Shadowmage

Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

By Terry Mancour

First Kindle Edition

Copyright © September, 2016

Dedication:

To Lance, Jeff, Chris, Daniel, and Stephen

Special Thanks To Sire Aaron of Schwartz,

without whose assistance this caper

would have gone tragically awry.

MAPS

Rescuers. Avengers. Thieves.  Spies.

The life of a knight mage is never easy, but sometimes the gods smile on you and grant you an errand of incredible complexity . . . without regards to casualties.  When Tyndal and Rondal, journeymen wizards and knights errant, travel to southern Alshar to rescue a helpless boy and his mother, it sets in motion a series of events that will shake the foundations of the Five Duchies!  While they are beginning their quest against the vast criminal gang known as the Brotherhood of the Rat, the two knights encounter the Cats of Enultramar, a family of shadowmagi (masters of shadow, illusion, and obfuscation) and high-class thieves who help them discover a plot to attack the rich lands and prosperous people of Alshar, from the Wilderlands to the Great Bay . . . and only Rondal and Tyndal can stop them!  From thugs and thieves to irate Censors of Magic to dragons and undead, the intrepid pair face the challenges of a new land and an old enemy! For when a new, powerful threat in the form of the Necromancer of Olum Seheri looms against them, the brave young knights magi can only hope to defeat it with the help of a . . . SHADOWMAGE!

Contents

Part I.

The Rescue Of Ruderal

Chapter One

Solashaven

Chapter Two

Ruderal’s Hovel

Chapter Three

An Enchanting Piss

Chapter Four

The Arrunatus House

Chapter Five

The Cat Of Shadows

Chapter Six

The Shrine Of Eight Bells

Chapter Seven

Escape Upriver

Chapter Eight

The Rats Of Atarapus

Chapter Nine

Palomar Abbey

Chapter Ten

The Lord Of Oirghort

Part II.

The Vengeance of Estasia

Chapter Eleven

The Rat Trap

Chapter Twelve

Return To Enultramar

Chapter Thirteen

A Raid On Rats

Chapter Fourteen

Solsaritsa Abbey

Chapter Fifteen

The Orison Of The Foam

Chapter Sixteen

Pratt And The Rats

Chapter Seventeen

The Tower Arcane

Chapter Eighteen

The Three Censors

Chapter Nineteen

Lorcus’ Plan

Chapter Twenty

Lord Whiskers

Part III.

Thieves

Chapter Twenty-One

The Orphan Duke

Chapter Twenty-Two

A Kitten in a Cottage

Chapter Twenty Three

Ruminations

Chapter Twenty Four

A Conspiracy Of Cats

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Council Of The Brotherhood

Chapter Twenty-Six

Pulling the Rats’ Tail

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Stones Of Brisomar

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A Battle In Brisomar

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Grand Heist

Chapter Thirty

Loiko Venaren

Part IV.

Spies

Chapter Thirty-One

Dragonfire

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Battle Of Vorone

Chapter Thirty-Three

A Moment With The King

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Recovery Of Vorone

Chapter Thirty-Five

Future Plans

Chapter Thirty-Six

A Conversation In The Garden

Chapter Thirty-Seven

A New Mission

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Ambush At Pantacas

Chapter Thirty-Nine

An Unexpected Rescue

Chapter Forty

Olum Seheri

APPENDIX

Part I.

The Rescue Of Ruderal

Rondal

Chapter One

Solashaven

“When the Magocracy’s nascent merchant fleet departed Farise, bound for Unstara, the Far Isles, and points beyond on a great commercial expedition, their escort of Cormeeran warships sailed first far to the west to screen them from the threat of pirates along the Scorched Coast.

“Unbeknownst to the Magi, the Sea Lords of Enultramar were well-prepared to pillage their grand fleet.  The proud ships of the Sea Lords descended from the Shoals of Sinbar, like the grandsons of the Storm Lord himself, each sail bearing the Sea Axe token of their secret harbor.  Quickly and savagely each ship took a prize and escaped with it through the Channel.  When they brought their prizes back to their havens there were more than there were berths prepared.

“Great fleets were forged out of their piracy, and the havens of Enultramar prospered as ships of war and trade departed from the fair bay on their missions.  Many of the most ancient harbors and settlements saw their rise from this time: Pearslhaven, Drakeshaven, Solashaven, Deitus’ Landing, Fairhaven, Shellhaven, and many other small ports of the Sea Lords along the rocky Bay of Enultramar rose to economic power during their first grand attempt at organized piracy.”

The History of Alshar

By Seabrother Dexus of Fairhaven Abbey

The drunk old mariner stumbled with practiced grace down the ancient wooden dock, his battered black boots scraping against the weather-worn wood with a determined but entirely irregular gait.  The swirl of the mists accumulating in shadowed pockets of the waterfront was already starting to obscure his footing, but considering the cloud of brandy fumes that clung to his tattered clothes and the squint to his salt-stained eyes, the fog was the least of his impairments.

The mariner wore a rusty scimitar at his hip, the bronze bell scratched and encrusted with verdigris from long exposure to the elements.  His broad hat, olive-colored doublet and thin leather baldric told him out as an officer, or at least a man with aspirations of a commission at some point in his career.  His unshaven chin and patched hose indicated that it had been some time since he’d had a commission that paid – or much work of any sort.  The purse next to his blade was as flaccid as a becalmed sail.

“Storm Lord’s blessings on ye, lads!” he said in a loud and enthusiastic voice, filling the air with the aroma of the cheap brandy mixed with seawater known as Maiden’s Blood the mariners of Enultramar preferred as a matter of cultural pride.  “Wouldn’t happen to have a spare ha’penny, would you, my lords?”

Rondal eyed the man suspiciously and continued to sip his plain, country-made un-watered ale.  The town of Solashaven was full of desperate people.  He’d seen enough of these out-of-work mariners in the last two days to fill a fleet, and the landsmen who came to the docks hoping to sell their produce looked just as desperate as the mariners.

There were hundreds of ships at anchor across the Great Bay, after the fleets returned from a season of raiding and trading this year.  But there were far more than there were ports for them.  When the squadrons of the Sea Lords returned before the winter storms, they brought back more than twice their number of smaller Farisi ships.

When the boys arrived at the mouth of the great river, they’d learned that the mariners of Farise, in exile at sea for nearly five years, had gathered their fellows from all over the Shallow Sea and made port in Enultramar, under the auspices of the rebel barons and viscounts who ruled there.  Now the sails bearing the old Farisian symbol, a stylized sun wheel over a stylized wave, were just as numerous as those bearing the sea axe-and-anchor of the Alshari navy, though the latter clearly enjoyed the advantage in the size of its ships.

While that made every major harbor crowded, smaller ports like Solashaven seemed to only attract the large number of mariners ashore for the winter who’d blown through their pay in the first few weeks in the major ports and then drifted like seaweed toward less expensive quarters.  Even the great ports they’d passed on their way to this silted-up haven seemed crowded with them, milling listlessly between taphouses.  All of Enultramar seemed becalmed, as ships bobbed in the harbors and havens, but did not depart.

Tyndal took a more engaging approach.  He saw the vast horizon of squalid fishing villages and ancient docks, sea castles and merchant caravels, vacant warehouses and rotting hulls as an opportunity for adventure, not an insidious trap ever revealing itself.  Enultramar was a game to the younger of the two magi.  Though their mission was serious, his approach to it was not – something that irritated his companion to no end.

But it occasionally got results.

“I might have coin for the right news, Uncle,” he replied, tapping a silver penny – known locally as a “shell” for the scallop design stamped into the obverse – on the table.  He watched with expectation as the man’s bleary eyes opened up.  You could buy a lot of Maiden’s Blood with a single shell.  An entire night’s worth of drunken oblivion.

“Plain Nymatis always has his ears open, gentlemen,” he assured them, obsequiously.  “Nothin’ happens on the docks o’ Enultramar that don’t eventually come to these big ears.  Like lateen sails, they are.  What news do ye seek?”

“We want to know where we might find a certain fellow,” continued Tyndal, more quietly.  Rondal had to admit, his partner was far more adept at this sort of thing than he was.  “We have reason to suspect he’s somewhere here in Solashaven.”

“Does this fellow have a name?” asked Nymatis.  “And does he want to be found?”

“He does and he doesn’t,” Tyndal offered.  “Do you find that morally troubling?”  Suddenly there were two shells flipping enticingly through his fingers.

The mariner scratched his scraggly jaw.  He considered briefly before his face dismissed the idea entirely.  “Can’t say that I do, m’lord!”

“The man’s name is Skrup,” Tyndal said, catching the man’s eye intently.  “Skrupenal, but he’s known as Skrup.  Hard Skrup, to some,” he said, adding the man’s street name.

“Oh, it’s Skrup,” Nymatis said, his voice falling.  That seemed a different matter.  His expression changed.  “Why would a couple o’ nice lads like yourselves want to get on board a ruffian like him?”

“We owe him money,” Rondal blurted out, earning him a stern look from Tyndal.

You do realize that’s the oldest, most blatant lie about why someone is looking for someone else, don’t you? He asked his partner scornfully, mind-to-mind.  Why not mention we have a present for his daughter’s name-day?  Or that we’re long-lost relatives bringing him a rich legacy?

Fine, I’ll shut up! Rondal shot back, irritated.

“We’d like to discuss a business matter,” Tyndal corrected, smoothly, when Nymantis’ skepticism became apparent.  A fourth shell was added to the pile on the table.

“Ah, business,” the mariner nodded, still rubbing his uneven beard.  “Can’t stand in the way of a man’s business, now, can I?  Against the Fairdealer, that would be.”

Invoking one of the less-bloodthirsty daughters of the Storm Lord as an excuse for low-dealing seemed to be a popular rationalization in Enultramar, the boys had learned in their brief stay.  The five deities seemed uncannily helpful at providing perfectly reasonable excuses for extremely poor behavior wrapped in the cloak of pious virtue.

“I know the man – know of him,” he corrected.  “Though he’s often drawn out of Solashaven on . . . business,” he said, his drunken grin communicating just what kind of business the mariner imagined the man to pursue.

“Well, we were told he was the one to speak to about arranging certain things,” Tyndal continued, still playing with the four silver coins.  “We would be incredibly grateful if we could be directed to where he’s doing business, these days.”

“The Arrunatus House,” the man said in a whisper loud enough to hear over the waves lapping against the edge of the pier.  “Second floor.”  His eyes darted expectantly down to the four silver coins and back up to Tyndal’s face, pleadingly.

“Well done, Nymantis,” Tyndal nodded, and flipped the four into the air.  As drunk as the mariner was, he caught all four in his left fist as if they were four golden sandolars instead.  The look of misplaced triumph in his eyes made Rondal ill, but Tyndal just acted pleased as the old man sauntered away.

“Arrunatus House,” Tyndal repeated, satisfied.  “Second floor.”

“You know, it might have been helpful to ask where we might find the Arrunatus House,” Rondal mentioned, sipping his ale.

“Do you not remember esteemed Iyugi’s advice on the subject of gathering intelligence?” Tyndal lectured, finishing his own wine.  He’d opted for Maiden’s Blood himself, out of a sense of adventure, and was pretending not to be bothered by the taste.  “Try not to reveal more in asking your questions than your subject does in answering them.’  I didn’t want to appear like I didn’t know where the place was.  That might have tipped him off and given him a reason to mention our inquiry to people we’d rather not know about it,” he said, sagely.

Rondal watched as Nymantis staggered back down the pier from the way he’d come, his fortune destined for the brandy parlor at the far end.  Brandy was cheap, and the drink of choice for the poor and destitute in Enultramar.  With so little of the local wines being exported these days, most vintners were selling their surpluses to distillers, the boys had learned.  The resulting glut of cheap brandy on the docks made drunkenness the preferred method of enjoying the economic downturn.

“I don’t think he’s likely to say much to anyone, after he drinks up that silver,” Rondal said, doubtfully.

The mariner had attracted a tail, a string of local urchins and orphans who seemed to clog the docks and streets of the places they’d seen.  The locals of Solashaven and other dingy ports called them “barnacles” for how ubiquitous and unwanted they were.  The children of whores and cast-off waifs, the orphans of mariners and barmaids taken in their prime, they seemed to range from age of four to pubescence, but the string who haunted the docks here seemed to be mostly seven or eight years old.

“He’ll be happy to blab whatever he can if it means another cup of Maid’s Blood,” Tyndal assured him.  “For a mariner, I doubt he’s been on a deck in years.”

“Two strangers in town looking for Skrup for business are one thing; two strangers looking for Skrup who have no idea where he might be hanging his hat?  That might be suspicious.  We can ask where the house is from anyone else, without revealing why we want to go there.”  The barnacles surrounded the wobbling drunk, their hands outstretched and their voices pleading.  It was as if they could smell the silver pennies in his pocket.

Skrup is a Rat, reminded Rondal, mind-to-mind.  The magical rapport between the two had grown with time and practice, until they could speak to each other’s minds almost at will.  Anyone we ask about him is going to assume we have ‘business’ with his crew.

That’s why we don’t need to appear like rubes, Tyndal shot back.

We appear completely as rubes, Rondal complained.

He knew he wasn’t wrong.  Despite the muted color of their clothing and their care to keep from attracting attention, the two were garbed differently enough from the average subject of Enultramar’s far-flung havens to be noticed.

Most of the common men who worked the docks – or were desperately searching for work at the docks – wore a simple cotton tunic, laced at the collar, and a sturdy waistcoat; their shoes were wooden-soled leather laced to the knee over their stockings.  Noblemen – of which they’d seen a few, some in worse states than the commonfolk – and officers tended to wear doublets with light mantles to keep the misty chill of the sea at bay.

And hats.  All of Enultramar seemed to be mad for hats, for some reason.  Probably the near-constant sprinkle of mist from the sea and the persistent rains that showered the bay daily during the winter season.  Even the poor folk managed to wear straw hats woven from the sea of reeds that clung to the stony shore.

By comparison, the two magi were decidedly dressed like Narasi Riverlords, in simpler doublets with far longer sleeves, far longer hems, and with far heavier cloaks than the Sea Lords and Coastlords they’d witnessed.  Even their swords were out of place.  Though they had stowed their mageblades, the sidearms they carried were from Castal.  Rondal’s was a short, triangular-shaped infantry sword, and Tyndal’s was a long, straight, heavy cavalry sword, the kind a knight or sergeant would carry.  Neither blade was common in Solashavan, or in any other part of Enultramar, where scimitars and leaf-shaped short swords favored by the Coastlord infantry were common.

So let’s adopt some native dress, proposed Tyndal. It should only take a couple of days to learn how to blend in, once we get some new clothes.  We can use the time to enjoy the whole seashore experience.  Once you get the accent down, the rest is just playing dress-up.

The barnacles following the mariner became increasingly demanding that the man part with his new fortune, at least share his bounty.  The old drunk was having none of it, holding his fist above his head and bellowing belligerently for the children to leave him be.

It doesn’t seem too difficult to pass for a destitute drunk, for instance.

“I think I saw a pawn shop last night near the inn,” Rondal conceded, out loud.  “There is an entire alley of them, a few streets back.”

“That would be a good place to start,” agreed Tyndal, rising, after he set his mug on the table, decisively, and with a regretful glance.

“Oh yes, some grungy clothes, a couple of rusty swords, and the taste of brandy and vomit on your breath . . . it will be as if you were born here,” Rondal observed.

“There are worse places to be born,” Tyndal shrugged.  “And it’s far more important where you die than where you were born.  Let’s hope the two are far apart in distance and time.”

“I hate it when you get philosophical,” Rondal complained, good-naturedly.  “It usually means you have no idea what is going on.  Let’s go.”  As he stood, there was a brief commotion as two of the begging children, frustrated with the mariner’s lack of generosity, began pulling fiercely on the man’s threadbare cloak.  Though they had not enough force or weight between them to pull him over backwards, they did effectively immobilize him . . . and draw his head back.

Swiftly, the mood of the children turned from pleading to aggressive; the two who were holding the man by his cloak were digging in their bare heels on the weathered pier while at least a half a dozen others swarmed over the mariner.  Rondal almost laughed at the man’s helplessness in the face of the children . . . when he saw him reach for his blade.

Rondal started toward the scene automatically, but Tyndal’s hand on his shoulder restrained him.

Remember what Iyugi said, he cautioned.  Do not get involved.  In anything.  Things are never what they seem, in Enultramar.  He spoke it with the same foreboding tone that the half-breed footwizard told them in the first place.  While the idea of the old sailor spitting and slashing a bunch of helpless children over four silver pennies galled him, Rondal stopped his advance.

Tyndal proved correct.  Iyugi the Footwizard, one of Master Minalan’s most trusted agents, had extensive experience here in the south of Alshar.  He’d given them plenty of good guidance and even facilitated them being smuggled into the rebellious province through an acquaintance who owed him a boon.  They’d come to respect his perspectives on such clandestine missions, after a few demonstrations of his powers.

I don’t want to see those kids get hurt, Rondal said, his brow furrowed.

Before Tyndal could respond, the sotted mariner managed to get his scimitar drawn half-way out of its scabbard before a child on his elbow and a child on his wrist halted him, keeping him from swinging the point free of the scabbard.  As fast as lightning, a young girl of eight or nine, as skinny as a seagull’s leg, half-climbed up the struggling mariner’s doublet, drew a small (but apparently well-sharpened) knife, and slit the man’s throat in one deft move.  Her expression was not one of rage or hate, but merely commerce.

The maneuver was not novel to her, the magi could tell, considering how adeptly she swung out of the way before the mariner’s front was sprayed with dark arterial blood and the sour, alcoholic vomit that erupted from his mouth at the attack.  His scimitar and the pennies forgotten, his hands clutched at his throat as his eyes opened as wide as a gigged fish.  No one on the dock seemed to take much notice of the struggle.

See? Tyndal said, quietly, into Rondal’s mind.  You never know which side is the right side in Enultramar.

I’m not sure there is a right side here, Rondal replied, sadly, as they witnessed a second swarm of barnacles sweep in and begin looting the mariner’s still-struggling body.  His coin, his sword, his belt, his old boots and even his empty purse disappeared in seconds, clutched triumphantly in the grubby hands of the gang of children.

Nymantis ignored them, more concerned with the fountain of crimson that was leeching away his life with each powerful burst from his neck.  He looked in vain at his bloody hands, and his mouth filled with bile and blood as he struggled.  But his fight was over before his arse fell to the bloodstained planks below.  No one could survive such a carefully calculated and well-delivered slash to the thick arteries of the neck for more than moments.

Don’t get involved, Rondal repeated, dully.  That was . . .

. . . Yes, Tyndal agreed.  It was.  This is Enultramar.  Every seedy, silty, swampy little hamlet across this beautiful, filthy bay is packed with a seething mass of poverty-stricken humanity willing to do anything or trade anything to go one more day in their tortured existence.  This is where Ruderal was born and raised, he reminded his friend.

How did a foul-smelling hell-hole like this produce that nice boy? Rondal asked, more to himself than Tyndal.

Some of the fairest blooms grow in the most disgusting of soils, Tyndal said, philosophically.  He often had expansive answers for such questions.  It was easily one of the more annoying things about him.

Well, that’s the bloom we’re here to pluck, reminded Rondal.  The sooner we can do that, the sooner we can get the pluck out of here.

This place isn’t so bad, Tyndal replied, silently, as the two began walking toward the harbor town’s market.  It’s colorful.  You can see where it used to be really pretty, he added nodding toward a grand, elaborately carved granite façade featuring all manner of sea creatures and ocean spirits doing unlikely things.

Rondal nodded toward the roof of the building – an old warehouse or customs house, he figured – where many of the slate tiles were chipped, cracked, or askew, revealing the wood underneath.  Perhaps when the Sea Lords ruled this place, he pointed out.  It’s been a long, long time since anyone did anything of note in Solashaven.

The small harbor town was not even, technically, in the harbor, but near the inlet of a silty river that brought muddy brown fresh water from the mountains in the northeast to mix with the harsh, brackish water of the bay.

Much of the harborage of Enultramar was confined to such hidden or concealed ports, protected from the naked ocean by the giant rocky islands that ringed the bay.  A vast estuary spread out over the coastline and the three major rivers that emptied into it.  Solashaven, though one of the oldest ships’ havens in Alshar, was never one of the largest, busiest, or most prosperous.

Its heyday had been at the beginning of the Narasi occupation, Rondal had learned in his researches, before they came here.  Before their barbaric ancestors conquered Alshar, the wine trade from the fruitful Bikavar region on the eastern side of the vale went through Sea Lord ports exclusively, subject to high fees and taxes and extravagant transport costs.  Once the Narasi dukes began re-ordering trade, they broke the monopoly on tonnage the Sea Lords enforced and allowed the Coastlords to build havens and ships directly.

Solashaven, once a tiny Sea Lord outpost, was re-developed as a Coastlord port . . . though it was almost exclusively mariners from the old Cormeeran families who were themselves Sea Lords who usually piloted and mastered their fleets.  For a hundred years little harbor towns like Solashaven were able to send the Coastlords’ bounty directly to the rich markets in Cormeer, Farise, Unstara, Merwyn, even Vore, at great profit.

But eventually the importance of the wine trade waned as the ships from Enultramar were filled with cotton from Gilmora, not wine from Bikavar.  Fewer ships put into harbor seeking wine, and fewer still wanted to gamble on the potential of spoiled wine on a voyage when cotton could get soaked with seawater and still fetch a commanding price at market.  The silt from the river, too, prohibited the larger freighters from docking at the Lord of Solashaven’s piers, leaving their trade to smaller caravels who had neither the space aboard for cotton nor the confidence of the masters of the trade to see it transported safely to market.

The mariners who were left using Solashaven were a degenerate sort.  The massive, deep-hulled freighters that plied the Depths beyond the Shallow Sea – and were therefore stocked to the gunwales with expensive exotic merchandise – preferred better harborage than the little town could offer, which meant that the buyers of their wares also preferred larger ports.

The trade remaining to Solashaven was almost exclusively exports, particularly the robust red wines from the rich county of Bikavar, whose vineyards and wineries upriver sent a steady trickle of the sweet red elixir downstream to Solashaven for shipment beyond . . . and with the low price of Remeran and Cormeeran wines making that trade difficult, there was not much of that, even.

The ships which remained either had ties to the town or saw it as an inexpensive alternative to the great harbors in the middle of the bay.  Their trade tended to be less profitable by far, and it was widely understood that whatever the captains led their crews to do once they were beyond the horizon from their home port would be wiser left at sea.  While no one was saying “piracy” or “smuggling” outright, it was no accident that all of the quays of the silted up harbor were empty when the ducal inspector (who now inspected on behalf of the ruling council) made his semi-annual trip to Solashaven.

The Viscount of the town, and the moderately fertile agricultural lands included in his holding to the north and west of the town, was rarely if ever present in Solashaven though he had a tidy little palace there.  He and his family had relocated to Falas, Rondal found out, ruling their fief by proxy through a tenant lord who was, it was said, more than willing to take a bribe while the Viscount of Solashaven served as a minor court functionary.  He hadn’t even visited the place since he was a child.

Instead a castellan oversaw his interests here, collecting the taxes and fees on his master’s behalf in exchange for a percentage.  However, since he was willing to do anything if the price was right, the man lined his pockets with special fees and outright bribes, undermining the social fabric of Solashaven.  Since he was unwilling to spend nearly any of the money he collected on actual improvements, the town’s infrastructure, from customs officials to public privies, was falling to pieces.

The only area which seemed livelier than the rest of the dusty town was the market on the waterfront where the local fishermen and farmers traded their wares, and net-makers, thatchers, stonemasons and carpenters met with clients.  It was as busy as any other market of a reasonably large town, but not much of that business enriched the patrons, thanks to stiff competition and prices.

There were two smiths in the market, three tanners, and two sailmakers; there were plenty of stalls hawking produce and things like smoked ham and bacon from upstream.  But while the locals selling to their neighbors was a positive sign of prosperity in Solashaven, under it all the boys began to pick up a some serious signs of dismay and resentment.

“There’s just not enough business,” Tyndal observed as they walked through the market.  “A third of the booths are empty.  It’s not a market day, but there are still more people looking than buying.  And look at the fees,” he said, nodding to a sign detailing the prices for each booth.  “Twice as high as they should be.  Three shells a week?  That’s outrageous!”

“An overpaid tenant lord in residence,” Rondal nodded, thoughtfully.  “The castellan runs the town, and corruptly, at that.  You know what happens to a place when there’s a tenant lord in charge.”

“Among other things, the criminal element finds opportunity,” Tyndal sniffed, as they passed by a shrimp stall.  “And when there is no strong force restricting them, they grow like mold in the cracks of the town.”

“That’s a lovely poetic image,” Rondal chuckled.  He paused himself at the booth of a thin little man selling straw hats and baskets to ask where he might find Arrunatus House.  It turned out it was just off the market square to the north, one of a row of warehouses that serviced the docks.

The sausage vendor they asked for directions when they managed to get lost also recommended the porter’s hall across the street – a glorified taphouse for porters and stevedores between assignments, known for cheap booze and pleasant sea breezes.  He particularly recommended the punch they served at low cost to the porters – a proprietary blend of fruit juices, rum, and brandy, sweetened with sugar from Unstara, that kept the laborers fueled for their tasks.  Rondal thanked the man and they continued to walk at a leisurely pace.

“There it is,” Rondal nodded as they followed the vendor’s directions to the place.  “Arrunatus House.”

The large two-story structure had a first floor built of brick, with stone pillars supporting the roof.  The second floor was plastered timber, whitewashed in ages past but now cracking and crumbling under years of neglected maintenance and constant exposure to the salt, wind and rain of the bay.  The steep-pitched roof was shingled with gray clay tiles, but many were missing.  In several places sailcloth and pitch had been used to secure a temporary patch, but it had clearly been years since anyone spent the coin to repair the place properly.

A faded, weathered sign of indeterminate age bore a series of symbols the illiterate masses of Enultramar used indicating that the great building was a warehouse, if they were too dim to note it, and above it in an ancient style of Cormeeran script popular along the seashore proclaimed for the literate: ARRUNATUS HOUSE – WARES AND STORAGE – BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.  No proprietor was listed, and the only sign of life was a mean-looking porter outside, smoking a short pipe under the awning over the loading dock, glaring balefully at anyone who came too close.

“What a dump,” Tyndal observed, without slowing down.  “Shall we get a drink and observe awhile?” he suggested.

“The vendor in the market did suggest the porter’s hall,” Rondal agreed.  “And the porter’s punch.  It would be a shame to miss any of the colorful local features.”

Then Tyndal did pause as he caught sight of the small, stand-alone building on the wall overlooking the docks to which they’d been referred.  It was even more decrepit than Arrunatus House, a mean structure of brick and cast-off stone that had been repaired and augmented so many times over the years – centuries – that there didn’t seem to be a right angle associated with the place.

The plaster was pocked with cracks and craters from years of rough-and-tumble laborers, drunk and tired, expressing their displeasures and woes.  While someone had made a spirited effort to try to make the place look inviting by hanging banners and painting parts of the exterior with vivid murals of the supposed pleasures within, the effect was gloomy and sad more than enticing.

There were stains of both blood and vomit around the door, and the smell would have been revolting, anywhere else; here, on the riverfront, near the bay and even nearer the market, it was merely mildly unpleasant.

“Looks like your kind of place,” Rondal suggested.

“Lots of local color,” nodded Tyndal.  “Clearly a den of vice and iniquity.  And a great place to find a dagger in your kidney while you’re taking a piss.  But relatively safe from inquisitive types or local officials.  And it looks like it has a deck on the rooftop – that should be pleasant, come sundown.”

“I hear sunset over the Bay is spectacular,” agreed Rondal, as he plunged into the shop after his friend.  “I imagine it will be, with all of those ships anchored out there.”  There were

“I hear the whores who come out at twilight are spectacular,” Tyndal added.  “In the larger cities of the Bay, there’s a regular procession every night.”

The two ordered a mug of the punch from the gruff barman, who showed them the rickety stairs to the roof.  The hall below was dark and nearly deserted this time of day, and the succulent barmaids represented by the murals outside were nowhere to be seen.  They retired to the roof, which had been planked with half-timbered logs and seasoned with pitch against the weather.  A few old patches of sailcloth served as awnings over the rough wooden tables, none of which were in use at this time of day.

“See?” Tyndal said, as they took a seat overlooking Arrunatus House.  “Nothing to worry about.  Just your average sort of dingy, disreputable taphouse.  As long as we mind our own business, we should be fine.”

“Like that drunken mariner who got his throat cut by a gang of barnacles?” Rondal reminded him.  “That happened two hours ago, right there on the dock, and there hasn’t been so much as a visit by the town watch.”  From their rooftop perch, they could see the body on the dock.

“That’s just Enultramar, I think,” Tyndal sighed.  “At least this part of it.  Someone will come by and kick it into the water shortly, and feed the fishes and caiman.  All part of the Storm Lord’s plan,” he said, with mock piety.

“Lovely,” Rondal said, sniffing.

“Are you kidding?  From what I’ve heard Solashaven is a resort spot compared to some of the pits of hopelessness around the Bay.  When you get back into the swamps and the river ports, or into the old Sea Lord havens that have been abandoned, things get really rough.”

“No wonder the Brotherhood took hold, here,” Rondal agreed.  “With as much trade, commerce, piracy and slavery that go through Enultramar, they’re likely an essential part of the economy.”

Tyndal looked at him with a start.  “You’re not having second thoughts about this, are you?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” assured Rondal.  “In fact, seeing this kind of institutionalized wretchedness makes me all the more certain of our goal.  The Brotherhood are parasites on this culture, I see now.  And while destroying them may be destabilizing, I remind you that we sit in a land whose lords have rebelled against their lawful liege – who is, coincidentally, our lawful liege.  Destabilizing a regime who is in rebellion to him would be, I think, counted as a good thing.”

“Well, when it comes to messing things up, we’re pretty good at it.”

“I cannot argue with that,” Rondal agreed.  “And after everything we’ve seen – Pratt the Rat, poor Estasia, and what those bastards did to our friends in the Land of Scars – I’m more than eager to hold them accountable.”

“First things first,” Tyndal reminded him.  “We’re here for Ruderal, not revenge.  Not yet.  Our mission is to rescue him and his mom, not just kill Rats.”

“Oh, I know.  We seem to have found where they might be lurking,” he said, nodding to the warehouse across the street.  “What do you propose we should do?”

Tyndal looked guiltily at his drink.  “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, Ron.  Honestly?  I think you should be calling the shots on this mission.  I’m . . . I’m worried I’ll screw it up.  And then Ruderal will end up dead, because I wasn’t smart or subtle enough.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit!” Rondal exclaimed.  “You’re every bit as smart as I am!”

“And as subtle as a three-breasted whore,” snorted Tyndal.  “Look, I understand my limitations.  There is a time for kicking doors in, and there’s a time for subtlety.  I trust your subtlety more than I trust my ego so . . . I want you to take the lead on this.  There’s too much at stake for us to send it into the chamberpot.”

Rondal was stunned.  It was the most frank and honest admission of his egotistical friend’s limitations he’d ever heard Tyndal utter, and the fact that he recognized them as such was astonishing.

“Well, close your mouth – especially around here,” Tyndal counseled, quietly but in an irritated voice.  “You do not want a fly from here anywhere near your mouth.  Don’t say anything,” he added.  “Just accept that I’m following your leadership on this mission and keep the wise-ass comments to yourself.  Or would you prefer to argue over every little detail, as usual?”

“I . . . all right,” Rondal said, simply, understanding that any outpouring of emotion at Tyndal’s incredible admission would sour the effect.  “All right, I’ll lead this time.  You can lead next time, when we’re just interested in rampant destruction.  For this, we are going to require subtlety,” he began, hoping that Tyndal was earnest in his declaration.

“Agreed,” Tyndal nodded, sipping his punch.

“We’ve tracked that rascal Skrup to his lair, where he probably has Ruderal and his mother prisoner.  Even if he doesn’t, he’ll know who does, and where they’re being kept. So our first order of business will be to determine just who is inside, where they are, and what security the place has.  From there, I’ll form a plan for an effective rescue,” he added, in a businesslike tone.

“And I’ll get us some real drinks while you do that,” Tyndal said, rising, with a sour expression on his face.  “I don’t know what that vendor was talking about.  This punch is revolting!”

Chapter Two

Ruderal’s Hovel

“The Sea Lords of Enultramar bore several tokens of their bloodthirsty cult of religious pirates, over the centuries, but among the most primal are the symbols of the Storm Lord and his five infamous daughters.  The Storm Lord, represented since antiquity by the symbol of the Sea Axe, which also became the symbol of piracy in the early days of the cult, was primary in the religion.

“But the Five Daughters of the Storm Lord, originally minor figures in the cult when it was in its infancy in Cormeer, became far more important amongst the Sea Lords in self-exile in Enultramar.  As their civilization went from rudimentary domination over the coastal tribes to a legitimate maritime trading power, the symbols of the five daughters, which themselves symbolized important elements of the Sea Lords’ maritime civilization, become far more prominent: a broken mast for the Shipwrecker, the chalice of the Maiden of Havens, the slanted anchor for the Fairdealer, the grappling hook and chain for the Corsair, and a lamp for the mystical Salt Crone.

“It is clear from this iconography that the focus of the Sea Lords, as a culture and civilization, was ever the sea, piracy, and trade; yet only in Enultramar do we see evidence that this simple creed achieved a sophistication undreamt of in Cormeer, Remere, the Castali Havens, or even Farise.  With the institutions of shipwreck (an eternal challenge for the daring mariners), good portage, prosperous trade, piracy, and the mystery of the sea.  As the Sea Lords of Enultramar engaged in their commercial domination of the Shallow Sea, the sophisticated priesthood formed around the institutionalized nature of the Five Daughters soon spread to other Sea Lord strongholds, making the cult nearly universal in scope.”

The Heraldry Of Alshar (3rd Edition)

By the Venerable Odborn,

Chaplain To The Seventeenth Lord of the Waves

The day before, the lads had only just arrived at the sleepy, filthy, economically depressed walled town of Solashavan by ferry from the river ports at the mouth of the mighty Mandros River that divided southern Alshar down its entire length, from the Narrows to the Bay.

Their destination was in the eastern quarter of the great Bay of Enultramar, the ancient harbor of Sea Lords and pirates, mariners and mercenaries, merchants and adventurers, the town that both Ruderal and Hard Skrup came from: Solashaven.  While the very name Enultramar conjured visions of neatly whitewashed towns with the distinctive green roofs, tall ships and valiant Sea Lords, wealthy Coastlords, pirates, mariners, romance and intrigue across the Five Duchies . . . they were now facing the squalid reality of the ancient port in their search for Ruderal.

The week-long trip across Castal from Sevendor, paying to be smuggled through the hidden passes of the Narrows, the trip down-river past the glorious architectural legacy of Falas and the incredible prosperity of the Great Vale and the Alshari Coastlands, and their arrival in ancient, storied Enultramar had led to this very moment: standing in the rain outside of a sewer outflow, where a tiny hovel of driftwood and cast-off junk with nothing but a much-mended net and a small boat gave testament that the place was ever inhabited.

“Ruderal lives . . . here?” Tyndal asked, surprised, when the two of them tracked down the lad’s home by asking around Solashaven until someone knew.

The hovel was not even a peasant’s cottage, it was a kind of lean-to croft overlooking the muddy river, built against a wide outflow sewer pipe that brought stormwater . . . and worse things . . . from the town of Solashaven.  It was situated in the shadow of an ancient ruined Sea Lord tower, one of many such ruins that dotted the rocky harbors of Enultramar.   Another hovel on the other side of the twin pipes was currently occupied, but from the amount of debris in front of the modest door, it had been a while since anyone had lived on this side.

“Everyone has to live somewhere,” Rondal pointed out.  “Think of some of the hovels we’ve seen.  This one isn’t that bad,” he said, unconvincingly.

“Well, the walk to pitch the chamberpot is short,” conceded Tyndal, wrinkling his nose at the constant odor that wafted from the huge brick pipes.  “And he is close to work,” he added, glancing over his shoulder at the waterfront.  “But in general I can think of several more preferable addresses.”

“Shall we scry first?” Rondal proposed.

“I’m in favor of just barging right in,” Tyndal said, and proceeded to do just that.  He pushed the rickety timber door aside and nearly upset it from the fragile leather hinges and sent a splash of rainwater across them both.  The interior of the hovel was gloomy, with only a few beams of light coming through the roof and improvised rafters.  Tyndal conjured a magelight to bathe the room in light, and instantly regretted it.

“Eww!” he said, as cockroaches scurried away from the sudden light.  “It seems as if the chambermaid has been sacked.  How long has it been since they were here?”

The lads knew that Ruderal lived with his mother, from the brief exchange with the Alshari boy they’d had in the Land of Scars.  Indeed, his cooperation with the Brotherhood of the Rat, using his unique magical talent to perceive enneagrams, was coerced due to their keeping his mother hostage.

Though they’d been unable to free Ruderal at the time, being busy trying to save their lives and those of the Kasari, they’d promised the boy that they would repay his timely assistance in helping them escape.

At the time it must have sounded hollow to the lad, who was only ten or eleven years old and just coming into his rajira.  But their association with the Kasari and their high standard of loyalty, as well as their own sense of duty, compelled them to make the long, expensive trip into what was essentially enemy territory to track down the Talented boy and rescue him – and his poor mother – from the clutches of the Brotherhood of the Rat.

It wasn’t as if their mission was entirely selfless; Ruderal’s sportish talent was unique, from what they could tell, and they both realized that with proper development the young fisherman could not only one day be a great mage, he had the capacity to do great things.  Master Minalan was terribly interested in enchantment, at the moment, to the extent of forming a small industry around the craft.  But that interest had led to even more study of the arcane subject of enneagramatic magic, beyond the simple forms most magi were aware of.

Combining compassion and duty with naked opportunism, the two were convinced that rescuing the lad and his mother, and returning with him to the Spellmonger, might prove highly significant.  The opportunity to collect information on the criminal Brotherhood of the Rat, their organization, its strengths, weaknesses, membership and plans from within their strongholds in Enultramar, was also something that the young knights magi were intent upon.

“It’s been months,” Rondal concluded, after examining the tiny fireplace (made up of a cast-off iron pot with a hole in the side and daubed with clay) and rubbing the ashes through his fingers.  “This fire hasn’t been lit in at least three months.”

“It’s been more than a year since we saw him,” Tyndal said, forebodingly.  “Do you think they executed him?  He witnessed an awful lot, in the Land of Scars.”

“Only if they wanted to incur the wrath of their allies,” Rondal said, examining a collection of treasures the little family accumulated, clearly salvaged amongst the flotsam that flowed outside their door.  “The goblin was quite irritated with the Rats’ who wanted to kill the boy,” Rondal reminded him.  “Recall he said that Ruderal was more valuable than all of them put together.  If that’s the case – and I think we both know it is – then they wouldn’t want to kill that piece of leverage.”

“But they don’t need his mother,” Tyndal pointed out, taking a seat on the ramshackle cot that passed for the only bed in the place.

“They do if they want Ruderal’s cooperation,” Rondal pointed out.  “You heard him: if anything happens to his mother, he’d rather die than help them.”

“He’s a kid,” Tyndal reasoned.  “Any kid would say that about his mother.”

“Ruderal isn’t just any kid.  You saw him.  He’s resolute.  And he doesn’t scare easily.”

“A point,” Tyndal agreed.  “So they aren’t here.  Is there any clue where they might be?”

“Here?  It looks like they left they place neatly enough.  So either she was lured away or went voluntarily.”

“No signs of struggle,” agreed Tyndal.  “That’s promising.  But not particularly helpful.”

Rondal continued to look around the room.  Finally, he sighed and gave up.  “I can’t find anything.  They left.  They haven’t come back.  But no one has messed with their things,” he observed.  “When was the last time you were in a place this desperate and didn’t see someone take advantage of someone else’s poor fortunes?”

“That . . . is interesting,” Tyndal admitted.  “Not that everything in this craphole isn’t worth more than a few shells, but considering the number of vagabonds we’ve seen here, I would expect a cozy hovel like this to get snatched up quick.”

“Right.  Which means the place is being protected, or at least watched.”

“The neighbor?”

“It’s a place to start,” conceded Rondal.

They had to wait until dusk before the man who lived on the other side of the sewer returned from his day’s labor in the broad estuary of the river.  He bore his light punt on his back as he trudged up from the shoreline, and carried a heavy basket of small fish and crustaceans over his shoulder.

“Hail, fellow!” Rondal called, in a friendly tone.  The fisherman halted in front of the door, and dumped his boat unceremoniously next to the path with a splash.  “We’d like a moment of your time, if you can spare it.”

The man, whose dark brown features had been beaten by the sun and the brine, eyed the two of them suspiciously.  He straightened, allowing the basket to tumble at his feet, and he put his hands on his belt . . . near to the brass handle of a long knife the basket concealed.

“What would a couple o’ gentlemen like yourselves be doing at my home?” he asked, cautiously but boldly.

“Just a few words, my friend,” Tyndal called.  “No harm is intended.”

“Yet you are between me and my door,” the fisherman said, darkly.

“Just to get your attention,” Rondal assured.  “Please, carry on.  We merely wish to ask you a few things about your neighbors.”

“The widow and the lad?” the man asked, surprised.  “They’ve been gone for more’n a year, now.”

“Any idea where they went?” Rondal asked, congenially.  The man stiffened.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked, plainly suspicious.

“Relax, my friend,” Tyndal assured him.  “We’re not thugs or cutthroats.  We’re friends of Ruderal, come to repay him handsomely for a boon he granted us.”

“You’re not with them ruffians, then?” the fisherman asked.  “I hate those godsdamned Rats, Shipwrecker take them all!”

“Indeed, we’re here to contend with those ruffians for what they have done to the poor boy,” Rondal agreed.  “And his mother, if she still lives.”

“Oh, aye, she still lives,” the fisherman admitted.  “Leastways, from what I can tell.  Every few weeks one o’ them ruffians comes down to glance at the place, make sure it hasn’t run off or been taken by the waves.   Says he’s watching the place, keeping it safe,” the man reported, skeptically.  “Doesn’t dress as . . . oddly as you gentlemen, though,” he added.

Both lads were wearing their traveling gear, common in the Castali Riverlands or Gilmora, but decidedly out of fashion here in cosmopolitan Enultramar.  Though the wharfs and riverfronts teemed with all manner of strangely-dressed folk when ships put into port, Tyndal and Rondal were announcing their foreign nature merely by the clothes they wore.

“We’ve just arrived in Enultramar,” offered Tyndal.  “And we’re planning on leaving quickly . . . once we’ve found Ruderal.”

“And quietly,” Rondal agreed, taking a few silver shells from his pouch.  “We’d appreciate your discretion about the matter,” he said, handing them to the man.  “If the Rats catch wind of us, they might move him, or worse.”

The man took the coins slowly, as if in great thought.  “You intend no harm to the boy?” he asked.

“On our words as gentlemen,” Tyndal agreed.  “In fact, if all goes well, Ruderal will soon begin study in a profession he’s profoundly talented in.”

“Ah, then you’d be sorcerers, then,” the fisherman said, knowingly, pocketing the coins.  “After that ruckus two years back with the lad, I thought he might have the spark.  So aye, I’ll keep your secret,” he added.

“He has it by the bucketful, we think,” Rondal nodded.  “And we intend to see it properly developed.  If you could point us in the direction of where they are keeping him and his dame, it would go a long way toward that end.”

The fisherman’s manner changed subtly.  “I don’t have business with that kind of folk,” he said, with a sneer of disgust.  “They take the coin out of the purse of too many honest folk, and do naught but drink and fight.  Since the duke died they’ve been a’thumpin any regular folk who complain.  But there is some group of them in town,” he admitted.  “Hells, they nearly run the place, now that the Viscount fled, too.”

“Anything more particular?” Tyndal asked, adding to his bribe.

“They frequent the waterfront, near the market, so it’ll be thereabouts,” the fisherman said, scratching his beard.  “They associate with porters and pirates, mostly.  Don’t know many names, save one: he’s Skrup, and he’s often shaking the poor clammers and crabbers in town for their extra coin; sometimes he’s called Hard Skrup on account of his manner with those who don’t pay.”

“We’re familiar with the ruffian,” Tyndal assured him, contemptuously, at the thought of the man.  Tyndal did not like Hard Skrup.  Neither did Rondal.

Hard Skrup was the Rat who was directly in charge of Ruderal, apparently because he was the one who’d discovered him and his abilities.  The thug had seen his possession, rationalized under the Brotherhood’s convoluted code covering such things, as a means of advancing himself.  He’d protected the boy jealously, though he’d treated him foully.  And then he’d nearly killed the both of them, and had slain one of their Kasari friends, at the orders of his master. Rondal had sincerely hoped that something awful had happened to him, coming out of the Land of Scars, but another part of him looked forward to some much-deserved vengeance.

“I don’t know where he works from.  But if you’ve silver to pass around, someone there will be able to lead you to him.  They aren’t hard to find,” he added, ruefully.  “This lot is particularly bad.  I heard from folk in Pearlhaven and upriver that their Rats are better behaved, but this lot is brutal with the townsfolk.  The warden raised market fees, and the poor folk protested.  Those bilge-dwellers broke it up.  Two fishermen died,” he added with disgust.  “Honest men, who just wanted a chance at an honest wage.  While Hard Skrup and his lot are eating beef on our coin!”

“I’ve heard that life in Enultramar can change on the shift in the breeze,” Tyndal said, philosophically.  “Who knows how a chance meeting with a couple of foreign gentlemen might change that?  What can you tell us about the boy and his mother?”

“Oh, good folk, good folk,” he assured, warming up to the boys.  “She was raised on the wharfs, met up with a mariner, she said, and fell in love.”

“Do you know of the father?” Rondal prompted.

“Typical story in the Bay: he shipped out with presents and promises to return when she come expecting, but o’ course he never did.  Shipwrecker likely has him, now.  She had the babe, of course, but didn’t send him to an orphanage.  Moved in here seven years ago, mending nets or taking in washing or whatever other respectable work she could do to raise her boy.

“When he was old enough, he started digging clams and crabbing on the banks, and when he started to get big he got hisself a punt and started fishing.  Started with nothin’,” he said, proudly.  “Afore the trouble started, he was starting to make a little coin in market, even.  Had a real knack for it.  Could have been a great fisherman,” he said, sadly, as if being cursed with magical talent had prevented the boy from a lofty career harvesting the sea.

“Was she . . . wild?” Tyndal prompted.

“Oh, no,” assured the fisherman.  “She was chaste as a nun.  Tried to sweet-talk her with some rum, a year after she moved in, but she wasn’t having it.  Completely devoted to her boy.  Didn’t want no man to come betwixt them.”

“Ruderal mentioned his sire was a Seamage,” Rondal prompted.  “Do you know anything about that?”

The man looked a bit embarrassed.  “Maybe he was, maybe not.  She wouldn’t be the first lass to invent a colorful sire to explain a swollen belly, and I was too polite to ask more than a few questions about it.  He could have been a Seamage, a scoundrel, or the bloody Duke of Alshar, for all I know.”

“I think we can safely rule out the last,” Rondal decided, “but we’re curious because of his great Talent.  If Ruderal’s sire was a mage, then knowing who he was and what his abilities were might be important,” he explained.  “Magical talent doesn’t always flow from generation to generation, but the children of magi tend to have a higher degree of Talent than most.”

“Stands to reason,” conceded the fisherman.  “But if Rudi’s sire was more than a rut in the dark after too much brandy, as is likely with a young and ignorant lass on the docks, then she alone knows the tale.  I do hope you find them,” he added.  “Since they left, I’ve been worried.  You see them, tell them that Chestnost was asking after them.”

“We will, my friend,” agreed Tyndal, handing him another shell.  “And remember: your discretion is very much appreciated.”

After securing the door to the hovel as best they could, the lads walked back to the ancient walled town that overlooked the river mouth, ancient Solashaven.

A long bridge of stonework covered with a timbered roof spanned the inlet, and another town, Pearlhaven, even larger and grander than Solashaven, was on the other side.  The two towns were the seat of two different viscounties, politically, but the folk of both towns traversed the bridge and conducted business without regard to that.

That was the normal routine in Enultramar, they’d found.  Whereas in the Riverlands territorial boundaries were jealously guarded as opportunities for revenue through tolls, in the wide gray-rocked Bay of Enultramar there were few such fees.  It was far too simple to avoid them, if they’d been in place, by taking passage on the thousands of boats and skiffs that raced across the far-flung towns of the Bay.

“So, what do you think of storied Enultramar, now that you’ve seen it?” asked Rondal.

“It’s amazing,” Tyndal said, happily.  “I never knew Alshar was so . . . big.”

“Considering you could fit most of this valley into the Wilderlands south of Vorone and still have plenty of room to rattle it, calling it ‘big’ seems a little misspoken,” Rondal observed.  “But I take your meaning.  Solashaven is one of the smaller ports in the Bay, silted up and economically depressed.  But it’s still half the size of Vorone.”

“There must be over a million people living on the Bay, alone,” agreed Tyndal.

“Closer to two, once you add the Coastlord havens,” Rondal replied.  “I looked it up before we left Sevendor.  Once you get to the fertile coastlands, things aren’t as densely populated, but there are still some big cities amongst the orange groves and apple orchards.  Rhemes, Bortiner, and of course, Falas.”

The magnificent castle overlooking the central river of the valley, just south of the escarpment that divided the Coastlands, proper, from the Great Vale, had impressed both boys powerfully.  Seven giant towers, each as big as a keep of a lesser castle, enclosed the massive walls of the central keep.

Behind the castle the many spires of Falas rose to heights unequalled in engineering since the fall of the Magocracy, and a sprawling city of over half a million glittered brightly as they’d changed boats at the docks on the river there. The Duke’s Palace, where Anguin II should rightfully be installed, rose above the great walls of the castle above even the sentry towers, terminating in a grand spire bearing the gilded anchor motif.

“Nor does that count the cities of the Great Vale,” agreed Tyndal.  “Roen is nearly as large as Falas.  That was supposed to be the new ducal capital, back when Gilmora was in Alshari hands, and it’s still the ecclesiastic capital, almost a quarter of a million people.  Supposedly Inmar, alone, has a hundred thousand people.”

The famous Alshari City of Temples was unfortunately not on their itinerary, but Tyndal was especially eager to tour the place.  “When you put it all together, there have to be millions of people in southern Alshar.”  Such numbers challenged the lads, who were born and raised in the sparsely-populated Wilderlands.

“And now they are all under the control of a rebel government,” Rondal pointed out.  The news about the unofficial council that currently ruled southern Alshar in the stead of the duke was thick with intrigue all the way down river.  The two had paid especial attention to such news and rumors in an attempt to determine just who was in power in the region.

The basics were clear enough: when Duke Lenguin perished on the battlefield (though the lads knew for a fact that he’d survived the battle and died the next night, after knighting them both) and word arrived that the Duchess was assassinated in the summer palace shortly thereafter, her children taken into custody by the Castali “for protection”, the reaction in the south was fierce.  The leading nobles remaining at Falas and the administrative capital at Roen met in council over the crisis, and from that council arose a small group of high nobles and court officials who were “bravely” rising to the challenge of running a government without a sitting sovereign.

The Count of Rhemes, Vichetral, seemed to be the mastermind of the usurpation of ducal authority.  Protesting loudly about being bereft of the nation’s beloved sovereign family, in private his forces quickly moved to secure assets throughout the south and ensure that the interim council appointed his loyalist to sensitive interim appointments.  In private, it was commonly understood, the Count of Rhemes was delighting in how his family’s old rivals, the Counts of Falas (also known as the Alshari Ducal House) had taken a dramatic turn for the worse.  Though he employed members of the extended ducal family in his government, and was allegedly grooming the next heir in line for the throne should it become necessary, he had yet to declare himself Duke.

But he was not alone in the rebellion.  Many prominent landholding barons and certain members of the clergy had backed the council, providing their public support for the rebellion against the new King.  Others were steadfastly loyal to the Ducal house, and favored closer ties with their old rival and frequent business partner, Castal.

The latter seemed a large but largely powerless minority.  As the rebel council sought to rule the land, they had taken great pains to isolate and silence any vocal support for the new Kingdom and its Castali royals.  The official word was that Anguin II was a captive, and that Castal had conquered all of Alshar beyond the Narrows.

Of course, the boys knew otherwise from personal experience.  The day they had finally crossed the heavily-guarded frontier between the rebellious south and the rest of the Five Duchies, they received word from their former master and current patron, Minalan the Spellmonger, that Duke Anguin was planning a secret effort to cross the frontier from his exile and seize control of the summer capital of Vorone with two thousand mercenaries and a thousand supporters.  The goal, their former master Minalan reported, was to attempt to build a functioning statelet on the ruins of a lovely resort city on the edge of a warzone.

While the task the young Duke had chosen was daunting, both of the young knights had confidence in the thoughtful lad’s chances.  Particularly so, as Duke Anguin continued to enjoy the quiet aid and patronage of the increasingly powerful Arcane Orders.  They were encouraged when they’d heard that their old master’s dearest friend and professional colleague, Lady Pentandra, had left the stewardship of the Arcane Orders in Castabriel to become Anguin’s ducal Court Wizard.  Minalan assured them that she would support Anguin’s claim – and the interests of the magi – as an independent political power, not a client of the Castali.  Neither one of them could conceive of a situation that the dedicated wizard’s power and subtlety could not defeat.

The two had engaged in plenty of speculation on the trip down-river through the heart of beautiful southern Alshar to consider what would happen if it did, indeed, become common knowledge here that the Duke of Alshar was, once again, actually in Alshar.  The rebellion depended upon anti-Castali sentiment.

The Count of Rhemes was the public face of the rebellion, but as his every pronouncement proclaimed loyalty and fealty to the ducal house to support his own aspirations, it would put him in a difficult spot once it was known that the young, orphaned Duke Anguin was alive, well, and enjoying an independent rule in the Wilderlands.  Either he would have to truly raise the banner of rebellion against his rightful lord, or he would have to submit.

From what the lads heard on the several boats they took from Falas to Enultramar, the latter was unlikely to happen.

The clergy had been particularly strong in their support for the rebellion.  The new Skyfather of Orvatas in Roen, the seat of the official cult of the sky god, issued pronouncement after pronouncement urging the people to follow the Count of Rhemes, and the important temples (as determined by the amount of treasure they had to influence politics) fell into line.  Even the Temple of Trygg had condemned the assassination of the Duchess and the plight of the Orphan Duke and his sisters as an anti-Alshari act perpetrated by the mischievous Castali.

More troubling were the merchant houses that were taking advantage of the lax nature of revenue collection, under the rebellion.  By all tales Enultramar was enjoying the first boost in tonnage and profits since the Farisian Campaign after the rebellion.  Whereas the reign of the Narasi Dukes had always involved limits on the merchant fleets and what wares they could trade in as a matter of administrative regulation – not to mention revenue for the sovereignty – the ducal house was no longer a factor in their trading decisions.

As a result, the rebellion had allowed the accumulation of tremendous capital by the merchants, Coastlord and Sea Lord alike, in the absence of Ducal dock fees and taxes on cargo.  That was an economic advantage they were loath to give up.

Yet most of the common folk they’d overheard were far more supportive of the ducal house.  The merchants and farmers of the Great Vale, especially, were pining for their Narasi lord, and the folk of the Coastlands seemed stricken that the Duke was captive.

“Why is the Alshari ducal house represented by an anchor, anyway?” Tyndal asked as they passed one of the many little civic shrines from ages past that dotted Enultramar.  This one was a small stone plinth detailing the gift of the roadway between Solashaven and points inland.  The plinth had a large stylized anchor as the sigil of the dukes of Alshar.

“History,” supplied Rondal, “a subject you seem to have developed an allergy to.”

“I can’t help it if I find romantic poetry more intriguing than the antics of dukes long dead,” Tyndal protested.  “It’s how the gods made me.”

“Thankfully, they had more foresight when they made me,” Rondal boasted.  “When the first Narasi duke arrived here, after the Conquest in Merwyn, he had to battle it out with the locals: Sea Lords and Coastlords, the latter descended from the hated Magocracy.  But the Sea Lords were the ones who were really giving him trouble.

“When he took over the fortress he made out of the Imperial palace at Falas and declared it his seat, he also married the daughter of the Imperial Consul, who was, locally, the Count of Falas.  A Coastlord.”

“Anchor?” reminded Tyndal.

“Right.  Well, a few centuries before, when the Magocracy first got here with the Coastlords and battled with the Sea Lords for dominance, they adopted a Sea Lord icon, the anchor, as a token of their determination to stay.  Of course, to the Sea Lords the anchor is the symbol of the Fairtrader, daughter of the Storm Lord, so that was just insulting and borderline blasphemous to them.  Having your foes usurp the symbol of one of your gods and literally wave it in your face from every banner is annoying.

“But the Coastlords, and their leader, the Imperial Consul – that is, the Count of Falas – did that on purpose.  Indeed, they took it as a symbol of the House of Falas, and it eventually became a token of the Lord of the Fields as much as the Sea Axe became the token of the Lord of the Waves.  When the Narasi duke married into the family, he took the anchor as his token because of how much it meant to the locals.  In a few generations, after intermarrying with Coastlord and Sea Lord alike, the various pieces of iconography got mixed together with traditional Narasi symbols to form the iconography of Alshar.”

“That was a brilliant explanation of the subject, and a credit to your scholarship,” Tyndal said, impressed.  “It’s also a stunning validation of why you have such abysmal luck with girls.”

“Some girls like history, thank you!” Rondal protested.

“Not enough, perhaps, to ensure you will find one who likes you,” dismissed Tyndal.

“But that does explain a lot about the whole anchor-and-antlers standard.”

“Well, the antlers weren’t added to the heraldry until after the Black Duke lost Gilmora, and the ducal house wanted to elevate the Wilderlands in position,” conceded Rondal, “but the anchor has been there since the beginning as a symbol of Alshari sovereignty.”

They arrived at the gate of Solashaven shortly before evening set in, during the heat of the day.  Even this late in the autumn, with cool rains showering the Great Bay daily, the temperature and humidity hovering over Enultramar’s stately palm trees was oppressive, compared to the mild climate the boys were used to.  The sweat soaked their heavy Riverlands garb at arm and neck, and the flies and bloodsuckers were everywhere.

They took the tired watchman at the gate’s recommendation for a decent inn, over the suggestions of the peddlers who were set up around the gate, after they tipped the gruff-looking townsman.  His recommendation, The small but tidy Inn of Sunset, proved much nicer and for a fairer fee, they discovered, than those offered by the fruit vendors and fishmongers selling their wares outside the gate illegally in an off-market day.

After they’d registered with the innkeeper and paid for three days in advance, the lads enjoyed a good supper of flat bread and fish stew, washed down with plenty of beer included in the price of their room, in the common room of the inn.  The place seemed more popular with travelers and merchants than mariners, they saw, though the small inn was half-vacant.  The innkeeper’s son played a viol at dinner, quite well for a lad his size.

Rondal spent the time while Tyndal was in the privy to contact Master Minalan, mind-to-mind, and give him the barest update on their progress.  They didn’t want to disturb him overmuch – he’d made it clear that he did not want to be associated with the mission, should things go poorly – but he did have some good advice to spare.

Don’t reveal you are magi, if you can help it, he advised.  Especially High Magi.  From what I understand, the Three Censors of Enultramar already have at least one witchstone, and they’d love to acquire two more.  With them in charge of the arcane regulation in the province, that might get you attention you don’t want.  They would make quite a show of a double execution at Yule, especially of my apprentices.

We aren’t worried, Master, Rondal assured.

That’s what I’m afraid of.  You need to be worried.  You boys never saw the full horror of what the Censorate can do, fortunately.  And that was back when their power was checked, however inefficiently, by the Dukes.  Now that they don’t have that constraint, they’re likely to be far, far more aggressive in their enforcement efforts, he warned.

We’ll be on our guard, Master.  We’re going to start looking for a contact with the Brotherhood tomorrow.  Once we find one, quietly persuading someone to reveal their headquarters here should be easy enough.  It seems like anyone in Enultramar is willing to sell out anyone else, for the right price.

You are not far wrong, Minalan agreed.  Which is why you need to be careful.  With the Censors ready to pounce, and the Brotherhood ready to punch, and the rebels ready to punish, you have walked right into the middle of trouble.  Do your best to stay out of it.

We are completely focused on the mission, Master.  But we do need to discover what the Rats are up to.

Then do it quietly.  We have enough real enemies as it is; no need to recruit some more, however poor they are at it.  The last thing you need is to have a bunch of bloodthirsty gangsters follow you back to Sevendor.

You’re worried they’ll take over? Rondal asked, confused.

No, I’m worried Banamor will take lessons, he replied, sarcastically.

Chapter Three

An Enchanting Piss

“When the mariners of the Sea Lords first conquered the coastal people of Alshar and took control of their waterways, the Cormeeran emigrants were unaware of the exotic dangers implicit in the Bay.  Not only did the estuaries and swamplands hold a dizzying amount of amazing and spectacular herbs and plants, but the animal denizens of the Bay frequently challenged the Sea Lord’s dominion more than the native Alshari resistance.

“Among the fiercest of these unexpected dangers was the creature known to the natives as caiman, and to their Cormeeran conquerors as “river drakes”.  These ferocious predators cling to the rivers and estuaries above the bay, lurking in swamps and brackish lagoons, lying in wait for sea birds, seals, and land mammals that happened too close to them.

“Often resembling floating logs, when the Sea Lords first encountered these toothy predators on raiding or retributory expeditions inland, they frequently mistook them for innocent littoral flotsam until it was too late.  Many of the hooks and peg legs of the early Sea Lords came not from battle on the high seas or even shipboard accidents, but were due to unfortunate encounters with these incredibly aggressive predators.”

The Bestiary Of Enultramar

“So how do you want to do this, Ron?” Tyndal asked, as they surveyed the ancient warehouse from the roof of the nearly deserted porter’s hall across the street.  The three story structure had narrow windows, just enough to allow air and a little sunlight into the interior but too narrow to allow thieves.

Ordinary thieves.

“It might be helpful if we knew where he and his mother were,” Rondal pointed out, leaning over the rickety rail that encircled the top of the hall.  “That would certainly narrow our approach.  You up for a little scrying?”

Tyndal nodded.  “Should be easy, assuming they aren’t warded,” he said, settling onto the roof with his legs crossed.  “Try to keep the seagulls from pooping on me while I do this, will you?”

Rondal shrugged.  “I make no promises.”

“Asshole,” Tyndal snorted, and closed his eyes.

It was always boring watching someone else do magic, unless you were part of the spell.  It usually resembled taking a brief nap more than anything else - the energies that most magi worked with did not register to the naked eye.  Only when a mage made a special effort (and expended a lot of power) or used spells that produced a visible effect, mostly it looked like napping.

But Rondal knew very well what his partner was doing, behind his eyelids.  Scrying spells were basic warmagic, a way of telling who was whom and where they were standing, so that one did not go into battle without being properly informed.  There were several means and methods of doing this, depending on the strengths of your talent and the depths of your education, but generally scrying spells involved extending the awareness of the mage far beyond his immediate senses.  Depending on the method, scrying relied on detecting specific types of energies against a background that could distinguish them.

In this case, Tyndal would be looking for the types of energies manifested by a child and a young woman, which were distinct and different from those of a grown man.  If their intelligence was correct and the Brotherhood’s local crew was holding Ruderal and his mother against their will in that warehouse, Tyndal would be able to locate them in short order. Rondal didn’t even have to use magesight to tell that the warehouse was devoid of spellcraft.

Even if the Brotherhood had invested in warding spells, neither lad believed they’d have the foresight needed to stop trained warmagi.  While it was technically easy to ward against such intrusive detections, Rondal and his straw-headed fellow had been learning a lot of obscure warmagic spells over the last year, and they’d discovered that there were far more ways to go about scrying than the traditional ones.

“Got them,” Tyndal said, opening his eyes and bouncing to his feet a few minutes later.  “Bottom floor, southwestern corner.  Behind iron,” he reported.  “And above water.”

“Above water?” Rondal asked, surprised.  “That place is at least fifty feet from the waterfront!”

“There’s water under there,” Tyndal insisted.  “I felt it.  Under them.  Wood over them, stone on two sides, iron on two sides.  Don’t believe me?” he challenged.  “You can check for yourself.”

“No, no, I trust your scrying,” he said, hastily.  Tyndal had a habit of being competitive about magic, and Rondal didn’t want to invoke that right now - it was tiring.  “So, how many Rats in that building?”

“Seven,” shrugged the other knight.  “Four on the first floor, three on the second.”

“Four guards, thugs, or porters watching the place,” Rondal figured, “management upstairs, maybe with a couple more guards.”

“Notice how we’ve been here two hours, and not a single cart has gone in?” Tyndal asked.

“Well, the town is hardly bustling,” he said, nodding toward the half-deserted streets.  The sun was just starting to set over the mountains in the west, turning Enultramar Bay into a glorious portrait in orange, gray, and blue, the sunset for which Solashaven was justly famed.

Yet there were few merchant ships hurrying into port, and not nearly enough wains departing the docks toward home at this time of day as there should be for a town this size.  The few craft moored at the wharfs were shallow-bodied barges or nimble Farisian caravels seeking cheap harborage for the winter here.  But there was little coming in or going out of the port.  Individuals walked from shop to stall, slowly and without purpose, for lack of better work to do.  “But I take your point.  What’s inside the warehouse?”

“Wares?” shrugged Tyndal.  “I don’t know, I was looking for Rats and their captives, not a good bargain on a slightly-mildewy tapestry.”

“It’s a warehouse,” Rondal reasoned.  “It should have something inside.  If there are people in there, it should have some merchandise, at least for show.”

“I’m more interested in that water I felt,” Tyndal said, rubbing his chin as he studied the place.  “That has to be some underground sewer system or inlet that runs under the place.”

“It would be easier to load a boat if all you had to do was open a hatch and lower it down,” agreed Rondal.  “Make it more convenient for smuggling and such, too.”

“But where does it come out?” Tyndal asked.  “There isn’t an outlet nearby, not that I could see.”

Rondal studied the matter.  “I think I know how we can find out,” he said, after a moment.

“I’m curious to hear your thoughts,” admitted Tyndal.

“What’s one of the basic rules of hydromancy?”

“Water is wet?” Tyndal asked, stupidly.

“And flows downhill,” Rondal explained, with exaggerated patience.

“You’ve noticed that?”

Rondal thought quietly for a few more minutes.  “Are you still thirsty?” he asked, suddenly.

Tyndal blinked.  “It’s hot enough in this place to fry an egg on my arse.  I could drink all night.”

Rondal slipped a silver shell into his friend’s fingers.  “Go buy a two pints of ale.  Ale,” he emphasized.  “Not that shitty Maiden’s Blood.”

Tyndal looked concerned.  “You can’t mix brandy and ale!”

“I’ve seen you do it before,” Rondal said, confused.

“Which is why I don’t mix brandy and ale,” Tyndal said, indignantly.  “It’s . . . bad.”

“Don’t be such a girl,” Rondal said, rolling his eyes.   “It’s drink.  You’re a Wilderlord! Sgowt yn ddewr!”  Using the Kasari admonition towards bravery was a particularly foul blow, Rondal knew.

Tyndal rolled his eyes and left down the rickety back stairs.  He was gone about ten minutes, long enough for the sun to disappear completely, plunging the bay behind him into a steel-gray monochrome for a few moments.  The sea was beautiful, as magnificent as the peaks of the Mindens that had surrounded him as a child.  He could never imagine that there was that much water in the world, until he saw it for himself . . . and the great Bay of Enultramar was just a small part of the greater ocean.

Tyndal returned before darkness fell over the town completely.  Some of the more affluent homes burned lamps to augment the fading light, while most of the shabby homes burned a single taper.  Tyndal placed two earthenware pitchers of dark brown ale on the edge of the facade.

“Your ale, Sir,” he said with an obsequious bow.  Rondal nodded, then closed his eyes and summoned power from his witchstone.  It only took a trickle to do what he wanted - and in magesight the two pitchers were imbued with an arcane glow.

“All right,” Rondal said, nodding to them.  “Drink up.”

“I still think this is a mistake,” Tyndal said, taking the vessel gingerly in his hands.  But he put it to his wide lips and began swallowing the ale in deep draughts.  He finished half of it before pausing for a breath.

“Go on,” Rondal said.  Tyndal exhaled and drained it before setting it down.  “Half way there,” Rondal encouraged, glancing at the other pitcher.

“That’s for me, too?” he asked, surprised.

“That’s the plan,” Rondal affirmed.  “All of it.”

Tyndal shot him a look, but took the second tankard.  It took him twice as long to finish it, and when he did he erupted in an impressive belch.

“Well done, Sir Foghorn,” Rondal nodded, taking both urns away from him.  “I had every confidence in your ability.”

“What the bloody hells are we supposed to do now?” Tyndal asked, making a face at the belch.  “That first one wasn’t bad, but the second one tasted awful!”

“We take a walk,” Rondal said, slapping the taller lad on the shoulder.  “Come on.”

A few moments later they were walking through the street in front of the warehouse, patently ignoring the place as the street fell into darkness.  Ironically, as the light faded the place seemed to come alive, as the folk of the night began their routines.  Whores and pimps began their promenade, as the few employed workmen and porters headed home for the night.  Drunkards stirred out of their holes as the heat of the day receded in favor of the cool sea breeze from the Bay.

“They call it the Maiden’s Hour,” Rondal lectured Tyndal, as he led his suddenly-drunken friend from one end of the long street to the other.  “In Sea Lord myth, it’s when the Maiden of the Havens convinces the Salt Crone to take a nap, allowing her to let the weary mariners into her hall for wine and food.”

“She’s the goddess of comfort and hospitality, right?” Tyndal slurred.

“Among other things.  But she gets an hour before the Shipwrecker takes control of the Wheel of the Day.  Or something like that.  Sea Lords are weird.”

“Sea Lords are weird?” Tyndal asked.

“Well don’t you think so?,” Rondal said, smiling at two pretty whores - or perhaps honest women, blessed with the glow of twilight - as they giggled and passed by.  “Consider. They have no mother goddess, just a dad and five daughters.  And some really horrific iconography,” he added.

“Is there a point to this ethnography?” Tyndal asked, belching again . . . and then again.

“Actually, yes,” Rondal conceded.  “In that the original Alshari, the people who lived here before the Sea Lords came and conquered them, originally seemed to have all of the usual agricultural gods . . . but after the Sea Lords came, they started worshipping what was essentially the counterpart and counter to the Storm Lord and his daughter.  They called her Vingata.”

Another belch, another face.  “Your point?”

“Vingata is basically everything the Storm Lord is not.  She’s a mother goddess, like Trygg, a fertility goddess like Ishi, and an avenging goddess like Briga.”

“Sounds like a hell of a lady,” Tyndal agreed, drunkenly.

“Actually, when the Alshari slaves revolted, the myth said that Vingata rose up from the fields and called forth a bunch of magical . . . imps?  Land spirits?  I don’t know, some kind of little demon folk, and they helped the slaves overthrow their masters.”

“So what happened?” demanded Tyndal.

“The Sea Lords returned two years later with a dozen ships and enslaved the entire bay, again.” Rondal said, helping his friend over an early drunkard sprawling from a doorway.  “They rounded up six of her priesthood and slaughtered them in honor of their gods on a rock out in the bay,” Rondal explained.  “That’s where the Great Bell is, now.”

“So what happened to Vingata?” Tyndal asked.

“She continued to be worshipped in secret in the hills, back in the swamps, the usual out-of-the-way places where Sea Lords don’t often go.  She became associated with the river drakes over in the swamps.  Her priesthood turned bloodthirsty, kidnapping young Sea Lords every now and then and throwing them to her pets in secret.”

“That doesn’t seem very ladylike,” Tyndal said, blearily.

“She was pissed off,” Rondal explained.  “But every time a Sea Lord would disappear, they would send out parties to brutalize the Alshari slaves on general principal.  In any case, her priesthood organized the next round of slave revolts.  While the fleet was away raiding Farise or something, they made a pact to all act at once, at the same time.  So they waited until the sun went down over that ridge, there,” he pointed into the darkness.  “But apparently all of the Sea Lords spend the Hour of the Maiden drinking that revolting wine and seawater stuff and eating delicacies off the arses of slave girls - the usual,” he shrugged.

“The usual,” Tyndal nodded, drunkenly.

“So the Alshari slaves all waited until the remaining Sea Lords were drunk, then they wrapped them up in sailcloth and took them into the swamps and strung them up over the river drakes.  They armed themselves, looted the havens, burned a good number of them, burned some ships, and retreated into the interior.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Tyndal agreed.

“They thought so,” nodded Rondal.  “When the fleet returned, they found some of their kin slain, their homes burned, their slaves fled, and their fields destroyed.”

“They were not happy pirates,” concluded Tyndal.

“No, my friend, they were not.  The Sea Lords of Solashaven rounded up as many stragglers and survivors as they could find, and found out that most of their kin were being held hostage.  For every slave who was put to death, a Sea Lord would be fed to the drakes.  The unhappy pirates didn’t have much choice – those were their kids.

“So they agreed to Vingata’s terms.  All the escaped slaves could go up to the furthest inland Sea Lord settlement, on a lake at the other end of this river, where their masters were the cruelest and they’d slain every one, and they could possess it in freedom.  And work the lands around it as free Alshari.  They called the place Vatyne.  It means ‘sanctuary’.”

“Pretty,” Tyndal grunted.

“The Sea Lords didn’t think so.  The Vingati priests made a law than any slave who came within the province was free, which irritated the Sea Lords . . . but they dare not take action.  Every night, during the Maiden’s Hour, if there had been an incident against the Vingati, they would throw a Sea Lord captive into the pit.  And then light a torch to let them know.  After a couple of episodes, they reached an uneasy truce.  But it only held as long as the captives were held, and the Sea Lords were patient.

“Eventually,” he said, halting near the corner of the warehouse they’d been watching all afternoon, “the two sides reached a deal: the Vingati would release all but one of the captives, but that one had to stay in Vatyne a full month as hostage.  At the end of the month, another Sea Lord would arrive, and they’d return the first.  And so on.”

“So if there was any trouble, they had one to sacrifice,” nodded Tyndal.

“Right.  That didn’t make the pirates much happier, but they had most of their kids back.  And they quickly imported enough slaves to get the plantations running again.  They ignored the Alshari.  They repaired their towers or built new ones, built a new fleet, and essentially carried on being bloodthirsty bastards.”

“And the slaves were free and happy to this very day!” Tyndal pronounced dramatically, as another girl walked by and giggled.

“Don’t be stupid.  The Sea Lords bided their time.  They resented the hold their former slaves had over them, and hated more the extraordinary wines the Vatyni produced - they’re in the middle of the Bikavar region,” he added.

“I am passingly familiar with their wares,” Tyndal agreed, reverently.

“Indeed.  So were the Sea Lords, and they resented most the high price the former slaves put on each barrel.  But they bought it anyway, because--”

“It’s wine, and when you’re thirsty, what can you do?”

“You reason just like a Sea Lord, my friend.  So that’s how they carried on.”

“Until . . .” Tyndal said, expectantly.

“Until one day, a few years later, when most had forgotten the way that Vatyne was settled, the Sea Lords ordered a prodigious amount of wine for their festival to the Storm Lord, and pledged to pay a premium amount.  Then, while the Vatyni merchants watched in horror, they took them captive and sent a fleet up the river.”

“Didn’t the Vatyni slay the hostage?”

“Oh, yes . . . but he was an old man, a warrior who agreed to sacrifice himself for the rest of the Sea Lords.  When the priests pushed him into the pit full of river drakes, one of his esquires threw him a sea axe.”

“What were they doing with a sea axe?” Tyndal asked, suspiciously.  “If they were captives and all?”

“By that point the Vatyni had relaxed their guard, and looted many heirlooms from the Sea Lords in their rebellion.  I’m sure that there was a spare sea axe somewhere,” Tyndal assured.

“I think it’s awfully convenient,” Tyndal said, skeptically.

“In any case, this old captain pledged to kill river drakes until they killed him -- and it’s not like anyone was itching to haul him out of there and try to run the execution properly.”

“Not when he’s got that highly convenient sea axe,” Tyndal pointed out.

“Exactly.  So he holds off the drakes while the army of the Sea Lords rows up river, and everyone is praying to Vingata, but the old drake lady is apparently otherwise occupied - no helpful demons, this time.”

“Shame,” Tyndal shrugged.  “That would have been something!”

“Wouldn’t it?  Instead, the priests slink off back into the swamps and leave the valiant farmers to defend the walls.  Slaughter ensues.  They’re farmers and terrorists, but the Sea Lords are warriors.  They fight their way up the river, to the city gates, past the city gates, and into town.  The few defenders left end up surrendering.  Blood flows in the streets.  One male in every household was fed to the drakes, until they wouldn’t eat any more.  Then they were sacrificed to the Storm Lord.  The women . . . well, you can guess.”

“So what happened?”

“The old geezer in the pit was made the Viscount of Vatyni, and he and his heirs brutally ruled the land until the lake silted up, Remeran wines got cheap, and the Coastlords arrived with the Magocracy and took over most of the inland settlements.  The priests kept the secret cult going and every now and then they’d kidnap a Sea Lord and feed it to the drakes.  The town is now one of the most decrepit crapholes in Enultramar.  And one of the most dangerous.  Even the Brotherhood is afraid of the place.  It makes this one look like Vorone.”

“Rondal?”

“Yeah Tyn?”

“I have to take a piss like the Storm Lord, himself.”

“Then you should take a piss,” Rondal said, nodding toward the sewer in front of the warehouse.

“What?  Right here?  Can’t we find a luck tree or a public privy someplace?”

“This is the Maiden’s Hour, in Enultramar, in Solashaven.  Taking a piss in a sewer is just being civilized.”

“Oh, all right!” Tyndal said, hauling up his doublet and hauling down his hose.  In a moment a loud - very loud - sound of liquid spilling into the sewer below filled the night.  Rondal stood patiently by while his friend relieved himself, even smiling and waving at a pretty whore as she sauntered by.

“Ah!  Thank the . . . whichever of the old goat’s daughters is in charge of pissing.  So . . . what do we need to do to do the . . . whatever it is we need to do?”

“We just did, Tyn,” Rondal assured him.  “Now we’re going back to the inn, crawl into bed, and get some sleep.  We need to be up with the dawn to survey the tides.”

“We do?”

“We do.  And then we need to find a pawnbroker and procure some more appropriate garb.  I feel like a pilgrim, walking around dressed like a Riverlord.”

“Magelord,” corrected Tyndal.  “But . . . if you . . .  how did we . . . ?”

“Relax,” Rondal assured him, as another pair of whores approached them . . . and then quickly walked away, giggling.  “I’ve got this well in hand.  But we need sleep more than we need . . . company,” he added, looking fondly at the shapely girl who he was certain could be his for a shell.

“Why aren’t any of these ladies approaching me?” Tyndal asked, confused.  “I’m young, I’m handsome, I’m drunk . . . how can they resist me?” he asked, as he watched the giggling girl pass by.

“I have no idea, my friend,” Rondal said, apologetically, steering Tyndal toward the modest inn at the far end of the street they’d taken a room in.  “But if I had to guess, I’d say it was the bird shit on your doublet.”

At dawn the next morning, both lads had the opportunity to prove they were right.

Rondal ventured forth before the sun rose, and using magesight tracked the traces of Tyndal’s enchanted, slightly-used ale from the previous night . . . deposited as close to the warehouse as possible.  He found it clearly pouring forth in frothy abundance in the scummy wash near the old stone bridge.  A closer inspection underneath revealed an opening concealed in the northern bank, just large enough for a decent-sized punt to come through.

Tyndal was vindicated in his belief that mixing ale with brandy, wine, and seawater was a fundamentally poor idea.  He heaved miserably into the chamberpot until the innkeeper threatened to call a physician.  Rondal returned just in time to cast a calming charm on his friend and help him recover.

“You did that on purpose,” Tyndal accused, as Rondal brought him some clear broth and porridge.  His blue eyes looked crazy under his unkempt hair, crimson spider webs screaming his discomfort.  Tyndal drank a cup of water and was packing his pipe while Rondal set up his breakfast.

“I did,” Rondal agreed.  “I figured the easiest way to avoid suspicion was to look like two out-of-town errants on a drunken lark.  I think we were convincing.”

“And the mission was to take a piss in front of the place?”

“And you performed spectacularly,” Rondal assured.  “I shall make note of this in the Order’s chronicles.”

“I cannot wait to regale my chivalric brothers with my heroic tale of urination,” he agreed, charming his pipe into life.

“The tunnel I found clearly leads to under the warehouse,” reasoned Rondal.  If we make our way upstream, we would be right under Ruderal and his mom.”

“So we would,” Tyndal said, exhaling a huge cloud of fragrant smoke.

“Of course, we’re still separated from our quarry by a thick wooden floor,” reminded Rondal.

Tyndal snorted derisively, sending forth another cloud of smoke.  “Wood?  Are we not magi?”  Tyndal could enchant wood into all sorts of interesting shapes, as Rondal knew well.  Getting through the door would take a few moments and a spell.

“We can, indeed,” Rondal agreed, pushing the porridge toward him.  “In fact, if we time this properly, I think we can have a lot of fun with this.”

Chapter Four

The Arrunatus House

The reputation associating the Great Bay of Enultramar with thieves and scoundrals is doubtless tied to its piritical past; a storied history of bloodshed and plunder.

One can scarce look at the proud cities of the Great Bay today and imagine the squalid conditions of the earliest folk on this rocky shore, but it is well-known – nay, even boasted by Sea Lords, that their ancestors were the storm of the Shallow Sea in the great days of their fleets.

Yet the Sea Lords of Enultramar were not thieves, themselves, once they were back under the protection of the Maiden of the Havens and safely away from the dangers of the Shipwrecker.  While ashore, the Lords of Enultramar treated each other with honor and respect, settling their differences by council or by duel.

