Windows in the roof let in some light, while glowing gems overhead provided the rest. As Gallen moved deeper into this living catacomb, he twice came upon open-air bazaars where merchants in colorful swirling robes sought to sell him fabulous merchandise: a pair of living lungs that could attach to his back and let him breathe underwater; the seeds to a flower that could be planted one day, grow six feet overnight, and break into glorious blooms; a hood that would let him talk to a dead man; a tiny plug that he could place in his ear so that he could always listen to music; a cream that not only removed wrinkles and blemishes from skin but also left the wearer pleasantly scented for a number of years.
Gallen recognized that much of it was junk and gadgetry, trifles for a people who had everything. But still vendors hawked their wares, trying to engage his attention in odd ways. At one shop, a beautiful woman appeared out of thin air. She was tanned and strong and wore only the slightest scrap of clothes. She smiled at Gallen and said, “Why don’t you come in here and try me on?” Then she walked into a shop. Gallen followed, and she went to a stack of pants, pulled a pair on and wriggled into them, then disappeared.
Gallen found himself staring at a display of pants, looking about for the woman, but she was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly he realized that she had been created only to lure him into the shop. He left, found that similar devices were at nearly every store. Voices would speak from nowhere, demanding that he buy here and now in order to save. Spirit women would appear, begging him to purchase something from the shop, and always they were so beautiful as to make him dizzy.
A manic glee fell over Gallen, and he wandered the long corridors as if in some intoxicated daze, sampling confections that tasted of ambrosia, yet always declining to buy.
In one square, he found a beast that looked like a huge gray toad sitting in a chair, surrounded by bright containers filled with colorful powders. The toadman wore an immense wig of silver with many ringlets and triangles that cascaded down his shoulders. On his back he wore a number of tubes, and each tube had dozens of tiny appendages rising up from it-some with hairs on them, others with clamps or scalpels. All these appendages rose overhead and by use of various joints managed to converge on a small table in front of the toad. Children had gathered around, and Gallen stopped to look.
The toadman’s limbs all pointed to a small object at the center of the table, and Gallen stood breathless, watching. A purple dragonfly sat on a thin reed there, motionless. Dozens of tiny needles, or perhaps hairs, met at the focal point of the device, and Gallen saw that the hairs seemed to be stroking one of the dragonfly’s wings. Part of the dragonfly’s wing was missing, but the toadman’s machines were stroking it, creating a new wing.
Gallen’s jaw dropped open, and he walked around so that he could watch over the toadman’s shoulders. The old gray fellow was looking at writing that appeared in the air, fiery red letters that blossomed and departed so fast that Gallen couldn’t read them. An image of the dragonfly, magnified many times, sat in the air above the toadman’s head, and every few moments the toadman would look up at the image whenever a new layer of wing had been placed. He would stare at the image a moment, until new veins and an expanded portion of wing appeared, then glance down. His machines would begin constructing the rest of the dragonfly.
Within five minutes, the toadman finished. “Now, children, which of you would like this dragonfly I have formed?” he asked, and the children clapped and pleaded.
The toadman reached out with one warty gray finger, touched the dragonfly, and it climbed onto his long nail. He held the dragonfly aloft for a moment, then turned to Gallen.
“I think I will give this one to the child who looks like a man.” He extended the dragonfly to Gallen.
Gallen touched the toadman’s finger, and the dragonfly crawled to Gallen’s thumb and sat, wings pulsing. It was vivid purple with touches of red under its belly and in its wings. The children walked away, disappointed.
“Thank you,” Gallen said.
“It is nothing. In a few moments, its wings will dry, and it will fly away,” the toadman answered.
Gallen studied the toadman. He had yellow eyes, warty gray skin, and a mouth wide enough to swallow a cat whole. His arms and legs were thin, with baggy skin.
“You have never seen a Motak,” the toadman said.
“Is that what you are?” Gallen asked.
“Yes,” the toadman answered. “And if you knew of us, you would know that you are supposed to avert your eyes and not stare. On Motak, we stare only at those who are ugly.”
“I’m sorry,” Gallen said. “I didn’t mean to imply that you are ugly.”
“I know.”
“I was simply curious.”
“I know that, too,” the toadman said. “It has been ages since I have seen an adult so interested in the doings of a creator.”
“Is that what you do?” Gallen asked. “You create life?”
“Not true life. Only viviforms, artificial beings. Still, they look true enough, and they don’t know that they aren’t living creatures.”
“Can you create people?” Gallen asked.
“For a price. I can make a viviform that looks and acts any way that you like. Between jobs, I create pets for the children.” The dragonfly began flapping its wings.
“Thank you. I’m very grateful,” Gallen said, and he cupped the dragonfly into his palms, determined to carry it back to show Maggie.
“I thank you in return,” the toadman said. “It is good to see such light in the eyes of an adult again, especially during such hard times. May joy burn brightly in you.”
When Gallen returned to the cantina, patrons of the restaurant were freeing Orick from a net, and Maggie was nowhere to be seen.
Orick growled at those who freed him, “Why didn’t you stop him, lads? Why didn’t you stop him?” No one answered.
“Stop who?” Gallen asked, setting the dragonfly free. He pulled out a knife to cut at the fine webbing. Each tiny thread was tough as a nail and seemed to be glued to the wall.
“A man named Karthenor kidnapped Maggie!” Orick shouted. As Gallen helped cut through the last thread, Orick urged, “This way, Gallen!” and rushed down a corridor toward the heart of the city.
Orick barreled down the hallway, navigating by smell. Sometimes he would come to an intersection and stop, testing the scent in both directions. At other times, he would lunge down a corridor and then come up short, only to test the scent of some side passageway. After a few minutes, they reached a hallway that led to a dead end.
“They came here,” Orick said. “They came at least this far.” Orick sniffed the creamed-colored wall, stood up on his back legs and smelled the ceiling.
Gallen took Orick by the shoulders. “Now,” he said, “tell me everything that happened.”
Orick told Gallen of the visit by the vanquisher and how a man named Karthenor, Lord of the Aberlains, put a silver band around Maggie’s head and took her captive.
Gallen considered. As in any battle, he took stock of his assets and liabilities. He had his wits, his skills as a fighter, and two knives. Yet he did not know his enemies or their weaknesses. One old sheriff down in County Obhiann had often warned: “When you are confronted by an outlaw, always take stock of the terrain. Look for what cover you can find, watch to make sure he doesn’t have a bowman or a couple of lads sitting in the same bush you might want to hide under.”
Obviously, when it came to terrain, Gallen was at a phenomenal disadvantage. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you under some cover. If we go hunting for Karthenor together, he’ll spot you a mile off. But he’s never seen me. I will leg it back here and study the situation.”
They made their way back to the highway. The road was filling with people-coaches floated over its ruby surface. Some people had shoes that floated in the same manner, and they skated over the road faster than any horse could run.