Matteo slumped against the cold stone wall and stared out the single window in the door of his cell as he tried to take it all in. Andris was dead. Mystra only knew what had become of Themo. And he, Matteo, was imprisoned on a charge of carrying a weapon that was not only proscribed but also stolen.
He sighed and surveyed his prison. The hold was a rarity in Halruaa, a land of swift justice and very few prisons. The port city of Khaerbaal was more rough-and-tumble than most, and though a few minor offenders were sentenced to a few days of confinement, for the most part the hold was a place to store criminals until the resident mage could attend to his or her case. Guilt was quickly determined through magical inquiry and the sentence carried out according to law.
Matteo had no fear of the outcome. His innocence would be determined by the prison magehound. Even so, the temporary disgrace carried a crushing weight.
A shadow passed by the small, barred window, silhouetted against the flickering light of torches thrust into metal brackets on the walls outside. Matteo gave an impassive glance toward what he thought was the guard, then leaped to his feet. The light was dim and uncertain, but Tzigone's face was forever burned into his memory and he would know her anyplace.
"You!" he declared in a tone that dripped with wrath as he pointed an accusing finger at the young woman.
Tzigone rolled her eyes. "And I thought Gio's performance was overwrought. Save the drama for the supper crowd. Right now let's think about getting you out of here."
If possible, the mention of rescue only served to increase Matteo's ire. "I am jordaini, bound by the laws of the land. You insult me by suggesting that I would attempt to escape justice."
"Justice?" she repeated incredulously. "Is that what you think happens around here? I know the magehound who works the hold. He's an ugly little monkey of a man who holds a grudge against anyone better favored than he. One look at that handsome face of yours and he'll be howling for an Inquisition. If I were you, I wouldn't bet my future on the outcome."
Matteo's first impulse was to protest this as blasphemous. A magehound's word was final and fair. This was the underlying premise of his culture, the assurance of the jordain’s status and power.
Yet he himself had harbored such thoughts. How could he not? Andris was dead. Andris, who was his dearest friend and the best of them all. It was enough to make any man lose faith.
Faced with such a dark and unfathomable void, Matteo clung to what he knew. "I do not fear the magehound's judgment. Truth is a sword that cuts all bonds."
She threw up her hands. The 'truth' is that you were caught with a weapon crafted by Zanfeld Yemandi, the city's premier swordsmith."
"You said the sword was yours!' he protested.
"Mine, his," she said impatiently. "I had need of it at the moment and Zanfeld did not. Who had the better claim to it?"
Matteo groaned and buried his head in his hands. Though Tzigone obviously intended to aid him, her words condemned him as surely as they informed him. When the magical inquiry was done, it would be discovered that he knew beyond doubt at the time of inquisition that the sword was stolen.
"I an undone," he muttered, slumping lower against the wall.
"Then get off the floor and do yourself back up," she said tartly. "I'll get you out of this. Trust me."
He sent her a quick incredulous glance. "Need I remind you that it was you who got me into this?"
She shrugged away his words with the same impatient unconcern that she might have in dismissing a comment about the political situation in distant Cormyr. The expression on her face clearly proclaimed, What has one thing to do with another?
Tzigone cast her eyes toward the ceiling. Then, with the air of someone who has better things to do than engage in meaningless chat, she dropped out of sight. Metallic whispers gave witness to picks and knives being employed on the lock.
Matteo walked over to the door. "I will not go with you," he said with calm finality. "If you open the door, I will pull you inside and shut it behind you."
Tzigone's face popped back into view, and she regarded him with an insouciant grin. "What woman could resist so poetic a ploy? Look at me! I'm swooning!"
"I didn't mean-"
She cut him off with a jab to the forehead with the blunt end of her pick. "How stupid do I look? I know what you meant Now be quiet and let me work."
Again she disappeared. Matteo heard the distant tread of footsteps. "Someone's coming. Go now before you're forced to join me here."
This logic finally struck a chord. The woman rose and sent a quick look over her shoulder, then leaped for the iron bracket set high on the wall. She pulled herself up onto the torch's shelf and nimbly rose to her feet. From there she reached the lowest edge of the rafter and swung herself up onto it. Swiftly she walked across the broad beam. The only sign of her passing was a silvery sprinkle of dust and the appearance of a couple of indignant spiders, disturbed from their perches and swinging like pendulums from gossamer threads.
Matteo breathed a gusty sigh of relief. Though Tzigone's understanding of life was vastly different than his, he was moved by the fact that she would try to rescue him. All the same, he was glad that she was safely out of it.
He had just settled back down on the floor when the lock began to clatter in earnest. He surged to his feet as the door swung in, ready to unleash a blistering tirade at the persistent girl.
But the face in the doorway was not what he expected, not the impish charm of Tzigone's pointed chin and big, dark eyes, but the exotic, dangerous beauty of a wild elf female.
Kiva the Magehound raised a single jade-colored brow. "You are most eager to leave, Matteo. Strangely you don't seem pleased to see me."
Matteo had no answer for that. Instead he regarded the steady, golden stare of the wemic at Kiva's side. Judging from Mbatu's expression, Matteo guessed that the wemic remembered quite well what had passed between them earlier that day. Tzigone's assurances of forgetfulness were nothing more than another of her comfortable lies.
Kiva slipped a slender arm around the wemic's waist, a gesture that struck Matteo as warning rather than affection. She glanced over her shoulder at the hold's magistrate, who was all but wringing his hands in distress.
"Deepest apologies, lady, but you cannot simply take this prisoner and go."
"Oh? And why is that?"
"He must be examined by the hold's inquisitor. You know the rules."
Kiva's smile was chilling. "I also know Chartain. He was assigned this post because he could get no other. Do you put more faith in his judgment than mine? If I say that this jordain is no thief, let that content you."
The magistrate gave one last try. "You walk in Azuth's light, lady, and speak through the sure sight of magic. If you say this man is no thief, I will swear my own life against his innocence! But you cannot deny that he was carrying a sword, though it is against local custom for a jordain to do so."
"What need have they of such weapons when they are armed with the sword of truth?" she said sweetly, neither confirming nor disputing the accusation.
Once again Matteo heard the hint of irony in her voice, a music not unlike the faint, mocking echoes of the Unseelie folk, dark fairies who haunted the mountain passes around Halruaa and played seductive tunes known to lure men from the paths into the wilderness.
"He had the sword when the militia stopped him," the magistrate stated again.
"But did he know at the time that he was carrying it? Did you?" she said, turning abruptly to Matteo.
"I did not know about the sword. The magehound does not lie... about this," Matteo said, adding subtle emphasis of his own.
Her angry gaze snapped to his, and for a long time they locked fierce stares. Matteo remembered a cobra and trainer he'd seen frozen in just such a posture. Like the snake trainer, he suspected that a misstep would cause the deadly creature before him to strike.
But after a moment Kiva's lips curved in a delighted smile. She turned to the magistrate. "You heard him. We all know that the jordaini place truth above all. Let him go at once."
Chapter Nine
Matteo's troubles did not end when the door of the hold clanked shut behind him.
Kiva wished him well in her sweet, ironic voice and then disappeared. The wemic, after a final long, challenging stare, followed the magehound, leaving Matteo entirely to his own devices.
He started out to find Cyric and soon realized that this effort was both futile and costly. The stallion had shattered the hitching rail by the Falling Star Tavern to get loose, and the innkeeper demanded payment. Matteo had spent all of his allotted coin to ensure that Themo would not come to grief over the brawl in the tavern. It took all his persuasive powers to get the man to agree to accept a note, payable upon demand by the stewards of House Jordain.
Matters did not improve from there. Ordinarily many hostlers in Khaerbaal might have been wiling to lend him a mount, certain of payment from the jordaini order, but none believed Matteo's claim to being a member of that house. His battles, his jaunt with Tzigone through the bilboa tree and the dirty back streets, and his confinement in the dirty cell had left his white linens dingy and stained beyond recognition. Worse, he had inexplicably lost the pendant that proclaimed him a jordain.
There was nothing to do but walk, so Matteo set out at a brisk pace. By sunset, he left the city gate behind. He walked as late into the night as he dared, then took a page from Tzigone's book and took refuge in a large, vine-shrouded mazganut tree.
Sleep did not come, for he was all too aware of the numerous night sounds around him. He recognized the snuffles and grunts of the wild boars who rooted for fallen nuts at the base of the tree, the not-too-distant shriek of a hunting panther, the hum and chitter of the tiny, often malevolent sprites who made their lairs in the uppermost branches.
Worse were the faint, unearthly echoes of the Unseelie music. Matteo had heard tales of the dark fairies that haunted the mountain passes and danced widdershins upon the ruins of ancient cities and long-forgotten graves, and he'd read that on occasion they ventured close to civilized lands. All these things he recognized from his studies, but the knowledge did little to prepare him for the chilling actuality of their song. After a time, he began to talk to himself, reciting tales and histories and royal genealogies-anything to drown out the faint, darkly compelling music.
It occurred to him more than once during that long night, and during the day's trudge that followed, that perhaps there was more wisdom in Tzigone's warnings that he had perceived at first consideration. He had spent his entire life within the confines of House Jordain. His studies had ranged the world and touched on all of its sciences, some lightly, some in considerable depth. Yet truly how well prepared was he for the world beyond the counselors' school?
The moon was a new crescent when Matteo arrived back at the school the next night, dusty and footsore. He knew at once that word of his disgrace had preceded him. The set, disapproving expression on the face of the gatehouse guard left no doubt.
"The ritual of purification took place last night. You're to go to the meditation huts at once."
Matteo groaned. After all that had happened the last few days, he had forgotten about this important rite. No jordain left the college without it. He brought to mind a list of his masters and settled on the one most likely to help him resolve this situation.
"Can you take a message to Vishna for me?"
"No messages," the guard said adamantly. "When they want you, they'll let you know."
Matteo nodded and went at once into his belated solitude. The meditation huts were scattered among the orchards on the far western side of the compound. Matteo's hut was furnished with a cot, table, and a large pitcher of water. Not having any other option, he settled down to think and to wait.
On the third day after his return, the servant who came each morning to leave a tray of food knocked on the door and handed Matteo a pile of fresh clothes. "Prepare quickly. You are bid to present yourself at the Disputation Table."
Although Matteo had been expecting this, the summons brought a lump of dread to his throat. He had been released from the hold and would not be tried for theft, but he had still committed a number of infractions of jordaini law and custom. And now he had missed the final ritual. It was likely that he would have to repeat the fifth form before leaving the school. Or, far worse, he might be dismissed altogether and stripped of rank and title.
He quickly dressed and made his way to the large high-domed building that housed the jordaini court. The entrance hall was round, and in the floor was set with mosaic tile the emblem of the jordaini: a circle that was half yellow and half green, the colors separated by a lighting bolt of blue. Matteo rubbed at the empty spot on his chest where his medallion usually hung, then took a long, steadying breath and strode through the hall toward the council chamber.
The Disputation Table was not only the name of the court, but a literal table, a huge structure comprising two very long tables connected at the far end by a smaller raised table. At this high place sat Dimidis, the judge who would render a verdict. The other masters and the jordaini students sat around the outer rims of the long tables. They all regarded him with somber faces.
Matteo had been in attendance during many sessions, for the court was a busy place and was often called upon to interpret a jordain's advice to his patron, as well as to deal with occasional disputes between jordaini and the less frequent infraction of rules.
But the vast, hollow room had never seemed so ominous as it did now. Matteo held his chin high as he walked down the long center aisle to stand before Dimidis, painfully aware with each step of the eyes upon him.
The aged judge was one of the few jordaini who took his status from his own position, rather than that of a patron. Dimidis was known for his stern and often inflexible judgments, as well as his tendency to form opinions and dislikes with distressing haste. Judging from the sour expression on the man's lined face, Matteo guessed that he had earned the judge's enmity.
