“You lie!” Sturm said fiercely. “There are no clerics! They vanished in the Cataclysm. And, if you were, what would you be doing in the company of this dark one of evil?”
“Sturm! It’s me, Raistlin!” The archmage rose to his feet. “Look at me! Don’t you recognize me?”
The young knight turned his sword upon the mage, its point at Raistlin’s throat. “I do not know by what sorcerous ways you have conjured up my name, Black Robe, but, speak it once more and it will go badly for you. We deal shortly with witches in Solace.”
“As you are a virtuous and holy knight, bound by vows of chivalry and obedience, I beg you for justice,” Crysania said, rising to her feet slowly, with Raistlin’s s help.
The young mans stern face smoothed. He bowed, and sheathed his sword, but not without a sideways glance at Raistlin. “You speak truly, madam. I am bound by such vows and I will grant you justice.”
Even as he spoke, the bed of leaves became a wooden floor; the trees-benches; the sky above—a ceiling; the road an aisle between the benches. We are in a Hall of Judgment, Raistlin saw, momentarily dizzied by the sudden change. His arm around Crysania still, he helped her to sit down at a small table that stood in the center of the room. Before them loomed a podium. Glancing behind them, Raistlin saw that the room was packed with people, all watching with interest and enjoyment.
He stared. He knew these people! There was Otik, the owner of the Inn of the Last Home, eating a plateful of spiced potatoes. There was Tika, her red curls bouncing, pointing at Crysania and saying something and laughing. And Kitiara! Lounging against the doorway, surrounded by admiring young men, her hand on the hilt of her sword, she looked over at Raistlin and winked.
Raistlin glanced about feverishly. His father, a poor woodcutter, sat in a corner, his shoulders bent, that perpetual look of worry and care on his face. Laurana sat apart, her cool elven beauty shining like a bright star in the darkest night.
Beside him, Crysania cried out, “Elistan!” Rising to her feet, she stretched out her hand, but the cleric only looked at her sadly and sternly and shook his head.
“Rise and do honor!” rang out a voice.
With much shuffling of feet and scraping of the benches, everyone in the Hall of Judgment stood up. A respectful silence descended upon the crowd as the judge entered. Dressed in the gray robes of Gilean, God of Neutrality, the judge took his place behind the podium and turned to face the accused.
“Tanis!” Raistlin cried, taking a step forward.
But the bearded half-elf only frowned at this unseemly conduct while a grumbling old dwarf—the bailiff—stumped over and prodded Raistlin in the side with the butt-end of his battle-axe. “Sit down, witch, and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”
“Flint?” Raistlin grabbed the dwarf by the arm. “Don’t you know me?”
“And don’t touch the bailiff!” Flint roared, incensed, jerking his arm away. “Humpf,” he grumbled as he stalked back to take his place beside the judge. “No respect for my age or my station. You’d think I was a sack of meal to be handled by everyone—”
“That will do, Flint,” said Tanis, sternly eyeing Raistlin and Crysania. “Now, who brings the charges against these two?”
“I do,” said a knight in shining armor, rising to his feet.
“Very well, Sturm Brightblade,” Tanis said, “you will have a chance to present your charges. And who defends these two?”
Raistlin started to rise and reply, but he was interrupted.
“Me! Here, Tanis—uh, your honorship! Me, over here! Wait. I—I seem to be stuck...”
Laughter filled the Hall of Judgment, the crowd turning and staring at a kender, loaded down with books, struggling to get through the doorway. Grinning, Kitiara reached out, grabbed him by his topknot of hair, and yanked him through the door, tossing him unceremoniously onto the floor. Books scattered everywhere, and the crowd roared with laughter. Unfazed, the kender picked himself up, dusted himself off, and, tripping over the books, managed eventually to make it up to the front.
“I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” the kender said, holding out his small hand for Raistlin to shake. The archmage stared at Tas in amazement and did not move. With a shrug, Tas looked at his hand, sighed, and then, turning, started toward the judge. “Hi, my name’s Tasslehoff Burrfoot”
“Sit down!” roared the dwarf. “You don’t shake hands with the judge, you doorknob!”
“Well,” said Tas indignantly. “I think I might if I liked. I’m only being polite, after all, something you dwarves know nothing about. I—”
“Sit down and shut up!” shouted the dwarf, thudding the butt-end of the axe on the floor.
His topknot bouncing, the kender turned and meekly made his way over to sit beside Raistlin. But, before sitting, he faced the audience and mimicked the dwarf’s dour look so well that the crowd howled with glee, making the dwarf angrier than ever. But this time the judge intervened.
“Silence,” called Tanis sternly, and the crowd hushed.
Tas plopped himself down beside Raistlin. Feeling a soft touch brush against him, the mage glared down at the kender and held out his hand.
“Give that back!” he demanded.
“What back? Oh, this? Is that yours? You must have dropped it,” Tas said innocently, handing over one of Raistlin’s spell component pouches. “I found it on the floor—”
Snatching it from the kender, Raistlin attached it once more to the cord he wore around his waist.
“You might at least have said thank you,” Tas remarked in a shrill whisper, then subsided as he caught the stern gaze of the judge.
“What are the charges against these two?” Tanis asked.
Sturm Brightblade came to the front of the room. There was some scattered applause. The young knight with his high standards of honor and melancholy mien was apparently well-liked.
“I found these two in the wilderness, your honor. The Black Robed one spoke the name of Paladine”—there was angry mutterings from the crowd—“and, even as I watched, he brewed up some foul concoction and gave it to the woman to drink. She was badly hurt when I first saw them. Blood covered her robes, and her face was burned and scarred as if she had been in a fire. But when she drank that witch’s brew, she was healed!”
“No!” cried Crysania, rising unsteadily to her feet. “That is wrong. The potion Raistlin gave me simply eased the pain. It was my prayers that healed me! I am a cleric of Paladine”
“Pardon us, your honor,” yelled the kender, leaping to his feet. “My client didn’t mean to say she was a cleric of Paladine. Performing a pantomime. That’s what she meant to say. Yes, that’s it,”
Tas giggled. “Just having a little fun to lighten the journey. It’s a game they play all the time. Hah, hah.” Turning to Crysania, the kender frowned and said in a whisper that was audible to everyone in the room, “What are you doing? How can I possibly get you off if you go around telling the truth like that! I simply won’t put up with it!”
“Quiet!” roared the dwarf.
The kender whirled around. “And I’m getting a bit tired of you, too, Flint!” he shouted. “Quit pounding that axe on the floor or I’ll wrap it around your neck.”
The room dissolved into laughter, and even the judge grinned.
Crysania sank back down beside Raistlin, her face deathly pale. “What is this mockery?” she murmured fearfully.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to put an end to it.” Raistlin rose to his feet.
“Silence, all of you.” His soft, whispering voice brought immediate quiet to the room. “This lady is a holy cleric of Paladine! I am a wizard of the Black Robes, skilled in the arts of magic—”
“Oh, do something magic!” the kender cried, jumping to his feet again. “Whoosh me into a duck pond—”
“Sit down!” yelled the dwarf.
“Set the dwarf’s beard on fire!” Tasslehoff laughed.