Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (14 page)

“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.