Time of the Twins

“It’s worth every penny,” the man said, helping Caramon to his feet and dusting him off, eyeing him critically at the same time. “Been eating a bit too well, huh? Enjoy your liquor, too, I’ll bet? Probably what got you in here. Well, never mind. That’s soon mended. Name’s—Caramon?”

The big man nodded morosely.

“And I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the kender, stepping out through the broken door and extending his hand again. “I go everywhere with him, absolutely everywhere. I promised Tika I would and—”

The bear-skin man was writing something down on his slate and only glanced at the kender absently. “Mmmmm, I see.”

“Well, now,” the kender continued, putting his hand into his pocket with a sigh, “if you’d take these chains off our feet, it would certainly be easier to walk.”

“Wouldn’t it,” the bear-skin man murmured, jotting down some figures on the slate. Adding them up, he smiled. “Go ahead,” he instructed the jailer. “Get any others you’ve got for me today.”

The old man shuffled off, first casting a vicious glance at Tas and Caramon.

“You two, sit over there by the wall until we’re ready to go,” the bear-skin man ordered.

Caramon crouched down on the floor, rubbing his shoulder. Tas sat next to him with a happy sigh. The world outside the jail cell looked brighter already. Just like he’d told Caramon—“Once we’re out, we’ll have a chance! We’ve got no chance at all, cooped up in here.”

“Oh, by the way,” Tas called after the retreating figure of the jailer, “would you please see that my lockpick’s returned to me? Sentimental value, you know.”

“A chance, huh?” Caramon said to Tas as the blacksmith prepared to bolt on the iron collar. It had taken a while to find one big enough, and Caramon was the last of the slaves to have this sign of his bondage fastened around his neck. The big man winced in pain as the smith soldered the bolt with a red-hot iron. There was a smell of burning flesh.

Tas tugged miserably at his collar and winced in sympathy for Caramon’s suffering. “I’m sorry,” he said, snuffling. “I didn’t know he meant ‘on the block’! I thought he said ‘down the block.’ Like, we’re going to take a walk ‘down the block.’ They talk kinda funny back here. Honestly, Caramon...”

“That’s all right,” Caramon said with a sigh. “It’s not your fault.”

“But it’s somebody’s fault,” Tas said reflectively, watching with interest as the smith slapped grease over Caramon’s burn, then inspected his work with a critical eye. More than one blacksmith in Istar had lost his job when a slave-owner turned up, demanding retribution for a runaway slave who had slipped his collar.

“What do you mean?” Caramon muttered dully, his face settling into its resigned, vacant look.

“Well,” Tas whispered, with a glance at the smith, “stop and think. Look how you were dressed when we got here. You looked just like a ruffian. Then there was that cleric and those guards turning up, just like they were expecting us. And Lady Crysania, looking like she did.”

“You’re right,” Caramon said, a gleam of life flickering in his dull eyes. The gleam became a flash, igniting a smoldering fire.

“Raistlin,” he murmured. “He knows I’m going to try and stop him. He’s done this!”

“I’m not so sure,” Tas said after some thought. “I mean, wouldn’t he be more likely to just burn you to a crisp or make you into a wall hanging or something like that?”

“No!” Caramon said, and Tas saw excitement in his eyes. “Don’t you see? He wants me back here... to do something. He wouldn’t murder us. That... that dark elf who works for him told us, remember?”

Tas looked dubious and started to say something, but just then the blacksmith pushed the warrior to his feet. The bear-skin man, who had been peering in at them impatiently from the doorway of the smith’s shop, motioned to two of his own personal slaves. Hurrying inside, they roughly grabbed hold of Caramon and Tas, shoving them into line with the other slaves. Two more slaves came up and began attaching the leg chains of all the slaves together until they were strung out in a line. Then—at a gesture from the bear-skin man—the wretched living chain of humans, half-elves, and two goblins shuffled forward.

They hadn’t taken more than three steps before they were all immediately tangled up by Tasslehoff, who had mistakenly started off in the wrong direction.

After much swearing and a few lashes with a willow stick (first looking to see if any clerics were about), the bear-skin man got the line moving. Tas hopped about trying to get into step. It was only after the kender was twice dragged to his knees, imperiling the entire line again, that Caramon finally wrapped his big arm around his waist, lifted him up—chain and all—and carried him.

“That was kind of fun,” Tas commented breathlessly. “Especially where I fell over. Did you see that man’s face? I—”

“What did you mean, back there?” Caramon interrupted. “What makes you think Raistlin’s not behind this?”