Indeed, the Sea Lords blame the original tribes of Enultramar’s fertile coastland for the association with thievery.  Rich in land yet poor in resources and primative in comparison to the Cormeeran pirates, the scattered tribes of the coastal plains at first traded with the Cormeerans, but then realized how vulnerable their encampments were whilst their fleets were away.  Soon the coastland tribes were raiding as seasonally as the Sea Lords themselves, causing the pirates to erect strong but crudely built fortresses to protect their loot and their harbors, and leave behind strong garrisons.

Amongst the tribes, those who were best at thievery quickly gained status, and a host of petty gods devoted to the practice emerged from the crude civilization that grew up in the wake of the Sea Lords’ majesty.  That culture became even worse when the towers of the Sea Lords began to establish farms nearby, and import thousands of slaves to work them.  Many slaves escaped into the tribal regions, particularly the swamps and uplands, and joined the tribesmen in their unremitting shadow war against their enslavers and oppressors.

.

Even after the coming of the Magocracy and the civilizing of the entire coastal plain of Alshar, the tradition and culture of theft and casual murder has dogged the wharfs and allies of Enultramar.

A History Of The Great Bay

Sage Redico of Farise

Their Riverlands garb showed them out as strangers.  Rondal knew it would be important for them to blend more with the natives of Solashaven if they wanted to operate freely around the port.  Finding suitable disguises was therefore a priority, before they began their mission, proper.

The lads found a pawnbroker easily enough - Enultramar seemed filled with them, and Solashaven had several shops with the three golden balls displayed outside their door.  They chose the closest and spent a few hours picking through the wares.  Piles of boots and racks of clothes of various styles, colors, and integrity warred with shelves packed with exotic knickknacks and precious treasures from distant lands for their attention.  As they were the only patrons in the shop that morning, they receive all the attention of the sharp-eyed pawnbroker and his arbalest.

Tyndal was able to find garb appropriate for a Sea Lord, including the distinctive boots, heavily embroidered doublet, and half-cape the nobility of the havens preferred.  He also found a serviceable scimitar with a tarnished silvered bell in the shape of three crabs.  He added a relatively new hat with a gull feather, as was the fashion at the moment.  He would have looked almost authentic, if it wasn’t for the wild shock of blonde hair few Sea Lords had.

For Rondal’s part, he sought to dress as a landsman.  He found the more conservative dress better suited to his personality - particularly when they were trying to avoid attention.  A wine-colored doublet of simple cut and clean lines fit him nicely, and he didn’t even complain about the small bloodstain and hole over the left kidney - a little magic and it would be like new.  A wide leather belt and baldric was added to his collection, as was a short, leaf-shaped blade that the Coastlords favored.  He was reluctant to choose a hat, but at Tyndal’s urging he found a short-brimmed felt hat that matched the color of his doublet.  His mantle was already in the style of the Coastlords, so he kept it.

The entire spree only cost two ounces of silver, too - the pawnbroker was eager to clear his inventory, for sellers were far more frequent patrons than buyers of late.  When they walked out of the shop, their old clothes in a parcel under Tyndal’s arm, they nearly looked like they belonged on the docks and havens of the great bay.

“Now what?” Tyndal asked, straightening his sword belt under the weight of the scimitar.

“Now you go find us a boat,” Rondal directed.  “A small boat, big enough for three.  Small enough to make it through a narrow passageway to under the warehouse.”

“This is a haven, boats should be plentiful,” Tyndal reasoned.  “And then what?”

“I’m going to arrange for a distraction,” Rondal reported.

“What kind of distraction?”

“I don’t know yet,” Rondal admitted.  “But I’ll come up with something.  If we can lure the guards outside, or at least away from proximity to the prisoners . . .”

“You’re being awfully subtle about this mission,” Tyndal suddenly accused.  “What’s wrong with bursting through the front door and slaying everyone in sight?”

“Because that runs the risk that they’ll kill the hostages,” Rondal pointed out, evenly.

“Not if they’re too busy fighting for their lives!”

“There’s too much potential for chaos,” Rondal said, firmly.  “And we might lose any opportunity to gather intelligence on the Brotherhood, which is our secondary objective.  You wanted me to plan this mission, this is how I’m planning it.”

Tyndal’s shoulders sagged.  “Fine.  We’ll be sneaky about it, then.  What kind of distraction are you considering?”

“I don’t know yet.  But I’m thinking it needs to be something . . . unusual.”

“Where have you been all day?” complained Tyndal, as he sat atop the porter’s hall overlooking the bay and sipped on a mixture of brandy and fruit juices that were popular among those who could afford the luxury.  It had to be better than the cheap porter’s punch the barman downstairs sold for a half-penny a pint.  The more expensive concoction was served in a half of a melon which slowly disintegrated into a sweet pulp under the influence of the brandy and flavored the spirit nicely.  There were four empty melons stacked up on the table.  “I’ve been up here for hours, waiting.”

“Yes, you look terribly disturbed by all the laborious drinking and enjoying the scenery.  Why didn’t you just contact me mind-to-mind?” Rondal asked, as he took the other chair at the table.

“And risk you sending me off on another godsforsaken errand?” Tyndal asked, feigning outrage.

“Well, I’m assuming you accomplished the first one without too much difficulty,” Rondal observed.  “Else you wouldn’t be sitting here guzzling brandy and melons all afternoon.”

“It’s actually not bad, once they sweeten it with sugar,” Tyndal said, staring critically into the top of the mug.  “It’s even better if you chill it down to just above freezing with magic.  Really takes the edge off a hot day,” he declared.

“And makes it so much easier to drink them in quantity,” Rondal finished.

“Well, I did want to be properly prepared if you needed my drunken urination services again,” Tyndal replied, sourly.  “I’m a world-class pisser.  As a boat thief, I’m fairly passable.  I did not even have to steal one,” he admitted.  “Remember that punt outside of Ruderal’s shack?  That should serve nicely.  As narrow as a maiden’s hips and long enough for four.”

“That actually should work,” Rondal agreed, recalling the craft as he poured a drink from the pitcher himself.  “And the lad will know how to use it.  Well done, Tyn.”

“So what of your own efforts?” Tyndal asked, filling a second mug from the melon for his friend.  “What were your own efforts?  That took all day?”

“I had to make a quick trip upriver to arrange a suitable distraction,” Rondal explained.  “Something just right to ensure our success at both missions.”

“Well, good,” Tyndal said, nodding.  “Any particulars you want to share?  Or are you being mysterious for dramatic effect?”

“I discovered in my investigations, in the guise of an out-country Coastlord, that the warehouse does, indeed, cater to legitimate trade from time to time,” Rondal explained.  “There are a few merchants upriver who use the place as additional storage, or as a waypoint between shipments.  It’s just enough trade to keep the Viscount’s tax men happy, and obscure the real business of the Brotherhood.”

“So you decided to distract them by informing the tax assessors of their undeclared profits?” proposed Tyndal.  “That seems a little too subtle for the task at hand, Ron,” he said, sorrowfully.

“Just what I was thinking,” Rondal continued, rolling his eyes at his tipsy comrade’s suggestion.  “But what might be more expedient is arranging for a shipment to be delivered to the place from up-river, by way of one of the regular merchants who occasionally use such trade.”

“Well, that might be helpful,” conceded Tyndal.

“That’s what I thought.  So that’s what I’ve done.  The day after tomorrow, a shipment of nine hogsheads of wine from up-river will be delivered by barge, and then carted over the bridge to this warehouse.  There it will sit until it is retrieved by a barge bound for a distillery in the western end of the bay, four days hence.  Unless something untoward should happen,” he said, sipping the rich fruity drink.

It was good, particularly with the sugar added, but he decided to try Tyndal’s suggestion and cool it by magic.  In moments his simple cantrip frosted the entire mug.  The drink was much better that way, he agreed.

“So,” Tyndal began, his face looking disturbed as he tried to puzzle through Rondal’s plan, “if this plan follows the general theme of the rest of the mission, I foresee myself being smuggled inside a keg of wine for two days,” he said, not pleased by the prospect.  “Really, Ron, I--”

“No, no, no,” Rondal said, with a heavy sigh.  “We are knights magi of the Estasi Order, my friend.  We do not skulk about in hogsheads of wine, waiting to spring into action.  We await the delivery of our distraction in the relative comfort of this unpleasant establishment, enjoying the beautiful view and sampling its delicacies.  And then when the shipment is delivered and all is in place, the distraction will allow you to enter the place like a gentleman: through the sewers.”

“Much better,” Tyndal said, unconvincingly.  “I take it I bring them out through the floor boards, then?  From under the warehouse?  Or did you just want me to wallow around in human excrement as your distraction?”

“I considered that,” Rondal reflected.  “But as entertaining as that might be, it wouldn’t do anything beyond making a bunch of thugs laugh.  And it wouldn’t be much of a laugh, since they don’t know you personally.  When you see what I’ve actually planned, you won’t mind so much.”

“And while I’m going through the sewers to knock a hole in the floor and rescue our captives, what are you going to be doing?”

“I’m going to be stealing whatever I can from the Brotherhood and trying to learn their plans,” Rondal answered.  “That’s the most dangerous part of this job.”

“You’re going to do that through the sewers?”

“No, you get the pleasure of the sewers.  I will be entering the warehouse from the roof,” he said, indicating the broad, rickety-looking framework upon which cheap clay tiles were attached.  It seemed sturdy enough to keep the frequent rains off of the merchandise below, but not much more.

“You’re intending on flying?”

“Something like that,” Rondal nodded.  “I’ll probably use magic.”

“I should hope so,” Tyndal agreed.  “So we have to wait here another day while all of this happens?”

“Yes,” Rondal said, stretching out.  “Wait and watch, and get ready.”

“And drink?”

“And drink,” Rondal affirmed.

“The things I do for a mission,” Tyndal said in mock indignation, refilling his mug.

Rondal was not without a plan about how to attempt the roof.  Getting there was not problematic, with the use of a spell to adhere his hands and feet to the exterior walls of the place.  The brick used to build it was not high quality, and in truth it would have been no great feat to climb it without magic.  But he wanted to do so escaping detection, and magic was the best way to go about it.

His investigation into the Arrunatus warehouse and its denizens included his own scrying efforts, not in the cellar where Ruderal was being held, but in the office of the crew’s local manager, the overseer Hard Skrup.

From what Rondal could discover, the man was well-placed within the organization, and being entrusted to watch over Ruderal was a special responsibility.  But it was also the kind of tedious assignment that challenged the thug’s patience, and he did not spare griping about it, as Rondal learned spending a few hours employing a Long Ears spell among the villains while Tyndal was borrowing Ruderal’s skiff.

Once he’d learned the names of the merchants who did business with the Rats, he made a quick trip up the muddy river by barge and spent the afternoon making some decidedly unusual arrangements.  After casting a few simple spells, securing what he needed and paying liberally in silver for the service ahead of time, he returned to Solashaven.

Despite his brave talk, Tyndal stopped drinking seriously before night fully fell, and was mostly sober by the Maiden’s Hour.  Both lads took turns scrying or using Long Ears to ensure that Ruderal and his mother were still hale.  Rondal even overheard some whispered talk between mother and son, and he was struck by how much they cared for each other, despite their unfortunate conditions.  The lad was brave, and never faltered as he assured his mother he’d take care of her, no matter what.  The mother was resolute in her willingness to protect her son, no matter what.

It was brave talk in the cellar of the Arrunatus House, but the news from the top floor was dire.  The captain of the crew, Hard Skru[p’s boss, was charged with Ruderal’s care; he had apparently received a recent message from his superiors ordering him to send the special boy away north to meet with an agent for some scheme they’d planned.  That plan did not include provisions for his mother, and the captain’s plans for her after the boy was moved were alarming.

They’d arrived in Enultramar just in time, Rondal realized.  A few more days, and Ruderal would have been an orphan.

His spying and scrying also revealed that the captain was in possession of a great number of secrets about the crew.  From the man’s dark grumbling, Rondal concluded that the warehouse was used to securely stash items of value for other Crews, in return for a fee.  There was some sort of vault or storeroom of such things in the secure office on the second floor.  That information intrigued Rondal.

As much as he wanted to rescue Ruderal, finding leverage against the Brotherhood was his first priority.  Finding one of their secret treasure houses was far more than he had imagined . . . but it made sense, the more he thought about it.  The stout stone walls of the lower levels and the severe iron grating over the doors and windows made the gloomy old warehouse in a run-down part of a decrepit old town on the arse end of a busy bay seem the perfect place to conceal things away from the prying eyes of just about anyone.

That made it an ideal target for an information-gathering expedition.  If all went according to plan, then he would have unlimited access to the place and its secrets.

The boys spent the day of their attack ensuring that their gear was ready.  For Tyndal’s part that meant inspecting Ruderal’s boat and making some repairs in the wood of the hull, as well as trying his skill with it on the estuary and river around the bridge.  Rondal had to admit that his friend had some natural skill with the craft - just as he seemed to have with horses, women, and swordplay.  Rondal put aside the stab of jealousy he felt and focused on the mission.

Rondal’s preparations were more elaborate.  He returned to the pawnbroker and searched diligently through the garb on hand until he found what he sought: a matte black doublet, black leather riding trousers, and thick black gloves.  The pawnbroker looked at him knowingly as he paid for the clothes, and diplomatically suggested a pair of soft, supple boots in black which he produced from under a table.

“The soles have excellent grip,” the merchant pointed out, testing the bottom of the shoe against the corner of the table.  “Note the sharkskin on the toe and heel, providing ideal friction, the additional ankle support straps - in case you need to hold an extreme position - and the soles are treated with whale oil to keep them quiet.”

“Those are some very distinctive features, Goodman,” Rondal said, after studying the man a moment.

“I’ve been buying and selling from this shop for ten years, milord,” the broker assured him.  “I’ve learned to see to the needs of my more discriminating clients.”

“And I seem to be?”

The pawnbroker shrugged.  “A man comes in dressed like a Castali Riverlord, and buys the clothes of an Alshari Coastlord one day, and then returns dressed that way before buying a suit of clothes as black as night, the next.  In my experience, a man who does such things often finds something like these boots to be helpful.”

“Helpful for what?” Rondal asked, amused at the man’s explanation.

“Why, for secure footing in any of his gentlemanly pursuits,” the pawnbroker chuckled.  “Say yachting, fishing, hunting, hiking, exploring caverns or climbing mountains, or whatever it is the gentry do with their idle time.  Or roaching,” he added, casually.

“Roaching?” Rondal asked, curious.  He imagined some sick Enultramar custom involving roaches, of which he’d seen plenty in the damp, warm environment.

“Roaching,” affirmed the man.  “Thieving.  Hiding in shadows, breaking into places, taking things of value in the dead of night. When the roaches come out.”

Rondal smirked.  “That is an intriguing metaphor,” he said.  “If a gentleman was to consider, say, yachting . . . at night . . . and didn’t wish to be observed, would you might recommend in the way of a cloak?”

“I’m so glad you asked, milord,” the pawnbroker said, opening a long wooden press under a pile of old boots.  “And could I interest you in a pair of manta-skinned gloves?  Ideal for gripping even the smoothest of surfaces . . .”

The boys met up at dusk above the porter’s hall for one final drink before they began.  There was no better place to view the warehouse, and no need to conceal their interest.  As the sun touched the peaks in the west, transforming the eastern ridge with a golden glow, they sipped their brandies and watched as a wagon fresh from the docks arrive at the place.

Nine large barrels were unloaded in quick order by the thugs masquerading as porters.  The driver presented the scroll with the bill of lading, demanded a receipt from the foreman, and left.

Rondal had directed his agent to insist that the barrels be stored in the lower chamber, where it could be protected from the heat of the day and kept cool.  The warehouse was fitted with a large trap door that allowed a ramp to be deployed and the barrels to be rolled directly into the lower chamber.  When the last of them were stored away, the ramp was pulled back up and the iron grate was put back into place.  When Rondal’s Long Ears spell heard the tell-tale sound of the metal scraping into place, he smiled.

“Everything’s ready,” he nodded to Tyndal, as most of the thugs-turned porters left for the day after securing the great wooden doors with chains and a great iron lock.  “The Maiden’s Hour has begun.  Get to your boat and get into position.”

“Aye, captain!” Tyndal said, finishing his drink.  “Good luck.”

“You, too,” Rondal said, absently.  He was looking forward to this.

He wore his saffron-colored Coastlord cloak as he took a stroll by himself around the waterfront.  After a few days in Solashaven he’d begun to recognize the whores who were pretty enough to brave the twilight, and treated them to shy smiles.  He waved at the decrepit old monk who seemed to appear every night during the Maiden’s Hour bellowing scripture and wine fumes into the evening.  As he neared the shadowed eastern side of the warehouse he slid his new gloves on under his cloak.

Only two guards left on the first floor, Tyndal reported.  Two upstairs.

The night crew, Rondal agreed as he watched up and down the shadowed alley next to the warehouse.  Are you ready?

Just got past the big iron grate.  Do you have any idea how bad this place smells?  Seawater, seaweed, vomit, piss, dead fish . . .

You wanted the full seashore experience of romantic Enultramar, reminded Rondal.

I expected more brothels and less sewers, Tyndal replied.  All right, I’m right at the entrance to the chamber under the place.  Southwest corner, right?

They haven’t moved, Rondal agreed.  I’ll start the diversion.

How will I know when everyone’s distracted?

Just listen for the screams, Rondal said, for effect.  He closed his eyes and loosed the spellbindings he’d placed on the barrels.  Without them, the contents didn’t have anything compelling keeping them inside.  Rondal dropped the yellow cloak to the street, revealing a thin black cloak underneath.  He stared at his new black gloves and whispered a mnemonic, until he felt the tingle of the spell that would aid him.

Taking one last glance at the deserted alley, he placed his hand on the crumbling brick of the building and was gratified when it stuck fast.  His right boot adhered just as easily, giving him plenty of leverage to heave himself into the air.

I’m going up the wall, he reported to Tyndal.  No one saw me, I think.

I’m stuck in a fetid sewer, Tyndal replied.  No one saw me, either.

A moment later, as Rondal was making his way to the second story of the warehouse, both of them heard the first bellows from within.

Ishi’s tits!  What was that, Ron?

Each of those wine barrels was stuffed with an eight foot long river drake, he explained.  With just enough water to make them slosh and keep the beasts happy.  Well, as happy as they could be, curled uncomfortably in a barrel.  I put them under an enchantment to send them into torpor for a few hours, to keep them from getting too rowdy too soon.  Of course, that spell wore off about two hours ago.  They’re all confused and riled, about now.  And loose downstairs.

Where the people we’re trying to rescue are being kept! Tyndal replied, alarmed.

Where the people we’re trying to rescue are being kept . . . behind inch-thick iron bars, reminded Rondal.  They’ll be perfectly safe.  But the guards are going to have a very difficult time getting to them while you are opening a hole in the floor and helping them to escape.

You know, Tyndal admitted, after a few moments of thought, that’s not a bad plan.

Distraction, protection, and misdirection, all at once.  And you didn’t have to spend the night in a wine barrel.

Just a sewer.

A safe sewer.  Right now, the rest of the warehouse is one nasty carpet of three-inch long teeth and angry river drake.  That’s bound to call the attention of everyone in the place.  Long enough for me to rummage through their underthings.

I’m still in a sewer.

Rondal ignored Tyndal’s complaints - he knew the young knight was in his element, at the edge of danger, and helping someone he cared about all at the same time.  He appreciated Tyndal’s enthusiasm and his daring . . . and he was learning how to use it to best effect.  While he knew his fellow wizard would have had no difficulty scaling the walls and breaking into the upstairs through the roof, he did doubt his ability to discover the secrets sure to be there.  It wasn’t that Tyndal wasn’t observant, but Rondal knew he wasn’t as subtle, careful, or thorough as he was.

I’ve started warping the floor joists, Tyndal reported.  I’ve made contact with Ruderal and his mom.

Are they all right?

They’re warning me that some idiot let nine angry river drakes loose outside their cage, and I should be careful.

Wise advice.  I’ve made it to the gable.  His fingertips found the sill to the window overlooking the roof.  As expected, the pane-less opening was covered with rusty iron bars.  A few moments of focus and they rusted away to brittle insignificance, and he pushed his way in.

There was no one inside the expansive, dark room.  He scanned it with magesight, and saw the door to the stairway downstairs was left open.  He could hear the cries of the men below, struggling with the challenge of nine angry drakes.

I am inside, he reported, proudly, as his toes touched the floor.  Everyone is downstairs.

I’ve got them, Tyndal said, triumphantly.  Ishi’s tits, those things are ugly!  Not as ugly as a real dragon, but . . .

Just get them out of there, Rondal ordered.  Escort them back to their hovel, have them pack whatever they value, and take them back to the inn.

He padded over to the door of the stairs and closed it quietly, then bound it with a spell.  It would take more than a strong shoulder to get through it, now.

He could see from the way the place was set up that it was as much a shop as the pawnbroker down the street.  There were two wooden walls separating the office from the rest of the warehouse, and behind the second was a long, sturdy wooden cupboard of many smaller compartments.

I think I’ve found the storehouse, Rondal reported.

We’re just leaving the tunnel, Tyndal replied.  This kid handles the boat like he was born in it.

He might have been.  Keep sharp.  I have no idea how long it will take for them to contend with those drakes.  When they realize their prizes are gone, they’re going to come looking.

You stay sharp, Tyndal insisted.  You’re still locked in there with four angry gangsters and nine excitable river drakes.

I’m fine, Rondal dismissed.  I’ll be out in no time at all.

He decided to forgo the inspection of the cabinet to rifle through the table where the Rats clearly conducted their business.  Most of the sheets of parchment were mere lines of figures, no doubt the accounting of various enterprises.  Rondal gathered them anyway, in the hopes that more lengthy scrutiny would reveal their plans.  He also pocketed several messages the captain collected in one pile, sealed with a simple but distinctive sigil in black wax.

Nearby the correspondence was a conveniently located chest the size of a loaf of bread, filled with silver.  It went into Rondal’s pouch as a matter of course, as did the two thick ledger books underneath.

When he turned his attention to the cabinet, he found that each compartment seemed to contain some exotic or expensive-looking merchandise.  Far more expensive things than one would expect in a dingy old warehouse like this.

I think I have it, Rondal told Tyndal, mind-to-mind.  This place is a fence.  For high-end items.

A fence?

Someone who buys and sells stolen merchandise, Rondal explained.  Not a barrier between properties.

I know what a fence is! Tyndal said.  That makes sense.  Not like our friend the pawnbroker, I take it.

No, this lot was several classes above him, Rondal decided, after opening a cabinet with a spectacularly bejeweled bronze goblet with gold chasing, all done in a sea motif.  Clearly a reliquary from some temple the Rats pillaged at some point.  I found some silver, so far . . .

“The really good stuff is on the bottom shelves,” a young man’s voice said, casually, from behind him.

Tyn, let me get back to you, Rondal said, and broke the connection.

Chapter Five

The Cat Of Shadows

“After the defeat of the Sea Lords at sea and on land by the Magocracy, the Imperial Consul took the title Count of Falas and established his seat at Falas, beneath the glorious Falls of Falas.  To people the fertile but largely empty fields and groves that had not interested the maritime Sea Lords, the Magocracy began sending immigrants and craftsmen, adventurers and prospectors from the cities of Merwyn and Vore to settle.  These folk soon adopted the title Coastlords, to separate themselves from the Sea Lords of the havens, and began farming the coastlands in vast plantations.

“Of course many magi were included in the settlement of the region, and assisted in the thoughtful development of that land.  Their manor halls and massive farms produced an amazing abundance, and as the Coastlords fought the monopoly on shipping the Sea Lords imposed by establishing their own havens up-river from the Bay.  In this struggle the Counts of Falas were instrumental, quietly directing the establishment of a strategic fiefdom here, or paying for the fortification of that manor, there.  While careful not to challenge the domination of the Sea Lords until their strength was built, The Coastlords, as tools of the Magocracy, cleverly undermined the economy of the Sea Lords through sheer competence and production.

“When the two nobilities clashed, as happened frequently during this period, increasingly it was the Sea Lords who lost the conflict.  This was helped by the incredible intelligence available to the Counts of Falas, who employed warmagi and clandestine arcane agents to further their own power behind the face of impartiality.  The incremental reduction of Sea Lord power in Alshar saw the Counts of Falas as the dominant force in Alshar by the time of the Conquest, quietly ruling through the coastal nobility while the Sea Lords continued their maritime enterprises.

“Among the many allies in this struggle were the clever magi who quietly infiltrated the Sea Lords’ keeps, subverted their allies, sabotaged their ships and machines of war, and clandestinely tipped the balance of power under the very noses of the Lords of the Sea.  Though the swords of the Coastlords kept the Sea Lords from dominating, it was the employment of these operatives that frequently determined the outcome of a contest before it even began.”

The Hidden History Of The Coastlords

Lord Avorritus of Falas

While Tyndal would have whirled around, blade in his hand, and challenged whoever it was who interrupted his thieving.  Rondal had another approach.

“How good?” he asked, trying to appear undisturbed by the completely unexpected interruption.

“Almost good enough to be worth the trouble,” the voice said, as Rondal turned to face it, his hands clear of his belt.  “But if you don’t mind leaving that obscenely ugly chalice for me, I’d count it as a boon.  Unless you’re here for it . . . in which case, we may have a problem.”

Rondal saw a young man around his own age emerge from the shadows like he was born among them.  He was a little taller than Rondal, and his features were decidedly narrower, including his shoulders.  Yet he was far more slender than Tyndal, and moved with the grace of a cat waking from a nap.

The most striking thing about his appearance was his eyes, which were two violet pools under his pitch-black shock of hair.  Rondal had never seen eyes like that before, and they seemed to float apart from the young man’s face.

Apart from those distinctive features, the man was dressed more or less like Rondal - in black, from head to toe.  But where Rondal’s outfit merely discouraged notice, the stranger’s seemed to drink in the light and conspire to make him a shadow himself.

Rondal surveyed the young man thoughtfully, then reached into the cabinet and picked up the bronze chalice.

“And if I am here for this . . . unfortunate piece of ecclesiastic art?” he asked, curiously.

The young man sighed.  “Then we would have a problem.  Likely one that would end in an unfortunate evening for one or both of us.  And that would be a pity to kill a man over something as ugly as Glara’s dugs.  Yet it alone is the reason I came all this way - I’m afraid I cannot bear to have made the effort without at least trying to kill you for it,” he explained, sympathetically.

Rondal looked from the man to the chalice.  He tossed it to him, and the thief caught it deftly, without making a sound.  He paused, expectantly, but when Rondal didn’t use the move as a ruse to attack, the youth relaxed and the chalice disappeared under his cloak.

“My thanks, Sir Thief,” he said, with a bow of his head.  “I really prefer not fighting for my loot.”

“My goal is different,” Rondal shrugged.  “The chalice means nothing to me.  Indeed, little of this means much to me,” he admitted.  That seemed to surprise the man.

“Then why go to all the trouble?”

“More of a distraction, than anything else,” Rondal admitted.  “But I’m more interested in this gangster’s superiors, than his treasury.  Who was Hard Skrup’s superior, for instance, and who was above him?”

“Flacet?  His boss is Davius, over in Drakeshaven.  He runs all the crews in this viscounty.”

“Davius,” Rondal nodded, making a mental note of the name.  “Thank you.  You seem quite the gentleman, for a thief,” he added, respectfully.

“Well, one meets all sorts in this line of work,” admitted the thief, as he came closer to Rondal . . . not in a threatening manner, but a scholarly one.  “Some are quite professional, others are brutally amateurish.”

“So where would I fit in that professional spectrum?” Rondal asked, suddenly curious.  It was not often one had the opportunity for professional criticism during one’s first heist.

“Honestly?  Quite well.  For an amateur,” he conceded.  “An intelligent amateur who did some decent research.  Your clothes are fashionable enough . . . and I see old Varish sold you a pair of those boots of his.”

“What’s wrong with the boots?” Rondal asked, looking down at them.  He’d thought them quite fetching, and they’d performed admirably.

“What?  Oh, nothing,” the thief dismissed.  “They’ll do the job.  I get mine custom made.  With some refinements.”  He gave Rondal another thoughtful look.  “I am Atopol, the Cat of Shadows,” he added with a bow.  “I think you can guess my profession.”

“Sir Rondal of Sevendor, currently on assignment for the Estasi Order of Knights Magi,” he introduced himself, proudly, returning the bow.

“The Estasi Order?” Atopol asked.  “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it.”

“We’re new,” Rondal said, self-consciously.  “We’re on a mission to rescue . . . someone from the Brotherhood.  While we’re here, I’d thought I’d take a look around the place before I destroy it.”

“Destroy it?” Atopol asked, scandalized.  “A good thief doesn’t burn down a house and dig through the ashes for coins!”

“I’m not a terribly good thief,” Rondal pointed out.  “Indeed, we are on a rescue and revenge mission, not mere procurement.  As such, destroying the place after looting it is well within bounds.”

Atopol looked troubled, as he partially sat on the table.  “That presents an entirely different problem,” he sighed.  “You see, this job is technically my journeyman piece,” he explained.  “I’ve been detailed to take this stupid cup and return it, obeying all of the rules, in order to prove my competence.  Not just as a thief.”

“What are you, other than a thief?” Rondal asked, suddenly wary.

Atopol’s face turned into an expressionless mask, and made a half-turn to his right.  And disappeared.

“Shadowmagic!” Rondal guessed at once.

“Well done, Sir Rondal,” Atopol said, “I wouldn’t have revealed that, if you hadn’t been an arcane colleague.”

“Well, that explains why you were able to sneak up on me. And why we can work undisturbed - I spellbound the door to the stairs.  The Rats are all below, contending with nine angry river drakes I smuggled inside wine barrels as a distraction.”

“Bloody thankful I didn’t come in through the cellar, like I’d originally planned,” Atopol said, his eyes wide.  “Brilliant idea, that.  A bit theatrical, but . . . brilliant.”

“But I don’t see the problem - you’ve achieved your goal admirably, Lord Atopol,” Rondal pointed out.   “For I had no idea that you came in, and if you need to claim you defeated me for your prize, I would find no shame in that.”

“That is very generous of you, Sir Rondal.  But if I leave a fire in my wake, then my master will count it as a failure.”

“Even if it was through no fault of your own?  And who said anything about fire?”

“My master might mistake the truth for an excuse, without verification,” Atopol explained.  “He is a hard task-master, and chose this quest for its difficulty.”

“Yet have you not countered the difficulty handily by befriending a potential foe, claiming your prize and retreating without bloodshed?”

“Would you be willing to swear an oath to such, on your honor as a knight of . . .”

“The Estasi Order,” Rondal supplied.  “And yes, Lord Atopol, I would be happy to swear such an oath . . . once my mission is complete.”

“Well, was there something specific you were looking for?  I’m passingly familiar with Flacet the Fence’s operation, in my research on this heist.  I might be able to help.”

Rondal considered the offer, and how much information to invest in a man who so readily identified himself as thief and shadowmage, in the middle of a heist.  “I seek any evidence that the Brotherhood of the Rat has become allied with the gurvani, in the north.”

“That seems like an odd sort of thing to investigate,” Atopol observed.

“It’s a favor for the Duke of Alshar,” Rondal decided to tell him.

“There is no Duke of Alshar,” Atopol said, flatly.  For the first time he looked wary.

“His Grace, Duke Anguin II of Alshar, took possession of Vorone and claimed the Wilderlands as his direct legacy at Yule,” Rondal informed him.  “He rules there now, independent of Rard or Castal.”

“That . . . is unexpected news,” Atopol frowned.  “We heard—”

The young thief’s explanation was interrupted by a section of the floor bursting open, as someone below forced open a trapdoor Rondal was not aware of.  From the startled expression on Atopol’s face, neither was the shadowmage.

Before the great door even crashed completely open, two men rushed into the room from below.  Each was bloodied.  The white-knuckled fists that clutched the blades in their hands were ripped and shredded, pouring blood down their wrists . . . but the angry eyes that glared at the two of them were not feeling pain.

“Did you know about—?” Rondal asked.

“No, do you think we can—?” replied Atopol.

“It would be an honor,” Rondal agreed, and drew his blade.  He expected Atopol to do likewise.

Instead the shadowmage took a step to the right, and faded from view . . . but not before his arm flicked, and both of the Rats clutched their stomachs.

“Oh, lovely,” Rondal said to himself as he advanced, alone, pulling his blade into guard position.  Atopol was nowhere to be seen.

The two Rats were injured, as the smears of blood across their tunics revealed, but they were far from out of the fight.  They advanced with determination, their shorter, thinner blades held low.  One had a boat hook in his left hand, Rondal noted.

But he was not merely fencing, here, he was fighting for his life.  And he wasn’t wielding the Coastlord’s sword he’d purchased earlier, he’d brought his new mageblade on the mission.

This was the first time he’d drawn it in earnest against a foe bent on slaying him, and he was uncertain of what to expect . . . but the weapon was surprisingly well-fitted to his style, both as a swordsman and as a warmage.  In battle, Rondal often eschewed artfulness for practicality, much to Tyndal’s dismay.  The purpose of the conflict was to win, and how you won made less difference than ending the contest quickly and decisively.

The blade matched that style, and when Rondal murmured the proper mnemonic, it spat forth a blistering burst of concussive energy, enough to knock both wounded Rats back down the trap door to the first floor.  From the snarls, hisses, and screams, the river drakes had progressed at least that far in their invasion of the warehouse.

“They were seeking shelter, not coming for vengeance,” reasoned Atopol, as he reappeared.  “Nice trick, that,” he said, nodding toward his mageblade.

“So was disappearing like Ishi’s virtue at the first sign of trouble!” Rondal said, sourly.

“I made a calculated move,” Atopol conceded.  “I’m a thief, not a knight.  I distracted both of them long enough so that the powerful warmage could bring his mighty armament into play, and found a position on their flanks to assist from, if needed.  It wasn’t needed.”

“Glad to know you didn’t just run,” snorted Rondal.  “I don’t know how many of them are left down there, but I’m guessing we don’t have much time left.  What were you saying about the ‘good stuff’?”

“The crap in the cupboards is junk Flacet buys from the common-class thieves around here,” Atopol explained, as he led Rondal to the secured cabinet.  “The chalice was once looted from a shrine to the Maiden of the Havens, for example, and it’s been kicking around as a kind of trophy in Enultramar for the last century or so.  It’s got a story, too, but Flacet bought it from someone who stole it from someone my master owed a favor, so . . .”

“Good stuff?” prompted Rondal, as he heard more struggling through the trapdoor.

“Yes!  The stuff in the cabinet is that kind of junk, nothing worth more than a few hundred sandolars.  The important stuff, the stuff Flacet keeps for the Brotherhood, is in a secret compartment with the majority of his funds . . . here,” he said, running his fingers along the bottom of the cabinet until a drawer slid open.  “My master told me about it, but cautioned me not to touch it, lest we rouse their ire,” he said, in a mocking tone.  “As if the Rats could touch the Cats of Enultramar . . .”

“Who?”

“Never mind.  If you’re going to burn the place down anyway, you might as well know about this, and make it worthwhile.  Especially if it’s for—”

“I am not burning it down,” Rondal assured him.  “But I do appreciate the intelligence,” he said, as he opened the drawer lid and saw a number of boxes and pouches, each bearing a tag, as well as a thick folio of parchment.  Rondal picked up one of the heavier-looking pouches and presented it to the thief.  “Are you certain I cannot interest you in the ‘good stuff’, Sir Cat?  You have more than earned it.”

“You are generous, Sir Rondal.  But I must take only what I came for as a condition of my quest.  We are fastidious about such things in our order,” he said, with a mixture of pride and regret.  “Mere wealth is not our goal, but master of our art.”

“You keep saying ‘we’, as if there are more of you than yourself and your master,” Rondal observed.

“And you have been referring to your own efforts in the plural, as well,” Atopol pointed out.

“I just thought it was the fashion, here, in Enultramar,” Rondal dismissed, realizing he’d said more than he’d realized.  He wondered what other details he’d given the astute thief.  And how that might affect his mission.

“I think our meeting was not an accident, Sir Rondal,” Atopol said, thoughtfully.  “But I fear we lack the time to indulge in the kind of candor such a conversation deserves.”

“My thoughts exactly, Sir Cat,” he replied, as he stuffed the folio and as many bags as he could stow in the sack he’d brought for the occasion.  “I have tarried here longer than my plan intended, and events below, alas, are about to become . . . interesting.”

“I take your point,” Atopol said, glancing at the open trap door.  “I look forward to seeing your demonstration.  When you get your charges to a safe place, then meet me at the Shrine of Eight Bells at Pearlhaven, on the south side of the bridge, at midnight, tomorrow.  There we can exchange . . . ideas,” he said, knowingly.

“I look forward to the occasion,” Rondal bowed, tying the sack closed.  He used magic liberally to push the sack through the gable he’d entered by, until it was safely on the roof.  “Now . . . you might want to get off the floor,” the knight mage suggested, drawing a wand.  “Although it might prove entertaining, if not instructive, to watch,” he added, with a grin.

Atopol quickly mounted the roof and turned to look back through the gable.  “Is that a warwand?  A blasting wand?  A bout of flame?” the shadowmage asked, intrigued.  “Professional curiosity,” he explained.

“No,” chuckled Rondal.  “Although, I can see you’re obsessed with fire.  But it is a related enchantment,” he offered.  “If we can just wait for the right moment . . .” he said, getting on his belly and holding the wand through the narrow gable.

Just when Rondal could feel Atopol start to grow impatient, the hatch in the floor burst open with fresh activity.  Three Rats quickly scrambled up the ladder, terror in their eyes and desperation on their faces.  They looked far more the worse for wear than the last time they’d made it to the top floor, and a lot more poorly armed.  In one thug’s case in particular that was literal, as he clutched the stump of his left hand at the wrist.

“Blessed Night, you’ve torn them to shreds!” Atopol said, partially in horror and partially in admiration.

“They are very bad men,” Rondal pronounced, in a voice just above a whisper.  “Who are about to meet a very bad end.”  As soon as the men cleared the trap door, slamming it shut and sliding a crate over it, they made their way toward the office.   Rondal reached the wand down far enough to touch the floor.  Then he uttered the mnemonic to activate the wand.

The stout wooden planks gave a unified shudder . . . and then split apart into a thousand shreds.  The gangsters, the crates, the tables, the bales, the kegs, everything that the heavy floor supported was suddenly standing on a platform of loose kindling.

Gravity ensued.

As the odd and varied collection of cargo, merchandise, furniture, gangsters, and kindling came raining down on the second floor, the unfortunate occupants -- eight river drakes and slightly more than three quarters of a dying Rat -- were just as surprised as the fellows above.  When the two met, the resulting chaos of blood, teeth, tails, arms, legs, and kindling was spectacular.

“That . . . was amazing!” Atopol said, his mouth agape.  “You must tell me what warspell that is!  You must!”

“It’s a simple kindling wand as we use in the Mageland of Sevendor, in the Castali Riverlands,” Rondal explained, proudly.

“That’s amazing!” Atopol, the Cat of Night repeated, eyes wide.

‘Oh, the magi of Sevendor have far surpassed this in enchantment, of late,” Rondal promised.  “Most would not consider it a weapon.  More than a tool . . .”

“But a weapon is merely a tool of conflict,” Atopol nodded in agreement.  “When used by a keen mind,” he added.  “Would you like help with your descent?” he asked, holding out his black gloved hand.  “I think the stairs are due for repair.”

“I can manage, thanks,” Rondal said, kicking the bag of loot and evidence over the edge, and watching it fall to the cobbled street below with a clank and a jingle.  “You might want to get clear of this place,” he advised.  “Do you think you can get someplace with a good vantage point to watch, without being observed?  It might be--”

“Entertaining and instructive? Atopol chuckled.  “I think I can manage.  Farewell, Sir Rondal.  I look forward to our next meeting,” he said, and stepped over the edge of the roof.  He seemed to plummet straight down, but there was no thud of a body or crash of a collision.

“Well, I’m certainly not going to go gawking after him like a rube at a tournament sideshow,” Rondal muttered to himself, as he began his own much slower descent.  “That’s just what he wants me to do, the showoff!”

Rondal reached the ground without incident, though the sounds coming from within the chaotic warehouse were distracting.  Luckily, the crowd that had gathered at the commotion were likewise too distracted to notice Rondal, and his boots touched the cobbles without anyone spotting him . . . or so he thought.  When he brushed himself off he looked up to see the old monk who haunted the market staring at him, drunkenly.

Rondal waved at him, cheerfully, before peering around the corner to ensure no spectators were too close to the building.  The monk was watching, but the way the old geezer was swaying, Rondal doubted he was seeing anything clearly, or be much of a trusted witness once he was sober, despite his ecclesiastic position.

He drew a second wand, similar to the first, one that Tyndal (who had an odd fetish for wands) prepared especially for this type of work.

If functioned on a similar principal as the kindling wand, but instead of merely shredding the toughest, oldest planks into strips no bigger than a thumb, it also converted the stone within its sphere of effect and reduced it instantly to gravel, as if each rock was smashed by a heavy iron hammer.

The field was also much broader than the kindling wand.  When Rondal stretched the sphere of intent with his mind before activating the spell, he was concerned it would not be powerful enough.  But he’d underestimated Tyndal; the wand took direction admirably, and when Rondal was ready to act, the entire warehouse was converted to rubble with a single word.

That’s for the Kasari, he thought to himself as he turned around and hefted the bag of loot on his shoulder.

As he passed by the monk, he dug into his pouch and found a half-ounce of silver he passed to the shocked priest.  “Pray for those poor river drakes, Brother,” Rondal urged, as he headed back to the inn by the most circuitous route he could envision as a massive cloud of dusk filled the evening sky over Solashaven.

Tyndal appeared near midnight with Ruderal and his small, frail-looking mother, Chaterny.  Both former captives looked shaken by their ordeal, and Ruderal clutched a large, hastily-made bundle of their possessions like it was gold and jewels, but they seemed otherwise no worse for wear.

Except they were both tremendously hungry.  The Rats used food to keep their prisoners from getting unruly, Tyndal explained, when he put a huge basket of provisions from the kitchen below on the table.

“I had to pay extra, but I told the innkeeper we were entertaining,” he explained, as the boy and his mother eagerly tore into the food, with Tyndal’s nod.  Then he hastily recalled something, and pulled two earthenware bottles of brandy out of the basket.  “I had to keep up the appearance that we were entertaining,” he explained to Rondal’s skeptical expression.  “Besides, it helps keep the stink of the sewers at bay,” he added, reminding Rondal of his odious journey yet again.

“Fine, you’ve earned it,” Rondal dismissed, putting his foot on the large, sturdy black bag.  “We got what we came for, and who we came for, and escaped without a scratch.”

“It remains to be seen if we escaped without pursuit,” Tyndal pointed out.

“We have a boat to take us upriver at will,” Rondal riposted.  “But we’re going to delay departure for a few days.  I have to meet with a . . . with an informant,” he said, glancing toward Ruderal and Chaterny.

“Why an informant?  The mission is done,” Tyndal said, confused.  “We got the kid, we got the mom, we got the loot.  Let’s go!”

“The mission isn’t done,” reminded Rondal.  “We’ve merely achieved our objective. We still have to get them - and us - back home.”

“That’s the easy part!” Tyndal dismissed.

“Which is precisely when things usually go into the chamberpot,” reminded Rondal.  “Do you recall talking our way out of a bandit attack with nothing but a quick-thinking knight and a cross-dressing goblin?”

Tyndal’s face changed abruptly.  “We swore never to speak of that again!”

“My point is that just when we think things are going smoothly, the gods decide it’s time for us to learn some valuable lesson.”

“Like delaying the mission a few days . . . for an ‘informant’?” Tyndal asked.  “Is she pretty, at least?”

Rondal considered explaining the entire episode with Atopol on the roof, and the clandestine meeting with the shadowmage scheduled the next evening.  It would have required retelling the story of the entire evening, with innumerable questions from his partner.  Increasingly inane questions, he realized, as the level of the brandy in the bottles declined.

“Violet eyes.  To die for,” he said, simply, taking one of the two bottles from Tyndal, whose mouth was agape.  “And that’s all I’m saying,” he said, pulling the cork off the top and taking a long pull of the sweet, spicy liquor.

He deserved it, too, he reasoned.

The next morning Tyndal moved Ruderal and Chaterny to another inn in another town along the bay, under another fictitious name - this time as a Vale family from Inmar, come to the shore on holiday – while Rondal quietly inspected the result of their previous night’s work in Solashaven.

The warehouse was destroyed, with no solid timber remaining.  A pit of rubble and shards of wood filled the crater, and the fetid water of the river and runoff from the sewers washed dead seaweed and river scum around the great mound.  Various spots in the rubble were stained with blood, Rondal noted.  There were also signs that the wreckage had been thoroughly picked through already, he saw.

The rubble attracted plenty of spectators still, and the tangled tale of the mad night included plenty of exaggeration.  No one was certain what happened, but the speculation ranged from the mystic to the irrational.  Rondal enjoyed listening for awhile, and occasionally adding his own details to the story about a woman screaming after her dead son in the rubble after the collapse, purely for the sake of art.  And to plant the seed of the idea that Ruderal was dead.

The Brotherhood may or may not learn who attacked their installation so suddenly and viciously, but it was unlikely they believed Ruderal and his mother had escaped the collapsing building . . . and by the time they suspected it, he would be leagues beyond their reach.

Rondal was feeling very satisfied with the result and was preparing to go on his way when he noticed a few men standing at one corner, overlooking the crater.  The man in the center, in a long sea-green cloak and merchant’s hat, stared intently into the pit, his jaw set angrily.

That man, reasoned Rondal, was an interested party in this enterprise.  From the animated way the others were waving their arms and looking desperate, they were subordinates at a loss for explaining just why a stone and timber warehouse sturdy enough to survive tempest, tyrant, and time itself for well over a century was suddenly now a damp gravel pit.

Rondal was intrigued by their answers, so he found a wineshop he’d become fond of and ordered a cup from the attendant, whose pretty smile was the reason for his fondness, and employed the Long Ears spell to listen to their conversation.

“ . . . it has to be magic, milord,” the smaller of the two men pleaded, reasonably.  “It has to be!  If it was the Eyes, they’d slaughter the lot as a message.  If it were the bloody Fish, they’d burn the place to the ground.  It had to be bloody magic,” he said, bitterly.

“Do you know any magi who could manage this?” the senior Rat said, his eyes narrowed, skeptically.  “This is no seamage or spellmonger’s work, you idiot.”

“The Three Censors, milord?” asked the other, who appeared to be a clerk.

“No,” the older man said.  “The Censors have no business with us.  But someone clearly does,” he said, gesturing at the pit with disgust.  “Do you have any idea just what was stored here?  How much we’ve lost?”

“From what I can figure, milord Flacet, the warehouse had more than eleven thousand ounces—“

“It’s not about the money, you idiots!” Flacet the Fence insisted.  “Not even the loot we were storing!  When Lord Darius hears that we lost that precious brat of his, we will all wake up with a shiv in our ear!  You have no idea how much depends upon him!”

Rondal smiled at the discomfort he’d caused the Brotherhood.  It was small recompense for their crimes, and a mere installment on his revenge for their callous slaying of his friend, Estasia - the girl for whom their order was named.  Avenging her death, and disrupting the Brotherhood, had become his and Tyndal’s un-official goal in life.  Their actions against the Kasari expedition that inspired this rescue were also in need of vengeance.

“What shall we do, Sire?” asked the clerk.  “Do you have orders?”

“Send word to Drakehaven to Lord Darius that our guest is, unfortunately, lost,” he said, darkly.  “Explain the circumstances and let them know that it is clearly an attack. An arcane attack. And request instruction,” he directed.

“What about the assets still down there?” the clerk asked, glancing into the fetid crater.

“Bring in a witch to dowse for them, and sift through every pebble, I don’t care how you do it, but recover as much from it as you can.  After that, we lose it.  Now if this tragedy has taken up enough of my time, let’s get to the tavern and meet our new friends.”

“But milord, if it is a mage, shouldn’t we be looking for him?” asked the small man.

“Idiot!” sneered the Rat.  “This was a professional assault.  Whoever did this is probably on a boat to Farise right now.  And by the time we can send word to our brothers there, he could be anywhere from Merwyn to Unstara.  So no, we do not waste time, coin, and resources looking for a godsdamned wizard who doesn’t want to be caught!  Now let’s go before I push you into the pit to look for yourself,” Flacet snorted with disgust.

Rondal let the Long Ears spell fall, as the men strolled out of range.  He’d learned what he needed to know.  He flirted lightheartedly with the attendant until he finished his glass, and then left the table, the shop, and the town of Solashaven.  It was a sad and depressing place, perhaps, but it did have the least bit of charm.

Chapter Six

The Shrine Of Eight Bells

Several houses of Coastlords dedicated themselves to the effort to establish their supremacy over the Sea Lords, and not the least were the powerful houses of magi both in and outside of the government.  Several noble houses imported from Vore, Merwyn and Cormeer to settle the Coastlands brought their magical traditions with them.  When they were challenged by Sea Lords or fellow Coast Lords for territory or rights, these houses fought back with a ferocity that called to mind the greater Mage Wars of the middle Magocracy.

“But not every Coastlord with magical ability sought to dominate his neighbors with his craft.  Amongst the many magi who came to Alshar during this period, simple spellmongers and Imperial adepts of great note mixed with shadowmagi, warmagi, and seamagi enlisted in the effort to support the Lord of the Fields, as the Counts of Falas began styling themselves at that time, in opposition to the Sea Lords’ Lord of the Waves.

“Among these important houses of magi were Houses Hegedus, Furitus, Salaines, Astutus, Astucial and Arcal, and they were of particular value.  These minor houses of nobility formed an essential network of spies, saboteurs, and assassins that the Count of Falas depended upon to keep the Sea Lords under control and stifle the rising opposition of the self-styled Count of Rhemes, the scion of a wealthy Sea Lord settled inland, who resented the ‘foreign’ influence of the Magocracy on his holdings.

“When called upon, these so-called ‘shadow houses’ left their quiet manors and mansions, donned dark robes and masks of black, and went forth into the night on their master’s missions.  Whatever became of these houses is a mystery, for most records of them were lost after the Narasi conquest.  But for a brief time, while the Sea Lords ruled the waves by day, the Coastlords of these houses ruled the rooftops and shadows by night.”

The Hidden History Of The Coastlords

Lord Avorritus of Falas

What do you mean, you’re in Pearlhaven? Tyndal demanded.  We’re three towns over in the opposite direction!

That’s where my informant wanted to meet, Rondal insisted.  Do you have them in a safe place?

Well, after we left one inn, I didn’t want us to get followed to another.  Too many opportunities for accidents.  So I checked us into an abbey, some sea goddess or something.  It’s nice.  Cheaper than I expected, too.

It’s the off-season, Rondal reasoned.  And there’s a lot of competition.  There must be a dozen shrines and two abbeys in this little town, alone.  It’s a lot nicer than Solashaven, and it’s just over the bridge.  Fountains, and a lot of glass.  It’s pretty.

Interesting place to meet an informant.  Romantic.

Just make sure that they’re safe and happy while I take care of a few things.  And that loot.   I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back.

Be careful, Ron, Tyndal said, seriously.  We’ve accomplished the mission.  Let’s keep it out of the chamberpot.

It’s just a meeting, Rondal promised.  A simple exchange of ideas.  But I’ll be careful.

At least make her buy you dinner first.

Rondal returned to his garb as a visiting Coastlord, complete with the short dueling sword at his hip, but he wore the black cape from the job.  He sauntered around the town watching the sunset and inspecting the fountains, and the exterior of the ornate abbeys.  He stopped to dine on a delicious fish stew with a fresh, crusty bread and some excellent local wine.  All he needed, he sighed to himself, was the right companion to share it with.

None was forthcoming, so he walked the waterfront until the abbey bells sounded vespers and the moon rose full over the bay.

He made certain to scout the approach to the shrine several times, and plot a few contingencies in case things went wrong.  The shrine was situated back from the street, behind a tall wall where only gently sloping roof of the small building protruded.  He realized that’s why his host had chosen the site - it enjoyed several good lines of retreat with excellent cover.

It was dedicated to an obscure Sea Lord deity that not many worshipped any more, and was all but deserted at this time of night.  Only a solitary monk and an older man and his daughter strolled through the decorative gardens surrounding the beautiful stone pergola at the center of the shrine.

It was still a few minutes before midnight, so Rondal lit his pipe under the pergola from one of the lamps of the shrine and enjoyed the brilliant view of the moon over the bay.

“The full moon marks the beginning of the Month of Storms,” the monk croaked as he mounted the steps of the shrine.  “Scripture tells us that all who perish at sea this month will dwell in the Shipwrecker’s halls, in eternal service to her mad whim.”

“That’s a colorful bit of mythology, Lord Atopol,” Rondal said, puffing on his pipe serenely.  The monk straightened, and shimmered.  In a moment the gray habit fell to the ground and the black-clad youth was standing next to him.

“How did you know?” demanded Atopol.  “I thought it was perfect!”

“For anyone else, perhaps,” Rondal admitted.  “But I’m a mage.  Of course I inspected you in magesight.  Your physical disguise was flawless, but if you cannot manage to disguise your arcane shroud as well . . .”

“Darkness!” swore the shadowmage.  “I didn’t think about that . . .”

“Next time you will,” came a deep, masculine voice from the shadows.  The nobleman Rondal witnessed with his daughter appeared from the shadows from behind the shrine with a smoothness that made Atopol’s appearance seem clumsy.  “That was an excellent observation, my lord.  Atopol should have altered his shroud in any case.  Even the mundane can sense something amiss, and such subconscious doubts can lead to detection.”

The man’s face came into the bright moonlight, revealing a powerfully handsome jaw and nose, and neatly-trimmed hair that was as white as Atopol’s was black.  But the lavender eyes were just as vivid, and even more compelling in a face of such bearing.

“I trust there is some good reason for inviting an outsider to this most intimate of occasions, Atopol?” he asked, without judgment.

“There is, Master,” Atopol assured, immediately assuming a formal presentation.  “I invited this gentleman, Sir Rondal of Sevendor, Knight Mage of the Estasi Order, because he has information I feel you need to hear.  And because he, not I, was the cause of the collapse of the Arrunatus warehouse,” he added.

“I’ve never heard of that order,” the older man said, thoughtfully.

“They’re new,” Atopol volunteered.  “But he says that he represents the interests of the rightful Duke of Alshar,” he said, expectantly.

“That is . . . interesting . . .” the man agreed, thoughtfully.

“Actually, I just said I was doing the lad a favor,” Rondal corrected.  “I have no official capacity with His Grace.”

“But you know him?  You’ve met him?” demanded Atopol’s master.

“Indeed, I encamped with His Grace during the Midsummer holidays, just last year,” Rondal said, which was technically true.  “Duke Anguin is a delightful gentleman,” he added.

“So there is a sitting duke.  But still a tool of Castal . . . “

“No more, Master . . . ?”

“Forgive me, Sir Rondal,” the man said, startled.  “I am known, professionally, as Hance, Son of Shadow,” he said with a low and dignified bow.  “You’ll understand if I don’t reveal more than that, on such short acquaintance.”

“Of course, Master Hance,” Rondal said, obligingly.  “But you should know that word has come that as of Yule, His Grace has taken personal possession of the summer capital, Vorone.  Without the expressed consent or even knowledge of His Majesty.”

“There is a duke . . . in Vorone . . .” the man said, his eyes narrowing in thought.  Rondal let him think on the matter.  “That changes much.”

“For a lot of people,” agreed Rondal.  “But I can assure you that His Grace is, indeed, attempting to take power in his own name.”

“If the Castali don’t put a dagger in his back, the rebels who control Enultramar will,” he sighed.  “Poor lad.  Duke Lenguin had such high hopes for his reign.  He’d be heartbroken to see what has come of it.”

“You knew the duke?” Rondal asked, surprised.

“Believe it or not, Sir Rondal, His Grace and I were old friends,” Hance said, with a wistful smile.  “On my own journeyman’s heist, my master instructed me to steal the Silver Scepter of the Sea Lords.  It’s a miniature sea axe, about a foot long, a token of sovereignty among the heirlooms of the Duchy.  One of the crown jewels,” he added, for effect.

“Quite the quest for a journeyman, my lord,” Rondal conceded.

“It was,” agreed Hance.  “Legendary, even.”

From the way Atopol winced, the greatness of the task was frequently referenced in his training.  “But when I entered the vault in the midst of Falas’ deepest treasuries, past innumerable guards, doors, gates, and hounds, I discovered a young man seeking solitude from his rank and responsibilities, and disconsolate over a maid he’d left behind in Vorone.  I should have avoided him entirely, but my heart was moved, and I spoke.

“Even though I was there to steal, he did not call his guards.  Instead we shared a bottle and our stories.  At the end of the discussion we parted friends, and he allowed me to take the scepter.  I later returned it, and we began a clandestine relationship that lasted until he left for Vorone, and never returned.  I’d always hoped he’d reunited with the lass of his youth, but that was romantic nonsense.  His Grace was a devoted husband,” he said, almost regretfully.

“Duke Lenguin . . . had a secret thief as an ally?” Rondal was amazed.  By all accounts Lenguin, the man who’d made him a knight, was a dullish ruler and a generally uninteresting man.

“And shadowmage.  He felt it wise to keep the relationship secret, considering how . . . determined his sister was to subvert his rule.  She always resented his legacy, and secretly desired to be Duchess of Alshar, not Castal.”

“And now she’s queen of both,” Rondal said, with a trace of disgust.  “Yet Anguin is loyal to her, and has pledged fealty to her.  But that does not make him her puppet.”

“Politics,” Hance agreed.  “Which is why my house tries to keep clear of it.  In vain,” he added, sadly.  “When word reached us of Lenguin’s death, and the nobles rebelled against Rard, we were in despair.  But if Lenguin’s son and heir is alive . . . for now . . .”

“Master, if what you’ve told me about Grendine is true, then it’s likely she’ll see his taking Vorone as rebellion,” Atopol said, alarmed.  “Her Family will not allow that slight to stand!”

“That is what I fear as well, my son,” Hance nodded.

“His Grace is not without protection,” Rondal said, tapping out his pipe.  “Or allies.  He enjoys the quiet support of the Arcane Orders of Castalshar, and the friendship of Baron Minalan the Spellmonger.  Currently Lady Pentandra, late Steward of the Orders, has become the Ducal Court Wizard in Vorone, and Count Salgo, who oversaw the defense of Gilmora, has taken a commission as His Grace’s Warlord.  They strive even now to establish a viable state in Vorone.”

“Count Salgo is a Castali lord,” Hance said, suspiciously.

“His Grace appoints his counselors and advisors at his sovereign discretion,” conceded Rondal.  “Lady Pentandra is a Remeran noble.”

“And what is your relation to the Orphan Duke, Sir Rondal?” Hance asked, his suspicions shifting.

“I am a loyal knight mage of Alshar,” Rondal declared, quietly, “and consider myself a friend of His Grace.  I enjoy no official position.”

“But you could, perhaps, deliver a private message to the Orphan Duke?”

“I could and will, out of respect for your association with his father.  That is, if I can gain your assurance that you mean no harm to Anguin, his court, or his goal to re-establish his sovereignty over Alshar,” he added.  “I am, after all, a loyal gentleman of Alshar.”

“As are we,” assured Hance.  “I shall prepare something for His Grace, and if you could ensure it reaches his hands, alone, without the knowledge of anyone - and I mean anyone! - then I would count it as a personal favor.  And House Furtius is an ally worth having a favor with.”

“Uh oh,” Atopol said, rolling his eyes.  “He told you our name.  Now you’ve done it.”

“Apprentice!” Hance said, sharply.  “This is important.  If you can do that, my lord, I think we can both advance our interests.  And His Grace’s, as well.”

“You have my word as a knight of Alshar,” Rondal assured, solemnly.  “But that brings us to the second part of our business tonight, gentlemen: the theft of that unfortunately gaudy cup.  I wish to assure you, Master Hance, that your apprentice did, indeed, successfully infiltrate the warehouse without detection, locate the chalice, bargain with me for it, and then escaped, again without detection.  The subsequent demolishing of the warehouse and the deaths and dismemberment of the Brotherhood within were entirely of my doing.  Atopol had the misfortune of encountering me in the midst of a rescue mission . . . much as it seems to have happened to his master,” he reminded the master thief.

“I appreciate the admission,” Hance nodded.  “And your honor for coming here during an important mission and sparing the time to make this report.  In truth, as adept as my apprentice has proven himself, what happened to that warehouse was far beyond his capabilities.  The river drakes were a nice touch,” he added.

Rondal bowed at the praise.  “The Brotherhood of the Rat has earned the enmity of my order, and had possession of someone we hold dear.  We felt a demonstration was in order.”

“And quite a demonstration it was,” agreed Hance.  “A feat of magic that hasn’t been seen in Enultramar since the Magocracy.  That is when my house first came here, amongst the Coastlords,” he explained.  “But subtle.  Only those familiar with the arcane arts will understand what happened, and even they will be hard-pressed to explain.  I confess some wonder at the act, myself.”

“Irionite,” Rondal answered, eschewing pretense.  “Now that the Censorate is overthrown and the Arcane Orders regulate magic, irionite is far more common.  With that kind of power available, the High Magi of Castalshar are able to freely practice our art.  With irionite, all manner of enchantment is being created,” he informed them, proudly.

“The Three Censors still rule magic in Alshar,” Atopol said, ruefully.  “And they back the rebel counts.”

“They are the last of the old Censorate,” Rondal observed.  “Elsewhere their order is overthrown or transformed.”

“That is more than I wish to discuss, here in the open, where any casual ears may hear . . . shall you bring our intruder forth, Kitten?”

Atopol and Rondal both turned as another figure emerged from the shadows, far shorter than Hance, came out from behind one of the pillars of the pergola.  In its black-covered hand it carried a bright silver sword, slender and graceful, held with unerring firmness . . . at the throat of Tyndal.

“Gentlemen,” Tyndal said, through clenched teeth.  “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

“Who are you?” demanded Atopol, a knife appearing in his fist out of nowhere.

“I caught him skulking around the walls with all the subtlety and grace of a drunken cabaret dancer,” the young, masked apprentice said, scornfully.  “He pretends he was trying to hide.  I think I should cut his throat,” she decided.  “He’s cute enough, but so clumsy that it would be a mercy . . .”

“As appealing as I would find that, sometimes, I must object.  Gentlemen, may I introduce my associate, Sir Tyndal of Sevendor, fellow mage knight of the Estasi Order,” Rondal said, smoothly.

Tyndal, what in nine hells are you doing here? demanded Rondal of his partner, mind-to-mind.

I thought you might need some relief, Tyndal explained, lamely.

Does it look like I’m fighting for my life?

“He . . . is one of yours?” the younger apprentice asked, the sword never wavering.

“Yes,” Rondal admitted, reluctantly.  “Sir Tyndal has many strengths.  Stealth is not among them.”

“I’m more of a cavalry charge kind of knight,” Tyndal agreed, seeming only mildly disturbed at the sword at his throat.  “I was just making certain no ill befell my friend.”

“Kitten,” nodded Hance, and the apprentice sheathed the blade so quickly that it seemed to disappear entirely.  Tyndal looked relieved.  The apprentice looked disgusted, and removed the hood . . . revealing beautiful white hair, spilling to her neck, and shapely lavender eyes.

“Apart from Sir Clumsy, the perimeter is clear, Master,” she reported with an insolent bow.  “How did Atopol do?  Did he pass?”

“That’s none of your concern!” Atopol retorted, angrily.

“Peace!” Hance insisted, impatiently.  “If Sir Rondal vouchsafes the man, he may remain.”

“Hmpf!  I hope he fights better than he sneaks around,” the girl, who Rondal figured at late thirteen, perhaps early fourteen.  “Otherwise, I’m not impressed.”

“I do,” Tyndal assured her with a sneer.  “I’ll be glad to show you, sometime.”

“Bring a couple of friends, make it worthwhile,” Kitten snorted.

“Sir Rondal, I apologize for my insolent apprentice.   She clearly needs more lessons in manners.”

“And Sir Tyndal could merit from such a study as well, so no harm done.  So if Atopol is the Cat of Shadows, I assume his younger sister is . . . the Kitten of Shadows?”

“Gatina, the Kitten of Night,” corrected the girl.  “It’s my apprentice name.  I’ll select something more intriguing once I complete my journeyman heist,” she bragged, surveying Rondal carefully.

“I take it our distinctive eyes gave away our relation,” Hance sighed.

“Lavender eyes are not common, as is white hair.  If your folk came here during the Magocracy, then I can only assume that your distant ancestor was Lady Kiera of Vore?”

“Well done, Sir Rondal!” smiled Hance, impressed.  “Kiera the Thief, she was known, and yes, she is our distant ancestress.  Though she’d retired by the time she and her lover immigrated to Alshar.”

“Who is Kiera?” Tyndal asked.

“A beautiful mage of Vore,” explained Rondal.  “She was the envy of the Archmage’s court, and extraordinarily talented at Thaumaturgy and Photomancy.  But there was a scandal, the details of which are lost to history, and she ended up stealing something from the Archmage before fleeing Vore forever.  She was known for her beautiful snow-white hair . . . and her bright lavender eyes.”

“Not many are familiar with that tale,” Hance nodded, approvingly.  “Fewer still know the full tale, which is a matter of family history.  But Kiera came here to Alshar, and she and her lover, Furtius, started a family here.  As she was being pursued by the agents of the Archmage, and her violet eyes and white hair were distinctive, she disguised herself.  Indeed, our entire family line went into a permanent masquerade.”

“But the eyes and the hair breed true,” Rondal nodded.

“As does the considerable rajira that goes with it,” Hance agreed.  “In House Furtius, for six hundred years, we have remained quietly hidden, practicing our family traditions and maintaining the excellence of our craft.  Our menfolk tend to seek the most adept thieves for their wives, and our women are attracted to magi of considerable talent and subtlety.”

“Between the two, we remain the best shadowmagi in the world,” Atopol said, without bravado.  It was a simple statement of fact.  “I hope to find my equal in stealth and alacrity someday.”

“And I desire a mage of supreme subtlety, powerful intelligence, and considerable power as my husband,” Kitten said, dreamily.  “A man of position, but one whose ambitions are complemented by his wisdom.”  She blinked, suddenly.  “So far, Sir Rondal,” she nearly purred, “you are looking like quite the contender.”

“Gatina!” Atopol gasped.

“Forgive my daughter,” Hance said, sternly.  “She has only recently learned of her full legacy, and she has embraced it with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.”

“Well, Ron doesn’t actually have any prospects at the moment,” Tyndal offered, helpfully.  “And she’s fair enough, though she clearly needs—”

“Is that true, Sir Rondal?” Gatina asked, as her sword reappeared at Tyndal’s throat, without her apparently having to glance at the man to guide it.  “Does such a handsome young knight as yourself actually lack a prospective bride?”

“My lady,” Rondal said, carefully, “while that is true, at present I am dedicated to my mission.  I could not entertain a dalliance until I complete it to my satisfaction.”

“A diplomatic response, Sir Rondal,” Kitten said, her lavender eyes seeming to grow wider.  “And I find your devotion to duty . . . intriguing,” she purred.  “Yet I am not suggesting a mere dalliance.  I propose the consideration of marriage.”

“Gatina!” Hance and Atopol nearly shouted in unison.

“What?” the Kitten of Night asked, innocently.  “The rules say I must seek a husband of profound magical talent and skill.  The crater Sir Rondal left in the middle of Solashaven speaks of such a talent.  He is a lord, a knight of Alshar, even, and not a little handsome,” she decided, biting her lip as she inspected him.  “He clearly has some talent at stealth, as the book recommends, and he is without another bride for consideration – which is good, because I would mislike having to kill an otherwise innocent girl for his hand.  But I might,” she decided, cocking her head.  “I like the way his eyes look at me . . .”

“That’s fear you’re seeing,” Tyndal snorted, pushing the blade away from his throat.  “You’re scaring the hells out of him!”

“Master – Father,” she corrected.  “I think I want him.”

“He is not mine to give, Gatina!” Hance said, warningly.  “Leave the poor man in peace.  He is on a mission of importance.”

“She only wants him because he’s my friend and she wants to ruin that!” accused Atopol.

“Oh, did you want to marry him, then? Gatina accused, her hands saucily on her hips.

“I really don’t think this is what we came here to discuss,” offered Rondal, nervously.

“What, do you find me unattractive?” Gatina asked, whirling to face the mage.  While the slender silver sword was not pointed at him threateningly, the deep lavender of her eyes seemed far more dangerous to Rondal.

“No, not at all!” Rondal blurted.  “You’re . . . you’re . . . pretty!” he said, scrambling for words to describe an irate girl armed with a razor-sharp blade, in front of her obviously deadly father and brother.

Pretty scary, corrected Tyndal, mind-to-mind.

“Then it’s settled,” Gatina said, sheathing her blade someplace that made it invisible.  “Sir Rondal of Sevendor, Knight Mage of Alshar, I name you my intended bridegroom!”

Chapter Seven

Escape Upriver

If the land of Enultramar has the Great Bay as its heart, than the great artery that noble organ can only be the mighty Mandros River.  Named for the ancient Imperial healing god (or the god was named for the river, as some of his principal shrines are to be found along its majestic length) the great littoral highway stretches from north to south over four hundred miles.  It is fully navigable from the mouth of the river on the Great Bay until the great lake at the foot of the falls of Falas, the eventual Ducal capital.  Legend says that a shrine to the god at the falls attracted the divinity to teach and heal nearby for years, and a great medical academy continues here under Ducal charter.

But the river is navigable beyond the falls, as well; when the first of the Counts of Falas ordered a passage cut to the top of the great embankment over which the falls tumbled, the Stairs of Falas – surmounted by a great crane capable of lifting all but the largest ships – became the agency by which the Great Vale to the north was eventually settled.  The rich and fertile meadows and forest there were reached by continuing up the Mandros beyond the falls, where the Narasi settlers established their sprawling estates that provide the bread for our great land.  But the Mandros remains traversable far to the north, beyond the former capital of Roen and to the feet of the Narrows in the north of the Great Vale.  It ties north to south, and ties the mountains to the sea in one long ribbon of splendor.

Duke Enguin the Black,

Letter to the Duke of Vore

“ ‘Come to romantic Enultramar’, you said,” Rondal chided Tyndal as they headed back to the docks of Pearlhaven, where the skiff Tyndal had commissioned to bring him here so speedily was moored.  “’We’ll have a few drinks, see a few sights, kill a few Rats, rescue Ruderal, meet a few girls, and be back home by Briga’s Day’, you said.”

“I think we could still make it back home by then,” Tyndal pointed out.

“Nowhere in your proposed itinerary was me getting engaged!” Rondal fumed.

“Well, in my defense, if I had put it in there, it might have dampened your enthusiasm for the trip,” Tyndal pointed out.

“What the hells happened back there?” Rondal asked, in wonder.  “I was having a perfectly normal conversation with a couple of magical shadowthieves in a deserted shrine at midnight, and then you show up . . . and now I’m supposed to get married?”

“She’s a hell of a girl,” Tyndal pointed out.  “Slender, if you like that sort of thing, but muscular.  The whole hair and eyes are a little creepy, but once she develops a little more, you could be looking at something . . . special,” he said, not elaborating on the term.

“She’s only fourteen!” Rondal protested.  “She just turned fourteen a month ago!”

“And already looking out for her future.  Bright girl you have, there, Ron,” the blonde warmage said, enthusiastically.  “Psychopathic and demanding, but I always thought you’d benefit from a spirited girl.”

“I was just . . . talking,” Rondal said, dazed, as Tyndal helped him on to the skiff.  “And then . . . I’m getting married . . .?”

“It is quite sudden,” agreed Tyndal.  “But then these matters of the heart often are.  I blame the full moon glinting romantically off the bay . . . hard to keep control of yourself, in a situation like that.”

“I can’t . . . this is just . . . what am I going . . . where can I . . .”

“The embarrassing thing is going to be when people ask me what souvenirs I brought back from Enultramar,” he said as he nodded to the boatman to cast off, “and all I have to show for it is a rusty scimitar and an amusing tale of arcane urination.  While you’re showing off your beautiful, young, white-haired, purple-eyed . . . wife.”

“How in nine hells did I get engaged?” Rondal pleaded to the full moon overhead.

“Did you notice how your future father-in-law and brother-in-law didn’t try to dissuade her hardly at all?” Tyndal asked.  “It was like they wanted you in their creepy little family.”

“Ishi’s . . . tits . . . I’m . . . I’m going to be sick . . .” Rondal said, hanging his head between his knees.

“You’re going to be married,” Tyndal said, cheerfully, taking a seat next to his friend.  “That’s so much more permanent than sick!”

“Married . . . I’m . . . I’m too young!” he declared, looking stricken.  “Shit!  She’s too young!  She’s no more than Dara’s age!”

“But far more sophisticated, socially speaking, I’m guessing by the aggressive way she stripped you bare to the bone with her pretty lavender eyes.  She could have eaten you up like a pullet,” he chuckled.

Rondal clenched his eyes shut.  Then opened them.

“Well, they were kind of pretty, weren’t they?”

“Distinctive,” agreed Tyndal.  “She’ll be quite the looker, some day.  If bearing your children doesn’t ruin her,” he added.  “It does, for some women, you know.”

“WILL YOU SHUT UP?” Rondal cried.  “This is not a godsdamn joke!  She’s serious!”

“Oh, she’s deadly serious,” agreed Tyndal, pulling a flask from his belt.  “She knows which end of a sword is the pointy one, too.  That might not bode well for your future domestic relations, but if you keep sparring, you might just win an argument one day,” he consoled, as he handed the spirits to Rondal.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he accused, miserably, as he sucked down the spicy spirits like a drowning man drinks air.

“Do you jest?” Tyndal asked, intently.  “This has to be the single funniest thing that I’ve ever seen in my entire life!”

“What about Ruderal and his mom?”

“They aren’t nearly as funny.  But they’re safe with the Sisters of the Foam, eating through their pantry like river drakes in an orphanage,” he dismissed.  “The cook is a fat little nun who loves the way the boy eats.  They’re fine,” he emphasized.  “I warded the place up tighter than a temple virgin, and I’d know if a Rat got within a mile of them.”

“Why did you leave them in the first place?  Against orders?”

“You never told me not to leave them, if they were safe,” Tyndal said, defensively, as he took the flask.  “I couldn’t very well let you walk into a trap without some reserves ready to rescue you, could I?”

“What trap?” demanded Rondal, angrily.  “I told you I was going to meet an informant!  And you thought I was going on a date!  There wasn’t any trap!”

“And yet here you are, engaged to be married,” Tyndal nodded, pleasantly.  “Clearly you had everything under control.”

“What are we going to do?” Rondal moaned.

“I’m thinking a spring ceremony, something simple, just family and close friends,” Tyndal continued.  “Because this isn’t really a ‘we’ sort of problems, is it?” he pointed out, intently.

“All right, I’m actually asking for your advice, now,” Rondal said, after stewing in silence for a few moments.  “The shadowmagi are clearly strong allies, and they could be a huge asset to Anguin’s ability to take over here, someday.  Not to mention ideal help against the Brotherhood, who are going to be very unhappy after we stole their prized wizardling and wrecked a major depot of theirs.  House Furtius could be key . . . but how do I secure their loyalty and assistance without also marrying their daughter?”

“If you ask me, it sounds like a perfectly reasonable political marriage,” Tyndal pointed out.  “No better way to tie them to our fortunes than by making Kitten your wife.”

“That is not how I would prefer to proceed,” Rondal replied, through clenched teeth.   “Unless absolutely necessary!”

Tyndal seemed to come to the end of his teasing and heaved a sigh.  “Fine.  We can get around this.  You’re right; they could be incredibly powerful allies here where we have none.  They could be instrumental in toppling the Brotherhood.  Pissing them off would be a generally poor idea.”

“You have re-stated the situation admirably,” Rondal said, his head hanging.  “Now what can I do about it?”

“Didn’t you say Atopol and Hance were going to be in touch with us before we left?”

“They’re supposed to,” nodded Rondal.  “He – Hance – has something he wants me to deliver to Duke Anguin, the next time I see him.  He said he’ll make contact with us on our way upriver toward the frontier.”

“Then let me take care of everything,” Tyndal said, soothingly.  “I know what to do.”

“Gods!  Why is it every time you say something like that I expect to wake up in a low-class brothel a hundred leagues away, with a funny taste in my mouth?” accused Rondal.

“Because a life of errantry and adventure is always so much better when you have some idiot standing there, watching you,” Tyndal said, sagely.

The trip up the Mandros River was largely uneventful, until they made port at Atarapus.

The Mandros was the lifesblood of southern Alshar, beyond the Great Bay.  When they’d first arrived in the land, they’d spent three and a half days enjoying the view as they floated serenely down the mighty artery of commerce and transportation.  The Mandros began at the foot of the Narrows, fed by a dozen small mountain streams, and collected more tributaries the further south it travelled.  It was easily navigable, by small boats, as far north as Ridragrian, and by the time the Mandros curled around the beautifully-constructed city of Roen, it had widened and deepened to the point where normal littoral barges could be employed.

Every tributary they passed seemed to be a watery highway into a wealthy barony.  Every town they passed on the shore seemed to dwarf the Riverland cities they’d visited, save Barrowbell or Castabriel.  Vorone was less than half the size of Roen, and by the time they came to the great falls of Falas, where the Mandros spilled majestically over the hundred-foot escarpment that divided the Great Vale in the north from the Coastlands in the south, the ships in port in the expansive ancient capital of Alshar were real ocean-going vessels.

It was a fascinating look at the heart of the land they claimed, but so far removed from the rustic Wilderlands as to make them wonder if there was much in common between Wilderlord, Vale Lord, Sea Lord and Coast lord to make a nation of them.  They learned as well that tiny fiefs clinging to the lower vales of the mountains were claimed by “ridge lords” and the swampy domains of the far southeast and southwest corners of the duchy styled themselves “marsh lords”, but the power in Alshar was, clearly, with the landowners of the grain lands in the north, the fertile plantations of the Coastlords, and in the mighty fleets of the Sea Lords.

Returning up the Mandros a few weeks later was less exciting, from a sightseeing perspective.  Particularly with an angry mob of thugs seeking them.

The barge they’d booked passage on was a moderately-sized affair, no more than twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide.  But the flat-bottomed craft made good speed, being half-empty.  It had cost Tyndal a good quantity of silver to ensure that it stayed that way.  He’d paid a bonus to the bargemaster to leave port early without taking on additional passengers or cargo, and then tipped the four polemen liberally to ensure the made it up the wide, winding river with the greatest of speed.

To give credence to his story that they were a family of well-to-do Great Vale merchants, he’d purchased a small cart and loaded it with far more souvenirs than Rondal thought entirely necessary.  But he’d also procured enough merchandise in the markets along the way to make the story plausible.  Among the loot he’d purchased with the generous donation to the Estasi Order the Brotherhood of the Rat made were several exotic glass bottles of fine Bikavar reds and brandy; spirits from the peaty Coastlands, rum from the Sea Lords’ distilleries, and exotic liquors Rondal had never heard of.

But besides the two big baskets of booze, Tyndal had also laid in some surprisingly useful merchandise: several ounces of blood coral, some yellow knot coral, some Vaterwood. Vaterwood, he explained, (in a tone that told Rondal someone else had recently told him - likely Mistress Rael, the Enchantress of Sevendor, who was an expert in procuring obscure magical components) was a variety of weirwood particularly well suited to certain kinds of wands, mechanical apparatus, and other arcane uses.  Rondal had no idea what some of the items were, but Tyndal seemed pleased with the haul.

Rondal was more concerned with the future of the little family they’d rescued.  The trip upriver was the first time he’d had to get to know mother and son, and he was relieved to find them largely recovered from the months they’d spent in captivity.

“It wasn’t all bad,” Ruderal admitted, after he’d described their cell.  “The worst thing was the food.  All we got was their leftovers,” he said, with the kind of disgust only an adolescent could muster.  “But they did let us out every now and then.  One at a time.  They’d let us walk around the town, sometime, as long as we didn’t talk to anyone.  And they didn’t bother us, much.  A couple of them . . .” he said, trailing off.  “I can see the bad inside them,” he said, quietly.

“There wasn’t much good in them,” Rondal pointed out.  “Did they beat you?”

“The . . . the captain wouldn’t let them,” he said.  “They found other ways to torment us.  I’m glad they’re dead,” he said, in a voice too low for his mother to hear.  “Even the ones who pretended to be nice.  Thank you for doing that.  But . . . why did you come back for me?  For us?”

“Because we said we would,” Rondal explained.  “We made a promise.  We tried to fulfill that promise as soon as we could.”

“You came back for me . . . just because you said you would?”

“When a knight gives his word or makes a promise, he does everything in his power to keep it,” Rondal assured the boy.

“But why?” he asked, concerned.  “Why would you come back for me?  I’m just . . . me!”

“You are far more than you think, Ruderal,” Rondal sighed.  “But even if you were just a regular boy, without your unique abilities, your bravery and cunning would have compelled us to come for you.  You saved us, in the Land of Scars.  We and all of those Kasari would have been killed, if you hadn’t done what you did.”

“Maybe,” the lad said, sulkily.  “But then they made me find . . . that thing,” he said, hoarsely, refusing to look at the wizard.  “It was awful.  I didn’t want to, but . . .”

“You were their prisoner, as was your mother,” Rondal insisted.  “You did what you had to do.  There is no shame in that.”

“But if it wasn’t for me, that thing would still be hidden!”

“So they really did find Korbal’s Tomb,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “I was hoping they would fail.”

“I was too,” Ruderal spat.  “I really tried hard to mislead them, but . . . well, they made it so I had no choice.  And they figured out the spells.”

“How did they do that?” Rondal asked.  “The goblin?”

