Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

by Weis Margaret

  Raistlin sagged back against the wall. Once the excitement and danger were over, he felt drained, exhausted. And he had a long walk back to the Broken Shield. In the buildings around him, lights were flaring as people heard the shouts of the guards and woke up and leaned out their windows, demanding to know what was going on. Adding to the confusion, the guards were issuing orders that the city gates should be closed, no one allowed in or out.

  Raistlin had strength enough for one last spell. He clasped his hand over the dragon orb, spoke the words, and entered the corridors of magic. He stepped out into his room in the Broken Shield. He removed his pouches and placed them under his pillow, then stripped off his robes and collapsed upon the bed and was soon asleep.

  He dreamed, as usual, about Caramon. Only Caramon was in company with a kender who kept poking Raistlin in the ribs with a butcher knife.

  8

  The Morning After. The Alibi.

  9th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  aistlin was awakened by knocking on his door. Jolted out of a deep sleep, he sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding. He glanced out the window. Night still shrouded the city. He had been asleep only a short time.

  “Open the damn door!” Iolanthe hissed through the keyhole.

  One of his neighbors yelled for quiet. Raistlin took one more moment to consider his situation; then, grasping the Staff of Magius, he spoke the word, “Shirak,” and the crystal on top of the staff began to glow with a soft light.

  “Let me get dressed,” he called out.

  “I’m sure you don’t have anything I haven’t seen on a man before,” Iolanthe said impatiently. “Except maybe it’s gold.”

  Raistlin was not amused. He dressed himself hurriedly, then opened the door.

  Iolanthe, enveloped in a voluminous, night-blue cloak, hurried past him into his room.

  “Shut the door,” she said, “and lock it.”

  Raistlin did so and stood blinking at her sleepily.

  “I brought you a cup of tarbean tea.” She handed him a steaming mug. “I need you to be alert.”

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Near morning.”

  He took hold of the mug without thinking and burned his hand. He set the mug down on the floor. Iolanthe took the room’s only chair, forcing Raistlin to sit on the edge of his bed. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

  Iolanthe clasped her hands on her lap and leaned forward. “Have they been here yet?” she asked tensely. “Has who been here?”

  “The temple guards. So they haven’t. They don’t know where you live. That’s good. That gives us time.” She eyed him. “Where have you been tonight?”

  Raistlin blinked at her groggily. “In bed? Why?”

  “You weren’t in bed all night. Just answer my question,” she said, her tone sharp.

  Raistlin ran his hand through his hair. “I was kept late at the Tower cleaning up after the draconians, who came to search for some artifact—”

  “I know all about that,” Iolanthe snapped. “Where did you go after you left the Tower?”

  Raistlin stood up. “I’m tired. I think you should leave.”

  “And I think you should answer me!” said Iolanthe, her violet eyes flaring. “Unless you want the Black Ghost after you.”

  Raistlin regarded her intently, then sat back down.

  “I paid a visit to your friend, Snaggle. One of the lizardmen had confiscated my dagger—”

  “Commander Slith. I know about that too. Did you see Snaggle?”

  “Yes, we made a deal. I’m going to trade him potions—”

  “To the Abyss with your potions! What happened then?”

  “I was tired. I came home and went to bed,” said Raistlin.

  “You didn’t hear the uproar, see the commotion in the streets?”

  “I wasn’t on the streets,” said Raistlin. “When I left the mageware shop, I was so exhausted, I did not feel up to walking. I traveled the corridors of magic.”

  Iolanthe stared at him. He met her eyes and held them.

  “Well, well,” she said, relaxing, giving him a slight smile. “That is good to hear. I was afraid you might have been involved.”

  “Involved in what?” Raistlin asked impatiently. “Why all the mystery? “

  Iolanthe left the chair and came to sit beside him on the bed. She lowered her voice, speaking barely above a whisper. “The Adjudicator was assassinated during the night. He was walking down the sidewalk near the temple, not far from Wizard’s Row, when he was accosted by a wizard wearing black robes. As this Black Robe held the Adjudicator in conversation, the assassin sneaked up behind him and stabbed him in the back. Both the assassin and the wizard fled.”

