“What’s your point of entry?” Rondal said, using a technical term Tyndal had heard the thieves bandy about.
“The large round stained-glass window,” Atopol decided. “It actually opens, unlike the others, and the tiny balcony on the other side is the perfect place to get in. If you are a thief or a pigeon. I checked this morning – it remains unwarded,” he said, thankfully. “I doubt if it’s locked.”
“That’s going to be hard to escape from,” Rondal said, warily.
“Not with Lorcus’ plan,” Atopol said, shaking his head. “It’s unorthodox, dangerous and terrifying, but I think that actually contributes to the likelihood of its success. Hells, if he’d told me he’d have the Brotherhood at the Censorate’s throat after a single day in this quiet old town, I’d never have believed him.”
“When it comes to ruining someone’s day, there aren’t many more qualified than him,” nodded Tyndal. “What time are the guests arriving?”
“About dusk,” answered Rondal, who had been down at the town’s docks gathering information on them that morning. “At least six or seven potential buyers or representatives. One likely from the Brotherhood,” he added. “The Iris is sending someone. The Censor’s agent was down there, too, making sure everyone on the list is actually showing up.”
“I still don’t see how you’re going to get out, once you get in,” Tyndal said, doubtfully.
“I’ll be extra sneaky,” Atopol promised. “Besides, I think Lorcus’ plan is actually quite brilliant – if it works. If it doesn’t, it will be because I mucked it up. Which I won’t, because my part is actually the easy one. Just a little acrobatics, some precautionary spells, and some brisk exercise,” he dismissed. “Really, I’ve been doing this sort of thing since I was seven.”
As dusk approached, Atopol and Rondal had a final drink with Tyndal before going off to their various assignments – Atopol to where he would begin his ascent of the Tower, and Rondal to a marina in Falas, proper.
For Tyndal’s part in this portion of the plan, Lorcus assigned him as reinforcement, should things inside the Tower get dicey, and put him back in the boarding house. That gave him an outstanding vantage point to see the guests and buyers arriving from the little balcony. As well as the small mob of angry Rats that was gathering at the other end of the road.
Shit, I just heard that our friend Hunik called in four other squadrons to augment his numbers, Lorcus reported. That puts the number of Rats near forty, now. Almost as many as the Censors.
That’s not going to help them much, Tyndal suggested, as he watched the brace of warmagi who guarded the gatehouse to the Tower, day and night.
They bore warstaves in their hands and mageblades on their backs, but his tentative scrying of the men demonstrated that their tools were far inferior to his own. The warstaves were a pale reflection of the powerful Sentry Rods that Sevendor had given to its warmagi, and those mageblades, he could tell, were hardly better than the army-issued ones. Considering what Grapple, his baculus, could do, it made a better weapon than the supposedly martial staves of the Censors. The Censorate are heavily armed, and more Rats will just mean more targets.
That’s what I’m counting on, Lorcus agreed. The Censors have brought on additional security, thanks to their guests. This is going to be fun!
Tyndal agreed, although he figured Lorcus had a better idea of what would come out of it than he did. He spent his time making note of the carriages that pulled up to the Tower Arcane and their guests.
Many seemed to be mere nobles, albeit of higher rank than most. Some were more mysterious than others, appearing cowled and cloaked in unmarked carriages. Others were blatantly odd in their dress or in their presentation, like the mustachioed man with the two lizards on his shoulders and three extremely tough-looking bodyguards who arrived in a far statelier carriage than Tyndal would have suspected, based on his dress. A fellow like that, Tyndal noted to himself, is someone to watch especially carefully.
All six have arrived, he finally reported to Lorcus. The seventh sent a representative.
Outstanding, the warmage replied a moment later. The operation has officially begun. Atopol is beginning his ascent, now. Rondal is at his position, and Gatina is in hers.
And what do I do?
Keep in contact with everyone else, pass along helpful information, wait until something happens that requires your attention . . . and follow the godsdamned plan!
