Master Theobald was such an inept teacher, however, that Raistlin often felt as if he were lying in ambush, waiting to pounce upon the first bit of useful information that might accidentally wander in his direction.
The pupils of Master Theobald sat on their tall stools and tried desperately to stay awake, not easy to do in the heat after the heavy midday meal. Anyone caught dozing off would be awakened by the whip-snap of the lithe willow branch across his shoulders. Master Theobald was a big, flabby man, but he could move quickly and quietly when he wanted to. He liked nothing better than to catch a pupil napping.
Raistlin had spoken quite glibly to his brother about being whipped that first day of school. Since then his thin shoulders had felt the snap of the willow branch, a pain that cut more deeply into the soul than into the flesh. He had never before been struck, except for the occasional smack from his sister, slaps which were delivered in a spirit of sibling affection. If Kitiara sometimes hit harder than she'd meant, her brothers knew that it was the thought that counted.
Master Theobald hit with a gleam in his eye and a smile on his fat face that left no doubt he enjoyed meting out punishment.
"The letter a in the language of magic," Master Theobald was saying in his somnambulistic monotone, "is not pronounced 'aa' as it is in the Common vernacular, nor is it pronounced 'ah' as you will hear it in the elven, nor yet 'ach' as we find it spoken among the dwarves."
Yes, yes, thought Raistlin drearily. Get on with it. Quit showing off. You've probably never spoken to an elf in your life, you fat old dundering idiot.
"The letter a in the language of magic is spoken as 'ai.' "
Raistlin snapped to alertness. Here was information he needed. He listened attentively. Master Theobald repeated the pronunciation.
" 'Ai.' Now, you young gentlemen, say this after me."
A drowsy chorus of ais sighed through the stifling room, punctuated by one strong ai spoken firmly by Raistlin. Generally his voice was the quietest among them, for he disliked drawing attention to himself, mainly because such attention was usually painful. His excitement at actually learning something useful and the fact that he was one of the few awake and listening had prompted him to speak more loudly than he'd intended.
He immediately regretted having done so. Master Theobald regarded Raistlin with an approving eye, at least what could be seen of that eye through the pouches of fat surrounding it, and gently tapped the willow branch upon the desk.
"Very good, Master Raistlin," he said.
Raistlin's neighbors cast him covert, malignant glances, and he knew he'd be made to pay for this compliment. The boy to his right, an older boy, almost thirteen, who had been sent to the school because his parents could not stand to have him around the house, leaned over to whisper.
"I hear you kiss his arse every morning, 'Master Raistlin.' "
The boy, known as Gordo, made vulgar smacking sounds with his lips. Those sitting nearby responded with smothered giggles.
Master Theobald heard and turned his eye on them. He rose to his feet and the boys immediately hushed. He headed for them, the willow branch in his hand, when he was distracted by the sight of a small pupil actually slumbering soundly, his head on his arms, his eyes closed.
Master Theobald smiled. Down came the willow branch across the small shoulders. The pupil sat bolt upright with a pained and startled cry.
"What do you mean, sir, sleeping in my class?" Master Theobald thundered at the young malefactor, who shrank before his rage and surreptitiously wiped away his tears.
During this commotion, Raistlin heard a flurry of activity behind him, a sort of scuffling, but he didn't bother to look around. The antics of the other boys seemed petty and stupid to him. Why did they waste their time, such precious time, in nonsense?
He said "ai" quietly to himself until he was sure he had it right, and even wrote down the vowel combination upon his slate in order to practice it later. Absorbed in his work, he ignored the muffled giggles and sniggers going on around him. Master Theobald, having completely demoralized one small urchin, returned to his desk well satisfied. Seating himself ponderously, he continued with the lesson.
"The next vowel in the language of the arcane is o. This is not pronounced 'oo,' nor yet 'och,' but 'oa.' Pronunciation is most important, young gentlemen, and therefore I suggest you pay attention. Pronounce a spell incorrectly and it will not work. I am reminded of the time when I was a pupil of the great wizard-"
Raistlin fidgeted in irritation. Master Theobald was off on one of his tales, stories that were dull and boring and served invariably to laud the mediocre talents of Master Theobald. Raistlin was copying down carefully the letter o with the phonetic pronunciation "oa" next to it when suddenly his stool shot out from underneath him.
Raistlin tumbled to the floor. The fall, completely unexpected, was a hard one. Stinging pain shot through his wrist, which he'd instinctively used to try to catch himself. The stool toppled to the floor with a loud clatter. His neighbors broke into guffaws, immediately silenced.
Master Theobald, his face purple against his white robes, sprang to his feet and stood quivering in rage like a mound of vanilla pudding.
"Master Raistlin! What is the meaning of this disruption to my lecture?" "He went to sleep, sir, and fell off his stool," Gordo offered helpfully.
Crouched on the floor, nursing his injured wrist, Raistlin located the string that had been tied to the leg of his stool. As he reached to grab it, the string slithered across the floor to disappear up the sleeve of Devon, one of the Gordo's minions, who sat behind him.
"Sleeping! Interrupting me!" Master Theobald snatched up the willow branch and bore down upon Raistlin. Seeing the blow coming, he hunched his shoulders, and raised his arm to make himself as small a target as possible.
One cut of the willow sliced the flesh of Raistlin's upraised arm, narrowly missing his face. The master lifted his hand to strike again.
Rage, hot as a forge fire, burned through Raistlin. His anger consumed his fear, consumed his pain. His first wild impulse was to leap to his feet and attack his teacher. A trickle of common sense, icy cold, ran through Raistlin's body. He felt the idea as a physical sensation, a chill that tingled his nerve endings and set him shivering, even in the white heat of his fury. He saw himself attacking the master, saw himself looking the fool-a puny weakling with spindly arms shrieking in a high- pitched voice, flailing away impotently with his tiny fists. Worse, he would be the one in the wrong. Master Theobald would triumph over him. The other boys-Raistlin's tormentors-would laugh and gloat.
Raistlin gave a strangled gasp and went limp, lying on his back, his legs twisted at an angle, knees together. One hand slid nervelessly to the floor, the other lay flaccid across his thin chest. His eyelids closed. He made his breathing as quiet as he could manage, quiet and shallow.
Raistlin had been sick many times during his short life. He knew how to be sick, he knew how to feign illness. He lay, pale and shattered and apparently lifeless, on the floor at the master's feet.
"Cripes!" said Devon, the boy who had tied the string to the stool. "You've killed him!"
"Nonsense," said Master Theobald, though his voice cracked on the word. He lowered the willow stick. "He's just. just fainted. That's all. Fainted. Gordo"-he coughed, was forced to clear his throat-"Gordo, go fetch some water."