Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

1 The Court of the Nightlord.

Iolanthe’s formal title was “Wizardess to the Emperor.” She was known informally as Ariakas’s Witch or by other names even less flattering, though those were spoken only behind her back. No one dared say them to her face, for the “witch” was powerful.

The guards at the Red Gate saluted as she approached them. The Temple of Takhisis had six gates. The main gate was in the front. That gate, the Queen’s Gate, was manned by eight dark pilgrims whose duty was to escort visitors through the temple. Five other gates were placed at various points around the temple’s perimeter. Each of those gates opened into the camp of one of the five dragonarmies, which were fighting the Dark Queen’s war of conquest.

Iolanthe avoided the main gate, for although she was the Emperor’s mistress and under his protection, she was a wielder of magic, a worshiper of the gods of magic, and though one of those gods was the Dark Queen’s son, the dark pilgrims viewed any wizard with deep suspicion and mistrust.

The dark pilgrims would have allowed her to enter the temple (not even the Nightlord, who was the head of the Holy Order of Takhisis, dared incur the wrath of the Emperor), but the clerics would have made her visit as unpleasant as possible, insulting her, demanding to know her business, and finally insisting upon sending one of the loathsome pilgrims as an escort.

By contrast, the draconians of the Red Dragonarmy, who were charged with guarding the Red Gate, fell over their clawed feet to be accommodating to the beautiful wizardess. A languishing glance from her lavender eyes, which glittered like amethysts beneath her long, black eyelashes; a gentle brush of her slender fingers on the sivak’s scaly arm; a charming smile from carnelian lips; and the sivak commander was only too happy to permit Iolanthe to enter the temple.

“You are here late, Mistress Iolanthe,” said the sivak. “It is well after Dark Watch. Not a good time to walk the halls of the temple alone. Would you like me to accompany you?”

“Thank you, Commander. I would appreciate the company,” Iolanthe replied, and she fell into step beside him. He was new and she tried to recall his name. “Commander Slith, isn’t it?”

“Yes, madam,” said the sivak with a grin and a gallant flick of his wings.

Iolanthe found the Temple of Takhisis to be an unnerving place even during the daylight hours. Not that much daylight ever managed to beat its way inside, but at least the knowledge that the sun was shining somewhere made her feel better. Iolanthe had sometimes been forced to walk the halls of the temple after dark, and she had not liked it. The dark pilgrims, those clerics who were dedicated to the worship of the Dark Queen, performed their unhallowed rites in the hours of darkness. Iolanthe’s own hands were far from clean, but at least she washed the blood of victims from her fingers; she did not drink it.

Iolanthe had another reason for wanting an armed escort. The Nightlord hated her, and he would have rejoiced to see her buried in sand up to her neck with buzzards pecking out her eyes and ants devouring her flesh. She was safe, at least for the moment. Ariakas held his strong hand over her.

At least for the moment.

Iolanthe knew quite well that he would eventually tire of her. Then his strong hand would either be clenched to a fist or, worse, wave dismissively. She did not think the time had yet come for him to want to get rid of her. Even if he did, Ariakas would not hand her over to the dark clerics. He disliked and distrusted the Nightlord as much as the Nightlord disliked and distrusted him. Ariakas was the type to simply strangle her.

“What brings you to the temple at this hour, madam?” Slith asked. “Not here for the Dark Watch service, are you?”

“Gods, no!” said Iolanthe with a shiver. “The Nightlord sent someone to fetch me.”

She was wakened in the middle of the night by one of the dark pilgrims shouting outside the window of her dwelling, which was located above a mageware shop. The cleric would not risk contaminating himself by actually knocking on a wizard’s door, and so he yelled from the street, waking the neighbors, who opened their windows, prepared to fling the contents of their chamber pots on whoever was making that ungodly racket. Seeing the black robes of a cleric of Takhisis and hearing him invoke the name of the Nightlord, the neighbors slammed shut their windows and probably went to hide under their beds.

The dark pilgrim did not wait to escort her. His task done, he hastened off before Iolanthe could dress and find out what was going on. She had never before been summoned to the Temple of Takhisis by the Nightlord, and she didn’t like it. She had been forced to traverse the dangerous streets of Neraka after dark by herself. She had conjured a ball of bright, glowing light and held it, crackling, in the palm of her hand. It was not a difficult spell, but it was showy and would mark her as a user of magic. The outlaws who roamed the streets would know immediately that she was not an easy mark, and they would steer clear of her.

The streets had been sparsely populated; most of the troops were off fighting the Dark Queen’s war. Unfortunately those soldiers who remained in Neraka were in a surly mood. Rumor had it that Takhisis’s war, which had been as good as won, was not going so well after all.

A group of five human soldiers wearing the insignia of the Red Army had eyed her as she walked past the alley in which they were sharing a jug of dwarven spirits. They had called to her to come join them. When she had haughtily ignored them, two of the soldiers were inclined to take their chances and accost her. One, less drunk than the others, had recognized her as Ariakas’s Witch, and after some heated discussion, they had let her alone.

The very fact that they had insulted Ariakas’s mistress boded ill. In the early, glory days of the war, those soldiers would have never dared speak of Ariakas by name, much less make crude remarks about his prowess or offer to show her “what a real man” was like in bed. Iolanthe had not been in any danger from them. The soldiers would have been five greasy piles of ash in the street if they had attacked her. But she found it instructive to note the volatile mood of the troops. Dragon Highlord Kitiara would be interested to hear what she had to report. Iolanthe wondered if Kit had returned yet from Flotsam.

As Iolanthe and her draconian escort proceeded to enter the temple, Iolanthe told Commander Slith she had no idea where the Nightlord was to be found. The sivak said he would ask. Iolanthe liked the sivak. Oddly enough, she liked the draconian soldiers, whom most humans reviled as “lizardmen,” due to the fact that they had been created from the eggs of the good dragons. The draconians were far more disciplined than their human counterparts. They were far more intelligent than goblins and ogres and hobgoblins. They were excellent fighters. Some of them were skilled magic-users and would have made good commanders, but most humans looked down on them and refused to serve under them.

Slith was a sivak draconian. Born from the murdered young of a silver dragon, Slith had scales that were shining silver with black tips. He had silver-gray wings, which would carry him short distances, and he was a talented magic-user. He offered to remove the magical traps that Iolanthe herself had laid upon the hall; traps that emulated the various breath weapons of each of the five dragons to which each gate was dedicated. The trap she had placed on the Red Gate filled the hall with blazing fire that would immediately incinerate any being caught trespassing.

Iolanthe accepted. She could have removed the magic herself, but dispersing the spell required effort, and she wanted to reserve her strength to deal with whatever lay behind the mysterious summons.

Accompanied by the draconian, Iolanthe swept through the halls of the Dark Queen’s temple, her black cloak trimmed with black bear fur sweeping majestically behind her. She was wearing sumptuous, black velvet robes—a gift for passing her Test in the Tower from her mentor and teacher, Ladonna. The robes looked plain, but if one looked closely in certain lights (and knew what to look for), one could see runes traced in the fabric’s nap. The runes overlapped like chain mail with much the same effect; they would protect her from harm, either spell-based or an assassin’s dagger. The clerics of Takhisis were forbidden to use bladed weapons, but they were not forbidden from hiring those who could.

A dark pilgrim told the sivak that the Nightlord was in the Court of the Inquisitor, located in the dungeon level of the temple. Iolanthe had been in the dungeons, and they were not high on her list of places in Krynn to visit. The temple itself was horrid enough.

Built partially on the physical plane and partly within the Dark Queen’s realm of the Abyss, the temple was here and not there, there but not here. Unreality was real. Existence was nonexistent. One hesitated to sit in a chair for fear it wasn’t a chair or that it would move to the other side of the room or simply vanish. Halls that appeared to be short went on forever. Long corridors ended way too soon. Rooms seemed to move so nothing was where it had been previously.

Ariakas maintained chambers there, as did all the Dragon Highlords. None of them liked residing in the temple and rarely set foot in their apartments. Ariakas had once said he always heard Takhisis’s voice, hissing in his ear, Don’t grow too comfortable. You may be powerful, but don’t ever forget that I am your Queen.

It was no surprise that the Highlords preferred to sleep in the crude tents of their military camps or in a small room in the city’s inns, rather than the luxurious bedrooms in the Dark Queen’s temple. Ariakas had actually acquired his own mansion, the Red Mansion, in order to avoid having to entertain high-ranking guests in the temple.

Iolanthe wondered, not for the first time, how the clerics of Takhisis who resided there did not succumb to madness. Perhaps it was because they were all lunatics to begin with.

She was glad she had brought Commander Slith along, for she soon became hopelessly lost. The temple was busy at night. Iolanthe tried to shut her ears to the horrible sounds. The commander, being new to the temple himself, had to ask a dark pilgrim to escort them to the dungeon level. The pilgrim inclined her head. She did not speak and was silent and sepulchral as a wraith.

“I have been summoned by the Nightlord,” Iolanthe explained.

The dark pilgrim looked Iolanthe up and down. The pilgrim pursed her lips in disapproval but at last decided to deign to escort her.

“I heard there was trouble,” the woman said grimly.

She was tall and gaunt. All the dark pilgrims seemed to be either tall and gaunt or short and gaunt. Perhaps serving in the temple took away one’s appetite. Iolanthe knew it certainly did hers.

“What kind of trouble?” Iolanthe asked, startled. If there was trouble in the temple, why should the Nightlord summon her? Judging from the agonized screams of the tortured, he was quite capable of dealing with trouble on his own. “Why should it involve me?”

The pilgrim appeared to feel that she had said too much already. She clamped her lips shut.

“Creepy bastards, these pilgrims. Make my scales crawl,” said Slith.

“You should keep your voice down, Commander,” Iolanthe said quietly. “The walls have ears.”

“The walls have feet too. Have you noticed the spooky way they jump around?” said Slith. “I’ll be glad to get out of this place.”

Iolanthe heartily agreed.

The pilgrim led them to the Court of the Inquisitor. The pilgrim would not permit Slith to enter. He offered to wait outside for Iolanthe, but the pilgrim shook her head at even that, and he was forced to depart.

Iolanthe hated this place. She hated the dreadful sounds and awful sights and noxious smells that always filled her with a nameless terror. The dark pilgrim eyed her with a smug expression, hoping and expecting to see her give way to her fear. Iolanthe gathered up the skirt of her robes and swept past the woman and entered the Court of the Inquisitor.

The room was large and dark save for a shaft of harsh light that beamed down from some unknown source, forming a pool of light in the center. At the far end, the Nightlord sat on a raised, judicial-looking bench. The executioner, known as the Adjudicator, stood off to one side. Responsible for inflicting torture and performing executions, the Adjudicator was short and stocky and powerfully built. He had no neck to speak of and bulging arm muscles, which he was enormously proud of and liked to show off. Though he wore long, black robes, the same as the other clerics, he had removed the sleeves, the better to exhibit his biceps. Dark pilgrims, acting as guards, ranged around the room, keeping in the shadows.

Iolanthe entered cautiously, unable to see her way clearly, for the bright pool of light made the surrounding darkness that much darker.

The Nightlord could have prayed to his Queen and been given the power to fill the room with unholy light if he had chosen. He preferred to hold his court in the shadows. By placing the victim in the harsh light and leaving the rest of the room in darkness, he made his victim feel isolated, alone, exposed.

Iolanthe remained standing near the door more by instinct than because she would have any hope of escape if something went wrong. She bowed to the Nightlord. He was an elderly human, somewhere in his seventies; of medium height, thin and wiry. With his long, gray hair, which was always neatly combed, and his kindly and benevolent face, the Nightlord had the appearance of a benign, old gentleman.

Until you looked into his eyes.

The Nightlord saw the darkest depths of evil to which the soul of man can sink, and he reveled in the sight. He took joy in the pain and suffering of others. The Adjudicator inflicted the torture as the Nightlord watched, reacting to the screams and torment in perverse ways that caused even those who served him to regard him with fear and loathing. The Nightlord’s eyes were as dispassionate as those of a shark, as empty as those of a snake. The only time anyone ever saw his eyes gleam was when he was in the throes of his horrid pleasures.

He made Iolanthe’s gorge rise, and she was not one to give way easily to fear. She was, after all, the mistress to Ariakas, the second most dangerous man in Ansalon. Even the Emperor grudgingly acknowledged that the Nightlord was the first.

With those horrid eyes fixed on her, Iolanthe would not give the man the satisfaction of seeing her cower. She made him a slight bow; then, as if bored by the sight of him, she shifted her gaze to his prisoner. She saw, to her vast astonishment, that the prisoner was a mage, that he was young, and that he was wearing the black robes. Her heart sank. No wonder the Nightlord had summoned her.

“You are in a great deal of trouble, Mistress Iolanthe,” said the Nightlord in his mild voice. “As you see, we have captured your spy.”

The Adjudicator smiled, and flexed his biceps.

“My spy?” Iolanthe repeated, astounded. “I never saw this man before in my life!”

The Nightlord regarded her intently. He had the goddess-given ability to tell when people were lying to him, though he did not often use it. Generally he did not care whether people were lying or not; he tortured them anyway.

“And yet,” he said, “you two are birds of feather, so to speak.”

“We both wear the black robes, if that’s what you mean,” Iolanthe replied disdainfully. “There are a great many of us who do. I don’t suppose your lordship knows every servant of Takhisis in the world.”

“You’d be surprised,” the Nightlord returned dryly. “But if you two really do not know each other, allow me to introduce you. Iolanthe, meet Raistlin Majere.”

Raistlin Majere, Iolanthe repeated to herself. I’ve heard that name before. …

Then she remembered.

By Nuitari! Iolanthe stared at the young man.

Raistlin Majere was Kitiara’s brother!

2 The Mage. The Witch. And the Maniac.

The harsh light glared down on Raistlin, on him alone, making him seem the only person in the room. Iolanthe drew nearer to see him better.

He was leaning for support on a staff made of wood topped by a dragon’s claw holding a crystal globe. Iolanthe recognized at once that the staff was magical and guessed that it was extremely powerful. The young man’s other hand fiddled nervously with a leather pouch he wore attached to his belt. The pouch was nondescript, the sort any wizard might use to hold components necessary to the casting of spells. She noted that the mage wore several pouches, all of them undoubtedly containing various components. He kept his hand near only one.

And though she wondered immediately why that pouch was singled out for special treatment, she did not give the matter much thought. She was far more interested in the hand than the pouch. The skin of it glistened with a golden sheen, as though the mage had been dipped in the precious metal. The odd color was the result of some magical spell, no doubt, but what and why?

She shifted her gaze from the mage’s hand to his face. He had removed his black cowl, leaving his face exposed, and Iolanthe searched for a resemblance to his sister. She did not find it in his features. His face was handsome, or would have been if it had not been thin and drawn and pale with exhaustion. The skin of his face was the same golden hue as that of his hands.

His eyes were astonishing. They were large and intense, the black pupils the shape of hourglasses. He turned to look at her with his strange eyes, and Iolanthe saw no admiration in them, no desire, as she saw in the eyes of almost every other man who looked at her. Then she knew the reason.

The eyes were cursed; it was known as the “curse of Realanna,” for the fabled sorceress who had developed the spell. Every living being Raistlin looked upon would appear to age and wither and die. He saw her as she would look years in the future, perhaps an ugly, toothless, old hag.

Iolanthe shivered.

The resemblance to his sister appeared to be more in spirit than in body. Iolanthe saw Kitiara’s ruthless ambition in her brother’s firm, strong jaw; her fierce determination in the young man’s fixed expression; and her pride and self-confidence in his thrust-back shoulders. By contrast, there were qualities Kitiara lacked. Iolanthe saw sensitivity in the long, slender fingers of Raistlin’s hands and a shadowed look in his eyes. He had suffered in life. He had known pain, both physical and spiritual, and he had overcome both by the sheer force of his indomitable will.

She also noticed, as a point of interest, that there was no mark on him. He had not been beaten. His golden skin had not been flayed and fed to the dogs. His bones had not been broken on the rack, nor had the Adjudicator gouged out those interesting eyes. Somehow Raistlin had managed to thwart the Nightlord. Iolanthe found that fascinating.

She looked back at the Nightlord and saw that he was, in fact, annoyed and frustrated.

“I have never seen this person before,” Iolanthe reiterated. “I do not know who he is or where he came from.”

That was a lie. Kitiara had told Iolanthe all about her “baby” brother and their childhood in Solace. Raistlin had a twin brother, she recalled, a big, hulking, simple-minded fellow named Caringman or something odd like that. Supposedly the two were never apart. Iolanthe wondered what had become of Raistlin’s twin.

The Nightlord regarded her grimly. “I fail to believe you, madam.”

“I fail to understand any of this, your lordship,” said Iolanthe in exasperation. “If you are so worried that this young mage is a spy, why did you permit him to enter the temple?”

“We didn’t,” said the Nightlord coldly.

“Well, then, the draconian guards at one of the gates must have cleared him—”

“They didn’t,” said the Nightlord.

Iolanthe’s lashes fluttered in confusion. “Then how—?”

The Nightlord leaped upon the word. “How! That is the question I want answered! How did this mage come to be here? He did not enter by the front gate. The dark pilgrims would not have permitted it.”

Iolanthe knew that to be true. They never allowed her to pass without harassment, and she carried the Emperor’s authorization.

“He did not enter by any of the five dragonarmy gates. I have questioned the draconian commanders, and they all swear to me by the five heads of Takhisis that they did not allow him to pass. What is more”—the Nightlord gestured at the young man—”he himself admits that he did not come through any of the entrances. He appeared out of nowhere. And he will not say how he managed to evade all our warding spells.”

Iolanthe shrugged. “Far be it from me to give you advice, but I have heard that your lordship has methods of persuading people to tell you whatever you want to know.”

The Nightlord’s eyes narrowed. “I tried. Some force protects him. When the Adjudicator attempted to ‘question’ him, Majere attempted to cast a Circle of Protection spell—the efforts of an amateur. I was able to dismantle it, of course. The Adjudicator then tried to seize hold of him. But he could not.”

Iolanthe was puzzled. “I beg your pardon, lord, but what do you mean ‘he could not’? What did this young man do to stop him?”

“Nothing!” said the Nightlord. “He did nothing. I tried to dispel whatever magic he was using, but there was nothing to dispel. Yet whenever the Adjudicator drew near him, the executioner’s hands shook as with a palsy. One of the guards then tried to throw a rope around Majere. The rope slithered to the floor. We attempted to seize his staff, but it nearly burned the hand off the cleric who tried to take it.”

Raistlin spoke up. His voice was well modulated, with a soft, husky quality about it. “I told your lordship I am under the protection of no magical spell. It is Queen Takhisis who watches over me.”

Iolanthe regarded Raistlin with admiration. She had already resolved to do what she could to rescue Kitiara’s brother from the Nightlord’s clutches. The Blue Lady would be grateful, for she had expressed a fondness for her half-brothers, and Iolanthe was working hard to gain the trust and regard of the powerful Highlord. Iolanthe was starting to like the young man for himself, however.

She had to play it carefully, though, feel her way in the darkness.

“And so, lord, why did you summon me in the middle of the night? You have yet to tell me.”

“I brought you here so that you can prove your loyalty to her Dark Majesty by removing his staff,” said the Nightlord. “I am certain it is the staff that protects him. Once he is no longer protected by any magical force, the Adjudicator will deal with him. He will pay for his refusal to answer our questions, of that I can assure you.”

Iolanthe had never before been asked to “prove her loyalty,” and she wondered uneasily what to do. She did not want to hand Raistlin over to the Adjudicator, who was skilled in the art of torment. He hacked off limbs. He stripped skin off living victims. He bound iron bands studded with spikes around their heads and slowly tightened the screws. He thrust burning pokers into various orifices of the body. He would always stop just short of death, using spells to bring the prisoner back to life to endure more torment.

Iolanthe decided to play for time. “Did you ask him why he came, lord?”

“We know the answer to that, mistress,” the Nightlord replied, fixing her with a withering gaze. “As do you.”

Danger tugged at the hem of Iolanthe’s skirt and laid clammy fingers on the back of her neck. Ariakas was away from Neraka. He had traveled to his headquarters in Sanction, a long distance from. And with rumors swirling that the Emperor was starting to let victory slip through his fingers, the Nightlord might be growing more bold. He had long felt that he should be the one to wear the Crown of Power. Perhaps Takhisis was starting to agree with him.

Iolanthe needed to find out what sort of monster was lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on her.

“I do not know what you mean,” she said coldly before turning to the young wizard. “Why did you come to the Temple of Takhisis?”

“I have told his lordship repeatedly. I came to pay my tribute to Her Dark Majesty,” said Raistlin.

He is telling the truth! Iolanthe realized in amazement. She could hear the respect in his voice when he named the Queen of Darkness, respect that was not perfunctory, not feigned, slavish, or groveling. It was respect that came from the heart, not from the threat of a beating. What marvelous irony! Raistlin Majere was probably the only person left in Neraka who still felt such respect for Queen Takhisis. And for that her loyal servants were going to put him to death.

As if to put an exclamation point to her thoughts, the Nightlord snorted. “He is lying. He is a spy.”

“A spy?” Iolanthe repeated, startled. “For whom?”

“The Conclave of Wizards.” The Nightlord spoke the last word with a hiss and a sneer.

Iolanthe stiffened. “I assure you, lord, that the Order of Black Robes is dedicated to the service of Queen Takhisis.”

The Nightlord smiled. He rarely smiled and, when he did, his smile boded ill for someone. The Adjudicator smiled too.

“Apparently you have not been informed. It seems that the head of your order, a wizard named Ladonna, has betrayed us by assisting the enemies of our glorious Queen. In this, she was helped by your god, Nuitari. Ladonna was caught and executed, of course. Nuitari has begged forgiveness for his error in judgment and has returned to the side of his goddess mother. All is well, but it was an inconvenience.”

Iolanthe felt danger’s hands clutch her by the throat. She had firsthand knowledge that the Nightlord was lying, but she had to feign ignorance.

“I did not know any of this,” she said, striving to appear calm. “I can assure you of my loyalty, Nightlord. If the Conclave has broken with the Dark Queen, then I will break with the Conclave.”

The Nightlord snorted. He obviously did not believe her. Then why summon her? He was fishing for information, which meant he did not know all that he claimed to know.

Iolanthe launched into a voluble account of her dedication to Takhisis. All the while, as she was talking, she was thinking. I would have heard if Ladonna had been caught and executed. The entire Conclave—Black, Red, and White—would be in an uproar. The wizard’s credo, born of long years of persecution, was: “Touch one and you touch all.”

So what does this mean for me? Does the Nightlord suspect that I was involved in Ladonna’s escape? Undoubtedly he does, if for no other reason than he believes spies and conspirators are lurking around every corner. He’d arrest his own shadow for following him if he could.

She was mulling that over and trying to decide how to get herself out of the tangle when the young wizard took matters into his own hands.

“As proof of my loyalty to Takhisis, I will hand over my staff,” Raistlin said quietly. “The staff is an artifact I value as I value my life, but I will give it to you of my own free will. And I will tell your lordship how I came here. I entered through the corridors of magic. In my defense, I did not know that entering the temple was a crime. I am newly arrived in Neraka. I came to serve Queen Takhisis, to work to confound her enemies. May Her Dark Majesty strike me dead on the spot if I am lying.”

Dark clerics, such as the Nightlord, repeatedly assured their followers that their Queen had the power to strike down traitors. Raistlin had proclaimed his loyalty to the Queen, and he’d done so by invoking her name. No lightning bolt streaked down from the sky. Raistlin did not go up in flames. His flesh did not melt from his bones. The young wizard stood calmly in the midst of the court, alive and well and unharmed. With a faint smile, Iolanthe waited for the Nightlord’s reaction.

He glared at Raistlin in frustration. The Nightlord might well suspect that Raistlin was making a mockery of the proceedings, but he could not call into question his Queen’s judgment, especially in front of witnesses. Takhisis had deemed that Raistlin should live. The Nightlord could not, therefore, execute him, but he could make his life miserable.

“You have our Queen to thank for saving you,” the Nightlord said bitingly. “You can remain in the city of Neraka, but you are henceforth forbidden from entering the temple.”

Raistlin bowed in acquiescence.

“Your staff will be confiscated,” the Nightlord continued, “and held in storage until such time as you leave the city. You will, here and now, reveal the contents of your pouches.”

The Nightlord might be perverted, sadistic, and insane, but he wasn’t stupid. He had noticed, as had Iolanthe, the young mage’s hand hovering protectively near the pouch he wore on his belt.

Raistlin looked uncertain. Iolanthe drew near to him and said softly, “Don’t be a fool. Do as he says.”

Raistlin cast her a glance, then placed his staff on the floor. Iolanthe wondered that he wasn’t more concerned over its loss, for certainly he must know that any valuable object the Nightlord put “in storage” was gone for good.

“You will remain as a witness, madam,” said the Nightlord, frowning at Iolanthe.

She sighed and joined Raistlin, who was opening first one pouch then another, emptying out the contents on the desk. There was the usual variety of spell components: cobweb, bat guano, rose petals, the skin of a black snake, black oil, coffin nails, cowry shells, and so forth. The Nightlord regarded those items with distaste and was careful not to touch any of them.

All the pouches except one lay on the Nightlord’s desk. Iolanthe could see one pouch still attached to Raistlin’s belt, though he had deftly maneuvered that pouch around to the side and covered it with the flowing sleeve of his black robe.

