Brothers Majere by Weis, Margaret

When the proprietor’s footsteps had died away and everything was quiet. Earwig walked to the door. Leaning his hoopak against the doorframe, the kender removed a leather case the size of a human’s hand. Inside was an assortment of wood-handled tools, each adorned with a metal tip bent at strange angles or cut into unusual shapes. Running his fingers caressingly over each, Earwig pulled out an instrument with a V-shaped end and inserted it into the lock. Working for a few minutes, slowly and unhurriedly, the kender heard a click come from within the mechanism. The door swung open.

“Cheap lock. They should get it replaced. I’ll tell them in the morning.”

Creeping out into the hall, he glanced around to see if anybody had awakened.

Nobody had.

Earwig replaced the tool in its pouch, and replaced the pouch back into his bags. He was about to proceed down the stairs when he remembered the large and unfriendly servant sitting at the front door,

“He’s probably fallen asleep. I won’t disturb him,” said

109

DRAQONLANCE Pneluoes

the thoughtful kender as he turned and went the opposite direction.

A locked window didn’t even require the use of his tools, much to Earwig’s disappointment. Climbing out, he crawled down a trellis and landed on the street behind the inn.

Barnstoke Hall stood in the middle of a long block of houses and shops on Southgate Street, one of the three main roads, each several miles in length, that apparently led from the gates to the center of Mereklar. The building was very long, paneled with light-colored wood on the floor and walls, though the ceiling was left uncovered, revealing the white foundation used for every building in the city.

The lights of Mereklar lit the street brightly, whatever magic they used for fuel apparently inexhaustible. Earwig stared up at one of the magical lights, hovering far above his short reach. He thought about using the rope he had at his waist to ensnare one of the miniature suns, but decided to wait until later. Right now he had a very important mission—finding Raistlin’s staff. The kender turned to the right, then stopped, looking behind him, craning his head. Changing his mind, he turned to the left, but suddenly looked behind him again.

“Mmmm,” Earwig murmured. “Which way should I go? Let me think. If I were a wizard’s staff, where would I be?”

The kender tried to imagine himself a staff, but found that distinctly unhelpful. Reaching behind into his backpack, Earwig withdrew a velvet pouch that rattled with a hollow sound. He opened the drawstrings, revealing a multitude of game pieces: glass dice, ivory chessmen, colored sticks—anything used for chance, fortune, or skill. Jamming his hand into the bag, the kender fished around inside for a while, spilling dice and knights everywhere. Eventually, he pulled out a small, square

I 10

BROtrjeRs

board, about a fingerspan to a side, with a metal arrow pinioned through the center. Leaving the dropped pieces on the street, Earwig sat down on the ground and set the spinner on the white stone road in front of him.

“Now let’s see which way the staff went,” he said, the index finger of his right hand going to the spinner.

Taking a deep breath. Earwig gave the spinner a whirl. The arrow stopped, pointing straight back into Barn-stoke Hall.

“Pooh! You’ve made a mistake. It can’t be in there!”

Earwig spun again, only to have the arrow point back at the inn.

“Are you broken?”

The kender gave the needle a wrench, bending it. Putting the spinner back on the ground, he flicked the arrow another time with his finger. It pointed directly into the heart of the city.

“What a coincidence. That’s just where I wanted to go!” Earwig said happily, stuffing the spinner into one of the pockets in his scruffy, baggy trousers. He started walking north up Southgate Street, his hoopak in his hand.

Raistlin thrashed in his bed. His back arched, his face contorted horribly, a mask of gold found only in theatrical grotesques. His mouth opened wide to scream, but the agony ripped his body. He could utter no sound, the air stolen from his chest.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *