The Floodgate

by Elaine Cunningham

  “So what, in your inestimable wisdom, should we do?”

  The wizard smiled unpleasantly. “Distract him, then discredit him. It has worked before, albeit briefly, and I daresay that this time it might take permanent hold.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  By the time Matteo left the city palace, his many bee stings were beginning to swell and throb. In search of a soothing salve, he set off for an apothecary shop he had passed many times during his service to Lord Procopio.

  The shop was a wattle-and-daub building set in a neat garden full of herbs. Birds skittered about picking at the seeds some softhearted soul had strewn for them. A pert yellow songbird followed Matteo right up to the shop and perched on the sill of the open window, as if to listen in on the conversation.

  The apothecary was a minor wizard, with plump cheeks and a near-toothless grin that made him look rather like a wizened, oversized infant. Matteo exchanged courtesies and explained what he needed.

  The man scratched a list on a bit of parchment and went to the back room to fetch the supplies. Busy with his work, he did not notice the yellow bird fly in the window and settle on the rush-strewn floor.

  Swift as thought, the bird transformed into its true shape: a female wizard with bold, black eyes, wearing a simple chemise and skirt of yellow linen. The bird-turned-woman picked up a crockery urn and brought it down hard on the back of the apothecary’s head. He pitched forward onto the bench and slid to the floor. The woman gathered up the supplies and hurried to the front room.

  “My father was called away,” she told Matteo. “He bade me tend your hurts. Why, it looks as if you were rolling about in a thicket of briars!”

  She continued her bright chatter as she led the way to a small room off the shop. Matteo, after an initial moment of surprise, followed her. At her bidding he sat down upon the edge of a narrow cot.

  The girl sat beside him, salving the stings on his neck and arms with a deft, practiced touch. “Remove your tunic, and I’ll tend to the rest of you,” she suggested with a coy smile.

  Matteo rose. “Thank you, but I don’t think there are any more stings.”

  “So you say, but I’d like to see for myself.”

  “Nothing more is necessary. You are a credit to your father, and a fine healer.”

  Her smile broadened and became feline. “I have other talents.”

  “No doubt,” he murmured, now thoroughly puzzled.

  With an exasperated little sigh, the woman pushed her chemise aside to bare her shoulders and struck an unmistakably seductive pose. “Join me,” she invited bluntly.

  Matteo’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. He felt a fool for not reading her meaning sooner.

  This seemed to amuse her. “Why so amazed, jordain? I offer a hour’s pleasure, no regrets or consequence.”

  Matteo quickly collected himself. “All actions have consequences, lady. This, perhaps more than most.” The girl’s puzzlement seemed genuine, so he explained. “The jordaini are forbidden to have families.”

  She sent him an indulgent smile. “I am not asking you to wed with me. A bit of frolic—what could come of that?”

  Matteo studied the girl. She was young and by all appearances pampered and gently raised. Halruaan girls were often sheltered. Despite her bold ways, was it possible that she truly did not know?

  “A child could come of it,” he said gently.

  Dumbfounded, she gazed at him for a long moment. She shook her head and began to chuckle. “Now, that would be one of Mystra’s better miracles! That ‘purification’ ritual of yours is one of the best ideas to come out of the Jordaini College. With magical bloodlines so important, no one dares risk a bastard.” Her smile turned knowing, and she began to loosen the ties on her chemise. “Stallions might be swift, but geldings run best and longest. Why do you think the jordaini are so popular among the ladies of Halruaa?”

  It was Matteo’s turn to be stunned beyond speech. He had not undergone the purification ritual, a final trial followed by a time of solitary contemplation. He had never suspected anything like this, but he did not doubt the truth behind the girl’s words. It was too logical, and it explained many things.

  One part of his mind calmly acknowledged that the purification rite was a prudent precaution. He would not be surprised if unreliable or even dangerous gifts had crept back into the line through jordaini offspring. Precaution was the grandchild of disaster, and a measure so drastic would not be taken unless it was necessary.

