Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  I was just thinking that, agreed Rondal.

  The young man spoke, his voice high-toned but strong.

  “I am Lord Rellin Pratt, nephew of Orril Pratt,” he announced. “My line has long been associated with—”

  “Enough, already!” spat the elder Censor. “We didn’t come to be entertained with your lineage! Just look at the damned stones and tell us if they’re authentic!”

  “Of course, my lords,” Pratt said, bowing a second time. He turned and nodded, and Jenerard opened the box. Pratt examined them closely by eye, and then held his hand up over them. Rondal could see the spell activate, through magesight. Pratt stood and turned, dramatically.

  “The stone on the right is the one I took from Sir Tyndal, at Inrion Academy,” he announced. “The one of the left is its match, likely taken from Sir Rondal.”

  “If you had the thing in hand two years ago, why give it back to him?” asked Lord Whiskers, pointedly.

  “I was interrupted in my getaway by an unfortunate and unforeseen nuisance,” he replied, casually. “Though I dealt with it, it gave Sir Tyndal the opportunity to slink off with his stone while I was otherwise occupied. At that point I was revealed, and could not pursue him as I’d intended.”

  Lord Whiskers snorted, evidently detecting the truth of the matter beyond Rellin’s self-serving tale.

  “Aren’t the original owners of these stones seeking them still?” asked an amused voice with a thick Great Vale accent asked. “I’ve heard they’ve created a frightful mess, coming down the Mandros. The river is simply full of dead rats,” he pronounced, with a mixture of horror and delight.

  “Lord Chursa, while it is true they are searching for the thieves, I assure you that the tales of their brutal attacks are quite exaggerated,” he said. “Without their stones, they are no stronger than any other warmage. And they are still marching toward the bay, hundreds of leagues from here. I assure you, the winner of the stone can be long gone before those two buffoons appear to trouble you . . . and what if they did? With this kind of power, you could crush them like rotten fruit!” he said, miming the proposal with his hands in dramatic fashion.

  “The stones are authentic, as represented,” pronounced the Spider, who had said nothing to this point. “The box will be included with the highest bid for either stone,” he added.

  “It’s pure snowstone,” agreed Jenerard, with the enthusiasm of a market barker. “A lovely piece of rare Karshak craftsmanship bearing the Spellmonger’s own device on the lid. I don’t have to tell you lords and ladies what snowstone can do: it dramatically increases the effectiveness of magic within its proximity, an incredible bonus for the lucky winner.”

  “Start the bidding!” came an impatient call from the back of the room. “I’m growing into my dotage, here!”

  “We shall,” agreed Jenerard. “As soon as we go over the rules of the event: bids will be in one-thousand ounce increments – gold, not silver – and all accounts will be settled before the merchandise is delivered. My own organization has agreed to act as impartial broker,” he added. “For a slight fee, we are facilitating this entire sale. Now, we will start the bidding on the left stone – the Rondal Stone, it shall be known as. We will begin at five thousand sandolars . . . six thousand . . . eight thousand . . .”

  Within the space of five heartbeats, Rondal saw the price of his former witchstone climb. In his mind he kept equating it with costs he could appreciate: how much for a small manor, a large manor, a grand estate, a domain, a barony . . . when it got too far for him to be able to translate, he capitulated to the rhythm of the auction. Indeed, he got caught up in it enough to bid twice for the stone, once at eleven thousand, and once at seventeen thousand. When the price climbed above fifty-thousand, he kept his mouth shut. There was no way he could credibly pretend to represent that much wealth.

  But apparently someone could. As the price climbed above sixty thousand golden sandolars, the bids settled out between the strange woman from the swamps and a veiled wizard dressed in Coastlord garb several degrees richer than Rondal’s own.

  Finally, the wizard won out, when the witch from the swamps could not match his price.

  “We have a winner!” announced Jenerard, gleefully, as there was a chorus of gasps of frustration followed by polite applause. “The attendants will meet with you in the other chamber, my lord, to arrange payment details. Now, for our second and slightly larger prize . . . shall we skip the preliminaries and begin at twenty thousand sandolars?”

