Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (22 page)

There had once been a fireplace, but the chimney had fallen in, and no one had bothered to repair it. The outside of the building was painted with lewd drawings and scrawls. A large signboard featuring a very hairy troll had once hung in front, but it had fallen down, and now either the sign leaned against the building or the building leaned against the sign; Raistlin wasn’t sure which. The locals maintained that the sign was the only thing keeping the building standing.

A door had apparently once guarded the entrance, but all that was left of it were rusting hinges. No door was needed anyway, according to Mari, because the Hairy Troll never closed. It was always crowded, day or night.

The stench of stale ale, vomit, and sweaty goblin almost stunned Raistlin as he walked through the door. The smell was bad, but the din was mind-numbing. The bar was jammed with soldiers. Empty casks of ale passed for tables. The patrons either stood around them or sat on wobbly benches. There was no bar. The tavern’s owner, a half-ogre named Slouch, sat beside a keg of ale, filling mugs and taking steel, which he dumped in an iron box at his side. Slouch never spoke and rarely moved from his place by the iron box. He paid no heed to anything going on in the bar. Fights might rage around him, but Slouch would never so much as glance up. He kept his attention firmly focused on the ale flowing into the glasses and the steel coins flowing into his coffer.

The rule was that a patron paid for his drink in advance (Slouch did not trust his customers, with good reason) then took a seat. The ale was delivered by gully dwarf servers, who scuttled around underfoot, dodging kicks and ducking punches. Mari escorted Raistlin to a three-legged table and told him to sit down. He closed his eyes to the filth and took a seat.

“What would you like to drink?” she asked.

Raistlin looked at the dirty glasses being shoved into the hands of the patrons by dirtier gully dwarves and said he wasn’t thirsty.

“Hey, Maelstrom!” Mari hollered, her shrill voice carrying over the howls and grunts and laughter. “Tell Slouch that my friend Raist here wants one of your specials!”

Her shout was directed at the only other human in the room, one of the largest, ugliest men Raistlin had ever seen. Maelstrom was as
tall as a minotaur and as broad through the chest and shoulders as one of those monsters. He was swarthy, his black eyes barely seen beneath overhanging beetling black brows and long, black, greasy hair that he wore in a braid down his back. He wore a leather vest and leather pants and tall leather boots. He was never known to wear anything else; no shirt, no cloak, and he went bare chested even during the coldest days of winter.

Maelstrom’s black eyes had been fixed on Raistlin from the moment he’d entered, and at Mari’s shout, he gave a slow nod and said something to Slouch, who shifted his bulk and thrust two mugs beneath the spout of another, smaller cask. Maelstrom deigned to deliver the mugs himself, moving with ease through the crowd, shouldering aside draconians, knocking aside goblins, and leaving overturned gully dwarves in his wake. He never once took his eyes from Raistlin.

Maelstrom lowered himself onto the long bench that groaned with the enormous man’s weight, causing the other end to tilt, nearly lifting Raistlin off the floor. Maelstrom plunked one mug down in front of Raistlin and kept the other mug for himself.

“This is my friend Raist,” said Mari. “The one I was telling you about. Raist, this is Maelstrom.”

“Raist,” said Maelstrom with a slow nod.

“My name is Raistlin.”

“Raist,” Maelstrom repeated, frowning, “drink up.”

Raistlin recognized the pungent, earthy smell of dwarf spirits and was reminded forcibly of his brother, who was overly fond of the potent liquor. Raistlin pushed the mug away.

“Thank you, no,” he said.

Maelstrom drank his mug of spirits in one long, smooth gulp, tilting back his head and seeming to pour it directly down his throat. All the while, even with his head tilted, he kept his gaze fixed on Raistlin. Maelstrom brought his mug down with a thud.

“I said, ‘drink up,’ Raist.” Maelstrom’s thick brows came together. Leering, he thrust his jaw into Raistlin’s face. “Or maybe, seein’ as how you’re a high-falultin’ muckety-muck wizard, you think you’re too good to drink with the likes of me and my friend?”

