The Floodgate

by Elaine Cunningham

  “A good kill,” Whizzra observed.

  Her words were correct, but her tone held hesitation as well as satisfaction. Shanair lifted an inquiring eyebrow.

  “This monster, this stream,” the warrior continued. “What does it mean?”

  “Do you not recognize this clearing?” demanded Shanair. “This is where I come to meet with Kiva. As for this stream, it is a gate to the world of water. That can only mean the elf woman has succeeded.”

  Joy, as dark and bright as hellfire, seared through the Crinti warriors’ eyes. “It is time to fight?” Xibryl demanded eagerly.

  Shanair shook her head. “Soon. We continue as planned. We loot and raid. We await Kiva. In time, the Crinti will emerge from the shadows, and all of Halruaa will be washed into a bloody sea!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A young woman sat before a table in a wizard’s library, garbed in the pale blue robe that marked her as a conjurer’s apprentice. The robe was left open, revealing a trim form clad in a well-worn tunic and leggings that ended several inches shy of her bare feet Her face was finely featured, with large dark eyes and a wide, expressive mouth currently pulled down into a mutinous scowl. Her short brown hair stood up in spikes, as if raked through by an impatient hand, and her fingers were stained with purple ink. There was a small stack of parchment to her left, three completed scrolls to her right, and a pile of crumpled and discarded parchments scattered around her feet

  Suddenly she tossed aside the quill and rose. A quick, impatient kick sent parchment wads flying.

  “Copy the spell scroll, Tzigone,” she repeated, in an uncanny imitation of her master’s jolly tones. “By highsun, you’ll know the spell as well as your own name, and then you can have the evening free.

  “Well, guess what, Basel,” she said in her own voice as she stalked across the room to glare at a portrait of the wizard. “I don’t know my real name, the sun is as high as it’s ever going to get, and I learned the blasted spell the first time I copied the thrice-bedamned scroll!”

  The image of Basel Indoulur continued to beam down at her, unperturbed by her uncharacteristic spate of ill temper.

  Tzigone sighed and blew the portrait a kiss by way of apology. She genuinely liked her new master—her first master. If she had to learn the art of magic, and apparently she did, there were worse ways of going about it

  Basel Indoulur was a round, jolly man who enjoyed good times and fine things. He was fun loving but hardly frivolous. A master in the art of conjuration, he was also a member of the Council of Elders and mayor of the city of Halar, just south of the king’s city. He enjoyed teaching, and was one of many wizards who had courted Tzigone after the Swamp of Akhlaur incident. Many wizards were eager to train an innate gift strong enough to withstand the magic-draining power of a laraken. Tzigone had picked Basel for two reasons, only one of which she would admit: His eyes knew how to laugh.

  He was a patient but exacting teacher. Such discipline was new to Tzigone, and an uncomfortable fit for a girl who had seldom slept two nights in the same place. Basel’s other apprentices had lived through the boredom of copying spell scrolls, so Tzigone assumed that her chances of survival were fairly good.

  She’d kept at it since morning, copying the runes over and over and over. Basel had patiently explained that magic, like the science of numbers, was best learned in a well-defined sequence. An apprentice must train her memory, hone her powers of concentration, practice hundreds of precise and subtle movements with the dedication of a dancer, learn the hidden language in which all Halruaan spells were declaimed, and acquire a core knowledge of basic spells and cantrips. There was far more to spellcasting, it seemed, than tossing a few smelly oddments into a pot and chanting words over it

  Tzigone flexed her cramped fingers, retrieved one of her discarded quills, and dipped it into the ink yet again. On impulse, she whipped the pen toward a portrait of some grim-faced Indoulur ancestor. Ink arced out in a spray of purple droplets. Tzigone made a deft little gesture, and the ink splashed onto the canvas in the shape of a long, curling mustache.

  She grinned, pleased with the effect—even though the ancestor in question was female. It added a piquant note to the woman’s fussy silks and gems and sweeping peacock feathers.

  This success gave birth to an idea. Tzigone snatched up a blank parchment sheet and stuck it up on the wall. She dipped and whipped again, and this time as the ink flew, she chanted the spell she was supposed to copy.

