“The year my mother invented the device designed to wash dishes,” the gnome said. “The kitchen was knee—deep in broken crockery. We had to—”
“No!” Tas snapped irritably. “Look, hold this piece next to this one and—”
“My dimensional traveling device!” Gnimsh gasped. “You’re right! It did look something like this. Mine didn’t have all these gewgaw jewels, but... No, look. You’ve got it all wrong. I think that goes here, not there. Yes. See? And then this chain hooks on here and wraps around like so. No, that’s not quite the way. It must go... Wait, I see. This has to fit in there first.” Sitting down on the bed, Gnimsh picked up one of the jewels and stuck it into place. “Now, I need another one of these red gizmos.” He began sorting through the jewels. “What did you do to this thing, anyway?” he muttered. “Put it into a meat grinder?”
But the gnome, absorbed in his task, completely ignored Tas’s answer. The kender, meanwhile, took advantage of the opportunity to tell his story again. Perching on the stool, Tas talked blissfully and without interruption while, totally forgetting the kender’s existence, Gnimsh began to arrange the myriad jewels and little gold and silver things and chains, stacking them into neat piles.
All the while Tas was talking, though, he was watching Gnimsh, hope filling his heart. Of course, he thought with a pang, he had prayed to Fizban, and there was every possibility that, if Gnimsh got this device working, it might whisk them onto a moon or t urn them both into chickens or something. But, Tas decided, he’d just have to take that chance. After all, he’d promised he’d try to straighten things out, and though finding a failed gnome wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind, it was better than sitting around, waiting to die.
Gnimsh, meanwhile, had imagined up a piece of slate and a bit of chalk and was sketching diagrams, muttering, “Slide jewel A into golden gizmo B—”
9
“A wretched place, my brother,” Raistlin remarked softly as he slowly and stiffly dismounted from his horse.
“We’ve stayed in worse,” Caramon commented, helping Lady Crysania from her mount. “It’s warm and dry inside, which makes it one hundred times better than out here. Besides,” he added gruffly, glancing at his brother, who had collapsed against the side of his horse, coughing and shivering, “we none of us can ride farther without rest. I’ll see to the horses. You two go on in.”
Crysania, huddled in her sodden cloak, stood in the foot deep mud and stared dully at the inn. It was, as Raistlin said, a wretched place.
What the name might have been, no one knew, for no sign hung above the door. The only thing, in fact, that marked it as an inn at all was a crudely lettered slate stuck in the broken front window that read, “WayFarrers WelCum”. The stone building itself was old and sturdily constructed. But the roof was falling in, though attempts had been made, here and there, to patch it with thatch. One window was broken. An old felt hat covered it, supposedly to keep out the rain. The yard was nothing but mud and a few bedraggled weeds.
Raistlin had gone ahead. Now he stood in the open doorway, looking back at Crysania. Light glowed from inside, and the smell of wood smoke promised a fire. As Raistlin’s face hardened into an expression of impatience, a gust of wind blew back the hood of Crysania’s cloak, driving the slashing rain into her face. With a sigh, she slogged through the mud to reach the front door.
“Welcome, master. Welcome, missus.”
Crysania started at the voice that came from beside her—she had not seen anyone when she entered. Turning, she saw an ill-favored man huddling in the shadows behind the door, just as it slammed shut.
“A raw day, master,” the man said, rubbing his hands together in a servile manner. That, a grease-stained apron, and a torn rag thrown over his arm marked him as the innkeeper. Glancing around the filthy, shabby inn, Crysania thought it appropriate enough. The man drew nearer to them, still rubbing his hands, until he was so close to Crysania that she could smell the foul odor of his beery breath. Covering her face with her cloak, she drew away from him. He seemed to grin at this, a drunken grin that might have appeared foolish had it not been for the cunning expression in his squinty eyes.
Looking at him, Crysania felt for a moment that she would almost prefer to go back out into the storm. But Raistlin, with only a sharp, penetrating glance at the innkeeper, said coldly, “A table near the fire.”
“Aye, master, aye. A table near the fire, aye. Good on such a wicked day as this be. Come, master, missus, this way.” Bobbing and bowing in a fawning manner that was, once again, belied by the look in his eyes, the man shuffled sideways across the floor, never taking his gaze from them, herding them toward a dirty table.
“A wizard be ye, master?” asked the innkeeper, reaching out a hand to touch Raistlin’s black robes but withdrawing it immediately at the mage’s piercing glance. “One of the Black ’uns, too. It’s been a long while since we’ve seen the like, that it has,” he continued. Raistlin did not answer. Overcome by another fit of coughing, he leaned heavily upon his staff. Crysania helped him to a chair near the fire. Sinking down into it, he huddled gratefully toward the warmth.
“Hot water,” ordered Crysania, untying her wet cloak.
“What be the matter with ’im?” the innkeeper asked suspiciously, drawing back. “Not the burning fever, is it? Cause if it is, ye can go back out—”
“No,” Crysania snapped, throwing off her cloak. “His illness is his own, of no harm to others.” Leaning down near the mage, she glanced back up at the innkeeper. “I asked for hot water,” she said peremptorily.
“Aye.” His lip curled. He no longer rubbed his hands but shoved them beneath the greasy apron before he shuffled off.
Her disgust lost in her concern for Raistlin, Crysania forgot the innkeeper as she tried to make the mage more comfortable. She unfastened his traveling cloak and helped him remove it, then spread it to dry before the fire. Searching the inn’s common room, she discovered several shabby chair cushions and, trying to ignore the dirt that covered them, brought them back to arrange around Raistlin so that he could lean back and breathe more easily.
Kneeling beside him to help remove his wet boots, she felt a hand touch her hair.
“Thank you,” Raistlin whispered, as she looked up.
Crysania flushed with pleasure. His brown eyes seemed warmer than the fire, and his hand brushed back the wet hair from her face with a gentle touch. She could not speak or move but remained, kneeling at his side, held fast by his gaze.
“Be you his woman?”
The innkeepers harsh voice, coming from behind her, made Crysania start. She had neither seen him approach nor heard his shuffling step. Rising to her feet, unable to look at Raistlin, she turned abruptly to face the fire, saying nothing.
“She is a lady of one of the royal houses of Palanthas,” said a deep voice from the doorway. “And I’ll thank you to speak of her with respect, innkeep.”
“Aye, master, aye,” muttered the innkeeper, seemingly daunted by Caramon’s massive girth as the big man came inside, bringing in a gust of wind and rain with him. “I’m sure I intended no disrespect and I hopes none was taken.”
Crysania did not answer. Half-turning, she said in a muffled voice, “Here, bring that water to the table.”
As Caramon shut the door and came over to join them, Raistlin drew forth the pouch that contained the herbal concoction for his potion. Tossing it onto the table, he directed Crysania, with a gesture, to prepare his drink. Then he sank back among the cushions, his breath wheezing, gazing into the flames. Conscious of Caramon’s troubled gaze upon her, Crysania kept her gaze on the potion she was preparing.