  The bidding escalated almost as quickly as the first time, but the players were far more careful and deliberate in how much and how they bid, now that the main prize was in play. Five times Rondal bid on Tyndal’s old stone, but he was swiftly outbid each time. When the tally climbed to match the first stone, and kept climbing, Rondal kept quiet and watched who was bidding, and how much.

  Once again, the swamp witch was aggressive, but this time she was being countered by both the Censorate and the representative of the Lord of Storms, who seemed unconcerned by the price as it rose.

  But then a familiar voice cut through the auctioneer’s patter.

  “One hundred thousand gold sandolars!” announced Rellin Pratt, with especial delight.

  Every head turned to face the man, once again. Lord Jenerard looked at him skeptically, as if he was a boy pretending to be a man amongst his elders.

  “Lord Pratt, is it my understanding you have secured sufficient funds to purchase this stone?” he asked. “It was just weeks ago that there was a price on your own head, for what was done at Galvina!”

  “That was the apprentices, not me – I think that’s clear now,” Pratt answered, angrily. “And my fortunes have changed like the tides since then. I had a particularly profitable summer raiding,” the young shadowmage preened, handing the leader of the Brotherhood of the Rat a scroll of parchment. “Here is my galleon’s manifest, including a list of the prisoners I took at sea. If one totals the estimated ransoms, I think you will find that I likely have far more than the stated price.”

  Jenerard continued to look skeptical as he opened the parchment, but as he read down the list his eyes grew wide. The head Rat looked up at the pirate.

  “This is authentic?” His face was pale under the stubble of his cheeks.

  “My word as a Brother,” Pratt assured. “Note the seal from Seabrother Afilat attesting to the truth of the matter. They are in my keep, even now, awaiting disposition. That’s why I returned ahead of the rest of the fleet,” he explained.

  Jenerard looked troubled, and his chin was quivering, now. “Lord Pratt has secured the winning bid,” he pronounced, though it appeared to pain him to do so. “Thank you, my lords and ladies,” he continued, quickly, “we appreciate your attendance and hope you will consider participating in our future auctions . . . some of which might prove even more interesting than this one.”

  “Give me my stone,” demanded Pratt, resolutely holding out his palm.

  “Not until the debt is settled,” insisted Jenerard, in a low voice. “When the . . . when you have gold in hand to pay, you get the loot. You know the rules!”

  “You know the value of my cargo!” Pratt exploded. “Give me what is mine and you can have the lot!”

  “When gold is in hand, then you get the loot!” Jenerard repeated, with exaggerated care.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded the senior Censor. “What does the lad have, a golden prick in his pants? Why does he get shown such preference? I smell duplicity!”

  “It is unfair of you to allow us all to come all this way, merely to award the stone to one of your own, Jenerard!” accused the swamp witch, angrily, her arms crossed judgmentally under her bosom.

  “Your customers appear to be unhappy, my lord,” observed Lord Whiskers to the Spider.

  “They will be content,” assured the slender man. “If they are not, then they will be dealt with.”

  “Orril Pratt’s nephew just bought a witchstone?” asked
one Sea Lord mage, ruefully, as the crowd of disappointed losers began to break up. “The bloody world’s about to come apart, then!”

  Rellin ignored the taunt, still staring at Jenerard, who was not wavering. Then Rondal watched as the Spider appeared at his colleague’s elbow.

  “Until the debt is settled, Pratt, we keep the stones in trust,” he insisted with a grave voice. “No sooner. Find yourself a buyer, Lord Pratt. Bring us the coin. Then you’ll get your stone.”

  “And the box,” Pratt was quick to remind him.

  “Yes, and your pretty box, too,” the Spider said, indulgently.

  “And where shall you keep it?” the young pirate asked, suspiciously.

  “In the Vault, where your gold will sit, when it is safely delivered,” pronounced Jenerard, gaining confidence. “If you can make good on your promise and actually turn this ransom, that is,” he added, darkly. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, you young fool?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

  “I did what all great mariners do,” he said, defiantly. “I took what I wished on the open seas, as the Storm Father bids!”

  “And taken us to the brink of war as a result!” Jenerard said, darkly.

