by Jean Rabe
“Triple,” said the Dark Knight.
Dhamon glared at his companions. “I’ll speak for my group,” he said, moving Feril aside and taking her place in front of the tall Dark Knight.
As the others were searched one at a time, Dhamon answered questions from the apparent leader of the sentries, who procured the triple harbor tax when he was finished.
Blister’s search took the longest. They kept finding more pouches and pockets – more things – much to her delight.
When they had finally cleared the Dark Knights’ checkpoint, Blister could no longer remain silent. “You should have let me do the talking. You’re still no good at lying. And why’s the Blue so concerned with our comings and goings? And... where are we going anyway?”
“The Lonely Refuge,” Dhamon answered, pausing in front of a cartographer’s shop that he had spotted from the shore.
Jasper’s map was all right, but incomplete. Dhamon wanted something a little more detailed and authoritative. Jasper’s map, which he waved at Blister, consisted of little more than the horseshoe-shaped harbor, an X indicating Palanthas, and a dotted line leading to another X northeast of the city. There was no scale, nor other points of reference. He stuffed the map in his front pocket and slipped inside the shop. Blister was one step behind him.
Shaon and the Kagonesti stood outside on the polished plank sidewalk. They drew appreciative and curious stares from passersby.
“C’mon,” Shaon said. She pointed to a tavern nearby. “I’m going to quench my thirst while I’m waiting.”
Feril wrinkled her nose, but joined the female barbarian out of curiosity.
*
Inside the shop, Dhamon stepped up to a low counter, the top of which was littered with rolled pieces of parchment and vials of ink. The walls of the business were covered with maps, old and yellowed, of buildings, towns, sea coasts, and islands. Behind a piece of glass, there was a rendering of Palanthas before the city spread beyond the circular stone wall. Only a handful of docks stretched out into the harbor, and a legend along the side indicated important places, such as the Tower of High Sorcery, the Great Library, and Nobles’ Hill. Next to it were city maps of Neraka, Qualinost, and Tarsis, all expertly sketched down to the tiniest landmarks.
“Look at that,” Blister pointed at the ceiling.
A map that was roughly six feet square was tacked directly overhead. It was a drawing of a hill, executed in black, brown, and green ink. Inside the hill were levels upon levels – thirty-five in all – of twisting stairways, large and small rooms, giant gears, and much more. A lower section was labeled “garbage dump,” and a squinting Dhamon could make out a tiny broken chair atop a pile of indistinguishable shattered odds and ends. Nearby were other labeled areas – agriculture, geothermal station, research, and gnomeflinger control room. Pipes ran from the adjacent “Crater Lake” and seemed to feed into every level of the mountain.
“Mount Nevermind.”
The voice was the proprietor’s, an elderly, stoop-shouldered man with a spattering of liver spots on his near-bald head. He stepped from behind a canvas curtain and up to the counter, dabbing at a spot of ink on his white tunic as he continued. “Probably the most accurate map on all of Krynn that you’ll find of the place, even with all of the rebuilding the gnomes have been doing.”
“Did you yourself draw it?” Blister was fascinated by the complicated map, and studied it with her head thrown back and her topknot dangling down behind her.”
“A gnome who used to work for me was born there. He drew it, and some of the other maps in the shop.” The man sighed as he waved his hand at some of the more elaborate charts. “Passed on a couple of years back. Still miss him.”
Dhamon stared at a map on the wall behind the old proprietor. It showed a V-shaped piece of land with the barrens of Tanith making up the left side, mountains forming the bottom of the V, and the coastline of Palanthas making up the right. The right tip was marked “Northern Wastes.”
“With all these maps, you must know a lot about the area,” Dhamon said. “Seen a lot.”
“I’ve lived here my whole life,” the man returned. “Never traveled much, but I vouch for my maps as accurate.”
“So you’re well-versed in the city.”
“I’ve seen Palanthas prosper, and I’ve seen it grieve. I watched the Tower of High Sorcery get swallowed up by a strange earthquake just about thirty years ago. I had a map of the Tower. No use now. No one needs a map of a black spot. Lots of things have gone away since...