  Ink splashed onto the parchment and began to wriggle around. The runes of the simple cantrip took shape on the page, more accurately and neatly than she’d been able to reproduce by hand.

  Tzigone let out a little crow of triumph and danced a few steps of a jig. Her joy was short-lived, however, for she remembered that she could cast the spell twice a day.

  Unless …

  “There’s got to be something useful in this place,” she muttered as she scanned the room. It was brimming with the usual spellbooks, vials, bottles, and small, covered pots, as well as an odd collection of trophies and trinkets.

  Her gaze fell on a statue of Mystra. A small, bright rainbow cloaked the goddess. Tzigone’s gaze traced the rainbow to its source. Sunlight spilled through the window, filtering through a glass prism resting on a high, wooden pedestal.

  On impulse, Tzigone walked over and picked up the prism. It looked like an ordinary crystal paperweight, but she sensed the hum of magic in it and guessed what it might do.

  Her face broke out in a grin as a scheme took shape. She arranged a few dozen writing quills around the prism like spokes radiating from a wheel’s center. She placed every bottle of ink she could find along the outer edge of the circle, then stuck parchment sheets against the walls with bits of sealing wax. When all was ready, she cast the spell.

  As expected, the prism caught and magnified her little spell. All of the quills leaped into the air and dunked themselves smartly into inkbottles. They rose up and whipped toward the parchments, then returned to refill. In short order, the spell was perfectly copied upon all the available parchments.

  But the quills showed no signs of abating. They began to toss ink onto the walls, the silken drapes, the mirrors. Upon the ceiling, and across the portrait of the mustachioed Indoulur ancestor. Into the face of the spellcaster herself.

  Tzigone spat out a mouthful of ink and lunged for the prism, only to be stabbed by several quills returning to their bottles. She changed tactics, snatching up corks and stuffing them back into the inkbottles.

  That proved effective, up to a point. Some of the returning quills dived into the corks and got stuck. They struggled to free themselves with a fervor that had the stoppered bottles rattling and dancing across the table.

  Tzigone seized the last bottle and dodged the large, sharp quill that hurtled toward her like a thrown knife. She stuffed home the cork and leaped aside.

  To her chagrin, the quill pursued, dipping and twisting with an agility that brought to mind the flight of a twilight bat

  Other quills joined the pursuit. Discarded quills rose from the floor, untrimmed quills leaped out of drawers, feathers tugged free of the enormous stuffed egret in the corner. As Tzigone darted past the portrait of the Indoulur ancestor, peacock feathers leaped from the painting and joined in the chase.

  There was nothing for it but to get rid of the ink, even though a bottle of wizard’s ink would buy Tzigone’s weight in pearls. She hefted the bottle, took aim at the open window, and let fly.

  The swarm of quills dived out after the missile. Tzigone came over to the window and leaned out, watching as inkbottle and quills dived into the garden pool far below. The water took on a soft shade of lavender as it bubbled from the fountain.

  She drew her head back into the room and turned, muttering oaths learned over the years from various street sharps and traveling performers. Her voice died in the midst of a particularly pungent phrase. Her new master stood in the doorway, his black eyes bulging with astonishment

/>   Basel Indoulur stood silent and still. Tzigone found this disconcerting. The wizard was ever in motion: his beaded braids swinging about his shoulders, his pair of chins wobbling in counterpoint to his frequent laugh. He was not laughing now.

  Tzigone followed his gaze as it swept over the ruined room. The extent of the damage surprised her, now that she had time to consider it. She placed small value on wealth and the fine things it could buy, but she knew few people were of this mind.

  Basel walked slowly through the room. He stopped before the defiled portrait. His shoulders went rigid.

  Tzigone sighed resignedly. Few things offended Halruaans more than a slight upon their ancestors. “You don’t need to say it. I’ll get my things together.”

  The conjurer cleared his throat and turned to face her. “You gave my grandam’s sister a mustache.”

  She conceded with a little shrug.

  “Well, that is a shame, considering all the trouble she went through to have the original one removed.”

