Magician's Gambit

hill.
    "Better keep an eye on things," Belgarath said.
    Barak and Garion scrambled up out of the gully and moved at a crouch to the top of the hill, where they lay down behind a scrubby bush. "Here they come," Barak muttered.
    A steady stream of grim-faced Murgo soldiers marched eight abreast into the makeshift fair to the cadenced beat of great drums. In their midst, astride a black horse and under a flapping black banner, rode Taur Urgas. He was a tall man with heavy, sloping shoulders and an angular, merciless face. The thick links of his mail shirt had been dipped in molten red gold, making it almost appear as if he were covered with blood. A thick metal belt encircled his waist, and the scabbard of the sword he wore on his left hip was jewel-encrusted. A pointed steel helmet sat low over his black eyebrows, and the blood-red crown of Cthol Murgos was riveted to it. A kind of chain-mail hood covered the back and sides of the king's neck and spread out over his shoulders.
    When he reached the open area directly in front of the square stone supply post, Taur Urgas reined in his horse. "Wine!" he commanded. His voice, carried by the icy wind, seemed startlingly close. Garion squirmed a bit lower under the bush.
    The Murgo who ran the supply post scurried inside and came back out, carrying a flagon and a metal goblet. Taur Urgas took the goblet, drank, and then slowly closed his big fist around it, crushing it in his grip. Barak snorted with contempt.
    "What was that about?" Garion whispered.
    "Nobody drinks from a cup once Taur Urgas has used it," the redbearded Cherek replied. "If Anheg behaved like that, his warriors would dunk him in the bay at Val Alorn."
    "Have you the names of all foreigners here?" the king demanded of the Murgo storekeeper, his wind-carried voice distinct in Garion's ears. "As you commanded, dread king," the storekeeper replied with an obsequious bow. He drew a roll of parchment out of one sleeve and handed it up to his ruler.
    Taur Urgas unrolled the parchment and glanced at it. "Summon the Nadrak, Yarblek," he ordered.
    "Let Yarblek of Gar og Nadrak approach," an officer at the king's side bellowed.
    Yarblek, his felt overcoat flapping stiffly in the wind, stepped forward. "Our cousin from the north," Taur Urgas greeted him coldly.
    "Your Majesty," Yarblek replied with a slight bow.
    "It would be well if you departed, Yarblek," the king told him. "My soldiers have certain orders, and some of them might fail to recognize a fellow Angarak in their eagerness to obey my commands. I cannot guarantee your safety if you remain, and I would be melancholy if something unpleasant befell you."
    Yarblek bowed again. "My servants and I will leave at once, your Majesty."
    "If they are Nadraks, they have our permission to go," the king said. "All foreigners, however, must remain. You're dismissed, Yarblek."
    "I think we got out of that tent just in time," Barak muttered. Then a man in a rusty mail shirt covered with a greasy brown vest stepped out of the supply post. He was unshaven, and the white of one of his eyes gleamed unwholesomely.
    "Brill!" Garion exclaimed. Barak's eyes went flat.
    Brill bowed to Taur Urgas with an unexpected grace. "Hail, Mighty King," he said. His tone was neutral, carrying neither respect nor fear.
    "What are you doing here, Kordoch?" Taur Urgas demanded coldly.
    "I'm on my master's business, dread king," Brill replied.
    "What business would Ctuchik have in a place like this?"
    "Something personal, Great King," Brill answered evasively.
    "I like to keep track of you and the other Dagashi, Kordoch. When did you come back to Cthol Murgos?"
    "A few months ago, Mighty Arm of Torak. If I'd known you were interested, I'd have sent word to you. The people my master wants me to deal with know I'm following them, so my movements aren't secret."
    Taur Urgas laughed shortly, a sound without any warmth. "You must be getting old, Kordoch. Most Dagashi would have finished the business by now."
    "These are rather special people." Brill shrugged. "It shouldn't take me much longer, however. The game is nearly over. Incidentally, Great King, I have a gift for you." He snapped his fingers sharply, and two of his henchmen came out of the building, dragging a third man between them. There was blood on the front of the captive's tunic, and his head hung down as if he were only semiconscious. Barak's breath hissed between his teeth.
    "I thought you might like a bit of sport," Brill suggested.
    "I'm