The Magehound

"He need not have died," he said softly. "I wish that he had not, even though he meant us harm."

"Poor bastard," Tzigone said in full agreement. For some reason, her cavalier choice of words grated on nerves left strangely raw.

"The man is dead," he said coldly. "He died trying to retrieve his rightful property, which you took from him. I do not expect you to take any measure of responsibility for his death, but I will not listen as you deal him further injury. Who are you to malign his name so foully?"

Tzigone fell back a step. For a moment she stared at Matteo, her painted eyes huge in a face gone suddenly pale. She couldn't have looked more startled and betrayed if he'd dealt her an open-handed blow.

She recovered quickly, gave another of her expressive shrugs, and disappeared around the corner with a speed that Matteo, had he not seen some of her other tricks, might well have considered magical.

Chapter Thirteen

Zephyr reached into his pocket for a coin. It was a small task, one that should have been easy, yet the elf jordain was hampered by his palsied hand and the slow, tremulous movements of extreme age.

He marked the impatience on the urchin messenger's dirty face and cursed his own frailty. Of a certainty, he had lived too long.

Yet the information the street lad had brought him was worth the fee, worth the trouble it took to retrieve it, and perhaps even worth the terrible chore that living these last few years had become. According to Zephyr's informants in the markets, the girl who now called herself Tzigone had been spotted in the city wearing the garb of a street performer, and in the company of Procopio's newest and most earnest jordain.

This was an unexpected stroke of luck. Zephyr was certain Matteo would tell him what there was to know. He doubted the young man was capable of dissembling even if he wished to do so.

With a personal link to Tzigone established, Zephyr would have her in hand in no time. Then he would be able to pass the girl along to Kiva, and the terrible evil that the two elves had set in motion nearly two centuries past would finally be destroyed.

The thought cheered Zephyr considerably. It was for this purpose that he lived, and only for this purpose. When the laraken died, Zephyr could leave his worn-out body and travel to Arvanaith, the final homeland of the elves.

An almost overwhelming flood of emotion swept him, carried by the beckoning voices of all those who had gone before so very long ago. The elf squeezed his eyes shut and fought against the ways of nature and his own deepest longings.

With difficulty, he composed himself and dismissed the urchin, then hobbled off in search of his patron. It was his job to provide Procopio Septus with information, but on occasions such as this, it was far more important to control what and how much the wizard heard. Matteo's involvement was a mixed blessing. The young man might be able to help Zephyr find Tzigone, but it wouldn't do to have Procopio inquire too closely into his counselors' affairs.

The elf found Procopio in the kitchen garden, admiring the silhouettes of the serving girls as they stretched high to pick fat crimson pods from the bean trellis.

The old jordain sighed. His patron had children enough, born on both sides of the blanket. While it was true that a future king needed heirs, a surplus of potential successors seldom boded well for a kingdom. Some other time, Zephyr would have to remind Procopio of his history lessons.

The elf saw no real need for urgency, in his opinion, Procopio was no king. Nothing about the man suggested Zalathorm's fabled judgment and foresight. Zephyr considered Procopio Septus to be reckless and impulsive and far too open with his ambitions. But then few humans had an elf's patience, and few elves possessed Zephyr's resolve. The old jordain knew only one other elf willing to work for more than two centuries to right an ancient wrong.

The old elf firmly put aside such thoughts and hobbled into the gardens. It was wise to bury one's secrets before entering the presence of a Halruaan diviner.

The real reason for Procopio's presence among the kitchen servants soon became apparent. A basket of doves stood ready for plucking, and several more of the birds flew circles about the tall, hive-shaped dovecote that dominated the south side of the kitchen gardens. Auguries were usually read from the random flights of wild birds, but Procopio had devised a way to read the future in the flight of birds lured in for table use. The diviner was quite fond of roasted dove, so the spell served two purposes at once.

"What counsel do the doves offer, my lord?"

The wizard glanced up at Zephyr's hail, and his satisfied smile broadened. "Enough to know that you have news for me."

The elf acknowledged this with a slight bow. "That is true, my lord, but bear in mind that no news is entirely unmixed. The birth of spring heralds the death of winter."