  There was a slightly strangled note to the wizard’s voice, and suddenly Tzigone suspected that he was repressing not rage but mirth.

  “The ink should clean off, and I could probably put the peacock feathers back into the portrait,” she suggested.

  “By no means! As a boy I was always compelled kiss Great-aunt Aganzard goodnight, though she always wore at least a bird’s worth of feathers. My nose itches just from thinking about it. It does my heart good to see the old boot without her fripperies for once. So,” he concluded briskly, with the air of one ready to move on. “The scrolls are finished? Seven and twenty copies?”

  “At least.”

  “Fine, fine,” he said, beaming. “Since you’ve completed your day’s work, you have time for a bit of a treat”

  This bewildered her. Although grateful that the wizard was not angry, she didn’t expect to be rewarded for destroying his study.

  “We’re taking up Avariel,” he continued, naming the skyship that Tzigone had been admiring since her first day in the conjurer’s tower. “I intend to visit Procopio Septus, lord mayor of Halarahh, and present you as my new apprentice. You may wish to bathe and change first If Procopio thinks we’ve been stomping grapes, he’ll expect his share of wine.”

  She glanced down. Her robe, tunic, and arms were splattered with purple ink. A glance in the mirror proved that her face hadn’t gone unscathed. It was liberally daubed with deep purple—and gone pale as parchment at the prospect of entering Procopio’s villa again.

  Tzigone couldn’t explain her moment of panic. She’d crept through the villa before to visit Matteo during his service there. Nothing bad had happened. She just didn’t like the feel of the place.

  “I’m to meet Procopio Septus?” she repeated, a question in her voice.

  “Presenting one’s apprentices is traditional. It demonstrates the respect I hold for my colleague. I’ve been waiting for the proper moment, and I daresay it’s at hand!”

  Basel’s motivation was starting to come clear to her. “Sometimes you can’t tell the punishments from the rewards.”

  “Just so, my dear,” he said with a dagger-sharp grin. He dropped a fatherly arm around her shoulders. “I’m no diviner—bless the Lady’s name—but. I suspect that bringing you and the good Procopio together will prove a just reward for you both.”

  Tzigone followed his gaze around the ruined room and found she couldn’t argue.

  Procopio Septus was not pleased to receive word of Basel Indoulur’s visit As a master of divination, Procopio was among the most esteemed wizards in Halruaa. Conjuration, Basel’s specialty, was not as highly regarded, but Basel remained utterly unmoved by Procopio’s attempts to impress upon him his inferior status.

  These efforts, Procopio suspected, were coming back to haunt him. Surely Basel was coming to gloat over the loss of Zephyr, an ancient elf jordain who had been in Procopio’s service until his recent execution as a traitor to Halruaa.

  Such a thing could prove ruinous for any ambitious man, but how much more so for a diviner! Procopio should have known what was happening under his own nose, and he did not. Try as he might, he could put no better face on it than that.

  Nor could he ignore the tremendous loss of stature such failure brought. He harbored private aspirations to Zalathorm’s throne, yet there were murmurs of replacing him as mayor of Halarahh! If he did not restore himself in popular favor soon, all his dreams would die aborning.

  One secret bit of knowledge would help him endure Basel’s presence. The fool had taken on Keturah’s daughter as an apprentice!

  Because of his high office, Procopio had heard of the scandals surrounding Keturah, but he had forgotten about it after the runaway wizard and her bastard child had been captured and dealt with according to law. Recently, though, Cassia, the jordain who had served as King Zalathorm’s chief counselor, had told him that Keturah’s daughter still lived. Since then, Procopio had made it a point to discover the identity of this girl—a task made more difficult by the murder of Cassia. He had lavished money, magic, and influence to ensure that the secret Cassia confided to him remained his alone. This was a risk, but one he counted worth taking. It gave him a hidden blade to use against Basel Indoulur, should the need ever arise.

  Procopio, though a prudent man, rather hoped it would.

  He walked out onto the parapets of his villa’s walls to watch the conjurer’s approach. Avariel came on fast, her three gaudily colored sails curved tight, her prow thrusting boldly into the winds.

