There was no one inside the expansive, dark room. He scanned it with magesight, and saw the door to the stairway downstairs was left open. He could hear the cries of the men below, struggling with the challenge of nine angry drakes.
I am inside, he reported, proudly, as his toes touched the floor. Everyone is downstairs.
I’ve got them, Tyndal said, triumphantly. Ishi’s tits, those things are ugly! Not as ugly as a real dragon, but . . .
Just get them out of there, Rondal ordered. Escort them back to their hovel, have them pack whatever they value, and take them back to the inn.
He padded over to the door of the stairs and closed it quietly, then bound it with a spell. It would take more than a strong shoulder to get through it, now.
He could see from the way the place was set up that it was as much a shop as the pawnbroker down the street. There were two wooden walls separating the office from the rest of the warehouse, and behind the second was a long, sturdy wooden cupboard of many smaller compartments.
I think I’ve found the storehouse, Rondal reported.
We’re just leaving the tunnel, Tyndal replied. This kid handles the boat like he was born in it.
He might have been. Keep sharp. I have no idea how long it will take for them to contend with those drakes. When they realize their prizes are gone, they’re going to come looking.
You stay sharp, Tyndal insisted. You’re still locked in there with four angry gangsters and nine excitable river drakes.
I’m fine, Rondal dismissed. I’ll be out in no time at all.
He decided to forgo the inspection of the cabinet to rifle through the table where the Rats clearly conducted their business. Most of the sheets of parchment were mere lines of figures, no doubt the accounting of various enterprises. Rondal gathered them anyway, in the hopes that more lengthy scrutiny would reveal their plans. He also pocketed several messages the captain collected in one pile, sealed with a simple but distinctive sigil in black wax.
Nearby the correspondence was a conveniently located chest the size of a loaf of bread, filled with silver. It went into Rondal’s pouch as a matter of course, as did the two thick ledger books underneath.
When he turned his attention to the cabinet, he found that each compartment seemed to contain some exotic or expensive-looking merchandise. Far more expensive things than one would expect in a dingy old warehouse like this.
I think I have it, Rondal told Tyndal, mind-to-mind. This place is a fence. For high-end items.
A fence?
Someone who buys and sells stolen merchandise, Rondal explained. Not a barrier between properties.
I know what a fence is! Tyndal said. That makes sense. Not like our friend the pawnbroker, I take it.
No, this lot was several classes above him, Rondal decided, after opening a cabinet with a spectacularly bejeweled bronze goblet with gold chasing, all done in a sea motif. Clearly a reliquary from some temple the Rats pillaged at some point. I found some silver, so far . . .
“The really good stuff is on the bottom shelves,” a young man’s voice said, casually, from behind him.
Tyn, let me get back to you, Rondal said, and broke the connection.
Chapter Five
The Cat Of Shadows
“After the defeat of the Sea Lords at sea and on land by the Magocracy, the Imperial Consul took the title Count of Falas and established his seat at Falas, beneath the glorious Falls of Falas. To people the fertile but largely empty fields and groves that had not interested the maritime Sea Lords, the Magocracy began sending immigrants and craftsmen, adventurers and prospectors from the cities of Merwyn and Vore to settle. These folk soon adopted the title Coastlords, to separate themselves from the Sea Lords of the havens, and began farming the coastlands in vast plantations.
“Of course many magi were included in the settlement of the region, and assisted in the thoughtful development of that land. Their manor halls and massive farms produced an amazing abundance, and as the Coastlords fought the monopoly on shipping the Sea Lords imposed by establishing their own havens up-river from the Bay. In this struggle the Counts of Falas were instrumental, quietly directing the establishment of a strategic fiefdom here, or paying for the fortification of that manor, there. While careful not to challenge the domination of the Sea Lords until their strength was built, The Coastlords, as tools of the Magocracy, cleverly undermined the economy of the Sea Lords through sheer competence and production.
“When the two nobilities clashed, as happened frequently during this period, increasingly it was the Sea Lords who lost the conflict. This was helped by the incredible intelligence available to the Counts of Falas, who employed warmagi and clandestine arcane agents to further their own power behind the face of impartiality. The incremental reduction of Sea Lord power in Alshar saw the Counts of Falas as the dominant force in Alshar by the time of the Conquest, quietly ruling through the coastal nobility while the Sea Lords continued their maritime enterprises.
“Among the many allies in this struggle were the clever magi who quietly infiltrated the Sea Lords’ keeps, subverted their allies, sabotaged their ships and machines of war, and clandestinely tipped the balance of power under the very noses of the Lords of the Sea. Though the swords of the Coastlords kept the Sea Lords from dominating, it was the employment of these operatives that frequently determined the outcome of a contest before it even began.”
The Hidden History Of The Coastlords
Lord Avorritus of Falas
While Tyndal would have whirled around, blade in his hand, and challenged whoever it was who interrupted his thieving. Rondal had another approach.
