Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (76 page)

“If you would refrain about discussing Ishi’s Blessing in conjunction with my sister, I would count it as a boon,” Atopol said, giving Tyndal a look.

“Oh!  Sorry, my friend.  Gatina’s a fine girl,” he assured him.  “It’s not her that I take issue with.  It’s the entire opportunistic gender!  Please tell me you aren’t ready to give up your career so lightly?”

Atopol scowled.  “I’m supposed to marry the best female thief I can find, according to the dictates of my House.  Do you understand how that limits my possibilities?  It’s not a profession that attracts many women to begin with, and those who do master its subtleties are rarely well-suited to matrimony.”

“I can see that,” Tyndal admitted.  “How does one seek a wife who is a thief?”

“If you can figure that out, let me know,” Atopol shrugged. 

“Not bloody likely!” snorted Tyndal.  “The
last
thing I need is to lose another friend to a woman.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

A Conversation In The Garden

The Sevendor Magic Fair commenced with much of its usual enthusiasm, although the absence of Baroness Alya was noted by all at the opening.  There was a subdued air over the festivities, in light of the Magewar and the recent dragon attack, but for the most part the festival was vibrant.  Vendors and merchants pulled in from across the Five Duchies.  Great wains full of merchandise arrived and were unloaded on the new commons. 

Tyndal stuck with Sir Atopol most of the time, introducing him to the various wizards of Sevendor and beyond who came to the Fair.  For three days they attended lectures, parties, competitions and exhibitions together, sometimes with others in tow, but never Rondal or Gatina.

The pair seemed extraordinarily content to spend their time together, and frequently broke away from the events they did attend in public.  Tyndal didn’t mention it to anyone, but it was apparent that others had noted the pairing, and for the most part they were supportive of the match.

“I think they work well together,” Dara said at a luncheon sponsored by Banamor for the High Magi in a massive canopy on the commons.  “They have barely been apart since she arrived, and he can’t seem to look anywhere but at her.  Who can blame him?  Isn’t she beautiful?” she asked Sir Festaran, who had escorted her to the affair. 

“She’s, uh, quite striking,” the young mage knight agreed, clearly untutored in how to respond to such probing questions.  “And from what I understand she’s quite accomplished, too,” he added.

“In her field,” Atopol agreed.  “She’s a better sneak than me, and she’s outstanding at swordplay, but when it comes to locks and obfuscation spells, I’m much better.”

“I’m wondering how one can maintain one’s nobility and still be a thief,” Dara said, troubled.  “Not that I am judging,” she quickly said, looking at Atopol.  “But how can one uphold the laws of gods and men when one’s House is dedicated to breaking them?”

“We are not common thieves, Hawklady,” Sir Atopol assured.  “In fact, we have very specific standards when it comes to theft.  We do not take from those in need, and we do not rob people for gain.  It is about the art, and our prey is almost entirely from the upper nobility.”

“Does that undo the crime of theft?” Festaran asked, troubled.

“No, but it does mitigate it,” Atopol conceded.  “When the nobility steals the livelihood of the peasant, does that undo their crime?”

“Taxes and tribute are not theft,” Sir Festaran declared, troubled.

“Because the nobility declares they are not,” Atopol countered.  “We are merely extending that rationalization to its logical conclusion.  If the taxes the nobility take from the peasantry are not theft, then the loot we take from the nobility is likewise not theft, in the strictest sense.”

“That sounds like a massive rationalization to me,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.

“Yes, but the nobility continues to tax the peasantry, regardless,” Atopol smirked.  “If my House ensures that no one gains enough fortune to oppress their fellows overmuch, have we not done the duchy a service?”

“Yet the Count of Rhemes
does
oppress his fellows, by all accounts,” Sir Festaran pointed out.

“Then my House has work left to do,” Atopol agreed.  “In a few short weeks my father has managed to organize a number of loyalist houses,” he said, pleased.  “Not with coercion or threats, but by simple appeal.  Those who are aware of my House’s true nature are unwilling to do anything to anger us.  Those who are not are proud of our willingness to agitate on behalf of Anguin, when the consequences for doing so are increasingly dire.”

