The Magehound

by Elaine Cunningham

  Although Matteo had been expecting this, the summons brought a lump of dread to his throat. He had been released from the hold and would not be tried for theft, but he had still committed a number of infractions of jordaini law and custom. And now he had missed the final ritual. It was likely that he would have to repeat the fifth form before leaving the school. Or, far worse, he might be dismissed altogether and stripped of rank and title.

  He quickly dressed and made his way to the large high-domed building that housed the jordaini court. The entrance hall was round, and in the floor was set with mosaic tile the emblem of the jordaini: a circle that was half yellow and half green, the colors separated by a lighting bolt of blue. Matteo rubbed at the empty spot on his chest where his medallion usually hung, then took a long, steadying breath and strode through the hall toward the council chamber.

  The Disputation Table was not only the name of the court, but a literal table, a huge structure comprising two very long tables connected at the far end by a smaller raised table. At this high place sat Dimidis, the judge who would render a verdict. The other masters and the jordaini students sat around the outer rims of the long tables. They all regarded him with somber faces.

  Matteo had been in attendance during many sessions, for the court was a busy place and was often called upon to interpret a jordain’s advice to his patron, as well as to deal with occasional disputes between jordaini and the less frequent infraction of rules.

  But the vast, hollow room had never seemed so ominous as it did now. Matteo held his chin high as he walked down the long center aisle to stand before Dimidis, painfully aware with each step of the eyes upon him.

  The aged judge was one of the few jordaini who took his status from his own position, rather than that of a patron. Dimidis was known for his stern and often inflexible judgments, as well as his tendency to form opinions and dislikes with distressing haste. Judging from the sour expression on the man’s lined face, Matteo guessed that he had earned the judge’s enmity.

  Dimidis rattled a sheaf of parchment. “We’ve all read of this young man’s misdeeds: tavern brawling, destroying property, attacking a magehound’s guard. He attended a performance that mocked the jordaini and then aided the performer’s escape. He has fought a duel with a weapon proscribed to his class—a stolen weapon, which was later found in his possession. When questioned in the hold, he defied the magistrate and refused to name the thief. This name would have been taken from him through Inquisition but for the intervention of the Inquisitrix Kiva.”

  The old man stopped and glared at the assembly. “These are the charges against Matteo of House Jordain. Who, if any, will speak for him?”

  “I, Lord Dimidis.”

  Matteo was grateful but not particularly surprised to see his favorite master, Vishna, the battle wizard, rise to speak.

  “like many of the students, Matteo went to Khaerbaal with a heavy heart. You know that Andris, a close friend to Matteo, was slain that morning at the command of the magehound Kiva.”

  “Which was both her function and her right,” Dimidis pointed out. “Continue.”

  “I sent Matteo to the city, knowing that some of the students would find outlets for their grief. If mischief came of it, I am in part to blame. Indeed, I expressly requested that Matteo watch over one of his fellows. This he did admirably. The other student returned to us on time, unscathed and held blameless for his actions. It was he who started the tavern brawl and Matteo who ended it”

  “The deeds of one jordain reflect upon us all. That is why this court exists. Matteo did no more than his duty.”

  “That is my point,” the wizard said earnestly. “This young jordain did his duty and did it well, despite his personal sorrow. If he was perhaps a bit impulsive in his subsequent actions, surely we can consider the circumstances.”

  The judge looked at the battle wizard as if he had been speaking Turmish, or Common, or some other barbarian tongue. “Is that all? Have you nothing relevant to add?”

  For a moment the wizard stared incredulously. “Apparently not,” Vishna said shortly and sat down with an abruptness that spoke more of anger than defeat.

  To Matteo’s surprise, Ferris Grail was the next to speak. He was also a wizard and the headmaster of House Jordain, but Matteo had had little direct contact with him. The headmaster was apparently better acquainted with Matteo. He spoke ringingly of Matteo’s scholarship, intellect, and unblemished record.

