The Floodgate

by Elaine Cunningham

  “Your face is troubled, Matteo,” the king said. “Since you are a jordain, your concerns are beyond divination. Speak freely.”

  “The queen’s steward summoned me back to Halarahh, expressing concern for her well-being.” Matteo said carefully. “There is much about the queen that I do not understand. If I am to serve her, I must know how she came to be as she is. Can you tell me of her life before she came to Halarahh?”

  Matteo doubted there was a safe door into so dangerous a room, but this was the most tactful approach he could fathom. Once before the king had confided in him. Perhaps if Zalathorm started talking about his queen’s dark past, they might find a way to discuss her present troubles.

  A shadow passed over Zalathorm’s face. He lifted one hand and rubbed distractedly at his jaw. “Beatrix was born into a family of wizards, raised in a quiet settlement in the northeastern hills,” he recited wearily. “All of Halruaa knows her history. The Crinti attacked and brutally slew every living thing in that settlement Beatrix was the sole survivor.”

  “She was gravely wounded,” Matteo prompted.

  “That and more. She was horribly disfigured.” The king fell silent for a long moment. “A simple spell gives her a fairer face, but that is not sufficient for Beatrix. Her porcelain façade is more than a queen’s pride or a woman’s vanity. It is a shield she places between herself and the assault of memory.”

  “She remembers nothing?”

  “No. Perhaps that is for the best.”

  “When the queen came to the city years ago, she was examined by the magehound Kiva, now condemned as a murderer and a traitor to Halruaa. What significance might that hold?”

  Zalathorm waved this away. “None that I know of. Obviously the elf woman kept her secrets for a very long time. She could not have done so unless she carefully avoided scrutiny. I can only assume that for years Kiva did her work correctly and well. She got the story of the Crinti raid from Beatrix, using the prescribed spells and artifacts. I have no reason to doubt it.”

  “Yet Kiva claimed she murdered Cassia at the command of Queen Beatrix. She claimed the queen was concerned about the purity of the jordaini order, and the quality of counsel you were receiving. The queen called in Kiva, who examined Cassia, then passed sentence.”

  The king lifted one eyebrow. “Tell me, Matteo, in your opinion is Beatrix consumed by concern for jordaini purity?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “The Elders agreed with you. Kiva’s story was repeated and considered. Most find it ludicrous. Beatrix is not capable of treachery.” The wizard king’s shoulders rose and fell as if under a great burden. “I almost wish she were.”

  Zalathorm’s eyes took on the unfocused look of one who looks deep into the past. “When Beatrix first came to Halarahh, she was like a blossoming flower. She remembered nothing, so everything was new to her. I have lived too long,” he concluded with a wistful smile. “I had forgotten how bright was the world when it was new. For several years, Beatrix was my eyes. Indeed, she was every gem in my crown. Magic lent her beauty, but all Halruaa admired her grace, her charm, her vivacity, and most of all, her courage. The people loved her then. I love her still.”

  In Matteo’s opinion, the king was getting sidetracked by his memories. “So in these early years, it is possible that more of her background might have been uncovered.”

  The light in Zalathorm’s eyes disappeared. “I suppose so, yes, but what purpose would it serve if she remembered the family she had lost and the monsters who slaughtered them?”

  “What if there was someone she had left behind? Someone whom she wished to remember?” Matteo persisted.

  A shuttered expression fell over the king’s face. “There are some things that lie beyond a king’s decree and a wizard’s power. Beatrix is what she is. Try to live with that, as I have.”

  Matteo bowed to show his acceptance of this advice. “There is one thing more, your majesty. I am curious about my predecessor, a jordain named Quertus.”

  “Ah, yes,” the king recalled. “A wise man, I suppose, but a quiet one. Anyone in the palace could tell you this much and more.”

  “No one in the palace speaks of Quertus,” Matteo said bluntly, “but I have heard that he was slain by one of the queen’s clockwork creatures.”

  Storm clouds began to gather on Zalathorm’s brow. “Who spoke this lie?”

  “Someone sworn to truth, your majesty. Your former high counselor, the jordain Cassia.”

