Enchanter's End Game

to have to do something about it."
    "Are you going to make it invisible?" Silk asked hopefully.
    "In a manner of speaking," Belgarath answered. "Open your mind to the Orb, Garion. Just let it talk to you."
    Garion frowned. "I don't understand."
    "Just relax. The Orb will do the rest. It's very excited about you, so don't pay too much attention to it if it starts making suggestions. It has a severely limited understanding of the real world. Just relax and let your mind sort of drift. I've got to talk to it, and I can only do that through you. It won't listen to anybody else."
    Garion leaned back against a tree; in a moment he found his mind filled with all manner of peculiar images. The world he perceived in that imagining was tinged over with a faint blue haze, and everything seemed angular, as if constructed out of the flat planes and sharp edges of a crystal. He caught a vivid picture of himself, flaming sword in hand, riding at great speed with whole hordes of faceless men fleeing out of his path. Belgarath's voice sounded sharply in his mind then. "Stop that." The words, he realized, were not directed at him, but instead at the Orb itself. Then the old man's voice dropped to a murmur, instructing, explaining something. The responses of that other, crystalline awareness seemed a trifle petulant; but eventually there seemed to be an agreement of some kind, and then Garion's mind cleared.
    Belgarath was shaking his head with a rueful expression. "It's almost like talking to a child sometimes," he said. "It has no conception of numbers, and it can't even begin to comprehend the meaning of the word danger."
    "It's still there," Silk noted, sounding a bit disappointed. "I can still see the sword."
    "That's because you know it's there," Belgarath told him. "Other people will overlook it."
    "How can you overlook something that big?" Silk objected.
    "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