The Floodgate (18 page)

“Nothing here links Zephyr to Kiva,” she said at last. “I was sure he’d leave at least one small thread. People generally do.”

“Maybe he was careful.”

“Maybe someone else got here before us,” Tzigone countered. “Procopio probably wants to find that link between Zephyr and Kiva as badly as I do!”

“Surely Procopio Septus would have nothing to do with an elf rogue!” protested Sinestra.

“My point exactly. He’d want to get rid of anything that might appear to link them.” Tzigone sighed and rolled her shoulders to ease the tension-knotted muscles. “I’m finished. Do you want to take something before we go?”

The wizard surveyed the austere room, tapping her chin thoughtfully with her forefinger. “Not much here to take. A jordain’s lot seems rather bleak.”

“True, but there’s always something.” Tzigone went to work again, checking again for hidden compartments, patting down the garments for pockets. She found a tiny pocket sewn into the seam of a tunic. In it was a scrap of paper wrapped around fine, brown dust. She held it out to the wizard. “Does this look interesting?”

Sinestra licked the tip of one finger and dipped in, then touched it to her tongue. She made a face.

“Unspeakably nasty, which almost guarantees that it’s an important spell component. I’ll take it.”

“Not all of it,” Tzigone cautioned. “It’s the greedy thieves who get caught. If you just take a pinch, Procopio isn’t likely to come looking for you.”

The wizard looked puzzled. “Why would he? I doubt he knows it’s here. Wizards have well-warded rooms for their spell components.”

“If they came under suspicion for any reason, the first place to be searched would be those well-warded rooms,” Tzigone pointed out. “Besides, someone has been in here recently. The trapdoor was pried up with a knife-you can see the fresh scrapings on the wood and the marks from someone’s fingers in the dust beside it. I’m betting on Procopio. His servants wouldn’t venture in here.”

“Why not? The wizard trusts his servants entirely too much. Look how easily we walk anywhere we please!”

Tzigone didn’t try to explain. She had no idea why she sensed magic so keenly while remaining invisible to it. Magical wards protected nearly every doorway of this villa, every corridor. She had sensed them all, but not they her. Sinestra, walking always a half pace behind, stayed in her shadow. Tzigone had learned by hard experience the boundaries of her peculiar sphere of protection. She knew it, she used it-but she did not understand it.

“Let’s go,” she said shortly.

Sinestra’s eyes were glowing with excitement, though her “treasure” was scant and of uncertain value. In her elation, she forgot to keep the half-pace distance to the young thief. Tzigone did not remind her. As they passed a large oval mirror, she glanced at their combined reflections. Tzigone appeared as she would in any other mirror. Sinestra did not.

The young thief darted a look up and down the hall to make sure they were alone. She seized the wizard’s arm, yanked off her concealing scarf, and dragged her before the mirror.

Sinestra’s reflected eyes widened with horror, then dulled with resignation-and with the passing of years hidden beneath her magical disguise.

The wizard’s reflection was not just older but less comely. Her hair was still long and thick, but instead of a gleaming black, it was an ashy brown dulled by time and streaked with gray. She was still slender, but her curves were not as lush. Her face was pointed rather than heart-shaped, her mouth wider. A few lines gathered in the corners of her painted eyes. The smooth, dark honey silk of Sinestra’s skin was replaced by a sallow complexion marked with sunspots. It was not the face of a pampered noblewoman, but a commoner who’d led a hard life-or perhaps a wizard who had lived for many years on the run.

“Look at us,” Tzigone whispered, intently studying their reflections. “We could be kin.”

Sinestra’s unfamiliar mouth curved in a little smile. “Sisters, perhaps.”

“Not likely. You’re old enough to be my mother,” Tzigone said bluntly.

“Ouch! Why not just stab me and be done with it?”

Tzigone ignored her and took a deep breath. “Are you?”

For a long moment Sinestra did not answer. Tzigone studied the reflected face for any signs of hope, guilt, regret, dishonesty. Anything!

After a while the wizard shrugged and looked away from their joined reflections. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“Possible?”

The sharp scent of camphor intruded. Tzigone whirled to see one of the wizard-lord’s physicians approaching. His interested gaze traveled down Sinestra’s ebony tresses and rounded curves. Tzigone quickly stepped between the wizard and her telltale reflection.