Tyndal waited a little longer, then noted something odd in the dusky light. He spied a blur that, he was certain, was his friend Atopol, carefully scaling the northern turret of the Tower. He seemed to be making a good pace, ascending just a little more slowly than a man could walk the horizontal distance.
Gatina, for her part, was in disguise near the tower amongst a few other barnacles who were desperately trying to sell flowers, sweetmeats, sausages, and other fare to passersby. She looked damned pathetic, Tyndal noted, her hair appearing greasy and ratty, her clothes denoting extreme poverty, and her lisping banter speaking volumes about her social class. But she was not noticed by the Censors, thankfully, who were more concerned with the arrivals, not unlicensed vendors.
Tyndal had no idea where Lorcus was. He assumed he was in a strategic position doing something important, but knowing Lorcus that could translate into any number of things.
All right, Lorcus finally reported, it looks like our pack of rats is on the move toward the Tower Arcane.
That was the sign they were all looking for. Sure enough, around forty or fifty men appeared at the far end of the street and began shouting curses at the Censors, their profanity getting louder with every step.
Tyndal couldn’t resist watching the scene unfold by looking at the Censor sergeant-on-duty at the gatehouse. The distant figure quickly called inside the door and then distributed a spear to himself and his partner as the angry mob grew closer. Two more Censors came out to support them, while the sergeant stepped forward to address the Rats.
He couldn’t hear the specific discussion between the sergeant and Goodman Hunik without the Long Ears spell, but it was too short for him to have the time to cast it. From what he saw, however, the Rats’ displeasure with the Censorate had been soundly communicated . . . enough so that Hunik threw a powerful punch at the Censor’s back, when he turned to address his mates . . . then the entire yard in front of the Tower Arcane became a melee as the Rats charged the gate with a guttural yell.
The Rats, for their part, attacked in a disorganized mob without any kind of real plan. They drew knives and short swords and clubs as they pushed against the Censors guarding the gate. At least one fell immediately, his white and black cloak stepped on by the muddy feet of the Rats as they stepped over him.
The Censors were giving a fair fight to the unruly mob. Two stood back to back in front of the gatehouse, their blades and staves drawn, keeping the Rats at bay as they attacked, while the third was trying to fight his way to the body of his fallen mate. Neither endeavor was ultimately successful, as the single warmage was quickly overwhelmed, and the two defiant defenders were sacked and tied together, after their weapons had been taken from them.
The crew finished that task just in time for the gatehouse door to open and spill a dozen more heavily-armed Censors into the fray. They were dressed for combat in hard mail and helmets, though instead of swords they seem to be armed with maces and cudgels – riot gear, he realized. The checkered cloaks began attacking every unarmored Rat in sight with their clubs. Tyndal delighted at the display of violence – the sight and sound of screaming combatants determined to overthrow their enemy added a delicious drama to the scene.
“All right, I’m inside,” Atopol reported, through Gorach’s Sympathy Stone. He’d taken the dahman with him just for that purpose. “The damn window was locked. I had to use a spell,” he added.
“The Rats are doing their part for the distraction,” agreed Tyndal, as he watched the evolving riot below. More Censors were filing out of the Tower
Arcane, with several taking positions on the fighting deck above the gatehouse. More spilled out to reinforce the beleaguered guards, beating the Rats back with their staves and small cantrips. “Is there anyone left upstairs?”
“There doesn’t appear to be, at the moment,” the Cat of Night agreed. “But they were here a moment ago, I think. There are a couple of big tables in the main chamber, he described. Oh, look! They have most thoughtfully laid out most of their treasures for me, under a veil.”
“What kind of loot?” Tyndal asked, eagerly.
“You’ll see soon enough,” promised Atopol through the enchantment. “Now let me work, and make sure my sister doesn’t get into too much trouble. She’s trying to impress Ron,” he added, unnecessarily.
“I know. It’s adorable!”
Tyndal kept watch as the tumult below continued to smolder. A brace of town watchmen appeared, attempting to calm both sides and restore some order, but they were quickly overwhelmed by Rats and withdrew until reinforcements could arrive.
