The Floodgate (17 page)

The wizard gathered himself and brushed aside the curtain, adjusting the belt of his robe as he stood. “What is this place?”

Procopio nodded his approval. “Not where, but what. This is a dimensional portal, my good man, a plane unknown to all but the greatest masters of the Art.”

“Ah.” The bearded wizard smiled thinly. “By the accent and the modesty of your speech, I know you as a Halruaan. May I also know your name?”

“It is better you do not. Would you care for a refreshment?”

“Most gracious of you.”

Procopio gestured, and porcelain cups appeared, suspended in the air. Fragrant steam rose in delicate wisps.

The Mulhorandi took a sip. “Green tea with honey and ginger, and something more…”

“Haerlu brandy. A fine Halruaan spirit.”

“Exceptional.”

They sipped and exchanged pleasantries for several moments before Ameer got down to business. “You did not invite me into your home. In my land, this would be considered an insult.”

“In my land, it would be considered a crime,” the Halruaan countered. “My fellow wizard-lords frown upon the idea of consorting with a Mulhorandi wizard.”

Ameer let loose a burst of belly-shaking laughter. “Frown on it? They would cut you down like a rabid dog! You take large risks to deal with me. You must expect a large reward.”

Not from you, Procopio noted silently, carefully masking his distaste at the Mulhorandi’s smug expression. The man was clearly delighted that a Halruaan wizard would come to him for anything. Procopio’s countrymen scorned the magic of their eastern neighbors as hardly worthy of notice.

That attitude was precisely what Procopio was counting on.

“You Mulhorandi have spells of cloaking to keep others from prying into your affairs. Some of these spells require materials not available in Halruaa.”

The man blinked and set his cup down with a sharp click. “If you know so much, these cloaking spells are not as good as yours.”

“We know of them. There is a difference.”

Understanding began to dawn in Ameer’s eyes, and a sly smile curved his lips. “You wish to hide some of your activities from your fellow wizards. A spell cast with materials unique to Mulhorand, a family spell treasured from one generation to the next, would accomplish this. Do you know what is needed for such a spell?”

“The finely ground remains of a mummified Mulhorandi wizard. Preferably an ancestor.”

Ameer nodded solemnly. He placed his hand, fingers splayed, over his heart in a dramatic gesture. “You ask much of me, Halruaan. What price should a man put upon his heritage? Upon the sacred honor of his ancestors?”

“What price would you pay for a Halruaan spellbook?” Procopio countered.

The wizard’s hand unconsciously fisted, crushing the embroidered silk of his robe. “You would sell me Halruaan secrets? That would be death to you!”

“I do not intend to sell you Halruaan magic. What I will do is enhance the meager spell you give me. I will alter it, give it the weight and power and authority of Halruaan cloaking magic and use it to place a second, secret ward upon Halruaa’s eastern boundaries.”

Since his guest still looked dubious, Procopio led the way to a curtained alcove. He pulled back the silk draperies to reveal a large, oval window. On the other side was a bedchamber resembling a rose garden in full bloom. Pink silks swathed the windows and covered the vast bed, upon which sprawled a raven-haired woman. A large wine bottle lay on its side on the low table nearby, as well as a pair of goblets.

Procopio clicked his tongue reprovingly. “It would appear that Miohari had yet another late night. Even so, it is time she awoke.” He tapped sharply on the glass.

The woman stirred and sat up, looking around muzzily. After a moment she shrugged and rose. She came over to the window and sat in a small chair that faced it. Picking up a pot of tinted ointment from the small table before her, she leaned forward and began to daub at her face. There was no sign that she saw the two men, though to all appearances she was but a hand’s breadth from them.

“A former mistress,” Procopio said negligently. “Beautiful but not gifted in the Art. To her the portal is but a gilded mirror. She sees only what she expects to see. But you and I perceive both the magic and the reality beyond.”

“Fascinating,” Ameer murmured. His black eyes shifted from the lovely woman to his host. “You make your point well, my lord Halruaan.”

“The wizards of Halruaa will see what they expect to see. What actually goes on beyond the Eastern Wall is entirely up to you. I will be aware of it, of course, but I will keep my own counsel until I see fit.”

“You would compromise the security of your own borders?” the Mulhorandi said wonderingly.

