Brother's Majere Page 21

  “You know,” said Earwig to his cellmates, whom he could see only dimly (one of them appeared to be quite bald), “this isn’t nearly as much fun as I’d expected.”

  In point of fact, despite the pain in his head and the chains on his wrists, Earwig was getting bored. And, as anyone on Krynn knows, a bored kender is a most dangerous thing.

  “Boy, you guys are sure quiet!” Earwig said, peering into the darkness. All he heard in answer was the steady, melodic drip of water, and even it quieted for a moment, as if wondering what the cell’s latest inhabitant had to say. It soon grew loud again, uninterested in the conversation.

  Earwig sighed, thrashing in his chains. He had examined the lock as best he could, but it was just too dark to see.

  “I couldn’t open it anyway. My tools are missing.” The kender, thinking of this, became highly indignant. “That’s really not fair. I’ll just mention that, on my way out.”

  The chains themselves were heavy and thick, and he doubted if even his mighty friend Caramon could break them in one try. The floor he sat on was cold and wet; the damp was making him sneeze. The walls were constructed from solid rock that nothing, seemingly, would penetrate. He thought of his Uncle Trapspringer, who had purportedly escaped from a prison cell by digging his way out with a spoon. That very spoon had become a sacred relic among kender.

  “I wonder what Uncle Trapspringer would do if he were down here?” Earwig said out loud, half-hoping he might get an answer. One never knew when or where Uncle Trapspringer might pop up.

  Apparently, however, it wasn’t here.

  Earwig had no idea how long he’d been down wherever here was. He only knew he had to get out soon, or his mind would leave on its own.

  “Why don’t one of you guys tell me a story? Something I haven’t heard before,” the kender prompted his silent cellmates. “Well? How about it?”

  No answer. Earwig frowned. He was beginning to lose all patience with the situation. He rummaged through his pockets for the tenth time, hoping to find something that could either help him escape or provide interesting entertainment.

  “Handkerchief and a bit of fluff. Empty. Empty. My spinner and nothing else.” Frustrated, he dragged his chained hand over and gave the spinner a flick with his finger. Something jabbed him in the arm, coming from his right sleeve.

  “The dart!” Earwig exclaimed, pulling back the inner flap that kept the missile hidden. “Don’t worry, you guys. I’ll have us out in a minute!” he called to his silent companions in the cell. “It’s really strange, you know”—he continued talking to alleviate his cellmates’ impatience—“but someone used a dart like this to try to kill Caramon, and now it’s helping me to escape.”

  Earwig thrust the dart into the lock of the manacle around his wrist. He seemed to recall Raistlin saying that the dart was tipped with a deadly poison, but that didn’t matter. Death was better than sitting here and doing nothing.

  Inserting the tip of the dart into the keyhole, he ran the metal along his finger as a guide, feeling the point come to the first tumbler. Jiggling the projectile, he bypassed the second and third tumblers, jimmied past the fourth, and felt a sharp point press against his skin. “That’s it!”

  The last tumbler gave way to his gentle proddings. Something soft—dust, perhaps—flaked off the dart onto his skin, but in his excitement, Earwig didn’t notice. He slipped the dart into a pocket, threw the chains from his body, and stood triumphantly.

  “All right! You guys are next.”

  For just one brief, fascinating moment, the kender thought he might pass out from the sudden pain in his head. But the dizzy spell went away, and the pain in his head eased. Earwig began to stumble blindly about the room, holding his arms out in front of him. He came to a wall, his hand slapping against the moist stone. “Don’t worry, Baldy. I’m coming.”

  He followed the wall until his foot clattered into a heap of chains on the floor. “There you are!” he said, bending down to feel the shackles. “Why didn’t you tell me where you were?” His hand closed, not around flesh, but around bone, the bone of a man long dead.

  “I guess that’s why you weren’t much interested in Dizzy,” said Earwig, feeling comforted. He’d really begun to think he was losing his talent as a storyteller. “Well, Baldy, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be leaving now. I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not very good company.”

