An ancient elf stood on the deck of Starsnake, watching as the events foretold by his patron played out. "A small ship approaches," he said mildly, pointing to the craft leaving the damaged Avariel. "It would seem that Basel Indoulur is a man who honors his wagers."
If Procopio Septus heard the rebuke in the elf's voice, he gave no indication. "That is not a ship but a flying carpet Your eyes begin to fail you, Zephyr. How reassuring for both of us that your counsel has not."
The elf did not miss the implied threat "You are pleased with the new jordain I selected? Rualli is doing well?"
Procopio smiled thinly. "Not so well that I intend to replace you, if that's what you're asking. But let's speak of your recruitment efforts."
For a moment Zephyr's heart thudded painfully, then he realized that his patron could not possibly know of Kiva and Zephyr's secret efforts on her behalf.
"There are several promising students at the Jordaini College," Zephyr said mildly. "Tell me more about what you desire in your new counselors, so that I might make a closer match. For that matter, I could serve you better if I understood why you wished to hire so many. Most wizards content themselves with the counsel of a single jordain."
Procopio nodded toward the approaching carpet and the small woman seated on it. "He who lives by the sword dies by it. The same could be said of magic. You have seen the problems that occur when a wizard surrounds himself with mages of lesser skill. It creates vulnerability. That I cannot have."
The elf understood this, for he himself was a jordain, a superbly trained counselor chosen not only for his keen mind, but also for his utter lack of magical ability. The jordaini were highly resistant to magic and bounded by a multitude of rules that kept them separate from the normal flow of Halruaan life. They underwent rigorous training and took sacred vows: service to the land, their wizard patron, and truth. Death was the penalty for using magic or speaking untruth. Harsh, to be sure, but it was one of many things that kept the jordaini honest. Infractions were rare. Zephyr did not know of a single living jordain who flouted these rules-save for himself.
"It is a comfort to speak plainly," Procopio said. "No one can take my secrets from your mind. A man in my position can afford to surround himself with any comfort he desires."
"That is at best a partial truth, my lord," the elf said sternly. "You hire jordaini who are outstanding in the art of warfare. Why? You are lord mayor of this city and captain of its skyship fleet, but King Zalathorm directs the military."
The wizard turned to face Zephyr. "As will he who rules after Zalathorm."
For a moment they stood in silence. "So there it is," the elf said softly.
"There it is," Procopio agreed. "I would be king. Tell me how. You have lived long and seen kingdoms rise and fall."
"Indeed," Zephyr murmured. He marveled that the wizard did not hear the bitterness in his voice.
"I am greatly skilled in the art of divination," Procopio went on, too absorbed in his own dreams to consider any nightmares his jordain might have lived. "But many wizards can captain a skyship as well as I, and military science is not my discipline. I need men who know it as well as I know my own business, and," he added with a sly smile, "that of Basel Indoulur."
Zephyr nodded thoughtfully, putting aside his own whirling thoughts to concentrate on his patron's situation. "Then you will need a master of horse to replace Iago. Regretfully, the outpost militia stationed in the Nath region found no trace of him. We assume he was carried off by raiders. There have been recent sightings of Crinti shadow amazons in the foothills," he said, referring to the race of gray-skinned, gray-haired horsewomen who ruled the land of Dambrath and haunted the wild eastern borders of Halruaa.
The wizard grunted. "Then we've seen the last of that jordain. Did we lose all the horses he purchased?"
"Only one, my lord. It would seem that Iago took a promising stallion out for a run and was not seen again."
"Pity. What of his replacement?"
"Several promising candidates, my lord. In this year's class, I would recommend Andris, whose grasp of military strategy is quite astonishing. Matteo is skilled with weapons and rides extremely well. Both are promising leaders. Either would do admirably."
Procopio considered this. "But do I really want another green jordain? What of those who are already in service to a wizard lord? Why not hire a seasoned counselor out from under his current patron? It's done all the time."
“True, but the practice holds risks," the elf cautioned. "You are not the only wizard to employ more than one jordain, but if you concentrate too blatantly on gathering a military council, it will not be long before your rivals perceive the pattern. The young men I mentioned have other skills that will distract the eye from your main purpose for them."
"Wise advice," the wizard mused. "Very well, then, see to it. Pick whichever one you think best."
The elf bowed. "I will send messengers to the Jordaini College as soon as we reach the villa. It is prudent to bid early for the services of the most talented students."
In truth, Zephyr started the process long before the skyship reached land. He took his leave from his patron and shut himself in his tiny cabin below decks. Once the door was barred, he moved a loose plank from the floor and took from its hiding place a small milky sphere. He blew gently on it. The swirling clouds parted to reveal the face of a beautiful forest elf.
"Lady Kiva," he said softly.
Her jade-colored brows furrowed. "Speak up. What's wrong? Are you alone?"
"Would any jordain use a magical device if he were not? It could mean my life if someone found me speaking with you." The ancient elf smiled sadly. "And I have not endured these many years to leave our lifework undone."
Kiva inclined her head in a single nod, a gesture of agreement and solidarity. "What do you have for me?"
"I have recommended two jordaini to Procopio. Either will suit him. I have to make a few more inquiries before I know which one will best suit your purposes."
"Why don't I take both?" Kiva suggested. "Certainly I could use them."
"Too risky," the old elf cautioned. "One of the group you can take, and the rest will be glad that your eye fell upon someone else. But there will be talk if two of the most promising students disappear. Your religious order might start an inquiry."
"The Church of Azuth?" she said with scorn. But she saw his point. She shrugged and moved on. "You will contact me when you know which of these jordaini will best serve."
"Of course. How is Iago working out?"
"He is resistant, even for a jordain," the elf woman admitted. "Can you get me another?"
"It seems unlikely that Procopio will believe that two of his jordaini counselors were abducted by the Crinti," Zephyr said dryly. "Have you no hope of working with Iago?"
"Very little. He remains unconvinced that my claims he was recruited by a great wizard for the service of the land and truth. That is the problem with the jordaini-they are so damnably hard to turn! Magic does not work on them. They cannot be bribed or threatened. They have brilliant minds as humans measure such things, but no passions. What I need," she mused, "is a jordain with a weakness. Find me one."
"You would do better to say, 'Find me another,'" Zephyr commented.
Kiva's eyes turned almost gentle. "A desire for vengeance is no weakness, my old friend," she told him. "We are getting closer to our goal, I promise you. We will make things right."
"You have found the secret?" Zephyr asked eagerly. "You know how the laraken might be destroyed?"
For a moment the elf woman did not answer. "I know how to make things right," she repeated. Her face abruptly vanished from the globe.
Zephyr quickly returned the scrying globe to its hiding place and began to prepare the letters to the Jordaini College. Not until the skyship touched down at the docks did he think about the laraken. He wondered if his life's quest and Kiva's were truly one and the same.
Chapter Two
The battle wizard smirked and made a circular open-handed gesture. A miniature sun appeared in the air above his upturned palm. It promptly exploded, sending an arrow of brilliant liquid fire racing toward Matteo.
The young man shifted his stance wider to absorb the impact and lifted his matched daggers into a gleaming X. The bolt of magic hurled itself against the crux of gleaming silver, then skittered along the daggers, dissipating in scattered motes that sparkled off the razor-sharp edges of the blades.
Matteo followed the classic parry with the recommended attack. With one smooth, practiced movement he flipped one dagger into the air, caught it by the tip, and hurled it toward his opponent.
The older man's eyes widened as the blade whirled toward him, but he stood his ground and began to gesture frantically. Matteo kicked into a run, not waiting to see the outcome of either attack or counter spell. He heard the metallic click of steel upon stone and shielded his eyes against the quick flare of sparks, but still he came on.
At the last moment, he dropped to the ground and spun, sweeping one leg out wide and hard at the wizard's ankles. Matteo grimaced as his shin met seemingly solid stone, but he sucked up the pain and quickly got his throbbing leg back under him. He leaped toward the fallen wizard and seized one of the man's stone-hard ankles. With his remaining dagger, he slashed at the sole of the wizard's foot. The silver blade sliced through the leather and drew a yelp of surprise from the downed man.
The stoneskin spell was a common defense, but like most spells it was not invulnerable. Its creator had overlooked a common manifestation of the natural magical world: like repels like. The natural stone beneath the wizard's feet rebuffed the flattery of the stoneskin spell's imitation, leaving the soles of the caster's feet vulnerable. Learning the weaknesses of each spell, parrying and countering close-in magical attacks-these were some of the most important fighting strategies a jordain learned in his training. Matteo couldn't help feeling a surge of satisfaction as he rose to his feet and held out a hand to his fallen master.
But the wizard sat cross-legged on the packed earth of the training field, holding his insulted foot and regarding his sliced shoe dolefully.
"Was that last bit truly necessary, lad? You can make your point without actually using it."
"Always wield the sword of truth, for it is the keenest weapon," Matteo quoted blithely.
"And the leg of stone is the hardest one," said a wry voice behind him.
With a grin, Matteo whirled to face his closest friend. Andris was a fifth-level jordain, a student in the same form as Matteo. They were both due to graduate at summer's end. Classmates and friends since infancy, they competed in all things like fond and contentious brothers.
No observer would take the two men as natural brothers, however, for they were as unlike physically as two men could be. Andris was tall and lean and exceedingly fair for a Halruaan. His narrow eyes were a greenish hazel, and his long, braided hair a dark auburn. No amount of sun could turn his skin the rich golden brown common to the dozen or so other jordaini who practiced on the training field, shirtless and sweating and gleaming like chiseled bronze in the hot sun.
Matteo was more like the other men in appearance. He stood perhaps a finger's width below the six-foot mark, and he possessed the olive skin and dark chestnut hair common to Halruaans of good blood. His eyes were nearly black, his features strong, and his fine, narrow nose was curved like a scimitar's blade. Despite the more than a handspan's difference in their height, the two young men balanced each other in mass. For this reason, they were frequent sparring partners on the teeter boards and cloudcarts, two devices that taught the jordaini to fight under magically imposed circumstances. Wizards were known to drag themselves and their opponents into the sky for aerial combat, thinking to thus gain the advantage. The jordaini might be utterly devoid of magical ability, but they did not cede a single pace of battleground to wizardry tactics.
Matteo folded his arms and sent a cocky grin at his friend. "A stone leg is a hard weapon, that much is true. But you notice that good master Vishna has found himself a comfortable seat and a sudden need for new shoes."
"I've also noticed that your shin is turning an unbecoming shade of purple," Andris returned dryly. "There's a better way."
Instantly Matteo lost interest in their repartee. "Show me."
The tall jordain sent an inquiring look at Vishna. The master nodded and rose to his feet. Andris ran at the wizard, dropping to the ground as Matteo had done and executing the leg sweep in much the same fashion. But when Andris dropped into the crouch, he did not face Vishna as the attack pattern prescribed, but instead presented his right side. When his leg struck the wizard, he hit with the hardened muscle of his calf rather than the poorly padded bone of his shin.
Matteo could see the sense of it. There would be less pain, and the modified attack virtually eliminated the risk of broken bones, a not uncommon hazard of this particular sequence. At this very moment, there were two second-form students in the infirmary, wearing plasters and glumly enduring the ministrations of Mystra's clergy. They would be back on the field in days, but in the meantime, they would have to suffer many sly comments from their fellows.
"There is a problem," Matteo observed. "The initial attack is vastly improved, that I readily concede. But once the wizard is down, you are out of position for the knife thrust."
"Not so," Andris countered. "I'll show you."
"Not with my help, you won't," protested Vishna as he struggled to his feet. "Stoneskin or flesh, my bones are sufficiently rattled from clanging about on the ground. I'm for the baths."
"May you walk in truth's light," both students said in unison, speaking the formal leave-taking between jordaini. The wizard flapped a hand in their direction in a less than formal gesture of acknowledgment as he walked gingerly away.
"I'll be your wizard," Matteo offered, speaking with the recklessness that only a jordain could understand.
Andris made a small involuntary sign of warding. "Mind your tongue, fool!" he said with quiet urgency. "You've more brass than brains."
"A metaphor," protested Matteo. "It was only a metaphor. An occasional borrowing from bardic style enhances a jordain's discourse."
"That may be, but metaphors can be risky things. There are many among us who consider truth a grim and literal matter, and some that might take you amiss if they overheard such claims."
Matteo sighed. "Just do the attack."
His friend nodded and burst toward him in a running charge. Before Matteo could brace himself, he felt the ground slam into him and saw stars dance in the morning sky. He blinked away the sparkles of light and watched as Andris continued his spin. But the red-haired jordain seized Matteo's ankle, using the hold to come to an abrupt stop. He pulled hard, reversing his direction and swinging his free hand toward Matteo's foot.
Andris slammed his fist into the ball of his opponent's foot. In real battle, he would hold a knife. There were points of power and pain on the sole of the foot, and a jordain knew them well. Even without the weapon, the precisely placed attack sent icy lightning coursing up Matteo's leg. He gritted his teeth to hold back a howl of pain.
"That works," he conceded in a gritty whisper.
Andris rose to his feet and extended a hand. Matteo grasped his friend's wrist and hauled himself up. His leg was numb nearly to the waist, and he hobbled around in small, pained circles as he awaited the return of blood to the offended member.
"Reminds me of the time I failed to dodge the aura of Vishna's cone of ice," Matteo said ruefully. He looked at his friend with great admiration. "You have improved the attack."
The tall jordain shrugged. "This tactic would not work for everyone. Speed is needed, and it does not hurt that I am built more like a snake than a bull. A man with more muscle couldn't halt his momentum quickly enough."
"Not without ripping off the wizard's leg at the hip," Matteo said dryly. He snapped his fingers and grinned. "There's an interesting variation. Why couldn't Themo execute your attack, then use the wizard's stone leg as a bludgeon?"
They both smirked at the image this painted of their classmate. Themo was taller even than Andris, and as thick-bodied and strong as the huge, hairy Northmen who occasionally came to the port cities for trade or adventure. At heart, Themo was less a scholar than a warrior, and he'd gotten in trouble more than once for sneaking away to the taverns to provoke battles.
"He could have used just such a weapon at the Falling Star," Andris agreed, his eyes twinkling at the memory.
But Matteo turned sober. "Indeed. Had you not been there to devise a battle tactic, the fool might have died that night, and his friends with him."
The jordain gave another diffident shrug. "I cannot match you in feats of memory or debate," he said frankly. "Strategy is the thing that interests me."
"Obsesses you," his friend corrected him heartily. "Have you made much headway with the Kilmaruu Paradox?"
It was meant as a rhetorical question. Matteo chose his words to express Andris's fascination with even the most difficult and obscure military puzzles. He was therefore surprised and intrigued by the light that leaped into his friend's hazel eyes.
A studiously casual expression settled over Andris's face. "It is a classic dilemma," he said. "The Halruaan navy has been occupied with it for many years. Not only does this question absorb the best minds stationed at the naval base at Zalasuu, but also the two thousand troops who hold the fort beyond."
"Not to mention the dozen or so adventurers and wizards who disappear into the swamp each year," Matteo added. "As the proverb goes, the Swamp of Kilmaruu keeps the numbers of fools in Zalasuu low."
"Ah, but therein lies the paradox," his friend said slyly. "It is written that the mages and adventures who disappear into the swamp only seem to whet the appetite of the undead who haunt it, drawing them out into the surrounding countryside. Massive attacks into the swamp have proven disastrous to the city and its outlying villages. Yet if the military does nothing, the undead will slip into the Bay of Azuth and bedevil the ships. Disaster lies at the end of either course, action or restraint."
