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drawing it all in. “Is that the market?” she asked Natrac.
    He nodded then led them around a corner.
    A wide wooden plaza opened up before them, crowded with people of many races and alive with noise. Human merchants called out from stalls, declaring the freshness and potency of their products. Half-orc and orc farmers and gatherers sat among big baskets, trying to attract the attention of the traders who would buy their crops in bulk. Porters raced among the crowds, sacks and bales balanced atop their shoulders. Buyers strolled the paths of the market, shouting back at merchants and farmers and porters alike. At the center of the market, a round structure painted green and gold rose above the stalls—the shrine Natrac had mentioned, Dandra guessed.
    The astounding odor she had smelled before lay over everything, the mingled scent of innumerable herbs. “Amazing!” she whispered.
    What?
Tetkashtai demanded.
What is it?
    The presence could see and hear, but she had no sense of smell, only memories of it.
The market smells wonderful
, Dandra told her. She tried her best to communicate the odor, but Tetkashtai just scowled.
    A true kalashtar would find such an unsophisticated stink revolting
.
    Dandra had to work to keep her anger from showing on her face.
I like it
.
    Of course you do
, Tetkashtai said.
    Natrac led them across one side of the market. Both Dandra and Singe stared at the plant life displayed in the stalls they passed. Dandra had imagined the market would sell only leafyherbs, but instead all conceivable fragments of a seemingly infinite number of plants were on sale. Leaves of all shapes and sizes. Twigs. Stalks. Bark. Chips and slivers of wood. Flowers. Seeds. Roots. Fresh. Dried. Each stall was enveloped in its own particular scent as well: some peppery, some sweet, some acidic, some utterly foul.
    “Where do all of these come from?” asked Singe above the noise.
    “Some of the common ones are grown in villages around the city,” said Natrac, “but a lot are wild. Locals gather them, pool them, and send someone into Zarash’ak to sell. A few come from really deep in the Marches or are particularly rare.” He pointed to a merchant who was shaving slices off a big, hard stalk as if it were some kind of woody cheese. “That’s rotto stem. A piece that big probably earned whoever found it enough money to live off for two months.”
    “What’s it used for?”
    “You cook it in wine, then make a face cream out of it. It takes away wrinkles.”
    “Truly?”
    Natrac gave him a suffering glance. “No,” he said, “people pay a small fortune just for the pleasure of putting hot mush on their face.”
    Dandra looked around them. “Do you think the people who bring the herbs in from the deep Marches will be the best ones to ask about the Spires of the Forge?”
    “Not just them,” said Natrac. “Anyone who spends time in the wilds tends to congregate around here—especially members of House Tharashk. Dragonshard prospectors, herb scouts, and bounty hunters all have the same concerns when they’re in the wild and they like to share information.”
    He stopped in front of one of the buildings that faced onto the market. It looked strange to Dandra’s eyes—part tavern, part tea room. Through a window, she could see a mix of rough humans and half-orcs sipping gingerly from steaming mugs. “What kind of place is this?”
    “It’s a
gaeth’ad
house. You don’t find them much outside of the Shadow Marches. Just think of it as a tavern.” Natrac stepped up to the door. “Wait here. I may not be long.”
    He went inside. Dandra glanced at Singe. “What’s
gaeth’ad?”
    “The herbs from the Shadow Marches can do more than take away wrinkles,” the Aundairian told her.
“Gaeth’ad
is herb tea with a kick. A skilled
gaeth’ad
master can brew a custom tea that will make you feel however you want to. House Jorasco has hired masters to brew sedatives, but mostly
gaeth’ad
needs to be really