The Belgariad, Vol. 2 (9 page)

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 immediately, Drosta."

"I almost got sidetracked." Drosta leered at the two girls. "Aren't they luscious?"

"If you like the type." Yarblek shrugged. "I prefer a little more maturity."

"That's good, too," Drosta admitted, "but I love them all. I fall in love twenty times a day. Run along, my pretties," he told the girls. "I've got some business to take care of just now. I'll send for you later."

The two girls immediately left, closing the door quietly behind them. Drosta sat up on the bed, scratching absently at one armpit. His stained and rumpled yellow doublet was unbuttoned, and his bony chest was covered with coarse black hair. He was thin, almost emaciated, and his scrawny arms looked like two sticks.

His hair was lank and greasy, and his beard was so thin that it was little more than a few scraggly-looking black hairs sprouting from his chin. The pockmarks on his face were deep, angry red scars, and his neck and hands were covered with an unwholesome, scabby-looking rash. There was a distinctly unpleasant odor about him. "Are you sure this is the man I want?" he asked Yarblek. Garion looked at the Nadrak King sharply. The coarseness had gone out of his voice, and his tone was incisive, direct, the tone of a man who was all business. Garion made a few quick mental adjustments. Drosta lek Thun was not at all what he seemed.

"I've known him for years, Drosta," Yarblek replied. "This is Prince Kheldar of Drasnia. He's also known as Silk and sometimes Ambar of Kotu or Radek of Boktor. He's a thief, a swindler, and a spy. Aside from that, he's not too bad."

"We are delighted to meet so famous a man," King Drosta declared. "Welcome, Prince Kheldar."

"Your Majesty," Silk replied, bowing.

"I'd have invited you to the palace," Drosta continued, "but I've got some house guests with the unfortunate habit of sticking their noses into my business." He laughed dryly. "Luckily, I found out very soon that Malloreans are a priggish race. They won't follow me into places like this, so we'll be able to talk freely."

He looked around at the cheap, gaudy furnishings and red draperies with a sort of amused toleration.

"Besides," he added, "I like it here."

Garion stood with his back against the wall near the door, trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible, but Drosta's nervous eyes picked him out. "Can he be trusted?" the king demanded of Silk.

"Completely," Silk assured him. "He's my apprentice. I'm teaching him the business."
"Which business? Stealing or spying?"

Silk shrugged. "It amounts to the same thing. Yarblek says you wanted to see me. I assume it has something to do with current matters rather than any past misunderstandings."

"You're quick, Kheldar," Drosta replied approvingly. "I need your help and I'm willing to pay for it."

Silk grinned. "I'm fond of the word pay."

"So I've heard. Do you know what's going on here in Gar og Nadrak?" Drosta's eyes were penetrating, and his veneer of gross self indulgence had fallen completely away.

"I am in the intelligence service, your Majesty," Silk pointed out. Drosta grunted, stood up, and went to a table where a decanter of wine and several glasses stood. "Drink?" he asked.

"Why not?"

Drosta filled four glasses, took one for himself and paced nervously about the room with an angry expression. "I don't need any of this, Kheldar," he burst out. "My family's spent generations - centuries -

weaning Gar og Nadrak away from the domination of the Grolims. Now they're about to drag us back into howling barbarism again, and I don't have any choice but to go along with it. I've got a quarter of a million Malloreans roaming around at will inside my borders and an army I can't even count poised just to the south. If I raise so much as one word of protest, 'Zakath will crush my kingdom with one fist."

"Would he really do that?" Silk asked, taking a chair at the table.

"With just about as much emotion as you'd feel about swatting a fly," Drosta replied. "Have you ever met him?"

Silk shook his head.

"You're lucky," Drosta told him with a shudder. "Taur Urgas is a madman, but, much as I hate him, he's still human. 'Zakath is made out of ice. I've got to get in touch with Rhodar."

"Ah," Silk said. "That's what this is all about, then."

"You're a nice enough fellow, Kheldar," Drosta told him dryly, "but I wouldn't go to all this trouble just for the pleasure of your company. You've got to carry my message to Rhodar. I've tried to get word to him, but I can't catch up with him. He won't stay in one place long enough. How can a fat man move so cursed fast?"

