"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. Avariel came on fast, her three gaudily colored sails curved tight, her prow thrusting boldly into the winds.

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 hero of Akhlaur's Swamp.

Stories of that battle were spreading like spilled wine, All who heard these tales glowed with pride, from the most magic-dead rothe herder to the mightiest of wizards. Such is the magic of Halruaa, that even a street waif untrained in the Art can subdue a terrible monster! Ballads to that effect were sung in the square, in the festhalls, in the palaces. He had even heard this tale intoned in the plainsong of Azuthan clerics!

Procopio wondered how Basel would respond if he knew that his new apprentice was a thief, a vagabond, and, worst of all, a wizard's bastard.

It was a delightful image to contemplate.

The skyship slowed as it neared the docking gate atop Procopio's southernmost wall. The girl pulled herself down the mooring line hand over hand, shortening the rope as she sank so that she would land on the skyship deck. Basel and his apprentice darted forward to catch her. She plowed into them, and all three tumbled onto the deck, laughing like ninnies.

With a disgusted sigh, Procopio put down the glass and went to his courtyard to await his "distinguished guests."

Basel came first, his black eyes still twinkling with fun. "Greetings to you, Lord Procopio. We come in peace and friendship and will work no magic unbidden within these walls." He glanced back at his apprentices.

There were three of them: a stunningly pretty girl from the Noor family, a commoner named for some sweaty trade or other, and Keturah's bastard. The first two repeated the traditional pledge. Basel looked pointedly at the windblown little bastard, who shrugged and offered, "Fine. What they said."

Basel shook his head and lifted his eyes skyward as if in supplication. "Lord Procopio, you have met Farrah Noor and Mason. This is Tzigone, the newest of my apprentices. I pray she will serve Halruaa as faithfully as you yourself have done."

"May Mystra grant it. With such a master to inspire her, how could she do less?" Procopio said, offering the proper response to Basel's traditional words with a straight face, a dry tone, and a great deal of private irony.

For several moments he and Basel managed to exchange formulaic pleasantries without once choking on them. When servants came with goblets of iced wine and chilled fruits, Procopio suggested that the apprentices might wander the garden as they wished. Not surprisingly, Tzigone seemed most eager to leave his presence. Procopio knew that people who harbored secrets tended to avoid powerful diviners, and with good reason. Within the hour, the darkest corners of the girl's soul would be his to know. Procopio quickly lifted his wine goblet to his lips to hide the smile he could not quite contain.

"I trust your new apprentice is living up to expectations?"

Basel responded with a dry chuckle. "She's coming along nicely, but after her success with the laraken, she'd have to arm-wrestle a red dragon to meet expectations."

"Ah yes, the laraken," Procopio said. "I would like to hear that tale from the girl's own lips, without an audience at hand to tempt her into embroidering it. With your permission, of course."

Basel could hardly refuse his host's request without violating at least a dozen rules of protocol. Of course, Procopio skirted the edges of propriety as well, but Basel could hardly point that out. Instead he placed his fingertips on his temples in a parody of a charlatan fortuneteller. "I see an arm-wrestling match between my apprentice and a red dragon. And-by Mystra! — I see Tzigone wearing a new pair of dragonhide boots!"

"I am forewarned," the diviner said in a bone-dry tone.

He strode over to the trellis where Tzigone stood, arms folded, glaring at the climbing jasmine as if she held a special grudge against it.

He studied her closely, trying to remember Keturah's face and searching the girl's for anything that might jog his memory. She turned to meet his scrutiny. A wary glint flashed in her eyes-the canny, instinctual caution of an animal that scents a predator.