“And makes it so much easier to drink them in quantity,” Rondal finished.
“Well, I did want to be properly prepared if you needed my drunken urination services again,” Tyndal replied, sourly. “I’m a world-class pisser. As a boat thief, I’m fairly passable. I did not even have to steal one,” he admitted. “Remember that punt outside of Ruderal’s shack? That should serve nicely. As narrow as a maiden’s hips and long enough for four.”
“That actually should work,” Rondal agreed, recalling the craft as he poured a drink from the pitcher himself. “And the lad will know how to use it. Well done, Tyn.”
“So what of your own efforts?” Tyndal asked, filling a second mug from the melon for his friend. “What were your own efforts? That took all day?”
“I had to make a quick trip upriver to arrange a suitable distraction,” Rondal explained. “Something just right to ensure our success at both missions.”
“Well, good,” Tyndal said, nodding. “Any particulars you want to share? Or are you being mysterious for dramatic effect?”
“I discovered in my investigations, in the guise of an out-country Coastlord, that the warehouse does, indeed, cater to legitimate trade from time to time,” Rondal explained. “There are a few merchants upriver who use the place as additional storage, or as a waypoint between shipments. It’s just enough trade to keep the Viscount’s tax men happy, and obscure the real business of the Brotherhood.”
“So you decided to distract them by informing the tax assessors of their undeclared profits?” proposed Tyndal. “That seems a little too subtle for the task at hand, Ron,” he said, sorrowfully.
“Just what I was thinking,” Rondal continued, rolling his eyes at his tipsy comrade’s suggestion. “But what might be more expedient is arranging for a shipment to be delivered to the place from up-river, by way of one of the regular merchants who occasionally use such trade.”
“Well, that might be helpful,” conceded Tyndal.
“That’s what I thought. So that’s what I’ve done. The day after tomorrow, a shipment of nine hogsheads of wine from up-river will be delivered by barge, and then carted over the bridge to this warehouse. There it will sit until it is retrieved by a barge bound for a distillery in the western end of the bay, four days hence. Unless something untoward should happen,” he said, sipping the rich fruity drink.
It was good, particularly with the sugar added, but he decided to try Tyndal’s suggestion and cool it by magic. In moments his simple cantrip frosted the entire mug. The drink was much better that way, he agreed.
“So,” Tyndal began, his face looking disturbed as he tried to puzzle through Rondal’s plan, “if this plan follows the general theme of the rest of the mission, I foresee myself being smuggled inside a keg of wine for two days,” he said, not pleased by the prospect. “Really, Ron, I--”
“No, no, no,” Rondal said, with a heavy sigh. “We are knights magi of the Estasi Order, my friend. We do not skulk about in hogsheads of wine, waiting to spring into action. We await the delivery of our distraction in the relative comfort of this unpleasant establishment, enjoying the beautiful view and sampling its delicacies. And then when the shipment is delivered and all is in place, the distraction will allow you to enter the place like a gentleman: through the sewers.”
“Much better,” Tyndal said, unconvincingly. “I take it I bring them out through the floor boards, then? From under the warehouse? Or did you just want me to wallow around in human excrement as your distraction?”
“I considered that,” Rondal reflected. “But as entertaining as that might be, it wouldn’t do anything beyond making a bunch of thugs laugh. And it wouldn’t be much of a laugh, since they don’t know you personally. When you see what I’ve actually planned, you won’t mind so much.”
“And while I’m going through the sewers to knock a hole in the floor and rescue our captives, what are you going to be doing?”
“I’m going to be stealing whatever I can from the Brotherhood and trying to learn their plans,” Rondal answered. “That’s the most dangerous part of this job.”
“You’re going to do that through the sewers?”
“No, you get the pleasure of the sewers. I will be entering the warehouse from the roof,” he said, indicating the broad, rickety-looking framework upon which cheap clay tiles were attached. It seemed sturdy enough to keep the frequent rains off of the merchandise below, but not much more.
“You’re intending on flying?”
“Something like that,” Rondal nodded. “I’ll probably use magic.”
“I should hope so,” Tyndal agreed. “So we have to wait here another day while all of this happens?”
“Yes,” Rondal said, stretching out. “Wait and watch, and get ready.”
“And drink?”
“And drink,” Rondal affirmed.
“The things I do for a mission,” Tyndal said in mock indignation, refilling his mug.
Rondal was not without a plan about how to attempt the roof. Getting there was not problematic, with the use of a spell to adhere his hands and feet to the exterior walls of the place. The brick used to build it was not high quality, and in truth it would have been no great feat to climb it without magic. But he wanted to do so escaping detection, and magic was the best way to go about it.
His investigation into the Arrunatus warehouse and its denizens included his own scrying efforts, not in the cellar where Ruderal was being held, but in the office of the crew’s local manager, the overseer Hard Skrup.
