Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (25 page)

“I have considered the idea,” admitted the fake monk.  “I’ve heard marvelous things about the place, and the people that dwell there.  But for the moment, alas, I am caught up in ecclesiastic details.  It will be months before I am in a position to do something like that.”

“When you do, be certain to bring Sister Gatina,” Tyndal insisted.  “I think she’d enjoy the temples and opportunities there.”

Atopol grinned.  “Oh, I could hardly travel all that way without my favorite Sister!” he said, earning a glare from Rondal.

“I expect we’ll be back before then, actually,” Rondal proposed.  “With our rescue of Ruderal successfully concluded, it will fall to us to plan the next stage of our conflict with the Brotherhood.  When we do return, it will be with that purpose in mind,” he warned.

“Nothing would please me more,” Atopol agreed.  “Their rise has been a scourge on Alshar for years, now.  By backing the rebel regime, they’ve managed to expand their influence nearly everywhere, with almost no competition to speak of.  Their tactics are bloody and violent, and the treat life cheaply,” he said, condemningly.

“Collect what information on them as you can,” Tyndal suggested, “and when we return, we can strike at them without it coming back to haunt you or incriminate you.”

“That’s what I intended,” agreed the shadowmage.  “My master has not been happy with the rebel regime since its inception.  He endured it because there was no better option; but now, if Anguin truly rules, and does not merely reign as a puppet . . . well, in my estimation he is eager to see the rebel’s alliance fall, and the proper duke restored.”

“What could a couple of . . . monks do against an organization like the Brotherhood?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.

“More than you can imagine,” assured Atopol.  “In fact, we have done business with them before.  Not that we relished it, nor do we take just any commission, but you’d be surprised what a couple of monks might have learned about their operations.  And how to disrupt them.”  He snorted, good-naturedly.  “They’re nothing but land-bound pirates of the lowest order.”

“A fair point,” Rondal agreed.  “Let’s both give the matter some thought, and prepare some proposals.  Between us we can perhaps find a weakness to exploit.  We’ll need to be away for a few months, dealing with Ruderal and Master Min, but when we return we can put our heads together and figure out the best way to do that . . . if your master is agreeable.”

“I think the only thing that made him hesitate was the lack of a better alternative,” Atopol decided.  “Without assistance from outside of Alshar, and some idea of what might come after, challenging the rebels did not make much sense.  If Duke Anguin can establish himself as a viable leader in his own right, then . . . well, our master is very, very loyal to the Ducal house,” he said.

“That . . . story he told at the shrine?” Tyndal asked, grinning.  Atopol rolled his eyes.

“
Sweet Darkness
, I’ve heard it at least a thousand times,” he complained.  “His crowning achievement, and the start of his brilliant career.  But it went beyond that.  He helped the . . . gentleman with several little tasks during his reign.  Some of them were apparently
deliciously
scandalous.  I have no idea what is in that letter, but if I had to guess – and you gentlemen did
not
hear this from me – it concerns some of those little tasks.”

“Things he could use against the rebels?” Tyndal asked.

“Things he could use against the Royal Family,” countered Atopol.  “I don’t know a lot about those jobs, but I do know that Grendine was the focus, before she was married off to Rard.”

“That
is
interesting,” Rondal agreed, thoughtfully.  Queen Grendine was famous for her ambitions, her plots, and her schemes.  But her success was proved by the crown she wore, and that aspiration, apparently, had been hers since maidenhood.  “I know she resented him for his sex and his primacy to the throne . . . I hadn’t considered how
he
might resent
her
.  But if he found some kind of leverage over her . . .”

“Don’t you think that might be what got him
killed
?” suggested Tyndal.

“I thought His Grace was lost on the battlefield,” Atopol said, confused.

“He died the night after the battle, actually,” Rondal supplied.  “He was wounded, but it wasn’t thought that the wounds were that serious.  Unfortunately, a blood vessel in his brain erupted, and he passed into the afterlife in his sleep.”

“That is not what we heard,” Atopol insisted.  “The story from the north was that Lenguin was slain due to Rard’s treachery on the field.”

