The Wizardwar cakt-3

by Элейн Каннингем

  With sinking heart and soul-deep sorrow, Zalathorm acknowledged the truth in Procopio's words. There was little difference, sometimes, between foreseeing a battle and causing one.

  He did not need his divination magic to understand that a wizardwar had begun.

  Chapter Twelve

  Later that day, Rhodea Firehair stomped angrily into the vast, stone chamber that housed Halruaa's mint. She acknowledged the guards with a curt nod and submitted with ill grace to the spells of divination that each visitor, no matter how well known, was subjected to before entering.

  Usually she acknowledged the wisdom of such precautions. It would not do to allow a thief or hostile wizard to slip into the mint. Much of Halruaa's wealth poured through this place. Rich ore came in by the wagonload, to emerge as the elegantly stamped skie that formed the basis of Halruaan currency.

  She was in no mood, however, to endure the foolishness of her fellow wizards. The shameful display in Zalathorm's counsel hall left her sword hand itching for the feel of her weapon. The sword still glowed faintly red from the power that had fueled her indignant defense of her king.

  Rhodea stopped by the cooling pool and plucked a fresh-minted coin from the water. The image of King Zalathorm, the only ruler Rhodea had ever known and the only one she intended to serve, gazed back at her.

  She nodded curtly. "As it should be."

  The wizard's mood improved as she walked slowly through the mint. Here, all was as it should be. Stout, dour-faced dwarves shepherded their ore through the smelting process. Artisans labored with tiny tools, engraving plates for new coin. A tall, red-haired young woman argued loudly with the dragon keeper, her hands milling in furious gestures.

  Rhodea smiled fondly. Her daughter, Thalia, possessed in full measure the family's passionate nature. Though she would never be a great wizard, the girl shared her mother's steadfast dedication to Halruaa, in time she would run this mint and run it well.

  The subject of her ire was a half-elven wizard, specially chosen for his long life and his skill with magical creatures. Many years were required to raise and train a hatchling dragon and to learn the spells that kept the young creature relatively docile.

  There was a jordaini proverb about the dangers of overdoing matters, something to the effect of chaining a dragon to do your cooking, yet the mint did precisely that. Risky, yes, but electrum ore was difficult to melt, and few things burned as hot as dragonfire.

  Rhodea came alongside the arguing pair, who fell silent. "Greetings, Thalia. And to you, Pizar. Problems?"

  Thalia glared at the half-elf. "The dragon is acting strangely. I told this... keeper... to review his spells of binding. He is too proud and stubborn to listen."

  "I have reviewed them," the dragonmaster returned heatedly. "Of course the dragon is restless! She nears maturity. Soon we will no longer be able to control her at all. It is time and past time to return her to the wild! Another hatchling is nearly old enough for firebreath. It's better to suspend production of coin for a short time than risk both the dragon and the mint."

  Rhodea nodded thoughtfully. "I agree. You have my permission to release this dragon as soon as the spells of transportation can be arranged. But do not release it into the Calimshan wastes, as usual. Mulhorandi recently sent some of their finest citizens to call. Perhaps we should return the courtesy."

  Shocked silence fell over the contentious pair. They exchanged glances and began to grin like urchin conspirators. Rhodea chuckled and moved on.

  She strode over to the main vat to observe the dragon. The creature was still young, no more than twenty feet long and covered with bright red scales. Mithril chains and unbreakable spells kept the creature secure during its brief servitude. The dragon seemed tame enough, breathing gouts of flame at the base of the enormous vat whenever the dwarves on the scaffolding above shouted for it.

  Rhodea looked up. Four dwarves, working two to a wheel, turned the crank that stirred the simmering brew. Another dwarf stood on a lower level of scaffolding, adjusting the knobs that opened a circular hole near the top of the kettle. Gleaming silvery liquid poured down a long trough toward a smaller kettle, where still more dwarves scooped out the rapidly cooling metal and smoothed it into plates.

  Much of the work was done by dwarves. They were the only creatures who could abide the intense heat. Even so, their bearded faces were nearly as red as Rhodea's famed tresses.

