The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

  5

  RAISTLIN FLED ALONG THE BOARDWALKS, WITH NO IDEA WHERE he was or where he was going. He knew only that he could not go home. Caramon would be returning later, when his pleasure was sated, and Raistlin could not bear to see his brother, to see that self-satisfied grin and smell her scent and his lust still clinging to him. Jealousy and revulsion clenched Raistlin’s stomach, sent bitter bile surging up his throat. Half blind, weak, and nauseous, he walked and walked, blind and uncaring, until he walked straight into a tree limb in the darkness.

  The blow to his forehead stunned him. Dazed, he clung to the railing. Alone on the moonlit stairs, his hands dappled with the blood-red light, shaking and trembling with the fury of his emotions, he wished Caramon and Miranda both dead. If he had known a magical spell in that moment that would have seared the lovers’ flesh, burned them to ashes, Raistlin would have cast it.

  He could see quite clearly in his mind the fire engulfing the clothier’s shed, see the flames—crackling red and orange and white-hot—consuming the wood and the flesh inside, burning, purifying …

  A dull aching pain in his hands and wrists jolted him back to conscious awareness. He looked down to see his hands white-knuckled in the moonlight. He had been sick, he realized from the stench and a puddle of puke at his feet. He had no recollection of vomiting. The purging had done him some good apparently. He was no longer dizzy or nauseated. The rage and jealousy no longer surged inside him, no longer poisoned him.

  He could look around now, take his bearings. At first, he recognized nothing. Then slowly he found a familiar landmark, then another. He knew where he was. He had traversed nearly the length of Solace, yet he had no memory of having done so. Looking back, it was as if he looked into the heart of a conflagration. All was red fire and black smoke and drifting white ash. He gave a deep sigh, a shuddering sigh, and slowly let go his stranglehold on the railing.

  A public water barrel stood nearby. He dared not yet put anything into his shriveled stomach, but he moistened his lips and splashed water on the boards where he’d been sick. He was thankful no one had seen him, thankful no one else was around. He could not have borne with pity.

  As Raistlin came to figure out where he was, he came to the realization that he shouldn’t be here. This part of Solace was not considered safe. One of the first to be built, its dwellings were little more than tumbledown shacks, long since abandoned, the early residents having either prospered and moved up in Solace society or foundered and moved out of town altogether. Weird Meggin lived not far from here, and this was also the location of The Trough, which must have been very close by.

  Drunken laughter drifted up through the leaves, but it was sporadic and muffled. Most people, even drunkards, were long abed. The night had crossed its midpoint, was in the small hours.

  Caramon would be home by now, home and probably frantic with worry at the absence of his twin.

  Good, Raistlin said sourly to himself. Let him worry. He would have to think up some excuse for his absence, which shouldn’t be too difficult. Caramon would swallow anything.

  Raistlin was chilled, exhausted, and shivering; he’d come out without a cloak, and he would have a long walk home. But still he lingered by the railing, looked back with uneasiness on the moment when he’d wished his brother and Miranda dead. He was relieved to be able to tell himself that he had not meant it, and he was suddenly able to appreciate the strict rules and laws that governed the use of magic. Impatient to gain power, he had never understood so clearly the importance of the Test, which stood like a steel gate across his future, barring his entry to the higher ranks of wizardry.

  Only those with the discipline to handle such vast power were granted the right to use it. Looking back on the savagery of his emotions, his desire, his lust, his jealousy, his rage, Raistlin was appalled. The fact that his body—the yearnings and desires of his body—could have so completely overthrown the discipline of his mind disgusted him. He resolved to guard against such destructive emotions in the future.

  Pondering this, he was just about to set out for home when he heard booted footsteps approaching. Probably the town guard, walking their nightly patrol. He foresaw annoying questions, stern lectures, perhaps even an enforced escort home. He sidled near the bole of the tree, crept into its shadow, out of Lunitari’s light. He wanted to be alone, he wanted to talk to no one.

