Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “But not every Coastlord with magical ability sought to dominate his neighbors with his craft. Amongst the many magi who came to Alshar during this period, simple spellmongers and Imperial adepts of great note mixed with shadowmagi, warmagi, and seamagi enlisted in the effort to support the Lord of the Fields, as the Counts of Falas began styling themselves at that time, in opposition to the Sea Lords’ Lord of the Waves.

  “Among these important houses of magi were Houses Hegedus, Furitus, Salaines, Astutus, Astucial and Arcal, and they were of particular value. These minor houses of nobility formed an essential network of spies, saboteurs, and assassins that the Count of Falas depended upon to keep the Sea Lords under control and stifle the rising opposition of the self-styled Count of Rhemes, the scion of a wealthy Sea Lord settled inland, who resented the ‘foreign’ influence of the Magocracy on his holdings.

  “When called upon, these so-called ‘shadow houses’ left their quiet manors and mansions, donned dark robes and masks of black, and went forth into the night on their master’s missions. Whatever became of these houses is a mystery, for most records of them were lost after the Narasi conquest. But for a brief time, while the Sea Lords ruled the waves by day, the Coastlords of these houses ruled the rooftops and shadows by night.”

  The Hidden History Of The Coastlords

  Lord Avorritus of Falas

  What do you mean, you’re in Pearlhaven? Tyndal demanded. We’re three towns over in the opposite direction!

  That’s where my informant wanted to meet, Rondal insisted. Do you have them in a safe place?

  Well, after we left one inn, I didn’t want us to get followed to another. Too many opportunities for accidents. So I checked us into an abbey, some sea goddess or something. It’s nice. Cheaper than I expected, too.

  It’s the off-season, Rondal reasoned. And there’s a lot of competition. There must be a dozen shrines and two abbeys in this little town, alone. It’s a lot nicer than Solashaven, and it’s just over the bridge. Fountains, and a lot of glass. It’s pretty.

  Interesting place to meet an informant. Romantic.

  Just make sure that they’re safe and happy while I take care of a few things. And that loot. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back.

  Be careful, Ron, Tyndal said, seriously. We’ve accomplished the mission. Let’s keep it out of the chamberpot.

  It’s just a meeting, Rondal promised. A simple exchange of ideas. But I’ll be careful.

  At least make her buy you dinner first.

  Rondal returned to his garb as a visiting Coastlord, complete with the short dueling sword at his hip, but he wore the black cape from the job. He sauntered around the town watching the sunset and inspecting the fountains, and the exterior of the ornate abbeys. He stopped to dine on a delicious fish stew with a fresh, crusty bread and some excellent local wine. All he needed, he sighed to himself, was the right companion to share it with.

  None was forthcoming, so he walked the waterfront until the abbey bells sounded vespers and the moon rose full over the bay.

  He made certain to scout the approach to the shrine several times, and plot a few contingencies in case things went wrong. The shrine was situated back from the street, behind a tall wall where only gently sloping roof of the small building protruded. He realized that’s why his host had chosen the site - it enjoyed several good lines of retreat with excellent cover.

  It was dedicated to an obscure Sea Lord deity that not many worshipped any more, and was all but deserted at this time of night. Only a solitary monk and an older man and his daughter strolled through the decorative gardens surrounding the beautiful stone pergola at the center of the shrine.

  It was still a few minutes before midnight, so Rondal lit his pipe under the pergola from one of the lamps of the shrine and enjoyed the brilliant view of the moon over the bay.

  “The full moon marks the beginning of the Month of Storms,” the monk croaked as he mounted the steps of the shrine. “Scripture tells us that all who perish at sea this month will dwell in the Shipwrecker’s halls, in eternal service to her mad whim.”

  “That’s a colorful bit of mythology, Lord Atopol,” Rondal said, puffing on his pipe serenely. The monk straightened, and shimmered. In a moment the gray habit fell to the ground and the black-clad youth was standing next to him.

