Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (15 page)

He had thought it curious that he had not found a description of the Tower of High Sorcery in the Aesthetic’s writings on Neraka. There could be many reasons for that. Every Tower of High Sorcery was guarded by a protective grove. The Tower of Palanthas had the dread Shoikan Grove. The Tower of Wayreth was surrounded by an enchanted forest. Perhaps the grove around the Nerakan Tower rendered it invisible.

Iolanthe did not turn toward the Temple of the Dark Queen, however. She walked in the opposite direction, taking a street that led into what appeared to be a warehouse district. The streets were less crowded here, for soldiers did not frequent the area. Raistlin could see workmen inside the warehouses rolling barrels into place, shifting crates, and unloading sacks of grain from the ubiquitous wagons.

“I thought we were going to the Tower,” Raistlin said.

“We are,” said Iolanthe.

Rounding a corner, drawing him with her, she stopped in front of a three-story building made of bricks, huddling in between a cooper’s business on one side and a blacksmith’s on the other. The building was black, not by design, but because the bricks were covered with dirt and soot. There were few windows, and most of those were cracked or broken.

“Where is the Tower?” asked Raistlin.

“You’re looking at it,” said Iolanthe.

here must … there must be some mistake,” said Raistlin, appalled.

“There is no mistake,” said Iolanthe. “You look upon the repository of magic in the Dark Queen’s realm.”

She turned to face him.
“Now
do you understand?
Now
do you see why Nuitari broke with his mother? This”—she made a scathing gesture to the shabby, dirty, and decrepit building—”is the regard in which magic is held by the Queen of Darkness.”

Raistlin had never known such bitter disappointment. He thought of the pain he had endured, the sacrifices he had made to get to this place, and tears of anger and frustration burned his eyes and blurred his vision.

Iolanthe gave his arm a sympathetic pat. “I am sorry to say it only gets worse from here. You have yet to meet your fellow Black Robes.”

Her violet eyes, gazing at him, were piercing in their intensity. “You must decide, Raistlin Majere,” she said softly. “Which side will you choose? Mother or son?”

“What about you?” he hedged.

Iolanthe laughed. “Oh, that is easy. I am always on my own side.”

And her side appears to include serving my sister, Kitiara, Raistlin thought. That might work well for me, or it might not. I did not come to serve. I came to rule.

Sighing, Raistlin picked up the ruins of his shattered ambition and packed away the pieces. The path he had been walking had carried him not to glory but to a pig sty. He had to watch every step, look closely where he put his feet.

The door to the Tower of High Lunacy, as Iolanthe mockingly termed it, was guarded by a rune burned in the wood. The magical spell was rudimentary. A child could have removed it.

“Aren’t you worried that people will break in?” Raistlin asked.

Iolanthe gave a delicate snort. “It will give you some idea of how little the people of Neraka care about us when I tell you that thus far no one has
ever
attempted to break into our Tower. People are quite right not to waste their time. There’s nothing in here of value.”

“But there must be a library,” said Raistlin, his dismay growing. “Spellbooks, scrolls, artifacts …”

“Everything of value was sold off long ago to pay the rent on the building,” said Iolanthe.

Pay the rent! Raistlin burned with shame. He thought of the grand and glorious and tragic histories of the Towers of High Sorcery down through the ages. Magnificent structures designed to inspire fear and awe in all who gazed upon them. He watched a rat run into a hole at the base of the brick wall and felt sick to his stomach.

Iolanthe dispelled the rune and shoved open the door leading to a small and filthy entryway. To their right, a corridor extended into dusty darkness. A rickety-looking staircase led up to the second floor.

“There are rooms here, but you see why I suggested you live somewhere else,” said Iolanthe.

She called out, pitching her voice to carry to the second level. “It’s me! Iolanthe! I’m coming upstairs. Don’t cast any fireballs.” She added in a disparaging undertone, “Not that the old farts could. What spells they ever knew, they long ago forgot.”