  Earwig moved blindly around the cell for a few moments more when he kicked an object, large and soft, lying on the ground near a wall. Kneeling down, he closed his hands around a long piece of wood—a piece of wood with which he was very familiar.

  “My hoopak!” he cried. Reaching out with his other hand, he found his pouches. Rummaging through his gear, he discovered that everything he could remember having was still there, including the tinderbox and a small torch. Soon, bright, yellow flame lit the room.

  Earwig gazed around the cell. There were four more skeletons chained to the walls in addition to the one he had found. It looked as if they’d been there a while. But what really caught his attention were the walls themselves. They were covered with paintings and decorations, gold against black.

  “More stories!” sighed Earwig, enraptured. He began to study them. “A long time ago,” he said, tracing the pattern with his finger, “the world was … whole … and everything was fine. Then, something happened, and there were wars. Then nothing happened and everyone thought they were happy, but they weren’t, really. Then came the Cataclysm!” he surmised, seeing what could only be pictures of a great mountain of fire falling from the sky. “Then what? We go back, and a guy in a red robe builds a great city of white stone. No, that doesn’t seem right. Let’s see, a guy in a black robe tricks the guy in the red robe into building the city of white stone. And then, the guy in the red robes builds the city and a guy in a white robes helps from behind.”

  Earwig stood back, scratching his head in confusion. The first part of the story had been easy to follow, flowing in a vertical direction down the wall, but now everything he looked at branched out in hundreds of directions, over the ceiling, across the floor, along the walls, lines of gold connecting each to a large triangle. Following the lines, he came to a great, stylized eye done in colors of red and white and black, staring at him in the wall opposite the triangle. All the gold lines in the room met at this symbol.

  “Not much of a story,” Earwig sniffed. “The plot goes absolutely nowhere.”

  The kender put his pack on his back, adjusting it for comfort, shifting his shoulders against the weight. He started to walk out of the room when he realized that something essential to his plan of escape was missing.

  “A door. There’s no door! How am I supposed to get out of here?” he demanded angrily. “Wait! Maybe they hid the door, just so I’d have to find it.”

  Cheering up, Earwig started to tap his hoopak against the walls, the wooden staff making a loud sound in the quiet of the cell. He systematically worked around from one corner to the others. “Tack, tack tack, tack, tack. Tick! That’s it!”

  He pushed with all his strength against the block, but couldn’t move it. “Maybe this isn’t it,” he concluded, leaning back against the wall to rest. “Wha-oh!” The stone swung on hidden hinges, dumping the startled but highly elated kender onto the floor on the other side.

  “Wake up, Caramon!”

  Thin fingers bit into the young man’s shoulders. He was up and moving in an instant. With the instinct of a warrior, his body was functioning before his brain.

  “I’m here! I’m ready!” he shouted, hands fumbling for his weapons.

  “Don’t be alarmed. Yet. Get dressed.”

  Caramon stared around sleepily, and realized he was in his comfortable room in Barnstoke Hall rather than in a war camp that had come under the attack of hordes of goblins.

  “Sure, Raist.” He’d only been asleep, he judged, for several hours. “Just give me a couple of minutes to wash up and shave and—”

  Raist
lin brought the metal-shod end of his staff to the floor with enough force to shake the lamps on the walls.

  Caramon, startled, stared at his twin. Pain and outrage lined the golden face, flickering in the narrowed eyes. The warrior put his gear on quickly, as if he were about to engage in battle.

  Raistlin, saying nothing, led the way from their room to the street. He seemed to have become a spirit of retribution overnight. What had happened? Caramon wondered.

  The people they met walking on the avenue shied away, crossing over to the other sidewalk to avoid meeting the mage. The brothers entered a carriage. Raistlin commanded, “Westgate Street.” The driver nodded confirmation, snapping the reins.

  The coach moved from along Southwall Street at a steady pace. Questions burned Caramon’s tongue, but he kept quiet. Raistlin had not looked at him directly since he’d wakened him. The mage stared intently into the shops along the roads, pointedly ignoring his twin.