Dimidis rattled a sheaf of parchment. "We've all read of this young man's misdeeds: tavern brawling, destroying property, attacking a magehound's guard. He attended a performance that mocked the jordaini and then aided the performer's escape. He has fought a duel with a weapon proscribed to his class-a stolen weapon, which was later found in his possession. When questioned in the hold, he defied the magistrate and refused to name the thief. This name would have been taken from him through Inquisition but for the intervention of the Inquisitrix Kiva."
The old man stopped and glared at the assembly. "These are the charges against Matteo of House Jordain. Who, if any, will speak for him?"
"I, Lord Dimidis."
Matteo was grateful but not particularly surprised to see his favorite master, Vishna, the battle wizard, rise to speak.
"Like many of the students, Matteo went to Khaerbaal with a heavy heart. You know that Andris, a close friend to Matteo, was slain that morning at the command of the magehound Kiva."
"Which was both her function and her right," Dimidis pointed out. "Continue."
"I sent Matteo to the city, knowing that some of the students would find outlets for their grief. If mischief came of it, I am in part to blame. Indeed, I expressly requested that Matteo watch over one of his fellows. This he did admirably. The other student returned to us on time, unscathed and held blameless for his actions. It was he who started the tavern brawl and Matteo who ended it."
"The deeds of one jordain reflect upon us all. That is why this court exists. Matteo did no more than his duty."
"That is my point," the wizard said earnestly. "This young jordain did his duty and did it well, despite his personal sorrow. If he was perhaps a bit impulsive in his subsequent actions, surely we can consider the circumstances."
The judge looked at the battle wizard as if he had been speaking Turmish, or Common, or some other barbarian tongue. "Is that all? Have you nothing relevant to add?"
For a moment the wizard stared incredulously. "Apparently not," Vishna said shortly and sat down with an abruptness that spoke more of anger than defeat.
To Matteo's surprise, Ferris Grail was the next to speak. He was also a wizard and the headmaster of House Jordain, but Matteo had had little direct contact with him. The headmaster was apparently better acquainted with Matteo. He spoke ringingly of Matteo's scholarship, intellect, and unblemished record.
"We have had eleven petitions for this jordain's services," the headmaster concluded. He placed a sheaf of parchment on the table before Dimidis. The judge picked it up and paged through it, his expression turning more dour by the moment.
"I would also speak," said Annalia Gray, the school's logic and rhetoric professor. The woman was the only female jordain in the complex and as gifted in disputation as any among them. Usually Matteo listened keenly to any words she had to say so that he could commit them to memory. Though his future depended upon her argument, he could not listen today. Instead, his eyes were drawn by the green and gold figure gliding down the aisle toward the judge's bench. He barely noticed when Annalia Gray concluded, even though she took her seat in a burst of applause.
Kiva, the Magehound, had come to speak for him.
This Matteo had never anticipated, nor was he entirely happy to have such an ally. He listened with growing unease as Kiva repeated what had already been told, leaving out some things that had not yet been reported: Matteo's battle with the wemic in the backstreets of Khaerbaal and the name of the girl he had defended. Tzigone was referred to only as "the thief in reference to the sword", and "the entertainer" when Kiva spoke of Matteo's attack on Mbatu in the Falling Star Tavern. Indeed, to hear Kiva talk, it sounded as if there had been two distinct people.
Finally Matteo was called upon to speak for himself. He bowed first to Dimidis, then to the assembled court.
"All that you have heard against me is true. I thank Master Vishna for his words and for his compassion, but I must stand for my actions and not the circumstances that prompted them. I regret my infractions of jordaini law and will accept humbly whatever penalty this council assigns. I ask only that I might be permitted to ask the inquisitrix a question that has confounded me."
Dimidis looked pleased with Matteo's manner and his request. "You may speak."
Matteo turned a steady, challenging gaze upon the elf woman. "A dragon does not quit the skies to chase a rabbit into the thicket. Why then was the wemic Mbatu, a magehound's right hand and personal bodyguard, in pursuit of a young woman who has been described only as a tavern performer and common thief?"
Everyone in the room looked startled, then intrigued. "A good question," Dimidis said approvingly, looking at Matteo with the first sign of real interest. "Lady Kiva, we are most eager to hear your response. Most eager indeed. By your words, I had gathered that Matteo had fallen in with two scoundrels, not a single girl."
Fury flashed through the magehound's eyes, followed quickly by a flicker of indecision. Her cool mask was back in place so quickly that Matteo, had he not been studying her so intently, would have wondered if he'd imagined her initial response.
"There is nothing to explain," Kiva said in her cool, bell-like tones. "The girl is reputed to have a sharp and clever tongue, and the jordaini were not the only targets of her jests. She insulted Mbatu the day before. The wemic is quick to anger and quicker to attack. He tended his own business, not mine. For that, he has been duly rebuked. As to the misunderstanding about the girl's identity, please recall that I speak your language as a second tongue. I have not the precision of speech that a jordain employs. One scoundrel or two, the girl was the wemic's concern and not mine. I know nothing of her, and that is more than I care to know."
Dimidis looked faintly disappointed by this mundane explanation. "Then I suppose we're finished here. I have little choice but to dismiss the matter. Among the petitions for Matteo's services is one we could hardly ignore. Procopio Septus, Lord Mayor of Halarahh, finds himself in need of counsel."
Matteo's eyes widened at this most unexpected news. Procopio was a powerful diviner, the mayor of Halruaa's capital city and the captain of that city's skyship militia. This was a coveted position and one that far exceeded his aspirations for his first post.
For a moment pride surged, washing away some of the humiliation of the past few days. Then it occurred to him that this post would probably have gone to Andris, had he lived.
Even so, it was a far better fate than he had expected. Matteo dipped into a deep bow. "Humbly I accept this post, Lord Dimidis, if that is the council's desire."
"My wishes have little to do with this," Dimidis said in a sour tone. "Just see that you have no further cause to stand before the Disputation Table, and I will be content."
Several days passed as Matteo traveled to Halarahh, the capital of the land and the home of Zalathorm, the wizard-king. It was not so very far a distance as the raven flies, provided that a raven could be persuaded to fly across the lower edge of the Swamp of Akhlaur and brave the winds that roiled over Lake Halruaa.
The best and safest way to travel was by ship. Matteo set sail from Khaerbaal, skirting the coastline of the Bay of Taertal and moving along the western shores of Lake Halruaa.
The days passed swiftly, despite his increasing anticipation. Matteo had not traveled to Halarahh since his twelfth year. His first glimpse of the city, as the ship rounded the storm break, proved more than equal to his memories.
Much of the city was organized around the docks. But Halarahh was not like Khaerbaal, where prim rows of wooden docks jutted out into the sea and led to businesslike warehouses, inns, and taverns. The royal city had docks, certainly, and ships came and went briskly. But beyond the harbor was a wonderfully broad and open area, paved with colored stone and shaded by trees and fanciful pavilions. This was the site of colorful festivals, seasonal fairs, and open-air markets.
"What fair is currently running?" Matteo asked one of his fellow passengers, a merchant from the eastern foothills.
The man's eyes lit up. "The Monster Fair. It'll be a sight, if you've time to take it in. Good bull aurochs, for farmers who've got the pasturage to feed fuzzy elephants. Don't hold much with them myself. Meat's too gamey. Much prefer a good haunch of rothe."
A faint stab of disappointment assailed Matteo at this mundane description. "It's a market for cattle, then?"
"And everything else. The fancy lizards that ladies keep as pets these days. Birds from the Mhair Jungles. Griffon kittens, dragon eggs. If you can eat it, cage it, put it on a leash, or chop it up for spell parts, like as not it'll be there. I hear tell they've even got a unicorn up for bid."
It was on the tip of Matteo's tongue to ask which of these fates awaited the unicorn, but he decided he would rather not know. He thanked the man and went off to collect his few possessions.
The ship moved smoothly into the dock, and Matteo was met at the plank by men wearing jordaini white and distinctly unpleasant expressions. They looked him over in a manner that made Matteo suddenly sympathetic for the creatures in the market square.
"You're Procopio's latest?" one of them demanded.
"I am Matteo, and I am here to enter the service of Procopio Septus," he agreed.
"Well, come along," the speaker said grudgingly.
The men spun and stalked off, leaving Matteo to follow or not.
He was surprised by the less than enthusiastic welcome, but he was too fascinated by his surroundings to take much offense. Halarahh was a wondrous city, the largest in the land, home to nearly eight thousand souls. Yet as Matteo's escort led him through the market square toward the villa of Procopio Septus, he didn't once get the feeling of being in a close or crowded place.
The villas they passed were sprawling and spacious. Even the homes of middling folk boasted comfortable grounds filled with gardens and flowers. Public parks and gardens greeted them at nearly every turn. Wide streets opened into large courtyards, many of which housed open-air markets, smaller versions of the vast dockside square.
The city was comfortably cool, a welcome respite from the punishing sun of Matteo's sea journey. Perched on the northern banks of Lake Halruaa, the city sat at the confluence of two of the land's greatest rivers: Halar and Aluar. Soft breezes wafted off the waters and were captured and magnified by many innovative magical devices.
Although Matteo could not work magic, he had spent most of his life in study of it. Never, however, had he seen so much of it concentrated in one place. Almost half the inhabitants of the city were spellcasters, and at least three hundred made their livelihood by working magic. Wizards' towers leaped toward the azure sky, giving the city an aspect of a forest fashioned of marble and crystal and stone. Magical lamps lined the streets and enlivened the homes and shops. As they passed the open doors of some of the grander shops, they were treated to a soft caress from the soft, scented breezes that magically cooled the merchants and their customers. Flat-bedded carts trundled by at regular intervals, laden with magically created ice blocks that cooled folks of lesser means.
But what most amazed Matteo were the skyships. Although Halruaa was famed for these marvelous cloud-going vessels, Matteo had never seen one close at hand. His last trip to Halarahh had taken place during the winter, when most skyships kept close to land. He had observed the spring regatta at the Lady Day festivals that took place in every city in the land, but he had always seen the skyship display from a distance. It was considered unseemly for a jordain to be sprinkled with fortune-telling magic.
So he was vastly pleased when the road his fellow jordaini traveled led toward the docks where the ships came to roost. Several of the graceful ships wheeled through the sky as they traced the edges of the lake like fine ladies on a summer evening's promenade. Each of the ships boasted three masts, plus a flying jib aft and two sails astern on swinging booms. The bodies of the ships were plated with armor from giant sea turtles, so from below they looked much the same. But much color and design had been lavished upon the sails.
"You're staring like a peasant," one of the jordaini observed coldly. "Have you never seen a skyship?"
"Never so close at hand. What stately grace," Matteo marveled. "They look rather like kites flown by giant, powerful children."
"A fine way to describe your new patron," observed a dry voice behind him.
Matteo turned. A short, thin man stood behind him, arms folded and head tilted to one side as he returned Matteo's gaze. The newcomer was a striking man, one who would draw eyes in a crowd despite his lack of stature. His nose was hooked like a hawk's, and his thick snowy hair had been cut exceedingly short so that it bristled about his head. His medallion proclaimed him a wizard of the divination school, and the ring on his hand was etched with the seal of the city: a triangle pointed downward with a star at the tip to represent the shape of the land on which Halarahh sat. Wavy lines etched over the whole completed the crest of the windswept city.
"Lord Procopio." Matteo swept into a formal bow.
The wizard waved aside this courtesy. "You took your time in coming, young man. The crew has been holding the skyship for your arrival."
