Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Only a select few were invited, my lord,” the Rats’ major domo replied, apologetically.

  “Well, if you do not want my gold . . .” Rondal said with a weary sigh, indicating to his “manservant” to turn around, “although if you didn’t want bidders, I don’t know why you bothered letting everyone in the Bay know about this thing!” he said, with just the right mixture of whining distress and indignation. It caught the man’s attention.

  “Of course we entertain all qualified bidders, my lord,” he said, emphasizing the ‘qualified’. Rondal gave a lazy nod to his hooded companion, who opened the chest he carried.

  Within was a variety of gold coins in various denominations, as well as some splendid jewelry and cut gemstones.

  “I believe this will cover it,” Rondal said, airily. “A little over four thousand ounces of gold, and nearly eight thousand ounces worth of precious stones and such. If it isn’t sufficient, I can arrange for more . . .”

  “That should easily qualify you, my lord,” the man said, suddenly taking Rondal far more seriously. “And my lord’s name? For the register . . .”

  “I am known as the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge,” Rondal said, with just a bit of caustic threat in his tone. “That is all you need to know, at the moment. I represent a number of interested parties in the eastern Coastlands who wish to acquire . . . rare and uncommon treasures,” he said, with purposeful ambiguity.

  “Then you have arrived at the perfect time, my lord Birchroot,” he said with a low bow. He nodded to two large fellows in mail, and they came to take the chest from Tyndal. They lurched as they tried to heft it. Without Tyndal’s augmented strength, he’d barely be able to lift it himself. They looked upon the silent bodyguard with new respect. “All bidders have their funds secured in common, to keep from any unwarranted interference,” he reported as his men took the gold away. “Should you fail to prevail at the auction,” he added, “most of your funds will be returned when you leave.”

  “Most?” Rondal asked, upset.

  “Minus a nominal fee, my lord,” the servant assured. “Merely covering our costs.”

  “I do not intend to lose, tonight,” Rondal said, firmly, his lips tight beneath his mask. “Indeed, I have been authorized a sizable line of credit by certain parties to ensure that I do not!”

  “You are in excellent company, then, Lord Birchroot,” the servant said, as he led the two of them upstairs to a wide hall. “Many of our clients have secured rather large sums to compete for the prize. May your fortunes prevail,” he added. “Feel free to mingle with your fellow bidders, while we prepare,” he invited Rondal, when they reached the head of the stairs. “Perhaps you might learn something of value as you do so, my lord,” he added, barely above a whisper, as Rondal caught the first sight of those who would purchase his old witchstone.

  Most obvious were the Censors, two of the Three in attendance in their long checkered cloaks and tall helms. It seemed as if the nervous-looking men (who, by all accounts, already had witchstones of their own) were concerned by the large number of other bidders on the merchandise, and were busily whispering to each other.

  There was a dark-looking man in gray garb, cut in a Sea Lord style, complete with a tiny golden Sea Axe around his neck: clearly a representative from the Priest of Storms, although why the cleric of a sea god wanted a witchstone was beyond Rondal. The man seemed very sure of himself, standing alone and watching every other person in the room carefully.

  Rondal recognized Lord Whiskers milling about with his odd little reptile pet on his shoulder. Though he was sure that Whiskers would not recognize him under his mask and spells of concealment, the little lizard thing turned in their direction and made a motion that reminded Rondal eerily of a cat smelling something familiar. Rondal hurriedly moved towards the other side of the room. This was no time to take chances with a premature discovery, he reasoned.

  There were others he noted, such a tall, gaunt-looking man in a dark gray robe, his eyes sunken and obscured in his cowl. A trio of priestesses in non-descript habits. A knot of mariners and mercenaries around the table where the wine and spirits were being served.

  A cluster of Coastlords proved to be a contingent of magically-descended families from the western parts of Rhemes, where many families had taken refuge after the Conquest. They seemed affluent enough, but also seemed more concerned in impressing each other than seriously considering the merchandise. Rondal skirted their edges, pretending to be one of their own by boorishly snubbing them while clinging to their identity. It worked like a spell. Tyndal’s intimidating presence and Rondal’s standoffishness convinced them that he was one of their own.