“Those are all my spell components, lord,” said Raistlin, adding humbly, “I would appreciate it if you would return them to me, lord. I am not a wealthy man, and they cost me dearly.”

“These items are contraband,” said the Nightlord, “and will be destroyed.”

He summoned one of the dark pilgrims, who reluctantly and gingerly picked up the various components, deposited them in a sack, and took them away. At his command, another dark pilgrim dropped a blanket over the staff, picked it up, and carried it from the room.

Raistlin made no argument, though; judging by the faint, sardonic smile that touched the young wizard’s lips, he knew the Nightlord was being arbitrary to punish him. Rose petals were not going to bring about the downfall of Her Dark Majesty. Every item in his pouches could be purchased at any mageware shop in the city.

“I abide by your decision, lord,” Raistlin said, bowing. “Am I free to go?”

“If your lordship pleases, I will conduct him to the proper exit,” said Iolanthe.

She rested her fingers on the young man’s arm and was surprised to feel an unnatural warmth radiating through the black folds of his robe. He seemed to burn with fever, yet he showed no symptoms of illness, only a very natural fatigue. Iolanthe was more and more intrigued by Kitiara’s brother. The two of them were bowing and starting to edge away when the Nightlord spoke.

“Show me the contents of that remaining pouch.”

A flush suffused Raistlin’s golden-toned skin. “I assure your lordship that it has nothing to do with magic.” He did not appear afraid so much as embarrassed.

“I will be the judge of that,” said the Nightlord smugly. He rapped on the table. “Put it here.”

Raistlin slowly drew out the pouch, but he did not open it.

“You have no choice,” Iolanthe whispered. “Whatever it is you are hiding, is it worth being disemboweled?”

Raistlin shrugged and dropped the pouch on the desk in front of the Nightlord. The pouch was lumpy and heavy and landed with a thud and a muffled thunk.

The Nightlord regarded the pouch with a suspicious frown. He did not touch it, instead turning to Iolanthe. “You, witch. Open it.”

Iolanthe would have liked to have opened the man’s scrawny throat, but she contained her anger. She was as curious as the Nightlord to see the contents the young mage was so carefully guarding.

She studied the pouch before she picked it up, noting that it was made of leather, well worn, and closed by a leather drawstring that ran through the top. No runes had been written on it. No spells of warding had been laid on it. She could have used a simple cantrip to find out if it was magically protected in some other way, but she did not want to give the Nightlord the impression that she mistrusted a fellow mage. She glanced at Raistlin from beneath her long lashes, hoping he would give her some sort of sign that she could proceed safely. His eyelids flickered beneath the hood. He slightly smiled.

Iolanthe drew in a deep breath and pulled open the strings to the pouch with a jerk. She looked inside and was at first startled, then she had to choke back her laughter. She upended the bag. The contents spilled out and went rolling off in all directions.

“What is this?” the Nightlord demanded, glaring.

The Adjudicator bent down to examine them closely. Unlike the Nightlord, the Adjudicator was both perverse and stupid.

“They would be marbles, my lord,” the Adjudicator said solemnly.

Iolanthe controlled her twitching lips. Somewhere in the darkness someone did laugh. The Nightlord glared around, and the laughter was immediately stifled.

“Marbles.” The Nightlord fixed Raistlin with a withering stare.

Raistlin’s flush deepened. He appeared overcome by shame. “I know it is a child’s game, my lord, but I am quite fond of it. I find that playing marbles relaxes me. I might recommend it to your lordship if you are occasionally bilious—”

“You have wasted enough of my time. Get out!” ordered the Nightlord. “And do not come back. Queen Takhisis can do quite well without ‘respects’ from scum like you.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Raistlin, and he began to hastily scoop up the marbles that were still rolling on the desk.

Iolanthe bent to pick up one marble that had fallen on the floor and lay near the hem of the young mage’s robes. The marble was green and shone with an eerie luster. She remembered from her own childhood that such a marble was called a cat’s eye.

“Please, madam, do not trouble yourself,” Raistlin said in his soft voice. He deftly intercepted her, plucking the marble out from under her fingers. As his hand brushed hers, she felt again the strange heat of his skin.

Another prisoner was being hauled into the court. He was bound in chains and manacles. He was covered in blood and looked more dead than alive. Raistlin glanced at him as he and Iolanthe hastened past.

“That could have been you,” she said in a low voice.

“Yes,” he said, adding, “I am grateful for your help, madam.”

“No need to be so formal. My name is Iolanthe,” she said, hustling him out of the courtroom. She had no idea where she was or how to escape the maze of tunnels, but she kept going. Her one thought was to put as much distance between herself and the Nightlord as possible.

“You are Raistlin Majere. I believe that is your name?”

“Correct, madam. I mean … Iolanthe,” said Raistlin.

She was tempted to tell him she knew his sister, Kitiara, but decided against revealing too much too soon. Knowledge is power, and she had yet to determine how to make use of it or if she should even bother. A wizard who played at marbles …

She found a dark pilgrim, who was more than happy to escort them from the temple. She saw, as they walked the winding, twisting halls, that Raistlin missed nothing. His strange eyes were constantly roving, making mental notes of each turn, each staircase they passed, the banks of cells and pools of acid, the guard rooms. Iolanthe could have told him that if he were trying to map the place, he was wasting his time. The dungeons had been deliberately designed to be as confusing as possible. On the off chance that a prisoner would escape, he would quickly lose himself in the labyrinth and fall easy victim to the guards or tumble into an acid pool.

Iolanthe was eager to question the young mage, but she was mindful of the proximity of the dark cleric walking alongside them, whose ears were undoubtedly flapping beneath his hood. At last they came to a steep, winding, staircase that proved too narrow for them all to mount together. Their guide was forced to walk ahead of them.

They climbed the stairs slowly, for Raistlin almost immediately ran out of breath and had to lean on the iron railing.

“Are you all right?” Iolanthe asked.

“I was afflicted with an illness for many years,” he said. “I am cured of it now, but it took its toll.”

As they continued up the stairs, Iolanthe said something polite. He did not respond, and she realized he had not even heard her. He was abstracted, absorbed in his own thoughts. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, the dark pilgrim, believing that his charges were close behind him, had rounded a corner and was out of sight.

“Our guide seems to have lost us,” Iolanthe said. “We should wait here for him. I never know where I am in this horrid place.”

Raistlin was looking around at his surroundings.

“You were concentrating on something very deeply back there on the stairs. I spoke, but you didn’t hear me.”

“I am sorry,” said Raistlin. “I was counting.”

“Counting?” Iolanthe repeated, astonished. “Counting what?”

“The stairs.” “Whatever for?”

“I have a habit of observation. Twenty stairs led down to the guardroom from the abbey where I found myself. My sudden appearance out of thin air caused quite a stir,” he added with a sudden flash of humor in the strange eyes.

“I can imagine,” she said.

“Leaving the courtroom, we climbed forty-five stairs on the last staircase.”

“All very interesting, I suppose,” said Iolanthe, “but I fail to see any practical use for such knowledge. Especially in this weird place.”

“You refer, of course, to the interplanal shifting between the physical world and the Abyss,” said Raistlin.

“How did you know about that?” she asked, again astonished.

“I had read about the phenomenon prior to coming to Neraka. I was curious to see what it was like, which is one reason I made it a point to visit the temple. In truth, the corridors do not shift. They only appear to do so because the eye is fooled by the distortion between one plane and another. Rather like looking through a prism,” he explained. “The building is not really jumping about or changing shape. I noted, however, that the visual distortion effects are mitigated when it comes to the stairs. That is only logical, otherwise the dark clerics would be forever tumbling down the staircases and breaking their necks. But I am stating the obvious. You are a frequent visitor here. You must have noticed this yourself.”

Once she thought of it, Iolanthe realized that she never did have any problem going up and down the stairs, though she had not considered such information important.

“The distortion makes walking about the temple very disorienting, which is precisely the reason for it,” Raistlin continued. “The casual visitor is immediately lost, which makes him feel afraid and vulnerable, and thus his mind is opened to the power and influence of the Dark Queen. Did you never wonder how the dark clerics come to find their way about?”

As if on cue, their guide appeared at the end of the hall, an annoyed expression on his face. Spying them, he came marching grimly down the corridor.

“Not really,” said Iolanthe. “I avoid the place when I can. What does the number of stairs have to do with anything?”

“The fact that the stairs are not subject to such distortions makes them useful tools for keeping track of one’s whereabouts,” said Raistlin. “I noted that the dark cleric who escorted me to the dungeon level was keeping count of the stairs. I saw him strike the numbers off with the fingers of his hand. I presume, though I do not know for certain, that every staircase has a different number of stairs and that is how they find their way around.”

“I begin to understand,” said Iolanthe, enlightened. “If I want to get to the Nightlord’s courtroom, I look for the staircase with forty-five stairs.”

Raistlin nodded and Iolanthe regarded him in wonder. She considered Kitiara a remarkable woman, and she now felt the same about her brother. Brains must run in the family.

The dark pilgrim took them once more in tow, with a stern admonition to keep up with him. He stalked down the hall ahead of them, moving at a rapid pace toward the nearest exit, obviously eager to be rid of them.

Iolanthe gave a relieved sigh when they passed through the main gate. She was always happy to escape the temple. She slipped her arm companionably inside Raistlin’s.

She was startled to feel him flinch and stiffen. He drew back from her.

“I beg your pardon,” she said coldly, dropping her hand.

“No, please,” he said in confusion. “I am the one who should beg pardon. It’s just … I don’t like being touched.”

“Not even by a pretty woman?” she asked with an arch smile.

“That is not something to which I’m accustomed,” he said wryly.

“No time like the present,” she said, and she twined her arm through his. “The streets are not safe,” she added more somberly. “It will be better if we stick close together.”

The streets were deserted for the most part. They passed one man lying in the gutter. He was either dead drunk or just plain dead; Iolanthe never looked too closely. She steered Raistlin to the other side of the street.

“Do you have a place to stay in Neraka?” she asked.

Raistlin shook his head. “I am newly arrived in this city. I came to the temple first. I was hoping to find rooms at the Tower. I trust there are some available? A small cell, such as they might give a novice, would suit me. The only possessions I own I carry with me. Or rather, I used to carry them.”

“I am sorry about the loss of your staff,” said Iolanthe. “I fear you will never see it again. The Nightlord knows magic, and he was quick to recognize its value—”

“There was no help for it,” said Raistlin with a shrug of his thin shoulders.

“You do not appear to be overly concerned about its loss,” Iolanthe said, giving him a sharp look.

“I can buy another staff at any mageware shop,” Raistlin said with a rueful smile. “I cannot buy another life.”

“I suppose that is true,” Iolanthe conceded. “Still, the loss must be devastating.”

Raistlin shrugged again.

He is taking it far too well, Iolanthe thought. Something else is going on here. What a marvelous mystery this young man is proving! She was growing quite fascinated by him.

“You can stay with me tonight,” she said. “Though you will have to sleep on the floor. Tomorrow we will find you a room.”

“I am an old campaigner. I can sleep anywhere,” said Raistlin. He seemed disappointed. “You appear to be telling me there is no room for me in the Tower.”

“You keep mentioning this tower? What tower are you talking about?” Iolanthe asked.

“The Tower of High Sorcery, of course,” said Raistlin.

Iolanthe regarded him with amusement. “Ah, that Tower. I will take you there on the morrow. The hour is late—or early, depending on how you look at it.”

Raistlin glanced up and down the street. No one was around, but he lowered his voice anyway. “What the Nightlord said about Ladonna and Nuitari. Is that true?”

“I was hoping you would know,” said Iolanthe.

He started to reply, but she shook her head. “Such dangerous matters should be discussed behind closed doors.”

Raistlin nodded in understanding.

“We will talk about it when we reach my home,” Iolanthe said, adding demurely, “over a game of marbles.”

3 A Cup Of Tea. Memories. A Dangerous Woman.

It was well after Dark Watch. Raistlin hoped they did not have far to go, for his strength was almost gone. They turned into a street outside the temple walls known as Wizard’s Row, and he was relieved to hear Iolanthe say that this was the street on which she lived. The street was narrow and out of the way, little more than a glorified alley. The name came from the various shops that sold goods related to magic. Most of the shops, Raistlin noted, appeared to be empty. Several had To Let signs posted in broken windows.

Iolanthe’s small apartment was located above one of the few mageware shops still in business. They climbed a long, narrow staircase, and he waited while she removed the wizard lock on her door. Once inside, she provided her guest with a pillow and a blanket and rearranged the furniture in the small room she termed her “library,” so he could make up his bed on the floor. She bade him good night and went to her room, telling him as she left that she was a late riser and did not take kindly to being awakened before noon.

Exhausted from his experiences in the dungeon, Raistlin lay down on the floor, covered himself with the blanket, and fell immediately asleep. He dreamed of the dungeons, of hanging naked from chains, of a man holding a burning hot rod of iron coming toward him …

Raistlin woke with a gasp. Sunlight flooded the room. He did not at first remember where he was, and he stared around in confusion until memory brought the events of last night back to him. He sighed and closed his eyes. He reached out his hand, as he normally did of a morning, and felt the staff lying by his side; its smooth wood warm and reassuring.

Raistlin smiled to think of the discomfiture the Nightlord would feel when he went to gloat over the valuable artifact he had lately acquired, only to discover it had disappeared during the night. One of the staff’s magical powers was that it always returned to its owner. Raistlin had known, when he handed it over, that the staff would come back to him.

Stiff from sleeping on the hard floor, he sat up, rubbing his back and neck to try to ease the kinks in his muscles. The small apartment was quiet. His hostess was not yet awake. Raistlin was glad for a chance to be alone, to sort out his thoughts.

He performed his ablutions then boiled water to prepare the herbal tea that eased his cough. The Nightlord had taken his herbs away from him, but they were common enough, and a rummage through Iolanthe’s kitchen produced all he needed. It was only when he was pouring the water into the kettle that he remembered that he didn’t need to drink his tea; his cough was gone. He was well again. Fistandantilus was no longer leeching away half his life.

Raistlin was accustomed to drinking the tea, and he continued to brew it. Unfortunately, the task brought back memories of his brother. Caramon had always fixed Raistlin’s tea for him, making of it a daily ritual. Their friends, Tanis and the others, had watched Caramon do the menial work for his twin in disapproval.

“Your legs aren’t broke,” Flint had once said to Raistlin. “Fix your own damn tea!”

Raistlin could have brewed his own tea, of course, but it wouldn’t have been the same. He allowed his brother to prepare his tea not, as his friends thought, to exhibit his ascendancy over Caramon or demean him. The homely act brought back fond memories to both of them, memories of the years they had walked strange and dangerous roads, each watching the other’s back, each dependent on the other for companionship and protection.

Raistlin sat before the kitchen fire, listening to the water bubble in the teakettle, and he thought of those days alone on the road, their small cooking fire blazing beneath the greater, more glorious fire of the sun. Caramon would sit on a log or a boulder or whatever happened to be handy, holding the clay mug in one big hand that almost engulfed it, sprinkling the herbs from the bag into the water, measuring out the leaves with care and intense concentration.

Raistlin, sitting nearby, would watch with impatience, telling Caramon that he did not need to be so careful; he could just dump the leaves in the cup.

Caramon would always say no, it was important to have the proper mixture. Did he or did he not know how to make an excellent cup of tea? Raistlin would always admit that his brother did make wonderful tea; that was true. No matter how hard Raistlin tried, he had never been able to duplicate Caramon’s recipe. No matter how hard he tried, Raistlin’s tea did not taste the same. His scientific mind scoffed at the fact that love and care could make a difference to a cup of tea, but he had to admit he could find no other explanation.

He poured the boiling water into the mug and shook out the herbs, which floated on the top before sinking. The smell was always slightly unpleasant; the taste was not that bad. He’d grown to like it. He sipped at the tea, a stranger in a strange city, the heart of the forces of darkness, and he thought of himself and Caramon, sitting together in the sunshine, laughing over some silly jest, recalling incidents from their childhood, recounting some of their adventures and the wonders they had seen.

Raistlin felt a burning in his eyes and a choking sensation in his throat that did not come from his former malady. The choking came from a heart swelling with emotion, from loss and loneliness, guilt and grief and remorse. Raistlin took an unusually large gulp of the tea and burned the roof of his mouth. He swore angrily beneath his breath, and flung the contents of the mug into the fire.

“Serves me right for being maudlin,” he muttered. He banished all thought of Caramon from his mind and, finding some bread in the pantry, toasted it over the fire and chewed on it as he thought over his situation.

His arrival in Neraka had not turned out as planned. He had deliberately chosen to appear in the temple by traveling the corridors of magic. His idea had been that he would materialize inside the temple to the awe and astonishment of all who witnessed him. The clerics would be so impressed by his exhibition of magical power, they would escort him straightway to Emperor Ariakas, who would beg Raistlin to join him in conquering the world.

Things had not turned out as planned. Raistlin had achieved one of his goals; the dark pilgrims had certainly been astonished to see him burst out of thin air inside the abbey, just as they were starting services. One elderly pilgrim had nearly suffered apoplexy, and another had fainted dead away.

Far from being impressed, the dark pilgrims had been outraged. They had tried to seize him, but he had fended them off with the Staff of Magius, which administered a strong jolt to anyone it touched. As they crowded around him, shouting and threatening, Raistlin had urged everyone to remain calm. He was not here to cause trouble, he explained. He would go with them willingly. He wanted only to pay his respects to his Queen. He had found himself instead paying his respects to the loathsome Nightlord.

Raistlin had almost immediately seen the man for what he was: a demented man who took physical pleasure and gratification in the suffering of others. Raistlin had realized at once that he was in deadly peril, though he was confused as to why.

“We are all on the same side,” the mage had tried to tell the Nightlord. “All of us want to see Queen Takhisis victorious. Why, then, do you view me with such enmity? Why threaten me with unspeakable horrors unless I reveal myself to be a spy for the Conclave? Why would the Conclave want to spy on the Dark Queen’s clerics? It makes no sense.”

Or rather, it had made no sense until he had heard the Nightlord say that Nuitari had turned against his mother.

The questioning had gone on hour after weary hour. All the while Raistlin could hear the shrieks and howls and screams of other prisoners, the turning of the rack, the snaps of the lash. He could smell the burning flesh.

The Nightlord had grown frustrated with Raistlin’s denials.

“You will tell me all you know and more,” the Nightlord had said. “Send for the Adjudicator.”

Raistlin had tried to use the Staff of Magius, but the guards had rushed him and, at the cost of a few jolts, had knocked the staff out of his hand onto the floor. He had then cast a Circle of Protection around himself. The Nightlord was expert at dealing with uncooperative wizards, however. He had spoken a few words and pointed his bloodstained fingernails at Raistlin, and the protection spell had shattered like a crystal goblet dropped on a marble floor.

Raistlin had known fear unlike any he’d ever experienced, worse even than the time he’d been lying helpless beneath the claws of a black dragon in Xak Tsaroth. The guards began closing in on him, and he had no way to fight them. Then something strange had happened. He had yet to find an explanation. The guards had not been able to lay their hands on him.

He had not done anything to defend himself. He had no energy left to cast any more magic. The trip through the corridors of magic, the subsequent fight, the casting of the Circle of Protection spell, had all weakened him. Yet the simple fact was, every time the guards had tried to seize him, they had started to shake so severely, they could not make their fingers work.

Raistlin sat cross-legged on the floor. He opened the pouch containing the marbles and shook them out. The dragon orb rolled around, indistinguishable from the other marbles except to his eyes. One of the facts he had learned about the dragon orb was that it had an instinct for self-preservation as great or greater than his own.

He picked up the dragon orb and held it in his palm and gazed at it, pondering, wondering. He had taken a risk bringing the orb to Neraka, to the heart of the Dark Queen’s empire. Made of the essence of evil dragons, the orb might feel emboldened, here among its own kind, so close to its evil Queen. It might turn on him, find a master more important, more powerful.

Instead, it seemed, the orb had chosen to protect him. Not out of love for him, Raistlin was sure. Raistlin shook his head, bemused at the thought. The orb was interested only in protecting itself. And that was an unsettling thought. The orb sensed danger. The orb believed it was in peril, and that meant he was in peril.

But from what? From whom? This city, of all places, should be a safe haven for those who walked the paths of darkness.

“By Nuitari, you really do play with marbles,” exclaimed Iolanthe. She wrinkled her nose and coughed. “What is that ghastly smell?”

Raistlin had been so lost in his thoughts that he had not heard her stirring. Hastily, he scooped up the marbles along with the dragon orb and dropped them into the pouch.

“I fixed myself a cup of tea,” he said blandly. “I have been ill, and I find it helps.”

Iolanthe opened a casement to let in air, though the smell outside was almost as bad as that within. The air was gray with smoke that billowed from the forge fires and reeked from the stench of the garbage-filled alleys and the foul water that ran ankle deep in the gutters.

“This illness,” said Iolanthe, waving her hand to dissipate the smell. “Was it a result of the Test?”

“An aftereffect,” Raistlin replied, surprised that she would immediately jump to that conclusion.

“And was that how you came to have gold skin and hourglass eyes?”

Raistlin nodded.

“The sacrifices we make for the magic,” Iolanthe said with a sigh. She shut the window and locked it. “I did not come out unscathed. No one does. I bear my scars on the inside.”

Iolanthe rumpled her dark hair and sighed again. She was dressed in a silken gown known as a caftan by those who lived in the eastern land of Khur. The silk was sumptuous and vividly colored; red and blue birds amid purple and orange flowers, green leaves and twining vines.

Raistlin found himself disconcerted by the woman. Her frank manner of speaking, her charm, her wit, her humor and vivacity and her beauty—especially her beauty—made him uncomfortable.

For even with his accursed vision, he could see that Iolanthe was beautiful. Her blue-black hair and violet eyes and olive skin were different from the other women he’d known in his life. Women such as Laurana, the elf maiden, who was blonde, fair, ethereal; or Tika, with her fiery red curls and her generous smile; voluptuous, laughing, wholesome, and loving.

By contrast, Iolanthe was mystery, danger, intrigue. She made Raistlin nervous. Even her clothing, with its myriad colors, made him uneasy. He disapproved. Those who took the black robes and walked shadowy places should not bring beauty and color with them.

She was smiling at him, and he realized he’d been staring at her. His skin burned, much to his irritation. He had conquered a dragon orb, imprisoned Fistandantilus inside it, and faced down the Nightlord, but he felt himself blushing like a pimply teenager just because a lovely woman smiled at him.

“I see the Nightlord returned your staff,” Iolanthe said. “How very kind of him. He is not usually so considerate.”

Raistlin was startled by her remark; then he saw the glint of laughter in her violet eyes. He realized he should have had devised some explanation for the staff’s reappearance, but he had been too absorbed in wondering about the workings of the dragon orb. He tried to think of something plausible to say, but he was tongue-tied. The woman confused him, turned his brain to gruel. The sooner he was away from her, the better.

Iolanthe knelt on the floor, her silken caftan floating around her, filling the air with the scent of gardenia perfume. She studied the staff, not touching it, but looking intently at the smooth wood and the dragon’s claw clutching a crystal ball that adorned the top.

“So this is the famed Staff of Magius,” she said.

Once again, she caught Raistlin off guard. He stared at her, dumbfounded.

“I took the opportunity of doing a little research last night after you were asleep,” she told him. “There are not that many magical staffs in the world. I found the description in an old book. How did you come by it, if I might ask?”

Raistlin was going to tell her it was none of her business. Instead, he found himself saying, “Par-Salian gave it to me after I passed the Test.”

“Par-Salian?” Iolanthe sank bank languidly on the floor, propping herself up on her elbow. “The Head of the Order of White Robes? He gave you this valuable gift?”

“I was a White Robe when I took the Test,” said Raistlin. “Due to the kind interest Lunitari took in me, I afterward wore the red robes. I have only recently taken the black.”

“All three,” Iolanthe murmured. Her violet eyes gazed at him. The black pupils dilated, seeming to widen in order to absorb him. “How very unusual.”

She rose gracefully to her feet, her caftan swirling around her bare feet. “It is said that the Master of Past and Present will be one who wore all three robes.”

Raistlin stared at her.

“And now, if you will excuse me,” she continued coolly, “I will go change into my black robes for our trip to the Tower of High Sorcery. I would wear my caftan, for I like bright colors, but the old buzzards who live there would have a collective stroke.”

She wafted out of the room; her perfume lingering. The smell tickled Raistlin’s nose and made him sneeze. She returned wearing robes of black silk similar to the caftan in cut and design, leaving her forearms bare. He heard a faint jingling of bells as she walked and saw that she wore a circlet of tiny, golden bells around her ankle. The sound was jarring and set his teeth on edge.

“I usually wear golden bracelets to match,” Iolanthe remarked as though she read his thoughts. She nibbled on some of the dry toast Raistlin had left uneaten and, picking up the mug, sniffed at the remnants of his tea and made a face. “But I dare not wear my jewels around Neraka anymore. The soldiers have not been paid, you see. The Emperor was counting upon steel flowing into his coffers from the wealth he would seize in Palanthas. Unfortunately for him, we hear that silver dragons have come to guard that fair city.”

“That is true,” said Raistlin. “I saw them before I left.”

“So you came from Palanthas,” said Iolanthe. “How interesting.”

Raistlin cursed himself for having revealed such information. The woman was a witch!

