Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “That’s . . . actually,” Atopol admitted, once he’d thought about the idea, “that’s a pretty good plan.”

  “It’s the start of a pretty good plan,” Tyndal objected. “Getting up to the top is just one part. We have to get the loot out, while remaining undetected.”

  “Who’s guarding the upper floors?” Lorcus asked, curious, as he studied the map Rondal had sketched out over the course of the day.

  “Two warmagi – Censorate warmagi, unaugmented – are on guard there day and night,” reported Gatina. “Probably have mageblades and warstaves, if this little bug is right.”

  “Only two?” scoffed Tyndal. “I could handle that with one foot in a bucket!”

  “While that does, indeed, present an interesting mental image,” conceded Lorcus, “I think we might be better served to reconsider our approach and withdrawal. For instance, what happens when we throw our bags of loot out of the window? They fall right here in the courtyard, for all to see,” he said, answering his own question as he tapped on the parchment. “That’s handy, as it’s close to the stocks and gibbets . . . where we will all be, if thirty Censors catch us stealing their most valuable artifacts.”

  “What would you suggest?” asked Atopol, curious.

  “Distraction,” Tyndal answered for the warmage. Lorcus gave him a look. “What, was I wrong?”

  “No, you aren’t wrong,” agreed Lorcus. “We will need a distraction. But even with one, we’re still looking at almost certain capture.”

  “Well, I’d hate to leave things uncertain,” admitted Tyndal.

  “The point,” Lorcus emphasized, “is that it’s going to take one hell of a distraction to keep thirty angry Censors off our asses.”

  “It won’t be as hard as you think,” Atopol said, thoughtfully looking at the magemap of the tower they were constructing. “Look, most of the troops are in the lower two floors, which they’ve set up like a barracks. They’ve got another thirty or so retainers in the stable complex,” he added, pointing it out on the map. “Both are behind the wall. If we can find some way to project our loot out beyond the wall, the thief can pass it off to our confederates.”

  “. . . and get it just in time to hand it over to the Old Falas Town Guard,” Gatina said, discouraged. “They patrol the Tower religiously. It’s not like they have a lot of other things to do in this cemetery of a town.”

  “That does make it a little more difficult,” Lorcus said, as he spun the image around to view it from all sides. “Look, what was this door, over here?”

  “Oh,” Atopol said, frowning. “Back when this was a working fortress that was just the postern gate to the river. There used to be a dock at the base of the tower, separate from the town docks. It got washed away in a flood and no one ever replaced it.”

  “Fascinating!” Lorcus said, rubbing his chin. “Now, can you tell me how the Brotherhood of the Rat feels about other agencies sticking their nose into their business?”

  Atopol shrugged. It seemed to Tyndal that Lorcus had veered wildly from the problem at hand. “About like most thugs do. They tend to get stabby about it.”

  “I thought so. Okay,” Lorcus said, looking up at everyone else. “I think I have a plan that might work,” he offered. “But it’s very elaborate, it will require all of us, and there is still a fairly high chance someone will get nicked, thanks to the unpredictable nature of the heist.”

  “Well, if what we heard today is accurate,” Rondal said, looking at the map, “the meeting for the sale isn’t for four more days. They’re expecting several, uh, dignitaries.” Rondal and Gatina had been manning the construct’s contacts day and night, moving the device throughout the Tower Arcane without attracting notice . . . so far. They had learned an awful lot about the Censorate’s operations and plans, enough to fill several leaves of parchment.

  “Four days?” asked Tyndal, dismayed. “We have to wait four days before we can strike?”

  Atopol looked at him like he was mad. “You know,” he said, after taking a breath, “I’ve yet to have a heist where I thought, ‘Gods, I wish I didn’t have all this time to properly prepare!’ ”

  “Point taken,” sighed Rondal. “You’ll have to excuse Sir Haystack. Patience isn’t one of the gifts the gods gave him.”

  “I’m plenty patient!” Tyndal said, irritated. “I just hate waiting.”

  “That does present some interesting information concerning the timing of the heist,” Lorcus pointed out. “If all of that loot just happened to not be there when the Three Censors have assembled all of their guests . . .”

