Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Good stuff?” prompted Rondal, as he heard more struggling through the trapdoor.

  “Yes! The stuff in the cabinet is that kind of junk, nothing worth more than a few hundred sandolars. The important stuff, the stuff Flacet keeps for the Brotherhood, is in a secret compartment with the majority of his funds . . . here,” he said, running his fingers along the bottom of the cabinet until a drawer slid open. “My master told me about it, but cautioned me not to touch it, lest we rouse their ire,” he said, in a mocking tone. “As if the Rats could touch the Cats of Enultramar . . .”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. If you’re going to burn the place down anyway, you might as well know about this, and make it worthwhile. Especially if it’s for—”

  “I am not burning it down,” Rondal assured him. “But I do appreciate the intelligence,” he said, as he opened the drawer lid and saw a number of boxes and pouches, each bearing a tag, as well as a thick folio of parchment. Rondal picked up one of the heavier-looking pouches and presented it to the thief. “Are you certain I cannot interest you in the ‘good stuff’, Sir Cat? You have more than earned it.”

  “You are generous, Sir Rondal. But I must take only what I came for as a condition of my quest. We are fastidious about such things in our order,” he said, with a mixture of pride and regret. “Mere wealth is not our goal, but master of our art.”

  “You keep saying ‘we’, as if there are more of you than yourself and your master,” Rondal observed.

  “And you have been referring to your own efforts in the plural, as well,” Atopol pointed out.

  “I just thought it was the fashion, here, in Enultramar,” Rondal dismissed, realizing he’d said more than he’d realized. He wondered what other details he’d given the astute thief. And how that might affect his mission.

  “I think our meeting was not an accident, Sir Rondal,” Atopol said, thoughtfully. “But I fear we lack the time to indulge in the kind of candor such a conversation deserves.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Sir Cat,” he replied, as he stuffed the folio and as many bags as he could stow in the sack he’d brought for the occasion. “I have tarried here longer than my plan intended, and events below, alas, are about to become . . . interesting.”

  “I take your point,” Atopol said, glancing at the open trap door. “I look forward to seeing your demonstration. When you get your charges to a safe place, then meet me at the Shrine of Eight Bells at Pearlhaven, on the south side of the bridge, at midnight, tomorrow. There we can exchange . . . ideas,” he said, knowingly.

  “I look forward to the occasion,” Rondal bowed, tying the sack closed. He used magic liberally to push the sack through the gable he’d entered by, until it was safely on the roof. “Now . . . you might want to get off the floor,” the knight mage suggested, drawing a wand. “Although it might prove entertaining, if not instructive, to watch,” he added, with a grin.

  Atopol quickly mounted the roof and turned to look back through the gable. “Is that a warwand? A blasting wand? A bout of flame?” the shadowmage asked, intrigued. “Professional curiosity,” he explained.

  “No,” chuckled Rondal. “Although, I can see you’re obsessed with fire. But it is a related enchantment,” he offered. “If we can just wait for the right moment . . .” he said, getting on his belly and holding the wand through the narrow gable.

  Just when Rondal could feel Atopol start to grow impatient, the hatch in the floor burst open with fresh activity. Three Rats quickly scrambled up the ladder, terror in their eyes and desperation on their faces. They looked far more the worse for wear than the last time they’d made it to the top floor, and a lot more poorly armed. In one thug’s case in particular that was literal, as he clutched the stump of his left hand at the wrist.

  “Blessed Night, you’ve torn them to shreds!” Atopol said, partially in horror and partially in admiration.

  “They are very bad men,” Rondal pronounced, in a voice just above a whisper. “Who are about to meet a very bad end.” As soon as the men cleared the trap door, slamming it shut and sliding a crate over it, they made their way toward the office. Rondal reached the wand down far enough to touch the floor. Then he uttered the mnemonic to activate the wand.

  The stout wooden planks gave a unified shudder . . . and then split apart into a thousand shreds. The gangsters, the crates, the tables, the bales, the kegs, everything that the heavy floor supported was suddenly standing on a platform of loose kindling.

  Gravity ensued.

  As the odd and varied collection of cargo, merchandise, furniture, gangsters, and kindling came raining down on the second floor, the unfortunate occupants -- eight river drakes and slightly more than three quarters of a dying Rat -- were just as surprised as the fellows above. When the two met, the resulting chaos of blood, teeth, tails, arms, legs, and kindling was spectacular.

  “That . . . was amazing!” Atopol said, his mouth agape. “You must tell me what warspell that is! You must!”

  “It’s a simple kindling wand as we use in the Mageland of Sevendor, in the Castali Riverlands,” Rondal explained, proudly.

  “That’s amazing!” Atopol, the Cat of Night repeated, eyes wide.

  ‘Oh, the magi of Sevendor have far surpassed this in enchantment, of late,” Rondal promised. “Most would not consider it a weapon. More than a tool . . .”

  “But a weapon is merely a tool of conflict,” Atopol nodded in agreement. “When used by a keen mind,” he added. “Would you like help with your descent?” he asked, holding out his black gloved hand. “I think the stairs are due for repair.”

