Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (57 page)

Rondal had serious doubts that Dara would appreciate anything the scrawny mage had done.  While the girl seemed perfectly normal in most respects, that normalcy included eyes for their friend Sir Festaran, a well-mannered Riverlord of means, well-placed in the Spellmonger’s councils.  Compared to that, a failed warmage with a good job just wasn’t as appealing.  Trying to convince Gareth to give up his infatuation would be just as pointless as trying to force Dara to pay attention to it, he knew. 

“We’re ready,” he announced to Tyndal, when he finally broke contact.  “Gareth and Iyugi will be transferred to Brisomar tonight, and Gatina and Atopol are in place.”

“Our disguises are ready, too,” Tyndal assured him.  “And I think we have just enough coin in the treasury for our stake.  Much of it from the Rat’s own hordes.”

“You really think this will work?” he asked, doubtfully.

Tyndal shrugged.  “Even if it doesn’t, it’s going to put us in a position to do a lot of damage.  It would be a shame if we didn’t take that opportunity.”

Rondal considered the merits of his partner’s observation.  Whatever else might happen, doing damage to the Brotherhood was still the highest priority . . . and this seemed the surest way to do that.

“All right.  We’ll do it.  Contact Gareth or Iyugi and arrange to have us brought over.  I guess we’re committed, by now.”

The island of Brisomar was within sight of the city of Vaxel, which was a dim light in the murky darkness of the eastern Bay.  To the north and south tiny dots indicated the presence of further settlements along the islands of the Great Bay, but every other place that Rondal looked after he and Tyndal travelled the Ways to Brisomar was a gloomy and dark expanse of shadow as the overcast sky and the restless gray sea stretched out in all directions.  The constant sea spray was augmented by a steady drizzle that made the austere little island even more desolate-feeling.

“Welcome to Brisomar,” Gareth said, sarcastically, as he brought them through his personal Waystone.  “You’ve just seen pretty much everything of interest here.  Ishi’s comely eye, you two look different!”

Rondal looked down at his disguise.  He’d dressed as a Coastlord, borrowing a few things from Atopol’s impressive closet, and ended up with a light green doublet and yellow hose, as well as a short walking stick and sword at his hip.  His face was concealed behind a silken domino, and his stylish wide-brimmed hat obscured much of the rest of his head.

Tyndal, by contrast, was bare-chested, with just a warmage’s weapons harness crossing his shoulders.  He was wearing lifts in his boots that (with the help of an illusionary enchantment) made him seem
much
taller and broader than he really was.  Across his back he wore a massive greatsword they’d borrowed from the palace at Vorone, an impressive-looking antique Coastlord weapon dating from the Late Magocracy.  With leather pants, thick hobnailed boots and an evil-looking belt, Tyndal looked every bit as intimidating as a bodyguard could.  A black hood and mantle complimented Rondal’s silken domino mask, covering Tyndal’s face entirely with black cloth.  He’d painted his face like a tribal savage to further obscure anyone knowing who he was.

“We’re ready,” Rondal agreed.  “I don’t think we’ll be recognized, but if we are don’t be afraid if we beat a hasty retreat.”

“I’d appreciate it, actually,” Gareth assured him.  “They might be acting polite at the moment, but these are the kind of men who would make me slay you in front of them, to prove my loyalty, if you got captured.”  The slender wizard did not look comfortable about that situation – he was far too squeamish to be a real warmage.

“We won’t get captured,” Rondal boasted.  “We’ll handle our part.  You just get back in . . .
there
,” he said, turning around and seeing the keep of Brisomar for the first time.

It was similar in fashion to the ruined Sea Lord tower that Ruderal had grown up in the shadow of, back in Solashaven . . . but on a much grander scale.  While that fortress had been used to guard a relatively small town behind the protective banks of the outer islands, this tower had been built to defend against great fleets who sought to gain the river mouth behind it.  It rose seven stories over the waves, set on a high promontory on the island that gave it an excellent vantage.  It was made of local rubble, with a strong square base that rose to a fighting deck on the sixth story, where catapults and trebuchets were lashed under oilcloth against need.

The face of the tower was studded with small platforms and narrow slits from which the defenders could fire arrows, and the gatehouse that was the only entrance to the simple but effective fortification was strong enough to withstand a lengthy siege. 

Why anyone would want this nearly-lifeless rock in the first place was beyond him.  The harbor below was poor, as he’d come to understand, and the winds never seemed to stop whipping over the naked face of the rocks. 

But once the Sea Lords saw this stony hell as a haven, and built the tower of Brisomar.  Now the Brotherhood saw it as an opportunity, a property which no longer had a defensive purpose but which was well-suited to clandestine negotiations, events, or simply as a place to dispose of an unwanted body.

Gareth bid them farewell and left, quickly, threading his way through the boulders and back to the privy block he’d escaped from.

“Remember,” Rondal cautioned Tyndal, “you are supposed to be mute.”

I’ll remember
, Tyndal replied, mind-to-mind. 
You just remember you’re supposed to be an arrogant, stick-up-your-arse Coastlord, descended from the high and mighty Archmagi of old, ready to reclaim your legacy of power.
  He hefted the heavy coffer he carried bearing their entry fee, and headed up the path from the harbor toward the tower.  Rondal followed, doing his best to look like an officious Coastlord attempting to be cagy.

There were two well-dressed guards at the gatehouse, complete with pikes, short swords, and arbalests.  The senior of them stopped Rondal and his bodyguard on the way in.

“Your invitations, please, good masters?” asked the servant who came forth to greet them.  He was tall and bearded, but had a delicate manner to him that made him a good host. 

