Wizards Conclave aom-5 Page 3

  The plaza was truly a vibrant place on market day. Pennants of bright silk flew above the richer booths, while even the poorest vendors managed to hoist some sort of attention-grabbing banner. Birds of brilliant plumage squawked from inside huge cages, while under short leashes, dozens of monkeys shrieked in mockery or indignation, a simian parody of the human throng all around them. Horses, some of them splendid and others shaggy nags, neighed and kicked in their corrals, while everywhere sheep bleated and goats brayed, adding their voices to the cacophony.

  But mostly there were all types of people, thousands of them. They came to buy and to sell, sometimes to steal, to gawk and beg, eat and drink and talk and laugh, to do all of the things that drew the race of man together. They were bearded and robed for the most part, though some went about in bits of armor, leather tunics, or even the canvas leggings of sailors-though the nearest port was hundreds of miles away. All of them were eager with curiosity, and, judging from the noise, all of them were trying to talk at once.

  One cloaked figure moved quietly through the crowd without drawing very much attention. The slight, bowed form of a person, wrapped within a nondescript robe, walked up and down the narrow aisles between the stalls, looking into the shadowy tents, peering down each narrow dead end, slipping knowledgeably among the sellers. The cloak the figure wore was a tan color and concealed the person's exact form, except for the eyes. Even the hands remained tucked within that anonymous cloak.

  Those eyes were lively, however, searching, narrowing with interest here, scowling in scorn a moment later-but always watching.

  In the center of the plaza a small black dragon thrashed and hissed within the confines of an iron cage. The wyrm's wings were flattened together above its back, held firmly in an unnatural position, because coils of wire were wrapped around its snarling, hateful muzzle. The cloaked figure's eyes brightened slightly, betraying at least a modicum of interest, and the mysterious shopper pressed through the crowd to get a closer look.

  "This wyrmling is a true treasure!" hawked a fat merchant dressed in bright silk robes. He waddled back and forth before the cage, gesturing broadly to the onlookers and potential buyers who had gathered hesitantly before him. "Don't be afraid, good citizens of Neraka-his wings are immobilized by my spells of containment. Not to mention a coil of good steel wire! No, he shall not be released until I give the command.

  "For now, it is enough for you to know that the bidding is about to commence! Who is to lay a claim to this unique and terrible beast? A claim paid in steel, with ownership guaranteed. Enough steel, a clever and timely bid, and you could take this rare creature home with you today!"

  "What would anyone want with an evil brute like that? Why, it would snap your head off at the first chance!" snapped one bearded man, a tall fellow who had come over from his own booth where he had been attempting to sell pots of stinking brews. "These good customers would be better off buying a good, honest potion!"

  "Bah!" The fat merchant waved off his rival. "True, you would have no use for the serpent, since you have nothing of value to protect! But for one who counts a vault or an armory among his possessions… or a dungeon, a fortress of ancient might… a secluded bastion, or an idyllic retreat? For one who has such a place to protect, this creature would make a splendid guardian! Bound by magic, it is, sworn to the service of the one I appoint. It will not bite your head off, unless you should give it that very command, fool! It is my true power, the spell of command I have placed upon the creature, that holds its power-not in check-but to place it at the owner's beck and call."

  "I offer five hundred steel for the beast!"

  The bidder was an old man, known to all as the primary agent for the caliph. That ancient ruler, wealthy beyond belief, was known to keep a harem of young maidens secluded in his mountaintop palace. Now nearing his dotage, his jealousy was fabled, and such a beast would surely prove to be a deterrent to any but the most determined of amorous adventurers.

  The merchant's eyes flashed momentarily at this initial, respectable bid, then clouded with an expression of bemused disappointment. "Why, the collar alone-proof of the potent spells holding the wyrm in bondage-cost me nearly a thousand," declared the fat seller in injured tones. "Know that the ring around the creature's neck is the key to its bondage and obedience, a treasure of magic unavailable anywhere else upon Krynn. So, good citizens, worthy buyers, the bidding shall commence at twice the cost of that collar-two thousand steel pieces, for the most potent turnkey any jailer could require! Do I have a serious opening bid?"

