Raistlin follows her instructions, letting the invisible hand guide him. The rope snaps, unweaving the canvas from the central tent so it can be pulled away. He sheathes Need, as instructed, and starts pulling.

"Here!" he calls to the cook, who had been yanking futilely at the bottom edge. "Help me - grab up here - good."

The baby wails in his ear, but between the three of them they managed to make a wide enough hole in the canvas for the trapped person to emerge, gasping.

Raistlin sees her. She sees Raistlin.

Their glares are immediate, mutual, and loathing.

Raistlin's eyes narrow. The so-called fortune teller - the woman who'd accosted him, and played the victim when he defended himself. She's got the half-outraged look of someone who finds themselves indebted to someone they dislike. He's familiar with it. There's little point sticking around, now. Either she'll try to be grateful, which is bad, or she'll invent a reason she doesn't have to be, which is worse.

"You are perfectly able to do the rest yourself," he informs the cook, not inaccurately, and attempts to leave.