Dragonlance 04 - Time of the Twins (24 page)

The seam gave way. Tas fell out of the sack. He had a passing moment to wonder if mice always landed on their feet—like cats. (He had once dropped a cat off the roof of his house to see if that old saying was true. It is.) And then he hit the stone floor running. The door was shut, the red-robed mage had turned away. Without stopping to look around, the kender darted swiftly and silently across the floor. Flattening his small body, he wriggled through the crack between the door and the floor and dove beneath a bookcase that was standing near the wall.

Tas paused to catch his breath and listen.

What if Justarius discovered him missing? Would he come back and look for him?

Stop this, Tas told himself sternly. He won't know where I fell out. And he probably wouldn't come back here, anyway. Might disturb the spell.

After a few moments, the kender's tiny heart slowed down its pace so that he could hear over the blood pounding in his ears. Unfortunately, his ears told him very little. He could hear a soft murmuring, as if someone were rehearsing lines for a street play. He could hear Caramon try to catch his breath from the long climb and still keep his breathing muffled so as not to disturb the mage. The big man's leather boots creaked as he shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

But that was all.

"I have to see!" Tas said to himself. "Otherwise I won't know what's going on."

Creeping out from underneath the bookcase, the kender truly began to experience this tiny, unique world he had tumbled into. It was a world of crumbs, a world of dust balls and thread, of pins and ash, of dried rose petals and damp tea leaves. The insignificant was suddenly a world in itself. Furniture soared above him, like trees in a forest, and served about the same purpose—it provided cover. A candle flame was the sun, Caramon a monstrous giant.

Tas circled the man's huge feet warily. Catching a glimpse of movement out of one corner of his eye, he saw a slippered foot beneath a white robe. Par-Salian. Swiftly, Tas made a dart for the opposite end of the room, which was, fortunately, lit only by candles.

Then Tas skidded to a stop. He had been in a mage's laboratory once before this, when he'd been wearing that cursed teleporting ring. The strange and wonderful sights he'd seen there remained with him, and now he halted just before he stepped inside a circle drawn on the stone floor with silver powder. Within the center of the circle that glistened in the candlelight lay Lady Crysania, her sightless eyes still staring up at nothing, her face as white as the linen that shrouded her.

This was where the magic would be performed!

The fur rising on the back of his neck, Tas hastily scrambled back, out of the way, cowering beneath an overturned chamber pot. On the outside of the circle stood Par-Salian, his white robes glowing with an eerie light. In his hands, he held an object encrusted with jewels that sparkled and flashed as he turned it. It looked like a sceptre Tas had seen a Nordmaar king holding once, yet this device looked far more fascinating. It was faceted and jointed in the most unique fashion. Parts of it moved, Tas saw, while—more amazing still—other parts moved without moving! Even as he watched, Par-Salian deftly manipulated the object, folding and bending and twisting, until it was no bigger than an egg. Muttering strange words over it, the archmage dropped it into the pocket of his robe.

Then, though Tas could have sworn Par-Salian never took a step, he was suddenly standing inside the silver circle, next to Crysania's inert figure. The mage bent over her, and Tas saw him place something in the folds of her robes. Then Par-Salian began to chant the language of magic, moving his gnarled hands above her in ever-widening circles. Glancing quickly at Caramon, Tas saw him standing near the circle, a strange expression on his face. It was the expression of one who is somewhere unfamiliar, yet who feels completely at home.

Of course, Tas thought wistfully, he grew up with magic. Maybe this is just like being back with his brother again.

Par-Salian rose to his feet, and the kender was shocked at the change that had come over the man. His face had aged years, it was gray in color, and he staggered as he stood. He made a beckoning motion to Caramon and the man came forward, walking slowly, stepping carefully over the silver powder. His face fixed in a dreamlike trance, he stood silently beside the still form of Crysania.

Par-Salian removed the device from his pocket and held it out to Caramon. The big man placed his hand on it and, for a moment, the two stood holding it together. Tas saw Caramon's lips move, though he heard no sound. It was as if the warrior were reading to himself, memorizing some magically communicated information.Then Caramon ceased to speak. ParSalian raised his hands and, with the motion, lifted himself from the floor and floated backward out of the circle into the shadowy darkness of the laboratory.

Tas could no longer see him, but he could hear his voice. The chanting grew louder and louder and suddenly a wall of silver light sprang from the circle traced upon the floor. It was so bright it made Tas's red mouse eyes burn, but the kender could not look away. Par-Salian cried out now with such a loud voice that the very stones of the chamber themselves began to answer in a chorus of voices that rose from the depths of the ground.