“I was under the impression that no invitation was needed for this,” Rondal replied, indignantly. 

“Only a select few were invited, my lord,” the Rats’ major domo replied, apologetically. 

“Well, if you do not want my gold . . .” Rondal said with a weary sigh, indicating to his “manservant” to turn around, “although if you didn’t
want
bidders, I don’t know why you bothered letting everyone in the Bay know about this thing!” he said, with just the right mixture of whining distress and indignation.  It caught the man’s attention.

“Of course we entertain all
qualified
bidders, my lord,” he said, emphasizing the ‘qualified’.  Rondal gave a lazy nod to his hooded companion, who opened the chest he carried.

Within was a variety of gold coins in various denominations, as well as some splendid jewelry and cut gemstones. 

“I believe this will cover it,” Rondal said, airily.  “A little over four thousand ounces of gold, and nearly eight thousand ounces worth of precious stones and such.  If it isn’t sufficient, I can arrange for more . . .”

“That should easily qualify you, my lord,” the man said, suddenly taking Rondal far more seriously.  “And my lord’s name?  For the register . . .”

“I am known as the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge,” Rondal said, with just a bit of caustic threat in his tone.  “That is all you need to know, at the moment.  I represent a number of interested parties in the eastern Coastlands who wish to acquire . . . rare and uncommon treasures,” he said, with purposeful ambiguity.

“Then you have arrived at the perfect time, my lord Birchroot,” he said with a low bow.  He nodded to two large fellows in mail, and they came to take the chest from Tyndal.  They lurched as they tried to heft it.  Without Tyndal’s augmented strength, he’d barely be able to lift it himself.  They looked upon the silent bodyguard with new respect.  “All bidders have their funds secured in common, to keep from any unwarranted interference,” he reported as his men took the gold away.  “Should you fail to prevail at the auction,” he added, “most of your funds will be returned when you leave.”

“Most?” Rondal asked, upset.

“Minus a nominal fee, my lord,” the servant assured.  “Merely covering our costs.”

“I do not intend to lose, tonight,” Rondal said, firmly, his lips tight beneath his mask.  “Indeed, I have been authorized a sizable line of credit by certain parties to ensure that I do
not!
”

“You are in excellent company, then, Lord Birchroot,” the servant said, as he led the two of them upstairs to a wide hall.  “Many of our clients have secured rather large sums to compete for the prize.  May your fortunes prevail,” he added.  “Feel free to mingle with your fellow bidders, while we prepare,” he invited Rondal, when they reached the head of the stairs.  “Perhaps you might learn something of value as you do so, my lord,” he added, barely above a whisper, as Rondal caught the first sight of those who would purchase his old witchstone.

Most obvious were the Censors, two of the Three in attendance in their long checkered cloaks and tall helms.  It seemed as if the nervous-looking men (who, by all accounts, already had witchstones of their own) were concerned by the large number of other bidders on the merchandise, and were busily whispering to each other.

There was a dark-looking man in gray garb, cut in a Sea Lord style, complete with a tiny golden Sea Axe around his neck: clearly a representative from the Priest of Storms, although why the cleric of a sea god wanted a witchstone was beyond Rondal.  The man seemed very sure of himself, standing alone and watching every other person in the room carefully.

Rondal recognized Lord Whiskers milling about with his odd little reptile pet on his shoulder. Though he was sure that Whiskers would not recognize him under his mask and spells of concealment, the little lizard thing turned in their direction and made a motion that reminded Rondal eerily of a cat smelling something familiar. Rondal hurriedly moved towards the other side of the room. This was no time to take chances with a premature discovery, he reasoned.

There were others he noted, such a tall, gaunt-looking man in a dark gray robe, his eyes sunken and obscured in his cowl.  A trio of priestesses in non-descript habits.  A knot of mariners and mercenaries around the table where the wine and spirits were being served.

A cluster of Coastlords proved to be a contingent of magically-descended families from the western parts of Rhemes, where many families had taken refuge after the Conquest.  They seemed affluent enough, but also seemed more concerned in impressing each other than seriously considering the merchandise.  Rondal skirted their edges, pretending to be one of their own by boorishly snubbing them while clinging to their identity.  It worked like a spell. Tyndal’s intimidating presence and Rondal’s standoffishness convinced them that he was one of their own.

After two or three mysterious bidders whose dress or language did nothing to inform Rondal of their origins asked him vague questions, he was surprised to come face to face with a very tall, very thin, very pale woman whose black hair spilled from her head like a waterfall.  She approached him boldly, apparently sensing his special nature somehow.

“I am Bea Nahiga,” she said, giving a low and graceful curtsey.  She was wearing a black gown of a strange wrap-around cut, much at odds with the well-fitted styles of the Coast or the embellishments in Sea Lord dress.  “Are you seeking the powers of the stones, too?” she asked, sounding like an enchanted little girl at the prospect.

“Wizard of Birchroot Bridge,” Rondal nearly barked, as the woman’s charms did their best to distract him.  Her eyes were wide and painted with shadows to accent their size.  Her lips were full and red, and while her face had an angularity that belied traditional beauty, it had its own severe sort of allure.  And her hair seemed to blend with the shadows behind her.  But her boldly-exposed breasts nearly demanded attention in her tight-fitting laced gown.  “From what province do you hail, my lady?” he asked, his words polite but his tone questing.

“Oh, I am a simple witch from the great mires of the western shore,” she dismissed.  “But my patrons have asked that I evaluate the merchandise the Brotherhood offers tonight.”

“Your patrons?” Rondal asked, trying hard not to sound interested.