  Even as he acknowledged this, another part of him burned with white-hot anger. How could such a decision be taken from the young men and women who became jordaini? Did they not deserve to know, and chose?

  He gave the girl a curt bow. “Thank you for your kind thoughts, but I must leave.”

  She shrugged and pulled her chemise back into place. “Your loss.” With a grin, she preened a bit at her hair and then ran a hand down the length of her body. “If you doubt that, just ask any other jordain in the city about me.”

  Her boast troubled him greatly as he hurried toward Procopio Septus’s villa. It was wrong to impose this rite upon unwitting young men, but that did not give them license to behave irresponsibly. As he had told the girl, actions had consequences. Even if a child could not result, a man and woman could not lie together and leave their shared bed unchanged. Families could be made in many ways, and no jordain could afford to put anything before his duty to Halruaa and her wizards.

  Yet Matteo thought of his friend Themo. He always had time to show the jordaini lads a new game or to practice weaponry with them. He was also known to speak wistfully of a certain barmaid in Khaerbaal—not like the lewd soldiers who lusted after women in general. Matteo could see Themo serving as a battle wizard’s jordain, but also taking up the sword to fight once his advice was given. At battle’s end, he might return to a merry wife and a family of boisterous children. Such a life would be a better match for Themo than his own shadow, but it would never be his. He would not know this until it was too late.

  Why had Matteo been spared this ritual? Delayed in Khaerbaal by his dealings with Kiva, he’d arrived at the college a day late and was hurried away and out of sight. He was left ignorant of this omission, which was nearly as distressing as the rite itself.

  The walls of Procopio’s villa loomed before Matteo suddenly. He glanced at the sun. He was early—at this time of day, Procopio usually held council with other city Elders. He chatted briefly with the gatekeeper, then hurried to the long, low building that housed the wizard’s steeds. There he found Iago grooming a pegasus foal, painstakingly smoothing the pure white coat.

  The jordain glanced up when Matteo approached. His face lit up. “The queen has consented?”

  “I have not yet had opportunity to ask her,” Matteo said slowly. “Queen Beatrix has not granted me an audience for several days now, but it will be no problem to convince her that she needs your services. For the moment, though, you do not look too unhappy in Lord Procopio’s service.”

  Iago glanced up and down the row of stalls, checking for listening ears. “You were right about Procopio’s ambitions. You know, of course, that he intends to be king after Zalathorm.”

  “Procopio always spoke freely before his counselors,” Matteo replied carefully. “The king has not named a successor. This inspires ambition. But ambition can be either the father of achievement, or the mother of treachery. Has Procopio done anything to cross that line?”

  “Nothing specific,” Iago said slowly, “but he seems unduly interested in reports of troubles from the west and the north. He is the mayor of the king’s city. These things lie beyond his authority.”

  “They also lie beyond your authority and mine,” Matteo reminded him. “Yet you cannot wait for Queen Beatrix to request your service so we can ride into those troubled northlands.”

  Iago acknowledged this with a shrug. “I bear many scars from the time I spent in Kiva’s service. Not the least of these is discontent. All our lives we
jordaini train for battle, only to watch and advise. It is difficult to stand idly by, yes?”

  He waited for Matteo to speak his mind. For many moments the only sounds were the swish of the curry brush and the contented melody hummed by the pegasus foal.

  “During our journey to Halarahh, you reminded me that I had missed the purification ritual. How did you know this?”

  The brush stilled, prompting the foal to break off her song and stamp her tiny feet imperiously. Iago took up the rhythm again. “I spoke with the guard who admitted you the following day.”

  Matteo conjured a mental image of the man’s face—tan as saddle leather, deeply seamed by lines and framed by thin wisps of graying hair. Though the man had been with the Jordaini College as long as Matteo could remember, he did not recall seeing him during his last visit. “That would be Jinkor. He is well?”

  “He is dead,” the jordain said bitterly. “The man who killed him stands before you.”

  Matteo slowly sat down on a bale of meadow grass. “How did this happen?”

