Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (34 page)

“I certainly hope so,” Rondal nodded.  “Rellin is the kind of arrogant, inquisitive little prick who is self-important enough to demand answers of the universe, if it isn’t doing what he wants.  A little like Tyndal,” he added.

“Hey!” Tyndal objected, unable to come up with a response.

“My point is, he can no more allow this Orison to take place without knowing who paid for it than Tyndal would,” he said, soothingly.  “He’ll be here.  He might be in disguise and skulking in the shadows, but he’ll be here.”

Rondal’s words were prophetic.  That night, while the four of them were making preparations in the darkness, two boatloads of ruffians made port at the docks below the town just as the darkness was falling over the Bay behind them.  Tyndal was preparing a few things in anticipation of the attack at dawn when he noted the two long, low ships (of Farisi design, he was proud to note – he’d been getting an eye for naval architecture while in the busy Bay) tied off at the pier.  Ten fellows or more disembarked each of the craft before they made the long stone stairway up to the town, proper.

Amongst them, Tyndal was insanely pleased to see, was Rellin Pratt.

Tyndal was able to conceal himself amongst a pile of crates and barrels near the crane; he was able to see nearly every Rat who left the longboats.  While not exactly geared for war, the disreputable gang were clearly ready for trouble. They were grim-looking men, and each bore a long knife and most also wore serviceable-looking scimitars.

Each of them resembled the thousands of mariners who roamed the hundreds of docks across the Bay.  Most wore leather jerkins or jacks, some tied at the waist with a sash, others with a broad leather belt.  Instead of hose, as most landsmen wore in Alshar, the Rats wore oiled leather breaches, their boots were seaman’s boots, not horseman’s, and each wore a wool mantle even in the growing heat of the season.  All of them wore hats, wide-brimmed low-crowned.

They trooped past his hiding spot with grim determination, their footsteps pounding the stone stairs as they made their way into town.  The bos’un, a scraggly-looking man with long scars on his face, stopped long enough to pay the dock fee to the attendant, and that’s when Tyndal sat his old school chum Kaffin . . . Rellin Pratt.

He’d grown at least a hand taller than the last time Tyndal had seen him, and his hair was brushing his shoulders, now.  He had a small mustache that looked almost desperate to be taken seriously . . . but its owner apparently commanded the respect of his crew, Tyndal noted, as they treated the lad with deference as they headed toward the nicest inn in town.

But it was definitely Rellin Pratt.  Tyndal would never forget that face, those eyes . . . the man who’d been responsible for the theft of his witchstone, and the death of his friend Estasia. 

Tyndal stifled an urge to summon his baculus and draw a wand and put an end to the miserable Rat right then and there . . . but as valiant as he was, odds of twenty to one (when at least one was a shadowmage) were more than the brave knight was willing to consider.  Instead he wisely stuck to the plan, remaining hidden until all of the Rats had passed and he could return to the inn without being spotted.

“Twenty, you say?” Lorcus said, frowning, when he heard the news.  “That’s not good,” he sighed.  “I figured a half-dozen, maybe as many as eight . . . but a full score?  We’re going to have to change the plans.”

“What does he want here, with that many Rats?” Rondal asked, shaking his head.  “It sounds like he wants to start a war!”

“That’s more or less correct,” mused Atopol.  “Think about it from his perspective: you’re doing well in the organization, making good coin, running your own crew, slave girls, the whole thing . . . and then some arse goes and brings up your infamous crazy uncle who got three duchies to band together to kill him and ten thousand others.”

“It was bound to raise questions,” agreed Tyndal.  “That’s why I liked it!”

“It did more than raise questions,” Atopol continued, thoughtfully.  “It slapped Pratt across the face.  It’s been almost ten years since the Mad Mage died.  He was still just a child when the war ended.  Some of the Coastlords were quite opposed to the Farisi campaign, as they saw Pratt and the Doge as relatives, not doing anything particularly illegal since Farise never accepted the Censorate. 

“So when the war started, not everyone here was in favor of it.  And you can bet that most of the Farisi mariners who’ve been in exile ever since have a much different perspective on the Mad Mage than everyone else.  It’s more than a little sensitive subject.  So . . . when Pratt’s name was mentioned, to this Rellin, it was a slap.  He’s arrived here ready to slap back.”

“I wonder if there’s any way . . .” Rondal began, then turned to Atopol.  “Do you think you could get my
dahman
into whatever chamber they’re in?  Close enough to overhear?”

“Without being seen,” Tyndal added, partially because he knew it would irritate the thief.  He scored when the lad scowled at him.

“I’m a shadowmage,” he snorted.

“So is he,” Rondal pointed out.

“But not as good as me,” Atopol shrugged.

“How do you know?” Lorcus asked, curious.

“
No one
is as good as me,” he stressed.  “Except my master.  And he’s old, now.”

“It’s not just a shadowmage, its twenty Rats,” Tyndal reminded him.  “One slip up, and tomorrow’s foam will be pink.”

“Twenty Rats or a hundred, it makes no difference,” he dismissed.  “Just give it to me.  I’ll take care of it.”

“If you can get it close enough, we might be able to overhear their plans,” Lorcus proposed.  “Whether they’re here for someone in particular, or if they’re just pissed off in general.”

“Certainly,” Atopol said, taking the inert
dahman
from Rondal.  “I’ll be back shortly.”

