Raistlin already knew that from his studies of Neraka in the Great Library. Due to distrust and intrigues and competition for advancement among the five Dragon Highlords—qualities Ariakas fostered—every district was self-sufficient. Each had its own smithies, shops, dwellings, barracks, and so on. No Highlord wanted to have to rely on another for anything. Needless to say, rivalries among the soldiers were also encouraged.
“We are going outside the walls. Bloody hell!” Iolanthe stopped. She looked annoyed. “I forgot. You don’t have a black pass.”
“A black pass? What is that?” Raistlin asked.
Iolanthe reached into one of the silken pouches she wore on her belt and took out a bit of paper. The ink was faded, but still possible to read. The seal of the Church—a five-headed dragon stamped in black wax—was affixed at the bottom.
“It’s called a black pass because of the black wax seal. All citizens must have this letter from the Church giving us permission to live and work in the city. Once you are outside the walls, you won’t be able to get back inside without this. And after last night, I doubt very much if the Nightlord will grant you one.”
Iolanthe pondered the problem a moment, frowning and tapping her foot. Then her face cleared. “Ah, I have the answer. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. Come along.”
She latched hold of him again and hauled him off, heading for the wall and the gate that led through it.
“Are you feverish?” Iolanthe asked suddenly, reaching up to feel his forehead.
“My body temperature is unnaturally high,” Raistlin said, flinching away from her touch.
She seemed to find his reaction amusing. He wondered irritably if she enjoyed making him feel uncomfortable.
“Nervous energy?” she suggested.
Again, Raistlin was forced to turn the subject from himself. “You mentioned that Emperor Ariakas frequented your friend’s shop. I had heard the Emperor is a wizard, something I find hard to believe since I also hear he is a warrior who wears armor and wields a sword. Others say he is a cleric, devoted to Takhisis. Which is the truth?”
“Both, in a way,” said Iolanthe, her expression darkening. “The Emperor goes into battle wearing full plate and chain mail and carrying a two-handed greatsword. He is not one to lead from the rear. He is no coward. He loves nothing better than to be in the thick of the fray. And while he is lopping off heads with one hand, he is casting fiery darts of magic with the other.”
“That is not possible,” Raistlin said flatly.
As he was constantly having to remind Caramon, who was always wanting him to learn to wield a sword, the art of magic required constant, daily study. Those who dedicate themselves to the magic do not have the time to pursue other interests, including martial skills. In addition, armor impeded the mage from making the complex hand motions often required for spellcasting. And many mages, such as Raistlin, believed that magic was a far more powerful weapon than a sword.
“Lord Ariakas is something of a cleric,” Iolanthe was saying. “He acquires his magic directly from Queen Takhisis herself.”
They passed through the White Gate, under the control of the Green Dragonarmy, commanded by Highlord Salah-Kahn. The White Dragonarmy, formerly under the late Dragon Highlord Feal-Thas, had been considerably reduced since the Highlord’s death, most of its troops reassigned. The soldiers of the Green Dragonarmy were from Iolanthe’s homeland of Khur. She was well known among them and well liked, for she took care to cultivate their good opinion.
His hood pulled low to conceal his face, Raistlin watched in silence, as she flirted and laughed and teased her way through the gate. No one asked to see his pass.
“They will want to see it on the way back in, however,” Iolanthe said. “But don’t worry. All will be well.”
Leaving the Inner City was like stepping from dark and quiet night into loud and blaring day. The sun blazed hotly, as though glad to escape the Dark Queen’s shadow. The dirt streets were jammed with wagons, carts, and all manner of people, every one of them yelling at the top of his or her lungs.
Raistlin was trying to cross the street without being run down by a cart, when he bumped into a soldier, who swore at him viciously and pulled his knife. Iolanthe lifted her hand; flames crackled ominously from her fingers, and the soldier glared and went on. She dragged Raistlin off, both of them walking carefully to avoid tumbling into the deep ruts worn by the wagon wheels.
The streets were clogged with soldiers of all races—humans, ogres, goblins, minotaurs, and draconians. The draconians were disciplined, orderly, their weapons shining, leather polished. Human soldiers, by contrast, were slovenly, raucous, sullen, and surly. Ogres kept to themselves, looking brooding and put-upon. Two minotaurs walked proudly past, their horned heads held high, regarding all other puny beings with magnificent disdain. Goblins and hobgoblins, whom everyone despised, slogged through the mud, ducking their hairy heads to avoid blows.
Quarrels between the troops often broke out, resulting in heated exchanges and drawn swords. At the first shout, the elite draconian temple guards would appear, as if from nowhere. The combatants would eye them, then snarl and retreat, like curs when the master brandishes the whip.
The noise and confusion of rumbling carts, swearing men, barking dogs, and shrill-voiced whores gave Raistlin a throbbing headache. The air was thick with smoke from the forge fires and the cook fires of the various army camps, whose tents were visible in the distance. A most foul odor came from a nearby tannery and mingled with livestock smells from the stockyard and fresh blood from the butcher’s.
Iolanthe covered her mouth with a perfumed handkerchief.
“Thank goodness we’re almost there,” said Iolanthe as she gestured to a large and sprawling collection of buildings across the street from where they were standing. “The Inn of the Broken Shield. You should seek lodging there.”
Raistlin shook his head. “I have read of it. I can’t afford it.”
“Oh, yes, you can,” said Iolanthe, and she winked at him. “I have an idea.”
She glanced both ways, then plunged out into the street. Raistlin followed, both of them running and stumbling over the ruts, dodging horses and marching soldiers.
Raistlin had read a description of the inn in his studies of Neraka. An Aesthetic with the unlikely name of Cameroon Bunks had risked his life to venture into the city of the Dark Queen in order to explore it and return to report on what he had seen.
He wrote: The Inn of the Broken Shield began when proprietor Talent Orren, a former sellsword from Lemish, used his winnings at gambling to purchase a one-room shack in the White District of Neraka. The story goes that Orren had no steel for a sign, so he nailed his own cracked shield over the door and called the shack the “Broken Shield.” Orren served food that was plain, but good. He did not water the ale nor gouge his customers. With the influx of soldiers and dark pilgrims into Neraka, he soon had more business than he could handle. Later, Orren added a room to the shack and called it the “Broken Shield Tavern.” Later still, he added several blocks of rooms to the tavern and changed the name to the “Inn of the Broken Shield.”
There were so many buildings, each with several entrances, that Raistlin had no idea which door was the main one. Iolanthe chose a door seemingly at random, as far as Raistlin could tell, until he glanced up to see a shield—cracked down the middle—hanging above it.
A weather-beaten placard nailed to the door bore the words, scrawled in Common, Humans Only! Ogres, goblins, draconians, and minotaurs did their drinking in the Hair of the Troll, popularly known as the Hairy Troll.
Iolanthe was starting to push on the swinging, double doors when they suddenly flew open. A man in a white shirt and leather doublet appeared, carrying a kender by the scruff of her neck and the seat of her britches. The man gave a heave-ho and flung the kender into the street, where she landed belly-first in the mud.