  As the ship neared, Procopio made out a small, fourth sail trailing more than a ship’s length behind. Puzzled, he picked up a mariner’s glass and trained it upon the skyship. A long rope ran from the stern of the skyship to a small figure, and from there to a bright silk sail that caught the wind and held the wind-dancer aloft.

  He’d heard of this sport but didn’t personally know anyone daft enough to try it. He slipped a thicker lens into the glass, the better to study the small figure. What he saw made his lips thin in a tight smile.

  So this was Keturah’s daughter. From this distance, the wench looked more like an urchin at play than the offspring of the beautiful, fallen wizard. The girl’s wind-tossed hair was cropped as short as a boy’s, and the form beneath the tunic looked nearly as straight and slender.

  Procopio trained the glass upon the deck. There stood Basel with one of his ubiquitous apprentices. Both watched the girl with wide, delighted grins. Their admiration was not uncommon—after all, this “urchin” was the hero of Akhlaur’s Swamp.

  Stories of that battle were spreading like spilled wine. All who heard these tales glowed with pride, from the most magic-dead rothé herder to the mightiest of wizards. Such is the magic of Halruaa, that even a street waif untrained in the Art can subdue a terrible monster! Ballads to that effect were sung in the square, in the festhalls, in the palaces. He had even heard this tale intoned in the plainsong of Azuthan clerics!

  Procopio wondered how Basel would respond if he knew that his new apprentice was a thief, a vagabond, and, worst of all, a wizard’s bastard.

  It was a delightful image to contemplate.

  The skyship slowed as it neared the docking gate atop Procopio’s southernmost wall. The girl pulled herself down the mooring line hand over hand, shortening the rope as she sank so that she would land on the skyship deck. Basel and his apprentice darted forward to catch her. She plowed into them, and all three tumbled onto the deck, laughing like ninnies.

  With a disgusted sigh, Procopio put down the glass and went to his courtyard to await his “distinguished guests.”

  Basel came first, his black eyes still twinkling with fun. “Greetings to you, Lord Procopio. We come in peace and friendship and will work no magic unbidden within these walls.” He glanced back at his apprentices.

  There were three of them: a stunningly pretty girl from the Noor family, a commoner named for some sweaty trade or other, and Keturah’s bastard. The first two repeated the tradi
tional pledge. Basel looked pointedly at the windblown little bastard, who shrugged and offered, “Fine. What they said.”

  Basel shook his head and lifted his eyes skyward as if in supplication. “Lord Procopio, you have met Farrah Noor and Mason. This is Tzigone, the newest of my apprentices. I pray she will serve Halruaa as faithfully as you yourself have done.”

  “May Mystra grant it. With such a master to inspire her, how could she do less?” Procopio said, offering the proper response to Basel’s traditional words with a straight face, a dry tone, and a great deal of private irony.

  For several moments he and Basel managed to exchange formulaic pleasantries without once choking on them. When servants came with goblets of iced wine and chilled fruits, Procopio suggested that the apprentices might wander the garden as they wished. Not surprisingly, Tzigone seemed most eager to leave his presence. Procopio knew that people who harbored secrets tended to avoid powerful diviners, and with good reason. Within the hour, the darkest corners of the girl’s soul would be his to know. Procopio quickly lifted his wine goblet to his lips to hide the smile he could not quite contain.

  “I trust your new apprentice is living up to expectations?”

  Basel responded with a dry chuckle. “She’s coming along nicely, but after her success with the laraken, she’d have to arm-wrestle a red dragon to meet expectations.”

  “Ah yes, the laraken,” Procopio said. “I would like to hear that tale from the girl’s own lips, without an audience at hand to tempt her into embroidering it. With your permission, of course.”

  Basel could hardly refuse his host’s request without violating at least a dozen rules of protocol. Of course, Procopio skirted the edges of propriety as well, but Basel could hardly point that out. Instead he placed his fingertips on his temples in a parody of a charlatan fortuneteller. “I see an arm-wrestling match between my apprentice and a red dragon. And—by Mystra!—I see Tzigone wearing a new pair of dragonhide boots!”