It was to this warehouse—or the guild hall as it was grandiosely termed—that Usha and Dougan turned their steps. The alley was dark and deserted. Usha entered it without hesitation. The memory of the tower haunted her. As long as she was anywhere away from that dread place, she was content. She liked the bluff and gruff manner of the dwarf, admired his elegant style of clothing and, in short, trusted him.
She knew nothing of the eyes watching them as they traversed the alley. She was blissfully ignorant of the fact that, had she been in this place alone, she would have had her throat slit.
The eyes knew and approved Dougan, however. The bird whistles and cat howls that Usha thought, innocently, belonged to birds and cats, guided the dwarf and his companion safely through the gauntlet of spies and guards.
The warehouse was a gigantic building that butted up against the city wall. Because it was made of the same stone as the wall, it looked rather like a growth or tumor that erupted from the wall’s surface, spread into the streets. It was gray, mottled, sagging, crumbling. What windows it had were either filthy or broken; blankets had been stuffed into the holes (to be removed should the building ever come under attack. They were ideal for archers.) The door was thick, massive, made of wood banded with iron, and bore a peculiar mark on it.
Dougan knocked on the door in a strange and involved manner.
A panel slid open near the bottom. An eye peered out. The eye studied Dougan, shifted to Usha, shifted back to Dougan, narrowed, then vanished as the panel slid shut.
“You don’t mean to say people live here?” Usha said, looking around in disgust and astonishment.
“Shh! Hush! Keep your voice down, Lass,” Dougan cautioned. “They’re quite proud of this, you know. Quite proud.”
Usha couldn’t see why, but she kept silent, thinking that was only polite. She glanced back over her shoulder. The Tower of High Sorcery, though far away, was visible. She could even see—or so she imagined—the window of Dalamar’s study. She pictured the mage standing at the window, staring out into the streets below, searching for her. Shuddering, she edged closer to Dougan and wished whoever lived in this building would answer the door.
She looked back to find the door already open. Usha stared, startled. She hadn’t heard a sound. At first she didn’t see anyone in the doorway. All was dark beyond, and a dreadful smell—of garbage and worse—caused her to wrinkle her nose. She thought at first it was coming from inside the building, when a voice spoke from the odoriferous shadows.
“What you want?”
“Why, it’s a dwarf!” said Usha, relieved.
“Bite your tongue!” Dougan growled. “It’s a gully dwarf. No relation,” he added stiffly.
“But it—I mean he …” She thought it was a he, but it was hard to tell through the rags. “… looks just like—”
She was about to say “you,” but a ferocious glint in Dougan’s eye warned her to amend. “A … a dwarf,” she finished lamely.
Dougan, clearly indignant, made no answer. He spoke to the gully dwarf. “I want to see Lynch. Tell Lynch that Dougan Redhammer is here and that I won’t be kept waiting. Tell Lynch that I have something for him that will be to his advantage.”
The gully dwarf started, on three separate occasions—each time Dougan finished a sentence—to leave on his errand, only to turn around whenever Dougan spoke.
“Stop!” the gully dwarf shouted suddenly. “Me dizzy.” He did look queasy.
Usha was beginning to feel queasy herself, but that was from the smell.
“Me not feel good,” the gully dwarf said thickly. “Feel like gotta barf.”
“No, no!” Dougan cried, stepping hastily out of range. “Just rest yourself. There’s a good chap.”
“Barfing not bad,” the gully dwarf argued, brightening. “If meal was good going down, it be just as good coming back up.”
“Fetch Lynch, you little maggot,” Dougan ordered, mopping his face with a handkerchief. The heat, in the breathless alley, was stifling.
“Who’s Lynch?” Usha asked as the gully dwarf obediently trotted off.
“His full name is Lynched Geoffrey,” said Dougan in an undertone. “He’s the guildmaster.”
“What an odd name,” Usha whispered. “Why is he called that?”
“Because he was.”
“Was what?”
