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.
Worse were the faint, unearthly echoes of the Unseelie music. Matteo had heard tales of the dark fairies that haunted the mountain passes and danced widdershins upon the ruins of ancient cities and long-forgotten graves, and he'd read that on occasion they ventured close to civilized lands. All these things he recognized from his studies, but the knowledge did little to prepare him for the chilling actuality of their song. After a time, he began to talk to himself, reciting tales and histories and royal genealogies-anything to drown out the faint, darkly compelling music.
It occurred to him more than once during that long night, and during the day's trudge that followed, that perhaps there was more wisdom in Tzigone's warnings that he had perceived at first consideration. He had spent his entire life within the confines of House Jordain. His studies had ranged the world and touched on all of its sciences, some lightly, some in considerable depth. Yet truly how well prepared was he for the world beyond the counselors' school?
The moon was a new crescent when Matteo arrived back at the school the next night, dusty and footsore. He knew at once that word of his disgrace had preceded him. The set, disapproving expression on the face of the gatehouse guard left no doubt.
"The ritual of purification took place last night. You're to go to the meditation huts at once."
Matteo groaned. After all that had happened the last few days, he had forgotten about this important rite. No jordain left the college without it. He brought to mind a list of his masters and settled on the one most likely to help him resolve this situation.
"Can you take a message to Vishna for me?"
"No messages," the guard said adamantly. "When they want you, they'll let you know."
Matteo nodded and went at once into his belated solitude. The meditation huts were scattered among the orchards on the far western side of the compound. Matteo's hut was furnished with a cot, table, and a large pitcher of water. Not having any other option, he settled down to think and to wait.
On the third day after his return, the servant who came each morning to leave a tray of food knocked on the door and handed Matteo a pile of fresh clothes. "Prepare quickly. You are bid to present yourself at the Disputation Table."
Although Matteo had been expecting this, the summons brought a lump of dread to his throat. He had been released from the hold and would not be tried for theft, but he had still committed a number of infractions of jordaini law and custom. And now he had missed the final ritual. It was likely that he would have to repeat the fifth form before leaving the school. Or, far worse, he might be dismissed altogether and stripped of rank and title.
He quickly dressed and made his way to the large high-domed building that housed the jordaini court. The entrance hall was round, and in the floor was set with mosaic tile the emblem of the jordaini: a circle that was half yellow and half green, the colors separated by a lighting bolt of blue. Matteo rubbed at the empty spot on his chest where his medallion usually hung, then took a long, steadying breath and strode through the hall toward the council chamber.
The Disputation Table was not only the name of the court, but a literal table, a huge structure comprising two very long tables connected at the far end by a smaller raised table. At this high place sat Dimidis, the judge who would render a verdict. The other masters and the jordaini students sat around the outer rims of the long tables. They all regarded him with somber faces.
Matteo had been in attendance during many sessions, for the court was a busy place and was often called upon to interpret a jordain's advice to his patron, as well as to deal with occasional disputes between jordaini and the less frequent infraction of rules.
But the vast, hollow room had never seemed so ominous as it did now. Matteo held his chin high as he walked down the long center aisle to stand before Dimidis, painfully aware with each step of the eyes upon him.
The aged judge was one of the few jordaini who took his status from his own position, rather than that of a patron. Dimidis was known for his stern and often inflexible judgments, as well as his tendency to form opinions and dislikes with distressing haste. Judging from the sour expression on the man's lined face, Matteo guessed that he had earned the judge's enmity.
Dimidis rattled a sheaf of parchment. "We've all read of this young man's misdeeds: tavern brawling, destroying property, attacking a magehound's guard. He attended a performance that mocked the jordaini and then aided the performer's escape. He has fought a duel with a weapon proscribed to his class-a stolen weapon, which was later found in his possession. When questioned in the hold, he defied the magistrate and refused to name the thief. This name would have been taken from him through Inquisition but for the intervention of the Inquisitrix Kiva."
The old man stopped and glared at the assembly. "These are the charges against Matteo of House Jordain. Who, if any, will speak for him?"
"I, Lord Dimidis."
Matteo was grateful but not particularly surprised to see his favorite master, Vishna, the battle wizard, rise to speak.
"Like many of the students, Matteo went to Khaerbaal with a heavy heart. You know that Andris, a close friend to Matteo, was slain that morning at the command of the magehound Kiva."
"Which was both her function and her right," Dimidis pointed out. "Continue."
"I sent Matteo to the city, knowing that some of the students would find outlets for their grief. If mischief came of it, I am in part to blame. Indeed, I expressly requested that Matteo watch over one of his fellows. This he did admirably. The other student returned to us on time, unscathed and held blameless for his actions. It was he who started the tavern brawl and Matteo who ended it."
"The deeds of one jordain reflect upon us all. That is why this court exists. Matteo did no more than his duty."
"That is my point," the wizard said earnestly. "This young jordain did his duty and did it well, despite his personal sorrow. If he was perhaps a bit impulsive in his subsequent actions, surely we can consider the circumstances."
