Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

by Weis Margaret

  “Thank you, no,” he said.

  Maelstrom drank his mug of spirits in one long, smooth gulp, tilting back his head and seeming to pour it directly down his throat. All the while, even with his head tilted, he kept his gaze fixed on Raistlin. Maelstrom brought his mug down with a thud.

  “I said, ‘drink up,’ Raist.” Maelstrom’s thick brows came together. Leering, he thrust his jaw into Raistlin’s face. “Or maybe, seein’ as how you’re a high-falultin’ muckety-muck wizard, you think you’re too good to drink with the likes of me and my friend?”

  “Naw, Raist doesn’t think that,” said Mari, who was leaning her elbows on the cask that served as a table. “Do you, Raist?” She pushed the mug of dwarf spirits toward him.

  Raistlin took the mug and lifted it to his lips, sniffed, and swallowed. The fiery liquid burned his throat, stole his breath, brought tears to his eyes, and set him to coughing. Mari thoughtfully supplied him with his own handkerchief, which she pulled out from the top of her stocking. He hacked and choked, aware of Maelstrom’s eyes on him, as Mari helpfully pounded him on the back.

  Maelstrom kicked at a gully dwarf in passing and ordered two more mugs. “Drink up, Raist. There’s another one coming.”

  Raistlin lifted his mug, but his fingers didn’t seem to work properly, and it slipped from his hand and landed with a crash on the floor at his feet. Two gully dwarves cleaned it up, immediately dropping to their knees and lapping up the spill.

  Raistlin slumped over the cask. His eyes closed. His body went limp.

  Maelstrom grunted. “Weak and spindly,” was his comment. “I say we toss him back.”

  “Aw, Raist’s all right. He’s just not used to the good stuff,” said Mari.

  Maelstrom grabbed hold of Raistlin’s head by his hair and yanked it up. He peered into Raistlin’s eyes. “Is he playin’ possum?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Mari. She gave Raistlin’s arm a hard pinch. He did not move. His eyelids did not flicker. “He’s out cold.”

  Maelstrom grabbed hold of Raistlin and plucked him off the bench and slung him over his shoulder with as much ease as if he’d been one of the gully dwarves.

  “You be careful of him, Mal,” said Mari. “I found him. He’s mine.”

  “You kender are always ‘findin’ ‘ things,” Maelstrom muttered. “Most of which is best left in the gutter.”

  He yanked Raistlin’s cowl down firmly over his head, wrapped one arm securely around Raistlin’s legs, and hauled him out of the Hair of the Troll to raucous laughter and rude remarks about humans who couldn’t hold their liquor.

  11

  Lute’s Loot. A Job Offer.

  14th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  he night was fine, at least as fine as any night could be in the city of Neraka, which seemed to be always sullenly lurking under a perpetual cloud of haze and smoke and dust. Talent Orren was in a good mood, and he whistled a merry dance tune as he sauntered through the Red Gate. The guards on duty greeted him with enthusiasm, thirstily eyeing the wineskin he had brought with him, which they immediately “confiscated.” Talent handed over the wine with a grin and said he hoped they enjoyed it.

  No moons being visible that night, Talent carried a lantern to light his way. He made a left turn at the first street, then headed for a T-shaped building that stood at the very end. He was not alone. Human and draconian soldiers patrolled the streets of the Red District, going about their business with an air of orderly efficiency—a marked contrast to the foul mood of the hobs and gobs in the Green District. The relative calm might have something to do with the fact that the Red Dragonarmy commander, Ariakas, was currently in residence.

  The draconians ignored Talent as they tended to disdainfully ignore most humans. Most of the human soldiers knew and liked him, though, and they called out good-natured insults. Orren gave back as good as he got. He would see them all later in his tavern, where he would be happy to relieve them of their pay.

  Talent’s destination was a pawn shop known as Lute’s Loot. On his arrival, Talent opened the door and walked inside. He paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright light, which was indicative of the shop’s success. Seven crystal lamps of remarkable beauty hung from beams in the ceiling. Lute claimed to have purchased them from an elf lord desperate to escape Qualinesti before the dragonarmy’s attack. Lute had paid the Emperor’s witch, Iolanthe, a tidy sum to cast a magical light spell on the lamps. The light was soft white and though some of the customers considered it harsh and claimed it burned their eyes, Talent found it calming, even soothing.

