The Magehound

by Elaine Cunningham

  But she hated to leave the weapon in the street. Who knew who might pick it up and what use they might make of it? And judging from the day he’d had so far, Matteo was likely to need just such a sword before much more time passed. Certainly he’d handled it better than she had expected. It would be well for both of them if he had use of the sword when next their paths crossed.

  Tzigone didn’t require much persuading. She took a length of leather thong from her bag and quickly tied the sword to the back of the stallion’s saddle. Fortunately the horse’s back was broad and the sword short enough to conceal. She tucked the saddle blanket over the hilt. Judging by the shrewd, approving look in Cyric’s eyes, she figured that the horse would find some way to alert Matteo of the weapon’s presence if need arose.

  She worked quickly and backed away just as Matteo looked up from the newly repaired bridle. “Peace to you, Tzigone,” he said as he swung himself up on the stallion’s back.

  “And to you,” she responded demurely.

  She watched as the young man rode off, well content with her decision. Peace was a fine word and certainly something worth aspiring to, but in her experience, it was rarer than riches. If peace proved elusive, at least she’d seen that Matteo was properly armed.

  And properly warded, too. The wemic was beginning to stir and groan, but when he awoke he would remember nothing of the day’s events.

  Just to be sure, Tzigone crouched by the wemic and repeated the small spell that she had cast, one that she had learned in a lifetime of seeking remedies for her own forgetfulness.

  Her fingers still itched and tingled after the casting was complete. This didn’t surprise her. Wizards seemed to think that all magical energy should dissipate with a spell, but Tzigone found this ridiculous. Magic was all around; all that wizards did was pick up pieces of it and combine them to make something new. They were so puffed up about their “great power,” as if they actually created the magic they used. As if anyone could!

  But there did seem to be an unusual amount of magic about. There was also some interesting treasure. Tzigone’s fingers reached, almost of their own volition, for the wemic’s earring. The stone was too big to be a ruby, but even it if were a garnet or carnelian, it would fetch a good price at the back door of many a respected gem merchant. She didn’t worry about speeding the wemic’s rise to wakefulness. Her fingers were so skilled that she could take the gem from him when he was fully awake without alerting him to his loss.

  But she stopped just short of touching the stone. Acting on instinct, she jerked back her hand and clenched her fingers into a fist Insight quickly followed. The ruby had been a lure, as most likely the red gown had been a lure. It had been so prominently displayed, so easy to steal, and so temptingly cut to her size. The last bit convinced her that she was right. The gown had been fashioned of expensive watered silk, yet it was far too small to fit the lush, extravagant figures cultivated by ladies of wealth and fashion. She’d bet skie against sand that it had been made to order with her in mind. And embued with a spell of seeking. No wonder the wemic had come so close to catching her.

  With a single quick movement, Tzigone rocked back on to her heels and then rose to her feet. Resisting the temptation to give the wemic a final kick, she melted into the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, intent upon finding a way to finish paying her debt to the young jordain.

  CHAPTER SIX

  In a rented tower room not far away, Kiva leaned intently over the scrying bowl as she watched the battle between her friend Mbatu and the young jordain who had caught her eye earlier that day.

  Matteo intrigued her. She had taken Zephyr’s reports and done some research of her own. By all accounts, he was among the most promising of the jordaini students, as sharp and strong as any among them. Yet until this morning, she had not considered him to be a likely recruit. He was a true believer, steeped from birth in jordaini lore and the glamour of the jordaini myth. Such as he were never easy to turn.

  She would believe this still, had she not witnessed the intensity of his grief over his lost friend. Matteo might have devoted his life to truth, but Kiva suspected that in time he would find rules and facts to be too bloodless a mistress.

  At present Matteo was as proper and prideful as any young man of his elite class. But if that were to change, he could become a useful tool. His words suggested a subtlety of mind that pleased Kiva. He was still too young and naïve for that subtlety to prove a threat, but it would make the process of conquest more interesting and rewarding.

