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  “Snakes?” Kit wrinkled her nose, gazed after the priests in disgust. “What are they doing with snakes?”

  “It was very exciting,” Tas reported. “I went up to the first priest, and I was going to introduce myself, which is only polite, you know, except that he wouldn’t look at me or talk to me. I reached out my hand to pluck at his sleeve, figuring he hadn’t seen me, and the snake reared up its head and hissed at me,” Tasslehoff said, thrilled almost past the ability to speak. Almost.

  “I was just about to ask him if I could pet it—snakes have such wonderful dry skin—when it darted out its head at me, and that’s when I jumped backward. I was bitten by a snake once when I was a little kender, and while being snake-bit is certainly an interesting experience, it’s not one that should be repeated too often. As you say, Tanis, it’s not conducive to one’s health. Especially because I think this snake was of the poisonous sort. It had a hood over its head and a forked tongue and little beady eyes. Could one of you help me get this pouch loose? It’s stuck on that branch.”

  Tanis untangled the straps of the pouch. By this time, Flint and Raistlin and Sturm had joined them, leaving a disgruntled Caramon to guard the wagon.

  “From your description, the snake would appear to be a viper,” Raistlin observed. “But I’ve never heard of vipers being found anywhere outside the Plains of Dust.”

  “If so, the viper must have had its fangs drawn,” said Sturm. “I cannot imagine any sane person would walk along the road carrying a poisonous snake!”

  “Then you have very limited imagination, brother,” said a peddler, coming up level with them. “Though I’m not saying you’re right when it comes to sanity. Their god takes the form of a viper. The snake is their symbol and a test of their faith. Their god gives them power over the viper so that it won’t harm them.”

  “In other words, they’re snake charmers,” said Raistlin, his lip curling.

  “Don’t let them hear you call them that, brother,” the peddler advised, casting the line of priests an uneasy sidelong glance. He kept his voice low. “They don’t tolerate any disrespect. They don’t tolerate much of anything, if it comes to that. This could be a real poor Harvest Home if they have their way.”

  “Why? What have they done?” Kit asked, grinning. “Shut down the alehouses?”

  “What was that you said?” Flint could only hear part of the conversation, which was being carried on above his head. He crowded close to hear better. “What did she say? Shut down the alehouses?”

  “No, nothing like that, though the priests don’t touch the stuff themselves,” the peddler returned. “They know they’d never get away with anything so drastic. But they might as well. I’m sorry to see them here. I’ll be surprised now if anyone even shows up at the fair. They’ll all be going to temple to see the ‘miracles.’ I’ve a mind to turn around and go back home.”

  “What is the name of their god?” Raistlin asked.

  “Belzor, or some such thing. Well, good day to all of you, if that’s possible anymore.” The peddler trudged gloomily off, heading back down the road the way he’d come.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” Caramon bellowed from the wagon.

  “Belzor,” Raistlin repeated grimly.

  “That was the name of that god the widow woman talked about, wasn’t it?” Flint said, tugging at his beard.

  “The Widow Judith. Yes, Belzor was the god. She was from Haven as well. I had forgotten that.” Raistlin was thoughtful. He would not have imagined he could have ever forgotten the Widow Judith, but other events in his life had crowded her out. Now the memory returned, returned in force. “I wonder if we will find her here.”

  “We won’t,” said Tanis firmly, “because we’re not going anywhere near those priests. We’re going to the fair, concentrate on the business at hand. I don’t want any trouble.” Reaching out his hand, he caught hold of the kender’s shirt collar.

  “Oh, please, Tanis! I just want to go have another look at the snakes.”

  “Caramon!” Tanis shouted, hanging onto the wriggling kender with difficulty. “Drive the wagon off the road. We’re stopping for the night.”

  Flint seemed inclined to argue, but when Tanis spoke in that tone, even Kitiara held her tongue. She shook her head, but she said nothing aloud.

  Coming level with Raistlin, Kit said offhandedly, “Judith. Was that the woman who was responsible for our mother’s death?”

