Basel swallowed his anger, lest his stricken apprentice think it was directed at her. “Did you bring your flying carpet, Farrah? Fine! Calm yourself and take a bit of wine, then ask the ship’s steward to pack a thousand skie in a sack. Follow Lord Procopio to the green obelisk and pay him his winnings.”
“But my lord, the law says you need not pay a crooked wager,” protested Mason, a commoner with uncommon talent and a habit of speaking plainly. “I practiced the spell with Farrah this morn. Nay, more than practiced: She all but taught it to me. As Mystra lives, Farrah did not forget the wind charm.”
“Of course she didn’t,” Basel replied evenly. “I know what you imply, but have you any idea how difficult it would be to prove your suspicions?”
The young man folded his arms and glowered. “Not so hard. After a goose is stolen, you look for the man who’s eating eggs.”
“No doubt that’s a useful proverb in many circumstance,” the wizard said. “But you cannot charge Procopio Septus with divination. That would be like accusing birds of flight. Perhaps he bent the edges of tradition, but he broke no laws. Complaining would make us appear ridiculous. No, worse than ridiculous, for who was it who attempted to win a race by conjuring a wind charm?”
“So we do nothing?” the youth said incredulously.
Basel’s smile was as bland as a cherub’s, but his eyes turned flat and hard. “If that is all you see, perhaps you should spend less time eyeing Farrah and more time observing your fellow wizards. Halruaa is more than spells and skyships. Did you think that you came to me to learn nothing but magic?
“Watch,” he concluded in an uncharacteristically grim tone. “Procopio Septus has larger ambitions than winning a race, and if he succeeds, we’ve more to lose than a skyship.”
An ancient elf stood on the deck of Starsnake, watching as the events foretold by his patron played out. “A small ship approaches,” he said mildly, pointing to the craft leaving the damaged Avariel. “It would seem that Basel Indoulur is a man who honors his wagers.”
If Procopio Septus heard the rebuke in the elf’s voice, he gave no indication. “That is not a ship but a flying carpet. Your eyes begin to fail you, Zephyr. How reassuring for both of us that your counsel has not”
The elf did not miss the implied threat. “You are pleased with the new jordain I selected? Rualli is doing well?”
Procopio smiled thinly. “Not so well that I intend to replace you, if that’s what you’re asking. But let’s speak of your recruitment efforts.”
For a moment Zephyr’s heart thudded painfully, then he realized that his patron could not possibly know of Kiva and Zephyr’s secret efforts on her behalf.
“There are several promising students at the Jordaini College,” Zephyr said mildly. “Tell me more about what you desire in your new counselors, so that I might make a closer match. For that matter, I could serve you better if I understood why you wished to hire so many. Most wizards content themselves with the counsel of a single jordain.”
Procopio nodded toward the approaching carpet and the small woman seated on it. “He who lives by the sword dies by it. The same could be said of magic. You have seen the problems that occur when a wizard surrounds himself with mages of lesser skill. It creates vulnerability. That I cannot have.”
The elf understood this, for he himself was a jordain, a superbly trained counselor chosen not only for his keen mind, but also for his utter lack of magical ability. The jordaini were highly resistant to magic and bounded by a multitude of rules that kept them separate from the normal flow of Halruaan life. They underwent rigorous training and took sacred vows: service to the land, their wizard patron, and truth. Death was the penalty for using magic or speaking untruth. Harsh, to be sure, but it was one of many things that kept the jordaini honest. Infractions were rare. Zephyr did not know of a single living jordain who flouted these rules—save for himself.
“It is a comfort to speak plainly,” Procopio said. “No one can take my secrets from your mind. A man in my position can afford to surround himself with any comfort he desires.”
“That is at best a partial truth, my lord,” the elf said sternly. “You hire jordaini who are outstanding in the art of warfare. Why? You are lord mayor of this city and captain of its skyship fleet, but King Zalathorm directs the military.”
The wizard turned to face Zephyr. “As will he who rules after Zalathorm.”
