The Magehound

The lad eyed the coin, then lifted an awed gaze to hers. That single skie might be more riches than he'd held in five moons, but the name was worth far more to him. Gwillon was a master pickpocket and a legend among the shadows of this city. The man was getting along in years, but his training might be enough to keep this lad alive. Justice in Halruaa was swift, and few thieves were caught twice. She'd given the boy a rare second chance, and he knew it.

The boy fisted his hand around his apprentice fee and darted off in the direction of Low Street. Tzigone nodded approvingly and went on through the back way to the shop where she was currently employed.

Chimes sang musically as she opened the door. Tzigone glanced up, marveling anew that something so beautiful could be made from the sort of scraps that a butcher might toss to stray dogs. Behir's bones. Who would know by looking at the ugly creatures that they housed such fey beauty?

Halruaans were never content to leave any creature as nature intended, and behirs were a special target of their breeding programs. Miniature behirs of various sizes were raised for purposes ranging from moat guardians to exotic nets, but like pigs and poets, they garnered most of their acclaim after their deaths. Their primary purpose was spell components.

It seemed that nearly every part of a behir was good for something. The long, slender horns that flowed back from their heads were ground into powder and added to ink used in writing out spell scrolls for various lightning spells. Their talons and hearts went to making inks that were used to create spells offering protection from poison. Even the mundane uses of their leavings were marvelous. Their bones were crystalline and were used for scrimshaw. Like musical ghosts, the behir bones sang at the doors and windows of Halruaan homes long after the flesh that had clothed them was distant memory. The teeth, however, gave rise to the most creative uses. They were translucent and multicolored, often imitating and rivaling the hue and sparkle of gemstone.

Tzigone crept silently to a large, oddly shaped wooden box that stood on a three-legged stand. It was a musical instrument, a special creation of Justin, the artificer who owned this shop. Inside the box were strings fashioned of behir's gut and electrum wire, and on the wide end of the box was a row of neat ivory keys. When one of the keys was pressed, a curved fang was lifted by a complex series of levers until it plucked at the string. The sound varied greatly, depending upon what instrument the musician called to mind. These instruments were much in demand in the city, and Justin was building another, his back to Tzigone and his attention wholly absorbed by his work.

She chose a sound and struck the key attached to the lowest, thickest string. The behir's fang flashed up, and the electrum cord vibrated. A deep, full-throated sound reverberated through the room-not a musical instrument, but a wemic's roar.

Justin leaped and spun in one quick, startled movement His glare melted into a reluctant smile as he met Tzigone's grin.

"A good jest," he conceded. "But bear in mind, boy, that not everyone cares to be the brunt of your mischief. Keep it up and you'll come to grief soon or late."

Tzigone had learned early in life that letting people think she was a boy was safer, if marginally so, than being seen as a young woman alone. "What can I do today?"

"Behirs need feeding. There's a clutch of new hatchlings to record, too. Three of them, and fine beasts all. Ethan's brood, out of Blue Bess."

She followed him out into the back, where a series of long narrow pools housed the creatures. Sure enough, three new behirs, each not much bigger than a cat, lounged on the sunning rocks. All of them were covered with soft scales of the light topaz blue that Justin favored, and all had only six legs. Each would develop another three or four pairs before adulthood. They had yet to grow horns, and but for their length and color, they looked very much like sky-colored crocodiles.

Justin watched Tzigone as she chopped fish and eels. She clicked her tongue, and the miniature monsters came to her like obedient hounds, swarming about the wall as she tossed them their food. The babies had to be nearly hand-fed, an exceedingly dangerous task for anyone whose fingers were less fleet than Tzigone's. The hatchlings' teeth, already gem-colored and sharp as needles, flashed and snapped as they ate.

The artificer nodded approvingly. "You've a sure, quick hand with the beasts. I could use an apprentice, especially when it comes to the slaughtering. Gathering and treating spell components can be tricky work. Have you been tested for magic?"

The question was rhetorical. Every child in Halruaa was first tested before the age of five, and often thereafter until his or her talents and destiny were decided. Tzigone had sidestepped the formal process and learned whatever skills suited her needs and caught her fancy.