“Lynched. Don’t mention the rope burn on his neck. He’s very sensitive about it.”
Usha was curious to know how a man who’d been lynched was still walking around. She was about to ask when Lynched Geoffrey appeared in the doorway. He was tall and lithe and slender, with overlarge hands and thin, long fingers that were in constant motion—snapping, twitching, wiggling, or waving. A skilled pickpocket, who had reportedly once stolen a silk shirt off a nobleman’s back, leaving his jacket untouched, Lynch maintained that these exercises kept his fingers supple. A thick scar of fiery red encircled his throat. His face was nondescript. The scar was his most interesting feature.
“What are you staring at, girl?” Lynch demanded angrily.
“N-nothing, sir,” Usha stammered, forcing her gaze up from the scar, to meet the man’s small, weasel-like eyes.
Lynch snarled, unconvinced, turned to Dougan. “Where’ve you been hiding out, old friend? We was talking about you the other day. Could have used you for a little tunneling job we had. You dwarves are good at that sort of thing.”
“Yes, well, I’ve been involved in other matters,” Dougan muttered, appearing displeased at the sneering way in which the man said “you dwarves,” but swallowing his ire. “Now, down to business. My young friend, here”—he indicated Usha—“is new in town. She needs a place to sleep.”
“This ain’t a boarding house,” Lynch said, putting his hand on the door, which started to shut.
Dougan inserted his large, heavy-booted foot, propped the door ajar. “If you’d let me finish, Lynch, old friend, I was about to say that the lass here needs a way to earn a living. She needs a bit of training in the art. I’m willing to pay the cost of her teaching,” the dwarf added surlily.
Lynch again opened the door. He took a close look at Usha, who didn’t at all like the way he stared at her, as if he were peeling back not only the layers of her clothes but the skin beneath. She flushed hotly. She didn’t like this place or this odious man with his insect-wriggling hands. She wasn’t at all certain that whatever he had to teach, she wanted to learn. She was about to bid them all good-bye when, glancing back at the end of the alleyway, she saw a black-robed mage standing there.
There were many black-robed mages in Palanthas, and more than a few had dealings with the folk in the warehouse. But Usha instantly assumed that this mage was Dalamar.
The mage was at the alley’s opening. His head, covered with his hood, was turning this way and that, as if searching for someone. The alley, at the end of which she and the dwarf were standing, was long. The shadows were deep. It was probable he had not yet seen her.
Usha sprang forward, grasped Lynched Geoffrey by his splay-fingered hand, shook it until she nearly shook it off. “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll work hard. I’m a hard worker.” Skipping past him, she ducked into the darkness of the warehouse, gulped in the foul-smelling air with relish.
Dwarf and thief appeared somewhat taken aback by her enthusiasm.
“She moves quick enough, I’ll say that for her,” Lynch remarked. He wrung his hand. “Got a good, strong grip, too.”
Dougan drew a money purse from his broad black belt, hefted it in his hand.
“Done,” said Lynch and politely invited Dougan to step inside. “Now, what’s your name, girl?”
“My name is Usha,” she said, looking around her curiously.
The interior of the warehouse was cavernous. Part of the floor was filled with tables and chairs, resembled the common room of an inn. Torches blazed on the walls. Thick candles burned on the tables. People sat around the tables, drink
ing, eating, gaming, talking, or sleeping. Every age, every race living on Ansalon was represented. The Thieves’ Guild may have had its faults, but prejudice wasn’t one of them. Two humans sat drinking companionably with three elves. A dwarf played at dice with an ogre. A hobgoblin and a kender were engaged in a drinking contest. A red-robed wizardess was involved in a heated discussion about Sargonnas with a minotaur. Children ran among the tables, playing rough-and-tumble games. The rest of the warehouse was lost in shadow, so Usha couldn’t see what it contained.
No one looked at her. No one paid her the slightest attention. Thinking that it wouldn’t hurt to impress her future employer, she added, “My full name is Usha Majere. I’m Raistlin’s daughter.”
