Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “We finished our mission,” Tyndal stated, flatly. “And now we’re going to leave you here to explain how all of the gold disappeared. Feel free to blame it on us. I’m certain your fellows in the Brotherhood will believe you.”

  “They’ll . . . kill me,” he gasped, sliding to the floor, his eyes wide in panic. “They’ll assume that I stole it – only five of us can even get down here – and I’m the only one in almost a month! As soon as they find out, they’ll think . . . they’ll think that I did it!”

  “Because no one would ever believe that two buffoons like us,” Tyndal said, indicating himself and Rondal, “would have the intelligence or skills to accomplish such a task.”

  “In fact, we had a little help,” he said, summoning Atopol and Gatina with a nod. Both shadowmagi had faded from sight when the Spider came, preparing to strike if needed. With the criminal mastermind bawling on the empty floor of his treasury, his dagger at his side, forgotten, there seemed little need.

  “Meet the scions of House Salaines, loyal Magelords to Duke Anguin, our sponsor in this endeavor. Soon House Salaines will be plotting the overthrow of the Duke of Rhemes and his cronies. Including what remains of the Brotherhood. Without your treasury to back you up, you’ll hardly be capable of supporting them by beating the common folk down anymore. Hells, I doubt you’ll be able to pay your own men, after tonight.”

  “You can’t leave me here!” the Spider said, alarmed, as the four of them began to make preparations to leave. “You can’t! The first time I mention that the treasury is empty, they’ll . . . take me with you!” he demanded.

  Rondal snorted. “Why would we do that?”

  “Because I know things!” the Spider insisted, desperately. “I know things about the Council, and the Rebels, and Count Rhemes . . . I was the bloody spymaster of the Brotherhood, damn it, I know things! Valuable things! Things you will want to know, if you intend on fighting them!”

  “I’m unconvinced,” Tyndal decided. “You’ll try to put a knife in either of us, the moment you can.”

  “And go where?” he asked, sagging in despair. “You don’t understand – no one steals from the Brotherhood. Especially not the members of the Council. The penalty is death. Eventually,” he added, shuddering. “Take me with you, I beg of you! I will serve you as faithfully as any slave! But without protection, my life is worthless!”

  “It’s not worth much with protection,” Rondal sighed. “All right. We will take you into service, until you try to betray us . . . and then you will have wished that we’d left you for your brethren. But we can’t have you struggling while we make our escape. Tyndal?”

  His partner nodded, and then used a stunning wand on the Rat. He pulled him upright, holding him at the shoulder, and used the Ways back to Sevendor. Rondal stretched out his perceptions and did likewise with the Cat and the Kitten. In a moment they were back in the Rat Trap, with a very well-trapped Rat . . . throwing up in the chamberpot he’d left out for the purpose.

  “That was one highly successful mission,” Tyndal gloated, as he led the unconscious criminal to a chair and dumped him unceremoniously. “You watch him – he should be out for at least six hours. I’m going to find Festaran and bring him back here.”

  “Why?” Gareth asked, suspiciously.

  “Because otherwise we’ll have to count all the loot, and I am far too lazy for that.” Sir Festaran’s main magical Talent was the surprisingly useful ability to accurately estimate nearly anything. While it made him less than an ideal conversationalist, Rondal agreed that he would be able to give them an idea of how much they’d stolen faster than any other way.

  “Now that we have it, what are we going to do with it?” asked Atopol, curious. “That’s more gold than . . . well, than I’ve ever seen,” he confessed.

  “As we were agents of His Grace on this mission,” reasoned Rondal, “I think it’s only fair that the majority of it go to his treasury. After all, this profit was made by undermining his laws.”

  “Minus a reasonable fee, of course,” Tyndal added, hurriedly. “After all, we wouldn’t want our friends in House Salaines to come away with this without some gain.”

  “And there’s the matter of our ten thousand ounces of gold,” Gareth reminded them. “They still owe us that, too!”

  “In all fairness, we did steal that from them,” Gatina pointed out.

  “That doesn’t mean they still don’t owe it to us,” Gareth said, with a sniff. “Really, we entrusted it to them in security, and see what happened? Not even the thieves of Enultramar are safe from the thieves of Enultramar.”

