Her intelligent black eyes narrowed as she tried to follow his meaning. “Not particularly. Speak plainly!”
Matteo took the message from his bag and handed it to her. As Cassia skimmed it, her lips thinned and her pale face turned nearly gray.
“You thought I sent this message to you, expecting that the girl would steal it?”
“A reasonable assumption,” Matteo said.
“Entirely reasonable,” she agreed. “Tell me, where is she now?”
“I do not know. She told me she planned to leave the city immediately.”
Cassia’s smile was mocking but brittle. “And you believed her? As a jordain, you are constrained to tell the truth. But surely you are not such a fool that you think everyone follows the same code?”
He met her mocking gaze and gave away nothing of what was in his heart. “No, my lady, I am not such a fool as that.”
The second note from Cassia came late that night and was not such a surprise as the first. Matteo thanked the messenger and smoothed out the parchment Written in the counselor’s emerald ink was a brief message commanding that he come to her chambers at once.
Commanding. Matteo noted this turn of phrase with deep consternation. In her first message, Cassia had admitted that she could not command him. Perhaps now she felt differently. Perhaps he was now her hound to call. All she had to do was speak the word, and his life as a jordain was over. He could continue being an honored servant of truth as long as he was willing to place Cassia’s demands above personal integrity. But what of his promise to Tzigone? How could he learn what secrets Cassia held if he did not play her game for at least a little while longer?
It was a complex problem, and not at all like the sciences he had devoted his life to learning. With a sigh, Matteo tucked the message into his tunic and made his way through the palace to the luxurious apartment of the king’s counselor.
He tapped at the door, which swung open slightly. This did not surprise him—after all, Cassia was expecting him. Softly calling the jordain’s name, he eased into the room.
The sight before him stopped him cold. Cassia lay on the floor, her pale face a sickly bluish gray and her black eyes bulging.
Matteo knelt beside her. Her skin was cool to the touch. He guessed that she had been dead for several hours. The cause of death was immediately apparent. A silver chain had been twisted tightly around her neck so that it dug deep into the skin.
For a horrible moment, he thought the pendant was his. He gingerly reached out and turned the small silver disk. The markings on the back was the emblem of Cassia, jordain in the service of King Zalathorm.
Matteo’s sigh spoke of relief and self-reproach. Why did his first thought go to Tzigone? She had said she would leave the city, did she not? She agreed to let him get the information from Cassia. And never had she given him any reason to think of her as a murderer.
But what of the crimes Cassia hinted at? Tzigone was an admitted thief. What else might she be?
The need to know raised him to his feet and prompted him to invade the counselor’s study. Matteo carefully went through Cassia’s writing table, and then went through the shelves, book by book. He checked for hidden drawers, wall safes, and secret compartments. The king’s counselor had an amazing total of eight hiding places. They were all empty, but for a hidden drawer that held a large wilting flower, a small sack filled with skie, and a silver hairbrush. The “damning evidence” Cassia had claimed to possess was gone.
Matteo took a deep breath and had another look around. He studied the jordain’s chair, which was fashioned of elegantly carved teak and deeply cushioned in the new fashion—removable cushions stuffed with down that could be removed and fluffed. The imprint that Cassia left upon the seat was there to see, but he thought he perceived a smaller, deeper imprint within it. Cassia was a tall woman, and although not heavy, she could hardly be considered small. This second imprint had been left by someone very small, someone nearly as slim-hipped as a boy. Someone like Tzigone.
Then there was the matter of the silver brush. He recalled what Tzigone had said the day they probed her memories. She remembered her mother brushing her hair. That had seemed important to her. Perhaps this brush was important as well. If so, why had she left it behind?
Matteo searched the room again, more thoroughly this time. He found a small basket under the writing table, and in it a single piece of parchment. He smoothed the sheet flat and read a message from Cassia to the wizard Sinestra Belajoon. On the parchment was the seal of King Zalathorm. Apparently Cassia, with little use for writing materials, had taken a sheet from her patron’s store.
