“And don’t come back!” the man yelled, shaking his fist.
“Ah, you know you’d miss me, Talent!” the kender returned, cheerfully picking herself up. She wandered off down the street, wiping muck from her eyes and wringing mud from her straggling braids.
“Vermin!” the man muttered as he turned to smile at Iolanthe. He made a graceful bow. “Welcome, Madam Iolanthe. It is a pleasure to see you, as always. Who is your friend?”
Iolanthe performed introductions. “Raistlin Majere, meet Talent Orren, owner of the Inn of the Broken Shield.”
Orren bowed again. Raistlin inclined his hooded head, and both men studied each other. Orren was of medium height, with a slender, almost delicate build. He was good looking, with brown eyes that were keen and penetrating. He had shoulder-length dark hair, carefully combed, and a thin mustache on his upper lip. He wore a white shirt with long, flowing sleeves, the neck open, and tight leather pants. A long sword hung from his side. He held the door open and politely ushered Iolanthe into the inn. Raistlin started to follow, only to find himself blocked by Orren’s muscular arm.
“Humans only,” Orren said, “as the sign says.”
Raistlin flushed in anger and embarrassment.
“Oh, for mercy’s sake, he is human, Orren!” said Iolanthe.
“I have never seen a human with such funny-colored skin,” Orren said, unconvinced. His voice was cultivated. Raistlin thought he detected a faint Solamnic accent.
Iolanthe grabbed hold of Raistlin’s wrist. “Humans come in all different colors, Orren. My friend happens to be a little peculiar;
that’s all.”
She whispered into Orren’s ear, and he regarded Raistlin with more interest. “Is this the truth? Are you Kitiara’s brother?”
Raistlin opened his mouth to reply, but Iolanthe answered for him.
“Of course he is,” she said briskly. “You can see the family resemblance.” She lowered her voice. “And I wouldn’t go shouting Kitiara’s name in the streets. Not these days.”
Talent smiled. “You have a point, Iolanthe, my sweet. You do resemble your sister, sir, and that is a compliment, for she is a lovely woman.”
Raistlin did not comment. He did not think he and Kitiara looked alike; they were, after all, only half brother and sister. Kitiara had black curls and brown eyes. She took after her father, who had been darkly handsome. Raistlin’s hair had been like Caramon’s, a russet color, before the Test had turned his hair prematurely white.
What Raistlin did not realize was that both he and Kit had the same fire in their eyes, the same determination to gain what they wanted no matter what the cost—even to themselves.
Orren allowed Raistlin to enter, graciously holding the door for him. The inn was crowded and noisy; they were serving the midday dinner crowd. Iolanthe told Talent she needed to talk business. He stated that he had no time at the present, but he would talk to her when the rush was over.
She and Raistlin walked past several tables occupied by dark pilgrims, who regarded them with frowns and disapproving glares. Raistlin heard the muttered word “witch,” and he glanced at his companion. Iolanthe had heard as well, to judge by the color that had mounted to her cheeks. She pretended she had not, however, and swept past them.
Several soldiers regarded her with more favor, speaking to her respectfully as “Mistress Iolanthe” and asking if she would join them. Iolanthe always declined, but with some clever remark that left the soldiers laughing. She guided Raistlin to a small table in a shadowed corner underneath the broad staircase that led to the upper rooms.
A soldier was already seated there, but he immediately rose when he saw her coming. Picking up his food and drink, he relinquished the table to her with a grin.
Raistlin sank gratefully into the chair. His health might be improved, but he still found that he tired easily. The serving girl came hurrying to take their order, pausing frequently on her way to knock aside a pawing hand, slap a face, or expertly jam her elbow into a rib cage. She did not appear angry or even overly annoyed.
“I can handle myself,” she said, seeming to guess what Raistlin was thinking. “And the boys watch out for me.”
She gave a nod to several very large men, who were standing with their backs against the walls, keeping watchful eyes on the patrons. At that moment, one of the men left his post and went charging into the crowd to break up a fight. Both combatants were speedily ejected.
“Strange to see peace reign in a tavern that caters to soldiers,” Raistlin remarked.
“Talent learned early in his career that barroom brawls are bad for business, particularly with the religious types,” Iolanthe said. “These dark pilgrims will watch a ritual blood sacrifice to their Queen without turning a hair, but let a man bloody another man’s nose during the supper hour, and the pilgrims would keel over in shock.”
The serving girl brought the food, which was, as the Aesthetic had written, plain but good. Iolanthe ate a shepherd’s pie with a healthy appetite. Raistlin nibbled at some boiled chicken. What he could not finish, Iolanthe ate for him.
“You should eat more,” she said to him. “Keep up your strength. You will need it this afternoon.”
“What do you mean?” Raistlin asked, alarmed at her ominous tone.
“You will find the Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka a surprise,” she said quietly.
Raistlin was going to press her for more information, but Talent Orren joined them at that moment. Hauling over a chair from another table, he turned it around and straddled it, resting his arms on the back.
“What can I do for you, my adorable witch?” he said with a playful smile for Iolanthe. “You know that I live to serve you.”
“I know that you live to charm the ladies,” returned Iolanthe, grinning.
Raistlin started to draw out his purse. Iolanthe shook her head.
“My lord Ariakas will have the pleasure of paying for lunch. Put our meals on the Emperor’s tab, will you, Talent? And add something for the girl and for yourself.”
“Your wish is my command,” said Talent. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“I want a room in your boarding house for my friend,” Iolanthe continued. “Just a small room, nothing fancy. His needs are simple.”
“I am generally full, but as it happens, I have a room available,” said Orren. “It opened up this morning.” He added matter-of-factly, “Occupant died in his sleep.”
He named a price. Raistlin did some rapid calculations and shook his head. “I am afraid I cannot afford—”
Iolanthe stopped him, closing her hand over his. “Kitiara will pay for him. He is, after all, her brother.”
Talent slapped the back of the chair. “Then it is all settled. You can move in any time, Majere. I fear you will notice a strong odor of paint, but we had to use several coats to cover up the blood spatters. Collect the key on the way out. Number thirty-nine. Third floor, turn to your right, then make a left at the end of the corridor. Anything else?”
Iolanthe said something in a low voice. Talent listened intently, glanced at Raistlin, raised an eyebrow, then smiled.
“Of course. Wait here.”
“You can put that on Ariakas’s tab as well,” Iolanthe called to him.
Talent laughed as he headed back to the bar.
“Don’t worry,” said Iolanthe when Raistlin began to protest. “I will speak to Kit. She will be thrilled to hear you are in Neraka. As for paying for your room, she can easily afford it.”
“Nevertheless,” said Raistlin firmly, “I will not be beholden to anyone, not even my sister. I will pay her back the moment I am able.”
“How very noble,” said Iolanthe, amused by his scruples. “And now, if you are feeling better, we will visit the Tower, and I will introduce you to your esteemed colleagues.”