“What is down that corridor?” Raistlin asked as they climbed the stairs that creaked ominously underfoot.

“Classrooms,” said Iolanthe. “At least that’s what they were meant to be. There were never any students.”

Silence had greeted their arrival, but once Iolanthe had announced herself, voices broke out, high-pitched and querulous, pecking and clucking.

The second level was the common living and working space. The bedchambers were on the third floor. Iolanthe pointed out the laboratory, which consisted of a long worktable, set with cracked and dirty crockery, and a cauldron bubbling over a fire. The escaping steam told of boiled cabbage.

Next to the laboratory was the library. Raistlin looked through the door. The floor was covered with stacks and piles of books, parchments, and scrolls. Someone appeared to have started to sort through them, for a few books had been placed neatly on a shelf. After that, nothing had been done, apparently, except to create a bigger mess.

The largest room on that level, located across from the staircase, was the central living area. Iolanthe entered with Raistlin trailing behind her, keeping his hood over his head, his face in shadow. The room was furnished with a couple of broken-down couches, several wobbly-legged chairs, and a few small tables and storage chests. Three Black Robes—human males, well into their middle years—descended upon Iolanthe, all talking at once.

“Gentlemen,” she said, raising her hands for silence. “I will deal with your concerns in a moment. First, I want to introduce Raistlin Majere, a new addition to our ranks.”

The three Black Robes differed only in that one man had long gray hair and one had sparse gray hair and one had no hair at all. They were alike in that they loathed and distrusted each other, and all believed that magic was nothing but a tool to satisfy their own needs. Whatever souls they might have once possessed had been gnawed away by ignorance and greed. They were in Neraka because they had nowhere else to go.

Iolanthe named the three swiftly. The names passed in and out of Raistlin’s head. He did not consider it worth taking the time to learn
them, and as it turned out, he had no need to know. The Black Robes were not the least interested in him. Their only interest was themselves, and they bombarded Iolanthe with questions, demanding answers, then refusing to listen when she tried to give them.

They crowded around her in a suffocating circle. Raistlin remained on the outside, listening and observing.

“One of you—
one
of you,” Iolanthe repeated sternly when they all seemed about to talk, “tell me the reason for this uproar.”

The reason was given to her by the eldest mage, a seedy-looking old specimen with a crooked nose who had, Raistlin was to learn, eked out a living selling vile charms and dubious potions to peasants until forced to flee for his life after poisoning several of his patrons. According to Hook Nose, as Raistlin nicknamed him, they had all heard the rumor that Nuitari had broken with Queen Takhisis, that Ladonna had been killed, and that they were all doomed.

“The Nightlord’s guards will be breaking down our door at any moment!” Hook Nose said in panicked tones. “They suspect us of working for Hidden Light. We’ll all end up in the Nightlord’s dungeons!”

Iolanthe listened patiently and gave a light and airy laugh. “You may rest easy, gentlemen,” she said. “I, too, heard these rumors. I was myself uneasy, and so I sought out the truth. All of you know that the eminent wizardess Ladonna was my mentor and sponsor.”

The old men apparently knew that and were not impressed, for they said loudly that anything involving Ladonna would only add to their problems. Raistlin, who had not known it, wondered what it might mean. Was Iolanthe loyal to Ladonna?

“I spoke to her only last night. The rumor is completely false. Ladonna remains subject to Takhisis, as does her son, Nuitari. You have nothing to worry about. We may continue with business as normal.”

Seeing the old men glower, Raistlin guessed that “business as normal” was not all that great. In confirmation, Iolanthe drew out her silken purse and removed several steel coins stamped with the five heads of the Dark Queen. She rested the coins on a table.

“There you are. Payment for the services performed by the Black Robes of Neraka.”

