The Magehound (5 page)

The wemic’s face would be considered handsome in a man, though his nose was larger and broader than human features were wont to be, and the pupils in his golden eyes were vertical, like a cat’s. A thick mane of glossy black hair fell to his shoulders, and an earring set with a large red stone glittered in one rounded, leonine ear.

But it was the other being upon whom Matteo’s eyes lingered longest. Elves were a rarity in Halruaa. A few elf folk, most of them half-blooded, were drawn to Halruaa by their love of magic. Some of them even advanced to the Council of Elders and were counted among the four hundred most regarded wizards of the land. But Matteo had never heard of an elf reaching the rank of inquisitor.

She was beautiful, in an exotic, alien fashion that tightened Matteo’s throat with awe and evoked in him a strange and foreign longing. Her skin was a coppery hue, and the thick hair braided and coiled about her shapely head was a green deeper and more lustrous than fine jade. Her eyes were as golden as those of the wemic at her side and nearly as feline. Though her head rose no higher than Matteo’s shoulder, he did not for a moment make the mistake of thinking her fragile. There was a fine coiled strength in her slender form, like the liquid steel of a cat’s muscles. She wore the bright clear yellow that proclaimed her an inquisitor in the service of Azuth, the god of wizards, whose worship was slowly gaining credence among Halruaans, and the only god other than Mystra, Lady of Magic, whose worship was permitted in the land.

The elf woman’s gaze swept down the line of young men. “I have heard good things of this year’s form,” she said in a peculiarly high, bell-like voice. “Although the time of your final testing is not yet come, I have been asked by several potential patrons to evaluate your battle skills.

“This is Mbatu,” she said, gesturing toward the wemic. “He will test you in combat, according to a rank I will assign. I am Kiva, inquisitrix of Azuth.” She smiled faintly. “Since we all know the common word by which such as I are named, let us speak it plainly. I am a magehound, and I prefer this title to the formal one. You have my permission to so address me.”

She walked along the line, her head tipped back as she met the gaze of each jordain. Themo was third in line. He glanced down at the elf, but his gaze quickly returned to the fine sword the wemic wore over his shoulder. The expression on his face was that of a particularly hungry halfling regarding a pitcher of ale and a plateful of honey-cakes.

“You are first,” she said. A flicker of anticipation danced through the big man’s eyes. This seemed to please the elf. She reached up and patted his cheek as she might that of a child, then she continued down the line, passing by several men. She stopped when she stood before Matteo.

She regarded him for a long moment. “Second,” she announced. The honor pleased Matteo, but he merely nodded his thanks. A student jordain might meet a strange wizard’s eyes, but he did not speak unless prompted by invitation or dire need.

Kiva paused again before Andris. Her strange, beautiful face furrowed in puzzlement. After a long moment, she stretched out her hand. The captain of her guard hastened forward and placed in her palm a golden rod set with green stones and capped by a large green crystal.

The magehound reached up and touched the rod to Andris’s forehead. Immediately the crystal began to vibrate, singing out a high, ghostly note. Kiva nodded, as if she had expected this. She took a step back and turned to the masters of the school, a distinguished ensemble of jordaini, scholars, warriors, and wizards. As was the custom, they’d come out to greet their important visitor. They were a diverse lot, ranging from deceptively frail Vishna to the burly, hook-nosed woman who in her youth had commanded the navy in the nearby port city of Khaerbaal. At the moment, however, all the masters regarded the magehound with identical disbelieving stares.

“Ordinarily I would call for Inquisition upon this jordain, but no further tests are required. The answer is abundantly clear.”

“This cannot be! Andris is a fine student,” protested Vishna. The old wizard stepped out of ranks, fairly quivering with distress. “He has been tested at the prescribed intervals, as are all the jordaini in this house. Never has he shown signs of latent magical talent.”

“If he is so fine a student as that,” Kiva returned coolly, “perhaps you did not look for these dangerous signs as closely as you might otherwise have done.”

The accusation was potent and inarguable, but Vishna was not yet quelled. “If Andris is to be accused, he has the right of Inquisition. Let it be done.”

“It is the law,” agreed Dimidis in his thin, querulous voice. The aged jordain spoke seldom, but when he did his words held the weight of verdict-small wonder, considering that Dimidis served as judge of the Disputation Table, the court that settled differences between jordaini and meted out occasional punishment for rule infractions.

