She declaimed the verse in ringing metered speech, much as a classically trained bard might deliver news of battle or recite an epic of long-dead heroes. The combination of her cultured tone with the bawdy verse had Matteo shaking his head in amazement.
"Wherever did you hear such a thing?"
"Great songs endure, but bad ones travel," she informed him with a grin.
He chuckled. "I'm not familiar with that proverb, but it seems to hold true."
"Proverb?" A flicker of annoyance crossed her face, but she quickly shrugged it aside. "So what shall we do now?"
Matteo knew the answer but found that he didn't relish speaking it. "I'm afraid we part ways," he said with genuine regret as he prepared to drop her burlap bag at her feet.
Her eyes widened in alarm, and she flung out a hand to stop him. "Don't put that down!"
Suspicion bloomed anew, and with it came a sharp, painful stab of self-reproach. Jordaini had a strong resistance to magic, including all means of magical inquiry. Since they could seldom be seen through scrying devices or seeking spells, they were natural couriers. Elaborate protocols ensured that they could not be used as such, even by their patrons. They carried only what they could place in the leather bags at their belt, and they memorized messages rather than carry scrolls. By accepting the bag from Tzigone, Matteo had gone against tradition and broken several core rules. And in not questioning her intent in handing him the sack, he had proven himself to be as naive as she had named him.
"What's in here?" he demanded.
Not waiting for an answer, he jerked open the sack and thrust one hand into it. His fingers closed around a smooth, hard cylinder. He drew it out, his heart pounding as he regarded the wood and leather scroll case.
"It's a spell book," he said incredulously. "You told me that you were no wizard."
"You don't need to be a wizard to know the price of such things," Tzigone retorted. "It'll bring a good profit in the markets, provided I sell it after dark and well away from this part of the city."
Relief swept through Matteo. The reaction surprised him, as did the realization that it was easier for him to deal with Tzigone as a thief than as a wizard. Surely he did not approve of thievery, but in his world, wizards could play only two roles: patrons to be served, or enemies to be outwitted and defeated.
The thought of battle prompted him to glance at the arcane markings on the case, looking for some indication of the school and the power of the wizard who owned the scroll. This was important. Battle was to be avoided if possible, but he doubted that the cheated wizard would allow him time for explanation.
After a moment's study, he found what he sought. Lightly etched into the dark wood was the outline of a raven perched upon the point of a triangle. These were the symbols of death and the renewal that death offered, so it seemed likely that this had been the property of a necromancer.
Matteo grimaced and dropped the scroll case back into the sack. Necromancers were not considered the most honored or powerful of Halruaa's wizards, but he disliked dealing with them.
"What's wrong?" Tzigone asked quickly.
"Apart from the fact that once again you've had me carry stolen property?" he retorted.
She looked at him keenly. "No offense, but you don't seem all that bothered by theft. When I told you that I acquired this spell scroll with resale in mind, you looked positively relieved. So I take it I've stepped on one of your precious jordaini rules."
For a troubling moment, Matteo considered that perhaps he was more concerned with the rules of his order than with simple matters of right and wrong. Theft, in his opinion, was wrong, while, strictly speaking, magic was not. But although consorting with thieves was hardly the accepted thing, friendship with a wizard could get him censured or even slain. This seemed oddly out of balance.
He made a note to consider this at a later time, and he explained the matter to Tzigone as best he could.
"A jordain may not use magic or pay for it to be used on his behalf. He cannot own or use magical items. He cannot have personal dealings with wizards. Even handling magical items is suspect. The purity of the order is rigorously ensured by the magehounds and the Jordaini Council, and the penalties for violating any of these rules are stern."
Tzigone made a wry face. "As bad as all that, is it? Well, don't concern yourself. I'll be rid of this by dawn," she said as she reached for the sack.
At that moment a passerby jolted them, and the bag fell from Matteo's fingers. Tzigone lunged for it, but she couldn't get past him in time to get at it. The bag thudded onto the cobbled street.
Immediately a flash of arcane light darted from the bag. Deeper than crimson in hue, it sizzled out like the strike of a preternaturally quick snake.
The sudden burst of magic unnerved the midday diners. Chairs overturned as they moved away. Pasties and cheeses dropped unheeded to the cobblestone. Coins and merchandise lay forgotten on the counter as both merchants and customers thought of things that required their urgent attention. Spell battles were uncommon in the streets of Halruaa, but they were not so infrequent that people considered them a novelty worthy of the risk.
"Red lightning. That's never good," muttered Tzigone. She began to edge toward the yellow awning of the fishmonger's stall nearby.
Suddenly the lightning sizzled back, retracing the path of the spell of seeking. The light and power of the bolt seemed greatly increased in power, it was brighter and somehow weightier.
Matteo frowned. He hadn't expected this conclusion to the spell of seeking. Few wizards could travel along the path forged by the seeking magic. The wizard he was soon to face was more powerful than he had anticipated.
He placed his hands on the hilts of his daggers as the wizard manifested before him, not drawing them but prepared to defend himself if need be.
The victim of Tzigone's latest theft was a tall man, exceedingly long of limb and narrow through the shoulders. His lanky frame was swathed in the black-red robes of a necromancer, which swirled about him like storm clouds at sunset A faint odor of a charnel house clung to him, whispering softly but unmistakably of death. By some coincidence of fate, the man was paler than a corpse, a true albino, with eyes the color of water and skin whiter than the underbelly of a fish. The black robes cast grayish shadows on his skin.
With almost theatrical menace, the wizard began to advance, one thin hand leveled at Matteo. His skin grew paler still, so that the flesh became as clear as crystal and the skeletal form beneath was revealed.
"Behold the fate of the hands that touched my spellbook," intoned the wizard.
"Sure, give or take sixty years," Tzigone muttered from somewhere behind Matteo.
He shared her confidence-as a jordain, he was immune to most spells. But he wondered briefly how Tzigone might explain her own resistance to magic. After all, the spell of seeking had not worked when she carried the bag, either. The necromancer made a sharp, quick gesture with his skeletal hand and then waited expectantly. His grim hauteur quickly changed to anger when no one obliged him by withering away to bone.
He followed with a series of quick, impatient gestures. At his command, dozens of smooth, polished sticks rose from a basket in a nearby stall, all of them edged in tassels-juggler's tools sold in groups of three as toys for children. The sticks flew into the midst of the now-empty square and clattered into formation. An odd, angular skeleton, the bones of a creature that had never known life, began to advance on Matteo.
Matteo quickly adjusted his stance and his strategy. He had never faced such a foe before, but he reasoned that every creature, alive or dead or fabricated, was held together in much the same way.
He dropped and spun as the wooden skeleton advanced. As he turned, Matteo slashed out at the joints where one of the knees might have been. The silver blade cut deep into something he could not see-not flesh, but an energy that was almost as palpable. The magical bounds were strong and did not sever entirely, but the necromancer's creation seemed to be effectively hamstrung. It stopped suddenly, listing hard to one side as its "arms" flailed about in a quest for balance.
Matteo ducked under the wildly swinging limbs and wedged one dagger between two joints of the construct's wooden spine. He held the blade firmly in place as he kicked the other leg out from under the magical creature. The skeleton went down with a clatter and lay twitching, but it was no longer able to move its parts. The magical flow that held the thing together followed much the same path as the energy that coursed along a living man's spine. Sever that, and the rest was all but over.
The necromancer shrieked with rage. He advanced upon Matteo, gesturing wildly. In one hand, he held a thin strip of ripe and reeking fish. The disgusting thing flapped about as the wizard formed the gestures of his spell, gradually dissolving to an eerie, greenish light that leached into the necromancer's hands.
For a moment Matteo froze. He didn't recognize the spell or know how to counteract it.
But Tzigone took inspiration from the necromancer's attack. She snatched up handfuls of eels from the fishmonger's baskets and hurled them at the wizard. The snakelike fish tangled about his ankles, stopping his advance and distracting him from his spell. He nearly tripped, and his bobbling attempt to regain his balance would have been comical in less grim circumstances.
The necromancer ripped the entangling eels away and flung them aside. The touch of his hand turned them a glowing green and left them as rigid as sticks. One of the eels shattered against a tree trunk with a sound like breaking crockery. Shards of eel flew like a volley of arrows, bespeckling the necromancer's robes with glowing green.
"Hey, dragon snot! Over here!" hooted Tzigone, waving her arms and attempting to draw the wizard's attention from Matteo.
This affront to the wizard's dignity enraged him as much as the theft of his spellbook. Crimson light began to gather in his colorless eyes, and he kicked aside the last of the eels and lunged at her.
Matteo felt the rush of cold as the necromancer closed in, and he understood the nature of the spell. A rare few necromancers could summon a lich's touch, a dangerous spell that copied the paralysis of limb and spirit caused by the touch of an undead wizard. But Matteo stepped between the wizard and Tzigone and seized the glowing hand that reached out to seize her.
