“Now, Striker, if you’ll activate that spell . . .”
Rondal closed his eyes for a few moments, and then nodded. Lorcus grinned and ordered another round.
An hour and two ales later, Tyndal had almost forgotten the reason for their presence, until they heard a sudden ruckus erupt from the open window of the third floor.
“Oho!” Lorcus said, his eyes gleaming, “it sounds as if the first suspicions have been raised. Let’s see if it happens again.”
Less than ten minutes later, there was another loud argument between men emanating from the butcher’s shop window, longer and more strident than the first.
“That’s our cue, lads,” Lorcus grinned, grabbing the satchel he’d hidden under the table. “Be a chum and pay the shot, Tyndal,” he said, standing and belching. “Then meet us around the side of the tavern.”
Tyndal nodded and did as he was bidden, taking the time to flirt a little more with the attractive – mostly – barmaid. When he got to the side of the building it was dark enough that Tyndal had to use magesight to see . . . which startled him, when he saw two Censors awaiting him.
“Come on, put on the helmet, we don’t have all night,” Rondal urged, slapping one of the heavy Censorate’s spangham helms on his head and fastening the chinstrap, while Lorcus put a checkered cloak over his shoulders.
“What the hells?” Tyndal asked, confused.
“If you hadn’t figured it out by now, we’re going to impersonate a squad of Censors,” Rondal said in a low voice as he helped Tyndal with his disguise.
“Oh. Oh! That makes sense,” Tyndal said, dully. The ale here was really good. “Why?”
“Oh, just shut up, follow us, follow our lead, and hit the people we tell you to hit, okay?” Rondal said, impatiently.
“I can do that,” Tyndal agreed. “How bad do you want them hurt?”
“Just enough to piss them off,” Lorcus replied, as he adjusted his cloak. “I feel positively evil in this costume! Don’t kill anyone, if you can help it, just hurt them. And keep it light on the warspells – remember, we’re just run-of-the-mill Censors, here, not High Magi. I’ll do most of the spellwork.”
“Got it,” Tyndal said, trying to get into his character. How does a Censor think and act? he asked himself, and then entertained himself with the answer. In a moment he had the arrogance, self-righteousness, and grim necessity he’d often seen in Censors well in mind.
The three of them strode confidently across the street to the door of the butcher, where Lorcus made a great show of pounding on the door and demanding it be opened. Soon a short, portly little man waddled out and let them in, babbling about the lateness of the hour.
“Fool!” Lorcus sneered. “We have every right to search the premises if we suspect illegal magic! You should feel fortunate that we did not destroy the shop and all within it out of hand!”
He quickly pushed past the little man, who was clearly acting as a look-out for the gang, and mounted the narrow staircase three steps at a time. Tyndal followed behind dutifully, giving the doorkeeper a glare he thought worthy of the Censorate.
Lorcus was halted at the top of the stairs by a thug nearly a head taller than the Remeran, even with his high-crowned helmet. The big man moved to block the doorway against the intruders when he recognized the cloaks . . . and his eyes got wide.
“Move aside,” Lorcus demanded, in a patient tone of voice.
“I am—“
“Asleep,” Lorcus finished for the man, reaching out and touching him on the forehead. The guard instantly collapsed onto the landing as he fell into a powerful, magically-induced sleep. “Time to announce our presence, lads!” the warmage said gaily, touching the heavy oaken door with a wand . . . which blew it off of its leather hinges and back into the upper chamber.
“REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE!” the Remeran bellowed through the cloud of smoke as he strode confidently into the room. “You are all subject to inspection by the King’s Censorate of Magic, under the Royal Charter of King Kamaklavan!”
The Rats on the other side of the exploded door were shocked by the intrusion, on top of what had already been a contentious night. There were eight men at the table, and two more serving, a lively game of dice in progress. Stacks of silver and even some gold ringed the board. This was, indeed, a high-stakes game, Tyndal saw.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the fattest man there – Hunik, Tyndal realized.
