THE SOULFORGE dtrc-1

by Margaret Weis

  Raistlin allowed his eyes to flicker open. He kept them deliberately unfocused for a moment, then permitted his eyes to find Master Theobald.

  "What… what happened?" Raistlin asked weakly. He glanced vaguely around, tried to lift himself. "Where am I?"

  The exertion proved too much. He fell back upon the couch, gasping for breath.

  Master Theobald hovered over him. "You. urn. had a bad fall/' he said, not looking directly at Raistlin, but darting nervous glances at him from the corner of his eyes. "You fell off your stool."

  Raistlin glanced down at his arm, where an ugly red welt was visible against his pale skin. He looked back at Master Theobald. "My arm stings," he said softly.

  The master lowered his gaze, sought the floor, looked up gladly when the servant, a middle-aged woman who did the cooking and cleaning and took care of the boys, entered the room. She was extremely ugly, with a scarred face, missing the hair on one side of her head. It had been burned off, purportedly because she'd been struck by lightning. This perhaps accounted for the fact that she was quite slow mentally.

  Marm, as she was known, kept the place clean, and she'd never yet poisoned anyone with her cooking. That was about all that could be said of her. The boys whispered that she was the result of one of Master Theobald's spells gone awry, and that he kept her in his household out of guilt.

  "The boy had a bad fall, Marm," said Master Theobald. "See to him, will you? I must return to my class."

  He cast a final anxious glance backward at Raistlin, then swept out of the room, inflating himself with what was left of his pride.

  Marm brought a cold, wet cloth that she slapped over Raistlin's forehead and a cookie. The cloth was too wet and dripped greasy water into Raistlin's eyes, the cookie was burnt on the bottom and tasted like charcoal. Grunting, Marm left him to recover on his own and went back to whatever it was she had been doing. Judging from the greasy water, she was washing dishes.

  When she was gone, Raistlin removed the cloth and cast it aside in disgust. He threw the cookie into the fireplace with its ever-present fire. Then he lay back comfortably on the couch, snuggled into the soft cushions, and listened to the master's voice, which could be heard droning, in a somewhat subdued tone, through the open door.

  "The letter u is pronounced 'uh.' Repeat after me."

  " 'Uh,' " said Raistlin complacently to himself. He watched the flames consume the log and he smiled.

  Master Theobald would never strike him again.

  Chapter 7

  The lesson another day was penmanship. Not only did a mage have to be able to pronounce the words of magic correctly, but the mage must also be able to write them down, form each letter into its proper shape. Words of the arcane must be penned with precision, exactness, neatness, and care on the scroll, else they would not work. Write the spell word shirak, for example, with a wobble in the a and a scrunch in the k, and the mage who wants light will be left in the dark.

  Most of Master Theobald's students, true to the naturally clumsy characteristics of small boys, were fumble-fisted. Their quill pens, on which they had to carve the points themselves, either split or sputtered, bent or broke or leapt out of their clutching fingers. The boys invariably ended up with more ink on themselves than on the scrolls, unless they happened to upset the ink bottle, which accident occurred on a regular basis.

  Any visitor entering the school on the afternoon of penmanship classes to find himself confronted by the inky faces and hands of innumerable small demons, might well have imagined that he'd wandered into the Abyss by mistake.

  This thought crossed the mind of Antimodes the moment he walked through the door. This and a sudden swift memory of his own days in the schoolroom, a memory brought on mostly by the smell -small bodies overly warmed by the fire, the cabbage soup they'd choked down for lunch, ink and warm sheepskins-caused him to smile.

  "The Archmagus Antimodes," announced the servant, or something approximating that, for she completely mangled his name.

  Antimodes paused in the doorway. The flushed, inky, frustrated faces of twelve boys lifted from their work to stare at him with hope in their eyes. A savior, perhaps. One who would free them from their toil. A thirteenth face looked up, but not as quickly as the others. That face appeared to have been intent upon its work, and only when that work was completed did it lift to stare at the visitor.