“You’ve got some interesting maps.” Dhamon broke in, changing the subject. “Would you happen to have one to a place called the Lonely Refuge?”
The man raised a snow-white eyebrow. “It’s just an old ruin. Why would you want to go there?”
“To see Palin Majere,” Blister cut in. She stepped quickly aside, evading Dhamon’s attempt to elbow her sharply. “We’re supposed to go there to find him. At least, that’s what I overheard Goldmoon tell Dhamon.”
The old man stared at Dhamon and whistled softly. “Palin Majere. There ain’t much magic left on Krynn, but what little is left, he’d know about. A sorcerer, one of the few that’s left – and one of the most powerful.”
“You know him?” Blister asked, though her eyes were fixed on the wondrous outline of Mount Nevermind’s massive outer hall.
“No. But I saw him a couple of times. He lived in the Tower of High Sorcery after the War of the Lance.”
“The Lonely Refuge?” Dhamon prompted.
“Oh, yes. Well, a desert sits on three sides of the Refuge, and a rocky coast that plunges to the sea is on the fourth. I’ve a map of the area, and it shows where the ruin is – but I couldn’t guarantee you the place is still standing. Five steel pieces.”
Dhamon reached with visible surprise at the high sum. “Taxes,” said the old man, pointing to a group of Dark Knights that was passing by the front of the store.
Dhamon fished into his pocket and set the coins on the counter.
“Three,” Blister bargained.
“I already paid the man, Blister.” Dhamon stuck the parchment into his backpack. “Let’s go.”
“To the Lonely Refuge?”
“After we get some supplies.”
The kender grinned. She’d get to explore a little more of the city.
*
Despite the brightness of the morning outside, the interior of the tavern was dark, and the shades were drawn on its few windows. The tavern was open and busy, catering to sailors, who always seemed in the mood for ale – no matter the time of day.
The place was a single room crowded with old tables and chairs. It smelled heavily of spirits and sweat. Ships’ wheels, small rusted anchors, lanterns, broken spyglasses, and an assortment of belaying pins hung from the walls as decoration. Nets were draped here and there from the ceiling, and a big wrought iron chandelier that was ringed with thick candles hung in the middle.
The salty air that wafted in through the front door only added to the discordant scents. Rum, sweat, frying wheatcakes, and pipe smoke, competed for Shaon and Feril’s attention.
A half-dozen sailors sat around a table just inside the door. Four were attempting to play a dice game, the other two were facedown and snoring. A pair of rough-looking men with sun-weathered skin sat nearby, watching the sailors and working on a large plate of eggs and beef. They wore lizard-skin vests, homespun breeches, and sandals, and their hair was long and unruly.
Feril grimaced. “Smells worse than a weasel hole,” she whispered.
“Well, you’ll find a good share of weasels here,” Shaon retorted. The sea barbarian glided to the back of the room, where a long bar of deep mahogany stretched along the wall. Behind it, a young man polished glasses.
“Morning, ladies!” he chirped. His eyes quickly fixed on Shaon and her flamboyant garb, then they roamed to take in the striking Kagonesti. “What’ll it be?”
Shaon laid a steel piece on the bar. “Ale.”
“This early?” Feril whispered. The Kagonesti wriggled her nose in distaste.
The barkeep’s fingers snatched the coin. “The best I have,” he said as he filled a mug and sat it in front of the sea barbarian. “The best for my prettiest customer. Customers,” he corrected himself.
Shaon took a gulp and let the warm liquid run around her mouth before she swallowed. “It’s good,” she pronounced. “Hear of a place called the Lonely Refuge? It’s outside the city somewhere.”
The barkeep shook his head. “Don’t have any call to go outside Palanthas. And I wouldn’t advise you venturing outside the city limits either.”
The dark-skinned woman cocked her head, raising an eyebrow.
The barkeep leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper. “I’d advise leaving Palanthas altogether. Ladies like you are bound to attract attention, and people have been disappearing from the city – travelers mostly.”
