The Floodgate

by Elaine Cunningham

  “A little dove’s flying this way,” Themo observed, nodding toward the small gray figure that ran toward the jordaini, arms and legs pumping steadily. “Making good time, too.”

  “Must be important if it couldn’t wait a few more hours,” added Iago.

  Matteo nodded and shook the reins over his lizard mount. The others followed suit. They hurried to meet the runner—a barefoot and barelegged girl, clad in a short tunic of Azuthan gray. She dipped into a bow and then handed Matteo a scroll. “I am to wait for your reply, my lord.”

  “Just Matteo,” he corrected absently as he broke the seal. “The jordaini claim no titles.”

  “As you wish,” the girl murmured politely.

  “It’s not as I wish,” Themo put in, only half in jest. “What do you say, Iago? What title would suit me? Themo the war baron? Themo the king’s general?”

  “Themo the horse’s arse,” Iago suggested.

  Themo snorted and reached out to punch Matteo’s shoulder. “Well, are you going to tell us what’s worth wearing out this lass’s pretty feet, or do you want us to guess?”

  Matteo glanced up at his two friends. “A message from the queen’s steward. He is concerned about Queen Beatrix and requires my presence at once.”

  “Your response?” the acolyte prompted.

  “There can be only one. I will leave for Halarahh at first light.”

  “I will accompany you,” suggested Iago.

  “And I!” put in Themo stoutly. He slapped the reins against his lizard’s neck, as if he would ride all the way. The great creature’s shoulders rose and fell in an astonishingly human gesture of resignation.

  Matteo reached out and dropped a hand on the big jordain’s shoulder. “I would have you, and gladly, but your training is not yet complete.”

  “Training!” grumbled Themo. “My head holds all the information that’s ever likely to fit Every now and then a man’s got to stop thinking and start doing. By Mystra, what this country needs is a good war!”

  Dark memories of the recent swamp battles flooded into Iago’s eyes. For a moment Matteo thought that Iago would draw a weapon on Themo and wash the big man’s theory away with his own blood. The small jordain regained his composure quickly.

  “War usually results from a cessation of thought,” Iago observed. “So I suppose your argument has some basis in logic.”

  “Logic,” Themo sneered. “I liked it better when you called me a horse’s arse.”

  Iago smiled. “Fortunate is the man who is content with what and who he is.” Though he spoke to Themo, he sent a long, somber stare in Matteo’s direction.

  Themo, whose enjoyment of a good insult surpassed his subtlety, heard the jest and missed the warning. Matteo marked it and would think of it often in the days to come.

  The journey to Halarahh was swift and uneventful. The River Halar ran deep and fast, and the Azuthans’ shallow keeled boat sped along the water like a low-flying swan. At the delta harbor, Matteo and Iago changed to a sea-going vessel. Their captain hugged the coast, for far out over the lake sullen gray clouds grumbled and clashed like titanic dwarves roused too soon from slumber. By day’s end the docks of Halarahh lay within sight

  The two jordaini leaned against the ship’s rail and watched the gap between ship and city narrow.

  “We have not spoken of your plans, Iago. Will you return to Procopio Septus?”

  The small jordain shrugged. “No doubt Lord Procopio will release me to the first minor wizard who requests my service.”

  Matteo shook his head. “You are a noted battlemaster, and Lord Procopio is an ambitious man. He will not lightly let you go.”

  “He is ambitious,” Iago agreed, “and because of his ambitions he cannot afford to be tainted by failure. Zephyr was Kiva’s ally. I fought for her. Although the Jordaini Council declared me innocent of wrongdoing, in the eyes of many observers it may appear that both of Procopio’s errant jordaini were hit by the contents of the same chamber pot.”

  “You fought the laraken and won,” Matteo reminded him. “Your success may go far toward canceling out Zephyr’s treason. Certainly it proves your battle prowess, something Lord Procopio values greatly. He’s too ambitious to see such skills as yours wasted on a midwife or an apothecary.”

  Iago snorted. “In truth, I would rather serve a potion peddler than a warlord.”