“Arse-breath?” snorted Ruderal.  “His name was Priv . . . Priviken,” he said, struggling with the strange name.  “No, he was no mage.  When we found the entrance, they sent a message somehow.  A . . . a . . . one of the Fair Folk came a few days later, once they’d dug out to the door of the tomb.  He was awful.  Not fair at all!  He treated me like I was dirt,” he said, angrily.  “But he found the spell that unlocked the door and they let . . . they let it out!”

“Steady, lad,” Rondal said, patting the boy’s shoulder.  “Just tell me what happened.”

“The Fair One went down and opened the door.  They brought out a cask, an awful black cask where it was imprisoned.  It was angry and confused.  The Fair One was pretty happy about it, though.  He said he had a body ready for it already,” he said, shuddering.

“That’s . . . interesting,” Rondal said, trying hard not to let his face betray him.  He needn’t have bothered.  Ruderal saw right through him.

“You’re scared,” Ruderal observed.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, yeah,” the boy agreed, nodding emphatically.  “But that’s not all.  After they brought out the big black cask, they brought out a whole bunch of smaller ones.  A whole bunch,” he emphasized.  “Each one was smaller, but just as angry and confused.”

“There’s more?  More than just Korbal?”

“They brought out a lot of stuff.  They didn’t let me go down, which was fine by me.  That was the last place I wanted to be.  Not all of them came back,” he said, darkly.  “Some who did were . . . changed.  In a bad way.”

Rondal guessed that the lad just didn’t have the vocabulary to describe things any better than that, which was frustrating.  He had to piece together the scene in his mind, filling in the details.

“So what did they do after they brought him up?”

“They shipped him off into the mountains, Fair One, Arse-breath, and most of the Rats.  Except the ones who took me back home.  Well, close to home.”

“Did they mention where they were going?” he asked, fearing the answer.  If they took the cask containing the soul – enneagram – essence – of the legendary Korbal the Demon God of the Mindens to Boval Vale, and gave it to Sheruel, the Dead God of the gurvani . . . that could spell disaster for all of humanity.

What Ruderal revealed was unexpectedly worse.

“There was a fort they were stopping at, to gather their forces, but that wasn’t where they were planning on staying.  They had someplace the goblins gave them.  They called the place . . . Anthatiel?”

The name froze Rondal’s blood, because he’d nearly frozen to death at the place.

Anthatiel was the legendary City of Rainbows, a major fortress and settlement of Alka Alon high in the Mindens.  The city was situated at the headwaters of the Poros river, in the midst of a beautiful lake and surrounded by five magnificent waterfalls that threw a perpetual mist in the air, a mist that refracted spectra across the sky . . . until the Dead God’s dark priests used the power of their master to freeze the entire river, from source to mouth, from surface to bottom, creating a perfect road to the remote and inaccessible citadel.

The road was used by a massive army of goblins, trolls, and assorted beasts, whose dread masters forced-marched them up the frozen river and laid siege to the ancient city.  The frozen lake produced no mist, which provided the rainbows upon which the magical defenses of the great city depended.  Had it not been for the brave intervention of their master, Minalan the Spellmonger, the Alka Alon would have fought and died to the last Alkan.

As it was, hundreds died in the siege, perhaps thousands.  Though Minalan and his magi managed to thaw the lake and the river, drowning most of the great horde, the city was devastated when the dragons - more than one - attacked, forcing the Alkan leader to ruin his city rather than allow it to fall to the foe.

All that seemed in vain, now.  If the goblins allowed Korbal to awaken within the great city, there was no telling what the dread lord of legend would do.  And the presence of the Alka Alon aiding the goblins - and the Brotherhood of the Rat -- was disturbing.  The Alka Alon were supposed to be the allies of humanity against the gurvani.

“That scares you even more,” Ruderal observed, when Rondal lapsed into silent thought.  “Why?”

“The ancient city of Anthatiel was ruined a few years ago in a war,” he explained.  “But there are still things there, powerful things, which could pose danger to us all.”

“Yeah, that’s why they wanted to go there,” he affirmed.  “I didn’t get a very good feeling about it.  Anything that made Arse-Breath happy couldn’t be good.  I was relieved to be sent away, and not be made to go with them.  Some of them wanted me to,” he whispered.  “But they thought I would be more use later, so they told the Rats to keep me safe.”

“Well, now that you truly are safe - or soon will be - what do you want to do?”

The boy stared at him blankly.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you could do anything, anything in the world, what would that be?”

“I dunno.  Eat, maybe?” the boy grinned, shyly.

“That can be arranged.  But if you could make anything happen, live any kind of life, what would that be?”

“Uh, make sure my mom is safe,” he said, earnestly.  “I’m all she has.  I have to watch out for her.”  The boys aid it so resolutely, with such passion, that Rondal was moved.

“That we can manage,” Rondal promised.  “We will find a safe place for you and your mother.  And ensure her security.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“A fair question.  I think it best for her not to leave southern Alshar, because the passage we’ll take is hard, as hard as the Land of Scars.  So we want to put her someplace where the Rats are weakest.”

“Where would that be?”

“In the Great Vale, in a remote domain, under a different name,” Rondal proposed.  “We can give her a believable story, one that will help protect her.  The Vale Lords are much like the Wilderlords, from my home.  Most would find even speaking to a Rat dishonorable.  There is little vice there for them to profit from, and I know a lord there who owes us a boon or three.  We can find a safe place there.”

“That sounds . . . nice,” Ruderal agreed.  “But . . . what can she do?  She can’t fish or mend nets where there’s no sea,” he pointed out, as if it hadn’t occurred to Rondal.  He laughed despite himself.

“She can pay her expenses out of the back pay we collected from the Brotherhood,” Rondal chuckled.  “There is more than enough to pay for her upkeep and maintenance for years.  We can buy her a little cottage, a bit of garden, and hire a servant to look after her.”

“A . . . a servant?” Ruderal asked, as if that was an incredible, unimaginable thing for his poverty-stricken mother.  “She can’t afford that!”

“Oh, but she can,” Rondal grinned.  “I figure the Brotherhood owes her . . . say, half an ounce of silver . . . a day . . . for her service as your nanny while under their care.”

“But she was in that cage for over a year!”

Rondal shrugged.  “I guess that means she’s owed a substantial sum.  More than enough to pay for a servant, a cottage, a garden, and still have plenty of coin to live pleasantly.”

“But what will you tell people?”

“I’ll leave the lying to Tyndal - he excels at it.  But he’ll find an inventive story.  And while there will be plenty of room for you, I have another proposal for you.”

Ruderal looked at him warily.  “What?”

“After we get your mother settled, we’d like to take you back over the wall to Castal, to Sevendor.  To meet the Spellmonger.”

“The great wizard?  You know him?”

“Tyndal and I were his apprentices,” Rondal explained.  “We’ve known him for years.  In battle, in peace, and in his service.  We told him about you and he wants to meet you.”

“Really?” the boy asked, wide-eyed.  “The Spellmonger wants to meet me?”

“Really,” Rondal assured.  “He is very interested in what you can do.  And he wants to see how much magical Talent you might possess, which I believe is a lot.”

“So what if I do?  Can I become a mage?”

“If you have the Talent, and you want to, yes, that can be arranged.  And in becoming a mage you enter a much, much bigger world than you can even suspect.  But you seem to have the intelligence necessary, and you seem to be stable enough . . . if Master Minalan tests you and finds you worthy, I think you can count on a good apprenticeship as a mage, or even an appointment to a magical academy.  Of course, you’ll have to learn how to read,” he added, “and write, and learn a lot of other things.  But once you learn them, then I think you will find the troubles you’ve had with the Brotherhood will seem much smaller.”

“Why?” he asked, simply.  It was a hard question to answer.

“Because being a mage is about power,” Rondal decided.  “Magical power, and, now, mundane power, too.  And compared to the power of the Brotherhood of the Rat, the Arcane Orders have a mountain of it.  Learn magic, gain a witchstone, and you can wield that power . . . and small, evil, petty men like the Brotherhood will stand very little chance against you.”

“That sounds good,” Ruderal decided, in a small voice.  “Will I be able to come back to visit?”

“As often as you like,” assured Rondal.  “Depending, of course, on your new master or class schedule, as the case may be.  But you will be free to visit her, and she you.”

The lad seemed pacified by the idea, and the trauma of his experiences in the warehouse seemed to fall away as he embraced the idea of a new life in a new place.

Rondal envied him his simple perspective and requirements for happiness.  As he tucked him into his pallet on the deck of the barge that night, next to his mother, he watched the boy for nearly an hour while he smoked his pipe, wondering just what was in store for him.  After all, he reasoned, the Brotherhood thought he and his mother dead, now.  They couldn’t possibly be searching for them.

It wasn’t until the barge made the dock at Atarapus the next morning that Rondal realized how mistaken he was.

Chapter Eight

The Rats Of Atarapus

Atarapus was one of the many little fiefs that dotted the river on both sides as you went north from Enultramar, before you came to Falas and the imposing falls.  Originally begun as a Sea Lord settlement for raiding the villagers and farmers on either side of the river, the domain was taken over early in the Magocracy by a Coastlord family who had improved the simple two-story tower there with a far more elaborate and well-constructed fortification.

Now the town served as a transfer point for grain and fruit going downriver and cloth and wine going up.  It wasn’t particularly large, a mere ten thousand people, but Atarapus had several temples, temple schools, and craft guilds with large representations in town.  That was enough, apparently, for a small crew of Rats to subsist upon.

As the barge approached one of the three large docks at the port, something in Rondal’s stomach made him uneasy, and it wasn’t the fish and flatbread for breakfast.  There were at least six men on the docks, milling around and attempting to look busy, but close inspection with magesight revealed them to be pretending.  There were others, back against the dockman’s office, milling around to watch.  One of them caught his attention for a moment, for some reason, but soon slipped away in the crowd.  The thugs closer at hand were the real problem, he realized.

“Ron,” Tyndal called, as Rondal was busy surveying the dock from afar, “trouble.”

“I see them,” Rondal murmured.  “Rats?”

“Can you think of anyone else we’ve pissed off badly enough to chase us?  Besides Gatina the Kitten?”

“In this duchy?  No.  Not at the moment.  Yeah, I think they’re Rats,” he said, his heart sinking.  “How did they know?”

“Maybe they didn’t,” offered Tyndal.

“With six on the dock?  They knew,” Rondal corrected.

“Most have blades,” Tyndal pointed out, quietly.  “I think we’re looking at a real boarding party here, Ron.”

“Go prepare the crew,” Rondal decided.  “And get the boy and his mom to go into the Pilot House.  And stay there.”

When the barge finally came close enough to throw the attendant a guide rope, the riverman quickly tied off the boat and laid a plank over the side to make exiting easier.  He moved with the practiced speed of someone who did it for a living.  The knot tied by the thug he handed the rope to was disgraceful, though, Rondal decided.  No mariner would have owned it.  A Kasari lad would have been ashamed to have tied it.

“Good morning!” called one of the supposed dockmen called.  “How many in your manifest?”

“Don’t you want the name of the boat and the master, first?” asked the bargemaster, curiously.  After Tyndal’s warning, he’d fetched his long knife and had it attached to his belt behind his back.  His hand strayed very close to it, on his belt.

“Uh . . . yes!” decided the fake dockman.  “But the passengers are—”

“I am a passenger,” Tyndal said, suddenly, stepping onto the plank and stopping half-way down.  No one could enter the barge without passing him, Rondal realized, and his friend was not looking particularly charitable right now.  “What business do you have with me?”

“My lord,” the disguised Rat said, scratching his beard, “we have instructions to record the names of all who travel past our fair city.  If I could—”

“And yet you lack a scroll, a parchment, or even a wax board to record them on,” Rondal noted.  “Isn’t that odd?”

“I . . . I will remember the names,” promised the man, starting to get nervous, glancing at his mates.

“Then remember this: I am Lord Armanganturine of Cargwenaginintural, in County Bosquilasteria, in Upper Wenshar.  Got that?”

“My lord, I—“

“Here, let me spell it for you,” Tyndal said, snidely.  “Perhaps you’d like to fetch something to write it down with?”

“If you can, indeed, write,” Rondal said, leaning on one knee he planted on the gunwale near the plank.

“I . . . that is . . . the ledger book is all the way back at the dock station,” he explained, nervously, “and so I don’t want to waste my lords’ time . . .”

“Here,” Rondal said, producing a scrap of parchment from his pouch.  “Go ahead and write it down on this,” he suggested, handing the slip to Tyndal, who passed it to the stammering man.  Five others had congregated behind him while they spoke, their errands suddenly forgotten.  They were distinct from the actual dockmen working, as none of them wore the flat-soled boots of the rivermen.

“But I have no plume,” the man said, sadly, realizing his ruse was crumbling.

“Here’s a stick of charcoal,” Tyndal said, flipping the piece from his own pouch to the man.  “Go ahead and write, and then we’ll check and see if you spelled everything correctly.”

The man went so far as to put charcoal to paper before he realized his bluff was called.  When he didn’t begin writing, even when Tyndal began to spell out his needlessly complicated fictitious name, Rondal prepared for action.  The four polemen lined up behind him, unwilling to allow such ruffians to board their boat.  The bargemaster was still in the pilot house, a short blade hidden and ready to defend the boy and his dame.

“Enough of this,” the Rat said, disgustedly tossing the parchment and charcoal into the river.  “We know you have the boy,” he said, his tone and manner changing from obsequious to angry.  “Turn him over, and no one gets hurt.”

“Conversely,” Rondal said, reasonably enough, “we don’t turn him over, and all of you get hurt.”

“I know which one I’m in favor of,” Tyndal said, menacingly.

“There are but two of you,” the head Rat said.  “And there are six of us.  This is your last opportunity to walk away without bloodshed,” he said, darkly, moving his mantle aside to display the hilt of a long, vicious-looking dagger.

“Why would we want to walk away without bloodshed?” Tyndal demanded.  “We’ve been doing that constantly, on this trip, and frankly I for one am sick of it!” he said, boldly.

“You got a big mouth for a dead man,” the Rat growled, as he drew his blade.  It was almost two feet of sharpened steel, blackened to keep it from reflecting light in the darkness.  His men followed suit, and soon there was a dock full of vicious knife-wielding thugs prepared to board the barge.  The legitimate rivermen on the docks shied away from the conflict, and the few passengers and merchants using the other docks watched with interest from a safe vantage point.

Clearly, the Rats were used to their menacing looks and numbers to get their way.  But Tyndal had been restraining himself for so long under Rondal’s command, the opportunity to stretch his legs, as it were, was too much for him to resist.  With a flash his mageblade was in hand, and Rondal drew his own from behind his back.  While Rondal’s new sword was short, sharp, and fashioned closer to an infantryman’s, Tyndal’s was longer than most mageblades and fashioned nearer to a cavalry sword.  As he stood with his feet planted on the edges of the plank, the great blade seemed to be able to reach any point in front of him.

“Get them!” bellowed the head Rat . . . but his men were suddenly far less interested in the battle, with the big knight mage on the plank, swinging his sword around like he knew how to use it.  The largest of them, armed with a long curved dagger and a capstan, leapt at Tyndal with a horrible growl . . . and then splashed in the river, trailing blood from a hole in his chest.

“Next!” Tyndal cried, beckoning the others to come at him.

“Don’t try to take him one at a time, rush him!” the head Rat urged his men.

Do you want to add something to this argument, or did you just want to watch? Tyndal asked Rondal, mind-to-mind.

If you don’t mind, Rondal replied, smoothly, as he prepared a spell from his mageblade.  I didn’t want to get in your way.

As the river Rats bunched up around the end of the plank to comply, Rondal took the opportunity to unleash a concussive sphere of warmagic amongst them, aiming the spell with his sword tip at their ankles.  Three Rats went flying backwards with the sudden detonation, and the others were staggering.

“That really was gratifying,” Rondal approved, as Tyndal rushed the suddenly-disoriented thugs, his sword swinging in deadly arcs.

Rondal eschewed the plank altogether, and leapt over the gunwales and the river water to land at one corner of the dock, his feet planted firmly and his blade in his right hand.  One of the Rats rushed him, trying to knock him off of his feet while burying a dagger in his guts, but Rondal saw it coming and knew what the man would do before he did.  With a quick step to the left and a twist of his body, the charging gangster fumbled into Rondal’s well-planted hip . . . and his momentum sent him reeling into the river, next to his mortally wounded comrade.

The rest of the fight lasted mere seconds, as three more Rats went down under the swords of the boys.  Tyndal fenced like a master, using his blade to beat back attacks, return them in kind, and slash at their attackers.  Rondal was more precise, alternatively slashing at the sloppy footwork of the Rats one moment and casting spells to confound or confuse them the next.  Within a dozen breaths three of the foe fell under their blades.

They were both turning toward their final opponent, who seemed reluctant to engage and looked ready to flee . . . when he ran afoul of one of the spectators to the brawl.

An elderly monk who Rondal recognized instantly.

As the splash was followed by applause from the small crowd, Tyndal took a bow like a mummer, and Rondal went to meet the wizened old priest who had helped with the last Rat.  But then he saw something that distracted his attention before he met his friend: something his mind had been tugging at him to pursue.

Rondal saw the figure in the crowd he’d noticed earlier and for no reason he could think of, save his intuition, he sprinted toward the cowled man.  When he caught up with him and pushed him into a narrow alley between the office and a warehouse, he was surprised to discover the face underneath was far hairer and uglier than he’d expected.

“A goblin!” he said, surprised.

“Gurvani is the preferred term, my lord,” the goblin said in deeply toned but well-pronounced Narasi.  “The name is Priviken.  Can I assist you with something?” he asked, innocently.

“Why were you here?” he demanded, his blade close to the gurvan’s face.  The goblin bravely ignored it, tossing back his mantle to reveal a lavender doublet and tights under his cloak and hood.

“I was picking up . . . something,” he said, indignantly.  “Merely accepting delivery of a . . . package,” he said, struggling with the right word.  “Forgive me.  Your language is still difficult for me.”

“Who do you serve?” Rondal continued.

“Mostly, myself,” Priviken said in a low voice, looking around before restoring his hood.  “But I take work from others, for a price.  You wish to hire me, my lord?”

“Tell me that you aren’t working for Korbal or Shereul!”

“My lord, my business is my own,” Priviken said, pulling gloves over his hairy black hands.  “It does not concern you, nor do you have any lawful reason for engaging me.  Unless this is an affair of passion,” he smirked.  “Have I done wrong by your sister, perhaps?  Must I find a second for a duel?”

“Kill him, quickly!” Tyndal urged, coming up behind him.

“Why so belligerent, gentleman?” Priviken wheedled, like a courtier.  “What injury have I caused that has inspired such angry words?”

“We were born in Boval Vale,” Tyndal said, darkly.  That, at least, caused a reaction on the gurvan’s face.

“Ah,” he sighed.  “I suppose I can see why you might dislike my species so intently, then.  Very well: slay me, if you must,” he said, holding his arms apart.  “But as I have sponsorship, you may find my death more entangling than you find your vengeance satisfying.”

“He was here to pick up Ruderal,” Rondal said, realizing why the goblin was present at the dock during daylight.  “He was going to buy him from the Rats and take him back to Anthatiel!”

“We call the place Olum Seheri, now,” Priviken said, amused.  “My colleagues have been busy preparing it for Korbal’s return.  It is no longer a City of Rainbows,” he said, pronouncing the term like a curse.

“And you are no longer buying Ruderal,” Tyndal said.  “He is rescued and safe from your plots, now!”

“A pity,” conceded the gurvan with an expressive shrug.  “The boy has remarkable abilities, and he could have been a great asset.  But while disappointing, he has served his purpose already.  Korbal and his fellows have risen,” he said, quietly but with deep satisfaction.  “And he was instrumental in discovering him.”

“Then you will take no further interest in him,” demanded Rondal.  “That is the cost of your life.”

Priviken considered.  “It is a small price for something I value,” he decided.  “You have my word, gentlemen: I shall no longer attempt to gain the pup.”

“Then our business is concluded,” Rondal said, sheathing his blade.  “Master Priviken, I do hope we do not meet again,” he said, warningly.  “Else this bargain may not survive.  I dislike seeing invaders walking freely around my native land!”

“Then you understand how we felt about Boval Vale,” the goblin snapped back.  “Good day, gentlemen,” he said, replacing his cowl.  “And well fought,” he added, over his shoulder before he scurried away down the alley.

“Why in three hells did you not put an end to him?” Tyndal asked, mystified.

“Because he lost what he wanted, I didn’t want any more entanglements with local authorities, and discovering him is a far more important piece of intelligence than slaying him would be.”

“How do you figure?” asked Tyndal, unconvinced.

“We just learned an awful lot about Korbal,” Rondal said, watching the goblin flee.  “And now we have a name and a face to put on the other side.  Slaying him would have kept that from being a potential asset.”

“How is knowing an enemy’s name an asset?” Tyndal asked, even more confused.

“Because now that we know him,” Rondal reasoned, “he may someday be useful to us.  This isn’t the kind of war we can win by merely killing everyone we don’t like.  There are a lot of pieces on the board, and we just met one.  By sparing him, we have a relationship, now.”

“Great,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “We have a relationship with a gurvan, now.”

“Would you prefer that to my sister, Sir Rondal?” came a familiar, if disguised, voice.  A black-robed monk entered the alley, a serene expression on his face.

“Brother Atopol,” he bowed, grinning.  “Thank you for meeting us.  I had not thought you would make it upriver in such a timely manner.”

“The ways of the gods are mysterious,” the monk creaked in a voice that Rondal knew was affected.  “But we have little time.  I have your charges in hand.  They are waiting.  Follow me,” he commanded, and began walking away briskly.  “I took the liberty of arranging transport for you,” Brother Atopol explained to Rondal as they calmly left the scene of dockside carnage behind.

Unlike the lackadaisical attitude the town watches of Enultramar took with such brawls, the Coastlord viscounties were more circumspect, and the City Watch was already moving in to investigate.  “This way,” he urged, choosing another narrow alley to lead them down.  “It leads to a safe place.  We need to be elsewhere when the inspector arrives,” he urged.

“Lead on, good brother,” Rondal assured him, confidently.  When they mounted the stairs from the docks to the seawall, they found a carriage waiting for them, driven by a very plain-looking young woman with a constellation of freckles, straw-like black hair, and buckteeth protruding from her wide lips.

“Kitten,” Rondal murmured, as the monk opened the door and let down the steps.

“Beloved,” the unhandsome girl nodded in return, batting her eyelashes for just a moment.

The old monk young noviate assistant loaded all four of them aboard a cloth-paneled cart with a wooden canopy, bearing an elaborately embroidered device on the sides that Rondal did not recognize: five mage’s stars and a crescent moon above a gently domed tower bearing a circular eye in the center of the dome.  The device was white silk on thick black velvet, and the cart an elaborate and ornate affair.

Ruderal and his mother were loaded inside first, as Tyndal casually inspected the team and the polemen loaded their baggage on the wooden rack in the rear.  Satisfied with the horses, Tyndal mounted the cart, and Rondal followed him within, followed by the monk.  The driver cracked the whip and the cart lurched forward.

Only once everyone was inside and they were underway did brother Atopol relax the smallest amount.

“Our thanks, Brother,” Rondal said, not revealing the man’s youth or identity to Ruderal.  “I take it you have a message for me, then?”

“Several,” agreed the thief disguised as a monk.  “And of such urgency that we nearly flew here to deliver them.  But news of that can wait until we are safely in the abbey.”

“What abbey?” Tyndal asked, casually.

“I was curious about the arms on the carriage - a religious device?” Rondal asked, glancing at Ruderal.  While he trusted Atopol, based on the young man’s actions, Ruderal’s Talent for seeing within someone, directly at their enneagram, was a reliable indicator of someone’s intentions, he’d learned.  You could not lie to the boy very easily.  Thankfully, the lad caught Rondal’s glance, and gave him a small but firm nod.

“The Abbey of Palomar,” Atopol announced, proudly.  “It is one of the oldest structures in Alshar, thought to predate even the Early Magocracy, to the First Times.  It sits high on one of the first great peaks of the Great Vale, twenty miles from here, and that is where we are headed.”

“Not Falas?” asked Rondal, frowning.

“Not unless you want to meet twenty times the number of Rats on the dock, I’m afraid,” Atopol said, shaking his head sadly.  “Just after your barge launched from Enultramar, word went forth that your young lad,” he said, nodding to Ruderal, “was alive and on the run.  A considerable reward was offered in certain disreputable quarters, Very considerable,” he said, gravely.  “And another for the head of the thief who destroyed their warehouse.  That really did get their attention,” Atopol said, surprised.

“The two events together have suggested a conspiracy in their minds,” Rondal agreed.  “That was the intent.”

“And now they are on their guard,” Atopol said, shaking his head.

“Now they know they have a foe, though they have little idea who or from whence the attack came.”

“Oh, they’ve made some astute guesses,” Atopol said, still shaking his head.  Rondal was amazed at how well the youth stayed in character.  “They’ve hired a spellmonger themselves - or likely used one they keep on retainer.  As stealthy as you fellows believe you are, the Spider has ways of finding a man, when he needs to.  And what the Spider knows, the Rats soon learn.”

“I suppose we can discuss the particulars later,” Rondal said, with a hint of warning against revealing too much in front of Ruderal and his mother.  “But if you have received word that we are in danger, than we are in your debt for intervening in such a timely manner.”

“No doubt you would have figured something out,” conceded the monk.  “But I wanted to limit the number of bodies to be disposed of.  Untidy.”

“Tell us more of this famed abbey, Brother, and the order abiding there,” Tyndal said, conversationally.  “I take it their position or renown make it unlikely we will be halted by the authorities?”

“As this is an official conveyance, bearing the proper heraldry, it is unlikely,” chuckled Atopol.  “The Abbey of Palomar was first discovered and occupied by agents of the Imperial Consul, the Count of Falas, as it lay within his lands,” he explained.  “When the Coastlords came to populate the meadows and fields behind Enultramar, the ancient structure was taken as a fortress, at first.  But not for long - despite its imposing figure, it was not designed for defense.”

“So how did it become an abbey?”

“The second Count of Falas deeded the estate of Palomar to the Saganites.  They were - are - a small contemplative order dedicated to the study of the stars . . . at night, of course.  When the shadows are thickest on the ground, and the skies above the clearest.”

Rondal was beginning to understand.   “A very small order, I take it,” he suggested.  “Made up of only a few of the sons and daughters of the nobility - the relatively minor nobility,” he added.

“Sounds like the sort of place that collects a lot of ugly daughters and idiot sons,” Tyndal remarked.

“Just so,” Atopol grinned.  “At least, that’s the image it projects.  An ideal place for study into the deeper subjects of nature and the universe, and really gain an appreciation for all of the night’s activities.  The original Saganites were astronomers, first and foremost, and this installation was apparently theirs in antiquity.  When they learned of its discovery, back in Merwyn, they sent an expedition to recover it.  It was largely their pleading that convinced the Count to grant it to them . . . with certain conditions.”

“Such as?”

“The village below the mountain is within the abbey’s estate, and subject to the abbot,” Atopol related, “the abbey and its holdings are exempt from taxes, tribute, and scutage.  The abbot has rights within the count’s library, which extended to the Ducal libraries when the Narasi took over.  The abbey is forever proof from search or the removal of its relics and scriptures, which are amongst the most ancient in all of Alshar.

“The abbot’s carriage - this is the important part, for us - can traverse the length of the county - and now duchy - without being stopped, as the venerable clerics within may be sleeping, due to their nocturnal activities.  That is quite a handy ecclesiastical right,” he observed.

“The abbey has a duty to assist the Lord of the Waves’ Master of Navigation, the Court Wizard’s request for access to the archives, the Lord of the Field’s request for advice on calendrical matters, or any reasonable request from the court in the order’s obscure, cosmic, and utterly incomprehensible area of expertise - something that has not happened in a very long time.”

“And the members?”

“There is the academic wing,” said Atopol, “a colorful collection of sages happy to bend your ear for all of eternity about the nature of the Cosmos.  They’re the original Saganites.  The subsidiary order, the Nocturns, study other, more practical aspects of the night.  The Saganites are the senior order, reserved for career clerics.  The lower order focuses on . . . education and instruction,” he said, diplomatically, “as well as service.  It is an open lay order, with obscure membership requirements and some truly bizarre initiatory rituals.  So bizarre that very few outside of the legacy candidates are ever accepted.”

“Legacies from small but distinguished noble houses,” nodded Rondal.  “Who I would imagine have no trouble appearing as, say, unfortunate looking daughters and idiot sons.”

“It’s a sad but necessary part of life in Alshar, alas,” Brother Atopol agreed, with mock sorry.  “But convenient for those unfortunates who, for whatever reason, need the solace of a contemplative retreat for a period of time.”

What in nine hells are you two babbling about? Tyndal asked.

He’s taking us to the secret academy of shadowmagic, Rondal explained.  It’s hiding in plain sight at the abbey.  They use it as cover for moving things and people around the Duchy without detection, and use it as a front for hiding assets from taxation.

He said all of that?  Really? Tyndal asked, impressed.  You really are subtle, he praised.

Thanks.  Now pretend to be bored and be wary for attack.  Somehow I don’t think the Brotherhood is in the mood to respect ancient ecclesiastic tradition.

I’m ready, Tyndal assured, yawning, as Atopol explained some basic things about the obscure order.

“The abbot is known as the Nightfather, and the upper clergy as Nightbrothers and Nightsisters.  Amongst the Nocturns, the Duskmother heads the Duskbrothers and Dusksisters.  Those are the times when they are most active.  The Nightbrothers wear black robes, the Duskbrothers’, gray.  The Saganites and their archives are high above the village of Ejecta, where the Nocturns have their many halls and dormitories.”

“Fascinating,” nodded Rondal, impressed, imagining the role in history the secret college of shadowmagic might have played.  “I take it your family are legacies?”

“Founders, patrons, and frequent abbots,” nodded Atopol.  “It has been our honor to serve, study, practice, and prepare for over five centuries.”

“Prepare for what?” Tyndal asked, suddenly.

“Whatever comes next,” Atopol said, philosophically.  “Every night the story of the sky changes, as does everything below.”  He peeked outside the curtains as the rumble of the cart changed in timbre.  “We’re crossing the drawbridge, now.  If we haven’t been assailed by now, it’s unlikely the Brotherhood will discover our stratagem.   You folks should relax, perhaps take a nap.  We have a journey of several hours ahead of us before we come to Palomar, and points beyond.”

The cart rumbled across the dirt track that passed for a road in the coastlands for hours, and arrived long after dark.  Atopol and his sister brought the carriage to a stop outside a tidy little hall decorated with stars and moons over the doors and helped everyone inside.

“You’re safe now,” the monk assured Ruderal and his mother, as he led them to a chamber where a fire was crackling against the damp.  “No one who owes you ill knows where you are, and you are surrounded by brave knights.  Blessings of the Night upon you,” he said, as he closed the door to the chamber.

“Well done, Atopol,” Tyndal said, as he sprawled in front of the fireplace in the front hall.  “While I prefer a barge or a horse to a cart, it was far preferable to fleeing from the scene on foot.”

“What compelled you to intervene in our mission so decisively?” Rondal asked, as he sat at the lone table and got out his pipe.

“My master received a report from within the Brotherhood - yes, our house has informants within their foul brood - that the Spider, himself, had taken charge of the search.”

“They were that irritated about the warehouse?” Tyndal asked, surprised.

“They were that panicked about the disappearance of the boy.  The Rat known as the Spider is their most secretive leader.  He guards the great hidden treasury of the Brotherhood, and seeks to know everything of value that happens in Alshar.  He sits among their highest councils, along with Lord Jenerard, the Rat King, and the others.  But he’s also the one who arranges all of the deals the Brotherhood makes with all outside entities - the Iris, the Calrom, the pirate gangs of the Shattered Coast . . . and the gurvani,” he added, condemningly.

“You have proof of this?” Rondal demanded.  “That is treason!”

“If not proof, then assurance enough to act,” agreed Atopol.  “When we intercepted word of this, we felt obligated to assist on that basis alone.  But when my fath— my master discovered why they wanted the lad, he became convinced that he was important enough to expend an awful lot of resources to see him escape.”

“Your master is a good man,” Tyndal said, raising a flask.

“What now?” Rondal asked.

“That is up to you,” Atopol said, as he quietly transformed from a middle-aged monk into a teenage boy in front of their eyes.  “But the way you used to enter through the Narrows is no longer to be trusted.  The Brotherhood has the smugglers there deep in their pockets.”

“So what, then, back to Enultramar and look for passage to Farise?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.

“Not if you don’t wish.  Believe me, there are many ways through the ridges into the lands beyond.  Not large enough for armies, but certainly accessible to a few quick fellows.”

“If you can provide passage, that would be appreciated,” Rondal said, gratefully.  “From what I learned on our cruise up the river, keeping him out of the hands of the Brotherhood is essential . . . and getting him safely to the Spellmonger might be a boon to us all.”

“What can he do?” Atopol asked.

Rondal glanced at Tyndal, who nodded.  “He can see the internal enneagram of just about anything with self-awareness.  It’s a sportish Talent, but I think he bears a full measure, and could become a great mage, one day.”

“What do you mean, he can see internal enneagrams?” Atopol asked, confused.  “Sorry, but shadowmagic doesn’t use a lot of thaumaturgy.”

“Every self-aware entity can be perceived as an enneagram, with the right knowledge,” Rondal explained, thoughtfully.  “Simple, crude ones can even be constructed through the use of high-level thaumaturgic runes and a whole lot of power . . . but without some force self-directing it, like a living consciousness, the artificial ones soon degrade.

“But what makes Ruderal unique, as far as we can tell, is instead of requiring hours of work and an intent knowledge of thaumaturgy and enneagramatic magic just to perceive them, he can just . . . look.”

“He can look . . . at my enneagram?” Atopol asked, troubled.

“Not only look, but he’s managed enough experience to develop some sophistication with his perceptions.  He can tell when you are being disingenuous or insincere, which is usually a precursor to lying.  So don’t fib to him unless you want him to know about it.”

“What’s more,” Tyndal continued, filling his own pipe, “with that kind of perception, doing advanced enchantment would be a snap.  That has some very impressive potential.”

“Enchantment?” Atopol asked, dismissively.  “No one does enchantment anymore.”

“The High Magi of Castalshar do,” assured Rondal.  “You remember the wand that dismembered the warehouse?  That was a simple one.  With irionite, the only limit is our powers of imagination.”

“And an awful lot of research,” added Tyndal, discouraged.  He was not fond of enchantment, beyond warmagic.

“Some of the things we’re doing in Sevendor weren’t even done in the Magocracy. The entire Magic Fair this year was devoted to Enchantment.  Even that old duffer Dunselen had some interesting things to say,” he admitted.

“Enchantment?  Irionite?  A Magic Fair?  And here we are hiding in the shadows from three old men,” Atopol said, sadly, as he took the flask from Tyndal.  “When news of the Duke and Duchess’ deaths arrived in the south, they came with a wave of refugees.  Among them were three senior members of the Order, who imposed on the Count of Rhemes to support the Bans and reject the proposed Kingdom.  The Three Censors still punish any deviation from the Bans harshly.  Their foul checkered cloaks patrol every barony in the land.  In fact, they’ve had a regular purge of even common spellmongers and adepts.”

“They’re trying to keep you all afraid,” Tyndal observed.  “The fact is, this is about the last place in the Five Duchies that the black and white checkered cloaks hold sway.  In Castalshar, they’re banished.  In Merwyn and Vore, they’ve transformed into the official magical order of the duchies, The Knights of Nablus, and thus wear red and white checks.  Far more stylish.”

“In Alshar, they reign supreme,” Atopol said, darkly.  “They sit in their tower and send their brutal thugs out to keep the magi cowed.  Particularly the old Coastlord families.  The council backs their ugly assaults, as they keep the possibility of Castali influences away from Alshar.”

“Not all of Alshar,” Tyndal reminded.  “Duke Anguin sits in Vorone, now.  The Wilderlands are free of the Three Censors.  Indeed, it is where some of the mightiest High Magi now dwell.”

Atopol shook his head while his sister, still garbed as a noviate, quietly entered the hall.  “It’s as if the rest of the world is passing us by.”

“If you saw what was left of the Wilderlands, you might reconsider,” Tyndal said.  “It has been ravaged.  Most of the Wilderlords have perished in battle or defending the last few strongholds.  The northwest is under the Shadow, with only Tudry standing against it.  Vorone is a vast refugee camp, as the gurvani drove the yeomen of the Wilderlands from their homes.  It’s a mess,” he said, discouraged.

“But that’s where Anguin went!”

“That’s the only bit of Alshar he could claim within reach,” Rondal pointed out.  “And it’s a ducal capital, which supports his claim.  He couldn’t very well--humpf!” he said, as the Kitten of Night fell into his lap unexpectedly.

“It is so enticing when I hear you discuss the great and powerful, Sir Rondal,” she purred, nuzzling his neck.  The sudden attention made Rondal freeze, his hair standing on end.  Gatina was light, warm, soft, and smelled heavenly, despite her drab garb.  Gone were the teeth, hair and freckles and the dull expression of an unfortunate-looking noviate nun.  Rondal became acutely aware of just how feminine the girl was.

“Sweet Darkness, Gat, leave the man alone!” Atopol commanded.

“Oh, leave her be,” Tyndal urged.  “Unfortunately, my lady, Sir Rondal and the other bachelor knights of our order have taken an oath not to marry until the Brotherhood is utterly defeated and the Duke restored to every lost inch of his realm,” he said, apologetically.

That captured the lithe girl’s attention abruptly.  “Really?” she asked, her cat-like violet eyes wide.

“Alas, yes,” Tyndal said, sympathetically.  “Sire Cei, the head of our order, suggested the pledge as proof of our commitment.  Even poor Sir Festaran is denied his beloved,” he said, with a deep sigh.  “It is the sacrifice we chose to make to ensure our success.  We can do no less, as knights magi.”

“That is so . . . so . . . honorable!” Gatina said, looking at Rondal with new respect.  “You would put aside your duty to sire heirs until you see your duty done?  A hundred youths I’ve seen who would trade the simplest quest for an estate, a pension, and a pretty wife.  None have I met who would eschew the comforts of nobility and filial duty to pursue such a magnificently immense task!  Do you realize how very attractive that is?”

“Perhaps you misunderstood, my lady,” Rondal said, uncomfortably.  “I am unable to wed.  Therefore, we have little hope for a future as man and wife.”  He braced himself for the tempest he expected to ensue . . . but instead he found his mouth preoccupied with Gatina’s full, warm, wet lips.

“You merely propose a worthy, monumental goal as a precondition, my love,” she said, dreamily, when she finally broke the unexpected - but not entirely unwelcome, he realized - kiss.  “If all I have to do is assist you with destroying the Brotherhood of the Rat and restoring Anguin to the throne at Falas, then my path is clear: only by demonstrating my own commitment will I prove myself worthy of yours,” she decided.

“Worthy . . . of what?” Rondal asked, uncomfortably aware he had a lap full of eager young woman.

“Of you, Sir Rondal!” she declared.  “I could never ask you to consider a bride who had not at least equaled your efforts, if not your achievements, now could I?”

“Well, no,” Rondal said, confused by her words and even more by the really large, incredibly soulful eyes that were now mere inches away from his.

“Then it is settled,” she sighed, happily, snuggling into his arms.  “We will speak no more of marriage until we stand before Anguin on his throne in Falas!”

Aren’t you glad I fixed that for you? Tyndal asked, hesitantly, as he watched his friend squirm as Gatina curled up in his lap like a happy kitten.

Yes, Rondal replied, stiffly.  I really dodged the arrow that time.

Chapter Nine

Palomar Abbey

When the first Counts of Falas began to order their inland realm and fortify it against the Viscounts along the shore, like the methodical, rational Imperial magi they were, they conducted expeditions and sent out scouts to explore and categorize the coastland shelf.  From the swamps of the east to the great vineyards of the west, the agents of the Counts of Falas brought remarkable reports of the fair land.

For concealed within the wetlands and hills were several structures of ancient build and human manufacture.  Either abandoned or reclaimed by the coastal tribes, many of these ancient buildings were used as the basis for larger fortifications, for their foundations were profoundly strong and their walls incredibly so, for how thin they were.  Others were used as barns or seen as simple curiosities.

But some were employed in near-continual use as communal or tribal dwellings, or as the homes of certain sects of mystics and sages.

The Secret History Of Enultramar

They stayed a day at the quaint little village of Ejecta, a most unusual place.

The mountain upon which the famed abbey stood was unlike any other the two had seen.  Instead of a fairly graceful conic shape, as a mountain should be, the entire thing seemed as if a giant had hurled some massive stone to land here.  The cliff rose above the village for six hundred feet, slightly overhanging the base by goodly amount.

The summit was crowned with the ancient tower, a broad cylinder of stone that rose five stories to a gentle hemisphere cap.  A winding stairwell was cut into the face of the rock of the unusual mountain, and both young knights were eager to make the journey to survey the vale from the vantage point.

The view was gorgeous, with the great green meadows and groves of the Coastlands spread out before them like a gaily colored tapestry.  Behind them, to the north, the beginning of the Great Vale could be glimpsed, with the fields being prepared for spring planting.

“This is spectacular,” Rondal nodded, as they toured the abbey.  Not only was the view from the tower incredible, but the real treasure proved to be inside: shelf after shelf of books and scrolls dating back hundreds of years, on subjects as diverse as agriculture and astronomy.  There was entire section on magic, although it was secured against casual inspection.

“Come back and browse at your leisure,” Atopol assured.  “Some of the canons of the abbey have been real collectors over the years.  In some cases entire collections were brought from Merwyn and Vore during the Conquest.”

“I didn’t think there were this many books in the world,” Tyndal said, shaking his head in wonder.  “I thought the libraries at Inarion were intimidating!”

“I would love to have a chance to delve into this,” Rondal admitted, incredibly tempted to begin devouring the place at once.  “But we have to get Ruderal to safety.”

“He would be safe here,” Atopol proposed.

“We cannot put you in that kind of risk,” Rondal decided, after considering the matter.  “If the Brotherhood is, truly, tracking us so eagerly, then the last place we would want to lead them is to our new allies.”

“They would never survive the encounter,” Atopol assured, darkly.  “We are not assassins, by trade.  But we are not powerless.  Though the abbey was not designed for defense, it is not undefended.”

“It’s not that,” Rondal dismissed.  “We need to keep our new alliance quiet, for now.  Tyndal and I will return, as soon as we deliver the lad and we are able.  When we do, I would prefer that our allies were not suspect, and continued to work undetected.  We can hardly ensure that if we lead our foes right to your door.”

Atopol sighed.  “There is wisdom in that.  But if not here, where will you go?  The mother is not the adventurous sort,” he said, kindly.  “She may not survive the passage across the mountains.”

“I fear that as well,” Rondal agreed.  “We have an . . . agent in the area,” he said, uncertain of how to phrase the relationship.  “If we can impose on the Nightbrothers to borrow their carriage, overland the journey is not too far, no more than two days east of here.  There is someone we can impose upon for help, there.  Someone who owes us a boon.  We intend to collect, and ensure that she is watched over as diligently as a duchess’ virtue.”

“And who is this stalwart you speak of?” Atopol asked, “And where might we find him?”

“At the Coastlord estate of Oirghort,” Tyndal said, chuckling.  “And the gentleman was once known as Sire Gimbal.  The Warbird of West Fleria.”

Oirghort was no ancient fortress; it was a modern estate, all elaborate halls and pristine gardens, built as a country home for Astine, the Duchess of Alshar for three years before she was found hung - an apparent suicide - in the palace at Roen.  Stricken, the Black Duke was deep in mourning when he met the future Duchess Idrina, only sixteen at the time, at Astine’s funeral.  The estate was included in the dowry of the Black Duke’s daughter from his first wife, Duchess Lindis, when she married a count in Castal, and it ended up amongst the prized assets of the current Royal family of Castalshar.

As such, it was the most appropriate residence for the unofficial representative of the King against whom the nobility of Alshar were rebelling.  As unusual as the arrangement was, there was ample feudal precedent.  Many estates were owned by absentee lords, and the feudal system rarely respected national boundaries in such cases.

Rondal was surprised to learn as he spoke to folk along the road during the two-day journey that Lord Gimbal was considered well-respected, despite his Castali origins, and was not suspected of collusion with the Royal government at all, beyond dutifully arranging the transfer of payments from their estates.

“I thought it odd that someone who could so easily be a spy isn’t being watched by the Rebel Council,” Gatina reflected, as Rondal rode next to the girl (in her full ungainly disguise) along the pleasant ride to Oirghort.  She’d taken to referring to the Count of Rhemes, the Sea Lord viscounts, and landed barons who supported the regime as “The Rebel Council” in her discussions, now, a development that Rondal noted with concern.

“No one who met the gentleman would ever mistake him for a spymaster,” Rondal assured her.  “He is belligerent, crude, and as subtle as a battle axe.  A useful idiot, designed to be mistrusted by either side.”

“He doesn’t sound very reliable,” Gatina said, wrinkling her freckled nose.  Rondal could not see how the freckles were false, even from this close range.

“It’s his mistrust that makes him reliable,” Rondal explained.  “I didn’t understand at first, either.  Master Min had to explain it to me.  Sire Gimbal was utterly defeated on the battlefield in Castal, held in disgrace, and faced exile at his brother’s court.  While he did well at the Battle of Cambrian, he had no real future in Castal . . . until Minalan gave him one.  Here,” he said, glancing at the expansive apple orchards that seemed to go on forever, “he is the unofficial representative of a hated foe and presumptive overlord, so he doesn’t dare start trouble.  It wouldn’t take much excuse for the Rebel Council to turn on him in force and confiscate the estates he’s been entrusted with, and he knows it.”  Damn it, now he was doing it!

“So he was too much of an arse for Castal, and so much of an arse that he’ll get slain in Alshar if he misbehaves,” snorted Gatina.

“Or overthrown by peasant rebellion,” Rondal suggested.  “Or killed in his sleep by an irate henchman.  Or poisoned by the maid for improper advances.  The man attracts that kind of attention.”

“And you want to leave Ruderal’s mother in his care?”

“He threatens easily,” Rondal observed.  “And we have some leverage.  Word of his estranged son.”

“A noble and virtuous lord?”

“No, he’s about as sour as his sire,” admitted Rondal.  “But he is kin.  And as far as Sire Gimbal knows, we are still high in the councils of the King, his current employer.”

“So . . . you’re bluffing him?” Atopol asked, impressed.

“Not exactly,” reasoned Rondal.  “We’re more . . . misleading him.  And threatening him.  And scaring him.  And reminding him.”

“Reminding him of what?”

“That he lost his domain, his tiny empire, and the love of his son . . . because of our master.  And that he’s being watched.”

“Is he being watched?” she asked, smirking.  Rondal had to admit, even with the buckteeth of her costume and her plain brown eyes, there was something alluring in Gatina.

But there was also something disturbing.  Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

There was her apparent obsession with him, which he found almost frightening in its intensity.  It wasn’t that girls hadn’t expressed interest in him, before, but having one - of such rare beauty - do so in such an intent manner made him incredibly uncomfortable.  Particularly when she’d breezed past the taller, broader, blonder, handsomer Tyndal as a clumsy buffoon in preference to . . . him.

It wasn’t anything he’d done to purposefully attract her attention.  He was merely completing a mission.  But the girl was almost obsessively interested in him, for no good reason that he could see, and her stated intention to bear his children some day as his lawfully wedded wife . . . scared the crap out of him.

Still, he tried to maintain his composure.  He did not want to hurt her feelings, particularly since she and her family represented a potentially vital alliance.  But he was afraid that Tyndal’s attempt to dissuade her had inadvertently set her on the path of a revolutionary.

Because of him.

What could one obsessive shadowmage thief apprentice possibly do to topple the rebels? he’d asked, when Rondal presented the matter to him earlier in the day.

Have you not seen the intensity in her eyes?  If she dedicated herself to becoming Queen of the Five Duchies, I’d expect her to wear the Crown of Kamaklavan someday.

But she only wants you, Tyndal taunted.  Don’t you feel lucky?

Tyn!  I feel like I’m . . . I’m . . .

The term is ‘desired’, his friend explained.  She desires you.

Tyn, she can’t desire me! Rondal objected.  She just can’t!

Why not?  What’s wrong with you?

Besides being partnered to a perpetual exercise in crisis management? How about the fact that I’m a knight in a time of war?  A couple of wars?

So is Master Min, Tyndal said with a mental shrug.  He’s managed to have a couple of children along the way.  And a wife - our friend Lady Alya.  He seems pretty happy about it.

He’s ancient, over thirty!  Of course he wants to settle down!

And with this little fib, we’ve arranged it so that you can safely perform your errantry and get yourself gloriously slain long before the conditions of our supposed vow are fulfilled, he pointed out.

That’s the thing . . . you heard Gatina.  She wants to help, to prove herself worthy of me - and I never set any kind of conditions.  How did I get myself into this?

Look, I honestly don’t know, admitted Tyndal.  It just kind of happened, and you’re just kind of there.  But don’t look at it as a problem, Striker.  Look at it as an opportunity.  This girl thinks you’re the gods’ gift to magekind, or something, and wants to have your babies.  She’s clearly delusional.  But someone with that kind of . . . extreme nature is also likely to find fault with you, at some point.  Until then, just relax and enjoy the ride.  You were right: violet eyes to die for.

Tyndal! Rondal moaned into his friend’s mind.  Why are you encouraging this?  She held a sword at your throat!

She snuck up on me as quietly as a whisper and could have slit my throat before I knew it happened, admitted the big knight.  I almost pissed myself.  She handled that blade like she was born with it in her hand.  You have to respect that.  And she is a mage.  A twisty, half-mad, outrageously devious thief of a mage, but still a mage.  You could do worse.

You really . . . like her?

Striker, Tyndal assured him, the moment she jumped into your lap and kissed you and made you nearly piss yourself, she won a place in my heart.

Asshole.

Just spend some time with her, get to know her.  Find out what she likes, what kind of person she is, what her favorite flower is.  Flirt, a little -- Ishi knows you could use the practice.  And she’s quite willing to respond.  Just . . . don’t reject her.  In all seriousness.

Why not? Rondal asked, genuinely curious.

Because women take rejection far worse than we do, he explained.

What do you mean?  We get rejected all the time!

You get rejected all the time.  But I’ve had my share of snubs, he admitted.  Trust me, when you turn your back on a woman who has shown that level of interest in you, you tear at her heart.

So?

So I think this Kitten is not a girl whose heart would bear much rending, before her claws came out, Tyndal said, poetically.

I . . . take your point.  But you want me to encourage her?

I want you to get to know her, you clod.  Find out who she is and whether you could, in fact, spend the rest of your life bound to someone who is clearly so disturbed.  Besides, once she really gets to know the real you, she’s bound to realize what a horrific error in judgment she’s making.

Uh . . . thanks, he’d said, only partially sarcastically.  Tyndal did, indeed, have more positive experience with girls, he had to admit.  And he seemed to understand their nuances far better than Rondal.  Nor had he ever purposefully led his friend astray in his advice on affairs of the heart.

So he’d climbed aboard the drover’s seat of the luxurious carriage that afternoon as it rumbled down the dirt track through thousands of fruit trees arranged in beautiful orchards to converse with her.

He could tell at once she enjoyed the attention, though she stayed perfectly in character the entire time.

“Enough about Sire Gimbal,” Rondal eventually said, worried they’d spend the time engrossed in politics.  Tyndal was right, he decided.  If she was interested, he at least deserved to know if he was at all interested in her.  “What can you tell me about your deridingly odd family?” he asked, in a friendly tone.

“Lies, half-truths, and deceptions built into our house over six hundred years,” Gatina said, with a smirk.  “It’s an impressive legacy of fiction, actually.  But what I enjoy is the danger,” she said, shivering involuntarily.  “The doing something no one else can do, going places no one else can go, stealing things everyone else thinks are impossible to steal . . .”

“Why steal, if you don’t need the money?  Honest question,” Rondal explained, anticipating a defensive response.  “I make no moral judgments; one can make a fair case that a knight is merely an ennobled murderer.  I’m just curious.”

“It’s not about the money,” she said, after some thought.  “We have plenty of money.  And estates.  And other enterprises.  Far more than we need to make us comfortable.  But the bulk of those resources are quietly hidden.  Stored against need in our most secret vaults.  By continuing to learn and practice our Art, we ensure it is never truly needed, or if lost, could be replenished as a matter of filial duty,” she said, authoritatively.

“So it’s about the purity of the art,” nodded Rondal.  “That makes an odd kind of sense, actually.  A colleague of my Master, Master Cormoran, is accounted by some the finest magical bladesmith in the Five Duchies . . . yet he sought out the most backward, primitive place in the Duchies to practice his art when he could have made a fortune in one of the capitals.  Because he’s devoted to it, first and foremost.  The same is true with Master Olmeg, a green mage back home in Sevendor,” he reflected.

“You know a lot of different kinds of magi,” Gatina noted, glancing at him frequently as she coaxed the team of black horses along.   “I’ve really only met shadowmagi, a few thaumaturges who were boring as three hells, and a couple of superstitious hedgemagi.  It must be incredibly fulfilling to know so many different kinds.”

“Oh, yes, Sevendor is an authentic Mageland,” he boasted.  “The Spellmonger lives there, within a pure white castle, under a pure white mountain, the entire thing made of snowstone.  A magical mineral, unique in all the world,” he added, knowingly.  “Such a place attracts a great number of magi: enchanters, warmagi, brown magi, green wizards, hedgewitches, spellmongers, resident adepts from Remere . . . Lady Pentandra’s academic specialty was Sex Magic,” he said, immediately regretting it.

“Really?” Gatina said, her brown eyes wide with interest.  “She sounds fascinating!”

“Well, she’s your rightful Court Wizard now, apparently, so I suppose you could request an audience – she’s quite pleasant,” he reflected.  His relationship with the mage was cordial, but Tyndal and Pentandra seemed very close at times.

But he was suddenly very anxious about the idea of the pretty young shadowmage learning anything about Sex Magic.  The way she seemed to obsess about things . . .

“The key to the new order is irionite,” Rondal said, quickly changing the subject.  “When we started using witchstones again, and had nearly unlimited arcane power for the first time in four hundred years, it changed things.  And then when Minalan created snowstone - that reduces magical resistance in its vicinity, really useful stuff - and started inviting magi to Sevendor to study it, things started to get really interesting.”

“I can only imagine,” she said, enchanted.  “It must be incredible to be in the middle of all of that.”

“Oh, Tyndal and I are mostly on the edges of it all,” he said, realizing he was making himself sound more important than he was.  “We’re mostly involved in errantry.  For the Spellmonger, and now the Order.”

“That must be very dangerous,” she purred.  Dear gods, Rondal thought furiously to himself, is there nothing I can say to this girl she can’t turn into a reason why I’m . . . attractive?

“It can be . . .” he admitted, swallowing.  “We’ve had our share of close calls.”

“Goblins?”

“Oh, gods, yes!  And trolls and siege worms and a couple of dragons--”

“Goddess of Night!  Dragons?” she asked, astonished.

“Uh, yes.  But I’ve never actually slain one,” he said, lamely.  “Our junior apprentice, Dara, helped kill one, though.  The head of our order is Sire Cei the Dragonslayer,” he added.

“What an adventurous life you lead, Sir Rondal,” she said, shaking her head in wonder.

“It’s mostly been a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time with the right people,” he decided, when he reviewed his life thus far.  “I could have gotten killed plenty of times.  Luck and the caprices of the gods are the only reason I’m still alive.”

She snorted.  “I’ve known plenty of ‘lucky’ men, and those whom the gods seem to favor against all reason.  None of them have seen a dragon with his own eyes and lived to tell about it.  It takes more than luck and piety to handle an adventurous life.  It takes spirit, honor, and commitment.”

“If you say so, my lady,” he sighed.

“I do!” she assured.  “I’ve read all the secret accounts of my ancestors.  Those who survived the biggest heists and greatest challenges may have been blessed and lucky, but they possessed an adventurous spirit, a sense of honor common thieves would sneer at, and a commitment to their vocations few priests could match.”

“And yet I am no thief, or if I am, not a very good one,” Rondal pointed out.

“It matters not; you are an accomplished mage,” she shrugged.  “Am I mistaken that you have your journeyman papers?”

“Well, yes, I do, but—”

“And did you not say that your mentor was none other than the Spellmonger, the most famous wizard in the land?”

“Yes, but he—”

“He does not,” Gatina pronounced, “according to all I have heard of him, seem the type to allow his apprentices to wander off half-trained and not notice.”

“Oh, gods, no!  He was brutal when it came to our lessons!  More than my first master, even!” Rondal said, horrified at the idea that Master Min was any kind of ‘easy’ master.

“Once we got to Sevendor and he was able to focus on our work, it was one miserable problem after another.  He had me build a bridge - by myself! - while being harassed by a territorial squabble, one time!  When Tyndal was guarding Master Minalan’s intended bride at his home village, the poor haystack was forced to fight off a couple of Censors with nothing but a pitchfork!  He sent us to pick up a— an informant, one time, with our friend and fellow Sir Festaran, and we ended up fleeing from bandits and fighting our way through to an unfriendly castle, which we had to take on Yule’s Eve with just three knights!” he babbled, recounting his exploits.  He only barely noticed how large Gatina’s eyes were getting as he did so.

“That’s not even counting the times he’s led us into impossible battles!   Up the frozen Poros on a makeshift sledge pulled by magical hounds to face a hundred thousand goblins on a frozen lake – and then he unfroze it under our feet!  Into the teeth of the invasion of Gilmora to face a dragon and Cambrian!  Against a band of marauding goblins in the Wilderlands to rescue a Tree Folk refuge with only us, some half-trained militiamen and a couple of Tal Alon!  And we won’t even mention Timberwatch – I was at the top of a rickety old tower watching as he sent a godsdamned fire elemental into the thick of it!  No, my lady,” he said, regaining some composure after his outburst, “I would count my apprenticeship as anything but easy.”

“Well then!” Gatina said, blushing a bit under her freckles.  “It sounds like he has given you a life of adventure already.  So many challenges . . . and you survived every one.  With your honor, commitment and spirit intact,” she said, satisfied.

Rondal realized too late what he’d done - she’d mistaken his genuine complaining for boasting, and decided for herself what it meant.

Rondal was strongly suspecting Ishi had it out for him.

“Gatina,” he said, heaving a sigh.  “I didn’t tell you all that to brag.  I told it to you to demonstrate that while I’m lucky to be alive, chances are that I won’t be much longer.  The life of a knight mage might be . . . adventurous, but it’s also dangerous.  Deadly.  I honestly don’t expect to live much longer, the way things are going,” he said, earnestly.  “If I had half a brain, I’d chuck it all, cuddle up to the first incredibly lovely girl who might consider it, and go find a village somewhere where no one could ever find me!”

“So . . . would I qualify?” she asked, slowly.  For a second, Rondal could see beyond the fake freckles and purposefully ugly wig, and Gatina’s deep purple eyes bore out at him . . . and into his soul.

He didn’t know why he said it.  But his lips conspired with some other bits of his anatomy, totally bypassing his brain.  “I’d be a fool not to drag you away from this carriage this very moment, and proceed with that very plan.”

Something seemed to happen behind those eyes . . . and Rondal saw a young woman go from flirtatious infatuation to falling in love, right before his eyes.

Oh, shit!

“Then you are a fool, Sir Rondal,” she said, suddenly, surveying the road ahead.  “A fool to duty.  An idiot to honor.  A moron to--”

“Uh, could we skip the flattery?” Rondal asked.  “I’m starting to get a big head.  The reason I told you that was because you can’t want to marry me.  I’ll be long dead before Anguin ever sits in Falas.  Or even his descendents.  And destroy the Brotherhood of the Rat?” he snorted, despairingly.  “It’s huge criminal enterprise spanning dozens of cities, with thousands of unknown thugs and killers . . . as hopeless quests go, I picked a couple of bad ones.”

“The greater the heist, the greater the glory,” she said, like a proverb.  “I’m assuming the same goes for chivalric glory?  My love, if we must wait until I am old and wrinkled and you are stooped with age before we say our vows, then I shall count myself a fortunate woman,” she assured.

“You . . . you don’t have to do that!” he said, his eyes wide with terror.

“You are right – I can choose any mage I wish for my husband.  I choose you, and your impossible – well, improbable – quests.  That might change,” she conceded.  “Should you be slain on your adventures, or dishonor yourself, I might have to settle for another.  That would make me . . . well, let us not visit such a depressing prospect,” she sighed.

“But there’s more to it than that, Gatina!” he said, thinking furiously.  “I’m going to be on errantry for the foreseeable future – with occasional bits of hopeless battle.  And there is no telling what fortune and duty will vomit into my lap.  I may have to . . . well, I might have to seduce someone,” he sighed, as ludicrous as the idea sounded coming from his mouth.  He found Tyndal’s spirit infecting his words.  “There’s always some dim maiden or disapproving aunt that needs distraction on these things,” he said, dismissively.  “We operate in many guises – surely you can appreciate that.  Some will require intimacies that a man pledged to a woman would be unable to fulfill,” he said, apologetically.

“Oh, I understand,” she assured him.  “I’ll have to kiss boys myself – it’s a key talent of distraction and evasion,” she said, with a shrug.  “The requirements of the vocation supersede our personal lives – I’m no idiot myself, my lord.”

“Nor did I mistake you for one, my lady,” Rondal said with a sigh.  He didn’t want to admit to himself how much the idea of Gatina kissing some dim-witted guard or corrupt magistrate in the pursuit of a heist bothered him, all of a sudden.  “I just wanted to ensure you were properly informed about the realities of my life.  And impending death.”

“Until you do die, then,” she said, “I will assume that your hand is reserved for mine, when your quests are fulfilled.”

“Even if it takes a lifetime,” he added, warningly.

She smirked, without looking at him - a strangely threatening expression, he noted.  “My lord, while prophecy was never extant in the magi of my house, I daresay that I can foresee your quests ending much more quickly with a secure alliance with House Furtius, the greatest thieves of Alshar.  We need not announce the details of the arrangement – Daddy would not approve, I think – and as a secret, our love becomes that much more precious,” she reasoned.  “Darkness, you may even, if at need, use me as an excuse on your errantry.”

Rondal’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.  “How so?”

“I’d imagine that whilst on your errantry, when confronted with, say, an irate dim-witted maiden, a lord with a sword at your throat, and a priestess, that you may find it worthwhile to have already plighted your troth to a maid in a far-away land,” she suggested, making it sound terribly romantic coming from her pretty lips.  He chuckled at her, despite himself.  She smiled in return.  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  A fair maid, pining away in her tower, while you go about on your errantry?”

“Oh, it’s every young knight’s dream,” he agreed, with mock seriousness.  Then he sighed.  He felt like he was deceiving Gatina, even though he’d done his best to be honest with her.

Except for the gigantic lie about taking a vow.

“Gatina, you are a maiden of rare beauty and rarer intelligence,” he said, a statement of fact, not a conceit of flattery.  “You deserve better than a former common spellmonger from the Wilderlands.”

“I alone am the arbiter of what I find desirable in a husband,” she said, resolutely.  “My house requires I choose a mage of demonstrably impressive power and preferable noble birth – but beyond those qualifications, it grants the lady of the house considerable latitude.  We have traditionally looked for only the finest magi to bring into the family – there have been notable exceptions – and I intend to introduce only the greatest.  It is not a matter of what I ‘deserve’,” she reasoned, “it is a matter of who I can find.”

Rondal shifted uncomfortably.  “And you can find no better than me?”

She snorted.  “The magi of Alshar are a timid, weak-willed lot.  Oh, there are a few interesting fellows amongst my cousins in the cadet houses – we’ve gone there, if no better candidate is available – but now that the Bans are lifted, things have changed.”

“They have – and there are far better magi in the world!” Rondal insisted.

“Will you just shut up and let me love you?” demanded the Kitten of Night suddenly and fiercely.  “Sweet Darkness, you’re the first, best, most handsome young mage who has wandered into Alshar in an age, and I’ll be damned as a thumb-fingered burglar before I’ll let you leave without me pleading my case!”

“Pleading your case?” Rondal asked, shocked.  “What do you mean?”

“I’m not content with merely finding a mage of power,” she explained quietly.  “I want more: a mage of power, full of valor, a mind full of intelligence, and a heart tender enough to sweetly love a maid,” she said.  “Do you have any idea how impossible that is to find, Sir Rondal?”

“I . . . I hadn’t considered it,” admitted Rondal, uncomfortably.

“Well, then please do,” she said, irritated.  “I understand your hesitancy: I’m a weird-looking little girl barely glimpsing womanhood, approaching you from the darkness during a time of need – you really would be an idiot not to take advantage of that – and me,” she added, slyly.

“All of that being said, I also pride myself with being practical,” she continued, looking away.  “When your family specializes in avoiding attention, attracting a lad’s attention can be problematic.  And our creepy obsession with night-time activities and attitudes toward property rights can be off-putting.  So . . . I understand.  I am hardly an ideal bride,” she said, a trace of bitterness in her voice.  “Yet I work with what the gods have given me.  If I can convince someone like you that I could be . . . well . . .” she said, trailing off.

Rondal stared at the girl.  “What do you mean, ‘someone like me’, Gatina?” he asked, warily.

“A hero,” she said, as if it were obvious.

“A . . . hero?”

“A hero, like the stories of old.  Brave, kind, generous, clever, strong . . . handsome,” she added, blushing.  “Not merely a knight, but a knight mage, and one of high repute.  Darkness, even my brother likes you – and the last boy I liked he threatened to throw off a balcony.”

“I can see that,” Rondal nodded, suddenly appreciating a new facet of the relationship.

“Sir Rondal, I want to marry you, some day,” she said, so softly he could barely hear it.  “As a great lady in our palace, a brilliant thief in our cozy lair, or as farm wife on a freehold . . . in any life, you would be a worthy man for a woman.  And an ideal man for me, unless I misread the message of my heart.  I just . . . I just want to prove to you that . . . that I have the potential to be a worthy woman, some day.  To have you hold me in the esteem in which I hold you.”

Rondal did not know what to say to that.

Several miles later, the lad jumped down from the carriage and entered the cabin, where the others were sprawled, mostly asleep or at least dozing as well as they could in the bumpy carriage.

That was quite a long drive you took with yon novice, Sir Striker, Tyndal observed, mind-to-mind.  I can’t imagine that ten miles of apple orchards was that compelling a conversation.  Tyndal was slouched in a corner of the carriage with his hat over his eyes, Ruderal snuggled up against him, asleep.

I’m shocked you didn’t listen in to the whole thing, he replied the same way as he looked out the window at the lines of trees rolling by.

Aw, I wouldn’t do that to you, he replied.  That might joggle your elbow.  What happened?

Well, Rondal returned, philosophically, the good news is that I will likely not be getting married any time soon.

Ouch!  How did she take it?

Surprisingly well.  The bad news is . . . it looks like I’m going to have a secret girlfriend in Alshar, now.

She bought the vow story? he asked, amazed.

It’s not a story, any more, Rondal sighed.  Consider it in full force.  You, me, Fes . . . no one gets married until the Rats are gone and Anguin rules over all of Alshar.

You say that like it’s a bad thing!

Just . . . just promise you won’t get married without telling me, first, Rondal requested, lamely.  And if you do get married, do not tell Gatina.  Oh, and if she finds out you lied to her about the oath?  She’s likely to kill both of us.  So . . . no sudden fits of matrimony, all right?

It is a sacrifice I am more than willing to make for the good of the Order, he agreed, pleased.  So, she accepted your rejection?  You let her down easily?

Uh, in a way, Rondal reasoned.  Let’s just say . . . it’s going to be a very complicated relationship for awhile, he decided.

Striker, they all are, Tyndal said, with uncharacteristic sympathy.  At least she’s cute.  Most of the time.  I don’t know how she even talks with those fake teeth.

Surprising well, Rondal reflected, and with the same precision with which she uses a blade.  Doesn’t even get in the way of kissing, he added, unintentionally.

Well, that’s good to know, Tyndal said, the slightest snort emitting from under his hat.

Chapter Ten

The Lord Of Oirghort

While the great river, from the mouth to the Falls, is clearly the gods’ own garden, the lush and fertile soils of the northeastern Coastlands in the shadow of the escarpment are among some of the most spectacular in the duchy.  With gently rippling hills and a soil ideal for apples, peaches, pears and even some varieties of oranges, the real bounty of this soil must be the tobacco and grapes grown here.  For the leaf of Oirghort is well-known in the finest courts of the land, and the brandy from the region is highly prized when aged and treated with proper care.  No wonder, then, that the Black Duke coveted this beatific little land for his own mistress, and later bride.  No wonder his successors were so quick to include the scandalous halls there in young Grendine’s dowry to Castal.

A Secret History of Enultramar

While it might have been perfectly acceptable for the two errants to ride boldly up to Sire Gimbal’s elaborate hall and present themselves to his castellan, that seemed far too mundane for them.  It was also unlikely to produce the effect Rondal desired.

Instead he chose a surprise appearance - easy enough to manage with a couple of first-class shadowmagi along for the ride.

When Sire Gimbal retired to his chamber to dine, that evening, he dismissed his servants after they laid his table and poured his wine, and he began reading his correspondence by candlelight.

“My congratulations, Sire Gimbal, on learning the scribe’s art,” Rondal said, abruptly, startling the man as he took a chair at the lord’s table.  “I never suspected you had the brains to learn to read.”

“Who are you?” demanded the former Warbird of West Fleria, snatching his sword from beside the table.

“No one you want to draw a blade upon,” Rondal said, contemptuously.  “We’ve met, my lord . . . and we’ve fought against each other, and with each other.  I even destroyed a few of your castles,” he added, casually.

“Well, he helped,” Tyndal disputed as he joined them, seemingly out of nowhere.  “Well met, Sire Gimbal.  We bear greetings from our master, Minalan, Baron of Sevendor.”

“The . . . apprentices,” the man said, letting his sword fall.  “You’re his apprentices.”

“Were,” corrected Rondal.  “We’ve recently passed our exams.  But we still look to our former master, and run the odd errand for him.”

“Which brings us to here, this magnificent palace . . . far grander than you deserve,” Tyndal added.  “I was as surprised as you when Minalan proposed you for this post.  I was convinced you were too untrustworthy to hold it, without seeking to betray your liege.”

“It was a popular sentiment,” recalled Rondal.  “Many shared it.”

“I swear, I have served our king faithfully!” he insisted, sounding hurt at the suspicion.  “I have faithfully executed his warrant and managed his lands with the most careful of oversight!”

“Lord Gimbal,” soothed Rondal, “we are not here to accuse you.  We are here to . . . in a sense . . . test you.”

Gimbal looked back and forth from one knight to the other.  “In what way, my lords?”

“If you are indeed a trustworthy custodian of King Rard’s estates in this rebel land, without raising the ire of the rebels, then we wish to see what other matters might be entrusted to you,” suggested Tyndal.

Sire Gimbal continued to study them, a glint of suspicion in his eyes.  “Why would I wish to help you?” he asked.  “Rard is my liege.  Not Minalan,” he snorted.

“Baron Minalan,” reminded Tyndal.  “A man in the highest councils of the kingdom.  The head of the Arcane Orders.  The baron of a fair bit of former West Fleria . . . and, unless I miss my guess, he’ll have a bit of Sashtalia before long, too.”

“That would be an impressive feat,” snorted Gimbal.  “Sashtalia has a hundred times the lances that Sevendor does.  Even with magic, Minalan would be a fool to invite that.”

“Our Master is no fool,” countered Rondal.  “The alliance between Sevendor and the allies who defeated West Fleria is strong.”

“He’s also subtle,” Tyndal added.  “How will Sashtalia’s castles fare better than West Fleria’s?”

Mentioning his defeat so frequently was taking a toll on the man.

“So Minalan’s fortunes are on the rise, while mine tread water,” Gimbal growled.  “Did you come all this way merely to taunt me?”

“No, my lord,” Rondal said, forcefully, “We come to offer you a chance to prove your value, when we have every reason to despise you for the war you waged on our master.  It is not a decision we’ve arrived at lightly . . . but we thought that you might consider an opportunity to repair your relationship with one of the most powerful men in Castalshar might be welcome to you.”

“Did we err?” Tyndal asked, staring the man down.

Despite their attempts to intimidate, it was clear that Gimbal’s decision was based more on shrewd self-interest than fear.  “What is it you want me to do?”

“Nothing strenuous,” Tyndal assured.  “Your position here means you are, in a way, protected from the politics of the region.”

“As Rard’s man, it would be imprudent of me to take one side or another, nor will the lords under my purview.  Nor can I betray Rard to them, as my wife is hostage and my life forfeit should I fail.  As such, I am considered impartial,” he said, cautiously.  “Why do you find value in this?”

“We do clandestine work in Alshar, from time to time, for various loyal parties,” Tyndal demurred.  “The nature of that work should not be spoken of.  But you are not the only agent of the Kingdom at work here . . . and we would be appreciative of both your assistance and your discretion about our activities.”

Gimbal eyed them even more skeptically.  “You two?  Spies?”

“Agents,” Rondal corrected, softly.  “On missions of extremely sensitive nature.  Our powers and spellcraft make us valuable agents to those in power.”

“More valuable than which idiot lord gets to sit in this magnificent palace and take a tithe of lands he doesn’t own for the privilege,” Tyndal added, menacingly.  “That could be anyone, really.”

“So we’re appealing to both you as a loyal subject and to your naked self-interest, Gimbal,” Rondal said, authoritatively.  “We don’t particularly like you, but we’re willing to trust you.  In small ways, at first, but if the experiment works, it could prove lucrative and advantageous.”

“Alshar will not be in rebellion forever,” Tyndal reminded him.  “At some point, some lord or another is going to want to live in this fine hall.  And while I’m certain that Rard – or whomever is in power at the time – will be eternally grateful for your service, and while I’m even more certain that you’re fleecing this situation for far more than your tithe, you might want to consider your future after your tenure here is done.”

“He’s right,” Rondal agreed, sympathetically.  “It’s always prudent to look to one’s future.  After your time here is done, you might wish to have allies – or even friends.”

“Conversely, having enemies after leaving your protected position, that might be less prudent,” proposed Tyndal.

“So it’s to be threats and promises,” sighed Gimbal.  “Very well.  What do you need?”

“As we said, our requests will be simple, subtle, and designed to avoid attracting attention,” Rondal assured him.  “At the moment, we simply need a decent - and well-protected - place to lodge someone.  A woman.”

“Something suitable for a widow of the minor nobility,” suggested Tyndal.  “This duchy seems loaded with fancy manor houses and quaint holiday cottages.  It’s almost like Gilmora that way.  Surely you have someplace quiet, where a woman can live . . . discreetly . . . with her young son.”

“Young . . . son?” Gimbal asked, his eyebrows shooting up.  Rondal could see the gears turning in the man’s mind like a millwork, grinding away at the logical conclusion.  “Say, someone’s bastard?”

“His parentage should never even be speculated upon,” Tyndal said, harshly.  “Ever.  Nor is his visage to be made, ever.  Indeed, his very existence should be treated as a matter of discretion,” he said, seizing on Gimbal’s idea: that Ruderal and his mother were the bastard and secret lover of some high noble of Castalshar . . . perhaps Rard, himself.  Such matters were frequently the subject of clandestine missions, from what he understood.  Trusted bannermen and loyal clergy were often employed that way.  And Tyndal’s demands all but confirmed the idea in Gimbal’s mind.

It had a certain brilliance.  If Gimbal thought he was protecting someone important - perhaps even the king - from scandal and loss, then he was far more likely to see to the matter the way they wanted him to: with careful attention and utter discretion.

“We understand this is short notice, Sire Gimbal,” Rondal continued, slightly more conciliatory.  “And we don’t expect miracles.  But if you do have anything in mind . . .”

“Actually,” he said, thoughtfully, as he rifled through the parchment, “I have several properties that might serve, but there is one . . . a small hall on an abbey estate, that was recently surrendered when the previous owner died owing the castellan.  Ah!” he said, pulling a scroll from the stack.  “I took the deed only a week ago, and was wondering what to do with the place.  There is no land to speak of - a few rods of garden, a tiny orchard, no more.  But the hall is pleasant enough, from what I understand, and it lies upon an ecclesiastic estate, but a mile from the village.”

“It . . . sounds fair enough,” agreed Rondal, as he took the deed and studied it.  “How much was the castellan owed?”

“Twenty eight silver,” he shrugged.  “Not much, but without heirs, what was the abbey to do?  The castellan had the only claim against it.  And he has many such enterprises.”

Tyndal tossed a heavy pouch on the table, which landed with a distinctive clink.  “That’s thirty ounces of silver . . . and two gold sandolars.  We want to buy the place.  And your protection.  And your discretion.”

“Consider it done,” agreed Gimbal, lacing his fingers together in front of him over the bag.  Rondal had no doubt that the castellan would receive what he was owed, but not much more.  “And I swear, on my honor, that I will speak of this to no one.”

“We take you at your word,” Rondal nodded.  “And while we might only be by, from time to time, we have taken our own measures to ensure their security.”  At a silent cue, Atopol, from a place of concealment did as they had arranged.

A thin, deadly-looking blackened steel knife of exquisite manufacture thudded into the table, piercing several layers of parchment . . . and the pouch of coins.  The shadowmage’s aim was so precise that it sprouted between Sire Gimbal’s wrists.  Neither Tyndal nor Rondal reacted to the dagger.

Gimbal, on the other hand, was quite impressed.

“We have friends in Alshar, Gimbal,” Tyndal said, drawing the blade from the table from in front of the astonished man.  “And our friends are always watching.”

“Always,” agreed Rondal, standing, as he rolled up the deed.  “By the way, as a token of our good faith, I bear news of your son.”

“You do?” Gimbal asked, surprised, and concerned.

“He yet lives, though last we heard as a bandit in the Sashtalian outlands with magemarks still on his face.”

“But he lives?” the man said, sighing in relief.

“He was dabbling in smuggling, but we had to intervene.  Just as well,” Tyndal said, dropping his boots to the floor and standing suddenly.  “Smuggling is one step away from base commerce.  A profession unworthy of a knight of West Fleria.”

“Banditry is really better suited to his temperament, anyway,” agreed Rondal over his shoulder.  “Don’t get up, my lord.  We’ll show ourselves out.”

“Well, that went better than I expected,” Tyndal said, satisfied, as he looked over the deed to the manor hall.  It was only six or seven miles to the east of Oirghort, and Rondal chose to push on through the darkness rather than rest at Sire Gimbal’s home for the night.  “We got a home for you, Ruderal,” he said, handing the deed to the lad.

“I can’t read,” he shrugged, and pushed it to his mother.  Chaterny seemed far more interested in the document – though she could read no better than Ruderal, she studied the map of the property intensely.

“This . . . this is ours, now?”

“Forever,” agreed Rondal, with a smile.  “Not only that, but the place is plenty large enough for a servant or two.  With the ‘back pay’ we’ll leave you with, you could easily spend the rest of your life there in comfort.”

“I . . . I do not know what to say,” the suddenly-prosperous woman said, guiltily.

“You needn’t say anything,” Tyndal assured her.  “Your son saved both of our lives, and the lives of many Kasari, with his bravery.  This is the least we can do to repay him.”

“Once we get you settled in,” Rondal continued, “we’d like to continue to Sevendor with Ruderal, to introduce him to Master Minalan the Spellmonger and get him tested for magical ability.  I don’t know what will happen after that – perhaps nothing – but with the Talent Ruderal has displayed, it would be a gross injustice if he was not properly trained to his ability.”

“I want to be a mage, Mother,” he insisted.  “It’s got to be better than fishing.”

“It smells better, usually,” conceded Tyndal.  “And the hours are certainly better – for most magi,” he added.  “Rondal and I are the hard-working exceptions.”

“Well, one of us, anyway,” Rondal agreed, flashing a look at Tyndal.  “Lord Gimbal should protect your identity as carefully as he protects his commission.  If he doesn’t, or offers you the slightest problems, simply send word to us and we will handle the challenge.”

“We will look in on you, from time to time,” Atopol, still in his monk’s habit, agreed.  “In return, we’d appreciate if you forgot everything you’ve seen and heard over the last few days.”  He looked over at Rondal.  “Once we get them settled, we should be able to make it up the ridge in a few days.  From there, I can arrange for a guide to sneak you back into Castalshar.  My House has many ways to evade artificial boundaries,” he said with a faint smile.  “And there are several ways past the peaks, if you don’t mind the rugged terrain.”

“You have our thanks, and the gratitude of our Order,” Rondal said with a short bow.

“You’ll have the thanks and gratitude of our House, if you can find your way to deliver this to Duke Anguin,” Atopol said, producing a tightly-rolled and heavily sealed letter.  Rondal took it – and could feel at once the spellbinding that sealed it shut.  “It should only open to Anguin,” he advised.  “I have no idea what is in it, but my Master was quite adamant that it be delivered, discreetly, directly to the Duke, himself.”

“You have my word it shall be done,” Rondal assured, sliding the scroll into the bag at his feet.  “I don’t know when next we’ll be in Vorone, but I shall ensure it reaches him at the earliest opportunity.”

“Brother Atopol,” Tyndal said, suddenly, “have you considered a . . . pilgrimage over the ridges, yourself?  I think you might find spending some time in, say, Sevendor would be spiritually instructive.  Why, if you come with us now, you could even visit the Chepstan Fair.  It’s the highlight of the spring season in the Riverlands.  Even if Sendaria is about to be at war.”

“I have considered the idea,” admitted the fake monk.  “I’ve heard marvelous things about the place, and the people that dwell there.  But for the moment, alas, I am caught up in ecclesiastic details.  It will be months before I am in a position to do something like that.”

“When you do, be certain to bring Sister Gatina,” Tyndal insisted.  “I think she’d enjoy the temples and opportunities there.”

