The Soulforge Page 24

  Tasslehoff simply could not grasp the concept. Knocking on doors was not much practiced in the kender homelands. It wasn’t necessary. Kender doors usually stood wide open. The only reason to shut them was during inclement weather.

  If a visiting kender walked in on his hosts and found that they were engaged in some pursuit in which he was not particularly welcome, the visitor could either sit in the parlor and wait until his hosts showed themselves or he was free to leave—after ransacking the dwelling for anything interesting, of course.

  Some uninformed people on Ansalon maintained that this custom was followed because kender had no locks on their doors. This was not true. All doors to kender dwellings had locks, generally a great many locks of differing types. The locks were only used when a party was in progress. There was no door knocking at these times. The guests were expected to pick the locks to obtain entry, this being the major form of entertainment for the evening.

  Thus far, Flint had trained Tasslehoff to at least knock on the door, which he did, generally knocking on the door as he opened it, or else opening it and then knocking on it, as a way to loudly announce his presence in case no one noticed him.

  Raistlin was prepared for Tasslehoff’s arrival, having heard the kender shouting his name breathlessly six doors down and having heard the neighbors shout back to ask if he knew what time of the morning it was. He also heard Tas stop to inform them of the correct time.

  “Well, they were the ones who asked,” Tasslehoff said indignantly, swinging inside with the door. “If they didn’t want to know, why were they shouting like that? I tell you”—he fetched a sigh as he settled himself down at the kitchen table—“I don’t understand humans sometime.”

  “Good morning,” said Raistlin, removing the teapot from the kender’s hand. “I will be late for my classes. Was there something you wanted?” he asked severely as Tasslehoff was reaching for the bread and the toasting fork.

  “Oh, yes!” The kender dropped the fork with a clatter and jumped to his feet. “I almost forgot! It’s a good thing you reminded me, Raistlin. I’m extremely worried. No, thank you, I couldn’t eat a thing. I’m too upset. Well, maybe a biscuit. Do you have any jam? I—”

  “What do you want?” Raistlin demanded.

  “It’s Flint,” said the kender, eating the jam out of the crock with a spoon. “He can’t stand up. He can’t lie down either, or sit down for that matter. He’s in extremely bad shape, and I’m really worried about him. Truly worried.”

  The kender was obviously upset, because he shoved the jam pot away even though it still had some jam inside. He did put the spoon in his pocket, but that was only to be expected.

  Raistlin retrieved the spoon and asked more about the dwarf’s symptoms.

  “It happened this morning. Flint got out of bed, and I heard him give a yell, which sometimes he does in the morning, but that’s usually after I’ve gone into his room to say good morning when he wasn’t exactly ready for it to be morning yet. But I wasn’t in his room at all, and he still yelled. So I went into his room to see what was the matter, and there he was, bent double like an elf in a high wind. I thought he was looking at something on the floor, so I went over to look at whatever he was looking at, but then I found out he wasn’t, or if he was he wasn’t meaning to. He was looking at the floor because he couldn’t do anything else.

  “ ‘I’m stuck this way, you miserable kender!’ That’s what he said. I was miserable for him, so that was pretty accurate. I asked him what happened.”

  “ ‘I bent down to lace my boots and my back gave out.’ I said I’d help him straighten up, but he threatened to hit me with the poker if I came near him, so—while it might have been interesting, being hit with a poker, something that’s never happened to me before—I decided that hitting me wasn’t going to help Flint much, so I better come to you and see if you could suggest anything.”

  Tasslehoff regarded Raistlin with anxious expectancy. The young man had put his books down and was searching among jars containing unguents and potions that he’d concocted from his herb garden.

  “Do you know what’s wrong?” Tas asked.

  “Has he been troubled with back pain before?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Tas cheerfully. “He said that his back has been hurting him ever since Caramon tried to drown him in the boat. His back and his left leg.”

  “I see. That’s what I thought. It sounds to me as if Flint is suffering from a defluxion of rheum,” Raistlin replied.

  “A defluxion of rheum,” Tas repeated the words slowly, savoring them. He was awed. “How wonderful! Is it catching?” he asked hopefully.

