Dragonlance 12 - Raistlin Chronicles - Soulforge (36 page)

"What do you want?" Raistlin demanded irritably.

"Excuse me for disturbing you," Lemuel said meekly, poking his head inside. "But your brother says that it will be dark soon and that you should be going."

Raistlin remembered where he was, remembered that he was a guest in this man's house. He jumped to his feet in shame and confusion. One of the precious volumes slid from his lap and tumbled to the floor.

"Sir, please forgive my rudeness! I was so interested, this is so fascinating, I forgot that I was not in my own home—"

"That's quite all right!" Lemuel interrupted, smiling pleasantly. "Think nothing of it. You sounded just like my father. Took me back in time. I was a boy again for a moment. Did you find anything of use?"

Raistlin gestured at the three large stacks of books near the chair.

"All these. Did you know that there is an account of the minotaur battle for Silvanesti in here? And this is a description of how to use battle spells effectively, without endangering your own troops.

These three are books of spells. I have yet to look through the others. I would offer to buy them, but I know I do not have the means." He gazed sadly at the pile, wondering despairingly how he would ever manage to save up enough money.

"Oh, take them," Lemuel said, waving his hand casually around the room.

"What? Really, sir? Are you serious?" Raistlin caught hold of the back of the chair to steady himself. "No, sir," he said recovering. "That would be too much. I could never repay you."

"Pooh! If you don't take them, I'll have to move them, and I'm running out of crates." Lemuel spoke very glibly about leaving his home, but even as he tried to make this small joke, he was gazing sadly around him. "They'll only go into an attic, to be eaten by mice. I would much rather they were put to good use. And I think it would please my father. You are the son he wanted."

Tears stung Raistlin's eyes. His fatigue from the three days of travel, which included not only time on the road but also time spent climbing the mountains of hope and plummeting into the valleys of disappointment, had left him weak. Lemuel's kindness and generosity disarmed Raistlin completely.

He had no words to thank the man and could only stand in humble, joyous silence, blinking back the tears that burned his eyelids and closed his throat.

"Raist?" Caramon's anxious voice came floating up the staircase. "It's getting dark and I'm starved.

Are you all right?"

"You'll need a wagon to cart these home in," observed Lemuel.

"I have… my friend… wagon… at the fair…" Raistlin didn't seem to be able to manage a coherent sentence.

"Excellent. When the fair is ended, drive over here. I'll have these books all packed for you and ready to go."

Raistlin drew out his purse, pressed it into Lemuel's hand. "Please, take this. It isn't much, it doesn't nearly begin to cover what I owe, but I would like you to have it."

"Would you?" Lemuel smiled. "Very well, then. Although it's not necessary, mind you. Still, I recall my father saying once that magical objects should be purchased, never given as gifts. The exchange of money breaks whatever hold the previous owner may have had on them, frees them up for the next user."

"And if by chance you should ever come to Solace," Raistlin said, casting one more lingering look into the library as Lemuel shut the door, "I will give you slips and cuttings of every plant I have in my garden."

"If they are all as excellent as the black bryony," said Lemuel earnestly, "then that is more than payment enough."

Night had fallen by the time the brothers reached the fair-grounds, which were located about a mile outside the town's stockade. They had no difficulty finding their way. Campfires as numerous as fireflies marked the campsites of the vendors, their light warm and inviting. The fair itself was filled with people, though none of the stalls were open and would not be until the next day. Vendors continued to arrive, their wagons rolling down the rutted road. They called out greetings to friends and exchanged pleasant banter with rivals as they unloaded their wares.

Many of the buildings on the site were permanent. They had been built by those vendors who attended the fair frequently, were boarded up during the rest of the year. Flint's was one of these—a small stall with a sheltering roof. Hinged doors swung wide to permit customers a good view of the merchandise, displayed to best advantage on tables and shelves. A small room in back provided sleeping quarters.

Flint had an ideal location, about halfway into the fairgrounds, near the brightly colored tent of an elven flute maker. Flint complained a lot about the constant flute music that resonated from the tent, but Tanis pointed out that it drew customers their direction, so the dwarf kept his grumbling to himself. Whenever Tanis caught Flint tapping his toe to the music, the dwarf would maintain that his foot had gone to sleep and he was only attempting to revive it.

