the railing in satisfaction. Four men lay on the floor, not
counting the one his brother had stabbed, whose inert body
was huddled at the foot of the staircase in a heap. The gully
dwarf was sticking out of a barrel, upside down, its feet
waving pathetically in the air, its ear-splittling screams
likely to cause serious breakage of the glassware.
“What about damages?” Slegart demanded, coming
over to survey the ruin.
“Collect it from them,” Caramon growled, gesturing to
the groaning members of the hunting party. “Here’s your
dagger, Raist,” the warrior said, holding out a small silver
knife. “I cleaned it as best I could. Guess you didn’t want to
waste your magic on those wretches, huh? Anyway – hey,
Raist – you all right?”
“I’m . . . not injured. . . .” Raistlin said softly, reaching
out his hand to catch hold of his brother.
“Then what’s the matter?” Caramon asked, puzzled.
“You look like you’ve seen a spirit. Say, where’s the girl?”
He glanced around. “Didn’t she even stay to thank us?”
“I – I sent her to her room,” Raistlin said, blinking in
confusion and looking at Caramon as though wondering
who he was. After a moment, he seemed more himself.
Taking the dagger from his brother’s hand, the mage
replaced it on the cunningly made thong he had attached
around his wrist. “And we should be going to our rooms,
my brother,” he said firmly, seeing Caramon’s gaze go
longingly to the pitcher of ale still on their table. “Lend me
your arm,” the mage added, taking hold of his staff. “My
exertions have exhausted me.”
“Oh, uh, sure, Raist,” Caramon said, his thirst forgotten
in his concern for his brother.
“Number thirteen,” grunted Slegart, helping the ruffians
drag their wounded comrade off into a comer.
“It figures,” Caramon muttered, assisting his brother up
the stairs. “Hey, you got a good look at that girl? Was she
pretty?”
“Why ask me, my brother?” Raistlin replied softly.
Pulling his hood down low over his face again, he evaded
his brother’s question. “You know what these eyes of mine
see!”
“Yeah, sorry, Raist.” Caramon flushed. “I keep
forgetting. Damn! That one bastard broke a chair over my
back end when I was bending over. I know I got splinters. . .
.”
“Yes, my brother,” Raistlin murmured, not listening.
His gaze went to the door at the end of the hall, a door
marked with the number 16.
Behind that door, Amberyl paced restlessly, clasping
and unclasping her hands and occasionally making that low,
moaning cry.
“How could this happen?” she asked feverishly,
walking back and forth, back and forth the small chamber.
The room was chill and dark. In her preoccupation,
Amberyl had allowed the fire to go out. “Why did this
happen? How could it happen? Why didn’t any of the wise
foresee this?” Over and over again she repeated these
words, her feet tracing the circular path of her thoughts out
upon the grime-encrusted wooden floor.
“I must talk to him,” she said to herself suddenly. “He is
magi, after all. He may know some way . . . some way to …
help. . . .Yes! I’ll talk to him.”
Grabbing up her scarf, she wound it around her face again
and cautiously opened the door. The hallway was empty
and she started to creep out when she realized she had no
idea which room was his.
“Perhaps he isn’t even staying the night,” she said,
sagging against the door frame in despair. “What would I
say to him anyway?” Turning, she started back into her
room when she stopped. “No, I MUST find him!” she said
and closed the door firmly so that she might not be tempted
back inside. “If he isn’t up here yet, I’ll go after him.”
Moving down the hall, Amberyl crept near each door,
listening. Behind some she heard groans and muttered oaths
and hurriedly shied away from these, realizing that her
attackers were inside, recovering from their fray with the
mage and his brother. At another door there was the shrill
giggle of a female and the deeper laughter of a man.
Amberyl continued to number 13.