  “I can manage, thanks,” Rondal said, kicking the bag of loot and evidence over the edge, and watching it fall to the cobbled street below with a clank and a jingle. “You might want to get clear of this place,” he advised. “Do you think you can get someplace with a good vantage point to watch, without being observed? It might be--”

  “Entertaining and instructive? Atopol chuckled. “I think I can manage. Farewell, Sir Rondal. I look forward to our next meeting,” he said, and stepped over the edge of the roof. He seemed to plummet straight down, but there was no thud of a body or crash of a collision.

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to go gawking after him like a rube at a tournament sideshow,” Rondal muttered to himself, as he began his own much slower descent. “That’s just what he wants me to do, the showoff!”

  Rondal reached the ground without incident, though the sounds coming from within the chaotic warehouse were distracting. Luckily, the crowd that had gathered at the commotion were likewise too distracted to notice Rondal, and his boots touched the cobbles without anyone spotting him . . . or so he thought. When he brushed himself off he looked up to see the old monk who haunted the market staring at him, drunkenly.

  Rondal waved at him, cheerfully, before peering around the corner to ensure no spectators were too close to the building. The monk was watching, but the way the old geezer was swaying, Rondal doubted he was seeing anything clearly, or be much of a trusted witness once he was sober, despite his ecclesiastic position.

  He drew a second wand, similar to the first, one that Tyndal (who had an odd fetish for wands) prepared especially for this type of work.

  If functioned on a similar principal as the kindling wand, but instead of merely shredding the toughest, oldest planks into strips no bigger than a thumb, it also converted the stone within its sphere of effect and reduced it instantly to gravel, as if each rock was smashed by a heavy iron hammer.

  The field was also much broader than the kindling wand. When Rondal stretched the sphere of intent with his mind before activating the spell, he was concerned it would not be powerful enough. But he’d underestimated Tyndal; the wand took direction admirably, and when Rondal was ready to act, the entire warehouse was converted to rubble with a single word.

  That’s for the Kasari, he thought to himself as he turned around and hefted the bag of loot on his shoulder.

  As he pass
ed by the monk, he dug into his pouch and found a half-ounce of silver he passed to the shocked priest. “Pray for those poor river drakes, Brother,” Rondal urged, as he headed back to the inn by the most circuitous route he could envision as a massive cloud of dusk filled the evening sky over Solashaven.

  Tyndal appeared near midnight with Ruderal and his small, frail-looking mother, Chaterny. Both former captives looked shaken by their ordeal, and Ruderal clutched a large, hastily-made bundle of their possessions like it was gold and jewels, but they seemed otherwise no worse for wear.

  Except they were both tremendously hungry. The Rats used food to keep their prisoners from getting unruly, Tyndal explained, when he put a huge basket of provisions from the kitchen below on the table.

  “I had to pay extra, but I told the innkeeper we were entertaining,” he explained, as the boy and his mother eagerly tore into the food, with Tyndal’s nod. Then he hastily recalled something, and pulled two earthenware bottles of brandy out of the basket. “I had to keep up the appearance that we were entertaining,” he explained to Rondal’s skeptical expression. “Besides, it helps keep the stink of the sewers at bay,” he added, reminding Rondal of his odious journey yet again.

  “Fine, you’ve earned it,” Rondal dismissed, putting his foot on the large, sturdy black bag. “We got what we came for, and who we came for, and escaped without a scratch.”

  “It remains to be seen if we escaped without pursuit,” Tyndal pointed out.

  “We have a boat to take us upriver at will,” Rondal riposted. “But we’re going to delay departure for a few days. I have to meet with a . . . with an informant,” he said, glancing toward Ruderal and Chaterny.

  “Why an informant? The mission is done,” Tyndal said, confused. “We got the kid, we got the mom, we got the loot. Let’s go!”

  “The mission isn’t done,” reminded Rondal. “We’ve merely achieved our objective. We still have to get them - and us - back home.”

  “That’s the easy part!” Tyndal dismissed.

  “Which is precisely when things usually go into the chamberpot,” reminded Rondal. “Do you recall talking our way out of a bandit attack with nothing but a quick-thinking knight and a cross-dressing goblin?”

  Tyndal’s face changed abruptly. “We swore never to speak of that again!”

  “My point is that just when we think things are going smoothly, the gods decide it’s time for us to learn some valuable lesson.”

  “Like delaying the mission a few days . . . for an ‘informant’?” Tyndal asked. “Is she pretty, at least?”

  Rondal considered explaining the entire episode with Atopol on the roof, and the clandestine meeting with the shadowmage scheduled the next evening. It would have required retelling the story of the entire evening, with innumerable questions from his partner. Increasingly inane questions, he realized, as the level of the brandy in the bottles declined.

  “Violet eyes. To die for,” he said, simply, taking one of the two bottles from Tyndal, whose mouth was agape. “And that’s all I’m saying,” he said, pulling the cork off the top and taking a long pull of the sweet, spicy liquor.

  He deserved it, too, he reasoned.

