Free Enchanter's End Game by David Eddings

city, lying at the juncture of the east and west forks of the River Cordu. The forests had been cleared for a league or so in every direction from the capital by the simple expedient of setting fire to it, and the approach to the city passed through a wilderness of burned black snags and rank-growing bramble thickets. The city gates were stout and smeared with tar. Surmounting them was a stone replica of the mask of Torak. That beautiful, inhumanly cruel face gazed down at all who entered, and Garion suppressed a shudder as he rode under it.
    The houses in the Nadrak capital were all very tall and had steeply sloping roofs. The windows of the second storeys all had shutters, and most of the shutters were closed. Any exposed wood on the structures had been smeared with tar to preserve it, and the splotches of the black substance made all the buildings look somehow diseased.
    There was a sullen, frightened air in the narrow, crooked streets of Yar Nadrak, and the inhabitants kept their eyes lowered as they hurried about their business. There appeared to be less leather involved in the clothing of the burghers of the capital than had been the case in the back country, but even here most garments were black, and only occasionally was there a splash of blue or yellow. The sole exception to this rule was the red tunic worn by the Mallorean soldiers. They seemed to be everywhere, roaming at will up and down the cobblestoned streets, accosting citizens rudely and talking loudly to each other in their heavily accented speech.
    While the soldiers seemed for the most part to be merely swaggering bullies, young men who concealed their nervousness at being in a strange country with an outward show of bluster and braggadocio, the Mallorean Grolims were quite another matter. Unlike the western Grolims Garion had seen in Cthol Murgos, they rarely wore the polished steel mask, but rather assumed a set, grim expression, thin-lipped and narrow-eyed; as they went about the streets in their hooded black robes, everyone, Mallorean and Nadrak alive, gave way to them.
    Garion and Silk, closely guarded and mounted on a pair of mules, followed the rangy Yarblek into the city. Yarblek and Silk had kept up their banter during the entire ride downriver, exchanging casual insults and reliving past indiscretions. Although he seemed friendly enough, Yarblek nonetheless remained watchful, and his men had guarded Silk and Garion every step of the way. Garion had covertly watched the forest almost continually during the three-day ride, but he had seen no sign of Belgarath and he entered the city in a state of jumpy apprehension. Silk, however, seemed relaxed and confident as always, and his behavior and attitude grated at Garion's nerves, for some reason.
    After they had clattered along a crooked street for some distance, Yarblek turned down a narrow, dirty alleyway leading toward the river. "I thought the palace was that way," Silk said to him, pointing toward the center of town.
    "It is," Yarblek replied, "but we aren't going to the palace. Drosta's got company there, and he prefers to do business in private." The alleyway soon opened out into a seedy-looking street where the tall, narrow-looking houses had fallen somewhat into disrepair. The lanky Nadrak clamped his mouth shut as two Mallorean Grolims rounded a corner just ahead and came in their direction. Yarblek's expression was openly hostile as the two approached.
    One of them stopped to return his gaze. "You seem to have a problem, friend," the Grolim suggested.
    "That's my business, isn't it?" Yarblek retorted.
    "Indeed it is," the Grolim replied coolly. "Don't let it get out of hand, though. Open disrespect for the priesthood is the sort of thing that could get you into serious trouble." The black-robed man's look was threatening.
    On a sudden impulse, Garion carefully pushed out his mind toward the Grolim, probing very gently, but the thoughts he encountered showed no particular awareness and