There were some forty or fifty vendors at the fair, plus various venues for entertainment: beer tents and food vendors, dancing bears, games of chance designed to part the gullible from their steel, rope walkers, jugglers, and minstrels.

Inside the grounds, those merchants who had already arrived had unpacked and set up their merchandise, ready for tomorrow's busy day. Taking their leisure, they rested near their fires, eating and drinking, or ventured around the grounds to see who was here and who wasn't, exchanging gossip and wineskins.

Tanis had provided the twins with directions to Flint's booth; a few additional questions asked of fellow vendors led the two straight to the location. Here they found Kitiara pacing back and forth in front of the stall, which was closed up for the night, its doors bolted and padlocked.

"Where have you been?" Kitiara demanded irritably, her hands on her hips. "I've been waiting here for hours! You're still planning to go to the temple, right? What have you been up to?"

"We were—" Caramon began.

Raistlin poked his brother in the small of the back.

"Uh… just looking around town," Caramon concluded with a guilty blush that must have betrayed his lie if Kit hadn't been too preoccupied to notice.

"We didn't realize how late it was," Raistlin added, which was true enough.

"Well, you're here now, and that's what matters," Kit said. "There's a change of clothing for you, little brother, inside that tent. Hurry up."

Raistlin found a shirt and a pair of leather breeches belonging to Tanis. Both were far too big for the slender young man, but they would do in an emergency. He secured the breeches around his waist with the rope belt from his robe or they would have been down around his knees. Tying back his long hair and tucking it up beneath a slouch hat belonging to Flint, Raistlin emerged from the tent to chortles of raucous laughter from Caramon and Kitiara.

The breeches chafed Raistlin's legs, after the freedom of the comfortable robes; the shirt's sleeves kept falling down his thin arms, and the hat slid over his eyes. All in all, Raistlin was pleased with his disguise. He doubted if even the Widow Judith would recognize him.

"Come along, then," said Kit impatiently, starting off toward town. "We're going to be late as it is."

"But I haven't eaten yet!" Caramon protested.

"There's no time. You better get used to missing a few meals, young man, if you're going to be a soldier. Do you think armies lay down their arms to pick up frying pans?"

Caramon looked horrified. He had known that soldiering was dangerous, the life of a mercenary a rough one, but it had not occurred to him that he might not be fed. The career he had been looking forward to ever since he was six suddenly lost a good deal of its luster. He stopped at a water well, drank two gourdfuls, hoping to quiet the rumblings of his stomach.

"Don't blame me," he said in an undertone to his twin, "if these growls scare the snakes."

"Where are Tanis and Flint and the others?" Raistlin asked his sister as they retraced their steps back into Haven.

"Hint's gone to the Daft Gnome, his favorite alehouse. Sturm went on ahead to the temple, not knowing if you two were going to honor us with your presence or not. The kender vanished—good riddance, I say." Kit never made any pretense of the fact that she considered Tasslehoff a nuisance.

"Thanks to the kender, I managed to get rid of Tanis. I didn't think we wanted him along."

Caramon shot an unhappy glance at his brother, who frowned and shook his head, but Caramon was upset and doggedly ignored his twin's subtle warning.

"What do you mean, you got rid of Tanis? How?"

Kit shrugged. "I told him that a messenger had come by with word that Tasslehoff had been thrown into prison. Tanis promised the town guard that he'd be responsible for the kender, so there wasn't much he could do but go see to the matter."

"There's the temple—where that bright light is shining." Raistlin pointed, hoping his brother would take the hint and drop the subject. "I suggest we turn down this road." He indicated the Hostlers Street.

Caramon persisted. "Is Tas in prison?"

"If he's not now, he soon will be," Kit answered with a grin and wink. "I didn't tell much of a lie."

"I thought you liked Tanis," Caramon said in a low voice.

"Oh, grow up, Caramon!" Kit returned, exasperated. "Of course I like Tanis. I like him better than any other man I've ever known. Just because I like a man doesn't mean I want him hanging around every minute of every hour of every day! And you have to admit that Tanis is a bit of a spoilsport.

