The house wizard’s eyes suddenly brightened. He nodded to a table near the back of the room. “Now we shall have a disputation worth hearing!”
Matteo frowned, puzzled by the implication. Jordaini often held public debates or monologues, but always at the behest of their patrons and never in so rude a place. His puzzlement turned to slack-jawed astonishment when a small, thin lad climbed onto the table and touched a finger to his heart in the traditional salute to truth. Obviously the lad was not well acquainted with jordaini custom. He employed his middle finger rather than the prescribed digit.
The patrons stamped and hooted and banged their mugs on the dented tables. The would-be jordain acknowledged this acclaim with the traditional bow, bending at the waist, eyes never looking down, executing the graceful gesture perfectly yet somehow imbuing it with mockery. His face and movements projected an air that was both smugly self-important and wildly, blatantly effete. Several of the sailors chuckled, and a huge black-bearded man shouted a coarse insult.
The boy took this in stride, sending the burly sailor a wink that deftly turned the man’s insult to unintentional invitation. The man turned scarlet as his mates guffawed and pounded the table with delight
“Consider the starsnake,” the boy said in a rich alto. “This is a puzzle that would confound Queen Beatrix herself.”
This comment drew another round of chuckles. Matteo scratched his jaw as he considered the puzzle before him—and not the puzzle of the starsnake. The boy was a street urchin, yet he spoke with powerful, finely modulated tones that took years of study and practice to achieve. More disturbing still, the voice itself was eerily familiar. Female jordaini were rare, and this lad reproduced as faithfully as an echo the tones of the most famous jordaini woman: Cassia, counselor to King Zalathorm himself.
That accounted for the patrons’ sly laughter. It was widely rumored some of the luster was off the shining love between the wizard-king and Beatrix, his latest queen. The jordain Cassia no doubt started some of these rumors. She took great pride in her post, and some said that her pride was too great and her ambitions too high.
What the truth of that was, Matteo couldn’t say, but he had heard that the female jordain contrived to be at the king’s side whenever possible. When this was not possible, Cassia often amused herself by declaiming scathing, subtle satires on such matters as absorbed the queen’s interest. She had spoken at House Jordain, and Matteo would forget his own name before he would the music of her voice. And here it was again, pouring forth from this unlikely vessel!
The boy’s commentary continued, deftly skewering both the foibles of the court and the pretensions of the jordaini. The house wizard nodded and smiled, but his face began to darken like a coming lake storm when the target shifted to wizards and their oddities.
“I like this not at all,” he grumbled.
Matteo considered mentioning that the discourse was becoming amusing at last, but he decided that the remark lacked the discretion his rank demanded. “The lad has talent,” he commenting, thinking this a suitably neutral remark.
For some reason, his words greatly amused the wizard. He threw back his head and laughed heartily and unpleasantly. There was a nasty gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as he regarded his guest “So it’s true, I suppose, what they say of you jordaini?”
Matteo longed to strike the malicious smile from the wizard’s lips. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” he said formally. “I am not aware of the particular gossip to which you refer.”
The laughter disappeared from the wizard’s face like an extinguished candle. Gossip was considered vulgar, and Matteo’s polite words were a thinly veiled insult.
Before the man could speak, a low growl vibrated through the room like thunder. Silence fell over the tavern. Matteo turned to the door and let out a curse that earned him a respectful stare from a sailor at the next table.
The wemic Mbatu crouched in the open door, his tail lashing and his baleful glare fixed upon the lad. Quick as a startled fish, the boy was off the table and darting toward the back door. Mbatu sprang, crossing the taproom with huge, bounding leaps.
At that moment something snapped within Matteo. Without thought of propriety or consequence, he leaped up from his chair and upended the table just as the wemic launched himself into another mighty leap.
Matteo’s timing was perfect. The wemic crashed headfirst into the thick, weathered boards and dropped like an arrow-shot bird. For good measure, Matteo hefted a chair and brought it down hard on the dazed wemic’s head. The chair shattered and the creature went limp.
