The king nodded to Tzigone. She stepped forward, looking poised and almost regal. Her gaze swept the crowd. With the timing honed by years performing on street corners and taverns, she waited until every eye was upon her and the silence thick with expectation.
“I saw Sinestra Belajoon’s body,” she said, speaking in rounded, ringing tones that filled the room. “She was not cremated according to Halruaan law and custom but kept under glass like a work of art or a trophy.”
Shocked exclamations and muttered disclaimers rippled across the room.
“Is this possible?” the king asked Malchior Belajoon, Uriah’s nephew.
He stepped forward. “It is, my lord. My uncle intended to honor the custom in time but could not bear to part with her so soon.”
“Though I am not without sympathy,” Zalathorm said gravely, “this is a serious matter. Accusations were spoken against Basel Indoulur days after Sinestra Belajoon’s death. The law states that an accused murderer is entitled to confront the spirit of his victim. All assumed this was not possible. You allowed that assumption to stand.”
Malchior’s face darkened at this reproof, but he bowed to acknowledge the king’s words. “My uncle employed a magehound to inquire into the cause of Sinestra’s death. He was assured that Basel Indoulur was responsible for her death.”
“He was responsible, all right,” Tzigone agreed. “He asked a question she couldn’t answer. Apparently she tried, even though there was a spell of silence upon her.”
“Go on,” said Zalathorm.
“I tried to divine that spell, trace it back. There is a protective veil surrounding the caster. I couldn’t get past it, but I recognized it. It had the feel of my mother’s talisman. Dhamari Exchelsor is wearing it”
“That is impossible,” Procopio said flatly. “Dhamari Exchelsor disappeared into the Unseelie realm!”
“So did I,” responded Tzigone, “yet, here I am.”
For a long moment, she and the powerful wizard locked stares.
Zalathorm looked to his scribe. “According to law, Dhamari’s tower would be warded against intrusion. Is there record of his return?”
The scribe cast a quick cantrip and picked up a big ledger. The pages rippled swiftly, flipping first one way and then the other, then the book snapped closed.
“None, sire.”
Matteo noted the faint smirk that lifted one side of the diviner’s lips. “If you have evidence of Dhamari Exchelsor’s return, please share it,” invited Procopio politely. “Until then, do not besmirch a wizard’s name with accusations you cannot support!”
Tzigone swept a hand wide in a gesture that included the crowd. “Isn’t that what we’re doing here? Three people have died in Basel’s tower: Sinestra Belajoon, Farrah Noor, and Uriah Belajoon. Basel knew them all, and he loved Farrah like a daughter. He tried to save Lord Uriah when the old man’s heart faltered. These deaths are his tragedy, not his crime.”
She lifted her chin, and her sweeping gaze seemed to capture every pair of eyes and lock them to hers.
Matteo drew in a quick, startled breath. In that gesture, he saw a shadow of Zalathorm’s commanding presence. He glanced at the king, but Zalathorm’s thoughtful gaze was fixed upon his unacknowledged daughter.
“Basel is innocent This I swear this to you,” Tzigone said, giving each word the weight of a royal pronouncement, “by Lady and Lord, by wind and word. Let any who wish to prove me false do the same.”
No one spoke. No one moved. It didn’t seem to occur to anyone that the challenge just thrown down had come from a waif with shorn tresses and an apprentice’s blue robes. She took her seat, and the decision to release Basel was swiftly endorsed by a subdued council.
Matteo marveled at the irony of this. Had this taken place in a tavern, the patrons would have applauded and ordered another round. The wizards didn’t seem to realize that Tzigone’s persona was nothing more than a non-magical illusion cast by a talented street performer.
Or was it? He and Tzigone had just returned from a place where illusion and reality had no clear boundaries. Perhaps, he mused, things were not so different on this side of the veil.
Later that day, Procopio Septus made his way to the shop of a behir tinker, an artisan who made fanciful objects from a behir’s colored, crystalline fangs. He listened with barely concealed impatience as the man demonstrated a musical instrument fashioned so that its strings were plucked by plectrums fashioned from multicolored fangs, enspelled so that the resulting sound could imitate nearly anything the musician wished.