The judge looked at the battle wizard as if he had been speaking Turmish, or Common, or some other barbarian tongue. "Is that all? Have you nothing relevant to add?"
For a moment the wizard stared incredulously. "Apparently not," Vishna said shortly and sat down with an abruptness that spoke more of anger than defeat.
To Matteo's surprise, Ferris Grail was the next to speak. He was also a wizard and the headmaster of House Jordain, but Matteo had had little direct contact with him. The headmaster was apparently better acquainted with Matteo. He spoke ringingly of Matteo's scholarship, intellect, and unblemished record.
"We have had eleven petitions for this jordain's services," the headmaster concluded. He placed a sheaf of parchment on the table before Dimidis. The judge picked it up and paged through it, his expression turning more dour by the moment.
"I would also speak," said Annalia Gray, the school's logic and rhetoric professor. The woman was the only female jordain in the complex and as gifted in disputation as any among them. Usually Matteo listened keenly to any words she had to say so that he could commit them to memory. Though his future depended upon her argument, he could not listen today. Instead, his eyes were drawn by the green and gold figure gliding down the aisle toward the judge's bench. He barely noticed when Annalia Gray concluded, even though she took her seat in a burst of applause.
Kiva, the Magehound, had come to speak for him.
This Matteo had never anticipated, nor was he entirely happy to have such an ally. He listened with growing unease as Kiva repeated what had already been told, leaving out some things that had not yet been reported: Matteo's battle with the wemic in the backstreets of Khaerbaal and the name of the girl he had defended. Tzigone was referred to only as "the thief in reference to the sword", and "the entertainer" when Kiva spoke of Matteo's attack on Mbatu in the Falling Star Tavern. Indeed, to hear Kiva talk, it sounded as if there had been two distinct people.
Finally Matteo was called upon to speak for himself. He bowed first to Dimidis, then to the assembled court.
"All that you have heard against me is true. I thank Master Vishna for his words and for his compassion, but I must stand for my actions and not the circumstances that prompted them. I regret my infractions of jordaini law and will accept humbly whatever penalty this council assigns. I ask only that I might be permitted to ask the inquisitrix a question that has confounded me."
Dimidis looked pleased with Matteo's manner and his request. "You may speak."
Matteo turned a steady, challenging gaze upon the elf woman. "A dragon does not quit the skies to chase a rabbit into the thicket. Why then was the wemic Mbatu, a magehound's right hand and personal bodyguard, in pursuit of a young woman who has been described only as a tavern performer and common thief?"
Everyone in the room looked startled, then intrigued. "A good question," Dimidis said approvingly, looking at Matteo with the first sign of real interest. "Lady Kiva, we are most eager to hear your response. Most eager indeed. By your words, I had gathered that Matteo had fallen in with two scoundrels, not a single girl."
Fury flashed through the magehound's eyes, followed quickly by a flicker of indecision. Her cool mask was back in place so quickly that Matteo, had he not been studying her so intently, would have wondered if he'd imagined her initial response.
"There is nothing to explain," Kiva said in her cool, bell-like tones. "The girl is reputed to have a sharp and clever tongue, and the jordaini were not the only targets of her jests. She insulted Mbatu the day before. The wemic is quick to anger and quicker to attack. He tended his own business, not mine. For that, he has been duly rebuked. As to the misunderstanding about the girl's identity, please recall that I speak your language as a second tongue. I have not the precision of speech that a jordain employs. One scoundrel or two, the girl was the wemic's concern and not mine. I know nothing of her, and that is more than I care to know."
Dimidis looked faintly disappointed by this mundane explanation. "Then I suppose we're finished here. I have little choice but to dismiss the matter. Among the petitions for Matteo's services is one we could hardly ignore. Procopio Septus, Lord Mayor of Halarahh, finds himself in need of counsel."
Matteo's eyes widened at this most unexpected news. Procopio was a powerful diviner, the mayor of Halruaa's capital city and the captain of that city's skyship militia. This was a coveted position and one that far exceeded his aspirations for his first post.
For a moment pride surged, washing away some of the humiliation of the past few days. Then it occurred to him that this post would probably have gone to Andris, had he lived.
Even so, it was a far better fate than he had expected. Matteo dipped into a deep bow. "Humbly I accept this post, Lord Dimidis, if that is the council's desire."
"My wishes have little to do with this," Dimidis said in a sour tone. "Just see that you have no further cause to stand before the Disputation Table, and I will be content."
Several days passed as Matteo traveled to Halarahh, the capital of the land and the home of Zalathorm, the wizard-king. It was not so very far a distance as the raven flies, provided that a raven could be persuaded to fly across the lower edge of the Swamp of Akhlaur and brave the winds that roiled over Lake Halruaa.
The best and safest way to travel was by ship. Matteo set sail from Khaerbaal, skirting the coastline of the Bay of Taertal and moving along the western shores of Lake Halruaa.
The days passed swiftly, despite his increasing anticipation. Matteo had not traveled to Halarahh since his twelfth year. His first glimpse of the city, as the ship rounded the storm break, proved more than equal to his memories.