Элейн Каннингем - The Magehound

The lilt in her voice held true praise, but Matteo saw mockery glittering in her eyes. Puzzled, he answered as best he could. "I thank you for your words, lady," he said, adding subtle emphasis that acknowledged the hidden blade in her compliment.

The magehound looked intrigued. "You speak well, for a man whose wits are hemmed in with proverbs and platitudes. Perhaps you would like to tell me about your fellow jordain. What is it about him that makes the crystal sing?"

"I do not know of this crystal and its properties, lady, so I cannot answer your question."

"Actually, that's quite a good answer," she said approvingly. "You do not know the crystal. Well enough. But you do know the man and his character?"

Matteo hesitated, then inclined his head in a single curt nod.

"And do you know him well?" she prodded.

He glanced at Andris, whose face was more familiar to him than his own. "As well as one brother might know another," he said softly.

"You have never once perceived anything unusual about him, no act beyond the scope of any other magic-dead counselor?"

The morning's discussion about the Kilmaruu Paradox came unbidden into Matteo's mind. Quickly he willed the thought away, but some flicker of it must have entered his eyes.

Kiva's lips curved in a smile of feline satisfaction. "There is something, after all. Speak of it."

Matteo sent an anguished look at his friend. "You are pledged to speak truth," Andris said softly. "I would not have you do otherwise, whatever comes of it."

"Andris is indeed skilled in battle strategy," Matteo began reluctantly. "He has applied himself to this study more assiduously than any of us. He possesses an original mind and sees beyond the details of history to what might have been and what might yet be. Like a master weaver, he takes the threads and makes of them new cloth."

"Very poetic," Kiva said coldly. "Your disclaimer is noted. Get to the meat of the matter."

"This morning Andris revealed to me that he has solved the Kilmaruu Paradox."

A soft ripple of astonishment passed through the ranks of the jordaini. The magehound's hired soldiers looked shocked, and even the masters exchanged incredulous glances. Matteo noted that all of the masters seemed surprised by this news. Why so, when Andris indicated that he'd confided in at least one of them?

But Matteo could not consider the matter now. The magehound swayed closer to him, her lovely face dark with menace.

"Do you know how many wizards have made it their life-work to unravel that puzzle?" she said in a low, furious voice. "How many have died in the swamps? None but a wizard or an utter fool would dare attempt such a thing! Tell me, jordain, is your friend a fool?"

Matteo saw the trap at once. For the first time in his life, he regretted the vows that bound him to speak truth. "He is not," he said faintly.

"Then it would appear that he is a wizard." Kiva turned to the wemic. "Andris is a false jordain and a danger to his kind. Deal with it."

The creature crouched, tamping down his hind legs. Before Matteo could draw breath, the great catman leaped. The coarse fur of the leonine body scorched across Matteo's arm as the wemic flashed past. Matteo squeezed his eyes closed, willing back the unfamiliar moisture that gathered there.

But darkness could not block the sound, the terrible thud of impact as Andris hit the ground under the weight of the great wemic, the quick brittle crunch of bone. Matteo recognized the sound of a neck breaking, and he spoke a silent farewell to his friend. He watched in despairing silence as the wemic picked up the limp form of Andris with his manlike arms and slung the jordain over his massive shoulder.

Kiva turned to the masters, who stood as silent and stunned as their students. "There will be no further testing today. Judging from these long faces, it would be effort wasted. I will return when your students are at their best."

The magehound spun on her heel and walked out, followed by the wemic with his grim burden, and finally by her guard.

When the sound of their horses' hoofbeats had died away, the headmaster turned sad eyes upon his students. The wizard swallowed hard several times before he spoke. "The tides will be highest near midnight, and many ships will sail from the docks of Khaerbaal tonight. There will be much merriment in the town, and the taverns will vie with each other to draw in the sailors. Ale and wine will not reach prices so low for many moons to come. Since thrift is a jordainish virtue, I urge you all to partake," he said with forced lightness.

No one spoke or moved. With a deep sigh, the wizard abandoned his attempt. "Horses and coin will be available to all who wish them," he said in a softer and infinitely sadder tone. "Go, with Mystra's blessing and mine. Purchase a few hours of forgetfulness."

Several of the students slipped away, but none so quickly as Themo. Matteo noted the glitter of tears in the big man's eyes and the grim set of his square jaw. The combination did not bode well.

Vishna seemed to be thinking along the same lines. The old battle wizard came over to the place where Matteo stood alone, still reeling from the result of his unwilling betrayal. "Go with Themo, lad. Keep him safe."

Matteo's lips thinned in an ironic smile. "And how will I accomplish that? With the sharp sword of truth?"

The bitterness and anguish in his voice made Vishna wince in sympathy. The wizard sighed and placed a hand on the young man's shoulders. "Yours was not the hand that slew Andris. That thought is untruth, and arrogance beside."

"Arrogance? How so?" demanded Matteo in despairing tones. "How could I possibly boast of my part in the death of my friend?"

"You need not take pleasure in a thing to display pride.

"Taking responsibility where none exists is arrogance. A child thinks that all things revolve around him and that his will and his words bring forth wishes upon the first star. You are no child. See that you remember that."

The wizard's tone was bracingly sharp. Matteo nodded, seeing both the purpose and the truth of the words. "Thank you, master," he said, speaking automatically the words he had been trained to use at the end of every lesson.

Vishna sighed. "The lesson is over. Go."

Matteo went, but reluctantly. The prospect of an evening in the boisterous port town held little appeal under the best of circumstances. But he quickly bathed and dressed in the traditional garb, a loose sleeveless tunic fashioned from white linen worn over matching leggings. Around his neck he hung the token of his class, a round silver medallion enameled with the jordaini emblem: the left half of the field green, the right yellow, and the two separated by a jagged bolt of cobalt blue lightning. He belted on the strap that held his daggers, then pulled back his dark hair and fastened it with a thin leather thong. These things-the clothing, the weapons, the medallion, and the few small things that aided in the care of his person-were the sum of his possessions. A jordain was allowed nothing but his knowledge, his reputation, and his friends.

Today Matteo had learned how tenuous was his claim to that last and most precious of possessions. He moved like a man asleep, stunned by the loss of Andris and by the realization of how fragile was his own position.

All his life Matteo had walked with pride, as befitted a man of his talents and station. Handpicked at birth-before birth, for that matter-he had been raised in the collective luxury of House Jordain and given the best training that this most civilized land could offer. He had worked hard, and he fully expected to be well rewarded. The jordaini were restrained by law from owning property and amassing wealth, but they lived exceedingly well and could advance in status. A truly talented counselor was in high demand among Halruaa's wizard lords and ladies, and such a man could expect to choose his own path and take whatever employment suited his ambitions.