you got in mind?’
‘An alliance,’ Drosta replied bluntly. ‘My back’s against the wall. Either I ally myself with Rhodar, or I get swallowed up.’
Silk carefully set down his glass. ‘That’s a very large suggestion, your Majesty. In the present situation, it’s going to take a great deal of fast talking to arrange.’
‘That’s why I sent for you, Kheldar. We’re staring the end of the world right in the face. You’ve got to get to Rhodar and persuade him to pull his army back from the Thull border. Make him stop this insanity before it goes too far.’
‘Making my uncle do things is a little beyond my abilities, King Drosta,’ Silk replied carefully. ‘I’m flattered that you think I’ve got that much influence with him, but things have usually been the other way around between us.’
‘Don’t you understand what’s going on, Kheldar?’ King Drosta’s voice was anguished, and he gesticulated almost wildly as he spoke. ‘Our only hope of survival lies in not giving the Murgos and the Malloreans any kind of reason to unite. We should work to stir up trouble between them, not to provide them with a common enemy. Taur Urgas and ‘Zakath hate each other with a passion so intense that it’s almost holy. There are more Murgos than grains of sand and more Malloreans than stars. The Grolims can babble their gibberish about the awakening of Torak until their tongues fall out, but Taur Urgas and ‘Zakath have taken the field for just one reason – each of them wants to destroy the other and make himself overking of Angarak. They’re headed directly toward a war of mutual extinction. We can be rid of both of them if we just don’t interfere.’
‘I think I see what you mean,’ Silk murmured.
‘’Zakath is ferrying his Malloreans across the Sea of the East to his staging area near Thull Zelik, and Taur Urgas has the southern Murgos massed near Rak Goska. Inevitably, they’re going to move on each other. We’ve got to stay out of the way and let them fight. Make Rhodar pull back before he spoils everything.’
‘Have you talked with the Thulls about this?’ Silk asked.
Drosta snorted with contempt. ‘What’s the point? I’ve tried to explain this to King Gethell, but talking
to him is like talking to a pile of manure. The Thulls are so afraid of the Grolims that all you have to do is mention Torak’s name and they go all to pieces. Gethell’s a Thull through and through. There’s nothing between his ears but sand.’
‘There’s just one problem with all of this, Drosta,’ Silk told the agitated monarch. ‘I can’t carry your message to King Rhodar.’
‘Can’t?’ Drosta exploded. ‘What do you mean, you can’t?’
‘My uncle and I aren’t on the best of terms just now,’ Silk lied smoothly. ‘We had a little misunderstanding a few months ago, and about the first thing he’d do, if he saw me coming, is have me put in chains – and I’m almost certain things would go downhill from there.’
Drosta groaned. ‘We’re all doomed then,’ he declared, seeming to slump in on himself. ‘You were my last hope.’
‘Let me think a moment,’ Silk said. ‘We might be able to salvage something out of this yet.’ He stared at the floor, chewing absently on a fingernail as he turned the problem over in his mind. ‘I can’t go,’ he concluded. ‘That’s obvious. But that doesn’t mean that somebody else couldn’t.’
‘Who else would Rhodar trust?’ Drosta demanded.
Silk turned to Yarblek, who had been listening to the conversation intently with a worried frown. ‘Are you in any kind of trouble in Drasnia at the moment?’ he asked.
‘Not that I know of.’
‘All right,’ Silk continued. ‘There’s a fur dealer in Boktor – Geldahar’s his name.’
‘Fat man? Sort of cross-eyed?’ Yarblek asked.
‘That’s him. Why don’t you take a shipment of furs and go to Boktor? While you’re trying to sell Geldahar the furs, tell him that the salmon run is late this year.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be fascinated to hear that.’
‘It’s a code-word,’ Silk explained with exaggerated patience. ‘As soon as you say that, he’ll see to it that you get into the palace to see Queen Porenn.’
‘I’ve heard that she’s a lovely woman,’ Yarblek said, ‘but that’s a long trip just to see a pretty girl. I can probably find a pretty girl just down the hall.’
Enchanters' End Game Page 7
