“Let’s kill some Brotherhood slavers,” shrugged Tyndal. “That’s what we came here to do.”
This time they spent two days reconnoitering the abbey. First touring it as pilgrims, then by infiltrating it as spies. While Rondal’s construct was useful in the process, and their scrying was exemplary, the very best intelligence, they discovered, came through their shadowmage. Atopol explored nearly the entire complex without being seen.
“How do you do that?” Rondal asked, one afternoon after he returned and briefed them in detail about what he’d seen. “It can’t be invisibility – if I try hard enough, I can see you.”
“You just think you can,” Atopol bragged. “Family secret. But it’s about three parts blue magic and one part photomancy. If you and Gat actually get married, I can teach it to you,” he promised.
“I’ll . . . I’ll figure it out,” Rondal muttered.
“How much blue magic do you use in your trade?” Tyndal asked, suddenly curious. He’d learned a few things about the art of psychomantics – the magic of the human mind – at Inrion Academy, and he continued to have an interest.
“A fair amount,” admitted Atopol. “My aunt is a blue mage, or used to be, when she practiced. There’s a lot of it in the house library. Why?”
“It’s useful,” shrugged Tyndal. “So, how many guards are we dealing with?”
“Nine,” the shadowmage reported, grimly. “And that’s just on the first floor. They haven’t tightened up security yet – I doubt they’ve heard of the Guildhall massacre yet – so we can just imagine how it would be if they were expecting trouble.”
“What about the clergy? The real clergy?” Lorcus asked.
Tyndal shrugged again. He was good at shrugging. “We lure them out, before we strike.”
“How do you allure a bunch of poverty-bound clergy?” asked Rondal, philosophically.
“Alms,” Atopol said, suddenly. “Coin. The Brine Brethren are not a popular order, nor do they have many patrons. They rely upon a few bequests, fees for services, and alms. If someone was passing out alms . . .”
“Why would anyone do that?” Tyndal asked, frowning. “A few pennies in a begging bowl, perhaps, but . . .”
“No, no, no,” sighed Lorcus. “That’s the right idea, but the wrong approach. You want to get the entire abbey turned out – anyone who isn’t a Rat. So . . . we hire them.”
“Hire them? To do what?” asked Rondal, amused.
“They’re sometimes employed as mourners,” suggested Atopol. “If you could arrange for a funeral, you could hire them to do the Orison of the Foam. Supposedly the pleas of the hymn can sooth the Shipwrecker and keep a soul from her grasp.”
“Well, I’ve arranged a lot of funerals,” boasted Lorcus. “One more won’t be a problem.”
“It doesn’t have to be an actual funeral,” Atopol protested. “The Orison can be sung in someone’s memory. It’s an old tradition, but if you paid enough you could have every novate in the abbey on the shore, singing for you at dusk.”
“That would do it,” agreed Lorcus. “I can approach the abbess, see if she’s keen. Then when everyone is singing the sunset away, we can destroy their home.”
“We’ll pay them enough to build a new one,” Rondal promised. “From the Brotherhood’s treasury. So how do we want to do this?”
“A slaughter like the guildhall would be impractical,” Lorcus suggested. “There are just too many folk nearby who might come and try to intervene. It needs to be something more sudden, and more permanent. We sacrifice some drama for limiting the damage to bystanders, but I think that’s worth it.”
“Agreed,” Tyndal said, nodding. “So a spell affecting the entire area . . . you know, I think I figured out a way to preserve the drama,” Tyndal said, getting a fiendish idea.
He was not often prone to fits of creativity, although he often responded to crisis in unusual ways. But every now and then Briga whispered a trick in his ear.
And for this raid, that was the most appropriate deity to invoke.
Lorcus, in disguise using the name “Lawbrother Lorcurard,” visited the aging abbess of Solsaritsa, a bone-thin matron in her fifties who wore her light gray habit like a threadbare blanket the next morning.
He professed to be representing the estate of a benefactor who had made a bequest – something which perked up the abbess’ covered ears. Bequests could be very good for an ecclesiastic institution. Though she was disappointed that it was merely a service, and not a grant to the abbey, she was happy to accept what coin she could.
Lorcus convinced her to perform the Orison of the Foam with every single member of the order two days hence . . . on behalf of Orril Pratt, the Mad Mage of Farise.
That took the abbess aback. Just a few years before the might of the Alshari navy had been marshaled to destroy the man, one who many amongst the Coastlords saw as a cousin. Orril Pratt was a sensitive subject, even now.
But silver was silver, and when Lorcus placed a fat pouch of a hundred ounces of silver in her lap, the abbess was happy to sing the Orison for Orril, or anyone else Lorcus desired.
“Two days?” asked Atopol, curiously. “Why wait?”
“Drama,” Tyndal grinned. “Within a day, Rellin Pratt will hear about the bequest, and he’ll crawl out of whatever hole he’s in to investigate. Hopefully, he’ll get here in time for the festivities. If he happens to be around while the abbey is destroyed – the third such attack against the Brotherhood – then he will be held accountable by their council.”
