He reached for her. Sinestra shied away, but the man’s fingers brushed her arm. Lord Belajoon’s “gift” responded to the touch of another man, and Sinestra disappeared in mid curse.
The dumbfounded physician turned his gaze toward Tzigone. She smiled sweetly. “Lord Procopio is getting possessive, is he not? Imagine wasting so powerful a spell, just to ensure that none of the servants get into the cooking wine. So to speak.”
“An accident. I tripped. I never intended to touch the wench,” the man babbled. Tzigone patted him on the cheek and went her way, quite certain that he would not carry tales about a chambermaid’s sudden disappearance.
Tzigone left the villa without further incident An unfamiliar darkness clung to her spirit as she trudged away. In all the years she’d sought her mother, it had never once occurred to her that Keturah might not know or care what became of her child. Even if Sinestra and Keturah were not the same person, Sinestra’s response raised disturbing questions.
Perhaps it was time to consider last resorts.
Within the hour Tzigone had exchanged her smock for a skimpy gown she found drying on a bush behind a brothel, smudged her eyes and lips with some of the face paint she’d borrowed from Sinestra’s bag, and made her way to the palace. She waited by the gate Matteo usually took. He was an early riser, so she hadn’t long to wait. She all but pounced on him, seizing his arm and dragging him away from the early morning bustle.
Matteo sent her a sidelong glance as they hurried away from the palace gate. “Anyone who sees us will click their tongues and complain that the city’s doxies have become far too aggressive! If you’ve no thought for your own reputation, Tzigone, have you considered mine?”
“You’re a jordain,” she retorted. “Being seen with a courtesan could only improve matters. Never mind that right now. I need you to find someone for me.”
“You found someone willing to speak of Keturah?”
“Well, sort of. I came straight out and asked Basel Indoulur if he knew anything about Keturah. He suggested someone who might be able to help me.”
Matteo’s eyes widened with alarm. “Did you tell him she was your mother?”
“How stupid do I look?” His eyes dropped briefly to her tawdry gown. “You know what I mean.”
“Indeed. Tell me about this person you wish me to find.”
“Dhamari Exchelsor. He’s a generalist wizard, a potion stirrer. You’ll find him in the green marble tower at the corner of Sylph Street and South Market Road.”
Matteo regarded her thoughtfully. “No doubt I can manage that, but if you know so much already, what do you need me to do? Why not go yourself?”
“He was Keturah’s husband.”
“Ah. You want me to meet him under some pretense, take his measure,” Matteo mused.
“He’s very quick,” Tzigone announced to no one in particular. Her tart expression melted, and she turned a look of appeal to Matteo. “This could be my best hope of finding the truth about my mother. Perhaps my only hope. I know you jordaini are sworn to truth,” she added in a rush, “and I’m not exactly asking you to lie for me. Just sort of … fish around. You know—trim the bait into bite-sized bits but hide the hook.…” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.
Matteo considered her for a long moment. “You took a risk asking about Keturah so openly. Do you trust Basel Indoulur?”
“Sort of.”
His smile was faint and devoid of humor. “A common sentiment these days. Very well, I will see this wizard and learn what I can.”
Acting on impulse, Tzigone threw her arms around Matteo’s neck. From the corner of her eye, she noted two white-clad men coming from the palace gate. Mischief seized her, and she let herself drop. Matteo’s arms went instinctively around her to keep her from falling. After a moment she released him and stepped back, her eyes twinkling and her lips curved in a lazy, replete smile.
“Oh no, my lord,” she protested breathlessly as she handed him back his own coin bag. “Who could put a price on such mastery?”
She heaved a deep sigh and smoothed her hair. Then, turning, she sauntered off with a doxie’s undulating swish. She glanced back and grinned when she noted the respectful stares the other jordaini sent Matteo. One of the men clapped him on the shoulder in comradely fashion as he passed.
Matteo glowered at her and closed the distance between them with a few quick strides. “You were worried about your reputation,” Tzigone said innocently, backing up to keep her distance. “It seems to have risen a trifle.”
