Lost in her interest in the conversation, attentive to Elsa’s every word, Crysania thought no more of Quarath, who was—at that moment—quietly opening the door to her bedroom and slipping inside.
CHAPTER
5
uarath found the letter from Par-Salian within a matter of moments. He had noticed, almost immediately on entering, that the golden box that stood on top of the dressing table had been moved. A quick search of the drawers revealed it and, since he had the master key to the locks of every box and drawer and door in the Temple, he opened it easily.
The letter itself, however, was not so easily understood by the cleric. It took him only seconds to absorb its contents. These would remain imprinted on his mind; Quarath’s phenomenal ability to memorize instantly anything he saw being one of his greatest gifts. So it was that he had the complete text of the letter locked in his mind within seconds. But, he realized, it would take hours of pondering to make sense of it.
Absently, Quarath folded the parchment and put it back into the box, then returned the box to its exact position within the drawer. He locked it with the key, glanced through the other drawers without much interest, and—finding nothing—left the young woman’s room, lost in thought.
So perplexing and disturbing were the contents of the letter that he canceled his appointments for that morning or shifted them onto the shoulders of underlings. Then he went to his study. Here he sat, recalling each word, each phrase.
At last, he had it figured out—if not to his complete satisfaction, then, at least, enough to allow him to determine a course of action. Three things were apparent. One, the young woman might be a cleric, but she was involved with magic-users and was, therefore, suspect. Two, the Kingpriest was in danger. That was not surprising, the magic-users had good reason to hate and fear the man. Three, the young man who had been found with Crysania was, undoubtedly, an assassin. Crysania, herself might be an accomplice.
Quarath smiled grimly, congratulating himself on having already taken appropriate measures to deal with the threat. He had seen to it that the young man—Caramon was his name apparently—was serving his time in a place where unfortunate accidents occurred from time to time.
As for Crysania, she was safely within the walls of the Temple where she could be watched and subtly interrogated.
Breathing easier, his mind clearing, the cleric rang for the servant to bring his lunch, thankful to know that, for the moment at least, the Kingpriest was safe.
Quarath was an unusual man in many respects, not the least of which was that, though highly ambitious, he knew the limits of his own abilities. He needed the Kingpriest, he had no desire to take his place. Quarath was content to bask in the light of his master, all the while extending his own control and authority and power over the world—all in the name of the church.
And, as he extended his own authority, so he extended the power of his race. Imbued with a sense of their superiority over all others, as well as with a sense of their own innate goodness, the elves were a moving force behind the church.
It was unfortunate, Quarath felt, that the gods had seen fit to create other, weaker races. Races such as humans, who—with their short and frantic lives—were easy targets for the temptations of evil. But the elves were learning to deal with this. If they could not completely wipe out the evil in the world (and they were working on it), then they could at least bring it under control. It was freedom that brought about evil—freedom of choice. Especially to humans, who continually abused this gift. Give them strict rules to follow, make it clear what was right and what was wrong in no uncertain terms, restrict this wild freedom that they misused. Thus, Quarath believed, the humans would fall in line. They would be content.
As for the other races on Krynn, gnomes and dwarves and (sigh) kender, Quarath (and the church) was rapidly forcing them into small, isolated territories where they could cause little trouble and would, in time, probably die out. (This plan was working well with the gnomes and the dwarves, who hadn’t much use for the rest of Krynn anyhow. Unfortunately, however, the kender didn’t take to it at all and were still happily wandering about the world, causing no end of trouble and enjoying life thoroughly.)
All of this passed through Quarath’s mind as he ate his lunch and began to make his plans. He would do nothing in haste about this Lady Crysania. That was not his way, nor the way of the elves, for that matter. Patience in all things. Watch. Wait. He needed only one thing now, and that was more information. To this end, he rang a small golden bell. The young acolyte who had taken Denubis to the Kingpriest appeared so swiftly and quietly at the summons that he might have slipped beneath the door instead of opening it.
“What is your bidding, Revered Son?”