Matteo nodded. History, particularly military history, had been part of their studies for years. But at the moment, he was more interested in the subtle implication in his friend's words than in this old puzzle.
"The paradox has always been understood as the futility of either action or restraint. Your words imply a different interpretation."
The tall jordain clasped his hands behind his back, absently watching a winged lizard crawl across the sky as he chose his next words. "Suppose that someone devised a formula for attack. Suppose he researched it extensively, worked out the strategy from every conceivable variation fate could present. Suppose that someone proposed this solution to his masters as his fifth-form thesis. Do you suppose that such a man might get an appointment as counselor to a battle wizard? Perhaps," he added wistfully, "such a man might flout tradition and gain not just a counselor's role, but his own command."
Matteo's jaw dropped. For a long moment he struggled to take in this revelation. "Is it true? You have solved the Kilmaruu Paradox?"
"I think so," Andris said modestly.
"You think so?" Matteo echoed reprovingly. This matter could determine the entire course of his friend's life. It was too important for light words and imprecise speech. "A jordain thinks first, and only then speaks."
It was a familiar proverb, one that had guided their training for over twenty years. The words had the desired effect The young man's chin lifted confidently.
"Yes. Yes, I have devised a battle strategy that will clear the swamp of undead."
Matteo let out a whoop and threw his arms around his friend, spinning him around and off the ground. They fell into a tangled heap and began to wrestle like puppies at play.
After quite some time, they tired of this sport and broke apart, sprawling out on the ground and panting with contented exhaustion. Andris sent a wistful look at his friend. "You really think that this will earn me a position with a patron of note?"
Matteo linked his hands behind his head and smiled. "I wouldn't be surprised if Grozalum himself demanded your hire," he said, naming the powerful illusionist who ruled the port city of Khaerbaal, Halruaa's most important naval base.
"Jordaini at alert," demanded a deep, sonorous voice from the gatehouse. "First honors. Wizards in the house."
The two young men scrambled to their feet and hurried into position at the edge of the training field. Their fellow students gathered there, standing at respectful attention, feet at precise shoulder width, hands clasped behind their backs, and eyes level as they awaited the arrival of the visiting dignitary.
Life in Halruaa was orderly, governed by laws and customs that were detailed and precise. Protocol was an important part of any higher education, for each stratum of society was afforded certain privileges and honors. Wizards enjoyed the highest position, hence first honors. The posture assumed by the jordaini showed the respect that propriety demanded, but it also bespoke their own high status. Second in class only to the wizards, they were a highly trained elite. After all, they represented truth, a power quite different from magic but just as powerful in its sphere. Law and custom decreed that only a jordain could meet a wizard's eyes at all times. Those of lesser rank lowered their gaze respectfully before addressing a strange magic-wielder.
Matteo's eyes widened as the wizardly entourage swept into the compound. Quickly he schooled his face into a more seemly composure, but he couldn't help but stare at the unusual visitors.
A score of well-armed men marched into the field, following each other in two lines that framed two extraordinary creatures. The larger of these was a wemic, a centaur-like creature that appeared to be half man, half lion. The beast's body was massive, nearly the size of a small horse, and his golden-skinned torso was as thick and muscular as Themo's. Matteo made a note to compose a satire for his classmate on this theme at first opportunity.
The wemic's face would be considered handsome in a man, though his nose was larger and broader than human features were wont to be, and the pupils in his golden eyes were vertical, like a cat's. A thick mane of glossy black hair fell to his shoulders, and an earring set with a large red stone glittered in one rounded, leonine ear.
But it was the other being upon whom Matteo's eyes lingered longest. Elves were a rarity in Halruaa. A few elf folk, most of them half-blooded, were drawn to Halruaa by their love of magic. Some of them even advanced to the Council of Elders and were counted among the four hundred most regarded wizards of the land. But Matteo had never heard of an elf reaching the rank of inquisitor.
She was beautiful, in an exotic, alien fashion that tightened Matteo's throat with awe and evoked in him a strange and foreign longing. Her skin was a coppery hue, and the thick hair braided and coiled about her shapely head was a green deeper and more lustrous than fine jade. Her eyes were as golden as those of the wemic at her side and nearly as feline. Though her head rose no higher than Matteo's shoulder, he did not for a moment make the mistake of thinking her fragile. There was a fine coiled strength in her slender form, like the liquid steel of a cat's muscles. She wore the bright clear yellow that proclaimed her an inquisitor in the service of Azuth, the god of wizards, whose worship was slowly gaining credence among Halruaans, and the only god other than Mystra, Lady of Magic, whose worship was permitted in the land.
The elf woman's gaze swept down the line of young men. "I have heard good things of this year's form," she said in a peculiarly high, bell-like voice. "Although the time of your final testing is not yet come, I have been asked by several potential patrons to evaluate your battle skills.
"This is Mbatu," she said, gesturing toward the wemic. "He will test you in combat, according to a rank I will assign. I am Kiva, inquisitrix of Azuth." She smiled faintly. "Since we all know the common word by which such as I are named, let us speak it plainly. I am a magehound, and I prefer this title to the formal one. You have my permission to so address me."
She walked along the line, her head tipped back as she met the gaze of each jordain. Themo was third in line. He glanced down at the elf, but his gaze quickly returned to the fine sword the wemic wore over his shoulder. The expression on his face was that of a particularly hungry halfling regarding a pitcher of ale and a plateful of honey-cakes.
"You are first," she said. A flicker of anticipation danced through the big man's eyes. This seemed to please the elf. She reached up and patted his cheek as she might that of a child, then she continued down the line, passing by several men. She stopped when she stood before Matteo.
She regarded him for a long moment. "Second," she announced. The honor pleased Matteo, but he merely nodded his thanks. A student jordain might meet a strange wizard's eyes, but he did not speak unless prompted by invitation or dire need.
Kiva paused again before Andris. Her strange, beautiful face furrowed in puzzlement. After a long moment, she stretched out her hand. The captain of her guard hastened forward and placed in her palm a golden rod set with green stones and capped by a large green crystal.
The magehound reached up and touched the rod to Andris's forehead. Immediately the crystal began to vibrate, singing out a high, ghostly note. Kiva nodded, as if she had expected this. She took a step back and turned to the masters of the school, a distinguished ensemble of jordaini, scholars, warriors, and wizards. As was the custom, they'd come out to greet their important visitor. They were a diverse lot, ranging from deceptively frail Vishna to the burly, hook-nosed woman who in her youth had commanded the navy in the nearby port city of Khaerbaal. At the moment, however, all the masters regarded the magehound with identical disbelieving stares.
"Ordinarily I would call for Inquisition upon this jordain, but no further tests are required. The answer is abundantly clear."
"This cannot be! Andris is a fine student," protested Vishna. The old wizard stepped out of ranks, fairly quivering with distress. "He has been tested at the prescribed intervals, as are all the jordaini in this house. Never has he shown signs of latent magical talent."
"If he is so fine a student as that," Kiva returned coolly, "perhaps you did not look for these dangerous signs as closely as you might otherwise have done."
The accusation was potent and inarguable, but Vishna was not yet quelled. "If Andris is to be accused, he has the right of Inquisition. Let it be done."
"It is the law," agreed Dimidis in his thin, querulous voice. The aged jordain spoke seldom, but when he did his words held the weight of verdict-small wonder, considering that Dimidis served as judge of the Disputation Table, the court that settled differences between jordaini and meted out occasional punishment for rule infractions.
"That is quite enough, both of you," decreed Ferris Grail, the wizard who served as headmaster of the school. "The magehound has passed judgment upon a false jordain. That is her duty, and that is also law." The headmaster spoke quietly, but his deep voice tolled out over the stricken jordaini like a death knell, as indeed it was.
Vishna bowed his head in defeat and fell back into line.
Now that the opposition was silenced, Kiva turned back to Andris. A strange light burned in her golden eyes. "I accuse you, Andris, of possessing magic power and hiding this knowledge from your masters."
Her gaze swept the line of young men, taking note of the disbelief and horror dawning on their faces. "I see that I do not need to tell you the penalty for this offense."
Chapter Three
The streets of Khaerbaal were quiet, for the sun burned high overhead and every Halruaan who could sought the comfort of darkened rooms and, if they were fortunate, magically cooled breezes.
Tzigone was unaccustomed to such comforts, so she didn't miss them. If anything, she enjoyed the hour or two of relative solitude. A few street people huddled in the shade offered by alleys and arbors, and visitors from other lands mopped at their streaming faces as realized their error and sought a cool tavern. Few spared a glance at the small, thin figure clad in a loose brown tunic and leggings that ended several inches above her bare feet. With her tousled, short brown hair and slightly smudged face, she looked more like a street urchin than a young woman. If an observer cared to look more closely, he might notice that beauty was hers if she wished to claim it. Her face angled sharply from high cheekbones to a small pointed chin, and her eyes were big and brown, lively with intelligence and unusually expressive.
At the moment, those eyes were deeply shadowed, for she'd lost another night's sleep to that thrice-bedamned wemic.
Tzigone shifted the sack off her shoulder and looked around for a likely recipient for its contents. She didn't keep anything for long. Possessions, things, had a way of betraying those who held them too close. The last thing she'd treasured had been a silver brush, and keeping it had gotten her captured and nearly killed.
Her gaze fell on an old woman huddled in the shade of an almond tree, wearing thick cast-off garments that might have been comfortable during the coolest winter days. Tzigone pulled a long, red silk kirtle from the bag.
"A fine day to you, grandmother," she said cheerfully, using the friendly greeting common to peasant folk. "Lady's Day has come and gone."
"Mystra be praised," muttered the crone, not bothering to look up. "Crowded, it were. And noisy, too."
Tzigone dropped the simple gown into the woman's lap. The fine fabric glided down as softly as a shadow. "Have you any use for this, grandmother? I can't wear it now that Lady Day has passed. There are too many travelers in this town with odd notions about a lone woman in a red dress." When the crone shot her a quizzical look, Tzigone placed her hands on her hips and took a couple of steps in a dead-on imitation of a doxie's strut.
"Them were the days," the old woman said with dry, unexpected humor. She fingered the silk with knotted hands. "This won't be bringing 'em back, but ain't it fine as frog's hair! I'll take it off'n your hands, girlie. And," she added shrewdly, "I'll not tell any who might ask where it come from."
Tzigone nodded and started to move off, but the woman seized the hem of her tunic, her face suddenly animated. "What of the stars, girl? Did the stars of Mystra what lighted up this gown foretell good fortune or ill? Mind you, I'll not be wearing an evil omen."
Tzigone painted a reassuring smile on her face. "Don't worry, grandmother. My fortune was the same as always."
This seemed to content the crone, for she hauled herself to her feet and hurried off, clutching her treasure.
For once Tzigone had spoken no more than the unadorned truth. Magic slid off her like water off a swan.
The tiny magical lights that rained from the sky at the close of the Lady's Day festival had refused to touch her. She closed her eyes and sighed as she remembered how people had fallen back from her, their own red clothes glittering with Mystra's stars and their faces holding the somber, shuttered expression usually reserved for funerals. And why not? No stars, no future. "You're dead," their eyes had said. "You just don't know it yet."
"Don't rush me," Tzigone muttered.
What bothered her more than the crowd's reaction was her own small lapse. She'd quietly borrowed a red gown from a local garment shop so that she could move unnoticed through the crowd, forgetting what would happen at the festival's end, not thinking how her starless gown might draw the attention of the wemic who of late had been stalking her.
And that was the problem. She had survived this long because she forgot nothing. That was the law that ruled her days. Never did a slight go unavenged. No kindness, no matter how casual or even unintentional, went unrewarded. But for her, sleep had always been the true time of remembrance. Sometimes, when she was deep in dreams, she could almost remember her real name and her mother's face.
Sleep beckoned her, and she found her way through the narrow back streets to one of her favorite hidden spots. She sank into slumber as soon as she settled down.
Despite her exhaustion, she fell at once into dreaming. The dream was a familiar one, poignant with the sights and sensations of childhood. It was twilight, and the breeze had the rich, silken feel that came when night lured the winds inland from Lake Halruaa, making the humid summer air flow and swirl like a mage queen's skirts. The breeze was especially pleasant on the rooftops overlooking the port city of Khaerbaal. On the tiled roof of a portside inn, the girl and her mother chased floating balls of light that dipped and danced against the purple sky.
Many Halruaan children her age could conjure lights, but hers were special: gem-colored and almost sentient, they eluded pursuit like canny fireflies.
"That one!" she shrieked happily, pointing toward a brilliant orange globe-a miniature harvest moon.
Obligingly her mother hiked up her skirts and ran after it. The child laughed and clapped her hands as the globe cleverly evaded capture, but her eyes lingered longer on the woman than on the dancing light.
Mother was her world. To the child's eyes, the small, dark woman was the greatest beauty and the wisest wizard in all of Halruaa. Her mother's laughter was music and fairy song, and as she ran, her long brown hair streamed behind her like a silken shadow.
No other children had ever joined their game, but the girl did not really miss them. In the city below, children were being led through chanted prayers to Mystra and then tucked beneath insect netting for a night's sleep. Seldom did the wizard's daughter envy them or wish to join them.
She had never lacked for companionship, for all creatures came to her mother's call. Just this morning she had romped with a winged kitten, and she'd eaten her mid-day meal in the company of two sun-sleepy lizards with scales that shone like commingled emeralds and topaz. Her favorite companion was Sprite, a lad no bigger than her small, pudgy hand. He always appeared so promptly that she suspected he followed them from place to place in hope of hearing her mother's summoning song. She understood this impulse completely, for there was no sound dearer to her or more lovely.
Even so, she hadn't asked for Sprite in many days, for reasons she did not like to examine too closely.
Fiercely she thrust the thought aside and ran toward a small crimson globe. She stopped short just as the globe dodged, then crouched and pounced at it as she'd seen the flitter-kitten do just that morning. She caught the ball in the air and bore it down to the ground with her. She landed hard, and the globe exploded beneath her with a satisfying pop. She scrambled to her feet, a triumphant smile on her face and a splattering of luminous red on her tunic.
Her mother applauded enthusiastically and then made a small, graceful gesture with one hand. The red stain lifted from the girl's tunic and spun out into the night, forming a long, glowing thread.
The child grinned expectantly as she waited for the next part of their game. The thread would twist and loop until it etched a marvelous picture against the darkening sky. Sometimes her mother sketched exotic beasts, or a miniature skyship, and once she fashioned a stairway to the stars that the girl could actually climb-and did, until her mother took fright and called her back. But most often the threads drew out maps that traced paths through the back streets and over the rooftops of whatever city or village they currently explored.
Tonight, however, the thread formed none of these things. It wandered about aimlessly, hopelessly tangling itself. Finally it dissipated altogether into a smattering of faint and rapidly dimming pink motes.
Puzzled, she looked to her mother. "I'm tired, child," the woman said softly. "We'll make pictures another night."
The girl accepted this with a nod and dashed off after a pair of emerald lights. Since there would be no pictures tonight, she made a new game of her own. Earlier that day she had tied a short, stout stick to her belt. This made a fine sword. In her imagination, the globes became a swarm of multicolored stirges-giant, thirsty, mosquito-like creatures that hummed macabre little tunes as they drained sleeping men dry. She sang a stirge song now in a childish soprano, making up nonsense verse as she went along. Each imaginary monster ended its days in a splash of colored light. It was a fine game and helped her put from mind the small failing of her mother's magic. On nights like this, she could forget a good deal.
She could almost forget that they lived on the run.
