Caramon awoke the next morning with a pounding in his head that his metal-working friend, Flint Fire-forge, would have envied. The steady hammer blows, falling with excruciating regularity, made him wince with pain. The delicate sounds of chirping birds were like the clash of spears, and the shuffling noises of the other patrons at the inn created a wave of agony.
Slowly drawing the sheets back from his head, exposing only his sleep-matted hair and bloodshot, half-closed eyes, the fighter glanced around the room, wincing again as a shaft of light struck him full in the face.
"A cruel blow!" he muttered.
Quickly pulling the sheets back over his head, Cara-mon lifted the bedspread from the side – avoiding another bright onslaught – and peered across the room to his brother. Still asleep, Raistlin appeared to be in pain – his back was arched slightly, his hands were curled into claws. But he breathed easily. Caramon sighed in relief.
The warrior glanced over to Earwig's bed, hoping that the kender – with his shrill voice – was also still asleep. He was, if the steady rise and fall of his blankets was any indication.
"Good," said Caramon to himself. "I'll go downstairs and use my tried-and-true remedy for overindulgence."
The warrior eased himself out of bed, his head bent against the morning's light.
"Good morning, Caramon!" Earwig shrilled cheerfully, his voice piercing Caramon's skull. The warrior fell over the bed as if toppled by a mighty blow.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so miserable. Thinking of Flint reminded him of one of the old dwarf's many sayings, "A fighter's greatest enemy is himself." He had never understood what that meant until now. He wondered, too, if Flint had been referring to that terrible stuff – dwarf spirits – that had been the warrior's downfall.
"Earwig," Caramon began, speaking softly through clenched teeth, his hands slowly clamping his head to ease the pressure. "If you don't shut up, I'm going to have to kill you."
"What?" Earwig shouted, his voice just as loud as before. "What did you say? I couldn't hear you. Would you repeat that, please?"
In answer, Caramon grabbed a pillow with his left hand, walked over to the kender, and bagged Earwig's head with the pillowcase.
"Is this a game? What do I do now?" cried the kender, highly excited.
"Just sit there," growled Caramon, "till I tell you to move."
"All right. Say, this is fun." Earwig, pillowcase over his head, composed himself to wait for whatever wonderful part of the game was going to come next.
Caramon walked out of the room.
Going to the well outside, he brought up a bucket of cold water and immersed his head in it. Sputtering, he shook himself like a dog, wiping his face on his shirt sleeves.
Returning indoors, still rubbing himself dry, Caramon went into the eating hall, where breakfast was being served. The smell of eggs, bacon, and hot muffins helped ease the unrelenting pain in his head and reminded him that he hadn't eaten since dinner last night – and that had been interrupted.
It's a good thing I never get sick when I drink, he thought to himself with pride.
The room was practically empty. The few sullen patrons seated there glanced at the big man, scowled, and glanced away.
Caramon ignored them. Going to the table he had occupied last night, he plopped his body down with such force that he almost fell over on the bench. Righting himself, the warrior sat very still until the queasiness left him.
"Well, almost never," he amended.
"What can I get for you this morning?" It was Yost, the innkeeper, a slight smile stealing across his face.
"A drink. Two-thirds grain, one part juice, one part cooking spice, and a green vegetable stalk, something absolutely tasteless. And plenty of pepper," Caramon added.
"Ah," said Yost, "a seasoned warrior. The Old Fighter's Favorite. And I bet you'll be wanting some breakfast as well. Maggie!" – his yetl caused Caramon to groan aloud – "bring something to eat for the gentleman here."
Caramon drank three Old Fighter's Favorites, gulping the first two down quickly. The heavy taste of pepper drowned out the horrible taste of the brew. He stirred each one with a vegetable stalk absentmindedly as he poked at his food with a fork, unsure if he could stomach anything.
By the fourth dose of cure, however, Caramon's appetite came back. He ate slowly at first, building momentum. Eventually, he felt more like himself, and he sat back against the wall, leaning the bench backward, his shoulders propping him up. The other patrons had gone, the fighter was the only one in the tavern.