“A marvelous toy, but I have no time for music,” Procopio said flatly.
The tinker nodded and reached for a set of tiny, exquisitely carved spoons. “Perhaps a gift for a lady? These are in great demand.”
“Yet you seem to have so many of them,” the wizard said dryly. “Not quite the thing. A lamp, perhaps?”
The shopkeeper’s brow furrowed. Before he could admit that he had none, Procopio nodded toward the crystal chandelier that hung in the rear corner of the room. The man’s eyes widened in astonishment
“I’ll take that one,” the wizard announced.
“Two hundred skie,” the tinker suggested without missing a step. “A bargain.”
Procopio dickered a bit, as custom demanded. The tinker settled on a price that might have been considered fair, had the lamp truly been his to sell.
The wizard examined his purchase, surreptitiously removing the yellow crystal from it. He gave the tinker an address of a quiet inn and asked to have it delivered and hung in a private room he maintained for one of his mistresses. It would not remain there long, of course. Given the pervasive nature of magic in Halruaan society, it was folly to keep a dimensional portal in one place for very long.
He made his way to the inn and took the crystal from a hidden pocket in his sleeve. A few words opened the portal, and Dhamari Exchelsor stepped into the room.
“What news?” he asked. Procopio related the events in a terse, factual manner.
“Let me tally this score,” Dhamari said incredulously. “Uriah Belajoon is dead, and Basel Indoulur is not. Where is the ‘help’ the old man was supposed to receive?”
“Late in coming,” grumbled Procopio. “But some good did follow. Malchior Belajoon, nephew to Uriah, has seen opportunity in his uncle’s death. The Belajoon name is on every Halruaan’s lips. To a clever man, notoriety is as good as fame. He sees himself as Zalathorm’s successor and is gathering supporters.”
Dhamari smiled. “Excellent. You do not wish to be seen as the only contender for the throne.”
“Once the first sword is unsheathed, other wizards will step forward, either to support a powerful contender or to make claims of their own. Few of them will get far.”
“So you are setting up straw men to be knocked down. Including Malchior, I suppose.”
“Including Zalathorm,” Procopio corrected. “Your task is to ensure that wizards who stand against Malchior die, making him appear more formidable than he truly is. Let Malchior gain support, until he appears to be the primary challenger to Zalathorm’s throne.”
Dhamari nodded. “To even the slate, I should see to the demise of some of Malchior’s supporters, as well. Then when Malchior falls, he will appear to be one of many. You can then argue that the mighty, benevolent Zalathorm has been reduced to dispatching lawful challengers like a back-alley assassin.”
“Well reasoned,” Procopio agree. He looked keenly at the little wizard. “You can accomplish this?”
“I can. The time I spent enjoying your hospitality yielded some excellent spells, ones that should prove difficult to detect”
The conspirators talked for several moments more before Procopio slipped away. When Dhamari was alone, he took his scrying globe and summoned the image of a beautiful elven face.
A slow smile spread across Dhamari’s face as the spires of Akhlaur’s tower came into view. Zalathorm would fall indeed, but not by Procopio’s machinations. The coming carnage would
be far beyond the lord mayor’s proud expectations, and when it was done, even a man of Dhamari’s stature would stand very tall indeed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
That evening, after another fruitless and frustrating visit to the queen’s tower, Matteo returned to his private chambers. He was not surprised to see Tzigone awaiting him, sprawled comfortably, if not elegantly, on a velvet settee. He stopped short, however, as a second figure rose from a high-backed chair.
“King Zalathorm,” he said in surprise.
“Close the door, please,” the king said. “There is something more to be discussed, and I would rather not do so in full hearing of passing servants.”
Matteo shut the door and came to sit near Tzigone. He took her hand and held it firmly.
She sent him an incredulous look. “That bad, is it?”
“Just watch,” the jordain said tersely. He nodded toward the king.
