The Magehound (27 page)

Her “guest” was the Cabal’s latest find, a misbegotten creature that was obviously intended to be a centaurlike warrior, half panther, half Crinti. The result was horrific: an elflike body supported by four twisted, feline limbs, and a dark, feral face that was neither elf nor panther, but a mirror into some nether world. The creature’s body was covered with a mottled mixture of dusky skin, patches of gray fur, and reptilian scales. It was, beyond doubt, a wizardly experiment gone wrong.

The jordaini had a proverb about the danger of dancing to songs that gods had written. Never had Cassia seen such vivid proof as this wretched, dying cat-thing.

But the greatest crime, in her opinion, was that the creature had been allowed to live this long. Halruaa was a land of powerful magic carefully constrained by rules and customs. This was necessary, or ambitious wizards would soon reduce the land to chaos.

But such control had its costs. Magical experiments that went wrong, and often the wizards who erred, were quickly done away with. The “crintaur” should have been slain before it drew its first breath. Yet it had been found wandering in the queen’s forest. Cassia’s scouts had shot and mortally wounded it. Nor was it the first such creature her scouts had found.

That led to an interesting question. Few people knew of the Cabal, a society of wizards who controlled magical use and dealt out penalties for misuse. Cassia had little doubt that Beatrix was somehow involved with this mysterious group. But did the queen work against the Cabal, or did she command it?

There were possibilities either way. Most wizards feared the secret Cabal and wouldn’t take kindly to news that the queen controlled its activities. Of course, Zalathorm knew of the Cabal, but he kept himself apart from the darker realities of his realm. He was widely loved and revered. He had ruled well and led his people to victory in many battles. His people would forgive him much. But if it was proved and quietly revealed that Beatrix was connected with the Cabal, he might be forced to put her aside.

But the fact that this creature had been caught in the queen’s forest was not sufficient proof of the queen’s complicity. The girl Tzigone, on the other hand, might be. She had escaped the Cabal. Perhaps she could be induced to remember who had questioned her and who had aided her escape. This would yield the first steps along a path that Cassia dearly hoped would end at the door of Queen Beatrix.

There was much about Tzigone that interested Cassia. Her inquisitors hadn’t been able to detect a drop of magical ability, but simple observation indicated that the child possessed a volatile combination of wild talents, as well as an almost total resistance to magic.

Magic resistance was a highly desirable trait, and the regard that Cassia and her fellow jordaini enjoyed was proof of this. But a wizard who possessed a jordain’s resistance provided new and unpredictable possibilities. No one knew how talents such as Tzigone’s might develop if trained, and, even more ominous, how they might pass down to future generations. Magical gifts were to be strengthened through careful selection and guided marriages, but only along prescribed lines. Tzigone would not have been the first wild talent removed by the Cabal. Society demanded it, much as it safeguarded itself through the destruction of a rabid and unpredictable hound.

Yet Tzigone lived. More interesting still, she seemed to have caught the interest of the magehound Kiva.

The same magehound, Cassia noted, who had examined Beatrix before her marriage to a smitten Zalathorm.

There was a connection there, but one that eluded Cassia.

The jordain sat down at her desk and began to write, meticulously piecing together the information from a dozen scrolls. She traced the magehound’s path over the past several years and noted that Kiva’s travels intersected frequently with reports of trouble caused by someone who was variously described as a street urchin, a street performer, or a young girl. Tzigone, it seemed, had had a very busy life.

A pity, thought Cassia, that she couldn’t trace Tzigone back to her origin. She would have given a great deal to know the name of the girl’s father. Perhaps then she might be able to find a damning connection between the girl, the magehound, and the queen.

As it was, Cassia had information sufficient to create trouble. She quickly penned a letter to Sinestra Belajoon, a diviner who had been seen in Tzigone’s presence. Cassia commiserated with the wizard about her loss. Whether Tzigone had actually stolen anything from Sinestra, Cassia didn’t know or care. The very suggestion would have the wizard patting her pockets and coming up with a loss of some sort. She commented that Sinestra was not the only person of wit and talent to be taken in by this clever thief. Matteo, counselor to Queen Beatrix, was a friend of the girl. With great satisfaction, Cassia sealed the letter and sent a servant to deliver it She turned back to the bits and pieces of Tzigone’s history, tracing the determined magehound’s efforts back five years, ten, nearly twenty.

