The War of the Lance t2-3 Read online

  "The town is packed! Every mercenary this side of Ansalon is here, not to mention horse traders, camp followers, swordmakers, and every kender not currently behind bars. We'll be lucky to find a place in a field to spread our blankets this night."

  "Hullo, Caramon!" called out a leather-armor-clad man, coming over to the table and clapping the warrior on the back. "Mind if I share your booth?" he asked, starting to sit down. "It's standing room only in this place. This your twin I've heard so much about? Introduce us."

  The mage lifted his head, fixed his gaze upon the stranger.

  Golden eyes with pupils the shape of an hourglass glittered in the shadows of the red hood. The light in the inn glinted off golden skin. Near at hand stood a wooden staff — obviously and ominously magical — topped by a multifaceted crystal clutched in a dragon's claw. Gulping, the man rose quickly to his feet and, with a hasty farewell to Caramon, took his ale to a distant comer of the room.

  "He looked at me as if he saw me on my deathbed!" muttered the man to more congenial companions.

  "It's going to be a cold night tonight, Raist," said the warrior to his brother in a low voice when the two were again alone. "It smells like snow in the air. You shouldn't sleep outside."

  "And where would you have me sleep, Caramon?" asked the mage in a soft, sneering voice. "In a hole in the ground, like a rabbit, for that is all we can aff — ." He broke off in a fit of coughing that left him breathless.

  His twin gazed at him anxiously. Pulling a coin from a shabby purse he wore at his belt, Caramon held it up. "We have this, Raist. You could sleep here tonight and the next night."

  "And what would we do for food in the interim, my brother? We won't get paid for a fortnight, at least."

  Caramon lowered his voice and, leaning across the table, grasped hold of his brother's arm to draw him near. "I could snare us something, if need be."

  "You'd be the one to end up in a snare, you fool!" The mage jerked away from his brother's touch. "The lord's men are all over the woods, hunting for poachers with only slightly less enthusiasm than they're hunting for goblins. No, we'll return to camp tonight. Don't fuss over me. You know how I hate it. I'll be fine. I've slept in worse places."

  Raistlin began to cough again, the spasms shaking his frail body until it seemed he must split apart. Pulling out a cloth, he pressed it over his mouth. Those who glanced at him in concern saw that, when the mage withdrew the cloth, it was covered with blood.

  "Fix me my drink!" he ordered Caramon, his lips forming the words for he had momentarily lost the power of speech. Collapsing in a comer, he closed his eyes and concentrated on drawing breath. Those near could hear the air whistle in his lungs.

  Caramon peered through the crowd, attempting to find the barmaid, and shouted for boiling hot water. Raistlin slid a pouch across the table toward his brother, who picked it up and carefully measured out some of its contents into a mug. The inn's proprietor himself came bustling over with the hot water in a steaming kettle. He was just about to pour when a sudden shouting rose up around the door.

  "Hey, there! Get out you little vermin! No kender allowed!" cried several of the guests.

  "Kender!" Kettle in hand, the proprietor ran off in panic.

  "Hey!" shouted Caramon after the flurried innkeeper in exasperation, "you forgot our water!"

  "But I tell you I have friends here!" A shrill voice rose up from the doorway. "Where? Why," — there was a moment's pause — "there! Hi, Caramon! Remember me?"

  "Name of the Abyss!" muttered Caramon, hunching up his big shoulders and ducking his head.

  A short figure, about the stature of a twelve-year old human, with the face of a man of twenty and the wideeyed innocent expression of a babe of three, was pointing gleefully at the booth of the warrior and his brother. The figure was clad in a bright green tunic and orange striped hose. A long tassel of hair was twisted round his head and hung down his back. Numerous pouches containing the possessions of everyone who had been unfortunate enough to cross his path hung from his belt.

  "You're answerable for him, then," said the proprietor grimly, marching the kender across the room, one hand gripping the slight shoulders firmly. There was a wild scramble as men stuffed their purses inside their shirts, down their pants, or wherever else they thought their valuables might be safe from a kender's light and nimble fingers.

  "Hey! Our water!" Caramon made a grab for the innkeeper but got a handful of kender instead.

