Lisandro isn’t Chelish. He’s visibly a bit uncomfortable with this part. Just reading a pamphlet and avoiding eye contact with everyone. 

“You ready?”

"Yes." They hand a bottle of air to the first slave in line; that reduces the time pressure somewhat, but Marc is still worried that this will somehow go to shit and wants to get it done as quickly as possible. They open the bag, and then the overseer cracks his whip again, and they start marching in, eerily disappearing from view.

Then the overseer picks up the bag, itself as heavy as one of the halflings, takes Valet's hand in his, and Marc holds Valet's other hand, and reaches out to Lisandro.

Lisandro reaches out, and,

teleport

hey wait this isn’t Absalom

What-

"Oops, spell misfired. Right in the customs office too, ouch."

So we'll be searching that bag of holding now.

He knows how to handle rowdy slips. He doesn't know how to handle armed guards. He mutely hands over the bag.

He's complained about Andoran enough times to recognize the flag, even if he's never seen one in person before.

"You bastard!"

Valet has heard Marc complain about Andoran enough times to recognize the flag as well.

"Please, the bag," he says hurriedly. "Let them out."

"Bastard? I'll cop to Mad Foreign Wizard, but my parents are both from a nice village a few miles from here." Slipping back into his Andoran dialect, though by this point it feels less natural to him than the Absalom accent.

Right. This is a rescue. He's bantering and there's people just stuffed in his bag right now.

"There's air in there and the bag can invert safely. Make some space."

People clear out. A few guards stay looming very close. Don't no one get any ideas.

The official searching the bags turns it out and the room is suddenly quite crowded.

Marc is not good at getting ideas. He is good at deploying capital such that it increases, or at least, he was. He knew he was ruined, but not this ruined. He was going to start over...

Well, Hell is the destruction of hope. "Just kill me already," he says sullenly. He's not excited to learn about Andorani torture.

A halfling trusted enough to prepare your food unsupervised is generally a halfling trusted enough to carry a dagger to defend you with. He goes straight for the heart before the guard can do anything about it.

Not who I expected, but I'll take it.

He slumps to the ground.

Well then.

Good for him!

Oh no, the slaver got stabbed by one of his victims before we could have a trial. Oh no, there's so many halflings here we can't pick out which one had the dagger. How terrible.

Guess all that's left to do is drag the corpse outta here. Drag that overseer guy outta here too, we have questions for him.

One other thing left to do. This is always a bit awkward.

"So, hello all. Sorry about the bag. And, uh, welcome to Andoran, you're free men and women now."

The bag was a little traumatizing, but they vastly prefer this destination!

"Thank you," he says sincerely for the group. "What should we call you? Mad foreign wizard?"

"Mad Foreign Wizard, of course, and you all are most welcome." 

"l'll be out of here by midnight, but I can try to find out where you all can stay and how to get you all signed up as Citizens, first."

Mad knows where the jewels are in the sleeves, and manages to get the shirt and purse away from the guards before they find them. Split thirty ways, it might be enough to get them on their feet. The deeds and papers he'll hold onto until he can figure out what they're worth.

They don't have names, not real ones. If they're going to be citizens, they have to decide which nickname they want to stick with, or which name they think is prettiest. His choice is easy.