It’s a good thing I never get sick when I drink, he thought to himself with pride.
The room was practically empty. The few sullen patrons seated there glanced at the big man, scowled, and glanced away.
Caramon ignored them. Going to the table he had occupied last night, he plopped his body down with such force that he almost fell over on the bench. Righting himself, the warrior sat very still until the queasiness left him.
“Well, almost never,” he amended.
“What can I get for you this morning?” It was Yost, the innkeeper, a slight smile stealing across his face.
“A drink. Two-thirds grain, one part juice, one part cooking spice, and a green vegetable stalk, something absolutely tasteless. And plenty of pepper,” Caramon added.
“Ah,” said Yost, “a seasoned warrior. The Old Fighter’s Favorite. And I bet you’ll be wanting some breakfast as well. Maggie!”-his yell caused Caramon to groan aloud-“bring something to eat for the gentleman here.”
Caramon drank three Old Fighter’s Favorites, gulping the first two down quickly. The heavy taste of pepper drowned out the horrible taste of the brew. He stirred each one with a vegetable stalk absentmindedly as he poked at his food with a fork, unsure if he could stomach anything.
By the fourth dose of cure, however, Caramon’s appetite came back. He ate slowly at first, building momentum. Eventually, he felt more like himself, and he sat back against the wall, leaning the bench backward, his shoulders propping him up. The other patrons had gone, the fighter was the only one in the tavern.
Yost came over to stand by Caramon and glanced about with a gloomy air. “If this trouble doesn’t end soon, I’ll be ruined. The Festival of the Eye is coming up. A lot of people from Mereklar come to my inn to celebrate. But they won’t this year. Maggie, clear the table.”
Maggie hustled over and began picking up plates and stacking them on a wooden tray. Caramon noted that she was an unusually pretty, red-cheeked girl with a buxom figure and straw-colored hair worn tied up with a yellow ribbon. He seemed to dimly recall that she had smiled at him last night.
“Here, that’s too heavy for you,” he said, taking the tray from her.
“Oh, no, sir. This is my job,” said Maggie, flushing deeply and trying to take the tray back.
During the friendly wrestling match that ensued, Caramon managed to kiss a rosy cheek. Maggie slapped him playfully, and the tray filled with dishes nearly ended up on the floor.
“Which way to the kitchen?” asked Caramon, who had emerged as the victor.
“It’s over here, sir.” Blushing furiously, Maggie led the way. Caramon followed, carrying the tray, and a morose Yost brought up the rear.
The kitchen was large and spotlessly clean. Numerous pots and pans hung from hooks nailed into the whitewashed walls.
“Any more for breakfast?” asked the cook, a small, thin, dark-haired woman.
“No,” said Yost gloomily.
The cook began to make ready for the luncheon guests. Maggie motioned Caramon to one of the sinks. Quickly taking the plates from the tray he carried, she plunged them into the soapy water.
“Well, Master Innkeeper,” Caramon began, talking to Yost but looking Maggie boldly in the eye, causing her to blush again and nearly drop a cup. “If it makes you feel better, my brother and I are going to Mereklar to try to earn that reward.”
“Oh, are you, really?” Maggie turned, her motion sending a spray of bubbles over Caramon. “Lord! I’m sorry, sir!”
Grabbing a towel, she tried to dry the warrior’s expansive chest. Caramon caught hold of her hand and held it fast. The girl’s eyes were brown, with long lashes. Her hair was the color of the leaves of the vallenwood trees in autumn. She didn’t even come up to his shoulder. Caramon’s heart beat fast. He bent down to steal another kiss, but Maggie-with a sidelong glance at her employer-pulled away and began to wash dishes at a furious pace.
Yost nodded. “I figured as much. That mage asking all those questions. He really your brother?”
“My twin brother,” said Caramon proudly. “He took the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery when he was only twenty. The youngest ever. And he passed. Though it cost him … cost both of us,” the warrior added, but only to himself, beneath his breath.
Maggie heard, however, and gave him a warm and sympathetic glance. “He’s real sick, your brother,” she said in a soft voice.
“Yeah. I worry about him a lot. But,” Caramon spoke hastily, seeing Yost’s face grow longer, “he’s stronger than he seems. If anyone can solve this mystery of yours about the cats, Raistlin can. He got all the brains, you see, and I got the muscle,” the big man said cheerfully.
“Why would you bother with us?” Yost asked, staring at Caramon suspiciously.
“We’re low on funds. We can use the job. Though, of course, more personal reasons have come up.” He winked at Maggie, who smiled demurely.
“And what, if I may ask,” Yost continued, “would a mage want with money? I thought they could conjure it out of thin air or something.”
“They don’t do that. It’s just a myth, like touching a frog and getting warts,” Caramon said loftily, showing off his vast knowledge of magic.
“Toad,” the cook corrected quietly under her breath, without looking up from her work, sifting flour into a large bowl.
Caramon glanced at her in astonishment.
“You get warts from a toad,” she repeated. “And we don’t need any magic-users around here.”
“There’s never been one,” agreed Yost, “and we’ve got along fine so far. It seems odd, you know.” His voice hardened. “Our cats disappearing and your brother coming into town about the same time.”
“From what I’ve heard, your cats began disappearing weeks ago. My brother and I weren’t anywhere near-” Caramon began hotly.
“There was a wizard lived here once,” Maggie interposed quickly. “Remember, Yost? That crazy old hermit who had a cave in the mountains?”
“Oh, him,” said the innkeeper, remembering, “I’d almost forgotten about him. He never bothered us. Word was that he died, scared to death by spooks or something like that.”
“Nobody knows for sure,” added the cook ominously, concentrating on her pie crusts.
“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Yost frowned, dismissed the subject. “I was just wondering why a wizard would want to help us, that’s all.”
“My brother has his own reasons,” Caramon said curtly. “He’s done a lot of things just to help others, like expose that phoney cleric at Larnish.”
“Larnish!” the cook exclaimed. She dropped a bag of flour on the table in front of her, sending a small, spectral cloud of white into the air.
“You’ve heard of it?” Caramon asked.
“I had people there,” the cook answered.
The warrior waited, but she said nothing more.
“Well, I say it bodes no good! Mages! Huh!” muttered Yost, and walked out of the kitchen.
“Here, I can dry those for you,” said Caramon, grabbing a dishtowel and sidling up beside Maggie.
“Oh, no, sir! This is woman’s work! Besides, you might break-”
Maggie stopped, noting that Caramon was drying the plates swiftly, deftly.
“My mother was sick a lot,” said Caramon quietly, by way of explanation. “My brother and I got used to fending for ourselves. Raist always washed and I dried. It was fun. We enjoyed it. We used to talk …” His voice died as the warrior remembered happier times.
But Maggie was smiling at him, a smile that lit the room more brightly than the sun shining through the window.
Returning to his room, Caramon found Raistlin and Earwig finishing breakfast.
“I don’t think much of that game, Caramon,” said Earwig severely.
“Huh?” The big warrior looked blank.
“Never mind,” snapped Raistlin. “Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, just visiting. Finding out a few things. Can I help you pack, Raistlin?” Caramon walked over to his brother, who was poking his fork at a small piece of bread and assorted pieces of fruit.