by Kevin Stein
Earwig glanced around.
“Do you remember me? You helped me the other night. I didn’t get a chance to ask your name. Mine’s Catherine. What’s yours?”
“Earwig. Earwig Lockpicker,” the kender said, holding out his small hand. Is this how Caramon greets a girl? he wondered, trying to remember.
“I never got a chance to thank you, either. You ran away before I could say anything. May I buy you a drink? I work right over there,” Catherine said, pointing to the inn. “Our house speciality is Stonewash Surprise.”
“Stonewash Surprise? I’ve never heard of it,” Earwig replied.
“Oh, only the hardiest of adventurers have ever tried it. And lived,” Catherine added, giggling.
The tavern was as large and dirty as the kender remembered; beer and other unmentionable stains darkened the floor. The walls were constructed from ill-fitting planks of wood that were knotted and rotting with age. Catherine walked behind the bar and began to pour liquors into a glass, filling the cup from decanters of red, green, and blue. The drink complete, she pushed it in front of Earwig, who sat at one of the many mismatched stools.
He took a sip, and his eyes widened. “Celebration Punch!” he exclaimed in recognition. “Kind of.”
“Celebration Punch. What’s that?” Catherine asked.
“It’s what kender use to celebrate with, of course.” Earwig looked around. “You’re not doing much business today.”
The bar was, in fact, empty except for the kender and the young woman.
“It’s the murder,” Catherine said matter-of-factly. “Everyone’s scared to death. I say good riddance.”
“Yes, I remember. He was the man who hit you.” Earwig sipped his drink.
“You know, it’s funny. Lord Manion came in here a lot and he generally got drunk, but he was always a gentleman. Many nights I’ve made certain he reached his home safely. But then, just the past few weeks, he changed. He turned”-the girl frowned, thinking-“ugly, cruel. It was when he started wearing that necklace, like the one you’re wearing.”
“What necklace? Oh, this?” said Earwig, glancing down at the silver cat’s skull with the ruby eyes.
“You’re not going to turn mean, are you?”
“Gee, do you think there’s a chance I might?” Earwig asked eagerly.
Catherine began to laugh. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”
“I didn’t think so.” Earwig sighed. The kender ran through a list of things to say to women as he tugged at the gold ring on his finger. He chose one he thought appropriate and asked, “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
Catherine giggled. “It’s just my job. One of them.”
“How many do you have?”
“Two or three, depending on business. I work at Hyava Tavern, on Westgate Street.”
“I hope it’s not as rough as this place.”
“Pooh! I can take care of myself. I’ll bet you’ve been to a lot of places,” Catherine said wistfully.
“Oh, my, yes. All around Krynn. Southern Ergoth, Northern Ergoth, Solamnia-”
“I’ve never been anywhere but here.”
Earwig looked intently at the woman across the bar from him. She stood straight and strong, her arms well-muscled. He believed that she could handle herself in almost any situation.
“You remind me a little of someone I know. Her name’s Kitiara.”
“Really? What’s she like?”
“She’s a fierce and cunning warrior,” said the kender.
Catherine looked a little shocked. “Wh-why thank you, Earwig. I think.…”
“You sound like you want to leave this place.” The kender took several gulps of his drink. “Why don’t you just pick up and go?”
“I don’t have the steel yet.”
“You don’t need money to travel! All you need is a hoopak and a good walking tune.” Earwig laughed, swinging his hoopak into the air. He was feeling really good. He couldn’t remember ever having felt this good before.
Catherine shrugged and frowned. She leaned back from her guest, propping her elbows against a shelf.
“I’m sorry, Catherine. I didn’t mean to make you unhappy.” Earwig rummaged through his pockets, pulling out the first thing he came to-the tangle of wire with the bead in it. “Here. I want you to have this.”
