Red Magic

Eight

“Don’t!” Galvin admonished, grabbing Brenna’s hand roughly before she could scratch her bald head. He held it for a moment, feeling how soft and smooth it was, how thin and small her fingers were, then released it when he caught her looking at him.

“But it itches!” she moaned. “It feels like ants are crawling on my scalp.”

Wynter, who led the procession down the road toward Amruthar, paused to watch the scene between the druid and Brenna Graycloak, who had stopped several yards behind him. He decided not to involve himself in the conversation and continued on down the road. They’d catch up when they were finished, he thought, and he’d trot slowly, just in case.

This was the trio’s second day on their journey to Amruthar. Today the sky was filled with cottony white clouds. The centaur was certain a wizard would manage to coax rain out of them sometime before dark, and he was tired of getting wet. He wanted to be in Amruthar by nightfall. In the city, he knew that with only one or two of his gold coins, he could get a steaming feast and a sturdy roof over his head. Wynter was hungry. He was tired of the fruit and nuts Galvin provided. The centaur’s cavernous stomach rumbled in response to his thoughts, and he cast his view about the countryside, searching for something else to occupy his mind.

The road narrowed as it wound between young birches, some of them recently planted. Wynter noted that many of the lower branches of the trees had been trimmed to shape them. Ahead, the land changed from flat meadows and landscaped orchards to low rolling hills. Cattle grazed on a rise to the left. Wynter stared at the slow-moving cows and imagined himself eating a thick steak.

His stomach rumbled again, and he turned and concentrated on Galvin and Brenna to keep his thoughts from food.

“It really itches!” Brenna complained.

“That’s from shaving your head with a sword,” Galvin explained.

”You shaved my head,” she said tersely. “I only cut my hair off.”

“Just don’t scratch it,” the druid scolded. “If you scratch it, it’s going to itch all the more, and you’ll leave welts.”

“You’re enjoying this,” she fumed.

“Yes,” Galvin answered simply, immediately regretting his response. He started shuffling down the road, hoping the argument had ended.

“Oaf!”

“At least I’m honest.” Galvin sighed, wishing fervently he hadn’t started the conversation. He picked up the pace, and Brenna kept at his shoulder.

“Try being a little more polite and a little less honest.”

“I don’t want you to stand out. We have to fit in, remember?”

“I know, I know. You needn’t talk to me as if I were stupid,” she huffed.

“Sorry.” Galvin was a little surprised to find himself apologizing for something so trivial. “Besides, if you scratch, you might ruin the barbed whip Wynter painted.”

Brenna smiled ruefully. “I want to find a mirror,” she remarked. “Then I’m going to buy a hat, a broad-brimmed one that will cover up my bald head.”

“We’ve more important things to do than go shopping,” the druid interjected, stopping again and staring into her eyes. He was dreading entering the city, especially a Thayvian one, but he didn’t want Brenna to know just how apprehensive he was. “We’ve got to find out where this Red Wizard Maligor is and what he’s up to.”

“And to do that,” Brenna interrupted, “we’ll have to poke around in Amruthar. You’re going to draw too much attention if you parade around like that. Hence, we shop.”

Galvin gave her a puzzled glance.

“Your clothes,” she explained. “They’re filthy and nearly worn out. I’ll pass for a wealthy Thayvian easily enough, but no slave of mine is going to look like a herd of pigs trampled him. We’ll get you into some better clothes, but nothing too fancy. And I could use another dress or two. If we have to spend more than one day in Amruthar, we’re going to need more than one thing to wear.”

Galvin frowned, then brightened. “It’s a nice thought, but we haven’t enough gold to buy clothes.”

“Of course we do. You’ve got the gold you were going to pay the gnoll spy, and I have more than enough with me.” Brenna jingled the coin purse at her side to emphasize her point. “And if we’re really pressed, I can always sell my necklace. I have lots of others at home.”

Defeated, Galvin nodded. She was enjoying this too much, he realized. Once again he envied the centaur; Wynter never had to bother about clothes.

“We have to get to Amruthar before we can do anything,” he said, a bit sulkily. “We can’t be too far now, can we, Wynter? Wynter?” Galvin glanced up the road, surprised to see the centaur several dozen yards ahead. The druid was amazed that he could become so engrossed in a discussion with the sorceress that he would lose track of what was going on around him.

Turning to face Brenna, Galvin saw her grinning broadly.

She started off at a brisk pace to catch up with Wynter, and the druid fell in behind her. Her stamina had increased noticeably during the past few days. Galvin knew her muscles must ache, being unaccustomed to so much traveling, but she wasn’t complaining, and she was keeping up. Grudgingly he had to admire her for that.

As the trio crested the first low rise, they saw the walls of Amruthar in the distance. The city sat at the base of three squat hills. Their slopes were covered with small farms and were a brilliant green from the riot of well-watered crops growing there.