He accepted the terrible numbing chill, an attack that would have frozen most men in place as surely as the blast of an ice dragon's breath. Forcing aside the icy pain, he tightened his grip on the wizard's hand and gave it a hard, quick twist. The delicate bones gave way with a sickening crunch.
It was a cruel defense, one Matteo hated using, but he knew of no other way to stop the wizard's magical offensive short of killing him.
The necromancer howled in pain and fury, a lingering sound that rose in pitch to become an eerie wail. He fell away, backing off from the jordain and quite literally shrinking as he retreated.
He also began to change. Bones creaked and popped as they took new form. His nose bulged, then snapped outward into a long muzzle. His robes fell away, and white hair sprouted from his pallid skin. In moments the wizard's human shape was entirely gone, replaced by that of a lean and ghostly wolf.
It was a reasonable strategy, one that Matteo had anticipated. Although the wizard's spellcasting was finished for quite some time by the injury to his hand, any necromancer of power kept several spells at the ready, magic that could be activated without word or gesture. And now, as a wolf, the wizard would not need magic to attack.
Apparently he'd also had the foresight to unleash magic designed to leave Matteo vulnerable to fang and claw. As the jordain raised his daggers into guard position, he noted that the tips were beginning to glow with heat. He quickly tossed them aside, steeling himself to do what he would have to do.
The ghostly wolf's lips curled, baring preternaturally long, sharp fangs and an expanse of blackened gums. The creature snarled and crouched for the spring.
Matteo timed his defense, then leaped forward to meet the wolf-wizard. He spun on one foot and kicked out high and hard with the other as the creature rose to the apex of its leap.
His booted foot caught the creature squarely in the chest. He danced back as the wolf dropped to the ground, a look of human surprise on its pale face. But no breath stirred the great white chest, and the wolf-wizard never uttered another sound. The heart stopped on impact and would never beat again.
Numbly Matteo watched as the wolf slowly melted back into human form. If possible, the waxen, white body of the wizard seemed even more inhuman than the abandoned wolf shape.
He was aware of Tzigone edging close. The girl prodded the still figure with a tentative foot, then touched her fingers to the silence pulse on the necromancer's white neck. She rose and stared at Matteo, her eyes huge.
"You killed him," she said incredulously. "With one kick, you killed him."
"I could have stopped him without great injury had he permitted me the daggers," Matteo said shortly, mistaking her astonishment for disapproval.
In truth, he was far more stunned than Tzigone by the ease of the man's death. Matteo had trained for battle since he was old enough to hold a wooden pole without falling on his backside, but this was the first time a man had died by his hand. It seemed to him that such a thing should not have been so easy. Something so momentous, so final, should have been harder to do, and it should have taken far longer. Perhaps then he would have had time to reconcile himself to his actions. Perhaps then he would not be standing here staring at the dead man, marveling at the cold hollow place the unknown man's sudden absence left within his own heart. It seemed to him that a hidden room within him had been opened, one whose existence he had never suspected. He could kill. He had killed.
"He need not have died," he said softly. "I wish that he had not, even though he meant us harm."
"Poor bastard," Tzigone said in full agreement. For some reason, her cavalier choice of words grated on nerves left strangely raw.
"The man is dead," he said coldly. "He died trying to retrieve his rightful property, which you took from him. I do not expect you to take any measure of responsibility for his death, but I will not listen as you deal him further injury. Who are you to malign his name so foully?"
Tzigone fell back a step. For a moment she stared at Matteo, her painted eyes huge in a face gone suddenly pale. She couldn't have looked more startled and betrayed if he'd dealt her an open-handed blow.
She recovered quickly, gave another of her expressive shrugs, and disappeared around the corner with a speed that Matteo, had he not seen some of her other tricks, might well have considered magical.
Chapter Thirteen
Zephyr reached into his pocket for a coin. It was a small task, one that should have been easy, yet the elf jordain was hampered by his palsied hand and the slow, tremulous movements of extreme age.
He marked the impatience on the urchin messenger's dirty face and cursed his own frailty. Of a certainty, he had lived too long.
Yet the information the street lad had brought him was worth the fee, worth the trouble it took to retrieve it, and perhaps even worth the terrible chore that living these last few years had become. According to Zephyr's informants in the markets, the girl who now called herself Tzigone had been spotted in the city wearing the garb of a street performer, and in the company of Procopio's newest and most earnest jordain.
This was an unexpected stroke of luck. Zephyr was certain Matteo would tell him what there was to know. He doubted the young man was capable of dissembling even if he wished to do so.
With a personal link to Tzigone established, Zephyr would have her in hand in no time. Then he would be able to pass the girl along to Kiva, and the terrible evil that the two elves had set in motion nearly two centuries past would finally be destroyed.
The thought cheered Zephyr considerably. It was for this purpose that he lived, and only for this purpose. When the laraken died, Zephyr could leave his worn-out body and travel to Arvanaith, the final homeland of the elves.
An almost overwhelming flood of emotion swept him, carried by the beckoning voices of all those who had gone before so very long ago. The elf squeezed his eyes shut and fought against the ways of nature and his own deepest longings.
With difficulty, he composed himself and dismissed the urchin, then hobbled off in search of his patron. It was his job to provide Procopio Septus with information, but on occasions such as this, it was far more important to control what and how much the wizard heard. Matteo's involvement was a mixed blessing. The young man might be able to help Zephyr find Tzigone, but it wouldn't do to have Procopio inquire too closely into his counselors' affairs.
The elf found Procopio in the kitchen garden, admiring the silhouettes of the serving girls as they stretched high to pick fat crimson pods from the bean trellis.
The old jordain sighed. His patron had children enough, born on both sides of the blanket. While it was true that a future king needed heirs, a surplus of potential successors seldom boded well for a kingdom. Some other time, Zephyr would have to remind Procopio of his history lessons.
The elf saw no real need for urgency, in his opinion, Procopio was no king. Nothing about the man suggested Zalathorm's fabled judgment and foresight. Zephyr considered Procopio Septus to be reckless and impulsive and far too open with his ambitions. But then few humans had an elf's patience, and few elves possessed Zephyr's resolve. The old jordain knew only one other elf willing to work for more than two centuries to right an ancient wrong.
The old elf firmly put aside such thoughts and hobbled into the gardens. It was wise to bury one's secrets before entering the presence of a Halruaan diviner.
The real reason for Procopio's presence among the kitchen servants soon became apparent. A basket of doves stood ready for plucking, and several more of the birds flew circles about the tall, hive-shaped dovecote that dominated the south side of the kitchen gardens. Auguries were usually read from the random flights of wild birds, but Procopio had devised a way to read the future in the flight of birds lured in for table use. The diviner was quite fond of roasted dove, so the spell served two purposes at once.
"What counsel do the doves offer, my lord?"
The wizard glanced up at Zephyr's hail, and his satisfied smile broadened. "Enough to know that you have news for me."
The elf acknowledged this with a slight bow. "That is true, my lord, but bear in mind that no news is entirely unmixed. The birth of spring heralds the death of winter."
Procopio dismissed this cautionary proverb with an impatient wave. "This much I know from the birds: There was a disturbance in the market, one that can shift the course of my future. From you, I require detail."
"Your auguries tell true." Zephyr briefly related the story of Matteo's misadventure.
Procopio paled when he heard of the challenge between his new counselor and a jordain employed by his most serious rival for Zalathorm's throne. As Zephyr hoped, Procopio was too concerned for his own political future to inquire into the identity of the young woman who had played the part of alchemist in this particular brew.
"This contest would no doubt prove interesting, but there is both reason and means to avoid it. Lady Cassia took an interest in young Matteo and expressed her intent to commend him to the queen."
The diviner laughed without humor. "Did she, now? A most laudable act," he said dryly.
"Since when, dear Procopio, has any of my actions been otherwise?"
Procopio turned to face the king's counselor. He was smiling widely and looking not in the least surprised. "Welcome, Cassia. All is well with the king, I trust?"
The raven-haired woman glided forward and allowed the wizard to kiss her fingertips. "Zalathorm is well as ever, thanks be to Lady Mystra. It is the queen whose welfare concerns me."
"It is so?" the diviner said innocently. He gestured to the pile of dead birds. "Yet there were no dire signs among the auguries."
Cassia sent a quick, disparaging glance at the basket. "I see you have provided the second remove for the evening meal. Well done. It's a pity you couldn't conjure the final course instead. I am rather fond of sweets."
The wizard stiffened at the subtle layers of insult in his visitor's words. Zephyr lifted a hand to his lips and coughed slightly, not only to signal disapproval but to give an excuse to hide his smile. Conjurers held less status than diviners, and to be compared unfavorably to a wizard of that school was highly displeasing to his ambitious patron. It didn't escape Zephyr's notice that Cassia had not bothered to greet him, a fellow jordain, but he didn't take offense. To the contrary. The less attention he drew from such as Cassia, the better.
