Time of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  Denubis shivered. He wished the Kingpriest would not use that particular metaphor. Denubis detested spiders. He hated all insects, in fact; something he never admitted and, indeed, felt guilty about. Was he not commanded to love all creatures, except, of course, those created by the Queen of Darkness? That included ogres, goblins, trolls, and other evil races, but Denubis was not certain about spiders. He kept meaning to ask, but he knew this would entail an hour-long philosophical argument among the Revered Sons, and he simply didn’t think it was worth it. Secretly, he would continue to hate spiders.

  Denubis slapped himself gently on his balding head. How had his mind wandered to spiders? I’m getting old, he thought with a sigh. I’ll soon be like poor Arabacus, doing nothing all day but sitting in the garden and sleeping until someone wakens me for dinner. At this, Denubis sighed again, but it was nearer a sigh of envy than one of pity. Poor Arabacus, indeed! At least he is spared—

  “Denubis …”

  Denubis paused. Glancing this way and that around the large corridor, he saw no one. The cleric shuddered. Had he heard that soft voice, or just imagined it?

  “Denubis,” came the voice again.

  This time the cleric looked more closely into the shadows formed by the huge marble columns supporting the gilded ceiling. A darker shadow, a patch of blackness within the darkness was now discernible. Denubis checked an exclamation of irritation. Suppressing the second shudder that swept over his body, he halted in his course and moved slowly over to the figure that stood in the shadows, knowing that the figure would never move out of the shadows to meet him. It was not that light was harmful to the one who awaited Denubis, as light is harmful to some of the creatures of darkness. In fact, Denubis wondered if anything on the face of this world could be harmful to this man. No, it was simply that he preferred shadows. Theatrics, Denubis thought sarcastically.

  “You called me, Dark One?” Denubis asked in a voice he tried hard to make sound pleasant.

  He saw the face in the shadows smile, and Denubis knew at once that all of his thoughts were well-known to this man.

  “Damn it!” Denubis cursed (a habit frowned upon by the Kingpriest but one which Denubis, a simple man, had never been able to overcome). “Why does the Kingpriest keep him around the court? Why not send him away, as the others were banished?”

  He said this to himself, of course, because—deep within his soul—Denubis knew the answer. This one was too dangerous, too powerful. This one was not like the others. The Kingpriest kept him as a man keeps a ferocious dog to protect his house; he knows the dog will attack when ordered, but he must constantly make certain that the dog’s leash is secure. If the leash ever broke, the animal would go for his throat.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, Denubis,” said the man in his soft voice, “especially when I see you absorbed in such weighty thought. But an event of great importance is happening, even as we speak. Take a squadron of the Temple guards and go to the marketplace. There, at the crossroads, you will find a Revered Daughter of Paladine. She is near death. And there, also, you will find the man who assaulted her.”

  Denubis’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed in sudden suspicion.

  “How do you know this?” he demanded.

  The figure within the shadows stirred, the dark line formed by the thin lips widened—the figure’s approximation of a laugh.

  “Denubis,” the figure chided, “you have known me many years. Do you ask the wind how it blows? Do you question the stars to find out why they shine? I know, Denubis. Let that be enough for you.”

  “But—” Denubis put his hand to his head in confusion. This would entail explanations, reports to the proper authorities. One did not simply conjure up a squadron of Temple guards!

  “Hurry, Denubis,” the man said gently. “She will not live long.…”

  Denubis swallowed. A Revered Daughter of Paladine, assaulted! Dying—in the marketplace! Probably surrounded by gaping crowds. The scandal! The Kingpriest would be highly displeased—

  The cleric opened his mouth, then shut it again. He looked for a moment at the figure in the shadows, then, finding no help there, Denubis whirled about and, in a flurry of robes, ran back down the corridor the way he had come, his leather sandals slapping on the marble floor.

  Reaching the central headquarters of the Captain of the Guard, Denubis managed to gasp out his request to the lieutenant on duty. As he had foreseen, this caused all sorts of commotion. Waiting for the Captain himself to appear, Denubis collapsed in a chair and tried to catch his breath.