Atopol grinned.  “Oh, I could hardly travel all that way without my favorite Sister!” he said, earning a glare from Rondal.

“I expect we’ll be back before then, actually,” Rondal proposed.  “With our rescue of Ruderal successfully concluded, it will fall to us to plan the next stage of our conflict with the Brotherhood.  When we do return, it will be with that purpose in mind,” he warned.

“Nothing would please me more,” Atopol agreed.  “Their rise has been a scourge on Alshar for years, now.  By backing the rebel regime, they’ve managed to expand their influence nearly everywhere, with almost no competition to speak of.  Their tactics are bloody and violent, and the treat life cheaply,” he said, condemningly.

“Collect what information on them as you can,” Tyndal suggested, “and when we return, we can strike at them without it coming back to haunt you or incriminate you.”

“That’s what I intended,” agreed the shadowmage.  “My master has not been happy with the rebel regime since its inception.  He endured it because there was no better option; but now, if Anguin truly rules, and does not merely reign as a puppet . . . well, in my estimation he is eager to see the rebel’s alliance fall, and the proper duke restored.”

“What could a couple of . . . monks do against an organization like the Brotherhood?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.

“More than you can imagine,” assured Atopol.  “In fact, we have done business with them before.  Not that we relished it, nor do we take just any commission, but you’d be surprised what a couple of monks might have learned about their operations.  And how to disrupt them.”  He snorted, good-naturedly.  “They’re nothing but land-bound pirates of the lowest order.”

“A fair point,” Rondal agreed.  “Let’s both give the matter some thought, and prepare some proposals.  Between us we can perhaps find a weakness to exploit.  We’ll need to be away for a few months, dealing with Ruderal and Master Min, but when we return we can put our heads together and figure out the best way to do that . . . if your master is agreeable.”

“I think the only thing that made him hesitate was the lack of a better alternative,” Atopol decided.  “Without assistance from outside of Alshar, and some idea of what might come after, challenging the rebels did not make much sense.  If Duke Anguin can establish himself as a viable leader in his own right, then . . . well, our master is very, very loyal to the Ducal house,” he said.

“That . . . story he told at the shrine?” Tyndal asked, grinning.  Atopol rolled his eyes.

“Sweet Darkness, I’ve heard it at least a thousand times,” he complained.  “His crowning achievement, and the start of his brilliant career.  But it went beyond that.  He helped the . . . gentleman with several little tasks during his reign.  Some of them were apparently deliciously scandalous.  I have no idea what is in that letter, but if I had to guess – and you gentlemen did not hear this from me – it concerns some of those little tasks.”

“Things he could use against the rebels?” Tyndal asked.

“Things he could use against the Royal Family,” countered Atopol.  “I don’t know a lot about those jobs, but I do know that Grendine was the focus, before she was married off to Rard.”

“That is interesting,” Rondal agreed, thoughtfully.  Queen Grendine was famous for her ambitions, her plots, and her schemes.  But her success was proved by the crown she wore, and that aspiration, apparently, had been hers since maidenhood.  “I know she resented him for his sex and his primacy to the throne . . . I hadn’t considered how he might resent her.  But if he found some kind of leverage over her . . .”

“Don’t you think that might be what got him killed?” suggested Tyndal.

“I thought His Grace was lost on the battlefield,” Atopol said, confused.

“He died the night after the battle, actually,” Rondal supplied.  “He was wounded, but it wasn’t thought that the wounds were that serious.  Unfortunately, a blood vessel in his brain erupted, and he passed into the afterlife in his sleep.”

“That is not what we heard,” Atopol insisted.  “The story from the north was that Lenguin was slain due to Rard’s treachery on the field.”

“Well . . . it’s more complicated than that,” sighed Tyndal.  “He did survive the battle.  And he was wounded.  But there are . . . strong suspicions,” he said, choosing his words delicately, “that he may have had some assistance with that.  But I, myself, can attest that there was no treachery on the field.  Indeed, Lenguin almost got himself killed, at one point.  Everyone worked together against the goblins.  It wasn’t until after they were defeated and retreating that the . . . unfortunate events occurred.”

“That’s not what we heard,” Atopol repeated.

“We were there,” Tyndal stated, flatly.  “Lenguin knighted us both at the banquet the night he died.  He was alive, well, and sitting next to Rard, chatting like old friends.  He was bandaged, but then so were most of us.  I can almost guarantee that Rard had nothing to do with his death.”

“That . . . is interesting,” Atopol said, his eyes narrowing.

“We’re not saying that His Grace was not slain,” Rondal said.  “We have no evidence, but I do strongly suspect Grendine – not Rard – was responsible for that.  And likely the death of the Duchess, ostensibly conducted by the Brotherhood.”

“No, they did not have anything to do with that,” Atopol said, shaking his head.  “The first they heard about it was when the news was announced . . . and Lord Jenerard running back here as fast as his horse could bear him.  He’s the Brotherhood’s unofficial representative or liaison to the Rebel Council, now,” he added.  “Unofficially, he protests their innocence.”

“For once they aren’t guilty,” Tyndal agreed, darkly.  “They were framed.  Likely by Grendine.  She has a covey of trained assassins – we’ve met a few,” he added.

“So Lenguin was slain by Grendine, not Rard.  Not that it much matters, but I will be certain to pass this news along to my master,” Atopol said, nodding.  “Once we get these folks settled and you safely over the frontier, I think my master and I are going to have a very long discussion about the politics of Alshar.”

Rondal liked that about Atopol – he wasn’t the sort to spout defiant, vainglorious vows of revenge at the news of his liege’s assassination.  He was the type to decide what to do, figure out how to do it, and then do it in such a way that it achieved his ends precisely.  The shadowmage was subtle, intelligent, thoughtful, and crafty, as well as his talents and training.

The ideal partner inside southern Alshar, in other words, to help bring Anguin into power here.

And, some perverted part of his mind added, a potentially decent brother-in-law.

Part II

The Vengeance of Estasia

Tyndal

Chapter Eleven

The Rat Trap

Rondal and Tyndal enjoyed coming back to Sevendor, especially when they were undeniably victorious.  They arrived from their long journey the day after Yule, and after letting Ruderal gawk at Sevendor Town’s wondrous sights (he was particularly impressed with the permanent water elemental in the millpond), they delivered the lad to their master at the castle.  Then they considered themselves off-duty for a while.

Sevendor did look spectacular these days, they both agreed.  In the months they’d been away there seemed to have been a boom in the number of magi in town - largely thanks to the continued interest and investment in enchantment.  There was also more construction as enchanters and artisans associated with the craft were building new workshops and warehouses.  The High Street was bustling with wizards, craftsmen and merchants of all sort.  The activity was novel to the two, who recalled Sevendor Town as a relatively sleepy place most of the time.

“There is an awful lot of coin flowing through here,” Rondal noted, as they walked past a lovely snowstone fountain that had appeared in the middle of the High Street in their absence.  “Did you see the market?  A third of the booths are magically-oriented.  It’s like the Magic Fair never stopped.”

“In a way it didn’t,” Tyndal observed, looking around studiously.  Their recent travels brought some important differences to his attention.  “It looks like half of the folks who came for the fair wintered here.  Look at Banamor’s shop,” he pointed out.  The large two-story structure had been plain brick and timber when they left.  Now it was well-plastered and painted sky-blue, with yellow trim.  The entire thing sparkled . . . and when Tyndal looked at it with magesight, he could see the old footwizard had enchanted the exterior to repel dust and dirt.  It made the warehouse stand out in a town where wood smoke hung over the place every morning like a gray cloud and coated every surface with soot.

“You remember those great plowing and mowing wands at the Fair?” Rondal reminded.  “They sell them now.  In the market.  Like loaves of bread,” he snorted at the idea.  “They’re expensive, but then so is plowing.”

“Well, the good thing about that,” Tyndal announced, proudly, “was that our profits from selling those wares from Alshar were tidy.  We have a pocket full of silver,” he boasted.  “What shall we do to spend it?”

“We have far more than that,” Rondal chuckled.  “You recall we looted a Brotherhood fence?  Even after expenses we have a tidy treasury.”

“Yes,” dismissed Tyndal, “but this is money we earned, not liberated.”

“I’ve never known one to spend less well than the other,” Rondal observed.  “But we are more flush than normal.  It feels odd.  Do you have an idea of how we can change that?”

“Well, when I was checking us in to the inn, I reflected that we consider Sevendor home,” he reasoned.

“Well, since Boval Vale is no longer considered stylish, we might as well,” agreed Rondal.  “But you realize that Taragwen is not far.  We could easily make our beds there.”

“Do you jest?  Just look at this place!  We’ve been hoofing it across the Riverlands for a month with the hungriest boy in the world.  Let’s enjoy what our Master has built in our absence,” he said, expansively.

“I wouldn’t mind staying for a few days in the same place, for a change,” Rondal admitted.  “It’s just after Yule,” he suggested.  “Still a holiday spirit.  And holiday bargains.”

“And holiday cheer,” Tyndal agreed, pointing out the pot of mulled wine bubbling in front of the Alembic, a wineshop that catered to magi . . . and was owned by Banamor.  The pot had no fire under it; it was enchanted to keep the spiced wine hot, just under boiling.  As custom permitted, Tyndal stopped and dipped an earthenware cup into the wine and drank a toast to the coming year.

Rondal added a penny to the pot, when Tyndal skipped that part of the ritual in favor of moving on to the next free drink, but Tyndal ignored the look he gave him.  Banamor already had enough money, in his opinion, and while the coin was supposed to go to charity, the industry the town was showing even the day after a major holiday demonstrated that one had to be supremely lazy in Sevendor not to have a job.  He was enjoying the cool winter breeze on his face, the burn of wine and cinnamon in his stomach, and the prospect of no real work to contend with.

But that did not mean he was not thinking.  Despite their carefree demeanor, Tyndal was doing what he and Rondal had done every day since they’d crossed the frontier into Castal: deciding what to do next about the Brotherhood.  The two of them debated about it as they visited the various shops of the town, particularly those who sold spirits and wine, switching effortlessly between spoken words and mind-to-mind communication.  They knew they were returning to Enultramar, likely as soon as the snows made travel easier, but what they would do once they got there preoccupied their conversation.

When they encountered a few old friends in the Staff & Sword, a tavern frequented by warmagi and gentlemen adventurers near Mage’s Row, and told them discreetly about their adventures, several of them had suggestions by the time the fourth bottle of wine was opened.

“You have to go after their money,” said Banamor, who’d stopped in to collect some money from someone for something he didn’t want to talk about.  “It’s always about the coin, boys.  You should know that by now.”

“Well, that’s the challenging part,” Rondal said with a sigh.  “We’re talking about a criminal organization that spans several cities, hundreds of hideouts.  Ships, even.  We might have inconvenienced them with our little raid, but as much as we took, it’s a drop in the ocean.”

“Did you not steal their treasury already?” Banamor asked, curious.

“Only of one of their smaller operations,” Rondal replied.  “While it was a generous haul, I doubt it added up to one full day’s worth of profits from their entire operation.  The Brotherhood has a very, very deep purse.”

“Their central treasury is legendary,” Tyndal agreed.  “Some of our associates were telling us of it.  It’s been accumulating in Enultramar for centuries.  Only a few of the highest-placed Rats even know where it is.  There’s some secret crew who is in charge of transportation, but no one inside the organization knows who they are.”

“But wherever it is, it’s some kind of demonic fortress,” Rondal assured, getting animated in his descriptions the way he did when he’d had a few drinks – and he’d had more than a few.  “According to legend the only entrance is barely large enough for one man to enter, and there’s some sort of long tunnel that makes it nearly impossible to take.  It’s protected from scrying, from magical detection, and there are spellwardings and magical traps that have been strengthened and expanded for centuries.  Which is how long they’ve been stashing their profits there.  So . . . robbing the Rats might be fun and profitable, but it’s not going to make them go away.”

“You can still disrupt their incomes,” agreed Gareth, Banamor’s assistant.

Gareth was not a handsome man, particularly, and he’d failed as a warmage, but he was an outstanding wizard in Tyndal’s opinion.  The kind of extremely intelligent mage who picked up a little bit of everything and paid attention to things other people ignored.  Which made Gareth the kind of man you paid attention to when he was speaking thoughtfully and slightly drunk.

“In fact, if you want to really piss them off, that would be the way to do it.  Get in the way of their money coming in.  Make them dip into that treasury of theirs, instead of adding to it,” he assured them, with a belch.

In fact, Sevendor was actually full of opinions a wise wizard paid attention to, and some of the better minds had stopped at their table when it was learned they’d returned.

“That has merit,” Rondal conceded.  “We do have some insight into their schemes, thanks to the books and papers we liberated.  We could figure out a few of their operations and disrupt them easily enough.”

“But that would only anger them, not cripple them,” Olmeg the Green pointed out, exhaling a massive cloud of fragrant smoke from his pipe as he did so.  “Unless you went about it systematically,” he said, thoughtfully.  “Instead of just attacking one or two operations, change the rules of the game so that each of their enterprises suffers.”

Olmeg was by no means a warmage, but the two young knights magi valued his perspectives.  As a green mage, a wizard who specialized in the thaumaturgy of plants and growing things, Olmeg frequently had insights into the larger world that less attentive wizards might have missed.

“That would be difficult to do, without getting involved in politics, lads,” Rael the Enchantress observed.  “And that’s a dicey business, during good times.  In a rebellion, it gets heads removed.”

“Oh, I have a feeling we’re going to get involved in politics,” Rondal chuckled.  “Not that we want to be, but the Brotherhood is being tacitly supported by the rebel regime, we believe.  And if that is true, and the Rats are working with the scrugs . . .”

“Besides,” Tyndal added, “we’re friends with Duke Anguin.  It would be a shame if we went down there to mess up the Brotherhood and didn’t take a swipe at the Count of Rhemes and his cronies.  Destabilizing the rebel council would be an ideal gift for the Orphan Duke.”

“Well, it’s not like he can do more than smile at their misfortune,” grunted Banamor.  “Gods love Pentandra, and I wish her the best, but if Anguin doesn’t wake up with a dagger in his eye with Grendine’s aura on it, it will be because of divine intervention and nothing less.  From what I’ve heard, Rard plans on taking the place under Royal authority.”

“That won’t be easy,” Tyndal chuckled.  “We got a look at Enultramar’s defenses.  The Bay is littered with shipwrecks for a reason.  The trebuchets on the Sea Lords’ towers can reach a devastatingly long way, and they’re all over the place.  They use flaming balls of pitch filled with kerosene, and they can put one into your yacht’s chamberpot anywhere in the Bay.  Every haven has a small fleet of patrol craft they use to enforce their shipping rights, and every one of them has a couple of high-powered ballistae on deck -- steel springs, not sinew.  They can put a four-foot bronze bolt right through your hull if they get close enough.  Or rip up your sails.  Or embed a grappling hook into your decks.”

“It would be tough,” agreed Rondal.  “And that’s just the inner defenses - what you’d face only after you got past the Tower of Waves and the Shoals of Sinbar.”  The ancient wall of reefs and rocks, deadly shallows and treacherous currents, acted as a stout seawall against invaders.  The string of sea forts, with the powerful, ancient Sea Lord Tower holding the defense of the channels, made a sea-borne assault a poor idea.

“He could always knock on the door to the Narrows,” suggested Rael.  “Perhaps bribe the keeper to let his troops past.”

“That would be imprudent, as well,” sighed Rondal.  “The Sea Lords hold the Bay, but the lords of the Great Vale control the keep in the Narrows.  Right now the Count of Rhemes has them convinced that every word from Anguin’s lips started on Rard’s, and that the Castali were behind the deaths of the Ducal family.  They strongly resist the very idea of the Kingdom, and Rhemes has fueled these thoughts with nationalist sentiment and liberal financial support of those who proclaim it most loudly.  And, of course, the Count has ensured that those who are most loyal to the rebels are in charge of the great keep.”

“Yeah, Anguin’ll have to contend with that before he can invade Alshar,” agreed Banamor, with a sigh.  “If that’s what you lads think, then it’s likely Rard’s pissing in the wind about this.  He doesn’t have enough of a fleet to even think about that level of an assault, not if he plans on keeping Farise.  Maybe Tavard’s new brat will, but it takes time to build a fleet.  And a tremendous amount of money,” he added.

“Well, destabilizing the place couldn’t hurt, then,” Rondal reasoned.  “But I mislike the idea of destabilizing the region as a means of helping Rard.  It would be for Anguin’s benefit.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Rael pointed out, reasonably enough.

“No, but who eventually takes southern Alshar is important,” Gareth proclaimed, slurring his words a little.  “If Rard takes it as he intends, you can bet that he isn’t going to restore it to Anguin.  He’ll keep it for the royal house, that is, the Castali.  It’s no secret Grendine covets Enultramar.  If she can get her husband to take it by conquest, then Anguin’s claim to it fades.”

“But if Anguin takes it,” Rondal agreed, “he does so in his own name.  Nothing Rard can do about that,” he sneered.  “And I’d much rather see it in his hands than Rard’s, after he made that . . . treaty.”  No mage who had fought in defense of the Five Duchies was happy about that treaty, and most blamed the Royal House for it.

“So how does that affect your war on the Brotherhood?” Rael asked, curious.  Rael was curious about everything, one of the reasons Tyndal liked her.  “I doubt getting involved in politics is going to do much to discomfort them.  They’re criminals, after all.  They care little who is in power.”

“When those in power are protecting them, and are corruptible enough to permit great injustices, then it's in their interest to care,” Gareth said, shaking his head.  “It’s a matter of simple self-interest.  If anything, a criminal organization prizes self-interest over any mere ideal or loyalty.”

“From what I understand, the Brotherhood are intensely loyal - to each other,” Olmeg pointed out.  “That bond will hold when their political patronage is gone.  The Rats are like any other highly opportunistic or parasitic species.  They need their institutional rules to maintain sufficient discipline to thrive.  Their weakness is right there in their name: brotherhood.  They feel a part of a great institution, whose rules apply across their membership.”

“Criminals have rules?” Rael asked, amused at the idea.

“They operate under a code.  It might be crude, violent and deviant, but it is a code they feel they all must follow, else they lose faith in their institution and loose cohesion in the face of opposition.  Attack that,” Olmeg said, shrewdly, “and their ability to act in concert is destroyed.”

“Now that,” Rondal said, nodding at the great bearded magical horticulturist, “is a very interesting idea, Olmeg!  How do you suggest we do that?”

“That’s an exercise for you two errants,” chuckled Banamor.  “But I have to agree with Lord Olmeg, here,” he said, stressing the new title.  Both he and Olmeg had been ennobled at Yule by Master Minalan, and while Banamor wasn’t thrilled with the new title, his ego would not let him disparage it, either.  “Take away their bloodthirsty ways and the Rats are just another business.  You can only do business, legitimate or illegitimate, if there is trust between parties.  That trust might be a knife at your throat or a hostage in a cell, but there’s trust or there’s no deal.  Someone cheats, word gets around and you don’t do business with them anymore.  So damage their reputation,” he suggested.

“Who is going to care that the Brotherhood is disreputable and untrustworthy?” asked Rael.  “As I said, they are criminals!”

“Criminals who need to do business with regular folk,” Gareth countered.  “And the nobility, it seems.  And, I’m guessing, other criminals.”

Tyndal knew himself that much was true.  Their new friend, the shadowmage Atopol, admitted that his family of superlative thieves had taken commissions from the Rats from time to time, although only under certain conditions and only at a premium.  That was despite their general disdain for the Brotherhood - partially for their very real brutality in pursuit of criminal enterprise and partially for the very classist snobbery of the organization’s descent from pirates.

That House Salaines respected the Sea Lord nobility, who were also descended from pirates, did not seem to bother them.  The Rats were descended from common mariners, wharf rats and shipwrecked killers, not princes of the waves.  Tyndal didn’t see much difference between the two, but apparently it was enough to give the elitist shadowmagi of House Salaines a reason to look down upon the Brotherhood.  He was willing to accept that, hypocrisy or no, if it lent aid to their mission.

“They do deal with other criminal gangs,” reflected Rondal.  “They’d have to.  They mentioned some rivals - or associates - who might have attacked them.  Which means that they have agreements and concords with them.  Agreements which can be interfered with.”

“And their dealings with the nobility are likely dependent on keeping their agreements with them,” Banamor pointed out.  “If for some reason they weren’t able to . . .”

“Oh, I take your meaning,” Tyndal nodded, grinning.   “My lords and lady, I thank you for your contributions to our efforts - and I trust we can count on your discretion.  We may need further assistance.”

“Oh, you can count on me for whatever you need,” Lord Banamor said, confidently.  “I get tickled, helping you two gnaw your way through that lot.  We have a lot of new enchantments, really novel stuff.  And we’re always willing to take a quiet commission, off the books.”

“I, too, volunteer my services,” Rael agreed.  “That one little trip convinces me that establishing a more reliable trade with Enultramar would be wise.  And,” she confessed, “I’m fascinated by the effort.  It’s very entertaining.”

“Anything you need,” Gareth agreed, tiredly.  As the others filed out, wishing the lads a good evening, Gareth didn’t move.  He just sat gloomily and stared at his mug.  Tyndal glanced at Rondal quizzically.  Rondal shrugged.

“Gareth,” Tyndal began, lightly, moving to sit next to the man.  “An observant man might say that you look distraught.”

“Miserable, is more accurate,” Rondal agreed, taking a seat on the other side of him.  “Not your usual cheery self.  What’s eating at you?”

Gareth looked up to first one of them, then the other.  “Why do you want to know?”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Tyndal countered, pouring more wine.

“Because you’ve never been particularly interested before,” he countered, warily.  “In fact, you rarely concern yourself with me.”

“Gareth, you have to understand,” Rondal said with a sigh, “honestly, we never expected you to linger in Sevendor as long as you have.  You’re a good mage, and even though you didn’t get make warmage, you could have taken what you learned here and made a fortune elsewhere.”

“That’s what any normal adept would do,” Tyndal agreed.  “Only you didn’t - and we’re glad about that,” he said, hurriedly.  “Don’t mistake us.  You’ve been a stalwart to our master when we haven’t been around, and everyone knows you’re the brains behind the Magic Fair, all the improvements in town--”

“But if you’d hit the road any point in the last year to make your fortune, no one would have blamed you,” Rondal continued.  “Being on the road ourselves so much has made us appreciate those who stayed and built . . . all of this,” Rondal said, with an appreciative nod.  “If there is something bothering you, we . . . well, we want to help.”

“It’s . . . it’s a girl,” he said, sagging in his chair.

“Of course it is,” Tyndal sighed.  Rondal looked uncomfortable.  “Tell us everything,” he urged, as he filled Gareth’s cup.

“That might prove difficult,” Gareth said, sullenly.  “You two are . . . well, there’s a rival,” he said, bitterly.

“Oh, no,” Rondal said, shaking his head sadly.

“Exactly right,” Gareth said, sipping his wine robustly, before launching into a tirade of self-pity and bitterness.  “Look at me!  What girl - much less a lady - would want . . . this?” he asked, spreading his arms wide.

Tyndal took a moment to look at him.  He was wearing a plain tunic, simply belted, with just a bit of belly peeking over it.  His chest was narrow and poorly developed, and his arms seemed almost brittle.  His face was plain, with wide features and a beard that was patchy, at best.  Take away his staff and he could have passed for any artisan on the High Street.

Except, perhaps, for a smith.  Or a carpenter.  Or anyone else who used their muscles to make their living.

“You aren’t so bad,” Rondal said, unconvincingly.  “You’ve got your papers, a position, making good money--”

“I look like a bloody scarecrow,” Gareth said, sullenly.  “Who got robbed.”

“It’s not about how you look,” Tyndal said, authoritatively.  “Women like muscles - thank Ishi! - and athletic ability, but while those things are certainly arousing, there is more to a man’s appeal than his biceps.”

“There’s money, fame, power, character . . .” Rondal supplied, helpfully.

“Well, there’s money, fame and power,” conceded Tyndal.  “There are few maids who will love a man for how he treats a beggar.  Unless he’s also rich, famous, and powerful.”

“I’m far from rich,” Gareth said, miserably.  “I make decent coin, and I’ve banked a fair amount, but compared to some . . . I have no estate to offer.  Fame?  Who has heard of Gareth, the . . . see?  No one even knows what to call me!”

“What is your official title?” Rondal asked.

“Deputy Spellwarden,” Gareth shrugged.  “What girl wants to hike her skirt for ‘Gareth, the Deputy Spellwarden’?  Much less consider anything more permanent.  And power?  Oh, I have that aplenty - especially if you need a permit.  Beyond that . . .”

“Who is this rival?” demanded Tyndal.

“I’d rather not say,” Gareth admitted.  “As he is a friend of yours.”

“It’s Sir Festaran,” supplied Rondal.  “And the maiden can only be Lenodara.”

“Dara?” snorted Tyndal.  “You’re worked up over that scrawny little fledgling?”

“She’s pretty!” defended Gareth, a little drunkenly.  “She’s brilliant, she’s brave, she’s wise, and she’s noble.  And she has eyes only for him!” he said, with a sneer.  “Festaran has position, he has title, he will inherit hands . . . and he has fame.  And he has character,” he added, disgusted.  “How can a man compete with that?”

“I still don’t see why you would bother with her,” sniffed Tyndal.  “Her hair is always a mess, she’s built like a boy, and she smells of bird poop.”

“The heart wants what it alone desires,” Rondal reproved, gently.  “Gareth, it isn’t hopeless,” he said, encouragingly.

“Oh, not at all,” Tyndal shrugged.  “For one thing, thanks to Ron, we’ve managed to get ourselves bound by a vow not to wed until the Brotherhood of the Rat is defeated and Anguin recovers southern Alshar.  We haven’t broken that to Fes, yet, but he’s bound by it, too.  So . . . they won’t be finding a priestess any time soon.”

Rondal winced.  “Yes, that’s true.  And it’s a long story.  But that does give you some time.”

“Time to do what?  Conjure up a new body?  Find a better face?  Compared to Festaran, I’m merely entertaining to her.  I’m a . . . good friend.”  He made the pronouncement as if it were a disease or curse.  Tyndal and Rondal winced as if he’d been infected.

“She’s unaware of your interest?” Rondal asked, curious.

“She’s not unaware.  Just . . . ignoring it, and hoping it goes away.”

“Ouch,” nodded Tyndal.  “That’s going to be difficult to overcome.  You cannot . . . ease into a woman’s heart.  Not if you expect to keep it.”

“Just so,” agreed Rondal.  “If you stand around just waiting for her to take notice of you, you will be standing there forever.  Are you staying up at the castle these days?”

“What? No, I’ve been living at Banamor’s.  I have a . . . well, I have a corner,” he admitted.  “I stay there for free.  It lets me save money.”

“For what?” demanded Tyndal, “Gareth, if you want to be the kind of man who women admire, you have to do things that they admire.  Living on a cot in your boss’ hall is not one of them.”

“Neither is living in the same castle where she lives,” cautioned Rondal.  “That kind of familiarity will only make matters worse.”

“Then what should I do?” he pleaded.

“Well, we can start by finding you - and us, actually - a place to live.  A real place to live,” Rondal emphasized.  “We can build a hall of our own, now, I think.”

Tyndal immediately seized on the plan.  It suited him well. The idea of establishing a place of their own, here in Sevendor, was a perfect place to spend their loot.  And protect it.

“I think Jurlor has some land available, at the edge of town,” Gareth said, after a few moments’ thought.  “Over next to the Chapterhouse.  It’s just a slip, less than five acres, but . . . he’s made it known it’s for sale.”

“Let’s buy it!” Tyndal said, decisively.  “Why not?  Ron, how much in our treasury?”

Rondal snorted.  “More than enough to buy a scrap like that,” he reported.  “Shall we pitch a tent?”

“We shall build a hall,” Tyndal decided.  “Something secure.  Something . . . our own.  We need a place in town, anyway - it seems poor practice to stay in an inn in a town you consider home.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Rondal considered.  “Look what we did with the diketower.  That was a bloody pile of rocks when we started.”

“And now it’s a very classy pile of rocks, with an elegant wooden interior,” agreed Tyndal.  “What do you say, Gareth?  Think you can find enough lads to build us a hall?”

“Sure,” admitted the wizard, nervously.  “The Karshak carpenters don’t have a lot to do, now that the scaffolding in the mountain is built for the winter.  And there are enough workmen around to get the place knocked out, once we had a plan and materials.  Mage-kilned timber, of course, and we can set the foundation ourselves, but . . . h-how much is this going to cost me?” he asked, looking worried.

“Don’t worry about the cost,” urged Rondal.  “We’ll take care of it, and figure up who owes what later.  But . . . in return we could use some help deciphering a couple of coded ledgers we stole from the Brotherhood.  In return for your insights, we can get you a decent place to live and help you . . . present your case better.”

“But aren’t you two friends with Festaran?”

“Sure,” shrugged Tyndal.  “But what makes you think we think that he’d be better off with Dara than you?  Personally, I think you’re both a bit mad, but . . .”

“We have no preference,” admitted Rondal, a little guiltily.  “You two can contend for her all you wish, and Haystack and I will remain objective parties.”

“Yes, we would be making you . . . helping you . . . assisting you to make a better presentation in general,” Tyndal reasoned.  “Indeed, your best tactic may well to court other girls, before you consider making an approach to Dara with your feelings.”

“Other women?” Gareth asked, confused.  “Why would I court other women?  She might think I’m not interested!”

“That is precisely what you need to have her think,” Tyndal assured him.

“He might not look very bright,” Rondal said, putting his arm around Gareth’s thin shoulders, “but Sir Haystack is surprisingly adept in this realm.  And I think I agree with him.  Nothing makes a woman take interest in you than seeing another woman take interest in you.”

“That . . . I just . . . really?” he asked, confused.  “Really?”

“Let’s table this matter for the moment,” Tyndal declared.  “We have much, much work to do over a long period of time before you’re ready.  Until then, let’s buy this plot, build this hall, and enjoy the weeks we have before we head back to Alshar.  To our new partnership!” he said, raising his glass.

They found Lorcus sitting in the Great Hall of Sevendor castle the next morning, and after they’d visited with a few enchanters of note they tried to convince him to join their endeavor.

Tyndal was eager to enlist the warmage’s aid in their efforts.  The Remeran had the twistiest mind Tyndal had ever met, and he was fascinated by his approach to things.  While a fierce warrior and a crafty soldier, Lorcus brought a certain mad insight to complex problems that Tyndal greatly admired.

Rondal was less certain about recruiting him, but agreed that they needed some skilled assistance if they were going to attack the Brotherhood in their own lands and escape with their lives.  Not to mention have any real success.

But when it came to hurting people and breaking things in the pursuit of a goal, Lorcus was dedicated.  Tyndal was in charge for this mission, so Tyndal wanted him.  Badly.

As it turned out, negotiations were not as strenuous as Tyndal had feared.  He and Rondal met the mage at the second table on the west side of the hall, which had become known as the Wizard’s Table, due to the number of visiting magi who came to Sevendor.  He was eating an enormous bowl of bacon and fried apples he had apparently specially ordered from the cook.

“Lorcus,” Tyndal began, “are you under contract, right now?”

The Remeran considered.  “Not at the moment, lads.  You have a lead?” he asked, perking up.  “I was hoping that Min would get involved in this dust-up between Sashtalia and Sendaria, but it appears he’s being unreasonably wise and trying to bribe his way out of it.”

“Want to go to Enultramar for a couple of weeks?” Rondal proposed, cautiously.

“And do what?” Lorcus asked, with interest, as he spooned another bite into his mouth.

“Attack an entrenched criminal organization by surprise and cause as much havoc and damage to them in as short amount of time as possible?” Rondal supplied.

“We’d also technically be fugitives, being High Magi and all,” reminded Tyndal.  “The Censorate still holds sway, there.  And the region is in rebellion to the rightful Duke and the King.  So anything you mess up there we won’t be responsible for.  Unless we get caught.  In which case we’re probably all dead.”

“And we’ll be gone how long?”

“Just a few weeks,” Rondal decided.  “Maybe a month.  We should be back in time for the Chepstan Fair, if we hurry.  Oh, and we’ll pick up travel expenses.”

“Let me get my toys,” the warmage said, deciding on the spot.  “I could use a bit of holiday.”

Chapter Twelve

Return To Enultramar

It only took a week and a half to cross the great expanse of the Riverlands, as the three wizards liberally used magic to force their way upriver and over road.

They were helped in this by the new tools at their disposal.  Both young knights had taken the opportunity while at Sevendor to build their own thaumaturgical baculus.  Indeed, Minalan had nearly insisted, and both of them had the wit to realize why.  The art of enchantment was entering a bold new stage, thanks to the unique circumstances in Sevendor, and they had an ideal opportunity to take advantage of the rapidly-developing art.

The magical rods, popular with the enchanters of Sevendor, were like levers in their arcane work, making complex spells simple and simple spells elementary.

Rondal had chosen a larger staff of weirwood for his baculus, nearly five and a half feet long and almost two inches thick.  The exterior was studded with practical enchantments and augmentations, with snowstone and other elements pragmatically used to improve function.  The head of the staff was a simple round bronze cap, engraved with sigils and runes, and the heel of the staff was a matching bronze spike that was designed to aid in collecting information.

With Ruderal’s assistance (and that of the sages of Sevendor, who were growing more profoundly adept in the art by the day) Rondal selected an enneagram from the Grain of Pors that Minalan’s newest apprentice assured him was inclined to deep thought and analysis, and while not naturally aggressive, able to defend itself handily at need.  Rondal called the staff Bulwark, and tied its appearance to a matching bronze ring in which a hoxter pocket was enchanted.

Tyndal, by contrast, had opted for a slender wand of weirwood only four and a half feet long, with an elegant, tapered shape.  The head was silver, of Karshak manufacture in the shape of a dragon’s head (chosen for no good reason except Tyndal liked the piece) with a sharp steel probe affixed to the heel.  Tyndal splurged to have emeralds set in the eyes of the dragon and scattered up and down the length of the rod in elegant settings, along with a fair amount of enchanted quartz and other shiny gems.

The paraclete Tyndal selected was, Ruderal said, a highly inquisitive one with a fiery spirit, though it also had a slightly impetuous nature.  It had been a far-ranging scavenger, a swimmer not a crawler, back in its ancient ocean.  Ruderal seemed to think the flamboyant enneagram was a good match for Tyndal’s magical style, and he’d learned to trust the apprentice’s judgment on such things after seeing his power demonstrated over and over again.

Tyndal called his baculus Grapple, in counterpoint to his partner’s, and had a heavy silver dragon’s head ring to tie its hoxter pocket to.  Though it was different in style and function than Bulwark, the two wizards had worked side-by-side during their construction, ensuring that their functions were complementary.  They’d even purchased a Sympathy Stone from Banamor (at a discount) to link the two together.

Thus armed and augmented, they felt far more prepared for their mission of sedition and destruction.  Just being able to make a baculus appear out of thin air and then disappear again was entertaining.  Lorcus was highly amused, and sketched out the outrageous capabilities he expected his own baculus would have, when he made one.

As soon as they reached the farthest parts of Gilmora, where the land turned bleak, they stopped being so flamboyant with their magic.  Though still part of the Kingdom, the lands south of the Wilderlands and north of the great wall of mountains that shielded southern Alshar, both the people and the places seemed far more subdued and less friendly.

Tyndal knew well why that was: the presence of the malevolent Land of Scars that blighted the lands of the west.  Between the great southern ridge and the spectacular peaks of the Mindens was a rolling, chaotic, unfriendly region, as if the giant fist of some ancient god had smashed a once green and pleasant land.  The soil was too poor to farm, the terrain brutally rough and treacherous, and the ravines and gorges of the tortured landscape were the haunt of bandits, wild tribes of humans and gurvani, hermits, heretics, and folk whose ancestors had fled civilized parts long ago for reasons long forgotten.

Tyndal knew the place well enough.  He and Rondal had led almost a hundred young Kasari into it, two years ago.  They’d come out of it with seventy-two of them and a bizarre idol that Rondal swore was an ancient artifact of their ancestors.  While they’d been there, they’d been captured, kidnapped, nearly tortured themselves, and escaped only due to the bravery of Ruderal, a fellow captive at the time.

He wanted to shudder now, when he neared the place, but his honor would not let him.

Instead he and his companions adopted plain travel clothing and quietly sought the contact in the village north of the mountains their friend Atopol had arranged.  The man, a hunter and smuggler of some repute, was able to easily escort them through the high passes and secret routes few were aware of . . . but after two days of ambitious hiking, they were on the other side of the great range, descending the trail from a lonely mining fief whose modest lord was quite willing to accept a bribe to allow his lands to be used thus.

Once they were within the Great Vale of Alshar, travel became far easier.  The great river Mandros that bisected the country let them move a hundred miles a day downstream even without magic.

However, the magical rods improved the journey as well as quickened it; conjuring a helpful water elemental to propel a barge was far easier, now that the paracletes could do the heavy lifting on the spell.  Or warmagic spells that improved the endurance and speed of their horses, which took no more than mumbling a mnemonic.  Lorcus was happy to let them experiment.  He was busy with the folio Gareth had prepared for them, detailing – as far as he’d been able to decipher – as much as he could discover about the Brotherhood’s operations in Enultramar.

It was a surprisingly complete file.

Gareth managed to give important details on no less than seven ongoing operations that the Solashaven crew were involved in.  They ranged from protection rackets to smuggling to political corruption.  But amongst the tawdry ledger of crime Gareth spied what he proposed was an important organizational installation of the Brotherhood, within the old cotton weavers’ guild in the town of Reunus.

“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.”

“Why?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“Because she’s probably catering to the Rats, being the closest tavern to them,” supplied Rondal.  “And from what we know, they are poor customers.”

“Oh, there’s more to it than that,” Lorcus nodded, sagely.  “She hears things.  And she’s been threatened a lot.  It’s quite abusive, what they’ve done to that poor woman.  She was the wife of one of the weavers, before the hall closed.  Plump little thing . . .”

“So what did she tell you?” Rondal stressed, impatiently.

“Oh, that she knows that there will be a meeting here, two nights from now . . . perhaps what your friend Gareth referred to in his notes as ‘Q2CR’, a code referencing . . . something.”

“Well, it sounds like a something we should interfere with,” declared Tyndal.

“With our luck it will be their summer holiday pilgrimage refreshment planning committee meeting,” grumbled Rondal.  “For our part, we have constructed a proper map,” he said, calling the work into being.  Lorcus used magesight to view the result.

“Well done, lads” he murmured.  “Five entrances, like we thought.  The principals meet in the upper chamber, you think?”

“While the lower chambers are for their men and such,” nodded Tyndal.  “The storerooms are full of junk, we think.  Old looms, spools, shuttles, that sort of thing.  But perhaps more,” he shrugged.  “There’s some interference, Ron thinks, from the lowest section.”

“Interesting,” nodded Lorcus.  “Well, I tried the Long Ears, but the hook wouldn’t let me get but so far within the old crypt.  Some basic wards – I suppose the rodents aren’t entirely stupid.  I tried to wander. Didn’t you say you had a shadowmage friend who could get in there and find out what’s going on?”

“Yes, and I’ve sent word for him to meet us, but it could be a few days,” admitted Tyndal.

“I’ve got something that might get us past the guards,” Rondal said, after a moment’s pause.  “Something I worked on with Rudi, before we left.  We had a couple of ideas . . .”

“Well don’t sit there waiting for my beard to grow,” Lorcus encouraged, “what is it?”

“It” proved to be a small, spindly-looking device of slender weirwood rods joined together by cleverly-crafted leather joints, that Rondal produced from a hoxter pocket.  It looked extremely fragile to Tyndal’s critical eye.  More like a broken marionette than a magical device.

But when Rondal produced a small wand and spoke a word, the leather joints stiffened and the legs began sorting themselves out until the thing stood on its own in the middle of the table.  The center of its “body” was a small wooden block no larger than a turkey’s egg, with six slender legs suspending it like a spider’s thorax.

“What . . . is that little pretty?” Lorcus asked, entranced by the thing.

“I call it a dahman, after those spinning bugs next to the ponds back home,” his friend said proudly, as the little construct marched from one side of the table to the other.  The legs each ended in a soft pad of leather that made the tiniest noise as it pranced.  “It should be able to get in that place.”

“Sure, a wooden spider the size of my hand won’t arouse any suspicions,” Tyndal said, rolling his eyes.

“It wouldn’t . . . if it was on the ceiling,” Rondal chuckled, as the dahman reached the plaster wall and mounted it as easily as it walked across the wood.  In seconds it was overhead, amongst the shadows and beams above.

“So once we get it inside, what do we do?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.  “Drop it down their shirts and eliminate the entire crew with the willies?”

“Not at all,” Rondal said, ignoring the jest.  “Gorach – I call him Gorach – is imbued with the enneagram of a creature who liked to hide and stalk the way Haystack likes to brag.  When I tell it to hunt, it will creep its way across the roof, into the gable, and sneak its way into this upper chamber,” he said, nodding toward the magemap.  “There it will wait and lurk until we recall it.”

“Bringing me to my earlier point about the utility of the willies,” Tyndal observed, thoughtfully.  “Once we get it there, what does it do?”

“Oh, I had another sympathy stone inlaid inside, with the appropriate spells.  We can hear or see anything that it does,” he said, nodding at the dahman.  “Just like we were there.  And if they sweep the place for concealment spells, there won’t be any.  Once Gorach is in place he goes dormant.  No active spells.  Just the sympathy stone.”

“That’s brilliant,” Lorcus nodded, looking at the insect-like creation.  “Does it do anything else?”

Rondal shrugged.  “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I have a few amusing ideas,” assured the mage.  “But how are we going to get it up on the roof?  You prepared a pigeon, as well?”

Instead of answering, Gorach’s legs suddenly pulled in on themselves, though the tiny body continued to hold its position in space.

“Knot coral,” Rondal shrugged.  “It’s easier than a pigeon.”

Tyndal had to admit, he was impressed at the elegant little enchantment.  He started to grin.  “This is going to be spectacular!”

“No, my boy,” Lorcus said, with a wicked chuckle, “we’re just leading up to spectacular.  But this shows uncommon promise.”

The effort to get the dahman to the roof after the three magi completed its enchantments was simple: Tyndal went to the roof of a building nearby and lobbed it through the air, within twenty feet of the sentry.  But Rondal deftly activated the knot coral before it landed, keeping it from making noise as he directed it to the edge of the gable window.

Tyndal watched, increasingly impressed, as the arcane construct slipped into the window and disappeared.  When he returned to the inn Rondal was sitting on the bed, his legs folded, and his tiny sphere of irionite in one palm while he used the control wand in the other.  There was a small black earthenware bowl in his lap into which he stared with especial concentration.

“Smart lad, that one,” Lorcus grunted, quietly, as he poured the last of the wine into his cup.

“He does pretty well,” Tyndal agreed.  “Getting anything, Ron?”

“A fine appreciation for a good chambermaid – there are years’ worth of old cobwebs up there!  But we’re getting close to their . . . conference room?  Den of iniquity? Dark chamber of murderous secrets?” he asked, rhetorically.

“Got a flair for the dramatic, too,” Lorcus mentioned, under his breath.

“Noticed that?”

“All right, I’m right over the conference table, or whatever it is, clinging to the chandelier.  Three men, a pile of parchments, a stack of books – ledgers, like at Solashaven.”

“Any coin?” Tyndal asked, curious.

“Forget the coin,” Lorcus dismissed, “they wouldn’t haul the heavy stuff upstairs, anyway.  Criminals are lazy,” he said, with the assurance of man with personal experience.  “This is more important.  Those ledgers are likely copies of each of the crews’ ledgers who report to this place.  And this is likely where they compile all of those lovely numbers into much larger numbers, to send to someone yet more important,” he reasoned.

“That makes sense,” Tyndal agreed.  “Like a unit commander, reporting to a general officer,” he suggested.

“Close enough,” Lorcus agreed.  “The central location of this place makes it an ideal point at which to accumulate coin – and numbers – for the entire coastlands and Enultramar.  And the Great Vale, coming downriver.”

“If you two will shut it a few moments, they’re actually saying things,” Rondal pointed out, patiently.

“They often do,” quipped Lorcus.  “But pay them no mind, they’re criminals!”

“Not gossip,” Rondal continued, ignoring the jests, “intelligence.”

Tyndal spent the evening jotting down notes on parchment as Rondal recited the conversation of the three men, and observed their plots.  To Tyndal, it was a seemingly endless series of coded phrases and mysterious ciphers of numbers.  Rondal’s droning voice sent his pen scratching every time he mentioned what the three were saying, and he drifted beyond the point of even casual attention after a while.

“That’s it!” Lorcus exclaimed, excitedly, as Rondal seemed to be drawing to a close.  “We’ve got them!”

“We do?” Tyndal asked, dully.

“What do you mean?” demanded Rondal.

“Just keep listening!” insisted Lorcus.  “Every detail!”

Rondal sighed, and paused a moment.  “They’re bitching about their wives, now,” he reported.  “Now, what do you mean, ‘we’ve got them’?”

Lorcus took a deep breath, and dug his pipe out of his belt.  “You remember that bit toward the end, the part about the ‘final business’?”

“Yes,” Tyndal said, a little guiltily.  “I was hoping they were finishing for the evening.”

“They were, but like most organizations, they save the important stuff for last, if it isn’t a crisis.  They mentioned the mudfort, right?”

Tyndal glanced back at the previous page of parchment.  “Yeah, they said that word had come from the mudfort that the deal was on, despite the problems, and that the noose was bringing Lord Zulduk – Zulduk? – to the gallows to meet the nurse.  Then Rat Three asked if the take was set or not, and Rat Two told him not to ask stupid questions.  Rat One then said that he’d heard that it depended on the fishing this year, and whether or not the grocer could keep the frogs in the pond, and if both went well then it would rain maiden’s piss and the goat would be holding the axe behind the chair.”  He blinked.  “Do you have the slightest idea what any of that means?”

“Yes!” Lorcus and Rondal said at the same time.

“Most of these gangsters use code names, like we use war names,” explained Rondal.  “Gareth put together a list of the ones he figured out, and a much longer list of the ones he didn’t.”

“Some of those were more obvious than others,” Lorcus agreed.  “Like the Mudfort: that’s one of the Brotherhood’s headquarters, away to the southeast, in Caramas.  So anything from there has authority.  If they say the deal is on, the deal is on,” he declared.

“What deal, though?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” urged Rondal.  “The noose has to be Igzily the Noose,” he agreed, looking through the stack of parchment on the table until he found the right one.  “He’s a kind of mid-level administrator for the eastern Great Vale counties.  Not a lot of business up there, but he’s respected in the records as one of the major players.”

“And I would reason that anyplace The Noose called home would soon be known as The Gallows,” Tyndal suggested.

“Hey!” Lorcus said, snapping.  “That does make sense!  But who is the nurse?”

“No idea,” confessed Rondal, after scanning the list for a moment.  “But whoever it is, they’re important.  They were mentioned earlier, as being at the ‘regular meeting’, tomorrow night.”

“The nurse and a few others,” agreed Lorcus.  “That sounds like a perfect place to begin our inquiry.  By liberating those records, and slaying all who stand against us.  Now, how exactly did you want to dash the place to tinder?”

Chapter Thirteen

A Raid On Rats

They chose the busiest time of the Brotherhood’s busiest night to strike, to ensure the most carnage possible.  Eliminating as many of the villains as possible was the goal, as quickly and quietly as possible, without arousing the suspicions of the authorities.

Thankfully, the lack of complexity of their plan kept the chances of something going horribly awry to a minimum.  After surveying and scrying the guildhall for a few days and understanding how it was being used, Lorcus’ battle plan for the raid was apt:

“We’re going to turn the whole thing into a big sack o’ rats,” he drawled, as he presented his plan to the boys.  “Then we’re going to stab it.  Beat it with a stick.  And squash it under a rock.  Before we throw it into the fire.”

To that end the plan was to secure with magic as many of the possible means of escape available to the crew inside and then ‘project force’, as Lorcus euphemistically called it, until the last Rat was dead.

As they had discovered, the guildhall was a hive of criminal business and a hub for goods, coin, and agents of the organization going upriver, downriver, east into Rhemes or west into Falas.  As such it was a convenient place for meetings between different divisions, and regular conferences to conduct business were common.

Through their use of the construct they’d learned that one such meeting – comprising the leaders of four different crews – was scheduled for a few nights after they’d arrived, and the three of them decided that would be a most opportune time to conduct their raid.

“If we just wanted to prick them with the point, we’d wait until the place was almost deserted,” Lorcus reasoned.  “This way, it’s clear from the outset that their preparation and strength meant little to us.  That they were, in fact, inconsequential.”

“That’s still going to put almost two dozen rats in that bag,” Rondal reminded the Remeran warmage.  “That’s a lot of killing.”

“It would be a lot of killing regardless,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “This just makes it more worthwhile.  Removing officers is a great way to send the foe into disarray.”

Before the fateful meeting, Lorcus took another stroll around the guildhall in the guise of a monk . . . and when he was certain he wasn’t being observed, he secured the infrequently used trap door in the back of the place with a spellbinding, and then did the same with the side door.

Most of the thugs used the front entrance, which thanks to its orientation faced the river, where there was little chance of being seen.  While that was convenient for evading the notice of the civic authorities, it also concealed the entrance from any trouble that might erupt from those same authorities.  When Lorcus signaled that all of the principals had arrived for the meeting, the two young knights began their assault.

They changed their somber monks’ habits for their personal arms and armor.  For each of them that was a suit of enchanted leather with light steel plates covering their most vulnerable parts.  Though as light as an archer’s armor, the enchantments binding them together made the gear significantly more protective.  While Rondal included a tight-fitting steel helm, Tyndal simply tied back his hair with a thong.  He disliked having his vision and hearing impaired in a fight like this.

Rondal bore his shortish mageblade, the rod Bulwark, and a round shield.  Tyndal got by with his collection of wands and his own mageblade.  He could call Grapple to his hand at need . . . but the task ahead looked far more like a job for a war staff than a thaumaturgical baculus to his eye.

I’m in position, Rondal told him, mind-to-mind, an hour after the sun set and darkness covered the town.  As soon as you give the word, I’ll go.

Tyndal checked with Lorcus, who was acting as a reserve for the operation, still in monk’s garb, at the grog shop across the street where he was quietly scrying the place from afar.

Oh, I’m ready, he assured Tyndal.  Just going to sit here and flirt with this widow until you lads need me.

Tyndal took a deep breath.  Both of his comrades were waiting on his signal, his leadership.

He looked at the door ahead, where two Rats were lounging, smoking pipes and acting casually, and pulled his mantle over his armor before he approached them. The key, he reminded himself, is sudden, unexpected surprise.  He pulled out his own pipe, and palmed a short wand as he did so.

“Gentlemen!” he said, cheerfully, as he approached.  “Could I trouble either of you for a taper?”

The two thugs – dressed in rough workmen’s clothing – looked at him in surprise.  One began fumbling at his belt for the requested taper automatically, while the other stood and began to approach Tyndal menacingly.

Tyndal tried to fake surprise on his face, but before he could tell if the Rat bought it, his arm was already in motion.  While his right hand, with the pipe and palmed wand, went wide, his left hand held a very long, very plain dagger about six inches long, which he then buried in the thug’s gut with augmented speed.

The man just stood there, eyes wide, looking helplessly at Tyndal while his friend quickly rose . . . only to sit back down again, hard, when Tyndal activated the wand, blowing off half of his face.  The man with the dagger in his navel sank to his knees and fell over, succumbing to shock almost immediately at the surprise attack.

That was far too easy, Tyndal noted to himself.  The door behind them was unlocked, and there wasn’t anyone immediately on the other side.

I’m in, he reported to Rondal.  Go ahead and start your ruckus.

For Estasia, Rondal replied . . . and Tyndal heard a loud bang from within the building.  Now I’m in.  Meet you on the top floor.

Tyndal drew his mageblade and summoned a half-dozen spells – nothing fancy, he decided, just good basic protections.  The sort of thing that might make the difference between a blade sliding off of his armor or finding its way home.

Two around the corner from you, lad, cautioned Lorcus, who was following their path on the magemap.

Tyndal nodded – though the warmage couldn’t see him – and decided to face these two without his warmagic augmentations.  He pictured where they were in his mind, prepared his warwand, and spun into the room.

He caught one of the men on his way toward the privy, hands on his belt and unprepared for a fight.  Tyndal didn’t bother wasting a spell on him – he just shoved the point of his blade quickly through his throat, creating a fountain of blood that sprayed across the chest of his fellow.  While the poor thug was looking at his soaked tunic in horror, Tyndal pivoted and sliced through his windpipe before he could scream.

But the alarm was already raised.  Rondal’s dramatic entrance at the rear had stirred the guildhall’s defenders like a kick to a beehive.  He could hear shouts and yells as the ruffians sprang into action against the loud intruder . . . and presented their backs to the quiet one.

When Tyndal entered the main hall, where once the weavers of the town met and debated whatever it was weavers felt passionate about, there was already a knot of men facing the rear of the building, where he could hear Rondal’s assault continuing.

It seemed like a good place for a wide-area spell, and Tyndal loved those.  He pulled a particular warwand from his belt, pointed it in the general vicinity of the center of the defense, and activated it.  It took a moment for the spell to take effect, but when it did, it was decisive.

The wand he’d selected for this attack was a Purkus wand, a reproduction of an old Imperial sample he’d seen at the collection at Relan Cor.  It was a simple concussive blast augmented with a blinding flash, which wasn’t unusual for a warwand.

The Purkus had the additional effect of creating a line of small incredibly sharp planes of magical force, like a hundred tiny panes of razor sharp glass.  Though each pane only lasted for a moment, that was sufficient time for them to be propelled by the blast in a wide field of destruction.  Wherever the invisible planes flew, they cut ruthlessly, even as the blast spun them and their victims into a whirlwind of blood and pain.

Tyndal did not wait for the cloud of dust to dissipate as he flew into the fray.  He drove his blade through one man’s shoulder while he kicked another, who was desperately trying to hold his intestines in, to the floor.  He quickly reversed his step, the hours spent on the practice field informing his every move, and slashed through the neck of a third man before the ringing in his ears began to fade.

He spared a quick glance at the far end of the hall.  Rondal was standing behind his shield, using it to fend off the Rats who dared defend against his advance, while he plied his mageblade against them with both edge and spell.

His friend’s expression was fearsome, as if he was finally allowing a deep rage to propel him.  Guiltily Tyndal knew that it was the memory of a girl he hadn’t even kissed that motivated him to shove the Rats so aggressively with his shield and hack at them so viciously.

The foe was lightly armed, mostly with knives, cudgels, chains, and a few swords and scimitars among them.  They were not expecting an attack, they were quietly escorting their superiors to a business meeting.

But they were not cowards.  The Brotherhood’s recruitment and training methods, what was known of them, selected for ruthlessness, strength, and cunning, but it did not reward those who shied from a fight.

As the dust from his first spell began to settle, Tyndal found himself face-to-face with a brute of a Rat, a full head taller than Tyndal.  His face was half-covered in tattoos and scars of duels past, who was bellowing angrily, clutching one shoulder with his left hand while his right seemed perfectly capable of wielding the short, wicked-looking scimitar he’d drawn.

Now it’s time for some warmagic, he decided, and activated the spell.

He loved this part of the battle, when everything in the room but his own body slowed.  In truth, he was the one moving more quickly, but it was so fast as to have an effect.

He didn’t linger on his enemies, as there were too many, and the limits of the augmentation were finite.  He addressed the big thug with the short blade who faced him, first, and decided that his foe’s balance and his injury was his largest weakness.  He used the tip of his blade to shove the man’s slowly extending wrist up, high over his head.  He didn’t even bother to disarm him – from the look of that shoulder, the sudden move was going to be excruciatingly painful enough to do that for him.

Behind him, however, was an evil-looking man, crouched behind his fellow’s bulk, his plain brown cloak concealing a long-bladed, short-hafted axe.  It was the kind one might use to hack a door to bits, Tyndal reflected as he strode to his side, or perhaps remove an appendage.  Tyndal drew the man’s own dagger and plunged it deeply into his heart before he moved on.

The third opponent within reach was rushing at Rondal with a staff – no, a spear, Tyndal realized, as the long pole produced a hidden blade at its point.  As the man was facing away from him, Tyndal spared the time to carefully slice through his slowly-moving kneecaps with sharp, efficient blows of his sword.

He could feel the limits of the speed augmentation approaching, sadly, and he knew better to push those boundaries.  There was no need.  Around him the guildhall was chaos, bodies and limbs and smoke hanging in the air.  Figuring the best position to return to normal velocity to be was within the range of one of the more fearsome fighters, he braced the point of his sword against the largest swordsman’s chest, carefully avoiding his thick sternum, as he shifted back to normal.

The man’s eyes flew open as his chest was transfixed suddenly and unexpectedly by steel.  Tyndal had locked his knees well enough to bear the blow without collision, and by pivoting his hips the point of his blade was lined up nicely with the head of another Rat, still reeling from the blast.

“Spreadheadth!” he whispered, an ancient word in a dialect of Old Narasi, as he mentally activated his selected enchantment.  The spell within the sword manifested, and the face of the man it was pointing toward erupted in a mass of green fire that quickly consumed his screaming head.

Indeed, the ringing in his ears was nearly gone, and he was not even breathing hard.  There were only a few of the Rats left in fighting shape, he noted with satisfaction as he unsheathed his blade from the dead man’s chest.

You all right, Ron? He asked, mind-to-mind, as he turned to face the next man, a tall swordsman who’d flung back his mantle and faced the threat like a warrior.  He’d managed to get through the waves of arcane attack unhurt, he saw, and the threat of his savage sneer was matched only by the shining scimitar he held at the ready.

Unhurt, his partner managed through the link.  I think—

There was a bright flash behind him, one that made his opponent blink – long enough for Tyndal to slap aside his blade and slash his point through his unprotected throat.

The last man hadn’t been distracted, and he crashed into Tyndal’s left shoulder as Tyndal recovered his blow.  They both tumbled to the floor, and for a brief moment of panic as his armored shoulder crunched between it and his attacker, he was worried.

But then he found his left hand curled around the man’s throat as he struggled to bring the point of a Rat’s Tail shiv into play.

The Rat was pale and flabby, perhaps a fighter in his youth, but whose body had fallen prey to his own success.  Tyndal’s right hand was still clutched on the hilt of his blade, but he let go of the sword to use his bracer to block the slender iron spike.

Tyndal took stock of his situation, and realized he was unhurt and, despite his supine position, not without leverage.  Particularly arcane leverage.  He burst into a grin, which surprised his attacker . . . but not nearly as much as the blast of shearing force that burst from the spell on his left bracer, sending the Rat’s chin into his forehead.

Not only did the blast sting his fingers mightily, stunning them into inaction, but the shower of blood and brains that rained down over his face and chest plate did little for his appearance.  He rolled to his left, allowing the mangled body to fall, and then sprang to his knees . . . and clutched his left hand.

“Ishi’s tits, that stings!” he howled.

You should have put a gunchron block on it, Rondal lectured, mind-to-mind.

“Not the right time, Striker!” Tyndal shouted in return, as the last of the Rats – this one looking the most like an actual rat than the others – rushed toward him.  He rolled back over the body he’d just created and grasped wildly for his blade . . . which was pinned under the body, he discovered.

Abandoning the effort, which was hard enough with one hand, he instead drew a wand at random and brought it up to catch his attacker.  Tyndal frantically tried to identify just which wand he’d drawn, but it was difficult, with blood in his eyes.  By touch, it felt like his fire wand – not the best in the situation, but—

Before he could say the mnemonic, the Rat dropped, his iron shiv falling to the floor with a ring, when the edge of Rondal’s round shield bashed in the back of his skull.

“Would you like a towel?” Rondal asked, helpfully, as he critically surveyed Tyndal.

“I would have gotten him,” Tyndal insisted, getting to his knees.

“In due time,” Rondal agreed, as he looked around at the damage.  “I have no doubt it would have been a spirited contest.”

“I thought he did rather poorly,” came a new voice.  A familiar voice.  Atopol, dressed in a matte black mantle that swallowed the light around it, appeared from the shadows.

“Damn it, how do you do that?” Rondal demanded.

“You were here the whole time?” Tyndal asked.

“I’ve been watching you since you left the docks,” the young shadowmage agreed, with a smile.  “I thought I’d tag along, and see how real knights magi work.”

“And your verdict?” Rondal asked, as he helped push the body off of Tyndal’s blade for him.

“Hysterical!” Atopol said, clapping mockingly.  “Not that it isn’t effective, but I had no idea it was going to be so amusing!”

Tyndal was tempted to glare at the purple-eyed thief, but he grinned instead.  It was good to see him again.  Atopol might be as sneaky as sin, but he was good-natured and – for a thief – honorable.

“You might have lent a hand,” Tyndal said, wiping his eyes with a tablecloth, when Rondal’s offer of a towel proved faithless.  “There were enough for everyone.”

“I didn’t want to get in your way,” he shrugged.

“How did you even know we were even here?” Tyndal asked.

“When you came over the ridges, our informants let us know.  When we heard what happened to that old guildhall, we reasoned the two were connected.  When we tried to figure out where you might go next, we guessed.”

“We almost didn’t go here, you know,” Rondal said, handing Tyndal’s mageblade back to him to clean.  “We nearly went back to Solashaven.”

“In which case my sister would have met you,” Atopol said with a chuckle.  “Were you planning on slaughtering the entire hall, or did you just want to do the first floor tonight?”

“We might as well finish,” Rondal shrugged, pulling his shield back over his arm.  “Do try to hang back, this time, Atopol,” he suggested, adjusting the strap on his helmet.  “It could get dangerous.”

“We wouldn’t want you to get hurt,” Tyndal agreed, with mocking sympathy.

“I just want to see the second act,” Atopol said, bowing toward the stairs, graciously.

As the boys reached the bottom of the stairs, a shout came from above.

“Yumruck!  Demys!  What’s going on down there?” it asked, cautiously.

“You’re being raided!” Rondal called back, with authority.

“But we paid our fee!” wailed another voice.

“Shut up!  Who in nine hells are you?” demanded the authoritative voice.

“We’re the raiders!” Tyndal shouted back.

“Well, that’s fucking obvious!” barked the voice, irritated.  “Who are you?”

“Oh.  The Estasi Order of Knights Magi!” Tyndal shouted back.

“Who?”

“They’re new!” Atopol yelled, helpfully.

“Why the hell are you raiding us?” the man asked, confused.

“Bloody vengeance for a heinous crime!” Tyndal shouted defiantly.

“Oh.  Well . . . shit,” the man gasped.  “Did I do it?”

“No, a Rat named Rellin Pratt did it,” Rondal conceded.

“Pratt?  Pratt the Brat?  That mage?” asked the voice, incredulously.  “I just got hit because of that pretentious little snot?”

“He said you helped him,” Tyndal said, after a moment’s pause.  “Uh, who are you again?”

“I’m Uzhas.  This is my place.”

“Uzhas?  No colorful nickname?” Rondal asked, shrugging.

“Uzhas the I’m Going To Beat Your Fucking Teeth In.  Happy?”

“Well, thanks to Pratt, Master Uzhas, you got hit.  And you won’t be the last,” Rondal declared.  “The moment you come downstairs, we’re going to have to kill you.”

“What if I pay you not to?” Uzhas asked, after a moment’s consideration.

“We are Knights Magi of the—” Rondal began to respond, angrily.

“Striker!  Hold on!” Tyndal said, stopping his partner.  “Master Uzhas, while I’m certain you are a despicable killer and thug, we actually bear you no personal ill will.  And we are quite new to the business of bloody vengeance.  Under the circumstances, we might be willing to extend a little chivalric mercy, if you’re feeling in a bargaining mood.”

“Shit!  You wiped out like a dozen of my guys!  I’m feeling overwhelmingly generous,” the voice said, sarcastically.  “If we come down, can we parlay before we get killed?  I hate all this yelling.”

“As long as you understand we still reserve the right to kill you later,” advised Rondal.

“Yeah, I figured.  Two coming down,” he called.

Tyn, there’s three of them, up there, Lorcus assured him.  I’m looking right at them through Rondal’s creature.

“Why don’t you have all of you join us?” Tyndal countered.

“Fine!  Three coming down!  Don’t kill us!”

“What are you playing at?” whispered Rondal, harshly.

“We let the goblin go, because he might be useful,” reasoned Tyndal.  “Let’s see what we can do with a rat.”

“The goblin might be useful!” Rondal said, clearly unhappy at the idea of letting any of them go.

They were interrupted when the three remaining Rats came down the stairs, hands in the air.  Their leader was the shortest, but by no means the smallest.  He was a barrel-chested man with a wide, unshaven face, and arms as thick as a smith’s.  His companions looked far less confident, and a lot more frightened . . . particularly when they saw the bodies lying all over the guildhall floor.

“I’m Uzhas,” the one in the center said.  “What do you want?”

“We want Rellin Pratt dead,” Tyndal said, flatly, “and the entire Brotherhood fallen.”

“Right now, I want Pratt dead a lot more,” grunted the crimelord, looking around at his ruined hall, the bodies and the blood.  “You two did all this?” he asked, surprised.

Tyndal was about to mention the third party, but suddenly Atopol was nowhere to be seen.

“Yes,” Tyndal said.  “Just the two of us.  There was only one nest of rats, so . . .”

“Impressive,” admitted Uzhas.  “That big guy, there?  He killed four men with his bare hands, once.  With three stab wounds.  By himself.”

“He was in our way,” Rondal said, humorlessly.

“Knights magi . . . you boys are magi?”

“And knights,” Tyndal insisted.  “We’re new.  But I believe we were discussing a bargain . . .”

“You want Pratt dead?  I can tell you where he lives.  Or did, the last time I saw him.”

“That’s a start,” Rondal admitted, grudgingly.

“We also want everything upstairs,” Tyndal pressed.  “All the records.  All the gold.”

“It’s yours, if it means my life,” shrugged the crimelord.

That shook one of his companions.  “Uzhas, if you—”

“Shut up!” ordered the man.  “I’m trying to save our lives, here!  Just look at this place!  Those are your fucking bodyguards!  They went through them like a rotten cod!

“You want the records?  They’re yours.  Gold, too.  You want Pratt?  Last year he was running his crew out of a galleon called the Venjanca.  Old Remeran ship he took at sea, which is one of the few ways, by tradition, you can get to lead your own crew.  So he thinks he’s a real pirate, now,” Uzhas said, mockingly.  “Amateur!”

“Why so quick to sell him out?” asked Tyndal, suspiciously.

“Apart from him bringing this trouble to my door?” scowled the gangster.  “And saving my life?  He’s an arrogant asshole.  Thinks he should be on the council just because his ancestors were somebody important, once.  He doesn’t understand the Brotherhood,” he growled, condemningly.  “You gotta do your time, before you get to that rank.  You need experience, not just a big mast.  No respect.”

“Your respect for tradition is admirable,” Rondal agreed, evenly.  “And I would consider sparing the lives of at least one of you, to whisper the tale in the proper ear.  But three?”

“Well,” Uzhas, said, fingering his scraggly chin, “I see your point, lads.  I think if we can talk about this calmly and rationally— “

Before he finished his thought he drew two short knives from his sleeves and plunged one into the throat of the man on his left, and one down through the shoulder and into the chest of the man on his right.  The knives were sheathed before the bodies hit the floor.  “That should simplify things, then,” he said, with a sigh.

Rondal stared, speechless, as the two dying men on the stairs.  Uzhas looked at him, and then back at his companions, and shrugged.

“Them?  I wasn’t emotionally attached to either of them.  And I’d probably end up killing them both sooner or later anyway,” he rationalized.  “It’s unfortunate, because one owed me money and I liked the other one.  But if anyone is walking out of this slaughterhouse tonight, it’s going to be me.”

“Master Uzhas, I admire your style,” Tyndal said, truthfully.  “So here is our bargain: you go to your superiors in the Brotherhood and let them know that Pratt has led a vicious order of merciless knights magi to their doorstep.  Tell them what you saw, here.  Tell them how you narrowly escaped.  Then you take passage on the most convenient ship in the bay and go elsewhere. Change your name and find a new trade,” he suggested.

“And you’ll just . . . let me go?” he asked, surprised.

“Oh, we’ll be able to find you, if we need to,” Rondal assured him as he stepped over the bodies on the stairs.  His construct was creeping down them, under Lorcus’ control.  “We are not like any magi you have ever met,” he promised, as the construct collapsed in his hand.

“I see that,” the man nodded, clearly impressed by the magical display.  “Gentlemen, you have my word.  I shall see my commission fulfilled, if it secures my life.  And when you do meet Pratt?  Tell that picaroon Uzhas plights to have business with him in the Shipwrecker’s Halls, otherwhere!” he spat, solemnly.  “Godsdamned amateur!”

“You may leave, with our word,” Tyndal promised.  “But we would appreciate your discretion, for the remainder of the evening.”

Uzhas looked around at his former place of business.  “Who would I tell?  You just put more than a dozen of the grisliest thugs in Enultramar into the Shipwrecker’s twat.  You think I’d send a couple of poor watchmen there?  No, you fellows do your business.  I’ll do mine.  And,” he said, with a slight bow, as he stepped over the corpses of his former associates, “do have a pleasant evening.  Just be careful walking home.  Bad neighborhood,” he explained, walking out the door, not looking back.

“Are you going to discuss politics with the locals all night?” asked Lorcus’ voice from upstairs.  “Or do you want to come see what you just bought that man’s life for?”

Chapter Fourteen

Solsaritsa Abbey

“This is a real trove, gentlemen,” Lorcus said, eyeing the stacks of parchment with satisfaction under a magelight cast for the purpose.  “And you made enough of a mess of the raid to throw the Rats into turmoil, I think.”

“Why did we let him go, when they could have thought that it’s one of their other rivals who attacked?” Rondal asked, irritated, as he set his round shield into a chair in the upstairs chamber.  He began organizing the accounts into one large stack.  “That was their first impulse, in Solashaven.”

“Well, there is a certain charm in throwing suspicion on an innocent party,” Lorcus agreed.  “But that depends upon just what your eventual goal is.  In this case, announcing your presence and enmity toward the Brotherhood is likely of more service.  And more satisfying to take the credit,” he added, knowingly.

“Our eventual goal is the overthrow of the Brotherhood,” Tyndal declared, as he finished cleaning his mageblade of blood before sheathing it.  “Perhaps not the slaughter of every Rat, but . . .” he trailed off, as his eye caught a glimpse of something.  “Oh, Atopol.  You might as well come out and introduce yourself before Lorcus accidentally kills you.”

The shadowmage obligingly emerged from the shadows of the hall, startling the Remeran – which Tyndal found oddly satisfying.

“Bloody hells!” he said, freezing.

“Lorcus, this is Atopol, the Cat of Shadows,” Rondal said, casually, “Shadowmage and master thief.”

“Journeyman thief,” Tyndal corrected.  “That is, if you did pass your master’s test?”

“Why yes, I did,” he agreed, pleased.  “I am my own man, now.”

“A shadowmage?” Lorcus asked, surprised and pleased.  “The one you mentioned?  Not many of those around,” he nodded.

“Lorcus is a warmage,” added Tyndal.  “He’s assisting us on this mission.”

“Sir Lorcus.” The black-clad youth gave an elegant bow.

“Just Lorcus,” the Remeran insisted.  “Never got knighted.  Haven’t missed it.  I work for a living.  Glad to have you along, lad, if you’re helping out.”

“I’m my own man,” repeated Atopol, as he took a seat at the Rat’s conference table.  “Though I bring word from my master.  He has discussed your situation with the rest of my family, and they have agreed to help.  Quietly.  As long as there is no connection made between your mission and my house, I can lend you aid.”

“What can you do?” Lorcus asked, skeptically.

“Sneak up on a high warmage or three, apparently” he shrugged.

“Fair point,” Lorcus agreed.  “All right, that brings us to the next question: where shall we go from here?”

“There are a lot of potentially worthy targets,” Rondal considered, as he continued gathering the coded notes the Rats were using.  “I think maybe one of their operations in Falas, or down along the Bay, someplace really important to them—”

Tyndal’s eye caught on a word on a parchment on the table in front of him.  He slapped his hand on the page, startling the other magi.

“What’s that?” his partner asked, as Tyndal grabbed it, and stared at the name on the sheet.  It was a list, of some sort.  A list of names, in a table of all the aliases and code names, few stuck in his memory.  But that name leapt out at him like a cavalry charge.

“I think I know where we’re going, next.  This lists the crew leaders of the territories in Enultramar and the Coastlands,” Tyndal reported, as his eyes kept re-reading the name.  “According to this, the leader of the . . . it says Yadraymar Crew is . . . Rellin Pratt.  Our old school chum, Kaffin.”

The four of them did not linger in town more than a day, as they watched the aftermath of the slaughter from the comparative security of their monks’ habits.  The town constable and his men arrived in the morning, and questioned everyone - including Lorcus, who was happy to give a horrifying but entirely unhelpful account that went far beyond the reality of the actual raid, and featured a gallery of unlikely cutthroats . . . with plenty of scriptural references and even a lengthy prayer for justice.

“Anyone who hears that is going to think an entire army hit that hall,” he chuckled to the boys as they made their way back to the docks.  “I told them there were at least eight, maybe ten, of the assailants.  Huge men, in armor, all wearing masks,” he added.

“We’ll be long gone, by the time one of the senior Rats shows up, but the heroic tale of our bloodthirsty quest for vengeance lives on.”

“So where to next?” Rondal asked, as he pulled his bag over his shoulder.  “Downriver, of course, but to where?”

It took Tyndal a moment to realize that his partner was talking to him - that they were both awaiting his instructions.

“What’s the next most important place on Gareth’s list?” he asked, innocently.

“Ah, yes,” Atopol, in his own guise as a monk, agreed, sagely.  “There’s a large regional headquarters listed in the scriptures,” he recalled, slipping into the role of piety effortlessly.

“It’s at the mouth of the Mandros, in one of those out-of-the-way spots that criminals and cockroaches prefer.  One of the older ones, if I recall correctly.”

“You do,” agreed Rondal.  “In fact, it’s in an old temple in Galvina, in the southern Oxbow Viscounties.  It’s where six different crews report to, including Relin’s crew.  It’s run by a captain named Kradets, Kradets the Jester,” he recalled.

“I’ve heard of him,” nodded Atopol.  “Not a nice man.  Even for one of his brotherhood.”

“Kradets the Jester, Nigzily the Noose, The Surgeon, The Nurse, The Chandler . . . why does the Brotherhood pick such odd names?”

“Well, I’m no expert,” Lorcus replied, as they reached the docks, “but I would guess it serves a dual purpose: to disguise their true nature and to suggest fear in the hearts of their adversaries through the irony of their choice,” he reasoned.  “Your friend Uzhas had a point.  It’s hard to have a casual conversation in public speaking about ‘Kradets the Cold-Blooded Killer’ or ‘Omphrei the Savage Assassin,’” he added.  “People would talk.  But let’s go see this Jester,” he added.  “I suddenly find this place depressing.  I could use a laugh.”

When they arrived at Galvina late the next day, the ancient abbey at the far end of the ancient town hardly seemed the sort of place where thieves and robbers might congregate.

The town itself was modest, an ancient Sea Lord settlement, long conquered by the Coastlords and then forgotten, on the eastern bank of the mouth of the mighty Mandros River as it emptied into the bay.  It was set high on a rocky promontory overlooking the small harbor below, the ships bobbing at the wharf sheltered behind a line of massive boulders from the fury of the dark blue Bay beyond.  The smaller side of the sheltered docks was home to the fishermen who fed the town.  The larger docks were for the ships which gave it purpose.

Tyndal noted that the six ships berthed in the larger docks were all Farisi naval ships, by their banners.  He was far from a mariner, but he was beginning to appreciate the differences in ships from his time here in Enultramar.  The Farisi ships were much smaller than the great vessels of the Alshari fleet; he’d yet to see a Farisi-flagged ship in the great harbor more than forty feet long, whereas the largest of the Alshari were twice that.

But the Farisi ships looked much faster, and the artillery pieces under oiled sailcloth tarpaulins on their decks looked both complex and efficient.

The town itself was surrounded by a rough, unmortared wall of local stone, behind which the folk had constructed gardens to complement their seafood-laden diet.  Within the confines of the wall, dozens of fruit trees imported from the Coastlands long ago made up precious little orchards and gardens in the poor, rocky, sandy soil.  The tower that loomed over the town seemed to offer visible protection, but as Tyndal studied it he realized that for all of its imposing size, the place could have offered only token protection from attack and virtually no refuge in a siege.

No doubt that was why the lord of the domain had nearly abandoned the tower in favor of a smaller, grander, and completely undefendable manor hall nearby.  It seemed to Tyndal that the best defense against Galvina being conquered was the reality of Galvina, itself.

The rest of the small town was laid out on three streets at the head of the stairway down to the docks.  Nearly every building, whether barn or home, was made of the rocks that seemed to grow everywhere, and thatched with reeds from the estuary below, if the family was poor, or with green earthenware tiles if it was prosperous.  There were few of the latter.

If the town of Galvina was faded, the temple it claimed was far more so.  Indeed, the humble old pile of rocks and driftwood looked barely adequate for a prayer service, much less a going criminal concern, to Tyndal’s eye.  But the others seemed to think that it was the perfect sort of nondescript location necessary to avoid intrusion.

It was a simple two-story structure, the bottom floor constructed of gray stones and the upper made from posts and beams.  The entire thing showed its age, as hundreds of coats of whitewash over the years had done little to keep the place from deteriorating.  It was the kind of temple that the local folk only visited for funerals or religious instruction . . . and its dedication to the Salt Crone, the psychopomp of Enultramar’s maritime religion, did little for its charm.

“Welcome to the Abbey of Solsaritsa, famous for not one damn thing at all,” Lorcus said, enthusiastically, as they mounted the long flight of narrow steps leading from the docks to the quiet port town and the abbey came into view.

Tyndal suppressed a sudden urge to abandon his life as a knight mage in favor of that of a mariner, and returned his attention to the abbey.

“Are those real monks and nuns, there?” he asked, peering at the old hall.

“Probably,” nodded Rondal.  “Plenty of spare clergy around the harbor.  They have to keep them somewhere.”

“Then how do our foes escape attention?” Tyndal asked.

“The same way we are,” Lorcus said, clapping him on the shoulder.  “By wearing one of these charming robes.  Now, let’s find an inn with more barmaids than bedbugs before nightfall,” he suggested, looking around the depressed-appearing town.

Most of the inns closest the port were full of mariners who had paid for the winter. Already they were packing up and heading toward their ships in preparation for the spring raids.  But there were more genteel quarters available farther inland, near the wall overlooking the small farms of the land.   In their guise as rich pilgrims or an ecclesiastic junket, it only took a handful of silver pennies to secure a private room for the four of them.

“I’m getting to like this,” Tyndal said, straightening his robe.  “People respect the clergy!”

“People fear the clergy,” corrected Lorcus, as he checked the two narrow windows in the second-floor chamber.  “They make them feel guilty, or fear their powers, divine and mundane.”

“I know!” Tyndal nodded.  “I never realized that, really, until now.  Boval Vale didn’t have any temples.  Only a few priests who’d visit.”

“I envy you your secular life,” snorted Atopol, whose fake priestly raiment was much plainer than the warmagi’s.  “Mostly the clergy are a pain in the arse.  And people ask you to do the damnedest things while you’re so attired.  On the bright side, you can always claim a vow of silence, or some other bizarre religious rite, to keep them at bay.  I learned that from real monks,” he chuckled.

“If we raid a real abbey, is it blasphemy?” Tyndal asked, suddenly curious.

“Probably,” shrugged Rondal.  “Which puts you in familiar territory.  It’s the Salt Crone, the one who takes the landborn to the halls of swampy death.  Considering all the other divinities you’ve blasphemed over the years, she’s going to have to draw lots for the pleasure of her divine vengeance.   I say we spend a day spying and scrying, then take them apart at the seams.”

“I like the way you think, Sir Rondal,” Atopol nodded.  “What my house knows about this place is limited, but might prove useful,” he said, settling into a padded chair while Rondal started a fire in the brazier with a cantrip.  “It’s another central hub, this one for slaves.  I—“

“Slaves?” asked Rondal, aghast.

Atopol looked surprised.  “You didn’t know?  That’s one of the reasons the spring raids are so important.  If the fleets can bring back enough slaves to fill the fields by harvest, they stand to make a lot more than if they have to rent the labor.  And they sell the surplus inland to the great plantations.  It was proscribed, under Lenguin, but the rebels have permitted the trade again.  As they have open piracy,” he added, darkly.

“How is this place connected with the slave trade?” Lorcus asked, intrigued.  “Those bastards raided the coast of Remere for centuries.  Took entire villages into slavery!”

“Didn’t the Remeran corsairs do much the same to Castal and Cormeer?” observed Atopol, who was more familiar with maritime history than Tyndal by far.

“Well, yes, but it isn’t about the politics, it’s about the people,” Lorcus stressed.

“The Brotherhood acts as the broker for the trade,” explained Atopol.  “It’s not nearly as big as it once was, and they don’t hold their auctions in the open, but no one is trying to stop them anymore, either.  The local crews take orders from the landowners, and then come here to place them.  The actual auctions are elsewhere, but this abbey is where they control it from.  No one pays heed to how many nuns and monks are going into and out of an abbey, and the Salt Crone’s cult is popular in some quarters of Enultramar.  But this is where you tell them you want a slave, and this is one of the places you pay for it and then pick it up.”

Tyndal considered that information.  “And this is the captain that Pratt reports to?”

“Oh, assuredly,” Atopol nodded.  “I looked into it, personally.  “His crew does transportation, after the fleet returns.  They cart their human bounty all over the bay, and often make deliveries.  Assuming, that is, they survive the raiding season.  Between the sudden storms off of the Depths and the other fleets on the water, the Shipwrecker could take him before high summer.”

“I would hate for her to deny me the pleasure,” Rondal said, gravely.  “If Pratt depends on this place for his orders, then let’s destroy it.  Utterly.”