The barmaid, smiling in spite of herself, reached over to take the gift. Holding the wire up to the light, she stared at it in fascination. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. I got it when I was on some adventure with my friends. We go adventuring a lot together, my friends and I. One of them is a magic-user,” the kender added importantly.
“This is really amazing, Earwig.” Catherine was still staring at the wire. “If you look closely, it appears that the bead has writing on it!”
Earwig heard the door open behind him, but he didn’t turn around. He was trying to remember how Caramon got girls to kiss him. Catherine glanced up and hurriedly tucked the wire away in a pocket. She nodded once, and then leaned over the bar, her face close to the kender’s.
“Tell me about your friends,” she said. “Tell me about the mage. I’d love to meet him.”
“Raistlin and Caramon? They were born in a place called Solace, to the east of here. Caramon is a great and powerful warrior. His muscles are as big as … as that,” Earwig said pointing to a beer barrel in the corner. “I’ve seen him cut twenty men in two with one stroke!”
“No! Really?” Catherine appeared nervous. She seemed to have to force her eyes to remain on the kender.
Earwig blinked. Leaning over, he said confidentially, “Don’t look now, Cather … Cather … whatever. But your walls are spinning around and around.”
“You need another drink. That’s all. Tell me about your other friend.”
“My other friend’s name is … Raishlin. He has shkin that shines like gold, and eyes the shape of hourglasses. He sees death,” the kender said solemnly, sticking his nose in his drink. “But, as frightening as that shounds, even more frightening are the spells he casts and powers he can call down to deshtroy an enemy.”
“There used to be a wizard who lived in the hills to the east,” Catherine said, darting a swift glance behind the kender.
“Whatsh his name?”
“Nobody knows, but it’s rumored that his cave is still there. It’s built around a series of stones that look like an animal’s paw.”
The walls were spinning more rapidly, and now the ceiling had joined in, much to Earwig’s fascination. He sat on the stool, watching them revolve around and around and then the stool joined the wild dance, spinning the kender around and around until Earwig suddenly discovered that he was lying on the floor.
A man dressed in black leather armor loomed over him, knelt beside him. Strong hands lifted the kender and flung him over a massive shoulder.
“You won’t hurt him?” Catherine’s voice floated around the kender like a lovely cloud.
“No,” said a harsh voice in reply. “Like our lord told you. The little fellow’s in danger, wearing that necklace around in the open. We want to protect him, that’s all. Thanks for your help.”
Earwig, bobbing up and down against the man’s back, started to feel incredibly dizzy. He stared, bleary-eyed, at Catherine, who seemed to be growing smaller and smaller and smaller.
“One Celebration Punch … for the … road!” cried the kender, and passed out.
“Ack! Ugh!”
“What is it, Caramon?”
“There’s a stream running through here! It’s as cold as ice. You better let me carry you.”
Raistlin climbed down the stairs and plunged into the water. “Nonsense! Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
Caramon peered into the darkness, trying to locate his twin.
“Are you sure. I mean, I know how much you hate getting wet and cold.”
“As I said, I am fine,” the mage snapped irritably. “If the cold bothers you so much,
perhaps you would like me to carry you?”
“No, of course not!” Caramon felt foolish.
“Shirak.”
The soft white light of the Staff of Magius filled the tunnel. A long, dark, passage extended ahead of them, far beyond the summoned field of magical light. The walls glistened wetly.
“It smells bad,” said Caramon. “But not quite what I expected from a sewer. It smells like … iron.” He sounded disbelieving.
“Or blood,” said Raistlin softly.
“Yeah.”
There was no room to swing a sword. Caramon drew a dagger from its sheath. Its blade gleamed in the light of the staff.
“We must therefore assume that this is not a sewer, but a connection to a waterway,” Raistlin added.
The cat meowed impatiently, and the mage walked forward, moving past his brother. Caramon started to protest-he always took the point when the two walked into danger together. But he remembered, then, that Raistlin carried the light. He kept close behind him.
