Time of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  “How is Lady Crysania?” Caramon asked.

  The bear-skin man blinked in confusion.

  “Lady Crysania. They took her to the Temple,” Caramon repeated.

  The jailer prodded the bear-skin man in the ribs. “You know—the woman he beat up.”

  “I didn’t touch her,” Caramon said evenly. “Now, how is she?”

  “That’s none of your concern,” the bear-skin man snapped, suddenly remembering what time it was, “Are you a locksmith? The kender said something about you being able to open the door.”

  “I’m not a locksmith,” Caramon said, “but maybe I can open it.” His eyes went to the jailer. “If you don’t mind it breaking?”

  “Lock’s broken now!” the jailer said shrilly. “Can’t see as you could hurt it much worse unless you broke the door down.”

  “That’s what I intend to do,” Caramon said coolly.

  “Break the door down?” the jailer’s shrieked. “You’re daft! Why—”

  “Wait.” The bear-skin man had caught a glimpse of Caramon’s shoulders and bull-like neck through the bars in the door. “Let’s see this. If he does, I’ll pay damages.”

  “You bet you will!” the jailer jabbered. The bear-skin man glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and the jailer fell silent.

  Caramon closed his eyes and drew several deep breaths, letting each out slowly. The bear-skin man and the jailer backed away from the door. Caramon disappeared from sight. They heard a grunt and then the sound of a tremendous blow hitting the solid wooden door. The door shuddered on its hinges, indeed, even the stone walls seemed to shake with the force of the blow. But the door held. The jailer, however, backed up another step, his mouth wide open.

  There was another grunt from inside the cell, then another blow. The door exploded with such force that the only remaining, recognizable pieces were the twisted hinges and the lock—still fastened securely to the doorframe. The force of Caramon’s momentum sent him flying into the corridor. Muffled sounds of cheering could be heard from surrounding cells where other prisoners had their faces pressed to the bars.

  “You’ll pay for this!” the jailer squeaked at the bear-skin man.

  “It’s worth every penny,” the man said, helping Caramon to his feet and dusting him off, eyeing him critically at the same time. “Been eating a bit too well, huh? Enjoy your liquor, too, I’ll bet? Probably what got you in here. Well, never mind. That’s soon mended. Name’s—Caramon?”

  The big man nodded morosely.

  “And I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the kender, stepping out through the broken door and extending his hand again. “I go everywhere with him, absolutely everywhere. I promised Tika I would and—”

  The bear-skin man was writing something down on his slate and only glanced at the kender absently. “Mmmmm, I see.”

  “Well, now,” the kender continued, putting his hand into his pocket with a sigh, “if you’d take these chains off our feet, it would certainly be easier to walk.”

  “Wouldn’t it,” the bear-skin man murmured, jotting down some figures on the slate. Adding them up, he smiled. “Go ahead,” he instructed the jailer. “Get any others you’ve got for me today.”

  The old man shuffled off, first casting a vicious glance at Tas and Caramon.

  “You two, sit over there by the wall until we’re ready to go,” the bear-skin man ordered.

  Caramon crouched down on the floor, rubbing his shoulder. Tas sat next to him with a happy sigh. The world outside the jail cell looked brighter already. Just like he’d told Caramon—“Once we’re out, we’ll have a chance! We’ve got no chance at all, cooped up in here.”

  “Oh, by the way,” Tas called after the retreating figure of the jailer, “would you please see that my lockpick’s returned to me? Sentimental value, you know.”

  “A chance, huh?” Caramon said to Tas as the blacksmith prepared to bolt on the iron collar. It had taken a while to find one big enough, and Caramon was the last of the slaves to have this sign of his bondage fastened around his neck. The big man winced in pain as the smith soldered the bolt with a red-hot iron. There was a smell of burning flesh.

  Tas tugged miserably at his collar and winced in sympathy for Caramon’s suffering. “I’m sorry,” he said, snuffling. “I didn’t know he meant ‘on the block’! I thought he said ‘down the block.’ Like, we’re going to take a walk ‘down the block.’ They talk kinda funny back here. Honestly, Caramon …”

  “That’s all right,” Caramon said with a sigh. “It’s not your fault.”

