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 of his ambitions he cannot afford to be tainted by failure. Zephyr was Kiva's ally. I fought for her. Although the Jordaini Council declared me innocent of wrongdoing, in the eyes of many observers it may appear that both of Procopio's errant jordaini were hit by the contents of the same chamber pot"

"You fought the laraken and won," Matteo reminded him. "Your success may go far toward canceling out Zephyr's treason. Certainly it proves your battle prowess, something Lord Procopio values greatly. He's too ambitious to see such skills as yours wasted on a midwife or an apothecary."

Iago snorted. "In truth, I would rather serve a potion peddler than a warlord."

Warlord. The title hung heavy in the silence that followed its naming. Matteo nodded grimly. "So you see it, too. Procopio prepares to wear that mantle."

"Lord Procopio is ambitious," Iago repeated cautiously.

"War is often the path to power. Stay with Procopio if you can," Matteo urged. "He should be watched."

The jordain gave him an incredulous look. "What are you suggesting?"

Matteo considered his next words carefully, for he was picking his way through new and dangerous territory. "We jordaini swear many oaths, binding us to our patrons, to Halruaa, and to truth. What happens when these pledges conflict?"

"But-"

"Hear me out. What is our primary concern? Do we serve the ambitions of a single man? The good of the land? Truth? And what defines this 'good, this 'truth? Our own perceptions or those of our patron? Do we listen to the voice of conscience or the demands of ambition?"

Iago was silent for a long time. "You should be careful about speaking such thoughts, my friend. Some might call it treason."

"Others might call it honor," Matteo pointed out. "If we jordaini abandon honor, what good can we possibly do? Can we be Halruaa's guardians with no moral compass other than the whim of the wizard-lords? You know history. You know what wizardry ambition can do."

"We serve the wizard-lords," began Iago.

"Yes, and so do the message boys that carry word from the wizard's kitchen to the butcher. If we do everything we are bid, without thought, how are we any different?"

The small man fell silent. "I will consider your words, Matteo. Since you are a friend, I will not repeat them."

Iago spoke with great finality. Matteo was surprised, therefore, when Iago picked up the awkward threads of their conversation.

"You have spoken plainly. Will you hear some blunt words?"

"Of course!"

"You're quick to trust," the jordain observed, "and far too impulsive. You seem willing to do whatever a friend requires of you. Perhaps you care too deeply about your friends."

Matteo's brow furrowed. "How is that a fault?"

"I didn't say it was a fault, exactly, but it is a danger. What will you do, Matteo, if you must make a choice between your jordaini duties and your friends? You puzzle over the conflicts of truth, the good of the land, and the will of the wizard-lords. How much more difficult would you find it to weigh the good of Halruaa against the life of a friend? And what of truth? Would you lie for Andris?" His steady black gaze narrowed and sharpened. "Or perhaps for Tzigone? It seems to me there is little you would not do for that girl."

Matteo felt his cheeks flame. "As I keep repeating, she is a friend and nothing more."

"As I am trying to tell you, perhaps you care too deeply for your friends. You've already fought a magehound's wemic for Tzigone. You went to prison rather than name her as a thief, even though she stole the sword that led to your arrest and didn't bother to tell you she'd hidden it among your possessions. To protect her, you killed a wizard. A wizard, Matteo! The Disputation Table absolved you of legal wrongdoing, but have you any idea how the wizard-lords regard a jordain who kills? In the eyes of many, you're as dangerous and unpredictable as a half-feral dog."

"I know this," Matteo said quietly.

"You know a great deal, and yet knowledge does not give you wisdom! Whenever that beguiling little witch shows up, you cease thinking and merely act."