  “He was fond of haerlu wine. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “During my years at the college, I would occasionally bring him a bottle from the storehouse.” Iago shrugged. “He would never take more than a single goblet at a time. So I was surprised when he uncorked the bottle and drank as if he intended to see the bottom before he came up for air. I assumed he had troubles to drown and I sat with him in case he needed a friendly ear.”

  “That was good of you.”

  “Good intentions,” Iago said with dismissive scorn. “Jinkor spoke, all right. When his mind held more wine than good sense, he forgot the pill that Kiva made him swallow.”

  Matteo jolted. “Kiva?”

  “Oh, yes. It seems she has been watching the jordaini order for years. She needed sources of information and found one in Jinkor, who, as it turns out, has more than one expensive habit Kiva ensured his silence.”

  Matteo had heard that wizards sometimes gave their servants potions that physically bound them to secrecy, but this method was far too extreme for the matter at hand. “Why would Kiva care about jordaini ritual?”

  Iago glanced at Matteo. “You were getting in Kiva’s way. She wanted to do away with you.”

  “She had ample opportunities! Why this?”

  “Jinkor asked the same question. Kiva told him that killing you would set off an alarm. She could not destroy you outright, so she arranged for you to destroy yourself.”

  Matteo considered his previous conversation with Iago. “So this is why you asked me if there was more than friendship between Tzigone and me.”

  “Kiva knew how much you risked for that girl. She assumed that a human male could have only one interest in a female. Even some of her soldiers behaved in a manner that bolstered this opinion. You know how elf women are regarded.”

  Matteo nodded. Elves were rare in Halruaa, where being non-human was virtually synonymous with being sub-human. A few people of mixed race became wizards, and a few elfblooded wizards had risen to the Council of Elders. The most common profession for half-elf women, however, was that of courtesan. If the soldiers serving Kiva approached her in this manner, how much bolder were the wizards with whom she dealt? He did not like Kiva’s assumptions about him, but he understood the path her thoughts must have taken. The jordaini were forbidden to marry, and he’d never heard of one siring a child, but he suspected that course, had he followed it, would indeed have destroyed him.

  “Why couldn’t Kiva kill me outright? What ‘alarm’ would this set off?”

  Iago set to work with a hoof pick. “What do you know of the Cabal?”

  Matteo let out a bark of startled laughter. “Strange context, Iago. Are you suggesting that a secret conspiracy has been formed to ensure my safety?”

  The small jordain’s face closed. Matteo instantly regretted his sarcasm. “Your pardon, Iago. If there is something I should know, please tell me.”

  The jordain shrugged. “It’s not uncommon for a jordaini student to pursue a personal obsession. With Andris, it was the Kilmaruu Paradox. Mine was the legend of the Cabal. Some of the stories seemed to sing in tune with what Jinkor implied, that’s all. It is nothing.” His tone left no doubt that the matter was closed.

  “Kiva’s plan lacks logic,” Matteo said, returning to the previous matter. “Had I followed the path she anticipated, it would have been obvious that I had not undergone the ritual. The college records would confirm this. I would not be held blameless, but since I did not know the nature of this rite until today, neither would my actions be deliberate treason.”

  “The college records would not confirm it,” Iago countered. “Nor would the records support your innocence. Jinkor told me that a peasant man, one close enough to you in age and build to pass as your double, rode into the college on your horse. This man wrote your mark on the records, and submitted to the ritual. The attending priest never knew the difference. Nor, I suspect, do the jordaini masters. Obviously, I was the first person in whom Jinkor confided.”

  Matteo rose slowly to his feet, his hands clenched into fists. It was bad enough that a jordain should submit to such a thing! The peasant who’d taken his place had no part in Halruaa’s laws of magic and power! “Do you know what became of this man?”

  “No, but if you value his life, you should not seek him out,” Iago pointed out. “On the other hand, if you value yours, perhaps you should. There would be an inquiry if he died while answering questions, and perhaps the spell could be traced back to the spellcaster.”

  “Are you suggesting that some might suspect me of arranging this travesty?”

  “You were released from prison with ample time to ride back to the college, yet you came a day late. Another man rides in on your horse just in time. At whom, logically, will the fingers point?”

