He went along quietly, no doubt hoping to escape once they were well away from prying eyes.
Matteo marched the boy behind a pile of crates. "You've nothing to fear from me," he said softly. "Thievery suggests great need. If this is so, speak plainly. I will keep your confidence, and do what I can to help you."
"Well, since you offered, there's an itch between my shoulder blades that I just can't seem to reach," suggested a familiar voice, a rich alto that bubbled with suppressed mirth.
A familiar jangle of emotion sang through Matteo-amusement, affection, exasperation, and the mingled chagrin and delight he'd felt as a lad when he fell victim to one of Andris's pranks.
"Tzigone," Matteo muttered. He released the "urchin," who whirled to face him.
Even now that he knew her, Matteo had difficulty seeing his friend under her disguise. She'd smeared dark ointment on her face for a sun-browned appearance, and one swollen cheek bore the yellowing remnant of a huge bruise. She spat out a small, wadded rag, and her face took on a more familiar shape.
Tzigone fisted both of her grubby hands in his hair and pulled him down to her level. She planted a resounding kiss on the bridge of his nose, then matter-of-factly wiped away a smudge of greasepaint she'd left behind.
Feeling strangely discomfited, Matteo stepped back and drew his jordaini dignity around himself like a cloak. "Is this how Basel Indoulur dresses his apprentices?"
"I dress myself, thanks," Tzigone retorted, her eyes dancing with glee. "Same goes for theun dressing. Don't think that I don't get offers, though, glamorous wench that I am."
"No doubt," Matteo murmured. "So. How are your studies progressing?"
Her smile faded and reshaped itself into a lopsided grin. "I expect to be elevated to the Council of Elders within the tenday."
"Have you learned more of your mother?"
The light faded from her eyes. "I thought it would be easy to find a lost wizard once I was inside the tower, so to speak. Wizards hoard information like heirloom spell books. Since we're being blunt and serious, I might as well take a turn. What news of Kiva?"
"She has escaped." Matteo placed a hand over Tzigone's mouth to cut off her outburst, then promptly released her. "I gave my word to the Azuthan priests that I would keep this in confidence, subject only to previous vows. The pledge of friendship between us is one such vow. Since Kiva has been pursuing you your entire life. I felt that you must be forewarned."
"Thanks," Tzigone muttered absently. "So you've got the same problem I have-you have to find someone without letting anyone know you're looking. Is there anyone you can trust? What about that old elf who was nice to you when you both worked for Procopio Septus? Maybe his friends know something useful."
"I'm afraid that path ends against a solid wall. Zephyr died a traitor's death. All who knew him are scrambling for as much distance as they can get."
Tzigone regarded him appraisingly. "Cynical. That's a new color for you."
Matteo sighed. "Can we be serious for a moment?"
"One of us can, that's for damn sure," she murmured.
He ignored the good-natured insult. "As a jordain, I am pledged to serve the queen, my patron. As a friend, I have promised to help you learn what became of your mother. Both of these things are important, but Kiva must be found, and soon."
"Agreed," Tzigone said readily, "but why are you looking for Kiva in Halarahh?"
"I'm not. I was ordered back to the palace. I will continue my search as soon as I can obtain leave."
She considered this. "What happens to a jordain who just picks up and goes?"
"I don't know," he said in surprise. "As far as I know, it has never happened."
"Hmm." Tzigone sent him a sidelong glance from beneath lowered lashes, but did not press the matter.
They spoke for a few moments of other things, and in that time Matteo laughed more than he had under the light of the past two moons. After Tzigone slipped away, Matteo continued to the palace with a lighter heart.
He made his way directly to the queen's chambers. As he had expected, the workshop hummed with activity. He found the queen working at a table in a far corner of the chamber and drew near to pay his respects. He might as well have tried to discuss philosophy with a cat. She never once looked up from the half-finished device, oblivious to everything but the winged metal creature taking shape under her hands.
After several unsuccessful attempts, Matteo left in search of the queen's steward. He found Timonk in the wine cellar, taking a long pull from a bottle of haerlu gold. He entered quietly and seized the man's wrist. Startled in mid swallow, Timonk jerked away with a gurgling protest. Fragrant liquid spilled over the steward's tunic.
Matteo pulled the coughing, sputtering man to his feet. "I will apologize after you explain why you called me back." A measure of sobriety crept back into the man's fuzzy gaze. "She's getting worse," he said darkly. He lifted a bandaged hand. With drink-addled fingers, he fumbled off the bandage.
Matteo's eyes widened. Only two fingers and a thumb remained on the steward's hand. The others had been sheared cleanly away.
"One of the clockwork creatures?" Matteo asked quietly. The man nodded. "Since you left, all she has done is build."
"Why didn't you tell the king?" Timonk's only response was a loud snort, drunken but derisive.
Matteo rested one hand on the man's shoulder, then turned and sprinted up the stairs that led into the queen's palace. He strode through the triple doors that kept her toys from disturbing the rest of the court, past the clockwork ice dragons that stood guard, and down the hall toward the king's council chamber.
A plump, sweet-faced woman wearing the blue of a royal herald stopped him at the door. Her face turned grim as she listened to the jordain's tale, and she asked him to wait. The herald returned in moments. "The king is holding open court, but he will speak with you as soon as he might."
Matteo nodded his thanks and worked his way through the throng that gathered in the high-vaulted hall. He waited quietly in an alcove until the last of the supplicants had been given audience. At last the king dismissed his courtiers and guards and motioned for Matteo to approach.
With a grateful sigh, King Zalathorm removed his crown and set it on the empty table to his right. The left-hand table was still piled with parchment, mute testament to the multitude of mundane matters that absorbed the great wizard's attention.
Halruaa's king was a mild-looking man of average height, with a soft brown beard and a thoughtful, almost dreamy expression.