The Magehound (13 page)

“So how is Carmelo?” she asked quickly, eager to think about more pleasant things.

“Tolerable, all things considered. Tomorrow is his last day in the hold, and it will pass quickly. They just threw a jordain in the cell across from him, and you know Carmelo. He’ll tease every story and song out of the man before day’s end.”

Tzigone’s ears pricked up. “A jordain? What did he look like?”

The gypsy shrugged and spat. “Much the same as any I’ve seen, though better-looking than most. Dark hair, white clothes, both of which looked a bit worse for wear. Looks as if he’d made the militia earn their wages before they brought him in.”

“That I doubt,” she said with certainty. Matteo had looked considerably scuffed up when they’d parted ways, and he probably was in much the same condition now. “If we’re thinking about the same man, this one would walk to the hold and lock himself in if someone so much as suggested that he bent a law.”

“If he’s such a paladin as all that, why is he in the hold?” Gio asked, reasonably enough.

As to that, Tzigone had a fairly good idea. It seemed she would have a chance to erase the debt the same day it was incurred. She thought fast. “If I wanted to get into the hold, how would I do it?”

“Getting in is never a problem. It’s the getting out that tasks me,” the man pointed out. “What’s this jordain to you, girl, that you’d waste your breath on such crazy words?”

“I owe him a debt,” she said simply.

The gypsy nodded. Property was something that neither would ever understand, but they knew the worth of things that mattered. “Well, then, I’ve just the thing for you. You remember how to walk on stilts?”

She sniffed. “If you’re out to insult me, just call me an ugly bastard and get it over with.”

“Biggest weapon first,” he said approvingly. “Not the usual strategy, but it should be. Might cut down on time wasted fighting.”

“You were saying something about stilts?” she prompted.

Gio’s eyes glittered with mischief. “Now, if you were the law and saw a pair of stilts lying inside the wall of the hold, what would you think? Someone’s trying to breach, that’s what. But a single pole? No one would think much of it.”

“I don’t think much of it myself,” she retorted. She could vault a wall using Gio’s pole, and said so.

“Ah, but not one like this,” Gio said slyly. He shouldered off his pack and took from it a bundle of oddly shaped sticks. “They fit together into one long piece,” he explained, demonstrating with several of them.

“What are those notches for?”

“Footholds. You can balance the pole and climb it at the same time. But mind you, stay well away from the walls. Lightning sheets cover the inside walls almost to the top. If you lose your balance and lean against the wall, you’ll be sizzling like bacon.”

“Stay away from the walls? So how do I get out?”

“Moss hangs from the cherrynut tree just outside the south wall. It is strong, and hard to see in the failing light You’ll be in the tree before any of those lazy guards notice what you’re about.”

Tzigone studied the placement of the notches and decided that the balance might work. To limber up, she bent backward until her palms rested on the ground, just behind her feet. Slowly she shifted her weight onto her hands and brought her legs up straight, then slowly lowered them down into another tight arc. She rose, standing in nearly the same spot as she’d been before the exercise.

Gio nodded approvingly and handed her a length of pole. She braced it and hopped up, placing her feet on the lowest notches. She swayed for a moment until she found her balance. Then she found that she could indeed climb. She went up about six feet and then let the pole tip, keeping her grip on it as she lightly dropped to the ground. Even if someone noticed her performing this stunt, she would be up and in the tree before they realized what she’d had in mind.

“This will help,” she said with gratitude.

“It’s not an easy trick, but you make it look as if it were,” the gypsy said admiringly. “Like climbing a rope, or so it looks. If you were still with the show, you’d have us dragged in for magical inquiry sure as sunrise.”

A thought crossed her mind and brought a wry scowl to her face. “Now that you mention it, the climbing will be the easy part,” she grumbled.

Gio looked mildly offended, as if she’d insulted his latest toy. “You know a better trick, girl?”

“Convincing a jordain to break out of the hold.”

The gypsy considered this and then placed a hand on her shoulder in silent commiseration. “One more word from an old friend?”

“Don’t bother telling me he’s not worth the trouble. I never met a jordain who was.”

