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but the other found the wemic's skull with a sickening thud. The wemic's head
snapped back and he dropped to the cobblestone. He lay still, a steady trickle of
blood matting his long black hair.
For a moment the street was silent, but for the whuffling, almost mirthful
sound of the stallion's breath.
Matteo rolled to his feet and came over to pat Cyric's black neck. Tzigone
tugged her knife free with a quick jerk and circled around to crouch by the
wemic's head. She lifted one eyelid, then the other, staring into each orb intently.
"He lives," she said shortly. "No need to look over your shoulder, though. He
won't remember any of this."
"You sound very certain of that," Matteo said warily. The tone of her voice
held an odd resonance, one very similar to that he discerned in wizards after a
spellcasting. "Speak forthrightly. Did you work magic on the wemic?"
"Me? A wizard?" She let out a short, derisive sniff. Rocking back on her
heels, she rose in a swift, fluid movement. "The wemic is having a bad day. He's
been hit on the head twice already, and it's only just past highsun. If things
continue apace, by sunset he'll be lucky to remember his own name. Very lucky."
She spoke the last words with a bitterness that surprised him. For a moment
Matteo puzzled over how, and if, to address this. No inspiration came, so he dealt
with that which he understood.
"I would not have defeated the wemic without your help," he said honestly.
"The debt is paid."
He swung up onto Cyric's back. The horse stood still for him, amazingly
docile.
No, Matteo noted, not docile. A better word was "satisfied." It was as if the
stallion had always longed to do battle and, having had the opportunity, was
content for the moment. Matteo extended a hand to the young woman. "May I
offer you a ride to wherever you're staying?"
Tzigone eyed the big horse uncertainly. "You go ahead. I'll catch up later."
The notion was so absurd that Matteo almost laughed. "I'm returning to
House Jordain to complete my training. The jordaini serve truth. Forgive me for
speaking bluntly, Tzigone, but there is no place for you there."
She didn't seem daunted by his lack of encouragement. "There's a debt
between us. I can't forget that. I never forget anything."
"I told you, the debt is paid."
"Because you say so? Is this the market, that we need to dicker?" she said
testily. "Blankets and melons and such have no set price, but there are some
things that do."
Matteo recognized the ring in her voice and the steel in her eyes. She spoke
of honor, though in terms that he didn't quite recognize or understand. He
responded in kind.
"Then when we meet again, I shall look to you for help and friendship," he
said. "You may claim the same of me, without adding to the sum of your honor
debt."
For a moment she looked startled, and then a thoughtful expression crossed
her face. "You say that I use words too lightly, and maybe I do, but it seems to me
that you're quick to speak of friendship."
Never had Matteo received so puzzling a response to the polite phrases he'd
offered. It occurred to him that she might think he was suggesting something less
than proper. "I meant no offense."
"And I took none. All I'm saying is that you're quick to trust. Maybe that's not
such a good thing."
Amused now, he regarded her with lifted brows. "Are you warning me to
beware of you?"
She stood her ground, yielding nothing. "I'm reminding you that you thought I
was a boy and assumed that all cats can climb. Not everything is as it seems,
jordain."
There was truth in that, and though it smarted to acknowledge it, he
responded with a respectful nod. "Thank you for your words," he said, showing
the respect he would give a master after a much-needed lesson. "Thank you also
for the use of your sword."
She shrugged and walked gingerly around Cyric, eyeing the big horse with
interest. Cyric turned his head to regard her, and his expression seemed equally
wary.
Matteo noted this exchange and found it rather fitting. He took up the reins
and found that one had been sliced by the wemic's sword. He dismounted to
retrieve it and tie it back on. Cyric was nearly impossible to control under the best
of circumstances, and he dared not attempt to guide the horse with only his
knees.
Tzigone watched as the young man bent over the repair. Moving like a
shadow, she retrieved the sword that Matteo had flung aside. For a moment she
regarded it and debated what to do. She couldn't take it with her, that much was
certain. Penalties for dressing or arming oneself above one's station were
severe, and the last thing Tzigone needed was another brush with the law.
Swords were valuable, and in Halruaa, spells of seeking made sure that valuable
objects didn't stay "borrowed" for long.
But she hated to leave the weapon in the street. Who knew who might pick it
up and what use they might make of it? And judging from the day he'd had so far,
Matteo was likely to need just such a sword before much more time passed.
Certainly he'd handled it better than she had expected. It would be well for both
of them if he had use of the sword when next their paths crossed.
Tzigone didn't require much persuading. She took a length of leather thong
from her bag and quickly tied the sword to the back of the stallion's saddle.
Fortunately the horse's back was broad and the sword short enough to conceal.
She tucked the saddle blanket over the hilt Judging by the shrewd, approving
look in Cyric's eyes, she figured that the horse would find some way to alert
Matteo of the weapon's presence if need arose.
She worked quickly and backed away just as Matteo looked up from the
newly repaired bridle. "Peace to you, Tzigone," he said as he swung himself up
on the stallion's back.
"And to you," she responded demurely.
She watched as the young man rode off, well content with her decision.
Peace was a fine word and certainly something worth aspiring to, but in her
experience, it was rarer than riches. If peace proved elusive, at least she'd seen
that Matteo was properly armed.
And properly warded, too. The wemic was beginning to stir and groan, but
when he awoke he would remember nothing of the day's events.
Just to be sure, Tzigone crouched by the wemic and repeated the small spell
that she had cast, one that she had learned in a lifetime of seeking remedies for
her own forgetfulness.
Her fingers still itched and tingled after the casting was complete. This didn't
surprise her. Wizards seemed to think that all magical energy should dissipate
with a spell, but Tzigone found this ridiculous. Magic was all around, all that
wizards did was pick up pieces of it and combine them to make something new.
They were so puffed up about their "great power," as if they actually created the
magic they used. As if anyone could!
But there did seem to be an unusual amount of magic about. There was also
some interesting treasure. Tzigone's fingers reached, almost of their own volition,
for the wemic's earring. The stone was too big to be a ruby, but even it if were a
garnet or carnelian, it would fetch a good price at the back door of many a
respected gem merchant She didn't worry about speeding the wemic's rise to
wakefulness. Her fingers were so skilled that she could take the gem from him
when he was fully awake without alerting him to his loss.
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