“I wonder how long it’s going to take them to empty all the fish out of that pond,” Polgara mused.
“Forever, I’m afraid, Lady Polgara,” Sadi told her, popping a strawberry into his mouth. “The grounds keepers restock it every night.”
She sighed. “I was afraid of that,” she said.
About midmorning, Garion was pacing up and down one of the long, echoing halls. He felt irritable, and a sort of frustrated impatience seemed to weigh him down. The urgent need to get to Ashaba before Zandramas escaped him again was so constantly on his mind now that he could think of almost nothing else. Although they had come up with several possible schemes, Silk, Velvet, and Sadi were still searching for a suitable diversion—something startling enough to draw off Brador’s secret policemen so that they could all make good their escape. There was obviously little chance of changing ’Zakath’s mind; and it began to look increasingly as if Garion and his friends were going to have to “do it the other way.” as Belgarath sometimes put it. Despite his occasional threats to ’Zakath, Garion didn’t really want to do that. He was quite sure that to do so would permanently end his growing friendship with the strange man who ruled Mallorea. He was honest enough to admit that it was not only the friendship he would regret losing but the political possibilities implicit in the situation as well.
He was about to return to his rooms when a scarlet-liveried servant came up to him. “Your Majesty,” the servant said with a deep bow, “Prince Kheldar asked me to find you for him. He’d like to have a word with you.”
“Where is he?” Garion asked.
“In the formal garden near the north wall of the complex, your Majesty. There’s a half-drunk Nadrak with him—and a woman with a remarkably foul mouth. You wouldn’t believe some of the things she said to me.”
“I think I know her,” Garion replied with a faint smile. “I’d believe it.” He turned then and walked briskly through the hallways and out into the palace grounds.
Yarblek had not changed. Though it was pleasantly warm in the neatly manicured formal garden, he nonetheless still wore his shabby felt overcoat and his shaggy fur hat. He was sprawled on a marble bench under a leafy arbor with a broached ale keg conveniently at hand.
Vella, as lush as ever, wandered idly among the flowerbeds, dressed in her tight-fitting Nadrak vest and leather trousers. Her silver-hilted daggers protruded from the tops of her boots and from her belt, and her walk was still that same challenging, sensual strut, a mannerism she had practiced for so long that it was by now automatic and probably even unconscious. Silk sat on the grass near Yarblek’s bench, and he, too, held—an ale cup.
“I was just about to come looking for you,” he said as Garion approached.
The rangy Yarblek squinted at Garion. “Well, well,” he said, blinking owlishly, “if it isn’t the boy-King of Riva. I, see that you’re still wearing that big sword of yours.”
“It’s a habit,” Garion shrugged. “You’re looking well, Yarblek—aside from being a little drunk, that is.”
“I’ve been cutting down,” Yarblek said rather piously. “My stomach isn’t what it used to be.”
” Did you happen to see Belgarath on your way here?” Silk asked Garion.
“No. Should I have?”
“I sent for him, too. Yarblek’s got some information for us, and I want the old man to get it firsthand.”
Garion looked at Silk’s coarse-faced partner. “How long have you been in Mal Zeth?” he asked.
“We got in last night,” Yarblek replied, dipping his cup into the ale keg again.” Dolmar told me that you were all here in the palace, so I came by this morning to look you up.”
“How long are you going to stay in town?” Silk asked him.
Yarblek tugged at his scraggly beard and squinted up at the arbor. “That’s kind of hard to say,” he said. “Dolmar picked up most of what I need, but I want to nose around the markets a bit. There’s a Tolnedran in Boktor who said that he’s interested in uncut gem stones. I could pick up a quick fortune on that transaction—particularly if I could sneak the stones past Drasnian customs.”
“Don’t Queen Porenn’s customs agents search your packs pretty thoroughly?” Garion asked him.
“From top to bottom,” Yarblek laughed, “And they pat me down as well. They don’t, however, lay one finger on Vella. They’ve all learned how quick she is with her daggers. I’ve made back what I paid for her a dozen times over by hiding little packages here and there in her clothes.” He laughed coarsely. “And of course the hiding is sort of fun, too.” He belched thunderously.
“Par’me,” he said.
Belgarath came across the lawn. The old man had resisted all of ’Zakath’s tactful offers of less disreputable raiment, and still wore, defiantly, Garion thought, his stained tunic, patched hose, and mismatched boots.
“Well, I see that you finally got here,” he said to Yarblek without any preamble.
“I got tied up in Mal Camat,” the Nadrak replied. “Kal Zakath is commandeering ships all up and down the west-coast to bring his army back from stinking Cthol Murgos. I had to hire boats and hide them in the marshes north of the ruins of Cthol Mishrak.” He pointed at the ale keg. “You want some of this?” he asked.
“Naturally. Have you got another cup?”
Yarblek patted here and there at his voluminous coat, reached into an inside pocket, and drew out a squat, dented tankard.
“I like a man who comes prepared.”
“A proper host is always ready. Help yourself. Just try not to spill too much.” The Nadrak looked at Garion."How about you?” he asked. “I think I could find another cup”
“No. Thanks anyway, Yarblek. It’s a little early for me.”
Then a short, gaudily dressed man came around the arbor. His clothes were a riot of frequently conflicting colors. One sleeve was green, the other red. One leg of his hose was striped in pink and yellow and the other covered with large blue polka dots. He wore a tall, pointed cap with a bell attached to the peak. It was not his outrageous clothing that was so surprising, however. What caught Garion’s eye first was the fact that the man was quite casually walking on his hands with both feet extended into the air. “Did I hear somebody offer somebody a little drop of somethin’ to drink” he asked in a strange, lilting brogue that Garion did not quite recognize.
Yarblek gave the colorful little fellow a sour look and reached inside his coat again.
The acrobat flexed his shoulders, thrusting himself into the air, flipped over in midair, and landed on his feet. He briskly brushed off his hands and came toward Yarblek with an ingratiating smile. His face was nondescript, the kind of face that would be forgotten almost as soon as it was seen, but for some reason, it seemed to Garion to be naggingly familiar.
“Ah, good master Yarblek,” the man said to Silk’s partner, “I’m sure that yer the kindest man alive. I was near to perishin’ of thirst, don’t y’ know?” He took the cup, dipped into the ale keg, and drank noisily. Then he let out his breath with a gusty sound of appreciation.
“Tis a good brew ye have there, Master Yarblek,” he said, dipping again into the keg.
Belgarath had a peculiar expression on his face, partly puzzled but at the same time partially amused.
“He came tagging along when we left Mal Camat,” Yarblek told them. “Vella finds him amusing, so I haven’t chased him off yet. She turns a little shrill when she doesn’t get her own wary.”
“The name is Feldegast, fine gentlemen,” the gaudy little fellow introduced himself with an exaggerated bow. “Feldegast the juggler. I be also an acrobat—as ye’ve seen fer yerselves—a comedian of no mean ability, and an accomplished magician. I can baffle yer eyes with me unearthly skill at prestidigitation, don’t y’ know. I kin also play rousin’ tunes on a little wooden whistle—or, if yer mood be melancholy, I kin play ye sad songs on the lute to bring a lump to yer throat and fill yer eyes with sweet, gentle tears. Would ye be wantin’ to witness some of me unspeakable talent?”