“Anyhow,” Iolanthe continued, “Ariakas lost all that revenue. What was worse, having been confident he would gain the steel, he had already spent it. Now he is deep in debt, though only a few people know that.”

“And why now am I one of them?” Raistlin asked, annoyed. “Why are you telling me this? I don’t want to hear it. Spreading such rumors is … is …”

“An act of treason?” Iolanthe shrugged. “Yes, I suppose so. But they are not rumors, Raistlin Majere. They are facts. I should know. I am Ariakas’s mistress.”

Raistlin felt the hair rise on his arms and prick the back of his neck. His life hung by a silken thread.

“I am also,” she added smoothly, “a friend to your half-sister, Dragon Highlord Kitiara uth Matar.”

Raistlin’s jaw dropped. “You know … my sister?”

“Oh, yes,” Iolanthe said. She was quiet a moment, then launched suddenly into a tirade. “Her troops, the soldiers of the Blue Dragonarmy, are being paid … well paid. Although she failed to take Palanthas, she controls much of Solamnia. She demands and receives tribute from the wealthy cities which she had sense enough not to burn to the ground. And she sees to it that the payment goes to her soldiers. Kit’s blue dragons are loyal and well disciplined unlike the reds, who are brainless and conceited and continually fight among themselves. Ariakas stupidly allowed his reds and his soldiers to pillage and loot and set fire the cities he took, and now he grumbles that he has no money.”

Raistlin remembered Solace, the burned-out Inn of the Last Home where he had spent so many happy hours. He remembered the terrifying siege of Tarsis. He kept silent, but inwardly he allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction at Ariakas’s self-inflicted predicament.

The smile vanished when Iolanthe impulsively clasped his hand. “It’s so good to have someone to talk to. Someone who understands. A friend!”

Raistlin withdrew his hand from hers. “I am not a friend,” he said, and thinking that might sound rude, he added abruptly, “We just met. You hardly know me.”

“I feel like I know you well,” said Iolanthe, not the least offended. “Kitiara talks about you a great deal. She is very proud of you and your brother. Where is he, by the way?”

Raistlin decided it was time to change the subject. “What the Nightlord said last night about Nuitari—”

“True,” said Iolanthe. “Every word, except for the part about Ladonna being executed. I would have heard. But Nuitari has broken with his mother, Takhisis, and now the Conclave of Wizards will unite against the Dark Queen.”

Raistlin was quiet, noncommittal. He was not part of the Conclave. He had not sought their permission to take the black robes. He had done so without consulting them, in fact, and that made him a renegade. The Conclave considered renegade wizards outlaws.

Iolanthe drew nearer to him. Her perfume filled his nostrils and made his head throb.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said softly, “because I am thinking the same: What does this mean for me?” She gave him a playful pat on the shoulder. “We should go to ‘the Tower’ and find out.”

Casting him a glance over her shoulder, she added, “My people have a saying: ‘A man should use his breath to cool his tea.’ That’s good advice anywhere in Neraka, but it especially applies to our fellow wizards.”

“I understand,” Raistlin said. He felt a flutter of excitement. At last he was to see the wondrous Tower of High Sorcery, meet the wizards who would help shape his destiny.

“Shall we leave? Are you ready?” Iolanthe saw his eye go to his staff, and she shook her head. “You should not carry that in public. The Nightlord will be searching for it. The staff should be safe enough here. I always cast warding spells upon my door.”

“The staff will keep itself safe,” Raistlin said. He didn’t like leaving it; he had come to depend on it. But he understood the wisdom of her advice.

Iolanthe shut and locked the door and traced a rune upon it with her fingertip; then she spoke a few words of magic. The rune began to glow a faint bluish color.

Iolanthe caught Raistlin’s eye and flushed. “Amateurish, I know. A spell such as one casts in mage school. But weak minds find the glowing rune impressive. And believe me,” she added, “we deal with a lot of weak minds around Neraka.”

Iolanthe took hold of Raistlin’s arm, telling him to act as her escort, whether he wanted to or not. “The streets are dangerous these days,” she said. “It pays to have someone watching your back.”

Raistlin didn’t like it, but he could not very well repulse Iolanthe. She had already made it clear that she could help him or harm him and that the choice was his. The staircase was narrow, and she pressed against him, insisting on walking close by his side.

“How many stairs?” she asked teasingly.

“Thirty-one,” he replied. “Counting the landing.”

Iolanthe shook her head and laughed at him.

Raistlin could not see what she thought was so funny.

4 Inn of the Broken Shield. The Tower of High Sorcery.

Iolanthe decided to first introduce Raistlin to her neighbor and landlord, the owner of the mageware shop. The proprietor was an elderly gentleman with the unlikely name of Snaggle. He was some sort of half-breed, so stooped and dried up and wrinkled that it was impossible to tell if he was half-dwarf or half-goblin or half-mongrel dog. He greeted Raistlin with a toothless grin and offered him a discount on his first purchase.

“Snaggle is an excellent man to know,” Iolanthe explained as they walked down the broad, paved street that ran in front of the temple. “He never asks questions. He gives fair value for the steel. And because he is favored by the Emperor, who regularly shops there, Snaggle often carries items that would be difficult for others to acquire. He won’t sell to just anyone, mind you, but he knows now that you are my friend, so you will find him accommodating.”

Raistlin was not her friend, though he did not say so. He had never had friends. Tanis and Flint and the others called themselves his friends, but he knew that beneath their smiles they did not love him, did not trust him. He was not like his brother, jovial, warmhearted Caramon—everyone’s boon companion.

Raistlin studied his surroundings with his usual care as they continued on their way. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“To the White District,” Iolanthe replied. “The city of Neraka is like Queen Takhisis in a way: A dragon with a single heart and five heads. The heart is the temple in the center; the heads are the armies that guard it. Since you materialized inside the temple, I take it you did not get a good look at the outside.”

The temple was surrounded by high, stone walls and was difficult to see from their angle. Iolanthe led Raistlin to the front gate, which was standing wide open, for a better view. The mage gazed at the temple and thought he had never seen anything so hideous. Takhisis had a sense of humor, apparently, albeit a twisted one. Once long in the past there had been, in the city of Istar, a radiant and holy and beautiful temple dedicated to Paladine, God of Light. The Temple of Takhisis was a distorted, perverted mockery of that ancient temple, which lay fathoms deep beneath the Blood Sea. A thing of darkness, Takhisis’s temple cast a pall over the entire city, like the unnatural darkness of an eclipse, when the moon blots out the sun, except that an eclipse ends. The temple’s darkness in the midst of daylight was constant.

“Ugly as sin, isn’t it?” Iolanthe said, regarding the temple with distaste. “Evil should be beautiful. It does so much more damage that way. Don’t you agree?” Her violent eyes glittered, and she gave him a sly smile.

They continued along the main street, which ran outside the temple, known as Queen’s Way.

“We are now in what they call the Inner City,” Iolanthe said. “The temple is surrounded by a wall, and Neraka is surrounded by its own wall. Outside that wall, the five dragonarmies have their camps. Inside the wall, each dragonarmy has its own district.”

Raistlin already knew that from his studies of Neraka in the Great Library. Due to distrust and intrigues and competition for advancement among the five Dragon Highlords—qualities Ariakas fostered—every district was self-sufficient. Each had its own smithies, shops, dwellings, barracks, and so on. No Highlord wanted to have to rely on another for anything. Needless to say, rivalries among the soldiers were also encouraged.

“We are going outside the walls. Bloody hell!” Iolanthe stopped. She looked annoyed. “I forgot. You don’t have a black pass.”

“A black pass? What is that?” Raistlin asked.

Iolanthe reached into one of the silken pouches she wore on her belt and took out a bit of paper. The ink was faded, but still possible to read. The seal of the Church—a five-headed dragon stamped in black wax—was affixed at the bottom.

“It’s called a black pass because of the black wax seal. All citizens must have this letter from the Church giving us permission to live and work in the city. Once you are outside the walls, you won’t be able to get back inside without this. And after last night, I doubt very much if the Nightlord will grant you one.”

Iolanthe pondered the problem a moment, frowning and tapping her foot. Then her face cleared. “Ah, I have the answer. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. Come along.”

She latched hold of him again and hauled him off, heading for the wall and the gate that led through it.

“Are you feverish?” Iolanthe asked suddenly, reaching up to feel his forehead.

“My body temperature is unnaturally high,” Raistlin said, flinching away from her touch.

She seemed to find his reaction amusing. He wondered irritably if she enjoyed making him feel uncomfortable.

“Nervous energy?” she suggested.

Again, Raistlin was forced to turn the subject from himself. “You mentioned that Emperor Ariakas frequented your friend’s shop. I had heard the Emperor is a wizard, something I find hard to believe since I also hear he is a warrior who wears armor and wields a sword. Others say he is a cleric, devoted to Takhisis. Which is the truth?”

“Both, in a way,” said Iolanthe, her expression darkening. “The Emperor goes into battle wearing full plate and chain mail and carrying a two-handed greatsword. He is not one to lead from the rear. He is no coward. He loves nothing better than to be in the thick of the fray. And while he is lopping off heads with one hand, he is casting fiery darts of magic with the other.”

“That is not possible,” Raistlin said flatly.

As he was constantly having to remind Caramon, who was always wanting him to learn to wield a sword, the art of magic required constant, daily study. Those who dedicate themselves to the magic do not have the time to pursue other interests, including martial skills. In addition, armor impeded the mage from making the complex hand motions often required for spellcasting. And many mages, such as Raistlin, believed that magic was a far more powerful weapon than a sword.

“Lord Ariakas is something of a cleric,” Iolanthe was saying. “He acquires his magic directly from Queen Takhisis herself.”

They passed through the White Gate, under the control of the Green Dragonarmy, commanded by Highlord Salah-Kahn. The White Dragonarmy, formerly under the late Dragon Highlord Feal-Thas, had been considerably reduced since the Highlord’s death, most of its troops reassigned. The soldiers of the Green Dragonarmy were from Iolanthe’s homeland of Khur. She was well known among them and well liked, for she took care to cultivate their good opinion.

His hood pulled low to conceal his face, Raistlin watched in silence, as she flirted and laughed and teased her way through the gate. No one asked to see his pass.

“They will want to see it on the way back in, however,” Iolanthe said. “But don’t worry. All will be well.”

Leaving the Inner City was like stepping from dark and quiet night into loud and blaring day. The sun blazed hotly, as though glad to escape the Dark Queen’s shadow. The dirt streets were jammed with wagons, carts, and all manner of people, every one of them yelling at the top of his or her lungs.

Raistlin was trying to cross the street without being run down by a cart, when he bumped into a soldier, who swore at him viciously and pulled his knife. Iolanthe lifted her hand; flames crackled ominously from her fingers, and the soldier glared and went on. She dragged Raistlin off, both of them walking carefully to avoid tumbling into the deep ruts worn by the wagon wheels.

The streets were clogged with soldiers of all races—humans, ogres, goblins, minotaurs, and draconians. The draconians were disciplined, orderly, their weapons shining, leather polished. Human soldiers, by contrast, were slovenly, raucous, sullen, and surly. Ogres kept to themselves, looking brooding and put-upon. Two minotaurs walked proudly past, their horned heads held high, regarding all other puny beings with magnificent disdain. Goblins and hobgoblins, whom everyone despised, slogged through the mud, ducking their hairy heads to avoid blows.

Quarrels between the troops often broke out, resulting in heated exchanges and drawn swords. At the first shout, the elite draconian temple guards would appear, as if from nowhere. The combatants would eye them, then snarl and retreat, like curs when the master brandishes the whip.

The noise and confusion of rumbling carts, swearing men, barking dogs, and shrill-voiced whores gave Raistlin a throbbing headache. The air was thick with smoke from the forge fires and the cook fires of the various army camps, whose tents were visible in the distance. A most foul odor came from a nearby tannery and mingled with livestock smells from the stockyard and fresh blood from the butcher’s.

Iolanthe covered her mouth with a perfumed handkerchief.

“Thank goodness we’re almost there,” said Iolanthe as she gestured to a large and sprawling collection of buildings across the street from where they were standing. “The Inn of the Broken Shield. You should seek lodging there.”

Raistlin shook his head. “I have read of it. I can’t afford it.”

“Oh, yes, you can,” said Iolanthe, and she winked at him. “I have an idea.”

She glanced both ways, then plunged out into the street. Raistlin followed, both of them running and stumbling over the ruts, dodging horses and marching soldiers.

Raistlin had read a description of the inn in his studies of Neraka. An Aesthetic with the unlikely name of Cameroon Bunks had risked his life to venture into the city of the Dark Queen in order to explore it and return to report on what he had seen.

He wrote: The Inn of the Broken Shield began when proprietor Talent Orren, a former sellsword from Lemish, used his winnings at gambling to purchase a one-room shack in the White District of Neraka. The story goes that Orren had no steel for a sign, so he nailed his own cracked shield over the door and called the shack the “Broken Shield.” Orren served food that was plain, but good. He did not water the ale nor gouge his customers. With the influx of soldiers and dark pilgrims into Neraka, he soon had more business than he could handle. Later, Orren added a room to the shack and called it the “Broken Shield Tavern.” Later still, he added several blocks of rooms to the tavern and changed the name to the “Inn of the Broken Shield.”

There were so many buildings, each with several entrances, that Raistlin had no idea which door was the main one. Iolanthe chose a door seemingly at random, as far as Raistlin could tell, until he glanced up to see a shield—cracked down the middle—hanging above it.

A weather-beaten placard nailed to the door bore the words, scrawled in Common, Humans Only! Ogres, goblins, draconians, and minotaurs did their drinking in the Hair of the Troll, popularly known as the Hairy Troll.

Iolanthe was starting to push on the swinging, double doors when they suddenly flew open. A man in a white shirt and leather doublet appeared, carrying a kender by the scruff of her neck and the seat of her britches. The man gave a heave-ho and flung the kender into the street, where she landed belly-first in the mud.

“And don’t come back!” the man yelled, shaking his fist.

“Ah, you know you’d miss me, Talent!” the kender returned, cheerfully picking herself up. She wandered off down the street, wiping muck from her eyes and wringing mud from her straggling braids.

“Vermin!” the man muttered as he turned to smile at Iolanthe. He made a graceful bow. “Welcome, Madam Iolanthe. It is a pleasure to see you, as always. Who is your friend?”

Iolanthe performed introductions. “Raistlin Majere, meet Talent Orren, owner of the Inn of the Broken Shield.”

Orren bowed again. Raistlin inclined his hooded head, and both men studied each other. Orren was of medium height, with a slender, almost delicate build. He was good looking, with brown eyes that were keen and penetrating. He had shoulder-length dark hair, carefully combed, and a thin mustache on his upper lip. He wore a white shirt with long, flowing sleeves, the neck open, and tight leather pants. A long sword hung from his side. He held the door open and politely ushered Iolanthe into the inn. Raistlin started to follow, only to find himself blocked by Orren’s muscular arm.

“Humans only,” Orren said, “as the sign says.”

Raistlin flushed in anger and embarrassment.

“Oh, for mercy’s sake, he is human, Orren!” said Iolanthe.

“I have never seen a human with such funny-colored skin,” Orren said, unconvinced. His voice was cultivated. Raistlin thought he detected a faint Solamnic accent.

Iolanthe grabbed hold of Raistlin’s wrist. “Humans come in all different colors, Orren. My friend happens to be a little peculiar;

that’s all.”

She whispered into Orren’s ear, and he regarded Raistlin with more interest. “Is this the truth? Are you Kitiara’s brother?”

Raistlin opened his mouth to reply, but Iolanthe answered for him.

“Of course he is,” she said briskly. “You can see the family resemblance.” She lowered her voice. “And I wouldn’t go shouting Kitiara’s name in the streets. Not these days.”

Talent smiled. “You have a point, Iolanthe, my sweet. You do resemble your sister, sir, and that is a compliment, for she is a lovely woman.”

Raistlin did not comment. He did not think he and Kitiara looked alike; they were, after all, only half brother and sister. Kitiara had black curls and brown eyes. She took after her father, who had been darkly handsome. Raistlin’s hair had been like Caramon’s, a russet color, before the Test had turned his hair prematurely white.

What Raistlin did not realize was that both he and Kit had the same fire in their eyes, the same determination to gain what they wanted no matter what the cost—even to themselves.

Orren allowed Raistlin to enter, graciously holding the door for him. The inn was crowded and noisy; they were serving the midday dinner crowd. Iolanthe told Talent she needed to talk business. He stated that he had no time at the present, but he would talk to her when the rush was over.

She and Raistlin walked past several tables occupied by dark pilgrims, who regarded them with frowns and disapproving glares. Raistlin heard the muttered word “witch,” and he glanced at his companion. Iolanthe had heard as well, to judge by the color that had mounted to her cheeks. She pretended she had not, however, and swept past them.

Several soldiers regarded her with more favor, speaking to her respectfully as “Mistress Iolanthe” and asking if she would join them. Iolanthe always declined, but with some clever remark that left the soldiers laughing. She guided Raistlin to a small table in a shadowed corner underneath the broad staircase that led to the upper rooms.

A soldier was already seated there, but he immediately rose when he saw her coming. Picking up his food and drink, he relinquished the table to her with a grin.

Raistlin sank gratefully into the chair. His health might be improved, but he still found that he tired easily. The serving girl came hurrying to take their order, pausing frequently on her way to knock aside a pawing hand, slap a face, or expertly jam her elbow into a rib cage. She did not appear angry or even overly annoyed.

“I can handle myself,” she said, seeming to guess what Raistlin was thinking. “And the boys watch out for me.”

She gave a nod to several very large men, who were standing with their backs against the walls, keeping watchful eyes on the patrons. At that moment, one of the men left his post and went charging into the crowd to break up a fight. Both combatants were speedily ejected.

“Strange to see peace reign in a tavern that caters to soldiers,” Raistlin remarked.

“Talent learned early in his career that barroom brawls are bad for business, particularly with the religious types,” Iolanthe said. “These dark pilgrims will watch a ritual blood sacrifice to their Queen without turning a hair, but let a man bloody another man’s nose during the supper hour, and the pilgrims would keel over in shock.”

The serving girl brought the food, which was, as the Aesthetic had written, plain but good. Iolanthe ate a shepherd’s pie with a healthy appetite. Raistlin nibbled at some boiled chicken. What he could not finish, Iolanthe ate for him.

“You should eat more,” she said to him. “Keep up your strength. You will need it this afternoon.”

“What do you mean?” Raistlin asked, alarmed at her ominous tone.

“You will find the Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka a surprise,” she said quietly.

Raistlin was going to press her for more information, but Talent Orren joined them at that moment. Hauling over a chair from another table, he turned it around and straddled it, resting his arms on the back.

“What can I do for you, my adorable witch?” he said with a playful smile for Iolanthe. “You know that I live to serve you.”

“I know that you live to charm the ladies,” returned Iolanthe, grinning.

Raistlin started to draw out his purse. Iolanthe shook her head.

“My lord Ariakas will have the pleasure of paying for lunch. Put our meals on the Emperor’s tab, will you, Talent? And add something for the girl and for yourself.”

“Your wish is my command,” said Talent. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“I want a room in your boarding house for my friend,” Iolanthe continued. “Just a small room, nothing fancy. His needs are simple.”

“I am generally full, but as it happens, I have a room available,” said Orren. “It opened up this morning.” He added matter-of-factly, “Occupant died in his sleep.”

He named a price. Raistlin did some rapid calculations and shook his head. “I am afraid I cannot afford—”

Iolanthe stopped him, closing her hand over his. “Kitiara will pay for him. He is, after all, her brother.”

Talent slapped the back of the chair. “Then it is all settled. You can move in any time, Majere. I fear you will notice a strong odor of paint, but we had to use several coats to cover up the blood spatters. Collect the key on the way out. Number thirty-nine. Third floor, turn to your right, then make a left at the end of the corridor. Anything else?”

Iolanthe said something in a low voice. Talent listened intently, glanced at Raistlin, raised an eyebrow, then smiled.

“Of course. Wait here.”

“You can put that on Ariakas’s tab as well,” Iolanthe called to him.

Talent laughed as he headed back to the bar.

“Don’t worry,” said Iolanthe when Raistlin began to protest. “I will speak to Kit. She will be thrilled to hear you are in Neraka. As for paying for your room, she can easily afford it.”

“Nevertheless,” said Raistlin firmly, “I will not be beholden to anyone, not even my sister. I will pay her back the moment I am able.”

“How very noble,” said Iolanthe, amused by his scruples. “And now, if you are feeling better, we will visit the Tower, and I will introduce you to your esteemed colleagues.”

Iolanthe was in the act of reaching for her purse when the serving girl came by. Iolanthe stood up and the two collided, causing Iolanthe to drop her purse and spill the contents. Iolanthe angrily scolded the serving girl, who apologized most profusely and picked up the scattered coins and trinkets, some of which Raistlin recognized as spell components.

When Raistlin rose from the table, Iolanthe took hold of his hand and slipped a rolled-up bit of paper into his palm. He concealed the paper in the long, full sleeves of his robes and deftly slipped it into one of his pouches. The black wax of the “official seal” was still warm to the touch.

Raistlin collected the key to number thirty-nine from one of the bartenders, who instructed him that after he had moved in he was to drop the key off whenever he left the premises and pick it up on his return. Iolanthe bid good-bye to Talent Orren, who was seated at a table with two dark pilgrims, one male and one female. Talent kissed Iolanthe’s hand, much to the disapproval of the pilgrims, then went back to their conversation.

“I can get what you want,” Talent was saying, “but it will cost you.”

The dark pilgrims glanced at each other, and the woman smiled and nodded. The man drew out a heavy purse.

“What was that all about?” Raistlin asked as they left the inn.

“Oh, Talent is probably selling them something on the black market,” Iolanthe said with a shrug. “Those two are Spiritors, high in the clerical hierarchy. Like many of Her Dark Majesty’s followers, they have developed a taste for the finer things in life, such as thoroughbred horses from Khur, wine and silk from Qualinesti, and jewelry from the dwarf artisans of Thorbardin. Once these things were sold in the shops, but with the supply lines getting cut and losses mounting, such luxuries are becoming scarce.”

“Interesting that Talent can lay his hands on them,” Raistlin said.

“He has a way with people,” Iolanthe said, smiling.

She took Raistlin’s arm again, much to his discomfiture. He had expected that they would head back into the heart of the city. The Tower of High Sorcery would not be as grand or imposing as the Temple of the Dark Queen, of course. That would not be politic. But it ought to be located somewhere near Takhisis’s temple.

He had thought it curious that he had not found a description of the Tower of High Sorcery in the Aesthetic’s writings on Neraka. There could be many reasons for that. Every Tower of High Sorcery was guarded by a protective grove. The Tower of Palanthas had the dread Shoikan Grove. The Tower of Wayreth was surrounded by an enchanted forest. Perhaps the grove around the Nerakan Tower rendered it invisible.

Iolanthe did not turn toward the Temple of the Dark Queen, however. She walked in the opposite direction, taking a street that led into what appeared to be a warehouse district. The streets were less crowded here, for soldiers did not frequent the area. Raistlin could see workmen inside the warehouses rolling barrels into place, shifting crates, and unloading sacks of grain from the ubiquitous wagons.

“I thought we were going to the Tower,” Raistlin said.

“We are,” said Iolanthe.

Rounding a corner, drawing him with her, she stopped in front of a three-story building made of bricks, huddling in between a cooper’s business on one side and a blacksmith’s on the other. The building was black, not by design, but because the bricks were covered with dirt and soot. There were few windows, and most of those were cracked or broken.

“Where is the Tower?” asked Raistlin.

“You’re looking at it,” said Iolanthe.

5 Boiled Cabbage. The New Librarian.

“There must … there must be some mistake,” said Raistlin, appalled.

“There is no mistake,” said Iolanthe. “You look upon the repository of magic in the Dark Queen’s realm.”

She turned to face him. “Now do you understand? Now do you see why Nuitari broke with his mother? This”—she made a scathing gesture to the shabby, dirty, and decrepit building—”is the regard in which magic is held by the Queen of Darkness.”

Raistlin had never known such bitter disappointment. He thought of the pain he had endured, the sacrifices he had made to get to this place, and tears of anger and frustration burned his eyes and blurred his vision.

Iolanthe gave his arm a sympathetic pat. “I am sorry to say it only gets worse from here. You have yet to meet your fellow Black Robes.”

Her violet eyes, gazing at him, were piercing in their intensity. “You must decide, Raistlin Majere,” she said softly. “Which side will you choose? Mother or son?”

“What about you?” he hedged.

Iolanthe laughed. “Oh, that is easy. I am always on my own side.”

And her side appears to include serving my sister, Kitiara, Raistlin thought. That might work well for me, or it might not. I did not come to serve. I came to rule.

Sighing, Raistlin picked up the ruins of his shattered ambition and packed away the pieces. The path he had been walking had carried him not to glory but to a pig sty. He had to watch every step, look closely where he put his feet.

The door to the Tower of High Lunacy, as Iolanthe mockingly termed it, was guarded by a rune burned in the wood. The magical spell was rudimentary. A child could have removed it.

“Aren’t you worried that people will break in?” Raistlin asked.

Iolanthe gave a delicate snort. “It will give you some idea of how little the people of Neraka care about us when I tell you that thus far no one has ever attempted to break into our Tower. People are quite right not to waste their time. There’s nothing in here of value.”

“But there must be a library,” said Raistlin, his dismay growing. “Spellbooks, scrolls, artifacts …”

“Everything of value was sold off long ago to pay the rent on the building,” said Iolanthe.

