Элейн Каннингем - The Wizardwar

Malchior's face darkened at this reproof, but he bowed to acknowledge the king's words. "My uncle employed a magehound to inquire into the cause of Sinestra's death. He was assured that Basel Indoulur was responsible for her death."

"He was responsible, all right," Tzigone agreed. "He asked a question she couldn't answer. Apparently she tried, even though there was a spell of silence upon her."

"Go on," said Zalathorm.

"I tried to divine that spell, trace it back. There is a protective veil surrounding the caster. I couldn't get past it, but I recognized it. It had the feel of my mother's talisman. Dhamari Exchelsor is wearing it."

"That is impossible," Procopio said flatly. "Dhamari Exchelsor disappeared into the Unseelie realm!"

"So did I," responded Tzigone, "yet, here I am."

For a long moment, she and the powerful wizard locked stares.

Zalathorm looked to his scribe. "According to law, Dhamari's tower would be warded against intrusion. Is there record of his return?"

The scribe cast a quick cantrip and picked up a big ledger. The pages rippled swiftly, flipping first one way and then the other, then the book snapped closed.

"None, sire."

Matteo noted the faint smirk that lifted one side of the diviner's lips. "If you have evidence of Dhamari Exchelsor's return, please share it," invited Procopio politely. "Until then, do not besmirch a wizard's name with accusations you cannot support!"

Tzigone swept a hand wide in a gesture that included the crowd. "Isn't that what we're doing here? Three people have died in Basel's tower: Sinestra Belajoon, Farrah Noor, and Uriah Belajoon. Basel knew them all, and he loved Farrah like a daughter. He tried to save Lord Uriah when the old man's heart faltered. These deaths are his tragedy, not his crime."

She lifted her chin, and her sweeping gaze seemed to capture every pair of eyes and lock them to hers.

Matteo drew in a quick, startled breath. In that gesture, he saw a shadow of Zalathorm's commanding presence. He glanced at the king, but Zalathorm's thoughtful gaze was fixed upon his unacknowledged daughter.

"Basel is innocent. This I swear this to you," Tzigone said, giving each word the weight of a royal pronouncement, "by Lady and Lord, by wind and word. Let any who wish to prove me false do the same."

No one spoke. No one moved. It didn't seem to occur to anyone that the challenge just thrown down had come from a waif with shorn tresses and an apprentice's blue robes. She took her seat, and the decision to release Basel was swiftly endorsed by a subdued council.

Matteo marveled at the irony of this. Had this taken place in a tavern, the patrons would have applauded and ordered another round. The wizards didn't seem to realize that Tzigone's persona was nothing more than a non-magical illusion cast by a talented street performer.

Or was it? He and Tzigone had just returned from a place where illusion and reality had no clear boundaries. Perhaps, he mused, things were not so different on this side of the veil.

Later that day, Procopio Septus made his way to the shop of a behir tinker, an artisan who made fanciful objects from a behir's colored, crystalline fangs. He listened with barely concealed impatience as the man demonstrated a musical instrument fashioned so that its strings were plucked by plectrums fashioned from multicolored fangs, enspelled so that the resulting sound could imitate nearly anything the musician wished.

"A marvelous toy, but I have no time for music," Procopio said flatly.

The tinker nodded and reached for a set of tiny, exquisitely carved spoons. "Perhaps a gift for a lady? These are in great demand."

"Yet you seem to have so many of them," the wizard said dryly. "Not quite the thing. A lamp, perhaps?"

The shopkeeper's brow furrowed. Before he could admit that he had none, Procopio nodded toward the crystal chandelier that hung in the rear corner of the room. The man's eyes widened in astonishment.

"I'll take that one," the wizard announced.

"Two hundred skie," the tinker suggested without missing a step. "A bargain."

Procopio dickered a bit, as custom demanded. The tinker settled on a price that might have been considered fair, had the lamp truly been his to sell.

The wizard examined his purchase, surreptitiously removing the yellow crystal from it. He gave thе tinker an address of a quiet inn and asked to have it delivered and hung in a private room he maintained for one of his mistresses. It would not remain there long, of course. Given the pervasive nature of magic in Halruaan society, it was folly to keep a dimensional portal in one place for very long.

He made his way to the bin and took the crystal from a hidden pocket in his sleeve. A few words opened the portal, and Dhamari Exchelsor stepped into the room.

"What news?" he asked. Procopio related the events in a terse, factual manner.

"Let me tally this score," Dhamari said incredulously. "Uriah Belajoon is dead, and Basel Indoulur is not. Where is the 'help' the old man was supposed to receive?"

"Late in coming," grumbled Procopio. "But some good did follow. Malchior Belajoon, nephew to Uriah, has seen opportunity in his uncle's death. The Belajoon name is on every Halruaan's lips. To a clever man, notoriety is as good as fame. He sees himself as Zalathorm's successor and is gathering supporters."

Dhamari smiled. "Excellent! You do not wish to be seen as the only contender for the throne."

"Once the first sword is unsheathed, other wizards will step forward, either to support a powerful contender or to make claims of their own. Few of them will get far."

"So you are setting up straw men to be knocked down. Including Malchior, I suppose."

"Including Zalathorm," Procopio corrected. "Your task is to ensure that wizards who stand against Malchior die, making him appear more formidable than he truly is. Let Malchior gain support, until he appears to be the primary challenger to Zalathorm's throne."

Dhamari nodded. "To even the slate, I should see to the demise of some of Malchior's supporters, as well. Then when Malchior falls, he will appear to be one of many. You can then argue that the mighty, benevolent Zalathorm has been reduced to dispatching lawful challengers like a back-alley assassin."

"Well reasoned," Procopio agree. He looked keenly at the little wizard. "You can accomplish this?"

"I can. The time I spent enjoying your hospitality yielded some excellent spells, ones that should prove difficult to detect."

The conspirators talked for several moments more before Procopio slipped away. When Dhamari was alone, he took his scrying globe and summoned the image of a beautiful elven face.

A slow smile spread across Dhamari's face as the spires of Akhlaur's tower came into view. Zalathorm would fall indeed, but not by Procopio's machinations. The coming carnage would be far beyond the lord mayor's proud expectations, and when it was done, even a man of Dhamari's stature would stand very tall indeed.

That evening, after another fruitless and frustrating visit to the queen's tower, Matteo returned to his private chambers. He was not surprised to see Tzigone awaiting him, sprawled comfortably, if not elegantly, on a velvet settee. He stopped short, however, as a second figure rose from a high-backed chair.

"King Zalathorm," he said in surprise.

"Close the door, please," the king said. "There is something more to be discussed, and I would rather not do so in full hearing of passing servants."

Matteo shut the door and came to sit near Tzigone. He took her hand and held it firmly. She sent him an incredulous look. "That bad, is it?"

"Just watch," the jordain said tersely. He nodded toward the king.

Zalathorm's visage had begun to change. The blurred lines of middle years gave way to taut, sun-browned skin. His features sharpened, and his frame compacted to the lithe form of a man half his apparent years. The robes of a Halruaan wizard-king changed into simple garments such as a young wizard out for adventure might wear.