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 certainly none of the aura that always seemed to emanate from the mind of a sorcerer.

"Don't do that,"the voice in his mind cautioned him. "It's like ringing a bell or wearing a sign around your neck."

Garion quickly pulled back his thoughts. "I thought all Grolims were sorcerers," he replied silently. "These two are just ordinary men." But the other awareness was gone.

The two Grolims passed, and Yarblek spat contemptuously into the street. "Pigs," he muttered. "I'm starting to dislike Malloreans almost as much as Murgos."

"They seem to be taking over your country, Yarblek," Silk observed.

Yarblek grunted. "Let one Mallorean in, and before long they're underfoot everywhere."

"Why did you let them in to begin with?" Silk asked mildly.

"Silk," Yarblek said bluntly, "I know you're a spy, and I'm not going to discuss politics with you, so quit fishing for information."

"Just passing the time of day," Silk replied innocently.

"Why don't you mind your own business?"

"But this is my business, old friend."

Yarblek stared hard at him, then suddenly laughed.

"Where are we going?" Silk asked him, looking around at the shabby street. "This isn't the best part of town, as I recall."

"You'll find out," Yarblek told him.

They rode on down toward the river where the smell of floating garbage and open sewers was quite nearly overpowering. Garion saw rats feeding in the gutters, and the men in the street wore shabby clothing and had the furtive look of those who have reason to avoid the police.

Yarblek turned his horse abruptly and led them into another narrow, filthy alleyway. "We walk from here," he said, dismounting. "I want to go in the back way." Leaving their mounts with one of his men, they went on down the alley, stepping carefully over piles of rotting garbage.

"Down there," Yarblek told them, pointing at a short, rickety flight of wooden stairs leading down to a narrow doorway. "Once we get inside, keep your heads down. We don't want too many people noticing that you're not Nadraks."

They went down the creaking steps and slipped through the doorway into a dim, smoky tavern, reeking of sweat, spilled beer, and stale vomit. The fire pit in the center of the room was choked with ashes, and several large logs smoldered there, giving off a great deal of smoke and very little light. Two narrow, dirty windows at the front appeared only slightly less dark than the walls around them, and a single oil lamp hung on a chain nailed to one of the rafters.