“How is poor Caramon?” Sturm asked in the somber tones of one keeping watch at a deathbed. Raistlin shook his head and sighed.
“He drank too much, that’s all,” said Tanis, exasperated.
“Perhaps it was the worm meat,” Raistlin suggested.
“Oh, gods!” Caramon groaned. Clutching his gut, he rolled out of bed, dashed over to the corner, and threw up in the slop bucket.
“You see, Tanis,” said Raistlin reproachfully. “My brother is gravely ill! I leave him in your care. I must have a word with Flint before he departs.”
“And I would like a word with you, Raistlin,” said Sturm. “If you could spare me a moment.” The two walked off, leaving Tanis staring after them in wonder, scratching his beard. “What are those two up to? Ganging up on Flint, I suppose. Well, good luck to them.” He went over to assure Caramon that he had not been fed worms.
“Flint has promised to at least consider it,” said Sturm.
“He must consider quickly, then,” Raistlin said. “I need time to cast the spell, and our young friend grows impatient to be gone.”
Arman stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. Every so often he would frown deeply, heave a loud sigh, and tap the toe of his boot on the floor. “Once we send it, we are to take the Hammer to the Temple of the Stars,” Arman declared. “I told my father we would be there by sunset, if not before.”
Flint stared at him. “What do you think? That we’re going to just stroll into the tomb, pick up the Hammer, and stroll back out?”
“I do not know,” Arman replied coldly. “You are the one who knows how to find it.” Flint grunted and shook his head. He closed his pack, lifted it off the floor, and slung it over his shoulder. His eyes met Raistlin’s. Flint gave a very slight nod.
“He’ll do it!” Raistlin said exultantly to Sturm. “There is one problem. The spell I am going to cast is a transmutation spell. It is designed to shrink an object.”
“Shrink?” Sturm repeated, aghast. “We don’t want to shrink the hammer!”
“I am aware of that,” Raistlin said irritably. “I plan to modify the spell so it will reduce the hammer’s weight but not the size. There is a small chance that I might make a mistake. If so, our plot will be discovered.”
Sturm glowered. “Then we should not proceed.”
“A small chance, I said,” Raistlin remarked. “Very small.” He went over to Flint, who gave him a dark glance from beneath lowered brows.
“This replica is an object of fine craftsmanship,” said Raistlin. “Could I hold it to examine it more closely?”
Flint looked around. Arman had left off haunting the doorway and gone outside to try to walk off his mounting frustration. Tanis was across the room talking to Caramon. Slowly, Flint reached for the hammer. He drew it awkwardly from the harness and handed it over.
“It’s heavy,” he said pointedly.
Raistlin took the hammer, hefted it to test the weight, then affected to study the runes.
“It would be easier to carry,” Flint said, fidgeting nervously with the straps on his armor, “if it was lighter in weight.”
“Anyone watching?” Raistlin murmured.
“No,” said Sturm, smoothing his mustaches. “Arman is outside. Tanis is with your brother.” Raistlin closed his eyes. He gripped the hammer with one hand, running the other over the runeetched metal. He drew in a soft breath, then whispered strange words that Flint thought sounded like it feels when a bug crawls up your leg. He regretted his decision and started to reach for the hammer, to take it away.
Then Raistlin gave a sigh and opened his eyes.
“It is heavy,” he said, as he handed it back. “Remember to be careful when you use it.” Obviously, the spell had failed. Flint was relieved. He grabbed hold of the hammer and nearly went over backward. The hammer was as light as the kender’s chicken feather. Raistlin’s eyes glittered. He slid his hands inside the sleeves of his robes. Flint looked the hammer up and down, but he could not see any change. He started to put it back into the harness, then he caught Raistlin’s eye and remembered just in time that the hammer was heavy. Flint wasn’t very good at play-acting. He was doubly sorry he’d agreed to go along with this scheme, but it was too late now.
“Well, I’m away,” he announced. He stood hunched over, as if bowed down by the weight of the hammer, which was, in truth, weighing on him.
“I wish you would reconsider,” said Tanis, walking over to say good-bye. “You still have time to change your mind.”
“Yeah, I know.” Flint rubbed his nose. He paused, cleared his throat, then said gruffly, “Do this old dwarf a favor, will you, Tanis? Give him a chance to find glory at least once in his dull life. I know it sounds foolish—”
“No,” said Tanis, and he laid his hand on Flint’s shoulder. “It is far from foolish. Walk with Reorx.”
“Don’t go praying to gods you don’t believe in, half-elf,” Flint returned, glowering. “It’s bad luck.”
Straightening his shoulders, Flint walked out to join Arman Kharas, who told him in no uncertain terms it was time to depart. The two walked off, escorted by Hylar soldiers. Two Hylar guards remained behind, taking up their posts outside the inn’s door.
“I hope they haven’t forgotten breakfast,” said Caramon, sitting up in bed.
“I thought you weren’t feeling well,” said Raistlin in withering tones.
“I feel better now that I threw up. Hey!” Caramon walked over, opened the door, and stuck his head out. “When do we eat?”
Tasslehoff stared out the window until Flint had disappeared around the corner of a building. Then the kender plunked down on a chair.
“Flint promised me I could go with him to the Floating Tomb,” Tas said, kicking the rungs. Tanis knew it would be hopeless to try to convince the kender that Flint had made no such promise, so Tanis left Tas alone, confident that he would forget all about going in another five minutes, once he found something else of interest.
Sturm was also staring out the window. “We could handle the guards at the door. Tanis. There are only two of them.”
“Then what?” Raistlin demanded caustically. “How do we slip through Thorbardin unnoticed? Pass ourselves off as dwarves? The kender might do it, but the rest of us would have to put on false beards and walk on our knees.”
Sturm’s face flushed at the mage’s sarcasm. “We could at least speak to Hornfel. Tell him of our concern for our friend. He might reconsider.”
“I suppose we could request an audience,” said Tanis, “but I doubt we’d succeed. He made it very clear that only dwarves can enter the sacred tomb.”
Sturm continued to stare gloomily out the window.
“Flint is on his way to the Valley of Thanes,” said Tanis, “the Kingdom of the Dead, with a mad dwarf to watch his back and the spirit of a dead prince to guide him. Fretting over him won’t help.”
“Praying for him will,” said Sturm, and the knight went down on his knees. Raistlin shrugged. “I’m going back to bed.”
“At least ’til breakfast comes,” said Caramon.
There was nothing else to do. Tanis went to his bed, lay down and stared at the ceiling. Sturm began to pray silently. “I know what I did was wrong, but I did it for the greater good,” he told Paladine. He closed his hands and clenched his hands. “As I have always done…”
Tasslehoff stopped kicking the rungs of the chair. He waited until Sturm was caught up in the rapture of his communion with the god, waited until Tanis’s eyes closed and his breathing evened out, waited until he heard Caramon’s loud snore and Raistlin’s rasping coughing cease.
“Flint promised I could go,” Tas muttered. “‘I’d sooner take the kender.’ That’s what he said. Tanis is worried about him, and he wouldn’t worry half so much if I was with him.” Tasslehoff divested himself of his pouches. Leaving them behind was a wrench. He felt positively naked without them, but he would make this sacrifice for his friend. Sliding off the chair, moving silently as only a kender can move when he puts his mind to it, Tas opened the door and slipped quietly outside.