The Magehound

All of this troubled Matteo. Her actions were too bold, even for a magehound. Though the word of an inquisitrix was accepted as law, Kiva was not invulnerable. The church of Azuth dealt with any magehound who acted for personal gain or at the behest of any person or group. Obviously the elf woman deemed her pursuit to be worthy of this risk.

Matteo rode to the north gate and confirmed from gate guards that the elf woman had indeed passed through. It was no surprise to Matteo that she headed northeast, toward the Swamp of Akhlaur.

Where else? There were only two places where gentiola blossoms grew: the Kilmaruu Swamp near Zalasuu and the Swamp of Akhlaur. Kiva had no doubt left the flower as an additional lure for Tzigone. He wouldn't be surprised if the silver brush was the clue that told Tzigone which of these choices to take.

He rode until Cyric's sides were flecked with white and the great horse's breath came in deep gusts. Near sunset, a narrow side road beckoned to the village beyond, a small farming village perched on the side of a hill and visible from the trade road.

Matteo found his way to the inn and asked about Kiva and her band. No one had seen her, but his white garments did earn him some unusually suspicious scrutiny.

Finally one of the farmhands came over to his table. The man was huge, grimy with soil from the day's labors. He looked none too pleased. He picked up the saltcellar and dumped the contents on the table. With one thick, dirty finger, he drew a circle separated by a jagged bolt-the symbol of the jordain order.

"This look familiar?" he demanded.

Matteo suppressed a smile of delight and relief. Judging from the hostile expression on the man's face, Tzigone had been through this way.

"It does indeed. A young woman-or perhaps a boy, a street urchin-may have taken my pendant. I seek this person."

"Woman or boy?" The man frowned, confounded by this unexpected choice.

"A woman," Matteo guessed. "She may have been dressed as a jordain, but she is not. Her fingers tend to be a little light."

The farmer snorted. "Don't I know it."

Matteo leaned forward eagerly. "Tell me what you know of her. And tell me also what you have lost, and I will see that you receive recompense."

"Will you, now?"

The expression on the man's face puzzled Matteo. It was not relief or gratitude, not disbelief, not greed or cunning. Try as he might Matteo had no name to give it.

"As best I can," he added with newfound caution. After a moment the man nodded and pushed back from the table. "Follow me."

Matteo claimed Cyric the Second from the stables and followed the man out of the village and into the hills beyond. His home was a small stone dwelling that had been carved into the side of a hill, more a cave than a cottage. A separate entrance led out into a pen, suggesting that livestock shared the shelter.

The farmer nodded toward the empty pen. "Beat me at dice, she did. When I didn't put the coin on the table fast enough to suit her, she agreed to come here and take a pig."

Matteo saw where this was going. "She took more than one, I gather?"

"You might say that." The man shook his head in disgust. "Never saw anything like it. Them pigs flew off after her like a flock o' swans."

The unlikely analogy made Matteo blink, as did the image it conjured in his mind. "Your pigs flew off," he repeated. "like swans."

"Sounds barmy, don't it? Don't suppose I could go to the magistrate with that one, or you take it to the jordain order?"

"Ah. She was tested for magic in the inn, I take it?"

"The village midwife," the man said shortly. "Near as good as a magehound, is Granny Frost. I swore the wench witched my dice, and Granny Frost mumbled over her to test the truth o' things. Said there wasn't a drop of magic in the wench, that she was a true jordain. If I complain that the girl witched my pigs, I'd be going up against Granny Frost. That ain't a thing for a man unwed to be doing. I'd sooner wed one o' my own sows than whatever Granny might pick for me."

"I see," Matteo mused. "How can I help?"

"If you have coins, take payment for my pigs. If not, I'll take the girl." The farmer grinned unpleasantly. "You're bound to find her soon or late, and bein' a jordain, you got no good use for her. Might as well bring her here. Me, I don't like to leave any job unfinished."

Wrath flamed hot and bright as Matteo understood that what Tzigone had done here probably had less to do with theft than diversion, with a bit of vengeance thrown in. As he recalled, Tzigone had an aversion to familiar sayings. He would not be at all surprised if the expression "when pigs fly" had come into play. Well, pigs had flown, and Tzigone had gotten away, leaving the farmer with "unfinished business." Matteo found enormous relief in that.

"I will pay," he said shortly. "How many pigs were there in your… flock?"

The farmer's eyes narrowed at the gibe, but he named a number far higher than the pen could possibly contain.