The Reign Of Istar by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman Page A

Tarli, stick in hand, walked to the window. “The
     room needed something cheerful, and - can you believe it? - these things were just sitting
     on shelves in the dark. I thought they'd remind some of us of our training,” he finished
     quietly.
    “Are these the only things you ... borrowed?”
    “They were all I could carry.” Tarli looked around the bare, dismal room critically. “I
     could go back for more - ”
    “No!” Moran said, then, more calmly, “Don't go into that storeroom again. Don't take
     things out of it again. Don't do anything at all in relation to the storeroom, unless I
     give my written permission to do so.”
    “All right, Sire.” Tarli looked puzzled.
    “And now I'll take these back.” Moran gathered up the chalice, the chest, and the tray.
    “Why? They won't do anyone any good, shut up in that room.”
    Moran said delicately, “The knights prefer that these things be locked away, to discourage
     thieves.”
    “No!” Tarli was shocked. “Thieves? Here?” A monstrous idea occurred to him. “Among the
     novices?”
    “It's been known,” Moran said dryly.
    Rakiel had completed the inventory when Moran returned. The cleric quickly added the last
     three items. “Do you want to see the list - ?”
    Moran shook his head. He sat heavily on an oaken chest whose lock, he noted thankfully,
     was rusted shut and intact. “That's the lot. Sorry to put you to the extra work.”
    “No trouble.” Rakiel crumpled the list and stuffed it in his robes. “I assume it was Tarli
     who stole them. Have you noticed - ?”
    Moran cut him off. “Go to the basement. Bring me a handful of spikes and a hammer. I'm
     sealing this door.”
    Rakiel did not move, eyed him grimly. “Have you noticed,” he said determinedly, “that the
     novices are right about his being like a kender? He doesn't have the pointed ears, of
     course,” he added hastily, “or the topknot hair, and he is a little taller, but his
     habits, and his recklessness, and his ...”
    Moran glowered at the cleric. “Loraine was human. Very short, a bit odd, but human. Go.”
    Rakiel left. The knight, alone on the trunk, sagged and closed his eyes, too tired even to
     dream of Loraine.
    *****
    Moran sat clearing away his manuscripts. Drill reason was nearly over.
    The game of Draconniel was over as well; last night Rakiel's forces, depleted over months
     of ruthless tactics, withdrew in disorder. Moran killed and captured as many as mercy and
     logistics allowed, then accepted Rakiel's sullen congratulations and gladly slipped
     downstairs to check on the novices.
    In retrospect, he wished he had stayed with Rakiel.
    Hidden in his niche, Moran listened to the boys in the barracks. This was their last
     night. In the morning, the novices would be given squires' tunics and the names of the
     knights they would serve.
    The boys had smuggled in cakes and ale - Moran had known - but they didn't feel like
     eating or drinking. It was no longer fun breaking the rules.
    Unfortunately, none of them felt that way yet about bullying their three victims.
    Janeel, with false heartiness, said, “Gully Gut can celebrate for us.”
    Dein and Faron had bound Maglion's arms to his bed. By now he offered only a little
     resistance, mechanically pushing the others away. Only his eyes showed anger and pain.
    Steyan, his legs doubled up behind him and his body stuffed into an open trunk, watched as
     best he could. His head and neck were bent forward to fit in the trunk, which was labeled,
     “Gnome's Shortening Device.”
    Tarli was chained, muzzled, and gagged. Set in front of him were a gnawed bone and a sign:
    beware! kender bites!
    Tarli watched the others with patient indifference.
    “Mustn't leave you thirsty.” Janeel poured a full flagon of ale down Maglion's throat,
     some of it foaming into the fat boy's nostrils. He choked and sputtered.
    “And now” - Janeel waved a cake in front of Maglion like a conjurer -