  “Our mother?” Raistlin repeated, regarding Kit in astonishment. When Kitiara mentioned Rosamun at all, which was seldom, she was referred to as “your” mother—spoken to the twins in a scathing tone. This was the first time Raistlin had ever heard Kit acknowledge a relationship.

  “Yes, Judith is the woman,” he said when he had recovered from his shock sufficiently to reply.

  Kit nodded. With a glance at Tanis, she leaned near to Raistlin to whisper, “If you know how to hold your tongue, we might have some fun on this trip after all, little brother.”

  Sturm and Caramon insisted on setting a watch on their camp that night, though Kit asked, laughing, “Where do you think we are? Sanction?”

  They built a fire, spread their blanket rolls near it. Other fires flared not far away. More than one traveler had decided to let Belzor’s priests get a long head start.

  Flint was in charge of cooking and prepared his famous traveler’s stew, a dwarven recipe made from dried venison and berries, simmered in ale. Raistlin added some herbs he had found along the road, herbs which the dwarf regarded with suspicion but was eventually persuaded to add. He would not admit that they added to the flavor; dwarven recipes needed no alteration. But he consumed four helpings, just to make certain.

  They kept the fire burning to ward off the night’s chill. Seated around it, they passed the ale jug and told stories until the fire burned low.

  Flint took a last swallow, called it a night. He planned to sleep in the wagon, to guard his wares from thieves. Kit and Tanis moved off into the shadows, where they could be heard laughing softly and whispering together. Caramon and Sturm argued over who should keep watch first and tossed a coin. Caramon won. Raistlin wrapped himself in his blanket, prepared to spend his first night outdoors, lying on the ground beneath the stars.

  Sleeping on the ground was every bit as uncomfortable as he’d imagined it would be.

  Silhouetted against the dying embers of the fire, Caramon whistled softly to himself, whittling a stick as he kept watch. Raistlin’s last glimpse, before he drifted off into an uneasy slumber, was of Caramon’s large body blotting out the starlight.

  10

  THE KENDER KEPT AN EAGER LOOKOUT THE NEXT DAY FOR THE priests of Belzor, but they must have walked all night—either that or they turned off the road—because the companions did not run into them that day or the next.

  The peddler may have held a pessimistic view as to the probable success of the Harvest Home Fair, but this was not the view of the general populace of Abanasinia. The road became more and more crowded, providing enough interesting subjects that Tasslehoff soon forgot all about the snakes, much to Tanis’s relief.

  Wealthy merchants, whose servants had been sent ahead with their wares, traveled along the road in ornate litters, borne on the shoulders of stout bearers. A noble family passed, accompanied by their retainers, the lord riding at the head on a large war-horse, the wife and daughter and the daughter’s duenna following on smaller ponies. The horses were decorated in bright colored trappings, while that of the daughter was adorned with small silver bells on the bridle and silk ribbons braided into the mane.

  The daughter was a lovely girl of about sixteen, who charitably bestowed a smile on Caramon and Sturm as she might have bestowed coins upon the poor. Sturm doffed his hat and made a courtly bow. Caramon winked at her and ran after the horse, hoping to speak to her. The noble lord frowned. The retainers closed ranks around the family. The duenna clucked in disapproval and, plucking a scarf over the young girl’s head, admonished her in loud
tones not to take notice of the riffraff one saw along the road.

  Her harsh words wounded Sturm. “You behaved boorishly,” he said to Caramon. “You have made us look ridiculous.”

  Caramon thought the episode was funny, however, and for the next mile he minced along the side of the wagon on his tiptoes, his handkerchief covering his face, feigning to be disgusted by them all and shouting “riffraff” in falsetto tones.

  The trip continued uneventfully until midafternoon.

  Springing up from his place in the back of the wagon, Flint shouted, “Look out!” and pummeled Tanis on the shoulder by way of emphasizing the danger. “Drive faster! Hurry! They’re coming closer!”

  Expecting to see no less than an army of minotaurs in hot pursuit, Tanis looked behind him in alarm. “Too late!” Flint groaned, as the wagon was immediately surrounded by a party of about fifteen laughing kender.