The cat moved slowly, ensuring that his followers would not become lost in what Caramon soon discovered was a maze of tunnels. The feline didn’t appear to like the water any better than the warrior, for it shook its paw with each step and seemed to grimace at setting a foot back into the stream.
They walked for what seemed like miles, though something in the back of Caramon’s mind insisted that they had not gone any great distance at all.
“What are you saying, Caramon?”
“I said we could use a dwarf now,” the warrior replied. “I wish I could see better! Anything could jump out at us.”
“I don’t sense any threat to ourselves down here. The only feeling I get from this place is that it is old … very, very old.”
“Old and forgotten.”
“I agree, my brother. It is most unusual.”
They walked and walked. The chill water seeped through Caramon’s boots. He was shivering and he worried about his twin, knowing that Raistlin’s robes must be soaked through. The warrior knew better, however, than to ask. The cat made a sudden turn, darting down another passage that angled off from the first. The new passage was equally as black as the old. Caramon hesitated, but the cat meowed, urging them to come forward.
Without hesitation, Raistlin walked on, holding the staff at eye-level, able to raise it no higher because of the low roof.
“Come, Caramon. Don’t fall behind!”
They came to an intersection, and the black cat skipped on, moving to the left, beginning to run, splashing through the water. The brothers increased their pace, both prompted by curiosity.
“-which killed the cat,” Caramon said, but under his breath.
The tunnels became a dizzying maze, a labyrinth created for some unknown purpose. Raistlin held the Staff of Magius forward, a lance of light piercing the dark. Caramon sloshed along behind. He noticed that the walls were beginning to change, becoming drier.
“Look at that!” Raistlin breathed, holding up the staff.
The wall was covered with paintings and engravings, showing sights neither brother could identify. They moved swiftly on, left and right, straight and back, a curving tunnel leading to a crooked passage leading to a sloping floor.
The cat moved faster. The twins rounded a corner behind it and stopped suddenly, staring wide-eyed.
“Name of the Abyss!” Caramon cried aloud, steadying himself against the cavern entrance with his hand.
Raistlin said nothing, but simply stared in the staff’s soft radiance. The black cat turned to face them, eyes red in the staff’s light.
The chamber in which they stood was huge-hundreds of feet long. Numerous passages led in and out, black gashes in the rock. Small rivers collected in ponds that glittered with an oily reflection. And everywhere they looked they saw the cats of Mereklar. Thousands of cats lay resting on their sides without sound, without motion. Raistlin knelt down, holding the staff close.
“Look,” he said, pointing.
From every mouth and nose poured a small stream of blood.
“They’re all … dead!” Caramon gasped.
Raistlin examined one of the small bodies. Putting a thin, golden hand on tiger-striped fur, he stroked it gently. He moved to another body, then another, lifting heads and peering into shining eyes.
“I don’t understand,” Caramon said softly, “What could have killed them all? Poison?”
“They’re not dead.”
“They sure look dead to me.”
“I assure you they are quite alive. However, their minds are gone.”
Caramon went to the nearest cat and touched its fur. He felt warmth under his hand, a tiny heart still beating, breath barely entering and leaving.
The black cat leaped in front of him, hunching down on its forepaws. It spat at him.
“All right.” Caramon rose to his feet and backed away. “I’m not going to hurt them. You’re right, Raist. They are alive!”
“In answer to your first question, they were not poisoned. There is no poison I know of that could do this.”
“What do you think it was?”
“The only answer I have is magic, though a spell that could cause this kind of destruction is beyond my means.”
Caramon paused, considering the implications. “Then you think this is the work of a wizard?”
“A wizard of extraordinary power, perhaps greater than Par-Salian.”
Caramon shivered, recalling the powerful master of the Tower of High Sorcery.
The black cat watched and listened intently to the brothers talk, never taking its bright, reflecting eyes from them.
Raistlin raised his arms and began to speak the strange, spidery language of magic. The room glowed-a dull, purple aura that covered everything, including the corridor through which they had walked.
