Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  With Ruderal’s assistance (and that of the sages of Sevendor, who were growing more profoundly adept in the art by the day) Rondal selected an enneagram from the Grain of Pors that Minalan’s newest apprentice assured him was inclined to deep thought and analysis, and while not naturally aggressive, able to defend itself handily at need. Rondal called the staff Bulwark, and tied its appearance to a matching bronze ring in which a hoxter pocket was enchanted.

  Tyndal, by contrast, had opted for a slender wand of weirwood only four and a half feet long, with an elegant, tapered shape. The head was silver, of Karshak manufacture in the shape of a dragon’s head (chosen for no good reason except Tyndal liked the piece) with a sharp steel probe affixed to the heel. Tyndal splurged to have emeralds set in the eyes of the dragon and scattered up and down the length of the rod in elegant settings, along with a fair amount of enchanted quartz and other shiny gems.

  The paraclete Tyndal selected was, Ruderal said, a highly inquisitive one with a fiery spirit, though it also had a slightly impetuous nature. It had been a far-ranging scavenger, a swimmer not a crawler, back in its ancient ocean. Ruderal seemed to think the flamboyant enneagram was a good match for Tyndal’s magical style, and he’d learned to trust the apprentice’s judgment on such things after seeing his power demonstrated over and over again.

  Tyndal called his baculus Grapple, in counterpoint to his partner’s, and had a heavy silver dragon’s head ring to tie its hoxter pocket to. Though it was different in style and function than Bulwark, the two wizards had worked side-by-side during their construction, ensuring that their functions were complementary. They’d even purchased a Sympathy Stone from Banamor (at a discount) to link the two together.

  Thus armed and augmented, they felt far more prepared for their mission of sedition and destruction. Just being able to make a baculus appear out of thin air and then disappear again was entertaining. Lorcus was highly amused, and sketched out the outrageous capabilities he expected his own baculus would have, when he made one.

  As soon as they reached the farthest parts of Gilmora, where the land turned bleak, they stopped being so flamboyant with their magic. Though still part of the Kingdom, the lands south of the Wilderlands and north of the great wall of mountains that shielded southern Alshar, both the people and the places seemed far more subdued and less friendly.

  Tyndal knew well why that was: the presence of the malevolent Land of Scars that blighted the lands of the west. Between the great southern ridge and the spectacular peaks of the Mindens was a rolling, chaotic, unfriendly region, as if the giant fist of some ancient god had smashed a once green and pleasant land. The soil was too poor to farm, the terrain brutally rough and treacherous, and the ravines and gorges of the tortured landscape were the haunt of bandits, wild tribes of humans and gurvani, hermits, heretics, and folk whose ancestors had fled civilized parts long ago for reasons long forgotten.

  Tyndal knew the place well enough. He and Rondal had led almost a hundred young Kasari into it, two years ago. They’d come out of it with seventy-two of them and a bizarre idol that Rondal swore was an ancient artifact of their ancestors. While they’d been there, they’d been captured, kidnapped, nearly tortured themselves, and escaped only due to the bravery of Ruderal, a fellow captive at the time.

  He wanted to shudder now, when he neared the place, but his honor would not let him.

  Instead he and his companions adopted plain travel clothing and quietly sought the contact in the village north of the mountains their friend Atopol had arranged. The man, a hunter and smuggler of some repute, was able to easily escort them through the high passes and secret routes few were aware of . . . but after two days of ambitious hiking, they were on the other side of the great range, descending the trail from a lonely mining fief whose modest lord was quite willing to accept a bribe to allow his lands to be used thus.

  Once they were within the Great Vale of Alshar, travel became far easier. The great river Mandros that bisected the country let them move a hundred miles a day downstream even without magic.

  However, the magical rods improved the journey as well as quickened it; conjuring a helpful water elemental to propel a barge was far easier, now that the paracletes could do the heavy lifting on the spell. Or warmagic spells that improved the endurance and speed of their horses, which took no more than mumbling a mnemonic. Lorcus was happy to let them experiment. He was busy with the folio Gareth had prepared for them, detailing – as far as he’d been able to decipher – as much as he could discover about the Brotherhood’s operations in Enultramar.

  It was a surprisingly complete file.

  Gareth managed to give important details on no less than seven ongoing operations that the Solashaven crew were involved in. They ranged from protection rackets to smuggling to political corruption. But amongst the tawdry ledger of crime Gareth spied what he proposed was an important organizational installation of the Brotherhood, within the old cotton weavers’ guild in the town of Reunus.

  “Reunus is a riverport, technically, but it sits astride the frontier between the rough-and-tumble Sea Lords and the genteel Coastlord cultures,” Lorcus reported, as they enjoyed a leisurely barge trip toward that very city. It was decided to be cautious with overt uses of magic, in the land of the Three Censors. “It’s one of the few independent towns in Alshar, thanks to some foresightful assistance it provided the Magocracy when it was trying to establish rule here. It was never much, way back when, but once barges started coming south from Gilmora, that changed.