Her mother tried hard to make a game of it, and the little girl played along, as children tend to do. She understood far more than her mother suspected, but there were still many things that puzzled her. For some time now, questions had been building up inside her like the swell of magical power during a summoning. She was certain that she would explode like one of her globes if she didn't speak out. Soon. Tonight!
But she waited until all the dancing lights were spent. They left the roof and took shelter for the night in the crowded upper room of a dockside inn. The child always felt safest in such places. Nocturnal "adventures" seemed to occur more frequently when they took solitary refuge. She felt reassured by the sonorous snores coming from the trio of ale merchants who shared a bed by the shuttered window, and took comfort in the sword that lay, bright and ready, beside the earnest young man her mother had described as a questing paladin.
She waited while her mother emptied the common washbasin into the back street and refilled it with fresh water from the pitcher. She sat stoically while her mother wet a square of linen and scrubbed off some of the dirt that the child seemed to attract, much as spellcasting drew cats. She waited until her mother took out their greatest treasure, a small brush with a silver handle engraved with climbing roses, and began to ease it through her daughter's tousled dark hair.
Usually she loved this nightly ritual, often she wished she could purr throughout the brushing like a petted cat Tonight, though, she would have answers or she would burst.
"Who is following us?" she demanded.
The brush paused in mid-stroke. "Great Lady Mystra!" her mother exclaimed in a low, choked voice. "You know?"
She gave an impatient little shrug, not sure how to answer this. "Who?" she repeated.
Her mother was silent for a long moment. "Many are the tools, but the hand that wields them is that of my husband."
The little girl picked up an oddly discordant note in the music of her mother's voice. It occurred to her, for no reason that she could yet understand, that Mother did not name their shadowy pursuer as her child's father. Perhaps this was because in Halruaa the two were ever the same. Children were born within marriage. Marriages were arranged by the local matchmaker, who was always a minor mage of the divination school. She had yet to live out her fifth summer, but she knew that much. Even so, the same puzzling instinct that sensed her mother's hesitation prompted her to leave the obvious question unasked.
She settled for another. "Is your husband a great wizard?"
"He is a wizard."
"Like you?"
The brush resumed its rhythmic stroking, but the effect was no longer soothing. The girl absorbed with each stroke her mother's emotions: tension, grief, longing, fear. The temptation to pull away was dizzying, but she fiercely pushed aside the impulse. She wanted answers. Perhaps this pain was part of the knowing.
"Once he was my apprentice," her mother said at last. "There is a proverb that warns masters to beware ambition in their students. Words of nonsense can be repeated as often as sage wisdom, but this one held true."
The little girl shrugged off the lesson, her mind on the recent miscast spells, the wandering magic. "You are the master still," she said stoutly, as if she could deny what was becoming clearer with every day.
Her mother's smile was sad and knowing. "How long has it been since you asked me to summon Sprite? It is a difficult casting. Surely you know that."
The girl's eyes dropped and her lower lip jutted. "He teases me. That's all."
"Really. That has never bothered you before."
"I've tired of it," she said, implacably stubborn. "And I'm tired of talking about that silly Sprite. Sing another song, one that will summon something fierce and strong. A starsnake!"
"They do not fly at night, child."
She folded her arms. "Then the name is stupid."
Her mother laughed a little. "Perhaps you are right. What fierce creature do you desire? A night-flying roc? A jungle cat, perhaps?"
There was a playful tone in her mother's voice. The girl understood that she was being humored, and she liked it not at all. "A behir," she said darkly, picturing a many-legged creature with the sinuous body of a snake, a fearsome crocodilian head, and a wide mouth full of wicked, translucent teeth. "It can follow us and lie in wait behind us. When your husband comes by, it will spring out and bite off his-"
"Foot," her mother supplied quickly, suspecting, quite rightly, that the little girl had placed her ambitions for the behir somewhat higher.
"Foot," agreed the child quickly, for she had lost interest in her imagined revenge. Her mother's eyes had gone wary, and her hand went to the small amulet that nestled in the hollow of her throat.
Carefully her mother eased her hand away from her amulet. "Your hair is so smooth and shiny! You look too fine for sleep. What if we run across the rooftops until we find a tavern still open? We could have cakes and sugared wine, and if there is a bard in the house, I will sing. And, yes, I will summon a fierce creature for you. A behir, a dragon-anything you like."
She wasn't fooled by the brittle gaiety of her mother's tones, or by the bribe of a rooftop romp. Though neither of them had even spoken the words aloud, the child understood that the hidden ways were safer than the streets. Quickly she tightened the laces on her soft leather shoes. It would not do to trip and fall into the grasp of her mother's husband.
"I'm ready," she announced.
Her mother eased open a shutter and lifted her onto the ledge beyond. The child leaned her small body against the wall and began to edge around the building, as confident and surefooted as a lemur.
Something caught her eye several streets to the east A tendril of magic, so powerful that her eyes perceived it as a glowing green light, twisted through the streets toward them.
Lightning jolted through her, nearly knocking her from the ledge.
Tzigone frowned, puzzled. This had not happened to the child she had been, nor had it ever been part of her dream. A second jolt struck, and suddenly the ledge was gone and she was falling.
Tzigone awoke suddenly, gasping and flailing about for something to hold. A startled, almost panicked moment passed before she remembered where she was.
She'd picked the most secure resting place in Khaerbaal. She had followed the flight of a winged starsnake to this tree, an enormous bilboa that shaded and dominated the public garden. She'd climbed until she'd found this perch, and then bedded down on the broad limb. The snake was sleeping still, its gossamer wings folded and the blue and white scales of its long, coiled body glittering like moonstone.
Tzigone pushed herself up into a sitting position and shoved a hand through her short, sweat-soaked hair. The rope that lashed her to the tree had pulled tight around her waist, giving testimony to a restless sleep. She'd probably touched the snake while she was thrashing about.
Had she been almost anyone else, she would now be swinging from her rope, smoking like an overcooked haunch of rothe-not that she had much knowledge of these savory, shaggy beasts, overcooked or otherwise. Starsnakes she knew better.
The slumber of these winged reptiles was guarded by powerful magical defenses. A wandering sage had once informed her that creatures changed over the centuries in response to their surroundings and to thwart their enemies. In Halruaa, wizards were the most dangerous beings, potential enemies of anything that slithered, flew, or walked about on two or more legs. Few people learned to defend themselves against wizards, but the starsnake was more ingenious than most. No wizard had been able to negate their sleep shield, though from time to time there was tavern talk of darkly humorous tales of wizards who had tried and failed. No one in full possession of his senses would approach, much less touch, the sleeping creatures. That made this limb one of the safest spots in all Halruaa, provided that Tzigone left well before the creature awakened. This arrangement suited her just fine. She and starsnakes were frequent bedfellows.
The snake's wings rustled slightly as if touched by a night breeze. Tzigone brought her legs under her and crouched like a wary cat, one hand on the hilt of her knife and one hand tugging at her rope to make sure that she was firmly tethered. Sometimes the reptiles were roused by the release of their own killing magic, especially if they were hungry. The blast of magic usually provided them with a hot meal.
Tzigone couldn't tell if the snake slept or woke, for its blue eyes were always open. Suddenly the head reared back, a gesture that made the snake look absurdly like a person who had just glimpsed a surprising sight. The vertical pupils in the snake's strange, sky-colored eyes narrowed to dark slits, and for a long moment the starsnake regarded Tzigone sullenly.
"You touched us. Why do you live?" it inquired in a dry whisper.
Tzigone shrugged. "It's gotten to be a habit."
"An annoying one," the snake countered. "One that we can help you break."
The attack was a sudden blur of wings and fangs and ropes of moonstone. Tzigone dived off the branch, away from the lunging creature. As she fell, she slashed out with her knife. The blade tore through one of the beautiful wings, nearly severing it. Not taking any chances, Tzigone seized the wounded wing and gave it a hard tug. The short fall was enough to pull the creature from its branch. As she jolted to a stop, Tzigone released the wing. The starsnake's sibilant wail echoed through the tree as it spiraled down toward the garden below.
Tzigone swung gently back and forth as she listened for the distant thud. She tucked away her knife and seized the rope with both hands. She pulled herself up, then brought her legs arching up over her head until she could hook them over the branch. Strong and limber, she easily swung up into sitting position. Quickly she untied the rope, coiled it, and tied it to her belt. A glance at the moon told the time. Selune was half full, and thus visible during the day, looking out over the city like a single heavy-lidded eye. In half an hour's time, it would disappear behind the spires of the School of Augury. Tzigone's perch was high above the rooftops, and she figured it would take her about that long to scramble down the tree. As she climbed, she placed a whispered bet against the lady moon.
Her descent was faster than Selune's. She cast an impish grin at the wizard's school and then settled down to dress her kill.
The snakeskin was valuable and would keep her in coin for many days. Although the meat was bitter and unpalatable, she took a chunk anyway. The starsnake had fully intended to eat her, Tzigone thought it only fair to return the favor.
An hour later, she emerged from the back entrance to a small apothecary's house. The man possessed only a minor talent for potions and transformations, and his patrons were generally lackluster common folk: merchants, farmers, sell-swords, miners, and the like. Tzigone sold him strange things from time to time, spell components that he would take gladly and without question.
She walked along the back ways she'd learned as a child, utterly silent but for the pleasant chink of the shining Halruaan skie in her bag. The snakeskin had bought her a dozen portraits of King Zalathorm, duly minted on electrum coin.
"Tzigone, you're a bastard in every sense of the word and no mistake about it, but at least you're a rich one," she said softly.
She nodded, liking the sound of that. The clinking of coin made a pleasant counterpoint to the music of her chosen name. She liked the exotic sound of the word, the quick tap of the tongue for the T that led into the crisp accented syllable, and finally a quick slide out on two small sounds. "T-SIG-o-nee," she repeated softly, and nodded again.
The word meant "gypsy" in some obscure northern tongue. She'd liked it when she heard it several months ago and had claimed it as her own. Her latest name described what she was, if not precisely who she was.
For now-for a while longer, at least-that would have to be enough.
Chapter Four
Silence hung over the jordaini training field, heavy as swamp mist The ingenious water clock in the nearby library tower tolled the hour, but no one bothered to count its chimes and no one hurried off to his next lesson. No one spoke. No one moved.
"No!"
The word burst from Themo like the cry of a wounded panther. The big jordain pushed his way through the line to stand between the magehound and his condemned friend.
"Surely there has been some mistake," he entreated. "There must have been! Andris is the best of us all. I will appeal this dispute to the Jordaini Council, as is my right."
"Dispute?" Kiva looked more amused than affronted. "In such matters, the word of a magehound is final. There is no appeal and no room for disputation. But since you speak with a passion unusual and refreshing for the jordaini, I am willing to listen."
She turned away from Themo to survey the suddenly hopeful faces of Andris's friends. "Have any of you seen this man use magic? You may speak freely."
A loud chorus of disclaimers rippled down the line, most of them framed by the formal phrases a jordain used to emphasize that his words were not satire or parable, but literal truth.
Kiva looked faintly bored but determined to see her duty through. "Perhaps he has some unusual abilities or accomplishes things that might be difficult to explain without magic?"
"He is skilled in battle strategy, my lady," Vishna said. "Unusually so. But that is no more than the application of a disciplined mind to the cultivation of natural gifts."
"Another proverb," Kiva observed dryly. "Must you jordaini always speak in forms and formulas? It is unspeakably dreary."
'Truth is seldom as interesting as lies," Matteo muttered.
The magehound wheeled toward him, her face incredulous. Immediately Matteo realized his mistake. If the elf woman thought he was accusing her of falsehood, his life was forfeit.
But after a moment Kiva smiled and nodded. "I agree. Unlike truth, lies must make sense. They demand an internal logic and attention to detail that truth, in its innocent arrogance, does not always achieve. Do you understand me, jordain?"
Matteo answered as he always did: honestly. "Not quite, lady."
Her jade-colored brows flew up. "Ah. We have a rare beast here-a man who will admit that he does not know something rather than speak a false word. You are a credit to your kind, jordain."
The lilt in her voice held true praise, but Matteo saw mockery glittering in her eyes. Puzzled, he answered as best he could. "I thank you for your words, lady," he said, adding subtle emphasis that acknowledged the hidden blade in her compliment.
The magehound looked intrigued. "You speak well, for a man whose wits are hemmed in with proverbs and platitudes. Perhaps you would like to tell me about your fellow jordain. What is it about him that makes the crystal sing?"
"I do not know of this crystal and its properties, lady, so I cannot answer your question."
"Actually, that's quite a good answer," she said approvingly. "You do not know the crystal. Well enough. But you do know the man and his character?"
Matteo hesitated, then inclined his head in a single curt nod.
"And do you know him well?" she prodded.
He glanced at Andris, whose face was more familiar to him than his own. "As well as one brother might know another," he said softly.
"You have never once perceived anything unusual about him, no act beyond the scope of any other magic-dead counselor?"
The morning's discussion about the Kilmaruu Paradox came unbidden into Matteo's mind. Quickly he willed the thought away, but some flicker of it must have entered his eyes.
Kiva's lips curved in a smile of feline satisfaction. "There is something, after all. Speak of it."
Matteo sent an anguished look at his friend. "You are pledged to speak truth," Andris said softly. "I would not have you do otherwise, whatever comes of it."
"Andris is indeed skilled in battle strategy," Matteo began reluctantly. "He has applied himself to this study more assiduously than any of us. He possesses an original mind and sees beyond the details of history to what might have been and what might yet be. Like a master weaver, he takes the threads and makes of them new cloth."
"Very poetic," Kiva said coldly. "Your disclaimer is noted. Get to the meat of the matter."
"This morning Andris revealed to me that he has solved the Kilmaruu Paradox."
A soft ripple of astonishment passed through the ranks of the jordaini. The magehound's hired soldiers looked shocked, and even the masters exchanged incredulous glances. Matteo noted that all of the masters seemed surprised by this news. Why so, when Andris indicated that he'd confided in at least one of them?
But Matteo could not consider the matter now. The magehound swayed closer to him, her lovely face dark with menace.
"Do you know how many wizards have made it their life-work to unravel that puzzle?" she said in a low, furious voice. "How many have died in the swamps? None but a wizard or an utter fool would dare attempt such a thing! Tell me, jordain, is your friend a fool?"
Matteo saw the trap at once. For the first time in his life, he regretted the vows that bound him to speak truth. "He is not," he said faintly.
"Then it would appear that he is a wizard." Kiva turned to the wemic. "Andris is a false jordain and a danger to his kind. Deal with it."
The creature crouched, tamping down his hind legs. Before Matteo could draw breath, the great catman leaped. The coarse fur of the leonine body scorched across Matteo's arm as the wemic flashed past. Matteo squeezed his eyes closed, willing back the unfamiliar moisture that gathered there.
But darkness could not block the sound, the terrible thud of impact as Andris hit the ground under the weight of the great wemic, the quick brittle crunch of bone. Matteo recognized the sound of a neck breaking, and he spoke a silent farewell to his friend. He watched in despairing silence as the wemic picked up the limp form of Andris with his manlike arms and slung the jordain over his massive shoulder.
Kiva turned to the masters, who stood as silent and stunned as their students. "There will be no further testing today. Judging from these long faces, it would be effort wasted. I will return when your students are at their best."
The magehound spun on her heel and walked out, followed by the wemic with his grim burden, and finally by her guard.