“How good?” he asked, trying to appear undisturbed by the completely unexpected interruption.
“Almost good enough to be worth the trouble,” the voice said, as Rondal turned to face it, his hands clear of his belt. “But if you don’t mind leaving that obscenely ugly chalice for me, I’d count it as a boon. Unless you’re here for it . . . in which case, we may have a problem.”
Rondal saw a young man around his own age emerge from the shadows like he was born among them. He was a little taller than Rondal, and his features were decidedly narrower, including his shoulders. Yet he was far more slender than Tyndal, and moved with the grace of a cat waking from a nap.
The most striking thing about his appearance was his eyes, which were two violet pools under his pitch-black shock of hair. Rondal had never seen eyes like that before, and they seemed to float apart from the young man’s face.
Apart from those distinctive features, the man was dressed more or less like Rondal - in black, from head to toe. But where Rondal’s outfit merely discouraged notice, the stranger’s seemed to drink in the light and conspire to make him a shadow himself.
Rondal surveyed the young man thoughtfully, then reached into the cabinet and picked up the bronze chalice.
“And if I am here for this . . . unfortunate piece of ecclesiastic art?” he asked, curiously.
The young man sighed. “Then we would have a problem. Likely one that would end in an unfortunate evening for one or both of us. And that would be a pity to kill a man over something as ugly as Glara’s dugs. Yet it alone is the reason I came all this way - I’m afraid I cannot bear to have made the effort without at least trying to kill you for it,” he explained, sympathetically.
Rondal looked from the man to the chalice. He tossed it to him, and the thief caught it deftly, without making a sound. He paused, expectantly, but when Rondal didn’t use the move as a ruse to attack, the youth relaxed and the chalice disappeared under his cloak.
“My thanks, Sir Thief,” he said, with a bow of his head. “I really prefer not fighting for my loot.”
“My goal is different,” Rondal shrugged. “The chalice means nothing to me. Indeed, little of this means much to me,” he admitted. That seemed to surprise the man.
“Then why go to all the trouble?”
“More of a distraction, than anything else,” Ro
ndal admitted. “But I’m more interested in this gangster’s superiors, than his treasury. Who was Hard Skrup’s superior, for instance, and who was above him?”
“Flacet? His boss is Davius, over in Drakeshaven. He runs all the crews in this viscounty.”
“Davius,” Rondal nodded, making a mental note of the name. “Thank you. You seem quite the gentleman, for a thief,” he added, respectfully.
“Well, one meets all sorts in this line of work,” admitted the thief, as he came closer to Rondal . . . not in a threatening manner, but a scholarly one. “Some are quite professional, others are brutally amateurish.”
“So where would I fit in that professional spectrum?” Rondal asked, suddenly curious. It was not often one had the opportunity for professional criticism during one’s first heist.
“Honestly? Quite well. For an amateur,” he conceded. “An intelligent amateur who did some decent research. Your clothes are fashionable enough . . . and I see old Varish sold you a pair of those boots of his.”
“What’s wrong with the boots?” Rondal asked, looking down at them. He’d thought them quite fetching, and they’d performed admirably.
“What? Oh, nothing,” the thief dismissed. “They’ll do the job. I get mine custom made. With some refinements.” He gave Rondal another thoughtful look. “I am Atopol, the Cat of Shadows,” he added with a bow. “I think you can guess my profession.”
“Sir Rondal of Sevendor, currently on assignment for the Estasi Order of Knights Magi,” he introduced himself, proudly, returning the bow.
“The Estasi Order?” Atopol asked. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it.”
“We’re new,” Rondal said, self-consciously. “We’re on a mission to rescue . . . someone from the Brotherhood. While we’re here, I’d thought I’d take a look around the place before I destroy it.”
“Destroy it?” Atopol asked, scandalized. “A good thief doesn’t burn down a house and dig through the ashes for coins!”
“I’m not a terribly good thief,” Rondal pointed out. “Indeed, we are on a rescue and revenge mission, not mere procurement. As such, destroying the place after looting it is well within bounds.”
Atopol looked troubled, as he partially sat on the table. “That presents an entirely different problem,” he sighed. “You see, this job is technically my journeyman piece,” he explained. “I’ve been detailed to take this stupid cup and return it, obeying all of the rules, in order to prove my competence. Not just as a thief.”
“What are you, other than a thief?” Rondal asked, suddenly wary.
Atopol’s face turned into an expressionless mask, and made a half-turn to his right. And disappeared.
“Shadowmagic!” Rondal guessed at once.
“Well done, Sir Rondal,” Atopol said, “I wouldn’t have revealed that, if you hadn’t been an arcane colleague.”
“Well, that explains why you were able to sneak up on me. And why we can work undisturbed - I spellbound the door to the stairs. The Rats are all below, contending with nine angry river drakes I smuggled inside wine barrels as a distraction.”
