touching it. 'It ain't catchin', is it?' He drew back. 'Not the plague?'
'Naw!' The warrior scowled. Leaning nearer the innkeeper, the big man said in a low voice, 'We've just come from the Tower of High Sorcery.' Slegart's eyes grew wide. 'He's just taken the Test…'
'Ah,' the innkeeper said knowingly, his gaze on the young mage not unsympathetic. 'I've seen many of 'em in my day. And I've seen many like yourself' — he looked at the big warrior — 'who have come here alone, with only a packet of clothes and a battered spellbook or two all that remains. Yer lucky, both of you, to have survived.'
The warrior nodded, though it didn't appear — from the haunted expression on his pale face and dark, pain- filled eyes — that he considered his luck phenomenal. Returning to his table, the warrior laid his hand on his brother's heaving shoulder, only to be rebuffed with a bitter snarl.
'Leave me in peace, Caramon!' Slegart heard the mage gasp as the innkeeper came to the table, bearing the ale and a pot of hot water on a tray. 'Your worrying will put me in my grave sooner than this cough!'
The warrior, Caramon, did not answer, but sat down in the booth opposite his brother, his eyes still shadowed with unhappiness and concern.
Setting down the tray, Slegart tried his best to see the face covered by the hood, but the mage was huddled near the fire, the red cowl pulled low over his eyes. The mage did not even look up as the innkeeper laid the table with an unusual amount of clattering of plates and knives and mugs. The young man simply reached into a pouch he wore tied to his belt and, taking a handful of leaves, handed them carefully to his brother.
'Fix my drink,' the mage ordered in a rasping voice, leaning wearily against the wall.
Slegart, watching all this intently, was considerably startled to note that the skin that covered the mage's slender hand gleamed a bright, metallic gold in the firelight!
The innkeeper tried for another glimpse of the mage's face, but the young man drew back even farther into the shadows, ducking his head and pulling the cowl lower over his eyes.
'If the skin of 'is face be the same as the skin of 'is hand, no wonder he hides himself,' Slegart reflected, wishing he had turned this strange, sick mage away — money or no money.
The warrior took the leaves from the mage and dropped them in a cup. He then filled it with hot water.
Curious in spite of himself, the innkeeper leaned over to catch a glimpse of the mixture, hoping it might be a magic potion of some sort. To his disappointment, it appeared to be nothing more than tea with a few leaves floating on the surface. A bitter smell rose to his nostrils. Sniffing, he started to make some comment when the door blew open, admitting more snow, more wind, and another guest. Motioning one of the slatternly barmaids to finish waiting on the mage and his brother, Slegart turned to greet the new arrival.
It appeared — from its graceful walk and its tall, slender build — to be either a young human male, a human female, or an elf. But so bundled and muffled in clothes was the figure that it was impossible to tell sex or race.
'We're full up,' Slegart started to announce, but before he could even open his mouth, the guest had drifted over to him (it was impossible for him to describe its walk any other way) and, leaning out a hand remarkable for its delicate beauty, laid two steel coins in the innkeeper's hand (remarkable only for its dirt).
'A place by the fire this night,' said the guest in a low voice.
'I do believe a room's opened up,' announced Slegart to the delight of the goblinish humans, who greeted this remark with coarse laughs and guffaws. Even the warrior grinned ruefully and shook his head, reaching across the table to nudge his brother. The mage said nothing, only gestured irritably for his drink.
'I'll take the room,' the guest said, reaching into its purse and handing two more coins to the grinning innkeeper.
'Very good…' Noticing the guest's fine clothes, made of rich material, Slegart thought it wise to bow. 'Uh, what name…?'
'Do the room and I need an introduction?' the guest asked sharply.
The warrior chuckled appreciatively at this, and it seemed as if even the mage responded, for the hooded head moved slightly as he sipped his steaming, foul-smelling drink.