  “The Adjudicator …” said Raistlin, frowning as if trying to remember.

  “That lump of muscle who does the Nightlord’s dirty work,” said Iolanthe. “The Nightlord was furious. He is turning the city upside down looking for black-robed wizards.”

  Iolanthe stood up and began to pace the room, restlessly beating a clenched hand into an open palm.

  “This could not have happened at a worse time! Wizards were already suspect and now this! The guards came seeking me first. Fortunately I had an alibi. I was in Ariakas’s bed.”

  “So you believe they will come after me,” said Raistlin, trying to sound nonchalant and all the while thinking that he was in serious trouble. He had forgotten how few Black Robes there were in the city.

  Iolanthe halted in her pacing and turned to face him. “I told them who they sought.”

  “You did?” Raistlin asked, rising in alarm.

  “Yes. The guilty are now all dead,” said Iolanthe with equanimity. “I’ve just returned from the Tower. I saw the bodies.”

  “Dead?” Raistlin repeated, bewildered. “Bodies? Who—”

  “The Black Robes in the Tower,” said Iolanthe. She sighed and added, “Who knew those old men could be so dangerous? Here they were, working for Hidden Light, right under my nose. I must have been blind not to see it.”

  Raistlin stared at her; then he asked slowly, “How did they die?”

  “The Nightlord sent the Black Ghost.” She shuddered. “It was a horrible sight. All three of the old men lying in their beds, their bodies sucked dry—”

  Raistlin shook his head. “That seems unlikely to me. Why didn’t the Nightlord arrest them? Torture them? Ask them about their accomplices?”

  “Do I look like the Nightlord to you?” Iolanthe snapped. She began pacing again. “It is only a matter of time before they find out where you live. The Nightlord’s guards will be here to question you, perhaps even arrest you. I must place you somewhere safe, out of his reach.”

  She kept walking, kept beating her hand into her palm. Suddenly she turned to him. “You said you traveled here using the corridors of magic. Your door was locked. You never picked up your key, did you?”

  “No, I came directly into my room.”

  “Good! You’re coming with me.”

  “Where?” asked Raistlin.

  “The Red Mansion. You never used your key. Talent Orren can testify to that. No one saw you enter the inn. You can say you spent the night working late. I will vouch for you, and so will Ariakas.”

  “Why should he do that?” Raistlin asked, frowning.

  “To tweak the Nightlord’s nose, if for no other reason. The Emperor is not in a good mood, and whenever something goes wrong, he blames the clerics. Luckily for you, your sister, Kitiara, is back in favor. He had a meeting with her that went well apparently. He’ll be glad to assist her little brother. You had best bring the Staff of Magius. They’ll search your room, of course.”

  As she spoke, she was making up his bed so that it would look as if he had not slept in it.

  “Where is this mansion?” he asked.

  “Near the camp of the Red Dragonarmy. Outside the city walls, which is another good point. The Nerakan Guard sealed the gates after the murder. No one is allowed in o
r out. Therefore, if you were out, you were not in. And if you were in, you could not have gotten out.”

  Raistlin considered her plan and decided it was a good one. Besides, he had been wanting a chance to meet with Ariakas. Perhaps the Emperor would make him an offer. Raistlin was still open to all possibilities. He tied his pouches containing his spell components to his belt.

  “Got all your ‘marbles’?” Iolanthe asked with a sly smile. “The draconians didn’t confiscate any of them, did they? I heard they cast spells to search for magical artifacts.”

  “No, they did not take them,” Raistlin replied. “They are, after all, only marbles.”

  Iolanthe grinned at him. “If you say so.”

  She reached into one of her pouches and brought forth what appeared to be a glob of black clay. Clasping the clay in her hands, she rolled it between her palms until it was soft, all the while muttering words of magic beneath her breath. Raistlin tried his best to hear them, but she was careful to keep her voice low. When she had finished her chanting, she flung the clay onto the wall. The clay stuck to the surface, then began to grow, looking very much like fast-rising bread dough. The black clay expanded, flowing over the wall until it covered a surface as large as Iolanthe was tall.

