Iolanthe shrugged. “Far be it from me to give you advice, but I have heard that your lordship has methods of persuading people to tell you whatever you want to know.”
The Nightlord’s eyes narrowed. “I tried. Some force protects him. When the Adjudicator attempted to ‘question’ him, Majere attempted to cast a Circle of Protection spell—the efforts of an amateur. I was able to dismantle it, of course. The Adjudicator then tried to seize hold of him. But he could not.”
Iolanthe was puzzled. “I beg your pardon, lord, but what do you mean ‘he could not’? What did this young man do to stop him?”
“Nothing!” said the Nightlord. “He did nothing. I tried to dispel whatever magic he was using, but there was nothing to dispel. Yet whenever the Adjudicator drew near him, the executioner’s hands shook as with a palsy. One of the guards then tried to throw a rope around Majere. The rope slithered to the floor. We attempted to seize his staff, but it nearly burned the hand off the cleric who tried to take it.”
Raistlin spoke up. His voice was well modulated, with a soft, husky quality about it. “I told your lordship I am under the protection of no magical spell. It is Queen Takhisis who watches over me.”
Iolanthe regarded Raistlin with admiration. She had already resolved to do what she could to rescue Kitiara’s brother from the Nightlord’s clutches. The Blue Lady would be grateful, for she had expressed a fondness for her half-brothers, and Iolanthe was working hard to gain the trust and regard of the powerful Highlord. Iolanthe was starting to like the young man for himself, however.
She had to play it carefully, though, feel her way in the darkness.
“And so, lord, why did you summon me in the middle of the night? You have yet to tell me.”
“I brought you here so that you can prove your loyalty to her Dark Majesty by removing his staff,” said the Nightlord. “I am certain it is the staff that protects him. Once he is no longer protected by any magical force, the Adjudicator will deal with him. He will pay for his refusal to answer our questions, of that I can assure you.”
Iolanthe had never before been asked to “prove her loyalty,” and she wondered uneasily what to do. She did not want to hand Raistlin over to the Adjudicator, who was skilled in the art of torment. He hacked off limbs. He stripped skin off living victims. He bound iron bands studded with spikes around their heads and slowly tightened the screws. He thrust burning pokers into various orifices of the body. He would always stop just short of death, using spells to bring the prisoner back to life to endure more torment.
Iolanthe decided to play for time. “Did you ask him why he came, lord?”
“We know the answer to that, mistress,” the Nightlord replied, fixing her with a withering gaze. “As do you.”
Danger tugged at the hem of Iolanthe’s skirt and laid clammy fingers on the back of her neck. Ariakas was away from Neraka. He had traveled to his headquarters in Sanction, a long distance from. And with rumors swirling that the Emperor was starting to let victory slip through his fingers, the Nightlord might be growing more bold. He had long felt that he should be the one to wear the Crown of Power. Perhaps Takhisis was starting to agree with him.
Iolanthe needed to find out what sort of monster was lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on her.
“I do not know what you mean,” she said coldly before turning to the young wizard. “Why did you come to the Temple of Takhisis?”
“I have told his lordship repeatedly. I came to pay my tribute to Her Dark Majesty,” said Raistlin.
He is telling the truth! Iolanthe realized in amazement. She could hear the respect in his voice when he named the Queen of Darkness, respect that was not perfunctory, not feigned, slavish, or groveling. It was respect that came from the heart, not from the threat of a beating. What marvelous irony! Raistlin Majere was probably the only person left in Neraka who still felt such respect for Queen Takhisis. And for that her loyal servants were going to put him to death.
As if to put an exclamation point to her thoughts, the Nightlord snorted. “He is lying. He is a spy.”
“A spy?” Iolanthe repeated, startled. “For whom?”
“The Conclave of Wizards.” The Nightlord spoke the last word with a hiss and a sneer.
Iolanthe stiffened. “I assure you, lord, that the Order of Black Robes is dedicated to the service of Queen Takhisis.”
