The Magehound

by Elaine Cunningham

  The necromancer shrieked with rage. He advanced upon Matteo, gesturing wildly. In one hand, he held a thin strip of ripe and reeking fish. The disgusting thing flapped about as the wizard formed the gestures of his spell, gradually dissolving to an eerie, greenish light that leached into the necromancer’s hands.

  For a moment Matteo froze. He didn’t recognize the spell or know how to counteract it.

  But Tzigone took inspiration from the necromancer’s attack. She snatched up handfuls of eels from the fishmonger’s baskets and hurled them at the wizard. The snakelike fish tangled about his ankles, stopping his advance and distracting him from his spell. He nearly tripped, and his bobbling attempt to regain his balance would have been comical in less grim circumstances.

  The necromancer ripped the entangling eels away and flung them aside. The touch of his hand turned them a glowing green and left them as rigid as sticks. One of the eels shattered against a tree trunk with a sound like breaking crockery. Shards of eel flew like a volley of arrows, bespeckling the necromancer’s robes with glowing green.

  “Hey, dragon snot! Over here!” hooted Tzigone, waving her arms and attempting to draw the wizard’s attention from Matteo.

  This affront to the wizard’s dignity enraged him as much as the theft of his spellbook. Crimson light began to gather in his colorless eyes, and he kicked aside the last of the eels and lunged at her.

  Matteo felt the rush of cold as the necromancer closed in, and he understood the nature of the spell. A rare few necromancers could summon a lich’s touch, a dangerous spell that copied the paralysis of limb and spirit caused by the touch of an undead wizard. But Matteo stepped between the wizard and Tzigone and seized the glowing hand that reached out to seize her.

  He accepted the terrible numbing chill, an attack that would have frozen most men in place as surely as the blast of an ice dragon’s breath. Forcing aside the icy pain, he tightened his grip on the wizard’s hand and gave it a hard, quick twist. The delicate bones gave way with a sickening crunch.

  It was a cruel defense, one Matteo hated using, but he knew of no other way to stop the wizard’s magical offensive short of killing him.

  The necromancer howled in pain and fury, a lingering sound that rose in pitch to become an eerie wail. He fell away, backing off from the jordain and quite literally shrinking as he retreated.

  He also began to change. Bones creaked and popped as they took new form. His nose bulged, then snapped outward into a long muzzle. His robes fell away, and white hair sprouted from his pallid skin. In moments the wizard’s human shape was entirely gone, replaced by that of a lean and ghostly wolf.

  It was a reasonable strategy, one that Matteo had anticipated. Although the wizard’s spellcasting was finished for quite some time by the injury to his hand, any necromancer of power kept several spells at the ready, magic that could be activated without word or gesture. And now, as a wolf, the wizard would not need magic to attack.

  Apparently he’d also had the foresight to unleash magic designed to leave Matteo vulnerable to fang and claw. As the jordain raised his daggers into guard position, he noted that the tips were beginning to glow with heat. He quickly tossed them aside, steeling himself to do what he would have to do.

  The ghostly wolf’s lips curled, baring preternaturally long, sharp fangs and an expanse of blackened gums. The creature snarled and crouched for the spring.

  Matteo timed his defense, then leaped forward to meet the wolf-wizard. He spun on one foot and kicked out high and hard with the other as the creature rose to the apex of its leap.

  His booted foot caught the creature squarely in the chest. He danced back as the wolf dropped to the ground, a look of human surprise on its pale face. But no breath stirred the great white chest, and the wolf-wizard never uttered another sound. The heart stopped on impact and would never beat again.

  Numbly Matteo watched as the wolf slowly melted back into human form. If possible, the waxen, white body of the wizard seemed even more inhuman than the abandoned wolf shape.

  He was aware of Tzigone edging close. The girl prodded the still figure with a tentative foot, then touched her fingers to the silence pulse on the necromancer’s white neck. She rose and stared at Matteo, her eyes huge.

  “You killed him,” she said incredulously. “With one kick, you killed him.”

