The Magehound (6 page)

She could almost forget that they lived on the run.

Her mother tried hard to make a game of it, and the little girl played along, as children tend to do. She understood far more than her mother suspected, but there were still many things that puzzled her. For some time now, questions had been building up inside her like the swell of magical power during a summoning. She was certain that she would explode like one of her globes if she didn’t speak out. Soon. Tonight!

But she waited until all the dancing lights were spent. They left the roof and took shelter for the night in the crowded upper room of a dockside inn. The child always felt safest in such places. Nocturnal “adventures” seemed to occur more frequently when they took solitary refuge. She felt reassured by the sonorous snores coming from the trio of ale merchants who shared a bed by the shuttered window, and took comfort in the sword that lay, bright and ready, beside the earnest young man her mother had described as a questing paladin.

She waited while her mother emptied the common washbasin into the back street and refilled it with fresh water from the pitcher. She sat stoically while her mother wet a square of linen and scrubbed off some of the dirt that the child seemed to attract, much as spellcasting drew cats. She waited until her mother took out their greatest treasure, a small brush with a silver handle engraved with climbing roses, and began to ease it through her daughter’s tousled dark hair.

Usually she loved this nightly ritual, often she wished she could purr throughout the brushing like a petted cat Tonight, though, she would have answers or she would burst.

“Who is following us?” she demanded.

The brush paused in mid-stroke. “Great Lady Mystra!” her mother exclaimed in a low, choked voice. “You know?”

She gave an impatient little shrug, not sure how to answer this. “Who?” she repeated.

Her mother was silent for a long moment. “Many are the tools, but the hand that wields them is that of my husband.”

The little girl picked up an oddly discordant note in the music of her mother’s voice. It occurred to her, for no reason that she could yet understand, that Mother did not name their shadowy pursuer as her child’s father. Perhaps this was because in Halruaa the two were ever the same. Children were born within marriage. Marriages were arranged by the local matchmaker, who was always a minor mage of the divination school. She had yet to live out her fifth summer, but she knew that much. Even so, the same puzzling instinct that sensed her mother’s hesitation prompted her to leave the obvious question unasked.

She settled for another. “Is your husband a great wizard?”

“He is a wizard.”

“Like you?”

The brush resumed its rhythmic stroking, but the effect was no longer soothing. The girl absorbed with each stroke her mother’s emotions: tension, grief, longing, fear. The temptation to pull away was dizzying, but she fiercely pushed aside the impulse. She wanted answers. Perhaps this pain was part of the knowing.

“Once he was my apprentice,” her mother said at last. “There is a proverb that warns masters to beware ambition in their students. Words of nonsense can be repeated as often as sage wisdom, but this one held true.”

The little girl shrugged off the lesson, her mind on the recent miscast spells, the wandering magic. “You are the master still,” she said stoutly, as if she could deny what was becoming clearer with every day.

Her mother’s smile was sad and knowing. “How long has it been since you asked me to summon Sprite? It is a difficult casting. Surely you know that.”

The girl’s eyes dropped and her lower lip jutted. “He teases me. That’s all.”

“Really. That has never bothered you before.”

“I’ve tired of it,” she said, implacably stubborn. “And I’m tired of talking about that silly Sprite. Sing another song, one that will summon something fierce and strong. A starsnake!”

“They do not fly at night, child.”

She folded her arms. “Then the name is stupid.”

Her mother laughed a little. “Perhaps you are right. What fierce creature do you desire? A night-flying roc? A jungle cat, perhaps?”

There was a playful tone in her mother’s voice. The girl understood that she was being humored, and she liked it not at all. “A behir,” she said darkly, picturing a many-legged creature with the sinuous body of a snake, a fearsome crocodilian head, and a wide mouth full of wicked, translucent teeth. “It can follow us and lie in wait behind us. When your husband comes by, it will spring out and bite off his-“

“Foot,” her mother supplied quickly, suspecting, quite rightly, that the little girl had placed her ambitions for the behir somewhat higher.

“Foot,” agreed the child quickly, for she had lost interest in her imagined revenge. Her mother’s eyes had gone wary, and her hand went to the small amulet that nestled in the hollow of her throat.