Ahead of them on the road, perhaps a mile distant, Galvin noticed a small wagon pulled by a pair of workhorses. The wagon, which must have been from a local farm, was filled with some type of crop.

“We’re too far away to see them clearly,” Galvin began, “but the walls look massive.”

“And it’s patrolled by lots of guards,” the centaur surmised, continuing to lead the procession closer to the city. He explained that the larger cities in Thay, such as Amruthar, had high, thick stone walls held together with mortar. Smaller cities usually had wooden walls, although some had stone walls if the residents were wealthy and influential. Even the smallest of Thayvian communities had at least a spike-filled ditch surrounding it, and all of them had a guard force. The resident wizards wanted their homes well protected.

“A few walls have spells on them. Eltabar’s did when I visited it,” the centaur continued. He reminisced about that dark city’s invisible, domelike shield. “I was with my father. He said he wanted me to see the city. He had other reasons for going, of course, most notably slave-trading. I had heard about the dome, and I just had to test it out. I picked up a rock and tried to throw it over the brick wall. It bounced right back at me, and I knew the stories were true. My father was angry and never took me there again.”

“Fortunate for you,” Galvin observed as he sidestepped a deep rut in the road.

“Why are all the cities walled?” Brenna asked, looking ahead at Amruthar. “They can’t possibly be afraid of Aglarond or Mulhorand this far into Thay, and Rashemen, the land of the witches, won’t bother them.”

“The wizards are afraid of each other, so they build walls,” Wynter said. “Funny. I doubt any wall could stand up to a Red Wizard. But at least they keep out the undead.” His pace was faster now.

The trio grew silent as they neared an august tower on the western side of Amruthar. It sat a few hundred yards south of the road they traveled on, and they gave it a wide berth because of the numerous guards milling around outside it. Several slaves tended herb gardens outside the tower’s front doors. One looked up and stared at the Harpers and Brenna as they passed by and entered Amruthar through the main gates.

The gates were guarded by a quintet of heavily armed and armored men on top of the barbicon. Wynter surmised there were additional unseen guards and other defenses. The men watched the centaur and humans enter but said nothing. The Harpers tried not to look back and were pleased that their appearances had gotten them through without question.

It was late afternoon, and the city teemed with activity. The road led to a merchants’ district, where the sites and sounds overwhelmed the druid. Stalls—some looking like permanent parts of the city and others appearing to have been carried in today—lined the street.

The nearest stall had rows of dried peppers hanging from strings, so many that little of the stall’s wood showed through. On the ledge, peppers were piled high—long, thin green ones, pear-shaped yellow varieties, red peppers of many shapes and sizes, and purple ones that were large and bulbous and inviting. The vendor was a bald, hawk-nosed man with a ruddy complexion. He noticed the Harpers watching him and beckoned them closer.

“Hot chili peppers! Sweet bells! Mild wax peppers!” he barked. “The best in Amruthar!” His voice was scratchy and deep and had an irritating quality that cut through the noise of the crowd. Galvin and Wynter ignored him and moved deeper into the marketplace.

Brenna had become distracted by a booth off to the right. An elderly, heavyset woman with a sprinkling of age spots on her bald head was selling bolts of colorful cloth. In another time and place, the sorceress would have been tempted to buy some cloth from her and have the fabric made into dresses. The cloth looked rich—most of it, anyway. One bolt had metallic threads running through it and was no doubt expensive. Spotting Galvin and Wynter moving away from her, she hurried to catch up, elbowing her way through a group of gossiping women.

Brenna noted the market was just as busy, perhaps even busier, than the ones she frequented in Mesring, Dlusk, and Furthinghome back in Aglarond. The goods were similar—at least those she had been eyeing appeared to be. And the people wore the same expressions: the merchants seemed friendly, the shoppers looked stern-faced and ready to bargain, and the children eyed everything in wonder. The only difference was that nearly everyone she saw was bald. Those who had hair were few, and their hair was cut so short that parts of their scalps peeked through. She noticed only humans in this crowd. In Aglarond, the marketplaces in the largest cities would also attract dwarves, halflings, gnomes, and elves.

The sorceress was familiar enough with the social structures of cities to notice that most of those shopping were from the middle class. Their clothes were neat and reasonable, but they were made of simple material and lacked the embroidery and trim preferred by the wealthy. There were also some peasants, who seemed most interested in the stalls that sold second-hand wares. She spied a few people who were obviously affluent, judging by their clothes and bearing. One stood apart from the stalls and watched someone purchase oils. Brenna smiled. The person doing the buying was probably her servant, maybe a slave, as his hair fell to the lobes of his ears. Just as in any other city, she thought, the rich couldn’t be bothered to soil their hands by purchasing something from a commoner on the street.

