Iolanthe knelt on the floor, her silken caftan floating around her, filling the air with the scent of gardenia perfume. She studied the staff, not touching it, but looking intently at the smooth wood and the dragon’s claw clutching a crystal ball that adorned the top.
“So this is the famed Staff of Magius,” she said.
Once again, she caught Raistlin off guard. He stared at her, dumbfounded.
“I took the opportunity of doing a little research last night after you were asleep,” she told him. “There are not that many magical staffs in the world. I found the description in an old book. How did you come by it, if I might ask?”
Raistlin was going to tell her it was none of her business. Instead, he found himself saying, “Par-Salian gave it to me after I passed the Test.”
“Par-Salian?” Iolanthe sank bank languidly on the floor, propping herself up on her elbow. “The Head of the Order of White Robes? He gave you this valuable gift?”
“I was a White Robe when I took the Test,” said Raistlin. “Due to the kind interest Lunitari took in me, I afterward wore the red robes. I have only recently taken the black.”
“All three,” Iolanthe murmured. Her violet eyes gazed at him. The black pupils dilated, seeming to widen in order to absorb him. “How very unusual.”
She rose gracefully to her feet, her caftan swirling around her bare feet. “It is said that the Master of Past and Present will be one who wore all three robes.”
Raistlin stared at her.
“And now, if you will excuse me,” she continued coolly, “I will go change into my black robes for our trip to the Tower of High Sorcery. I would wear my caftan, for I like bright colors, but the old buzzards who live there would have a collective stroke.”
She wafted out of the room; her perfume lingering. The smell tickled Raistlin’s nose and made him sneeze. She returned wearing robes of black silk similar to the caftan in cut and design, leaving her forearms bare. He heard a faint jingling of bells as she walked and saw that she wore a circlet of tiny, golden bells around her ankle. The sound was jarring and set his teeth on edge.
“I usually wear golden bracelets to match,” Iolanthe remarked as though she read his thoughts. She nibbled on some of the dry toast Raistlin had left uneaten and, picking up the mug, sniffed at the remnants of his tea and made a face. “But I dare not wear my jewels around Neraka anymore. The soldiers have not been paid, you see. The Emperor was counting upon steel flowing into his coffers from the wealth he would seize in Palanthas. Unfortunately for him, we hear that silver dragons have come to guard that fair city.”
“That is true,” said Raistlin. “I saw them before I left.”
“So you came from Palanthas,” said Iolanthe. “How interesting.”
Raistlin cursed himself for having revealed such information. The woman was a witch!
“Anyhow,” Iolanthe continued, “Ariakas lost all that revenue. What was worse, having been confident he would gain the steel, he had already spent it. Now he is deep in debt, though only a few people know that.”
“And why now am I one of them?” Raistlin asked, annoyed. “Why are you telling me this? I don’t want to hear it. Spreading such rumors is … is …”
“An act of treason?” Iolanthe shrugged. “Yes, I suppose so. But they are not rumors, Raistlin Majere. They are facts. I should know. I am Ariakas’s mistress.”
Raistlin felt the hair rise on his arms and prick the back of his neck. His life hung by a silken thread.
“I am also,” she added smoothly, “a friend to your half-sister, Dragon Highlord Kitiara uth Matar.”
Raistlin’s jaw dropped. “You know … my sister?”
“Oh, yes,” Iolanthe said. She was quiet a moment, then launched suddenly into a tirade. “Her troops, the soldiers of the Blue Dragonarmy, are being paid … well paid. Although she failed to take Palanthas, she controls much of Solamnia. She demands and receives tribute from the wealthy cities which she had sense enough not to burn to the ground. And she sees to it that the payment goes to her soldiers. Kit’s blue dragons are loyal and well disciplined unlike the reds, who are brainless and conceited and continually fight among themselves. Ariakas stupidly allowed his reds and his soldiers to pillage and loot and set fire the cities he took, and now he grumbles that he has no money.”
