Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

Glancing up at the windows of the Tower of High Sorcery, Soth saw the light extinguished from the room where they had been. For a brief instant, the Tower was shrouded in the perpetual darkness that seemed to linger around it, a darkness the sun’s light could not penetrate. Then one light gleamed forth, from a room at the top of the tower.

The mage’s laboratory, the dark and secret room where Raistlin worked his magic.

“Who will learn this lesson, I wonder?” Soth murmured. Shrugging, he disappeared, melting into the waning shadows as daylight approached.

Let’s stop at this place,” Caramon said, heading for a ramshackle building that stood huddled back away from the trail, lurking in the forest like a sulking beast. “Maybe she’s been in here.”

“I really doubt it,” said Tas, dubiously eyeing the sign that hung by one chain over the door. “The 'Cracked Mug’ doesn’t seem quite the place—”

“Nonsense,” growled Caramon, as he had growled more times on this journey already than Tas could count, “she has to eat. Even great, muckety-muck clerics have to eat. Or maybe someone in here will have seen some sign of her on the trail. We’re not having any luck.”

“No,” muttered Tasslehoff beneath his breath, “but we might have more luck if we searched the road, not taverns.”

They had been on the road three days, and Tas’s worst misgivings about this adventure had proved true.

Ordinarily, kender are enthusiastic travelers. All kender are stricken with wanderlust somewhere near their twentieth year. At this time, they gleefully strike out for parts unknown, intent on finding nothing except adventure and whatever beautiful, horrible, or curious items might by chance fall into their bulging pouches. Completely immune to the self-preserving emotion of fear, afflicted by unquenchable curiosity, the kender population on Krynn was not a large one, for which most of Krynn was devoutly grateful.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot, now nearing his thirtieth year (at least as far as he could remember), was, in most regards, a typical kender. He had journeyed the length and breadth of the continent of Ansalon, first with his parents before they had settled down in Kenderhome. After coming of age, he wandered by himself until he met Flint Fireforge, the dwarven metalsmith and his friend, Tanis Half-Elven. After Sturm Brightblade, Knight of Solamnia, and the twins, Caramon and Raistlin, joined them, Tas became involved in the most wonderful adventure of his life—the War of the Lance.

But, in some respects, Tasslehoff was not a typical kender, although he would have denied this if it were mentioned. The loss of two people he loved dearly—Sturm Brightblade and Flint—touched the kender deeply. He had come to know the emotion of fear, not fear for himself, but fear and concern for those he cared about. His concern for Caramon, right now, was deep.

And it grew daily.

At first, the trip had been fun. Once Caramon got over his fit of sulks about Tika’s hard-heartedness and the inability of the world in general to understand him, he had taken a few swigs from his flask and felt better. After several more swigs, he began to relate stories about his days helping to track down draconians. Tas found this amusing and entertaining and, though he continually had to watch Bupu to make certain she didn’t get run over by a wagon or wander into a mudhole, he enjoyed his morning.

By afternoon, the flask was empty, and Caramon was even in such a good humor as to be ready to listen to some of Tas’s stories, which the kender never tired of relating. Unfortunately, right at the best part, when he was escaping with the woolly mammoth and the wizards were shooting lightning bolts at him, Caramon came to a tavern.

“Just fill up the flask,” he mumbled and went inside.

Tas started to follow, then saw Bupu staring in open-mouthed wonder at the red-hot blacksmith’s forge across the road. Realizing she would either set herself or the town or both on fire, and knowing that he couldn’t take her into the tavern (most refused to serve gully dwarves), Tas decided to stay out and keep an eye on her. After all, Caramon would probably be only a few minutes...

Two hours later, the big man stumbled out.

“Where in the Abyss have you been?” Tas demanded, pouncing on Caramon like a cat.

“Jusht having a... having a little...” Caramon swayed unsteadily, “one for the... road.”

“I’m on a quest!” Tas yelled in exasperation. “My first quest, given to me by an Important Person, who may be in danger. And I’ve been stuck out here two hours with a gully dwarf!” Tas pointed at Bupu, who was asleep in a ditch. “I’ve never been so bored in my life, and you’re in there soaking up dwarf spirits!”

Caramon glared at him, his lips pursed into a pout. “You know shomething,” the big man muttered as he staggered off down the road, “you’re st—starting to shound a lot like Tika...”

Things went rapidly downhill from there.

That night they came to the crossroads.

“Let’s go this way,” Tas said, pointing. “Lady Crysania’s certain to know people are going to try to stop her. She’ll take a route that’s not very well traveled to try and throw off pursuit. I think we should follow the same trail we took two years ago, when we left Solace—”

“Nonsense!” Caramon snorted. “She’s a woman and a cleric to boot. She’ll take the easiest road. We’ll go by way of Haven.”

Tas had been dubious about this decision, and his doubts proved well-founded. They hadn’t traveled more than a few miles when they came to another tavern.

Caramon went in to find out if anyone had seen a person matching Lady Crysania’s description, leaving Tas—once again—with Bupu. An hour later the big man emerged, his face flushed and cheerful.

“Well, has anyone seen her?” Tas asked irritably.

“Seen who? Oh—her. No...”

And now, two days later, they were only about halfway to Haven. But the kender could have written a book describing the taverns along the way.

“In the old days,” Tas fumed, “we could have walked to Tarsis and back in this time!”

“I was younger then, and immature. My body’s mature now, and I have to build up my strength,” Caramon said loftily, “little by little.”

“He’s building up something little by little,” Tas said to himself grimly, “but strength isn’t it!”

Caramon could not walk much more than an hour before he was forced to sit down and rest. Often he collapsed completely, moaning in pain, sweat rolling off his body. It would take Tas, Bupu, and the flask of dwarf spirits to get him back on his feet again. He complained bitterly and continually. His armor chafed, he was hungry, the sun was too hot, he was thirsty. At night, he insisted that they stop in some wretched inn. Then Tas had the thrill of watching the big man drink himself senseless.

Tas and the bartender would haul him to his room where he would sleep until half the morning was gone.

After the third day of this (and their twentieth tavern) and still no sign of Lady Crysania, Tasslehoff was beginning to think seriously about returning to Kenderhome, buying a nice little house, and retiring from adventuring.

It was about midday when they arrived at the Cracked Mug.

Caramon immediately disappeared inside. Heaving a sigh that came from the toes of his new, bright green shoes, Tas stood with Bupu, looking at the outside of the slovenly place in grim silence.

“Me no like this anymore,” Bupu announced. She glared at Tas accusingly. “You say we go find pretty man in red robes. All we find is one fat drunk. I go back home, back to Highbulp, Phudge I.”

“No, don’t leave! Not yet!” Tas cried desperately. “We’ll find the—uh—pretty man. Or at least a pretty lady who wants to help the pretty man. Maybe... maybe we’ll learn something here.”