Procopio’s laughter was tinged with scorn. “Oh, I think we will survive whatever you may bring against us!”

“Then why do this thing?”

“It is quite simple. Our king, Zalathorm, rose to power as a battle wizard, and he kept his throne these many years because he foresaw and averted every major threat since that day.”

“Ah! Who knows what might happen if he should miss a threat and another wizard does not?” Ameer said shrewdly.

The diviner spread his hands, palms up, in a parody of modest disclaimer. “Who am I to say what will be? History has seasons that fade and then return.”

The Mulhorandi nodded and lifted one hand in an absentminded gesture. A smoking pipe appeared in the air beside him. He took it up and sucked thoughtfully for a moment, then blew several rings of smoke-rings that encircled elaborate, rune-marked designs. No doubt they were minor spells of some sort, probably to veil his thoughts and intentions. The technique was interesting, the diversion subtle, but Procopio had little inclination to learn the trick. He could blow smoke in a rival’s face without blackening his own teeth or shortening his breath.

“I am not completely unfamiliar with your history,” Ameer said at last “I know that all who have attacked Halruaa have been defeated.”

“Victory and defeat are not absolute terms. Come.”

Procopio led his guest to a side room, which held a gaming table similar to those housed in his villa, a detailed landscape in miniature with jagged mountains and rock-strewn passes. He drew a wand from his sleeve and tapped the edge of the table. Drawers flew open along all four sides. Out leaped hundreds of tiny, magically animated toys: foot soldiers, cavalry, griffon riders, and even a trio of tiny wizards buzzing about upon flying carpets. Ameer grinned like a lad beholding a wondrous new toy.

‘This is a reenactment of the battle of Starsnake Pass,” Procopio said. “Watch and learn.”

The tiny figures threw themselves into warfare. Sparks danced in the air above the battlefield as spells were hurled, and a miniature river ran red as charging troops went down under a storm of pin-sized arrows.

“Those are Crinti!” Ameer exclaimed, pointing to a wave of tiny, mounted warriors thundering into the valley.

“These as well,” the diviner said as he reached over and took the top from a mountain. Inside was a maze of caves and passages. A band of warriors crept through, coming around behind the Halruaan nobles at the rear of the battle. The Crinti burst out from cover suddenly, and the slaughter that followed was swift and brutal. The shadow amazons fled as quickly as they came, carrying a treasure hoard of enchanted weapons and spell-filled artifacts.

Ameer smiled and nodded. “A clever move. They will win this game, I think.”

“Yes, but not in the manner you might suppose. Watch.”

The Crinti raiders ran back through the passages and emerged on the far side of the mountain, far from the battle. They mounted the horses tethered there and thundered off toward the grasslands of their barbarian homeland. Behind them, trapped in the steep-sided pass as they waited for reinforcements that would never come, their gray-skinned sisters died by the score at the hands of the Halruaan battle wizards.

When at last the scene was played out, Procopio tapped the table again. The still-moving figures melted away, leaving the battlefield eerily silent and littered with tiny corpses.

“Who remembers the foot soldiers who molder where they fall? It is the wizards, their spells, their legacy-these are the tales that fill the lorebooks.”

An avaricious light began to dawn in the Mulhorandi’s eyes. Encouraged, Procopio went on. “A single Halruaan spellbook would ensure your fame. Halruaan bards will sing of an invasion repelled. The Mulhorandi might sing of a daring raid. Amazing, how the same tale can be sung to many a tune.”

Ameer took another long pull at his pipe before answering. “You think that I might stumble upon such a book?”

“Who can say?” Procopio said with a shrug. “The fortunes of war take curious turns.”

It was all the confirmation the Mulhorandi expected to get. “I will get you the spell and the dust of my ancestors,” he said. “You to your betrayal, me to mine. May Lady Mystra judge between us.”

“Oh, come now,” Procopio chided. “We are neither of us priests or paladins! Magic is not right or wrong: It simply is. We need not think of judgment, only of skill.”

Ameer Tukephremo smiled grimly. “A comforting thought, I’m sure. For both our sakes, lord Halruaan, I hope you are right.”

