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  Raistlin gripped his brother’s arm. “Help me up.”

  “Should you? What happened? That wizard—”

  “No time for questions! Help me up! We must return to the city!”

  “The city? How? They won’t let us in the gate!”

  “It may be easier than you suppose, my brother,” said Raistlin grimly. “It may be far too easy.”

  Raistlin was right. The gate was deserted. The guards had fled their posts.

  “Listen, do you hear it?” Raistlin asked, tilting his head.

  Caramon shook his head. “No, I don’t hear a thing.”

  “Exactly. There is no sound in the city.”

  Caramon drew the bastard sword from his back with a single motion, feeling ‘warrior’s fear’ creep into his limbs. He listened more closely now, and did hear something, something that was moving closer to their present location with great speed.

  “Raist, come on!” he yelled, grabbing his brother and pulling him through the gate, into an alley, ducking behind old barrels and boxes. He recognized the sound now, the sound of terror and hatred, the need to destroy the misunderstood.

  “We’ll find ’em! First Lord Manion. Now Lord Brunswick!”

  “The wizard wears long red robes!”

  “The big one’s got more muscles than a horse!”

  The mob surged past them. Raistlin frowned in irritation. “I don’t have time for this. I must see Councillor Shavas.”

  Caramon stared at him. “But— You think she tried to kill you!”

  “No, my brother. Not kill me. You see, Caramon,” Raistlin said, with a soft sigh, “I think that I am at last beginning to understand.”

  “I’m glad you are. I don’t understand a damn thing! Well, we better get started, before they come back.”

  “No, my brother. Not we. I must go alone.”

  “But—”

  “Return to Barnstoke Hall. There may be news of the kender. If what you say you overheard is true, he has probably escaped. Caramon”—Raistlin looked at him intently—“beware the ring he wears!”

  And then, before Caramon could say a word, the mage was gone, slipping into the shadows of late afternoon, gliding down the street like a wraith.

  Lady Masak closed the record book, shuddering slightly at what she’d read. With an unsteady hand, she placed the text back on the shelf among the others of its kind, the rows and rows of gold-inlaid dates shining brightly in the afternoon sunlight. She sat down in her white chair, sipping at a cup of steaming tea.

  The room was very long, colored gray by stains and paints, and dominated by a single table that stretched its expanse. The only chair was the one the Director of Records occupied. Over a thousand books filled the hall—the legacy of the citizens and council members of Mereklar since the city was discovered.

  The woman cocked her head suddenly and turned her gaze out the window to the city below. She’d heard something, or thought she had. It sounded like a scream.

  Lady Masak placed the cup of tea onto its saucer and reached under the table, pulling out a triangular roll of cloth, black and worn with age. Unfolding the wrap, she lifted a wand from its coverings, balancing the object with a finger. One end of it bent down from the line of its construction and was covered with sigla burned into the dark wood. The other end was surrounded by a band of metal, seamless and perfect—a ring that left the tip exposed, revealing a deep, circular gouge. The lady looked down the object’s length and smiled.

  A loud noise came from downstairs. She pushed the chair back from the table, then crossed in silence to the door. Lady Masak put her ear to the wood.

  A hand smashed through, reaching for her throat. The woman brought the end of the wand down onto the clutching black fingers, cracking bone and ripping tendons. The hand withdrew, seemingly injured from the blow, pulling out of the hole it had created.

  Lady Masak backed up, behind the chair. No sound came from the other side of the door. The woman raised the wand, pointed the metal-shod tip toward the portal, and concentrated. A bright red beam flashed out from the gouge, struck the door, and disintegrated the wood, sending smoke and dust through the air in a choking cloud.

  Lady Masak remained standing where she was, listening intently for the intruder. Glass shattered behind her. Too late, she tried to turn. A blow sent her sprawling against the table, her back rent open by tearing claws. She twisted around, bringing the wand up. Another bolt of crimson arced out from the gouge, but the panther had leaped lightly to one side. The red flame hit the city’s records, setting them ablaze.