His stern expression wavered, and his lips twitched in a reluctant smile. Quickly he reclaimed his scowl and snatched up a melon from a passing cart. He tossed a coin to the protesting merchant, and then hefted the melon and aimed it at Tzigone.
She fled with a startled squeal, scurrying into an alcove in the thick wall of the palace. When no missile hurtled by, she chanced a glimpse out
Matteo stood a few paces away. He held out a neatly carved slice. “Breakfast?”
Tzigone took the offered fruit and patted the bench beside her. Matteo settled down. In companionable silence, the queen’s counselor and the painted street waif shared the fruit and split the loaf that Tzigone produced from her bag. For once, Matteo didn’t ask her how she’d come by it. Nor did he comment upon the strange looks that passersby sent the mismatched pair.
They did not speak of the differences that separated them or the troubles that bound them. Nonetheless, by the time the sun edged over the eastern wall of the city, the darkness had likewise lifted from Tzigone’s heart.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Matteo went directly to Dhamari Exchelsor’s tower, confident that he would be received. No one refused the queen’s jordain, though the reasons for this hospitality varied. Matteo was well accustomed to receptions that ranged from extreme wariness to blatant ambition, depending upon which sort of news was anticipated.
To do away with this, Matteo explained to the gatekeeper that he came not on the queen’s business but inquiring about a personal matter. He noted with interest the servant’s reaction to this announcement: there was despair in his eyes, as if this news had shattered a dear hope. Some people knew no limits to their ambition!
The gatekeeper returned quickly and brought Matteo into the tower. The receiving room was not overly large, but it was appointed with comfortable chairs and small, scattered tables. A fountain played in one corner, spilling over the bottles of wine immersed in what Matteo assumed was a magically cooled pool. Silver goblets stood ready on the table nearby, and sugared fruits were arranged under a glass dome. Books lay on tables placed between the chairs, and candles to aid reading. Bell pulls hung at intervals on every wall, suggesting that servants would come promptly to tend a guest’s needs. In all, an extremely comfortable and welcoming room.
Matteo had just barely taken a seat when his host appeared. He rose at once and gave the wizard the proscribed courtesies. Though jordaini were not required by law to lower their eyes while bowing to a wizard, Matteo did so to cover his surprise. He could not imagine how the woman who’d given birth to Tzigone would find herself wed to such a man!
Dhamari Exchelsor was mild looking, soft-bodied, and pale of complexion. His balding head came level with Matteo’s shoulder, and his eyes had the myopic squint of a man who spends little time out of doors. His dark brown beard was neatly trimmed, his clothes simple and well made. Like his reception chamber, the wizard lacked ostentation or pretense. He looked like a man comfortable with the circumstances of his life and too content to strive for much of anything more. The word that came most strongly to mind when Matteo sought to describe him was “inoffensive.”
“Please! You do me too much honor,” Dhamari protested mildly. “I hope you will allow me to return the courtesy. If there is any way that I might serve you, speak freely.”
Matteo lifted his eyes to his host’s curious gaze. “You are most gracious, but you may regret your offer when you hear the story that brought me here.”
“We will judge the tale once the telling is done. Will you have wine?” Dhamari gestured toward the cooling pool. “It is an Exchelsor pink, a fine companion to long and thirsty tales.”
The jordain politely declined and took the chair Dhamari offered him. He told him a brief version of the story of Akhlaur’s Swamp, describing the injury that sent Kiva into a long and sleeplike trance but omitting the fact of her escape.
“So you see,” he concluded, “it is vital that we learn what became of this gate—if not from Kiva, then perhaps from those who had dealings with her.”
Dhamari leaned back in his chair. “You have come well prepared. I had almost forgotten the time I spent with Kiva in this very tower.”
This was news indeed! “How long ago?”
“I should say a good six and twenty years,” the wizard reminisced. “We were both apprentices under the same mistress, a very talented wizard of the evocation school. It seems impossible that it could be so long ago!”