  Antimodes was pleased-quite pleased-to see that this face was almost completely devoid of ink, with the exception of a smudge along the left eyebrow, and that there was not an expression of relief on the face, but rather one of irritation, as if it resented being interrupted in its work.

  The irritation passed swiftly, however, once the face recognized Antimodes, as Antimodes had recognized the face.

  Master Theobald rose hastily from his chair, officious and ponderous, jealous and insecure. He did not like Antimodes, because the master suspected-and rightly so-that Antimodes had been opposed to Theobald's appointment as schoolmaster and had voted against him in the conclave. Antimodes had been outvoted, Par-Salian himself having presented very strong arguments in Theobald's favor: He was the only candidate. What else were they to do with the man?

  Even his friends agreed that Theobald would never make more than a mediocre mage. There were some, Antimodes among them, who questioned how he had managed to pass the Test in the first place. Par-Salian was always evasive whenever Antimodes brought up the subject, and Antimodes was left to believe that Theobald had been passed on the condition that he accept a teaching assignment, a job no one else wanted.

  Antimodes could offer no better suggestion. He himself, given the choice, would have preferred going to Mount Nevermind to instruct the gnomes in pyrotechnics to teaching snot-faced human children magic. He had grudgingly gone along with the majority.

  Antimodes was forced to admit that Par-Salian and the others had been right. Theobald was not a particularly good teacher, but he saw to it that his boys-the girls had their own school in Palanthas, taught by a slightly more competent wizardess-learned the basics, and that was all that was necessary. He would never light any fires in the average student, but where the fire of greatness already burned, Master Theobald would stoke it.

  The two mages met with a show of amicability in front of the children.

  "How do you do, sir?"

  "How do you do, my dear sir?"

  Antimodes was gracious in his greeting and lavish in his praise of the classroom, which to himself he thought was unbearably hot, stuffy, and dirty.

  Master Theobald was profuse in his welcome, all the time certain that Antimodes had been sent by Par-Salian to check up on him and bitterly resenting the fact that the archmage was carelessly wearing a luxuriant cape made of fine lamb's wool that would have cost the teacher a year's salary.

  "Well, well, Archmagus. Are the roads still snow-covered?"

  "No, no, Master. Quite passable. Even up north."

  "Ah, you've come from the north, have you, Archmagus?"

  "Lemish," Antimodes said smoothly. He'd actually been much farther north than that quaint and woodsy little town, but he had no intention of discussing his travels with Theobald.

  Theobald had no use for travel of any sort. He raised his eyebrows in an expression of disapproval, manifested his disapproval by turning away and ending their conversation. "Boys, it is my great honor to introduce to you Archmagus Antimodes, a wizard of the White Robes."

  The boys sang out an enthusiastic greeting.

  "We have been practicing our writing," said Theobald. "We were just about to conclude for the day. Perhaps you would like to see some of our work, Archmagus?"

  Actually there was only one pupil in whom Antimodes was interested, but he solemnly walked up and down the aisles and regarded with feigned interest letters that were every shape except the correct shape, and one game of x's and o's, which the player made a vain attempt to cover up by overturning his ink bottle on top of it.

  "Not bad," said Antimodes, "not bad
. Quite. creative. some of these." He came to Raistlin's desk -his true goal. Here he paused and said with sincerity, "Well done."

  A boy behind Raistlin made a noise, a rude noise.

  Antimodes turned.

  "Pardon, sir," the boy said, with apparent contriteness. "It was the cabbage for lunch."

  Antimodes knew that noise hadn't been caused by cabbage. He also knew what it implied, and he immediately realized his mistake. He remembered the ways of small boys-he had been a bit of a troublemaker himself as a youth. He should not have praised Raistlin. The other boys were jealous and vindictive, and Raistlin would be made to suffer.

  Trying to think of some way to rectify his mistake, prepared to point out a flaw-no one was perfect, after all-Antimodes looked back at Raistlin.

  On Raistlin's thin lips was a pleased smile. One could almost call it a smirk.