“Pretty lady? Pretty, pretty lady? Want to buy my fruit?” A peddler was calling to her. “Special price for you, pretty lady.” He held up a bright pink, banana-shaped fruit.

Galvin took her by the arm and steered her to the center of the street, where there was less traffic and they were farther from the merchants. His hand felt clammy.

“Stop it,” she whispered. “Let go of me. You’re my slave, remember? Act the part.”

The druid dropped her arm and glared at her. Falling in step behind her, he cast his head toward the ground, as he had observed other slaves doing. Peering out the corners of his eyes, he scanned the marketplace. It had been several years since he was in a district like this, and he found it threatening and close. It reminded him too much of his early life, when his parents would take him to a marketplace where the shoppers were ripe for pickpocketing. The victims would be distracted watching the cute young Galvin, so it was easy for his parents to cut their purses. The druid put his hand on his money pouch and continued through the market.

To his right, peddlers were selling candles, oil lamps, knitted blankets, brass trinkets, and citrus fruit. To his left, they bartered for chickens, tack, costume jewelry, pots, pans, and other household items. He noted a few were selling clothes, and he nudged Wynter.

“Not here,” the centaur whispered. “The wealthy—and most of the middle class—don’t buy their clothes and fineries in an open-air market. They go to shops where the prices are higher, but the goods are usually better.”

The centaur reached forward and tapped Brenna on the shoulder. “We want to move through the market and into an established business district. One can’t be far away. I’m going ahead. Follow me at a short distance and pretend you know where you’re going.”

“You’re in charge here,” Galvin said. “I’m out of my element.” He studied the buildings as he walked behind Brenna. They were nearly through the open-air market. He felt relieved; ahead, the crowds thinned considerably.

Unlike other cities Galvin had visited, Amruthar had few wooden buildings. The stalls were wood, and the overhangs and posts supporting some of the balconies were wood. The wood looked old and weathered, showing that the city was far from new. But the majority of the buildings were made of clay bricks and mortar. A few had been added on to recently; the clay bricks on the second story were of a darker color, indicating they were newer than the ones on the ground floor.

A few blocks later, the street changed from hard-packed dirt to cobblestones, and the façades of the buildings looked fancier, evidence that people of wealth lived here. The druid felt caged in by the buildings, which stretched three stories tall in this neighborhood. There was no way out but to follow street after street like a rat running through a maze. He couldn’t see a sign of trees or open spaces; the only green things were the sod roofs that covered nearly every structure. To him, the sod was the city’s only redeeming feature. Too bad he couldn’t walk on it. The cobblestones were uncomfortable.

Galvin knew he should adapt. Nearly all of the Harpers lived in cities, and the majority of missions were in well-populated areas. He had never declined an assignment from Harper leaders that would take him into a city, but he had frequently made himself scarce when he knew one was going to come up. He couldn’t dodge all of them; he certainly didn’t want his peers to realize his weakness. And this mission was one he welcomed because of his hatred of the Red Wizards.

For most of his life, he had considered city people weak, dependent on the city for food, shelter, clothing, and protection. Few could properly defend themselves, and fewer still would be able to survive in the wilderness. They feared being alone, Galvin thought, so they congregated in their stone buildings inside stone walls.

Ahead, Wynter came to a stop. Galvin and Brenna could see he was talking to someone, but the figure stood in front of the centaur and was mostly obscured. The centaur’s tail swished back and forth lazily, then he bent forward to shake the figure’s hand.

The centaur continued on for several more blocks, turning down one street, then going up another, his hooves clopping rhythmically on the cobblestones. Brenna noticed that the city was built like a wheel; the major streets were like spokes emanating out from a central hub, probably the government district. Wynter was heading down one of the spokes, toward what looked like the city’s stable district. Here the cobblestones ended and the dirt road began again.

Brenna strolled closer, then suddenly stopped. Galvin looked up at her and noticed she had turned pale. Beyond her, in Wynter’s direction, was a series of pens. All of them contained people. The druid stared openmouthed at the sight. Like cattle, the people milled about slowly as workers directed them away from the corners so the pens could be cleaned.

Wynter paused several yards from the pens and glanced over his shoulder, nodding for Brenna and Galvin to join him. Still shocked at the tableau, they padded forward.

“I’ll look over the slave pens for an hour or two, inspecting the merchandise and talking to other buyers.” The centaur’s eyes were sad as he stared at the pens. “Since Maligor’s a zulkir, he’s bound to have plenty of slaves. Maybe I can find out a little bit about our wizard friend here.”

Brenna took the initiative now, happy for an opportunity to get away from the pens. “Galvin and I will go shopping.”

Wynter had heard the location of a respected business district only a few blocks away and pointed the sorceress and Galvin in that direction.