  “No, it is not catching. It is an inflammation of the joints. It can also be known as lumbago. Although,” Raistlin said, frowning, “the pain in the left leg might mean something more serious. I was going to send some oil of wintergreen home with you to rub into the afflicted area, but now I think I had better come take a look myself.”

  “Flint, you have an influx of runes!” Tasslehoff cried excitedly, racing through the door, which he had neglected to shut on his way out and which the dwarf, in his misery, could not manage to reach.

  Flint had scarcely moved from the place where the kender had left him. He was bent almost double, his beard brushing the floor. Any attempt to straighten brought beads of sweat to his forehead and gasps of agony to his lips. His boots remained unlaced. He stood hunched over, alternately swearing and groaning.

  “Runes?” the dwarf yelled. “What has this got to do with runes?”

  “Rheum,” Raistlin clarified. “An inflammation of the joints caused by prolonged exposure to cold or dampness.”

  “I knew it! That damn boat!” Flint said with bitter triumph. “I say it again: I’ll never set foot in one of those foul contraptions again so long as I live, I swear it, Reorx.” He would have stamped his foot upon the vow, this being considered proper among dwarves, but the movement caused him to cry out in pain and clutch the back of his left leg.

  “I’ve got my wares to sell this summer. How am I supposed to travel like this?” he demanded irritably.

  “You’re not traveling,” said Raistlin. “You are going back to bed, and you’re going to stay there until the muscles relax. You’re all knotted up. This oil will ease the pain. I’ll need your help, Tas. Lift his shirt.”

  “No! Stay away from me! Don’t touch me!”

  “We’re only trying to help you to—”

  “What’s that smell? Oil of what? Pine tree! You’re not going to feed me any tree juice!”

  “I’m going to rub it on you.”

  “I won’t have it, I tell you! Ouch! Ouch! Get away! I have the poker!”

  “Tas, go fetch Tanis,” Raistlin ordered, seeing that his patient was going to be difficult.

  Although he was extremely sorry to leave in the midst of such excitement, the kender ran off to deliver his message. Tanis returned in haste, alarmed by Tasslehoff’s somewhat confused account that Flint had been attacked by runes, which Raistlin was trying to cure by making him swallow pine needles.

  Raistlin explained the situation in more detailed and coherent terms. Tanis concurred in both the diagnosis and the treatment. Overriding the dwarf’s vehement protests (first forcibly removing the poker from his hand), they rubbed the oil into his skin, massaged the muscles of his legs and arms until he was finally able to straighten his back enough to lie down.

  Flint maintained the entire time that he was not going to bed. He was setting out on his summer travels to sell his wares. There was nothing any of them could do to stop him. He kept this up as Tanis helped him hobble to the bed, kept it up though he had to compress his lips against the pain that he said was like a goblin’s poison dagger stuck in the back of his leg. He kept it up until Raistlin told Tas to run to the inn and ask Otik for a jug of brandy.

  “What’s that for?” Flint asked suspiciously. “You going to rub that on me now?”

  “You’re to swallow a dram every hour,” Rai
stlin replied. “For the pain. So long as you stay in bed.”

  “Every hour?” The dwarf brightened. He settled himself more comfortably among the pillows. “Well, perhaps I’ll just take today off. We can always start tomorrow. Make certain Otik sends the good stuff!” he bellowed after Tas.

  “He won’t be going anywhere tomorrow,” Raistlin told Tanis. “Or the day after, or any time in the near future. He must stay in bed until the pain goes away and he can walk freely. If he doesn’t, he could be crippled for life.”

  “Are you sure?” Tanis looked skeptical. “Flint’s complained of aches and pains as long as I’ve known him.”

  “This is different. This is quite serious. It has something to do with the spine and the nerves that run up the leg. Weird Meggin treated a person who was suffering symptoms similar to this once, and I helped her. She explained it to me using a human skeleton she had dissected. If you would accompany me to her house, I could show you.”

  “No, no! That won’t be necessary,” Tanis said hurriedly. “I’ll take your word for it.” He rubbed his chin and shook his head. “But how in the name of the Forger of the World we’re going to keep that ornery old dwarf in bed, short of tying him to the bedposts, is beyond me.”

