The wemic was both impressed and troubled by this display. He had always been Kiva's strong right hand. She had purchased him when he was a cub, a child too young to remember the ways of the pride. The elf woman was his only family. What she said, he did. His strength was prodigious, and he had never known fear. Few men or elves could best him at arms. What he knew, he did very well.

Mbatu was beginning to realize, however, how limited his knowledge was. Oh, he could fight. In honest melee, few could match him, much less overcome him. Yet in less than a moon's time he had been outmaneuvered by one jordain and replaced by another.

The wemic watched as the men sloshed through the shallow, fetid water and drove stakes into the muck. To these they fastened several straw figures. Andris moved the men into position, encircling the straw zombies like a pack of wolves and closing in. At his mark, each man tossed a handful of coarse, sandy substance into the water. The swamp began to roil and sizzle. Foul gas rose from it, writhing like sickly green ghosts. One of the fighters tossed a torch into the vapor. There was a sudden sharp sucking sound, and then the swamp was aflame.

The fire died almost as suddenly as it had erupted. The only trace of the straw men was the charred sticks that had supported them. The zombies and ghouls wouldn't leave even that much of a legacy.

Kiva came up behind him, her nose wrinkled in disgust over the scent. "How goes it?"

"The jordain knows his undead," the wemic admitted. "If the men fight as he tells them to do, they will win."

"I am glad to hear it. It will be good practice," she agreed.

Mbatu studied her, his leonine face troubled.

"Practice?"

"For Akhlaur," Kiva said calmly. "The men will learn to fight in a swamp, to deal with the undead."

"But what of the laraken?" demanded Mbatu. "What will prepare them for such a monster?"

"What could?" she retorted. "I daresay the fiend will be as much a surprise to them as it was to us. Fortunately, we are better prepared now."

"We?" the wemic repeated suspiciously. "But you will not be there."

"Actually, dear Mbatu, I rather think that I must."

A low, angry growl came from the wemic. "You cannot," he said fiercely. "The laraken feeds upon magical energy. How many wizards have you sent into the swamp? Few of those wizards survived. Those who did were utterly stripped of their magic and more empty of mind than if an enfeeblement spell had been cast upon them. What will happen to you if we go into that place?"

The magehound traced his set jaw with her coppery fingertips. "Don't fear for me, dear Mbatu. I have learned quite a few of the swamp's secrets. Have I never told you how the wizard Akhlaur was defeated? No? He was dragged into the elemental plane of water by the very creature he summoned to help create the laraken."

"Yes. So?"

"So a tiny gate remains. Water leaks through, and with it the powerful magic of the elemental plane. It is this leak, this magic, that sustains the laraken and keeps it dependent upon the swamp." She smiled slyly. "If I could close this gate, the laraken would be forced to seek sustenance elsewhere."

The wemic's tailed lashed with anger and frustration. "But how? We could take a hundred jordaini into the swamp, and the laraken would still be drawn to you!"

The magehound's face hardened. "Why do you think we have been chasing Keturah's daughter?" she demanded. "If she's truly her mother's daughter, she will be able to call the laraken."

"What of the mother?"

"I have other uses for Keturah," Kiva said in a voice that forbade discussion. "It is Tzigone we need."

The magehound fell silent, and her face became contemplative. "It may well be that Tzigone had not yet relieved herself of her so-called honor debt to Matteo. If Matteo were to come to grief, she might feel obligated to intervene.

"Yes," she said with greater certainty, "it is time to add some complications to the young jordain's life."

"And if that does not serve?"

The magehound gave her servant a small, cool smile. "Then at the very least, you will get your revenge upon him."

Chapter Eleven

In the days to come, Matteo was to spend many hours with Procopio Septus. He attended the wizard daily at the Ilysium, a vast pink marble building that housed the offices of city officials. When Procopio's duties as lord mayor were discharged, they usually took to the sky. This was Matteo's favorite time of day, and he was rapidly becoming adept at piloting a skyship. The evenings were a round of lavish public affairs: banquets, festivals, concerts. Since Matteo was only one of several jordaini in Procopio's service, he was not required to attend every event. He and his fellow counselors met each day at sunrise to compare notes and devise strategies that would best serve their patron.

Matteo hoped that these meetings would foster the sense of camaraderie he knew back at House Jordain-after all, some of these men had been students at the Jordaini College when he was a young lad. But it seemed to him that his colleagues were far too absorbed with jostling for position. Matteo was keenly aware of his newcomer status, and he never seemed able to move past it Every morning he began the day in a circle of white-clad men who eyed him with open resentment.

Slowly he began to understand why this was so. He spent more time at Procopio's side than any jordain other than Zephyr, the wizard's high counselor. It didn't help matters when the old elf took upon himself the role of Matteo's mentor. Each morning after the jordaini meeting, Zephyr and Matteo spent an hour walking in the villa gardens and discussing the politics of the day.

As Zephyr had predicted, Procopio arranged several more tests of Matteo's skills and knowledge. The young jordain passed them all with ease. Riding an unbroken horse was little challenge after his experiences with Cyric. When a wizard «assassin» magically burst into Procopio's dining chamber, Matteo took a page from Tzigone's book and coolly deflected the sun arrows with the mirrorlike finish of a bronze plate. Procopio had howled with laughter at the sight of his hired wizard rolling on the floor in agony, and he'd sent Dranklish, the jordain who before Matteo's arrival had been second in rank to Zephyr, like an errand boy to fetch a cleric of Mystra to heal the unfortunate man. It was that event that cemented Matteo's position in the household, for it became clear to everyone that the new jordain was being groomed as Zephyr's successor. The tests ended, and so did Matteo's hope of finding friends among the household's jordaini.

His days were busy, but from time to time an image edged into his thoughts: a small, pointed face with big brown eyes and an irreverent grin. He didn't expect to see Tzigone again. Her last words to him indicated that she believed she had discharged her mysterious debt. Matteo didn't understand what exactly she thought she had done, and he wished, more than once, that he could have the opportunity to ask her.

But the days quickly settled into an orderly pattern, one suited to the life of a jordain and not disrupted by the «assistance» of roguish street waifs. Each day after the skyship flight, Matteo and Procopio would retire to the wizard's study. The wizard had a passion for games of strategy, and Matteo obliged him with seemingly endless games of chess, castles, and complex card games.

One morning he answered an unexpected summons to Procopio's study to find that the wizard had acquired a new diversion. An enormous table took up half the study, displacing the large cages of birds that Procopio kept in nearly every room of the villa.

The wizard glanced up when Matteo entered, and his face lit up in an unexpectedly boyish grin. "I ordered this a year and three moons before your arrival. I'll be a necromancer's apprentice if it wasn't worth the wait! Come see."