“Well . . . it’s more complicated than that,” sighed Tyndal.  “He
did
survive the battle.  And he
was
wounded.  But there are . . .
strong
suspicions,” he said, choosing his words delicately, “that he may have had some assistance with that.  But I, myself, can attest that there was no treachery on the field.  Indeed, Lenguin almost got himself killed, at one point.  Everyone worked together against the goblins.  It wasn’t until after they were defeated and retreating that the . . . unfortunate events occurred.”

“That’s not what we heard,” Atopol repeated.

“We were
there
,” Tyndal stated, flatly.  “Lenguin knighted us both at the banquet the night he died.  He was alive, well, and sitting next to Rard, chatting like old friends.  He was bandaged, but then so were most of us.  I can almost guarantee that Rard had nothing to do with his death.”

“That . . . is interesting,” Atopol said, his eyes narrowing.

“We’re not saying that His Grace was not slain,” Rondal said.  “We have no evidence, but I do strongly suspect Grendine – not Rard – was responsible for that.  And likely the death of the Duchess, ostensibly conducted by the Brotherhood.”

“No, they did not have anything to do with that,” Atopol said, shaking his head.  “The first they heard about it was when the news was announced . . . and Lord Jenerard running back here as fast as his horse could bear him.  He’s the Brotherhood’s unofficial representative or liaison to the Rebel Council, now,” he added.  “Unofficially, he protests their innocence.”

“For once they aren’t guilty,” Tyndal agreed, darkly.  “They were framed.  Likely by Grendine.  She has a covey of trained assassins – we’ve met a few,” he added. 

“So Lenguin was slain by Grendine, not Rard.  Not that it much matters, but I will be certain to pass this news along to my master,” Atopol said, nodding.  “Once we get these folks settled and you safely over the frontier, I think my master and I are going to have a very long discussion about the politics of Alshar.”

Rondal liked that about Atopol – he wasn’t the sort to spout defiant, vainglorious vows of revenge at the news of his liege’s assassination.  He was the type to decide what to do, figure out how to do it, and then do it in such a way that it achieved his ends
precisely.
  The shadowmage was subtle, intelligent, thoughtful, and crafty, as well as his talents and training. 

The ideal partner inside southern Alshar, in other words, to help bring Anguin into power here.

And, some perverted part of his mind added,
a
potentially decent brother-in-law.

Part II

The Vengeance of Estasia

Tyndal

Chapter Eleven

The Rat Trap

Rondal and Tyndal enjoyed coming back to Sevendor, especially when they were undeniably victorious.  They arrived from their long journey the day after Yule, and after letting Ruderal gawk at Sevendor Town’s wondrous sights (he was particularly impressed with the permanent water elemental in the millpond), they delivered the lad to their master at the castle.  Then they considered themselves off-duty for a while.

Sevendor did look spectacular these days, they both agreed.  In the months they’d been away there seemed to have been a boom in the number of magi in town - largely thanks to the continued interest and investment in enchantment.  There was also more construction as enchanters and artisans associated with the craft were building new workshops and warehouses.  The High Street was bustling with wizards, craftsmen and merchants of all sort.  The activity was novel to the two, who recalled Sevendor Town as a relatively sleepy place most of the time.

“There is an
awful
lot of coin flowing through here,” Rondal noted, as they walked past a lovely snowstone fountain that had appeared in the middle of the High Street in their absence.  “Did you see the
market?
 A third of the booths are magically-oriented.  It’s like the Magic Fair never stopped.”

“In a way it didn’t,” Tyndal observed, looking around studiously.  Their recent travels brought some important differences to his attention.  “It looks like half of the folks who came for the fair wintered here.  Look at Banamor’s shop,” he pointed out.  The large two-story structure had been plain brick and timber when they left.  Now it was well-plastered and painted sky-blue, with yellow trim.  The entire thing sparkled . . . and when Tyndal looked at it with magesight, he could see the old footwizard had enchanted the exterior to repel dust and dirt.  It made the warehouse stand out in a town where wood smoke hung over the place every morning like a gray cloud and coated every surface with soot.

