Caramon thought it over. "Yeah. All right," he said. Once he knew where Raistlin was, Caramon figured he could go to him if he needed help.
"I'm ready. Take me to him. Oh, and thanks, but I'm not thirsty now."
Par-Salian was pouring water from a pitcher into a bowl.
"Sit down, Caramon," he said.
"We're going to go find Raist-"
"Sit down, Caramon," Par-Salian repeated. "You want to see your twin? Look into the bowl." "But it's only water."
Par-Salian passed his hand over the water in the bowl, spoke a single magic word, scattered a few crumbled leaves of plants into the water.
Sitting down, planning to first humor the old man and then grab him by his scrawny throat, Caramon looked into the water.
Chapter 3
Raistlin trudged down a lonely, little-traveled road on the outskirts of Haven. Night was falling, a stiffening breeze swayed the treetops, sent autumn leaves flying. There was a smell of lightning in the humid air. He had been traveling all day on foot, he was tired and hungry, and now a storm was approaching. All thought of spending the night sleeping on the ground vanished from his mind.
A tinker he had met earlier had told him, in response to a question, that there was an inn up ahead, an inn with the droll name of the Inn Between. The tinker added the warning that the inn had an evil reputation, was known to be frequented by the wrong sort of crowd. Raistlin didn't care what sort of crowd drank there, so long as the inn had a bed beneath a roof and they let him sleep in it. He had little fear of thieves. It must be obvious from his shabby robes that he carried nothing of value. The very sight of those robes-the robes of a magic-user-would make the ordinary footpad think twice before accosting him.
The Inn Between, so called because it was located equidistant between Haven and Qualinesti, did not look propitious. The paint on its hanging sign was faded past recognition-no great loss to the art community. The owner, having expended his wit on the name, had not been able think of any way to illustrate it beyond a huge red X in the middle of a squiggle that might have been a road.
The building itself had a sullen and defiant air, as if it were tired of being teased about its clever name and would, in a fit of ill temper, tumble down upon the head of the next person who mentioned it. The shutters were half closed, giving its windows a suspicious squint. Its eaves sagged like frowning brows.
The door opened with such reluctance that Raistlin, on the first try, thought the inn might have closed down. He could hear voices and laughter inside, smell the scent of food. A second, more forceful push, caused the door to relinquish. It opened grudgingly, with a screech of rusted hinges, slammed shut quickly behind him, as much as to say, "Don't blame me. I did my best to warn you."
The laughter stopped at Raistlin's entrance. The inn's guests turned their heads to look at him, consider him, prepare to take whatever action they deemed appropriate. The bright light of a roaring fire partially dazzled him. He could see nothing for a moment until his eyes adjusted, and therefore he had no idea whether any of the guests had taken an unusual interest in him. By the time he could see, they had all gone back to doing whatever it was they were doing.
Most of them, that is. One group, consisting of three cloaked and hooded figures, seated on the far side of the room, paid him considerable attention. When they resumed their conversation, they put their heads together, talking excitedly, occasionally lifting their heads to cast glittering-eyed glances in his direction.
Raistlin found an empty booth near the fire, sat down thankfully to rest and warm himself. A glance at the plates of his fellow guests showed that the food was plain fare. It didn't look particularly tasty, but didn't appear likely to poison him either. Stew being the only dish offered, he ordered that, along with a glass of wine.
He ate a few bites of unnameable meat, then pushed the bits of potato and coagulated gravy around with his spoon. The wine was surprisingly good, with a taste of clover. He relished it and was regretting that his meager purse could not afford him a second glass when a cool pitcher appeared at his elbow.
Raistlin lifted his head.
One of the cloaked men who had been so interested in Raistlin stood at his table.
"Greetings, stranger," the man said, speaking Common with a slight accent, an accent that reminded Raistlin of Tanis.
Raistlin was not surprised to see an elf, though he was extremely surprised to hear the elf add, "My friends and I noticed how much you enjoyed the wine. It comes from Qualinesti, as do we. My friends and I would like to share this pitcher of our fine wine with you, sir."
No respectable elf would be found drinking in a human-owned tavern. No respectable elf would initiate a conversation with a human. No respectable elf would buy a human a pitcher of wine. This gave Raistlin a pretty good idea of the status of his new acquaintances.
They must be dark elves-those who have been "cast from the light" or exiled from the elven homelands, the worst possible fate that can befall an elf.
"What you drink and with whom you drink is your prerogative, sir," Raistlin said warily. "It's not prerogative," the elf returned. "It's wine."
He smiled, thinking himself clever. "And it's yours, if you want it. Do you mind if I sit down?" "Forgive me for seeming rude, sir. I am not in the mood for company." "Thank you. I accept the invitation." The elf slid into the seat opposite.
Raistlin rose to his feet. This had gone far enough. "I bid you good evening, sir. I am in need of rest. If you will excuse me "You're a magic-user, aren't you?" the elf asked. He had not removed the hood that covered his head, but his eyes were visible. Almond-shaped, they gleamed hard and clear, as if the liquid orbs had frozen.
Raistlin saw no need to answer such an impertinent and perhaps dangerous question. He turned away, intending to bargain with the innkeeper for a patch of floor near the fire in the common room.
"Pity," said the elf. "It would be your good fortune if you were-a magic-user, I mean. My friends and I"-he nodded his head in the direction of his two hooded companions-"have in mind a little job where a wizard might come in handy."
Raistlin said nothing. He did not leave the table, however, but remained standing, regarded the elf with more interest.
"There's money to be had," the elf said, smiling. Raistlin shrugged.
The elf was puzzled at his reaction. "Odd. I thought humans were always interested in money. It seems I was wrong. What might tempt you? Ah, I know. Magic! Of course. Artifacts, enchanted rings. Spellbooks."
The elf rose gracefully to his feet. "Come meet my brethren. Hear what we've got in mind. Then if you happen to run across a mage"-the elf winked-"you could let him know he could make his fortune by joining up with us."
"Bring the wine," Raistlin said. Walking through the inn, he joined the other two elves at their table. The elf, smiling, picked up the pitcher and brought it along.
Raistlin knew something about the Qualinesti from Tanis, probably knew more than most humans, for he had questioned the half-elf extensively on elven ways and practices. The three were tall and slender, as are all elves, and though most elves look alike to humans, Raistlin thought he detected a certain resemblance between them. All three had green eyes and peculiarly jutting, pointed chins. They were young, probably around two hundred. They wore short swords beneath their cloaks-he
could hear the metal strike the chairs occasionally-and probably carried knives. He could hear the creak of leather armor.