“We have detected the presence of magic within this shop,” Lorcus said, with a sneer. “Illegal magic, undocumented and forbidden.”
“That’s impossible!” sputtered Hunik. “My friends and I were just enjoying a friendly game!”
“Goodman, is his game listed with the Count’s officials?” challenged Rondal, arrogantly. “Friendly or not, illegal gambling is nearly as vile as illegal spellwork!”
“You must have made a mistake, Gentlemen,” Hunik said, smoothly, as he stood. “There are no magi here. Just a few artisans having some social time.”
“My spells do not lie!” Lorcus said, with especial venom, as he pushed Hunik back into his chair, much to his chair’s distress. “Twice I have had responses from this address this evening!”
“Hey!” one of the other men at the table said, suddenly, “you had two—“
“Trygg’s bleeding twat, shut the hells up!” barked Hunik at the man, angrily, before he changed his tone and turned back to the fake Censors. “Gentlemen, surely there is some reasonable way to settle this unfortunate situation?” he asked, toying with the tall stack of coin in front of him on the table.
Rondal spoke mind-to-mind: He’s trying to bribe us!
I’m willing to be bribed! Tyndal replied.
That’s not part of the plan, Ron chided. But this part should be good.
Indeed it was: Lorcus circled the table in the middle of the chamber, slowly surveying each of the players. Tyndal saw the same hedging, careful, deceitful look in their eyes he was coming to associate with the Rats. While they were all careful to keep their hands on the table, he could tell that they were all tensing for a potential fight, too.
“Now . . . twice we tagged this place this evening for a probability enhancement spell designed to overcome the statistical probability that a given random number generator will provide, on any given throw, an equal possibility to all potential outcomes,” he lectured, using words that were unfamiliar to the Rats.
“What?” one of the confused thugs asked.
“Someone is using magic to cheat at dice,” Tyndal explained.
“That’s mad!” Hunik declared. “Anyone in my – association who tried that sort of thing . . . well, there would be consequences,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his fellows.
“We are not in the habit of making mistakes,” he continued, slyly, as he circled around each man. Then he drew a short wand from his belt. “This little device should reveal the culprit,” he said, his eyes gleaming in anticipation until he circled back to one particular man. “This one!” he declared, tapping him on the top of the head loud enough to make a sound.
“Ow!” the man whined. “That’s bullshit! I don’t cheat – you all know that!”
“How come you rolled so good tonight, then?” challenged a much larger player. “Right when the pot was biggest, too!”
“I was lucky!” the man protested.
“More than three hundred silver worth of lucky,” another player grumbled. “I knew those throws were off! No one throws three threes in a row!”
The accused man started for the accuser, but Tyndal put his hand on the thug’s shoulder and pushed him forcibly back into his chair. “That’s enough of that!” he said, darkly. “Any heads busted here will be busted by the Censorate!”
“Oh, we’re beyond head busting, my friend,” Lorcus promised. “Do you goodmen have any idea what the penalty for this kind of crime is?”
“We have friends at court,” Hunik said, as if it pained him.
�
�Which court?” scoffed Rondal. “The Count of Falas? The Duke of Alshar? Unless you have friends at the court of King Kamaklavan, you churls are beyond help!” That put an end to such threats – the Censors, under ancient Royal authority that was no longer existent, answered to no one but themselves, and everyone knew it.
“In fact, our superiors have seen far too much of this sort of clandestine flouting of the sacred Bans,” Lorcus declared, “that they have decided to make an example. I hold here in my hand,” he pronounced, as he removed a scroll from his sleeve with a flourish, “a writ directing me to seek out any and all such violations in this district and raze the properties upon which they are found, after capturing the perpetrators of said violations. Do any of you goodmen happen to read?” he asked, condescendingly.
He really is quite adept at playing an officious, power-drunk asshole, Tyndal reflected, admiringly. For that matter, he observed, Rondal was doing a splendid job of looking extremely irritated and grim.
