“It’s very complicated,” Belgarath replied. “The Orb is simply going to encourage people not to see it—or the sword. If they look very closely, they might realize that Garion’s carrying something on his back, but they won’t be curious enough about it to try to find out what it is. As a matter of fact, quite a few people won’t even notice Garion himself.”
“Are you trying to say that Garion’s invisible?”
“No. He’s just sort of unremarkable for the time being. Let’s move on. Night comes on quickly up in these mountains.”
Yar Gurak was perhaps the ugliest town Garion had ever seen. It was strung out on either side of a roiling yellow creek, and muddy, unpaved streets ran up the steep slopes of the cut the stream had gouged out of the hills. The sides of the cut beyond the town had been stripped of all vegetation. There were shafts running back into the hillsides, and great, rooted-out excavations. There were springs among the diggings, and they trickled muddy water down the slopes to pollute the creek. The town had a slapdash quality about it, and all the buildings seemed somewhat temporary. Construction was, for the most part, log and uncut rock, and several of the houses had been finished off with canvas.
The streets teemed with lanky, dark-faced Nadraks, many of whom were obviously drunk. A nasty brawl erupted out of a tavern door as they entered the town, and they were forced to stop while perhaps two dozen Nadraks rolled about in the mud, trying with a fair amount of success to incapacitate or even maim each other.
The sun was going down as they found an inn at the end of a muddy street. It was a large, square building with the main floor constructed of stone, a second storey built of logs, and stables attached to the rear. They put up their horses, took a room for the night, and then entered the barnlike common room in search of supper. The benches in the common room were a bit unsteady, and the tabletops were grease. smeared and littered with crumbs and spilled food. Oil lamps hung smoking on chains, and the smell of cooking cabbage was overpowering. A fair number of merchants from various parts of the world sat at their evening meal in the room—wary-eyed men in tight little groups, with walls of suspicion drawn around them.
Belgarath, Silk, and Garion sat down at an unoccupied table and ate the stew brought to them in wooden bowls by a tipsy servingman in a greasy apron. When they had finished, Silk glanced at the open doorway leading into the noisy taproom and then looked inquiringly at Belgarath.
The old man shook his head. “Better not,” he said. “Nadraks are a high-strung people, and relations with the West are a little tense just now. There’s no point in asking for trouble.”
Silk nodded his glum agreement and led the way up the stairs at the back of the inn to the room they had taken for the night. Garion held up their guttering candle and looked dubiously at the log-frame bunks standing against the walls of the room. The bunks had rope springs and mattresses stuffed with straw; they looked lumpy and not very clean. The noise from the taproom below was loud and raucous.
“I don’t think we’re going to get much sleep tonight,” he observed. “Mining towns aren’t like farm villages,” Silk pointed out. “Farmers feel the need for decorum—even when they’re drunk. Miners tend on the whole to be somewhat rowdier.”
Belgarath shrugged. “They’ll quiet down in a bit. Most of them will be unconscious long before midnight.” He turned to Silk. “As soon as the shops open up in the morning, I want you to get us some different clothing—used, preferably. If we look like gold hunters, nobody’s going to pay very much attention to us. Get a pick handle and a couple of rock hammers. We’ll tie them to the outside of the pack on our spare horse for show.”
“I get the feeling you’ve done this before.”
“From time to time. It’s a useful disguise. Gold hunters are crazy to begin with, so people aren’t surprised if they show up in strange places.” The old man laughed shortly. “I even found gold once—a vein as thick as your arm.”
Silk’s face grew immediately intent. “Where?”
Belgarath shrugged. “Off that way somewhere,” he replied with a vague gesture. “I forget exactly.”
“Belgarath,” Silk objected with a note of anguish in his voice.
“Don’t get sidetracked,” Belgarath told him. “Let’s get some sleep. I want to be out of here as early as possible tomorrow morning.”
The overcast which had lingered for weeks cleared off during the night; when Garion awoke, the new-risen sun streamed golden through the dirty window. Belgarath was seated at the rough table on the far side of the room, studying a parchment map, and Silk had already left.
“I thought for a while that you were going to sleep past noon,” the old man said as Garion sat up and stretched.
“I had trouble getting to sleep last night,” Garion replied. “It was a little noisy downstairs.”
“Nadraks are like that.”
A sudden thought occurred to Garion. “What do you think Aunt Pol is doing just now?” he asked.
“Sleeping, probably.”
“Not this late.”
“It’s much earlier where she is.”
“I don’t follow that.”
“Riva’s fifteen hundred leagues west of here,” Belgarath explained. “The sun won’t get that far for several hours yet.”
Garion blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted.
“I didn’t think you had.”
The door opened, and Silk came in, carrying several bundles and wearing an outraged expression. He threw his bundles down and stamped to the window, muttering curses under his breath.
“What’s got you so worked up?” Belgarath asked mildly.
“Would you look at this?” Silk waved a piece of parchment at the old man.
“What’s the problem?” Belgarath took the parchment and read it. “That whole business was settled years ago,” Silk declared in an irritated voice. “What are these things doing, still being circulated?”
“The description is colorful,” Belgarath noted.
“Did you see that?” Silk sounded mortally offended. He turned to Garion. “Do I look like a weasel to you?”
“—an ill-favored, weasel-faced man,” Belgarath read, “shifty-eyed and with a long, pointed nose. A notorious cheat at dice.”
“Do you mind?”
“What’s this all about?” Garion asked.
“I had a slight misunderstanding with the authorities some years ago,” Silk explained deprecatingly. “Nothing all that serious, actually, but they’re still circulating that thing.” He gestured angrily at the parchment Belgarath was still reading with an amused expression. “They’ve even gone so far as to offer a reward.” He considered for a moment. “I’ll have to admit that the sum is flattering, though,” he added.
“Did you get the things I sent you after?” Belgarath asked.
“Of course.”
“Let’s change clothes, then, and leave before your unexpected celebrity attracts a crowd.”
The worn Nadrak clothing was made mostly of leather-snug black trousers, tight-fitting vests, and short-sleeved linen tunics.
“I didn’t bother with the boots,” Silk said. “Nadrak boots are pretty uncomfortable—probably since it hasn’t occurred to them yet that there’s a difference between the right foot and the left.” He settled a pointed felt cap at a jaunty angle. “What do you think?” he asked, striking a pose.
“Doesn’t look at all like a weasel, does he?” Belgarath asked Garion. Silk gave him a disgusted look, but said nothing.
They went downstairs, led their horses out of the stables attached to the inn, and mounted. Silk’s expression remained sour as they rode out of Yar Gurak. When they reached the top of a hill to the north of town, he slid off his horse, picked up a rock, and threw it rather savagely at the buildings clustered below.
“Make you feel better?” Belgarath asked curiously.
Silk remounted with a disdainful sniff and led the way down the other side of the hill.