Tas's gaze was fixed upon that shimmering curtain of power. Within it, he could see Caramon standing near Crysania, still holding the device in his hand. Then Tas gasped a tiny gasp that made no more sound in the chamber than a mouse's breath. He could still see the laboratory itself through that shimmering curtain, but now it seemed to wink on and off, as if fighting for its own existence. And—when it winked out—the kender caught a glimpse of somewhere else! Forests, cities, lakes, and oceans blurred in his vision, coming and going, people seen for an instant than vanishing, replaced by others.

Caramon's body began to pulse with the same regularity as the strange visions as he stood within the column of light. Crysania, too, was there and then she wasn't.

Tears streaked down past Tas's quivering nose, sliding down his whiskers. "Caramon's going on the greatest adventure of all time!" the kender thought bleakly. "And he’s leaving me behind!"

For one wild moment, Tas fought with himself. Everything inside of him that was logical and conscientious and Tanis-like told him—Tasslehoff, don't be a fool. This is Big Magic. You're likely to really Mess Things Up! Tas heard that voice, but it was being drowned out by all the chanting and the stones singing and, soon, it vanished altogether . . ..

Par-Salian never heard the small squeak. Lost in his casting of the spell, he caught only the barest glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. Too late, he saw the mouse streak out of its hiding place, heading straight for the silvery wall of light! Horrified, Par-Salian ceased his chant, the voices of the stones rang hollow and died. In the silence he could now hear the tiny voice, "Don't leave me, Caramon! Don’t leave me! You know what trouble you'll get into without me!"

The mouse ran through the silver powder, scattering a sparkling trail behind it, and burst into the lighted circle. Par-Salian heard a small, tinging sound and saw a ring roll round and round on the stone floor. He saw a third figure materialize in the circle, and he gasped in horror. Then the pulsing figures were gone. The light of the circle was sucked into a great vortex, the laboratory was plunged into darkness.

Weak and exhausted, Par-Salian collapsed onto the floor. His last thought, before he lost consciousness, was a terrible one.

He had sent a kender back in time.

"We are the heart of the universe," the Kingpriest would say in the voice whose music was so beautiful one occasionally forgot to listen to the words. "Istar, city beloved of the gods, is the center of the universe and we—being at the heart of the city— are therefore the heart of the universe. As the blood flows from the heart, bringing nourishment to even the smallest toe, so our faith and our teachings flow from this great temple to the smallest, most insignificant among us. Remember this as you go about your daily duties, for you who work here are favored of the gods. As one touch upon the tiniest strand of the silken web will send tremors through the entire web, so your least action could spread tremors throughout Krynn."

Denubis shivered. He wished the Kingpriest would not use that particular metaphor. Denubis detested spiders. He hated all insects, in fact; something he never admitted and, indeed, felt guilty about. Was he not commanded to love all creatures, except, of course, those created by the Queen of Darkness? That included ogres, goblins, trolls, and other evil races, but Denubis was not certain about spiders. He kept meaning to ask, but he knew this would entail an hour-long philosophical argument among the Revered Sons, and he simply didn't think it was worth it. Secretly, he would continue to hate spiders.

Denubis slapped himself gently on his balding head. How had his mind wandered to spiders? I'm getting old, he thought with a sigh. I'll soon be like poor Arabacus, doing nothing all day but sitting in the garden and sleeping until someone wakens me for dinner. At this, Denubis sighed again, but it was nearer a sigh of envy than one of pity. Poor Arabacus, indeed! At least he is spared -

"Denubis . . .."

Denubis paused. Glancing this way and that around the large corridor, he saw no one. The cleric shuddered. Had he heard that soft voice, or just imagined it?

"Denubis," came the voice again.

This time the cleric looked more closely into the shadows formed by the huge marble columns supporting the gilded ceiling. A darker shadow, a patch of blackness within the darkness was now discernible. Denubis checked an exclamation of irritation. Supressing the second shudder that swept over his body, he halted in his course and moved slowly over to the figure that stood in the shadows, knowing that the figure would never move out of the shadows to meet him. It was not that light was harmful to the one who awaited Denubis, as light is harmful to some of the creatures of darkness. In fact, Denubis wondered if anything on the face of this world could be harmful to this man. No, it was simply that he preferred shadows. Theatrics, Denubis thought sarcastically.

"You called me, Dark One?" Denubis asked in a voice he tried hard to make sound pleasant.