  After two or three mysterious bidders whose dress or language did nothing to inform Rondal of their origins asked him vague questions, he was surprised to come face to face with a very tall, very thin, very pale woman whose black hair spilled from her head like a waterfall. She approached him boldly, apparently sensing his special nature somehow.

  “I am Bea Nahiga,” she said, giving a low and graceful curtsey. She was wearing a black gown of a strange wrap-around cut, much at odds with the well-fitted styles of the Coast or the embellishments in Sea Lord dress. “Are you seeking the powers of the stones, too?” she asked, sounding like an enchanted little girl at the prospect.

  “Wizard of Birchroot Bridge,” Rondal nearly barked, as the woman’s charms did their best to distract him. Her eyes were wide and painted with shadows to accent their size. Her lips were full and red, and while her face had an angularity that belied traditional beauty, it had its own severe sort of allure. And her hair seemed to blend with the shadows behind her. But her boldly-exposed breasts nearly demanded attention in her tight-fitting laced gown. “From what province do you hail, my lady?” he asked, his words polite but his tone questing.

  “Oh, I am a simple witch from the great mires of the western shore,” she dismissed. “But my patrons have asked that I evaluate the merchandise the Brotherhood offers tonight.”

  “Your patrons?” Rondal asked, trying hard not to sound interested.

  “Merely some affluent associates who value my insights,” she said, shaking her head. “Such power as is in the stones could do great work, back amongst the swamps of Caramas.”

  “Or in the hands of proper wizards, in the east,” Rondal replied, with more than a hint of condescension toward the witch, as a snotty Coastlord mage might. “We are the ones who understand their use!”

  “The wonders of irionite are manifold,” came another voice from behind Rondal – one he did not expect. It was low, rough, gravelly, heavily accented . . . and unmistakably that of a gurvan. He turned around slowly, and tried to let the surprise come naturally to his face.

  “My gods! Have they opened the bidding to just anyone?”

  “Merely an interested observer my lord . . . Birchroot?” the goblin asked, with the formality of a courtier. “My associates invited me to witness this event. There are several such interested parties here this evening. As the stones were of gurvani origin, they thought it prudent to include me, to establish their authenticity.”

  “And just how did the . . . gurvani manage the feat?” demanded Rondal, secretly enjoying the role he was playing. It felt good to be pushy and entitled – was this how Tyndal felt, all the time? he wondered.

  “I am no priest, I’m afraid,” chuckled the goblin. He was wearing a dark burgundy doublet of velvet, with slops and tights, though he had not worn shoes on his large hairy feet. Apart from his stature, his ugly face, and the mat of wiry black hair that peaked out from under his finery, he could have been at court. “The technical details escape me. But my people are a lot more sophisticated than we are given credit.”

  “No doubt,” dismissed Rondal. “Are there other non-humans here, as well? One of the Sea Folk interested in rock collecting, perhaps?”

  “Oh, my lord jests!” the goblin said. “My name is Prikiven, my lord, an emissary for His Majesty, King of the Goblins. I
am touring your fair land to report back on the possibility of negotiating a peace between our peoples.”

  “A peace?” snorted Rondal, with far more sincerity than his role would have mustered, he realized. “And what would the cost of this peace be?”

  “Merely the cession of the scantly-peopled northern province to my folk,” Prikiven said, sounding completely reasonable. “Once we are assured that there will be no more attempt to defend them, then peace between our folk should evolve as a matter of course.”

  “Oh,” Rondal realized. “You wish Alshar to give up its claim to the Wilderlands.”

  “As you style them,” conceded Prikiven. “We see them as our ancient homeland. Surely you can understand the desire to reclaim that – as I understand your people’s desire to once more claim the Gilmoran territories,” he added, displaying a knowledge of local politics.

  “Why we would want either territory is beyond me,” Bea Ahiga declared. The witch looked at the goblin with amusement. “The Sea Lords want the Wilderlands for timber to build their ships, and the Coastlords look to Gilmora to fill their coffers. We have plenty of ships, more than we need, and we did well enough in the centuries before the Cotton Lands were part of Alshar.”

