“Whether you fight or not is meaningless,” dismissed Ocajon. “You could even slay this body, and I would be returned to consciousness on the morrow in one better suited. Fight, or not, as you wish. The outcome will be the same.”
“Then why in six hells did you come here tonight?” Rondal demanded.
“To see if what Prikiven said about your inane squabblings are true, and it is. You brawl over toys like drunken Tal Alon over roots. You will present little challenge to conquest. That is what I shall report to my Master at Olum Seheri.”
“Best you be on your way, then,” Rondal said, thrusting the air meaningfully in his direction. “I would hate to tarry such an important errand.”
“Fool,” spat Ocajon . . . who faded out of existence. He’d taken the Alkan Ways, Rondal realized. The Enshadowed were Alka Alon, after all – even in their human bodies they would have knowledge of how to use their ancient method of magical transport.
Rondal was just as glad that he was gone. Gatina was taking out the tower’s guards as quickly as they struggled past Gareth’s angry coat racks, while Tyndal fought his protracted duel with Pratt. A few stragglers remained to see the result of the contest, but almost all of the bidders had fled.
Except for Iyugi, Rondal saw. The swarthy footwizard had taken the opportunity to speak a few words to the man, and after a brief exchange Whiskers nodded, and whatever business they’d had was concluded.
We’re ready, now, Iyugi reported to Rondal, mind-to-mind.
What was all that about? Rondal replied, as he readied another spell. Gatina was watching his back like a ferocious predator, keeping the Rats out of reach as Jenerard screamed in pain on the floor in front of her.
We had a sale, here, Iyugi reminded him. That sale was completed, and the details were set before the fight broke out. I was merely ensuring that the terms of the deal were set with a responsible party before we left.
What do you mean? Rondal asked, confused.
We are owed a hundred and sixty thousand ounces of gold, minus their commission, for the completed sale of the witchstones, he pointed out, as Rondal selected the targets for a spell with Bulwark’s eager assistance. I wanted to make certain we were paid, as agreed. As Lord Whiskers backed the guarantee of funds with the Brotherhood, I felt it best to secure the deal before we departed. I told him where to send it. A friend of mine in Vaxel will accept it, for now, until we are ready to collect it.
The Iris has that much coin laying around? Rondal asked, suspiciously.
They do not seem as obsessed with security as the Brotherhood, Iyugi explained. That is one reason they look down upon the Rats. In my experience, one may depend more on the word of an Irisman than the solemn vow of a lord.
As a lord, I should resent that, Rondal chuckled, as he fixed the last target in the room. But I trust your judgement. They did get away with the stones, he admitted. You should be paid for that.
And the Brotherhood will be indebted to the Iris for those funds, the footwizard agreed. In order to repay them, they will have to dig deeply into their treasury.
All right, Rondal sent back. I’m ready for the big finish. Prepare yourselves.
When he activated the spell, a wave of energy emitted from the baculus in his hand, and each target he had specified to Bulwark fell to the floor, instantly asleep.
Except for Rellin Pratt.
To Rondal’s surprise, Pratt resisted the effects of the spell entirely, and continued to fight with Tyndal with the same ferocity with which he began. There were already two wounds on his cheek and arm, to the one smear of blood behind Tyndal’s ear, but both men seemed heavily invested in the contest. He would leave them to it, for now – he hated to deprive Tyndal of the fun.
Besides, he had his own business to conduct, in the brief moments he had available.
“Kitten, watch my back,” he instructed Gatina.
“Always, Beloved,” she assured, as she took up a strong but graceful guard position. Rondal didn’t spare her more than a quick smile before he strode over to the startled-looking Lord Whiskers, keeping warily away from his winged reptile, and gave a short bow.
“My lord, thank you for joining us for this evening’s entertainment,” he said. “I do hope it has been worth your while.”
Lord Whiskers, when he realized he was not in danger from the wizard, sheathed his rapier.
