Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (28 page)

“Reunus is a riverport, technically, but it sits astride the frontier between the rough-and-tumble Sea Lords and the genteel Coastlord cultures,” Lorcus reported, as they enjoyed a leisurely barge trip toward that very city.  It was decided to be cautious with overt uses of magic, in the land of the Three Censors. “It’s one of the few independent towns in Alshar, thanks to some foresightful assistance it provided the Magocracy when it was trying to establish rule here.  It was never much, way back when, but once barges started coming south from Gilmora, that changed.

“When the cotton first came, the demand was for sailcloth for ships, not pretty dresses,” Lorcus explained, pacing back and forth on the deck of the barge while he lectured.  “Reunus had a tiny weaver’s guild, mostly filling local orders and picking up bargains from the coast.  But it was the first weaver’s guild along the Cotton Trail, so they got in right after the sweet spot.”

“So what happened?” Tyndal asked.  Rondal looked bored, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention.

“Oh, they made a fortune.  First sailcloth and sackcloth, but soon good cotton cloth, from the finest on the docks.  The Reunus cambric was quite sought-after, once,” he said, thoughtfully.

“Ah, but then we lost Gilmora to Castal,” Tyndal realized.

“Precisely, Sir Haystack,” Lorcus said, whipping to face him.  “When the flow of cotton stopped coming down the river, there wasn’t much need for weavers in Reunus.  The guild there decided to move most of its members to the port cities, where there was still some work.  That left a magnificent old hall and complex just sitting their empty . . . until the Brotherhood acquired it.  Now it serves as an operational transfer point and depot, a den of crime and iniquity in a sleepy little river town with no lord controlling it.”

“I take it they have a hand in local politics, as well?” Rondal asked.

“They
are
local politics,” Lorcus affirmed.  “They keep it quiet, electing a respectable band of puppets from the artisan classes, but the Rats are the hands inside.  Reunus handles business between their strongholds in Enultramar and their subtler presence in the Coastlands and the Great Vale.”

“That sounds like it’s the ideal place to strike,” agreed Tyndal.  “Disrupt their operations, interrupt the flow of business . . . like taking out a mid-level commander in an opposing army,” he concluded.  “It might actually be more effective to strike there than at the head of the operation.”

Rondal looked at him, near astonished.  “Tyndal, have you been reading again?” he asked, with mock worry.

“I did pay attention at Relan Cor, thank you very much,” he said with a sneer.  “And yes, I’ve read a book or two about military strategy.  The way I see it, this is more or less a war, just using knives and spells instead of swords and lances.”

“You are not wrong, my brother,” Lorcus nodded.  “But it’s also a commercial endeavor: the Rats, for all of their ‘military’ power, are at the root of it, mere merchants.  Their trade is the illicit, the immoral, and the depraved, but they sell their iniquity like a baker hawks a half-pound loaf.  The trick in a situation like this,” he said, amusedly, “is to appreciate both perspectives.”

“I take your point,” Tyndal agreed.  “But how exactly should we approach this?  Just go in and destroy the place around them?”

“That would be dramatic,” conceded Lorcus, “But not necessarily effective.  Your goal here, gentlemen, as I see it, is not just to throw an arcane temper tantrum . . . it’s to set the stage for a more complete attack,” he said, thoughtfully.  “One that weakens the Brotherhood beyond their capacity to bear it.”

“Well, that sounds good in theory,” Rondal pointed out, “but how is it helpful?”

“It’s helpful because if we know what our goal is, our real goal,” Lorcus lectured, “then we can safely proceed with communicating something completely different to the Brotherhood.  I think our first step is to make for Reunus and take a quiet look around,” he suggested.  “See what we can learn about what they are up to.  Quietly.”

“Well, then we’re going to have to avoid raising suspicions,” Rondal said, doubtfully, as he looked at the three of them.  “We look like three warmagi, not . . . something other than warmagi.”

“Already thought about that, Ron,” Tyndal assured.  “I even came up with a disguise that should suit you nicely.”

Rondal looked at him skeptically.  “Really?”

“Oh, without a doubt,” he grinned.  “You’ll love it!”

“I . . . don’t
hate
it,” Rondal confessed as he looked down at the disguise he was wearing.  “And it demonstrates a bit of forethought,” he added, in a rare offering of praise.

“It’s
perfect!
” pronounced Lorcus, who had shrugged into his costume and arranged it around himself until he was satisfied with the look.  “My Da’ always thought I would have made a good abbot.  Of course, that was before I discovered tits and my
rajira
discovered me,” he said, drawing the monk’s cowl over his head.  It took him but a moment to adopt the serene expression of piety most associated with the clergy.

“I reasoned that a trio of monks on a pilgrimage, while not entirely above suspicion, certainly reduces it,” Tyndal explained as he straightened his own dark gray habit.  “I chose the Luinites because no one ever wants to talk to a lawyer . . . until they do,” he added. 