  Warlord. The title hung heavy in the silence that followed its naming. Matteo nodded grimly. “So you see it, too. Procopio prepares to wear that mantle.”

  “Lord Procopio is ambitious,” Iago repeated cautiously.

  “War is often the path to power. Stay with Procopio if you can,” Matteo urged. “He should be watched.”

  The jordain gave him an incredulous look. “What are you suggesting?”

  Matteo considered his next words carefully, for he was picking his way through new and dangerous territory. “We jordaini swear many oaths, binding us to our patrons, to Halruaa, and to truth. What happens when these pledges conflict?”

  “But—”

  “Hear me out. What is our primary concern? Do we serve the ambitions of a single man? The good of the land? Truth? And what defines this ‘good,’ this ‘truth?’ Our own perceptions or those of our patron? Do we listen to the voice of conscience or the demands of ambition?”

  Iago was silent for a long time. “You should be careful about speaking such thoughts, my friend. Some might call it treason.”

  “Others might call it honor,” Matteo pointed out. “If we jordaini abandon honor, what good can we possibly do? Can we be Halruaa’s guardians with no moral compass other than the whim of the wizard-lords? You know history. You know what wizardly ambition can do.”

  “We serve the wizard-lords,” began Iago.

  “Yes, and so do the message boys that carry word from the wizard’s kitchen to the butcher. If we do everything we are bid, without thought, how are we any different?”

  The small man fell silent. “I will consider your words, Matteo. Since you are a friend, I will not repeat them.”

  Iago spoke with great finality. Matteo was surprised, therefore, when Iago picked up the awkward threads of their conversation.

  “You have spoken plainly. Will you hear some blunt words?”

  “Of course!”

  “You’re quick to trust,” the jordain observed, “and far too impulsive. You seem willing to do whatever a friend requires of you. Perhaps you care too deeply about your friends.”

  Matteo’s brow furrowed. “How is that a fault?”

  “I didn’t say it was a fault, exactly, but it is a danger. What will you do, Matteo, if you must make a choice between your jordaini duties and your friends? You puzzle over the conflicts of truth, the good of the land, and the will of the wizard-lords. How much more difficult would you find it to weigh the good of Halruaa against the life of a friend? And what of truth? Would you lie for Andris?” His steady black gaze narrowed and sharpened. “Or perhaps for Tzigone? It seems to me there is little you would not do for that girl.”

  Matteo felt his cheeks flame. “As I keep repeating, she is a friend and nothing more.”

  “As I am trying to tell you, perhaps you care too deeply for your friends. You’ve already fought a magehound’s wemic for Tzigone. You went to prison rather than name her as a thief, even though she stole the sword that led to your arrest and didn’t bother to tell you she’d hidden it among your possessions. To protect her, you killed a wizard. A wizard, Matteo! The Disputation Table absolved you of legal wrongdoing, but have you any idea how the wizard-lords regard a jordain who kills? In the eyes of many, you’re as dangerous and unpredictable as a half-feral dog.”

  “I know this,” Matteo said quietly.

  “You know a great deal, and yet knowledge does not give you wisdom! Whenever that beguiling little witch shows up, you cease thinking and merely act.”

  Matteo was silent for a long moment. His words, when he spoke, surprised him. “You find her beguiling?�
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  The older man sighed heavily. “It does not matter what I think. I am not the one who missed the purification ritual.”

  Matteo was unlikely to forget this particular disgrace, though he wasn’t certain why Iago brought it up in the current context. “I will remember,” he promised.

  Iago was not yet finished. “We’ve all learned the tales of impossible quests and tragic passions. Only heroes can afford such things, Matteo. We are not heroes. We are counselors.”

  The young man shook his head in bewilderment. “I know what I am.”

  “I hope so, Matteo,” he said softly, his black eyes fixed upon the rapidly approaching docks.

  They did not speak again, except for a strained recitation of ritual parting words as they left the ship and went their own ways.

  Night enfolded the city as Matteo worked his way through the teeming dock area and out onto the broad, tree-lined streets of Halarahh. Magical lanterns winked alight as he set a brisk pace toward the palace.

