Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  “You know, sir,” Sergeant Nemiss said, “that’s really not a bad idea.”

  “Tying him up?”

  “No, sir. Sending him out to reconnoiter. The lives of the men might depend on whether that house is there or not. Scrounger’s proven himself valuable before now.”

  The master eyed Scrounger, who, in order to inspire confidence, tried to look more human and less kender.

  “I agree. It would help to know about that house. Very well,” the master said, making up his mind. “But you’re on your own, Scrounger. If you’re caught, we can’t imperil the mission to come rescue you.”

  “I fully understand that, sir,” said Scrounger. “I won’t be caught. I have a sort of way of blending in so that people never notice me or if they do they think that I’m—”

  The master glared at him. “Shouldn’t you be gone by now?”

  “Yes, sir. Going now, sir.”

  Scrounger crept back to where Raistlin lay sleeping and Caramon lay watching his brother sleep.

  “Caramon,” Scrounger whispered, “I need to borrow that pouch.”

  “That’s got our rations in it,” Caramon protested. “What’s left of ’em,” he added gloomily.

  “I know. I’ll bring the food back. I promise. I might even bring you more.”

  “But you’ve got a pouch!” Caramon protested.

  “Staff …” Raistlin murmured in his sleep. “The staff is … mine … No!” He shouted the word, began to thrash about, arms flailing.

  “Hush! Raist! Hush! It’s all right,” Caramon whispered. Holding his brother by the shoulders, he cast a sidelong glance in the direction of Sergeant Nemiss, who had looked over, glowering, at the commotion. “Your staff is here, Raist. Right here.”

  Caramon placed the staff beneath his brother’s frantic hand. Raistlin grasped hold of the staff protectively, sighed, and sank back into sleep.

  “He’s going to get in trouble with the sergeant if he keeps yelling like that,” Scrounger observed.

  “I know. That’s why I’m with him. He’s quieter if I’m here.” Caramon shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve never seen him like this. He keeps thinking someone’s trying to take the staff away from him.”

  Scrounger shrugged. Nothing Raistlin did or thought was of much interest to him. “C’mon. Hand over the pouch.”

  Caramon handed it over, watched as Scrounger looped Caramon’s pouch over one shoulder, his own pouch over the other shoulder. “I really could use a couple more, but I guess this will have to do. Too bad they cut my hair. How does this look?”

  Running his hands through his short hair, Scrounger caused it to stand on end, stick out every which way. He assumed a cheery, carefree smile.

  “Say,” said Caramon, astonished. “You look just like a kender. No offense,” he added, knowing how sensitive his friend was on that point.

  “None taken,” said Scrounger, grinning. “That’s what I wanted to hear, in fact. Be seein’ you.”

  “Where are you going?” Caramon demanded.

  “To reconnoiter,” Scrounger said proudly.

  In a walled human city where everyone knows everyone else and has known them for probably as long as they’ve been alive, any stranger entering town is certain to stand out, under the best of conditions. Now, with the city surrounded by enemy troops, everyone was on edge. Citizens went about their daily business armed to the teeth and ready for attack. Any stranger was set upon immediately, trussed up, and hauled off for interrogation. With the exception of kender.

  The problem is not that kender all look alike to humans, but that the same kender never looks the same two times running. He has either switched clothes with a friend or snitched clothes from a friend or borrowed interesting-looking clothes left out to dry. He might have flowers in his hair one day and maple syrup in his hair the next. He might be wearing his shoes or your shoes or no shoes at all. Small wonder that most humans—especially upset, fearful, and worried humans—did not know whether they were seeing the same kender over a period of several days or several kender all attired in more or less the same outfit.

  Thus, no one in Hope’s End paid the slightest attention to Scrounger, beyond the instinctive reaction of clapping a protective hand over a purse.