  Antimodes swallowed his words, with the result that he very nearly choked on them. Coughing, he cleared his throat and walked on. He saw nothing after that. His thoughts were turned inward, and it wasn't until he came face-to-face with Master Theobald that Antimodes realized he was still in the classroom.

  He stopped short, looked up with a start. "Oh. er. very nice work from your pupils, Master Theobald. Very nice. If you wouldn't mind, I should like to speak to you privately."

  "I really should not leave the class…"

  "Only for a moment. I'm certain these fine young gentlemen"-Antimodes gave them a smile -"will be content to study on their own in your absence."

  He was fully aware that the fine young gentlemen would probably take advantage of the opportunity to play marbles, draw obscene pictures on their practice scrolls, and splatter each other with ink.

  "Only a moment of your time, Master Theobald," Antimodes said with the utmost respect.

  Scowling, Master Theobald stomped out of the classroom, leading his way into his private quarters. Here he shut the door and faced Antimodes.

  "Well, sir. Please make haste."

  Antimodes could already hear the uproar break out in the classroom.

  "I should like to talk to each pupil individually, if you please, Master Theobald. Ask them each a few questions."

  At this, Master Theobald's eyebrows nearly took wing and flew off his head. Then they came together over the puffy eyelids in a suspicious frown. Never before in all his years of teaching had any archmagus ever bothered to visit his classroom, much less demand a private chat with the students. Master Theobald could only jump to one conclusion, and he did, landing on it squarely with both feet.

  "If the conclave does not find my work to be satisfactory." he began in huffy tones.

  "They do. Quite the contrary," Antimodes said, hastening to reassure him. "It's just some research I'm conducting." He waved his hand. "Investigating the philosophical reasoning that prompts young men to choose to spend their time in this particular course of study."

  Master Theobald snorted.

  "Please send them in to see me one by one," said Antimodes.

  Master Theobald snorted again, turned on his heel, and waddled back into the classroom.

  Antimodes settled himself in a chair and wondered what in the name of Lunitari he was going to say to these urchins. In reality, he wanted only to talk to one pupil, but he dare not single out Raistlin again. The Archmagus was still pondering things when the first, the eldest boy in the school, entered the room, abashed and embarrassed.

  "Gordo, sir." The boy made an awkward bow.

  "And so, Gordo, my boy," said Antimodes, embarrassed himself but attempting to conceal it, "how do you plan to incorporate the use of magic into your everyday life?"

  "Well,'s-sir," Gordo stammered, obviously baffled, "I don't rightly know."

  Antimodes frowned.

  The boy grew defensive. "I'm only here, sir, 'cause my ma makes me come. I don't want to have nothing to do with magic."

  "What do you want to do?" Antimodes asked, surprised. "I want to be a butcher," Gordo said promptly.

  Antimodes sighed. "Perhaps you should have a talk with your mother. Explain to her how you feel."

  The boy shook his head, shrugged. "I've tried. It's all right, sir. I'll stay here until I'm old enough to be apprenticed, then I'll cut and run."

  "Thank you," Antimodes said dryly. "We'll all appreciate mat. Please tell the next boy to come in."

  By the end of five interviews, Antimodes's antipathy for Master Theobald had changed to the most profound pity. He also felt alarmed and dismayed. He had learned more in fifteen minutes talking to these five boys than he had in five months of traveling throughout Ansalon.

  He was well aware-he and Par-Salian had often discussed it-that mages were viewed with suspicion and distrust by the general populace. That was as it should be. Wizards should be surrounded with an aura of mystery. Their spellcasting should inspire awe and a proper amount of fear.

  He found no awe among these boys. No fear. Not even much respect. Antimodes might blame Master Theobald and did blame the master for some of the problem. Certainly he did nothing to inspire his students, to lift them from the common everyday muck of ignorance in which they were wallowing. But there was more to it than that.