  Fortunately for the dwarf, the kender were far more interested in Tasslehoff than they were in the dwarf’s wares. Always delighted to meet more of his kind, Tas jumped off the wagon into a thicket of small, outstretched arms.

  There is a proscribed ritual involved in the meeting of kender who are strangers to one another. This ritual takes place whether the meeting is between two kender or twenty.

  First come handshaking all around and formal introductions by name. Since it is considered extremely rude for one kender to forget or mistake the name of another, the introductions take some time.

  “How do you do? My name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot.”

  “Clayfoot?”

  “No, Burrfoot. Burr—as in the little sharp pointy things that stick to your clothes.”

  “Ah, Burrfoot! Nice to meet you. I am Eider Thistledown.”

  “Eiderdown?”

  “Thistledown. Eider comes first. And this is Hefty Warblethroat.”

  “Glad to meet you, Tuftedhair Hotfoot.”

  “Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” corrected Tasslehoff. “It is an honor to meet you, Flabby Cutthroat.” And so on down the line.

  Once all kender have been properly introduced and everyone knows the name of everyone else, they then move into the second phase of the ritual, which is determining if they are related. It is a known fact among kender that every kender born can trace his or her ancestry back to, around, up, or over the famous Uncle Trapspringer. Kinships are therefore easily established.

  “Uncle Trapspringer was my mother’s aunt’s third cousin on her father’s side by marriage,” said Eider Thistledown.

  “Isn’t that amazing!” cried Tasslehoff. “Uncle Trapspringer was my father’s uncle’s wife’s second cousin once removed.”

  “Brother!” cried Eider, spreading his arms.

  “Brother!” Tasslehoff rushed into them.

  This also continued down the line of kender, ending with the determination that Tasslehoff was closely related to every single one of the fifteen, none of whom he had ever seen before in his life.

  After this came the third phase. Tasslehoff inquired politely if any of his fellows had come across any interesting or unusual objects on his or her journeys. The other kender just as politely insisted that Tasslehoff should be the one to show off his acquisitions, with the result that all the kender plunked themselves down in the middle of the road. Emptying their pouches, they began to rummage through each other’s belongings while traffic backed up behind them.

  “Drive on, Tanis!” Flint urged in a hoarse whisper. “Faster! Faster! Maybe we’ll lose him.”

  Well knowing that Tas could be involved with this entertaining project for a day at least, Tanis did as the dwarf recommended, though not with any hope of losing the kender no matter how fast they traveled.

  That night as they were making camp Tasslehoff turned up, tired and hungry, not even wearing the same clothes anymore, but completely happy.

  “Did you miss me, Flint?” he asked, plopping down beside the dwarf.

  Ignoring Flint’s resounding “No!” Tas proceeded to show the companions his newfound treasures. “Look, Flint. I have a whole lot of new maps. Truly fine maps. I’ve never seen maps nearly as good as these. My cousin says they came all the way from Istar, which isn’t there anymore. It was smashed flat in the Cataclysm. These maps have little mountains drawn on them and little roads, and here’s a tiny little lake. And they have the names all written in. I’ve never heard of any of these places, and I don’t know where they are, but if I ever want to go there, I’ve got this map to show me what’s there when I get there.”

  “If you don’t know where something is, what good is the map, you doorknob?” Flint demanded.

  Tas thought this over, then pointed out the flaw in the dwarf’s logic. “Well, I can’t get there without it, now, can I?”

  “But you just said you didn’t know where it was, so that means you can’t get there with it!” Flint fumed.

  “Ah, but if I ever do get there, I’ll know where I am!” Tasslehoff stated triumphantly, at which point Tanis changed the subject before the dwarf, now extremely red in the face, burst some important blood vessel.

  The next day, around midday, they arrived at the gates of the Lordcity of Haven.

  The residents of Haven were the ones who termed Haven, grandiosely, a Lordcity. In their minds, Haven rivaled the fabled northern metropolis of Palanthas. None of the inhabitants of Haven had ever traveled to Palanthas, which might account for this misnomer. Haven was, in reality, nothing grander than a large farming community located on extremely fertile land, whose rich soil was nourished on a semiyearly basis by the flooding of the White-rage river.

