Raistlin came to himself with a gasp. He had fallen asleep while standing on his feet. He staggered back to his bed and collapsed down on it. He closed his eyes, and sleep came, pouncing on him like a wild beast and dragging him down into dark depths.
But as he slept, the cold and logical part of his mind must have continued to work, for when he woke only a few hours later, he knew what he had to do.
Day was dawning, time for the changing of the watch. Soldiers coming off duty were in a good mood, heading for the taverns. Soldiers coming on duty grumbled and swore as they took up their posts. Gray mists like tentacles slid sullenly over the city. The clouds would blow away. The Night of the Eye would be clear. The Night of the Eye was always clear. The gods saw to that.
Raistlin walked swiftly, his hands in his sleeves, his head bowed, his cowl pulled low. He bumped into soldiers, who glared at him and shouted insults to which he paid no heed. The soldiers muttered, but went on their way, either late for duty or eager for pleasure.
Raistlin entered the Red District, passed through the gate, and stopped to get his bearings. He’d been here only once before, and that had been after dark and he’d been pretending to be unconscious.
He followed the route Maelstrom had taken and found what he thought was the entry point to the tunnels at the back of a large building. The entrance was well hidden, and Raistlin couldn’t be sure. He walked around to the front, glanced up at the sign—a lute suspended from a rope above the door. The wind had a trick of vibrating the strings, making them hum.
Raistlin banged on the door. Dogs barked.
“We’re not open yet!” a deep voice yelled from inside.
“You are now,” said Raistlin. He drew a bit of dung out of a pouch and began rolling it between his fingers as he spoke the words to the spell. “Daya laksana banteng!”
Strength filled his body. Raistlin kicked the heavy wooden door and shattered it to splinters. The iron lock dropped off and fell to the floor. Raistlin knocked aside some of the wooden shards with the end of his staff and entered the shop.
He was immediately set upon by two mastiffs. The dogs did not attack. They stood in front of him, their heads lowered, ears flat. The female curled her lip, showing yellowed fangs.
“Call off your dogs,” said Raistlin.
“Go to the Abyss!” howled a black-bearded man seated on a stool in the back of the cluttered room. “Look what you’ve done to my door!”
“Call off your dogs, Lute,” Raistlin repeated. “And do not even think of touching that crossbow. If you do, the only thing left on that stool will be a greasy, hairy glob of burnt dwarf.”
Lute slowly moved his hand from the crossbow.
“Shinare,” he said sullenly. “Hiddukel. Come to me.”
The dogs gave Raistlin a parting growl and slunk back to their master.
“Lock them in that room,” Raistlin ordered, indicating the half-dwarf’s bedroom.
Lute ordered the dogs into his room and, heaving himself, grumbling, off the stool, he locked the door on them. Raistlin made his way through the piles of junk to the back of the store.
“What do you want?” Lute asked, glaring at Raistlin.
“I need to speak to Talent.”
“You’ve come to the wrong place. He’s at the Broken Shield—”
Raistlin slammed his hand down on the counter. “I am in no mood for your lies. Tell Talent I must talk to him now!”
Lute sneered. “I’m not your bloody errand boy—”
Raistlin seized hold of Lute’s thick, full beard and gave it a twist that brought tears to the half-dwarf’s eyes.
Lute yelped and tried desperately to break Raistlin’s grip. The half-dwarf might as well have tried to break one of the oak beams holding up his ceiling. Raistlin was still under the empowering effects of the spell. He gave Lute’s beard a sharp yank, drawing blood, and making him moan with pain. Hearing their master’s cry, the dogs barked furiously and flung themselves against the door.
“I’ll tear your beard out by the roots,” said Raistlin, hissing the words through his teeth, “unless you do as I ask. You will send for Talent now. You will tell him to meet me in the same place we met last time: the tunnels beneath this building.”
Lute muttered a curse.
Raistlin yanked harder.
“I’ll do what you say!” Lute shrieked, pawing at Raistlin’s hand. “Let go of me! Let go!”
“You’ll talk to Talent?” Raistlin asked, retaining his hold on the beard.
