The Magehound

by Elaine Cunningham

  “Fine winds today, Lord Basel.”

  The image of the wizard nodded happily. “Aye. The Avariel is giving near to five and twenty knots. I wouldn’t have thought the old girl could dance to so merry a tune.”

  “Small wonder. You sail deep into the lake winds.”

  “No deeper than you,” Basel retorted. “If you’ve something on your mind, man, have out with it.”

  “A challenge. A contest of will and nerve.”

  Basel’s eyes bulged, then he laughed. “A game of chicken, in other words. Come, Lord Procopio—a child’s game?”

  “Made interesting by a man’s wager. Say, two thousand skie? And I’m no such fool to suggest a collision course. A contest of skill and speed. The first to reach thirty knots takes it.”

  The wizard’s small eyes glinted. “I’m not so good a friend that I won’t take your money,” he agreed, and then his image winked out of sight.

  Procopio turned to Matteo. “Imagine that this is your first campaign. You will advise the general, who has been ordered to follow your counsel. The outcome of this battle is entirely in your hands.”

  Matteo longed to retort that this was a silly wager, not a battle worth fighting. To achieve those speeds, the ships would have to venture far out over the waters, where the winds were strong and unpredictable.

  But the wizard had created the situation, and it was Matteo’s duty to make of it what he could. He scanned the clouds and the shoreline as he ciphered the weight of the Starsnake.

  “What crew does the Avariel carry?”

  Procopio nodded his approval of this query. “Same as Starsnake, to the man. Six and twenty. The skyships were built by the same shipmaster, and the rods of levitation were enchanted by the same wizard. The ships are sisters. This contest will not be determined by the vessel, but by the wisdom of the captains.”

  Matteo was tempted to point out that a wise man didn’t take such large risks for sport or pride. Young as he was, he understood that not all truth should be spoken aloud. He turned to the helmsman, a thin, balding man nearly a head shorter than the wizard. “Your name, sir?”

  The man blinked, obviously surprised by the question and the courtesy. “Spalding, m’lord, an’ it please ye.”

  “You do me too much honor,” he said with a smile. “Procopio Septus is the only lord here. My name is Matteo.”

  “As ye will, m’ … Matteo.”

  “Thirty degrees toward starboard, Spalding.”

  Procopio scowled as the ship turned and slowed. “You’re heading back toward shore. That’s a coward’s course, and certain defeat. Turn back into the lake winds, if you’ve the stomach for it!”

  Being chided for a coward stung, but the jordain shook his head and studied the shoreline. “Hold steady, Spalding. On my mark, turn hard to starboard. Head directly to the shore by the shortest route and hold course. Trim the sails as needed to maintain speed.”

  The helmsman blanched, but he faithfully relayed the order to the crew who manned the ropes. Matteo waited until the moment was right, then bade the man turn. The ship swung in a slow, ponderous arc, losing speed as she went.

  “Bold move!” Procopio taunted.

  For a moment the sails fluttered slack. Then, as Matteo expected, they snapped taut and the ship leaped forward.

  The wizard’s brow furrowed with puzzlement. “This course seems destined to take us directly into the Avariel’s path.”

  “That is my intent.”

  Procopio stared at him, slack-jawed with astonishment. He shut his mouth with an audible click and shook his head. “You’ve gone mad. I’ve seen it before. Some men just can’t fly—the thin air addles their thinking. I’m taking over command, Spalding.”

  “No,” Matteo said calmly. He noticed the speculative gleam in his new patron’s eyes, and at this moment he understood that this was not pointless folly, but a test. If he meant to win Procopio’s respect, he had to see this through. “You bade me win this battle for you, and that is precisely what I am doing.”

  “Victory is sweet, but I’d rather have my ship, whole and skyworthy!”

  “Then stand by. To turn aside now would be dangerous.” To add weight to his words and to signify the seriousness of his intent, Matteo stepped between the incredulous wizard and the helmsman. He held the little man’s eyes with an unflinching gaze, one that held a different sort of challenge.