  The identity of the creator of spiders might be open to question, Denubis thought sourly, but there was no doubt in his mind at all about the creator of that creature of darkness who, no doubt, was standing back there in the shadows laughing at him.

  “Tasslehoff!”

  The kender opened his eyes. For a moment, he had no idea where he was or even who he was. He had heard a voice speaking a name that sounded vaguely familiar. Confused, the kender looked around. He was lying on top of a big man, who was flat on his back in the middle of a street. The big man was regarding him with utter astonishment, perhaps because Tas was perched upon his broad stomach.

  “Tas?” the big man repeated, and this time his face grew puzzled. “Are you supposed to be here?”

  “I-I’m really not sure,” the kender said, wondering who “Tas” was. Then it all came back to him—hearing Par-Salian chanting, ripping the ring off his thumb, the blinding light, the singing stones, the mage’s horrified shriek.…

  “Of course, I’m supposed to be here,” Tas snapped irritably, blocking out the memory of Par-Salian’s fearful yell. “You don’t think they’d let you come back here by yourself, do you?” The kender was practically nose to nose with the big man.

  Caramon’s puzzled look darkened to a frown. “I’m not sure,” he muttered, “but I don’t think you—”

  “Well, I’m here.” Tas rolled off Caramon’s rotund body to land on the cobblestones beneath them. “Wherever ‘here’ is,” he muttered beneath his breath. “Let me help you up,” he said to Caramon, extending his small hand, hoping this action would take Caramon’s mind off him. Tas didn’t know whether or not he could be sent back, but he didn’t intend to find out.

  Caramon struggled to sit up, looking for all the world like an overturned turtle, Tas thought with a giggle. And it was then the kender noticed that Caramon was dressed much differently than he had been when they left the Tower. He had been wearing his own armor (as much of it that fit), a loose-fitting tunic made of fine cloth, sewn together with Tika’s loving care.

  But, now, he was wearing coarse cloth, slovenly stitched together. A crude leather vest hung from his shoulders. The vest might have had buttons once, but, if so, they were gone now. Buttons weren’t needed anyway, Tas thought, for there was no way the vest would have stretched to fit over Caramon’s sagging gut. Baggy leather breeches and patched leather boots with a big hole over one toe completed the unsavory picture.

  “Whew!” Caramon muttered, sniffing. “What’s that horrible smell?”

  “You,” Tas said, holding his nose and waving his hand as though this might dissipate the odor. Caramon reeked of dwarf spirits! The kender regarded him closely. Caramon had been sober when they’d left, and he certainly looked sober now. His eyes, if confused, were clear and he was standing straight, without weaving.

  The big man looked down and, for the first time, saw himself.

  “What? How?” he asked, bewildered.

  “You’d think,” Tas said sternly, regarding Caramon’s clothes in disgust, “that the mages could afford something better than this! I mean, I know this spell must be hard on clothes, but surely—”

  A sudden thought occurred to him. Fearfully, Tas looked down at his clothes, then breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing had happened to him. Even his pouches were with him, all perfectly intact. A nagging voice inside him mentioned that this was probably because he wasn’t supposed to have come along,
but the kender conveniently ignored it.

  “Well, let’s have a look around,” Tas said cheerfully, suiting his action to his words. He’d already been able to guess where they were by the odor—in a alley. The kender wrinkled his nose. He’d thought Caramon smelled bad! Filled with garbage and refuse of every kind, the alley was dark, overshadowed by a huge stone building. But it was daylight, Tas could tell, glancing down at the end of the alley where he could see what appeared to a busy street, thronged with people who were coming and going.

  “I think that’s a market,” Tas said with interest, starting to walk nearer the end of the alley to investigate. “What city did you say they sent us to?”

  “Istar,” he heard Caramon mumble from behind him. Then, “Tas!”

  Hearing a frightened tone in Caramon’s voice, the kender turned around hurriedly, his hand going immediately to the little knife he carried in his belt. Caramon was kneeling by something lying the alley.

  “What is it?” Tas called, running back.