  “Ah.” Zalathorm flicked one hand in a gesture of dismissal. “You would do well to disregard Cassia’s words. There is much about her you do not know.”

  “I know of her grudge against the queen, and the one-sided rivalry that embittered her,” Matteo responded.

  Zalathorm leaned back and regarded the young man astonishment. “Well, I see that you believe in speaking unadorned truth.”

  Matteo bowed. “If I offend, I beg pardon.”

  “You surprise me. It has been many years since I heard plain speech from a member of your order.” He rested his elbows on the arms of his throne and settled in. “Please, say on.”

  “Cassia had a hand in my promotion to the queen’s service. She caught me in some foolishness and thought it amusing to foist an inept counselor upon the queen.”

  “That sounds like Cassia,” Zalathorm noted. “Now let’s have some of that much-vaunted jordaini truth.” The king leaned forward, his eyes searching Matteo’s face. “What would you do, jordain, if serving Halruaa conflicted with your duty to your patron? Where do your deepest loyalties lie?”

  For a moment the shock of hearing his dilemma given voice by Halruaa’s king stole Matteo’s wits and voice. He recovered and gave a diplomatic response. “The jordaini serve truth, your majesty. I trust that truth will serve both Halruaa and Queen Beatrix.”

  Zalathorm’s face crinkled with disgust. “If I wanted meaningless sophistry, I’d talk to a politician! Just once I’d like to hear an answer rather than an evasion. If forced to chose, which would you serve: your patron or your homeland?”

  The question was impossible to answer. Nevertheless, Matteo spoke without hesitation. “I pray that one choice will always favor both, Your Majesty, but should there be a conflict, I would serve Halruaa.”

  The king nodded slowly, not giving any indication of how he received this announcement.

  “In fact,” Matteo went on, “this very dilemma prompted me to seek this audience. Timonk, the queen’s steward, summoned me back to the palace. His concern is not for the queen’s health so much as her safety. He showed me his hand. He lost two fingers to one of the queen’s clockwork devices.”

  “I see,” Zalathorm said slowly. “No wonder you asked about Quertus. The truth is that Quertus was not killed by clockwork but condemned for harboring magic.”

  A sudden suspicion stabbed at Matteo. “Condemned, my lord? By any chance, was Kiva that magehound who passed sentence?”

  There was a long moment of silence, then Zalathorm said, “It is possible.”

  “It would not be the first time Kiva condemned an innocent man to serve her own purposes. Nor would it be the first time Kiva’s path crossed that of Queen Beatrix. This matter requires closer attention.”

  Zalathorm let out a single burst of unamused laughter. “I have heard the jordaini proverb that cobblers’ children go barefoot. Are you suggesting that the diviner should tend his own household?”

  “Respectfully, my lord.”

  The king’s eyes frosted. “That is enough candor for one day, jordain. You may return to my queen and serve her as well as you can.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After leaving Matteo, Tzigone found a barrel of rainwater and washed the greasepaint from her face. She took a tightly rolled robe of sky blue silk from her bag, shook out the wrinkles, and shrugged it on over her ragged street clothes. Properly attired, she made her way back to the villa that Basel Indoulur kept in Halarahh for his frequents visits to the king’s city.
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br />   A lone figure waited near the gate, seated in the lamp-lit alcove that offered shelter to passersby. Tzigone took one glance at the elegantly clad woman and spun on her heel, ready for a fast retreat

  “Don’t go,” Sinestra Belajoon called out. “I’ll only find you again. Who’s to say our next meeting won’t be less private, and far less convenient?”

  Tzigone considered. If this confrontation was not to be avoided, this was as good a time as any. The sky was velvet black, and the position of the stars proclaimed that midnight was near. Few people had reason to walk this quiet street, and most were already in for the night.

  Reluctantly Tzigone turned back to her visitor. Not long ago, she’d pretended to be a wizard and a lady, slipping into Sinestra Belajoon’s confidence so that the woman would introduce her to a certain snooty behir merchant. She had liked Sinestra, and didn’t feel very good about deceiving her.