Zalathorm’s visage had begun to change. The blurred lines of middle years gave way to taut, sun-browned skin. His features sharpened, and his frame compacted to the lithe form of a man half his apparent years. The robes of a Halruaan wizard-king changed into simple garments such as a young wizard out for adventure might wear.
Tzigone stared at this figure stepped from Keturah’s memories. “The griffin rider,” she said at last
“Yes.” Zalathorm sighed, and the weight of long years was in his eyes. “I admire Basel for what he did. Indeed, I envy him and wish I were free to do likewise.”
Tzigone blew out a long breath. She stared at the king for a long moment, then absolved him with a wink. “Don’t mention it. I mean that quite literally. Basel is my dear friend. He stood up before all the gods and half of Halruaa and implied that he was my father. You sort of glossed over it, and that was fine, but if anyone comes right out and publicly calls him a liar, I would be completely dragondung.”
Zalathorm’s brows shot up, and he sent an inquiring look at Matteo. The young jordain turned a deep shade of red.
“I believe that is a colloquial expression for extreme anger, my lord, one that holds connotations of something hot, steaming, unpleasant, and rather too large to deal with.”
The king turned a wistful smile upon the girl. “Then I will leave matters as they stand. A dragondung sorceress is not something I care to contemplate.”
“A sorceress,” Matteo mused, staring thoughtfully at the girl. This explained a great many things.
Tzigone grinned and hurled a small honeycake at him. “Things change. Try to keep up.”
He deftly caught the small sticky missile. A wicked impulse stirred, and he yielded at once. “While we’re contemplating change, perhaps we should also consider a long-running debate in the Council of Elders concerning the nature of the crown.”
She rolled her eyes and then glanced at Zalathorm, evaluating the silver circlet resting on his brow with a practiced eye. “Electrum and sapphires would be my guess.”
“There’s a faction in Halruaa,” he continued, “that wishes to establish a hereditary monarchy.”
Matteo let that shaft sink home. When Tzigone’s eyes flew wide, and her face slackened with horror, he tossed back the honeycake. It struck the bemused girl on the forehead and stuck there.
The king passed a hand over his face as if to erase a smile, then sent a stern glare at Matteo. “Is that any way to treat the crown princess?” he said with mock wrath.
He rose, plucked the cake off Tzigone’s forehead, and left the room. His footsteps quickly faded, along with a faint chuckle.
Tzigone licked her sticky fingers and looked thoughtfully at Matteo. “You know, I think I could get to like him.”
“As you say, Your Highness.”
Her eyes narrowed. Matteo responded with a bland smile. “Things change,” he reminded her. “Do try to keep up.”
Basel Indoulur strolled through the public gardens that lay between the city palace and his Halarahh tower. Sunset colors crept into the sky over the city, and the bright, complex perfume of a thousand flowers lingered in the soft air. The wizard took his time, for he was in no hurry to return to his lonely tower.
With no family of his own, Basel lavished time and attention on his apprentices, but Tzigone would not be returning to the tower for quite some time. Procopio Septus had seen to that. Now that she’d been publicly acknowledged as Keturah’s daughter, her mother’s tower was hers.
He sighed as his thoughts shifted to his other two apprentices. Farrah Noor was dead, and Mason, accused of her murder, was constrained by magic from leaving Basel’s villa. The young apprentice was alternately morose and frantic, but he steadfastly maintained he’d had nothing to do with the girl’s death.
Basel believed him, but Farrah’s death had had dire and far-reaching impact on the uneasy wizards. In these uneasy days, the trial of one wizard for another’s murder was like a match to oiled timber. The sooner they sorted through this tangle, the better. He wondered if perhaps Tzigone might be able to ferret out the true story from the potion bottle, as she had with the noblewoman’s necklace.
Suddenly a bolt of orange light sizzled up into the sky and exploded like festival fireworks. Droplets of bright magic spread into a brilliant fountain and sprinkled down over Basel’s tower.
The wizard broke into a run. He’d never seen such magic, but he suspected its purpose. A protective shield surrounded his villa, keeping Mason in until his fate was decided. It also kept people out, but no magic was inviolate—there were spells that could eat through this shield as surely as a black dragon’s acid melted through a northerner’s chain mail.
