Whatever it's supposed to do, it probably won't. I've seen gnomish things before."

"Odd," the elf said softly. "I think that's the first time I've ever seen just one gnome. Usually, where there is one there are dozens."

"I gather he's an outcast," Wingover said. "He was part of a colony, but they kicked him out. He isn't too happy about it."

"That explains it, then. But I wonder why." They resumed their pace toward Barter, but the elf remained thoughtful. "Did you notice the wheels on that thing?"

"Yes. Very nicely made. That's a novel idea for wheels, to use wire spokes. Light and practical." Wingover hesitated, then turned. "I see what you mean. Usually if gnomes set out to put wheels under something that weighs ten pounds, they'll wind up using fifteen or twenty wheels and each wheel might weigh a ton… then there'll be traction devices, and who knows how many clutch and brake assemblies, and whistles and bells and adjustable levers to adjust the adjustments, and the whole thing won't move an inch under any circumstances."

"Or it might throw itself off a mountain, or dig itself into the ground," the elf added. "Whatever that thing is, it doesn't look like any gnomish thing I've seen."

Barter was busy. First snow shone on the high peaks of the Kharolis

Mountains, late harvests were being completed in the valleys, and people everywhere were preparing for winter. The trading taking place now would be the last until spring for most who came, and the village was bustling with activity. Dwarves, elves, gnomes, kender, and humans walked the ways and gathered at stalls and pavilions. Bards, acrobats, jugglers, and elixirhawkers plied their trades. Warriors, farmers, craftsmen, and clerics rubbed shoulders with wizards and rangers, and the usual volatile peace of Barter held sway. At any streetcorner, at any moment, there might be a dozen separate swindlings, thieveries, fair deals and foul going on simultaneously, but weapons were kept sheathed and no blood flowed.

"I see the Inn of the Flying Pigs is still in business," Wingover noted.

"I'll be there when I've done my business."

"I'll be around." The elf nodded and started on his way.

"Give my regards to Goldbuckle."

Some travelers were staring in fascination at the three pigs above the inn. On Rapping wings, they saiied about in lazy circles and figure-eights, as cheerfully content with their lot as any pig with wings might be.

Wingover grinned at a gaping newcomer. "The innkeeper did a favor for a wizard once. No one knows what it was, or who the spellcaster was, but the wizard repaid him by making that unique sign to advertise his place. The pigs fly around up there every afternoon for a few hours, and it's good for his business. Just be a bit careful when you walk beneath them."

Wingover left his horse with a liveryman and made his way to the pavilion of the mountain dwarf trader, Rogar Goldbuckle.

The pavilion, with its red and yellow awnings, was one of the largest in

Barter, for Goldbuckle and his party did most of the outside trading commissioned by the Daewar merchants in Thorbardin. The pavilion was a large rectangle, with tended stalls on three sides. There, dwarves wearing

Goldbuckle's colors offered the finest of Thorbardin commodities – gemstones of many kinds, pyrites and hewn stone, minerals in powder or granule form, prized funguses famed for their taste, burningstone to fuel hearths in winter, huge varieties of handcarved trinkets and decorations, and – of course – some of the finest arms and armor available anywhere in

Ansalon.

Within the pavilion's fourth side were the counting tables, and there

Wingover found Rogar Goldbuckle. The trader raised a bushy eyebrow at sight of the human and said, "Well, it looks to me as though you are still alive. Did you give up the idea of going to Pax Tharkas by way of the wilderness?"

"Give up, nothing," Wingover chuckled. "I've been there and back, and

I'm ready to collect on our wager. But first, it will cost you a mug of ale to hear about it, Rogar Goldbuckle. And none of your trade swill, either. Bring out your own supply."

"Trade swill indeed!" the dwarf snapped. "I handle nothing but the finest, and each barrel better than the rest."

Despite this claim, though, Rogar Goldbuckle brought out his own stock and led the man to a quiet corner where there was a table and benches. He poured golden ale into a pair of fine silver goblets, and for a time they sat together in silence, enjoying the potent beverage. Only when Wingover had drained his goblet and licked his whiskers in appreciation did the dwarf get down to business. 'You promised proof," Goldbuckle said. "What kind of proof do you offer?"

With a wink, Wingover slid his pack from beneath his bench, hoisted it, and set it on the plank table between them. "Check the seal," he said.

"It's from your own consignee in Pax Tharkas. And it's unbroken."

The dwarf inspected pack and seal, grumbling as he went over it. "It was a stupid wager anyway, and had I been sober at the time you'd not have duped me into it. How much was it, again?"

"You know very well how much it was," Wingover said. "Now pay up. And what do you mean, 'duped?' It was your idea, as I recall."

"I was just trying to do you a good turn," Goldbuckle snapped. 'You had nothing constructive to do, so I thought I'd give you an opportunity for a pleasant outing."

"Pleasant outing? When was the last time you tried to cross that wilderness, you old charlatan? I made it there and back, but it's not something I'll do again for a while. What with thieves and waylayers at every turn, and cave-ogres… and cats."

"Cats?"

"Cats. Oh, yes. And goblins. Why are there goblins this far south,

Rogar? Have you heard anything?"

"You actually saw goblins?" the dwarf's eyes narrowed. "There have been some rumors, of course, but -"

"Not only saw them, but fought them. Garon Wendesthalas and I. He was on his way down from Qualinost, and a band of armed goblins set a trap for him. I happened along and spoiled the party. Half a day from here, or not much farther. Where the trail comes down from Grieving Ridge."

"But -" Goldbuckle's eyes widened. "But that isn't even the wilderness.

That's well within Thorbardin's realm."

"That's what I thought. Garon and I think they were a scouting party, but that's about all we could learn. The one that we kept alive – or tried to – had a spell on him. It killed him before he could tell us anything, except a name. Darkmoor. Do you know about anyone by that name? Or anyone called Commander?"

The dwarf shook his head.

Wingover shrugged. "Maybe we'll never know what it's all about. What are these rumors you mentioned?"

"Oh, just odds and ends. Someone said that goblins were seen in upper

Dergoth recently, and several people have mentioned seeing more ogres than usual. They said the ogres seemed to be laughing sometimes, as though at a great joke."

"What's a joke to an ogre could be bad news for anyone else," the man noted. "What else?"

"Well… they say that some of the plains tribes in the northern lands have begun migrations southward, with tales of strange happenings in the

Khalkists."

"What sort of happenings?"

"Oh, people disappearing and that sort of thing."

"People disappear all the time."

"But not usually whole villages… even whole tribes."

"Not usually, no."

"Tarnish," the dwarf rumbled. "It's an uncertain world we live in,

Wingover, and troubling times. I've heard a dozen predictions, just since

I arrived here, that Ansalon will be overrun by war within two years. Some say less time than that. The seers have been studying omens and comparing notes, along with some of the mages. But not one has any idea who, or what, may be involved in the war if the time should come. Ah, me. What's a poor trader to make of it all?"