The Magehound (17 page)

“You heard of it?” Matteo asked, somewhat chagrined.

“From one of Lord Basel’s counselors,” the elf confirmed.

“Your boldness surprised and pleased both wizards, but rest assured that Procopio stood ready to magically transport his ship to safety had you failed.”

The enormity of such a casting stole Matteo’s breath. “If he doesn’t have need of me, why am I here?”

“You have a name as a good fighter with a head for strategy. Procopio wishes to strengthen his understanding of military tactics. You can expect him to stage other games to test your wits and nerves.”

That made little sense to Matteo. “Procopio is mayor of the city, but it is the king who directs the defenses.”

The elf stabbed a finger at him as if to award a point. “Precisely. And Procopio intends to be king after Zalathorm.”

There was something almost treasonous in that notion. Zalathorm had been king all of Matteo’s life, not to mention the lives of his unknown parents and grandparents. Life under another ruler was almost as unfathomable to him as the idea of moving to a strange land.

“You must become accustomed to this notion,” Zephyr said dryly. “Our task is to aid Procopio in reaching this goal.”

“Our task is to serve truth,” Matteo pointed out.

The elf gave him a level stare. “And I’m telling you what our particular truth is. Measure all others against that, and you will do well here.”

They chatted for a few moments more, then the elf jordain tired and excused himself to rest.

For a long time, Matteo lay abed and considered what the elf had said. He had long understood that Halruaa was a society controlled by many rules and customs. For the first time, he considered the complexity of political maneuvering beneath the mannered and orderly surface.

It was hard for him to find a place for himself amid this. A jordain’s stated role was to see and speak truth, cloaked perhaps in satire or other rhetorical garb, but truth untainted by either magic or personal ambition. The honor and veracity of the jordain was proverbial. Things were true or they were not. It was that simple.

But what of Andris? Was it possible that truth was a changeable thing, that the inviolate judgment of the magehounds, perhaps even the Disputation Table, could be bought with subtle coin?

These were disturbing thoughts, and they followed him into his dreams when at last he fell asleep.

The following days proved no better than the first Matteo learned that although the king had no heirs, Procopio was abundantly blessed with them. The jordaini in Procopio’s service were entrusted with the education of these would-be princes and princesses-nine of them, by Matteo’s best count.

His charge was Penelope, a girl of about eight, with long, fat black ringlets and a permanently petulant expression. Matteo got out a finely carved game of Castles and began to instruct her in the strategy.

The tiny buildings held her interest for a few moments, but her attention soon wandered. Matteo quickly surrounded her fledgling structure with his pieces.

“You are encircled, child. Next time keep a closer eye on the board and think with each move of what might come next.”

Penelope’s lip thrust out, and her small hand flashed forward. Pieces of carved sandalwood and ivory scattered across the marble floor.

“You cheated,” she said heatedly.

Matteo blinked, not sure how to respond to such an absurd accusation. “Not so, lady. You simply lost the game.”

She folded her arms and glared at him. “I don’t lose. I’ve never lost any game, ever.”

Matteo began to understand the situation. “Why don’t you play in the courtyard gardens, and we will try again after midday meal.”

The child shrugged ungraciously and left the room. Matteo made his way directly to his patron’s study. He told the wizard in a few words about the child’s response.

“Next time let her win,” the wizard decreed.

“That is dishonest, and a disservice to the child, “Matteo protested. “Strategy games are designed to develop the reason and intellect, but learning to win and to lose with grace is a skill as important as any other.”

“A lesson she will learn in time,” the wizard said. “Ease her into it.”

“With all respect, I cannot teach in that manner.”

Procopio shrugged. “Fine. Tell Dranklish to take over the girl’s tutoring. You can deliver a diplomatic message for me. That is, if your scruples don’t prevent you?”

He ignored the wizard’s sarcasm. “I would be honored.”

For several days to come, Matteo served largely as messenger, memorizing a sentence or a speech and repeating the messages, faithful to the word and nuance and inflection. He did not see Zephyr again except at an occasional meal, and his attempts at befriending the other jordaini were soundly rebuffed.