  Caramon, remembering with a rush of blood how he had spent the night, thought he knew the reason for his Brother’s ill-humor. Why’s he blaming me? the warrior demanded silently, feeling guilty and not liking it. He made his choice. He got what he wanted, and so did I.

  The coach turned right onto Westgate Street, and Caramon saw his brother tense, both hands gripping the black staff until the skin over the knuckles turned white. The fighter could see nothing, could sense no element of danger, but he drew his dagger.

  Raistlin saw his action and snorted in derision. “Put your knife away, Caramon. You are in no danger.”

  “Are you in danger?” the warrior asked.

  Raistlin glanced at his brother. Pain twisted the golden face, then the mage looked swiftly away. His hands gripped the Staff of Magius with such intensity that his fingers seemed likely to crack and bleed.

  “Stop,” Raistlin commanded the driver.

  The carriage rolled to a halt. The mage jumped out and began walking at a rapid pace down Westgate Street. Caramon followed his brother’s quick footsteps as best he could.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To get a cup of hyava,” Raistlin replied, without turning.

  Caramon stared at him in amazement. He was about to risk drawing down his brother’s wrath by asking another stupid question when he saw a sight that stole the words from his mouth. The street was suddenly infested with a huge wave of cats and in the middle of the tide, in front of a tavern, sat a single figure—a black-skinned man, dressed in black.

  “Raist! That’s the man who—”

  “Caramon, shut up,” said his twin.

  At the brothers’ approach, the cats scattered, running up and over walls and down the street. Raistlin came to stand in front of the man. Caramon joined his brother, the warrior’s hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Please, join me,” the man in black said. His voice had a faint hissing quality to it that made Caramon shiver. He glanced at Raistlin, who nodded. The fighter pulled a chair out and sat. The mage did likewise.

  Caramon stared at the man. He was incredibly handsome, with dark black hair that curled down the back of his neck. His eyes were blue, a startling contrast to his shining black skin, and they were slightly slanted. He stared at them intently, without blinking.

  “My name is Bast,” he said suddenly. Jewels sewn onto his black clothing in a band around his neck glowed softly in the sunlight. “May I offer you a drink?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Bast lifted his hand, motioning for a barmaid. “Please, Catherine. Two cups of hyava for my guests.” Catherine stared a moment, then spun on her heel and ran back into the restaurant. She came back almost immediately with two small cups.

  “Thank you,” Caramon said. The girl mumbled something and backed away, but lingered near, watching.

  Raistlin sat as still and motionless as the city, his mouth set in grim, dark lines.

  “Yes. Questions,” the man in black said, staring at the mage with intense blue eyes.

  “Who are you?” Raistlin asked.

  “You know who I am.”

  “Why have you been following us?”

  “You know why.”

  Raistlin flushed, growing angered. The man in black appeared amused. Caramon took a large gulp of his drink and burned the roof of his mouth. Apparently, his brother had finally met his match.

  “Then what is your part in all this?” Raistlin demanded. “Why are you here?”

  “You know why,” answered Bast, sharp white teeth flashing in a slow smile.

  Caramon cringed, waiting for the outburst. His brother seemed to literally swell with suppressed rage and frustration. The man in black watched him calmly, and the anger seeped from Raistlin like blood from a wound.

  “Do I? How do I know what to believe?”

  “Believe what you want. It makes little difference to me.”

  “No, I don’t believe that!” Raistlin said softly. “If so, why are you here, meeting with me?”

  “I came here not to prove myself to you, but to prove you to myself.”

  The man in black, who called himself Bast, rose slowly and lazily to his feet. Stretching luxuriously, muscles rippling in his slender arms, he gave them a graceful nod of his head and moved off down the street.

  “Do you want me to stop him?” Caramon half rose.

  “No!” said his brother sharply, gripping the warrior’s wrist. “He’s a foe beyond your strength, beyond your comprehension. You would be dead within moments.”

