Only they didn’t pass. To Tyndal’s horror, they were walking right toward him.
He froze, at first, then dove into the harness room at the rear of the stable. His heart racing, he looked around for something – anything – he could use as a weapon. Nothing save the battered old pitchfork suggested itself. The hiding place did, at least, afford him a concealed view of the stables, so he saw the two men enter . . . and heard what they were saying.
“. . . and I say I felt something!” the younger of the two was saying, heatedly. “That place was filled with spellwork—”
“Most of it years old,” observed the senior of the two – Wantran, he remembered. “Nicely done, too. Whomever this spellmonger is, he knows his craft.”
“But what about the other traces?” demanded Lespin, the shorter, younger man. Tyndal could see that he had a wide face and very broad shoulders, giving him the appearance of being overweight. The way he moved, however, told a different story. “Some of those were fresh!”
“And far, far less well-cast than the others, Brother,” chided Wantran. “The work of an apprentice, at best. A poorly trained apprentice. This village has two spellmongers, and the baronial court mage lives in the castle. There could be anywhere from two to nine apprentices wandering around here. Boy!” Wantran called out.
Tyndal froze. He wanted to panic, but he couldn’t think of anything good to panic with. Lespin continued, unconvinced.
“I think that he’s been there recently – or one of his minions. Probably to check on his family. For all we know, they’re still around.”
“Were the signs that fresh?” Wantran asked, bored.
“Within the moon,” nodded Lespin.
“Interesting,” admitted Wantran. “The family seemed . . . sincere enough, although I know at least a few of them are lying.”
“They know nothing,” dismissed Lespin. “You can’t trust a peasant to tell you if it’s the moon or sun in the sky. That mention of a stranger in town? Utter fabrication. I’m certain of it.”
“Yes, well, they’re peasants and they were nervous. You can’t trust a damn thing a peasant says, anyway. Still, we need to investigate this ‘well-dressed stranger’ who passed through . . . if we can ever manage to hire horses BOY!” he bellowed. Tyndal jumped despite himself, and then stumbled over himself as he hurried to greet the customers.
Best to play it dumb, he decided. They won’t expect much from a stableboy, he hoped.
“Yes, my lords?” he asked, opening his eyes wide at the sight of their armor. It was good armor, serviceable and sturdy, not gilded or ornate in any way. The checkered motif ran throughout. The mageblades they bore were likewise plain, standard-issue, he guessed, to all new Censors.
“Two horses, boy,” Wantran said, bored. “Tack, harness, saddle. And be quick, or I’ll tell your master how you were sleeping when we came in.”
“How long, milords?” he asked, smiling far more broadly than he felt like.
“Two, three days,” Wantran said. “That grey gelding and that brown mare will do, if they’re for hire.”
“Rosebud and Butterbell? Yes, Lord! Seven copper each per day, plus three for saddle . . . plus a deposit of five silver, in case you don’t come back,” he recited. Master Gonus only requested three silver as a deposit, unless he knew a customer. A good horse cost over forty silver, but neither Rosebud or Butterbell were particularly good, in his professional opinion. In fact, Butterbell was starting to limp on her hind left foot.
“Saddle them,” ordered Wantran. “And boy . . . have you seen any strangers come through town of late?”
Tyndal opened his eyes even wider, and did his best to appear perplexed. Then he snapped, exaggeratedly. “Why, yes, Milord! Eight, no nine days back!”
“That would fit with the signature of the new spells,” murmured Lespin. “The earliest one wasn’t a half-moon old.”
“Boy, describe this stranger, please,” said Wantran warmly. Tyndal could tell the look was highly affected – the warmage was handsome, after a fashion, but his deep baritone voice was seductive, and he knew how to use it. The kindly tone was purely to elicit information.
“He was his height, milord,” Tyndal said, nodding frantically. “Well-dressed, like a lord. Green mantle, doublet, fine hose . . .”
“Did he have a beard?”
Tyndal considered. “I do think he did, milord,” he said, nodding sagely. “And a saddlebag stuffed and locked,” he added.