This was an unexpected treat. Matteo's eyes lit up. Then his gaze darted to the other jordain for confirmation. They regarded him with narrowed eyes and scowls. Puzzled, Matteo turned back to his new patron. "You wish us to accompany you on the skyship?"
"Just you. Come aboard, unless you can fly on your own power," the wizard said tartly. He turned and strode toward one of the docked ships.
Matteo followed, studying the vessel with interest. The image of a long, sinuous snake had been painted in rainbow colors on the side of the ship and continued to coil its way up the foremost mainsail. The other sails depicted a starsnake's wings, and elaborate curved runes painted onto the hull confirmed that Starsnake was indeed the ship's name.
Lord Procopio led the way to the forecastle and twisted the gold and silver rod mounted there. The skyship rose gracefully into the sky, more rapidly than Matteo would have thought possible.
The wizard looked at him sharply. "You look surprised. Have you not learned the properties of such ships?"
"I have, my lord. Knowing is one thing, experiencing is quite another."
"True enough. How fast are we going?"
Matteo considered what he knew of the ships and calculated the effects of the winds off Lake Halruaa. "Seventeen knots," he said firmly, glancing toward the helmsman for confirmation.
The helmsman nodded. Procopio shrugged, unimpressed, and pointed out toward the center of the lake. "Take her out. Let's give our new counselor a bit of a challenge."
The man at the wheel looked none too happy, but he did as he was bade, leaning his weight into turning the heavy wheel.
This put Matteo in the uncomfortable position of needing to give advice before any was requested. He wondered that he would have to do so, for the dangerous winds of Lake Halruaa were proverbial. No ship sailed the interior of the lake, not on the surface and not in the air.
"Lord Procopio, if I am to fulfill my duty, I must advise you against going out over the lake," Matteo said respectfully.
Procopio's only response was to point toward another ship, skirting the shore and rapidly approaching them.
"That is the Avariel, owned by the conjurer Basel Indoulur. He is a reckless man, proud enough to consider himself my rival. If we engage him in challenge, he will not turn away."
Procopio turned to a blue scrying globe mounted on a pedestal and gestured over it. Clouds swam in the circular sky, then parted to reveal the face of his apparent rival. The man was portly, with pillowy cheeks and small, shrewd eyes. His black hair had been oiled and worked into many small braids that hung nearly to his shoulders. The wizards exchanged the expected pleasantries, then Procopio got down to business.
"Fine winds today, Lord Basel."
The image of the wizard nodded happily. "Aye. The Avariel is giving near to five and twenty knots. I wouldn't have thought the old girl could dance to so merry a tune."
"Small wonder. You sail deep into the lake winds."
"No deeper than you," Basel retorted. "If you've something on your mind, man, have out with it."
"A challenge. A contest of will and nerve."
Basel's eyes bulged, then he laughed. "A game of chicken, in other words. Come, Lord Procopio-a child's game?"
"Made interesting by a man's wager. Say, two thousand side? And I'm no such fool to suggest a collision course. A contest of skill and speed. The first to reach thirty knots takes it."
The wizard's small eyes glinted. "I'm not so good a friend that I won't take your money," he agreed, and then his image winked out of sight.
Procopio turned to Matteo. "Imagine that this is your first campaign. You will advise the general, who has been ordered to follow your counsel. The outcome of this battle is entirely in your hands."
Matteo longed to retort that this was a silly wager, not a battle worth fighting. To achieve those speeds, the ships would have to venture far out over the waters, where the winds were strong and unpredictable.
But the wizard had created the situation, and it was Matteo's duty to make of it what he could. He scanned the clouds and the shoreline as he ciphered the weight of the Starsnake.
"What crew does the Avariel carry?"
Procopio nodded his approval of this query. "Same as Starsnake, to the man. Six and twenty. The skyships were built by the same shipmaster, and the rods of levitation were enchanted by the same wizard. The ships are sisters. This contest will not be determined by the vessel, but by the wisdom of the captains."
Matteo was tempted to point out that a wise man didn't take such large risks for sport or pride. Young as he was, he understood that not all truth should be spoken aloud. He turned to the helmsman, a thin, balding man nearly a head shorter than the wizard. "Your name, sir?"
The man blinked, obviously surprised by the question and the courtesy. "Spalding, m'lord, an' it please ye."
"You do me too much honor," he said with a smile. "Procopio Septus is the only lord here. My name is Matteo."
"As ye will, m'... Matteo."
"Thirty degrees toward starboard, Spalding."
Procopio scowled as the ship turned and slowed. "You're heading back toward shore. That's a coward's course, and certain defeat Turn back into the lake winds, if you've the stomach for it!"
Being chided for a coward stung, but the jordain shook his head and studied the shoreline. "Hold steady, Spalding. On my mark, turn hard to starboard. Head directly to the shore by the shortest route and hold course. Trim the sails as needed to maintain speed."
The helmsman blanched, but he faithfully relayed the order to the crew who manned the ropes. Matteo waited until the moment was right, then bade the man turn. The ship swung in a slow, ponderous arc, losing speed as she went.
"Bold move!" Procopio taunted.
For a moment the sails fluttered slack. Then, as Matteo expected, they snapped taut and the ship leaped forward.
The wizard's brow furrowed with puzzlement. "This course seems destined to take us directly into the Avariel's path."
"That is my intent."
Procopio stared at him, slack-jawed with astonishment. He shut his mouth with an audible click and shook his head. "You've gone mad. I've seen it before. Some men just can't fly-the thin air addles their thinking. I'm taking over command, Spalding."
"No," Matteo said calmly. He noticed the speculative gleam in his new patron's eyes, and at this moment he understood that this was not pointless folly, but a test. If he meant to win Procopio's respect, he had to see this through. "You bade me win this battle for you, and that is precisely what I am doing."
"Victory is sweet, but I'd rather have my ship, whole and skyworthy!"
"Then stand by. To turn aside now would be dangerous." To add weight to his words and to signify the seriousness of his intent, Matteo stepped between the incredulous wizard and the helmsman. He held the little man's eyes with an unflinching gaze, one that held a different sort of challenge. This was clearly not what Procopio had been expecting. The wizard's face turned purple with a mixture of anger and bruised pride. He could not compel Matteo by magic, and it was equally certain that he could not enforce his will by strength of arm. Procopio stepped back, his eyes black with anger, and began the gestures of a spell that would sidestep the jordain and impose his will on the helmsman.
Matteo recognized the spell and deftly countered it. He seized the wizard's right wrist and swept it up high, then hooked his thumb around the small finger of the left. This altered the gestures, turning the intended spell into a harmless illusion. Colored lights began to dance upon the sail, casting images of lithe women dancing in a circle, dressed in the feathers of the painted starsnake's wings. Procopio dropped his hands to his sides and stared incredulously at the flickering image, all that remained of his interrupted spell.
"You take too much upon yourself, jordain. An enormous risk, with a ship not your own! Do you know the worth of such a vessel?"
Matteo told him precisely what it was worth, give or take a handful of gold pieces. The flash of surprise in the wizard's eyes told Matteo that he had hit the mark. But more truth remained unspoken, and Matteo didn't shrink from it. "Great risks were taken, that is true, but not by me."
Procopio's eyes narrowed, but his expression remained unreadable. "How so?"
"I spoke against venturing over the lake. The winds are strong and unpredictable. Once you determined to follow this course of action, my task was to keep you alive. I turned at the proper time, not before. It was not cowardice but calculation. Will you let me finish the task you gave me without further interference? If not, speak now. Soon there will be no time for disputation."
"I swear it," Procopio grumbled. "The ship is yours to command."
Matteo nodded and turned his attention to the rapidly approaching skyship. He could see it now in more detail. Upon the sail had been painted elaborate runes and symbols, and the polished plates of the sea turtles that armored its hull had been gilded with electrum in similarly ornate patterns. But it was on the sails that Matteo concentrated. The winds were strong, and they filled the sails of both ships. If even one of the Avariel's sails rippled and went slack, he would know that Basel Indoulur had lost his nerve. But if the approaching ship held course, then Matteo would evade it and leave Procopio to deal with his bruised pride and lightened purse.
Yes, there it was, a soft fluttering of the foresail. The Avariel was taking evasive action. One uncertainty remained: Which way would Lord Basel turn?
"How will he evade us?" Matteo demanded. "Will he turn toward port or starboard? Which sails will he drop, and which will he tack?"
"He will not turn aside," Procopio asserted. He gave Matteo a sour look. "Until today, I would have named Basel Indoulur the most stubborn and arrogant whore son in all Halruaa. Now he stands close behind you for that honor. He will not turn aside."
"Is this your opinion, or the word of a diviner?" Matteo's words were a potent challenge. If Procopio were wrong, he would lose not only his ship, but his reputation as a wizard who could foresee what was to come.
The wizard locked stares with his young counselor, then hissed and turned aside. "I will do the divination."
"Quickly," Matteo urged.
The wizard swept a hand over the globe and stared intently at something Matteo could not see. In a moment he looked up, and a wry smile touched his lips. "I'll be a necromancer's apprentice! You were right: Basel will turn aside. He will drop jib and foresail, tack hard to starboard with the aft sails, and use the lake winds to turn him hard out to sea." Even as he spoke, the sails on the approaching starship began to flutter and shift. Matteo marked the arc of the starship's turn and concentrated on the winds that whipped at his hair and cloak. Suddenly he felt a shift in the airflow, the outer edges of a small circular maelstrom, a storm in miniature.
Matteo touched the helmsman's arm. 'Turn toward the Avariel ten degrees, on my mark. One-"
"This is folly!" sputtered Procopio. "The ships will surely collide."
"Two," Matteo said coolly.
The wizard braced himself against the rail for the coming impact and glared at his young counselor. "Consider yourself discharged, jordain."
"Now!"
The helmsman gave the wheel a violent twist, and the Starsnake nosed about into the turning path of the rapidly approaching skyship.
Just then the full impact of the expected wind seized them. The ship hurtled forward, leaping through the sky like a breaching dolphin. There was a soft hiss as the wooden rails of the two ships kissed gently in passing.
The sudden squall died as quickly as it came, and the Starsnake slowed to a more sedate pace. Procopio turned an incredulous gaze upon his young counselor.
"What was that?"
Matteo permitted himself a smile. "About three and thirty knots, I daresay."
"Four and thirty," the helmsman corrected in an awed tone.
The wizard waved this victory aside. "But the wind ... how did you know it was going to pick up just then?"
Matteo pointed to a long, low building that lay below on the shores of that lake. "That is the city icehouse. See the large blocks being loaded onto those wagons?"
"What of it?"
"When water is magically changed to ice, much heat is given off. Some of that energy is channeled into magical power, but much of it is wasted. It rises swiftly, creating a strong updraft."
"Heat from ice," the wizard muttered. "Never would I have thought of it quite that way."
"The effect upon the winds does not stop there. The chill given off by such large quantities of ice creates a strong pull for the warmer air, which in turn creates a strong circular wind. That is what caught us and brought us forward in a sudden surge. Had we not turned precisely when we did, we would not have caught the full power of the wind and would have collided despite Lord Basel's evasion."
The wizard regarded him with interest, the near miss apparently forgotten. "Heat from ice. What battle applications might that have?"
Matteo thought this over. "The ice works with the winds to create a small storm. If the clouds from this storm are low, a starship could rise above and seed them. A sprinkling of fine sand would be enough to engender a strong hailstorm. With or without magical amplification, such a storm could provide a diversion, at the very least, and quite possibly a devastating attack."
"Ice below draws ice from above. Under certain circumstances, that might prove useful. Ah, we hear at last from the intrepid Avariel," Procopio said snidely as he turned to the softly humming globe.
