The Magehound

by Elaine Cunningham

  He glanced at Andris, whose face was more familiar to him than his own. “As well as one brother might know another,” he said softly.

  “You have never once perceived anything unusual about him, no act beyond the scope of any other magic-dead counselor?”

  The morning’s discussion about the Kilmaruu Paradox came unbidden into Matteo’s mind. Quickly he willed the thought away, but some flicker of it must have entered his eyes.

  Kiva’s lips curved in a smile of feline satisfaction. “There is something, after all. Speak of it.”

  Matteo sent an anguished look at his friend. “You are pledged to speak truth,” Andris said softly. “I would not have you do otherwise, whatever comes of it”

  “Andris is indeed skilled in battle strategy,” Matteo began reluctantly. “He has applied himself to this study more assiduously than any of us. He possesses an original mind and sees beyond the details of history to what might have been and what might yet be. Like a master weaver, he takes the threads and makes of them new cloth.”

  “Very poetic,” Kiva said coldly. “Your disclaimer is noted. Get to the meat of the matter.”

  “This morning Andris revealed to me that he has solved the Kilmaruu Paradox.”

  A soft ripple of astonishment passed through the ranks of the jordaini. The magehound’s hired soldiers looked shocked, and even the masters exchanged incredulous glances. Matteo noted that all of the masters seemed surprised by this news. Why so, when Andris indicated that he’d confided in at least one of them?

  But Matteo could not consider the matter now. The magehound swayed closer to him, her lovely face dark with menace.

  “Do you know how many wizards have made it their lifework to unravel that puzzle?” she said in a low, furious voice. “How many have died in the swamps? None but a wizard or an utter fool would dare attempt such a thing! Tell me, jordain, is your friend a fool?”

  Matteo saw the trap at once. For the first time in his life, he regretted the vows that bound him to speak truth. “He is not,” he said faintly.

  “Then it would appear that he is a wizard.” Kiva turned to the wemic. “Andris is a false jordain and a danger to his kind. Deal with it”

  The creature crouched, tamping down his hind legs. Before Matteo could draw breath, the great catman leaped. The coarse fur of the leonine body scorched across Matteo’s arm as the wemic flashed past Matteo squeezed his eyes closed, willing back the unfamiliar moisture that gathered there.

  But darkness could not block the sound, the terrible thud of impact as Andris hit the ground under the weight of the great wemic, the quick brittle crunch of bone. Matteo recognized the sound of a neck breaking, and he spoke a silent farewell to his friend. He watched in despairing silence as the wemic picked up the limp form of Andris with his manlike arms and slung the jordain over his massive shoulder.

  Kiva turned to the masters, who stood as silent and stunned as their students. “There will be no further testing today. Judging from these long faces, it would be effort wasted. I will return when your students are at their best.”

  The magehound spun on her heel and walked out, followed by the wemic with his grim burden, and finally by her guard.

  When the sound of their horses’ hoofbeats had died away, the headmaster turned sad eyes upon his students. The wizard swallowed hard several times before he spoke. “The tides will be highest near midnight, and many ships will sail from the docks of Khaerbaal tonight. There will be much merriment in the town, and the taverns will vie with each other to draw in the sailors. Ale and wine will not reach prices so low for many moons to come. Since thrift is a jordainish virtue, I urge you all to partake,” he said with forced lightness.

  No one spoke or moved. With a deep sigh, the wizard abandoned his attempt. “Horses and coin will be available to all who wish them,” he said in a softer and infinitely sadder tone. “Go, with Mystra’s blessing and mine. Purchase a few hours of forgetfulness.”

  Several of the students slipped away, but none so quickly as Themo. Matteo noted the glitter of tears in the big man’s eyes and the grim set of his square jaw. The combination did not bode well.

  Vishna seemed to be thinking along the same lines. The old battle wizard came over to the place where Matteo stood alone, still reeling from the result of his unwilling betrayal. “Go with Themo, lad. Keep him safe.”

  Matteo’s lips thinned in an ironic smile. “And how will I accomplish that? With the sharp sword of truth?”