“Hello, pretty thing,” the physician crooned to Sinestra as he closed in on the two women. “You’re new here. Has anyone welcomed you properly yet?”

He reached for her. Sinestra shied away, but the man’s fingers brushed her arm. Lord Belajoon’s “gift” responded to the touch of another man, and Sinestra disappeared in mid curse.

The dumbfounded physician turned his gaze toward Tzigone. She smiled sweetly. “Lord Procopio is getting possessive, is he not? Imagine wasting so powerful a spell, just to ensure that none of the servants get into the cooking wine. So to speak.”

“An accident. I tripped. I never intended to touch the wench,” the man babbled. Tzigone patted him on the cheek and went her way, quite certain that he would not carry tales about a chambermaid’s sudden disappearance.

Tzigone left the villa without further incident. An unfamiliar darkness clung to her spirit as she trudged away. In all the years she’d sought her mother, it had never once occurred to her that Keturah might not know or care what became of her child. Even if Sinestra and Keturah were not the same person, Sinestra’s response raised disturbing questions.

Perhaps it was time to consider last resorts.

Within the hour Tzigone had exchanged her smock for a skimpy gown she found drying on a bush behind a brothel, smudged her eyes and lips with some of the face paint she’d borrowed from Sinestra’s bag, and made her way to the palace. She waited by the gate Matteo usually took. He was an early riser, so she hadn’t long to wait. She all but pounced on him, seizing his arm and dragging him away from the early morning bustle.

Matteo sent her a sidelong glance as they hurried away from the palace gate. “Anyone who sees us will click their tongues and complain that the city’s doxies have become far too aggressive! If you’ve no thought for your own reputation, Tzigone, have you considered mine?”

“You’re a jordain,” she retorted. “Being seen with a courtesan could only improve matters. Never mind that right now. I need you to find someone for me.”

“You found someone willing to speak of Keturah?”

“Well, sort of. I came straight out and asked Basel Indoulur if he knew anything about Keturah. He suggested someone who might be able to help me.”

Matteo’s eyes widened with alarm. “Did you tell him she was your mother?”

“How stupid do I look?” His eyes dropped briefly to her tawdry gown. “You know what I mean.”

“Indeed. Tell me about this person you wish me to find.”

“Dhamari Exchelsor. He’s a generalist wizard, a potion stirrer. You’ll find him in the green marble tower at the corner of Sylph Street and South Market Road.”

Matteo regarded her thoughtfully. “No doubt I can manage that, but if you know so much already, what do you need me to do? Why not go yourself?”

“He was Keturah’s husband.”

“Ah. You want me to meet him under some pretense, take his measure,” Matteo mused.

“He’s very quick,” Tzigone announced to no one in particular. Her tart expression melted, and she turned a look of appeal to Matteo. “This could be my best hope of finding the truth about my mother. Perhaps my only hope. I know you jordaini are sworn to truth,” she added in a rush, “and I’m not exactly asking you to lie for me. Just sort of… fish around. You know-trim the bait into bite-sized bits but hide the hook….” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

Matteo considered her for a long moment. “You took a risk asking about Keturah so openly. Do you trust Basel Indoulur?”

“Sort of.”

His smile was faint and devoid of humor. “A common sentiment these days. Very well, I will see this wizard and learn what I can.”

Acting on impulse, Tzigone threw her arms around Matteo’s neck. From the corner of her eye, she noted two white-clad men coming from the palace gate. Mischief seized her, and she let herself drop. Matteo’s arms went instinctively around her to keep her from falling. After a moment she released him and stepped back, her eyes twinkling and her lips curved in a lazy, replete smile.

“Oh no, my lord,” she protested breathlessly as she handed him back his own coin bag. “Who could put a price on such mastery?”

She heaved a deep sigh and smoothed her hair. Then, turning, she sauntered off with a doxie’s undulating swish.

She glanced back and grinned when she noted the respectful stares the other jordaini sent Matteo. One of the men clapped him on the shoulder in comradely fashion as he passed.

Matteo glowered at her and closed the distance between them with a few quick strides. “You were worried about your reputation,” Tzigone said innocently, backing up to keep her distance. “It seems to have risen a trifle.”