Matteo had intended to mention Kiva and work his way back to the elf’s capture of Keturah. This was an unexpected shortcut! “Might this wizard, your former mistress, have knowledge of Kiva’s life beyond this time of apprenticeship?”
“Would she? Oh yes, to her sorrow and mine!” The wizard took a long breath and sent Matteo an apologetic smile. “Forgive me. I speak so seldom of my lady Keturah. It is a great joy to do so and a great sorrow. Perhaps you know the name?”
“I heard it spoken in the Swamp of Akhlaur.”
“I can see why.” Dhamari leaned forward eagerly. “This girl, this untrained commoner whose voice held the laraken—tell me about her.”
Matteo spread his hands in a negligent gesture. “There is little I can say. She is a street performer, a girl with a merry heart and a clever mind. She can imitate any voice she hears. Untrained in Art she certainly is, but she picked up a stray spell here and there. She possesses a strong wild talent, such as is seldom seen in these civilized times, but she is training now.”
“Yes, with Basel Indoulur. I have heard,” Dhamari said. “I was one of many wizards who offered to teach her, but both the council and the girl herself inclined toward Basel. He has had much experience as a teacher, you know.”
Matteo didn’t know, but he nodded politely. “Lord Basel is fond of apprentices,” Dhamari went on. “He trains three at a time. He has done so ever since he left the Jordaini College.”
This information hit Matteo like a barbarian’s warhammer. “He was a master at the college?”
“Oh, yes. Before your time, I should think. Not much before, though. Eighteen, perhaps twenty years.”
That was before his training, but certainly not before his time! Matteo remembered Tzigone’s claim that one of his jordaini masters was also his father. He had looked to the masters still at the school, never considering other possibilities. Apparently, Tzigone had.
It would be like her, Matteo mused. Tzigone had a strong if unconventional sense of honor. When he agreed to help Tzigone find her family, perhaps she decided to repay him in kind. She had found his mother for him. Perhaps she had taken an apprenticeship with Basel Indoulur to learn about his father.
Matteo realized that his host was regarding him with concern. He managed a smile that apparently looked as unconvincing as it felt. Dhamari poured a glass of wine and handed it to him, gesturing for him to drink. Matteo took an obliging sip and felt his composure begin to return.
“The day is unseasonably hot, and one must drink frequently to keep from growing lightheaded,” the wizard said.
It was a gracious and convenient observation. Matteo nodded his thanks. “You mentioned a tale that concerns Keturah. I have not heard it.”
After a long moment, Dhamari Exchelsor nodded. “I am not sure this tale will help you, but you can make of it whatever you will.
“Keturah, who was once my mistress in the art of evocation, became my wife,” he began slowly. “We lived together but a short time, in this place, the very tower in which I trained. At first we were well content, but Keturah was ambitious, and she grew ever more daring in testing the limits of her power. She could bring the most powerful creatures to her side as easily as a shepherd might whistle up his dog. As time passed, she turned to creatures from dark places, monsters far beyond her strength. They strained her magic. They stained her soul,” he concluded in a barely audible voice.
After a moment he cleared his throat and continued. “I sensed that not all was well with Keturah. She was often away, sometimes for days at a time. Even when she stayed at the tower, oftentimes she slept half the day away with terrible headaches, which came on swiftly and without warning. She became tempestuous, sharp-tongued, quick to anger. I turned a blind eye to her moods. Had I acted sooner,” he said with deep and painful regret, “this tale might be very different. The last day I saw Keturah was the day a greenmage died, attacked in her tower by three starsnakes.”
“That is impossible!” Matteo protested. “Such creatures avoid wizards and shun each other.”
“Under normal circumstances, yes. It appears that these creatures were summoned.”
The implication was disturbing but unmistakable. A greenmage was a midwife skilled in the herbal and healing arts, usually with a bit of the diviner’s gift and always trained by the Azuthan inquisitors. Not quite a wizard, not quite a cleric, not quite a magehound, not quite a witch, but definitely more than a physician, a greenmage saw to the health of Halruaa’s wizards. Since a wizard’s magic and health were so entwined, such complex training was necessary.