  “But it’s somebody’s fault,” Tas said reflectively, watching with interest as the smith slapped grease over Caramon’s burn, then inspected his work with a critical eye. More than one blacksmith in Istar had lost his job when a slave-owner turned up, demanding retribution for a runaway slave who had slipped his collar.

  “What do you mean?” Caramon muttered dully, his face settling into its resigned, vacant look.

  “Well,” Tas whispered, with a glance at the smith, “stop and think. Look how you were dressed when we got here. You looked just like a ruffian. Then there was that cleric and those guards turning up, just like they were expecting us. And Lady Crysania, looking like she did.”

  “You’re right,” Caramon said, a gleam of life flickering in his dull eyes. The gleam became a flash, igniting a smoldering fire. “Raistlin,” he murmured. “He knows I’m going to try and stop him. He’s done this!”

  “I’m not so sure,” Tas said after some thought. “I mean, wouldn’t he be more likely to just burn you to a crisp or make you into a wall hanging or something like that?”

  “No!” Caramon said, and Tas saw excitement in his eyes. “Don’t you see? He wants me back here … to do something. He wouldn’t murder us. That … that dark elf who works for him told us, remember?”

  Tas looked dubious and started to say something, but just then the blacksmith pushed the warrior to his feet. The bearskin man, who had been peering in at them impatiently from the doorway of the smith’s shop, motioned to two of his own personal slaves. Hurrying inside, they roughly grabbed hold of Caramon and Tas, shoving them into line with the other slaves. Two more slaves came up and began attaching the leg chains of all the slaves together until they were strung out in a line. Then—at a gesture from the bear-skin man—the wretched living chain of humans, half-elves, and two goblins shuffled forward.

  They hadn’t taken more than three steps before they were all immediately tangled up by Tasslehoff, who had mistakenly started off in the wrong direction.

  After much swearing and a few lashes with a willow stick (first looking to see if any clerics were about), the bear-skin man got the line moving. Tas hopped about trying to get into step. It was only after the kender was twice dragged to his knees, imperiling the entire line again, that Caramon finally wrapped his big arm around his waist, lifted him up—chain and all—and carried him.

  “That was kind of fun,” Tas commented breathlessly. “Especially where I fell over. Did you see that man’s face? I—”

  “What did you mean, back there?” Caramon interrupted. “What makes you think Raistlin’s not behind this?”

  Tas’s face grew unusually serious and thoughtful. “Caramon,” he said after a moment, putting his arms around Caramon’s neck and speaking into his ear to be heard above the rattling of chains and the sounds of the city streets. “Raistlin must have been awfully busy, what with traveling back here and all. Why, it took Par-Salian days to cast that time-traveling spell and he’s a really powerful mage. So it must have taken a lot of Raistlin’s energy. How could he have possibly done that and done this to us at the same time?”

  “Well,” Caramon said, frowning. “If he didn’t, who did?”

  “What about—Fistandantilus?” Tas whispered dramatically.

  Caramon sucked in his breath, his face grew dark.

  “He—he’s a really powerful wizard,” Tas reminded him, “and, well, you didn’t make any s
ecret of the fact that you’ve come back here to—uh—well, do him in, so to speak. I mean, you even said that right in the Tower of High Sorcery. And we know Fistandantilus can hang around in the Tower. That’s where he met Raistlin, wasn’t it? What if he was standing there and heard you? I guess he’d be pretty mad.”

  “Bah! If he’s that powerful, he would have just killed me on the spot!” Caramon scowled.

  “No, he can’t,” Tas said firmly. “Look, I’ve got this all figured out. He can’t murder his own pupil’s brother. Especially if Raistlin’s brought you back here for a reason. Why, for all Fistandantilus knows, Raistlin may love you, deep down inside.”

  Caramon’s face paled, and Tas immediately felt like biting off his tongue. “Anyway,” he went on hurriedly, “he can’t get rid of you right away. He’s got to make it look good.”

  “So?”