He quickly took from his bag the notes he had received from Cassia and compared the script The writing was not from the same hand. Since Cassia, like all jordaini, didn’t send written messages, no one would be expected to know her handwriting. No one, that is, except Cassia herself.
Suddenly he understood the pallor on Cassia’s face as she read the note. Someone else had written these notes, someone who wished to lure first Tzigone, and then him. Someone who had left clues, like the markings that rangers carved into the trees to mark the path for those who followed.
Matteo studied the two messages. The letter to Sinestra Belajoon had been written in deep indigo. The notes he had received were enscribed in a rare green ink. But by whom?
A fresh quill lay on Cassia’s blotter, its tip stained the color of liquid emeralds. Likely the quill had been used but once; otherwise, the ink at the tip would be darker from many immersions. He tested the quill and found that the ink was dry, then took a new quill and dipped it into the bottle. He would test it at intervals and see when the ink fully dried. That would give him some idea of how long ago the note had been written.
Matteo turned his attention to the flower. It was a gentiola, a rare green blossom twice the size of his hand. He had never seen one except in sketches of Halruaa’s exotic plants, for it grew deep within the swamps.
He turned the flower over and regarded the stem. A bit of dried sap sealed the cut stem, keeping in moisture so that the blossom would last several days. He noted a new scar, however, where a single leaf had been torn away, and recently. A single drop of liquid seeped from it, fragrant and tear-shaped. He wiped it away and noted the tiny design that had been carved onto the stem: a circle separated by a lighting bolt, the symbol on his stolen jordaini medallion. The same symbol had been scratched into the leather of the coin pouch, which was well worn and inexpensive.
Matteo read the message with mixed feelings. Tzigone had found this place. She trusted him to figure out what had transpired.
But she had not trusted him to do as he promised. She had taken the bait after all and had come to see what information Cassia had about her past.
And in doing so, she had condemned herself. If the forged messages had been sent throughout the city, Cassia’s death would turn all eyes in Tzigone’s direction. Now if Matteo were to be questioned, he couldn’t deny his conviction that Tzigone had been in Cassia’s chambers. The coin purse was undoubtedly hers. She had left it for him, hoping that he would understand and follow.
But what had she found? And where had she gone?
He sighed in deep frustration and studied the brush. The handle and back were of finely carved silver, the dark bristles taken from a wild boar. He pulled one of his daggers and slid the tip through the bristles. The blade caught on a single long hair, a hair that caught the light and gleamed like polished jade. His heart quickened as he pulled it free. There was no doubt. The hair was green.
“Kiva,” he said grimly.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Matteo quietly left Cassia’s chambers and made his way down to the palace stables. The night was dark, and the grooms were snoring in a mound of sweet hay. No one challenged him as he walked softly down the long row of stalls, looking for a horse that could run long and hard. He chose a black stallion that reminded him of Cyric. The horse nipped at him when he put on the bridle. Matteo
took this as a good sign. He left enough of the skie to pay for the horse’s hire and led Cyric the Second out of the stall.
He rode through the sleeping city and reached the docks before sunrise. Two small temples stood at the corner of the vast public square, places where sailors and travelers could come to ask the blessing of Mystra or Azuth. Matteo slipped into Azuth’s temple and persuaded the acolyte on duty to find out the whereabouts of the Inquisitrix Kiva. Grumbling, the lad went into the back room and came back with a thick tome. He thumbed through it until he found the elf woman’s name.
“Last assignment took her to Zalasuu,” the boy said. “She’s gone to Khaerbaal. That’s all I have.”
“Thank you.” Matteo offered the lad a skie. “For the work of Azuth.”
The young man’s eyes brightened, and he put the coin into his bag. “Well, whose work do you think I’m doing?” he asked defensively, noting Matteo’s stare.
The jordain had no wish to argue. He hurried down to the open-air market. The stalls had not yet opened for business, and many of the merchants slept on piles of their own goods. He found a dry goods stall and bought a tunic and leggings of rough brown linen from the sleepy-eyed merchant.