For a moment they stood in silence. “So there it is,” the elf said softly.
“There it is,” Procopio agreed. “I would be king. Tell me how. You have lived long and seen kingdoms rise and fall.”
“Indeed,” Zephyr murmured. He marveled that the wizard did not hear the bitterness in his voice.
“I am greatly skilled in the art of divination,” Procopio went on, too absorbed in his own dreams to consider any nightmares his jordain might have lived. “But many wizards can captain a skyship as well as I, and military science is not my discipline. I need men who know it as well as I know my own business, and,” he added with a sly smile, “that of Basel Indoulur.”
Zephyr nodded thoughtfully, putting aside his own whirling thoughts to concentrate on his patron’s situation. “Then you will need a master of horse to replace Iago. Regretfully, the outpost militia stationed in the Nath region found no trace of him. We assume he was carried off by raiders. There have been recent sightings of Crinti shadow amazons in the foothills,” he said, referring to the race of gray-skinned, gray-haired horsewomen who ruled the land of Dambrath and haunted the wild eastern borders of Halruaa.
The wizard grunted. “Then we’ve seen the last of that jordain. Did we lose all the horses he purchased?”
“Only one, my lord. It would seem that Iago took a promising stallion out for a run and was not seen again.”
“Pity. What of his replacement?”
“Several promising candidates, my lord. In this year’s class, I would recommend Andris, whose grasp of military strategy is quite astonishing. Matteo is skilled with weapons and rides extremely well. Both are promising leaders. Either would do admirably.”
Procopio considered this. “But do I really want another green jordain? What of those who are already in service to a wizard lord? Why not hire a seasoned counselor out from under his current patron? It’s done all the time.”
“True, but the practice holds risks,” the elf cautioned. “You are not the only wizard to employ more than one jordain, but if you concentrate too blatantly on gathering a military council, it will not be long before your rivals perceive the pattern. The young men I mentioned have other skills that will distract the eye from your main purpose for them.”
“Wise advice,” the wizard mused. “Very well, then, see to it. Pick whichever one you think best.”
The elf bowed. “I will send messengers to the Jordaini College as soon as we reach the villa. It is prudent to bid early for the services of the most talented students.”
In truth, Zephyr started the process long before the skyship reached land. He took his leave from his patron and shut himself in his tiny cabin below decks. Once the door was barred, he moved a loose plank from the floor and took from its hiding place a small milky sphere. He blew gently on it. The swirling clouds parted to reveal the face of a beautiful forest elf.
“Lady Kiva,” he said softly.
Her jade-colored brows furrowed. “Speak up. What’s wrong? Are you alone?”
“Would any jordain use a magical device if he were not? It could mean my life if someone found me speaking with you.” The ancient elf smiled sadly. “And I have not endured these many years to leave our lifework undone.”
Kiva inclined her head in a single nod, a gesture of agreement and solidarity. “What do you have for me?”
“I have recommended two jordaini to Procopio. Either will suit him. I have to make a few more inquiries before I know which one will best suit your purposes.”
“Why don’t I take both?” Kiva suggested. “Certainly I could u
se them.”
“Too risky,” the old elf cautioned. “One of the group you can take, and the rest will be glad that your eye fell upon someone else. But there will be talk if two of the most promising students disappear. Your religious order might start an inquiry.”
“The Church of Azuth?” she said with scorn. But she saw his point. She shrugged and moved on. “You will contact me when you know which of these jordaini will best serve.”
“Of course. How is Iago working out?”
“He is resistant, even for a jordain,” the elf woman admitted. “Can you get me another?”
“It seems unlikely that Procopio will believe that two of his jordaini counselors were abducted by the Crinti,” Zephyr said dryly. “Have you no hope of working with Iago?”
“Very little. He remains unconvinced that my claims he was recruited by a great wizard for the service of the land and truth. That is the problem with the jordaini—they are so damnably hard to turn! Magic does not work on them. They cannot be bribed or threatened. They have brilliant minds as humans measure such things, but no passions. What I need,” she mused, “is a jordain with a weakness. Find me one.”