  Suddenly a terrible stench filled the room, like that of a thousand well-rotted eggs. Rhodea spun, her hand clamped to her mouth, toward the source.

  The dragon held its post, its eyes still magic-glazed into quiescence, its breath still coming in regular bursts. But the dragon's scales were no longer the clear, bright red of early adolescence but a verdant green. Its breath yielded not fire, but a noxious yellow cloud.

  Rhodea gasped in astonishment The sudden intake of foul air sent her into a paroxysm of coughing. The dwarves on the scaffolding were harder hit, coughing violently and teetering on their perch like drunkards. One of them lost his grip and fell into the molten ore with a terrible scream.

  Bright droplets of liquid metal splattered the dragon.

  Pain jolted the creature free from the protective spells. It began to roar and struggle. Its tail lashed, knocking the supports from under the vat.

  The vast kettle tipped, sending a killing river of silver spilling slowly over thе wooden floor. Wooden scaffolding burst into flame, and fire darted up the tapestries that softened the stone walls. In less than a heartbeat, the promise of wealth was transmuted into a death threat. Rhodea reached for her Elder's ring, which would transport her immediately to the safety of Zalathorm's court. Frantically she sought her daughter.

  Thalia stood too near the silvery lava. Rhodea would never reach her in time.

  The wizard tore the ring from her hand and poured all her considerable strength into the family battle cry. Thalia spun toward the sound and instinctively caught the ring her mother hurled toward her.

  Rhodea Firehair watched her daughter fade from the room, then turned to face the white wave of heat that preceded the killing flood. A warrior died with weapon in hand. Rhodea drew her sword and strode toward the light.

  * * * * *

  Word of the mint's destruction spread quickly, nearly as quickly as the molten ore and the fire that swept its wake.

  Procopio Septus read the report again, muttering under his breath about incompetent fools, but in truth, he didn't understand how this thing could have come to pass.

  Many of Halruaa's mages frowned upon the use of dragons in the smelting process. The creatures were as tame as dragons would ever be, hand-raised from hatchlings and warded with powerful protective spells.

  "A visitor, Lord Procopio."

  The wizard looked up, frowning. "I am not at leisure," he told his steward.

  "He tells a most interesting tale," the man persisted. "He claims to have fought his way out of the Unseelie realm."

  Procopio's jaw fell open. He knew of Dhamari Exchelsor's disappearance. He knew also that the wards on the wizard's tower had been breached. The militia had searched and found no one, but there was clear evidence of theft. The magical wards had not yet been examined to determine the identity of this thief-the Lord Mayor had higher priorities. It had not occurred to him that Dhamari himself might be the "thief."

  He quickly mastered his surprise. "Let him come. I am in need of a bit of diversion."

  The steward showed in a small, slight man. Procopio knew him only by sight and had always considered him an unassuming little man, hardly worth the time and trouble under ordinary circumstances.

  Procopio exchanged the courtesies that protocol demanded. Even a great wizard was required to acknowledge lesser men, and Procopio was politically astute enough to court all men to some degree. Even a mediocre wizard could be a supporter, and at this pivotal moment Procopio needed every man and woman he could muster.

  He smiled at the little man with a cordiality he did not feel.
"I hear you have an interesting tale."

  "Yes," Dhamari said dryly. "Your steward seemed to find it amusing. I don't suspect your credulity will stretch much farther. Be that as it may. I haven't come to discuss such things. I can tell you about the death of Rhodea Firehair, the self-declared champion of our current king."

  Though the little wizard was being far from subtle, Procopio ignored the treasonous remarks. He steepled his fingers and gazed mildly over them at his visitor. "I have heard reports of the fire."

  "Would you like to hear precisely what happened?"

  "Please."

  "Those who examined the ruins of the mint saw only the charred bones of a young dragon," Dhamari said without preamble. "It did not occur to them to inquire what color the dead dragon might have been."

  "I fail to see the point."

  "The dragon was shapeshifted from red to green. This detail will not be in any report you might read."

  Procopio leaned back, beginning to see where this was going and, for the first time, truly interested in the little wizard's words.