He saw the face in the shadows smile, and Denubis knew at once that all of his thoughts were well-known to this man.

"Damn it!" Denubis cursed (a habit frowned upon by the Kingpriest but one which Denubis, a simple man, had never been able to overcome). "Why does the Kingpriest keep him around the court? Why not send him away, as the others were banished?"

He said this to himself, of course, because—deep within his soul—Denubis knew the answer. This one was too dangerous, too powerful. This one was not like the others. The Kingpriest kept him as a man keeps a ferocious dog to protect his house; he knows the dog will attack when ordered, but he must constantly make certain that the dog's leash is secure. If the leash ever broke, the animal would go for his throat.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Denubis," said the man in his soft voice, "especially when I see you absorbed in such weighty thought. But an event of great importance is happening, even as we speak. Take a squadron of the Temple guards and go to the marketplace. There, at the crossroads, you will find a Revered Daughter of Paladine. She is near death. And there, also, you will find the man who assaulted her."

Denubis's eyes opened wide, then narrowed in sudden suspicion.

"How do you know this?" he demanded.

The figure within the shadows stirred, the dark line formed by the thin lips widened—the figure's approximation of a laugh.

"Denubis," the figure chided, "you have known me many years. Do you ask the wind how it blows? Do you question the stars to find out why they shine? I know, Denubis. Let that be enough for you."

"But—” Denubis put his hand to his head in confusion. This would entail explanations, reports to the proper authorities. One did not simply conjure up a squadron of Temple guards!

"Hurry, Denubis," the man said gently. "She will not live long . . ."

Denubis swallowed.A Revered Daughter of Paladine, assaulted! Dying—in the marketplace! Probably surrounded by gaping crowds. The scandal! The Kingpriest would be highly displeased -

The cleric opened his mouth, then shut it again. He looked for a moment at the figure in the shadows, then, finding no help there, Denubis whirled about and, in a flurry of robes, ran back down the corridor the way he had come, his leather sandals slapping on the marble floor.

Reaching the central headquarters of the Captain of the Guard, Denubis managed to gasp out his request to the lieutenant on duty. As he had foreseen, this caused all sorts of commotion. Waiting for the Captain himself to appear, Denubis collapsed in a chair and tried to catch his breath.

The identity of the creator of spiders might be open to question, Denubis thought sourly, but there was no doubt in his mind at all about the creator of that creature of darkness who, no doubt, was standing back there in the shadows laughing at him.

"Tasslehoff!"

The kender opened his eyes. For a moment, he had no idea where he was or even who he was. He had heard a voice speaking a name that sounded vaguely familiar. Confused, the ken der looked around. He was lying on top of a big man, who was flat on his back in the middle of a street. The big man was regarding him with utter astonishment, perhaps because Tas was perched upon his broad stomach.

"Tas?" the big man repeated, and this time his face grew puzzled. "Are you supposed to be here?"

"I-I'm really not sure," the kender said, wondering who "Tas" was. Then it all came back to him—hearing Par-Salian chanting, ripping the ring off his thumb, the blinding light, the singing stones, the mage's horrified shriek . . .

"Of course, I'm supposed to be here," Tas snapped irritably, blocking out the memory of Par-Salian's fearful yell. "You don't think they'd let you come back here by yourself, do you?" The kender was practically nose to nose with the big man.

Caramon's puzzled look darkened to a frown. "I'm not sure," he muttered, "but I don't think you—”

"Well, I'm here." Tas rolled off Caramon's rotund body to land on the cobblestones beneath them. "Wherever 'here' is," he muttered beneath his breath. "Let me help you up," he said to Caramon, extending his small hand, hoping this action would take Caramon's mind off him. Tas didn't know whether or not he could be sent back, but he didn't intend to find out.

Caramon struggled to sit up, looking for all the world like an overturned turtle, Tas thought with a giggle. And it was then the kender noticed that Caramon was dressed much differently than he had been when they left the Tower. He had been wearing his own armor (as much of it that fit), a loose-fitting tunic made of fine cloth, sewn together with Tika's loving care.

But, now, he was wearing coarse cloth, slovenly stitched together. A crude leather vest hung from his shoulders. The vest might have had buttons once, but, if so, they were gone now. Buttons weren't needed anyway, Tas thought, for there was no way the vest would have stretched to fit over Caramon's sagging gut. Baggy leather breeches and patched leather boots with a big hole over one toe completed the unsavory picture.