  The bitterness and anguish in his voice made Vishna wince in sympathy. The wizard sighed and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulders. “Yours was not the hand that slew Andris. That thought is untruth, and arrogance beside.”

  “Arrogance? How so?” demanded Matteo in despairing tones. “How could I possibly boast of my part in the death of my friend?”

  “You need not take pleasure in a thing to display pride. Taking responsibility where none exists is arrogance. A child thinks that all things revolve around him and that his will and his words bring forth wishes upon the first star. You are no child. See that you remember that.”

  The wizard’s tone was bracingly sharp. Matteo nodded, seeing both the purpose and the truth of the words. “Thank you, master,” he said, speaking automatically the words he had been trained to use at the end of every lesson.

  Vishna sighed. “The lesson is over. Go.”

  Matteo went, but reluctantly. The prospect of an evening in the boisterous port town held little appeal under the best of circumstances. But he quickly bathed and dressed in the traditional garb, a loose sleeveless tunic fashioned from white linen worn over matching leggings. Around his neck he hung the token of his class, a round silver medallion enameled with the jordaini emblem: the left half of the field green, the right yellow, and the two separated by a jagged bolt of cobalt blue lightning. He belted on the strap that held his daggers, then pulled back his dark hair and fastened it with a thin leather thong. These things—the clothing, the weapons, the medallion, and the few small things that aided in the care of his person—were the sum of his possessions. A jordain was allowed nothing but his knowledge, his reputation, and his friends.

  Today Matteo had learned how tenuous was his claim to that last and most precious of possessions. He moved like a man asleep, stunned by the loss of Andris and by the realization of how fragile was his own position.

  All his life Matteo had walked with pride, as befitted a man of his talents and station. Handpicked at birth—before birth, for that matter—he had been raised in the collective luxury of House Jordain and given the best training that this most civilized land could offer. He had worked hard, and he fully expected to be well rewarded. The jordaini were restrained by law from owning property and amassing wealth, but they lived exceedingly well and could advance in status. A truly talented counselor was in high demand among Halruaa’s wizard lords and ladies, and such a man could expect to choose his own path and take whatever employment suited his ambitions.

  But at this moment Matteo saw how incredibly hollow was this promise of a glowing future. All that it took was a word from a magehound, and the best of the jordaini was cast aside with no more hesitation or regret than Vishna might spare his ruined shoe.

  There was little time to ponder the matter. Matteo had lost one friend today and was determined not to lose another. Themo was probably well on his way, and Matteo dared not leave the grieving man to his own devices for long.

  The ride to Khaerbaal, the nearest city, took two to three hours, for the House Jordain was an isolated place. Set in the midst of a peninsula that jutted out into the Bay of Taertal, it was a vast complex of buildings and fields and training courses. The students spent some time each year in carefully supervised travel, for this was deemed an important part of their studies, but anything that Matteo had ever needed could be found in the complex. All the learning, arts, and sciences of this most civilized of lands was at his disposal. This created a sense of security and privilege that had defin
ed Matteo’s life. His studies were all focused on creating a counselor versed in many fields of knowledge, an entity in himself, loyal to the wizards he served but forbidden to develop personal ties with any magic-wielder.

  Perhaps, he mused, this life had ill prepared him to deal with friendship, much less the loss of a friend. He was not even certain how to grieve. Though his mind and body were finely honed as a blade singer’s sword, his own heart was a mystery to him.

  He hurried to the stable and was relieved to find his favorite steed as yet unclaimed. No horse in House Jordain’s extensive stables better suited his dark mood. A fine black stallion, the beast was at least a hand taller than any other horse Matteo had seen. His sire was reputed to have come from distant Amn, a land famous for its steeds. Although the stallion was the finest horse in the stable, Matteo was not surprised to find him still in his stall. Some blasphemous groom had dubbed the horse “Cyric,” and the name had stuck. The stallion was as volatile and possibly as crazed as the evil god whose name he bore.

