Weis Margaret

by Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (v5)

  Raistlin raised his head. That was the third time he’d heard the name Hidden Light mentioned. Hook Nose had brought it up the previous day with Iolanthe, saying that he feared they would be suspected of being part of Hidden Light. The sivak had spoken of Hidden Light as well.

  Raistlin had meant to ask Iolanthe about it, but with all his other worries, he’d forgotten. He left the library and walked across the hall to where the Black Robes were gathered in the living room, drinking warm ale and trying to figure out who else they could blame for their troubles.

  “What are you doing here, Majere?” Hook Nose demanded angrily, spotting Raistlin. “You’re supposed to be cleaning up the kitchen.”

  “I’ll get right to it, sir,” said Raistlin. “But I couldn’t help wondering, what is this ‘Hidden Light’ you were talking about?”

  “A band of traitors, assassins, and thieves,” said Hook Nose, “who are working to bring about the destruction of our glorious Queen.”

  A resistance movement, Raistlin realized with amazement. Operating in Neraka, under Takhisis’s very nose.

  He asked for more details, but none of the old men were inclined to discuss the movement, except to be loud in their denunciation. Since they were all eyeing each other suspiciously, he guessed that each feared the others were informants and would hand him over to the Nightlord at the first opportunity.

  They might well do that to me, Raistlin considered as he went to the kitchen to start cleaning up. He was glad to have physical labor to free his mind. Ideas and plans were forming so fast, he could barely keep track of them. One thought was predominant.

  If Takhisis wins this war, I will be her slave, forced to beg for whatever scraps of power she might choose to toss to me. Whereas if Takhisis loses …

  Raistlin wondered, as he swept up the flour and broken plates, how someone dedicated to the cause of Darkness could sign up to fight for the forces of Light.

  7

  Wrong Place. Wrong Time.

  8th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  aistlin worked all day in the Tower, cleaning the kitchen, then going room to room, righting overturned furniture and picking up splintered pieces of wood left behind after the draconians had kicked in the doors. The Black Robes drank ale and bickered and ate the meal he fixed for them and bickered some more, and went to their beds.

  Night had fallen by the time he shut the door with its single rune that could have been opened by a magical talking parrot. He was physically tired, for the day had been long and wearing, but he knew he would never be able to fall asleep, for his mind was still in turmoil. He hated nothing more than lying awake, staring into the darkness.

  The thought came to him that he could pay Snaggle a visit and try to recover his dagger. The sivak commander did not appear to be someone to let grass grow under his claws, especially when it came to steel.

  Raistlin considered calling on Iolanthe while he was in the neighborhood. He was intensely interested in the organization known as Hidden Light, and she seemed to know everyone in the city of Neraka. She had her fingers on the pulse of its dark heartbeat. But he rejected the idea. Speaking to her would be too risky. She had an uncanny way of knowing what he was thinking, and he feared she would guess what he was considering. The woman was a mystery. He had no idea where her loyalties lay. Was she working to further the goals of Takhisis? Ariakas? Kitiara, perhaps? Iolanthe had not said much about Kit, but Raistlin had detected a warm tone of admiration in her voice whenever she mentioned his sister.

  Given that Iolanthe is much like me, Raistlin reminded himself, her loyalties undoubtedly lie with Iolanthe, which means that she cannot be trusted.

  He entered Neraka through the White Gate. The line was short at such a late hour, though Raistlin had to wait some time while the guards flirted with a barmaid from the Broken Shield, who had brought them a jug of cold ale, compliments of Talent Orren. Raistlin considered it clever of Orren to keep the Nerakan guards happy. Ale cost Orren little and gained him enormous goodwill.

  Raistlin had gone back and forth through the White Gate several times, and no one had so much as glanced at his forged document. He no longer worried about it. As Iolanthe had assured him, the guards kept very lax watch. The only people Raistlin ever saw being turned away were kender, and that was only when the guards were sober enough to catch the little nuisances.

  Having finally made his way through the gate, Raistlin walked swiftly to his destination, keeping his eyes open and his wits about him. He held rose petals in his hand, the words to a sleep spell running constantly through his mind. No one accosted him, and he made it safely to Wizard’s Row.

