"He has seen it all," the woman said grimly. "You can't show him a damn thing."
Tzigone chuckled, an infectious sound that coaxed an answering grin from the wizard. "Well, the redeeming feature about behirs is that you can always treble your investment by selling them for spell components."
The woman grimaced and nodded, but she didn't seem eager to take back the lead Tzigone offered. "I would deliver it to Kholstar to be slaughtered tonight, but that thrice-bedamned behir keeper keeps the most inconvenient hours."
Tzigone lifted her eyebrows as if an idea had just occurred to her. "As it happens, I have three behirs, larger than this one but not so finely colored, that I'd just as soon sell for parts. We will bring Kholstar this one, I will promise him three more, and he will not mind the hour. What shopkeeper would turn away so much business?"
The woman considered this, eyeing Tzigone with new respect. "Three, you say?"
"They will be coming with my caravan in the morning, along with my household goods," Tzigone said smoothly.
"You are moving to Halarahh, then? From whence?"
"Achelar," she said, naming the city most remote and farthest off the commonly traveled roads. She grimaced, mimicking the woman's sudden expression of genteel distaste. "I can't tell you what a relief it is to get out of that backwater! But I am remiss in my manners. I am Margot, of the illusionist school, entirely at your service."
"And I am known as Sinestra," the woman said in a tone that was both grand and self-mocking. "I am a diviner, apprenticed and, alas, wed to Uriah Belajoon. I doubt you've heard of him."
"Who has not heard of so great a wizard?" Tzigone lied, broadly pantomiming wide-eyed awe. "You have my sincere condolences."
She had no idea what Sinestra would make of this mixed pronouncement, but apparently it fit well with the wizard's opinion. Sinestra chuckled with dark appreciation. "Welcome to Halarahh, Margot. We're destined to become great friends."
"Who am I to argue?" Tzigone said with a grin. "You're the diviner."
Sinestra's pronouncement of friendship did not keep her from taking the usual wizardry precautions. Tzigone felt the subtle touch of the woman's spells, seeking to measure the truth of everything Tzigone had said. Of course Sinestra's efforts yielded her nothing, but neither did her face reveal any surprise over this fact. Tzigone decided that if she needed a partner in a card game, she could do worse than enlist this woman's aid.
They chatted lightly as they made their way down from the promenade and through the streets to the behir keeper's shop, Sinestra providing a great deal of useful gossip to her supposed equal. Tzigone responded with completely fabricated stories of the wealthy and powerful folk of Achelar, taking pains to make them as amusing and scurrilous as possible. By the time they reached the weirs of Kholstar, Sinestra had extracted a promise from Tzigone to meet the next day for a midday meal and more gossip.
As Tzigone anticipated, the behir keeper was more than happy to unbar his door to this much business, especially when Tzigone expressed an interest in acquiring some ornamental monsters for the moat surrounding her new villa.
Sinestra left the blue behir to his fate and went on her way. Kholstar ushered Tzigone to the back room and left her to study the behir breeding books in search of a combination of color and magic that pleased her.
Tzigone quickly decided upon a pair of rose-colored hatchlings and devised a suitably dizzy story about wanting moat guards that would match the color of the water lilies. It was just such detail, she'd learned long ago, that made her stories and her borrowed personas both plausible and entertaining.
She left the hatchling records on the table and quickly surveyed the other books on the shelf. Despite what she'd told Matteo, she hadn't come to Halarahh merely to complete her obligation to him. Word had it that the behir keeper in this city was a talented generalist wizard who specialized in the breeding of magical creatures. Moreover, his wife was the city's premier matchmaker. Their combined library was precisely the sort of treasure trove that Tzigone had been seeking, and an introduction by Sinestra, an established patron, had gained her access to it.
She quickly took down book after book, placing each one atop the behir records and running her finger down the pages as she searched for anything that might be useful.