  "Earwig Lockpicker," said the kender, holding out his hand politely. "Friend of Tasslehoff Burrfoot's. We met at the Inn of the Last Home. I couldn't stay long. There was that misunderstanding over the horse. I told them I didn't steal it. I can't think how it came to follow me."

  "Maybe because you were holding firmly onto the reins?" suggested Caramon.

  "Do you think so? Because I — Ouch!"

  "Drop it!" said Raistlin, his thin hand closing tightly over the kender's wrist.

  "Oh," said Earwig meekly, releasing the pouch that had been lying on the table and was now making its way into the kender's pocket. "Is that yours?"

  The mage cast a piercing, infuriated glare at his brother, who flushed and shrugged uncomfortably. "I'll get that water for you, Raist. Right now. Uh, Innkeeper!"

  "Well, look over there!" said the kender, squirming around in his seat to face the front door as it dosed behind a small group of travelers. "I followed those people into town. You can't imagine," he said in an indignant whisper that carried clearly across the room, "how rude that man is! He should have thanked me for finding his dagger, instead of — "

  "Greetings, sir. Greetings, my lady." The proprietor bobbed and bowed officiously. The heavily cloaked man and woman were, to all appearances, well dressed. "You'll be wanting a room, no doubt, and then dinner. There's hay in the stable for your horses."

  "We'll be wanting nothing," said the man in a harsh voice. He was carrying a young boy in his arms and, as he spoke, he eased the child to the floor, then flexed his arms as though they ached. "Nothing except a seat by your fire. We wouldn't have come in except that my lady-wife is not feeling well."

  "Not well?" The innkeeper, backing up, held out a dish cloth in front of him as a sort of shield and eyed them askance. "Not the plague?"

  "No, no!" said the woman in a low, cultivated voice. "I am not ill. I am just tired and chilled to the bone, that is all." Reaching out her hand, she drew her son near. "We have walked a great distance."

  "Walked!" muttered the innkeeper, not liking the sound of that. He looked more closely at the family's dress.

  Several of the men standing around the fire moved to one side. Others hurried to draw up a bench, and the overworked barmaid, ignoring her waiting customers, put her arm around the woman and helped her to a seat. The woman sank down limply.

  "You're white as a ghost, milady," said the barmaid. "Let me bring you a posset of honey and brandywine."

  "No," said the man, moving to stand by his wife, the child clinging to his father. "We have no money to pay for it."

  "Tut, tut. Talk of money later," said the barmaid briskly. "Call it my treat."

  "We'll not take charity!" The man's voice rose to a angry shout.

  The boy shrank close to his mother, who glanced at her husband, then lowered her eyes. "Thank you for your kind offer," she said to the barmaid, "but I need nothing. I'm feeling much better already."

  The proprietor, stalking his guests, noted that by firelight their clothes were not nearly so fine as they had first seemed. The man's cloak was frayed at the hem and travel worn and stained with mud. The woman's dress was clean and neat but many times mended. The boy, who appeared to be about five or six, was clad in shirt and trousers that had probably once been his father's, cut down to fit the boy's small, thin frame. The proprietor was about to hint broadly that only those who spent money in his inn had a right to his fire when he was distracted by a scream from inside the kitchen.

  "Where's that kender?" the innkeeper cried
out in alarm.

  "Right here!" shouted Earwig eagerly, raising his hand and waving. "Do you want me?"

  The proprietor cast him a baleful glance, then fled.

  "Humpf," said Caramon in an undertone, his eyes on the woman. She had shoved the hood of her cloak back with a weary hand, revealing a pale, thin face once beautiful, now anxious and worn with care and fatigue. Her arm stole around her son, who was gazing up at her in concern, and she hugged the boy close. "I wonder when the last time was those two had anything to eat," Caramon muttered.

  "I can ask them," offered Earwig helpfully. "Hey, lady, when — Ulp!"

  Caramon clamped his hand over the kender's mouth.

  "It's no concern of yours, my brother," snapped Raistlin irritably. "Get that imbecile innkeeper back here with the hot water!" He began to cough again.

  Caramon released the wriggling kender (who had actually been silent for as long as three minutes on account of having no breath left with which to talk) and heaved his great bulk to his feet, peering over the heads of the crowd for the proprietor. Smoke was rolling out from under the kitchen door.

