by Kevin Stein
“I surely hope not,” said the proprietor, somewhat mollified.
“Please give our apologies to the young lady,” Caramon added, marching Earwig up the stairs.
“I thought maybe I’d get another kiss, Caramon,” said the kender cheerfully. “Boy! That was fun!”
Raistlin stood at the window, staring down into the street below. There were hardly any more people out by day than by night. Those who were moving about on some business of their own walked with heads down, casting furtive looks this way and that. Raistlin had seen cities in the grip of plague. He could smell fear in the air. Now, he thought he could detect the same odor.
And there, shining against the white stone pavement, was the line.
Caramon walked into the room just behind Earwig, pushing the kender forward so that there would be no chance for him to escape. Raistlin slowly turned around from the window.
“How are you feeling?” Caramon asked.
“How do I ever feel?” Raistlin snapped. Seeing Caramon’s hurt look, the mage shook his head. “I’m sorry, my brother. I feel as if a crushing weight were on me. As if I’d been sent here to do something important, yet I haven’t any idea what! And we don’t have much time to do it!”
“What do you mean? We’ve got all the time in the world,” said Caramon practically. “I’ve ordered breakfast. It’ll be up in a moment.”
“Time!” Raistlin turned back to the window, staring down at the white line. “ ‘… To find the gate, to be there when the time arrives.’ We have no time, my brother. We have only until the Festival of the Eye. Three days.”
“Huh?” Caramon frowned.
“That’s the poem you quoted, isn’t it, Raistlin?” Earwig piped up. “I remember it, you see. ‘Darkness sends its agents, stealthy and black, to find the gate, to be there when the time arrives.’ I love stories, and that’s as good as a story. Did I ever tell you the one about Dizzy Longtongue and the minotaur—?”
“I think you dropped something,” said Caramon, jostling one of the kender’s pouches and spilling its contents on the floor.
Glass and ivory game pieces rolled across the wood, one of the pieces coming to rest at Raistlin’s feet. Reaching down, he picked it up. It was a small, yellowing statue carved into the likeness of a beautiful woman—beautiful, regal, evil, domineering. The mage held it up to his eyes, inspecting it, observing every tiny detail cut into the bone. Turning it over to look at the pedestal on which the woman stood, he saw an “X” on the bottom, a sign designating the piece as the Dark Queen in one of the mage’s favorite games, Wizards and Warriors.
“It can’t be coincidence,” he murmured. “The ‘cats decide the fate,’ and they are vanishing. The time of the Great Eye comes once again, when untold power awaits those who can use it. If I were the Dark Queen and I wanted to choose a time to come back into the world …” Raistlin’s voice died.
Caramon scoffed. “Hey, don’t talk like that, Raist! You said it yourself. Coincidence. We’ll find the cats, and there’ll be a perfectly logical explanation for their disappearance. Maybe it’ll be like that story about the guy with the flute who came into a town and played, and all of the rats followed him past the city limits.”
“But you forget the end of the story, my brother. In the end, the piper came back and stole away the children.”
Caramon kept silent. He didn’t think he’d helped matters any.
Looking at the game piece carefully one more time, Raistlin handed it back to the kender. Earwig looked at the piece as carefully as the mage had, but he didn’t find anything of interest. It was just another game piece.
“ ‘Fate moves the free,’ ” Caramon said under his breath, repeating one of his current, favorite proverbs. “What do we do now?”
“It’s time we explored the city of Mereklar.”
“How about seeing this Councillor Shavas? Shouldn’t we go meet her?”
“I think, my brother, that I will let her come to me,” said Raistlin coolly.
“You’re strangers, so you don’t see it like we do.”
“I guess not, ma’am,” Caramon said. “To me, this place looks overrun.”
“No, sir, no. Where once there were thousands, there are now few. Too few,” said the old woman.
“That’s true,” added a man who was seated at another table. “From morning to evening, the cats would roam the streets. White, gray, brown, striped, spotted, mottled. All sorts.”