“It was nicely done,” he admitted. “I didn’t make you as who you were until the auction was over. My oversight. Someone just wasn’t paying close attention because they were distracted by the buffet,” he said, staring at his reptilian pet accusingly. “I assume you planted the stones to begin with?”
“Iyugi and Gareth are loyal retainers of the Spellmonger,” Rondal admitted. “They volunteered to help the Order in this mission. We took your advice. Posing as thieves with such a prize was the easiest way to get within the inner workings of the Brotherhood, and strike them at the top of their organization.”
“I’d say it was a qualified success,” ventured Whiskers. “I am obligated to enforce my part in this, and will pay out the gold. Once that happens, then I’m afraid I can’t honor any other claim to those stones,” he said, apologetically. “These Rats might be clumsy buffoons, but they deal fairly with the Iris.”
“I would expect nothing less, Lord Whiskers,” agreed Rondal. “And I expect that you will rigorously pursue repayment from the Brotherhood?”
The man’s face split in a wicked smile beneath his mustache. “You can count on it. Jenerard pledged some seriously important assets as collateral for this deal. If they don’t pay within terms, the Iris is going to take a far more active role in the Brotherhood’s business.”
“That is all that we ask, then,” he said, with another bow. “Duke Anguin’s writ included only the Brotherhood in its scope, not the Iris or its agents. You are free to go, my lord.”
“How gracious,” Whiskers said, raising his eyebrow. “I will ensure the gold is paid. And I count our business done. Farewell, Sir Rondal.”
With that he gingerly stepped between the angry coat racks still defending the staircase and pushed his way through the Rats who were trying to defeat them. Strangely, neither construct appeared to notice him.
Rellin Pratt, on the other hand, was keenly aware that nearly all of the support he’d begun with in the room was now on the floor, asleep, wounded, or dead. He could not disengage with Tyndal without ceding a dangerous advantage, and he could not flee without doing so. His strokes and parries became more desperate, though his limbs showed no sign of slowing. Rondal admired the way he managed his swordplay, despite himself.
“Tyndal!” he called out. “Do you need help?”
“No, he doesn’t!” Pratt screamed, as he backed away from the rest of them toward a window. “You bastards have interfered for the last time! You nearly ruined everything!” His scimitar continued to threaten Tyndal, who was almost toying with the other man’s blade.
As he reached for his belt Rondal figured he would draw his own Rat’s Tail. . . but instead he took a ball of finely-linked chain from a pouch and flicked his wrist. The chain unrolled to the length of at least six feet, and Rondal could tell as it unfurled that there was something magical about it. At the end of the length was a cluster of nasty-looking hooks and blades. The pirate began swinging the chain expertly with his left hand while he continued fighting with his right.
In a flash he flicked the chain and it wrapped itself around Tyndal’s mageblade, near the guard of the weapon. It only took a tug to pull Tyndal off balance, and for a horrified moment Rondal could see the opening that Pratt would use to cleave his partner’s head from his shoulders with his scimitar. And there was no time and too much distance for him to intervene.
But Tyndal was not undefended. As he stumbled he also summoned his own baculus, Grapple, as he let go of his blade entirely, which threw Pratt off-balance, too. He swiftly used the butt of the rod to steady himself and keep from falling, and then whirled q
uickly to face his foe with it in his hands.
For Pratt’s part, he had been unprepared for Tyndal to let loose of his sword so quickly, and the blade came slinging back at him, forcing him to dodge out of the way and loose his own balance. As his hand went to the floor automatically, he turned the fall into a roll, and quickly found himself ten feet from his opponent, near one of the wide windows installed in the keep after its defensive nature was diminished.
“You will not keep me from my stone!” he declared, hoarsely, before he threw himself out of the window and into the darkness.
“Well, that was dramatic,” Tyndal said, as they all ran to the window to see what had befallen the pirate. As he feared, there was no sign of him on the rocks below. “Does he always have to do that sort of thing? It’s annoying!”
“Shadowmage,” Rondal shrugged. “They’re a little annoying just for practicing shadowmagic.”
“Hey!” Kitten objected, behind him, as she cleaned off Paws.
