Love And War (31 page)

When the big warrior (and he was a remarkably big young man, as both Slegart and the
others in the common room noted) tossed down a coin and said, “Dinner,” Slegart's frown
broadened immediately to a smile. When the big man added, “and a room for the night,”
however, the smile slipped.

“We're full up,” growled Slegart, with a significant glance around the crowded common
room. “Hunting moon tonight ...”

“Bah!” The big warrior snorted. “There'll be no moon tonight, hunting or otherwise. That
storm's going to break any moment now and, unless you're partial to hunting snowflakes,
you won't shoot anything this night.” At this, the big man glanced around the common room
to see if any cared to dispute his remark. Noting the size of his shoulders, the well-worn
scabbard he wore, and the nonchalant way his hand went to the hilt of his sword, even the
rough-appearing humans began to nod their heads at his wisdom, agreeing that there would
definitely be no hunting this night.

“At any rate,” said the big man, returning his stem gaze to Slegart, “we're spending the
night here, if we have to make up our beds by the fire. As you can see” - the warrior's
voice softened and his gaze went to the magic-user, who had slumped down at a table as
near the fire as possible - “my brother is in no condition to travel farther this day,
especially in such weather.”

Slegart's glance went to the mage and, indeed, the man appeared to be on the verge of
exhaustion. Dressed in red robes, with a hood that covered his head and left his face in
shadow, the magic-user leaned upon a wooden staff decorated at the top with a golden
dragon's claw holding a faceted crystal. He kept this staff by him always, his hand going
to it fondly as if both to caress it and to reassure himself of its presence.

“Bring us your best ale and a pot of hot water for my twin,” said the warrior, slapping another steel coin down upon the bar.

At the sight of the money, Slegart's senses came alert. “I just recollect - ” he began,
his hand closing over the coins and his eyes going to the warrior's leather purse where
his ears could detect the chink of metal. Even his nose wrinkled, as though he could smell
it as well. “ - a room's opened up on t'second floor.”

“I thought it might,” the warrior said grimly, slapping a third steel piece down on the
bar.

“One of my best,” Slegart remarked. The big man grunted, scowling. “It's goin' to be no
fit night for man nor beast,” added the innkeeper and, at that moment, a gust of wind hit the inn, whistling through the
cracked windows and puffing flakes of snow into the room. At that moment, too, the red-
robed mage began to cough - a wracking, choking cough that doubled the man over the table.
It was difficult to tell much about the mage - he was cloaked and hooded against the
weather. But Slegart knew he must be young, if he and this giant were, indeed, twins. The
innkeeper was considerably startled, therefore, to catch a glimpse of ragged, white hair
straying out from beneath the hood and to note that the hand holding the staff was thin
and wasted.

“We'll take it,” the warrior muttered, his worried gaze going to his brother as he laid
the coin down.

“What's the matter with 'im?” Slegart asked, eyeing the mage, his fingers twitching near
the coin, though not touching it. “It ain't catchin', is it?” He drew back. “Not the
plague?”

“Naw!” The warrior scowled. Leaning nearer the innkeeper, the big man said in a low voice,
“We've just come from the Tower of High Sorcery.” Slegart's eyes grew wide. “He's just
taken the Test. . . .”

“Ah,” the innkeeper said knowingly, his gaze on the young mage not unsympathetic. “I've
seen many of 'em in my day. And I've seen many like yourself” - he looked at the big
warrior - “who have come here alone, with only a packet of clothes and a battered
spellbook or two all that remains. Yer lucky, both of you, to have survived.”

The warrior nodded, though it didn't appear - from the haunted expression on his pale face
and dark, pain-filled eyes - that he considered his luck phenomenal. Returning to his
table, the warrior laid his hand on his brother's heaving shoulder, only to be rebuffed
with a bitter snarl.

“Leave me in peace, Caramon!” Slegart heard the mage gasp as the innkeeper came to the table, bearing the ale and a pot of hot water on a tray.
“Your worrying will put me in my grave sooner than this cough!”

The warrior, Caramon, did not answer, but sat down in the booth opposite his brother, his
eyes still shadowed with unhappiness and concern.

