Douglas Niles: Wizards' Conclave

“This wyrmling is a true treasure!” hawked a fat merchant dressed in bright silk robes. He waddled back and forth before the cage, gesturing broadly to the onlookers and potential buyers who had gathered hesitantly before him. “Don’t be afraid, good citizens of Neraka—his wings are immobilized by my spells of containment. Not to mention a coil of good steel wire! No, he shall not be released until I give the command.

“For now, it is enough for you to know that the bidding is about to commence! Who is to lay a claim to this unique and terrible beast? A claim paid in steel, with ownership guaranteed. Enough steel, a clever and timely bid, and you could take this rare creature home with you today!”

“What would anyone want with an evil brute like that? Why, it would snap your head off at the first chance!” snapped one bearded man, a tall fellow who had come over from his own booth where he had been attempting to sell pots of stinking brews. “These good customers would be better off buying a good, honest potion!”

“Bah!” The fat merchant waved off his rival. “True, you would have no use for the serpent, since you have nothing of value to protect! But for one who counts a vault or an armory among his possessions… or a dungeon, a fortress of ancient might… a secluded bastion, or an idyllic retreat? For one who has such a place to protect, this creature would make a splendid guardian! Bound by magic, it is, sworn to the service of the one I appoint. It will not bite your head off, unless you should give it that very command, fool! It is my true power, the spell of command I have placed upon the creature, that holds its power—not in check—but to place it at the owner’s beck and call.”

“I offer five hundred steel for the beast!”

The bidder was an old man, known to all as the primary agent for the caliph. That ancient ruler, wealthy beyond belief, was known to keep a harem of young maidens secluded in his mountaintop palace. Now nearing his dotage, his jealousy was fabled, and such a beast would surely prove to be a deterrent to any but the most determined of amorous adventurers.

The merchant’s eyes flashed momentarily at this initial, respectable bid, then clouded with an expression of bemused disappointment. “Why, the collar alone—proof of the potent spells holding the wyrm in bondage—cost me nearly a thousand,” declared the fat seller in injured tones. “Know that the ring around the creature’s neck is the key to its bondage and obedience, a treasure of magic unavailable anywhere else upon Krynn. So, good citizens, worthy buyers, the bidding shall commence at twice the cost of that collar—two thousand steel pieces, for the most potent turnkey any jailer could require! Do I have a serious opening bid?”

“Two thousand, then!” cried the agent for the caliph.

“Two thousand five!” came another bid, this one from the slender cleric of a mysterious temple north of the city. His body was wrapped in a black robe, and his head—utterly hairless, even missing brows and eyelashes—gleamed in the desert sun. He cast the caliph’s buyer a look of contempt, and that worthy noble all but sputtered out his reply, raising the thousands to three.

The robed figure meanwhile stood in the forefront, unnoticed by anyone in the crowd—which began to jeer and cheer as the bidding accelerated—and scrutinized the dragon, especially that allegedly enchanted collar. After several minutes, in apparent disinterest, the cloaked one stepped back with a barely audible sigh. The pair of intriguing eyes, wide and dark, with long lashes marked by a gentle shade of henna, turned to inspect the other booths and tents that made up this section of the vibrant market.

One hand, a woman’s hand with several pretty rings—a hand that displayed the strength of maturity, apparent in a few wrinkles and lines of age, and tempered by the vanity visible in long, crimson-dyed fingernails—pulled a little of the robe aside from her face, enough to allow a breath of dry air to penetrate. But she was careful not to reveal too much of her features, nor to let any of the sellers or buyers look directly into those eyes.

They were mostly men, here, on both sides of the counters. The most visible females were in the slave quarter of the market, which was off in one corner. The masked woman could see these miserable wenches, dressed in filmy robes, huddled together in a pathetic lot. One of them was being dragged forward by her owner. Forced to climb the steps to a lofty platform, she was then paraded about, encouraged by the lash of a whip, followed by the prod of a blade, when she moved too slowly. Her owner pulled the robe away just enough to display the quality of the flesh underneath. Depending on the attractive nature of that flesh, the bidding would commence lethargically, or in frenzy.

The masked woman stared in contempt for a few moments but turned her eyes away from the slave quarter, knowing she would not find what she sought there. Instead she briefly scrutinized the bubbling potions at the alchemist’s cart, leaning down to sniff, to stare, even probing here and there with those well-manicured fingers, touching and tasting. The vender, drawn by the bidding around the black dragon, had temporarily left his cart under the eyes of a hulking swordsman. That swordsman watched dully, without interfering, as the figure inspected each one of the dozen or so vials on display. The guard shrugged with boredom as finally the woman, unimpressed, pulled her robe tightly across her face and strode away.

She came next to a table shaded by a large awning, staked with flaps that extended nearly to the ground behind and to either side. Several men sat there on an elaborate rug, sharing a pipe between them. One, the hawk-faced vender, looked up at the woman and scowled. “We are discussing the sale of enchanted weapons here,” he snapped. “Do not offer us the ill favor of a woman’s presence during such manful talk!”

Ignoring him, the masked stranger stepped past the men to stand before a table where four swords lay beside their jeweled scabbards. Each blade gleamed slightly, casting just enough of a glow to be discernible in the shadows under the awning.

“Those are priceless treasures!” squawked the seller, bounding angrily to his feet, confronting the unwanted visitor. “You defile them with your very eyes!”

The woman sniffed loudly, the sound of contempt drawing the seller’s eyes to narrow slits of fury. “How dare you—!”

He reached as if to seize her wrist then froze in reaction to something he detected in the woman’s eyes, the only part of her visible through the masking robe. His face suddenly went pale, and he took a step away.

The woman flipped her hand above the four swords, a gesture of disdain. A gust of wind puffed across the table, sweeping a cloud of sparkles into the air. She turned to look at the other three men seated on the floor, all of whom had been watching the confrontation with narrow-eyed intensity.

“Faerie dust,” she said contemptuously. “He could make his own nose glow, if he patted it onto his face. These blades aren’t magic—and this scum wouldn’t know a magic sword if it pierced his black heart.”

“Eh?” One of the men was already on his feet, a heavy scimitar appearing in his hands as if by his own brand of magic. He waved it at the vendor while he examined the table. The four blades sparkled a bit, but so did the wood and the sleeve of the seller’s robe where it had been near the dust.

“How did you know that?” demanded the scimitar-swordsman, but the woman had already left the tent. He showed no inclination to follow. Instead, with his two fellows, he closed in upon the cringing merchant.

Through still more booths she made her way, increasing impatience visible in her haste, and in the momentary carelessness that let the masking robe fall away to expose a smooth jaw, a curving cheek. One of the vigilant guards, seeing this, moved jerkily toward her, ready to rebuke this disgraceful display of flesh, but one reproving look from those blue eyes reminded him of some other, very pressing, business in the opposite direction.