She reeled off a list that included such tasks as rodent removal for a tailor’s shop and mixing potions as ordered by Snaggle. Raistlin thought privately he would rather use a potion mixed by gully dwarves than anything those three old coots had concocted. He would later learn from Iolanthe that she poured the potions into the Neraka sewer system. She funded the Tower herself.

“Otherwise,” she told Raistlin privately, “these buzzards would go seeking work on their own, and Nuitari knows what sort of trouble they would bring down on me.”

The old men were reassured by the sight of the coins far more than by Iolanthe’s words. Hook Nose latched onto the coins, as the other two watched him jealously, and they began a lively discussion on how the steel was to be divided, each claiming that he deserved the largest share.

“I hate to interrupt,” Iolanthe said loudly, “but I have a bit more business to conduct. I have introduced you to Raistlin Majere. He is a—”

“—a mere student of magic, sirs,” said Raistlin in his soft voice. Keeping his head humbly bowed and his hands in his sleeves, he kept to the shadows. “I am still learning, and I look to you, my esteemed elders, for teaching and advice.”

Hook Nose grunted. “He’s not planning to live here, is he? Because there’s no room.”

“I have taken other lodging,” Raistlin assured him. “I would be glad to work here, however—”

“Can you cook?” asked one. His double chin and large belly showed clearly where his interests lay. Raistlin named him Paunchy.

“I was thinking I might be of more use to you if I cataloged the books and scrolls in the library,” Raistlin suggested.

“We need a cook,” countered Paunchy testily. “I’m sick to death of boiled cabbage.”

“Young Master Majere has an excellent idea,” Iolanthe said, taking Raistlin’s cue. “Since the rest of you are busy with far more important work, we can assign the library to our novice wizard. Who knows? He may discover something of value.”

Hook Nose’s eyes gleamed at that and he agreed, though Paunchy still grumbled about needing a cook, not a librarian. Raistlin was a
fairly good cook, having prepared meals for himself and his brother when they were left orphaned as teenagers, and he promised to assist in that capacity too. Having satisfied everyone, he and Iolanthe departed.

“My robes stink of cabbage!” Iolanthe said, after the two of them left the three old men arguing how to spend the steel. “That horrid smell permeates everything. I will have to go home to change. Will you join me for supper? No cabbage, I promise!”

“I need to move my things into the inn—” Raistlin began.

Iolanthe interrupted him. “It’s growing late. The streets of Neraka are not safe to walk after dark, especially in the Outer City. You should spend another night with me, move into the inn tomorrow. After all,” she added in her mocking tone, “we have yet to play our game of marbles.”

“Thank you, but I have imposed on your hospitality enough,” said Raistlin, ignoring the remark about the marbles. “It will be safer for me to transport my things after darkness, don’t you agree? Especially the staff. And I do not fear walking the streets after nightfall.”

Iolanthe eyed him. “I suppose you are right. I have no doubt that you can take care of yourself. Which makes me wonder what you were up to back there. You—a mere student of magic! You can cast circles of fire around those old bastards. I think only one actually took the Test. The others are low-level, just about capable of boiling water.”

“If I proclaimed my true skill, they would view me as a threat and would constantly be watching me, on their guard against me,” explained Raistlin. “As it is, they will take me for granted. Which brings me to a question of my own: Why did you lie to them, tell them the rumors were not true?”

“They are terrified of the Nightlord. I know for a fact that one or all of them are informing on me,” Iolanthe replied calmly. “If I had told them the rumors were true, they would have knocked me down to be first out the door with the news.”

“Which is why you pay them,” said Raistlin in sudden understanding.

“And why I tell them what I want the Nightlord to hear,” said Iolanthe. “You must understand,” she added somberly. “When
Ladonna and the other Black Robes first came to Neraka, we had grand schemes and plans. We traveled here to make our fortunes. We were going to build a magnificent Tower of High Sorcery, the Tower of your dreams,” she said, glancing at Raistlin with a rueful smile and a sigh.