Rondal ignored her. “Don’t worry about him,” he sighed. “He wasn’t our main target. And now he’s in way, way over his head with the Brotherhood. He has to come up with that coin or they’ll come after his head.”
“What was that about his cargo?” asked Tyndal, searching the area. “Didn’t he say he had prisoners worth that much? Ah!” he said, finding the parchment in Jenerard’s belt.
“What about Jenerard?” Iyugi asked, glancing to where he’d left the Rat slumped after a sudden but non-lethal arcane attack from behind. “Our host was quite polite, but leaving him alive seems a poor choice of strategy.”
“Are you kidding?” Gareth snorted. “He’s absolutely screwed! He’s into the Iris for a huge amount, and he has to pay that. His big night was a big disaster, he has ensured the repayment of all of their stolen deposits – also borrowed from the Iris – and half of his allies are going to think twice before attending another one of his parties after news of this gets out. He’s lost a dozen profitable businesses along the river, and now he has to show up to the rebel council with a face full of wounds with nothing to show. No, I wouldn’t want to take the man out of a position he’s worked so hard to get into!”
“We would be doing him a favor by killing him,” Tyndal admitted, grudgingly, as he unfurled the paper. “I wonder what the rest of the Rat Council will do when they find out about this disaster.”
“You can count on a long and thorough review process,” Iyugi grinned, displaying far more teeth than normal people did.
“Conversely,” Tyndal said, his face troubled, “they’ll hail him as a hero and invite him to join the council. Look at this manifest!” he demanded, thrusting the paper in front of Rondal’s nose.
He read the scrawled manifest reluctantly, at first, until he got to the fateful name. Then all of the blood drained out of his face. He hurriedly stashed the parchment into a hoxter, trying to forget, for the moment, what it said. He was not here to deal with that. Nor did he have the resources to. The most he could do was bring it to the attention of the proper people.
“All right,” Rondal sighed, as he watched the Rats try to use a chair against the angry hat racks facing them, without much success. “Eventually they’re going to get up here. Let’s collect our things and head back to the Rat Trap. I, for one, feel the need for a drink after this busy night.”
“And a rest before we finish the mission,” Tyndal agreed, stretching his back muscles after his extended sword fight. He picked up the mageblade and as an afterthought grabbed the chain that had robbed him of it. “We have a day or so. What say we spend it spending some of our loot in Sevendor’s market?”
As extravagant as it sounded, Rondal knew that they had a day or so before they could continue the plan to its conclusion. He glanced at Gatina – she’d never been to Sevendor, he realized. She’d never even been transported through the Ways before. He looked forward to showing her the majestic sights of the mageland he called home.
“Yeah, let’s go,” he said, tiredly. “I need sleep, food, and yes, a drink.”
“There is one thing that will disturb you, Rondal,” Iyugi said, seriously. “Before the goblin scurried away in the fight, he was particularly interested in all who wanted to bid on the witchstones.”
“It seems like a reasonable piece of intelligence,” Rondal agreed.
“It was why he sought them out that was disturbing,” the footwizard said, grimly. “He was particularly interested in those parties who he didn’t feel had sufficient funds to successfully compete . . . as if he had an alternative for them.”
“An . . . alternative?” Tyndal asked, warily.
“Yes. I make my trade on discovering secrets, my friends; I can no more help learning them than I can breathe. This gurvan has a secret: I believe he is planning on arming those who desire them with witchstones. Witchstones from the trove of Sheruel the Dead God, and therefore bathed in the taint of his malevolence.”
“Ishi’s tits!” Tyndal burst out. “He can’t do that!”
“He will,” Iyugi insisted. “He plans it out already, and the pieces are in position, in his mind. This sale merely allowed him to survey the market of those he wished to bargain with, so it served his purpose.”
“Can you imagine what some of those people would do with those stones?” asked Gareth, shaking his head. “Censors, swamp witches, assassins, shadowmagi—”
“Hey!” repeated Gatina, upset.
