Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Who is going to care that the Brotherhood is disreputable and untrustworthy?” asked Rael. “As I said, they are criminals!”

  “Criminals who need to do business with regular folk,” Gareth countered. “And the nobility, it seems. And, I’m guessing, other criminals.”

  Tyndal knew himself that much was true. Their new friend, the shadowmage Atopol, admitted that his family of superlative thieves had taken commissions from the Rats from time to time, although only under certain conditions and only at a premium. That was despite their general disdain for the Brotherhood - partially for their very real brutality in pursuit of criminal enterprise and partially for the very classist snobbery of the organization’s descent from pirates.

  That House Salaines respected the Sea Lord nobility, who were also descended from pirates, did not seem to bother them. The Rats were descended from common mariners, wharf rats and shipwrecked killers, not princes of the waves. Tyndal didn’t see much difference between the two, but apparently it was enough to give the elitist shadowmagi of House Salaines a reason to look down upon the Brotherhood. He was willing to accept that, hypocrisy or no, if it lent aid to their mission.

  “They do deal with other criminal gangs,” reflected Rondal. “They’d have to. They mentioned some rivals - or associates - who might have attacked them. Which means that they have agreements and concords with them. Agreements which can be interfered with.”

  “And their dealings with the nobility are likely dependent on keeping their agreements with them,” Banamor pointed out. “If for some reason they weren’t able to . . .”

  “Oh, I take your meaning,” Tyndal nodded, grinning. “My lords and lady, I thank you for your contributions to our efforts - and I trust we can count on your discretion. We may need further assistance.”

  “Oh, you can count on me for whatever you need,” Lord Banamor said, confidently. “I get tickled, helping you two gnaw your way through that lot. We have a lot of new enchantments, really novel stuff. And we’re always willing to take a quiet commission, off the books.”

  “I, too, volunteer my services,” Rael agreed. “That one little trip convinces me that establishing a more reliable trade with Enultramar would be wise. And,” she confessed, “I’m fascinated by the effort. It’s very entertaining.”

  “Anything you need,” Gareth agreed, tiredly. As the others filed out, wishing the lads a good evening, Gareth didn’t move. He just sat gloomily and stared at his mug. Tyndal glanced at Rondal quizzically. Rondal shrugged.

  “Gareth,” Tyndal began, lightly, moving to sit next to the man. “An observant man might say that you look distraught.”

  “Miserable, is more accurate,” Rondal agreed, taking a seat on the other side of him. “Not your usual cheery self. What’s eating at you?”

  Gareth looked up to first one of them, then the other. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Why wouldn’t we?” Tyndal countered, pouring more wine.

  “Because you’ve never been particularly interested before,” he countered, warily. “In fact, you rarely concern yourself with me.”

  “Gareth, you have to understand,” Rondal said with a sigh, “honestly, we never expected you to linger in Sevendor as long as you have. You’re a good mage, and even though you didn’t get make warmage, you could have taken what you learned here and made a fortune elsewhere.”

  “That’s what any normal adept would do,” Tyndal agreed. “Only you didn’t - and we’re glad about that,” he said, hurriedly. “Don’t mistake us. You’ve been a stalwart to our master when we haven’t been around, and everyone knows you’re the brains behind the Magic Fair, all the improvements in town--”

  “But if you’d hit the road any point in the last year to make your fortune, no one would have blamed you,” Rondal continued. “Being on the road ourselves so much has made us appreciate those who stayed and built . . . all of this,” Rondal said, with an appreciative nod. “If there is something bothering you, we . . . well, we want to help.”

  “It’s . . . it’s a girl,” he said, sagging in his chair.

  “Of course it is,” Tyndal sighed. Rondal looked uncomfortable. “Tell us everything,” he urged, as he filled Gareth’s cup.

  “That might prove difficult,” Gareth said, sullenly. “You two are . . . well, there’s a rival,” he said, bitterly.

  “Oh, no,” Rondal said, shaking his head sadly.

  “Exactly right,” Gareth said, sipping his wine robustly, before launching into a tirade of self-pity and bitterness. “Look at me! What girl - much less a lady - would want . . . this?” he asked, spreading his arms wide.

  Tyndal took a moment to look at him. He was wearing a plain tunic, simply belted, with just a bit of belly peeking over it. His chest was narrow and poorly developed, and his arms seemed almost brittle. His face was plain, with wide features and a beard that was patchy, at best. Take away his staff and he could have passed for any artisan on the High Street.

  Except, perhaps, for a smith. Or a carpenter. Or anyone else who used their muscles to make their living.

  “You aren’t so bad,” Rondal said, unconvincingly. “You’ve got your papers, a position, making good money--”

  “I look like a bloody scarecrow,” Gareth said, sullenly. “Who got robbed.”

  “It’s not about how you look,” Tyndal said, authoritatively. “Women like muscles - thank Ishi! - and athletic ability, but while those things are certainly arousing, there is more to a man’s appeal than his biceps.”

