The Floodgate (23 page)

This writ of excommunication meant that contact with Kiva was proscribed. Any questions asked about her would be viewed with an extremely jaundiced eye. Matteo could think of no more effective way to squelch inquiries into the magehound’s whereabouts.

He brushed past the guard at Procopio’s door and burst into the room. The wizard waved away the guard.

“Your troubles must be great, jordain, to urge you into such imprudent behavior,” he observed with measured calm.

“What have you done about Kiva?” demanded Matteo.

“Kiva?” Procopio echoed blandly.

Matteo took a steadying breath. “We are neither of us fools, but treating with me in such fashion casts shadows of doubt upon us both.”

Procopio acknowledged Matteo’s words with a curt nod, motioning Matteo to a chair. The jordain shook his head and remained standing-yet another lapse of protocol.

“I can see this matter is of some importance to you,” began the wizard.

“Kiva,” Matteo cut in pointedly, for he knew well the wizard’s skill at wandering from the matter at hand.

Procopio smiled faintly. “To the point, then. What have I done about Kiva? In a word, nothing.”

He held up a hand to cut off Matteo’s indignant response.

“I will admit that my negligence is pure selfishness. Surely you realize that as Zephyr’s patron, I was tainted by the elf’s treachery.”

Matteo nodded.

“There has been talk of need for a new lord mayor,” Procopio went on. He gestured around the fine study and the wide window that overlooked the king’s city. “As you see, I have much to lose. But when I become more concerned with my own success than with the good of Halruaa, perhaps it is time I stepped down.”

This disarmed Matteo. Never had he see the arrogant wizard so humble. It occurred to Matteo that Procopio was merely taking another sidetrack. The manipulation was insulting, but he took the wizard’s lead to see where it went. “That would be the city’s loss, my lord.”

Procopio’s answering smile was faint and self-mocking. “You no longer serve me, Matteo. You no longer need trouble yourself to find soft words.”

“When did I ever do so?”

The wizard blinked, then burst out laughing. “Well said! You were ever quick to tell me when I was wrong. Perhaps, then, I should trust in your judgment when you tell me I am not.”

“I would not go quite that far, my lord,” Matteo said coolly. “Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but I have neither time nor patience for games. Did you persuade the church of Azuth to declare Kiva excommunicate?”

The color vanished from the wizard’s face, leaving it slack and gray. This was answer enough for Matteo.

“Are you certain of this?” Procopio demanded.

Matteo handed him the writ. The wizard’s face hardened as he read. “This is no doing of mine. I give my wizard-word bond on it,” Procopio said grimly.

“That is not necessary.” Matteo bowed. “If I have offended, my lord, I beg pardon.”

“You have enlightened. Enlightenment, while often annoying, is something I value.” The wizard studied him, suddenly speculative. “You are happy in the service of Queen Beatrix?”

“It is an honor I could hardly turn aside when it was offered,” Matteo hedged.

“Nor could you turn away from it now, I suppose,” Procopio said. “A pity. You are a fine counselor, yet it appears that your most important work is outside your patron’s palace. I could support you in these efforts. Be warned, though, not everyone you encounter will be of like mind.”

“So I have learned,” Matteo said dryly. Claiming the wizard’s offer of assistance, he briefly described the attack in the icehouse.

The wizard nodded thoughtfully. “Titles and deeds in his city can be complicated, but it should not be too difficult to trace the owner of that building. I will see to it.”

After Matteo left, Procopio Septus sat calmly and listened to the young man’s footsteps fade into silence. When he was certain that the troublesome jordain would not return, Procopio leaped to his feet and flung both arms into the air. Brilliant light burst up from the floor like a gout of dragonfire, engulfing the angry wizard. In a blink he traveled across the city and into the opulent gray world of Ymani Gold.

He caught the priest in the midst of one of his favorite indulgences. The young acolyte, startled by the lightning flash of Procopio’s entrance, fell away with a squeak. She snatched up her robe and scuttled toward the back door.

Ymani, on the other hand, did not seem put out by the interruption. He adjusted his robes and settled down behind his writing table. “There’s no need for such theatrics, Lord Procopio. I told you I would deal with Kiva, and so I have.”