Matteo found none of the camaraderie and good-natured teasing he had known in the school. Here, satire was in deadly earnest and usually held several sharp, hidden layers of meaning.

After a few days of this, Matteo began to feel rather despondent. When he was not on duty, he spent his time learning the city or reading alone in his bedchamber.

He was engaged in study one evening when a soft rustle drew his eye to his open window. A surge of pleasure engulfed him at the sight of the small, pointed face peering over the ledge, and his smile mirrored the grin on the young woman’s face.

“Tzigone!” he exclaimed. “How did you find me? For that matter, what possessed you to travel so far?”

She hauled herself over the sill and into the room. “I take my debts very seriously. Or had you forgotten? I thought jordaini were supposed to have memories like palaces with endless rooms.”

Matteo had forgotten nothing, and his wariness returned, as he recalled all that had passed between them. “I remember that you advised me not to trust too easily.”

She nodded in understanding. “You’ll be reminded of that often enough of in a place like this. I’d rather live in a behirs’ nest than a wizard lord’s villa. You’ve had a hard time of it, I suppose.”

“It is a fine position,” he said stiffly.

“Hmmph,” she said, unconvinced. “Where wizards are concerned, the only ‘position’ you’re likely to find yourself in is over a barrel with your breeches about your ankles.”

Matteo stifled a chuckle. “I am not supposed to hold such dim opinions of wizards.”

“Nice evasion,” she complimented him. She sat on the windowsill, her bare feet dangling into the room. “This place is as good as any. I suppose that after your last few days at the jordaini complex, you would be happy to go almost anywhere else.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

A flicker of pity crossed the girl’s face. “I followed you back to the school, as I said I would. I witnessed that so-called rite of purification.”

“I was late to come,” he said shortly. “But in the time allotted me, I had much to contemplate.”

“Contemplate?” she echoed incredulously. “Is that what you call what I saw?”

Matteo shrugged. “Granted, it probably was not much to watch. Observing the growth of crops would be as exciting as watching jordaini in solitary contemplation. Though I do not complain. I arrived late, but the two days I spent in thought were most enlightening.”

Tzigone’s eyes lit with understanding. “And as far as you know, that’s the extent of this rite.”

“The ritual of purification is a time of solitary contemplation,” Matteo said, puzzled by her reaction. “Mine was shortened, but I made what use of it I could.”

For some reason she found that comment amusing. “No offense, Matteo, but that’s something I’d expect one of your less fortunate comrades to say.”

“I don’t understand,” he repeated.

“Someday you might. When that day comes, be sure to tell me if you consider my debt paid. After talking to you, I think it might be.”

With that cryptic comment, she disappeared into the night, leaving Matteo staring after her in puzzlement.

Kiva enjoyed a few quiet days in her retreat outside of Zalasuu, but she was just as happy to see this time draw to a close. She had spent a very long time preparing for the assault upon Akhlaur, and today she expected to make more progress than she had in a decade.

The villa was well outside the walls of the city. Small but luxurious, it was surrounded by deep forests and warded by virtually impenetrable magical wards.

That morning the magehound broke her fast with tea and fruit on the piazza, a tiled courtyard encircled by gardens. An elaborate iron trellis curved over the breakfast table, providing shade and lending support for the profusion of grapevines that entwined it. Bunches of grapes, some yellow and some a soft, sunrise pink, hung in fragrant clusters overhead. The morning rain had come before dawn with a sudden bursting of clouds, and moisture still hung thick in the air. The air, despite the heavy perfume of the garden and the braziers of scented smoke that kept away the insects, was fetid with the scent of the nearby swamp-the Kilmaruu Swamp, and the origin of the paradox that Andris had been brough there to solve.

Kiva heard the soft tap of approaching footsteps and watched as the tall jordain walked onto the piazza. For many days he had lain in deep slumber. Since magic had little effect upon the jordaini, Kiva had resorted to burning in his room incense made from powerful herbs and giving him sips of strong herbal infusions. Though she had been tapering off the dosage so that he might awaken, she had given him enough over the past several days to leave him disorientated and confused.