  The person continued walking, moved out of the shadows cast by the tree leaves, and entered a red pool of moonlight. The person was cloaked and hooded, but Raistlin knew Kitiara immediately, knew her by her walk—her long, quick, impatient stride that never seemed to carry her to her destination fast enough.

  She passed close by Raistlin. He could have reached out to brush her dark cloak, but he only shrank still deeper into the shadows. Of all the people he did not want to see this night, Kitiara was foremost. He hoped she would remove herself from his vicinity quickly, so that he could return home, and he was extremely frustrated to see her halt at the water barrel.

  He waited for her to take her drink and go on, but, though she did drink from the gourd cup attached to the barrel by a rope, she didn’t move on. She dumped the gourd back into the water; it fell with a splash. Crossing her arms, Kit leaned back against the barrel and took up a position of waiting.

  Raistlin was stranded. He could not leave his tree. He could not step out into the moonlight without her noticing him. But by now he would not have left if he could have. He was intrigued and curious. What was Kitiara doing? Why was she out walking the streets of Solace at this time of night, walking alone, her half-elf lover nowhere to be seen?

  She was meeting someone; that much was obvious. Kit was never good at waiting for anything, and this was no exception. She had not been standing two minutes before she stirred restlessly. She crossed her feet, uncrossed her feet, rattled the sword at her waist, slapped her leather gloved hands together, took another drink of water, and more than once leaned forward to peer impatiently down the walkway.

  “I will give him five more minutes,” she muttered. The night air was still, and Raistlin could hear her words quite clearly.

  Footsteps sounded, coming from the direction in which Kit had been looking. She straightened, her hand going reflexively to the hilt of her sword.

  The other figure was that of a man, also cloaked and hooded and reeking of ale. Even from where he stood, no more than ten paces from them, Raistlin could smell the liquor on the man. Kit wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  “You sot!” Kit sneered. “Keep me waiting in the cold for hours while you suck down rotgut, will you! I’ve half a mind to slit your ale-swilling belly!”

  “I am not past our meeting time,” said the man, and his voice was cold and, surprisingly, sober. “If anything, I am early. And one cannot sit in a tavern, even in a tavern as wretched as The Trough, without drinking. Though I am thankful to say that more of that foul liquid the barkeep has the temerity to call ale is on me than is inside me. The barmaid helps herself to her own wares apparently. She managed to spill nearly a full flagon on me.… Did you hear that?”

  Raistlin had shifted his position ever so slightly in order to relieve a sudden painful cramp in his left leg. He had made hardly any noise at all, yet the man had heard him, for the hooded face turned in Raistlin’s direction. Steel flashed in the moonlight.

  Raistlin held perfectly still, not even breathing. He did not want to be caught spying on his sister. Kit would be furious, and she had never had any qualms about relieving her anger with the flat of her hand. She might do worse now. And even if she didn’t, even if she were inclined to be at all tenderhearted with her baby brother, then the man with the voice like frost-rimed iron would not.

  Yet even as fear clenched his already shriveled belly, Raistlin realized that he did not dread being caught because he feared punishment, but because he would miss a chance to discover one of Kit’s secrets. Kit had already tried to draw him into her world, place him under her influence. Raistlin was certai
n she would try again, and he had no intention of playing a subservient role to anyone. Someday he would have to oppose the wishes of his willful sister. He would need every weapon at his disposal for the combat.

  “Your ears are playing tricks on you,” Kit said after a moment’s pause, during which both had listened intently.

  “I heard something, I tell you,” the man insisted.

  “It must have been a cat, then. No one comes here this time of night. Let’s get down to business.”

  Raistlin could see the flash of moonlight off the hilt of Kit’s sword; she had drawn aside her cloak to remove a leather scroll case she carried tucked into her belt.

  “Maps?” the man asked, looking down at the case.

  “See for yourself,” she said.

  The man unscrewed the end and drew out several sheaves of paper. He spread these out, partially unrolled, on the lid of the water barrel, studied them in the moonlight.

