There were so many buildings, each with several entrances, that Raistlin had no idea which door was the main one. Iolanthe chose a door seemingly at random, as far as Raistlin could tell, until he glanced up to see a shield—cracked down the middle—hanging above it.
A weather-beaten placard nailed to the door bore the words, scrawled in Common, Humans Only! Ogres, goblins, draconians, and minotaurs did their drinking in the Hair of the Troll, popularly known as the Hairy Troll.
Iolanthe was starting to push on the swinging, double doors when they suddenly flew open. A man in a white shirt and leather doublet appeared, carrying a kender by the scruff of her neck and the seat of her britches. The man gave a heave-ho and flung the kender into the street, where she landed belly-first in the mud.
“And don’t come back!” the man yelled, shaking his fist.
“Ah, you know you’d miss me, Talent!” the kender returned, cheerfully picking herself up. She wandered off down the street, wiping muck from her eyes and wringing mud from her straggling braids.
“Vermin!” the man muttered as he turned to smile at Iolanthe. He made a graceful bow. “Welcome, Madam Iolanthe. It is a pleasure to see you, as always. Who is your friend?”
Iolanthe performed introductions. “Raistlin Majere, meet Talent Orren, owner of the Inn of the Broken Shield.”
Orren bowed again. Raistlin inclined his hooded head, and both men studied each other. Orren was of medium height, with a slender, almost delicate build. He was good looking, with brown eyes that were keen and penetrating. He had shoulder-length dark hair, carefully combed, and a thin mustache on his upper lip. He wore a white shirt with long, flowing sleeves, the neck open, and tight leather pants. A long sword hung from his side. He held the door open and politely ushered Iolanthe into the inn. Raistlin started to follow, only to find himself blocked by Orren’s muscular arm.
“Humans only,” Orren said, “as the sign says.”
Raistlin flushed in anger and embarrassment.
“Oh, for mercy’s sake, he is human, Orren!” said Iolanthe.
“I have never seen a human with such funny-colored skin,” Orren said, unconvinced. His voice was cultivated. Raistlin thought he detected a faint Solamnic accent.
Iolanthe grabbed hold of Raistlin’s wrist. “Humans come in all different colors, Orren. My friend happens to be a little peculiar;
that’s all.”
She whispered into Orren’s ear, and he regarded Raistlin with more interest. “Is this the truth? Are you Kitiara’s brother?”
Raistlin opened his mouth to reply, but Iolanthe answered for him.
“Of course he is,” she said briskly. “You can see the family resemblance.” She lowered her voice. “And I wouldn’t go shouting Kitiara’s name in the streets. Not these days.”
Talent smiled. “You have a point, Iolanthe, my sweet. You do resemble your sister, sir, and that is a compliment, for she is a lovely woman.”
Raistlin did not comment. He did not think he and Kitiara looked alike; they were, after all, only half brother and sister. Kitiara had black curls and brown eyes. She took after her father, who had been darkly handsome. Raistlin’s hair had been like Caramon’s, a russet color, before the Test had turned his hair prematurely white.
What Raistlin did not realize was that both he and Kit had the same fire in their eyes, the same determination to gain what they wanted no matter what the cost—even to themselves.
Orren allowed Raistlin to enter, graciously holding the door for him. The inn was crowded and noisy; they were serving the midday dinner crowd. Iolanthe told Talent she needed to talk business. He stated that he had no time at the present, but he would talk to her when the rush was over.
She and Raistlin walked past several tables occupied by dark pilgrims, who regarded them with frowns and disapproving glares. Raistlin heard the muttered word “witch,” and he glanced at his companion. Iolanthe had heard as well, to judge by the color that had mounted to her cheeks. She pretended she had not, however, and swept past them.
Several soldiers regarded her with more favor, speaking to her respectfully as “Mistress Iolanthe” and asking if she would join them. Iolanthe always declined, but with some clever remark that left the soldiers laughing. She guided Raistlin to a small table in a shadowed corner underneath the broad staircase that led to the upper rooms.