  "Two thousand, then!" cried the agent for the caliph.

  "Two thousand five!" came another bid, this one from the slender cleric of a mysterious temple north of the city. His body was wrapped in a black robe, and his head-utterly hairless, even missing brows and eyelashes-gleamed in the desert sun. He cast the caliph's buyer a look of contempt, and that worthy noble all but sputtered out his reply, raising the thousands to three.

  The robed figure meanwhile stood in the forefront, unnoticed by anyone in the crowd-which began to jeer and cheer as the bidding accelerated-and scrutinized the dragon, especially that allegedly enchanted collar. After several minutes, in apparent disinterest, the cloaked one stepped back with a barely audible sigh. The pair of intriguing eyes, wide and dark, with long lashes marked by a gentle shade of henna, turned to inspect the other booths and tents that made up this section of the vibrant market.

  One hand, a woman's hand with several pretty rings-a hand that displayed the strength of maturity, apparent in a few wrinkles and lines of age, and tempered by the vanity visible in long, crimson-dyed fingernails-pulled a little of the robe aside from her face, enough to allow a breath of dry air to penetrate. But she was careful not to reveal too much of her features, nor to let any of the sellers or buyers look directly into those eyes.

  They were mostly men, here, on both sides of the counters. The most visible females were in the slave quarter of the market, which was off in one corner. The masked woman could see these miserable wenches, dressed in filmy robes, huddled together in a pathetic lot. One of them was being dragged forward by her owner. Forced to climb the steps to a lofty platform, she was then paraded about, encouraged by the lash of a whip, followed by the prod of a blade, when she moved too slowly. Her owner pulled the robe away just enough to display the quality of the flesh underneath. Depending on the attractive nature of that flesh, the bidding would commence lethargically, or in frenzy.

  The masked woman stared in contempt for a few moments but turned her eyes away from the slave quarter, knowing she would not find what she sought there. Instead she briefly scrutinized the bubbling potions at the alchemist's cart, leaning down to sniff, to stare, even probing here and there with those well-manicured fingers, touching and tasting. The vender, drawn by the bidding around the black dragon, had temporarily left his cart under the eyes of a hulking swordsman. That swordsman watched dully, without interfering, as the figure inspected each one of the dozen or so vials on display. The guard shrugged with boredom as finally the woman, unimpressed, pulled her robe tightly across her face and strode away.

  She came next to a table shaded by a large awning, staked with flaps that extended nearly to the ground behind and to either side. Several men sat there on an elaborate rug, sharing a pipe between them. One, the hawk-faced vender, looked up at the woman and scowled. "We are discussing the sale of enchanted weapons here," he snapped. "Do not offer us the ill favor of a woman's presence during such manful talk!"

  Ignoring him, the masked stranger stepped past the men to stand before a table where four swords lay beside their jeweled scabbards. Each blade gleamed slightly, casting just enough of a glow to be discernible in the shadows under the awning.

  "Those are priceless treasures!" squawked the seller, bounding angrily to his feet, confronting the unwanted visitor. "You defile them with your very eyes!"

  The woman sniffed loudly, the sound of contempt drawing the seller's eyes to narrow slits of
fury. "How dare you-!"

  He reached as if to seize her wrist then froze in reaction to something he detected in the woman's eyes, the only part of her visible through the masking robe. His face suddenly went pale, and he took a step away.

  The woman flipped her hand above the four swords, a gesture of disdain. A gust of wind puffed across the table, sweeping a cloud of sparkles into the air. She turned to look at the other three men seated on the floor, all of whom had been watching the confrontation with narrow-eyed intensity.

  "Faerie dust," she said contemptuously. "He could make his own nose glow, if he patted it onto his face. These blades aren't magic-and this scum wouldn't know a magic sword if it pierced his black heart."

  "Eh?" One of the men was already on his feet, a heavy scimitar appearing in his hands as if by his own brand of magic. He waved it at the vendor while he examined the table. The four blades sparkled a bit, but so did the wood and the sleeve of the seller's robe where it had been near the dust.