  A faint groan came from the curtained bed. Kiva absently flicked her fingers toward her latest recruit, increasing the flow of scented smoke from the censer beside his bed and thus deepening his slumber. It was not her favorite method of inducing sleep. She preferred to use the spell that had apparently, and mysteriously, been worked upon the wemic.

  Kiva studied the picture in the scrying bowl carefully. After casting the illusion that had enabled her to take Andris from House Jordain, she had followed the group of grieving jordaini students to Khaerbaal. She had two purposes for this: First she hoped to glean more information about Matteo by watching his behavior away from the strict rules of the school and the watchful eyes of his masters. In addition to this, she wanted Mbatu to finish the work of the previous day. If luck was with them, he would at long last run Keturah’s daughter to ground.

  The wench had been seen in Khaerbaal a few days ago, and the Lady Day festivities had offered a means of smoking her out. But the girl had managed to elude Mbatu in the crowds, and Kiva had been forced to leave the city or risk losing Andris to bids from other wizards.

  Tzigone was a complication, to be sure, but her presence in Khaerbaal was also an opportunity that Kiva could not let pass. Three moons had waxed and waned since she’d last heard so much as a word of the slippery wench. So the wemic had left Andris sleeping in Kiva’s care, exchanged his earring for an identical one linked to Kiva’s scrying bowl, and gone off in pursuit of Tzigone.

  The ruby and bowl were powerful devices, ancient beyond reckoning and reputed to have been created by an Ilythiiri wizard before the sundering of the one land. Kiva had carefully researched the claims of the adventurer who had sold her the bowl, and when she was satisfied that the man spoke truth, she had bought the treasure and then killed him. These days the Ilythiiri were called by another name: drow. These dark elves evoked such fear and horror that Kiva knew no one, human or elf, who would willingly use an artifact they had created, not even if it proved to be the most powerful device of its kind that Kiva had encountered in two centuries devoted to the study of such treasures.

  Yet despite its power, the scrying bowl yielded no sign of the wayward girl. Kiva battled anger and frustration as she watched through Mbatu’s eyes without actually seeing his prey. Her frustration had turned to fascination when Matteo stepped between the wemic and the fugitive. A jordain was pledged to follow the law, yet Matteo had risked his future to place himself between an unknown girl and a magehound’s personal guard. Kiva noted the mixture of chivalry and rage that prompted the jordain’s uncharacteristic response, and her plans for Matteo took a sudden shift.

  She watched as the young pair fled together, tracking Tzigone by Matteo’s exasperated responses to the girl’s unseen actions and unheard words. The girl’s shield against magical inquiry was absolute, even stronger than that of a jordain. In fact, this was the first scrying device Kiva had ever found that could actually track a jordain, who were bred for their magic resistance.

  The girl would have been one of the strongest jordaini in Halruaa’s history had her breeding been true. Such a waste—all the careful testing and meticulous records that made the marriage match between two wizards, not to mention the magical potions fed to the female for years. Who could have guessed that Keturah would disrupt the breeding process and take matters into her own hands?

  Frankly, Kiva was surprised at the woman’s initiative. It was true that Keturah had always been a strong-minded
wench, but the humans of Halruaa were seldom capable of such blatant rebellion. Their lives and minds were ordered and constrained by laws, rules, customs, and magic.

  Always magic, Kiva reminded herself. She could endure much for that She could shrug aside nearly twenty years of training in their schools, the sly questing hands of their males, the idiocy of their rules. What were such things to an elf who had seen the birth and death of three centuries? If it took her another three hundred years, she would use Halruaa’s magic to seize what was hers to claim.

  And Matteo would help her to accomplish her goal. Of that Kiva was certain. He had the skill to defeat a wemic battlemaster and the independence to befriend an apparent street urchin. Of course, that tolerance would no doubt evaporate like dew in highsun once he found out that the girl spilled magic as carelessly as a fumble-footed tavern wench slopped soup.

