Caramon repeated it, moaning again.
“Cali … cali … calisthenics!” Tas said triumphantly. Then he dropped the water pitcher onto the floor. “Calisthenics? That’s not torture!”
Caramon groaned again.
“That’s exercises, you big baby!” Tas yelled. “Do you mean I’ve been waiting here, worried sick, imagining all sorts of horrible things, and you’ve been out doing exercises!”
Caramon had just strength enough to raise himself off the bed. Reaching out one big hand, he gripped Tas by the collar of his shirt and dragged him over to stare him in the eye.
“I was captured by goblins once,” Caramon said in a hoarse whisper, “and they tied me to a tree and spent the night tormenting me. I was wounded by draconians in Xak Tsaroth. Baby dragons chewed on my leg in the dungeons of the Queen of Darkness. And, I swear to you, that I am in more pain now than I have ever been in my life! Leave me alone, and let me die in peace.”
With another groan, Caramon’s hand dropped weakly to his side. His eyes closed. Smothering a grin, Tas crept back to his bed.
“He thinks he’s in pain now,” the kender reflected, “wait until morning!”
Summer in Istar ended. Fall came, one of the most beautiful in anyone’s memory. Caramon’s training began, and the warrior did not die, though there were times when he thought death might be easier. Tas, too, was strongly tempted on more than one occasion to put the big, spoiled baby out of his misery. One of these time had been during the night, when Tas had been awakened by a heartbreaking sob.
“Caramon?” Tas said sleepily, sitting up in bed.
No answer, just another sob.
“What is it?” Tas asked, suddenly concerned. He got out of bed and trotted across the cold, stone floor. “Did you have a dream?”
He could see Caramon nod in the moonlight.
“Was it about Tika?” asked the tenderhearted kender, feeling tears come to his own eyes at the sight of the big man’s grief. “No. Raistlin? No. Yourself? Are you afraid—”
“A muffin!” Caramon sobbed.
“What?” Tas asked blankly.
“A muffin!” Caramon blubbered. “Oh, Tas! I’m so hungry. And I had a dream about this muffin, like Tika used to bake, all covered with sticky honey and those little, crunchy nuts.…”
Picking up a shoe, Tas threw it at him and went back to bed in disgust.
But by the end of the second month of rigorous training, Tas looked at Caramon, and the kender had to admit that this was just exactly what the big man had needed. The rolls of fat around the big man’s waist were gone, the flabby thighs were once more hard and muscular, muscles rippled in his arms and across his chest and back. His eyes were bright and alert, the dull, vacant stare gone. The dwarf spirits had been sweated and soaked from his body, the red had gone from his nose, and the puffy look was gone from his face. His body was tanned a deep bronze from being out in the sun. The dwarf decreed that Caramon’s brown hair be allowed to grow long, as this style was currently popular in Istar, and now it curled around his face and down his back.
He was a superbly skilled warrior now, too. Although Caramon had been well-trained before, it had been informal training, his weapons technique picked up mostly from his older half-sister, Kitiara. But Arack imported trainers from all over the world, and now Caramon was learning techniques from the best.
Not only this, but he was forced to hold his own in daily contests between the gladiators themselves. Once proud of his wrestling skill, Caramon had been deeply shamed to find himself flat on his back after only two rounds against the woman, Kiiri. The black man, Pheragas, sent Caramon’s sword flying after one pass, then bashed him over the head with his own shield for good measure.
But Caramon was an apt, attentive pupil. His natural ability made him a quick study, and it wasn’t long before Arack was watching in glee as the big man flipped Kiiri with ease, then coolly wrapped Pheragas up in his own net, pinning the black man to the arena floor with his own trident.
Caramon, himself, was happier than he had been in a long time. He still detested the iron collar, and rarely a day went by at first without his longing to break it and run. But, these feelings lessened as he became interested in his training. Caramon had always enjoyed military life. He liked having someone tell him what to do and when to do it. The only real problem he was having was with his acting abilities.