“Meet me back here in two hours,” Wynter advised. “I won’t be able to stomach the pens any longer than that. If you’re not here by then, I’ll know you’ve found trouble and I’ll come looking for you.” Wynter pawed at the ground and lowered his voice. “One of the slavers is watching us, so let’s be about our tasks.”

Brenna tugged on Galvin’s sleeve, guiding him toward the shop district Wynter had described. She knew they had followed his directions correctly when the cobblestone street began again.

There were sidewalks in the small but fashionable business district—planks raised above the cobblestone streets and covered with awnings to keep the shoppers dry during showers and cool during the heat of midday. There were plenty of Thayvians about, but not nearly the number as in the open-air market.

Galvin saw that these people acted differently, more refined and courteous. They didn’t shove each other to get a better position near a store window. Most were dressed well, and aside from the slaves they had in tow to carry their packages, they didn’t strike him as objectionable. Obviously not everyone in Thay was bad. The druid wondered what kept the good people in such an evil land.

“We don’t have much time,” Brenna said, summoning his mind back to the business at hand. “The sun’s starting to set, and if this is like other cities, that means businesses will be closing soon.”

“How about this one?” he suggested, pointing at a women’s dress shop, the exterior of which was made of rose-colored stone rather than clay bricks. The large front window was trimmed with light blue paint, and bright red flowers were arranged in a planter in front of it. A deep green dress with sequin trim hung in the window.

“Good choice,” she said, thinking Galvin was looking at the dress; in fact, he was staring at the flowers. “But that particular dress is a bit flashy for me. I want to look rich, not gaudy. I’ll go inside and see what I can find. There’s a men’s shop next door. Make use of it.”

Galvin waited until Brenna was swallowed by the women’s shop, then he shuffled toward the men’s clothing store and fumbled with the door latch with his sweaty hand. At last it creaked inward, and the smell of cedar rushed out to meet him. He padded slowly inside, forgetting to close the door behind him.

“High class for a slave.”

The man behind the counter startled Galvin, and the druid whirled around to face the speaker, his eyes at the same time taking in row upon row of folded clothes and brass lanterns that cast a soft, even glow throughout the shop’s interior.

“Sure you’re in the right shop?” the proprietor persisted, eyeing Galvin intently, as if memorizing every detail about him. The man was thin and bald, and the riot of tattoos on his head made it look as if he was wearing a cap. His skin was nearly white from lack of sun and it had the appearance of parchment, frail and brittle.

“Are you in the right place?” the man asked, his voice rising. He emphasized each word.

“My mistress …” the druid stammered, uncertain of what to say and debating whether to flee back out into the street.

A glimmer caught in the man’s dark blue eyes. “Hmmm … I see,” he said, rubbing his manicured hands together. “She wants you to look presentable, huh?”

“Yes,” Galvin said nervously, glancing about and spying a rack of cloaks, several of them green. The druid hadn’t been in a clothing store since his youth. The memory was uncomfortable, as were the outfits his mother had ordered him to try on.

He quickly attempted to take everything in, realizing he must look foolish. Focusing on the glass counter in front of the proprietor, he tried to relax and failed miserably.

“Haven’t been in a place like this before, huh? It’s rare that we get one of your kind here.”

The druid cast his eyes on the polished floor that smelled faintly of lemons and clenched his fist. He understood why Wynter was so opposed to slavery.

“I need clothes,” Galvin said simply.

The proprietor laughed and waved his hand at the racks and neatly stacked piles of clothes. “Go ahead. Just don’t get anything dirty.”

The druid lost himself in a long aisle of cedar shelves, grateful to be out of view of the shop owner. He scanned the shelves until he spied a stack of green tunics. Quickly grabbing the one on top, he trotted back to the counter.

“Right size?”

The druid shrugged.

The proprietor shook his head at Galvin. “Turn around. Here.” The bald man strode from behind the counter and held the tunic up to Galvin’s back, snickering when he discovered the shoulders were far too small. “You need something bigger. C’mon, I’ll help you. Your mistress better appreciate this.”

“Do Red Wizards ever shop here?” Galvin asked as the man ushered him back down the aisle.

“Sometimes,” the man replied, muttering softly about the stupidity of slaves.

“Any zulkirs?”

“Why does a slave care where Red Wizards shop?”

“Just interested,” Galvin replied glumly.

Replacing the tunic Galvin had selected, the man ignored the druid and thumbed through a stack, pulling out an olive-green shirt. He handed it to Galvin and strolled deeper into the store.

“Need some leggings?”

Galvin nodded. The druid realized there were enough articles in this store to clothe an entire village.

“What color?”

The druid flushed. “Umm, green. Or brown. It really doesn’t matter.”

The bald man shook his head and pulled a tan pair of breeches from another stack. Holding them in front of the druid, he smiled, pleased he had guessed the size correctly.

“And a cloak. Green or gray, I suppose,” Galvin added, remembering the green ones he had spotted when he came in. “I guess the color isn’t important.”