  In these days of relative peace among the diverse races inhabiting Abanasinia, Haven’s crops helped feed both the dwarves of Thorbardin and the humans of Pax Tharkas. The elves of Qualinesti did not relish human-grown food, but they had discovered that the vineyards on the sunny slopes of the Kharolis Mountains produced grapes of remarkable sweetness. These grapes were imported to Qualinesti to make wine that was famous throughout Ansalon. Haven hemp was much prized by the Plainspeople, who twisted it into strong, sturdy rope. Haven wood was used by the inhabitants of Solace to build their houses and businesses.

  The Harvest Home Festival was therefore not only a celebration of another excellent year in the fields, but it was also a celebration of Haven itself, a tribute to its agrarian prosperity.

  A wooden stockade surrounded the city, intended to keep out marauding bands of wolves more than armies. Haven had never been attacked and had no expectations of being attacked. This was the Age of Peace, after all. The gates of the wooden stockade were closed only at night, stood wide open during the day. Those manning the gates acted more as greeters than guards, exchanging friendly salutations with visitors they knew from years past and giving a hearty welcome to newcomers.

  Flint and Tanis were well known and well liked. The sergeant-at-arms walked over to personally shake hands with the dwarf and the half-elf and to stare admiringly at Kitiara. The sergeant said they had missed Flint’s customary visit, asked where they had been all summer. He listened with deep commiseration to Flint’s tale of woe and assured the dwarf that his usual booth on the fairgrounds was waiting for him.

  Tasslehoff was well known, too, apparently. The sergeant frowned at seeing the kender and suggested that Tas go lock himself up in jail right now, thereby saving everyone considerable time and trouble.

  Tas said that he viewed it as extremely kind of the sergeant to make such a thoughtful offer, but the kender was forced to refuse it.

  “Flint depends on me, you know,” Tas said, fortunately out of the dwarf’s hearing.

  The sergeant welcomed the other young men, and when he heard it was their first visit to Haven, he said that he hoped they would not spend all their time working but would have a chance to see some of the sights. He shook hands once more with Flint, advised Tanis in an undertone that he was responsible for the kender, bowed to Kitiara, and then walked on to greet the next wagonload rolling through the wooden gates.
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br />   Once inside the stockade, they were accosted by a young man wearing sky-blue robes, who motioned their wagon to stop.

  “What’s this?” asked Tanis.

  “One of those Belzor priests,” Flint said, glowering.

  “Does he have a snake? I want to see it!” Tasslehoff was prepared to jump off the wagon.

  “Not now, Tas,” Tanis said in a tone that Tas had, on occasion, actually obeyed. Just to make certain, Caramon caught the kender by the back of his green-and-purple striped vest and held on tightly.

  “What can we do for you, sir?” Tanis called out over the hubbub of rolling carts, neighing horses, and jostling crowds.

  “I would speak to the young man in the white robes,” the priest answered, directing his attention to Raistlin. “Are you a wielder of magic, brother?”

  “A novice mage, sir,” Raistlin said humbly. “I have yet to take my Test.”

  The priest walked to the side of the wagon near where Raistlin sat, gazed up at him earnestly, intently.

  “You are very young, brother. Are you aware of the evil in which you dabble—probably all unknowingly, I am sure?”

  “Evil?” Raistlin leaned over the side of the wagon. “No, sir. I have no intention of doing evil. What do you mean?”

  The priest clasped his hand over Raistlin’s. “Come hear us outside the Temple of Belzor, brother. All will be explained. Once you understand that you are worshiping false gods, you will renounce them and their evil arts. You will strip off those foul robes and walk once more in the sunlight. Will you come, brother?”

  “Gladly!” Raistlin cried. “What you say terrifies me, sir.”

  “Huh? But, Raist—” Caramon started to protest.

  “Hush, you big ninny!” Kitiara dug her nails into Caramon’s arm.

  The priest gave Raistlin instructions on how to find the temple, which, he said, was the largest building in Haven, located at the very center of the city.

  “Tell me, sir,” Raistlin said after noting down the directions, “is there a person connected with the temple whose name is Judith?”