“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?”
“No.” The centaur pawed at the ground. “So which wizards beat me out of your best stock?”
“The Zulkir of Alteration, Maligor, got the best of them, or rather his woman did. A young Red Wizard near the market bought quite a few, too. He’s still here. I can introduce you.”
The centaur looked across the pens and spotted a scarlet-robed man eyeing the group of slave families. “No. But I am curious about Maligor. Where can I find him?”
The slaver laughed hard enough to make all the painted eyes on his head wiggle animatedly. He slapped his hand against a bony hip and stared up at Wynter.
“Now, I don’t know anyone who wants to find a wizard as powerful as Maligor, at least anyone who works on a slave plantation—especially when the wizard seems to be up to something.” The eyes eventually stopped quivering, and the slaver scratched a spot on his head above one of the eyestalks. The design remained unaltered; it was a permanent tattoo.
“Maybe I have some pleasure slaves to sell him,” Wynter said, deepening his voice and making the conversation instantly somber. “Where can I find this woman or one of his other agents? And do you know what he’s up to?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. I mind my own business. Too bad your daddy hasn’t taught you to mind yours. If you want to find one of his agents, look in the Gold Dragon Inn. You’ll have to wait outside. They don’t let centaurs in no matter how much gold they have. Maligor’s people usually have a thorny vine tattooed around their necks. Looks like a collar, and I promise you that Maligor keeps them on a tight leash.”
The slaver glanced over his shoulder at the wizard scrutinizing the slaves in the pen. “Now, if you’re not going to buy anything…” He smiled broadly, grabbed the centaur’s hand and shook it firmly, then moved toward the young Red Wizard.
Wynter peered across the slave pens at all the doleful expressions of the occupants. He knew that slavery existed in other pockets of Faerûn, but nowhere was it more blatant than in Thay, and in no other country were there more slaves than free men. He reached inside his money pouch and felt the coins, then trotted determinedly toward the slaver.
Galvin and Brenna neared the place where they had left Wynter. The number of people on the streets was dwindling, and the druid was feeling more at ease—until they turned a corner and he saw the centaur leading five dwarves by ropes.
“Damn!” Galvin cursed softly, running toward Wynter. Brenna hurried to catch up, but her new dress made running awkward.
“What are you doing?” the druid fumed, glaring up into the centaur’s face. “Don’t tell me you bought these slaves!”
“I had to,” Wynter replied.
“No. No, you didn’t. This is just great, Wyn.”
Brenna caught up with the Harpers and tugged on Galvin’s arm. “Take it easy, Galvin. It’s done now.”
Galvin glanced down at the dwarves. They were dirty and haggard-looking, and the ends of their snarled beards were tucked under the ropes tied about their waists. The clothes they wore were too big—discarded human outfits, no doubt. Healthy dwarves would have had too much girth for the clothes, but these were obviously malnourished.