It was not much longer until they entered the outskirts of the city, and Tristan, with Shailiha at his side, wheeled Faegan's chair down one of the streets he felt would most likely provide adequate livery service. His magically acquired beard itched.
Several empty hansom cabs stood waiting on one side of the wide, cobblestoned boulevard. Tristan wheeled Faegan toward the first of them, and the old wizard turned his gray-green eyes up to the man sitting atop it.
"Good day," he said politely. "Are you for hire?"
"I don't be sittin' up here for my health, cripple," the driver snarled back. He spat, narrowly missing the wizard's feet.
Faegan remained unperturbed. "How much?" he asked.
"How far?" the driver countered, his careful eyes examining the old man in the wheeled chair.
Faegan took a slow breath. "We heard there is to be some special activity here today," he said. Then he winked conspiratorially up at the driver. When the driver remained silent, Faegan pressed, "You know the kind of activity I mean. And we have money to spend. But we are new here, and we do not know the way. Now will you take us there, or do we have to go to one of your competitors?"
Blatantly craning his neck to look over at the next carriage, Faegan conjured some kisa-the gold coin of the realm-into one of his robe pockets. Reaching in, he jangled them together loudly.
Scowling, the driver rubbed the salt-and-pepper grizzle on his chin. Then, looking down from his seat, he gestured toward Tristan.
"Except for that nasty-looking bastard with the sword and the knives, you don't look like the usual lot who goes there," he said cautiously. "Not only that, but if the two younger ones know what's good for 'em, they won't go there at all. The white ones will be there, ya' know."
This piqued Faegan's interest. "How much?" he demanded.
"All right, all right!" the driver said. "Don't get your robe in a twist! Twelve kisa should do it."
"Six!" Faegan countered.
"Eight!" the driver hollered down.
"Done!" the wizard said.
"Get aboard." The driver sighed, reaching for his whip. It was abundantly clear from his posture that helping Faegan in was not going to be part of the bargain.
Tristan opened the hansom door and helped Shailiha in, then walked around to the back of the coach. He was dismayed to see that there was no storage compartment large enough for Faegan's chair, and no way to secure it on top of the carriage.
"Go ahead," Faegan said, giving Tristan a wink. "You're strong enough. I know you can do it."
Smiling, the prince suddenly understood. Reaching down, he grabbed the chair, wizard and all, just as the driver finally decided to come down from atop his seat to berate them for taking so long. The man approached just in time to see Tristan smoothly, effortlessly lift both the wizard and chair and place them through the open door of the coach as though they weighed no more than a feather.
The driver's eyes went wide; his grizzled jaw dropping with disbelief. "How in the name of the Afterlife did you do that?"
As Tristan climbed into the carriage, Faegan poked his head out the window. "As I said, he's very strong." He winked mischievously.
Scratching his head, the bewildered driver clambered back atop the carriage. With a whistle to his horses and a snap of his whip, the coach started rumbling down the streets of Farpoint.
Despite the danger of their situation, both Tristan and Shailiha began to laugh.
" 'He's very strong?' " Tristan asked the wizard. "I thought you weren't going to use the craft!"
"I couldn't resist." Faegan chuckled. "The driver deserved it after all he put me through. I sensed no endowed blood nearby, so I dropped our cloak momentarily. We had to get me into the carriage somehow, didn't we? Besides, what is the good of being a wizard if you can't have some fun once in a while?" He cackled gleefully.
Shaking his head and turning to look at his sister, Tristan had to laugh again. Traveling with Faegan was certainly different from traveling with the lead wizard!
Looking out the carriage window, Faegan grew more serious. "Pay close attention as we go down the streets," he ordered. "If you notice anything unusual-anything at all-tell me right away. Remember, we still do not know where we are going, or what we will find when we get there."
"Faegan, who are 'the white ones' the driver spoke of?" Shailiha asked. "He seemed to fear them."
Faegan shook his head. "I have been wondering the same thing," he replied.
Tristan looked out the window of the carriage. There were few people on the streets for this time of the day, he mused. Perhaps that was due to the fact that they were still on the outskirts of the city.
At first that seemed to be the answer: As they continued farther into town, he began to see the usual smattering of elderly and middle-aged people going about their business. There were children, too, and the usual groupings of teenagers. But then he began to notice something else, and his blood ran cold.
The city seemed to be completely devoid of people his own age.
The longer he looked, the surer he became. He saw no one who looked to be between the years of twenty to forty Seasons of New Life.
He told himself he was imagining things, that as they continued on, he'd certainly start to see more people of all ages. But he didn't.
Then he noticed something else. Most of the people he saw seemed weary and downtrodden. Some were even sobbing. It was as if some great pall had descended over the town.
He looked over at Faegan. "Do you see it?" he asked quietly. "Or am I dreaming?"
Faegan looked somber. "This is no dream," he replied. "Something dark has come over this place, and we must find out what it is."
He thought for a moment. Then he spoke again. "Tristan, I want you to go up and sit with the driver. He probably won't be happy about it, but be cordial. Try to get as much information out of him as you can without raising his suspicions. If you see anything untoward, return at once and inform me."
Tristan nodded. After giving Shailiha a reassuring pat on the hand, he swung open the door and quickly hoisted himself up onto the driver's bench.
Surprised, the grizzled driver glared at him. "What do you think you're doing?" he snapped. "You shouldn't be up here-especially not now. For the life of me I can't understand why you and the girl would want to do this. Hasn't the old cripple told you what's going on here? Is he insane, or just stupid?" He spat down loudly into the passing gutter.
Tristan grinned. "The old one doesn't tell us a lot," he answered. "The sick old fool only hired me for my sword. The woman is his nurse. Truth be told, I don't know why we're here, either."
He let several precious seconds go by. Then he put on his most innocent expression and asked, "Why don't you tell me what's going on here?"
As if finally willing to answer Tristan's question, the driver turned to him. But just then, something seemed to catch his eye. Drawing a quick breath, he pulled the team of horses up short. The carriage came to an abrupt stop. Raising a finger, the driver pointed to a corner down the street.
"Do you see them?" he whispered. His hands shook; his face was blanched with fear.
Snapping his head around to look, Tristan caught sight of several strange-looking figures walking hurriedly away. They were tall, with white, almost translucent skin-but that was all he could make of them before they rounded the corner and vanished from sight.
"Demonslavers," the driver whispered, so quietly that Tristan barely heard him.
"What?" Tristan asked. The man's obvious terror was unnerving.
"This is as far as I go!" the driver shouted, jumping down from his seat. "Everybody out!"