  “We have had eleven petitions for this jordain’s services,” the headmaster concluded. He placed a sheaf of parchment on the table before Dimidis. The judge picked it up and paged through it, his expression turning more dour by the moment

  “I would also speak,” said Annalia Gray, the school’s logic and rhetoric professor. The woman was the only female jordain in the complex and as gifted in disputation as any among them. Usually Matteo listened keenly to any words she had to say so that he could commit them to memory. Though his future depended upon her argument, he could not listen today. Instead, his eyes were drawn by the green and gold figure gliding down the aisle toward the judge’s bench. He barely noticed when Annalia Gray concluded, even though she took her seat in a burst of applause.

  Kiva, the Magehound, had come to speak for him.

  This Matteo had never anticipated, nor was he entirely happy to have such an ally. He listened with growing unease as Kiva repeated what had already been told, leaving out some things that had not yet been reported: Matteo’s battle with the wemic in the backstreets of Khaerbaal and the name of the girl he had defended. Tzigone was referred to only as “the thief in reference to the sword, and “the entertainer” when Kiva spoke of Matteo’s attack on Mbatu in the Falling Star Tavern. Indeed, to hear Kiva talk, it sounded as if there had been two distinct people.

  Finally Matteo was called upon to speak for himself. He bowed first to Dimidis, then to the assembled court.

  “All that you have heard against me is true. I thank Master Vishna for his words and for his compassion, but I must stand for my actions and not the circumstances that prompted them. I regret my infractions of jordaini law and will accept humbly whatever penalty this council assigns. I ask only that I might be permitted to ask the inquisitrix a question that has confounded me.”

  Dimidis looked pleased with Matteo’s manner and his request “You may speak.”

  Matteo turned a steady, challenging gaze upon the elf woman. “A dragon does not quit the skies to chase a rabbit into the thicket. Why then was the wemic Mbatu, a magehound’s right hand and personal bodyguard, in pursuit of a young woman who has been described only as a tavern performer and common thief?”

  Everyone in the room looked startled, then intrigued. “A good question,” Dimidis said approvingly, looking at Matteo with the first sign of real interest. “Lady Kiva, we are most eager to hear your response. Most eager indeed. By your words, I had gathered that Matteo had fallen in with two scoundrels, not a single girl.”

  Fury flashed through the magehound’s eyes, followed quickly by a flicker of indecision. Her cool mask was back in place so quickly that Matteo, had he not been studying her so intently, would have wondered if he’d imagined her initial response.

  “There is nothing to explain,” Kiva said in her cool, bell-like tones. “The girl is reputed to have a sharp and clever tongue, and the jordaini were not the only targets of her jests. She insulted Mbatu the day before. The wemic is quick to anger and quicker to attack. He tended his own business, not mine. For that, he has been duly rebuked. As to the misunderstanding about the girl’s identity, please recall that I speak your language as a second tongue. I have not the precision of speech that a jordain employs. One scoundrel or two, the girl was the wemic’s concern and not mine. I know nothing of her, and that is more than I care to know.”

  Dimidis looked faintly disappointed by this mundane explanation. “Then I suppose we’re finished here. I have little choice but to dismiss the matter. Among the petitions for Matteo’s service
s is one we could hardly ignore. Procopio Septus, Lord Mayor of Halarahh, finds himself in need of counsel.”

  Matteo’s eyes widened at this most unexpected news. Procopio was a powerful diviner, the mayor of Halruaa’s capital city and the captain of that city’s skyship militia. This was a coveted position and one that far exceeded his aspirations for his first post.

  For a moment pride surged, washing away some of the humiliation of the past few days. Then it occurred to him that this post would probably have gone to Andris, had he lived.

  Even so, it was a far better fate than he had expected. Matteo dipped into a deep bow. “Humbly I accept this post, Lord Dimidis, if that is the council’s desire.”

  “My wishes have little to do with this,” Dimidis said in a sour tone. “Just see that you have no further cause to stand before the Disputation Table, and I will be content.”

  Several days passed as Matteo traveled to Halarahh, the capital of the land and the home of Zalathorm, the wizard-king. It was not so very far a distance as the raven flies, provided that a raven could be persuaded to fly across the lower edge of the Swamp of Akhlaur and brave the winds that roiled over Lake Halruaa.

