Dragons of the Hourglass Mage dc-3

by Margaret Weis

  "Your decision was logical, young magus," Fistandantilus said, adding with a sneer, "Your twin is dead. Good riddance. Caramon weakened you, diminished you. Now that you are free of him, you will go far. I will see to that."

  "You won't see to anything!" Raistlin retorted.

  "I beg your pardon?" said a passerby, halting. "Were you speaking to me, sir?"

  Raistlin muttered something and, ignoring the man's offended stare, kept on walking. He had been forced to listen to the yammering voice all morning. He had even fancied he could see the black-robed, soul-sucking specter of the archmage dogging his footsteps. Raistlin wondered bitterly if the bargain he had made with the evil wizard had been worth it.

  "Without me, you would have died taking the Test in the Tower at Wayreth," said Fistandantilus. "You came out of our deal well enough. A bit of your life in exchange for my knowledge and power.

  Raistlin had not been afraid he would die. He had been afraid he would fail. That was the true reason he had made the bargain with the old man. Raistlin could not have borne failure. He could not have endured his brother's pity or the fact that he would have been dependent on his stronger twin for the rest of his days.

  Just thinking about the undead leech of a wizard sucking the life out of him as one sucks the juice from a peach brought on a coughing fit. Raistlin had always been frail and sickly, but the bargain he had struck with Fistandantilus, which allowed the spirit of the archmagus to remain alive on his dark plane of tortured existence in return for Raistlin's escape, had exacted its toll. His lungs seemed to be always filled with wool. He felt as though he were being smothered. He was subject to fits of coughing that almost doubled him over, as happened at that moment.

  He had to pause and lean against a building for support, wiping the blood from his lips with the gray sleeve of the purloined robe. He felt weaker than usual. Using the magic of the dragon orb to transport him across a continent had taken far more out of him than he had anticipated. He had been half dead when he had arrived in Palanthas four days earlier, so weak that he had collapsed on the steps of the Great Library. The monks had taken pity on him and carried him inside. He was recovered somewhat, but he was still not well. He would not be well ever… not until he ended his bargain.

  Fistandantilus seemed to think that Raistlin's soul was to be his reward. The archmagus was going to be disappointed. Since Raistlin's soul was finally his own, he was not going to meekly hand it over to Fistandantilus.

  Raistlin considered that the archmagus had done well out of the deal he'd made with Raistlin in the Tower. Fistandantilus was, after all, leeching part of Raistlin's life-force in order to cling to his miserable existence. But as far as Raistlin was concerned, the two of them were even. It was time to end their bargain. Except Raistlin couldn't figure out how to do that without Fistandantilus knowing about it and stopping him. The old man was constantly lurking about, eavesdropping on Raistlin's thoughts. There had to be a way to shut the door and lock the windows of his mind.

  Raistlin finally recovered enough to be able to resume his errand. He continued through the streets, following directions that were given to him by people he met along the way, and soon left the central part of Old City behind and, with it, the crowds. He entered the working part of the city, where streets were known by their trade. He passed Iron-Mongers Avenue and Butchers' Row and the Horse Fair and Goldsmith Lane on his way to the street where wool merchants plied their trade. He was searching for a particular business when he glanced down an alleyway and saw a sign marked with the symbols of three moons: a red moon, a silver, and a black. It was a mageware shop.

  The shop was small, a mere hole in the wall. Raistlin was surprised to find such a shop at all, surprised that someone had even bothered to open a shop dealing in objects related to the use of magic in a city that despised those who wielded magic. He knew of only one wizard who resided in the city and that was Justarius, head of Raistlin's own order, the Red Robes. Raistlin supposed there must be others. He'd never given the matter much thought.

  His steps slowed. The mageware shop would have what he sought. It would be costly. He could not afford it. He had only a small sum of steel, hoarded up and hidden away over months. He had to save his steel for lodging and food in Neraka, his destination, once his health was restored and his business in Palanthas was finished.