“There is an old proverb,” Procopio said, black eyes spitting fire, “that those with talent become wizards. Those without talent spend their lives praying for it.”

The priest’s complacent smile vanished at this insult. “Now, see here-“

“Bah!” Procopio threw up his hands in disgust. “How could anyone, even a cleric, possibly mishandle anything so badly?”

“If you’re speaking of Kiva, there is no need for concern. I ensured that there would be no further queries into her whereabouts,” Ymani said stiffly.

“To the contrary. You managed to make a mess so big that no one can help but step in it,” Procopio retorted. “It was bad enough when Kiva was accounted a traitor. Now she is an excommunicate. Zephyr, a jordain in my employ, would have been similarly condemned by his association with Kiva. No Halruaan wizard can afford that taint to come so close. You might as well have included me in the general damnation!”

For a moment the priest looked as if he regretted this oversight. His fleshy lower lip thrust forward in a petulant scowl. “You wanted to stop the jordain Matteo from making inquiries. This should do it.”

Procopio placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. “You do not ‘stop’ a man like Matteo by putting roadblocks in his path. If anything, you’ve hardened his resolve.”

“So what, in your inestimable wisdom, should we do?”

The wizard smiled unpleasantly. “Distract him, then discredit him. It has worked before, albeit briefly, and I daresay that this time it might take permanent hold.”

By the time Matteo left the city palace, his many bee stings were beginning to swell and throb. In search of a soothing salve, he set off for an apothecary shop he had passed many times during his service to Lord Procopio.

The shop was a wattle-and-daub building set in a neat garden full of herbs. Birds skittered about picking at the seeds some softhearted soul had strewn for them. A pert yellow songbird followed Matteo right up to the shop and perched on the sill of the open window, as if to listen in on the conversation.

The apothecary was a minor wizard, with plump cheeks and a near-toothless grin that made him look rather like a wizened, oversized infant. Matteo exchanged courtesies and explained what he needed.

The man scratched a list on a bit of parchment and went to the back room to fetch the supplies. Busy with his work, he did not notice the yellow bird fly in the window and settle on the rush-strewn floor.

Swift as thought, the bird transformed into its true shape: a female wizard with bold, black eyes, wearing a simple chemise and skirt of yellow linen. The bird-turned-woman picked up a crockery urn and brought it down hard on the back of the apothecary’s head. He pitched forward onto the bench and slid to the floor. The woman gathered up the supplies and hurried to the front room.

“My father was called away,” she told Matteo. “He bade me tend your hurts. Why, it looks as if you were rolling about in a thicket of briars!”

She continued her bright chatter as she led the way to a small room off the shop. Matteo, after an initial moment of surprise, followed her. At her bidding he sat down upon the edge of a narrow cot.

The girl sat beside him, salving the stings on his neck and arms with a deft, practiced touch. “Remove your tunic, and I’ll tend to the rest of you,” she suggested with a coy smile.

Matteo rose. “Thank you, but I don’t think there are any more stings.”

“So you say, but I’d like to see for myself.”

“Nothing more is necessary. You are a credit to your father, and a fine healer.”

Her smile broadened and became feline. “I have other talents.”

“No doubt,” he murmured, now thoroughly puzzled.

With an exasperated little sigh, the woman pushed her chemise aside to bare her shoulders and struck an unmistakably seductive pose. “Join me,” she invited bluntly.

Matteo’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. He felt a fool for not reading her meaning sooner.

This seemed to amuse her. “Why so amazed, jordain? I offer a hour’s pleasure, no regrets or consequence.”

Matteo quickly collected himself. “All actions have consequences, lady. This, perhaps more than most.” The girl’s puzzlement seemed genuine, so he explained. “The jordaini are forbidden to have families.”

She sent him an indulgent smile. “I am not asking you to wed with me. A bit of frolic-what could come of that?”

Matteo studied the girl. She was young and by all appearances pampered and gently raised. Halruaan girls were often sheltered. Despite her bold ways, was it possible that she truly did not know?

“A child could come of it,” he said gently.