  "How did you know that?" demanded the scimitar-swordsman, but the woman had already left the tent. He showed no inclination to follow. Instead, with his two fellows, he closed in upon the cringing merchant.

  Through still more booths she made her way, increasing impatience visible in her haste, and in the momentary carelessness that let the masking robe fall away to expose a smooth jaw, a curving cheek. One of the vigilant guards, seeing this, moved jerkily toward her, ready to rebuke this disgraceful display of flesh, but one reproving look from those blue eyes reminded him of some other, very pressing, business in the opposite direction.

  Moving from stall to stall, the masked woman fingered a selection of rings and baubles, held faux jewelry up to the sunlight, rustled through the pages of several dark-bound books that one seller kept concealed in a locked strongbox She watched a conjurer for several minutes, as he pulled smoking images from a cauldron then caused baubles, weapons, and even a goat to disappear. Her eyes gleamed briefly as the conjurer began to chant; then she snorted and turned away as he revealed, to her, that his skill was naught but sleight of hand. Nowhere did she find anything to pique true interest.

  With a muttering of disgust, she stalked out of the last stall, seeing that several groups of bearded, angry men were huddled at either end of the narrow walkway. The agent of the caliph was walking away, being taunted by several other buyers, including the bald cleric who had competed with the caliph's buyer. With a great show of excitement, the crowd was pressing around the corral as the fat merchant, with two brutish henchmen hauling on the restraints; ceremoniously brought forward the young black dragon.

  "Congratulations!" declared the fat seller to the bald cleric, with a look of cool triumph. "You have purchased a superior guardian for your temple, capable of securing your treasures against all who might come against you!"

  The masked woman quietly inched her way to the front of the crowd. The gaunt cleric, noticing her, twisted his face into a sneer and advanced to push this insolent female out of the way of his trophy. He hesitated then, for her hood fell back a little, revealing a proud face, beautiful in spite of lines of age and worry, and a neat bun of gray hair. Beneath the masking cloak could now be glimpsed the shoulder, crimson red, of a neat gown.

  "You'd better have a look at that dragon's collar," declared the woman in cold, contemptuous tones, addressing the thin, gaping priest. "It's no more magical than the pot you pissed in this morning."

  Then she disappeared.

  Chapter 5

  Mysterious Mission

  Coryn was wrapped in a blanket, seated by the fire and sipping a mug of strong tea. Her grandmother had fussed about for a time, getting her settled and warmed. Now, however, Umma cleared her throat, looking at Coryn sternly.

  "Tell me what this is about, young lady!" she demanded. "Showing up on my floor, soaking wet, scaring me out of a perfectly good nap? Why, the very idea!"

  "I–I'm not sure, myself. I was hunting up on the bluff-I left the village… why, it was just this morning," the girl said, half in wonder, half stalling. Slowly, she reconstructed events. "There was a good deer trail, and I thought I could maybe get close to the herd. I promised Papa I'd bag a doe and a fawn, and of course, he told everyone else. I guess I went too far, farther than I should have."

  Umma gestured, a command to "hurry up and spit it out."

  "Walrus-men!" Coryn gasped, the full horror of the memory returning in a rush. "There was a hunting party of them, and they caught me against the gorge. I sensed them up on the ridge, knew they nearly had me in a trap. But I shot three of them, Umma-right away! Let me tell you how-"

  "I'm sure you shot them, Girl. But the rest?"

  Coryn frowned. Her grandmother was impatient, always cutting off her explanations. "Well, I started to run, down the valley. But the slope was too steep, and I was trapped against a big rock. One of them jumped on me, had me pressed into the snow. He was going to stab me with his tusks, right through my heart!"

  "So how did you end up here, on my floor?" Umma's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Like to scared the life outta me! Not to mention all this snow you tracked in-why, look at that mess! Who's going to clean that up?"

  "I will," Coryn replied meekly, with the momentary thought that perhaps the thanoi were not really the most frightening thing she had faced that day. Not when Umma was frowning down at her with a look that seemed capable of summoning storm clouds into a clear blue sky.