  The only lights in the street came from the window of Snaggle’s mageware shop. Iolanthe’s window was dark. Raistlin entered the shop, which was neat and well lit by several strategically arranged lanterns. Snaggle sat behind the counter, perched on a stool, drinking tarbean tea.

  Raistlin had already met the proprietor and observed how Iolanthe dealt with him.

  “You won’t see any staves standing against the walls. No potion jars in bins. Nothing is out in the open, for obvious reasons in this city,” she had cautioned him. “Snaggle stores all his wares in labeled bins and boxes stacked on shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling behind a long counter. No customer is ever allowed behind the counter. The last guy who tried they had to mop up with a sponge. Tell Snaggle what you need, and he’ll fetch it for you.”

  Snaggle gave a toothless smile. “Master Majere. In the market for cobweb? I have some lovely web, sir. Just came in today. Spun by spiders raised by the dark dwarves of Thorbardin. Very content, these spiders. Nothing like a contented spider for weaving fine-quality web.”

  “No, thank you, sir,” said Raistlin. “I’ve come about a dagger. It might have been sold to you today by a draconian guard. A sivak commander of the temple guard—”

  “Commander Slith,” said Snaggle, nodding sagely. “I know him well, sir. One of my best customers. New in town, but he’s already made his mark. He was here today, yes. Brought me a dagger. Fine quality. Once belonged to Magius. Comes with a leather thong so you can wrap it around your wrist—”

  “I know,” said Raistlin dryly. “The dagger used to be mine.”

  “Ah, that Slith!” Snaggle chuckled. “He’ll go far. You’d be liking your property back, sir, I suppose. Just to be on the sure side, could you describe it for me? Any distinguishing features?”

  Raistlin patiently described the dagger and mentioned that it had a small nick in the blade.

  “Happen during a daring escapade, sir?” Snaggle asked with interest. “Fighting a troll? Battling goblins?”

  “No,” Raistlin said, recalling the incident with a smile. “My brother and I were playing mumblety-peg—”

  He stopped. He hadn’t meant to talk about—or even think about—Caramon. Raistlin went on to describe the leather thong, which was of his own design.

  Snaggle rose from his stool and went to one of the boxes, pulled it out from its place, and brought it back to the counter. He opened the lid, revealing several daggers. Raistlin saw his and was about to pick it up, when Snaggle deftly intercepted him.

  “That’s your dagger, is it, sir? Five steel and I’ll be glad to return it to you.”

  “Five steel!” Raistlin gasped.

  “It belonged to Magius, I was told, sir,” said Snaggle solemnly.

  “And so did five thousand other daggers floating around Ansalon,” Raistlin said.

  Snaggle merely grinned at him and replaced the dagger in the box and closed the lid.

  “I will make you an offer,” Raistlin said. “I have no money, but I understand you are in the market for potions. I have been concocting potions for a very long time, and I have some skill at it.”

  “Bring around a sample of your work, sir. If the potion’s as good as you claim, we’ll have a deal.”

  Raistlin nodded his thanks and took his leave, planning to return to the Broken Shield. The exerc
ise had done him good. He was weary; he could sleep.

  As he was walking down one of the sidewalks along Queen’s Way, heading toward the White Gate, he noted three men clad in the long, black robes of dark pilgrims coming toward him. The three walked abreast, arm-in-arm, and they were engaged in animated conversation. They had perhaps been to the Broken Shield themselves, for they were slurring their words and bawling at each other, their voices unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet night.

  Two of the men carried lanterns, and by the light Raistlin recognized the bulldog face and bulging arms of the Adjudicator. The executioner was doing most of the talking, drunkenly relating in gruesome detail the death throes of one of his victims. The other two were listening avidly, fawning all over him and laughing heartily at every twist of the screw or lash of the whip. The three were walking directly toward Raistlin on a collision path.