  But Sinestra seemed to have taken this in stride. Her gaze swept over Tzigone’s blue robe, and her painted lips curved in a half smile. “A conjurer’s apprentice. Last time we met you were a full-fledged illusionist. Come down in the world, have you?”

  “Depends. You should have seen me an hour ago.”

  Sinestra’s eyes lit up. “I wish I had. I’m sure it would have been quite instructive.”

  Tzigone folded her arms. “Excuse me?”

  The wizard handed her a bit of parchment. “This is a note from Cassia, the king’s jordain. She wrote to me shortly before she was killed, naming you as a thief. Is there any truth to that?”

  “She’s dead. That’s true enough.”

  Sinestra hissed with exasperation. “Do you see a squadron of the city militia cooling themselves in my shadow? If you admit to being a thief, I’ll not only be discrete, I’ll be thrilled!”

  This strange encounter was beginning to make sense to Tzigone. “You want to hire a thief to retrieve something for you.”

  “In a manner of speaking. I want to hire a thief to teach me the trade.”

  Tzigone’s gaze slid over the woman. Her hair was dressed in elaborate black ringlets. A fortune in blue topaz draped her bosom and matched the watered blue silk of her gown and slippers. “You don’t need to steal. You already have more than you know what to do with.”

  “That’s precisely the point! I have everything I could possibly want, and I’m bored out of my wits,” the woman announced. She rose abruptly. “Walk with me.”

  They fell into step, walking in silence down the tree-lined street. After a few moments Tzigone got down to business. “What do you want to retrieve?”

  “My sanity,” Sinestra said bluntly. “I am afflicted with ennui—gravely afflicted, a mere heartbeat away from running screaming through the streets!”

  “So do what other over-pampered noblewomen do. Take a lover.”

  Sinestra lifted one ebony brow. “I said I’m bored, not stupid. Might I remind you that I’m married to a diviner? Not a particularly powerful one, but he’s got enough talent to indulge his suspicions.”

  “Short leash?” Tzigone commiserated.

  The wizard hooked one finger under her necklace and tugged at it in a parody of a chokehold. “My lord Belajoon has encircled me with spells warding against such sport.”

  “So what makes you think you could make a thief?”

  “Because old Belajoon doesn’t expect it of me,” Sinestra retorted. She sighed heavily. “By wind and word, I have to get away with something, or I’ll go mad!”

  Since Tzigone had spent the better part of the day as a street urchin, avoiding her wizardly studies in favor of one bit of mischief after another, this was a sentiment she understood. She gnawed her lower lip for a moment. “How serious are you about this?”

  “How serious is a necromancer about death?” Sinestra shot back. “Teach me, and I’ll do whatever you say.”

  Tzigone lifted one hand to her head and ruffled her shorn locks. “Would you cut your hair like this?”

  The wizard paled. She stopped walking and squeezed her eyes shut. But after a moment she focused a resolute gaze upon her chosen mentor. “Yes,” she said stoutly.

  Tzigone grinned and patted Sinestra’s arm. “Forget it. A thief needs to use every advantage she has. You’d be the center of attention in the midst of a wizardwar, just by showing up. We’ll figure out a way to make that pay.”

  The older woman grimaced. “I thought I had. I hope you can come up with something more interesting.”

  In response, Tzigone handed her a small book. “As I recall, you enjoy gossip. These things always contain a few priceless nuggets.”

  Sinestra’s eyes bulged when she recognized her own grimoire, a spellbook that contained a wizard’s most personal spells and secrets. After a moment, she burst out laughing. “Oh, this is going to be great fun!”

  “That’s what I keep telling a friend of mine,” Tzigone observed with a grin. “You’re much easier to convince than he is.”

  Sinestra’s brows lifted. “So there’s a ‘he,’ is there?”

  “Lots of them,” Tzigone said, dismissing Matteo with a sweeping wave.

  “Smart girl. If I’d thought that way, I wouldn’t be having these problems.” The wizard linked her arm through Tzigone’s.

  The gesture was friendly, casual, but a spark of magic jolted through Tzigone. That puzzled her. Few spells could touch the wall around her. Conversely, she could sense nearly any spell, except that which her mother had cast long ago to block away her daughter’s dangerous early memories—

  Mother.

