Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [156]
“Resting comfortably!” Gnosh beamed, then returned to his work. “Andsogladyoucouldstopbyandifyou’reeverintheneighborhoodcomebyandseeusagain—”
“I will,” Tas said, smiling.
Tas found Fizban two levels down. (A fascinating journey—he simply yelled out the name of his level, then leaped into the void. Nets flapped and fluttered, bells went off, gongs sounded and whistles blew. Tas was finally caught one level above the ground, just as the area was being inundated with sponges.)
Fizban was in Weapons Development, surrounded by gnomes, all gazing at him with unabashed admiration.
“Ah, my boy!” he said, peering vaguely at Tasslehoff. “You’re just in time to see the testing of our new weapon. Revolutionize warfare. Make the dragonlance obsolete.”
“Really?” Tas asked in excitement.
“A fact!” Fizban confirmed. “Now, you stand over here—” He motioned to a gnome who leaped to do his bidding, running to stand in the middle of the cluttered room.
Fizban picked up what looked, to the kender’s confused mind, like a crossbow that had been attacked by an enraged fisherman. It was a crossbow all right. But instead of an arrow, a huge net dangled from a hook on the end. Fizban, grumbling and muttering, ordered the gnomes to stand behind him and give him room.
“Now, you are the enemy,” Fizban told the gnome in the center of the room. The gnome immediately assumed a fierce, warlike expression. The other gnomes nodded appreciatively.
Fizban aimed, then let fly. The net sailed out into the air, got snagged on the hook at the end of crossbow, and snapped back like a collapsing sail to engulf the magician.
“Confounded hook!” Fizban muttered.
Between the gnomes and Tas, they got him disentangled.
“I guess this is good-bye,” Tas said, slowly extending his small hand.
“It is?” Fizban looked amazed. “Am I going somewhere? No one told me! I’m not packed—”
“I’m going somewhere,” Tas said patiently, “with Laurana. We’re taking the lances and—oh, I don’t think I’m supposed to be telling anyone,” he added, embarrassed.
“Don’t worry. Mum’s the word,” Fizban said in a hoarse whisper that carried clearly through the crowded room. “You’ll love Palanthas. Beautiful city. Give Sturm my regards. Oh, and Tasslehoff”—the old magician looked at him shrewdly—“you did the right thing, my boy!”
“I did?” Tas said hopefully. “I’m glad.” He hesitated. “I wondered … about what you said—the dark path. Did I—?”
Fizban’s face grew grave as he gripped Tas firmly on the shoulder “I’m afraid so. But you have the courage to walk it.”
“I hope so,” Tas said with a small sigh. “Well, good-bye. I’ll be back. Just as soon as the war’s over.”
“Oh, I probably won’t be here,” Fizban said, shaking his head so violently his hat slid off. “Soon as the new weapon’s perfected, I’ll be leaving for—” he paused. “Where was that I was supposed to go? I can’t seem to recall. But don’t worry. We’ll meet again. At least you’re not leaving me buried under a pile of chicken feathers!” he muttered, searching for his hat.
Tas picked it up and handed it to him.
“Good-bye,” the kender said, a choke in his voice.
“Good-bye, good-bye!” Fizban waved cheerfully. Then—giving the gnomes a hunted glance—he pulled Tas over to him. “Uh, I seem to have forgotten something. What was my name again?”
Someone else said good-bye to the old magician, too, although not under quite the same circumstances.
Elistan was pacing the shore of Sancrist, waiting for the boat that would take him back to Southern Ergoth. The young man, Douglas, walked along beside him. The two were deep in conversation, Elistan explaining the ways of the ancient gods to a rapt and attentive listener.
Suddenly Elistan looked up to see the old, befuddled magician he had seen at the Council meeting. Elistan had tried for days to meet the old mage, but Fizban always avoided him. Thus it was with astonishment Elistan saw the old man come walking toward them now along the shoreline. His head was bowed, he was muttering to himself. For a moment, Elistan thought he would pass by without noticing