  The best and safest way to travel was by ship. Matteo set sail from Khaerbaal, skirting the coastline of the Bay of Taertal and moving along the western shores of Lake Halruaa.

  The days passed swiftly, despite his increasing anticipation. Matteo had not traveled to Halarahh since his twelfth year. His first glimpse of the city, as the ship rounded the storm break, proved more than equal to his memories.

  Much of the city was organized around the docks. But Halarahh was not like Khaerbaal, where prim rows of wooden docks jutted out into the sea and led to businesslike warehouses, inns, and taverns. The royal city had docks, certainly, and ships came and went briskly. But beyond the harbor was a wonderfully broad and open area, paved with colored stone and shaded by trees and fanciful pavilions. This was the site of colorful festivals, seasonal fairs, and open-air markets.

  “What fair is currently running?” Matteo asked one of his fellow passengers, a merchant from the eastern foothills.

  The man’s eyes lit up. “The Monster Fair. It’ll be a sight, if you’ve time to take it in. Good bull aurochs, for farmers who’ve got the pasturage to feed fuzzy elephants. Don’t hold much with them myself. Meat’s too gamey. Much prefer a good haunch of rothe.”

  A faint stab of disappointment assailed Matteo at this mundane description. “It’s a market for cattle, then?”

  “And everything else. The fancy lizards that ladies keep as pets these days. Birds from the Mhair Jungles. Griffon kittens, dragon eggs. If you can eat it, cage it, put it on a leash, or chop it up for spell parts, like as not it’ll be there. I hear tell they’ve even got a unicorn up for bid.”

  It was on the tip of Matteo’s tongue to ask which of these fates awaited the unicorn, but he decided he would rather not know. He thanked the man and went off to collect his few possessions.

  The ship moved smoothly into the dock, and Matteo was met at the plank by men wearing jordaini white and distinctly unpleasant expressions. They looked him over in a manner that made Matteo suddenly sympathetic for the creatures in the market square.

  “You’re Procopio’s latest?” one of them demanded.

  “I am Matteo, and I am here to enter the service of Procopio Septus,” he agreed.

  “Well, come along,” the speaker said grudgingly.

  The men spun and stalked off, leaving Matteo to follow or not.

  He was surprised by the less than enthusiastic welcome, but he was too fascinated by his surroundings to take much offense. Halarahh was a wondrous city, the largest in the land, home to nearly eight thousand souls. Yet as Matteo’s escort led him through the market square toward the villa of Procopio Septus, he didn’t once get the feeling of being in a close or crowded place.

  The villas they passed were sprawling and spacious. Even the homes of middling folk boasted comfortable grounds filled with gardens and flowers. Public parks and gardens greeted them at nearly every turn. Wide streets opened into large courtyards, many of which housed open-air markets, smaller versions of the vast dockside square.

  The city was comfortably cool, a welcome respite from the punishing sun of Matteo’s sea journey. Perched on the northern banks of Lake Halruaa, the city sat at the confluence of two of the land’s greatest rivers: Halar and Aluar. Soft breezes wafted off the waters and were captured and magnified by many innovative magical devices.

  Although Matteo could not work magic, he had spent most of his life in study of it. Never, however, had he seen so much of it concentrated in one place. Almost half the inhabitants of the city were spellcasters, and at least three hundred made their livelihood by working magic. Wizards’ towers leaped toward the azure sky, giving the city an aspect of a forest fashioned of marble and crystal and stone. Magical lamps lined the streets and enlivened the homes and shops. As they passed the open doors of some of the grander shops, they were treated to a soft caress from the soft, scented breezes that magically cooled the merchants and their customers. Flat-bedded carts trundled by at regular intervals, laden with magically created ice blocks that cooled folks of lesser means.

  But what most amazed Matteo were the skyships. Although Halruaa was famed for these marvelous cloud-going vessels, Matteo had never seen one close at hand. His last trip to Halarahh had taken place during the winter, when most skyships kept close to land. He had observed the spring regatta at the Lady Day festivals that took place in every city in the land, but he had always seen the skyship display from a distance. It was considered unseemly for a jordain to be sprinkled with fortune-telling magic.