Always open and honest, even to a fault, the worst part of his training came when he had to pretend to be losing. He was supposed to cry out loudly in mock pain when Rolf stomped on his back. He had to learn how to collapse as though horribly wounded when the Barbarian lunged at him with the fake, collapsible swords.
“No! No! No! you big dummy!” Arack screamed over and over. Swearing at Caramon one day, the dwarf walked over and punched him hard, right in the face.
“Arrgh!” Caramon cried out in real pain, not daring to fight back with Raag watching in glee.
“There—” Arack said, standing back in triumph, his fists clenched, blood on the knuckles. “Remember that yell. The gulls’ll love it.”
But, in acting, Caramon appeared hopeless. Even when he did yell, it sounded “more like some wench getting her behind pinched than like anyone dying,” Arack told Kiiri in disgust. And then, one day, the dwarf had an idea.
It came to him as he was watching the training sessions that afternoon. There happened to be a small audience at the time. Arack occasionally allowed certain members of the public in, having discovered that this was good for business. At this time, he was entertaining a nobleman, who had traveled here with his family from Solamnia. The nobleman had two very charming young daughters and, from the moment they entered the arena, they had never taken their eyes from Caramon.
“Why didn’t we see him fight the other night?” one asked their father.
The nobleman looked inquiringly at the dwarf.
“He’s new,” Arack said gruffly. “He’s still in training. He’s just about ready, mind you. In fact, I was thinking of putting him in—when did you say you were coming back to the Games?”
“We weren’t,” the nobleman began, but his daughters both cried out in dismay. “Well,” he amended, “perhaps—if we can get tickets.”
The girls both clapped their hands, their eyes going back to Caramon, who was practicing his sword work with Pheragas. The young man’s tanned body glistened with sweat, his hair clung in damp curls to his face, he moved with the grace of a well-trained athlete. Seeing the girls’ admiring gaze, it suddenly occurred to the dwarf what a remarkably handsome young man Caramon was.
“He must win,” said one of the girls, sighing. “I could not bear to see him lose!”
“He will win,” said the other. “He was meant to win. He looks like a victor.”
“Of course! That solves all my problems!” said the dwarf suddenly, causing the noblemen and his family to stare at him, puzzled. “The Victor! That’s how I’ll bill ’im. Never defeated! Doesn’t know how to lose! Vowed to take his own life, he did, if anyone ever beat him!”
“Oh, no!” both girls cried in dismay. “Don’t tell us that.”
“It’s true,” the dwarf said solemnly, rubbing his hands.
“They’ll come from miles around,” he told Raag that night, “hoping to be there the night he loses. And, of course, he won’t lose—not for a good, long while. Meanwhile, he’ll be a heart-breaker. I can see that now. And I have just the costume …”
Tasslehoff, meanwhile, was finding his own life in the arena quite interesting. Although at first deeply wounded when told he couldn’t be a gladiator (Tas had visions of himself as another Kronin Thistleknot—the hero of Kenderhome), Tas had moped around for a few days in boredom. This ended in his nearly getting killed by an enraged minotaur who discovered the kender happily going through his room.
The minotaurs were furious. Fighting at the arena for the love of the sport only, they considered themselves a superior race, living and eating apart from
the others. Their quarters were sacrosanct and inviolate.
Dragging the kender before Arack, the minotaur demanded that he be allowed to slit him open and drink his blood. The dwarf might have agreed—not having overly much use for kenders himself—but Arack remembered the talk he’d had with Quarath shortly after he’d purchased these two slaves. For some reason, the highest church authority in the land was interested in seeing that nothing happened to these two. He had to refuse the minotaur’s request, therefore, but mollified him by giving him a boar he could butcher in sport. Then, Arack took Tas aside, cuffed him across the face a few times, and finally gave him permission to leave the arena and explore the town if the kender promised to come back at night.
Tas, who had already been sneaking out of the arena anyway, was thrilled at this, and repaid the dwarf’s kindness by bringing him back any little trinket he thought Arack might like. Appreciative of this attention, Arack only beat the kender with a stick when he caught Tas trying to sneak pastry to Caramon, instead of whipping him as he would have otherwise.
