When the pass of Ening’s Garth was visible, Cyrene stopped their progress altogether, dragged Harathes off, and had a muted but furious argument with him behind a rock, giving the rest of them the chance to rest their feet. Although the two of them strove to keep their voices low, it was plain that Harathes was demanding that she banish Lothern, and that Cyrene was telling him that it was no business whatsoever of his. Listening, the ranger’s face darkened incrementally, while Dion and Lief looked anywhere but at him, and tried desperately to pretend that they could hear none of it.

When they did finally reach Ening’s Garth, they were all glad of it. The walled town squatted in its rock-walled pass like a toad, and under normal circumstances even those who lived there were not particularly keen to see it. Their journey had become, for various reasons, a training ground for awkward silences, however, and the chance for various of their band to avoid one anothers’ company for a short while obviously outweighed the generally insalubrious nature of their surroundings.

The chief difference for Nth between Shogg’s Ford, of unfond memory, and this new place, was that Ening’s Garth was mostly built of stone, was larger, and contained far more humans, all of which contributed to his feeling even less welcome there. It was an unnatural place, and he had no sense that a single inhabitant particularly wanted to be there. They were all packed inside the grasp of those high walls for incomprehensible reasons relating to commerce, or so he gathered from the conversation of Lief and the others. Ening’s Garth was a means to an end.

Penthos had announced himself as an intimate of the place and located, after a few false starts, an inn he lauded as not being too filthy, and catering to discerning magical visitors such as himself. Nobody else found this description overtly endearing, but they filed into the place nonetheless. It was built into the side of the pass, with the majority of its rooms entirely windowless and illuminated by pale orbs that floated unsupported near the ceiling.

“Like a bloody cave,” was Lief’s assessment, “and it stinks of magic.”

Penthos gave him an arch look. “And you’d have a sensitivity for magic?”

“It has floating lights, and that bloke over in the corner is wearing a crown of glowing ice, and his mate’s got the head of a parrot. I don’t think you need to be Grand Archmage Woddleflot to pick up the delicate scent of magic.”

The magician stared at him for slightly too long for any spontaneity, and then came back lamely with, “And are you implying that there is something disagreeable with the smell of magic? I’d warrant it’s practically fragrant compared to some.”