Red Magic (21 page)

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 Faerun, 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 clientele 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.”