  She spoke a single word of magic, and the clay dissolved, as did the wall. A corridor leading through time and space opened before them.

  “The goo cost me a fortune,” said Iolanthe. She clasped hold of Raistlin’s wrist. He tried instinctively to pull away, but she tightened her grip.

  “You really don’t like to be touched, do you?” she said softly. “You don’t like letting people get too close.”

  “I’ve just heard what happens to those who get too close to you, madam,” said Raistlin coldly. “You know as well as I do, those old men were not involved in the murder.”

  “Listen to me, Raistlin Majere,” said Iolanthe, drawing so near him, he could feel her breath on his cheek. “There were five black-robed wizards in this city last night. Only five. No more. I know where I was. I know where those three fools in the Tower were. That leaves one unaccounted for. You, my friend. What I did, I did to save your golden hide.”

  “It could have been someone masquerading as a Black Robe,” Raistlin said. “Or some Black Robe who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time and is perfectly innocent.”

  “It could have.” Iolanthe squeezed his hand. “But we both know it wasn’t. Don’t worry. You have risen in my regard. If there was ever a man who needed a knife in his ribs, it was the Adjudicator. I ask only one thing in return for my silence.”

  “What is that?” Raistlin asked.

  “Tell Kitiara what I am doing for you,” said Iolanthe.

  She entered the magical corridor, drawing Raistlin with her. Once inside, she let go of him and reached out to grab hold of the clay and pull it off the wall, which had not, in fact, disappeared as much as become invisible. The entrance to the corridor closed behind them. A door opened in front of them. Raistlin found himself in a well-appointed and luxurious bedroom, which smelled strongly of gardenia.

  “This is my room,” said Iolanthe. “You can’t stay here. It would be as much as our lives are worth if he caught me with another man.”

  She steered Raistlin toward the door. Opening it a crack, she peered into the hall. “Good. No one is about. Make haste and douse that light on your staff! There is a spare room, third door on your left.”

  She shoved him into the dark hallway and shut and locked her door behind him.

  9

  The Red Mansion. The Dark Queen.

  18th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  aistlin spent more than a week in the Red Mansion, fretting and fuming with impatience, bored out of his mind, alone and apparently forgotten. The Red Mansion, despite its name, was black in both color and mood. The building was called the Red Mansion because it was located on a cliff overlooking the camp of the Red Dragonarmy. Raistlin could stand on the portico located in the back of the mansion and look down upon row after row of tents that housed the soldiers. In the distance was the city wall and the Red Gate. Beyond that reared the ugly, twisted spires of the temple.

  The mansion had been built at great expense by a high-ranking cleric of Takhisis. The Spiritor had become embroiled in a conspiracy to overthrow the Nightlord. Some said that Ariakas had been involved in that attempt and that it had failed because he had switched sides at the last moment, and betrayed his comrades.

  No one knew if that tale was true or not. All anyone knew was that one night the Spiritor had disappeared from his fine mansion and the next day Ariakas had moved in. The mansion was constructed of black marble and was very grand and very dark and very cold. Raistlin spent his time either in the library, studying the many spell-books he found there, or roaming the halls, waiting for an audience with the Emperor.

  Iolanthe assured Raistlin that she had spoken to Ariakas on Raistlin’s behalf. She said Ariakas was eager to meet the brother of his dear friend Kitiara and would most certainly find a place for him.

  Apparently, Ariakas was able to contain his eagerness. He spent very little time in the mansion, preferring to work in his command post located in the camp of the Red Dragonarmy. Raistlin encountered him only in passing. The Emperor did not even glance at him.

  After seeing the man and hearing people talk about him, Raistlin wasn’t sure he wanted to be introduced, much less serve him. Ariakas was a large man of powerful build, proud of his brute strength and accustomed to using his size to intimidate. He was highly skilled with sword and spear and had the ability to lead and inspire his soldiers. He was an effective military commander and, as such, had proved himself useful to his Queen.