Basel Indoulur's face appeared, ashen but smiling. "Well done, my friend! Half my crew are wishing for a clean pair of breeches and the feel of solid land beneath their feet You've earned your two thousand skie. Or should I say, your new jordain has earned them for you," he added slyly.
A velvet bag appeared from the empty air and fell at Matteo's feet with a weighty chink.
"What say, lad?" continued Basel. "I could use an adviser with your nerve. Mine cluck and flap about like a passel of brooding hens."
Matteo noted the wary expression on Procopio's face. The wizard had discharged him, he was free to take any employment offered him. But Matteo sensed that yielding anything, much less the services of a valuable counselor, would mean a loss of face to the wizard.
"I am honored by your words, Lord Basel, but I have just recently entered the employ of your friend Procopio. I have no wish to leave."
It might not be the whole truth, but judging from the relief in the diviner's eyes, it was the right answer.
"Nor would I willingly let him go, Basel, and shame to you for trying to steal him out from under me!"
The conjurer shrugged. "Ah, well. A man must have his sport. We will meet soon, I trust."
Basel's image faded from the globe. "Too soon, most likely," the diviner grumbled.
When he turned back to Matteo, he was smiling. "That was well done all around. You displayed knowledge, judgment, confidence, and, not least important, loyalty. I am well pleased," he said in a patronizing tone.
Matteo inclined his head in a bow, less out of courtesy than to hide the flash of anger that he couldn't fully suppress. He had hoped to prove himself, but through true service and not in foolish games.
"Thank you, Lord Procopio, but I had thought that you found me unsuitably arrogant."
The wizard tossed back his head and laughed. "That's no failing as long as it is justified. Arrogance is only intolerable in the inept."
"I shall keep that in mind," Matteo said dryly.
They spoke of other things, and the skyship came to port without further incident Matteo suspected, however, that his time of testing had just begun.
His suspicions were confirmed when he was taken to the jordaini quarters. His two escorts were not the only counselors in Procopio's employ. Matteo was the youngest of eight. That night at dinner, six attended, and all of them seemed devoted to taking Matteo's measure and ensuring that he understood his lowly status among them. It was not a pleasant meal, and Matteo was not sorry to see it come to an end.
That night the oldest of the jordaini came to his chambers. To Matteo's surprise, the jordain was a full-blooded elf and very old indeed.
The counselor thrust out a slender hand, much wrinkled but still strong enough to offer a firm grasp. "I am Zephyr. If you have any questions, ask freely." The elf smiled briefly. "Then when you are finished, I will supply answers to those questions you were too tactful to ask."
This introduction brought a smile to Matteo's face. "Procopio finds himself in need of much advice, it would appear. Eight jordaini to one wizard?"
The elf shrugged. "It is a matter of status. Procopio Septus collects counselors as some men collect horses, and I might add, he regards us in much the same light. Surely the starship flight convinced you of that."
"You heard of it?" Matteo asked, somewhat chagrined.
"From one of Lord Basel's counselors," the elf confirmed.
"Your boldness surprised and pleased both wizards, but rest assured that Procopio stood ready to magically transport his ship to safety had you failed."
The enormity of such a casting stole Matteo's breath. "If he doesn't have need of me, why am I here?"
"You have a name as a good fighter with a head for strategy. Procopio wishes to strengthen his understanding of military tactics. You can expect him to stage other games to test your wits and nerves."
That made little sense to Matteo. "Procopio is mayor of the city, but it is the king who directs the defenses."
The elf stabbed a finger at him as if to award a point. "Precisely. And Procopio intends to be king after Zalathorm."
There was something almost treasonous in that notion. Zalathorm had been king all of Matteo's life, not to mention the lives of his unknown parents and grandparents. Life under another ruler was almost as unfathomable to him as the idea of moving to a strange land.
"You must become accustomed to this notion," Zephyr said dryly. "Our task is to aid Procopio in reaching this goal."
"Our task is to serve truth," Matteo pointed out.
The elf gave him a level stare. "And I'm telling you what our particular truth is. Measure all others against that, and you will do well here."
They chatted for a few moments more, then the elf jordain tired and excused himself to rest.
For a long time, Matteo lay abed and considered what the elf had said. He had long understood that Halruaa was a society controlled by many rules and customs. For the first time, he considered the complexity of political maneuvering beneath the mannered and orderly surface.
It was hard for him to find a place for himself amid this. A jordain's stated role was to see and speak truth, cloaked perhaps in satire or other rhetorical garb, but truth untainted by either magic or personal ambition. The honor and veracity of the jordain was proverbial. Things were true or they were not. It was that simple.
But what of Andris? Was it possible that truth was a changeable thing, that the inviolate judgment of the magehounds, perhaps even the Disputation Table, could be bought with subtle coin?
These were disturbing thoughts, and they followed him into his dreams when at last he fell asleep.
The following days proved no better than the first Matteo learned that although the king had no heirs, Procopio was abundantly blessed with them. The jordaini in Procopio's service were entrusted with the education of these would-be princes and princesses-nine of them, by Matteo's best count.
His charge was Penelope, a girl of about eight, with long, fat black ringlets and a permanently petulant expression. Matteo got out a finely carved game of Castles and began to instruct her in the strategy.
The tiny buildings held her interest for a few moments, but her attention soon wandered. Matteo quickly surrounded her fledgling structure with his pieces.
"You are encircled, child. Next time keep a closer eye on the board and think with each move of what might come next."
Penelope's lip thrust out, and her small hand flashed forward. Pieces of carved sandalwood and ivory scattered across the marble floor.
"You cheated," she said heatedly.
Matteo blinked, not sure how to respond to such an absurd accusation. "Not so, lady. You simply lost the game."
She folded her arms and glared at him. "I don't lose. I've never lost any game, ever."
Matteo began to understand the situation. "Why don't you play in the courtyard gardens, and we will try again after midday meal."
The child shrugged ungraciously and left the room. Matteo made his way directly to his patron's study. He told the wizard in a few words about the child's response.
"Next time let her win," the wizard decreed.
"That is dishonest, and a disservice to the child, "Matteo protested. "Strategy games are designed to develop the reason and intellect, but learning to win and to lose with grace is a skill as important as any other."
"A lesson she will learn in time," the wizard said. "Ease her into it."
"With all respect, I cannot teach in that manner."
Procopio shrugged. "Fine. Tell Dranklish to take over the girl's tutoring. You can deliver a diplomatic message for me. That is, if your scruples don't prevent you?"
He ignored the wizard's sarcasm. "I would be honored."
For several days to come, Matteo served largely as messenger, memorizing a sentence or a speech and repeating the messages, faithful to the word and nuance and inflection. He did not see Zephyr again except at an occasional meal, and his attempts at befriending the other jordaini were soundly rebuffed.
Matteo found none of the camaraderie and good-natured teasing he had known in the school. Here, satire was in deadly earnest and usually held several sharp, hidden layers of meaning.
After a few days of this, Matteo began to feel rather despondent. When he was not on duty, he spent his time learning the city or reading alone in his bedchamber.
He was engaged in study one evening when a soft rustle drew his eye to his open window. A surge of pleasure engulfed him at the sight of the small, pointed face peering over the ledge, and his smile mirrored the grin on the young woman's face.
"Tzigone!" he exclaimed. "How did you find me? For that matter, what possessed you to travel so far?"
She hauled herself over the sill and into the room. "I take my debts very seriously. Or had you forgotten? I thought jordaini were supposed to have memories like palaces with endless rooms."
Matteo had forgotten nothing, and his wariness returned, as he recalled all that had passed between them. "I remember that you advised me not to trust too easily."
She nodded in understanding. "You'll be reminded of that often enough of in a place like this. I'd rather live in a behirs' nest than a wizard lord's villa. You've had a hard time of it, I suppose."
"It is a fine position," he said stiffly.
"Hmmph," she said, unconvinced. "Where wizards are concerned, the only 'position' you're likely to find yourself in is over a barrel with your breeches about your ankles."
Matteo stifled a chuckle. "I am not supposed to hold such dim opinions of wizards."
"Nice evasion," she complimented him. She sat on the windowsill, her bare feet dangling into the room. "This place is as good as any. I suppose that after your last few days at the jordaini complex, you would be happy to go almost anywhere else."
"I'm not sure I understand."
A flicker of pity crossed the girl's face. "I followed you back to the school, as I said I would. I witnessed that so-called rite of purification."
"I was late to come," he said shortly. "But in the time allotted me, I had much to contemplate."
"Contemplate?" she echoed incredulously. "Is that what you call what I saw?"
Matteo shrugged. "Granted, it probably was not much to watch. Observing the growth of crops would be as exciting as watching jordaini in solitary contemplation. Though I do not complain. I arrived late, but the two days I spent in thought were most enlightening."
Tzigone's eyes lit with understanding. "And as far as you know, that's the extent of this rite."
"The ritual of purification is a time of solitary contemplation," Matteo said, puzzled by her reaction. "Mine was shortened, but I made what use of it I could."
For some reason she found that comment amusing. "No offense, Matteo, but that's something I'd expect one of your less fortunate comrades to say."
"I don't understand," he repeated.
"Someday you might. When that day comes, be sure to tell me if you consider my debt paid. After talking to you, I think it might be."
With that cryptic comment, she disappeared into the night, leaving Matteo staring after her in puzzlement.
Chapter Ten
Kiva enjoyed a few quiet days in her retreat outside of Zalasuu, but she was just as happy to see this time draw to a close. She had spent a very long time preparing for the assault upon Akhlaur, and today she expected to make more progress than she had in a decade.
The villa was well outside the walls of the city. Small but luxurious, it was surrounded by deep forests and warded by virtually impenetrable magical wards.
That morning the magehound broke her fast with tea and fruit on the piazza, a tiled courtyard encircled by gardens. An elaborate iron trellis curved over the breakfast table, providing shade and lending support for the profusion of grapevines that entwined it. Bunches of grapes, some yellow and some a soft, sunrise pink, hung in fragrant clusters overhead. The morning rain had come before dawn with a sudden bursting of clouds, and moisture still hung thick in the air. The air, despite the heavy perfume of the garden and the braziers of scented smoke that kept away the insects, was fetid with the scent of the nearby swamp-the Kilmaruu Swamp, and the origin of the paradox that Andris had been brough there to solve.
Kiva heard the soft tap of approaching footsteps and watched as the tall jordain walked onto the piazza. For many days he had lain in deep slumber. Since magic had little effect upon the jordaini, Kiva had resorted to burning in his room incense made from powerful herbs and giving him sips of strong herbal infusions. Though she had been tapering off the dosage so that he might awaken, she had given him enough over the past several days to leave him disorientated and confused.
She studied the tall young man as he approached. His auburn hair was still damp from the baths, but he had not made use of the razor that had been left for him. This was telling. The jordaini custom was for men to be meticulously clean-shaven.
She gestured him to take the seat across from her. "You look well, Andris. Your long sleep seems to have agreed with you."
"I was given no opportunity to disagree," he pointed out
"True enough." She put down her cup and folded her hands on the table. "I must apologize for the way you were brought here. You have been chosen for an important task, as counselor to a hidden lord."
"Counselor?" The young man eyed her warily. "I am no longer jordain. No man tainted by magic can hold that office."
"And do you have this 'taint,' Andris?"
"So you say. I myself have seen no sign of it."
Kiva rose and walked over to a small table. She took something from a carved wooden box and returned to him. "This is a test given to the children of Halruaa. Light is the first and simplest of magical energies. It moves more swiftly than heat or sound or substance. Read this scroll and imitate the gesture written upon it."
The bit of parchment was the simplest of spell scrolls, suitable for children who could not yet read. On it was sketched a small curved pattern.
"Hold your hand so, fingers all together so that the tips touch your thumb, and trace this pattern in the air before you. Begin at the red dot and move toward the blue."