  Scrounger strolled down the main street of the walled city, admiring the tall houses crowded together side by side, houses made of plaster with dark wood supports. Lead-paned glass sparkled in the second-floor bay windows that bowed out over the street. Some of the buildings needed painting, however. Others were in a state of disrepair, which would not have been permitted had the owners had the means to fix the sagging eaves or replace the broken window.

  The merchant shops he passed were boarded up, market stalls empty and falling down. Only the taverns were busy, that was where everyone went to hear the news. News that was, for the most part, not good.

  The people Scrounger encountered were pale and downcast. If they paused to speak, their conversations were held in low and anxious voices. He loudly bid people a good day, but no one responded. Most just shook their heads and hurried on. The only cheerful people he saw in the entire city were two small boys, dirty and ragged, running through the streets, bashing each other with wooden swords.

  “So these are the rebels,” Scrounger said.

  He passed by an open window where a thin young woman, who looked half-starved herself, was trying to nurse a fretful baby.

  Scrounger brought to mind the sight of Borar taking the arrow in his throat. He pictured the smashed and battered bodies lying underneath the huge boulders and he was able to summon up a fair amount of hatred for these people. But since it was only the human part of Scrounger that could hate and that human part constituted only half of him, his hatred was considerably diluted. What hatred there was carried him up to the city gate, which was closed, barred and barricaded.

  The spy had been partially right. The house in question had burned down, but the stands of tall trees beneath the wall, trees that were part of the city’s defenses, would unwittingly help the city’s attackers by supplying adequate cover for their assault.

  Scrounger lingered near the wall, absorbing details of his surroundings, trying to anticipate the questions the master and sergeant were bound to put to him. This didn’t take long. He supposed he should go back to the warehouse, but the thought of being cooped up in that building, watching Raistlin sleep, was too much for him to bear.

  “The master would really like it if I could bring back some information on the enemy,” Scrounger said to himself. “The enemy’s all around me. Somewhere someone must be talking about what they plan to do.”

  A brief search produced a likely looking source. A group of people, a mix of soldiers and civilians, to judge by their dress, had gathered atop the city wall near a guard tower. One of the men, a large man, corpulent and well dressed, wore a heavy chain of gold around his neck. Such a chain as might denote a man of important standing.

  Scrounger was just wishing most earnestly that he could be a mouse, skittering about their feet, when the sight of the trees against the wall gave him a better idea. He would not be a mouse, but a bird.

  Selecting the tree that was tallest and nearest the group, Scrounger waited at the bottom, in the shadows, until he was quite certain the few passersby hadn’t noticed him. He divested himself of his pouches, deposited them at the tree’s base, and began climbing. Nimble and deft, he moved carefully from limb to limb, taking his time, studying out each hand- and foothold with care so as not to rustle the branches. So quiet was he that he startled a squirrel in her nest.

  She scolded him roundly and flitted out of the hole in the tree, her young following her, tails twitching and voices raised in shrill alarm. The squirrels’ turmoil provided excellent cover, permitting Scrounger to climb much closer than he’d hoped. He settled himself on a branch directly below the wall and concentrated on listening. A thrill went over him from head to toe when he heard one of the men refer
to the man with the golden chain as “lord mayor.”

  “A council of war!” said Scrounger excitedly. “I’ve stumbled on a council of war!”

  That was not precisely true, as he was soon to discover. The mayor had come up to view the results of the enemy’s latest attack, an attack that had halted about mid-morning with the enemy retreating back to camp.

  “That’s two assaults we’ve driven off now,” the mayor was saying in hopeful tones. “I think we stand a good chance of winning this war.”

  “Bah! Both of those were feints.” The speaker was a elderly man, rough and grizzled. “Just drawing us out, testing our strength. They have a fair notion of it now, thanks to the numskull who gave the order to loose the catapult yesterday morning.”

  The lord mayor gave a deprecating cough, which was followed by silence. Then the elderly man spoke.

  “You should face the facts, Lord mayor, Your Honor. We don’t have a prayer of winning this fight.”

  More silence.