Pay the rent! Raistlin burned with shame. He thought of the grand and glorious and tragic histories of the Towers of High Sorcery down through the ages. Magnificent structures designed to inspire fear and awe in all who gazed upon them. He watched a rat run into a hole at the base of the brick wall and felt sick to his stomach.

Iolanthe dispelled the rune and shoved open the door leading to a small and filthy entryway. To their right, a corridor extended into dusty darkness. A rickety-looking staircase led up to the second floor.

“There are rooms here, but you see why I suggested you live somewhere else,” said Iolanthe.

She called out, pitching her voice to carry to the second level. “It’s me! Iolanthe! I’m coming upstairs. Don’t cast any fireballs.” She added in a disparaging undertone, “Not that the old farts could. What spells they ever knew, they long ago forgot.”

“What is down that corridor?” Raistlin asked as they climbed the stairs that creaked ominously underfoot.

“Classrooms,” said Iolanthe. “At least that’s what they were meant to be. There were never any students.”

Silence had greeted their arrival, but once Iolanthe had announced herself, voices broke out, high-pitched and querulous, pecking and clucking.

The second level was the common living and working space. The bedchambers were on the third floor. Iolanthe pointed out the laboratory, which consisted of a long worktable, set with cracked and dirty crockery, and a cauldron bubbling over a fire. The escaping steam told of boiled cabbage.

Next to the laboratory was the library. Raistlin looked through the door. The floor was covered with stacks and piles of books, parchments, and scrolls. Someone appeared to have started to sort through them, for a few books had been placed neatly on a shelf. After that, nothing had been done, apparently, except to create a bigger mess.

The largest room on that level, located across from the staircase, was the central living area. Iolanthe entered with Raistlin trailing behind her, keeping his hood over his head, his face in shadow. The room was furnished with a couple of broken-down couches, several wobbly-legged chairs, and a few small tables and storage chests. Three Black Robes—human males, well into their middle years—descended upon Iolanthe, all talking at once.

“Gentlemen,” she said, raising her hands for silence. “I will deal with your concerns in a moment. First, I want to introduce Raistlin Majere, a new addition to our ranks.”

The three Black Robes differed only in that one man had long gray hair and one had sparse gray hair and one had no hair at all. They were alike in that they loathed and distrusted each other, and all believed that magic was nothing but a tool to satisfy their own needs. Whatever souls they might have once possessed had been gnawed away by ignorance and greed. They were in Neraka because they had nowhere else to go.

Iolanthe named the three swiftly. The names passed in and out of Raistlin’s head. He did not consider it worth taking the time to learn them, and as it turned out, he had no need to know. The Black Robes were not the least interested in him. Their only interest was themselves, and they bombarded Iolanthe with questions, demanding answers, then refusing to listen when she tried to give them.

They crowded around her in a suffocating circle. Raistlin remained on the outside, listening and observing.

“One of you—one of you,” Iolanthe repeated sternly when they all seemed about to talk, “tell me the reason for this uproar.”

The reason was given to her by the eldest mage, a seedy-looking old specimen with a crooked nose who had, Raistlin was to learn, eked out a living selling vile charms and dubious potions to peasants until forced to flee for his life after poisoning several of his patrons. According to Hook Nose, as Raistlin nicknamed him, they had all heard the rumor that Nuitari had broken with Queen Takhisis, that Ladonna had been killed, and that they were all doomed.

“The Nightlord’s guards will be breaking down our door at any moment!” Hook Nose said in panicked tones. “They suspect us of working for Hidden Light. We’ll all end up in the Nightlord’s dungeons!”

Iolanthe listened patiently and gave a light and airy laugh. “You may rest easy, gentlemen,” she said. “I, too, heard these rumors. I was myself uneasy, and so I sought out the truth. All of you know that the eminent wizardess Ladonna was my mentor and sponsor.”

The old men apparently knew that and were not impressed, for they said loudly that anything involving Ladonna would only add to their problems. Raistlin, who had not known it, wondered what it might mean. Was Iolanthe loyal to Ladonna?

“I spoke to her only last night. The rumor is completely false. Ladonna remains subject to Takhisis, as does her son, Nuitari. You have nothing to worry about. We may continue with business as normal.”

Seeing the old men glower, Raistlin guessed that “business as normal” was not all that great. In confirmation, Iolanthe drew out her silken purse and removed several steel coins stamped with the five heads of the Dark Queen. She rested the coins on a table.

“There you are. Payment for the services performed by the Black Robes of Neraka.”

She reeled off a list that included such tasks as rodent removal for a tailor’s shop and mixing potions as ordered by Snaggle. Raistlin thought privately he would rather use a potion mixed by gully dwarves than anything those three old coots had concocted. He would later learn from Iolanthe that she poured the potions into the Neraka sewer system. She funded the Tower herself.

“Otherwise,” she told Raistlin privately, “these buzzards would go seeking work on their own, and Nuitari knows what sort of trouble they would bring down on me.”

The old men were reassured by the sight of the coins far more than by Iolanthe’s words. Hook Nose latched onto the coins, as the other two watched him jealously, and they began a lively discussion on how the steel was to be divided, each claiming that he deserved the largest share.

“I hate to interrupt,” Iolanthe said loudly, “but I have a bit more business to conduct. I have introduced you to Raistlin Majere. He is a—”

“—a mere student of magic, sirs,” said Raistlin in his soft voice. Keeping his head humbly bowed and his hands in his sleeves, he kept to the shadows. “I am still learning, and I look to you, my esteemed elders, for teaching and advice.”

Hook Nose grunted. “He’s not planning to live here, is he? Because there’s no room.”

“I have taken other lodging,” Raistlin assured him. “I would be glad to work here, however—”

“Can you cook?” asked one. His double chin and large belly showed clearly where his interests lay. Raistlin named him Paunchy.

“I was thinking I might be of more use to you if I cataloged the books and scrolls in the library,” Raistlin suggested.

“We need a cook,” countered Paunchy testily. “I’m sick to death of boiled cabbage.”

“Young Master Majere has an excellent idea,” Iolanthe said, taking Raistlin’s cue. “Since the rest of you are busy with far more important work, we can assign the library to our novice wizard. Who knows? He may discover something of value.”

Hook Nose’s eyes gleamed at that and he agreed, though Paunchy still grumbled about needing a cook, not a librarian. Raistlin was a fairly good cook, having prepared meals for himself and his brother when they were left orphaned as teenagers, and he promised to assist in that capacity too. Having satisfied everyone, he and Iolanthe departed.

“My robes stink of cabbage!” Iolanthe said, after the two of them left the three old men arguing how to spend the steel. “That horrid smell permeates everything. I will have to go home to change. Will you join me for supper? No cabbage, I promise!”

“I need to move my things into the inn—” Raistlin began.

Iolanthe interrupted him. “It’s growing late. The streets of Neraka are not safe to walk after dark, especially in the Outer City. You should spend another night with me, move into the inn tomorrow. After all,” she added in her mocking tone, “we have yet to play our game of marbles.”

“Thank you, but I have imposed on your hospitality enough,” said Raistlin, ignoring the remark about the marbles. “It will be safer for me to transport my things after darkness, don’t you agree? Especially the staff. And I do not fear walking the streets after nightfall.”

Iolanthe eyed him. “I suppose you are right. I have no doubt that you can take care of yourself. Which makes me wonder what you were up to back there. You—a mere student of magic! You can cast circles of fire around those old bastards. I think only one actually took the Test. The others are low-level, just about capable of boiling water.”

“If I proclaimed my true skill, they would view me as a threat and would constantly be watching me, on their guard against me,” explained Raistlin. “As it is, they will take me for granted. Which brings me to a question of my own: Why did you lie to them, tell them the rumors were not true?”

“They are terrified of the Nightlord. I know for a fact that one or all of them are informing on me,” Iolanthe replied calmly. “If I had told them the rumors were true, they would have knocked me down to be first out the door with the news.”

“Which is why you pay them,” said Raistlin in sudden understanding.

“And why I tell them what I want the Nightlord to hear,” said Iolanthe. “You must understand,” she added somberly. “When Ladonna and the other Black Robes first came to Neraka, we had grand schemes and plans. We traveled here to make our fortunes. We were going to build a magnificent Tower of High Sorcery, the Tower of your dreams,” she said, glancing at Raistlin with a rueful smile and a sigh.

“It soon became apparent to Ladonna and the others that wizards were not welcome in Neraka, not wanted. At first there were clashes with the Church; then the persecutions began. Three wizards—those who had been loud in arguing our cause—were assassinated in the night. The Church denied all knowledge, of course.”

Raistlin frowned. “How is that possible? If these were high-level spellcasters, they could have easily defended themselves—”

Iolanthe shook her head. “The Nightlord has powerful forces at his command. The murders followed the same pattern. The bodies were desiccated. They had been drained of blood, sucked dry. They looked mummified, like those ancient kings of Ergoth. Their skin stuck like horrid parchment to their bones. The sight was ghastly. I still have nightmares about it.”

He felt her shiver, and she pressed closer to him, glad to feel warmth and living flesh and bone.

“There was no evidence that the wizards had fought their attacker,” she continued. “They had all died in their sleep, or so it appeared. And these were men and women with powerful magicks at their command, who had placed protective spells on their doors and persons. Ladonna called the assassin the ‘Black Ghost.’ We had no doubt that the Nightlord had summoned up some foul fiend from beyond the grave and commanded it to slay our comrades.

“Ladonna complained to the Emperor that the Church was killing her wizards. Ariakas told her curtly that he was far too busy pursing the war to become involved in a feud between ‘Skirts’—his disparaging term for all who wear robes. Fearing for their lives, some of the high-level wizards either quietly returned to their homes or, like Dracart and Ladonna, agreed to work on ‘secret projects’ for the Dark Queen, though Ladonna apparently couldn’t stomach that for long.”

“And you?” Raistlin asked. “You do not fear this Black Ghost?”

Iolanthe shrugged. “I am Ariakas’s mistress and under his protection. The Nightlord has no love for the Emperor, but Queen Takhisis does, though how long that will last, with the forces of Light starting to turn the tide, is open to question. For the time being, however, the Nightlord dares not cross the Emperor.”

“You are also my sister Kitiara’s friend,” said Raistlin.

“One needs all the friends one can get these days,” Iolanthe said lightly, and just as lightly she changed the subject. “On thinking about it, I’m glad you’re going to be working in the Tower. I fear the old men may be right. The Church will undoubtedly take a renewed interest in us. More’s the pity. By cataloging the books and cleaning up the library, you can find out what books are in their possession. And you can keep an ear open, hear what they say.”

Iolanthe cast him a sidelong glance and gave a sly smile. “If you are thinking you will find anything of value in that rat’s nest, you are sadly mistaken. I have a pretty good idea of what’s there.”

Iolanthe would have kept an eye open for anything of value and already removed it. Still, it would not hurt to look, Raistlin thought.

“It’s not as if I have anything better to do for the moment,” he muttered to himself.

Their conversation carried them to the White Gate. The sun was setting; the sky was smeared with red. They could hear laughter and noise emanating from the Broken Shield, which was across the road. Soldiers coming off duty and workers ending their shifts thronged to the tavern for food and drink. The gate guards were busy checking those leaving the Inner City, and dealing with those who wanted to enter Neraka. A few were clerics in their black robes, but most Raistlin recognized as mercenaries, coming to seek employment in the dragonarmies.

He and Iolanthe took their places in line behind two humans—a male and a female—who were chatting together.

“I’ve heard there’s going to be a spring offensive,” said the woman. “The Emperor pays well. That’s why I’m here.”

“Let’s say the Emperor promises to pay well,” said the man dourly. “I’ve yet to see the steel I’m owed, and I’ve been here two months. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll head north. Work for the Blue Lady. She pays good steel, and she pays on time. That’s where I’m headed now. I’m just going back into town to pick up my things.”

“I’m open to suggestion. Maybe you’d like a traveling companion?” said the woman.

“Maybe I would,” said the man.

Raistlin recalled that conversation and what it portended only later. As he waited in line, all he could think of was the forged document, and his trepidation grew. He wondered nervously if the gate guards would accept it. He began to doubt that they would. He pictured himself being arrested, hauled off, perhaps thrown again into the Nightlord’s dungeons.

He glanced at Iolanthe, who stood by his side, her hand on his arm. She was calm, chatting about something to which Raistlin was paying no attention. She had assured him repeatedly that he need not worry; the guard would not look twice at the forgery. Raistlin had compared his forged document with her real one, and he had to admit he could not tell any difference.

He had faith in her—or at least as much faith as he ever put in anyone. He was dubious about Talent Orren, however. Orren was a hard man to figure out. He appeared to be the usual sort of shallow, charming rogue who was out to make steel by any means, fair or foul. Raistlin had the feeling there was more to the man than that. He thought back to Orren’s intense and penetrating gaze, the intelligence and shrewdness in the brown eyes. He remembered the faint hint of Solamnia in his voice. Like Sturm, perhaps, Orren was the son of a noble family who had lost everything and was forced to sell his sword. Unlike Sturm, Orren had chosen the side of Darkness over the side of Light.

At least, Raistlin thought, Talent Orren had shown better business sense.

The gate guard motioned them to come forward. Raistlin’s heart beat fast, the blood rushing in his ears as he held his forged permit out to the guard. Iolanthe greeted the guard by name and asked if she would see him later in the Broken Shield. She told him laughingly he could buy her a drink. The guard had eyes for only her. He barely glanced at Raistlin’s permit and did not look at Raistlin at all. The guard motioned the two through the gate and turned to the next in line.

“There, wasn’t that easy?” Iolanthe said.

“Next time I won’t have you with me,” Raistlin said wryly.

“Bah, it’s nothing. These men are not with the Highlord’s army, though the Highlords ostensibly are in charge of the gates. These soldiers are members of the Neraka city guard. Their main job is to make sure that no one gets inside who might offend the Church. They aren’t paid well enough to go to any trouble or take any risks. I saw a soldier stabbed in the street right in front of two of them one time. The Nerakan guards simply stepped over the body and kept on talking. Now if it had been a dark pilgrim who was murdered or robbed, that would have been a different story. The guards would have fallen all over themselves to catch the perpetrator.”

After that, the two walked in silence. Raistlin was too tired and dispirited to keep up a conversation, and the talkative Iolanthe appeared to have been finally talked-out. By her expression, her thoughts were as dark as the shadows falling around them. Raistlin could not guess what she was thinking. For his own part, he was pondering his future and admitting to himself it looked very bleak.

They returned to Wizard’s Row, and Raistlin understood why almost all the shops were boarded up and shuttered. He marveled that Snaggle managed to stay in business. Then again, being the only mageware shop in Neraka must have its advantages.

Raistlin resisted Iolanthe’s pleas to stay for the evening meal. He was worn out, his exhaustion coming as much from discouragement and unhappiness as from any physical cause. He wanted to be alone, to think through all that had happened and decide what to do. And he had another reason for not wanting to remain around her. He did not like Iolanthe’s continued teasing references to marbles. He did not consider it likely that she had figured out the truth about the dragon orb, but he did not dare take the risk.

Raistlin was polite, but firm in his refusal to stay. Unfortunately, when Iolanthe saw that he meant to have his way, she said she had nothing better to do. She would accompany him to the Broken Shield. They would dine together there.

He tried to think of some way of discouraging Iolanthe without hurting her feelings. Her friendship had already been of benefit to him, and he foresaw how she could be useful to him in the future. She could also be a formidable enemy.

He wondered why she was so insistent on dogging him, and, as he listened to her idle chatter as she moved around the apartment, tidying up the room, the realization struck him. She was lonely. She was hungry to talk to another wizard, someone like herself, who understood her goals and aspirations. His thoughts were confirmed when she turned to him to say, “I have the feeling we are very much alike, you and I.”

Raistlin smiled. He almost laughed. What could he, a frail young man with strange-colored skin and stranger eyes, have in common with such a beautiful, exotic, intelligent, powerful, and self-possessed young woman? He wasn’t attracted to her. He didn’t trust her or even much like her. Every time she brought up marbles in her mocking tone, he could feel his skin crawl. Yet what she said was true. He did feel a kinship to her.

“It is the love of the magic that binds us,” she said, answering his unspoken thought as clearly as if she had heard it. “And the love of the power the magic can bring us. Both of us have sacrificed comfort, safety and security for the magic. And we are both prepared to sacrifice still more. Am I right?”

Raistlin did not answer. She took his silence for his response and went into her bedchamber to change her clothes. He was resigning himself to being forced to spend the evening with her, which meant the strain of keeping a guard on everything he said and did, when he heard footfalls on the stairs leading to her apartment.

The feet were heavy, and there was a scraping sound, as of claws on wood. When Iolanthe came out of her room, she grimaced, as though she knew what the sounds meant.

“Oh, damn,” she said softly and flung open the door.

A large bozak draconian, his wings brushing the ceiling, stood on the landing.

“Is this the lodging of Mistress Iolanthe?” asked the bozak.

“Yes,” said Iolanthe with a sigh. “And I am Iolanthe. What do you want?”

“The Emperor Ariakas has returned to grace Neraka with his august presence. He requests your attendance upon him, madam,” said the bozak. “I am to escort you.”

The draconian’s gaze shifted from her to Raistlin and back to Iolanthe. Seeing the reptilian eyes flicker dangerously, Raistlin rose to his feet, bringing the words of a deadly spell to his mind.

“I see you have company, madam,” continued the bozak in a dire tone. “Have I interrupted something?”

“Only my dinner plans,” said Iolanthe lightly. “I was going to dine at the Broken Shield along with this young man, a novice wizard, newly arrived in Neraka. The Emperor will be interested to meet him, I think. This is Raistlin Majere, brother to Dragon Highlord Kitiara.”

The bozak’s suspicious attitude disappeared. He regarded Raistlin with interest and respect. “I hold your sister in high esteem, sir,” he said. “As does the Emperor.”

“He only tried to have her executed,” Iolanthe whispered to Raistlin as she handed him linens and a blanket, which she had told him he would need for his new lodging.

Raistlin stared at her, shocked at that news. What did she mean? What had happened? Were Ariakas and Kit enemies? More to the point, how would it affect him? Raistlin was desperate to know details, but Iolanthe only grinned at him and winked, well knowing she had just ensured the fact that he would be certain to seek out her company.

“You remember how to find your way to the Broken Shield, Master Majere?” she asked.

“Yes, madam. Thank you,” said Raistlin humbly, playing his part.

Iolanthe held out her hand to him. “It may be some time before I see you again. Good-bye and good luck to you.”

Under the watchful eyes of the bozak, Raistlin stuffed the bed linens into a sack and gathered up his possessions. He did not take the Staff of Magius. He did not even glance at it as he left it standing in a corner. Iolanthe caught his eye and gave a slight nod in reassurance.

Raistlin made a deep bow to Iolanthe and another to the bozak. He slung the sack with the bed linens and his spellbooks and few belongings over his shoulder. Feeling like a peddler, he hurried down the staircase. Iolanthe held a lantern at the top to light his way.

“I will stop by the Tower tomorrow to see how you are coming along with your work,” she called when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

She shut her door before he could answer. The bozak remained waiting for her on the landing.

Raistlin walked into the street, which was empty that time of night. He missed his staff, missed its shining light, the support it lent his weary steps. The sack was heavy, made his arms ache.

“Here, Caramon, you carry this—”

Raistlin stopped. He could not believe he had said that. He could not believe he had thought that. Caramon was dead. Furious with himself, Raistlin walked rapidly down the street, his way lit by the red rays of Lunitari and the silver rays of Solinari.

The Dark Queen’s temple came into view. The moons’ feeble light seemed incapable of reaching the Temple. The twisted towers and bulbous minarets caused the moons to shrink, the stars to vanish. Its shadow fell upon him, and he was crushed beneath it.

If she wins the war, her shadow will fall on every person in the world.

I did not come to serve. I came to rule.

Raistlin began to laugh. He laughed until the laughter caught in his throat and he choked on it.

6 Forces of the Dark Queen The search. The find.

Being a Treatise on the Subject of the Advisability of the Using of Parrots as Familiars, with Particular Emphasis on Teaching Said Birds the Words to Magical Spells, and Remarks on the Unfortunate Consequences Resulting Therefrom.

Raistlin gave a deep sigh. Tossing the manuscript into a large crate he had labeled “Ineffable Twaddle,” he gazed in gloomy despair at the pile of manuscripts, books, scrolls, and various other types of documents that surrounded him. He’d been working for hours, all day the previous day and most of this day, sitting on a footstool, sorting through crap. The crate was almost full. He was half suffocated from the dust, and he could not tell that he had made any progress.

Iolanthe had been right. There was nothing of value in what could only be laughingly termed a “library.” The high-level Black Robes must have taken their spellbooks and scrolls with them when they departed. Either that or, as Iolanthe had said, the books had been sold.

He resumed his task and was rewarded by unearthing a spell-book, nicely bound in red leather. He thought he’d stumbled across a treasure until he opened it to find it was a child’s primer, a book meant to teach aspiring young wizards the art of spellcasting. He was flipping through it, thinking back to his own school days—the torment he endured, his inept teacher—when he heard a commotion outside the front door of the Tower. Someone began pounding on the door.

“Open in the name of Her Majesty the Queen!”

Down the hall from him, the three old men broke into panicked shrieks at the clamor. Raistlin rose to his feet.

“It’s the Temple guards!” cried Hook Nose, peering out a filthy window. “The elite Temple guards! What do we do?”

“Let them in,” said Paunchy.

“No, don’t,” said the third, whom Raistlin had dubbed Scrawny.

Raistlin made his way through the piles of junk to the door, which was standing wide open. Slowly and silently, he shut the door, leaving it open only a crack, and peered out.

The pounding on the door and the shouting continued, as did the arguing among the Black Robes. Eventually Hook Nose decided they should open the door; his reason being that if they did not, the guards would break it down, and the Black Robes would have to pay the landlord for the damage.

Raistlin kept his eye to the door. A contingent of draconians entered and climbed the stairs, their claws leaving scratch marks on the wood.

“I am Commander Slith,” barked one. “I have orders to search the premises.”

“Search? For what? This is an outrage,” said Hook Nose, his voice trembling.

“It has come to the attention of Queen Takhisis that a powerful and potentially dangerous magical artifact has entered the city of Neraka,” Commander Slith said in sonorous tones. “As you know, by law, all magical artifacts must be brought to the temple for evaluation and registration. Those artifacts which are deemed a threat to the good people of Neraka will be confiscated in the interests of public safety.”

Raistlin thought immediately of the Staff of Magius, and he was thankful it was safely hidden in his room in the Broken Shield, tucked under the mattress. Security appeared to be somewhat lax around the Broken Shield, and he had been worried about thieves. He was puzzled however. The Staff of Magius was powerful, and it could be dangerous, but Raistlin did not think it was powerful enough to attract the attention of the Dark Queen.

“We know the law,” Hook Nose was saying in angry tones. “And we have always obeyed it. We have no artifacts of any sort here.”

“What about Mistress Iolanthe?” asked Paunchy eagerly. “She has dangerous artifacts. She doesn’t keep them here, though.”

“You should search her,” prompted Scrawny.

“We have spoken to Mistress Iolanthe,” said Commander Slith. “We met with her in the private chambers of Emperor Ariakas. Mistress Iolanthe assures us that she has no knowledge of this artifact. She gave us permission to search her apartment. We didn’t find it.”

“Why do you think we would have it?” Hook Nose demanded.

“We believe that some of you are members of Hidden Light,” said Commander Slith.

Raistlin saw the sivak wink at one of the other soldiers.

“Hidden Light! No, no, no!” Hook Nose was babbling in terror. “We are all of us loyal subjects of our glorious Queen, I assure you!”

“Good. Then you won’t mind if we search the building,” said the commander coolly.

“Please do. We have nothing to hide. What is this artifact?” Hook Nose asked with pathetic eagerness. “We will be glad to hand it over to you if we find it.”

“A dragon orb,” said Commander Slith, and he ordered his detail to separate, sending some to the lower levels, some to the upper, and some to search the ground floor.

“Dragon orb?” Hook Nose glanced at his fellows.

“Never heard of it,” said Paunchy, and Scrawny shook his head.

Commander Slith rattled off the description. “A crystal ball the size of a man’s head. It can either be nondescript in appearance or it may swirl with color.” He yelled at his men, “If you find anything that fits this description, don’t touch it. Summon me at once.”

Raistlin left the door, stumbling over books as he made his way back to his stool, hardly seeing where he was going. He pulled his cowl low, picked up a sheaf of parchment pages, and pretended to be absorbed in studying the contents. The words swam before his eyes. His hand crept to the leather pouch he wore on his belt, the pouch that was filled with marbles. None were as large as a man’s head, but one of them indeed swirled with color.

He could hear wood splintering—the draconians on the lower level were kicking in the doors. His first panicked impulse was to shove the pouch underneath a stack of books or hide it behind a row of shelving. He swiftly regained command of himself and thought through the problem. Hiding the pouch would be the worst thing he could do. If the draconians discovered it, they would guess at once that it contained something valuable. Draconians were smart and they were users of magic. They would soon figure out that a large crystal globe known to possess magical properties might be able to reduce itself to a small size.

Far better to keep the pouch on his person, hidden in plain sight. He could hear the draconians chanting spells. He could not distinguish the words, but he knew the type of spell he would cast if he were searching for a hidden magical artifact. He would use a spell that would detect magic, cause the artifact to reveal itself, perhaps glow with light or make a humming sound.