He burst through the arbor gates and sprinted down the street leading to his home. All the while, brilliant bursts of colored light exploded over his tower.
Clever, he thought grimly. Festival fireworks had been common occurrences since the recent victory. No one would find it odd to see them over Basel’s tower, and he had apparent reason to celebrate. No one would suspect the true purpose of these lights until after the deed was done.
He pulled up short as three off-duty guardsmen sauntered out of a posh tavern. “Sound an alarm,” he panted out, pointing up at the lights. “My tower is under attack.”
The men exchanged puzzled glances, but they were not in the habit of arguing with wizard-lords. They executed the proper bows and set off at none-too-urgent a pace.
Basel rounded the corner to find his estate besieged. At least a dozen wizards ringed the walls, hurling one sparkling spell after another into the evening sky. All of them wore the Noor insignia, and many had the glossy blue-black hair common to Farrah’s family.
Small, shimmering gates ringed his tower, standing ready to grant the attackers a quick retreat. With so many wizards against a single apprentice, no doubt they expected a swift and easy victory. Indeed, the glowing yellow aura surrounding the estate had worn as thin as a soap bubble. It shimmered perilously under the continuing magical assault
“So it begins,” Basel murmured as he reached for a wand in his sleeve. He leveled it at the nearest Noor wizard and unleashed a spell he’d never thought to wield against a fellow Halruaan.
Tzigone stood by the window in Matteo’s chambers, gazing moodily out over the city. They’d just come from the tower. Her visit with the queen—she could still not equate that still, sad woman with the mother she remembered—had left her uncharacteristically subdued.
In the background, Matteo and Andris talked softly, planning not only the queen’s defense, but Andris’s as well. Matteo expected that his friend’s alliance with Kiva would be forgiven in light of his service to Halruaa, both before and after his fall. Andris seemed less convinced of this. Tzigone suspected that in this regard, Andris was more on target.
A brilliant orange sunburst caught her eye. For a moment she watched as fireworks soared, blossomed, and faded. Suddenly the niggling uneasiness in the back of her mind exploded into realization. She whirled toward Matteo.
“That’s over Basel’s tower,” she s
aid, pointing.
The jordain looked up. “So it is. Basel is fond of festive things. He has reason to celebrate.”
“He lost an apprentice,” Tzigone retorted. “Basel loved Farrah—he wouldn’t send up sparklers to mingle with the clouds from her funeral pyre!”
The two men exchanged glances, then came to flank Tzigone. “Cinibar rain,” Andris said grimly, nodding to the descending orange sparklers.
“Most likely,” Matteo agreed. Moving as one, the two jordain strode to the wall and took their weapon belts from the hooks.
“What? What?” she demanded.
“Cinnabar rain could dispel the magical shield the council placed over Basel’s tower.”
Tzigone dug into a small bag at her belt. “Meet me there,” she said, and she hurled a handful of bright sand at an open window. The frame filled with shimmering light Tzigone leaped through it.
She landed lightly in a battle-ready crouch just outside the walls of Basel’s villa. Her eyes narrowed and swept the battlefield. Two wizards lay dead, charred beyond recognition. Basel tossed aside the spent wand and took another from his sleeve. As she watched, a thin stream of water erupted from it, splashed a spellcasting wizard, and arced up to intercept a lightning bolt of glowing cobalt blue.
Water and magical energy converged with a searing hiss. The blue bolt split in two. Half sizzled back down along the stream of water toward the wizard who had cast it, the other sped toward the water wand.
Before Tzigone could shriek out a warning, Basel tossed the wand to a nearby wizard and dived to one side.
Lightning stuck, simultaneously charring the discarded wand and the attacking wizard. A stench of burned meat filled the air, and two wizards—now nothing more than statues of coal—toppled to the ground and shattered into ash.
Keeping low, Tzigone ran over to Basel’s side, dodging the bolts directed at him. Together they dove through a portal in the seemingly solid wall and rolled through to the garden side.
“Nice trick with the wand,” she said. “With that timing, you should have been a bard.”
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