The Magehound (14 page)

Matteo’s first impulse was to protest this as blasphemous. A magehound’s word was final and fair. This was the underlying premise of his culture, the assurance of the jordain’s status and power.

Yet he himself had harbored such thoughts. How could he not? Andris was dead. Andris, who was his dearest friend and the best of them all. It was enough to make any man lose faith.

Faced with such a dark and unfathomable void, Matteo clung to what he knew. “I do not fear the magehound’s judgment. Truth is a sword that cuts all bonds.”

She threw up her hands. The ‘truth’ is that you were caught with a weapon crafted by Zanfeld Yemandi, the city’s premier swordsmith.”

“You said the sword was yours!’ he protested.

“Mine, his,” she said impatiently. “I had need of it at the moment and Zanfeld did not. Who had the better claim to it?”

Matteo groaned and buried his head in his hands. Though Tzigone obviously intended to aid him, her words condemned him as surely as they informed him. When the magical inquiry was done, it would be discovered that he knew beyond doubt at the time of inquisition that the sword was stolen.

“I an undone,” he muttered, slumping lower against the wall.

“Then get off the floor and do yourself back up,” she said tartly. “I’ll get you out of this. Trust me.”

He sent her a quick incredulous glance. “Need I remind you that it was you who got me into this?”

She shrugged away his words with the same impatient unconcern that she might have in dismissing a comment about the political situation in distant Cormyr. The expression on her face clearly proclaimed, What has one thing to do with another?

Tzigone cast her eyes toward the ceiling. Then, with the air of someone who has better things to do than engage in meaningless chat, she dropped out of sight. Metallic whispers gave witness to picks and knives being employed on the lock.

Matteo walked over to the door. “I will not go with you,” he said with calm finality. “If you open the door, I will pull you inside and shut it behind you.”

Tzigone’s face popped back into view, and she regarded him with an insouciant grin. “What woman could resist so poetic a ploy? Look at me! I’m swooning!”

“I didn’t mean-“

She cut him off with a jab to the forehead with the blunt end of her pick. “How stupid do I look? I know what you meant Now be quiet and let me work.”

Again she disappeared. Matteo heard the distant tread of footsteps. “Someone’s coming. Go now before you’re forced to join me here.”

This logic finally struck a chord. The woman rose and sent a quick look over her shoulder, then leaped for the iron bracket set high on the wall. She pulled herself up onto the torch’s shelf and nimbly rose to her feet. From there she reached the lowest edge of the rafter and swung herself up onto it. Swiftly she walked across the broad beam. The only sign of her passing was a silvery sprinkle of dust and the appearance of a couple of indignant spiders, disturbed from their perches and swinging like pendulums from gossamer threads.

Matteo breathed a gusty sigh of relief. Though Tzigone’s understanding of life was vastly different than his, he was moved by the fact that she would try to rescue him. All the same, he was glad that she was safely out of it.

He had just settled back down on the floor when the lock began to clatter in earnest. He surged to his feet as the door swung in, ready to unleash a blistering tirade at the persistent girl.

But the face in the doorway was not what he expected, not the impish charm of Tzigone’s pointed chin and big, dark eyes, but the exotic, dangerous beauty of a wild elf female.

Kiva the Magehound raised a single jade-colored brow. “You are most eager to leave, Matteo. Strangely you don’t seem pleased to see me.”

Matteo had no answer for that. Instead he regarded the steady, golden stare of the wemic at Kiva’s side. Judging from Mbatu’s expression, Matteo guessed that the wemic remembered quite well what had passed between them earlier that day. Tzigone’s assurances of forgetfulness were nothing more than another of her comfortable lies.

Kiva slipped a slender arm around the wemic’s waist, a gesture that struck Matteo as warning rather than affection. She glanced over her shoulder at the hold’s magistrate, who was all but wringing his hands in distress.

“Deepest apologies, lady, but you cannot simply take this prisoner and go.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“He must be examined by the hold’s inquisitor. You know the rules.”

Kiva’s smile was chilling. “I also know Chartain. He was assigned this post because he could get no other. Do you put more faith in his judgment than mine? If I say that this jordain is no thief, let that content you.”

