Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  Caramon, with his big and clumsy hands, was a mediocre player at best. He enjoyed watching his twin, though he often annoyed Raistlin beyond measure with his well-meaning but ill-judged advice.

  The only sound that could be heard all through the afternoon was the chink of counters rattling in the metal drinking cups and the occasional soft groan or muffled curse from the losers, murmured praise for the winner. The game ended with the setting of the sun and then only when it became too dark to adequately judge the distance needed for the jump. The men dispersed to eat their supper, munching on cold meat and hard bread, washed down with water. After that some slept, knowing that they had an early rising ahead of them. Others passed the time in storytelling or word games. Raistlin handed over his share of the winnings to Caramon for safekeeping, sipped cold tea, and slept peacefully, dreaming of counters and cups instead of sinister wizards.

  Everyone knew of Tumbler’s assignment by now, they knew the danger he ran. They followed him along his route in their minds, making calculations on the length of time it would take him to reach camp, arguing about whether he would stick to the main road or take a shortcut, speculating and even wagering money on the baron’s answer.

  As darkness neared, the soldiers looked at the door, peered out the windows, appeared hopeful when a footstep was heard in the otherwise deserted street, were downcast when the footsteps continued on. The time came and went by which Tumbler could have reasonably been expected to return. Master Senej and Sergeant Nemiss continued with their plans for the dawn attack.

  And then one of the sentries called out softly and tensely, “Who goes there?”

  “Kiri-Jolith and the kingfisher,” was the password, correctly given, and a tired but grinning Tumbler slipped past the sentry.

  “What did the baron say?” Major Senej demanded.

  “Ask him yourself, sir,” said Tumbler. With a jerk of his thumb, he indicated the baron, standing behind him.

  The men stared, astonished.

  “Attention!” Sergeant Nemiss called out, jumping to her feet. The men scrambed to obey. The baron waved his hand, ordered them to remain where they were.

  “I’m going to get to the bottom of this barrel,” he stated. “It may be clear water at the top but I’ve got the feeling there’s sludge beneath. I don’t like what I’m hearing about our so-called allies. I certainly didn’t like what I saw of them.”

  “Yes, sir. What are your orders, sir?”

  “I want to talk to someone in authority in this city. Maybe that commander—”

  “That will be dangerous, sir.”

  “Damn it, I know it will be dangerous. I—”

  “Begging your pardon, my lord.” Scrounger popped up from beneath the baron’s elbow. “But I know the house where the lord mayor lives. At least, I think it must be his house. It’s the biggest and the finest on the block.”

  “Who are you?” the baron asked, unable to see the shadowy figure in the darkness.

  “Scrounger, sir. I was the one who overhead the mayor talking and I watched him as he went down a street and turned into a house.”

  “Can you find your way back there?”

  “Yes, sir,” Scrounger replied.

  “Good, let’s go, then. It’s not long until morning. Master Senej, you and Sergeant Nemiss stay with the troops. If we’re not back by sunrise, go forward with the attack.”

  “Yes, my lord. Might I suggest, sir, that you take along a couple more men in case you run into trouble?”

  “If I do run into trouble, Master, it won’t much matter whether there are two of us or four of us, will it? Not if we’re facing fifty angry citizens. And I don’t want to go marching around town with an army rattling and clanking behind me.”

  “You don’t need the army, sir,” said the master stubbornly. “You should at least take the wizard Majere. He proved himself a real asset to us last night, my lord. Take him and his brother. Caramon Majere’s a good fighter and big as a house. The two of them can’t hurt, sir, and they could be a real help.”

  “Very well, Master. I like your suggestion. Pass the word for the Majeres.”

  “And, my lord,” said Master Senej quietly, drawing the baron to one side, “if you don’t like what His Honor the mayor has to say, he would always make a valuable hostage.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Master,” the baron replied.

  13

  THOUGH IT WAS ONLY A FEW HOURS AFTER DARK, THE STREETS OF Hope’s End were deserted. Even the taverns had closed. People were in their homes, either finding refuge from their trouble in sleep or lying awake, staring into the darkness, awaiting the dawn with dread. Those who heard footsteps and who were actually curious enough or frightened enough to look out their windows saw only what appeared to be a patrol marching down the street.