“That is quite enough, both of you,” decreed Ferris Grail, the wizard who served as headmaster of the school. “The magehound has passed judgment upon a false jordain. That is her duty, and that is also law.” The headmaster spoke quietly, but his deep voice tolled out over the stricken jordaini like a death knell, as indeed it was.

Vishna bowed his head in defeat and fell back into line.

Now that the opposition was silenced, Kiva turned back to Andris. A strange light burned in her golden eyes. “I accuse you, Andris, of possessing magic power and hiding this knowledge from your masters.”

Her gaze swept the line of young men, taking note of the disbelief and horror dawning on their faces. “I see that I do not need to tell you the penalty for this offense.”

The streets of Khaerbaal were quiet, for the sun burned high overhead and every Halruaan who could sought the comfort of darkened rooms and, if they were fortunate, magically cooled breezes.

Tzigone was unaccustomed to such comforts, so she didn’t miss them. If anything, she enjoyed the hour or two of relative solitude. A few street people huddled in the shade offered by alleys and arbors, and visitors from other lands mopped at their streaming faces as realized their error and sought a cool tavern. Few spared a glance at the small, thin figure clad in a loose brown tunic and leggings that ended several inches above her bare feet. With her tousled, short brown hair and slightly smudged face, she looked more like a street urchin than a young woman. If an observer cared to look more closely, he might notice that beauty was hers if she wished to claim it. Her face angled sharply from high cheekbones to a small pointed chin, and her eyes were big and brown, lively with intelligence and unusually expressive.

At the moment, those eyes were deeply shadowed, for she’d lost another night’s sleep to that thrice-bedamned wemic.

Tzigone shifted the sack off her shoulder and looked around for a likely recipient for its contents. She didn’t keep anything for long. Possessions, things, had a way of betraying those who held them too close. The last thing she’d treasured had been a silver brush, and keeping it had gotten her captured and nearly killed.

Her gaze fell on an old woman huddled in the shade of an almond tree, wearing thick cast-off garments that might have been comfortable during the coolest winter days. Tzigone pulled a long, red silk kirtle from the bag.

“A fine day to you, grandmother,” she said cheerfully, using the friendly greeting common to peasant folk. “Lady’s Day has come and gone.”

“Mystra be praised,” muttered the crone, not bothering to look up. “Crowded, it were. And noisy, too.”

Tzigone dropped the simple gown into the woman’s lap. The fine fabric glided down as softly as a shadow. “Have you any use for this, grandmother? I can’t wear it now that Lady Day has passed. There are too many travelers in this town with odd notions about a lone woman in a red dress.” When the crone shot her a quizzical look, Tzigone placed her hands on her hips and took a couple of steps in a dead-on imitation of a doxie’s strut.

“Them were the days,” the old woman said with dry, unexpected humor. She fingered the silk with knotted hands. “This won’t be bringing ‘em back, but ain’t it fine as frog’s hair! I’ll take it off’n your hands, girlie. And,” she added shrewdly, “I’ll not tell any who might ask where it come from.”

Tzigone nodded and started to move off, but the woman seized the hem of her tunic, her face suddenly animated. “What of the stars, girl? Did the stars of Mystra what lighted up this gown foretell good fortune or ill? Mind you, I’ll not be wearing an evil omen.”

Tzigone painted a reassuring smile on her face. “Don’t worry, grandmother. My fortune was the same as always.”

This seemed to content the crone, for she hauled herself to her feet and hurried off, clutching her treasure.

For once Tzigone had spoken no more than the unadorned truth. Magic slid off her like water off a swan.

The tiny magical lights that rained from the sky at the close of the Lady’s Day festival had refused to touch her. She closed her eyes and sighed as she remembered how people had fallen back from her, their own red clothes glittering with Mystra’s stars and their faces holding the somber, shuttered expression usually reserved for funerals. And why not? No stars, no future. “You’re dead,” their eyes had said. “You just don’t know it yet.”

“Don’t rush me,” Tzigone muttered.

What bothered her more than the crowd’s reaction was her own small lapse. She’d quietly borrowed a red gown from a local garment shop so that she could move unnoticed through the crowd, forgetting what would happen at the festival’s end, not thinking how her starless gown might draw the attention of the wemic who of late had been stalking her.

