Enchanter's End Game Part 5

"That wasn't my wine," Yarblek snorted. "I stole it this morning. You should know I wouldn't offer my own drink to somebody I planned to kill."

"I wondered about that." Silk grinned at him. "I thought that maybe your manners had started to slip."

Yarblek's coa.r.s.e face took on a faintly injured expression.

"Sorry," Silk apologized quickly. "I misjudged you."

"No harm done." Yarblek shrugged. "A lot of people misunderstand me." He sighed. "It's a burden I have to bear." He opened a pack on his lead mule and hefted out a small keg of ale. He set it on the ground and broached it with a practiced skill, bashing in its top with his fist. "Let's get drunk," he suggested.

"We'd really like to," Silk declined politely, "but we've got some rather urgent business to take care of."

"You have no idea how sorry I am about that," Yarblek replied, fishing several cups out of the pack.

"I knew you'd understand."

"Oh, I understand, all right, Silk." Yarblek bent and dipped two cups into the ale keg. "And I'm as sorry as I can be that your business is going to have to wait. Here." He gave Silk one cup and Garion the other. Then he turned and dipped out a cup for himself.

Silk looked at him with one raised eyebrow.

Yarblek sprawled on the ground beside the ale keg, comfortably resting his feet on the body of one of the dead Malloreans. "You see, Silk," he explained, "the whole point of all this is that Drosta wants you very badly. He's offering a reward for you that's just too attractive to pa.s.s up. Friendship is one thing, but business is business, after all. Now, why don't you and your young friend make yourselves comfortable? This is a nice, shady clearing with soft moss to lie on. We'll all get drunk, and you can tell me how you managed to escape from Taur Urgas. Then you can tell me what happened to that handsome woman you had with you down in Cthol Murgos. Maybe I can make enough money from this to be able to afford to buy her. I'm not the marrying kind, but by Torak's teeth, that's a fine-looking woman. I'd almost be willing to give up my freedom for her."

"I'm sure she'd be flattered," Silk replied. "What then?"

"What when?"

"After we get drunk. What do we do then?"

"We'll probably get sick - that's what usually happens. After we get well, we'll run on down to Yar Nadrak. I'll collect the reward for you, and you'll be able to find out why King Drosta lek Thun wants to get his hands on you so badly." He looked at Silk with an amused expression. "You might as well sit down and have a drink, my friend. You aren't going anywhere just now."

Chapter Five.

YAR NADRAK WAS a walled city, lying at the juncture of the east and west forks of the River Cordu. The forests had been cleared for a league or so in every direction from the capital by the simple expedient of setting fire to it, and the approach to the city pa.s.sed through a wilderness of burned black snags and rank-growing bramble thickets. The city gates were stout and smeared with tar. Surmounting them was a stone replica of the mask of Torak. That beautiful, inhumanly cruel face gazed down at all who entered, and Garion suppressed a shudder as he rode under it.

The houses in the Nadrak capital were all very tall and had steeply sloping roofs. The windows of the second storeys all had shutters, and most of the shutters were closed. Any exposed wood on the structures had been smeared with tar to preserve it, and the splotches of the black substance made all the buildings look somehow diseased.

There was a sullen, frightened air in the narrow, crooked streets of Yar Nadrak, and the inhabitants kept their eyes lowered as they hurried about their business. There appeared to be less leather involved in the clothing of the burghers of the capital than had been the case in the back country, but even here most garments were black, and only occasionally was there a splash of blue or yellow. The sole exception to this rule was the red tunic worn by the Mallorean soldiers. They seemed to be everywhere, roaming at will up and down the cobblestoned streets, accosting citizens rudely and talking loudly to each other in their heavily accented speech.

While the soldiers seemed for the most part to be merely swaggering bullies, young men who concealed their nervousness at being in a strange country with an outward show of bl.u.s.ter and braggadocio, the Mallorean Grolims were quite another matter. Unlike the western Grolims Garion had seen in Cthol Murgos, they rarely wore the polished steel mask, but rather a.s.sumed a set, grim expression, thin-lipped and narrow-eyed; as they went about the streets in their hooded black robes, everyone, Mallorean and Nadrak alive, gave way to them.

Garion and Silk, closely guarded and mounted on a pair of mules, followed the rangy Yarblek into the city. Yarblek and Silk had kept up their banter during the entire ride downriver, exchanging casual insults and reliving past indiscretions. Although he seemed friendly enough, Yarblek nonetheless remained watchful, and his men had guarded Silk and Garion every step of the way. Garion had covertly watched the forest almost continually during the three-day ride, but he had seen no sign of Belgarath and he entered the city in a state of jumpy apprehension. Silk, however, seemed relaxed and confident as always, and his behavior and att.i.tude grated at Garion's nerves, for some reason.

After they had clattered along a crooked street for some distance, Yarblek turned down a narrow, dirty alleyway leading toward the river. "I thought the palace was that way," Silk said to him, pointing toward the center of town.

"It is," Yarblek replied, "but we aren't going to the palace. Drosta's got company there, and he prefers to do business in private." The alleyway soon opened out into a seedy-looking street where the tall, narrow-looking houses had fallen somewhat into disrepair. The lanky Nadrak clamped his mouth shut as two Mallorean Grolims rounded a corner just ahead and came in their direction. Yarblek's expression was openly hostile as the two approached.

One of them stopped to return his gaze. "You seem to have a problem, friend," the Grolim suggested.

"That's my business, isn't it?" Yarblek retorted.

"Indeed it is," the Grolim replied coolly. "Don't let it get out of hand, though. Open disrespect for the priesthood is the sort of thing that could get you into serious trouble." The black-robed man's look was threatening.

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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sing 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 un.o.btrusively 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 appet.i.tes, and these riverfront dives suit him."

Yarblek laughed in agreement. "Our monarch's a l.u.s.ty 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 fur-trimmed 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 coa.r.s.ely, 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 a.s.sembled 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 p.r.i.c.kling 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 sc.u.m 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 Silk 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 m.u.f.fled.

"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 unb.u.t.toned, and his bony chest was covered with coa.r.s.e 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 coa.r.s.eness 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 un.o.btrusive as possible, but Drosta's nervous eyes picked him out. "Can he be trusted?" the king demanded of Silk.