“Two small tasks,” Quarath said without looking up, being engaged in writing a note. “Take this to Fistandantilus. It has been some time since he was my guest at dinner, and I desire to talk with him.”
“Fistandantilus is not here, my lord,” said the acolyte. “In fact, I was on my way to report this to you.”
Quarath raised his head in astonishment.
“Not here?”
“No, Revered Son. He left last night, or so we suppose. At least that was the last anyone saw of him. His room is empty, his things gone. It is believed, from certain things he said, that he has gone to the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. Rumor has it that the wizards are holding a Conclave there, though none know for certain.”
“A Conclave,” Quarath repeated, frowning. He was silent a moment, tapping the paper with the tip of the quill. Wayreth was far away … still, perhaps it was not far enough.… Cataclysm … that odd word that had been used in the letter. Could it be possible that the magic-users were plotting some devastating catastrophe? Quarath felt chilled. Slowly, he crumpled the invitation he had been penning.
“Have his movements been traced?”
“Of course, Revered Son. As much as is possible with him. He has not left the Temple for months, apparently. Then, yesterday, he was seen in the slave market.”
“The slave market?” Quarath felt the chill spread throughout his body. “What business did he have there?”
“He bought two slaves, Revered Son.”
Quarath said nothing, interrogating the cleric with a look.
“He did not purchase the slaves himself, my lord. The purchase was made through one of his agents.”
“Which slaves?” Quarath knew the answer.
“The ones that were accused of assaulting the female cleric, Revered Son.”
“I gave orders that those two were to be sold either to the dwarf or the mines.”
“Barak did his best and, indeed, the dwarf bid for them, my lord. But the Dark One’s agents outbid him. There was nothing Barak could do. Think of the scandal. Besides, his agent sent them to the school anyway—”
“Yes,” Quarath muttered. So, it was all falling into place. Fistandantilus had even had the temerity to purchase the young man, the assassin! Then he had vanished. Gone to report, undoubtedly. But why should the mages bother with assassins? Fistandantilus himself could have murdered the Kingpriest on countless occasions. Quarath had the unpleasant impression that he had inadvertently walked from a clear, well-lighted path into a dark and treacherous forest.
He sat in troubled silence for so long that the young acolyte cleared his throat as a subtle reminder of his presence three times before the cleric noticed him.
“You had another task for me, Revered Son?”
Quarath nodded slowly. “Yes, and this news makes this task even more important. I wish you to undertake it yourself. I must talk to the dwarf.”
The acolyte bowed and left. There was no need to ask who Quarath meant—there was only one dwarf in Istar.
Just who Arack Rockbreaker was or where he came from no one knew. He never made reference to his past and generally scowled so ferociously if this subject came up that it was usually immediately dropped. There were several interesting speculat
ions concerning this, the favorite being that he was an outcast from Thorbardin—ancient home of the mountain dwarves, where he had committed some crime resulting in exile. Just what that might have been, no one knew. Nor did anyone take into account the fact that dwarves never punished any crime by exile; execution being considered more humane.
Other rumors insisted he was actually a Dewar—a race of evil dwarves nearly exterminated by their cousins and now driven to living a wretched, embittered existence in the very bowels of the world. Though Arack didn’t particularly look or act like a Dewar, this rumor was popular due to the fact that Arack’s favorite (and only) companion was an ogre. Other rumor had it that Arack didn’t even come from Ansalon at all, but from somewhere over the sea.
Certainly, he was the meanest looking of his race anyone could remember seeing. The jagged scars that crossed his face vertically gave him a perpetual scowl. He was not fat, there wasn’t a wasted ounce on his frame. He moved with the grace of a feline and, when he stood, planted his feet so firmly that they seemed part of the ground itself.
Wherever he came from, Arack had made Istar his home for so many years now that the subject of his origin rarely came up. He and the ogre, whose name was Raag, had come for the Games in the old days when the Games had been real. They immediately became great favorites with the crowds. People in Istar still told how Raag and Arack defeated the mighty minotaur, Darmoork, in three rounds. It started when Darmoork hurled the dwarf clear out of the arena. Raag, in a berserk fit of anger, lifted the minotaur off his feet and—ignoring several terrible stab wounds—impaled him upon the huge Freedom Spire in the center of the ring.