  This was clearly not what Procopio had been expecting. The wizard’s face turned purple with a mixture of anger and bruised pride. He could not compel Matteo by magic, and it was equally certain that he could not enforce his will by strength of arm. Procopio stepped back, his eyes black with anger, and began the gestures of a spell that would sidestep the jordain and impose his will on the helmsman.

  Matteo recognized the spell and deftly countered it. He seized the wizard’s right wrist and swept it up high, then hooked his thumb around the small finger of the left. This altered the gestures, turning the intended spell into a harmless illusion. Colored lights began to dance upon the sail, casting images of lithe women dancing in a circle, dressed in the feathers of the painted starsnake’s wings.

  Procopio dropped his hands to his sides and stared incredulously at the flickering image, all that remained of his interrupted spell.

  “You take too much upon yourself, jordain. An enormous risk, with a ship not your own! Do you know the worth of such a vessel?”

  Matteo told him precisely what it was worth, give or take a handful of gold pieces. The flash of surprise in the wizard’s eyes told Matteo that he had hit the mark. But more truth remained unspoken, and Matteo didn’t shrink from it. “Great risks were taken, that is true, but not by me.”

  Procopio’s eyes narrowed, but his expression remained unreadable. “How so?”

  “I spoke against venturing over the lake. The winds are strong and unpredictable. Once you determined to follow this course of action, my task was to keep you alive. I turned at the proper time, not before. It was not cowardice but calculation. Will you let me finish the task you gave me without further interference? If not, speak now. Soon there will be no time for disputation.”

  “I swear it,” Procopio grumbled. “The ship is yours to command.”

  Matteo nodded and turned his attention to the rapidly approaching skyship. He could see it now in more detail. Upon the sail had been painted elaborate runes and symbols, and the polished plates of the sea turtles that armored its hull had been gilded with electrum in similarly ornate patterns. But it was on the sails that Matteo concentrated. The winds were strong, and they filled the sails of both ships. If even one of the Avariel’s sails rippled and went slack, he would know that Basel Indoulur had lost his nerve. But if the approaching ship held course, then Matteo would evade it and leave Procopio to deal with his bruised pride and lightened purse.

  Yes, there it was, a soft fluttering of the foresail. The Avariel was taking evasive action. One uncertainty remained: Which way would Lord Basel turn?

  “How will he evade us?” Matteo demanded. “Will he turn toward port or starboard? Which sails will he drop, and which will he tack?”

  “He will not turn aside,” Procopio asserted. He gave Matteo a sour look. “Until today, I would have named Basel Indoulur the most stubborn and arrogant whore son in all Halruaa. Now he stands close behind you for that honor. He will not turn aside.”

  “Is this your opinion, or the word of a diviner?”

  Matteo’s words were a potent challenge. If Procopio were wrong, he would lose not only his ship, but his reputation as a wizard who could foresee what was to come.

  The wizard locked stares with his young counselor, then hissed and turned aside. “I will do the divination.”

  “Quickly,” Matteo urged.

  The wizard swept a hand over the globe and stared intently at something Matteo could not see. In a moment he looked up, and a wry smile touched his lips. “I’ll be a necromancer’s apprentice! You were right Basel will turn aside. He wil
l drop jib and foresail, tack hard to starboard with the aft sails, and use the lake winds to turn him hard out to sea.”

  Even as he spoke, the sails on the approaching starship began to flutter and shift. Matteo marked the arc of the starship’s turn and concentrated on the winds that whipped at his hair and cloak. Suddenly he felt a shift in the airflow, the outer edges of a small circular maelstrom, a storm in miniature.

  Matteo touched the helmsman’s arm. “Turn toward the Avariel ten degrees, on my mark. One—”

  “This is folly!’ sputtered Procopio. “The ships will surely collide.”

  “Two,” Matteo said coolly.

  The wizard braced himself against the rail for the coming impact and glared at his young counselor. “Consider yourself discharged, jordain.”

  “Now!”

  The helmsman gave the wheel a violent twist, and the Starsnake nosed about into the turning path of the rapidly approaching skyship.