When the sound of their horses' hoofbeats had died away, the headmaster turned sad eyes upon his students. The wizard swallowed hard several times before he spoke. "The tides will be highest near midnight, and many ships will sail from the docks of Khaerbaal tonight. There will be much merriment in the town, and the taverns will vie with each other to draw in the sailors. Ale and wine will not reach prices so low for many moons to come. Since thrift is a jordainish virtue, I urge you all to partake," he said with forced lightness.
No one spoke or moved. With a deep sigh, the wizard abandoned his attempt. "Horses and coin will be available to all who wish them," he said in a softer and infinitely sadder tone. "Go, with Mystra's blessing and mine. Purchase a few hours of forgetfulness."
Several of the students slipped away, but none so quickly as Themo. Matteo noted the glitter of tears in the big man's eyes and the grim set of his square jaw. The combination did not bode well.
Vishna seemed to be thinking along the same lines. The old battle wizard came over to the place where Matteo stood alone, still reeling from the result of his unwilling betrayal. "Go with Themo, lad. Keep him safe."
Matteo's lips thinned in an ironic smile. "And how will I accomplish that? With the sharp sword of truth?"
The bitterness and anguish in his voice made Vishna wince in sympathy. The wizard sighed and placed a hand on the young man's shoulders. "Yours was not the hand that slew Andris. That thought is untruth, and arrogance beside."
"Arrogance? How so?" demanded Matteo in despairing tones. "How could I possibly boast of my part in the death of my friend?"
"You need not take pleasure in a thing to display pride.
"Taking responsibility where none exists is arrogance. A child thinks that all things revolve around him and that his will and his words bring forth wishes upon the first star. You are no child. See that you remember that."
The wizard's tone was bracingly sharp. Matteo nodded, seeing both the purpose and the truth of the words. "Thank you, master," he said, speaking automatically the words he had been trained to use at the end of every lesson.
Vishna sighed. "The lesson is over. Go."
Matteo went, but reluctantly. The prospect of an evening in the boisterous port town held little appeal under the best of circumstances. But he quickly bathed and dressed in the traditional garb, a loose sleeveless tunic fashioned from white linen worn over matching leggings. Around his neck he hung the token of his class, a round silver medallion enameled with the jordaini emblem: the left half of the field green, the right yellow, and the two separated by a jagged bolt of cobalt blue lightning. He belted on the strap that held his daggers, then pulled back his dark hair and fastened it with a thin leather thong. These things-the clothing, the weapons, the medallion, and the few small things that aided in the care of his person-were the sum of his possessions. A jordain was allowed nothing but his knowledge, his reputation, and his friends.
Today Matteo had learned how tenuous was his claim to that last and most precious of possessions. He moved like a man asleep, stunned by the loss of Andris and by the realization of how fragile was his own position.
All his life Matteo had walked with pride, as befitted a man of his talents and station. Handpicked at birth-before birth, for that matter-he had been raised in the collective luxury of House Jordain and given the best training that this most civilized land could offer. He had worked hard, and he fully expected to be well rewarded. The jordaini were restrained by law from owning property and amassing wealth, but they lived exceedingly well and could advance in status. A truly talented counselor was in high demand among Halruaa's wizard lords and ladies, and such a man could expect to choose his own path and take whatever employment suited his ambitions.
But at this moment Matteo saw how incredibly hollow was this promise of a glowing future. All that it took was a word from a magehound, and the best of the jordaini was cast aside with no more hesitation or regret than Vishna might spare his ruined shoe.
There was little time to ponder the matter. Matteo had lost one friend today and was determined not to lose another. Themo was probably well on his way, and Matteo dared not leave the grieving man to his own devices for long.
The ride to Khaerbaal, the nearest city, took two to three hours, for the House Jordain was an isolated place. Set in the midst of a peninsula that jutted out into the Bay of Taertal, it was a vast complex of buildings and fields and training courses. The students spent some time each year in carefully supervised travel, for this was deemed an important part of their studies, but anything that Matteo had ever needed could be found in the complex. All the learning, arts, and sciences of this most civilized of lands was at his disposal. This created a sense of security and privilege that had defined Matteo's life. His studies were all focused on creating a counselor versed in many fields of knowledge, an entity in himself, loyal to the wizards he served but forbidden to develop personal ties with any magic-wielder.
Perhaps, he mused, this life had ill prepared him to deal with friendship, much less the loss of a friend. He was not even certain how to grieve. Though his mind and body were finely honed as a blade singer's sword, his own heart was a mystery to him.
He hurried to the stable and was relieved to find his favorite steed as yet unclaimed. No horse in House Jordain’s extensive stables better suited his dark mood. A fine black stallion, the beast was at least a hand taller than any other horse Matteo had seen. His sire was reputed to have come from distant Amn, a land famous for its steeds. Although the stallion was the finest horse in the stable, Matteo was not surprised to find him still in his stall. Some blasphemous groom had dubbed the horse "Cyric," and the name had stuck. The stallion was as volatile and possibly as crazed as the evil god whose name he bore.
Matteo ordered a reluctant groom to prepare the horse, and then he sent another servant after a package of travel food. Khaerbaal was at least two hours' ride away, and if he left now he would miss the afternoon meal. He did not want the food and strongly suspected that his stomach would rebel, but he had been too well schooled in such matters to neglect his care. Jordaini were chosen for the unusual strength of their minds and bodies, as well as their nearly total resistance to magic. Harsh penalties ensured that the young men followed the rules that honed all their gifts. Though taverns were not strictly forbidden, an unsupervised trip to temptation-laden Khaerbaal was a rare event.
As soon as the marble gate of the jordaini complex was behind them, Matteo let Cyric have his head. The stallion seemed happy to run, setting an insane breakneck pace that suited Matteo's mood to perfection. He smelled the tang of the Bay of Taertal while the sun was edging toward its zenith, and he entered the north gate of Khaerbaal just as the temple bells were ringing the highsun warning. Native Halruaans knew to take refuge from the direct sun, but Khaerbaal was a busy port filled with strangers, many of whom were unaccustomed to the southern sun. Most quickly got the idea, and the crowds were thinning quickly as Matteo rode through the streets toward the dockside taverns.
Finding Themo was an easy task. Matteo merely fell in behind the group of local militia who trotted purposefully toward the Falling Star Tavern.
The din of battle reached him before the tavern itself came into sight the thud of fists upon flesh, the splinter and crash of doomed furniture, and the shouted oaths that were more pungent than the dockside fishery nearby.
Matteo swung down from Cyric's back and tied the horse to a wooden post. He had no illusions that this precaution might actually contain the stallion. If Cyric tired of waiting, he would shatter the hitching rail and then attempt to do likewise to the skull of anyone foolish enough to stop him. The horse cocked his ears at the sounds of nearby battle and bade his rider farewell with an envious little whinny. Matteo dryly considered the possibility of teaching battle tactics to the stallion. Cyric would be a foe more formidable than many of the wizards Matteo had faced in his training.
The melee was in full foment when Matteo pushed through the door. He ducked as a familiar massive fist flashed toward his face, then reached up and caught Themo's wrist with both hands. As he rose, he twisted the arm, bringing it up behind the big jordain's back as he shoved him facedown on the nearest table.
He leaned in close to Themo's ear. "I'm going to let you up, then lightly hit you on the back of the neck. Go down as if you're stunned and stay down until the fighting is done, or I swear by Mystra's Truth that I'll drop you in earnest. Agreed?"
Themo's response was a small, barely perceptible nod. Matteo released his arm. As Themo rose, Matteo hit him hard, and the man dropped and sprawled as instructed. But he sent Matteo a blurred, reproachful look. Matteo wasn't sure whether his friend was upset about the more-than-necessary force of the blow or the fact that his sport had been spoiled. Either way, Themo's glare was giving away the game. Matteo nudged his friend's ribs with an ungentle foot, and Themo grudgingly closed his eyes.
Only then did Matteo notice the small magical storm raging in the tavern. A thick, smoky cloud filled the taproom. Sparks of light shot through it in bright random patterns. Matteo recognized the enchantment as a brightness spell from Obold's Spellbook, a rare book he had been required to learn last winter. The sparks were actually small bolts of lightning, which struck at random and drew yelps of surprise from the startled combatants. Themo, of course, possessed complete resistance to such puny missiles, and his impressive bulk had shielded a goodly number of the fighters. Once the big jordain was down, more of the bolts began to find their marks. Some of the brawlers staggered out of the cloud to escape the quelling magic.
It was an effective spell, and if Matteo let it rage on, it would settle the brawl before much more time passed. But any damage done to the tavern and its patrons would be blamed on Themo and would tarnish the reputation of House Jordain. Matteo's duty was to end the fight as quickly as possible.
He took a small gray stone from his bag and tossed it into the thickest part of the glowing cloud. There was no magic in the stone, but it was a lodestone mined from a particularly strong vein. Wizards used them to attract lighting, which often served to affix a spell into an enchanted item. There was a sharp sizzle as the lodestone drew the sparks. Then the cloud, deprived of much of its energy, began to dissipate.
The brawl settled down to a simmer of muttered insults and halfhearted shoves. Matteo wove through the mess toward the house wizard, a small dark man whom he had met before on his one trip to Khaerbaal. He stooped and picked up the lodestone, pocketing it and hoping that the wizard did not recall the last time Themo had visited this tavern.
But the little man glowered at Matteo as if the melee had been entirely his fault. Though Matteo kept his gaze level, he inclined his head in a slight bow. The wizard seemed somewhat mollified by this unnecessary courtesy.
"Your friend is trouble," he said scornfully but with less vitriol than Matteo had right to expect.
"He is young and greatly troubled," Matteo said mildly. He was tempted to contradict the wizard outright, but it seemed wiser to restate the older man's words and nudge them toward truth. "But he is jordaini, and therefore his deeds are mine. Perhaps these coins will purchase your master's forbearance."
The wizard opened the small bag Matteo handed him. Headmaster Ferris Grail, probably anticipating something like this, had instructed the jordaini's steward to dispense coins with a lavish hand.
The wizard's lips moved as he counted the sum within. "This will cover the damage," he agreed.
"And Themo's expenses? I assume he had a bit to drink," Matteo said dryly. His words held a rebuke, for by law it was forbidden to serve anything stronger than wine to a jordain. The effort made to keep the jordaini free of magic's influence would be wasted if their wits were confused by drink or pipe weed.
The wizard was too busy recounting the coins to notice Matteo's mild accusation. Since the amount in the bag far exceeded what Themo could drink or break in the course of a fortnight of grief, the wizard looked only too happy to call matters settled. He even clapped his arm around the young jordain's shoulders.
"Drink with me," he said expansively. "There's no bard in the house this day, but an entertainer or two stayed on when their troupe passed through. You might find such sport amusing."
Matteo doubted that sincerely, but he could find no polite reason to refuse the wizard's offer. He allowed himself to be guided to a table, and he sipped at a glass of pale yellow wine that the wizard poured from a silver decanter. The wizard launched into a tale of other battles he had quelled. Matteo listened politely but with scant interest as he watched the barmaids swiftly set the tavern to rights.
A few of the patrons stumbled out, perhaps to seek healers or to face scolding spouses, but most simply resumed their seats and paid little heed to swelling jaws or blackened eyes. Matteo didn't suppose that most of the tavern's patrons considered such things novelties, much less inconveniences.
He watched the mixed crowd with interest. Many of the patrons wore the blue-green uniform of Halruaa's navy, and an equal number sported the colors of various local militia. Sailors were plentiful, notable for garb as colorful as it was salt-encrusted. Matteo suspected that not a few of them were pirates, but forbearance was the rule at dockside taverns. Here there was no such thing as an innocent question. Asking a man's business was an insult that could result in a challenge to a duel. Most taverns in Khaerbaal had an alley behind kept remarkably free of debris for just such a purpose.
Many sorts of people came to the Falling Star. Matteo noted a pair of merchants, a blacksmith still wearing the apron of her office, and a dour trio of dwarf miners who hunkered down over their mugs, squat and silent as toadstools. There were a few foreigners as well. A tall, fair-haired man on the far side of the room was certainly a barbarian from some far northern land. The woman with him was a cleric. Matteo couldn't make out her deity's symbol from this distance, but he could see the faint red glow of the tattoo that marked it upon her forehead. Priests of all strange gods were so marked in Halruaa as a condition of entry. They were admitted to the port cities under certain strictures. They could not venture inland or attempt to proselytize. Either offense would activate the magic of the temporary tattoo, causing the mark to burn through the cleric's skull and into his or her brain. Matteo had seen this happen during his last visit to Khaerbaal in this very tavern. The grim process had taken a long time, and it had sent every one of the tavern's hardened patrons reeling into the alleys with green faces. It was that, even more than Andris's battle strategy, that had enabled Themo to walk away from the brawl with no more lasting harm than a broken jaw and a reprimand from Dimidis.
The house wizard's eyes suddenly brightened. He nodded to a table near the back of the room. "Now we shall have a disputation worth hearing!"
Matteo frowned, puzzled by the implication. Jordaini often held public debates or monologues, but always at the behest of their patrons and never in so rude a place. His puzzlement turned to slack-jawed astonishment when a small, thin lad climbed onto the table and touched a finger to his heart in the traditional salute to truth. Obviously the lad was not well acquainted with jordaini custom. He employed his middle finger rather than the prescribed digit.
The patrons stamped and hooted and banged their mugs on the dented tables. The would-be jordain acknowledged this acclaim with the traditional bow, bending at the waist, eyes never looking down, executing the graceful gesture perfectly yet somehow imbuing it with mockery. His face and movements projected an air that was both smugly self-important and wildly, blatantly effete. Several of the sailors chuckled, and a huge black-bearded man shouted a coarse insult.
The boy took this in stride, sending the burly sailor a wink that deftly turned the man's insult to unintentional invitation. The man turned scarlet as his mates guffawed and pounded the table with delight.
"Consider the starsnake," the boy said in a rich alto. "This is a puzzle that would confound Queen Beatrix herself."
This comment drew another round of chuckles. Matteo scratched his jaw as he considered the puzzle before him-and not the puzzle of the starsnake. The boy was a street urchin, yet he spoke with powerful, finely modulated tones that took years of study and practice to achieve. More disturbing still, the voice itself was eerily familiar. Female jordaini were rare, and this lad reproduced as faithfully as an echo the tones of the most famous jordaini woman: Cassia, counselor to King Zalathorm himself.
That accounted for the patrons' sly laughter. It was widely rumored some of the luster was off the shining love between the wizard-king and Beatrix, his latest queen. The jordain Cassia no doubt started some of these rumors. She took great pride in her post, and some said that her pride was too great and her ambitions too high.
What the truth of that was, Matteo couldn't say, but he had heard that the female jordain contrived to be at the king's side whenever possible. When this was not possible, Cassia often amused herself by declaiming scathing, subtle satires on such matters as absorbed the queen's interest. She had spoken at House Jordain, and Matteo would forget his own name before he would the music of her voice. And here it was again, pouring forth from this unlikely vessel!
The boy's commentary continued, deftly skewering both the foibles of the court and the pretensions of the jordaini. The house wizard nodded and smiled, but his face began to darken like a coming lake storm when the target shifted to wizards and their oddities.
"I like this not at all," he grumbled.
Matteo considered mentioning that the discourse was becoming amusing at last, but he decided that the remark lacked the discretion his rank demanded. "The lad has talent," he commenting, thinking this a suitably neutral remark.
For some reason, his words greatly amused the wizard. He threw back his head and laughed heartily and unpleasantly. There was a nasty gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as he regarded his guest. "So it's true, I suppose, what they say of you jordaini?"
Matteo longed to strike the malicious smile from the wizard's lips. "You have me at a disadvantage, sir," he said formally. "I am not aware of the particular gossip to which you refer."
