The Magehound (23 page)

“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.