“Yeah,” said Lynched Geoffrey. “And I’m his mother.” He spit on the floor.
Usha stared, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”
“Raistlin’s daughter!” Lynch laughed unpleasantly. “That’s what they all say. I had three come here last year, claiming that very thing.” His voice hardened. The weasel eyes were cold, flat. “Who are you really? Not a spy?” With a suddenness the eye couldn’t follow, a knife glinted in Lynch’s hand. “We deal short and swift with spies, don’t we, Brothers?”
The other guild members were on their feet. Knives slid out of boots and swords rattled in their sheaths. Spell words and prayer chants crackled in the air, accompanied by the eerie sound of a whirling hoopak.
Usha stumbled backward until she bumped into the closed, barred door. Dougan put his rotund body between her and the guildmaster. The dwarf held up the purse.
“You know me, Lynched Geoffrey! What would I be doing, bringing a spy in here? So the lass claims her father’s Raistlin Majere.” Dougan appeared somewhat flustered at this, glanced at Usha out of the corner of his eye, but continued gamely on. “Who’s to say it isn’t so? How many of you”—he now cast a beetle-browed, scathing gaze around the assembled company—“can swear an oath as to who your fathers were?”
By the mutters and head-noddings that went around, most seemed to think the dwarf’s contention sound. The fat purse, clinking comfortably with the ring of steel, added weight to his argument.
“Sorry if I was a bit hasty, girl,” Lynch said, the knife in his hands vanishing as swiftly and mysteriously as it had appeared. “I’m of a highly sensitive nature, and I’m subject to nerves.” He turned to Dougan. “We’ll take her on as apprentice, standard terms. What do you want her trained for?”
“A special job,” Dougan said evasively.
Lynch frowned. “What kind of job, dwarf?”
“That’s for me to know and you not to,” Dougan snapped. “I’m paying you to train her. That’s all.”
Lynch might have been less willing to yield had the size of the purse been smaller. As it was, he said, scowling, “The guild comes in for its cut. Don’t forget that.”
Dougan looked around at the people standing, watching. He looked especially at the children. His severe expression softened. He took off his hat with its elegant plume, held it over his chest, as he might if he were taking a vow. “If we succeed, you will all share. That I promise. If we fail, no blame to any of you.” He sighed, appeared downcast for a moment.
Lynch deftly snatched the purse. “It’s a deal. What do we teach her to do? Picking? Dipping? Shilling? Luring? Baiting?”
He and Dougan went off into a corner and were soon engaged in deep conversation.
Usha found a chair at an empty table and sat down. A ragged child brought her a plate of stew and a mug of ale. She ate hungrily. Thoughts of Palin and concern over his fate cast the only shadow over her contentment. The heart of youth is ever optimistic, particularly when that heart has felt love’s first painfully sweet constrictions.
“The gods would not have brought us together if they had meant to then separate us so cruelly.” This was Usha’s conviction, which said a great deal for her faith, if not much for her knowledge of the harshness of reality.
Finished with her meal, Usha was relaxed and happy in her new situation. As crudely as these people talked, as strange and sinister as they appeared, Usha was no longer afraid of them.
Luring. Baiting.
These people were fishermen, of course.
BOOK 3
1
The warning. Three come together.
Tanis must choose.
anis stood on the topmost battlements of the High Clerist’s Tower, gazing over them at the empty road that led to the city of Palanthas. He walked that road in his mind, came to the city, imagined the unrest.
Rumor of the oncoming enemy had reached the city at daybreak. It was now noon. People would have closed up shops and stalls, taken to the streets, listening avidly to any and all rumors, the more outlandish, the better believed.
Of course, by this evening, the Lord of Palanthas would have his speech prepared. He would stand on his balcony, read from his notes, reassure the populace that the High Clerist’s Tower stood between them and the enemy. Then, on this comforting note, he would go inside to dinner.
Tanis snorted. “I wish someone would come comfort me!”