Thus, Tas came and went about Istar pretty much as he liked, learning quickly to dodge the town guards, who had a most unreasonable dislike for kender. And so it was that Tasslehoff was able to enter the Temple itself.
Amid his training and dieting and other problems, Caramon had never lost sight of his real goal. He had received a cold, terse message from Lady Crysania, so he knew she was all right. But that was all. Of Raistlin, there was no sign.
At first, Caramon despaired of finding his brother or Fistandantilus, since he was never allowed outside the arena. But he soon realized that Tas could go places and see things much easier than he could, even if he had been free. People had a tendency to treat kender the same way they treated children—as if they weren’t there. And Tas was even more expert than most kender at melting into shadows and ducking behind curtains or sneaking quietly through halls.
Plus there was the advantage that the Temple itself was so vast and filled with so many people, coming and going at nearly all hours, that one kender was easily ignored or—at most—told irritably to get out of the way. This was made even easier by the fact that there were several kender slaves working in the kitchens and even a few kender clerics, who came and went freely.
Tas would have dearly loved to make friends of these and to ask questions about his homeland—particularly the kender clerics, since he’d never known these existed. But he didn’t dare. Caramon had warned him about talking too much and, for once, Tas took this warning seriously. Finding it nerve-racking to be on constant guard against talking about dragons or the Cataclysm or something that would get everyone all upset, he decided it would be easier to avoid temptation altogether. So he contented himself with nosing around the Temple and gathering information.
“I’ve seen Crysania,” he reported to Caramon one night after they’d returned from dinner and a game of arm wrestling with Pheragas. Tas lay down on the bed while Caramon practiced with a mace and chain in the center of the room, Arack wanting him skilled in weapons other than the sword. Seeing that Caramon still needed a lot of practice, Tas crept to the far end of the bed—well out of the way of some of the big man’s wilder swings.
“How is she?” Caramon asked, glancing over at the kender with interest.
Tas shook his head. “I don’t know. She looks all right, I guess. At least she doesn’t look sick. But she doesn’t look happy, either. Her face is pale and, when I tried to talk to her, she just ignored me. I don’t think she recognized me.”
Caramon frowned. “See if you can find out what the matter is,” he said. “She was looking for Raistlin, too, remember. Maybe it has something to do with him.”
“All right,” the kender replied, then ducked as the mace whistled by his head. “Say, be careful! Move back a little.” He felt his topknot anxiously to see if all his hair was still there.
“Speaking of Raistlin,” Caramon said in a subdued voice. “I don’t suppose you found out anything today either?”
Tas shook his head. “I’ve asked and asked. Fistandantilus has apprentices that come and go sometimes. But no one’s seen anyone answering Raistlin’s description. And, you know, people with golden skin and hourglass eyes do tend to stand out in a crowd. But”—the kender looked more cheerful—“I may find out something soon. Fistandantilus is back, I heard.”
“He is?” Caramon stopped swinging the mace and turned to face Tas.
“Yes. I didn’t see him, but some of the clerics were talking about it. I guess he reappeared last night, right in the Kingpriest’s Hall of Audience. Just—poof! There he was. Quite dramatic.”
“Yeah,” Caramon grunted. Swinging the mace thoughtfully, he was quiet for so long that Tas yawned and started to drift off to sleep. Caramon’s voice brought him back to consciousness with a start.
“Tas,” Caramon said, “this is our chance.”
“Our chance to what?” The kender yawned again.
“Our chance to murder Fistandantilus,” the warrior said quietly.
CHAPTER
7
aramon’s cold statement woke the kender up quickly.
“M-murder! I—uh—think you ought to think about this, Caramon,” Tas stammered. “I mean, well, look at it this way. This Fistandantilus is a really, really good, I-I mean, talented magic-user. Better even than Raistlin and Par-Salian put together, if what they say is true. You just don’t sneak up and murder a guy like that. Especially when you’ve never murdered anybody! Not that I’m saying we should practice, mind you, but—”
“He has to sleep, doesn’t he?” Caramon asked.