“Cocky little bastard,” smirked Tyndal, as the youth left.

The shadowmage returned from the other within an hour of leaving, slipping in and out of the chamber like a whisper.

“It’s in there,” Atopol said, proudly.  “I put it right under their table.  Easy.  He didn’t even have basic wards strung.  I told you he was crap for a shadowmage.”

“So how do we listen?” Tyndal asked.

“With the control wand,” Rondal supplied.  “There’s a sympathy stone inside it.  I’ll let everyone hear it.”

It only took a few moments for him to cast the necessary spell that allowed the tiny voice from the wand to be heard.

—the abbess only said that it was a monk who paid the fee,
came one voice with a thick Enultramar accent
.  A hundred silver.  Local coin.

“Their own coin, as it happens,” grinned Lorcus.

“Shh!  I can barely hear!” warned Rondal, annoyed, as he craned his neck over the device.

“Let me,” Tyndal sighed, and used magic to augment the sound coming through the sympathy stone.  There was an immediate improvement in the volume.

Who could have done something that mucked?
Came a whiny voice in response.  Beggin’
milord’s pardon, but only family can properly buy an Orison.
 

Which is why we are here,
the voice of Kaffin – Rellin Pratt – answered. 
No one would dare make an offering like that unless it was to rouse me.

You sure it wasn’t your ma what done it, Captain?
Asked another gangster.

My mother follows the Imperial gods as did my uncle,
Rellin replied, patiently. 
Not the Five Daughters.  Did you meet with the Jester?

Nay, his men said he was preoccupied,
came the discouraged response. 
Told me to come back in the morn, during regular business hours.

Fools!
Rellin exploded, nearly making the four magi jump. 
Someone is having a game at me, and I dislike it! 

But who done it, milord? c
ame the whiny voice again. 
Old Magapol, over in the mudfort?  The Jester? Baldarn?  Legs?  Who?

Whoever it was will answer for it,
Rellin said, defiantly. 
No one makes a fool of House Pratt!

“Except the combined armed forces of three duchies,” Rondal added, quietly.

“Details,” shrugged Atopol. 

Why would they do this now, though?
the whiner continued. 
On the eve of us taking ship?  Treachery is fine, for when you’re back in port before raiding.  But before? 

Aye, Captain, this stinks of treachery, agreed another of his crew, suspiciously.  Two days before we weigh anchor and go raiding, and someone is suddenly concerned about Orril Pratt’s soul in the afterlife?

The timing is very suspicious,
agreed Rellin. 
In a few more days, we’d be gone to sea with the rest of the fleet and it wouldn’t matter.  Someone wants my attention, my brothers, and I aim to give it to them.   We scour this town in the morning and find that priest.  And whoever put him up to this insult!  And when we find him, we won’t kill him – we’ll take him to sea, he vowed, where he will learn the meaning of suffering!

After that the discussion turned to the technical details of planning the coming raiding season, which were fascinating to Tyndal – but to no one else.   Apparently, he surmised, the goal of the fleet’s annual summer raids and piracy were not necessarily cargo to re-sell or mere slaves to sell to the plantations along the coast.  It was the capture of high-status passengers for whom a high ransom could be extorted.  As in chivalrous warfare, piracy on the high seas was a means toward a good living.

“Truth be told, I’m guessing a lot of the Brotherhood would just as soon forget about raiding, and focus on the more lucrative parts of the business,” Atopol offered. “They probably would, and just purchase slaves from other pirates, if it wasn’t for Pratt’s faction.”

“Why would they not want to steal?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“It’s expensive, risky, and it gets ships wrecked,” suggested Rondal.

“Then why doesn’t their council or whatever put a stop to it?” asked Lorcus.

“You have to know the local players,” sighed Atopol.  “The Brotherhood is a gang, but there are factions within it.  For example, where the Brotherhood is strongest, along the eastern Bay around the lake, there’s a faction of traditionalists that are damn-near mystical.  Then there are the businessmen in the center of the Bay, who are more concerned about coin than anything else.  The factions upriver in the Coastlands are more like Coastlords, more interested in estates than ships or slaves, and the ones in the west end of the Bay, like our friends at Solashaven and Pearlhaven, are less political and more ruthless.

“Then you have Pratt’s faction,” he continued.  “There’s always been a strain of outlawed Sea Lords and Coastlords in the Brotherhood – noble houses who were disgraced or lost favor, some old Sea Lord lines who persist in the old ways and find the Brotherhood more aligned with them in spirit than the merchant houses of the Bay.  Pratt apparently hails from one of those.  The other Rats aren’t thrilled with them,” he explained, “because they often still act like arrogant Sea Lords, and not the disreputable riff-raff they really are.  They’re traditionalists in the most annoying of ways.”

“Like forcing the Brotherhood to admit him by stealing a ship,” offered Rondal.

“Exactly,” nodded Atopol.  “The last time the Rats followed one of that lot, they got on the wrong side in the Farisi campaign.   Which is one reason why commissioning an Orison in the honor of the Mad Mage is so liable to incite them.”

“So, do these fellows in Pratt’s faction have a rosy relationship with the Rat Council, or whatever it is they use?”

“Oh, no, the Sea Lord factions are a pain,” agreed the shadowmage.  “The only time they’re really useful is if the Brotherhood needs a ship, or needs violence done on a large scale.”