There was this time I captured a goblin alive. I wanted to have some fun, but Tanis said—"

"I believe that this is the temple," Raistlin stated.

The temple of Belzor was a large and imposing structure, built of granite wrested from the nearby Kharolis Mountains and dragged into Haven on ox-drawn skids. The building had been erected hastily and possessed neither grace nor beauty. It was square in shape, short, and squat, topped with a crude dome. The temple had no windows. Carvings—not very good carvings—of hooded vipers adorned the granite walls. The building had been designed to be functional, to house the various priests and priestesses who labored in Belzor's name, and to hold ceremonies honoring their god.

About twenty priests formed a double line outside the temple, funneling the faithful and the curious into the open door. The priests held blazing torches in their hands and were friendly and smiling, inviting all to come inside to witness the miracle of Belzor, Six huge wrought-iron braziers, their iron legs made in the image of twisted snakes, had been placed on either side of the doorway The braziers were filled with coal that, by the smell, had been sprinkled with incense. Flames leapt high, sending sparks flying into the night sky, filling the air with smoke laced with a cloying scent.

Kit wrinkled her nose. Caramon coughed; the smoke seemed to seize him by the throat. Raistlin sniffed, choked. "Cover your nose and mouth! Quickly!" he warned his brother and sister. "Don't breathe the smoke!"

Kit clapped her gloved hand over her nose. Raistlin covered his face with his shirt sleeve. Caramon fumbled for a handkerchief, only to find it missing. (It would be discovered the next day, inside Tasslehoff's pocket, where the kender had put it for safekeeping.)

"Hold your breath!" Raistlin insisted, his voice muffled by his sleeve.

Caramon tried, but just as he was entering the temple, shuffling along with a crowd of people going the same way, an acolyte used a gigantic feather fan to waft the smoke directly into Caramon's face.

He blinked, gasped, and sucked in a huge breath.

"Get that thing away from us!" And when the acolyte didn't move fast enough to please her, Kit gave the youth a shove, nearly knocking the youngster down.

Kit caught hold of Caramon, who had veered drunkenly off to the right. Dragging him along, she swiftly mingled with the crowd entering the temple. Raistlin slid through the press of bodies, keeping close to his brother and sister.

They entered a wide corridor, which opened into a large arena located directly beneath the dome.

Granite benches formed a circle around a recessed center stage. Priests guided the people to their seats, urging them to move to the center in order to accommodate the crowd.

"There's Sturm!" said Kit.

Ignoring a priest's instructions, she barged down several stairs to reach the front of the arena.

Caramon stumbled after her. "I feel awful strange," he said to his twin. He put his hand to his head.

"The room's going round and round."

"I told you not to breathe in the smoke," Raistlin muttered, and did what he could to guide his brother's fumbling steps.

"What was that stuff?" Kit asked over her shoulder.

"They are burning poppy seeds. The smoke brings about a feeling of pleasant euphoria. I find it interesting to note that Belzor apparently likes his worshipers in a state of befuddlement."

"Yes, isn't it," Kit agreed. "What about Caramon? Will he be all right?"

Caramon wore a foolish grin on his face. He was humming a little song to himself.

"The effects will wear off in time," said Raistlin. "But don't count on him for any action for a good hour or so. Sit down, my brother. This is neither the time nor the place for dancing."

"What's been going on in here?" Kit asked Sturm, who had saved front row seats, right next to the arena.

"Nothing of interest," he said.

There was no need to lower their voices, the noise in the chamber was deafening. Affected by the smoke, people were giddy, laughing and calling out to friends as the priests directed them to their seats.

"I arrived early. What's the matter with everyone?" Sturm gazed about in disapproval. "This looks more like an alehouse than a temple!" He cast Caramon a reproving glance.

"I'm not drunk!" Caramon insisted indignantly and slid off the bench onto the floor. Rubbing his buttocks, he stood up, giggling-

"Those braziers burning outside. They're giving off some sort of poisoned smoke," Kit explained.

"You didn't get a whiff of it, did you?"