unfortunate enough to cross his path hung from his belt.
'You're answerable for him, then,' said the proprietor grimly, marching the kender across the room, one hand gripping the slight shoulders firmly. There was a wild scramble as men stuffed their purses inside their shirts, down their pants, or wherever else they thought their valuables might be safe from a kender's light and nimble fingers.
'Hey! Our water!' Caramon made a grab for the innkeeper but got a handful of kender instead.
'Earwig Lockpicker,' said the kender, holding out his hand politely. 'Friend of Tasslehoff Burrfoot's. We met at the Inn of the Last Home. I couldn't stay long. There was that misunderstanding over the horse. I told them I didn't steal it. I can't think how it came to follow me.'
'Maybe because you were holding firmly onto the reins?' suggested Caramon.
'Do you think so? Because I — Ouch!'
'Drop it!' said Raistlin, his thin hand closing tightly over the kender's wrist.
'Oh,' said Earwig meekly, releasing the pouch that had been lying on the table and was now making its way into the kender's pocket. 'Is that yours?'
The mage cast a piercing, infuriated glare at his brother, who flushed and shrugged uncomfortably. 'I'll get that water for you, Raist. Right now. Uh, Innkeeper!'
'Well, look over there!' said the kender, squirming around in his seat to face the front door as it dosed behind a small group of travelers. 'I followed those people into town. You can't imagine,' he said in an indignant whisper that carried clearly across the room, 'how rude that man is! He should have thanked me for finding his dagger, instead of — '
'Greetings, sir. Greetings, my lady.' The proprietor bobbed and bowed officiously. The heavily cloaked man and woman were, to all appearances, well dressed. 'You'll be wanting a room, no doubt, and then dinner. There's hay in the stable for your horses.'
'We'll be wanting nothing,' said the man in a harsh voice. He was carrying a young boy in his arms and, as he spoke, he eased the child to the floor, then flexed his arms as though they ached. 'Nothing except a seat by your fire. We wouldn't have come in except that my lady-wife is not feeling well.'
'Not well?' The innkeeper, backing up, held out a dish cloth in front of him as a sort of shield and eyed them askance. 'Not the plague?'
'No, no!' said the woman in a low, cultivated voice. 'I am not ill. I am just tired and chilled to the bone, that is all.' Reaching out her hand, she drew her son near. 'We have walked a great distance.'
'Walked!' muttered the innkeeper, not liking the sound of that. He looked more closely at the family's dress.
Several of the men standing around the fire moved to one side. Others hurried to draw up a bench, and the overworked barmaid, ignoring her waiting customers, put her arm around the woman and helped her to a seat. The woman sank down limply.
'You're white as a ghost, milady,' said the barmaid. 'Let me bring you a posset of honey and brandywine.'
'No,' said the man, moving to stand by his wife, the child clinging to his father. 'We have no money to pay for it.'
'Tut, tut. Talk of money later,' said the barmaid briskly. 'Call it my treat.'
'We'll not take charity!' The man's voice rose to a angry shout.
The boy shrank close to his mother, who glanced at her husband, then lowered her eyes. 'Thank you for your kind offer,' she said to the barmaid, 'but I need nothing. I'm feeling much better already.'
The proprietor, stalking his guests, noted that by firelight their clothes were not nearly so fine as they had first seemed. The man's cloak was frayed at the hem and travel worn and stained with mud. The woman's dress was clean and neat but many times mended. The boy, who appeared to be about five or six, was clad in shirt and trousers that had probably once been his father's, cut down to fit the boy's small, thin frame. The proprietor was about to hint broadly that only those who spent money in his inn had a right to his fire when he was distracted by a scream from inside the kitchen.
'Where's that kender?' the innkeeper cried out in alarm.
'Right here!' shouted Earwig eagerly, raising his hand and waving. 'Do you want me?'
The proprietor cast him a baleful glance, then fled.
'Humpf,' said Caramon in an undertone, his eyes on the woman. She had shoved the hood of her cloak back with a weary hand, revealing a pale, thin face once beautiful, now anxious and worn with care and fatigue. Her arm stole around her son, who was gazing up at her in concern, and she hugged the boy close. 'I wonder when the last time was those two had anything to eat,' Caramon muttered.
'I can ask them,' offered Earwig helpfully. 'Hey, lady, when — Ulp!'
Caramon clamped his hand over the kender's mouth.
'It's no concern of yours, my brother,' snapped Raistlin irritably. 'Get that imbecile innkeeper back here with the hot water!' He began to cough again.
Caramon released the wriggling kender (who had actually been silent for as long as three minutes on account of having no breath left with which to talk) and heaved his great bulk to his feet, peering over the heads of the crowd for the proprietor. Smoke was rolling out from under the kitchen door.
'I think he's going to be a while, Raist,' said Caramon solemnly. 'I'll get the barmaid.'
He tried to catch the barmaid's eye, but she was hovering over the woman.
'I'll go and fix you a nice cup of tarbean tea, milady. No, no. It's all right. There's no charge for tarbean tea in this inn. Is there?' she said, flashing a threatening look at the other customers.
'No, no. No charge. None,' chorused the men in response.
The cloaked and booted man frowned, but swallowed whatever words he might have wanted to say.
'Hey, over here!' Caramon shouted, but the barmaid was still standing in front of the woman, twisting her apron in her hands.
'Milady,' she began hesitantly, in a low voice, 'I've been speaking to cook. We're that busy tonight we're short-handed. It would be a gift of charity, milady, if you could help us out. It'd be worth a night's lodging and a meal.'
The woman cast a swift and pleading glance up at her husband.
His face was livid. 'No wife of a Knight of Solamnia will work in an inn! We'll all three starve and go to our graves first!'
'Uh, oh,' muttered Caramon and eased himself back into his seat.
Talking and bantering and laughter ceased, the silence falling gradually as word circulated. All eyes went to the man. Hot blood flooded his cheeks. He had obviously not meant to reveal such a thing about himself. His hand went to his smooth-shaven upper lip, and it seemed to those watching that they could almost see the long, flowing mustaches that marked a Knight of Solamnia. It was not unusual that he had shaved it off. For long centuries the Order had stood for justice and law on Krynn. Now the knights were hated and reviled, blamed for bringing down the wrath of the gods. What calamity had forced this knight and his family to flee their homeland without money and barely the clothes on their backs? The crowd didn't know and most of them didn't care. The proprietor now wasn't the only one who wanted the knight and his family gone.
'Come along, Aileen,' said the knight gruffly. He put his hand on his wife's shoulder. 'We'll not stay in this place. Not when they cater to the likes of that!' His narrowed eyes went to Raistlin, to the red robes that proclaimed him a wizard and the magical staff that stood by his side. The knight turned stiffly to the barmaid. 'I understand the lord of this realm seeks men to fight the goblins. If you could tell me where to find him — '
'He's seeking fighters,' sang out a man in a far comer of the common room. 'Not pretty boys dressed up in fancy iron suits.'
'Ho, you're wrong, Nathan,' called out another. 'I hear His Lordship's lookin' for someone to lead a regiment — a regiment of gully dwarves!'
There was appreciative laughter. The knight choked with fury, his hand went to the hilt of his sword. His wife laid a gentle hand restrainingly on his arm. 'No, Gawain,' she murmured, starting to rise to her feet. 'We will go. Come.'
'Stay put, milady. And as for you…' The barmaid glared at the boisterous crowd. 'Shut your mouths or that'll be the last cold beer I draw for anyone in this inn tonight.'