Lute gave a nod. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Raistlin released his grip, flinging Lute backward. The half-dwarf massaged his burning chin. “I’ll have to send Mari. I can’t go myself. You broke down my door. I’ll be robbed blind.”
“Where is Mari?”
“She generally comes around about this time.” As if conjured up by his words, the kender appeared at the entrance.
“Hey, Lute, what happened to your door?” she asked. “Oh, hullo, Raist. I didn’t see you there.”
“Never you mind about anything,” Lute growled. “And don’t you set foot in here. Run and fetch Talent. Tell him to go to the tunnels.”
“Sure, Lute, I’ll go. But what happened to the door—?”
“Now, you lame-brain!” Lute bellowed.
“You must hurry, Mari,” said Raistlin. “It’s urgent.”
The kender looked from one to the other, then dashed off.
“And bring back a carpenter!” Lute shouted after her.
“How do I get to the tunnel?” Raistlin asked.
“You’re so smart, you figure it out,” Lute said. He was still rubbing his chin.
Raistlin cast a swift glance around the cluttered shop. “Ah, of course, the trapdoor is beneath the dog kennel. Not terribly original. Is it locked? Is there a key?”
Lute muttered something.
“I can always blast a hole in your floor,” said Raistlin.
“No key,” Lute said. “Just lift up the damn door and go down the damn stairs. Watch your step. The stairs are steep. It would be a pity if you fell and broke your neck.”
Raistlin went over to the dog crate and shoved aside the bedding to find the trap door beneath. The spell he’d cast on himself was starting to wear off, but fortunately he had just strength enough to be able to pull open the heavy wooden door. It was at times such as this that he missed Caramon.
Raistlin peered down into the darkness that would be even darker once he shut the trap door.
“Shirak,” he said, and the crystal on top of his staff began to glow.
He gathered up the hem of his robes and carefully navigated the stairs as the trapdoor fell shut behind him. The subterranean chamber was silent and smelled of loam. He could hear the drip of water in the distance. He flashed the light around and, after a few moments, found the chair to which he’d been chained and the chair Talent had straddled.
Raistlin took Talent’s chair and sat down to wait.
Talent was not long in coming. Raistlin had not even had time to grow impatient before he heard the sound of booted feet thudding on the dirt floor and saw the light of a lantern shining in the darkness. Raistlin had his rose petals in his hand and the words to a sleep spell on his lips, just in case Talent had decided to send someone else to the meeting; someone such as Maelstrom.
But it was Talent himself who appeared in the circle of light cast by the staff.
“Sit down,” said Raistlin, and he shoved out a chair with his foot.
Talent remained standing. He folded his arms over his chest. “I’m here, but not because I want to be. You could have put us all in danger—”
“You are already in danger,” said Raistlin. “I have been to Dargaard Keep. I have spoken to my sister. Please sit down. I don’t like to have to crane my neck to look up at you.”
Talent hesitated, then sat down. His sword hung from his side. The tip brushed the dirt floor.
“Well?” he said tersely. “What did the Blue Lady have to
say?”
“A great many things, but most do not concern you. One does. You have been betrayed. Takhisis knows everything. She has ordered Ariakas to kill you and Mari and all the rest of your gang.”
Talent frowned. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Majere, but if Ariakas knows, why haven’t I been arrested?”
“Because you are far more popular in Neraka than the Emperor,” said Raistlin. “There would be rioting in the streets if you were arrested and the Broken Shield was closed down. The same with your hairy friend upstairs. His business is crucial to most of the people in this city, especially now that many of the troops aren’t being paid. And then there are the clerics in the temple, half of whom are in your pocket. They’d have to give up all the black market luxuries they’ve come to enjoy.”
Talent gave a sardonic smile. “I suppose that’s all true enough. So Ariakas doesn’t plan to have us arrested—”
“No. He’s simply going to have you killed,” said Raistlin. “When is all this supposed to happen?” “Tonight,” said Raistlin. “Tonight?” Talent stood up in alarm.