  “So—” Tas drew a deep breath. “Well, they don’t execute people around here, but they apparently have other ways of dealing with those no one wants hanging around. That cleric and the jailer both talked about executions being ‘easy’ death compared to what was going on now.”

  The lash of a whip across Caramon’s back ended further conversation. Glaring furiously at the slave who had struck him—an ingratiating, sniveling fellow, who obviously enjoyed his work—Caramon lapsed into gloomy silence, thinking over what Tas had told him. It certainly made sense. He had seen how much power and concentration Par-Salian had exerted casting this difficult spell. Raistlin may be powerful, but not like that! Plus, he was still weak physically.

  Caramon suddenly saw everything quite clearly. Tasslehoff’s right! We’re being set up. Fistandantilus will do away with me somehow and then explain my death to Raistlin as an accident.

  Somewhere, in the back of Caramon’s mind, he heard a gruff old dwarvish voice say, “I don’t know who’s the bigger ninny—you or that doorknob of a kender! If either of you make it out of this alive, I’ll be surprised!” Caramon smiled sadly at the thought of his old friend. But Flint wasn’t here, neither was Tanis or anyone else who could advise him. He and Tas were on their own and, if it hadn’t been for the kender’s impetuous leap into the spell, he might very well have been back here by himself, without anyone! That thought appalled him. Caramon shivered.

  “All this means is that I’ve got to get to this Fistandantilus before he gets to me,” he said to himself softly.

  The great spires of the Temple looked down on city streets kept scrupulously clean—all except the back alleys. The streets were thronged with people. Temple guards roamed about, keeping order, standing out from the crowd in their colorful mantles and plumed helms. Beautiful women cast admiring glances at the guards from the corners of their eyes as they strolled among the bazaars and shops, their fine gowns sweeping the pavement as they moved. There was one place in the city the women didn’t go near, however, though many cast curious glances toward it—the part of the square where the slave market stood.

  The slave market was crowded, as usual. Auctions were held once a week—one reason the bear-skin man, who was the manager, had been so eager to get his weekly quotient of slaves from the prisons. Though the money from the sales of prisoners went into the public coffers, the manager got his cut, of course. This week looked particularly promising.

  As he had told Tas, there were no longer executions in Istar or parts of Krynn that it controlled. Well, few. The Knights of Solamnia still insisted on punishing knights who betrayed their Order in the old barbaric fashion—slitting the knight’s throat with his own sword. But the Kingpriest was counseling with the Knights, and there was hope that soon even that heinous practice would be stopped.

  Of course, the halting of executions in Istar had created another problem—what to do with the prisoners, who were increasing in number and becoming a drain on the public coffers. The church, therefore, conducted a study. It was discovered that most prisoners were indigent, homeless, and penniless. The crimes they had committed—thievery, burglary, prostitution, and the like—grew out of this.

  “Isn’t it logical, therefore,” said the Kingpriest to his ministers on the day he made the official pronouncement, “that slavery is not only the answer to the problem of overcrowding in our prisons but is a most kind and beneficent way of dealing with these poor people, whose only crime is that they have been caught in a web of poverty from which they cannot escape?

  “Of course it is. It is our duty, therefore, to help them. As slaves, they will be fed and clothed and housed. They will be given everything they lacked that forced them to turn to a life of crime. We will see to it that they are well-treated, of course, and provide that after a certain period of servitude—if they have done well—they may purchase their own freedom. They will then return to us as productive members of society.”

  The idea was put into effect at once and had been practiced for about ten years now. There had been problems. But these had never reached the attention of the Kingpriest—they had not been serious enough to demand his concern. Underministers had dealt efficiently with them, and now the system ran quite smoothly. The church had a steady income from the money received for the prison slaves (to keep them separate from slaves sold by private concerns), and slavery even appeared to act as a deterrent from crime.

  The problems that had arisen concerned two groups of criminals—kenders and those criminals whose crimes were particularly unsavory. It was discovered that it was impossible to sell a kender to anyone, and it was also difficult to sell a murderer, rapist, the insane, etc. The solutions were simple. Kender were locked up overnight and then escorted to the city gates (this resulted in a small procession every morning). Institutions had been created to handle the more obdurate type of criminal.