And someone did come, but he was bringing neither comfort nor reassurance. Neither did he travel the road, but arrived in a far more unconventional manner.
Tanis walked east along the battlements, turned, was about to retrace his steps, when he nearly knocked over a black-robed wizard who stood blocking his path.
“What the—” Tanis gripped the top of the wall to steady himself. “Dalamar! Where did—?”
“Palanthas. I traveled the roads of magic and do not have time to listen to you spluttering. Are you in charge here?”
“Me? Good heavens, no! I’m only—”
“Then take me to someone who is,” Dalamar said impatiently. “And tell these fools to sheathe their swords before I turn them into pools of molten metal.”
Several knights, keeping watch on the battlements, had drawn their swords and now surrounded the dark elf.
“Put away your weapons,” Tanis told them. “This is Lord Dalamar of the Tower of High Sorcery. He is quite capable of carrying out his threat, and we’re going to need all the swords we can get. One of you, go find Sir Thomas and tell him that we request a meeting with him at once.”
“Indeed you speak truly about needing swords, Half-Elven,” Dalamar observed as they proceeded along the battlements, heading for the inner chambers. “Though I think it more likely that what you truly need is a miracle.”
“Paladine has provided those for us in the past,” Tanis said.
Dalamar glanced around the tower. “Yes, but I see no befuddled old wizard mumbling over his fireball spells and wondering where he’s put his hat.”
The dark elf came to a halt, turned to face Tanis. “Dark times are coming. You should not be here, my friend. You should leave, return to your home, to your wife. I can assist you if you like. Say the word and I will send you there at once.”
Tanis eyed the dark elf. “Your news is as bad as that?”
“As bad as that, Half-Elven,” Dalamar answered quietly.
Tanis scratched his beard. “I’ll wait to hear it, then decide.”
“Suit yourself.” Dalamar shrugged, started walking again, moving in haste. His black robes swirled around his ankles. The few knights they passed regarded the wizard with baleful glances and drew hastily away.
Tanis entered the council chambers. An armed escort of knights bore down on them.
“I’m looking for Sir Thomas,” Tanis called.
“And he is looking for you, my lord,” answered the escort’s commander. “I have been sent to tell you that a Knights’ Council has been convened to deal with this crisis. Sir Thomas has heard that Lord Dalamar arrives with news.”
“Of the most urgent nature,” Dalamar said.
The knight gave a stiff, cold bow.
“My lord Dalamar, Sir Thomas extends his thanks for your coming. If you will impart this news to me—or to my lord Tanis H
alf-Elven, if you prefer—we will not detain you longer.”
“You do not detain me,” Dalamar returned. “There exist no means by which you could detain me. I came of my own free will and I will leave that way, after I have spoken to Thomas of Thalgaard.”
“My lord.” The knight hesitated, struggling between politeness and policy. “You place us in a most difficult situation. If I may speak bluntly?”
“Do so if that will hurry this along,” Dalamar returned with mounting impatience.
“You must know, my lord, that you are the enemy, and as such—”
Dalamar shook his head. “You don’t have very far to look to find your enemies, Sir Knight, but I am not among them.”
“Perhaps.” The knight was not convinced. “But I have my orders. This may be a trap laid by your sovereign queen in order to ensorcel our commanders.”
Dalamar’s face paled in anger. “If I wanted to ‘ensorcel’ your commanders, Sir Knight, I could do so from the comfort and safety of my home. At this very instant, I could—”
“But he wouldn’t,” Tanis intervened hastily. “Lord Dalamar comes in good faith. I swear it. I will answer for him with my life if need be.”
“And I will also,” came a calm, clear voice from another hallway.
Lady Crysania, led by the white tiger and escorted by a party of knights, walked into the council chambers. The tiger gazed intently at each man present, not with the quick, suspicious gaze of an animal, but with the intent, thoughtful, and intelligent gaze of a man. And it might have been Tanis’s imagination, but he could have sworn that Dalamar and the tiger exchanged an oblique signal of recognition.
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