“I’ll just slip in and take a quick look around for Earwig,” Caramon said softly, entering the room. Without quite knowing what he was doing or why, he shut the door behind him.
The councillor’s bedroom was comfortably lit, much brighter than the hallway. An abundance of candles burned in holders, each a different shape from the other, each some type of animal or creature: griffons, dragons, and other wondrous or grotesque creatures. The melting wax gave off a faint perfume that reminded Caramon of the woman herself. Desire made him tingle, and he found himself standing next to her bed.
The bed frame was made of brass, decorated with the
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same bizarre creatures who held the candles. It dominated the back of the room. Curtains and drapes of gray silk hung from the ceiling and metal supports. Dressers and drawers were scattered about, lacquered black and red and orange, with pictures of odd birds and twisted trees and weird flowers. There were six chairs of the same design. Small boxes of gold and silver and other precious metals, their intricate detail and textures belaying a hint of great age, covered three tables. Though he was no expert in metalworking, the fighter could tell that the boxes were built by a master craftsmen.
The floors were embellished by a rich carpet, filled with swirls and ribbons and circles, the same colors as everything else in the room. Several mirrors were mounted to the walls, and a full-size mirror, held by a frame of gold, stood in one corner, reflecting Caramon’s image. The warrior noticed that his reflection in the mirror seemed to be coming from farther away than he actually was.
“How long have I been standing here?” he asked out loud, blinking, the sound of his voice lifting the fascinating, lascivious spell of the room. “And where’s Earwig?” Glancing about nervously, the fighter searched the room. He found nothing, no sign of a kender.
“I should leave,” he said, leaning on a smooth, black-stained table painted with orange flowers and green leaves. The wood felt surprisingly warm under his palms. Without thinking, he took hold of a piece of cloth that had been thrown casually on the table, his fingers caressing it. Moving to sit on the bed, he held the cloth without noticing what he was doing, working his hands over the cool, smooth fabric.
“The councillor is the most magnificent woman I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. The cloth was growing warm beneath his fingers. “I wonder what she’s like?” Caramon said very softly.
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Rising to his feet, he walked over to the full mirror again, studying his face — a face many considered handsome. His body was scarred from numerous battles, his muscles held unmatched strength. Drawing a deep breath, the fighter watched his huge chest expand, his arms grow firm.
Then he saw what he held in his hand.
“What am I doing?” Face burning in embarrassment, he moved swiftly back to the table, starting to replace the black-silk shawl he had been fondling, when a high-pitched voice shrilled behind him.
“What have you got in your hand, Caramon?”
“Nothing!” he yelled, spinning to face the kender, who was gazing up and smiling at the fighter,
“What’s that?” Earwig asked, reaching around Caramon to the table.
“Don’t touch it!” the warrior said quickly. “Just something of … of the councillor’s.”
“Oh,” the kender said, shrugging.
“Come on. Earwig! We shouldn’t be in here,” said Caramon severely, feeling guilty and taking it out on the kender.
The warrior headed hurriedly for the door. Earwig started to follow when he noticed a small box sitting on one of the tables.
Pick me up! Pick me up!
“What?” said Earwig, pausing, staring at the box in delight.
“I didn’t say anything!” snapped Caramon, Bumbling into a large, hand-painted screen, he almost knocked it over and was grappling with it, trying to keep it from falling.
Pick me up! Pick me up!
“You bet!” cried the kender. Grabbing the box, he thrust it quickly into one his pouches.
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“Earwig!”
Caramon, having righted the screen, was standing near the door. He was using That Voice again. Earwig caught up with him and they left the room, the warrior carefully shutting the door behind them.