He forced himself to walk at an even pace. He kept his gaze fixed on his destination and did not react when a dirt clod struck him between the shoulder blades. He had no intention of being goaded into a fight. He had about another block to go, though he was beginning to doubt he would make it.
Another dirt clod struck him, this time on the head. The blow was not hard or even particularly painful, but he could see that the situation was rapidly deteriorating. A group of slavering goblins, armed with knives, not dirt, closed in on him. Raistlin was starting to think he would have to fight. He took a bit of fur from his pouch and was about to speak the words to a spell that would shoot a bolt of lightning from his hands to one goblin after another when he felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down to see Mari.
“Hullo, there, Raist,” she said cheerfully.
She was no longer dressed in black, but in the bright colors kender favored. She appeared to have “borrowed” most of her outfit, for nothing fit her. Her blouse was too long; the sleeves were constantly falling over her hands. Her breeches were too short, permitting a good view of her mismatched and ragged stockings. She had tied her yellow braids in a knot on top of her head, leaving the ends to dangle down around her face, giving her the look of a lop-eared rabbit.
She added something that Raistlin couldn’t hear over the noise. Mari shook her head. Turning to the goblins, she yelled shrilly, “Shut up, you buggers!”
The goblins subsided to a dull roar.
“What brings you to this part of town?” Mari shouted the question.
Raistlin wondered what in the name of the Abyss she was talking about, then he remembered the correct reply. Keeping one eye on the goblins, he replied, “I have just escaped the Maelstrom,” he said, adding coldly, “And my name is not Raist.”
Mari grinned at him. “Right now I’d say your name was Dead Duck. You look like you could use some help.”
Before he could answer, Mari raised her voice. “Free ale at the Hairy Troll! Our friend Raist here is buying!”
The jeers changed to cheers in an instant. The goblins broke into a run, pushing and shoving each other to be first to reach the tavern.
Raistlin watched them dash off. He returned the fur to his pouch. “How much is that going to cost me?” he asked with a rueful smile.
“We’ll put it on your tab,” said Mari.
She took hold of his hand and tugged him along toward the tavern. Raistlin was somewhat dubious about entering the ramshackle wooden structure, which looked extremely unstable; a healthy sneeze would knock it into a heap. The tavern was two stories tall, but Mari gleefully informed him that a goblin who had ventured onto the second floor had ended up crashing through the rotting floor boards and got stuck in the hole, much to the delight of the crowd in the bar below. Patrons would still proudly point out the hole in the ceiling and relate how the unfortunate goblin’s legs could be seen kicking wildly until someone had pushed him through and he had crashed onto the tables below.
There had once been a fireplace, but the chimney had fallen in, and no one had bothered to repair it. The outside of the building was painted with lewd drawings and scrawls. A large signboard featuring a very hairy troll had once hung in front, but it had fallen down, and now either the sign leaned against the building or the building leaned against the sign; Raistlin wasn’t sure which. The locals maintained that the sign was the only thing keeping the building standing.
A door had apparently once guarded the entrance, but all that was left of it were rusting hinges. No door was needed anyway, according to Mari, because the Hairy Troll never closed. It was always crowded, day or night.
The stench of stale ale, vomit, and sweaty goblin almost stunned Raistlin as he walked through the door. The smell was bad, but the din was mind-numbing. The bar was jammed with soldiers. Empty casks of ale passed for tables. The patrons either stood around them or sat on wobbly benches. There was no bar. The tavern’s owner, a half-ogre named Slouch, sat beside a keg of ale, filling mugs and taking steel, which he dumped in an iron box at his side. Slouch never spoke and rarely moved from his place by the iron box. He paid no heed to anything going on in the bar. Fights might rage around him, but Slouch would never so much as glance up. He kept his attention firmly focused on the ale flowing into the glasses and the steel coins flowing into his coffer.
The rule was that a patron paid for his drink in advance (Slouch did not trust his customers, with good reason) then took a seat. The ale was delivered by gully dwarf servers, who scuttled around underfoot, dodging kicks and ducking punches. Mari escorted Raistlin to a three-legged table and told him to sit down. He closed his eyes to the filth and took a seat.
“What would you like to drink?” she asked.
Raistlin looked at the dirty glasses being shoved into the hands of the patrons by dirtier gully dwarves and said he wasn’t thirsty.
“Hey, Maelstrom!” Mari hollered, her shrill voice carrying over the howls and grunts and laughter. “Tell Slouch that my friend Raist here wants one of your specials!”
Her shout was directed at the only other human in the room, one of the largest, ugliest men Raistlin had ever seen. Maelstrom was as tall as a minotaur and as broad through the chest and shoulders as one of those monsters. He was swarthy, his black eyes barely seen beneath overhanging beetling black brows and long, black, greasy hair that he wore in a braid down his back. He wore a leather vest and leather pants and tall leather boots. He was never known to wear anything else; no shirt, no cloak, and he went bare chested even during the coldest days of winter.
Maelstrom’s black eyes had been fixed on Raistlin from the moment he’d entered, and at Mari’s shout, he gave a slow nod and said something to Slouch, who shifted his bulk and thrust two mugs beneath the spout of another, smaller cask. Maelstrom deigned to deliver the mugs himself, moving with ease through the crowd, shouldering aside draconians, knocking aside goblins, and leaving overturned gully dwarves in his wake. He never once took his eyes from Raistlin.
Maelstrom lowered himself onto the long bench that groaned with the enormous man’s weight, causing the other end to tilt, nearly lifting Raistlin off the floor. Maelstrom plunked one mug down in front of Raistlin and kept the other mug for himself.
“This is my friend Raist,” said Mari. “The one I was telling you about. Raist, this is Maelstrom.”
“Raist,” said Maelstrom with a slow nod.
“My name is Raistlin.”
“Raist,” Maelstrom repeated, frowning, “drink up.”
Raistlin recognized the pungent, earthy smell of dwarf spirits and was reminded forcibly of his brother, who was overly fond of the potent liquor. Raistlin pushed the mug away.
“Thank you, no,” he said.
Maelstrom drank his mug of spirits in one long, smooth gulp, tilting back his head and seeming to pour it directly down his throat. All the while, even with his head tilted, he kept his gaze fixed on Raistlin. Maelstrom brought his mug down with a thud.
“I said, ‘drink up,’ Raist.” Maelstrom’s thick brows came together. Leering, he thrust his jaw into Raistlin’s face. “Or maybe, seein’ as how you’re a high-falutin’ muckety-muck wizard, you think you’re too good to drink with the likes of me and my friend?”
“Naw, Raist doesn’t think that,” said Mari, who was leaning her elbows on the cask that served as a table. “Do you, Raist?” She pushed the mug of dwarf spirits toward him.
Raistlin took the mug and lifted it to his lips, sniffed, and swallowed. The fiery liquid burned his throat, stole his breath, brought tears to his eyes, and set him to coughing. Mari thoughtfully supplied him with his own handkerchief, which she pulled out from the top of her stocking. He hacked and choked, aware of Maelstrom’s eyes on him, as Mari helpfully pounded him on the back.