The Floodgate (20 page)

His host halted him with an upraised hand. “Your eyes say that you’re unsure whether to trust me or not. That shows caution. You didn’t go to Procopio. That shows wisdom. If my old friend is angry with you-and I don’t need a diviner’s gift to know how likely that is-he might report you for carrying a magical item or demand that you turn it over to him at once. It would be within his rights and power to do so.”

“As it is in yours.”

“True enough,” Basel admitted. “You have little reason to trust me. Yet here you are. If you believe nothing else I’ve said, believe this: If there were any danger in that medallion, if there was any possibility that it would bring harm to Tzigone in any way, it would never leave this room.”

Matteo could not keep the surprise from his face. The wizard nodded confirmation. “Yes, I know that Tzigone is Keturah’s daughter. I knew Keturah, and I recognize her talisman. It served her well for far longer than I thought possible.”

The jordain’s mind raced. “Will others recognize it? Could it establish a connection between Tzigone and Keturah?”

“Unlikely. Keturah acquired the talisman just before she flew Halarahh. We were childhood friends. She came to me in need a few times after her escape.”

The enormity of this revelation stunned Matteo. If all that Dhamari Exchelsor said of Keturah was true, then Basel had defied Halruaa’s laws and risked death to help her.

“Does Tzigone know any of this?”

“No,” Basel said emphatically. “Since she is so determined to find out about her mother, I decided to guide her steps. She would have found her way to Dhamari Exchelsor in time. When I suggested that she send a trusted friend, I rather thought she would ask you.”

“Did you expect me to come here?” As he spoke, Matteo half wished that this would prove true.

The wizard considered, then shook his head. “No, but I am glad you did. Having met Tzigone’s friend, I feel easier for her.”

Matteo could not miss the sincere affection in the wizard’s eyes. “You care for her.”

“Like a daughter,” Basel agreed. “To ease your mind in turn, I tell you in confidence that I’ll do whatever is necessary to protect her from the stigma of her birth. If she is discovered, I will claim paternity.”

For the second time that day, the world shifted under Matteo’s feet. For Basel to claim paternity would mean admitting that he’d seen Keturah after her escape. This was against the law, as was siring a child of two wizard lines outside the boundaries of Halruaa’s carefully controlled lineage. Either offense meant certain disgrace. Yet Basel Indoulur was prepared to do this for Tzigone’s sake. For a moment, Matteo actually wished that this good man truly was his father.

But would a good man stand by while his wife destroyed her mind and magic to ensure that she bore a jordaini babe? Matteo’s training taught him that service to Halruaa came first. Perhaps Basel had once believed this and learned that other vows lay deepest in his heart.

Another thought hit him, an aftershock no less jarring than the quake that proceeded. What if Basel’s claim was actual truth? What if the wizard was Tzigone’s father? If that were so, perhaps Matteo’s friend was also his sister! As Matteo considered this complex marvel, he found that he did not want to reject these possibilities out of hand. If he were able to do so, he would claim this unlikely family with pride. He searched the wizard’s face for a similar epiphany and found none.

“I’ve seen lightning-struck men who looked less stunned than you,” Basel said with a faint smile. “Yet we are not so different. I suspect that one of your reasons for seeking Kiva so diligently is that she obviously knows of Tzigone’s heritage. You don’t want her hurting Tzigone any more than she has.”

Matteo blinked. “I had not thought of it in those terms.”

“Sometimes the hardest truth to see is the one within.” The wizard spoke the jordaini proverb with the air of long familiarity.

They spoke for a few minutes more, and Matteo took his leave. On impulse, he gave the driver the name of a place he had visited but once. The horses trotted swiftly to the west, through rows of fashionable houses magically grown from coral, on through neighborhoods of dwindling wealth and prestige. Finally they stopped at a tall, stonewalled garden.

He passed through the gate and walked swiftly to the cottage he and Tzigone had visited. The door was ajar. He tapped lightly and eased it open.

A woman stood by the window, gazing out at the small garden beyond, her arms wrapped tightly around her meager form.

“Mystra’s blessing upon you, mother.” It was merely the polite address for women of her age, but the word felt unexpectedly sweet on his lips.

