Well Arlet It was close to mid-meal, bright and hot, when we neared the Arletian gate. The road was thronged with vendors and merchants and traders, for it was market day in the Inner Well. Arletians disdain uniformity of dress, and the crowd in the large U-shaped court of stalls was a riot of color—shifting, swirling, clashing primaries. Laughter and hawkers’ spiels and raucous cries drifted between the towering metal gates toward us as we threaded our way between the mounted and pedestrian, tourists and the locals, star-traders and pelters down from the hills. The feeling of holiday was strong around us, and the Slayers were much affected. They fidgeted and joked, speculating on the delights they planned to purchase under the Well’s copper-scaled roof. “Would you sup with me tonight? The hospitality of the Liaison Second’s house can be stretched to include four more.” Dellin’s words were for Ganrom. “I would not test my welcome there, my friend, by including Slayers in your party.
