The unlikely analogy made Matteo blink, as did the image it conjured in his mind. "Your pigs flew off," he repeated. "like swans."
"Sounds barmy, don't it? Don't suppose I could go to the magistrate with that one, or you take it to the jordain order?"
"Ah. She was tested for magic in the inn, I take it?"
"The village midwife," the man said shortly. "Near as good as a magehound, is Granny Frost. I swore the wench witched my dice, and Granny Frost mumbled over her to test the truth o' things. Said there wasn't a drop of magic in the wench, that she was a true jordain. If I complain that the girl witched my pigs, I'd be going up against Granny Frost. That ain't a thing for a man unwed to be doing. I'd sooner wed one o' my own sows than whatever Granny might pick for me."
"I see," Matteo mused. "How can I help?"
"If you have coins, take payment for my pigs. If not, I'll take the girl." The farmer grinned unpleasantly. "You're bound to find her soon or late, and bein' a jordain, you got no good use for her. Might as well bring her here. Me, I don't like to leave any job unfinished."
Wrath flamed hot and bright as Matteo understood that what Tzigone had done here probably had less to do with theft than diversion, with a bit of vengeance thrown in. As he recalled, Tzigone had an aversion to familiar sayings. He would not be at all surprised if the expression "when pigs fly" had come into play. Well, pigs had flown, and Tzigone had gotten away, leaving the farmer with "unfinished business." Matteo found enormous relief in that.
"I will pay," he said shortly. "How many pigs were there in your… flock?"
The farmer's eyes narrowed at the gibe, but he named a number far higher than the pen could possibly contain.
Matteo glanced at the small enclosure and then back at the farmer, one eyebrow lifted. He reached into his bag and produced the rest of the coins Tzigone had left for him. By his measure, it was a generous amount.
"This ain't the price o' twenty swine," the farmer protested.
"That may be. But it is all I have, and more than you'd get at market for the number of swine that pen could truly hold."
The man's face turned a deep, angry red. His fist came toward Matteo's face in a blur. The jordain leaned to the left and did a half-pivot on his left foot. Two quick steps brought him around behind the farmer, who was still off-balance from the first punch. He hit the man on the back of the neck, hard.
The blow would have felled any of Matteo's sparring partners, but the big man shrugged it off. He ran for the pitchfork that leaned against the front wall of his dwelling, whirled, and kicked into a running charge with weapon leveled.
Matteo let him come. He dropped to the ground just short of impalement. As he fell, he twisted and reached up to seize the long wooden shaft. The weapon tipped down, and the tines plunged into the hard-trodden muck of the farmyard. Matteo released his grip and let the farmer's momentum do the rest.
With a rising howl, the man flipped into the air for a brief, flailing flight. He cleared the fence surrounding the pigpen and splashed down into the muck.
Matteo rose, arms folded, and admired the result. It was a story Tzigone would relish, and one that he doubted even her deft embellishments could much improve.
He was congratulating himself still when something hit the small of his back with a thud that resounded through his bones and sent him pitching forward onto his knees. Pain radiated through him in blinding, pulsing rays.
Heavy footsteps thumped around him. With difficulty, Matteo focused on a visage very similar to that of the farmer, minus the muck that his first opponent was scraping from his face.
"The family resemblance is striking," Matteo muttered dazedly.
"Striking!" The second man guffawed. "Oh, I like that! Hit him and he outs with a jest. Let's see what smart boy's got to say once I fetch him upside the head."
"He's not so smart," announced a thin, querulous voice from somewhere above their heads. "Only a fool don't check a hound for ticks or ask if a bastard's got brothers."
Matteo's head was starting to clear, and he anticipated both the source of the distraction and the man's probable response.
"Granny Frost?" the second man quavered, looking warily up into the trees.
But his brother sloshed out of the pen. "That's no haunt, fool! The girl's got more voices than a village meeting. She's come back."
Ignoring the numbing pain, Matteo surged to his feet and hurled himself at the second man's knees. They went down hard, rolling and pummeling at each other as best they could. It was no strategy at all and very little skill, but in his dazed state, Matteo could do no better. To his chagrin, the big man managed to pin him. He lifted his fist, prepared to drive it into Matteo's face.
Suddenly the man reared up, shrieking like a banshee. Over him stood a grim-faced Tzigone, wielding the pitchfork like a triton.
"He won't be sitting for a while," she said with satisfaction.
Matteo pointed. "Behind you!"
She whirled to face the first man. He had a small ax raised for a killing blow.
Tzigone dropped the pitchfork and gestured sharply. The ax handle burst into flame-or so it appeared. Matteo recognized the spell as a simple globe of light, although the leaping red «flames» were far more impressive than the child's toys that half of Halruaa could summon.
The farmer dropped the weapon and backed away. Tzigone stooped and picked it up. The wizard fire darted along her arm, swiftly outlining her entire form in flame. Her hair exploded into crimson flumes that writhed like the snakes of a tormented medusa.
With a sound very much like a drowning man swallowing water, the farmer turned and fled from the terrifying figure.
Tzigone's fire disappeared like a snuffed candle, leaving her unscathed but for a tiny smudge on her nose. She caught Matteo's eye and shrugged self-consciously.
"Bullies are cowards," she said, dismissing what she had done.
"True enough, but that doesn't make your display the less impressive. If I were able to move, I might not be far behind him," Matteo said dryly. He painfully rose into a sitting position.
"You're no coward," she said staunchly. "And not that much of a fool, either. You just need to remember to check for ticks, so to speak."
She moved behind him and tugged up the hem of his tunic. A long, low whistle escaped her. "You'll be several shades of purple by morning, but there doesn't look to be lasting damage." She ran her fingers lightly over his back. "The club hit here, to the left of the spine. That's good. He got a shot to the kidney, which isn't good. Hurts like all Nine Hells."
She dropped the tunic back into place and leaned forward to peer into his face. "I always seem to be picking up after you," she said. She silenced Matteo's ready rejoinder with an upraised hand, her suddenly subdued expression letting him know that she realized that she had caused him more grief that she intended.
"Thank for you for coming after me. I owe-"
He stopped her by placing his hand over her lips. "No more talk of debts between us," he said firmly. "No distractions. We have to do everything we can to find and stop Kiva." Tzigone nodded and pushed Mateo's hand aside.
"Finding her isn't going to be the problem. Does it seem to you that Kiva seems a bit too easy to track?"
"She wants to be found," Matteo reasoned. "She is luring us. If she were simply doing her duty, I could understand why she wished to entrap you. But there is something more happening here. I have a feeling that she has a purpose for us both. Why else would she free me from the hold or send a message that would bring me to Cassia's chambers?"
"You're a good fighter. Maybe she wanted to add you to her army."
Matteo perked up. "Army? What army?"
"I'll show you." She extended a hand and helped him to his feet. They both mounted Cyric the Second and rode to the edges of the swamp. By then Matteo felt able to walk without much pain, and he followed her as they crept through the moss-hung trees.
She stopped him with a silent gesture and carefully parted a curtain of vines.
There, in utter silence, was a training field reminiscent of his days at the Jordaini College. Over a hundred men practiced with weapons of steel and wood and bone, yet there was no sound of impact, no grunts of exertion.
Matteo marveled to see jordaini routines practiced under a magical shroud of silence. He would have sooner expected snow in midsummer.