  “It’s all there,” Kit said complacently, pointing with a gloved finger. “Plus more than your lord asked for. The defenses of Qualinesti are delineated on the main map: number of guard posts, number of guards posted, how often the guards are changed, what type of weapons they carry, and so forth. I walked the entire border of Qualinesti myself twice. I’ve marked on a different map weak spots in their defense, possible areas of penetration, and I’ve indicated the easiest access routes from the north.”

  “This is excellent,” the man said. He rolled up the sheaves of paper, slid them carefully back into the scroll case, and tucked the scroll case into the top of his boot. “My lord will be pleased. What else have you learned about Qualinesti? I hear you’ve taken a half-elf lover who was born in—ulp!”

  Kit had grabbed hold of the ties of the drawstring on the man’s hood. Giving them an expert twist, she jerked him, half strangled, toward her.

  “You leave him out of this!” she told him, her voice soft and lethal. “If you think I would demean myself by sleeping with any man in order to gain information, you’re wrong, my friend. And you could be dead wrong if you say or do anything to make him the least suspicious.”

  Steel glinted in the moonlight; Kit held a knife in her other hand. The man glanced down at it, glanced again at Kit’s eyes, flashing brighter than the steel, and he raised his hands in deprecating agreement.

  “Sorry, Kit. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Kitiara released him. He rubbed his neck where the drawstring had cut into it. “How did you get away tonight?”

  “I told him I was spending the evening with my brothers. I’ll have my money now.”

  The man reached beneath his cloak, brought out a purse, and handed it over.

  Kitiara opened the bag, held it to the light, and estimated the amount of the money quickly by eye. She held up a large coin, studied it, then tucked the coin into the palm of her glove. Pleased, she tied the purse to her belt.

  “There’s more where that came from if you happen to pick up any additional information about Qualinesti and the elves. Information that you just happen to find ‘lying around.’ ”

  Kitiara chuckled. The money had put her in a good mood. “How do I contact you?”

  “Leave a message at The Trough. I’ll stop by whenever I’m passing this way. But won’t you be traveling north soon?” he asked.

  Kit shrugged. “I don’t think so. I’m happy enough where I am for the time being. There’s my little brothers to think of.”

  “Uh-huh,” the man grunted.

  “They’re getting to the age where they could be of some use to us,” Kit continued, ignoring him.

  “I’ve seen them around town. The big one we could use as a soldier maybe, though he’s clumsy as a kobold and looks about as bright. The other, though—the magic-user. Rumor has it that he’s quite talented. My lord would be pleased to have him join his ranks.”

  “Rumor has it wrong! Raistlin can pull a coin out of his nose. That’s about it. But I’ll see what I can do.” Kit held out her hand.

  The man took hold of her hand, shook it, but didn’t immediately let go. “Lord Ariakas would be pleased to have you join us as well, Kit. On a permanent basis. You’d make a fine commander. He said so.”

  Kit removed her hand from the man’s grasp, placed it on the hilt of her sword. “I didn’t know His Lordship and I were on such familiar terms,” she said archly. “I’ve never met the man.”

  “He knows you, Kit. By sight and by reputation. He’s impressed, and this”—the man indicated the map case—“will impress him further. He’s prepared to offer you a place in his new army. It’s a great opportunity. One day he will rule all of Ansalon, and after that all of Krynn.”

  “Indeed?” Kit lifted her eyebrow. She appeared impressed. “He doesn’t think small, does he?”

  “Why should he? He has powerful allies. Which reminds me. How do you feel about dragons?”

  “Dragons!” Kit was amused. “I think they are fine for scaring the wits out of little children, but that’s about all. What do you mean?”

  “Nothing in particular. You wouldn’t be fearful of them, would you?”

  “I fear nothing in this world or the next,” Kit said, a dangerous edge to her voice. “Does any man say different?”

  “No one says different, Kit,” the man responded. “My lord has heard us all speak of your courage. That’s why he wants you to join us.”

  “I’m happy here,” Kit said, shrugging off the offer. “For the time being, at least.”

  “Suit yourself. The offer—By Takhisis, I heard that!”