  Raistlin knew quite well he ought to avoid an encounter. The Adjudicator, even drunk, was a dangerous man. Raistlin should turn down an alley or meekly cross to the other side of the street. As he watched the Adjudicator, however, Raistlin remembered the screams of those poor wretches in the torture chamber, and anger burned inside him. He had always hated bullies, probably because he had so often been their target, and bully was a kindly term when it came to the Adjudicator.

  Raistlin halted in the middle of the sidewalk. The Adjudicator and his two friends, their arms linked, walked right toward him. Either they were too drunk to notice him or they assumed he would move.

  Raistlin stayed where he was. The three would have to stop or run him down.

  At last the Adjudicator saw him. He and his companions staggered to a halt.

  “Move aside, scum, and let your betters pass,” said the Adjudicator with a snarl.

  Raistlin inclined his hooded head. “If you three would be so kind as to step to one side, Revered Sirs, I could pass—”

  “You dare ask us to step aside!” cried one of the lantern-carrying clerics. “Don’t you know who this is?”

  “I neither know nor care,” said Raistlin evenly.

  “I recognize that voice. I’ve met this dung-eater before,” said the Adjudicator. “Hold the light so that I can see him—”

  The Adjudicator’s body suddenly stiffened. His back arched, his eyes bulged. He gave a gasp that bubbled into a cry of agony, then he made a gargling sound and lurched forward, his hands outstretched. He fell on his belly onto the sidewalk. Blood trickled from the Adjudicator’s mouth. The light of the two lanterns glinted on the handle of a butcher’s knife protruding from the Adjudicator’s back. Raistlin caught a fleeting glimpse of a black-clad figure disappearing around the corner.

  The two dark pilgrims stared down at the dead man in ale-soaked bewilderment. Raistlin was as stunned as either of the dark pilgrims. He was the first to recover from the shock, and he knelt beside the dead man, feeling for a life beat in the bull-like neck, though it was obvious to him the man was dead. One of the dark pilgrims gave a sudden screech.

  “You!” he cried, pointing a finger at Raistlin. “He’s dead because of you!”

  He swung his lantern, aiming a wild blow at Raistlin’s head that came nowhere close to hitting its mark.

  The other dark pilgrim began shouting for the guards. “Murder! Help! Assassins! Murder!”

  Raistlin understood his danger. The dark pilgrims thought he had deliberately stopped the Adjudicator and held him in conversation so the assassin could slip up and stab him. Raistlin could proclaim his innocence all he wanted, but appearances were against him. No one would believe him.

  Raistlin scrambled to his feet. He had been fingering the rose petals. The words of the sleep spell were in his mind, and in a split second the words were on his tongue.

  “Ast tasarak sinuralan krynawi!”

  He flung the rose petals into the faces of the two dark pilgrims, and they slumped to the pavement, one rolling into the gutter, the other landing at Raistlin’s feet. One of the lanterns fell to the ground and broke. Its light went out. Unfortunately, the other lantern continued to shine. Raistlin would have liked to have taken time to douse the light, but he didn’t dare. He could hear whistles and shouts, and he recalled what Iolanthe had told him about how seriously Nerakan guards took the murder of any dark pilgrim. At the murder of the Adjudicator, they would turn out the entire garrison.

  Raistlin hesitated a moment, thinking what to do. He could whisk himself into the corridors of magic and travel safely back to his rooms. He glanced into the heavens and seemed to see Lunitari’s red eye wink at him. The goddess had always taken a liking to him. This might be the break he had been seeking. Though he was putting himself at risk, he could not spurn the opportunity.

  Raistlin recalled the black-clad figure running down the street, and he took the same route. Solinari’s silver gleam mingled with Lunitari’s red glow, and Raistlin saw immediately that the assassin had made a mistake. In his haste, he had rushed into a cul-de-sac. The end of the alley was blocked by a high, stone wall. The assassin must still be here. Unless he had wings, he could not have escaped.

  Raistlin slowed his pace, moving cautiously, peering into the shadows, listening for the slightest sound. The assassin might be carrying more than one knife, and Raistlin did not want to feel the blade between his ribs. Hearing a scraping noise, he saw the assassin, dressed all in black, attempting to scale the stone wall. The wall was too high; the stones were smooth and offered no foot or handhold. The assassin slid back down to the ground with a thud and crouched there, swearing.