  What the hells are they talking about? asked Tyndal, impatiently.

  It sounds like Rellin caught himself a couple of fat Remeran merchants, guessed Rondal. At least four or five, to be able to come up with that kind of coin in ransoms.

  I wonder if they’d pay half that much for a rescue? Tyndal speculated.

  “My lords,” Rondal said, interrupting the conversation, “is it my understanding that this man does not have sufficient coin? If that is the case, I demand you re-open bidding at once!” Being so close to Pratt and not driving a knife into his throat was a personal victory, he decided.

  “I’m afraid that is not how it works, Lord Birchroot,” the Spider said, moving between Jenerard and Rondal. “Lord Pratt and Lord Chursa will be permitted precisely two moons to raise the balance of their bids. Until that time, they are assumed the owners, and the Brotherhood is merely protecting the merchandise.”

  “What about our gold?” demanded Iyugi, suddenly.

  “We will have it for you shortly,” agreed Jenerard, tiredly.

  “From what I figure, you owe us about one hundred twenty-eight thousand ounces of gold,” Gareth insisted, pointing to his palm. “And ‘shortly’ doesn’t do us much good when those two maniacs are coming for us!”

  “You are quite safe here, Lord Gareth,” the Spider said, his voice thick with the promise of violence. “They are hundreds of miles away, by all accounts. You are on an island fortress surrounded by warriors. In a few days you will depart with all—”

  “You don’t understand!” Gareth said, interrupting his host rudely, “we don’t have a few days! In a few days they will be here! You don’t know them like I do,” he said, warningly. “They’ll tear this fortress apart, looking for their stones! And anyone they think is hiding them!”

  “The stones are already on their way to our most secure vaults, my lords,” Jenerard said, dismissively. “I’m certain we can arrange for a quick transfer of funds, say through the temple of your choice—”

  “Screw a bloody temple!” Gareth wailed. “I don’t want a letter of credit! I want what was promised, my gold!”

  “We are reasonable men,” Iyugi said, looking at the two head Rats sorrowfully. “If you cannot pay us what we are owed by tomorrow, dawn, we will take back our stones and find another buyer.”

  “And don’t think we couldn’t,” added Gareth, warningly. Of course the warning did little good, coming from the fragile-looking man. “If we’ve kept ahead of Tyndal and Rondal, we can sure as three hells take back those stones!”

  “My lords!” Jenerard said, raising his voice. “There is no need for this acrimony! The Brotherhood made a pledge, and we will keep that pledge. Excuse me a moment and allow me to sort out a few details.”

  Why is he fretting so much, all of a sudden? Tyndal asked.

  Probably because there’s no way the Brotherhood has that kind of cash on hand, at least not here. It would have to come from that impossible-to-rob vault of theirs.

  Atopol did say that they restricted how much coin could come out of the vault at any one time, agreed Rondal. While he was thinking to his friend, he watched as Jenerard approached Lord Whiskers, who was feeding scraps from the buffet table to his lizard. While the short man with the bushy mustache looked annoyed, he finally relented, though it was clear he wasn’t pleased about it.

  “There,” Jenerard pronounced, as he rejoined Gareth and Iyugi. “I’ve arranged for your coin to be delivered to you by noon, tomorrow, at the inn you reserved in Vaxel. There will also be a sloop at your disposal at the docks. Please take advantage of it and leave Alshar behind, if you so fear these knights.”

  “They aren’t just knights,” Gareth explained, sulkily. “They’re . . . they’re like demons. They’re probably destroying every one of your installations as the go, aren’t they? Slaughtering dozens along the way? Humiliating you over and over again? They have no concept of moderation,” he continued, “they are reckless bullies and intemperate brawlers. And they are armed with powerful magic,” he said, heaving a great sigh. “Even without their stones, they are formidable. You just have no idea what kind of deviltry they’ve been working on in Sevendor!”

  He makes us sound so . . . proficient! Tyndal said.

  We do sound pretty vicious, agreed Rondal. But I hope he doesn’t build it up too much.

  “My lords,” came a gruff but familiar voice from behind him. “If you are unsatisfied with the result of the auction, there may be a way for you to find an alternative path.”