  “When the cotton first came, the demand was for sailcloth for ships, not pretty dresses,” Lorcus explained, pacing back and forth on the deck of the barge while he lectured. “Reunus had a tiny weaver’s guild, mostly filling local orders and picking up bargains from the coast. But it was the first weaver’s guild along the Cotton Trail, so they got in right after the sweet spot.”

  “So what happened?” Tyndal asked. Rondal looked bored, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention.

  “Oh, they made a fortune. First sailcloth and sackcloth, but soon good cotton cloth, from the finest on the docks. The Reunus cambric was quite sought-after, once,” he said, thoughtfully.

  “Ah, but then we lost Gilmora to Castal,” Tyndal realized.

  “Precisely, Sir Haystack,” Lorcus said, whipping to face him. “When the flow of cotton stopped coming down the river, there wasn’t much need for weavers in Reunus. The guild there decided to move most of its members to the port cities, where there was still some work. That left a magnificent old hall and complex just sitting their empty . . . until the Brotherhood acquired it. Now it serves as an operational transfer point and depot, a den of crime and iniquity in a sleepy little river town with no lord controlling it.”

  “I take it they have a hand in local politics, as well?” Rondal asked.

  “They are local politics,” Lorcus affirmed. “They keep it quiet, electing a respectable band of puppets from the artisan classes, but the Rats are the hands inside. Reunus handles business between their strongholds in Enultramar and their subtler presence in the Coastlands and the Great Vale.”

  “That sounds like it’s the ideal place to strike,” agreed Tyndal. “Disrupt their operations, interrupt the flow of business . . . like taking out a mid-level commander in an opposing army,” he concluded. “It might actually be more effective to strike there than at the head of the operation.”

  Rondal looked at him, near astonished. “Tyndal, have you been reading again?” he asked, with mock worry.

  “I did pay attention at Relan Cor, thank you very much,” he said with a sneer. “And yes, I’ve read a book or two about military strategy. The way I see it, this is more or less a war, just using knives and spells instead of swords and lances.”

  “You are not wrong, my brother,” Lorcus nodded. “But it’s also a commercial endeavor: the Rats, for all of their ‘military’ power, are at the root of it, mere merchants. Their trade is the illicit, the immoral, and the de
praved, but they sell their iniquity like a baker hawks a half-pound loaf. The trick in a situation like this,” he said, amusedly, “is to appreciate both perspectives.”

  “I take your point,” Tyndal agreed. “But how exactly should we approach this? Just go in and destroy the place around them?”

  “That would be dramatic,” conceded Lorcus, “But not necessarily effective. Your goal here, gentlemen, as I see it, is not just to throw an arcane temper tantrum . . . it’s to set the stage for a more complete attack,” he said, thoughtfully. “One that weakens the Brotherhood beyond their capacity to bear it.”

  “Well, that sounds good in theory,” Rondal pointed out, “but how is it helpful?”

  “It’s helpful because if we know what our goal is, our real goal,” Lorcus lectured, “then we can safely proceed with communicating something completely different to the Brotherhood. I think our first step is to make for Reunus and take a quiet look around,” he suggested. “See what we can learn about what they are up to. Quietly.”

  “Well, then we’re going to have to avoid raising suspicions,” Rondal said, doubtfully, as he looked at the three of them. “We look like three warmagi, not . . . something other than warmagi.”

  “Already thought about that, Ron,” Tyndal assured. “I even came up with a disguise that should suit you nicely.”

  Rondal looked at him skeptically. “Really?”

  “Oh, without a doubt,” he grinned. “You’ll love it!”

  “I . . . don’t hate it,” Rondal confessed as he looked down at the disguise he was wearing. “And it demonstrates a bit of forethought,” he added, in a rare offering of praise.

  “It’s perfect!” pronounced Lorcus, who had shrugged into his costume and arranged it around himself until he was satisfied with the look. “My Da’ always thought I would have made a good abbot. Of course, that was before I discovered tits and my rajira discovered me,” he said, drawing the monk’s cowl over his head. It took him but a moment to adopt the serene expression of piety most associated with the clergy.

  “I reasoned that a trio of monks on a pilgrimage, while not entirely above suspicion, certainly reduces it,” Tyndal explained as he straightened his own dark gray habit. “I chose the Luinites because no one ever wants to talk to a lawyer . . . until they do,” he added.

  “It will enable us to walk around the town,” agreed Rondal. “It will also keep us from attracting too much . . . feminine attention,” he added.

  “Clearly you two don’t know how some ladies react to a man of faith,” chuckled Lorcus. “The more it is forbidden . . .”

  When they disembarked at the river port they appeared to be three priests on a pilgrimage or legal matter, complete with baggage and books. They quickly found the old Weavers Guild in the small place, in the most decrepit part of a decrepit town, and chose an inn not too far away that was glad of the trade. Though it might have been more in character for pilgrims to seek one of the small temples or shrines along the Street of the Gods and beg lodging there, as many mendicant or service orders did; but the Luinites enjoyed a reputation for social snobbery and an opulent lifestyle that made staying in an inn not unreasonable.

  Indeed, they had the place nearly to themselves; as they settled into tidy second-floor chamber overlooking the river, Tyndal had a tray of dinner brought up from the kitchen and locked the door before they broke character.

