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.