“It is simply a name, officer, and has no meaning outside of tribal identification,” Raistlin said, smoothly breaking into Earwig’s recitation of his family tree. “It’s quite common among kender.”
“Common? It’s not common-” cried Earwig, but Caramon managed to muffle the kender with a large hand over his mouth.
“You seem to know a lot about them, sir. Do you have many kender friends?” The sergeant turned suspicious eyes on the mage, who stood perfectly motionless behind his brother.
“Exactly two more than I’d like,” answered Raistlin dryly. He suddenly began to cough and nearly fell.
Caramon sprang forward to assist him. “Look,” said the big man angrily, “we’ve answered your questions, Sergeant. Now let us pass. Can’t you see that my brother’s ill?”
“I can see it. And I don’t like it. We hear that there’s plague beyond our walls,” said the sergeant, his frown deepening. “I think you three had better just go back to wherever it is you came from.”
“I do not have the plague.” Raistlin was breathing easier. He stood up straight. “And we are going into the city.” The mage slid his left hand into voluminous robes, gliding between the simple hooks that held it closed in the front.
“Even if we have to go through you,” added Caramon grimly, standing to one side of his brother and drawing his sword.
“Stop them!” yelled the sergeant.
The soldiers halfheartedly lowered their weapons, threatening the companions with the broad blades of their glaives. None actually moved to stop the mage. None wanted to get that close.
“Come on!” cried Earwig, swinging his hoopak in the air until it whistled. “We’ll take you all on!”
“Wait, Sergeant!” called a voice.
A man motioned from the shadows where he must have been standing the entire time. The sergeant, glancing at the companions balefully, walked over. The two conversed briefly, then the sergeant nodded. He returned, looking relieved, and the man melted back into the shadows.
“Please excuse my suspicion, gentlemen,” said the sergeant, bowing. “These are troubled times. You are welcome in our city.”
“We are?” said Caramon dubiously.
“Yes. Rooms have been arranged for you at Barnstoke Hall.”
“How did anyone know we would be com-” Caramon began, but fell silent when he felt his brother’s hand close over his arm.
The sergeant handed Caramon an ornate scrollcase.
“Here. This is for you.”
Caramon handed it to his twin, who hid it within his robes.
“Where might we find the home of Councillor Shavas?” inquired Raistlin.
“Councillor Shavas’s house is in the exact center of town. Follow any of the main roads. They all lead right to it. The lodging-house, Barnstoke Hall, is on this road, just a short distance away.”
Raistlin had begun to cough again. Caramon took his brother’s arm.
“Thank you, Sergeant. We’ll be going now,” the warrior said. They walked slowly up the street, leaving the guards to stare after them, shaking their heads and muttering in low voices.
Absorbed in discussing the arrival of a wizard, the guards never noticed a dark form scale the white walls of Mereklar. The figure, dressed all in black, used no ropes or tools of any kind, but climbed the wall with ease, finding foot- and hand-holds in the carvings. Gliding over the top of the wall, he dropped down lightly onto the street below, landing silently on all fours. Keeping to the shadows, he slinked past the guards and crept down the street, keeping the companions in his sight.
“How the devil did anyone in Mereklar know we were coming?” Caramon demanded when his brother could breathe again.
“The man standing in the shadows,” Raistlin whispered. “He was at the inn with us. Remember the horse’s hoofprints on the road?”
“Was he?” Caramon glanced around, pausing. “Maybe I should go back and-”
“No, you shouldn’t!” snapped Raistlin. “I’m growing weaker by the moment. Would you leave me to die in the gutter?”
“No, Raist. Of course not,” said Caramon patiently, helping his brother through the quiet streets.
Every building was constructed of the same white stone as the walls, every street was a perfect white slate, smooth and even. It seemed to have all been carved from a single mountain of rock.
“Flint would love this place,” muttered Caramon.
“Hey! Look at that!” Earwig cried, pointing.
Motes of light were swelling out of the ground like water bubbling up from moist soil. After a few moments, the lights began to rise into the air, hovering above the walks and streets, flooding them with a radiant glow that illuminated the way for late-night travelers.
The lights were wasted tonight, however. No one was about, a fact Caramon thought strange, considering that it was not yet late. He peered constantly down the shadowy alleys and glanced sharply into each dark doorway they passed. The sharp-eyed kender noticed the warrior’s nervousness.
“Do you think someone’s going to jump out at us, Caramon?” Earwig asked eagerly. “You owe me a fight, you know, since you let me sleep through the one in the-”
“Keep quiet, kender!” Raistlin snarled.
Caramon glanced around. “Raist,” he said in a low voice, for his brother’s ears alone, “someone tried to stop us from coming to Mereklar that night. Why haven’t they tried again?”
The mage nodded his head wearily. “A good question, my brother. Look at it this way. That night, no one knew we were coming to Mereklar except the assassin. We may assume, I believe, that someone saw you remove the sign from the post at the crossroads. If we had died that night-” The mage coughed, struggled to draw breath.
“If we had died that night,” he repeated, when he could talk, “no would have known or cared. But, when we reached the inn, we made no secret of our interest in this city. People knew we were coming. If anything had happened to us on the way, questions would have been asked. Curiosity aroused.”
“That’s true,” said Caramon, regarding his brother with admiration. “So you think we’re safe now?”
Raistlin looked down at the white line, shimmering at his feet. It was very bright. He could see it clearly. No need for wine in his eyes. “No, Caramon, I do not-”
Pain seized Raistlin. Agony ran through his body like fiery darts. The motes of light left the streets and came to dance in his vision. The mage doubled over, the pain twisting his body into grotesque forms, squeezing the breath from his lungs, cutting off even his bubbling cry of torment.
Raistlin collapsed, unconscious. The staff clattered to the street. Lifting his brother, who was like a rag puppet in the big man’s arms, the warrior looked frantically around for aid.
“There’s the inn!” cried Earwig. “But it’s all dark!”
“These people must go to bed at sunset! Go get help!” Caramon ordered.
Dashing down the road, the kender reached the door to Barnstoke Hall and began pounding on it.
“Help! Fire! Thieves! Man overboard!” he yelled, adding any other rousing alarm he thought suitable.
Lights flared. Heads poked out of upstairs windows.
“What is it?” demanded a man in a pointed nightcap, coming out on a second-floor balcony.
“Open up!” shouted Caramon.
“It’s past hours. I’m locked up for the night. Come back in the morning-”
Caramon’s lips pressed together grimly. Getting a firm grip on the limp and seemingly lifeless body of his brother, the warrior kicked the door to the lodging-house. Wood splintered, but the door held. Caramon kicked it again. There was a tearing and rending sound as the door shattered beneath the blow. The man on the balcony shrieked in anger and disappeared inside.
Caramon stalked through the wreckage. Looking around, he found a sofa and gently laid his brother down. The scrollcase that Raistlin had placed in the sleeve of his robes clattered to the floor. Caramon paid no attention to it. His brother’s face was pinched, the lips blue. Raistlin had ceased breathing.