“You would do better to say, ‘Find me another,’ ” Zephyr commented.
Kiva’s eyes turned almost gentle. “A desire for vengeance is no weakness, my old friend,” she told him. “We are getting closer to our goal, I promise you. We will make things right.”
“You have found the secret?” Zephyr asked eagerly. “You know how the laraken might be destroyed?”
For a moment the elf woman did not answer. “I know how to make things right,” she repeated. Her face abruptly vanished from the globe.
Zephyr quickly returned the scrying globe to its hiding place and began to prepare the letters to the Jordaini College. Not until the skyship touched down at the docks did he think about the laraken. He wondered if his life’s quest and Kiva’s were truly one and the same.
CHAPTER TWO
The battle wizard smirked and made a circular open-handed gesture. A miniature sun appeared in the air above his upturned palm. It promptly exploded, sending an arrow of brilliant liquid fire racing toward Matteo.
The young man shifted his stance wider to absorb the impact and lifted his matched daggers into a gleaming X. The bolt of magic hurled itself against the crux of gleaming silver, then skittered along the daggers, dissipating in scattered motes that sparkled off the razor-sharp edges of the blades.
Matteo followed the classic parry with the recommended attack. With one smooth, practiced movement he flipped one dagger into the air, caught it by the tip, and hurled it toward his opponent.
The older man’s eyes widened as the blade whirled toward him, but he stood his ground and began to gesture frantically. Matteo kicked into a run, not waiting to see the outcome of either attack or counter spell. He heard the metallic click of steel upon stone and shielded his eyes against the quick flare of sparks, but still he came on.
At the last moment, he dropped to the ground and spun, sweeping one leg out wide and hard at the wizard’s ankles. Matteo grimaced as his shin met seemingly solid stone, but he sucked up the pain and quickly got his throbbing leg back under him. He leaped toward the fallen wizard and seized one of the man’s stone-hard ankles. With his remaining dagger, he slashed at the sole of the wizard’s foot. The silver blade sliced through the leather and drew a yelp of surprise from the downed man.
The stoneskin spell was a common defense, but like most spells it was not invulnerable. Its creator had overlooked a common manifestation of the natural magical world: like repels like. The natural stone beneath the wizard’s feet rebuffed the flattery of the stoneskin spell’s imitation, leaving the soles of the caster’s feet vulnerable. Learning the weaknesses of each spell, parrying and countering close-in magical attacks—these were some of the most important fighting strategies a jordain learned in his training. Matteo couldn’t help feeling a surge of satisfaction as he rose to his feet and held out a hand to his fallen master.
But the wizard sat cross-legged on the packed earth of the training field, holding his insulted foot and regarding his sliced shoe dolefully.
“Was that last bit truly necessary, lad? You can make your point without actually using it.”
“Always wield the sword of truth, for it is the keenest weapon,” Matteo quoted blithely.
“And the leg of stone is the hardest one,” said a wry voice behind him.
With a grin, Matteo whirled to face his closest friend. Andris was a fifth-level jordain, a student in the same form as Matteo. They were both due to graduate at summer’s end. Classmates and friends since infancy, they competed in all things like fond and contentious brothers.
No observer would take the two men as natural brothers, however, for they were as unlike physically as two men could be. Andris was tall and lean and exceedingly fair for a Halruaan. His narrow eyes were a greenish hazel, and his long, braided hair a dark auburn. No amount of sun could turn his skin the rich golden brown common to the dozen or so other jordaini who practiced on the training field, shirtless and sweating and gleaming like chiseled bronze in the hot sun.