But Matteo’s troubles were just beginning. His impulsive act had also upended his host. The wizard rose slowly to his feet, brushing at his robes. His eyes bulged as he stared at the massive, slumbering wemic.
“You attacked a magehound’s personal guardian,” he said incredulously, then repeated the words with obvious enjoyment. He was muttering them still as he hurried away, no doubt to report this grave infraction of jordaini law to the nearest authority. Matteo hoped that such a person was not currently in the tavern, or sentence might be passed and carried out this very night.
In moments the wizard hurried back, alone, looking more than a little disgruntled. The local militia had come and gone, dragging away many of the brawlers with them. No doubt the wizard had been unable to find an official representative of Khaerbaal’s law and had returned to handle the matter himself.
A hunk of bread bounced off Matteo’s head. He glanced in the direction from which it had come, annoyed at the petty distraction. The young entertainer peered around the frame of the back door, gesturing frantically.
“Psst! This way, and hurry!”
When Matteo hesitated, the boy rolled his eyes impatiently. “Your friend’s out here. He needs you.”
Matteo glanced to the place on the floor where he had left Themo “sleeping.” Sure enough, the big jordain had slipped away, no doubt to pick a fight elsewhere. With a sigh, he quickly made his way to the back of the room and out into the street beyond.
He followed the lad to the end of the long dueling alley and then stopped. The corridor was empty but for him and the boy, as was the street beyond.
“Where’s Themo?” he demanded.
“How should I know?” the urchin retorted. “Unless it’s true what they say about jordaini, we’d better start running.”
This was the second time someone had made that remark, and Matteo liked it even less on second hearing. He didn’t have the leisure to inquire, however, for at that moment the wizard burst from the tavern, his face indignant and his open palm flaming with light.
“Damn,” the boy muttered and dug one hand into the bag that hung at his belt.
Matteo drew his daggers and prepared to deflect the magical attack. As he expected, the sun arrow spell took deadly form and spun toward him. He formed the classic defense with a smooth, practiced movement.
But the boy was quicker still. His small hand flashed out, holding a shining bit of glass. Before Matteo could thrust the lad aside, the bolt struck the proffered target. It hit the small mirror squarely and bounced back at a declining angle toward the wizard.
There was a moment of stunned silence. The wizard let out a small, high-pitched whimper and began to topple slowly to one side, clutching with both hands at the smoking robes covering his groin.
Matteo sent an incredulous stare at the lad. The urchin shrugged and lifted the mirror to his own face, preening a bit and combing his cap of short brown hair with surprisingly delicate fingers.
“You told a deliberate lie,” Matteo marveled.
It was the urchin’s turn to be surprised. “I did a lot of things. That’s the one that caught your fancy?”
Matteo glanced at the man writhing on the cobblestone and remembered the boy’s deft and dangerous performance in the tavern. There was something to the lad’s logic. But his next words, when he spoke, surprised him.
“What do they say about the jordaini?”
he demanded.
The lad’s laughter was rich and merry. “Many things, no doubt! I spoke of your ability to fight wizards. Why do you ask?”
“That wizard said much the same when I remarked that you had talent.”
A knowing glint kindled in the urchin’s eyes. “Repeat your exact words.”
Matteo blinked, puzzled by the request but not confounded. He could repeat entire conversations verbatim. This was an important part of his training. “I merely said of your performance, ‘The lad has talent.’ Nothing more.”
“Oh. Well, that explains it.”
He folded his arms. “Not to me, it doesn’t.”
With a grin, the “lad” shrugged off a loose brown overtunic to reveal a shirt of thin linen and the slender but unmistakably female form beneath.
“They say that jordaini have little experience with women.” She winked and thrust out a hand. “I’m Tzigone, and I’m here to change all that.”
Dazed into rote compliance with protocol, Matteo took the offered hand. He balked, however, at accepting what the handclasp seemed to offer. “You are gravely mistaken. There is no place for a woman in my life.”