  But that knowledge could be long in coming to Matteo. Kiva had come to know Tzigone well enough to suspect that the girl would hold her secrets close and well.

  Kiva bent over her scrying bowl. Matteo was on horseback, heading for the north gates. Kiva studied his posture and his placement on the saddle and decided that he rode alone.

  The magehound waved a hand over the bowl to dispel the image and rose from the table. She went over to the cot and bent over her captive, lifting the lids on his hazel-green eyes and looking deep within, ensuring that his sleep was both safe and deep.

  She quickly chanted a spell, one that would take her to the quiet street where Mbatu lay sleeping. When she emerged from the magical transport, she took from her bag a small square of black silk, which she unfolded again and again until it was many times its original size. This she dropped over the wemic. The gossamer veil floated down, draped over Mbatu’s great form, and then sank again until it lay flat against the cobblestone.

  Kiva snatched up the scarf and held it high, spinning in a quick circle and then letting it fly. The thin silk whispered around her as it fell, and she felt the quick, sure pull of the magic that drew her back to her rented room. At the last moment, she seized the corner of the portal with practiced ease, bringing the priceless device with her.

  She tossed the silken portal aside and strode to the locked box she had left on her bedside table. Mbatu would fold the silk later, once he recovered from Tzigone’s casting as well as from the magical inquisition that was to come.

  Kiva took from the box a small rod—not the ornate, bejeweled toy she had brandished to confound the jordaini and their masters, but the real instrument of her office. Slim and silvery, it was no metal to be wrested from soil and rock, but captured lightning, pure energy converted to solid form. She knew of nothing that conducted magic so well—not water, not amber, not even moonstone. If there was a trace of magic in a living creature, she would know. The rod could reveal other useful and important things, but Kiva seldom used it Lightning was never easy to hold, and the process was as painful to the magehound as it was enlightening.

  She completed the spell that released the wemic from Tzigone’s casting. Mbatu stirred and stretched painfully. His amber eyes opened, then narrowed as they focused upon the wand in Kiva’s hand.

  “The scrying bowl did not work?” he asked in a sleep-scratchy growl.

  “It worked, but I need to know more. I need to know everything.”

  The wemic regarded her for a long moment. He shifted into a sitting position, folding his forepaws under him and using his humanoid arms to brace himself for the coming ordeal. It apparently did not occur to him to ask if the magical inquisition was necessary. If Kiva thought the pain was worth bearing, he could do no less.

  “I am ready,” he said in a stronger voice.

  The magehound knelt on the floor facing him and slowly extended the wand until the tip lightly touched Mbatu’s forehead.

  Instantly she was swept by a great silent wind, a psychic typhoon that buffeted at her mind, her identity, her soul. It was no small thing to enter the mind of another sentient being, even that of a friend. Many a magehound had died shrieking after the first attempt, for sanity could be swept away by the onslaught, and a heart might burst from the burden of two separate rhythms that refused to become one.

  But Kiva was strong enough, and so was Mbatu. The moment of agony passed quickly, and she slipped into the familiar pathways of the wemic’s mind and heart. For a moment she paused, awed as a visitor to a grand temple, to marvel anew at the utter loyalty she found there. It was a quality Kiva valued, but not one that she understood.

  She took from her friend’s mind the tavern scene, and she suppressed a smile at the snippets of Tzigone’s irreverent commentary that Mbatu had picked up before his charge. Through the wemic’s eyes, she saw everything Mbatu had seen, and she noticed details and subtleties that he had not discerned. She saw Matteo’s face as he leaped up and upended the table, and she marked the seeds of rebellion in the young jordain’s fierce black eyes. By the time the vision was complete, Kiva knew that her decision was sound.

  Slowly, carefully, she eased apart the magical ties that bound her to Mbatu. The wemic studied her with eyes glazed by pain but untouched by reproach.

