Next he summoned a brace of padded, well-made chairs he’d taken as spoils from the conquest of Rolone. Lorcus had insisted they loot something from the conquered domain, and he and Tyndal had selected a number of luxurious furnishings from the homes, halls and chambers of the prosperous town as their spoils. The Rat Trap was packed with such things, now.
He shoved the small table aside and brought forth a beautifully ornate maple table originally owned by a fat (but surprisingly loud, when irate) burgher of Rolone who had exquisite taste, if a deficit in manners to his conquerors. The brass lantern he placed in the center was one of the finer pieces from his home.
Rondal produced a crate of comforts – like lamps and tapers, kerchiefs and towels – and laid them into the cabinet after he used a quick cantrip to blow the dust and cobweb away. He removed two small tapestries and hung them over the plastered walls, and then hung a small pane of stained glass he’d purchased in Barrowbell, once, because he thought it was pretty.
It was a cat preparing to pounce on a bird. The sort of coincidence that made one consider the caprices of the gods.
Lastly he brought forth a sturdy cotton tick stuffed with wool and down, and enchanted for extra comfort. When the bedframe proved too narrow to bear the weight or width of it, he was forced to use Bulwark and some wood magic to extend the size and strengthen the structure. Once the tick fit perfectly, he dressed the bed in the softest Gilmoran cotton sheet he could find in Vorone, and added a goose-down pillow and thin woolen blanket.
He summoned a trio of tiny magelights to hover over the room, illuminating the single room cottage in a soft, warm glow from above. It looked . . . good, he decided. Not perfect, but much better than when he walked in.
Once the inside was done, he picked up Bulwark and went outside, where he warded the cottage up as tightly as he could. He reduced sound’s ability to carry, and ensured that any walking by would see nothing but a tidy little house on the edge of a boring little village. If they happened to consider taking a closer look, the sigils he posted around the perimeter would discourage them . . . and alert anyone inside that intruders were about.
As a house of safety for a clandestine operation went, it was more than adequate. For a lover’s cottage, he knew in his heart, it was quaint.
Rondal spent the next day and a half wandering around the village, getting to know the few score people of Gandy’s little commune.
It was pretty country. Much was given to grasslands for sheep, cows, and goats, and the local manor had a piggery of some repute. There were groves of cherry trees and apple orchards around the edges of the larger farms. Most grew a little barley, maize, and oats, as well as an abundance of vegetables.
Gandy, proper, was the site of a few small shrines and a lackluster temple to the local god of the fields, a theological cognate of Huin who wasn’t quite so obsessed with cereals. There was a smith but no carpenter, the cooper of the hamlet doing most of that work. There was a healer, an elderly nun, and a few boisterous families of prosperous peasants who dominated the tiny community’s social scene.
There was no inn, but a taphouse known as the Tailless Tortoise was the regular gathering place for the leaders of the community after a hard day. And though he tried all evening long, he could not convince anyone to tell him the true reason the tortoise had no tail, and why it was noteworthy enough to name a taphouse after.
As a visitor he was a novelty in the tiny community. Giving his name as Diofal, a student from the Wilderlands, Rondal was welcomed and toasted, as they quizzed him about his journeys . . . and to ask him why in the name of all the gods he had found himself in Gandy.
As he drank the warm, rich beer that evening he found himself spinning a tale about being kicked out of a low-end monastic school for a lack of funds, and spending the rest of the summer wandering the Coastlands before he went north to face his dour father and explain the loss of such a large inheritance in such a short amount of time.
That captivated the villagers, and convinced them to protect the lad (and the rest of his coin) in their hamlet, at least until harvest time. More than one farmer mentioned the fair table he sat and the how pretty his daughters were.
And then some bastard had to go and uncork a bottle of local spirits . . .
By the time Rondal stumbled back to the cottage, he was using Bulwark to guide him through the darkness. He was too drunk to manage a magelight. Or even magesight.