  “I cannot argue with that reasoning,” she decided. “Nor do I find fault with the plan to give the majority to Duke Anguin.”

  “From what I’ve heard from Lady Pentandra,” Tyndal agreed, “he can use it. The duchy is near bankrupt, even though it’s functioning. Without more coin it will take decades before Anguin is in a position to assail the south.”

  “Why assail it?” Atopol asked, curious, as he took a seat on one of the comfortable chairs from Rolone. “From what my father says, at least a third of the nobles would rise for him, should he appear.”

  “Which third?” Rondal asked. “And what of the other two-thirds? No, Anguin cannot merely show up at Falas and claim the throne, though that is his right. He needs a more cautious approach. And one destined to win more than a third of the people to his banner.”

  “Until that time, we can prepare Alshar,” Atopol suggested. “We have the makings of a cell system, here, and if we continue to expand and recruit those nobles who are already inclined to support Anguin first, we will know who the other two-thirds are – and what must be done to contend with them.”

  “Enough strategy and planning for one night!” Tyndal declared. “The mission is over. The victors are home, safe. Why are we not celebrating more raucously?” he complained. “There are bottles and bottles of wine out there waiting for us, and serving girls’ bums to be pinched! Come on!” he urged, shrugging off his armor and throwing open the door of the Rat Trap. “If we cannot bask in the glory of the tale, yet, then let us at least drain a bottle or two in our own honor!”

  Rondal smiled wanly at Gatina and she returned it. “I’d like that,” she agreed.

  “I would, too,” Rondal said. Much to his surprise, he found he was being completely sincere.

  Chapter Thirty

  Loiko Venaren

  Relations between Alshar and Farise have always been tangled; since the first days of the Dukes, when the Narasi came to Alshar, the Imperial officers in charge of Farise refused to acknowledge or honor the overlordship the Narasi Dukes demanded. While Alshar was too diffuse to resist the Conquest, at the time, Farise enjoyed a smaller harbor and lands, making it a nuisance, not an obstacle to trade between Alshar and the rest of the Five Duchies.

  Yet despite being on two different sides, politically, the folk of the Great Bay and the folk of Farise have enjoyed a long common history and a mingling thanks to their proximity by sea. No doubt the Doge of Farise will soon accept the authority and leadership of the Dukes, yet whether it will fall under Alshar, Castal, or even Remere’s influence is yet to be seen.

  Letter from Baron Roladenas to Duke Ostin of Vore

  Minalan the Spellmonger, Baron of Sevendor, friend to the Alka Alon, and Master of Magic in Castalshar was one of the last people Rondal expected to find knocking on his door the next morning was… but there he was.

  They’d returned their friends to Falas, after celebrating, vowing to return soon with their share of the gold. The Spider they secured in Brestal Tower, under the watchful eye of the Sevendori guards who trusted that Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal knew what they were doing when they arrived with a prisoner and instructions that he speak to no one. He expected that it was a messenger from the captain of the tower asking for more explanation. But when Rondal opened the door to the Rat Trap and found his old master there, he didn’t quite know what to say.

  “Good
morning!” Minalan began, walking in without an invitation. “Is Tyndal around, too?”

  “And Gareth,” nodded Rondal. “Master, what are you doing here?”

  “Surveying my domain,” Minalan said, taking a seat in front of the empty fireplace. “Iyugi came up to the castle, yesterday. To offer his . . . condolences,” he said, the word biting to him. “He had quite the tale of your errantry in Enultramar.”

  “It was . . . it was . . .”

  “He was brilliant, Master,” Tyndal said, from the doorway. “Rondal planned and led the entire mission,” he boasted. “From the plan to infiltrate the Brotherhood to—”

  “Yes, yes, I want to hear all about it,” he assured. “But not at the moment. In fact, I wanted to invite you to Vorone, for a little un-official meeting of the warmagi, in a few days. There have been a lot of developments, and I think it is time for a council, Vorone is far enough away from spies that we can talk in candor. And that way you can share what you’ve learned in Enultramar with Lady Pentandra. Anguin’s court wizard will want to know every detail.