The magistrate gave one last try. “You walk in Azuth’s light, lady, and speak through the sure sight of magic. If you say this man is no thief, I will swear my own life against his innocence! But you cannot deny that he was carrying a sword, though it is against local custom for a jordain to do so.”

“What need have they of such weapons when they are armed with the sword of truth?” she said sweetly, neither confirming nor disputing the accusation.

Once again Matteo heard the hint of irony in her voice, a music not unlike the faint, mocking echoes of the Unseelie folk, dark fairies who haunted the mountain passes around Halruaa and played seductive tunes known to lure men from the paths into the wilderness.

“He had the sword when the militia stopped him,” the magistrate stated again.

“But did he know at the time that he was carrying it? Did you?” she said, turning abruptly to Matteo.

“I did not know about the sword. The magehound does not lie… about this,” Matteo said, adding subtle emphasis of his own.

Her angry gaze snapped to his, and for a long time they locked fierce stares. Matteo remembered a cobra and trainer he’d seen frozen in just such a posture. Like the snake trainer, he suspected that a misstep would cause the deadly creature before him to strike.

But after a moment Kiva’s lips curved in a delighted smile. She turned to the magistrate. “You heard him. We all know that the jordaini place truth above all. Let him go at once.”

Matteo’s troubles did not end when the door of the hold clanked shut behind him.

Kiva wished him well in her sweet, ironic voice and then disappeared. The wemic, after a final long, challenging stare, followed the magehound, leaving Matteo entirely to his own devices.

He started out to find Cyric and soon realized that this effort was both futile and costly. The stallion had shattered the hitching rail by the Falling Star Tavern to get loose, and the innkeeper demanded payment. Matteo had spent all of his allotted coin to ensure that Themo would not come to grief over the brawl in the tavern. It took all his persuasive powers to get the man to agree to accept a note, payable upon demand by the stewards of House Jordain.

Matters did not improve from there. Ordinarily many hostlers in Khaerbaal might have been wiling to lend him a mount, certain of payment from the jordaini order, but none believed Matteo’s claim to being a member of that house. His battles, his jaunt with Tzigone through the bilboa tree and the dirty back streets, and his confinement in the dirty cell had left his white linens dingy and stained beyond recognition. Worse, he had inexplicably lost the pendant that proclaimed him a jordain.

There was nothing to do but walk, so Matteo set out at a brisk pace. By sunset, he left the city gate behind. He walked as late into the night as he dared, then took a page from Tzigone’s book and took refuge in a large, vine-shrouded mazganut tree.

Sleep did not come, for he was all too aware of the numerous night sounds around him. He recognized the snuffles and grunts of the wild boars who rooted for fallen nuts at the base of the tree, the not-too-distant shriek of a hunting panther, the hum and chitter of the tiny, often malevolent sprites who made their lairs in the uppermost branches.

Worse were the faint, unearthly echoes of the Unseelie music. Matteo had heard tales of the dark fairies that haunted the mountain passes and danced widdershins upon the ruins of ancient cities and long-forgotten graves, and he’d read that on occasion they ventured close to civilized lands. All these things he recognized from his studies, but the knowledge did little to prepare him for the chilling actuality of their song. After a time, he began to talk to himself, reciting tales and histories and royal genealogies-anything to drown out the faint, darkly compelling music.

It occurred to him more than once during that long night, and during the day’s trudge that followed, that perhaps there was more wisdom in Tzigone’s warnings that he had perceived at first consideration. He had spent his entire life within the confines of House Jordain. His studies had ranged the world and touched on all of its sciences, some lightly, some in considerable depth. Yet truly how well prepared was he for the world beyond the counselors’ school?

The moon was a new crescent when Matteo arrived back at the school the next night, dusty and footsore. He knew at once that word of his disgrace had preceded him. The set, disapproving expression on the face of the gatehouse guard left no doubt.

“The ritual of purification took place last night. You’re to go to the meditation huts at once.”