  His thoughts turned to Queen Beatrix. He did not know the exact nature of the steward’s concern, but he could think of several possibilities. He owed his position to the death of his predecessor. The queen’s former counselor had been slain by one of her clockwork devices.

  This had long puzzled Matteo. No one at the palace ever spoke of this accident. Nor had the jordain’s death been discussed at the College. Matteo had still been a student at the time, and certainly would have heard the stories. Was it possible that a man’s death could be held in such strict secrecy and without consequence to those at fault? Halruaa was a land of law. Surely even the queen was not above its rule!

  Yet as far as Matteo could tell, no steps had been taken to curb the queen’s strange and dangerous pastime.

  Many things about his royal patron troubled him, not the least of which was the strange song he had overheard her sing at their last meeting. For a brief moment, the queen had reminded him of Tzigone.

  Yet the voice was not the same, nor was there any physical resemblance between the queen and his friend. Surely he was seeing ghosts in a house not haunted! He had promised Tzigone to help her find her mother, and of course he would search for Tzigone’s face in that of every woman he met. It didn’t help matters that Tzigone, with her uncanny knack for imitation and her mobile, expressive features, could change herself at will. No doubt she could resemble half the women in Halruaa!

  He absently dodged a pair of giggling lovers who staggered out of an alehouse, supporting each other as they wove down the street. As Matteo passed the narrow alley that ran behind the tavern, a small figure stirred amid the shadows, and a very grubby face turned to watch him pass.

  The jordain walked on, aware of the soft pad of footsteps behind him. He was not entirely surprised to sense a furtive touch on the hilt of his silver dagger.

  Matteo reached back and seized the fragile wrist. He spun toward the thief, twisting the lad’s arm and spinning him about so that his back was to Matteo and his captured wrist held high behind his back. Matteo pushed his captive back toward the privacy of the alley. All this he did quickly, with as little sound and movement as possible. The laws of the land dealt harshly with thieves.

  The lad seemed to realize this. He went along quietly, no doubt hoping to escape once they were well away from prying eyes.

  Matteo marched the boy behind a pile of crates. “You’ve nothing to fear from me,” he said softly. “Thievery suggests great need. If this is so, speak plainly. I will keep your confidence, and do what I can to help you.”

  “Well, since you offered, there’s an itch between my shoulder blades that I just can’t seem to reach,” suggested a familiar voice, a rich alto that bubbled with suppressed mirth.

  A familiar jangle of emotion sang through Matteo—amusement, affection, exasperation, and the mingled chagrin and delight he’d felt as a lad when he fell victim to one of Andris’s pranks.

  “Tzigone,” Matteo muttered. He released the “urchin,” who whirled to face him.

  Even now that he knew her, Matteo had difficulty seeing his friend under her disguise. She’d smeared dark ointment on her face for a sun-browned appearance, and one swollen cheek bore the yellowing remnant of a huge bruise. She spat out a small, wadded rag, and her face took on a more familiar shape.

  Tzigone fisted both of her grubby hands in his hair and pulled him down to her level. She planted a resounding kiss on the bridge of his nose, then matter-of-factly wiped away a smudge of greasepaint she’d left behind.

  Feeling strangely discomfited, Matteo stepped back and drew his jordaini dignity around himself like a cloak. “Is this how Basel Indoulur dresses his apprentices?”

  “I dress myself, thanks,” Tzigone retorted, her eyes dancing with glee. “Same goes for the undressing. Don’t think that I don’t get offers, though, glamorous wench that I am.”

  “No doubt,” Matteo murmured. “So. How are your studies progressing?”

  Her smile faded and reshaped itself into a lopsided grin. “I expect to be elevated to the Council of Elders within the tenday.”

  “Have you learned more of your mother?”

  The light faded from her eyes. “I thought it would be easy to find a lost wizard once I was inside the tower, so to speak. Wizards hoard information like heirloom spell books. Since we’re being blunt and serious, I might as well take a turn. What news of Kiva?”