The Nightlord smiled. He rarely smiled and, when he did, his smile boded ill for someone. The Adjudicator smiled too.
“Apparently you have not been informed. It seems that the head of your order, a wizard named Ladonna, has betrayed us by assisting the enemies of our glorious Queen. In this, she was helped by your god, Nuitari. Ladonna was caught and executed, of course. Nuitari has begged forgiveness for his error in judgment and has returned to the side of his goddess mother. All is well, but it was an inconvenience.”
Iolanthe felt danger’s hands clutch her by the throat. She had firsthand knowledge that the Nightlord was lying, but she had to feign ignorance.
“I did not know any of this,” she said, striving to appear calm. “I can assure you of my loyalty, Nightlord. If the Conclave has broken with the Dark Queen, then I will break with the Conclave.”
The Nightlord snorted. He obviously did not believe her. Then why summon her? He was fishing for information, which meant he did not know all that he claimed to know.
Iolanthe launched into a voluble account of her dedication to Takhisis. All the while, as she was talking, she was thinking. I would have heard if Ladonna had been caught and executed. The entire Conclave—Black, Red, and White—would be in an uproar. The wizard’s credo, born of long years of persecution, was: “Touch one and you touch all.”
So what does this mean for me? Does the Nightlord suspect that I was involved in Ladonna’s escape? Undoubtedly he does, if for no other reason than he believes spies and conspirators are lurking around every corner. He’d arrest his own shadow for following him if he could.
She was mulling that over and trying to decide how to get herself out of the tangle when the young wizard took matters into his own hands.
“As proof of my loyalty to Takhisis, I will hand over my staff,” Raistlin said quietly. “The staff is an artifact I value as I value my life, but I will give it to you of my own free will. And I will tell your lordship how I came here. I entered through the corridors of magic. In my defense, I did not know that entering the temple was a crime. I am newly arrived in Neraka. I came to serve Queen Takhisis, to work to confound her enemies. May Her Dark Majesty strike me dead on the spot if I am lying.”
Dark clerics, such as the Nightlord, repeatedly assured their followers that their Queen had the power to strike down traitors. Raistlin had proclaimed his loyalty to the Queen, and he’d done so by invoking her name. No lightning bolt streaked down from the sky. Raistlin did not go up in flames. His flesh did not melt from his bones. The young wizard stood calmly in the midst of the court, alive and well and unharmed. With a faint smile, Iolanthe waited for the Nightlord’s reaction.
He glared at Raistlin in frustration. The Nightlord might well suspect that Raistlin was making a mockery of the proceedings, but he could not call into question his Queen’s judgment, especially in front of witnesses. Takhisis had deemed that Raistlin should live. The Nightlord could not, therefore, execute him, but he could make his life miserable.
“You have our Queen to thank for saving you,” the Nightlord said bitingly. “You can remain in the city of Neraka, but you are henceforth forbidden from entering the temple.”
Raistlin bowed in acquiescence.
“Your staff will be confiscated,” the Nightlord continued, “and held in storage until such time as you leave the city. You will, here and now, reveal the contents of your pouches.”
The Nightlord might be perverted, sadistic, and insane, but he wasn’t stupid. He had noticed, as had Iolanthe, the young mage’s hand hovering protectively near the pouch he wore on his belt.
Raistlin
looked uncertain. Iolanthe drew near to him and said softly, “Don’t be a fool. Do as he says.”
Raistlin cast her a glance, then placed his staff on the floor. Iolanthe wondered that he wasn’t more concerned over its loss, for certainly he must know that any valuable object the Nightlord put “in storage” was gone for good.
“You will remain as a witness, madam,” said the Nightlord, frowning at Iolanthe.
She sighed and joined Raistlin, who was opening first one pouch then another, emptying out the contents on the desk. There was the usual variety of spell components: cobweb, bat guano, rose petals, the skin of a black snake, black oil, coffin nails, cowry shells, and so forth. The Nightlord regarded those items with distaste and was careful not to touch any of them.
