Authors: Elaine Cunningham
“I am forewarned,” the diviner said in a bone-dry tone.
He strode over to the trellis where Tzigone stood, arms folded, glaring at the climbing jasmine as if she held a special grudge against it.
He studied her closely, trying to remember Keturah’s face and searching the girl’s for anything that might jog his memory. She turned to meet his scrutiny. A wary glint flashed in her eyes-the canny, instinctual caution of an animal that scents a predator.
Procopio smiled reassuringly. “I noted your performance on Avariel. Quite daring.”
She shrugged, eyeing him and waiting for him to get to the point. He came closer, and with one hand he surreptitiously traced the gestures for a simple spell that measured the general shape of a person’s magical power and moral inclinations. A simple spell, but an enormous breach of hospitality. A wizard simply did not intrude upon a guest in this manner.
To his astonishment, the spell simply dissipated. Either the girl was powerful enough to resist his Art, or she was as magic-dead as clay.
Intrigued, the diviner called to mind a more powerful spell and probed harder, deeper, employing magic that could thrust aside the mind’s resistance and plunder at will. So intrusive was this spell that a Halruaan woman would be less offended if a stranger were to thrust his hand between her thighs. Even this puissant spell proved futile.
Futile, but not unnoticed. The girl’s big eyes went molten with fury. “Back off,” she said in a low, dangerous voice. “Poke at me again, and I’ll take your hand off at the elbow and shove it up your… spell bag.”
Despite his own misdeeds, Procopio was not about to accept such disrespect. He drew himself up. “You over-speak yourself, wench! I never expected to see the day when a green apprentice dared to address a master wizard in such fashion!”
“Is that so?” she inquired through gritted teeth. “Then this is going to come as a real surprise!”
Before Procopio could react, she clenched a small, ink-stained hand and drove it into his face.
His magical shields were in place. He was certain of that. Then why was he lying on his back, his head throbbing from sharp contact with the cobblestone and his entire face throbbing like a giant toothache?
No answer to this mystery emerged from the blurring whirl that his thoughts had become. After a moment Procopio hauled himself into a sitting position. He lifted one hand to his jaw and worked it experimentally.
Basel bustled over, his plump face twitching with emotion. “I am shocked, my friend! Astounded! Most thoroughly disconcerted! By wind and word, I swear that I shall deal with my apprentice swiftly and appropriately.”
The diviner waved away the pudgy, beringed hand that Basel offered and rose unaided, clinging to the jasmine-cloaked trellis for support. When the garden stopped spinning, he turned to regard his unlikely attacker.
The girl stood as taut and ready as a drawn bow, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, her fisted hands held low but ready. Despite the gravity of her situation, she looked as if she’d like nothing better than to take a second shot at him.
Procopio tamped down his temper and salved his bruised pride. The little bastard would pay in time, after she’d been dealt as a card in his long-running game with Basel Indoulur. Meanwhile, Basel was bound by wizard-word to deal harshly with her. Since attacking a wizard was among the most serious crimes in the land, Basel would be hard pressed to come up with a punishment short of death or dismemberment.
Procopio dismissed them all with a wave of his hand. “Take the wench, and deal with her according to her deeds. You are so sworn.”
Basel bowed low and took Tzigone by the arm, drawing her out of the courtyard and into the street.
Now you’ve done it, she thought, her heart sinking into the pit of her stomach. What had possessed her, that she’d thought she could live within the staid confines of a wizard’s tower, and the endless rules and niceties expected of a Halruaan wizard? Tzigone was no more suited to this life than was a half-feral griffon kitten. Sooner or later, something like this was destined to happen. Now Basel, despite his indulgent good humor, was obliged to take action. Tzigone considered trying to break and run, but the tip of a rowan wand peeking out of Basel’s crimson sleeve convinced her otherwise. For such a lighthearted soul, Basel carried an extraordinary amount of magical weaponry.
They walked in silence down several streets, Mason and Farrah trailing miserably behind. Tzigone did not think it wise to ask why they did not go directly to the skyship.
At last they paused before a row of fine shops. Basel released Tzigone’s arm and pointed to the goods in the window before them. “Tell me, do these please you?”
