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.”
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.