  Matteo ordered a reluctant groom to prepare the horse, and then he sent another servant after a package of travel food. Khaerbaal was at least two hours’ ride away, and if he left now he would miss the afternoon meal. He did not want the food and strongly suspected that his stomach would rebel, but he had been too well schooled in such matters to neglect his care. Jordaini were chosen for the unusual strength of their minds and bodies, as well as their nearly total resistance to magic. Harsh penalties ensured that the young men followed the rules that honed all their gifts. Though taverns were not strictly forbidden, an unsupervised trip to temptation-laden Khaerbaal was a rare event.

  As soon as the marble gate of the jordaini complex was behind them, Matteo let Cyric have his head. The stallion seemed happy to run, setting an insane breakneck pace that suited Matteo’s mood to perfection. He smelled the tang of the Bay of Taertal while the sun was edging toward its zenith, and he entered the north gate of Khaerbaal just as the temple bells were ringing the highsun warning. Native Halruaans knew to take refuge from the direct sun, but Khaerbaal was a busy port filled with strangers, many of whom were unaccustomed to the southern sun. Most quickly got the idea, and the crowds were thinning quickly as Matteo rode through the streets toward the dockside taverns.

  Finding Themo was an easy task. Matteo merely fell in behind the group of local militia who trotted purposefully toward the Falling Star Tavern.

  The din of battle reached him before the tavern itself came into sight the thud of fists upon flesh, the splinter and crash of doomed furniture, and the shouted oaths that were more pungent than the dockside fishery nearby.

  Matteo swung down from Cyric’s back and tied the horse to a wooden post. He had no illusions that this precaution might actually contain the stallion. If Cyric tired of waiting, he would shatter the hitching rail and then attempt to do likewise to the skull of anyone foolish enough to stop him. The horse cocked his ears at the sounds of nearby battle and bade his rider farewell with an envious little whinny. Matteo dryly considered the possibility of teaching battle tactics to the stallion. Cyric would be a foe more formidable than many of the wizards Matteo had faced in his training.

  The melee was in full foment when Matteo pushed through the door. He ducked as a familiar massive fist flashed toward his face, then reached up and caught Themo’s wrist with both hands. As he rose, he twisted the arm, bringing it up behind the big jordain’s back as he shoved him facedown on the nearest table.

  He leaned in close to Themo’s ear. “I’m going to let you up, then lightly hit you on the back of the neck. Go down as if you’re stunned and stay down until the fighting is done, or I swear by Mystra’s Truth that I’ll drop you in earnest. Agreed?”

  Themo’s response was a small, barely perceptible nod. Matteo released his arm. As Themo rose, Matteo hit him hard, and the man dropped and sprawled as instructed. But he sent Matteo a blurred, reproachful look. Matteo wasn’t sure whether his friend was upset about the more-than-necessary force of the blow or the fact that his sport had been spoiled. Either way, Themo’s glare was giving away the game. Matteo nudged his friend’s ribs with an ungentle foot, and Themo grudgingly closed his eyes.

  Only then did Matteo notice the small magical storm raging in the tavern. A thick, smoky cloud filled the taproom. Sparks of light shot through it in bright random patterns. Matteo recognized the enchantment as a brightness spell from Obold’s Spellbook, a rare book he had been required to learn last winter. The sparks were actually small bolts of lightning, which struck at random and drew yelps of surprise from the startled combatants. Themo, of course, possessed complete resistance to such puny missiles, and his impressive bulk had shielded a goodly number of the fighters. Once the big jordain was down, more of the bolts began to find their marks. Some of the brawlers staggered out of the cloud to escape the quelling magic.

  It was an effective spell, and if Matteo let it rage on, it would settle the brawl before much more time passed. But any damage done to the tavern and its patrons would be blamed on Themo and would tarnish the reputation of House Jordain. Matteo’s duty was to end the fight as quickly as possible.

  He took a small gray stone from his bag and tossed it into the thickest part of the glowing cloud. There was no magic in the stone, but it was a lodestone mined from a particularly strong vein. Wizards used them to attract lighting, which often served to affix a spell into an enchanted item. There was a sharp sizzle as the lodestone drew the sparks. Then the cloud, deprived of much of its energy, began to dissipate.