"Whew!" Caramon muttered, sniffing. "What’s that horrible smell?"

"You," Tas said, holding his nose and waving his hand as though this might dissipate the odor. Caramon reeked of dwarf spirits! The kender regarded him closely. Caramon had been sober when they'd left, and he certainly looked sober now. His eyes, if confused, were clear and he was standing, straight, without weaving.

The big man looked down and, for the first time, saw himself.

"What? How?" he asked, bewildered.

"You'd think," Tas said sternly, regarding Caramon's clothes in disgust, "that the mages could afford something better than this! I mean, I know this spell must be hard on clothes, but surely—”

A sudden thought occurred to him. Fearfully, Tas looked down at his clothes, then breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing had happened to him. Even his pouches were with him, all perfectly intact. A nagging voice inside him mentioned that this was probably because he wasn't supposed to have come along, but the kender conveniently ignored it.

"Well, let's have a look around," Tas said cheerfully, suiting his action to his words. He'd already been able to guess where they were by the odor—in an alley. The kender wrinkled his nose. He'd thought Caramon smelled bad! Filled with garbage and refuse of every kind, the alley was dark, overshadowed by a huge stone building. But it was daylight, Tas could tell, glancing down at the end of the alley where he could see what appeared to a busy street, thronged with people who were coming and going.

"I think that's a market," Tas said with interest, starting to walk nearer the end of the alley to investigate. "What city did you say they sent us to?"

"Istar," he heard Caramon mumble from behind him. Then, "Tas!"

Hearing a frightened tone in Caramon's voice, the kender turned around hurriedly, his hand going immediately to the little knife he carried in his belt. Caramon was kneeling by something lying the alley.

"What is it?" Tas called, running back.

"Lady Crysania," Caramon said, lifting a dark cloak.

"Caramon!" Tas drew a horrified breath. "What did they do to her? Did their magic go wrong?"

"I don't know," Caramon said softly, "but we've got to get help." He carefully covered the woman's bruised and bloody face with the cloak.

"I'll go," Tas offered, "you stay here with her. This doesn't look like a really good part of town, if you take my meaning."

"Yeah," Caramon said, sighing heavily.

"It'll be all right," Tas said, patting the big man on his shoulder reassuringly. Caramon nodded but said nothing. With a final pat, Tas turned and ran back down the alley toward the street. Reaching the end, he darted out onto the sidewalk.

"Hel—” he began, but just then a hand closed over his arm in a grip of iron, hoisting him clear up off the sidewalk.

"Here, now," said a stern voice, "where are you going?"

Tas twisted around to see a bearded man, his face partially covered by the shining visor of his helm, staring at him with dark, cold eyes.

Townguard, the kender realized quickly, having had a great deal of experience with this type of official personage.

"Why, I was coming to look for you," Tas said, trying to wriggle free and assume an innocent air at the same time.

"That's a likely story from a kender!" The guard snorted, getting an even firmer grasp on Tas. "It'd be a history-making event in Krynn, if it was true, that's for certain."

"But it is true," Tas said, glaring at the man indignantly. "A friend of ours is hurt, down there."

He saw the guard glance over at a man he had not noticed before—a cleric, dressed in white robes. Tas brightened. "Oh? A cleric? How—”

The guard clapped his hand over the kender's mouth.

"What do you think, Denubis? That's Beggar's Alley down there. Probably a knifing, nothing more than thieves falling out."

The cleric was a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a rather melancholy, serious face. Tas saw him look around the marketplace and shake his head. "The Dark One said the crossroads, and this is it—or near enough. We should investigate."

"Very well." The guardsman shrugged. Detailing two of his men, he watched them advance cautiously down the filthy alleyway. He kept his hand over the kender's mouth, and Tas, slowy being smothered, made a pathetic, squeaking sound.

The cleric, gazing anxiously after the guards, glanced around.

"Let him breathe, Captain," he said.

"We'll have to listen to him chatter," the captain grumbled irritably, but he removed his hand from Tas's mouth.

"He'll be quiet, won't you?" the cleric asked, looking at Tas with eyes that were kind in a preoccupied fashion. "He realizes how serious this is, don't you?"

Not quite certain whether the cleric was addressing him or the captain or both, Tas thought it best simply to nod in agreement. Satisfied, the cleric turned back to watch the guards. Tas twisted enough in the captain's grasp so that he, too, was able to see. He saw Caramon stand up, gesturing at the dark, shapeless bundle lying beside him. One of the guards knelt down and drew aside the cloak.