Yost came over to stand by Caramon and glanced about with a gloomy air. "If this trouble doesn't end soon, I'll be ruined. The Festival of the Eye is coming up. A lot of people from Mereklar come to my inn to celebrate. But they won't this year. Maggie, clear the table."
Maggie hustled over and began picking up plates and stacking them on a wooden tray. Caramon noted that she was an unusually pretty, red-cheeked girl with a buxom figure and straw-colored hair worn tied up with a yellow ribbon. He seemed to dimly recall that she had smiled at him last night.
"Here, that's too heavy for you," he said, taking the tray from her.
"Oh, no, sir. This is my job," said Maggie, flushing deeply and trying to take the tray back.
During the friendly wrestling match that ensued, Caramon managed to kiss a rosy cheek. Maggie slapped him playfully, and the tray filled with dishes nearly ended up on the floor.
"Which way to the kitchen?" asked Caramon, who had emerged as the victor.
"It's over here, sir." Blushing furiously, Maggie led the way. Caramon followed, carrying the tray, and a morose Yost brought up the rear.
The kitchen was large and spotlessly clean. Numerous pots and pans hung from hooks nailed into the whitewashed walls.
"Any more for breakfast?" asked the cook, a small, thin, dark-haired woman.
"No," said Yost gloomily.
The cook began to make ready for the luncheon guests. Maggie motioned Caramon to one of the sinks. Quickly taking the plates from the tray he carried, she plunged them into the soapy water.
"Well, Master Innkeeper," Caramon began, talking to Yost but looking Maggie boldly in the eye, causing her to blush again and nearly drop a cup. "If it makes you feel better, my brother and I are going to Mereklar to try to earn that reward."
"Oh, are you, really?" Maggie turned, her motion sending a spray of bubbles over Caramon. "Lord! I'm sorry, sir!"
Grabbing a towel, she tried to dry the warrior's expansive chest. Caramon caught hold of her hand and held it fast. The girl's eyes were brown, with long lashes. Her hair was the color of the leaves of the vallenwood trees in autumn. She didn't even come up to his shoulder. Cara-mon's heart beat fast. He bent down to steal another kiss, but Maggie – with a sidelong glance at her employer-pulled away and began to wash dishes at a furious pace.
Yost nodded. "I figured as much. That mage asking all those questions. He really your brother?"
"My twin brother," said Caramon proudly. "He took the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery when he was only twenty. The youngest ever. And he passed. Though it cost him… cost both of us," the warrior added, but only to himself, beneath his breath.
Maggie heard, however, and gave him a warm and sympathetic glance. "He's real sick, your brother," she said in a soft voice.
"Yeah. I worry about him a lot. But," Caramon spoke hastily, seeing Yost's face grow longer, "he's stronger than he seems. If anyone can solve this mystery of yours about the cats, Raistlin can. He got all the brains, you see, and I got the muscle," the big man said cheerfully.
"Why would you bother with us?" Yost asked, staring at Caramon suspiciously.
"We're low on funds. We can use the job. Though, of course, more personal reasons have come up." He winked at Maggie, who smiled demurely.
"And what, if I may ask," Yost continued, "would a mage want with money? I thought they could conjure it out of thin air or something."
"They don't do that. It's just a myth, like touching a frog and getting warts," Caramon said loftily, showing off his vast knowledge of magic.
"Toad," the cook corrected quietly under her breath, without looking up from her work, sifting flour into a large bowl.
Caramon glanced at her in astonishment.
"You get warts from a toad," she repeated. "And we don't need any magic-users around here."
"There's never been one," agreed Yost, "and we've got along fine so far. It seems odd, you know." His voice hardened. "Our cats disappearing and your brother coming into town about the same time."
"From what I've heard, your cats began disappearing weeks ago. My brother and I weren't anywhere near – " Caramon began hotly.
"There was a wizard lived here once," Maggie interposed quickly. "Remember, Yost? That crazy old hermit who had a cave in the mountains?"
"Oh, him," said the innkeeper, remembering, "I'd almost forgotten about him. He never bothered us. Word was that he died, scared to death by spooks or something like that."
"Nobody knows for sure," added the cook ominously, concentrating on her pie crusts.