"I do not waste magic on such matters," Procopio said loftily. "As you can see, I have servants to fetch wine and honey cakes. But I hear that it is not my household servants who interest you, but my counselors. You believe that young Matteo may be of service to our queen?"
The jordain's smile was thin and cool. "Let us speak plainly. Your new counselor is a green youth, too hotheaded for delicate court matters and, by all appearances, sorely lacking in judgment. He laughed when a common street performer ridiculed a fellow jordain, which provoked the man to offer challenge. Had he any grasp of your interests and ambitions, he would have avoided this situation at almost any cost. Here is my counsel, Procopio: Be rid of him. This debate will do you no good, but Beatrix will not be harmed by it."
Procopio stroked his chin as he considered this path out of his dilemma. "But does the queen truly require a new counselor?"
"Conveniently, yes. Of late, she has become increasingly obsessed with creating clockwork devices. One of them went amok in most spectacular fashion. Her favorite messenger was killed, and she is in need of a reliable substitute. Do you think the young jordain's talents will be too tasked by this?"
The wizard thought of the daring skyship challenge, the hours Matteo had spent schooling him in military history and tactics, and the uncanny feats of memory and logic that had been reported of the young jordain-grudgingly reported, for that matter, by the men he was likely to replace.
"I daresay his capabilities extend thus far," he said dryly. "Zephyr? Has Matteo delivered all missives faithfully and well?"
"Perfectly, my lord. Whatever his shortcomings may be, his memory is admirable," the elf replied, taking his cue from the tone of his patron's response.
"Then I am satisfied," Cassia said. "That is all Beatrix will require."
"If she wishes Matteo's services, of course I will release him," the wizard said. "And I must say, your interest in the queen's welfare is most admirable."
"And surprising?" Cassia said with the candor of the very powerful. "Not surprising at all, if you remember Keturah."
With difficulty, Zephyr managed not to gasp aloud. He had come here to steer Procopio gently away from any potential interest in Tzigone. And now it appeared that Cassia's purpose was precisely the opposite.
The diviner's brow creased, then cleared as he recognized the name that he hadn't heard spoken for years. "Yes, now that you mention her. A wizard of the evocation school, rather well regarded but a little eccentric. It has been twenty years and more since Keturah's death. What part could she possibly have in your interest in Matteo?"
"Four new counselor has apparently befriended Keturah’s daughter."
Procopio's eyes widened. "I understood that the girl had been found and dealt with years ago."
"That is what they would have us believe. The child was caught, that much is true, and the official word was that she was too young and fragile to survive the rigors of magical inquiry. I know otherwise, and now you know as well. In his wisdom, Zalathorm does not admit to knowledge of certain things, but that does not mean his counselors should not be informed."
"Of course," Procopio murmured, his face thoughtful as he considered the uses of this information-and Cassia's likely purpose in sharing it with him.
Procopio knew that the mysterious "they" Cassia referred to were also known by another name. Halruaa's wizards ruled on many levels. A mysterious group known as the Cabal guided one of the most personal and important aspects of Halruaan life, the future of her wizards. This group kept detailed records of each wizard's heritage and skills, and matched them in marriage with wizards of compatible talents. This was one of the primary reasons why Halruaa could boast of so much magical talent and such highly specialized schools. Wizards in other, less civilized lands married for whim or fancy or political alliance, but in Halruaa, such things were never left to chance. The Cabal held enormous power, for they molded the future in directions they deemed desirable. A regrettable but necessary part of their duties was weeding out dangerous or wild talents, eliminating failed experiments, and dealing with wizards who became either inept or too ambitious.
But Procopio gave that grim reality no more than a passing thought. Membership in the mysterious Cabal was a sure path to power, and he coveted it nearly as much as he longed for Zalathorm's throne. And now here was Cassia, dropping hints and asking for him to release his most promising jordain! Zalathorm's high counselor was here to make an exchange, of that Procopio was certain. But on whose authority? Her own, or the king's? Either path was strewn with possibilities.
"I am honored that you would share these confidences with me," Procopio ventured. "If I might ask, how did you learn of Keturah and her daughter?"
"Not easily," she said dryly. "Amazing secrets sleep behind the queen's porcelain mask."
Procopio fell silent, stunned by the implied connection between the mysterious Cabal and Halruaa's queen.
Zephyr, though he himself was greatly troubled by the jordain's revelations, noted with approval that his patron did not question Cassia about Beatrix. To do so would be unwise and perhaps treasonous.
"Would I have met this young woman?" Procopio asked carefully.
"Not on purpose, that I assure you! Suffice it to say that, but for the circumstances of her birth, she is no one of consequence. What concerns us is that the wench seems quite taken with your young jordain. They were together in the market and looked to be on very good terms."
"Matteo," Procopio murmured thoughtfully, as if divining new possibilities in his newest counselor. He darted an accusing look at Zephyr, though there was no logical reason why his jordain should have known the identity of the street performer with Matteo.
Cassia paused for a long, slow smile. "You begin to see, dear Procopio, why it is wise for you to put distance between yourself and this youth. A man of your ambitions and talents would not willingly pit himself against the Cabal."
Zephyr noted the quick surge of disappointment on his patron's face. Was it possible that Procopio was actually hoping for an invitation to join this mysterious group?
The old elf studied his patron and their visitor and realized that this was so. Though it seemed beyond belief, these two people, the man he served and the jordain he was taught to honor above all others, could casually discuss the legacy of an evil that had destroyed Zephyr's people and ripped apart his life forever. The Cabal had ancient roots in a time the elf knew all too well. Yet here stood these two ignorant and short-lived humans, discussing the Cabal as if it were just another political consideration, another carved figure on one of Procopio's strategy game boards.
Wrath, deep and ancient and searing, rose from the old elf's heart.
"And what is your purpose in this, Cassia?" he demanded. "What do you hope to gain by sending Matteo to the service of the queen? Surely you are not driven by concern for Lord Procopio."
The woman's black eyes widened with shock at being addressed in such fashion, then she burst into genuine laughter. "All that I told your patron is true. But you are wise, elf, in suspecting that there is more. The diviner Xavierlyn is worming herself into the king's favor. I do not think Zalathorm would be pleased if Xavierlyn's jordain challenged the queen's counselor. The king might not be as besotted with Beatrix as he once was, but he will not look with favor at any woman who appears to contest for the queen's place."
"Very clever," Zephyr said coldly. "You pit your rivals against each other. But only one will lose, and how will that benefit you?"
Cassia's face turned pale with anger, except for a flush of red high on her cheeks. For a moment Zephyr thought she would strike him. She quickly gathered herself and gave him a small formal bow.
"You are quick to find the salient point, elf. I see why Procopio keeps you on, even though you are so obviously past your time. Xavierlyn is no match for Beatrix, that is true. But I know the Cabal far better than you do."
Zephyr's only response to this was a bitter smile.
"Matteo is entangled with Keturah's daughter, and hence he is certain to fall under the Cabal's eye," the woman continued. "Therefore it stands to reason that wherever Matteo goes, trouble will follow."
The king's counselor turned to the watchful Procopio and offered him a conspirator's smile. "And if this trouble goes to the doors of Xavierlyn and Queen Beatrix, I daresay that both your cause and mine will be well served."

* * * * *

Tzigone wandered through the city, keeping, for a change, to the well-traveled roads. Her keen senses felt the frequent touch of magic as spells of warding or scrying or seeking or divination slid over her like raindrops off a frog. She'd heard that the experience was unnerving to those who had newly come to the land. It would be, she supposed, if any of the spells could actually have some effect on her.
Magic she found rather boring. Far more interesting to her was the beauty of this place. Twilight was her favorite time, and Halarahh was one of her favorite cities. She loved the pink coral houses, the towers of white or blue or green marble, the streets cobbled in semiprecious stone, the fanciful fountains that filled the air with a pleasant splash and bubble. The bright rim of the sun was sinking below the western walls, turning the distant mountains a deep purple and gilding the snow-capped tips of the highest peaks with golden light. Starsnakes winged toward the trees, seeking refuge for the coming night. The air was soft and still, redolent with the exotic blossoms that seemed to grow everywhere. Tzigone skirted a trellis covered with jasmine. It was the one flower she disliked, for reasons that she only dimly recalled.
A frustrated sigh escaped her. There was so much that she couldn't remember. She had spent years trying to pick up the stray pieces of her life, but she couldn't put together a meaningful picture without the vital bits that still eluded her.
She had been very young when she was forced to make her own way in the world. Some of her memories of those early years were mercifully scant, and she didn't regret their loss. But the years that had come before-Why couldn't she grasp those?
If only she could hold on to her infrequent dreams. They faded so fast, leaving her with fleeing images and shadowy emotions of great poignancy, both of joy and intense loss. It seemed impossible that something so powerful could be forgotten.
