Iolanthe was in the act of reaching for her purse when the serving girl came by. Iolanthe stood up and the two collided, causing Iolanthe to drop her purse and spill the contents. Iolanthe angrily scolded the serving girl, who apologized most profusely and picked up the scattered coins and trinkets, some of which Raistlin recognized as spell components.
When Raistlin rose from the table, Iolanthe took hold of his hand and slipped a rolled-up bit of paper into his palm. He concealed the paper in the long, full sleeves of his robes and deftly slipped it into one of his pouches. The black wax of the “official seal” was still warm to the touch.
Raistlin collected the key to number thirty-nine from one of the bartenders, who instructed him that after he had moved in he was to drop the key off whenever he left the premises and pick it up on his return. Iolanthe bid good-bye to Talent Orren, who was seated at a table with two dark pilgrims, one male and one female. Talent kissed Iolanthe’s hand, much to the disapproval of the pilgrims, then went back to their conversation.
“I can get what you want,” Talent was saying, “but it will cost you.”
The dark pilgrims glanced at each other, and the woman smiled and nodded. The man drew out a heavy purse.
“What was that all about?” Raistlin asked as they left the inn.
“Oh, Talent is probably selling them something on the black market,” Iolanthe said with a shrug. “Those two are Spiritors, high in the clerical hierarchy. Like many of Her Dark Majesty’s followers, they have developed a taste for the finer things in life, such as thoroughbred horses from Khur, wine and silk from Qualinesti, and jewelry from the dwarf artisans of Thorbardin. Once these things were sold in the shops, but with the supply lines getting cut and losses mounting, such luxuries are becoming scarce.”
“Interesting that Talent can lay his hands on them,” Raistlin said.
“He has a way with people,” Iolanthe said, smiling.
She took Raistlin’s arm again, much to his discomfiture. He had expected that they would head back into the heart of the city. The Tower of High Sorcery would not be as grand or imposing as the Temple of the Dark Queen, of course. That would not be politic. But it ought to be located somewhere near Takhisis’s temple.
He had thought it curious that he had not found a description of the Tower of High Sorcery in the Aesthetic’s writings on Neraka. There could be many reasons for that. Every Tower of High Sorcery was guarded by a protective grove. The Tower of Palanthas had the dread Shoikan Grove. The Tower of Wayreth was surrounded by an enchanted forest. Perhaps the grove around the Nerakan Tower rendered it invisible.
Iolanthe did not turn toward the Temple of the Dark Queen, however. She walked in the opposite direction, taking a street that led into what appeared to be a warehouse district. The streets were less crowded here, for soldiers did not frequent the area. Raistlin could see workmen inside the warehouses rolling barrels into place, shifting crates, and unloading sacks of grain from the ubiquitous wagons.
“I thought we were going to the Tower,” Raistlin said.
“We are,” said Iolanthe.
Rounding a corner, drawing him with her, she stopped in front of a three-story building made of bricks, huddling in between a cooper’s business on one side and a blacksmith’s on the other. The building was black, not by design, but because the bricks were covered with dirt and soot. There were few windows, and most of those were cracked or broken.
“Where is the Tower?” asked Raistlin.
“You’re looking at it,” said Iolanthe.
5
Boiled Cabbage. The New Librarian.
“There must … there must be some mistake,” said Raistlin, appalled.
“There is no mistake,” said Iolanthe. “You look upon the repository of magic in the Dark Queen’s realm.”
She turned to face him. “Now do you understand? Now do you see why Nuitari broke with his mother? This”—she made a scathing gesture to the shabby, dirty, and decrepit building—”is the regard in which magic is held by the Queen of Darkness.”
Raistlin had never known such bitter disappointment. He thought of the pain he had endured, the sacrifices he had made to get to this place, and tears of anger and frustration burned his eyes and blurred his vision.
Iolanthe gave his arm a sympathetic pat. “I am sorry to say it only gets worse from here. You have yet to meet your fellow Black Robes.”
Her violet eyes, gazing at him, were piercing in their intensity. “You must decide, Raistlin Majere,” she said softly. “Which side will you choose? Mother or son?”
“What about you?” he hedged.
Iolanthe laughed. “Oh, that is easy. I am always on my own side.”
And her side appears to include serving my sister, Kitiara, Raistlin thought. That might work well for me, or it might not. I did not come to serve. I came to rule.
Sighing, Raistlin picked up the ruins of his shattered ambition and packed away the pieces. The path he had been walking had carried him not to glory but to a pig sty. He had to watch every step, look closely where he put his feet.
The door to the Tower of High Lunacy, as Iolanthe mockingly termed it, was guarded by a rune burned in the wood. The magical spell was rudimentary. A child could have removed it.
“Aren’t you worried that people will break in?” Raistlin asked.
Iolanthe gave a delicate snort. “It will give you some idea of how little the people of Neraka care about us when I tell you that thus far no one has ever attempted to break into our Tower. People are quite right not to waste their time. There’s nothing in here of value.”
“But there must be a library,” said Raistlin, his dismay growing. “Spellbooks, scrolls, artifacts …”
“Everything of value was sold off long ago to pay the rent on the building,” said Iolanthe.
Pay the rent! Raistlin burned with shame. He thought of the grand and glorious and tragic histories of the Towers of High Sorcery down through the ages. Magnificent structures designed to inspire fear and awe in all who gazed upon them. He watched a rat run into a hole at the base of the brick wall and felt sick to his stomach.
Iolanthe dispelled the rune and shoved open the door leading to a small and filthy entryway. To their right, a corridor extended into dusty darkness. A rickety-looking staircase led up to the second floor.
“There are rooms here, but you see why I suggested you live somewhere else,” said Iolanthe.
She called out, pitching her voice to carry to the second level. “It’s me! Iolanthe! I’m coming upstairs. Don’t cast any fireballs.” She added in a disparaging undertone, “Not that the old farts could. What spells they ever knew, they long ago forgot.”
“What is down that corridor?” Raistlin asked as they climbed the stairs that creaked ominously underfoot.
“Classrooms,” said Iolanthe. “At least that’s what they were meant to be. There were never any students.”
Silence had greeted their arrival, but once Iolanthe had announced herself, voices broke out, high-pitched and querulous, pecking and clucking.
The second level was the common living and working space. The bedchambers were on the third floor. Iolanthe pointed out the laboratory, which consisted of a long worktable, set with cracked and dirty crockery, and a cauldron bubbling over a fire. The escaping steam told of boiled cabbage.
Next to the laboratory was the library. Raistlin looked through the door. The floor was covered with stacks and piles of books, parchments, and scrolls. Someone appeared to have started to sort through them, for a few books had been placed neatly on a shelf. After that, nothing had been done, apparently, except to create a bigger mess.