  It was to the dwarven head of one of these institutions that the bear-skin man stood talking animatedly that morning, pointing at Caramon as he stood with the other prisoners in the filthy, foul-smelling pen behind the block, and making a dramatic motion of knocking a door down with his shoulder.

  The head of the institution did not seem impressed. This was not unusual, however. He had learned, long ago, that to seem impressed over a prisoner resulted in the asking price doubling on the spot. Therefore, the dwarf scowled at Caramon, spit on the ground, crossed his arms and, planting his feet firmly on the pavement, glared up at the bear-skin man.

  “He’s out of shape, too fat. Plus he’s a drunk, look at his nose.” The dwarf shook his head. “And he doesn’t look mean. What did you say he did? Assaulted a cleric? Humpf!” The dwarf snorted. “The only thing it looks like he could assault’d be a wine jug!”

  The bear-skin man was accustomed to this, of course.

  “You’d be passing up the chance of a lifetime, Rockbreaker” he said smoothly. “You should have seen him bash that door down. I’ve never seen such strength in any man. Perhaps he is overweight, but that’s easily cured. Fix him up and he’ll be a heartthrob. The ladies’ll adore him. Look at those melting brown eyes and that wavy hair.” The bearskin man lowered his voice. “It would be a real shame to lose him to the mines.… I tried to keep word of what he had done quiet, but Haarold got wind of it, I’m afraid.”

  Both the bear-skin man and the dwarf glanced at a human standing some distance away, talking and laughing with several of his burly guards. The dwarf stroked his beard, keeping his face impassive.

  The bear-skin man went on, “Haarold’s sworn to have him at all costs. Says he’ll get the work of two ordinary humans out of him. Now, you being a preferred customer, I’ll try to swing things your direction.”

  “Let Haarold have him,” growled the dwarf. “Fat slob.”

  But the bear-skin man saw the dwarf regarding Caramon with a speculative eye. Knowing from long experience when to talk and when to keep quiet, the bear-skin man bowed to the dwarf and went on his way, rubbing his hands.

  Overhearing this conversation, and seeing the dwarf’s gaze run over him like a man looks at a prize pig, Caramon felt the sud
den, wild desire to break out of his bonds, crash through the pen where he stood caged, and throttle both the bear-skin man and the dwarf. Blood hammered in his brain, he strained against his bonds, the muscles in his arms rippled—a sight that caused the dwarf to open his eyes wide and caused the guards standing around the pen to draw their swords from their scabbards. But Tasslehoff suddenly jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow.

  “Caramon, look!” the kender said in excitement.

  For a moment, Caramon couldn’t hear over the throbbing in his ears. Tas poked him again.

  “Look, Caramon. Over there, at the edge of the crowd, standing by himself. See?”

  Caramon drew a shaking breath and forced himself to calm down. He looked over to where the kender was pointing, and suddenly the hot blood in his veins ran cold.

  Standing on the fringes of the crowd was a black-robed figure. He stood alone. Indeed, there was even a wide, empty circle around him. None in the crowd came near him. Many made detours, going out of their way to avoid coming close to him. No one spoke to him, but all were aware of his presence. Those near him, who had been talking animatedly, fell into uncomfortable silence, casting nervous glances his direction.

  The man’s robes were a deep black, without ornamentation. No silver thread glittered on his sleeves, no border surrounded the black hood he wore pulled low over his face. He carried no staff, no familiar walked by his side. Let other mages wear runes of warding and protection, let other mages carry staves of power or have animals do their bidding. This man needed none. His power sprang from within—so great, it had spanned the centuries, spanned even planes of existence. It could be felt, it shimmered around him like the heat from the smith’s furnace.

  He was tall and well-built, the black robes fell from shoulders that were slender but muscular. His white hands—the only parts of his body that were visible—were strong and delicate and supple. Though so old that few on Krynn could venture even to guess his age, he had the body of one young and strong. Dark rumors told how he used his magic arts to overcome the debilities of age.