"Bah! Reorx wouldn't hang about, lollygagging his time away, without giving us dwarves some sort of sign. We're his favorites, you know," Flint said proudly.
"How do you know he hasn't given the dwarves a sign, sir?" Raistlin asked coolly.
Flint was hard put to answer that one. He didn't know, not for sure. He hadn't been back to the hills, back to his homeland in years. And despite the fact that he traveled throughout this region, he hadn't really had that much contact with any other dwarves. Perhaps Reorx had come back and the Thorbardin dwarves were keeping the god a secret!
"It would be like them, damn their beards and bellies," Flint muttered.
"Speaking of bellies, isn't anybody else hungry?" Caramon asked plaintively. "I'm starved."
"Such a thing is not possible," said Sturm flatly.
"It is, too," Caramon protested. "I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast."
"I was referring to what your brother said," Sturm returned. "Paladine could not be in the world, witnessing the hardships my people have been forced to endure, and do nothing to intercede."
"From what I've heard, your people witnessed the hardships suffered by those under their rule calmly enough," Raistlin returned. "Perhaps because they were responsible for most of it."
"That's a lie!" Sturm cried, jumping to his feet, his fists clenched.
"Here, now, Sturm, Raist didn't mean that-" Caramon began.
"Are you telling me that the Solamnic knights did not actively persecute magic-users?" Raistlin feigned astonishment. "I suppose the mages simply grew weary of living in the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, and that's why they fled from it in fear for their lives!"
"Raist, I'm sure Sturm didn't intend to-"
"Some call it persecution. Others call it rooting out evil!" Sturm said darkly. "So you equate magic with evil?" Raistlin asked with dangerous calm. "Don't most people with any sense?" Sturm returned.
Caramon rose to his feet, his own fists clenched. "I don't think you really meant that, did you, Sturm?"
"We have a saying in Solamnia. 'If the boot fits-' "
Caramon took a clumsy swing at Sturm, who ducked and lunged at his opponent, catching him in his broad midsection. Caramon went over backward with a "woof," Sturm on top of him, pummeling him. The two crashed into the wooden chest, breaking it into its component parts and smashing the crockery that was being stored inside. The two continued their scuffling on the floor, rolling and punching and flailing away at each other.
Raistlin remained sitting by the fire, watching calmly, a slight smile on his thin lips. Flint was disturbed by such coolness, so disturbed that he lost the moment when he might have stopped the fight. Raistlin did not appear worried, concerned, or shocked. Flint might have suspected him of having provoked this battle for his own amusement, except that he did not appear to be enjoying the show. His smile was not one of pleasure. It was faintly derisive, his look disdainful.
"Those eyes of his shivered my skin," Flint was later to tell Tanis. "There is something cold-blooded about him, if you- take my meaning."
"I'm not sure I do. Are you saying that this young man deliberately provoked his brother and his friend into a fistfighf?"
"Well, no, not exactly." Flint considered. "His question to me was sincere. I've no doubt of that. But then, he must have known how the talk of gods and all that hoo-hah about magic would affect a Solamnic knight. And if there was ever a Solamnic knight walking around without his armor, that is young Sturm for you. Born with a sword up his back, as we used to say.
"But that Raistlin." The dwarf shook his head. "I think he just liked knowing that he could make them fight, best friends and all."
"Hey, now!" Flint shouted, suddenly realizing that he wasn't going to have any furniture left if he didn't put an end to the brawl. "What do you think you're doing? You've broken my dishes! Stop that! Stop it, I say!"
The two paid no heed to the dwarf. Flint waded into the fray. A swift and expert kick to the outside of the kneecap sent Sturm rolling. He rocked in agony on top of the bits of broken crockery, clutching his knee and biting his lip to keep from crying out in pain.
Flint grabbed hold of a handful of Caramon's long, curly hair and gave it a swift, sharp tug. Caramon yelped and tried unsuccessfully to prize loose the dwarf's hold. Flint had a grip of iron.
"Look at you both!" the dwarf stated in disgust, giving Caramon's head a shake and Sturm another kick. "Acting like a couple of drunken goblins. And who taught you to fight? Your great-aunt Minnie? Both of you taller than me by a foot at least, maybe two feet for the young giant, and here you are. Flat on your back with the foot of a dwarf on your chest. Get up. Both of you."
Shamefaced and teary-eyed from the pain, the two young men slowly picked themselves up off the floor. Sturm stood balancing on one leg, not daring to trust his full weight to his injured knee. Caramon winced and massaged his stinging scalp, wondering if he had a bald spot.
"Sorry about the dishes," Caramon mumbled.
"Yes, sir, I am truly sorry," Sturm said earnestly. "I will make recompense for the damage, of course."
"I'll do better than that. I'll pay for it," Caramon offered.
Raistlin said nothing. He was already counting out money from their take at the fair.
"Darn right you'll pay for it," the dwarf said. "How old are you?"
"Twenty," answered Sturm.
"Eighteen," said Caramon. "Raist is eighteen, too."
"Since he knows we are twins, I'm certain Master Fireforge has figured that out," Raistlin said caustically.
Flint eyed Sturm. "And you plan to be a knight." The dwarfs shrewd gaze shifted to Caramon. "And you, big fellow. You figure on being a great warrior, I suppose? Sell your sword to some lord."
"That's right!" Caramon gaped. "How did you know?"
"I've seen you around town, carrying that great sword of yours-handling it all wrong, I might add. Well I'm here to tell both of you right now that the knights'll take one look at you and the way you fight, Sturm Brightblade, and they'll laugh themselves right out of their armor. And you, Caramon Majere, you couldn't sell your fighting skills to my old grannie."
"I know I have a lot to learn, sir," Sturm replied stiffly. "If I were living in Solamnia, I would be squire to a noble knight and learn my craft from him. But I am not. I am exiled here." His tone was bitter.
"There's no one in Solace to teach us," Caramon complained. "This town is way too quiet. Nothing ever happens here. You'd think we'd at least have a goblin raid or something to liven things up."
"Bite your tongue, lad. You don't know when you're well off. As for a teacher, you're looking at him." Hint tapped himself on the breast.
"You?" Both young men appeared dubious.
Flint stroked his beard complacently. "I had my foot on both of you, didn't I? Besides"-reaching out, he gave Raistlin a poke in the ribs that caused him to jump-"I want to talk to the book reader here about his views on a good many matters. No need to talk of money," the dwarf added, seeing the twins exchanging doubtful glances and guessing what they were thinking. "You can pay me in chores. And you can start by going to the inn and seeing what's become of that dratted kender."
As if the words had conjured him, the door was thrown open by the "dratted" kender.
"I've got the cider and a kidney pie that someone didn't want, and- Ah, there! I knew it!"
Tasslehoff gazed sadly at the remains of the chest and the broken dishes. "You see what happens, Flint, when I'm not around?" he said, solemnly shaking his topknot.