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. The gully
dwarf was sticking out of a barrel, upside down, its feet
waving pathetically in the air, its ear-splittling screams
likely to cause serious breakage of the glassware.
"What about damages?" Slegart demanded, coming
over to survey the ruin.
"Collect it from them," Caramon growled, gesturing to
the groaning members of the hunting party. "Here's your
dagger, Raist," the warrior said, holding out a small silver
knife. "I cleaned it as best I could. Guess you didn't want to
waste your magic on those wretches, huh? Anyway - hey,
Raist - you all right?"
"I'm . . . not injured. . . ." Raistlin said softly, reaching
out his hand to catch hold of his brother.
"Then what's the matter?" Caramon asked, puzzled.
"You look like you've seen a spirit. Say, where's the girl?"
He glanced around. "Didn't she even stay to thank us?"
"I - I sent her to her room," Raistlin said, blinking in
confusion and looking at Caramon as though wondering
who he was. After a moment, he seemed more himself.
Taking the dagger from his brother's hand, the mage
replaced it on the cunningly made thong he had attached
around his wrist. "And we should be going to our rooms,
my brother," he said firmly, seeing Caramon's gaze go
longingly to the pitcher of ale still on their table
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