"Well, it doesn't matter." Yost frowned, dismissed the subject. "I was just wondering why a wizard would want to help us, that's all."
"My brother has his own reasons," Caramon said curtly. "He's done a lot of things just to help others, like expose that phoney cleric at Larnish."
"Larnish!" the cook exclaimed. She dropped a bag of flour on the table in front of her, sending a small, spectral cloud of white into the air.
"You've heard of it?" Caramon asked.
"I had people there," the cook answered.
The warrior waited, but she said nothing more.
"Well, I say it bodes no good! Mages! Huh!" muttered Yost, and walked out of the kitchen.
"Here, I can dry those for you," said Caramon, grabbing a dishtowel and sidling up beside Maggie.
"Oh, no, sir! This is woman's work! Besides, you might break – "
Maggie stopped, noting that Caramon was drying the plates swiftly, deftly.
"My mother was sick a lot," said Caramon quietly, by way of explanation. "My brother and I got used to fending for ourselves. Raist always washed and I dried. It was fun. We enjoyed it. We used to talk…" His voice died as the warrior remembered happier times.
But Maggie was smiling at him, a smile that lit the room more brightly than the sun shining through the window.
Returning to his room, Caramon found Raistlin and Earwig finishing breakfast.
"I don't think much of that game, Caramon," said Earwig severely.
"Huh?" The big warrior looked blank.
"Never mind," snapped Raistlin. "Where've you been?"
"Oh, just visiting. Finding out a few things. Can I help you pack, Raistlin?" Caramon walked over to his brother, who was poking his fork at a small piece of bread and assorted pieces of fruit.
"I'm already packed." Raistlin seemed unusually distant, withdrawn. His face had a gray tinge, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.
"Bad night?" asked Caramon.
"The dream again," Raistlin answered briefly. He looked away from his brother to stare out the window.
"I'm packed, too!" Earwig stuffed a huge piece of a corncake into his mouth. Syrup dripped down his chin and back onto the plate in front of him. Still chewing, he gulped milk from a'mug.,
"Earwig, go outside," ordered Caramon.
"I'm not done!"
"You're done. Raist, I think I should – "
"That is an excellent suggestion. Wait outside with him, my brother."
"But – "
"Go!" the mage commanded, thin hands clenching into fists. He stared out the window.
"Sure, Raist. We'll wait for you downstairs. Come when you're ready."
Caramon grabbed his pack and his brother's and left the room. Taking a last gulp from his mug, Earwig followed.
Raistlin heard the door close behind them. The sun, warm and encouraging, shone through the window, causing the mage's skin to glow with an inner golden light that seemed healthy in comparison with the sickly tinge it had acquired the night before. He reached over and touched the Staff of Magius with his hand, finding comfort in the feel of the wood.
"Why can't I remember? And why am I maddened by a half-dream I can't recall? It was important. Something important – "
"Excuse me, sir," came a timid voice, taut with fear.
Raistlin turned swiftly. He had not heard the door open. "What do you want?" he asked dourly, seeing a thin, dark-haired woman standing in the doorway.
The woman blanched at his harsh tone, but, gathering her courage, she took a trembling step forward into the room.
"Pardon, sir, but I was talking to your brother, and he said you was the one brought about the downfall of the cleric of Larnish?"
The mage's eyes narrowed. Was this some religious fanatic, about to berate him? "He was a fraud and a charlatan. A third-rate illusionist," Raistlin whispered. Turning to face the woman, he pulled back his hood.
The woman saw hourglass eyes sunken into golden skin, reflecting in the morning light. The sight was alarming, but she held her ground.
"He stole money from innocent people in the name of his false gods," Raistlin continued. "He ruined countless lives. Yes, I was responsible for his downfall. I repeat again, woman, what do you want of me?"
"I've… I've just come to thank ye, and give ye this," the was took in. He's back home with me now, sir, and doing well."
The woman dropped her gift in the mage's lap.
"It's a good-fortune charm," the woman said shyly.
Raistlin lifted it. The amuiet sparkled and glimmered, shining and glittering as it spun slowly on its chain. It was ancient, the jewels in it valuable. He recognized it as a treasured possession, one that could have been sold to ease poverty, but was kept in remembrance of loved ones long dead.
