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. "Lend me
your arm," the mage added, taking hold of his staff. "My
exertions have exhausted me."
"Oh, uh, sure, Raist," Caramon said, his thirst forgotten
in his concern for his brother.
"Number thirteen," grunted Slegart, helping the ruffians
drag their wounded comrade off into a comer.
"It figures," Caramon muttered, assisting his brother up
the stairs. "Hey, you got a good look at that girl? Was she
pretty?"
"Why ask me, my brother?" Raistlin replied softly.
Pulling his hood down low over his face again, he evaded
his brother's question. "You know what these eyes of mine
see!"
"Yeah, sorry, Raist." Caramon flushed. "I keep
forgetting. Damn! That one bastard broke a chair over my
back end when I was bending over. I know I got splinters. . .
."
"Yes, my brother," Raistlin murmured, not listening.
His gaze went to the door at the end of the hall, a door
marked with the number 16.
Behind that door, Amberyl paced restlessly, clasping
and unclasping her hands and occasionally making that low,
moaning cry.
"How could this happen?" she asked feverishly,
walking back and forth, back and forth the small chamber.
The room was chill and dark. In her preoccupation,
Amberyl had allowed the fire to go out
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