Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

“Hey, now we have some fun,” Bupu said. Running forward gleefully, she kicked Caramon in the other leg. “Me stay now.”

The big man roared. Blundering to his feet, he glared at Tas. “Blast it, Burrfoot, if this is one of your games—”

“It’s no game, you big ox!” the kender shouted. “I’ve decided to kick some sense into you, that’s all! I’ve had enough of your whining! All you’ve done, all these years, is whine! The noble Caramon, sacrificing everything for his ungrateful brother. Loving Caramon, always putting Raistlin first! Well—maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. I’m starting to think you always put Caramon first! And maybe Raistlin knew, deep inside, what I’m just beginning to figure out! You only did it because it made you feel good! Raistlin didn’t need you—you needed him! You lived his life because you’re too scared to live a life of your own!”

Caramon’s eyes glowed feverishly, his face paled with anger. Slowly, he stood up, his big fists clenched. “You’ve gone too far this time, you little bastard—”

“Have I?” Tas was screaming now, jumping up and down. “Well, listen to this, Caramon! You’re always blubbering about how no one needs you. Did you ever stop to think that Raistlin needs you now more than he’s ever needed you before? And Lady Crysania—she needs you! And there you stand, a big blob of quivering jelly with your brain all soaked and turned to mush!”

Tasslehoff thought for a moment he had gone too far. Caramon took an unsteady step forward, his face blotched and mottled and ugly. Bupu gave a yelp and ducked behind Tas. The kender stood his ground—just as he had when the furious elf lords had been about to slice him in two for breaking the dragon orb. Caramon loomed over him, the big man’s liquor-soaked breath nearly making Tas gag. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes. Not from fear, but from the look of terrible anguish and rage on Caramon’s face.

He stood, braced, waiting for the blow that would likely smash his nose back through to the other side of his head.

But the blow never fell. There was the sound of tree limbs ripping apart, huge feet stomping through dense brush.

Cautiously, Tas opened his eyes. Caramon was gone, crashing down the trail into the forest. Sighing, Tas stared after him. Bupu crept out from behind his back.

“That fun,” she announced. “I stay after all. Maybe we play game again?”

“I don’t think so, Bupu,” Tas said miserably. “Come on. I guess we better go after him.”

“Oh, well,” the gully dwarf reflected philosophically. “Some other game come along, just as fun.”

“Yeah,” Tas agreed absently. Turning around, afraid that perhaps someone in the wretched inn had overheard and might start trouble, the kender’s eyes opened wide.

The Cracked Mug tavern was gone. The dilapidated building, the sign swinging on one chain, the dwarves, the rangers, the bartender, even the glass Caramon had lifted to his lips. All had disappeared into the midafternoon air like an evil dream upon awakening.

By evening, Caramon was roaring drunk.

Tasslehoff and Bupu caught up with the big man as he was standing in the middle of the trail, draining the last of the dwarf spirits from the flask. He leaned his head back, tilting it to get every drop. When he finally lowered the flask, it was to peer inside it in disappointment. Wobbling unsteadily on his feet, he shook it.

“All gone,” Tas heard him mumble unhappily. The kender’s heart sank.

“Now I’ve done it,” Tas said to himself in misery. “I can’t tell him about the disappearing inn. Not when he’s in this condition! I’ve only made things worse!”

But he hadn’t realized quite how much worse until he came up to Caramon and tapped him on the shoulder. The big man whirled around in drunken alarm.

“What ish it? Who’sh there?” He peered around the rapidly darkening forest.

“Me, down here,” said Tas in a small voice. “I—I just wanted to say I was sorry, Caramon, and—”

“Uh? Oh...” Staggering backwards, Caramon stared at him, then grinned foolishly. “Oh, hullo there, little fellow. A kender”—his gaze wandered to Bupu—“and a gu—gul—gull—gullydorf,” he finished with a rush. He bowed. “Whashyour—names?”

“What?” Tas asked.

“Whashyournames?” Caramon repeated with dignity.

“You know me, Caramon,” Tas said, puzzled. “I’m Tasslehoff.”

“Me Bupu,” answered the gully dwarf, her face lighting up, obviously hoping this was another game. “Who youl”

“You know who he is,” Tas began irritably, then nearly swallowed his tongue as Caramon interrupted.

“I’m Raistlin,” said the big man solemnly with another, unsteady bow. “A—a great and pow—pow—powerful—magic-user.”

“Oh, come off it, Caramon!” Tas said in disgust. “I said I was sorry, so don’t—”

“Caramon?” The big man’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed shrewdly. “Caramon’s dead. I killed him. Long ago in the Tow—the Twowr—the TwerHighSorshry.”

“By Reorx’s beard!” Tas breathed.

“Him not Raistlin!” snorted Bupu. Then she paused, eyeing him dubiously. “Is him?”

“N-no! Of course not,” Tasslehoff snapped.

“This not fun game!” Bupu said with firm decision. “Me no like! Him not pretty man so nice to me. Him fat drunk. Me go home.” She looked around. “Which way home?”

“Not now, Bupu!” What was going on? Tas wondered bleakly. Clutching at his topknot, he gave his hair a hard yank. His eyes watered with the pain, and the kender sighed in relief. For a moment, he thought he’d fallen asleep without knowing it and was walking around in some weird dream.

But apparently it was all real—too real. Or at least for him.

For Caramon, it was quite a different story.

“Watch,” Caramon was saying solemnly, weaving back and forth. “I’ll casht a magicshpell.” Raising his hands, he blurted out a string of gibberish. “Ashanddust and ratsnests! Burrung!” He pointed at a tree. “Poof,” he whispered, stumbling backward. “Up in flames! Up! Up! Burning, burning, burning... jusht like poor Caramon.” He staggered forward, wobbling down the trail.

“All of the waitresshes love you,” he sang. “Every dog ish your friend. Whatever you shay is jusht what you m-mean—”

Wringing his hands, Tas hurried after him. Bupu trotted along behind.

“Tree not burn,” she said to Tas sternly.

“I know!” Tas groaned. “It’s just... he thinks—”

“Him one bad magician. My turn.” Rummaging around in the huge bag that kept tripping her periodically, Bupu gave a triumphant yell and pulled out a very stiff, very dead rat.

“Not now, Bupu—” Tas began, feeling what was left of his own sanity start to slip. Caramon, ahead of them, had quit singing and was shouting something about covering the forest in cobwebs.

“I going to say secret magic word,” Bupu stated. “You no listen. Spoil secret.”

“I won’t listen,” Tas said impatiently, trying to catch up with Caramon, who, for all his wobbling, was moving along at a fair rate of speed.