  “My lady is a scholar,” Prikiven noted, approvingly. “The situation beyond the Narrows is not, properly, in the interests of the people of this fair land. All it has done is involve the folk of Alshar in interminable wars of dubious value.”

  “You know our history, then?” asked Rondal, surprised.

  “Quite well,” agreed Prikiven, smiling jaggedly. “I’ve read quite a bit of your histories. Quite enlightening, though not always as accurate as one could wish.”

  “Goblins can read?” asked Bea Nahiga asked, amused and surprised.

  “Some of us can even dance, my lady, though not as well as you, I imagine,” the gurvan said, charmingly. He was even more eloquent than Gurkarl, Rondal noted. “My folk have taken an interest in Alshar since the period of invasion you refer to so drolly as ‘the goblin wars’. I, myself, studied with a number of monks until I could read both Narasi and Imperial with equal facility.”

  “I’ve even heard that the gurvani have their own written language,” one of the Censors – the younger of the two attending - observed.

  “That is true, though it is a crude and inelegant thing, by humani standards,” conceded Prikiven. “It is used only for chronicles and instructions amongst our priestly class. But come! As amusing as it is to share the idiosyncrasies of my culture, I am much more fascinated by yours! I feel that the gurvani kingdom and Alshar can achieve a great friendship, after we settle a few minor matters.”

  “Ceding the entire Wilderlands to invaders is not a minor matter,” contested the Censor. “As much as I despise what the Spellmonger has done, he was right to raise the banner of resistance in the Wilderlands when your folk invaded.”

  “We consider it a reclamation or restoration,” countered the goblin, reasonably. “But that is for greater heads than ours to puzzle out. I think—”

  Rondal didn’t get the chance to learn what the courtly goblin thought, because two of their hosts appeared then. The first was a slender man with delicate features, hard eyes, and dark hair, with no trace of a smile on his face, but who seemed intent on watching everything in the room. The other was certainly Jenerard, the Sea Lord who represented the Brotherhood on the rebel council and in what passed for a court in Enultramar. He was a somewhat scruffy-looking Sea Lord with just a bit too much belly and jowl to be considered handsome, though he was dressed as richly as a duke

  “My lords! My ladies!” Jenerard announced. “The last of our guests have just arrived and will be joining us momentarily. I assure you that your deposits are all safely under guard in the storeroom below, under heavy guard, though you are perfectly safe here in Brisomar. Now, if you will all join me in the upper chamber to inspect the merchandise and register your bids, we can display the merchandise and authenticate it before we get on with the auction.”

  The assembled guests dutifully put away their cups and glasses and followed the two men upstairs, to a slightly smaller chamber once used as the lord’s chamber of the tower. Now it was the Brotherhood’s meeting room, filled with chairs and couches, as well as a solitary trestle table on which a few items were displayed.

  I guess it’s time for us to go to work, Tyndal mentioned to Rondal, mind-to-mind. Look! There’s Iyugi and Gareth!

  Iyugi looks tired, Rondal noted, as they passed their two fellow wizards as they went upstairs. Gareth looks . . . well, he looks like Gareth might look if he was locked in a tower full of powerful killers.

  Doesn’t he know that nothing bad will happen with us around? Boasted Tyndal.

  I think he’s too smart for that to occur to him, Rondal replied. Now stay sharp. This is the big event. Either everything goes perfectly smoothly from here, or—

  --or things will go as they usually do, finished Tyndal.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Stones Of Brisomar

  During the early years of the Magocracy’s rule, the Counts of the Coastlands under the Lord of the Fields continued to expand their holdings and develop their fiefs even as the Sea Lords struggled for domination over the Great Bay. It was during the Second War of the Viscounts, when the eastern domains on the Bay under the leadership of the Viscounts of Brisomar, Vaxelles and Tauler went to war with the Viscounts of Petxina and Salmorra, that the Viscount of Salmorra invited a small fleet of his kin from Farise to take his colors.