The proprietor shuffled to the racks and scanned the garments. Galvin watched the proprietor pull out a plain gray cloak the color of hearth ashes. Satisfied, the man returned to the counter and began scratching on a sheet of curled parchment, figuring out the cost.

Galvin shifted back and forth on his feet. “I should have another set,” he decided. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?” the proprietor quipped.

In case I’m stuck in Amruthar for awhile, Galvin thought. But he kept the thought to himself.

“All right,” the man sighed, dropping the parchment with a flourish and escorting Galvin down another aisle of clothes.

The druid emerged from the shop wearing his second purchase, consisting of light brown pants with a voluminous-sleeved ivory shirt over the top and a cloak. The cloak was rather elaborate—green trimmed with a lighter green embroidery. Its suede collar was dyed green and pinned together by a simple iron clasp in the shape of an owl’s head. Galvin actually liked the outfit, even though the two changes of clothes had cost him all of his coins. He suspected that the proprietor had charged him too much, but he knew better than to argue.

He waited outside the women’s shop for several minutes, catching admiring glances from several Thayvian women who passed by and feeling increasingly ill at ease. One woman stopped to demand directions. She had a pleasant voice and obviously seemed to know where she was going, but Galvin avoided her attempt at conversation and began pacing nervously in front of the shop window. Eventually Brenna came out in a midnight blue dress trimmed with light blue lace that fit her tightly from neck to hips, then flared out to hang a few inches above the ground. Like Galvin, she carried a package under her arm. The druid eyed the bundle and guessed there were two or three dresses in it.

“Nice,” she said, giving Galvin the once-over. “Good taste. Find out anything while you were in there?”

The druid shook his head.

“Well, I found out that Maligor has an army in the woods. A bunch of gnolls.” Brenna seemed pleased with herself and noted Galvin’s surprised expression. “Women gossip,” she explained. “But the women in the shop didn’t know what the army’s for.”

Smugly nodding across the street, the sorceress added, “Want a bath?” Just then the bald shopkeeper closed and locked the door of the men’s store behind them and put up a “closed” sign. The shops were starting to shut down for the day, and that meant they would have to meet Wynter soon.

They scampered across the street, sidestepping the patrons emerging from the bathhouse cleaned and perfumed. The bathhouse windows were fogged, and the scent of soap greeted them as they hurried inside.

After Brenna vouched for the behavior of her slave, they were led into a large room. Steam drifted upward from a dozen large, waist-high wooden tubs, two of which were occupied. The room was divided, one side for women, the other for men.

Brenna waltzed away from Galvin, and an attendant herded the druid to a tub in the back of the room. Galvin noted there were no other slaves here.

The attendant held out his arm for Galvin’s clothes, and the druid quickly turned around. Carefully removing his Harper neck chain and stuffing it discreetly into a pocket, he discarded his clothes and climbed several steps. Settling into the tub, he gasped at the unaccustomed heat. Slowly he eased himself into the water, watching his flesh turn pink from the hot liquid. He glanced over the side of the tub, determined to discover what made the water so warm.

“Problem?” the attendant asked, as he handed Galvin a cake of yellow-tinged soap.

The druid shook his head and grabbed the soap, noting it smelled earthy and rather pleasant. Watching a pudgy bald man in a nearby tub, Galvin imitated him, rubbing the cake up and down his arms, then submerging himself to rinse off the lather. The druid found he was getting used to the warm water, and he enjoyed the sensation.

Across the room, he caught a glimpse of Brenna slipping into a smaller tub. Her pale skin shone through the steam, and the druid found himself staring at her. He knew that some city residents cloaked themselves in modesty, but in this bathhouse, people didn’t seem to worry.

The sorceress dipped her face into the water, scrubbing at her forehead. Holding her breath, she sank into the recesses of the tub and emerged to spot the druid staring at her.

They left the bathhouse a half-hour later, cleaned and perfumed. Brenna had new designs painted on her head—a curved-bladed dagger and the symbol of Malar, the Beast Lord. Refreshed, they sauntered toward the slave pens.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Galvin admitted, angry at himself for not thinking of their spying mission while delighting in his bath.

Brenna tittered and Galvin reddened, then glanced down the street to hide his embarrassment. The slave market was only a few more blocks away.

She tugged at his sleeve.

Galvin turned and looked at her. The last rays of the sun glinted off her polished scalp and reflected warmly in her eyes. He found himself staring again.

“You’re supposed to walk behind me, remember?” she said. The folds of her dress swished softly as she passed by the druid, chin tilted toward the rooftops.

Wynter’s childhood rushed at him as the centaur toured the slave pens. Nearly four dozen slaves milled about the largest pen; these were not prime stock and could be bartered for. There were four other pens. One contained women who were too fat, too old, or too ugly to be used for pleasure slaves, but could work well as domestic servants.

