by Kevin Stein
“Keep quiet, kender!” Raistlin snarled.
Caramon glanced around. “Raist,” he said in a low voice, for his brother’s ears alone, “someone tried to stop us from coming to Mereklar that night. Why haven’t they tried again?”
The mage nodded his head wearily. “A good question, my brother. Look at it this way. That night, no one knew we were coming to Mereklar except the assassin. We may assume, I believe, that someone saw you remove the sign from the post at the crossroads. If we had died that night—” The mage coughed, struggled to draw breath.
“If we had died that night,” he repeated, when he could talk, “no would have known or cared. But, when we reached the inn, we made no secret of our interest in this city. People knew we were coming. If anything had happened to us on the way, questions would have been asked. Curiosity aroused.”
“That’s true,” said Caramon, regarding his brother with admiration. “So you think we’re safe now?”
Raistlin looked down at the white line, shimmering at his feet. It was very bright. He could see it clearly. No need for wine in his eyes. “No, Caramon, I do not—”
Pain seized Raistlin. Agony ran through his body like fiery darts. The motes of light left the streets and came to dance in his vision. The mage doubled over, the pain twisting his body into grotesque forms, squeezing the breath from his lungs, cutting off even his bubbling cry of torment.
Raistlin collapsed, unconscious. The staff clattered to the street. Lifting his brother, who was like a rag puppet in the big man’s arms, the warrior looked frantically around for aid.
“There’s the inn!” cried Earwig. “But it’s all dark!”
“These people must go to bed at sunset! Go get help!” Caramon ordered.
Dashing down the road, the kender reached the door to Barnstoke Hall and began pounding on it.
“Help! Fire! Thieves! Man overboard!” he yelled, adding any other rousing alarm he thought suitable.
Lights flared. Heads poked out of upstairs windows.
“What is it?” demanded a man in a pointed nightcap, coming out on a second-floor balcony.
“Open up!” shouted Caramon.
“It’s past hours. I’m locked up for the night. Come back in the morning—”
Caramon’s lips pressed together grimly. Getting a firm grip on the limp and seemingly lifeless body of his brother, the warrior kicked the door to the lodging-house. Wood splintered, but the door held. Caramon kicked it again. There was a tearing and rending sound as the door shattered beneath the blow. The man on the balcony shrieked in anger and disappeared inside.
Caramon stalked through the wreckage. Looking around, he found a sofa and gently laid his brother down. The scrollcase that Raistlin had placed in the sleeve of his robes clattered to the floor. Caramon paid no attention to it. His brother’s face was pinched, the lips blue. Raistlin had ceased breathing.
“I’ll call the guard!” The innkeeper came clattering down the stairs, shaking his fist. “You’ll pay—”
Caramon glanced at him.
“Hot water! Quickly!” the warrior ordered.
The innkeeper swelled up with fury, then his gaze fell on the scrollcase. He turned pale.
“Well, what are you doing, standing around, you lout?” the proprietor shouted at a sleepy servant. “Didn’t you hear the gentleman? Fetch hot water! And be quick about it!”
The servant raced out and returned with a pot of boiling water, originally used for the evening tea.
Caramon poured steaming water into a cup and shook the contents of one of Raistlin’s pouches inside. The herbs and barks bubbled and snapped. Propping up his brother’s lifeless form, Caramon held the concoction to Raistlin’s lips. The fumes seeped into the mage’s nose and mouth. Raistlin’s breathing began again, though the mage remained unconscious.
Sighing heavily, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his right hand, Caramon gently lifted his brother.
“Your rooms are ready, sir,” said the proprietor, bobbing up and down. “This way. I’ll show you myself.”
“Sorry about the door” Caramon grunted.
“Oh, think nothing of it,” said the innkeeper airily, as if he replaced heavy wooden doors every day. “Will you be needing anything else? Food? Drink?”
The procession wound its way up the stairs. Earwig, forgotten in the excitement, started to follow, when he remembered something.