“Naw, Raist doesn’t think that,” said Mari, who was leaning
her elbows on the cask that served as a table. “Do you, Raist?” She pushed the mug of dwarf spirits toward him.

Raistlin took the mug and lifted it to his lips, sniffed, and swallowed. The fiery liquid burned his throat, stole his breath, brought tears to his eyes, and set him to coughing. Mari thoughtfully supplied him with his own handkerchief, which she pulled out from the top of her stocking. He hacked and choked, aware of Maelstrom’s eyes on him, as Mari helpfully pounded him on the back.

Maelstrom kicked at a gully dwarf in passing and ordered two more mugs. “Drink up, Raist. There’s another one coming.”

Raistlin lifted his mug, but his fingers didn’t seem to work properly, and it slipped from his hand and landed with a crash on the floor at his feet. Two gully dwarves cleaned it up, immediately dropping to their knees and lapping up the spill.

Raistlin slumped over the cask. His eyes closed. His body went limp.

Maelstrom grunted. “Weak and spindly,” was his comment. “I say we toss him back.”

“Aw, Raist’s all right. He’s just not used to the good stuff,” said Mari.

Maelstrom grabbed hold of Raistlin’s head by his hair and yanked it up. He peered into Raistlin’s eyes. “Is he playin’ possum?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mari. She gave Raistlin’s arm a hard pinch. He did not move. His eyelids did not flicker. “He’s out cold.”

Maelstrom grabbed hold of Raistlin and plucked him off the bench and slung him over his shoulder with as much ease as if he’d been one of the gully dwarves.

“You be careful of him, Mal,” said Mari. “I found him. He’s mine.”

“You kender are always ‘findin’ ‘ things,” Maelstrom muttered. “Most of which is best left in the gutter.”

He yanked Raistlin’s cowl down firmly over his head, wrapped one arm securely around Raistlin’s legs, and hauled him out of the Hair of the Troll to raucous laughter and rude remarks about humans who couldn’t hold their liquor.

he night was fine, at least as fine as any night could be in the city of Neraka, which seemed to be always sullenly lurking under a perpetual cloud of haze and smoke and dust. Talent Orren was in a good mood, and he whistled a merry dance tune as he sauntered through the Red Gate. The guards on duty greeted him with enthusiasm, thirstily eyeing the wineskin he had brought with him, which they immediately “confiscated.” Talent handed over the wine with a grin and said he hoped they enjoyed it.

No moons being visible that night, Talent carried a lantern to light his way. He made a left turn at the first street, then headed for a T-shaped building that stood at the very end. He was not alone. Human and draconian soldiers patrolled the streets of the Red District, going about their business with an air of orderly efficiency—a marked contrast to the foul mood of the hobs and gobs in the Green District. The relative calm might have something to do with the fact that the Red Dragonarmy commander, Ariakas, was currently in residence.

The draconians ignored Talent as they tended to disdainfully ignore most humans. Most of the human soldiers knew and liked him, though, and they called out good-natured insults. Orren gave back as good as he got. He would see them all later in his tavern, where he would be happy to relieve them of their pay.

Talent’s destination was a pawn shop known as Lute’s Loot. On his arrival, Talent opened the door and walked inside. He paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright light, which was indicative of the shop’s success. Seven crystal lamps of remarkable beauty hung from beams in the ceiling. Lute claimed to have purchased them from an elf lord desperate to escape Qualinesti before the dragonarmy’s attack. Lute had paid the Emperor’s witch, Iolanthe, a tidy sum to cast a magical light spell on the lamps. The light was soft white and though some of the customers considered it harsh and claimed it burned their eyes, Talent found it calming, even soothing.

When his eyes were no longer dazzled and he was in no danger of breaking his neck amid the clutter, he bid a good evening to Lute’s guardians, two enormous mastiffs. Named Shinare and Hiddukel, the mastiffs greeted Talent with wagging tails and large quantities of dog slobber. One of them, standing on his hind legs, placed his front paws on Talent’s chest to lick his cheek. The dog topped the man by several inches.