"He's deceptive," Silk said shortly. "Exactly what have you got in mind?"

"An alliance," Drosta replied bluntly. "My back's against the wall. Either I ally myself with Rhodar, or I get swallowed up."

Silk carefully set down his glass. "That's a very large suggestion, your Majesty. In the present situation, it's going to take a great deal of fast talking to arrange."

"That's why I sent for you, Kheldar. We're staring the end of the world right in the face. You've got to get to Rhodar and persuade him to pull his army back from the Thull border. Make him stop this insanity before it goes too far."

"Making my uncle do things is a little beyond my abilities, King Drosta," Silk replied carefully. "I'm flattered that you think I've got that much influence with him, but things have usually been the other way around between us."

"Don't you understand what's going on, Kheldar?" King Drosta's voice was anguished, and he gesticulated
almost wildly as he spoke. "Our only hope of survival lies in not giving the Murgos and the Malloreans any kind of reason to unite. We should work to stir up trouble between them, not to provide them with a common enemy. Taur Urgas and 'Zakath hate each other with a passion so intense that it's almost holy.

There are more Murgos than grains of sand and more Malloreans than stars. The Grolims can babble their gibberish about the awakening of Torak until their tongues fall out, but Taur Urgas and 'Zakath have taken the field for just one reason - each of them wants to destroy the other and make himself overking of Angarak. They're headed directly toward a war of mutual extinction. We can be rid of both of them if we just don't interfere."

"I think I see what you mean," Silk murmured.

"'Zakath is ferrying his Malloreans across the Sea of the East to his staging area near Thull Zelik, and Taur Urgas has the southern Murgos massed near Rak Goska. Inevitably, they're going to move on each other.

We've got to stay out of the way and let them fight. Make Rhodar pull back before he spoils everything."

"Have you talked with the Thulls about this?" Silk asked.

Drosta snorted with contempt. "What's the point? I've tried to explain this to King Gethell, but talking to him is like talking to a pile of manure. The Thulls are so afraid of the Grolims that all you have to do is mention Torak's name and they go all to pieces. Gethell's a Thull through and through. There's nothing between his ears but sand."

"There's just one problem with all of this, Drosta," Silk told the agitated monarch. "I can't carry your message to King Rhodar."

"Can't?" Drosta exploded. "What do you mean, you can't?"

"My uncle and I aren't on the best of terms just now," Silk lied smoothly. "We had a little misunderstanding a few months ago, and about the first thing he'd do, if he saw me coming, is have me put in chains - and I'm almost certain things would go downhill from there."

Drosta groaned. "We're all doomed then," he declared, seeming to slump in on himself. "You were my last hope."

"Let me think a moment," Silk said. "We might be able to salvage something out of this yet." He stared at the floor, chewing absently on a fingernail as he turned the problem over in his mind. "I can't go," he concluded. "That's obvious. But that doesn't mean that somebody else couldn't."

"Who else would Rhodar trust?" Drosta demanded.

Silk turned to Yarblek, who had been listening to the conversation intently with a worried frown. "Are you in any kind of trouble in Drasnia at the moment?" he asked.

"Not that I know of."

"All right," Silk continued. "There's a fur dealer in Boktor. Geldahar's his name."

"Fat man? Sort of cross-eyed?" Yarblek asked.

"That's him. Why don't you take a shipment of furs and go to Boktor? While you're trying to sell Geldahar the furs, tell him that the salmon run is late this year."

"I'm sure he'll be fascinated to hear that."

"It's a code-word," Silk explained with exaggerated patience. "As soon as you say that, he'll see to it that you get into the palace to see Queen Porenn."
"I've heard that she's a lovely woman," Yarblek said, "but that's a long trip just to see a pretty girl. I can probably find a pretty girl just down the hall."

"You're missing the point, Yarblek," Silk told him. "Porenn is Rhodar's queen, and he trusts her even more than he used to trust me. She'll know that I sent you, and she'll pass anything you tell her on to my uncle.

Rhodar will be reading Drosta's message three days after you ride into Boktor. I guarantee it."

"You'd let a woman know about all this?" Drosta objected violently. "Kheldar, you're insane. The only woman safe with a secret is one who's had her tongue cut out."