She glanced at the window, then did an astonished double take. Displayed against draping folds of black velvet was a collection of the finest weapons she had ever seen.
The shopkeeper bustled out, beaming. “Just the thing for prudent wizards to carry, lords and ladies! Not a sword, dagger or knife among these will hold a spell. No one can trace them, enspell them, or turn them against you. Of course, you’ll have to sharpen them-they won’t magically hold an edge, either.” He chuckled at his little joke. “But we sell whetstones for that purpose,” he added, lest there be any hesitation on that account.
Tzigone studied the fine weapons. Why was Basel dangling them before her like this? She didn’t have the coins to buy one, and she doubted that he intended for her to demonstrate her thieving skills. If he meant to have her killed or marked-and if her understanding of Halruaan law was correct, he had the right to do either-why have her choose the weapon? He had never struck her as a sadistic man.
“Do any of these please you?” Basel repeated patiently.
Tzigone cleared her throat. “I’ve never seen better.”
“They are quite fine. They’re also overpriced, but what can I say? I am bound by my wizard-word oath to act promptly. Choose one.”
She sent him an inquiring look. To her vast relief, Basel’s disturbingly calm expression gave way to a wide grin.
“You knocked Lord Procopio on his scrawny excuse for an arse. I swore that you would be dealt with appropriately. I’d say an extravagant gift is in order.” He turned to his apprentices. “Mason? Farrah?”
“Highly appropriate,” Mason agreed with a relieved smile. Farrah Noor laughed delightedly and clapped her jeweled hands.
“There is more to this than you know,” Basel said, suddenly serious. “Spells of divination are as common in Halruaa as rain during the monsoon, but there are rules and limits. Lord Procopio skirts them. A hungry urchin risks losing a hand when he cuts a rich man’s purse strings, yet the most powerful of wizards can raid another man’s mind with impunity. Procopio has intruded upon one of my apprentices before,” Basel said, glancing at Farrah Noor, “and I suspected that he could not resist the challenge you present. He was due for a gentle reminder that not everyone will tolerate his arrogance.”
The wizard’s mood darkened still more. “Forgive me, child, for subjecting you to such indignity. I never suspected that Procopio would go so far. I should have, knowing him as I do.”
Tzigone heaved a sigh of profound relief and enfolded Basel in a quick hug. She reached for a length of gleaming silver-a long slim knife, perfectly balanced for fighting or throwing. “I knew I should have followed that punch with a knee to the groin.”
“I’m just as glad you didn’t,” Basel told her, his black eyes twinkling with unholy glee as he counted out the needed coins. “Had you done so, I would have felt compelled to sign Avariel over to you.”
Matteo’s pursuit of Andris took much longer than he had anticipated. His eager stallion ran hard the first day, and Matteo suspected that Cyric would have run through the night had not Matteo called a halt. On the second day, heavy rains slowed his progress and blurred the trail. Matteo was a strong tracker, but had he not known Andris so well, he would have missed the trail entirely. It was not the trail sign, but the small tricks and diversions that the jordain left to cover his path that Matteo found and read.
By the third day, he could no longer doubt Andris’s destination. The jordain was bound for the Temple of Azuth, as he had been instructed. That made no sense to Matteo. If Andris intended to submit himself to the inquisitors, why slip away without a word?
The sun’s last long, golden rays gilded the high-domed Azuthan cathedral as Cyric thundered up to the temple gate. Matteo gave his name and purpose to the gatekeeper and waited while the man went to fetch a priest.
An elderly man came to the gate, wearing the gray vestments of Azuth. Matteo’s eye dropped to the holy symbol over his heart: a man’s hand, index finger pointed upward, surrounded by flame. The flames that surrounded the needlework hand were not fashioned from silken threads but from magic flumes that leaped and danced, giving off a deep red light. The flame’s color denoted rank. Matteo’s host was a high priest. Given Matteo’s part in returning the traitorous Kiva, he supposed it fitting that so august a person should come to greet him.
The priest made short work of the usual courtesies, not even offering his name. He ushered Matteo into a private study and closed the door firmly. Matteo waited with growing puzzlement as the priest fell into prayer, chanting Azuth-given spells to ward the room from magical intrusion.