“I wouldn’t think of trying to sway you, seeing that your mind’s set on getting him out,” Gio protested. “Just do me this favor: If you’re caught, at least try to throw the pole out over the wall. I’d hate to lose it.”

“Pride of ownership, Gio?” she teased him.

He looked puzzled. “Just pure common sense. There’s not a man or woman inside the hold that would make good use of the thing. It’d be a shame to see it go for firewood.”

The sun hung low over the mountains when Mbatu returned to the travel house he shared with Kiva. The wemic had a peasant man slung over his shoulders, much as a hunter might carry a deer. He shifted the man casually and tossed him at the magehound’s feet. The captive groaned from the jolt of impact and then curved into a tight, pained ball.

Kiva didn’t see any marks on the peasant, but she didn’t expect to. Mbatu was too skilled and shrewd to mark his prey unless it pleased him to do so.

The elf woman regarded their captive thoughtfully. He was a young man, about the same height as Matteo. His muscles had been honed by hard labor and his skin browned by the sun. There the similarity between the two men ended. The farmer’s face was twisted in pain but would not be considered particularly handsome in the best of circumstances. His hands were square and blunt-fingered, the nails ragged and grimed with soil. His hair was a similar shade of deep chestnut, but it was coarser than the jordain’s and not quite as long and lustrous. Darkness, however, would blur these small details. Magic and simple mundane extortion would cover the rest.

“Will he be missed?” she demanded.

The wemic shrugged. “Not particularly. He is a day laborer on another man’s fields. Such men come and go with the crops.”

“Good. Let’s finish it, then.”

Kiva quickly cast a spell to ease the man’s pain and make him biddable to her will. At her command, the farmer stripped off his rude garments and replaced them with white linen tunic and leggings, as befitted a jordain about to endure the ritual of purification.

Getting him onto Matteo’s black stallion proved a greater challenge. The horse pitched and reared and snorted, refusing to let the peasant mount his back. Even Kiva’s magic couldn’t bend the stallion to her will.

At last the magehound admitted defeat and gave the peasant a lesser steed to ride. As for the stallion, Kiva found a way to entice him back to his stable. She rode her preferred gelding, but brought on a leading rope a mare in season. They set a brisk pace and found that the black male was more than willing to keep up.

They rode to the village on the outskirts of House Jordain, to the neat row of villas where the masters lived. Kiva had made good use of Zephyr’s research, but she had additional sources of her own. One of the masters of the Jordaini College had good reason to hold his secrets quiet and close.

The man didn’t look pleased to see her, but he gave her the prescribed courtesies. After they had exchanged the usual tiresome phrases of polite ritual, Kiva told the man what she had in mind.

The master’s eyes flashed to the young substitute, who awaited them outside. He was still mounted on his borrowed steed, and his dull, enchanted eyes stared fixedly ahead.

“With all due respect, lady, I must protest. Put aside for the moment the matter of jordaini honor, or even the laws of this land,” he pleaded. “Consider this young man, who will never sire a family. It is no small loss. The men and women who till the land depend upon their children’s small hands. The tasks that farm children perform are not busy work or play in imitation of adults, but a most important contribution to family. The farmer who lacks strong children is accounted a poor man, and with good reason!”

The magehound waved away these concerns with a quick, impatient flick of one hand. “House Jordain is ridiculously wealthy, for all your protestations of personal poverty. If you’re so concerned for this peasant, recompense him. He will not have children. Well enough. A mule and a milkmaid should fill the breach.”

“But what of his wife?” the man said softly. “If ever your arms ached to hold a child, you could not condemn even an unknown woman to this emptiness.”

Rage set the elf’s golden eyes aflame, then banked with a control so absolute that the lack of emotion was more terrifying than her sudden anger.

But the old man would not be deterred. “What of Matteo? You are a high servant of Azuth, you know the hidden mysteries of this land. He cannot be excused from this ritual. I need not remind you of what can happen when the jordaini breed.”

In response, she handed him a small jeweled token. No bigger than the nail of her small finger, it was a tiny pellet studded with scales the colors of topaz and garnet and filled with magic. It was the token of the queen, and it carried both sentence and decree.

