“Ragh.” The old woman nodded as well and spoke again to her reflection in the mirror. “No, sister, I didn’t know those spawn creatures had names either.”
She looked back at Dhamon. “You make sure your beast stays outside. I’ve never cared for those sorts of things—smelly and boorish they are. If it comes in, I will be forced to slay it.”
The sivak held his place in the doorway, looking between Dhamon and the woman, then glancing down the hall to make sure no one was coming. He tapped his foot, showing Dhamon he was perturbed and didn’t want to linger here.
Dhamon stared at the old woman, wanting to ask her a dozen questions. Maab. That was the name the dwarf shopkeep gave to the sage. He looked past her to the mosaics. Perhaps some of his answers were on the walls.
“My sister wonders if you are thirsty? Our servants brought us some jugs of ale last week.” Maab gestured to the bench. Dhamon sniffed at each container.
“Ale,” he said, “and bitter rum. That’s all they bring you?”
“We ask for water and wine, but it seems they cannot find any. We make our own water from time to time, causing it to rain in the town so the leaky ceiling will bring some in here. But it also makes the floor slippery, and I am afraid I will fall. Hungry?” She gestured to the cage filled with mice.
“My sister and I have plenty to share.”
Dhamon gritted his teeth. “Your servants bring you mice to eat and spirits to drink?”
She nodded, softly sighing. “We are not very satisfied with our help. We slay some of them from time to time, but the ones who eventually replace them are just as bad, if not worse.”
“Your servants. Are they humans?”
“Mmmm.”
Dhamon took that as a yes.
“They did not come to attend me for quite a while this summer,” she added. “We think they got angry at my sister and me and were trying to starve us so they could inherit this castle and our fortune. We think they were trying to kill us.”
“Kill you?” This sarcastic jab came from the sivak. “Why would they want to inherit this place?”
Maab scowled. “Oh, we did not let them starve us. We cast a spell, a nasty one, that turned the air beyond this room most foul and unpalatable. We were fed shortly after that.” A pause, and then she added, “Fed by the ones left alive.”
Dhamon swallowed hard. “You are a sorceress?” he asked hesitantly. She cackled madly. “My sister and I are most powerful ones,” she returned.
“Of the Black Robes.”
“Of course.” She smiled slyly, revealing a row of broken, yellowed teeth. Some were missing on the bottom. “We are, perhaps, the most powerful Black Robe sorceresses remaining on this desperate world. The most powerful sorceresses of any color.”
Dhamon looked at the mirror, then at the woman. “Your sister…”
“Her name is Maab, too. She doesn’t speak.”
“She’s probably as mad as you,” Dhamon muttered to himself.
“My sister? Ha! No, she’s not mad. She’s never been angry a day in her life.”
“Are you… a healer?”
“I used to be.” With some effort she got off the stool and brushed by Dhamon, careful to stay within sight of her reflection in the mirror. She reached for one of the jugs, uncorked it, and took a sip. She offered it to him, but he declined. Though he was certain strong drink would sit well with him right now, he didn’t trust what was in the jug.
“Why you need healing?”
“I…” Dhamon looked at her as he searched for the right words. “What I need is…”
“Help obviously,” she finished, “else you wouldn’t have found your way into our castle.” She returned to the stool, huffing and wheezing and managing to climb atop it. “What is it Maab and her sister can do for you? Have you a palsy or a curse? A gaping wound we can’t see?”
Ragh cleared his throat. “He has a dragon scale affixed to his leg. From an overlord. The thing is poison to him. More are growing.”
“And they are slowly killing me.”
She wrinkled her nose. “My sister and I do not pay attention to such creatures as dragons. Not any more. They are bad-tempered and irrational. We do not like them.” She fixed Dhamon with a baleful stare. “We do not like dragons at all. We never did.”
Dhamon clenched his jaw, his breath hissing out between his teeth. “I would pay you,” he began.
“Pay me with what? You haven’t a coin in your pocket.”
“I would find a way to pay you.” Dhamon was impressed that she could see past the fabric and leather. Or perhaps she was looking into his mind. He balled his fists in frustration. Physically, the sorceress would be no match for him, but she obviously commanded magic.
“Still,” she mused, “although we have no need of money, and we don’t need more magical trinkets, a dragon scale on a human is interesting.” She closed her eyes in thought for a moment, then opened them. “I think it was days past—or was it decades—my sister and I studied dragons. Never ever liked them, I tell you, but they were worth studying. In fact, studying them consumed us for a while. We thought of nothing else, explored no other magic. Red dragons in particular. In fact we—”
“In fact it is a red dragon’s scale.” He tugged up the leg of his pants, fingers fumbling excitedly. The smattering of small scales and the bottom of the single large scale showed and gleamed in the lamp light.
“No, no,” she clucked. “That is clearly from a black dragon.”
Dhamon explained to her about the overlord Malys and how the scale was thrust on him by a Knight of Takhisis, and how, some time after that, a shadow dragon and a silver dragon broke the connection between him and the Red.
“The scale turned black in the process,” he said.
“Touched, he is,” Maab told her reflection in the mirror. “The young man is mad, I think. Ill in the head. Don’t you agree? Color-blind, too.” She waited, cocked her head and listened. “Very well. Perhaps we can help him anyway. Just because he was nice enough to come and visit us.” She returned her gaze to Dhamon, eyes narrowing. The wrinkles on her face seemed even more pronounced in the uncertain light.
“You might not have a single coin, but there is a price for our magic.”
“This is foolishness,” the sivak grumbled. “She is the mad one. We should leave here.”
“Name it,” Dhamon snapped. “Name your price and I’ll find a way to pay it.”
She twisted her head to look in the mirror again and twirled her fingers. “We will think of something, my sister and I. Something we would like you to get for us. But it will be expensive. Very.”
The sivak groaned. “You can’t be serious to consider this, Dhamon. She cannot help you. We are wasting our time.” Ragh tapped his clawed foot faster. “Besides, Dhamon, I cannot hold…”
Dhamon turned, watching with wide eyes as the image of the spawn shimmered. In the passing of a few moments the black spawn guise melted away and the scarred, wingless draconian stood in its place.
“…the form very long.”
“So I see.”
“Interesting,” Maab said. “Keep your odd pet outside my room, please.”
“The scale on my leg…” Dhamon prompted, returning his attention to the old woman. “I was told if I removed it, I would die.”
“Probably,” she said, “but it would be another matter entirely if my sister and I were to remove it. We understand dragon magic. Of course, we would need my tools. My books. There are some powders that would be handy” She looked at the mirror. “Oh, yes. We would need that, too, dear sister. That precious little trinket Raistlin gave us. When we are done, and he is rid of all those black scales, we will establish a price for our services.”