  “Lady Crysania,” Caramon said, lifting a dark cloak.

  “Caramon!” Tas drew a horrified breath. “What did they do to her? Did their magic go wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Caramon said softly, “but we’ve got to get help.” He carefully covered the woman’s bruised and bloody face with the cloak.

  “I’ll go,” Tas offered, “you stay here with her. This doesn’t look like a really good part of town, if you take my meaning.”

  “Yeah,” Caramon said, sighing heavily.

  “It’ll be all right,” Tas said, patting the big man on his shoulder reassuringly. Caramon nodded but said nothing. With a final pat, Tas turned and ran back down the alley toward the street. Reaching the end, he darted out onto the sidewalk.

  “Hel—” he began, but just then a hand closed over his arm in a grip of iron, hoisting him clear up off the sidewalk.

  “Here, now,” said a stern voice, “where are you going?”

  Tas twisted around to see a bearded man, his face partially covered by the shining visor of his helm, staring at him with dark, cold eyes.

  Townguard, the kender realized quickly, having had a great deal of experience with this type of official personage.

  “Why, I was coming to look for you,” Tas said, trying to wriggle free and assume an innocent air at the same time.

  “That’s a likely story from a kender!” The guard snorted, getting an even firmer grasp on Tas. “It’d be a history-making event in Krynn, if it was true, that’s for certain.”

  “But it is true,” Tas said, glaring at the man indignantly. “A friend of ours is hurt, down there.”

  He saw the guard glance over at a man he had not noticed before—a cleric, dressed in white robes. Tas brightened. “Oh? A cleric? How—”

  The guard clapped his hand over the kender’s mouth.

  “What do you think, Denubis? That’s Beggar’s Alley down there. Probably a knifing, nothing more than thieves falling out.”

  The cleric was a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a rather melancholy, serious face. Tas saw him look around the marketplace and shake his head. “The Dark One said the crossroads, and this is it—or near enough. We should investigate.”

  “Very well.” The guardsman shrugged. Detailing two of his men, he watched them advance cautiously down the filthy alleyway. He kept his hand over the kender’s mouth, and Tas, slowly being smothered, made a pathetic, squeaking sound.

  The cleric, gazing anxiously after the guards, glanced around.

  “Let him breathe, Captain,” he said.

  “We’ll have to listen to him chatter,” the captain grumbled irritably, but he removed his hand from Tas’s mouth.

  “He’ll be quiet, won’t you?” the cleric asked, looking at Tas with eyes that were kind in a preoccupied fashion. “He realizes how serious this is, don’t you?”

  Not quite certain whether the cleric was addressing him or the captain or both, Tas thought it best simply to nod in agreement. Satisfied, the cleric turned back to watch the guards. Tas twisted enough in the captain’s grasp so that he, too, was able to see. He saw Caramon stand up, gesturing at the dark, shapeless bundle lying beside him. One of the guards knelt down and drew aside the cloak.

  “Captain!” he shouted as the other guard immediately grabbed hold of Caramon. Startled and angry at the rough treatment, the big man jerked out of the guard’s grasp. The guard shouted, his companion rose to his feet. There was a flash of steel.

  “Damn!” swore the captain. “Here, watch this little bastard, Denubis!” He thrust Tasslehoff in the cleric’s direction.

  “Shouldn’t I go?” Denubis protested, catching hold of Tas as the kender stumbled into him.

  “No!” The captain was already running down the alley, his own shortsword drawn. Tas heard him mutter something about “big brute … dangerous.”

  “Caramon isn’t dangerous,” Tas protested, looking up at the cleric called Denubis in concern. “They won’t hurt him, will they? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m afraid we’ll find out soon enough,” Denubis said in a stern voice, but holding Tas in such a gentle grip that the kender could easily have broken free. At first Tas considered escape—there was no better place in the world to hide than in a large city market. But the thought was a reflexive one, just like Caramon’s breaking away from the guard. Tas couldn’t leave his friend.

  “They won’t hurt him, if he comes peacefully.” Denubis sighed. “Though if he’s done—” The cleric shivered and for a moment paused. “Well, if he’s done that, he might find an easier death here.”