Raistlin remembered Solace, the burned-out Inn of the Last Home where he had spent so many happy hours. He remembered the terrifying siege of Tarsis. He kept silent, but inwardly he allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction at Ariakas’s self-inflicted predicament.
The smile vanished when Iolanthe impulsively clasped his hand. “It’s so good to have someone to talk to. Someone who understands. A friend!”
Raistlin withdrew his hand from hers. “I am not a friend,” he said, and thinking that might sound rude, he added abruptly, “We just met. You hardly know me.”
“I feel like I know you well,” said Iolanthe, not the least offended. “Kitiara talks about you a great deal. She is very proud of you and your brother. Where is he, by the way?”
Raistlin decided it was time to change the subject. “What the Nightlord said last night about Nuitari—”
“True,” said Iolanthe. “Every word, except for the part about Ladonna being executed. I would have heard. But Nuitari has broken with his mother, Takhisis, and now the Conclave of Wizards will unite against the Dark Queen.”
Raistlin was quiet, noncommittal. He was not part of the Conclave. He had not sought their permission to take the black robes. He had done so without consulting them, in fact, and that made him a renegade. The Conclave considered renegade wizards outlaws.
Iolanthe drew nearer to him. Her perfume filled his nostrils and made his head throb.
“I know what you are thinking,” she said softly, “because I am thinking the same: What does this mean for me?” She gave him a playful pat on the shoulder. “We should go to ‘the Tower’ and find out.”
Casting him a glance over her shoulder, she added, “My people have a saying: ‘A man should use his breath to cool his tea.’ That’s good advice anywhere in Neraka, but it especially applies to our fellow wizards.”
“I understand,” Raistlin said. He felt a flutter of excitement. At last he was to see the wondrous Tower of High Sorcery, meet the wizards who would help shape his destiny.
“Shall we leave? Are you ready?” Iolanthe saw his eye go to his staff, and she shook her head. “You should not carry that in public. The Nightlord will be searching for it. The staff should be safe enough here. I always cast warding spells upon my door.”
“The staff will keep itself safe,” Raistlin said. He didn’t like leaving it; he had come to depend on it. But he understood the wisdom of her advice.
Iolanthe shut and locked the door and traced a rune upon it with her fingertip; then she spoke a few words of magic. The rune began to glow a faint bluish color.
Iolanthe caught Raistlin’s eye and flushed. “Amateurish, I know. A spell such as one casts in mage school. But weak minds find the glowing rune impressive. And believe me,” she added, “we deal with a lot of weak minds around Neraka.”
Iolanthe took hold of Raistlin’s arm, telling him to act as her escort, whether he wanted to or not. “The streets are dangerous these days,” she said. “It pays to have someone watching your back.”
Raistlin didn’t like it, but he could not very well repulse Iolanthe. She had already made it clear that she could help him or harm him and that the choice was his. The staircase was narrow, and she pressed against him, insisting on walking close by his side.
“How many stairs?” she asked teasingly.
“Thirty-one,” he replied. “Counting the landing.”
Iolanthe shook her head and laughed at him.
Raistlin could not see what she thought was so funny.
4
Inn of the Broken Shield.
The Tower of High Sorcery.
6th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC
“Snaggle is an excellent man to know,” Iolanthe explained as they walked down the broad, paved street that ran in front of the temple. “He never asks questions. He gives fair value for the steel. And because he is favored by the Emperor, who regularly shops there, Snaggle often carries items that would be difficult for others to acquire. He won’t sell to just anyone, mind you, but he knows now that you are my friend, so you will find him accommodating.”
Raistlin was not her friend, though he did not say so. He had never had friends. Tanis and Flint and the others called themselves his friends, but he knew that beneath their smiles they did not love him, did not trust him. He was not like his brother, jovial, warmhearted Caramon—everyone’s boon companion.