  The lady concentrated, sweeping the beam across the library, the wand transforming her lust to kill into reality.

  Another strike to her back sent her sprawling across the floor. The wand flew from her grasp. She reached out blindly for the weapon, hidden by a cloak of smoke and fire that filled the room. A booted foot smashed down on her arm, snapping it at the elbow.

  Lady Masak grasped her assailant by the ankle and dragged his leg out from beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor. She groped frantically for the wand.

  An open palm came up and under her chin, snapped her head back, causing her to smash up against the bookshelves. She tried to stand. A black-skinned hand, its fingers bleeding, reached down and lifted the woman by the neck. Claws slashed out and tore open the woman’s throat.

  Lady Masak rose on shaking legs and staggered to the window, feebly clutching her neck, around which hung a necklace bearing a silver cat’s skull, ruby eyes gleaming in the flames. Blood ran between her grasping fingers. She shook her head once and smiled—a hideous smile that remained on her face as she sank to the floor.

  The fire consumed the room. A hand reached from the roiling clouds of smoke to pick up the wand from the floor. Clawed fingers snapped the rod in two, discarding the splintered wooden halves, leaving it to be destroyed by the blaze.

  Chapter 21

  The door to the estate was unlocked, and Raistlin turned the handle without a sound, walking through the foyer and front room to the library. The councillor, wearing a white silk gown that clung about her flawless shoulders as if it possessed a life of its own, sat in a chair in front of the fire, arranging the varied pieces on the black and white gameboard on top of a small table.

  “Very fitting,” said Raistlin softly, the door closing behind him.

  “Welcome, Master Mage. Have you been successful in your mission?”

  “It appears that you were expecting me,” he said.

  “Please.” Shavas gestured to the chair opposite her. “Yes, I have.”

  The mage nodded, taking the offered seat. His face was flushed with red light from the fireplace, giving his skin a sheen of bronze.

  “A game?”

  “We are much alike, Councillor,” Raistlin said.

  “How do you mean?” Shavas asked, her graceful hands arranging her pieces for the first move.

  “We both have the same desires.”

  “Ah!” Shavas lifted her head. Her word held a volume of meaning, of promise. Her gaze was warm, her voice and body alluring. Her face was incomparably beautiful.

  Raistlin, swallowing, began setting up his own pieces. He watched Shavas’s hands carefully, saw her fingers shake. She accidentally knocked over a foot soldier.

  “Is there something wrong, my lady?”

  She shook her head briskly, tightening her lips, her pale skin flushing in the heat of the fire. “Who shall go first?” she asked.

  “I will,” Raistlin replied, pushing a yeoman forward. “I must admit that I am surprised to find you so calm, with your city in such chaos. What has happened?”

  Shavas glanced up. “Don’t you know? Where have you been?” She pushed her own yeoman to counter her opponent’s. “Lord Brunswick was murdered last night. Lady Masak was killed just … just this afternoon.”

  “You can’t move that piece yet.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t … thinking.”

  “How did they die?” R
aistlin brought out another yeoman.

  “The same as Lord Manion. They were killed by a giant cat.”

  The mage lifted one of his knights from the board, replacing it in front of his lines.

  The councillor removed a small bar from the scales at the side of the table, shifting the balance very slightly in Raistlin’s favor. She placed a metal barrier, carved to resemble a hedgerow, in front of the knight.

  “It is now my turn to ask questions. You have found the reason for the cats’ disappearances?”

  Raistlin sent the knight around the hedge, pressing forward, evening the scales by removing one of his own ingots and placing it next to the figure.

  “No, I have not. Do you have any information to add to the investigation?”

  Shavas paused before answering, placing her fingers against her mouth in thought. She opened a drawer in the board and took out a footman, clad in heaviest armor, placing it two squares in front of Raistlin’s champion.

  “It seems late to further a lost cause.”

  Raistlin detected a note of relief in her voice.

  “How, then, have you spent your time?” she questioned.

