“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