Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (11 page)

“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.”

t 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.