“Locked? Unusual for a saddlebag,” murmured Wantran. “Did the man carry a sword? Like this one?”
“A sword? Aye, he carried one,” he drawled. “Went off south, he did, milords. Is he a bandit? He had that look. My ma says—”
“Boy,” Wantran continued, insistently compelling Tyndal’s attention. “Was there anyone with him?”
“Nay, milord, but he did look powerful dangerous,” he said, nodding some more. “Powerful dangerous,” he repeated. “He stopped by the bakery, too.”
Wantran looked at his partner. “So does he seem sincere enough for you? Would you like to perform a test?”
Lespin sighed, but took a small metal object out of his pouch and put it up to his eye. “Repeat what you said, Boy,” he ordered. Tyndal did, as best as he could remember.
“He’s telling the truth,” sighed Lespin again. “So once more we go chasing shadows.”
“If he’s telling the truth, likely this shadow is a renegade warmage,” pointed out Wantran. “Besides, you’ve been complaining about river travel for two weeks, now. You could stand a few days on land, on horse.”
“If this boy ever gets them saddled!” Lespin exploded. Tyndal hurried to get the necessary equipment, relieved at being released from the unexpected interrogation. His mind raced as he strapped the saddles and blankets on, wondering just what he could do to mitigate this near disaster. If they had detected recent magical activity, it could only be Tyndal’s work. It would only be a matter of time before they tracked him down again.
It sure would be useful if I could do that to them, first, he though savagely to himself as he searched for Butterbell’s harness. Then he had an idea about how he could do just that. Despite the Censors being less than twenty feet away, Tyndal did a very, very small cantrip on the bridle before he put it on the horse. His heart beat like thunder as he arranged the three small symbols in his mind, gave it the tiniest bit of energy, and transferred the hook of the enchantment to the bridle. He waited for either of the Censors to notice – he had already thought about what he would say if it was discovered: that it was placed there by a spellmonger to keep up with errant equipment. Plenty of prosperous merchants used such spells. Perfectly reasonable explanation. Unless they looked too closely at it, in which case this spell might just buy him some time. The risk was worth it, he reasoned. This cantrip wouldn’t just track the harness, but the bearing and distance of the hands holding it.
More hopeful than satisfied, Tyndal triumphantly produced the harness and put it on Butterbell before leading the two steeds to the Censors. He flirted with the idea of leaving the saddle strap loose, to encourage a bad spill, but that would have been unprofessional, he decided at last. It could also get them coming back to him a lot sooner than he’d planned. He resisted the temptation – the tracking spell would be enough.
“For your trouble,” Wantran said, flipping a full silver coin to him. Tyndal caught it expertly out of the air, the way every stableboy everywhere learns to do. He was impressed, too – the coin was thick and heavy and crisp, not at all like the few thin silver pieces he’d seen. Just to be sure, he bit it before putting it in his pocket with a nod of thanks. Tyndal directed them to the south road’s gate. As soon as he could, he closed the stable door and ran back across the street.
The bakery was empty – and for one horrifying moment he imagine all of Master Minalan’s large family slaughtered in the back and stuffed into their own ovens. Urah’s presence in the kitchen allayed that fear, though, and Tyndal for
ced himself to act calmly as he informed her that the day he had feared had arrived. It took Urah a moment to realize what he was saying, but once she did she nodded and flew away. The contingency for Alya was set – but Tyndal himself didn’t know where she would be going. What he didn’t know couldn’t be revealed, no matter how much they tortured him.
He didn’t find that a very comforting thought, no matter how useful it was.
“Daddy says come see him,” Urah said, when she returned a moment later. She looked troubled, Tyndal thought, but then she had just been interrogated by a Censor. That had to be troubling.
Master Rinden was seated on his accustomed stool, his account book open and a dazed expression on his face. He glanced up at Tyndal and sighed.
“So those are the Censors,” he remarked. “Nice fellows.”
“Really?”
“Right up until they started threatening my family,” nodded the baker. “Then I decided I didn’t care what happened to them. If that is the quality of enemy my son has attracted, I suppose I should be proud.”