A soldier was already seated there, but he immediately rose when he saw her coming. Picking up his food and drink, he relinquished the table to her with a grin.
Raistlin sank gratefully into the chair. His health might be improved, but he still found that he tired easily. The serving girl came hurrying to take their order, pausing frequently on her way to knock aside a pawing hand, slap a face, or expertly jam her elbow into a rib cage. She did not appear angry or even overly annoyed.
“I can handle myself,” she said, seeming to guess what Raistlin was thinking. “And the boys watch out for me.”
She gave a nod to several very large men, who were standing with their backs against the walls, keeping watchful eyes on the patrons. At that moment, one of the men left his post and went charging into the crowd to break up a fight. Both combatants were speedily ejected.
“Strange to see peace reign in a tavern that caters to soldiers,” Raistlin remarked.
“Talent learned early in his career that barroom brawls are bad for business, particularly with the religious types,” Iolanthe said. “These dark pilgrims will watch a ritual blood sacrifice to their Queen without turning a hair, but let a man bloody another man’s nose during the supper hour, and the pilgrims would keel over in shock.”
The serving girl brought the food, which was, as the Aesthetic had written, plain but good. Iolanthe ate a shepherd’s pie with a healthy appetite. Raistlin nibbled at some boiled chicken. What he could not finish, Iolanthe ate for him.
“You should eat more,” she said to him. “Keep up your strength. You will need it this afternoon.”
“What do you mean?” Raistlin asked, alarmed at her ominous tone.
“You will find the Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka a surprise,” she said quietly.
Raistlin was going to press her for more information, but Talent Orren joined them at that moment. Hauling over a chair from another table, he turned it around and straddled it, resting his arms on the back.
“What can I do for you, my adorable witch?” he said with a playful smile for Iolanthe. “You know that I live to serve you.”
“I know that you live to charm the ladies,” returned Iolanthe, grinning.
Raistlin started to draw out his purse. Iolanthe shook her head.
“My lord Ariakas will have the pleasure of paying for lunch. Put our meals on the Emperor’s tab, will you, Talent? And add something for the girl and for yourself.”
“Your wish is my command,” said Talent. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“I want a room in your boarding house for my friend,” Iolanthe continued. “Just a small room, nothing fancy. His needs are simple.”
“I am generally full, but as it happens, I have a room available,” said Orren. “It opened up this morning.” He added matter-of-factly, “Occupant died in his sleep.”
He named a price. Raistlin did some rapid calculations and shook his head. “I am afraid I cannot afford—”
Iolanthe stopped him, closing her hand over his. “Kitiara will pay for him. He is, after all, her brother.”
Talent slapped the back of the chair. “Then it is all settled. You can move in any time, Majere. I fear you will notice a strong odor of paint, but we had to use several coats to cover up the blood spatters. Collect the key on the way out. Number thirty-nine. Third floor, turn to your right, then make a left at the end of the corridor. Anything else?”
Iolanthe said something in a low voice. Talent listened intently, glanced at Raistlin, raised an eyebrow, then smiled.
“Of course. Wait here.”
“You can put that on Ariakas’s tab as
well,” Iolanthe called to him.
Talent laughed as he headed back to the bar.
“Don’t worry,” said Iolanthe when Raistlin began to protest. “I will speak to Kit. She will be thrilled to hear you are in Neraka. As for paying for your room, she can easily afford it.”
“Nevertheless,” said Raistlin firmly, “I will not be beholden to anyone, not even my sister. I will pay her back the moment I am able.”
“How very noble,” said Iolanthe, amused by his scruples. “And now, if you are feeling better, we will visit the Tower, and I will introduce you to your esteemed colleagues.”
Iolanthe was in the act of reaching for her purse when the serving girl came by. Iolanthe stood up and the two collided, causing Iolanthe to drop her purse and spill the contents. Iolanthe angrily scolded the serving girl, who apologized most profusely and picked up the scattered coins and trinkets, some of which Raistlin recognized as spell components.
When Raistlin rose from the table, Iolanthe took hold of his hand and slipped a rolled-up bit of paper into his palm. He concealed the paper in the long, full sleeves of his robes and deftly slipped it into one of his pouches. The black wax of the “official seal” was still warm to the touch.