“You remember those great plowing and mowing wands at the Fair?” Rondal reminded.  “They sell them now.  In the market.  Like
loaves of bread
,” he snorted at the idea.  “They’re expensive, but then so is plowing.”

“Well, the good thing about that,” Tyndal announced, proudly, “was that our profits from selling those wares from Alshar were tidy.  We have a pocket full of silver,” he boasted.  “What shall we do to spend it?”

“We have far more than that,” Rondal chuckled.  “You recall we looted a Brotherhood fence?  Even after expenses we have a tidy treasury.”

“Yes,” dismissed Tyndal, “but this is money we
earned,
not liberated.”

“I’ve never known one to spend less well than the other,” Rondal observed.  “But we
are
more flush than normal.  It feels odd.  Do you have an idea of how we can change that?”

“Well, when I was checking us in to the inn, I reflected that we consider Sevendor home,” he reasoned.

“Well, since Boval Vale is no longer considered stylish, we might as well,” agreed Rondal.  “But you realize that Taragwen is not far.  We could easily make our beds there.”

“Do you jest?  Just look at this place!  We’ve been hoofing it across the Riverlands for a month with the hungriest boy in the world.  Let’s enjoy what our Master has built in our absence,” he said, expansively.  

“I wouldn’t mind staying for a few days in the same place, for a change,” Rondal admitted.  “It’s just after Yule,” he suggested.  “Still a holiday spirit.  And holiday bargains.”

“And holiday cheer,” Tyndal agreed, pointing out the pot of mulled wine bubbling in front of the Alembic, a wineshop that catered to magi . . . and was owned by Banamor.  The pot had no fire under it; it was enchanted to keep the spiced wine hot, just under boiling.  As custom permitted, Tyndal stopped and dipped an earthenware cup into the wine and drank a toast to the coming year. 

Rondal added a penny to the pot, when Tyndal skipped that part of the ritual in favor of moving on to the next free drink, but Tyndal ignored the look he gave him.  Banamor already had enough money, in his opinion, and while the coin was supposed to go to charity, the industry the town was showing even the day after a major holiday demonstrated that one had to be supremely lazy in Sevendor not to have a job.  He was enjoying the cool winter breeze on his face, the burn of wine and cinnamon in his stomach, and the prospect of no real work to contend with.

But that did not mean he was not thinking.  Despite their carefree demeanor, Tyndal was doing what he and Rondal had done every day since they’d crossed the frontier into Castal: deciding what to do next about the Brotherhood.  The two of them debated about it as they visited the various shops of the town, particularly those who sold spirits and wine, switching effortlessly between spoken words and mind-to-mind communication.  They knew they were returning to Enultramar, likely as soon as the snows made travel easier, but what they would do once they got there preoccupied their conversation.

When they encountered a few old friends in the
Staff & Sword
, a tavern frequented by warmagi and gentlemen adventurers near Mage’s Row, and told them discreetly about their adventures, several of them had suggestions by the time the fourth bottle of wine was opened.

“You have to go after their
money
,” said Banamor, who’d stopped in to collect some money from someone for something he didn’t want to talk about.  “It’s
always
about the coin, boys.  You should know that by now.”

“Well, that’s the challenging part,” Rondal said with a sigh.  “We’re talking about a criminal organization that spans several cities, hundreds of hideouts.  Ships, even.  We might have inconvenienced them with our little raid, but as much as we took, it’s a drop in the ocean.”

“Did you not steal their treasury already?” Banamor asked, curious.

“Only of one of their smaller operations,” Rondal replied.  “While it was a generous haul, I doubt it added up to one full day’s worth of profits from their entire operation.  The Brotherhood has a very, very deep purse.”

“Their central treasury is legendary,” Tyndal agreed.  “Some of our associates were telling us of it.  It’s been accumulating in Enultramar for centuries.  Only a few of the highest-placed Rats even know where it is.  There’s some secret crew who is in charge of transportation, but no one inside the organization knows who they are.”

