The book was quite new. The black leather of its binding was still shiny and showed few signs of wear. And the book’s binding was fancy. Horkin’s word was an apt description. The binding of most spellbooks was plain and unostentatious. Those who made them did not intend that they should attract the eye and hand of every curious kender. Far from it. Spellbooks were quiet, unassuming, glad to fade into the shadows, hoping to remain hidden, overlooked.
This book was different, The words, “Book of Arcane Lore and Power” were stamped in garish silver on the front in the Common language for anyone to read. The symbol of the Eye—a symbol sacred to magic-users—was embossed in each of the four corners, embellished with gold leaf. It was surrounded by the runes Raistlin had noted earlier, runes of magic. A red ribbon marker flowed from the closed tome like a rivulet of blood.
“If the inside’s as pretty as the outside,” said Horkin, reaching out his hand to open it, “perhaps I’ll keep it just for the pictures.”
“Wait, sir! What are you doing?” Raistlin demanded, putting out his own hand to stop Horkin’s.
“I’m going to open the book, Red,” said Horkin, impatiently shoving Raistlin’s hand away.
“Sir,” said Raistlin, speaking hurriedly and with the utmost respect, but also the utmost urgency, “I beg you to proceed cautiously. We are taught in the Tower,” he added, in apologetic tones, “to test the magical emanations of any spellbook before attempting to open it.”
Horkin snorted and shook his head, muttering beneath his breath about “highfalutin foolery,” but seeing that Raistlin was adamant, the elder mage waved his approval. “Test away, Red. Mind you, just so you know, I picked the book up from the battlefield and carried it around for weeks, and it did no harm to me. No fiery jolts or anything like that.”
“Yes, sir,” said Raistlin. He smiled slyly. “Lesson Number Seven. It never hurts to err on the side of caution.”
He stretched out his hand, held his hand over the book, about a finger’s breadth from the surface, careful not to touch the binding. He held his hand there for a count of five indrawn and exhaled breaths, opening his mind, alert for the smallest sensation of magic. He had seen the magi in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth practice this skill, but he had never had a chance to try it himself. Not only was he eager to see if this procedure worked, but there was something about this book he found disconcerting.
“How very odd,” Raistlin murmured.
“What?” Horkin asked eagerly. “What? Do you feel anything?”
“No, sir,” said Raistlin, frowning with puzzlement, “I don’t. And that’s what I find odd.”
“You mean there’s no magic at all in there?” Horkin scoffed. “That doesn’t make any sense! Why would a Black Robe carry around a spellbook that had no spells in it!”
“Exactly, sir,” Raistlin insisted. “That’s why it’s odd.”
“C’mon, Red!” Horkin said, elbowing Raistlin out of the way. “Forget that Tower malarkey. The best way to find out what’s inside the damn thing is to open it—”
“Sir, please!” Raistlin went so far as to close his gold-skinned, slender hand over Horkin’s browned and pudgy wrist. Raistlin eyed the book warily, with increasing suspicion. “There is a great deal that I find disturbing about this book, Master Horkin.”
“Such as?” Horkin was clearly dubious.
“Think about it, sir. Have you ever before known a war wizard to cast down his spellbook? His spellbook, sir—his only weapon! To let it fall into the hands of his enemy! Is that likely, sir? Would you do that yourself? It would be tantamount to … to a soldier throwing down his sword, leaving himself defenseless!”
Horkin appeared to consider this argument. He glanced askance at the book.
“And there is this, sir,” Raistlin continued. “Have you ever seen a spellbook that so blatantly announces it is a spellbook! Have you ever seen a spellbook that advertises its mysteries to all and sundry.”
Raistlin waited tensely. Horkin was staring at the book, intently now, scowling, his mind not so befuddled with ale that he could not follow his apprentice’s reasoning. He removed his hand from book’s binding.
“You’re right about one thing, Red,” said Horkin. “This blasted book is decked out fancier than a Palanthas whore.”
“And for perhaps the same reason, sir,” said Raistlin, trying hard to keep the proper note of humility in his tone. “Seduction. May I suggest that we practice a little experiment on the volume?”