Another, the closest, was filled with young men, obviously laborers. The third was crowded with families—at least the slavers were trying to sell them as units. The fourth held dwarves, halflings, and children. There were no elves for sale today.

Wynter eyed the stock, remembering how his father had examined slaves. The conditions in the pens looked as deplorable as when he had visited the markets in his youth. The slaves were allowed no privacy, could not talk long to each other without the guards fearing they were plotting to escape. They wore very little clothing. Potential buyers didn’t want the merchandise concealed. Wynter saw that about a dozen of the young laborers had fresh whip marks on their backs, the blood glistening in the fading sunlight.

“Can I help you today?” a tall, young man called as he came toward the centaur. The man wore a leather tunic that was much too large for his lanky frame, and he carried a whip at his side. His bald head bore an unusual tattoo made to look like a beholder. His skull served as the monster’s body, with many eye stalks painted in a ring around his head. The creature’s central eye was painted on the man’s forehead.

“Just looking. A poor selection, it seems to me.”

“That’s because you’re shopping late,” the man replied matter-of-factly, fingering the whip. When he smiled, the beholder’s central eye rode up on his forehead. “We had a big auction this morning, and a few of the wizards bought the best of the lot. There’re still some good ones left. Depends what you’re interested in. You can have the dwarves cheap.”

The man gestured, and the slaves moved closer so the centaur could get a better look. One scarred young man glared at the slaver. The slaver returned the stare and flicked his wrist, the whip snaking out from his hand and striking the man in the cheek, drawing blood.

“I was interested in quantity—a few dozen to work the fields near Thaymount,” Wynter interjected, hoping to keep the slaver occupied so he wouldn’t whip any more slaves. “I’m the chief buyer for a slave plantation there.”

The man whipped the slave again, harder this time, then grinned at Wynter. “You’ve traveled a long way.” His expression caused the beholder’s central eye to rest about an inch above the bridge of his nose. “The best of the lot are gone. Sorry to disappoint you. You must be from the Agri Plantation. You work for Blackland Ironhoof?”

Wynter’s dark eyes narrowed. “He’s my father.”

“Long time since someone from that plantation’s been here. Heard you’re doing all your buying from Eltabar lately. Heard you have a good breeding program, too.” The slaver kept up the conversation, not noticing the centaur’s unease. “Yep, biggest plantation in northern Thay. Eltabar running low on slaves?”

“No.” The centaur pawed at the ground. “So which wizards beat me out of your best stock?”

“The Zulkir of Alteration, Maligor, got the best of them, or rather his woman did. A young Red Wizard near the market bought quite a few, too. He’s still here. I can introduce you.”

The centaur looked across the pens and spotted a scarlet-robed man eyeing the group of slave families. “No. But I am curious about Maligor. Where can I find him?”

The slaver laughed hard enough to make all the painted eyes on his head wiggle animatedly. He slapped his hand against a bony hip and stared up at Wynter.

“Now, I don’t know anyone who wants to find a wizard as powerful as Maligor, at least anyone who works on a slave plantation—especially when the wizard seems to be up to something.” The eyes eventually stopped quivering, and the slaver scratched a spot on his head above one of the eyestalks. The design remained unaltered; it was a permanent tattoo.

“Maybe I have some pleasure slaves to sell him,” Wynter said, deepening his voice and making the conversation instantly somber. “Where can I find this woman or one of his other agents? And do you know what he’s up to?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. I mind my own business. Too bad your daddy hasn’t taught you to mind yours. If you want to find one of his agents, look in the Gold Dragon Inn. You’ll have to wait outside. They don’t let centaurs in no matter how much gold they have. Maligor’s people usually have a thorny vine tattooed around their necks. Looks like a collar, and I promise you that Maligor keeps them on a tight leash.”

The slaver glanced over his shoulder at the wizard scrutinizing the slaves in the pen. “Now, if you’re not going to buy anything…” He smiled broadly, grabbed the centaur’s hand and shook it firmly, then moved toward the young Red Wizard.

Wynter peered across the slave pens at all the doleful expressions of the occupants. He knew that slavery existed in other pockets of Faerûn, but nowhere was it more blatant than in Thay, and in no other country were there more slaves than free men. He reached inside his money pouch and felt the coins, then trotted determinedly toward the slaver.

Galvin and Brenna neared the place where they had left Wynter. The number of people on the streets was dwindling, and the druid was feeling more at ease—until they turned a corner and he saw the centaur leading five dwarves by ropes.

“Damn!” Galvin cursed softly, running toward Wynter. Brenna hurried to catch up, but her new dress made running awkward.

“What are you doing?” the druid fumed, glaring up into the centaur’s face. “Don’t tell me you bought these slaves!”

“I had to,” Wynter replied.

“No. No, you didn’t. This is just great, Wyn.”