Unfortunately the lineage records were listed by gifts, naming first the school of magic and then delving into specific talents. Tzigone's problem was that she had no idea what her gift might be. That she had magical ability was beyond doubt, but she'd picked up what she knew one spell at a time, learning whatever was available, interesting, or useful.
"Have you made a decision, my lady?"
Tzigone glanced up, tilting the big book as she did to obscure the smaller, more important one within.
"I think so," she said in vague, ladylike tones. "The rose hatchlings are a good choice, don't you think? They're just exactly the color of the first water lilies to bloom. But I also have some yellow and cream blossoms coming later in the season," she mused. "Perhaps I shall have to purchase a half score of your lovely behirs to achieve the correct effect."
The prospect of so large a sale smoothed the impatience from the man's face. He bowed and backed out the door. "Please, take all the time you need."
Tzigone smiled and bent back over the volume. When she was alone, she slammed the smaller book shut and tried another. This one was no more useful to her, but it had an entry that caught her eye.
"The jordain school," she murmured.
A thought took root and grew into new and unexpected form. She'd seem Matteo shrug off magical spells that would have knocked most men flat on their backs, if not into whatever afterlife they had right to expect. His resistance was nothing like hers, but it was impressive. Was it possible that the two might somehow be related?
She propped her elbows on the table and dropped her chin into her hands as she pondered this. This was something she had to explore, and as luck would have it, she knew a jordain who was likely to answer her questions, if for no other reason than to be rid of her.
But she hadn't intended to seek out Matteo again. His harsh words had hurt her feelings, something that hadn't happened for a very long time-not since she'd been a very small girl and Sprite had teased her mercilessly.
Tzigone abruptly sat up straight, startled by this sudden remembrance.
"Sprite," she whispered, marveling as the tiny shadow of this distant memory took shape. She hadn't thought of her old friend for many years, at least, she had not remembered him during her waking hours. It seemed to her that she had dreamed of him, but she couldn't recall the details.
Sheer frustration assailed her, and she snatched up an inkwell and hurled it at the wall. Emerald green ink splattered against the white plaster and dripped onto the carpet. The mess immediately began to disappear, just as it would on any written contract about which the behir keeper had second thoughts.
Tzigone sighed again. Memory. It both eluded her and obsessed her. She made it a point to remember everything she could, learning languages, committing names and faces and songs and maps of city streets to memory. More importantly, she searched for ways to reclaim those things she could not remember. But she had never thought to seek out the jordaini.
The jordaini made a special study of memory. It was said that they could retrieve the smallest scrap of information from the storehouses of their minds. Perhaps she could learn from Matteo.
This was reason enough to seek him out. Tzigone suspected she had another purpose, but the words to describe it were unfamiliar to her.
With a shrug, Tzigone picked up the book and began to read about the secret lineage of the jordaini.
That night Matteo accompanied Procopio Septus to court for the first time. No mention was made of the events of the day, but Matteo had no illusion about the reason for his inclusion in his patron's plans. Even so, he steeled himself for the unexpected. Unforeseen events had become common since the day Tzigone had started haunting the e
dges of his life. Her meddling had brought him to this place, and he didn't believe that she was done with him.
The first surprise was that the king and queen held separate courts. Zalathorm held sway in a vast chamber defined by soaring rounded arches of green-veined marble. Large windows had been placed high on the walls, and beyond one of the largest windows was a docking platform for skyships. Ornate carvings lined the walls and arches, and the ceilings had been enspelled to resemble a night sky.
Matteo glanced up and saw that the rumors about the ceiling were true. The «stars» overhead truly did form constellations unknown to nature, shaping and reshaping to form the crest or sigil of each wizard who entered and was announced.
Nearly everyone in attendance was a wizard of considerable power. There were seventeen members of the Council of Elders in this city, and all but one was present when Matteo and his patron arrived. The final member was Xavierlyn, a tiny woman who liked to be called the Dawn Wizard. Matteo watched as her skyship, a gilded marvel with sails painted in soft, sunrise hues, floated gracefully to the dock. The wizard walked across the last few feet of air without aid of plank or platform, then floated down to the main floor. It was a remarkable entrance, and Matteo noted that Procopio took more than a little interest in his rival's appearance.