“Except black,” the old woman interposed. “We never knew why, but there wasn’t a black cat among the lot of em.”
“Some think mages came and took the black ones,” said the man, glowering darkly at Raistlin.
Raistlin lifted an eyebrow and glanced at his brother. Caramon, looking uncomfortable, buried his head in a mug of ale. The three companions were wandering through the city, supposedly seeing the sights. But every time they came to any sort of a tavern, Raistlin insisted on going inside. He left most of the conversing to his brother. The handsome, good-natured fighter took to people easily, and they likewise warmed to him.
Caramon wondered, at first, how they were going to pay for what they drank, but all Raistlin had to do was to produce the scrollcase and, at the sight of it, no one ever asked them for money.
Raistlin listened and kept an eye on the kender, watching to note if anyone took an unusual interest in the skull necklace Earwig wore.
“We always left plates of food and small bowls of milk outside our house for the cats to eat and drink,” a middle-aged man told the warrior, “though sometimes we simply left the doors open and waited for the cats to come inside, where they could join us for breakfast.”
“They would always roam about on the street or in the parks, waiting to be petted,” a young barmaid explained, her eyes on Caramon. “No one would dream of harming them. After all, they’ll one day save the world!” The others in the tavern nodded in agreement.
“You haven’t seen a guy around here, playing a flute, have you?” Caramon began, but his brother gave him such a vicious look that the big warrior lapsed into silence. They stood up to go.
“Damn all wizards to the Abyss,” one of the guests said as the magician left.
“Well, how rude!” exclaimed Earwig.
Caramon turned, fist clenched, but Raistlin put his hand on his brother’s knotted arm.
“Peace, Caramon.”
“How can you just let them say things like that?” the warrior demanded.
“Because I understand them,” said Raistlin in his whispering voice. “These people are in the grip of fear,” he added as they stepped out into the street. “They’ve lived in this city all of their lives, and now the one thing that they hold sacred is disappearing, without reason, without a clue. I’m an easy target because I’m someone to blame.”
He looked down at the street. The white line was there, leading him on. They had not deviated from its path since leaving the inn, although neither Caramon nor Earwig could see it.
“The councillor’s home? Just keep walking straight up the street,” said a man to Caramon in response to his question.
“Thank you,” the warrior replied, returning to his brother and the kender, who were seated at an outdoor table at another tavern.
They had seen a few cats since their arrival in Mereklar. Occasionally one would stroll past the companions as they were walking. Caramon had the strangest feeling that he was being scrutinized, examined by unblinking green eyes. Then, more and more started coming around, and now Earwig was surrounded by cats. The felines jumped on his shoulders, batted at his topknot of brown hair, and rubbed themselves around his neck. The kender was overjoyed at the attention and more than willing to play with his new friends.
Raistlin, on the other hand, sat silent and alone. None of the cats would come near him.
“Look at that,” Caramon heard a woman whisper, and saw her pointing at the mage.
“I know,” said her companion. “I’ve never seen our cats act so u
nfriendly to anybody.”
“Maybe they know something we don’t!”
A third woman hissed, “I bet the wizard has something to do with the missing cats! After all, there were no problems until he got here!”
“Your problems started before we arrived,” Caramon began hotly, but, once again, his brother flashed him a warning look and the fighter swallowed his words.
“I’ve heard some people say that their kind are responsible for everything bad in the world!”
The mage ignored the words. He sat at his ease in a chair, sipping occasionally at a tiny porcelain cup containing a local speciality called hyava. The heat from the drink filled his body with welcome warmth, though the day was not particularly cold and he wore the red robes that covered him from head to foot.
Caramon sat down and tried to talk to his brother over Earwig’s giggling. “Like the guard told us, all we have to do is follow Southgate Street to the center of the city, where we’ll find the councillor’s house. ‘All roads lead there,’ the man said. ‘You can’t get lost.’ ”
“Don’t you think that’s a little unusual?” Raistlin asked. “A house in the exact center of the city?”
