Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (12 page)

“Well, was there something specific you were looking for?  I’m passingly familiar with Flacet the Fence’s operation, in my research on this heist.  I might be able to help.”

Rondal considered the offer, and how much information to invest in a man who so readily identified himself as thief and shadowmage, in the middle of a heist.  “I seek any evidence that the Brotherhood of the Rat has become allied with the gurvani, in the north.”

“That seems like an odd sort of thing to investigate,” Atopol observed.  

“It’s a favor for the Duke of Alshar,” Rondal decided to tell him.  

“There
is
no Duke of Alshar,” Atopol said, flatly.  For the first time he looked wary.

“His Grace, Duke Anguin II of Alshar, took possession of Vorone and claimed the Wilderlands as his direct legacy at Yule,” Rondal informed him.  “He rules there now, independent of Rard or Castal.”

“That . . . is unexpected news,” Atopol frowned.  “We heard—”

The young thief’s explanation was interrupted by a section of the floor bursting open, as someone below forced open a trapdoor Rondal was not aware of.  From the startled expression on Atopol’s face, neither was the shadowmage.  

Before the great door even crashed completely open, two men rushed into the room from below.  Each was bloodied.  The white-knuckled fists that clutched the blades in their hands were ripped and shredded, pouring blood down their wrists . . . but the angry eyes that glared at the two of them were not feeling pain.

“Did you know about—?” Rondal asked.

“No, do you think we can—?” replied Atopol.

“It would be an honor,” Rondal agreed, and drew his blade.  He expected Atopol to do likewise.

Instead the shadowmage took a step to the right, and faded from view . . . but not before his arm flicked, and both of the Rats clutched their stomachs.

“Oh
, lovely
,” Rondal said to himself as he advanced, alone, pulling his blade into guard position.  Atopol was nowhere to be seen.

The two Rats were injured, as the smears of blood across their tunics revealed, but they were far from out of the fight.  They advanced with determination, their shorter, thinner blades held low.  One had a boat hook in his left hand, Rondal noted.

But he was not merely fencing, here, he was fighting for his life.  And he wasn’t wielding the Coastlord’s sword he’d purchased earlier, he’d brought his new mageblade on the mission.

This was the first time he’d drawn it in earnest against a foe bent on slaying him, and he was uncertain of what to expect . . . but the weapon was surprisingly well-fitted to his style, both as a swordsman and as a warmage.  In battle, Rondal often eschewed artfulness for practicality, much to Tyndal’s dismay.  The purpose of the conflict was to win, and how you won made less difference than ending the contest quickly and decisively.

The blade matched that style, and when Rondal murmured the proper mnemonic, it spat forth a blistering burst of concussive energy, enough to knock both wounded Rats back down the trap door to the first floor.  From the snarls, hisses, and screams, the river drakes had progressed at least that far in their invasion of the warehouse.

“They were seeking shelter, not coming for vengeance,” reasoned Atopol, as he reappeared.  “Nice trick, that,” he said, nodding toward his mageblade.

“So was disappearing like Ishi’s virtue at the first sign of trouble!” Rondal said, sourly.

“I made a calculated move,” Atopol conceded.  “I’m a thief, not a knight.  I distracted both of them long enough so that the powerful warmage could bring his mighty armament into play, and found a position on their flanks to assist from, if needed.  It wasn’t needed.”

“Glad to know you didn’t just run,” snorted Rondal.  “I don’t know how many of them are left down there, but I’m guessing we don’t have much time left.  What were you saying about the ‘good stuff’?”

“The crap in the cupboards is junk Flacet buys from the common-class thieves around here,” Atopol explained, as he led Rondal to the secured cabinet.  “The chalice was once looted from a shrine to the Maiden of the Havens, for example, and it’s been kicking around as a kind of trophy in Enultramar for the last century or so.  It’s got a story, too, but Flacet bought it from someone who stole it from someone my master owed a favor, so . . .”

“
Good
stuff?” prompted Rondal, as he heard more struggling through the trapdoor.

“Yes!  The stuff in the cabinet is that kind of junk, nothing worth more than a few hundred sandolars.  The
important
stuff, the stuff Flacet keeps for the Brotherhood, is in a secret compartment with the majority of his funds . . .
here
,” he said, running his fingers along the bottom of the cabinet until a drawer slid open.  “My master told me about it, but cautioned me not to touch it, lest we rouse their ire,” he said, in a mocking tone.  “As if the Rats could
touch
the Cats of Enultramar . . .”

“Who?”

“Never mind.  If you’re going to burn the place down anyway, you might as well know about this, and make it worthwhile.  Especially if it’s for—”

“I am
not
burning it down,” Rondal assured him.  “But I do appreciate the intelligence,” he said, as he opened the drawer lid and saw a number of boxes and pouches, each bearing a tag, as well as a thick folio of parchment.  Rondal picked up one of the heavier-looking pouches and presented it to the thief.  “Are you certain I cannot interest you in the ‘good stuff’, Sir Cat?  You have more than earned it.”

“You are generous, Sir Rondal.  But I must take only what I came for as a condition of my quest.  We are fastidious about such things in our order,” he said, with a mixture of pride and regret.  “Mere wealth is not our goal, but master of our art.”

“You keep saying ‘we’, as if there are more of you than yourself and your master,” Rondal observed.  