So garbed, he was able to get a place as a deckhand on a ship bound for Khaerbaal, claiming that he’d served as crew on Procopio’s skyship. This proved sufficiently impressive to gain him passage both for him and his borrowed horse.
Once Matteo had reached Khaerbaal, he changed back into his jordaini garb, for few people would refuse information to a wizard’s counselor. It didn’t take him long to piece together information on Kiva’s activities. She had been very busy indeed. A rather large number of visiting clerics had been branded and taken for inquisition. This was not all that unusual, but for the whispered information that a few extra coins bought Matteo. Of these people, very few were known as professed members of the clergy and some had been vehement in their denials of vocation.
Kiva had also hired additional guards in the port city, purportedly to aid her in taking the accused clergy to Azuth’s temple for examination.
All of this troubled Matteo. Her actions were too bold, even for a magehound. Though the word of an inquisitrix was accepted as law, Kiva was not invulnerable. The church of Azuth dealt with any magehound who acted for personal gain or at the behest of any person or group. Obviously the elf woman deemed her pursuit to be worthy of this risk.
Matteo rode to the north gate and confirmed from gate guards that the elf woman had indeed passed through. It was no surprise to Matteo that she headed northeast, toward the Swamp of Akhlaur.
Where else? There were only two places where gentiola blossoms grew: the Kilmaruu Swamp near Zalasuu and the Swamp of Akhlaur. Kiva had no doubt left the flower as an additional lure for Tzigone. He wouldn’t be surprised if the silver brush was the clue that told Tzigone which of these choices to take.
He rode until Cyric’s sides were flecked with white and the great horse’s breath came in deep gusts. Near sunset, a narrow side road beckoned to the village beyond, a small farming village perched on the side of a hill and visible from the trade road.
Matteo found his way to the inn and asked about Kiva and her band. No one had seen her, but his white garments did earn him some unusually suspicious scrutiny.
Finally one of the farmhands came over to his table. The man was huge, grimy with soil from the day’s labors. He looked none too pleased. He picked up the saltcellar and dumped the contents on the table. With one thick, dirty finger, he drew a circle separated by a jagged bolt—the symbol of the jordain order.
“This look familiar?” he demanded.
Matteo suppressed a smile of delight and relief. Judging from the hostile expression on the man’s face, Tzigone had been through this way.
“It does indeed. A young woman—or perhaps a boy, a street urchin—may have taken my pendant. I seek this person.”
“Woman or boy?” The man frowned, confounded by this unexpected choice.
“A woman,” Matteo guessed. “She may have been dressed as a jordain, but she is not. Her fingers tend to be a little light”
The farmer snorted. “Don’t I know it.”
Matteo leaned forward eagerly. “Tell me what you know of her. And tell me also what you have lost, and I will see that you receive recompense.”
“Will you, now?”
The expression on the man’s face puzzled Matteo. It was not relief or gratitude, not disbelief, not greed or cunning. Try as he might, Matteo had no name to give it.
“As best I can,” he added with newfound caution.
After a moment the man nodded and pushed back from the table. “Follow me.”
Matteo claimed Cyric the Second from the stables and followed the man out of the village and into the hills beyond. His home was a small stone dwelling that had been carved into the side of a hill, more a cave than a cottage. A separate entrance led out into a pen, suggesting that livestock shared the shelter.
The farmer nodded toward the empty pen. “Beat me at dice, she did. When I didn’t put the coin on the table fast enough to suit her, she agreed to come here and take a pig.”
Matteo saw where this was going. “She took more than one, I gather?”
“You might say that.” The man shook his head in disgust “Never saw anything like it Them pigs flew off after her like a flock o’ swans.”
The unlikely analogy made Matteo blink, as did the image it conjured in his mind. “Your pigs flew off,” he repeated. “Like swans.”
“Sounds barmy, don’t it? Don’t suppose I could go to the magistrate with that one, or you take it to the jordain order?”
“Ah. She was tested for magic in the inn, I take it?”