Raistlin studied his surroundings with his usual care as they continued on their way. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“To the White District,” Iolanthe replied. “The city of Neraka is like Queen Takhisis in a way: A dragon with a single heart and five heads. The heart is the temple in the center; the heads are the armies that guard it. Since you materialized inside the temple, I take it you did not get a good look at the outside.”
The temple was surrounded by high, stone walls and was difficult to see from their angle. Iolanthe led Raistlin to the front gate, which was standing wide open, for a better view. The mage gazed at the temple and thought he had never seen anything so hideous. Takhisis had a sense of humor, apparently, albeit a twisted one. Once long in the past there had been, in the city of Istar, a radiant and holy and beautiful temple dedicated to Paladine, God of Light. The Temple of Takhisis was a distorted, perverted mockery of that ancient temple, which lay fathoms deep beneath the Blood Sea. A thing of darkness, Takhisis’s temple cast a pall over the entire city, like the unnatural darkness of an eclipse, when the moon blots out the sun, except that an eclipse ends. The temple’s darkness in the midst of daylight was constant.
“Ugly as sin, isn’t it?” Iolanthe said, regarding the temple with distaste. “Evil should be beautiful. It does so much more damage that way. Don’t you agree?” Her violent eyes glittered, and she gave him a sly smile.
They continued along the main street, which ran outside the temple, known as Queen’s Way.
“We are now in what they call the Inner City,” Iolanthe said. “The temple is surrounded by a wall, and Neraka is surrounded by its own wall. Outside that wall, the five dragonarmies have their camps. Inside the wall, each dragonarmy has its own district.”
Raistlin already knew that from his studies of Neraka in the Great Library. Due to distrust and intrigues and competition for advancement among the five Dragon Highlords—qualities Ariakas fostered—every district was self-sufficient. Each had its own smithies, shops, dwellings, barracks, and so on. No Highlord wanted to have to rely on another for anything. Needless to say, rivalries among the soldiers were also encouraged.
“We are going outside the walls. Bloody hell!” Iolanthe stopped. She looked annoyed. “I forgot. You don’t have a black pass.”
“A black pass? What is that?” Raistlin asked.
Iolanthe reached into one of the silken pouches she wore on her belt and took out a bit of paper. The ink was faded, but still possible to read. The seal of the Church—a five-headed dragon stamped in black wax—was affixed at the bottom.
“It’s called a black pass because of the black wax seal. All citizens must have this letter from the Church giving us permission to live and work in the city. Once you are outside the walls, you won’t be able to get back inside without this. And after last night, I doubt very much if the Nightlord will grant you one.”
Iolanthe pondered the problem a moment, frowning and tapping her foot. Then her face cleared. “Ah, I have the answer. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. Come along.”
She latched hold of him again and hauled him off, heading for the wall and the gate that led through it.
“Are you feverish?” Iolanthe asked suddenly, reaching up to feel his forehead.
“My body temperature is unnaturally high,” Raistlin said, flinching away from her touch.
She seemed to find his reaction amusing. He wondered irritably if she enjoyed making him feel uncomfortable.
“Nervous energy?” she suggested.
Again, Raistlin was forced to turn the subject from himself. “You mentioned that Emperor Ariakas frequented your friend’s shop. I had heard the Emperor is a wizard, something I find hard to believe since I also hear he is a warrior who wears armor and wields a sword. Others say he is a cleric, devoted to Takhisis. Which is the truth?”
“Both, in a way,” said Iolanthe, her expression darkening. “The Emperor goes into battle wearing full plate and chain mail and carrying a two-handed greatsword. He is not one to lead from the rear. He is no coward. He loves nothing better than to be in the thick of the fray. And while he is lopping off heads with one hand, he is casting fiery darts of magic with the other.”
“That is not possible,” Raistlin said flatly.
As he was constantly having to remind Caramon, who was always wanting him to learn to wield a sword, the art of magic required constant, daily study. Those who dedicate themselves to the magic do not have the time to pursue other interests, including martial skills. In addition, armor impeded the mage from making the complex hand motions often required for spellcasting. And many mages, such as Raistlin, believed that magic was a far more powerful weapon than a sword.