Though neither the dwarf (who survived only by the fact that a cleric had been standing in the street when the dwarf sailed over the arena wall and landed practically at his feet) nor the ogre won his freedom that day, there was no doubt who had been winner of the contest. (Indeed, it was many days before anyone reached the Golden Key on the Spire, since it took that long to remove the remains of the minotaur.)
Arack related the gruesome details of this fight to his two new slaves.
“That’s how I got this old cracked face of mine,” the dwarf said to Caramon as he led the big man and the kender through the streets of Istar. “And that’s how me and Raag made our name in the Games.”
“What games?” asked Tas, stumbling over his chains and sprawling flat on his face, to the great delight of the crowd in the market place.
Arack scowled in irritation. “Take those durn things off ’im” he ordered the gigantic, yellow-skinned ogre, who was acting as guard. “I guess you won’t run off and leave yer friend behind, will you?” The dwarf studied Tas intently. “No, I didn’t think so. They said you had a chance to run away once and you didn’t. Just mind you don’t run away on me!” Arack’s natural scowl deepened. “I’d have never bought a kender, but I didn’t have much choice. They said you two was to be sold together. Just remember that—as far as I’m concerned—yer worthless. Now, what fool question was you asking?”
“How are you going to get the chains off? Don’t you need a key? Oh—” Tas watched in delighted astonishment as the ogre took the chains in either hand and, with a quick jerk, yanked them apart.
“Did you see that, Caramon?” Tas asked as the ogre picked him up and set him on his feet, giving him a push that nearly sent the kender into the dirt again. “He’s really strong! I never met an ogre before. What was I saying? Oh, the games. What games?”
“Why, the Games,” Arack snapped in exasperation.
Tas glanced up at Caramon, but the big man shrugged and shook his head, frowning. This was obviously something everyone knew about here. Asking too many questions would seem suspicious. Tas cast about in his mind, dragging up every memory and every story he had ever heard about the ancient days before the Cataclysm. Suddenly he caught his breath. “The Games!” he said to Caramon, forgetting the dwarf was listening. “The great Games of Istar! Don’t you remember?”
Caramon’s face grew grim.
“You mean that’s where we’re going?” Tas turned to the dwarf, his eyes wide. “We’re going to be gladiators? And fight in the arena, with the crowd watching and all! Oh, Caramon, think of it! The great Games of Istar! Why I’ve heard stories—”
“So have I,” the big man said slowly, “and you can forget it, dwarf. I’ve killed men before, I admit—but only when it was my life or theirs. I never enjoyed killing. I can still see their faces, sometimes, at night. I won’t murder for sport!”
He said this so sternly that Raag glanced questioningly at the dwarf and raised his club slightly, an eager look on his yellow, warty face. But Arack glared at him and shook his head.
Tas was regarding Caramon with new respect. “I never thought of that,” the kender said softly. “I guess you’re right, Caramon.” He turned to the dwarf again. “I’m really sorry, Arack, but we won’t be able to fight for you.”
Arack cackled. “You’ll fight. Why? Because it’s the only way to get that collar off yer neck, that’s why.”
Caramon shook his head stubbornly. “I won’t kill—”
The dwarf snorted. “Where have you two been living? At the bottom of the Sirrion? Or are they all as dumb as you in Solace? No one fights to kill in the arena anymore.” Arack’s eyes grew misty. He rubbed them with a sigh. “Those days are gone for good, more’s the pity. It’s all fake.”
“Fake?” Tas repeated in astonishment. Caramon glowered at the dwarf and said nothing, obviously not believing a word.
