The War Of The Lance Read Free Page B

proprietor bobbed and bowed officiously. The
     heavily cloaked man and woman were, to all appearances, well dressed. “You'll be wanting a
     room, no doubt, and then dinner. There's hay in the stable for your horses.”
    “We'll be wanting nothing,” said the man in a harsh voice. He was carrying a young boy in
     his arms and, as he spoke, he eased the child to the floor, then flexed his arms as though
     they ached. “Nothing except a seat by your fire. We wouldn't have come in except that my
     lady-wife is not feeling well.”
    “Not well?” The innkeeper, backing up, held out a dish cloth in front of him as a sort of
     shield and eyed them askance. “Not the plague?”
    “No, no!” said the woman in a low, cultivated voice. “I am not ill. I am just tired and
     chilled to the bone, that is all.” Reaching out her hand, she drew her son near. “We have
     walked a great distance.”
    “Walked!” muttered the innkeeper, not liking the sound of that. He looked more closely at
     the family's dress.
    Several of the men standing around the fire moved to one side. Others hurried to draw up a
     bench, and the overworked barmaid, ignoring her waiting customers, put her arm around the
     woman and helped her to a seat. The woman sank down limply.
    “You're white as a ghost, milady,” said the barmaid.
    “Let me bring you a posset of honey and brandywine.” “No,” said the man, moving to stand
     by his wife, the
    child clinging to his father. “We have no money to pay for it.”
    “Tut, tut. Talk of money later,” said the barmaid briskly. “Call it my treat.”
    “We'll not take charity!” The man's voice rose to a angry shout.
    The boy shrank close to his mother, who glanced at her husband, then lowered her eyes.
     “Thank you for your kind offer,” she said to the barmaid, “but I need nothing. I'm feeling
     much better already.”
    The proprietor, stalking his guests, noted that by firelight their clothes were not nearly
     so fine as they had first seemed. The man's cloak was frayed at the hem and travel worn
     and stained with mud. The woman's dress was clean and neat but many times mended. The boy,
     who appeared to be about five or six, was clad in shirt and trousers that had probably
     once been his father's, cut down to fit the boy's small, thin frame. The proprietor was
     about to hint broadly that only those who spent money in his inn had a right to his fire
     when he was distracted by a scream from inside the kitchen.
    “Where's that kender?” the innkeeper cried out in alarm.
    “Right here!” shouted Earwig eagerly, raising his hand and waving. “Do you want me?”
    The proprietor cast him a baleful glance, then fled.
    “Humpf,” said Caramon in an undertone, his eyes on the woman. She had shoved the hood of
     her cloak back with a weary hand, revealing a pale, thin face once beautiful, now anxious
     and worn with care and fatigue. Her arm stole around her son, who was gazing up at her in
     concern, and she hugged the boy close. “I wonder when the last time was those two had
     anything to eat,” Caramon muttered.
    “I can ask them,” offered Earwig helpfully. “Hey, lady, when - Ulp!”
    Caramon clamped his hand over the kender's mouth.
    “It's no concern of yours, my brother,” snapped Raistlin irritably. “Get that imbecile
     innkeeper back here with the hot water!” He began to cough again.
    Caramon released the wriggling kender (who had
    actually been silent for as long as three minutes on account of having no breath left with
     which to talk) and heaved his great bulk to his feet, peering over the heads of the crowd
     for the proprietor. Smoke was rolling out from under the kitchen door.
    “I think he's going to be a while, Raist,” said Caramon solemnly. “I'll get the barmaid.”
    He tried to catch the barmaid's eye, but she was hovering over the woman.
    “I'll go and fix you a nice cup of tarbean tea, milady. No, no. It's all right. There's