“Make one,” she said adamantly. “You just saved my skin. That creates a debt, and whether you like it or not, I’ll be around until that debt is paid.”
“I assure you, that is most unnecessary.”
She glanced back toward the tavern and then took his arm. “Wrong again. Looks like I’ll be paying the first installment sooner than expected.”
Matteo followed the line of her gaze. The wemic reeled out into the alley and began to pad unsteadily toward them in a weaving but deliberate path. With each step, the creature seemed to gather strength and purpose.
Tzigone stamped her foot impatiently and tugged at his arm. “Are you going to stand there and shout ‘Here, kitty!’ until that thing pounces? Come on, before this gets worse!”
He remembered the dark, avid glee on the magehound’s face as she condemned Andris to death. Yes, things could definitely get worse.
With a sigh, he turned and followed his new companion out into the street.
CHAPTER FIVE
Matteo soon learned that following Tzigone was no easy task. The lad—no, he corrected himself, not lad but maiden—could run like a lizard and climb nearly as well.
They were running full out down Sultan Street, batting away the filmy silk banners that served as shop signs, when Tzigone suddenly disappeared. In two more steps, Matteo saw where she had gone: a narrow alley, shaded by tall buildings on either side and almost obscured by the thick flowering vines that twined up the walls. He skidded to a stop and darted in after her.
Too late. As he rounded the corner, he heard the wemic’s voice lifted in a sound that was half snarl, half guttural chuckle, and utterly triumphant.
Tzigone heard it, too. She cast a baleful look over her shoulder at Matteo and began to climb the vine-covered walls. “At least try to hurry,” she muttered.
Matteo tested a handful of the fragrant vines and found that they would hold his weight. The rough stones on the wall beneath provided footholds. It was not unlike some of his training exercises, and he managed to almost keep pace with Tzigone.
The roof was smooth and broad. Tzigone rolled to her feet and started off at a trot. She pointed toward the public garden in the midst of the city. “Going roof to roof, we can reach the bilboa tree from here. Once we’re in the tree, Mbatu will never find us.”
Matteo was momentarily startled to hear her speak the wemic’s name. “You have had dealings with this wemic?”
She tossed a glance back at him. “How many lion-men have you seen in this part of the world? Stories are told, and I have ears to listen.”
“Ah. Rumors.”
“They’ve kept me alive so far,” she retorted. She turned and planted her fists on her narrow hips. “Why are you just standing there? Are you coming or not?”
“Not.” He folded his arms and leveled a steady gaze upon the incredulous Tzigone. “Do not think me ungrateful for your help, but I have had enough of flight Go your way and leave me to mine.”
“Which is?”
“I will confront the wemic in battle,” he said simply.
The girl hissed with exasperation. “Did you see the wemic’s baldric? The sword slung over his shoulder?” she said grimly.
Matteo sent her a puzzled look. He could recall both precisely: the baldric was a broad leather strap, tanned a light tawny hue, slanted across the wemic’s great chest and joined to the belt that encircled his humanoid torso. The baldric held a scabbard that slanted over the wemic’s back, fastened tightly at the top and secured at the bottom by a short strap so that the scabbard could tilt outward when the wemic drew his sword—a necessary adjustment, given the length of the blade. Otherwise the creature would have to reach behind his head to draw the sword, exposing the pit of his arm to his enemy’s blades. No seasoned warrior would make himself vulnerable in this way. A quick stab or a thrown dagger could pierce the lungs and drown the wemic in his own blood. With the addition of the bottom strap, the wemic could simply reach over his shoulder and seize the hilt, thus drawing his weapon in half the time and with a fraction of the risk. All this Matteo had taken in with a glance.
“Yes, of course I noted baldric and sword. Why?”
“Why?” she demanded incredulously. “The sword’s hilt rose above Mbatu’s shoulder, and the blade crossed the breadth of his back. The wemic’s reach is already longer than yours without that weapon. I don’t care how good you think you are. You won’t last long against him if all you’ve got is those daggers.”