The barkeep pointed to the pair of ruddy men in the lizardskin vests. “Ask them. They’re from northeast of town. They say people livin’ around there are getting scared. Very scared.”
Shaon walked over toward the two and pulled up a chair. Feril stayed close to the bar. The scent of the polish used to shine the dark wood eased the stench.
*
“There they are!” Blister cried. The kender pointed a metal-tipped finger down the street.
Shaon and Feril were strolling out of the tavern.
“We’re going shopping,” the kender explained. “For supplies.”
“Got your map?” Shaon asked.
Dhamon nodded, and the sea barbarian reached for it. “Let me see.” She unfolded the clothlike parchment and traced her finger along a line of villages that led to the northeast. “There,” she said, pointing at one village in particular. “The barbarians who live in the barrens are disappearing. So are travelers, and some of the goatherders who live in the foothills. A tiny village between Palanthas and a place called Ash – it must be this one here – is deserted. No one knows where the people went. It wasn’t a dragonstrike; everything is in perfect shape, undisturbed. Just the people are gone. And those outside of Palanthas aren’t the only ones who disappear.”
“How’d you learn all that so fast?” Blister huffed, her pride a little wounded.
“Two men from Ash told us,” Feril answered. “Ash is apparently a good-sized barbarian village about a hundred miles from here.”
“The men we talked to have no plans of ever going back home,” Shaon added. “They’re scared.”
“Ash is on the way to the Refuge,” Dhamon mused. “We could stop and take a look around. There are several other small villages marked between here and the Refuge. It won’t take that long to investigate them, maybe two days, two and a half. Worth the time.” He replaced the map and fumbled in his pocket to add up the rest of his coins. “I’ll see how expensive horses are. If you’re coming with me, I’ll meet you at the west gate in an hour.”
“A deserted village,” the kender wondered aloud. “Sounds kind of spooky. Of course, I don’t mind a good scare now and then but....”
Chapter 23
THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
“I’ve reached my decision, Majere.” The individual called the Shadow Sorcerer spoke barely above a whisper. The sorcerer was dressed in the same black robe Palin had seen him in when they first met nearly three decades ago. It wasn’t worn or faded, and it never showed signs of dirt. It was always clean, and it always entirely cloaked the features of the person who wore it. His silver metallic mask revealed no emotion.
Palin had given up wondering just who the sorcerer was, or whether the individual in question was male or female. The Shadow Sorcerer had proven an apt ally and an able researcher, and Palin, in all these years, had not pried. His Uncle Raistlin had been secretive enough, and if the Shadow Sorcerer still desired anonymity, Palin wasn’t about to argue. Sorcerers were often a mysterious lot, wrapping themselves in peculiarities. Palin, on the other hand, was usually open about everything. Dealing in secrets was not his customary practice.
“It was not an easy decision,” the Shadow Sorcerer continued.
“And it is not to release any information about our discovery,” Palin sadly guessed. Palin’s eyes were intense and sparkling, and there was only a hint of wrinkles on his face, despite his age. Usha liked to tell him they were worry lines, and he agreed with her. He worried often enough. His skin was quite tanned, as he made it a point to venture outside several times a day – even if only to meditate.
“You are perceptive, Palin,” the Shadow Sorcerer said. “Though I must admit I was unsure of my decision until yesterday. But you are correct. I’m siding with the Master. The secret stays with us.”
“I saw this coming. I could have guessed the outcome.” Palin walked away from the long ebonwood table, at which sat the Shadow Sorcerer and the Master of the Tower.
“I truly considered your stance,” Palin heard the Shadow Sorcerer say. “But it is not a prudent course at this time.”
When will it be prudent? Palin wondered. When I am too old to care or when it no longer matters?
Palin drew in a deep breath and stared out the window, the highest one in the Tower of Wayreth. At least Ansalon had rediscovered magic through sorcery. Palin was teaching magic at his Academy of Sorcery near Solace. Still, he wanted to do more. He hoped that either he or Goldmoon’s heroes would stumble across some chink in the dragons’ armor that would render all the anxiety unnecessary.