Matteo was more like the other men in appearance. He stood perhaps a finger’s width below the six-foot mark, and he possessed the olive skin and dark chestnut hair common to Halruaans of good blood. His eyes were nearly black, his features strong, and his fine, narrow nose was curved like a scimitar’s blade. Despite the more than a handspan’s difference in their height, the two young men balanced each other in mass. For this reason, they were frequent sparring partners on the teeter boards and cloudcarts, two devices that taught the jordaini to fight under magically imposed circumstances. Wizards were known to drag themselves and their opponents into the sky for aerial combat, thinking to thus gain the advantage. The jordaini might be utterly devoid of magical ability, but they did not cede a single pace of battleground to wizardly tactics.
Matteo folded his arms and sent a cocky grin at his friend. “A stone leg is a hard weapon, that much is true. But you notice that good master Vishna has found himself a comfortable seat and a sudden need for new shoes.”
“I’ve also noticed that your shin is turning an unbecoming shade of purple,” Andris returned dryly. “There’s a better way.”
Instantly Matteo lost interest in their repartee. “Show me.”
The tall jordain sent an inquiring look at Vishna. The master nodded and rose to his feet. Andris ran at the wizard, dropping to the ground as Matteo had done and executing the leg sweep in much the same fashion. But when Andris dropped into the crouch, he did not face Vishna as the attack pattern prescribed, but instead presented his right side. When his leg struck the wizard, he hit with the hardened muscle of his calf rather than the poorly padded bone of his shin.
Matteo could see the sense of it. There would be less pain, and the modified attack virtually eliminated the risk of broken bones, a not uncommon hazard of this particular sequence. At this very moment, there were two second-form students in the infirmary, wearing plasters and glumly enduring the ministrations of Mystra’s clergy. They would be back on the field in days, but in the meantime, they would have to suffer many sly comments from their fellows.
“There is a problem,” Matteo observed. “The initial attack is vastly improved, that I readily concede. But once the wizard is down, you are out of position for the knife thrust.”
“Not so,” Andris countered. “I’ll show you.”
“Not with my help, you won’t,” protested Vishna as he struggled to his feet. “Stoneskin or flesh, my bones are sufficiently rattled from clanging about on the ground. I’m for the baths.”
“May you walk in truth’s light,” both students said in unison, speaking the formal leave-taking between jordaini. The wizard flapped a hand in their direction in a less than formal gesture of acknowledgment as he walked gingerly away.
“I’ll be your wizard,” Matteo offered, speaking with the recklessness that only a jorda
in could understand.
Andris made a small involuntary sign of warding. “Mind your tongue, fool!” he said with quiet urgency. “You’ve more brass than brains.”
“A metaphor,” protested Matteo. “It was only a metaphor. An occasional borrowing from bardic style enhances a jordain’s discourse.”
“That may be, but metaphors can be risky things. There are many among us who consider truth a grim and literal matter, and some that might take you amiss if they overheard such claims.”
Matteo sighed. “Just do the attack.”
His friend nodded and burst toward him in a running charge. Before Matteo could brace himself, he felt the ground slam into him and saw stars dance in the morning sky. He blinked away the sparkles of light and watched as Andris continued his spin. But the red-haired jordain seized Matteo’s ankle, using the hold to come to an abrupt stop. He pulled hard, reversing his direction and swinging his free hand toward Matteo’s foot.
Andris slammed his fist into the ball of his opponent’s foot. In real battle, he would hold a knife. There were points of power and pain on the sole of the foot, and a jordain knew them well. Even without the weapon, the precisely placed attack sent icy lightning coursing up Matteo’s leg. He gritted his teeth to hold back a howl of pain.
“That works,” he conceded in a gritty whisper.
Andris rose to his feet and extended a hand. Matteo grasped his friend’s wrist and hauled himself up. His leg was numb nearly to the waist, and he hobbled around in small, pained circles as he awaited the return of blood to the offended member.
“Reminds me of the time I failed to dodge the aura of Vishna’s cone of ice,” Matteo said ruefully. He looked at his friend with great admiration. “You have improved the attack.”
The tall jordain shrugged. “This tactic would not work for everyone. Speed is needed, and it does not hurt that I am built more like a snake than a bull. A man with more muscle couldn’t halt his momentum quickly enough.”
The Magehound Page 3