Dumbfounded, she gazed at him for a long moment She shook her head and began to chuckle. “Now, that would be one of Mystra’s better miracles! That ‘purification’ ritual of yours is one of the best ideas to come out of the Jordaini College. With magical bloodlines so important, no one dares risk a bastard.” Her smile turned knowing, and she began to loosen the ties on her chemise. “Stallions might be swift, but geldings run best and longest. Why do you think the jordaini are so popular among the ladies of Halruaa?”

It was Matteo’s turn to be stunned beyond speech. He had not undergone the purification ritual, a final trial followed by a time of solitary contemplation. He had never suspected anything like this, but he did not doubt the truth behind the girl’s words. It was too logical, and it explained many things.

One part of his mind calmly acknowledged that the purification rite was a prudent precaution. He would not be surprised if unreliable or even dangerous gifts had crept back into the line through jordaini offspring. Precaution was the grandchild of disaster, and a measure so drastic would not be taken unless it was necessary.

Even as he acknowledged this, another part of him burned with white-hot anger. How could such a decision be taken from the young men and women who became jordaini? Did they not deserve to know, and chose?

He gave the girl a curt bow. “Thank you for your kind thoughts, but I must leave.”

She shrugged and pulled her chemise back into place. “Your loss.” With a grin, she preened a bit at her hair and then ran a hand down the length of her body. “If you doubt that, just ask any other jordain in the city about me.”

Her boast troubled him greatly as he hurried toward Procopio Septus’s villa. It was wrong to impose this rite upon unwitting young men, but that did not give them license to behave irresponsibly. As he had told the girl, actions had consequences. Even if a child could not result, a man and woman could not lie together and leave their shared bed unchanged. Families could be made in many ways, and no jordain could afford to put anything before his duty to Halruaa and her wizards.

Yet Matteo thought of his friend Themo. He always time to show the jordaini lads a new game or to practice weaponry with them. He was also known to speak wistfully of a certain barmaid in Khaerbaal-not like the lewd soldiers who lusted after women in general. Matteo could see Themo serving as a battle wizard’s jordain, but also taking up the sword to fight once his advice was given. At battle’s end, he might return to a merry wife and a family of boisterous children. Such a life would be a better match for Themo than his own shadow, but it would never be his. He would not know this until it was too late.

Why had Matteo been spared this ritual? Delayed in Khaerbaal by his dealings with Kiva, he’d arrived at the college a day late and was hurried away and out of sight. He was left ignorant of this omission, which was nearly as distressing as the rite itself.

The walls of Procopio’s villa loomed before Matteo suddenly. He glanced at the sun. He was early-at this time of day, Procopio usually held council with other city Elders. He chatted briefly with the gatekeeper, then hurried to the long, low building that housed the wizard’s steeds. There he found Iago grooming a pegasus foal, painstakingly smoothing the pure white coat.

The jordain glanced up when Matteo approached. His face lit up. “The queen has consented?”

“I have not yet had opportunity to ask her,” Matteo said slowly. “Queen Beatrix has not granted me an audience for several days now, but it will be no problem to convince her that she needs your services. For the moment, though, you do not look too unhappy in Lord Procopio’s service.”

Iago glanced up and down the row of stalls, checking for listening ears. “You were right about Procopio’s ambitions. You know, of course, that he intends to be king after Zalathorm.”

“Procopio always spoke freely before his counselors,” Matteo replied carefully. “The king has not named a successor. This inspires ambition. But ambition can be either the father of achievement, or the mother of treachery. Has Procopio done anything to cross that line?”

“Nothing specific,” Iago said slowly, “but he seems unduly interested in reports of troubles from the west and the north. He is the mayor of the king’s city. These things lie beyond his authority.”

“They also lie beyond your authority and mine,” Matteo reminded him. “Yet you cannot wait for Queen Beatrix to request your service so we can ride into those troubled northlands.”

Iago acknowledged this with a shrug. “I bear many scars from the time I spent in Kiva’s service. Not the least of these is discontent. All our lives we jordaini train for battle, only to watch and advise. It is difficult to stand idly by, yes?”

He waited for Matteo to speak his mind. For many moments the only sounds were the swish of the curry brush and the contented melody hummed by the pegasus foal.