“Raistlin’s staff! He left it in the street. I’m certain he’d want me to go get it!”
Turning, the kender dashed back outside. There was the staff, lying in the middle of the road. Earwig gazed down at it in awe. The crystal orb, held fast in the dragon’s claw, was as dark and lifeless, it seemed, as its master.
“Maybe I can make it light up,” said the kender, reaching out a trembling hand to take hold of the staff. Of all the interesting things that had happened to him in his life, this was going to be the most wonderful. Carrying a wizard’s staff—
“Hey!” Earwig cried out angrily. “What the—?”
The kender looked up into the air and down at his feet. He glanced around in all directions.
The staff was gone.
“Oops,” said Earwig Lockpicker.
Chapter 9
Caramon watched over Raistlin throughout the night, never moving from the mage’s side, never taking his eyes from the steadily rising and falling rhythm of his brother’s breathing. The fighter had witnessed Raistlin this sick only once before, when they were being pursued in a forest by the Cleric of Larnish’s men. The mage had expended most of his energies fending off spear and arrow, creating a glowing shield that could not be penetrated by missiles, protecting the twins from attack until eventually they found safety in a hidden cave.
Caramon had gone out to cover their tracks from the pursuers, and when he came back, he saw his brother, leaning against a wall, head bent at an odd angle, eyes rolled back so that only the whites showed. A few moments later, however, Raistlin had recovered and acted as if nothing had happened. But Caramon knew that his brother had exhausted himself beyond even the endurance of his indomitable will.
This night, however, Raistlin was not recovering, though Caramon was sure he had acted in time, forcing the vapors of the herbs into the mage’s lungs.
“Something’s going on that I don’t understand,” the warrior muttered.
Looking at the still figure on the bed, Caramon gently brushed the long, white hair away from the mage’s face, revealing a mask of metal that gave no clue to the thoughts and feelings behind it. Raistlin was still wrapped in his red robes, a crimson shroud that concealed the weakness of his body.
Caramon, sitting in a large, plush chair near the bed, allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and stretch his huge frame. He was tired, but he had no intention of falling asleep while his twin was in the grip of this strange malady.
Oil lamps hung in each of the four corners of the room, suspended from the ceiling on silver wires, creating steady illumination that covered everything in a white-yellow glow. Moving to the lamps, Caramon blew them out one by one until the room was dark.
Turning from the last, Caramon caught his breath as he looked back to the mage. Raistlin’s body was covered in a faint blue glow, an aura that moved and flickered and danced around the gold of the magician’s skin. Arcs of lightning cracked between and around the fingers of his hands.
“Raist!” Caramon whispered in awe. “What’s going on? Please, tell me! I’ve never seen anything like this before! I’m frightened! Raist! Please!”
But his brother couldn’t answer.
“It’s not real. It’s a trick of my eyes because I’m sleepy.” Caramon rubbed his eyes, but the glow remained.
Hurrying to the bed, the fighter imagined he saw the nimbus growing brighter at his approach. He reached out with an unsteady hand and touched Raistlin’s arm. The lines around the mage’s hands extended toward him, as if groping out blindly to feel another’s presence.
Caramon quickly backed away, unwilling to commune with the power that surrounded the sorcerer’s body.
“Well, I can do one of two things,” said Earwig to himself, standing in the middle of the empty street. “I can go back to Raistlin and tell him I lost his staff.…”
The kender paused to consider this course of action. Raistlin would not be pleased. And while he would undoubtedly do something very interesting to the kender, Earwig wasn’t certain that he really wanted to live the rest of his life as a slug.
“Or,” said Earwig, “I could go out and find the staff and bring it to him and he’d be eternally grateful.”
That sounded much better. Earwig returned to the inn, intending to collect his pouches and his hoopak from where he’d left them when he went to get the staff. However, one of the servants had been posted at the ruined front door to guard against unwelcome intruders. He immediately stopped the kender.