  “How did you know?” demanded Atopol. “I thought it was perfect!”

  “For anyone else, perhaps,” Rondal admitted. “But I’m a mage. Of course I inspected you in magesight. Your physical disguise was flawless, but if you cannot manage to disguise your arcane shroud as well . . .”

  “Darkness!” swore the shadowmage. “I didn’t think about that . . .”

  “Next time you will,” came a deep, masculine voice from the shadows. The nobleman Rondal witnessed with his daughter appeared from the shadows from behind the shrine with a smoothness that made Atopol’s appearance seem clumsy. “That was an excellent observation, my lord. Atopol should have altered his shroud in any case. Even the mundane can sense something amiss, and such subconscious doubts can lead to detection.”

  The man’s face came into the bright moonlight, revealing a powerfully handsome jaw and nose, and neatly-trimmed hair that was as white as Atopol’s was black. But the lavender eyes were just as vivid, and even more compelling in a face of such bearing.

  “I trust there is some good reason for inviting an outsider to this most intimate of occasions, Atopol?” he asked, without judgment.

  “There is, Master,” Atopol assured, immediately assuming a formal presentation. “I invited this gentleman, Sir Rondal of Sevendor, Knight Mage of the Estasi Order, because he has information I feel you need to hear. And because he, not I, was the cause of the collapse of the Arrunatus warehouse,” he added.

  “I’ve never heard of that order,” the older man said, thoughtfully.

  “They’re new,” Atopol volunteered. “But he says that he represents the interests of the rightful Duke of Alshar,” he said, expectantly.

  “That is . . . interesting . . .” the man agreed, thoughtfully.

  “Actually, I just said I was doing the lad a favor,” Rondal corrected. “I have no official capacity with His Grace.”

  “But you know him? You’ve met him?” demanded Atopol’s master.

  “Indeed, I encamped with His Grace during the Midsummer holidays, just last year,” Rondal said, which was technically true. “Duke Anguin is a delightful gentleman,” he added.

  “So there is a sitting duke. But still a tool of Castal . . . “

  “No more, Master . . . ?”

  “Forgive me, Sir Rondal,” the man said, startled. “I am known, professionally, as Hance, Son of Shadow,” he said with a low and dignified bow. “You’ll understand if I don’t reveal more than that, on such short acquaintance.”

  “Of course, Master Hance,” Rondal said, obligingly. “But you should know that word has come that as of Yule, His Grace has taken personal possession of the summer capital, Vorone. Without the expressed consent or even knowledge of His Majesty.”

  “There is a duke . . . in Vorone . . .” the man said, his eyes narrowing in thought. Rondal let him think on the matter. “That changes much.”

  “For a lot of people,” agreed Rondal. “But I can assure you that His Grace is, indeed, attempting to take power in his own name.”

  “If the Castali don’t put a dagger in his back, the rebels who control Enultramar will,” he sighed. “Poor lad. Duke Lenguin had such high hopes for his reign. He’d be heartbroken to see what has come of it.”

  “You knew the duke?” Rondal asked, surprised.

  “Believe it or not, Sir Rondal, His Grace and I were old friends,” Hance said, with a wistful smile. “On my own journeyman’s heist, my master instructed me to steal the Silver Scepter of the Sea Lords. It’s a miniature sea axe, about a foot long, a token of sovereignty among the heirlooms of the Duchy. One of the crown jewels,” he added, for effect.

  “Qui
te the quest for a journeyman, my lord,” Rondal conceded.

  “It was,” agreed Hance. “Legendary, even.”

  From the way Atopol winced, the greatness of the task was frequently referenced in his training. “But when I entered the vault in the midst of Falas’ deepest treasuries, past innumerable guards, doors, gates, and hounds, I discovered a young man seeking solitude from his rank and responsibilities, and disconsolate over a maid he’d left behind in Vorone. I should have avoided him entirely, but my heart was moved, and I spoke.