  Half seen in the moonlight and shadows, the assassin was short and slender, and Raistlin thought at first that the killer was a child. He moved nearer and, by Lunitari’s light, Raistlin was astounded to recognize the female kender Talent Orren had thrown out of the Broken Shield. She was no longer wearing a kender’s usual bright clothing, but was dressed all in black: black blouse, black trousers. She had stuffed her yellow braids into a black cap.

  Steel glinted in her hand. Her eyes gleamed. Her face bore a most unkender-like expression: grim, determined, cold, and resolved.

  “Yell for the guards, and I’ll slit your throat for you,” she told him. “I can do it too. I’m fast with a knife. Maybe you saw just how fast.”

  “I’m not going to yell,” said Raistlin. “I can help you get over that wall.”

  “A weakling like you?” The kender sneered. “You couldn’t heft a kitten.”

  Behind them, the guards were shouting and blowing their whistles. The kender did not look at all nervous or frightened—in that, she was acting like any normal kender.

  “I can use my magic,” said Raistlin. “Though it will cost you.”

  “How much?” asked the kender, scowling.

  “You’re hardly in a position to bargain,” he said coldly, and he held out his hand to her. “Take it or leave it.”

  The kender hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously. The sound of more whistles and feet pounding on the pavement helped her make up her mind. She took hold of his hand. He spoke the words to the spell and the two of them rose up and floated over the wall. They landed on the street on the other side, dropping down lightly as feathers.

  Tasslehoff would have oohed and ahhed and wanted to discuss the magic and insist that Raistlin float him off again. This kender kept her mouth shut. The moment they hit the ground, she was off like an arrow sped from a bow.

  Or rather, she tried to take off. Raistlin had a firm hold of her hand and, familiar with a kender’s tricks, he managed to retain his grip, even when she twisted her arm, nearly breaking her wrist and almost dislocating her shoulder.

  Judging by the sounds rising up from behind them, more guards were gathering at the crime scene and starting to expand the search for the killer.

  “You owe me,” he said, maintaining a firm grip on the kender. “I don’t have any steel,” said the kender. “Not steel. Information.”

  “I don’t have any of that either,” the kender said, and she tried
again to break free of him.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. “None of your business.”

  “My name is Raistlin Majere,” he told her. “There, you know mine. Tell me yours. That can’t hurt, can it?”

  The kender thought it over. “I guess not. I’m Marigold Featherwinkle.”

  Raistlin thought that in all the long history of Krynn, there had probably never been a more improbable name for a cold-blooded killer.

  “They call me Mari,” the kender added. “Do they call you Raist?”

  “No,” said Raistlin. Only one person had ever called him that. “You are a member of Hidden Light, aren’t you, Mari,” he went on, making it a statement, not a question.

  “Hidden Light? Never heard of it,” said Mari.

  “I don’t believe you. I know something of kender, and I know you did not conceive of this daring plan all by yourself.”

  “I did so too!” Mari cried indignantly.

  Raistlin shrugged. “I can always magic you back over the wall.” They could both hear the guards swarming into the alley. Mari pouted and stubbornly said nothing. “I can help,” said Raistlin. “As you’ve seen just now.” “You’re wearing the Black Robes,” she said. “And you’re a merry-hearted kender,” said Raistlin, “with blood on your face.”

  “Do I?” Mari lifted a handkerchief and scrubbed her cheeks.

  “I believe that is mine,” said Raistlin, eyeing the handkerchief, which he recognized.

  “I guess you must have dropped it.” Mari looked at him with wide eyes. “Do you want it back?”

  Raistlin smiled. At least some things in the world never changed. He felt strangely comforted. “Tell me how to contact Hidden Light, Mari, and I will let you go.”

  Mari studied him, seemed to be trying to make up her mind about him. On the other side of the wall, the guards could be heard poking around in trash heaps and knocking on back doors.

  “We don’t have much time,” Raistlin said. “Someone will eventually think to search this street. And I’m not going to let go until you tell me what I want to know.”