From what Rondal could discover, the man was well-placed within the organization, and being entrusted to watch over Ruderal was a special responsibility. But it was also the kind of tedious assignment that challenged the thug’s patience, and he did not spare griping about it, as Rondal learned spending a few hours employing a Long Ears spell among the villains while Tyndal was borrowing Ruderal’s skiff.
Once he’d learned the names of the merchants who did business with the Rats, he made a quick trip up the muddy river by barge and spent the afternoon making some decidedly unusual arrangements. After casting a few simple spells, securing what he needed and paying liberally in silver for the service ahead of time, he returned to Solashaven.
Despite his brave talk, Tyndal stopped drinking seriously before night fully fell, and was mostly sober by the Maiden’s Hour. Both lads took turns scrying or using Long Ears to ensure that Ruderal and his mother were still hale. Rondal even overheard some whispered talk between mother and son, and he was struck by how much they cared for each other, despite their unfortunate conditions. The lad was brave, and never faltered as he assured his mother he’d take care of her, no matter what. The mother was resolute in her willingness to protect her son, no matter what.
It was brave talk in the cellar of the Arrunatus House, but the news from the top floor was dire. The captain of the crew, Hard Skru[p’s boss, was charged with Ruderal’s care; he had apparently received a recent message from his superiors ordering him to send the special boy away north to meet with an agent for some scheme they’d planned. That plan did not include provisions for his mother, and the captain’s plans for her after the boy was moved were alarming.
They’d arrived in Enultramar just in time, Rondal realized. A few more days, and Ruderal would have been an orphan.
His spying and scrying also revealed that the captain was in possession of a great number of secrets about the crew. From the man’s dark grumbling, Rondal concluded that the warehouse was used to securely stash items of value for other Crews, in return for a fee. There was some sort of vault or storeroom of such things in the secure office on the second floor. That information intrigued Rondal.
As much as he wanted to rescue Ruderal, finding leverage against the Brotherhood was his first priority. Finding one of their secret treasure houses was far more than he had imagined . . . but it made sense, the more he thought about it. The stout stone walls of the lower levels and the severe iron grating over the doors and w
indows made the gloomy old warehouse in a run-down part of a decrepit old town on the arse end of a busy bay seem the perfect place to conceal things away from the prying eyes of just about anyone.
That made it an ideal target for an information-gathering expedition. If all went according to plan, then he would have unlimited access to the place and its secrets.
The boys spent the day of their attack ensuring that their gear was ready. For Tyndal’s part that meant inspecting Ruderal’s boat and making some repairs in the wood of the hull, as well as trying his skill with it on the estuary and river around the bridge. Rondal had to admit that his friend had some natural skill with the craft - just as he seemed to have with horses, women, and swordplay. Rondal put aside the stab of jealousy he felt and focused on the mission.
Rondal’s preparations were more elaborate. He returned to the pawnbroker and searched diligently through the garb on hand until he found what he sought: a matte black doublet, black leather riding trousers, and thick black gloves. The pawnbroker looked at him knowingly as he paid for the clothes, and diplomatically suggested a pair of soft, supple boots in black which he produced from under a table.
“The soles have excellent grip,” the merchant pointed out, testing the bottom of the shoe against the corner of the table. “Note the sharkskin on the toe and heel, providing ideal friction, the additional ankle support straps - in case you need to hold an extreme position - and the soles are treated with whale oil to keep them quiet.”
“Those are some very distinctive features, Goodman,” Rondal said, after studying the man a moment.
“I’ve been buying and selling from this shop for ten years, milord,” the broker assured him. “I’ve learned to see to the needs of my more discriminating clients.”
“And I seem to be?”
The pawnbroker shrugged. “A man comes in dressed like a Castali Riverlord, and buys the clothes of an Alshari Coastlord one day, and then returns dressed that way before buying a suit of clothes as black as night, the next. In my experience, a man who does such things often finds something like these boots to be helpful.”
“Helpful for what?” Rondal asked, amused at the man’s explanation.
“Why, for secure footing in any of his gentlemanly pursuits,” the pawnbroker chuckled. “Say yachting, fishing, hunting, hiking, exploring caverns or climbing mountains, or whatever it is the gentry do with their idle time. Or roaching,” he added, casually.
“Roaching?” Rondal asked, curious. He imagined some sick Enultramar custom involving roaches, of which he’d seen plenty in the damp, warm environment.
“Roaching,” affirmed the man. “Thieving. Hiding in shadows, breaking into places, taking things of value in the dead of night. When the roaches come out.”
Rondal smirked. “That is an intriguing metaphor,” he said. “If a gentleman was to consider, say, yachting . . . at night . . . and didn’t wish to be observed, would you might recommend in the way of a cloak?”
“I’m so glad you asked, milord,” the pawnbroker said, opening a long wooden press under a pile of old boots. “And could I interest you in a pair of manta-skinned gloves? Ideal for gripping even the smoothest of surfaces . . .”
The boys met up at dusk above the porter’s hall for one final drink before they began. There was no better place to view the warehouse, and no need to conceal their interest. As the sun touched the peaks in the west, transforming the eastern ridge with a golden glow, they sipped their brandies and watched as a wagon fresh from the docks arrive at the place.
