The Magehound

A suspicion that had been growing in Matteo's mind for some time began to take solid and disturbing form. "A few," he said slowly. "I begin to see why you bid for my services. You are most avidly fond of strategy games, and as a master of games, I was first in my form."

"There is that," the wizard said in neutral tones.

Matteo pressed on. "We jordaini believe that such games train the mind and character, for a truly responsible man understands that every action prompts a reaction."

There was an edge to Procopio's smile that acknowledged the subtle layers in Matteo's comment. "I am in training, that is certainly true. He who would command must understand the art of war. It is no secret that games provide preparation. Kittens stalk imaginary prey, and small boys whack each other with sticks in anticipation of their first swords. What we do here is not so different."

Matteo shifted uneasily. "You speak plainly. I will do the same. Action prompts reaction. I know enough of history to understand that men who prepare so assiduously for battle seldom fail to find one."

"But the land is at peace, and has been for many years. Do you think that would be true if no one was prepared for battle? Why do you think our enemies stay away? The Crinti elf-breeds and their Dambraii subjects, and the Mhair savages, and the barbarians of the Shaar desert, and the wizards of Thay and Unther and Mulhorand, and Mystra only knows where else? Because we remain strong," Procopio concluded in a tone that rang with certainty.

Matteo had heard this argument many times before. It was a difficult one, for the line between a strong defense and a strong nation inclined toward offensive action was thin and nebulous. He couldn't help but wonder how this passion for military strategy fit into Procopio's personal goals. If the wizard deemed that the best way to ascend Zalathorm's throne was as a war hero, how far might he go to ensure his goal?

The wizard seemed to sense his counselor's unease, for he broke off the session and strode over to his desk. He opened a drawer and took from it a small scroll.

"I would have you take a message for me to Xavierlyn. You know of her?"

Matteo nodded. Zephyr had described in great detail all the wizards of the city's Council of Elders. Xavierlyn was a powerful diviner, a distant relative of King Zalathorm, and touted by many as his probable successor. As such, she was Procopio's most obvious rival.

"I have met Frando, her jordain counselor. It is his habit to speak in the Arbor Square before the sunsleep hours."

"No doubt many come to listen in preparation for midday slumber," Procopio said dryly. "I have heard the man. His lectures induce slumber more effectively than charms and potions."

Matteo's lips twitched, but he refrained from agreeing with his patron's assessment of a fellow jordain. He took the scroll Procopio handed him and sca

He set a brisk pace and reached Arbor Square shortly before highsun. It was a pretty place, cobbled with pink and green stone and surrounded by elaborate iron trellises and arches. The air was rich with the scent of ripening grapes, as well as the savory odors that wafted from the nearby market. Chairs and small tables had been scattered about so that passersby could take advantage of the shade.

In the center of the square was a raised platform, which was variously used for town criers, street musicians, and wizardly exhibitions. Frando, a dark, thick-bodied man some fifteen years Matteo's senior, was currently holding forth on the topic of pirate raids. With an alchemist's skill and a pompous voice, Frando transformed that exciting topic into a sleep-inducing drone. Matteo settled down under an arbor of pink grapes and tried to look politely interested.

Finally the jordain concluded his lecture and acknowledged the patter of applause with a deep bow. His self-satisfied smile broadened when his gaze fell on Matteo. Matteo rose and came to greet his colleague.

"Well, if it isn't the newest gelding in Procopio's stables," Frando said in a faintly nasty tone. "Come to listen and learn, I suppose?"

Matteo's brows lifted. For once it seemed appropriate to forego the usual polite phrases of greeting. "My patron has sent me with a message for the wizard Xavierlyn," he said curtly. "He bids me give it into your keeping."

It was a common enough task, but to his surprise, Frando hissed with exasperation. "It is clear that you don't mind playing the part of an errand boy, but I occupy my time with more important tasks. Why couldn't Procopio simply send a scroll? Or if he is as powerful a diviner as he claims to be, why not use magic?"

Matteo blinked, startled by this response. "Scrolls can be stolen, scried, or magically altered. Messengers can be waylaid, bribed, threatened, or magically influenced, or information taken from their minds. Even magically sent messages can be intercepted. There is also the possibility that a magically gifted messenger could influence the hearer, much as the minor magic of a bard lures an audience into receptivity," he explained patiently. "Any first-form jordain knows this."

Too late, Matteo realized how his words could be taken. Frando's face darkened with anger, yet he could not dispute Matteo's assessment.

"Give me the message," he said shortly.

To Matteo's surprise, the jordain did not receive the message on first hearing. Frando repeated it back with several alterations and two outright errors. Matteo patiently repeated Procopio's detailed report, once and then again, insisting that the man repeat it back precisely.

"Enough," the jordain finally said, his face crimson. "You change the words to mock me."

Matteo quickly swallowed the surge of rage that accusation brought. "I am charged with bringing a message to your patron, untainted by error or magical persuasion. Perhaps I had better repeat it to her myself." He turned away, intent upon doing just that.

Frando caught Matteo's arm and spun him around. "You would offer such insult?" he said incredulously.

"Less insult than you offered me," Matteo retorted as he jerked free of the big man's grasp. "You all but called me a liar."

"And so you are."

Impulse overtook training. Matteo's fist flashed out and co

This put Matteo in a serious quandary. It was against the law for one jordain to draw a weapon on another. If he defended himself, he and Frando would be judged equally at fault, for Matteo had struck the first blow. Yet judging from the fury in the other man's eyes, Frando intended to attack whether Matteo drew weapons or not.

Before he could respond, a small woman dressed in an eye-searing combination of scarlet, orange, and yellow breezed between him and Frando. Matteo's heart jolted with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension when he recognized Tzigone. She was clad as a street performer, wearing brilliant yellow pantaloons, an orange shirt, and a red vest encrusted with shiny bits of glass cut and polished to look like gems. Around her head was a turban fashioned of multicolored scarves. Her face was scrubbed clean and painted so that her eyes look huge and exotic. Even her fingernails were tinted in gaudy citrus shades. To his surprise, Matteo realized that this display was actually an effective disguise. Few would see past the color and the costume to take note of the small woman's features.

She hopped up onto the dais and clapped her hands. "Gather round," she called in a clear, ringing alto. She gestured for the crowd to fill in the space between Matteo and Frando, quite effectively cutting off the angry jordain's attack.