  “You will have this one, too, I suppose? He fights well enough,” he added wryly.

  “Matteo will fight for me in time,” she agreed. “However, at present I have another use for him. His path will cross with the girl’s, most likely quite soon. We can use that. We can encourage that. When the time is right, we can take them both unawares.”

  Mbatu snorted. “The jordaini have little use for women. Let a few moons pass, and he will not care whether Keturah’s daughter lives or dies.”

  “I can change that.”

  The wemic misunderstood the sudden gleam in Kiva’s eyes. “Is that wise? Dalliance with a student jordain will be frowned upon, even for someone in your high place. Perhaps especially so. Magehounds and jordaini do not mix. Personal involvement might taint the clarity and purity of your judgment and ill serve the cause of Azuth,” he quoted.

  They shared a chuckle at this notion. Her involvement was deeply personal, and her judgments had little to do with the workings of Azuth.

  Kiva sobered first and told the wemic her plan. “Once Matteo has been taken, you can handle the horse? You will see that it is returned to the jordaini college?”

  “I will do it,” Mbatu grumbled. “Dark-hearted bastard that he is.”

  “Good. The moon wanes, and the new moon is three days away. The purification ritual will be performed that night. We must keep Matteo away until after this is done so he will not know the difference.”

  “Do you truly think he will not notice whether the rite is performed or not? Humans are not such eunuchs as that!”

  “The jordaini do not know what awaits them. What Matteo does not know, he cannot dread. Students are taken to the ritual alone and hooded. The wizard who performs the rite does not know who comes under his knife. After the deed is done, the jordaini are sworn to secrecy and taken to recover in isolation. It will be a small thing to find a commoner to send in Matteo’s place, especially if the man is seen riding into the complex on Matteo’s horse.”

  “The masters of House Jordain are not so easily fooled. They will never permit this!” the wemic protested.

  A small smile touched the magehound’s lips. “You would be surprised what the jordaini will permit. Truth, as it happens, is a remarkably mutable thing. Go now and tend your part.”

  They left the tower room together, Mbatu to seek in the countryside beyond the city walls a young man who would stand for Matteo in the rite of purification, one who bore a passing resemblance to the jordain. Kiva’s task was simpler: to report what she suspected to the captain of the local militia. Tzigone never carried a sword, or for that matter much of anything else. The canny wench knew that enspelled objects could be traced, and she changed possessions frequently. But Kiva was willing to bet that the young thief would not cast away so fine a sword. It was undoubtedly still in Matteo’s possess
ion.

  Kiva quickly found a detachment of local militia. The captain took the magehound’s report and set out for the northwest gate after Matteo.

  Well satisfied, Kiva rode to a small holding she kept outside the city and settled down to await Mbatu, confident that the wemic would arrive shortly with Matteo’s stallion and, more importantly, his substitute.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A sense of unease followed Tzigone like a shadow as she made her way to the Behir’s Nest. As the sun dipped toward the west, the streets began to come alive. She worked her way through the crowd, paying less attention to her surroundings than usual.

  Such weakness was often fatal and always dangerous, like fear, inattention seemed to draw predators as blood in the water summoned sharks. From the corner of her eye, Tzigone noted that a street urchin had fallen into step with her, just slightly behind her and out of the normal range of vision.

  For a moment Tzigone’s throat tightened. The furtive, hollow-eyed child was a reminder of her early years and a mirror of what she had been forced to become. But that didn’t stop her from seizing the thin, seeking hand that reached for her bag.

  Tzigone spun the boy around, flinging him against the back wall of a milliner’s shop. She caught him by surprise, and tossing him about was easy to do. But not until she had him pinned against the wall did she realize that the boy was fully her height and probably nearly as strong. That realization didn’t change her intention in the slightest.

  She turned his grimy hand palm up and slapped into it a coin, one of the skie that the starsnake’s skin had brought her.