The woman turned listlessly toward him. Matteo fell back a step, his breath catching in an astonished gasp.

She was not the same person.

“What did you expect?” demanded a soft, furious voice behind him.

Matteo turned to face a woman dressed in a servant’s smock. Her face was round and soft, and it would have been pretty but for the grim set of her mouth.

She nodded at his jordaini medallion. “If one of you comes around asking questions, any woman he meets is moved to another place. Don’t you think these women have suffered enough, without losing their homes? Now this woman, too, will be moved. Moved again, if need be, until you and yours finally leave her be.”

Guilt and grief struck him like a tidal surge. “I did not know.”

“Well, now you do. Get out before you do more damage. There are some things, jordain, that are more important than your right to all the knowledge of Halruaa!”

She spat out his title as if it were a curse. Matteo was not entirely certain she was wrong. He made a deep bow of apology and pressed his coin bag into the servant’s hands.

“To ease her journey,” he said, then turned and fled.

He walked back to the palace, though it took the rest of the day and brought him to the gates when the last echo of the palace curfew horn rang over the city. It had been a deeply disturbing day, one that had brought more questions than answers. One path, however, was clear. He would tell Tzigone all, though the tale would be difficult to hear. The accusations against Keturah were both dire and plausible, but he understood now what drove Tzigone toward these answers for so many years. As painful as it might be to hear of her mother’s fate, Matteo now understood there was something far worse:

Not knowing.

Andris sat alone beyond the light of the campfires, watching in disbelief as Kiva gleefully received the treasure the Crinti bandits had gathered for her. She lifted a moonstone globe in both hands, cooing over it like a fond young mother admiring her babe.

Sternly Andris reminded himself of the importance of their quest. The Cabal was a rot at the very heart of Halruaa. He had to destroy it, not only because of his elf heritage but because he was still a jordain, sworn to serve Halruaa. Kiva was his only ally, his only chance to right this wrong.

All this he told himself. The phrases were as well practiced as a priest’s sunrise chants. Unlike the Azuthan prayers, though, his silent words seemed hollow and false.

He watched the Crinti shower the elf woman with pilfered wealth and grisly trophies. They were particularly proud of a huge skull that looked a bit like a giant sahuagin. Their demeanor was oddly like that of children who courted a parent’s approval but did not expect to get it.

Andris understood all too well that elves shunned and disdained those of mixed blood. Kiva exploited this fact. The simple gift of her presence made her a queen among the Crinti, and her feigned acceptance they embraced as a longed-for sisterhood. They were deceived by Kiva because they wanted to believe.

How well, he wondered, did that also describe him?

Kiva, enthroned on a fur-draped rock near the campfire, was vaguely aware of Andris’s unease, but she was too absorbed in her new treasure to spare much concern. The scrying globe particularly pleased her. She stroked the moonstone, attuning it to her personal power.

Shanair watched with a proud smile. “It is enough?”

“It’s a wonderful treasure,” Kiva assured her. “I will require some time to explore it.”

The Crinti gestured toward the massive skull. “This was fine sport. Will more of these come through the floodgate?”

Andris sat up abruptly, startled by the implication of Shanair’s words. His gaze shot toward the trophy. Firelight danced along the ridges and hollows, making the fanged jaws gleam like a demon’s snarl. It was not a sahuagin nor any creature known to his world!

“The gate will open in time,” Kiva assured her. “This monster is just a taste of what will come.”

Andris leaped to his feet and strode forward. Five Crinti blades halted his progress. Five gray-faced warriors regarded him with searing blue eyes, like small flames amid the ash.

“Kiva has not called for you,” one of them said, eyeing Andris as if he were something she had just scraped off her boot. “Know your place, and return to it.”

“Let him speak,” Kiva decreed.

Andris brushed his way past the warriors and crouched at Kiva’s side. Leaning in close so that the watchful Crinti could not hear his words, he said urgently, “You cannot mean to open the gate. The Cabal must be destroyed, but not all Halruaa with it!”