Nine large barrels were unloaded in quick order by the thugs masquerading as porters. The driver presented the scroll with the bill of lading, demanded a receipt from the foreman, and left.
Rondal had directed his agent to insist that the barrels be stored in the lower chamber, where it could be protected from the heat of the day and kept cool. The warehouse was fitted with a large trap door that allowed a ramp to be deployed and the barrels to be rolled directly into the lower chamber. When the last of them were stored away, the ramp was pulled back up and the iron grate was put back into place. When Rondal’s Long Ears spell heard the tell-tale sound of the metal scraping into place, he smiled.
“Everything’s ready,” he nodded to Tyndal, as most of the thugs-turned porters left for the day after securing the great wooden doors with chains and a great iron lock. “The Maiden’s Hour has begun. Get to your boat and get into position.”
“Aye, captain!” Tyndal said, finishing his drink. “Good luck.”
“You, too,” Rondal said, absently. He was looking forward to this.
He wore his saffron-colored Coastlord cloak as he took a stroll by himself around the waterfront. After a few days in Solashaven he’d begun to recognize the whores who were pretty enough to brave the twilight, and treated them to shy smiles. He waved at the decrepit old monk who seemed to appear every night during the Maiden’s Hour bellowing scripture and wine fumes into the evening. As he neared the shadowed eastern side of the warehouse he slid his new gloves on under his cloak.
Only two guards left on the first floor, Tyndal reported. Two upstairs.
The night crew, Rondal agreed as he watched up and down the shadowed alley next to the warehouse. Are you ready?
Just got past the big iron grate. Do you have any idea how bad this place smells? Seawater, seaweed, vomit, piss, dead fish . . .
You wanted the full seashore experience of romantic Enultramar, reminded Rondal.
I expected more brothels and less sewers, Tyndal replied. All right, I’m right at the entrance to the chamber under the place. Southwest corner, right?
They haven’t moved, Rondal agreed. I’ll start the diversion.
How will I know when everyone’s distracted?
Just listen for the screams, Rondal said, for effect. He closed his eyes and loosed the spellbindings he’d placed on the barrels. Without them, the contents didn’t have anything compelling keeping them inside. Rondal dropped the yellow cloak to the street, revealing a thin black cloak underneath. He stared at his new black gloves and whispered a mnemonic, until he felt the tingle of the spell that would aid him.
Taking one last glance at the deserted alley, he placed his hand on the crumbling brick of the building and was gratified when it stuck fast. His right boot adhered just as easily, giving him plenty of leverage to heave himself into the air.
I’m going up the wall, he reported to Tyndal. No one saw me, I think.
I’m stuck in a fetid sewer, Tyndal replied. No one saw me, either.
A moment later, as Rondal was making his way to the second story of the warehouse, both of them heard the first bellows from within.
Ishi’s tits! What was that, Ron?
Each of those wine barrels was stuffed with an eight foot long river drake, he explained. With just enough water to make them slosh and keep the beasts happy. Well, as happy as they could be, curled uncomfortably in a barrel. I put them under an enchantment to send them into torpor for a few hours, to keep them from getting too rowdy too soon. Of course, that spell wore off about two hours ago. They’re all confused and riled, about now. And loose downstairs.
Where the people we’re trying to rescue are being kept! Tyndal replied, alarmed.
Where the people we’re trying to rescue are being kept . . . behind inch-thick iron bars, reminded Rondal. They’ll be perfectly safe. But the guards are going to have a very difficult time getting to them while you are opening a hole in the floor and helping them to escape.
You know, Tyndal admitted, after a few moments of thought, that’s not a bad plan.
Distraction, protection, and misdirection, all at once. And you didn’t have to spend the night in a wine barrel.
Just a sewer.
A safe sewer. Right now, the rest of the warehouse is one nasty carpet of three-inch long teeth and angry river drake. That’s bound to call the attention of everyone in the place. Long enough for me to rummage through their underthings.
I’m
still in a sewer.
Rondal ignored Tyndal’s complaints - he knew the young knight was in his element, at the edge of danger, and helping someone he cared about all at the same time. He appreciated Tyndal’s enthusiasm and his daring . . . and he was learning how to use it to best effect. While he knew his fellow wizard would have had no difficulty scaling the walls and breaking into the upstairs through the roof, he did doubt his ability to discover the secrets sure to be there. It wasn’t that Tyndal wasn’t observant, but Rondal knew he wasn’t as subtle, careful, or thorough as he was.
I’ve started warping the floor joists, Tyndal reported. I’ve made contact with Ruderal and his mom.
Are they all right?
They’re warning me that some idiot let nine angry river drakes loose outside their cage, and I should be careful.
Wise advice. I’ve made it to the gable. His fingertips found the sill to the window overlooking the roof. As expected, the pane-less opening was covered with rusty iron bars. A few moments of focus and they rusted away to brittle insignificance, and he pushed his way in.
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 7