“Lord Ariakas is something of a cleric,” Iolanthe was saying. “He acquires his magic directly from Queen Takhisis herself.”
They passed through the White Gate, under the control of the Green Dragonarmy, commanded by Highlord Salah-Kahn. The White Dragonarmy, formerly under the late Dragon Highlord Feal-Thas, had been considerably reduced since the Highlord’s death, most of its troops reassigned. The soldiers of the Green Dragonarmy were from Iolanthe’s homeland of Khur. She was well known among them and well liked, for she took care to cultivate their good opinion.
His hood pulled low to conceal his face, Raistlin watched in silence, as she flirted and laughed and teased her way through the gate. No one asked to see his pass.
“They will want to see it on the way back in, however,” Iolanthe said. “But don’t worry. All will be well.”
Leaving the Inner City was like stepping from dark and quiet night into loud and blaring day. The sun blazed hotly, as though glad to escape the Dark Queen’s shadow. The dirt streets were jammed with wagons, carts, and all manner of people, every one of them yelling at the top of his or her lungs.
Raistlin was trying to cross the street without being run down by a cart, when he bumped into a soldier, who swore at him viciously and pulled his knife. Iolanthe lifted her hand; flames crackled ominously from her fingers, and the soldier glared and went on. She dragged Raistlin off, both of them walking carefully to avoid tumbling into the deep ruts worn by the wagon wheels.
The streets were clogged with soldiers of all races—humans, ogres, goblins, minotaurs, and draconians. The draconians were disciplined, orderly, their weapons shining, leather polished. Human soldiers, by contrast, were slovenly, raucous, sullen, and surly. Ogres kept to themselves, looking brooding and put-upon. Two minotaurs walked proudly past, their horned heads held high, regarding all other puny beings with magnificent disdain. Goblins and hobgoblins, whom everyone despised, slogged through the mud, ducking their hairy heads to avoid blows.
Quarrels between the troops often broke out, resulting in heated exchanges and drawn swords. At the first shout, the elite draconian temple guards would appear, as if from no
where. The combatants would eye them, then snarl and retreat, like curs when the master brandishes the whip.
The noise and confusion of rumbling carts, swearing men, barking dogs, and shrill-voiced whores gave Raistlin a throbbing headache. The air was thick with smoke from the forge fires and the cook fires of the various army camps, whose tents were visible in the distance. A most foul odor came from a nearby tannery and mingled with livestock smells from the stockyard and fresh blood from the butcher’s.
Iolanthe covered her mouth with a perfumed handkerchief.
“Thank goodness we’re almost there,” said Iolanthe as she gestured to a large and sprawling collection of buildings across the street from where they were standing. “The Inn of the Broken Shield. You should seek lodging there.”
Raistlin shook his head. “I have read of it. I can’t afford it.”
“Oh, yes, you can,” said Iolanthe, and she winked at him. “I have an idea.”
She glanced both ways, then plunged out into the street. Raistlin followed, both of them running and stumbling over the ruts, dodging horses and marching soldiers.
Raistlin had read a description of the inn in his studies of Neraka. An Aesthetic with the unlikely name of Cameroon Bunks had risked his life to venture into the city of the Dark Queen in order to explore it and return to report on what he had seen.
He wrote: The Inn of the Broken Shield began when proprietor Talent Orren, a former sellsword from Lemish, used his winnings at gambling to purchase a one-room shack in the White District of Neraka. The story goes that Orren had no steel for a sign, so he nailed his own cracked shield over the door and called the shack the “Broken Shield.” Orren served food that was plain, but good. He did not water the ale nor gouge his customers. With the influx of soldiers and dark pilgrims into Neraka, he soon had more business than he could handle. Later, Orren added a room to the shack and called it the “Broken Shield Tavern.” Later still, he added several blocks of rooms to the tavern and changed the name to the “Inn of the Broken Shield.”
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