  When his eyes were no longer dazzled and he was in no danger of breaking his neck amid the clutter, he bid a good evening to Lute’s guardians, two enormous mastiffs. Named Shinare and Hiddukel, the mastiffs greeted Talent with wagging tails and large quantities of dog slobber. One of them, standing on his hind legs, placed his front paws on Talent’s chest to lick his cheek. The dog topped the man by several inches.

  Talent played with the dogs and waited to speak to Lute, who, seated on a tall stool against the back wall, was occupied with business, making some sort of deal with a soldier of the Red Dragonarmy. Catching sight of Talent, Lute paused in his bargaining to grumble at his friend.

  “Hey, Talent, what was that swill you sent over for my dinner?”

  Lute was a short, squat individual with a large head, a rotund belly, and a surly disposition who boasted proudly that he was the laziest person in Ansalon. Every morning he moved from his bed, which was located in a room directly behind the counter, to his stool, where he sat all day, leaving it only to use the chamber pot. When time came to close up shop late at night, Lute slid off the stool and waddled the few steps to his bed. A mop of curly, black hair fell over his eyes, meeting his full, curly, black beard somewhere in the vicinity of his nose, so it was difficult to tell where the beard began and his hair left off. Small, keen eyes glinted out from the thatch.

  “Rabbit stew,” Talent said.

  “Flummery! Boiled gully dwarf is more like it!” Lute said irately.

  “You should have sent it back,” Talent said.

  “A fellow has to eat something,” Lute snarled and returned to his haggling.

  Talent grinned. His rabbit stew was good; none better in this part of the world. Lute was not happy unless he was complaining about something.

  If Lute had a surname, no one knew it. He claimed to be human, but Talent knew better. One night early in their long relationship, Lute, having imbibed a bit too much in the way of dwarf spirits, had told Talent that his father had been a dwarf from the kingdom of Thorbardin. When Talent had mentioned that the next morning, Lute had flown into a rage and denied that he’d ever said any such thing. He had gone for a week without speaking to his friend, and Talent had never brought it up again.

  Talent lounged among the heaps and piles of junk that covered the floor of the warehouse. Lute’s Loot was a repository for goods from all of Ansalon. Talent often said he could trace the progress of the war in the variety of the store’s wares. The contents of the room included furniture, paintings, and tapestries from Qualinesti; a set of chairs said to have come from the famous Inn of the Last Home in Solace; a few objects from the dwarven kingdom, though not many, for Thorbardin had fought off the dragonarmies. There was nothing from the elven kingdom of Silvanesti, for the land was said to be cursed and no one went near it. There were large quantities of items from the eastern part of Solamnia, which had fallen to the might of the Blue Lady, though as far as Talent could hear, Palanthas was still holding out.

  He waited patiently for the soldier to finish his dealing. The man finally agreed to a price, which he claimed was way beneath the value of whatever it was he was trying to sell. The soldier left in foul mood, clutching his coins in his hand. Talent recognized him as a regular, and he guessed that those coins would soon find their way into his strong box.

  When the soldier had banged his way irritably out of the door, Lute
lifted his black cane and waved it in the air, a signal that Talent should shut the door and lock up for the night. If Talent had not been around to perform that task, Lute had trained Shinare to shut the door; then her mate, Hiddukel, would hit an iron bar with his nose so that it dropped down into place to keep the door from being forced open. Thus Lute was spared the fatigue of walking from the counter to the door and back again.

  The mastiffs’ main duty was to deter thieves. They would greet patrons at the door and escort them through the shop, growling if anyone dared touch anything without first obtaining permission from Lute. And in case anyone might decide to try to snatch an object and flee, Lute would simply pick up the small, handheld crossbow that rested on the counter beside his cup of thick, honey-laced tarbean tea. Should anyone doubt Lute’s ability to use the crossbow, he would point to a goblin’s skull with a bolt through its eye that he had nailed to the wall.

  Talent had just shut the door and was preparing to lower the bar when he heard a knock. Talent peered out. At first he didn’t see anything.

