The Magehound (10 page)

It was a marvelous process, but Matteo also found it inexplicably sad. Generations upon generations of tiny creatures were induced to venture out of the wide sea into this narrow, artificial inlet, then tricked into building their reefs out into the inhospitable air.

Matteo wondered briefly if there were among these structures the tiny bodies of coral seers who perceived the deadly pattern, who strove to convince the others to give up the ways of untold generations. Clearly they did not succeed, but perhaps they, too, were part of the pattern.

“This way,” Tzigone said, pointing toward a small shop shaded by a sea-green awning. No one was currently in attendance, which in itself was not unusual. Many merchants took long meals and short naps in the midday heat, trusting in powerful magical wards to safeguard their goods.

Tzigone strode purposefully toward the shop and studied the weapons on display. She reached in and took a simple but finely crafted short sword, considerably longer than a dagger but not so long that a jordain unfamiliar with dueling weapons would find it unbalanced.

“You keep your sword in a swordsmith’s shop?” Matteo said dubiously.

She glanced up and down the street and then pressed the weapon into his hand. “For a while, I kept it in a perfumery, but every time I turned around I knocked down crystal vials. It was damned inconvenient.”

Matteo’s eyes narrowed. “You are quick to play games with words. Is this weapon truly yours?”

“Could I pass the swordsmith’s wards if it were not?” she said impatiently. “Take it and let’s be gone.”

Matteo set off toward the harbor and the place where he had secured his stallion. He set a brisk pace, eager to find his horse and his friend Themo and take both back to the comparative safety of House Jordain.

Safety.

The word echoed in the great hollow that was his heart. Andris had found no haven there.

Matteo was unprepared for the grief that struck him like a tidal surge. Never had he experienced anything like this flood of emotion. He felt overwhelmed, as if he was being torn away from his moorings.

Several moments passed before he realized that Tzigone was studying him with interest. He caught her eye and braced himself for her questions.

To his surprise, she merely nodded. There was little sympathy in the gesture, but much understanding. Whatever she saw in his eyes was something she knew well.

For some reason, Matteo found this simple acknowledgment more comforting than any of the jordaini’s beautifully honed and reasoned phrases.

He searched his benumbed mind for something profound to say and came up empty. “I have to get my horse,” he said lamely.

“Well, good for you,” she said approvingly. “I was afraid you’d want to look for Mbatu or some such foolishness.”

“The wemic will likely find me. If he loses our trail, it would be logical for him to return to the place where we met. I left Cyric tied to a rail near the tavern.”

She hoisted one eyebrow and sent him a sidelong look. “Cyric?”

“Yes. The stallion is named after-“

“I know who Cyric is, although frankly I’m surprised that you do. What did the horse do to earn a name like that?”

“Well, he is somewhat volatile.”

“I’ll bet.” Her lips twitched. “You know, I thought all jordaini would be boring, seeing how you aren’t allowed to add any color to your facts. It’s nice to know that understatement isn’t against your creed.”

Her dry comment surprised a chuckle from Matteo. They fell into a comfortable pace as Tzigone wove a path through the streets.

Their shadows stretched out before them as they rounded a corner into yet another narrow street. The city was beginning to stir as the sunsleep hours passed. Though the sun was less direct, the heat did not noticeably lessen. Matteo noted that the day was in fact unseasonably warm. Heat rose in visible waves from the paved roads, distorting the scene ahead. A four-man patrol passed, their faces damp and eyes made surly by heat.

Matteo noticed the Tzigone was suddenly very interested in a shop window that offered fishing lures, small hammers, spools of wire, and other small metal devices. “You have reason to avoid the city guard?” he asked.

“They usually seem to think so,” she replied cheerfully. “It seems only polite to oblige them.”

The jordain was about to challenge that dubious logic when suddenly the shadows at the far side of the street blurred, commingled into an ominous haze by the oddly shaped bulk closing in rapidly.

Matteo thrust Tzigone aside and turned, sword in hand, instinctively placing himself between the girl and the wemic.

The lion-man reached over his massive shoulder. Steel hissed like a striking snake as Mbatu drew his massive blade. The wemic crouched and then leaped, bringing his sword around for a high, smashing attack.