As he fell asleep in the luxuriously comfortable bed, he reflected on just how fortunate he’d been to find Gandy. It was an absolutely adorable, incredibly dull village in the middle of a boring barony. The troubles of court and the uncertainty that reigned from the Narrows to the Great Bay were unknown here. The most important bit of local gossip was the lively feud between a reeve and a freeholding family over the ownership of a meadow and the virginity of a daughter.
Not the worst place to go to avoid attention, he sighed, as he fell asleep.
She’s on her way, Tyndal assured him. I just heard from Cat an hour ago. She should be there any time.
Rondal paced nervously in front of the cottage, as the day passed. He’d been ready since this morning, scrubbing the place down with soap, water, and magic, and tidying up outside. If he had this place for the rest of the month, he might as well make it homey.
But by afternoon he was starting to fret. Where was Gatina? She had been close to Falas, he knew, but then that covered a lot of territory. Atopol had informed Tyndal that she’d been running an errand for Master Hance when his call came . . . and she had stopped her mission the moment she received it.
Atopol was still in possession of the dahman he’d built, while Tyndal held the wand. The sympathy stone within allowed Atopol and Tyndal to speak, and that provided an essential contact to House Salaines. Indeed, Rondal had several more sympathy stones in his gear, seven complete sets and three half-sets. The other halves were either at Vorone or Sevendor.
It was just part of the bounty of enchantments Rondal decided to include in this first official foray into spycraft. He planned several days of instruction and communication with Gatina, so that they could establish some protocols and routines to further the cause of Restoration.
At least, that was what he convinced himself.
But when the day seemed to drag on and on, and he kept checking the road even though he knew the wards would warn him long before he saw her, he finally broke down and called Tyndal, mind-to-mind.
What if she’s been delayed? he asked, insistently. What if she’s in trouble? What if she meets bandits?
Then she’ll skewer a few bandits, Tyndal replied, unhelpfully. Striker, relax. She’ll be there. Don’t get wound up like an overstrung arbalest when she gets there or she’ll lose interest.
Have you met the girl? Rondal demanded. You could put an arbalest bolt in her while she was being chased by Fell Hounds and dragons and she wouldn’t lose interest in me!
Relax! Tyndal ordered. She’s just a girl. A girl who is on a secret mission, so quit trying to worry her, and do your job.
Rondal took a deep breath, about to explain to Tyndal why he was so desperately wrong. Then he realized that he was, in fact, completely correct.
I will, he assured him. I just fret.
I know. That’s why you’re a better commander than I am, he admitted. Now, just be casual when she arrives. Don’t scare her off. She’s important.
I know!
Just . . . try to make her comfortable. You can do that. But don’t overdo it.
You are really not helping, Haystack.
I can’t give you any advice you have the wits to take, Tyndal decided. She’s your future wife. Do what you need to do.
What is that?
I don’t know! I’m not the one trapped in a quaint cottage with an amorous kitten! I’m just thinking that as the subject might arise, you might use it as an opportunity to see what color apron you’d like, to wear for instance, or—
Just then, Rondal felt a t
ingle that told him his most distant wards had been crossed.
I think that’s her!
Good, Tyndal replied with a mental sigh. You were starting to make me nauseated, a little bit. Go get her, Striker. You’ve got this under control.
Rondal was tempted to thank his friend, but decided to take his advice instead. He quickly put the kettle on, took out his pipe, and patiently waited. In a few moments he heard the clip-clop of hooves as a handsome rouncey rode up to the fence. He caught a glimpse of her face as she surveyed the cot with magesight.
She was under a black mantle, and her riding gown was of dark gray under it. She wore no disguise, and her long white hair was braided behind her. There was a tiny jewel at her throat: an amethyst of deepest purple, the exact same shade as her eyes.
Rondal met her at the door. She was here.
She was really here. This was real.
Gatina came closer, close enough for him to smell the rich scent of her hair. Her eyes seemed to get even larger as she stared into his from the back of her horse.