  Tzigone stopped dead. Her mother’s touch—that’s what Sinestra’s magic felt like!

  Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and the quiet street swirled around her like a kaleidoscope gone mad. After all these years of searching for her mother, could success come from a chance meeting?

  Part of her wanted to believe it. She had liked Sinestra at once, had felt an immediate kinship between them. However, the woman was far too young—probably still south of her thirtieth summer.

  She realized that Sinestra had also stopped and was looking at her strangely. “Are you ill, Margot?”

  Tzigone seized on the word. “Margot! Is that my real name?”

  The wizard’s puzzlement deepened. “It’s the name you used when we met. You also claimed to be an illusionist, though, so how should I know?”

  Disappointment surged, then quickly receded. Tzigone had survived by being cautious; if this woman had once been Keturah, she would be equally wary. Their reunion, if such this was, would of necessity proceed one small step at a time.

  She slanted a look at the beautiful wizard and saw nothing that reminded her of her own face. “I wonder what I’d look like with your hair.”

  A horrified expression crossed Sinestra’s face, and she clamped both hands to her raven-hued curls. “Forget it! You already said I could I keep it!”

  Tzigone chuckled. “I wasn’t thinking of clipping it for a wig. I was just admiring it. Maybe I’ll go to an illusionist and have him drop a spell over me.”

  A flicker of emotion flashed in Sinestra’s dark eyes, quickly replaced by her usual expression of slightly amused boredom. She patted her gleaming tresses. “This is all mine. It reaches my knees when I take it down.”

  A distant memory assailed Tzigone, an image of her mother at play, running after elusive globes of light. Her unbound hair flowed behind her like a silken shadow.

  “Yes,” Tzigone said in a slightly strangled voice. “I imagine it does.”

  For several days, Matteo tried to honor the king’s request and serve his patron as best he could. Beatrix did not require his counsel. She turned aside his requests for audience.

  Yet a steady stream of artisans and craftsmen and wizards flowed through the queen’s laboratory. Matteo’s frustration grew with every passing hour.

  One morning he could take no more. He left the palace before dawn by way of the kitchen gates, weaving his way through the merchants who kept the pal
ace tables supplied. He dodged a small flock of geese and nodded a courtly but absent response to the goose girl’s greeting.

  A glance at the rising sun prompted him to increase his pace. Procopio Septus usually left his villa early. The wizard would not welcome Matteo’s inquiries in his home or at the city palace, but perhaps he would speak more freely in the moments between.

  During his service with Procopio, Matteo had often walked this route. He caught sight of the wizard a few streets away from the city’s pink marble palace.

  “Lord Procopio!”

  The wizard glanced up. His smile was slow and studied, his black eyes unreadable. “So the hero of Akhlaur has returned at last! A rogue magehound unveiled, a laraken vanquished, a nation of wizard-lords saved. Gods above, Matteo! You left my employ three moons past, and this is how you account for your time? I thought I’d trained you to do better.”

  Matteo chuckled. “Had I stayed in your service longer, I might have woven a tighter tapestry. The edges of this tale are sadly frayed.”

  The wizard lifted one snowy brow. “Flattery, subtlety. A neat segue from jest to compliment to the matter at hand. You are learning quickly, young jordain. What are these loose threads you think I might help you bind?”

  “You know that Kiva, the elf inquisatrix, was taken to the Temple of Azuth.” Matteo chose his words carefully to avoid betraying his oaths of secrecy. “I assume you know the issues involved.”

  Procopio’s jaw tightened, and he took a moment before responding. “As the sages have long known, the secret of the swamp’s expansion was a leak from a gate into the Plane of Water. The presence of the laraken made it difficult to deal with this leak. Any magic used against the monster simply made it stronger. Conversely, were the gate closed, the laraken would be forced to seek magical sustenance elsewhere. Eventually the creature would have been destroyed, but the blow dealt to Halruaa’s wizards would be considerable. The Council of Elders believes that this was Kiva’s intent. Now the laraken has been dealt with and the gate closed, thanks to you and your friends.”