Matteo lifted his borrowed sword to meet the brutal assault. The weapons met with a high metallic shriek. The jordain didn’t attempt to absorb the mighty blow, but shifted his weight to his right foot and let the force of the attack carry the enjoined swords to the ground. Deftly he twisted aside and danced back, sliding his sword out from under the wemic’s blade. He darted in again, thrusting low, a point far lower than he would choose for attacking a human.

The wemic parried and retreated, trying to work his sword back into position for a high attack. Matteo would have none of that. He pressed in, stabbing and thrusting again and again, forcing the wemic to keep the battle low.

Never had Matteo fought a wemic, but he discerned what the creature’s best strategy would be. Once the blades were high, the wemic could bring his leonine forepaws into play. By Matteo’s estimation, the claws on Mbatu’s feet could disembowel a man in three quick strokes or tear out his throat in one.

Again and again the wemic tried to draw back, tried to disengage the blades long enough to maneuver into position for a killing stroke. Matteo pursued, always taking the offensive and looking for an opening of his own.

The battle went on and on. The heat of the sun was punishing, and his arms ached from the unfamiliar weight of the sword. As if in a daze, he heard Tzigone mutter something about the damned horse and not being able to find the militia the one time you actually wanted them. From the corner of his eye, he saw her hoist a bucket of rainwater and heave it in a shining arc toward him and the wemic.

A fleeting smile touched Matteo’s lips as he shook water from his eyes. Oddly enough, he understood at once Tzigone’s intent. The water cooled him off but did not distract or inconvenience him. On the other hand, Mbatu’s glossy black mane hung wet and heavy about his face, and his ears turned back with familiar feline distaste.

The wemic turned a murderous golden stare upon Tzigone. “Bring her in alive,” he muttered, as if to remind himself of an onerous duty.

An eager, familiar snort drew Matteo’s eye to the far end of the street. Matteo’s black stallion trotted purposefully toward the battle, his eyes gleaming weirdly. His reins hung loose, and splinters of wood were tangled in his mane. For the first time, Matteo understood what the stable hands meant when they swore that they never heard that snort but they expected to see it accompanied by a burst of sulfur-scented steam.

Matteo spun to place Cyric at his back. He sent a quick glance toward the watchful Tzigone, hoping beyond hope that she might discern his battle strategy. To his surprise, she nodded and edged down the street toward Mbatu. She pulled a long knife from her boot and went into a crouch.

When the clatter of the stallion’s approach stopped, Matteo danced back a couple of steps. The wemic saw his opening at last and lifted his sword high. Matteo moved with him, raising his sword in anticipation of the parry. As he expected, the wemic reared up and unsheathed his claws.

Tzigone threw herself forward, knife leading, and plunged her blade into the wemic’s flank. Mbatu let out a roar of pain and instinctively twisted toward the new threat. But he could not halt the momentum of his own blow, and his great sword descended in a killing arc. Matteo tossed aside his borrowed sword and rolled clear.

His timing proved to be nearly perfect. Cyric had also reared up, and his hooves slashed out at the wemic. One hoof grazed Matteo’s shoulder painfully, but the other found the wemic’s skull with a sickening thud. The wemic’s head snapped back and he dropped to the cobblestone. He lay still, a steady trickle of blood matting his long black hair.

For a moment the street was silent, but for the whuffling, almost mirthful sound of the stallion’s breath.

Matteo rolled to his feet and came over to pat Cyric’s black neck. Tzigone tugged her knife free with a quick jerk and circled around to crouch by the wemic’s head. She lifted one eyelid, then the other, staring into each orb intently.

“He lives,” she said shortly. “No need to look over your shoulder, though. He won’t remember any of this.”

“You sound very certain of that,” Matteo said warily. The tone of her voice held an odd resonance, one very similar to that he discerned in wizards after a spellcasting. “Speak forthrightly. Did you work magic on the wemic?”

“Me? A wizard?” She let out a short, derisive sniff. Rocking back on her heels, she rose in a swift, fluid movement. “The wemic is having a bad day. He’s been hit on the head twice already, and it’s only just past highsun. If things continue apace, by sunset he’ll be lucky to remember his own name. Very lucky.”

