Tanis answered all of their questions glibly. As for the Highlord, he hadn’t seen much of him. He didn’t know who he was. The army was not large. It was located outside of town. The draconians were searching for someone, but it was not them. They were looking for a human named Berem or something strange like that.
At this Tanis shot a quick look at Caramon, but the big man’s face registered no recognition. Tanis breathed easier. Good, Caramon didn’t remember the man they had seen patching the sail on the Perechon. He didn’t remember or he hadn’t caught the man’s name. Either way was fine.
The others nodded, absorbed in his story. Tanis sighed in relief. As for Raistlin... well, it didn’t really matter what the mage thought or said. The others would believe Tanis over Raistlin even if the half-elf claimed day was night. Undoubtedly Raistlin knew this, which was why he didn’t cast any doubts on Tanis’s story. Feeling wretched, hoping no one would ask him anything else and force him to mire himself deeper and deeper in lies; Tanis yawned and groaned as if exhausted past endurance.
Goldmoon immediately rose to her feet, her face soft with concern. “I’m sorry, Tanis,” she said gently. “We’ve been selfish. You are cold and weary and we’ve kept you up talking. And we must be up early in the morning to board the ship.”
“Damn it, Goldmoon! Don’t be a fool! We won’t board any ship in this gale!” Tanis snarled.
Everyone stared at him in astonishment, even Raistlin sat up. Goldmoon’s eyes were dark with pain, her face set in rigid lines, reminding the half-elf that no one spoke to her in that tone. Riverwind stood beside her, a troubled look on his face.
The silence grew uncomfortable. Finally Caramon cleared his throat with a rumble. “If we can’t leave tomorrow, we’ll try the next day,” he said comfortably. “Don’t worry about it, Tanis. The draconians won’t be out in this weather. We’re safe—”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Goldmoon. It’s been—nerve-racking—these last few days. I’m so tired I can’t think straight. I’ll go to my room.”
“The innkeeper gave it to someone else,” Caramon said, then added hurriedly, “but you can sleep here, Tanis. Take my bed—”
“No, I’ll just lie down on the floor.” Avoiding Goldmoon’s gaze, Tanis began unbuckling the dragonarmor, his eyes fixed firmly on his shaking fingers.
“Sleep well, my friend,” Goldmoon said softly.
Hearing the concern in her voice, he could imagine her exchanging compassionate glances with Riverwind. There was the Plainsman’s hand on his shoulder, giving him a sympathetic pat. Then they were gone. Tika left, too, closing the door behind her after a murmured goodnight.
“Here, let me help you,” Caramon offered, knowing that Tanis—unaccustomed to wearing plate armor—found the intricate buckles and straps difficult to manage. “Can I get you something to eat? Drink? Some mulled wine?”
“No,” Tanis said wearily, divesting himself thankfully of the armor, trying not to remember that in a few hours he would have to put it on again. “I just need sleep.”
“Here—at least take my blanket,” Caramon insisted, seeing that the half-elf was shivering with the cold.
Tanis accepted the blanket gratefully, although he was not certain whether he was shaking with the chill or the violence of his turbulent emotions. Lying down, he wrapped himself in both the blanket and his cloak. Then he closed his eyes and concentrated on making his breathing even and regular, knowing that the mother-hen, Caramon, would never sleep until he was certain Tanis was resting comfortably. Soon he heard Caramon get into bed. The fire burned low, darkness fell. After a moment, he heard Caramon’s rumbling snore. In the other bed, he could hear Raistlin’s fitful cough.
When he was certain both the twins were asleep, Tanis stretched out, putting his hands beneath his head. He lay awake, staring into the darkness.
It was near morning when the Dragon Highlord arrived back at the Saltbreeze Inn. The night clerk could see immediately that the Highlord was in a foul temper. Flinging open the door with more force than the gale winds, she glared angrily into the inn, as if its warmth and comfort were offensive. Indeed, she seemed to be at one with the storm outside. It was she who caused the candles to flicker, rather than the howling wind. It was she who brought the darkness indoors. The clerk stumbled fearfully to his feet, but the Highlord’s eyes were not on him. Kitiara was staring at a draconian, who sat at a table and who signaled, by an almost imperceptible flicker in the dark reptilian eyes, that something was awry.
Behind the hideous dragonmask, the Highlord’s eyes narrowed alarmingly, their expression grew cold. For a moment she stood in the doorway, ignoring the chill wind that blew through the inn, whipping her cloak around her.
“Come upstairs,” she said finally, ungraciously, to the draconian.
The creature nodded and followed after her, its clawed feet clicking on the wooden floors.
“Is there anything—” the night clerk began, cringing as the door blew shut with a shattering crash.
“No!” Kitiara snarled. Hand on the hilt of her sword, she stalked past the quivering man without a glance and climbed the stairs to her suite of rooms, leaving the man to sink back, shaken, into his chair.
Fumbling with her key, Kitiara threw open the door. She gave the room a quick sweeping glance.
It was empty.
The draconian waited behind her, standing patiently and in silence.
Furious, Kitiara tugged viciously at the hinges on the dragonmask and yanked it off. Tossing it on the bed, she spoke over her shoulder.
“Come inside and shut the door!”
The draconian did as it was commanded, closing the door softly.
Kitiara did not turn to face the creature. Hands on her hips, she stared grimly at the rumpled bed.
“So—he’s gone.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, Highlord,” lisped the draconian in its hissing voice.
“You followed him, as I ordered?”
“Of course, Highlord.” The draconian bowed.
“Where did he go?”
Kitiara ran a hand through her dark, curly hair. She still had not turned around. The draconian could not see her face and he had no idea what emotions—if any—she was keeping hidden.
“An inn, Highlord. Near the edge of town. Called the Jetties.”
“Another woman?” The Highlord’s voice was tense.
“I think not, Highlord.” The draconian concealed a smile. “I believe he has friends there. We had reports of strangers staying in the inn, but since they did not match the description of the Green Gemstone Man, we did not investigate them.”
“Someone is there now, watching him?”
“Certainly, Highlord. You will be informed immediately if he—or any inside—leaves the building.”
The Highlord stood in silence for a moment, then she turned around. Her face was cold and calm, although extremely pale. But there were a number of factors that could have accounted for her pallor, the draconian thought. It was a long flight from the High Clerist’s Tower—rumor had it her armies had been badly defeated there—the legendary dragonlance had reappeared, along with the dragon orbs. Then there was her failure to find the Green Gemstone Man, so desperately sought by the Queen of Darkness, and who was reported to have been seen in Flotsam. The Highlord had a great many things to worry about, the draconian thought with amusement. Why concern herself over one man? She had lovers aplenty, most of them much more charming, much more eager to please than that moody half-elf. Bakaris, for example...