He mulled it over for a few minutes, then decided. Probably not.

Wingover turned his thoughts to another race. He had a gambling debt to collect from Rogar Goldbuckle. Not that the dwarf would try to cheat him.

Such was not Goldbuckle's way. Still, dwarves could be full of surprises.

Though it had started only as a seasonal encampment, a meeting place for those of various races whose lot it was to go abroad and trade commodities to supply their various realms, Barter now was a bustling little town.

Resting in a sheltered valley west of Thorbardin, it was a truce village, a place of respite from whatever conflicts and hostilities might be currently going on around it. A motley collection of low stone cubicles – favored by the mountain dwarves – log structures where hill dwarves could find comfort, shacks, shanties, tree houses in the few trees large enough to contain them, mud huts, and a few airy elven lofts, Barter catered to any who were willing to trade in peace.

Here elves, dwarves, humans, and occasionally kender walked the same paths and sat at the same tables with robed sorcerers and outlaw clerics.

Here voices might be – and often were – raised in hot discussion, but outright violence was not condoned. Here even the bitterest of enemies stayed their hands and held their tempers.

For Barter was Barter. As in any place and any time, no matter what grand intrigues may be afoot, no matter what wars might be raging across the lands, still there had to be a means of trade and a place to do it. As in all places and all times, each people had need of what the others had in plenty, if only for the building of weapons to fight against one another.

In Barter, it was said, even an ogre could come and trade – provided he didn't act like an ogre.

Technically, Barter lay within the realm of the dwarves, though whether its origin was from mountain or hill dwarves' settlements none could say.

And this was as it should be, for the bands and tribes of humanity had been scattered far and wide, and many were wanderers, while of all the other races the dwarves had the most to trade, the most need to trade, and the greatest understanding of how essential trade was. Being in the dwarven realms also gave some measure of protection to the place, as neither mountain nor hill dwarves was amenable to having their lands entered by those who sought trouble.

As they neared the settlement Wingover recalled the simple rules of the place. "Don't kill anybody," he chuckled. "It isn't allowed."

The faint trail they followed wound down into a valley, toward Barter, and within a mile of the village they were among cleared fields on a gentle slope, with the village visible ahead. Wingover pointed toward a large pavilion draped with red and yellow awnings. "The mountain dwarves are here," he said. "That's Goldbuckle's stall."

Just ahead, on the trail, an odd object was moving toward the village – a triangular white thing more than a dozen feet from end to end and half that in width, it had the appearance of a giant spearhead, creeping along on spindly-looking narrow wheels that glinted in the sunlight. Garon

Wendesthalas studied the thing ahead, then shook his head and pointed, questioning.

Wingover shrugged. "I haven't the vaguest idea what it is. I've never seen anything like it."

They went on, and within a few minutes were close enough to see more details of the creeping thing. More than a spearhead now, it resembled half a bellows, partially closed. A series of slender ribs extended back from the forward point, all covered over with a layer of white fabric pleated so that each fold at the rear draped at least two feet below the rigid supports. Near the rear was a thing like a wicker basket, two or three feet across, set into the fabric so that only the top of it was clearly visible from behind. Narrow, slightly bowed poles slanted outward below the basket-thing, each tipped with a wheel that was nothing more than a metal ring braced from a hub by thin, gleaming wires. Beyond, someone was walking, only his feet visible, the rest of him hidden by the forward point of the contrivance.

"Maybe it's some kind of a rollable tent," Wingover suggested.

"Half an umbrella?" the elf wondered.

"That big? Nobody would build an umbrella that big. And why does it have wheels?"

"Maybe because it's too big to carry."

They came closer, and a suspicion arose in Wingover's mind. He swung into his saddle, touched heels to the horse, pranced ahead, and pulled up alongside the strange thing. It was longer than he had thought, possibly as much as twenty feet from point to rear, and while its trailing end was no more than three feet high, its long, slim point was well above his head as he sat in his saddle. He walked the horse alongside and leaned down to look below the thing's edge. He sighed and straightened. "Just as I thought," Wingover chuckled. "A gnome."

The thing stopped moving. Its point lowered a bit as a metal shaft swung down to take its weight, and its owner stepped out to look up at the horseman. He stood bellyhigh to Wingover's horse, and had a bald head surrounded by long white hair that blended into a silvery beard. That trait would have made him look very old…had he been human.

"Ofcoursel'magnome," he said in a voice that sounded thin and irritated.

"That'sonethingtheycan't takeawayfromme. Bobbin'sthename.

I'meverybitasmuchgnomeasanyofthem, thankyou. Whoareyou?"

The question was so imperious, and came from such a small creature, that

Wingover couldn't suppress a smile. "If I understood you correctly, you want my name, which is Wingover," he said. "But don't take it out on me, whatever you're boiling about. It isn't my fault."

"Of course not," the gnome said more slowly as he calmed down. "It isn't anybody's fault. These things just happen. Though they could have been a little kinder about it, in my opinion."

"Who could? And kinder about what?"

"Everybody. The Transportation Guild, the Master Craftsgnome… the whole colony. Kinder about getting rid of me, is what they could have been. If it had happened at home, I'd have had my say about it. But no.

'Out in the colonies,' they said, 'this sort of thing can't be tolerated.

Good of the colony,' they said. 'Best just to send the poor soul packing off into the howling nowheres, than to chance his infecting anyone else.'

So out I went. Kit, klacker, and Krynnbook, as they say. Speaking of which, I sincerely hope my map was right. That's supposed to be the village of Barter just ahead. Is it?"

"It is," Wingover nodded. Garon had come up to them, and the man turned.

"I kind of thought there'd be a gnome under this thing," he said. "And here he is. His name's Bobbin." He waved a casual hand. "That's Garon

Wendesthalas. He's from Qualinost."

Bobbin nodded curtly, then turned to Wingover again.

"How much for the use of your animal?"

'The use of… for what?"

"To pull my soarwagon. What else?"

"This thing? You look like you're doing all right, pulling it yourself."

"I don't mean now, I mean later. Does your horse run fast?"

"As fast as I need him to, when I need him to," Wingover replied cautiously.

"Good," the gnome said, and ducked under his contrivance, then turned and peered up at the human again.

"I'll look you up when I need you. 111 supply the rope, so don't worry about that."

Without further conversation, the small creature hoisted the nose of his contraption and trudged on toward Barter, towing the thing as he went, only his feet visible beneath it.

"Did you find out what that thing is?" the elf asked.

"He didn't say, just called it his soarwagon. But it doesn't matter.