Horkin was clearly disapproving. “More Tower magic?”
“No, sir,” said Raistlin. “No magic at all. I will need a skein of silken thread, sir, if you have some handy.”
Horkin shook his head. He seemed on the verge of opening the book just to prove that he was not going to be counseled by some upstart young pup. But, as he had told Raistlin, he had not survived in this outfit by being stupid. He was willing to concede that Raistlin had advanced some cogent arguments.
“Confound it!” Horkin grumbled. “Now you’ve got me curious. Carry on with your ‘experiment,’ Red. Though where you’ll find silk thread around an army barracks is past my understanding!”
Raistlin already knew where to look for silk thread, however. Where there were embroidered insignia, there had to be silk embroidery thread.
He went to the castle, begged a skein from one of the housemaids, who gave it to him readily, asking him, with a simper and a giggle, if the rumors were true, was he really twin to the handsome young soldier she’d seen on parade and, if he was, would he would please tell his brother that she had a night off every second week.
“Got your thread? Now what?” Horkin asked on Raistlin’s return. The elder mage was clearly beginning to enjoy himself—perhaps with the thought of the young mage’s eventual discomfiture. “Maybe you’re thinking of taking the book into a field and flying it, like one of those kender kites.”
“No, sir,” Raistlin said. “I am not going to ‘fly’ it. However, the suggestion of a field is an excellent idea. We should conduct this experiment in a secluded place. The training ground where we practice our magic would be ideal.”
Horkin heaved an exaggerated sigh and shook his head. He started to reach for the book, halted. “I guess it’ll be safe enough to carry it? Or should I fetch the fire tongs?”
“The fire tongs will not be necessary, sir,” said Raistlin, ignoring the sarcasm. “You have carried the book before now without harm. However, I would suggest that you put the book into a conveyance of some sort. Perhaps this basket? Just to prevent its being opened accidentally.”
Chuckling, Horkin lifted the book—handling it gingerly, Raistlin noted—and placed it gently into a straw basket. But Raistlin heard the elder mage mutter as they were leaving, “I hope no one sees us! Proper fools we must look, walking about with a book in a basket.”
Due to the officers’ meeting, the troops were not practicing this day. They had spent the morning cleaning their equipment. Now they were scrubbing down and whitewashing the outside walls of the barracks. Raistlin saw Caramon, but he pretended not to see Caramon’s waving hand or hear his cheerful yell, “Hey, there, Raist! Where you going? On a picnic?”
“That your brother?” Horkin asked.
“Yes, sir,” Raistlin answered, staring straight ahead.
Horkin swiveled his thick neck to take another glance. “Someone told me you two were twins.”
“Yes, sir,” Raistlin said evenly.
“Well, well,” said Horkin, glancing at the young mage. “Well, well,” he said again.
Arriving at the training ground, the mages discovered to their disappointment that the field was not deserted as they had anticipated. The Mad Baron was in the field practicing.
Mounted on his horse, a lance in his hand, the baron had leveled his lance and was riding straight at an odd-looking contraption consisting of a wooden crosspiece mounted on a base in such a way that it would swivel when hit. A battered shield had been nailed to one of t
he arms of the crosspiece. A large sandbag swung from the opposite end.
“What is this, sir?” Raistlin asked.
“The quintain,” said Horkin, watching with pleasure. “The lance must strike the shield just so or—Ah, there, Red. That’s what happens.”
The baron missed his aim, struck the shield a glancing blow, and was now picking himself up off the ground.
“You see, Red, if you miss hitting the shield squarely, the off-center blow causes the sandbag to whip around and hit you squarely between the shoulder blades,” said Horkin, when he could speak for laughter.
The baron uttered some of the most colorful and original expletives Raistlin had ever been favored to hear and stood rubbing his rump. His horse gave a low whinny that sounded very much like a snicker.
The baron fished a sodden pulpy mass from his pocket, a mass that had once been an apple, but which his fall had squashed flat. “You will suffer as I do, my friend,” he said to the horse. “This would have been yours had we hit the mark.”