Raistlin reached into the pouch. His sensitive fingers could distinguish the dragon orb from the other marbles by feel alone. The marbles were cool to the touch. The orb was slightly warm and its surface was far smoother, its shape more perfectly round.

Other draconians were searching the kitchen, flinging pots and pans to the floor, banging the door of the pantry, breaking crockery. They would reach the library next.

Raistlin took hold of the orb and clasped it in his hand, closing his fist over it. What if the orb gave itself away? What if the orb wanted to be found by Queen Takhisis? What if the orb had told Takhisis where to find it?

The orb grew warm in his hand. Viper’s voice whispered to him. Takhisis fears the orbs. She seeks to destroy the orbs. She knows the danger we pose. Keep me safe and I will keep you safe.

The door to the library flew open, and two bozak draconians entered. They stopped dead in the doorway to stare.

Raistlin thrust the orb back into the pouch and rose respectfully, smoothing his robes with his hands and keeping his head bowed as though too frightened to lift his eyes.

“Commander, you better come see this,” called the bozak.

Commander Slith strode into the room. He glanced around at the stacks and bundles and piles and snorted with disgust.

“Looks like gully dwarves have been living here,” he said. The sivak eyed Raistlin. “Who in the Abyss are you?”

Hook Nose came bustling importantly through the door. “He’s nobody, Commander. A novice. He does odd jobs for us. Look at the mess you’ve created, Majere! Get this cleaned up at once!”

“Yes, Master,” said Raistlin. “I am sorry, Master.”

“Are we going to search through all this junk, sir?” the bozak asked as Hook Nose hurried off to complain loudly about the fact that the draconians had scattered flour all over the kitchen floor. “It will take weeks!”

“Cast your spell and be done with it,” replied Commander Slith. “Mistress Iolanthe warned us that coming here would be a waste of time, and she was right.”

“Do you trust the witch, sir?” the bozak asked doubtfully. “What makes you think she hasn’t got the orb herself?”

Commander Slith chuckled. “The witch has a strong sense of self-preservation. She knows that her life wouldn’t be worth spit if Takhisis caught her with a dragon orb.”

“What is a dragon orb, anyway?” The bozak kicked at a stack of books and sent them tumbling. “What does it do?”

“Beats me. All I know is that the orb was responsible for the Blue Lady losing the Battle of the High Clerist’s Tower, or so I heard.” Commander Slith rubbed his clawed hands. “I’d love to get my hands on it. Several people I know will pay a good price for it.”

“Pay for it?” The bozak was shocked. “If we find it, we’re under orders to give it to the Nightlord immediately.”

Commander Slith shook his head sadly and draped his arm around the bozak’s shoulders. “Glug, my boy, I keep trying to educate you. You never ‘give’ anything to anyone.”

“But our orders—”

“Orders, shmorders!” Slith sniffed in disdain. “Who gives us orders? Humans. And who’s losing this war? Humans. We dracos have got to start looking out for ourselves.”

The bozak glanced nervously out the door. “I don’t think you should be talking like that, sir.”

Raistlin was sweating beneath his robes. He could do nothing except stand in the middle of the library, keeping his head down. He was afraid to move, afraid to draw attention to himself.

“This dragon orb must be powerful,” Slith said longingly, “and worth a bundle. We’ve never been ordered to institute a citywide search for any kind of magical artifact before.”

“Just that Green Gemstone Man, that Berem fellow,” said Glug.

“I’d like to find him and earn that bounty.” Slith smacked his lips. “I could buy a small city with the reward the Queen is offering!”

“A city, sir?” said Glug with interest. “What would you do with a city?”

Raistlin thought he would go mad if they stayed here much longer. His hands clenched beneath his robes.

“I’d build a wall around it,” Commander Slith was saying. “Make it a city for dracos only. No humans, dwarves, elves, or any of the rest of that scum allowed inside. Well, maybe I’d let in a few dwarves,” he conceded. “Keep my friends and me in dwarf spirits. I’d name it—”

He was interrupted by shouting.

“All finished downstairs, Commander! No sign of anything.” “Finished upstairs, sir!” called out another. “Nothing of interest.”

“Cast your spell, Glug, and let’s get out of here,” said Commander Slith. “That foul stench coming from the kitchen is turning my stomach.”

The bozak spoke a few words and waved a clawed hand. Under other circumstances, Raistlin would have been interested to study the bozak’s spellcasting techniques. He was far too tense to pay any attention at the moment, however.

He held his breath, keeping his head lowered, his hands in his sleeves, his sleeves hiding the pouch. He saw in terror a telltale glow emanating from his left arm.

Raistlin’s heart pulsed in his throat. His mouth went dry. His body shook. He prayed to all the gods of magic, prayed to every god he could think of, that the draconians would not notice. For a moment, he thought his prayers had been answered, for the bozak turned away. The sivak was about to follow when he glanced back over his shoulder. The sivak stopped.

“Go on ahead, Glug,” Commander Slith ordered. “Assemble the troops. I’ll be down in a moment.”

Glug departed. The commander waded through the stacks and piles, shoving them aside, and came to stand in front of Raistlin.

“You going to hand over the bit of magic you’re carrying, boy, or shall I take it?” Commander Slith asked.

Before Raistlin had a chance to answer, the sivak seized hold of Raistlin’s left arm and shoved up the sleeve of his black robes. A dagger, attached to his wrist by a leather thong, gleamed with a bright silver light.

“Now ain’t that something!” said Commander Slith in admiring tones. “How does this work?”

Raistlin was having trouble keeping his arm from trembling. He gave his wrist a flick, releasing the dagger from the thong. The dagger slid down into his hand.

Commander Slith eyed Raistlin shrewdly. “My guess is you’re something more than a novice. Got them all fooled, don’t you?”

“I assure you, sir—” Raistlin began.

Commander Slith grinned. His tongue flicked out from his teeth. “Don’t worry. It’s none of my business. But I do think I better confiscate this magical weapon. Could get you in trouble.”

Commander Slith deftly removed the dagger and the leather thong.

“Please don’t take it, sir,” Raistlin said, thinking it would look suspicious if he did not protest. “As you can see, it is only a small dagger. It is worth little, but it means everything to me—”

“Sentimental value, eh?” Commander Slith cast an expert eye over the dagger. “I can get two steel for this, easy. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, boy, and this is only because I think you’re the sort of human I could get to like. You know old Snaggle over in Wizard’s Row? I’ll sell it to him, then you can go round and buy it back.”

Commander Slith slipped the dagger, which had lost its magical glow, into his harness. He made certain it was well concealed, then winked a reptilian eye at Raistlin and sauntered out, tromping over the books on the floor.

Weak with relief, Raistlin sank down onto the stool. He was sorry to lose the dagger, which did mean a great deal to him, but the sacrifice was worth it. The brighter glow emanating from the dagger had kept the sivak from noticing the very faint green glow shining from the pouch.

Outside the library, the three old men were bewailing the damage and threatening to complain to the Nightlord. None of them cared to volunteer for the job, however, and in the end they decided they would delegate Iolanthe to make their complaint. After that, they agreed to have a drink to calm their nerves. Hook Nose, passing the library on his way from the keg where they kept the ale, wanted to know why Raistlin was just sitting there. He should start cleaning up the mess in the kitchen.

Raistlin ignored him. He sat on his stool, surrounded by children’s spellbooks and spell scrolls with half the words spelled wrong and trivial treatises on parrots and felt overwhelmed by the knowledge that the Queen of Darkness, the most dangerous and powerful goddess in the pantheon, was searching for him and the dragon orb. It would be only a matter of time before she found them both.

He could flee the city, but he had almost no steel. His departure, so soon after arriving, would look extremely suspicious. And he had nowhere to go. The members of the Conclave would have declared him a renegade wizard by that time. Every White Robe would be pledged to try to redeem him. Every Black Robe would be pledged to kill him on sight. He would be an outcast from society, with no way to earn his living except by resorting to the unsavory, the demeaning. He could see his future. He would become like those old men, consumed by greed, living on boiled cabbage.

“Unless Takhisis finds me first, in which case I won’t have to worry about my future because I won’t have one,” Raistlin muttered. “I might as well be at the bottom of the Blood Sea with my fool brother.”

He hunched forward on his stool, let his head sink into his hands, and gave way to despair.

In the living room, the Black Robes had quickly drowned their fear in ale and were getting belligerent.

“I’ll tell you who has this dragon gourd,” said Hook Nose.

“Orb, you bonehead,” Paunchy said surlily. “Dragon orb.”

“What does it matter?” Hook Nose snarled. “Hidden Light. You heard that draco say so!”

Raistlin raised his head. That was the third time he’d heard the name Hidden Light mentioned. Hook Nose had brought it up the previous day with Iolanthe, saying that he feared they would be suspected of being part of Hidden Light. The sivak had spoken of Hidden Light as well.

Raistlin had meant to ask Iolanthe about it, but with all his other worries, he’d forgotten. He left the library and walked across the hall to where the Black Robes were gathered in the living room, drinking warm ale and trying to figure out who else they could blame for their troubles.

“What are you doing here, Majere?” Hook Nose demanded angrily, spotting Raistlin. “You’re supposed to be cleaning up the kitchen.”

“I’ll get right to it, sir,” said Raistlin. “But I couldn’t help wondering, what is this ‘Hidden Light’ you were talking about?”

“A band of traitors, assassins, and thieves,” said Hook Nose, “who are working to bring about the destruction of our glorious Queen.”

A resistance movement, Raistlin realized with amazement. Operating in Neraka, under Takhisis’s very nose.

He asked for more details, but none of the old men were inclined to discuss the movement, except to be loud in their denunciation. Since they were all eyeing each other suspiciously, he guessed that each feared the others were informants and would hand him over to the Nightlord at the first opportunity.

They might well do that to me, Raistlin considered as he went to the kitchen to start cleaning up. He was glad to have physical labor to free his mind. Ideas and plans were forming so fast, he could barely keep track of them. One thought was predominant.

If Takhisis wins this war, I will be her slave, forced to beg for whatever scraps of power she might choose to toss to me. Whereas if Takhisis loses …

Raistlin wondered, as he swept up the flour and broken plates, how someone dedicated to the cause of Darkness could sign up to fight for the forces of Light.

7 Wrong Place. Wrong Time.

Raistlin worked all day in the Tower, cleaning the kitchen, then going room to room, righting overturned furniture and picking up splintered pieces of wood left behind after the draconians had kicked in the doors. The Black Robes drank ale and bickered and ate the meal he fixed for them and bickered some more, and went to their beds.

Night had fallen by the time he shut the door with its single rune that could have been opened by a magical talking parrot. He was physically tired, for the day had been long and wearing, but he knew he would never be able to fall asleep, for his mind was still in turmoil. He hated nothing more than lying awake, staring into the darkness.

The thought came to him that he could pay Snaggle a visit and try to recover his dagger. The sivak commander did not appear to be someone to let grass grow under his claws, especially when it came to steel.

Raistlin considered calling on Iolanthe while he was in the neighborhood. He was intensely interested in the organization known as Hidden Light, and she seemed to know everyone in the city of Neraka. She had her fingers on the pulse of its dark heartbeat. But he rejected the idea. Speaking to her would be too risky. She had an uncanny way of knowing what he was thinking, and he feared she would guess what he was considering. The woman was a mystery. He had no idea where her loyalties lay. Was she working to further the goals of Takhisis? Ariakas? Kitiara, perhaps? Iolanthe had not said much about Kit, but Raistlin had detected a warm tone of admiration in her voice whenever she mentioned his sister.

Given that Iolanthe is much like me, Raistlin reminded himself, her loyalties undoubtedly lie with Iolanthe, which means that she cannot be trusted.

He entered Neraka through the White Gate. The line was short at such a late hour, though Raistlin had to wait some time while the guards flirted with a barmaid from the Broken Shield, who had brought them a jug of cold ale, compliments of Talent Orren. Raistlin considered it clever of Orren to keep the Nerakan guards happy. Ale cost Orren little and gained him enormous goodwill.

Raistlin had gone back and forth through the White Gate several times, and no one had so much as glanced at his forged document. He no longer worried about it. As Iolanthe had assured him, the guards kept very lax watch. The only people Raistlin ever saw being turned away were kender, and that was only when the guards were sober enough to catch the little nuisances.

Having finally made his way through the gate, Raistlin walked swiftly to his destination, keeping his eyes open and his wits about him. He held rose petals in his hand, the words to a sleep spell running constantly through his mind. No one accosted him, and he made it safely to Wizard’s Row.

The only lights in the street came from the window of Snaggle’s mageware shop. Iolanthe’s window was dark. Raistlin entered the shop, which was neat and well lit by several strategically arranged lanterns. Snaggle sat behind the counter, perched on a stool, drinking tarbean tea.

Raistlin had already met the proprietor and observed how Iolanthe dealt with him.

“You won’t see any staves standing against the walls. No potion jars in bins. Nothing is out in the open, for obvious reasons in this city,” she had cautioned him. “Snaggle stores all his wares in labeled bins and boxes stacked on shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling behind a long counter. No customer is ever allowed behind the counter. The last guy who tried they had to mop up with a sponge. Tell Snaggle what you need, and he’ll fetch it for you.”

Snaggle gave a toothless smile. “Master Majere. In the market for cobweb? I have some lovely web, sir. Just came in today. Spun by spiders raised by the dark dwarves of Thorbardin. Very content, these spiders. Nothing like a contented spider for weaving fine-quality web.”

“No, thank you, sir,” said Raistlin. “I’ve come about a dagger. It might have been sold to you today by a draconian guard. A sivak commander of the temple guard—”

“Commander Slith,” said Snaggle, nodding sagely. “I know him well, sir. One of my best customers. New in town, but he’s already made his mark. He was here today, yes. Brought me a dagger. Fine quality. Once belonged to Magius. Comes with a leather thong so you can wrap it around your wrist—”

“I know,” said Raistlin dryly. “The dagger used to be mine.”

“Ah, that Slith!” Snaggle chuckled. “He’ll go far. You’d be liking your property back, sir, I suppose. Just to be on the sure side, could you describe it for me? Any distinguishing features?”

Raistlin patiently described the dagger and mentioned that it had a small nick in the blade.

“Happen during a daring escapade, sir?” Snaggle asked with interest. “Fighting a troll? Battling goblins?”

“No,” Raistlin said, recalling the incident with a smile. “My brother and I were playing mumblety-peg—”

He stopped. He hadn’t meant to talk about—or even think about—Caramon. Raistlin went on to describe the leather thong, which was of his own design.

Snaggle rose from his stool and went to one of the boxes, pulled it out from its place, and brought it back to the counter. He opened the lid, revealing several daggers. Raistlin saw his and was about to pick it up, when Snaggle deftly intercepted him.

“That’s your dagger, is it, sir? Five steel and I’ll be glad to return it to you.”

“Five steel!” Raistlin gasped.

“It belonged to Magius, I was told, sir,” said Snaggle solemnly.

“And so did five thousand other daggers floating around Ansalon,” Raistlin said.

Snaggle merely grinned at him and replaced the dagger in the box and closed the lid.

“I will make you an offer,” Raistlin said. “I have no money, but I understand you are in the market for potions. I have been concocting potions for a very long time, and I have some skill at it.”

“Bring around a sample of your work, sir. If the potion’s as good as you claim, we’ll have a deal.”

Raistlin nodded his thanks and took his leave, planning to return to the Broken Shield. The exercise had done him good. He was weary; he could sleep.

As he was walking down one of the sidewalks along Queen’s Way, heading toward the White Gate, he noted three men clad in the long, black robes of dark pilgrims coming toward him. The three walked abreast, arm-in-arm, and they were engaged in animated conversation. They had perhaps been to the Broken Shield themselves, for they were slurring their words and bawling at each other, their voices unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet night.

Two of the men carried lanterns, and by the light Raistlin recognized the bulldog face and bulging arms of the Adjudicator. The executioner was doing most of the talking, drunkenly relating in gruesome detail the death throes of one of his victims. The other two were listening avidly, fawning all over him and laughing heartily at every twist of the screw or lash of the whip. The three were walking directly toward Raistlin on a collision path.

Raistlin knew quite well he ought to avoid an encounter. The Adjudicator, even drunk, was a dangerous man. Raistlin should turn down an alley or meekly cross to the other side of the street. As he watched the Adjudicator, however, Raistlin remembered the screams of those poor wretches in the torture chamber, and anger burned inside him. He had always hated bullies, probably because he had so often been their target, and bully was a kindly term when it came to the Adjudicator.

Raistlin halted in the middle of the sidewalk. The Adjudicator and his two friends, their arms linked, walked right toward him. Either they were too drunk to notice him or they assumed he would move.

Raistlin stayed where he was. The three would have to stop or run him down.

At last the Adjudicator saw him. He and his companions staggered to a halt.

“Move aside, scum, and let your betters pass,” said the Adjudicator with a snarl.

Raistlin inclined his hooded head. “If you three would be so kind as to step to one side, Revered Sirs, I could pass—”

“You dare ask us to step aside!” cried one of the lantern-carrying clerics. “Don’t you know who this is?”

“I neither know nor care,” said Raistlin evenly.

“I recognize that voice. I’ve met this dung-eater before,” said the Adjudicator. “Hold the light so that I can see him—”

The Adjudicator’s body suddenly stiffened. His back arched, his eyes bulged. He gave a gasp that bubbled into a cry of agony, then he made a gargling sound and lurched forward, his hands outstretched. He fell on his belly onto the sidewalk. Blood trickled from the Adjudicator’s mouth. The light of the two lanterns glinted on the handle of a butcher’s knife protruding from the Adjudicator’s back. Raistlin caught a fleeting glimpse of a black-clad figure disappearing around the corner.

The two dark pilgrims stared down at the dead man in ale-soaked bewilderment. Raistlin was as stunned as either of the dark pilgrims. He was the first to recover from the shock, and he knelt beside the dead man, feeling for a life beat in the bull-like neck, though it was obvious to him the man was dead. One of the dark pilgrims gave a sudden screech.

“You!” he cried, pointing a finger at Raistlin. “He’s dead because of you!”

He swung his lantern, aiming a wild blow at Raistlin’s head that came nowhere close to hitting its mark.

The other dark pilgrim began shouting for the guards. “Murder! Help! Assassins! Murder!”

Raistlin understood his danger. The dark pilgrims thought he had deliberately stopped the Adjudicator and held him in conversation so the assassin could slip up and stab him. Raistlin could proclaim his innocence all he wanted, but appearances were against him. No one would believe him.

Raistlin scrambled to his feet. He had been fingering the rose petals. The words of the sleep spell were in his mind, and in a split second the words were on his tongue.

“Ast tasarak sinuralan krynawi!”

He flung the rose petals into the faces of the two dark pilgrims, and they slumped to the pavement, one rolling into the gutter, the other landing at Raistlin’s feet. One of the lanterns fell to the ground and broke. Its light went out. Unfortunately, the other lantern continued to shine. Raistlin would have liked to have taken time to douse the light, but he didn’t dare. He could hear whistles and shouts, and he recalled what Iolanthe had told him about how seriously Nerakan guards took the murder of any dark pilgrim. At the murder of the Adjudicator, they would turn out the entire garrison.

Raistlin hesitated a moment, thinking what to do. He could whisk himself into the corridors of magic and travel safely back to his rooms. He glanced into the heavens and seemed to see Lunitari’s red eye wink at him. The goddess had always taken a liking to him. This might be the break he had been seeking. Though he was putting himself at risk, he could not spurn the opportunity.

Raistlin recalled the black-clad figure running down the street, and he took the same route. Solinari’s silver gleam mingled with Lunitari’s red glow, and Raistlin saw immediately that the assassin had made a mistake. In his haste, he had rushed into a cul-de-sac. The end of the alley was blocked by a high, stone wall. The assassin must still be here. Unless he had wings, he could not have escaped.

Raistlin slowed his pace, moving cautiously, peering into the shadows, listening for the slightest sound. The assassin might be carrying more than one knife, and Raistlin did not want to feel the blade between his ribs. Hearing a scraping noise, he saw the assassin, dressed all in black, attempting to scale the stone wall. The wall was too high; the stones were smooth and offered no foot or handhold. The assassin slid back down to the ground with a thud and crouched there, swearing.

Half seen in the moonlight and shadows, the assassin was short and slender, and Raistlin thought at first that the killer was a child. He moved nearer and, by Lunitari’s light, Raistlin was astounded to recognize the female kender Talent Orren had thrown out of the Broken Shield. She was no longer wearing a kender’s usual bright clothing, but was dressed all in black: black blouse, black trousers. She had stuffed her yellow braids into a black cap.

Steel glinted in her hand. Her eyes gleamed. Her face bore a most unkender-like expression: grim, determined, cold, and resolved.

“Yell for the guards, and I’ll slit your throat for you,” she told him. “I can do it too. I’m fast with a knife. Maybe you saw just how fast.”

“I’m not going to yell,” said Raistlin. “I can help you get over that wall.”

“A weakling like you?” The kender sneered. “You couldn’t heft a kitten.”

Behind them, the guards were shouting and blowing their whistles. The kender did not look at all nervous or frightened—in that, she was acting like any normal kender.

“I can use my magic,” said Raistlin. “Though it will cost you.”

“How much?” asked the kender, scowling.

“You’re hardly in a position to bargain,” he said coldly, and he held out his hand to her. “Take it or leave it.”

The kender hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously. The sound of more whistles and feet pounding on the pavement helped her make up her mind. She took hold of his hand. He spoke the words to the spell and the two of them rose up and floated over the wall. They landed on the street on the other side, dropping down lightly as feathers.

Tasslehoff would have oohed and ahhed and wanted to discuss the magic and insist that Raistlin float him off again. This kender kept her mouth shut. The moment they hit the ground, she was off like an arrow sped from a bow.

Or rather, she tried to take off. Raistlin had a firm hold of her hand and, familiar with a kender’s tricks, he managed to retain his grip, even when she twisted her arm, nearly breaking her wrist and almost dislocating her shoulder.

Judging by the sounds rising up from behind them, more guards were gathering at the crime scene and starting to expand the search for the killer.

“You owe me,” he said, maintaining a firm grip on the kender. “I don’t have any steel,” said the kender. “Not steel. Information.”

“I don’t have any of that either,” the kender said, and she tried again to break free of him.

“What’s your name?” he asked. “None of your business.”

“My name is Raistlin Majere,” he told her. “There, you know mine. Tell me yours. That can’t hurt, can it?”

The kender thought it over. “I guess not. I’m Marigold Featherwinkle.”

Raistlin thought that in all the long history of Krynn, there had probably never been a more improbable name for a cold-blooded killer.

“They call me Mari,” the kender added. “Do they call you Raist?”

“No,” said Raistlin. Only one person had ever called him that. “You are a member of Hidden Light, aren’t you, Mari,” he went on, making it a statement, not a question.

“Hidden Light? Never heard of it,” said Mari.

“I don’t believe you. I know something of kender, and I know you did not conceive of this daring plan all by yourself.”

“I did so too!” Mari cried indignantly.

Raistlin shrugged. “I can always magic you back over the wall.” They could both hear the guards swarming into the alley. Mari pouted and stubbornly said nothing. “I can help,” said Raistlin. “As you’ve seen just now.” “You’re wearing the Black Robes,” she said. “And you’re a merry-hearted kender,” said Raistlin, “with blood on your face.”

“Do I?” Mari lifted a handkerchief and scrubbed her cheeks.

“I believe that is mine,” said Raistlin, eyeing the handkerchief, which he recognized.

“I guess you must have dropped it.” Mari looked at him with wide eyes. “Do you want it back?”

Raistlin smiled. At least some things in the world never changed. He felt strangely comforted. “Tell me how to contact Hidden Light, Mari, and I will let you go.”

Mari studied him, seemed to be trying to make up her mind about him. On the other side of the wall, the guards could be heard poking around in trash heaps and knocking on back doors.

“We don’t have much time,” Raistlin said. “Someone will eventually think to search this street. And I’m not going to let go until you tell me what I want to know.”

“All right, I may have heard of this Hidden Light bunch,” said Mari grudgingly. “From what I recollect, you should go to a tavern called Hair of the Troll and order a drink and say, ‘I escaped the Maelstrom,’ and then wait.”

“Escaped the Maelstrom!” Raistlin repeated, shocked and alarmed. He gripped her more tightly. “How did you know about that?”

“About what? Stop that! You’re hurting me,” said Mari.

Raistlin relaxed his grip. He was being foolish. There was no way she could have known about the Maelstrom, the ship sinking, the Blood Sea. Maelstrom was a code word, nothing more. He released his hold on the kender and was about to add his thanks, but Mari was already running down the street. She vanished into the darkness.

Raistlin sagged back against the wall. Once the excitement and danger were over, he felt drained, exhausted. And he had a long walk back to the Broken Shield. In the buildings around him, lights were flaring as people heard the shouts of the guards and woke up and leaned out their windows, demanding to know what was going on. Adding to the confusion, the guards were issuing orders that the city gates should be closed, no one allowed in or out.

Raistlin had strength enough for one last spell. He clasped his hand over the dragon orb, spoke the words, and entered the corridors of magic. He stepped out into his room in the Broken Shield. He removed his pouches and placed them under his pillow, then stripped off his robes and collapsed upon the bed and was soon asleep.