"I must get back to my work now," said the cook, backing up. "I just wanted to tha – "
Raistlin reached out a skeletal hand and took hold of the woman's arm. She cringed, shrinking backward.
"Thank you, mistress," he said softly. "This is a wondrous charm you have given me. I shall cherish it always."
The woman's thin face brightened with pleasure. Bending down, she timidly kissed his hand, shuddering slightly at the feel of the too-warm skin. The mage let loose of her arm, and she fled out the door.
Alone again, Raistlin tried to recapture the dream, but it wouldn't be caught. Sighing, he stuffed the charm into one of his pouches, and – leaning on the staff – pulled himself to his feet. He took one final look out the window and saw, shimmering afong the grass, the strange white line leading north, leading to Mereklar.
Raistlin walked outside the inn. The staff's golden claw shone in the sunlight, the pale blue orb it held seemed to absorb the dawn, transforming the light into its own.
"Where's Caramon?" the mage asked Earwig, who was sitting hunched over on the packs.
"He told me to stay here and wait for him, but it's getting awfully boring. Can't we go now?"
"Where – " began Raistlin again.
"Oh, he went around the side of the building about a minute ago." The kender pointed.
Raistlin looked at the packs that had obviously been rifled and wondered just how much of their possessions had made their way into Earwig's pouches. Caramon was such a fool sometimes.
The mage, face set into grim lines, stalked around to the back of the inn. He found his brother and one of the barmaids embracing, the warrior's huge body enfolding the girl's smaller one.
Raistlin stared silently. A slight breeze barely moved his robes, the only motion around his body. No breath could be heard, no sound passed from his lips. Emotions surged from a well he knew must be sealed forever if he was to achieve true power. He stood and watched, his chest burning, though a coolness was already rushing from within to extinguish the heat. Even with great effort of will, there was something that made him stand and watch until he could bear no more.
"Come, Caramon! We don't have time for another one of your Httle conquests!" Raistlin hissed.
He enjoyed watching them both jump, enjoyed seeing the girl flush red with shame, his brother red with embarrassment.
The mage turned around, digging the staff deep into the ground, and walked back to the front of the inn.
"I've got to go now," Caramon said, swallowing his passion.
"Sure," Maggie whispered, brushing her disheveled hair from her face. "Here. I want you to have this." She thrust something into the bosom of his shirt. "Just a charm. To remember me and to bring you good luck in your journeying."
"I'll never forget you!" Caramon vowed, as he had vowed a hundred times before to a hundred women before, each time meaning it with all his heart and soul.
"Oh, get along with you!" said Maggie, giving him a playful shove. Sighing, she sank back against a tree, her eyes half-closed, watching the warrior run after the mage.
The companions started on their way, walking for a time in silence – the mage working off his ire, the warrior letting his twin cool down. Earwig, mercifully, had dashed up ahead "to check things out."
The road was empty, though there was evidence that a horse had galloped over it not many hours before. Its hooves had dug deep into the damp earth.
Raistlin studied the horse's hoofprints and wondered what urgency had driven a rider to press his animal so. There could be any number of reasons, but the mage felt suddenly, intuitively, that it had something to do with them. An uneasiness was growing in Raistlin. He had the distinct impression that, instead of walking toward Mereklar, they should be hastening away from it. He came to a stop.
"Caramon. What is that?" Raistlin pointed with the staff toward a spot in the mudddy road.
Caramon came back to look. 'That track?" The warrior knelt down, brow furrowed in concentration. "I'm not sure, Raist," he said, rising to his feet, his face carefully expressionless. "I'm not a very good tracker. You'd have to get one of those Que-shu barbarians – "
"Caramon, what kind of animal made that track?"
The warrior looked uncomfortable. "Well, if I had to say – "
"You do."
"I guess… a cat."
"A cat?" Raistlin's eyes narrowed.
"A… big… cat." Caramon gulped.
"Thank you, my brother." Raistlin continued walking.
