The Wizardwar (21 page)

“If you will not believe me, will you listen to the only survivor? Like all members of the Council of Elders, Rhodea Firehair has a ring that will teleport her to Zalathorm’s court in times of need. Her last, heroic deed was to hurl the ring at her daughter. She could not know that a rather similar magical device had been prepared to intercept any who might try to escape. Shall we hear what the little red-haired wench has to say on this subject?”

“By all means!”

Dhamari drew a small red globe from, the folds of his robe and threw it to the floor. The crystal shattered, and a disheveled young woman staggered into the room.

She looked wildly around. Relief suffused her face when she recognized the lord mayor.

“Lord Procopio! Mystra be praised! You must summon help, and quickly! The mint is burning!”

Procopio rose and led the girl to a chair. “It has been already seen to, my dear. Please, tell me what happened.”

He listened as Thalia Firehair told her story, which matched Dhamari’s in most particulars. The little wizard took up a place behind the girl, patting her shoulder soothingly as she spoke in quick, broken phrases.

At last she fell silent. Dhamari met Procopio’s eye. “Have you heard quite enough?”

The lord mayor nodded. Dhamari drew a knife and thrust it deep between Thalia’s shoulder blades. He gave it a vicious twist, then shoved the dying girl to the floor.

“Bravely done,” Procopio said coldly.

Dhamari shrugged. “She was a trained warrior, I am not I have learned to work within my limitations. But let no doubt remain. Test me and see.”

The wizard settled down in the chair Death had vacated and submitted to Procopio’s divination spells. Several moments passed as Procopio cast one spell after another, not readily convinced even by his own puissant magic. Finally he could not deny the little wizard’s claims.

“You did it,” the diviner marveled. “But how?”

“I purchased a spell already created. All that was needed was a simple trigger word.” Dhamari examined his fingernails, elaborately casual. “Did you know that Kiva first learned magic from Akhlaur, the greatest necromancer of his time?”

The implication struck Procopio like a thrown dagger. “Kiva gave you this spell? She still lives?”

The wizard chuckled. “I seem to be somewhat better informed than the diviner who alone foresaw the Mulhorandi invasion. In fact, one might say that I am very, very well informed.”

He handed Procopio a copy of the magic missive Kiva had sent him, a damning document that gave details of Procopio’s recent collusion with the treacherous elf.

Procopio skimmed the parchment and threw it down. “What do you want?”

“An exchange, nothing more,” Dhamari protested. “I admire your cunning and have no intention of hindering your quest for power with this unfortunate information. Indeed, I have information of my own to give you.”

“At what price?”

“One you will not mind paying,” he said slyly. “You want Zalathorm deposed. So does Kiva. So do I.”

“Do you? What is this priceless information?”

“The king’s queen, Beatrix, is something rather more than a mad wizard and a traitor to Halruaa, though one would think that would be sufficient. She is an accused murderess, an adulteress whose dalliances produced a wizard’s bastard, and, last and perhaps least in any eyes but mine, my former wife.”

Procopio rose so abruptly that his chair upended. “Beatrix and Keturah are one?”

“Yes, and it is likely the king knowingly took a fugitive criminal as his wife. If he did not know who and what Beatrix was, then he is a fool who has no business ruling a kingdom.”

The diviner began to pace as new plots took form. Dhamari smiled. “I can see that this pleases you. Our first order of business, however, is to deal with a mutual enemy-Basel Indoulur, a man who could undo us both.”

Procopio stopped abruptly and regarded his visitor with new respect. “You have a plan?”

Dhamari spread his hands modestly. “I was rather hoping you might.”

“Basel has surprisingly few enemies. The only other I can find is Uriah Belajoon.”

“Has he a substantial grievance?”

“I would not think so were I in his position, but the bereaved’s wife was considerably more comely than mine,” Procopio said dryly. “It appears that Lord Basel has murdered old Belajoon’s pretty young bride.”

A wide smile spread across Dhamari’s face. “You have proof?”

“Not yet.”

“It might not be needed,” the little wizard mused. “If fact, it might be better not to trouble the Council with this matter. Uriah Belajoon is a strong supporter of the king. Goad him into taking his own vengeance, making him subject to Halruaan law, and we will have destroyed two more of Zalathorm’s supporters.” Dhamari glanced pointedly at the dead girl. “I will aid this with other attacks, as successful as this one.”