He dreamed, as usual, about Caramon. Only Caramon was in company with a kender who kept poking Raistlin in the ribs with a butcher knife.

8 The Morning After. The Alibi.

Raistlin was awakened by knocking on his door. Jolted out of a deep sleep, he sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding. He glanced out the window. Night still shrouded the city. He had been asleep only a short time.

“Open the damn door!” Iolanthe hissed through the keyhole.

One of his neighbors yelled for quiet. Raistlin took one more moment to consider his situation; then, grasping the Staff of Magius, he spoke the word, “Shirak,” and the crystal on top of the staff began to glow with a soft light.

“Let me get dressed,” he called out.

“I’m sure you don’t have anything I haven’t seen on a man before,” Iolanthe said impatiently. “Except maybe it’s gold.”

Raistlin was not amused. He dressed himself hurriedly, then opened the door.

Iolanthe, enveloped in a voluminous, night-blue cloak, hurried past him into his room.

“Shut the door,” she said, “and lock it.”

Raistlin did so and stood blinking at her sleepily.

“I brought you a cup of tarbean tea.” She handed him a steaming mug. “I need you to be alert.”

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Near morning.”

He took hold of the mug without thinking and burned his hand. He set the mug down on the floor. Iolanthe took the room’s only chair, forcing Raistlin to sit on the edge of his bed. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Iolanthe clasped her hands on her lap and leaned forward. “Have they been here yet?” she asked tensely. “Has who been here?”

“The temple guards. So they haven’t. They don’t know where you live. That’s good. That gives us time.” She eyed him. “Where have you been tonight?”

Raistlin blinked at her groggily. “In bed? Why?”

“You weren’t in bed all night. Just answer my question,” she said, her tone sharp.

Raistlin ran his hand through his hair. “I was kept late at the Tower cleaning up after the draconians, who came to search for some artifact—”

“I know all about that,” Iolanthe snapped. “Where did you go after you left the Tower?”

Raistlin stood up. “I’m tired. I think you should leave.”

“And I think you should answer me!” said Iolanthe, her violet eyes flaring. “Unless you want the Black Ghost after you.”

Raistlin regarded her intently, then sat back down.

“I paid a visit to your friend, Snaggle. One of the lizardmen had confiscated my dagger—”

“Commander Slith. I know about that too. Did you see Snaggle?”

“Yes, we made a deal. I’m going to trade him potions—”

“To the Abyss with your potions! What happened then?”

“I was tired. I came home and went to bed,” said Raistlin.

“You didn’t hear the uproar, see the commotion in the streets?”

“I wasn’t on the streets,” said Raistlin. “When I left the mageware shop, I was so exhausted, I did not feel up to walking. I traveled the corridors of magic.”

Iolanthe stared at him. He met her eyes and held them.

“Well, well,” she said, relaxing, giving him a slight smile. “That is good to hear. I was afraid you might have been involved.”

“Involved in what?” Raistlin asked impatiently. “Why all the mystery? “

Iolanthe left the chair and came to sit beside him on the bed. She lowered her voice, speaking barely above a whisper. “The Adjudicator was assassinated during the night. He was walking down the sidewalk near the temple, not far from Wizard’s Row, when he was accosted by a wizard wearing black robes. As this Black Robe held the Adjudicator in conversation, the assassin sneaked up behind him and stabbed him in the back. Both the assassin and the wizard fled.”

“The Adjudicator …” said Raistlin, frowning as if trying to remember.

“That lump of muscle who does the Nightlord’s dirty work,” said Iolanthe. “The Nightlord was furious. He is turning the city upside down looking for black-robed wizards.”

Iolanthe stood up and began to pace the room, restlessly beating a clenched hand into an open palm.

“This could not have happened at a worse time! Wizards were already suspect and now this! The guards came seeking me first. Fortunately I had an alibi. I was in Ariakas’s bed.”

“So you believe they will come after me,” said Raistlin, trying to sound nonchalant and all the while thinking that he was in serious trouble. He had forgotten how few Black Robes there were in the city.

Iolanthe halted in her pacing and turned to face him. “I told them who they sought.”

“You did?” Raistlin asked, rising in alarm.

“Yes. The guilty are now all dead,” said Iolanthe with equanimity. “I’ve just returned from the Tower. I saw the bodies.”

“Dead?” Raistlin repeated, bewildered. “Bodies? Who—”

“The Black Robes in the Tower,” said Iolanthe. She sighed and added, “Who knew those old men could be so dangerous? Here they were, working for Hidden Light, right under my nose. I must have been blind not to see it.”

Raistlin stared at her; then he asked slowly, “How did they die?”

“The Nightlord sent the Black Ghost.” She shuddered. “It was a horrible sight. All three of the old men lying in their beds, their bodies sucked dry—”

Raistlin shook his head. “That seems unlikely to me. Why didn’t the Nightlord arrest them? Torture them? Ask them about their accomplices?”

“Do I look like the Nightlord to you?” Iolanthe snapped. She began pacing again. “It is only a matter of time before they find out where you live. The Nightlord’s guards will be here to question you, perhaps even arrest you. I must place you somewhere safe, out of his reach.”

She kept walking, kept beating her hand into her palm. Suddenly she turned to him. “You said you traveled here using the corridors of magic. Your door was locked. You never picked up your key, did you?”

“No, I came directly into my room.”

“Good! You’re coming with me.”

“Where?” asked Raistlin.

“The Red Mansion. You never used your key. Talent Orren can testify to that. No one saw you enter the inn. You can say you spent the night working late. I will vouch for you, and so will Ariakas.”

“Why should he do that?” Raistlin asked, frowning.

“To tweak the Nightlord’s nose, if for no other reason. The Emperor is not in a good mood, and whenever something goes wrong, he blames the clerics. Luckily for you, your sister, Kitiara, is back in favor. He had a meeting with her that went well apparently. He’ll be glad to assist her little brother. You had best bring the Staff of Magius. They’ll search your room, of course.”

As she spoke, she was making up his bed so that it would look as if he had not slept in it.

“Where is this mansion?” he asked.

“Near the camp of the Red Dragonarmy. Outside the city walls, which is another good point. The Nerakan Guard sealed the gates after the murder. No one is allowed in or out. Therefore, if you were out, you were not in. And if you were in, you could not have gotten out.”

Raistlin considered her plan and decided it was a good one. Besides, he had been wanting a chance to meet with Ariakas. Perhaps the Emperor would make him an offer. Raistlin was still open to all possibilities. He tied his pouches containing his spell components to his belt.

“Got all your ‘marbles’?” Iolanthe asked with a sly smile. “The draconians didn’t confiscate any of them, did they? I heard they cast spells to search for magical artifacts.”

“No, they did not take them,” Raistlin replied. “They are, after all, only marbles.”

Iolanthe grinned at him. “If you say so.”

She reached into one of her pouches and brought forth what appeared to be a glob of black clay. Clasping the clay in her hands, she rolled it between her palms until it was soft, all the while muttering words of magic beneath her breath. Raistlin tried his best to hear them, but she was careful to keep her voice low. When she had finished her chanting, she flung the clay onto the wall. The clay stuck to the surface, then began to grow, looking very much like fast-rising bread dough. The black clay expanded, flowing over the wall until it covered a surface as large as Iolanthe was tall.

She spoke a single word of magic, and the clay dissolved, as did the wall. A corridor leading through time and space opened before them.

“The goo cost me a fortune,” said Iolanthe. She clasped hold of Raistlin’s wrist. He tried instinctively to pull away, but she tightened her grip.

“You really don’t like to be touched, do you?” she said softly. “You don’t like letting people get too close.”

“I’ve just heard what happens to those who get too close to you, madam,” said Raistlin coldly. “You know as well as I do, those old men were not involved in the murder.”

“Listen to me, Raistlin Majere,” said Iolanthe, drawing so near him, he could feel her breath on his cheek. “There were five black-robed wizards in this city last night. Only five. No more. I know where I was. I know where those three fools in the Tower were. That leaves one unaccounted for. You, my friend. What I did, I did to save your golden hide.”

“It could have been someone masquerading as a Black Robe,” Raistlin said. “Or some Black Robe who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time and is perfectly innocent.”

“It could have.” Iolanthe squeezed his hand. “But we both know it wasn’t. Don’t worry. You have risen in my regard. If there was ever a man who needed a knife in his ribs, it was the Adjudicator. I ask only one thing in return for my silence.”

“What is that?” Raistlin asked.

“Tell Kitiara what I am doing for you,” said Iolanthe.

She entered the magical corridor, drawing Raistlin with her. Once inside, she let go of him and reached out to grab hold of the clay and pull it off the wall, which had not, in fact, disappeared as much as become invisible. The entrance to the corridor closed behind them. A door opened in front of them. Raistlin found himself in a well-appointed and luxurious bedroom, which smelled strongly of gardenia.

“This is my room,” said Iolanthe. “You can’t stay here. It would be as much as our lives are worth if he caught me with another man.”

She steered Raistlin toward the door. Opening it a crack, she peered into the hall. “Good. No one is about. Make haste and douse that light on your staff! There is a spare room, third door on your left.”

She shoved him into the dark hallway and shut and locked her door behind him.

9 The Red Mansion. The Dark Queen.

Raistlin spent more than a week in the Red Mansion, fretting and fuming with impatience, bored out of his mind, alone and apparently forgotten. The Red Mansion, despite its name, was black in both color and mood. The building was called the Red Mansion because it was located on a cliff overlooking the camp of the Red Dragonarmy. Raistlin could stand on the portico located in the back of the mansion and look down upon row after row of tents that housed the soldiers. In the distance was the city wall and the Red Gate. Beyond that reared the ugly, twisted spires of the temple.

The mansion had been built at great expense by a high-ranking cleric of Takhisis. The Spiritor had become embroiled in a conspiracy to overthrow the Nightlord. Some said that Ariakas had been involved in that attempt and that it had failed because he had switched sides at the last moment, and betrayed his comrades.

No one knew if that tale was true or not. All anyone knew was that one night the Spiritor had disappeared from his fine mansion and the next day Ariakas had moved in. The mansion was constructed of black marble and was very grand and very dark and very cold. Raistlin spent his time either in the library, studying the many spell-books he found there, or roaming the halls, waiting for an audience with the Emperor.

Iolanthe assured Raistlin that she had spoken to Ariakas on Raistlin’s behalf. She said Ariakas was eager to meet the brother of his dear friend Kitiara and would most certainly find a place for him.

Apparently, Ariakas was able to contain his eagerness. He spent very little time in the mansion, preferring to work in his command post located in the camp of the Red Dragonarmy. Raistlin encountered him only in passing. The Emperor did not even glance at him.

After seeing the man and hearing people talk about him, Raistlin wasn’t sure he wanted to be introduced, much less serve him. Ariakas was a large man of powerful build, proud of his brute strength and accustomed to using his size to intimidate. He was highly skilled with sword and spear and had the ability to lead and inspire his soldiers. He was an effective military commander and, as such, had proved himself useful to his Queen.

Ariakas should have been content with commanding the fighting of her war, but his ambition had prompted him to leave the relative safety of the battlefield and enter the far more dangerous and deadly arena of politics. He had demanded the Crown of Power, and Takhisis had granted his wish. That had been a mistake.

The moment Ariakas put on the Crown of Power, he became a target. He was convinced that his fellow Highlords were plotting against him, and he was right. Since he had done all he could to foment their rivalries and jealousies, thinking it would ensure strong leaders, he had no one to blame but himself when they turned their knives on him.

In many ways, Ariakas reminded Raistlin of a dark-souled, arrogant version of Caramon. Ariakas was, at heart, a bluff and simple soldier, who was floundering about in the muck and mire of intrigue and politics. Weighted down by his heavy armor, he was starting to sink, and he would take all those who were hanging on to him down with him.

After three days, Raistlin told Iolanthe that he was leaving. She urged him to be patient.

“Ariakas is caught up in his war,” Iolanthe said. “He has no interest in anything else and that includes ambitious, young wizards. You must put yourself forward. Draw his notice.”

“And how do I do that?” Raistlin asked scathingly. “Trip him as he walks by?”

“Pray to Queen Takhisis. Urge her to intercede for you.”

“Why should she?” Raistlin shrugged. “You said yourself she has turned against all wizards since Nuitari abandoned her.”

“Ah, but the Dark Queen seems to favor you. She saved you from the Nightlord, remember?” said Iolanthe with a mischievous smile. “It was the Dark Queen who saved you, wasn’t it?”

Raistlin muttered something and walked off.

Iolanthe’s questions and insinuations were starting to grate on his nerves. He did not know where he stood with the woman. True, she had saved him from being arrested. The temple guards had arrived to question Raistlin shortly after the two of them had fled the Broken Shield. But Raistlin had the feeling that Iolanthe had saved him for the same reason a dragon spares her victims: she was keeping him alive to be devoured later.

Raistlin had no intention of talking to Takhisis. The Dark Queen was still seeking the dragon orb. And although he was confident that he was strong enough to hide it from her, he did not want to take any chances. That was another reason he was leaving. Takhisis had a shrine in the Red Mansion, and he could sense her presence there. Thus far, he had managed to avoid going anywhere near the shrine.

He spent the morning of the day he was planning to depart in the mansion’s library. Since Ariakas was a magic-user, Raistlin had hoped to find his spellbooks. Ariakas cared little about magic, apparently, for he kept no spellbooks and was, it seemed, not given to reading books of any sort. The only books in the library were those left behind by the Spiritor, and they were devoted to the glories of Takhisis. Raistlin yawned his way through a few of those, then gave up the search.

He came across only one volume of interest, a slender book that Ariakas had actually read, for Raistlin found the man’s crude notes scrawled in the margins: The Crown of Power: A History. The volume had been written by some scribe in the service of the last Kingpriest, Beldinas, and gave an account of the crown’s creation, which the Kingpriest believed dated back to the Age of Dreams.

The crown had been crafted by the ruler of the ogres and had been lost and purportedly found and lost again many times down through the ages. Judging by the book’s account, the crown had been in the possession of Beldinas prior to the fall of Istar. A note added at the end by Ariakas indicated that the crown had been rediscovered shortly after Takhisis unearthed the Foundation Stone. He had also included a list of some of the crown’s magical powers, though, to Raistlin’s disappointment, Ariakas had not provided details. Ariakas did not seem much interested in the crown’s powers, save for one—the crown had the ability to protect the wearer from physical attack. Ariakas had underlined that.

Raistlin shelved the volume and left the library. He walked the halls of the mansion, his head bowed in thought. Arriving at what he thought was his room, he opened the door. A strong smell of incense caught him by the throat and made him cough. He looked around in alarm to find that he was not in his room. He was in the last place on Krynn he wanted to be. He had somehow blundered into the shrine of Takhisis.

The shrine was small and oddly shaped, resembling an egg. The ceiling was domed and adorned with the five heads of the dragon, all looking down on Raistlin. The dragons’ eyes had been painted in such a way that they seemed to follow him, so no matter where he walked, he could not escape their gaze. An altar to Takhisis stood in the center of the room. Incense burned perpetually, smoke rising from an unknown source. The smell was cloying, filling the nostrils and lungs. Raistlin felt himself start to grow dizzy and, fearing it was poisonous, he covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve and tried to breathe as little as possible.

Raistlin turned to leave, only to find that the door had shut and locked behind him. His alarm grew. He searched for another way out. A door stood open at the end of the nave. To reach it, Raistlin would have to walk past the altar, which was wreathed in the smoke that was definitely having some sort of strange effect on him. The room was shrinking and expanding, the floor rolling in waves beneath his feet. Gripping the Staff of Magius in one hand, using it to support his faltering steps, he staggered among the pews, where the worshipers were meant to sit and reflect on their worthlessness.

He was arrested by a woman’s voice.

You will kneel before me.

Raistlin froze, the blood congealing in his veins. He leaned on the Staff of Magius to steady himself. The voice did not speak again, and he doubted, after long moments of silence, if he had heard it or imagined it.

He took another step.

Kneel before me! Give yourself to me, the voice said, adding in sultry tones, I offer rich reward to those who do.

Raistlin could no longer doubt. He looked up at the ceiling. A dark light, like the light of the dark moon, shone in the eyes of the five dragons. He went down on his knees and bowed his head.

“Your Majesty,” Raistlin said. “How may I serve you?”

Place the dragon orb on the altar.

Raistlin’s hands shook. His heart constricted. The poisonous fumes clouded his mind, made thinking an effort. He reached into the pouch and clasped his hand possessively over the dragon orb. He seemed to hear the voice of Fistandantilus, desperately and furiously chanting the words of magic, hoping in vain to destroy the dragon and free himself from his prison.

“I will serve you in everything except that, my Queen,” said Raistlin.

A crushing weight fell on him, trying to beat him down. The weight was the weight of the world, and he was collapsing under it. Takhisis was going to smash him, pulverize him. He gritted his teeth and kept fast hold of the dragon orb and did not move.

Then suddenly, the weight lifted, eased.

I will hold you to your promise.

Raistlin crouched on the floor, trembling. The voice did not speak again. He slowly and shakily rose to his feet. The dark light shone in the dragons’ eyes. He could still feel the Queen’s malice, a cold breath hissing through sharp teeth.

Raistlin was relieved, though confused, to find he was still in one piece. Takhisis could have crushed him like an eggshell. He wondered why she hadn’t.

The reason came to Raistlin, and a thrill of excitement made him shiver. He had felt the weight of the world, but not the weight of Takhisis.

“She cannot touch me,” he breathed.

With the return of her evil dragons, the wise had assumed that Takhisis had also returned. But now Raistlin was not so certain. Takhisis could touch mortals with a spiritual hand, but not with a physical one. She was not able to exert the full force of her power and her might, which meant that she had not yet fully entered the world. Something was stopping her, blocking her way.

Pondering that question, Raistlin almost ran toward the exit. He felt her cruel eyes and their dark enmity boring into his back. The double doors seemed to be as far away as time’s ending, but he finally reached them. He pushed on them, and they swung open at his touch. He walked out of the shrine and heard the doors sigh shut behind him. He breathed fresh air gratefully. The dizzy feeling passed.

He found himself in a large hall whose ornate ceiling was supported by thick, black, marble columns. He had never been in this part of the mansion, and he was wondering how to find the way out when he heard someone coming and looked up to see Ariakas. And for the first time, Ariakas saw him.

This is no coincidence, Raistlin thought, and he tensed.

Ariakas asked him about his quarters, if he found them to his liking. Raistlin replied that he did, not mentioning that he meant to leave those quarters the moment he had the chance. Ariakas mentioned that Raistlin had Kit to thank for his “post” which, since Raistlin didn’t have a post yet, meant he had Kit to thank for nothing. Raistlin said merely that he owed his sister a good deal.

Ariakas apparently did not like his tone, for he frowned and said something to the effect that most men cringed and cowered before him. Having just refused to cringe and cower before the Queen, Raistlin was unlikely to cower before the servant. He was not above a little flattery, however, and he said something to the effect that being impressed did not make him fearful, adding that he knew Ariakas had no use for fearful men.

“I would have you admire me,” Raistlin countered.

Ariakas began to laugh and said something about not admiring him yet, but maybe some day when he had proven himself. Ariakas walked off.

That day Raistlin left the Red Mansion. He traveled the corridors of magic to avoid having to pass through one of the city gates. He had to walk the streets, however, and his pulse quickened when he saw two draconians wearing the insignia of the temple guard.

Fortunately for him, the furor over the death of the Adjudicator had died down. The Nightlord believed the Black Robes in the Tower had been complicit in the murder, and since they had were all dead, he was no longer actively seeking out wizards. He had made numerous arrests of their “accomplices,” tortured the victims until they confessed, put them to death, and announced that the case was closed.

Raistlin had been worried that the small fish, Mari, might have been caught in the Nightlord’s huge net. He asked around and found out that the suspects had been human, which put his mind at ease. He told himself his concern for the kender was merely the fact that he’d been foolish enough to give her his real name.

Certain that he would not hear from Ariakas about a job, Raistlin had to earn a living, buy back his dagger, and pay for his room and board. The best and fastest way to earn steel, he decided, was to sell his potions to Snaggle.

Raistlin returned to the Broken Shield. He picked up his key and opened the door to his room to find the mattress ripped apart, the furniture broken, and a hole punched in the wall.

Raistlin also found a bill tacked to the bedpost from Talent Orren demanding two steel to pay for the damages. Raistlin sighed deeply and set to work.

10 Hair of the Troll. A Maelstrom Special.

Raistlin spent the next two days working on his potions in the empty confines of the Tower. He had arrived on the morning of the thirteenth to find draconians finally removing the bodies of the murdered Black Robes. Raistlin asked to view the last corpse before it was hauled off. He could not have recognized the man from the desiccated remains that were left. He knew it was Paunchy only because the bones with their parchmentlike casing of skin were lying in Paunchy’s bed.

The body had been drained of fluid. Death must have been slow and prolonged and agonizing. The corpse’s mouth was wide open, jaws locked in a scream. The skeletal fingers gripped the bedsheets. The legs had twisted in their death throes. The eyes rattled around in the sockets like shriveled grapes.

The draconians fidgeted in the room while Raistlin carefully examined the corpse, constantly peering over their shoulders and fingering their weapons. When Raistlin said he was finished, they hurriedly wrapped the body in the bed linens, carried it out and dumped it in a cart with the others.

Raistlin went to work cleaning up the kitchen. As he scrubbed the kettle, he went over the evidence in his mind and came to the conclusion that he knew the identity of the Black Ghost.

“But it makes no sense …”

An idea struck him. Raistlin paused in the act of throwing out rotting cabbages, thought it over, and said to himself, with a shrug, “Kitiara. Of course.”

Raistlin had not forgotten his interest in the resistance movement, Hidden Light. For two days, he thought of little else as he worked. The decision he was considering would be life-altering, maybe even life-ending, and he would not rush it. He finally made up his mind to at least do some investigating, see what he could learn. After he finished his work for the day, he went in search of the Hair of the Troll.

The tavern was located on the outskirts of the Green District. Raistlin had no trouble finding it, for the tavern was the only building of any size in that part of the city. Unlike the White District, which was home to warehouses and smithies, tanneries and artisans of various kinds necessary to support the military, the Green District was home to nothing much except vermin—two-legged as well as four-legged.

The Dark Queen could have not pursued her war without the loyalty and sacrifice of those races who worshiped her: goblins, hobgoblins, ogres, minotaurs, and the newly created race of draconians. But it was humans who, with few exceptions, were running Takhisis’s war, and the human commanders made no secret of the fact that they despised the “scum” who were doing much of the fighting and most of the dying.

Goblins and hobgoblins, ogres and minotaurs were accustomed to such persecution, though that didn’t mean they liked it. The draconians were not, however. They considered themselves far superior to humans in strength, intelligence, and skill. Having been taught to fight from the time they were hatched, draconians were starting to rebel against their human commanders and generating unrest among the goblins and hobgoblins, who were also sick and tired of spilling their blood and getting nothing except whippings and bad food in return.

As a consequence, morale among the dragonarmies was dangerously low. The bodies of human commanders were discovered on the battlefield with arrows in their backs; shot from behind by their own forces. Several divisions of hobgoblins had thrown down their arms, refusing to fight until they were paid. Due to the segregation of the forces by race, the “hobs and gobs, dracos and cows,” as they were disparagingly known, congregated in the Green District, the only district where they were welcome.

They thronged the streets, most of them in various stages of inebriation; ale being a cheap morale booster. The soldiers were always spoiling for a fight, eager to avenge their wrongs, and humans were their favorite targets. Those humans who were forced to enter the Green Gate and walk through the Green District had learned to bring along friends to watch their backs.

Raistlin had assumed he would have to pass some sort of test to prove himself, but it had not occurred to him that the first test would be to actually reach the Hair of the Troll alive. The moment he set foot on the streets, he was surrounded by a jeering mob. The fact that he was wearing the black robes of a wizard meant little to draconians. Raistlin removed his cowl, allowing the late afternoon sun to shine on his golden skin and his long white hair. His strange appearance caused the crowd to back off and allow him to pass, though they continued to jeer and make threats.

He forced himself to walk at an even pace. He kept his gaze fixed on his destination and did not react when a dirt clod struck him between the shoulder blades. He had no intention of being goaded into a fight. He had about another block to go, though he was beginning to doubt he would make it.

Another dirt clod struck him, this time on the head. The blow was not hard or even particularly painful, but he could see that the situation was rapidly deteriorating. A group of slavering goblins, armed with knives, not dirt, closed in on him. Raistlin was starting to think he would have to fight. He took a bit of fur from his pouch and was about to speak the words to a spell that would shoot a bolt of lightning from his hands to one goblin after another when he felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down to see Mari.

“Hullo, there, Raist,” she said cheerfully.

She was no longer dressed in black, but in the bright colors kender favored. She appeared to have “borrowed” most of her outfit, for nothing fit her. Her blouse was too long; the sleeves were constantly falling over her hands. Her breeches were too short, permitting a good view of her mismatched and ragged stockings. She had tied her yellow braids in a knot on top of her head, leaving the ends to dangle down around her face, giving her the look of a lop-eared rabbit.

She added something that Raistlin couldn’t hear over the noise. Mari shook her head. Turning to the goblins, she yelled shrilly, “Shut up, you buggers!”

The goblins subsided to a dull roar.

“What brings you to this part of town?” Mari shouted the question.

