The Magehound

The wizard opened the small bag Matteo handed him. Headmaster Ferris Grail, probably anticipating something like this, had instructed the jordaini's steward to dispense coins with a lavish hand.

The wizard's lips moved as he counted the sum within. "This will cover the damage," he agreed.

"And Themo's expenses? I assume he had a bit to drink," Matteo said dryly. His words held a rebuke, for by law it was forbidden to serve anything stronger than wine to a jordain. The effort made to keep the jordaini free of magic's influence would be wasted if their wits were confused by drink or pipe weed.

The wizard was too busy recounting the coins to notice Matteo's mild accusation. Since the amount in the bag far exceeded what Themo could drink or break in the course of a fortnight of grief, the wizard looked only too happy to call matters settled. He even clapped his arm around the young jordain's shoulders.

"Drink with me," he said expansively. "There's no bard in the house this day, but an entertainer or two stayed on when their troupe passed through. You might find such sport amusing."

Matteo doubted that sincerely, but he could find no polite reason to refuse the wizard's offer. He allowed himself to be guided to a table, and he sipped at a glass of pale yellow wine that the wizard poured from a silver decanter. The wizard launched into a tale of other battles he had quelled. Matteo listened politely but with scant interest as he watched the barmaids swiftly set the tavern to rights.

A few of the patrons stumbled out, perhaps to seek healers or to face scolding spouses, but most simply resumed their seats and paid little heed to swelling jaws or blackened eyes. Matteo didn't suppose that most of the tavern's patrons considered such things novelties, much less inconveniences.

He watched the mixed crowd with interest. Many of the patrons wore the blue-green uniform of Halruaa's navy, and an equal number sported the colors of various local militia. Sailors were plentiful, notable for garb as colorful as it was salt-encrusted. Matteo suspected that not a few of them were pirates, but forbearance was the rule at dockside taverns. Here there was no such thing as an i

Many sorts of people came to the Falling Star. Matteo noted a pair of merchants, a blacksmith still wearing the apron of her office, and a dour trio of dwarf miners who hunkered down over their mugs, squat and silent as toadstools. There were a few foreigners as well. A tall, fair-haired man on the far side of the room was certainly a barbarian from some far northern land. The woman with him was a cleric. Matteo couldn't make out her deity's symbol from this distance, but he could see the faint red glow of the tattoo that marked it upon her forehead. Priests of all strange gods were so marked in Halruaa as a condition of entry. They were admitted to the port cities under certain strictures. They could not venture inland or attempt to proselytize. Either offense would activate the magic of the temporary tattoo, causing the mark to burn through the cleric's skull and into his or her brain. Matteo had seen this happen during his last visit to Khaerbaal in this very tavern. The grim process had taken a long time, and it had sent every one of the tavern's hardened patrons reeling into the alleys with green faces. It was that, even more than Andris's battle strategy, that had enabled Themo to walk away from the brawl with no more lasting harm than a broken jaw and a reprimand from Dimidis.

The house wizard's eyes suddenly brightened. He nodded to a table near the back of the room. "Now we shall have a disputation worth hearing!"

Matteo frowned, puzzled by the implication. Jordaini often held public debates or monologues, but always at the behest of their patrons and never in so rude a place. His puzzlement turned to slack-jawed astonishment when a small, thin lad climbed onto the table and touched a finger to his heart in the traditional salute to truth. Obviously the lad was not well acquainted with jordaini custom. He employed his middle finger rather than the prescribed digit.

The patrons stamped and hooted and banged their mugs on the dented tables. The would-be jordain acknowledged this acclaim with the traditional bow, bending at the waist, eyes never looking down, executing the graceful gesture perfectly yet somehow imbuing it with mockery. His face and movements projected an air that was both smugly self-important and wildly, blatantly effete. Several of the sailors chuckled, and a huge black-bearded man shouted a coarse insult.

The boy took this in stride, sending the burly sailor a wink that deftly turned the man's insult to unintentional invitation. The man turned scarlet as his mates guffawed and pounded the table with delight.

"Consider the starsnake," the boy said in a rich alto. "This is a puzzle that would confound Queen Beatrix herself."

This comment drew another round of chuckles. Matteo scratched his jaw as he considered the puzzle before him-and not the puzzle of the starsnake. The boy was a street urchin, yet he spoke with powerful, finely modulated tones that took years of study and practice to achieve. More disturbing still, the voice itself was eerily familiar. Female jordaini were rare, and this lad reproduced as faithfully as an echo the tones of the most famous jordaini woman: Cassia, counselor to King Zalathorm himself.

That accounted for the patrons' sly laughter. It was widely rumored some of the luster was off the shining love between the wizard-king and Beatrix, his latest queen. The jordain Cassia no doubt started some of these rumors. She took great pride in her post, and some said that her pride was too great and her ambitions too high.

What the truth of that was, Matteo couldn't say, but he had heard that the female jordain contrived to be at the king's side whenever possible. When this was not possible, Cassia often amused herself by declaiming scathing, subtle satires on such matters as absorbed the queen's interest. She had spoken at House Jordain, and Matteo would forget his own name before he would the music of her voice. And here it was again, pouring forth from this unlikely vessel!

The boy's commentary continued, deftly skewering both the foibles of the court and the pretensions of the jordaini. The house wizard nodded and smiled, but his face began to darken like a coming lake storm when the target shifted to wizards and their oddities.

"I like this not at all," he grumbled.

Matteo considered mentioning that the discourse was becoming amusing at last, but he decided that the remark lacked the discretion his rank demanded. "The lad has talent," he commenting, thinking this a suitably neutral remark.

For some reason, his words greatly amused the wizard. He threw back his head and laughed heartily and unpleasantly. There was a nasty gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as he regarded his guest. "So it's true, I suppose, what they say of you jordaini?"

Matteo longed to strike the malicious smile from the wizard's lips. "You have me at a disadvantage, sir," he said formally. "I am not aware of the particular gossip to which you refer."

The laughter disappeared from the wizard's face like an extinguished candle. Gossip was considered vulgar, and Matteo's polite words were a thinly veiled insult.

Before the man could speak, a low growl vibrated through the room like thunder. Silence fell over the tavern. Matteo turned to the door and let out a curse that earned him a respectful stare from a sailor at the next table.

The wemic Mbatu crouched in the open door, his tail lashing and his baleful glare fixed upon the lad. Quick as a startled fish, the boy was off the table and darting toward the back door. Mbatu sprang, crossing the taproom with huge, bounding leaps.