The laughter disappeared from the wizard's face like an extinguished candle. Gossip was considered vulgar, and Matteo's polite words were a thinly veiled insult.
Before the man could speak, a low growl vibrated through the room like thunder. Silence fell over the tavern. Matteo turned to the door and let out a curse that earned him a respectful stare from a sailor at the next table.
The wemic Mbatu crouched in the open door, his tail lashing and his baleful glare fixed upon the lad. Quick as a startled fish, the boy was off the table and darting toward the back door. Mbatu sprang, crossing the taproom with huge, bounding leaps.
At that moment something snapped within Matteo. Without thought of propriety or consequence, he leaped up from his chair and upended the table just as the wemic launched himself into another mighty leap.
Matteo's timing was perfect The wemic crashed headfirst into the thick, weathered boards and dropped like an arrow-shot bird. For good measure, Matteo hefted a chair and brought it down hard on the dazed wemic's head. The chair shattered and the creature went limp.
But Matteo's troubles were just beginning. His impulsive act had also upended his host. The wizard rose slowly to his feet, brushing at his robes. His eyes bulged as he stared at the massive, slumbering wemic.
"You attacked a magehound's personal guardian," he said incredulously, then repeated the words with obvious enjoyment. He was muttering them still as he hurried away, no doubt to report this grave infraction of jordaini law to the nearest authority. Matteo hoped that such a person was not currently in the tavern, or sentence might be passed and carried out this very night
In moments the wizard hurried back, alone, looking more than a little disgruntled. The local militia had come and gone, dragging away many of the brawlers with them. No doubt the wizard had been unable to find an official representative of Khaerbaal's law and had returned to handle the matter himself.
A hunk of bread bounced off Matteo's head. He glanced in the direction from which it had come, annoyed at the petty distraction. The young entertainer peered around the frame of the back door, gesturing frantically.
"Psst! This way, and hurry!"
When Matteo hesitated, the boy rolled his eyes impatiently. "Your friend's out here. He needs you."
Matteo glanced to the place on the floor where he had left Themo "sleeping." Sure enough, the big jordain had slipped away, no doubt to pick a fight elsewhere. With a sigh, he quickly made his way to the back of the room and out into the street beyond.
He followed the lad to the end of the long dueling alley and then stopped. The corridor was empty but for him and the boy, as was the street beyond.
"Where's Themo?" he demanded.
"How should I know?" the urchin retorted. "Unless it's true what they say about jordaini, we'd better start running."
This was the second time someone had made that remark, and Matteo liked it even less on second hearing. He didn't have the leisure to inquire, however, for at that moment the wizard burst from the tavern, his face indignant and his open palm flaming with light.
"Damn," the boy muttered and dug one hand into the bag that hung at his belt.
Matteo drew his daggers and prepared to deflect the magical attack. As he expected, the sun arrow spell took deadly form and spun toward him. He formed the classic defense with a smooth, practiced movement.
But the boy was quicker still. His small hand flashed out, holding a shining bit of glass. Before Matteo could thrust the lad aside, the bolt struck the proffered target. It hit the small mirror squarely and bounced back at a declining angle toward the wizard.
There was a moment of stunned silence. The wizard let out a small, high-pitched whimper and began to topple slowly to one side, clutching with both hands at the smoking robes covering his groin.
Matteo sent an incredulous stare at the lad. The urchin shrugged and lifted the mirror to his own face, preening a bit and combing his cap of short brown hair with surprisingly delicate fingers.
"You told a deliberate lie," Matteo marveled.
It was the urchin's turn to be surprised. "I did a lot of things. That's the one that caught your fancy?"
Matteo glanced at the man writhing on the cobblestone and remembered the boy's deft and dangerous performance in the tavern. There was something to the lad's logic. But his next words, when he spoke, surprised him.
"What do they say about the jordaini?" he demanded.
The lad's laughter was rich and merry. "Many things, no doubt! I spoke of your ability to fight wizards. Why do you ask?"
"That wizard said much the same when I remarked that you had talent."
A knowing glint kindled in the urchin's eyes. "Repeat your exact words."
Matteo blinked, puzzled by the request but not confounded. He could repeat entire conversations verbatim. This was an important part of his training. "I merely said of your performance, 'The lad has talent.' Nothing more."
"Oh. Well, that explains it."
He folded his arms. "Not to me, it doesn't."
With a grin, the "lad" shrugged off a loose brown over-tunic to reveal a shirt of thin linen and the slender but unmistakably female form beneath.
"They say that jordaini have little experience with women." She winked and thrust out a hand. "I'm Tzigone, and I'm here to change all that."
Dazed into rote compliance with protocol, Matteo took the offered hand. He balked, however, at accepting what the handclasp seemed to offer. "You are gravely mistaken. There is no place for a woman in my life."
"Make one," she said adamantly. "You just saved my skin. That creates a debt, and whether you like it or not, I'll be around until that debt is paid."
"I assure you, that is most unnecessary."
She glanced back toward the tavern and then took his arm. "Wrong again. Looks like I'll be paying the first installment sooner than expected."
Matteo followed the line of her gaze. The wemic reeled out into the alley and began to pad unsteadily toward them in a weaving but deliberate path. With each step, the creature seemed to gather strength and purpose.
Tzigone stamped her foot impatiently and tugged at his arm. "Are you going to stand there and shout 'Here, kitty!' until that thing pounces? Come on, before this gets worse!"
He remembered the dark, avid glee on the magehound's face as she condemned Andris to death. Yes, things could definitely get worse.
With a sigh, he turned and followed his new companion out into the street.
Chapter Five
Matteo soon learned that following Tzigone was no easy task. The lad-no, he corrected himself, not lad but maiden-could run like a lizard and climb nearly as well.
They were running full out down Sultan Street, batting away the filmy silk banners that served as shop signs, when Tzigone suddenly disappeared. In two more steps, Matteo saw where she had gone: a narrow alley, shaded by tall buildings on either side and almost obscured by the thick flowering vines that twined up the walls. He skidded to a stop and darted in after her.
Too late. As he rounded the corner, he heard the wemic's voice lifted in a sound that was half snarl, half guttural chuckle, and utterly triumphant.
Tzigone heard it, too. She cast a baleful look over her shoulder at Matteo and began to climb the vine-covered walls. "At least try to hurry," she muttered.
Matteo tested a handful of the fragrant vines and found that they would hold his weight. The rough stones on the wall beneath provided footholds. It was not unlike some of his training exercises, and he managed to almost keep pace with Tzigone.
The roof was smooth and broad. Tzigone rolled to her feet and started off at a trot. She pointed toward the public garden in the midst of the city. "Going roof to roof, we can reach the bilboa tree from here. Once we're in the tree, Mbatu will never find us."
Matteo was momentarily startled to hear her speak the wemic's name. "You have had dealings with this wemic?"
She tossed a glance back at him. "How many lion-men have you seen in this part of the world? Stories are told, and I have ears to listen."
"Ah. Rumors."
"They've kept me alive so far," she retorted. She turned and planted her fists on her narrow hips. "Why are you just standing there? Are you coming or not?"
"Not." He folded his arms and leveled a steady gaze upon the incredulous Tzigone. "Do not think me ungrateful for your help, but I have had enough of flight. Go your way and leave me to mine."
"Which is?"
"I will confront the wemic in battle," he said simply.
The girl hissed with exasperation. "Did you see the wemic's baldric? The sword slung over his shoulder?" she said grimly.
Matteo sent her a puzzled look. He could recall both precisely: the baldric was a broad leather strap, tanned a light tawny hue, slanted across the wemic's great chest and joined to the belt that encircled his humanoid torso. The baldric held a scabbard that slanted over the wemic's back, fastened tightly at the top and secured at the bottom by a short strap so that the scabbard could tilt outward when the wemic drew his sword-a necessary adjustment, given the length of the blade. Otherwise the creature would have to reach behind his head to draw the sword, exposing the pit of his arm to his enemy's blades. No seasoned warrior would make himself vulnerable in this way. A quick stab or a thrown dagger could pierce the lungs and drown the wemic in his own blood. With the addition of the bottom strap, the wemic could simply reach over his shoulder and seize the hilt, thus drawing his weapon in half the time and with a fraction of the risk. All this Matteo had taken in with a glance.
"Yes, of course I noted baldric and sword. Why?"
"Why?" she demanded incredulously. "The sword's hilt rose above Mbatu's shoulder, and the blade crossed the breadth of his back. The wemic's reach is already longer than yours without that weapon. I don't care how good you think you are. You won't last long against him if all you've got is those daggers."
Her words smarted, but he couldn't deny her logic. "That may be, but I have no sword."
"I do. Follow me."
She took off, running down the length of the building and then leaping out over a narrow divide to a roof garden on a neighboring villa.
Matteo followed her to the edge of the wall. He glanced down and immediately wished he hadn't. He backed up a few paces, set his jaw and took the jump. He landed squarely in a patch of herbs. Mint filled the air with fragrant protest as he took off after Tzigone.
When she reached the edge of the roof garden, she uncoiled the rope at her belt and quickly tied on a small three-pronged hook. "Stand back," she warned, then she briefly twirled and let fly.
The rope spun out toward the outermost branches of the great bilboa tree. It struck the limb, wrapped around twice, and caught firmly. Tzigone tested the rope and then nodded. "Help me pull it in."
Matteo seized the rope and tugged until the limb was within reach. They both got a handhold and then, on Tzigone's count, dropped off the edge of the roof.
The limb dipped so low that Matteo would have sworn that it would break under their combined weight As they began the upward swing, he glanced down. The wemic was directly beneath them, twisting his tawny body in midair in an attempt to get his feet beneath him. Obviously he had leaped up in an attempt to seize one or both of them. Matteo was chilled by the realization of how close the wemic had come to succeeding.
For several moments the limb bobbed up and down, each dip considerably more shallow than the last. When Tzigone decreed it was safe to move on, they began to pull themselves hand over hand toward the trunk. After a hundred feet or so, the limb grew broad enough to walk upon. Tzigone easily pulled herself up and extended a hand to help Matteo.
They edged along until they reached the massive trunk. As Matteo studied the odd arrangement of branches, he realized that the limbs grew in layers, like floors in a tall building. The next tier formed a roof about ten feet over their heads. The limbs were thickly entwined, and the leaves formed an apparently unpenetrable barrier. Tzigone was right about one thing: Mbatu would not find them easily.
Matteo glanced down. The wemic paced beneath the tree, frustration and fury etched upon his golden face.
"A tree seems an unlikely refuge from any sort of cat," he remarked.
Tzigone sniffed. "Wemics are fast when they're on all fours, but they're no good at climbing. Too many limbs, too big from the waist up. The balance is all off."
He considered this and decided that she was probably right. What he did not entirely credit, however, was her claim to ownership of a sword. There were strict rules on what type of weapon each class could carry, and although he was hard pressed to define the girl's precise status, he doubted that she was either nobility, military, or militia.
Also dubious was her choice of hiding place for such a weapon. She had spoken a deliberate lie to get him out of the tavern. Quite likely she had done so again to lure him away from battle and into the safety of the massive tree. "You hid a sword in a tree?" he said skeptically. She dug her hands into the bark and began to climb.
"Many things are hidden in this tree. If you follow me closely and keep your eyes open, you'll survive most of them."
The trunk was thicker around than many a wizard's tower, and the bark formed raised patterns of ridges and whorls. Matteo found that climbing the sheer wall was not as difficult as he'd anticipated. After several moments they hauled themselves up onto a large limb.
Matteo stood and looked about him in wonder. The limbs were broad, the upper sides almost flat. They intertwined, forming a network of passages and nearly level platforms. Several paces away, several boards spanned the gap between two limbs. A bit of torn sailcloth formed a remarkably snug tent. Though sunset was still hours away, two pairs of booted feet protruded from it.
"They work at night," Tzigone said matter-of-factly as she began to climb again.
They passed several more small dwellings on the next tier, some established on the tree's branches and some carved into the larger limbs and in hollows in the trunk. Matteo marveled at the sheer variety of plant and animal life that took refuge in the bilboa tree. Tiny spiders, transparent as glass and invisible but for a faint rosy gleam within their bodies, spun delicate webs of red silk-webs that were unique to Halruaa, and much prized by wizards as spell components. Brilliantly colored birds roosted on the branches, some of which Matteo had never encountered in book or legend. A winged cat groomed itself, and insects bustled about with the importance of message boys.
Matteo wondered how many creatures found a home here. Here and there a limb had been torn away by storms, leaving small, snug rooms large enough to accommodate a small family of tree-dwelling creatures. Matteo would not be surprised if Tzigone herself found refuge in such places from time to time. She seemed as at ease among the limbs of the vast tree as she did in the city below. Indeed, the tree was like a small community within the city, teeming with life beyond the expected birds and insects. Matteo made a note to look into the possibilities presented by the arboreal cities. This could be useful knowledge.
"Careful coming around this bend. Don't touch the big web," Tzigone cautioned.
As Matteo maneuvered around a massive limb, he saw what she meant. A deep, narrow hollow was covered with a spider web that still glistened with dew. Some of the drops glittered silver and red and blue, reflecting the treasure hidden inside. Matteo noted the wistful look that Tzigone sent the trove, but she wisely did not attempt to despoil it The spider that stood guard was as big as Matteo's palm. He recognized the breed as one developed by some wayward wizard who had been exiled long ago when his creations escaped into the wild. This creature was larger and more fearsome than common spiders. Its thick body was not furry but covered with incredibly strong, tiny scales. Despite its armor, the spider was exceedingly quick, and its bite was deadly poison.
"I begin to see why you would entrust a sword to this place," Matteo commented. "Have we much farther to go?"
Tzigone shrugged and kept climbing. Her lack of response deepened Matteo's suspicions, but he followed her as she ran across a broad limb to the far side of the tree. She counted off the side branches and then nodded in satisfaction.
"This is where we get off. Watch, then do as I do."
She leaped off the limb and seized the narrow branch. The strong, flexible wood bent under her weight, slowing just as her feet touched the wall that bordered the north side of the city garden. When she released the branch it snapped back up into place. She motioned impatiently for Matteo to follow.
He considered the situation and at once perceived a problem. With his greater weight, he would either hit the wall with great force or miss it entirely. Quickly he estimated the difference in mass between his tightly muscled body and Tzigone's slender, wiry frame, then he ciphered the angle and tensile strength of branches on either side of her chosen limb.
Fortunately the branches were close enough for him to grasp both. He dropped between them, and his hands closed lightly around them.
The branches slid through his hands as he fell. He ignored the scrape of the bark against his palms, then gripped tightly when he reached the chosen spot. His calculations proved right on the mark. He dropped precisely as he intended and landed lightly beside the openmouthed girl.
She looked at him with new respect. "Huzzah!"
"It's a good thing that one of us considered the weight difference," Matteo commented.
She dismissed this with a light shrug. "It's been a while since I had to concern myself with someone else. Amazing how fast you get out of practice."
"Is there truly a sword?" Matteo demanded.
"Truly," she said, imitating his tone to perfection. His exasperated sigh amused her, and she chuckled as she walked along the wall of the public garden.
They climbed down onto Reef Street. Matteo couldn't help but stare as they walked down its length. Though this part of the city was well inland, the scent of the sea was strong. Aqueducts brought seawater in from the bay, and with the seawater came the creatures that constructed the houses and shops.