  “But that is not why I dropped by this morning. I also heard you dropped a prisoner off at Brestal Tower—”

  “Master, we had to,” insisted Tyndal. “He is a senior operative of the Brotherhood with a wealth of information on their business in the south. His knowledge extends too many other areas, as well,” he added.

  “Of course, of course. No, what I wanted to discuss was one of the other prisoners held there at the moment. Well, guest, I suppose. I would like to propose an addition to your Order, of sorts. I know you don’t have anyone in particular looking after Taragwen, while you’re out on errantry, and Sire Cei has enough to keep him busy running the barony, not to mention his own lands.

  “So I propose you take on . . . Sir Ganulan as steward for the Order at Taragwen,” he said, hesitantly.

  “Ganulan?” scoffed Tyndal. “That wart?”

  “Master, he’s hardly friendly to us,” Rondal began. “He’s tried to kill you, me, everyone, and—”

  “And he was instrumental in discovering the link between Lady Mask and Baroness Isily,” he said, flatly. “He has given me his parole, and I accepted it. He dwells now in Brestal Tower, no longer in a cell, but his wounds are almost healed. I have no official standing in the Order of Estasia, myself, but I invite you to consider him as a tenant lord for Taragwen Keep. Steward of the place. Someone to keep an eye on the snowstone outcropping, watch over your peasants, that sort of thing.”

  “That might be helpful,” admitted Tyndal. “But . . . Ganulan?”

  “He does know the place pretty well,” reminded Rondal, considering the merits of the plan more quickly than Tyndal. “He’s a competent enough knight, for a Riverlord. But it’s his loyalty that concerns me.”

  “Well, his last partner left him for dead in the forest, his memory wiped,” Tyndal conceded. “I doubt he owes her much loyalty, now.”

  “As she is also a prisoner of mine, and her patron dead, I can’t imagine to whom he has left to betray you,” Minalan said, taking his pipe out of his pouch. “Just consider it, boys. He hates you less than he hates me, and I’ve convinced him it would be honorable work.”

  “We shall, Master,” agreed Tyndal, reluctantly. “But we have a boon to ask in return: the two witchstones we borrowed for this caper . . . we ask you to grant them to the shadowmagi of House Salaines. They have proven themselves to be loyal to Duke Anguin and trustworthy. For a bunch of thieves.”

  “It really would assist our cause,” Rondal added. “We worked with them for weeks, and we find them worthy of the honor.”

  “You do, do you?” Minalan asked, a strange tone in his voice. “Very well: take on Ganulan as your steward and I will grant these stones to your friends. On one condition: you yourselves will take their oaths, and if I recall the stones it will be you who will take responsibility to retrieve them.”

  Sounds like a fair deal, Striker, Tyndal offered, mind-to-mind.

  “We accept,” Rondal said with a sigh. “If nothing else, he can act as a hostage for Ruderal’s mother’s safety. She’s on his father’s estates in Alshar.”

  Minalan looked at him and laughed. “You placed Ruderal’s mother . . . with the Warbird of West Fleria?”

  “It was actually a pretty good idea,” Rondal defended. “He’s beholden to us, and we made it clear what might happen to him if he failed to protect her. But he was quite curious about how his estranged son was doing. So this could work out well, for now.”

  “It will at least put someone in charge of Taragwen,” Tyndal agreed. “The last time we were there, it was a mess. Oh, the village was fine – the peasants have enough sense to keep their affairs in order – but the castle . . .”

  “You have a duty and a responsibility to the people of that tiny domain you took,” Minalan reminded them.

  “I know, I know,” Rondal said, annoyed. “Yes, he’s a trained Riverlord knight, and he knows how to fight. If he’s agreeable – and he’s willing to put aside his enmity toward us – then we’re willing to do likewise.” Especially if it secures witchstones for the Salainesi, he thought to himself.

  “Excellent,” Minalan said, with a rare smile. “Now, on a final matter, I’d like for you to have dinner with me tonight at the castle. I’m entertaining a guest and I would like you two to attend – formal attire,” he emphasized.

  “Baron Arathanial?” guessed Rondal.

  “No, His Excellency is far too busy ordering his new conquests in Sashtalia. My guest is my old commander, Loiko Venaren.”