  The Farisi pirates were not as lordly as the Sea Lords of Enultramar, and soon started raiding coastal settlements of friend and foe alike. When the eastern Viscounts complained to the Stormfather at Allengaria, the great and well-respected cleric gave an edict: only the Sea Lords could contend against each other for possession of the Bay; all other lords were foes.

  From that fateful decision the Viscounties of the Bay agreed to the Pact of Defense, and combined forces to drive off the Farisi before continuing their war between themselves like gentlemen.

  The Early History of Alshar

  The room was nearly silent as their hosts addressed them in the smaller upstairs chamber. First to speak was Count Jenerard. Next to him stood the slender dark haired man, who was then introduced as The Spider. A figure of quiet menace, who stared at the crowd while his colleague addressed them.

  “Welcome, my lords and ladies!” Jenerard said, clapping his hands together for their attention. The man had a definite charisma and an air of showmanship that was infectious. No wonder the late Duchess of Alshar had been enamored of him. “Welcome to Brisomar, and a once-in-a lifetime opportunity!

  “We have for your inspection and consideration tonight a pair of the rarest and most exquisite gemstones of power ever offered for sale. Two witchstones, purest irionite of the highest quality, free from taint, powerful items forbidden since the Conquest!” he said, making the two Censors wince.

  “We shall first display them, and verify their authenticity,” he continued, removing a small snowstone box, richly set with a variety of glittering stones in a snowflake pattern on its lid, from his sleeve. “The container itself is worth a fortune, my lords and ladies, pure unique snowstone crafted by Karshak hands in the famed mageland of Sevendor, at the behest of the Spellmonger himself!” he announced, dramatically. “Who knows what sinister purpose he originally had for them?”

  “Shut up and show us the stones!” demanded the elder Censor, impatiently. “We’re here already, godsdamnit, we don’t need to feel good about it!” There was a titter of laughter around the room. Lord Whiskers snorted at the old man’s crankiness. Even the lizard on his shoulder seemed amused.

  But Jenerard merely smiled, unwilling to let his salesmanship suffer. “Of course, my lord Censor! But I would be remiss in my duties if I did not establish the providence of the items. I shall not only reveal them, in all of their glory, but verify precisely which stones they are.”

 
“The Spellmonger got them from the gurvani,” one of the bidders said, gruffly, looking at the serene goblin in their midst. “On the battlefield,” he added, darkly.

  “And from there he distributed them to his henchmen,” Jenerard continued, smoothly. “Not a terribly bright lot, even for warmagi.”

  Rondal concealed any emotion he might betray, and did his best not to glance at Tyndal to see if he was showing similar resolve. That might arouse suspicion.

  “Indeed, one of them was so clumsy as to allow his stone to be stolen, briefly, a few years back. My lords and ladies, to verify the providence of this stone I present to you the thief who took it, Lord Rellin of House Pratt!”

  Rondal couldn’t help but stiffen – but then so many others were craning their necks to see the young pirate enter the chamber that he doubted anyone noticed.

  Striker! Tyndal nearly yelled into Rondal’s mind. Isn’t he supposed to be out at sea with the rest of the fleet? What in nine hells is he doing here?

  I don’t know! Shut up and listen, and whatever you do, don’t react! One wrong move and we’re in a fight with Pratt, and considering who would be backing him, I doubt we’d win it.

  Point taken, Tyndal said, after a tense moment. I still want to stomp his face into the floor.

  Rellin strode boldly amongst the rich and powerful of Alshar, those with power in quest for more, with the bravado of a captain astride the deck of his own ship. The arrogance was palpable, and despite his weather-worn mariner’s leathers and thick-bladed scimitar, it was difficult to take him as much more than a cocky punk with more bravado than sense.

  A sudden thought occurred to Rondal. He’s our age. Is that what people think of us, when we walk into a room?

  Before his mind could provide an answer he didn’t think he wanted to hear, Pratt commanded the attention of the room with an overly-flamboyant bow that sent his mantle into the air around him.

  Pratt’s a shadowmage, Tyndal reminded him, unnecessarily.