"In case of what?" the proprietor quipped.

In case I'm stuck in Amruthar for awhile, Galvin thought. But he kept the thought to himself.

"All right," the man sighed, dropping the parchment with a flourish and escorting Galvin down another aisle of clothes.

The druid emerged from the shop wearing his second purchase, consisting of light brown pants with a voluminous-sleeved ivory shirt over the top and a cloak. The cloak was rather elaborate-green trimmed with a lighter green embroidery. Its suede collar was dyed green and pinned together by a simple iron clasp in the shape of an owl's head. Galvin actually liked the outfit, even though the two changes of clothes had cost him all of his coins. He suspected that the proprietor had charged him too much, but he knew better than to argue.

He waited outside the women's shop for several minutes, catching admiring glances from several Thayvian women who passed by and feeling increasingly ill at ease. One woman stopped to demand directions. She had a pleasant voice and obviously seemed to know where she was going, but Galvin avoided her attempt at conversation and began pacing nervously in front of the shop window. Eventually Brenna came out in a midnight blue dress trimmed with light blue lace that fit her tightly from neck to hips, then flared out to hang a few inches above the ground. Like Galvin, she carried a package under her arm. The druid eyed the bundle and guessed there were two or three dresses in it.

"Nice," she said, giving Galvin the once-over. "Good taste. Find out anything while you were in there?"

The druid shook his head.

"Well, I found out that Maligor has an army in the woods. A bunch of gnolls." Brenna seemed pleased with herself and noted Galvin's surprised expression. "Women gossip," she explained. "But the women in the shop didn't know what the army's for."

Smugly nodding across the street, the sorceress added, "Want a bath?" Just then the bald shopkeeper closed and locked the door of the men's store behind them and put up a "closed" sign. The shops were starting to shut down for the day, and that meant they would have to meet Wynter soon.

They scampered across the street, sidestepping the patrons emerging from the bathhouse cleaned and perfumed. The bathhouse windows were fogged, and the scent of soap greeted them as they hurried inside.

After Brenna vouched for the behavior of her slave, they were led into a large room. Steam drifted upward from a dozen large, waist-high wooden tubs, two of which were occupied. The room was divided, one side for women, the other for men.

Brenna waltzed away from Galvin, and an attendant herded the druid to a tub in the back of the room. Galvin noted there were no other slaves here.

The attendant held out his arm for Galvin's clothes, and the druid quickly turned around. Carefully removing his Harper neck chain and stuffing it discreetly into a pocket, he discarded his clothes and climbed several steps. Settling into the tub, he gasped at the unaccustomed heat. Slowly he eased himself into the water, watching his flesh turn pink from the hot liquid. He glanced over the side of the tub, determined to discover what made the water so warm.

"Problem?" the attendant asked, as he handed Galvin a cake of yellow-tinged soap.

The druid shook his head and grabbed the soap, noting it smelled earthy and rather pleasant. Watching a pudgy bald man in a nearby tub, Galvin imitated him, rubbing the cake up and down his arms, then submerging himself to rinse off the lather. The druid found he was getting used to the warm water, and he enjoyed the sensation.

Across the room, he caught a glimpse of Brenna slipping into a smaller tub. Her pale skin shone through the steam, and the druid found himself staring at her. He knew that some city residents cloaked themselves in modesty, but in this bathhouse, people didn't seem to worry.

The sorceress dipped her face into the water, scrubbing at her forehead. Holding her breath, she sank into the recesses of the tub and emerged to spot the druid staring at her.

They left the bathhouse a half-hour later, cleaned and perfumed. Brenna had new designs painted on her head-a curved-bladed dagger and the symbol of Malar, the Beast Lord. Refreshed, they sauntered toward the slave pens.

"That wasn't too bad," Galvin admitted, angry at himself for not thinking of their spying mission while delighting in his bath.

Brenna tittered and Galvin reddened, then glanced down the street to hide his embarrassment. The slave market was only a few more blocks away.

She tugged at his sleeve.

Galvin turned and looked at her. The last rays of the sun glinted off her polished scalp and reflected warmly in her eyes. He found himself staring again.

"You're supposed to walk behind me, remember?" she said. The folds of her dress swished softly as she passed by the druid, chin tilted toward the rooftops.

Wynter's childhood rushed at him as the centaur toured the slave pens. Nearly four dozen slaves milled about the largest pen; these were not prime stock and could be bartered for. There were four other pens. One contained women who were too fat, too old, or too ugly to be used for pleasure slaves, but could work well as domestic servants.

Another, the closest, was filled with young men, obviously laborers. The third was crowded with families-at least the slavers were trying to sell them as units. The fourth held dwarves, halflings, and children. There were no elves for sale today.

Wynter eyed the stock, remembering how his father had examined slaves. The conditions in the pens looked as deplorable as when he had visited the markets in his youth. The slaves were allowed no privacy, could not talk long to each other without the guards fearing they were plotting to escape. They wore very little clothing. Potential buyers didn't want the merchandise concealed. Wynter saw that about a dozen of the young laborers had fresh whip marks on their backs, the blood glistening in the fading sunlight.

"Can I help you today?" a tall, young man called as he came toward the centaur. The man wore a leather tunic that was much too large for his lanky frame, and he carried a whip at his side. His bald head bore an unusual tattoo made to look like a beholder. His skull served as the monster's body, with many eye stalks painted in a ring around his head. The creature's central eye was painted on the man's forehead.

"Just looking. A poor selection, it seems to me."

"That's because you're shopping late," the man replied matter-of-factly, fingering the whip. When he smiled, the beholder's central eye rode up on his forehead. "We had a big auction this morning, and a few of the wizards bought the best of the lot. There're still some good ones left. Depends what you're interested in. You can have the dwarves cheap."

The man gestured, and the slaves moved closer so the centaur could get a better look. One scarred young man glared at the slaver. The slaver returned the stare and flicked his wrist, the whip snaking out from his hand and striking the man in the cheek, drawing blood.

"I was interested in quantity-a few dozen to work the fields near Thaymount," Wynter interjected, hoping to keep the slaver occupied so he wouldn't whip any more slaves. "I'm the chief buyer for a slave plantation there."

The man whipped the slave again, harder this time, then grinned at Wynter. "You've traveled a long way." His expression caused the beholder's central eye to rest about an inch above the bridge of his nose. "The best of the lot are gone. Sorry to disappoint you. You must be from the Agri Plantation. You work for Blackland Ironhoof?"

Wynter's dark eyes narrowed. "He's my father."

"Long time since someone from that plantation's been here. Heard you're doing all your buying from Eltabar lately. Heard you have a good breeding program, too." The slaver kept up the conversation, not noticing the centaur's unease. "Yep, biggest plantation in northern Thay. Eltabar running low on slaves?"