  “Even though I was there to steal, he did not call his guards. Instead we shared a bottle and our stories. At the end of the discussion we parted friends, and he allowed me to take the scepter. I later returned it, and we began a clandestine relationship that lasted until he left for Vorone, and never returned. I’d always hoped he’d reunited with the lass of his youth, but that was romantic nonsense. His Grace was a devoted husband,” he said, almost regretfully.

  “Duke Lenguin . . . had a secret thief as an ally?” Rondal was amazed. By all accounts Lenguin, the man who’d made him a knight, was a dullish ruler and a generally uninteresting man.

  “And shadowmage. He felt it wise to keep the relationship secret, considering how . . . determined his sister was to subvert his rule. She always resented his legacy, and secretly desired to be Duchess of Alshar, not Castal.”

  “And now she’s queen of both,” Rondal said, with a trace of disgust. “Yet Anguin is loyal to her, and has pledged fealty to her. But that does not make him her puppet.”

  “Politics,” Hance agreed. “Which is why my house tries to keep clear of it. In vain,” he added, sadly. “When word reached us of Lenguin’s death, and the nobles rebelled against Rard, we were in despair. But if Lenguin’s son and heir is alive . . . for now . . .”

  “Master, if what you’ve told me about Grendine is true, then it’s likely she’ll see his taking Vorone as rebellion,” Atopol said, alarmed. “Her Family will not allow that slight to stand!”

  “That is what I fear as well, my son,” Hance nodded.

  “His Grace is not without protection,” Rondal said, tapping out his pipe. “Or allies. He enjoys the quiet support of the Arcane Orders of Castalshar, and the friendship of Baron Minalan the Spellmonger. Currently Lady Pentandra, late Steward of the Orders, has become the Ducal Court Wizard in Vorone, and Count Salgo, who oversaw the defense of Gilmora, has taken a commission as His Grace’s Warlord. They strive even now to establish a viable state in Vorone.”

  “Count Salgo is a Castali lord,” Hance said, suspiciously.

  “His Grace appoints his counselors and advisors at his sovereign discretion,” conceded Rondal. “Lady Pentandra is a Remeran noble.”

  “And what is your relation to the Orphan Duke, Sir Rondal?” Hance asked, his suspicions shifting.

  “I am a loyal knight mage of Alshar,” Rondal declared, quietly, “and consider myself a friend of His Grace. I enjoy no official position.”

  “But you could, perhaps, deliver a private message to the Orphan Duke?”

  “I could and will, out of respect for your association with his father. That is, if I can gain your assurance that you mean no harm to Anguin, his court, or his goal to re-establish his sovereignty over Alshar,” he added. “I am, after all, a loyal gentleman of Alshar.”

  “As are we,” assured Hance. “I shall prepare something for His Grace, and if you could ensure it reaches his hands, alone, without the knowledge of anyone - and I mean anyone! - then I would count it as a personal favor. And House Furtius is an ally worth having a favor with.”

  “Uh oh,” Atopol said, rolling his eyes. “He told you our name. Now you’ve done it.”

  “Apprentice!” Hance said, sharply. “This is important. If you can do that, my lord, I think we can both advance our interests. And His Grace’s, as well.”

  “You have my word as a knight of Alshar,” Rondal assured, solemnly. “But that brings us to the second part of our business tonight, gentlemen: the theft of that unfortunately gaudy cup. I wish to assure you, Master Hance, that your apprentice did, indeed, successfully infiltrate the warehouse without detection, locate the chalice, bargain with me for it, and then escaped, again without detection. The subsequent demolishing of the warehouse and the deaths and dismemberment of the Brotherhood within were entirely of my doing. Atopol had the misfortune of encountering me in the midst of a rescue mission . . . much as it seems to have happened to his master,” he reminded the master thief.

  “I appreciate the admission,” Hance nodded. “And your honor for coming here during an important mission and sparing the time to make this report. In truth, as adept as my apprentice has proven himself, what happened to that warehouse was far beyond his capabilities. The river drakes were a nice touch,” he added.

