Trap turned toward her, already shaking his head. She must have misunderstood the name. As far as he knew he was the only Trapspringer in Hylo. Before he could object, movement among the patrons caught his attention.

They rose from their seats and started forward, their hunger for revenge clear in their eyes.

Trap gazed at the angry faces of the inn's patrons. Three humans had risen from their seats and seemed ready to charge the kender's table. Trap tried to decide how he was going to save his skin. He had never found hard blows to his person to be entertaining. At Halmarain's insistence, he had left his hoopak in the cavern so carrying it would not make him instantly recognizable as a kender. His only weapons were the small knife in the sheath at his belt, not much use against a number of swords and war axes. His tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth, leaving him no opportunity to explain.

Grod, who had been sitting as still as a mouse, suddenly stood up and pulled off his new helmet. He bowed his head as he spoke.

"That Trapspringer dead," he announced to the room at large. "A good tale, that."

"Dead?" the first adventurer repeated. He sounded as disappointed as suspicious. So did the others, but they paused, waiting to hear the explanation.

"Yes, he's dead," Halmarain agreed with a sigh. Under her lashes she gazed at the kender and when he didn't instantly agree, she kicked him under the table.

"Dead," Trap said, trying to look sad. He thought of Uncle Goalong, a favorite relative that had recently died. Thinking of Goalong always made Trap sad and in seconds tears ringed his eyelashes; two rolled slowly down his cheeks.

"A friend of yours, was he?" asked a short, heavily muscled man at the closest table when he saw the ken-der's tears. Along with their reputation for purloining, kender were also known for their loyalty to their companions. They grieved deeply at a friend's death.

Trap gulped back a sob. "My uncle," he said. He had been thinking of his Uncle Goalong.

"If we can't kill him ourselves, at least let's hear how he died," demanded the burly man with the red beard. He glared threateningly at Trap. The kender twisted on his seat, his mind racing to make up a story.

"His full name was Trapspringer Quickhands," Trap said. "He was my mother's brother and the third son of Rogo Quickhands. Did you ever meet Rogo when he was wandering? I think he came by here, though he may not, but he did seem to go everywhere, even down to Solace and south from there to Zeriak where I want to go to see the Icewall Glacier. Have you ever seen a glacier? I hear they're really big and-"

"Get on with the tale of this Trapspringer!" the first adventurer demanded.

"Oh. Sure. It's just hard for me to tell it. The shame, you see." The word shame had brought with it a strong emotion and he gulped a sob. "Our village banished him for his misdeeds and I had not seen him for a long time when I met him on the road a few weeks ago."

The kender hoped the customers of the Leaping Hart were not too familiar with the customs of his race. As far as he knew, no village in Hylo had ever banished anyone. He had picked up the idea from a scrap of conversation he had heard while they were shopping.

"I had not thought he would take my purse!" Trap had always been able to throw himself emotionally into his tales and the thought of a kender deliberately stealing from another of his race caused his eyes to flash with anger.

"Robbed his own nephew?" the burly man shook his head. "No honor among thieves today," he added, shaking his head. "Let's hear this tale of how he died."

Kender loved tales, they enjoyed telling them as much, if not more, than listening. They never repeated a story exactly like it happened or as they had heard it. Their agile imagination improved on it, giving it more drama, suspense, or humor. Only a small step separated embellishment from pure invention. Trap decided to base his story on his own recent adventure with the portal.

"Well, now… this is hard. We think my Uncle Trapspringer is dead, because we don't think he could have lived through his trouble with the wizard…" he began. He paused while the listeners took in the fact that a magic user was involved. Since the cataclysm, wizards were in disrepute throughout Krynn. His listeners would believe anything of them.

Trap wove a tale of the outlaw kender stopping a wizard who was traveling toward Lytburg. Wizards did not use weapons because they were usually too busy studying their craft to practice the art of warfare and this wizard had been caught unaware. For a time he had been at the mercy of the kender's weapons. By the use of guile he had prevented the other Trapspringer from spearing him out of hand.

"And that was my Uncle Trapspringer's mistake," the real Trap said as he looked around the room, allowing the tension to build. That's when he noticed Grod had left his seat and was slipping food off the plate of a fully armed mercenary who was giving his attention to the story. Halmarain had slipped away from her place also, and was bearing down on the gully dwarf. The kender left the tiny human to deal with the Aghar and went on with his tale.

"The wizard threw off his brown traveling cloak, revealing himself in his red robes. This startled my uncle, as you can imagine." He gazed at the burly adventurer. "Have you ever seen a wizard wearing red robes? It's an awful color of red, you know." This last he said with a sly look at the little wizard.

"Just tell us what happened next."

"But wizards are interesting," Trap objected. Halmarain threw him a hard look and he went on with his tale.

"Go on with your story," she hissed.

"Before my uncle could do more than step back," he continued, "the wizard raised his hands and sketched a door, muttering his foul incantations. A black hole appeared in the sunlight of the road, from it sprang a wind, carrying such a stench of rot and decay, that the air turned green and viscous…" As he made up his tale, Trap was suddenly visited with the idea that his aborted journey to another plane had not been nearly as fascinating as his story. He felt a bit cheated as he continued to allow his quick thoughts to add intriguing details.

"And then a black, scaled arm, so large it filled the door-way, reached out and grabbed Uncle Trapspringer."-the kender let the tears trickle down his cheeks-"And if he is still alive, he is in that terrible place.

"We really think he's dead," he added softly.

Most of the adventurers nodded solemnly, but the inn-keeper loudly scoffed. A city dweller, he had never believed half the tales of the mercenaries and wanderers who came to Lytburg.

"And how do you know this happened?"

"The-uh-half-goblin in the outlaw band told me of it," Trap added hastily. "He had been with my uncle, but you know his kind," he nodded wisely to the short, burly human who had seen his tears. "They're bullies, but they won't face any real danger."

He allowed the adventurers' dislike of the humanoids to carry the weight of his pronouncement.

"No, they never do," said a red bearded man with a scar. He turned back to his ale, looked in his mug and found it empty. He called to the innkeeper. Neither knew Grod had finished off the contents of several cups while the customers had been listening to the kender's tale.

"When did all this happen?" a shout from across the room left Trap unsure of the speaker.

"I-uh-don't know for sure," he said. He didn't want to ruin his story by saying the outlaw had died two days before he was known to have robbed one of the patrons of the inn. "I heard the story just last night. The half-goblin had the tale so garbled-you know what they're like when you want a straight answer. He was still scared, so I think it must have been recently. Do you know that half-goblin? He has a wart on his nose, just like him." Trap pointed at the innkeeper who, since he didn't like kender anyway, took instant offense.