  Ariakas should have been content with commanding the fighting of her war, but his ambition had prompted him to leave the relative safety of the battlefield and enter the far more dangerous and deadly arena of politics. He had demanded the Crown of Power, and Takhisis had granted his wish. That had been a mistake.

  The moment Ariakas put on the Crown of Power, he became a target. He was convinced that his fellow Highlords were plotting against him, and he was right. Since he had done all he could to foment their rivalries and jealousies, thinking it would ensure strong leaders, he had no one to blame but himself when they turned their knives on him.

  In many ways, Ariakas reminded Raistlin of a dark-souled, arrogant version of Caramon. Ariakas was, at heart, a bluff and simple soldier, who was floundering about in the muck and mire of intrigue and politics. Weighted down by his heavy armor, he was starting to sink, and he would take all those who were hanging on to him down with him.

  After three days, Raistlin told Iolanthe that he was leaving. She urged him to be patient.

  “Ariakas is caught up in his war,” Iolanthe said. “He has no interest in anything else and that includes ambitious, young wizards. You must put yourself forward. Draw his notice.”

  “And how do I do that?” Raistlin asked scathingly. “Trip him as he walks by?”

  “Pray to Queen Takhisis. Urge her to intercede for you.”

  “Why should she?” Raistlin shrugged. “You said yourself she has turned against all wizards since Nuitari abandoned her.”

  “Ah, but the Dark Queen seems to favor you. She saved you from the Nightlord, remember?” said Iolanthe with a mischievous smile. “It was the Dark Queen who saved you, wasn’t it?”

  Raistlin muttered something and walked off.

  Iolanthe’s questions and insinuations were starting to grate on his nerves. He did not know where he stood with the woman. True, she had saved him from being arrested. The temple guards had arrived to question Raistlin shortly after the two of them had fled the Broken Shield. But Raistlin had the feeling that Iolanthe had saved him for the same reason a dragon spares her victims: she was keeping him alive to be devoured later.

  Raistlin had no intention of talking to Takhisis. The Dark Queen was still seeking the dragon orb. And although he was co
nfident that he was strong enough to hide it from her, he did not want to take any chances. That was another reason he was leaving. Takhisis had a shrine in the Red Mansion, and he could sense her presence there. Thus far, he had managed to avoid going anywhere near the shrine.

  He spent the morning of the day he was planning to depart in the mansion’s library. Since Ariakas was a magic-user, Raistlin had hoped to find his spellbooks. Ariakas cared little about magic, apparently, for he kept no spellbooks and was, it seemed, not given to reading books of any sort. The only books in the library were those left behind by the Spiritor, and they were devoted to the glories of Takhisis. Raistlin yawned his way through a few of those, then gave up the search.

  He came across only one volume of interest, a slender book that Ariakas had actually read, for Raistlin found the man’s crude notes scrawled in the margins: The Crown of Power: A History. The volume had been written by some scribe in the service of the last Kingpriest, Beldinas, and gave an account of the crown’s creation, which the Kingpriest believed dated back to the Age of Dreams.

  The crown had been crafted by the ruler of the ogres and had been lost and purportedly found and lost again many times down through the ages. Judging by the book’s account, the crown had been in the possession of Beldinas prior to the fall of Istar. A note added at the end by Ariakas indicated that the crown had been rediscovered shortly after Takhisis unearthed the Foundation Stone. He had also included a list of some of the crown’s magical powers, though, to Raistlin’s disappointment, Ariakas had not provided details. Ariakas did not seem much interested in the crown’s powers, save for one—the crown had the ability to protect the wearer from physical attack. Ariakas had underlined that.

  Raistlin shelved the volume and left the library. He walked the halls of the mansion, his head bowed in thought. Arriving at what he thought was his room, he opened the door. A strong smell of incense caught him by the throat and made him cough. He looked around in alarm to find that he was not in his room. He was in the last place on Krynn he wanted to be. He had somehow blundered into the shrine of Takhisis.