  The brandy aided them in this endeavor, rendering the patient calm, though not quiet, and in a relatively good humor. He actually did what he was told and remained in bed voluntarily. They were all pleasantly surprised. Tanis praised Flint highly for being such a model patient.

  What none of them knew was that Flint had actually made an attempt to get out of bed the first night he was incapacitated. The pain was excruciating, his leg had collapsed under him. This incident scared the dwarf badly. He began to think that perhaps Raistlin knew what he was talking about. Crawling back into bed, Flint determined secretly to stay there as long as it took to heal. Meanwhile, he had a good time ordering everyone about and making Caramon feel wretchedly guilty for having been the cause of it all.

  Tanis certainly did not mind staying in Solace instead of traveling around Abanasinia. Kitiara remained in Solace as well, much to the astonishment of her brothers.

  “I never thought I’d see Kit fall in love with any man,” Caramon said to his twin one evening over supper. “She just doesn’t seem the affectionate type.”

  Raistlin sneered. “ ‘Love’ is not the word, my brother. Love involves caring, respect, fondness. I would term our sister’s attachment for the half-elf as one of ‘passion,’ or perhaps ‘lust’ might be a better word. I would guess, from the stories our mother told us, that Kitiara is much like her father in that regard.”

  “I suppose,” Caramon responded, looking uncomfortable. He never liked to talk about their mother if he could help it. His memories of her were not pleasant ones.

  “Gregor’s love for Rosamun was extremely passionate—while it lasted,” Raistlin said, with ironic emphasis on the latter part of his sentence. “He found her different from other women, she amused him. I’m sure there is a certain amusement factor involved with Kitiara’s relationship with the half-elf. He is undoubtedly very different from other men she has known.”

  “I like Tanis,” Caramon said defensively, thinking that his brother’s words disparaged his friend. “He’s a great guy. He’s giving me sword fighting lessons. I’m getting really good at it. He said so. I’ll have to show you sometime.”

  “Of course you like Tanis. We all like Tanis,” Raistlin said with a shrug. “He is honorable, honest, trustworthy, loyal. As I said, he is far different from any other man our sister has loved.”

  “You can’t know that for sure,” Caramon protested.

  “Oh, I can, my brother. I can,” Raistlin said.

  Caramon wanted to know how, but Raistlin refused to elaborate. The twins were silent, finishing their meal. Caramon ate voraciously, devouring everything on his plate and then looking around for more. He had only to wait. Raistlin picked at his food, eating only the choicest morsels, shoving aside any bit of meat with the least amount of gristle or any piece that happened to be even slightly underdone. Caramon was always willing to finish the scraps.

  He carried away the wooden bowls to be washed. Raistlin fed his mice and cleaned their cage, then went into the kitchen to help his brother.

  “I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to Tanis, Raist,” Caramon said, not looking up from his work.

  “My dear brother, you have more water on the floor than you do in the bucket. No! Finish what you are doing. I will mop it up.” Grabbing the rag, Raistlin bent down, wiped it over the stone flagon floor. “As for Tanis, he is quite old enough to take care of himself, Caramon. He is, I believe, well over one hundred.”

  “Maybe he’s old in years, Raist, but he’s not as old as you and I in some ways,” Caramon said. He stacked up the wet bowls and utensils, wrung out the cloth, and shook the water from his hands, which he then wiped on his shirtfront.

  Raistlin snorted, clearly disbelieving.

  Caramon tried to make himself clear. “Because he’s honest, he thinks everyone else is honest, too. And loyal and honorable. But you and I—we know that’s not true. Especially it’s not true with Kit.”

  Raistlin looked up swiftly. “What do you mean?”

  Caramon flushed, ashamed for his sister. “She lied to Tanis about that money, Raist. The steel coins from Sanction. She told Tanis that she won the money playing at bones with a sailor. Well, I was with her a few days earlier when she came over here to see if I wanted to practice my sword fighting with her. When she was ready to leave, she sent me to fetch her cloak from the chest in the bedroom. When I picked up the cloak, the purse with the coins fell out and the coins spilled. I looked at one, because I’d never seen a coin like it. I asked her where they came from.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that it was pay she’d earned for work she’d done up north. She said that there was lots more money where that came from and that I could earn my share and so could you, if you’d give up this foolery about magic and come with us. She said she wasn’t ready to go north yet, that she was having too much fun here, and anyway I needed more training and you had to be convinced that you were …” Caramon hesitated.