  “Down here, doofus,” said Mari.

  Talent lowered his gaze to the kender.

  “The delivery’s been made,” she said.

  “Well done, thanks,” said Talent.

  Mari waved at him and ran off into the night. Talent shut the door and locked it.

  “Was that the kender?” Lute said, scowling. “You didn’t let the little thief inside, did you?”

  Talent smiled. “No, you’re safe. She came to report that the goods have been delivered.”

  “Fine. You deal with it. I’m going to bed.”

  Lute began the task of maneuvering his bulk off his high stool. Talent, accompanied by the two mastiffs, navigated the convoluted trails that led through the maze of junk and arrived at last at the counter.

  “Any word on the Berem fellow?” he asked.

  “Nothing so far,” said Lute. “Two men, both name of Berem, entered the city this week. Our boys were waiting at the gates and managed to get hold of them before the Nerakan guards did. Maelstrom took them to the Hairy Troll and questioned them.”

  “Neither had a green gemstone embedded in his chest, I take it,” said Talent, “or ‘an old-looking face with young eyes.’ “

  “One had an old face with a shifty eye, and the other a young face with a young eye. Though that wouldn’t have stopped the Nightlord from torturing them, just to make sure. Remember the Berem guy they caught last fall? The Nightlord sliced open his chest and cracked his breastbone just to make sure he wasn’t hiding an emerald in his craw.”

  “What happened to the two latest Berems?”

  “One was a pickpocket. Maelstrom warned him that if he was planning on staying in Neraka, he should stay out of the Hairy Troll and he might want to change his name. The other Berem was a fourteen-year-old kid—some farmer’s son who had run away from home and came here to make his fortune. No need to warn the kid. After what he’d seen of our fair city, the poor kid was half dead with fright. Maelstrom gave him a steel piece and sent him home to his mama.”

  “I wonder what is so special about this Berem,” Talent mused, not for the first time.

  Lute grunted. “Other than the fact that he sports a green gemstone among his chest hairs?”

  “Only a goblin would be gullible enough to believe such a ridiculous tale. More likely he wears a green gemstone necklace or some such thing. A jewel embedded in his chest, my ass!”

  “I dunno,” said Lute quietly. “You and I’ve seen stranger things, my friend. What are you going to do with the newly arrived goods?”

  “Have a talk with him. Maybe give him a job if I like his looks.”

  Lute frowned, causing what little could be seen of his face to vanish between his hair and his beard. “What the deuce do you want to give him a job for? To start with, he’s a wizard, and they’re all scum—”

  “Except the lovely Iolanthe,” said Talent slyly.

  Lute may have blushed. It was hard to tell underneath all the hair. At any rate, he pointedly ignored Talent’s insinuation. “Ten-to-one he’s an agent of the Nightlord.”

  “Then why would he save Mari’s life?”

  “What better way to be accepted into our ranks? Discover our secrets?”

  Talent shook his head. “The Nightlord’s agents generally aren’t that smart. But if he is, I’ll soon find out. He’ll turn down the job I’m offering him because it will mean he will have to leave Neraka, and he won’t want to do that if he’s been sent to spy on us for the Nightlord. If he takes it, he may be the real deal.”

  “What job is that?”

  “You know, the one we were discussing the other night. He’s her brother.”

  “And you trust him?” Lute glowered. “You’re cracked in the head, Orren. I’ve often said so.”

  “I don’t trust him as far as I can see his black robes on a moonless night,” said Talent. “Mari likes him, though, and kender have good instincts about people. She likes you, after all.”

  Lute gave an explosive snort that nearly toppled him. Recovering his balance, he leaned on his cane and, taking his tea and his crossbow with him, started off to bed. Halfway there, he turned around. “What happens if your wizard turns down the job?”

  Talent ran a finger over his mustache. “Have you fed the mastiffs tonight?”

  “No,” said Lute.

  “Then don’t,” said Talent.

  Lute nodded and went to his bedroom and shut the door.

  Talent whistled to the two dogs, who came trotting obediently after him. He headed toward the back of the shop, dodging around and sometimes forced to climb over boxes and crates and barrels, piles of rags, bundles of clothes, tools of all sorts, a broken-down plow, and a large variety of wooden wagon wheels.