  The next morning Tyndal moved Ruderal and Chaterny to another inn in another town along the bay, under another fictitious name - this time as a Vale family from Inmar, come to the shore on holiday – while Rondal quietly inspected the result of their previous night’s work in Solashaven.

  The warehouse was destroyed, with no solid timber remaining. A pit of rubble and shards of wood filled the crater, and the fetid water of the river and runoff from the sewers washed dead seaweed and river scum around the great mound. Various spots in the rubble were stained with blood, Rondal noted. There were also signs that the wreckage had been thoroughly picked through already, he saw.

  The rubble attracted plenty of spectators still, and the tangled tale of the mad night included plenty of exaggeration. No one was certain what happened, but the speculation ranged from the mystic to the irrational. Rondal enjoyed listening for awhile, and occasionally adding his own details to the story about a woman screaming after her dead son in the rubble after the collapse, purely for the sake of art. And to plant the seed of the idea that Ruderal was dead.

  The Brotherhood may or may not learn who attacked their installation so suddenly and viciously, but it was unlikely they believed Ruderal and his mother had escaped the collapsing building . . . and by the time they suspected it, he would be leagues beyond their reach.

  Rondal was feeling very satisfied with the result and was preparing to go on his way when he noticed a few men standing at one corner, overlooking the crater. The man in the center, in a long sea-green cloak and merchant’s hat, stared intently into the pit, his jaw set angrily.

  That man, reasoned Rondal, was an interested party in this enterprise. From the animated way the others were waving their arms and looking desperate, they were subordinates at a loss for explaining just why a stone and timber warehouse sturdy enough to survive tempest, tyrant, and time itself for well over a century was suddenly now a damp gravel pit.

  Rondal was intrigued by their answers, so he found a wineshop he’d become fond of and ordered a cup from the attendant, whose pretty smile was the reason for his fondness, and employed the Long Ears spell to listen to their conversation.

  “ . . . it has to be magic, milord,” the smaller of the two men pleaded, reasonably. “It has to be! If it was the Eyes, they’d slaughter the lot as a message. If it were the bloody Fish, they’d burn the place to the ground. It had to be bloody magic,” he said, bitterly.

  “Do you know any magi who could manage this?” the senior Rat said, his eyes narrowed, skeptically. “This is no seamage or spellmonger’s work, you idiot.”

  “The Three Censors, milord?” asked the other, who appeared to be a clerk.

  “No,” the older man said. “The Censors have no business with us. But someone clearly does,” he said, gesturing at the pit with disgust. “Do you have any idea just what was stored here? How much we’ve lost?”

  “From what I can figure, milord Flacet, the warehouse had more than eleven thousand ounces—“

  “It’s not about the money, you idiots!” Flacet the Fence insisted. “Not even the loot we were storing! When Lord Darius hears that we lost that precious brat of his, we will all wake up with a shiv in our ear! You have no idea how much depends upon him!”

  Rondal smiled at the discomfort he’d caused the Brotherhood. It was small recompense for their crimes, and a mere installment on his revenge for their callous slaying of his friend, Estasia - the girl for whom their order was named. Avenging her death, and disrupting the Brotherhood, had become his and Tyndal’s un-official goal in life. Their actions against the Kasari expedition that inspired this rescue were also in need of vengeance.

  “What shall we do, Sire?” asked the clerk. “Do you have orders?”

  “Send word to Drakehaven to Lord Darius that our guest is, unfortunately, lost,” he said, darkly. “Explain the circumstances and let them know that it is clearly an attack. An arcane attack. And request instruction,” he directed.

  “What about the assets still down there?” the clerk asked, glancing into the fetid crater.

  “Bring in a witch to dowse for them, and sift through every pebble, I don’t care how you do it, but recover as much from it as you can. After that, we lose it. Now if this tragedy has taken up enough of my time, let’s get to the tavern and meet our new friends.”

  “But milord, if it is a mage, shouldn’t we be looking for him?” asked the small man.

  “Idiot!” sneered the Rat. “This was a professional assault. Whoever did this is probably on a boat to Farise right now. And by the time we can send word to our brothers there, he could be anywhere from Merwyn to Unstara. So no, we do not waste time, coin, and resources looking for a godsdamned wizard who doesn’t want to be caught! Now let’s go before I push you into the pit to look for yourself,” Flacet
snorted with disgust.

  Rondal let the Long Ears spell fall, as the men strolled out of range. He’d learned what he needed to know. He flirted lightheartedly with the attendant until he finished his glass, and then left the table, the shop, and the town of Solashaven. It was a sad and depressing place, perhaps, but it did have the least bit of charm.

  Chapter Six

  The Shrine Of Eight Bells

  Several houses of Coastlords dedicated themselves to the effort to establish their supremacy over the Sea Lords, and not the least were the powerful houses of magi both in and outside of the government. Several noble houses imported from Vore, Merwyn and Cormeer to settle the Coastlands brought their magical traditions with them. When they were challenged by Sea Lords or fellow Coast Lords for territory or rights, these houses fought back with a ferocity that called to mind the greater Mage Wars of the middle Magocracy.