“But I’m with Caramon and Raistlin Majere! I’m Earwig Lockpicker!” said the kender importantly.
“Yes, he’s one of them,” the proprietor concurred, hastening back down the stairs. “Councillor Shavas says to make them all welcome and provide them with every comfort. But,” he said, shaking a finger at the kender, “you’re to stay in your room and not go wandering about the town! Come on. This way!”
And before the startled kender could protest, the proprietor had hustled him up the stairs, into a room, and shut and locked the door behind him.
“Well!” said Earwig, and sat down to consider the matter. “It’s nice of them to be concerned about my rest, but they don’t know that I have a very important mission to perform. I don’t want to hurt their feelings, though, after all the trouble they’ve gone to, so I’ll just wait until they’re in bed and then slip out.”
When the proprietor’s footsteps had died away and everything was quiet, Earwig walked to the door. Leaning his hoopak against the doorframe, the kender removed a leather case the size of a human’s hand. Inside was an assortment of wood-handled tools, each adorned with a metal tip bent at strange angles or cut into unusual shapes. Running his fingers caressingly over each, Earwig pulled out an instrument with a V-shaped end and inserted it into the lock. Working for a few minutes, slowly and unhurriedly, the kender heard a click come from within the mechanism. The door swung open.
“Cheap lock. They should get it replaced. I’ll tell them in the morning.”
Creeping out into the hall, he glanced around to see if anybody had awakened.
Nobody had.
Earwig replaced the tool in its pouch, and replaced the pouch back into his bags. He was about to proceed down the stairs when he remembered the large and unfriendly servant sitting at the front door.
“He’s probably fallen asleep. I won’t disturb him,” said the thoughtful kender as he turned and went the opposite direction.
A locked window didn’t even require the use of his tools, much to Earwig’s disappointment. Climbing out, he crawled down a trellis and landed on the street behind the inn.
Barnstoke Hall stood in the middle of a long block of houses and shops on Southgate Street, one of the three main roads, each several miles in length, that apparently led from the gates to the center of Mereklar. The building was very long, paneled with light-colored wood on the floor and walls, though the ceiling was left uncovered, revealing the white foundation used for every building in the city.
The lights of Mereklar lit the street brightly, whatever magic they used for fuel apparently inexhaustible. Earwig stared up at one of the magical lights, hovering far above his short reach. He thought about using the rope he had at his waist to ensnare one of the miniature suns, but decided to wait until later. Right now he had a very important mission—finding Raistlin’s staff. The kender turned to the right, then stopped, looking behind him, craning his head. Changing his mind, he turned to the left, but suddenly looked behind him again.
“Mmmm,” Earwig murmured. “Which way should I go? Let me think. If I were a wizard’s staff, where would I be?”
The kender tried to imagine himself a staff, but found that distinctly unhelpful. Reaching behind into his backpack, Earwig withdrew a velvet pouch that rattled with a hollow sound. He opened the drawstrings, revealing a multitude of game pieces: glass dice, ivory chessmen, colored sticks—anything used for chance, fortune, or skill. Jamming his hand into the bag, the kender fished around inside for a while, spilling dice and knights everywhere. Eventually, he pulled out a small, square board, about a fingerspan to a side, with a metal arrow pinioned through the center. Leaving the dropped pieces on the street, Earwig sat down on the ground and set the spinner on the white stone road in front of him.
“Now let’s see which way the staff went,” he said, the index finger of his right hand going to the spinner.
Taking a deep breath, Earwig gave the spinner a whirl. The arrow stopped, pointing straight back into Barnstoke Hall.
“Pooh! You’ve made a mistake. It can’t be in there!”
Earwig spun again, only to have the arrow point back at the inn.
“Are you broken?”
The kender gave the needle a wrench, bending it. Putting the spinner back on the ground, he flicked the arrow another time with his finger. It pointed directly into the heart of the city.