“They didn’t hurt anyone, did they?” Tyndal asked, anxiously.
“No, they just asked questions,” nodded Rinden, pouring two small glasses of liquor out of a nondescript earthenware jug. “And Alya was out the back gate and . . . well, to safety, long before they were offered tea.” He handed one to Tyndal, who took it automatically. “Briga’s blessing,” he invoked, and tossed it down. Tyndal nodded and did the same.
It burned like fire. Not that Tyndal had never tasted distilled spirits before, but the liquor was spicy and hot and burned a trail down to his stomach. It also made him relax the smallest amount, for which he was grateful.
“Thanks, Master,” Tyndal said, formally, as he returned the cup. “I . . . I’m working on the Censors. I’m hoping they don’t return, but if they do, I should get word. In that case, send Alya to the Four Stags inn at Roxly Crossing, under the name Delanora. I’ve already paid for it,” he added.
The baker nodded, looking impressed at the lad’s foresight. “Very well. Nice place, that, too. But . . . if they do come back, what should we do?”
“Whatever it is you would normally do,” Tyndal said, after thinking about it. “If things get bad, I’m right across the street. I’ll . . . I’ll provide a distraction.” He didn’t go into detail about just what kind of distraction, because he didn’t rightly know. But he knew he could not let the people who had been so hospitable to him suffer if he could help it. And he couldn’t let Master Minalan down. If that meant he had to throw himself at the Censors while Alya got away, then Tyndal could think of less noble ways to start his journey to the underworld.
“Now, lad,” Master Rinden sighed, “don’t go pulling the weight of the heavens on your shoulders. We’ve done nothing wrong. Nor will we be bullied by soldiers like that, magi or no. We’ve paid our taxes, and our baron won’t let us be taken without his leave.”
Tyndal thought better about contradicting the man if he took comfort in that thought, even if he knew better. “I have a duty, Master. I’ll not throw my life away lightly, but . . .” he looked around, and decided that it was time. “I suppose I should be ready if they do come back, then. Did they even come in here?”
“Nay,” Rinden said. “Never left the shop after the first ten minutes. Minalan could have been hiding out there and they never would have known.”
“Then they never even came close to finding it,” he sighed. Closing his eyes, he extended his magical attention upward from his body until it met a tiny pouch hanging from a tiny splinter far overhead where he had left it. With just the slightest of magical tugs, the bag came loose and plummeted. Barely looking for it, Tyndal caught it lightly in his hand. He could no more miss catching his witchstone than he could have misplaced his tongue. The moment it was in his hand, he felt better. He felt like a mage again, not a stableboy pretending to be one. He felt . . . dangerous. Grinning, he nearly allowed himself to launch one of the few showy cantrips he knew to celebrate . . . but he doubted Master Rinden would approve.
He settled for hanging the pouch around his neck and tucking it away under his tunic. “Now if they come back, I’ll be ready for them. They won’t expect a fight from me.”
“I daresay you are correct,” Master Rinden agreed. “But . . . lad, really, unless you have to, don’t do anything foolish. More than likely this will pass soon enough. Such things often do. Just keep low to the ground and watchful, and things should be fine.”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” he nodded as he prepared to leave. “But if they aren’t . . . well, I’ll be ready.”
The look on Master Rinden’s face told him he doubted it, but was too polite to argue the matter. “Just be careful,” the baker said quietly. “I have enough excitement in this house with all the weddings. We’re good at weddings. Funerals are a pain.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Master,” Tyndal said, grinning despite himself.
* * *
Tyndal busied himself around the stable as much as he could until nightfall, trying to work off the worry he felt. He knew Alya was safely stashed somewhere, and that he was actually the biggest danger to his master in Talry now. He felt a strange combination of satisfaction at protecting her and dread at being alone to face the Censors, should they return.
He felt so bothered by that, in fact, that he broke his orders and tried to contact his master, mind-to-mind, to no avail. Whatever Minalan was doing, he was too busy to answer his apprentice. While that disturbed Tyndal, he also knew his master was working in the service of the duchies and was very, very busy. Reluctantly he stopped the spell when it was clear he wasn’t going to answer.