Talent played with the dogs and waited to speak to Lute, who, seated on a tall stool against the back wall, was occupied with business, making some sort of deal with a soldier of the Red Dragonarmy. Catching sight of Talent, Lute paused in his bargaining to grumble at his friend.

“Hey, Talent, what was that swill you sent over for my dinner?”

Lute was a short, squat individual with a large head, a rotund belly, and a surly disposition who boasted proudly that he was the laziest person in Ansalon. Every morning he moved from his bed, which was located in a room directly behind the counter, to his stool, where he sat all day, leaving it only to use the chamber pot. When time came to close up shop late at night, Lute slid off the stool and waddled the few steps to his bed. A mop of curly, black hair fell over his eyes, meeting his full, curly, black beard somewhere in the
vicinity of his nose, so it was difficult to tell where the beard began and his hair left off. Small, keen eyes glinted out from the thatch.

“Rabbit stew,” Talent said.

“Flummery! Boiled gully dwarf is more like it!” Lute said irately.

“You should have sent it back,” Talent said.

“A fellow has to eat something,” Lute snarled and returned to his haggling.

Talent grinned. His rabbit stew was good; none better in this part of the world. Lute was not happy unless he was complaining about something.

If Lute had a surname, no one knew it. He claimed to be human, but Talent knew better. One night early in their long relationship, Lute, having imbibed a bit too much in the way of dwarf spirits, had told Talent that his father had been a dwarf from the kingdom of Thorbardin. When Talent had mentioned that the next morning, Lute had flown into a rage and denied that he’d ever said any such thing. He had gone for a week without speaking to his friend, and Talent had never brought it up again.

Talent lounged among the heaps and piles of junk that covered the floor of the warehouse. Lute’s Loot was a repository for goods from all of Ansalon. Talent often said he could trace the progress of the war in the variety of the store’s wares. The contents of the room included furniture, paintings, and tapestries from Qualinesti; a set of chairs said to have come from the famous Inn of the Last Home in Solace; a few objects from the dwarven kingdom, though not many, for Thorbardin had fought off the dragonarmies. There was nothing from the elven kingdom of Silvanesti, for the land was said to be cursed and no one went near it. There were large quantities of items from the eastern part of Solamnia, which had fallen to the might of the Blue Lady, though as far as Talent could hear, Palanthas was still holding out.

He waited patiently for the soldier to finish his dealing. The man finally agreed to a price, which he claimed was way beneath the value of whatever it was he was trying to sell. The soldier left in foul mood, clutching his coins in his hand. Talent recognized him as a regular, and he guessed that those coins would soon find their way into his strong box.

When the soldier had banged his way irritably out of the door, Lute lifted his black cane and waved it in the air, a signal that Talent should shut the door and lock up for the night. If Talent had not been around to perform that task, Lute had trained Shinare to shut the door; then her mate, Hiddukel, would hit an iron bar with his nose so that it dropped down into place to keep the door from being forced open. Thus Lute was spared the fatigue of walking from the counter to the door and back again.

The mastiffs’ main duty was to deter thieves. They would greet patrons at the door and escort them through the shop, growling if anyone dared touch anything without first obtaining permission from Lute. And in case anyone might decide to try to snatch an object and flee, Lute would simply pick up the small, handheld crossbow that rested on the counter beside his cup of thick, honey-laced tarbean tea. Should anyone doubt Lute’s ability to use the crossbow, he would point to a goblin’s skull with a bolt through its eye that he had nailed to the wall.

Talent had just shut the door and was preparing to lower the bar when he heard a knock. Talent peered out. At first he didn’t see anything.

“Down here, doofus,” said Mari.

Talent lowered his gaze to the kender.

“The delivery’s been made,” she said.

“Well done, thanks,” said Talent.

Mari waved at him and ran off into the night. Talent shut the door and locked it.