“And in return?”

“For now, I would like my return held in secret. I carry magic that obscures my purposes, but I would ask of you additional spells to mask my presence, and a place where I might stay secluded. When the time is right, I will emerge-as a supporter of Halruaa’s new king.”

“Done.”

Procopio extended his hand to the surprisingly resourceful little man. They clasped wrists, sealing a bargain with other wizards’ blood.

Dust still swirled through the clearing, and faint echoes of the deadly battle rumbled back to the jordaini from distant peaks. Matteo and his friends set about tasks that came in the aftermath of battle-tending the wounded, gathering weapons, honoring the dead.

Andris composed Iago’s body as best he could, then he knelt at the dead man’s side and gently closed his eyes. He began chanting a litany of the jordain’s deeds and accomplishments, looking weirdly like a spirit come to welcome a brother to the next world.

Themo sat white-faced but stoic as Basel Indoulur stitched the gash on his shoulder. “Shame we don’t have a priest handy,” Basel murmured, his plump, jeweled hands moving with practiced skill. “This will leave an ugly scar, but we can close you up, and poultice the wound with a mold paste to keep it from festering.”

The big man’s face wrinkled in disgust, but he offered no comment concerning his treatment.

Andris rose and came to Matteo’s side. “There is not enough dead wood hereabouts for a proper funeral pyre, and the ground is too hard and rocky to permit burial. Since there is no shortage of rocks, perhaps we should build a cairn, as the dwarves are said to do for their fallen kin.”

Matteo’s shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh. “Iago’s worse days were spent in the Nath. It doesn’t seem right that this should be his resting place.”

“Our horses have run off,” Andris said patiently. “Most likely the Crinti have rounded them up. How could we bring Iago’s body away with us?”

“By skyship,” Basel put in. He deftly tied and tucked the ends of Themo’s bandage and rose. “Before I left Halarahh, I sent Avariel ahead. I’m putting the ship at your disposal.”

Matteo brightened. “That will help. In addition to everything else I must do, the king must hear that Kiva is alive, the laraken is back, and Akhlaur may have not only survived but even returned.”

“If Zalathorm doesn’t already know, we’re in more trouble than we realize,” Basel commented. “I understand your duties, but formalities will have to wait on matters that cannot.”

The young man’s eyes blazed with hope. “You found a spell to free Tzigone?”

“By Mystra’s grace. And, as usual, the Lady’s blessings are not entirely unmixed.”

Basel quickly described the spell to Matteo. “I would go for her myself, and gladly,” he concluded, “but my heart has enough dark corners to ensure failure. I can think of only one man who’d last in the Unseelie Court longer than a snowfall in a Halarahh bathhouse.” When no understanding entered Matteo’s eyes, Basel added, “I know only one man who values Tzigone’s life as I do.”

This time Matteo didn’t hesitate. “If it’s in me to bring her back, I will.”

Themo jolted to his feet with a cry of protest. The effort proved too much for the wounded man; his face drained of color, and he all but dropped back onto the ground.

“Don’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “You saw what happened to me when we fought those thrice-bedamned fairies. What’ll it be like in their world?”

“Perhaps Tzigone will tell you, once she returns,” Matteo said quietly.

“But-“

Matteo sent Themo a look that froze the big man’s protest in his throat. He turned back to Basel. “What about my jordaini resistance to magic?”

“There are exceptions to every rule,” Andris put in with obvious reluctance. “Travel spells seem to be one. At Kiva’s side, I walked across Halruaa in a single step.”

“Kiva was a magehound,” Basel reminded him. “Her spells would have more effect on you than a wizard’s might. She is not, however, the only magehound in Halruaa, and the church of Azuth possesses certain artifacts that can bypass, at least to some extent, a jordain’s magical resistance.”

“Another magehound,” grumbled Themo. “‘Some extent: This plan is shaping up nicely.”

The wizard’s shoulders rose and fell in a profound sigh. “I won’t paint this picture with falsely bright colors. The risks are enormous.”

“Not as high as the price of no action whatsoever. Is the spell ready?” A look of horror crossed Matteo’s face as a grim possibility occurred to him. “Or was it absorbed by the laraken?”