  " 'Course you will. But that can wait. Now tell me! No dodging and weaving, now. What happened to get you down off the bluff and here into this soggy puddle on what used to be a nice rug?"

  "Well, I'm not really sure what I did," the girl admitted hesitantly. "I said… something…"

  She squinted, trying to remember while deciding exactly how much she should tell. "I don't really know the word… but I said it out loud, and I felt a strange flash, and here I am, on your floor."

  Umma's bony fingers wrapped around Coryn's wrist in an iron-hard clamp. "Think, Girl!" demanded the old woman. Her dark eyes flashed, lightning brewing within that great storm. "What did you say? What word? Where did you learn this word? And what was the word?"

  "I honestly don't know, Grandma! I thought of it right away, but now it's like the whole sound and shape of it is gone, wiped right out of my mind. But… I guess… I guess it was one of the words I read in your book. You know, the one you keep… um… under your mattress." Coryn braced for the eruption of the lightning, or-even worse-the searing lash of her grandmother's tongue.

  She was surprised, however, when suddenly the steely clasp on her wrist eased, as Umma leaned back in her chair and regarded the young woman with a strange expression that Coryn could only describe as "amused." Suddenly conscious of her matted hair, her soggy shirt and leggings, tad the chill that was soaking through to her bones, Coryn couldn't hold back a flash of irritation. "What's so darn funny?" she demanded.

  To that, Umma cracked a single sharp bark of laughter. Then her expression grew stern and full of dangerous lightning again. "You mean to tell me you been sneakin' more peeks at my old tomes? Why, them books ain't got a lick o' useful writin' in them anymore. Not since the gods of magic went away, before you was even born, Girl! Why are you wastin' time like that?"

  The question, Coryn sensed, was far more than rhetorical. It was some kind of test. She drew a breath, intended to take her time forming an answer that might get her into trouble, but she was ever impulsive. A rush of words exploded, seemingly unbidden, from her lips.

  "I've read all your books," she admitted. "Over and over. They're the most interesting things I've ever seen. They take me places beyond the muddy huts of Two Forks, beyond the bluff, beyond the whole Icereach. I've read about other people-like elves and dwarves and draconians-and places like Sanction, where the mountains are spilling fire right into the city. Forests… with trees everywhere! What that must be like! And Palanthas! Oh Umma, how I would love to go there some day, to see the fine ladies in their gowns, the palac
es and manors and fountains and statues! Lords and knights on splendid horses, soldiers with armor shining like silver."

  Umma's eyes narrowed to mere slits now. She nodded, muttering ominously not to Coryn, but to herself. Coryn couldn't catch all the words. Finally she looked up, as if remembering that Coryn was there, and stared at her.

  "Yes, of course. That's what books do, Girl." Umma gestured to a pile of tomes, leather-bound and well worn, teetering precariously on a table near her fireplace. "At least, those books. Those books, I daresay, will indeed lead you to such fancies about nobles and manors and elves and Palanthas." The old woman's eyes became two slits of darkness in a scowling mask of leathery skin.

  "But you mentioned something about a particular book, didn't you? One I keep under my mattress, you said… one you know darn well I put there to keep the prying fingers of curious young girls off of it. But that didn't work, it seems. Now what made you to go poking around there? Tell me true!"

  Coryn gulped. She looked at the stack of books, volumes that she had virtually memorized over the years. Yes, the other tome fascinated her more than any of rest, and again impulsively she blurted out the truth.

  "Actually, Umma, I read your secret book for the first time a long time ago, even though it seemed like so much nonsense. I couldn't make anything out of it. But then, later, I felt almost like it was calling me. Last winter, it was, the first time it called me. You were napping out here in your rocking chair. You just had some of those winterberries I brought you, and a little nip of that bottle on the mantle-"

  "You never mind that bottle, Child!" Umma said sternly. "That's an old woman's medicine, not for the likes of you!"

  "No-I mean, I know! I've never touched it. Well, only touched it to pour some for you, I mean. But I don't even like the way it smells!"