The Magehound (19 page)

His days were busy, but from time to time an image edged into his thoughts: a small, pointed face with big brown eyes and an irreverent grin. He didn’t expect to see Tzigone again. Her last words to him indicated that she believed she had discharged her mysterious debt. Matteo didn’t understand what exactly she thought she had done, and he wished, more than once, that he could have the opportunity to ask her.

But the days quickly settled into an orderly pattern, one suited to the life of a jordain and not disrupted by the “assistance” of roguish street waifs. Each day after the skyship flight, Matteo and Procopio would retire to the wizard’s study. The wizard had a passion for games of strategy, and Matteo obliged him with seemingly endless games of chess, castles, and complex card games.

One morning he answered an unexpected summons to Procopio’s study to find that the wizard had acquired a new diversion. An enormous table took up half the study, displacing the large cages of birds that Procopio kept in nearly every room of the villa.

The wizard glanced up when Matteo entered, and his face lit up in an unexpectedly boyish grin. “I ordered this a year and three moons before your arrival. I’ll be a necromancer’s apprentice if it wasn’t worth the wait! Come see.”

Matteo approached his patron’s side and studied the vast table. It was no ordinary piece of furniture but a wondrous recreation of a wild land: a section of high plateau surrounded by hills and mountains.

“The Nath?” guessed Matteo, naming the wild region in the northeastern corner of Halruaa.

Procopio beamed. “Well done. Wait-you’ve not seen the best of it.”

The wizard gestured with a long, slender wand. Several drawers hidden along the edges of the table opened, and tiny, magically animated figures poured out onto the table. Halruaan soldiers marched in formation across the wild terrain toward a mountain pass. A wizard, seated cross-legged on a flying carpet, whizzed out of the drawer and began to circle over the troops. A small horde of mounted warriors burst from the foothills and charged the Halruaan forces, and the faint pounding of their hooves reminded Matteo of the sound of distant rain. They pulled up at the far end of the mountain pass and faced the Halruaans.

All of the miniature troops were marvelous, but it was these mounted figures that drew Matteo’s eye. They were rendered in shades of gray. All the horses were dappled grays, and the warriors were elflike females with dusky skin and dull silvery hair.

“Shadow amazons,” Matteo marveled. For as long as he could remember, he had been fascinated by the Crinti, and he longed to pick up one of the tiny figures and examine its artistry and detail.

Some of this must have shown on his face, for Procopio chuckled. “Go ahead,” he urged. “They’re not alive, so you needn’t be afraid to handle them.”

“It is not that. The jordaini are forbidden to own, use, or even knowingly handle any magical item.”

The diviner frowned. “How can you possibly refrain from doing so when you are in a wizard’s service? I require you to engage me in a game of military strategy. Must I refrain from magic to accommodate you? Who is the master here, and who the servant?”

This was a reasonable question, and suddenly Matteo wasn’t entirely satisfied with the traditional answer. He gave it anyway.

“Jordaini are forbidden by law and tradition from handling magic or benefiting from it. This ultimately safeguards the wizards we serve.”

“What of the skyships?” Procopio said slyly. “Does this mean you intend to forego your daily flight?”

Matteo blinked, startled by this logical but unexpected application of the rule. “I never thought of skyships in that light,” he said slowly. “They are so integral to Halruaan culture that the jordaini have ceased to think of them as common magical artifacts. I suppose by strict application of law, skyships are also forbidden.”

“Yet no one would censor you for flying with your patron. Nor will anyone gasp with shock if they learned you were commanding toy troops,” Procopio said, sweeping a hand toward the tiny figures on the table.

Matteo considered this. “Would it be possible for you to remove the enchantment? We could move the figures about by hand.”

“Certainly not!” the wizard protested. “I will not suffer such a barbarian inconvenience. If I go down this path, where will it end? Would you expect me to refrain from using magic in battle for fear of offending your sensibilities?”

“Of course not. But this is a game, not a battle.”

“A game I require you to play,” Procopio said forcefully. “There are exceptions to every rule, and the sooner you learn this, the greater your service to me. But calm your scruples. You need not fear the taint of magic today. You are here to advise, not to do. I will move the troops.”