The sorcerers had been scrying into Malys’s realm. There was one particularly large mountaintop that drew Palin’s attention. It sat between Flotsam and Farholm, and spiky rock fingers seemed to ring it like a crown. He stared at it now and wondered what manner of beings were making their way there. He’d observed a parade of goblins winding their way to the top about a month ago. He wanted to investigate, but so far his companions had urged caution. “Watch from a distance,” the Master said. It was wise advice, he was forced to agree.
“In your heart you knew there could be no other decision,” the Shadow Sorcerer continued, interrupting Palin’s thoughts. “We’ve studied this area for nearly two months now. This Red has transformed the very land, something not even the gods would have done. All the magical items we control or can get our hands on must be kept at our disposal – and ours alone – in case we are threatened by her or by any other of the dragon overlords. We will use the items wisely. We can’t vouch for how others would use them.”
“I will abide by this Conclave’s vote,” Palin said. But privately he thought it almost presumptuous that only three wizards could dare to decide something so important.
“But realize that if we discovered the secret of destroying magical items to fuel powerful spells, it is possible other sorcerers will also,” Palin felt compelled to add.
“Doubtful, Majere,” the Shadow Sorcerer said. “None are as strong as we are, or as experienced.”
“Unfortunately, a great many of the young believe the study of magic is a hopeless endeavor,” the Master of the Tower added. “The new order of magic will need time to flourish.”
Not all the young believe that, Palin mused, thinking of his own sorcerer son, Ulin, at the Academy. “We may not have time,” he said, to no one in particular.
He had been able to see Malys only once while scrying. Palin had watched as she silently skimmed over the trees, coming in from the west. But he hadn’t seen her since, not for nearly two months. Her absence, her invisibility, bothered him. It teased the hairs on the nape of his neck and drew him to his crystal ball. It kept him up all hours, and it kept him away from his wife. He’d spent so little time with Usha lately. How long would she be so understanding?
“Where is the Red?” he asked aloud.
“Maybe she’s elsewhere, taking over some other country,” the Shadow Sorcerer suggested.
Palin ran his slender fingers through his long, graying hair and yawned. “I don’t think so. My divinations t
ell me she’s still in her realm. What is she up to?”
He was achingly tired. He’d been pushing himself hard, staying up well into the early morning hours, sleeping very little, while poring over his Uncle Raistlin’s tomes, looking for clues to power, hints at something that might be used against the dragons, some grain of knowledge about magic that had previously escaped him. His companions tended to keep the same hours, but not always, and they were sensible enough to retire to bed before being forced to cast minor magical spells to keep themselves from nodding off.
“I think she’s probably just curious. Why kill us, when she can study us, learn from us?” The Shadow Sorcerer leaned forward intently. “Learn our weaknesses, the shortcomings of humankind. Perhaps she listens to us even now.”
“Perhaps,” Palin said. “We should leave.”
“And go where, Majere?”
“To the Northern Wastes. Goldmoon sent some people there to meet me.”
“Yes, I recall,” the Master said. “They were to look for you at the Lonely Refuge.”
“We must go to the Wastes.”
“Just for Goldmoon’s wishful heroes, Majere?” the Shadow Sorcerer’s soft voice was laced with doubt. “Do you truly think they can accomplish anything? What can they do that we can’t? And what can you do, what can any of us do, to help them?”
Palin stepped back from the window and returned to his seat at the head of the long table. He rested his elbows on the tabletop, steepled his fingers, and glanced down. His troubled reflection was mirrored in the polished dark wood.
“Everyone looks at the world differently, my friend,” Palin finally returned. “They might see something we haven’t, discover something we’ve overlooked. They’re not like us – entrenched in a tower going through musty, old books and guessing what the dragons will do next. Besides, Goldmoon has faith in them. And I have faith in her.”
“We will summon ourselves there, then,” the Master said. “And we will do our best to help them.”
“But I won’t be going,” the Shadow Sorcerer said. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps one individual – not entrenched in a massive tower – can see the Red. If she is indeed, as we suspect, the most powerful and dangerous of the dragon overlords, someone needs to watch her, discover her plans.”