Lorcus looked enthusiastic.  “I am in favor of this motion, despite your callous use of the term ‘utterly’.”

“I’d like to watch you fellows work, maybe learn a few things,” agreed Atopol.

“Let’s kill some Brotherhood slavers,” shrugged Tyndal.  “That’s what we came here to do.”

This time they spent two days reconnoitering the abbey.  First touring it as pilgrims, then by infiltrating it as spies.  While Rondal’s construct was useful in the process, and their scrying was exemplary, the very best intelligence, they discovered, came through their shadowmage.  Atopol explored nearly the entire complex without being seen.

“How do you do that?” Rondal asked, one afternoon after he returned and briefed them in detail about what he’d seen.  “It can’t be invisibility – if I try hard enough, I can see you.”

“You just think you can,” Atopol bragged.  “Family secret.  But it’s about three parts blue magic and one part photomancy.  If you and Gat actually get married, I can teach it to you,” he promised.

“I’ll . . . I’ll figure it out,” Rondal muttered.

“How much blue magic do you use in your trade?” Tyndal asked, suddenly curious.  He’d learned a few things about the art of psychomantics – the magic of the human mind – at Inrion Academy, and he continued to have an interest.

“A fair amount,” admitted Atopol.  “My aunt is a blue mage, or used to be, when she practiced.  There’s a lot of it in the house library.  Why?”

“It’s useful,” shrugged Tyndal.  “So, how many guards are we dealing with?”

“Nine,” the shadowmage reported, grimly.  “And that’s just on the first floor.  They haven’t tightened up security yet – I doubt they’ve heard of the Guildhall massacre yet – so we can just imagine how it would be if they were expecting trouble.”

“What about the clergy?  The real clergy?” Lorcus asked.

Tyndal shrugged again.  He was good at shrugging.  “We lure them out, before we strike.”

“How do you allure a bunch of poverty-bound clergy?” asked Rondal, philosophically.

“Alms,” Atopol said, suddenly.  “Coin.  The Brine Brethren are not a popular order, nor do they have many patrons.  They rely upon a few bequests, fees for services, and alms.  If someone was passing out alms . . .”

“Why would anyone do that?” Tyndal asked, frowning.  “A few pennies in a begging bowl, perhaps, but . . .”

“No, no, no,” sighed Lorcus.  “That’s the right idea, but the wrong approach.  You want to get the entire abbey turned out – anyone who isn’t a Rat.  So . . . we hire them.”

“Hire them?  To do what?” asked Rondal, amused.

“They’re sometimes employed as mourners,” suggested Atopol.  “If you could arrange for a funeral, you could hire them to do the Orison of the Foam.  Supposedly the pleas of the hymn can sooth the Shipwrecker and keep a soul from her grasp.”

“Well, I’ve arranged a lot of funerals,” boasted Lorcus.  “One more won’t be a problem.”

“It doesn’t have to be an actual funeral,” Atopol protested.  “The Orison can be sung in someone’s memory.  It’s an old tradition, but if you paid enough you could have every novate in the abbey on the shore, singing for you at dusk.”

“That would do it,” agreed Lorcus.  “I can approach the abbess, see if she’s keen.  Then when everyone is singing the sunset away, we can destroy their home.”

“We’ll pay them enough to build a new one,” Rondal promised.  “From the Brotherhood’s treasury.  So how do we want to do this?”

“A slaughter like the guildhall would be impractical,” Lorcus suggested.  “There are just too many folk nearby who might come and try to intervene.  It needs to be something more sudden, and more permanent.  We sacrifice some drama for limiting the damage to bystanders, but I think that’s worth it.”

“Agreed,” Tyndal said, nodding.  “So a spell affecting the entire area . . . you know, I think I figured out a way to preserve the drama,” Tyndal said, getting a fiendish idea.

He was not often prone to fits of creativity, although he often responded to crisis in unusual ways.  But every now and then Briga whispered a trick in his ear.

And for this raid, that was the most appropriate deity to invoke.

Lorcus, in disguise using the name “Lawbrother Lorcurard,” visited the aging abbess of Solsaritsa, a bone-thin matron in her fifties who wore her light gray habit like a threadbare blanket the next morning.

He professed to be representing the estate of a benefactor who had made a bequest – something which perked up the abbess’ covered ears.  Bequests could be very good for an ecclesiastic institution.  Though she was disappointed that it was merely a service, and not a grant to the abbey, she was happy to accept what coin she could.

Lorcus convinced her to perform the Orison of the Foam with every single member of the order two days hence . . . on behalf of Orril Pratt, the Mad Mage of Farise.

That took the abbess aback.  Just a few years before the might of the Alshari navy had been marshaled to destroy the man, one who many amongst the Coastlords saw as a cousin.  Orril Pratt was a sensitive subject, even now.

But silver was silver, and when Lorcus placed a fat pouch of a hundred ounces of silver in her lap, the abbess was happy to sing the Orison for Orril, or anyone else Lorcus desired.

“Two days?” asked Atopol, curiously.  “Why wait?”

“Drama,” Tyndal grinned.  “Within a day, Rellin Pratt will hear about the bequest, and he’ll crawl out of whatever hole he’s in to investigate.  Hopefully, he’ll get here in time for the festivities.  If he happens to be around while the abbey is destroyed – the third such attack against the Brotherhood – then he will be held accountable by their council.”

“If we don’t slay him ourselves, first,” added Rondal.

“That would be preferable,” agreed Tyndal.

“So what are you going to do to them while the clergy are gone?” asked Atopol.

“The same thing we did to one of Sire Gimbal’s castles, back in Castal,” Rondal supplied, pulling out a wand about a foot long, an inch thick, and made of ash.  “After you loot the place thoroughly, first,” he added, looking at the thief.

“I suppose there are a few coffers in there that could be liberated for the cause,” the thief agreed.

“Grab all you can, the higher-value loot,” Lorcus suggested.  “For expenses.  The rest of it can go to slag.  Along with the slavers.”

With time to waste while they awaited the fateful hymn, the four gentlemen enjoyed what few pleasures the town of Galvina had to offer.  Apart from the string of seedy establishments that catered to the mariners and the dockmen, the rest of the town seemed as threadbare as the abbess’ habit.

To Tyndal’s eye it seemed a terrible place to try to live, if it wasn’t for the sea.  The soil was rocky and sandy, the winds were harsh and bitter, and the rains that washed the stony shore so frequently kept the town damp, cool, and depressed.  The cottages and shops were faded no matter how many times they’d been whitewashed, and moss clung to every shady crevice.  The damp infected everything – he could see why the Brine Brethren settled here, if they found divinity of the salt spray illuminating.  But it also made the entire town of Galvina smell of mildew.

But then there was the sea . . . the twilight before their assault, the four of them found themselves with a couple of bottles, a basket of provisions, and a few moments between rainstorms to watch the sunset over the great Bay of Enultramar.

That was a sight Tyndal could never tire of.  He took a bottle up to the roof of the structure to watch it.  The golden sun and the dark blue-gray water, the hundreds of ships bobbing on the waves as massive flocks of sea birds wove between their swaying masts.  As the sun set, the color of the entire bay shifted, and the light that fell on the mountains to the east changed tones a dozen times in moments.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Atopol asked, as he joined Tyndal with a bottle and refilled his mug.  “I was raised inland, but the first time I saw this I was mad to go to sea.”

“Will you? You’re a journeyman, now,” he reminded the thief.  That was a mark of proficiency and independence in any trade.

“Will I?  Oh, I satisfied that craving long ago,” assured Atopol.  “Part of my training involved a three-month cruise aboard the family yacht.”

“Family yacht?” Tyndal asked, surprised.

“We have a lot of assets,” Atopol admitted.  “We’re an old house.  And it’s an old ship.  But my master took us out and we learned how to sail, how to fight at sea, how to dance on ropes and spars . . .”

“That sounds . . . challenging,” snorted Tyndal, imagining the kind of drills a shadowmage thief might have to perform.  “Hells, it makes doing practicals sound relatively easy.”

“We had to do those, too,” Atopol said, frowning.  “My master is very thorough.  And very traditional.”

“Did you have to fight a siege drake?” Tyndal challenged.  “We had to fight a siege drake.”

“It sounds like you and Rondal have had a tough time,” Atopol agreed.  “But life at sea isn’t as glamorous as it sounds.  It was actually like being in prison, more than anything else.  We only went as far as the Shattered Coast, but that was far enough.  The sea is dangerous,” he said, respectfully.  “It can kill you a hundred different ways you can’t even imagine, on top of the thousands you can.  There is a reason the Sea Lords revere the Shipwrecker among the five daughters.”

“It sounds like you’ve had a pretty adventurous life,” conceded Tyndal.

“It’s mostly been training and preparing,” complained Atopol.  “Since the Duke went north and never came back, things have been tense in Enultramar.  Even the private dynastic wars have been paused, as the political situation sorts out.  My . . . master has been hesitant to expose the family to any conflict, so I get to break into a crappy old warehouse and not the palace in Falas.”

“Here’s to better times,” Tyndal agreed, toasting.  “I still want to go to sea,” he added.

“You’re an idiot,” Atopol agreed.

Chapter Fifteen

The Orison Of The Foam

Atopol scouted the stony abbey the next day while the brethren prepared for the ceremony they’d commissioned.  He returned before noon, a disgusted look on his face.

“This really is a waste of my talents,” he complained, when he returned to the inn.  “I’ve seen better-guarded kennels than that place!”

“Is that a problem?” Rondal asked, confused.

“No, it’s just insulting,” the shadowmage replied, taking a seat at the table.  “The Brotherhood has gotten so ridiculously complacent that they only have nominal security in their section of the abbey.  Two guards – two! – and only two doors between the general public and their treasury.  One of them isn’t even locked.  The Brotherhood have enjoyed such a long stretch of prosperity they’ve scrimped on the basics.”

“It’s a sad state of affairs when even criminals cannot be depended upon to fulfill their duties,” sighed Lorcus.  “I suppose we shall just have to teach them a lesson, then.”

“Apart from that, the rest of that sorry lot will be easy enough to handle,” he continued, as Tyndal brought him a mug of beer from the keg he’d secured that morning, when he tired of going down to the common room.  “There’s three clerks dealing with accounts, a couple of slave handlers, and Jester.  He has two little toadies who run his errands, but they’re only at his side about half the time, and they don’t look very challenging.”

“Arms?”

Atopol shrugged.  “Short blades, a few scimitars.  And you can bet every one of them has a rat tail on them.  But no real armor, no heavy infantry gear.  They’re beating up starving slaves, not going to battle.”

“That’s fortunate,” Lorcus agreed.  “So it was business-as-usual, this morning?”

Atopol stopped and looked at the warmage thoughtfully.  “Actually, no.  The abbey was all a-twitter about the mysterious benefactor who commissioned an Orison of the Foam for Orril Pratt.  That, Lorcus was a fiendishly brilliant idea: the entire crew was beside themselves with worry and anxiety.  Apparently the Brotherhood had some history with the Mad Mage of Farise that they are concerned about.  Jester was composing a message to be sent to his superiors this morning.”

“And you’re certain no one saw you?” Tyndal asked.

Atopol gave Tyndal a look questioning his reason.  “I am a shadowmage.  There are more shadows in the daytime than at night.  Trust me to know my business.”

“He’s just unfamiliar with your Art,” Rondal quickly intervened.

“So do you think this will draw Rellin Pratt out?” asked Atopol.  “That was brought up around Jester’s table: apparently Pratt is not well-loved amongst the Brotherhood.”

“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? came 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.”

“Those gangsters did look equipped for a fight,” agreed Tyndal.  “But wouldn’t killing Pratt be a better idea?”

“When we could humiliate him, and incite a feud or three within the Brotherhood?” asked Lorcus, surprised.  “You know, I think we have an opportunity, here, lads,” Lorcus said, grinning to himself in that particularly Mad Remeran way.  “Perhaps a much better one than we originally thought.”

“How so?” asked Tyndal, cautiously.

“Well, we could just kill Pratt,” he reasoned, “no doubt we could accomplish that easily enough, even with a score of bloodthirsty bodyguards.  But as much as I’d enjoy another bloodbath, but I have an arguably better plan . . .”

Chapter Sixteen

Pratt And The Rats

Dawn’s first blush the next morning found all four magi – absent their monks’ disguises – in position to watch the procession of the Brine Brethren to the center of town, then disperse as they walked solemnly to their assigned positions, singing a dolorous hymn in the old Sea Folk language as they went.

Tyndal was pleased with his vantage point, atop the roof of a tavern overlooking the docks.  Concealed behind a chimney (actually, more of an old barrel painted with a thick coat of gray mud) he could see the entrance of the abbey, the stony beach where they would be performing the Orison, and the boats below.  Indeed, that was why he’d been posted here.

He watched the gray-robed nuns and monks from the abbey form a circle in the town’s lackluster market square before turning their backs, still singing their dirge in praise of the depressing Five Daughters, and walking toward the farthest corners of the town, until they faced the sea.

Tyndal wasn’t the only one watching the uncommon ceremony.  Most of the inns had emptied when the abbey’s bell tolled unexpectedly at dawn.  The finest inn of Galvina was nearly mobbed by the twenty mariners of the Brotherhood, with Rellin Pratt standing tensely in their midst, as the Brethren passed by.  Most removed their hats respectfully, but some continued to keep their eyes keen on the participants as they walked by.

The circle is just breaking up, he reported dutifully to Lorcus, mind-to-mind.

Hold your position, lad, he warned in reply.  Don’t move until I give the word.  I’m sending the messenger in now.

Sure enough, as the gangsters watched the slow-moving spectacle, one of the barnacle children who haunted Galvina delivered a message to their captain.

Finding a kid willing to deliver a message for a penny was easy; making it convincing was the hard part, Tyndal reflected.  Pratt was already suspicious.  That helped.  When he received word that the Jester wanted to know what he and his filthy brutes were doing in his town, and to get their collective arses back to sea, Tyndal could see Pratt was growing angry.  As the last of the nuns dispersed to sing to the waves for the soul of his uncle, Rellin gathered his men around him, spoke a few words, and then set out determinedly across the flagstones toward the abbey.

The message has been delivered, and the rats are on the move, he reported, this time to Rondal.  Are you in position?

I’ve been in position since before dawn, reminded his partner, crankily.  Atopol is likewise ready.

Just checking, Tyndal replied, some of his enthusiasm checked.  Why couldn’t Rondal just have fun with this? He asked himself.

He watched in the distance with magesight while Rellin and his gang got closer and closer to the nearly-empty abbey.  As he and his men approached, they saw a figure in a gray robe walking the rooftop.

Now would be a good time, Tyndal told Lorcus.

Lorcus didn’t respond, but in a few moments six men came out of the abbey, and though they wore gray robes to a practiced eye it was doubtful they’d taken holy orders.  Indeed, the Jester crossed his arms over his chest defiantly as Pratt’s crew began to form up in front of the door.

“What’s all this, then?” the Jester, a large man with a big face that Tyndal had no trouble foreseeing twisted into a sadistic grin.

“We came to see about my uncle,” Rellin replied.

“With a fucking army?” the Jester asked, gesturing to his men.

“We didn’t know what we’d find,” Rellin admitted.

“You found me doing my proper business,” the Jester replied, evenly.  “Run along now, we’ll let you know if we need you.”

“I need to know who commissioned the Orison,” Pratt tried to explain – but the Jester was having none of it.  Atopol’s description of the various Brotherhood factions didn’t do the string of profanity the Jester unleashed against Rellin’s crew any justice.  The captain of the Galvina crew was clearly disturbed by more than twice the number of men he controlled milling about in front of his clandestine slave market.

“I need to know who commissioned the Orison!” Pratt repeated, more angrily, this time.

“Drown in bilgewater!” the Jester barked in response.  “And get outta my town!”

That’s when the gray figure atop the roof waved down at Pratt . . . and he waved back.  Rondal was in place.

Perfect, Tyndal said, as he watched the chaos unfold.  The moment that Rellin raised his hand, Rondal activated the spell that discouraged any two parts of the abbey’s construction from wanting to be together anymore . . . and the entire building came crashing down in front of them.

Tyndal wasn’t certain who looked more shocked – Pratt’s pirates, or the Brotherhood Rats disguised as monks who had been inside the wreckage just moments before.  But the entire abbey came crashing down as the mortar that held the bricks and stones together crumbled, and every beam of wood in the place collapsed.  The mighty sound rang out over the island and the cloud of dust it sent up formed a pillar against the distant mountains.

Pratt looked horrified, from this angle, Tyndal decided.  The whole abbey crumbled to dust in front of him with a roar of tortured wood and suddenly-released stone.  The Rats on both sides dove for cover at the sound, but as soon as the last beam from the roof settled into a pile, the Jester was not amused.

The gray-robed fake monk popped out of the dust as his headquarters was demolished, stared at it for a few moments, and then issued a strangled cry.  Tyndal was uncertain just what he ordered, but in moments all of his men had drawn knives and were attacking Rellin’s crew.

Ishi’s tits, this is fun! Lorcus reported, mind-to-mind.  Rondal just told me Atopol got out with a significant treasury, before he collapsed the building.  There were no slaves in the pens, he added.  That was something they’d worried about: the possibility of innocents getting captured in the collapse.  But this early in the season the demand for labor had cleaned out all the slave pens until the fleet returned in the autumn.

In front of the ruins a free-for-all was occurring as the two bands of Rats fought in the early morning sunshine.  The town watch was called, just as the first bodies were hitting the flagstones, and Rellin (or someone more responsible than the shadowmage) called for a retreat.

That was Tyndal’s signal.  It was his job to harass Rellin’s crew as much as possible to drive them out of town after their ostensible show-down with the Jester, and he laid into the task with enthusiasm.  Every third step of the long, wide staircase that led to the docks was seeded with a sigil that should cause tripping and falling, a dangerous proposition on the un-railed stair.

More, Tyndal was able to slip down long enough to enchant the boats themselves.  When Pratt made it back to his headquarters, following him should be a lot easier, now.

But Tyndal could not stand to leave the entire thing a mystery in Pratt’s mind.  From his old school chum’s perspective, he was allured to Galvina by the Orison and then blamed for an attack on the Brotherhood.  From the Jester’s perspective, Rellin had shown up to the service angry and ready for a fight, and then collapsed the abbey hideout with magic.

But as Pratt’s Rats flew from the sight of the brawl, some nursing cuts and bruises themselves, they hit the stairs and the tripping sigils.  Tyndal could barely contain himself as he watched a quarter of Pratt’s crew stumbling and tripping into each other, sending at least one man to injury with a broken arm.

The town watch was closing in, Tyndal could tell by the panicked way the Rats fled down the stairs.  He waited in hiding until both boats (lighter by two men apiece than when they’d arrived) cast off.  Only then did he reveal himself on the dock to Rellin Pratt.

“Hope you enjoyed your time in scenic Galvina!” he called, waving at the villain.

Rellin scowled graciously in return.  “You!  Tyndal!  You’re responsible for this!” he spat, as his men bent their backs into the oars.  The watch was starting to descend the stairs, now, though they had more luck with them than the Rats.

“Just as you are responsible for Estasia!” Tyndal countered, hoarsely.  “You can’t hide from us, Kaffin!” he called through cupped hands at the receding boat.

With a growl, Rellin drew something from his sleeve, and if Tyndal had been a moment slower he might have been in the water.  Instead a two-food wide chunk of the dock exploded in arcane fire where he’d been standing.

“Still a lousy shot!” called Tyndal, who was tempted to return fire.  But Lorcus’ plan didn’t involve sinking Pratt’s boats – quite the contrary, he wanted Pratt kept alive to face the sudden anger of the rest of the Brotherhood about his “attack”.  Tyndal watched the boats flee until they were almost out of sight before he mounted the stairway back up to town once again.

Most of the folk of Galvina were gathered around the ruins of the abbey, while the clerics who lived there looked on in stunned wonder.  Some were questioning their faith, in light of the event, while others (presumably those who found the comfort of the cold stone abbey scant) were praising the miraculous escape of the entire community before it fell; such fortune could only have divine providence to credit.

“All that work, and the gods get the credit!” Rondal said, sourly, as they walked back to their chamber after quietly ensuring that there were no survivors who needed to be rescued.

“They can have it, in this case,” Tyndal decided.  “We want to arouse the Brotherhood against Pratt.  If they want to think that the gods want him, too, all the better!”

“Well, that’s certainly done,” agreed Rondal, with a satisfied smirk.  “The Jester blames him, exclusively – not the gods, and certainly not us.  He was trying to explain to the captain of the watch what happened, pretending to be a monk, and he completely broke character and started calling Pratt every uncensored name he could think of.”

“A sad state of affairs for the clergy,” Lorcus said, shaking his head sadly.  “Yet perhaps with the silver they’ve made for the Orison, they can help re-establish the abbey here.”

When they returned to their chamber at the inn, they discovered Atopol had relieved the Rats of enough silver to ensure the rebuilding of the abbey – several times over.

“Not nearly as big a haul as the last two,” he admitted, “but then it’s hardly high season for slaves.  Still, over nine hundred ounces of silver and two hundred and change of gold.  Not too bad, for fifteen minutes worth of work.”

Tyndal was skeptical.  “You looted the entire place in fifteen minutes?”

Atopol snorted.  “Don’t be daft!  It only took me about three.  I spent the rest of the time leafing through the correspondence on the Jester’s desk.  I found some interesting letters, too.”

“Oh, really?” Lorcus asked, surprised.  “Involving what, exactly?”

“Well, plenty of requests for slaves to be acquired during the season,” he reported, “but more interesting was an invitation to a social event.”

“The Wharf Rat’s Ball?” Tyndal asked, feigning girlish interest.  “Whatever will he wear?”

“Better,” chuckled Atopol.  “It’s an invitation to bid on several items of interest from . . . the Tower Arcane,” he said, dramatically.  “Proceeds are to go to support the Three Censors and their iron grip on magic in Alshar.”

“What are the items?” asked Rondal, curious.

“The Three Censors?” asked Lorcus, intrigued.

“Where’s the Tower Arcane?” Tyndal asked, excitedly, although he suspected he should know the answer already.

Atopol took a deep breath.  “The Tower Arcane, also known as the Tower of Sorcery, is the traditional residence of the Court Wizard of Alshar.  It’s the original Count of Falas’ palace back during the Magocracy, before he became the Duke of Alshar.  But for the last several years the Count of Rhemes and his puppets have given it over to the Censorate, who uses it as their base in the duchy.  The Three Censors are the former regional Censor Captains of Enultramar and the Great Vale, plus the former Deputy Censor General of Alshar.  In other words,” he said with a sigh, “the three most fanatical Censors left in Alshar.

“As for the items, it wasn’t stated explicitly . . . but from what I surmised, I’m thinking they’re artifacts left over from the Censorate’s glory years.  Alshar was once a haven from the Censorate, and there were a lot of wizards here, in the early years.  After the Conquest a lot of that stuff ended up in the Censors’ offices of the Tower Arcane.  Including irionite,” he added.

“I guess we’re just going to have to go after it, then,” Lorcus decided.

“What?” Rondal asked, surprised.  “Why?”

“We can’t very well let our biggest institutional enemies go without some attention while we’re here,” Lorcus proposed in a very reasonable tone of voice.  “That just wouldn’t be right.”

“So what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking we break into that place, steal it blind, and see what other sorts of mischief we can find while we’re there.  How does that sound to you fellows?”

Chapter Seventeen

The Tower Arcane

Going back up the majestic, winding Mandros through the heart of the duchy was delightful, this time of year.  It was already the middle of spring and the trees on either side of the great river were bursting with sweet-smelling blossoms.  Tyndal enjoyed the intoxicating scent while his comrades argued over their approach to the tower.

“Does it make much sense to attack the Censorate, when we’re here to fight the Brotherhood?” Rondal asked, irritated.

“You aren’t afraid of the Censors, are you?” Tyndal teased.

“They aren’t just Censors, they’ve got witchstones,” Rondal snapped.

“Of poor quality, by all accounts,” Lorcus brought up, as he puffed away on his pipe.  “And if they’re inviting the likes of the Brotherhood to bid on some of their old junk, it seems as if they’re just asking to get taken advantage of.”

“They’re still three warmagi – surrounded by other warmagi – in the middle of a magical fortress, in a land that see us as rebels, ironically, armed with irionite.  I’m just thinking that perhaps some caution is required,” Rondal said, indignantly.

“Caution, yes,” agreed Lorcus, puffing away.  “But let’s not let the threat scare us from action.”

“What’s the political story on the Censors, Cat?” Tyndal asked, helpfully.  It was just like Ron to start off pessimistic about a little thing like a tower full of Censors.

“They just naturally allied with the rebels, after getting Castal and the Wilderlands, as it was the only safe haven near to hand,” Atopol reported.  “At least one ship bound for Merwyn was commissioned to take some away, three years ago, but the rest have just bided their time, doing their best to enforce the Bans and trying to survive.  Falas was glutted with Censor’s cloaks for a few months, after Rard’s decree.  When the news came of Hartarian’s defection, they got angry . . . my Master says they were one of the forces goading the Counts of Rhemes, Caramas, and Crona into open rebellion,” he added.

“They would,” nodded Lorcus.  “The Censorate has always depended upon the cooperation of the Duchies.  If they were put in a position where they lack that support, their order has complete freedom to arrange for a more convenient Duke.  It’s happened before,” he added.

“We know,” Atopol said, gloomily.  “That was one of my Master’s worst fears: that Count Vichetral would openly declare himself duke.  He could, you know: he’s the nephew of the Black Duke, and related to the Ducal house a dozen different ways.”

“But he hasn’t,” Tyndal prompted.  He was growing more and more interested in the politics of the situation, here.  Not because he was an innately political animal, but because of the drama it represented.  “Why not?”

“Because he’d rather be seen as a rebel than a usurper,” explained Atopol.  “At least, that’s the story.  By maintaining his nominal allegiance to the Ducal house, he escapes the responsibilities implicit in the office while enjoying most of its power.  Fath—My master thinks that he’ll wait until his eldest son comes of age before making such a declaration.  Which would be helped, if Duke Anguin suddenly woke up dead one morning.”

“Not with Lady Pentandra around,” bragged Tyndal.  “She can spot an assassin a mile away.  Especially someplace like Vorone.”

“Count Vichetral has many shrewd retainers,” countered Atopol.  “To be fair, he apparently dismissed the reports that Anguin had taken Vorone as mere fantasy, until they were confirmed by his agents.  It will take a while before he can get someone into place, I would guess.”

“Lady Pentandra will be expecting that,” nodded Rondal.  “I don’t think the sun rises in her cooch the way Tyndal does, but the lady is almost as powerful as Minalan,” he said, respectfully.  From anyone but Ron, Tyndal might have had words over such a crude description of his perspective.  “She’s a Remeran,” he explained.  “And as shrewd and cunning as the stereotype.  No offense,” he added, to Lorcus.

“Oh. None taken,” he shrugged.  “To be honest you Narasi constantly underestimate how cunning Remerans are.  There are plots that go back three generations, in the Game of Whispers.”

“But you weren’t born a noble,” Rondal taunted.  “You weren’t involved in any of that!”

“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, boy,” Lorcus chuckled, leaning back against a bag of seed.  “My folk were common, it’s true, but you cannot live in Remere and not have alliances, no matter the commonest villein.

“In my case, we were coopers and cobblers who followed House Maltzurak.  That’s a lordship on the southeast coast that controls a fair amount of industry and agriculture along the Berdea River.  They’ve had a feud going on with two rival houses, Surbil and Erikor, for at least two hundred years over one particular estate.  My people got involved when the lords of Maltzurak recruited us to spy on Surbil, even though they were my uncle Fretro’s biggest client – he made children’s shoes, and they had nine noble brats to shoe.”

“So what did your poor family do?” Rondal asked, concerned.

“We spied on Surbil,” he shrugged.  “Of course, Uncle Fretro let it be known that’s what he was doing, and for a small additional fee he informed on the lords of Maltzurak.  That’s just how things are done in Remere.  And Pentandra’s house, for all her pretense at nobility, is particularly well known for throwing their social weight into the dance.  I have heard that one of her sisters was slain in her youth as a result of one such plot.  Her parents never quite recovered, but that didn’t stop them from demolishing the House that did it.”

“I’d never heard that!  That’s terrible!” Tyndal said, genuinely offended.

“It was an accident – the poison was meant for her mother,” Lorcus said, gently.  “But what the Benurvials did to that other house was . . . excessive.”

“What house was it?” Atopol asked curious.

“As there are none left to answer to the name, I’d rather not mention it – bad luck,” Lorcus replied, looking around with exaggerated fear.  “But it was thorough.  None of them survived.  It took two years and the entire extended family to do it, but by the time they were through every one of them was dead, dead, dead.  Remerans might not be giants on the battlefield,” he conceded, “but few can match us in pure vindictiveness.”

“So I’m reasonably certain Duke Anguin is well-protected,” Rondal nodded.  “Besides, Master Minalan can be there in the shake of a wand, at need.”

“He can?” Atopol asked, surprised.

“Oh, yes – he’s mastered the art of the Alka Alon Ways,” Tyndal explained.  “He can cross hundreds of leagues at a thought.  As long as he doesn’t do it too often,” he added.

“That’s . . . that’s amazing!” Atopol said, his eyes wide.  “Could he do it to come here?”

Lorcus shrugged.  “He could . . . but likely would not take the risk.  This is a land under rebellion, ruled in part by the Censorate, or what’s left of them.  Suddenly showing up here for a couple of drinks and some giggles would be politically difficult, considering he’s under house arrest at the moment.”

“But still . . . he could!” Atopol insisted, excitedly.

“Providing there’s a Waypoint somewhere in this big ol’ valley, sure,” Tyndal assured the thief.  “Why is that so important?”

“There are some . . . call them underground magi,” Atopol confided, casting a quick spell to block any casual listeners amongst the other passengers on the barge.  “I mean, there have always been magically Talented nobles, particularly amongst the Coastlord families that date back to the Magocracy.  Remember, Alshar was the last of the Duchies to be conquered, and it wasn’t exactly peaceful.  The magical families here had some time to prepare, although they weren’t ready for the full brunt of the Censorate, when it came.  But by the Narasi came, they did what everyone else did, more or less, and disguised themselves.  Not as well as House Salaines, of course, but we’re . . . special.

“In any case, a lot of these old Coastlord families ended up spinning off cadet branches that specialized in magic.  We’re related to a few,” he added.  “But these underground magi think of the Spellmonger as a kind of savior after convincing Rard to end the Bans.  If he showed up here, maybe twenty families would have to seriously consider anything he said.”

“Are they . . . powerful families?” asked Lorcus, curious.

“In their way,” nodded Atopol.  “Some are really specialized, like the seamagi along the Bay, and House Jakintus – they’re a family of Blue magi,” he said, as if confessing a secret.  “Like us, they mostly keep to themselves.  In fact, they’re damn near xenophobic.  And then there’s House Aurikus, well-known academics and thaumaturges of Moinir, less well-known as drug fiends.  That’s where Master Thinradel came from.  House Ademina are magical healers.  And House Zoragar, of the Barony of Tiothlan are Warmagi, and damn good ones,” he added, proudly.  “My uncle Gogoas trained with them.”

“Warmagi, eh?” Lorcus said, interested.

Atopol nodded.  “And there are another dozen smaller families, commoners and such: swamp witches, spellmongers, footwizards – the Pirai have a clan devoted to magic,” he said, referring to the nomadic tribe of traders that plied the Five Duchies.  “But if Minalan the Spellmonger is popular with everyone, for what he’s done.  If he was to personally appeal to them to help restore Anguin to Falas, well, that might be significant.”

“I thought you said they weren’t powerful,” Tyndal said, frowning.

“I said ‘in their way’,” corrected Atopol.  “I wouldn’t count upon them to raise mighty armies, but that doesn’t mean that they cannot have an effect on the politics of Alshar.  They certainly have in the past.  And this is particularly relevant, as we’re coming to Falas,” he explained.

“Why is that relevant?” Tyndal asked.

“Because the Tower Arcane isn’t just a hall,” explained the shadowmage.  “It was the original stronghold of the Count of Falas, granted to the Court Wizard back during the Magocracy, so it’s more a complex, almost a small town on its own.  A town with plenty of magi, believe it or not.  Each of those houses have unofficial representatives, there, as liaisons to the Court Wizard, just like the great houses keep representatives to the court near at hand at the Duke’s palace.”

“Relevance?” prompted Tyndal.

“Well, I’m sure things are likely tense, with the Censors moved in . . . but as the center of the magical universe in Alshar, the Tower Arcane is an important symbol.  Give the wizards around it a reason to revolt, and they might be very good allies.  And Minalan the Spellmonger is the one person that to whom they might all listen.”

“That is a fascinating idea, Cat,” Lorcus sighed.  “I shall bring it to His Spellmongerness’ attention the next time we’re both sober.  But apropos to yon tower . . . just what kind of loot are we talking about?”

“Beyond the low-power irionite?” Atopol shrugged.  “A bunch of old junk, and it looks like they’re selling off a piece of the library, too.”

Rondal looked wounded.  “Why would they do that?”

“To raise money,” Lorcus supplied.  “I guess that Count Vichetral’s benevolence to the Censorate didn’t extend to a generous stipend.  They can have the use of the old tower, as long as they keep the magi in line and support the council.”

“That’s what I would guess,” nodded Atopol.  “It used to be that the Censorate was given a grant every year by the Duchy, and they survived on that and fees for services they imposed on lords who summoned them.  With the ducal court non-existent, they’re probably trying to raise funds.”

“To what purpose?” asked Lorcus, mostly to himself.

“Who knows?” Tyndal said, boldly.  “Who cares?  They’re Censors!”

“The Tower Arcane will not be an easy place to invade,” Atopol said, seriously.  “It was originally a fortress, and it bears the wards and guards of a dozen generations of Court Wizards.  The pinnacle, where the Three Censors are likely in residence, is six stories above the ground.  The Tower is surrounded by a moat, which is more a decorative pond, now, but it’s defensible.  If we’re going to break in, it will be a major undertaking.”

“More than you can handle, Cat?” Tyndal challenged.

Atopol snorted.  “Not even close.  I’m just letting you know it will be a challenge.  Those aren’t just the clerks of the magical civil service in residence there, the place is full of Censors.  Warmagi.  And they aren’t shy about using irionite anymore, either,” he added.

“We can contend with that,” dismissed Tyndal.  “We can always bribe them, if they’re that poor.”

“Well, the Tower isn’t attached to any estates,” Atopol said, wrinkling his forehead as he thought.  “I’ve heard that they brought a fair amount of confiscated materials here, when they came.  But you can’t eat that.  On the other hand, if they sold it, quietly, to certain collectors . . . like the Brotherhood . . . it could be problematic.”

“Yes, imagine Rellin Pratt with real irionite,” reminded Rondal.  “He’s almost obsessed with getting it – obsessed enough to steal Tyndal’s.  He’s the nephew of the Mad Mage,” he emphasized.  “And he’s likely not the worst the Brotherhood has to offer.”

“There are others, too, who would be eager to have some of those things,” Atopol assured his friends.  “If there are respectable houses of magi in Alshar, there are plenty of less reputable ones, as well.  And some individuals who would leap at the opportunity, for dire reasons of their own.”

“That’s not good,” Lorcus frowned.  “Then I suppose it’s not merely an issue of revenge and pure vindictiveness to break into the Tower Arcane and steal the Censorate’s toys, it’s a matter of righteous security!”

“It would be a crime to break up a collection like I’m certain the Tower Arcane has,” Rondal nodded.

“I love fighting warmagi!” Tyndal nodded, enthusiastically.

Lorcus clapped his hands together.  “Boys, I think we’re going to have a whole lot of fun in Falas!”

The Tower Arcane was a spectacular feature as they rounded the bend in the river that revealed its glorious spire.  Built on a motte, itself on a hill, the Tower jutted out into the river defiantly, and seemed far taller than its six stories from the riverbed.  Originally it was a Sea Lord fortress built far inland in the early days of Enultramar, when the Sea Lords contested with the native tribes for control of the river up to the great falls.

But since those early days the Tower had been expanded and improved upon.  The original tower, a great windowless keep four levels high, had six supporting turrets that reached from the square base all the way beyond the peaked roof.  The Tower had been rebuilt during the Magocracy to include two more stories and a watchtower at the peak of the spire.  A platform next to it held an imposing-looking trebuchet of ancient design but sufficient size to hit any point along the river.  The uppermost level was roofed at a steeply-pitched angle and tiled in bronze.

The Tower’s more modern upper stories were replete with windows and arrow slits, and the topmost story was machicolated, though the defenses had been converted to stained glass windows in the absence of a real foe.  Those were the private apartments and laboratories of the Ducal Court Wizard, Atopol explained.  The entire keep was whitewashed, though it was streaked with verdigris and rust where the rain washed down.

The Tower Arcane lay within a walled district called Old Falas, Atopol reported as they came near the docks.  Old Falas was where many spellmongers, enchanters, and magi of many stripes gathered.

“And my family has a townhome here,” Atopol added, as they disembarked.  “No monks’ habits and flea-ridden inns, this time.”

“Galvina?  Solashaven?” Rondal asked, skeptically.  “Those were palaces, compared to Mysteries of Duin!”

“Yes, you’re terribly manly,” Tyndal dismissed, crossly.  “I, for one, would not mind enjoying our friend’s hospitality.  Hopefully one day we can return the favor at the Rat Trap.”

“The what?” Atopol asked, curious.

Tyndal spent the rest of their journey walking through the streets of Old Falas explaining the bit of wonder he and Rondal now lived in, back home in Sevendor.  He was just getting to their innovative defensive construct when they came to the door of a stately, well-kept home along a street of such fine houses.

The servant at the door was wary, until he saw Atopol’s face . . . then he broke into a grin and welcomed the four of them inside.

“Your cousin is away for the evening, Master Atopol,” the old man said, as he shuffled through the old house.  “Business over in Falas, though he’s likely seeing his mistress while he’s there.  You and your friends are staying?  I’ll prepare the guest chamber.”

It turned out that the place had a vacant chamber the four of them could live in while they investigated the Tower’s security.  Indeed, the edifice loomed outside of the house, dominating the skyline and providing a spectacular view on the rear balcony, which had been fashioned as a kind of place of meditation.

“We’ve had this place for over a century, now,” Atopol said, as he settled into the chair on the balcony.  “I’ve always favored it.  But this should provide the perfect spot from which to consider how to enter and leave the Tower.”

“What about your cousin?” Rondal asked.  “Will he mind?”

“Onnelik?  Not at all,” dismissed Atopol.  “He’s not Talented, so the House lets him stay here and act as a caretaker.  He does some translations on the side.  He’s also a first-rate forgery artist.  He’s not a thief, precisely, but he doesn’t mind helping out.  But I have full use of the place,” he bragged.  “Journeyman’s privilege.”

The house was as pleasant on the inside as it was stately without, and included a small but rich library suited to the needs of the family’s magi.  Atopol ordered the servant to fetch a meal for them from a nearby inn, and while he was gone he took a thick folio hidden in a cache behind a wardrobe and showed it to the others.

“Basic plans for the Tower Arcane,” he announced.  “They’ve been kicking around the family for years, but no one has bothered with them, in recent memory.”

“Why would your family have floor plans to the Tower?” Rondal asked, suspiciously.

“We’re very thorough,” Atopol replied, as he unbound the folio and spread out the parchment drawings.  “We have similar folios on most of the major buildings in Falas.  And elsewhere,” he added.  “You never know when you might have to steal something, and it’s best to be prepared.  For that matter, I’d better start the book on this heist,” he added, drawing a blank sheet of parchment to him.

“What book?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“Whenever a thief is preparing to rob a place,” Atopol said, quietly, “one of the first things he should do is write down everything about it.  You never know what details are going to be important.  It helps keep things organized, and afterwards you can include the information in your records, in case you have to go back.”

“That’s terribly organized, for a simple robbery,” Tyndal frowned.

“Burglary, not robbery,” corrected Atopol, as he began to fill in the blank parchment with a quill.  “Robbery implies the threat of violence to get what you want.  What we want to do is burglary.”

“Speak for yourself,” snorted Tyndal.  “Those are Censors in that Tower.”

“We don’t have the best of relationships,” agreed Rondal.

“The loot is the goal,” reminded Atopol, firmly, looking at each of them.  “Killing a couple of Censors isn’t.  Those are the priceless treasures of the duchy that the Three Censors are stealing.  Recovery of as much of it as possible is the goal,” he stressed.

“If you say so,” Tyndal agreed, sullenly.  The thought of crossing blades with the checkered-cloaked warmagi was very enticing to him.  The thought of losing such a contest never occurred to him.  “How does this challenge the Brotherhood of the Rat, again?”

“Aside from keeping their grubby paws off of priceless treasures of the duchy?” Lorcus asked.  “You know, that is a good question.  Cat, any idea if our friends have an installation in Falas?”

The shadowmage snorted.  “Just one?  Falas is the capital,” he reminded.  “There are plenty of Rats here, nosing around court.  Why?  What do you have in mind?”

“Oh, just an idea I’m toying with,” Lorcus said, grinning.  “The gods are whispering good tricks in my ear, today.”

They continued working until the servant returned with a fat capon and bread, cheese, and new potatoes boiled in milk.  They were just finishing up when someone else entered . . . in a nun’s habit.

“Atopol, if you think you’re going to do anything as audacious as rob the Tower Arcane without me, you are mad,” Gatina, the Kitten of Night, declared as she removed her disguise.  “I’ve traveled for two days, day and night, to catch up with you, only to find out you’re planning the biggest heist of your life?  Without me?” she demanded.  “Hello, Beloved,” she added, purposefully, to Rondal’s pale face.  Tyndal delighted in the way his partner squirmed under Gatina’s gaze.

“’Beloved?’” Lorcus said, with a guffaw.

“Long story,” Tyndal muttered.

Is that the girl who has her cap set for Striker? Lorcus asked, mind-to-mind.

Yes, that’s her: Gatina.  What do you think?

The boy could have done worse, Lorcus admitted.  She’s pretty.

Pretty?  She’s pushy – just watch!

“Hello, Gatina,” Rondal replied, quietly.  “Glad you could join us.”

“Are you?” the girl asked, frustrated, as she shrugged out of the voluminous habit, revealing close-fitted leather traveling clothes underneath, including tight-fitting leather breaches.  “Because it looks to me like you boys were perfectly willing to plunge into that fortress of death and defeat without even consulting me!”

“You know, I am a journeyman shadowmage and thief, now,” Atopol reminded his sister.  “I can plan my own heists!”

“Against a couple of gangsters?  Sure.  But against the most heavily protected arcane tower in the duchy?  I wouldn’t trust you to steal a horseshoe!” she accused.  “You’re sloppy, and reckless, and—”

“It’s not horseshoes we’re after,” Rondal replied, patiently, interrupting the girl.  “It’s irionite.  And ancient books.  And other valuable stuff.”

Gatina rolled her eyes expressively.  “It doesn’t matter what you’re stealing, silly boy, it’s a matter of how hard it is to get it.  And this one is going to be hard.  I can’t believe you’d want to cut me out of it.  If anyone has the skill to break into the Tower Arcane, it’s me,” she said, boldly, but confidently.

“Oh, I like this one,” Lorcus said, grinning.  “Atopol’s sister, I presume?”

“Gatina, the Kitten of Night,” Tyndal introduced.  “Kitten, this is Lorcus, a warmage on assignment with the Order for the moment.”

“I specialize in skullduggery, deception, and pissing people off,” he said, with a bow.

“And I steal people’s stuff,” Gatina bowed, in return.  “Until I get married, that is, when I’ll go into semiretirement.  So I can have babies,” she added, matter-of-factly.

Tyndal profoundly wished he could have preserved the expression Ron’s face made at the declaration.  To aggravate matters, Kitten gave her intended bridegroom a perfectly innocent kiss on the cheek as she took a seat around the table and began sorting through the pages of the folio.  Ron looked like he’d eaten an entire lemon, and was desperately trying not to show it.

“Now,” she said, as she settled in and began to survey their work in Atopol’s heist book, “I can see you’ve already started this entirely wrong . . .”

Chapter Eighteen

The Three Censors

The precinct around the Tower Arcane was visibly different from the towns of the Great Bay of Enultramar in many respects; the architectural styles were quite different, with an emphasis on timber post-and-beam construction, with clay tile roofs.  Brickwork was used in place of stonework, and many of the tidy little houses had iron gates on their garden walls.

But Tyndal figured the lack of trash and refuse in the sewers and the absence of hundreds of hungry orphans was part of it.  Old Falas was just cleaner and more affluent than the busy seaports in the south, and there was both civic pride and government expenditure to ensure that it remained that way.  For over five hundred years this had been Alshar’s sparkling capital, he knew, and the residents clearly intended on keeping it looking that way.

Most of the big houses surrounding the Tower dated back to the first big wave of development, after the Magelords came to make Falas the capital of the new province.  They were large and spacious, in eastern style, with red brick foundations topped by two or three stories of exposed-beam dwelling space.  Each house had a bit of garden in the front, surrounded by a decorative fence, and some sort of sedate token or badge to tell it apart from its neighbors.  They were as big as burghers’ homes in Castal, Tyndal decided, each one a massive testament to the wealth and power of its lord or family.

Yet as impressive as the high-peaked homes were, they were dominated by the Tower Arcane, overhead.  In the daylight, especially, this was true, as the black and white checkered pattern on their banner flew from the top, casting a pall of watchfulness on the town.

Tyndal was surprised to see so many spellmongers and adepts practicing in light of the regulators in their midst, but half the shops ringing the square in front of the Tower were practitioners of magic of one form or another.  The others were services in support of the arcane community, from scribes and translators (something in which Atopol’s cousin Onnelik frequently engaged) to merchants specializing in sorcerous supplies, parchment and book sellers and vendors of rare and special arcane ingredients.  But no one, Tyndal was able to surmise after an afternoon’s strolling about the square, keeping his ears open, was particularly happy with the instruments of professional regulation entrenched so firmly in their midst.

The first time a pair of cloaked Censors passed him in the street, Tyndal shivered involuntarily.  He had a tumultuous relationship with the Order, stemming from their attack on the (defenseless) family of Master Minalan, just before his wedding.  And then another pair of them who attacked during his wedding.   And then there was the time he’d rescued his master from a small force of them, at Chepstan Spring Fair (which he was, alas, missing this year) using a small bag of silver and a bunch of swordplay contestants to bluff them away.

Tyndal hated the Censorate, although he had to admit being decent enough friends with some of its former members.  Landrik of Honeyhall was a decent fellow, as was Master Hartarian, the Order’s former Censor General.  But the institution as a whole tended to attract the most brutal and fanatical warmagi to its ranks with the promise of absolute power and very little accountability.  That was a privilege the Order enjoyed for four hundred years, and from the arrogant way the men in the checkered cloaks walked around Old Falas, they were unwilling to give it up.

The individual Censors Tyndal spied around the town that morning were all wearing mail under their distinctive cloaks, and most also wore spangham helms of bright steel and mageblades.  While they were not overtly bullying the magi they saw in the street, they were certainly intimidating just by their presence.

A fulfillment of that promise was prominently on display outside of the main entrance gate to the Tower Arcane: a yard full of gibbets, stocks, and other restraints designed to display magical miscreants who ran afoul of the checkered cloaks.  Tyndal was happy to see only three residents thus imprisoned – a slender woman with a battered face who was locked in the stocks, bent over in a terribly cramped position, and two men who were in a gibbet and in irons, respectively.

The woman’s punishment bore the legend INSULTED A CENSOR, while the men were labeled ATTACKED A CENSOR and USED MAGIC TO STEAL.  None of the prisoners looked like they were doing well, though Tyndal was careful not to attract attention to himself by speaking to them.  Clearly the Censorate was trying to gain the respect of the people through the only means it knew: threats and punishment.

The Tower itself was full of the buggers, he knew; three warmagi guarded the gates to the fortress, while others patrolled the battlements and kept watch in the spire, just as a real military organization would.  Despite the rumors that the leadership of the order held irionite, Tyndal could see little evidence of that in the spellwork.  The wards around the exterior wall, he soon found, were strong but crude.  They were classic examples of Imperial form, he noted scornfully – he and Rondal’s wards were far superior, to his mind.

But they were sufficient to prohibit any real scrying too, they discovered that evening as every attempt to peer beyond the Tower’s walls they made was in vain.

It was frustrating – after the relatively easy successes they’d had in Solashaven, Galvina and Reunus, having their spellwork turned back so adeptly made filling in the basic information they had on the Tower Arcane difficult.

But not impossible.  The next morning Gatina conspired to visit the Tower in disguise, ostensibly to request a book from the library for her fictitious master.  While there she was able to easily set the dahman into place where it wouldn’t be noticed.  After she left and returned to the townhouse, Rondal was able to activate the construct.  By moving it along the ceilings and rafters of the old castle, where it would not be perceived, they had a much better idea of who was living where, and where the valuables were.

“It appears as if most of the treasure in the place was moved to the top floor,” Rondal reported, after he and Gatina spent an entire day coaxing his creepy little toy through the Tower Arcane.  “The rooms you indicated were offices on the ground floor have been emptied for barracks space – except the bathing facilities, which are as decadent as I’ve ever seen.  All of the items of value once displayed there are now in the Censor Captain’s office on the sixth floor.”

“That is problematic,” Lorcus sighed.  “I guess we’re facing fighting our way through four floors worth of foes to achieve it, then.”

“Only if we plan on going in like a bunch of idiots,” Gatina dismissed.  “Honestly, it’s like you boys have never even heard of magic.  The loot is on the sixth floor, right?  Well, there’s more than one way of getting there.”

“If you’re looking for someone to fly you to the roof,” Tyndal said, skeptically, “you picked the wrong pair of Master Minalan’s apprentices.”

“Why not get in the same way your dahman does?” she asked, a well-shaped eyebrow raised over her undisguised violet eyes.  “Just have Atopol go up the side of one of the supporting towers, like a spider.”

“That’s . . . actually,” Atopol admitted, once he’d thought about the idea, “that’s a pretty good plan.”

“It’s the start of a pretty good plan,” Tyndal objected.  “Getting up to the top is just one part.  We have to get the loot out, while remaining undetected.”

“Who’s guarding the upper floors?” Lorcus asked, curious, as he studied the map Rondal had sketched out over the course of the day.

“Two warmagi – Censorate warmagi, unaugmented – are on guard there day and night,” reported Gatina.  “Probably have mageblades and warstaves, if this little bug is right.”

“Only two?” scoffed Tyndal.  “I could handle that with one foot in a bucket!”

“While that does, indeed, present an interesting mental image,” conceded Lorcus, “I think we might be better served to reconsider our approach and withdrawal.  For instance, what happens when we throw our bags of loot out of the window?  They fall right here in the courtyard, for all to see,” he said, answering his own question as he tapped on the parchment.  “That’s handy, as it’s close to the stocks and gibbets . . . where we will all be, if thirty Censors catch us stealing their most valuable artifacts.”

“What would you suggest?” asked Atopol, curious.

“Distraction,” Tyndal answered for the warmage.  Lorcus gave him a look.  “What, was I wrong?”

“No, you aren’t wrong,” agreed Lorcus.  “We will need a distraction.  But even with one, we’re still looking at almost certain capture.”

“Well, I’d hate to leave things uncertain,” admitted Tyndal.

“The point,” Lorcus emphasized, “is that it’s going to take one hell of a distraction to keep thirty angry Censors off our asses.”

“It won’t be as hard as you think,” Atopol said, thoughtfully looking at the magemap of the tower they were constructing.  “Look, most of the troops are in the lower two floors, which they’ve set up like a barracks.  They’ve got another thirty or so retainers in the stable complex,” he added, pointing it out on the map.  “Both are behind the wall.  If we can find some way to project our loot out beyond the wall, the thief can pass it off to our confederates.”

“. . . and get it just in time to hand it over to the Old Falas Town Guard,” Gatina said, discouraged.  “They patrol the Tower religiously.  It’s not like they have a lot of other things to do in this cemetery of a town.”

“That does make it a little more difficult,” Lorcus said, as he spun the image around to view it from all sides.  “Look, what was this door, over here?”

“Oh,” Atopol said, frowning.  “Back when this was a working fortress that was just the postern gate to the river.  There used to be a dock at the base of the tower, separate from the town docks.  It got washed away in a flood and no one ever replaced it.”

“Fascinating!” Lorcus said, rubbing his chin.  “Now, can you tell me how the Brotherhood of the Rat feels about other agencies sticking their nose into their business?”

Atopol shrugged.  It seemed to Tyndal that Lorcus had veered wildly from the problem at hand.  “About like most thugs do.  They tend to get stabby about it.”

“I thought so.  Okay,” Lorcus said, looking up at everyone else.  “I think I have a plan that might work,” he offered.  “But it’s very elaborate, it will require all of us, and there is still a fairly high chance someone will get nicked, thanks to the unpredictable nature of the heist.”

“Well, if what we heard today is accurate,” Rondal said, looking at the map, “the meeting for the sale isn’t for four more days.  They’re expecting several, uh, dignitaries.”  Rondal and Gatina had been manning the construct’s contacts day and night, moving the device throughout the Tower Arcane without attracting notice . . . so far.  They had learned an awful lot about the Censorate’s operations and plans, enough to fill several leaves of parchment.

“Four days?” asked Tyndal, dismayed.  “We have to wait four days before we can strike?”

Atopol looked at him like he was mad.  “You know,” he said, after taking a breath, “I’ve yet to have a heist where I thought, ‘Gods, I wish I didn’t have all this time to properly prepare!’ ”

“Point taken,” sighed Rondal.  “You’ll have to excuse Sir Haystack.  Patience isn’t one of the gifts the gods gave him.”

“I’m plenty patient!” Tyndal said, irritated.  “I just hate waiting.”

“That does present some interesting information concerning the timing of the heist,” Lorcus pointed out.  “If all of that loot just happened to not be there when the Three Censors have assembled all of their guests . . .”

A strange look blossomed over Atopol’s face.  “Master Lorcus, I like the way you think!  I just had a delightful idea . . .”

The days that followed were busy in the townhouse.  Atopol and Gatina’s cousin, Onnelik, returned from his errands in the capital and gleefully pitched in.  It turned out that the man – only a decade older than Atopol – was growing bored, thanks to a lull in his translation business.

Though not a thief himself, Tyndal found that Onnelik gladly accepted his role in the caper – and in the House – as important and necessary, if not particularly glamorous. Atopol defended his cousin’s position adamantly, however.

“It’s one of the things that makes House Salaines special,” he explained to the others over supper one night.  “A given region can only contain a few master thieves, before things get crowded.  The difference between us and freelance operators is that we have the institutional support for our crimes they lack.  If one of us suddenly appeared at the door – or window – of this townhouse and told Onnelik to hide us, he would – no questions asked.”

“Or, more likely,” the older gentleman said, “if you appeared and told me you needed a grappling hook, a hundred feet of rope, a pry bar and a sack, I’d have it for you within the hour,” he chuckled.  “Or if you had a pouch full of sapphires who needed a good home.  I could arrange that sort of thing.  And I dabble a bit in forgery,” he bragged.  “If you need documents, letters, warrants, patents, that sort of thing, I can assist.  Only for family, of course,” he added.  “But in return for these valuable services, I am granted the use of this lovely home in the most beautiful city in Alshar,” he sighed.  “I’m as much a thief as the rest – I stole my living from my own House!”

“One you’ve fairly earned,” Gatina insisted.  “My friends, don’t let our cousin’s humility fool you.  He is a scholar of rare talent, knowledgeable in several ancient dialects and languages of Perwyn, as well as the odd speech of Unstara and the other islands.  He is a master of research,” she boasted.  “He is adept at forgeries of all types.  And he’s a lot better than his cutpurse of a brother!”

“My younger brother owns a brothel in Rhemes,” Onnelik explained with a chuckle.  “My poor cousin is scandalized.  He’s actually pretty decent, but he’s not one to concern himself with propriety.”

“Still, it must be difficult planning a heist so close to home,” Rondal considered.

“Well, it is a departure from custom to rob one’s neighbors,” conceded Onnelik with a chuckle, “but I understand the reasoning in this particular case.  Indeed, I approve.  The Tower Arcane has one of the greatest collections of authentic Old Perwynese documents in the western world.  The idea that those vermin in checkered cloaks would dare to sell them for their own profit is infuriating to a scholar!”

“Well, it is the irionite we’re going to be going after,” Tyndal pointed out.  “But we’ll do what we can to rescue those, as well.”

“Please do,” Onnelik agreed.  “Bring them here, and I’ll make sure the House gives you a good price for them.”

“We’re not doing this for the money,” Rondal said, flatly.

Shut up, Ron! Tyndal warned, mind-to-mind.  Rondal glared at him.

“We’re not!” he insisted.  “Any documents we recover will be given in trust to House Salaines,” he declared.  “They belong to the ducal court, anyway.”

“True,” Lorcus agreed.  “But let’s see what we get away with, before we start dividing the loot.  Now, does everyone have their assignments?”

Tyndal, being in charge of the mission, graciously delegated actually planning the heist to Lorcus.  The Remeran had a knack for mayhem, he had to admit, and watching him work was fascinating.  Half the time it didn’t even look like work.

Lorcus had meticulously divided the plan into a series of tasks that all fit together like a millwork, in his head.  He not only sent Rondal and Gatina back into the Tower with the construct to answer some specific questions, he had the girl survey some of the features of the grounds while strolling through the gardens (open to the public, from mid-morning to sundown) arm in arm with Rondal. . . a pairing that had Tyndal jubilant.

Tyndal took a certain fiendish pleasure in his partner’s discomfort over Gatina’s obvious affection for Rondal.  And her intentions, which were as honorable as a man could ask.  In truth, he liked the girl, and her brother, and he had no objection to her interest in Ron.  It was far more likely that they would die on the battlefield or on some bit of dangerous errantry long before they were in a position to consider matrimony . . . so why couldn’t he just enjoy her attention?

For his part, Rondal was polite and gracious, calmly accepting Kitten’s interest with quiet dread . . . yet also not doing anything to discourage it, Tyndal noted.  That was significant.  He’d seen Ron duck an over-eager suitor before, and he usually took to hiding.  Not with Kitten.  He took her very seriously.

When they returned, Gatina made a full report to Lorcus.  The warmage disappeared outdoors after luncheon, took a long walk through the center of Old Falas, and into Onnelik’s study for an hour, and then returned with their assignments.  Each of them was given at least four tasks, ranging from the mundane to the arcane to the downright strange.

“Why do you need all these apples?” Tyndal asked, puzzled, as he read the first item on his list.

“You need me to procure a barge?” Rondal asked, his eyes wide.

“Why do I need to steal the seal of the Censorate’s sergeant-at-arms?” demanded Gatina.  “And this other stuff?”

“I’m to request a meeting with the burghers’ small council to ask for an increase in my garden space?” Onnelik asked, puzzled.  “I hate gardening.”

“I need to build a wand to cast . . . what?” Rondal asked, looking at his list.

“Now, now,” soothed the Remeran, gently, “I gave you each plenty of time to do them, my fellow thieves, and you have ample resources.  Please note the times and positions, where applicable, for your duties to be complete – as I said, the timing of this will be tricky.”

When Lorcus looked smug like that, Tyndal was starting to realize, the warmage’s mind was already set.  No details would be forthcoming.  He sighed, looked at his list, and got busy with his first task.

So did everyone else.  Tyndal was impressed by the group’s professionalism, in the face of such a difficult task, but then again each of them were very well-trained and experienced at their various arts.

Tyndal’s tasks were fairly simple, compared to others.  He merely had to bear a few messages (once Gatina procured the requested seal), rent a room in the top floor of a boarding house next to the Tower, buy a bag of early season apples shipped up to Falas from the Bay, purchase the six least expensive books from a third-hand bookseller three streets from the Tower, and find the tavern nearest a slaughterhouse in the artisans’ quarter, half a mile away from the tower, where he was directed to flirt with a barmaid and make his face known and his coin appreciated.

As preparations for a mission went, Tyndal counted himself fortunate . . . especially after hearing what Rondal was forced to do.

I’ve been haggling all day with jewelers, scribes, and lawbrothers, he complained, mind-to-mind, when Tyndal returned to the townhouse and discovered he was the first one who had completed their errands.  Now I have to book passage on a boat going upriver.  And there isn’t much going upriver, these days.

Atopol’s job, securing a barge, was apparently even more difficult, not to mention expensive.  And Gatina, once she had finished complaining about being asked to steal the Censor’s seal from his office, was equally vexed when Lorcus sweetly asked her to return it to where she found it . . . and requested that she steal three Censor’s cloaks and helmets for him.

For his part, Onnelik was confused about his duties: to go by the town hall and ask a few specific questions of burghers and reeves, then a stop by a lawbrother.  None of it seemed at all related to the heist, he confessed, nor did it seem particularly relevant to anything else.

But when Lorcus finally arrived after dark – and immediately after an exhausted-looking Rondal – and after hearing each of their reports he pronounced himself satisfied.

“Satisfied?  With what?” demanded Tyndal.  “All we’ve done is run around and do odd things!”

“You’ve done very specific odd things,” he countered.  “And in doing so you’ve set up the game board.  Now we get to see it unfold.”

“See what unfold?” Atopol asked, irritated.  “I have no idea what you’re doing!  What we’ve been doing!”

“We’ve been getting ready for the game,” Lorcus insisted, pouring each of them a glass of wine.  “Allow me to explain,” he smiled, graciously.

“It might spare your life,” growled Rondal, as Kitten rubbed his shoulders.

“Let’s begin by assuming, for the sake of argument, that we have two groups of enemies – which, as it turns out, we do.  My plan begins by suddenly and violently throwing them together.  With a little help,” he grinned.

“But the Censorate has already reached out to the Brotherhood by inviting them to this stupid sale!” protested Rondal.

“The Brotherhood is a very large organization,” Lorcus lectured.  “While it is true that the Three Censors extended an invitation to their leadership for consideration, I’m fairly certain – no, I’m positive – that the local affiliates know nothing about it.  Not the Rats directing the illegal flow of millions of ounces of silver and determining the fate of thousands, but the average Rat-on-the-street in Old Falas.  A town of this size, so close to the halls of power, was undoubtedly going to have a chapter of vermin, and as it turns out, it does.”

“So . . . you want to start trouble between them?” asked Atopol asked, confused.

“In point of fact, I have already begun that process, with the smallest of sparks.  With just a little arcane assistance and the brute application of force, we should be able to fan it into a sudden blaze that neither force suspects.”

“I was hoping that this would involve some violence,” sulked Tyndal.  He had envisioned himself dueling with the best warmagi the Censorate had to offer under the spire of the Tower Arcane.

“Then I have some hopeful news, my brother!” the warmage said, enthusiastically, slapping him on the shoulder.  “For tonight we indulge your bloodlust and my sense of humor, and stir such a rage in our foes that by tomorrow’s dusk, the eve of the sale, the pot will be near a boil.”

“Really?” Tyndal asked, hopefully.

“Really?” Rondal asked, worriedly.  “You aren’t planning a riot, are you?  Remember, that tower is technically Pentandra’s residence.  I’d hate to damage it unnecessarily.”

“Credit me with more delicacy than that,” Lorcus snickered.  “And don’t discount the impressive power of a riot, Striker.  I considered a common distraction – a fire or an explosion – but, honestly, in my experience in a garrison, the first thing you think when you hear the fire bell or hear a boom is ‘oh!  It’s a diversion!’  In a fortress of warmagi, that will certainly be what they suspect.”

“I see your reasoning,” Atopol conceded.

“But ordinary events that quickly grow out of control?  That’s not your typical diversion.  In fact, it provides perfect cover – especially if there is sufficient chaos – for all manner of illicit fun.  And,” he said, taking a bite of an apple with satisfaction, “if you can’t have fun while you work, really, what’s the point?”

Chapter Nineteen

Lorcus’ Plan

The half-timbered butcher’s shop in the heart of Old Falas was just as tidy and neat as its neighbors, from the exterior, its shutters and trim recently painted and the drain to the sewer flushed with water; but within its three-story structure there was more than meat happening.

That is the Brotherhood of the Rat, Lorcus announced to Tyndal, when they’d taken their seats at the tavern Tyndal had discovered earlier.  Old Falas Chapter.  Not much to look at, and – to be honest – the thugs inside are an exercise in criminal mediocrity, but this is where someone who wants an illegal loan, an illegal game of chance, or anything else illegal comes, in this quaint little town.  The captain’s name is Hunik, and he runs a crew of nine here, and has another spot over at the slaughterhouse.  He’s fat, lazy, and hasn’t been challenged in years, from what our feline friends were able to tell me.

So why are we here, if he’s so small and unimportant? Tyndal asked.

Because he’s convenient, Lorcus explained.  From what I understand, he has a small, high-stakes game of chance in his chamber over the shop tonight, he reported, as he ordered three ales from the barmaid.  This is a regular game which includes several of his fellow midlevel captains.  One of which, thanks to Rondal’s efforts, now has a small spell upon him.  It will make him seemingly very, very lucky.

And that helps us . . . how?

Because the Rats suspect a man who is too lucky, and rightly so, explained the Remeran.  At a game like this, it causes all sorts of strife.  You lads just wait for my signal, and then follow my lead, he assured.

“Why aren’t the cats with us?” Tyndal asked, aloud.

“Oh, the kitties are out on their own errands,” Lorcus said.  “Besides, this particular task is far more suited to our talents, not theirs.”

They continued to discuss the matter for an hour or so, while they watched several men enter the butcher’s shop after it closed.  The window of the third story continued to shine with the light of tapers, Tyndal noted, long after the first two floors were dark.

“Now, Striker, if you’ll activate that spell . . .”

Rondal closed his eyes for a few moments, and then nodded.  Lorcus grinned and ordered another round.

An hour and two ales later, Tyndal had almost forgotten the reason for their presence, until they heard a sudden ruckus erupt from the open window of the third floor.

“Oho!” Lorcus said, his eyes gleaming, “it sounds as if the first suspicions have been raised.  Let’s see if it happens again.”

Less than ten minutes later, there was another loud argument between men emanating from the butcher’s shop window, longer and more strident than the first.

“That’s our cue, lads,” Lorcus grinned, grabbing the satchel he’d hidden under the table.  “Be a chum and pay the shot, Tyndal,” he said, standing and belching.  “Then meet us around the side of the tavern.”

Tyndal nodded and did as he was bidden, taking the time to flirt a little more with the attractive – mostly – barmaid.  When he got to the side of the building it was dark enough that Tyndal had to use magesight to see . . . which startled him, when he saw two Censors awaiting him.

“Come on, put on the helmet, we don’t have all night,” Rondal urged, slapping one of the heavy Censorate’s spangham helms on his head and fastening the chinstrap, while Lorcus put a checkered cloak over his shoulders.

“What the hells?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“If you hadn’t figured it out by now, we’re going to impersonate a squad of Censors,” Rondal said in a low voice as he helped Tyndal with his disguise.

“Oh.  Oh!  That makes sense,” Tyndal said, dully.  The ale here was really good.  “Why?”

“Oh, just shut up, follow us, follow our lead, and hit the people we tell you to hit, okay?” Rondal said, impatiently.

“I can do that,” Tyndal agreed.  “How bad do you want them hurt?”

“Just enough to piss them off,” Lorcus replied, as he adjusted his cloak.  “I feel positively evil in this costume!  Don’t kill anyone, if you can help it, just hurt them.  And keep it light on the warspells – remember, we’re just run-of-the-mill Censors, here, not High Magi.  I’ll do most of the spellwork.”

“Got it,” Tyndal said, trying to get into his character.  How does a Censor think and act? he asked himself, and then entertained himself with the answer.  In a moment he had the arrogance, self-righteousness, and grim necessity he’d often seen in Censors well in mind.

The three of them strode confidently across the street to the door of the butcher, where Lorcus made a great show of pounding on the door and demanding it be opened.  Soon a short, portly little man waddled out and let them in, babbling about the lateness of the hour.

“Fool!” Lorcus sneered.  “We have every right to search the premises if we suspect illegal magic!  You should feel fortunate that we did not destroy the shop and all within it out of hand!”

He quickly pushed past the little man, who was clearly acting as a look-out for the gang, and mounted the narrow staircase three steps at a time.  Tyndal followed behind dutifully, giving the doorkeeper a glare he thought worthy of the Censorate.

Lorcus was halted at the top of the stairs by a thug nearly a head taller than the Remeran, even with his high-crowned helmet.  The big man moved to block the doorway against the intruders when he recognized the cloaks . . . and his eyes got wide.

“Move aside,” Lorcus demanded, in a patient tone of voice.

“I am—“

“Asleep,” Lorcus finished for the man, reaching out and touching him on the forehead.  The guard instantly collapsed onto the landing as he fell into a powerful, magically-induced sleep.  “Time to announce our presence, lads!” the warmage said gaily, touching the heavy oaken door with a wand . . . which blew it off of its leather hinges and back into the upper chamber.

“REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE!” the Remeran bellowed through the cloud of smoke as he strode confidently into the room.  “You are all subject to inspection by the King’s Censorate of Magic, under the Royal Charter of King Kamaklavan!”

The Rats on the other side of the exploded door were shocked by the intrusion, on top of what had already been a contentious night.  There were eight men at the table, and two more serving, a lively game of dice in progress.  Stacks of silver and even some gold ringed the board.  This was, indeed, a high-stakes game, Tyndal saw.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the fattest man there – Hunik, Tyndal realized.

“We have detected the presence of magic within this shop,” Lorcus said, with a sneer.  “Illegal magic, undocumented and forbidden.”

“That’s impossible!” sputtered Hunik.  “My friends and I were just enjoying a friendly game!”

“Goodman, is his game listed with the Count’s officials?” challenged Rondal, arrogantly.  “Friendly or not, illegal gambling is nearly as vile as illegal spellwork!”

“You must have made a mistake, Gentlemen,” Hunik said, smoothly, as he stood.  “There are no magi here.  Just a few artisans having some social time.”

“My spells do not lie!” Lorcus said, with especial venom, as he pushed Hunik back into his chair, much to his chair’s distress.  “Twice I have had responses from this address this evening!”

“Hey!” one of the other men at the table said, suddenly, “you had two—“

“Trygg’s bleeding twat, shut the hells up!” barked Hunik at the man, angrily, before he changed his tone and turned back to the fake Censors.  “Gentlemen, surely there is some reasonable way to settle this unfortunate situation?” he asked, toying with the tall stack of coin in front of him on the table.

Rondal spoke mind-to-mind: He’s trying to bribe us!

I’m willing to be bribed! Tyndal replied.

That’s not part of the plan, Ron chided.  But this part should be good.

Indeed it was: Lorcus circled the table in the middle of the chamber, slowly surveying each of the players.  Tyndal saw the same hedging, careful, deceitful look in their eyes he was coming to associate with the Rats.  While they were all careful to keep their hands on the table, he could tell that they were all tensing for a potential fight, too.

“Now . . . twice we tagged this place this evening for a probability enhancement spell designed to overcome the statistical probability that a given random number generator will provide, on any given throw, an equal possibility to all potential outcomes,” he lectured, using words that were unfamiliar to the Rats.

“What?” one of the confused thugs asked.

“Someone is using magic to cheat at dice,” Tyndal explained.

“That’s mad!” Hunik declared.  “Anyone in my – association who tried that sort of thing . . . well, there would be consequences,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his fellows.

“We are not in the habit of making mistakes,” he continued, slyly, as he circled around each man.  Then he drew a short wand from his belt.  “This little device should reveal the culprit,” he said, his eyes gleaming in anticipation until he circled back to one particular man.  “This one!” he declared, tapping him on the top of the head loud enough to make a sound.

“Ow!” the man whined.  “That’s bullshit!  I don’t cheat – you all know that!”

“How come you rolled so good tonight, then?” challenged a much larger player.  “Right when the pot was biggest, too!”

“I was lucky!” the man protested.

“More than three hundred silver worth of lucky,” another player grumbled.  “I knew those throws were off!  No one throws three threes in a row!”

The accused man started for the accuser, but Tyndal put his hand on the thug’s shoulder and pushed him forcibly back into his chair.  “That’s enough of that!” he said, darkly.  “Any heads busted here will be busted by the Censorate!”

“Oh, we’re beyond head busting, my friend,” Lorcus promised.  “Do you goodmen have any idea what the penalty for this kind of crime is?”

“We have friends at court,” Hunik said, as if it pained him.

“Which court?” scoffed Rondal.  “The Count of Falas?  The Duke of Alshar?  Unless you have friends at the court of King Kamaklavan, you churls are beyond help!”  That put an end to such threats – the Censors, under ancient Royal authority that was no longer existent, answered to no one but themselves, and everyone knew it.

“In fact, our superiors have seen far too much of this sort of clandestine flouting of the sacred Bans,” Lorcus declared, “that they have decided to make an example.  I hold here in my hand,” he pronounced, as he removed a scroll from his sleeve with a flourish, “a writ directing me to seek out any and all such violations in this district and raze the properties upon which they are found, after capturing the perpetrators of said violations.  Do any of you goodmen happen to read?” he asked, condescendingly.

He really is quite adept at playing an officious, power-drunk asshole, Tyndal reflected, admiringly.  For that matter, he observed, Rondal was doing a splendid job of looking extremely irritated and grim.

Two of them hesitantly raised their hands, but when presented with the scroll bearing the warrant, the officious language Lorcus had dictated to Onnelik was far beyond them.  The big red wax seal of the Censorate was clearly visible, though, and gave the document all the authority it required.

“Razed?  You mean . . . destroyed?” asked Hunik, troubled.  “I don’t think I can permit that, Gentlemen,” he said, shaking his head slowly.  He looked around the table, and Tyndal could feel all of the thugs prepare to act.

“I don’t think it’s really up to you, Goodman,” Lorcus replied, gently.  “I have a writ signed and sealed by the Censorate’s sergeant-at-arms, himself.  Now, if everyone will quietly go outside, we can get on with our business, burn this place to the ground, get you goodmen in a cell, and be in bed before dawn when our watch is over.”

“I don’t think you’re going to make it,” Hunik growled, as he suddenly rose, overthrowing the rickety table and its contents . . . and then the air was filled with fists and knives.

Tyndal was more than ready for the attack – he was poised like a spring under pressure.  When he saw the first fist fly, aimed at Lorcus’ head, he took it as permission to unleash some of his pent-up energy.  He decided to start with the alleged cheater, who was looking more confused than belligerent.  Tyndal picked him up by his collar and threw him across the room, with a little magical assistance.

Then he ducked under a thick rod of wood wrapped in a long leather thong in the hand of one Rat while he grabbed the wrist of another and redirected the course of the knife that it held.  In moments it was buried satisfactory into the thigh of the man with the stick, and the knife-wielder was sprawled on the floor after Tyndal kneed him in the gut.

Rondal and Lorcus were busy, too.  Ron was successfully defending himself from two of the ruffians while a third tried to sneak past him, and Lorcus was beating a man’s face with both fists in a methodical sort of way.

But the Remeran warmage wasn’t happy with the way the fight was going, even after the man he fought collapsed after his warmagic-assisted bludgeoning, so he quickly drew another wand and began sending the Rats to sleep, usually by attacking them from behind as either Tyndal or Rondal smacked them and sent them in his direction.  It took a few minutes, but soon all nine of them were slumped on the floor.

“Now for the hard part: dragging them outside,” Lorcus sighed.

By pressing the doorward into service, they managed to get all of them laid out on the street in a row, as the moon reached its zenith overhead.  Each of the men would awaken in the morning, no worse for the effects of the spell.

Apparently he passed Ron some specific mind-to-mind instructions, as well, because a moment later the butcher’s shop burst into flame.  Ron controlled the burn magically to concentrate it on the central structure of the shop, and not let it wander to the neighbors’ shops, while Lorcus posted the document ostensibly explaining why the shop was razed to the front fence.

“Now, let’s add some icing to this cake,” he declared, when the sign was hung in front of the burning building.  “I’ve prepared something particularly naughty for our friends, here,” he said.  “Something that should ensure their immediate and vigorous response to such a terrible miscarriage of justice.”  Instead of explaining, he knelt over the slumbering bodies of the Rats, and in the light of the fire that was consuming their headquarters, he cast a spell on each of them.

Tyndal was intrigued as he watched magemarks – simple variations in the darkness of the capillaries of the skin, caused by magic – appear on the faces of all nine.  This time, the marks inscribed on the skin of the Rats weren’t mere reminders of a debt owed, as Minalan used them.

Instead Lorcus had fashioned the spell to darken the nose of each Rat, and caused comical lines representing rat’s whiskers to spread out from them.  The Rats all now had rat whiskers.

Both Tyndal and Rondal nearly collapsed from laughter when they surveyed the result.  None of the Brotherhood thugs looked particularly intimidating anymore.

“Now,” Lorcus said, when the last Rat was finished, “let’s head back to the house and have a drink before bed,” he decided.  “That should give us some time to change clothes, too.  When these lads wake in the morning, they’re going to be looking for Censors, and I, for one, don’t want to look anything at all like one when they get up!”

In the morning the news of the fire and raid by the Censorate spread faster than flame through the small community of Old Falas.

Tyndal heard it from the lad who sold milk door to door in the mornings, but it appeared that nearly everyone was talking about it.  Nor was it difficult to believe.  In the months since they’d begun inhabiting the Tower Arcane, the Censors had been increasing their enforcement of the Bans with rigor.  Crossing the line from merely imprisoning and punishing miscreants to burning down a shop just because there was the suspicion of illegal magic was almost reasonable, considering the fanatical nature of the Censorate.

“Now things will just brew for a while today,” he explained over breakfast.  “The meeting is scheduled for tonight, but this little conflict will quickly take precedence as things get out of control.”

“Why?  What will happen now?” asked Atopol.

“Well, if the Rats follow their form, they’ll appeal to the next level of administration, which will in turn appeal to the civil authorities.  In this case, that means the burghers of Old Falas, not the ass-wipes in checkered cloaks.  When they do . . . well, they’ll likely hear the rumor from the burghers that I had Onnelik plant yesterday at town hall while he was unsuccessfully arguing to extend his miserable plot of garden.”

“And that is?” Rondal prompted.

“They will hear that the Censorate is considering building a new barracks on the site, and that they intend to further invade the business of the Brotherhood searching for clandestine magic.  Because that’s what they will conclude after stringing together the implications of Onnelik’s questions to three separate burghers and town officials, yesterday.  And when they hear that – and face the humiliation of rat’s whiskers in the mirror – they will be primed for a violent response.”

“And the Censorate won’t know it’s coming,” reasoned Atopol.

“They’re enjoying a respite from the destruction of their order in relatively secure and elegant surroundings, protected by the patronage of the rebel council.  The biggest headache they’ve had to deal with in months, besides lingering poverty, is the theft of three cloaks and helmets.  Did you get that back to the armory, Kitten?” he asked Gatina.

“Just where I found it,” she agreed, irritated.  “You know, generally when I steal things, putting them back isn’t part of the protocol,” she pointed out.

“Isn’t it lovely how you are stretching your professional frontiers, working with us?” Lorcus replied, sweetly.  “I’m counting on the confusion between the Rat’s demands and the Censorate’s utter ignorance of any of this to sow the seeds we need for the distraction.  If everything goes according to plan, by the time the buyers gather tomorrow night, the Rats of Old Falas will be ready for blood!”

That afternoon Tyndal was assigned to go back to the tavern across from the butcher and observe.  The shop was a ruined shell, now, a pile of half-burnt timber and ruined roof tiles, still smoldering after the blaze had been put out.  The barmaid Tyndal had become friendly with happily told her admirer about the drama last night – and this morning.

“Oh, those lads were in a fine mood this morning!  There were at least ten of them,” she whispered conspiratorially.  “All milling about in front of the shop, keeping their heads low.  I saw one’s face – he was marked!” she declared.  “They were angry, too – never seen them stirred up like that before,” she admitted.

A quick inspection of the ruin bore her out – while the Rats had abandoned the butcher’s shop, there was plenty of signs that they’d salvaged what they could from the ashes, first, and then departed.  The notice Lorcus had posted in front of the ruin was still there.  Tyndal removed it.  It had done its job.

After he reported his findings to Lorcus mind-to-mind, he was directed to return to the room he’d rented next to the Tower and await further instructions.  While Rondal would have been annoyed by that, Tyndal didn’t mind.  If he wasn’t in charge, he couldn’t very well muck things up, he reasoned.  He spent the rest of the afternoon in the company of a bottle reading one of the bad books of poetry he’d purchased for the heist.

Late afternoon Atopol and Rondal arrived.  Atopol began to immediately change into his “roaching leathers”, as he called his professional wardrobe, including strapping special iron grips to his hands and feet as he prepared.

“What are those for?” Tyndal inquired.

“In case the spell fails,” Atopol replied with a sigh.  “I’ll be using Grandine’s Adherer to climb up one of the turrets on the river side of the Tower,” he explained.  “But considering what you’ve told me about how frequently the Censorate likes to use Annulment spells, I thought a little extra precaution might be a good idea.  Plunging suddenly to my doom after climbing six exhausting stories of tower is not how I want to plan my death!”

“What’s your point of entry?” Rondal said, using a technical term Tyndal had heard the thieves bandy about.

“The large round stained-glass window,” Atopol decided.  “It actually opens, unlike the others, and the tiny balcony on the other side is the perfect place to get in.  If you are a thief or a pigeon.  I checked this morning – it remains unwarded,” he said, thankfully.  “I doubt if it’s locked.”

“That’s going to be hard to escape from,” Rondal said, warily.

“Not with Lorcus’ plan,” Atopol said, shaking his head.  “It’s unorthodox, dangerous and terrifying, but I think that actually contributes to the likelihood of its success.  Hells, if he’d told me he’d have the Brotherhood at the Censorate’s throat after a single day in this quiet old town, I’d never have believed him.”

“When it comes to ruining someone’s day, there aren’t many more qualified than him,” nodded Tyndal.  “What time are the guests arriving?”

