Time of the Twins

“Denubis,” the figure chided, “you have known me many years. Do you ask the wind how it blows? Do you question the stars to find out why they shine? I know, Denubis. Let that be enough for you.”

“But—” Denubis put his hand to his head in confusion. This would entail explanations, reports to the proper authorities. One did not simply conjure up a squadron of Temple guards!

“Hurry, Denubis,” the man said gently. “She will not live long...”

Denubis swallowed. A Revered Daughter of Paladine, assaulted! Dying—in the marketplace! Probably surrounded by gaping crowds. The scandal! The Kingpriest would be highly displeased—

The cleric opened his mouth, then shut it again. He looked for a moment at the figure in the shadows, then, finding no help there, Denubis whirled about and, in a flurry of robes, ran back down the corridor the way he had come, his leather sandals slapping on the marble floor.

Reaching the central headquarters of the Captain of the Guard, Denubis managed to gasp out his request to the lieutenant on duty. As he had foreseen, this caused all sorts of commotion. Waiting for the Captain himself to appear, Denubis collapsed in a chair and tried to catch his breath.

The identity of the creator of spiders might be open to question, Denubis thought sourly, but there was no doubt in his mind at all about the creator of that creature of darkness who, no doubt, was standing back there in the shadows laughing at him.

“Tasslehoff!”

The kender opened his eyes. For a moment, he had no idea where he was or even who he was. He had heard a voice speaking a name that sounded vaguely familiar. Confused, the kender looked around. He was lying on top of a big man, who was flat on his back in the middle of a street. The big man was regarding him with utter astonishment, perhaps because Tas was perched upon his broad stomach.

“Tas?” the big man repeated, and this time his face grew puzzled. “Are you supposed to be here?”

“I-I’m really not sure,” the kender said, wondering who “Tas” was. Then it all came back to him—hearing Par-Salian chanting, ripping the ring off his thumb, the blinding light, the singing stones, the mage’s horrified shriek...

“Of course, I’m supposed to be here,” Tas snapped irritably, blocking out the memory of Par-Salian’s fearful yell. “You don’t think they’d let you come back here by yourself, do you?” The kender was practically nose to nose with the big man.

Caramon’s puzzled look darkened to a frown. “I’m not sure,” he muttered, “but I don’t think you—”

“Well, I’m here.” Tas rolled off Caramon’s rotund body to land on the cobblestones beneath them. “Wherever ‘here’ is,” he muttered beneath his breath. “Let me help you up,” he said to Caramon, extending his small hand, hoping this action would take Caramon’s mind off him. Tas didn’t know whether or not he could be sent back, but he didn’t intend to find out.

Caramon struggled to sit up, looking for all the world like an overturned turtle, Tas thought with a giggle. And it was then the kender noticed that Caramon was dressed much differently than he had been when they left the Tower. He had been wearing his own armor (as much of it that fit), a loose-fitting tunic made of fine cloth, sewn together with Tika’s loving care.

But, now, he was wearing coarse cloth, slovenly stitched together. A crude leather vest hung from his shoulders. The vest might have had buttons once, but, if so, they were gone now. Buttons weren’t needed anyway, Tas thought, for there was no way the vest would have stretched to fit over Caramon’s sagging gut. Baggy leather breeches and patched leather boots with a big hole over one toe completed the unsavory picture.

“Whew!” Caramon muttered, sniffing. “What’s that horrible smell?”

“You,” Tas said, holding his nose and waving his hand as though this might dissipate the odor. Caramon reeked of dwarf spirits! The kender regarded him closely. Caramon had been sober when they’d left, and he certainly looked sober now. His eyes, if confused, were clear and he was standing, straight, without weaving.

The big man looked down and, for the first time, saw himself.

“What? How?” he asked, bewildered.

“You’d think,” Tas said sternly, regarding Caramon’s clothes in disgust, “that the mages could afford something better than this! I mean, I know this spell must be hard on clothes, but surely—”

A sudden thought occurred to him. Fearfully, Tas looked down at his clothes, then breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing had happened to him. Even his pouches were with him, all perfectly intact. A nagging voice inside him mentioned that this was probably because he wasn’t supposed to have come along, but the kender conveniently ignored it.