“Bloody thankful I didn’t come in through the cellar, like I’d originally planned,” Atopol said, his eyes wide. “Brilliant idea, that. A bit theatrical, but . . . brilliant.”
“But I don’t see the problem - you’ve achieved your goal admirably, Lord Atopol,” Rondal pointed out. “For I had no idea that you came in, and if you need to claim you defeated me for your prize, I would find no shame in that.”
“That is very generous of you, Sir Rondal. But if I leave a fire in my wake, then my master will count it as a failure.”
“Even if it was through no fault of your own? And who said anything about fire?”
“My master might mistake the truth for an excuse, without verification,” Atopol explained. “He is a hard task-master, and chose this quest for its difficulty.”
“Yet have you not countered the difficulty handily by befriending a potential foe, claiming your prize and retreating without bloodshed?”
“Would you be willing to swear an oath to such, on your honor as a knight of . . .”
“The Estasi Order,” Rondal supplied. “And yes, Lord Atopol, I would be happy to swear such an oath . . . once my mission is complete.”
“Well, was there something specific you were looking for? I’m passingly familiar with Flacet the Fence’s operation, in my research on this heist. I might be able to help.”
Rondal considered the offer, and how much information to invest in a man who so readily identified himself as thief and shadowmage, in the middle of a heist. “I seek any evidence that the Brotherhood of the Rat has become allied with the gurvani, in the north.”
“That seems like an odd sort of thing to investigate,” Atopol observed.
“It’s a favor for the Duke of Alshar,” Rondal decided to tell him.
“There is no Duke of Alshar,” Atopol said, flatly. For the first time he looked wary.
“His Grace, Duke Anguin II of Alshar, took possession of Vorone and claimed the Wilderlands as his direct legacy at Yule,” Rondal informed him. “He rules there now, independent of Rard or Castal.”
“That . . . is unexpected news,” Atopol frowned. “We heard—”
The young thief’s explanation was interrupted by a section of the floor bursting open, as someone below forced open a trapdoor Rondal was not aware of. From the startled expression on Atopol’s face, neither was the shadowmage.
Before the great door even crashed completely open, two men rushed into the room from below. Each was bloodied. The white-knuckled fists that clutched the blades in their hands were ripped and shredded, pouring blood down their wrists . . . but the angry eyes that glared at the two of them were not feeling pain.
“Did you know about—?” Rondal asked.
“No, do you think we can—?” replied Atopol.
“It would be an honor,” Rondal agreed, and drew his blade. He expected Atopol to do likewise.
Instead the shadowmage took a step to the right, and faded from view . . . but not before his arm flicked, and both of the Rats clutched their stomachs.
“Oh, lovely,” Rondal said to himself as he advanced, alone, pulling his blade into guard position. Atopol was nowhere to be seen.
The two Rats were injured, as the smears of blood across their tunics revealed, but they were far from out of the fight. They advanced with determination, their shorter, thinner blades held low. One had a boat hook in his left hand, Rondal noted.
But he was not merely fencing, here, he was fighting for his life. And he wasn’t wielding the Coastlord’s sword he’d purchased earlier, he’d brought his new mageblade on the mission.
This was the first time he’d drawn it in earnest against a foe bent on slaying him, and he was uncertain of what to expect . . . but the weapon was surprisingly well-fitted to his style, both as a swordsman and as a warmage. In battle, Rondal often eschewed artfulness for practicality, much to Tyndal’s dismay. The purpose of the conflict was to win, and how you won made less difference than ending the contest quickly and decisively.
The blade matched that style, and when Rondal murmured the proper mnemonic, it spat forth a blistering burst of concussive energy, enough to knock both wounded Rats back down the trap door to the first floor. From the snarls, hisses, and screams, the river drakes had progressed at least that far in their invasion of the warehouse.
“They were seeking shelter, not coming for vengeance,” reasoned Atopol, as he reappeared. “Nice trick, that,” he said, nodding toward his mageblade.
“So was disappearing like Ishi’s virtue at the first sign of trouble!” Rondal said, sourly.
“I made a calculated move,” Atopol conceded. “I’m a thief, not a knight. I distracted both of them long enough so that the powerful warmage could bring his mighty armament into play, and found a position on their flanks to assist from, if needed. It wasn’t needed.”
“Glad to know you didn’t just r
un,” snorted Rondal. “I don’t know how many of them are left down there, but I’m guessing we don’t have much time left. What were you saying about the ‘good stuff’?”
“The crap in the cupboards is junk Flacet buys from the common-class thieves around here,” Atopol explained, as he led Rondal to the secured cabinet. “The chalice was once looted from a shrine to the Maiden of the Havens, for example, and it’s been kicking around as a kind of trophy in Enultramar for the last century or so. It’s got a story, too, but Flacet bought it from someone who stole it from someone my master owed a favor, so . . .”
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 8
