"Where then?" Dhamon asked, his voice difficult for Maldred to hear above the rain.

"I have friends in this city whom I can rely on and who owe me a few favors. I'll see who among them seems the most trustworthy today."

Dhamon nodded. "On your life, then. But just in case, I'm keeping some trinkets with me." He returned to the wagon, tugging a backpack from beneath the seat and throwing it over his shoulder. "And be quick about it, Mai. You need tending far more than Riki and I."

Rikali and Fetch each claimed a small, gem-stuffed satchel before Maldred drove the wagon away, cleverly ignoring the mariner's persistent questions about what kind of supplies they had brought to Bloten to sell. Dhamon knew Rig didn't believe for a moment there were genuine supplies under the tarp.

Rig and Fiona walked their horses behind the trio, the mariner cursing softly and repeating what a bad idea this was at every opportunity. Their ogre guide, who had not uttered a word since Maldred left, took them down one side street after another. Some buildings had been boarded up, others were in ruins because of fire. A few ogres sat on a bench in front of one gutted building, talking and grunting loudly and eyeing the small group. One rose and thumped a club against his leg-but sat back down quickly after Durfang snarled in their direction.

"You hungry?" Fetch asked, glancing up at the Solam-nic. "I'm starving. We haven't eaten for at least a day."

Fiona, who hadn't realized the kobold was talking to her, kept walking.

"I've lost my appetite," Rig answered for them both.

Grim Kedar's was a squat building-compared to those that rose around it. Its front was as gray as the skies overhead, and a wood plank sidewalk that had once been painted red sagged in front of it beneath a canvas awning that looked as hole-riddled as Karthay cheese. A weather-beaten sign out front depicted a mortar and a pestle with tendrils of steam rising from the bowl to form a ghostly ogre skull.

"Very bad idea," Rig growled as he tied the horses to a post and followed Fiona inside.

They were ushered by Fetch to a table with overlarge chairs that tottered on uneven legs. Two ogres commanded the only other table in the room, clutching steaming mugs that released a bitter smell into the air. They flaunted a collection of small pouches and daggers. Fetch, who climbed up the table leg to sit next to Fiona, explained the ogres were busy bartering for something- he couldn't tell what because he didn't know hardly any of their language-and that the daggers were being displayed in the event of a double-cross. The kobold's eyes gleamed eagerly, hoping to witness a fight.

Rikali and Dhamon stood at a small counter, behind which rose, at merely eight feet, a pasty ogre with a smattering of dark green hair on his mottled head. His pointed ears were pierced with dozens of small hoops, and a metal stud pierced the bridge of his nose. He grinned at his customers, revealing yellowed teeth so blunt and even it appeared as though they'd been filed.

"That's Grim," Fetch whispered to Fiona. The kobold didn't bother addressing the mariner, though he shot the occasional dark glance at him. "He's a healer. The best in Bloten, probably the best anywhere on Krynn. Sells tea said to ward off diseases and he's known for having herbs that'll counteract most poisons." The kobold gestured to the mugs the ogres were drinking from. "Maybe we should get some, too. All this rain can't be good for you humans. Might be something goin' around."

Rig growled.

"He'll fix Dhamon and Riki up good as new. Maybe even do something about the scale…" The kobold stopped.

"We know all about the scale on Dhamon's leg," Fiona said.

"But you don't know that it…" The kobold let the words hang, his gaze following Rikali and Dhamon, who walked behind the counter and through a beaded curtain that clacked noisily as they passed through it. "That's where Grim does all of his serious healing. I went back there once with Maldred after he got cut up bad in a tavern brawl. Course, the other ogres in the fight were beyond repair."

Rig made a move to rise and follow Dhamon, but the kobold scowled and shook his head.

"Let's stay here," Fiona suggested. She dropped her hand below the table and rested it on Rig's leg. "And let's stay alert."

"I don't like this place," the mariner said. "I'm only here because of you." His eyes wandered from the front door to the ogres and back to the beaded curtain, his jaw working tensely. "I don't like this at all."

Behind the curtain were a few large tables stained with blood and other unidentifiable substances. Dhamon climbed up on one of the cleanest ones and tugged free his shirt, revealing that the right side of his chest was a massive purple-black bruise.

Grim stood silent, his eyes fixed on the injury. Dhamon in turn inspected the ogre more closely. He was ancient, his pale skin covered with small wrinkles. The flesh sagged on his arms and around his jaws, giving him the visage of a bulldog. Veins were visible on his forehead, which was knitted in concentration. Only his hands looked smooth, seeming incongruous to the rest of his body. The nails were well manicured and not a speck of dirt was visible. A simple steel ring circled his right thumb. There was writing on it, but Dhamon couldn't make it out. There was an odor about the ogre that Dhamon found vaguely reminiscent of the hospital in Ironspike, but it was not near so pungent.

The half-elf was chattering softly to Dhamon and the ogre, though both were ignoring her. She climbed atop another table and sat watching the ogre shove Dhamon onto his back and inspect his ribs.

Grim prodded Dhamon's ribs and muttered in the ogre tongue-to himself, not his patient. Then he turned his attention to the scale, which he could see through Dhamon's tattered pants. The ogre curiously touched it and traced its edges, ran a thick fingernail down the silver line. Dhamon sat up and shook his head.

"There's nothing you can do for it," he explained. He tried the words again, in a broken ogre dialect.

But the ogre healer pressed him down on the table again, waggled a finger and pointed to Dhamon's lips indicating he should be quiet. Grim pulled a thin-bladed knife from a sheath on his back. When Dhamon realized the ogre intended to cut the pants off, he rolled away, wincing. He quickly undressed, placed his tattered clothes, satchel, and sword aside, again trying to explain about the scale while being pressed back on the table, harsher this time.

The ogre knew how to handle difficult patients, and he made Dhamon feel vulnerable and uncomfortable as he continued his brusque examination, which must have taken at least half an hour and included ogling the diamond that dangled from the thong on Dhamon's neck. Then he made a clacking sound. Reaching into one of the many pockets in his patched robe, he tugged free a root and snapped it, letting the juice dribble onto Dhamon's chest where he smeared it into a pattern.

The clacking continued and became primitively musical as his long, knobby fingers worked over the obvious wounds and bruises, always returning to the scale. The ministrations reminded Dhamon of Jasper Fireforge, who had healed him more times than he cared to count. Jasper's work had seemed much more caring, however, the actions of the ogre healer were uniform and practiced, yet detached and sometimes almost harsh.

Dhamon fervently wished either Maldred was here or that he, himself, was elsewhere. Then he felt a warmth begin to flow through him. It wasn't the painful sensation associated with the dragon's scale, however, but one similar to the relaxing calm he had felt when Jasper tended him. The ogre stopped his clacking and welcomed Maldred, who had arrived, and who had quite a mastery of the strange language. Dhamon started to drift off toward sleep when the pain intensified all of a sudden. The ogre healer was tugging at Dhamon's scale.