  “All right, lads,” Lorcus began, “what did you see when we walked past the place?”

  “Six guards outside, trying hard not to look like guards,” Tyndal replied. “Mostly former porters and dockmen, if I had to guess.”

  “Seventh guard on the roof with an arbalest,” Rondal added, nodding. “Three entrances: front, side, rear.”

  “Four,” Tyndal countered, “Roof access. The gables.”

  “Five,” Lorcus said, shaking his head. “There’s a loading ramp in the rear that leads to the storerooms, I’m guessing. There’s a cart parked atop it, but that’s mere decoration. And I’d be mad to think they didn’t have at least one or two concealed entrances. But all in all, well spotted! Did you have time to lace the place with charms?”

  “Warding field on the south side,” Rondal volunteered. “We’ll know how many go in, how many leave.”

  “I laid some scrying benchmarks at the northeast and southwest corners,” Tyndal offered. “That should keep our figuring accurate.”

  “And I got a hook for a Long Ears in the front door,” Lorcus said, clapping in satisfaction. “Shall we start sketching out the place on a magemap, then?”

  “Only if we can do it over dinner,” Tyndal said, patting his stomach. “Barge food . . .”

  “I doubt that they’ll really have things going until after dark,” Lorcus considered. “And I think I saw a lovely little tavern down the road . . .”

  The three erstwhile monks had a fine meal, doing their best to play the role of real Luinites to the extent that they ordered three bottles of the local Bikavar red to compliment the excellent sausages, gravy, and bread the tavern provided.

  So, Tyndal, what do you think our plan should be? Lorcus asked, mind-to-mind, as they ate.

  I’m thinking we burst in and kill everyone who raises a hand against us, he replied, while chewing. Then tear the place down to the foundation.

  According to the ledger you lads brought back, there are probably twenty people in there, reminded Lorcus. Are you feeling bloody-handed enough to take that many lives?

  This is war, Tyndal replied, flatly, still seeing the flailing arms and fluttering skirts of poor Estasia, as a Rat pushed her off of a roof. When the Rats join, they pledge their lives to protect their brothers, defend their nest, and attack their foes. The Estasi Order will match their ferocity.

  Just be certain you match it with all accompanying wisdom, warned the Remeran. Getting yourselves caught in this land, with no patron and no allies, would be problematic. And worse on Minalan, if his lads are caught here.

  We won’t be caught, Tyndal declared, flatly. And if they try, we’ll see a lot more dead Rats.

  As long as we’re clear, then, Lorcus agreed. I don’t want to go in there and start getting all bloody-handed and have you two come over with an attack of squeamishness. If this is really a war, boy, then you had best be prepared to wage it that way.

  No doubt he had a similar conversation with Rondal, a few moments later, because by the time he pushed the empty bowl of stew away, he looked extremely satisfied with himself.

  “Now look,” he said, wiping his mouth daintily on a napkin. “We look for information first, red hot vengeance second, agreed?”

  “Agreed,” nodded both boys. “We just want to hurt them,” added Tyndal.

  “Let’s get to it, then,” Lorcus said, grabbing the last bottle of wine before paying the shot and stumbling back to the inn.

  Despite his enthusiasm, Rondal was better suited to the patient game of scrying than the impulsive Lorcus. That night while Rondal viewed the goings-on of the old Weavers Guild hall remotely, and Tyndal recorded his observations both on a magemap and in a notebook, Lorcus took the evening air in a stroll back to the docks before he returned near midnight.

  “Find a whore, did you?” Tyndal asked, gamely, as their friend returned.

  “Nay – a lonely widow,” he demurred. “I told you the habit can be helpful to a harlot’s heart. This particular lonely widow runs the grog shop next to the silversmith, right across from the old Guild hall.”

  “So I take it was a productive meeting?” Rondal asked, an eyebrow cocked in amusement.

  “Spiritually, yes,” chuckled the fake monk. “Amazing how accessible a man is in one of these robes. I told the widow I represented a lord up river who was considering buying the Guild Hall. Once she heard that, she became quite accommodating.”

  “Why?” Tyndal asked, confused.

  “Because she’s probably catering to the Rats, being the closest tavern to them,” supplied Rondal. “And from what we know
, they are poor customers.”

  “Oh, there’s more to it than that,” Lorcus nodded, sagely. “She hears things. And she’s been threatened a lot. It’s quite abusive, what they’ve done to that poor woman. She was the wife of one of the weavers, before the hall closed. Plump little thing . . .”

  “So what did she tell you?” Rondal stressed, impatiently.

  “Oh, that she knows that there will be a meeting here, two nights from now . . . perhaps what your friend Gareth referred to in his notes as ‘Q2CR’, a code referencing . . . something.”

  “Well, it sounds like a something we should interfere with,” declared Tyndal.

  “With our luck it will be their summer holiday pilgrimage refreshment planning committee meeting,” grumbled Rondal. “For our part, we have constructed a proper map,” he said, calling the work into being. Lorcus used magesight to view the result.

  “Well done, lads” he murmured. “Five entrances, like we thought. The principals meet in the upper chamber, you think?”