“That’s too bad,” said Caramon sympathetically. “We lost our mother, too.”
“Did you?” Scrounger was interested. “Did she leave you behind?”
“So to speak,” said Raistlin with an angry glance for his twin. “You mentioned your ‘pa,’ ” he added, changing the subject before Caramon could say any more. “Did you then find your father?”
“Oh, no.” Scrounger shoved away the third empty bowl. Sitting back in the booth, he gave a contented belch. “That’s just what he made us call him. He was a miller who took in stray kids to work in his shop. He said it was cheaper to feed us than it was to pay hired help. I was tired of roaming around, and he gave me a good meal at least once a day, so I stayed with him.”
“Was he mean to you?” Caramon asked, frowning at this.
Scrounger thought this over. “No, not really. He’d hit me sometimes, but I guess I deserved it. And he saw to it that I could read and write Common, because he said stupid children made him look bad in front of the customers. I stayed with him until I was about nineteen. I thought I might be there forever. He was going to make me shop foreman.
“But then one day a really strange feeling came over me. My feet got real itchy, and I couldn’t sit still, and I began to see the road in my dreams.” Scrounger smiled, stared past them, out the window. “That road. Out there. I saw it stretch before me, and at the end I saw high mountains with snow on their peaks and green valleys covered with wildflowers and dark, spooky forests, cities with high walls and castles shining in the sun, vast seas with foam-flecked waves. The dreams were wonderful, and when I woke up and found myself surrounded by four walls, I was so sad I’d almost burst out crying.
“Then one day a new customer came into the shop. He was a very wealthy man who’d bought up several of the local farms and he wanted to sell us his grain. I started to talk to him and found out he’d been a soldier, a mercenary. That was how he’d earned his money. He told me exciting stories, all about his adventures, and that was when I made up my mind. I said that if he ever heard about anyone wanting to hire on soldiers, to let me know. He promised he would, and he was the one who told me about the Mad Baron. The baron was an excellent commander, so he told me, and a good soldier, and I could do worse than learn from him. So I left the mill and started out. That was last fall. I’ve been on the road about six months.”
“Six months! Where do you come from then?” Caramon asked, amazed.
“Southern Ergoth,” said Scrounger complacently. “The trip was fun, most of the time. I worked my way on board a ship across the New Sea, landed near Pax Tharkas, and walked the rest of the way from there.”
“You said you are nineteen?” Raistlin found this hard to believe. “That would make you close to our age.” He nodded at his twin.
“Give or take a year,” said Scrounger. “Mother had no idea of the date when I was born. One day I asked her how old I was. Mother asked me how old I wanted to be. I thought it over and said it seemed to me that six sounded like a pretty good age, and she said six was fine with her, and so I was six. I began counting from there.”
“And how did you come by your name?” Raistlin asked. “I have to assume that Scrounger is not your given name.”
“It might be, for all I know,” Scrounger replied with shrug. “Mother always called me whatever took her fancy at the time. The miller mostly called me ‘kid’ until I began to show a talent for acquiring things that he needed.”
“Stealing?” said Caramon, looking severe.
“Not ‘stealing,’ ” said Scrounger, shaking his head. “No, and not ‘borrowing’ either. It’s like this. Everyone has something someone else wants. Everyone has something he doesn’t need anymore. What I do is find out what those somethings are, and I make sure that everyone ends up with something he wants in exchange for something he doesn’t.”
Caramon scratched his head. “I dunno. It doesn’t sound legal to me.”
“It is. I’ll show you.”
“That’ll be sixpence for the beans,” said the barmaid, dragging her straggling hair out of her face in order to read the marks she’d chalked on their table. “Sixpence for the ale, and fourpence for the wine.”
Caramon reached for the money purse. Scrounger’s thin fingers closed over his arm, halting him.
“We don’t have the money,” said Scrounger brightly.
The barmaid glowered. “Ragis!” she called out ominously.
A big man standing behind the bar filling ale mugs looked her direction.