  Just then the full impact of the expected wind seized them. The ship hurtled forward, leaping through the sky like a breaching dolphin. There was a soft hiss as the wooden rails of the two ships kissed gently in passing.

  The sudden squall died as quickly as it came, and the Starsnake slowed to a more sedate pace. Procopio turned an incredulous gaze upon his young counselor.

  “What was that?”

  Matteo permitted himself a smile. “About three and thirty knots, I daresay.”

  “Four and thirty,” the helmsman corrected in an awed tone.

  The wizard waved this victory aside. “But the wind … how did you know it was going to pick up just then?”

  Matteo pointed to a long, low building that lay below on the shores of that lake. “That is the city icehouse. See the large blocks being loaded onto those wagons?”

  “What of it?”

  “When water is magically changed to ice, much heat is given off. Some of that energy is channeled into magical power, but much of it is wasted. It rises swiftly, creating a strong updraft.”

  “Heat from ice,” the wizard muttered. “Never would I have thought of it quite that way.”

  “The effect upon the winds does not stop there. The chill given off by such large quantities of ice creates a strong pull for the warmer air, which in turn creates a strong circular wind. That is what caught us and brought us forward in a sudden surge. Had we not turned precisely when we did, we would not have caught the full power of the wind and would have collided despite Lord Basel’s evasion.”

  The wizard regarded him with interest, the near miss apparently forgotten. “Heat from ice. What battle applications might that have?”

  Matteo thought this over. “The ice works with the winds to create a small storm. If the clouds from this storm are low, a starship could rise above and seed them. A sprinkling of fine sand would be enough to engender a strong hailstorm. With or without magical amplification, such a storm could provide a diversion, at the very least, and quite possibly a devastating attack.”

  “Ice below draws ice from above. Under certain circumstances, that might prove useful. Ah, we hear at last from the intrepid Avariel,” Procopio said snidely as he turned to the softly humming globe.

  Basel Indoulur’s face appeared, ashen but smiling. “Well done, my friend! Half my crew are wishing for a clean pair of breeches and the feel of solid land beneath their feet. You’ve earned your two thousand skie. Or should I say, your new jordain has earned them for you,” he added slyly.

  A velvet bag appeared from the empty air and fell at Matteo’s feet with a weighty chink.

  “What say, lad?” continued Basel. “I could use an adviser with your nerve. Mine cluck and flap about like a passel of brooding hens.”

  Matteo noted the wary expression on Procopio’s face. The wizard had discharged him; he was free to take any employment offered him. But Matteo sensed that yielding anything, much less the services of a valuable counselor, would mean a loss of face to the wizard.

  “I am honored by your words, Lord Basel, but I have just recently entered the employ of your friend Procopio. I have no wish to leave.”

  It might not be the whole truth, but judging from the relief in the diviner’s eyes, it was the right answer.

  “Nor would I willingly let him go, Basel, and shame to you for trying to steal him out from under me!”

  The conjurer shrugged. “Ah, well. A man must have his sport We will meet soon, I trust”

  Basel’s image faded from the globe. “Too soon, most likely,” the diviner grumbled.

  When he turned back to Matteo, he was smiling. “That was well done all around. You displayed knowledge, judgment, confidence, and, not least important, loyalty. I am well pleased,” he said in a patronizing tone.

  Matteo inclined his head in a bow, less out of courtesy than to hide the flash of anger that he couldn’t fully suppress. He had hoped to prove himself, but through true service and not in foolish games.

  “Thank you, Lord Procopio, but I had thought that you found me unsuitably arrogant.”

  The wizard tossed back his head and laughed. “That’s no failing as long as it is justified. Arrogance is only intolerable in the inept.”

  “I shall keep that in mind,” Matteo said dryly.

  They spoke of other things, and the skyship came to port without further incident. Matteo suspected, however, that his time of testing had just begun.