Meanwhile, the Rats were doing their best to push past the Censors and gain entry to the Tower. A couple had scaled the front wall, but were quickly pushed back down by the warmagi. Through magesight the Censors looked very smug with themselves as the last Rat fell off the second-story roof. But then a bottle of flaming spirits crashed with a tinkle and suddenly the Censors were desperately trying to put out the flames.
That escalated the drama. The moment that the flames began to climb up the Tower’s wall, the Censors’ attitudes changed from attempting to control the crowd and quell the riot to actively defending themselves. Tyndal watched in fascination as spells began to fly into the mob of Rats below. Not nearly as fast or as impressive as those thrown by a High Mage, he considered, but watching trained warmagi work magic in concert was fascinating.
For their part, the Rats were brave enough not to flee at the first sign of offensive magic. In fact, they seemed to redouble their efforts to gain the keep. There was a growing pile of bodies in front of the Tower, and many of them wore checkered cloaks. More, a crowd of bystanders was growing around the fray, watching the riot like an audience at a mummer’s play. Well, Tyndal noted, most of them seemed content to just watch . . .
Ishi’s pretty titties! Lorcus boomed into Tyndal’s mind. The Rats have brought in more men!
More Rats? Tyndal asked, scanning the crowd for disreputable characters. But the assembled seemed to be firmly in the artisan class.
They’re not Rats . . . they’re butchers! Hunik must have riled up the Butcher’s Guild in Falas! Those are some large men, too . . .
I hope they don’t plan on any more fires, Tyndal warned. Remember, technically that’s Lady Pentandra’s house, there. She would be miffed if it got burned down. Especially if she knew about the baths.
It’s just superficial, Lorcus assured him. The spells on that tower prevent the fire from getting inside to anything valuable. Not that the butchers seem to know that, however.
Just as Lorcus described, a band of men broke away from the crowd and plunged into the flanks of the Censors at the gate, attacking the men from what they’d considered a safe direction. The butchers might not have been trained or disciplined, but they were strong, and most bore wicked-looking knives that dwarfed the Eats’ Tails and daggers of the Brotherhood. Some even wore their thick oilskin aprons as they plunged into the fray.
It was a spectacular fight to watch. Rats sprang on the backs of Censors and pulled them to the ground, or climbed up their bodies like ladders to reach the flaming fighting deck overlooking the mob. There were Censors dueling mageblade to scimitar with a few, while their mates tried to find a good place to drop a spell.
Tyndal’s attention was caught by movement on a balcony on the fourth floor, and re-focused his magesight on the distant window. There was a small crowd of men peering down from the railing to see what was happening, including a few cloaked Censors who were screaming instructions at their subordinates. Tyndal saw half a dozen noblemen, a few ruffians and mariners, a monk, and that odd little man with the two lizards on his shoulders, all watching the fight below with great interest.
I think I’ve spotted our buyers, he reported to Lorcus. Fourth floor, southern balcony.
Good eye! Agreed Lorcus, a moment later. That must be them. They have their own bodyguards, he noted.
Hopefully they won’t need them, Tyndal said, as he watched a full contingent of the Town Watch show up . . . and realize that they were too small a force to contend with the riot. They contented themselves with forming a perimeter to keep anyone else from joining the fray. A few brave souls tried to wade into the fight and sort out the two sides, but when a concussion spell blew them onto their backs, they relented and allowed events to play out.
Tyndal paused to make certain Gatina was still in position. The ragged-looking flower girl on the edge of the riot was still ostensibly selling flowers, though there were no customers.
“All right,” came Atopol’s voice from the Sympathy Stone set in the wand, “I have everything bagged up. Tyndal, you’ll be happy to know that someone went and left a coffer full of gold on the table – probably to make change – but it’s full of copper pennies, now. That should cover our expenses. The books have been replaced, the other items have been swapped, and I have the irionite in hand. Heading out to the watchtower, now.”
Striker, Cat is on the roof, he reported to Rondal, mind-to-mind. Prepare to receive.
This is the stupidest part of this entire plan, complained Rondal. What if he misses?