  A strange look blossomed over Atopol’s face. “Master Lorcus, I like the way you think! I just had a delightful idea . . .”

  The days that followed were busy in the townhouse. Atopol and Gatina’s cousin, Onnelik, returned from his errands in the capital and gleefully pitched in. It turned out that the man – only a decade older than Atopol – was growing bored, thanks to a lull in his translation business.

  Though not a thief himself, Tyndal found that Onnelik gladly accepted his role in the caper – and in the House – as important and necessary, if not particularly glamorous. Atopol defended his cousin’s position adamantly, however.

  “It’s one of the things that makes House Salaines special,” he explained to the others over supper one night. “A given region can only contain a few master thieves, before things get crowded. The difference between us and freelance operators is that we have the institutional support for our crimes they lack. If one of us suddenly appeared at the door – or window – of this townhouse and told Onnelik to hide us, he would – no questions asked.”

  “Or, more likely,” the older gentleman said, “if you appeared and told me you needed a grappling hook, a hundred feet of rope, a pry bar and a sack, I’d have it for you within the hour,” he chuckled. “Or if you had a pouch full of sapphires who needed a good home. I could arrange that sort of thing. And I dabble a bit in forgery,” he bragged. “If you need documents, letters, warrants, patents, that sort of thing, I can assist. Only for family, of course,” he added. “But in return for these valuable services, I am granted the use of this lovely home in the most beautiful city in Alshar,” he sighed. “I’m as much a thief as the rest – I stole my living from my own House!”

  “One you’ve fairly earned,” Gatina insisted. “My friends, don’t let our cousin’s humility fool you. He is a scholar of rare talent, knowledgeable in several ancient dialects and languages of Perwyn, as well as the odd speech of Unstara and the other islands. He is a master of research,” she boasted. “He is adept at forgeries of all types. And he’s a lot better than his cutpurse of a brother!”

  “My younger brother owns a brothel in Rhemes,” Onnelik explained with a chuckle. “My poor cousin is scandalized. He’s actually pretty decent, but he’s not one to concern himself with propriety.”

  “Still, it must be difficult planning a heist so close to home,” Rondal considered.

  “Well, it is a departure from custom to rob one’s neighbors,” conceded Onnelik with a chuckle, “but I understand the reasoning in this particular case. Indeed, I approve. The Tower Arcane has one of the greatest collections of authentic Old Perwynese documents in the western world. The idea that those vermin in checkered cloaks would dare to sell them for their own profit is infuriating to a scholar!”

  “Well, it is the irionite we’re going to be going after,” Tyndal pointed out. “But we’ll do what we can to rescue those, as well.”

  “Please do,” Onnelik agreed. “Bring them here, and I’ll make sure the House gives you a good price for them.”

  “We’re not doing this for the money,” Rondal said, flatly.

  Shut up, Ron! Tyndal warned, mind-to-mind. Rondal glared at him.

  “We’re not!” he insisted. “Any documents we recover will be given in trust to House Salaines,” he declared. “They belong to the ducal court, anyway.”

  “True,” Lorcus agreed. “But let’s see what w
e get away with, before we start dividing the loot. Now, does everyone have their assignments?”

  Tyndal, being in charge of the mission, graciously delegated actually planning the heist to Lorcus. The Remeran had a knack for mayhem, he had to admit, and watching him work was fascinating. Half the time it didn’t even look like work.

  Lorcus had meticulously divided the plan into a series of tasks that all fit together like a millwork, in his head. He not only sent Rondal and Gatina back into the Tower with the construct to answer some specific questions, he had the girl survey some of the features of the grounds while strolling through the gardens (open to the public, from mid-morning to sundown) arm in arm with Rondal. . . a pairing that had Tyndal jubilant.

  Tyndal took a certain fiendish pleasure in his partner’s discomfort over Gatina’s obvious affection for Rondal. And her intentions, which were as honorable as a man could ask. In truth, he liked the girl, and her brother, and he had no objection to her interest in Ron. It was far more likely that they would die on the battlefield or on some bit of dangerous errantry long before they were in a position to consider matrimony . . . so why couldn’t he just enjoy her attention?

