The four left the shop, entered the kitchen, which Raistlin remembered from his first visit. They continued through the pantry, entered a door, and passed into a small storage room containing a veritable thicket of mops and brooms. Working swiftly and silently, the elves cleared these to one side.
"I see no spellbooks," Raistlin remarked.
"Of course you don't," Liam grunted, barely biting off the appellation "fool."
"I told you. They are hidden in the cellar. The trapdoor is beneath that table."
The table in question was a butcher's block, used to cut meat. Made of oak, it was stained with the blood of countless animals.
Raistlin was amused to see that the sight and smell disgusted the dark elves, who were prepared to murder humans without compunction, but who looked queasy over the idea of steaks and lamb chops. Holding their breaths against what must have been to them a malodorous stench, Micah and Renet hauled the table to one side. Both hastily wiped their hands on a towel when they had finished.
"We will put back all as we have found it when we leave," Liam said. "This Lemuel is such a stupid, unobservant little man. He will likely go for years without noticing that the books have been discovered and removed."
Raistlin admitted the truth of this statement. Lemuel cared for nothing except his garden, took little interest in magic unless it pertained to his herbs. He had probably never even looked at these books, was merely obeying his father's injunction to keep them hidden.
When Raistlin took the books to the tower at Wayreth- which he fully intended to do, confessing his own sins at the time-the conclave could inform Lemuel that the books had been removed. As for what the conclave might do to Raistlin, he considered it likely that they would reprimand him for thievery, but probably nothing more severe. The conclave would not take kindly to the fact that these valuable spellbooks had been concealed all these years. Of the two crimes, they would consider concealment the greater.
Raistlin hoped their sanctions would fall on the father, if he still lived, not on the son.
Micah tugged at the handle of the trapdoor. It did not budge, and at first the elves thought it might be locked, either with bolts or magic. The elves checked for bolts, Raistlin cast a minor spell which would ascertain the presence of magic. No bolts were visible, neither was there a wizard-lock. The trapdoor was stuck tight, the wood having swelled with the damp. The elves wrenched and tugged and eventually the door popped open.
Cold air, cold and dank as the breath of a tomb, flowed up out of the darkness below. The air had a foul smell that caused the elves to wrinkle their noses and back off. Raistlin covered his mouth with the sleeve of his robe.
Micah and Renet cast furtive glances at Liam, fearful he was going to order them to walk down into that chancy darkness. Liam himself looked uneasy.
"What is that stench?" he wondered aloud. "It's like something died down there. Surely books on magic, even human books on magic, could not smell that bad."
"I am not afraid of a bad smell," Raistlin said scornfully. "I will go down to see what is amiss."
Micah was not happy at this; he took offense at Raistlin's suggestion of cowardice, though not offense enough to enter the cellar. The elves discussed the matter in their own language. Raistlin listened, diverted by their arrogance. They did not even consider the possibility that a human might be able to understand their language.
Renet concluded that Raistlin should go down alone. It was possible the spellbooks might have a guardian. Raistlin was a human and therefore expendable. Micah argued that since Raistlin was a mage, he might grab several of the spellbooks and abscond with them, traveling the corridors of magic, where the elves could not follow.
Liam had a solution to that problem. Giving gracious permission for Raistlin to enter the cellar first, the elf posted himself at the top of the stairs, armed with a bow and a nocked arrow.
"What is this?" Raistlin demanded, feigning ignorance.
"In order to protect you," Liam replied smoothly. "I am an excellent shot. And although I do not speak the language of magic, I understand a little of it. I would be able to tell, for example, if someone in that cellar were to try casting a spell that would make him disappear. I doubt if he would have time to complete the spell before my arrow struck him through the heart. But do not hesitate to call out if you find yourself in danger."
"I feel safe in your hands," Raistlin said, bowing to hide his sardonic smile.
Lifting the skirts of his robes-gray-colored robes, now that he looked at them-holding the candle high, he cautiously descended the steps that led into the darkness.
The staircase was a long one, longer than Raistlin had anticipated, leading deep under the ground. The stairs were carved of stone, a stone wall extended along on the right side, the stairs were open on his left. He shifted the candle as he walked, sending its pale light into as many portions of the cellar as it would reach, trying to catch a glimpse of something-anything. He could make out nothing. He continued his descent.
At last his foot touched dirt floor. He looked back up the stairs to see the elves small and diminished, a far distance away, almost as if they stood upon another plane of existence. He could hear their voices faintly; they were perturbed that he had passed beyond their sight. They decided that they would go down to find him.
Flashing the candle about, Raistlin tried to see as much as he could before the elves arrived. The candle's feeble light did not extend far. Expecting to hear the elves' soft footfalls, Raistlin was startled to hear a deep booming sound instead. A blast of air extinguished his candle, leaving him trapped in a darkness so deep and impenetrable that it might have been the darkness of Chaos, out of which the world was formed.
"Liam! Micah!" Raistlin called, and was alarmed when the names echoed back to him. Nothing more than echoes. The elves did not answer.
Trying his best to hear over the rush of blood to his head, Raistlin distinguished faint sounds, as of someone pounding on a door. He gathered by this and the fact that the elves hadn't responded to his call that the trapdoor had inexplicably slammed shut, leaving him on one side and the elves on the other.
Raistlin's first panicked impulse was to use his magic for light. He stopped himself before casting the spell. He would not act on impulse. He would think the situation through calmly, as calmly as possible. He decided that it was best to remain in the darkness. Light would reveal to him whatever was down here. But light would also reveal him to whatever was down here.
Standing in the dark, he pondered the situation. The first notion that came to him was that the elves had lured him down here to leave him to his death. He abandoned this quickly. The elves had no reason to kill him. They had every reason to want to get into the cellar. They hadn't lied about the spellbooks, that much he had ascertained from their private conversations. The continued pounding on the trapdoor reassured him. The elves wanted to open that door as much as he wanted it open.
This decided, he took the precaution of moving, as quietly as he could, to put the stone wall at his back. His sight gone, he relied on his other senses, and almost immediately, now that he was calmer, he could hear breathing. Someone else's breathing. He was not alone down here.
It was not the breathing of a fearsome guardian, not the deep, harsh snufflings of an ogre, not the husky, whistling breaths of a hobgoblin. This breathing was thin and raspy, with a slight rattle. Raistlin had heard breathing like this before-in the rooms of the sick, the elderly.
Although somewhat reassuring, the sound shattered his calculations as to what he might find down in the cellar. The first wild thought was that he was about to meet the owner of the books, Lemuel's father. Perhaps the old gentleman had chosen to retire to the cellar, to spend his life with his precious books. Either that or Lemuel had locked his father in the cellar, a feat which, considering the father was a respected archmagus, was highly unlikely.