“But,” Scrounger added hurriedly, “I see your fire is almost out.” He gestured toward the large fireplace in which a charred log feebly sputtered.
“So? No one’s got time to chop firewood, have they?” The barmaid returned defiantly. “And where do you come off complaining, scum? Ragis’ll use you for firewood unless you hand over what you owe!”
Scrounger smiled at her. Even with his split lip, he had a most charming and disarming smile. “We’ll pay with something worth more than money.”
“There’s nothin’ worth more than money,” said the barmaid sulkily, but she was intrigued.
“Yes, there is. Time and muscles and brains. Now, my friend here”—Scrounger rested his hand on Caramon’s bulging arm—“is the fastest and best woodchopper in all of Ansalon. I am an expert at waiting tables. If you’ll give us a bed for the night, my other friend—a wizard of great renown—has a magical spice that will make your beans a culinary masterpiece. Everyone will come to your tavern just to eat them.”
“Our beans ain’t culinary!” the barmaid said indignantly. “They ain’t never made anyone sick!”
“No, no. I mean that this spice will make them taste as good as the beans eaten by the Lord of the City of Palanthas. Even better. When His Grace comes to hear of them—and I’ll be sure to tell him—he’ll journey all this way just to try them.”
The barmaid smiled grudgingly. “Well, the customers have been complaining some. Not our fault, mind you. The cook got into the sherry, fell down the cellar stairs, and broke her ankle, which means Mabs and I’ve had to do the cooking and the cleaning and the table waiting. We’re run off our feet, and Ragis can’t leave the bar, not with this thirsty crowd.”
She eyed Caramon, her gaze softening. “You are a strong one, ain’t you? What’s sixpence if we can’t keep the fire going or bring up a new cask of ale from the cellar? All right. You chop the wood, and you, wizard”—she cast Raistlin a disparaging glance—“what have you got?”
Raistlin removed one of his pouches, reached in his hand, and brought out a bulbous white object with a strong and heady smell. “This is the magic ingredient,” he said. “Peel it and chop it fine and put it into the beans. I guarantee you will bring customers in off the street.”
“We’re not suffering from lack of customers. But I grant you it’d be nice to serve a meal they don’t throw back in my face.” She sniffed at the white bulb. “That does smell good. You guarantee it won’t poison no one?”
“My brother here will volunteer to eat the first bowlful,” said Raistlin, and Caramon cast him a grateful glance.
“Well …”
“The Lord of Palanthas,” Scrounger remarked dreamily. He took her red, work-worn hand and kissed it. “Vowing yours are the best beans he ever ate in his life.”
The barmaid giggled and gave Scrounger’s red hair a teasing yank. “Lord of Palanthas, my ass! You, wizard, go into the kitchen and add your magic spice.”
She leaned over the table, showing a fine expanse of bosom framed by a dirty, frilly blouse, and erased the marks scrawled on the wood with her forearm.
“And there’ll be a little something extra in this for you, my dear,” said Caramon, resting his hand amorously over the barmaid’s.
“Get along with you!” she cried, snatching back her hand, all the while bending over to whisper, “We close at midnight.” With an arch look and a shake of her bedraggled hair, she flounced off in answer to a chorus of ye
lls for more ale. “Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’! Keep your pants on!”
“For the time being,” Caramon said beneath his breath, grinning. He went off, whistling, to the back lot to chop wood.
“Well done, Scrounger,” said Raistlin, rising to his feet, preparatory to taking his “magic spice,” otherwise known as garlic, to the kitchen. “You have saved us the price of a meal and a night’s lodging. One question—how did you know what I had in my pouches?”
Scrounger’s thin cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkled impishly. “I didn’t forget everything my mother taught me,” he said, slipping off to wait tables.
The next morning, the twins and Scrounger joined a long line of men forming a double column in the courtyard outside the baron’s castle. A large plank of wood set on two trestles made a table. A piece of parchment had been nailed to the table, to keep the parchment from blowing away in the strong, offshore breeze. When the officers arrived, they would take the men’s names, then send them off to the training camp.