“If we don’t slay him ourselves, first,” added Rondal.
“That would be preferable,” agreed Tyndal.
“So what are you going to do to them while the clergy are gone?” asked Atopol.
“The same thing we did to one of Sire Gimbal’s castles, back in Castal,” Rondal supplied, pulling out a wand about a foot long, an inch thick, and made of ash. “After you loot the place thoroughly, first,” he added, looking at the thief.
“I suppose there are a few coffers in there that could be liberated for the cause,” the thief agreed.
“Grab all you can, the higher-value loot,” Lorcus suggested. “For expenses. The rest of it can go to slag. Along with the slavers.”
With time to waste while they awaited the fateful hymn, the four gentlemen enjoyed what few pleasures the town of Galvina had to offer. Apart from the string of seedy establishments that catered to the mariners and the dockmen, the rest of the town seemed as threadbare as the abbess’ habit.
To Tyndal’s eye it seemed a terrible place to try to live, if it wasn’t for the sea. The soil was rocky and sandy, the winds were harsh and bitter, and the rains that washed the stony shore so frequently kept the town damp, cool, and depressed. The cottages and shops were faded no matter how many times they’d been whitewashed, and moss clung to every shady crevice. The damp infected everything – he could see why the Brine Brethren settled here, if they found divinity of the salt spray illuminating. But it also made the entire town of Galvina smell of mildew.
But then there was the sea . . . the twilight before their assault, the four of them found themselves with a couple of bottles, a basket of provisions, and a few moments between rainstorms to watch the sunset over the great Bay of Enultramar.
That was a sight Tyndal could never tire of. He took a bottle up to the roof of the structure to watch it. The golden sun and the dark blue-gray water, the hundreds of ships bobbing on the waves as massive flocks of sea birds wove between their swaying masts. As the sun set, the color of the entire bay shifted, and the light that fell on the mountains to the east changed tones a dozen times in moments.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Atopol asked, as he joined Tyndal with a bottle and refilled his mug. “I was raised inland, but the first time I saw this I was mad to go to sea.”
“Will you? You’re a journeyman, now,” he reminded the thief. That was a mark of proficiency and independence in any trade.
“Will I? Oh, I sat
isfied that craving long ago,” assured Atopol. “Part of my training involved a three-month cruise aboard the family yacht.”
“Family yacht?” Tyndal asked, surprised.
“We have a lot of assets,” Atopol admitted. “We’re an old house. And it’s an old ship. But my master took us out and we learned how to sail, how to fight at sea, how to dance on ropes and spars . . .”
“That sounds . . . challenging,” snorted Tyndal, imagining the kind of drills a shadowmage thief might have to perform. “Hells, it makes doing practicals sound relatively easy.”
“We had to do those, too,” Atopol said, frowning. “My master is very thorough. And very traditional.”
“Did you have to fight a siege drake?” Tyndal challenged. “We had to fight a siege drake.”
“It sounds like you and Rondal have had a tough time,” Atopol agreed. “But life at sea isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. It was actually like being in prison, more than anything else. We only went as far as the Shattered Coast, but that was far enough. The sea is dangerous,” he said, respectfully. “It can kill you a hundred different ways you can’t even imagine, on top of the thousands you can. There is a reason the Sea Lords revere the Shipwrecker among the five daughters.”
“It sounds like you’ve had a pretty adventurous life,” conceded Tyndal.
“It’s mostly been training and preparing,” complained Atopol. “Since the Duke went north and never came back, things have been tense in Enultramar. Even the private dynastic wars have been paused, as the political situation sorts out. My . . . master has been hesitant to expose the family to any conflict, so I get to break into a crappy old warehouse and not the palace in Falas.”
“Here’s to better times,” Tyndal agreed, toasting. “I still want to go to sea,” he added.
“You’re an idiot,” Atopol agreed.
Chapter Fifteen
The Orison Of The Foam
Atopol scouted the stony abbey the next day while the brethren prepared for the ceremony they’d commissioned. He returned before noon, a disgusted look on his face.
“This really is a waste of my talents,” he complained, when he returned to the inn. “I’ve seen better-guarded kennels than that place!”
“Is that a problem?” Rondal asked, confused.
“No, it’s just insulting,” the shadowmage replied, taking a seat at the table. “The Brotherhood has gotten so ridiculously complacent that they only have nominal security in their section of the abbey. Two guards – two! – and only two doors between the general public and their treasury. One of them isn’t even locked. The Brotherhood have enjoyed such a long stretch of prosperity they’ve scrimped on the basics.”
“It’s a sad state of affairs when even criminals cannot be depended upon to fulfill their duties,” sighed Lorcus. “I suppose we shall just have to teach them a lesson, then.”
“Apart from that, the rest of that sorry lot will be easy enough to handle,” he continued, as Tyndal brought him a mug of beer from the keg he’d secured that morning, when he tired of going down to the common room. “There’s three clerks dealing with accounts, a couple of slave handlers, and Jester. He has two little toadies who run his errands, but they’re only at his side about half the time, and they don’t look very challenging.”