  "I think he's going to be a while, Raist," said Caramon solemnly. "I'll get the barmaid."

  He tried to catch the barmaid's eye, but she was hovering over the woman.

  "I'll go and fix you a nice cup of tarbean tea, milady. No, no. It's all right. There's no charge for tarbean tea in this inn. Is there?" she said, flashing a threatening look at the other customers.

  "No, no. No charge. None," chorused the men in response.

  The cloaked and booted man frowned, but swallowed whatever words he might have wanted to say.

  "Hey, over here!" Caramon shouted, but the barmaid was still standing in front of the woman, twisting her apron in her hands.

  "Milady," she began hesitantly, in a low voice, "I've been speaking to cook. We're that busy tonight we're short-handed. It would be a gift of charity, milady, if you could help us out. It'd be worth a night's lodging and a meal."

  The woman cast a swift and pleading glance up at her husband.

  His face was livid. "No wife of a Knight of Solamnia will work in an inn! We'll all three starve and go to our graves first!"

  "Uh, oh," muttered Caramon and eased himself back into his seat.

  Talking and bantering and laughter ceased, the silence falling gradually as word circulated. All eyes went to the man. Hot blood flooded his cheeks. He had obviously not meant to reveal such a thing about himself. His hand went to his smooth-shaven upper lip, and it seemed to those watching that they could almost see the long, flowing mustaches that marked a Knight of Solamnia. It was not unusual that he had shaved it off. For long centuries the Order had stood for justice and law on Krynn. Now the knights were hated and reviled, blamed for bringing down the wrath of the gods. What calamity had forced this knight and his family to flee their homeland without money and barely the clothes on their backs? The crowd didn't know and most of them didn't care. The proprietor now wasn't the only one who wanted the knight and his family gone.

  "Come along, Aileen," said the knight gruffly. He put his hand on his wife's shoulder. "We'll not stay in this place. Not when they cater to the likes of that!" His narrowed eyes went to Raistlin, to the red robes that proclaimed him a wizard and the magical staff that stood by his side. The knight turned stiffly to the barmaid. "I understand the lord of this realm seeks men to fight the goblins. If you could tell me where to find him — "

  "He's seeking fighters," sang out a man in a far comer of the common room. "Not pretty boys dressed up in fancy iron suits."

  "Ho, you're wrong, Nathan," called out another. "I hear His Lordship's lookin' for someone to lead a regiment — a regiment of gully dwarves!"

  There was appreciative laughter. The knight choked with fury, his hand went to the hilt of his sword. His wife laid a gentle hand restrainingly on his arm. "No, Gawain," she murmured, starting to rise to her feet. "We will go. Come."

  "Stay put, milady. And as for you…" The barmaid glared at the boisterous crowd. "Shut your mouths or that'll be the last cold beer I draw for anyone in this inn tonight."

  Quelled by this awful threat, the men quieted. Putting her arm around the woman, the barmaid looked up at the knight. "You'll find His Lordship in the sheriff's hall, about a mile down the street. Go tend to your business, Sir Knight, and let your lady-wife and the boy rest. There's a lot of rough men down there," she added, seeing the knight about to refuse. "It's no fit place for your child."

  The proprietor came hurrying up. He would have liked dearly to throw all three out of his inn, but he could see the crowd was siding with his barmaid in favor of the woman. Having just put out a grease fire in the kitchen, the last thing he needed was a riot.

  "Go, Sir Knight, will you, please?" pleaded the innkeeper in a low voice. "We'll take good care of your lady."

  The knight seemingly had no choice. Gnawing his lip, he gave an ungracious assent. "Galeth, watch over your mother. And speak no word to anyone." Glancing meaningfully at the mage, the knight drew his cloak around his shoulders, cast his hood over his face, and stalked out of the inn.

  "His Lordship'll have nothing to do with a Knight of Solamnia," prophesied Caramon. "Half the army would quit if he hired him. What did he look at you like that for, Raist? You didn't say anything."

  "The knights have no love for magic. It's something they can neither control nor understand. And now, my brother, the hot water! Or are you going to watch me die here in this wretched inn?"

  "Oh, uh, sure, Raist." Caramon stood up and began searching the crowd for the barmaid.

