The kender were filled with excitement, for this had been an eventful day, complete with a riot, a conflagration, a

murder, and, most wonderfully, one of their own transformed into a giant. Not even Uncle Trapspringer had been

known to accomplish such a magnificent feat. The giant kender was to become a celebrated figure in kender song

and story ever after that, often seen striding across the oceans and hopping from mountaintop to mountaintop. If

there was ever a night when the silver and red moons didn't rise, it was widely known that

the giant kender had "borrowed" them.

Eager to discuss this momentous occasion, the kender were constantly in and out of each other's cells, picking

the locks almost before the cell doors were shut. As soon as the guards had one kender locked up, two more were

out roaming around.

"He's shivering," observed the young guard, glancing into Raistlin's cell during one of the few lulls given them

by the kender, a lull that was quite ominous, if only they'd thought about it. "Should I get him a blanket?"

"Naw," said the jailkeep with a leer. "He'll be warm enough. Too warm, if you take my meaning. They say it's

hotter'n the smithy's forge in the Abyss."

"I guess there'll be a trial first, before they hang him," said the young guard, who was new to the area.

"The sheriff will hold one, for form's sake." The jailer shrugged. "Myself, I don't see the need. He was caught

with the knife in his hand standing over the body." He dredged up a filthy blanket. "Here, you can cover him up

if you want. 'Twould be a shame if he caught cold and died before the hanging. Hand over the keys."

"I don't have the keys. I thought you had the keys."

As it turned out, the kender had the keys. They poured out of their cells and were soon having a picnic in the

middle of the jail.

Intent on endeavoring to persuade the kender to return their keys, the jailer and the lone guard were too

distracted to notice the flare of torchlight approaching the prison, nor could they hear over the shouts of the

kender, the shouts of the approaching mob.

Raistlin, exhausted from the spellcasting and the sheriff's questioning, had fallen into a comatose-like sleep

and heard nothing.

Caramon did not see the torchlight either. He was far from the jail, running as fast as he possibly could for the

fairgrounds.

Caramon had narrowly escaped being made a prisoner himself. When questioned by Haven's sheriff, Caramon

steadfastly denied all knowledge of the crime, denied it in the name of himself and his brother. Raistlin had

wearily repeated his own story. He had knelt beside the body to examine the victim. He had no idea why he had

picked up the knife or why he had tried to hide it. He had been in a state of shock, did not know what he was

doing. He added, emphatically, that Caramon was not involved.

Fortunately a witness, the young priestess, came forward to claim that she had been speaking to Caramon in the

hallway when they heard Judith scream. Caramon swore that his twin had been with him at the time, but the girl

said she had seen only one of them.

Due to this alibi, the sheriff reluctantly released Caramon. He gave his brother one loving, anxious, worried look--

a look that Raistlin ignored-and then hurried off to the fairgrounds.

On his way, Caramon mulled things over in his mind. People accused him of being dull-witted, slow. He was not

dull-witted, but he was slow, though not in the popular use of the term, meaning stupid. He was a thinker, a slow

and deliberate thinker, one who considered every aspect of a problem before finally arriving at the solution. The fact

that he invariably arrived at the right solution often went unnoticed by most people.

Caramon had several miles to consider this terrible predicament. The sheriff had been quite candid. There would

be a trial as a matter of form, though its outcome was a foregone conclusion. Raistlin would be found guilty of

murder, he would pay for his crime by hanging. The hanging would likely take place that very day, as soon as they

could assemble the gallows.

By the time he reached the fairgrounds, Caramon had come to a decision. He knew what he had to do.

The fairgrounds were quiet. Here and there a light shone from behind the shutters of a booth, although it was well

into the morning hours. Some craftsmen were still hard at work replenishing their stock for tomorrow's opening.

Tomorrow would be the last day of the fair, the last day to entice customers, the last day to urge the buyer to part

with his steel.