“About dusk,” answered Rondal, who had been down at the town’s docks gathering information on them that morning.  “At least six or seven potential buyers or representatives.  One likely from the Brotherhood,” he added.  “The Iris is sending someone.  The Censor’s agent was down there, too, making sure everyone on the list is actually showing up.”

“I still don’t see how you’re going to get out, once you get in,” Tyndal said, doubtfully.

“I’ll be extra sneaky,” Atopol promised.  “Besides, I think Lorcus’ plan is actually quite brilliant – if it works.  If it doesn’t, it will be because I mucked it up.  Which I won’t, because my part is actually the easy one.  Just a little acrobatics, some precautionary spells, and some brisk exercise,” he dismissed.  “Really, I’ve been doing this sort of thing since I was seven.”

As dusk approached, Atopol and Rondal had a final drink with Tyndal before going off to their various assignments – Atopol to where he would begin his ascent of the Tower, and Rondal to a marina in Falas, proper.

For Tyndal’s part in this portion of the plan, Lorcus assigned him as reinforcement, should things inside the Tower get dicey, and put him back in the boarding house.  That gave him an outstanding vantage point to see the guests and buyers arriving from the little balcony.  As well as the small mob of angry Rats that was gathering at the other end of the road.

Shit, I just heard that our friend Hunik called in four other squadrons to augment his numbers, Lorcus reported.  That puts the number of Rats near forty, now.  Almost as many as the Censors.

That’s not going to help them much, Tyndal suggested, as he watched the brace of warmagi who guarded the gatehouse to the Tower, day and night.

They bore warstaves in their hands and mageblades on their backs, but his tentative scrying of the men demonstrated that their tools were far inferior to his own.  The warstaves were a pale reflection of the powerful Sentry Rods that Sevendor had given to its warmagi, and those mageblades, he could tell, were hardly better than the army-issued ones.  Considering what Grapple, his baculus, could do, it made a better weapon than the supposedly martial staves of the Censors.  The Censorate are heavily armed, and more Rats will just mean more targets.

That’s what I’m counting on, Lorcus agreed.  The Censors have brought on additional security, thanks to their guests.  This is going to be fun!

Tyndal agreed, although he figured Lorcus had a better idea of what would come out of it than he did.  He spent his time making note of the carriages that pulled up to the Tower Arcane and their guests.

Many seemed to be mere nobles, albeit of higher rank than most.  Some were more mysterious than others, appearing cowled and cloaked in unmarked carriages.  Others were blatantly odd in their dress or in their presentation, like the mustachioed man with the two lizards on his shoulders and three extremely tough-looking bodyguards who arrived in a far statelier carriage than Tyndal would have suspected, based on his dress.  A fellow like that, Tyndal noted to himself, is someone to watch especially carefully.

All six have arrived, he finally reported to Lorcus.  The seventh sent a representative.

Outstanding, the warmage replied a moment later.  The operation has officially begun.  Atopol is beginning his ascent, now.  Rondal is at his position, and Gatina is in hers.

And what do I do?

Keep in contact with everyone else, pass along helpful information, wait until something happens that requires your attention . . . and follow the godsdamned plan!

Tyndal waited a little longer, then noted something odd in the dusky light.  He spied a blur that, he was certain, was his friend Atopol, carefully scaling the northern turret of the Tower.  He seemed to be making a good pace, ascending just a little more slowly than a man could walk the horizontal distance.

Gatina, for her part, was in disguise near the tower amongst a few other barnacles who were desperately trying to sell flowers, sweetmeats, sausages, and other fare to passersby.  She looked damned pathetic, Tyndal noted, her hair appearing greasy and ratty, her clothes denoting extreme poverty, and her lisping banter speaking volumes about her social class.  But she was not noticed by the Censors, thankfully, who were more concerned with the arrivals, not unlicensed vendors.

Tyndal had no idea where Lorcus was.  He assumed he was in a strategic position doing something important, but knowing Lorcus that could translate into any number of things.

All right, Lorcus finally reported, it looks like our pack of rats is on the move toward the Tower Arcane.

That was the sign they were all looking for.  Sure enough, around forty or fifty men appeared at the far end of the street and began shouting curses at the Censors, their profanity getting louder with every step.

Tyndal couldn’t resist watching the scene unfold by looking at the Censor sergeant-on-duty at the gatehouse.  The distant figure quickly called inside the door and then distributed a spear to himself and his partner as the angry mob grew closer.  Two more Censors came out to support them, while the sergeant stepped forward to address the Rats.

He couldn’t hear the specific discussion between the sergeant and Goodman Hunik without the Long Ears spell, but it was too short for him to have the time to cast it.  From what he saw, however, the Rats’ displeasure with the Censorate had been soundly communicated . . . enough so that Hunik threw a powerful punch at the Censor’s back, when he turned to address his mates . . . then the entire yard in front of the Tower Arcane became a melee as the Rats charged the gate with a guttural yell.

The Rats, for their part, attacked in a disorganized mob without any kind of real plan.  They drew knives and short swords and clubs as they pushed against the Censors guarding the gate.  At least one fell immediately, his white and black cloak stepped on by the muddy feet of the Rats as they stepped over him.

The Censors were giving a fair fight to the unruly mob.  Two stood back to back in front of the gatehouse, their blades and staves drawn, keeping the Rats at bay as they attacked, while the third was trying to fight his way to the body of his fallen mate.  Neither endeavor was ultimately successful, as the single warmage was quickly overwhelmed, and the two defiant defenders were sacked and tied together, after their weapons had been taken from them.

The crew finished that task just in time for the gatehouse door to open and spill a dozen more heavily-armed Censors into the fray.  They were dressed for combat in hard mail and helmets, though instead of swords they seem to be armed with maces and cudgels – riot gear, he realized.  The checkered cloaks began attacking every unarmored Rat in sight with their clubs.  Tyndal delighted at the display of violence – the sight and sound of screaming combatants determined to overthrow their enemy added a delicious drama to the scene.

“All right, I’m inside,” Atopol reported, through Gorach’s Sympathy Stone.  He’d taken the dahman with him just for that purpose.  “The damn window was locked.  I had to use a spell,” he added.

“The Rats are doing their part for the distraction,” agreed Tyndal, as he watched the evolving riot below.  More Censors were filing out of the Tower Arcane, with several taking positions on the fighting deck above the gatehouse.  More spilled out to reinforce the beleaguered guards, beating the Rats back with their staves and small cantrips.  “Is there anyone left upstairs?”

“There doesn’t appear to be, at the moment,” the Cat of Night agreed.  “But they were here a moment ago, I think.  There are a couple of big tables in the main chamber, he described.  Oh, look!  They have most thoughtfully laid out most of their treasures for me, under a veil.”

“What kind of loot?” Tyndal asked, eagerly.

“You’ll see soon enough,” promised Atopol through the enchantment.  “Now let me work, and make sure my sister doesn’t get into too much trouble.  She’s trying to impress Ron,” he added, unnecessarily.

“I know.  It’s adorable!”

Tyndal kept watch as the tumult below continued to smolder.  A brace of town watchmen appeared, attempting to calm both sides and restore some order, but they were quickly overwhelmed by Rats and withdrew until reinforcements could arrive.

Meanwhile, the Rats were doing their best to push past the Censors and gain entry to the Tower.  A couple had scaled the front wall, but were quickly pushed back down by the warmagi.  Through magesight the Censors looked very smug with themselves as the last Rat fell off the second-story roof.  But then a bottle of flaming spirits crashed with a tinkle and suddenly the Censors were desperately trying to put out the flames.

That escalated the drama.  The moment that the flames began to climb up the Tower’s wall, the Censors’ attitudes changed from attempting to control the crowd and quell the riot to actively defending themselves.  Tyndal watched in fascination as spells began to fly into the mob of Rats below.  Not nearly as fast or as impressive as those thrown by a High Mage, he considered, but watching trained warmagi work magic in concert was fascinating.

For their part, the Rats were brave enough not to flee at the first sign of offensive magic.  In fact, they seemed to redouble their efforts to gain the keep.  There was a growing pile of bodies in front of the Tower, and many of them wore checkered cloaks.  More, a crowd of bystanders was growing around the fray, watching the riot like an audience at a mummer’s play.  Well, Tyndal noted, most of them seemed content to just watch . . .

Ishi’s pretty titties! Lorcus boomed into Tyndal’s mind.  The Rats have brought in more men!

More Rats? Tyndal asked, scanning the crowd for disreputable characters.  But the assembled seemed to be firmly in the artisan class.

They’re not Rats . . . they’re butchers!  Hunik must have riled up the Butcher’s Guild in Falas!  Those are some large men, too . . .

I hope they don’t plan on any more fires, Tyndal warned.  Remember, technically that’s Lady Pentandra’s house, there.  She would be miffed if it got burned down.  Especially if she knew about the baths.

It’s just superficial, Lorcus assured him.  The spells on that tower prevent the fire from getting inside to anything valuable.  Not that the butchers seem to know that, however.

Just as Lorcus described, a band of men broke away from the crowd and plunged into the flanks of the Censors at the gate, attacking the men from what they’d considered a safe direction.  The butchers might not have been trained or disciplined, but they were strong, and most bore wicked-looking knives that dwarfed the Eats’ Tails and daggers of the Brotherhood.  Some even wore their thick oilskin aprons as they plunged into the fray.

It was a spectacular fight to watch.  Rats sprang on the backs of Censors and pulled them to the ground, or climbed up their bodies like ladders to reach the flaming fighting deck overlooking the mob.  There were Censors dueling mageblade to scimitar with a few, while their mates tried to find a good place to drop a spell.

Tyndal’s attention was caught by movement on a balcony on the fourth floor, and re-focused his magesight on the distant window.  There was a small crowd of men peering down from the railing to see what was happening, including a few cloaked Censors who were screaming instructions at their subordinates.  Tyndal saw half a dozen noblemen, a few ruffians and mariners, a monk, and that odd little man with the two lizards on his shoulders, all watching the fight below with great interest.

I think I’ve spotted our buyers, he reported to Lorcus.  Fourth floor, southern balcony.

Good eye! Agreed Lorcus, a moment later.  That must be them.  They have their own bodyguards, he noted.

Hopefully they won’t need them, Tyndal said, as he watched a full contingent of the Town Watch show up . . . and realize that they were too small a force to contend with the riot.  They contented themselves with forming a perimeter to keep anyone else from joining the fray.  A few brave souls tried to wade into the fight and sort out the two sides, but when a concussion spell blew them onto their backs, they relented and allowed events to play out.

Tyndal paused to make certain Gatina was still in position.  The ragged-looking flower girl on the edge of the riot was still ostensibly selling flowers, though there were no customers.

“All right,” came Atopol’s voice from the Sympathy Stone set in the wand, “I have everything bagged up.  Tyndal, you’ll be happy to know that someone went and left a coffer full of gold on the table – probably to make change – but it’s full of copper pennies, now.  That should cover our expenses.  The books have been replaced, the other items have been swapped, and I have the irionite in hand.  Heading out to the watchtower, now.”

Striker, Cat is on the roof, he reported to Rondal, mind-to-mind.  Prepare to receive.

This is the stupidest part of this entire plan, complained Rondal.  What if he misses?

Cats always land on their feet, Tyndal replied, with false confidence.  In truth, he didn’t know if this part of Lorcus’ plan would actually work.  He was shocked when Atopol agreed to it.  But the young shadowmage had an adventurous spirit, Tyndal reflected, and as crazy as the idea was, it was the one certain way to get both Cat and loot out of the top of the Tower Arcane without fighting his way down six stories of angry Censorate only to face a garden of vicious Rats.

I’ll be certain to tell Gat that if her brother ends up a sticky spot on the cobbles, Rondal replied, darkly.

Lorcus, Cat is ready to go, he told the warmage, when he’d made contact again.  Time to wrap up this riot.

I’ll signal Gatina, he agreed.  Then let’s leave this charming little town as quickly as oar can bear us!

It was a few more endless minutes before Tyndal heard a strange but unmistakable sound . . . and the Tower shook.  While the sound distracted a few of the Censors, the Rats took no notice of it.

Cat is away, he reported to Rondal.  Then there was nothing.  And nothing.

And nothing.

Tyndal felt the panic rise up in his chest, and was nearly overwhelmed by the thought of failure, when his partner finally replied.

I’ve got him! Ron said, proudly.  Him and the loot!

Is he okay? Tyndal asked, anxiously.

He’s fine.  Just wet.  And a little crazed by being flung through the air like that.

Lorcus had realized that getting a thief into the Tower Arcane wouldn’t be hard, providing a sufficient enough distraction and a high point of entry.  But once the distraction was underway, sneaking back down would be difficult.  Even now the rioters were nearly surrounding the Tower, and if Atopol had tried to leave the way he’d come in, no amount of shadowmagic could have disguised a black-clad youth on a whitewashed wall, dangling five stories in the air.

So Lorcus decided to utilize the other means of exit from the Tower Arcane: the ancient trebuchet.

The thing had not been used as a weapon of war in a century, thanks to the relative political stability of Falas.  When it was first constructed it was designed to discourage anyone who wanted to approach the great falls and lake upon which Falas, proper, was built.  Since then it had served as a visible warning for anyone foolish enough to contend with the Counts of Falas.

Lorcus made a study of the device from afar, augmented by some quiet conversations around town, and figured the engine could easily bear the weight of the loot and the thief.

It was inherently dangerous, of course, to be flung through the air at such a high speed . . . and then land in a river that was usually flat as glass.  But Atopol was game, particular after Lorcus explained how he could use spells to protect his body from the impact.  Lorcus helped persuade him by casting a number of spells designed to sustain him in the case of accident, and allow him to resist the effects of sudden acceleration and even more sudden deceleration.  It was simple warmagic, but a field which the shadowmagi were largely unfamiliar.

So when Atopol had finished looting the Tower Arcane of its most precious treasures, he strapped himself and his big, ungainly sack of cargo into the net below the trebuchet, cast the spells . . . and with a prayer to the darkness, he pulled the cord that held the pin.

A few endless moments later, he and his bag splashed down in the river, just a few yards from where Lorcus had calculated . . . and within ten yards of the barge Rondal was waiting within.

Both the thief and the loot were recovered, the precious books sealed within an oilskin bag that had been additionally augmented with spells to keep the water out.  Now they were waiting for the rest of the party at the abandoned docks just outside the Tower Arcane’s own postern door.

The fourth-floor balcony where the buyers were observing the fight stirred, and three men in Censors’ cloaks – but each bearing a thick gold necklace – took their places on the edge of the balcony.

Uh, oh, Lorcus commented.

The Three Censors revealed themselves as High Magi, bringing out their three stones and beginning to rain destruction down on their attackers.  Bolts of green fire erupted in the midst of the crowd, while a large magelight began to form over the mob.  Tyndal watched as the three consulted and began putting together a much more elaborate working.

Tyndal wasn’t too concerned – he could tell by how quickly they were working, and by the size of the effects, that the Censors’ witchstones were far less powerful than even the first shard of irionite he’d gotten.  But that still made them far superior to an unaugmented mage, and instant death to a mundane gangster.   Lorcus let the Three Censors have their fun with the Brotherhood and their auxiliaries until he saw people start to get killed.

All right, I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night, he said, and broke contact.

In a moment, there was a high-pitched female scream ringing out through the square.  Gatina, Tyndal realized, but it wasn’t a scream of pain or surprise, exactly, though it kind of sounded like it.  Then, to his amazement, he began watching the principal players in this twisted mummer’s play begin to drop.

He wasn’t at all certain what spell Lorcus was employing, at first, until he used his magesight to inspect the body of the first Censor to drop to the ground.  He noted the man was still moving, dazed, and that he had a large indentation on his helmet, as well as a sticky residue.  Further inspection revealed a smashed apple core next to him.

That explained the need for apples out of season, he realized.

Lorcus, who had picked a vantage point on the Tower’s wall, concealed among the decorative shrubs that grew there in place of armed guards, was using magic to propel apples at select individuals at great speed.  First a Censor – beginning with all of the Three Censors – and then a Rat, starting with Hunik the Butcher.  Each combatant he targeted from his hidden position took an apple in the face moving about thrice the speed of a man’s ability to throw it.

Tyndal could barely contain his laughter as magical fruit began to selectively rain down on the riot.

Nor was he acting alone.  Gatina wandered through the crowd of angry men without concern, and used her apparent harmlessness to trip as many angry Rats as she could from behind, either with magic or with the walking stick she carried.  No one seemed to even see her, Tyndal realized, as she strolled unconcerned through the riot and ensured that the leaders and strongest combatants were quickly taken out of the fight.

Between the efforts of the two magi, the Town Watch seemed to gain confidence in their ability to quell the riot.  They moved in, shoulder to shoulder, with blunted pikes in their hands, separating Censor from rioter and arresting those who were unwilling to disband voluntarily.

Tyndal made sure that his friends were safe for as long as he could before he abandoned his post.  With the shadowmage out of danger and the loot recovered, Gatina and Lorcus were the last two in action.  As soon as he saw them both sneak away while everyone else was distracted by the punishing volley of produce, he took his leave of the tiny boardinghouse and met Onnelik down in the street.

“Well, another successful heist by House Salaines,” he said, with a note of satisfaction in his voice as they watched the Censors finally put out the fire.  “Thank you for a most interesting week, Sir Tyndal.”

“And thank you for the hospitality, Onnelik,” he replied.  “This would have been much, much harder without your assistance.”

“Particularly when those writs are discovered at the magistrate’s office,” he added, with a grin.  Though the Brotherhood of the Rat was no stranger to prisons and magistrate’s courts, they took pains to avoid any entanglements when they could – even if that meant bribery or even slaying a lawbrother.

To make Hunik and the other Rats of Old Falas more uncomfortable, Lorcus had commissioned Onnelik to forge several outstanding warrants of arrest from various cities across the Great Bay and then had Gatina insert them into the magistrate’s office’s files.  When each Rat’s arrest was recorded, their names would be matched with those warrants . . . and the Rats themselves would be thrown in jail.

Ultimately, Tyndal realized, the warrants would be shown as forgeries.  But until then it gave most of the Old Falas crew new quarters in the town’s old prison tower, which would only add to the instability the two boys had been sowing.

“What will happen to the Censors, I wonder?” Tyndal mused aloud as they walked, slowly and casually, not attracting anyone’s attention.

“They will have to explain this ruckus to Baron Eldrid – he’s the one acting as steward for the Count of Falas – that is, Duke Anguin.  Baron Eldrid is not known for his sympathy or good nature, so he could actually issue them a penalty.  Or even throw them out of the Tower Arcane for good.”

“What about you?  Will you be okay? I’d hate to think we got you involved in something that gets you arrested.”

“While I appreciate that, I am entirely unconnected to anything . . . which is precisely what I would say to a magistrate or officer of the watch who questions me.  This will be talked about for months, no doubt, but apart from the one butcher shop there really hasn’t been much destruction.  But no one will ever think to connect Onnelik the Translator to it.”

The two of them skirted the smoldering remains of the riot, noting that the Watch was still sorting out the living from the dead or unconscious.  Already a healer was darting from one victim to another.

When they got to the docks they found everyone but Lorcus waiting.  Onnelik, of course, would be staying on here indefinitely, but after their spectacular heist both Tyndal and Rondal wanted to escape back to Castalshar.  He watched while both Cats of Enultramar embraced their cousin and bid him well before they started off toward the south.

“You realize, they’ll be able to track this barge,” Tyndal reproved, when they were all aboard again.

“Yes, they will,” Rondal agreed.  “Which is why we’ll be transferring to another barge about three miles downriver.  We’ve already paid and booked passage.  I’ve also cast a spell to suggest that we are, indeed, going downstream toward our supposed confederates and patrons, after such a successful heist.  And while the Censors chase this empty shell down to the Bay and beyond, we’ll be on our way to Sevendor, already.”

“If we hurry, we might get back in time for the Chepstan Spring Fair,” Tyndal agreed, eagerly.

“But we’re leaving all of the loot with you,” Lorcus informed Atopol and Gatina.  “In trust to your house, to be returned to the Court Wizard of Alshar at the earliest convenience.”

“It would be our pleasure,” agreed Atopol, who was still soaking wet from his flight and landing in the river.  I will have Master Hance secure it in our most secure vaults.”

“Do that,” Lorcus said, solemnly.  “You can’t be too careful.  There are a lot of thieves in Enultramar, I hear.”

Chapter Twenty

Lord Whiskers

At last the warmagi and the shadowmagi came to the point in their journey where they had to part ways.  The thieves insisted on hosting them in a small inn just north of Falas, beyond the falls, where the next morning the three warmagi would depart for the long journey back to Sevendor.

“I’m looking forward to getting home and resting after this eventful little holiday,” Lorcus announced, after downing an enormous quantity of well-seasoned mutton at the board.  “Don’t mistake me: this has been fun, but I think petty larceny will always remain a mere hobby of mine.”

“Petty larceny?” Atopol said, his eyes wide and his jaw slack.  “We just executed an amazingly complex theft of a heavily-guarded installation – an arcane installation – and managed to not just get away with a treasury of priceless works and heirlooms, but did so without even being suspected!  All without more effort than planning a garden party!  Believe me, this is going into the annals of House Salaines the moment I can commit it to parchment.  It makes breaking into the palace look like robbing a cot!”

“It was good work,” Gatina said, a little reluctantly.  “You fellows are excellent magi, even if you entirely lack subtlety and finesse.”

Tyndal was about to object when Atopol stopped him.

“Take the compliment,” he warned, with a grin.  “That’s about as much as you’re like to get from her.”

“I’m just disappointed we didn’t get to see the faces of their buyers – and their hosts – when that table was uncovered,” sighed Atopol.  “That would have been the perfect capstone to this caper.”

“You would have been pleased,” came a strange voice from the doorway.

Afterwards, Tyndal was impressed at how fast everyone moved at the unanticipated interruption.  True, the thieves were relaxing after a mission, their guards down.  But none of them remained unarmed or unprepared.

For Tyndal’s part, he drew his mageblade from his hip while at the same time summoning Grapple from his ring into his left hand.  The augmentations and protections built into the blade activated automatically, and with a thought Tyndal connected his mind to paraclete within and readied it for action.

Around the table his mates were similarly prepared: Rondal had Bulwark in his hand and was already casting, while next to him Gatina had her slender sword in one hand and a fistful of sharp instruments in the other.  She was actually interposing herself protectively between the stranger and Rondal, part of him noted.  Atopol had knives in each hand and was already starting to fade from view.

Only Lorcus didn’t move.

“Please, don’t get up,” the man said, as he entered.  He wore a wide-brimmed hat with a feather – a Merwyni style, Tyndal knew – and he had a large winged reptile curled on one shoulder.  He held his hands clear of his waist, but close enough to reach his weapons. “I do not want a fight.”

He was a short man, wearing a mantle of black and gray, and he was armed with a plain-looking sword at his hip – a rapier, in the Vorean style of dueling masters, Tyndal noted.  His dark hair spilled to his shoulders, and he wore a mustache above his clean-shaven chin.  His eyes were dark and darting, but filled with confidence bordering on bravado.

“You’re the representative for the Iris!” Atopol said, ceasing his obscuring spell.

“Sit down, lads,” Lorcus instructed, quietly.  “But don’t put your toys away, yet.  I thought we might have been followed, though I took great pains to avoid it.”  He studied the Iris agent carefully.  Tyndal saw that there were two large bodyguards outside on the stairwell, acting casual in a manner which was pure aggression.  Tyndal waited until the man from the Iris sat at an empty chair before he joined the others and sat down.

“Wine?” Lorcus offered, graciously.

“More of a brandy man, but the night is chill above the falls,” he said, removing his hat, to the annoyance of his reptile.  Tyndal was fascinated by the strange creature on his shoulder – it looked like a miniature dragon, from a distance.  Of course the bone structure and musculature was all wrong, but it resembled a dragon the same way a Tal Alon resembled a human being.  Its eyes were filled with intelligence and curiosity.

Lorcus poured a cup into his own goblet and passed it to the man.

“You are, I take it, the thieves who burgled the Tower Arcane yesterday, are you not?” he asked, as plainly as if he were inquiring about their families.

“We have that pleasure,” Lorcus agreed.  “I do hope you were not injured in the aftermath.”

“Inconvenienced, only,” the stranger conceded.  “I am Lord . . . Whiskers,” he said, with a hint of a wince.  “Professional alias.  No, it was not a name I chose, it was assigned to me,” he sighed, resigned.  “Long story.  In any case, it is my duty to oversee the affairs of my organization here in Alshar.  While they are not many, they give the Iris the premise to be able to observe our competitors, even as we do business with them.”

“It sounds like a decent posting,” Lorcus nodded.

“It has its merits,” conceded Lord Whiskers, as he fed a scrap from the table to his reptile.  “When the Three Censors invited me to a jumble sale at the Tower Arcane, I couldn’t very well ignore it.  That would not be in the best interests of my organization.  But I was just as pleased to see that those powerful tools were kept out of the wrong hands.  I merely had to ascertain which hands they had fallen into.”

“That would be us,” Atopol agreed, nodding his head.

“Lord Atopol.” Whiskers said, nodding in acknowledgement.  “Your House is known to us.  We’ve even hired you, upon occasion.”

“Then you know that we are honorable,” Atopol reminded him.  “We procured those items not to profit from them, but to secure them on behalf of the Duchy.”

“That was one of my guesses,” conceded Lord Whiskers.  “And while I know the Cats of Enultramar, at least by reputation, these stalwarts are unknown to me,” he said, indicating the three warmagi at the table.

“We are the Knights Magi of the Estasi Order,” announced Tyndal, formally.  “We are on a mission of errantry here in Alshar.”

“I’ve never heard of you before,” admitted Lord Whiskers.

“We get that a lot,” agreed Tyndal.

“I take it you are also responsible for the destruction of the Brotherhood installations in the last few months?  Galvina and Atarapatus?”

“And Solashaven,” added Tyndal.

“Ah.  Well, I’ve been observing my colleagues react to those incidents with a great deal of amusement.  They even accused me and my organization about it – as if we would concern ourselves with them at that level!  They are perplexed.”

“Then we accomplished our mission as intended,” nodded Tyndal.

“The Estasi Knights are dedicated to the overthrow of the Brotherhood,” explained Gatina.

“Overthrow . . . the Brotherhood?” asked Lord Whiskers, as his reptilian companion curled around his neck.

“It’s vengeance, combined with political expediency,” answered Rondal.  “We are also friends with His Grace, Duke Anguin II.  Who has taken power in Vorone,” he added. “As the Brotherhood is cooperating with the rebel council, and acting in its interests, striking against them strikes against the enemies of His Grace.”

“We’d heard that, about the Orphan Duke,” Lord Whiskers agreed.  “And you have chosen a challenging foe, if you intend to destroy the Brotherhood of the Rat.  But while I’ve been amused by what I’ve seen, you fellows have a lot of work ahead of you.”

“We know,” Atopol said, flatly.  “There are scores of Brotherhood crews in Enultramar.”

“Scores?  Try hundreds,” Lord Whiskers said, shaking his head.  “You could eliminate their crews as viciously as you have for years, and they would always have more.  They might be thuggish and inelegant, but the Brotherhood has numbers.  Particularly in eastern Enultramar.”

“This is but one battle in a larger war,” protested Rondal.

“A war you cannot win through single battles,” countered Lorcus.  “Lads, don’t mistake me – I had fun.  It was a real riot,” he grinned.  “But as for even making your foes unstable, you’ve merely inconvenienced them.  If you truly want to overthrow the Brotherhood, you must reach far beyond the mere crew captains and strike at the head of the beast.”

“That would be challenging,” Lord Whiskers repeated, shaking his head.  “The Brotherhood is highly decentralized; it’s one reason for their success.  They ensure that no one captain has too much power, and keep the bosses at the top divided through institutional means.  In fact, their bosses rarely congregate.  At most, they’ll meet two or three at a time to set policy or discuss business, and let the rest of the enterprise be run by their subordinates.”

“So we assassinate them one by one,” Gatina said, shrugging girlishly as she proposed bloody murder.  “Eventually they’ll tire of it.”

“No, they won’t,” Lorcus warned.  “They will respond.  Right now you have the advantage, because you hit them by surprise and managed some impressive successes that way.  But after the Tower Arcane fiasco, they know that they are being assaulted by magi – by High Magi.  And there are only a few of us,” he pointed out.

“You . . . are High Magi?”

“We are armed with irionite,” agreed Tyndal.  “Sir Rondal and I are the former apprentices of Minalan the Spellmonger.  We fought in the goblin invasion,” he added.  “When we were at Inrion Academy in Castal, one of their agents cruelly slew a friend of ours.  After that . . . well, things just kind of spun out of control.”

“When the Brotherhood makes an enemy, they don’t do half-measures, either” Lord Whiskers warned, after a moment’s contemplation and a sip of wine.  “They will hunt for you, after the Tower Arcane.  It proves that young tough’s contention, that he was not responsible for the abbey’s destruction, as he’s been accused.  I knew that magic had to have been used in robbing the Tower Arcane—”

“Burglarizing the Tower Arcane,” corrected Atopol.

“I suspected a sport Talent, perhaps, or a wily enough thief to employ an adept.  But a conspiracy, backed by ducal authority?  This explains things much more satisfactory.”

“Now that you are informed of our existence, Lord Whiskers,” Lorcus said, continuing to study the man thoughtfully, “what do you intend to do with that information?”

Lord Whiskers studied Lorcus with equal intensity.  “If you are worrying that I will sell that information to the Brotherhood, rest assured I will not.  They are colleagues.  They are also competitors.  If they are not strong enough or smart enough to contend with this challenge, then they do not deserve their place in the underworld.  The Iris will not attempt to prop up a weak competitor, nor would I wish to give them information they did not learn themselves.”

“Not even for gold?” Tyndal asked.

Lord Whiskers snorted.  “Gold means nothing to me,” he dismissed.  “And little to the Iris.  It is a means to an end.  The few ounces I could gain with this information is insubstantial, compared to the pleasure I gain from watching this little shadow war unfold.”

“So you are merely an interested observer,” Rondal offered.

“Just so,” agreed Lord Whiskers.

“But how did he track us?” demanded Atopol.  “We were flawless in our execution and planning!”

“His other little dragon,” supplied Gatina.  “That’s how.  He sent it to follow us, when he realized that the place had been robbed.”

“Actually, I sent him to see about the large and unusual splash I heard over the din, right after the trebuchet unexpectedly fired,” Lord Whiskers pointed out.  “Everyone else was distracted.  From there, he flew overhead while you switched boats downstream, and then followed you past Falas and up the road beyond the falls.”

“That’s a handy couple of beasts you have there,” Lorcus said, admirably.  “You’re right: we didn’t account for them.  A lesson learned.”

“They can be quite helpful, when they aren’t a pain in my arse.  And being underestimated is my stock-in-trade,” Lord Whiskers shrugged, graciously.  “I do as well as I do by staying quiet, keeping my ears and eyes open, and knowing things other people do not.  Your secret is safe with me, at least from the Rats.  I will be informing my superiors in Merwyn, however.”

“And we will be returning to Sevendor for a rest, before returning in the autumn,” Tyndal said . . . and then realized that he had just given their plans to – if not an enemy, then at least a dispassionate bystander.

“We intend to interfere in the slave trade some more,” Rondal agreed, after shooting Tyndal a look.  “The autumn is when the fleet returns from raiding and piracy, and they will have a lot of prisoners to ransom or sell.  That seems like an ideal time to return.”

“And, in the meantime, we’ll increase the pressure on the Brotherhood in a variety of subtle ways,” Gatina nodded.  “Without revealing ourselves prematurely, of course,” she added.

“Then our business here is concluded,” Lord Whiskers said, rising.  “Thank you for the wine, and thank you for a most entertaining distraction.  A word, under the table, as it were,” he added, suddenly.  “While I have no intention in interfering with this war, you might be interested to know that the Three Censors were raising funds for a purpose.  They are planning an aggressive sweep to discover and confiscate any stray witchstones the Coastlords have been able to hide, and they are eager for more.”

“So much for fanatical adherence to dogma,” Rondal said, disgustedly.  “I thought they were against irionite?”

“They are theoretically against its irresponsible and wanton use,” corrected Lord Whiskers.  “Which means they see no problem at all with using it themselves.  They are, after all, the ‘good guys’ in their minds.  That said, they have made acquiring more the highest priority.  And it has been whispered that they conspire with those who might grant it to them.”

“The gurvani!” Tyndal wanted to explode.

“Mere rumors,” insisted Lord Whiskers.  “But their vision includes an army of Censors armed with irionite, re-taking the lands who have exiled them and putting their leadership to death in a particularly horrid fashion.  And the only people who have irionite in that quantity . . .”

“Are the Alka Alon and the gurvani, and the Censors aren’t exactly friendly with the Tree Folk,” nodded Lorcus, gravely.

“Just so.  Well, my new friends, good luck on your journeys and perhaps our paths will cross again.  But be wary: the Brotherhood might be slow and relatively stupid, but it is strong.  They will be wary for you the next time you appear, and they will have likely determined your favorite ploys and contacts by then.  Do consider altering them, else you might fare far worse.”  With that the man left, his tiny flying reptile seemed to grin at Tyndal over his shoulder.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Lorcus sighed, relaxing.  Tyndal hadn’t realized the warmage was so tense.  “I thought I spied something overhead as we came north up the river, but I decided it was merely a bat.  It appears I was mistaken.”

“How in six hells did he get through the spellbinding?” Rondal asked, shaking his head in astonishment.  “That door shouldn’t have opened for anything less than a battering ram, and he opened it up like he was bringing dinner!”

“Lord Whiskers is a mysterious man,” Atopol agreed.  “It’s nice to put a name to the figure.  Father said he showed up in Enultramar just after the rebellion to manage the Iris here – apparently it’s punishment duty,” he added wryly.  “He’s always lurking around the edges of things, but rarely gets involved.”

“He’s got Talent,” Tyndal realized.  “Maybe a sport, but he’s got some Talent.  That has to be it.”

“Regardless of how mysterious our visitor was,” Lorcus sighed, “he was also insightful, and gave us a gift in return for his entertainment.  His advice.  It should be heeded.”

“You want us to trust the advice of a crimelord?” Tyndal asked, amused by the idea.

“Lord Whiskers is clearly a different kind of crimelord than the Brotherhood,” Rondal pointed out.  “Indeed, our new friends could be likewise considered crimelords.”

“Does that mean you’ll take my advice, Beloved?” Gatina purred, as she clung to Rondal’s arm.

“More like criminal specialists,” suggested Atopol.  “It’s about the art, not the gain.”

“Darkness!” swore Gatina.  “If there’s nothing to gain, what is the point of the art?”

“Lord Whiskers was not incorrect.  You fellows are involved in a shadow war,” Lorcus said, thoughtfully.  “Against a much larger and stronger foe.  After what I’ve seen here in Enultramar, my hopes for your eventual victory are slight, on parchment.  If you want to prevail, you are going to have to define what conditions victory entails.  You will not be able to eliminate criminal gangs from such a rich and corrupt society as this.  Or any society.

“So what, exactly, would you say constituted victory?” he asked, significantly.

Tyndal considered the matter.  His rage was directed toward the Brotherhood of the Rat, not crime in general.  True, he was appalled at the brutality he’d seen amongst the picturesque plantations and estates of the Coastlands, as serfs and slaves were driven to their tasks.  And the casual attitude toward life along the Bay was shocking to his Wilderlands’ sensibilities.  The Brotherhood was the most sinister manifestation of that attitude, but it was infused into the culture at every level, he noted.  Even the lad Ruderal had a certain fatalism about him that demonstrated that.

But Lorcus was correct.  Fighting the Brotherhood to any meaningful victory would require deciding at what point they were beaten, and the Order of Estasi victorious.

If for no other reason than to assist the Orphan Duke restore his rule over Enultramar and the Great Vale.  And see Rondal resolve his embarrassingly complex relationship with Gatina.

“If we remove those who are at the center of their power,” Tyndal reasoned, “and bankrupt their ability to project that power into the affairs of magi, I would count our debt of honor satisfied.”

Rondal nodded.  “We cannot hope to destroy crime, but we can wreck their ability to conduct their affairs with such arrogance and confidence.  We attack their organization, thoughtfully, and dismantle it.”

“Then you are either looking at a protracted war requiring tremendous expenditures invested in the development of forces with which to wage it,” Lorcus agreed, “Or . . . you must discover a way to use what little force you have to cunningly contrive the collapse of the Brotherhood in one deft, subtle, and decisive strike,” he declared.

“I’m too lazy to raise an army of thugs and thieves,” Tyndal pointed out.

“Rondal has better things to do than to run a secret criminal organization,” Gatina observed.

“Not to mention our duties elsewhere,” Rondal added, his eyes darting to the white-haired, purple-eyed maiden who was uncomfortably close.  “We cannot devote that kind of energy to this when the war might start up again at any time.  Or the Spellmonger require us for his purposes.”

“So you lads are proposing to take down the Brotherhood in your spare time?  As a hobby?” Lorcus asked, his eyes burning with merriment.

“That’s all we can spare,” Tyndal nodded.  “Errantry is fun, but duty is eternal.”

“Then a single strike it is,” Lorcus recommended.  “Which means you are going to have to learn everything you possibly can about your foe.  Every name, every location, every operation, every—”

“Done,” declared Gatina.

“What?” Tyndal asked, surprised.

“Leave the intelligence-gathering to me,” she said, confidently.  “I’m at the portion of my apprenticeship where Daddy is giving me a fair amount of discretion . . . particularly since I keep mastering the skills he’s taught me.  I will undertake to prepare every bit of information we need.  It will take me a few months,” she considered, her lips twisting into a frown, “but no more than that.”

“Gat, you’re talking about a huge, far-flung clandestine organization of cutthroats and killers!” her brother objected.  “Master Hance will never let—”

“You leave Daddy to me,” she snapped.  “On the chance that you haven’t realized it, we left the realm of an ordinary apprenticeship in Solashaven, weeks ago.  This isn’t merely a girlish whim, this is statecraft, Atty.  The Brotherhood is providing support for the rebel council, which must fall if Anguin is to be restored.  Which will not only be an incredible benefit to both the people of Enultramar and the Vale, but will reunite the realm and ensure the political viability of Alshar.  Not to mention be of great benefit to our House, if successful,” she added, glancing her cat-like violet eyes at Ron for the briefest of moments.

“That’s a surprisingly apt summation, Kitten,” Lorcus smiled.  “So we have noble motives behind our dirty war.  But how best to win it?  I would suggest, as thievery is one of your strong points at the moment, that you consider employing it against your foe.”

“How? asked Atopol, confused.

“Steal their money, stupid,” snorted Gatina.

“They have a lot of money,” Tyndal pointed out.  “From what we understand, they have hideouts all over the place.”

“Not their day-to-day coin,” Lorcus said, pouring more wine, “but their operating capital.  Their reserves.  Go after their treasury.”

“The Brotherhood’s treasury is impenetrable,” insisted Atopol, enunciating the term with professional authority.  “It’s somewhere in the eastern swamps, likely in the middle of the lake, guarded by swamp people, venomous snakes, ravenous insects, poisonous plants, wild swamp magi, giant caiman, and the swamp itself.  It was designed to keep any large amount of it from being removed at one time, the lore says, and only the senior members of the Brotherhood have access to it.  It just can’t be done, not without a major military operation.  That’s what the best minds of my House have concluded,” he added.

“We have access to a lot more magic now, than you ever did,” Rondal assured him.  “You’ve seen the sorts of things we’re capable of, with irionite and snowstone.  If we’re going to rob the Brotherhood’s treasury, it will be with spellcraft, not mere stealth and skill.”

“We’ll need all of that and more,” assured Atopol.  “And if we succeed, it will be one of the biggest heists in the history of my House.”

“So how do we do it without implicating your House and inviting repercussions?” asked Tyndal, concerned that the shadowthieves would face reprisals in the underworld from a broke and irate Brotherhood.

“We’ll have to be sneaky,” Lorcus shrugged.  “You fellows are getting good at that.”

“At the very least,” nodded Atopol.  “All right,” he sighed, “I’ll start researching the job.  It will, as Gat said, take a few months.  And it would probably be a good idea to lay low, after the Tower Arcane.  Eventually they’ll figure out that it wasn’t an ordinary theft, and as there are only a few extraordinary thieves in Enultramar . . .”

“With the fleet gone and a quarter of their strength with it,” Gat dismissed, “the Brotherhood won’t have time for a deep investigation,” she predicted.  “Not if they just got stirred up as bad as they have.”

“The Spider’s eyes are everywhere,” Atopol said, shaking his head.  “

Tyndal thought that an odd thing to say . . . and just a little creepy.  He was not fond of spiders.

“Who is the Spider?” asked Rondal.

“The member of the Brotherhood who oversees their intelligence gathering,” explained the thief.  “He’s a senior member, and one of the four or five serious players in the organization.  It’s his business to know everything.  He has spies, it is said, who don’t even know they are spies, he is so subtle.  Only a few in the underworld have ever claimed to have met him face-to-face, but his influence extends throughout the Brotherhood and beyond.  He, if no one else, will try to untangle who is attacking the Brotherhood.”

“Then I suggest we spend no more time than we have to learning about our foes in detail,” Tyndal urged.  “We shall contact you with what you’ve discovered, and perhaps we’ll be able to formulate a plan before the fleet returns in the autumn with its slaves and loot.”

“Yes, we shouldn’t take any more time than that,” agreed Atopol.  “We’re good at hiding, and I don’t really fear the Rats discovering my House’s most secret refuges, but that does not mean that they won’t try.  The sooner we can put down their threat the better.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Gatina.  “The sooner the better.  Then we can get to restoring Anguin, and . . . more important things,” she added, grabbing Rondal’s arm possessively.

“Then let us discover a way to topple the Brotherhood, once and for all,” Tyndal said, enjoying watching Striker squirm.  “For I have no higher purpose, at the moment, than seeing him there in all of his glory.”

You are such an asshole, Ron said, mind-to-mind, in the most disgusted tone Tyndal had ever heard.

And you two will make such cute babies, Tyndal agreed.

Part III

Thieves

Rondal

Chapter Twenty-One

The Orphan Duke

Long known as the Jewel of the Five Rivers Vale, the beautiful fief of Vorone was chosen as the site for the northern summer capital the same time a capital was being considered in contested Gilmora.  The selection was easier in the Wilderlands, for few of the Great Houses were positions to contend over it, and the Duke had already found the site he wished, one ideal for hunting, fishing, hawking, and tilting on the big Wilderlands warhorses the Wilderlords favored for battle.  The grand palace he planned there was completed by his grandson, though the taxes he imposed on his Gilmoran possessions to do so encouraged rebellion

The Northern Settlements

Countess Andine

Rondal felt exhausted but somehow fulfilled, after the unexpected battle in the Wilderlands.  One minute he was minding his own business, the next someone is screaming in his mind and the next he was away to Castabriel at the Conclave, and thence to Vorone, and thence to horseback to defend his homeland against a midsummer raid by goblins.

It was one of the first actual battles he’d participated in, during this busy summer, and while violent, deadly and chaotic – as battle always was – it was refreshingly straightforward: the goblin raiders were terrorizing a village, he and thirty 3rd Commando troopers rode in with lances and swords and warmagic and drove off the survivors of the sudden charge.  Only two of his borrowed men had been injured so far this bloody night, but the messages he was receiving from the palace assured him that he had plenty of work left to do.

It was annoying, too, in its way: he and Tyndal had just finished helping Lorcus conquer a domain in a tight little war in the Castali Riverlands, on behalf of his former master, and decided to take the smallest of breaks.  Lorcus’ approach to warmagic and conquest was every bit as novel and interesting as his approach to thievery and clandestine action, and the few weeks they’d spent helping him take over one of the largest domains in Sashtalia was every bit as much fun as the weeks they’d spent in Enultramar, attacking the Brotherhood.  Of course, when Lady Mask, renegade warmage and ally to the Necromancer, attacked Master Minalan, breaking his Witchsphere in the battle, things had soured a bit.

Rondal was honestly worried about Minalan, and it had little to do with his broken Witchsphere.

There was something . . . off with his master, these days, he reflected.  He saw it in a dozen tiny ways, little things too subtle for Tyndal to pick up on.  But they were there.  Something was affecting the Spellmonger, and whatever it was seemed to also be affecting his judgment.   It had been so disturbing to him – and to Tyndal, once Rondal had pointed it out – that Rondal felt genuinely uncomfortable being around his former master, these days.  There was just too much tension, anxiety, and worry in him, though he did his best to hide it.

But Minalan’s moodiness was enough catalyst for the knights magi to want to leave Sevendor before they’d truly returned.  After deciding to skip the boring Midsummer convocation of the Arcane Orders in Castabriel in favor of heading back to Enultramar to press their shadow war, he and Tyndal were most of the way across Castal toward the great gates of Alshar when the call came, a few days after the solstice.

The news was bad: while most of the Alshari warmagi in the Wilderlands had been away at the Convocation in Castabriel, something had stirred up the gurvani, and inspired them to launch a series of harassing raids from their bases in the Penumbra.

To Rondal’s mind it was clearly a probing attack.  None of the units which had thundered across the hills in the moonlight toward the villages left in Alshari territory were large enough to challenge the defenses of even a small town.  But they harassed the smaller villages around the few great castles left in the northwest of the Wilderlands in a score of attacks, and left the strongest military fortifications alone.

Thankfully, Master Minalan had been at the Convocation.  And Gareth, brilliant, bird-chested, painfully awkward Gareth, had figured out how to use the Alkan Ways – an achievement only Master Minalan had mastered with the help of the Tree Folk.  The technique was simple, Rondal had learned, and anyone with one of the smooth, tiny spheres of Alka Alon irionite could learn it.  While that still was only a few handfuls of people in the world, a great many of them had been there at the Convocation to learn how.

It had proven decisive.  The Alshari contingent of warmagi (and a number of eager volunteers, including Magelord Terleman, who was between assignments) was able to get back to the Wilderlands without traveling overland and killing horses in their haste to return.

Instead, Gareth, Dara, he and Tyndal had used the new spell to bring as many volunteer warmagi back to Alshar that night, following the Horkans who lead the way with a fierce vengeance in their hearts, and distribute them around the Alkan waypoints to their best effect before retiring to the palace for assignment.  Returning in the nick of time, fresh from days of lazy banquets, panel discussions, and organizational meetings to surprise the gurvani’s surprise attack left the warmagi fresh and eager to fight.  That had saved a number of villages and villagers who might have been destroyed otherwise.

But it was a busy, bloody night.

There were some unexpected benefits to the third war he’d been involved in this year: he’d enjoyed a reunion with a few of his comrades from the Mysteries of Duin.  When he’d arrived at the palace in Vorone late that busy night, volunteering to lead a unit in response, he was surprised and gratified to find that Duke Anguin had invited the former Royal 3rd Commando to the Wilderlands, just before they were driven out of their encampment in Gilmora.  When he was milling around the stately garden pressed into service as a deployment point, selecting men for his force, he’d recognized a familiar face: a mercenary with strong, handsome Remeran features in cavalry armor, bearing the insignia of an Ancient on his baldric.  He bore a thin iron bracelet on his wrist matching the one Rondal wore.

“Walven!” he exclaimed, when he’d seen the weary face of his old squadmate from the Mysteries.  “Ace!  Over here!”

“Rondal?  Striker!” his mate returned, as they collided in a brotherly embrace in the middle of the barracks.

“What are you doing here?” they both asked, simultaneously, when they broke it.

“I’m helping repel the gurvani,” Rondal explained.  “Haystack and I were at the Convocation, when word came.”

“I heard about that,” his fellow soldier nodded.  “Nice piece of work, getting back here so quickly.”

“Magic,” Rondal shrugged.  “It can be useful, sometimes.”

Walven looked older, of course, but though he carried himself with confidence and maturity, the scraggly patch of beard and the youthful gleam in his eye told him out as a young man . . . though he bore an Ancient’s insignia on his baldric, now.

“I see you’ve been promoted,” he noted.  “How’s life in the 3rd Commando?”

“Better than life in the Third Squad, but not by much,” his friend grumbled.  “Two bloody years we were adrift in Gilmora, before the Orphan Duke invited us here.”

“He hired the 3rd Commando?” Rondal asked, surprised.  From what he understood the unit had been disbanded by Royal decree, shortly after the Battle of the Frozen Lake.  And Anguin was broke, running his court with borrowed money.  Not enough, from what he understood, to hire an army of mercenaries.

“He invited the 3rd Commando,” corrected Walven, frowning.  “He isn’t paying us in coin – not much, anyway.  But we’ll get land and supplies to freehold, and such.  It’s not a great deal, but it was the only offer on the table.  With three barons warning us it was time to move on, it seemed like a good idea to move on.  We lost some men along the way, as some joined other units or struck out on their own, so there were some openings among the non-commissioned officers.  Eventually someone was dumb enough to make me an Ancient.”

“You wear it well,” Rondal noted, straightening his friend’s baldric.  “Want to go hunting?  I’ve been tasked with taking two score cavalry out tonight.  You can still ride a horse, can’t you?”

“My arse is saddle-shaped, now,” Walven agreed.  “I know just the lads, too: all good riders, and itching for a fight.”

“Assemble them,” Rondal ordered, with the proficiency of an officer.  “I’ll meet you at the stables in half an hour.  And . . . it’s really good to see you again!”

Walven was an excellent Ancient, Rondal noted several times that night, but then again the 3rd Commando were excellent soldiers.  By the time they rode into the third village of the evening at dawn, only one of his men had fallen, and only three had been wounded.

Part of that was due to Rondal’s advice, after scrying the area with Bulwark’s aid.  He was able to determine the nature and disposition of the gurvani raiders with such accuracy that Walven was able to deploy his men to the best advantage during their attacks.  For his part, Walven invested far more trust into Rondal’s intelligence than most Ancients were willing to do with warmagi.

It was an ideal partnership, and Rondal truly appreciated the cool and efficient manner of his old friend after working with Tyndal for so long, and the professional demeanor of the troops he commanded.  While there were less amusing observations and witty insults than amongst a band of part-time warriors, there were more dead goblins and tearfully grateful peasant families, too.

At dawn, they were recalled back to the palace as a fresh patrol of cavalry was issued in their place.  Rondal led the men back to Vorone at a walk, after their busy night, and spoke with Walven at length in the saddle.  Hearing about the trials and tribulations of the 3rd Commando was fascinating.  And being back in the Wilderlands again, even this far south, was refreshing.  He was just about to launch into a long description about first their shadow war in Enultramar, and then another about their recent quick and dirty war in Sashtalia, when Tyndal had to mess things up with a message, mind-to-mind.

Striker, are you done yet? his partner demanded.  The Duke wants to see you.

Just finished, he answered.  I scryed the entire region, I think we got all the major bands this close to the palace.

Outstanding.  There are dozens more, from what Terleman says.  How far out are you?

Rondal checked his position on a magemap.  About two hours away.

Can you use the Ways? Tyndal asked.  Come in on Pentandra’s Waystone, he suggested.  She’s in her office.  Though she might not even notice you, he added.  She’s doing an excellent job of coordination.

Rondal sighed.  He was actually looking forward to a leisurely morning ride through the Wilderlands during High Summer, after such a busy night, but he knew that when the Duke wanted to see you, you went and saw the Duke.

Let me leave some instructions with my Ancient, he agreed, and I’ll be right there.  Where can I find you?  And Anguin?

The Game Room, Tyndal replied.  Dear gods, have you seen the girls in the palace, Ace?  I swear it’s like Ishi had a look-a-like contest!

Will you please pull your straw-filled head back to the matter at hand? Rondal requested.  You can chase skirts after the crisis is over.

Actually, I can chase skirts during a crisis, Tyndal replied, boldly.  I pride myself on my versatility.  I just finished kissing one of these delightful little maids in the gallery.  And I got the defense of Bonner’s Ridge organized, although Lord Bonner will no longer be leading that estate.

See you momentarily, Rondal promised, ignoring his partner’s latest conquest.  It irked Rondal how easy it was for Tyndal to simply grin and act goofy and have women hanging off of him.

Then again, after a few weeks of Gatina’s attentions, Rondal was starting to wonder about just how desirable being desirable actually was.  It wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy the company (and soft lips) of the attractive young thief, but the intensity of her emotions was overwhelming.  If he had to deal with that all the time from such a confusing variety of girls, well, he’d likely spend much of his future married life in errantry or on the battlefield.

“I have to go,” he informed Walven as he called a halt to the party and dismounted.  “Duke Anguin wishes me to report.  Continue to lead the men down this road, with scouting pickets on both sides.  It scryed clear, but it’s possible that they have a shaman who employed countermeasures to hide scouts or snipers, so be on your guard.”

“I’m always on my guard,” the Remeran grinned.  “Mention my name to His Grace, will you?”

Rondal shook his head as he prepared the spell from his stone, fixing on the Waystone Lady Pentandra’s necklace.  “You really don’t learn, do you?  When the Duke knows your name, he may call it.  And when he does, you have to go.”

“All the way to fortune and glory!” chuckled his friend.  “Farewell, Striker!”

“See you soon, Ace,” he said, with a wave, and allowed the songspell within his witchstone to pull him out of reality and then jam him back in.

Rondal was starting to get used to the experience, which was actually slightly better when you had some control over it.  It still made him nauseated, but he’d just spent his evening slaughtered goblins – breakfast hadn’t been an issue.  When he re-emerged on the other side of the Ways, it was into the Court Wizard’s office in the palace.

Pentandra and Terleman were huddled over a table in the center of the room as he materialized, and as Tyndal suggested, she didn’t even look up as he hitched a ride on her magical stone.  He closed his eyes and waited a moment for the vertigo to subside, then left quietly, after holding the door for a couple of pages with dispatches.  Two warriors of the 3rd Commando were standing outside, wearing the baldrics of palace guardsmen.

Rondal quietly left the wing and found Tyndal in the corridor outside, waiting.

“I thought you were already there?” he said, confused.

“I thought I’d wait for you,” he said, standing.  “I just got in myself from a patrol – nothing,” he pronounced, distastefully.  “Well, signs, and a single burnt hovel, but that’s all.  I could have slept through it.”

“This isn’t a serious attack,” Rondal agreed.  “It looks probing and opportunistic.”

“You make it sound so . . . dirty,” Tyndal said, staring at a pair of young women in matching green dresses.  “Apparently we missed a hell of a party, here, a few weeks ago,” he said, regretfully.  “But it feels good to be back in the Wilderlands again.”

“I was thinking that earlier,” Rondal agreed, as he followed Tyndal through the maze of the ornate palace.  “We should settle down here, someday,” he suggested.  “You know, once all the goblins are gone.”

“There’s no place quite like it,” Tyndal agreed, as a young maiden hurried past him, bearing a scroll and a worried expression.  “I spoke briefly to His Grace, and he’s preparing to launch a retaliatory raid into the Penumbra – hope we’re around to get a piece of that,” he said, enthusiastically.

“What does he want?”

“You have a message for him, remember?” Tyndal prompted.  “When I told him that, he was eager to receive it.”

Rondal blanched.  He had all but forgotten about the letter from Master Hance he bore for Anguin, thanks to the hectic series of events this summer.  But this was, indeed, the first time he’d been near the Duke of Alshar in months, so this was, literally, the first convenient opportunity.

“You’re right,” Rondal admitted, guiltily.  “How does he seem to be . . . ?”

“Ruling?” supplied Tyndal.  “Well enough.  He listens to his advisors, it seems, but he’s got his own head.  He’s smart,” he said, admiringly.  “Not like Tavard at all.  He hasn’t panicked once all night, from what I’ve seen.”

“Well, that’s a good thing,” Rondal agreed, as they came to the Game Room His Grace has made his headquarters.  They found the young Duke behind a double-thick layer of palace guardsmen, as well as several armored knights who had volunteered to give chase to the raiders, and were generally loitering around the Duke, awaiting orders.

Thankfully, Anguin looked up from his desk and his aides just as the lads were passing the guards, and smiled.

“My good knights magi, Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal!” he said, his youthful voice adopting a far more formal tone than Rondal had expected.  “Thank you for joining me.  Gentlemen?  Can I have the room?” he asked, to the others.

With some nods and some furtive glances the men retired to the chamber outside, leaving the three of them alone for a moment.

Anguin looked well, Rondal decided, older and more filled-out than the scrawny kid he’d met last year.  His eyes, however, were tired and worn, and had seemed to age beyond the mere year since last he’d seen them.  Ruling was taking a toll, Ron realized.

But Anguin seemed nothing but cheerful and enthusiastic as he invited them to sit.

“So, what have my two favorite knights magi been doing while I’ve been dusting off this rustic throne?” he asked, once he got settled in with them.

“Mostly we’ve been doing terrible, terrible things to the Brotherhood of the Rat in Enultramar,” Tyndal began.  “Destroying their hideouts, stealing their coin, assassinating their membership . . .”

“But while we were indulging in our quiet little war,” Rondal continued, trying to keep to the meat of the matter before Tyndal began extolling his own virtues, “we made some new friends.  Friends who were, apparently, also friends of your late father.”

“Friends?  What kind of friends?” asked Anguin, curious and concerned.

“Secret friends,” emphasized Rondal, as he summoned Bulwark, and then shook the letter loose from its magical pocket within the baculus.  It was just as fresh and crisp as it had been when he’d placed it there, months ago.  “From what this . . . gentleman said, he and Duke Lenguin were confidants.  He wanted me to give this to you personally, without the knowledge of even your closest advisors.”

Anguin stared at the parchment and the black wax seal that bound it with some hesitancy.

“If it makes any difference, Your Grace,” Tyndal prompted, “this gentleman enjoys our highest confidence.  He and his house were instrumental in the success of our efforts.”

Anguin looked at them both before nodding and taking the note.  Once committed, he eagerly split the seal and began reading.

It was only a few moments before he sighed and looked up, dropping the parchment on the table.

“Oh, my,” he said, shaking his head.  “I believe you are correct, Sir Rondal.  This . . . loyal gentleman was, indeed, a friend of Father’s.  Indeed, just a few weeks before he died, I recall him mentioning that he knew the best thief in the realm, when we were out fishing.  He said he met him as a boy, and had made him the unofficial ‘ducal thief’.”

“That would have been an apt description, if he was in your father’s service,” agreed Tyndal.

“I believe you can trust him, Your Grace,” Rondal volunteered.  “He seemed quite intrigued with your restoration and voiced considerable support for your return to Enultramar.”

“Well, since my great-uncle is rebelling against me with the vast majority of the Duchy’s resources behind him, that might take a while,” chuckled Anguin.  “But there is considerable support for that in the court.  Indeed, I was nearly overthrown a few months ago by a conspiracy of Sea Lords who wished me to abandon the Wilderlands and take to sea to fight for my legacy.”

“I am gratified that Your Grace elected not to do so,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “The rebels’ fleet is not just comprised of the old Alshari navy, but is augmented by hundreds of Farisi expatriate mariners, pirates and merchantmen, who have sought haven in Enultramar.  Had you attempted to take the place by sea, you would have been defeated handily.”

Anguin smirked.  “You don’t have confidence that the gods would have favored the true ruler to the realm, and struck aside my opponents?”

“We believe that the gods often favor the side with the largest force and the wisest commander,” Rondal countered.  “As much as we support your reign, Your Grace, we’re not stupid.  The rebel coalition led by the Count of Rhemes is still very much in charge.  Enultramar is not going to fall into your hands just because of your legacy.  In our opinion,” he said, glancing at Tyndal, “it’s going to be because you won it back.  And not at sea,” he emphasized.

“Oh, I know, I know,” the Orphan Duke agreed.  “Yet this letter gives me some hope that I can, the gods alone know how, generate enough support within the Great Vale and the Bay to overthrow the rebellion.  Or at least offer a better alternative than being conquered by Rard.  Or Tavard,” he added, snorting at his cousin’s name.

“Is there any answer or response you wish to send this gentleman, Your Grace?” Tyndal asked.

“Yes,” the duke nodded.  “Tell him – personally, I don’t want to commit this to writing – tell him that I accept his pledge of loyalty and his service, and ask him to work with my designated representatives in preparing the realm for my restoration.  At some point.  In the distant future.”

“Who are your designated representatives?” Tyndal asked, confused.  Rondal wasn’t aware of anyone claiming to speak for the Duke in Enultramar.

“You are.  Starting now,” Anguin declared.  “Oh, I want to keep this secret, decidedly, but I also want to know that someone with some wisdom is working towards that end.”

Tyndal glanced at him, but didn’t try to communicate mind-to-mind.

Rondal cleared his throat.  “Your Grace, while we are of course honored and proud to accept . . . we are not, strictly speaking, spies,” he reminded him.

“Or wise,” added Tyndal.

“I know.  You are the first Knights Magi in the Alshari realm, next only after the Spellmonger, himself.  More, you are native Alshari, Wilderlords both.  And you have done great service to that realm despite the realm not being in a proper position to reward that service . . . yet.”

“Oh, we’re doing this for fun, Your Grace,” Tyndal assured him.  “We’re not looking for a reward.  We’re looking for revenge.”

“That being said, we’re more than happy to work in Your Grace’s interests,” agreed Rondal, evenly.  “Consider the Estasi Order at your service.”

Anguin thought for a moment.  “You really think this gentleman and his kin are loyal and worthy allies?” he asked.

“Rondal is so impressed with them that he has paid court to their daughter,” Tyndal informed his liege, smugly.  “Don’t think that he’s letting her skirts cloud his judgment on the matter, however.  From what we can tell, there are many in the south who yearn for your assumption of power there and bristle at the heavy hand of the Count of Rhemes.  It might be a slow process, but if anyone can quietly forge those loyalists into an organized resistance to the rebellion, it will be this family.”

“It’s not this family I’m worried about,” frowned the young man.  “What if Grendine finds out?  Her family will seek them out and remove them, just because they are helping me.”

“She’d have an incredibly difficult time finding them,” answered Tyndal, smirking at the thought.  “These are shadowmagi, Your Grace.  They can hide a horse through a crowded hall and get away with it.”

“My aunt has been known to employ shadowmagi,” he reminded them.

“Only the one, and she’s retired – and about to give birth, from what I understand,” Tyndal reflected.  “Besides, these folks are better than Lady Isily ever was.  She was sneaky.  They are silent and nearly invisible.  The Cats of Enultramar, they are called.”

“Well, the gentleman says he has something that might keep my aunt’s ambitions at bay, but he alone will put it in my hands.  So . . . I wish for you to return to Enultramar, at your convenience, and convey that message: I graciously accept his offer of assistance and service, and I place him in your capable hands to help coordinate the effort against our common foes.”

“He will be most gratified to hear it,” smiled Tyndal.  “So will his daughter.”

“Shut up!” Rondal said, utterly breaking protocol.  Anguin grinned.  He apparently didn’t mind breaking protocol.  “We’re working on refining our plans now,” he said, giving Tyndal a disgusted look.  “This gentleman and his House are actively gathering information on your foes, and we should have something put together by late summer.  Just in time for the slaving fleets to return.”

“I cannot believe they’ve allowed that hateful practice to return!” the young Duke said, shaking his head sadly.  “One of the most abdominal institutions of old Enultramar, worse than serfdom!”

“But lucrative,” reminded Tyndal.

“I want you to do what you can to organize the loyalists in the south, and have them prepared to act, when the time is right,” Anguin said, thoughtfully.  “I know that might rile some feathers, in some circles, but if we’re going to take back Enultramar and the Great Vale before Rard does, we’re going to have to be ready.  Can I entrust you with this task?  As knights of Alshar?”

Rondal swallowed, and took a knee.  He was gratified to see Tyndal do likewise.  “It would be an honor and a pleasure, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” he said, bowing in return and motioning them to rise.  “This will, of course, have to be kept in strictest confidence.  You are, in effect, intelligence agents of the coronet, now. Secret agents.  If you are caught or captured, you must not reveal your purpose to anyone.  If my aunt caught wind of what I’m planning she’d invade us at once, pretense be damned.  Or I’d end up with a dagger in my gut.

“The same goes for the Count of Rhemes, and his supporters.  As long as they believe I am a pretender to the throne, content to rule here in Vorone, I’m harmless.  The moment they realize that I intend to retake my legacy, I become a liability.  And then a corpse.”

“You are well-protected, Your Grace,” Tyndal countered, putting his hand on a warwand.

“No one is perfectly protected,” he disagreed.  “I am surrounded by stalwarts, but it takes but one swallow of poison to end me.  Tasters are helpful, but avoiding attracting the ire of those who command assassins is a wiser strategy.

“But I cannot continue to ignore Enultramar,” he said, guiltily.  “As important as Vorone and the Wilderlands are right now, I must retake the south, or lose claim to it forever.  I have neither the forces, nor the resources, nor the fleet I need to do so, but it must be done.”

“Which suggests a more robust clandestine force than you have,” Rondal pointed out.  “Who is your current head of intelligence?”

Anguin frowned.  “The post is vacant.  The last man who held it here was retired, after the death of my parents, and is of limited use now.  No one in my court, at the moment, truly has the subtle touch needed by a spymaster.  For all of my aunt’s faults, she does appreciate the nuance of the art.

“What of Lady Pentandra?” Tyndal asked.  He always seemed to be coming to her defense.

“Lady Pentandra may prove capable, but her talents in other areas make her indispensable there.  I require her abilities elsewhere.  Nor do I think she has the temperament for sustained viciousness.  She’s a Remeran, but she’s not that much of Remeran,” he smirked.

“Until you find one, then, we will act as your agents in the South,” Rondal pledged.  “If you can give us leave to . . . work a little magic,” he said, offering a small smile at the metaphor, “we can at least give you some advantage, the day when you stand in Enultramar.”

“That will be enough, I hope,” he sighed.  “If I do not do something soon, though, my shaky Alshari alliance will fall.  The Sea Lords and Coastlords already grumble that we ignore their exile, and the Wilderlords fear we will abandon all we’ve done here in favor of an expedition south.  If I do not make some effort, I will lose my support.”

“We understand, Your Grace,” Tyndal said, confidently.  “Leave it in our hands.”

“If . . . we have your full authority,” Rondal added, cautiously.

“I shall have warrants drawn up attesting to your permission, and detailing the scope and nature of your mission.  As with Lady Pentandra and her efforts, I authorize you to proceed under the Laws of Kulin, on my behalf.  Establish allies, conspire to prepare forces, learn the nature of our enemies . . . and kill every Rat you wish.”

“Your Grace?” Rondal asked, for clarification.  Anguin did not hesitate to give it, sounding positively regal in its delivery.

“Henceforth the Brotherhood of the Rat is declared a threat to state security, and therefore shall be destroyed.  Even if they were framed for my mother’s murder, that does not excuse what they’ve done elsewhere.  Slavery?  In this age?  And now they dabble in politics?  Too long have we tolerated their presence.”  He looked at them, and his eyes narrowed.  “I’ll write that one up, too.  And put that big ugly ducal seal on it under my signature,” he said, as Tyndal helped him strap on his thickly-padded gambeson.

“I don’t see how Queen Grendine could possibly take issue with you issuing edicts to keep order in your own realm, particularly against the ostensible killers of your mother,” Rondal agreed, appreciating the duke’s shrewdness.  If the Brotherhood really were keeping the poor of Enultramar cowed as the Count of Rhemes and his band of rebels prepared to usurp the throne, then striking a blow at them would serve to weaken the rebellion.

“Might I suggest that you survey the court in Vorone for hints as to whom it is known in the south might be in favor of your return, Your Grace?” Tyndal asked, politely.  “It may help to establish to whom we visit to assemble allies.”

“Indeed, I think we can recruit . . . your father’s friend to act as your agent in that regard,” Rondal added.  “He is already eager for a visit by the Spellmonger, to help unite the Houses of magi in the south.  I think he would be ideal to serve as your eyes and ears in the region.  If you authorize it, that is,” he added, in deference to the duke.

“Of course,” nodded Anguin.  “If he is the man my father referred to, then he is not only loyal, he is adept at his craft.  I shall compose a letter for you to return to him, when next you travel south.  More importantly, he is apparently in possession of something that can be used as a weapon against my aunt, though he did not specify what that might be.  Ishi’s tits!” he swore, bawdily, “if he has something to make Grendine afraid, I don’t care if he’s four feet tall and covered in black hair!”

“Speaking of which,” Rondal said, as he detected the arrival of Anguin’s armsmen with his armor, “I believe Your Grace has an engagement north, do you not?”

“I do,” he sighed, resolutely.  “My first time going into battle, technically.  Of course, I’ll be surrounded by two thousand heavily armed men and a couple of really tough warmagi, but . . .”

“No man who wasn’t a fool ever went to battle unafraid,” Tyndal said, probably quoting someone.

“I’m sure you will do fine, Your Grace,” Rondal said, encouragingly.  Anguin scowled, unexpectedly.

“Oh, no, thank you for your kind wishes, Sir Rondal, it’s just . . . well, ever since I came to Vorone, I’ve been referred to as ‘Your Grace’ about a thousand times a day.  When we are alone, and discussing matters as friends, I invite you both to call me Anguin.  Gods, it is my name, isn’t it?”

“One we shall make certain every Alshari knows, before we are done,” promised Tyndal.  “Really, Your—Anguin, I think we’ve got a good eye on the weather in the south.  We’ve made some cracks, and I think if we can jump on them a little, we can ensure your return.”

“You have magi on the case,” agreed Rondal.  “Knights magi.  And a couple of really clever shadowmagi,” he added.

“I look forward to your reports, gentlemen,” he said, clasping their shoulders before he opened the doors for his courtiers.  “Now . . . let’s get this done,” he sighed, as they rushed in, each bearing a piece of his finely-wrought mail.  “At least it’s not mere jousting,” he consoled himself, as he began stripping.  “Can you stick around and help support us through this crisis?  I understand if the Spellmonger needs you, but . . .”

“It would be our pleasure,” agreed Tyndal.  “What would you have us do?”

“Well, if one of you can help Lady Pentandra around the palace coordinating our response, I’d like the other of you to venture forth and do battle.”

“I’ve got the battle!” Tyndal said, hurriedly.

Rondal snorted.  Typical.

“All right, I’ll stay behind and help out, here,” he sighed.  Unless I can find someone better at it than me, he added to himself.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Anguin said, rising to signal the end of the meeting.  “Keep me appraised of your progress through Lady Pentandra and let me know if I can assist with your efforts in any way.  It would be nice if I could rule the richest ninety-percent of my realm.  This budgetary process might encourage outstanding fiscal responsibility, as Father Amus suggests, but being one of Five Dukes and still being almost too poor to pay your own guards is . . . awkward.”

“Let us see what we can do about that, Your Grace,” Rondal nodded, standing himself as they took their leave while their liege was armed.

“So . . . we’re real spies, now,” Tyndal grinned as they left the Game Room.

“We’ve always been agents,” Rondal said, philosophically, as he looked for a castellan.  He had been here for hours, now, and he needed at least a little rest.  The castellans could point him in the direction of a cot or a corner somewhere he could take a nap in.  He was running on warmagic and adrenaline, and the adrenaline was wearing off.  “Just agents in our own service – or the service of the Order.  Now we’re in direct service to the Duke.  We just can’t really tell anyone.”

“No, I suppose we can’t,” agreed Tyndal, his enthusiasm dampened a little.  “Yet it is nice to have permission to do all of that destruction.  Warrants.  The Laws of Kulin.  Master Hance as a spymaster . . . ”

“That is a point,” Rondal agreed.  “Let’s go get these goblins sorted out, and then see what we can do to reconsider our mission to Enultramar . . . as spies,” he said, discovering that he indeed liked the idea.  Unfortunately, it took Tyndal’s big mouth to remind him why.

“I can’t wait to tell Kitten,” Tyndal smiled.  “She’s going to positively purr!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

A Kitten in a Cottage

Often a man has no better purpose than to entertain and delight a beautiful woman.

Duke Enguin The Black

Rondal was always wary about casting a spell taking him through a strange Waypoint, even though he’d done it a dozen times, now.  The difference this time was that this portal to the Alkan Ways – more like weak points in the nature of the Magosphere, he reflected, thaumaturgically – was deep within rebel territory.  After searching and seeking for a means of returning to Enultramar, he’d finally discovered one, while prospecting through the Otherworld with Tyndal’s assistance.  The process was made far easier by their new thaumaturgical rods, but jumping blindly into the unknown was always prone to invoke anxiety in him.

Luckily, when the world returned to his view after three heartbeats of nothingness, and after his empty stomach heaved, he found himself in a broad meadow filled with sheep in the late afternoon.  He struggled to orient himself as he scanned the horizon to get his bearings.

Then he sighed and summoned Bulwark.  Within moments the rod had conjured up precisely where he was: in the Coastlands, about sixty miles of the east of the great river Mandros.  And about a hundred and eighty miles away from Falas.  That put him in . . . the county of Rhemes, he realized.

His Waypoint was in the heart of rebel territory.  A glorious start to his career in espionage.  Technically, all the land was rebel-controlled, but the county of Rhemes was the home of the Count – Anguin’s great uncle, Vichetral, he’d learned.  Indeed, the House of Remigius was attached to the ducal line in several ways that gave him some legitimacy as he quietly controlled the duchy.

But it was unlikely that he would be hunting for spies in his own hinterlands, Rondal decided.  Particularly spies who could appear and disappear into thin air at will.  He calmed himself at he looked around at the peaceful meadow.  There were no shepherds in sight, but they would be along soon, he knew.  It was almost dusk.  He could see the first dark triangle of the Void starting to form over the southern horizon, and the waxing moon was already climbing in the east.

He made mental contact with Tyndal.

I’m through.  Looks like a sheep’s pasture, somewhere in Rhemes.

That must be lovely! his partner replied, though he was still in Vorone.

It’s actually quite idyllic, Rondal agreed, grinning to himself.  Let Gat know.  I’ll hike to the nearest village and get my bearings.

That proved harder than he anticipated, though he found a road quickly enough.  He walked nearly seven miles before he came to a settlement of more than a hut, an hour after darkness fell.

The hamlet was called Gandy, and it lacked an inn, though the headman did have a cottage vacant he was willing to let Rondal rent for the night.  He explained himself as merely a lost traveler on his way to Falas, though his dress was far above his landlord’s station.  When he suggested he might stay awhile in Gandy the man became even more interested in catering to the mysterious traveler.

Three silver pennies bought the man’s cooperation and silence, and the cottage for the rest of the month.  He didn’t need it that long, but he didn’t feel like haggling.  He was dressed well enough, in the Coastlord cast-offs he’d purchased in Solashaven, and his boots and bag were of good manufacture.  He spent ten minutes speaking with the landlord before he was given a wooden key and directions to the cottage, just outside of the village hedge.

Tell her it’s the village of Gandy, in the domain of Treaz, in the barony of Busolar.  That should help.  Just follow the road from the river and the alluring aroma of sheep shit.

It sounds perfectly romantic!

Rondal shook his head, but didn’t reply.  Tyndal’s teasing about Gatina’s affections – and plans for their future together – had become relentless, of late, and any response would release another torrent from the boorish knight.  The joke was old, now, he felt.  Yes, he was afraid of getting married . . . and having the matter decided for him was unusual.

But the fact was, he really did like Gatina.  There were her obvious physical charms of course, and as unusual as they might be she wore them proudly and well.  She was a very attractive girl, when she wasn’t trying not to be, and she had a lean, slender physicality about her he found alluring.

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.

She was really here.  This was real.

Gatina came closer, close enough for him to smell the rich scent of her hair.  Her eyes seemed to get even larger as she stared into his from the back of her horse.

Oh, bloody hell, he realized.  Ishi’s got me by the root!

He’d considered a dozen light-hearted, witty things to say when she arrived, but as she slid to the ground and into his arms with the grace of a feline, she looked up at him with those glorious eyes.

“Beloved,” she whispered.

He couldn’t think of a damned word to say.  So he kissed her.

He didn’t remember much after that, not for a while, and what he did recall was accompanied by the most amazing feelings as he felt the delicious creature melt into his arms like an affectionate pet.  Her face nuzzled every inch of his as his mouth sought to confine the shape of her lips to eternal memory.

There were words spoken, but no sentences, not until Gatina’s slender hands pushed him away.

“We must pause, if only for a moment,” she insisted, breathless.  “Let me see to the horse and then we can enjoy our reunion properly.”

“I’ll handle the horse,” he volunteered.  “You must have been on the road a long time.”

“I love to ride,” she confessed, stretching her back in a most casual manner.  And entirely captivating.  “The country is beautiful, this time of year.”

“There’s a basin and ewer just inside,” he called, as he took the reins and led the gentle beast back to an overhang behind the cottage.  He found a sack of oats on the saddlebag, and tied it on to the horse before he unsaddled it and took Gatina’s small baggage inside.

“I love it!” she assured him, before his eyes adjusted to the light.  “Did it come this way?”

She had shed her dark mantle and unbuttoned her gown, and was washing her face in the pretty ceramic basin that the castellan of Rolone Castle didn’t have any more.

“It’s lovely,” she sighed, as she patted her face dry with a towel.  “Charming, even.  Oh, Rondal, I have missed you so!”

“I’ve missed you, too,” he replied, sincerely.  “Since I’ve last seen your pretty eyes, I’ve been in two wars,” he realized.  “Nothing too serious – although Lorcus is now Lord Lorcus of a surprisingly large part of Sashtalia,” he admitted.  “But I delivered the message from your father to the Duke, and have his reply,” he said, taking the sealed scroll from his bag.  “I don’t know the specifics, but in general Anguin is thrilled that he has such an able supporter, and wishes to establish a more direct relationship.”

“What do you mean?” Gatina asked, taking the letter.

“I mean that Anguin has authorized me and Tyndal to spy on the south, and prepare it against the day he returns,” Rondal said, hopefully.  “He wishes to begin the process by finding out who would support his restoration, and who is against it . . . and why.”

“That should be easy enough,” Gatina nodded thoughtfully.  “Daddy knows most of it already.”

“Excellent!  Which brings me to the next point: will House Salaines act as the eyes of Anguin, here?  Tyndal and I are really great at breaking things, but we need someone subtle enough to gather information without garnering suspicion.  Finally,” he said, grinning, “I have a gift for you.”

Gatina might have been an adept thief, a talented professional mage, and a noblewoman with a very clear sense of her own destiny . . . but when she heard about a gift, she behaved like a little girl, clapping her hands excitedly.

Rondal presented it to her: a small silver ring cunning wrought to resembled two cats playing.  It was Karshak-make, specially ordered from the jeweler in Sevendor.  He’d even fitted each cat’s eye with a tiny sliver of amethyst.

“Oh, Rondal, it’s beautiful!” she said, her pretty eyes growing wide.

“It’s more than that,” he assured her, drinking in her appreciation.  “I had a friend enchant it.  It has a couple of features, but most importantly it has two hoxter pockets associated with it.”

“Hoxter . . . pockets?” she asked, confused.

“Extra-dimensional spaces,” he tried to explain.  “Like a magical bubble on the surface of the magosphere . . . or something like that.  I’m not enough of a thaumaturge to understand it, but it might be the most useful bit of magic to come out of this resurgence.”

“What does it do?” she asked, intrigued.

“First, fetch your blade,” he instructed her, and she obediently took the slender, deadly-sharp sword from her baggage and presented it to Rondal with some ceremony.

“This is Kitten’s Claws,” she said, stroking the blade lovingly.  “Daddy had it specially made, when I demonstrated an interest in swordplay.  I’ve practiced with it every day since I was six.”

Rondal took the blade with reverence.  “When you need to get rid of this thing – say, the town watch is coming and it’s dripping with blood – then merely find affinity with the ring and pronounce the mnemonic . . . urpa,” he said, activating the spell.  The blade disappeared.

Gatina’s eyes got much wider.  “What did you do with my sword?” she demanded.

“You try!” he said, pushing the ring onto her finger.  “Just do what I said.  ‘Urpa’ is—”

“Old Cormeeran for ‘claw’, I know,” she said, as she held the pretty ring out on her hand.  “Urpa!” she invoked.  When the sword appeared, she snatched it out of the air.  “That’s incredible!” she said, beaming broadly.  “This thing can be problematic, when you’re running around on rooftops!  Now I don’t have to worry about it!”

“There’s more,” he assured her, taking his coin pouch off of his belt and laying it upon the table.  “Hold your hand over it, and then activate it with the word ‘anat’ – ‘gone’ – and . . .” he said, holding her wrist.  She concentrated for just a moment and whispered the word.  The purse disappeared.

“See?” he said, excitedly.  “You can steal up to fifty pounds of just about anything that isn’t alive, and never have it on you if you’re searched.”

“That . . . is amazing!” she said, her eyes filled with wonder.  “Do you have any idea how this could revolutionize the larceny profession?”

“I thought you’d appreciate it,” Rondal said, glowing with her admiration.  “I have one for Atopol, too, but not as pretty.”  He didn’t mention the other function of the ring.  Under the amethyst in the cat’s eye was a tiny Waystone.  Now Rondal could find and come to Gatina wherever they might be.  Only he, Gareth, and the lapidary were aware of it – he hadn’t even told Tyndal.

It wasn’t because he was obsessed with Gatina, he told himself; it was a matter of operations and security.  Being able to come to (and possibly rescue) an agent was a dramatic advantage in their new espionage organization.

“There are other things, too,” he assured her.  “Sympathy stones, some specialized wands, a few new dahman, and a large amount of documents we’ve recovered about the Brotherhood.  If your father is agreeable, I’d like for him to locate a headquarters for the effort.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” she agreed.  “Daddy has several safe houses.  He encourages all of us to have them, and caches for weapons and supplies, secret identities, accounts with goldsmiths and temples, all sorts of things.  It actually takes a lot of overhead to be a professional thief at our level,” she said, philosophically.  “But you really saw the Duke?”

“And will again, I’m sure,” Rondal nodded.  “Now that the rest of us High Magi can use the Alkan Ways – at least the score of us who have Alkan witchstones – we don’t have to spend all that time riding and trudging across country.”