The elf’s golden eyes narrowed and burned. “Need I remind you of the elf city in the Kilmaruu Swamp, drowned by the wizard Akhlaur and two of his cohorts? If Halarahh sank beneath sea and swampland, would you call that an injustice?”

“Is that your intent?”

Kiva was silent for a moment. “No,” she said softly. “Justice demands that the wizards pay for what they have done. It does not demand that I destroy more of my ancestors’ lands.”

“Your friends seem to think otherwise.”

She rose to her feet. “My friends honor their elf ancestors and destroy those who do not.” Her voice rang out clear and strong, and her gaze included not just Andris but the battle-ready Crinti warriors.

Shanair caught the implication, and she looked at Andris with a bit more respect. “The male is elfblooded?”

“Would I deal with him if he were not?” Kiva retorted.

The bandit turned to her band and issued a sharp, guttural order. They put away their blades with obvious reluctance and returned to the campfire.

It occurred to Andris that Kiva was telling the Crinti what they expected to hear-as she had the forest elves and the jordaini who had fought for her in the swamps of Kilmaruu and Akhlaur. As, no doubt, she was doing with him. Andris was surprised at how painful this realization was. He thought himself well beyond the sting of betrayal and half-truths.

With difficulty he brought his attention back to the discussion of the floodgate. “When the time is right, we will unleash creatures that might even challenge Shanair,” Kiva went on.

The Crinti’s laugh rang with scorn at this notion, and anticipation lit her strange blue eyes. “May that day come soon, elf-sister! Tell us how to prepare.”

“To begin with, you might want to improve your swimming skills.”

The females shared a dark chuckle, and neither of them noticed that the ghostly human in their midst did not share their amusement.

Andris woke the next morning to the splashing of water and the thud and clash of weapons. He belted on his sword and followed the sound to a stream not far from the Crinti encampment.

Several of the elfbloods were training in water past their waists. He had perceived Kiva’s comment about swimming as a jest, but apparently the Crinti were more literal of mind.

For a long time Andris stood on the banks watching the Crinti warriors. They were good-among the finest fighters he had ever seen-but weighted down by their leather armor and heavy weapons. The water stole their strength and halved their speed. In light of last night’s revelation, that presented a serious problem.

The creature whose skull Shanair took would not be hampered by water or weapons. Andris had seen such a creature etched in a lore book detailing creatures from the Plane of Water. He had seen the laraken slip through the crack in the floodgate. He suspected that the slaughtered monster had been a response in kind. Last night, for the first time, Andris had begun to believe that Akhlaur was still alive. He doubted that the wizard’s minions were limited to a single monster.

Perhaps the Crinti’s precautions were not so far-fetched, after all.

Andris unbuckled his sword belt and hung it on a tree limb. He stripped off his tunic and trews, leaving only his linen undergarment He would fight better in water if he were completely naked, but given the Crinti attitude toward males, he saw little wisdom in presenting them with a convenient and obvious target.

He waded into the stream, armed with his jordaini daggers. One of the Crinti took note of him and elbowed a sister warrior, a well-fleshed woman who was by far the biggest of the lot. This woman snorted and called out an incomprehensible but clearly derisive comment.

Andris decided she would provide as good an example as any.

When he was yet a few paces away, he took a deep breath and dived toward the big Crinti and her sparring partner. His translucent form all but disappeared. The water began to roil frantically as the two women stabbed at their unseen foe. He held back out of reach until the right moment, then seized the gray hands that drove a sword into the water. He worked with the Crinti’s movement, adding his strength to push the blade deep into the stream bed. The extra “help” threw the elf off balance. Andris kicked out hard, catching her leg just above the knee. He burst out of the water, dancing away in time to see the woman flop facedown into the water, her ample, leather-clad rump followed by her flailing boots.

“A breaching whale,” Andris mocked. He turned to the downed woman’s companion, who held her sword above the water in lunge position. “Next, I suppose, comes the narwhal.”

The Crinti woman came on hard but did not anticipate the full impact of the water’s resistance. Andris ducked under the water. He caught the woman by her hips, just under her center of balance, and pushed up hard as he rose. The precisely timed movement sent the Crinti into brief and impromptu flight. She splashed down and skimmed the water, like a leaping swordfish.