“Yeah, I thought it was odd, but then again, this whole damn place is pretty odd,” the fighter muttered.
“I think I would like to see this house.” Raistlin reached over to touch Earwig’s shoulder. The cats ceased playing with the kender and turned to stare at the mage, freezing in place as if they were statues. “Earwig,” said Raistlin, staring back at the cats, “it’s time to leave.”
“All right,” said the kender, always glad to be going somewhere other than where he was. “Come on, cats,” he said, shoving at those perched on his lap. “I’ve got to go. Move.”
When the cats didn’t budge, he stood up slowly from the wicker chair. The cats leaped off him but kept their eyes on Raistlin.
The mage drew the hood up over his face, covering his thin, golden features from the light of day, finding refuge in the shadows of the robes. Taking the Staff of Magius in hand, he started walking up the street, Caramon and Earwig following back.
The cats stood for a moment, then they, too, began to walk slowly after the companions, staying about ten feet back.
“Look at that!” said Earwig in delight.
Raistlin paused, glanced around. The felines came to a halt. Raistlin moved again, and the animals started after him again. More cats came to join their fellows and soon the companions were being followed by a pack of fur and tails and shining eyes that moved without the slightest sound.
“Why are they acting like that?” somebody asked.
“Don’t know. Maybe he’s got them under a spell or something!”
“I doubt it. He knows what we’d do to him if he used any magic on our cats.”
Suddenly Raistlin turned around and jerked the hood from his head. The cats scattered, fleeing, leaving the streets to the mage.
Caramon had been to many cities and towns in his life, but none like Mereklar. There were more places to eat and drink on the little stretch of Southgate Street than the fighter could remember seeing in most villages, and there were actually places that specialized in one type of meal instead of serving the same thing night after night.
“And windows,” the warrior said to himself in near disbelief. “Where do people get the money for glass?”
There was every type of shop imaginable, selling wondrous things. They passed by a book shop that had the name “Oxford” painted in the window. Displayed in front on a wooden pedestal was a huge dictionary, open in the middle. Raistlin looked at the tome and sighed in longing. The price displayed was an almost unbelievable amount, more than Raistlin imagine earning in a lifetime.
As the mage walked down the avenue, more and more people began to stop what they were doing and stare at the red robes that hid the man of power. Some of the children ran up to Raistlin, reaching out to touch the strange black wood staff with the golden claw and pale blue orb of crystal. The mage did not move the staff from their reach. It seemed, when they drew too near, as if the black rod itself warded them away.
Caramon attracted attention as well. Men gazed at him, envying his youth and strength. Women watched him from out the corners of their eyes, admiring his strong arms and broad chest, his curly brown hair and handsome face.
“Hey, Caramon, why do all the girls stare at you?” Earwig asked wistfully.
When the warrior looked their direction, the women turned red and buried their faces in their hands, giggling at Caramon’s leer and his broad grin.
“Probably never seen a sword this big,” said the fighter, winking.
Raistlin snorted in contempt.
Another hour passed, and the travelers could see Shavas’s house. Earwig, with his sharper eyes, could make out some detail. “It looks like it’s covered with plants. And its windows are made of colored glass!”
Raistlin listened to the kender’s description of the councillor’s house with interest, though he didn’t say anything. If what the kender said was accurate, the house was vastly different from every other house in the city. The mage stared ahead, leaning on his staff for comfort rather than any actual need. He felt unusually refreshed, even invigorated since his trial of the night before. The white line gleamed at his feet, shining brighter and more clearly with every step he took.
Soon all the companions could clearly see the house, raised up on a hill of dirt—a perfect circle of earth that ended where the white stone of the streets and sidewalks began. The mound rose above the level of the city, and a stone path wound up to the councillor’s house and around to the small groves that covered the hill of dirt. The top of the hill was large enough and flat enough to support a small pond, and streams ran out from it to water the colorful gardens along the sides of the estate.