Brenna caught up with the Harpers and tugged on Galvin’s arm. “Take it easy, Galvin. It’s done now.”

Galvin glanced down at the dwarves. They were dirty and haggard-looking, and the ends of their snarled beards were tucked under the ropes tied about their waists. The clothes they wore were too big—discarded human outfits, no doubt. Healthy dwarves would have had too much girth for the clothes, but these were obviously malnourished.

The five stared up at the druid with hatred etched in their eyes. One strained against the rope Wynter held.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” Galvin began, apologizing to the slaves for his outburst.

“They don’t understand you,” Wynter interrupted. “They only speak Dwarvish.”

“Wonderful,” Galvin replied, fingering the clasp of his cloak nervously. “Well, bring them along. We’ll let them go when we’re outside the city.”

Brenna smiled weakly at Wynter. “Find anything out?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Our next stop is the Gold Dragon Inn. Maligor’s agents, and likely those of other wizards, frequent the place. A slaver told me Maligor is up to something, but he didn’t know what. He wouldn’t say what, anyway.”

“After that we’ll need to find a place to stay,” Brenna said, jumping backward to avoid a shower of dirt the smallest dwarf kicked in her direction as he mumbled something she couldn’t understand.

Wynter pulled on the dwarf’s rope and was greeted with a solid kick to his leg. “That’s enough!” he snapped, snarling at the dwarves. His angry expression subdued them into a disgruntled quiet.

The centaur looked at Brenna and shook his head. “I don’t want to stay inside the city tonight. There’s a stable for centaurs, and there are several inns for you, but I don’t think we should separate again.”

“I know we shouldn’t separate.” Galvin’s tone was commanding. “We camp outside town.”

“Well, okay,” Brenna interjected. “Let’s get moving, then. The Gold Dragon Inn must certainly have food. I still have a handful of coins, and I am definitely hungry. Shall we?”

Several minutes later, Brenna and Galvin were seated at a table in a crowded candlelit room and had ordered their meal. Galvin brushed at the dust on his breeches, acquired when one of the dwarves had tripped him in the street.

The Gold Dragon Inn was obviously a popular place. Most of the clientèle appeared to be from the middle and upper classes, although there were a few slaves in the company of their masters. A well-dressed woman with a raven painted on her head glared down her nose at Galvin.

“How do we find anything out here? Talk to people?” Brenna asked.

“Shh!” Galvin shushed softly. “We listen. See those four over there?” The druid nodded in the direction of a foppish-looking group. “They’re talking about the Council of Zulkirs. The pair to our right is planning to magically charm someone. And the man behind me talking to the plump, elderly woman is chatting about Maligor.”

Brenna leaned back in the padded mahogany chair. The inn was warm, the atmosphere acceptable, and her companion handsome. She wondered how he could pick out the bits of conversation floating around the room. She could only make out a few words here and there, perceiving everything else as an irritating, indecipherable murmur. Galvin continued to cock his head from one side to the other, his eyes darting in the direction where he was listening. Brenna assumed he had acquired his acute hearing in the woods; people in cities learned to shut out sounds.

The waiter was short and stocky. As he bent over the table to serve their food, Brenna noted his head bore a symbol of Malar, similar to the one on her own head. She didn’t hear him ask if she wanted anything else; she was already stuffing forkfuls of beef into her mouth. Galvin’s dinner of potatoes and vegetables didn’t look as savory to her. He motioned for the waiter when he was finished and asked for a large, steaming plate of beef. Brenna looked at him quizzically.

“For Wynter,” he said, then resumed listening to the diners’ chatter.

When the beef arrived, Brenna paid the man extra for the plate, and Galvin, carrying the meal, followed her outside.

Outside, the street was coated in thick, gray shadows; there were fewer people about now, and they walked near the buildings and congregated under the corner lamplights. A small throng was gathered about Wynter, laughing.

Brenna and Galvin hurried over to see the centaur struggling to remain on his feet. The dwarves had encircled him, their ropes twisted about his legs. One of the stocky little men was beating on the centaur’s flank. The druid was angry that the onlookers had done nothing to help Wynter.

Forgetting how a slave should act, Galvin thrust the plate of beef into Brenna’s hands and rushed forward, elbowing his way through to the centaur. Grasping the closest dwarf, Galvin picked him up and shook him, then carried him around Wynter until the rope was untangled. Setting the stocky man down on the street, the druid picked up a second and did the same thing, then a third.

The small crowd began to laugh again, and the druid glanced up to see that the first dwarf he had tended to was wrapping the rope about the centaur’s legs again. Wynter looked at Galvin forlornly and tried to sidestep the rope. This action only resulted in his becoming entangled with another rope leash.

The beef was cold by the time Galvin had untangled all the dwarves and warned them to behave. Grabbing their leashes from the centaur, he began herding the uncooperative slaves down the street like untrained dogs. Wynter ate hungrily as he followed, Brenna at his side.