Oh, bloody hell, he realized. Ishi’s got me by the root!
He’d considered a dozen light-hearted, witty things to say when she arrived, but as she slid to the ground and into his arms with the grace of a feline, she looked up at him with those glorious eyes.
“Beloved,” she whispered.
He couldn’t think of a damned word to say. So he kissed her.
He didn’t remember much after that, not for a while, and what he did recall was accompanied by the most amazing feelings as he felt the delicious creature melt into his arms like an affectionate pet. Her face nuzzled every inch of his as his mouth sought to confine the shape of her lips to eternal memory.
There were words spoken, but no sentences, not until Gatina’s slender hands pushed him away.
“We must pause, if only for a moment,” she insisted, breathless. “Let me see to the horse and then we can enjoy our reunion properly.”
“I’ll handle the horse,” he volunteered. “You must have been on the road a long time.”
“I love to ride,” she confessed, stretching her back in a most casual manner. And entirely captivating. “The country is beautiful, this time of year.”
“There’s a basin and ewer just inside,” he called, as he took the reins and led the gentle beast back to an overhang behind the cottage. He found a sack of oats on the saddlebag, and tied it on to the horse before he unsaddled it and took Gatina’s small baggage inside.
“I love it!” she assured him, before his eyes adjusted to the light. “Did it come this way?”
She had shed her dark mantle and unbuttoned her gown, and was washing her face in the pretty ceramic basin that the castellan of Rolone Castle didn’t have any more.
“It’s lovely,” she sighed, as she patted her face dry with a towel. “Charming, even. Oh, Rondal, I have missed you so!”
“I’ve missed you, too,” he replied, sincerely. “Since I’ve last seen your pretty eyes, I’ve been in two wars,” he realized. “Nothing too serious – although Lorcus is now Lord Lorcus of a surprisingly large part of Sashtalia,” he admitted. “But I delivered the message from your father to the Duke, and have his reply,” he said, taking the sealed scroll from his bag. “I don’t know the specifics, but in general Anguin is thrilled that he has such an able supporter, and wishes to establish a more direct relationship.”
“What do you mean?” Gatina asked, taking the letter.
“I mean that Anguin has authorized me and Tyndal to spy on the south, and prepare it against the day he returns,” Rondal said, hopefully. “He wishes to begin the process by finding out who would support his restoration, and who is against it . . . and why.”
“That should be easy enough,” Gatina nodded thoughtfully. “Daddy knows most of it already.”
“Excellent! Which brings me to the next point: will House Salaines act as the eyes of Anguin, here? Tyndal and I are really great at breaking things, but we need someone subtle enough to gather information without garnering suspicion. Finally,” he said, grinning, “I have a gift for you.”
Gatina might have been an adept thief, a talented professional mage, and a noblewoman with a very clear sense of her own destiny . . . but when she heard about a gift, she behaved like a little girl, clapping her hands excitedly.
Rondal presented it to her: a small silver ring cunning wrought to resembled two cats playing. It was Karshak-make, specially ordered from the jeweler in Sevendor. He’d even fitted each cat’s eye with a tiny sliver of amethyst.
“Oh, Rondal, it’s beautiful!” she said, her pretty eyes growing wide.
“It’s more than that,” he assured her, drinking in her appreciation. “I had a friend enchant it. It has a couple of features, but most importantly it has two hoxter pockets associated with it.”
“Hoxter . . . pockets?” she asked, confused.
“Extra-dimensional spaces,” he tried to explain. “Like a magical bubble on the surface of the magosphere . . . or something like that. I’m not enough of a thaumaturge to understand it, but it might be the most useful bit of magic to come out of this resurgence.”
“What does it do?” she asked, intrigued.
“First, fetch your blade,” he instructed her, and she obediently took the slender, deadly-sharp sword from her baggage and presented it to Rondal with some ceremony.