Two of them hesitantly raised their hands, but when presented with the scroll bearing the warrant, the officious language Lorcus had dictated to Onnelik was far beyond them. The big red wax seal of the Censorate was clearly visible, though, and gave the document all the authority it required.
“Razed? You mean . . . destroyed?” asked Hunik, troubled. “I don’t think I can permit that, Gentlemen,” he said, shaking his head slowly. He looked around the table, and Tyndal could feel all of the thugs prepare to act.
“I don’t think it’s really up to you, Goodman,” Lorcus replied, gently. “I have a writ signed and sealed by the Censorate’s sergeant-at-arms, himself. Now, if everyone will quietly go outside, we can get on with our business, burn this place to the ground, get you goodmen in a cell, and be in bed before dawn when our watch is over.”
“I don’t think you’re going to make it,” Hunik growled, as he suddenly rose, overthrowing the rickety table and its contents . . . and then the air was filled with fists and knives.
Tyndal was more than ready for the attack – he was poised like a spring under pressure. When he saw the first fist fly, aimed at Lorcus’ head, he took it as permission to unleash some of his pent-up energy. He decided to start with the alleged cheater, who was looking more confused than belligerent. Tyndal picked him up by his collar and threw him across the room, with a little magical assistance.
Then he ducked under a thick rod of wood wrapped in a long leather thong in the hand of one Rat while he grabbed the wrist of another and redirected the course of the knife that it held. In moments it was buried satisfactory into the thigh of the man with the stick, and the knife-wielder was sprawled on the floor after Tyndal kneed him in the gut.
Rondal and Lorcus were busy, too. Ron was successfully defending himself from two of the ruffians while a third tried to sneak past him, and Lorcus was beating a man’s face with both fists in a methodical sort of way.
But the Remeran warmage wasn’t happy with the way the fight was going, even after the man he fought collapsed after his warmagic-assisted bludgeoning, so he quickly drew another wand and began sending the Rats to sleep, usually by attacking them from behind as either Tyndal or Rondal smacked them and sent them in his direction. It took a few minutes, but soon all nine of them were slumped on the floor.
“Now for the hard part: dragging them outside,” Lorcus sighed.
By pressing the doorward into service, they managed to get all of them laid out on the street in a row, as the moon reached its zenith overhead. Each of the men would awaken in the morning, no worse for the effects of the spell.
Apparently he passed Ron some specific mind-to-mind instructions, as well, because a moment later the butcher’s shop burst into flame. Ron controlled the burn magically to concentrate it on the central structure of the shop, and not let it wander to the neighbors’ shops, while Lorcus posted the document ostensibly explaining why the shop was razed to the front fence.
“Now, let’s add some icing to this cake,” he declared, when the sign was hung in front of the burning building. “I’ve prepared something particularly naughty for our friends, here,” he said. “Something that should ensure their immediate and vigorous response to such a terrible miscarriage of justice.” Instead of explaining, he knelt over the slumbering bodies of the Rats, and in the light of the fire that was consuming their headquarters, he cast a spell on each of them.
Tyndal was intrigued as he watched magemarks – simple variations in the darkness of the capillaries of the skin, caused by magic – appear on the faces of all nine. This time, the marks inscribed on the skin of the Rats weren’t mere reminders of a debt owed, as Minalan used them.
Instead Lorcus had fashioned the spell to darken the nose of each Rat, and caused comical lines representing rat’s whiskers to spread out from them. The Rats all now had rat whiskers.
Both Tyndal and Rondal nearly collapsed from laughter when they surveyed the result. None of the Brotherhood thugs looked particularly intimidating anymore.
“Now,” Lorcus said, when the last Rat was finished, “let’s head back to the house and have a drink before bed,” he decided. “That should give us some time to change clothes, too. When these lads wake in the morning, they’re going to be looking for Censors, and I, for one, don’t want to look anything at all like one when they get up!”
In the morning the news of the fire and raid by the Censorate spread faster than flame through the small community of Old Falas.