Setting down the tray, Slegart tried his best to see the face covered by the hood, but the
mage was huddled near the fire, the red cowl pulled low over his eyes. The mage did not
even look up as the innkeeper laid the table with an unusual amount of clattering of
plates and knives and mugs. The young man simply reached into a pouch he wore tied to his
belt and, taking a handful of leaves, handed them carefully to his brother.

“Fix my drink,” the mage ordered in a rasping voice, leaning wearily against the wall.

Slegart, watching all this intently, was considerably startled to note that the skin that
covered the mage's slender hand gleamed a bright, metallic gold in the firelight!

The innkeeper tried for another glimpse of the mage's face, but the young man drew back
even farther into the shadows, ducking his head and pulling the cowl lower over his eyes.

“If the skin of 'is face be the same as the skin of 'is hand, no wonder he hides himself,”
Slegart reflected, wishing he had turned this strange, sick mage away - money or no money.

The warrior took the leaves from the mage and dropped them in a cup. He then filled it
with hot water.

Curious in spite of himself, the innkeeper leaned over to catch a glimpse of the mixture,
hoping it might be a magic potion of some sort. To his disappointment, it appeared to be
nothing more than tea with a few leaves floating on the surface. A bitter smell rose to
his nostrils. Sniffing, he started to make some comment when the door blew open, admitting
more snow, more wind, and another guest. Motioning one of the slatternly barmaids to
finish waiting on the mage and his brother, Slegart turned to greet the new arrival.

It appeared - from its graceful walk and its tall, slender build - to be either a young
human male, a human female, or an elf. But so bundled and muffled in clothes was the
figure that it was impossible to tell sex or race.

“We're full up,” Slegart started to announce, but before he could even open his mouth, the
guest had drifted over to him (it was impossible for him to describe its walk any other way) and, leaning out a hand remarkable for its delicate beauty, laid two steel
coins in the innkeeper's hand (remarkable only for its dirt).

“A place by the fire this night,” said the guest in a low voice.

“I do believe a room's opened up,” announced Slegart to the delight of the goblinish
humans, who greeted this remark with coarse laughs and guffaws. Even the warrior grinned
ruefully and shook his head, reaching across the table to nudge his brother. The mage said
nothing, only gestured irritably for his drink.

“I'll take the room,” the guest said, reaching into its purse and handing two more coins
to the grinning innkeeper.

“Very good. . . .” Noticing the guest's fine clothes, made of rich material, Slegart
thought it wise to bow. “Uh, what name . . . ?”

“Do the room and I need an introduction?” the guest asked sharply.

The warrior chuckled appreciatively at this, and it seemed as if even the mage responded,
for the hooded head moved slightly as he sipped his steaming, foul-smelling drink.

Somewhat at a loss for words, Slegart was fumbling about in his mind, trying to think of
another way to determine his mysterious guest's identity, when the guest turned from him
and headed for a table located in a shadowed comer as far from the fire as possible. “Meat
and drink.” It tossed the words over its shoulder in an imperious tone.

“What would your . . . your lordship like?” Slegart asked, hurrying after the guest, an
ear cocked attentively. Though the guest spoke Common, the accent was strange, and the
innkeeper still couldn't tell if his guest was male or female.

“Anything,” the guest said wearily, turning its back upon Slegart as it walked over to the
shadowy booth. On its way, it cast a glance at the table where the warrior, Caramon, and
his brother sat. “That. Whatever they're having.” The guest gestured to where the barmaid
was heaping a wooden bowl full of some gray, coagulating mass and rubbing her body up
against Caramon's at the same time.

Now, perhaps it was the way the mysterious guest walked or perhaps it was the way the
person gestured or even perhaps the subtle sneer in the guest's voice when it noticed
Caramon's hand reaching around to pat the barmaid on a rounded portion of her anatomy, but Slegart guessed instantly that the muffled guest
was female.

It was dangerous journeying through Ansalon in those days some five years before the war.
There were few who traveled alone, and it was unusual for women to travel at all. Those
women who did were either mercenaries - skilled with sword and shield - or wealthy women
with a horde of escorts, armed to the teeth. This woman - if such she was - carried no
weapon that Slegart could see and if she had escorts, they must enjoy sleeping in the open
in what boded to be one of the worst blizzards ever to hit this part of the country.

