They both smirked at the image this painted of their classmate. Themo was taller even than Andris, and as thick-bodied and strong as the huge, hairy Northmen who occasionally came to the port cities for trade or adventure. At heart, Themo was less a scholar than a warrior, and he'd gotten in trouble more than once for sneaking away to the taverns to provoke battles.
"He could have used just such a weapon at the Falling Star," Andris agreed, his eyes twinkling at the memory.
But Matteo turned sober. "Indeed. Had you not been there to devise a battle tactic, the fool might have died that night, and his friends with him."
The jordain gave another diffident shrug. "I cannot match you in feats of memory or debate," he said frankly. "Strategy is the thing that interests me."
"Obsesses you," his friend corrected him heartily. "Have you made much headway with the Kilmaruu Paradox?"
It was meant as a rhetorical question. Matteo chose his words to express Andris's fascination with even the most difficult and obscure military puzzles. He was therefore surprised and intrigued by the light that leaped into his friend's hazel eyes.
A studiously casual expression settled over Andris's face. "It is a classic dilemma," he said. "The Halruaan navy has been occupied with it for many years. Not only does this question absorb the best minds stationed at the naval base at Zalasuu, but also the two thousand troops who hold the fort beyond."
"Not to mention the dozen or so adventurers and wizards who disappear into the swamp each year," Matteo added. "As the proverb goes, the Swamp of Kilmaruu keeps the numbers of fools in Zalasuu low."
"Ah, but therein lies the paradox," his friend said slyly. "It is written that the mages and adventures who disappear into the swamp only seem to whet the appetite of the undead who haunt it, drawing them out into the surrounding countryside. Massive attacks into the swamp have proven disastrous to the city and its outlying villages. Yet if the military does nothing, the undead will slip into the Bay of Azuth and bedevil the ships. Disaster lies at the end of either course, action or restraint."
Matteo nodded. History, particularly military history, had been part of their studies for years. But at the moment, he was more interested in the subtle implication in his friend's words than in this old puzzle.
"The paradox has always been understood as the futility of either action or restraint. Your words imply a different interpretation."
The tall jordain clasped his hands behind his back, absently watching a winged lizard crawl across the sky as he chose his next words. "Suppose that someone devised a formula for attack. Suppose he researched it extensively, worked out the strategy from every conceivable variation fate could present. Suppose that someone proposed this solution to his masters as his fifth-form thesis. Do you suppose that such a man might get an appointment as counselor to a battle wizard? Perhaps," he added wistfully, "such a man might flout tradition and gain not just a counselor's role, but his own command."
Matteo's jaw dropped. For a long moment he struggled to take in this revelation. "Is it true? You have solved the Kilmaruu Paradox?"
"I think so," Andris said modestly.
"You think so?" Matteo echoed reprovingly. This matter could determine the entire course of his friend's life. It was too important for light words and imprecise speech. "A jordain thinks first, and only then speaks."
It was a familiar proverb, one that had guided their training for over twenty years. The words had the desired effect The young man's chin lifted confidently.
"Yes. Yes, I have devised a battle strategy that will clear the swamp of undead."
Matteo let out a whoop and threw his arms around his friend, spinning him around and off the ground. They fell into a tangled heap and began to wrestle like puppies at play.
After quite some time, they tired of this sport and broke apart, sprawling out on the ground and panting with contented exhaustion. Andris sent a wistful look at his friend. "You really think that this will earn me a position with a patron of note?"
Matteo linked his hands behind his head and smiled. "I wouldn't be surprised if Grozalum himself demanded your hire," he said, naming the powerful illusionist who ruled the port city of Khaerbaal, Halruaa's most important naval base.
"Jordaini at alert," demanded a deep, sonorous voice from the gatehouse. "First honors. Wizards in the house."
The two young men scrambled to their feet and hurried into position at the edge of the training field. Their fellow students gathered there, standing at respectful attention, feet at precise shoulder width, hands clasped behind their backs, and eyes level as they awaited the arrival of the visiting dignitary.
Life in Halruaa was orderly, governed by laws and customs that were detailed and precise. Protocol was an important part of any higher education, for each stratum of society was afforded certain privileges and honors. Wizards enjoyed the highest position, hence first honors. The posture assumed by the jordaini showed the respect that propriety demanded, but it also bespoke their own high status. Second in class only to the wizards, they were a highly trained elite. After all, they represented truth, a power quite different from magic but just as powerful in its sphere. Law and custom decreed that only a jordain could meet a wizard's eyes at all times. Those of lesser rank lowered their gaze respectfully before addressing a strange magic-wielder.
Matteo's eyes widened as the wizardly entourage swept into the compound. Quickly he schooled his face into a more seemly composure, but he couldn't help but stare at the unusual visitors.
A score of well-armed men marched into the field, following each other in two lines that framed two extraordinary creatures. The larger of these was a wemic, a centaur-like creature that appeared to be half man, half lion. The beast's body was massive, nearly the size of a small horse, and his golden-skinned torso was as thick and muscular as Themo's. Matteo made a note to compose a satire for his classmate on this theme at first opportunity.
The wemic's face would be considered handsome in a man, though his nose was larger and broader than human features were wont to be, and the pupils in his golden eyes were vertical, like a cat's. A thick mane of glossy black hair fell to his shoulders, and an earring set with a large red stone glittered in one rounded, leonine ear.
But it was the other being upon whom Matteo's eyes lingered longest. Elves were a rarity in Halruaa. A few elf folk, most of them half-blooded, were drawn to Halruaa by their love of magic. Some of them even advanced to the Council of Elders and were counted among the four hundred most regarded wizards of the land. But Matteo had never heard of an elf reaching the rank of inquisitor.