“The village midwife,” the man said shortly. “Near as good as a magehound, is Granny Frost. I swore the wench witched my dice, and Granny Frost mumbled over her to test the truth o’ things. Said there wasn’t a drop of magic in the wench, that she was a true jordain. If I complain that the girl witched my pigs, I’d be going up against Granny Frost. That ain’t a thing for a man unwed to be doing. I’d sooner wed one o’ my own sows than whatever Granny might pick for me.”
“I see,” Matteo mused. “How can I help?”
“If you have coins, I’ll take payment for my pigs. If not, I’ll take the girl.” The farmer grinned unpleasantly. “You’re bound to find her soon or late, and bein’ a jordain, you got no good use for her. Might as well bring her here. Me, I don’t like to leave any job unfinished.”
Wrath flamed hot and bright as Matteo understood that what Tzigone had done here probably had less to do with theft than diversion, with a bit of vengeance thrown in. As he recalled, Tzigone had an aversion to familiar sayings. He would not be at all surprised if the expression “when pigs fly” had come into play. Well, pigs had flown, and Tzigone had gotten away, leaving the farmer with “unfinished business.” Matteo found enormous relief in that.
“I will pay,” he said shortly. “How many pigs were there in your … flock?”
The farmer’s eyes narrowed at the gibe, but he named a number far higher than the pen could possibly contain.
Matteo glanced at the small enclosure and then back at the farmer, one eyebrow lifted. He reached into his bag and produced the rest of the coins Tzigone had left for him. By his measure, it was a generous amount.
“This ain’t the price o’ twenty swine,” the farmer protested.
“That may be. But it is all I have, and more than you’d get at market for the number of swine that pen could truly hold.”
The man’s face turned a deep, angry red. His fist came toward Matteo’s face in a blur. The jordain leaned to the left and did a half-pivot on his left foot. Two quick steps brought him around behind the farmer, who was still off-balance from the first punch. He hit the man on the back of the neck, hard.
The blow would have felled any of Matteo’s sparring partners, but the big man shrugged it off. He ran for the pitchfork that l
eaned against the front wall of his dwelling, whirled, and kicked into a running charge with weapon leveled.
Matteo let him come. He dropped to the ground just short of impalement. As he fell, he twisted and reached up to seize the long wooden shaft. The weapon tipped down, and the tines plunged into the hard-trodden muck of the farmyard. Matteo released his grip and let the farmer’s momentum do the rest.
With a rising howl, the man flipped into the air for a brief, flailing flight. He cleared the fence surrounding the pigpen and splashed down into the muck.
Matteo rose, arms folded, and admired the result. It was a story Tzigone would relish, and one that he doubted even her deft embellishments could much improve.
He was congratulating himself still when something hit the small of his back with a thud that resounded through his bones and sent him pitching forward onto his knees. Pain radiated through him in blinding, pulsing rays.
Heavy footsteps thumped around him. With difficulty, Matteo focused on a visage very similar to that of the farmer, minus the muck that his first opponent was scraping from his face.
“The family resemblance is striking,” Matteo muttered dazedly.
“Striking!” The second man guffawed. “Oh, I like that! Hit him and he outs with a jest. Let’s see what smart boy’s got to say once I fetch him upside the head.”
“He’s not so smart,” announced a thin, querulous voice from somewhere above their heads. “Only a fool don’t check a hound for ticks or ask if a bastard’s got brothers.”
Matteo’s head was starting to clear, and he anticipated both the source of the distraction and the man’s probable response.
“Granny Frost?” the second man quavered, looking warily up into the trees.
But his brother sloshed out of the pen. “That’s no haunt, fool! The girl’s got more voices than a village meeting. She’s come back.”
Ignoring the numbing pain, Matteo surged to his feet and hurled himself at the second man’s knees. They went down hard, rolling and pummeling at each other as best they could. It was no strategy at all and very little skill, but in his dazed state, Matteo could do no better. To his chagrin, the big man managed to pin him. He lifted his fist, prepared to drive it into Matteo’s face.
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