“But wherever it is, it’s some kind of demonic fortress,” Rondal assured, getting animated in his descriptions the way he did when he’d had a few drinks – and he’d had more than a few.  “According to legend the only entrance is barely large enough for one man to enter, and there’s some sort of long tunnel that makes it nearly impossible to take.  It’s protected from scrying, from magical detection, and there are spellwardings and magical traps that have been strengthened and expanded for centuries.  Which is how long they’ve been stashing their profits there.  So . . . robbing the Rats might be fun and profitable, but it’s not going to make them go away.”

“You can still disrupt their incomes,” agreed Gareth, Banamor’s assistant.

 Gareth was not a handsome man, particularly, and he’d failed as a warmage, but he was an outstanding wizard in Tyndal’s opinion.  The kind of extremely intelligent mage who picked up a little bit of everything and paid attention to things other people ignored.  Which made Gareth the kind of man you paid attention to when he was speaking thoughtfully and slightly drunk.  

“In fact, if you want to really piss them off, that would be the way to do it.  Get in the way of their money coming in.  Make them dip into that treasury of theirs, instead of adding to it,” he assured them, with a belch.

In fact, Sevendor was actually full of opinions a wise wizard paid attention to, and some of the better minds had stopped at their table when it was learned they’d returned.

“That has merit,” Rondal conceded.  “We do have some insight into their schemes, thanks to the books and papers we liberated.  We could figure out a few of their operations and disrupt them easily enough.”

“But that would only anger them, not cripple them,” Olmeg the Green pointed out, exhaling a massive cloud of fragrant smoke from his pipe as he did so.  “Unless you went about it systematically,” he said, thoughtfully.  “Instead of just attacking one or two operations, change the rules of the game so that each of their enterprises suffers.”

Olmeg was by no means a warmage, but the two young knights magi valued his perspectives.  As a green mage, a wizard who specialized in the thaumaturgy of plants and growing things, Olmeg frequently had insights into the larger world that less attentive wizards might have missed.

“That would be difficult to do, without getting involved in politics, lads,” Rael the Enchantress observed.  “And that’s a dicey business, during good times.  In a rebellion, it gets heads removed.”

“Oh, I have a feeling we’re going to get involved in politics,” Rondal chuckled.  “Not that we want to be, but the Brotherhood is being tacitly supported by the rebel regime, we believe.  And if that is true, and the Rats are working with the scrugs . . .”

“Besides,” Tyndal added, “we’re friends with Duke Anguin.  It would be a shame if we went down there to mess up the Brotherhood and didn’t take a swipe at the Count of Rhemes and his cronies.  Destabilizing the rebel council would be an ideal gift for the Orphan Duke.”

“Well, it’s not like he can do more than smile at their misfortune,” grunted Banamor.  “Gods love Pentandra, and I wish her the best, but if Anguin doesn’t wake up with a dagger in his eye with Grendine’s aura on it, it will be because of divine intervention and nothing less.  From what I’ve heard, Rard plans on taking the place under Royal authority.”

“That won’t be easy,” Tyndal chuckled.  “We got a look at Enultramar’s defenses.  The Bay is littered with shipwrecks for a reason.  The trebuchets on the Sea Lords’ towers can reach a devastatingly long way, and they’re all over the place.  They use flaming balls of pitch filled with kerosene, and they can put one into your yacht’s chamberpot anywhere in the Bay.  Every haven has a small fleet of patrol craft they use to enforce their shipping rights, and every one of them has a couple of high-powered ballistae on deck --
steel
springs, not sinew.  They can put a four-foot bronze bolt right through your hull if they get close enough.  Or rip up your sails.  Or embed a grappling hook into your decks.”

“It would be tough,” agreed Rondal.  “And that’s just the inner defenses - what you’d face only after you got past the Tower of Waves and the Shoals of Sinbar.”  The ancient wall of reefs and rocks, deadly shallows and treacherous currents, acted as a stout seawall against invaders.  The string of sea forts, with the powerful, ancient Sea Lord Tower holding the defense of the channels, made a sea-borne assault a poor idea.