  Besides, the owner of the mageware shop would be bound to report Raistlin's purchase to the Conclave, the body of wizards that enforced the laws of magic. The Conclave could not stop him, but he would be summoned to Wayreth and called upon to explain himself. Raistlin didn't have time for all that. Events were happening-momentous, world-shaking events. The end was coming. The Dark Queen would soon be celebrating her victory. Raistlin did not plan to be standing on the street corner cheering as she rode past in triumph. He planned to be leading the parade.

  Raistlin walked past the mageware shop and came at last to the place he'd been seeking. The stench alone should have guided him, he thought, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve. The business was located in a large, open-air yard filled with stacks of wood to stoke the fires. Smoke mingled with steam rising from the huge kettles and vats and reeked with the odors of the various ingredients used in the process, some of which were not at all pleasant.

  Clutching his bundle, Raistlin entered a small building located near the compound, where men and women were hauling wood and stirring the contents of the vats with big, wooden paddles. A clerk on a stool was writing figures in a large book. Another man sat on another stool, studying long lists. Neither took any notice of Raistlin.

  Raistlin waited a moment; then he coughed, causing the man looking over the lists to raise his eyes. Seeing Raistlin waiting in the entrance, the man left his stool and came over to inquire how he might serve one of the honored Aesthetics.

  "I have some cloth to be dyed," said Raistlin, and he brought forth the red robes.

  He kept his hood over his face, but he could not very well hide his hands. Fortunately the building was shadowy, and Raistlin hoped the man would not notice his gold-colored skin.

  The dyer examined the color, running his hands over the cloth. "A nice wool," he pronounced. "Not fine, mind you, but good and serviceable. It should take the dye well. What color would you like, Revered Sir?"

  Raistlin was about to reply when he was interrupted by a fit of coughing so severe that he staggered and fell back against the doorframe. He missed his brother's strong arm, which had always been there to support him.

  The dyer eyed Raistlin and backed up slightly in alarm. "Not catching, is it, sir?"

  "Black," Raistlin gasped, ignoring the question.

  "I am sorry, what did you say?" asked the dyer. "It's hard to hear with all that jabbering."

  He gestured to the compound behind him, where women engaged in dunking the cloth in the kettles were yelling back and forth or exchanging barbed comments with the men who stoked the fires.

  "Black," Raistlin said, raising his voice. He generally spoke softly. Talking irritated his throat.

  The dyer raised an eyebrow. Aesthetics who served Astinus in the Great Library wore robes of gray.

  "It is not for me," Raistlin added. "I am acting for a friend."

  "I see," said the dyer. He cast Raistlin a quizzical glance, which Raistlin, overtaken by another fit of coughing, did not notice.

  "We have three types of black dye," stated the dyer. "Our cheapest grade uses chromium, alum, and red argol, logwood and barwood. This produces a good black, though not very durable. The color will fade with washing. The next grade dye utilizes camwood and copperas and logwood. This grade is better than the first I named, though the black can turn slightly green over a long period of time. The best grade is done with indigo and camwood. This provides a deep, rich black that will not fade no matter how many times the cloth is washed. The latter is, of course, the most expensive."

  "How much?" Raistlin asked.

  The dyer named the price, and Raistli
n winced. It would considerably diminish the number of coins in the small leather pouch he had hidden in a conjured cubbyhole in the monk's cell he was occupying in the Great Library. He should settle for the less costly dye. But then he thought of appearing before the wealthy, powerful Black Robes of Neraka, and he cringed as he imagined walking among them in black robes that were not black but "slightly green."

  "The indigo," he stated, and he handed over his red robes.

  "Very good, Revered Sir," said the dyer. "May I have your name?"

  "Bertrem," Raistlin replied with a smile that he kept hidden in the shadow of the cowl. Bertrem was the name of Astinus's long-suffering and harried chief assistant.

  The dyer made a note.

  "When may I return for these?" Raistlin asked. "I am-that is, my friend is in a hurry."

  "Day after tomorrow," said the dyer.

  "Not sooner?" Raistlin asked, disappointed.

  The dyer shook his head. "Not unless your friend wants to walk the streets dripping black dye."

