"Sit here," Yarblek instructed them, nudging at a bench standing against the back wall. "I'll be right back." He went off toward the front part of the tavern. Garion looked around quickly, but saw immediately that a pair of Yarblek's men lounged unobtrusively beside the door.

"What are we going to do?" he whispered to Silk.

"We don't have much choice but to wait and see what happens," Silk replied.

"You don't seem very worried."

"I'm not, really."

"But we've been arrested, haven't we?"

Silk shook his head. "When you arrest somebody, you put shackles on him. King Drosta wants to talk to me, that's all."

"But that reward notice said-"

"I wouldn't pay too much attention to that, Garion. The reward notice was for the benefit of the Malloreans. Whatever Drosta's up to, he doesn't want them finding out about it."

Yarblek threaded his way back through the crowd in the tavern and thumped himself down on the grimy bench beside them. "Drosta should be here, shortly," he said. "You want something to drink while we're waiting?"

Silk looked around with a faint expression of distaste. "I don't think so," he replied. "The ale barrels in places like this usually have a few drowned rats floating in them - not to mention the dead flies and roaches."

"Suit yourself," Yarblek said.

"Isn't this a peculiar sort of place to find a king?" Garion asked, looking around at the shabby interior of the tavern.

"You have to know King Drosta to understand," Silk told him. "He has some rather notorious appetites, and these riverfront dives suit him."

Yarblek laughed in agreement. "Our monarch's a lusty sort of fellow," he noted, "but don't ever make the mistake of thinking he's stupid - a little crude, perhaps, but not stupid. He can come to a place like this, and no Mallorean will take the trouble to follow him. He's found that it's a good way to conduct business that he prefers not to have reported back to 'Zakath."

There was a stir near the front of the tavern, and two heavy-shouldered Nadraks in black leather tunics and pointed helmets pushed their way through the door. "Make way!" one of them barked. "And everybody rise!"

"Those who are able to rise," the other added dryly.

A wave of jeers and catcalls ran through the crowd as a thin man in a yellow satin doublet and a fur-trimmed green velvet cloak entered. His eyes were bulging and his face was deeply scarred with old pockmarks. His movements were quick and jerky, and his expression was a curious mixture of sardonic amusement and a kind of desperate, unsatisfied hunger.

"All hail his Majesty, Drosta lek Thun, King of the Nadraks!" one drunken man proclaimed in a loud voice, and the others in the tavern laughed coarsely, jeering and whistling and stamping their feet.