propitious. The paint on its hanging sign was faded past recognition-no great loss to the art community. The owner,

having expended his wit on the name, had not been able think of any way to illustrate it beyond a huge red X in the

middle of a squiggle that might have been a road.

The building itself had a sullen and defiant air, as if it were tired of being teased about its clever name and would,

in a fit of ill temper, tumble down upon the head of the next person who mentioned it. The shutters were half closed,

giving its windows a suspicious squint. Its eaves sagged like frowning brows.

The door opened with such reluctance that Raistlin, on the

first try, thought the inn might have closed down. He could hear voices and laughter inside, smell the scent of food. A

second, more forceful push, caused the door to relinquish. It opened grudgingly, with a screech of rusted hinges,

slammed shut quickly behind him, as much as to say, "Don't blame me. I did my best to warn you."

The laughter stopped at Raistlin's entrance. The inn's guests turned their heads to look at him, consider him,

prepare to take whatever action they deemed appropriate. The bright light of a roaring fire partially dazzled him. He

could see nothing for a moment until his eyes adjusted, and therefore he had no idea whether any of the guests had

taken an unusual interest in him. By the time he could see, they had all gone back to doing whatever it was they

were doing.

Most of them, that is. One group, consisting of three cloaked and hooded figures, seated on the far side of the

room, paid him considerable attention. When they resumed their conversation, they put their heads together, talking

excitedly, occasionally lifting their heads to cast glittering-eyed glances in his direction.

Raistlin found an empty booth near the fire, sat down thankfully to rest and warm himself. A glance at the plates

of his fellow guests showed that the food was plain fare. It didn't look particularly tasty, but didn't appear likely to

poison him either. Stew being the only dish offered, he ordered that, along with a glass of wine.

He ate a few bites of unnameable meat, then pushed the bits of potato and coagulated gravy around with his

spoon. The wine was surprisingly good, with a taste of clover. He relished it and was regretting that his meager purse

could not afford him a second glass when a cool pitcher appeared at his elbow.

Raistlin lifted his head.

One of the cloaked men who had been so interested in Raistlin stood at his table.

"Greetings, stranger," the man said, speaking Common with a slight accent, an accent that reminded Raistlin of

Tanis.

Raistlin was not surprised to see an elf, though he was extremely surprised to hear the elf add, "My friends and I

noticed how much you enjoyed the wine. It comes from Qualinesti, as do we. My friends and I would like to share

this pitcher of our fine wine with you, sir."

No respectable elf would be found drinking in a human-owned tavern. No respectable elf would initiate a conversation

with a human. No respectable elf would buy a human

a pitcher of wine. This gave Raistlin a pretty good idea of the status of his new acquaintances.

They must be dark elves-those who have been "cast from the light" or exiled from the elven homelands, the

worst possible fate that can befall an elf.

"What you drink and with whom you drink is your prerogative, sir," Raistlin said warily.

"It's not prerogative," the elf returned. "It's wine."

He smiled, thinking himself clever. "And it's yours, if you want it. Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Forgive me for seeming rude, sir. I am not in the mood for company."

"Thank you. I accept the invitation." The elf slid into the seat opposite.

Raistlin rose to his feet. This had gone far enough. "I bid you good evening, sir. I am in need of rest. If you

will excuse me..."

"You're a magic-user, aren't you?" the elf asked. He had not removed the hood that covered his head, but

his eyes were visible. Almond-shaped, they gleamed hard and clear, as if the liquid orbs had frozen.

Raistlin saw no need to answer such an impertinent and perhaps dangerous question. He turned away,

intending to bargain with the innkeeper for a patch of floor near the fire in the common room.

"Pity," said the elf. "It would be your good fortune if you were-a magic-user, I mean. My friends and I"-he

nodded his head in the direction of his two hooded companions-"have in mind a little job where a wizard

might come in handy."