“I have my orders,” Kiva said evenly, “and now you have yours.”

For a long moment the man regarded the jeweled pill, and not because he wished to contemplate its beauty. Then he quickly swallowed it. He knew that from this moment, to speak of what was done this day would mean his death.

“Come along,” he said harshly. “Let’s get this travesty done and over with.”

The magehound shook her head. “I must return to the city on business. You can handle this from here, I trust. Oh, and one thing more. I’ve brought with me a black stallion, Matteo’s chosen mount. Take the beast back with you to complete the subterfuge. You may board my mare at your stables for several moons and keep the foal that the stallion has most likely got on her while we spoke,” she said generously. “The foal is likely to be quite valuable and will provide some recompense.”

“Recompense for what?” the man snapped. “My honor? This poor man’s virility? Or perhaps Matteo’s life? Where is the boy? What has become of him?”

“That is the very business I must attend. You see, Matteo was detained in the city. Some unpleasantness surrounding the big jordain known as Themo, I believe. A tavern brawl with unfortunate consequences,” she said, invoking a half-truth that the master was certain to accept.

The man sighed. “You can bring Matteo back to us? What of this so-called ‘unpleasantness?’ Is this a matter that you can handle?”

“Of course. Though it would be best that your student knows nothing of what passed between you and me.”

“It is unlikely that he will know any of it! The jordaini are told of the purification rite, but most think that it is nothing but a time of solitary contemplation. Afterward they are sworn to silence. So far none has broken oath. And so far,” he said pointedly, “none has birthed or fathered children that the entire land must fear. Think carefully upon what you do.”

Kiva’s lips twisted in a sneer. “Do not attempt to take the moral high ground. You couldn’t find it with a map and a ranger to guide you! How dare you lecture me! You, who would rather see your own son castrated than see harm done to a peasant whose name you need never know.”

The wizard paled. “The parentage of a jordain is a secret thing, never to be spoken of lightly.”

“Then do as I say, and we need never speak of it at all,” Kiva said implacably. “Matteo need never learn of what was done to assure his impressive talents and high status. I have seen how he took the death of his friend. How would he receive the truth about his mother? How would he regard the man who had a part in such a thing?”

For a long moment silence filled the room. “Go,” the man said in a choked voice. “As always, everything will be done as you say.”

Matteo slumped against the cold stone wall and stared out the single window in the door of his cell as he tried to take it all in. Andris was dead. Mystra only knew what had become of Themo. And he, Matteo, was imprisoned on a charge of carrying a weapon that was not only proscribed but also stolen.

He sighed and surveyed his prison. The hold was a rarity in Halruaa, a land of swift justice and very few prisons. The port city of Khaerbaal was more rough-and-tumble than most, and though a few minor offenders were sentenced to a few days of confinement, for the most part the hold was a place to store criminals until the resident mage could attend to his or her case. Guilt was quickly determined through magical inquiry and the sentence carried out according to law.

Matteo had no fear of the outcome. His innocence would be determined by the prison magehound. Even so, the temporary disgrace carried a crushing weight.

A shadow passed by the small, barred window, silhouetted against the flickering light of torches thrust into metal brackets on the walls outside. Matteo gave an impassive glance toward what he thought was the guard, then leaped to his feet. The light was dim and uncertain, but Tzigone’s face was forever burned into his memory and he would know her anyplace.

“You!” he declared in a tone that dripped with wrath as he pointed an accusing finger at the young woman.

Tzigone rolled her eyes. “And I thought Gio’s performance was overwrought. Save the drama for the supper crowd. Right now let’s think about getting you out of here.”

If possible, the mention of rescue only served to increase Matteo’s ire. “I am jordaini, bound by the laws of the land. You insult me by suggesting that I would attempt to escape justice.”

“Justice?” she repeated incredulously. “Is that what you think happens around here? I know the magehound who works the hold. He’s an ugly little monkey of a man who holds a grudge against anyone better favored than he. One look at that handsome face of yours and he’ll be howling for an Inquisition. If I were you, I wouldn’t bet my future on the outcome.”