The Magehound

The magehound waved away these concerns with a quick, impatient flick of one hand. "House Jordain is ridiculously wealthy, for all your protestations of personal poverty. If you're so concerned for this peasant, recompense him. He will not have children. Well enough. A mule and a milkmaid should fill the breach."

"But what of his wife?" the man said softly. "If ever your arms ached to hold a child, you could not condemn even an unknown woman to this emptiness."

Rage set the elf's golden eyes aflame, then banked with a control so absolute that the lack of emotion was more terrifying than her sudden anger.

But the old man would not be deterred. "What of Matteo? You are a high servant of Azuth, you know the hidden mysteries of this land. He ca

In response, she handed him a small jeweled token. No bigger than the nail of her small finger, it was a tiny pellet studded with scales the colors of topaz and garnet and filled with magic. It was the token of the queen, and it carried both sentence and decree.

"I have my orders," Kiva said evenly, "and now you have yours."

For a long moment the man regarded the jeweled pill, and not because he wished to contemplate its beauty. Then he quickly swallowed it. He knew that from this moment, to speak of what was done this day would mean his death.

"Come along," he said harshly. "Let's get this travesty done and over with."

The magehound shook her head. "I must return to the city on business. You can handle this from here, I trust. Oh, and one thing more. I've brought with me a black stallion, Matteo's chosen mount. Take the beast back with you to complete the subterfuge. You may board my mare at your stables for several moons and keep the foal that the stallion has most likely got on her while we spoke," she said generously. "The foal is likely to be quite valuable and will provide some recompense."

"Recompense for what?" the man snapped. "My honor? This poor man's virility? Or perhaps Matteo's life? Where is the boy? What has become of him?"

"That is the very business I must attend. You see, Matteo was detained in the city. Some unpleasantness surrounding the big jordain known as Themo, I believe. A tavern brawl with unfortunate consequences," she said, invoking a half-truth that the master was certain to accept.

The man sighed. "You can bring Matteo back to us? What of this so-called 'unpleasantness? Is this a matter that you can handle?"

"Of course. Though it would be best that your student knows nothing of what passed between you and me."

"It is unlikely that he will know any of it! The jordaini are told of the purification rite, but most think that it is nothing but a time of solitary contemplation. Afterward they are sworn to silence. So far none has broken oath. And so far," he said pointedly, "none has birthed or fathered children that the entire land must fear. Think carefully upon what you do."

Kiva's lips twisted in a sneer. "Do not attempt to take the moral high ground. You couldn't find it with a map and a ranger to guide you! How dare you lecture me! You, who would rather see your own son castrated than see harm done to a peasant whose name you need never know."

The wizard paled. "The parentage of a jordain is a secret thing, never to be spoken of lightly."

"Then do as I say, and we need never speak of it at all," Kiva said implacably. "Matteo need never learn of what was done to assure his impressive talents and high status. I have seen how he took the death of his friend. How would he receive the truth about his mother? How would he regard the man who had a part in such a thing?"

For a long moment silence filled the room. "Go," the man said in a choked voice. "As always, everything will be done as you say."

* * * * *

Matteo slumped against the cold stone wall and stared out the single window in the door of his cell as he tried to take it all in. Andris was dead. Mystra only knew what had become of Themo. And he, Matteo, was imprisoned on a charge of carrying a weapon that was not only proscribed but also stolen.

He sighed and surveyed his prison. The hold was a rarity in Halruaa, a land of swift justice and very few prisons. The port city of Khaerbaal was more rough-and-tumble than most, and though a few minor offenders were sentenced to a few days of confinement, for the most part the hold was a place to store criminals until the resident mage could attend to his or her case. Guilt was quickly determined through magical inquiry and the sentence carried out according to law.

Matteo had no fear of the outcome. His i

A shadow passed by the small, barred window, silhouetted against the flickering light of torches thrust into metal brackets on the walls outside. Matteo gave an impassive glance toward what he thought was the guard, then leaped to his feet. The light was dim and uncertain, but Tzigone's face was forever burned into his memory and he would know her anyplace.

"You!" he declared in a tone that dripped with wrath as he pointed an accusing finger at the young woman.

Tzigone rolled her eyes. "And I thought Gio's performance was overwrought. Save the drama for the supper crowd. Right now let's think about getting you out of here."

If possible, the mention of rescue only served to increase Matteo's ire. "I am jordaini, bound by the laws of the land. You insult me by suggesting that I would attempt to escape justice."

"Justice?" she repeated incredulously. "Is that what you think happens around here? I know the magehound who works the hold. He's an ugly little monkey of a man who holds a grudge against anyone better favored than he. One look at that handsome face of yours and he'll be howling for an Inquisition. If I were you, I wouldn't bet my future on the outcome."

Matteo's first impulse was to protest this as blasphemous. A magehound's word was final and fair. This was the underlying premise of his culture, the assurance of the jordain’s status and power.

Yet he himself had harbored such thoughts. How could he not? Andris was dead. Andris, who was his dearest friend and the best of them all. It was enough to make any man lose faith.

Faced with such a dark and unfathomable void, Matteo clung to what he knew. "I do not fear the magehound's judgment. Truth is a sword that cuts all bonds."

She threw up her hands. The 'truth' is that you were caught with a weapon crafted by Zanfeld Yemandi, the city's premier swordsmith."

"You said the sword was yours! he protested.

"Mine, his," she said impatiently. "I had need of it at the moment and Zanfeld did not. Who had the better claim to it?"

Matteo groaned and buried his head in his hands. Though Tzigone obviously intended to aid him, her words condemned him as surely as they informed him. When the magical inquiry was done, it would be discovered that he knew beyond doubt at the time of inquisition that the sword was stolen.

"I an undone," he muttered, slumping lower against the wall.

"Then get off the floor and do yourself back up," she said tartly. "I'll get you out of this. Trust me."

He sent her a quick incredulous glance. "Need I remind you that it was you who got me into this?"

She shrugged away his words with the same impatient unconcern that she might have in dismissing a comment about the political situation in distant Cormyr. The expression on her face clearly proclaimed, What has one thing to do with another?

Tzigone cast her eyes toward the ceiling. Then, with the air of someone who has better things to do than engage in meaningless chat, she dropped out of sight. Metallic whispers gave witness to picks and knives being employed on the lock.