  “Done what?” Tas was growing more and more confused. Caramon, too, appeared confused, for Tas saw him raise his hands in a protestation of innocence.

  But even as he argued, one of the guards came up behind the big man and struck him in the back of his knees with the shaft of his spear. Caramon’s legs buckled. As he staggered, the guard in front of him knocked the big man to the ground with an almost nonchalant blow to the chest.

  Caramon hadn’t even hit the pavement before the point of the spear was at his throat. He lifted his hands feebly in a gesture of surrender. Quickly, the guards rolled him over onto his stomach and, grasping his hands, tied them behind his back with rapid expertise.

  “Make them stop!” Tas cried, straining forward. “They can’t do that—”

  The cleric caught him. “No, little friend, it would be best for you to stay with me. Please,” Denubis said, gently gripping Tas by the shoulders. “You cannot help him, and trying will only make things worse for you.”

  The guards dragged Caramon to his feet and began to search him thoroughly, even reaching their hands down into his leather breeches. They found a dagger at his belt—this they handed to their captain—and a flagon of some sort. Opening the top, they sniffed and then tossed it away in disgust.

  One of the guards motioned to the dark bundle on the pavement. The captain knelt down and lifted the cloak. Tas saw him shake his head. Then the captain, with the other guard’s help, carefully lifted the bundle and turned to walk out of the alley. He said something to Caramon as he passed. Tas heard the filthy word with riveting shock, as did Caramon, apparently, for the big man’s face went deathly white.

  Glancing up at Denubis, Tas saw the cleric’s lips tighten, the fingers on Tas’s shoulder trembled.

  Then Tas understood.

  “No,” he whispered softly in agony, “oh, no! They can’t think that! Caramon wouldn’t harm a mouse! He didn’t hurt Lady Crysania! He was only trying to help her! That’s why we came here. Well, one reason anyway. Please!” Tas whirled around to face Denubis, clasping his hands together. “Please, you’ve got to believe me! Caramon’s a soldier. He’s killed things—sure. But only nasty things like draconians and goblins. Please, please believe me!”

  But Denubis only looked at him sternly.

  “No! How could you think that? I hate this place! I want to go back home!” Tas cried miserably, seein
g Caramon’s stricken, confused expression. Bursting into tears, the kender buried his face in his hands and sobbed bitterly.

  Then Tas felt a hand touch him, hesitate, then pat him gently.

  “There, there, now,” Denubis said. “You’ll have a chance to tell your story. Your friend will, too. And, if you’re innocent, no harm will come to you.” But Tas heard the cleric sigh. “Your friend had been drinking, hadn’t he?”

  “No!” Tas snuffled, looking up at Denubis pleadingly. “Not a drop, I swear.…”

  The kender’s voice died, however, at the sight of Caramon as the guards led him out of the alley into the street where Tas and the cleric stood. Caramon’s face was covered with muck and filth from the alley, blood dribbled from a cut on his lip. His eyes were wild and blood-shot, the expression on his face vacant and filled with fear. The legacy of past drinking bouts was marked plainly in his puffy, red cheeks and shaking limbs. A crowd, which had begun to form at the sight of the guards, began to jeer.

  Tas hung his head. What was Par-Salian doing? he wondered in confusion. Had something gone wrong? Were they even in Istar? Were they lost somewhere? Or maybe this was some terrible nightmare.…

  “Who—What happened?” Denubis asked the captain. “Was the Dark One right?”

  “Right? Of course, he was right. Have you ever known him to be wrong?” the captain snapped. “As for who—I don’t know who she is, but she’s a member of your order. Wears the medallion of Paladine around her neck. She’s hurt pretty bad, too. I thought she was dead, in fact, but there’s a faint lifebeat in her neck.”

  “Do you think she was … she was …” Denubis faltered.

  “I don’t know,” the captain said grimly. “But she’s been beaten up. She’s had some kind of fit, I guess. Her eyes are wide open, but she doesn’t seem to see or hear anything.”