Raistlin collected the key to number thirty-nine from one of the bartenders, who instructed him that after he had moved in he was to drop the key off whenever he left the premises and pick it up on his return. Iolanthe bid good-bye to Talent Orren, who was seated at a table with two dark pilgrims, one male and one female. Talent kissed Iolanthe’s hand, much to the disapproval of the pilgrims, then went back to their conversation.
“I can get what you want,” Talent was saying, “but it will cost you.”
The dark pilgrims glanced at each other, and the woman smiled and nodded. The man drew out a heavy purse.
“What was that all about?” Raistlin asked as they left the inn.
“Oh, Talent is probably selling them something on the black market,” Iolanthe said with a shrug. “Those two are Spiritors, high in the clerical hierarchy. Like many of Her Dark Majesty’s followers, they have developed a taste for the finer things in life, such as thoroughbred horses from Khur, wine and silk from Qualinesti, and jewelry from the dwarf artisans of Thorbardin. Once these things were sold in the shops, but with the supply lines getting cut and losses mounting, such luxuries are becoming scarce.”
“Interesting that Talent can lay his hands on them,” Raistlin said.
“He has a way with people,” Iolanthe said, smiling.
She took Raistlin’s arm again, much to his discomfiture. He had expected that they would head back into the heart of the city. The Tower of High Sorcery would not be as grand or imposing as the Temple of the Dark Queen, of course. That would not be politic. But it ought to be located somewhere near Takhisis’s temple.
He had thought it curious that he had not found a description of the Tower of High Sorcery in the Aesthetic’s writings on Neraka. There could be many reasons for that. Every Tower of High Sorcery was guarded by a protective grove. The Tower of Palanthas had the dread Shoikan Grove. The Tower of Wayreth was surrounded by an enchanted forest. Perhaps the grove around the Nerakan Tower rendered it invisible.
Iolanthe did not turn toward the Temple of the Dark Queen, however. She walked in the opposite direction, taking a street that led into what appeared to be a warehouse district. The streets were less crowded here, for soldiers did not frequent the area. Raistlin could see workmen inside the warehouses rolling barrels into place, shifting crates, and unloading sacks of grain from the ubiquitous wagons.
“I thought we were going to the Tower,” Raistlin said.
“We are,” said Iolanthe.
Rounding a corner, drawing him with her, she stopped in front of a three-story building made of bricks, huddling in between a cooper’s business on one side and a blacksmith’s on the other. The building was black, not by design, but because the bricks were covered with dirt and soot. There were few windows, and most of those were cracked or broken.
“Where is the Tower?” asked Raistlin.
“You’re looking at it,” said Iolanthe.
5
Boiled Cabbage. The New Librarian.
6th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC
here must … there must be some mistake,” said Raistlin, appalled.
“There is no mistake,” said Iolanthe. “You look upon the repository of magic in the Dark Queen’s realm.”
She turned to face him. “Now do you understand? Now do you see why Nuitari broke with his mother? This”—she made a scathing gesture to the shabby, dirty, and decrepit building—”is the regard in which magic is held by the Queen of Darkness.”
Raistlin had never known such bitter disappointment. He thought of the pain he had endured, the sacrifices he had made to get to this place, and tears of anger and frustration burned his eyes and blurred his vision.
Iolanthe gave his arm a sympathetic pat. “I am sorry to say it only gets worse from here. You have yet to meet your fellow Black Robes.”
Her violet eyes, gazing at him, were piercing in their intensity. “You must decide, Raistlin Majere,” she said softly. “Which side will you choose? Mother or son?”
“What about you?” he hedged.
Iolanthe laughed. “Oh, that is easy. I am always on my own side.”
And her side appears to include serving my sister, Kitiara, Raistlin thought. That might work well for me, or it might not. I did not come to serve. I came to rule.
Sighing, Raistlin picked up the ruins of his shattered ambition and packed away the pieces. The path he had been walking had carried him not to glory but to a pig sty. He had to watch every step, look closely where he put his feet.