Tyndal heard it from the lad who sold milk door to door in the mornings, but it appeared that nearly everyone was talking about it. Nor was it difficult to believe. In the months since they’d begun inhabiting the Tower Arcane, the Censors had been increasing their enforcement of the Bans with rigor. Crossing the line from merely imprisoning and punishing miscreants to burning down a shop just because there was the suspicion of illegal magic was almost reasonable, considering the fanatical nature of the Censorate.
“Now things will just brew for a while today,” he explained over breakfast. “The meeting is scheduled for tonight, but this little conflict will quickly take precedence as things get out of control.”
“Why? What will happen now?” asked Atopol.
“Well, if the Rats follow their form, they’ll appeal to the next level of administration, which will in turn appeal to the civil authorities. In this case, that means the burghers of Old Falas, not the ass-wipes in checkered cloaks. When they do . . . well, they’ll likely hear the rumor from the burghers that I had Onnelik plant yesterday at town hall while he was unsuccessfully arguing to extend his miserable plot of garden.”
“And that is?” Rondal prompted.
“They will hear that the Censorate is considering building a new barracks on the site, and that they intend to further invade the business of the Brotherhood searching for clandestine magic. Because that’s what they will conclude after stringing together the implications of Onnelik’s questions to three separate burghers and town officials, yesterday. And when they hear that – and face the humiliation of rat’s whiskers in the mirror – they will be primed for a violent response.”
“And the Censorate won’t know it’s coming,” reasoned Atopol.
“They’re enjoying a respite from the destruction of their order in relatively secure and elegant surroundings, protected by the patronage of the rebel council. The biggest headache they’ve had to deal with in months, besides lingering poverty, is the theft of three cloaks and helmets. Did you get that back to the armory, Kitten?” he asked Gatina.
“Just where I found it,” she agreed, irritated. “You know, generally when I steal things, putting them back isn’t part of the protocol,” she pointed out.
“Isn’t it lovely how you are stretching your professional frontiers, working with us?” Lorcus replied, sweetly. “I’m counting on the confusion between the Rat’s demands and the Censorate’s utter ignorance of any of this to sow the seeds we need for the distraction. If everything goes according to plan, by the time the b
uyers gather tomorrow night, the Rats of Old Falas will be ready for blood!”
That afternoon Tyndal was assigned to go back to the tavern across from the butcher and observe. The shop was a ruined shell, now, a pile of half-burnt timber and ruined roof tiles, still smoldering after the blaze had been put out. The barmaid Tyndal had become friendly with happily told her admirer about the drama last night – and this morning.
“Oh, those lads were in a fine mood this morning! There were at least ten of them,” she whispered conspiratorially. “All milling about in front of the shop, keeping their heads low. I saw one’s face – he was marked!” she declared. “They were angry, too – never seen them stirred up like that before,” she admitted.
A quick inspection of the ruin bore her out – while the Rats had abandoned the butcher’s shop, there was plenty of signs that they’d salvaged what they could from the ashes, first, and then departed. The notice Lorcus had posted in front of the ruin was still there. Tyndal removed it. It had done its job.
After he reported his findings to Lorcus mind-to-mind, he was directed to return to the room he’d rented next to the Tower and await further instructions. While Rondal would have been annoyed by that, Tyndal didn’t mind. If he wasn’t in charge, he couldn’t very well muck things up, he reasoned. He spent the rest of the afternoon in the company of a bottle reading one of the bad books of poetry he’d purchased for the heist.
Late afternoon Atopol and Rondal arrived. Atopol began to immediately change into his “roaching leathers”, as he called his professional wardrobe, including strapping special iron grips to his hands and feet as he prepared.
“What are those for?” Tyndal inquired.
“In case the spell fails,” Atopol replied with a sigh. “I’ll be using Grandine’s Adherer to climb up one of the turrets on the river side of the Tower,” he explained. “But considering what you’ve told me about how frequently the Censorate likes to use Annulment spells, I thought a little extra precaution might be a good idea. Plunging suddenly to my doom after climbing six exhausting stories of tower is not how I want to plan my death!”
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 29
