The Magehound

Matteo breathed a gusty sigh of relief. Though Tzigone's understanding of life was vastly different than his, he was moved by the fact that she would try to rescue him. All the same, he was glad that she was safely out of it.

He had just settled back down on the floor when the lock began to clatter in earnest. He surged to his feet as the door swung in, ready to unleash a blistering tirade at the persistent girl.

But the face in the doorway was not what he expected, not the impish charm of Tzigone's pointed chin and big, dark eyes, but the exotic, dangerous beauty of a wild elf female.

Kiva the Magehound raised a single jade-colored brow. "You are most eager to leave, Matteo. Strangely you don't seem pleased to see me."

Matteo had no answer for that. Instead he regarded the steady, golden stare of the wemic at Kiva's side. Judging from Mbatu's expression, Matteo guessed that the wemic remembered quite well what had passed between them earlier that day. Tzigone's assurances of forgetfulness were nothing more than another of her comfortable lies.

Kiva slipped a slender arm around the wemic's waist, a gesture that struck Matteo as warning rather than affection. She glanced over her shoulder at the hold's magistrate, who was all but wringing his hands in distress.

"Deepest apologies, lady, but you cannot simply take this prisoner and go."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"He must be examined by the hold's inquisitor. You know the rules."

Kiva's smile was chilling. "I also know Chartain. He was assigned this post because he could get no other. Do you put more faith in his judgment than mine? If I say that this jordain is no thief, let that content you."

The magistrate gave one last try. "You walk in Azuth's light, lady, and speak through the sure sight of magic. If you say this man is no thief, I will swear my own life against his innocence! But you cannot deny that he was carrying a sword, though it is against local custom for a jordain to do so."

"What need have they of such weapons when they are armed with the sword of truth?" she said sweetly, neither confirming nor disputing the accusation.

Once again Matteo heard the hint of irony in her voice, a music not unlike the faint, mocking echoes of the Unseelie folk, dark fairies who haunted the mountain passes around Halruaa and played seductive tunes known to lure men from the paths into the wilderness.

"He had the sword when the militia stopped him," the magistrate stated again.

"But did he know at the time that he was carrying it? Did you?" she said, turning abruptly to Matteo.

"I did not know about the sword. The magehound does not lie… about this," Matteo said, adding subtle emphasis of his own.

Her angry gaze snapped to his, and for a long time they locked fierce stares. Matteo remembered a cobra and trainer he'd seen frozen in just such a posture. Like the snake trainer, he suspected that a misstep would cause the deadly creature before him to strike.

But after a moment Kiva's lips curved in a delighted smile. She turned to the magistrate. "You heard him. We all know that the jordaini place truth above all. Let him go at once."

Chapter Nine

Matteo's troubles did not end when the door of the hold clanked shut behind him.

Kiva wished him well in her sweet, ironic voice and then disappeared. The wemic, after a final long, challenging stare, followed the magehound, leaving Matteo entirely to his own devices.

He started out to find Cyric and soon realized that this effort was both futile and costly. The stallion had shattered the hitching rail by the Falling Star Tavern to get loose, and the innkeeper demanded payment. Matteo had spent all of his allotted coin to ensure that Themo would not come to grief over the brawl in the tavern. It took all his persuasive powers to get the man to agree to accept a note, payable upon demand by the stewards of House Jordain.

Matters did not improve from there. Ordinarily many hostlers in Khaerbaal might have been wiling to lend him a mount, certain of payment from the jordaini order, but none believed Matteo's claim to being a member of that house. His battles, his jaunt with Tzigone through the bilboa tree and the dirty back streets, and his confinement in the dirty cell had left his white linens dingy and stained beyond recognition. Worse, he had inexplicably lost the pendant that proclaimed him a jordain.

There was nothing to do but walk, so Matteo set out at a brisk pace. By sunset, he left the city gate behind. He walked as late into the night as he dared, then took a page from Tzigone's book and took refuge in a large, vine-shrouded mazganut tree.

Sleep did not come, for he was all too aware of the numerous night sounds around him. He recognized the snuffles and grunts of the wild boars who rooted for fallen nuts at the base of the tree, the not-too-distant shriek of a hunting panther, the hum and chitter of the tiny, often malevolent sprites who made their lairs in the uppermost branches.