Matteo expected Zalathorm's court to display power and splendor, and he was not disappointed. Many of the wizards wore the old-fashioned ceremonial robes of their office and school. Others courted current fashion. The women dressed in exquisite gowns, and men donned silken plumage that was equally bright. Quite a few of the wizards were accompanied by their counselors, who were simply dressed in white linen. But that very simplicity was a statement of power, as were the pendants worn by all the jordaini but Matteo. He resolved to replace his missing emblem at first opportunity.
King Zalathorm was something of a surprise. Despite all his training in the ways of wizards, Matteo wouldn't have picked the man out of a crowd as someone of power and importance. The king was no more than average height, with thick hair and a full beard of a soft brown hue. His gaze was mild, his speech soft and almost diffident. To all appearances, he was a man in his fifth decade of life. Yet Matteo knew this was impossible, for Zalathorm had held the throne for more than sixty years. No one knew for certain how old the wizard was, but all agreed that he was one of the most powerful wizards in a nation full of magic.
"Tell me what you see," Procopio demanded in a soft voice.
Matteo tore his gaze from the king and looked about the room. "The woman in the yellow gown, the one standing by the harpist, is a priestess of Azuth. She must be quite powerful, for several wizards of high rank are laughing and drinking with her."
"True enough. Azuth's clergy is not highly esteemed, and the wizards would not bother with her unless her rank was high. What else?"
"The tall, auburn woman is Rhodea Firehair. She seldom leaves the city of Aluarim, for she is kept busy supervising the mint and commanding the soldiers that protect and transport the new coin. Her presence here indicates one of two things: Either a battle is on the horizon, or King Zalathorm has called council. She is never known to miss either. The presence of all seventeen members of the Council of Elders indicates that the king has issued a summons. The fact that the wizard Rhodea is garbed in silk rather than battle leather indicates that the council deals with matters of peace."
Procopio nodded but looked mildly impatient. So far Matteo's comments had required little special knowledge or discernment. "Continue."
The young man scanned the room. "Those three men speaking to Basel Indoulur are laden with magical devices. Do you notice how the thin one flaunts the rings on his hand, much as a man unaccustomed to wealth might display his coins? None of the three are particularly powerful wizards, but they wish to appear so. You would do well to learn why."
The diviner lifted one snowy eyebrow. "And why is that?"
"The ornaments they wear on their hands and about their necks are of Moonshae gold," Matteo explained. "Nowhere else is that particular shade of pale rose-gold mined. If these men were capable of crafting magical items themselves, they would do so. Nor are they overburdened with coin. Had they the means to buy the best, they would purchase Halruaan magic."
Procopio smiled and nodded in approval. "That goes without saying, but it's pleasant to hear nonetheless. Go on."
"The question is, how did they acquire these items, and for what purpose? It is said that the Llewyrr elves gave such gifts to the High Queen of the Moonshaes when she succeeded her father, King Kendrick, along with the prophecy that her line will continue for as long as the elven magic endures. This was no doubt meant as an elf blessing, but there are factions in that kingdom that might see opportunity in these gifts and this pronouncement."
Procopio studied his counselor with interest. "I begin to see your reasoning. Where else could such magic be studied and counteracted but in Halruaa? If the artifacts are what you think they are, their reappearance in the hands of the Moonshae queen's rivals, their magic depleted, might prove a rallying point to mount a serious challenge to the throne."
"Therein lies the problem. Halruaa can have no part in such games. Our magic is too widely feared. If the ruse were discovered, it wouldn't matter to the world if the Halruaan wizard who altered the artifacts knew nothing of their intended use. The Moonshae Islands have powerful allies. Most certainly there would be harsh reprisals."
Procopio nodded thoughtfully. He looked at Matteo with genuine regret. "You have counseled me well. I will seek a private audience with Zalathorm, and we will get to the heart of this. You, however, must present yourself to the queen's court."