The horse eyed the mashed fruit with distaste, but was not too proud to accept it.
“That machine will be the death of you, yet, my lord!” Horkin called out.
The Mad Baron turned, not at all disconcerted to find that he had an audience. He left his horse to munch on the maltreated apple and limped over to converse.
“By the gods, I smell like a cider press!” Baron Ivor looked back at the quintain, shook his head ruefully. “My father could hit dead center every time. Instead, it hits me dead center every time!” He laughed heartily at himself and his failure. “All that talk about knights put me in mind of him. I thought I would come out and set up the old machine, give it a tilt.”
Raistlin would have died of shame had he been caught in such an undignified position by underlings. He was beginning to understand how the Mad Baron came by his appellation.
“But what are you up to, Horkin? What’s in the basket? Something good, I hope! A little wine, maybe, some bread and cheese! Good!” The Baron rubbed his hands. “I’m starving.” He peered into the basket, raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look very appetizing, Horkin. Cook’s given you worse than usual.”
“Don’t touch it, sir,” Horkin was quick to warn. At the baron’s querying glance, the warmage’s face flushed. “Red here thinks that maybe there’s more to this Black Robe’s spellbook than meets the eye. He’s”—Horkin jerked a thumb at Raistlin—“going to conduct a little experiment on it.”
“Are you?” The baron was intrigued. “Mind if I watch? It’s not any sort of wizardly secret stuff, is it?”
“No, sir,” said Raistlin.
He had been plagued by self-doubt ever since they left the castle grounds, had been on the verge of admitting that he’d been mistaken. The book looked so very innocent riding along in the basket. He had no reason to suspect it was anything other than what it purported to be. Horkin had lugged it around and nothing untoward had happened to him. Raistlin was going to look a fool, not only in front of his commander—who already had very little use for him—but now in front of the baron, who might be mad but whose respect Raistlin was suddenly fiercely desirous of earning. He was about to humbly admit he’d been mistaken and to retreat with what dignity he had remaining, when his gaze fell once again on the book.
The spellbook with its gaudy cover and gilt-leaf edges and blood red ribbon … a Palanthas whore …
Raistlin seized hold of the basket. “Sir,” he said to Horkin, “what I am about to do might be dangerous. I respectfully suggest that you and His Lordship remove yourselves to that stand of trees. …”
“An excellent idea, my lord,” said Horkin, planting his feet firmly and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll join you there myself in a moment.”
The baron’s black eyes sparked, his grin widened, his teeth gleamed stark white against his black beard. “Let me move my horse,” he said and dashed away, stiffness and soreness forgotten in the prospect of action.
He led the horse at a running trot to the grove of trees, tied the animal to a branch and ran back, his face aglow with excitement. “Now what, Majere?”
Raistlin looked up, surprised and gratified that the baron had actually remembered his name. He hoped fervently that the baron would remember that name after all this was over, remember with something other than laughter.
Seeing that neither Horkin nor the baron was going to take his advice and retreat to a place of safety, Raistlin reached with extreme care into the basket, lifted the spellbook. For just an instant, he felt a tingle in the nerve endings of his fingers. The tingle dissipated rapidly, leaving him to doubt that he had felt it at all. He paused a moment, concentrating, but the tingle did not return, and he was forced to conclude, with an inward sigh, that he had felt it only because he wanted so desperately to feel it.
He laid the book down on the ground. Removing the skein of silk thread from a pocket, Raistlin formed a loop in the end of the thread. Moving with extreme caution, trying to refrain from lifting the book’s cover, he prepared to pass the loop around the upper right-hand corner of the binding. The work was delicate. If what he suspected was right, the least false move might be his last.
He was alarmed to notice his fingers trembling, and he forced himself to calm down, to clear his mind of fear, to concentrate on the task at hand. Holding the loop of thread around his thumb and the first and second finger of his right hand, Raistlin slowly, slowly, slowly slipped the thread between the cover and the first page. He held his breath.