Raistlin came to a halt, his gaze studying the stained-glass windows. Fascinated, he watched the sunlight glance off the tinted panes, reflecting a variety of colors that shone in his eyes—red, blue, green, white, and black. Five colors. It reminded him of his dream. Five colors …
The mage blinked his eyes and saw that the glass was nothing more than glass, held together by lead strips, bent into odd shapes that seemed somehow familiar. When he attempted to grasp where he had seen them before, his mind refused.
Raistlin suddenly felt weak and was unable to continue walking. “Caramon!” he called out, his voice reaching the ears of his brother, who was a slight distance ahead. “I must rest.”
The mage slumped down in a chair that belonged to another hyava shop. He leaned against the staff. His breath shortened, and he turned around with his back to the estate, lifting the cowl up over his head as Caramon hurried to his side.
A nervous serving-girl came out of the shop, bringing out two cups of the strong, dark brew. “No,” the fighter said, “he needs hot water.”
“This will be fine, my brother.” Raistlin snatched the drinks from the girl’s hands. When his brother gave a questioning glance, the mage said, “I’m just a little tired from the walk.”
Raistlin took his time, holding the ridiculously small handle between two fingers, swallowing slowly. Earwig sat down happily and began rummaging through his pouches.
“See this?” the kender said, pulling out a crystal quill shot through with veins of gold. “I found it lying in the street. I figured, ‘If it’s in the street, nobody wants it.’ And I found this.” Earwig held up a sequined ball with a piece of yellow ribbon sewn on it.
“Give that back!” Caramon yelled, leaning across the table, his fingers groping for the kender.
“It’s mine! I found it!”
“It was mine first! That girl at the inn gave it to me, and it means a lot.”
“Then you shouldn’t have dropped it,” the kender scolded, handing the ball back to its rightful owner. It spun around, catching the sunlight, reflecting a myriad colors. “I swear, Caramon! You are so careless. Besides, it’s a really good cat toy.
They love it! See, look at that black cat watching it.”
Raistlin bent forward in his chair. “What black cat?”
“That black cat,” Earwig replied, pointing behind the mage.
Raistlin turned around to face the animal. The cat, not particularly large and very, very black, sat calmly, regarding the mage with wide, staring blue eyes.
“Here, puss, puss, puss.” Caramon bobbed the toy on its string.
The cat stood a moment longer, staring at the mage in a contest of wills—azure orbs against black hourglasses. Then the feline rose up from its place on the white stone street and calmly walked past Raistlin. The animal batted the ball three times and sat down again, watching Caramon as it had watched his brother.
Earwig, unwilling to be left out of the cat’s attentions, reached down and petted its black fur. The cat showed no sign of pleasure or annoyance. It glanced at the kender briefly before resuming its observation of the fighter.
Caramon coaxed it to play with the ball. Raistlin, watching, rubbed his fingers against the staff’s wood. This was the first black cat he had seen in the entire city of Mereklar, and he was about to cast a spell that would tell him if the animal was possessed by a spirit—making it a magician’s familiar—when an open carriage, drawn by two white horses, turned a corner and rumbled up the street. The coat of arms on the carriage door was the same as that on the scrollcase.
“The councillor,” said Raistlin, nudging his brother.
Caramon glanced around. Earwig leaped to his feet in excitement. The black cat crouched behind the kender’s legs, hidden from view.
“Stop here,” came a clear voice. The carriage rolled to a halt in front of the hyava shop. A woman stood from her seat. She was dressed in rippling white silk, her skin nearly as pale as the cloth she wore. Dark brown hair was bound tightly around her head in a thick braid. Around her neck, suspended by a golden chain, hung a red fire opal.
The woman gazed at the three imperiously. “I am Councillor Shavas. Please join me for dinner.” Then she was gone, her horses bearing the carriage forward to the estate on the hill, her deep, sensual voice echoing in the companions’ thoughts.