David Eddings - Enchanter's End Game

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 bluster 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 assumed 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 attitude 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 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.”