  “I could have stopped him without great injury had he permitted me the daggers,” Matteo said shortly, mistaking her astonishment for disapproval.

  In truth, he was far more stunned than Tzigone by the ease of the man’s death. Matteo had trained for battle since he was old enough to hold a wooden pole without falling on his backside, but this was the first time a man had died by his hand. It seemed to him that such a thing should not have been so easy. Something so momentous, so final, should have been harder to do, and it should have taken far longer.

  Perhaps then he would have had time to reconcile himself to his actions. Perhaps then he would not be standing here staring at the dead man, marveling at the cold hollow place the unknown man’s sudden absence left within his own heart. It seemed to him that a hidden room within him had been opened, one whose existence he had never suspected. He could kill. He had killed.

  “He need not have died,” he said softly. “I wish that he had not, even though he meant us harm.”

  “Poor bastard,” Tzigone said in full agreement.

  For some reason, her cavalier choice of words grated on nerves left strangely raw.

  “The man is dead,” he said coldly. “He died trying to retrieve his rightful property, which you took from him. I do not expect you to take any measure of responsibility for his death, but I will not listen as you deal him further injury. Who are you to malign his name so foully?”

  Tzigone fell back a step. For a moment she stared at Matteo, her painted eyes huge in a face gone suddenly pale. She couldn’t have looked more startled and betrayed if he’d dealt her an open-handed blow.

  She recovered quickly, gave another of her expressive shrugs, and disappeared around the corner with a speed that Matteo, had he not seen some of her other tricks, might well have considered magical.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Zephyr reached into his pocket for a coin. It was a small task, one that should have been easy, yet the elf jordain was hampered by his palsied hand and the slow, tremulous movements of extreme age.

  He marked the impatience on the urchin messenger’s dirty face and cursed his own frailty. Of a certainty, he had lived too long.

  Yet the information the street lad had brought him was worth the fee, worth the trouble it took to retrieve it, and perhaps even worth the terrible chore that living these last few years had become. According to Zephyr’s informants in the markets, the girl who now called herself Tzigone had been spotted in the city wearing the garb of a street performer, and in the company of Procopio’s newest and most earnest jordain.

  This was an unexpected stroke of luck. Zephyr was certain Matteo would tell him what there was to know. He doubted the young man was capable of dissembling even if he wished to do so.

  With a personal link to Tzigone established, Zephyr would have her in hand in no time. Then he would be able to pass the girl along to Kiva, and the terrible evil that the two elves had set in motion nearly two centuries past would finally be destroyed.

  The thought cheered Zephyr considerably. It was for this purpose that he lived, and only for this purpose. When the laraken died, Zephyr could leave his worn-out body and travel to Arvanaith, the final homeland of the elves.

  An almost overwhelming flood of emotion swept him, carried by the beckoning voices of all those who had gone before so very long ago. The elf squeezed his eyes shut and fought against the ways of nature and his own deepest longings.

  With difficulty, he composed himself and dismissed the urchin, then hobbled off in search of his patron. It was his job to provide Procopio Septus with information, but on occasions such as this, it was far more important to contr
ol what and how much the wizard heard. Matteo’s involvement was a mixed blessing. The young man might be able to help Zephyr find Tzigone, but it wouldn’t do to have Procopio inquire too closely into his counselors’ affairs.

  The elf found Procopio in the kitchen garden, admiring the silhouettes of the serving girls as they stretched high to pick fat crimson pods from the bean trellis.

  The old jordain sighed. His patron had children enough, born on both sides of the blanket. While it was true that a future king needed heirs, a surplus of potential successors seldom boded well for a kingdom. Some other time, Zephyr would have to remind Procopio of his history lessons.

  The elf saw no real need for urgency; in his opinion, Procopio was no king. Nothing about the man suggested Zalathorm’s fabled judgment and foresight Zephyr considered Procopio Septus to be reckless and impulsive and far too open with his ambitions. But then few humans had an elf’s patience, and few elves possessed Zephyr’s resolve. The old jordain knew only one other elf willing to work for more than two centuries to right an ancient wrong.