“Another few days’ study, and I shall have all the puzzle pieces in place,” she murmured.

“Then perhaps I should return,” said a sweet, bell-like voice behind her. “I do hate to leave things unfinished.”

The jordain leaped from her chair and whirled, twin daggers gleaming in her manicured hands. Her fury changed to fear as she regarded the small, strange figure seated in her favorite chair. Long ringlets of jade green cascaded over a gown of green and gold and framed a face that held the color and the coldness of polished copper.

Cassia drew herself up with all the dignity she could muster. After all, she was the king’s high counselor, and this creature, despite her position, was merely an elf.

“How dare you enter my chamber uninvited, and by magical means?”

The magehound’s smile made the room feel suddenly chill. “I go wherever my duty takes me.”

“What is that to me? You have no business here.”

“Don’t I?” Kiva rose in a single swift, fluid motion. “The ranks of the jordaini must be kept free of magic’s taint No one, no matter how high her rank or how powerful her patron, is immune to that rule. If I decide to call inquest against you, no one will question my right.”

Cassia hadn’t considered this possibility. It was a potent threat. She swallowed with great difficulty. “What do you want?”

The elf extended a peremptory hand. “To begin with, you can give me those papers.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Cassia handed them over. Kiva studied them and then fixed a challenging stare upon the jordain.

“As you have gone to such trouble to learn, I have sought this girl for quite some time. She is wanted for inquest. This is my duty, and I will brook no interference. This quarry is mine, jordain. Back away, and perhaps I will not need to seek another.”

Cassia didn’t need to ask who the second quarry might be. “I accept your terms,” she said quickly.

“You are hasty,” the elf said with a cool smile. “I wasn’t quite finished. Have you spoken to anyone about what you have learned?”

The magehound reached into the folds of her yellow sleeve and produced a silver wand, the instrument that could find magic wherever it hid and condemn any jordain who knew Mystra’s touch.

Cassia’s gaze did not waver, and she spoke words that were partial truth and careful falsehood. “I did not speak to anyone, nor will I,” she vowed, omitting mention of the letters she had penned. She felt safe in doing so, for by tradition, jordaini did not write and send messages.

Kiva accepted this with a nod. “Good. If I hear you have broken silence, we will meet again. And I assure you,” she said softly, “on that day you will be far less happy with the bargain we make.”

Matteo’s new quarters were in the south wing of the royal palace, far from the council chambers and several floors up from the queen’s clockwork court. Although this was not the most prestigious part of the palace, it was by far the most luxurious suite he had ever occupied. There was one room for sleeping, another in which to receive company, a study lined with books, and a bath so large and luxurious that it was almost an embarrassment.

As he entered his rooms, the faint splash and murmur of water caught his ear. Carefully he eased one dagger from its sheath and crept to the door of the bath. The sight before him froze his feet to the marble floor and left him uncertain whether to smile or groan.

Tzigone had returned, and she had made herself very much at home. She was sprawled in the bath, her small bare feet propped up on one end and her head lolled over the other. Her eyes were closed, and her short brown hair had disappeared into a foamy, fragrant mass. More suds filled the tub like cream on a trifle.

He cleared his throat.

“Come on in,” Tzigone said without opening her eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you for hours. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’ve waited in far worse places.”

For a moment he wondered whether “in” referred to the room in general or the bath. Neither course of action seemed wise.

“How did you get into the palace?”

She cracked open one eye. “You always start conversations with a question. Are you aware of that?

“I started in the bilboa tree over by the harbor park,” she went on, not waiting for an answer. She lifted one arm out of the water to brush aside a fleck of soap that dripped onto her face. “It’s amazing how far you can travel in this city without once touching the ground.”

His gaze shifted to his open window, which was at least six stories off the street, and marveled. Whatever else this girl might be, she had a powerful sense of honor if she would go to so much trouble to fulfill her perceived responsibilities.