“You said Keturah was feeling unwell. She visited this greenmage for treatment?”
“Yes. By the word of the greenmage’s servants, Keturah was the last to see the woman alive.” Dhamari heaved a ragged sigh. “Perhaps she summoned the starsnakes. Perhaps not. I will never know, for on that day she was lost to me.”
Murder through magic was a grave crime, one that would certainly warrant Keturah’s death. That alone would explain her flight. Nevertheless, Matteo suspected that there was more and said so.
“Yes,” the wizard agreed sadly. “There always seems to be, doesn’t there?”
The jordain nodded, returning his host’s faint, rueful smile.
“Keturah eluded pursuit for several years. In Halruaa, that is an astonishing feat! Many sought her, and from time to time some word of her came to me.” The wizard glanced at Matteo. “She bore a child. No one can name the father. You understand the seriousness of this.”
“Yes.”
In Halruaa the children of wizardly lineage were not born to random couplings, as in the uncivilized lands to the north. Wizards were paired through divination and carefully kept records, matched to ensure that the lines would remain strong. Dangerous magical gifts, instability of mind or weakness of body—to the wizardborn, such things could be deadly. So entrenched was this custom that few Halruaan children were born out of wedlock. Bastards carried a lifelong stigma. A wizard’s bastard, if no father could be named, was killed at birth.
“Keturah knew the law, too,” the wizard continued. “She ran, she hid, she protected her child. With her very life she protected her child!”
Dhamari rose and walked with quick, jerky movements over to a table. He took up a carved box and removed from it a small object wrapped in silk. Smoothing back the coverings, he returned to Matteo’s side and showed him a simple medallion.
“This belonged to Keturah. Kiva ran her to ground, then brought me this talisman like a trophy. She told me how my wife died, and laughed.” The eyes he turned upon Matteo were bright with unshed tears. “Since Kiva found Keturah, I assume she captured the girl, as well.”
“I have heard it said,” Matteo said carefully. He did not add that somehow a young Tzigone had also managed to escape.
The wizard looked away and cleared his throat several times before speaking. “You are a jordain. The hidden lore of the land is open to you. Things that no man can speak are entrusted to y
our keeping.” He glanced up, and Matteo nodded encouragingly. “If the child survived, a man such as you could learn what became of her. Perhaps you could take this trinket just in case. If you should find her, give it to her and speak to her of her mother. Tell her as little or as much as you think she can bear to hear. A jordain must speak truth, but sift the grain from it and let the chaff blow away.”
Matteo was uncertain how to respond, but he knew that Tzigone would cherish her mother’s medallion. “I will make inquiries, if you like,” he said. “If Keturah’s daughter lives, I shall see that she gets this—and I will speak to her of her mother.”
Profound gratitude swept the wizard’s face. “You are very kind. I hesitate to ask for yet another kindness, but …” He stopped and cleared his throat. “If the girl lives, would you tell her that I wish to meet her? Keturah was my beloved wife. I was forced to divorce her, but I would gladly—proudly!—call her child my own. The girl would know of her mother, but she could also claim a father’s name and lineage, and this tower and everything in it would be hers when I am gone.”
Matteo’s head swam with the enormity of this offer: a family, a name, an inheritance, an end to Tzigone’s sentence of bastardy and her lifelong flight. Though she was acclaimed for her part in the battle of Akhlaur’s Swamp, all silver tarnished in time. Matteo knew enough of human nature to understand that the only thing many people enjoyed more than raising a hero to the skies was to see them come crashing to the ground. Tzigone was a wizard’s bastard. In time, that would out.
“I will do what I can,” he promised.
Dhamari smiled. “I am content. But you—you came to speak of grave matters, and stayed to listen to an old man’s stories. What can I tell you that might help you find Kiva?”
“Kiva hunted down Keturah and came gloating to you. I understand the first—she was a magehound doing her duty—but not the second. Why would she boast of the deed? Was there enmity between you three that would prompt the elf’s vengeance?”
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