Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “All that work, and the gods get the credit!” Rondal said, sourly, as they walked back to their chamber after quietly ensuring that there were no survivors who needed to be rescued.

  “They can have it, in this case,” Tyndal decided. “We want to arouse the Brotherhood against Pratt. If they want to think that the gods want him, too, all the better!”

  “Well, that’s certainly done,” agreed Rondal, with a satisfied smirk. “The Jester blames him, exclusively – not the gods, and certainly not us. He was trying to explain to the captain of the watch what happened, pretending to be a monk, and he completely broke character and started calling Pratt every uncensored name he could think of.”

  “A sad state of affairs for the clergy,” Lorcus said, shaking his head sadly. “Yet perhaps with the silver they’ve made for the Orison, they can help re-establish the abbey here.”

  When they returned to their chamber at the inn, they discovered Atopol had relieved the Rats of enough silver to ensure the rebuilding of the abbey – several times over.

  “Not nearly as big a haul as the last two,” he admitted, “but then it’s hardly high season for slaves. Still, over nine hundred ounces of silver and two hundred and change of gold. Not too bad, for fifteen minutes worth of work.”

  Tyndal was skeptical. “You looted the entire place in fifteen minutes?”

  Atopol snorted. “Don’t be daft! It only took me about three. I spent the rest of the time leafing through the correspondence on the Jester’s desk. I found some interesting letters, too.”

  “Oh, really?” Lorcus asked, surprised. “Involving what, exactly?”

  “Well, plenty of requests for slaves to be acquired during the season,” he reported, “but more interesting was an invitation to a social event.”

  “The Wharf Rat’s Ball?” Tyndal asked, feigning girlish interest. “Whatever will he wear?”

  “Better,” chuckled Atopol. “It’s an invitation to bid on several items of interest from . . . the Tower Arcane,” he said, dramatically. “Proceeds are to go to support the Three Censors and their iron grip on magic in Alshar.”

  “What are the items?” asked Rondal, curious.

  “The Three Censors?” asked Lorcus, intrigued.

  “Where’s the Tower Arcane?” Tyndal asked, excitedly, although he suspected he should know the answer already.

  Atopol took a deep breath. “The Tower Arcane, also known as the Tower of Sorcery, is the traditional residence of the Court Wizard of Alshar. It’s the original Count of Falas’ palace back during the Magocracy, before he became the Duke of Alshar. But for the last several years the Count of Rhemes and his puppets have given it over to the Censorate, who uses it as their base in the duchy. The Three Censors are the former regional Censor Captains of Enultramar and the Great Vale, plus the former Deputy Censor General of Alshar. In other words,” he said with a sigh, “the three most fanatical Censors left in Alshar.

  “As for the items, it wasn’t stated explicitly . . . but from what I surmised, I’m thinking they’re artifacts left over from the Censorate’s glory years. Alshar was once a haven from the Censorate, and there were a lot of wizards here, in the early years. After the Conquest a lot of that stuff ended up in the Censors’ offices of the Tower Arcane. Including irionite,” he added.

  “I guess we’re just going to have to go after it, then,” Lorcus decided.

  “What?” Rondal asked, surprised. “Why?”

  “We can’t very well let our biggest institutional enemies go without some attention while we’re here,” Lorcus proposed in a very reasonable tone of voice. “That just wouldn’t be right.”

  “So what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking we break into that place, steal it blind, and see what other sorts of mischief we can find while we’re there. How does that sound to you fellows?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Tower Arcane

  Going back up the majestic, winding Mandros through the heart of the duchy was delightful, this time of year. It was already the middle of spring and the trees on either side of the great river were bursting with sweet-smelling blossoms. Tyndal enjoyed the intoxicating scent while his comrades argued over their approach to the tower.

  “Does it make much sense to attack the Censorate, when we’re here to fight the Brotherhood?” Rondal asked, irritated.

  “You aren’t afraid of the Censors, are you?” Tyndal teased.

  “They aren’t just Censors, they’ve got witchstones,” Rondal snapped.

  “Of poor quality, by all accounts,” Lorcus brought up, as he puffed away on his pipe. “And if they’re inviting the likes of the Brotherhood to bid on some of their old junk, it seems as if they’re just asking to get taken advantage of.”

  “They’re still three warmagi – surrounded by other warmagi – in the middle of a magical fortress, in a land that see us as rebels, ironically, armed with irionite. I’m just thinking that perhaps some caution is required,” Rondal said, indignantly.

  “Caution, yes,” agreed Lorcus, puffing away. “But let’s not let the threat scare us from action.”

  “What’s the political story on the Censors, Cat?” Tyndal asked, helpfully. It was just like Ron to start off pessimistic about a little thing like a tower full of Censors.

  “They just naturally allied with the rebels, after getting Castal and the Wilderlands, as it was the only safe haven near to hand,” Atopol reported. “At least one ship bound for Merwyn was commissioned to take some away, three years ago, but the rest have just bided their time, doing their best to enforce the Bans and trying to survive. Falas was glutted with Censor’s cloaks for a few months, after Rard’s decree. When the news came of Hartarian’s defection, they got angry . . . my Master says they were one of the forces goading the Counts of Rhemes, Caramas, and Crona into open rebellion,” he added.