Raistlin wondered what in the name of the Abyss she was talking about, then he remembered the correct reply. Keeping one eye on the goblins, he replied, “I have just escaped the Maelstrom,” he said, adding coldly, “And my name is not Raist.”

Mari grinned at him. “Right now I’d say your name was Dead Duck. You look like you could use some help.”

Before he could answer, Mari raised her voice. “Free ale at the Hairy Troll! Our friend Raist here is buying!”

The jeers changed to cheers in an instant. The goblins broke into a run, pushing and shoving each other to be first to reach the tavern.

Raistlin watched them dash off. He returned the fur to his pouch. “How much is that going to cost me?” he asked with a rueful smile.

“We’ll put it on your tab,” said Mari.

She took hold of his hand and tugged him along toward the tavern. Raistlin was somewhat dubious about entering the ramshackle wooden structure, which looked extremely unstable; a healthy sneeze would knock it into a heap. The tavern was two stories tall, but Mari gleefully informed him that a goblin who had ventured onto the second floor had ended up crashing through the rotting floor boards and got stuck in the hole, much to the delight of the crowd in the bar below. Patrons would still proudly point out the hole in the ceiling and relate how the unfortunate goblin’s legs could be seen kicking wildly until someone had pushed him through and he had crashed onto the tables below.

There had once been a fireplace, but the chimney had fallen in, and no one had bothered to repair it. The outside of the building was painted with lewd drawings and scrawls. A large signboard featuring a very hairy troll had once hung in front, but it had fallen down, and now either the sign leaned against the building or the building leaned against the sign; Raistlin wasn’t sure which. The locals maintained that the sign was the only thing keeping the building standing.

A door had apparently once guarded the entrance, but all that was left of it were rusting hinges. No door was needed anyway, according to Mari, because the Hairy Troll never closed. It was always crowded, day or night.

The stench of stale ale, vomit, and sweaty goblin almost stunned Raistlin as he walked through the door. The smell was bad, but the din was mind-numbing. The bar was jammed with soldiers. Empty casks of ale passed for tables. The patrons either stood around them or sat on wobbly benches. There was no bar. The tavern’s owner, a half-ogre named Slouch, sat beside a keg of ale, filling mugs and taking steel, which he dumped in an iron box at his side. Slouch never spoke and rarely moved from his place by the iron box. He paid no heed to anything going on in the bar. Fights might rage around him, but Slouch would never so much as glance up. He kept his attention firmly focused on the ale flowing into the glasses and the steel coins flowing into his coffer.

The rule was that a patron paid for his drink in advance (Slouch did not trust his customers, with good reason) then took a seat. The ale was delivered by gully dwarf servers, who scuttled around underfoot, dodging kicks and ducking punches. Mari escorted Raistlin to a three-legged table and told him to sit down. He closed his eyes to the filth and took a seat.

“What would you like to drink?” she asked.

Raistlin looked at the dirty glasses being shoved into the hands of the patrons by dirtier gully dwarves and said he wasn’t thirsty.

“Hey, Maelstrom!” Mari hollered, her shrill voice carrying over the howls and grunts and laughter. “Tell Slouch that my friend Raist here wants one of your specials!”

Her shout was directed at the only other human in the room, one of the largest, ugliest men Raistlin had ever seen. Maelstrom was as tall as a minotaur and as broad through the chest and shoulders as one of those monsters. He was swarthy, his black eyes barely seen beneath overhanging beetling black brows and long, black, greasy hair that he wore in a braid down his back. He wore a leather vest and leather pants and tall leather boots. He was never known to wear anything else; no shirt, no cloak, and he went bare chested even during the coldest days of winter.

Maelstrom’s black eyes had been fixed on Raistlin from the moment he’d entered, and at Mari’s shout, he gave a slow nod and said something to Slouch, who shifted his bulk and thrust two mugs beneath the spout of another, smaller cask. Maelstrom deigned to deliver the mugs himself, moving with ease through the crowd, shouldering aside draconians, knocking aside goblins, and leaving overturned gully dwarves in his wake. He never once took his eyes from Raistlin.

Maelstrom lowered himself onto the long bench that groaned with the enormous man’s weight, causing the other end to tilt, nearly lifting Raistlin off the floor. Maelstrom plunked one mug down in front of Raistlin and kept the other mug for himself.

“This is my friend Raist,” said Mari. “The one I was telling you about. Raist, this is Maelstrom.”

“Raist,” said Maelstrom with a slow nod.

“My name is Raistlin.”

“Raist,” Maelstrom repeated, frowning, “drink up.”

Raistlin recognized the pungent, earthy smell of dwarf spirits and was reminded forcibly of his brother, who was overly fond of the potent liquor. Raistlin pushed the mug away.

“Thank you, no,” he said.

Maelstrom drank his mug of spirits in one long, smooth gulp, tilting back his head and seeming to pour it directly down his throat. All the while, even with his head tilted, he kept his gaze fixed on Raistlin. Maelstrom brought his mug down with a thud.

“I said, ‘drink up,’ Raist.” Maelstrom’s thick brows came together. Leering, he thrust his jaw into Raistlin’s face. “Or maybe, seein’ as how you’re a high-falutin’ muckety-muck wizard, you think you’re too good to drink with the likes of me and my friend?”

“Naw, Raist doesn’t think that,” said Mari, who was leaning her elbows on the cask that served as a table. “Do you, Raist?” She pushed the mug of dwarf spirits toward him.

Raistlin took the mug and lifted it to his lips, sniffed, and swallowed. The fiery liquid burned his throat, stole his breath, brought tears to his eyes, and set him to coughing. Mari thoughtfully supplied him with his own handkerchief, which she pulled out from the top of her stocking. He hacked and choked, aware of Maelstrom’s eyes on him, as Mari helpfully pounded him on the back.

Maelstrom kicked at a gully dwarf in passing and ordered two more mugs. “Drink up, Raist. There’s another one coming.”

Raistlin lifted his mug, but his fingers didn’t seem to work properly, and it slipped from his hand and landed with a crash on the floor at his feet. Two gully dwarves cleaned it up, immediately dropping to their knees and lapping up the spill.

Raistlin slumped over the cask. His eyes closed. His body went limp.

Maelstrom grunted. “Weak and spindly,” was his comment. “I say we toss him back.”

“Aw, Raist’s all right. He’s just not used to the good stuff,” said Mari.

Maelstrom grabbed hold of Raistlin’s head by his hair and yanked it up. He peered into Raistlin’s eyes. “Is he playin’ possum?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mari. She gave Raistlin’s arm a hard pinch. He did not move. His eyelids did not flicker. “He’s out cold.”

Maelstrom grabbed hold of Raistlin and plucked him off the bench and slung him over his shoulder with as much ease as if he’d been one of the gully dwarves.

“You be careful of him, Mal,” said Mari. “I found him. He’s mine.”

“You kender are always ‘findin’ things,” Maelstrom muttered. “Most of which is best left in the gutter.”

He yanked Raistlin’s cowl down firmly over his head, wrapped one arm securely around Raistlin’s legs, and hauled him out of the Hair of the Troll to raucous laughter and rude remarks about humans who couldn’t hold their liquor.

11 Lute’s Loot. A Job Offer.

The night was fine, at least as fine as any night could be in the city of Neraka, which seemed to be always sullenly lurking under a perpetual cloud of haze and smoke and dust. Talent Orren was in a good mood, and he whistled a merry dance tune as he sauntered through the Red Gate. The guards on duty greeted him with enthusiasm, thirstily eyeing the wineskin he had brought with him, which they immediately “confiscated.” Talent handed over the wine with a grin and said he hoped they enjoyed it.

No moons being visible that night, Talent carried a lantern to light his way. He made a left turn at the first street, then headed for a T-shaped building that stood at the very end. He was not alone. Human and draconian soldiers patrolled the streets of the Red District, going about their business with an air of orderly efficiency—a marked contrast to the foul mood of the hobs and gobs in the Green District. The relative calm might have something to do with the fact that the Red Dragonarmy commander, Ariakas, was currently in residence.

The draconians ignored Talent as they tended to disdainfully ignore most humans. Most of the human soldiers knew and liked him, though, and they called out good-natured insults. Orren gave back as good as he got. He would see them all later in his tavern, where he would be happy to relieve them of their pay.

Talent’s destination was a pawn shop known as Lute’s Loot. On his arrival, Talent opened the door and walked inside. He paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright light, which was indicative of the shop’s success. Seven crystal lamps of remarkable beauty hung from beams in the ceiling. Lute claimed to have purchased them from an elf lord desperate to escape Qualinesti before the dragonarmy’s attack. Lute had paid the Emperor’s witch, Iolanthe, a tidy sum to cast a magical light spell on the lamps. The light was soft white and though some of the customers considered it harsh and claimed it burned their eyes, Talent found it calming, even soothing.

When his eyes were no longer dazzled and he was in no danger of breaking his neck amid the clutter, he bid a good evening to Lute’s guardians, two enormous mastiffs. Named Shinare and Hiddukel, the mastiffs greeted Talent with wagging tails and large quantities of dog slobber. One of them, standing on his hind legs, placed his front paws on Talent’s chest to lick his cheek. The dog topped the man by several inches.

Talent played with the dogs and waited to speak to Lute, who, seated on a tall stool against the back wall, was occupied with business, making some sort of deal with a soldier of the Red Dragonarmy. Catching sight of Talent, Lute paused in his bargaining to grumble at his friend.

“Hey, Talent, what was that swill you sent over for my dinner?”

Lute was a short, squat individual with a large head, a rotund belly, and a surly disposition who boasted proudly that he was the laziest person in Ansalon. Every morning he moved from his bed, which was located in a room directly behind the counter, to his stool, where he sat all day, leaving it only to use the chamber pot. When time came to close up shop late at night, Lute slid off the stool and waddled the few steps to his bed. A mop of curly, black hair fell over his eyes, meeting his full, curly, black beard somewhere in the vicinity of his nose, so it was difficult to tell where the beard began and his hair left off. Small, keen eyes glinted out from the thatch.

“Rabbit stew,” Talent said.

“Flummery! Boiled gully dwarf is more like it!” Lute said irately.

“You should have sent it back,” Talent said.

“A fellow has to eat something,” Lute snarled and returned to his haggling.

Talent grinned. His rabbit stew was good; none better in this part of the world. Lute was not happy unless he was complaining about something.

If Lute had a surname, no one knew it. He claimed to be human, but Talent knew better. One night early in their long relationship, Lute, having imbibed a bit too much in the way of dwarf spirits, had told Talent that his father had been a dwarf from the kingdom of Thorbardin. When Talent had mentioned that the next morning, Lute had flown into a rage and denied that he’d ever said any such thing. He had gone for a week without speaking to his friend, and Talent had never brought it up again.

Talent lounged among the heaps and piles of junk that covered the floor of the warehouse. Lute’s Loot was a repository for goods from all of Ansalon. Talent often said he could trace the progress of the war in the variety of the store’s wares. The contents of the room included furniture, paintings, and tapestries from Qualinesti; a set of chairs said to have come from the famous Inn of the Last Home in Solace; a few objects from the dwarven kingdom, though not many, for Thorbardin had fought off the dragonarmies. There was nothing from the elven kingdom of Silvanesti, for the land was said to be cursed and no one went near it. There were large quantities of items from the eastern part of Solamnia, which had fallen to the might of the Blue Lady, though as far as Talent could hear, Palanthas was still holding out.

He waited patiently for the soldier to finish his dealing. The man finally agreed to a price, which he claimed was way beneath the value of whatever it was he was trying to sell. The soldier left in foul mood, clutching his coins in his hand. Talent recognized him as a regular, and he guessed that those coins would soon find their way into his strong box.

When the soldier had banged his way irritably out of the door, Lute lifted his black cane and waved it in the air, a signal that Talent should shut the door and lock up for the night. If Talent had not been around to perform that task, Lute had trained Shinare to shut the door; then her mate, Hiddukel, would hit an iron bar with his nose so that it dropped down into place to keep the door from being forced open. Thus Lute was spared the fatigue of walking from the counter to the door and back again.

The mastiffs’ main duty was to deter thieves. They would greet patrons at the door and escort them through the shop, growling if anyone dared touch anything without first obtaining permission from Lute. And in case anyone might decide to try to snatch an object and flee, Lute would simply pick up the small, handheld crossbow that rested on the counter beside his cup of thick, honey-laced tarbean tea. Should anyone doubt Lute’s ability to use the crossbow, he would point to a goblin’s skull with a bolt through its eye that he had nailed to the wall.

Talent had just shut the door and was preparing to lower the bar when he heard a knock. Talent peered out. At first he didn’t see anything.

“Down here, doofus,” said Mari.

Talent lowered his gaze to the kender.

“The delivery’s been made,” she said.

“Well done, thanks,” said Talent.

Mari waved at him and ran off into the night. Talent shut the door and locked it.

“Was that the kender?” Lute said, scowling. “You didn’t let the little thief inside, did you?”

Talent smiled. “No, you’re safe. She came to report that the goods have been delivered.”

“Fine. You deal with it. I’m going to bed.”

Lute began the task of maneuvering his bulk off his high stool. Talent, accompanied by the two mastiffs, navigated the convoluted trails that led through the maze of junk and arrived at last at the counter.

“Any word on the Berem fellow?” he asked.

“Nothing so far,” said Lute. “Two men, both name of Berem, entered the city this week. Our boys were waiting at the gates and managed to get hold of them before the Nerakan guards did. Maelstrom took them to the Hairy Troll and questioned them.”

“Neither had a green gemstone embedded in his chest, I take it,” said Talent, “or ‘an old-looking face with young eyes.’ “

“One had an old face with a shifty eye, and the other a young face with a young eye. Though that wouldn’t have stopped the Nightlord from torturing them, just to make sure. Remember the Berem guy they caught last fall? The Nightlord sliced open his chest and cracked his breastbone just to make sure he wasn’t hiding an emerald in his craw.”

“What happened to the two latest Berems?”

“One was a pickpocket. Maelstrom warned him that if he was planning on staying in Neraka, he should stay out of the Hairy Troll and he might want to change his name. The other Berem was a fourteen-year-old kid—some farmer’s son who had run away from home and came here to make his fortune. No need to warn the kid. After what he’d seen of our fair city, the poor kid was half dead with fright. Maelstrom gave him a steel piece and sent him home to his mama.”

“I wonder what is so special about this Berem,” Talent mused, not for the first time.

Lute grunted. “Other than the fact that he sports a green gemstone among his chest hairs?”

“Only a goblin would be gullible enough to believe such a ridiculous tale. More likely he wears a green gemstone necklace or some such thing. A jewel embedded in his chest, my ass!”

“I dunno,” said Lute quietly. “You and I’ve seen stranger things, my friend. What are you going to do with the newly arrived goods?”

“Have a talk with him. Maybe give him a job if I like his looks.”

Lute frowned, causing what little could be seen of his face to vanish between his hair and his beard. “What the deuce do you want to give him a job for? To start with, he’s a wizard, and they’re all scum—”

“Except the lovely Iolanthe,” said Talent slyly.

Lute may have blushed. It was hard to tell underneath all the hair. At any rate, he pointedly ignored Talent’s insinuation. “Ten-to-one he’s an agent of the Nightlord.”

“Then why would he save Mari’s life?”

“What better way to be accepted into our ranks? Discover our secrets?”

Talent shook his head. “The Nightlord’s agents generally aren’t that smart. But if he is, I’ll soon find out. He’ll turn down the job I’m offering him because it will mean he will have to leave Neraka, and he won’t want to do that if he’s been sent to spy on us for the Nightlord. If he takes it, he may be the real deal.”

“What job is that?”

“You know, the one we were discussing the other night. He’s her brother.”

“And you trust him?” Lute glowered. “You’re cracked in the head, Orren. I’ve often said so.”

“I don’t trust him as far as I can see his black robes on a moonless night,” said Talent. “Mari likes him, though, and kender have good instincts about people. She likes you, after all.”

Lute gave an explosive snort that nearly toppled him. Recovering his balance, he leaned on his cane and, taking his tea and his crossbow with him, started off to bed. Halfway there, he turned around. “What happens if your wizard turns down the job?”

Talent ran a finger over his mustache. “Have you fed the mastiffs tonight?”

“No,” said Lute.

“Then don’t,” said Talent.

Lute nodded and went to his bedroom and shut the door.

Talent whistled to the two dogs, who came trotting obediently after him. He headed toward the back of the shop, dodging around and sometimes forced to climb over boxes and crates and barrels, piles of rags, bundles of clothes, tools of all sorts, a broken-down plow, and a large variety of wooden wagon wheels.

Lute had constructed a kennel of sorts for the dogs in the back corner. The dogs, thinking it was time for bed, went obediently into two large crates, where they curled up on blankets and began chewing on bones.

“Not so fast, friends,” said Talent. “We still have work to do tonight.”

He whistled and the dogs left their crates and their bones and came bounding to his side. Talent went over to Hiddukel’s crate. The dog trotted after him, keeping a jealous eye on his treat.

“Easy, friend. I’ve had my dinner,” said Talent, petting the dog’s head.

Hiddukel apparently didn’t believe him, for he ducked past Talent and snatched up the bone. Clamping his teeth over it, Hiddukel growled a warning at Shinare to keep her distance.

Talent shoved the crate to one side. Beneath the crate was a trapdoor. Talent pulled open the trapdoor, grinning to think what the mastiff would do to a stranger who dared encroach upon the dog’s “lair.” Crudely built stairs led down into semidarkness. Somewhere in the distance, a dim lamp burned, giving a faint yellow light.

Talent pulled the trapdoor shut and descended the stairs. The mastiffs came along behind him, sniffing the air, noses twitching and ears pricked. Hiddukel dropped his bone, and both dogs barked, their tails wagging. They had spotted a friend.

Maelstrom was standing guard over “the goods,” a man slumped in a chair. Talent could not get a look at him, for the man’s head was bowed. His arms were bound behind his back, his feet tied to the chair. He wore black robes and carried several pouches on his belt.

“Hello, Maelstrom,” said Talent, walking over to greet his friend.

The man’s large hand engulfed Talent’s, giving it an affectionate squeeze that caused Talent to wince.

“Ah, careful there. I might need my fingers some day,” said Talent. He looked down with frowning interest at the man in the chair. “So this is Mari’s wizard. He’s a tenant of mine, you know. I was surprised when she said it was him.”

“He’s a sickly lot,” Maelstrom sniffed. “Almost puked at the smell of good dwarf spirits. Still, he’s talented at what he does, seemingly. Old Snaggle says his potions are the best he’s ever used.”

“So where’s he been keeping himself? He hasn’t slept in his room for several nights.”

“He’s been at the Red Mansion,” said Maelstrom.

Talent frowned. “With Ariakas?”

“More likely with the witch. Iolanthe seems to have made this fellow her pet. She’s trying to get Ariakas to hire him. The Emperor has other things on his mind these days, however, and Raist here didn’t get the job. He left in a huff. Since then, he’s been working in the Tower, making up glop and bartering it to old Snaggle.”

“So he tried selling himself to Ariakas, and when that didn’t work, he thought he’d hire on with us.”

“Either that or he did sell himself to Ariakas,” Maelstrom growled, “and he’s here to spy on us.”

Talent regarded Raistlin in thoughtful silence. The dogs lay down at the wizard’s feet. Maelstrom stood over him, arms folded across his chest.

“Wake him up,” said Talent abruptly.

Maelstrom grabbed hold of Raistlin by the hair, jerked his head back, and smacked him a couple of times.

Raistlin gasped. His eyelids flared opened. He grimaced at the pain and blinked in the flickering light. Then his gaze focused on Talent, and a look of astonishment crossed his face. He raised an eyebrow and gave a slight nod, as if thinking it all made sense.

“You still owe me for the damage to your room, Majere,” said Talent.

Drawing over a chair, he spun it around and seated himself on it, resting his arms on the chair’s back.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Raistlin. “If that’s what this is about, I have the steel …”

“Forget it,” said Talent. “You saved Mari’s life. We’ll call it even. I hear you might be interested in working for Hidden Light.”

“Hidden Light?” Raistlin shook his head. “I never heard of it.” “Then why did you go to the Hair of the Troll tonight?” “I went for a drink—”

Talent laughed. “No one goes to the Hair of a Troll for a drink unless you’re unusually fond of horse piss.” He frowned. “Cut the crap, Majere. Mari gave you the code word. For some reason she’s taken a fancy to you.”

“No accounting for taste,” said Maelstrom, and he gave Raistlin a cuff on the head that knocked him sideways. “Answer the boss’s questions. He don’t take kindly to prevaricators.”

Talent waited for Raistlin’s ears to quit ringing from the blow; then he said, “Want to try again? Why did you go to the Hair of the Troll?”

“I admit, I am interested in working for Hidden Light,” said Raistlin, licking blood from a split lip.

“A wizard who wears the black robes wants to help in the fight against Takhisis. Why should we trust you?”

“Because I wear the black robes,” said Raistlin.

Talent regarded him thoughtfully. “You might want to explain yourself.”

“If Takhisis wins this war and frees herself from the Abyss, she will be the master and I will be her slave. I will not be a slave. I much prefer to be the master.”

“At least you are honest,” said Talent.

“I see no reason to lie,” Raistlin said, shrugging as well as his bound arms would permit. “I am not ashamed of wearing the black robes. Nor am I ashamed of my ambition. You and I fight the battle against Takhisis for different reasons, sir, or at least so I presume. You fight for the good of mankind. I fight for the good of myself. The point is: we both fight.”

Talent shook his head in wonderment. “I’ve met all manner of men and women, Majere, but never anyone quite like you. I’m not certain whether I should embrace you or slit your throat.”

“I know what I’d do,” muttered Maelstrom, fingering a large knife he wore on his belt.

“I’m sure you will understand if we ask you to prove yourself,” said Talent, briskly getting down to business. “I have a job for you, one for which you are uniquely qualified. I hear that Kitiara uth Matar, known as the Blue Lady, is your sister.”

“She is my half sister,” said Raistlin. “Why?”

“Because the Blue Lady is plotting something, and I need to know what,” said Talent.

“It has been years since I have seen Kitiara, but from what I hear, she is commander of the Blue Dragonarmy, an army that is currently ravaging Solamnia, making hash of the Solamnic Knights. What she is plotting is undoubtedly the demise of the Knighthood.”

“You might want to speak of the Solamnic Knights with more respect,” Talent said.

Raistlin gave a half smile. “I thought I detected a faint Solamnic accent. Don’t tell me, sir. I can guess your story. You were an impoverished knight, reduced to selling his sword. You sold it to the wrong people, briefly walked the side of Darkness, had a change of heart, and now you’re on the side of Light. Am I right?”

“I didn’t have a change of heart,” said Talent quietly. “I had a good friend who changed it for me. He saved me from myself. But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about a job. As it happens, Kitiara is not busy pursuing the war in Solamnia. She has left the war to her commanders. No one has seen her on the battlefield in weeks.”

“Perhaps she was wounded,” Raistlin suggested. “Perhaps she is dead.”

“We would have heard. What we do hear is that she is working on some secret project. We want to know what this project is and, if possible, prevent its completion.”

“And since I am her brother, you expect her to tell me everything. Unfortunately, I do not know where Kit is.”

“Most fortunately, we do,” said Talent. “You’ve heard of the death knight Lord Soth?”

“Yes,” said Raistlin warily.

“Soth is alive—so to speak. The death knight resides in an accursed castle known as Dargaard Keep. And your sister, Kitiara, is with him.”

Raistlin stared, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have never been more so. The entry of the dragons of Light into the war caught Takhisis unprepared. She now fears she might lose. Kitiara is in Dargaard Keep with Lord Soth, and we believe they are plotting something to crush out this spark of hope. I want to know what they are plotting. I want you to find out and come back to tell me.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I don’t recall giving you a choice,” said Talent, smoothing his mustache. “You came to me, Majere. And now you know too much about us. Either you agree to travel to Dargaard Keep, or your bones will be Hiddukel’s dinner this night. Hiddukel the dog,” Talent added by way of clarification, petting the mastiff’s head, “not the god.”

Raistlin looked at the mastiff. He glanced back over his shoulder at Maelstrom. Then he gave a slight shrug. “I will need a day or two to put my affairs in order and devise some excuse for my absence. There are those who would find my sudden disappearance suspicious.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” said Talent. He stood up from the chair. The dogs, who had been lying at his side, jumped to their feet. “Maelstrom will see to it you get home safely. You won’t mind being blindfolded, I hope.”

“It will be better than being drugged,” said Raistlin wryly.

Maelstrom drew his knife and cut the ropes that bound Raistlin’s hands and feet.

“One thing I meant to ask,” said Talent. “The gate guards have been told to watch for a man named Berem who has a green gemstone embedded in his chest. Sounds like the kind of man a wizard might know. You don’t happen to, do you? Or know anything about him?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Raistlin, his face a blank mask.

He stood up stiffly, rubbing his wrists. His lip was starting to swell, a bruise was turning the golden skin of his face an unsightly green color.

Maelstrom brought out a strip of black cloth. Talent held up his hand, indicating he should wait.

“Then there’s this magical artifact the guards are searching for. A dragon globe or some such thing.”

“Dragon orb,” said Raistlin.

“You have heard of it?” Talent affected surprise.

“I would be a poor excuse for a student of magic if I had not,” said Raistlin.

“You don’t know where it is, do you?”

The young wizard’s strange eyes glinted. “Believe me, sir, when I tell you that you would not want me to find it.” He wiped blood from his lip.