As they neared the north gate, the druid related what he had learned.

“It looks like Maligor is preparing for some kind of war. His target appears to be another wizard.”

“Then he’s not after Aglarond?” Brenna asked, sounding relieved.

“Or any other neighboring country,” Wynter added. “Still, we’re here. Let’s poke around a little more tomorrow to be certain. Rumors aren’t facts, and any information will be valuable to the Harpers.”

“From what I gathered,” Wynter continued, “Maligor is one of the most powerful wizards in Thay. He’s got to be close to two hundred years old, and no one is expecting him to die anytime soon.”

“The man I listened to said Maligor has been amassing an army of gnolls. Rumor has it that he has several hundred camped northwest of Amruthar.” Galvin lowered his voice. “By the way, his tower is at the west edge of the city. I suspect it’s that massive building we passed just before the gates.”

The druid began to walk faster, tugging the dwarves behind him. When he was within fifty feet of the gate, the dwarves began to mumble among themselves and suddenly sat down on the ground, almost in unison. Galvin yanked and pulled on their rope leashes, but he couldn’t budge them.

“Damn, Wynter,” the druid cursed. “Why did you saddle us with these dwarves? We really don’t need this problem right now.” He tugged again, and the dwarves glowered at him.

As Brenna padded up quickly to help, the largest of the dwarves reached out an arm, caught her by an ankle, and pulled until she fell to the dirt road.

Fuming, Brenna scooted away from the slaves and began to brush the dirt from her dress furiously.

“Wynter!” she shouted.

The centaur wisely kept his distance from the dwarves, noting that the incident had drawn the attention of the guards at the gate. He glanced at Galvin and Brenna and shrugged.

“The slaver said I might have a few problems with them,” he said softly. “They weren’t very expensive.”

Galvin grabbed the ends of the rope, turned, faced the gate, and pumped his legs, pulling like a draft horse. Huffing with the effort, he eventually found himself moving forward slowly, pulling the struggling dwarves.

On the barbicon above, the guards laughed and opened the gate. Galvin and the dwarves, followed by Brenna and Wynter, emerged through the gate into a tent town. The ragtag community consisted of about six dozen tents of various construction; some were large and made of stout canvas, others were merely large blankets thrown over a cord tied between two posts. Some people, lacking any tent, slept on blankets on the ground. There were a number of large dogs about the area, guarding merchants’ goods and families.

The tent town was almost a permanent fixture, a fringe district of Amruthar, judging by the packed, grassless earth beneath the tents. Most of the residents were here only to sell their goods, then move on to another town to acquire more inventory. However, the place also served as a more or less permanent home to some of the city’s poorer residents who couldn’t afford lodging inside the walls.

Galvin, Wynter, and Brenna picked their way among the inhabitants, watching the evening activities as they went.

“Okay,” Wynter stared as he helped Galvin drag the dwarves. “So Maligor has an army of gnolls. I don’t think a thousand gnolls could take this place. There are too many wizards here to fight back. His target has to be outside the city. Besides, if you could find out about the gnolls by simply going to dinner, you can be sure all the wizards around here know about them.”

“It’s puzzling,” Galvin admitted. “In any event, we need to get a close look at Maligor’s place.”

“Get those slaves outta here!” an old woman barked as one of the dwarves lobbed a clod of dirt in her direction. Her companions cackled and encouraged the dwarf to try again.

Galvin and Wynter pulled harder. They passed by a large group of campers who obviously knew each other. The men had circled around a fire for a game of chance. Near them, two women in brightly colored scarves danced about a campfire. The conversation was abundant and covered the weather, the day’s business, and the city’s tax policies.

One group was even discussing Maligor’s gnolls.

The travelers and their slaves selected a spot on the edge of the tent town where they could talk freely and weren’t likely to be invited by their neighbors to share in any festivities. Wynter used crude hand signals, indicating the dwarves should sit. They refused, of course.

When he merely shrugged and ignored them, the dwarves finally sat, looking defiant. Brenna edged forward cautiously and began working the knots loose from about their waists. She held her breath; the slaves hadn’t bathed in a long while. When she had finished untying them, she backed away, put her hands on her hips, and inspected them.

“If we take them to Aglarond, I can get them cleaned up and give them a few gold pieces,” she said.

“If we make it back to Aglarond,” Wynter added, surprised the dwarves weren’t bolting.

“We’ve more things to worry about than the dwarves,” Galvin said as he stretched out on the ground. Brenna lay down a few feet away from the druid and watched him.

“I’m just glad I was able to buy a few slaves their freedom,” Wynter said softly, not wanting any nearby campers to hear. He vividly described the condition of the pens to Galvin, then waited for a response, but the druid had had enough conversation for the day and pretended to sleep.