  “If we tiptoe and hug the shadows and look the part of spies sneaking around the city, we’ll be taken for spies sneaking around the city. If we march straight down the middle of the road, not flaunting our presence but not hiding it either, chances are that in the darkness we’ll be taken for the local militia making its rounds. We just have to hope,” the baron added with characteristic calm, “that we don’t run into the local militia making its rounds. Then there’ll be trouble. Our cause is just. Kiri-Jolith will keep us out of harm’s way.”

  Kiri-Jolith probably had little to do in those days, few prayers to answer. Perhaps he was as bored as the men forced to lie in wait in the warehouse, without even the mild distraction of a game of knight’s jump to cheer their dull eternity. The baron’s prayer, falling on his ears, might have come as a welcome change, an opportunity to be up and doing. The baron and his party encountered no living being on their swift march from the warehouse, not even a stray cat.

  “That’s the house I saw him enter, my lord,” Scrounger whispered, pointing.

  “Are you quite sure?” the baron asked. “You’re looking at it from a different direction.”

  “Yes, I’m sure, sir. As you can see, it’s the biggest house in the block and I remember that there was a stork’s nest atop the chimney.”

  Solinari was almost full this night, shed his silver light down upon the city streets. The tall chimneys of the row of houses were lined up like soldiers. A stork’s nest atop one was like a bristly hat.

  “What if this isn’t his house? It could be he was just visiting a friend,” the baron suggested.

  “He didn’t knock on the door,” Scrounger offered. “He just went right in as if he owned the place.”

  “And if it is not his house, my lord,” Raistlin added, “then we will capture and interrogate some other prominent citizen. Whoever lives in this house is a person of wealth.”

  The baron agreed that this would suit him just as well. The small band left the street, circled around to an alley, which ran behind the row of houses. The houses looked much different from the back, but the house they wanted was easy to locate, due mainly to the nest on the chimney.

  “I’ve heard that a stork’s nest brings good luck to the house,” Scrounger whispered.

  “Let us hope that you’re right in this instance, young man,” the baron replied. “No lights in the house. The family must be in bed. I doubt they’re out socializing. Who can pick this lock?” The baron looked at Scrounger, who shook his head.

  “Sorry, sir. My mother tried to teach me. I just never took to it.”

  “I believe that I might be able to deal with the lock, my lord,” Raistlin said quietly.

  “You have a spell?”

  “No, my lord,” Raistlin returned. “In my school days, my master kept all his spellbooks in a locked case. Caramon, I’ll need to borrow your knife.”

  Wooden stairs led to the back door. Raistlin glided up the stairs, taking care to keep from tripping on his robes. The others stood watch in the alley, looking in all directions, their hands on their weapons. The baron hadn’t even begun to grow impatient when Raistlin motioned with his hand, pale white in the moonlight. The door
stood open.

  They entered the house quietly, or as quietly as possible with Caramon among them. His heavy footfalls caused the floorboards to creak ominously as he entered the kitchen and set the pots, hanging on hooks on a wall, to rattling.

  “Quiet, Majere!” the baron whispered urgently. “You’ll wake the whole house!”

  “Sorry, my lord,” Caramon returned in a smothered breath.

  “You stay here to guard the exit,” the baron ordered. “If someone comes, bash ’em on the head and tie ’em up. No killing if you can help it. But don’t let anyone cry out, either. Scrounger, you stay with him. If there’s trouble, don’t shout. Come fetch me.”

  Caramon nodded and took up his post at the door. Scrounger settled himself on a stool nearby.

  “Wizard, you’re with me.” The baron padded through the kitchen. Finding a door, he opened it, peered inside. “Unless I miss my guess, these stairs are the stairs the servants use to gain access to the upper levels. That’s where we’ll find the bedrooms. Do you see a candle anywhere?”

  “We have no need, my lord. If you want light, I can provide it. Shirak,” Raistlin said and the crystal atop his staff began to glow with a soft white radiance.

  The servants’ staircase was narrow and winding. Raistlin and the baron crept up the stairs single file, the baron leading the way, moving with feline stealth. Raistlin followed as best he could, terrified of accidentally treading on a squeaky stair or knocking his staff against the wall.

  “The master bedroom will be on the second floor,” the baron whispered, pausing before a door leading off the spiraling staircase, which continued upward. “Douse that light!”

  “Dulak!” Raistlin said softly, and the light went out, leaving them in darkness.

  He waited on the stairs as the baron opened the door slowly and cautiously. From his vantage point, Raistlin could see a moonlit hallway hung with tapestries. A heavy wooden door, ornately carved, stood directly across from them. The sounds of snoring, loud and sonorous, came from behind the door.

  “I have a sleep spell ready to cast on him, my lord,” Raistlin said.

  “He’s already asleep. We want him awake,” the baron returned. “We can’t question him if he’s asleep.”

  “True, my lord,” Raistlin conceded, chagrined.

  “You have that spell of yours ready to cast on his wife,” the baron continued. “Women are screamers and there’s nothing rouses the household faster than a woman’s scream. Enchant her before she has a chance to wake up. I’ll deal with the mayor.”

  The baron left the doorway, crossed the hall. Raistlin came after him, the words to the spell burning on his tongue. The thought came to him that he had not coughed once on the entire journey and, of course, now that he had thought of it, a cough began to tickle his throat. Desperately he forced the cough down.

  The baron placed his hand on the door handle, turned it softly, and pushed on the door. The mayor must employ good help, for the door hinges opened without a creak. Moonlight illuminated the room through a mullioned window. The baron soft-footed into the room, Raistlin keeping close behind.

  A large bed, with bed curtains pulled closed, stood in the center of the room. The sound of snoring came from behind the curtains. The baron tiptoed across the floor, peeped through a crack in the bed curtain.

  Fortunately for them, perhaps unfortunately for the lord mayor, he slept alone. One look convinced the baron that the man in the bed was the mayor. He fit Scrounger’s description of a rotund, cheerful-faced man, now clad in a sleeping gown and a nightcap instead of his rich robes.

  Flinging aside the curtains, the baron was on the slumbering man in a bound, clapped his hand over the snoring man’s open mouth.

  The mayor woke with a gasp muffled by the baron’s hand. The mayor blinked at his captor with sleep-fuddled eyes.

  “Make no sound!” the baron hissed. “We mean you no harm. Wizard, shut the door!”

  Raistlin did as he was told, easing shut the door. He returned quickly, crossed over to the opposite side of the bed to be ready if needed.

  The mayor stared at his captor in terror, shaking in fear so that the bed curtains swayed on their golden rings.

  “Light,” the baron ordered.

  Raistlin spoke, and the crystal on the Staff of Magius gleamed brightly, revealing the baron’s face.

  “My name is Baron Ivor of Langtree,” said the baron, still keeping his hand fast over the mayor’s mouth. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me. That’s my army out there, ready to attack your city the moment I give the order. I was hired by King Wilhelm to overthrow rebels who are said to be in control of the city. Are you understanding me?”

  The mayor nodded his head. He still looked frightened half out of his wits, but he had stopped shaking.

  “Good. I’ll let you go in a moment, if you promise you won’t yell for help. Are there servants in the house?”

  The mayor shook his head. The baron snorted, obviously aware the man was lying. No one lived in a house this large without servants. He wondered whether to continue to press the issue or to carry on. He made a compromise.

  “Wizard, watch the door. If anyone enters, cast your spell.”

  Raistlin opened the door a crack, placed himself so as to command a view of the hallway and also be able to see and hear what was transpiring in the bedroom.

  The baron continued his one-way conversation. “I’ve seen some things and heard some things that have led me to question my reason for taking this assignment. I’m hoping you can help me. I want straight answers from you, Your Honor. That’s all. I don’t intend to harm you. Give me them and I’ll leave as quickly as I’ve come. Do you agree?”