She spoke the last words with a bitterness that surprised him. For a moment Matteo puzzled over how, and if, to address this. No inspiration came, so he dealt with that which he understood.

“I would not have defeated the wemic without your help,” he said honestly. “The debt is paid.”

He swung up onto Cyric’s back. The horse stood still for him, amazingly docile.

No, Matteo noted, not docile. A better word was “satisfied.” It was as if the stallion had always longed to do battle and, having had the opportunity, was content for the moment. Matteo extended a hand to the young woman. “May I offer you a ride to wherever you’re staying?”

Tzigone eyed the big horse uncertainly. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up later.”

The notion was so absurd that Matteo almost laughed. “I’m returning to House Jordain to complete my training. The jordaini serve truth. Forgive me for speaking bluntly, Tzigone, but there is no place for you there.”

She didn’t seem daunted by his lack of encouragement. “There’s a debt between us. I can’t forget that. I never forget anything.”

“I told you, the debt is paid.”

“Because you say so? Is this the market, that we need to dicker?” she said testily. “Blankets and melons and such have no set price, but there are some things that do.”

Matteo recognized the ring in her voice and the steel in her eyes. She spoke of honor, though in terms that he didn’t quite recognize or understand. He responded in kind.

“Then when we meet again, I shall look to you for help and friendship,” he said. “You may claim the same of me, without adding to the sum of your honor debt.”

For a moment she looked startled, and then a thoughtful expression crossed her face. “You say that I use words too lightly, and maybe I do, but it seems to me that you’re quick to speak of friendship.”

Never had Matteo received so puzzling a response to the polite phrases he’d offered. It occurred to him that she might think he was suggesting something less than proper. “I meant no offense.”

“And I took none. All I’m saying is that you’re quick to trust. Maybe that’s not such a good thing.”

Amused now, he regarded her with lifted brows. “Are you warning me to beware of you?”

She stood her ground, yielding nothing. “I’m reminding you that you thought I was a boy and assumed that all cats can climb. Not everything is as it seems, jordain.”

There was truth in that, and though it smarted to acknowledge it, he responded with a respectful nod. “Thank you for your words,” he said, showing the respect he would give a master after a much-needed lesson. “Thank you also for the use of your sword.”

She shrugged and walked gingerly around Cyric, eyeing the big horse with interest. Cyric turned his head to regard her, and his expression seemed equally wary.

Matteo noted this exchange and found it rather fitting. He took up the reins and found that one had been sliced by the wemic’s sword. He dismounted to retrieve it and tie it back on. Cyric was nearly impossible to control under the best of circumstances, and he dared not attempt to guide the horse with only his knees.

Tzigone watched as the young man bent over the repair. Moving like a shadow, she retrieved the sword that Matteo had flung aside. For a moment she regarded it and debated what to do. She couldn’t take it with her, that much was certain. Penalties for dressing or arming oneself above one’s station were severe, and the last thing Tzigone needed was another brush with the law. Swords were valuable, and in Halruaa, spells of seeking made sure that valuable objects didn’t stay “borrowed” for long.

But she hated to leave the weapon in the street. Who knew who might pick it up and what use they might make of it? And judging from the day he’d had so far, Matteo was likely to need just such a sword before much more time passed. Certainly he’d handled it better than she had expected. It would be well for both of them if he had use of the sword when next their paths crossed.

Tzigone didn’t require much persuading. She took a length of leather thong from her bag and quickly tied the sword to the back of the stallion’s saddle. Fortunately the horse’s back was broad and the sword short enough to conceal. She tucked the saddle blanket over the hilt Judging by the shrewd, approving look in Cyric’s eyes, she figured that the horse would find some way to alert Matteo of the weapon’s presence if need arose.

She worked quickly and backed away just as Matteo looked up from the newly repaired bridle. “Peace to you, Tzigone,” he said as he swung himself up on the stallion’s back.

“And to you,” she responded demurely.

She watched as the young man rode off, well content with her decision. Peace was a fine word and certainly something worth aspiring to, but in her experience, it was rarer than riches. If peace proved elusive, at least she’d seen that Matteo was properly armed.