Tzigone hissed through gritted teeth and swerved up toward the sweep of marble stairs that led to the promenade. Atop the city wall had been built a broad avenue. Here the fashionable people of Halarahh came to stroll, to meet, and, most importantly, to be seen.
They were out in full force on such a fine evening, clad in bright silks and brocades. Magical wands, staves, and weapons were prominently displayed, indeed, the people of Halruaa decked themselves with artifacts as freely as the wealthy folk of other lands loaded themselves with common gems.
Many of the people who came out for an evening walk were accompanied by exotic pets. Tiny gem-colored fairy dragons and winged cats flew overhead in the tight circles their leashes allowed them and enduring the promenade with ill grace. Most of the flitter-kittens were about as happy with their lot as any common cat might be, writhing and tumbling and tugging at the leashes that kept them tethered. Tzigone saw one particularly recalcitrant cat winging away toward the trees of the city green, trailing its leash like a second tail.
Lizards were among the most popular pets. Reptiles of all kinds were plentiful in Halruaa, and lizards were bred for their brilliant colors and extravagant back rills or neck ruffles. Some of the more daring folk even walked miniature behirs. The monsters' crocodilian snouts were invariably muzzled with contraptions of leather and electrum, but they were no less dangerous for it. They walked with a curious undulating motion, rolling along on their six or ten or twelve legs, their amber eyes glazed with the spells that kept them docile. But even in this enchanted state, behirs could let off lightning bolts powerful enough to reduce the finery of their wizard captors to smoke and ash.
The promenade went on for nearly a mile, and for its entire length, there was nary a side street, a nearby tree, or a building to give cover and offer a quick escape. Tzigone usually avoided such places, but tonight she didn't draw a second glance. She'd found a cast-off gown of pale green brocade airing on a rosebush and decided to spend a handful of coins for a snood of matching color. That net, tied onto her head and filled with hair carefully clipped from the tails of several chestnut horses, lent her the illusion of a noblewoman's long hair.
She strolled along, looking for someone who would provide her with an introduction to Kholstar, the city's master behir keeper. Before long, she noted a pale blue behir, glittering with scales the color of fine topaz, trudging behind a woman who minced along in a slim dress of a similar substance and hue.
This wizard was particularly arrogant. The leash that held the magical beast was braided leather, threaded with silver, which proclaimed that her control of the monster was so firm that she needn't fear its breath weapon. Chances were the wizard had warded herself against accidents, but the display was as ostentatious as any that Tzigone had seen in a fortnight.
This mixture of arrogance and style appealed to Tzigone. If she had to spend time in the company of a wizard, she might as well pick one who exhibited a certain flair.
She reached into her sleeve for a handful of tiny caltrops she'd prepared and let them fall between the wizard and her behir. The creature stepped on the first of them and let out a startled, angry whuffle. Arcane lightning sizzled up the metal threads and jolted the wizard's beringed hand.
The woman shrieked and dropped the lead, and the behir bolted in the opposite direction. Tzigone darted forward and planted her foot down hard on the leash before the creature could make good its escape.
She picked up the leather and metal strap, ignoring the indignant little sizzles that continued to pulse up the wires, and dragged the creature back over to its mistress.
"Not exactly a dutiful pet," she said sympathetically. "But he is one of the finest behirs I've seen. Such a lovely color! Do you show him?"
"He has seen it all," the woman said grimly. "You can't show him a damn thing."
Tzigone chuckled, an infectious sound that coaxed an answering grin from the wizard. "Well, the redeeming feature about behirs is that you can always treble your investment by selling them for spell components."
The woman grimaced and nodded, but she didn't seem eager to take back the lead Tzigone offered. "I would deliver it to Kholstar to be slaughtered tonight, but that thrice-bedamned behir keeper keeps the most inconvenient hours."
Tzigone lifted her eyebrows as if an idea had just occurred to her. "As it happens, I have three behirs, larger than this one but not so finely colored, that I'd just as soon sell for parts. We will bring Kholstar this one, I will promise him three more, and he will not mind the hour. What shopkeeper would turn away so much business?"
The woman considered this, eyeing Tzigone with new respect. "Three, you say?"
"They will be coming with my caravan in the morning, along with my household goods," Tzigone said smoothly.
"You are moving to Halarahh, then? From whence?"
"Achelar," she said, naming the city most remote and farthest off the commonly traveled roads. She grimaced, mimicking the woman's sudden expression of genteel distaste. "I can't tell you what a relief it is to get out of that backwater! But I am remiss in my manners. I am Margot, of the illusionist school, entirely at your service."
"And I am known as Sinestra," the woman said in a tone that was both grand and self-mocking. "I am a diviner, apprenticed and, alas, wed to Uriah Belajoon. I doubt you've heard of him."
"Who has not heard of so great a wizard?" Tzigone lied, broadly pantomiming wide-eyed awe. "You have my sincere condolences."
She had no idea what Sinestra would make of this mixed pronouncement, but apparently it fit well with the wizard's opinion. Sinestra chuckled with dark appreciation. "Welcome to Halarahh, Margot. We're destined to become great friends."
"Who am I to argue?" Tzigone said with a grin. "You're the diviner."
Sinestra's pronouncement of friendship did not keep her from taking the usual wizardry precautions. Tzigone felt the subtle touch of the woman's spells, seeking to measure the truth of everything Tzigone had said. Of course Sinestra's efforts yielded her nothing, but neither did her face reveal any surprise over this fact. Tzigone decided that if she needed a partner in a card game, she could do worse than enlist this woman's aid.
They chatted lightly as they made their way down from the promenade and through the streets to the behir keeper's shop, Sinestra providing a great deal of useful gossip to her supposed equal. Tzigone responded with completely fabricated stories of the wealthy and powerful folk of Achelar, taking pains to make them as amusing and scurrilous as possible. By the time they reached the weirs of Kholstar, Sinestra had extracted a promise from Tzigone to meet the next day for a midday meal and more gossip.
As Tzigone anticipated, the behir keeper was more than happy to unbar his door to this much business, especially when Tzigone expressed an interest in acquiring some ornamental monsters for the moat surrounding her new villa.
Sinestra left the blue behir to his fate and went on her way. Kholstar ushered Tzigone to the back room and left her to study the behir breeding books in search of a combination of color and magic that pleased her.
Tzigone quickly decided upon a pair of rose-colored hatchlings and devised a suitably dizzy story about wanting moat guards that would match the color of the water lilies. It was just such detail, she'd learned long ago, that made her stories and her borrowed personas both plausible and entertaining.
She left the hatchling records on the table and quickly surveyed the other books on the shelf. Despite what she'd told Matteo, she hadn't come to Halarahh merely to complete her obligation to him. Word had it that the behir keeper in this city was a talented generalist wizard who specialized in the breeding of magical creatures. Moreover, his wife was the city's premier matchmaker. Their combined library was precisely the sort of treasure trove that Tzigone had been seeking, and an introduction by Sinestra, an established patron, had gained her access to it.
She quickly took down book after book, placing each one atop the behir records and running her finger down the pages as she searched for anything that might be useful.
Unfortunately the lineage records were listed by gifts, naming first the school of magic and then delving into specific talents. Tzigone's problem was that she had no idea what her gift might be. That she had magical ability was beyond doubt, but she'd picked up what she knew one spell at a time, learning whatever was available, interesting, or useful.
"Have you made a decision, my lady?"
Tzigone glanced up, tilting the big book as she did to obscure the smaller, more important one within.
"I think so," she said in vague, ladylike tones. "The rose hatchlings are a good choice, don't you think? They're just exactly the color of the first water lilies to bloom. But I also have some yellow and cream blossoms coming later in the season," she mused. "Perhaps I shall have to purchase a half score of your lovely behirs to achieve the correct effect."
The prospect of so large a sale smoothed the impatience from the man's face. He bowed and backed out the door. "Please, take all the time you need."
Tzigone smiled and bent back over the volume. When she was alone, she slammed the smaller book shut and tried another. This one was no more useful to her, but it had an entry that caught her eye.
"The jordain school," she murmured.
A thought took root and grew into new and unexpected form. She'd seem Matteo shrug off magical spells that would have knocked most men flat on their backs, if not into whatever afterlife they had right to expect. His resistance was nothing like hers, but it was impressive. Was it possible that the two might somehow be related?
She propped her elbows on the table and dropped her chin into her hands as she pondered this. This was something she had to explore, and as luck would have it, she knew a jordain who was likely to answer her questions, if for no other reason than to be rid of her.
But she hadn't intended to seek out Matteo again. His harsh words had hurt her feelings, something that hadn't happened for a very long time-not since she'd been a very small girl and Sprite had teased her mercilessly.
Tzigone abruptly sat up straight, startled by this sudden remembrance.
"Sprite," she whispered, marveling as the tiny shadow of this distant memory took shape. She hadn't thought of her old friend for many years, at least, she had not remembered him during her waking hours. It seemed to her that she had dreamed of him, but she couldn't recall the details.