  The old elf firmly put aside such thoughts and hobbled into the gardens. It was wise to bury one’s secrets before entering the presence of a Halruaan diviner.

  The real reason for Procopio’s presence among the kitchen servants soon became apparent. A basket of doves stood ready for plucking, and several more of the birds flew circles about the tall, hive-shaped dovecote that dominated the south side of the kitchen gardens. Auguries were usually read from the random flights of wild birds, but Procopio had devised a way to read the future in the flight of birds lured in for table use. The diviner was quite fond of roasted dove, so the spell served two purposes at once.

  “What counsel do the doves offer, my lord?”

  The wizard glanced up at Zephyr’s hail, and his satisfied smile broadened. “Enough to know that you have news for me.”

  The elf acknowledged this with a slight bow. “That is true, my lord, but bear in mind that no news is entirely unmixed. The birth of spring heralds the death of winter.”

  Procopio dismissed this cautionary proverb with an impatient wave. “This much I know from the birds: There was a disturbance in the market, one that can shift the course of my future. From you, I require detail.”

  “Your auguries tell true.” Zephyr briefly related the story of Matteo’s misadventure.

  Procopio paled when he heard of the challenge between his new counselor and a jordain employed by his most serious rival for Zalathorm’s throne. As Zephyr hoped, Procopio was too concerned for his own political future to inquire into the identity of the young woman who had played the part of alchemist in this particular brew.

  “This contest would no doubt prove interesting, but there is both reason and means to avoid it. Lady Cassia took an interest in young Matteo and expressed her intent to commend him to the queen.”

  The diviner laughed without humor. “Did she, now? A most laudable act,” he said dryly.

  “Since when, dear Procopio, has any of my actions been otherwise?”

  Procopio turned to face the king’s counselor. He was smiling widely and looking not in the least surprised. “Welcome, Cassia. All is well with the king, I trust?”

  The raven-haired woman glided forward and allowed the wizard to kiss her fingertips. “Zalathorm is well as ever, thanks be to Lady Mystra. It is the queen whose welfare concerns me.”

  “It is so?” the diviner said innocently. He gestured to the pile of dead birds. “Yet there were no dire signs among the auguries.”

  Cassia sent a quick, disparaging glance at the basket. “I see you have provided the second remove for the evening meal. Well done. It’s a pity you couldn’t conjure the final course instead. I am rather fond of sweets.”

  The wizard stiffened at the subtle layers of insult in his visitor’s words. Zephyr lifted a hand to his lips and coughed slightly, not only to signal disapproval but to give an excuse to hide his smile. Conjurers held less status than diviners, and to be compared unfavorably to a wizard of that school was highly displeasing to his ambitious patron. It didn’t escape Zephyr’s notice that Cassia had not bothered to greet him, a fellow jordain, but he didn’t take offense. To the contrary. The less attention he drew from such as Cassia, the better.

  “I do not waste magic on such matters,” Procopio said loftily. “As you can see, I have servants to fetch wine and honey cakes. But I hear that it is not my household servants who interest you, but my counselors. You believe that young Matteo may be of service to our queen?”

  The jordain’s smile was thin and cool. “Let us speak plainly. Your new counselor is a green youth, too hotheaded for delicate court matters and, by all appearances, sorely lacking in judgment. He laughed when a common street performer ridiculed a fellow jordain, which provoked the man to offer challenge. Had he any grasp of your interests and ambitions, he would have avoided this situation at almost any cost. Here is my counsel, Procopio: Be rid of him. This debate will do you no good, but Beatrix will not be harmed by it”

  Procopio stroked his chin as he considered this path out of his dilemma. “But does the queen truly require a new counselor?”

  “Conveniently, yes. Of late, she has become increasingly obsessed with creating clockwork devices. One of them went amok in most spectacular fashion. Her favorite messenger was killed, and she is in need of a reliable substitute. Do you think the young jordain’s talents will be too tasked by this?”