  “Kiva, of course.”

  “Therein lies the problem,” Iago said grimly. “Kiva is nowhere to be found. If a magehound examined you, he might find you innocent, and he might not.”

  “That’s absurd!”

  “Is it? Now that you know the nature of the purification ritual, would you return to the Jordaini College and willingly submit to it?”

  “Would you?” Matteo countered.

  Iago smiled thinly. “There you have it. A magehound’s magic would discover your rejection of jordaini rule. Guilt or innocence is often a matter of tone. The details are like pieces in a strategy game—they can be used by either side, to very different result.”

  Matteo could not dispute this. “Does anyone else in the college know of this?”

  “I don’t intend to tell anyone, if that’s your concern. Just … be careful.”

  Matteo placed a hand on the jordain’s shoulder. “Thank you for telling me this. You are a good friend.”

  “Just get me out of this stable and onto a horse’s back, and we’ll call the debt paid,” Iago said with a faint smile.

  The stable lights flickered on, responding to the approach of twilight. “Lord Procopio will be in shortly,” Matteo said. “We’ll speak again as soon as I’ve news.”

  He hurried to the wizard’s tower. Procopio received him at once with a grave face and without the formulaic courtesies demanded by Halruaan protocol. He ushered Matteo into his study and shut the door firmly behind him.

  “You’re not going to like this,” he said bluntly. “I’ve no idea what to make of it.”

  Matteo swallowed hard. Never had he heard Procopio make so bald an admission—the wizard prided himself in reading all things clearly. “Go on.”

  The wizard’s hawk-black eyes bore into Matteo’s. “The ice building where you and the girl were attacked is owned by Ferris Grail, headmaster of the Jordaini College.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Matteo hurried to the queen’s palace, his mind a whirl of confusion and anger. He had no reason to doubt Procopio. He fervently wished he did.

  His belief in the jordaini order had l
ong been eroding. Now it was crumbling under him. Zephyr had been turned by Kiva. Matteo had tried not to dwell overmuch on Andris’s disappearance, but as time passed and Andris did not surface, Matteo had to face the very real possibility that his friend had turned traitor. The possibility—he would not accept it as truth unless he saw Andris at Kiva’s side. Was it also possible that the headmaster of the Jordaini College might have employed thugs to silence a jordain’s search for truth?

  He strode toward the heavy doors that separated Beatrix’s court from the rest of the palace, determined to receive the queen’s permission to leave the city. If she did not grant it, he would do as Tzigone had advised and leave anyway.

  Several men and two women, all of them carrying crafters’ tools, waited by the outer door while the sentry loosed the magical wards. Judging from the clatter and bustle within Beatrix’s rooms, the sentry had been kept busy with the various comings and goings. There were three doors, all of them carefully locked and warded.

  Again Matteo recalled a jordaini proverb: Precaution is the grandchild of disaster. Such careful measures would not be taken to isolate the queen’s workshop from the rest of the palace unless the need was real and proven. However, King Zalathorm had dismissed the rumors about Matteo’s predecessor, and Matteo could not believe the king had lied.

  He fell in with the laborers and nodded to the harried sentry as he passed. The man, recognizing Matteo, raised his fingertips to his forehead in a salute, then rolled his eyes to express his opinion of the goings-on. Matteo nodded in heartfelt agreement.

  Inside the queen’s workshop, chaos reigned. A smith’s forge had been set up in a massive hearth. Hammers clattered as they beat metal into thin, smooth sheets. Metalworkers bent over a long table, shaping heated metal with tiny tools and painstaking care. Stout, hairy-footed halflings from nearby Luiren perched on stools and fitted tiny gears, their clever small hands darting with practiced ease. Off to one side of the room, a trio of artificers argued over a mechanical behir, a twenty-foot crocodilian with twice the number of legs nature usually allotted. As the debate grew more heated, one of the men kicked at the metal beast in frustration, harder than he might have had he not been so distracted by the argument. The ensuing clang rang out loud and long. He howled and limped around in a small circle as his comrades hooted with mirth.