A big man, he beamed down at Challie and tousled her hair. “Quite a cruise, eh?” He chuckled.
Although Chalcedony was a head shorter than Lucy, she was older than Ulin and Lucy combined and she did not appreciate big people who treated her like a child. With quiet dignity she drew back from the captain’s reach and gave him a glare fierce enough to melt the brass on his buttons.
Captain Tethlin never noticed. “So, Ulin, are you staying in Sanction? Do you plan to meet the lord governor?”
Ulin had considered introducing himself to the city’s governor, Lord Bight, simply for curiosity’s sake. Linsha had described Hogan Bight in such glowing terms that Ulin had to admit he was intrigued by the man who had roused such loyal friendship in his sister. But while Linsha had told him about Sanction and its governor, she had never explained to his satisfaction what she was doing there for the Solamnic Knights or why she had had to leave Sanction so precipitously. Perhaps it would be better to leave that stone unturned. He decided, too, to stay anonymous. Challie had told him they would have to travel to Flotsam with the Khurs, and the Majere name was well known and would not be welcome among the Khurish merchants and traders that ran their caravans to Khuri-Khan and Flotsam. The Khur tribes were known to deal with the Knights of Neraka and their ilk and would not hesitate to kidnap or murder.
A brief shake of his head answered the captain’s question. “We’ll look for a caravan going east.”
“That won’t be easy. Very few get out of Sanction past the Knights of Neraka. Their blockades are growing stronger by the day. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they close off this port within a week or two. We were lucky to get through this time.” He stroked his beard with a callused hand. “You ought to follow those bales of wool.” He pointed to where several sailors were hauling the bales of wool fleeces onto the dock. “They’re going to Garzan the rug maker in the Souk Bazaar. He has managed to send out caravans several times this year. If he can’t help you, maybe he’ll know someone who can.” Tethlin shook Ulin’s hand, bowed over Lucy’s, and waved to Challie. “Farewell and good luck to you!” he called, already hurrying back to work.
The three stood in the corridor with their bags and packs and stared at each other. They had been so occupied after the storm they had not had time to discuss the details of making arrangements in Sanction.
“Where to?” Ulin asked Challie.
“His information is as good as mine,” replied the dwarf. “I talked to Garzan about a caravan when I was here last month. We will speak to him.”
“Lunch first,” suggested Lucy. “After two days of keeping my head in a bucket, I’m starving.”
Ulin agreed. “Lunch it is. We’ll find an inn, leave our bags, and go look for Challie’s rug merchant.”
“And the Souk Bazaar,” added Challie. “We’ll need a tent, some clothes suitable for the desert, and provisions for the trip: weapons, probably horses …” She strode purposefully for the gangplank.
Ulin and Lucy exchanged a humorous glance and hurried after her.
From the Long Dock they were directed to Shipmaker’s Road, the main east-west road that bisected the city from the teeming harbor district to the huge guard camp on the eastern side. Along the road, they were told, they could find everything they needed, from inns and taverns to shops and the Souk Bazaar.
Just outside the towering city wall they found a small inn named the Brimming Barrel that offered good beer, hot meals, and a few clean rooms. The innkeeper was a retired guardsman who kept the inn more for his pleasure than necessity and strove to ensure his customers were as comfortable as he. While Ulin, Lucy, and Challie ate their midday meal, the keeper answered their questions about Sanction and filled them in on the latest news about the siege.
“The Solamnics,” he grumbled. He rubbed a towel over a clean tankard and slid it down the bar to join a line of others. “They’ve been here over six months now and damned all they’ve done so far. Lord Bight called ’em to help after the Knights of Neraka stepped up their attacks on the eastern fortifications. At first we thought they’d sweep in, kick the Dark Knights out of here, and save the day.” He made a rude noise. “All they want to do is sit on their armored backsides and ‘study the situation.’ Lord Bight must be ready to burst a blood vessel.”
Ulin remembered something else his sister mentioned about Sanction. “Whatever happened to the bronze dragon that saved the city during the plague?”
The innkeeper shook his grizzled head. “Haven’t seen it in a long time. Word around town is the dragon’s dead, probably killed by that black bitch, Sable.” He broke off to polish another tankard. “Too bad. We could really use that dragon about now.”
After their meal the three travelers left their cloaks and bags behind and walked out onto Shipmaker’s Road. Sanction had one of the most diverse populations in Ansalon, and every one of its inhabitants seemed to be out in the streets. The paved thoroughfares thronged with carts, wagons, horses, and draft animals. Pedestrians and peddlers, hawkers and laborers crowded the wooden sidewalks. City Guards in their scarlet uniforms patrolled the docks and alleys and walked on the high city wall, while squads of Solamnic Knights marched through the busy streets.
Following the innkeeper’s advice, Ulin and the women made their way through the traffic to the Souk Bazaar and the waymeet of the north-south road. There they turned onto the Street of Weavers that bordered the southern edge of the great square.
Garzan the rug maker had a large shop at the Souk Bazaar and a warehouse on the south side of the city. He was a prosperous merchant, able to afford a warehouse on the inside of the city wall and a large contingent of laborers, haulers, drivers, and guards. What he lacked on that particular afternoon was a cook. His caravan was almost ready to depart, but the night before his cook had enjoyed one too many flagons of ale at his favorite tavern, tripped over a kender trying to “borrow” his purse, and fallen hard against the stone-flagged floor. His subsequent broken arm and concussion had left him unable to fulfill his duties.
Garzan was livid.
By the time the noon sun poured golden light across the smoking volcanoes, everyone in the Souk Bazaar knew Garzan was looking for an experienced cook who could leave the next day. Few thought he’d find one.
Lucy, Ulin, and Challie heard the news shortly after they walked into the rug merchant’s shop. Garzan was there, talking to his overseer at the top of his substantial lungs.
“The fool fell over a kender. A kender! Can you believe it? Drunk as a farmer on mushroom spirits. If he survives the blow to his head, I just might throttle him and finish the business.” Garzan stood behind the board that served as a display table and counter. Rolled rugs lay in stacks about him while others hung like tapestries on the walls or lay in piles on the tables around the big room. A second man stood beside him, his dark bearded face thunderous.
“Where will I find another cook so quickly?” Garzan continued. He brought a meaty fist down on the board with a crash. Suddenly he saw Ulin and his companions, and anger evaporated from his face to be replaced by a large smile. A Khur by birth, Garzan was a stocky man with swarthy skin, black hair to his shoulders, and mustaches of impressive length. His mercurial temper was known to all who dealt with him, as was his habit to drive hard bargains.
“A pleasant afternoon, good people. What may I do to help you? Would you like to see a rug?” he offered, waving an expansive hand at his wares.
Challie bowed her head in greeting. “I am Chalcedony of Flotsam. It is not rugs that bring us to see your inestimable self, my good sir, but fleeces.”