  “They would,” nodded Lorcus. “The Censorate has always depended upon the cooperation of the Duchies. If they were put in a position where they lack that support, their order has complete freedom to arrange for a more convenient Duke. It’s happened before,” he added.

  “We know,” Atopol said, gloomily. “That was one of my Master’s worst fears: that Count Vichetral would openly declare himself duke. He could, you know: he’s the nephew of the Black Duke, and related to the Ducal house a dozen different ways.”

  “But he hasn’t,” Tyndal prompted. He was growing more and more interested in the politics of the situation, here. Not because he was an innately political animal, but because of the drama it represented. “Why not?”

  “Because he’d rather be seen as a rebel than a usurper,” explained Atopol. “At least, that’s the story. By maintaining his nominal allegiance to the Ducal house, he escapes the responsibilities implicit in the office while enjoying most of its power. Fath—My master thinks that he’ll wait until his eldest son comes of age before making such a declaration. Which would be helped, if Duke Anguin suddenly woke up dead one morning.”

  “Not with Lady Pentandra around,” bragged Tyndal. “She can spot an assassin a mile away. Especially someplace like Vorone.”

  “Count Vichetral has many shrewd retainers,” countered Atopol. “To be fair, he apparently dismissed the reports that Anguin had taken Vorone as mere fantasy, until they were confirmed by his agents. It will take a while before he can get someone into place, I would guess.”

  “Lady Pentandra will be expecting that,” nodded Rondal. “I don’t think the sun rises in her cooch the way Tyndal does, but the lady is almost as powerful as Minalan,” he said, respectfully. From anyone but Ron, Tyndal might have had words over such a crude description of his perspective. “She’s a Remeran,” he explained. “And as shrewd and cunning as the stereotype. No offense,” he added, to Lorcus.

  “Oh. None taken,” he shrugged. “To be honest you Narasi constantly underestimate how cunning Remerans are. There are plots that go back three generations, in the Game of Whispers.”

 
; “But you weren’t born a noble,” Rondal taunted. “You weren’t involved in any of that!”

  “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, boy,” Lorcus chuckled, leaning back against a bag of seed. “My folk were common, it’s true, but you cannot live in Remere and not have alliances, no matter the commonest villein.

  “In my case, we were coopers and cobblers who followed House Maltzurak. That’s a lordship on the southeast coast that controls a fair amount of industry and agriculture along the Berdea River. They’ve had a feud going on with two rival houses, Surbil and Erikor, for at least two hundred years over one particular estate. My people got involved when the lords of Maltzurak recruited us to spy on Surbil, even though they were my uncle Fretro’s biggest client – he made children’s shoes, and they had nine noble brats to shoe.”

  “So what did your poor family do?” Rondal asked, concerned.

  “We spied on Surbil,” he shrugged. “Of course, Uncle Fretro let it be known that’s what he was doing, and for a small additional fee he informed on the lords of Maltzurak. That’s just how things are done in Remere. And Pentandra’s house, for all her pretense at nobility, is particularly well known for throwing their social weight into the dance. I have heard that one of her sisters was slain in her youth as a result of one such plot. Her parents never quite recovered, but that didn’t stop them from demolishing the House that did it.”

  “I’d never heard that! That’s terrible!” Tyndal said, genuinely offended.

  “It was an accident – the poison was meant for her mother,” Lorcus said, gently. “But what the Benurvials did to that other house was . . . excessive.”

  “What house was it?” Atopol asked curious.

  “As there are none left to answer to the name, I’d rather not mention it – bad luck,” Lorcus replied, looking around with exaggerated fear. “But it was thorough. None of them survived. It took two years and the entire extended family to do it, but by the time they were through every one of them was dead, dead, dead. Remerans might not be giants on the battlefield,” he conceded, “but few can match us in pure vindictiveness.”

  “So I’m reasonably certain Duke Anguin is well-protected,” Rondal nodded. “Besides, Master Minalan can be there in the shake of a wand, at need.”

  “He can?” Atopol asked, surprised.

  “Oh, yes – he’s mastered the art of the Alka Alon Ways,” Tyndal explained. “He can cross hundreds of leagues at a thought. As long as he doesn’t do it too often,” he added.

  “That’s . . . that’s amazing!” Atopol said, his eyes wide. “Could he do it to come here?”

  Lorcus shrugged. “He could . . . but likely would not take the risk. This is a land under rebellion, ruled in part by the Censorate, or what’s left of them. Suddenly showing up here for a couple of drinks and some giggles would be politically difficult, considering he’s under house arrest at the moment.”

  “But still . . . he could!” Atopol insisted, excitedly.

  “Providing there’s a Waypoint somewhere in this big ol’ valley, sure,” Tyndal assured the thief. “Why is that so important?”