  “There’s money, fame, power, character . . .” Rondal supplied, helpfully.

  “Well, there’s money, fame and power,” conceded Tyndal. “There are few maids who will love a man for how he treats a beggar. Unless he’s also rich, famous, and powerful.”

  “I’m far from rich,” Gareth said, miserably. “I make decent coin, and I’ve banked a fair amount, but compared to some . . . I have no estate to offer. Fame? Who has heard of Gareth, the . . . see? No one even knows what to call me!”

  “What is your official title?” Rondal asked.

  “Deputy Spellwarden,” Gareth shrugged. “What girl wants to hike her skirt for ‘Gareth, the Deputy Spellwarden’? Much less consider anything more permanent. And power? Oh, I have that aplenty - especially if you need a permit. Beyond that . . .”

  “Who is this rival?” demanded Tyndal.

  “I’d rather not say,” Gareth admitted. “As he is a friend of yours.”

  “It’s Sir Festaran,” supplied Rondal. “And the maiden can only be Lenodara.”

  “Dara?” snorted Tyndal. “You’re worked up over that scrawny little fledgling?”

  “She’s pretty!” defended Gareth, a little drunkenly. “She’s brilliant, she’s brave, she’s wise, and she’s noble. And she has eyes only for him!” he said, with a sneer. “Festaran has position, he has title, he will inherit hands . . . and he has fame. And he has character,” he added, disgusted. “How can a man compete with that?”

  “I still don’t see why you would bother with her,” sniffed Tyndal. “Her hair is always a mess, she’s built like a boy, and she smells of bird poop.”

  “The heart wants what it alone desires,” Rondal reproved, gently. “Gareth, it isn’t hopeless,” he said, encouragingly.

  “Oh, not at all,” Tyndal shrugged. “For one thing, thanks to Ron, we’ve managed to get ourselves bound by a vow not to wed until the Brotherhood of the Rat is defeated and Anguin recovers southern Alshar. We haven’t broken that to Fes, yet, but he’s bound by it, too. So . . . they won’t be finding a priestess any time soon.”

  Rondal winced. “Yes, that’s true. And it’s a long story. But that does give you some time.”

  “Time to do what? Conjure up a new body? Find a better face? Compared to Festaran, I’m merely entertaining to her. I’m a . . . good friend.” He made the pronouncement as if it were a disease or curse. Tyndal and Rondal winced as if he’d been infected.

  “She’s unaware of your i
nterest?” Rondal asked, curious.

  “She’s not unaware. Just . . . ignoring it, and hoping it goes away.”

  “Ouch,” nodded Tyndal. “That’s going to be difficult to overcome. You cannot . . . ease into a woman’s heart. Not if you expect to keep it.”

  “Just so,” agreed Rondal. “If you stand around just waiting for her to take notice of you, you will be standing there forever. Are you staying up at the castle these days?”

  “What? No, I’ve been living at Banamor’s. I have a . . . well, I have a corner,” he admitted. “I stay there for free. It lets me save money.”

  “For what?” demanded Tyndal, “Gareth, if you want to be the kind of man who women admire, you have to do things that they admire. Living on a cot in your boss’ hall is not one of them.”

  “Neither is living in the same castle where she lives,” cautioned Rondal. “That kind of familiarity will only make matters worse.”

  “Then what should I do?” he pleaded.

  “Well, we can start by finding you - and us, actually - a place to live. A real place to live,” Rondal emphasized. “We can build a hall of our own, now, I think.”

  Tyndal immediately seized on the plan. It suited him well. The idea of establishing a place of their own, here in Sevendor, was a perfect place to spend their loot. And protect it.

  “I think Jurlor has some land available, at the edge of town,” Gareth said, after a few moments’ thought. “Over next to the Chapterhouse. It’s just a slip, less than five acres, but . . . he’s made it known it’s for sale.”

  “Let’s buy it!” Tyndal said, decisively. “Why not? Ron, how much in our treasury?”

  Rondal snorted. “More than enough to buy a scrap like that,” he reported. “Shall we pitch a tent?”

  “We shall build a hall,” Tyndal decided. “Something secure. Something . . . our own. We need a place in town, anyway - it seems poor practice to stay in an inn in a town you consider home.”

  “That’s actually not a bad idea,” Rondal considered. “Look what we did with the diketower. That was a bloody pile of rocks when we started.”

  “And now it’s a very classy pile of rocks, with an elegant wooden interior,” agreed Tyndal. “What do you say, Gareth? Think you can find enough lads to build us a hall?”

  “Sure,” admitted the wizard, nervously. “The Karshak carpenters don’t have a lot to do, now that the scaffolding in the mountain is built for the winter. And there are enough workmen around to get the place knocked out, once we had a plan and materials. Mage-kilned timber, of course, and we can set the foundation ourselves, but . . . h-how much is this going to cost me?” he asked, looking worried.