  "I'll go!" Earwig leaped to his feet and skipped out of reach to disappear into the crowd.

  Talk and laughter resumed. The proprietor was arguing over the tab with a couple of his patrons. The barmaid had disappeared back into the kitchen. The knight's wife, overcome by weariness, lay down upon the bench. The boy stood protectively near her, his hand on her arm. But his gaze strayed to the red-robed magic-user.

  Raistlin cast a swift glance at his brother. Seeing Caramon preoccupied in attempting to capture the barmaid's attention, the mage made a slight, beckoning gesture with his hand.

  Nothing appears as sweet as fruit we are forbidden to eat. The boy's eyes widened. He looked around to see if the mage meant someone else, then looked back at Raistlin, who repeated the gesture. The boy tugged gently at his mother's sleeve.

  "Here, now. Let your ma sleep," scolded the barmaid, hustling past, a tray of mugs in her hands. "Be good for a few moments, and when I come back I'll bring you a treat." She vanished into the crowd.

  "Hey, there! Barmaid!" Caramon was waving his arms and bellowing like a bull.

  Raistlin cast him an irritated glance, then turned back to the boy.

  Slowly, drawn by irresistible curiosity and fascination, the child left his mother's side and crept over to stand near the mage.

  "Can you really do magic?" he asked, round-eyed with wonder.

  "Here, there!" Caramon, seeing the kid apparently bothering his brother, tried to shoo him away. "Go on back to your ma."

  "Caramon, shut up," said Raistlin softly. He turned his golden-eyed gaze on the boy. "Is your name Galeth?"

  "Yes, sir. I was named after my grandfather. He was a knight. I'm going to be a knight, too."

  Caramon grinned at his brother. "Reminds you of Sturm, doesn't he? These knights, they're all daft," he added, making the mistake that most adults make in thinking that children — because they are small — have no feelings.

  The boy flared up like dry tinder cast in the fire. "My father's not daft I He's a great man!" Galeth flushed, realizing perhaps that his father hadn't seemed all that great. "It's just that he's worried about my mother. He and I can do without food, we're men. But my mother…" His lower lip began to tremble, his eyes filled with tears.

  "Galeth," said Raistlin, casting Caramon a glance that sent the big man back to shouting for the barmaid, "would you like to see some magic?"
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  The boy, too awed to speak, nodded.

  "Then bring me your mother's purse."

  "Her purse is empty, sir," said the boy. Even though young, he was old enough to understand that this was a shameful thing, and his cheeks flushed.

  "Bring it to me," said Raistlin in his soft, whispering voice.

  Galeth stood a moment, undecided, torn between what he knew he should be doing and what he longed to do. Temptation proved too strong for his six years. Turning, he ran back to his mother and gently, without disturbing her rest, slipped her purse from the pocket of her gown. He brought it back and handed it to Raistlin, who took it in his long-fingered, delicate hands and studied it carefully. It was a small leather bag embroidered with golden thread, such as fine ladies use to carry their jewels. If this one had ever had jewels in it, they had long since been sold to buy food and clothing.

  The mage turned the purse inside out and shook it. It was lined with silk and was, as the boy said, pitifully empty. Then, shrugging, Raistlin handed it back to the boy. Galeth accepted it hesitantly. Where was the magic? He began to droop a little in disappointment.

  "And so you are going to be a knight like your father," said Raistlin.

  "Yes!" The boy blinked back his tears. "Since when, then, does a future knight tell a lie?" "I didn't lie, sir!" Galeth flushed. "That's a wicked thing!" "But you said the purse was empty. Look inside." Startled, the boy opened the leather bag. Whistling in astonishment, he pulled out a coin, then gazed at Raistlin in delight.

  "Go put the purse back, quietly now," said the mage. "And not a word to anyone about where the coin came from, or the spell will be broken!"

  "Yes, sir!" said Galeth solemnly. Scurrying back, he slipped his mother's purse into her pocket with the stealthy skill of a kender. Squatting down next to her on the floor, he began to chew on a piece of candied ginger the barmaid tossed to him, pausing every now and then to share a conspiratorial grin with the mage.

  "That's all well and good," grunted Caramon, leaning his elbows on the table, "but what do WE do now for food for the next week?"