Maelstrom kicked at a gully dwarf in passing and ordered two more mugs. “Drink up, Raist. There’s another one coming.”
Raistlin lifted his mug, but his fingers didn’t seem to work properly, and it slipped from his hand and landed with a crash on the floor at his feet. Two gully dwarves cleaned it up, immediately dropping to their knees and lapping up the spill.
Raistlin slumped over the cask. His eyes closed. His body went limp.
Maelstrom grunted. “Weak and spindly,” was his comment. “I say we toss him back.”
“Aw, Raist’s all right. He’s just not used to the good stuff,” said Mari.
Maelstrom grabbed hold of Raistlin’s head by his hair and yanked it up. He peered into Raistlin’s eyes. “Is he playin’ possum?”
“I don’t think so,” said Mari. She gave Raistlin’s arm a hard pinch. He did not move. His eyelids did not flicker. “He’s out cold.”
Maelstrom grabbed hold of Raistlin and plucked him off the bench and slung him over his shoulder with as much ease as if he’d been one of the gully dwarves.
“You be careful of him, Mal,” said Mari. “I found him. He’s mine.”
“You kender are always ‘findin’ things,” Maelstrom muttered. “Most of which is best left in the gutter.”
He yanked Raistlin’s cowl down firmly over his head, wrapped one arm securely around Raistlin’s legs, and hauled him out of the Hair of the Troll to raucous laughter and rude remarks about humans who couldn’t hold their liquor.
11
Lute’s Loot. A Job Offer.
The night was fine, at least as fine as any night could be in the city of Neraka, which seemed to be always sullenly lurking under a perpetual cloud of haze and smoke and dust. Talent Orren was in a good mood, and he whistled a merry dance tune as he sauntered through the Red Gate. The guards on duty greeted him with enthusiasm, thirstily eyeing the wineskin he had brought with him, which they immediately “confiscated.” Talent handed over the wine with a grin and said he hoped they enjoyed it.
No moons being visible that night, Talent carried a lantern to light his way. He made a left turn at the first street, then headed for a T-shaped building that stood at the very end. He was not alone. Human and draconian soldiers patrolled the streets of the Red District, going about their business with an air of orderly efficiency—a marked contrast to the foul mood of the hobs and gobs in the Green District. The relative calm might have something to do with the fact that the Red Dragonarmy commander, Ariakas, was currently in residence.
The draconians ignored Talent as they tended to disdainfully ignore most humans. Most of the human soldiers knew and liked him, though, and they called out good-natured insults. Orren gave back as good as he got. He would see them all later in his tavern, where he would be happy to relieve them of their pay.
Talent’s destination was a pawn shop known as Lute’s Loot. On his arrival, Talent opened the door and walked inside. He paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright light, which was indicative of the shop’s success. Seven crystal lamps of remarkable beauty hung from beams in the ceiling. Lute claimed to have purchased them from an elf lord desperate to escape Qualinesti before the dragonarmy’s attack. Lute had paid the Emperor’s witch, Iolanthe, a tidy sum to cast a magical light spell on the lamps. The light was soft white and though some of the customers considered it harsh and claimed it burned their eyes, Talent found it calming, even soothing.
When his eyes were no longer dazzled and he was in no danger of breaking his neck amid the clutter, he bid a good evening to Lute’s guardians, two enormous mastiffs. Named Shinare and Hiddukel, the mastiffs greeted Talent with wagging tails and large quantities of dog slobber. One of them, standing on his hind legs, placed his front paws on Talent’s chest to lick his cheek. The dog topped the man by several inches.
Talent played with the dogs and waited to speak to Lute, who, seated on a tall stool against the back wall, was occupied with business, making some sort of deal with a soldier of the Red Dragonarmy. Catching sight of Talent, Lute paused in his bargaining to grumble at his friend.
“Hey, Talent, what was that swill you sent over for my dinner?”
Lute was a short, squat individual with a large head, a rotund belly, and a surly disposition who boasted proudly that he was the laziest person in Ansalon. Every morning he moved from his bed, which was located in a room directly behind the counter, to his stool, where he sat all day, leaving it only to use the chamber pot. When time came to close up shop late at night, Lute slid off the stool and waddled the few steps to his bed. A mop of curly, black hair fell over his eyes, meeting his full, curly, black beard somewhere in the vicinity of his nose, so it was difficult to tell where the beard began and his hair left off. Small, keen eyes glinted out from the thatch.
“Rabbit stew,” Talent said.
“Flummery! Boiled gully dwarf is more like it!” Lute said irately.
“You should have sent it back,” Talent said.
“A fellow has to eat something,” Lute snarled and returned to his haggling.
Talent grinned. His rabbit stew was good; none better in this part of the world. Lute was not happy unless he was complaining about something.
If Lute had a surname, no one knew it. He claimed to be human, but Talent knew better. One night early in their long relationship, Lute, having imbibed a bit too much in the way of dwarf spirits, had told Talent that his father had been a dwarf from the kingdom of Thorbardin. When Talent had mentioned that the next morning, Lute had flown into a rage and denied that he’d ever said any such thing. He had gone for a week without speaking to his friend, and Talent had never brought it up again.
Talent lounged among the heaps and piles of junk that covered the floor of the warehouse. Lute’s Loot was a repository for goods from all of Ansalon. Talent often said he could trace the progress of the war in the variety of the store’s wares. The contents of the room included furniture, paintings, and tapestries from Qualinesti; a set of chairs said to have come from the famous Inn of the Last Home in Solace; a few objects from the dwarven kingdom, though not many, for Thorbardin had fought off the dragonarmies. There was nothing from the elven kingdom of Silvanesti, for the land was said to be cursed and no one went near it. There were large quantities of items from the eastern part of Solamnia, which had fallen to the might of the Blue Lady, though as far as Talent could hear, Palanthas was still holding out.
He waited patiently for the soldier to finish his dealing. The man finally agreed to a price, which he claimed was way beneath the value of whatever it was he was trying to sell. The soldier left in foul mood, clutching his coins in his hand. Talent recognized him as a regular, and he guessed that those coins would soon find their way into his strong box.
When the soldier had banged his way irritably out of the door, Lute lifted his black cane and waved it in the air, a signal that Talent should shut the door and lock up for the night. If Talent had not been around to perform that task, Lute had trained Shinare to shut the door; then her mate, Hiddukel, would hit an iron bar with his nose so that it dropped down into place to keep the door from being forced open. Thus Lute was spared the fatigue of walking from the counter to the door and back again.
The mastiffs’ main duty was to deter thieves. They would greet patrons at the door and escort them through the shop, growling if anyone dared touch anything without first obtaining permission from Lute. And in case anyone might decide to try to snatch an object and flee, Lute would simply pick up the small, handheld crossbow that rested on the counter beside his cup of thick, honey-laced tarbean tea. Should anyone doubt Lute’s ability to use the crossbow, he would point to a goblin’s skull with a bolt through its eye that he had nailed to the wall.