Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (48 page)

More impressive to his critical mind was
her
critical mind.  While he found most girls interesting, he rarely found them witty.  Estasia, the alchemy student he’d fancied at Inrion Academy had been incredibly smart, and not afraid to show it, for instance, one of the things that attracted him to her . . . and made her tragic death all the more bitter in his heart.

With Gatina, he’d found, her sharp wit and keen observations were just the beginning.  While they’d only spoken intimately a few times, and kept their relations relatively chaste, he had sensed a much deeper soul behind those gorgeous purple eyes.

Of course, he was also wary of a fair amount of madness in there, too, but he was beginning to suspect that was true of
all
girls.  Some were just better at concealing it than others, he reasoned.

Gatina did have one intriguing advantage over the other girls he’d fancied.  She fancied him
back
, which he found both novel and frightening.  It wasn’t the affection itself, of course.  It was the
sincerity
with which she lauded him that made him anxious.  She seemed to really believe he was some kind of . . .
hero.
  That wasn’t something Rondal was comfortable considering himself.  Hearing it from a girl he genuinely liked was even harder.

It could be several days before the thief showed up in Gandy, he knew.  And while he could travel towards her, for this first foray into southern Alshar he wanted to establish a local base of operations as near to the natural Waypoint as possible, and Gandy was it.  This little cottage was it.

Whomever the previous occupant had been, they hadn’t left much behind.  A single bare cupboard on the wall between two rough shelves, a tiny stone fireplace he could tell by looking at would fill the room with smoke, two little windows.  There was a small table, a single stool, and a bedframe, but nothing else.

It wasn’t much to work with.  It was perfect.

Rondal never would have admitted making such preparations to his overbearing partner, but he had contrived a few comforts to make this clandestine meeting a little cozier.  He pulled a special wand out of his belt and began summoning.

It had taken a reasonable bribe and the promise of a future favor, but Gareth had come through for Rondal with the wand.  It was small and elegantly formed, a highly polished piece of plain weirwood with a few discrete wood-burnt runes, but the modest enchantment contained
nine
separate hoxter pockets in its gleaming length. 

First, he conjured a huge wicker hamper of provisions.  The top was filled with bread, preserves, sausages, eggs, butter, and other victuals, while the bottom was packed in straw, a selection of wines, meads and ales from Sevendor.  A second hamper, secured to the top of the first, had two good iron pans and a small kettle, as well as bowls and cups. 

Next he summoned a brace of padded, well-made chairs he’d taken as spoils from the conquest of Rolone.  Lorcus had insisted they loot
something
from the conquered domain, and he and Tyndal had selected a number of luxurious furnishings from the homes, halls and chambers of the prosperous town as their spoils.  The Rat Trap was packed with such things, now. 

He shoved the small table aside and brought forth a beautifully ornate maple table originally owned by a fat (but surprisingly loud, when irate) burgher of Rolone who had exquisite taste, if a deficit in manners to his conquerors.  The brass lantern he placed in the center was one of the finer pieces from his home.

Rondal produced a crate of comforts – like lamps and tapers, kerchiefs and towels – and laid them into the cabinet after he used a quick cantrip to blow the dust and cobweb away.  He removed two small tapestries and hung them over the plastered walls, and then hung a small pane of stained glass he’d purchased in Barrowbell, once, because he thought it was pretty. 

It was a cat preparing to pounce on a bird.  The sort of coincidence that made one consider the caprices of the gods.

Lastly he brought forth a sturdy cotton tick stuffed with wool and down, and enchanted for extra comfort.  When the bedframe proved too narrow to bear the weight or width of it, he was forced to use Bulwark and some wood magic to extend the size and strengthen the structure.  Once the tick fit perfectly, he dressed the bed in the softest Gilmoran cotton sheet he could find in Vorone, and added a goose-down pillow and thin woolen blanket.

He summoned a trio of tiny magelights to hover over the room, illuminating the single room cottage in a soft, warm glow from above.  It looked . . .
good
, he decided.  Not perfect, but much better than when he walked in.

Once the inside was done, he picked up Bulwark and went outside, where he warded the cottage up as tightly as he could.  He reduced sound’s ability to carry, and ensured that any walking by would see nothing but a tidy little house on the edge of a boring little village.  If they happened to consider taking a closer look, the sigils he posted around the perimeter would discourage them . . . and alert anyone inside that intruders were about.

As a house of safety for a clandestine operation went, it was more than adequate.  For a lover’s cottage, he knew in his heart, it was quaint.

Rondal spent the next day and a half wandering around the village, getting to know the few score people of Gandy’s little commune.

It was pretty country.  Much was given to grasslands for sheep, cows, and goats, and the local manor had a piggery of some repute.  There were groves of cherry trees and apple orchards around the edges of the larger farms.  Most grew a little barley, maize, and oats, as well as an abundance of vegetables.

Gandy, proper, was the site of a few small shrines and a lackluster temple to the local god of the fields, a theological cognate of Huin who wasn’t quite so obsessed with cereals.  There was a smith but no carpenter, the cooper of the hamlet doing most of that work.  There was a healer, an elderly nun, and a few boisterous families of prosperous peasants who dominated the tiny community’s social scene. 