Carefully her mother eased her hand away from her amulet. “Your hair is so smooth and shiny! You look too fine for sleep. What if we run across the rooftops until we find a tavern still open? We could have cakes and sugared wine, and if there is a bard in the house, I will sing. And, yes, I will summon a fierce creature for you. A behir, a dragon-anything you like.”

She wasn’t fooled by the brittle gaiety of her mother’s tones, or by the bribe of a rooftop romp. Though neither of them had even spoken the words aloud, the child understood that the hidden ways were safer than the streets. Quickly she tightened the laces on her soft leather shoes. It would not do to trip and fall into the grasp of her mother’s husband.

“I’m ready,” she announced.

Her mother eased open a shutter and lifted her onto the ledge beyond. The child leaned her small body against the wall and began to edge around the building, as confident and surefooted as a lemur.

Something caught her eye several streets to the east A tendril of magic, so powerful that her eyes perceived it as a glowing green light, twisted through the streets toward them.

Lightning jolted through her, nearly knocking her from the ledge.

Tzigone frowned, puzzled. This had not happened to the child she had been, nor had it ever been part of her dream. A second jolt struck, and suddenly the ledge was gone and she was falling.

Tzigone awoke suddenly, gasping and flailing about for something to hold. A startled, almost panicked moment passed before she remembered where she was.

She’d picked the most secure resting place in Khaerbaal. She had followed the flight of a winged starsnake to this tree, an enormous bilboa that shaded and dominated the public garden. She’d climbed until she’d found this perch, and then bedded down on the broad limb. The snake was sleeping still, its gossamer wings folded and the blue and white scales of its long, coiled body glittering like moonstone.

Tzigone pushed herself up into a sitting position and shoved a hand through her short, sweat-soaked hair. The rope that lashed her to the tree had pulled tight around her waist, giving testimony to a restless sleep. She’d probably touched the snake while she was thrashing about.

Had she been almost anyone else, she would now be swinging from her rope, smoking like an overcooked haunch of rothe-not that she had much knowledge of these savory, shaggy beasts, overcooked or otherwise. Starsnakes she knew better.

The slumber of these winged reptiles was guarded by powerful magical defenses. A wandering sage had once informed her that creatures changed over the centuries in response to their surroundings and to thwart their enemies. In Halruaa, wizards were the most dangerous beings, potential enemies of anything that slithered, flew, or walked about on two or more legs. Few people learned to defend themselves against wizards, but the starsnake was more ingenious than most. No wizard had been able to negate their sleep shield, though from time to time there was tavern talk of darkly humorous tales of wizards who had tried and failed. No one in full possession of his senses would approach, much less touch, the sleeping creatures. That made this limb one of the safest spots in all Halruaa, provided that Tzigone left well before the creature awakened. This arrangement suited her just fine. She and starsnakes were frequent bedfellows.

The snake’s wings rustled slightly as if touched by a night breeze. Tzigone brought her legs under her and crouched like a wary cat, one hand on the hilt of her knife and one hand tugging at her rope to make sure that she was firmly tethered. Sometimes the reptiles were roused by the release of their own killing magic, especially if they were hungry. The blast of magic usually provided them with a hot meal.

Tzigone couldn’t tell if the snake slept or woke, for its blue eyes were always open. Suddenly the head reared back, a gesture that made the snake look absurdly like a person who had just glimpsed a surprising sight. The vertical pupils in the snake’s strange, sky-colored eyes narrowed to dark slits, and for a long moment the starsnake regarded Tzigone sullenly.

“You touched us. Why do you live?” it inquired in a dry whisper.

Tzigone shrugged. “It’s gotten to be a habit.”

“An annoying one,” the snake countered. “One that we can help you break.”

The attack was a sudden blur of wings and fangs and ropes of moonstone. Tzigone dived off the branch, away from the lunging creature. As she fell, she slashed out with her knife. The blade tore through one of the beautiful wings, nearly severing it. Not taking any chances, Tzigone seized the wounded wing and gave it a hard tug. The short fall was enough to pull the creature from its branch. As she jolted to a stop, Tzigone released the wing. The starsnake’s sibilant wail echoed through the tree as it spiraled down toward the garden below.