Somewhat at a loss for words, Slegart was fumbling about in his mind, trying to think of another way to determine his mysterious guest's identity, when the guest turned from him and headed for a table located in a shadowed comer as far from the fire as possible. 'Meat and drink.' It tossed the words over its shoulder in an imperious tone.
'What would your… your lordship like?' Slegart asked, hurrying after the guest, an ear cocked attentively. Though the guest spoke Common, the accent was strange, and the innkeeper still couldn't tell if his guest was male or female.
'Anything,' the guest said wearily, turning its back upon Slegart as it walked over to the shadowy booth. On its way, it cast a glance at the table where the warrior, Caramon, and his brother sat. 'That. Whatever they're having.' The guest gestured to where the barmaid was heaping a wooden bowl full of some gray, coagulating mass and rubbing her body up against Caramon's at the same time.
Now, perhaps it was the way the mysterious guest walked or perhaps it was the way the person gestured or even perhaps the subtle sneer in the guest's voice when it noticed Caramon's hand reaching around to pat the barmaid on a rounded portion of her anatomy, but Slegart guessed instantly that the muffled guest was female.
It was dangerous journeying through Ansalon in those days some five years before the war. There were few who traveled alone, and it was unusual for women to travel at all. Those women who did were either mercenaries — skilled with sword and shield — or wealthy women with a horde of escorts, armed to the teeth. This woman — if such she was — carried no weapon that Slegart could see and if she had escorts, they must enjoy sleeping in the open in what boded to be one of the worst blizzards ever to hit this part of the country.
Slegart wasn't particularly bright or observant, and he arrived at the conclusion that his guest was a lone, unprotected female about two minutes after everyone else in the place. This was apparent from the warrior's slightly darkening face and the questioning glance he cast at his brother, who shook his head. This was also apparent from the sudden silence that fell over the «hunting» party gathered near the bar and the quick whispers and muffled snickers that followed.
Hearing this, Caramon scowled and glanced around behind him. But a touch on the hand and a softly spoken word from the mage made the big warrior sigh and stolidly resume eating the food in his bowl, though he kept his eyes on the guest, to the disappointment of the barmaid.
Slegart made his way back of the bar again and began wiping out mugs with a filthy rag, his back halfturned but his sharp eyes watching everything. One of the ruffians rose slowly to his feet, stretched, and called for another pint of ale. Taking it from the barmaid, he sauntered slowly over to the guest's table.
'Mind if I sit down?' he said, suiting his action to his words.
'Yes,' said the guest sharply.
'Aw, c'mon,' the ruffian said, grinning and settling himself comfortably in the booth across from the guest, who sat eating the gray gunk in her bowl. 'It's a custom in this part of the country for innfellows to make merry on a night like this. Join our little party…' — The guest ignored him, steadily eating her food. Caramon shifted slightly in his seat, but, after a pleading glance at his brother, which was answered with an abrupt shake of the hooded head, the warrior continued eating with a sigh.
The ruffian leaned forward, reaching out his hand to touch the scarf the guest had wound tightly about her face. 'You must be awful hot — ' the man began.
He didn't complete his sentence, finding it difficult to speak through the bowl of hot stew dripping down his face.
'I've lost my appetite,' the guest said. Calmly rising to her feet, she wiped stew from her hands on a greasy napkin and headed for the stairs. 'I'll go to my room now, innkeeper. What number?'
'Number sixteen. You can bolt lock it from the inside to keep out the riff-raff,' Slegart said, his mug-polishing slowing. Trouble was bad for business, cut into profits. 'Serving girl'll be along to turn down the bed.'
The 'riff-raff,' stew dripping off his nose, might have been content to let the mysterious person go her way. Therehad been a coolness in the voice, and the quick, self possessed movement indicated that the guest had some experience caring for herself. But the big warrior laughed at the innkeeper's remark — a chuckle of appreciation — and so did the «hunting» party by the fire. Their laughter was the laughter of derision, however.
Casting his comrades an angry glance, the man wiped stew from his eyes and leaped to his feet. Overturning