All the buildings on this street were fashioned from coral, and they ranged in color from pale sandy pink to a deep dusky rose. Sea motifs were much in evidence, from the wavelike patterns in the iron fences to the flowering topiaries carved in the shape of fish and merfolk. The gate of one particularly imposing shop was framed by a pair of stone sahuagin, hideous fish-men who stood guard with braced tridents and shark-toothed snarls. Matteo had heard that sailors considered this sort of decoration to be in terrible taste. Elves were more likely to mar the serenity of their temples with statues of drow raiders than seamen were to seek reminders of sahuagin.
Despite the occasional lapse in taste, such buildings were popular among the wealthy commoners. Growing a coral building took many years and an enormous amount of expensive magic. A new building was in the birthing process, and Matteo took great interest in observing firsthand how it was done.
A stout timber frame formed the skeleton, but the building grew from the top down. The city's artificers provided pumps-small marvels constructed of metal and magic-that lifted seawater through pipes to the roof, where it cascaded down into the cistern moat below. Tiny coral animals, summoned by magic, had risen with the water and over time had built a reef that reached almost halfway to the ground. Several artisans were at work framing in the lower windows and door with timber. A wizard hovered in the air, gesturing broadly and tossing fistfuls of odd substances into the portals that had already been framed. The debris vanished as it passed in, leaving some sort of magical ward in the windows that kept coral from filling them in. The magic they cast was as translucent as fine glass and far stronger.
It was a marvelous process, but Matteo also found it inexplicably sad. Generations upon generations of tiny creatures were induced to venture out of the wide sea into this narrow, artificial inlet, then tricked into building their reefs out into the inhospitable air.
Matteo wondered briefly if there were among these structures the tiny bodies of coral seers who perceived the deadly pattern, who strove to convince the others to give up the ways of untold generations. Clearly they did not succeed, but perhaps they, too, were part of the pattern.
"This way," Tzigone said, pointing toward a small shop shaded by a sea-green awning. No one was currently in attendance, which in itself was not unusual. Many merchants took long meals and short naps in the midday heat, trusting in powerful magical wards to safeguard their goods.
Tzigone strode purposefully toward the shop and studied the weapons on display. She reached in and took a simple but finely crafted short sword, considerably longer than a dagger but not so long that a jordain unfamiliar with dueling weapons would find it unbalanced.
"You keep your sword in a swordsmith's shop?" Matteo said dubiously.
She glanced up and down the street and then pressed the weapon into his hand. "For a while, I kept it in a perfumery, but every time I turned around I knocked down crystal vials. It was damned inconvenient."
Matteo's eyes narrowed. "You are quick to play games with words. Is this weapon truly yours?"
"Could I pass the swordsmith's wards if it were not?" she said impatiently. "Take it and let's be gone."
Matteo set off toward the harbor and the place where he had secured his stallion. He set a brisk pace, eager to find his horse and his friend Themo and take both back to the comparative safety of House Jordain.
Safety.
The word echoed in the great hollow that was his heart. Andris had found no haven there.
Matteo was unprepared for the grief that struck him like a tidal surge. Never had he experienced anything like this flood of emotion. He felt overwhelmed, as if he was being torn away from his moorings.
Several moments passed before he realized that Tzigone was studying him with interest. He caught her eye and braced himself for her questions.
To his surprise, she merely nodded. There was little sympathy in the gesture, but much understanding. Whatever she saw in his eyes was something she knew well.
For some reason, Matteo found this simple acknowledgment more comforting than any of the jordaini's beautifully honed and reasoned phrases.
He searched his benumbed mind for something profound to say and came up empty. "I have to get my horse," he said lamely.
"Well, good for you," she said approvingly. "I was afraid you'd want to look for Mbatu or some such foolishness."
"The wemic will likely find me. If he loses our trail, it would be logical for him to return to the place where we met. I left Cyric tied to a rail near the tavern."
She hoisted one eyebrow and sent him a sidelong look. "Cyric?"
"Yes. The stallion is named after-"
"I know who Cyric is, although frankly I'm surprised that you do. What did the horse do to earn a name like that?"
"Well, he is somewhat volatile."
"I'll bet." Her lips twitched. "You know, I thought all jordaini would be boring, seeing how you aren't allowed to add any color to your facts. It's nice to know that understatement isn't against your creed."
Her dry comment surprised a chuckle from Matteo. They fell into a comfortable pace as Tzigone wove a path through the streets.
Their shadows stretched out before them as they rounded a corner into yet another narrow street. The city was beginning to stir as the sunsleep hours passed. Though the sun was less direct, the heat did not noticeably lessen. Matteo noted that the day was in fact unseasonably warm. Heat rose in visible waves from the paved roads, distorting the scene ahead. A four-man patrol passed, their faces damp and eyes made surly by heat.
Matteo noticed the Tzigone was suddenly very interested in a shop window that offered fishing lures, small hammers, spools of wire, and other small metal devices. "You have reason to avoid the city guard?" he asked.
"They usually seem to think so," she replied cheerfully. "It seems only polite to oblige them."
The jordain was about to challenge that dubious logic when suddenly the shadows at the far side of the street blurred, commingled into an ominous haze by the oddly shaped bulk closing in rapidly.
Matteo thrust Tzigone aside and turned, sword in hand, instinctively placing himself between the girl and the wemic.
The lion-man reached over his massive shoulder. Steel hissed like a striking snake as Mbatu drew his massive blade. The wemic crouched and then leaped, bringing his sword around for a high, smashing attack.
Matteo lifted his borrowed sword to meet the brutal assault. The weapons met with a high metallic shriek. The jordain didn't attempt to absorb the mighty blow, but shifted his weight to his right foot and let the force of the attack carry the enjoined swords to the ground. Deftly he twisted aside and danced back, sliding his sword out from under the wemic's blade. He darted in again, thrusting low, a point far lower than he would choose for attacking a human.
The wemic parried and retreated, trying to work his sword back into position for a high attack. Matteo would have none of that. He pressed in, stabbing and thrusting again and again, forcing the wemic to keep the battle low.
Never had Matteo fought a wemic, but he discerned what the creature's best strategy would be. Once the blades were high, the wemic could bring his leonine forepaws into play. By Matteo's estimation, the claws on Mbatu's feet could disembowel a man in three quick strokes or tear out his throat in one.
Again and again the wemic tried to draw back, tried to disengage the blades long enough to maneuver into position for a killing stroke. Matteo pursued, always taking the offensive and looking for an opening of his own.
The battle went on and on. The heat of the sun was punishing, and his arms ached from the unfamiliar weight of the sword. As if in a daze, he heard Tzigone mutter something about the damned horse and not being able to find the militia the one time you actually wanted them. From the corner of his eye, he saw her hoist a bucket of rainwater and heave it in a shining arc toward him and the wemic.
A fleeting smile touched Matteo's lips as he shook water from his eyes. Oddly enough, he understood at once Tzigone's intent. The water cooled him off but did not distract or inconvenience him. On the other hand, Mbatu's glossy black mane hung wet and heavy about his face, and his ears turned back with familiar feline distaste.
The wemic turned a murderous golden stare upon Tzigone. "Bring her in alive," he muttered, as if to remind himself of an onerous duty.
An eager, familiar snort drew Matteo's eye to the far end of the street. Matteo's black stallion trotted purposefully toward the battle, his eyes gleaming weirdly. His reins hung loose, and splinters of wood were tangled in his mane. For the first time, Matteo understood what the stable hands meant when they swore that they never heard that snort but they expected to see it accompanied by a burst of sulfur-scented steam.
Matteo spun to place Cyric at his back. He sent a quick glance toward the watchful Tzigone, hoping beyond hope that she might discern his battle strategy. To his surprise, she nodded and edged down the street toward Mbatu. She pulled a long knife from her boot and went into a crouch.
When the clatter of the stallion's approach stopped, Matteo danced back a couple of steps. The wemic saw his opening at last and lifted his sword high. Matteo moved with him, raising his sword in anticipation of the parry. As he expected, the wemic reared up and unsheathed his claws.
Tzigone threw herself forward, knife leading, and plunged her blade into the wemic's flank. Mbatu let out a roar of pain and instinctively twisted toward the new threat. But he could not halt the momentum of his own blow, and his great sword descended in a killing arc. Matteo tossed aside his borrowed sword and rolled clear.
His timing proved to be nearly perfect. Cyric had also reared up, and his hooves slashed out at the wemic. One hoof grazed Matteo's shoulder painfully, but the other found the wemic's skull with a sickening thud. The wemic's head snapped back and he dropped to the cobblestone. He lay still, a steady trickle of blood matting his long black hair.
For a moment the street was silent, but for the whuffling, almost mirthful sound of the stallion's breath.
Matteo rolled to his feet and came over to pat Cyric's black neck. Tzigone tugged her knife free with a quick jerk and circled around to crouch by the wemic's head. She lifted one eyelid, then the other, staring into each orb intently.
"He lives," she said shortly. "No need to look over your shoulder, though. He won't remember any of this."
"You sound very certain of that," Matteo said warily. The tone of her voice held an odd resonance, one very similar to that he discerned in wizards after a spellcasting. "Speak forthrightly. Did you work magic on the wemic?"
"Me? A wizard?" She let out a short, derisive sniff. Rocking back on her heels, she rose in a swift, fluid movement. "The wemic is having a bad day. He's been hit on the head twice already, and it's only just past highsun. If things continue apace, by sunset he'll be lucky to remember his own name. Very lucky."
She spoke the last words with a bitterness that surprised him. For a moment Matteo puzzled over how, and if, to address this. No inspiration came, so he dealt with that which he understood.
"I would not have defeated the wemic without your help," he said honestly. "The debt is paid."
He swung up onto Cyric's back. The horse stood still for him, amazingly docile.
No, Matteo noted, not docile. A better word was "satisfied." It was as if the stallion had always longed to do battle and, having had the opportunity, was content for the moment. Matteo extended a hand to the young woman. "May I offer you a ride to wherever you're staying?"
Tzigone eyed the big horse uncertainly. "You go ahead. I'll catch up later."
The notion was so absurd that Matteo almost laughed. "I'm returning to House Jordain to complete my training. The jordaini serve truth. Forgive me for speaking bluntly, Tzigone, but there is no place for you there."
She didn't seem daunted by his lack of encouragement. "There's a debt between us. I can't forget that. I never forget anything."
"I told you, the debt is paid."
"Because you say so? Is this the market, that we need to dicker?" she said testily. "Blankets and melons and such have no set price, but there are some things that do."
Matteo recognized the ring in her voice and the steel in her eyes. She spoke of honor, though in terms that he didn't quite recognize or understand. He responded in kind.
"Then when we meet again, I shall look to you for help and friendship," he said. "You may claim the same of me, without adding to the sum of your honor debt."
For a moment she looked startled, and then a thoughtful expression crossed her face. "You say that I use words too lightly, and maybe I do, but it seems to me that you're quick to speak of friendship."
Never had Matteo received so puzzling a response to the polite phrases he'd offered. It occurred to him that she might think he was suggesting something less than proper. "I meant no offense."
"And I took none. All I'm saying is that you're quick to trust. Maybe that's not such a good thing."
Amused now, he regarded her with lifted brows. "Are you warning me to beware of you?"
She stood her ground, yielding nothing. "I'm reminding you that you thought I was a boy and assumed that all cats can climb. Not everything is as it seems, jordain."
There was truth in that, and though it smarted to acknowledge it, he responded with a respectful nod. "Thank you for your words," he said, showing the respect he would give a master after a much-needed lesson. "Thank you also for the use of your sword."
She shrugged and walked gingerly around Cyric, eyeing the big horse with interest. Cyric turned his head to regard her, and his expression seemed equally wary.
Matteo noted this exchange and found it rather fitting. He took up the reins and found that one had been sliced by the wemic's sword. He dismounted to retrieve it and tie it back on. Cyric was nearly impossible to control under the best of circumstances, and he dared not attempt to guide the horse with only his knees.
Tzigone watched as the young man bent over the repair. Moving like a shadow, she retrieved the sword that Matteo had flung aside. For a moment she regarded it and debated what to do. She couldn't take it with her, that much was certain. Penalties for dressing or arming oneself above one's station were severe, and the last thing Tzigone needed was another brush with the law. Swords were valuable, and in Halruaa, spells of seeking made sure that valuable objects didn't stay "borrowed" for long.
But she hated to leave the weapon in the street. Who knew who might pick it up and what use they might make of it? And judging from the day he'd had so far, Matteo was likely to need just such a sword before much more time passed. Certainly he'd handled it better than she had expected. It would be well for both of them if he had use of the sword when next their paths crossed.
Tzigone didn't require much persuading. She took a length of leather thong from her bag and quickly tied the sword to the back of the stallion's saddle. Fortunately the horse's back was broad and the sword short enough to conceal. She tucked the saddle blanket over the hilt Judging by the shrewd, approving look in Cyric's eyes, she figured that the horse would find some way to alert Matteo of the weapon's presence if need arose.
She worked quickly and backed away just as Matteo looked up from the newly repaired bridle. "Peace to you, Tzigone," he said as he swung himself up on the stallion's back.
"And to you," she responded demurely.
She watched as the young man rode off, well content with her decision. Peace was a fine word and certainly something worth aspiring to, but in her experience, it was rarer than riches. If peace proved elusive, at least she'd seen that Matteo was properly armed.
And properly warded, too. The wemic was beginning to stir and groan, but when he awoke he would remember nothing of the day's events.
Just to be sure, Tzigone crouched by the wemic and repeated the small spell that she had cast, one that she had learned in a lifetime of seeking remedies for her own forgetfulness.
Her fingers still itched and tingled after the casting was complete. This didn't surprise her. Wizards seemed to think that all magical energy should dissipate with a spell, but Tzigone found this ridiculous. Magic was all around, all that wizards did was pick up pieces of it and combine them to make something new. They were so puffed up about their "great power," as if they actually created the magic they used. As if anyone could!
But there did seem to be an unusual amount of magic about. There was also some interesting treasure. Tzigone's fingers reached, almost of their own volition, for the wemic's earring. The stone was too big to be a ruby, but even it if were a garnet or carnelian, it would fetch a good price at the back door of many a respected gem merchant She didn't worry about speeding the wemic's rise to wakefulness. Her fingers were so skilled that she could take the gem from him when he was fully awake without alerting him to his loss.
But she stopped just short of touching the stone. Acting on instinct, she jerked back her hand and clenched her fingers into a fist. Insight quickly followed. The ruby had been a lure, as most likely the red gown had been a lure. It had been so prominently displayed, so easy to steal, and so temptingly cut to her size. The last bit convinced her that she was right. The gown had been fashioned of expensive watered silk, yet it was far too small to fit the lush, extravagant figures cultivated by ladies of wealth and fashion. She'd bet skie against sand that it had been made to order with her in mind. And embued with a spell of seeking. No wonder the wemic had come so close to catching her.
With a single quick movement, Tzigone rocked back on to her heels and then rose to her feet. Resisting the temptation to give the wemic a final kick, she melted into the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, intent upon finding a way to finish paying her debt to the young jordain.
Chapter Six
In a rented tower room not far away, Kiva leaned intently over the scrying bowl as she watched the battle between her friend Mbatu and the young jordain who had caught her eye earlier that day.
Matteo intrigued her. She had taken Zephyr's reports and done some research of her own. By all accounts, he was among the most promising of the jordaini students, as sharp and strong as any among them. Yet until this morning, she had not considered him to be a likely recruit. He was a true believer, steeped from birth in jordaini lore and the glamour of the jordaini myth. Such as he were never easy to turn.
She would believe this still, had she not witnessed the intensity of his grief over his lost friend. Matteo might have devoted his life to truth, but Kiva suspected that in time he would find rules and facts to be too bloodless a mistress.