Tyndal didn’t know who else to try, until he remembered Lady Pentandra. She had been in the southern part of the Duchy, near to the Bovali refugee’s camp, on some errand for his master, he remembered. He hesitated calling to her, but he tried to figure out what Minalan would have him do, and he felt compelled to make contact.
Who is this? Her mind asked, all-business, when she accepted the contact.
L-lady Pentandra, he said to her mind, it’s me, Tyndal!
He could have sworn he felt her smile through the magical connection.
Tyndal, what do you need? She asked.
I’m in Talry, milady, he explained hurriedly. I don’t know if you can help or not, but there were two Censors here today, asking after Master Minalan!
You didn’t do anything rash, did you?
No, milady, we just hid Alya until they were gone. But they might come back.
They might, she agreed. And . . . ?
Well, I just thought . . . maybe someone . . . Tyndal really didn’t know what he wanted to ask her, or what he wanted her to tell him, he just knew that he was on a horse much too big for his arse and he wanted help. The depressing tone of Lady Pentandra’s voice made him feel foolish the moment he heard it.
Tyndal, I hate to dampen your spirits, but there is a war going on right now. I’ve been gathering warmagi and other forces for it for weeks, now, and I’m headed to the battle or the front or whatever it is you men call it, as soon as I am able. Minalan has given me a hundred different duties, and only one half-trained apprentice to help me. Everyone else is likewise deployed. Unfortunately that means we don’t have many resources we can use to rescue you.
Tyndal felt his hopes subside. So you can’t send anyone to . . .
No, I’m afraid not. I’m not that far from you myself – I’ve been checking on the Bovali refugees, as a favor to your master, and I’m on a barge going upriver now, but we’re still hundreds of miles away. I know he places a high value on that peasant . . . lass of his, and he has a great affection for you. . . but there are larger considerations to be seen, Tyndal, I hope you understand. You’ll have to work it out on your own. That’s not how I want things to be, but that’s how things are.
His heart fell, but he felt the space that remained fill unexpectedly with steely resolve. All right, my lady,
I will deal with the Censors. Perhaps if you had any advice . . . ?
There was a pause. Do everything in your power to keep from being taken captive, Tyndal. If they find you are Minalan’s apprentice, you’re never going to see daylight again. If they catch you with your witchstone . . . she didn’t finish the sentence, but the way she said it, she didn’t have to. Tyndal knew very little about the Censors, and was terrified. Lady Pentandra knew far, far more about them . . . and was far, far more terrified.
I understand. Well, I may have bought a few days, he said, glumly, and then described the conversation he’d overheard between the two Censorate warmagi. He also admitted to enchanting Butterbell’s bridle so he could keep tabs on them.
That earned him a mental chuckle from Pentandra. Well played. It’s unlikely that they will even detect the spell, actually, since they carry so many enchantments on them. It’s not like having irionite – their sensitivity to magic isn’t as high as ours. But if they do discover it, then you’d best run. They’ll be able to tell how fresh it is, and they won’t mistake where it came from once they figure it out.
Run? That’s your advice?
It’s good advice. You can fight, she reasoned, but they are both Imperially trained warmagi with years of experience and you . . .
. . . are not, Tyndal finished, keeping Pentandra from struggling to find a diplomatic way to tell him he was virtually useless in battle. I have a warwand, for emergencies, but it wouldn’t do much. I . . . I understand. All right. Well, if things go horribly wrong, please explain to Master Minalan that I did my best . . . and that he shouldn’t do anything foolish in exchange for me. You . . . you know how he is.
Stupidly noble, for a commoner? Yes, I’ve observed. Don’t worry, that’s why I’m around, to save him from his own stupidity. But you just worry about you and Alya, let me worry about him. I saw you work at Boval Castle. You’ve got good instincts, Tyndal, and you think fast on your feet, just like your master. And you do have irionite, and they do not. You’ve got something else they haven’t.
The River Mists Of Talry - A Spellmonger Story (The Spellmonger Series) Page 4
