Thorbardin,

152.

bringing with them the metalwork for which they were famous, displaying everything from pots and pans to axes,

bracers, and daggers.

These Thorbardin dwarves sparked the first incident of the fair season. The Thorbardin dwarves were in the Inn of

the Last Home, partaking of Otik's ale, when they began to make disparaging comments regarding that ale, which

they maintained was far below their own high standards. A local hill dwarf took exception to these comments on

Otik's behalf, added a few of his own relevant to the fact that a mountain dwarf wouldn't know a good glass of ale if it

was poured over his head, which it subsequently was.

Several elves from Qualinesti, who had brought with them some exquisite gold and silver jewelry, maintained that

the dwarve s were all a pack of brutes, worse than humans, who were bad enough.

A brawl ensued. The guards were summoned.

The Solace residents took the side of the hill dwarf. The flustered Otik, not wanting to lose customers, was on both

sides at the same time. He thought that perhaps the ale might not up to his usual high standards, was forced to

admit that the Thorbardin gentlemen might be right on that point. On the other hand, Flint Fireforge was an

exceptional judge of ale, having tasted a great deal of it in his time, and Otik felt called upon to bow to his expertise.

Eventually it was determined that if the hill dwarf would apologize to the mountain dwarves and the mountain

dwarves would apologize to Otik, the entire incident would be forgotten. The leader of the Thorbardin dwarves, wiping

blood from his nose, stated in surly tones that the ale was "drinkable." The hill dwarf, massaging a bruised jaw,

mumbled that a mountain dwarf might indeed know something of ale, having spent enough nights on the barroom

floor lying face first in it. The Thorbardin dwarf didn't like the sound of that, thought it might be another insult. At

this juncture, Otik hastily offered a free round to everyone in the bar to celebrate their newfound friendship.

No dwarf alive has ever turned down free ale. Both sides went back to their seats, each group convinced that their

side had won. Otik gathered up the broken chairs, the barmaids picked up the broken crockery, the guards drank a

glass in honor of the innkeeper, the elves looked down their long noses at the lot of them, and the incident ended.

Raistlin and Caramon heard about the fight the next day as they shoved their way through the crowds milling

among the booths and tents.

"I wished I'd been there." Caramon gave a gusty sigh and clenched his large fist.

Raistlin said nothing, he hadn't been paying attention. He was studying the flow of the crowds, trying to determine

where would be the most advantageous place to establish himself. At length he settled on a spot located at the

convergence of two aisles. A lace -maker from Haven was across from him on one side and a wine merchant from Pax

Tharkas on the other.

Placing a large wooden bowl in front of a nearby stump, Raistlin gave Caramon his instructions.

"Walk to the end of this row, turn around, and stroll back. You're a farmer's son in town for the day, remember.

When you come to me, stop and stare and point and create a commotion. Once the crowd begins to form around me,

move to the outside of the circle and catch people as they walk past, urge them to take a look. Got that?"

"You bet!" said Caramon, grinning. He was enjoying himself immensely.

"And when I ask for a volunteer from the crowd, you know what you must do."

Caramon nodded. "Say I've never seen you before in my life and that there's nothing at all inside that box." "Don't

overact," Raistlin cautioned.

"No, no. I won't. You can count on me," Caramon promised.

Raistlin had his doubts, but there was nothing more he could do to alleviate them. He had rehearsed Caramon the

night before, and he could only hope his twin would remember his lines.

Caramon departed, heading for the end of the row as he'd been directed. He was almost immediately waylaid by a

stout little man in a garish red waistcoat, who drew Caramon toward a tent, promising that inside the tent Caramon

could see the epitome of female beauty, a woman renowned from here to the Blood Sea, who was going to perform the

ritual mating dance of the Northern Ergothians, a dance that was said to drive men into a frenzy. Caramon could

witness this fabulous sight for only two steel pieces.

"Really?" Caramon craned his neck, trying to sneak a peek through the tent flap.

"Caramon!" His brother's voice snapped across the back of his neck.