  “Not a prayer,” he continued after a moment. “I’m leading untrained men, for the most part. Oh, I’ve a few archers who can hit their mark but not many and they’ll be cut down in the first major assault. Do you know what happened this morning, sir? I found three of my guard dead drunk on duty. Small blame to ’em. I’da been dead drunk myself last night if I could have laid hands on the wherewithall.”

  “What would you have us do?” the mayor asked, his voice breaking. He sounded on the verge of hysteria. “We tried to surrender! You heard what that … that fiend said!”

  “Yeah, I heard him. And that’s the one reason I wasn’t dead drunk last night.” The commander’s voice tightened. “I’m hoping to live long enough to have my chance at him.”

  “It seems incredible to me,” said the mayor, “but I could well believe that King Wilhelm wants us all dead. He had to know that imposing that outrageous tax on us would lead to open rebellion. He forced us to take this position, then he sent in his army to teach us a lesson. When we tried to make peace, his general gave us terms so impossible that no rational person could agree to them.”

  “You won’t get any arguments from me on that, Your Honor.”

  “But why?” the mayor demanded helplessly. “Why is he doing this to us?”

  “If the gods were around, they’d know. Since they’re not, I have to assume that only King Wilhelm knows and he’s gone potty, if what we hear is true. Perhaps he has new tenants for our homes. I’ll tell you one thing, though. That’s not the army of Blödehelm out there.”

  “It’s not?” The mayor sounded astonished. “Then … what army is it?”

  “I dunno. But I served a number of years in the army of Blödehelm and that ain’t it. We were a homegrown army. We left our plows to pick up our swords, did a few hours march, fought our battle, and were back in our homes in time for supper. This army, now. This army’s a fighting man’s army. A professional army, not a bunch of farmers wearing their grandpappy’s armor.”

  “But then … what does that mean?” The mayor sounded dazed, as if someone had struck him with a rock.

  “It means that you’re right, Your Honor,” said the commander laconically. “The king—or someone—wants us all dead.”

  The commander bowed to the mayor, then walked away. The mayor muttered to himself, heaved a vast sigh, stood a moment or two longer on the wall, then descended.

  Scrounger sat in his tree awhile longer himself, going over the conversation so that he could repeat it accurately. Once he had it memorized, he scrambled down out of the tree, retrieved his pouches, and emerged from the grove right under the nose of the lord mayor.

  The lord mayor jumped and made a reflexive grab for his purse. “Get away!”

  Scrounger was only too happy to take him up on his suggestion.

  The mayor took a second look, shifted his bulk, and planted his substantial body squarely in front of the half-kender.

  “Wait a minute! Do I know you?” The mayor regarded Scrounger intently.

  “Oh, yes,” Scrounger said cheerfully.

  “How?” The mayor frowned.

  “I’ve had the honor of appearing before you many times, Your mayorship.” Scrounger gave a polite bow.

  “Indeed?” The mayor was dubious.

  “At the morning assize. You know. When they let us out of jail after we’ve all been arrested the night before and they take us before you and you make those really fine speeches—very affecting—about law and order and honesty being the best policy and all that.”

  “I see.” The mayor still appeared puzzled.

  “I’ve cut my hair,” Scrounger offered. “Maybe that’s why you don’t recognize me. And I haven’t been in jail in a long time. Your speeches,” he swore solemnly, “helped me turn my life around.”

  “Well, I’m happy about that,” the mayor said. “See that it continues. Good day to you.”

  He walked down the street, and mounted the steps of a very fine house, the finest house on the block.

  “Whew!” Scrounger said, making certain he took a different street himself, not intending to give the mayor another look at him. “That was close. I can’t believe he got down off the wall that fast! He moves pretty quick for a fat man, I’ll say that for him.”

  “They tried to surrender?” Master Senej stared in blank astonishment. “You mean to tell me that we lost good men to a city that doesn’t want to fight?”

  “He must have heard wrong. You must have heard wrong,” Sergeant Nemiss said to Scrounger. “What were the exact words?”