“There,” the mage said in satisfaction. “We can return here whenever we wish.” He turned to go.
“But-”
“There is nothing more we can do. I cannot save these cats. I must go back to my room and think. And you, if you will remember, have an engagement tonight.” Raistlin headed down the corridor.
Caramon stood, looking back, a sadness in his heart. Removing the yellow sequined ball from his pocket, he laid it down gently on the blood-wet floor.
“I’m sorry,” he started to say to the black cat, but it was gone.
Chapter 16
“I wonder where Earwig is. Maybe he got lost,” Caramon said, straightening the room. His mother had always made him clean up after himself, and the fighter did not let old habits die.
“Kender never get lost, perhaps because they never truly know where they are.”
Raistlin sat at the desk in front of the window in the companions’ room, writing something on a roll of parchment. Caramon, when he was through with his own cleaning, did his brother’s. The mage was also unwilling to let old habits die.
“What are you doing?”
The red cowl was pulled back from Raistlin’s face, allowing the afternoon sun to fall on his golden features. He rested his quill, scowling at Caramon with a sideways glance before returning to his work.
“If you must know, I am asking Lady Shavas for access to her library tonight.”
“That’s great!” Caramon said heartily, relieved.
“Why that tone, my brother?”
“It’s just … I thought …”
“You thought I was going to sneak into her house like a thief?”
“Well …” the fighter began uncomfortably.
“You’re a dolt, Caramon.”
The big man kept silent. Usually his twin was the more intuitive of the two, but this time Caramon knew precisely what his brother was feeling. The pangs of jealously were sharp and left festering wounds.
Raistlin finished his writing and sat, waiting for the ink to dry. A knock on the door startled them both.
“Were you expecting anyone, Caramon?”
“No,” said the warrior, sliding his
sword from its scabbard. “You?”
“No. Enter!” Raistlin called out.
The messenger, instead of opening the door, slid something under the crack between frame and floor. Footsteps retreated rapidly away from the room.
The mage retrieved the message, breaking the wax seal with a loud snapping sound. Turning to the light at the window, he held the parchment in both hands, reading.
“What is it?” the warrior asked, still holding the sword.
“It is a letter from Lady Shavas. She is waiting for you downstairs,” Raistlin said in even tones.
Caramon saw that his brother’s golden hands trembled. “Anything else?”
Raistlin crumpled the message into a ball. “It says that I may use the councillor’s library tonight.”
“I am so very glad you could accept my offer for this evening, Caramon,” said the Councillor of Mereklar.
The two sat in Shavas’s private carriage, guided by her personal driver.
“My p-pleasure,” Caramon stammered, gazing at his companion across the gulf that stretched between their seats.
Shavas wore a gown similar to the one she had worn when the companions first met her, only this one left her white shoulders bare. She had wrapped around her a silk shawl-the black one, Caramon noted nervously-with a lace pattern woven into the fabric, fringe hanging from the ends. From her neck hung the opal pendant.
“Are you cold, my lady? You may have my cloak,” the warrior offered, thinking his gesture gentlemanly.
Before Shavas could answer, he unclasped the black cloak from around his neck and tossed it clumsily over her body. Straightening the folds, Caramon accidentally touched the woman’s neck, her skin as soft as delicate clouds. He felt her warmth, a flush of life beneath his fingers.
“Sorry,” he apologized, blushing and returning to his seat.
Shavas smiled, arranging his cloak around her. The red inner lining of the fighter’s cloak made the woman seem magical-as dark and glittering as the three moons of Krynn.
I am being a real dolt, just like Raistlin said, Caramon thought with chagrin. Why can’t I relax when I’m with her? I’ve never felt this way around any woman before. It’s because she’s a lady-a true lady. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen. Just like the royal ladies in the stories about the Knights of Solamnia. Sturm, my old friend, how would you act? How does a knight treat a lady?