“This is Kitten’s Claws,” she said, stroking the blade lovingly. “Daddy had it specially made, when I demonstrated an interest in swordplay. I’ve practiced with it every day since I was six.”
Rondal took the blade with reverence. “When you need to get rid of this thing – say, the town watch is coming and it’s dripping with blood – then merely find affinity with the ring and pronounce the mnemonic . . . urpa,” he said, activating the spell. The blade disappeared.
Gatina’s eyes got much wider. “What did you do with my sword?” she demanded.
“You try!” he said, pushing the ring onto her finger. “Just do what I said. ‘Urpa’ is—”
“Old Cormeeran for ‘claw’, I know,” she said, as she held the pretty ring out on her hand. “Urpa!” she invoked. When the sword appeared, she snatched it out of the air. “That’s incredible!” she said, beaming broadly. “This thing can be problematic, when you’re running around on rooftops! Now I don’t have to worry about it!”
“There’s more,” he assured her, taking his coin pouch off of his belt and laying it upon the table. “Hold your hand over it, and then activate it with the word ‘anat’ – ‘gone’ – and . . .” he said, holding her wrist. She concentrated for just a moment and whispered the word. The purse disappeared.
“See?” he said, excitedly. “You can steal up to fifty pounds of just about anything that isn’t alive, and never have it on you if you’re searched.”
“That . . . is amazing!” she said, her eyes filled with wonder. “Do you have any idea how this could revolutionize the larceny profession?”
“I thought you’d appreciate it,” Rondal said, glowing with her admiration. “I have one for Atopol, too, but not as pretty.” He didn’t mention the other function of the ring. Under the amethyst in the cat’s eye was a tiny Waystone. Now Rondal could find and come to Gatina wherever they might be. Only he, Gareth, and the lapidary were aware of it – he hadn’t even told Tyndal.
It wasn’t because he was obsessed with Gatina, he told himself; it was a matter of operations and security. Being able to come to (and possibly rescue) an agent was a dramatic advantage in their new espionage organization.
“There are other things, too,” he assured her. “Sympathy stones, some specialized wands, a few new dahman, and a large amount of documents we’ve recovered about the Brotherhood. If your father is agreeable, I’d like for him to locate a headquarters for the effort.”
“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” she agreed. “Daddy has several safe houses. He encourages all of us to have them, and caches for weapons and supplies, secret ident
ities, accounts with goldsmiths and temples, all sorts of things. It actually takes a lot of overhead to be a professional thief at our level,” she said, philosophically. “But you really saw the Duke?”
“And will again, I’m sure,” Rondal nodded. “Now that the rest of us High Magi can use the Alkan Ways – at least the score of us who have Alkan witchstones – we don’t have to spend all that time riding and trudging across country.”
“So . . . you just . . . go away, and then come back somewhere else?” she asked, trying to understand how the spell worked.
“Something like that,” he agreed. “It should make things very convenient. And very inconvenient for our enemies.”
“I can see that,” she nodded, approvingly. “Oh, Ron, you’ve brought such wonders into our lives! Into my life!”
He almost trembled as he accepted her kisses.
“Let’s have luncheon,” he said, finally pushing her off. “You must be tired and hungry after your long ride.”
“Do you honestly think I rode nearly sixty miles through Rhemes to have lunch, Sir Rondal?” she accused.
As he quickly discovered, no, she did not.
The two lovers spent much of the next day going through the protocols and codes they’d prepared for the effort, as well as speaking about the proposed heist of the Brotherhood’s treasury. They traded outrageous suggestions for hours as they grappled with the problem. With the preliminary information Gatina had been able to learn about the place, the idea began to fade. The Mudfort, as the Rats called it, was widely suspected as the location of the secret vault, and it was in the middle of a swampy island in the middle of a treacherous lake in one of the poorest and most destitute regions of Enultramar.
The more Rondal and Gatina talked about it, the less and less likely it seemed that anyone would be able to break into the heavily-guarded complex, break into the vault, and remove any significant amount of coin.
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 35