At present Matteo was as proper and prideful as any young man of his elite class. But if that were to change, he could become a useful tool. His words suggested a subtlety of mind that pleased Kiva. He was still too young and naive for that subtlety to prove a threat, but it would make the process of conquest more interesting and rewarding.
A faint groan came from the curtained bed. Kiva absently flicked her fingers toward her latest recruit, increasing the flow of scented smoke from the censer beside his bed and thus deepening his slumber. It was not her favorite method of inducing sleep. She preferred to use the spell that had apparently, and mysteriously, been worked upon the wemic.
Kiva studied the picture in the scrying bowl carefully. After casting the illusion that had enabled her to take Andris from House Jordain, she had followed the group of grieving jordaini students to Khaerbaal. She had two purposes for this: First she hoped to glean more information about Matteo by watching his behavior away from the strict rules of the school and the watchful eyes of his masters. In addition to this, she wanted Mbatu to finish the work of the previous day. If luck was with them, he would at long last run Keturah's daughter to ground.
The wench had been seen in Khaerbaal a few days ago, and the Lady Day festivities had offered a means of smoking her out. But the girl had managed to elude Mbatu in the crowds, and Kiva had been forced to leave the city or risk losing Andris to bids from other wizards.
Tzigone was a complication, to be sure, but her presence in Khaerbaal was also an opportunity that Kiva could not let pass. Three moons had waxed and waned since she'd last heard so much as a word of the slippery wench. So the wemic had left Andris sleeping in Kiva's care, exchanged his earring for an identical one linked to Kiva's scrying bowl, and gone off in pursuit of Tzigone.
The ruby and bowl were powerful devices, ancient beyond reckoning and reputed to have been created by an Ilythiiri wizard before the sundering of the one land. Kiva had carefully researched the claims of the adventurer who had sold her the bowl, and when she was satisfied that the man spoke truth, she had bought the treasure and then killed him. These days the Ilythiiri were called by another name: drow. These dark elves evoked such fear and horror that Kiva knew no one, human or elf, who would willingly use an artifact they had created, not even if it proved to be the most powerful device of its kind that Kiva had encountered in two centuries devoted to the study of such treasures.
Yet despite its power, the scrying bowl yielded no sip of the wayward girl. Kiva battled anger and frustration as she watched through Mbatu's eyes without actually seeing his prey. Her frustration had turned to fascination when Matteo stepped between the wemic and the fugitive. A jordain was pledged to follow the law, yet Matteo had risked his future to place himself between an unknown girl and a magehound's personal guard. Kiva noted the mixture of chivalry and rage that prompted the jordain's uncharacteristic response, and her plans for Matteo took a sudden shift.
She watched as the young pair fled together, tracking Tzigone by Matteo's exasperated responses to the girl's unseen actions and unheard words. The girl's shield against magical inquiry was absolute, even stronger than that of a jordain. In fact, this was the first scrying device Kiva had ever found that could actually track a jordain, who were bred for their magic resistance.
The girl would have been one of the strongest jordaini in Halruaa's history had her breeding been true. Such a waste-all the careful testing and meticulous records that made the marriage match between two wizards, not to mention the magical potions fed to the female for years. Who could have guessed that Keturah would disrupt the breeding process and take matters into her own hands?
Frankly, Kiva was surprised at the woman's initiative. It was true that Keturah had always been a strong-minded wench, but the humans of Halruaa were seldom capable of such blatant rebellion. Their lives and minds were ordered and constrained by laws, rules, customs, and magic.
Always magic, Kiva reminded herself. She could endure much for that. She could shrug aside nearly twenty years of training in their schools, the sly questing hands of their males, the idiocy of their rules. What were such things to an elf who had seen the birth and death of three centuries? If it took her another three hundred years, she would use Halruaa's magic to seize what was hers to claim.
And Matteo would help her to accomplish her goal. Of that Kiva was certain. He had the skill to defeat a wemic battlemaster and the independence to befriend an apparent street urchin. Of course, that tolerance would no doubt evaporate like dew in highsun once he found out that the girl spilled magic as carelessly as a fumble-footed tavern wench slopped soup.
But that knowledge could be long in coming to Matteo. Kiva had come to know Tzigone well enough to suspect that the girl would hold her secrets close and well.
Kiva bent over her scrying bowl. Matteo was on horseback, heading for the north gates. Kiva studied his posture and his placement on the saddle and decided that he rode alone.
The magehound waved a hand over the bowl to dispel the image and rose from the table. She went over to the cot and bent over her captive, lifting the lids on his hazel-green eyes and looking deep within, ensuring that his sleep was both safe and deep.
She quickly chanted a spell, one that would take her to the quiet street where Mbatu lay sleeping. When she emerged from the magical transport, she took from her bag a small square of black silk, which she unfolded again and again until it was many times its original size. This she dropped over the wemic. The gossamer veil floated down, draped over Mbatu's great form, and then sank again until it lay flat against the cobblestone.
Kiva snatched up the scarf and held it high, spinning in a quick circle and then letting it fly. The thin silk whispered around her as it fell, and she felt the quick, sure pull of the magic that drew her back to her rented room. At the last moment, she seized the corner of the portal with practiced ease, bringing the priceless device with her.
She tossed the silken portal aside and strode to the locked box she had left on her bedside table. Mbatu would fold the silk later, once he recovered from Tzigone's casting as well as from the magical inquisition that was to come.
Kiva took from the box a small rod-not the ornate, bejeweled toy she had brandished to confound the jordaini and their masters, but the real instrument of her office. Slim and silvery, it was no metal to be wrested from soil and rock, but captured lightning, pure energy converted to solid form. She knew of nothing that conducted magic so well-not water, not amber, not even moonstone. If there was a trace of magic in a living creature, she would know. The rod could reveal other useful and important things, but Kiva seldom used it. Lightning was never easy to hold, and the process was as painful to the magehound as it was enlightening.
She completed the spell that released the wemic from Tzigone's casting. Mbatu stirred and stretched painfully. His amber eyes opened, then narrowed as they focused upon the wand in Kiva's hand.
"The scrying bowl did not work?" he asked in a sleep-scratchy growl.
"It worked, but I need to know more. I need to know everything."
The wemic regarded her for a long moment He shifted into a sitting position, folding his forepaws under him and using his humanoid arms to brace himself for the coming ordeal. It apparently did not occur to him to ask if the magical inquisition was necessary. If Kiva thought the pain was worth bearing, he could do no less.
"I am ready," he said in a stronger voice.
The magehound knelt on the floor facing him and slowly extended the wand until the tip lightly touched Mbatu's forehead.
Instantly she was swept by a great silent wind, a psychic typhoon that buffeted at her mind, her identity, her soul. It was no small thing to enter the mind of another sentient being, even that of a friend. Many a magehound had died shrieking after the first attempt, for sanity could be swept away by the onslaught, and a heart might burst from the burden of two separate rhythms that refused to become one.
But Kiva was strong enough, and so was Mbatu. The moment of agony passed quickly, and she slipped into the familiar pathways of the wemic's mind and heart. For a moment she paused, awed as a visitor to a grand temple, to marvel anew at the utter loyalty she found there. It was a quality Kiva valued, but not one that she understood.
She took from her friend's mind the tavern scene, and she suppressed a smile at the snippets of Tzigone's irreverent commentary that Mbatu had picked up before his charge. Through the wemic's eyes, she saw everything Mbatu had seen, and she noticed details and subtleties that he had not discerned. She saw Matteo's face as he leaped up and upended the table, and she marked the seeds of rebellion in the young jordain's fierce black eyes. By the time the vision was complete, Kiva knew that her decision was sound.
Slowly, carefully, she eased apart the magical ties that bound her to Mbatu. The wemic studied her with eyes glazed by pain but untouched by reproach.
"You will have this one, too, I suppose? He fights well enough," he added wryly.
"Matteo will fight for me in time," she agreed. "However, at present I have another use for him. His path will cross with the girl's, most likely quite soon. We can use that. We can encourage that. When the time is right, we can take them both unawares."
Mbatu snorted. "The jordaini have little use for women. Let a few moons pass, and he will not care whether Keturah’s daughter lives or dies."
"I can change that."
The wemic misunderstood the sudden gleam in Kiva's eyes. "Is that wise? Dalliance with a student jordain will be frowned upon, even for someone in your high place. Perhaps especially so. Magehounds and jordaini do not mix. Personal involvement might taint the clarity and purity of your judgment and ill serve the cause of Azuth," he quoted.
They shared a chuckle at this notion. Her involvement was deeply personal, and her judgments had little to do with the workings of Azuth.
Kiva sobered first and told the wemic her plan. "Once Matteo has been taken, you can handle the horse? You will see that it is returned to the jordaini college?"
"I will do it," Mbatu grumbled. "Dark-hearted bastard that he is."
"Good. The moon wanes, and the new moon is three days away. The purification ritual will be performed that night. We must keep Matteo away until after this is done so he will not know the difference."
"Do you truly think he will not notice whether the rite is performed or not? Humans are not such eunuchs as that."
"The jordaini do not know what awaits them. What Matteo does not know, he cannot dread. Students are taken to the ritual alone and hooded. The wizard who performs the rite does not know who comes under his knife. After the deed is done, the jordaini are sworn to secrecy and taken to recover in isolation. It will be a small thing to find a commoner to send in Matteo's place, especially if the man is seen riding into the complex on Matteo's horse."
"The masters of House Jordain are not so easily fooled. They will never permit this!" the wemic protested.
A small smile touched the magehound's lips. "You would be surprised what the jordaini will permit. Truth, as it happens, is a remarkably mutable thing. Go now and tend your part."
They left the tower room together, Mbatu to seek in the countryside beyond the city walls a young man who would stand for Matteo in the rite of purification, one who bore a passing resemblance to the jordain. Kiva's task was simpler to report what she suspected to the captain of the local militia. Tzigone never carried a sword, or for that matter much of anything else. The canny wench knew that enspelled objects could be traced, and she changed possessions frequently. But Kiva was willing to bet that the young thief would not cast away so fine a sword. It was undoubtedly still in Matteo's possession.
Kiva quickly found a detachment of local militia. The captain took the magehound's report and set out for the northwest gate after Matteo.
Well satisfied, Kiva rode to a small holding she kept outside the city and settled down to await Mbatu, confident that the wemic would arrive shortly with Matteo's stallion and, more importantly, his substitute.
Chapter Seven
A sense of unease followed Tzigone like a shadow as she made her way to the Behir's Nest. As the sun dipped toward the west, the streets began to come alive. She worked her way through the crowd, paying less attention to her surroundings than usual.
Such weakness was often fatal and always dangerous. Like fear, inattention seemed to draw predators as blood in the water summoned sharks. From the corner of her eye, Tzigone noted that a street urchin had fallen into step with her, just slightly behind her and out of the normal range of vision.
For a moment Tzigone's throat tightened. The furtive, hollow-eyed child was a reminder of her early years and a mirror of what she had been forced to become. But that didn't stop her from seizing the thin, seeking hand that reached for her bag.
Tzigone spun the boy around, flinging him against the back wall of a milliner's shop. She caught him by surprise, and tossing him about was easy to do. But not until she had him pinned against the wall did she realize that the boy was fully her height and probably nearly as strong. That realization didn't change her intention in the slightest.
She turned his grimy hand palm up and slapped into it a coin, one of the skie that the starsnake's skin had brought her.
"You need a few lessons," she hissed. "Gwillon over on Low Street is looking for an apprentice. Give him this and mention my name...."
She had to think for a moment before the name of the child thief she'd once been came back to her. "Tell him that Sindra says you have promise."
The lad eyed the coin, then lifted an awed gaze to hers. That single skie might be more riches than he'd held in five moons, but the name was worth far more to him. Gwillon was a master pickpocket and a legend among the shadows of this city. The man was getting along in years, but his training might be enough to keep this lad alive. Justice in Halruaa was swift, and few thieves were caught twice. She'd given the boy a rare second chance, and he knew it.
The boy fisted his hand around his apprentice fee and darted off in the direction of Low Street. Tzigone nodded approvingly and went on through the back way to the shop where she was currently employed.
Chimes sang musically as she opened the door. Tzigone glanced up, marveling anew that something so beautiful could be made from the sort of scraps that a butcher might toss to stray dogs. Behir's bones. Who would know by looking at the ugly creatures that they housed such fey beauty?
Halruaans were never content to leave any creature as nature intended, and behirs were a special target of their breeding programs. Miniature behirs of various sizes were raised for purposes ranging from moat guardians to exotic nets, but like pigs and poets, they garnered most of their acclaim after their deaths. Their primary purpose was spell components.
It seemed that nearly every part of a behir was good for something. The long, slender horns that flowed back from their heads were ground into powder and added to ink used in writing out spell scrolls for various lightning spells. Their talons and hearts went to making inks that were used to create spells offering protection from poison. Even the mundane uses of their leavings were marvelous. Their bones were crystalline and were used for scrimshaw. Like musical ghosts, the behir bones sang at the doors and windows of Halruaan homes long after the flesh that had clothed them was distant memory. The teeth, however, gave rise to the most creative uses. They were translucent and multicolored, often imitating and rivaling the hue and sparkle of gemstone.
Tzigone crept silently to a large, oddly shaped wooden box that stood on a three-legged stand. It was a musical instrument, a special creation of Justin, the artificer who owned this shop. Inside the box were strings fashioned of behir's gut and electrum wire, and on the wide end of the box was a row of neat ivory keys. When one of the keys was pressed, a curved fang was lifted by a complex series of levers until it plucked at the string. The sound varied greatly, depending upon what instrument the musician called to mind. These instruments were much in demand in the city, and Justin was building another, his back to Tzigone and his attention wholly absorbed by his work.
She chose a sound and struck the key attached to the lowest, thickest string. The behir's fang flashed up, and the electrum cord vibrated. A deep, full-throated sound reverberated through the room-not a musical instrument, but a wemic's roar.
Justin leaped and spun in one quick, startled movement His glare melted into a reluctant smile as he met Tzigone's grin.
"A good jest," he conceded. "But bear in mind, boy, that not everyone cares to be the brunt of your mischief. Keep it up and you'll come to grief soon or late."
Tzigone had learned early in life that letting people think she was a boy was safer, if marginally so, than being seen as a young woman alone. "What can I do today?"
"Behirs need feeding. There's a clutch of new hatchlings to record, too. Three of them, and fine beasts all. Ethan's brood, out of Blue Bess."
She followed him out into the back, where a series of long narrow pools housed the creatures. Sure enough, three new behirs, each not much bigger than a cat, lounged on the sunning rocks. All of them were covered with soft scales of the light topaz blue that Justin favored, and all had only six legs. Each would develop another three or four pairs before adulthood. They had yet to grow horns, and but for their length and color, they looked very much like sky-colored crocodiles.
Justin watched Tzigone as she chopped fish and eels. She clicked her tongue, and the miniature monsters came to her like obedient hounds, swarming about the wall as she tossed them their food. The babies had to be nearly hand-fed, an exceedingly dangerous task for anyone whose fingers were less fleet than Tzigone's. The hatchlings' teeth, already gem-colored and sharp as needles, flashed and snapped as they ate.
The artificer nodded approvingly. "You've a sure, quick hand with the beasts. I could use an apprentice, especially when it comes to the slaughtering. Gathering and treating spell components can be tricky work. Have you been tested for magic?"
The question was rhetorical. Every child in Halruaa was first tested before the age of five, and often thereafter until his or her talents and destiny were decided. Tzigone had sidestepped the formal process and learned whatever skills suited her needs and caught her fancy.