  So he was vastly pleased when the road his fellow jordaini traveled led toward the docks where the ships came to roost. Several of the graceful ships wheeled through the sky as they traced the edges of the lake like fine ladies on a summer evening’s promenade. Each of the ships boasted three masts, plus a flying jib aft and two sails astern on swinging booms. The bodies of the ships were plated with armor from giant sea turtles, so from below they looked much the same. But much color and design had been lavished upon the sails.

  “You’re staring like a peasant,” one of the jordaini observed coldly. “Have you never seen a skyship?”

  “Never so close at hand. What stately grace,” Matteo marveled. “They look rather like kites flown by giant, powerful children.”

  “A fine way to describe your new patron,” observed a dry voice behind him.

  Matteo turned. A short, thin man stood behind him, arms folded and head tilted to one side as he returned Matteo’s gaze. The newcomer was a striking man, one who would draw eyes in a crowd despite his lack of stature. His nose was hooked like a hawk’s, and his thick snowy hair had been cut exceedingly short so that it bristled about his head. His medallion proclaimed him a wizard of the divination school, and the ring on his hand was etched with the seal of the city: a triangle pointed downward with a star at the tip to represent the shape of the land on which Halarahh sat. Wavy lines etched over the whole completed the crest of the windswept city.

  “Lord Procopio.” Matteo swept into a formal bow.

  The wizard waved aside this courtesy. “You took your time in coming, young man. The crew has been holding the skyship for your arrival.”

  This was an unexpected treat Matteo’s eyes lit up. Then his gaze darted to the other jordain for confirmation. They regarded him with narrowed eyes and scowls. Puzzled, Matteo turned back to his new patron. “You wish us to accompany you on the skyship?”

  “Just you. Come aboard, unless you can fly on your own power,” the wizard said tartly. He turned and strode toward one of the docked ships.

  Matteo followed, studying the vessel with interest. The image of a long, sinuous snake had been painted in rainbow colors on the side of the ship and continued to coil its way up the foremost mainsail. The other sails depicted a starsnake’s wings, and elaborate curved runes painted o
nto the hull confirmed that Starsnake was indeed the ship’s name.

  Lord Procopio led the way to the forecastle and twisted the gold and silver rod mounted there. The skyship rose gracefully into the sky, more rapidly than Matteo would have thought possible.

  The wizard looked at him sharply. “You look surprised. Have you not learned the properties of such ships?”

  “I have, my lord. Knowing is one thing; experiencing is quite another.”

  “True enough. How fast are we going?”

  Matteo considered what he knew of the ships and calculated the effects of the winds off Lake Halruaa. “Seventeen knots,” he said firmly, glancing toward the helmsman for confirmation.

  The helmsman nodded. Procopio shrugged, unimpressed, and pointed out toward the center of the lake. “Take her out. Let’s give our new counselor a bit of a challenge.”

  The man at the wheel looked none too happy, but he did as he was bade, leaning his weight into turning the heavy wheel.

  This put Matteo in the uncomfortable position of needing to give advice before any was requested. He wondered that he would have to do so, for the dangerous winds of Lake Halruaa were proverbial. No ship sailed the interior of the lake, not on the surface and not in the air.

  “Lord Procopio, if I am to fulfill my duty, I must advise you against going out over the lake,” Matteo said respectfully.

  Procopio’s only response was to point toward another ship, skirting the shore and rapidly approaching them.

  “That is the Avariel, owned by the conjurer Basel Indoulur. He is a reckless man, proud enough to consider himself my rival. If we engage him in challenge, he will not turn away.”

  Procopio turned to a blue scrying globe mounted on a pedestal and gestured over it. Clouds swam in the circular sky, then parted to reveal the face of his apparent rival. The man was portly, with pillowy cheeks and small, shrewd eyes. His black hair had been oiled and worked into many small braids that hung nearly to his shoulders. The wizards exchanged the expected pleasantries, then Procopio got down to business.