The Floodgate

Tzigone sighed resignedly. Few things offended Halruaans more than a slight upon their ancestors. "You don't need to say it. I'll get my things together."

The conjurer cleared his throat and turned to face her. "You gave my grandma’s sister a mustache."

She conceded with a little shrug.

"Well, that is a shame, considering all the trouble she went through to have the original one removed."

There was a slightly strangled note to the wizard's voice, and suddenly Tzigone suspected that he was repressing not rage but mirth.

"The ink should clean off, and I could probably put the peacock feathers back into the portrait," she suggested.

"By no means! As a boy I was always compelled kiss Great-aunt Aganzard goodnight, though she always wore at least a bird's worth of feathers. My nose itches just from thinking about it. It does my heart good to see the old boot without her fripperies for once. So," he concluded briskly, with the air of one ready to move on. "The scrolls are finished? Seven and twenty copies?"

"At least."

"Fine, fine," he said, beaming. "Since you've completed your day's work, you have time for a bit of a treat."

This bewildered her. Although grateful that the wizard was not angry, she didn't expect to be rewarded for destroying his study.

"We're taking up Avariel," he continued, naming the skyship that Tzigone had been admiring since her first day in the conjurer's tower. "I intend to visit Procopio Septus, lord mayor of Halarahh, and present you as my new apprentice. You may wish to bathe and change first. If Procopio thinks we've been stomping grapes, he'll expect his share of wine."

She glanced down. Her robe, tunic, and arms were splattered with purple ink. A glance in the mirror proved that her face hadn't gone unscathed. It was liberally daubed with deep purple-and gone pale as parchment at the prospect of entering Procopio's villa again.

Tzigone couldn't explain her moment of panic. She'd crept through the villa before to visit Matteo during his service there. Nothing bad had happened. She just didn't like the feel of the place.

"I'm to meet Procopio Septus?" she repeated, a question in her voice.

"Presenting one's apprentices is traditional. It demonstrates the respect I hold for my colleague. I've been waiting for the proper moment, and I daresay it's at hand!"

Basel's motivation was starting to come clear to her. "Sometimes you can't tell the punishments from the rewards."

"Just so, my dear," he said with a dagger-sharp grin. He dropped a fatherly arm around her shoulders. "I'm no diviner-bless the Lady's name-but I suspect that bringing you and the good Procopio together will prove a just reward for you both."

Tzigone followed his gaze around the ruined room and found she couldn't argue.

* * * * *

Procopio Septus was not pleased to receive word of Basel Indoulur's visit. As a master of divination, Procopio was among the most esteemed wizards in Halruaa. Conjuration, Basel's specialty, was not as highly regarded, but Basel remained utterly unmoved by Procopio's attempts to impress upon him his inferior status.

These efforts, Procopio suspected, were coming back to haunt him. Surely Basel was coming to gloat over the loss of Zephyr, an ancient elf jordain who had been in Procopio's service until his recent execution as a traitor to Halruaa.

Such a thing could prove ruinous for any ambitious man, but how much more so for a diviner! Procopio should have known what was happening under his own nose, and he did not. Try as he might, he could put no better face on it than that.

Nor could he ignore the tremendous loss of stature such failure brought. He harbored private aspirations to Zalathorm's throne, yet there were murmurs of replacing him as mayor of Halarahh! If he did not restore himself in popular favor soon, all his dreams would die aborning.

One secret bit of knowledge would help him endure Basel's presence. The fool had taken on Keturah's daughter as an apprentice!

Because of his high office, Procopio had heard of the scandals surrounding Keturah, but he had forgotten about it after the runaway wizard and her bastard child had been captured and dealt with according to law. Recently, though, Cassia, the jordain who had served as King Zalathorm's chief counselor, had told him that Keturah's daughter still lived. Since then, Procopio had made it a point to discover the identity of this girl-a task made more difficult by the murder of Cassia. He had lavished money, magic, and influence to ensure that the secret Cassia confided to him remained his alone. This was a risk, but one he counted worth taking. It gave him a hidden blade to use against Basel Indoulur, should the need ever arise.

Procopio, though a prudent man, rather hoped it would.

He walked out onto the parapets of his villa's walls to watch the conjurer's approach. Avariel came on fast, her three gaudily colored sails curved tight, her prow thrusting boldly into the winds.