The tall jordain sent an inquiring look at Vishna. The master nodded and rose to his feet. Andris ran at the wizard, dropping to the ground as Matteo had done and executing the leg sweep in much the same fashion. But when Andris dropped into the crouch, he did not face Vishna as the attack pattern prescribed, but instead presented his right side. When his leg struck the wizard, he hit with the hardened muscle of his calf rather than the poorly padded bone of his shin.

Matteo could see the sense of it. There would be less pain, and the modified attack virtually eliminated the risk of broken bones, a not uncommon hazard of this particular sequence. At this very moment, there were two second-form students in the infirmary, wearing plasters and glumly enduring the ministrations of Mystra's clergy. They would be back on the field in days, but in the meantime, they would have to suffer many sly comments from their fellows.

"There is a problem," Matteo observed. "The initial attack is vastly improved, that I readily concede. But once the wizard is down, you are out of position for the knife thrust."

"Not so," Andris countered. "I'll show you."

"Not with my help, you won't," protested Vishna as he struggled to his feet. "Stoneskin or flesh, my bones are sufficiently rattled from clanging about on the ground. I'm for the baths."

"May you walk in truth's light," both students said in unison, speaking the formal leave-taking between jordaini. The wizard flapped a hand in their direction in a less than formal gesture of acknowledgment as he walked gingerly away.

"I'll be your wizard," Matteo offered, speaking with the recklessness that only a jordain could understand.

Andris made a small involuntary sign of warding. "Mind your tongue, fool!" he said with quiet urgency. "You've more brass than brains."

"A metaphor," protested Matteo. "It was only a metaphor. An occasional borrowing from bardic style enhances a jordain's discourse."

"That may be, but metaphors can be risky things. There are many among us who consider truth a grim and literal matter, and some that might take you amiss if they overheard such claims."

Matteo sighed. "Just do the attack."

His friend nodded and burst toward him in a running charge. Before Matteo could brace himself, he felt the ground slam into him and saw stars dance in the morning sky. He blinked away the sparkles of light and watched as Andris continued his spin. But the red-haired jordain seized Matteo's ankle, using the hold to come to an abrupt stop. He pulled hard, reversing his direction and swinging his free hand toward Matteo's foot.

Andris slammed his fist into the ball of his opponent's foot. In real battle, he would hold a knife. There were points of power and pain on the sole of the foot, and a jordain knew them well. Even without the weapon, the precisely placed attack sent icy lightning coursing up Matteo's leg. He gritted his teeth to hold back a howl of pain.

"That works," he conceded in a gritty whisper.

Andris rose to his feet and extended a hand. Matteo grasped his friend's wrist and hauled himself up. His leg was numb nearly to the waist, and he hobbled around in small, pained circles as he awaited the return of blood to the offended member.

"Reminds me of the time I failed to dodge the aura of Vishna's cone of ice," Matteo said ruefully. He looked at his friend with great admiration. "You have improved the attack."

The tall jordain shrugged. "This tactic would not work for everyone. Speed is needed, and it does not hurt that I am built more like a snake than a bull. A man with more muscle couldn't halt his momentum quickly enough."

"Not without ripping off the wizard's leg at the hip," Matteo said dryly. He snapped his fingers and grinned. "There's an interesting variation. Why couldn't Themo execute your attack, then use the wizard's stone leg as a bludgeon?"

They both smirked at the image this painted of their classmate. Themo was taller even than Andris, and as thick-bodied and strong as the huge, hairy Northmen who occasionally came to the port cities for trade or adventure. At heart, Themo was less a scholar than a warrior, and he'd gotten in trouble more than once for sneaking away to the taverns to provoke battles.

"He could have used just such a weapon at the Falling Star," Andris agreed, his eyes twinkling at the memory.

But Matteo turned sober. "Indeed. Had you not been there to devise a battle tactic, the fool might have died that night, and his friends with him."

The jordain gave another diffident shrug. "I cannot match you in feats of memory or debate," he said frankly. "Strategy is the thing that interests me."

"Obsesses you," his friend corrected him heartily. "Have you made much headway with the Kilmaruu Paradox?"

It was meant as a rhetorical question. Matteo chose his words to express Andris's fascination with even the most difficult and obscure military puzzles. He was therefore surprised and intrigued by the light that leaped into his friend's hazel eyes.

A studiously casual expression settled over Andris's face. "It is a classic dilemma," he said. "The Halruaan navy has been occupied with it for many years. Not only does this question absorb the best minds stationed at the naval base at Zalasuu, but also the two thousand troops who hold the fort beyond."

"Not to mention the dozen or so adventurers and wizards who disappear into the swamp each year," Matteo added. "As the proverb goes, the Swamp of Kilmaruu keeps the numbers of fools in Zalasuu low."

"Ah, but therein lies the paradox," his friend said slyly. "It is written that the mages and adventures who disappear into the swamp only seem to whet the appetite of the undead who haunt it, drawing them out into the surrounding countryside. Massive attacks into the swamp have proven disastrous to the city and its outlying villages. Yet if the military does nothing, the undead will slip into the Bay of Azuth and bedevil the ships. Disaster lies at the end of either course, action or restraint."

Matteo nodded. History, particularly military history, had been part of their studies for years. But at the moment, he was more interested in the subtle implication in his friend's words than in this old puzzle.

"The paradox has always been understood as the futility of either action or restraint. Your words imply a different interpretation."

The tall jordain clasped his hands behind his back, absently watching a winged lizard crawl across the sky as he chose his next words. "Suppose that someone devised a formula for attack. Suppose he researched it extensively, worked out the strategy from every conceivable variation fate could present. Suppose that someone proposed this solution to his masters as his fifth-form thesis. Do you suppose that such a man might get an appointment as counselor to a battle wizard? Perhaps," he added wistfully, "such a man might flout tradition and gain not just a counselor's role, but his own command."

Matteo's jaw dropped. For a long moment he struggled to take in this revelation. "Is it true? You have solved the Kilmaruu Paradox?"

"I think so," Andris said modestly.

"You think so?" Matteo echoed reprovingly. This matter could determine the entire course of his friend's life. It was too important for light words and imprecise speech. "A jordain thinks first, and only then speaks."

It was a familiar proverb, one that had guided their training for over twenty years. The words had the desired effect The young man's chin lifted confidently.

"Yes. Yes, I have devised a battle strategy that will clear the swamp of undead."

Matteo let out a whoop and threw his arms around his friend, spinning him around and off the ground. They fell into a tangled heap and began to wrestle like puppies at play.

After quite some time, they tired of this sport and broke apart, sprawling out on the ground and panting with contented exhaustion. Andris sent a wistful look at his friend. "You really think that this will earn me a position with a patron of note?"