Brothers Majere by Weis, Margaret

Caramon could almost feel the satisfaction flowing from his brother—the satisfaction at having made this beautiful, desirable woman crawl. The fighter was furious at his twin. He moved to reach out and comfort his hostess. Just then he saw Earwig stuffing all the councillor’s knights and yeomen into his pouch. Sighing, Caramon changed the direction of his reach and nabbed the kender. “Put those back!”

“Put what back?”

“Those game pieces!”

“Why? They’re mine.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Yes, they are. Ask Raistlin. He was looking at them in

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the room this morning. Here’s the Dark Queen and here’s the other Dark Queen . . . Why! I have two now! Isn’t that wonderful . . .”

Caramon snatched the kender’s pouch—ignoring Earwig’s wail of protest—and dumped its contents out on the game board. “Do you see anything else that belongs to you, my lady?”

Shavas’s gaze flicked over the kender and rested a moment on the ring on his finger. “No,” she said to Caramon. “Thank you.”

“It is past time for us to leave.” Raistlin, leaning on the staff, pulled himself up. “I am tired and have much to think about.”

“I will have my carriage drop you at the inn. You will tell me if you have decided to take the job tomorrow, Raistlin?” Shavas asked, rising gracefully to her feet.

“Perhaps, my lady,” the mage replied, bowed and left the room.

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“Wl?y Do you frceaf peop/e like tijat Raisl?” Carca-mon demanded, sitting forward on the comfortable leather seats of the councillor’s private carriage. This vehicle was enclosed, to protect against the chill of the evening.

Raistlin glanced at his twin, amused at his brother’s unusually antagonistic tone. “Treat people like what?”

“You know.” Caramon couldn’t exactly put his ire into words. “She’s done nothing to hurt you.”

“Hasn’t she?” Raistlin murmured, but the words were muffled in the cowl of his red robes. He stirred slightly. “Don’t be naive, Caramon. She wants our help only so

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long as it suits her needs. You heard her confess that the other council members hate us and are going to hire our services only because they have to.”

“They only hate you,” Caramon said, then snapped his mouth shut. He couldn’t imagine why he’d said that, except that suddenly he wasn’t feeling well. His insides were twisting like snakes.

Raistlin regarded his brother with a steadfast gaze.

“Well,” said Earwig, “are we going to take the job or aren’t we?”

“What difference does it make to you, kender?” Raistlin asked irritably. “Since when did you ever care about work?”

Earwig blinked, rubbing his hand. The skin around one of his fingers itched. “I care about a lot of things! You never take me seriously, that’s all. And you should!” he stated, glaring at his companions. “If you don’t, someday you’ll be sorry!”

“Calm down,” muttered Caramon, rubbing his hand over his churning stomach.

“We’ll take the job. There was never any doubt of that,” Raistlin remarked.

“Then when do we start? What do we do first? I’ve got to know!” Earwig cried loudly.

Caramon looked at his friend, face wrinkling in confusion and pain, “Why?”

“I just do, that’s all!” Earwig said defiantly, flinging himself back into the seat and crossing his arms over his small chest.

“What’s wrong with you tonight?” Caramon stared at him.

“What’s wrong with any of us?” Raistlin snapped.

No one said anything. Each of the twins could have found his own answer, though neither spoke it aloud.

The ride back to the tavern was quiet, the night very still. Raistlin saw decorations hanging from many of the

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houses, in preparation for the upcoming Festival of the Eye. He shook his head slowly, tapping the Staff of Ma-gius on the floor. These people. They’re so foolish. They celebrate, they dance. They don’t know why. They don’t understand the terrible sacrifice that brought about this holiday, he said inwardly.

Raistlin thought back to his time with the councillor. The intimacy they’d shared had been exciting and over too soon. She’d slipped from his embrace as swiftly as she’d entered it, whispering something about the servants. Raistlin, to distract himself, to focus his mind back on what was important, had inspected the books on the shelves. He’d found texts on thaumaturgy, sorcery, summoning. He thought he’d glimpsed rare volumes on naming magics, illusions, invocations. Wonders from the ages lined the shelves, wonders that had been missing for hundreds of years.

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