  The mayor nodded his head tentatively. The tassel on his nightcap quivered.

  “Play me false,” said the baron, still not releasing the grip, “and I’ll order my wizard to change you into a slug!”

  Raistlin glowered at the mayor, looked stern and threatening, though he could no more have done the baron’s bidding than he could have flown around the room. Thanks to the peculiar tint of his skin and the strange appearance of his eyes, he did look extremely intimidating, especially to a man who has just been violently roused from a sound sleep.

  The mayor cast Raistlin a terrified glance and this time his nod was more emphatic.

  Slowly, the baron moved his hand.

  The mayor gulped and licked his lips, drew the bedclothes up to his chin as if they might protect him. His eyes went from the baron to Raistlin and back again. He was in a pitiable state and Raistlin wondered how they would ever get anything intelligent out of him.

  “Good,” said the baron. Looking around, he drew up a chair and, placing it beside the bed, sat down and faced the mayor, who appeared considerably astonished at this proceeding. “Now, tell me your story. From the beginning. Keep it short, though. We don’t have much time. The attack is slated to start at dawn.”

  This news was not exactly conducive to putting the mayor at his ease. After many fits and false starts and beginning in the middle and having to backtrack, His Honor became immersed in the story of the wrongs inflicted on them by Good King Wilhelm. Forgetting his fear, he spoke passionately.

  “We sent an ambassador to the king. He had the man disemboweled! We tried to surrender. The commander of the king’s army said that ‘we should line up our women’ for him to take his pick!”

  “You believed him?” the baron said, his dark brows drawn together in a heavy frown.

  “Of course we believed him, my lord!” The mayor mopped his sweating forehead with the tassel of his nightcap. “What choice did we have? Besides”—he shuddered—“we heard the screams of those they took prisoner. We saw their homes and barns burning. Yes, we believed him.”

  Having met Kholos, the baron believed as well. He thought over all he’d heard, tugging on his black beard.

  “Do you know what’s going on, my lord?” the mayor asked meekly.

  “No,” the baron answered
bluntly. “But I have the feeling that I have been duped. If you have heard of me, then you know that I am a man of honor. My ancestors were Knights of Solamnia and, though I am not, I still hold by the precepts of that noble order.”

  “You will call off the attack then?” the mayor asked with pathetic hopefulness.

  “I don’t know,” said the baron, his head sunk in thought. “I signed a contract. I gave my word I would attack on the morrow. If I refuse and turn and flee the battle, I will be taken for an oath-breaker, probably a coward. No prospective employer will ask the circumstances. He will conclude that I am untrustworthy and refuse to work with me. If I attack, I will be taken for a man who slaughters innocents attempting to surrender! A fine spot I’m in!” he added angrily, rising to his feet. “Goblins to the left of me and ogres on the right.”

  “There aren’t goblins and ogres out there, too, are there?” the mayor gasped, clutching at the blanket.

  “A figure of speech,” the baron muttered, pacing the room. “What is the hour, Wizard?”

  Raistlin went to look out the window, saw the moon starting to wane. “Near midnight, my lord.”

  “I must make up my mind one way or the other and soon.”

  The baron marched the length of the bedroom one direction. Turning tightly on his heel in military fashion, as if he were on guard duty, he marched back the other, fighting his mental battle against the ogres of foul scheming on one flank and the goblins of dishonor on the other. To Raistlin the decision was an easy one—call off the attack and go home. He was not a Knight, however, with knightly notions of honor, however misguided. Nor was he responsible for an army, whose soldiers would expect to be paid as promised. Payment would not be forthcoming if the baron went back on the terms of the contract. A pretty dilemma and one Raistlin was thankful was not his own.

  For the first time, he saw the burden of command, the isolation of the person in authority, the terrible loneliness of the commander. The lives of thousands of people hung in the balance of this decision. The lives of his men, for whom the baron was responsible, and now the lives of the people of this doomed city. The baron was the only one who could make this decision and he must make it immediately. Worse, he had to make it without being in full possession of the facts.