Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“I will draw Tanis aside. You talk to Flint.”

Tanis had recovered Flint’s whittling knife and sent Tasslehoff off to investigate a strange sound he claimed to have heard in the back of the building. He and Flint were discussing the journey; that is, Tanis was discussing it, and Flint wasn’t saying a word, when Raistlin asked Tanis if he could speak to him.

“I am concerned about Caramon’s health,” Raistlin said gravely. “He is not well this morning.”

“He just drank too much, that’s all,” said Tanis. “He has a hangover. This isn’t the first time. I should think you’d be used to it, by now.”

“I think it is more serious than that,” Raistlin persisted. “Some sickness. Please come look at him.”

“You know more about illness than I do, Raistlin—”

“I would like your opinion, Half-Elven,” Raistlin said. “You know how much I respect you.” Tanis didn’t, not really, but on the off-chance that Caramon had truly fallen ill, Tanis accompanied Raistlin over to the bed where Caramon lay with a cold rag over his eyes. Raistlin hovered solicitously near his brother as Tanis looked Caramon over. Raistlin’s gaze focused on Sturm and Flint. Raistlin could not hear their conversation, but he did not need to. He knew exactly when Sturm told the dwarf about switching the hammers, for Flint’s jaw dropped. He stared at Sturm in astonishment, then, frowning, he gave a violent shake of his head. Sturm continued to talk, pressing harder. The knight was earnest, serious. He was talking about the innocents. Flint shook his head again, but less forcefully. Sturm kept talking, and now Flint was starting to listen. He was thinking it over. Flint glanced at Arman, then glanced at the false hammer. His brow furrowed. He looked at Raistlin, who regarded him with an unblinking, unwavering stare. Flint averted his gaze. He said something to Sturm, who turned away and walked in studied nonchalance back to Raistlin.

“How is poor Caramon?” Sturm asked in the somber tones of one keeping watch at a deathbed. Raistlin shook his head and sighed.

“He drank too much, that’s all,” said Tanis, exasperated.

“Perhaps it was the worm meat,” Raistlin suggested.

“Oh, gods!” Caramon groaned. Clutching his gut, he rolled out of bed, dashed over to the corner, and threw up in the slop bucket.

“You see, Tanis,” said Raistlin reproachfully. “My brother is gravely ill! I leave him in your care. I must have a word with Flint before he departs.”

“And I would like a word with you, Raistlin,” said Sturm. “If you could spare me a moment.” The two walked off, leaving Tanis staring after them in wonder, scratching his beard. “What are those two up to? Ganging up on Flint, I suppose. Well, good luck to them.” He went over to assure Caramon that he had not been fed worms.

“Flint has promised to at least consider it,” said Sturm.

“He must consider quickly, then,” Raistlin said. “I need time to cast the spell, and our young friend grows impatient to be gone.”

Arman stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. Every so often he would frown deeply, heave a loud sigh, and tap the toe of his boot on the floor. “Once we send it, we are to take the Hammer to the Temple of the Stars,” Arman declared. “I told my father we would be there by sunset, if not before.”

Flint stared at him. “What do you think? That we’re going to just stroll into the tomb, pick up the Hammer, and stroll back out?”

“I do not know,” Arman replied coldly. “You are the one who knows how to find it.” Flint grunted and shook his head. He closed his pack, lifted it off the floor, and slung it over his shoulder. His eyes met Raistlin’s. Flint gave a very slight nod.

“He’ll do it!” Raistlin said exultantly to Sturm. “There is one problem. The spell I am going to cast is a transmutation spell. It is designed to shrink an object.”

“Shrink?” Sturm repeated, aghast. “We don’t want to shrink the hammer!”

“I am aware of that,” Raistlin said irritably. “I plan to modify the spell so it will reduce the hammer’s weight but not the size. There is a small chance that I might make a mistake. If so, our plot will be discovered.”

Sturm glowered. “Then we should not proceed.”

“A small chance, I said,” Raistlin remarked. “Very small.” He went over to Flint, who gave him a dark glance from beneath lowered brows.

“This replica is an object of fine craftsmanship,” said Raistlin. “Could I hold it to examine it more closely?”

Flint looked around. Arman had left off haunting the doorway and gone outside to try to walk off his mounting frustration. Tanis was across the room talking to Caramon. Slowly, Flint reached for the hammer. He drew it awkwardly from the harness and handed it over.

“It’s heavy,” he said pointedly.

Raistlin took the hammer, hefted it to test the weight, then affected to study the runes.

“It would be easier to carry,” Flint said, fidgeting nervously with the straps on his armor, “if it was lighter in weight.”

“Anyone watching?” Raistlin murmured.

“No,” said Sturm, smoothing his mustaches. “Arman is outside. Tanis is with your brother.” Raistlin closed his eyes. He gripped the hammer with one hand, running the other over the runeetched metal. He drew in a soft breath, then whispered strange words that Flint thought sounded like it feels when a bug crawls up your leg. He regretted his decision and started to reach for the hammer, to take it away.

Then Raistlin gave a sigh and opened his eyes.

“It is heavy,” he said, as he handed it back. “Remember to be careful when you use it.” Obviously, the spell had failed. Flint was relieved. He grabbed hold of the hammer and nearly went over backward. The hammer was as light as the kender’s chicken feather. Raistlin’s eyes glittered. He slid his hands inside the sleeves of his robes. Flint looked the hammer up and down, but he could not see any change. He started to put it back into the harness, then he caught Raistlin’s eye and remembered just in time that the hammer was heavy. Flint wasn’t very good at play-acting. He was doubly sorry he’d agreed to go along with this scheme, but it was too late now.

“Well, I’m away,” he announced. He stood hunched over, as if bowed down by the weight of the hammer, which was, in truth, weighing on him.

“I wish you would reconsider,” said Tanis, walking over to say good-bye. “You still have time to change your mind.”

“Yeah, I know.” Flint rubbed his nose. He paused, cleared his throat, then said gruffly, “Do this old dwarf a favor, will you, Tanis? Give him a chance to find glory at least once in his dull life. I know it sounds foolish—”

“No,” said Tanis, and he laid his hand on Flint’s shoulder. “It is far from foolish. Walk with Reorx.”

“Don’t go praying to gods you don’t believe in, half-elf,” Flint returned, glowering. “It’s bad luck.”

Straightening his shoulders, Flint walked out to join Arman Kharas, who told him in no uncertain terms it was time to depart. The two walked off, escorted by Hylar soldiers. Two Hylar guards remained behind, taking up their posts outside the inn’s door.

“I hope they haven’t forgotten breakfast,” said Caramon, sitting up in bed.

“I thought you weren’t feeling well,” said Raistlin in withering tones.

“I feel better now that I threw up. Hey!” Caramon walked over, opened the door, and stuck his head out. “When do we eat?”

Tasslehoff stared out the window until Flint had disappeared around the corner of a building. Then the kender plunked down on a chair.

“Flint promised me I could go with him to the Floating Tomb,” Tas said, kicking the rungs. Tanis knew it would be hopeless to try to convince the kender that Flint had made no such promise, so Tanis left Tas alone, confident that he would forget all about going in another five minutes, once he found something else of interest.