“It would be a disaster,” agreed Rondal, ignoring the Kitten of Night’s objections. “But now is not the time to discuss it. Are we ready?”
“Atopol is in the boat, off the coast,” reported Gatina, still irritated by Gareth’s slight. “He did an outstanding job of eliminating the sentries and picking up the loot. He’ll be at the pick-up point in a few hours.”
“Then let’s head back to Sevendor,” Rondal said, preparing the songspell as the other magi did likewise. “A pillow is starting to sound even more alluring than a bottle.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Grand Heist
The Brotherhood of the Rat stood as a mere nuisance for many years, their fortunes waxing and waning with those of the rest of the Great Bay; yet after the arrival of the Narasi and the settlement of the Great Vale the Brotherhood’s fortunes took a decided turn for the better, due to their involvement with the slave trade. As villeins and peasants were lured north toward lucrative and bountiful lands, the orchards and fields of the south still required labor, which the Sea Lords supplied from their seasonal raids.
While the practice was official condemned and prescribed by edict of the Counts of Falas (now, the Dukes of Alshar), the dire necessity for labor provided a market for these slaves that the Brotherhood took a large hand in supplying. Every ship full of captives who made port on the Bay eventually sold their hapless cargo to their agents, who in turn re-sold them to the plantations and estates. Only when the Sea Dukes began to take an active interest in foreign trade was the government pressured to stop the trade. Unfortunately, prescription did not end the practice, but instead provided more incentive for profit for those who risked the relatively small penalties. But for over two hundred years every slave sold in the market profited the Brotherhood, who invested that blood coin in other insidious industries, much to the despair of the Dukes.
A Secret History of Alshar
Rondal was relieved to awaken in his own bed, in his own house, in his own land the next morning. The stress and anxiety of planning and executing this mission had taken a larger toll on him than he realized.
He had slain more men in battle on his way down the river than he ever had on the battlefield, and many of those faces were starting to haunt him. Slaying non-humans was distasteful, but easier for his mind to hold. Killing his fellow men always made Rondal feel sorrowful, and those melancholy thoughts were prone to strike in the mornings more than other times.
The Rat Trap was bulging with guests, he realized. Iyugi was already awake, with a hot kettle and a smolderin
g pipe in front of the fire, when Rondal went downstairs. He nodded to the young mage without speaking, content to stare at the fire.
Gatina was already awake, he was surprised to see. He was even more surprised that she had made him breakfast.
“You barely had anything in the house,” the white-haired girl accused him, as she stirred a pot of porridge on the table. “What do mage knights live on? Glory?”
“Wine, spirits, and cheap inn food,” Gareth replied before Rondal could come up with a witty response. “Their habits are deplorable, their arrogance unbounded. But sometimes an association with them can bring fortune. I woke up this morning and realized I was rich,” he admitted, his eyes a bit glassy.
“And hungover,” Rondal chided, throwing the wizard an apple from the table.
“Hungover and rich,” Gareth corrected, taking a seat next to the fire. “Gods, I forgot how chill the autumn is in the Riverlands after being in Enultramar a few weeks!”
“It is not yet autumn,” Iyugi corrected, around his long pipe. “We are a month shy of the equinox.”
“It’s still too damn cold,” Atopol said, from a bundle of blankets on a tick on the floor. Rondal hadn’t noticed him – one of the traits of a good shadowmage, he was starting to realize. “How do you people contend with winter, when it gets this cold in summer?”
Tyndal had gone to the Waypoint Iyugi planted with his friend in Vaxel – who turned out to be a merchant captain running a fleet of four small ships across the Great Bay – and brought him and the stolen gold he’d rowed away from Brisomar back with them. It was stacked in a triumphant pile in the upper chamber, now.
“They drink!” Gareth declared. “And bundle up into shapeless blobs. I much preferred the . . . less restrictive clothing of the folk of Enultramar,” he said, thoughtfully.
“The maidens, at least,” Iyugi grunted. “He spent half the time at the inn watching the maidens bathing in the surf.”
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 45
