Dragonlance 12 - Raistlin Chronicles - Soulforge (44 page)

His dreamless, untroubled sleep provided much conversation among the jail's two guards. One held that such sleep was indicative of a mind innocent of murder, for all knew that a guilty conscience could never slumber peacefully. The other guard, older, scoffed at this notion. It proved the young man to be a hardened criminal, since he could sleep that soundly with the blood of his victim still on his hands.

Raistlin did not hear their arguments, nor did he hear the noisy voices of his fellow prisoners, mostly kender. The kender were filled with excitement, for this had been an eventful day, complete with a riot, a conflagration, a murder, and, most wonderfully, one of their own transformed into a giant. Not even Uncle Trapspringer had been known to accomplish such a magnificent feat. The giant kender was to become a celebrated figure in kender song and story ever after that, often seen striding across the oceans and hopping from mountaintop to mountaintop. If there was ever a night when the silver and red moons didn't rise, it was widely known that the giant kender had

"borrowed" them.

Eager to discuss this momentous occasion, the kender were constantly in and out of each other's cells, picking the locks almost before the cell doors were shut. As soon as the guards had one kender locked up, two more were out roaming around.

"He's shivering," observed the young guard, glancing into Raistlin's cell during one of the few lulls given them by the kender, a lull that was quite ominous, if only they'd thought about it. "Should I get him a blanket?"

"Naw," said the jailkeep with a leer. "He'll be warm enough. Too warm, if you take my meaning.

They say it's hotter'n the smithy's forge in the Abyss."

"I guess there'll be a trial first, before they hang him," said the young guard, who was new to the area.

"The sheriff will hold one, for form's sake." The jailer shrugged. "Myself, I don't see the need. He was caught with the knife in his hand standing over the body." He dredged up a filthy blanket.

"Here, you can cover him up if you want. 'Twould be a shame if he caught cold and died before the hanging. Hand over the keys."

"I don't have the keys. I thought you had the keys."

As it turned out, the kender had the keys. They poured out of their cells and were soon having a picnic in the middle of the jail.

Intent on endeavoring to persuade the kender to return their keys, the jailer and the lone guard were too distracted to notice the flare of torchlight approaching the prison, nor could they hear over the shouts of the kender, the shouts of the approaching mob.

Raistlin, exhausted from the spellcasting and the sheriff's questioning, had fallen into a comatose-like sleep and heard nothing.

*****

Caramon did not see the torchlight either. He was far from the jail, running as fast as he possibly could for the fairgrounds.

Caramon had narrowly escaped being made a prisoner himself. When questioned by Haven's sheriff, Caramon steadfastly denied all knowledge of the crime, denied it in the name of himself and his brother. Raistlin had wearily repeated his own story. He had knelt beside the body to examine the victim. He had no idea why he had picked up the knife or why he had tried to hide it. He had been in a state of shock, did not know what he was doing. He added, emphatically, that Caramon was not involved.

Fortunately a witness, the young priestess, came forward to claim that she had been speaking to Caramon in the hallway when they heard Judith scream. Caramon swore that his twin had been with him at the time, but the girl said she had seen only one of them.

Due to this alibi, the sheriff reluctantly released Caramon. He gave his brother one loving, anxious, worried look—a look that Raistlin ignored—and then hurried off to the fairgrounds.

On his way, Caramon mulled things over in his mind. People accused him of being dull-witted, slow. He was not dull-witted, but he was slow, though not in the popular use of the term, meaning stupid. He was a thinker, a slow and deliberate thinker, one who considered every aspect of a problem before finally arriving at the solution. The fact that he invariably arrived at the right solution often went unnoticed by most people.

Caramon had several miles to consider this terrible predicament. The sheriff had been quite candid.

There would be a trial as a matter of form, though its outcome was a foregone conclusion. Raistlin would be found guilty of murder, he would pay for his crime by hanging. The hanging would likely take place that very day, as soon as they could assemble the gallows.

By the time he reached the fairgrounds, Caramon had come to a decision. He knew what he had to do.

The fairgrounds were quiet. Here and there a light shone from behind the shutters of a booth, although it was well into the morning hours. Some craftsmen were still hard at work replenishing their stock for tomorrow's opening. Tomorrow would be the last day of the fair, the last day to entice customers, the last day to urge the buyer to part with his steel.

