Raistlin halted in the middle of the sidewalk. The Adjudicator and his two friends, their arms linked, walked right toward him. Either they were too drunk to notice him or they assumed he would move.
Raistlin stayed where he was. The three would have to stop or run him down.
At last the Adjudicator saw him. He and his companions staggered to a halt.
“Move aside, scum, and let your betters pass,” said the Adjudicator with a snarl.
Raistlin inclined his hooded head. “If you three would be so kind as to step to one side, Revered Sirs, I could pass—”
“You dare ask us to step aside!” cried one of the lantern-carrying clerics. “Don’t you know who this is?”
“I neither know nor care,” said Raistlin evenly.
“I recognize that voice. I’ve met this dung-eater before,” said the Adjudicator. “Hold the light so that I can see him—”
The Adjudicator’s body suddenly stiffened. His back arched, his eyes bulged. He gave a gasp that bubbled into a cry of agony, then he made a gargling sound and lurched forward, his hands outstretched. He fell on his belly onto the sidewalk. Blood trickled from the Adjudicator’s mouth. The light of the two lanterns glinted on the handle of a butcher’s knife protruding from the Adjudicator’s back. Raistlin caught a fleeting glimpse of a black-clad figure disappearing around the corner.
The two dark pilgrims stared down at the dead man in ale-soaked bewilderment. Raistlin was as stunned as either of the dark pilgrims. He was the first to recover from the shock, and he knelt beside the dead man, feeling for a life beat in the bull-like neck, though it was obvious to him the man was dead. One of the dark pilgrims gave a sudden screech.
“You!” he cried, pointing a finger at Raistlin. “He’s dead because of you!”
He swung his lantern, aiming a wild blow at Raistlin’s head that came nowhere close to hitting its mark.
The other dark pilgrim began shouting for the guards. “Murder! Help! Assassins! Murder!”
Raistlin understood his danger. The dark pilgrims thought he had deliberately stopped the Adjudicator and held him in conversation so the assassin could slip up and stab him. Raistlin could proclaim his innocence all he wanted, but appearances were against him. No one would believe him.
Raistlin scrambled to his feet. He had been fingering the rose petals. The words of the sleep spell were in his mind, and in a split second the words were on his tongue.
“Ast tasarak sinuralan krynawi!”
He flung the rose petals into the faces of the two dark pilgrims, and they slumped to the pavement, one rolling into the gutter, the other landing at Raistlin’s feet. One of the lanterns fell to the ground and broke. Its light went out. Unfortunately, the other lantern continued to shine. Raistlin would have liked to have taken time to douse the light, but he didn’t dare. He could hear whistles and shouts, and he recalled what Iolanthe had told him about how seriously Nerakan guards took the murder of any dark pilgrim. At the murder of the Adjudicator, they would turn out the entire garrison.
Raistlin hesitated a moment, thinking what to do. He could whisk himself into the corridors of magic and travel safely back to his rooms. He glanced into the heavens and seemed to see Lunitari’s red eye wink at him. The goddess had always taken a liking to him. This might be the break he had been seeking. Though he was putting himself at risk, he could not spurn the opportunity.
Raistlin recalled the black-clad figure running down the street, and he took the same route. Solinari’s silver gleam mingled with Lunitari’s red glow, and Raistlin saw immediately that the assassin had made a mistake. In his haste, he had rushed into a cul-de-sac. The end of the alley was blocked by a high, stone wall. The assassin must still be here. Unless he had wings, he could not have escaped.
Raistlin slowed his pace, moving cautiously, peering into the shadows, listening for the slightest sound. The assassin might be carrying more than one knife, and Raistlin did not want to feel the blade between his ribs. Hearing a scraping noise, he saw the assassin, dressed all in black, attempting to scale the stone wall. The wall was too high; the stones were smooth and offered no foot or handhold. The assassin slid back down to the ground with a thud and crouched there, swearing.
Half seen in the moonlight and shadows, the assassin was short and slender, and Raistlin thought at first that the killer was a child. He moved nearer and, by Lunitari’s light, Raistlin was astounded to recognize the female kender Talent Orren had thrown out of the Broken Shield. She was no longer wearing a kender’s usual bright clothing, but was dressed all in black: black blouse, black trousers. She had stuffed her yellow braids into a black cap.
Steel glinted in her hand. Her eyes gleamed. Her face bore a most unkender-like expression: grim, determined, cold, and resolved.
“Yell for the guards, and I’ll slit your throat for you,” she told him. “I can do it too. I’m fast with a knife. Maybe you saw just how fast.”
“I’m not going to yell,” said Raistlin. “I can help you get over that wall.”
“A weakling like you?” The kender sneered. “You couldn’t heft a kitten.”
Behind them, the guards were shouting and blowing their whistles. The kender did not look at all nervous or frightened—in that, she was acting like any normal kender.
“I can use my magic,” said Raistlin. “Though it will cost you.”
“How much?” asked the kender, scowling.
“You’re hardly in a position to bargain,” he said coldly, and he held out his hand to her. “Take it or leave it.”
The kender hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously. The sound of more whistles and feet pounding on the pavement helped her make up her mind. She took hold of his hand. He spoke the words to the spell and the two of them rose up and floated over the wall. They landed on the street on the other side, dropping down lightly as feathers.
Tasslehoff would have oohed and ahhed and wanted to discuss the magic and insist that Raistlin float him off again. This kender kept her mouth shut. The moment they hit the ground, she was off like an arrow sped from a bow.
Or rather, she tried to take off. Raistlin had a firm hold of her hand and, familiar with a kender’s tricks, he managed to retain his grip, even when she twisted her arm, nearly breaking her wrist and almost dislocating her shoulder.
Judging by the sounds rising up from behind them, more guards were gathering at the crime scene and starting to expand the search for the killer.
“You owe me,” he said, maintaining a firm grip on the kender. “I don’t have any steel,” said the kender. “Not steel. Information.”
“I don’t have any of that either,” the kender said, and she tried again to break free of him.
“What’s your name?” he asked. “None of your business.”
“My name is Raistlin Majere,” he told her. “There, you know mine. Tell me yours. That can’t hurt, can it?”
The kender thought it over. “I guess not. I’m Marigold Featherwinkle.”
Raistlin thought that in all the long history of Krynn, there had probably never been a more improbable name for a cold-blooded killer.
“They call me Mari,” the kender added. “Do they call you Raist?”
“No,” said Raistlin. Only one person had ever called him that. “You are a member of Hidden Light, aren’t you, Mari,” he went on, making it a statement, not a question.
“Hidden Light? Never heard of it,” said Mari.
“I don’t believe you. I know something of kender, and I know you did not conceive of this daring plan all by yourself.”