Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

Tas sighed. That certainly wasn’t the old Caramon, he thought sadly, remembering the man who had killed two draconians by bashing their heads together with his bare hands, the Caramon who had once left fifteen ruffians in various stages of hurt when they made the mistake of trying to rob the big man. Glancing at Caramon out of the corner of his eye, Tas swallowed the sharp words that had been on his tongue and went back to his dinner, his heart aching.

Caramon ate slowly, spooning up the soup and gulping it down without seeming to taste it. Tas saw the woman and the black-skinned man exchange glances again and, for a moment, the kender feared they would laugh at Caramon. Kiiri, in fact, started to say something, but—on looking up toward the front of the room—she shut her mouth abruptly and went back to her meal. Tas saw Raag enter the mess hall again, two burly humans trundling along behind him.

Walking over, they came to a halt behind Caramon. Raag poked the big warrior.

Caramon glanced around slowly. “What is it?” he asked in a dull voice that Tas didn’t recognize.

“You come now,” Raag said.

“I’m eating,” Caramon began, but the two humans grabbed the big man by the arms and dragged him off the bench before he could even finish his sentence. Then Tas saw a glimmer of Caramon’s old spirit. His face an ugly, dark red, Caramon aimed a clumsy blow at one. But the man, grinning derisively, dodged it easily. His partner kicked Caramon savagely in the gut. Caramon collapsed with a groan, falling to the floor on all fours. The two humans hauled him to his feet. His head hanging, Caramon allowed himself to be led away.

“Wait! Where—” Tas stood up, but felt a strong hand close over his own.

Kiiri shook her head warningly, and Tas sat back down.

“What are they going to do to him?” he asked.

The woman shrugged. “Finish your meal,” she said in a stern voice.

Tas set his fork down. “I’m not very hungry,” he mumbled despondently, his mind going back to the dwarf’s strange, cruel look at Caramon outside the arena.

The black-skinned man smiled at the kender, who sat across from him. “Come on,” he said, standing up and holding out his hand to Tas in a friendly manner, “I’ll show you to your room. We all go through it the first day. Your friend will be all right—in time.”

“In time.” Kiiri snorted, shoving her plate away.

Tas lay all alone in the room he had been told he would share with Caramon. It wasn’t much. Located beneath the arena, it looked more like a prison cell than a room. But Kiiri told him that all the gladiators lived in rooms like these.

“They are clean and warm,” she said. “There are not many in this world who can say that of where they sleep. Besides, if we lived in luxury, we would grow soft.”

Well, there was certainly no danger of that, as far as the kender could see, glancing around at the bare, stone walls, the straw-covered floor, a table with a water pitcher and a bowl, and the two small chests that were supposed to hold their possessions. A single window, high up in the ceiling right at ground level, let in a shaft of sunlight. Lying on the hard bed, Tas watched the sun travel across the room. The kender might have gone exploring, but he had the feeling he wouldn’t enjoy himself much until he found out what they had done to Caramon.

The sun’s line on the floor grew longer and longer. A door opened and Tas leaped up eagerly, but it was only another slave, tossing a sack in onto the floor, then shutting the door again. Tas inspected the sack and his heart sank. It was Caramon’s belongings! Everything he’d had on him—including his clothes! Tas studied them anxiously, looking for bloodstains. Nothing. They appeared all right... His hand closed over something hard in an inner, secret pocket.

Quickly, Tas pulled it out. The kender caught his breath. The magical device from Par-Salian! How had they missed it, he wondered, marveling at the beautiful jeweled pendant as he turned it over in his hand. Of course, it was magical, he reminded himself. It looked like nothing more than a bauble now, but he had himself seen Par-Salian transform it from a sceptre-like object. Undoubtedly it had the power to avoid discovery if it didn’t want to be discovered.

Feeling it, holding it, watching the sunlight sparkle on its radiant jewels, Tas sighed with longing. This was the most exquisite, marvelous, fantastic thing he’d ever seen in his life. He wanted it most desperately. Without thinking, his little body rose and was heading for his pouches when he caught himself.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot, said a voice that sounded uncomfortably like Flint’s, this is Serious Business you’re meddling with. This is the Way Home. Par-Salian himself, the Great Par-Salian gave it to Caramon in a solemn ceremony. It belongs to Caramon. It’s his, you have no right to it!

Tas shivered. He had certainly never thought thoughts like these before in his life. Dubiously, he glanced at the device. Perhaps it was putting these uncomfortable thoughts in his head!

He decided he didn’t want any part of them. Hurriedly, he carried the device over and put it in Caramon’s chest. Then, as an extra precaution, he locked the chest and stuffed the key in Caramon’s clothes. Even more miserable, he returned to his bed.

The sunlight had just about disappeared and the kender was growing more and more anxious when he heard a noise outside. The door was kicked open violently.

“Caramon!” Tas cried in horror, springing to his feet.

The two burly humans dragged the big man in over the doorstep and flung him down on the bed. Then, grinning, they left, slamming the door shut behind them. There was a low, moaning sound from the bed.

“Caramon!” Tas whispered. Hurriedly grabbing up the water pitcher, he dumped some water in the bowl and carried it over to the big warrior’s bedside. “What did they do?” he asked softly, moistening the man’s lips with water.

Caramon moaned again and shook his head weakly. Tas glanced quickly at the big man’s body. There were no visible wounds, no blood, no swelling, no purple welts or whip-lash marks. Yet he had been tortured, that much was obvious. The big man was in agony. His body was covered with sweat, his eyes had rolled back in his head. Every now and then, various muscles in his body twitched spasmodically and a groan of pain escaped his lips.

“Was... was it the rack?” Tas asked, gulping. “The wheel, maybe? Thumb-screws?” None of those left marks on the body, at least so he had heard.

Caramon mumbled a word.

“What?” Tas bent near him, bathing his face in water. “What did you say? Cali—cali—what’? I didn’t catch that.” The kender’s brow furrowed. “I never heard of a torture called cali-something,” he muttered. “I wonder what it could be.”

Caramon repeated it, moaning again.

“Cali... cali... calisthenics!” Tas said triumphantly. Then he dropped the water pitcher onto the floor. “Calisthenics? That’s not torture!”

Caramon groaned again.

“That’s exercises, you big baby!” Tas yelled. “Do you mean I’ve been waiting here, worried sick, imagining all sorts of horrible things, and you’ve been out doing exercises!”

Caramon had just strength enough to raise himself off the bed. Reaching out one big hand, he gripped Tas by the collar of his shirt and dragged him over to stare him in the eye.

“I was captured by goblins once,” Caramon said in a hoarse whisper, “and they tied me to a tree and spent the night tormenting me. I was wounded by draconians in Xak Tsaroth. Baby dragons chewed on my leg in the dungeons of the Queen of Darkness. And, I swear to you, that I am in more pain now than I have ever been in my life! Leave me alone, and let me die in peace.”