Caramon, falling in next to him, sighed in relief that his twin's ill humor was apparently over. The warrior drew a small ball of cloth out of his pocket. He put it to his nose, sniffing at it and smiled at the sweet, spicy smeH. The ball was decorated with sequins that had been sewn onto it by loving hands. A long yellow ribbon – a hair ribbon – fluttered gaily from the top.
"What's that?" Raistlin asked coldly.
"A gift. It's supposed to bring good fortune!" Caramon held it up by the ribbon, spinning it in the morning's light, watching the sequins reflect a rainbow of fascinating colors.
The mage thrust his hand into his pouch, his fingers touching his own gift of the morning.
"You're a superstitious fool, brother!" Raistlin said with a sneer.
Cfyapten s
/? was Niqtjt vv/yew iftey neacljet) Menekian. C/?e city's white walls glowed eerily in the silver moonlight. The bas-reliefs on the walls – raised patterns of the history of Krynn expanded into huge shapes, actors forever frozen – threw strange, shifting shadows over the surrounding grounds.
Earwig was fascinated. He'd never, in all his travels, seen anything so marvelous. He loved stories, and this was like having every one he'd ever heard come real before his eyes. The kender ran his hands along the walls, walking slowly, gazing in wonder.
'There's Huma and the Silver Dragon," he said, point
BROtrjens Majerce ing to the hero and his tragic love, each perfectly inscribed, every line, curve, and angle in exact proportions, "I don't recognize that one, though. Or that one either. That guy's a wizard, isn't he, Raistlin? Like you. Why, he is you! Look, Raistlin, you're fighting another wizard – a real, real old wizard. And that warrior there looks sort of like you, Caramon. The one in the arena, battling a minotaur. And" – Earwig's mouth dropped – "I'll swear that's Cousin Tas! There! Talking to a five-headed dragon! Look, Raistlin, look!"
"Nonsense!"
The mage gasped for breath. He barely glanced at the walls. His strength was failing fast. It always did, with the coming of night. He had been leaning on his brother's strong arm for the last few miles.
"Hurry up, Earwig!" snapped Caramon, anxious to get his brother to a place where he could rest.
"I'm coming," murmured the kender, moving along slowly, feet dragging. "I wonder why these walls are blank… I know! I'll bet they're waiting – waiting for great deeds of the future to be recorded on them. Maybe" – he heaved an ecstatic sigh – "maybe I'll be up there someday!"
Each pass of his fingers over the slate sent thrilling chills down his arms and back. He could almost see himself, immortalized in stone, joining the rest of Krynn's famous and heroic.
"Earwig!" Caramon called irritably.
The kender paused, glancing back at the wall. The wizard certainly did resemble Raistlin. But how could the mage be here and be bad in the past at the same time? He'd have to remember to ask.
"Kender!" Caramon shouted in a voice that meant no nonsense. "Get up here now, or we'll leave you behind!"
Earwig hurried to catch up. He might have a chance, in this wondrous city, to be a hero and have his picture on the wall. Imagining his adventures, he forgot all about asking Raistlin how he could be master of the past and the present.
"Wait a moment, Caramon!" Raistlin clutched his chest. "Let me… catch my breath."
"Sure, Raist."
Caramon stopped walking. Raistlin, gripping the staff to support himself, stood before the city walls. He wasn't coughing, however. Looking closer, the fighter saw that his brother was staring down at the ground, intently, concentrating. Raistlin's face could not be seen behind the red cowl, hiding from the silver moonlight.
Caramon experienced a feeling he often had around his brother, the sense that nobody in the entire world could ever intrude upon the young mage's thoughts, that no force in the world would ever shake Raistlin's ambition. Caramon found himself wondering, with a feeling of uneasiness, just what Raistlin's ambitions were.
Raistlin glanced up, turning to face his brother. Red moonlight filled the mage's hood, making his gold skin blaze with fire – a brazier of inner strength, indomitable, unquenchable. The hourglass eyes were filled with crimson, unscarred by the silver of the other moon. Caramon gaped, wondering if the apparition before him was truly his twin.
Raistlin smiled slightly, seeing his brother's obvious discomfort.
"Aren't we going in?" Earwig was looking at them anxiously.