  Raistlin gave a curt nod and took his leave. The moment Raistlin's back was turned, the dyer spoke a word to his assistant then hurried out of the building. Raistlin saw the man hastening down the street, but exhausted from the long walk and half suffocated by the choking fumes, he paid no heed.

  The Great Library was located in the Old City. The hour being High Watch, when shops normally closed for lunch, more people thronged the streets. The noise was appalling, dinning in Raistlin's ears. The long walk had taxed Raistlin's strength to such an extent that he was forced to stop frequently to rest, and when he finally came in sight of the library's marble columns and imposing portico, he was so weak that he feared he could not make it across the street without collapsing.

  Raistlin sank down on a stone bench not far from the Great Library. Winter's long night was drawing to a close. The dawn of spring was near. The bright sun was warm. Raistlin closed his eyes. His head slumped forward onto his chest. He dozed in the sun.

  He was back on board the ship, holding the dragon orb and facing his brother and Tanis and the rest of his friends…

  "… using my magic. And the magic of the dragon orb. It is quite simple, though probably beyond your weak minds. I now have the power to harness the energy of my corporeal body and the energy of my spirit into one. I will become pure energy-light, if you want to think of it that way. And becoming light, I can travel through the heavens like the rays of the sun, returning to this physical world whenever and wherever I choose."

  "Can the orb do this for all of us?" Tanis asked.

  "I will not chance it. I know I can escape. The others are not my concern. You led them into this blood-red death, half-elf. You get them out"

  "You won't harm your brother. Caramon, stop him!"

  "Tell him, Caramon. The last Test in the Tower of High Sorcery was against myself. And I failed. I killed him. I killed my brother…"

  "Aha! I thought I'd find you here, you doorknob of a kender!"

  Raistlin stirred uneasily in his sleep.

  That is Flint's voice and that is all wrong, Raistlin thought. Flint isn't here. I haven't seen Flint in a long time, not for months, not since the fall of Tarsis. Raistlin sank back into the dream.

  "Don't try to stop me, Tanis. I killed Caramon once, you see. Or rather, it was an illusion meant to teach me to fight against the darkness within. But they were too late. I had already given myself to the darkness."

  "I tell you, I saw him!"

  Raistlin woke with a start. He knew that voice as well.

  Tasslehoff Burrfoot stood quite close to him. Raistlin had only to rise up from the bench and walk a few paces and he could reach out his hand and touch him. Flint Fireforge was standing beside the kender, and though they both had their backs to Raistlin, he could picture the exasperated look on the old dwarf's face as he tried arguing with a kender. Raistlin had seen the quivering beard and flushed cheeks often enough.

  It can't be! Raistlin told himself, shaken. Tasslehoff was in my mind, and now I have conjured him up whole.

  But just to be safe, Raistlin pulled down the cowl of the gray robe, making sure it covered his face, and he thrust his gold-skinned hands inside the sleeves of his robes.

  The kender looked like Tas from the back, but then all kender looked alike either from the front or the back: short in stature; dressed in the brightest clothing they could find; their long hair done up in outlandish topknots; their small, slender bodies festooned in pouches. The dwarf looked the same as any dwarf, short and stocky, clad in armor, wearing a helm decorated with horsehair… or the mane of a griffon.

  "I saw Raistlin, I tell you!" the kender was saying insistently. He pointed to the Great Library. "He was lying on those very stairs. The monks were all gathered around him. That staff of his-the Staff of Maggots-"

  "Magius," the dwarf muttered.

  "-was on the stairs beside him."

  "So what if it was Raistlin?" the dwarf demanded.

  "I think he was dying, Flint," said the kender solemnly.

  Raistlin shut his eyes. There was no longer any doubt. Tasslehoff Burrfoot and Flint Fireforge. His old friends. The two had watched him grow up, him and Caramon. Raistlin had wondered frequently if they were still alive, Flint and Tas and Sturm. They had been parted in the attack on Tarsis. He now wondered, astonished, how they had come to be in Palanthas. What adventures had brought them to that place? He was curious and he was, surprisingly, glad to see them.