His stern expression wavered, and his lips twitched in a reluctant smile. Quickly he reclaimed his scowl and snatched up a melon from a passing cart. He tossed a coin to the protesting merchant, and then hefted the melon and aimed it at Tzigone.

She fled with a startled squeal, scurrying into an alcove in the thick wall of the palace. When no missile hurtled by, she chanced a glimpse out.

Matteo stood a few paces away. He held out a neatly carved slice. “Breakfast?”

Tzigone took the offered fruit and patted the bench beside her. Matteo settled down. In companionable silence, the queen’s counselor and the painted street waif shared the fruit and split the loaf that Tzigone produced from her bag. For once, Matteo didn’t ask her how she’d come by it. Nor did he comment upon the strange looks that passersby sent the mismatched pair.

They did not speak of the differences that separated them or the troubles that bound them. Nonetheless, by the time the sun edged over the eastern wall of the city, the darkness had likewise lifted from Tzigone’s heart.

Matteo went directly to Dhamari Exchelsor’s tower, confident that he would be received. No one refused the queen’s jordain, though the reasons for this hospitality varied. Matteo was well accustomed to receptions that ranged from extreme wariness to blatant ambition, depending upon which sort of news was anticipated.

To do away with this, Matteo explained to the gatekeeper that he came not on the queen’s business but inquiring about a personal matter. He noted with interest the servant’s reaction to this announcement: there was despair in his eyes, as if this news had shattered a dear hope. Some people knew no limits to their ambition!

The gatekeeper returned quickly and brought Matteo into the tower. The receiving room was not overly large, but it was appointed with comfortable chairs and small, scattered tables. A fountain played in one corner, spilling over the bottles of wine immersed in what Matteo assumed was a magically cooled pool. Silver goblets stood ready on the table nearby, and sugared fruits were arranged under a glass dome. Books lay on tables placed between the chairs, and candles to aid reading. Bell pulls hung at intervals on every wall, suggesting that servants would come promptly to tend a guest’s needs. In all, an extremely comfortable and welcoming room.

Matteo had just barely taken a seat when his host appeared. He rose at once and gave the wizard the proscribed courtesies. Though jordaini were not required by law to lower their eyes while bowing to a wizard, Matteo did so to cover his surprise. He could not imagine how the woman who’d given birth to Tzigone would find herself wed to such a man!

Dhamari Exchelsor was mild looking, soft-bodied, and pale of complexion. His balding head came level with Matteo’s shoulder, and his eyes had the myopic squint of a man who spends little time out of doors. His dark brown beard was neatly trimmed, his clothes simple and well made. Like his reception chamber, the wizard lacked ostentation or pretense. He looked like a man comfortable with the circumstances of his life and too content to strive for much of anything more. The word that came most strongly to mind when Matteo sought to describe him was “inoffensive.”

“Please! You do me too much honor,” Dhamari protested mildly. “I hope you will allow me to return the courtesy. If there is any way that I might serve you, speak freely.”

Matteo lifted his eyes to his host’s curious gaze. “You are most gracious, but you may regret your offer when you hear the story that brought me here.”

“We will judge the tale once the telling is done. Will you have wine?” Dhamari gestured toward the cooling pool. “It is an Exchelsor pink, a fine companion to long and thirsty tales.”

The jordain politely declined and took the chair Dhamari offered him. He told him a brief version of the story of Akhlaur’s Swamp, describing the injury that sent Kiva into a long and sleeplike trance but omitting the fact of her escape.

“So you see,” he concluded, “it is vital that we learn what became of this gate-if not from Kiva, then perhaps from those who had dealings with her.”

Dhamari leaned back in his chair. “You have come well prepared. I had almost forgotten the time I spent with Kiva in this very tower.”

This was news indeed! “How long ago?”

“I should say a good six and twenty years,” the wizard reminisced. “We were both apprentices under the same mistress, a very talented wizard of the evocation school. It seems impossible that it could be so long ago!”

Matteo had intended to mention Kiva and work his way back to the elf’s capture of Keturah. This was an unexpected shortcut! “Might this wizard, your former mistress, have knowledge of Kiva’s life beyond this time of apprenticeship?”

“Would she? Oh yes, to her sorrow and mine!” The wizard took a long breath and sent Matteo an apologetic smile. “Forgive me. I speak so seldom of my lady Keturah. It is a great joy to do so and a great sorrow. Perhaps you know the name?”