Caramon suddenly wanted to shout, "No!" turn around, and walk straight back to the inn. He knew with the intuitive sense that made the brothers nearer twins on the inside than they were on the outside that Raistlin believed great danger lay ahead of them.
Bnotrjens Majene
Great danger, but also great reward.
"Come on! You were the ones who told me to hurry!" Earwig urged, his shrill voice sounding too loud in the night stillness.
"Magic," Caramon muttered beneath his breath. "He'll risk his life for the magic!" And mine, too, the warrior added in silence.
Raistlin held out his left arm, sweeping it toward the open gate that led into Mereklar. His right hand clutched the Staff of Magius near the top, a black line in red and silver moonlight.
"Shall we enter, my brother?"
The huge gate leading into Mereklar was easily large enough to fit five horses riding comfortably abreast, with three more standing on each others' shoulders. It was raised and lowered by an unseen mechanism, hidden deep within the walls, out of sight. No chains or ropes were visible. Running grooves, one on either side, were used as guides to keep the barrier sliding smoothly. Though the city was old, the iron bars of the portcullis did not show any signs of age or wear. Metal plates, apparently for decorative use, embellished the bars. On each plate was inscribed the head of a cat.
The city wall was five feet thick, and perfectly smooth and unblemished. Even the slots cut into the sides of the portal and ceiling had no imperfections. Not the smallest chip scarred the surface of the stone near the grooves, where anyone who had ever seen a castle's gate knew that rock began to disintegrate most quickly at those high stress points.
The companions walked inside the open gate. Caramon gazed at the city's defenses with a soldier's eye. Earwig stared with wonder at the incredible size of the gate and wall. Raistlin saw only the line of power, shimmering at his feet, extending into the city.
"Halt!" cried a voice. A soldier stepped out of a guardhouse, gesturing for five of his men to follow. They had been sitting out of sight, comfortably reclining in chairs in the cool evening air. Now they ran up to the party, holding their glaives in both hands, their bodies moving with exaggerated swings to the left and right, balancing with the weight of their heavy weapons.
The twins and the kender came to a standstill. Cara-mon stood with his arms folded across his chest, the hilt of his sword jutting up over his back, the main-gauche sitting at his hip. Raistlin leaned heavily on the staff, his back bent with fatigue. Earwig stepped forward, politely extending his small hand.
"Hi! I really love your walls!"
Caramon caught hold of him and pulled him back. "I'll do the talking!"
The soldier who called for them to halt was a tall, thin man with large hands. Insignia on his simple blue uniform indicated that he was a sergeant.
"By law, we must question all strangers wanting to enter the city."
"Certainly, we understand, Sarge," Caramon said, smiling in a friendly manner.
"Your names?"
"Caramon Majere. Raistlin Majere," Caramon said, gesturing to his twin with a hand. "And this" – patting the kender on the shoulder – "is Earwig."
"Earwig. Surname?"
"Uh, just Earwig."
"No, it's not 'just Earwig'!" said the kender indignantly, ignoring the warrior's attempts to hush him. "My name is Earwig Lockpicker."
Caramon groaned softly.
"Lockpicker?" The sergeant glowered. "And just what might that name mean, I wonder?"
"Well, if you're interested, I'll tell you," offered Earwig brightly. "You see, when the kender first lived in Kender-more, my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather… I think. I mean, I know it was my grandfather, but I'm not sure if I put enough 'greats' in there. Maybe it was my great-great-great-great-great-gre«f-grandfather who – "
"It is simply a name, officer, and has no meaning outside of tribal identification," Raistlin said, smoothly breaking into Earwig's recitation of his family tree. "It's quite common among kender."
"Common? It's not common – " cried Earwig, but Caramon managed to muffle the kender with a large hand over his mouth.
"You seem to know a lot about them, sir. Do you have many kender friends?" The sergeant turned suspicious eyes on the mage, who stood perfectly motionless behind his brother.
"Exactly two more than I'd like," answered Raistlin dryly. He suddenly began to cough and nearly fell.
Caramon sprang forward to assist him. "Look," said the big man angrily, "we've answered your questions, Sergeant. Now let us pass. Can't you see that my brother's ill?"