  “Don’t worry about the cost,” urged Rondal. “We’ll take care of it, and figure up who owes what later. But . . . in return we could use some help deciphering a couple of coded ledgers we stole from the Brotherhood. In return for your insights, we can get you a decent place to live and help you . . . present your case better.”

  “But aren’t you two friends with Festaran?”

  “Sure,” shrugged Tyndal. “But what makes you think we think that he’d be better off with Dara than you? Personally, I think you’re both a bit mad, but . . .”

  “We have no preference,” admitted Rondal, a little guiltily. “You two can contend for her all you wish, and Haystack and I will remain objective parties.”

  “Yes, we would be making you . . . helping you . . . assisting you to make a better presentation in general,” Tyndal reasoned. “Indeed, your best tactic may well to court other girls, before you consider making an approach to Dara with your feelings.”

  “Other women?” Gareth asked, confused. “Why would I court other women? She might think I’m not interested!”

  “That is precisely what you need to have her think,” Tyndal assured him.

  “He might not look very bright,” Rondal said, putting his arm around Gareth’s thin shoulders, “but Sir Haystack is surprisingly adept in this realm. And I think I agree with him. Nothing makes a woman take interest in you than seeing another woman take interest in you.”

  “That . . . I just . . . really?” he asked, confused. “Really?”

  “Let’s table this matter for the moment,” Tyndal declared. “We have much, much work to do over a long period of time before you’re ready. Until then, let’s buy this plot, build this hall, and enjoy the weeks we have before we head back to Alshar. To our new partnership!” he said, raising his glass.

  They found Lorcus sitting in the Great Hall of Sevendor castle the next morning, and after they’d visited with a few enchanters of note they tried to convince him to join their endeavor.

  Tyndal was eager to enlist the warmage’s aid in their efforts. The Remeran had the twistiest mind Tyndal had ever met, and he was fascinated by his approach to things. While a fierce warrior and a crafty soldier, Lorcus brought a certain mad insight to complex problems that Tyndal greatly admired.

  Rondal was less certain about recruiting him, but agreed that they needed some skilled assistance if they were going to attack the Brotherhood in their own lands and escape with their lives. Not to mention have any real success.

  But when it came to hurting people and breaking things in the pursuit of a goal, Lorcus was dedicated. Tyndal was in charge for this mission, so Tyndal wanted him. Badly.

  As it turned out, negotiations were not as strenuous as Tyndal had feared. He and Rondal met the mage at the second table on the west side of the hall, which had become known as the Wizard’s Table, due to the number of visiting magi who came to Sevendor. He was eating an enormous bowl of bacon and fried apples he had apparently specially ordered from the cook.

  “Lorcus,” Tyndal began, “are you under contract, right now?”

  The Remeran considered. “Not at the moment, lads. You have a lead?” he asked, perking up. “I was hoping that Min would get involved in this dust-up between Sashtalia and Sendaria, but it appears he’s being unreasonably wise and trying to bribe his way out of it.”

  “Want to go to Enultramar for a couple of weeks?” Rondal proposed, cautiously.

  “And do what?” Lorcus asked, with interest, as he spooned another bite into his mouth.

  “Attack an entrenched criminal organization by surprise and cause as much havoc and damage to them in as short amount of time as possible?” Rondal supplied.

  “We’d also technically be fugitives, being High Magi and all,” reminded Tyndal. “The Censorate still holds sway, there. And the region is in rebellion to the rightful Duke and the King. So anything you mess up there we won’t be responsible for. Unless we get caught. In which case we’re probably all dead.”

  “And we’ll be gone how long?”

  “Just a few weeks,” Rondal decided. “Maybe a month. We should be back in time for the Chepstan Fair, if we hurry. Oh, and we’ll pick up travel expenses.”

  “Let me get my toys,” the warmage said, deciding on the spot. “I could use a bit of holiday.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Return To Enultramar

  It only took a week and a half to cross the great expanse of the Riverlands, as the three wizards liberally used magic to force their way upriver and over road.

  They were helped in this by the new tools at their disposal. Both young knights had taken the opportunity while at Sevendor to build their own thaumaturgical baculus. Indeed, Minalan had nearly insisted, and both of them had the wit to realize why. The art of enchantment was entering a bold new stage, thanks to the unique circumstances in Sevendor, and they had an ideal opportunity to take advantage of the rapidly-developing art.

  The magical rods, popular with the enchanters of Sevendor, were like levers in their arcane work, making complex spells simple and simple spells elementary.

  Rondal had chosen a larger staff of weirwood for his baculus, nearly five and a half feet long and almost two inches thick. The exterior was studded with practical enchantments and augmentations, with snowstone and other elements p
ragmatically used to improve function. The head of the staff was a simple round bronze cap, engraved with sigils and runes, and the heel of the staff was a matching bronze spike that was designed to aid in collecting information.