  Drawing back his cowl, he rose from the bench with the intention of making himself known to them. He would ask about Sturm and about Laurana, the golden-haired Laurana…

  "If the Sly One's dead, good riddance," Flint said grimly. "He made my skin crawl."

  Raistlin sat back down on the bench and pulled the cowl over his face.

  "You don't mean that-" Tas began.

  "I do so too mean it!" Flint roared. "How do you know what I mean and don't mean? I said so yesterday, and I'll say it today. Raistlin was always looking down that gold nose of his at us. And he turned Caramon into his slave. 'Caramon, make my tea!' 'Caramon, carry my pack.' 'Caramon, clean my boots!' It's a good thing Raistlin never told his brother to jump off a cliff. Caramon would be lying at the bottom of a ravine by now."

  "Ah, I kind of liked Raistlin," said Tas. "He magicked me into a duck pond once. I know that sometimes he wasn't very nice, Flint, but he didn't feel good, what with that cough of his, and he did help you when you had the rheumatism-"

  "I never had rheumatism a day in my life! Rheumatism is for old people," said Flint, glowering.

  "Now where do you think you're going?" he demanded, seizing hold of Tasslehoff, who was about to cross the street.

  "I thought I'd go up to the library and knock on the door and I would ask the monks, very politely, if Raistlin was there."

  "Wherever Raistlin is, you can be sure he's up to no good. And you can just put the thought of knocking on the library door out of your rattle-brained mind. You heard what they said yesterday: no kender allowed."

  "I figured I'd ask them about that, too," Tas said. "Why won't they allow kender into the library?"

  "Because there wouldn't be a book left on the shelves, that's why. You'd rob them blind."

  "We don't rob people!" Tasslehoff said indignantly. "Kender are very honest. And I think that's a disgrace, kender not being allowed! I'll just go give them a piece of my mind-"

  He twisted out of Flint's grasp and started to run across the street. Flint glared after him; then, with a sudden gleam in his eye, he called out, "You can go if you want to, but you might want to listen to what I came to tell you. Laurana sent me. She said something about you riding a dragon…"

  Tasslehoff turned around so fast that he tripped himself and tumbled over his own feet, sprawling flat on his face on the street and spilling half the contents of his pouches.

  "Me? Tasslehoff Burrfoot? Ride a dragon? Oh, Flint!" Tasslehoff picked up himself and his pouches. "Isn't it wonderful?"


  "No," Flint said glumly.

  "Hurry up!" Tasslehoff said, tugging on Flint's shirt. "We don't want to miss the battle."

  "It's not happening right this minute," Flint said, batting away the kender's hands. "You go on. I'll be along."

  Tas didn't wait to be told twice. He dashed off down the street, pausing at intervals to tell everyone he met that he, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, was going to be riding a dragon with the Golden General.

  Flint stood long moments after the kender had left, staring at the Great Library. The old dwarf's face grew grave and solemn. He was about to cross the street, but then he paused. His heavy, gray brows came together. He thrust his hands in his pockets and shook his head.

  "Good riddance," he muttered, and he turned and followed Tas.

  Raistlin remained sitting on the bench a long time after they had gone. He sat there until the sun had gone down behind the buildings of Palanthas and the night air of early spring grew chill.

  At last he rose. He did not go to the library. He walked the streets of Palanthas. Even though it was night, the streets were still crowded. The Lord of Palanthas had come out to publicly reassure his people. The silver dragons were on their side. The dragons had promised to protect them, the lord said. He declared a time for celebration. People lit bonfires and began dancing in the streets. Raistlin found the noise and the gaiety jarring. He shoved his way through the drunken throng, heading for a part of the city where the streets were deserted, the buildings dark and abandoned.

  No one lived in that part of the great city. No one ever went there. Raistlin had never been there, but he knew the way well. He turned a corner. At the end of the empty street, surrounded by a ghastly forest of death, rose a tower of black, silhouetted against a blood-red sky.