  The proposal came from the short figure in the burgundy doublet with curly black hair protruding from collar and cuff. The goblin, Prikiven, he realized. Despite himself, he sneered.

  “I doubt you have anything to offer me!” Rondal said, dismissing the creature. “If your sellers are not satisfied, my lord,” he spoke to Jenerard, haughtily, “then I’d like to collect my deposit and be on my way. This evening has been an entire waste of my time.”

  Before Jenerard could soothe an apparently irate customer, one of his aids came in and whispered urgently in his ear. The jowls of the senior crime lord shook with the news, and all the blood drained from his face.

  “What is it?” demanded Rondal. “Are we under attack?”

  “Attack?” asked the swamp witch, Bea Ahiga, alarmed. The Censors both put their hands on their mageblades.

  “No . . . no my lords and ladies . . .” he said, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow. “I’m afraid that due to . . . an unfortunate and unforeseen complication, your deposits . . . your deposits will be refunded at a later date.”

  “This is outrageous!” shouted the head Censor. “We deposited those funds with you in good faith!”

  “And in good faith you shall see it repaid,” Jenerard assured. “I am terribly sorry, but . . . but . . .”

  “Oh, bloody fookin’ hells!” moaned a voice from the back of the crowd. “It’s been nicked, hasn’t it? Someone broke in while you were waving your pecker around, and someone’s taken it, right?”

  “Someone stole . . . our coin?” asked the pale swamp witch, looking deeply offended.

  “This is outrageous!” Rondal repeated, even louder this time. “What kind of shoddy operation are you running here, Jenerard?” he demanded, putting more pressure on the Rat.

  “My lord . . . Birchroot,” the goblin continued, undeterred by his rejection. “If you will allow me to explain . . . wait . . .” the gurvan sniffed the air, then his expression changed. “I’m lousy with faces,” he said, in an amused tone worthy of a courtier. “I really am. Especially of humani faces. But I never forget . . . a scent. Particularly the scent of someone who spared my life.”

  “I . . . have we . . .?” Rondal stumbled.

  “Sir Rondal,” the goblin said, bowing low. “And this
must be . . . Sir Tyndal. Hiding among us, in plain sight.”

  There was a gasp amongst the bidders and their retainers, as the two were revealed. Rondal felt strong hands grab his arms, and someone was tugging his sword away from his belt. Tyndal’s hood was removed, and he looked around angrily.

  “Gods damn your goblin nose!” he spat at Prikiven. The goblin took it as a compliment, and bowed with all the courtesy of a courtier.

  “Tyndal . . . and Rondal?” asked Lord Jenerard, amused and delighted at the unexpected revelation. “The two who have caused us so much mischief?”

  “The Spellmonger’s apprentices!” hissed the swamp queen.

  “Journeymen, in our own right,” corrected Rondal, boldly. He didn’t resist the ungentle hands that pushed him in front of the leaders of the Brotherhood. “And knights magi of the Estasi Order. We’re new,” he said, hastily, as he received puzzled looks from around the room.

  “What have you done with our gold?” demanded one of the bidders.

  Tyndal snorted. “We care not for gold – we lost our own stake, remember? Speak to these idiots who kept it ‘safe’ for us, if you wish – they’re to blame. We want those stones!”

  “That is not going to happen,” declared Jenerard, angrily. “Do you have any idea what you two have done?”

  “Provided two witchstones that just netted the Brotherhood over a hundred thousand sandolars?” offered Rondal, helpfully.

  “Reduced your operating overhead for several marginally profitable operations?” suggested Tyndal.

  “You fools! You have . . . you have . . .”

  “Enough of this,” the Spider said, quietly . . . and Rondal noted how quickly Jenerard deferred to him. The big Rat was scared of the Spider, he realized. “You will be put to death slowly, once we take you back to the Mudfort and let the poppy witches go to work on you with flaying leeches and rusty blades,” he promised, studying each of them intently. “You will reveal how you stole all of that coin, among a great number of other things.”

  “What do you want to know?” asked Rondal, boldly. “We’re feeling incredibly communicative, at the moment.”