Slegart wasn't particularly bright or observant, and he arrived at the conclusion that his
guest was a lone, unprotected female about two minutes after everyone else in the place.
This was apparent from the warrior's slightly darkening face and the questioning glance he
cast at his brother, who shook his head. This was also apparent from the sudden silence
that fell over the “hunting” party gathered near the bar and the quick whispers and
muffled snickers that followed.

Hearing this, Caramon scowled and glanced around behind him. But a touch on the hand and a
softly spoken word from the mage made the big warrior sigh and stolidly resume eating the
food in his bowl, though he kept his eyes on the guest, to the disappointment of the
barmaid.

Slegart made his way back of the bar again and began wiping out mugs with a filthy rag,
his back halfturned but his sharp eyes watching everything. One of the ruffians rose
slowly to his feet, stretched, and called for another pint of ale. Taking it from the
barmaid, he sauntered slowly over to the guest's table.

“Mind if I sit down?” he said, suiting his action to his words.

“Yes,” said the guest sharply.

“Aw, c'mon,” the ruffian said, grinning and settling himself comfortably in the booth
across from the guest, who sat eating the gray gunk in her bowl. “It's a custom in this
part of the country for innfellows to make merry on a night like this. Join our little
party . . .” - The guest ignored him, steadily eating her food. Caramon shifted slightly
in his seat, but, after a pleading glance at his brother, which was answered with an
abrupt shake of the hooded head, the warrior continued eating with a sigh.

The ruffian leaned forward, reaching out his hand to touch the scarf the guest had wound
tightly about her face.

“You must be awful hot - ” the man began. He didn't complete his sentence, finding it
difficult to speak through the bowl of hot stew dripping down his face. “I've lost my appetite,” the
guest said. Calmly rising to her feet, she wiped stew from her hands on a greasy napkin and headed for the stairs.
“I'll go to my room now, innkeeper. What number?”

“Number sixteen. You can bolt lock it from the inside to keep out the riff-raff,” Slegart
said, his mug-polishing slowing. Trouble was bad for business, cut into profits. “Serving
girl'll be along to turn down the bed.”

The “riff-raff,” stew dripping off his nose, might have been content to let the mysterious
person go her way. There had been a coolness in the voice, and the quick, self- possessed
movement indicated that the guest had some experience caring for herself. But the big
warrior laughed at the innkeeper's remark - a chuckle of appreciation - and so did the
“hunting” party by the fire. Their laughter was the laughter of derision, however.

Casting his comrades an angry glance, the man wiped stew from his eyes and leaped to his
feet. Overturning the table, he followed the woman, who was half-way up the stairs.

“I'LL show you to yer room!” he leered, grabbing hold of her and jerking her backward.

Caught off-balance, the guest fell into the ruffian's arms with a cry that proved beyond a
shadow of a doubt that she was, indeed, a female.

“Raistlin?” pleaded Caramon, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Very well, my brother,” the mage said with a sigh. Reaching out his hand for the staff he
had leaned against the wall, he used it to pull himself to his feet.

Caramon was starting to stand up when he saw his brother's eyes go to a point just behind
him. Catching the look, Caramon nodded slightly just as a heavy hand closed over his
shoulder.

“Good stew, ain't it?” said one of the hunting party. “Shame to interrupt yer dinner over
somethin' that ain't none of yer business. Unless, of course, you want to share some of
the fun. If so, we'll let you know when it's your tur - ”

Caramon's fist thudded into the man's jaw. “Thanks,” the warrior said coolly, drawing his
sword and twisting around to face the other thugs behind him. “I think I'll take my turn
now.”

A chair flung from the back of the crowd caught Caramon on the shoulder of his sword arm. Two men in front jumped him, one grabbing his wrist and
trying to knock the sword free, the other flailing away with his fists. The mob - seeing
the warrior apparently falling - surged forward.

“Get the girl, Raist! I'll take care of these!” Caramon shouted in muffled tones from
beneath a sea of bodies. “Everything's . . . under . . . contr - ”