Andris did as he was bade. A ball of faint greenish light appeared, bobbing listlessly over the breakfast table. He dropped his hand onto the table and regarded the enchantment with bleak eyes.
"You have produced light," Kiva pointed out. "You don't look pleased."
"Should I be? There are fish and fungi that can do as much."
Kiva chuckled. "Now that you mention it. But you can also do many other things, and do them well."
"Nothing that matters. Nothing for which I am trained. I am disgraced, dead in the eyes of my brothers."
"Your death was a necessary illusion. Your new patron required it," she said softly. She settled back in her chair. "But let us speak of more pleasant things. There is in your training much that interests me. Tell me of the Kilmaruu Paradox."
A spark of interest lit the man's hazel eyes. "You know the problem as well as I. The Kilmaruu Swamp is a hive of undead. Many wizards and adventuring parties have sought to clear the swamp, but they only seem to strengthen the creatures. Each incursion into the swamp brings a retaliatory strike on the villages and farmlands beyond. On the other hand, if nothing is done to contain the undead, they slip into the harbor and scuttle the ships."
"And how would you solve this problem?"
Andris leaned forward. "In Zalasuu, there is a proverb: 'The swamp helps keep the number of fools in town low.' That is truth, but invert the statement and another truth is revealed. Increase the number of fools in the town, and we could keep the number of undead in the swamp low. Do you know the etymology for the word 'jordain'?"
"All too well," she said dryly. "In Old Netherese, the language from which Halruaan descended, it was the word for 'fool.' At that time the word had a meaning more elevated than it now enjoys. A fool was a counselor to kings and wizards, a bard of sorts who entertained and advised through satirical songs. I suppose this charming little history has a point?"
"In time. Permit me to explain one step at a time," Andris said, his animation increasing with each word. "What element is common to all who enter the swamp to explore and conquer? What weapons do they employ?"
"Magic, of course."
"And magic feeds the undead. The creatures seem to require it. Why else would they venture into the harbors to attack ships? I have made a study of the cargo lost to these attacks. Without exception, the ships carried a goodly number of spellcasters and magical items."
Kiva nodded thoughtfully. "I had not thought to seek a pattern there, but your reasoning seems sound to me."
"For reasons I do not completely understand, the undead in the swamp need magic to survive. The adventuring wizards and warriors and clerics armed with their magical weapons and holy artifacts feed the undead, like so many tavern wenches delivering hot trenchers of stew."
Kiva suppressed a smile at the analogy and noted at the faint disdain in the young man's voice. In time, he would come to regret both. "And your solution?"
"There are many in this land who possess no magical talent whatsoever. The jordaini are chief among them, but there are others. Gather them together and go against the undead denizens of Kilmaruu without magic."
The words hung in the air like a challenge, like a curse or foul blasphemy. Both the elf and the man understood that this strategy flew in the face of every instinct and tradition of the land.
"And who would command this army of jordaini?"
"I would have done so gladly, were I still jordain." Andris glared at the fading magical light.
The magehound dispelled the globe with a flick of her coppery fingers and then picked up the scroll. She smoothed it and put it on the table before him.
"Cast the spell again, jordain."
Andris set his jaw and formed the gesture as before. This time no light came to his call. He lifted a puzzled stare to Kiva's face.
In response, she reached into the folds of her gown and retrieved the jeweled wand that had damned Andris. She touched it to the grape arbor that curved over the breakfast table. A high, ghostly note vibrated through the iron trellis.
Understanding, pained and incredulous and furious all at once, dawned in the jordain's eyes. Kiva nodded acknowledgment of his insight.
"Yes. The result would be much the same if I were to touch this wand to a stone, a toad, or a pile of goosedown. It finds magic in everything, whether there is any to find or not."
"My brothers think me dead," Andris said, speaking first of that which troubled him most.
"Would it comfort you to know that you will see and work with many of them again? That in doing so, you will be doing what you trained for? You and your jordaini brothers will attend powerful wizards, using both your talents and your resistance to magic for the good of the land."
Andris regarded her thoughtfully. "You make a powerful point. But why the deceit?"
"It was a necessary thing. Truth might be meat and drink to the jordaini, but most men order their lives by other impulses. There is great status in having jordaini servants, and the wizards clamor over you like hounds snarling over bones. A man of your talents was needed for this great task. Other opportunities would soon be offered to you. We could not entrust the outcome to fate."
"You could have told me of your plans outright. A jordain is free to choose among employments offered him."
Kiva smiled and laid her slender hand on his arm. "Forgive me, Andris, but I did not know your true measure. Status is all-important in this land. I have on good authority that both Procopio Septus of Halarahh and Lord Grozalum of Khaerbaal intended to petition for your service. The admiral of Halruaa's navy reports to Grozalum. If Procopio has his way, he will be king after Zalathorm. Most ambitious jordaini would be sorely tempted by offers from such patrons. I feared that you might find such an uncertain undertaking less attractive if you knew what glories were available for the taking."
Andris scratched at the unfamiliar stubble on his chin. "But I am jordain. I serve the truth and the land."
"And what of yourself, Andris?" she said softly. "What do you want for yourself?"
The question seemed to puzzle the young man. Kiva tried again. "How content are you with the life that lies before you? You will advise, wizards will command, and others will do. Is that what you want? Correct me if I have read you falsely, but I think you were born to command."
Andris was silent for a long moment. "It is not the tradition of this land."
"Nor is it tradition to mount a campaign without magic. Yet you have devised just such a campaign, and you long to command it. Is this not truth?"
There was mockery in her voice, but the young jordain's face remained thoughtful. "Who commissioned my services?"
"I cannot say. This land is ruled by wizards, but none have been able to contain the undead monsters of Kilmaruu. Let's just say that it would be ... awkward if someone so highly placed were to seek a nonmagical solution to this problem."
Andris's face suffused with wonder as the alchemy of hope transformed her lie into his greatest hidden dreams. Every wizard, every fighter in the land aspired to serving the great Zalathorm. This, then, was what Kiva seemed to offer. His own command, at the king's bequest!
The young jordain rose and fell to one knee before her. "Since you speak for the wizard who commissioned my service, you are my patron. Tell me what you desire me to accomplish, and I will find a way to do so," he said earnestly.
The elf woman patted his arm. "You have made a fine start, Andris. Far better than you know."
The next day Mbatu stood at the edge of the camp, watching as Kiva's recruits trained. Though he could find no fault in the warriors' efforts, neither did he take any pleasure in watching them.
Yesterday he had been the battlemaster, today all that remained for him to do was watch as the tall, red-haired man put the fighters through their paces.
To his amazement, the men were no longer Kiva's captives and mercenaries, but an army. The wemic didn't know what Eva had told the young jordain, but something had set him aflame. His passion had spread like wildfire to every man in his command.
The men were armed with rattan swords, so they could get used to the unfamiliar weight and length of them before using steel. Andris chose five men and bade them to swarm him. They charged in, whistling their practice blades through the air.
Mbatu chuckled, expecting the tall man to be facedown in muck before he could lift his sword.
He should have remembered his own encounter with a jordain. Within moments, all five of the fighters had been sent reeling back to nurse their bruises.
"Iago," Andris called, pointing to a slim, dark blade of a man. "You play the role of the out-numbered fighter."
"An honor," the man said dryly. "It will be excellent practice for playing the role of the corpse."
Andris joined in the laughter this comment elicited, then his face turned serious. "Remember that we will not be fighting honorable duels. We need to work together if any of us are to survive. Imagine that Iago is surrounded by undead. I'll show you how to work the perimeter and finish off the attackers as he pushes them back. You three-you can be the first wave of undead."
The men lifted their swords and rushed in for the attack. Andris fell back, so that for a moment, Iago was standing alone. The smaller man parried the first thrusting attack.
Before the rattan swords could disengage, Andris stepped in and seized the attacker's hair. He drew his sword lightly across the man's throat and then spun toward the second attacker, fist clenched as if it were still gripping a handful of hair. He swung hard into the second man's gut, doubling him over.
"Freeze," he commanded.
The men stood as they were, though the man he'd just hit wobbled as he struggled to stand in his bent-over position.
"Let's say that I beheaded the first zombie and used the head to shield-smash the one coming up behind. What now? Iago?"
The slim jordain nodded toward his "headless" companion. "This creature cannot see. He will flail around for a time before falling. I need to move beyond reach of his blade."
"You can do better. Turn it toward the other monsters," Andris suggested. "Like so."
He whirled and used the flat of his sword to strike the man who was bent over and off-balance. The man stumbled into the "headless zombie," who obligingly turned and started swinging at this new attacker.
Iago skirted the pair and lunged at the third man, who parried and riposted high. Iago caught the blow with his sword and then planted a foot on the man's chest, pushing him away-and directly onto the point of Andris's waiting sword. At the last moment, Andris sidestepped so that the man splashed down into the water. He rose dripping but smiling in relief. Rattan swords did not draw blood, but all of the men were covered with livid bruises.
"You see?" Andris said. "Working together, small bands of men can fight large numbers. Let's try it again, this time with four attackers."
It was a precise sequence, a deadly dance with finely timed moves. Again and again Andris walked them through it, showing how to fight against four, against six, how to vary the defenses and attacks against humans, against wights and ghouls.
The wemic was both impressed and troubled by this display. He had always been Kiva's strong right hand. She had purchased him when he was a cub, a child too young to remember the ways of the pride. The elf woman was his only family. What she said, he did. His strength was prodigious, and he had never known fear. Few men or elves could best him at arms. What he knew, he did very well.
Mbatu was beginning to realize, however, how limited his knowledge was. Oh, he could fight. In honest melee, few could match him, much less overcome him. Yet in less than a moon's time he had been outmaneuvered by one jordain and replaced by another.
The wemic watched as the men sloshed through the shallow, fetid water and drove stakes into the muck. To these they fastened several straw figures. Andris moved the men into position, encircling the straw zombies like a pack of wolves and closing in. At his mark, each man tossed a handful of coarse, sandy substance into the water. The swamp began to roil and sizzle. Foul gas rose from it, writhing like sickly green ghosts. One of the fighters tossed a torch into the vapor. There was a sudden sharp sucking sound, and then the swamp was aflame.
The fire died almost as suddenly as it had erupted. The only trace of the straw men was the charred sticks that had supported them. The zombies and ghouls wouldn't leave even that much of a legacy.
Kiva came up behind him, her nose wrinkled in disgust over the scent. "How goes it?"
"The jordain knows his undead," the wemic admitted. "If the men fight as he tells them to do, they will win."
"I am glad to hear it. It will be good practice," she agreed.
Mbatu studied her, his leonine face troubled.
"Practice?"
"For Akhlaur," Kiva said calmly. "The men will learn to fight in a swamp, to deal with the undead."
"But what of the laraken?" demanded Mbatu. "What will prepare them for such a monster?"
"What could?" she retorted. "I daresay the fiend will be as much a surprise to them as it was to us. Fortunately, we are better prepared now."
"We?" the wemic repeated suspiciously. "But you will not be there."
"Actually, dear Mbatu, I rather think that I must."
A low, angry growl came from the wemic. "You cannot," he said fiercely. "The laraken feeds upon magical energy. How many wizards have you sent into the swamp? Few of those wizards survived. Those who did were utterly stripped of their magic and more empty of mind than if an enfeeblement spell had been cast upon them. What will happen to you if we go into that place?"
The magehound traced his set jaw with her coppery fingertips. "Don't fear for me, dear Mbatu. I have learned quite a few of the swamp's secrets. Have I never told you how the wizard Akhlaur was defeated? No? He was dragged into the elemental plane of water by the very creature he summoned to help create the laraken."
"Yes. So?"