  “I was what?” Raistlin prodded him.

  “A failure in magic. That’s what she said, Raist. Not me, so don’t get mad.”

  “I’m not mad. Why would she say such a thing?”

  “It’s because she’s never seen you do any magic, Raist. I told her that you were real good, but she only laughed and said I was so gullible I’d swallow any bit of hocus-pocus. I’m not. You’ve taught me better than that,” Caramon stated emphatically.

  “I believe that I have taught you better than even I realized,” Raistlin said, regarding his brother with a certain amount of admiration. “You knew all this and still kept quiet about it?”

  “She told me not to say anything, not even to you, and I wasn’t going to, but I don’t like it that she lied about the money, Raist. Who knows where it came from? And I didn’t like that money either.” Caramon shivered. “It had a strange feel to it.”

  “She didn’t lie to you,” Raistlin said, thoughtful.

  “Huh?” Caramon was amazed. “How do you know that?”

  “Just a hunch,” Raistlin said evasively. “She’s talked about working for people in the north before now.”

  “I don’t want to go up there, Raist,” Caramon said. “I’ve made up my mind. I’d rather be a knight, like Sturm. Maybe they’d let you be a war wizard, like Magius.”

  “I would like to train as a warrior mage,” Raistlin said. “The knights would not have me, nor do I think they would take you either. But we could work together, perhaps in the mercenary line, combining sorcery and steel. Warrior mages are not common, and people would pay well for such skills.”

  Caramon was radiant with pleasure. “That’s a great idea, Raist! When do you think we should start?” He looked prepared to rush out the door at that very mome
nt.

  “Not for some time yet,” Raistlin returned, controlling his brother’s impatience. “I would have to leave the school. Master Theobald would have apoplexy if I even mentioned such a thing. In his mind, magic is to be used only in such dire situations as starting campfires if the wood is wet. But we must not rush into this, Brother,” he admonished, seeing Caramon already starting to polish his sword. “We need money. You need experience. And I need more spells in my spellbook.”

  “Sure, Raist. I think it’s a great idea, and I plan to be ready.” Caramon ceased his work, looked up, his expression solemn and troubled. “What do we say to Kit?”

  “Nothing. Not until the time comes,” Raistlin said. He paused a moment, then added with a grim smile, “And let her keep thinking I have no talent for magic.”

  “Sure, Raist, if that’s what you want.” Caramon couldn’t quite figure that one out, but, figuring that Raistlin knew best, he always obeyed his brother’s wishes. “What do we do about Tanis?”

  “Nothing,” Raistlin said quietly. “There is nothing we can do. He wouldn’t believe us if we said anything bad about Kit because he doesn’t want to believe us. You would not have believed me if I had said anything bad about Miranda, would you?” Raistlin asked with a tinge of bitterness.

  “No, I guess not.” Caramon sighed massively. He still maintained his heart was broken, although he was now involved with three girls, at last count. “Isn’t there anything we can do about Kit?”

  “We watch her, my brother. We watch her very carefully.”

  8

  SUMMER DAYS DRIFTED BY IN A HAZE OF SMOKE FROM COOKING fires, dust kicked up by travelers along the Solace road, and the morning mists that wound like wraiths among the boles of the vallenwood trees.

  Flint kept to his bed, a surprisingly docile patient, though he grumbled enough for thirty dwarves, as Tasslehoff said, and complained that he was missing out on all the fun. He had, in fact, a very easy life of it. The kender waited on him hand and foot. Caramon and Sturm took turns visiting him every afternoon after their sword practice to demonstrate their newfound skills. Raistlin came by daily to rub oil of wintergreen into the dwarf’s tight muscles, and even Kit dropped by occasionally to entertain Flint with accounts of fighting goblins and ogres.