We could detect the familiar smell of Minoc long before we our smoothly cantering unnatural mounts brought us to the edge of the Gypsy encampment. Gay violet fabrics fluttered in the same cooling breeze that brought the scent of sausage and soot that permeates the Minoc region. With a silent act of collective will, Oak, Ash, and I trot almost silently onto the well-worn cobbles of my youth’s exotic destination.
“Dell, me BOY-O, hurry up! The Royal Guards’re on the way to Minoc. If they leave ye behind, ye’ll not be learnin a trade this summer!â€