"I can see it. And I don't like it. We hear that there's plague beyond our walls," said the sergeant, his frown deepening. "I think you three had better just go back to wherever it is you came from."
"I do not have the plague." Raistlin was breathing easier. He stood up straight. "And we are going into the city." The mage slid his left hand into voluminous robes, gliding between the simple hooks that held it closed in the front.
"Even if we have to go through you," added Caramon grimly, standing to one side of his brother and drawing
"Stop them!" yelled the sergeant.
The soldiers halfheartedly lowered their weapons, threatening the companions with the broad blades of their glaives. None actually moved to stop the mage. None wanted to get that close.
"Come on!" cried Earwig, swinging his hoopak in the air until it whistled. "We'll take you all on!"
"Wait, Sergeant!" called a voice.
A man motioned from the shadows where he must have been standing the entire time. The sergeant, glancing at the companions balefully, walked over. The two conversed briefly, then the sergeant nodded. He returned, looking relieved, and the man melted back into the shadows.
"Please excuse my suspicion, gentlemen," said the sergeant, bowing. "These are troubled times. You are welcome in our city."
"We are?" said Caramon dubiously.
"Yes. Rooms have been arranged for you at Barnstoke Hall."
"How did anyone know we wouid be com – " Caramon began, but fell silent when he felt his brother's hand close over his arm.
The sergeant handed Caramon an ornate scrollcase. "Here. This is for you."
Caramon handed it to his twin, who hid it within his robes.
"Where might we find the home of Councillor Shavas?" inquired Raistlin.
"Councillor Shavas 's house is in the exact center of town. Follow any of the main roads. They all lead right to it. The lodging-house, Barnstoke Hall, is on this road, just a short distance away."
Raistlin had begun to cough again. Caramon took his brother's arm.
"Thank you. Sergeant. We'll be going now," the warrior said. They walked slowly up the street, leaving the guards to stare after them, shaking their heads and muttering in low voices.
Absorbed in discussing the arrival of a wizard, the guards never noticed a dark form scale the white walls of Mereklar. The figure, dressed all in black, used no ropes or tools of any kind, but climbed the wall with ease, finding foot- and hand-holds in the carvings. Gliding over the top of the wall, he dropped down lightly onto the street below, landing silently on all fours. Keeping to the shadows, he slinked past the guards and crept down the street, keeping the companions in his sight.
"How the devil did anyone in Mereklar know we were coming?" Caramon demanded when his brother could breathe again.
"The man standing in the shadows," Raistlin whispered. "He was at the inn with us. Remember the horse's hoofprints on the road?"
"Was he?" Caramon glanced around, pausing. "Maybe I should go back and – "
"No, you shouldn't!" snapped Raistlin. "I'm growing weaker by the moment. Would you leave me to die in the gutter?"
"No, Raist. Of course not," said Caramon patiently, helping his brother through the quiet streets.
Every building was constructed of the same white stone as the walls, every street was a perfect white slate, smooth and even. It seemed to have all been carved from a single mountain of rock.
"Flint would love this place," muttered Caramon.
"Hey! Look at that!" Earwig cried, pointing.
Motes of light were swelling out of the ground like water bubbling up from moist soil. After a few moments, the lights began to rise into the air, hovering above the walks and streets, flooding them with a radiant glow that illuminated the way for late-night travelers.
The lights were wasted tonight, however. No one was about, a fact Caramon thought strange, considering that it was not yet late. He peered constantly down the shadowy alleys and glanced sharply into each dark doorway they passed. The sharp-eyed kender noticed the warrior's nervousness.
"Do you think someone's going to jump out at us, Caramon?" Earwig asked eagerly. "You owe me a fight, you know, since you let me sleep through the one in the – "
"Keep quiet, kender!" Raistlin snarled.
Caramon glanced around. "Raist," he said in a low voice, for his brother's ears alone, "someone tried to stop us from coming to Mereklar that night. Why haven't they tried again?"
The mage nodded his head wearily. "A good question, my brother. Look at it this way. That night, no one knew we were coming to Mereklar except the assassin. We may assume, I believe, that someone saw you remove the sign from the post at the crossroads. If we had died that night – " The mage coughed, struggled to draw breath.