"So a tiny gate remains. Water leaks through, and with it the powerful magic of the elemental plane. It is this leak, this magic, that sustains the laraken and keeps it dependent upon the swamp." She smiled slyly. "If I could close this gate, the laraken would be forced to seek sustenance elsewhere."
The wemic's tailed lashed with anger and frustration. "But how? We could take a hundred jordaini into the swamp, and the laraken would still be drawn to you!"
The magehound's face hardened. "Why do you think we have been chasing Keturah's daughter?" she demanded. "If she's truly her mother's daughter, she will be able to call the laraken."
"What of the mother?"
"I have other uses for Keturah," Kiva said in a voice that forbade discussion. "It is Tzigone we need."
The magehound fell silent, and her face became contemplative. "It may well be that Tzigone had not yet relieved herself of her so-called honor debt to Matteo. If Matteo were to come to grief, she might feel obligated to intervene.
"Yes," she said with greater certainty, "it is time to add some complications to the young jordain's life."
"And if that does not serve?"
The magehound gave her servant a small, cool smile. "Then at the very least, you will get your revenge upon him."
Chapter Eleven
In the days to come, Matteo was to spend many hours with Procopio Septus. He attended the wizard daily at the Ilysium, a vast pink marble building that housed the offices of city officials. When Procopio's duties as lord mayor were discharged, they usually took to the sky. This was Matteo's favorite time of day, and he was rapidly becoming adept at piloting a skyship. The evenings were a round of lavish public affairs: banquets, festivals, concerts. Since Matteo was only one of several jordaini in Procopio's service, he was not required to attend every event. He and his fellow counselors met each day at sunrise to compare notes and devise strategies that would best serve their patron.
Matteo hoped that these meetings would foster the sense of camaraderie he knew back at House Jordain-after all, some of these men had been students at the Jordaini College when he was a young lad. But it seemed to him that his colleagues were far too absorbed with jostling for position. Matteo was keenly aware of his newcomer status, and he never seemed able to move past it Every morning he began the day in a circle of white-clad men who eyed him with open resentment.
Slowly he began to understand why this was so. He spent more time at Procopio's side than any jordain other than Zephyr, the wizard's high counselor. It didn't help matters when the old elf took upon himself the role of Matteo's mentor. Each morning after the jordaini meeting, Zephyr and Matteo spent an hour walking in the villa gardens and discussing the politics of the day.
As Zephyr had predicted, Procopio arranged several more tests of Matteo's skills and knowledge. The young jordain passed them all with ease. Riding an unbroken horse was little challenge after his experiences with Cyric. When a wizard "assassin" magically burst into Procopio's dining chamber, Matteo took a page from Tzigone's book and coolly deflected the sun arrows with the mirrorlike finish of a bronze plate. Procopio had howled with laughter at the sight of his hired wizard rolling on the floor in agony, and he'd sent Dranklish, the jordain who before Matteo's arrival had been second in rank to Zephyr, like an errand boy to fetch a cleric of Mystra to heal the unfortunate man. It was that event that cemented Matteo's position in the household, for it became clear to everyone that the new jordain was being groomed as Zephyr's successor. The tests ended, and so did Matteo's hope of finding friends among the household's jordaini.
His days were busy, but from time to time an image edged into his thoughts: a small, pointed face with big brown eyes and an irreverent grin. He didn't expect to see Tzigone again. Her last words to him indicated that she believed she had discharged her mysterious debt. Matteo didn't understand what exactly she thought she had done, and he wished, more than once, that he could have the opportunity to ask her.
But the days quickly settled into an orderly pattern, one suited to the life of a jordain and not disrupted by the "assistance" of roguish street waifs. Each day after the skyship flight, Matteo and Procopio would retire to the wizard's study. The wizard had a passion for games of strategy, and Matteo obliged him with seemingly endless games of chess, castles, and complex card games.
One morning he answered an unexpected summons to Procopio's study to find that the wizard had acquired a new diversion. An enormous table took up half the study, displacing the large cages of birds that Procopio kept in nearly every room of the villa.
The wizard glanced up when Matteo entered, and his face lit up in an unexpectedly boyish grin. "I ordered this a year and three moons before your arrival. I'll be a necromancer's apprentice if it wasn't worth the wait! Come see."
Matteo approached his patron's side and studied the vast table. It was no ordinary piece of furniture but a wondrous recreation of a wild land: a section of high plateau surrounded by hills and mountains.
"The Nath?" guessed Matteo, naming the wild region in the northeastern corner of Halruaa.
Procopio beamed. "Well done. Wait-you've not seen the best of it."
The wizard gestured with a long, slender wand. Several drawers hidden along the edges of the table opened, and tiny, magically animated figures poured out onto the table. Halruaan soldiers marched in formation across the wild terrain toward a mountain pass. A wizard, seated cross-legged on a flying carpet, whizzed out of the drawer and began to circle over the troops. A small horde of mounted warriors burst from the foothills and charged the Halruaan forces, and the faint pounding of their hooves reminded Matteo of the sound of distant rain. They pulled up at the far end of the mountain pass and faced the Halruaans.
All of the miniature troops were marvelous, but it was these mounted figures that drew Matteo's eye. They were rendered in shades of gray. All the horses were dappled grays, and the warriors were elflike females with dusky skin and dull silvery hair.
"Shadow amazons," Matteo marveled. For as long as he could remember, he had been fascinated by the Crinti, and he longed to pick up one of the tiny figures and examine its artistry and detail.
Some of this must have shown on his face, for Procopio chuckled. "Go ahead," he urged. "They're not alive, so you needn't be afraid to handle them."
"It is not that. The jordaini are forbidden to own, use, or even knowingly handle any magical item."
The diviner frowned. "How can you possibly refrain from doing so when you are in a wizard's service? I require you to engage me in a game of military strategy. Must I refrain from magic to accommodate you? Who is the master here, and who the servant?"
This was a reasonable question, and suddenly Matteo wasn't entirely satisfied with the traditional answer. He gave it anyway.
"Jordaini are forbidden by law and tradition from handling magic or benefiting from it. This ultimately safeguards the wizards we serve."
"What of the skyships?" Procopio said slyly. "Does this mean you intend to forego your daily flight?"
Matteo blinked, startled by this logical but unexpected application of the rule. "I never thought of skyships in that light," he said slowly. "They are so integral to Halruaan culture that the jordaini have ceased to think of them as common magical artifacts. I suppose by strict application of law, skyships are also forbidden."
"Yet no one would censor you for flying with your patron. Nor will anyone gasp with shock if they learned you were commanding toy troops," Procopio said, sweeping a hand toward the tiny figures on the table.
Matteo considered this. "Would it be possible for you to remove the enchantment? We could move the figures about by hand."
"Certainly not!" the wizard protested. "I will not suffer such a barbarian inconvenience. If I go down this path, where will it end? Would you expect me to refrain from using magic in battle for fear of offending your sensibilities?"
"Of course not. But this is a game, not a battle."
"A game I require you to play," Procopio said forcefully. "There are exceptions to every rule, and the sooner you learn this, the greater your service to me. But calm your scruples. You need not fear the taint of magic today. You are here to advise, not to do. I will move the troops."
Matteo nodded slowly. As Procopio said, it was impossible for a jordain in a wizard's household to remain entirely beyond the touch of magic. Every jordain he knew coveted the chance to ride a skyship, and no one thought this unseemly.
He studied the placement of the tiny figures. "This looks very much like the skirmishes that preceded the battle of Mycontil's Stand," he said, referring to the archmage who died defeating a massive invasion of Crinti-led warriors.
"That depicts Mycontil himself," Procopio agreed, pointing to the figure that buzzed about like a particularly colorful fly. "He was a great wizard, but no strategist. At this battle, he lost over a hundred men because the Crinti outflanked him. Like so."
The wizard touched his wand to the foothills on either side of the warriors. Bands of shadow amazons materialized in response to his summons and began to box in the foot soldiers.
Procopio looked to Matteo. "If you were Mycontil, what would you do to minimize your losses?"
Matteo thought for a moment. "Create an illusion of sound that echoes throughout the area held by the two flanking bands, a sound that will frighten the Crinti and cause them to scatter into the hills. Then the soldiers can engage the central band."
"And what, pray tell, could frighten the Crinti?" Procopio said in scathing tones. "They lull their girl children to sleep with battle songs that would raise a pirate's gorge!"
"Have you never heard the songs of the Unseelie folk? I have, and found it an uncanny, unnerving experience. But to the Crinti, the Unseelie music holds the essence of terror," Matteo explained. "It is part of the legend of the Ilythiiri. Do you know it?"
"I know little of the Ilythiiri, other than they were dark elves who inhabited the southern lands in ancient times. They were the ancestors of the drow, who were in turn the ancestors of the Crinti. What of it?"
"Legend has it that once, many thousands of years ago, an Ilythiiri wizard stumbled through the veil that separates the world we see from the unseen world of the Unseelie Court. There she learned some of the magic of the dark fairies, most of it by unfortunate firsthand experience. After much torment, she escaped, now utterly insane but carrying a knowledge of fell magic that surpassed any wizard in the land. She began a rise to power that attracted the darkest hearts of her time to her court. Her name is lost to memory, and she is known only as the Spider Queen. It is said that the evil goddess of the drow, Lolth, assimilated the wizard into her own being, taking for herself both the wizard's name and her dark magic. It is said that something of the wizard's memory remains within the goddess, and as a result, the drow, even Lolth herself, fear the Unseelie folk. What, then, could be more frightening to the Crinti than the songs of the dark fairies?"
Procopio nodded slowly as he took this in. "Interesting notion. I had not heard that tale."
"Few men make a study of drow legends. There are perhaps three libraries on the surface of this world that contain reliable lore books. Halruaa, of course, has one of them."
"You think the Crinti are better informed than we in such matters?"
"They cherish their drow heritage. They would pass it on."
"Hmm." Procopio considered this, then shrugged. "Very well. Let's see what happens."
The wizard moved the wand in a slow, complex pattern over the table. A faint melody, dark and compelling and chilling, began to rise like mist from the hillside.
The tiny shadow amazons that came in from the flank positions halted their charge. Chaos swept over them like an evil wind. The horses reared and pitched. Some of them, riderless, milled frantically about. In moments the warriors and their horses were gone, melting off into the hills and leaving exposed the central band of Crinti, who were panicked into utter disarray, too far from the hills for retreat The Halruaan soldiers charged and easily overtook the advance band. In short order, the table was littered with the tiny gray corpses of the shadow amazons.
Procopio smiled and nodded. He made a quick gesture with one hand, and the figures, both victors and vanquished, disappeared from the table.
"Who would have thought a song-no, a mere illusion of a song!-would have such power against those she-demons? Fascinating how so simple a ploy could turn the tide of battle! Have you more Crinti secrets to teach me?" Procopio spoke eagerly, and his animated face betrayed a more than casual interest.
A suspicion that had been growing in Matteo's mind for some time began to take solid and disturbing form. "A few," he said slowly. "I begin to see why you bid for my services. You are most avidly fond of strategy games, and as a master of games, I was first in my form."
"There is that," the wizard said in neutral tones.
Matteo pressed on. "We jordaini believe that such games train the mind and character, for a truly responsible man understands that every action prompts a reaction."
There was an edge to Procopio's smile that acknowledged the subtle layers in Matteo's comment. "I am in training, that is certainly true. He who would command must understand the art of war. It is no secret that games provide preparation. Kittens stalk imaginary prey, and small boys whack each other with sticks in anticipation of their first swords. What we do here is not so different."
Matteo shifted uneasily. "You speak plainly. I will do the same. Action prompts reaction. I know enough of history to understand that men who prepare so assiduously for battle seldom fail to find one."