“The Night of the Eye. Iolanthe tells me that you and your friend at the Hairy Troll always throw a street party where you set bonfires. Tonight the bonfires will flare out of control. The flames will spread to both the Hairy Troll and the Broken Shield. As you fight the flames, there will be a terrible accident. You and Mari and Maelstrom and other members of Hidden Light will be trapped inside the blazing building. You will burn to death.”
“What about Lute?” Talent asked harshly. “He won’t be at these celebrations. He never leaves this shop.”
“His body will be found in the morning. By a strange mischance, his own dogs will turn on him and rip him apart.”
“I see,” said Talent grimly. “Who is the traitor? Who betrayed us?”
Raistlin stood up. “I do not know. Nor do I care. I have my own troubles, and they are far greater than yours. Which brings me to my final request. There are two others who are marked for death this night. One is Iolanthe—”
“Iolanthe? Ariakas’s Witch?” Talent said, amazed. “Why would he want to kill her?”
“He does not, but the Blue Lady does. The second is Snaggle, the owner of the mageware shop on Wizard’s Row. He will not want to leave his shop. He’ll have to be ‘persuaded’.”
“What in the Abyss is going on?” Talent demanded, aghast.
“I can’t tell you the entire plot. What I can tell you is that this night, Queen Takhisis will seize control of magic. By her command, the Blue Lady is sending out death squads to kill as many wizards as possible. Snaggle and Iolanthe are both on her list.”
Talent stared at him, silent and appalled. Then he said, “Why tell me? Why not tell Iolanthe?”
“Because I cannot trust her,” said Raistlin. “I am not certain even now whose side she is on.”
Talent shook his head. “Iolanthe is a threat to you, and yet you want to protect her. I thought your type would be more likely to laugh as you watched her go up in flames. I don’t understand you, Majere.”
“I imagine there is a great deal in this world you do not understand,” said Raistlin caustically. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to explain it to you. Suffice it to say I owe both Iolanthe and Snaggle a debt. And I always pay my debts.”
He picked up his staff with the glowing light and started to leave.
“Hey!” said Talent. “Where are you going?”
“I am taking the back way out,” said Raistlin. “Your friend Lute would not be pleased to see me again.”
“You’re probably right. I heard about the broken door,” said Talent, falling into step beside Raistlin. “But you’ll get lost. I’ll have to show you.”
“Do not bother. I remember the route from when I was here the last time.”
“You remember it? But you couldn’t. You were—” Talent stopped. He stared at the mage. “You only pretended to be drugged. But how did you know the drink was spiked—?”
“I have an excellent sense of smell,” said Raistlin.
The two walked together. The only sounds were the gentle thump of the staff on the dirt floor, the slight swishing of the black robes, and the thudding of Talent’s boots. Talent walked with his head down, his hands behind his back, lost in thought. Raistlin cast keen glances around him, noting the many tunnels branching off from the one they were using. He pictured a map of the city in his head and used it to try to calculate where each might lead.
“This system is quite extensive,” Raistlin remarked. “I would guess, for example, that this tunnel”—he pointed with his staff—“leads to the Dark Queen’s temple. And this.” He pointed out another tunnel. “This one leads to the Broken Shield.”
“And this,” said Talent grimly, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, “leads to the death of people who do too much damn guessing.”
Raistlin smiled and inclined his head.
“Something I’m wondering,” said Talent abruptly. “You don’t trust Iolanthe, a fellow wizard. The gods know I don’t trust you. Yet you trust me. You must since you told me all this. Why is that?”
“You remind me of someone,” said Raistlin after a moment’s pause. “Like you, he was a Solamnic. Est Sularus uth Mithas. He lived that motto. His honor was his life.”
“Mine isn’t,” said Talent.
“Which is why you are still alive and Sturm is not. And why I trust you.”
Talent escorted the mage out of the tunnels. Once they were on street level, Talent kept an eye on Raistlin, watching until the black robes had merged with the crowds in the street. Even after Raistlin had gone, Talent remained standing in the alleyway, going over the wizard’s words in his mind.
