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Within the pavilion's fourth side were the counting ta-
bles, and there Wingover found Rogar Goldbuckle. The
trader raised a bushy eyebrow at sight of the human and
said, "Well, it looks to me as though you are still alive.
Did you give up the idea of going to Pax Tharkas by way
of the wilderness?"
"Give up, nothing," Wingover chuckled. "I've been
there and back, and I'm ready to collect on our wager.
But first, it will cost you a mug of ale to hear about it,
Rogar Goldbuckle. And none of your trade swill, either.
Bring out your own supply."
"Trade swill indeed!" the dwarf snapped. "I handle
nothing but the finest, and each barrel better than the
rest."
Despite this claim, though, Rogar Goldbuckle brought
out his own stock and led the man to a quiet corner
where there was a table and benches. He poured golden
ale into a pair of fine silver goblets, and for a time they
sat together in silence, enjoying the potent beverage.
Only when Wingover had drained his goblet and licked
his whiskers in appreciation did the dwarf get down to
business. 'You promised proof," Goldbuckle said. "What
kind of proof do you offer?"
With a wink, Wingover slid his pack from beneath his
bench, hoisted it, and set it on the plank table between
them. "Check the seal," he said
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