Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (7 page)

The five companions, the kender grinning with excitement, followed the constable out of the building. As they walked
into the street, Tanis caught sight of movement at an upstairs window. Looking up, he saw Laurana watching, her face drawn with fear. She raised her hand, he saw her lips form the words, “I’m sorry,” in elven. Raistlin’s words came to his mind and he felt chilled. His heart ached. The thought that he might never see her again made the world seem suddenly bleak and empty and desolate. He realized what Laurana had come to mean to him in these last few dark months when even hope had died as he saw the evil armies of the Dragon Highlords overrun the land. Her steadfast faith, her courage, her unfailing, undying hope! How different from Kitiara!

The guard poked Tanis in the back. “Face forward! Quit signaling to those friends of yourn!” he snarled. The half-elf’s thoughts returned to Kitiara. No, the warrior woman could never have acted so selflessly. She never could have helped the people as Laurana had helped them. Kit would have grown impatient and angry and left them to live or die as they chose. She detested and despised those weaker than herself.

Tanis thought of Kitiara and he thought of Laurana, but he was interested to note that the old painful thrill didn’t knot his soul anymore when he said Kitiara’s name to himself. No, now it was Laurana—the silly little girl who had been no more than a spoiled and irritating child only months before—who made his blood burn and his hands search for excuses to touch her. And now, perhaps, it was too late.

When he reached the end of the street, he glanced back again, hoping to give her some sort of sign. Let her know he understood. Let her know he’d been a fool. Let her know he—

But the curtain was drawn.

F
oul knight …”

A rock struck Sturm on the shoulder. The knight flinched, though the stone could have caused him little pain through his armor. Tanis, looking at his pale face and quivering moustache, knew the pain was deeper than a weapon could inflict.

The crowds grew as the companions were marched through the street and word of their coming spread. Sturm walked with dignity, his head held proudly, ignoring the taunts and jeers. Although their guards shoved the crowd back time and again, they did it half-heartedly and the crowd knew it. More rocks were thrown, as were other objects even less pleasant. Soon all of the companions were cut and bleeding and covered with garbage and filth.

Tanis knew Sturm would never stoop to retaliation, not on
this rabble, but the half-elf had to keep a firm grip on Flint. Even then, he was in constant fear the angry dwarf would charge past the guards and start breaking heads. But in watching Flint, Tanis had forgotten Tasslehoff.

Besides being quite casual in respect to other people’s property, kenders have another unendearing characteristic known as the “taunt.” All kenders possess this talent to a greater or lesser degree. It is how their diminutive race has managed to thrive and survive in a world of knights and warriors, trolls and hobgoblins. The taunt is the ability to insult an enemy and work him into such a fever pitch of rage that he loses his head and begins fighting wildly and erratically. Tas was a master at the taunt, though he rarely found a need to use it when traveling with his warrior friends. But Tas decided to take full advantage of this opportunity.

He began to shout insults back.

Too late Tanis realized what was happening. In vain he tried to shut him up. Tas was at the front of the line, the half-elf at the back, and there was no way to gag the kender.

Such insults as “foul knight” and “elven scum” lacked imagination, Tas felt. He decided to show these people exactly how much range and scope for variety were available in the Common language. Tasslehoff’s insults were masterpieces of creativity and ingenuity. Unfortunately, they also tended to be extremely personal and occasionally rather crude, delivered with an air of charming innocence.

“Is that your nose or a disease? Can those fleas crawling on your body do tricks? Was your mother a gully dwarf?” were only the beginning. Matters went rapidly down hill from there.

The guards began eyeing the angry crowd in alarm, while the constable gave the order to hurry the prisoners’ march. What he had seen as a victory procession exhibiting trophies of conquest appeared to be disintegrating into a full-scale riot.

“Shut that kender up!” he yelled furiously.

Tanis tried desperately to reach Tasslehoff, but the struggling guards and the surging crowd made it impossible. Gilthanas was knocked off his feet. Sturm bent over the elf, trying to protect him. Flint was kicking and flailing about in a rage. Tanis had just neared Tasslehoff when he was hit in the face with a tomato and momentarily blinded.

“Hey, constable, you know what you could do with that whistle? You could—”

Tasslehoff never got a chance to tell the constable what he might do with the whistle, because at that instant a large hand plucked him up out of the center of the melee. A hand clapped itself over Tas’s mouth, while two more pairs of hands gripped the kender’s wildly kicking feet. A sack was popped over his head, and all Tas saw or smelled from that point on was burlap as he felt himself being carried away.

Tanis, wiping tomato from his stinging eyes, heard the sound of booted feet and more shouts and yells. The crowd hooted and jeered, then broke and ran. When he could finally see again, the half-elf glanced around quickly to make certain everyone was all right. Sturm was helping Gilthanas rise, wiping blood from a cut on the elf’s forehead. Flint, swearing fluently, plucked cabbage from his beard.

“Where’s that blasted kender!” the dwarf roared. “I’ll—” He stopped and stared, turning this way and that. “Where
is
that blasted kender? Tas? So help me—”

“Hush!” Tanis ordered, realizing Tas had managed to escape.

Flint turned purple. “Why that little bastard!” he swore. “He was the one got us into this and he left us to—”

“Shhh!” Tanis said, glaring at the dwarf. Flint choked and fell silent. The constable hustled his prisoners into the Hall of Justice. It was only when they were safely inside the ugly brick building that he realized one of them was missing.

“Shall we go after him, sir?” asked a guard. The constable thought a moment, then shook his head in anger.

“Don’t waste your time,” he said bitterly. “Do you know what it’s like trying to find a kender who doesn’t want to be found? No, let him go. We’ve still got the important ones. Have them wait here while I inform the Council.”