  There were no children of nobles in this school. Insofar as Antimodes knew, there were few children of nobles in any of the schools of magic in Ansalon. Only among the elves was the study of the arcane considered suitable for the upper class, and even they were discouraged from devoting their lives to it. King Lorac of Silvanesti had been one of the last elves of royal blood known to have taken the Test. Most were like Gilthanas, youngest son of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars of Qualinesti. Gilthanas could have been an excellent mage, had he taken the time to study the art. But he merely dabbled in magic, refused to take the Test, refused to commit himself.

  As to humans, these children were sons of middle-class merchants, most of them. That wasn't bad- Antimodes himself had come from such a background. He at least had known what he wanted and had been willing to fight for it, his parents having been completely opposed to the very idea of his studying magic. But these children had been sent here because their parents had no idea what else to do with them. They were sent to study magic because they weren't considered good enough to do anything else.

  Were wizards truly held in such low regard?

  Depressed, Antimodes huddled down in the overstuffed chair, as far from the fire as he could drag it, and mulled this over in his mind. The depression had been growing on him ever since his trip to Solamnia.

  The knights and their families had been polite, but then they would always be polite to any well-to- do, fair-spoken traveling human stranger. They had invited Antimodes to stay in their dwellings, they had fed him roast meats, fine wines, and entertained him with minstrels. They had not ever once discussed magic, had never asked him to assist them with his spellcasting, or made reference to the fact that he was a wizard. If he brought it up, they smiled at him vaguely and then quickly changed the subject. It was as if he had some type of deformity or disease. They were too polite, too well bred to shun him or openly revile him for it. But he was well aware that they averted their glances when they thought he wasn't looking. In truth, he disgusted them.

  And he disgusted himself. He saw himself for the first time through the eyes of these children. He had tamely gone along with the knights' cold-shouldered treatment, had even curried their favor in a most undignified manner. He had suppressed who and what he was. He had not unpacked his white robes once during the trip. He had removed his pouches of spell components and hidden the scroll cases under the bed.

  "At my age, you'd think I would know better," he said to himself sourly. "What a fool I made of myself. They must have rolled their eyes and breathed sighs of relief when I left. It is a good thing Par-Salian doesn't know of this. I'm thankful I never mentioned my intention of traveling to Solamnia to him."

  "Greetings again, Archmagus," said a child's voice.

  Antimodes blinked, returned t
o the present. Raistlin had entered the room. The archmage had been looking forward to this meeting. He had taken a keen interest in the boy since the first time they'd met. The conversations with the other children had been merely a ruse, contrived in order to have the chance to talk privately with this one extraordinary child. But his recent discoveries had so devastated Antimodes that he found no pleasure in talking with the one student who showed any aptitude at all for magic.

  What future lay ahead for this boy? A future in which wizards were stoned to death? At least, Antimodes thought bitterly, the populace had feared Esmilla, the black-robed wizardess, and fear implies a certain amount of respect. How much worse if they had merely laughed at her! But wasn't that where they were heading? Would magic end up in the hands of disappointed butchers?

  Raistlin coughed slightly and shifted nervously on his feet. Antimodes realized that he'd been staring at the child in silence, long enough to make Raistlin feel uncomfortable.

  "Forgive me, Raistlin," Antimodes said, motioning the boy to come forward. "I have traveled far and I am weary. And my trip was not entirely satisfactory."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Raistlin said, regarding Anti-modes with those blue eyes that were much too old and wise.

  "And I am sorry that I praised your work in the schoolroom." Antimodes smiled ruefully. "I should have known better."

  "Why, sir?" Raistlin was puzzled. "Wasn't it good, as you said?"

  "Well, yes, but your classmates. I should not have singled you out. I know boys your age, you see. I was a bit of a rascal myself, I'm sorry to say. I'm afraid they'll be hard on you."

  Raistlin shrugged his thin shoulders. "They're ignorant."

  "Ahem. Well, now." Antimodes frowned, disapproving. It was all very proper for him, an adult, to think this, but it seemed wrong in the child to say it. Disloyal.

  "They can't rise to my level," Raistlin continued, "and so they want to drag me down to theirs. Sometimes"-the blue eyes staring at Antimodes were as clear and brilliant as glare ice-"they hurt me."