Tzigone spat out a mouthful of ink and lunged for the prism, only to be stabbed by several quills returning to their bottles. She changed tactics, snatching up corks and stuffing them back into the inkbottles.
That proved effective, up to a point. Some of the returning quills dived into the corks and got stuck. They struggled to free themselves with a fervor that had the stoppered bottles rattling and dancing across the table.
Tzigone seized the last bottle and dodged the large, sharp quill that hurtled toward her like a thrown knife. She stuffed home the cork and leaped aside.
To her chagrin, the quill pursued, dipping and twisting with an agility that brought to mind the flight of a twilight bat.
Other quills joined the pursuit. Discarded quills rose from the floor, untrimmed quills leaped out of drawers, feathers tugged free of the enormous stuffed egret in the corner. As Tzigone darted past the portrait of the Indoulur ancestor, peacock feathers leaped from the painting and joined in the chase.
There was nothing for it but to get rid of the ink, even though a bottle of wizard's ink would buy Tzigone's weight in pearls. She hefted the bottle, took aim at the open window, and let fly.
The swarm of quills dived out after the missile. Tzigone came over to the window and leaned out, watching as inkbottle and quills dived into the garden pool far below. The water took on a soft shade of lavender as it bubbled from the fountain.
She drew her head back into the room and turned, muttering oaths learned over the years from various street sharps and traveling performers. Her voice died in the midst of a particularly pungent phrase. Her new master stood in the doorway, his black eyes bulging with astonishment.
Basel Indoulur stood silent and still. Tzigone found this disconcerting. The wizard was ever in motion: his beaded braids swinging about his shoulders, his pair of chins wobbling in counterpoint to his frequent laugh. He was not laughing now.
Tzigone followed his gaze as it swept over the ruined room. The extent of the damage surprised her, now that she had time to consider it. She placed small value on wealth and the fine things it could buy, but she knew few people were of this mind.
Basel walked slowly through the room. He stopped before the defiled portrait. His shoulders went rigid.
Tzigone sighed resignedly. Few things offended Halruaans more than a slight upon their ancestors. 'You don't need to say it. I'll get my things together.'
The conjurer cleared his throat and turned to face her. 'You gave my grandma’s sister a mustache.'
She conceded with a little shrug.
'Well, that is a shame, considering all the trouble she went through to have the original one removed.'
There was a slightly strangled note to the wizard's voice, and suddenly Tzigone suspected that he was repressing not rage but mirth.
'The ink should clean off, and I could probably put the peacock feathers back into the portrait,' she suggested.
'By no means! As a boy I was always compelled kiss Great-aunt Aganzard goodnight, though she always wore at least a bird's worth of feathers. My nose itches just from thinking about it. It does my heart good to see the old boot without her fripperies for once. So,' he concluded briskly, with the air of one ready to move on. 'The scrolls are finished? Seven and twenty copies?'
'At least.'
'Fine, fine,' he said, beaming. 'Since you've completed your day's work, you have time for a bit of a treat.'
This bewildered her. Although grateful that the wizard was not angry, she didn't expect to be rewarded for destroying his study.
'We're taking up
She glanced down. Her robe, tunic, and arms were splattered with purple ink. A glance in the mirror proved that her face hadn't gone unscathed. It was liberally daubed with deep purple-and gone pale as parchment at the prospect of entering Procopio's villa again.
Tzigone couldn't explain her moment of panic. She'd crept through the villa before to visit Matteo during his service there. Nothing bad had happened. She just didn't like the feel of the place.
'I'm to meet Procopio Septus?' she repeated, a question in her voice.
'Presenting one's apprentices is traditional. It demonstrates the respect I hold for my colleague. I've been waiting for the proper moment, and I daresay it's at hand!'
Basel's motivation was starting to come clear to her. 'Sometimes you can't tell the punishments from the rewards.'
'Just so, my dear,' he said with a dagger-sharp grin. He dropped a fatherly arm around her shoulders. 'I'm no diviner-bless the Lady's name-but I suspect that bringing you and the good Procopio together will prove a just reward for you both.'
Tzigone followed his gaze around the ruined room and found she couldn't argue.
Procopio Septus was not pleased to receive word of Basel Indoulur's visit. As a master of divination, Procopio was among the most esteemed wizards in Halruaa. Conjuration, Basel's specialty, was not as highly regarded, but Basel remained utterly unmoved by Procopio's attempts to impress upon him his inferior status.
These efforts, Procopio suspected, were coming back to haunt him. Surely Basel was coming to gloat over the loss of Zephyr, an ancient elf jordain who had been in Procopio's service until his recent execution as a traitor to Halruaa.
Such a thing could prove ruinous for any ambitious man, but how much more so for a diviner! Procopio should have known what was happening under his own nose, and he did not. Try as he might, he could put no better face on it than that.
Nor could he ignore the tremendous loss of stature such failure brought. He harbored private aspirations to Zalathorm's throne, yet there were murmurs of replacing him as mayor of Halarahh! If he did not restore himself in popular favor soon, all his dreams would die aborning.
One secret bit of knowledge would help him endure Basel's presence. The fool had taken on Keturah's daughter as an apprentice!
Because of his high office, Procopio had heard of the scandals surrounding Keturah, but he had forgotten about it after the runaway wizard and her bastard child had been captured and dealt with according to law. Recently, though, Cassia, the jordain who had served as King Zalathorm's chief counselor, had told him that Keturah's daughter still lived. Since then, Procopio had made it a point to discover the identity of this girl-a task made more difficult by the murder of Cassia. He had lavished money, magic, and influence to ensure that the secret Cassia confided to him remained his alone. This was a risk, but one he counted worth taking. It gave him a hidden blade to use against Basel Indoulur, should the need ever arise.
Procopio, though a prudent man, rather hoped it would.
He walked out onto the parapets of his villa's walls to watch the conjurer's approach.
As the ship neared, Procopio made out a small, fourth sail trailing more than a ship's length behind. Puzzled, he picked up a mariner's glass and trained it upon the skyship. A long rope ran from the stern of the skyship to a small figure, and from there to a bright silk sail that caught the wind and held the wind-dancer aloft.
He'd heard of this sport but didn't personally know anyone daft enough to try it. He slipped a thicker lens into the glass, the better to study the small figure. What he saw made his lips thin in a tight smile.
So this was Keturah's daughter. From this distance, the wench looked more like an urchin at play than the offspring of the beautiful, fallen wizard. The girl's wind-tossed hair was cropped as short as a boy's, and the form beneath the tunic looked nearly as straight and slender.
Procopio trained the glass upon the deck. There stood Basel with one of his ubiquitous apprentices. Both watched the girl with wide, delighted grins. Their admiration was not uncommon-after all, this «urchin» was the
