Red Magic

The druid was preparing a poultice from the herbs, but he was having difficulty keeping it dry. Galvin was usually unmindful of the rain, seeking cover from it only in the fiercest storms. Usually he reveled in it, enjoying the sensation as the water splashed over his skin. Now, however, he simply tolerated it.

Wynter began to dig a hole to bury the hedgehog. "We're not taking one step toward Thay until you're well," he stated firmly.

"I'll be fine by tomorrow," Galvin grunted. He considered himself in charge of this expedition, and he wasn't about to take orders from a centaur. He watched Wynter place the charred hedgehog into the earth and build a small mound over it. Satisfied the creature was at rest, the druid returned to his soaked backpack and lay down beside it. He quickly fell into a deep, troubled sleep.

It was dark when Galvin awoke. The moon and stars shone overhead, and the druid cursed himself for sleeping most of the day away. He felt the ground around his hands; the grass was dry, the earth only slightly damp. He ran his hands over his clothes-they, too, were dry. He cursed himself again, realizing his first guess was wrong-he had slept for more than a day and a half. His shoulder felt sore, but not nearly as bad as before. The herb poultice had healed it considerably. He flexed his fingers and rotated his shoulder. The numbness was gone.

Reasonably healed, the druid knew he would be able to travel. He stretched on the ground and was debating taking Bre

"It won't help my political career any to go jaunting off into Thay as a spy," he heard Bre

"But if we uncover some plot against Aglarond, you'll be a hero," Wynter commented.

"Perhaps, but I think the negatives will outweigh it. Do you have any interest in politics?"

"I don't, and I don't care to," Wynter countered. "But I do know something about people. And-" there was a lengthy pause as Galvin strained to hear what came next- "you're going to have to find some other way to gain fame. Galvin says you're staying behind, and I trust his judgment. Thay's a harsh place-no place for you. I know. I was born there."

Galvin sat up to watch the pair. Bre

"Can you keep up with us?" Galvin asked.

She looked through the centaur's legs at the druid and nodded emphatically.

The druid glanced up at Wynter. "We leave at dawn."

The centaur gri

Galvin frowned, hoping desperately that he hadn't made a mistake by allowing Bre

Three

Maligor reclined on a crimson-dyed leather divan in the center of his immense bath chamber, his head resting on a green silk pillow recently imported from Shou Lung. Although he was thin and stood only about five and a half feet tall, he looked large on the couch; he chose his furniture to make himself appear imposing. A half-dozen of his favorite pleasure slaves attended him. Two, who had been born on Maligor's slave plantation and were hardly more than children, massaged his feet, applying expensive, musky oils. The scent was sweet and heavy and permeated the air. Another pair, blond twin sisters kidnapped by pirates from their sea captain father in Orlumbor, worked diligently to manicure and polish his hard yellow nails. The fifth, the eldest of the human slave women, a buxom twenty-year-old from Ravens Bluff, sat on a stack of pillows near his right shoulder. Slowly rubbing a damp cloth across his forehead with one hand, she used the other to gently run a sharp blade over his temples and across the top of his head, shaving the fine stubble growing there. She took extreme care not to cut him; her predecessor had died horribly in the laboratory several days ago for just such an offense.

The women wore sheer, colorful fabrics that left nothing to Maligor's imagination. He dressed all of his female slaves thus to prevent them from hiding weapons that could be turned against him. The women's hair extended to the middle of their backs, while the children's hung about their shoulders. It was an indication they had been slaves for many years. However, the sixth slave, an elven woman in a short, rose-hued gauze tunic, had silvery-white hair that reached barely below the lobes of her pointed ears. Maligor had owned this prize only a few months. She sat apart from the group near a black iron cage filled with finches. Strumming an ebonwood lyre, she sang a mournful old elvish tune that Maligor could not understand. The Red Wizard usually enjoyed her music. Tonight, however, he found the tune a

The wizard owned more than eight hundred slaves, a considerable stable. Most were male laborers who worked at various tasks around his properties. Several dozen were warriors and sailors who had been captured in nearby countries. Fewer still were slave women who attended to his needs. He continually added to his stable, as the Red Wizard needed a steady supply of slaves to replace those who died of overwork, old age, or, more likely, because of his malicious magical experiments.

There were few Red Wizards who owned more slaves than Maligor. Slaves made up about two-thirds of the country's population and were considered one of Thay's major imports. Maligor prided himself on having some of the most exquisite slaves.

This evening, however, his pleasure slaves were doing little to please him. The Red Wizard's mind was elsewhere, concentrating on another woman-the one he had seen before his darkenbeast died. Maligor still puzzled over her. He had sent the darkenbeast after an errant gnoll guard, yet through his telepathic link with the darkenbeast, he had picked up no trace of the gnoll-only the red-tressed beauty.

The woman was confounding. If she was in Thay, she might be a slave because of her long hair. But she was not one of Maligor's. Perhaps she was the slave of another Red Wizard, the same one who had solicited the services of the missing gnoll. Perhaps she herself was a Red Wizard-but if she was, why had the darkenbeast attacked her? And what had happened to the gnoll?

Maligor pursed his lips, causing the slave shaving him to tremble. Continuing to puzzle over the matter will do little good, he thought. The gnoll, wherever he is, knows nothing of my real plans. But the woman… who is she? Where is she?

"Finished, my lord," the buxom slave a

Maligor eyed her sternly and ran his hand over his head to inspect her handiwork. He watched her bottom lip quiver and her face grow pale in fear that her performance was less than satisfactory. For a moment, he was tempted to find fault with her, then decided to be uncommonly kind.

"It is barely adequate, but it will do for tonight. Tomorrow make sure you do better."

Visibly relieved, she rose and joined the elven woman. The other slaves continued their tasks. Maligor stared past them to the blackness beyond the room's small windows. It was late, and from his position all he could see was a small section of sky and a few tiny stars, the bottom claw of the Malar constellation. He pulled his thoughts away from the dead darkenbeast, pondering instead what was transpiring under the stars in Amruthar at this moment. At least he would know about that within a few hours, as he had informers stationed in several taverns and on select street corners to pick up gossip. Maligor enjoyed the ability to keep track of most of the city's seedy activities without leaving the safety of his fortified tower.