"If we had died that night," he repeated, when he could talk, "no would have known or cared. But, when we reached the inn, we made no secret of our interest in this city. People knew we were coming. If anything had happened to us on the way, questions would have been asked. Curiosity aroused."
"That's true," said Caramon, regarding his brother with admiration. "So you think we're safe now?"
Raistlin looked down at the white line, shimmering at his feet. It was very bright. He could see it clearly. No need for wine in his eyes. "No, Caramon, I do not – "
Pain seized Raistlin, Agony ran through his body like fiery darts. The motes of light left the streets and came to dance in his vision. The mage doubled over, the pain twisting his body into grotesque forms, squeezing the breath from his lungs, cutting off even his bubbling cry of torment.
Raistlin collapsed, unconscious. The staff clattered to the street. Lifting his brother, who was like a rag puppet in the big man's arms, the warrior looked frantically around for aid.
"There's the inn!" cried Earwig. "But it's all dark!"
"These people must go to bed at sunset! Go get help!" Caramon ordered.
Dashing down the road, the kender reached the door to Barnstoke Hall and began pounding on it.
"Help! Fire! Thieves! Man overboard!" he yelled, adding any other rousing alarm he thought suitable.
Lights flared. Heads poked out of upstairs windows.
"What is it?" demanded a man in a pointed nightcap, coming out on a second-floor balcony.
"Open up!" shouted Caramon.
"It's past hours. I'm locked up for the night. Come back in the morning – "
Caramon's lips pressed together grimly. Getting a firm grip on the limp and seemingly lifeless body of his brother, the warrior kicked the door to the lodging-house. Wood splintered, but the door held. Caramon kicked it again. There was a tearing and rending sound as the door shattered beneath the blow. The man on the balcony shrieked in anger and disappeared inside.
Caramon stalked through the wreckage. Looking around, he found a sofa and gently laid his brother down. The scrollcase that Raistlin had placed in the sleeve of his robes clattered to the floor. Caramon paid no attention to it. His brother's face was pinched, the lips blue. Raistlin had ceased breathing.
"I'll call the guard!" The innkeeper came clattering down the stairs, shaking his fist. "You'll pay – "
Caramon glanced at him.
"Hot water! Quickly!" the warrior ordered.
The innkeeper swelled up with fury, then his gaze fell on the scrolkase. He turned pale.
"Well, what are you doing, standing around, you lout?" the proprietor shouted at a sleepy servant. "Didn't you hear the gentleman? Fetch hot water! And be quick about it!"
The servant raced out and returned with a pot of boiling water, originally used for the evening tea.
Caramon poured steaming water into a cup and shook the contents of one of Raistlin's pouches inside. The herbs and barks bubbled and snapped. Propping up his brother's lifeless form, Caramon held the concoction to Raistlin's lips. The fumes seeped into the mage's nose and mouth. Raistlin's breathing began again, though the mage remained unconscious.
Sighing heavily, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his right hand, Caramon gently lifted his brother.
"Your rooms are ready, sir," said the proprietor, bobbing up and down. 'This way. I'll show you myself."
"Sorry about the door," Caramon grunted.
"Oh, think nothing of it," said the innkeeper airily, as if he replaced heavy wooden doors every day. "Will you be needing anything else? Food? Drink?"
The procession wound its way up the stairs. Earwig, forgotten in the excitement, started to follow, when he remembered something.
"Raistlin's staff! He left it in the street. I'm certain he'd want me to go get it!"
Turning, the kender dashed back outside. There was the staff, lying in the middle of the road. Earwig gazed down at it in awe. The crystal orb, held fast in the dragon's claw, was as dark and lifeless, it seemed, as its master.
"Maybe I can make it light up," said the kender, reaching out a trembling hand to take hold of the staff. Of all the interesting things that had happened to him in his life, this was going to be the most wonderful. Carrying a wizard's staff -
"Hey!" Earwig cried out angrily. "What the -?"
The kender looked up into the air and down at his feet. He glanced around in all directions.
The staff was gone.
"Oops," said Earwig Lockpicker.