"But the land is at peace, and has been for many years. Do you think that would be true if no one was prepared for battle? Why do you think our enemies stay away? The Crinti elf-breeds and their Dambraii subjects, and the Mhair savages, and the barbarians of the Shaar desert, and the wizards of Thay and Unther and Mulhorand, and Mystra only knows where else? Because we remain strong," Procopio concluded in a tone that rang with certainty.
Matteo had heard this argument many times before. It was a difficult one, for the line between a strong defense and a strong nation inclined toward offensive action was thin and nebulous. He couldn't help but wonder how this passion for military strategy fit into Procopio's personal goals. If the wizard deemed that the best way to ascend Zalathorm's throne was as a war hero, how far might he go to ensure his goal?
The wizard seemed to sense his counselor's unease, for he broke off the session and strode over to his desk. He opened a drawer and took from it a small scroll.
"I would have you take a message for me to Xavierlyn. You know of her?"
Matteo nodded. Zephyr had described in great detail all the wizards of the city's Council of Elders. Xavierlyn was a powerful diviner, a distant relative of King Zalathorm, and touted by many as his probable successor. As such, she was Procopio's most obvious rival.
"I have met Frando, her jordain counselor. It is his habit to speak in the Arbor Square before the sunsleep hours."
"No doubt many come to listen in preparation for midday slumber," Procopio said dryly. "I have heard the man. His lectures induce slumber more effectively than charms and potions."
Matteo's lips twitched, but he refrained from agreeing with his patron's assessment of a fellow jordain. He took the scroll Procopio handed him and scanned the writing upon it, then handed back the scroll and repeated the message word for word. The wizard nodded, satisfied, and Matteo went his way.
He set a brisk pace and reached Arbor Square shortly before highsun. It was a pretty place, cobbled with pink and green stone and surrounded by elaborate iron trellises and arches. The air was rich with the scent of ripening grapes, as well as the savory odors that wafted from the nearby market. Chairs and small tables had been scattered about so that passersby could take advantage of the shade.
In the center of the square was a raised platform, which was variously used for town criers, street musicians, and wizardly exhibitions. Frando, a dark, thick-bodied man some fifteen years Matteo's senior, was currently holding forth on the topic of pirate raids. With an alchemist's skill and a pompous voice, Frando transformed that exciting topic into a sleep-inducing drone. Matteo settled down under an arbor of pink grapes and tried to look politely interested.
Finally the jordain concluded his lecture and acknowledged the patter of applause with a deep bow. His self-satisfied smile broadened when his gaze fell on Matteo. Matteo rose and came to greet his colleague.
"Well, if it isn't the newest gelding in Procopio's stables," Frando said in a faintly nasty tone. "Come to listen and learn, I suppose?"
Matteo's brows lifted. For once it seemed appropriate to forego the usual polite phrases of greeting. "My patron has sent me with a message for the wizard Xavierlyn," he said curtly. "He bids me give it into your keeping."
It was a common enough task, but to his surprise, Frando hissed with exasperation. "It is clear that you don't mind playing the part of an errand boy, but I occupy my time with more important tasks. Why couldn't Procopio simply send a scroll? Or if he is as powerful a diviner as he claims to be, why not use magic?"
Matteo blinked, startled by this response. "Scrolls can be stolen, scried, or magically altered. Messengers can be waylaid, bribed, threatened, or magically influenced, or information taken from their minds. Even magically sent messages can be intercepted. There is also the possibility that a magically gifted messenger could influence the hearer, much as the minor magic of a bard lures an audience into receptivity," he explained patiently. "Any first-form jordain knows this."
Too late, Matteo realized how his words could be taken. Frando's face darkened with anger, yet he could not dispute Matteo's assessment.
"Give me the message," he said shortly.
To Matteo's surprise, the jordain did not receive the message on first hearing. Frando repeated it back with several alterations and two outright errors. Matteo patiently repeated Procopio's detailed report, once and then again, insisting that the man repeat it back precisely.
"Enough," the jordain finally said, his face crimson. "You change the words to mock me."
Matteo quickly swallowed the surge of rage that accusation brought. "I am charged with bringing a message to your patron, untainted by error or magical persuasion. Perhaps I had better repeat it to her myself." He turned away, intent upon doing just that.
Frando caught Matteo's arm and spun him around. "You would offer such insult?" he said incredulously.
"Less insult than you offered me," Matteo retorted as he jerked free of the big man's grasp. "You all but called me a liar."
"And so you are."
Impulse overtook training. Matteo's fist flashed out and connected squarely with Frando's jaw. The man staggered back and tripped over a chair. He went down heavily and came up with his hands on the hilts of his daggers.
This put Matteo in a serious quandary. It was against the law for one jordain to draw a weapon on another. If he defended himself, he and Frando would be judged equally at fault, for Matteo had struck the first blow. Yet judging from the fury in the other man's eyes, Frando intended to attack whether Matteo drew weapons or not.
Before he could respond, a small woman dressed in an eye-searing combination of scarlet, orange, and yellow breezed between him and Frando. Matteo's heart jolted with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension when he recognized Tzigone. She was clad as a street performer, wearing brilliant yellow pantaloons, an orange shirt, and a red vest encrusted with shiny bits of glass cut and polished to look like gems. Around her head was a turban fashioned of multicolored scarves. Her face was scrubbed clean and painted so that her eyes look huge and exotic. Even her fingernails were tinted in gaudy citrus shades. To his surprise, Matteo realized that this display was actually an effective disguise. Few would see past the color and the costume to take note of the small woman's features.
She hopped up onto the dais and clapped her hands. "Gather round," she called in a clear, ringing alto. She gestured for the crowd to fill in the space between Matteo and Frando, quite effectively cutting off the angry jordain's attack.
"Watch carefully and see if you can detect the skill in what I am about to do. For it is skill alone, not so much as a drop of magic!"
She called up a child, and with much flourish, she pulled a skie from behind his ear.
"A simple conjurer's trick!" scoffed someone from the audience.
Tzigone dropped her arms to her side and turned, staring incredulously at the heckler. Matteo followed the line of her gaze. The man who'd spoken was young and obviously wealthy, for he was clad in violet silk and decked with far too much gold and amethyst jewelry. There were many like him in Halruaa's cities: sons and daughters of successful merchants who had time and means to while away their hours in the shops and festhalls.
She took hold of the hems of her gaudy vest and spread it open. "If I could conjure as many coins as I'd like, would I spend them on such elegant, subtle garments? And judging from your raiment," she added dryly, "I doubt you're of the conjurer's school either."
A ripple of laughter went through the crowd, and the fop shrugged self-consciously. Tzigone pointed at a street merchant, a plump woman with a half-full basket of oranges balanced on one generous hip. The fruit was past ripe, the sticky scent of it was strong in the air, and a few bees buzzed and circled over the basket. "Toss me a few of those fruit, if you please." The woman reached into her basket and took out three oranges. Tzigone deftly caught them and started tossing and catching them. With a challenging smile, the merchant threw another orange, and then several more in rapid succession. Tzigone caught them all and added them to the dancing pattern, which she constantly shifted and varied. The oranges circled and darted, crossing and leaping and changing direction in her deft hands. The crowd's murmurs of approval deepened and turned into applause. "Illusion!" hollered a skinny youth. Without breaking pace, Tzigone caught an orange and hurled it at her detractor. The ripe fruit splattered on his chest and splashed sticky juice into his face and hair.
"No need to wash that tunic," she told him sweetly, juggling still. "The juice is just an illusion. And so are the bees that it will likely draw."
At that moment the youth let out a howl and slapped at his neck. The orange merchant convulsed with laughter, doubling over and nearly spilling the contents of her basket When the crowd's mirth had died, Tzigone tossed the oranges one by one back into the merchant's bin. She then struck a haughty pose, an eerily precise imitation of Frando's stance and expression. Matteo raised a hand to his lips to suppress a smile.
"Consider the problem of pirates," she droned in obvious mockery of Frando's lecture. As she spoke, her head rolled back and her jaw fell slack into an audible snore. She pantomimed a startled awakening at the crowd's laughter, and then shook herself as if to banish the last vestiges of sleep.
"The problem with pirates," she said in a far more animated tone, "is that they occasionally come ashore. Then they become your problem and mine. I bid you good folk to hear this cautionary tale, and leave this place the wiser for it.
"A lady jordain was sent to carry a message for her patron. With her was another counselor in need of training, who for our purposes need not be named." Again she puckered her face into an approximation of Frando's prissy expression, and the crowd chuckled and looked about for the jordain.
"As night began to fall, their path took them through streets that wiser men avoid. Before long, a large, ill-favored man in a pirate's rough garb began to follow the two jordaini." Tzigone's brow beetled, and she took a couple of steps forward in deftly feigned menace.
"The lady's companion glanced behind them and took note of the danger. 'We are being followed,' he said nervously. 'What could that big fellow want?' "
The tone of Tzigone's voice was eerily like Frando's, and several people in the crowd chuckled and glanced at the crimson-faced man. Tzigone waited for silence and then continued her tale.
"The jordain woman shrugged. 'The usual, I suppose. He wishes to rob you and ravage me.'"
This was an unexpected turn, and the crowd began to shift and exchange uncertain glances. Bawdy stories were not unknown in taverns, but never were they told in this respectable forum. Tzigone's mimicry might be clever, but her words were unseemly and far beyond the bounds of polite convention.
Tzigone seemed not to notice her audience's distress. "The woman's companion wrung his hands and asked what they should do. 'Why, the only logical thing,' said the woman. 'We walk faster.'
"They quickened their pace, but their pursuer easily matched them. 'He is gaining!' wailed the jordain.
" 'Indeed,' the woman said calmly. 'By my ciphering, the pirate should be upon us before that cloud passes over the moon.'
" 'What should we do?' her companion all but wept.
" 'The only logical thing. You run one way, and I will run another. It is well known that jordaini carry little and own no valuable items. If the pirate must choose between robbery and ravishment under those circumstances, which would be the logical choice?'
"This reasoning lifted the man's spirits considerably. Without hesitation, he turned tail and scurried back toward the safety of their patron's house."
Tzigone paused again for the slightly mocking laughter directed toward Frando.
"Much later, the lady jordain arrived at the patron's house. By now Fran-that is, her companion-was nearly giddy with worry. He pounced upon her and demanded full details.
"The lady regarded him with puzzlement. 'What happened?' she repeated. 'Why, the only logical thing that could have happened. The pirate gave chase and overtook me before the shadow of the cloud cleared the moon.'
"The other jordain swallowed hard. 'What happened then, my lady?'
" 'I did the only logical thing,' she told him in a matter-of-fact tone. 'I pulled up my skirts.'"
Several people in the crowd gasped. Tzigone nodded. "Yes. The jordain responded in much the same way when he heard this. He demanded to know what happened next. 'Why, the only logical thing,' said the lady. 'The man pulled down his leggings.'
" 'And what happened next? Tell me everything!' " Tzigone spoke the words with breathless eagerness, leering as a salacious jordain might have done. Matteo noted that her expression was identical to that on Frando's face.
Before he could catch himself, he laughed aloud. Tzigone caught his eye and winked.
"The lady jordain looked her companion in the eye. 'The only logical thing happened. A lady with her skirts up can run much faster than a man with his breeches down.' "
The unexpected ending brought a round of laughter and then applause. Frando, however, was tight-lipped with rage. He shouldered his way through the crowd with as much dignity as he could muster. As he passed Matteo, he leaned in close.
"We will finish this another time. I am certain that my patron will support my wish to challenge you to a public debate."