  "The raw ore came from an area with heavy mineral deposits. When the dragon was changed from red to green in mid exhalation, its fiery breath changed to gas. This mingled with the gases rising from the vat and formed a poisonous and extremely volatile miasma. I imagine the dwarves working over the kettle dropped like stones."

  "You have a disturbing imagination," Procopio murmured. "Yes, I can envision the scene. The kettle knocked over, and the heat from the molten ore set the place afire. The gas incapacitated the workers, cutting off their spells and their escape. A grim but effective ploy, yet it has one rather large and glaring fault. Assuming you're right, the magic that would transmute red dragon to green would have to be a necromancer's spell of enormous power. Who could have done this?"

  Dhamari spread his hands modestly. "As you may know, the Exchelsor family owns much of Halruaa's mining lands. Since I supplied the ore, getting a magical device into the mint was easy enough."

  A burst of incredulous laughter escaped Procopio. "You were responsible for this spell?"

  "If you will not believe me, will you listen to the only survivor? Like all members of the Council of Elders, Rhodea Firehair has a ring that will teleport her to Zalathorm's court in times of need. Her last, heroic deed was to hurl the ring at her daughter. She could not know that a rather similar magical device had been prepared to intercept any who might try to escape. Shall we hear what the little red-haired wench has to say on this subject?"

  "By all means!"

  Dhamari drew a small red globe from, the folds of his robe and threw it to the floor. The crystal shattered, and a disheveled young woman staggered into the room.

  She looked wildly around. Relief suffused her face when she recognized the lord mayor.

  "Lord Procopio! Mystra be praised! You must summon help, and quickly! The mint is burning!"

  Procopio rose and led the girl to a chair. "It has been already seen to, my dear. Please, tell me what happened."

  He listened as Thalia Firehair told her story, which matched Dhamari's in most particulars. The little wizard took up a place behind the girl, patting her shoulder soothingly as she spoke in quick, broken phrases.

  At last she fell silent. Dhamari met Procopio's eye. "Have you heard quite enough?"

  The lord mayor nodded. Dhamari drew a knife and thrust it deep between Thalia's shoulder blades. He gave it a vicious twist, then shoved the dying girl to the floor.

  "Bravely done," Procopio said coldly.

  Dhamari shrugged. "She was a trained warrior, I am not I have learned to work within my limitations. But let no doubt remain. Test me and see."

  The wizard settled down in the chair Death had vacated and submitted to Procopio's divination spells. Several moments passed as Procopio cast one spell after another, not readily convinced even by his own puissant magic. Finally he could not deny the little wizard's claims.

  "You did it," the diviner marveled. "But how?"

  "I purchased a spell already created. All that was needed was a simple trigger word." Dhamari examined his fingernails, elaborately casual. "Did you know that Kiva first learned magic from Akhlaur, the greatest necromancer of his time?"

  The implication struck Procopio like a thrown dagger. "Kiva gave you this spell? She still lives?"

  The wizard chuckled. "I seem to be somewhat better informed than the diviner who alone foresaw the Mulhorandi invasion. In fact, one might say that I am very, very well informed."

  He handed Procopio a copy of the magic missive Kiva had sent him, a damning document that gave details of Procopio's recent collusion with the treacherous elf.

  Procopio skimmed the parchment and threw it down. "What do you want?"

  "An exchange, nothing more," Dhamari protested. "I admire your cunning and have no intention of hindering your quest for power with this unfortunate information. Indeed, I have information of my own to give you."

  "At what price?"

  "One you will not mind paying,'' he said slyly. "You want Zalathorm deposed. So does Kiva. So do I."

  "Do you? What is this priceless information?"

  "The king's queen, Beatrix, is something rather more than a mad wizard and a traitor to Halruaa, though one would think that would be sufficient. She is an accused murderess, an adulteress whose dalliances produced a wizard's bastard, and, last and perhaps least in any eyes but mine, my former wife."

  Procopio rose so abruptly that his chair upended. "Beatrix and Keturah are one?"