  The mage left his knight where it was, placing another marker next to it. “In strange company.”

  “Whose?”

  Raistlin moved the piece forward, in front of Shavas’s footman. “You know him, I think. You keep his picture … there.” He pointed.

  “Really? In a book?”

  “Allow me to show you.”

  The mage rose from his seat, aided by his staff, and went to the shelf where he had replaced the volume entitled, Mereklar and the Lord of Cats.

  It was gone.

  Raistlin glanced back at Shavas. “Ah, I see you’ve found it for yourself.”

  The woman appeared uneasy. “I have no idea what you mean. But perhaps I have seen the man. What does he look like?”

  “Tall, with dark skin and hair. Many would consider him handsome,” the mage replied, with a slight touch of bitterness. He returned to his seat, scanning the board with expert ability.

  “And his eyes, are they … unusual in any way?”

  “Unusual? How do you mean?”

  “Did they … shine, reflect, in the light?”

  “Perhaps. I didn’t notice. I didn’t spend time gazing into his eyes,” said Raistlin. He removed the opposing footman from the board and the yeoman behind it, setting it into its square.

  The councillor bit her lower lip and scraped her tapered fingernails against the varnished table, leaving a slight mark of their passage in the wood. Reaching to the scales, she removed another ingot, this one larger than the others.

  Raistlin frowned, wondering at her strategy. The spell she was about to cast was powerful. In defense, he took a marker of his own.

  Shavas lifted her knight, dropped it nervously.

  “He is here!” she said in a hollow voice. “He has come to kill us all!”

  “Who?”

  “You know very well who I’m talking about! The Lord of the Cats! He has come to punish the Council of Mereklar.” Shavas reached out a lovely, trembling hand to Raistlin. “I desperately need your protection!”

  “The Cat Lord? If is it truly he, then he is a demi-god. How can I stand against one so powerful?” Raistlin asked.

  “I didn’t tell you this before,” Shavas began, taking a deep breath, “but my ancestors collected several items of magic in their journeys. One of them is this broach of good fortune I wear”—she touched the golden necklace with the fire opal—“and the other is this.” Opening the drawer to the table, Shavas removed a triangular leather pouch that bulged in the center. “It is a weapon.”

  Raistlin was not looking at the bag. He was staring at the necklace, thinking that it looked incomplete, unfinished. Why didn’t I notice that before? he asked himself.

  Because you weren’t looking at the necklace, a mocking, inner voice answered.

  Shavas opened the pouch, taking out a short wand. Raistlin glanced at it, saw that it was bent at one end, and fitted with a metal ring at the other. It was covered with runes and sigla. He did not touch it.

  “How does it work?”

  “I’m not certain. I’ve never used it. I’ve never had any need. But, I was told by my father that it takes our feelings and amplifies them a hundredfold. If you want to destroy an enemy, you have only to feel his destruction and point the wand at him, like this.”

  She held the weapon by the bent end, pointing the tip at Raistlin.

  The mage made no comment. He did not move.

  Shavas, smiling and lowering her eyes, turned the wand around and handed it to him. Raistlin replaced it in the bag, then tucked the bag into his robes.

  “Now, you can protect me,” Shavas said. “It is a powerful weapon. It can destroy even a demi-god.”

  She leaned forward and her gown slipped, revealing her white bosom. The opal hung glittering from her soft neck. “And when this terrible nightdream is over, we will have time to ourselves.”

  “You mean you and my brother will have time,” Raistlin said, sneering. Why did I say that? What is she doing to me? He snarled at himself inwardly. Remember! Remember what you have seen!

  “I admit it,” said Shavas, her fingers caressing the mage’s hand. “I … met with Caramon”—she blushed like a schoolgirl—“but it was only to make you jealous. You’re the one I want!”

  Her voice was low and husky. There was a ring of truth to her last statement that startled Raistlin. He stared at her, entranced.

  “I am wealthy, powerful! I could give you … so much! Do this one thing for me! Destroy the Lord of the Cats!”