Word of the excitement in Haven had either not yet reached the fairgrounds, or, if it had, the participants had listened to it as a good story, little thinking it would have any effect on them. They would feel differently in the morning. If there was a murder trial and a hanging tomorrow, attendance at the fair would fall to almost nothing, sales would be down.

Caramon found Flint's stall by tracing the lumpy outlines of the various buildings, silhouetted against the lambent light of stars and the red moon, which was full and exceedingly bright.

Caramon took this as a good omen. Though Raistlin wore white robes, he had once remarked that he favored Lunitari.

Caramon looked for Sturm, but he was nowhere to be found, nor was Tasslehoff around. Caramon went to Tanis's tent, hesitated at the tent flap.

Desperate, Caramon had no compunction about interrupting any sort of pleasurable activity that might be taking place inside. Listening, he could hear nothing. He lifted the flap, peeked in. Tanis was alone, asleep, though not peacefully. He murmured something in an unknown language, probably elven, tossed restlessly. Evidently the quarrel remained unresolved. Caramon lowered the flap, backed away.

Entering the tent he shared with his twin, Caramon was not surprised to find Kitiara inside, rolled up in a blanket. By her even breathing, she was sleeping soundly and contentedly. Red moonlight flowed in after Caramon, as though Lunitari herself was intent on being present at this interview.

Anger and awe vied for the uppermost position in Caramon's soul.

Squatting down, he touched Kit's shoulder. He had to shake her several times to rouse her, and by this and the poor job of acting she did on rolling over and feigning not to immediately recognize him, he concluded that she had been shamming, playing possum. Kit was not one to let anyone sneak up on her, as Caramon himself knew from past painful experience.

"Who is that? Caramon?" Kit affected a yawn, ran her hand through her tousled hair. "What do you want? What time is it?"

"They've arrested Raistlin," Caramon said.

"Yes, well, I'm not surprised. We'll pay his fine and get him out of jail in the morning." Kit drew the blanket over her shoulders, turned away.

"They've arrested him for murder." Caramon spoke to his sister's back. "For the murder of the Widow Judith. We found her dead in her chambers. Her throat had been cut. There was a knife beside the body. Raistlin and I both recognized that knife. We'd seen it before—on your knife belt."

He fell silent, waiting.

Kitiara held still a moment, then, throwing off the blanket, she sat up. She was dressed in her hose and long-sleeved shirt. She had removed her leather vest, but she was wearing her boots.

She was nonchalant, easy, even slightly amused. "So why did they arrest Raistlin?"

"They found him holding the knife."

Kit grimaced. "That was stupid. Baby brother usually doesn't make stupid mistakes like that. As for recognizing the knife"—she shrugged—"there are a lot of knives in this world."

"Not many with Flint's mark, or the way you wrap the hilt with braided leather. It was your knife, Kit. Both Raistlin and I know it."

"You do, do you?" Kit quirked an eyebrow. "Did Raistlin say anything?"

"No, of course not. He wouldn't." Caramon was grim. "Not until I talked to you about it. But he's going to."

"They won't believe him."

"Then you're going to say something. You killed her, didn't you, Kit?"

Kitiara shrugged again, made no reply. The red moonlight, reflected in her dark eyes, never wavered.

Caramon stood up. "I'm going to tell them, Kit. I'm going to tell them the truth." He bent down, started to duck out the tent.

Kit twisted to her feet, seized hold of his sleeve. "Caramon, wait! There's something you have to consider. Something you haven't thought about." She tugged him back inside the tent, closed the flap, shutting out the moonlight.

"Well"—Caramon regarded her coldly—"what's that?"

Kit drew closer to Caramon. "Did you know Raistlin could do magic like that?"

"Like what?" Caramon was puzzled.

"Cast a spell like the one he cast tonight. It was a powerful spell, Caramon. I know. I've been around magic-users some, and I've seen… Well, never mind what I've seen, but trust me on this. What Raistlin did he shouldn't have been able to do. Not as young as he is."

"He's good at magic," Caramon said, still not comprehending what this was all about. He might have added, in the same tone, that Raistlin was good at gardening or at cooking fried eggs, for that was how Caramon viewed it.