  "Yes, and it is likely the king knowingly took a fugitive criminal as his wife. If he did not know who and what Beatrix was, then he is a fool who has no business ruling a kingdom."

  The diviner began to pace as new plots took form. Dhamari smiled. "I can see that this pleases you. Our first order of business, however, is to deal with a mutual enemy-Basel Indoulur, a man who could undo us both."

  Procopio stopped abruptly and regarded his visitor with new respect. "You have a plan?"

  Dhamari spread his hands modestly. "I was rather hoping you might."

  "Basel has surprisingly few enemies. The only other I can find is Uriah Belajoon."

  "Has he a substantial grievance?"

  "I would not think so were I in his position, but the bereaved's wife was considerably more comely than mine," Procopio said dryly. "It appears that Lord Basel has murdered old Belajoon's pretty young bride."

  A wide smile spread across Dhamari's face. "You have proof?"

  "Not yet."

  "It might not be needed," the little wizard mused. "If fact, it might be better not to trouble the Council with this matter. Uriah Belajoon is a strong supporter of the king. Goad him into taking his own vengeance, making him subject to Halruaan law, and we will have destroyed two more of Zalathorm's supporters." Dhamari glanced pointedly at the dead girl. "I will aid this with other attacks, as successful as this one."

  "And in return?"

  "For now, I would like my return held in secret. I carry magic that obscures my purposes, but I would ask of you additional spells to mask my presence, and a place where I might stay secluded. When the time is right, I will emerge-as a supporter of Halruaa's new king."

  "Done."

  Procopio extended his hand to the surprisingly resourceful little man. They clasped wrists, sealing a bargain with other wizards' blood.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dust still swirled through the clearing, and faint echoes of the deadly battle rumbled back to the jordaini from distant peaks. Matteo and his friends set about tasks that came in the aftermath of battle-tending the wounded, gathering weapons, honoring the dead.

  Andris composed Iago's body as best he could, then he knelt at the dead man's side and gently closed his eyes. He began chanting a litany of the jordain's deeds and accomplishments, looking weirdly like a spirit come to welcome a brother to the next world.

  Themo sat white-faced but stoic as Basel Indoulur stitched the gash on his shoulder. "Shame we don'
t have a priest handy," Basel murmured, his plump, jeweled hands moving with practiced skill. "This will leave an ugly scar, but we can close you up, and poultice the wound with a mold paste to keep it from festering."

  The big man's face wrinkled in disgust, but he offered no comment concerning his treatment.

  Andris rose and came to Matteo's side. "There is not enough dead wood hereabouts for a proper funeral pyre, and the ground is too hard and rocky to permit burial. Since there is no shortage of rocks, perhaps we should build a cairn, as the dwarves are said to do for their fallen kin."

  Matteo's shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh. "Iago's worse days were spent in the Nath. It doesn't seem right that this should be his resting place."

  "Our horses have run off," Andris said patiently. "Most likely the Crinti have rounded them up. How could we bring Iago's body away with us?"

  "By skyship," Basel put in. He deftly tied and tucked the ends of Themo's bandage and rose. "Before I left Halarahh, I sent Avariel ahead. I'm putting the ship at your disposal."

  Matteo brightened. "That will help. In addition to everything else I must do, the king must hear that Kiva is alive, the laraken is back, and Akhlaur may have not only survived but even returned."

  "If Zalathorm doesn't already know, we're in more trouble than we realize," Basel commented. "I understand your duties, but formalities will have to wait on matters that cannot."

  The young man's eyes blazed with hope. "You found a spell to free Tzigone?"

  "By Mystra's grace. And, as usual, the Lady's blessings are not entirely unmixed."

  Basel quickly described the spell to Matteo. "I would go for her myself, and gladly," he concluded, "but my heart has enough dark corners to ensure failure. I can think of only one man who'd last in the Unseelie Court longer than a snowfall in a Halarahh bathhouse." When no understanding entered Matteo's eyes, Basel added, "I know only one man who values Tzigone's life as I do."

  This time Matteo didn't hesitate. "If it's in me to bring her back, I will."