Sheer frustration assailed her, and she snatched up an inkwell and hurled it at the wall. Emerald green ink splattered against the white plaster and dripped onto the carpet. The mess immediately began to disappear, just as it would on any written contract about which the behir keeper had second thoughts.
Tzigone sighed again. Memory. It both eluded her and obsessed her. She made it a point to remember everything she could, learning languages, committing names and faces and songs and maps of city streets to memory. More importantly, she searched for ways to reclaim those things she could not remember. But she had never thought to seek out the jordaini.
The jordaini made a special study of memory. It was said that they could retrieve the smallest scrap of information from the storehouses of their minds. Perhaps she could learn from Matteo.
This was reason enough to seek him out. Tzigone suspected she had another purpose, but the words to describe it were unfamiliar to her.
With a shrug, Tzigone picked up the book and began to read about the secret lineage of the jordaini.
That night Matteo accompanied Procopio Septus to court for the first time. No mention was made of the events of the day, but Matteo had no illusion about the reason for his inclusion in his patron's plans. Even so, he steeled himself for the unexpected. Unforeseen events had become common since the day Tzigone had started haunting the edges of his life. Her meddling had brought him to this place, and he didn't believe that she was done with him.
The first surprise was that the king and queen held separate courts. Zalathorm held sway in a vast chamber defined by soaring rounded arches of green-veined marble. Large windows had been placed high on the walls, and beyond one of the largest windows was a docking platform for skyships. Ornate carvings lined the walls and arches, and the ceilings had been enspelled to resemble a night sky.
Matteo glanced up and saw that the rumors about the ceiling were true. The "stars" overhead truly did form constellations unknown to nature, shaping and reshaping to form the crest or sigil of each wizard who entered and was announced.
Nearly everyone in attendance was a wizard of considerable power. There were seventeen members of the Council of Elders in this city, and all but one was present when Matteo and his patron arrived. The final member was Xavierlyn, a tiny woman who liked to be called the Dawn Wizard. Matteo watched as her skyship, a gilded marvel with sails painted in soft, sunrise hues, floated gracefully to the dock. The wizard walked across the last few feet of air without aid of plank or platform, then floated down to the main floor. It was a remarkable entrance, and Matteo noted that Procopio took more than a little interest in his rival's appearance.
Matteo expected Zalathorm's court to display power and splendor, and he was not disappointed. Many of the wizards wore the old-fashioned ceremonial robes of their office and school. Others courted current fashion. The women dressed in exquisite gowns, and men donned silken plumage that was equally bright. Quite a few of the wizards were accompanied by their counselors, who were simply dressed in white linen. But that very simplicity was a statement of power, as were the pendants worn by all the jordaini but Matteo. He resolved to replace his missing emblem at first opportunity.
King Zalathorm was something of a surprise. Despite all his training in the ways of wizards, Matteo wouldn't have picked the man out of a crowd as someone of power and importance. The king was no more than average height, with thick hair and a full beard of a soft brown hue. His gaze was mild, his speech soft and almost diffident. To all appearances, he was a man in his fifth decade of life. Yet Matteo knew this was impossible, for Zalathorm had held the throne for more than sixty years. No one knew for certain how old the wizard was, but all agreed that he was one of the most powerful wizards in a nation full of magic.
"Tell me what you see," Procopio demanded in a soft voice.
Matteo tore his gaze from the king and looked about the room. "The woman in the yellow gown, the one standing by the harpist, is a priestess of Azuth. She must be quite powerful, for several wizards of high rank are laughing and drinking with her."
"True enough. Azuth's clergy is not highly esteemed, and the wizards would not bother with her unless her rank was high. What else?"
"The tall, auburn woman is Rhodea Firehair. She seldom leaves the city of Aluarim, for she is kept busy supervising the mint and commanding the soldiers that protect and transport the new coin. Her presence here indicates one of two things: Either a battle is on the horizon, or King Zalathorm has called council. She is never known to miss either. The presence of all seventeen members of the Council of Elders indicates that the king has issued a summons. The fact that the wizard Rhodea is garbed in silk rather than battle leather indicates that the council deals with matters of peace."
Procopio nodded but looked mildly impatient. So far Matteo's comments had required little special knowledge or discernment. "Continue."
The young man scanned the room. "Those three men speaking to Basel Indoulur are laden with magical devices. Do you notice how the thin one flaunts the rings on his hand, much as a man unaccustomed to wealth might display his coins? None of the three are particularly powerful wizards, but they wish to appear so. You would do well to learn why."
The diviner lifted one snowy eyebrow. "And why is that?"
"The ornaments they wear on their hands and about their necks are of Moonshae gold," Matteo explained. "Nowhere else is that particular shade of pale rose-gold mined. If these men were capable of crafting magical items themselves, they would do so. Nor are they overburdened with coin. Had they the means to buy the best, they would purchase Halruaan magic."
Procopio smiled and nodded in approval. "That goes without saying, but it's pleasant to hear nonetheless. Go on."
"The question is, how did they acquire these items, and for what purpose? It is said that the Llewyrr elves gave such gifts to the High Queen of the Moonshaes when she succeeded her father, King Kendrick, along with the prophecy that her line will continue for as long as the elven magic endures. This was no doubt meant as an elf blessing, but there are factions in that kingdom that might see opportunity in these gifts and this pronouncement."
Procopio studied his counselor with interest. "I begin to see your reasoning. Where else could such magic be studied and counteracted but in Halruaa? If the artifacts are what you think they are, their reappearance in the hands of the Moonshae queen's rivals, their magic depleted, might prove a rallying point to mount a serious challenge to the throne."
"Therein lies the problem. Halruaa can have no part in such games. Our magic is too widely feared. If the ruse were discovered, it wouldn't matter to the world if the Halruaan wizard who altered the artifacts knew nothing of their intended use. The Moonshae Islands have powerful allies. Most certainly there would be harsh reprisals."
Procopio nodded thoughtfully. He looked at Matteo with genuine regret. "You have counseled me well. I will seek a private audience with Zalathorm, and we will get to the heart of this. You, however, must present yourself to the queen's court."
He gave Matteo a small parchment card etched with sapphire ink. "Give this to the seneschal. He will endeavor to get you an introduction."
The wizard hesitated, then clapped Matteo on the shoulder. "May Mystra smile upon you."
Matteo heard the dismissal in the words and nodded his response. With a sigh, he turned toward the corridor that separated Zalathorm from his queen.
As he walked, the sound of music and conversation faded slowly away. The tap of his footsteps echoed along the marble floor, and the corridor became increasingly chill. Paradoxically, bursts of steam jetted out into the hall at intervals of increasing frequency.
He carefully came closer to investigate. A sudden, sharp hiss drew his gaze to his left, and immediate he reached for his daggers. Crouched in an alcove, looking like a giant, ice-white cat ready to spring, was a white dragon.
The beast was still a juvenile, judging from its size, but deadly just the same. The dragon's maw was wide and curved upward in a wicked smile, parted slightly to reveal rows of lethal ivory fangs. Two horns curled back off the beast's forehead, and a third, shorter one in the center jutted forward, swirled like a long, slender seashell. It looked very like a unicorn's horn, but for the barbed tip and the taint of long-dried blood. The dragon's talons were equally stained, and each was nearly as long as Matteo's hand. Its ice blue eyes regarded Matteo steadily and glittered like malevolent jewels.
A moment passed before Matteo realized his mistake. In his surprise, he looked directly into the dragon's eyes. And in looking, he felt nothing-none of the fear that turned bones to water and made strong men forget their resolve. This had nothing to do with his resistance to magic, but with the dragon itself. It was no true beast, but an elaborate clockwork device.
Matteo held back until the thing emitted two more puffs of cold steam, then leaned in closer for a look. Sure enough, the scales were bits of electrum, hammered smooth and thin and cunningly fitted together. He could glimpse the gears inside the creature's mouth and the large block of ice within its body. Periodically a small vial tipped, pouring a few drops of some unknown mixture onto the ice, which immediately sizzled and sent forth a cloud of cooling vapor. The dragon was an elaborate cooling device, nothing more. Even the apparent blood on its horn and claws was nothing more than a bit of rust.
Even so, Matteo proceeded with caution down the hall, his hands near the hilts of his daggers and his eyes keenly aware of the alcoves that lined the corridor. Such a device could easily lure a visitor into a sense of security. Three false dragons could leave one complacent and trusting, and thus easy prey for a fourth, real dragon. After all, the surest way to hide a tree was to plant a forest around it.
But Matteo got to the end of the long corridor without incident. He presented Procopio's card to the soldier at the door. The man examined it and then fixed a wry smile on the young jordain.
"I say, you're the least likely of the bunch. I could see at a glance why the rest of them got sent up here. Damned if I wouldn't have exiled them myself! What the nine hells did you do-bugger the lord mayor?"