“There hasn’t been a real, true fight in the old arena in ten years,” Arack avowed. “It all started with the elves”—the dwarf spat on the ground. “Ten years ago, the elven clerics—curse them to the Abyss where they belong—convinced the Kingpriest to put an end to the Games. Called ’em ‘barbaric’! Barbaric, hah!” The dwarf’s scowl twisted into a snarl, then—once more—he sighed and shook his head.
“All the great gladiators left,” Arack said wistfully, his eyes looking back to that glorious time. “Danark the Hobgoblin—as vicious a fighter as you’ll ever come across. And Old Josepf One-Eye. Remember him, Raag?” The ogre nodded sadly. “Claimed he was a Knight of Solamnia, old Josepf did. Always fought in full battle armor. They all left, except me and Raag.” A gleam appeared deep in the dwarf’s cold eyes. “We didn’t have nowhere to go, you see, and besides—I had a kind of feeling that the Games weren’t over. Not yet.”
Arack and Raag stayed in Istar. Keeping their quarters inside the deserted arena, they became, as it were, unofficial caretakers. Passers-by saw them there daily—Raag lumbering among the stands, sweeping the aisles with a crude broom or just sitting, staring down dully into the arena where Arack worked, the dwarf lovingly tending the machines in the Death Pits, keeping them oiled and running. Those who saw the dwarf sometimes noticed a strange smile on his bearded, broken-nosed face.
Arack was right. The Games hadn’t been banned many months before the clerics began noticing that their peaceful city wasn’t so peaceful anymore. Fights broke out in bars and taverns with alarming frequency, there were brawls in the streets and once, even, a full-scale riot. There were reports that the Games had gone underground (literally) and were now being held in caves outside of town. The discovery of several mauled and mutilated bodies appeared to bear this out. Finally, in desperation, a group of human and elf lords sent a delegation to the Kingpriest to request that the Games be started again.
“Just as a volcano must erupt to let the steam and poisonous vapors escape from the ground,” said one elflord, “so it seems that humans, in particular, use the Games as an outlet for their baser emotions.”
While this speech certainly did nothing to endear the elflord to his human counterparts, they were forced to admit there was some justification to it. At first, the Kingpriest wouldn’t hear of it. He had always abhorred the brutal contests. Life was a sacred gift of the gods, not something to be taken away just to provide pleasure to a bloodthirsty crowd.
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“And then it was me gave ’em their answer,” Arack said smugly. “They weren’t going to let me in their fine and fancy Temple.” The dwarf grinned. “But no one keeps Raag out of wherever he’s a mind to go. So they hadn’t much choice.
“ ‘Start the Games again,’ I told ’em, and they looked down at their long noses at me. ‘But there needn’t be no killing,’ I says. ‘No real killing, that is. Now, listen me out. You’ve seen the street actors do Huma, ain’t you? You’ve seen the knight fall to the ground, bleedin’ and moanin’ and floppin’ around. Yet five minutes later he’s up and drinking ale at the tavern down the block. I’ve done a bit of street work in my time, and … well … watch this. Come here, Raag.’
“Raag came over, a big grin on his ugly, yellow face.
“ ‘Give me your sword, Raag,’ I orders. Then, before they could say a word, I plunges the sword in Raag’s gut. You shoulda seen him. Blood all over! Running down my hands, spurting from his mouth. He gave a great bellow and fell to the floor, twitchin’ and groanin’.
“You shoulda heard ’em yell,” the dwarf said gleefully, shaking his head over the memory. “I thought we was gonna have to pick them elflords up off the floor. So, before they could call the guards to come haul me away, I kicked old Raag, here.
“ ‘You can get up now, Raag,’ I says.
“And he sat up, giving them a big grin. Well, they all started talking at once.” The dwarf mimicked high-pitched elven voices.
“ ‘Remarkable! How is it done? This could be the answer—’ ”
“How did you do it?” Tas asked eagerly.
Arack shrugged. “You’ll learn. A lot of chicken blood, a sword with a blade that collapses down into the handle—it’s simple. That’s what I told ’em. Plus, it’s easy to teach gladiators how to act like they’re hurt, even a dummy like old Raag here.”
Time of the Twins Page 28