Matteo nodded slowly. As Procopio said, it was impossible for a jordain in a wizard’s household to remain entirely beyond the touch of magic. Every jordain he knew coveted the chance to ride a skyship, and no one thought this unseemly.

He studied the placement of the tiny figures. “This looks very much like the skirmishes that preceded the battle of Mycontil’s Stand,” he said, referring to the archmage who died defeating a massive invasion of Crinti-led warriors.

“That depicts Mycontil himself,” Procopio agreed, pointing to the figure that buzzed about like a particularly colorful fly. “He was a great wizard, but no strategist. At this battle, he lost over a hundred men because the Crinti outflanked him. Like so.”

The wizard touched his wand to the foothills on either side of the warriors. Bands of shadow amazons materialized in response to his summons and began to box in the foot soldiers.

Procopio looked to Matteo. “If you were Mycontil, what would you do to minimize your losses?”

Matteo thought for a moment. “Create an illusion of sound that echoes throughout the area held by the two flanking bands, a sound that will frighten the Crinti and cause them to scatter into the hills. Then the soldiers can engage the central band.”

“And what, pray tell, could frighten the Crinti?” Procopio said in scathing tones. “They lull their girl children to sleep with battle songs that would raise a pirate’s gorge!”

“Have you never heard the songs of the Unseelie folk? I have, and found it an uncanny, unnerving experience. But to the Crinti, the Unseelie music holds the essence of terror,” Matteo explained. “It is part of the legend of the Ilythiiri. Do you know it?”

“I know little of the Ilythiiri, other than they were dark elves who inhabited the southern lands in ancient times. They were the ancestors of the drow, who were in turn the ancestors of the Crinti. What of it?”

“Legend has it that once, many thousands of years ago, an Ilythiiri wizard stumbled through the veil that separates the world we see from the unseen world of the Unseelie Court. There she learned some of the magic of the dark fairies, most of it by unfortunate firsthand experience. After much torment, she escaped, now utterly insane but carrying a knowledge of fell magic that surpassed any wizard in the land. She began a rise to power that attracted the darkest hearts of her time to her court. Her name is lost to memory, and she is known only as the Spider Queen. It is said that the evil goddess of the drow, Lolth, assimilated the wizard into her own being, taking for herself both the wizard’s name and her dark magic. It is said that something of the wizard’s memory remains within the goddess, and as a result, the drow, even Lolth herself, fear the Unseelie folk. What, then, could be more frightening to the Crinti than the songs of the dark fairies?”

Procopio nodded slowly as he took this in. “Interesting notion. I had not heard that tale.”

“Few men make a study of drow legends. There are perhaps three libraries on the surface of this world that contain reliable lore books. Halruaa, of course, has one of them.”

“You think the Crinti are better informed than we in such matters?”

“They cherish their drow heritage. They would pass it on.”

“Hmm.” Procopio considered this, then shrugged. “Very well. Let’s see what happens.”

The wizard moved the wand in a slow, complex pattern over the table. A faint melody, dark and compelling and chilling, began to rise like mist from the hillside.

The tiny shadow amazons that came in from the flank positions halted their charge. Chaos swept over them like an evil wind. The horses reared and pitched. Some of them, riderless, milled frantically about. In moments the warriors and their horses were gone, melting off into the hills and leaving exposed the central band of Crinti, who were panicked into utter disarray, too far from the hills for retreat The Halruaan soldiers charged and easily overtook the advance band. In short order, the table was littered with the tiny gray corpses of the shadow amazons.

Procopio smiled and nodded. He made a quick gesture with one hand, and the figures, both victors and vanquished, disappeared from the table.

“Who would have thought a song-no, a mere illusion of a song!-would have such power against those she-demons? Fascinating how so simple a ploy could turn the tide of battle! Have you more Crinti secrets to teach me?” Procopio spoke eagerly, and his animated face betrayed a more than casual interest.

A suspicion that had been growing in Matteo’s mind for some time began to take solid and disturbing form. “A few,” he said slowly. “I begin to see why you bid for my services. You are most avidly fond of strategy games, and as a master of games, I was first in my form.”

“There is that,” the wizard said in neutral tones.

Matteo pressed on. “We jordaini believe that such games train the mind and character, for a truly responsible man understands that every action prompts a reaction.”

