The Floodgate by Elaine Cunningham Page B

he slept, though, his dreams were not of peace. And when the morning came, the plan he lay before Kiva made her eyes burn with golden fire.

Chapter Seven
    The distant spires of Azuth’s Temple rose against the sunset clouds as Matteo and his friends emerged from the forested pass.
    “A little dove’s flying this way,” Themo observed, nodding toward the small gray figure that ran toward the jordaini, arms and legs pumping steadily. “Making good time, too.”
    “Must be important if it couldn’t wait a few more hours,” added Iago.
    Matteo nodded and shook the reins over his lizard mount. The others followed suit. They hurried to meet the runner-a barefoot and barelegged girl, clad in a short tunic of Azuthan gray. She dipped into a bow and then handed Matteo a scroll. “I am to wait for your reply, my lord.”
    “Just Matteo,” he corrected absently as he broke the seal. “The jordaini claim no titles.”
    “As you wish,” the girl murmured politely.
    “It’s not as I wish,” Themo put in, only half in jest “What do you say, Iago? What title would suit me? Themo the war baron? Themo the king’s general?”
    “Themo the horse’s arse,” Iago suggested.
    Themo snorted and reached out to punch Matteo’s shoulder. “Well, are you going to tell us what’s worth wearing out this lass’s pretty feet, or do you want us to guess?”
    Matteo glanced up at his two friends. “A message from the queen’s steward. He is concerned about Queen Beatrix and requires my presence at once.”
    “Your response?” the acolyte prompted.
    “There can be only one. I will leave for Halarahh at first light.”
    “I will accompany you,” suggested Iago.
    “And I!” put in Themo stoutly. He slapped the reins against his lizard’s neck, as if he would ride all the way. The great creature’s shoulders rose and fell in an astonishingly human gesture of resignation.
    Matteo reached out and dropped a hand on the big jordain’s shoulder. “I would have you, and gladly, but your training is not yet complete.”
    “Training!” grumbled Themo. “My head holds all the information that’s ever likely to fit. Every now and then a man’s got to stop thinking and start doing. By Mystra, what this country needs is a good war!”
    Dark memories of the recent swamp battles flooded into Iago’s eyes. For a moment Matteo thought that Iago would draw a weapon on Themo and wash the big man’s theory away with his own blood. The small jordain regained his composure quickly.
    “War usually results from a cessation of thought,” Iago observed. “So I suppose your argument has some basis in logic.”
    “Logic,” Themo sneered. “I liked it better when you called me a horse’s arse.”
    Iago smiled. “Fortunate is the man who is content with what and who he is.” Though he spoke to Themo, he sent a long, somber stare in Matteo’s direction.
    Themo, whose enjoyment of a good insult surpassed his subtlety, heard the jest and missed the warning. Matteo marked it and would think of it often in the days to come.
    The journey to Halarahh was swift and uneventful. The River Halar ran deep and fast, and the Azuthans’ shallow keeled boat sped along the water like a low-flying swan. At the delta harbor, Matteo and Iago changed to a sea-going vessel. Their captain hugged the coast, for far out over the lake sullen gray clouds grumbled and clashed like titanic dwarves roused too soon from slumber. By day’s end the docks of Halarahh lay within sight.
    The two jordaini leaned against the ship’s rail and watched the gap between ship and city narrow.
    “We have not spoken of your plans, Iago. Will you return to Procopio Septus?”
    The small jordain shrugged. “No doubt Lord Procopio will release me to the first minor wizard who requests my service.”
    Matteo shook his head. “You are a noted battlemaster, and Lord Procopio is an ambitious man. He will not lightly let you go.”
    “He is ambitious,” Iago agreed, “and because