The constable entered a plain wooden door, leaving the companions and their guards standing in a dark, smelly hallway. A tinker lay in a corner, snoring noisily, obviously having taken too much wine. The guards wiped pumpkin rind off their uniforms and grimly divested themselves of carrot tops and other garbage that clung to them. Gilthanas dabbed at the blood on his face. Sturm tried to clean his cloak as best he could.

The constable returned, beckoning from the doorway.

“Bring them along.”

As the guards shoved their prisoners forward, Tanis managed to get near Sturm. “Who’s in charge here?” he whispered.

“If we are fortunate, the Lord is still in control of the city,” the knight replied softly. “The Tarsian lords always had the reputation for being noble and honorable.” He shrugged. “Besides, what charges do they have against us? We’ve done nothing. At the worst, an armed escort will make us leave the city.”

Tanis shook his head dubiously as he entered the courtroom. It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the dingy chambers that smelled even worse than the hallway. Two of the Tarsian council members held oranges studded with cloves up to their noses.

The six members of the council were seated at the bench, which stood upon a tall platform, three upon either side of their Lord, whose tall chair sat in the center. The Lord glanced up as they entered. His eyebrows raised slightly at the sight of Sturm, and it seemed to Tanis that his face softened. The Lord even nodded in a gesture of polite greeting to the knight. Tanis’s hopes rose. The companions walked forward to stand before the bench. There were no chairs. Supplicants or prisoners before the council stood to present their cases.

“What is the charge against these men?” the Lord asked. The constable gave the companions a baleful glance.

“Inciting a riot, milord,” he said.

“Riot!” Flint exploded. “We had nothing to do with any riot! It was that rattle-brained—”

A figure in long robes crept forward from the shadows to whisper in his Lordship’s ear. None of the companions had noticed the figure as they entered. They noticed it now.

Flint coughed and fell silent, giving Tanis a meaningful, grim look from beneath his thick, white eyebrows. The dwarf shook his head, his shoulders slumped. Tanis sighed wearily. Gilthanas wiped blood from his cut with a shaking hand, his elven features pale with hatred. Only Sturm stood outwardly calm and unmoved as he looked upon the twisted half-man, half-reptilian face of a draconian.

The companions remaining in the Inn sat together in Elistan’s room for at least an hour after the others were taken
away by the guards. Caramon remained on guard near the door, his sword drawn. Riverwind kept watch out the window. In the distance, they could hear the sounds of the angry mob and looked at each other with tense, strained faces. Then the noise faded. No one disturbed them. The Inn was deathly quiet.

The morning wore on without incident. The pale, cold sun climbed in the sky, doing little to warm the winter day. Caramon sheathed his sword and yawned. Tika dragged a chair over to sit beside him. Riverwind went to stand watchfully near Goldmoon, who was talking quietly to Elistan, making plans for the refugees.

Only Laurana remained standing by the window, though there was nothing to see. The guards had apparently grown tired of marching up and down the street and now huddled in doorways, trying to keep warm. Behind her, she could hear Tika and Caramon laugh softly together. Laurana glanced around at them. Talking too quietly to be heard, Caramon appeared to be describing a battle. Tika listened intently, her eyes gleaming with admiration.

The young barmaid had received a great deal of practice in fighting on their journey south to find the Hammer of Kharas and, though she would never be truly skilled with a sword, she had developed shield-bashing into an art. She wore her armor casually now. It was still mismatched, but she kept adding to it, scrounging pieces left on battlefields. The sunlight glinted on her chain-mail vest, glistened in her red hair. Caramon’s face was animated and relaxed as he talked with the young woman. They did not touch—not with the golden eyes of Caramon’s twin on them—but they leaned very near each other.

Laurana sighed and turned away, feeling very lonely and—thinking of Raistlin’s words—very frightened.

She heard her sigh echoed, but it was not a sigh of regret. It was a sigh of irritation. Turning slightly, she looked down at Raistlin. The mage had closed the spellbook he was trying to read, and moved into the little bit of sunlight that came through the glass. He had to study his spellbook daily. It is the curse of the magi that they must commit their spells to memory time and again, for the words of magic flicker and die like sparks from a fire. Each spell cast saps the mage’s
strength, leaving him physically weakened until he is finally exhausted and cannot work any magic at all without rest.

Raistlin’s strength had been growing since the companions’ meeting in Solace, as had his power. He had mastered several new spells taught to him by Fizban, the bumbling old magician who had died in Pax Tharkas. As his power grew, so did the misgivings of his companions. No one had any overt cause to mistrust him, indeed, his magic had saved their lives several times. But there was something disquieting about him—secret, silent, self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.

Absently caressing the night-blue cover of the strange spellbook he had acquired in Xak Tsaroth, Raistlin stared into the street. His golden eyes with their dark, hourglass-shaped pupils glittered coldly.

Although Laurana disliked speaking to the mage, she had to know! What had he meant—a long farewell?

“What do you see when you look far away like that?” she asked softly, sitting down next to him, feeling a sudden weakness of fear sweep over her.

“What do I see?” he repeated softly. There was great pain and sadness in his voice, not the bitterness she was accustomed to hearing. “I see time as it affects all things. Human flesh withers and dies before my eyes. Flowers bloom, only to fade. Trees drop green leaves, never to regain them. In my sight, it is always winter, always night.”

“And—this was done to you in the Towers of High Sorcery?” Laurana asked, shocked beyond measure. “Why? To what end?”

Raistlin smiled his rare and twisted smile. “To remind me of my own mortality. To teach me compassion.” His voice sank. “I was proud and arrogant in my youth. The youngest to take the Test, I was going to show them all!” His frail fist clenched. “Oh, I showed them. They shattered my body and devoured my mind until by the end I was capable of—” He stopped abruptly, his eyes shifting to Caramon.