"I've less magic than a stone," she lied in a rueful tone. "Ah." Justine looked both disappointed and uncomfortable. It was not exactly a disgrace to lack magical talent in Halruaa, but except in the case of the jordaini, neither was it an honor. "Well, someone has to cook the soup," he said in a conciliatory tone, falling back on a familiar proverb.
Tzigone gritted her teeth and forced herself to smile and nod. She hated proverbs, and nothing annoyed her more than people who were so lazy or lacking in imagination that they allowed their words to travel only well-worn paths. Jordaini were often the worst. And here she was, indebted to a particularly arrogant member of the breed.
So far today she'd been stung by a starsnake, chased by a wemic, and indebted to a jordain. And to cap matters, here she was, up to her elbows in fish guts.
Tzigone shrugged. Chances were, tomorrow could be worse.
When all the behirs had been fed, she went into the back room to record the new births. Her heart quickened as she dragged the heavy tome down from the shelf, and it beat like a wild elf's battle drum as she paged through the complex birth records.
Genealogy was vitally important in Halruaa. Records were assiduously kept in books filled with intricate lines and patterns. Tzigone was determined to learn the meaning of those markings. It was for this purpose that she risked her fingers to Justin's behirs. Behir-tending was a job that few people would take, and he had gladly trained her in what little she needed to know to keep his records. The rest she would teach herself.
When the light from the single small window began to fail and her eyes swam with the effort of deciphering the tiny markings, Tzigone slipped out of the back room to her next lesson, one that was closely related to her study of behir heritage.
Each village, each city neighborhood, had a resident matchmaker. They were minor mages of the diviner school, and with the help of the birth records listed in the Diviner's Registry, they saw far enough into the future to decide who should marry whom.
Since matchmakers started with a woman and found an appropriate male, Tzigone needed to change her appearance before she presented herself. Two colorful scarves, nearly dry when she'd tugged them off someone's line, would serve in her transformation. One tied around her waist would make a skirt, and the other she'd drape over her linen shirt But first she stopped at a public fountain and scrubbed her face and arms clean. A bit of dirt lent her a more urchinlike appearance, but that wasn't suitable to her desired image as a winsome, marriageable girl.
Both the theft and the deceit lay easily on Tzigone's conscience. She had lived on the streets for as long as she could remember, and she had learned early to survive. But more basic than that was the gypsy code that such a life had inscribed upon her mind and spirit. She had no real sense of property, at least not as most Halruaans seemed to regard it. Ownership was not a sacred right but a temporary thing. A coin was quickly traded for something she desired more, such as a hot meal or a pair of boots, nicely broken in and not too badly patched. She was as quick to give as she was to take, and that was the way of many who lived as she did. The scarves she draped over her slender form today would probably form an awning tomorrow to keep the sun from a sleeping baby's face, or perhaps reawaken, if but for a moment, the vanity of some aged coquette. In Tzigone's eyes, it worked out well enough. Nothing made of wood or cloth or metal was important enough to warrant the fuss people made over it.
She'd just finished dressing when a spray of water arched toward her. Although she jumped back, the water drenched her borrowed finery so that the thin cloth clung to her legs.
She looked up into a familiar dark face enlivened by a long, waxed black mustache and a teasing leer. Gio was a traveling entertainer, and as near to family as any she could remember during her waking hours. Laughter crinkled the man's eyes, lingering there in pleasant lines and whorls. Though well into middle life, he was still a child who delighted in play and whose antics brought laughter and evoked childhood memories from those who had forgotten such things. There was a kind of magic in that, and Tzigone had enjoyed her years of travel with Gio and his partner.
She laughed and splashed him back. "Still in town, Gio? I thought you and Viente planned to move on to Sulazir."
He laid a hand over his heart, pantomiming great insult "Planned? Since when does Troupe Gioviente plan? Are we merchants or greengrocers, to trudge through our days in so dreary a fashion?"
"I will not insult you by offering apology. For such words, I should slice out my tongue and throw it to the ravens!" she said, placing the back of her hand against her forehead and mimicking his extravagant delivery.
The entertainer saw nothing amiss in this gentle mockery. "Sulazir has lasted this long without Gioviente. The city will survive a few days more."
Tzigone rephrased her question in a manner more likely to elicit information. "What kept you in town?"
Gio cast his eyes skyward and shook a fist at some unseen power. "Carmelo is what, and I curse the day I took on that boy. Always getting fancy, he is, and getting us all dragged in for inquisition. We're clean, as you know, but one of us had to spend some time in the hold for creating disturbance. It was his turn."
Tzigone smirked. Gio didn't mind visiting his friends in the hold and doing a few tricks for the bored guards, but when it came to paying off a public debt, it was always someone else's turn. She'd spent time in various dank, barred rooms herself.
The diversions offered by the entertainers were not actually illegal, but someone was always challenging their claim that their tricks and illusions and feats of skill were simply that, unbolstered by aid of magic. Magic was common currency in Halruaa, and although Tzigone wouldn't exactly say that her countrymen had lost their sense of wonder, they seemed both impressed by and skeptical of anything that was accomplished without magic. Fraud had to be proved, and once an accusation was made, the entire troupe would be hauled away for inquisition by the local magehound. Tzigone, of course, had always appeared to be utterly magic dead, a fact that did nothing to increase her confidence in wizards.
Wizards had dogged her footsteps for years, laying traps and ambushes. Nothing they had produced against her so far had prevailed. She'd had a bad moment when she'd come close to nicking the wemic's earring, a deep sense that touching the gem would be a grave mistake. Fortunately she was as sensitive to magic as she was immune from its effects.
"So how is Carmelo?" she asked quickly, eager to think about more pleasant things.
"Tolerable, all things considered. Tomorrow is his last day in the hold, and it will pass quickly. They just threw a jordain in the cell across from him, and you know Carmelo. He'll tease every story and song out of the man before day's end."
Tzigone's ears pricked up. "A jordain? What did he look like?"
The gypsy shrugged and spat. "Much the same as any I've seen, though better-looking than most. Dark hair, white clothes, both of which looked a bit worse for wear. Looks as if he'd made the militia earn their wages before they brought him in."
"That I doubt," she said with certainty. Matteo had looked considerably scuffed up when they'd parted ways, and he probably was in much the same condition now. "If we're thinking about the same man, this one would walk to the hold and lock himself in if someone so much as suggested that he bent a law."
"If he's such a paladin as all that, why is he in the hold?" Gio asked, reasonably enough.
As to that, Tzigone had a fairly good idea. It seemed she would have a chance to erase the debt the same day it was incurred. She thought fast. "If I wanted to get into the hold, how would I do it?"
"Getting in is never a problem. It's the getting out that tasks me," the man pointed out. "What's this jordain to you, girl, that you'd waste your breath on such crazy words?"
"I owe him a debt," she said simply.
The gypsy nodded. Property was something that neither would ever understand, but they knew the worth of things that mattered. "Well, then, I've just the thing for you. You remember how to walk on stilts?"
She sniffed. "If you're out to insult me, just call me an ugly bastard and get it over with."
"Biggest weapon first," he said approvingly. "Not the usual strategy, but it should be. Might cut down on time wasted fighting."
"You were saying something about stilts?" she prompted.
Gio's eyes glittered with mischief. "Now, if you were the law and saw a pair of stilts lying inside the wall of the hold, what would you think? Someone's trying to breach, that's what. But a single pole? No one would think much of it."
"I don't think much of it myself," she retorted. She could vault a wall using Gio's pole, and said so.
"Ah, but not one like this," Gio said slyly. He shouldered off his pack and took from it a bundle of oddly shaped sticks. "They fit together into one long piece," he explained, demonstrating with several of them.
"What are those notches for?"
"Footholds. You can balance the pole and climb it at the same time. But mind you, stay well away from the walls. Lightning sheets cover the inside walls almost to the top. If you lose your balance and lean against the wall, you'll be sizzling like bacon."
"Stay away from the walls? So how do I get out?"
"Moss hangs from the cherrynut tree just outside the south wall. It is strong, and hard to see in the failing light You'll be in the tree before any of those lazy guards notice what you're about."
Tzigone studied the placement of the notches and decided that the balance might work. To limber up, she bent backward until her palms rested on the ground, just behind her feet. Slowly she shifted her weight onto her hands and brought her legs up straight, then slowly lowered them down into another tight arc. She rose, standing in nearly the same spot as she'd been before the exercise.
Gio nodded approvingly and handed her a length of pole. She braced it and hopped up, placing her feet on the lowest notches. She swayed for a moment until she found her balance. Then she found that she could indeed climb. She went up about six feet and then let the pole tip, keeping her grip on it as she lightly dropped to the ground. Even if someone noticed her performing this stunt, she would be up and in the tree before they realized what she'd had in mind.
"This will help," she said with gratitude.
"It's not an easy trick, but you make it look as if it were," the gypsy said admiringly. "Like climbing a rope, or so it looks. If you were still with the show, you'd have us dragged in for magical inquiry sure as sunrise."
A thought crossed her mind and brought a wry scowl to her face. "Now that you mention it, the climbing will be the easy part," she grumbled.
Gio looked mildly offended, as if she'd insulted his latest toy. "You know a better trick, girl?"
"Convincing a jordain to break out of the hold."
The gypsy considered this and then placed a hand on her shoulder in silent commiseration. "One more word from an old friend?"
"Don't bother telling me he's not worth the trouble. I never met a jordain who was."
"I wouldn't think of trying to sway you, seeing that your mind's set on getting him out," Gio protested. "Just do me this favor: If you're caught, at least try to throw the pole out over the wall. I'd hate to lose it."
"Pride of ownership, Gio?" she teased him.
He looked puzzled. "Just pure common sense. There's not a man or woman inside the hold that would make good use of the thing. It'd be a shame to see it go for firewood."
Chapter Eight
The sun hung low over the mountains when Mbatu returned to the travel house he shared with Kiva. The wemic had a peasant man slung over his shoulders, much as a hunter might carry a deer. He shifted the man casually and tossed him at the magehound's feet. The captive groaned from the jolt of impact and then curved into a tight, pained ball.
Kiva didn't see any marks on the peasant, but she didn't expect to. Mbatu was too skilled and shrewd to mark his prey unless it pleased him to do so.
The elf woman regarded their captive thoughtfully. He was a young man, about the same height as Matteo. His muscles had been honed by hard labor and his skin browned by the sun. There the similarity between the two men ended. The farmer's face was twisted in pain but would not be considered particularly handsome in the best of circumstances. His hands were square and blunt-fingered, the nails ragged and grimed with soil. His hair was a similar shade of deep chestnut, but it was coarser than the jordain's and not quite as long and lustrous. Darkness, however, would blur these small details. Magic and simple mundane extortion would cover the rest.
"Will he be missed?" she demanded.
The wemic shrugged. "Not particularly. He is a day laborer on another man's fields. Such men come and go with the crops."
"Good. Let's finish it, then."
Kiva quickly cast a spell to ease the man's pain and make him biddable to her will. At her command, the farmer stripped off his rude garments and replaced them with white linen tunic and leggings, as befitted a jordain about to endure the ritual of purification.
Getting him onto Matteo's black stallion proved a greater challenge. The horse pitched and reared and snorted, refusing to let the peasant mount his back. Even Kiva's magic couldn't bend the stallion to her will.
At last the magehound admitted defeat and gave the peasant a lesser steed to ride. As for the stallion, Kiva found a way to entice him back to his stable. She rode her preferred gelding, but brought on a leading rope a mare in season. They set a brisk pace and found that the black male was more than willing to keep up.
They rode to the village on the outskirts of House Jordain, to the neat row of villas where the masters lived. Kiva had made good use of Zephyr's research, but she had additional sources of her own. One of the masters of the Jordaini College had good reason to hold his secrets quiet and close.
The man didn't look pleased to see her, but he gave her the prescribed courtesies. After they had exchanged the usual tiresome phrases of polite ritual, Kiva told the man what she had in mind.
The master's eyes flashed to the young substitute, who awaited them outside. He was still mounted on his borrowed steed, and his dull, enchanted eyes stared fixedly ahead.
"With all due respect, lady, I must protest. Put aside for the moment the matter of jordaini honor, or even the laws of this land," he pleaded. "Consider this young man, who will never sire a family. It is no small loss. The men and women who till the land depend upon their children's small hands. The tasks that farm children perform are not busy work or play in imitation of adults, but a most important contribution to family. The farmer who lacks strong children is accounted a poor man, and with good reason!"
The magehound waved away these concerns with a quick, impatient flick of one hand. "House Jordain is ridiculously wealthy, for all your protestations of personal poverty. If you're so concerned for this peasant, recompense him. He will not have children. Well enough. A mule and a milkmaid should fill the breach."
"But what of his wife?" the man said softly. "If ever your arms ached to hold a child, you could not condemn even an unknown woman to this emptiness."
Rage set the elf's golden eyes aflame, then banked with a control so absolute that the lack of emotion was more terrifying than her sudden anger.
But the old man would not be deterred. "What of Matteo? You are a high servant of Azuth, you know the hidden mysteries of this land. He cannot be excused from this ritual. I need not remind you of what can happen when the jordaini breed."
In response, she handed him a small jeweled token. No bigger than the nail of her small finger, it was a tiny pellet studded with scales the colors of topaz and garnet and filled with magic. It was the token of the queen, and it carried both sentence and decree.
"I have my orders," Kiva said evenly, "and now you have yours."
For a long moment the man regarded the jeweled pill, and not because he wished to contemplate its beauty. Then he quickly swallowed it. He knew that from this moment, to speak of what was done this day would mean his death.
"Come along," he said harshly. "Let's get this travesty done and over with."
The magehound shook her head. "I must return to the city on business. You can handle this from here, I trust. Oh, and one thing more. I've brought with me a black stallion, Matteo's chosen mount. Take the beast back with you to complete the subterfuge. You may board my mare at your stables for several moons and keep the foal that the stallion has most likely got on her while we spoke," she said generously. "The foal is likely to be quite valuable and will provide some recompense."
"Recompense for what?" the man snapped. "My honor? This poor man's virility? Or perhaps Matteo's life? Where is the boy? What has become of him?"
"That is the very business I must attend. You see, Matteo was detained in the city. Some unpleasantness surrounding the big jordain known as Themo, I believe. A tavern brawl with unfortunate consequences," she said, invoking a half-truth that the master was certain to accept.
The man sighed. "You can bring Matteo back to us? What of this so-called 'unpleasantness?' Is this a matter that you can handle?"
"Of course. Though it would be best that your student knows nothing of what passed between you and me."
"It is unlikely that he will know any of it! The jordaini are told of the purification rite, but most think that it is nothing but a time of solitary contemplation. Afterward they are sworn to silence. So far none has broken oath. And so far," he said pointedly, "none has birthed or fathered children that the entire land must fear. Think carefully upon what you do."
Kiva's lips twisted in a sneer. "Do not attempt to take the moral high ground. You couldn't find it with a map and a ranger to guide you! How dare you lecture me! You, who would rather see your own son castrated than see harm done to a peasant whose name you need never know."
The wizard paled. "The parentage of a jordain is a secret thing, never to be spoken of lightly."
"Then do as I say, and we need never speak of it at all," Kiva said implacably. "Matteo need never learn of what was done to assure his impressive talents and high status. I have seen how he took the death of his friend. How would he receive the truth about his mother? How would he regard the man who had a part in such a thing?"
For a long moment silence filled the room. "Go," the man said in a choked voice. "As always, everything will be done as you say."

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