  His suspicions were confirmed when he was taken to the jordaini quarters. His two escorts were not the only counselors in Procopio’s employ. Matteo was the youngest of eight. That night at dinner, six attended, and all of them seemed devoted to taking Matteo’s measure and ensuring that he understood his lowly status among them. It was not a pleasant meal, and Matteo was not sorry to see it come to an end.

  That night the oldest of the jordaini came to his chambers. To Matteo’s surprise, the jordain was a full-blooded elf and very old indeed.

  The counselor thrust out a slender hand, much wrinkled but still strong enough to offer a firm grasp. “I am Zephyr. If you have any questions, ask freely.” The elf smiled briefly. “Then when you are finished, I will supply answers to those questions you were too tactful to ask.”

  This introduction brought a smile to Matteo’s face. “Procopio finds himself in need of much advice, it would appear. Eight jordaini to one wizard?”

  The elf shrugged. “It is a matter of status. Procopio Septus collects counselors as some men collect horses, and I might add, he regards us in much the same light. Surely the starship flight convinced you of that”

  “You heard of it?” Matteo asked, somewhat chagrined.

  “From one of Lord Basel’s counselors,” the elf confirmed. “Your boldness surprised and pleased both wizards, but rest assured that Procopio stood ready to magically transport his ship to safety had you failed.”

  The enormity of such a casting stole Matteo’s breath. “If he doesn’t have need of me, why am I here?”

  “You have a name as a good fighter with a head for strategy. Procopio wishes to strengthen his understanding of military tactics. You can expect him to stage other games to test your wits and nerves.”

  That made little sense to Matteo. “Procopio is mayor of the city, but it is the king who directs the defenses.”

  The elf stabbed a finger at him as if to award a point. “Precisely. And Procopio intends to be king after Zalathorm.”

  There was something almost treasonous in that notion. Zalathorm had been king all of Matteo’s life, not to mention the lives of his unknown parents and grandparents. Life under another ruler was almost as unfathomable to him as the idea of moving to a strange land.

  “You must become accustomed to this notion,” Zephyr said dryly. “Our task is to aid Procopio in reaching this goal.”

  “Our task is to serve truth,” Matteo pointed out.

  The elf gave him a level stare. “And I’m telling you what our particular truth is. Measure all others against that, and you will do well here.”

&
nbsp; They chatted for a few moments more, then the elf jordain tired and excused himself to rest.

  For a long time, Matteo lay abed and considered what the elf had said. He had long understood that Halruaa was a society controlled by many rules and customs. For the first time, he considered the complexity of political maneuvering beneath the mannered and orderly surface.

  It was hard for him to find a place for himself amid this. A jordain’s stated role was to see and speak truth, cloaked perhaps in satire or other rhetorical garb, but truth untainted by either magic or personal ambition. The honor and veracity of the jordain was proverbial. Things were true or they were not It was that simple.

  But what of Andris? Was it possible that truth was a changeable thing, that the inviolate judgment of the magehounds, perhaps even the Disputation Table, could be bought with subtle coin?

  These were disturbing thoughts, and they followed him into his dreams when at last he fell asleep.

  The following days proved no better than the first. Matteo learned that although the king had no heirs, Procopio was abundantly blessed with them. The jordaini in Procopio’s service were entrusted with the education of these would-be princes and princesses—nine of them, by Matteo’s best count.

  His charge was Penelope, a girl of about eight, with long, fat black ringlets and a permanently petulant expression. Matteo got out a finely carved game of Castles and began to instruct her in the strategy.

  The tiny buildings held her interest for a few moments, but her attention soon wandered. Matteo quickly surrounded her fledgling structure with his pieces.

  “You are encircled, child. Next time keep a closer eye on the board and think with each move of what might come next.”

  Penelope’s lip thrust out, and her small hand flashed forward. Pieces of carved sandalwood and ivory scattered across the marble floor.

  “You cheated,” she said heatedly.

  Matteo blinked, not sure how to respond to such an absurd accusation. “Not so, lady. You simply lost the game.”

  She folded her arms and glared at him. “I don’t lose. I’ve never lost any game, ever.”