Kit made an impatient gesture. "Are you part gully dwarf to be so thickheaded? Can't you understand?" She lowered her voice to a hissing whisper. "Listen to me, Caramon. You say Raistlin is good at magic. I say he's too good at magic. I hadn't realized it until tonight. I thought he was just playing at being a wizard. How could I know he was this powerful? I didn't expect—"

"What are you saying, Kit?" Caramon demanded, starting to lose patience.

"Let them have him, Caramon," Kitiara said, soft, quiet. "Let them hang him! Raistlin is dangerous.

He's like one of those vipers. As long as he's charmed, he'll be nice. But if you cross him… Don't go back to the prison, Caramon. Just go to bed. In the morning, if anyone asks you about the knife, say it was his. That's all you have to do, Caramon. And everything will be over with quickly."

Caramon was struck dumb, her words hitting him like a blow that left him too dazed to think what to say.

Kit couldn't read the blank expression on his face in the darkness. Judging him by her own standards, she guessed that he was tempted.

"Then it's you and me, Caramon," she continued. "I've had an offer of a job up north. The pay is good, and it will keep getting better. It's mercenary work. What we always talked about doing, you and I. I'll put in a good word for you. The lord will take you on. He's looking for trained soldiers.

You'll be free of Solace, free of entanglements"—she cast a narrow-eyed glance in the direction of Tanis's tent, then looked back to her half-brother— "free to do what you want. What do you say?

Are you with me?"

"You want me… to let Raistlin… die?" Caramon asked hoarsely, the last word nearly choking him.

"Just let whatever's going to happen, happen," Kit said soothingly, spreading her hands. "It will be for the best."

"You can't mean that!" He stared, incredulous. "You're not serious."

"Don't be an idiot, Caramon!" Kit said sternly. "Raistlin's using you! He always has, he always will!

He doesn't care a Flotsam penny for you. He'll use you to get what he wants, then when he's finished with you, he'll throw you away as if you were a bit of rag he'd use to wipe his ass. He'll make your life hell, Caramon! Hell! Let them hang him! It won't be your fault."

Caramon backed away from her, nearly taking down the tent post. "How can you… No, I won't do it!" He began fumbling with the tent flap, trying desperately to get out.

Kit lunged at him, dug her nails into his flesh. Her face loomed close to his, so close that he could feel her breath hot on his cheek. "I would have expected such an answer from Sturm or Tanis. But not you! You're not a sap, Caramon. Think about what I've said!"

Caramon shook his head violently. He felt nauseous, the same way he'd felt when he'd first seen the murdered corpse. He was still trying to get out of the tent, but he was so flustered and upset that he couldn't find his way.

Kit regarded him in silence, her hands on her hips. Then she gave a exasperated sigh.

"Quit it!" she ordered irritably. "Stop thrashing about! You're going to knock the tent over. Just calm down, will you? I didn't mean it. It was all a joke. I wouldn't let Raistlin hang."

"That's your idea of a joke?" Caramon wiped the chill sweat from his brow. "I'm not laughing. Are you going to tell them the truth?"

"What the hell good will that do?" Kit demanded, adding with a flash of anger, "You want to see me hang instead? Is that it?"

Caramon was silent, miserable.

"I didn't kill her," Kit said coldly.

"Your knife—"

"Someone stole it in the confusion in the temple. Took it from my belt. I would have told you if you had asked me, instead of accusing me like that. That's the truth. That's what happened, but do you think anyone will believe me?"

No, Caramon was quite certain no one would believe her.

"Come along," Kit ordered. "We'll wake Tanis. He'll know what to do."

She laced on her leather vest. Her sword lay on the floor, next to where she'd been sleeping.

Grabbing hold of it, she buckled the belt around her waist.

"Not a word about my little joke to the half-elf," she said to Caramon, lightly stroking his arm. "He wouldn't understand."

Caramon nodded his head, unable to speak. He wouldn't tell anyone, ever. It was too shameful, too horrible. Perhaps it had been a joke—gallows humor. But Caramon didn't think so. He could still hear her words, the vehemence with which they were spoken. He could still see the eerie light in her eyes. He drew away from her. Her touch made his flesh crawl.