Matteo sighed. "Figuratively speaking, I suppose you could say that. Procopio Septus, the lord mayor, is my patron. I became embroiled in dispute with the patron of Lady Xavierlyn."
The soldier raised one hand. "Say no more. We speak of those who would be king. Along with a dozen others, of course, but Procopio and Xavierlyn are the biggest roosters in the ring. Not that it's my place to talk of such things."
It certainly wasn't, but Matteo could almost understand the man's desire for conversation of any sort. He had seen no other soul since he'd left Zalathorm's court, and he didn't hear any evidence of human occupation behind the great door. A series of faint clicks and taps and whirs emanated from behind the thick wood, but no sound that could be considered remotely human.
"I have been instructed to present myself to the queen," Matteo said, determined to get on with things.
The seneschal shrugged and pulled a small silver rod from his sleeve. He touched this to the massive lock, which promptly began to fade. The door turned translucent as well, thinning and finally disappearing with a soft pop. A few paces behind it stood another door, which dissolved in much the same manner.
"Magical wards," the guard explained. "Keeps things from getting out. Can't be too careful, with the king just down the hall and all."
It seemed odd that the queen's guard should be concerned about protecting the king rather than tending his own charge. But Matteo nodded politely and waited until the third and final door swung open, this time on hinges of solid iron. He stepped inside, aware that the man was hastily barring the heavy door behind him.
The scene before him was like nothing he had ever seen or imagined. Long tables lined the room in precise rows. Here and there stood movable walls covered with large sheets of parchment. Upon them were written incomprehensible patterns of lines and runes. At second glance, Matteo recognized them as sketches for some new sort of clockwork device.
These were everywhere. A climbing vine, too vividly green to be a living thing, was studded with purple flowers that budded and bloomed and closed, over and over again. Several tiny birds darted among them, "feeding" upon the blossoms. The soft whir of their wings was faintly metallic, incredibly, these were not true hummingbirds but flying toys. A metallic tiger, its markings a lifelike pattern rendered in gold and onyx, prowled about the queen's throne, keeping guard over its mistress.
Queen Beatrix was not at her throne. She stood quietly to one side, studying one of the drawings. So still was she that for a moment, Matteo mistook her for one of her own clockwork devices. When she turned and regarded him with cold brown eyes, he wasn't entirely certain that he had been wrong.
Once she might have been a beautiful woman. Her form was small and slim, and her still features were finely molded and without blemish. But her face was utterly white, painted to resemble fine porcelain. Her mouth was a prim crimson curve and her eyes deeply framed with skillfully applied kohl. She wore a wig of mingled white and silver, elaborately curled and studded with pearls and electrum netting. Her white gown was stiff, formal, and encrusted with silver embroidery. The effect was beautiful, but cold and not quite human. Matteo wouldn't have sworn whether she was woman, goddess, machine, or some combination of all three.
"You may come forward," she said in a flat but unmistakably human voice.
Matteo dipped into a bow and gave his name and that of his patron. "Lord Procopio sends his respects."
"And has the wit not to deliver them himself," Beatrix said, without inflection of anger or humor. She turned away and gestured toward the drawing. "So, jordain. If you would be my counselor, come and tell me what you see."
He came over and studied the complex pattern of sweeping lines and curves. "In form, it looks a bit like an elephant, Your Majesty."
"Will it move? Walk? Attack?"
"I am no artificer, but I think not." He pointed to a series of connected gears. "These do not seem of sufficient size to provide much power."
'The gears provide a small amount of motive force, which is greatly enlarged by the life-force planted within," Beatrix said. "A true elephant is a rare thing and difficult to bring over the Muaraghal Wall," she said, naming the mountain range that divided Halruaa from the lands to the east. "We have tried and failed thrice."
Matteo tried not to show the horror this news evoked. Elephants were rare and wondrous creatures. Though they didn't have speech or work magic, some sages thought them to be at least as intelligent as dolphins. "You will place the life-force of an elephant within this device?"
"No. A donkey perhaps, or a Durparian merchant," the queen said in the same even, emotionless tone. "They are much the same."
From another person's lips, this might have been a dark jest. Matteo realized that Beatrix was speaking simple truth as she saw it
"Who builds these?" he asked, with a sweep of his hand that indicated the entire collection of strange contraptions.
"I send for artisans and wizards as I require their services. There are none here now," she added unnecessarily.
The queen didn't seem bothered by her isolation, but it seemed unnatural to Matteo. "There is music and feasting in the halls of the king," he said. "Will you allow me to escort you there?"
She considered this and placed a small white hand at her waist. "I should eat," she said, as if calculating how long it had been since she had bothered to think of such things.
He nodded and walked over to tap at the massive door. The guard let them out, and together they walked down the long corridor. Each of the clockwork dragons bowed as the queen walked past, dipping its metal head until its rusty horns rasped against the floor.
Their appearance in Zalathorm's hall created quite a stir. For a moment conversation stilled altogether, which in mannered Halruaa was as obvious as a smokepowder blast might be in any other court. The king quickly excused himself from his courtiers and came forward, his hands outstretched and his ageless eyes alight with youth and hope.
"Beatrix, my dear, this is a most unexpected pleasure."
The queen responded with a single remote nod, but she put her hands into his. Matteo fell back as they spoke for a few moments, Beatrix answering in cool, measured phrases.
After a few moments she excused herself and lifted a hand to summon one of the servants who carried trays of goblets and fruit around the room. The king sighed and turned to Matteo.
"Walk with me," he said abruptly.
The young man fell into step. They left the main council hall and entered an antechamber, which in turn led to a hanging garden. The king didn't stop or speak until they reached the rail and the city was spread out before them, twinkling with magical lights.
"The queen was not always like this, you know," Zalathorm said abruptly, his eyes fixed on the city below. "When she came to the city fifteen years ago, she was a marvel. So beautiful, and so full of light!"
Matteo nodded. Over the long years, Zalathorm had had several queens. Beatrix was the latest. She had been much admired in the early years of her reign for her intelligence and courage. The daughter of reclusive wizards who lived in a remote mountain village, she was the sole survivor of an attack by Crinti raiders. She didn't speak of her early years beyond that fact, but she had been tested and shown to be a generalist mage of middling ability. But as the years passed, she took more interest in clockwork than in magic and seemed to prefer the company of mechanical creatures to that of her human subjects.
Worse yet, she had not provided Zalathorm with an heir. There were many in Halruaa who thought it past time for the king to put Beatrix aside and find a more suitable queen. Though it seemed likely that the king would outlive most of his subjects, the issue of succession was of no small importance. If Zalathorm didn't have an heir, ambitious wizards would vie for his throne. Halruaans knew their history and remembered the devastation that such a contest could cause.
"You persuaded Beatrix to come tonight," the king said. "For this I am grateful."
"It was no great matter. She is no clockwork device, and she needs food and music and company as much as any other."
Zalathorm's smile was tight and wry. "A fact that she seldom remembers. It has been some time since the queen appeared in court. You have done well. I am delighted to see that she will be well cared for."
Matteo nodded, hearing his fate in the king's words. He wasn't happy about it, but he saw no way to evade what was apparently his fate and his duty. Still, there was something he had to know.
"What happened?"
The king didn't need to ask what he meant. "Magic," he said shortly. "It is a great boon, the noblest of arts. But its effects can be as deadly to the spellcaster as the most potent poison. No one knows what spells Beatrix cast against the Crinti, or how she survived the raid. She doesn't recall anything about it, moreover, she has lost memory of all that happened to her before she came to Halarahh. No diviner could learn the queen's story. It took the most powerful of inquisitors to pull even this much memory from her. But something shattered within Beatrix, something that no magic can repair. In fact, she turns away from magic more and more with each day that passes."
Zalathorm passed one hand across his face as if to erase the pain written there. "And Halruaa being what it is, that means she shuns the land and all who live within it. Where she has gone, no one may truly follow. I will speak plainly to you and admit what many of my subjects whisper. The queen, the woman whom you must serve, is no longer sane."
Matteo listened with great sympathy, chilled by the king's obvious grief and by the enormity of damage that magic had wrought. He knew the queen's scant history, as did most of Halruaa, but for the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps more could be learned. If he was to serve Beatrix, he would need to know all he could.
"The inquisitor who learned of the queen's past... do you recall his name?"
"It was a woman," the king said without much interest.
"Or more strictly speaking, an elf woman. No, I do not recall her name."
A chill swept through Matteo like the passing of a vengeful ghost. There was only one elf in all Halruaa who had risen to the rank of inquisitrix: Kiva the magehound.
Chapter Fourteen
Zephyr stood at the rail of his patron's skyship, watching the small dark cloud that brooded over Lake Halruaa. The wind whipped the sparse white strands of his hair about his shoulders and sent a cruel chill through his bones. But he dared not go belowdecks until he was certain of his course. The gales that came off the lake were strong and dangerous. He wouldn't take any more risks with the skyship than he needed to.