  “ ‘We tried to surrender,’ ” said Scrounger. “And there’s more, sirs. Listen.” He went on to relate the entire conversation verbatim.

  “You know,” said Master Senej, his brow furrowed, “I had the same thought about that army myself. I never fought with or for the army of Blödehelm, but I’d heard of them and they were just as that old man described—drop the plow to pick up the sword, drop the sword to go back to the plow.”

  “But if that’s true, what does it all mean, sir?” Sergeant Nemiss asked, unconsciously echoing the lord mayor.

  “It means that the enemy’s raised his hand in surrender and we’re about to lop off his head,” said the master. “The baron won’t like this, not one bit.”

  “What do we do, sir? The assault’s set for tomorrow morning. Our orders are to attack the gates from behind. We can’t go against orders.”

  The master pondered a moment, then made up his mind. “The baron should know what’s going on. He has the reputation for being a just and honorable man. Think how his reputation and ours will suffer if it turns out that we’re taking part in a cold-blooded butchery! No one would ever hire us again. He should at least have a chance to remand his orders or change them.”

  “I doubt we have time to send back a messenger, sir.”

  “It’s only a little after midday now, sergeant. A man alone can move faster than an entire troop. If he cuts straight across country, he can be there in three hours. An hour to explain things to the baron. Three hours back. Allow an hour or two for mischance and he should be back here by sunset at the latest. The attack isn’t scheduled until dawn. Who’s your best man?”

  “Tumbler,” Sergeant Nemiss said. “Pass the word for Tumbler.”

  Tumbler appeared, disheveled from sleep and still yawning.

  “We need you to take a message to the baron,” said the master, and the tense tone of his voice jolted Tumbler to full wakefulness.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, straightening.

  “You can’t wait for darkness. You’ll have to go now. The best route is probably back over the wall. We’re dealing with a bunch of citizen soldiers, but take care all the same. No matter whether a trained man or an untrained one kills you, you’re just as dead.”

  “I know the drill, sir. I’ll get across,” Tumbler said confidently.

  “Take the most direct route to the camp. Report to the baron. This is what I want you to tell him. How’s yo
ur memory?”

  “Excellent, sir.”

  “Scrounger, tell him what you told us.”

  Scrounger repeated his story. Tumbler listened carefully, nodded once, said he had it. He was offered equipment, but he said all he needed was a rope and a knife, which were already in his possession. When the watch reported the street empty, Tumbler ducked out the door and vanished around the side of the warehouse.

  “Nothing to do now but wait,” said the master.

  The hours of the afternoon crawled. The men passed the time playing at knight’s jump, a game in which the player presses on the edges of a small metal counter with a larger counter, causing the smaller counter to “jump” into a cup. The person with the highest number of counters in the cup at the end of the game is the winner.

  A very old game—it was said to have been a favorite of the legendary Knight, Huma—knight’s jump was popular among the baron’s men, who valued their hand-made counters as highly as coins of the realm. Each soldier’s counters were commissioned from the blacksmith, who made them from leftover scraps of metal; each was marked with his or her own special design. Variations of the game had developed. Sometimes the player was required not only to “jump” the counter into the cup but also to stack his counter neatly on top of the counter already in the cup.

  The baron was a terror at knight’s jump and it also proved to be a game at which Raistlin—with his highly developed manual dexterity—excelled. One of the few “frivolous” pursuits the usually serious-minded young man enjoyed, he played with a single-minded intensity and skill that casual players found extremely daunting, but which the experts were quick to recognize and approve. One poor sport insisted sourly that the mage must be using his magic to win, but Raistlin easily proved his detractor wrong to the satisfaction of his supporters, of which he had many. Not because they liked him, but because he made them money.

  Raistlin’s natural thrift and disinclination to wager his own hard-earned money kept him from joining in on the high-stakes games, but he soon found those who were glad to stake him for a share in the profits.