“I’ve seen Crysania,” he reported to Caramon one night after they’d returned from dinner and a game of arm wrestling with Pheragas. Tas lay down on the bed while Caramon practiced with a mace and chain in the center of the room, Arack wanting him skilled in weapons other than the sword. Seeing that Caramon still needed a lot of practice, Tas crept to the far end of the bed—well out of the way of some of the big man’s wilder swings.
“How is she?” Caramon asked, glancing over at the kender with interest.
Tas shook his head. “I don’t know. She looks all right, I guess. At least she doesn’t look sick. But she doesn’t look happy, either. Her face is pale and, when I tried to talk to her, she just ignored me. I don’t think she recognized me.”
Caramon frowned. “See if you can find out what the matter is,” he said. “She was looking for Raistlin, too, remember. Maybe it has something to do with him.”
“All right,” the kender replied, then ducked as the mace whistled by his head. “Say, be careful! Move back a little.” He felt his topknot anxiously to see if all his hair was still there.
“Speaking of Raistlin,” Caramon said in a subdued voice. “I don’t suppose you found out anything today either?”
Tas shook his head. “I’ve asked and asked. Fistandantilus has apprentices that come and go sometimes. But no one’s seen anyone answering Raistlin’s description. And, you know, people with golden skin and hourglass eyes do tend to stand out in a crowd. But”—the kender looked more cheerful—“I may find out something soon. Fistandantilus is back, I heard.”
“He is?” Caramon stopped swinging the mace and turned to face Tas.
“Yes. I didn’t see him, but some of the clerics were talking about it. I guess he reappeared last night, right in the Kingpriest’s Hall of Audience. Just—poof! There he was. Quite dramatic.”
“Yeah,” Caramon grunted. Swinging the mace thoughtfully, he was quiet for so long that Tas yawned and started to drift off to sleep. Caramon’s voice brought him back to consciousness with a start.
“Tas,” Caramon said, “this is our chance.”
“Our chance to what?” The kender yawned again.
“Our chance to murder Fistandantilus,” the warrior said quietly.
7
Caramon’s cold statement woke the kender up quickly.
“M-murder! I—uh—think you ought to think about this, Caramon,” Tas stammered. “I mean, well, look at it this way. This Fistandantilus is a really, really good, I-I mean, talented magic-user. Better even than Raistlin and Par-Salian put together, if what they say is true. You just don’t sneak up and murder a guy like that. Especially when you’ve never murdered anybody! Not that I’m saying we should practice, mind you, but—”
“He has to sleep, doesn’t he?” Caramon asked.
“Well,” Tas faltered, “I suppose so. Everybody has to sleep, I guess, even magic-users—”
“Magic-users most of all,” Caramon interrupted coldly. “You remember how weak Raist’d be if he didn’t sleep? And that holds true of all wizards, even the most powerful. That’s one reason they lost the great battles—the Lost Battles. They had to rest. And quit talking about this ‘we’ stuff. I’ll do it. You don’t even have to come along. Just find out where his room is, what kind of defenses he has, and when he goes to bed. I’ll take care of it from there.”
“Caramon,” Tas began hesitantly, “do you suppose it’s right? I mean, I know that’s why the mages sent you back here. At least I think that’s why. It all got sort of muddled there at the end. And I know this Fistandantilus is supposed to be a really evil person and he wears the black robes and all that, but is it right to murder him? I mean, it seems to me that this just makes us as evil as he is, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t care,” Caramon said without emotion, his eyes on the mace he was slowly swinging back and forth. “It’s his life or Raistlin’s, Tas. If I kill Fistandantilus now, back in this time, he won’t be able to come forward and grab Raistlin. I could free Raistlin from that shattered body, Tas, and make him whole! Once I wrench this man’s evil hold from him—then I know he’d be just like the old Raist. The little brother I loved.” Caramon’s voice grew wistful and his eyes moist. “He could come and live with us, Tas.”
“What about Tika?” Tas asked hesitantly. “How’s she going to feel about you murdering somebody?”
Caramon’s brown eyes flashed in anger. “I told you before—don’t talk about her, Tas!”
“But, Caramon—”
“I mean it, Tas!”
And this time the big man’s voice held the tone that Tas knew meant he had gone too far. The kender sat hunched miserably in his bed. Looking over at him, Caramon sighed.
“Look, Tas,” he said quietly, “I’ll explain it once. I-I haven’t been very good to Tika. She was right to throw me out, I see that now, though there was a time I thought I’d never forgive her.” The big man was quiet a moment, sorting out his thoughts. Then, with another sigh, he continued. “I told her once that, as long as Raistlin lived, he’d come first in my thoughts. I warned her to find someone who could give her all his love. I thought at first I could, when Raistlin went off on his own. But”—he shook his head—“I dunno. It didn’t work. Now, I’ve got to do this, don’t you see? And I can’t think about Tika! She—she only gets in the way...”
“But Tika loves you so much!” was all Tas could say. And, of course, it was the wrong thing. Caramon scowled and began swinging the mace again.
“All right, Tas,” he said, his voice so deep it might have come from beneath the kender’s feet, “I guess this means good-bye. Ask the dwarf for a different room. I’m going to do this and, if anything goes wrong, I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble—”
“Caramon, you know I didn’t mean I wouldn’t help,” Tas mumbled. “You need me!”
“Yeah, I guess,” Caramon muttered, flushing. Then, looking over at Tas, he smiled in apology. “I’m sorry. Just don’t talk about Tika anymore, all right?”
“All right,” Tas said unhappily. He smiled back at Caramon in return, watching as the big man put his weapons away and prepared for bed. But it was a sickly smile and, when Tas crawled into his own bed, he felt more depressed and unhappy than he had since Flint died.
“He wouldn’t have approved, that’s for sure,” Tas said to himself, thinking of the gruff, old dwarf. “I can hear him now. ‘Stupid, doorknob of a kender!’ he’d say. ‘Murdering wizards! Why don’t you just save everyone trouble and do away with yourself!’ And then there’s Tanis,” Tas thought, even more miserable. “I can just imagine what he’d say!” Rolling over, Tas pulled the blankets up around his chin. “I wish he was here! I wish someone was here to help us! Caramon’s not thinking right, I know he isn’t! But what can I do? I’ve got to help him. He’s my friend. And he’d likely get into no end of trouble without me!”
The next day was Caramon’s first day in the Games. Tas made his visit to the Temple in the early morning and was back in time to see Caramon’s fight, which would take place that afternoon. Sitting on the bed, swinging his short legs back and forth, the kender made his report as Caramon paced the floor nervously, waiting for the dwarf and Pheragas to bring him his costume.
“You’re right,” Tas admitted reluctantly. “Fistandantilus needs lots of sleep, apparently. He goes to bed early every night and sleeps like the dead—I m-mean”—Tas stuttered—“sleeps soundly till morning.”