“It will enable us to walk around the town,” agreed Rondal.  “It will also keep us from attracting too much . . . feminine attention,” he added.

“Clearly you two don’t know how some ladies react to a man of faith,” chuckled Lorcus.  “The more it is forbidden . . .”

When they disembarked at the river port they appeared to be three priests on a pilgrimage or legal matter, complete with baggage and books.  They quickly found the old Weavers Guild in the small place, in the most decrepit part of a decrepit town, and chose an inn not too far away that was glad of the trade.  Though it might have been more in character for pilgrims to seek one of the small temples or shrines along the Street of the Gods and beg lodging there, as many mendicant or service orders did; but the Luinites enjoyed a reputation for social snobbery and an opulent lifestyle that made staying in an inn not unreasonable. 

Indeed, they had the place nearly to themselves; as they settled into tidy second-floor chamber overlooking the river, Tyndal had a tray of dinner brought up from the kitchen and locked the door before they broke character.

“All right, lads,” Lorcus began, “what did you see when we walked past the place?”

“Six guards outside, trying hard not to look like guards,” Tyndal replied.  “Mostly former porters and dockmen, if I had to guess.”

“Seventh guard on the roof with an arbalest,” Rondal added, nodding.  “Three entrances: front, side, rear.”

“Four,” Tyndal countered, “Roof access.  The gables.”

“Five,” Lorcus said, shaking his head.  “There’s a loading ramp in the rear that leads to the storerooms, I’m guessing.  There’s a cart parked atop it, but that’s mere decoration.  And I’d be mad to think they didn’t have at least one or two concealed entrances.  But all in all, well spotted!  Did you have time to lace the place with charms?”

“Warding field on the south side,” Rondal volunteered.  “We’ll know how many go in, how many leave.”

“I laid some scrying benchmarks at the northeast and southwest corners,” Tyndal offered.  “That should keep our figuring accurate.”

“And I got a hook for a Long Ears in the front door,” Lorcus said, clapping in satisfaction.  “Shall we start sketching out the place on a magemap, then?”

“Only if we can do it over dinner,” Tyndal said, patting his stomach.  “Barge food . . .”

“I doubt that they’ll really have things going until after dark,” Lorcus considered.  “And I think I saw a lovely little tavern down the road . . .”

The three erstwhile monks had a fine meal, doing their best to play the role of real Luinites to the extent that they ordered three bottles of the local Bikavar red to compliment the excellent sausages, gravy, and bread the tavern provided. 

So, Tyndal, what do you think our plan should be
? Lorcus asked, mind-to-mind, as they ate.

I’m thinking we burst in and kill everyone who raises a hand against us
, he replied, while chewing.  Then tear the place down to the foundation. 

According to the ledger you lads brought back, there are probably twenty people in there
, reminded Lorcus
.  Are you feeling bloody-handed enough to take that many lives?

This is war
, Tyndal replied, flatly, still seeing the flailing arms and fluttering skirts of poor Estasia, as a Rat pushed her off of a roof. 
When the Rats join, they pledge their lives to protect their brothers, defend their nest, and attack their foes.  The Estasi Order will match their ferocity.

Just be certain you match it with all accompanying wisdom
, warned the Remeran. 
Getting yourselves caught in this land, with no patron and no allies, would be problematic.  And worse on Minalan, if his lads are caught here.

We won’t be caught
, Tyndal declared, flatly. 
And if they try, we’ll see a lot more dead Rats.

As long as we’re clear, then
, Lorcus agreed. 
I don’t want to go in there and start getting all bloody-handed and have you two come over with an attack of squeamishness.  If this is really a war, boy, then you had best be prepared to wage it that way.

No doubt he had a similar conversation with Rondal, a few moments later, because by the time he pushed the empty bowl of stew away, he looked extremely satisfied with himself.

“Now look,” he said, wiping his mouth daintily on a napkin.  “We look for information first, red hot vengeance second, agreed?”

“Agreed,” nodded both boys.  “We just want to hurt them,” added Tyndal.

“Let’s get to it, then,” Lorcus said, grabbing the last bottle of wine before paying the shot and stumbling back to the inn.

Despite his enthusiasm, Rondal was better suited to the patient game of scrying than the impulsive Lorcus.  That night while Rondal viewed the goings-on of the old Weavers Guild hall remotely, and Tyndal recorded his observations both on a magemap and in a notebook, Lorcus took the evening air in a stroll back to the docks before he returned near midnight.

“Find a whore, did you?” Tyndal asked, gamely, as their friend returned.

“Nay – a lonely widow,” he demurred.  “I told you the habit can be helpful to a harlot’s heart.  This particular lonely widow runs the grog shop next to the silversmith, right across from the old Guild hall.”

“So I take it was a productive meeting?” Rondal asked, an eyebrow cocked in amusement.

“Spiritually, yes,” chuckled the fake monk.  “Amazing how accessible a man is in one of these robes.  I told the widow I represented a lord up river who was considering buying the Guild Hall.  Once she heard that, she became quite accommodating.”