Basel placed a reassuring hand on the young man’s shoulder and pointed to a nearby peak. “When I realized what sort monster you men faced, I left my magical items up on the ledge there. No, the spell is not quite ready. We need to discuss one of the needed spell components.”

The wizard hesitated. Matteo nodded encouragement “You need a lock of hair from an ancestor, a wizard of considerable power.”

Matteo’s gaze slid to the wizard’s multitude of tiny black braids. A faint wistful smile lifted the corners of his lips. “And you’ve come to give me the needed token.”

Basel’s brows rose. “I wish it were that easy! A jordain’s lineage is not exactly common knowledge.”

“Mine will not be spoken of lightly,” Matteo said, holding onto patience with difficulty. “If you like, I will swear an oath to tell no one you are my father, but for the love of Mystra, let’s get on with it!”

He wasn’t prepared for the dumbfounded expression that flooded Basel’s plump face. Matteo’s heart plummeted as he realized his error.

“I see that I misspoke,” the jordain said slowly. “Tzigone’s most heartfelt quest was her search for family. She found my mother, so I assumed she took her apprenticeship with you because you were either her father or mine. It is known that your wife and child passed away in childbirth. That is often said of jordaini births. I thought-indeed, I hoped…” His voice trailed off into uncomfortable silence.

The conjurer gathered the shreds of his composure. “My wife did indeed bear a jordaini child, but the babe was a stillborn girl.”

“You’re certain of this?”

Basel’s gaze was bleak but steady. “Beyond doubt. I refused to leave the room when the greenmage delivered the child. I held my daughter in my arms. With my own hands I lit her pyre. I am not your father, Matteo. Believe me, I would claim you if I could.”

“And I you,” the jordain said softly, “but let’s speak of the world as it is, not as we wish it to be. I’ve learned that searching for a jordain’s mother is not only futile, but harmful. We must focus upon my paternity. Tzigone told me my father was one of the masters at the Jordaini College.”

“How did she find that out?” Themo demanded, looking both aghast and intrigued by this notion. This was not something jordaini discussed or pondered-such knowledge was considered beyond retrieval.

“She got into the birth records kept in the queen’s palace.”

“There you go. You’re the king’s counselor.”

Matteo shook his head. “I don’t have Tzigone’s skill at evading locks and wards, and the legal pathways to such knowledge are long and convoluted.”

“There’s another possibility,” Basel said. “During my years as a jordaini master, I learned of a hidden book listing the jordaini ancestry.”

“I have seen it,” Andris said flatly.

Matteo brightened. “Did you read of my ancestry?”

The ghostly jordaini hesitated. “Mine was bad enough. Gods only know what swamp you sprang from.” He punctuated his half-hearted jest with an equally wan smile.

“That is an evasion, not an answer,” Matteo observed.

“With reason,” his friend said softly. ‘Truths of this nature provide a dark mirror. I have learned that where family is concerned, each man must face his own reflection.”

At that moment the clouds parted, and a wash of color swept over the rocky ground. Matteo glanced up. An enormous flying ship glided through the dissipating clouds, seemingly sped by the winged elves painted upon ship and sail. Sunlight filtered through bright, silken sails.

Basel’s crew brought the skyship daringly close to the clearing. A rope ladder tumbled down. The wizard scampered up, amazingly nimble, and within moments a makeshift sling was lowered to raise the injured Themo. Matteo and Andris saw Iago’s body aboard, then they climbed onto the skyship’s deck.

They stood together by the rail, watching as the Nath fell swiftly away.

“It is fitting that Iago’s ashes be scattered on jordaini land,” Matteo commented as the skyship set course for southwestern Halruaa. “At least one aspect of this trip will end as it should.”

“I’d reserve judgment until we learn what new thing has gone awry,” murmured Andris as he nodded toward Basel. The wizard strode toward them, one hand steadying the large seabird perched upon his shoulder. His face was grim, and his eyes burned with wrath as well as something that might have been unshed tears.

“You should hear this,” he said abruptly.

The wizard plucked a small feather from the bird and blew it from his palm. Immediately the feather dissolved into milky haze. Basel spoke an arcane phrase in Loross, the ancient language of Netheril and Halruaa, and the mist swiftly reformed into the shape of a stocky young wizard, a powerful looking man with muscles of the sort built by hours of labor.