The Wizardwar

A heavy sigh escaped the wizard. To Uriah Belajoon's ear, it held the weight of conscience. He gripped the dagger, slowly raising it as the hated wizard began to stroll down the path.

As Basel drew alongside the hibiscus, Uriah poured all his strength into a single lunging attack. For a moment, he was airborne and invincible-a wolf attacking a rival, a young warrior defending his lady, a god avenging evil.

The next, he was lying on his back and marveling at how the moonshards danced and circled.

"Lord Belajoon," said a surprised, familiar voice.

Uriah's eyes focused upon Basel Indoulur's face. A sense of failure swept through the old man, and the crushing weight of futility gripped his chest like a vise.

There was nothing more to be done. Sinestra was gone, and gone also was the dream of vengeance that had sustained him. On impulse, he snatched up the fallen knife and placed it over his own heart. He gripped the hilt with both hands and prepared to plunge it home.

The crushing pain intensified, and the weapon slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers. Waves of agony radiated from Uriah's chest into his arms. He could not move, he could not even curse the wizard who took this from him.

Dimly he sensed Basel drop to one knee. The portly wizard seized the knife and tossed it aside. He struck Uriah's chest hard with the heel of one hand, placed his ear against the old man's chest, then struck again.

Uriah watched these efforts as if from a great and growing distance. He understood the truth of his death and the nature of Basel Indoulur's efforts. Suddenly it did not matter to him that the wizard he hated still lived and that he seemed determined to pummel life back into Uriah's body.

The old wizard turned his eyes toward the moon-shards, remembering every bright legend he had ever heard about what might await him and believing them all. The lights grew and merged, filling his vision with brightness.

Tzigone crept through the streets toward the Belajoon mansion, intent upon retrieving something that had belonged to Sinestra. Basel was free today, but that was no guarantee against tomorrow.

One thing puzzled her-why hadn't Sinestra's death been investigated? Usually magehounds were called at once. Once the murderer was revealed, the remains were promptly cremated and the ashes scattered so that no further inquiry could be made. By law and custom, the secrets of Halruaan wizards died with them.

The ancient, sprawling mansion was amazingly easy to enter. All the lights were dimmed in mourning, and the windows were open. This spoke volumes about old lord Belajoon. Halruaan custom was to close all windows-an old superstition, based on the idea that open windows beckoned the spirits of the departed and tempted them into lingering. Apparently Belajoon wanted to hold onto his wife as long as he could!

Magic wards protected the windows and skittered across Tzigone's skin like delicate insects as she climbed over the sill. She slipped through the quiet house toward a room ablaze with candles. Sinestra's room had been left untouched, almost like a shrine.

Shaking her head at the old man's fond foolishness, Tzigone set to work. She found a small silver brush with a broken handle, tossed negligently into a drawer. This was important-whatever Tzigone presented for testing had to appear to be discarded. No magehound could legally test a stolen object.

As she picked up the brush, a bit of folded paper caught her eyes, something tossed into the drawer and forgotten. She lifted one edge of the packet and recognized the oddly colored powder Sinestra had taken from Procopio's tower.

"Don't touch that," advised a male voice behind her.

Tzigone leaped and whirled, coming face to face with Matteo's friend Andris.

He caught the packet she'd inadvertently tossed into the air and leaned away from the small puff of dust that escaped it. "You really shouldn't take this. If Lord Belajoon realizes the loss, they'll look for the thief."

"He probably doesn't know she had it. She didn't know what it was," Tzigone explained, feeling rather dazed and stupid. It had been a very long time since someone had crept up on her! "For that matter, I don't know what it is."

Andris folded back the paper and showed her the powder. "This particular shade is known to artists as 'mummy brown.' Once it was precisely that-a pigment made from the ground remains of mummies. It has not been used for years, of course, but was fairly common during a period when northerners were given to exploring and despoiling the Old Empires."

Tzigone lifted one eyebrow. "I can see why you and Matteo get along. Why did you follow me?"

"Actually, I didn't." He cleared his throat. "I came to help Lord Basel, on Matteo's behalf."

"Now I know you're lying. Matteo wouldn't have sent you here."

Andris's ice-green eyes narrowed. "Did he send you here?"

"Good point," Tzigone admitted. After a moment, she added, "Did you find anything?"

Andris moved over to the wall and tapped lightly on a carved panel. It slid aside silently to reveal a hidden passage. He shrugged aside Tzigone's incredulous stare. "The original designs for nearly every mansion of note are in the jordaini libraries."

She whistled softly. "If you're ever in need of a partner, I might be available."

They made their way down a series of hidden stairs and halls. Finally Andris led her into a deep-buried chamber. The room was round and empty but for a long, glass box resting on a marble table. Uriah Belajoon had entombed Sinestra under glass.

Tzigone edged closer. Her friend had changed from a raven-haired beauty into the woman Tzigone had once glimpsed in a magic-dispelling mirror.

"She does look a bit like my mother," she mused.

"Keturah," Andris remembered. "Kiva spoke of her in the Swamp of Akhlaur."

Tzigone nodded, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She placed one hand on the glass and sank deep into concentration, seeking the spell that killed Sinestra. Its nature was familiar enough-a particularly virulent silence spell often placed upon servants-but try as she might, Tzigone couldn't feel who had done the casting. The person was powerfully, magically shielded from her sight. Tzigone felt a faint echo of her mother's magic. "Dhamari," she said, pronouncing it like a curse.

Chapter Seventeen

Andris and Tzigone had no problem entering the palace, for Matteo had listed them in the guardhouse book. They were ushered through with an extravagant courtesy that Tzigone would have found amusing had she been in a brighter mood and more congenial company.

"Friends of the King's Counselor," she muttered in a dead-on imitation of the guard's obsequious tones. "I’m surprised there's no medal to go along with that title."

"Yes, I rather expected someone to pull out a sword and knight us."

Tzigone shot a surprised glance at the translucent jordain. His tone matched hers-bemused humor, untainted by envy over Matteo's position.

She considered the puzzle Andris offered. "You two have been friends for a long time?"

He shrugged. "All our lives, but considering our relative youth, I'm not sure that qualifies as a 'long time.'"

"So why did you go over to Kiva?"

"Those are two separate lines of occurrence," he said evenly, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

Tzigone made a rude noise. "Mineral-rich soil enhancers-rothe manure sounds pretty good when you put fancy words to it, doesn't it?"

A fleeting smile touched the jordain's lips. "You have a knack for finding the salient point. For a long time, I tried to convince myself that one thing had nothing to do with the other." He glanced at her. "I suppose you know my story."