Zephyr's warnings flooded into Matteo's mind, and he understood the smug gleam in the other jordain's eyes. Frando's patron, Xavierlyn, was the Chief Elder of the city of Halarahh. She was one of the few wizards that Procopio Septus held in esteem, and the last person he would wish to challenge. Yet a debate between jordaini was the equivalent of a wizard's duel between their patrons-indeed, they were sometimes considered to be duels by proxy. Matteo watched as Frando sauntered off, no doubt dreaming of his coming vengeance.
Tzigone hopped off the dais and breezed through the crowd to his side. "No need to thank me," she said cheerfully.
"On that we are in accord," Matteo said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Have you any idea what you've done?"
She frowned. "Distracted a challenger? Stopped a fight? Made a few coins?" She jingled her bag. "Come on. I'll buy ale and sweet bread for us both."
Matteo took her arm and drew her to the far side of the market square. They stopped in the vine-covered shadows of a thick, high wall.
"Frando was not my friend. Now he is my enemy," he said tersely. "He challenged me to public debate to avenge the insult you dealt him. Win or lose, this will utterly destroy the hopes of my patron. Procopio Septus will not thank me for this day's work. My position with the lord mayor is as good as ended."
Tzigone took this in. She considered it for a moment, then shrugged. "That's easy enough to resolve. Find a new patron." She snapped her fingers. "I know just how to go about it. That ought to settle things between us for once and all!"
"Thank you for the kind thought, but, please, no more 'help,'" Matteo said earnestly.
Tzigone wasn't listening. She busily scanned the market. Her eyes lit up suddenly and a smile curved her lips. "Wait here," she said happily and dropped to the ground. She wriggled through the thick, flowering vines and disappeared from sight.
Like the crowd, Matteo was suddenly suspicious of magic surreptitiously used. He bent down and parted the bushes, but there was no sign of Tzigone or her escape route. He searched for quite some time before he found an explanation. Behind the vine, the stone wall had crumbled, leaving a hole big enough for a child or very small woman to crawl through.
"You have lost something, other than your judgment and your dignity?"
The rounded alto tones struck a chord in Matteo's memory. He scrambled to his feet. There stood a tall, regal woman clad in a simple, elegant white gown that left her arms bare and draped low over her bosom. Her glossy black hair had been elaborately dressed and coiled about her shapely head, but her only ornament was the enameled pendant that proclaimed her position. Her long, narrow face would never be considered conventionally beautiful, but the intelligence in her dark eyes made it extraordinary.
"Lady Cassia." Matteo inclined his head in a respectful bow, giving honor to the most powerful jordain in all of Halruaa. "How might I serve you?"
The words were polite, but they brought a small, hard smile to the jordain's lips. "Badly, no doubt. Who is your patron?"
Matteo told her. Her ebony brows lifted in surprise. "And does Lord Procopio know that you consort with base entertainers? That you enjoy listening to the mockery of your fellow jordaini? Is this typical of your service?"
"I would like to think it is not, my lady."
"To the contrary, I would like to think that it is," she said slyly. "It is reported that Queen Beatrix is in need of counsel. If you were to serve her, most likely you would also serve me, provided you could survive long enough. Clockwork devices are so unreliable, and Beatrix is so fond of them. Such a pity, what happened to her last counselor. They intend to bury him with full honors just as soon as they gather up enough pieces."
The smile she gave Matteo was as cold and reptilian as a crocodile's. "Prepare yourself for a promotion, boy. And while you're at it, you might want to put your affairs in order."
Chapter Twelve
Matteo watched as Cassia swept through the market, as queenly and formidable as any woman who'd ever worn a crown. The short encounter left him stunned, and for the first time in his life, he felt himself at an utter loss for words.
"You're gaping like a hooked fish," intoned a rich alto voice at his elbow.
The voice was Cassia's. Matteo jumped, startled by the seeming split of sight and sound. In the next heartbeat, he realized who the speaker had to be, and he whirled to face the troublesome Tzigone. To his surprise, the young woman wore an expression of extreme self-satisfaction.
"That was easy," she said brightly. "All I had to do was mention in Cassia's hearing that you and that Frando person were planning a public debate, and she came right over. Did anything interesting come of it?"
"You might say that," he said shortly.
Tzigone frowned and handed him a small burlap sack. "You can carry this for me. That will help restore your image as a polite and proper jordain."
Matteo absently took the sack and slung it over his shoulder. "You have no idea what you've done, do you?"
"Of course. I got Cassia's attention for you. Again, there's no need to thank me."
Matteo cast his eyes toward the sky. "Again, I concur wholeheartedly."
She gave him a suspicious look. "You don't sound pleased. I must say, you're a hard man to repay. But I know just the thing-something not even you could fault or refuse."
She took off through the crowd, weaving through the throng of shoppers and buskers as she moved confidently toward her destination. Matteo followed, fearful of the trouble her next well-meaning act might cause.
They wound through the market to a small side street lined with stalls, each of which was shaded by silk awnings dyed in brilliant rainbow hues. The afternoon sun filtered down through the trees that shaded the street, providing pleasant shade for those who lingered for a midday meal.
Murmured conversations and savory fragrances filled the air. Tzigone came to a stop under a crimson canopy. She inhaled deeply as she eyed a row of braided pastries drying on a T-shaped wooden rack. Several more pastries swam in a cauldron of bubbling fat, rapidly turning plump and brown and filling the air with the scent of frying sweet bread. The baker was dredging a fresh batch in finely ground sugar mixed with rare spices: allspice and cardamom and mace. Tzigone patted her pockets and produced a few of the wedge-shaped electrum bits that passed as small currency.
"Two of the hangman's nooses," she instructed the baker, pointing to a long braided pastry with a loop at one end. "And can you swirl them around in the spice again? Make them good and sticky?"
Matteo shook his head when she offered him one of the powdery treats. He pointed to the cauldron's underside, which was red and glowing without the benefit of fire.
"The pastries are cooked by magical means," he explained. "Such things are forbidden to a jordain."
For a moment she gaped at him, then she shrugged and took a big bite of the sugary bread. “Tastes the same, either way. But there'll be no waste. I'm hungry enough to finish them both," she assured him. "What about you? Let's stroll about and find something that pleases you."
He shifted the bag from his shoulder. "There's no need and little time. I'm due back at my patron's villa by sunset, and before then I must see that Procopio's message is properly delivered."
Tzigone grinned and gave him a playful shove. "Aha! Then you're not so out of favor with him as you implied."
Matteo sighed and slumped against the broad, silvery trunk of one of the massive trees that shaded the lane. "I will be, once Lord Procopio hears of Frando's challenge."
"Why should he care? That Frando is an idiot, even by the standards of the jordaini. I've met donkeys who could best him in debate."
"That may be so, but he is counselor to the mage Xavierlyn. A challenge between counselors reflects upon their patrons. At this point, Procopio has no desire to best Xavierlyn, but neither would he care to lose to her."
Tzigone nodded sagely. "Ah. He has a standing bet, with large sums placed on either gamecock. He'll suffer no great loss that way, but such things can be inconvenient if he hasn't the ready coin to float."
The notion scandalized him, as did the comparison between a jordaini debate and the vulgar practice of gambling upon cock fights. "This has nothing to do with money! It is a matter of politics. Xavierlyn is the Chief Elder of Halarahh. For Procopio to challenge her would be tantamount to announcing his aspirations to her position. He cannot afford to appear too ambitious at this time."
She shrugged again, not seeing the sense in it. "What did Cassia have to say?"
"I think she intends to recommend me to Queen Beatrix," Matteo grumbled.
Tzigone brightened. "That's a good thing, isn't it? Becoming the queen's counselor?"
"Not if it means going to the palace in disgrace, as a means of saving my current patron trouble."
"After you've arrived at a destination, does it truly matter if you traveled by horse or mule?" she pointed out "Once you're there, the journey is quickly forgotten."
Matteo had to admit that there was a certain practicality to this. "I am beginning to follow the paths your arguments take," he told her, and then sighed. "This worries me."
She laughed merrily and linked her arm through his, pulling him back into a slow walk. "Didn't I tell you that you'd get used to me in time?"
"That is something we must discuss," he said slowly. "I cannot deny that I enjoy your company, and I have thought of you often since last we met. Believe me when I tell you I have no wish to give offense, but I must insist that you stop interfering in my affairs."
Tzigone stopped dead and stared up at him. "Interfering!"
She looked so dumbfounded that Matteo felt compelled to provide illumination. "Meddling. Or influencing, if you prefer that term. The most recent example was your performance in the Arbor Square."
"A man was getting ready to pull two very nasty-looking knives on you. My story served as a distraction," she pointed out.
"A distraction that offended a fellow jordain and prompted him to issue a challenge."
Tzigone folded her arms. "Which in turn brought you to the attention of the king's high counselor."
"Not all attention is desirable. Cassia thinks me an inept fool, and for that reason, she intends to recommend me to her rival."
"Who happens to be the Queen of Halruaa," Tzigone concluded, exasperation edging her tones. "I thought jordaini were supposed to be ambitious! Who cares how you arrive at such a high place? Once you get there, you set about to make your mark." She struck a haughty pose. "If you cannot do so, then you're the fool that the king's counselor named you," she concluded in Cassia's voice.
The imitation was uncannily accurate, more precise than an echo. Matteo shook his head in amazement. "How do you do that?"
"The voices?" She shrugged. "I'm told that I'm a natural mimic. I used to travel with a troupe of entertainers who hawked me as 'The Human Mockingbird.' It was fun for a while," she confided, "but the feathers on the costume made me sneeze. You've heard of Old Bess?"
It took Matteo a moment to follow the abrupt shift in her conversation, but he nodded. Few people in the coastal lowlands did not know of the notorious pirate. A plump, middle-aged woman with the cheery manner of an aging milkmaid, Old Bess was nonetheless among the bloodiest and most ruthless captains to sail the Great Sea.
"I have had occasion to speak with her," Matteo admitted. "Two years past, she spent part of the summer rains at the jordaini house, insensible with fever."
"That old shark?" Tzigone said incredulously. "I'm surprised the jordaini would have anything to do with her."
"Sometimes criminals and foreigners are brought to the house for treatment so that the students might observe the course of serious disease and injury and learn of their treatments," he explained. "In all truth, no one expected her to live. When she recovered, she insisted upon paying for her keep and her care by instructing some of the students in tides and currents. It was her tales of battle, however, that provided the liveliest lessons," he confessed with a little grin.
"Then you know the voice." Tzigone cleared her throat and pursed her lips as she smiled, in a manner that made her cheeks puff up and her eyes appear to twinkle. To complete the illusion, she stepped under the crimson awning. Light filtered through it, adding reddish lights to her hair and painting her face a wind-burned pink. Without changing her form or features, she managed to portray the essence of the jovial, apple-cheeked pirate.
"Wot'll ye be havin' now, dearie?" she said with bright charm and a thick north-isle Moonshae accent. "Will it be a fish knife through yer gizzard, or will ye be having a sit-down on the business end of a pike?"
She went on, cheerfully listing increasingly gory methods of death in a tone more suited to a tavern wench's blithe recitation of the night's fare.
As he listened, Matteo felt his lips twitch and his ire begin to fade. It was difficult to remain angry with Tzigone for long. The wench was amusing, and in her own way, she truly did seem to mean well.
He also found her interesting in a manner that went far beyond her tall stories, for there was about her something of a puzzle. It did not escape him that Tzigone's speech dropped easily into Common, the widely used trade tongue that few Halruaans, who were in general both insular and proud, saw need to master.
"And now a recitation from the decadent northlands," she suggested, her voice smoothed from a Moonshae burr into an affected drawl.

"They're far from staid after a raid,
These men of Zhentil Keep.
They kill off all the women,
For they much prefer the sheep.”

"The men don't eat their ill-got treat.
Not one of them's a glutton.
So isn't it a marvel
That they always smell of mutton?"