Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

A bored hobgoblin jailer sat tilted back in a chair, amusing himself by throwing his knife at rats. He held his knife in his hand, and whenever a rat skittered out of the shadows, he would hurl the knife at it. If he hit the rat, he would scratch a mark upon the stone wall. If he missed, he would scowl and grumble and make another mark in a different place on the wall. His aim was poor and, judging by the number of marks for their side, the rats were winning.

Absorbed in his contest, the hobgoblin paid no attention to his prisoners. There was no reason he should. They were obviously not going anywhere, and even if they managed to escape, they would lose their way in the convoluted tangle of planar-shifting tunnels, or tumble into a pool of acid, or fall victim to one of the other traps placed in the corridors.

In the dim light, Raistlin could see Caramon slumped on a bench at the far end of the holding cell. He was pretending to be asleep and, not being a very good actor, was doing a poor job of it. Tika, at the opposite end, held Tas's head in her lap. Tas was still unconscious, though, by his moaning, he was at least alive. Berem sat on a bench, his vacant eyes staring into the darkness. His head was cocked, as though he were listening to a loved one's voice. He spoke softly in reply.

"I'm coming, Jasla. Don't leave me."

Raistlin toyed with the idea of freeing Berem. He discarded it almost immediately. Now was not the time. Takhisis was watching. Better to wait until nightfall, when her attention was focused on the battle for power among her Highlords.

The only problem with that plan was that Berem was likely to be discovered long before night fell. The false goat-hair beard he wore to conceal his features was starting to slip off. His laced shirt front gaped open slightly, and Raistlin could see a faint gleam of green light from the emerald in his chest. If Raistlin could see it, so could the hobgoblin jailer. All he had to do was look away from his contest with the rats…

"You are in danger, Caramon," Raistlin warned silently. "Open your eyes!"

And that moment, as though Caramon had heard his brother's voice, he opened his eyes and saw the glint of green. Caramon yawned and heaved himself to his feet, stretching his arms as though stiff from sitting.

He glanced at the jailer. The hobgoblin was watching a rat that was trying to make up its mind if it would be safe enough to emerge from its hole in the wall. Caramon sauntered nonchalantly over to Berem and, keeping one eye on the hobgoblin, swiftly drew the lacings to Berem's shirt front closed. The glint of light from the emerald vanished. Caramon was about to try to stick the false beard back in place when the hobgoblin hurled his knife, missed, and swore. The knife clanged against the wall. The rat, chittering in glee, made a dash for it. Caramon sat down hurriedly, crossing his arms over his chest and feigning sleep.

Raistlin fixed his gaze, his thoughts on Caramon. "You can do this, my brother. I have often called you a fool, but you are not. You are smarter than you think. Stand on your own. You don't need me. You don't need Tanis. I will create the diversion. And you will act."

Caramon sat bolt upright on the bench.

"Raist?" he called out. "Raist? Where are you?"

Tika had been patting Tas's cheek, trying to rouse him. Caramon's shout made her jump. She stared at him reproachfully. "Stop it, Caramon!" she said wearily, her eyes filling with tears. "Raistlin is gone. Get that into your head."

Caramon flushed. "I must have been dreaming," he mumbled.

Tika sighed bleakly and went back to trying to rouse Tas.

Caramon slumped down on the bench, but he didn't close his eyes.

"I guess it's up to me," he said with a sigh.

"Jasla's calling," said Berem.

"Yeah," said Caramon. "I know. But you can't go to her now. We have to wait." He laid his hand on Berem's arm, calming, protecting.

Raistlin thought how often he'd been annoyed by that same protective hand. He turned away, retracing his steps along the passage, moving away from the main prison area, deeper into the darkness. He was not certain where he was going, though he had some idea. When he came to the place where the corridor branched off in different directions, he chose the passage that sloped downward, the passage that was darkest, the passage that smelled the worst. The air was dank and fetid. The walls were wet to the touch; the floor, covered with slime.

Torches lit the way, but their light was feeble, as though they, too, struggled to survive in the oppressive dark. Raistlin spoke the word that caused his staff to shine, and the globe of crystal glimmered palely, barely enough for him to see. He moved quietly, treading softly, alert to any sound. Arriving at the top of a staircase, he paused to listen. Voices-the guttural, sibilant voices of draconian guards, drifted up from below.

Hidden in the darkness, Raistlin removed the golden medallion of faith from around his neck and dropped it into a pocket. He took several pouches from around his neck and tied them to the belt of his black robes. Then, dousing the light of his staff, he crept down the stairs.

Rounding a corner, he saw a guard room with several baaz draconians seated at a table with their bozak commander, playing at bones beneath the light of a single torch. Two more baaz stood at attention in front of a stone arch. Beyond the arch was darkness vaster and deeper than the darkness of death.

Raistlin remained on the landing at the bend of the staircase and listened to the draconians talk. What he heard confirmed him his theory. He gave a loud "ahem" and walked loudly down the stairs, his staff thumping on the stone.

The draconians leaped to their feet, drawing their swords. Raistlin came into view and, at the sight of his wizard's robes, the draconians relaxed, though they kept their clawed hands on their sword hilts.

"What do you want, Black Robe?" asked the bozak.

"I have been commanded to renew the spell traps that guard the Foundation Stone," said Raistlin.

He was taking an enormous risk mentioning the Foundation Stone. If he had made the wrong surmise and those draconians were guarding something else, he would soon be fighting for his life.

The bozak commander eyed Raistlin suspiciously.

"You're not the usual wizard," said the bozak. "Where is he this night?"

Raistlin heard the inflection on the word; realizing it was a test, he gave a snort. "You must have extremely poor eyesight, Commander, if you mistook Mistress Iolanthe for a man."

The baaz draconians hooted and made rude comments at their commander's expense. The bozak silenced them with a growl and slid his sword back into its sheath.

"Get on with it, then."

Raistlin crossed to the arch that was festooned with cobwebs. He lifted his staff and let the magical light play over the web. He spoke a few words of magic. The strands glistened with a faint radiance that almost immediately died. The draconians went back to their game.

"A good thing I came," said Raistlin. "The magic is starting to fail."

"Where is the witch tonight?" the bozak asked in casual tones that were a little too casual.

"I hear she is dead," said Raistlin. "She tried to assassinate the Emperor."

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the bozak and the baaz exchange glances. The bozak muttered something about her death being "a waste of a fine female."

Raistlin started to walk through the arch.

"Stop right there, Black Robe," said the bozak. "No one allowed past this point."

"Why not?" asked Raistlin, feigning surprise. "I need to check the other traps."

"Orders," said the bozak.

"What is out there, then?" Raistlin asked curiously.

The bozak shrugged. "Don't know. Don't care."

Guards were not posted to guard nothing. Raistlin was now firmly convinced that the Foundation Stone lay through that arch. He tried to catch a glimpse of the fabled stone, but if it was there, he could not see it.