David Eddings - Enchanter's End Game

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 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 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 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.”