by Kevin Stein
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 unfriendly 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.
Rais
tlin 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.
Chapter 11
“My family has lived in Mereklar for hundreds of years,” Councillor Shavas said, sitting in front of the fire in the main library of her estate after a sumptuous dinner, a large, untouched glass of brandy in her fine hands.
The flames played behind her, casting flickering lights and shadows, framing her poised, fluid form. She talked comfortably with the brothers, as if she had known them all their lives. Her beauty was matchless. Her voice was like sweet flowing amber.
Small wonder, then, that neither Caramon nor Raistlin noticed the absence of the kender.
“And you say your ancestors lived in the surrounding countryside?” Raistlin huddled near the fire. He held a glass of brandy in his golden hand, and it also remained untouched, the mage unwilling to sacrifice his self-control for physical pleasures. His hood was cast back, and the fire flared in his eyes, filling their darkness with flame.
“Yes, that is correct. I am, however, unsure of the exact location,” the councillor replied.
Raistlin saw that although the woman spoke to both him and his brother, she kept her gaze fixed on him. And he did not see in her eyes the loathing or fear he was accustomed to seeing in the eyes of women. In the eyes of this woman he saw fascination, admiration. It made his blood tingle.
“Perhaps their origin could be found in this library?” Raistlin suggested, sweeping an arm to indicate the thousands of volumes of books lining the walls. He remembered what he’d been told, that some of them were magical. “If you would like, I could help you search.”
“Yes, I think I would like that very much,” the councillor said. A slight flush suffused her pale skin. She glanced into her drink, then lifted her large eyes to stare again at the mage.
Raistlin studied the woman in front of him. Something was wrong, something was bothering him, nagging at him, demanding his attention. But, dazzled by her beauty, he couldn’t think what. Perhaps it was Shavas herself. She had told them much … and nothing. He’d learned more talking with people in the street. He felt she was hiding something, something she would reveal to him alone. The mage cast a sharp, meaningful glance at his brother.
Caramon pretended not to notice. He had witnessed his brother’s dealings with others before. He knew of Raistlin’s constant manipulations and maneuverings, the way he let a subtle hint fall on interested ears, alluding to things he only guessed at, coercing his prey into letting slip information that was best kept from the knowledge of others. The fighter was always ashamed by the mage’s need to d
isplay cognitive superiority over others. Besides, Caramon didn’t want to leave the presence of this beautiful woman. Caramon had noted that, though she talked to Raistlin, she seemed to be constantly looking at the big warrior.
“Well, Master Wizard,” said Shavas, breaking what had become an uncomfortable silence, “will you and your brother help our city in its hour of grave need?”
“It says here,” the mage stated, pulling a rolled piece of parchment from under his robes, “that the fee for the job is ‘negotiable.’ Exactly how much room for negotiation exists?”
“The fee quoted by the Minister of Finance is ten thousand steel pieces,” Shavas said.
Caramon’s mouth dropped open. Ten thousand steel was more money than he had made in his life, let alone at once. Thoughts of what such a large sum of money could buy raced through his head: An inn! No, a huge tavern, with a fireplace in the middle and a dozen rooms and stables out in back. He imagined a house perched high in the vallenwoods of Solace and grew so excited that he stood up and began to roam around the room, bumping into things, overturning a small chair.
“Caramon,” said Raistlin irritably. “Where is Earwig?”
“I don’t know,” Caramon answered. “It’s not my day to watch him.”
The councillor looked alarmed, her face filling with sudden apprehension.
“I don’t want him wandering around my house! There are too many precious things that shouldn’t be touched! Would you go and search for him, sir?”
Caramon, looking into the woman’s eyes, felt that if she had asked him to go to the Abyss and find a five-headed dragon, he would have left immediately.
“Sure. Glad to, my lady,” he said. He walked out of the room by the side door, closing it loudly behind him.
Raistlin stood from his chair, using the Staff of Magius for support, though he felt no more tired than he had earlier that afternoon. Walking to a bookshelf, he leaned against it, stealing surreptitious glances at the texts. Perhaps whatever was troubling him emanated from the books.