  Rondal bowed at the praise. “The Brotherhood of the Rat has earned the enmity of my order, and had possession of someone we hold dear. We felt a demonstration was in order.”

  “And quite a demonstration it was,” agreed Hance. “A feat of magic that hasn’t been seen in Enultramar since the Magocracy. That is when my house first came here, amongst the Coastlords,” he explained. “But subtle. Only those familiar with the arcane arts will understand what happened, and even they will be hard-pressed to explain. I confess some wonder at the act, myself.”

  “Irionite,” Rondal answered, eschewing pretense. “Now that the Censorate is overthrown and the Arcane Orders regulate magic, irionite is far more common. With that kind of power available, the High Magi of Castalshar are able to freely practice our art. With irionite, all manner of enchantment is being created,” he informed them, proudly.

  “The Three Censors still rule magic in Alshar,” Atopol said, ruefully. “And they back the rebel counts.”

  “They are the last of the old Censorate,” Rondal observed. “Elsewhere their order is overthrown or transformed.”

  “That is more than I wish to discuss, here in the open, where any casual ears may hear . . . shall you bring our intruder forth, Kitten?”

  Atopol and Rondal both turned as another figure emerged from the shadows, far shorter than Hance, came out from behind one of the pillars of the pergola. In its black-covered hand it carried a bright silver sword, slender and graceful, held with unerring firmness . . . at the throat of Tyndal.

  “Gentlemen,” Tyndal said, through clenched teeth. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

  “Who are you?” demanded Atopol, a knife appearing in his fist out of nowhere.

  “I caught him skulking around the walls with all the subtlety and grace of a drunken cabaret dancer,” the young, masked apprentice said, scornfully. “He pretends he was trying to hide. I think I should cut his throat,” she decided. “He’s cute enough, but so clumsy that it would be a mercy . . .”

  “As appealing as I would find that, sometimes, I must object. Gentlemen, may I introduce my associate, Sir Tyndal of Sevendor, fellow mage knight of the Estasi Order,” Rondal said, smoothly.

  Tyndal, what in nine hells are you doing here? demanded Rondal of his partner, mind-to-mind.

  I thought you might need some relief, Tyndal explained, lamely.

  Does it look like I’m fighting for my life?

  “He . . . is one of yours?” the younger apprentice asked, the sword never wavering.

  “Yes,” Rondal admitted, reluctantly. “Sir Tyndal has many strengths. Stealth is not among them.”

  “I’m more of a cavalry charge kind of knight,” Tyndal agreed, seeming only mildly disturbed at the sword at his throat. “I was just making certain no ill befell my friend.”

  “Kitten,” nodded Hance, and the apprentice sheathed the blade so quickly that it seemed to disappear entirely. Tyndal looked relieved. The apprentice looked disgusted, and removed the hood . . . revealing beautiful white hair, spilling to her neck, and shapely lavender eyes.

  “Apart from Sir Clumsy, the perimeter is clear, Master,” she reported with an insolent bow. “How did Ato
pol do? Did he pass?”

  “That’s none of your concern!” Atopol retorted, angrily.

  “Peace!” Hance insisted, impatiently. “If Sir Rondal vouchsafes the man, he may remain.”

  “Hmpf! I hope he fights better than he sneaks around,” the girl, who Rondal figured at late thirteen, perhaps early fourteen. “Otherwise, I’m not impressed.”

  “I do,” Tyndal assured her with a sneer. “I’ll be glad to show you, sometime.”

  “Bring a couple of friends, make it worthwhile,” Kitten snorted.

  “Sir Rondal, I apologize for my insolent apprentice. She clearly needs more lessons in manners.”

  “And Sir Tyndal could merit from such a study as well, so no harm done. So if Atopol is the Cat of Shadows, I assume his younger sister is . . . the Kitten of Shadows?”