The elf had leave to take the Starsnake up whenever he chose, and the crew were instructed to follow his bidding and speak nothing of what they heard and whom they saw. It was among Zephyr's tasks to gather information, and few Halruaans would not eagerly accept an invitation to fly on one of the wondrous ships. Once away from port, the visitors were quite literally captive audiences until whatever time Zephyr chose to put down. Over the years, he had coaxed amazing secrets from people who were too thrilled or unnerved by sky travel to guard their words. It was a fine arrangement, and one of the few occasions in which Zephyr felt truly in control.
Today, however, the elf had few illusions about who commanded whom. He had taken to the skies at Kiva's call.
It occurred to him that the beautiful magehound had come a very long way from the bedraggled, terrified girl-child that Akhlaur's men had dragged from the trees of the Mhair. She had been nearly insensible with shock and grief, for she had escaped the first attack upon their village only to witness the slaughter of her people. Like Zephyr, she had survived years of torture and degradation at the hands of the wizard Akhlaur. But unlike him, she had escaped Halruaa and made a life for herself. Many years later, she had returned to learn the famed magic of the land, determined to use it to right this terrible wrong. For what she had endured and all she had accomplished, Zephyr admired her.
Recently, however, he had also begun to fear her. He wished he could explain why this was so. Wasn't her life's quest, grim though it was, the same as his own? Didn't she bear the same grief and guilt over the creature that haunted Akhlaur's swamp? Hadn't they both sworn not to rest until the laraken was destroyed?
The old elf squinted at the sky, cursing his fading vision as he tried to divine the nature of the small dark cloud. Yes, it was almost certainly the awaited signal. There was no lack of clouds over the lake, but most of them sailed briskly on the winds. This one sat and brooded, looking as if it wished for fingers so that it could drum them impatiently. More importantly, it lay just beyond the reach of the city's magical wards, powerful spells that informed the city guards whenever a wizard of power approached the city. Kiva would know of these wards and keep just beyond them.
Zephyr gave the order to the helmsman to change course and sail through the dark cloud. He went below to await his visitor.
He felt her presence in the sudden cool mist of the cloud that enveloped the ship. He watched as the fine droplets condensed into a solid female form, a wild elf with jade-green curls and skin of deep burnished gold, an unusually pale hue for a forest elf from this clime.
"Greetings, Kiva. You look chilled." The magehound glared at him, then strode across the cabin and picked up a decanter of haerlu wine from the captain's table. She poured a small measure of the pale golden liquid into a goblet and then tossed it back with a single swallow. She grimaced at the fiery taste, but Zephyr noticed that some of the coppery color crept back into the golden pallor of her face. Apparently there was cold comfort to be found in the arms of a storm cloud.
She turned to the old elf. "Do you have the girl or not?"
"I will have her," Zephyr said stoutly. "She has been most bold of late. We have spotted her several times over the last few days. So far no one has been able to lay hands on her, but it is only a matter of time."
"Has Matteo been of help?"
The elf grimaced. "Not as much as I had hoped. The lad has changed service. I haven't seen him since he went to the court of Queen Beatrix."
Kiva turned sharply to stare at him. "You cannot be serious. Whose doing was this?"
"Procopio let him go, but at Cassia's urging."
The elf woman nodded grimly. "I should have surmised. Cassia has long been suspicious of the queen. I hadn't suspected, however, that she knew so much."
"Most likely she doesn't realize the full implications of her action. Matteo can be impulsive, and Cassia claims that she hopes to see him bring trouble or at least embarrassment to Beatrix's door. Perhaps that accounts for Cassia's first impulse, but I suspect she has other, more complex desires."
"Such as?"
Zephyr told her the story of Matteo's battle with the necromancer. "He killed Azgool Njammian, in combat, which, although impressive, fixes wary eyes upon him. All jordaini are taught to fight, but few of us actually kill. Matteo will be regarded as warily as a half-feral hunting hound. What is even more significant is that Azgool located Matteo through a spell of seeking. A difficult task, for as you know, few jordaini can be observed magically. If Matteo is one of these few, then Cassia might well have gained a window into the queen's chambers."
"Cassia, that most honored of jordaini, using forbidden magic to observe a rival?" Kiva said with ironic surprise.
The elf shrugged. "There is little that Cassia would not do. But don't credit her with too much knowledge of Beatrix. I think her primary goal is to supplant the queen in Zalathorm's affections."
"More fool she. Cassia will never be queen. Jordaini cannot marry."
"As she well knows. But Cassia already has the king's ear, perhaps she aspires to his heart as well. At present, Beatrix still holds Zalathorm's affections, but with each day that passes, the clamor for him to take a new queen and get himself an heir grows louder. I suspect that Cassia would be pleased to see Zalathorm put aside Beatrix and take a new queen. He is likely to resent whatever woman supplants Beatrix, and that would place Cassia foremost in his regard."
Kiva sniffed. "Cassia might be a fool, but she is an ambitious fool. We will have to watch her closely."
The elf inclined his head. "As you say. How do the plans for battle progress?"
"Very well," she said with great pleasure. "The first great test lies ahead. If we do battle successfully in Kilmaruu Swamp, we will bring tested weapons and methods into the Swamp of Akhlaur. I am confident that before the summer rains come, the source of the laraken's power will be no more."
"This is not what we agreed!" Zephyr protested. "The laraken must be destroyed outright!"
"Of course," Kiva assured him in soothing tones. "The creature is tethered to the swamp by the spill of magic from the Elemental Plane of Water. Once that gate is closed, the laraken will be desperate to feed elsewhere. We will lure it away and see that it is appropriately dealt with."
"You swear it?" the elf persisted.
The magehound's face became deadly still. "By the graves of our people, by the trees of the Mhair, by the injustices visited upon us both, I swear that this evil will be set right."
Zephyr nodded, satisfied by the solemnity of her oath. "I regret that I have not yet been able to deliver the girl Tzigone to you, but I must admit that I am not sorry to see young Matteo move clear of the matter. The lad might become something rather special, given a chance."
"More likely one of Beatrix's machines will grind him up to oil its gears," she commented. "What a ridiculous risk to take! Warriors like Matteo should die in battle, not in some insane workshop."
"You are one to talk of risk. Do you still intend to enter the Swamp of Akhlaur, knowing that the laraken could strip the magic from you?"
"I'm working on that. There is no need to concern yourself."
The elf shook his head. "There is need. There is a bond between us. We share a history, a homeland. We have both known great loss, and our secrets are mirror images." He fell silent for a long moment, then added in a softer tone, "We share blood."
"Blood? Ichor, more likely!" she spat out. She took a moment to compose herself and then continued in more modulated tones. "We will be avenged, Zephyr. Never doubt that."
For a long moment the gaze of the two elves locked, bound by shared memories of long-ago wrongs. Kiva shared the passion for vengeance that shone in the old elf's eyes, but she also harbored ambitions that went far beyond retribution. The laraken would be destroyed sooner or later-the wizards of Halruaa were too resourceful to let its rampage continue forever-but for many moons to come, the evil that the wizard Akhlaur had created would be visited upon his descendants. That was right and fitting. But Kiva wanted more. She wanted the dark power that Akhlaur had amassed at such unspeakable cost.
And then, once she was strong enough, she would have Akhlaur himself.
"You said that Matteo was well out of this matter," she said, schooling her voice into a mild tone. "Does the girl Tzigone seem to share this opinion? Has she finished with him?"
"They have not been seen together for several days. I've had him watched, so I'm quite sure of this."
"Perhaps she considers her debt paid," Kiva mused. "But we cannot be too certain. She might present herself on the doorstep of Beatrix's palace at any time, and that we must avoid. We need the girl and cannot risk letting the Cabal get hold of her. Not that there is much risk of that. For all anyone knows, they did away with the child years ago."
Zephyr was silent for a long moment. "Cassia has learned otherwise. She also knows that the girl is in the city and has told this news to my patron, Procopio Septus."
Kiva's amber eyes narrowed to feline slits. "And you only now see fit to mention this? What else might Cassia know?"
"That I cannot say."
The magehound poured herself another glass of wine and sipped it as she considered. "Perhaps there is a way to use this new development," she said at last. "Let Cassia seek Keturah's daughter. Nothing will lure the girl into our nets like the mystery of her past.
"Yes," Kiva said with more confidence, "we shall soon have Tzigone, and if we play the game well, Matteo as well."
"Do you really need the lad?" Zephyr said tentatively.
Kiva's smile was cold and hard, and in her eyes glittered something that went far beyond hatred. "You've seen the laraken. You know its power better than most. All your magic and centuries of your life were stolen in the making of that monster. You aged hundreds of years in a matter of hours as you watched it tear its way toward life. You know the scars that the birthing left behind, for you cared for me after I was tossed out to die."
"Kiva, no more," he begged, appalled by the memories she evoked and the rising hysteria in her voice.