Talent eyed him, then shrugged. “Let Mari know when you’re leaving for Dargaard Keep,” he said. Whistling to the dogs, he turned to go.

“One moment,” said Raistlin. “I have a question for you. How did you corrupt the kender?”

“Corrupt?” Talent repeated angrily. “What do you mean? I didn’t corrupt Mari.”

“You made her a cold-blooded killer. What do you call that if not corruption?”

“I did not corrupt her,” Talent reiterated. “I don’t know Mari’s story. She never talks about it. And just to be clear, I never sent her to murder the Adjudicator. She undertook to kill him herself. I didn’t know anything about the murder until she’d done it, and then I was appalled.”

Raistlin frowned, dubious.

“I swear by Kiri-Jolith,” said Talent earnestly, “that if I had known what Mari meant to do, I would have chained her up in the cellar. She put all of us in danger.” He paused, then added, “Thank you for helping her, by the way, Majere. Mari means a lot to us. The evil in the world has destroyed much that was beautiful, innocent. Take you, for example. I must assume that before you turned to evil, you were once a happy, carefree child—”

“You would assume wrong,” sharply interjected Raistlin. “Am I free to go?”

Talent nodded. Maelstrom tied the blindfold around the wizard’s eyes, then pulled his cowl over his face and guided him out of the subterranean chamber.

After they’d gone, one of the dogs gave a sudden shudder, causing her skin to twitch. She shook herself all over.

“I know, girl,” said Talent, placing his hand soothingly on the mastiff’s head. “He gives me the creeps too.”

12 A Meeting With Ariakas. Another Job Offer.

The morning after his meeting with Talent, Raistlin was working in the laboratory in the Tower, mixing up the last of the potions for Snaggle. He had already purchased his dagger. He needed only enough more steel to pay for his room at the inn. He would not go to Kitiara beholden to her. More importantly, he would not spy on her and then take her charity.

“You would be proud of me, Sturm,” Raistlin remarked as he spooned a concoction meant to help ease sore throats into a jar. “It seems I do have some smattering of honor.”

From downstairs came the sound of the front door opening and closing and light footsteps ascending the stairs at a run. Raistlin did not halt in his work. Even without the faint scent of gardenia, he would have known his visitor was Iolanthe. No one else came near the Tower, rumor having gone around the city that it was haunted by the ghosts of the dead Black Robes. “Raistlin?” Iolanthe shouted.

“In here,” he called.

Iolanthe entered the room. She was breathing hard from her exertions. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes bright and eager.

“Drop what you are doing,” she said. “Ariakas wants to meet with you.”

“Meet with me?” Raistlin asked, his eyes on his task.

“Yes, you! Who else would I be talking about? He wants to talk to you now! Put that down,” Iolanthe said, snatching the spoon from his hand. “He does not like to be kept waiting.”

Raistlin’s first alarmed thought was that Ariakas had somehow discovered his involvement with Hidden Light. But, he reasoned, if that were the case, Ariakas would have sent draconians after him, not his mistress.

“What does he want with me?”

“Ask him yourself,” said Iolanthe.

Raistlin placed the stopper in the jar.

“I will go, but I cannot leave this yet.” He bent over a small kettle he had placed upon the cooktop. “It must come to a rolling boil.”

Iolanthe peered into the kettle and wrinkled her nose. “Ugh.

What is it?”

“An experiment,” said Raistlin.

Mindful of the adage that a watched pot never boils, he turned to another task, carefully packing the jar of sore throat medicine in a crate along with several other potions and ointments he had readied to sell. Iolanthe watched him, tapping her foot and drumming her fingers on her arms, fuming with impatience.

“Your pot is boiling,” she said.

Raistlin took hold of the handle with a cloth and removed the pot from the fire. Setting it down on the counter, he took off the apron he had worn to protect his robes.

“Is that all? What happens now?” Iolanthe asked, regarding the concoction with distaste.

“It must ferment,” said Raistlin, folding the apron neatly. “On the Night of the Eye, I will—”

“Night of the Eye! Oh, yes!” Iolanthe said, slapping her forehead. “What a ninny I am. That’s coming up, isn’t it? Are you traveling to the celebration at the Tower in Wayreth?”

“No, I plan to remain here and work on my experiments,” said Raistlin. “What about you?”

“We’ll talk about it on the way to the Emperor.” She grabbed his hand and hustled him down the stairs and out the door.

“Why aren’t you going to Wayreth?” she asked.

He glanced at her sharply. “Why aren’t you?”

Iolanthe laughed. “Because I will have a better time in Neraka. I know, it’s hard to believe. But Talent always throws a huge party in the Broken Shield on the Night of the Eye and there’s another party at the Hairy Troll. The ale is free. Everyone gets drunk … or rather they get drunker. People light bonfires in the streets and everyone dresses up like wizards and pretends to cast magic spells. It’s the only fun anyone ever has in this city.”

“I wouldn’t think the Nightlord would approve,” said Raistlin.

“Oh, he doesn’t. And that’s half the fun. Every year, the Nightlord issues an edict against the celebration and threatens to send out soldiers to shut the taverns down. But since all the soldiers will be attending the party, his threats never amount to anything.”

She smiled coyly at him. “You didn’t answer my question. Why aren’t you going to the Tower?”

“I would not be welcome. I did not ask the Conclave for permission to change my allegiance from Red to Black.”

“Well, that was stupid,” said Iolanthe bluntly. “You seem to go out of your way to make enemies. All you would have had to do was go before the Conclave and explain your reasons and ask for their blessing. It is a mere formality. Why forgo it?”

“Because I do not like asking anyone for anything,” said Raistlin.

“And so you throw away all the advantages you could enjoy by keeping in good graces with your fellow wizards, not to mention putting your life at risk. What for? What do you gain?”

“My freedom,” said Raistlin.

Iolanthe rolled her eyes. “Freedom to end up dead. I swear by the three moons, I do not understand you, Raistlin Majere.”

Raistlin wasn’t sure he understood himself. Even as he shrugged off the thought of going to the Tower of Wayreth for the Night of the Eye celebration, he felt a pang of regret that he would not be there. He had never attended one of the celebrations; after taking his Test, he didn’t have the means of traveling to the Tower. But he knew what happened, and he had often longed to participate.

The Night of the Eye: A night when all three moons of magic came into alignment to form an “eye” in the sky. The silver moon was the white of the eye, the red was the iris, the black the pupil. On that night, wizardly powers were at their height. Mages from all over Ansalon traveled to the Tower in Wayreth to make use of the magical power that would sparkle in the air like moonbeams. They would use the power to craft magical artifacts or imbue them with magic, record spells, concoct potions, summon demons from the nether planes. Wondrous magicks would be performed that night, and he would miss it.

He shrugged it off. He’d made his decision, and he did not regret it. He’d stay here and watch over his own wondrous magicks.

That was, if Ariakas didn’t have other plans for him.

Iolanthe did not take Raistlin to the Red Mansion, as he had expected. Ariakas was in his headquarters in the camp of the Red Dragonarmy, a spare, squat building where he could nail his maps to the wall, engage in swordplay with his soldiers if he felt like it, and speak his mind without fear that his words were going to be carried straight to the Nightlord.

Two enormous, armor-clad ogres, the largest ogres Raistlin had ever seen, stood guard at the door to Ariakas’s office. Raistlin was not one to be impressed, but the thought came to him that their armor alone probably weighed twice as much as he did. The ogres knew and obviously admired Iolanthe, for their hairy faces split into smiles when they saw her. They were still professional in their treatment of her, asking her to remove any pouches she was wearing.

Iolanthe stated that she wasn’t wearing any pouches, as they well knew. She then raised her arms, inviting them to search her body for weapons.

“Which of you won the coin toss today?” she asked teasingly.

One of the ogres grinned, then ran his hands over her. The ogre was obviously enjoying his task, but Raistlin noted that the ogre was nevertheless professional and thorough. The bodyguard was well aware of the terrible fate that would befall him if someone pulled a knife on his commander.

The ogre cleared Iolanthe and turned to Raistlin. Iolanthe had warned him in advance that no wizard was allowed to bring any sort of spell component or magical staff into the room, and he had left his pouches and staff back in the Tower. The pouch containing the marbles and the dragon orb had long before been safely secreted in a bag of weevil-infested flour.

The ogres searched him and, finding nothing, told him he could enter.

Iolanthe ushered him through the door, but she did not go in herself. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll be in the next room, eavesdropping.” He had the feeling she wasn’t kidding.

Raistlin entered a small, sparsely furnished room. Maps adorned the wall. A window looked out onto a courtyard, where draconian troops were practicing maneuvers.

Ariakas was much less formally dressed than when Raistlin had encountered him in the palace. The day was warm with a hint of spring in the air that made it almost breathable. Ariakas had taken off his cape and tossed it on a chair. He wore a leather vest of fine quality. He smelled of leather and sweat, and Raistlin was again reminded unpleasantly of Caramon.

The Emperor was engaged in reading dispatches, and he gave no sign that he was even aware Raistlin was in the room. He did not offer him a chair. Raistlin stood, waiting, his hands folded in the sleeves of his robes, until the great man should deign to notice him.

At last, Ariakas put down the dispatch. “Sit.” He indicated a chair near his desk.

Raistlin obeyed. He said nothing, but waited in silence to hear why he had been summoned. He was certain it would be for some insignificant, boring assignment, and he was already preparing to turn it down.

Ariakas stared at him rudely a moment then said, “Damn, but you’re ugly Iolanthe tells me your skin disease is the result of your Test.”

Raistlin stiffened in anger. He made no response beyond a cold nod, or so he thought. Apparently he’d been wrong, for Ariakas grinned.

“Ah, now I see your sister in you. That glint in your eyes. I’ve seen it in hers, and I know what it means: you’d just as soon stick a knife in my gut as not. Or in your case, you’d roast me with a fireball.”

Raistlin kept silent.

“Speaking of your sister and knives,” Ariakas said amiably, continuing his thought. “I want you to do a job for me. Kitiara is up to something, along with that death knight of hers, and I want to know what.”

Raistlin was startled. Talent Orren had used almost those very same words in regard to Kit. He had not put much stock in Orren’s claim that Kit was working on some secret assignment. After Ariakas mentioned it, he began to think that perhaps there was something to it and wondered what his sister was plotting.

Raistlin did not like the way Ariakas was staring at him. It might be what it appeared to be on the face of it—a request to spy on his sister. Or it might be an attempt to find out if Raistlin was involved. He was in dangerous waters, and he had to tread carefully.

“As I told Your Imperial Majesty,” Raistlin said, “I have not seen my half sister, Kitiara, in some time, nor have I had any contact with her—”

“Tell it to someone who gives a rat’s ass,” said Ariakas, cutting him off impatiently. “You are going to contact her. You are going to go pay her a brotherly visit. You’re going to find out what she and the accursed death knight are doing, and you’re going to report back to me. Understood?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Raistlin evenly.

“That’s all,” said Ariakas, gesturing in dismissal. “Iolanthe will take you to Dargaard Keep. She has some sort of magical spell that she uses to transport herself. She will assist you.”

Raistlin felt demeaned. “I do not require her assistance, lord. I am quite capable of traveling using my own magic.”

Ariakas picked up a dispatch and affected to be reading it. “You wouldn’t happen to be using a dragon orb to do that, would you?” he asked offhandedly.

He had set the trap so neatly, asked the question so smoothly, that Raistlin very nearly fell into it. He caught himself at the last moment and managed to speak calmly and, he trusted, with conviction.

“I am sorry, lord, but I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Ariakas raised his eyes and gave him a piercing look; then he glanced back at the dispatch and summoned his guards.

The ogres opened the door and waited for Raistlin. He was sweating, shaking from the encounter. Yet he’d be damned if he was going to be dismissed like just one more sycophant.

“I beg your pardon, your lordship,” said Raistlin, his heart beating fast, the blood rushing in his ears. “But we have yet to discuss what I am to be paid for my services.”

“How about I don’t slit your damn impertinent throat,” said Ariakas.

Raistlin smiled faintly. “The job is dangerous, lord. We both know Kitiara. We both know what she would do to me if she found out I was sent there to spy on her. My pay should be commensurate with the risk I am running.”

“Son of a bitch!” Ariakas glowered at Raistlin. “I give you the chance to serve your Queen, and you haggle with me like some damn fishwife. I should strike you dead where you stand!”

Raistlin realized he’d gone too far, and he cursed himself for being a bloody fool. He had no spell components, but one of his commanders, back when he’d been a mercenary, had taught him to cast spells without the use of components. A wizard had to be desperate to try it. Raistlin considered that desperate was the word for what he was feeling. He brought a spell to mind—

“One hundred steel,” said Ariakas.

Raistlin blinked and opened his mouth.

“If you dare demand more,” Ariakas added, his dark eyes glinting, “I will melt that golden skin of yours into coins and pay you with that. Now get out!”

Raistlin left with alacrity. He glanced around for Iolanthe and, not seeing her, did not think it would be wise to wait around for the wizardess. He was halfway down the street when she caught up with him, and he nearly jumped out of his robes when he felt her touch.

“You must have a death wish!” Iolanthe again clasped his arm, much to his annoyance. “What were you thinking? You nearly got us both killed. He is furious at me now, blames me for your ‘damned cheek.’ He could have killed you. He’s killed men for less. I hope that was worth one hundred steel.”

“I didn’t do it for the steel,” Raistlin said. “Ariakas can throw his steel in the Blood Sea for all I care.”

“Then why risk it?”

Why, indeed? Raistlin pondered the question.

“I’ll tell you why,” Iolanthe answered for him. “You’re always having to prove yourself. No one can be taller than you. If they are, you cut them off at the knees. Someday someone’s going to cut you off.”

Iolanthe shook her head. “People tend to think that because Ariakas is strong he is slow-witted. When they find out they’re wrong, it’s too late.”

Raistlin was forced to admit that he had underestimated Ariakas and he had very nearly paid for it. He didn’t like to be reminded and wished irritably that she would go away and let him think. He tried to slide his arm from her hold, but she clung to him more tightly.

“Are you going to Dargaard Keep?”

“I’m being paid one hundred steel to do so,” he said.

“You will need my help to get there—dragon orb or no dragon orb.”

Raistlin glanced at her sharply, wondering if she was teasing. With her, he could never tell. “Thank you,” he said, “but I am perfectly capable of going on my own.”

“Are you? Lord Soth is a death knight,” she said. “Do you know what that is?

“Of course,” said Raistlin, not wanting to talk or even think about it.

She told him anyway. “A fearsome and powerful undead who can freeze you with his touch or kill you with a single word. He does not like visitors. Do you know his story?”

Raistlin said he had read about Soth’s downfall and tried to change the subject, but Iolanthe appeared obsessively intent on relating the dark and hellish tale. Forced to listen, Raistlin tried to think of Kitiara living in the same dread castle with the murderous fiend. A fiend he might soon be forced to encounter. He thought bitterly that Ariakas could have found easier ways of having him killed.

“Before the Cataclysm, Soth was a Solamnic Knight, respected and revered. He was a man of strong and violent passion, and he had the misfortune to fall in love with an elf woman—some say at the elves’ connivance, for they were loyal to the Kingpriest of Istar and Soth was opposed to his dictatorial rule.

“Soth was married, but he broke his vows and seduced the elf maid and she became pregnant with his child. His wife happened to conveniently disappear at about this time, freeing Soth to marry his elf mistress. When she came to Dargaard Keep, the elf maid discovered his terrible secret, that he’d murdered his first wife. Horrified, she confronted him with his crime. His better nature came to the fore, and he begged her forgiveness and asked the gods to grant him the chance to redeem himself. The gods heard his prayer, and they gave Soth the power to stop the Cataclysm, though it would be at the cost of his own life.

“Soth was on his way to Istar when he was waylaid by a group of elf women. They told him that his wife had been unfaithful; the child she carried was not his. His passions overcame him. Soth flew into a rage. Abandoning his quest, he rode back to his keep. He denounced his wife just as the Cataclysm struck. The ceiling collapsed, or maybe it was a chandelier fell down; I can’t recall. Soth could have saved his wife and child, but he was too angry, too proud. He watched them both die in the flames that swept through his castle.

“His wife’s last words were a curse upon him, that he should live forever with the knowledge of his guilt. His knights were transformed into skeletal warriors. The elf women who were the cause of his downfall were cursed and became banshees, who sing to him of his crimes every night.”

He felt Iolanthe shudder. “I have met Lord Soth. I have looked into his eyes. I wish to the gods I had not.”

A shiver ran up Raistlin’s spine. “How does Kitiara live in the same castle with him?”

“Your sister is a remarkable woman,” said Iolanthe. “She fears nothing this side of the grave or beyond.”

“You have been to Dargaard Keep. You have visited my sister there. Do you know what she is doing? Why Ariakas mistrusts her? You told me only a few days ago that they had met and all was well between them.”

Iolanthe shook her head. “I thought it was.”

“Ariakas knows you’ve been to see Kit. He said you were to take me. Why didn’t he send you on this mission?”

“He doesn’t trust me,” said Iolanthe. “He suspects me of being too friendly to Kit. He views her as a rival.”

“Yet he sends me, and Kitiara is kin to me. Why does he think I would betray my sister?”

“Perhaps because he knows you betrayed your brother,” said Iolanthe.

Raistlin stopped to stare at her. He knew he should deny it, but the words wouldn’t come out. He couldn’t make himself say them.

“I tell you that as a warning, Raistlin,” said Iolanthe. “Do not underestimate Lord Ariakas. He knows every secret you have. I think sometimes the wind itself acts as his spy. I have been ordered to escort you to Dargaard Keep. When do you want to leave?”

“I must deliver my potions and make certain preparations,” said Raistlin, adding dourly, “But why am I telling you this? Undoubtedly you and Ariakas know what I’m going to be doing before I do it.”

“You can be angry all you want, my friend, but what else did you expect when you chose to serve the Dark Queen? That she would give you rich reward and ask nothing in return? Far from it, my dear,” Iolanthe said, her voice a purr. “Takhisis demands you serve her with body and soul.”

Iolanthe knows I have the dragon orb, Raistlin thought. Ariakas knows and so does Takhisis.

“She bides her time,” said Iolanthe, speaking to his thoughts, as though she could see them flickering in his eyes. “She waits for her opportunity to strike. One stumble, one mistake …”

Iolanthe removed her hand from his arm.

“I will meet you back in the Tower early tomorrow morning. Bring the Staff of Magius, for you will need its light in Dargaard Keep.”

She paused a moment, then added somberly, “Though no light, magical or otherwise, can banish that awful endless night.”

One stumble. One mistake. They are sending me to Dargaard Keep to confront a death knight. I am a fool, Raistlin thought. A bloody fool …

13 Changing the darkness.

That evening, as the sun was setting, Raistlin wrapped his potion jars carefully in cotton wool to prevent them from breaking, then packed them in a crate to carry them to Snaggle’s. He was glad for the chance to walk, to think as he walked, trying to decide what to do. Life had seemed so simple back in Palanthas. The path that led to the fulfillment of his ambitions had been smooth and straight. Except that somewhere along the way he’d veered off it, taken a wrong turn, and found himself floundering in a deadly swamp of lies and intrigue. The slightest misstep would plunge him to his death. He would sink beneath the foul water as …

As I sank beneath the Blood Sea, said a voice.

“Caramon?” Raistlin stopped, startled. He looked around. That had been Caramon’s voice. He was certain of it.

“I know you are here, Caramon,” Raistlin called. “Come out of hiding. I am in no mood for your silly games.”

He was in Wizard’s Row and the place, as usual, was empty. The wind blew down the street, rustling autumn’s dead leaves, picking up trash, moving it along, and dropping it back down. No one was around. Raistlin broke into a chill sweat. His hands shook so he nearly dropped the crate, and he was forced to set it down.

“Caramon is dead,” he said aloud, needing to hear himself say the words.

“Who is Caramon?”

Raistlin turned, a spell on his lips, to see Mari sitting on a front stoop. Raistlin let go of the spell with a sigh. At least that voice had been real, not in his head … or his heart.

“Never mind,” he said. “What do you want?”

“What’s in the crate?” Mari asked, reaching out her hand to touch one of the jars.

Raistlin picked up the crate, holding it just out of her reach. He continued on his way to Snaggle’s shop.

“Want me to help carry that for you?” Mari offered, trotting along at his side.

“No, thank you,” Raistlin said.

Mari shoved her hands in her pockets. “I guess you know why I’m here.”

“Talent wants my answer,” said Raistlin.

“Well, that too. First he wants to know why you went to see Ariakas.”

Raistlin shook his head. “Is everyone in this city a spy?”

“Pretty much,” said Mari, shrugging. “A mouse doesn’t eat a crumb in Neraka without Talent knowing about it.”

Raistlin noticed that she was busy pulling off the stopper from one of his jars and was about to stick a dirty finger into the pristine potion. Raistlin set down the crate, took away the jar, and put the stopper back on it.

“Is it supposed to smell like that?” asked Mari.

“Yes,” said Raistlin. He wondered what to do.

He could betray Hidden Light to Ariakas. Raistlin had known the dwarf spirits he’d been given were drugged; he had smelled the opiate when he brought the glass to his lips. He had pretended to drink and feigned unconsciousness. He could lead the Emperor’s guards to Lute’s Loot and the tunnels beneath. He would be handsomely rewarded.

Or he could betray Ariakas, join in Hidden Light’s battle to bring down the Emperor and the Dark Queen. From what Raistlin had heard and seen of the enemies arrayed against him, he considered that was the most dangerous choice with the highest odds against succeeding.

Both sides wanted him to spy on his sister. He wondered, suddenly, which side Kit was on.

She’s like me, he guessed. Kit’s on the side that favors Kit.

“Ariakas summoned me to ask if I knew anything about this man everyone is hunting for,” Raistlin said. “The one with the green gemstone.”

“You mean Berem? Say, do you know why everyone is looking for him?” Mari asked eagerly. “I mean, sure it’s not every day you come across a guy who has an emerald stuck in his chest, but what’s so special about him? Apart from the emerald, I mean. I wonder how it got stuck there. Do you know? And what would happen if someone tried to pull it out. Would he bleed to death? Do you know what I think? I think—”

“I don’t know anything about Berem,” said Raistlin, finally managing to get a word in. “All I know is that is why Ariakas wanted to see me.”

“That’s all?” said Mari, and she gave a whistle of relief. “Good. Now I won’t have to kill you.”

“That’s not funny,” said Raistlin.

“It wasn’t meant to be. So are you going to take the job for Talent? Can I come with you? We make a great team, you and me.”

“Talent didn’t tell you where he’s sending me, did he?” Raistlin asked in alarm. If a kender knew, so would half of Neraka.

“Naw, Talent never tells me anything, which is probably smart,” Mari said. “I’m not much good at keeping secrets. But, hey, wherever it is, you’ll need my help.”

He’d heard those words before, spoken by another kender. Raistlin recalled how many times Tasslehoff had been extremely unhelpful, rummaging through his spell components, spoiling half of them and stealing the other half, sneaking tastes of the potions (with sometimes disastrous results), walking off with various household items from spoons to soup kettles, and forever landing him and his friends in trouble.

Only the previous autumn, Tasslehoff had grabbed what he’d thought was a plain, ordinary staff, only to have it turn into blue crystal and perform a miracle …

Was that really only last autumn? Raistlin asked himself. It seems a lifetime.

“Hey, Raist, wherever you are, come back,” said Mari, twitching his sleeve and waving her hand at him. “Are you going to see old Snaggle? ‘Cause if you are, we’re here.”

Raistlin halted. He set down his crate on the doorstep and sat down beside it.

“You cannot come with me, Mari. In fact, you should leave Neraka,” he said to her. “Quit working for Talent. It is too dangerous.”

“Oh, Talent’s always telling me that,” said Mari. “And see, nothing’s happened to me yet!”

“Yes, it has,” said Raistlin gently. “Kenders belong to the Light, not the Darkness, Mari. If you stay here, the Darkness will destroy you. It is already starting to change you.”

“It is?” Mari’s eyes opened wide.

“You murdered a man. You have blood on your hands.”

“I have some of today’s lunch on my hands and a little glob of that yucky potion and some goblin slime from the tavern, but no blood. Look, you can see for yourself.” Mari held up her hands, palms out for his inspection.

Raistlin shook his head and sighed.

Mari patted him on the shoulder. “I know what you mean. I was only teasing. You mean I have the blood of the Adjudicator on my hands. But I don’t. I washed it off.”

Raistlin rose to his feet. He picked up his crate. “You had better run along, Mari. I have serious business here.”

“We all have serious business here,” said Mari.

“I doubt you know the meaning of the word.”

“Oh, but I do,” Mari said. “We kender don’t want to be serious, but we can if we have to. My people are fighting the Dark Queen all the world over. In Kendermore and Kenderhome and Flotsam and Solace and Palanthas and lots of other places I’ve never even heard of, kender are fighting, and sometimes we’re dying. And that’s sad, but we need to keep fighting because we have to win, because horrible things will happen if we don’t. Takhisis hates kender. She ranks us right up there with elves, which is awfully flattering to us kender, though maybe not to the elves. So you see, Raist, the Darkness isn’t changing us. We’re changing the Darkness.”

Mari’s eyes were bright. Her smile was cheerful. “What do I tell Talent?”

“Tell him I will take the job,” Raistlin said. Smiling, he reached out and took yet another jar from her hand just as she was about to slip it into a pocket. “I wouldn’t want you to have to kill me.”