  “Master Loiko is in Sevendor?” asked Tyndal with a gasp. “I thought he was still in Farise?”

  “His Majesty has replaced him at his post,” Minalan said, quietly. “And he had compelling reason to come here. I have his daughter as my prisoner: Lady Mask. Her real name is Nothoua, Nothoua Venaren. Her father came to Sevendor when I informed him about her. He arrived this morning.”

  Rondal’s mind whirled at the thought: that the daughter of the most legendary warmage of the age was a renegade wizard working in concert with the Necromancer and the gurvani. It was a delicious scandal . . . and a hard blow. Venaren was universally respected amongst the warmagi who’d served with him during the brutal Farisi campaign, a reputation for power, devotion to duty, and war wisdom that was unmatched by even Terleman or Minalan. The shame must be bitter to the man, he thought.

  “We’d be honored, Master,” Rondal said with a bow.

  “I’d love to meet him!” Tyndal agreed, enthusiastically. “The stories he must know . . .”

  “I think he would like to hear about your recent adventures in Enultramar, as well,” Minalan said, as he stood. “He has some interests, there, and perhaps some intelligence about the rebels gleaned from his time in Farise. Perhaps bring your new friends as your guests,” he suggested. “But dinner will be in my hall at dusk. Don’t be late. And don’t use the Ways to get there,” he added. “I’ve set special wards on the Waystones at the castle. Until I teach you the spells, you can ride to the castle like gentlemen.”

  When Minalan left, Tyndal stared at Rondal until he had to ask.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “We’re going to meet the most famous warmage, ever!”

  “Yeah. Except you two are rapidly gaining on him,” Gareth said, sleepily. “When word gets out about what you did in Alshar, he’s going to have to find a whole new country to invade, just to keep up.”

  “That’s great,” Rondal conceded, unenthusiastically. “But do you realize we just got permission to give House Salaines irionite?”

  “Well, yeah!” Tyndal said, rolling his eyes. “But look what we had to promise to get it!”

  “Ganulan isn’t that bad,” Gareth said, shaking his head. “I mean, he’s a discredited knight who turned to banditry after he was driven out of his holding, but . . . well, Sire Cei thinks there is a man to be made of him,” he pointed out.

  “He does?” Tyndal asked,
surprised.

  “Perhaps serving a chivalric order will help restore his honor,” Rondal decided. “But even if it turns into a disaster, it was a small price to pay to get Gat and Atopol their stones.”

  “You know, we still have those stones that we took from the Censors at Brisomar, and the milky stones from the Tower Arcane,” Tyndal reminded him. “We could likely supply Master Hance with one, as well.”

  “That . . . is not a bad idea,” agreed Rondal, scratching his chin. The master Shadowmage and thief was the head of a small but powerful house who wanted to see Anguin back in charge of the south. Raising him to High Magi status would certainly assist their cause. “That would let him oversee our proposed rebellion to the rebellion a lot more easily.”

  “Shall we go tell them, then?” Tyndal grinned.

  Rondal grinned back. Gatina would be so happy! “Why wait? I think they’re in Falas. While we’re there we can see about getting some appropriate garb for tonight. We have the coin to dress like true Alshari gentlemen!” Falas was famed for its tailors and weavers, thanks to the presence of the court and the cotton trade.

  Tyndal stopped. A worried expression came over his face.

  “Uh, are we sure we want to go through with this?” he asked, suddenly doubtful.

  “Why wouldn’t we?” Rondal asked, puzzled.

  “Have you considered that once you raise Gatina to her stone . . . your secret girlfriend will be able to invade your thoughts at will?” he asked, horrified.

  To Rondal’s own surprise, that didn’t bother him at all. “I’ll contend with that,” he decided. “After all, I’ve had you in my head for years, now. If that hasn’t driven me mad, then I doubt she’ll have much luck.”

  The Spellmonger’s private hall was relatively new, compared to the rest of the castle, having been built only a year ago during the Great March, before Baroness Alya “took ill”, as it was being described to the Sevendori. Though he still used the tower in the castle as his private laboratory and office, he lived in the domestic hall with his children and servants.