“And you have been referring to your own efforts in the plural, as well,” Atopol pointed out.  

“I just thought it was the fashion, here, in Enultramar,” Rondal dismissed, realizing he’d said more than he’d realized.  He wondered what other details he’d given the astute thief.  And how that might affect his mission.

“I think our meeting was not an accident, Sir Rondal,” Atopol said, thoughtfully.  “But I fear we lack the time to indulge in the kind of candor such a conversation deserves.”

“My thoughts exactly, Sir Cat,” he replied, as he stuffed the folio and as many bags as he could stow in the sack he’d brought for the occasion.  “I have tarried here longer than my plan intended, and events below, alas, are about to become . . . interesting.”

“I take your point,” Atopol said, glancing at the open trap door.  “I look forward to seeing your demonstration.  When you get your charges to a safe place, then meet me at the Shrine of Eight Bells at Pearlhaven, on the south side of the bridge, at midnight, tomorrow.  There we can exchange . . .
ideas
,” he said, knowingly.

“I look forward to the occasion,” Rondal bowed, tying the sack closed.  He used magic liberally to push the sack through the gable he’d entered by, until it was safely on the roof.  “Now . . . you might want to get off the floor,” the knight mage suggested, drawing a wand.  “Although it might prove entertaining, if not instructive, to watch,” he added, with a grin.

Atopol quickly mounted the roof and turned to look back through the gable.  “Is that a warwand?  A blasting wand?  A bout of flame?” the shadowmage asked, intrigued.  “Professional curiosity,” he explained.

“No,” chuckled Rondal.  “Although, I can see you’re obsessed with fire.  But it
is
a related enchantment,” he offered.  “If we can just wait for the right moment . . .” he said, getting on his belly and holding the wand through the narrow gable.  

Just when Rondal could feel Atopol start to grow impatient, the hatch in the floor burst open with fresh activity.  Three Rats quickly scrambled up the ladder, terror in their eyes and desperation on their faces.  They looked far more the worse for wear than the last time they’d made it to the top floor, and a lot more poorly armed.  In one thug’s case in particular that was literal, as he clutched the stump of his left hand at the wrist.  

“
Blessed Night
, you’ve torn them to
shreds
!” Atopol said, partially in horror and partially in admiration.

“They are very bad men,” Rondal pronounced, in a voice just above a whisper.  “Who are about to meet a
very
bad end.”  As soon as the men cleared the trap door, slamming it shut and sliding a crate over it, they made their way toward the office.   Rondal reached the wand down far enough to touch the floor.  Then he uttered the mnemonic to activate the wand.  

The stout wooden planks gave a unified shudder . . . and then split apart into a thousand shreds.  The gangsters, the crates, the tables, the bales, the kegs, everything that the heavy floor supported was suddenly standing on a platform of loose kindling.  

Gravity ensued.

As the odd and varied collection of cargo, merchandise, furniture, gangsters, and kindling came raining down on the second floor, the unfortunate occupants -- eight river drakes and slightly more than three quarters of a dying Rat -- were just as surprised as the fellows above.  When the two met, the resulting chaos of blood, teeth, tails, arms, legs, and kindling was spectacular.

“That . . . was
amazing!
” Atopol said, his mouth agape.  “You
must
tell me what warspell that is!  You
must!
”

“It’s a simple kindling wand as we use in the Mageland of Sevendor, in the Castali Riverlands,” Rondal explained, proudly.  

“That’s
amazing!”
Atopol, the Cat of Night repeated, eyes wide.

‘Oh, the magi of Sevendor have far surpassed this in enchantment, of late,” Rondal promised.  “Most would not consider it a weapon.  More than a tool . . .”

“But a weapon is merely a tool of conflict,” Atopol nodded in agreement.  “When used by a keen mind,” he added.  “Would you like help with your descent?” he asked, holding out his black gloved hand.  “I think the stairs are due for repair.”

“I can manage, thanks,” Rondal said, kicking the bag of loot and evidence over the edge, and watching it fall to the cobbled street below with a clank and a jingle.  “You might want to get clear of this place,” he advised.  “Do you think you can get someplace with a good vantage point to watch, without being observed?  It might be--”

“Entertaining and instructive? Atopol chuckled.  “I think I can manage.  Farewell, Sir Rondal.  I look forward to our next meeting,” he said, and stepped over the edge of the roof.  He seemed to plummet straight down, but there was no thud of a body or crash of a collision.

“Well, I’m certainly not going to go gawking after him like a rube at a tournament sideshow,” Rondal muttered to himself, as he began his own much slower descent.  “That’s just what he
wants
me to do, the showoff!”

Rondal reached the ground without incident, though the sounds coming from within the chaotic warehouse were distracting.  Luckily, the crowd that had gathered at the commotion were likewise too distracted to notice Rondal, and his boots touched the cobbles without anyone spotting him . . . or so he thought.  When he brushed himself off he looked up to see the old monk who haunted the market staring at him, drunkenly.  

Rondal waved at him, cheerfully, before peering around the corner to ensure no spectators were too close to the building.  The monk was watching, but the way the old geezer was swaying, Rondal doubted he was seeing anything clearly, or be much of a trusted witness once he was sober, despite his ecclesiastic position.

He drew a second wand, similar to the first, one that Tyndal (who had an odd fetish for wands) prepared especially for this type of work.