She studied the tall young man as he approached. His auburn hair was still damp from the baths, but he had not made use of the razor that had been left for him. This was telling. The jordaini custom was for men to be meticulously clean-shaven.

She gestured him to take the seat across from her. “You look well, Andris. Your long sleep seems to have agreed with you.”

“I was given no opportunity to disagree,” he pointed out

“True enough.” She put down her cup and folded her hands on the table. “I must apologize for the way you were brought here. You have been chosen for an important task, as counselor to a hidden lord.”

“Counselor?” The young man eyed her warily. “I am no longer jordain. No man tainted by magic can hold that office.”

“And do you have this ‘taint,’ Andris?”

“So you say. I myself have seen no sign of it.”

Kiva rose and walked over to a small table. She took something from a carved wooden box and returned to him. “This is a test given to the children of Halruaa. Light is the first and simplest of magical energies. It moves more swiftly than heat or sound or substance. Read this scroll and imitate the gesture written upon it.”

The bit of parchment was the simplest of spell scrolls, suitable for children who could not yet read. On it was sketched a small curved pattern.

“Hold your hand so, fingers all together so that the tips touch your thumb, and trace this pattern in the air before you. Begin at the red dot and move toward the blue.”

Andris did as he was bade. A ball of faint greenish light appeared, bobbing listlessly over the breakfast table. He dropped his hand onto the table and regarded the enchantment with bleak eyes.

“You have produced light,” Kiva pointed out. “You don’t look pleased.”

“Should I be? There are fish and fungi that can do as much.”

Kiva chuckled. “Now that you mention it. But you can also do many other things, and do them well.”

“Nothing that matters. Nothing for which I am trained. I am disgraced, dead in the eyes of my brothers.”

“Your death was a necessary illusion. Your new patron required it,” she said softly. She settled back in her chair. “But let us speak of more pleasant things. There is in your training much that interests me. Tell me of the Kilmaruu Paradox.”

A spark of interest lit the man’s hazel eyes. “You know the problem as well as I. The Kilmaruu Swamp is a hive of undead. Many wizards and adventuring parties have sought to clear the swamp, but they only seem to strengthen the creatures. Each incursion into the swamp brings a retaliatory strike on the villages and farmlands beyond. On the other hand, if nothing is done to contain the undead, they slip into the harbor and scuttle the ships.”

“And how would you solve this problem?”

Andris leaned forward. “In Zalasuu, there is a proverb: ‘The swamp helps keep the number of fools in town low.’ That is truth, but invert the statement and another truth is revealed. Increase the number of fools in the town, and we could keep the number of undead in the swamp low. Do you know the etymology for the word ‘jordain’?”

“All too well,” she said dryly. “In Old Netherese, the language from which Halruaan descended, it was the word for ‘fool.’ At that time the word had a meaning more elevated than it now enjoys. A fool was a counselor to kings and wizards, a bard of sorts who entertained and advised through satirical songs. I suppose this charming little history has a point?”

“In time. Permit me to explain one step at a time,” Andris said, his animation increasing with each word. “What element is common to all who enter the swamp to explore and conquer? What weapons do they employ?”

“Magic, of course.”

“And magic feeds the undead. The creatures seem to require it. Why else would they venture into the harbors to attack ships? I have made a study of the cargo lost to these attacks. Without exception, the ships carried a goodly number of spellcasters and magical items.”

Kiva nodded thoughtfully. “I had not thought to seek a pattern there, but your reasoning seems sound to me.”

“For reasons I do not completely understand, the undead in the swamp need magic to survive. The adventuring wizards and warriors and clerics armed with their magical weapons and holy artifacts feed the undead, like so many tavern wenches delivering hot trenchers of stew.”

Kiva suppressed a smile at the analogy and noted at the faint disdain in the young man’s voice. In time, he would come to regret both. “And your solution?”

“There are many in this land who possess no magical talent whatsoever. The jordaini are chief among them, but there are others. Gather them together and go against the undead denizens of Kilmaruu without magic.”