“He could always knock on the door to the Narrows,” suggested Rael.  “Perhaps bribe the keeper to let his troops past.”

“That would be imprudent, as well,” sighed Rondal.  “The Sea Lords hold the Bay, but the lords of the Great Vale control the keep in the Narrows.  Right now the Count of Rhemes has them convinced that every word from Anguin’s lips started on Rard’s, and that the Castali were behind the deaths of the Ducal family.  They
strongly
resist the very idea of the Kingdom, and Rhemes has fueled these thoughts with nationalist sentiment and liberal financial support of those who proclaim it most loudly.  And, of course, the Count has ensured that those who are most loyal to the rebels are in charge of the great keep.”

“Yeah, Anguin’ll have to contend with that before he can invade Alshar,” agreed Banamor, with a sigh.  “If that’s what you lads think, then it’s likely Rard’s pissing in the wind about this.  He doesn’t have enough of a fleet to even think about that level of an assault, not if he plans on keeping Farise.  Maybe Tavard’s new brat will, but it takes time to build a fleet.  And a tremendous amount of money,” he added.

“Well, destabilizing the place couldn’t hurt, then,” Rondal reasoned.  “But I mislike the idea of destabilizing the region as a means of helping Rard.  It would be for Anguin’s benefit.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Rael pointed out, reasonably enough.

“No, but who eventually
takes
southern Alshar is important,” Gareth proclaimed, slurring his words a little.  “If Rard takes it as he intends, you can bet that he isn’t going to restore it to Anguin.  He’ll keep it for the royal house, that is, the Castali.  It’s no secret Grendine covets Enultramar.  If she can get her husband to take it by conquest, then Anguin’s claim to it fades.”

“But if
Anguin
takes it,” Rondal agreed, “he does so in his own name.  Nothing Rard can do about that,” he sneered.  “And I’d much rather see it in his hands than Rard’s, after he made that . . . treaty.”  No mage who had fought in defense of the Five Duchies was happy about that treaty, and most blamed the Royal House for it.

“So how does that affect your war on the Brotherhood?” Rael asked, curious.  Rael was curious about everything, one of the reasons Tyndal liked her.  “I doubt getting involved in politics is going to do much to discomfort them.  They’re criminals, after all.  They care little who is in power.”

“When those in power are protecting them, and are corruptible enough to permit great injustices, then it's in their interest to care,” Gareth said, shaking his head.  “It’s a matter of simple self-interest.  If anything, a criminal organization prizes self-interest over any mere ideal or loyalty.”

“From what I understand, the Brotherhood are intensely loyal - to each other,” Olmeg pointed out.  “That bond will hold when their political patronage is gone.  The Rats are like any other highly opportunistic or parasitic species.  They need their institutional rules to maintain sufficient discipline to thrive.  Their weakness is right there in their name: brotherhood.  They feel a part of a great institution, whose rules apply across their membership.”

“Criminals have rules?” Rael asked, amused at the idea.

“They operate under a code.  It might be crude, violent and deviant, but it is a code they feel they all must follow, else they lose faith in their institution and loose cohesion in the face of opposition.  Attack
that
,” Olmeg said, shrewdly, “and their ability to act in concert is destroyed.”

“Now that,” Rondal said, nodding at the great bearded magical horticulturist, “is a
very
interesting idea, Olmeg!  How do you suggest we do that?”

“That’s an exercise for you two errants,” chuckled Banamor.  “But I have to agree with Lord Olmeg, here,” he said, stressing the new title.  Both he and Olmeg had been ennobled at Yule by Master Minalan, and while Banamor wasn’t thrilled with the new title, his ego would not let him disparage it, either.  “Take away their bloodthirsty ways and the Rats are just another business.  You can only do business, legitimate or illegitimate, if there is
trust
between parties.  That trust might be a knife at your throat or a hostage in a cell, but there’s trust or there’s no deal.  Someone cheats, word gets around and you don’t do business with them anymore.  So damage their
reputation
,” he suggested.