But the elf woman would not be deterred. "You saw the monster that Akhlaur summoned to mingle with your magic and mine. You know what the laraken is, and you know how powerful it has become. And yet you tell me to leave Matteo out of this! He is a jordain, and I am a magehound, and his fate has been in my hands since before he was born. He is nothing."
"No soul is without worth, Kiva. Not even a human soul."
"I did not come to discuss philosophy with you. Matteo is a good fighter with nearly total resistance to magic. He is precisely the sort of weapon we seek. Knowing all you know, can you begrudge me a single blade that I could take into that swamp?"
The elf bowed his head in defeat. "Do what you must," he said softly. But at that moment he wasn't certain what he feared more: the laraken or the magehound.

* * * * *

Cassia stood on the parapet of the palace, watching the scene below her with disbelief. Queen Beatrix walked the promenade, her pale, gem-encrusted gown glittering in the faint light of late afternoon and her elaborate white-and-silver coif anticipating the moonlight. Beside her strolled her new counselor, pointing out sights in the city below and nodding in polite deference to the wizards who passed by.
The jordain noted that every wizard the pair encountered stopped to speak with the queen, and that quite a few didn't move on after the time required by the proper greetings had elapsed. Cassia remembered all too well the charm that Beatrix could use when it suited her to do so.
Cassia spun on her heel. She strode quickly back into her chamber and began to pace. Apparently Matteo had managed to persuade Beatrix that there was a realm outside her workshop. He might even convince the queen, Mystra forbid, that she was still a human woman!
That was not a thought that Cassia relished. Granted, it was hard to find a weakness or a misdeed in a woman as cold and brilliant and solitary and mysterious as the queen. Who knew what damning secrets might flow forth if Matteo could effect a thaw?
On the other hand, Cassia's position as high counselor would be compromised by Beatrix's return to court. Cassia was at Zalathorm's side more often that anyone else, and she wouldn't readily relinquish this spot, not even to the queen.
Perhaps especially not to the queen.
Clearly she had erred when she sent the young jordain to Beatrix. She didn't doubt her assessment of Matteo. The young man was impulsive and passionate, and such people tended to attract trouble. Wasn't his apparent friendship with Keturah's daughter proof of this? What Cassia had neglected to consider was that where there was great risk, there was also great potential.
Fortunately she had other ways to bedevil the queen. Cassia glanced toward the cot, where a grotesque figure writhed and moaned as it struggled against its bonds, near death but taking its time.
Her "guest" was the Cabal's latest find, a misbegotten creature that was obviously intended to be a centaurlike warrior, half panther, half Crinti. The result was horrific: an elflike body supported by four twisted, feline limbs, and a dark, feral face that was neither elf nor panther, but a mirror into some nether world. The creature's body was covered with a mottled mixture of dusky skin, patches of gray fur, and reptilian scales. It was, beyond doubt, a wizardly experiment gone wrong.
The jordaini had a proverb about the danger of dancing to songs that gods had written. Never had Cassia seen such vivid proof as this wretched, dying cat-thing.
But the greatest crime, in her opinion, was that the creature had been allowed to live this long. Halruaa was a land of powerful magic carefully constrained by rules and customs. This was necessary, or ambitious wizards would soon reduce the land to chaos.
But such control had its costs. Magical experiments that went wrong, and often the wizards who erred, were quickly done away with. The "crintaur" should have been slain before it drew its first breath. Yet it had been found wandering in the queen's forest. Cassia's scouts had shot and mortally wounded it. Nor was it the first such creature her scouts had found.
That led to an interesting question. Few people knew of the Cabal, a society of wizards who controlled magical use and dealt out penalties for misuse. Cassia had little doubt that Beatrix was somehow involved with this mysterious group. But did the queen work against the Cabal, or did she command it?
There were possibilities either way. Most wizards feared the secret Cabal and wouldn't take kindly to news that the queen controlled its activities. Of course, Zalathorm knew of the Cabal, but he kept himself apart from the darker realities of his realm. He was widely loved and revered. He had ruled well and led his people to victory in many battles. His people would forgive him much. But if it was proved and quietly revealed that Beatrix was connected with the Cabal, he might be forced to put her aside.
But the fact that this creature had been caught in the queen's forest was not sufficient proof of the queen's complicity. The girl Tzigone, on the other hand, might be. She had escaped the Cabal. Perhaps she could be induced to remember who had questioned her and who had aided her escape. This would yield the first steps along a path that Cassia dearly hoped would end at the door of Queen Beatrix.
There was much about Tzigone that interested Cassia. Her inquisitors hadn't been able to detect a drop of magical ability, but simple observation indicated that the child possessed a volatile combination of wild talents, as well as an almost total resistance to magic.
Magic resistance was a highly desirable trait, and the regard that Cassia and her fellow jordaini enjoyed was proof of this. But a wizard who possessed a jordain's resistance provided new and unpredictable possibilities. No one knew how talents such as Tzigone's might develop if trained, and, even more ominous, how they might pass down to future generations. Magical gifts were to be strengthened through careful selection and guided marriages, but only along prescribed lines. Tzigone would not have been the first wild talent removed by the Cabal. Society demanded it, much as it safeguarded itself through the destruction of a rabid and unpredictable hound.
Yet Tzigone lived. More interesting still, she seemed to have caught the interest of the magehound Kiva.
The same magehound, Cassia noted, who had examined Beatrix before her marriage to a smitten Zalathorm.
There was a connection there, but one that eluded Cassia.
The jordain sat down at her desk and began to write, meticulously piecing together the information from a dozen scrolls. She traced the magehound's path over the past several years and noted that Kiva's travels intersected frequently with reports of trouble caused by someone who was variously described as a street urchin, a street performer, or a young girl. Tzigone, it seemed, had had a very busy life.
A pity, thought Cassia, that she couldn't trace Tzigone back to her origin. She would have given a great deal to know the name of the girl's father. Perhaps then she might be able to find a damning connection between the girl, the magehound, and the queen.
As it was, Cassia had information sufficient to create trouble. She quickly penned a letter to Sinestra Belajoon, a diviner who had been seen in Tzigone's presence. Cassia commiserated with the wizard about her loss. Whether Tzigone had actually stolen anything from Sinestra, Cassia didn't know or care. The very suggestion would have the wizard patting her pockets and coming up with a loss of some sort. She commented that Sinestra was not the only person of wit and talent to be taken in by this clever thief. Matteo, counselor to Queen Beatrix, was a friend of the girl. With great satisfaction, Cassia sealed the letter and sent a servant to deliver it She turned back to the bits and pieces of Tzigone's history, tracing the determined magehound's efforts back five years, ten, nearly twenty.
"Another few days' study, and I shall have all the puzzle pieces in place," she murmured.
"Then perhaps I should return," said a sweet, bell-like voice behind her. "I do hate to leave things unfinished."
The jordain leaped from her chair and whirled, twin daggers gleaming in her manicured hands. Her fury changed to fear as she regarded the small, strange figure seated in her favorite chair. Long ringlets of jade green cascaded over a gown of green and gold and framed a face that held the color and the coldness of polished copper.
Cassia drew herself up with all the dignity she could muster. After all, she was the king's high counselor, and this creature, despite her position, was merely an elf.
"How dare you enter my chamber uninvited, and by magical means?"
The magehound's smile made the room feel suddenly chill. "I go wherever my duty takes me."
"What is that to me? You have no business here."
"Don't I?" Kiva rose in a single swift, fluid motion. "The ranks of the jordaini must be kept free of magic's taint No one, no matter how high her rank or how powerful her patron, is immune to that rule. If I decide to call inquest against you, no one will question my right."
Cassia hadn't considered this possibility. It was a potent threat. She swallowed with great difficulty. "What do you want?"
The elf extended a peremptory hand. "To begin with, you can give me those papers."
After a moment's hesitation, Cassia handed them over. Kiva studied them and then fixed a challenging stare upon the jordain.
"As you have gone to such trouble to learn, I have sought this girl for quite some time. She is wanted for inquest. This is my duty, and I will brook no interference. This quarry is mine, jordain. Back away, and perhaps I will not need to seek another."
Cassia didn't need to ask who the second quarry might be. "I accept your terms," she said quickly.
"You are hasty," the elf said with a cool smile. "I wasn't quite finished. Have you spoken to anyone about what you have learned?"
The magehound reached into the folds of her yellow sleeve and produced a silver wand, the instrument that could find magic wherever it hid and condemn any jordain who knew Mystra's touch.
Cassia's gaze did not waver, and she spoke words that were partial truth and careful falsehood. "I did not speak to anyone, nor will I," she vowed, omitting mention of the letters she had penned. She felt safe in doing so, for by tradition, jordaini did not write and send messages.
Kiva accepted this with a nod. "Good. If I hear you have broken silence, we will meet again. And I assure you," she said softly, "on that day you will be far less happy with the bargain we make."