Matteo groaned. After all that had happened the last few days, he had forgotten about this important rite. No jordain left the college without it. He brought to mind a list of his masters and settled on the one most likely to help him resolve this situation.

“Can you take a message to Vishna for me?”

“No messages,” the guard said adamantly. “When they want you, they’ll let you know.”

Matteo nodded and went at once into his belated solitude. The meditation huts were scattered among the orchards on the far western side of the compound. Matteo’s hut was furnished with a cot, table, and a large pitcher of water. Not having any other option, he settled down to think and to wait.

On the third day after his return, the servant who came each morning to leave a tray of food knocked on the door and handed Matteo a pile of fresh clothes. “Prepare quickly. You are bid to present yourself at the Disputation Table.”

Although Matteo had been expecting this, the summons brought a lump of dread to his throat. He had been released from the hold and would not be tried for theft, but he had still committed a number of infractions of jordaini law and custom. And now he had missed the final ritual. It was likely that he would have to repeat the fifth form before leaving the school. Or, far worse, he might be dismissed altogether and stripped of rank and title.

He quickly dressed and made his way to the large high-domed building that housed the jordaini court. The entrance hall was round, and in the floor was set with mosaic tile the emblem of the jordaini: a circle that was half yellow and half green, the colors separated by a lighting bolt of blue. Matteo rubbed at the empty spot on his chest where his medallion usually hung, then took a long, steadying breath and strode through the hall toward the council chamber.

The Disputation Table was not only the name of the court, but a literal table, a huge structure comprising two very long tables connected at the far end by a smaller raised table. At this high place sat Dimidis, the judge who would render a verdict. The other masters and the jordaini students sat around the outer rims of the long tables. They all regarded him with somber faces.

Matteo had been in attendance during many sessions, for the court was a busy place and was often called upon to interpret a jordain’s advice to his patron, as well as to deal with occasional disputes between jordaini and the less frequent infraction of rules.

But the vast, hollow room had never seemed so ominous as it did now. Matteo held his chin high as he walked down the long center aisle to stand before Dimidis, painfully aware with each step of the eyes upon him.

The aged judge was one of the few jordaini who took his status from his own position, rather than that of a patron. Dimidis was known for his stern and often inflexible judgments, as well as his tendency to form opinions and dislikes with distressing haste. Judging from the sour expression on the man’s lined face, Matteo guessed that he had earned the judge’s enmity.

Dimidis rattled a sheaf of parchment. “We’ve all read of this young man’s misdeeds: tavern brawling, destroying property, attacking a magehound’s guard. He attended a performance that mocked the jordaini and then aided the performer’s escape. He has fought a duel with a weapon proscribed to his class-a stolen weapon, which was later found in his possession. When questioned in the hold, he defied the magistrate and refused to name the thief. This name would have been taken from him through Inquisition but for the intervention of the Inquisitrix Kiva.”

The old man stopped and glared at the assembly. “These are the charges against Matteo of House Jordain. Who, if any, will speak for him?”

“I, Lord Dimidis.”

Matteo was grateful but not particularly surprised to see his favorite master, Vishna, the battle wizard, rise to speak.

“Like many of the students, Matteo went to Khaerbaal with a heavy heart. You know that Andris, a close friend to Matteo, was slain that morning at the command of the magehound Kiva.”

“Which was both her function and her right,” Dimidis pointed out. “Continue.”

“I sent Matteo to the city, knowing that some of the students would find outlets for their grief. If mischief came of it, I am in part to blame. Indeed, I expressly requested that Matteo watch over one of his fellows. This he did admirably. The other student returned to us on time, unscathed and held blameless for his actions. It was he who started the tavern brawl and Matteo who ended it.”

“The deeds of one jordain reflect upon us all. That is why this court exists. Matteo did no more than his duty.”

“That is my point,” the wizard said earnestly. “This young jordain did his duty and did it well, despite his personal sorrow. If he was perhaps a bit impulsive in his subsequent actions, surely we can consider the circumstances.”

The judge looked at the battle wizard as if he had been speaking Turmish, or Common, or some other barbarian tongue. “Is that all? Have you nothing relevant to add?”