There was an edge to Procopio’s smile that acknowledged the subtle layers in Matteo’s comment. “I am in training, that is certainly true. He who would command must understand the art of war. It is no secret that games provide preparation. Kittens stalk imaginary prey, and small boys whack each other with sticks in anticipation of their first swords. What we do here is not so different.”

Matteo shifted uneasily. “You speak plainly. I will do the same. Action prompts reaction. I know enough of history to understand that men who prepare so assiduously for battle seldom fail to find one.”

“But the land is at peace, and has been for many years. Do you think that would be true if no one was prepared for battle? Why do you think our enemies stay away? The Crinti elf-breeds and their Dambraii subjects, and the Mhair savages, and the barbarians of the Shaar desert, and the wizards of Thay and Unther and Mulhorand, and Mystra only knows where else? Because we remain strong,” Procopio concluded in a tone that rang with certainty.

Matteo had heard this argument many times before. It was a difficult one, for the line between a strong defense and a strong nation inclined toward offensive action was thin and nebulous. He couldn’t help but wonder how this passion for military strategy fit into Procopio’s personal goals. If the wizard deemed that the best way to ascend Zalathorm’s throne was as a war hero, how far might he go to ensure his goal?

The wizard seemed to sense his counselor’s unease, for he broke off the session and strode over to his desk. He opened a drawer and took from it a small scroll.

“I would have you take a message for me to Xavierlyn. You know of her?”

Matteo nodded. Zephyr had described in great detail all the wizards of the city’s Council of Elders. Xavierlyn was a powerful diviner, a distant relative of King Zalathorm, and touted by many as his probable successor. As such, she was Procopio’s most obvious rival.

“I have met Frando, her jordain counselor. It is his habit to speak in the Arbor Square before the sunsleep hours.”

“No doubt many come to listen in preparation for midday slumber,” Procopio said dryly. “I have heard the man. His lectures induce slumber more effectively than charms and potions.”

Matteo’s lips twitched, but he refrained from agreeing with his patron’s assessment of a fellow jordain. He took the scroll Procopio handed him and scanned the writing upon it, then handed back the scroll and repeated the message word for word. The wizard nodded, satisfied, and Matteo went his way.

He set a brisk pace and reached Arbor Square shortly before highsun. It was a pretty place, cobbled with pink and green stone and surrounded by elaborate iron trellises and arches. The air was rich with the scent of ripening grapes, as well as the savory odors that wafted from the nearby market. Chairs and small tables had been scattered about so that passersby could take advantage of the shade.

In the center of the square was a raised platform, which was variously used for town criers, street musicians, and wizardly exhibitions. Frando, a dark, thick-bodied man some fifteen years Matteo’s senior, was currently holding forth on the topic of pirate raids. With an alchemist’s skill and a pompous voice, Frando transformed that exciting topic into a sleep-inducing drone. Matteo settled down under an arbor of pink grapes and tried to look politely interested.

Finally the jordain concluded his lecture and acknowledged the patter of applause with a deep bow. His self-satisfied smile broadened when his gaze fell on Matteo. Matteo rose and came to greet his colleague.

“Well, if it isn’t the newest gelding in Procopio’s stables,” Frando said in a faintly nasty tone. “Come to listen and learn, I suppose?”

Matteo’s brows lifted. For once it seemed appropriate to forego the usual polite phrases of greeting. “My patron has sent me with a message for the wizard Xavierlyn,” he said curtly. “He bids me give it into your keeping.”

It was a common enough task, but to his surprise, Frando hissed with exasperation. “It is clear that you don’t mind playing the part of an errand boy, but I occupy my time with more important tasks. Why couldn’t Procopio simply send a scroll? Or if he is as powerful a diviner as he claims to be, why not use magic?”

Matteo blinked, startled by this response. “Scrolls can be stolen, scried, or magically altered. Messengers can be waylaid, bribed, threatened, or magically influenced, or information taken from their minds. Even magically sent messages can be intercepted. There is also the possibility that a magically gifted messenger could influence the hearer, much as the minor magic of a bard lures an audience into receptivity,” he explained patiently. “Any first-form jordain knows this.”