Here the men would be fed and sheltered for a week at the baron’s expense, undergoing rigorous training that was a test of their strength, their agility, and their ability to obey orders. Those who did not make the grade were weeded out during this week and sent packing with a small sum to thank them for their trouble. Those who survived the first week were given a week’s pay. Those who survived after a month were accepted into the army. Of one hundred men who marked down their names on the list, eighty would be around after the first week. Fifty would be left by the time the army was ready to march.
The recruits had begun lining up at dawn. The day was going to be a hot one for spring. In the distance, clouds gathered on the horizon. There would be rain by afternoon. The hopefuls standing in line began to sweat before the morning was half over.
The twins arrived early. Caramon was so eager that he would have left before dawn, had not Raistlin, who foresaw a long day ahead of them, persuaded him to at least wait until the sun was up. Caramon had not spent the night with the barmaid after all—much to her disappointment. He had spent the night polishing his equipment, and by morning, clad in his new armor, he outshone the sun. He was too excited to eat more than one breakfast, sat fidgeting at the table, rattling his sword and asking every five minutes if they weren’t going to be late. Finally Raistlin said that they could go, only because, as he said, Caramon was annoying him to the point of madness.
Scrounger was nearly as excited as Caramon. Raistlin doubted the baron would accept the thin and childlike youngster into the army, feared that Scrounger might be in for a severe disappointment. Such was the young man’s ebullient nature that Raistlin guessed Scrounger would not be downcast for long.
The tavern owner was sorry to see them leave, particularly Raistlin. The garlic in the beans had proven quite magical, the smell luring customers in off the street. The owner had tried to prevail upon Raistlin to remain behind in the capacity of cook. Raistlin, though flattered, politely refused. The barmaid kissed Caramon. Scrounger kissed the barmaid, and they set off to the mustering grounds.
They took their places in line, waiting in the bright sunshine. About twenty-five men were already there ahead of them. They waited about an hour, during which some of those in line began to chat with their neighbors. Caramon and Scrounger were talking with the man behind them.
The man standing in front of Raistlin glanced at him, as if wanting to start a conversation. Raistlin pretended not to notice. He could already feel the dust from the road start to tickle his throat; he feared that he would suffer one of his coughing spasms, could imagine being cast out of the line in ignominy. He avoided the man’s friendly gaze by studying the baron’s fortifications with as much interest as if he intended to besiege them.
A sergeant, a cocky bantam of a man, bowlegged and missing one eye, arrived, escorted by five veteran soldiers. The sergeant cast a glance over the hundred or so men now in line. By the squint in his eye and the sardonic shake of his head, he wasn’t impressed. He said something to his comrades, who laughed boisterously. Those in line fell suddenly and uncomfortably silent. The first man in line paled and shrank to almost nothing.
The sergeant took his place behind the table. The soldiers stood behind him, their arms crossed over their chests, wide grins on their faces. The sergeant’s single eye was like a gimlet, boring through the first man in line to get a look at the second and so on until it seemed he was able to see through each recruit to the very last one. Pointing a grimy finger at the paper, he said to the first man in line, “Write yer name. If you can’t write, mark your X. Take your place over there to my left.”
The man, dressed in a farmer’s smock and clutching a shapeless felt hat in his hand, shuffled forward. He humbly marked down his X and walked meekly over to stand where indicated. One of the veterans began to call out, “Here piggie, piggie, piggie.” The others laughed appreciative. The farmer cringed and ducked his head, undoubtedly wishing the Abyss would open up and swallow him.
The next man in line hesitated before approaching. He seemed to be of two minds, one of which was telling him to run for his life. He took courage, however, and stepped forward.
“Write yer name,” said the sergeant, already sounding bored. “If you can’t write, mark your X. Take your place in line.”
