Enchanter's End Game Part 6

"Completely," Silk a.s.sured 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 a.s.sume 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 gla.s.ses stood. "Drink?" he asked.

"Why not?"

Drosta filled four gla.s.ses, 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 gla.s.s. "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 pa.s.sion 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 ma.s.sed 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 Geth.e.l.l, 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. Geth.e.l.l'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 s.h.i.+pment 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 pa.s.s 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 pa.s.sing 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.

"Don't do anything rash, Drosta," Belgarath advised him calmly, sitting in a chair and taking a sip of his wine. "Grolims can be most unreasonable, and the fact that I'm here in Yar Nadrak could only be viewed as the result of some collusion on your part. They'd have you bent backward over an altar and your heart sizzling in the coals before you ever got the chance to explain - king or no king."

Drosta froze in his tracks, his pockmarked face going very pale. For a moment, he seemed to be struggling with himself. Then his shoulders slumped and his resolution seemed to wilt. "You've got me by the throat, haven't you, Belgarath?" he said with a short laugh. "You've managed to make me outsmart myself, and now you're going to use that to force me to betray the G.o.d of Angarak."

"Are you really all that fond of him?"

"n.o.body's fond of Torak. I'm afraid of him, and that's a better reason to stay on the good side of him than any sentimental attachment. If he wakes up-" The king of the Nadraks shuddered.

"Have you ever given much thought to the kind of world we'd have if he didn't exist?" Belgarath suggested.

"That's too much to even wish for. He's a G.o.d. No one could hope to 'defeat him. He's too powerful for that."

"There are things more powerful than G.o.ds, Drosta - two that I can think of offhand, and those two are rus.h.i.+ng toward a final meeting. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to put yourself between them at this point."

But something else had occurred to Drosta. He turned slowly with a look of stunned incredulity and stared directly at Garion. He shook his head and wiped at his eyes, like a man trying to clear away a fog. Garion became painfully aware of the great sword strapped across his back. Drosta's bulging eyes widened even more as the realization of what he was seeing erased the Orb's suggestion that his brain not record what stood in plain sight before him. His expression became awed, and desperate hope dawned on his ugly face. "Your Majesty," he stammered, bowing with profound respect. "

"Your Majesty," Garion replied, politely inclining his head.

"It looks as if I'm forced to wish you good luck," Drosta said in a quiet voice. "Despite what Belgarath says, I think you're going to need it."

"Thank you, King Drosta," Garion said.

Chapter Six.

"DO YOU THINK we can trust Drosta?" Garion asked Silk as they followed Belgarath along the garbage-littered alley behind the tavern.

"Probably about as far as we could throw him," Silk replied. "He was honest about one thing though. His back's to the wall. That might make him bargain with Rhodar in good faith - initially at least."

When they reached the street at the end of the alley, Belgarath glanced up once at the evening sky. "We'd better hurry," he said. "I want to get out of the city before they close the gates. I left our horses in a thicket a mile or so outside the walls."

"You went back for them?" Silk sounded a little surprised.

"Of course I did. I don't plan to walk all the way to Morindland." He led them up the street away from the river.

They reached the city gates in fading light just as the guards were preparing to close them for the night. One of the Nadrak soldiers raised his hand as if to bar their way, then apparently changed his mind and motioned them through irritably, muttering curses under his breath. The huge, tar-smeared gate boomed shut behind them, and there was the clinking rattle of heavy chains from inside as the bolts were thrown and locked. Garion glanced up once at the carved face of Torak which brooded down at them from above the gate, then deliberately turned his back.

"Are we likely to be followed?" Silk asked Belgarath as they walked along the dirt highway leading away from the city.

"I wouldn't be very surprised," Belgarath replied. "Drosta knows - or suspects - a great deal about what we're doing. Mallorean Grolims are very subtle, and they can pick the thoughts out of his head without his knowing it. That's probably why they don't bother to follow him when he goes off on his little excursions."

"Shouldn't you take some steps?" Silk suggested as they moved through the gathering twilight.

"We're getting a bit too close to Mallorea to be making unnecessary noise," Belgarath told him. "Zedar can hear me moving around from a long way off, and Torak's only dozing now. I'd rather not take the chance of waking him up with any more loud clatter."

They walked along the highway toward the shadowy line of rank undergrowth at the edge of the open fields surrounding the city. The sound of frogs from the marshy ground near the river was very loud in the twilight.