The Second Generation

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 half-turned 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 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.” Grinning, the ruffian settled 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 his dinner 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 “riffraff,” 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 indicating that the guest had some experience caring for herself. But the big warrior laughed appreciatively at the innkeeper’s remark, 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 leapt to his feet. Overturning the table, he followed the woman, who was halfway up the stairs.

“I’ll show you to yer room!” He leered, grabbed hold of her, and jerked 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 shift 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.”