  Caramon sat back down, somewhat relieved. He felt the truth of his brother’s statement, though he couldn’t quite say why. The big warrior only knew that, for one of the few times in his life, he’d actually been afraid.

  Raistlin was regarding his brother coldly, his eyes narrowing to thin lines. “One night with a woman makes you very bold this morning, brother. She must have been something … special.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” said Caramon quietly.

  “Why not? You’ve never minded flaunting your conquests before!”

  “Maybe I did, but that’s because I can still have those kind of feelings! I can know what it is to love someone!”

  Caramon tossed his barbed words without aim, goaded into fighting by his brother’s bitter sarcasm. But when he saw them hit their target, he would have given his soul to take them back.

  Raistlin’s shoulders jerked, as if pierced to the heart. The thin frame seemed to collapse in on itself. His head bent, his body trembled. He gathered his robes around him.

  “I’m sorry, Raist—” Caramon began.

  “No, Caramon.” His twin raised a feeble hand. “I am the one who should apologize. Your comments were most … perceptive.”

  “What happened to you last night?” asked Caramon, with the intuitive knowledge of a twin.

  The mage said nothing for a minute. He stared down into his hyava, watching the brew swirl in the cup. “I was nearly destroyed last night.”

  “An ambush?” Caramon started to stand again. “It was that man, wasn’t it? That Bast fellow! I’ll—”

  “No, my brother. It was a trap—a magical trap. It was set for me in one of the books.”

  “Trap? Where? In Lady Shavas’s house?” Caramon stared, incredulous.

  “Yes, in Lady Shavas’s house.”

  “You think she set it, don’t you?” Caramon demanded, growing angry.

  “I found three books of magic in her library, my brother, and one of them contained a rune-spiral that nearly captured my soul and dragged me into the Abyss! What would you think?”

  “It was an accident. She couldn’t know she had something like that in her house!”

  “How could she not know? Ah, I remember now. There are no magicians in Mereklar’ ” The mage mimicked the woman’s voice. “A perfect excuse.”

  “You don’t suspect … You do think she did it on purpose!”

  His twin’s silence spurred Caramon further.

  “Why would she want to do that?” he yelled
. “She’s the one who hired us! She defended us to the ministers!”

  “Exactly. Why would she want me …?” Raistlin paused, eyes narrowing.

  “Look, Raist!” said Caramon, breathing heavily, trying to control his anger. “You’re smarter than I am. I admit that. You seem to know a lot more about what’s going on here than I do. Someone tried to kill both of us in the woods. Then someone tried to kill me. Someone’s tried to trap you. Earwig’s disappeared. Now you come here on purpose to meet that man who’s been following us. How did you know he’d be here? Who is he? I think you should me tell what’s going on.”

  Raistlin shook his head. “So much to do. And so little time. Tonight, Caramon. The Great Eye shines tonight. And I’m not ready.…” He sighed, then said, “If you must know, in one of the books, I saw a picture of that man standing in a place that looked familiar to me. I realized this morning that the place was here—Westgate Street.”

  “You saw him in a book? What did it say about him?”

  “That he was a creature of great evil. But, after meeting him, I’m no longer sure what to believe.”

  “I know.” Caramon shuddered. “He’d just as soon rip out your heart as look at you.”

  “Perhaps. But—”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” It was the barmaid. Caramon vaguely remembered that her name was Catherine. “I couldn’t help overhearing you mention Earwig. Do you mean Earwig Lockpicker, the kender?”

  “You’ve seen Earwig? Where is he?” Raistlin asked with interest.

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’ve come to tell you. I think he’s been abducted.”

  “Abducted?” Caramon snorted. “Who in his right mind would run off with a kender?”

  “Well, we were talking in the tavern where I work, and I went into the back to get some ale, and when I returned, he was gone!” Catherine stared down at her shoes.

  Raistlin’s shrewd eyes watched the girl from the shadows of his hood. “He probably just wandered off.”