“How, dire?” Festaran asked.  Atopol looked troubled, as he reported.

“When the fleet returned this autumn, it brought back no less than seven thousand fresh slaves to feed the endless plantations and estates of Enultramar.  Some of the commoners will be used as mere galley slaves, and of course the nobility or men of means will be ransomed, but for the rest they will be doomed to a short, weary life on a farm, under the overseer’s lash.  Even with the destruction of the slavers’ infrastructure, there is high demand . . . and the Brotherhood, what is left of it, is selling slaves at a discount to raise funds.  This puts those estates in competition with the upriver estates where the peasants are villeins, not slaves, and more expensive.  Which makes their surplus more expensive.  Which makes the more northernly domains tend to be more loyalist, and the southern ones more inclined to support the Rebel Council. 

“Well, to combat the threat of uprising or rebellion, Count Vichetral has been arresting any minor nobility who profess a loyalty to Anguin as ‘potential insurrectionists”, and is having them imprisoned.  Master Hance believes this is a tacit threat, and at the first sign of rebellion he will begin executing them.  So yes, the consequences of pursuing Anguin’s claim to Enultramar are fraught with peril.”

Festaran looked scandalized.  “No lord, whatever his rank, should dictate to his vassals what they should think!”

“These are not Vichetral’s vassals, technically,” Atopol countered.  “The arrests are being made in name of the ‘governing council’, not through legitimate legal channels.  Which means that there are no legitimate means of challenging the imprisonment.”

“Which means you could end up in prison, if you are caught!” Dara said.

Atopol smirked again.  “For a day or so.  Hawklady, there are few prisons on Callidore that are prepared to hold a Cat against his will.”

The fete that night, at the Arcane Orders’ Sevendori chapterhouse, was a grand affair, and Tyndal took great pains to go to the barber and wear his best court clothes for it.  While unaccompanied, he did not lack for companionship or dancing partners that evening.  He and Atopol had a regular circle of suitors, young women eager to dance and drink with such handsome and exotic young men. 

The announcements at the beginning of the evening were boring: Master Dranus was leaving the post as Minalan’s Court Wizard to pursue his election to the County of Moros, in central Remere.  The Spellmonger’s Trial would include second, third, and fourth prizes of great value, though no more than one stone would be give away.   Elections for representatives of the various colleges of wizards were going to be due, soon. 

Tyndal ignored most of it, as he’d heard the news when it was fresh, after their arrival.  He saw Rondal and Gatina (whose distinctive hair was dark black and whose eyes were now a pale gray) across the room repeatedly, but the two of them never spoke.  They barely even looked at each other.

He was in the midst of selecting which of three equally attractive ladies at the ball to concentrate his efforts upon for the rest of the evening when he felt the stirrings of contact, mind-to-mind.

Sir Tyndal
, came an unfamiliar voice into his mind.  To his surprise it was Gatina. 
Will you attend me in the garden in a few moments, before you carry on with your errantry?

Tyndal was not in favor of the idea – indeed, he didn’t want to talk to the Kitten of Night at all.  But he could not think of a compelling reason not to that didn’t sound cowardly.

Give me a moment to shake off this redhead, and I’ll be right there,
he promised.  He thought he heard a mental giggle as she ended the contact.

He arrived punctually, when he couldn’t find something to keep him, and took out his pipe to have something to do with his hands.  Gatina was waiting at the foot of the garden, a parade of potted and planted plants selected by Olmeg’s folk for their visual and olfactory beauty, as well as their magical properties.  It was a tithe of the incredible collection the Greenwarden was amassing at Hollyburrow.

“So are you enjoying the fete, Lady Gatina?” he asked, his words formal but his manner casual.

