A moment later, Caramon turned up at the inn's entrance.

"Hey, Kit, wanna buy me a glass of pear juice or some of those good potatoes Otik serves?" he said with a grin that even Kit in her current ill humor found difficult to resist.

But, as was her custom when he tried to set foot in the inn, Kitiara pounced on Caramon and tossed him out before even Otik could react.

"Any more potatoes and you'll be too larded up to lift your sword. Now get going or you'll be late to meet Raistlin on his way back from Poolbottom!"

Shooing Caramon out the door, Kitiara noticed two strangers climbing the stairs that ended at Otik's doorway. That was not odd in itself, but these two strangers were as mismatched a pair as Kitiara had ever laid eyes on. Kit returned to her seat to await their entrance.

Within a few moments, they were standing inside the front door, surveying the room. One was a behemoth, his hair braided in a dozen strands that fell down his neck to brush his shoulders, his head massive but with eyes tiny as bugs, sunken in fleshy sockets. Six and a half feet tall and, Kit guessed, three hundred pounds, he was tented in a great swath of multi-colored clothing. Her glance went immediately to his weapons-a scimitar, a knife, and a knobby short club, all slung conspicuously around his formidable girth. Over his back he carried a great wooden trunk, which he now flung down on the floor and pushed to one side. He said nothing, but his eyes glared around the room, alighting briefly and without interest on Kit.

He was accompanied by a man who was even more curious for the fact that at first glance Kit might have thought he was a woman. This other one was tall-though not so tall as the giant-and slender, with alabaster skin, jet-black hair, and azure eyes. He was dressed in a tunic of sea blue, with a tooled belt cinching his narrow waist, weaponless, and carrying a leather pack that he dropped wearily to the floor on top of the trunk. He's not much older than me, Kitiara thought, perhaps twenty. As he walked up to the bar, she noticed that he was wearing an unusual pendant with a dazzling green stone around his neck. Along with this uncommon piece of jewelry, Kit was astonished to notice a scent. He obviously was wearing some perfume or oil.

The man carried himself with tremendous dignity, and she realized that he must be someone of privilege and station. More than that, he had a definite aura of gentility and sophistication unlike all the roughnecks and common folk she was used to. Kit had never seen such a man. Any traces of bad humor vanished from her face. Her eyes were alert, her expression intrigued.

"Is lunch still being served?" asked the man as Otik bustled out from the kitchen to greet them.

"A late lunch or an early dinner," Otik said cheerfully. "It's all the same to me. Set yourselves down, and I'll be happy to accommodate."

Being well-traveled, the innkeeper was not as struck by their appearance as Kitiara. He rightly judged the young man to be a well-born noble from Northern Ergoth, accompanied by his slave.

"I am Patric of Gwynned, and this is my manservant Strathcoe," said the man. "I am told by everyone I have met that I should be sure to try your spicy fried potatoes."

His voice was forceful, accustomed to being obeyed. He continued to hold Kit's interest.

Patric's comment about the spicy fried potatoes brought a smile to Otik's face. "Some ale?" asked Otik. "Ale goes good-"

"Fresh water, please," Patric said, cutting him off. "Then, perhaps, some wine. You do serve wine, don't you?"

This last was said as Patric appraised the common room, taking in the sign over the bar that read, Healthy and hearty fare for the citizen and wayfarer.

Otik's face clouded over at the stranger's implication that he ran anything less than a first class establishment. "Of course we serve wine," he said, letting a note of displeasure creep into his voice. "And what would you gentlemen like to eat besides spicy potatoes?"

"Just potatoes, for now," Patric said pleasantly. Clearly he had decided that he would test the mettle of Otik's cooking before ordering anything else.

Vaguely insulted but holding his tongue, Otik hurried off to prepare the order. As he did, the two men looked around and chose a big table near Kitiara.

She had been watching them intently, but shifted her gaze to the window, feigning disinterest, as soon as they moved toward her. Yet she sensed that the younger man was distinctly aware of her presence. She, Patric, and the slave called Strathcoe were Otik's only customers, and an unusual silence prevailed in the normally convivial inn.

"Hey, Kitiara! I'm bored." Caramon stood at the threshold again and was beckoning loudly to his sister. "It's too early to meet Raist. Can't we do something like go down and look at the horses in the stable?"

"Later," said Kitiara sharply, waving him out the door.

"You're not doing anything," the eight-year-old protested, putting on his best pleading look.

"Later," said Kitiara, glaring at him.

It was a look and a tone Caramon knew better than to cross. Sulking, he backed out the door.

As he did, the stranger called Patric turned and looked directly at Kitiara. Their eyes locked. Kit shivered, feeling an intensity in his gaze that she hadn't encountered since- well, since her dealings with El-Navar. Flustered, she looked away, annoyed with herself for doing so. She forced herself to raise her eyes and found Patric still watching her. This time Kit returned his steady gaze. Finally he broke the tension by acknowledging her with a nod.

"Will you indulge us by sharing our table?" he asked. "My servant is not much for conversation, and we have been on the road for many weeks."

"Yes," Kit said, surprised to find herself eager to join them. Otik, coming around to the table with a pitcher of water and two goblets, raised his eyebrows in surprise, gaining a sideways dirty look from Kitiara in response.

As she went to their table, Patric stood and bowed slightly from the waist, then pulled a chair out for her. His slave, arms folded imperiously, did not acknowledge her presence with words or gestures. Yet up close, under these circumstances, Kit did not find him so imposing.

Otik returned to the kitchen and came back a moment later with two plates of fragrant potatoes. He set them down on the table with obvious pride.

"Anything for you?" Patric asked Kitiara, but she shook her head at Otik, who retreated to the bar where he could keep an eye on his guests.

The young noble tasted a few small mouthfuls of his food, sipping water in between. The man-mountain slave evinced no such delicacy. He set to work, noisily and with evident satisfaction, on his plateful of potatoes.

"These are quite good," Patric said to Kit with an apologetic smile, as if entrusting her with a great confidence. "And certainly Strathcoe has no quibbles. I think I will order some more food and drink. I fear I have ruffled the innkeeper's feathers by my hesitation. Perhaps this will smooth them. Are you sure you can't be tempted?"

"No, no thank you," Kit said, striving for a nonchalant tone. "And don't worry about Otik's feelings being hurt. Nothing really upsets him except a kender trying to leave without paying his bill."

As Patric called Otik over to the table to order a bottle of the local wine and some buck stew for his servant, Kit cursed herself for feeling so tongue-tied in the presence of the young noble's glib charm.

For a while the only sound at the table was the slurping and chewing of Strathcoe, whose eyes darted back and forth between the two of them as he devoured his food.

"You must forgive Strathcoe," said Patric. "He was not properly raised, but he has many sterling qualities. His bad ones are, at worst, amusing." He smiled.