Silk shook his head firmly. "Porenn's in control of Drasnian intelligence right now, Drosta. She already knows most of the secrets in the world. You're never going to get an emissary through an Alorn army to Rhodar, so forget that. There'll be Chereks with him, and they'll kill any Angarak on sight. If you want to communicate with Rhodar, you're going to have to use Drasnian intelligence as an intermediary, and that means going through Porenn."

Drosta looked dubious. "Maybe," he concluded after a moment's thought. "I'll try anything at this point - but why should Yarblek get involved? Why can't you carry my message to the Drasnian queen?"

Silk looked a trifle pained. "That wouldn't be a good idea at all, I'm afraid," he replied. "Porenn was rather central to my difficulties with my uncle. I'm definitely unwelcome at the palace just now."

One of King Drosta's shaggy eyebrows shot up. "So that's the way it is." He laughed. "Your reputation's well-earned, I see." He turned to Yarblek. "It's up to you, then. Make the necessary arrangements for the trip to Boktor."

"You already owe me money, Drosta," Yarblek replied bluntly, "the reward for bringing in Kheldar, remember?"

Drosta shrugged. "Write it down someplace."

Yarblek shook his head stubbornly. "Not hardly. Let's keep your account current. You're known as a slow payer, once you've got what you want."

"Yarblek," Drosta said plaintively, "I'm your king."

Yarblek inclined his head somewhat mockingly. "I honor and respect your Majesty," he said, "but business is business, after all."

"I don't carry that much money with me," Drosta protested.

"That's all right, Drosta. I can wait." Yarblek crossed his arms and sat down in a large chair with the air of a man planning to stay for quite some time.

The king of the Nadraks stared at him helplessly.

Then the door opened and Belgarath stepped into the room, still dressed in the rags he had worn in the tavern downstairs. There was no furtiveness about his entrance, and he moved like a man on serious business.

"What is this?" Drosta exclaimed incredulously. "Guards!" he bawled, "get this drunken old man out of here."

"They're asleep, Drosta," Belgarath replied calmly. "Don't be too harsh with them, though. It's not their fault." He closed the door.
"Who are you? What do you think you're doing?" Drosta demanded. "Get out of here!"

"I think you'd better take a closer look, Drosta," Silk advised with a dry little chuckle. "Appearances can be deceiving sometimes, and you shouldn't be so quick to try to throw somebody out. He might have something important to say to you."

"Do you know him, Kheldar?" Drosta asked.

"Just about everybody in the world knows him," Silk replied. "Or of him."

Drosta's face creased into a puzzled frown, but Yarblek had started from his chair, his lean face suddenly pale. "Drosta!" he gasped. "Look at him. Think a minute. You know who he is."

Drosta stared at the shabby-looking old man, and his bulging eyes slowly opened even wider. "You!" he blurted.

Yarblek was still gaping at Belgarath. "He's been involved in it from the very beginning. I should have put it together down in Cthol Murgos - him, the woman, all of it."

"What are you doing in Gar og Nadrak?" Drosta asked in an awed voice.

"Just passing through, Drosta," Belgarath replied. "If you're quite finished with your discussion here, I need these two Alorns. We have an appointment, and we're running a little behind schedule."

"I always thought you were a myth."

"I like to encourage that as much as I can," Belgarath told him. "It makes moving around a lot easier."

"Are you mixed up in what the Alorns are doing?"

"They're acting more or less on my suggestions, yes. Polgara's keeping an eye on them."

"Can you get word to them and tell them to disengage?"

"That won't really be necessary, Drosta. I wouldn't worry too much about 'Zakath and Taur Urgas, if I were you. There are more important things afoot than their squabbles."

"So that's what Rhodar's doing," Drosta said in sudden comprehension. "Is it really that late?"

"It's even later than you think," the old sorcerer answered. He crossed to the table and poured himself some of Drosta's wine. "Torak's already stirring, and the whole matter's likely to be settled before the snow flies."

"This is going too far, Belgarath," Drosta said. "I might try to maneuver my way around Taur Urgas and 'Zakath, but I'm not going to cross Torak." He turned decisively toward the door.