  Raistlin slowly removed his arm from the woman’s grasp. She let him go, sitting back in her chair. The mage stared down at the board, at the warrior of the dead who stood before his champion.

  “From the way you speak, you sound as if you know where he is.”

  “Not where he is, where he might be. Lord Cal is very efficient. We think the Cat Lord may be trapped in Leman Square, east of the center of Southgate Street.”

  “I have seen it,” the mage said, standing. “Shall I go there now, lady?”

  “Yes!” she cried. “And if you succeed, come back to me … tonight.”

  “Yes,” said Raistlin, gazing at her intently. “I will be back. Tonight.”

  Chapter 22

  Caramon made excellent time, running at a steady pace up Southgate Street. The road was, for the most part, empty. Lord Cal and his guards were busy dispersing the people, attempting to restore order. Still, the warrior thought it best to keep to the shadows of twilight. He didn’t have time to beat off an enraged mob.

  When he reached Barnstoke Hall, the place appeared deserted. He put his hand on the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. The door was locked. He started to bang on it, demanding entrance, then realized the proprietor might not be exactly delighted to see him.

  Well, I opened it once, he thought. I can do it again.

  Taking a deep breath, Caramon stepped back, then threw his weight into the door. It gave a little. Gathering himself together, rubbing his shoulder, he started to try again when a voice shrilled behind him.

  “Hey, Caramon. Can I help you?”

  “Earwig!” the warrior exclaimed, whirling around. “Where have you been? We’ve looked all over! Are you sick or something?”

  The kender seemed unusually pale, his face drawn and pinched. He stood with a slight stoop, leaning as heavily on his hoopak as Raistlin did on the Staff of Magius.

  “I haven’t eaten in a few days, I think,” he said vaguely. “I was captured by … by that man.”

  “Yeah, we went looking for you. In the cave … the cave of the dead wizard?”

  Earwig appeared thoughtful, then shrugged. “I don’t remember. I’ve been through quite a lot recently, you know.”

  “Where have you been? How did you escape? Wait till I bust this door down, and we’ll have a bite to eat and then talk.”


  “No!” cried Earwig, clinging to Caramon. “There’s something I need to show you. We have to go now.”

  “But what about you? You don’t look like you’re in any condition to—”

  “Do not worry about me, Caramon. We have more pressing matters to attend to!”

  The warrior’s eyes opened in surprise. “You’re sure talking funny. You sound kind of like Raist.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Caramon!” the kender said sharply. “Come on!”

  Caramon didn’t like this, and he wished his brother were around to advise him. Thinking of Raistlin made him recall the mage’s warning. Caramon looked at the kender’s ring finger. The flesh around the ring was swollen and fiery red. Blood trickled from beneath it.

  Seeing the warrior’s stare, Earwig shoved his hand into his pocket. “Are you coming? Or do I have to go by myself?”

  “All right, Earwig,” said Caramon, not wanting the kender to run around loose. “Lead the way.”

  The kender headed at a run back toward the center of the city. Caramon had to work to catch up with him.

  “Where are we going?” the warrior asked, searching the streets for signs of the mob.

  “Uh, back to where I was, when I was captured, that is,” Earwig replied, apparently distracted by having to walk and think at the same time. “I mean, to the tunnels underneath the city.”

  “Tunnels? What tunnels?”

  “The tunnels where my jail cell was, dolt!” Earwig muttered beneath his breath.

  “Did the tunnels have paintings all over them, like somebody was trying to tell a story or something?”

  “Uh, yeah, I think so. It’s kind of hard to remember. I have this terrible headache,” the kender mumbled, rubbing his head with his right hand.

  “Here, stop. Wait a minute. Let me see. Maybe you were—” The warrior reached out.

  “Hey! What are you doing?!” the kender yelled. Spinning around, he clobbered the fighter on the hand with his hoopak.

  “Ouch! Hey, yourself!” Caramon said in dismay, clutching his hand, staring at his friend. “I was only trying to help.”