Enchanter's End Game

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.
    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