Raistlin looked uncertain. Iolanthe drew near to him and said softly, “Don’t be a fool. Do as he says.”
Raistlin cast her a glance, then placed his staff on the floor. Iolanthe wondered that he wasn’t more concerned over its loss, for certainly he must know that any valuable object the Nightlord put “in storage” was gone for good.
“You will remain as a witness, madam,” said the Nightlord, frowning at Iolanthe.
She sighed and joined Raistlin, who was opening first one pouch then another, emptying out the contents on the desk. There was the usual variety of spell components: cobweb, bat guano, rose petals, the skin of a black snake, black oil, coffin nails, cowry shells, and so forth. The Nightlord regarded those items with distaste and was careful not to touch any of them.
All the pouches except one lay on the Nightlord’s desk. Iolanthe could see one pouch still attached to Raistlin’s belt, though he had deftly maneuvered that pouch around to the side and covered it with the flowing sleeve of his black robe.
“Those are all my spell components, lord,” said Raistlin, adding humbly, “I would appreciate it if you would return them to me, lord. I am not a wealthy man, and they cost me dearly.”
“These items are contraband,” said the Nightlord, “and will be destroyed.”
He summoned one of the dark pilgrims, who reluctantly and gingerly picked up the various components, deposited them in a sack, and took them away. At his command, another dark pilgrim dropped a blanket over the staff, picked it up, and carried it from the room.
Raistlin made no argument, though; judging by the faint, sardonic smile that touched the young wizard’s lips, he knew the Nightlord was being arbitrary to punish him. Rose petals were not going to bring about the downfall of Her Dark Majesty. Every item in his pouches could be purchased at any mageware shop in the city.
“I abide by your decision, lord,” Raistlin said, bowing. “Am I free to go?”
“If your lordship pleases, I will conduct him to the proper exit,” said Iolanthe.
She rested her fingers on the young man’s arm and was surprised to feel an unnatural warmth radiating through the black folds of his robe. He seemed to burn with fever, yet he showed no symptoms of illness, only a very natural fatigue. Iolanthe was more and more intrigued by Kitiara’s brother. The two of them were bowing and starting to edge away when the Nightlord spoke.
“Show me the contents of that remaining pouch.”
A flush suffused Raistlin’s golden-toned skin. “I assure your lordship that it has nothing to do with magic.” He did not appear afraid so much as embarrassed.
“I will be the judge of that,” said the Nightlord smugly. He rapped on the table. “Put it here.”
Raistlin slowly drew out the pouch, but he did not open it.
“You have no choice,” Iolanthe whispered. “Whatever it is you are hiding, is it worth being disemboweled?”
Raistlin shrugged and dropped the pouch on the desk in front of the Nightlord. The pouch was lumpy and heavy and landed with a thud and a muffled thunk.
The Nightlord regarded the pouch with a suspicious frown. He did not touch it, instead turning to Iolanthe. “You, witch. Open it.”
Iolanthe would have liked to have opened the man’s scrawny throat, but she contained her anger. She was as curious as the Nightlord to see the contents the young mage was so carefully guarding.
She studied the pouch before she picked it up, noting that it was made of leather, well worn, and closed by a leather drawstring that ran through the top. No runes had been written on it. No spells of warding had been laid on it. She could have used a simple cantrip to find out if it was magically protected in some other way, but she did not want to give the Nightlord the impression that she mistrusted a fellow mage. She glanced at Raistlin from beneath her long lashes, hoping he would give her some sort of sign that she could proceed safely. His eyelids flickered beneath the hood. He slightly smiled.
Iolanthe drew in a deep breath and pulled open the strings to the pouch with a jerk. She looked inside and was at first startled, then she had to choke back her laughter. She upended the bag. The contents spilled out and went rolling off in all directions.
“What is this?” the Nightlord demanded, glaring.
The Adjudicator bent down to examine them closely. Unlike the Nightlord, the Adjudicator was both perverse and stupid.
“They would be marbles, my lord,” the Adjudicator said solemnly.
Iolanthe controlled her twitching lips. Somewhere in the darkness someone did laugh. The Nightlord glared around, and the laughter was immediately stifled.
“Marbles.” The Nightlord fixed Raistlin with a withering stare.
Raistlin’s flush deepened. He appeared overcome by shame. “I know it is a child’s game, my lord, but I am quite fond of it. I find that playing marbles relaxes me. I might recommend it to your lordship if you are occasionally bilious—”
“You have wasted enough of my time. Get out!” ordered the Nightlord. “And do not come back. Queen Takhisis can do quite well without ‘respects’ from scum like you.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Raistlin, and he began to hastily scoop up the marbles that were still rolling on the desk.
Iolanthe bent to pick up one marble that had fallen on the floor and lay near the hem of the young mage’s robes. The marble was green and shone with an eerie luster. She remembered from her own childhood that such a marble was called a cat’s eye.
“Please, madam, do not trouble yourself,” Raistlin said in his soft voice. He deftly intercepted her, plucking the marble out from under her fingers. As his hand brushed hers, she felt again the strange heat of his skin.
Another prisoner was being hauled into the court. He was bound in chains and manacles. He was covered in blood and looked more dead than alive. Raistlin glanced at him as he and Iolanthe hastened past.
“That could have been you,” she said in a low voice.
“Yes,” he said, adding, “I am grateful for your help, madam.”
“No need to be so formal. My name is Iolanthe,” she said, hustling him out of the courtroom. She had no idea where she was or how to escape the maze of tunnels, but she kept going. Her one thought was to put as much distance between herself and the Nightlord as possible.
“You are Raistlin Majere. I believe that is your name?”
“Correct, madam. I mean … Iolanthe,” said Raistlin.
She was tempted to tell him she knew his sister, Kitiara, but decided against revealing too much too soon. Knowledge is power, and she had yet to determine how to make use of it or if she should even bother. A wizard who played at marbles …
She found a dark pilgrim, who was more than happy to escort them from the temple. She saw, as they walked the winding, twisting halls, that Raistlin missed nothing. His strange eyes were constantly roving, making mental notes of each turn, each staircase they passed, the banks of cells and pools of acid, the guard rooms. Iolanthe could have told him that if he were trying to map the place, he was wasting his time. The dungeons had been deliberately designed to be as confusing as possible. On the off chance that a prisoner would escape, he would quickly lose himself in the labyrinth and fall easy victim to the guards or tumble into an acid pool.
Iolanthe was eager to question the young mage, but she was mindful of the proximity of the dark cleric walking alongside them, whose ears were undoubtedly flapping beneath his hood. At last they came to a steep, winding, staircase that proved too narrow for them all to mount together. Their guide was forced to walk ahead of them.
They climbed the stairs slowly, for Raistlin almost immediately ran out of breath and had to lean on the iron railing.
“Are you all right?” Iolanthe asked.
“I was afflicted with an illness for many years,” he said. “I am cured of it now, but it took its toll.”
As they continued up the stairs, Iolanthe said something polite. He did not respond, and she realized he had not even heard her. He was abstracted, absorbed in his own thoughts. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, the dark pilgrim, believing that his charges were close behind him, had rounded a corner and was out of sight.