It seemed too incredible to be believed. Takhisis trying to destroy the gods of magic! Well, so what? Who would miss a few wizards anyway? The world would be a better place without wizards, or so most people believed. Most people, including Talent Orren.
Take that young man, Talent thought. He makes my flesh crawl. Only pretending to be drugged! Maelstrom will have to be more careful next time. Only there may not be a next time. Not if what Majere says is true. Do I trust him? This might all be a trap.
Talent left the alley and made his way to Lute’s shop. There he found that his friend, for the first time in memory, had actually summoned up the energy to walk from the counter to the front of the shop. Lute stood glaring at the wreckage of his front door, poking at the fragments with his cane and swearing. Mari sat on the stoop, her chin in her hands, listening to Lute’s colorful language with evident enjoyment.
“Mari,” said Talent, kneeling down beside the kender to look her in the eye. “What do you think of that wizard, Majere?”
“He’s my friend,” said Mari promptly. “We had a long talk, him and me. We’re going to change the darkness.”
Talent regarded her in silence a moment. Then he stood up. “We have a problem.”
“Damn right we do!” Lute said angrily. “Look what that rutting bugger did to my door!”
“A bigger problem than that,” said Talent Orren. “Come back inside, both of you. We have to talk.”
4
God of White. God of Red. God of Black.
24th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC
ambskin,” said Raistlin. “The finest. And a quill pen.”
“What type?” asked Snaggle, taking down a box. He placed it on the counter and opened it. “I have some lovely swan feathers, sir. Just come in. Black swans as well as white.”
Raistlin studied the quills, then picked one up. He eyed the tip carefully, for it had to be perfect, and ran his fingers over the soft feather. His mind went back to that day in Master Theobald’s class, the day that had changed his life. No, that was not right. That day his life had not been changed. His life had been affirmed. “I will take the crow quill,” said Raistlin.
Snaggle pursed his lips. “Crow? Are you certain, sir? You can afford better. Those potions of
yours are marvels. I can’t keep them in stock. I was planning on ordering more.”
He shoved the swan feather temptingly forward. “I have peacock, as well. Iolanthe uses only peacock feathers for her work.”
“I am not surprised,” said Raistlin. “Thank you, but this is the one I want.”
He placed the lowly crow feather on the counter. He selected the strip of lambskin with great care. For that item, he did choose the best.
Snaggle added up the purchases and found that they equaled what he owed Raistlin for the potions. He gave Raistlin an order for more, an order that would never be filled. Raistlin would, he hoped, be able to save the old man, but he would not be able to save the shop, which would be burned to the ground. Raistlin looked at the neatly labeled boxes stacked on the shelves, boxes containing spell components and artifacts, scrolls and potions. He thought of Iolanthe’s apartment above the shop, of her spellbooks and scrolls, clothes and jewels, and other valuables. All lost in the flames.
Pausing on his way out, Raistlin glanced back at Snaggle, who was seated on his stool, calmly drinking tarbean tea, unaware of the fury rolling toward him.
“How do you celebrate the Night of the Eye, sir?” Raistlin asked.
Snaggle shrugged. “Same as any other night for me. I drink my tea, lock up the shop, and go to my bed.”
Raistlin had a momentary vision of flames engulfing the shop, engulfing the old man’s bed. Secreting his precious purchases in the long, flowing sleeve of his robes, he returned to the street, heading to his next destination, the Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka.
Raistlin cast a spell of holding on the door, as powerful as he could make it. He did not think anyone was likely to come calling, but he could not take a chance on being disturbed. He walked up the stairs slowly. Time was slipping away. He could see the grain of sand lodged in the narrow part of the hourglass. Every moment that passed, the grain slipped a little closer to oblivion.
Raistlin was tired. He had been on the move since before dawn, unable to rest until he had spoken to Talent and made certain all was well there. He had taken care of the less important matters first. Arriving at the moment of decision, his steps slowed. Even by warning Talent, Raistlin had not yet committed himself to the battle against Takhisis. He could always back out, do what he was supposed to do, what he had assured Kitiara he would do.
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