  Lute had constructed a kennel of sorts for the dogs in the back corner. The dogs, thinking it was time for bed, went obediently into two large crates, where they curled up on blankets and began chewing on bones.

  “Not so fast, friends,” said Talent. “We still have work to do tonight.”

  He whistled and the dogs left their crates and their bones and came bounding to his side. Talent went over to Hiddukel’s crate. The dog trotted after him, keeping a jealous eye on his treat.

  “Easy, friend. I’ve had my dinner,” said Talent, petting the dog’s head.

  Hiddukel apparently didn’t believe him, for he ducked past Talent and snatched up the bone. Clamping his teeth over it, Hiddukel growled a warning at Shinare to keep her distance.

  Talent shoved the crate to one side. Beneath the crate was a trapdoor. Talent pulled open the trapdoor, grinning to think what the mastiff would do to a stranger who dared encroach upon the dog’s “lair.” Crudely built stairs led down into semidarkness. Somewhere in the distance, a dim lamp burned, giving a faint yellow light.

  Talent pulled the trapdoor shut and descended the stairs. The mastiffs came along behind him, sniffing the air, noses twitching and ears pricked. Hiddukel dropped his bone, and both dogs barked, their tails wagging. They had spotted a friend.

  Maelstrom was standing guard over “the goods,” a man slumped in a chair. Talent could not get a look at him, for the man’s head was bowed. His arms were bound behind his back, his feet tied to the chair. He wore black robes and carried several pouches on his belt.

  “Hello, Maelstrom,” said Talent, walking over to greet his friend.

  The man’s large hand engulfed Talent’s, giving it an affectionate squeeze that caused Talent to wince.

  “Ah, careful there. I might need my fingers some day,” said Talent. He looked down with frowning interest at the man in the chair. “So this is Mari’s wizard. He’s a tenant of mine, you know. I was surprised when she said it was him.”

  “He’s a sickly lot,” Maelstrom sniffed. “Almost puked at the smell of good dwarf spirits. Still, he’s talented at what he does, seemingly. Old Snaggle says his potions are the best he’s ever used.”

  “So where�
��s he been keeping himself? He hasn’t slept in his room for several nights.”

  “He’s been at the Red Mansion,” said Maelstrom.

  Talent frowned. “With Ariakas?”

  “More likely with the witch. Iolanthe seems to have made this fellow her pet. She’s trying to get Ariakas to hire him. The Emperor has other things on his mind these days, however, and Raist here didn’t get the job. He left in a huff. Since then, he’s been working in the Tower, making up glop and bartering it to old Snaggle.”

  “So he tried selling himself to Ariakas, and when that didn’t work, he thought he’d hire on with us.”

  “Either that or he did sell himself to Ariakas,” Maelstrom growled, “and he’s here to spy on us.”

  Talent regarded Raistlin in thoughtful silence. The dogs lay down at the wizard’s feet. Maelstrom stood over him, arms folded across his chest.

  “Wake him up,” said Talent abruptly.

  Maelstrom grabbed hold of Raistlin by the hair, jerked his head back, and smacked him a couple of times.

  Raistlin gasped. His eyelids flared opened. He grimaced at the pain and blinked in the flickering light. Then his gaze focused on Talent, and a look of astonishment crossed his face. He raised an eyebrow and gave a slight nod, as if thinking it all made sense.

  “You still owe me for the damage to your room, Majere,” said Talent.

  Drawing over a chair, he spun it around and seated himself on it, resting his arms on the chair’s back.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Raistlin. “If that’s what this is about, I have the steel …”

  “Forget it,” said Talent. “You saved Mari’s life. We’ll call it even. I hear you might be interested in working for Hidden Light.”

  “Hidden Light?” Raistlin shook his head. “I never heard of it.” “Then why did you go to the Hair of the Troll tonight?” “I went for a drink—”

  Talent laughed. “No one goes to the Hair of a Troll for a drink unless you’re unusually fond of horse piss.” He frowned. “Cut the crap, Majere. Mari gave you the code word. For some reason she’s taken a fancy to you.”