There was no inn, but a taphouse known as the
Tailless Tortoise
was the regular gathering place for the leaders of the community after a hard day.  And though he tried all evening long, he could not convince anyone to tell him the true reason the tortoise had no tail, and why it was noteworthy enough to name a taphouse after.

As a visitor he was a novelty in the tiny community.  Giving his name as Diofal, a student from the Wilderlands, Rondal was welcomed and toasted, as they quizzed him about his journeys . . . and to ask him why in the name of all the gods he had found himself in Gandy. 

As he drank the warm, rich beer that evening he found himself spinning a tale about being kicked out of a low-end monastic school for a lack of funds, and spending the rest of the summer wandering the Coastlands before he went north to face his dour father and explain the loss of such a large inheritance in such a short amount of time. 

That captivated the villagers, and convinced them to protect the lad (and the rest of his coin) in their hamlet, at least until harvest time.  More than one farmer mentioned the fair table he sat and the how pretty his daughters were. 

And then some
bastard
had to go and uncork a bottle of local spirits . . .

By the time Rondal stumbled back to the cottage, he was using Bulwark to guide him through the darkness.  He was too drunk to manage a magelight.  Or even magesight.

As he fell asleep in the luxuriously comfortable bed, he reflected on just how fortunate he’d been to find Gandy.  It was an absolutely adorable, incredibly dull village in the middle of a boring barony.  The troubles of court and the uncertainty that reigned from the Narrows to the Great Bay were unknown here.  The most important bit of local gossip was the lively feud between a reeve and a freeholding family over the ownership of a meadow and the virginity of a daughter. 

Not the worst place to go to avoid attention, he sighed, as he fell asleep.

She’s on her way,
Tyndal assured him
.  I just heard from Cat an hour ago.  She should be there any time.

Rondal paced nervously in front of the cottage, as the day passed.  He’d been ready since this morning, scrubbing the place down with soap, water, and magic, and tidying up outside.  If he had this place for the rest of the month, he might as well make it homey.

But by afternoon he was starting to fret. 
Where was Gatina?
  She had been close to Falas, he knew, but then that covered a lot of territory.  Atopol had informed Tyndal that she’d been running an errand for Master Hance when his call came . . . and she had stopped her mission the moment she received it. 

Atopol was still in possession of the
dahman
he’d built, while Tyndal held the wand.  The sympathy stone within allowed Atopol and Tyndal to speak, and that provided an essential contact to House Salaines.  Indeed, Rondal had several more sympathy stones in his gear, seven complete sets and three half-sets.  The other halves were either at Vorone or Sevendor.

It was just part of the bounty of enchantments Rondal decided to include in this first official foray into spycraft.  He planned several days of instruction and communication with Gatina, so that they could establish some protocols and routines to further the cause of Restoration.

At least, that was what he convinced himself.

But when the day seemed to drag on and on, and he kept checking the road even though he knew the wards would warn him long before he saw her, he finally broke down and called Tyndal, mind-to-mind.

What if she’s been delayed?
he asked, insistently. 
What if she’s in trouble?  What if she meets bandits?

Then she’ll skewer a few bandits,
Tyndal replied, unhelpfully. 
Striker, relax.  She’ll be there.  Don’t get wound up like an overstrung arbalest when she gets there or she’ll lose interest.

Have you
met
the girl?
Rondal demanded
.  You could put an arbalest bolt in her while she was being chased by Fell Hounds and dragons and she wouldn’t lose interest in me!

Relax!
Tyndal ordered. 
She’s just a girl.  A girl who is on a secret mission, so quit trying to worry her, and do your job. 

Rondal took a deep breath, about to explain to Tyndal why he was so desperately wrong.  Then he realized that he was, in fact, completely correct.

I will,
he assured him. 
I just fret.

I know.  That’s why you’re a better commander than I am,
he admitted. 
Now, just be casual when she arrives.  Don’t scare her off.  She’s important.

I know!

Just . . . try to make her comfortable.  You can do that.  But don’t overdo it.

You are really not helping, Haystack.

I can’t give you any advice you have the wits to take,
Tyndal decided
.  She’s your future wife.  Do what you need to do.

What is that?

I don’t know!  I’m not the one trapped in a quaint cottage with an amorous kitten!  I’m just thinking that as the subject might arise, you might use it as an opportunity to see what color apron you’d like, to wear for instance, or—

Just then, Rondal felt a tingle that told him his most distant wards had been crossed.

I think that’s her!

Good,
Tyndal replied with a mental sigh. 
You were starting to make me nauseated, a little bit.  Go get her, Striker.  You’ve got this under control.

Rondal was tempted to thank his friend, but decided to take his advice instead.  He quickly put the kettle on, took out his pipe, and patiently waited.  In a few moments he heard the clip-clop of hooves as a handsome rouncey rode up to the fence.  He caught a glimpse of her face as she surveyed the cot with magesight. 

She was under a black mantle, and her riding gown was of dark gray under it.  She wore no disguise, and her long white hair was braided behind her.  There was a tiny jewel at her throat: an amethyst of deepest purple, the exact same shade as her eyes.

Rondal met her at the door. 
She was here.