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"I see the Inn of the Flying Pigs is still in business,"
Wingover noted. "I'll be there when I've done my busi-
ness."
"I'll be around." The elf nodded and started on his way.
"Give my regards to Goldbuckle."
Some travelers were staring in fascination at the three
pigs above the inn. On Rapping wings, they saiied about
in lazy circles and figure-eights, as cheerfully content
with their lot as any pig with wings might be.
Wingover grinned at a gaping newcomer. "The inn-
keeper did a favor for a wizard once. No one knows
what it was, or who the spellcaster was, but the wizard
repaid him by making that unique sign to advertise his
place. The pigs fly around up there every afternoon for a
few hours, and it's good for his business. Just be a bit
careful when you walk beneath them."
Wingover left his horse with a liveryman and made his
way to the pavilion of the mountain dwarf trader, Rogar
Goldbuckle.
The pavilion, with its red and yellow awnings, was
one of the largest in Barter, for Goldbuckle and his party
did most of the outside trading commissioned by the
Daewar merchants in Thorbardin. The pavilion was a
large rectangle, with tended stalls on three sides. There,
dwarves wearing Goldbuckle's colors offered the finest
of Thorbardin commodities - gemstones of many kinds,
pyrites and hewn stone, minerals in powder or granule
form, prized funguses famed for their taste, burning-
stone to fuel hearths in winter, huge varieties of hand-
carved trinkets and decorations, and - of course - some
of the finest arms and armor available anywhere in
Ansalon
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