Taking that knife had been an act of unbelievable stupidity. Raistlin cursed himself for his folly, couldn't imagine what had prompted him to do something so ill-judged. Some vague and instinctive desire to protect her, he supposed. She would have never done as much for him.

"The weapon's not here," said the captain after another glance at Raistlin's bloodstained robes and a cursory look around the room. "Search them both."

One of the guardsman seized hold of Raistlin, grabbed him roughly, pinned his arms. Another guard rolled up Raistlin's long sleeves, revealing the bloody knife, held fast in his blood-covered hand. The captain smiled, grimly triumphant.

"First a giant kender, and now murder," he said. "You've had a busy night, young man."

The Haven jail was not a particularly nice jail, as Tasslehoff had complained. Located near the sheriff's house, the jail had once been a horse barn. It was drafty and cold, the dirt floors were strewn with refuse. The place stank of both horse and human piss and dung, mingled with vomit from those who had indulged too freely in dwarf spirits at the fair.

Raistlin didn't notice the smell, at least not after the first few seconds. He was too tired to notice. They could have hanged him-hanging being the penalty for murder in Haven-and he would not have protested. He sank down on a filthy straw mattress and fell into a sleep so deep that he didn't feel the rats skitter over his legs.

His dreamless, untroubled sleep provided much conversation among the jail's two guards. One held that such sleep was indicative of a mind innocent of murder, for all knew that a guilty conscience could never slumber peacefully. The other guard, older, scoffed at this notion. It proved the young man to be a hardened criminal, since he could sleep that soundly with the blood of his victim still on his hands.

Raistlin did not hear their arguments, nor did he hear the noisy voices of his fellow prisoners, mostly kender. 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.

Word of the excitement in Haven had either not yet reached the fairgrounds, or, if it had, the participants had listened to it as a good story, little thinking it would have any effect on them. They would feel differently in the morning. If there was a murder trial and a hanging tomorrow, attendance at the fair would fall to almost nothing, sales would be down.

Caramon found Flint's stall by tracing the lumpy outlines of the various buildings, silhouetted against the lambent light of stars and the red moon, which was full and exceedingly bright. Caramon took this as a good omen. Though Raistlin wore white robes, he had once remarked that he favored Lunitari.

Caramon looked for Sturm, but he was nowhere to be found, nor was Tasslehoff around. Caramon went to Tanis's tent, hesitated at the tent flap.

Desperate, Caramon had no compunction about interrupting any sort of pleasurable activity that might be taking place inside. Listening, he could hear nothing. He lifted the flap, peeked in. Tanis was alone, asleep, though not peacefully. He murmured something in an unknown language, probably elven, tossed restlessly. Evidently the quarrel remained unresolved. Caramon lowered the flap, backed away.

Entering the tent he shared with his twin, Caramon was not surprised to find Kitiara inside, rolled up in a blanket. By her even breathing, she was sleeping soundly and contentedly. Red moonlight flowed in after Caramon, as though Lunitari herself was intent on being present at this interview. Anger and awe vied for the uppermost position in Caramon's soul.