"Then you know the voice." Tzigone cleared her throat and pursed her lips as she smiled, in a manner that made her cheeks puff up and her eyes appear to twinkle. To complete the illusion, she stepped under the crimson awning. Light filtered through it, adding reddish lights to her hair and painting her face a wind-burned pink. Without changing her form or features, she managed to portray the essence of the jovial, apple-cheeked pirate.
"Wot'll ye be havin' now, dearie?" she said with bright charm and a thick north-isle Moonshae accent. "Will it be a fish knife through yer gizzard, or will ye be having a sit-down on the business end of a pike?"
She went on, cheerfully listing increasingly gory methods of death in a tone more suited to a tavern wench's blithe recitation of the night's fare.
As he listened, Matteo felt his lips twitch and his ire begin to fade. It was difficult to remain angry with Tzigone for long. The wench was amusing, and in her own way, she truly did seem to mean well.
He also found her interesting in a manner that went far beyond her tall stories, for there was about her something of a puzzle. It did not escape him that Tzigone's speech dropped easily into Common, the widely used trade tongue that few Halruaans, who were in general both insular and proud, saw need to master.
"And now a recitation from the decadent northlands," she suggested, her voice smoothed from a Moonshae burr into an affected drawl.
"They're far from staid after a raid,
These men of Zhentil Keep.
They kill off all the women,
For they much prefer the sheep.”
"The men don't eat their ill-got treat.
Not one of them's a glutton.
So isn't it a marvel
That they always smell of mutton?"
She declaimed the verse in ringing metered speech, much as a classically trained bard might deliver news of battle or recite an epic of long-dead heroes. The combination of her cultured tone with the bawdy verse had Matteo shaking his head in amazement.
"Wherever did you hear such a thing?"
"Great songs endure, but bad ones travel," she informed him with a grin.
He chuckled. "I'm not familiar with that proverb, but it seems to hold true."
"Proverb?" A flicker of annoyance crossed her face, but she quickly shrugged it aside. "So what shall we do now?"
Matteo knew the answer but found that he didn't relish speaking it. "I'm afraid we part ways," he said with genuine regret as he prepared to drop her burlap bag at her feet.
Her eyes widened in alarm, and she flung out a hand to stop him. "Don't put that down!"
Suspicion bloomed anew, and with it came a sharp, painful stab of self-reproach. Jordaini had a strong resistance to magic, including all means of magical inquiry. Since they could seldom be seen through scrying devices or seeking spells, they were natural couriers. Elaborate protocols ensured that they could not be used as such, even by their patrons. They carried only what they could place in the leather bags at their belt, and they memorized messages rather than carry scrolls. By accepting the bag from Tzigone, Matteo had gone against tradition and broken several core rules. And in not questioning her intent in handing him the sack, he had proven himself to be as naive as she had named him.
"What's in here?" he demanded.
Not waiting for an answer, he jerked open the sack and thrust one hand into it. His fingers closed around a smooth, hard cylinder. He drew it out, his heart pounding as he regarded the wood and leather scroll case.
"It's a spell book," he said incredulously. "You told me that you were no wizard."
"You don't need to be a wizard to know the price of such things," Tzigone retorted. "It'll bring a good profit in the markets, provided I sell it after dark and well away from this part of the city."
Relief swept through Matteo. The reaction surprised him, as did the realization that it was easier for him to deal with Tzigone as a thief than as a wizard. Surely he did not approve of thievery, but in his world, wizards could play only two roles: patrons to be served, or enemies to be outwitted and defeated.
The thought of battle prompted him to glance at the arcane markings on the case, looking for some indication of the school and the power of the wizard who owned the scroll. This was important. Battle was to be avoided if possible, but he doubted that the cheated wizard would allow him time for explanation.
After a moment's study, he found what he sought. Lightly etched into the dark wood was the outline of a raven perched upon the point of a triangle. These were the symbols of death and the renewal that death offered, so it seemed likely that this had been the property of a necromancer.
Matteo grimaced and dropped the scroll case back into the sack. Necromancers were not considered the most honored or powerful of Halruaa's wizards, but he disliked dealing with them.
"What's wrong?" Tzigone asked quickly.
"Apart from the fact that once again you've had me carry stolen property?" he retorted.
She looked at him keenly. "No offense, but you don't seem all that bothered by theft. When I told you that I acquired this spell scroll with resale in mind, you looked positively relieved. So I take it I've stepped on one of your precious jordaini rules."
For a troubling moment, Matteo considered that perhaps he was more concerned with the rules of his order than with simple matters of right and wrong. Theft, in his opinion, was wrong, while, strictly speaking, magic was not. But although consorting with thieves was hardly the accepted thing, friendship with a wizard could get him censured or even slain. This seemed oddly out of balance.
He made a note to consider this at a later time, and he explained the matter to Tzigone as best he could.
"A jordain may not use magic or pay for it to be used on his behalf. He cannot own or use magical items. He cannot have personal dealings with wizards. Even handling magical items is suspect. The purity of the order is rigorously ensured by the magehounds and the Jordaini Council, and the penalties for violating any of these rules are stern."
Tzigone made a wry face. "As bad as all that, is it? Well, don't concern yourself. I'll be rid of this by dawn," she said as she reached for the sack.
At that moment a passerby jolted them, and the bag fell from Matteo's fingers. Tzigone lunged for it, but she couldn't get past him in time to get at it. The bag thudded onto the cobbled street.
Immediately a flash of arcane light darted from the bag. Deeper than crimson in hue, it sizzled out like the strike of a preternaturally quick snake.
The sudden burst of magic unnerved the midday diners. Chairs overturned as they moved away. Pasties and cheeses dropped unheeded to the cobblestone. Coins and merchandise lay forgotten on the counter as both merchants and customers thought of things that required their urgent attention. Spell battles were uncommon in the streets of Halruaa, but they were not so infrequent that people considered them a novelty worthy of the risk.
"Red lightning. That's never good," muttered Tzigone. She began to edge toward the yellow awning of the fishmonger's stall nearby.
Suddenly the lightning sizzled back, retracing the path of the spell of seeking. The light and power of the bolt seemed greatly increased in power, it was brighter and somehow weightier.
Matteo frowned. He hadn't expected this conclusion to the spell of seeking. Few wizards could travel along the path forged by the seeking magic. The wizard he was soon to face was more powerful than he had anticipated.
He placed his hands on the hilts of his daggers as the wizard manifested before him, not drawing them but prepared to defend himself if need be.
The victim of Tzigone's latest theft was a tall man, exceedingly long of limb and narrow through the shoulders. His lanky frame was swathed in the black-red robes of a necromancer, which swirled about him like storm clouds at sunset A faint odor of a charnel house clung to him, whispering softly but unmistakably of death. By some coincidence of fate, the man was paler than a corpse, a true albino, with eyes the color of water and skin whiter than the underbelly of a fish. The black robes cast grayish shadows on his skin.
With almost theatrical menace, the wizard began to advance, one thin hand leveled at Matteo. His skin grew paler still, so that the flesh became as clear as crystal and the skeletal form beneath was revealed.
"Behold the fate of the hands that touched my spellbook," intoned the wizard.
"Sure, give or take sixty years," Tzigone muttered from somewhere behind Matteo.
He shared her confidence-as a jordain, he was immune to most spells. But he wondered briefly how Tzigone might explain her own resistance to magic. After all, the spell of seeking had not worked when she carried the bag, either. The necromancer made a sharp, quick gesture with his skeletal hand and then waited expectantly. His grim hauteur quickly changed to anger when no one obliged him by withering away to bone.