  “There are some . . . call them underground magi,” Atopol confided, casting a quick spell to block any casual listeners amongst the other passengers on the barge. “I mean, there have always been magically Talented nobles, particularly amongst the Coastlord families that date back to the Magocracy. Remember, Alshar was the last of the Duchies to be conquered, and it wasn’t exactly peaceful. The magical families here had some time to prepare, although they weren’t ready for the full brunt of the Censorate, when it came. But by the Narasi came, they did what everyone else did, more or less, and disguised themselves. Not as well as House Salaines, of course, but we’re . . . special.

  “In any case, a lot of these old Coastlord families ended up spinning off cadet branches that specialized in magic. We’re related to a few,” he added. “But these underground magi think of the Spellmonger as a kind of savior after convincing Rard to end the Bans. If he showed up here, maybe twenty families would have to seriously consider anything he said.”

  “Are they . . . powerful families?” asked Lorcus, curious.

  “In their way,” nodded Atopol. “Some are really specialized, like the seamagi along the Bay, and House Jakintus – they’re a family of Blue magi,” he said, as if confessing a secret. “Like us, they mostly keep to themselves. In fact, they’re damn near xenophobic. And then there’s House Aurikus, well-known academics and thaumaturges of Moinir, less well-known as drug fiends. That’s where Master Thinradel came from. House Ademina are magical healers. And House Zoragar, of the Barony of Tiothlan are Warmagi, and damn good ones,” he added, proudly. “My uncle Gogoas trained with them.”

  “Warmagi, eh?” Lorcus said, interested.

  Atopol nodded. “And there are another dozen smaller families, commoners and such: swamp witches, spellmongers, footwizards – the Pirai have a clan devoted to magic,” he said, referring to the nomadic tribe of traders that plied the Five Duchies. “But if Minalan the Spellmonger is popular with everyone, for what he’s done. If he was to personally appeal to them to help restore Anguin to Falas, well, that might be significant.”

  “I thought you said they weren’t powerful,” Tyndal said, frowning.

  “I said ‘in their way’,” corrected Atopol. “I wouldn’t count upon them to raise mighty armies, but that doesn’t mean that they cannot have an effect on the politics of Alshar. They certainly have in the past. And this is particularly relevant, as we’re coming to Falas,” he explained.

  “Why is that relevant?” Tyndal asked.

  “Because the Tower Arcane isn’t just a hall,” explained the shadowmage. “It was the original stronghold of the Count of Falas, granted to the Court Wizard back during the Magocracy, so it’s more a complex, almost a small town on its own. A town with plenty of magi, believe it or not. Each of those houses have unofficial representatives, there, as liaisons to the Court Wizard, just like the great houses keep representatives to the court near at hand at the Duke’s palace.”

  “Relevance?” prompted Tyndal.

  “Well, I’m sure things are likely tense, with the Censors moved in . . . but as the center of the magical universe in Alshar, the Tower Arcane is an important symbol. Give the wizards around it a reason to revolt, and they might be very good allies. And Minalan the Spellmonger is the one person that to whom they might all listen.”

  “That is a fascinating idea, Cat,” Lorcus sighed. “I shall bring it to His Spellmongerness’ attention the next time we’re both sober. But apropos to yon tower . . . just what kind of loot are we talking about?”

  “Beyond the low-power irionite?” Atopol shrugged. “A bunch of old junk, and it looks like they’re selling off a piece of the library, too.”

  Rondal looked wounded. “Why would they do that?”

  “To raise money,” Lorcus supplied. “I guess that Count Vichetral’s benevolence to the Censorate didn’t extend to a generous stipend. They can have the use of the old tower, as long as they keep the magi in line and support the council.”

  “That’s what I would guess,” nodded Atopol. “It used to be that the Censorate was given a grant every year by the Duchy, and they survived on that and fees for services they imposed on lords who summoned them. With the ducal court non-existent, they’re probably trying to raise funds.”

  “To what purpose?” asked Lorcus, mostly to himself.

  “Who knows?” Tyndal said, boldly. “Who cares? They’re Censors!”

  “The Tower Arcane will not be an easy place to invade,” Atopol said, seriously. “It was originally a fortress, and it bears the wards and guards of a dozen generations of Court Wizards. The pinnacle, where the Three Censors are likely in residence, is six stories above the ground. The Tower is surrounded by a moat, which is more a decorative pond, now, but it’s defensible. If we’re going to break in, it will be a major undertaking.”

  “More than you can handle, Cat?”
Tyndal challenged.

  Atopol snorted. “Not even close. I’m just letting you know it will be a challenge. Those aren’t just the clerks of the magical civil service in residence there, the place is full of Censors. Warmagi. And they aren’t shy about using irionite anymore, either,” he added.

  “We can contend with that,” dismissed Tyndal. “We can always bribe them, if they’re that poor.”

  “Well, the Tower isn’t attached to any estates,” Atopol said, wrinkling his forehead as he thought. “I’ve heard that they brought a fair amount of confiscated materials here, when they came. But you can’t eat that. On the other hand, if they sold it, quietly, to certain collectors . . . like the Brotherhood . . . it could be problematic.”