  For his part, Rondal was polite and gracious, calmly accepting Kitten’s interest with quiet dread . . . yet also not doing anything to discourage it, Tyndal noted. That was significant. He’d seen Ron duck an over-eager suitor before, and he usually took to hiding. Not with Kitten. He took her very seriously.

  When they returned, Gatina made a full report to Lorcus. The warmage disappeared outdoors after luncheon, took a long walk through the center of Old Falas, and into Onnelik’s study for an hour, and then returned with their assignments. Each of them was given at least four tasks, ranging from the mundane to the arcane to the downright strange.

  “Why do you need all these apples?” Tyndal asked, puzzled, as he read the first item on his list.

  “You need me to procure a barge?” Rondal asked, his eyes wide.

  “Why do I need to steal the seal of the Censorate’s sergeant-at-arms?” demanded Gatina. “And this other stuff?”

  “I’m to request a meeting with the burghers’ small council to ask for an increase in my garden space?” Onnelik asked, puzzled. “I hate gardening.”

  “I need to build a wand to cast . . . what?” Rondal asked, looking at his list.

  “Now, now,” soothed the Remeran, gently, “I gave you each plenty of time to do them, my fellow thieves, and you have ample resources. Please note the times and positions, where applicable, for your duties to be complete – as I said, the timing of this will be tricky.”

  When Lorcus looked smug like that, Tyndal was starting to realize, the warmage’s mind was already set. No details would be forthcoming. He sighed, looked at his list, and got busy with his first task.

  So did everyone else. Tyndal was impressed by the group’s professionalism, in the face of such a difficult task, but then again each of them were very well-trained and experienced at their various arts.

  Tyndal’s tasks were fairly simple, compared to others. He merely had to bear a few messages (once Gatina procured the requested seal), rent a room in the top floor of a boarding house next to the Tower, buy a bag of early season apples shipped up to Falas from the Bay, purchase the six least expensive books from a third-hand bookseller three streets from the Tower, and find the tavern nearest a slaughterhouse in the artisans’ quarter, half a mile away from the tower, where he was directed to flirt with a barmaid and make his face known and his coin appreciated.

  As preparations for a mission went, Tyndal counted himself fortunate . . . especially after hearing what Rondal was forced to do.

  I’ve been haggling all day with jewelers, scribes, and lawbrothers, he complained, mind-to-mind, when Tyndal returned to the townhouse and discovered he was the first one who had completed their errands. Now I have to book passage on a boat going upriver. And there isn’t much going upriver, these days.

  Atopol’s job, securing a barge, was apparently even more difficult, not to mention expensive. And Gatina, once she had finished complaining about being asked to steal the Censor’s seal from his office, was equally vexed when Lorcus sweetly asked her to return it to where she found it . . . and requested that she steal three Censor’s cloaks and helmets for him.

  For his part, Onnelik was confused about his duties: to go by the town hall and ask a few specific questions of burghers and reeves, then a stop by a lawbrother. None of it seemed at all related to the heist, he confessed, nor did it seem particularly relevant to anything else.

  But when Lorcus finally arrived after dark – and immediately after an exhausted-looking Rondal – and after hearing each of their reports he pronounced himself satisfied.

  “Satisfied? With what?” demanded Tyndal. “All we’ve done is run around and do odd things!”

  “You’ve done very specific odd things,” he countered. “And in doing so you’ve set up the game board. Now we get to see it unfold.”

  “See what unfold?” Atopol asked, irritated. “I have no idea what you’re doing! What we’ve been doing!”

  “We’ve been getting ready for the game,” Lorcus insisted, pouring each of them a glass of wine. “Allow me to explain,” he smiled, graciously.

  “It might spare your life,” growled Rondal, as Kitten rubbed his shoulders.

  “Let’s begin by assuming, for the sake of argument, that we have two groups of enemies – which, as it turns out, we do. My plan begins by suddenly and violently throwing them together. With a little help,” he grinned.