“What a coincidence. That’s just where I wanted to go!” Earwig said happily, stuffing the spinner into one of the pockets in his scruffy, baggy trousers. He started walking north up Southgate Street, his hoopak in his hand.
Raistlin thrashed in his bed. His back arched, his face contorted horribly, a mask of gold found only in theatrical grotesques. His mouth opened wide to scream, but the agony ripped his body. He could utter no sound, the air stolen from his chest.
Lightning engulfed the mage, covering him with sheets of blue and white that threatened to sear his flesh. Caramon, standing as near to his brother as possible, was forced to shield his eyes against the brilliant glow. Love for his brother overcame his fear. He edged nearer and nearer to the bed, moving inches at a time.
Caramon could no longer look at his twin. The light had grown so intense that it penetrated his eyelids, causing him to see flashes and phantoms, yellow images that floated across his vision. But still he moved forward, determined to give what help he could. Reaching out, he caught hold of Raistlin’s hand.
The pain started at the front of Caramon’s body, licked around his sides, and scored his back with harsh, blue-lightning claws. Every nerve was aflame, burning so that his flesh lost all sensation, numbed beyond feeling. Shafts of fire speared his lungs and stung his heart till he thought it would burst from the strain.
He lost his balance and fell to one knee, but he held fast to his brother’s stiff hand.
And then, suddenly, the blinding light was gone. Caramon was plunged into darkness. He felt Raistlin’s hand close firmly over his.
“It is over, my brother,” the mage said, his breath coming quick and labored.
Earwig walked for hours, taking in the sights of Mereklar and remembering, occasionally, to search for the staff. He had never been in a city that was so quiet. Nobody else was in the streets. Not a sound could be heard, not even the calls of cats he had so eagerly expected. Earwig felt as if the city belonged to him—a vast, enclosed town whose magical lights burned brightly for him, the only wanderer.
He paused, looking around, finding himself at another intersection.
“Which way should I go this time?” he said aloud, then snapped his mouth shut quickly. He hadn’t meant to disturb the silence.
A cat appeared, glanced at him tentatively, then darted off into the night. After a few moments, more cats ran into the middle of the road.
“Hi!” Earwig said, starting forward, but the cats scattered in all directions. The kender watched them with fascination.
“Wow! And to think there used to be thousands of cats around here! I wonder where these were going? I’ll find out.”
Shrugging and diggin
g deep in his pocket, Earwig brought out the spinner again, flicking it with his finger. The arrow pointed backward, toward the inn.
“Stupid thing!” the kender muttered, placing the game piece back in his pocket.
He turned in the direction opposite the one the spinner had indicated—an alley that sloped slightly downward, a narrow corridor without light.
“That looks interesting. If I were a staff or a cat, I think I’d definitely be down there.”
The kender walked into the alley. He started to whistle a favorite marching tune, but stopped, thinking better of it. After all, he didn’t want to disturb anybody who might be asleep.
The walls of the passage looked gray and rough, the normally white, near-sparkling stone hidden from the light. Earwig had the feeling that there was something different about this place, but he couldn’t decide what it was.
Noise. That was it. This part of the city was awake!
The kender heard the sounds of people singing and laughing. His sharp eyes could now detect the red of a fire’s glow somewhere to the left of an open square—an area he could not see clearly yet.
Earwig reached the end of the alley and looked around in amazement, stopping so suddenly that he almost fell over. He had entered an arcade filled with small storefronts and shops. His gaze darted from place to place, each dark and deserted store calling him to come forward, to come inside and see what it had to offer.
One shop was filled with brightly colored gems and jewelry that gleamed in the moonlight. Another sold cloth, dyed with beautiful patterns, and another offered weapons. Earwig danced forward into the middle of the marketplace, wondering where he should look first.
The sound of a scream and shatters of pottery made Earwig jump and glance around. He saw the source of the red glow—firelight streamed out the window of an inn. He heard another scream, coming from the same place.
“This is one fight I won’t miss!” cried the kender in excitement, and peered inside a dirty window to see what the commotion was about.