“It’s a strange coincidence that a mage shows up now. Who’s to say that he’s not the cause of our problems?” Lord Alvin sneered, pointing at Raistlin. “All know wizards have always conspired to rule the world!”
“I tell you, Councillor, that we don’t need them!” Lord Cal added, “The city guard will take care of the matter. We just need more time!”
“Please, Lord Alvin, contain yourself. You have no evidence to support your accusation. And you, Lord Cal, show respect for our guests,” Shavas commanded. “I’m sure that if Lord Manion were here, he would agree with the steps I have taken.”
“I am sorry, Majere, if I have slighted you,” Lord Alvin apologized, though he said it between clenched teeth.
Lord Cal said nothing. It seemed, for a moment, as if he might storm out of the room, but he finally subsided beneath Shavas’s icy stare.
“The mage is here only because of the ten thousand pieces of steel,” stated Lord Brunswick.
“On the contrary,” said Shavas aloofly. “Raistlin Majere has refused to accept any payment at all.”
Obviously caught by surprise, the ministers glanced at each other. Caramon, just as shocked as they were, stared at Raistlin incredulously.
“He must be after something else, then,” Alvin said under his breath.
“I must remind you, Lord Alvin,” Raistlin said from the depths of his cowl, “that, according to tradition, the services of all wizards are free during the Festival of the Eye.”
“And may I remind you, Master Mage, that the festival is nothing more than a child’s holiday, and legends or stories will never make it more than that!” Alvin snorted. “Tell us why you’re really here-if you dare!”
“Lord Alvin!” Councillor Shavas cried, shocked. “Since Lord Manion is not here to keep you silent, I shall be forced to have you removed from these proceedings if you do not cease your outbursts!”
“Thank you, Councillor, for your intervention,” Raistlin said, standing slowly, gripping the Staff of Magius in his right hand. “But Lord Alvin’s question is a legitimate one. My reason for remaining in your city is that I find it of interest. I have never seen a place of such beauty and wonder, and I will do whatever I can to help you. We of the red robes do not practice the dark arts of our black-robed brethren. We seek only to enlighten ourselves and grow in knowledge.”
“Then you want simply to profit by the experience?” Lady Volia asked, her chin propped up on a fist, staring intently at the mage.
“That is very astute, my lady. My companions and I believe that it is a virtue to help those in need without thought of worldly profit,” Raistlin said modestly.
Caramon knew that his brother was lying. Raistlin had never turned down an offer of money. Why’s he telling them this? What’s he really after? the fighter wondered. Looking at Councillor Shavas, who was regarding his brother with admiration, Caramon thought jealously that he knew the answer.
Silence fell, the mage’s remark having caught all of them off guard. Caramon could see, however, that Lord Alvin and Lord Cal remained unconvinced, even as the other ministers were slowly changing their opinions.
“How do you intend to begin the investigation?” Lady Masak asked.
Raistlin bowed slightly. “Forgive me, my lady, but my methods are not open to discussion.”
This caused an outburst, the ministers all talking-or shouting-at once. Caramon, groaning slightly from having to sit in one place too long, shifted his position restlessly.
Earwig scratched his hand; the area around the ring was turning red and raw from his constant rubbing.
Shavas beckoned to Lord Cal. “This is impossible! Go find Manion!”
The captain left the room.
Lord Manion threw his dress cloak over his black cloak of office, locking the clasps held at the throat, a gold chain braided like rope. Turning back to regard the front hall once more, satisfied that everything was in order, he extinguished the lamp, closed the door, and locked it with a large bronze key.
Manion’s dwelling was similar to the other houses owned by the officials of Mereklar-a large rectangular building of white stone with panes of glass in every wall. It had, however, a run-down look. The Minister of Internal Affairs was not a wealthy man. Some said he squandered his money on women and in the taverns. He didn’t own his own carriage, but Lord Brunswick’s estate was close enough for him to walk to.
Lord Manion set off down the street toward the middle of the city. The way led him through part of the town, then into a park. As he walked, he peered up into the sky to observe the stars and moons, smiling at the nearly full circles of Solinari and Lunitari.
Soon, he thought. Very soon.
Manion’s heavy black boots clicked along the white stone sidewalks. The night was silent. The city’s inhabitants had shut themselves in, barring their doors against a vague and unknown terror.
The lord was smiling, shaking his head at their folly when, turning a corner, he suddenly heard a throaty growl.
Manion looked back up the street. The sidewalk was brightly lit by the magical lights. He saw nothing and continued on his way, peering back over his shoulder from time to time.
Lord Manion heard the growl again, closer, and now a soft padding of footsteps. Instead of turning around and stopping to see what it was, the lord increased his pace. His boots sounded loudly on the pavement until he reached the park. He breathed easier. The soft ground muffled his steps, the tall trees hid his form. He couldn’t hear his pursuer anymore.
And then it was there again, following him, undeterred by darkness. The growl sounded closer and more menacing.
The lord began to sweat, drawing his breath in shallow, short gasps. Ducking behind a tree, pressing his back into the hard bark, he pulled a dagger from a sheath-a long jeweled blade, curved near the narrow tip-and held it, point-down, in his hand. He waited, as still as the night, for as many heartbeats as he dared, listening intently, extending his sense of sight and hearing as far as they would go.
He heard nothing, saw nothing. Lord Manion breathed a small sigh of relief.
An arm slammed his head back against the tree. A hand grabbed his dagger and threw it into a nearby hedge, disabling and disarming the man in one, efficient action. “How did you get here?” the attacker whispered. He was dressed in black, a shadow against shadows.
Manion stared into the eyes of his assailant-eyes that were red in the lambent light of the moons. The lord spit with loathing and hatred.
“Answer me!” the man in black hissed, driving his arm farther into the minister’s throat.
The lord lifted a leg and kicked his attacker in the stomach, sending the assailant flying backward. Manion leaped at the man he had just thrown, landing on top of him, grasping for his throat.
The man in black brought his right arm across in a horizontal arc, sweeping his hand against Manion’s chest. Claws ripped opened a great gash of black against the white, silk shirt. The lord screamed in agony. The attacker drove his other hand into the minister’s throat, lifting him off the ground, sending him sprawling.
Manion, shaking his head to clear it, renewed the battle in a frenzy, fighting with his bare hands. The claws slashed again, tearing flesh. The lord fell to his knees. The assailant brought his right leg up in a kick that snapped Manion’s head backward, causing him to land with his arms and legs spread out, completely vulnerable. Bending over the minister, the man in black reached down with an arm, attempting to drag the lord to his feet.
Manion slammed his head into the attacker’s chest. Grabbing the dark-clothed limbs, he rushed forward, dashing the man full-force into a tree.