“Well,” Tas faltered, “I suppose so. Everybody has to sleep, I guess, even magic-users—”
“Magic-users most of all,” Caramon interrupted coldly. “You remember how weak Raist’d be if he didn’t sleep? And that holds true of all wizards, even the most powerful. That’s one reason they lost the great battles—the Lost Battles. They had to rest. And quit talking about this ‘we’ stuff. I’ll do it. You don’t even have to come along. Just find out where his room is, what kind of defenses he has, and when he goes to bed. I’ll take care of it from there.”
“Caramon,” Tas began hesitantly, “do you suppose it’s right? I mean, I know that’s why the mages sent you back here. At least I think that’s why. It all got sort of muddled there at the end. And I know this Fistandantilus is supposed to be a really evil person and he wears the black robes and all that, but is it right to murder him? I mean, it seems to me that this just makes us as evil as he is, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t care,” Caramon said without emotion, his eyes on the mace he was slowly swinging back and forth. “It’s his life or Raistlin’s, Tas. If I kill Fistandantilus now, back in this time, he won’t be able to come forward and grab Raistlin. I could free Raistlin from that shattered body, Tas, and make him whole! Once I wrench this man’s evil hold from him—then I know he’d be just like the old Raist. The little brother I loved.” Caramon’s voice grew wistful and his eyes moist. “He could come and live with us, Tas.”
“What about Tika?” Tas asked hesitantly. “How’s she going to feel about you murdering somebody?”
Caramon’s brown eyes flashed in anger. “I told you before—don’t talk about her, Tas!”
“But, Caramon—”
“I mean it, Tas!”
And this time the big man’s voice held the tone that Tas knew meant he had gone too far. The kender sat hunched miserably in his bed. Looking over at him, Caramon sighed.
“Look, Tas,” he said quietly, “I’ll explain it once. I-I haven’t been very good to Tika. She was right to throw me out, I see that now, though there was a time I thought I’d never forgive her.” The big man was quiet a moment, sorting out his thoughts. Then, with another sigh, he continued. “I told her once that, as long as Raistlin lived, he’d come first in my thoughts. I warned her to find someone who could give her all his love. I thought at first I could, when Raistlin went
off on his own. But”—he shook his head—“I dunno. It didn’t work. Now, I’ve got to do this, don’t you see? And I can’t think about Tika! She-she only gets in the way.…”
“But Tika loves you so much!” was all Tas could say. And, of course, it was the wrong thing. Caramon scowled and began swinging the mace again.
“All right, Tas,” he said, his voice so deep it might have come from beneath the kender’s feet, “I guess this means good-bye. Ask the dwarf for a different room. I’m going to do this and, if anything goes wrong, I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble—”
“Caramon, you know I didn’t mean I wouldn’t help,” Tas mumbled. “You need me!”
“Yeah, I guess,” Caramon muttered, flushing. Then, looking over at Tas, he smiled in apology. “I’m sorry. Just don’t talk about Tika anymore, all right?”
“All right,” Tas said unhappily. He smiled back at Caramon in return, watching as the big man put his weapons away and prepared for bed. But it was a sickly smile and, when Tas crawled into his own bed, he felt more depressed and unhappy than he had since Flint died.
“He wouldn’t have approved, that’s for sure,” Tas said to himself, thinking of the gruff, old dwarf. “I can hear him now. ‘Stupid, doorknob of a kender!’ he’d say. ‘Murdering wizards! Why don’t you just save everyone trouble and do away with yourself!’ And then there’s Tanis,” Tas thought, even more miserable. “I can just imagine what he’d say!” Rolling over, Tas pulled the blankets up around his chin. “I wish he was here! I wish someone was here to help us! Caramon’s not thinking right, I know he isn’t! But what can I do? I’ve got to help him. He’s my friend. And he’d likely get into no end of trouble without me!”
The next day was Caramon’s first day in the Games. Tas made his visit to the Temple in the early morning and was back in time to see Caramon’s fight, which would take place that afternoon. Sitting on the bed, swinging his short legs back and forth, the kender made his report as Caramon paced the floor nervously, waiting for the dwarf and Pheragas to bring him his costume.
Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends) Page 30