  “But the Censorate has already reached out to the Brotherhood by inviting them to this stupid sale!” protested Rondal.

  “The Brotherhood is a very large organization,” Lorcus lectured. “While it is true that the Three Censors extended an invitation to their leadership for consideration, I’m fairly certain – no, I’m positive – that the local affiliates know nothing about it. Not the Rats directing the illegal flow of millions of ounces of silver and determining the fate of thousands, but the average Rat-on-the-street in Old Falas. A town of this size, so close to the halls of power, was undoubtedly going to have a chapter of vermin, and as it turns out, it does.”

  “So . . . you want to start trouble between them?” asked Atopol asked, confused.

  “In point of fact, I have already begun that process, with the smallest of sparks. With just a little arcane assistance and the brute application of force, we should be able to fan it into a sudden blaze that neither force suspects.”

  “I was hoping that this would involve some violence,” sulked Tyndal. He had envisioned himself dueling with the best warmagi the Censorate had to offer under the spire of the Tower Arcane.

  “Then I have some hopeful news, my brother!” the warmage said, enthusiastically, slapping him on the shoulder. “For tonight we indulge your bloodlust and my sense of humor, and stir such a rage in our foes that by tomorrow’s dusk, the eve of the sale, the pot will be near a boil.”

  “Really?” Tyndal asked, hopefully.

  “Really?” Rondal asked, worriedly. “You aren’t planning a riot, are you? Remember, that tower is technically Pentandra’s residence. I’d hate to damage it unnecessarily.”

  “Credit me with more delicacy than that,” Lorcus snickered. “And don’t discount the impressive power of a riot, Striker. I considered a common distraction – a fire or an explosion – but, honestly, in my experience in a garrison, the first thing you think when you hear the fire bell or hear a boom is ‘oh! It’s a diversion!’ In a fortress of warmagi, that will certainly be what they suspect.”

  “I see your reasoning,” Atopol conceded.

  “But ordinary events that quickly grow out of control? That’s not your typical diversion. In fact, it provides perfect cover – especially if there is sufficient chaos – for all manner of illicit fun. And,” he said, taking a bite of an apple with satisfaction, “if you can’t have fun while you work, really, what’s the point?”
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br />   Chapter Nineteen

  Lorcus’ Plan

  The half-timbered butcher’s shop in the heart of Old Falas was just as tidy and neat as its neighbors, from the exterior, its shutters and trim recently painted and the drain to the sewer flushed with water; but within its three-story structure there was more than meat happening.

  That is the Brotherhood of the Rat, Lorcus announced to Tyndal, when they’d taken their seats at the tavern Tyndal had discovered earlier. Old Falas Chapter. Not much to look at, and – to be honest – the thugs inside are an exercise in criminal mediocrity, but this is where someone who wants an illegal loan, an illegal game of chance, or anything else illegal comes, in this quaint little town. The captain’s name is Hunik, and he runs a crew of nine here, and has another spot over at the slaughterhouse. He’s fat, lazy, and hasn’t been challenged in years, from what our feline friends were able to tell me.

  So why are we here, if he’s so small and unimportant? Tyndal asked.

  Because he’s convenient, Lorcus explained. From what I understand, he has a small, high-stakes game of chance in his chamber over the shop tonight, he reported, as he ordered three ales from the barmaid. This is a regular game which includes several of his fellow midlevel captains. One of which, thanks to Rondal’s efforts, now has a small spell upon him. It will make him seemingly very, very lucky.

  And that helps us . . . how?

  Because the Rats suspect a man who is too lucky, and rightly so, explained the Remeran. At a game like this, it causes all sorts of strife. You lads just wait for my signal, and then follow my lead, he assured.

  “Why aren’t the cats with us?” Tyndal asked, aloud.

  “Oh, the kitties are out on their own errands,” Lorcus said. “Besides, this particular task is far more suited to our talents, not theirs.”

  They continued to discuss the matter for an hour or so, while they watched several men enter the butcher’s shop after it closed. The window of the third story continued to shine with the light of tapers, Tyndal noted, long after the first two floors were dark.