Her words smarted, but he couldn’t deny her logic. “That may be, but I have no sword.”
“I do. Follow me.”
She took off, running down the length of the building and then leaping out over a narrow divide to a roof garden on a neighboring villa.
Matteo followed her to the edge of the wall. He glanced down and immediately wished he hadn’t. He backed up a few paces, set his jaw and took the jump. He landed squarely in a patch of herbs. Mint filled the air with fragrant protest as he took off after Tzigone.
When she reached the edge of the roof garden, she uncoiled the rope at her belt and quickly tied on a small three-pronged hook. “Stand back,” she warned, then she briefly twirled and let fly.
The rope spun out toward the outermost branches of the great bilboa tree. It struck the limb, wrapped around twice, and caught firmly. Tzigone tested the rope and then nodded. “Help me pull it in.”
Matteo seized the rope and tugged until the limb was within reach. They both got a handhold and then, on Tzigone’s count, dropped off the edge of the roof.
The limb dipped so low that Matteo would have sworn that it would break under their combined weight. As they began the upward swing, he glanced down. The wemic was directly beneath them, twisting his tawny body in midair in an attempt to get his feet beneath him. Obviously he had leaped up in an attempt to seize one or both of them. Matteo was chilled by the realization of how close the wemic had come to succeeding.
For several moments the limb bobbed up and down, each dip considerably more shallow than the last. When Tzigone decreed it was safe to move on, they began to pull themselves hand over hand toward the trunk. After a hundred feet or so, the limb grew broad enough to walk upon. Tzigone easily pulled herself up and extended a hand to help Matteo.
They edged along until they reached the massive trunk. As Matteo studied the odd arrangement of branches, he realized that the limbs grew in layers, like floors in a tall building. The next tier formed a roof about ten feet over their heads. The limbs were thickly entwined, and the leaves formed an apparently impenetrable barrier. Tzigone was right about one thing: Mbatu would not find them easily.
Matteo glanced down. The wemic paced beneath the tree, frustration and fury etched upon his golden face.
“A tree seems an unlikely refuge from any sort of cat,” he remarked.
He considered this and decided that she was probably right. What he did not entirely credit, however, was her claim to ownership of a sword. There were strict rules on what type of weapon each class could carry, and although he was hard pressed to define the girl’s precise status, he doubted that she was either nobility, military, or militia.
Also dubious was her choice of hiding place for such a weapon. She had spoken a deliberate lie to get him out of the tavern. Quite likely she had done so again to lure him away from battle and into the safety of the massive tree.
“You hid a sword in a tree?” he said skeptically.
She dug her hands into the bark and began to climb. “Many things are hidden in this tree. If you follow me closely and keep your eyes open, you’ll survive most of them.”
The trunk was thicker around than many a wizard’s tower, and the bark formed raised patterns of ridges and whorls. Matteo found that climbing the sheer wall was not as difficult as he’d anticipated. After several moments they hauled themselves up onto a large limb.
Matteo stood and looked about him in wonder. The limbs were broad, the upper sides almost flat. They intertwined, forming a network of passages and nearly level platforms. Several paces away, several boards spanned the gap between two limbs. A bit of torn sailcloth formed a remarkably snug tent. Though sunset was still hours away, two pairs of booted feet protruded from it.
“They work at night,” Tzigone said matter-of-factly as she began to climb again.
They passed several more small dwellings on the next tier, some established on the tree’s branches and some carved into the larger limbs and in hollows in the trunk. Matteo marveled at the sheer variety of plant and animal life that took refuge in the bilboa tree. Tiny spiders, transparent as glass and invisible but for a faint rosy gleam within their bodies, spun delicate webs of red silk—webs that were unique to Halruaa, and much prized by wizards as spell components. Brilliantly colored birds roosted on the branches, some of which Matteo had never encountered in book or legend. A winged cat groomed itself, and insects bustled about with the importance of message boys.
The Magehound Page 7