“It’s lovely, Sir Tyndal,” she replied, taking a seat on a stone bench – one, he noted ironically, that had been built by Rondal.  “I couldn’t imagine there being this many magi in the world.  Or such a diverse assembly.  And the esteem in which you are held by your colleagues is far higher than you imagine.  Yet as enjoyable as the experience has been, there is a shadow over it from your conflict with Sir Rondal,” she said, sipping her wine.

“What conflict?” Tyndal shrugged.  “Rondal and I have no quarrel.”

“Yet he broods and stomps about in a way that, alas, only his closest friend can manage to inspire,” she said, with a delicate shrug.  “I cannot help but imagine that I am the source of this conflict.”

“Well, it’s not like we didn’t argue before you came along, my lady,” Tyndal admitted, leaning on his knee.  It was a glorious night in Sevendor, with the cool autumn breeze sending the sweet scent of hay from the mowing from the fields.  “He is a contentious gentleman, if you had not noticed.”

“He is only contentious to his foes . . . and you, my lord,” she countered.  “Yet when he is truly at odds with you, he is miserable.”

“Perhaps it is the prospect of matrimony that makes him so,” speculated Tyndal.

“Ah,” Gatina said.  “We come to the heart of the matter.  You do not wish your brother to wed me.”

“He is not my brother,” Tyndal snapped.

“Is he not?” she challenged.  “Born of the same village, raised in the same circumstances, knowing each other since boyhood?  The way he speaks, it is possible – though I think it fancy – that you share a sire.  You certainly are devoted to the same master.  How then is Sir Rondal not your brother, Sir Tyndal?”

“And if he was?” Tyndal said, unused to such challenges from women. 

“If he was, then you would certainly feel your kinship tested, when he considers a mate,” she reasoned.  “I am no fool, my lord.  How could you not, after such long acquaintance?”

“And you are here to tell me you pose no threat?” he replied, boldly.

“Nay, my lord,” Gatina said, quietly.  “I come here to expose that threat for what it is.”

“Do enlighten me, my lady,” Tyndal said, stiffly, suspicious of her.

Gatina straightened her gown absently while she paused in thought.  “You worry that I will seek to take your brother and
change
him,” she explained, carefully.  “That I will take him away from you, force him into a life of boring domesticity, never to face danger again.  You fear I prey on his good nature and gullibility, his idealism and his desires.

“Yet while I admit that many – nay, most! – most women might consider such a man a prize for his position, his titles, his wealth and still not be satisfied until they felt themselves the master of all, you mistake me: I desire the man, not the ornament.  I neither need nor desire his titles or wealth.”

“But that is not the thrust of my objection, my lady,” Tyndal said, hoarsely.

“Ah!  So you
do
object,” she sighed.  “Thank you for the admission.”

“My lady, I object not because I fear Rondal will be tied to some miserable manor in the picturesque countryside, overseeing his peasants and raising a brood, seeking to impress his idiotic noble neighbors while his heart slowly dies inside his increasingly girthy chest— “

“For a fear you do not posses,” Gatina observed, dryly, “you do have a colorful manner of describing it, my lord.”

Tyndal grinned.  “Perhaps.  But my true fear is this: my – my brother is an idealist,” he said, quietly.  “As am I, though we are dedicated to different ideals.  Alas, Rondal’s ideals where femininity is concerned are . . . naïve.”

“He has not been batted about by coquettes, has he?” she frowned.

“Would that he had, my lady,” Tyndal said, feeling his guard drop a bit.  “Then perhaps he would have a better understanding of womankind.”

“Only one side of womankind, my lord,” Gatina objected.  “I understand your misgivings – he possesses a gentle, highly idealistic heart.  I had no understanding of that myself, when my eyes first saw him.  I feared that I, myself, would be disappointed when I made his acquaintance, for I cannot stand self-important, vain men.”

“And yet you consort with
me,
” he grinned.

“We all must sacrifice, in a time of war,” she grinned back, good-naturedly.  “But when I got to know your brother, my lord, he revealed to me an intellect of surpassing complexity, as well as a kind and gentle heart.  Yet he is stalwart and brave, foolhardy, even.  And I have never met a man more selfless.”