The litany continued. The sergeant said the same thing in the same tone to every man. The sergeant’s comrades made comments about each recruit. The men took their places in line with their ears and cheeks burning. Most took it meekly enough, but the young man ahead of Raistlin grew angry. Flinging down the quill pen, he glowered at the veterans, fists clenched, and took a threatening step forward.
“Steady, son,” said the sergeant coolly. “It’s death to strike a superior officer. Take your place in line.”
The young man, who was better dressed than most and who was one of the few to write his name, glared at the veterans, who grinned back at him. Lifting his head proudly, he stalked over and took his place in line.
“Fighting spirit,” Raistlin heard one of them say, as he approached. “He’ll be a good soldier.”
“Can’t control his temper,” said another. “He’ll be gone in a week.”
“Bet?”
“Bet.” The two clasped hands.
Raistlin’s turn. He could see plainly enough that the object of this exercise was not only to enroll new recruits but to humiliate them, intimidate them. Having read up on training methods, he was aware that commanders used such means to tear a man apart, reduce him to nothing so that the officers could build him back up again into a good soldier, one who would obey orders without thinking, one who had confidence in himself and in his comrades.
“All very well for the common foot soldier,” Raistlin thought disdainfully. “But it will be different with me.”
As it happened, the sergeant had lowered his head to search for the name of the angry young recruit, thinking of taking a part of the bet. He was staring at the paper with his one good eye, trying to read the name upside down, when the name and the paper were obscured by a loose-flowing red sleeve and a hand and arm that gleamed with a golden sheen.
The men behind the sergeant give a low murmur, nudged each other with their elbows. The sergeant snapped his head up. The single eye focused on Raistlin, who said politely, “Where do I sign, sir? I am here to enroll as war wizard.”
“Well, well,” said the sergeant, squinting in the sun, “this is a new one. We ain’t had one of your kind for quite a spell.” He laughed and leered. “Spell. That’s a joke.”
“Where do I sign, sir?” Raistlin asked. The dust and heat were stifling. He could feel his throat starting to close, dreaded having a coughing fit now, before these grinning veterans. He pulled his hood low, keeping his face and eyes hidden. He did not want to give these men any more fodder for their jokes than was necessary. As it was, they already found him humorous enough.
“Where’d you get that gold skin, boy?” asked one of the veterans. “
Maybe your mama was a snake, huh?”
“A lizard, most likely,” said another, and they laughed. “Lizard-boy. That’s his name, Sarge. Write that down for him.”
“He’ll be a cheap recruit,” said the first. “All he eats is flies!”
“Bet he’s got a long red tongue to catch ’em. Stick out your tongue for us, Lizard-boy.”
Raistlin felt the cough seizing him. “Where do I sign?” he demanded, half-choked.
The sergeant, peering up, caught a sudden glimpse of the strange, hourglass eyes. “Go tell Horkin,” he said over his shoulder to one of the men behind him.
“Where is he?”
“The usual.”
The soldier nodded and left on his assignment.
Raistlin couldn’t help himself. He began to cough. Fortunately, the spasm wasn’t a bad one and passed quickly. But it was enough to set the sergeant frowning.
“What’s the matter with you, boy? You sick? It ain’t catchin,’ is it?”
“My infirmity is not contagious,” Raistlin said through gritted teeth. “Where do I sign?”
The man indicated the paper. “With all the rest,” he said, his lip curling. He obviously didn’t think much of this new recruit. “Go stand with the others.”
“But I am here—”
“I know why you’re here.” The sergeant dismissed him from sight and mind. “Do as you’re told.”
His cheeks burning, Raistlin walked over to take his ignominious place with the other recruits, who were now all staring at him, as were most of those still waiting in line. Stoically, Raistlin ignored them all. His hope now was that Caramon wouldn’t do or say anything to draw attention to himself. Knowing Caramon, that was a forlorn hope at best.
“Write yer name,” said the sergeant, yawning. “If you can’t write, mark your X. Take your place over there to my left.”
“Sure thing, Sergeant,” said Caramon cheerfully. He wrote his name with a flourish on the parchment.
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