She was beautiful, in an exotic, alien fashion that tightened Matteo's throat with awe and evoked in him a strange and foreign longing. Her skin was a coppery hue, and the thick hair braided and coiled about her shapely head was a green deeper and more lustrous than fine jade. Her eyes were as golden as those of the wemic at her side and nearly as feline. Though her head rose no higher than Matteo's shoulder, he did not for a moment make the mistake of thinking her fragile. There was a fine coiled strength in her slender form, like the liquid steel of a cat's muscles. She wore the bright clear yellow that proclaimed her an inquisitor in the service of Azuth, the god of wizards, whose worship was slowly gaining credence among Halruaans, and the only god other than Mystra, Lady of Magic, whose worship was permitted in the land.
The elf woman's gaze swept down the line of young men. "I have heard good things of this year's form," she said in a peculiarly high, bell-like voice. "Although the time of your final testing is not yet come, I have been asked by several potential patrons to evaluate your battle skills.
"This is Mbatu," she said, gesturing toward the wemic. "He will test you in combat, according to a rank I will assign. I am Kiva, inquisitrix of Azuth." She smiled faintly. "Since we all know the common word by which such as I are named, let us speak it plainly. I am a magehound, and I prefer this title to the formal one. You have my permission to so address me."
She walked along the line, her head tipped back as she met the gaze of each jordain. Themo was third in line. He glanced down at the elf, but his gaze quickly returned to the fine sword the wemic wore over his shoulder. The expression on his face was that of a particularly hungry halfling regarding a pitcher of ale and a plateful of honey-cakes.
"You are first," she said. A flicker of anticipation danced through the big man's eyes. This seemed to please the elf. She reached up and patted his cheek as she might that of a child, then she continued down the line, passing by several men. She stopped when she stood before Matteo.
She regarded him for a long moment. "Second," she announced. The honor pleased Matteo, but he merely nodded his thanks. A student jordain might meet a strange wizard's eyes, but he did not speak unless prompted by invitation or dire need.
Kiva paused again before Andris. Her strange, beautiful face furrowed in puzzlement. After a long moment, she stretched out her hand. The captain of her guard hastened forward and placed in her palm a golden rod set with green stones and capped by a large green crystal.
The magehound reached up and touched the rod to Andris's forehead. Immediately the crystal began to vibrate, singing out a high, ghostly note. Kiva nodded, as if she had expected this. She took a step back and turned to the masters of the school, a distinguished ensemble of jordaini, scholars, warriors, and wizards. As was the custom, they'd come out to greet their important visitor. They were a diverse lot, ranging from deceptively frail Vishna to the burly, hook-nosed woman who in her youth had commanded the navy in the nearby port city of Khaerbaal. At the moment, however, all the masters regarded the magehound with identical disbelieving stares.
"Ordinarily I would call for Inquisition upon this jordain, but no further tests are required. The answer is abundantly clear."
"This cannot be! Andris is a fine student," protested Vishna. The old wizard stepped out of ranks, fairly quivering with distress. "He has been tested at the prescribed intervals, as are all the jordaini in this house. Never has he shown signs of latent magical talent."
"If he is so fine a student as that," Kiva returned coolly, "perhaps you did not look for these dangerous signs as closely as you might otherwise have done."
The accusation was potent and inarguable, but Vishna was not yet quelled. "If Andris is to be accused, he has the right of Inquisition. Let it be done."
"It is the law," agreed Dimidis in his thin, querulous voice. The aged jordain spoke seldom, but when he did his words held the weight of verdict-small wonder, considering that Dimidis served as judge of the Disputation Table, the court that settled differences between jordaini and meted out occasional punishment for rule infractions.
"That is quite enough, both of you," decreed Ferris Grail, the wizard who served as headmaster of the school. "The magehound has passed judgment upon a false jordain. That is her duty, and that is also law." The headmaster spoke quietly, but his deep voice tolled out over the stricken jordaini like a death knell, as indeed it was.
Vishna bowed his head in defeat and fell back into line.
Now that the opposition was silenced, Kiva turned back to Andris. A strange light burned in her golden eyes. "I accuse you, Andris, of possessing magic power and hiding this knowledge from your masters."
Her gaze swept the line of young men, taking note of the disbelief and horror dawning on their faces. "I see that I do not need to tell you the penalty for this offense."
The streets of Khaerbaal were quiet, for the sun burned high overhead and every Halruaan who could sought the comfort of darkened rooms and, if they were fortunate, magically cooled breezes.
Tzigone was unaccustomed to such comforts, so she didn't miss them. If anything, she enjoyed the hour or two of relative solitude. A few street people huddled in the shade offered by alleys and arbors, and visitors from other lands mopped at their streaming faces as realized their error and sought a cool tavern. Few spared a glance at the small, thin figure clad in a loose brown tunic and leggings that ended several inches above her bare feet. With her tousled, short brown hair and slightly smudged face, she looked more like a street urchin than a young woman. If an observer cared to look more closely, he might notice that beauty was hers if she wished to claim it. Her face angled sharply from high cheekbones to a small pointed chin, and her eyes were big and brown, lively with intelligence and unusually expressive.
At the moment, those eyes were deeply shadowed, for she'd lost another night's sleep to that thrice-bedamned wemic.
Tzigone shifted the sack off her shoulder and looked around for a likely recipient for its contents. She didn't keep anything for long. Possessions, things, had a way of betraying those who held them too close. The last thing she'd treasured had been a silver brush, and keeping it had gotten her captured and nearly killed.
Her gaze fell on an old woman huddled in the shade of an almond tree, wearing thick cast-off garments that might have been comfortable during the coolest winter days. Tzigone pulled a long, red silk kirtle from the bag.