  “She has escaped.” Matteo placed a hand over Tzigone’s mouth to cut off her outburst, then promptly released her. “I gave my word to the Azuthan priests that I would keep this in confidence, subject only to previous vows. The pledge of friendship between us is one such vow. Since Kiva has been pursuing you your entire life, I felt that you must be forewarned.”

  “Thanks,” Tzigone muttered absently. “So you’ve got the same problem I have—you have to find someone without letting anyone know you’re looking. Is there anyone you can trust? What about that old elf who was nice to you when you both worked for Procopio Septus? Maybe his friends know something useful.”

  “I’m afraid that path ends against a solid wall. Zephyr died a traitor’s death. All who knew him are scrambling for as much distance as they can get.”

  Tzigone regarded him appraisingly. “Cynical. That’s a new color for you.”

  Matteo sighed. “Can we be serious for a moment?”

  “One of us can, that’s for damn sure,” she murmured.

  He ignored the good-natured insult. “As a jordain, I am pledged to serve the queen, my patron. As a friend, I have promised to help you learn what became of your mother. Both of these things are important, but Kiva must be found, and soon.”

  “Agreed,” Tzigone said readily, “but why are you looking for Kiva in Halarahh?”

  “I’m not. I was ordered back to the palace. I will continue my search as soon as I can obtain leave.”

  She considered this. “What happens to a jordain who just picks up and goes?”

  “I don’t know,” he said in surprise. “As far as I know, it has never happened.”

  “Hmm.” Tzigone sent him a sidelong glance from beneath lowered lashes, but did not press the matter.

  They spoke for a few moments of other things, and in that time Matteo laughed more than he had under the light of the past two moons. After Tzigone slipped away, Matteo continued to the palace with a lighter heart.

  He made his way directly to the queen’s chambers. As he had expected, the workshop hummed with activity. He found the queen working at a table in a far corner of the chamber and drew near to pay his respects. He might as well have tried to discuss philosophy with a cat. She never once looked up from the half-finished device, oblivious to everything but the winged metal creature taking shape under her hands.

  After several unsuccessful attempts, Matteo left in search of the queen’s steward. He found Timonk in the wine cellar, taking a long pull from a bottle of haerlu gold.

  He entered quietly and seized the man’s wrist. Startled in mid swall
ow, Timonk jerked away with a gurgling protest. Fragrant liquid spilled over the steward’s tunic.

  Matteo pulled the coughing, sputtering man to his feet. “I will apologize after you explain why you called me back.”

  A measure of sobriety crept back into the man’s fuzzy gaze. “She’s getting worse,” he said darkly. He lifted a bandaged hand. With drink-addled fingers, he fumbled off the bandage.

  Matteo’s eyes widened. Only two fingers and a thumb remained on the steward’s hand. The others had been sheared cleanly away.

  “One of the clockwork creatures?” Matteo asked quietly.

  The man nodded. “Since you left, all she has done is build.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the king?”

  Timonk’s only response was a loud snort, drunken but derisive.

  Matteo rested one hand on the man’s shoulder, then turned and sprinted up the stairs that led into the queen’s palace. He strode through the triple doors that kept her toys from disturbing the rest of the court, past the clockwork ice dragons that stood guard, and down the hall toward the king’s council chamber.

  A plump, sweet-faced woman wearing the blue of a royal herald stopped him at the door. Her face turned grim as she listened to the jordain’s tale, and she asked him to wait.

  The herald returned in moments. “The king is holding open court, but he will speak with you as soon as he might.”

  Matteo nodded his thanks and worked his way through the throng that gathered in the high-vaulted hall. He waited quietly in an alcove until the last of the supplicants had been given audience. At last the king dismissed his courtiers and guards and motioned for Matteo to approach.

  With a grateful sigh, King Zalathorm removed his crown and set it on the empty table to his right. The left-hand table was still piled with parchment, mute testament to the multitude of mundane matters that absorbed the great wizard’s attention.

  Halruaa’s king was a mild-looking man of average height, with a soft brown beard and a thoughtful, almost dreamy expression. He looked to be in midlife, yet he had ruled the kingdom for all of Matteo’s life, as throughout the lifetimes of Matteo’s unknown parents, and theirs before them.