  The wizard thought of the daring skyship challenge, the hours Matteo had spent schooling him in military history and tactics, and the uncanny feats of memory and logic that had been reported of the young jordain—grudgingly reported, for that matter, by the men he was likely to replace.

  “I daresay his capabilities extend thus far,” he said dryly. “Zephyr? Has Matteo delivered all missives faithfully and well?”

  “Perfectly, my lord. Whatever his shortcomings may be, his memory is admirable,” the elf replied, taking his cue from the tone of his patron’s response.

  “Then I am satisfied,” Cassia said. “That is all Beatrix will require.”

  “If she wishes Matteo’s services, of course I will release him,” the wizard said. “And I must say, your interest in the queen’s welfare is most admirable.”

  “And surprising?” Cassia said with the candor of the very powerful. “Not surprising at all, if you remember Keturah.”

  With difficulty, Zephyr managed not to gasp aloud. He had come here to steer Procopio gently away from any potential interest in Tzigone. And now it appeared that Cassia’s purpose was precisely the opposite.

  The diviner’s brow creased, then cleared as he recognized the name that he hadn’t heard spoken for years. “Yes, now that you mention her. A wizard of the evocation school, rather well regarded but a little eccentric. It has been twenty years and more since Keturah’s death. What part could she possibly have in your interest in Matteo?”

  “Your new counselor has apparently befriended Keturah’s daughter.”

  Procopio’s eyes widened. “I understood that the girl had been found and dealt with years ago.”

  “That is what they would have us believe. The child was caught, that much is true, and the official word was that she was too young and fragile to survive the rigors of magical inquiry. I know otherwise, and now you know as well. In his wisdom, Zalathorm does not admit to knowledge of certain things, but that does not mean his counselors should not be informed.”

  “Of course,” Procopio murmured, his face thoughtful as he considered the uses of this information—and Cassia’s likely purpose in sharing it with him.

  Procopio knew that the mysterious “they” Cassia referred to were also known by another name. Halruaa’s wizards ruled on many levels. A mysterious group known as the Cabal guided one of the most personal and important aspects of Halruaan life, the future of her wizards. This group kept detailed records of each wizard’s heritage and skills, and matched them in marriage with wizards of compatible tale
nts. This was one of the primary reasons why Halruaa could boast of so much magical talent and such highly specialized schools. Wizards in other, less civilized lands married for whim or fancy or political alliance, but in Halruaa, such things were never left to chance. The Cabal held enormous power, for they molded the future in directions they deemed desirable. A regrettable but necessary part of their duties was weeding out dangerous or wild talents, eliminating failed experiments, and dealing with wizards who became either inept or too ambitious.

  But Procopio gave that grim reality no more than a passing thought. Membership in the mysterious Cabal was a sure path to power, and he coveted it nearly as much as he longed for Zalathorm’s throne. And now here was Cassia, dropping hints and asking for him to release his most promising jordain! Zalathorm’s high counselor was here to make an exchange, of that Procopio was certain. But on whose authority? Her own, or the king’s? Either path was strewn with possibilities.

  “I am honored that you would share these confidences with me,” Procopio ventured. “If I might ask, how did you learn of Keturah and her daughter?”

  “Not easily,” she said dryly. “Amazing secrets sleep behind the queen’s porcelain mask.”

  Procopio fell silent, stunned by the implied connection between the mysterious Cabal and Halruaa’s queen.

  Zephyr, though he himself was greatly troubled by the jordain’s revelations, noted with approval that his patron did not question Cassia about Beatrix. To do so would be unwise and perhaps treasonous.

  “Would I have met this young woman?” Procopio asked carefully.

  “Not on purpose, that I assure you! Suffice it to say that, but for the circumstances of her birth, she is no one of consequence. What concerns us is that the wench seems quite taken with your young jordain. They were together in the market and looked to be on very good terms.”

  “Matteo,” Procopio murmured thoughtfully, as if divining new possibilities in his newest counselor. He darted an accusing look at Zephyr, though there was no logical reason why his jordain should have known the identity of the street performer with Matteo.