Tzigone swung gently back and forth as she listened for the distant thud. She tucked away her knife and seized the rope with both hands. She pulled herself up, then brought her legs arching up over her head until she could hook them over the branch. Strong and limber, she easily swung up into sitting position. Quickly she untied the rope, coiled it, and tied it to her belt. A glance at the moon told the time. Selune was half full, and thus visible during the day, looking out over the city like a single heavy-lidded eye. In half an hour’s time, it would disappear behind the spires of the School of Augury. Tzigone’s perch was high above the rooftops, and she figured it would take her about that long to scramble down the tree. As she climbed, she placed a whispered bet against the lady moon.

Her descent was faster than Selune’s. She cast an impish grin at the wizard’s school and then settled down to dress her kill.

The snakeskin was valuable and would keep her in coin for many days. Although the meat was bitter and unpalatable, she took a chunk anyway. The starsnake had fully intended to eat her, Tzigone thought it only fair to return the favor.

An hour later, she emerged from the back entrance to a small apothecary’s house. The man possessed only a minor talent for potions and transformations, and his patrons were generally lackluster common folk: merchants, farmers, sell-swords, miners, and the like. Tzigone sold him strange things from time to time, spell components that he would take gladly and without question.

She walked along the back ways she’d learned as a child, utterly silent but for the pleasant chink of the shining Halruaan skie in her bag. The snakeskin had bought her a dozen portraits of King Zalathorm, duly minted on electrum coin.

“Tzigone, you’re a bastard in every sense of the word and no mistake about it, but at least you’re a rich one,” she said softly.

She nodded, liking the sound of that. The clinking of coin made a pleasant counterpoint to the music of her chosen name. She liked the exotic sound of the word, the quick tap of the tongue for the T that led into the crisp accented syllable, and finally a quick slide out on two small sounds. “T-SIG-o-nee,” she repeated softly, and nodded again.

The word meant “gypsy” in some obscure northern tongue. She’d liked it when she heard it several months ago and had claimed it as her own. Her latest name described what she was, if not precisely who she was.

For now-for a while longer, at least-that would have to be enough.

Silence hung over the jordaini training field, heavy as swamp mist The ingenious water clock in the nearby library tower tolled the hour, but no one bothered to count its chimes and no one hurried off to his next lesson. No one spoke. No one moved.

“No!”

The word burst from Themo like the cry of a wounded panther. The big jordain pushed his way through the line to stand between the magehound and his condemned friend.

“Surely there has been some mistake,” he entreated. “There must have been! Andris is the best of us all. I will appeal this dispute to the Jordaini Council, as is my right.”

“Dispute?” Kiva looked more amused than affronted. “In such matters, the word of a magehound is final. There is no appeal and no room for disputation. But since you speak with a passion unusual and refreshing for the jordaini, I am willing to listen.”

She turned away from Themo to survey the suddenly hopeful faces of Andris’s friends. “Have any of you seen this man use magic? You may speak freely.”

A loud chorus of disclaimers rippled down the line, most of them framed by the formal phrases a jordain used to emphasize that his words were not satire or parable, but literal truth.

Kiva looked faintly bored but determined to see her duty through. “Perhaps he has some unusual abilities or accomplishes things that might be difficult to explain without magic?”

“He is skilled in battle strategy, my lady,” Vishna said. “Unusually so. But that is no more than the application of a disciplined mind to the cultivation of natural gifts.”

“Another proverb,” Kiva observed dryly. “Must you jordaini always speak in forms and formulas? It is unspeakably dreary.”

‘Truth is seldom as interesting as lies,” Matteo muttered.

The magehound wheeled toward him, her face incredulous. Immediately Matteo realized his mistake. If the elf woman thought he was accusing her of falsehood, his life was forfeit.

But after a moment Kiva smiled and nodded. “I agree. Unlike truth, lies must make sense. They demand an internal logic and attention to detail that truth, in its innocent arrogance, does not always achieve. Do you understand me, jordain?”