All the pouches except one lay on the Nightlord’s desk. Iolanthe could see one pouch still attached to Raistlin’s belt, though he had deftly maneuvered that pouch around to the side and covered it with the flowing sleeve of his black robe.
“Those are all my spell components, lord,” said Raistlin, adding humbly, “I would appreciate it if you would return them to me, lord. I am not a wealthy man, and they cost me dearly.”
“These items are contraband,” said the Nightlord, “and will be destroyed.”
He summoned one of the dark pilgrims, who reluctantly and gingerly picked up the various components, deposited them in a sack, and took them away. At his command, another dark pilgrim dropped a blanket over the staff, picked it up, and carried it from the room.
Raistlin made no argument, though; judging by the faint, sardonic smile that touched the young wizard’s lips, he knew the Nightlord was being arbitrary to punish him. Rose petals were not going to bring about the downfall of Her Dark Majesty. Every item in his pouches could be purchased at any mageware shop in the city.
“I abide by your decision, lord,” Raistlin said, bowing. “Am I free to go?”
“If your lordship pleases, I will conduct him to the proper exit,” said Iolanthe.
She rested her fingers on the young man’s arm and was surprised to feel an unnatural warmth radiating through the black folds of his robe. He seemed to burn with fever, yet he showed no symptoms of illness, only a very natural fatigue. Iolanthe was more and more intrigued by Kitiara’s brother. The two of them were bowing and starting to edge away when the Nightlord spoke.
“Show me the contents of that remaining pouch.”
A flush suffused Raistlin’s golden-toned skin. “I assure your lordship that it has nothing to do with magic.” He did not appear afraid so much as embarrassed.
“I will be the judge of that,” said the Nightlord smugly. He rapped on the table. “Put it here.”
Raistlin slowly drew out the pouch, but he did not open it.
“You have no choice,” Iolanthe whispered. “Whatever it is you are hiding, is it worth being disemboweled?”
Raistlin shrugged and dropped the pouch on the desk in front of the Nightlord. The pouch was lumpy and heavy and landed with a thud and a muffled thunk.
The Nightlord regarded the pouch with a suspicious frown. He did not touch it, instead turning to Iolanthe. “You, witch. Open it.”
Iolanthe would have liked to have opened the man’s scrawny throat, but she contained her anger. She was as curious as the Nightlord to see the contents the young mage was so carefully guarding.
She studied the pouch before she picked it up, noting that it was made of leather, well worn, and closed by a leather drawstring that ran through the top. No runes had been written on it. No spells of warding had been laid on it. She could have used a simple cantrip to find out if it was magically protected in some other way, but she did not want to give the Nightlord the impression that she mistrusted a fellow mage. She glanced at Raistlin from beneath her long lashes, hoping he would give her some sort of sign that she could proceed safely. His eyelids flickered beneath the hood. He slightly smiled.
Iolanthe drew in a deep breath and pulled open the strings to the pouch with a jerk. She looked inside and was at first startled, then she had to choke back her laughter. She upended the bag. The contents spilled out and went rolling off in all directions.
“What is this?” the Nightlord demanded, glaring.
The Adjudicator bent down to examine them closely. Unlike the Nightlord, the Adjudicator was both perverse and stupid.
“They would be marbles, my lord,” the Adjudicator said solemnly.
Iolanthe controlled her twitching lips. Somewhere in the darkness someone did laugh. The Nightlord glared around, and the laughter was immediately stifled.
“Marbles.” The Nightlord fixed Raistlin with a withering stare.
Raistlin’s flush deepened. He appeared overcome by shame. “I know it is a child’s game, my lord, but I am quite fond of it. I find that playing marbles relaxes me. I might recommend it to your lordship if you are occasionally bilious—”
“You have wasted enough of my time. Get out!” ordered the Nightlord. “And do not come back. Queen Takhisis can do quite well without ‘respects’ from scum like you.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Raistlin, and he began to hastily scoop up the marbles that were still rolling on the desk.
