The Magehound

Finally the jordain concluded his lecture and acknowledged the patter of applause with a deep bow. His self-satisfied smile broadened when his gaze fell on Matteo. Matteo rose and came to greet his colleague.

"Well, if it isn't the newest gelding in Procopio's stables," Frando said in a faintly nasty tone. "Come to listen and learn, I suppose?"

Matteo's brows lifted. For once it seemed appropriate to forego the usual polite phrases of greeting. "My patron has sent me with a message for the wizard Xavierlyn," he said curtly. "He bids me give it into your keeping."

It was a common enough task, but to his surprise, Frando hissed with exasperation. "It is clear that you don't mind playing the part of an errand boy, but I occupy my time with more important tasks. Why couldn't Procopio simply send a scroll? Or if he is as powerful a diviner as he claims to be, why not use magic?"

Matteo blinked, startled by this response. "Scrolls can be stolen, scried, or magically altered. Messengers can be waylaid, bribed, threatened, or magically influenced, or information taken from their minds. Even magically sent messages can be intercepted. There is also the possibility that a magically gifted messenger could influence the hearer, much as the minor magic of a bard lures an audience into receptivity," he explained patiently. "Any first-form jordain knows this."

Too late, Matteo realized how his words could be taken. Frando's face darkened with anger, yet he could not dispute Matteo's assessment.

"Give me the message," he said shortly.

To Matteo's surprise, the jordain did not receive the message on first hearing. Frando repeated it back with several alterations and two outright errors. Matteo patiently repeated Procopio's detailed report, once and then again, insisting that the man repeat it back precisely.

"Enough," the jordain finally said, his face crimson. "You change the words to mock me."

Matteo quickly swallowed the surge of rage that accusation brought. "I am charged with bringing a message to your patron, untainted by error or magical persuasion. Perhaps I had better repeat it to her myself." He turned away, intent upon doing just that.

Frando caught Matteo's arm and spun him around. "You would offer such insult?" he said incredulously.

"Less insult than you offered me," Matteo retorted as he jerked free of the big man's grasp. "You all but called me a liar."

"And so you are."

Impulse overtook training. Matteo's fist flashed out and connected squarely with Frando's jaw. The man staggered back and tripped over a chair. He went down heavily and came up with his hands on the hilts of his daggers.

This put Matteo in a serious quandary. It was against the law for one jordain to draw a weapon on another. If he defended himself, he and Frando would be judged equally at fault, for Matteo had struck the first blow. Yet judging from the fury in the other man's eyes, Frando intended to attack whether Matteo drew weapons or not.

Before he could respond, a small woman dressed in an eye-searing combination of scarlet, orange, and yellow breezed between him and Frando. Matteo's heart jolted with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension when he recognized Tzigone. She was clad as a street performer, wearing brilliant yellow pantaloons, an orange shirt, and a red vest encrusted with shiny bits of glass cut and polished to look like gems. Around her head was a turban fashioned of multicolored scarves. Her face was scrubbed clean and painted so that her eyes look huge and exotic. Even her fingernails were tinted in gaudy citrus shades. To his surprise, Matteo realized that this display was actually an effective disguise. Few would see past the color and the costume to take note of the small woman's features.

She hopped up onto the dais and clapped her hands. "Gather round," she called in a clear, ringing alto. She gestured for the crowd to fill in the space between Matteo and Frando, quite effectively cutting off the angry jordain's attack.

"Watch carefully and see if you can detect the skill in what I am about to do. For it is skill alone, not so much as a drop of magic!"

She called up a child, and with much flourish, she pulled a skie from behind his ear.

"A simple conjurer's trick!" scoffed someone from the audience.

Tzigone dropped her arms to her side and turned, staring incredulously at the heckler. Matteo followed the line of her gaze. The man who'd spoken was young and obviously wealthy, for he was clad in violet silk and decked with far too much gold and amethyst jewelry. There were many like him in Halruaa's cities: sons and daughters of successful merchants who had time and means to while away their hours in the shops and festhalls.

She took hold of the hems of her gaudy vest and spread it open. "If I could conjure as many coins as I'd like, would I spend them on such elegant, subtle garments? And judging from your raiment," she added dryly, "I doubt you're of the conjurer's school either."