Cats always land on their feet, Tyndal replied, with false confidence. In truth, he didn’t know if this part of Lorcus’ plan would actually work. He was shocked when Atopol agreed to it. But the young shadowmage had an adventurous spirit, Tyndal reflected, and as crazy as the idea was, it was the one certain way to get both Cat and loot out of the top of the Tower Arcane without fighting his way down six stories of angry Censorate only to face a garden of vicious Rats.
I’ll be certain to tell Gat that if her brother ends up a sticky spot on the cobbles, Rondal replied, darkly.
Lorcus, Cat is ready to go, he told the warmage, when he’d made contact again. Time to wrap up this riot.
I’ll signal Gatina, he agreed. Then let’s leave this charming little town as quickly as oar can bear us!
It was a few more endless minutes before Tyndal heard a strange but unmistakable sound . . . and the Tower shook. While the sound distracted a few of the Censors, the Rats took no notice of it.
Cat is away, he reported to Rondal. Then there was nothing. And nothing.
And nothing.
Tyndal felt the panic rise up in his chest, and was nearly overwhelmed by the thought of failure, when his partner finally replied.
I’ve got him! Ron said, proudly. Him and the loot!
Is he okay? Tyndal asked, anxiously.
He’s fine. Just wet. And a little crazed by being flung through the air like that.
Lorcus had realized that getting a thief into the Tower Arcane wouldn’t be hard, providing a sufficient enough distraction and a high point of entry. But once the distraction was underway, sneaking back down would be difficult. Even now the rioters were nearly surrounding the Tower, and if Atopol had tried to leave the way he’d come in, no amount of shadowmagic could have disguised a black-clad youth on a whitewashed wall, dangling five stories in the air.
So Lorcus decided to utilize the other means of exit from the Tower Arcane: the ancient trebuchet.
The thing had not been used as a weapon of war in a century, thanks to the relative political stability of Falas. When it was first constructed it was designed to discourage anyone who wanted to approach the great falls and lake upon which Falas, proper, was built. Since then it had served as a visible warning for anyone foolish enough to contend with the Counts of Falas.
Lorcus made a study of the device from afar, augmented by some quiet conversations around town, and figured the engine could easily bear
the weight of the loot and the thief.
It was inherently dangerous, of course, to be flung through the air at such a high speed . . . and then land in a river that was usually flat as glass. But Atopol was game, particular after Lorcus explained how he could use spells to protect his body from the impact. Lorcus helped persuade him by casting a number of spells designed to sustain him in the case of accident, and allow him to resist the effects of sudden acceleration and even more sudden deceleration. It was simple warmagic, but a field which the shadowmagi were largely unfamiliar.
So when Atopol had finished looting the Tower Arcane of its most precious treasures, he strapped himself and his big, ungainly sack of cargo into the net below the trebuchet, cast the spells . . . and with a prayer to the darkness, he pulled the cord that held the pin.
A few endless moments later, he and his bag splashed down in the river, just a few yards from where Lorcus had calculated . . . and within ten yards of the barge Rondal was waiting within.
Both the thief and the loot were recovered, the precious books sealed within an oilskin bag that had been additionally augmented with spells to keep the water out. Now they were waiting for the rest of the party at the abandoned docks just outside the Tower Arcane’s own postern door.
The fourth-floor balcony where the buyers were observing the fight stirred, and three men in Censors’ cloaks – but each bearing a thick gold necklace – took their places on the edge of the balcony.
Uh, oh, Lorcus commented.
The Three Censors revealed themselves as High Magi, bringing out their three stones and beginning to rain destruction down on their attackers. Bolts of green fire erupted in the midst of the crowd, while a large magelight began to form over the mob. Tyndal watched as the three consulted and began putting together a much more elaborate working.
Tyndal wasn’t too concerned – he could tell by how quickly they were working, and by the size of the effects, that the Censors’ witchstones were far less powerful than even the first shard of irionite he’d gotten. But that still made them far superior to an unaugmented mage, and instant death to a mundane gangster. Lorcus let the Three Censors have their fun with the Brotherhood and their auxiliaries until he saw people start to get killed.
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 30