Iolanthe bent to pick up one marble that had fallen on the floor and lay near the hem of the young mage’s robes. The marble was green and shone with an eerie luster. She remembered from her own childhood that such a marble was called a cat’s eye.
“Please, madam, do not trouble yourself,” Raistlin said in his soft voice. He deftly intercepted her, plucking the marble out from under her fingers. As his hand brushed hers, she felt again the strange heat of his skin.
Another prisoner was being hauled into the court. He was bound in chains and manacles. He was covered in blood and looked more dead than alive. Raistlin glanced at him as he and Iolanthe hastened past.
“That could have been you,” she said in a low voice.
“Yes,” he said, adding, “I am grateful for your help, madam.”
“No need to be so formal. My name is Iolanthe,” she said, hustling him out of the courtroom. She had no idea where she was or how to escape the maze of tunnels, but she kept going. Her one thought was to put as much distance between herself and the Nightlord as possible.
“You are Raistlin Majere. I believe that is your name?”
“Correct, madam. I mean … Iolanthe,” said Raistlin.
She was tempted to tell him she knew his sister, Kitiara, but decided against revealing too much too soon. Knowledge is power, and she had yet to determine how to make use of it or if she should even bother. A wizard who played at marbles …
She found a dark pilgrim, who was more than happy to escort them from the temple. She saw, as they walked the winding, twisting halls, that Raistlin missed nothing. His strange eyes were constantly roving, making mental notes of each turn, each staircase they passed, the banks of cells and pools of acid, the guard rooms. Iolanthe could have told him that if he were trying to map the place, he was wasting his time. The dungeons had been deliberately designed to be as confusing as possible. On the off chance that a prisoner would escape, he would quickly lose himself in the labyrinth and fall easy victim to the guards or tumble into an acid pool.
Iolanthe was eager to question the young mage, but she was mindful of the proximity of the dark cleric walking alongside them, whose ears were undoubtedly flapping beneath his hood. At last they came to a steep, winding, staircase that proved too narrow for them all to mount together. Their guide was forced to walk ahead of them.
They climbed the stairs slowly, for Raistlin almost immediately ran out of breath and had to lean on the iron railing.
“Are you all right?” Iolanthe asked.
“I was afflicted with an illness for many years,” he said. “I am cured of it now, but it took its toll.”
As they continued up the stairs, Iolanthe said something polite. He did not respond, and she realized he had not even heard her. He was abstracted, absorbed in his own
thoughts. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, the dark pilgrim, believing that his charges were close behind him, had rounded a corner and was out of sight.
“Our guide seems to have lost us,” Iolanthe said. “We should wait here for him. I never know where I am in this horrid place.”
Raistlin was looking around at his surroundings.
“You were concentrating on something very deeply back there on the stairs. I spoke, but you didn’t hear me.”
“I am sorry,” said Raistlin. “I was counting.”
“Counting?” Iolanthe repeated, astonished. “Counting what?”
“The stairs.” “Whatever for?”
“I have a habit of observation. Twenty stairs led down to the guardroom from the abbey where I found myself. My sudden appearance out of thin air caused quite a stir,” he added with a sudden flash of humor in the strange eyes.
“I can imagine,” she said.
“Leaving the courtroom, we climbed forty-five stairs on the last staircase.”
“All very interesting, I suppose,” said Iolanthe, “but I fail to see any practical use for such knowledge. Especially in this weird place.”
“You refer, of course, to the interplanal shifting between the physical world and the Abyss,” said Raistlin.
“How did you know about that?” she asked, again astonished.
“I had read about the phenomenon prior to coming to Neraka. I was curious to see what it was like, which is one reason I made it a point to visit the temple. In truth, the corridors do not shift. They only appear to do so because the eye is fooled by the distortion between one plane and another. Rather like looking through a prism,” he explained. “The building is not really jumping about or changing shape. I noted, however, that the visual distortion effects are mitigated when it comes to the stairs. That is only logical, otherwise the dark clerics would be forever tumbling down the staircases and breaking their necks. But I am stating the obvious. You are a frequent visitor here. You must have noticed this yourself.”
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