“So . . . you just . . . go away, and then come back somewhere else?” she asked, trying to understand how the spell worked.

“Something like that,” he agreed.  “It should make things very convenient.  And very inconvenient for our enemies.”

“I can see that,” she nodded, approvingly.  “Oh, Ron, you’ve brought such wonders into our lives!  Into my life!”

He almost trembled as he accepted her kisses.

“Let’s have luncheon,” he said, finally pushing her off.  “You must be tired and hungry after your long ride.”

“Do you honestly think I rode nearly sixty miles through Rhemes to have lunch, Sir Rondal?” she accused.

As he quickly discovered, no, she did not.

The two lovers spent much of the next day going through the protocols and codes they’d prepared for the effort, as well as speaking about the proposed heist of the Brotherhood’s treasury.  They traded outrageous suggestions for hours as they grappled with the problem.  With the preliminary information Gatina had been able to learn about the place, the idea began to fade.  The Mudfort, as the Rats called it, was widely suspected as the location of the secret vault, and it was in the middle of a swampy island in the middle of a treacherous lake in one of the poorest and most destitute regions of Enultramar.

The more Rondal and Gatina talked about it, the less and less likely it seemed that anyone would be able to break into the heavily-guarded complex, break into the vault, and remove any significant amount of coin.

Yet Gatina continued to work on the problem, even as they kissed and held each other in front of the fire that night.

“You know, the hoxter pockets . . . they change everything,” she murmured sleepily.

“Yes, but it’s hard to use them if you aren’t actually close enough to your loot to use them,” Rondal pointed out.

Gatina closed her eyes for a moment . . . and then they shot open, a moment later, bright and alert.

“I know how to rob the treasury!” she declared, gasping at the idea.

“What?” Rondal asked, confused.

“I know how we can . . . if we can . . . but then they will . . .”

“Uh, can we try speaking in complete sentences?” Rondal suggested, gently.

“Ron, if we can fool . . . if they think . . . if you and Tyndal . . . oh, sweet Darkness!  This could be the greatest heist in history!” she insisted.

Before he could respond to her excitement, he felt the brush of mind-to-mind contact.  As annoying as it was to answer, he knew that he had duties to attend to.  Of course it was Tyndal.  His partner seemed to have an uncanny knack of knowing just when Rondal was considering making a move, and ruining it.  Now was no exception.

I hope you and Kitten have had a happy time, he informed Rondal.  Because your holiday mission is over, now.  I just got a message.  We’re needed in Sevendor.

Sevendor?  Why?  Did that bastard from Sashtalia break the truce?

Oh, much worse, Tyndal told him, grimly.  This didn’t even come from Minalan.  It came from Alya.  It seems the Arcane Orders have declared war on Baron Dunselen and his lady wife, Isily.  Alya needs our help to go yank their witchstones out of their hands.

“What is it?” Gatina asked, sleepily.  Her shift had fallen off of one shoulder, during their embrace, and she had not seen to replace it.  “Trouble?”

“Duty beckons,” he sighed, as he sat up and looked around for his tunic.  “I just got the message.  I have to go back to work.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ruminations

“Ferocious flames of a smithies’ fire

Cold compared to our hearts’ desire

Urgent emotion compels all to wed

For comfort of table, hearthside and bed;

Let no man confound love’s truest path

Let no woman forestall it by duplicity or craft

When love and lust and Nature conspire

Then Love’s fulfillment will surely transpire!”

Hymn To Ishi No. 12

Of the Alshari Liturgy

It was two weeks before Rondal and Tyndal were able to resume their business in Enultramar.  Two weeks packed with tragedy and healing, spent in Sevendor, where a pall of depression hung over the entire domain.

The surprise assault upon Salaisus Castle had gone as well as a military operation turned rescue mission could; the two of them had assisted in the fight and performed honorably in the horrific struggle.  While Rondal had been wounded in the assault, it hadn’t been serious.

What had been serious was the aftermath.  Both Baron Dunselen (former Castali ducal court wizard) and his young, pretty shadowmage wife, Baroness Isily, had died, and Baroness Alya had been mentally maimed in the attack.  Indeed, considering the arcane forces involved, Rondal was shocked she hadn’t died in the fight.  He and Tyndal suspected the divine was involved in that, but they weren’t exactly sure how – or which gods.  Minalan wasn’t exactly talkative after the horrific battle.

Though the two outlawed magi had been dealt with, the consequences of the attack were dire.  Minalan was distraught to the point of stupor.  Alya was comatose, lying and wasting away in an abbey in Sevendor.  And a sinister plot that saw Isily and the renegade warmage Lady Mask collaborating was revealed.

Salaisus had a potent and sobering effect on both boys.  It had been the culmination of their power as warmagi, fighting other warmagi, and it was certainly a successful mission.  But the cost in lives, particularly in losing Alya, who had served as a kind of loved and respected older sister to the lads for years, was taking a toll on them both.

It was a blow for Rondal, especially.  He’d always enjoyed a close relationship with his master’s wife, and was always grateful for the warm and welcoming way she’d included he and Tyndal in their household.  It was, sadly, the closest to a functioning mother that Rondal had had since his infancy, and he took the news particularly hard.

His wounds from the battle were not grave, and with some magical assistance from his arcane peers he was quickly on the mend.  But some wounds could not be healed with power and potions, and the memory of seeing Alya, all but lifeless on the bed at the abbey they’d brought her to for recovery, had stricken his heart.

Tyndal was content to be sullen after the battle, keeping to himself and working out his frustrations with swordplay.  But with a mending shoulder, Rondal was unwilling to undo the damage.  Besides, he did not find a relief from the sadness in effort and sweat, he knew.  If Tyndal was sullen, then Rondal brooded.

He took to walking through Sevendor Town in the early morning, and again at twilight, spending the rest of his day in his room at the Rat Trap, reading, or visiting a few friends in the castle or the town.  Not even enchantment served to distract him from his cares.  The thought of poor Master Minalan at Alya’s bedside, trying every possible spell and contacting every magical healer he could find, drained Rondal’s spirit with helpless frustration.

On the third day of his brooding he ran into Lord Olmeg, the barony’s Greenswarden, as he directed two carts of manure toward the Enchanted Forest near the Westwood.  It wasn’t much of a forest at the moment – the saplings were only ten feet tall at this point – but the tall, bearded, barefoot mage was quietly optimistic about the endeavor.

But then again, Olmeg the Green was quietly optimistic about everything.

He was an unusual mage to tell his troubles to, but Rondal felt drawn towards the big hairy wizard as they walked behind the carts.  They exchanged greetings and then their expressions of sadness over the fate of the Baroness and their hopes for her recovery, but then the conversation stalled.

“So who is she, my friend?” Olmeg finally asked, his pipestem clenched between his teeth under his broad-brimmed hat.

“What?” Rondal asked, surprised.

“The lady who occupies your thoughts so devotedly,” Olmeg asked, knowingly.

“Why would you say that?” Rondal asked, confused.

“When one is conversant with the mating habits of all the plants and animals, my friend, you cannot think that mere humanity has escaped my attention,” the green mage said with a smile.  “What is her name?”

“Gatina,” Rondal said, reluctantly.  It was as if naming her to Olmeg brought his thoughts to the fore, clarifying them.  “She’s . . . she’s really nice,” he said, lamely.

“If she wasn’t, you wouldn’t be so perplexed,” observed Olmeg.  “So what is your difficulty?  Is she ugly?” he asked, without judgment.

“No, actually, quite the contrary – beautiful,” Rondal admitted, thinking of her.  “In an unusual sort of way.  Striking.”

“Then what seems to be the problem?” Olmeg prompted, when Rondal lapsed into silence.

“She wants to get married,” Rondal sighed.

“Many women do,” Olmeg agreed.  “Some men, too.”

“I’m not opposed to the idea – eventually,” Rondal admitted.  “But . . . I’m just . . .”

“You are young,” Olmeg supplied.  “You fret that you will make an unwise choice.”

“Something like that,” grunted Rondal.  “It’s not that I don’t want to get married someday, I suppose, I just didn’t think . . . honestly, I never thought that I’d survive that long.”

“Yet the fact that you do – and prosper, even – proves your worthiness in the eyes of the gods and Nature,” Olmeg considered.

“Yeah, that’s kind of the problem,” Rondal sighed.  “She thinks I’m heroic.  When I’ll probably be dead before next Yule.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I don’t live the comfortable life of a burgher,” Rondal pointed out.  “I’m a warmage.  A knight mage,” he corrected.  “I could easily have been killed in the Magewar with Greenflower.”

“Aye, or a hundred other times, from what I’ve heard,” the big man agreed in his deep voice.  “Yet you persist in breathing, as you have pointed out.  Have you considered that, perhaps, you have found a line of work you excel at?”

“I suppose I’m good at it – I get results, when Tyndal doesn’t send everything into the chamberpot – but it’s hardly something to build a life around.  With a woman,” he added, for clarification.

“Yet do not knights and magi both not wed, and with frequency?”

“True,” sighed Rondal.  “But they aren’t me.”

“Good!” Olmeg smiled.  “You are not the kind of lad to be swayed by opinion and society to make his decisions.  Which means you can abandon such transitory and unimportant factors and focus on what is important.”

“So . . . what is important?” asked Rondal.

“Why, that’s up to you,” laughed the green mage merrily.  “And thus we come to the crux of your problem.  What do you fear the most about a relationship with this girl, Gatina?”

“Besides ever facing her in a duel?  Well . . . I guess that she’ll keep me from what I need to do.”

“What you need to do, or what you want to do?”

“I have duties,” Rondal said, expansively.  “Duties to Master Min, to the folk of this town, and now to the Duke of Alshar.  And then there’s Tyndal—”

“Ah!” Olmeg interrupted.  “Is your friend against the union?”

“Against it?  He’s done nothing but tease me about it,” Rondal said, sadly.  “At first I suppose it was funny, when it was novel.  That just made it hard to sort out how I felt.”

“And now?”

“And now I’m annoyed, because he’s made it into such a jest that I cannot even consider the matter without hearing his teasing in my head!” Rondal said, frustratedly.

“If he was not in your life,” suggested Olmeg, thoughtfully, “what would your thoughts on the matter be?”

That was a difficult question, Rondal realized.  Tyndal had become such a regular, if annoying, part of his daily existence that thinking back to a time when he wasn’t was hard.  Those were his days as Garkesku’s apprentice, not particularly happy times, and he didn’t think of them often anymore.

Yet when he tried to imagine what his life would be like without him constantly in his head, challenging him and goading him, it was difficult.  But he stretched his mind to the thought, and tried to picture a world without an overbearing Haystack telling him what he should do all the time.

In that moment of peace and clarity, he realized that he did, in fact, really, really like Gatina.  She was smart, pretty, active, and had a wicked sense of humor.  More, she had a sense of wonder about magic that matched his own, and a dedication to her proficiency that he’d never enjoyed as an apprentice.

But there was more than that.  He realized that without Tyndal providing the voice of doubt in his head, he’d likely already be wed to the pretty young woman.  While he didn’t find that objectionable, the same way Tyndal did, it did give him pause for thought.  Was he ready to wed, yet?  To devote himself to wife and family, perhaps on his own estate, with the babies that Gatina was apparently eager to bear appearing and confounding his work?

Yet he knew plenty of magi who found fulfillment in married life.  True, warmagi did not wed frequently, thanks to their demanding profession, but he was more than a mere warmage.  And Gatina was no mere noblewoman eager for her big day before the priestess.   He knew that both of them were serious about the idea, after their few days huddled up in the cottage in Rhemes.  When he looked at her, into those big violet eyes, his heart ached . . .

“I see,” Olmeg said, quietly.

“You do?”

“You are falling in love, my friend,” he pronounced, gravely, through a cloud of smoke.  “It is the natural condition of man, and you are heir to it as much as any other.  Your friend obstructs you and delays you, but in his absence you know what you would do.  I can tell by your face,” he observed.

“But he isn’t absent,” Rondal said, discouraged.  “And neither is our duty.”

“No, but now you know what your heart says,” Olmeg pointed out.  “Now you must merely negotiate between duty and love, and find a compromise between them.”

“What, marry Gatina and continue my errantry?”

“I said it was a compromise,” shrugged Olmeg, philosophically.  “I suggest you give some serious consideration to the negotiations before you settle upon anything.”

“Well, I have a little time, at least,” Rondal decided.  “We can’t wed until Anguin’s on the throne and the Brotherhood of the Rat is overthrown in Alshar.  But considering how adamant she is, I wouldn’t put it past her to arrange for that before I even return.”

“She loves you that dearly?” Olmeg asked.

“She appears to,” Rondal agreed.  “I have no idea why.”

“Because Ishi demanded it,” shrugged Olmeg.  “As she always does.  You can struggle against it all you wish, but when your heart calls to you, a man cannot ignore it and be satisfied.  He will fill it,” he said, as if he was quoting one of the laws of magic.  “Nature constantly finds opportunities to taunt us with our own desires to motivate us to its will, through the hands of the gods.  If you find you love this woman, and the feeling is reciprocated, what dishonor is there in denying your heart?”

“Even if it means ending my partnership with Tyndal?” Rondal asked, surprised by how much the very idea pained him.

“Why must it end?” asked Olmeg.  “You are growing older, and into your mature manhood.  I would be far more concerned if you were not thinking of marriage, at your age.  Yet many married men continue to see to their greater duties.”

“But are not their duties divided between home and liege?”

“Perhaps they are,” agreed Olmeg.  “Yet they find a way, and have for centuries.  My friend Rondal, do not be afraid of the murmurs of your own heart.  You will have to contend with that long after you no longer have to contend with Tyndal.  And,” he added, “I think your friend would not wish you miserable, if it was within his power.”

Rondal snorted.  “Have you met Tyndal?  He lives to make me miserable!”

“I do not deny that he is caustic, at times,” Olmeg reflected, “but he is neither unkind nor is he so selfish as to prevent his best friend from finding happiness.  If you make it clear to him that this is what you want, I would imagine that he would support you.”

“How do I know if it’s what I want?”

“Ah, for that Tyndal is unlikely to be of assistance,” chuckled Olmeg.

“What if I make a mistake with Gatina?” demanded Rondal.

“You may well,” agreed Olmeg.  “Nature can ensure attraction, but it has no stake in domestic felicity, I’ve noticed.”

“That’s not terribly helpful,” Rondal said, feeling dejected.

“Neither is Nature, much of the time,” sighed the green mage.  “Yet all of mere creatures must muddle along to its sacred beat.”

If his conversation with Olmeg helped clarify his own feelings about Gatina – and about Tyndal – the matter was thrown into further confusion later that same evening, when Master Hance made his first scheduled contact by way of Sympathy Stone.

Rondal agreed to take the initial watch for the contact, as Tyndal was doing a bit of enchantment on his own over at the laboratory.  He set up a bowl of water in the messy workroom they had on the second floor for such a purpose, and a little after dusk the surface of the water began growing a pale green, as someone was trying to use it.

The color was a recent adaption of the basic enchantment, and Rondal found it useful.  It was annoying to sit in front of a mirror just waiting for someone to use it – this way one could be working across the room until you saw the light that indicated a messenger.  Rondal waved his hand over the light, and the surface of the water cleared until it showed the reflection of Master Hance on the it.

“Good evening, Sir Rondal,” the master thief said, nodding his head.

“Master Hance,” Rondal said, returning the bow.  “What is the news from Enultramar this evening?”

“The fleets have embarked on raiding, the fields are planted, and the sun is getting hotter by the day,” he remarked.  “The Three Censors are petitioning the Count of Rhemes for additional security, after the theft at the Tower Arcane.  Apparently you took most of their operating capital, and they barely have enough left to pay their guards.  Count Vichetral executed three nobles for treason, when they tried to cling to prerogatives established by the late Duke, and demand an end to the trade in slaves that beggars their own people.  Apart from that, it has been relatively quiet along the Mandros since you two left Enultramar.”

“Sadly, things have been busier, here,” Rondal sighed.  “The Spellmonger’s wife, Baroness Alya, was wounded in a magewar, and lies in silent repose, with her husband at her side.”

“A magewar?” asked Hance, suspiciously.  “With whom?”

“The Baron and Baroness of Greenflower,” supplied Rondal.  “They were conspiring with enemies of the state – and all of humanity, actually – and attacked Master Minalan.  They stole some of his magical stones, and nearly killed his family.”

“Sweet Darkness!  Did he prevail?”

“We did,” Rondal acknowledged, grimly.  “But at cost.”

“Were you wounded?” prompted Hance.  “My daughter will insist on knowing.”

“Only slightly,” grimaced Rondal, unwilling to glamorize his part in the battle.  “I’ll make a full recovery.  I’m recuperating in Sevendor, now.  How is Gatina?” he asked, hesitantly.

Hance regarded him thoughtfully through the watery spell.  “She is well,” he said, carefully.  “But she is . . . preoccupied with thoughts of her new lover.”

Rondal blushed, despite himself.  He had not intended to discuss the details of his relationship with anyone, and now he’d not only mentioned it to Olmeg, but was discussing it now with her father.

“Which brings me to my next item,” Hance continued, briskly.  “Apart from our other business, Sir Rondal, it appears as if Gatina’s fascination with you is lingering.  In fact, it seems to be getting worse.”

Rondal winced.  “Sorry about that, my lord!”

“It is not your doing,” sighed the thief.  “I have a spirited daughter, who resembles her mother in that fashion more than I do.  I am used to her outrageous ways and her willingness to obsess about her craft.  But there is more to courting Gatina than merely dancing and drinking in some lovely cottage,” he said, darkly, evidently all too aware of the luscious few days alone with Gatina he’d enjoyed.  Considering all they had done in the little cottage, Rondal suddenly became concerned that Master Hance was acting the vengeful father over his daughter’s virtue.

But Hance’s consideration was less lethal – he supposed.  “A mother who is passing eager to meet the young man who has managed to captivate our kitten as completely as you have.”

“Sir, I assure you I have not encouraged—”

“Oh, I know,” Hance interrupted.  “I do not blame you for her infatuation.  She has always been a willful child, more apt to challenge than direction.  But Gatina is not a flighty ingénue, my lord.  She is dedicated to her craft.”

“One of the things I appreciate about her,” Rondal nodded, guardedly.

“I, as well.  But if she’s set her cap on you, Sir Rondal, I hope you understand if I must investigate her longings and the man who inspires them.  It is a father’s duty.”

“I understand completely, my lord,” Rondal nodded.

“I am unsure that you do,” Hance said, frowning.  “I like you, lad; you seem to be a trustworthy and intelligent man, and driven to duty.  An admirable knight in a world full of chivalric disappointments.”

“Thank you, my lord!”

“Yet,” Hance continued, “that does not eliminate my duties as Gatina’s father.  There are plenty of admirable knights in the world.  My daughter has eyes for only one.”

The threat implicit in the statement was both subtle and profound.  Rondal felt like dodging it, but he knew that Master Hance would likely be suspicious of such a tactic.

“Speak plainly, Sir,” he prompted.  “What question would you put to me?”

“Just what are your feelings and intentions in regard to my daughter, Sir Rondal?” Master Hance asked, formally.

“My lord, I have only the highest respect and greatest of affections for Gatina anna Salaines,” he said, feeling his entire life change as he said the words.  “While I am currently restrained by oath, my heart and my mind both aspire to her.”

“And this is not mere affectation in order to secure our assistance for Duke Anguin?”

Rondal sighed.  “Master Hance, while I am considered a reasonably intelligent strategist and a favorite for suicidal missions, I assure you that I have no talent for such manipulations in my personal life.  I was as surprised by Gatina’s interest in me as anyone, and after the shock of her pursuit waned, I discovered myself enchanted by her.”

“That still does not satisfy a father’s worries,” Hance said, shaking his head.  “Should you prove callous with her heart, or foreswear her for another while she yet loves you, friend or not, we shall have words, Sir Rondal.  And in my House, when a father takes issue with a lad over his daughter, traditionally it is resolved in one – permanent – manner.”

Rondal swallowed.  But he answered as bravely as he could.  “My lord, my intentions toward Gatina are nothing but honorable,” he stated, as clearly as he could.  “And in truth, as intimidated as I am by you right now, I am far, far more concerned over her reaction to my unfaithfulness than yours.”

That caught Hance off-guard and he laughed unexpectedly.  “As well you should, Sir Rondal.  For a vengeful father is but a shadow of the darkness a heartbroken girl can conjure . . . and when that girl is adept as my daughter, I would consider carefully before breaking her heart.”

“Understood, my lord,” Rondal nodded.  “Then . . . you have no objection to me courting Gatina?”

“Objections?” he grinned.  “You are the first man she’s fallen for.  I was worried I would have to rely on Atopol and his brother for grandchildren, so choosy was Gatina over the quality of her husband.  But she has surprised me and her mother by the quality of her choice.  Do not destroy that perception, Sir Rondal,” he warned.  “My daughter is happy, in a way I never thought I’d see her.  For whatever reason she wants you.  Treat that desire with respect and due attention, and we will have no issues between us.”

“Sir, you realize that if Gatina’s affections are fulfilled, then—”

“Then you’ll be my son-in-law?” Hance supplied.  “Why yes, Sir Rondal, it has occurred to me.  And while marrying my daughter someday might make her happy, I assure you that it will only begin a far more detailed scrutiny of your life by her mother and I.  You will not merely be marrying my daughter.  You will be marrying into my family, a family with a long and storied history of taking extreme actions to protect itself.”

“I would expect nothing less, considering the fine daughter you have both raised.”

“Wise words, Sir Rondal,” Hance said, grinning.  “And I’m not unsympathetic.  Gatina’s maternal grandfather was a blacksmith, her grandmother a Calrom witch . . . and Minny was the best thief I’ve ever met, inside my family or out.  I love her dearly.

“But when her father gave this same speech to me, he ended it with a handshake that nearly broke my fingers, and a far more dire and explicit warning of what would happen if I chanced to break his daughter’s heart.  He was not a subtle man,” he added. “And the words ‘beat your face across my anvil until the white meat pops out’ were used.  Surely you are a subtle enough wizard to understand our position without me resorting to such crude imagery?”

Rondal sighed.  “Yes, my lord.  And if I was in your position, I would have the same response.  I can only vow to treat your daughter’s heart with as much care as I can.”

“Then we have an understanding,” Hance sighed.  “Good.  Her mother will be pleased.

“But you, Sir Rondal, are now under my eye . . . and the Spawn of Shadows has a thousand eyes, far beyond Enultramar.  Betray my daughter or our family . . . and you will pray for the relatively quick death of having your brains bashed out over an anvil.

“Now . . . let’s go over this preliminary list of potential confederates.  I think we have some very promising names, here . . .”

Chapter Twenty-Four

A Conspiracy Of Cats

The broad fields and orchards of the Coastlands provinces provided the early Magocracy’s nobility with the resources they needed to contend with the Sea Lords.  While the latter were far more concerned with conquest and prizes at sea, the Coastlords sent from Merwyn and Vore were learned men of great patience and practicality, compared to the rovers and raiders of the shore.

When the Count of Falas finally stood against the tyranny of the Viscounts, he raised an army from among his own servants and retainers, and struck at the Sea Lords where they did not expect it.  For while the brave mariners of Enultramar were peerless on the waves, they had little experience with fighting a disciplined force on land, and were defeated in one engagement after another until the Count of Falas was acknowledged Master of the Fields, presumably co-equal with the Sea Lord’s Master of the Waves.

Yet the strength of the Count of Falas was not in his army, though it was greater than the Sea Lords; it was in his governance, which encouraged development and achievement over hereditary rank or position.  Thus he could improve the quality of his troops and his servants while the Sea Lords were condemned to follow the same hereditary leaders who lead them into one disastrous coastal battle after another.

The Early History of Alshar

Unknown Authorship

While the wizards warred in Castal, in Alshar cats crept through the night.

Atopol and Gatina had devoted the resources of their House, to the effort, with their father’s support.  The rebels to the rebellion now had a secret headquarters, of sorts, and Lord Hance had expanded the scope of the conspiracy to many other family members of the secretive house.  Coordinating the intelligence gathering himself, Hance had a growing account of which of the great houses supported Anguin’s return, and which were opposed.

But Gatina had not forgotten the Rats.  She’d been investigating dozens of leads across the Great Bay and the Coastlands, studying the notes the knights provided from their expeditions, learning as much as she could about their clandestine enterprises, who were the players, and where the centers of power were.  As her account grew she passed the information to her father, who was looking for patterns that the conspiracy could exploit.  She was not the only one invested in the effort, but she was clearly committed to the mission more than anyone else.

The basic plan that Gatina proposed was admirable, Rondal knew.  It also depended heavily upon magic – for which he was prepared – and upon the avarice of their foes (which was a point of pride for them).  From that basic premise, the two of them had developed a basic idea of how to trick the Brotherhood into doing most of the work for them.

That was not easy.  The Brotherhood had become aware of the shadow war the Estasi Order was waging against it, though they had few details yet on their foes.  Rellin Pratt, after enjoying a few weeks of active enmity of the Brotherhood, had finally convinced someone important that maybe he hadn’t destroyed the crew of slavers’ headquarters in Galvina, and that there were indeed secret foes fighting against the Brotherhood.  After the heist at the Tower Arcane, that became more plausible.

In fact, the Estasi Order was getting credit for things it wasn’t even doing against the Rats.  Gatina reported that ‘those godsdamned warmagi’ were usually blamed when something went wrong now – and a lot of things were going wrong with the Brotherhood, these days.  Since the rash of raids and slaughters in the spring the crews were cautious, sometimes to the point of paranoia.

Since Gatina was harassing them secretly herself, that was probably justified, Rondal decided.  His admirer not only gathered information in a variety of disguises, she was using magic and mayhem to obstruct and confuse communications and relations between the far-flung crews.  Thanks to her, almost a dozen Rats had killed each other in the ensuing feuds and duels.

Much of the plan they put together by Sympathy Stone.  It was both simple and elaborate, and would satisfy several goals at once.  As it required a fair amount of outside assistance, Rondal was forced to call upon one of Master Min’s most adept agents, the footwizard Iyugi.

Iyugi was odd, even for a footwizard.  The vagabond half-breed wandered all over the Western Duchies in search of honest work . . . and to learn the secrets of the world.  That, more than any arcane trickery, was Iyugi’s stock-in-trade.  As a High Mage he carried a witchstone himself, one of the first granted by Minalan to a mage outside of his profession of warmagic.  Yet he was not flamboyant with his craft – quite the contrary.  Iyugi’s passion was secrets.  When Tyndal contacted him, they found that the footwizard was, indeed, agreeable to taking part in the scheme . . . as was Gareth.

That was important, too.  For Gatina’s plan to work, it had to be convincing.  Thankfully Gareth was not only a better mage than he looked, he had a good imagination and a convincing face.

“Do you really think this is going to work?” asked Tyndal, skeptically, as Rondal broke the Mirror connection with Atopol in the Rat Trap.

“It had better,” Rondal said, wearily.  “We’ve bet an awful lot on it.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust Iyugi and Gareth,” Tyndal said, thoughtfully, “but neither one understands what they’re facing, in Enultramar.”

“They’ll do fine,” Rondal insisted.  “Gat has set this up beautifully.  Iyugi has traveled the place extensively.  And yes, we are risking a lot.  But if this works . . .”

“I know, I know,” Tyndal agreed.  “It could save the duchy.  Not a bad thing to brag about in taverns,” he decided.

“Well, we’ve got about a week until we have to go,” Rondal said, getting up from the comfortable chair in front of the Mirror bowl.  “If the Cats are right about this, then the Brotherhood will be drooling at the prospect.”

Rondal hated that Tyndal had doubts, but then the plan was complex and complicated enough so that Rondal had doubts . . . and the plan was largely his.

Convincing Master Minalan to cooperate was depressingly easy.  He was still in a dark mood at his wife’s bedside, and could not care less what happened to the rest of the world.  Ruderal was friendlier and even excited at the prospect at striking back at the Brotherhood who had given him and his mother so much trouble.

And Iyugi was surprisingly eager to play his role . . . with Gareth.

Rondal stared at the stack of parchment that contained their notes for the heist.  So much work, so many details, and all it took was one thing going horribly wrong to put it all in the chamberpot.

“Let’s just see how this first part goes,” Rondal finally decided.  “If it fares poorly, then we can always abort the mission without too much invested.  Later on it won’t be so easy.”

As it turned out, even the first part was not, technically speaking, very easy.  But then it was unlikely it ever would have been.

Two strangers to Enultramar suddenly appeared in the Narrows: a grim-faced half-breed with flamboyant taste in clothing and hats, and a skinny, bird-chested younger Narasi man in burgher’s clothes with shifty, nervous eyes and a penchant for looking over his shoulder.

While they made their way down the mighty Mandros, the older man made certain discrete inquiries along the way that set the game in motion.  The rumors, no matter how discretely harvested, sent a message in the other direction: Iyugi the Footwizard had two plump witchstones for sale.

In fact, they were the very stones once possessed by Tyndal and Rondal, borrowed for the occasion.

As Iyugi reported to them, mind-to-mind, he and his erstwhile “partner” were slowly headed south, stopping at every major city along the Mandros and letting it be known that they had irionite . . . and the price would be high.

I keep expecting one of these idiots to attack me for it, the travel-worn footwizard told them, during that week.  They hear ‘witchstone’ and their wits flee them.  I’ve been offered as much as a thousand ounce of gold apiece, so far.  I’ve let everyone know that I will auction the stones off once I reach the Great Bay.  And the prices will be significantly more than a thousand ounces of gold.

Has anyone asked where they came from?

Everyone has asked, agreed the half-breed.  I told them the truth: we stole them from the Spellmonger, in Sevendor.

How is Gareth holding up?

The boy travels . . . poorly, Iyugi said, diplomatically, but with humor.  But he is learning.  He has ensured that the criminal element gets word of our sale.  He plays the role of a nervous, paranoid man perfectly.

That was the bait: two witchstones, ostensibly stolen from Sevendor in the chaos after the Magewar with Greenflower.  With so many in Alshar seeking them, there was no doubt that two good gems for sale, with a proven record, would fetch an extraordinary high price.

Atopol reported two days later that news had preceded Iuygi and Gareth’s arrivals by two days at the Great Bay: two vagabonds, renegade high mage from Sevendor, took advantage of the Spellmonger’s distraction and made away with two of his precious stones.  The interest among the magical community was profound, of course.  But the interest amongst the Brotherhood of the Rat was even more so.

At a village called Trandolar on the east bank of the river the two were ambushed by bandits who’d heard about the trove and wanted to cash in.  The wizards fought them off, using their witchstones and the plethora of warwands Gareth brought.  That was helpful, despite Gareth’s reaction to the combat.  After that, Iyugi hired two bodyguards to keep watch while they slept and protect them when awake. By the time they got to the Great Bay, the news of their arrival and their merchandise would be everywhere.

“The fleet is starting to drift back in,” Atopol reported, at the end of the week.  “The first ones were pretty badly damaged when they limped in.  Apparently some of the victims fought back.  Rard had half of the Castali fleet screening Farise.  The first slaves have already started to fetch a good price.”

“Have you heard anyone seriously interested in the stones?” Tyndal asked, from over his shoulder.

“Yes, the Three Censors are certainly interested.  There was a challenge against the leadership of one of them, and though the man won the duel it has set everyone in the Tower Arcane on edge.  And there’s plenty of interest from other quarters.”

Rondal got the more detailed version from Gareth, the following evening, when he reported in, mind-to-mind.

I’ve never seen anything like Iyugi, the wizard told him.  The entire way downriver he was amazing – I heard him speak six languages and use a dozen different accents or dialects.  He’s talked to everyone we met like he was from their home village.  And he knew the strangest people . . .

The Brotherhood? Rondal prompted.

Oh, right.  We saw them the first time in Roen.  They met us at an inn there, where Iyugi was meeting an old comrade of his.  Six of the bastards – six!  They sat right down and asked if we had what they’d heard we did.  Iyugi assured them we did, and that we would be selling them to the highest bidder when we got to Vaxel.

Why Vaxel?

Iyugi has a friend there we can stay with, he says.  He’s pretty cryptic about the whole thing . . . but it’s been instructive.  Like when we were attacked outside of Lansel – crappy town, by the way.  We put in for the night and were headed to an inn when we got jumped by a couple of brave souls.  Iyugi handled it.  I didn’t even draw, he boasted.  He used that ugly staff of his and they both started crying like babies . . . I mean, they really regressed to childhood.  Loss of bodily control and everything.

That’s a novel approach, Rondal admitted.

That was just the first time, Gareth continued.  We got to Galvina and we were set upon by ruffians again.  A lot more, this time.  Both of us had to reveal ourselves as High Magi, I’m afraid.  But Iyugi says that’s a good thing, in the long run.  It will spread the word.  He even made a point of boasting to everyone that it was your very stones he stole: the Spellmonger’s apprentices.

You know, we’ve been journeymen for almost a year, now, Rondal pointed out.

No one cares.  It makes a better story, the way he tells it, believe me.  Anyway, he was right.  After that episode we got three different calls from interested parties who wanted to see the merchandise.

Did you put the Waystones where we asked you to?

About every fifty miles down the river, Gareth agreed.  More or less in the places you recommended.  Iyugi has a list, but we hit most of the largest cities.  He magemarked each one.  That was a relatively simple way for magi to communicate to each other, especially footwizards who needed to exchange information quietly.  Only visible with magesight, they were mere impressions of intent writ on the fabric of the Magosphere, a secret parchment where arcane notes could be shared.

And you have it?  Just the way you found it?

Indeed.  Right where you said it was.  A pretty box, too.  But . . . are you sure this is worth the risk?  Those are two full-powered stones, not like the milky glass you two stole from the Three Censors.  If they got ahold of them . . . or even if the Brotherhood did . . . or any other number of unpleasant people . . . well, I’d hate to be responsible for that.

Says the man who stole the stones and is selling them on the black market, snickered Rondal.

Hey!  It was too easy not to with you leaving them just lying around like that.  Besides, I need the money, if I’m going to impress Dara.

You aren’t going to impress Dara with money, Rondal said, flatly.

That’s not what Tyndal says.

Tyndal is an idiot.  Look, this daring tale of adventure is much more likely to impress her than gold or fancy clothes or a nice horse.

Those couldn’t hurt, Gareth pointed out.  But your point is well-taken about the adventure.

And it won’t be nearly as impressive if you end up dead before you tell it, Rondal reminded him.  So be on your guard.  This is one of those situations that could go badly very quickly.

Oh, I’m scared shitless, Gareth assured him. Iyugi makes it seem like it’s all a party.

Well, if you two are as far as Galvina, I suppose it’s time to start the second phase of the plan.  The really destructive one.

Good luck with that, Ron, Gareth said, earnestly.  Make it look good.

Oh, we will, he promised.  We’ve been working up to this for a long time.

“They’re in position, in Galvina,” Rondal reported to Tyndal that morning.  “I guess we need to get dressed and start our rampage of vengeance.”

“About time,” Tyndal said, stretching his shoulders.  “Ever since Greenflower I’ve wanted to hit something.  Really hard.”

“It looks like we’ll have the chance,” Rondal agreed, standing.  “If nothing else, it will give us the opportunity to test out a few new things in the field.”

“I cherish the opportunity for the advancement of our art,” Tyndal said, with mock reverence.  “However, this is still going to be dangerous.”

“If it gets too bad, we can always pop back here,” Rondal reminded him.  That had been an important part of the plan.

It was not generally known that Minalan had raised the two of them in status and power by revoking the two shards of irionite they’d originally been given in favor of two of the most powerful marbles of polished and enchanted irionite spheres, two of those gifts from the Alka Alon known as the Spellmonger’s Seven.

Tyndal had already had his stone stolen by the Brotherhood, once, in the guise of Kaffin of Gyre – or Rellin Pratt, as he was better known.  If it was stolen again, say by two enterprising low-level retainers of the Spellmonger who thought to make their fortunes in the rebel territories, beyond the reach of their former master . . . well, that sort of thing happened all the time.

Servants stole from their masters and sought to improve their station in plays, songs, stories and jokes.  Sometimes good servants stole from evil masters, sometimes wicked servants stole from kind masters, but it was a common enough tale to be instantly believable.  Iyugi had made certain that it was spread amongst the denizens of the footwizard’s world, until the rumor compelled those who heard it to seek out proof.

They’d shown the two stones to enough people by now so their veracity would not be challenged, it was hoped.  And they’d proven their ability to defend themselves from casual attack.

Now it was time to press them, in the second portion of the performance.  If thieving servants were a common bit of folklore, so were wrathful victims.

“Ready?” Tyndal asked him, as he strode into the common room of the Rat Trap.  He wore his full battle armor, specially designed for service in the heaviest combat against the minions of Sheruel, the Dead God of the gurvani.  A closely-fitted coat of plates of leather encased his torso.  It was deceptively tough, being crafted from the strongest oxhide, enchanted against wear and breakage, and fitted with individual dragon scales.  The dense plates were not only rigid and hard, but they were entirely anamantic – they had a high resistance to arcane forces.

That made them the ideal armor to repel offensive magic.

Tyndal’s helm was cunningly crafted steel, with a faceplate similar in fashion to a cavalry helm, but with better vision and ventilation.  He didn’t like to wear a helm, but he didn’t eschew one for a potentially rough situation like this – and it did make him look more intimidating.

Rondal preferred the plain steel cap helm, without a faceplate.  His armor was the match of Tyndal’s, though he’d fixed his fighting harness straps differently.  Rondal bore the buckler he liked: a light wooden disc of dragon leather-covered wood ringed and bossed with steel, large enough for defense, but small enough to be an effective weapon.  The surface was covered with leather taken from the wing membrane of the dragon that fell at Cambrian, and it blocked spells better than it did arbalest bolts.

They both had invested in pouches full of nasty magic for this mission, the kind usually reserved for heavy combat.  When it became known what they were doing around Sevendor’s magical community they began to quietly get donations of experimental weaponry from the town’s enchanters and warmagi.

“You want to do the honors?” he asked Tyndal, who strapped his helmet in place.  He nodded, brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, and then used the Alkan songspell to take them to the first Waypoint.

They arrived behind a woodshed attached to a run-down temple in the Great Vale town of Vanness, where Iyugi and Gareth had passed through a fortnight before.  After recovering from the trip through the Ways they got their bearings.

Iyugi left more than a Waystone in Vanness.  The town was important because it was the largest Brotherhood crew in the northlands, controlling the small river port and the underworld of the regions around it.  The intelligence was just one of many facts discovered by Gatina and Atopol’s busy summer, and confirmed within the documents they’d recovered from the Brotherhood.

The Rats were about to be evicted from Vanness.

While Iyugi was here, he’d identified the headquarters of the local crew.  A tavern just off the docks known as the Old Ram had Iyugi’s distinctive mark over the door, when he looked with magesight.   The mark glowed in the overcast of the evening.

According to Gat, there should be between nine and twelve of them in here, plus confederates, Tyndal reported.

Let’s do this fast, hard, and brutal, Rondal ordered.  Bring the head Rat to me.  We’ll use him to send a message.

You just made the hair on my left nut stand up, Tyndal said, feigning a shiver. Goosebumps!

Without further ceremony, Tyndal turned and kicked the door in . . . using a spell to add magical energy to the kick.  The door obligingly flew into the crowded room, producing the intended startled and stunned looks from all within.

You know, we have a wand that does that, Rondal chided his partner.

Shut up.  I’m working.

“Goodmen, my apologies,” Tyndal announced, boldly, his hands on his belt.  “Dear gods, you’re an unfortunate looking lot, aren’t you?  Which of you stinking vermin claims to be the boss of this cesspool?” he asked, in the tones of polite court speech.  The dumbfounded commoners within the gloomy tavern were warily reaching for their weapons and forming up in front of their boss as Tyndal glared at them through his faceplate.

“Kill him,” ordered a voice from the back of the crowd.

Rondal was prepared for that . . . just not as prepared as Tyndal.  As Rondal turned and put his shield forward and drew the warwand at his belt, his partner was already moving.

With a toss of his wrist a bright, glowing ball of crackling yellow energy briefly illuminated the frightened faces of the ruffians gathered around their leader before it exploded into a shower of blinding light and a thunderous explosion.  Neither did any actual damage, Rondal knew, but the Rats didn’t know that.  They scrambled blindly away from the brilliant  arcane strangeness or dove out of the way.

Rondal was just stepping forward to engage one of the men who had taken more heed of his superior’s command than the deafening attack, but Tyndal beat him to it, manifesting his mageblade into his hand and thrusting it powerfully into his throat.

The wand continued to spit angry balls of energy while the blade felled the fearful defenders with brutal efficiency.  Rondal had a difficult time keeping up, stepping over bodies and scrambling, terrified victims as he tried to guard Tyndal’s flanks and handled the survivors.  He secured the survivors from escaping with a stunning wand that left them limp on the disgusting floor.

Finally a Rat managed to drag his scimitar out of his belt and face Tyndal, ostensibly to defend his superior.  The brave man took up a passable guard position, his blade canted defensively across his body, as Tyndal engaged him.  With two solid strokes the warmage swept the scimitar’s curved blade firmly out of the way and impaled his opponent through his chest, just to the left of his sternum.

Rondal stopped one of the others from leaping on Tyndal’s back with a knife when he stomped hard on the man’s fingers as he tried to rise.  A quick thrust from his own mageblade silenced his screams.  Another man, playing dead, tried to scramble out the door behind him as he passed, but a blow on the back of his neck from the edge of Rondal’s shield sent him sprawling.  A third man tried to attack him from behind with a Rat’s Tail.  The blade snapped on the dragonscale armor, and Rondal calmly passed his blade through the man’s throat for his trouble.

It was a near slaughter – or would have been, if they had wanted it to be.  As many were wounded or unconscious as dead, Rondal could see, after the last of the defenders fell or flew, and they were face to face with the head Rat.

“Who the hells are you?” the man asked, his eyes wide in terror.

“Bring him here,” Rondal said, ignoring the man.  Tyndal nodded, grabbed him by the neck, and threw him to the floor.  “We want to send a message,” he said, directly.

“Who are—”

Rondal punched him in the face with reasonable force, enough to raise a big welt.

“We want to send a message,” he repeated, calmly.

“I seem to be at liberty to do so,” the Rat said, wisely, as he looked around at the thugs who had been laughing, drinking, and protecting him not five minutes before.

“Tell your bosses that we’re coming for Gareth and Iyugi.  We want our stones back.  And we don’t care how many Rats’ nests we have to clean out until we get them.”

“You fellows have no idea—”

Rondal repeated the punch, harder this time.  The man spat blood, and looked at him fearfully, but he’d been the subject to a lot of beatings over the course of his life.  Rondal punched him again.

“We know exactly who we’re fucking with,” Rondal said, anticipating his resistance.  “Do we look at all concerned?  Iyugi and Gareth.  Our stones.  Or we tear down every one of your little enterprises until we find them.”

“And just to ensure that you deliver the message,” Tyndal said, pulling off his gauntlet and holding up his hand for a spell, “let’s ensure that everyone knows we’ve met.”  Rondal watched as the capillaries on the boss’ face went red . . . and his nose and cheeks suddenly had whisker lines on them.  “There.  Now your face matches your ratty little soul.”

Without another word the two of them left the shop, pausing only long enough for Tyndal to start a fire with a spell.  It was unlikely to burn the place down, Rondal considered, but it was another thing for the Rats to deal with.

“Well, that was fun,” Tyndal said, stretching and sending his blade back into its hoxter pocket.  “A pity it was over so soon.  I was just getting warmed up.”

“We are still dressed for the occasion,” Rondal pointed out.  “No reason we can’t just skip to the next one, before we go home.”

“I’m really enjoying being able to travel without actually traveling,” Tyndal sighed, happily.  “Let’s just be careful not to overdo it,” he cautioned.  “I don’t want to end up like Master Minalan did.”

“I know,” Rondal assured.  “I’m keeping track.  Let me know if you get a headache.”

The next stop on their rampage was a bordello run by the gang in the otherwise quiet town of Andaras, fifty-seven miles downriver.  This time Rondal went first, though he did not get the satisfaction of blowing the door open because the house had a curtain in place of one.

So he just strode in, in full armor, Tyndal behind him, and announced the place was closed.

“Who says?” demanded the surly-looking sentry watching over the common room.

“By order of the Duke of Alshar and the Knights of Estasi,” Rondal proclaimed.  “All Brotherhood of the Rat installations are now closed.”

“Like hell they are!” the man said, moments before a concussion blast from Rondal’s wand sent him flying across the room.  The place erupted in an explosion of screaming whores and angry shouting from their customers.  Two more ugly-looking guards ran into the room to quell the disturbance, and ended up getting smashed across the bridge of their noses by Rondal’s shield.

“Closed,” repeated Rondal, emphasizing the point by extinguishing the candles and tapers on the tawdry shrine to Ishi in the corner.  “If you aren’t affiliated with the Brotherhood, get the hells out of here.  If you are affiliated with the Brotherhood, we need to speak to you.”

It took a few moments, but the whores belonging to the house were eager to point out the disreputable-looking manager and his remaining cronies.  After a couple of friendly punches and more rat whisker-like mage marks on their faces, they left the brothel after delivering their message without burning it down.

“See, I’m still keyed-up,” Rondal sighed, guiltily.  “Think we should do one more?”

“The night is still young,” Tyndal agreed, philosophically.  “What choices of targets do we have?”

“Well, Gat says that there’s a fence in Laudry, or we can go after a full crew in Magatal.”

“I’m thinking we round out the night in Magatal.  We should be able to get some dinner afterwards.  And not have to worry so much about innocents.”

The magesigns in Magatal, a hundred and fifty miles south of the Narrows, pointed them to a large, run-down house in what was once likely a good section of town.  Now it was covered with moss and vines, the roof was clearly leaky, and the whole place was in dire need of a coat of paint.

There were two guards lounging around outside, smoking pipes and gossiping.  Tyndal hit them hard, so hard that one of them was thrown through the door into the house.  A moment later the street was filled with angry Rats, and Tyndal and Rondal had their hands full.

Rondal felt his heart race and his palms start to sweat as he faced off the thugs pouring out of the house.  He peered at them over his shield, his mageblade already in hand.  He could feel Tyndal next to him, sword and wand ready to strike.

“We want Iyugi and Gareth!” Tyndal howled at them.

“We want our witchstones!” Rondal shouted, just as loud.

“Take them, lads!  They’re mad!” called someone’s voice, and the Rats attacked.

For the third time that night Rondal found himself in action.  This time it was more of a proper battle.  The man who rushed him first had a short, heavy-bladed knife he slashed at his face with.  Rondal flicked his left elbow and crashed the steel rim of the shield into the man’s wrist, crushing it, while he stabbed the air over his shoulder with his mageblade and whispered a mnemonic.  A bolt of force erupted from the tip and engulfed the man he was aiming at.

Tyndal was once again acting the wild man, slashing his big blade around and using his opponents to block each other as he fought.  His sword stabbed through the abdomen of a burly Rat with a chain in one hand, and while the victim struggled to remove the blade with both hands Tyndal pivoted . . . which tripped one man and opened up the first man’s stomach.

The wizard danced nimbly around the shower of viscera and finished by impaling the man he tripped.  As an afterthought he used his wand to blow the next attacker clean in twain, with his shoulders slumping left while his knees fell to the right.

Rondal was content to dispatch his opponents one at a time, if they gave him that boon.  When the third fell to his sword and the fourth wavered, he realized he was tired, for the first time that night.  Too tired to pursue the man as he took to his heels.  He used a warwand to crush the bones of his legs from a distance, instead.

The entire action took less than fortyty breaths, but the results were just as decisive as the other two assaults that night.  Bodies, dead and wounded, lay strewn in front of the old house, and the senior Rat in charge of the crew cowered as they repeated their insistent message.  He was planning on being stubborn, at first, but Tyndal started smashing his fingers to pulp, magically, and soon the man would have boiled his firstborn if asked.

“That was oddly satisfying,” Rondal murmured, as they walked away from the ruin they’d set ablaze as a courtesy to the local architectural aesthetic.  “Of course, now I’m hungry.  Eat here, or back in Sevendor?”

“It seems a shame to come all this way and not enjoy it,” Tyndal shrugged.  “There’s an inn over there, and it smells like lamb.”

“I like lamb,” nodded Rondal, suddenly hungry.  “Think we can do three tomorrow night, too?”

“Let’s look at the schedule,” Tyndal suggested.  “We don’t want to over-commit.  And we need time to assess how effective we’ve been, before we proceed.  But we should be able to hit at least two.  Hey, that is lamb!”

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Council Of The Brotherhood

No one knows how the Brotherhood of the Rat came to dominate the politics of the Great Bay, but by the time of the Third Count of Falas during the Magocracy, the Brotherhood had spread up the coast from their lairs in the swamps and broadened their membership to include hundreds.  Not only did they actively recruit able-bodied mariners to their cause, but also extended invitations to those too wounded or maimed to continue a profession at sea.

Taking advantage of the desperate nature of their membership, over the first thirty years the organization began to expand and even contend with the Iris over some enterprises.  Yet while often compared to that other great criminal organization, the Brotherhood had a reputation for brutality that matched the Iris’ reputation for cunning and subtlety.  Soon the problems in Merwyn forced the Iris to abandon many of its enterprises in Alshar, leaving their completion and profit to the Brotherhood of the Rat by default.  Without adequate completion, the sway of the Brotherhood was felt from one side of the Great Bay to the other, and far up the Mandros, until they controlled nearly every dock and wharf in the country.

As they made their way to Falas, Gareth would report nightly to Rondal on their progress. The two supposedly-fugitive wizards attracted an increasing measure of attention once they made it to the cities and towns along the Great Bay.  They’d already raised significant interest amongst those with the desire for irionite and the cash to get it, and their own stones demonstrated that they were not just protected from petty thievery, but that their wares were authentic.

By the time they saw the sea at the mouth of the Mandros, they were being invited to some of the finest great houses in the Coastlands as the guests of one enterprising lord or another.  Iyugi deferred, preferring to pay to stay at inns that increased in luxury as they went south.  He doubled the number of hired guards, as well.

Gareth was growing increasingly nervous as the number of people who seemed to know all about their business was growing.  Nor were they the better sort of people, he insisted to Rondal, later.  In fact, they seemed to grow more exotic, wealthy, dangerous and desperate as they went downriver and across the coast.

Once they came to the Coastlands they could not avoid the visit of one of the Three Censors, who had heard about their stock and had insisted on halting their journey long enough to inspect their wares.  They’d lost several pieces of irionite to theft, themselves, they declared to Iyugi, and wished merely to ensure that these pieces were not theirs.

The meeting was wary – neither wizard was pleased to be in the presence of the dreaded checkered cloak, nor have their faces known.  But they presented their stolen stones to them and submitted to a truthtelling to verify that they had, in fact, stolen them from Minalan’s workshop.

The Censor made some pretense about confiscating them on the spot, but while Iyugi and Gareth were anxious, they were not helpless.  Brandishing their own stones, and mentioning powers that the Censorate were not yet aware, in their fallen estate, they persuaded the man not to engage in a duel . . . and likely destroy the fine inn they had chosen in the process.

The next day word came down the river that two wild magi were rampaging through the upper Great Vale.  Iyugi’s contacts, Gareth reported, told him that it was exclusively installations of the Brotherhood that were targeted . . . and that the two were clearly in pursuit of them.

It was about that time that the Brotherhood, sensing opportunity from the two, graciously offered to broker the sale of the stones . . . for a fee.  Three members of the senior council approached them, something Iyugi assured Gareth was nearly unheard of.  But after intense negotiations, Iyugi relented.  The Brotherhood would handle the sale, provide security, and ensure payment and delivery for the stones, as well as provide escape for the two thieves on a ship to any port in the Shallow Sea.

Just as they had planned.

Atopol filled in some of the blanks that evening in Falas, where the three met up for dinner in an elegant salon before the knights continued a third night of destruction.

“The Rats are squirming,” he assured them, smiling broadly.  “I never realized how much I hated those guys until I got to start fighting them.  Everyone in your path is terrified that they are next.  And that you won’t stop until everyone is dead.”

“That is precisely what we want them to believe,” Rondal said, tapping the table with his finger.  “We want them scared enough to give Iyugi a quick way out.  Which means a quick sale, likely at a discount, and safe passage through the Bay.  The Rats either get the stones or they get the coin.  They win either way.”

“How many people are interested in them?” Tyndal asked, his mouth full of pheasant.

“Well, the entry-fee deposit is ten thousand ounces of gold,” Atopol pointed out.  “That’s going to keep the bit-players out.  Of those who can afford it, there are probably nine or ten.  Whether or not they will take the bait and show up at the auction is debatable.  But the Brotherhood will be bidding on it, the Censors certainly will, and at least two families of magi are considering it . . . even though they’ll be exposing themselves to the Censors.”

“If they have irionite, they can afford to,” nodded Rondal.

“That’s what the Censor’s fear . . . but they’re losing influence on the rebel council, what little they had.  They are under pressure to drop their cloaks and become the High Magi of Alshar, but they cling too tightly to their doctrine.  Indeed, they make the pretense that they only take up the stones to defend against . . . well, you two, among others.  They are smarting deeply from the theft at the Tower Arcane.”

“I’d like to fight a Censor with glass, mageblade to mageblade,” Tyndal said, recklessly, as his eyes narrowed.  “That would be fun!”

“You may get your chance,” Atopol assured him.  “If you try to interrupt the sale, then you’ll be facing at least one of them.  Of the three stones, only one is a match for a Castalshari High Mage, Master Hance says.  The others are flawed in some way.”

“Don’t worry,” Rondal said, confidently.  “I don’t want to interrupt this sale in the slightest.  I want to see who wants a stone badly enough to pay top price for it.”

“What do you think they’ll go for?”

“It costs fifty thousand ounces of gold to become a sworn High Mage in Castalshar,” Tyndal reasoned.  “It will be at least that much.”

“Each,” agreed Rondal.  “Probably much more.  That’s a lot of gold . . . more than most people have laying around.”

“That’s why the Brotherhood is involved,” explained Atopol.  “They’re one of the few institutions that do, right now.  Whomever wins the auction will have to settle terms with the Rats.  Even the Censorate.  And the Rats will keep possession of the stones until they are satisfied with the bargain,” he added.  “No one breaks an agreement with the Brotherhood.”

“That’s important,” Rondal realized.  “Whomever wins the sale isn’t just going to be a customer with the Rats . . . they’re going to end up partners, unless they can come up with that much gold right away.”

“How many days until the sale?” Tyndal asked.

Atopol smirked.  “Five.  They want to get everything ready at Vaxel, where they have a secure base.  That also gives time for the news to spread and attract more buyers.  They want as many bidders there as possible, for this.”

“All the better,” Rondal nodded.  “Who is overseeing it?”

Atopol looked impressed.  “The Spider, himself.  One of the top three decision makers on the council.”

“I thought the council was larger than that?”

“Oh, it is,” Atopol agreed.  “There are fifteen members, the senior Rats.  Each is in charge of a major territory or specialized sphere of activity.  But the over-all organization is steered by three executive members.

“Remember, the Brotherhood is descended from shipwrecked pirates, and not the nice sort, either,” Atopol explained.  “Without a ship, it was decided that the Captain – the Rat King - was no longer needed to run the actual business.  The position today is nominal, and within the organization the Rat King is a ceremonial position alone, it is theorized by my father.  His leadership was replaced with the three senior officers: the Navigator, the Pilot, and the Quartermaster.  Those three are responsible for the policy, operations, and material of the Brotherhood, while the Rat King lives in seclusion.  The rest of the council votes and gets a voice, but those three run the day-to-day operations and long-range strategy for the organization.”

Rondal blinked.  “Looks like you learned a hell of a lot about the Brotherhood!”

“Too much,” the journeyman thief replied.  “Me and my entire House.  Master Hance is not pleased with what he’s discovered.  For example, one of the members of the rebel council is also the Brotherhood’s Pilot, Count Jenerard.  The current Quartermaster is an avaricious old fart named Lord Prudna, he’s the one who has pushed the Rats to get actively back into the slave trade.  And the Navigator’s position is held by the Spider.  He’s their head of intelligence, and the brains behind most of their most recent aggressive moves into politics and slavery,” Atopol said, in a grave voice.

“So he’s the one running this auction,” Tyndal nodded.

“Definitely.  And he’s perhaps the most dangerous of them all.  Few even know his name, no one knows where he lives, and only a handful have seen his face.  He conducts most of his business in secret, through agents . . . some who are not within the Brotherhood.  That’s how he keeps an eye on the rest, and determines who’s getting too strong and who is too weak.”

“And then what happens?”

“They wake up with a Tail in their ear,” Atopol shrugged.  “No grand statement, no bloody scene, just an iron spike driven into your ear and wiggled around a bit.”

Rondal shuddered at the thought.  “Why doesn’t the Brotherhood just seize the stones themselves?”

“It’s already too well-known that they’re for sale – your man Iyugi did an excellent job in ruining that route for them.  Too many powerful people want a chance at them now and know where they came from.  More, such a move would be seen as bad faith by many of those same people.  They might be horrible, evil thugs,” reasoned Atopol, “but even thugs need to be able to do business honestly.  That’s why the Sea Lords venerated the Fair Trader as much as the Shipwrecker or the Maiden.  If the Rats offered protection to your friends and then violated that, no one of consequence would do business with them.”

“Well,” Rondal considered, an idea dawning on him.  “Let’s see if we can’t drive the price up a bit.  You said that the major players had to bring ten thousand ounces, just to get in the door?”

“Well, yes,” the dark-eyed thief nodded.  “Some will bring considerably more.  Not all in coin, mind you, but something of equivalent value.”

“Then it sounds like an excellent opportunity for your sister to get her claws wet,” proposed Rondal.  “With all that good loot lying around, barely guarded, if some were to disappear, well… it is said Enultramar is full of thieves,” he said, knowingly.

“You mean have Gat . . .?  Oh, I like it!” he said, grinning.  “She will too, I’m certain.  I’ll send word to her at once, and have her head toward Vaxel.  She can pick the place clean while they’re bidding,” he envisioned.  “As the Rats took it as security, they will be obliged to repay the bidders!”

“Which wouldn’t improve their dispositions one bit, during the actual auction,” agreed Tyndal.

“You know, I think this just might work!” Rondal smiled.  “Now, let’s finish up dinner.  I want to stretch a little bit before we break up this . . . brothel?”

“Casino,” corrected Tyndal, his mouth full of bread.  “It’s a black market casino under an abandoned pier in Kultanen.”

“That’s right, the casino,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “Then we hit the big brothel in Ruori, just south of Roen.”

“Just two tonight?” Atopol asked, surprised.

“It’s a really big brothel,” Tyndal said, his eyes narrowing.  “Last time we destroyed a brothel, we couldn’t stick around afterward.  To enjoy the congratulations of the emancipated victims,” he said, knowingly.

“Oh.  Well,” the lad said, seeking to change the subject, “When do you think you’ll be back around here?”

“Night after next,” Tyndal said.  “By that time we’ll need a breather.  Iyugi and Gareth need time to set up.  And Kitten needs time to get to Vaxel.”

“Ugh!  I hate Vaxel,” Atopol said, sourly.  “Most of Enultramar is pretty sad, but that town is like a gilded pile of shit, and nothing better.  There’s a big lead mine nearby,” he explained.  “Half the town are idiots, because of the lead.  And that’s the region that produces the most powerful poppy gum in the world.  The half of the town that isn’t stupid from lead is stupid from smoking that stuff.  It’s forbidden, most places, but the Count of Caramas is huge devotee, so it’s sold openly on the streets.”

“Probably why the Brotherhood chose the place,” Tyndal observed.

“Yeah, they pretty much run it.  When the fleet comes back in a few weeks, their holds full of chained captives, after they sort out which ones are rich enough to be held for ransom the rest will be sold to estates around the Bay.  Mines, plantations, manufactories.  The mariners will use that money to buy as much gum as they can.  What they don’t use themselves they’ll sell to the smugglers outside of Merwyn for a fat profit.”

“Enterprising,” nodded Tyndal.

“Horrific,” Atopol disagreed.  “The trade is brutal, both ways.  A man can be captured at sea and have the proceeds of his sale into slavery used to enslave his children back home with the drug.  It’s a scourge in the huge cities in the east.”

“Then we should probably destroy that, too,” Tyndal decided.  “While we’re here.”

“I’d hate to make a special trip,” agreed Rondal.  “I think—”

Rondal didn’t get to express what he thought, nor did he recall what thought he had later.  At that moment a man with a short-hafted, large bladed axe burst into the salon and ran at the three of them.

While Rondal didn’t freeze, he reacted the slowest of the three.  Atopol was already in the air, having sprung from the table like a cat discovering a snake behind it.  His shoulder was in motion and the tiny throwing knives he favored were in the air while Rondal sat there.

Tyndal was also rising, tipping over the dainty table they were sitting around and drawing a wand from his belt as the axe descended toward where his shoulder would have been.  While it demolished the chair, it left Tyndal standing proximate to the attacker, a wand in his hand . . . and in a moment the man was thrown across the entirety of the room where he landed in a heap.  He did not move after he landed.

“Ishi’s tits!” Tyndal swore, putting the wand away.  “I wasn’t done with dinner, yet!”

“They must be getting desperate, to attack in public like this so blatantly,” Atopol said, shaking his head, looking around for more foes.  “Do you think there’s more than one?”

Rondal was already scrying.  While it was difficult to determine threats in a crowded urban environment, he summoned his baculus and did a quick series of spells.

“I don’t think so,” he concluded, after peering beyond the walls of the inn.  “I don’t know if he was purposefully sent, or he was just being opportunistic, but Cat’s right: they are getting desperate to attack like that.  Which means we’re having an effect,” he said, pleased.

“I should hope so,” snorted Tyndal.  “I doubt they get a penny of tribute from north of Falas, this year, after what we did to them!”

“You have alarmed them, but you have not done more than wound them,” Atopol reminded, as he put his chair aright.  “Next time they will send more than one, and they will strike at you relentlessly.”

“That’s what we’re hoping for,” Rondal nodded.  “We can take it.  The more of their resources they expend trying to stop us, the less they have to notice that you and Gat are taking their shroud measurements.”

“I doubt they have any idea we’re working together,” smirked the shadowmage.  “Oh, the Spider might suspect, but he has a lot of webs to keep up with.  And my House does such a masterful job of disinformation that it would be almost impossible to establish a link.”

“Unless one of you gets caught,” Tyndal pointed out.  Atopol reacted like a challenge.

“Uh, House Salainen doesn’t get caught,” he boasted.  “Ever.”

“Anyone can get caught,” Tyndal insisted.

“We don’t,” Atopol insisted.  “It’s unprofessional.”

“This Spider sounds like the brains behind a lot of the Brotherhood’s operations,” Rondal said, before the two really started to row.

“Yes, he’s smarter than Jenerard and the Quartermaster combined,” Atopol said, with one final glare at Tyndal.  “There are other men of intelligence on the council, but he is the one pulling the strings of this web.”

“Then that’s who we want to remove,” Rondal decided.  “The others are thugs.  The Spider is the truly dangerous one to our mission.  That is the condition of our victory.”

“That’s not going to be an easy task.  It’s not even a difficult task.  That is an all-but-impossible task,” Atopol declared.  “You don’t get to be one of the senior members of an international criminal organization without being tough, and the Spider is notoriously elusive on top of that.”

“Then we will have to draw him out of his web,” Rondal insisted.  “And as for impossible . . . we’re knights magi.  Impossible is just another day at work.”

The rampage continued, that evening, as first the casino and then the brothel were targets of the lads’ magical assaults.  Taking great care not to harm civilians, the two of them destroyed the Brotherhood’s enterprises utterly, treating any survivors to the rat-faced mage marks.

They operated with impunity to local authority.  Only once were they approached by any kind of civil authority, when a corporal of the Ruori Town Watch approached them in the light of the burning brothel and politely asked them to justify their violence.

He was a young man, and clearly afraid of the consequences of a confrontation with two such fearsome warriors, but Rondal admired his devotion to duty.  Approaching two rampaging knights in a vengeful mood demonstrated tremendous bravery, to his mind, and he felt such bravery should be rewarded.

He indulged the man by taking him aside (while Tyndal distributed the proceeds from the casino raid to the mistreated – and terribly grateful – young whores) and explaining that their actions were, indeed, under authority.  To prove it he showed him the parchment with his warrant . . . signed and sealed by the lawful Duke of Alshar, only weeks before.

“So, Corporal Aron,” Rondal explained to the suddenly wide-eyed young watchman as Tyndal was getting thanked by the whores in an alley, “you can approach this matter one of three ways: you can deny the authenticity of the seal and signature, which would be well within your rights but – alas! – not terribly productive, considering forging the Duke’s seal is punishable by death, and I’m just not that enterprising.  You can accept the seal but deny the legitimacy of the Duke, for which I would applaud your commitment to your politics, even as I would be forced, as a loyal gentleman of Alshar, to cut you down for your rebellion.”

“And what is the third option, my lord?” the watchmen asked.  He was only a year younger than Rondal, he realized.

“The third option is the best option: you accept the legitimacy of the seal, the legitimacy of the Duke who placed it there and is your rightful, lawful sovereign, and the legitimacy of this golden sandolar I am gifting you for the purpose of toasting good Duke Anguin’s health, as a loyal Alshari man should, while conveniently forgetting that you ever saw this warrant.”  A young corporal of the watch made perhaps six pennies a week for his service, plus livery.  An ounce of gold was more than he would make in years.

“Long live Duke Anguin!”

“I thought you’d see it my way,” Rondal concluded, handing the man a second sandolar to reinforce the sentiment.  “Now, keep folk away from the fire.  And I think that little dark-haired whore is making eyes at you.  Why don’t you go share your new good fortune?”

Despite his profession, Rondal did not consider himself a violent man.  Yet he found himself increasingly looking forward to the nightly assaults, and sharing in his partner’s apparently glee in the destruction, despite himself.  In three nights they hit and destroyed eight of the Brotherhood’s businesses, slew dozens, magemarked hundreds, and left eight craters, piles of rubble, or holes in the ground in their wake.

Part of that anticipation was pure righteous vengeance.  The Brotherhood deserved to be destroyed, not just for Estasia but for the thousands of souls they’d tormented over the centuries.  They were a blight on the economic and social fabric of Alshar, and from his Wilderlands perspective, a cancer on the Alshari society.

But part of his eagerness was because when he was fighting the Rats, he wasn’t thinking about that awful night at Castle Salaisus in the Magewar.  The night Alya fell.

Neither he nor Tyndal felt comfortable discussing their feelings about that yet.  Alya’s body might be alive, but their friend (and nominal liege) was gone, and their master so distraught about it that his friends in Sevendor were worried.

Rondal was confident Minalan would find a way to restore Alya’s mind to her body.  He had no concrete reason to feel that way, no shred of evidence to support the idea, but he embraced it as a matter of faith, a faith shared by Tyndal: Minalan would find a way.  He always did.  He was the Spellmonger.

Still, that did not detract from the rage and anguish he felt as he was fighting the Brotherhood.  Frustrated by his inability to do the job of healing his friend, Rondal redoubled his efforts on the job for which he was trained: hitting people with swords and spells.

So he hit people with swords and spells.  Really, really hard.  It made him feel better.

The feeling of power was heady – and dangerous, he realized.  Even facing vastly superior numbers, Rondal and Tyndal always had the advantage.  Their armor protected them, their magic gave them enormous leverage, and their ferocity had not waned in the slightest in battle.

By the fourth night the two had worked their way down the river past Roen, to the town of Arada, in the southern Great Vale.  And their southerly route had been noted.  Atopol reported the great lengths the Brotherhood was going to in order to intercept the two of them between attacks.  The river was full of their agents, now, and they’d activated alliances with gangs of river pirates and local bandits to try to find them as they travelled.  Every inn and tavern in their path was crawling with thugs seeking them.  The unfortunate assassin at dinner had just been opportunistic.

Apparently there was a price on each of their heads now, Atopol informed them.  Five hundred ounces of gold each.

It was all wasted effort, of course.  The two capped off every nightly attack by retiring back to the Rat Trap, back in the Castali Riverlands, to sleep in peace and security while the Brotherhood was spending gold like a drunken mariner to patrol the roads and rivers of Alshar.  Their ability to use the Ways, along with the mind-to-mind and Mirror communication, gave the knights magi as much advantage over the Brotherhood in organization as their magic did against the Rats in battle.  Particularly since it was a capability the Brotherhood was unaware they had.  They were careful to keep it that way.

They were also careful to avoid the long-term effects of using the Ways.  Minalan had nearly died the previous summer, thanks to the residual effects of having his brain sloshed around in his skull every time he went through the Alkan portals.  But Gareth had discovered that some of the warmagic spells used as a defense against concussion blasts on the battlefield were also useful for cushioning a body from the effects of the spell.

That didn’t mean that they weren’t feeling the effects of the Ways.  A kind of lingering disorientation set in, after the third day, which made both lads a little woozy.  But that also didn’t detract from the fervor with which they attacked the next round of Rats.

In fact, the Brotherhood was kind enough to meet them with a small army the fourth night.

The place was a town called Arada, on the west bank of the river, in the southern end of the Great Vale.  There was nothing particularly special about the town or the Brotherhood’s operation there – it didn’t specialize in anything in particular.  But that’s where the Brotherhood managed to finally meet the two rampaging knights magi in force, prepared to deal with them once and for all.

The dingy warehouse they used as a headquarters, locally, was packed with more than a score of tough, gritty street-wise Rats who had been instructed to eliminate the magi at all costs.  Some even wore armor, thick leather hauberks or vests of mail, and all bore swords.  When the two knights materialized around the corner, behind a well where Iyugi had planted the Waystone, they were surprised at the reception.

A dozen Rats were defiantly standing around the exterior of the warehouse, and there were two on the roof with arbalests, invisible to normal eyes in the darkness, but clearly visible with magesight.

Rondal and Tyndal walked slowly to within fifty feet of the crowd, the slivered moon giving just enough light to the scene to show the menace lurking in the shadows.

“That’s far enough!” shouted a shrill, nervous-sounding voice.   “You fellows have caused enough trouble!”

“We want our stones!” Tyndal bellowed, as he had at each attack.

“Iyugi and Gareth!  We want them!  We’ll keep doing this until we get them!”

“We know!” shouted the Rat, irritated and afraid.  “We don’t fucking have them!  Leave us be!”

“The Brotherhood has them, somewhere,” Tyndal shrugged, as the man was pushed forward by his mate to negotiate.  “Until we get them back, we’re content to destroy as many crews as possible.”

“It’s good practice,” Rondal agreed.  “Keeps us limber between wars.”

“Why are you doing this to us?” demanded the little man with despair in his voice, who seemed to be taking the entire episode personally.  “What did we ever do to you?”

“Engaged in acts of crime against the laws of the duchy,” Tyndal pointed out.

“Participated in the forbidden slave trade, smuggling, and piracy,” Rondal added.

“Kidnapping, extortion, murder,” Tyndal continued.

“Oh, and they pushed a friend of ours off a roof,” Rondal reminded him, unnecessarily.

“Ah, yes,” Tyndal said, his expression hardening.  “That.”

“So it sounds to me as if we have sufficient cause to destroy this place.”

“And kill everyone in it,” Tyndal added, lightly.

“Look, fellows, I don’t know what happened to you, and I’m terribly sorry about it . . . but I built this crew up from nothing, over ten years, and that was hard.  I can’t just let you destroy it,” he pleaded, as one of his lieutenants joined him.

“Well, at least you aren’t being taken by surprise, like your comrades upstream,” Rondal consoled, looking around at the nervous Rats.  “They had no idea what was coming.  No time to prepare a proper defense.”

“Yes, you’re actually quite lucky,” agreed Tyndal.  “You must have at least twenty, twenty-five men here?”

“There’s another dozen inside,” the Rat captain confided.  “Sent up from Falas.  The fellows upstairs are not happy with your . . .”

“Mission,” supplied Tyndal.  “We’re knights.  We’re on a mission of errantry.”

“A bloody mission of carnage and death,” Rondal added, lightly.  “We’re legally authorized to pursue this course without retribution from civil authority.  We want our stolen stones back.  And we don’t care much who gets in our way.”

“Fellows!  Be reasonable!” pleaded the Rat captain.  “I’m just a businessman, who has no idea about your stones, or these two thieves, or anything but doing my business!”

“You are no mere cobbler, Goodman Rat,” Rondal pointed out.  “You beat your customers and threaten their families.  And it isn’t shoes you’re selling.  It’s the bodies of little girls, the savings of those you enslave with poppy gum, and the hopes of those you steal at your fixed games of chance.”

“Well, no, of course it’s a rough job,” admitted the man.  “But someone has to do it.  I try not to be too rough . . .”

“Your professional consideration is appreciated,” Tyndal said, loftily.  “But your association is, alas, in a bit of a state.  So either each of you present yourselves, unarmed, to be marked with the badge of shame your fellows upstream bear, or prepare to face us in combat.”

“That’s really not an option,” the Rat captain squirmed, as his lieutenant studied the two of them silently.  “I can’t just surrender my crew to you – the fellows upstairs would have my head!”

“I’m thinking that they’re going to get it, one way or another,” Tyndal observed.  “But your choice is simple: either deal with us, now, and hope that the rest of the Brotherhood will overlook your betrayal, or fight us and have your head presented to the fellows upstairs as a gift.”

“You have to understand,” the man pleaded.  “I’ve spent ten whole years building—”

The man stopped his begging, his eyes wide.  It was hard to see what exactly happened in the darkness, but as the Rat captain fell to his knees, his lieutenant was cleaning a long dagger on the shoulder of his captain’s mantle.

“Sorry,” he said, gruffly.  “I liked him, but orders are orders.  We take you down, now.”

“I’m almost appreciative,” Tyndal said, as he watched the man fall face-first into the dirt.  “His begging was starting to get annoying.  So are we doing this?”

The lieutenant looked up.  “Oh, yes.  Orders were clear: this is where you die, or this is where we die.  One way or another.”

“That does clear things up,” Rondal nodded.  “Thank you.”

“If you two are wise, you’ll head back the way you came,” the lieutenant added.  “We really do have that many men.  If you attack, there is no way you can survive.”

Rondal considered.  “Do you mind if my colleague and I discuss the matter for a moment?” he asked, politely.  “I would prefer to make an informed decision.”

The lieutenant – now captain – shrugged.  “We’ll be here all night.”

The two of them walked a few feet away from the man and the dying body of his former boss, and considered the matter.

“There are a lot of them,” Rondal observed, glancing back at where the Rats were milling around, nervously.  “This might be tough.”

“Do you really think so?” Tyndal asked, glancing around.

Rondal considered.  They had yet to use many of the spells and enchantments they’d prepared, and there were some powerful ones still in their arsenal.  “No, not really,” he sighed.  “But it will get bloody.”

“That can’t be avoided,” Tyndal nodded.

“Probably not,” he said, tightening the strap on his helmet.  He looked up to the new Rat captain, who seemed to be patient enough.  “We’re going to fight, just give us a moment to prepare,” he called.  That seemed to frighten some of the Rats, but steel some others.  It really didn’t make much difference to Rondal.  If the men knew what was about to happen, they would have taken to their heels.

The new captain nodded.  “Take your time!” he called.  “We aren’t going anywhere!”  To prove the point, he drew his own blade – a long, leaf-shaped cavalry sword, and stood at the ready.

“Let’s make it quick, though,” Tyndal said as he drew his own mageblade.  “I don’t want to be puttering around here all night.”

“Agreed,” Rondal nodded, as he summoned Bulwark to his hand.  “I’ll take the building, you take the men?”

“Delighted,” Tyndal agreed, as the edge of the blade began to grow.  “This should be quite the sparring session!”

“Estasia!” Rondal cried boldltas he summoned arcane force from his stone and began to weave it into a net around the warehouse.  It was twice the size of Arrunatus House, and made almost entirely of timber.  Locking a hemisphere of force around it was no great feat, not with Bulwark directing his intent.

Tyndal plowed into the new captain of the Crew and made his reign the shortest in Brotherhood history when he neatly beat the shocked-looking man’s blade out of the way and impaled him through the chest.  The tall knight did not even wait for his first victim to hit the ground before he was striding toward the others with purpose.

It was about then that Rondal’s spell was set and hung.  He pronounced the mnemonic associated with it and watched the invisible arcane field he’d built fill with magical energy . . . and an overabundance of oxygen.

The spell was set.  In a few moments it would activate, as the building filled with too much of the rich gas, and the inevitable flames inside would ignite.  Satisfied, Rondal turned his attention to the ring of defenders gamely trying to impede Tyndal’s progress.  As he stepped over the bodies in his wake to join him, he tossed a few distraction-and-display spells over their heads.  The bright flashes, sudden pops and stuttering magelights turned the chaotic scene into a bizarre dance of steel and shadow.

Tyndal took full advantage of the sudden display, and the moment his opponents were distracted he put an end to them in bloody-handed fashion.  As another contingent ran to support their brothers, Rondal focused on the lead ruffian and used the spell they’d designed for battering down thick castle doors.

The resulting concussion wave shattered the man, tearing him limb-from-limb and knocking down those behind him in the blast, splattering them with his exploded viscera and blood.  Rondal pushed Bulwark back into his ring and drew his blade.  It was time for steel, now.

Tyndal didn’t really need much assistance, he saw.  His partner was using warmagic lavishly, but in spurts.  His augmented steps allowed him to cross the distance between foes and strike before they knew what hit them.  Slashes expected to cleave him in twain were easily blocked or avoided, and more than one Rat was now clutching a stump on the ground, their blood pooling around them, from getting in Tyndal’s way.  That long cavalry-style blade was not only heavier than their swords, but he used it with great familiarity and skill.

Rondal supported him anyway, shouting his position as he took a man on Tyndal’s left flank who was charging in hopes to knock the knight down.  Rondal gave him a four-inch deep slice across both hamstrings as he ran past him, sending him sprawling into the dust and shadow.  The man behind him slowed and faced Rondal, more cautious than his mate.  There was a short sword in one hand and a Rat’s Tail in the other, he saw with magesight.

Rondal had many magical responses he could use, but he felt like hitting something, now, and this man seemed eager for the play.  Taking a quick step into his reach, Rondal smashed the steel edge of his shield against the man’s right arm, while his blade came down on the sword with especial force.

He’s never faced a shieldman before, Rondal realized, as he pivoted to his left . . . while keeping his shield in front of the man’s face.  The Rat blindly scrambled with his right arm, waving the sharp spike of iron around where he thought Rondal’s face would be, but found only thin air.

Rondal, for his part, set up his footwork while his opponent struggled . . . and the moment the man had the foresight to take a step back to improve his vantage, Rondal snapped his knees around, swung his shield, and caught the back of the man’s head with the hard, sharp steel rim as he completed the move.  A quick thrust with his blade and he was on to the next opponent.

It was methodical work.  The Rats attacked bravely, but without discipline and without knowledge of how best to use their arms against the two knights.  They were thugs, not warriors, and did not understand how to fight warriors.  Even when they finally piled onto Tyndal, binding his arms in order to attempt to disarm him, they attacked with timidity and caution.  Not that Tyndal minded – he seemed determined to use every mistake they offered as an object lesson in poor close-combat technique.

Just as the next man faced Rondal, a boathook in one hand and a chain in the other, the concentration of oxygen within the warehouse reached a critical point . . . and ignited.  It exploded with a massive fireball that sent all of the combatants to the ground with its fury.  The few Rats who managed to get to their feet in the aftermath faced mage knights who were prepared for the situation, and none lasted more than a few moments before the blades of the boys put an end to them.

When the night was done, twenty-six former Rats lay dead in or around the burning warehouse.  Another half-dozen were maimed or injured.

Tyndal had sustained a mild cut on his elbow, here his armor had pinched him.  That was the extent of their injuries.

“That was the best the Brotherhood had?” Tyndal scoffed in the light of the flames.  “Pathetic!”

“Well, this is a third-rate posting, even for them,” Rondal considered, as he took his helmet off and looked around the little town.  “Nothing but wheat, barley, and peasants, as far as the eye can see.  I doubt they had much to lose, here.”

“Probably why they chose this place to make a stand,” nodded Tyndal.  “Better they take us out here than some mansion in the middle of Falas or Kaida.  Less to lose.  Less embarrassment, too.”

“I suppose this means we should accelerate our schedule,” Rondal said, frowning.

“Well, they’re going to hold that auction in a few days, anyway,” Tyndal agreed.  “Let’s call this a night and plan one last big attack for tomorrow.  Then we rest a day, let the shadowmagi do their work, and prepare for the auction.”

“That suits me,” Rondal nodded, looking around in a daze at all the men they’d killed.  “Let’s get out of here.  Suddenly, I need the taste of spirits.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Pulling the Rats’ Tail

Little is known among the learned about the mysterious and sinister organization known as variously as The Brotherhood of the Rat, the Long Bones, or the Alshari Iris, as they are sometime mistakenly called.  Their origins lie in the wreck of a pirate ship on the far eastern (and then, deserted) shores of the Great Bay, after a tempest.  The survivors, after offering sacrifices to the Shipwrecker for sparing their lives, nearly resorted to cannibalism, eating rats, and murder as they strove to survive the unforgiving shore.

Only by organizing and allying with the local tribes of savages in the swamps were those pirates able to survive, along with the fell pact they made at the shipwreck; for they had vowed, together, to support each others’ thievery until the end of their lives, and pledged in blood their mutual loyalty.  Though such ideals are esteemed amongst nobler company, the pact allowed the survival of the Brotherhood after their rescue by a merchantman, who they proceeded to murder and take his vessel.

From such small beginnings great tragedies oft arise, and none were worse for the common folk of the Great Bay than the survival of the Brotherhood of the Rat.

Notes On The Great Bay

Seafather Ostius

Though the two of them took a day to rest and plan, the shadowmagi of House Salaines were not idle.