  Uncomfortable prickling sensations had been shooting up the backs of Raistlin’s legs. He had tried to shift his foot, wiggle his toes, and he’d tried to do it silently. Unfortunately the board on which he stood was loose and creaked loudly when his foot moved.

  “Spy!” the man said in his cold voice.

  A flutter of black cloak, a leap, and a bound, and he was standing in front of Raistlin, his strong hand gripping Raistlin’s cloak. Words of magic flew out of the young mage’s head on wings of terror.

  The man dragged Raistlin out from behind the tree. Forcing him to his knees, the man yanked off the hood of Raistlin’s cloak. He grabbed a handful of Raistlin’s hair, jerked his head back. Steel flashed red in the moonlight.

  “This is what we do to spies in Neraka.”

  “You fool! Stop!” Kitiara’s arm slammed into the man’s hand, knocking the arm backward and the knife to the boardwalk.

  The man turned on her in fury, his lust for blood hot. The point of her sword at his throat cooled him.

  “Why did you stop me? I wasn’t going to kill him. Not yet, anyhow. He’ll talk first. I need to know who’s paying him to spy on me.”

  “No one’s paying him to spy on you,” said Kitiara scornfully. “If he’s spying on anyone, he’s spying on me.”

  “You?” The man was skeptical.

  “He’s my brother,” said Kitiara.

  Raistlin crouched on his knees, his head bowed. Shame and embarrassment overwhelmed him. He could have wished to die rather than face his sister’s wrath and, worse, her disdain.

  “He’s always been a little snoop,” said Kitiara. “We call him the Sly One. Get up!”

  She cuffed Raistlin across the face hard. He tasted blood.

  To his astonishment, after she’d struck him, Kitiara put her arm around his neck, hugged him close.

  “There, that was for being bad,” she said to him playfully. “Now that you’re here, Raist, let me introduce you to a friend of mine. Balif is his name. He’s sorry he scared you like that. He thought you were a thief. Aren’t you, sorry, Balif?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry,” said the man, eyeing Raistlin.

  “And you were acting like a thief, skulking around in the night. What are you doing out this late, anyway? Where were you?”

  “I was with Weird Meggin,” said Raistlin, wiping blood from his split lip. “She had found a dead fox. We were dissecting it.”

&
nbsp; Kit wrinkled her nose and frowned. “That woman’s a witch. You should stay away from her. So, little brother,” Kit said offhandedly, “what did you think about what Balif and I were discussing?”

  Raistlin looked stupid, copying his twin’s blank stare and dumbfounded expression. “Nothing.” He shrugged. “I didn’t hear that much of it. I was just walking by, and—”

  “Liar,” growled the man. “I heard a noise when we first started talking, Kit. He’s been there the whole time.”

  “No, I haven’t, sir.” Raistlin spoke in conciliatory tones. “I was going to walk past, but I heard you mention dragons. I stopped to listen. I couldn’t help myself. I have always been interested in stories of the old days. Particularly dragons.”

  “That’s true,” said Kitiara. “He’s always got his nose in a book. He’s harmless, Balif. Quit worrying. Run along home, Raist. I won’t mention the fact that you’ve been with that witch woman to anyone.”

  His gaze met hers.

  And I won’t mention to Tanis the fact that you’ve been out in the night with another man, Raistlin promised her silently.

  She smiled. They understood each other perfectly sometimes.

  “Go along!” She gave him a shove.

  Muscles stiff and aching, fear and blood leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, a taste that sickened him, he made his way across the boardwalk. Hearing sounds of footsteps and afraid that Balif was coming after him, Raistlin glanced back.

  Balif was leaving by the stairs, his cloak swirling around him.

  Kitiara had fished the coin out of her glove. She flipped it into the air, caught it. Leaning over the rail, she called after him, “I’ll keep in touch!”

  Raistlin heard the man’s brief, cold laughter. Footsteps continued on the stairs and then died away as the man reached ground level.

  Kitiara remained standing by the water barrel, her head lowered, her arms crossed over her chest. She was deep in thought. After a moment, she shook herself all over, as if shaking off all doubt and questions. Drawing her hood close to conceal her face, she set off at a brisk pace.