And that was the problem. She had survived this long because she forgot nothing. That was the law that ruled her days. Never did a slight go unavenged. No kindness, no matter how casual or even unintentional, went unrewarded. But for her, sleep had always been the true time of remembrance. Sometimes, when she was deep in dreams, she could almost remember her real name and her mother’s face.

Sleep beckoned her, and she found her way through the narrow back streets to one of her favorite hidden spots. She sank into slumber as soon as she settled down.

Despite her exhaustion, she fell at once into dreaming. The dream was a familiar one, poignant with the sights and sensations of childhood. It was twilight, and the breeze had the rich, silken feel that came when night lured the winds inland from Lake Halruaa, making the humid summer air flow and swirl like a mage queen’s skirts. The breeze was especially pleasant on the rooftops overlooking the port city of Khaerbaal. On the tiled roof of a portside inn, the girl and her mother chased floating balls of light that dipped and danced against the purple sky.

Many Halruaan children her age could conjure lights, but hers were special: gem-colored and almost sentient, they eluded pursuit like canny fireflies.

“That one!” she shrieked happily, pointing toward a brilliant orange globe-a miniature harvest moon.

Obligingly her mother hiked up her skirts and ran after it. The child laughed and clapped her hands as the globe cleverly evaded capture, but her eyes lingered longer on the woman than on the dancing light.

Mother was her world. To the child’s eyes, the small, dark woman was the greatest beauty and the wisest wizard in all of Halruaa. Her mother’s laughter was music and fairy song, and as she ran, her long brown hair streamed behind her like a silken shadow.

No other children had ever joined their game, but the girl did not really miss them. In the city below, children were being led through chanted prayers to Mystra and then tucked beneath insect netting for a night’s sleep. Seldom did the wizard’s daughter envy them or wish to join them.

She had never lacked for companionship, for all creatures came to her mother’s call. Just this morning she had romped with a winged kitten, and she’d eaten her mid-day meal in the company of two sun-sleepy lizards with scales that shone like commingled emeralds and topaz. Her favorite companion was Sprite, a lad no bigger than her small, pudgy hand. He always appeared so promptly that she suspected he followed them from place to place in hope of hearing her mother’s summoning song. She understood this impulse completely, for there was no sound dearer to her or more lovely.

Even so, she hadn’t asked for Sprite in many days, for reasons she did not like to examine too closely.

Fiercely she thrust the thought aside and ran toward a small crimson globe. She stopped short just as the globe dodged, then crouched and pounced at it as she’d seen the flitter-kitten do just that morning. She caught the ball in the air and bore it down to the ground with her. She landed hard, and the globe exploded beneath her with a satisfying pop. She scrambled to her feet, a triumphant smile on her face and a splattering of luminous red on her tunic.

Her mother applauded enthusiastically and then made a small, graceful gesture with one hand. The red stain lifted from the girl’s tunic and spun out into the night, forming a long, glowing thread.

The child grinned expectantly as she waited for the next part of their game. The thread would twist and loop until it etched a marvelous picture against the darkening sky. Sometimes her mother sketched exotic beasts, or a miniature skyship, and once she fashioned a stairway to the stars that the girl could actually climb-and did, until her mother took fright and called her back. But most often the threads drew out maps that traced paths through the back streets and over the rooftops of whatever city or village they currently explored.

Tonight, however, the thread formed none of these things. It wandered about aimlessly, hopelessly tangling itself. Finally it dissipated altogether into a smattering of faint and rapidly dimming pink motes.

Puzzled, she looked to her mother. “I’m tired, child,” the woman said softly. “We’ll make pictures another night.”

The girl accepted this with a nod and dashed off after a pair of emerald lights. Since there would be no pictures tonight, she made a new game of her own. Earlier that day she had tied a short, stout stick to her belt. This made a fine sword. In her imagination, the globes became a swarm of multicolored stirges-giant, thirsty, mosquitolike creatures that hummed macabre little tunes as they drained sleeping men dry. She sang a stirge song now in a childish soprano, making up nonsense verse as she went along. Each imaginary monster ended its days in a splash of colored light. It was a fine game and helped her put from mind the small failing of her mother’s magic. On nights like this, she could forget a good deal.