A rivulet of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. To his horror, he felt his chest close, felt a hacking cough rise up, ready to seize him by the throat. He choked it back, half-strangling, and, exerting all the control he possessed, held the thread steady. He slid the thread over the corner, secured it, and quickly drew back his hand.
The tightness eased, the need to cough passed. Looking up, he saw Horkin and the baron watching in tense anticipation.
“Now what, Majere?” the baron asked, his voice hushed.
Raistlin drew in a shaky breath, tried to speak, but found his voice was gone. He cleared his throat, rose trembling to his feet.
“We must go back to the trees,” Raistlin said. Reaching down, he very gently lifted the skein of thread, began to carefully unroll it. “Once we have reached safety, I will open the book.”
“Here, let me unroll the thread, Majere,” the baron offered. “You look about done in. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. By Kiri-Jolith,” he said, backing up, allowing the thread to slide through his fingers, “I didn’t know you wizards led such exciting lives. I thought it was all bat shit and rose petals.”
The three reached the stand of trees, where the horse stood grazing and rolling its eyes as if it thought every one of them deserved to bear the baron’s moniker. “We should be safe enough. What do you think might happen, Horkin?” The baron put his hand to his sword hilt. “Shall we be fighting a flock of demons from the Abyss?”
“I have no idea, my lord,” Horkin replied, reaching into his pouch for a spell component. “This is Red’s show.”
Raistlin had no breath left to comment. Kneeling down, so that he was level with the book, he slowly and carefully tugged on the thread until it was taut in his hand. Raistlin looked around, motioned with his hand for the officers to crouch down. They did so, their mouths agape with wonder and excitement and expectation, their weapons ready in their hands.
Holding his breath, Raistlin said to himself, “Now or never” and pulled on the silk thread. The loop tightened around the corner of the book, held it fast. Working carefully, so as not to dislodge the thread, Raistlin tugged on the silk. The book’s cover began to rise.
Nothing happened.
Raistlin continued to pull on the thread. The cover opened. He held the cover upright. The cover remained in that position, wavering a moment, and then fell. The silk thread slipped off the corner. The spellbook was open, its flyleaf, with large letters done in gold and red and
blue inks, as gaudy as the front cover, winked derisively in the slanting sunlight.
Raistlin lowered his head so that the two men could not see his shame-filled face. He looked back at the book—sitting there so calmly, so benignly—with hatred. Behind him, he heard Horkin give an embarrassed cough. The baron, heaving a sigh, started to stand up.
A slight breeze ruffled the pages of the book …
The force of the blast knocked Raistlin backward into Horkin and flattened the baron against a tree. The horse neighed in terror, jerked loose his tether, and galloped off for the safety of his stall. He was a battle-trained horse, but he was used to screams and shouts and blood and clashing swords. He could not be expected to put up with exploding books. Or if he was, he deserved something a damn sight better than mashed apple.
“Lunitari take me,” said Horkin in awe. “Are you hurt, Red?”
“No, sir,” said Raistlin, his head ringing from the blast. He picked himself up. “Just a little shaken.”
Horkin staggered to his feet. His normally ruddy face was gray and moist as clay on the potter’s wheel, his eyes wide and staring. “To think I carried that … that thing around with me … for days!”
He looked at the gigantic hole blown in the ground and sat down again quite suddenly.
Raistlin went to assist the baron, who was trying to extricate himself from the smashed branches of the young tree he had taken down in his fall.
“Are you all right, my lord?” Raistlin asked.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Damn!” The baron drew in a breath, heaved it out in a gusty sigh. He stared out across the field. Wisps of smoke from the blackened grass drifted past on the breeze. “What in the name of all that is holy and all that is not holy was that?”
“As I suspected, my lord, the book was trapped,” Raistlin said, trying, but not succeeding, in keeping the triumphant tone out of his voice. “The Black Robe placed the deadly spell inside the book, then surrounded the lethal spell with another spell that effectively shielded the first. That’s why neither Master Horkin nor myself”—Raistlin felt he could be generous in victory—“could sense the magic emanating from it. I guessed that it must take the opening of the book to activate the spell.
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