At last Matteo could not contain his curiosity. “You fear that some wizard might intrude into this sacred place? That is forbidden!”
“Forbidden or not, it has been known to happen.” The priest sank into a chair and waved Matteo toward another, “The man you seek, the jordain Andris. He did not present himself to the temple.”
“He assured me he would come here.”
“You mentioned that to the gatekeeper. You also said that Andris promised he would not leave the Jordaini College until the following morning,” the priest pointed out.
Matteo had no answer for this. “I must admit that my friend’s actions are a complete mystery to me. I would be grateful for whatever enlightenment you could offer.”
The priest hesitated for a long moment. “You must treat what I am about to tell you with the same discretion a jordain grants his patron.”
Matteo nodded cautious agreement “Insofar as I may, without betraying the interests of my patron the queen, or the service of truth.”
“That will have to do.” The priest sighed heavily. “Andris did not present himself at our gates, that much is true, but he was here. It is my opinion that he was looking for Kiva.”
This was the strangest news Matteo had learned yet “Did he find her?”
“When you learn the answer to that question, let me know. Me, and no other.”
As the man’s meaning became clear, Matteo slumped back into his chair. “Kiva has escaped? But how?”
The priest shifted. “I could fashion an explanation, but why waste breath on something that will not change the situation?”
Matteo silently accessed “the situation.” Kiva was gone, and with her the secret of the gate to the Plane of Water. A smaller concern, but no less urgent to Matteo, was what part Andris might have played in this. Andris believed his destiny was bound to the elven people, and Kiva was the only elf he knew. It seemed incredible that Andris would have anything more to do with the treacherous elf woman, but Matteo could not be certain.
After a long moment, he put words to his fears. “Do you suspect that Andris might have aided Kiva’s escape?”
The priest shook his head. “Kiva was long gone before the jordain came. After she regained her senses, she was examined immediately, if briefly, by one of our inquisitors. She named an accomplice, who was duly executed.”
“Zephyr,” Matteo murmured, bringing to mind the kind, worn face of the elderly elf-the only jordain who had made him welcome during his service to Procopio Septus. “What evidence was brought against him?”
“The sentence was just,” the priest assured him. “Kiva told the truth about him, if little else. The inquisitor deemed her too weak to continue, yet she fled within the hour. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but there you have it”
This pronouncement mingled good news and bad. Andris was not culpable, but on the other hand, Kiva had been running free for quite some time. Zephyr had been executed by the light of a gibbous moon, as was Halruaan custom. Since then moondark had come and gone, and a plump crescent overlooked the temple like a lazy, heavy-lidded eye.
Matteo swallowed his frustration. “What efforts have been made to recover her?”
“Officially, none,” the priest told him. “You see, Kiva has disappeared into the forested pass that leads through the mountains into the Mhair Jungle. By treaty with the Mhair elves, Azuth’s priests cannot enter that pass. Wizards, swordsmen and commoners among Azuth’s followers are not bound by this prohibition, but none have found the elf’s trail.”
“Nor will they. Following an elf in a forest is like tracking a falcon’s flight in a cloudy sky.”
“Just so. You understand why we were hesitant to ask for assistance elsewhere.”
Matteo understood perfectly. As long as Kiva’s disappearance brought no additional harm to Halruaa, the Azuthans would seek her quietly, hoping to retrieve her before her escape became general knowledge.
He studied the priest “You wouldn’t have told me any of this without good reason.”
The priest raised his eyebrows at this blunt speech, but he did not offer a disclaimer. “Do you know this Andris well?”
Matteo repeated words he had spoken many times before. “As well as one man can know another.”
His host smiled thinly. “Is that an expression of brotherhood or cynicism?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“A wise balance. Tell me: in your opinion, did Andris go after Kiva? For vengeance, perhaps?”
“Were he so inclined, he would have ample reason.”
“Interesting,” the priest murmured. He looked keenly at Matteo. “You tracked this jordain to the temple. Could you follow him into the forest?”
“I would fare better with some assistance. There are two men at the Jordaini College who are excellent trackers, and good fighters. Will you send for them?”