The Magehound

Kiva had also hired additional guards in the port city, purportedly to aid her in taking the accused clergy to Azuth's temple for examination.

All of this troubled Matteo. Her actions were too bold, even for a magehound. Though the word of an inquisitrix was accepted as law, Kiva was not invulnerable. The church of Azuth dealt with any magehound who acted for personal gain or at the behest of any person or group. Obviously the elf woman deemed her pursuit to be worthy of this risk.

Matteo rode to the north gate and confirmed from gate guards that the elf woman had indeed passed through. It was no surprise to Matteo that she headed northeast, toward the Swamp of Akhlaur.

Where else? There were only two places where gentiola blossoms grew: the Kilmaruu Swamp near Zalasuu and the Swamp of Akhlaur. Kiva had no doubt left the flower as an additional lure for Tzigone. He wouldn't be surprised if the silver brush was the clue that told Tzigone which of these choices to take.

He rode until Cyric's sides were flecked with white and the great horse's breath came in deep gusts. Near sunset, a narrow side road beckoned to the village beyond, a small farming village perched on the side of a hill and visible from the trade road.

Matteo found his way to the i

Finally one of the farmhands came over to his table. The man was huge, grimy with soil from the day's labors. He looked none too pleased. He picked up the saltcellar and dumped the contents on the table. With one thick, dirty finger, he drew a circle separated by a jagged bolt-the symbol of the jordain order.

"This look familiar?" he demanded.

Matteo suppressed a smile of delight and relief. Judging from the hostile expression on the man's face, Tzigone had been through this way.

"It does indeed. A young woman-or perhaps a boy, a street urchin-may have taken my pendant. I seek this person."

"Woman or boy?" The man frowned, confounded by this unexpected choice.

"A woman," Matteo guessed. "She may have been dressed as a jordain, but she is not. Her fingers tend to be a little light."

The farmer snorted. "Don't I know it."

Matteo leaned forward eagerly. "Tell me what you know of her. And tell me also what you have lost, and I will see that you receive recompense."

"Will you, now?"

The expression on the man's face puzzled Matteo. It was not relief or gratitude, not disbelief, not greed or cu

"As best I can," he added with newfound caution. After a moment the man nodded and pushed back from the table. "Follow me."

Matteo claimed Cyric the Second from the stables and followed the man out of the village and into the hills beyond. His home was a small stone dwelling that had been carved into the side of a hill, more a cave than a cottage. A separate entrance led out into a pen, suggesting that livestock shared the shelter.

The farmer nodded toward the empty pen. "Beat me at dice, she did. When I didn't put the coin on the table fast enough to suit her, she agreed to come here and take a pig."

Matteo saw where this was going. "She took more than one, I gather?"

"You might say that." The man shook his head in disgust. "Never saw anything like it. Them pigs flew off after her like a flock o' swans."

The unlikely analogy made Matteo blink, as did the image it conjured in his mind. "Your pigs flew off," he repeated. "like swans."

"Sounds barmy, don't it? Don't suppose I could go to the magistrate with that one, or you take it to the jordain order?"

"Ah. She was tested for magic in the i

"The village midwife," the man said shortly. "Near as good as a magehound, is Gra

"I see," Matteo mused. "How can I help?"

"If you have coins, take payment for my pigs. If not, I'll take the girl." The farmer gri

Wrath flamed hot and bright as Matteo understood that what Tzigone had done here probably had less to do with theft than diversion, with a bit of vengeance thrown in. As he recalled, Tzigone had an aversion to familiar sayings. He would not be at all surprised if the expression "when pigs fly" had come into play. Well, pigs had flown, and Tzigone had gotten away, leaving the farmer with "unfinished business." Matteo found enormous relief in that.

"I will pay," he said shortly. "How many pigs were there in your… flock?"

The farmer's eyes narrowed at the gibe, but he named a number far higher than the pen could possibly contain.

Matteo glanced at the small enclosure and then back at the farmer, one eyebrow lifted. He reached into his bag and produced the rest of the coins Tzigone had left for him. By his measure, it was a generous amount.

"This ain't the price o' twenty swine," the farmer protested.

"That may be. But it is all I have, and more than you'd get at market for the number of swine that pen could truly hold."

The man's face turned a deep, angry red. His fist came toward Matteo's face in a blur. The jordain leaned to the left and did a half-pivot on his left foot. Two quick steps brought him around behind the farmer, who was still off-balance from the first punch. He hit the man on the back of the neck, hard.

The blow would have felled any of Matteo's sparring partners, but the big man shrugged it off. He ran for the pitchfork that leaned against the front wall of his dwelling, whirled, and kicked into a ru

Matteo let him come. He dropped to the ground just short of impalement. As he fell, he twisted and reached up to seize the long wooden shaft. The weapon tipped down, and the tines plunged into the hard-trodden muck of the farmyard. Matteo released his grip and let the farmer's momentum do the rest.

With a rising howl, the man flipped into the air for a brief, flailing flight. He cleared the fence surrounding the pigpen and splashed down into the muck.

Matteo rose, arms folded, and admired the result. It was a story Tzigone would relish, and one that he doubted even her deft embellishments could much improve.

He was congratulating himself still when something hit the small of his back with a thud that resounded through his bones and sent him pitching forward onto his knees. Pain radiated through him in blinding, pulsing rays.

Heavy footsteps thumped around him. With difficulty, Matteo focused on a visage very similar to that of the farmer, minus the muck that his first opponent was scraping from his face.

"The family resemblance is striking," Matteo muttered dazedly.

"Striking!" The second man guffawed. "Oh, I like that! Hit him and he outs with a jest. Let's see what smart boy's got to say once I fetch him upside the head."

"He's not so smart," a

Matteo's head was starting to clear, and he anticipated both the source of the distraction and the man's probable response.

"Gra

But his brother sloshed out of the pen. "That's no haunt, fool! The girl's got more voices than a village meeting. She's come back."