  The brawl settled down to a simmer of muttered insults and halfhearted shoves. Matteo wove through the mess toward the house wizard, a small dark man whom he had met before on his one trip to Khaerbaal. He stooped and picked up the lodestone, pocketing it and hoping that the wizard did not recall the last time Themo had visited this tavern.

  But the little man glowered at Matteo as if the melee had been entirely his fault. Though Matteo kept his gaze level, he inclined his head in a slight bow. The wizard seemed somewhat mollified by this unnecessary courtesy.

  “Your friend is trouble,” he said scornfully but with less vitriol than Matteo had right to expect.

  “He is young and greatly troubled,” Matteo said mildly. He was tempted to contradict the wizard outright, but it seemed wiser to restate the older man’s words and nudge them toward truth. “But he is jordaini, and therefore his deeds are mine. Perhaps these coins will purchase your master’s forbearance.”

  The wizard opened the small bag Matteo handed him. Headmaster Ferris Grail, probably anticipating something like this, had instructed the jordaini’s steward to dispense coins with a lavish hand.

  The wizard’s lips moved as he counted the sum within. “This will cover the damage,” he agreed.

  “And Themo’s expenses? I assume he had a bit to drink,” Matteo said dryly. His words held a rebuke, for by law it was forbidden to serve anything stronger than wine to a jordain. The effort made to keep the jordaini free of magic’s influence would be wasted if their wits were confused by drink or pipe weed.

  The wizard was too busy recounting the coins to notice Matteo’s mild accusation. Since the amount in the bag far exceeded what Themo could drink or break in the course of a fortnight of grief, the wizard looked only too happy to call matters settled. He even clapped his arm around the young jordain’s shoulders.

  “Drink with me,” he said expansively. “There’s no bard in the house this day, but an entertainer or two stayed on when their troupe passed through. You might find such sport amusing.”

  Matteo doubted that sincerely, but he could find no polite reason to refuse the wizard’s offer. He allowed himself to be guided to a table, and he sipped at a glass of pale yellow wine that the wizard poured from a silver decanter. The wizard launched into a tale of other battles he had quelled. Matteo listened politely but with scant interest as he watched the barmaids swiftly set the tavern to rights.

  A few of the patrons stumbled
out, perhaps to seek healers or to face scolding spouses, but most simply resumed their seats and paid little heed to swelling jaws or blackened eyes. Matteo didn’t suppose that most of the tavern’s patrons considered such things novelties, much less inconveniences.

  He watched the mixed crowd with interest. Many of the patrons wore the blue-green uniform of Halruaa’s navy, and an equal number sported the colors of various local militia. Sailors were plentiful, notable for garb as colorful as it was salt-encrusted. Matteo suspected that not a few of them were pirates, but forbearance was the rule at dockside taverns. Here there was no such thing as an innocent question. Asking a man’s business was an insult that could result in a challenge to a duel. Most taverns in Khaerbaal had an alley behind kept remarkably free of debris for just such a purpose.

  Many sorts of people came to the Falling Star. Matteo noted a pair of merchants, a blacksmith still wearing the apron of her office, and a dour trio of dwarf miners who hunkered down over their mugs, squat and silent as toadstools. There were a few foreigners as well. A tall, fair-haired man on the far side of the room was certainly a barbarian from some far northern land. The woman with him was a cleric. Matteo couldn’t make out her deity’s symbol from this distance, but he could see the faint red glow of the tattoo that marked it upon her forehead. Priests of all strange gods were so marked in Halruaa as a condition of entry. They were admitted to the port cities under certain strictures. They could not venture inland or attempt to proselytize. Either offense would activate the magic of the temporary tattoo, causing the mark to burn through the cleric’s skull and into his or her brain. Matteo had seen this happen during his last visit to Khaerbaal in this very tavern. The grim process had taken a long time, and it had sent every one of the tavern’s hardened patrons reeling into the alleys with green faces. It was that, even more than Andris’s battle strategy, that had enabled Themo to walk away from the brawl with no more lasting harm than a broken jaw and a reprimand from Dimidis.