“Arms?”
Atopol shrugged. “Short blades, a few scimitars. And you can bet every one of them has a rat tail on them. But no real armor, no heavy infantry gear. They’re beating up starving slaves, not going to battle.”
“That’s fortunate,” Lorcus agreed. “So it was business-as-usual, this morning?”
Atopol stopped and looked at the warmage thoughtfully. “Actually, no. The abbey was all a-twitter about the mysterious benefactor who commissioned an Orison of the Foam for Orril Pratt. That, Lorcus was a fiendishly brilliant idea: the entire crew was beside themselves with worry and anxiety. Apparently the Brotherhood had some history with the Mad Mage of Farise that they are concerned about. Jester was composing a message to be sent to his superiors this morning.”
“And you’re certain no one saw you?” Tyndal asked.
Atopol gave Tyndal a look questioning his reason. “I am a shadowmage. There are more shadows in the daytime than at night. Trust me to know my business.”
“He’s just unfamiliar with your Art,” Rondal quickly intervened.
“So do you think this will draw Rellin Pratt out?” asked Atopol. “That was brought up around Jester’s table: apparently Pratt is not well-loved amongst the Brotherhood.”
“I certainly hope so,” Rondal nodded. “Rellin is the kind of arrogant, inquisitive little prick who is self-important enough to demand answers of the universe, if it isn’t doing what he wants. A little like Tyndal,” he added.
“Hey!” Tyndal objected, unable to come up with a response.
“My point is, he can no more allow this Orison to take place without knowing who paid for it than Tyndal would,” he said, soothingly. “He’ll be here. He might be in disguise and skulking in the shadows, but he’ll be here.”
Rondal’s words were prophetic. That night, while the four of them were making preparations in the darkness, two boatloads of ruffians made port at the docks below the town just as the darkness was falling over the Bay behind them. Tyndal was preparing a few things in anticipation of the attack at dawn when he noted the two long, low ships (of Farisi design, he was proud to note – he’d been getting an eye for naval architecture while in the busy Bay) tied off at the pier. Ten fellows or more disembarked each of the craft before they made the long stone stairway up to the town, proper.
Amongst them, Tyndal was insanely pleased to see, was Rellin Pratt.
Tyndal was able to conceal himself amongst a pile of crates and barrels near the crane; he was able to see nearly every Rat who left the longboats. While not exactly geared for war, the disreputable gang were clearly ready for trouble. They were grim-looking men, and each bore a long knife and most also wore serviceable-looking scimitars.
Each of them resembled the thousands of mariners who roamed the hundreds of docks across the Bay. Most wore leather jerkins or jacks, some tied at the waist with a sash, others with a broad leather belt. Instead of hose, as most landsmen wore in Alshar, the Rats wore oiled leather breaches, their boots were seaman’s boots, not horseman’s, and each wore a wool mantle even in the growing heat of the season. All of them wore hats, wide-brimmed low-crowned.
They trooped past his hiding spot with grim determination, their footsteps pounding the stone stairs as they made their way into town. The bos’un, a scraggly-looking man with long scars on his face, stopped long enough to pay the dock fee to the attendant, and that’s when Tyndal sat his old school chum Kaffin . . . Rellin Pratt.
He’d grown at least a hand taller than the last time Tyndal had seen him, and his hair was brushing his shoulders, now. He had a small mustache that looked almost desperate to be taken seriously . . . but its owner apparently commanded the respect of his crew, Tyndal noted, as they treated the lad with deference as they headed toward the nicest inn in town.
But it was definitely Rellin Pratt. Tyndal would never forget that face, those eyes . . . the man who’d been responsible for the theft of his witchstone, and the death of his friend Estasia.
Tyndal stifled an urge to summon his baculus and draw a wand and put an end to the miserable Rat right then and there . . . but as valiant as he was, odds of twenty to one (when at least one was a shadowmage) were more than the brave knight was willing to consider. Instead he wisely stuck to the plan, remaining hidden until all of the Rats had passed and he could return to the inn without being spotted.
“Twenty, you say?” Lorcus said, frowning, when he heard the news. “That’s not good,” he sighed. “I figured a half-dozen, maybe as many as eight . . . but a full score? We’re going to have to change the plans.”
“What does he want here, with that many Rats?” Rondal asked, shaking his head. “It sounds like he wants to star
t a war!”
“That’s more or less correct,” mused Atopol. “Think about it from his perspective: you’re doing well in the organization, making good coin, running your own crew, slave girls, the whole thing . . . and then some arse goes and brings up your infamous crazy uncle who got three duchies to band together to kill him and ten thousand others.”
“It was bound to raise questions,” agreed Tyndal. “That’s why I liked it!”
“It did more than raise questions,” Atopol continued, thoughtfully. “It slapped Pratt across the face. It’s been almost ten years since the Mad Mage died. He was still just a child when the war ended. Some of the Coastlords were quite opposed to the Farisi campaign, as they saw Pratt and the Doge as relatives, not doing anything particularly illegal since Farise never accepted the Censorate.
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 24