Or was there another reason for her presence here?

“Is there still a debt between us?” he asked tentatively.

She shrugged, a movement that had Matteo averting his eyes again quickly. “That depends. How are things working out at the palace?”

“Strangely,” Matteo said honestly. “I have yet to find a way to truly serve the queen.”

“Hmm.” Tzigone took this in. “Well, what can you do?”

This drew his attention back to her. “Excuse me?”

“What kinds of services are you trained for? Besides battle, of course. I’ve seen what you can do with a blade.”

“Many things-history, battle strategy, etiquette, protocol, languages, customs, heraldry. It is difficult to give counsel without knowledge of such things. We must also study magic and learn its strengths and weaknesses.”

She nodded, her eyes huge and bright. “How do you remember half of that? This is no idle question. I really want to know.”

“I can see that,” he murmured, puzzled by her intensity. “The memory is both a talent and a skill. Some have more capacity than others, just as some men are born with better singing voices than others. But there are ways to develop the memory. From a very early age, jordaini work to build a palace of the mind, one room at a time, with corridors between them. It is all very deliberate and meticulous. Each fact and idea is affixed to a particular place.” He tapped his forehead and closed his eyes. “I can almost literally envision the pathways I must take to get to a needed room.”

“What’s in the root cellars?” she demanded. “And how about the dungeons?”

His eyes popped open. “Excuse me?”

“How far back can you go?”

He considered this. “I have some memories that go back to the age of two or so. There are also a few earlier memories, mere impressions-vague and warm but unformed by words.” He paused and met her incredulous stare. “It is often so with the jordaini. My friend Andris claimed he could remember things that he must have heard while in his mother’s womb, but perhaps he was jesting.”

“Show me how,” she demanded.

Matteo tossed her a towel. “Meet me in the sitting room and we will do what we can.”

She padded in a few moments later, clad in green leggings and tunic and looking rather fetchingly like a dew-soaked dryad.

“Tell me,” she said, and plunked down cross-legged on the floor.

Matteo instructed her to close her eyes and bring to mind the earliest memory she could grasp. “Tell me what it is.”

“Sprite,” she said in a soft and faintly childlike voice. “That’s what I called him. It was also what he was-a sprite. I suppose he had another name, but I don’t remember hearing it.”

“You were how old at the time?” She shrugged. “Five, maybe six. But before Sprite, there’s nothing.”

“That’s not so unusual. Many people retain few memories from their early years. Is it so important?”

“Yes.”

She spoke the word with such finality and depth of emotion that Matteo didn’t think to question her. “Then we will try another way. Envision in your mind-literally in your mind, in the physical paths that your thoughts take-where this memory of Sprite resides. Can you picture it?”

Her brow furrowed, but after a moment she nodded. “I think so.”

“Move deeper and slightly to the left,” he instructed softly.

She envisioned sliding back into her mind. For a moment there was nothing but blackness, and then she caught a glimmer of silver and felt a rhythmic, reassuring touch. “Someone is brushing my hair,” she murmured. “My mother?”

“Stay where you are. Quiet your mind and imagine that you have just entered a dark room and are waiting for your eyes to adjust.”

Tzigone nodded and sat still for a moment, her face a mask of concentration. Finally she shook her head. “Nothing,” she said sadly.

“We will try again later,” Matteo said, placing a consoling hand on her shoulder. “The memory is a palace constructed with patience. It cannot be built quickly, nor quickly explored.”

“Not later,” Tzigone said grimly. “Now.” She closed her eyes and fiercely banished thought. When her mind was finally calm and still, she found the place where memories of Sprite dwelled, and then she slid farther down the dark pathways.

The gentle rhythm of the hairbrush pulled her back into the memory. But for some reason, the motion was not soothing. Tzigone felt her mother’s tension as surely as if it were her own.

Her mother! Tzigone sank deeper still into memory, desperate for a glimpse of her mother’s face or the sound of her voice. She saw herself as she might have then-the bare brown legs with their brave collection of childhood scrapes and bruises, the tiny hands clenched in her lap, the glossy brown hair that spilled over her shoulders.