He gave Matteo a small parchment card etched with sapphire ink. "Give this to the seneschal. He will endeavor to get you an introduction."
The wizard hesitated, then clapped Matteo on the shoulder. "May Mystra smile upon you."
Matteo heard the dismissal in the words and nodded his response. With a sigh, he turned toward the corridor that separated Zalathorm from his queen.
As he walked, the sound of music and conversation faded slowly away. The tap of his footsteps echoed along the marble floor, and the corridor became increasingly chill. Paradoxically, bursts of steam jetted out into the hall at intervals of increasing frequency.
He carefully came closer to investigate. A sudden, sharp hiss drew his gaze to his left, and immediate he reached for his daggers. Crouched in an alcove, looking like a giant, ice-white cat ready to spring, was a white dragon.
The beast was still a juvenile, judging from its size, but deadly just the same. The dragon's maw was wide and curved upward in a wicked smile, parted slightly to reveal rows of lethal ivory fangs. Two horns curled back off the beast's forehead, and a third, shorter one in the center jutted forward, swirled like a long, slender seashell. It looked very like a unicorn's horn, but for the barbed tip and the taint of long-dried blood. The dragon's talons were equally stained, and each was nearly as long as Matteo's hand. Its ice blue eyes regarded Matteo steadily and glittered like malevolent jewels.
A moment passed before Matteo realized his mistake. In his surprise, he looked directly into the dragon's eyes. And in looking, he felt nothing-none of the fear that turned bones to water and made strong men forget their resolve. This had nothing to do with his resistance to magic, but with the dragon itself. It was no true beast, but an elaborate clockwork device.
Matteo held back until the thing emitted two more puffs of cold steam, then leaned in closer for a look. Sure enough, the scales were bits of electrum, hammered smooth and thin and cunningly fitted together. He could glimpse the gears inside the creature's mouth and the large block of ice within its body. Periodically a small vial tipped, pouring a few drops of some unknown mixture onto the ice, which immediately sizzled and sent forth a cloud of cooling vapor. The dragon was an elaborate cooling device, nothing more. Even the apparent blood on its horn and claws was nothing more than a bit of rust.
Even so, M
atteo proceeded with caution down the hall, his hands near the hilts of his daggers and his eyes keenly aware of the alcoves that lined the corridor. Such a device could easily lure a visitor into a sense of security. Three false dragons could leave one complacent and trusting, and thus easy prey for a fourth, real dragon. After all, the surest way to hide a tree was to plant a forest around it.
But Matteo got to the end of the long corridor without incident. He presented Procopio's card to the soldier at the door. The man examined it and then fixed a wry smile on the young jordain.
"I say, you're the least likely of the bunch. I could see at a glance why the rest of them got sent up here. Damned if I wouldn't have exiled them myself! What the nine hells did you do-bugger the lord mayor?"
Matteo sighed. "Figuratively speaking, I suppose you could say that. Procopio Septus, the lord mayor, is my patron. I became embroiled in dispute with the patron of Lady Xavierlyn."
The soldier raised one hand. "Say no more. We speak of those who would be king. Along with a dozen others, of course, but Procopio and Xavierlyn are the biggest roosters in the ring. Not that it's my place to talk of such things."
It certainly wasn't, but Matteo could almost understand the man's desire for conversation of any sort. He had seen no other soul since he'd left Zalathorm's court, and he didn't hear any evidence of human occupation behind the great door. A series of faint clicks and taps and whirs emanated from behind the thick wood, but no sound that could be considered remotely human.
"I have been instructed to present myself to the queen," Matteo said, determined to get on with things.
The seneschal shrugged and pulled a small silver rod from his sleeve. He touched this to the massive lock, which promptly began to fade. The door turned translucent as well, thinning and finally disappearing with a soft pop. A few paces behind it stood another door, which dissolved in much the same manner.
"Magical wards," the guard explained. "Keeps things from getting out. Can't be too careful, with the king just down the hall and all."
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