The door to the Tower of High Lunacy, as Iolanthe mockingly termed it, was guarded by a rune burned in the wood. The magical spell was rudimentary. A child could have removed it.
“Aren’t you worried that people will break in?” Raistlin asked.
Iolanthe gave a delicate snort. “It will give you some idea of how little the people of Neraka care about us when I tell you that thus far no one has ever attempted to break into our Tower. People are quite right not to waste their time. There’s nothing in here of value.”
“But there must be a library,” said Raistlin, his dismay growing. “Spellbooks, scrolls, artifacts …”
“Everything of value was sold off long ago to pay the rent on the building,” said Iolanthe.
Pay the rent! Raistlin burned with shame. He thought of the grand and glorious and tragic histories of the Towers of High Sorcery down through the ages. Magnificent structures designed to inspire fear and awe in all who gazed upon them. He watched a rat run into a hole at the base of the brick wall and felt sick to his stomach.
Iolanthe dispelled the rune and shoved open the door leading to a small and filthy entryway. To their right, a corridor extended into dusty darkness. A rickety-looking staircase led up to the second floor.
“There are rooms here, but you see why I suggested you live somewhere else,” said Iolanthe.
She called out, pitching her voice to carry to the second level. “It’s me! Iolanthe! I’m coming upstairs. Don’t cast any fireballs.” She added in a disparaging undertone, “Not that the old farts could. What spells they ever knew, they long ago forgot.”
“What is down that corridor?” Raistlin asked as they climbed the stairs that creaked ominously underfoot.
“Classrooms,” said Iolanthe. “At least that’s what they were meant to be. There were never any students.”
Silence had greeted their arrival, but once Iolanthe had announced herself, voices broke out, high-pitched and querulous, pecking and clucking.
The second level was the common living and working space. The bedchambers were on the third floor. Iolanthe pointed out the laboratory, which consisted of a long worktable, set with cracked and dirty crockery, and a cauldron bubbling over a fire. The escaping steam told of boiled cabbage.
<
br /> Next to the laboratory was the library. Raistlin looked through the door. The floor was covered with stacks and piles of books, parchments, and scrolls. Someone appeared to have started to sort through them, for a few books had been placed neatly on a shelf. After that, nothing had been done, apparently, except to create a bigger mess.
The largest room on that level, located across from the staircase, was the central living area. Iolanthe entered with Raistlin trailing behind her, keeping his hood over his head, his face in shadow. The room was furnished with a couple of broken-down couches, several wobbly-legged chairs, and a few small tables and storage chests. Three Black Robes—human males, well into their middle years—descended upon Iolanthe, all talking at once.
“Gentlemen,” she said, raising her hands for silence. “I will deal with your concerns in a moment. First, I want to introduce Raistlin Majere, a new addition to our ranks.”
The three Black Robes differed only in that one man had long gray hair and one had sparse gray hair and one had no hair at all. They were alike in that they loathed and distrusted each other, and all believed that magic was nothing but a tool to satisfy their own needs. Whatever souls they might have once possessed had been gnawed away by ignorance and greed. They were in Neraka because they had nowhere else to go.
Iolanthe named the three swiftly. The names passed in and out of Raistlin’s head. He did not consider it worth taking the time to learn them, and as it turned out, he had no need to know. The Black Robes were not the least interested in him. Their only interest was themselves, and they bombarded Iolanthe with questions, demanding answers, then refusing to listen when she tried to give them.
They crowded around her in a suffocating circle. Raistlin remained on the outside, listening and observing.
“One of you—one of you,” Iolanthe repeated sternly when they all seemed about to talk, “tell me the reason for this uproar.”
The reason was given to her by the eldest mage, a seedy-looking old specimen with a crooked nose who had, Raistlin was to learn, eked out a living selling vile charms and dubious potions to peasants until forced to flee for his life after poisoning several of his patrons. According to Hook Nose, as Raistlin nicknamed him, they had all heard the rumor that Nuitari had broken with Queen Takhisis, that Ladonna had been killed, and that they were all doomed.
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