Dawn was still hours away as Tzigone walked carefully through a hallway in Procopio Septus’s villa, trying not to slop the contents of a brimming chamber pot upon the gleaming marble floor. One pace behind her trudged Sinestra Belajoon, similarly armed. The beautiful wizard was clad in a servant’s smock and kerchief, but her expression-a blend of distaste and disbelief-was hardly that of an experienced chambermaid. Fortunately, the few people they passed quickly caught their breath, averted their eyes, and hurried past.

“Why are there no wards? No magical guardians?” hissed Sinestra.

“There are.” Magic filled the air, thicker and fouler than the stench rising from the pot Tzigone carried. It skittered over her until her skin crawled. “It took me days to find a way through them. There might still be thought-thieving spells wandering around. Remember that we’re servants, duly hired, performing our duties. Keep your mind on that, and we may just get out of here with our skins still attached. And stop wrinkling your nose! Anyone would think you never touched a chamber pot before.”

Sinestra grumbled and then subsided. They traversed several back corridors, then tossed their chamber pots down a laundry chute and slipped through a paneled door. This led into an antechamber of the wizard’s library, a room off the luxurious study. Tzigone pulled down several books before she found what she needed.

“Here it is-notes on all of Procopio’s jordaini counselors.” She paged through quickly, and let out a long, low whistle. “He’s had more than his share of them. Wonder why.”

“Forget the others. We came about this Zephyr,” reminded Sinestra. She shifted uneasily, her eyes darting nervously from door to door.

“Here it is.” Tzigone slid her finger down the page, scanning the neat runes. “Zephyr once worked for Queen Fiordella. Very impressive.”

“What does that mean?”

Tzigone shrugged. “Damned if I know. Write this down: After Fiordella died, Zephyr went to Cyclominia the necromancer, and from there to Rondati Denister, and finally to Procopio.”

The wizard scribbled furiously on a scrap of parchment “Any before the queen?”

Tzigone read the names of his patrons, which Sinestra transcribed. “That goes back nearly two hundred years, but he was a very old elf. This doesn’t say what he did before.” She sighed in frustration and closed the book. “Let’s check his room.”

Sinestra looked dubious, but she handed the parchment to Tzigone and followed as the young thief paced the library, tapping softly on the bookshelves and wall panels.

“Here is it,” she said at last. She leaned against one of the shelves, which turned as easily as a weather vane in a stiff breeze. Small lamps flickered on to reveal a long, narrow hall.

Sinestra peered in. “Magical lighting. No dust. Not my idea of a hidden passage.”

“If you want cobwebs and ghosts, there are more interesting tunnels in the lower levels,” Tzigone told her, only half in jest. She prodded the woman into motion. Sinestra moaned but started down the passage.

They hurried to the end of the corridor and up a narrow spiral staircase. “Wizard-lords don’t like to be kept waiting,” Tzigone explained, “and they like to keep secrets. After you’ve gone through a few villas, you see a pattern: back corridors for the servants, private entrances for the counselors and mistresses. I’ll bet you coins against crumbs that this leads to his chief counselor’s room.”

Tzigone was almost right-the passage led to a richly appointed bedchamber. Two servant girls were busily stripping the crumpled silk covering from the wide bed. They looked up, startled, at the new arrivals.

“Take off your scarf,” Tzigone whispered.

Sinestra complied. Her hair fell in long, gleaming dark waves about her face.

“Start undressing.”

The wizard’s lips curved as she caught Tzigone’s ploy. She began to peel off the servant’s smock to reveal the daring gown beneath.

Tzigone turned to the servants. “Is there a bath prepared?”

The girls exchanged glances. “No,” one of them ventured.

“Well, go to the kitchens and fetch heated water! See that you steep it well with jasmine and hyssop. Lord Procopio specifically asked for a sunrise tryst so there is little time to waste!”

The servants bustled from the room to tend this apparently routine task. Sinestra chuckled and tied her scarf back into place. “Quick thinking! We return to the library and try again?”

“Unless you’d rather await Procopio here.”

They tried twice more before they found their way to Zephyr’s chamber. The room was sparse and somber: a cot, a table with an inkpot and a candle, a small hanging mirror, and three narrow windows. A few jordaini garments in pristine white linen still hung on the wall pegs.

Still, Tzigone checked the room methodically. She found a small empty cupboard hidden behind the mirror, a trapdoor in the floor, but nothing more.