Throughout the Great Bay of Enultramar word spread in disreputable circles about the great sale: two witchstones, free from taint, lifted from the Spellmonger’s castle.  Their authenticity had been established and vouched for, and the preconditions of sale were being spread, Atopol reported through his Mirror.  Already boats from around the Bay were headed toward Vaxel bearing the powerful who sought yet more power.

Not all the interested bidders were magi, the thief reported.  Some were merely interested in acquiring something of such great power, and great worth, with the aim of re-selling it or collecting it.  Others were more interested in their fellow bidders than in actually acquiring the stones.  It was a motley collection of wealthy criminals who were coming to Vaxel, and they made a tempting target.

“The keep the Rats have chosen for this sale is secure,” Atopol reported.  “I’m headed there myself, now, but I asked my father about it.  We have records on just about everything in the archives, and he was able to pull up at least a little information about it.”

“Don’t tell me: a twenty-foot wall with a fifty-foot moat, guarded by syphilitic dragons,” guessed Tyndal, over Rondal’s shoulder.

“Not quite,” Atopol replied.  “But that might be easier.  The keep is called Brisomar, and it isn’t in Vaxel, proper.  It’s an old Sea Lord tower on an island at the mouth of the river.  I guess it used to protect the city, back in the days when the Sea Lords were raiding each other constantly, but it hasn’t been used as a serious defense in about a century.  It was once the seat of a viscount, but he moved on to more comfortable quarters – and I can’t say I blame him.  It’s an old pile of rocks on a windy island where nothing much grows.  The perfect sort of place to run a clandestine auction of forbidden magic.”

“At least civilian casualties will be low,” agreed Rondal.

“Oh, there’s more to it than that,” Atopol agreed.  “In addition to at least a half-dozen potential buyers we’re aware of, there are several parties who wish to participate through anonymous agents.  Those are the ones who make me curious.  Sure, the Censorate wants the stones . . . but who wants them but doesn’t want it known that they want them?  Frustrating!”

“Actually, that’s pretty interesting,” nodded Rondal, thoughtfully.  “How are they handling that?”

“The Brotherhood is welcoming all comers at the door,” assured Atopol.  “They’ll get a percentage of the sale, even if they don’t win the auction, so the more bidders the higher the price.  If you show up with ten thousand ounces of gold, you get in.  If you lose, you get nine-thousand five hundred back, the balance your fee for participation.  Anything less will get your throat slit and your body dumped in the bay.”

“What about us?” demanded Tyndal.  “Have they not made mention of the swath of destruction we’ve left?  We’re not doing that for our health, you know!”

“Actually, the Brotherhood hasn’t mentioned a word around the Bay,” Atopol admitted.  “Just rumors that someone is stirring up trouble in the north.  But that doesn’t mean it isn’t being talked about, in certain circles.  It certainly lends credibility to your friends’ cover-stories.  From the pace you are apparently going, they’re certain that you will be far too late to stop the sale, based on your ham-handed progress down the Upper Mandros.  They’ll make more off of that than the value of everything you’ve destroyed, so far.”

“Then let’s give them something they cannot ignore,” Rondal decided, grimly.  “I don’t want that sale to happen with everyone believing that the Brotherhood is doing fine.  Why don’t you give us the location of a particularly juicy target?” he suggested.  “One which the Rats can’t ignore?”

“Hmmmm,” Atopol said, as the sound of parchment shuffling came through the magical communication.  “It’s an estate the senior leadership uses in the Oxbow Viscounties for top-level meetings.  Only a few Crew Captains ever get invited there, and it’s considered a one-way trip: either you get promoted to the Council, or you don’t come back.  The existence of the place isn’t even known to the general Brotherhood. It’s a fancy country house where the leadership can pretend to be legitimate gentlemen, not well-dressed thugs.  It’s also very coveted within the organization.  Right now it’s run by the Helmsman, our friend Jenerard.  An estate called Varanta Manor.”

“How close is it to one of our Waypoints?” Tyndal asked.

“It’s about twenty miles or so north of the one he put in Kaida,” Atopol informed them.  “We were going to have you take out the complex they have there, but if you strike Varanta instead, that will probably send a more serious message.”

“Varanta it is,” Tyndal agreed.  “Well hit it tonight.  That’s far enough away from Brisomar to convince them we can’t possibly make it to there before the sale.  Then tomorrow we can handle the sale.  Is Gatina in place?”

“She reached Vaxel last night,” Atopol assured.  “She’ll be ready.  I’ve given her everything she needs.”

The raid that night included a long ride by horse across the beautiful countryside of the picturesque Oxbow Viscounties.  Counted one of the fairest parts of the river valley, the well-manicured lands and estates of the region seemed utterly at odds with the poverty and chaos of the Bay a mere hundred miles downstream.  It took them only four hours to make the time across the well-cobbled roads of the region, and as they arrived at the beautiful hedged estate with the dark secrets, dusk was almost upon them.

They made quick work of it, eschewing a direct confrontation and hand-to-hand fight – no matter how satisfying it might have been – for a more direct attack.  For nearly half an hour the two of them sat on a small hill just outside of the manor’s ornamental wall and blasted the place with a variety of spells designed more for siege than assault.

Walls came down, retainers and servants fled, and the magnificent structure, which had been built by Coastlords during the Late Magocracy and further augmented by the coming of the Narasi, crumbled into a smoldering ruin.  The flames from the wreckage of the grand old manor hall leapt high into the dark sky above as the knights moved the focus of their destruction to the outbuildings.

By the time they transferred themselves back to Sevendor, there were no two pieces of wood attached together in the place.

“Oh, you captured some attention,” Atopol reported the next morning through his Mirror.  “Word about the destruction of Varanta came in this morning.  It’s being written off publicly as an unfortunate fire, but the rumor about the truth of the matter is spreading just as fast.  Jenerard was particularly irate about it, apparently,” Atopol said, laughing through the link, “as he had hundreds of rare bottles of wine stashed there.  His Ratship fancies himself an expert.”

Gareth was less hopeful, when he checked in.

What in nine hells are you two doing? He demanded, mind-to-mind, when Rondal checked in with him.  They’ve changed the venue on this sale three times, now!  We don’t even know where we’ll be going, tonight!

It’s the keep of Brisomar, out in the Bay, Rondal informed him.  They likely don’t want you to know so you don’t have any thoughts about slipping away, after all the hard work they’ve done.

They’re supposed to take us there, this afternoon, but they’re being very quiet about the details, Gareth reported.  A couple of senior Rats have been looking after us.  They were upset about something you guys did last night.  Real upset.  The sort of upset that gets nice, mild-mannered hostages’ throats cut.

Gareth, you can take the Ways out of harm’s way any time, Rondal pointed out.

And leave Iyugi behind without reinforcements?  Blow this mission?  Not a chance!  I’m in this, now, you bastard.  I’m not going to tell Dara I was the one who ran away when things got tough!

Gareth, it’s not a contest, urged Rondal.  And you aren’t a warmage.  No one would blame you if you left, now that things are ready.

That’s sweet, but it’s total bullshit, the wizard replied.  We both know that.  This may kill me, but I am no coward.  And if it does kill me . . . well, I hope Dara knows why I did it.  Just . . . just try not to get them too riled up while we’re in their clutches, now.  More than once I’ve heard suggestions that they just turn us over to you and cut their losses.

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.

“Merely some affluent associates who value my insights,” she said, shaking her head.  “Such power as is in the stones could do great work, back amongst the swamps of Caramas.”

“Or in the hands of proper wizards, in the east,” Rondal replied, with more than a hint of condescension toward the witch, as a snotty Coastlord mage might.  “We are the ones who understand their use!”

“The wonders of irionite are manifold,” came another voice from behind Rondal – one he did not expect.  It was low, rough, gravelly, heavily accented . . . and unmistakably that of a gurvan.  He turned around slowly, and tried to let the surprise come naturally to his face.

“My gods!  Have they opened the bidding to just anyone?”

“Merely an interested observer my lord . . . Birchroot?” the goblin asked, with the formality of a courtier.  “My associates invited me to witness this event.  There are several such interested parties here this evening.  As the stones were of gurvani origin, they thought it prudent to include me, to establish their authenticity.”

“And just how did the . . . gurvani manage the feat?” demanded Rondal, secretly enjoying the role he was playing.  It felt good to be pushy and entitled – was this how Tyndal felt, all the time? he wondered.

“I am no priest, I’m afraid,” chuckled the goblin.  He was wearing a dark burgundy doublet of velvet, with slops and tights, though he had not worn shoes on his large hairy feet.  Apart from his stature, his ugly face, and the mat of wiry black hair that peaked out from under his finery, he could have been at court.  “The technical details escape me.  But my people are a lot more sophisticated than we are given credit.”

“No doubt,” dismissed Rondal.  “Are there other non-humans here, as well?  One of the Sea Folk interested in rock collecting, perhaps?”

“Oh, my lord jests!” the goblin said.  “My name is Prikiven, my lord, an emissary for His Majesty, King of the Goblins.  I am touring your fair land to report back on the possibility of negotiating a peace between our peoples.”

“A peace?” snorted Rondal, with far more sincerity than his role would have mustered, he realized.  “And what would the cost of this peace be?”

“Merely the cession of the scantly-peopled northern province to my folk,” Prikiven said, sounding completely reasonable.  “Once we are assured that there will be no more attempt to defend them, then peace between our folk should evolve as a matter of course.”

“Oh,” Rondal realized.  “You wish Alshar to give up its claim to the Wilderlands.”

“As you style them,” conceded Prikiven.  “We see them as our ancient homeland.  Surely you can understand the desire to reclaim that – as I understand your people’s desire to once more claim the Gilmoran territories,” he added, displaying a knowledge of local politics.

“Why we would want either territory is beyond me,” Bea Ahiga declared.  The witch looked at the goblin with amusement.  “The Sea Lords want the Wilderlands for timber to build their ships, and the Coastlords look to Gilmora to fill their coffers.  We have plenty of ships, more than we need, and we did well enough in the centuries before the Cotton Lands were part of Alshar.”

“My lady is a scholar,” Prikiven noted, approvingly.  “The situation beyond the Narrows is not, properly, in the interests of the people of this fair land.  All it has done is involve the folk of Alshar in interminable wars of dubious value.”

“You know our history, then?” asked Rondal, surprised.

“Quite well,” agreed Prikiven, smiling jaggedly.  “I’ve read quite a bit of your histories.  Quite enlightening, though not always as accurate as one could wish.”

“Goblins can read?” asked Bea Nahiga asked, amused and surprised.

“Some of us can even dance, my lady, though not as well as you, I imagine,” the gurvan said, charmingly.  He was even more eloquent than Gurkarl, Rondal noted.  “My folk have taken an interest in Alshar since the period of invasion you refer to so drolly as ‘the goblin wars’.  I, myself, studied with a number of monks until I could read both Narasi and Imperial with equal facility.”

“I’ve even heard that the gurvani have their own written language,” one of the Censors – the younger of the two attending - observed.

“That is true, though it is a crude and inelegant thing, by humani standards,” conceded Prikiven.  “It is used only for chronicles and instructions amongst our priestly class.  But come!  As amusing as it is to share the idiosyncrasies of my culture, I am much more fascinated by yours!  I feel that the gurvani kingdom and Alshar can achieve a great friendship, after we settle a few minor matters.”

“Ceding the entire Wilderlands to invaders is not a minor matter,” contested the Censor.  “As much as I despise what the Spellmonger has done, he was right to raise the banner of resistance in the Wilderlands when your folk invaded.”

“We consider it a reclamation or restoration,” countered the goblin, reasonably.  “But that is for greater heads than ours to puzzle out.  I think—”

Rondal didn’t get the chance to learn what the courtly goblin thought, because two of their hosts appeared then. The first was a slender man with delicate features, hard eyes, and dark hair, with no trace of a smile on his face, but who seemed intent on watching everything in the room. The other was certainly Jenerard, the Sea Lord who represented the Brotherhood on the rebel council and in what passed for a court in Enultramar. He was a somewhat scruffy-looking Sea Lord with just a bit too much belly and jowl to be considered handsome, though he was dressed as richly as a duke

“My lords!  My ladies!” Jenerard announced.  “The last of our guests have just arrived and will be joining us momentarily.  I assure you that your deposits are all safely under guard in the storeroom below, under heavy guard, though you are perfectly safe here in Brisomar.  Now, if you will all join me in the upper chamber to inspect the merchandise and register your bids, we can display the merchandise and authenticate it before we get on with the auction.”

The assembled guests dutifully put away their cups and glasses and followed the two men upstairs, to a slightly smaller chamber once used as the lord’s chamber of the tower.  Now it was the Brotherhood’s meeting room, filled with chairs and couches, as well as a solitary trestle table on which a few items were displayed.

I guess it’s time for us to go to work, Tyndal mentioned to Rondal, mind-to-mind.  Look!  There’s Iyugi and Gareth!

Iyugi looks tired, Rondal noted, as they passed their two fellow wizards as they went upstairs.  Gareth looks . . . well, he looks like Gareth might look if he was locked in a tower full of powerful killers.

Doesn’t he know that nothing bad will happen with us around? Boasted Tyndal.

I think he’s too smart for that to occur to him, Rondal replied.  Now stay sharp.  This is the big event.  Either everything goes perfectly smoothly from here, or—

--or things will go as they usually do, finished Tyndal.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Stones Of Brisomar

During the early years of the Magocracy’s rule, the Counts of the Coastlands under the Lord of the Fields continued to expand their holdings and develop their fiefs even as the Sea Lords struggled for domination over the Great Bay.  It was during the Second War of the Viscounts, when the eastern domains on the Bay under the leadership of the Viscounts of Brisomar, Vaxelles and Tauler went to war with the Viscounts of Petxina and Salmorra, that the Viscount of Salmorra invited a small fleet of his kin from Farise to take his colors.

The Farisi pirates were not as lordly as the Sea Lords of Enultramar, and soon started raiding coastal settlements of friend and foe alike.  When the eastern Viscounts complained to the Stormfather at Allengaria, the great and well-respected cleric gave an edict: only the Sea Lords could contend against each other for possession of the Bay; all other lords were foes.

From that fateful decision the Viscounties of the Bay agreed to the Pact of Defense, and combined forces to drive off the Farisi before continuing their war between themselves like gentlemen.

The Early History of Alshar

The room was nearly silent as their hosts addressed them in the smaller upstairs chamber.  First to speak was Count Jenerard.  Next to him stood the slender dark haired man, who was then introduced as The Spider.  A figure of quiet menace, who stared at the crowd while his colleague addressed them.

“Welcome, my lords and ladies!” Jenerard said, clapping his hands together for their attention.  The man had a definite charisma and an air of showmanship that was infectious.  No wonder the late Duchess of Alshar had been enamored of him.  “Welcome to Brisomar, and a once-in-a lifetime opportunity!

“We have for your inspection and consideration tonight a pair of the rarest and most exquisite gemstones of power ever offered for sale.  Two witchstones, purest irionite of the highest quality, free from taint, powerful items forbidden since the Conquest!” he said, making the two Censors wince.

“We shall first display them, and verify their authenticity,” he continued, removing a small snowstone box, richly set with a variety of glittering stones in a snowflake pattern on its lid, from his sleeve.  “The container itself is worth a fortune, my lords and ladies, pure unique snowstone crafted by Karshak hands in the famed mageland of Sevendor, at the behest of the Spellmonger himself!” he announced, dramatically.  “Who knows what sinister purpose he originally had for them?”

“Shut up and show us the stones!” demanded the elder Censor, impatiently.  “We’re here already, godsdamnit, we don’t need to feel good about it!”  There was a titter of laughter around the room.  Lord Whiskers snorted at the old man’s crankiness.  Even the lizard on his shoulder seemed amused.

But Jenerard merely smiled, unwilling to let his salesmanship suffer.  “Of course, my lord Censor!  But I would be remiss in my duties if I did not establish the providence of the items.  I shall not only reveal them, in all of their glory, but verify precisely which stones they are.”

“The Spellmonger got them from the gurvani,” one of the bidders said, gruffly, looking at the serene goblin in their midst.  “On the battlefield,” he added, darkly.

“And from there he distributed them to his henchmen,” Jenerard continued, smoothly.  “Not a terribly bright lot, even for warmagi.”

Rondal concealed any emotion he might betray, and did his best not to glance at Tyndal to see if he was showing similar resolve.  That might arouse suspicion.

“Indeed, one of them was so clumsy as to allow his stone to be stolen, briefly, a few years back.  My lords and ladies, to verify the providence of this stone I present to you the thief who took it, Lord Rellin of House Pratt!”

Rondal couldn’t help but stiffen – but then so many others were craning their necks to see the young pirate enter the chamber that he doubted anyone noticed.

Striker! Tyndal nearly yelled into Rondal’s mind.  Isn’t he supposed to be out at sea with the rest of the fleet?  What in nine hells is he doing here?

I don’t know!  Shut up and listen, and whatever you do, don’t react!  One wrong move and we’re in a fight with Pratt, and considering who would be backing him, I doubt we’d win it.

Point taken, Tyndal said, after a tense moment.  I still want to stomp his face into the floor.

Rellin strode boldly amongst the rich and powerful of Alshar, those with power in quest for more, with the bravado of a captain astride the deck of his own ship.  The arrogance was palpable, and despite his weather-worn mariner’s leathers and thick-bladed scimitar, it was difficult to take him as much more than a cocky punk with more bravado than sense.

A sudden thought occurred to Rondal.  He’s our age.  Is that what people think of us, when we walk into a room?

Before his mind could provide an answer he didn’t think he wanted to hear, Pratt commanded the attention of the room with an overly-flamboyant bow that sent his mantle into the air around him.

Pratt’s a shadowmage, Tyndal reminded him, unnecessarily.

I was just thinking that, agreed Rondal.

The young man spoke, his voice high-toned but strong.

“I am Lord Rellin Pratt, nephew of Orril Pratt,” he announced.  “My line has long been associated with—”

“Enough, already!” spat the elder Censor.  “We didn’t come to be entertained with your lineage!  Just look at the damned stones and tell us if they’re authentic!”

“Of course, my lords,” Pratt said, bowing a second time.  He turned and nodded, and Jenerard opened the box.  Pratt examined them closely by eye, and then held his hand up over them.  Rondal could see the spell activate, through magesight.  Pratt stood and turned, dramatically.

“The stone on the right is the one I took from Sir Tyndal, at Inrion Academy,” he announced.  “The one of the left is its match, likely taken from Sir Rondal.”

“If you had the thing in hand two years ago, why give it back to him?” asked Lord Whiskers, pointedly.

“I was interrupted in my getaway by an unfortunate and unforeseen nuisance,” he replied, casually.  “Though I dealt with it, it gave Sir Tyndal the opportunity to slink off with his stone while I was otherwise occupied.  At that point I was revealed, and could not pursue him as I’d intended.”

Lord Whiskers snorted, evidently detecting the truth of the matter beyond Rellin’s self-serving tale.

“Aren’t the original owners of these stones seeking them still?” asked an amused voice with a thick Great Vale accent asked.  “I’ve heard they’ve created a frightful mess, coming down the Mandros.  The river is simply full of dead rats,” he pronounced, with a mixture of horror and delight.

“Lord Chursa, while it is true they are searching for the thieves, I assure you that the tales of their brutal attacks are quite exaggerated,” he said.  “Without their stones, they are no stronger than any other warmage.  And they are still marching toward the bay, hundreds of leagues from here.  I assure you, the winner of the stone can be long gone before those two buffoons appear to trouble you . . . and what if they did?  With this kind of power, you could crush them like rotten fruit!” he said, miming the proposal with his hands in dramatic fashion.

“The stones are authentic, as represented,” pronounced the Spider, who had said nothing to this point.  “The box will be included with the highest bid for either stone,” he added.

“It’s pure snowstone,” agreed Jenerard, with the enthusiasm of a market barker.  “A lovely piece of rare Karshak craftsmanship bearing the Spellmonger’s own device on the lid.  I don’t have to tell you lords and ladies what snowstone can do: it dramatically increases the effectiveness of magic within its proximity, an incredible bonus for the lucky winner.”

“Start the bidding!” came an impatient call from the back of the room.  “I’m growing into my dotage, here!”

“We shall,” agreed Jenerard.  “As soon as we go over the rules of the event: bids will be in one-thousand ounce increments – gold, not silver – and all accounts will be settled before the merchandise is delivered.  My own organization has agreed to act as impartial broker,” he added.  “For a slight fee, we are facilitating this entire sale.  Now, we will start the bidding on the left stone – the Rondal Stone, it shall be known as.  We will begin at five thousand sandolars . . . six thousand . . . eight thousand . . .”

Within the space of five heartbeats, Rondal saw the price of his former witchstone climb.  In his mind he kept equating it with costs he could appreciate: how much for a small manor, a large manor, a grand estate, a domain, a barony . . . when it got too far for him to be able to translate, he capitulated to the rhythm of the auction.  Indeed, he got caught up in it enough to bid twice for the stone, once at eleven thousand, and once at seventeen thousand.  When the price climbed above fifty-thousand, he kept his mouth shut.  There was no way he could credibly pretend to represent that much wealth.

But apparently someone could.  As the price climbed above sixty thousand golden sandolars, the bids settled out between the strange woman from the swamps and a veiled wizard dressed in Coastlord garb several degrees richer than Rondal’s own.

Finally, the wizard won out, when the witch from the swamps could not match his price.

“We have a winner!” announced Jenerard, gleefully, as there was a chorus of gasps of frustration followed by polite applause.  “The attendants will meet with you in the other chamber, my lord, to arrange payment details.  Now, for our second and slightly larger prize . . . shall we skip the preliminaries and begin at twenty thousand sandolars?”

The bidding escalated almost as quickly as the first time, but the players were far more careful and deliberate in how much and how they bid, now that the main prize was in play.  Five times Rondal bid on Tyndal’s old stone, but he was swiftly outbid each time.  When the tally climbed to match the first stone, and kept climbing, Rondal kept quiet and watched who was bidding, and how much.

Once again, the swamp witch was aggressive, but this time she was being countered by both the Censorate and the representative of the Lord of Storms, who seemed unconcerned by the price as it rose.

But then a familiar voice cut through the auctioneer’s patter.

“One hundred thousand gold sandolars!” announced Rellin Pratt, with especial delight.

Every head turned to face the man, once again.  Lord Jenerard looked at him skeptically, as if he was a boy pretending to be a man amongst his elders.

“Lord Pratt, is it my understanding you have secured sufficient funds to purchase this stone?” he asked.  “It was just weeks ago that there was a price on your own head, for what was done at Galvina!”

“That was the apprentices, not me – I think that’s clear now,” Pratt answered, angrily.  “And my fortunes have changed like the tides since then.  I had a particularly profitable summer raiding,” the young shadowmage preened, handing the leader of the Brotherhood of the Rat a scroll of parchment.  “Here is my galleon’s manifest, including a list of the prisoners I took at sea.  If one totals the estimated ransoms, I think you will find that I likely have far more than the stated price.”

Jenerard continued to look skeptical as he opened the parchment, but as he read down the list his eyes grew wide.  The head Rat looked up at the pirate.

“This is authentic?” His face was pale under the stubble of his cheeks.

“My word as a Brother,” Pratt assured.  “Note the seal from Seabrother Afilat attesting to the truth of the matter.  They are in my keep, even now, awaiting disposition.  That’s why I returned ahead of the rest of the fleet,” he explained.

Jenerard looked troubled, and his chin was quivering, now.  “Lord Pratt has secured the winning bid,” he pronounced, though it appeared to pain him to do so.  “Thank you, my lords and ladies,” he continued, quickly, “we appreciate your attendance and hope you will consider participating in our future auctions . . . some of which might prove even more interesting than this one.”

“Give me my stone,” demanded Pratt, resolutely holding out his palm.

“Not until the debt is settled,” insisted Jenerard, in a low voice.  “When the . . . when you have gold in hand to pay, you get the loot.  You know the rules!”

“You know the value of my cargo!” Pratt exploded.  “Give me what is mine and you can have the lot!”

“When gold is in hand, then you get the loot!” Jenerard repeated, with exaggerated care.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the senior Censor.  “What does the lad have, a golden prick in his pants?  Why does he get shown such preference?  I smell duplicity!”

“It is unfair of you to allow us all to come all this way, merely to award the stone to one of your own, Jenerard!” accused the swamp witch, angrily, her arms crossed judgmentally under her bosom.

“Your customers appear to be unhappy, my lord,” observed Lord Whiskers to the Spider.

“They will be content,” assured the slender man.  “If they are not, then they will be dealt with.”

“Orril Pratt’s nephew just bought a witchstone?” asked one Sea Lord mage, ruefully, as the crowd of disappointed losers began to break up.  “The bloody world’s about to come apart, then!”

Rellin ignored the taunt, still staring at Jenerard, who was not wavering.  Then Rondal watched as the Spider appeared at his colleague’s elbow.

“Until the debt is settled, Pratt, we keep the stones in trust,” he insisted with a grave voice.  “No sooner.  Find yourself a buyer, Lord Pratt.  Bring us the coin.  Then you’ll get your stone.”

“And the box,” Pratt was quick to remind him.

“Yes, and your pretty box, too,” the Spider said, indulgently.

“And where shall you keep it?” the young pirate asked, suspiciously.

“In the Vault, where your gold will sit, when it is safely delivered,” pronounced Jenerard, gaining confidence.  “If you can make good on your promise and actually turn this ransom, that is,” he added, darkly.  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, you young fool?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

“I did what all great mariners do,” he said, defiantly.  “I took what I wished on the open seas, as the Storm Father bids!”

“And taken us to the brink of war as a result!” Jenerard said, darkly.

What the hells are they talking about? asked Tyndal, impatiently.

It sounds like Rellin caught himself a couple of fat Remeran merchants, guessed Rondal.  At least four or five, to be able to come up with that kind of coin in ransoms.

I wonder if they’d pay half that much for a rescue? Tyndal speculated.

“My lords,” Rondal said, interrupting the conversation, “is it my understanding that this man does not have sufficient coin?  If that is the case, I demand you re-open bidding at once!”  Being so close to Pratt and not driving a knife into his throat was a personal victory, he decided.

“I’m afraid that is not how it works, Lord Birchroot,” the Spider said, moving between Jenerard and Rondal.  “Lord Pratt and Lord Chursa will be permitted precisely two moons to raise the balance of their bids.  Until that time, they are assumed the owners, and the Brotherhood is merely protecting the merchandise.”

“What about our gold?” demanded Iyugi, suddenly.

“We will have it for you shortly,” agreed Jenerard, tiredly.

“From what I figure, you owe us about one hundred twenty-eight thousand ounces of gold,” Gareth insisted, pointing to his palm.  “And ‘shortly’ doesn’t do us much good when those two maniacs are coming for us!”

“You are quite safe here, Lord Gareth,” the Spider said, his voice thick with the promise of violence.  “They are hundreds of miles away, by all accounts.  You are on an island fortress surrounded by warriors.  In a few days you will depart with all—”

“You don’t understand!” Gareth said, interrupting his host rudely, “we don’t have a few days!  In a few days they will be here!  You don’t know them like I do,” he said, warningly.  “They’ll tear this fortress apart, looking for their stones!  And anyone they think is hiding them!”

“The stones are already on their way to our most secure vaults, my lords,” Jenerard said, dismissively.  “I’m certain we can arrange for a quick transfer of funds, say through the temple of your choice—”

“Screw a bloody temple!” Gareth wailed.  “I don’t want a letter of credit!  I want what was promised, my gold!”

“We are reasonable men,” Iyugi said, looking at the two head Rats sorrowfully.  “If you cannot pay us what we are owed by tomorrow, dawn, we will take back our stones and find another buyer.”

“And don’t think we couldn’t,” added Gareth, warningly.  Of course the warning did little good, coming from the fragile-looking man.  “If we’ve kept ahead of Tyndal and Rondal, we can sure as three hells take back those stones!”

“My lords!” Jenerard said, raising his voice.  “There is no need for this acrimony!  The Brotherhood made a pledge, and we will keep that pledge.  Excuse me a moment and allow me to sort out a few details.”

Why is he fretting so much, all of a sudden? Tyndal asked.

Probably because there’s no way the Brotherhood has that kind of cash on hand, at least not here.  It would have to come from that impossible-to-rob vault of theirs.

Atopol did say that they restricted how much coin could come out of the vault at any one time, agreed Rondal.  While he was thinking to his friend, he watched as Jenerard approached Lord Whiskers, who was feeding scraps from the buffet table to his lizard.  While the short man with the bushy mustache looked annoyed, he finally relented, though it was clear he wasn’t pleased about it.

“There,” Jenerard pronounced, as he rejoined Gareth and Iyugi.  “I’ve arranged for your coin to be delivered to you by noon, tomorrow, at the inn you reserved in Vaxel.  There will also be a sloop at your disposal at the docks.  Please take advantage of it and leave Alshar behind, if you so fear these knights.”

“They aren’t just knights,” Gareth explained, sulkily.  “They’re . . . they’re like demons.  They’re probably destroying every one of your installations as the go, aren’t they?  Slaughtering dozens along the way?  Humiliating you over and over again?  They have no concept of moderation,” he continued, “they are reckless bullies and intemperate brawlers.  And they are armed with powerful magic,” he said, heaving a great sigh.  “Even without their stones, they are formidable.  You just have no idea what kind of deviltry they’ve been working on in Sevendor!”

He makes us sound so . . . proficient! Tyndal said.

We do sound pretty vicious, agreed Rondal.  But I hope he doesn’t build it up too much.

“My lords,” came a gruff but familiar voice from behind him.  “If you are unsatisfied with the result of the auction, there may be a way for you to find an alternative path.”

The proposal came from the short figure in the burgundy doublet with curly black hair protruding from collar and cuff.  The goblin, Prikiven, he realized.  Despite himself, he sneered.

“I doubt you have anything to offer me!” Rondal said, dismissing the creature.  “If your sellers are not satisfied, my lord,” he spoke to Jenerard, haughtily, “then I’d like to collect my deposit and be on my way.  This evening has been an entire waste of my time.”

Before Jenerard could soothe an apparently irate customer, one of his aids came in and whispered urgently in his ear.  The jowls of the senior crime lord shook with the news, and all the blood drained from his face.

“What is it?” demanded Rondal.  “Are we under attack?”

“Attack?” asked the swamp witch, Bea Ahiga, alarmed.  The Censors both put their hands on their mageblades.

“No . . . no my lords and ladies . . .” he said, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow.  “I’m afraid that due to . . . an unfortunate and unforeseen complication, your deposits . . . your deposits will be refunded at a later date.”

“This is outrageous!” shouted the head Censor.  “We deposited those funds with you in good faith!”

“And in good faith you shall see it repaid,” Jenerard assured.  “I am terribly sorry, but . . . but . . .”

“Oh, bloody fookin’ hells!” moaned a voice from the back of the crowd.  “It’s been nicked, hasn’t it?  Someone broke in while you were waving your pecker around, and someone’s taken it, right?”

“Someone stole . . . our coin?” asked the pale swamp witch, looking deeply offended.

“This is outrageous!” Rondal repeated, even louder this time.  “What kind of shoddy operation are you running here, Jenerard?” he demanded, putting more pressure on the Rat.

“My lord . . . Birchroot,” the goblin continued, undeterred by his rejection.  “If you will allow me to explain . . . wait . . .” the gurvan sniffed the air, then his expression changed.  “I’m lousy with faces,” he said, in an amused tone worthy of a courtier.  “I really am.  Especially of humani faces.  But I never forget . . . a scent.  Particularly the scent of someone who spared my life.”

“I . . . have we . . .?” Rondal stumbled.

“Sir Rondal,” the goblin said, bowing low.  “And this must be . . . Sir Tyndal.  Hiding among us, in plain sight.”

There was a gasp amongst the bidders and their retainers, as the two were revealed.  Rondal felt strong hands grab his arms, and someone was tugging his sword away from his belt.  Tyndal’s hood was removed, and he looked around angrily.

“Gods damn your goblin nose!” he spat at Prikiven.  The goblin took it as a compliment, and bowed with all the courtesy of a courtier.

“Tyndal . . . and Rondal?” asked Lord Jenerard, amused and delighted at the unexpected revelation.  “The two who have caused us so much mischief?”

“The Spellmonger’s apprentices!” hissed the swamp queen.

“Journeymen, in our own right,” corrected Rondal, boldly.  He didn’t resist the ungentle hands that pushed him in front of the leaders of the Brotherhood.  “And knights magi of the Estasi Order.  We’re new,” he said, hastily, as he received puzzled looks from around the room.

“What have you done with our gold?” demanded one of the bidders.

Tyndal snorted.  “We care not for gold – we lost our own stake, remember?  Speak to these idiots who kept it ‘safe’ for us, if you wish – they’re to blame.  We want those stones!”

“That is not going to happen,” declared Jenerard, angrily.  “Do you have any idea what you two have done?”

“Provided two witchstones that just netted the Brotherhood over a hundred thousand sandolars?” offered Rondal, helpfully.

“Reduced your operating overhead for several marginally profitable operations?” suggested Tyndal.

“You fools!  You have . . . you have . . .”

“Enough of this,” the Spider said, quietly . . . and Rondal noted how quickly Jenerard deferred to him.  The big Rat was scared of the Spider, he realized.  “You will be put to death slowly, once we take you back to the Mudfort and let the poppy witches go to work on you with flaying leeches and rusty blades,” he promised, studying each of them intently.  “You will reveal how you stole all of that coin, among a great number of other things.”

“What do you want to know?” asked Rondal, boldly.  “We’re feeling incredibly communicative, at the moment.”

“Who are you working for?” demanded Jenerard.

“Well, while we are, at the moment, involved in errantry on behalf of our Order, our mandate actually comes from higher up.  We are acting on the direct orders of the lawful liege of Alshar, Duke Anguin II,” Rondal informed him, evenly.

“Yes,” Tyndal added.  “You are all under arrest.”

That brought a chorus of laughter from the crowd – even the laconic Lord Whiskers smiled.

“The Orphan Duke?” scoffed Jenerard.  “He’s squatting in that miserable hovel in Vorone, surrounded by idiot Wilderlords!”

“As a couple of idiot Wilderlords,” Tyndal said, evenly, “I assure you that His Grace takes an active interest in the southern part of his realm.  Enough to send two of his best agents into the thick of danger without concern.”

“Brave words,” the Spider said, shaking his head.  “But useless.  As you are ‘new’, allow me to explain something to you gallant gentlemen: Anguin holds no sway in the south, and even if he ruled with an iron fist we are not inclined to respect his edicts . . . that’s why we’re criminals,” he said, offering the first smile his lips had chanced all night.  “We disobey the law.”

“Oh, we understand that implicitly,” agreed Tyndal.  “Indeed, that was why His Grace has given us a warrant to destroy every Brotherhood Crew in his realm.  Every last one.  Every . . . last . . . rat.”

The pronouncement fell like a stone in the midst of the room.  Everyone knew how entrenched the Brotherhood was in the society of Enultramar, and how extensive their operations were.  They had existed for centuries with the tacit approval of the court, even serving the interests of Alshar from time to time.  You couldn’t just . . . get rid of the Brotherhood, seemed to be the sentiment.

Yet that was just what Tyndal had declared.

“His Grace finds the death of his mother suspicious,” Rondal continued to explain to the Rats.  “Since you, yourself, were proximate to that assassination, Lord Jenerard, His Grace is highly anxious to question you about it, your relationship to his dame, and the rest of your dealings in court, at his earliest convenience.”

Jenerard scoffed.  “That is not going to happen,” he chuckled.  “You are captured.  You are surrounded.  And soon you will be screaming in pain and begging for death’s embrace.”

Tyndal barked a laugh that undercut the man’s assurance.  “Are you kidding?” he snorted.  “We went to a great deal of trouble – not to mention spending ten thousand ounces of gold – to be in this very place, amongst these very people.  Did you really think that we didn’t anticipate capture?” he taunted.

“Indeed,” Rondal agreed, with satisfaction.  “If Prikiven hadn’t revealed us, we would have found another means to do so.  We had to waste some time, you see.”

“Waste time?” asked the Spider, troubled.  “Why?”

“Until everything was in place.  Which I think it is,” he said, looking at the two big, muscular Rats who were still holding his upper arms.  “You ready, Haystack?”

“Like a destrier in the lists,” he agreed.

“Then I will ask you this, just once, gentlemen, and in all seriousness: lay down your arms and surrender in the name of His Grace, Anguin II, or the consequences will be dire!”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A Battle In Brisomar

Of all of the magi who inhabit the Great Bay, especial consideration should be given before challenging the powers of the witches who inhabit the eastern swamps in Caramas, around the great and murky Lake Koshmar.  The home to nearly a dozen tribes, the witches who have developed their powers in conjunction with the energies of the swamp are notoriously unreliable and untrustworthy, more apt to betray you for their own gain or for some mad purpose they alone understand; when the witches emerge from the swamps, great care should be taken lest you anger them, for they are powerful, if crude in their Art.

Letter from the Third Count of Falas to his son

No one surrendered.  Nor did it appear that they were considering the matter seriously.

With a whispered word, Rondal produced his mageblade in his palm and whirled to slash at the neck of a man on his left.  He obligingly fell, clutching his spurting wound, while the other guard tried to control the mage.  Rondal threw him over his hip in a move he’d learned at Relan Cor, and then dispatched him with a quick thrust of the blade.

Tyndal had likewise manifested his mageblade and was standing over the corpses of his captors, his sword wet with their blood.  The others in the room had quickly backed away from the sudden explosion of violence . . . all but a few.

“Get them!” ordered Jenerard in a scream, and suddenly all was chaos.

Rondal did his best to sort those who were trying to do him harm from those who merely wanted to flee the fray, and he did a reasonable job of avoiding civilian casualties as a result.  The problem was that there were an awful lot of their enemies, all gathered in one place, and that made telling his foes apart complicated.

The two Censors were the first to respond to the call to arms, drawing their own mageblades and moving to attack.  Rondal found himself facing two warmagi in the hated cloaks, each armed with a witchstone and each with years of experience.

This was Tyndal’s fantasy fight, not his, he realized, resenting his partner for no better reason.  He spent a few desperate moments merely defending himself as the relentless Censors bore down on him.

He was barely aware of the duel Tyndal found himself in, with Rellin Pratt, who had volunteered to end his rival.  The young pirate had become enraged at the sight of his old foe and drew his scimitar at once.  Though unaugmented by irionite, he was still a shadowmage, which kept Tyndal on his toes as they dueled.

Rondal wasn’t worried.  Tyndal had practiced his swordplay incessantly since he’d last faced Kaffin of Gyre, as Pratt had styled himself, then.  He was far more prepared for this duel – indeed, he was relishing every stroke, Rondal saw when his partner’s fight crossed his field of vision.

Meanwhile, Rondal was doing his best just to keep from getting killed.  Facing two opponents at once was always tricky, and he didn’t have the advantage of Tyndal’s longer blade.  He would parry one blow and barely have time to dodge the next.  Worse, his foes kept using warmagic augmentations to give themselves quick and unexpected bursts of speed, throwing off the rhythm of the contest.

It was an annoying challenge, but one which Rondal faced with meticulous determination.  As one blade flashed toward his face, he had to be aware of where the other was positioned, and which direction it would likely take to block it.  Several difficult moments made him begin to sweat as he tried to keep the Censors at bay while ensuring no one else snuck up behind him.  The Brotherhood was not known for its chivalrous approach to combat.  And he was unarmored.

What are the Rats doing? he asked Iyugi, mind-to-mind.  The footwizard was standing with his back to the wall of the tower, watching the dueling with interest.  Gareth stood next to him, avoiding being crushed by the number of non-combatants eager to flee the dangerous fight, feigning terror at the sudden appearance of his vengeful pursuers.  The emotion was not inauthentic – Gareth did not have a temperament suited to combat.

Jenerard is watching and ordering more men into the fight, he reported.  The Spider flees.  He has the box, he added.

Then it is time to change the tune to this dance, Rondal suggested.

Those three Rats behind you are about to cut in, Iyugi warned, calmly.  I’ll tell Gareth.

One of the Censors began to hang back, while his fellow pressed an aggressive attack – he’s going to cast a spell, Rondal realized.  The Censorate warmagi might not have the experience with irionite he did, but it didn’t take much to learn how to be very destructive with the stuff.

He tossed his blade from one hand to the other and summoned Bulwark.  As soon as the baculus manifested, he began ordering it to take action.  With the obedience of a well-trained hunting dog it began singling out combatants and dealing with them, magically.

Just to provide a distraction, after he blocked his opponent’s string of blows he responded by using a concussion blast from his blade to knock the man back on his heels . . . and into his comrade, ruining the spell he was preparing.

The boom of the spell and the lack of an opponent allowed him the briefest of moments to glance around the room.  It was now half-empty, as the spectators fled downstairs away from the fight, but quickly filling up with more Rats from below.  Half a dozen rushed in with clubs and swords, ready to throw themselves into the fray . . . yet were hesitant to attack warmagi.  Instead they hung back while the two knights fought, waiting for an opportune moment to use their numbers to alter the course of the battle.

Thankfully, they’d prepared for that contingency.  Gareth managed to pull something out of his belt, whisper a few words . . . and summoned two hat racks.

At least, they looked like free-standing hat racks when they appeared.  But at Gareth’s command they unfolded like elegant insects, each standing on three sturdy weirwood legs shod in iron points, and extending three supple, double-jointed arms from their midsections.  Each arm terminated with a wicked-looking curved steel blade as sharp as a barber’s scalpel, and had jagged bits of iron embedded along its length to both defend and attack with.  As they came to life tiny red magelights formed above them, like single baleful eyes, bathing them in a macabre glow.

“Attack!” Gareth screamed at his constructs, and as he directed them the two magical creations began stabbing at the backs of the surprised Rats, who had little idea and no training about how to defend themselves against animate furniture.

Gareth might be a crappy failure as a warmage, Rondal reflected, but he was a damn good enchanter.

Rellin Pratt apparently saw the change in circumstance out of the corner of his eye, and glared at Tyndal as they fought.

“This was a set-up from the beginning!” he realized, angrily.

“A trap, actually!” he heard Tyndal grunt as he tried another attack at the shadowmage.  “What was the best way to get all of the highest-level Rats in one place?  Give them a piece of cheese that they couldn’t resist!”

“You risked your witchstones for that?” the pirate called, furiously beating back Tyndal’s advance.

“Our old ones, yes,” Tyndal grinned as he tried his best to kill his former classmate.  “We replaced those old things ages ago with the special ones that Minalan got from the Alka Alon at the coronation.  Much more powerful,” he said.  To emphasize his point he lobbed a raw handful of magical energy at the shadowmage from his off hand as he pressed his attack with his blade.  It cascaded off of some defense the shadowmage had in place, but it was a display of power that confirmed his boast.

Rondal had troubles of his own, else he would have joined Tyndal to put their foe down for good.  Jenerard had drawn a blade from one of his fallen guards and was advancing upon him, a grim look in his eye.  The man might be old, a little out of shape, and perhaps out of practice, Rondal realized, but he’d also fought his way through the ranks of the Brotherhood while maintaining his identity as a senior peer.  That meant a pile of bodies as high as a mountain.  The Brotherhood’s Pilot was not without skills, Rondal understood.

From the first cross of their blades, Rondal began to see just how Jenerard’s shape and form hid a gifted swordsman.  The Sea Lord’s scimitar was heavier than his mageblade, and the Rat seemed able to beat his blade out of the air with impunity.  But the heaviness of the blade also reduced his ability to recover, Rondal noted.

Rondal turned instead to Bulwark, and had the rod shoot bursts of light in the Rat’s direction from his right hand while the sword in his left kept him busy.  The ploy served to stall the big man for a moment, but little more.

“Get more men up here!” he called, desperately, as he took a breath and drew his Rat’s Tail from behind his back with his left hand.

“How about a girl?” came a voice Rondal was really not expecting.

Gatina suddenly appeared from where she’d been lurking, Rondal saw, her blade naked in her hand.  She was without disguise, her white hair and lavender eyes in stark contrast to the dark-haired folk in the room.

Jenerard’s eyes narrowed as he turned to his flank to face the new threat.  He made a tentative slash which she parried with precision.  “Salaines!  I should have guessed you shadow-loving roaches would be involved in this!”

“This is your last chance, Lord Jenerard,” demanded Rondal, heaving for breath after his fight.  “Drop your sword and surrender to the Duke, and he may spare your life.”

“We didn’t kill the damn duchess!” he declared, angrily.  “I was going to use her position, not eliminate her!”

“I’m certain His Grace will be eager to hear your entire tale,” he said, as Tyndal and Pratt continued to duel behind them.  “But for now you have lost.”

“There is no way I would lose to mere children!” he spat, and rushed Rondal again.

While he was ready for the sudden advance, he wasn’t nearly as quick as Gatina, the Kitten of Night.  The girl spun into position with acrobatic precision, knocking her oversized opponent’s heavy blade effortlessly out of the way as she stepped under it, her slender sword unerringly thrust into Jenerard’s left shoulder.  He emitted a painful groan as the Rat’s Tail went slack in his hand.

As fast as lightning, the daring little thief reached out a dainty hand, bearing the ring Rondal gave her . . . and Jenerard’s scimitar disappeared as well.

That didn’t stop the leader of the Brotherhood.  With an angry snarl the big man kicked at the girl who was confounding his attempts to stop her with his one good arm.  Instead Gatina used his extended leg as a ladder, stepping on his knee for a split-second . . . but long enough for her to be able to deliver a slashing cut across the man’s face with her blade.

Rondal realized that she could have taken Jenerard’s head, if she’d wished, but she’d wisely shown restraint.  There was still much that he could tell them, Rondal knew.  Having him alive and in captivity would be preferable to having him dead.

Gatina finished her daring move by kicking the Rat in the face, sending him sprawling and screaming.  She landed with the grace of the feline she was named for.

As much as Rondal wanted to admire her artistry, there were more pressing issues at hand.  While the whirling magical constructs held the top of the stairs, preventing additional reinforcements, there were still a fair number of Rats running around the tower.  True, they were wary of approaching him – and his new ally – but neither did they look as if they were ready to allow them to escape.

There was one spectator who neither fled in terror nor seemed angry at the fighting.  The tall gaunt man stood alone amongst the chaos, observing with interest.

“My lord?” Rondal asked, his blade half-raised.  “Are you attempting to surrender?”

“Prikiven told me that this would be amusing and instructive,” the gaunt man said in a deep, unearthly voice.  “I see the little fool was not mistaken, for once.”

“As pleased as I am to have entertained you, my lord, I am perplexed at your demeanor.  You neither run nor fight, but merely observe.”

“Why would I do either, when I can watch animals fight over trinkets?” the gaunt man snorted.  Rondal noted that some spell that concealed his face was falling away, revealing a malefic glow from his eyes.  “

There were others watching, too, he saw . . . including Lord Whiskers, who had drawn his thin blade but had not attacked.  The angry-looking lizard on his shoulder hissed defiantly enough so that none approached him. But the gaunt man in the long dark robe seemed apart from it all.

“Your perspective intrigues me,” Rondal said, sending a guard to sleep with a flick of his mageblade.  “May I ask who you represent, my lord?”

“I am Ocajon, Herald of Korbal,” he revealed, a sneer in his voice.  “More than a thousand years ago I walked this vale before it was blemished with the vermin of your race.  I look forward to the day where it is again unsullied.”

“You are the lackey of Korbal the Demon God?” asked Rondal, as the hair on his arms stood on end.

“Peace,” the creature said, revealing its tattooed flesh as it removed its cowl.  “I am not here to fight – there are others better suited than that.  I come merely to observe, and prepare the way.”

“And for what are you preparing, Ocajon, Herald of Korbal?” Rondal asked, warily.

“The extinction of your race, after its enslavement,” Ocajon informed him, as the battle whirled around them.  Gatina was dueling three guards at once now, while Tyndal was lobbing bolts at Rellin as he chased the pirate lord around the tower.  None of it seemed to affect Ocajon.  “You have provided a delightful laboratory in this once-pristine valley with which to experiment,” he said, as if he was complimenting Rondal on his gardens.  “Soon Korbal will rule it all, once again, from Olum Seheri.”

“Alshar has a ruler,” Rondal said, raising his blade.  “His name is Anguin, Duke by right over all Alshar, from the Bay to the Wilderlands!”

“Fools!” sneered Ocajon contemptuously.  “You can no more claim the land you’ve infested than the insects in the bark of a tree could claim its ownership!  You are a weak and pathetic race, whose best value lies in your servitude and your conquest.  Let the gurvani have their hills . . . the Enshadowed will restore this valley to its glory over the bones of all its humani!”

“Then you have yet to learn about the strength of my race, Ocajon,” Rondal said, boldly, though he could feel his knees weaken in the face of the creature’s obvious power.

“I live in a cloak of your disgusting flesh,” the creature retorted, opening his cloak and displaying flesh that was clearly dead underneath, animated by some dark arcane force.  “I devoured my host’s one disgusting bite at a time.  I know things about your loathsome species you cannot begin to imagine!”

“Then you understand that we aren’t inclined to face extinction without a fight!” Rondal shot back, narrowly dodging a blow meant for his girlfriend.  Gatina ducked under it and drove Kitten’s Paws up through the man’s chin and into his brain, before whirling and using her twitching foe to block another attack.

“Whether you fight or not is meaningless,” dismissed Ocajon.  “You could even slay this body, and I would be returned to consciousness on the morrow in one better suited.  Fight, or not, as you wish.  The outcome will be the same.”

“Then why in six hells did you come here tonight?” Rondal demanded.

“To see if what Prikiven said about your inane squabblings are true, and it is.  You brawl over toys like drunken Tal Alon over roots.  You will present little challenge to conquest.  That is what I shall report to my Master at Olum Seheri.”

“Best you be on your way, then,” Rondal said, thrusting the air meaningfully in his direction.  “I would hate to tarry such an important errand.”

“Fool,” spat Ocajon . . . who faded out of existence.  He’d taken the Alkan Ways, Rondal realized.  The Enshadowed were Alka Alon, after all – even in their human bodies they would have knowledge of how to use their ancient method of magical transport.

Rondal was just as glad that he was gone.  Gatina was taking out the tower’s guards as quickly as they struggled past Gareth’s angry coat racks, while Tyndal fought his protracted duel with Pratt.  A few stragglers remained to see the result of the contest, but almost all of the bidders had fled.

Except for Iyugi, Rondal saw.  The swarthy footwizard had taken the opportunity to speak a few words to the man, and after a brief exchange Whiskers nodded, and whatever business they’d had was concluded.

We’re ready, now, Iyugi reported to Rondal, mind-to-mind.

What was all that about? Rondal replied, as he readied another spell.  Gatina was watching his back like a ferocious predator, keeping the Rats out of reach as Jenerard screamed in pain on the floor in front of her.

We had a sale, here, Iyugi reminded him.  That sale was completed, and the details were set before the fight broke out.  I was merely ensuring that the terms of the deal were set with a responsible party before we left.

What do you mean? Rondal asked, confused.

We are owed a hundred and sixty thousand ounces of gold, minus their commission, for the completed sale of the witchstones, he pointed out, as Rondal selected the targets for a spell with Bulwark’s eager assistance.  I wanted to make certain we were paid, as agreed.  As Lord Whiskers backed the guarantee of funds with the Brotherhood, I felt it best to secure the deal before we departed.  I told him where to send it.  A friend of mine in Vaxel will accept it, for now, until we are ready to collect it.

The Iris has that much coin laying around? Rondal asked, suspiciously.

They do not seem as obsessed with security as the Brotherhood, Iyugi explained.  That is one reason they look down upon the Rats.  In my experience, one may depend more on the word of an Irisman than the solemn vow of a lord.

As a lord, I should resent that, Rondal chuckled, as he fixed the last target in the room.   But I trust your judgement.  They did get away with the stones, he admitted.  You should be paid for that.

And the Brotherhood will be indebted to the Iris for those funds, the footwizard agreed.  In order to repay them, they will have to dig deeply into their treasury.

All right, Rondal sent back.  I’m ready for the big finish.  Prepare yourselves.

When he activated the spell, a wave of energy emitted from the baculus in his hand, and each target he had specified to Bulwark fell to the floor, instantly asleep.

Except for Rellin Pratt.

To Rondal’s surprise, Pratt resisted the effects of the spell entirely, and continued to fight with Tyndal with the same ferocity with which he began.  There were already two wounds on his cheek and arm, to the one smear of blood behind Tyndal’s ear, but both men seemed heavily invested in the contest.  He would leave them to it, for now – he hated to deprive Tyndal of the fun.

Besides, he had his own business to conduct, in the brief moments he had available.

“Kitten, watch my back,” he instructed Gatina.

“Always, Beloved,” she assured, as she took up a strong but graceful guard position.  Rondal didn’t spare her more than a quick smile before he strode over to the startled-looking Lord Whiskers, keeping warily away from his winged reptile, and gave a short bow.

“My lord, thank you for joining us for this evening’s entertainment,” he said.  “I do hope it has been worth your while.”

Lord Whiskers, when he realized he was not in danger from the wizard, sheathed his rapier.

“It was nicely done,” he admitted.  “I didn’t make you as who you were until the auction was over.  My oversight.  Someone just wasn’t paying close attention because they were distracted by the buffet,” he said, staring at his reptilian pet accusingly.  “I assume you planted the stones to begin with?”

“Iyugi and Gareth are loyal retainers of the Spellmonger,” Rondal admitted.  “They volunteered to help the Order in this mission.  We took your advice.  Posing as thieves with such a prize was the easiest way to get within the inner workings of the Brotherhood, and strike them at the top of their organization.”

“I’d say it was a qualified success,” ventured Whiskers.  “I am obligated to enforce my part in this, and will pay out the gold.  Once that happens, then I’m afraid I can’t honor any other claim to those stones,” he said, apologetically.  “These Rats might be clumsy buffoons, but they deal fairly with the Iris.”

“I would expect nothing less, Lord Whiskers,” agreed Rondal.  “And I expect that you will rigorously pursue repayment from the Brotherhood?”

The man’s face split in a wicked smile beneath his mustache.  “You can count on it.  Jenerard pledged some seriously important assets as collateral for this deal.  If they don’t pay within terms, the Iris is going to take a far more active role in the Brotherhood’s business.”

“That is all that we ask, then,” he said, with another bow.  “Duke Anguin’s writ included only the Brotherhood in its scope, not the Iris or its agents.  You are free to go, my lord.”

“How gracious,” Whiskers said, raising his eyebrow.  “I will ensure the gold is paid.  And I count our business done.  Farewell, Sir Rondal.”

With that he gingerly stepped between the angry coat racks still defending the staircase and pushed his way through the Rats who were trying to defeat them.  Strangely, neither construct appeared to notice him.

Rellin Pratt, on the other hand, was keenly aware that nearly all of the support he’d begun with in the room was now on the floor, asleep, wounded, or dead.  He could not disengage with Tyndal without ceding a dangerous advantage, and he could not flee without doing so.  His strokes and parries became more desperate, though his limbs showed no sign of slowing.  Rondal admired the way he managed his swordplay, despite himself.

“Tyndal!” he called out.  “Do you need help?”

“No, he doesn’t!” Pratt screamed, as he backed away from the rest of them toward a window.  “You bastards have interfered for the last time!  You nearly ruined everything!”  His scimitar continued to threaten Tyndal, who was almost toying with the other man’s blade.

As he reached for his belt Rondal figured he would draw his own Rat’s Tail. . . but instead he took a ball of finely-linked chain from a pouch and flicked his wrist.  The chain unrolled to the length of at least six feet, and Rondal could tell as it unfurled that there was something magical about it.  At the end of the length was a cluster of nasty-looking hooks and blades.  The pirate began swinging the chain expertly with his left hand while he continued fighting with his right.

In a flash he flicked the chain and it wrapped itself around Tyndal’s mageblade, near the guard of the weapon.  It only took a tug to pull Tyndal off balance, and for a horrified moment Rondal could see the opening that Pratt would use to cleave his partner’s head from his shoulders with his scimitar.  And there was no time and too much distance for him to intervene.

But Tyndal was not undefended.  As he stumbled he also summoned his own baculus, Grapple, as he let go of his blade entirely, which threw Pratt off-balance, too.  He swiftly used the butt of the rod to steady himself and keep from falling, and then whirled quickly to face his foe with it in his hands.

For Pratt’s part, he had been unprepared for Tyndal to let loose of his sword so quickly, and the blade came slinging back at him, forcing him to dodge out of the way and loose his own balance.  As his hand went to the floor automatically, he turned the fall into a roll, and quickly found himself ten feet from his opponent, near one of the wide windows installed in the keep after its defensive nature was diminished.

“You will not keep me from my stone!” he declared, hoarsely, before he threw himself out of the window and into the darkness.

“Well, that was dramatic,” Tyndal said, as they all ran to the window to see what had befallen the pirate.  As he feared, there was no sign of him on the rocks below.  “Does he always have to do that sort of thing?  It’s annoying!”

“Shadowmage,” Rondal shrugged.  “They’re a little annoying just for practicing shadowmagic.”

“Hey!” Kitten objected, behind him, as she cleaned off Paws.

Rondal ignored her.  “Don’t worry about him,” he sighed.  “He wasn’t our main target.  And now he’s in way, way over his head with the Brotherhood.  He has to come up with that coin or they’ll come after his head.”

“What was that about his cargo?” asked Tyndal, searching the area.  “Didn’t he say he had prisoners worth that much?  Ah!” he said, finding the parchment in Jenerard’s belt.

“What about Jenerard?” Iyugi asked, glancing to where he’d left the Rat slumped after a sudden but non-lethal arcane attack from behind.  “Our host was quite polite, but leaving him alive seems a poor choice of strategy.”

“Are you kidding?” Gareth snorted.  “He’s absolutely screwed!  He’s into the Iris for a huge amount, and he has to pay that.  His big night was a big disaster, he has ensured the repayment of all of their stolen deposits – also borrowed from the Iris – and half of his allies are going to think twice before attending another one of his parties after news of this gets out.  He’s lost a dozen profitable businesses along the river, and now he has to show up to the rebel council with a face full of wounds with nothing to show.  No, I wouldn’t want to take the man out of a position he’s worked so hard to get into!”

“We would be doing him a favor by killing him,” Tyndal admitted, grudgingly, as he unfurled the paper.  “I wonder what the rest of the Rat Council will do when they find out about this disaster.”

“You can count on a long and thorough review process,” Iyugi grinned, displaying far more teeth than normal people did.

“Conversely,” Tyndal said, his face troubled, “they’ll hail him as a hero and invite him to join the council.  Look at this manifest!” he demanded, thrusting the paper in front of Rondal’s nose.

He read the scrawled manifest reluctantly, at first, until he got to the fateful name.  Then all of the blood drained out of his face.  He hurriedly stashed the parchment into a hoxter, trying to forget, for the moment, what it said.  He was not here to deal with that.  Nor did he have the resources to.  The most he could do was bring it to the attention of the proper people.

“All right,” Rondal sighed, as he watched the Rats try to use a chair against the angry hat racks facing them, without much success.  “Eventually they’re going to get up here.  Let’s collect our things and head back to the Rat Trap.  I, for one, feel the need for a drink after this busy night.”

“And a rest before we finish the mission,” Tyndal agreed, stretching his back muscles after his extended sword fight.  He picked up the mageblade and as an afterthought grabbed the chain that had robbed him of it.  “We have a day or so.  What say we spend it spending some of our loot in Sevendor’s market?”

As extravagant as it sounded, Rondal knew that they had a day or so before they could continue the plan to its conclusion. He glanced at Gatina – she’d never been to Sevendor, he realized.  She’d never even been transported through the Ways before.  He looked forward to showing her the majestic sights of the mageland he called home.

“Yeah, let’s go,” he said, tiredly.  “I need sleep, food, and yes, a drink.”

“There is one thing that will disturb you, Rondal,” Iyugi said, seriously.  “Before the goblin scurried away in the fight, he was particularly interested in all who wanted to bid on the witchstones.”

“It seems like a reasonable piece of intelligence,” Rondal agreed.

“It was why he sought them out that was disturbing,” the footwizard said, grimly.  “He was particularly interested in those parties who he didn’t feel had sufficient funds to successfully compete . . . as if he had an alternative for them.”

“An . . . alternative?” Tyndal asked, warily.

“Yes.  I make my trade on discovering secrets, my friends; I can no more help learning them than I can breathe.  This gurvan has a secret: I believe he is planning on arming those who desire them with witchstones.  Witchstones from the trove of Sheruel the Dead God, and therefore bathed in the taint of his malevolence.”

“Ishi’s tits!” Tyndal burst out.  “He can’t do that!”

“He will,” Iyugi insisted.  “He plans it out already, and the pieces are in position, in his mind.  This sale merely allowed him to survey the market of those he wished to bargain with, so it served his purpose.”

“Can you imagine what some of those people would do with those stones?” asked Gareth, shaking his head.  “Censors, swamp witches, assassins, shadowmagi—”

“Hey!” repeated Gatina, upset.

“It would be a disaster,” agreed Rondal, ignoring the Kitten of Night’s objections.  “But now is not the time to discuss it.  Are we ready?”

“Atopol is in the boat, off the coast,” reported Gatina, still irritated by Gareth’s slight.  “He did an outstanding job of eliminating the sentries and picking up the loot.  He’ll be at the pick-up point in a few hours.”

“Then let’s head back to Sevendor,” Rondal said, preparing the songspell as the other magi did likewise.  “A pillow is starting to sound even more alluring than a bottle.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Grand Heist

The Brotherhood of the Rat stood as a mere nuisance for many years, their fortunes waxing and waning with those of the rest of the Great Bay; yet after the arrival of the Narasi and the settlement of the Great Vale the Brotherhood’s fortunes took a decided turn for the better, due to their involvement with the slave trade.  As villeins and peasants were lured north toward lucrative and bountiful lands, the orchards and fields of the south still required labor, which the Sea Lords supplied from their seasonal raids.

While the practice was official condemned and prescribed by edict of the Counts of Falas (now, the Dukes of Alshar), the dire necessity for labor provided a market for these slaves that the Brotherhood took a large hand in supplying.  Every ship full of captives who made port on the Bay eventually sold their hapless cargo to their agents, who in turn re-sold them to the plantations and estates.  Only when the Sea Dukes began to take an active interest in foreign trade was the government pressured to stop the trade.  Unfortunately, prescription did not end the practice, but instead provided more incentive for profit for those who risked the relatively small penalties.  But for over two hundred years every slave sold in the market profited the Brotherhood, who invested that blood coin in other insidious industries, much to the despair of the Dukes.

A Secret History of Alshar

Rondal was relieved to awaken in his own bed, in his own house, in his own land the next morning.  The stress and anxiety of planning and executing this mission had taken a larger toll on him than he realized.

He had slain more men in battle on his way down the river than he ever had on the battlefield, and many of those faces were starting to haunt him.  Slaying non-humans was distasteful, but easier for his mind to hold.  Killing his fellow men always made Rondal feel sorrowful, and those melancholy thoughts were prone to strike in the mornings more than other times.

The Rat Trap was bulging with guests, he realized.  Iyugi was already awake, with a hot kettle and a smoldering pipe in front of the fire, when Rondal went downstairs.  He nodded to the young mage without speaking, content to stare at the fire.

Gatina was already awake, he was surprised to see.  He was even more surprised that she had made him breakfast.

“You barely had anything in the house,” the white-haired girl accused him, as she stirred a pot of porridge on the table.  “What do mage knights live on?  Glory?”

“Wine, spirits, and cheap inn food,” Gareth replied before Rondal could come up with a witty response.  “Their habits are deplorable, their arrogance unbounded.  But sometimes an association with them can bring fortune.  I woke up this morning and realized I was rich,” he admitted, his eyes a bit glassy.

“And hungover,” Rondal chided, throwing the wizard an apple from the table.

“Hungover and rich,” Gareth corrected, taking a seat next to the fire.  “Gods, I forgot how chill the autumn is in the Riverlands after being in Enultramar a few weeks!”

“It is not yet autumn,” Iyugi corrected, around his long pipe.  “We are a month shy of the equinox.”

“It’s still too damn cold,” Atopol said, from a bundle of blankets on a tick on the floor.  Rondal hadn’t noticed him – one of the traits of a good shadowmage, he was starting to realize.  “How do you people contend with winter, when it gets this cold in summer?”

Tyndal had gone to the Waypoint Iyugi planted with his friend in Vaxel – who turned out to be a merchant captain running a fleet of four small ships across the Great Bay – and brought him and the stolen gold he’d rowed away from Brisomar back with them.  It was stacked in a triumphant pile in the upper chamber, now.

“They drink!” Gareth declared.  “And bundle up into shapeless blobs.  I much preferred the . . . less restrictive clothing of the folk of Enultramar,” he said, thoughtfully.

“The maidens, at least,” Iyugi grunted.  “He spent half the time at the inn watching the maidens bathing in the surf.”

Gareth didn’t seem bothered by the accusation.  “I’m rich now,” he countered.  “I can do that.”

“Your friend seems obsessed with wealth,” Gatina whispered to Rondal as she served him a bowl of porridge.

“There’s a girl involved,” Rondal confided.  That seemed to answer all of Gatina’s remaining questions.

“So you three live . . . here?” she asked, looking around.  “I drank too much too quickly last night to appreciate it.  It’s . . . unusual.”

“It’s kind of a horrific combination of wizardly construction, Karshak moonlighting, and whatever materials we could find lying around,” Gareth assessed, looking around at the hall he had overseen as it was built.  “It’s ugly as a bucktoothed maiden aunt, but it’s functional.”

“It stands out,” Rondal said, discouraged.  “You’ll see.  There are a lot of pretty buildings in Sevendor.  The Rat Trap is not one of them.  We actually have a small castle too – the Order of Estasia does,” he corrected.  “It’s about a day’s ride from here . . . although I suppose we should install a Waystone there, too.  It’s pretty.  Desolate, but pretty.”

“I look forward to seeing all of the things that make your home special,” Gatina assured him with a kiss on his brow.

“There’s actually a lot to see, here,” Gareth said, around bites of apple.  “The snowstone mountain and Sevendor Castle, of course – as well as the construction on the new keep inside the mountain – the spire of Laesgethal, the Everfire in the temple of Briga . . . and the mill pond has a permanent water elemental Minalan put there,” he added, with a pleased gleam in his eye.

“There are many wonders in Sevendor,” conceded Iyugi, as he sent up a huge cloud of smoke.  “The marketplace is filled with them.  Magi hawk wands and stones like chickens and geese.”

“That would be something to see,” agreed Atopol, sleepily, as he rose.  His hair was a tangled mess.  “From what I can tell, we have about . . . eight hours to kill before we have to go back to work.  What do you do for fun in Sevendor?  For eight hours?”

“Let’s find out,” Rondal decided, gazing at Gatina.  “Someone wake up Haystack,” he directed.  “He’ll be upset if we go out without him.”

Iyugi elected to visit the Spellmonger, instead of joining his friends.

“I’m worried about him,” he confided to Rondal, as they left the Rat Trap and headed into town.  “I’ve never seen him this despondent.  It’s been a steady decline, but losing his wife . . .”

“She’s not lost,” Rondal said, firmly.  “She’s just . . . wandering,” he said, guiltily.  The older man looked at him skeptically, but did not argue.

“What it has done to him is troubling.  I am worried.  I want to see if I can help, or at least lend my assistance, if I can.”

As he took his leave, Rondal considered the odd-looking footwizard – who was now wealthy and powerful – and wondered why he affected poverty and destitution so well.  Then he felt Gatina’s hand curl around his arm, and he forgot all about the man.

“So where shall we go first?” she asked, brightly.  She had elected not to don a wig or employ other devices to conceal her strange appearance, for which Rondal was glad.  Sevendor, of all places, where the Tal Alon and Karshak walked the streets daily and at any moment a lordly, stately Alka Alon (or even that rascal, Onranion) might grace you by walking past, was a safe place for mere white hair and beautiful purple eyes.  Gatina’s natural look was striking, here in the mageland, but it was not particularly noteworthy.

Tyndal, Gareth, and Atopol followed behind, joking as the two Sevendori pointed out the sights to the shadowmage: the graceful spire of the Alka Alon embassy, the majestic white mountain, the shining white castle.  As they passed through the market Rondal was eager to visit old friends among the merchants and introduce Gatina to some of the wonders they hawked.

By the time they visited the incredible Everfire in the temple of Briga, it was near luncheon.  Tyndal suggested they retire to The Alembic for a fine meal and a bottle of wine, and Rondal could think of nothing better.

It was odd . . . he had been so fearful of Gatina’s aggressive courtship that he had scarcely had time to appreciate her as a girl.  Their short time together in the cottage in the Coastlands had been pleasant and sweet, but he found strolling through a town he’d seen built from scratch, past magical fountains and shops selling spellbooks with her on his arm pleased him enormously.  He saw the way that others looked at them – he and his Sevendori mates were well known in town, of course, but the looks that he got with Gatina on his arm made him stand straighter.

He felt more mature, in the company of a woman, he realized . . . and it wasn’t a bad feeling.  Though he was far from seriously considering marriage, if he went through with it there were worse women than the Kitten of Night to which to bind his fortunes.

She was sweet, he realized, when she wasn’t working.  She had a keen wit and was masterful at observation, eager to experience the exotic nature of the town yet smart enough to ask intelligent questions about the people and the crafts.

“It’s wonderful!” she declared, when Tyndal asked how she liked the place.  “It’s like a town built just for magi!”

“That’s because it was,” Tyndal assured her.  “And largely by magi.  All the timber you see in this place was magically cut and cured.  A spell I came up with myself,” he added, proudly.

“I prefer stone,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “Someday I’ll show you the bridge I built as an apprentice.  By myself,” he added.

“Why is everyone so somber, though?” Atopol asked, as the barman brought them drinks and bread.

“It was the Magewar with Greenflower,” Rondal answered, quietly.  “When it was discovered that Baroness Isily and her husband were plotting against the Spellmonger – and the Kingdom – with the gurvani and their allies, it was Baroness Alya who lead the assault.”

“Is she a mage?” asked Atopol, confused.

“No,” Tyndal answered.  “She’s mundane.  But a brave lady, and one who would not endure her husband being ill-served.  She gathered the warmagi of the Arcane Orders and coordinated the assault, poor Master Min was so distraught.  And when Isily attacked her in the fight . . .”

“She wasn’t defenseless, even then,” Rondal nodded, solemnly.  “We were there.  She drew a dagger and struck at her . . . and when Isily turned it, she used the pommel to smash her witchstone.”

“The blast killed Isily, in that horrible place.  But it . . . maimed Alya’s mind,” Tyndal reported, his voice breaking.  “She’s in an abbey, not too far from here, being tended by the merciful sisters.”

“That’s terrible!” Gatina said, looking around.  “Was she well-loved?”

“By all,” Gareth assured, looking depressed himself.  “And Minalan hasn’t been the same, since.  His melancholy seems to infect everything.  Not even his family can seem to reach him,” he added, sadly.

Just then a shadow crossed over them, and the two shadowmagi jerked their heads up.

“What in darkness is that?” Atopol asked as his sister gasped.

“That?  That’s Fateful, I think,” Rondal said, using magesight to see.  “One of Dara’s cast.”

“Cast?  Cast of what?” Atopol asked, his wide.

“It’s a bird!” Gatina declared, shielding her lavender eyes from the sun to see the sight.

“Yeah, that’s one of Lenodara’s giant hawks,” Tyndal said, dismissively.  “She and the Alka Alon started messing around with transgenic enchantments . . . so now we have giant hawks.  She rides them – she and a bunch of kids and Tal she’s recruited.”

“Rides them?” Gatina asked, her eyes filled with wonder.  “And flies?”

“Not just flies, but flies them into battle,” Gareth said.  “She and the Skyriders have gone to war a few times, now.  It is dangerous work, but having someone in the air really does help out, sometimes.”

“I . . . I had no idea such a thing was even possible!” she said, shaking her head in wonder.

“Well, I’ll introduce you to Dara, and maybe she can take you up,” proposed Rondal.  “Probably after we’re done with this mission.  Faithful, there, is the largest of her brood.  He’s big enough to carry a full-grown man.  Most of them are smaller, and the Skyriders have to be light to go aloft with them.  But once in the air they are incredibly fast and agile.  They can fly behind enemy lines and drop enchantments, scout from the air, and even attack with those flying javelins of theirs.”

“Dara’s pretty proud of them,” agreed Gareth.  “She’s raised two clutches, now, and she has two full squadrons of four birds each.  Some have even escaped into the wild.  And you won’t find too many stray goats or roe deer in the area,” he chuckled to himself.

“Just one of the wonders of the mageland,” sighed Rondal, feeling good about Gatina’s reaction.  He’d grown used to the strangeness of Sevendor, but he was seeing it, in a way, for the first time through her eyes.  “Like the Enchanted Forests.  Those are Master Olmeg’s pet projects, and the one leading into the domain is designed defensively.”

“Oh, it would be six kinds of hells to attack through,” agreed Tyndal.  “Every tree is a trap, ever bush a secret.”

“It’s a lovely land,” Atopol sighed.  “Not nearly as big as Enultramar, of course, but charming.  And enchanting.”

“There’s still more to see,” Rondal urged, as they were finishing the meal.  “How about we walk up to the pond and make the elemental do tricks for the children?  That’s always entertaining.”

By the time the late afternoon sun turned their sport with the elemental into an excuse for a towel, the five friends walked back to the Rat Trap, feeling good from the brief holiday from their stressful mission.  But there was still work to be done.

“He’s arrived,” Atopol reported, after the group reconvened in the main hall.  “I’m sure of it, now.”

“Then it’s time,” Rondal agreed.  “Armor up, Haystack.”

“You think we’re going to need armor for this?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.

“It makes you look tough,” Rondal dismissed.  “And it might distract him.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” Gareth decided, “I’ll let you finish this.  Not exactly my kind of thing.  But I’ll be here, if you need help,” he added.

“You’ve been great, Gareth, you really have,” Rondal said, shaking the young man’s hand.  “We couldn’t have done it without you.  If Dara doesn’t see your value, she’s an idiot.”

He helped the two warmagi with their armor while the Salaineni siblings prepared themselves.  Rondal was pretty certain that he and Tyndal could finish the job, but Atopol did not want to be left out of the finish, and Gatina was unwilling to let him go into danger without her watching his back.  He found the sentiment endearing, but he could see where it might prove troublesome, someday.

But tonight, he didn’t mind the company.  They were headed into the unknown, into the darkness, and he needed someone who could see in the dark watching out for him.

“All right,” Tyndal said, strapping his helmet on and drawing his blade.  “I’m ready.”

“As are we,” Gatina agreed, drawing her own slender blade and saluting.  Atopol had a warwand in hand, borrowed from Tyndal, and his dark cloak was filled with weapons of various subtle and insidious sorts, Rondal knew.  The elder sibling gave him a terse nod, as he prepared himself mentally.

“Do we have a good idea of where we are going?” he asked, anxiously.  Atopol was still getting used to using the Ways.

“Not a bit,” admitted Rondal, confidently.  “But the spell won’t let us come out in the middle of a wall, or anything dire like that.”

“A pond full of poisonous snakes, caiman and broken glass, sure,” added Tyndal.  “I’ve got it . . . I’ll take Cat through first, you follow with Kitten.”  Rondal watched as his partner activated the spell and vanished, with Atopol at his side.

“Let’s give them a moment to clear the area,” Rondal said, as Gatina quickly leaned in for a surprise kiss.

“For luck,” she added, shyly.  “I couldn’t do that with my brother around.”

“Why?” Rondal asked, confused.  “I thought he liked me!”

“He liked you more before I liked you so much,” she reasoned.  “He’s a great thief and a wonderful brother . . . but he’s still a brother.”

“Oh . . . all right,” Rondal said, not understanding what she was talking about in the slightest.  To forestall any more confusion, he quickly summoned the songspell from his irionite marble and took them through the Ways.

When they had constructed the snowstone box in which the “stolen” irionite was contained, they had purposefully made it ornate.  Among the gems embedded into the lid was a Waystone from Minalan’s collection.  Once the Spider had secured the box within the treasury, past all of the traps, locks, and guards that kept the Rat’s gold safe, using the Ways to enter the main treasury was elementary.  The core of the plan involved someone taking the box here.  Everything else was decoration and misdirection.

The nausea was getting better, he had to admit, though Gatina was looking poorly when they arrived.  They were in near darkness, lit only by a tiny magelight Tyndal had thrown above them.

“Welcome to the treasury of the Brotherhood of the Rat,” Atopol said, dramatically.  Tyndal helpfully increased the intensity and height of his magelight until the entire chamber was illuminated . . . and sparkling.  As Rondal looked around he saw cask and coffer stuffed with silver and gold, lining the chamber on all sides, stacked to the height of a man.

The shelf they faced contained not merely the witchstones in their box, but a multitude of other treasures.  Some were clearly valuable, like the great golden anchor on the bottom shelf, or the pile of gilded daggers and swords stacked like tomato stakes on the shelf above.  Others were harder to determine a worth for.  Rondal recognized art and craftsmanship from several different lands represented on the shelf, and the top shelf was filled with tekka – ancient human devices whose original purpose was lost, but for which there was a booming collectors market.

“This place . . . this is amazing!” Rondal said, as he looked around.

“And there are three more chambers like this one,” Tyndal reported.  “And every corridor in between is stacked with coin.”

“This represents more than two centuries of criminal profit,” Atopol said, shaking his head in awe.  “Thousands of thugs and petty criminals sending tribute to their masters . . . the proceeds of slaves . . . the sale of poppy gum . . . the profits of piracy . . .”

“All of which appear to pay pretty well,” Tyndal said, appreciatively, as he examined a box of rubies the size of a milk pail.

“Well, don’t forget that the Brotherhood now owes a sizable portion of this trove to the Iris, and the other bidders,” reminded Gatina.  “They plan on paying it out of this.”

“Well, won’t they be disappointed when they try and their cupboard is empty,” Tyndal said, arrogantly, as he took the special wand out of his belt.  Gareth had built it with a massive hoxter pocket.  Tyndal began pointing it at the stacks of gold and pronouncing the command word.  Each time he did, the affected gold slipped effortlessly into the pocket dimension tied to the wand, where it would wait safely – and without mass – until called forth.

It took nearly an hour to remove all of the gold within the four chambers of the great arched vault.  They spared no treasure as too small, stealing every penny they could find, every paltry gem, every pearl.  The volume and weight of the treasure was massive, but then so was the hoxter pocket.  When the last coffer full of silver had been transferred, the four of them wandered around the empty vault, determined not to let a single coin remain.

That was when they were surprised . . . by the Spider.

The man apparently didn’t expect anyone else to be in a secret clandestine vault, so when he turned the corner into the chamber he was more than startled to see Tyndal and Rondal scrying the walls, each with a baculus in their hands.

The slender crime lord didn’t hesitate to draw a dagger – no mere shiv, this was, but a foot-long spike of sharpened steel meant for disemboweling.

“Who the hells are you?” the Spider demanded.

“Oh,” Tyndal said, turning around as he walked in, a torch in his other hand and a basket over his shoulder.  “Remember us?  We’re robbing the place.  Don’t worry, we’re about done here.”

“It really did take a lot of work,” agreed Rondal, turning to face the Spider.  “There was a lot of treasure to take.”

“You!” the man spat, when he recognized them both.  “You’re the—”

“The knights magi of the Estasi Order,” Tyndal interrupted.  “Who have sworn to bring the Brotherhood of the Rat to its knees in vengeance for slaying our friend.”

“Which we’ve essentially accomplished, tonight,” added Rondal.  “Without any gold, it’s going to be very difficult for you to pay off the Iris,” he observed.

“How do they usually handle collections?” wondered Tyndal, aloud.  “I’m sure they’re willing to be generous.  Lord Whiskers seems like a reasonable man.”

“He is most certainly not!” sputtered the Spider, as he looked around at the empty vault.  “How in nine hells did you get the gold out?” he demanded.  “There’s only one way in here, and you can only bring up as much gold as a man weighs!”

“We don’t like those rules,” Tyndal said, distastefully.

“We changed them,” Rondal agreed.  “That’s what wizards do.  We change the rules.  Where once you were the mightiest criminal enterprise in the west, now you are indebted and beholden to your greatest rival.”

“You . . . you can’t do that!” the Spider said, passionately.  The dagger in his hand began to shake.

“We just did,” Tyndal chuckled.  “How will you explain that to the rest of the council, I wonder?”

“And what will the rebel council do when they find out their criminal henchmen are now taking orders from Merwyn?” speculated Rondal.  “I can’t imagine they’d like that.”

“Oh, gods . . .” the Spider said, shaking uncontrollably now.  “What have you done?”

“We finished our mission,” Tyndal stated, flatly.  “And now we’re going to leave you here to explain how all of the gold disappeared.  Feel free to blame it on us.  I’m certain your fellows in the Brotherhood will believe you.”

“They’ll . . . kill me,” he gasped, sliding to the floor, his eyes wide in panic.  “They’ll assume that I stole it – only five of us can even get down here – and I’m the only one in almost a month!  As soon as they find out, they’ll think . . . they’ll think that I did it!”

“Because no one would ever believe that two buffoons like us,” Tyndal said, indicating himself and Rondal, “would have the intelligence or skills to accomplish such a task.”

“In fact, we had a little help,” he said, summoning Atopol and Gatina with a nod.  Both shadowmagi had faded from sight when the Spider came, preparing to strike if needed.  With the criminal mastermind bawling on the empty floor of his treasury, his dagger at his side, forgotten, there seemed little need.

“Meet the scions of House Salaines, loyal Magelords to Duke Anguin, our sponsor in this endeavor.  Soon House Salaines will be plotting the overthrow of the Duke of Rhemes and his cronies.  Including what remains of the Brotherhood.  Without your treasury to back you up, you’ll hardly be capable of supporting them by beating the common folk down anymore.  Hells, I doubt you’ll be able to pay your own men, after tonight.”

“You can’t leave me here!” the Spider said, alarmed, as the four of them began to make preparations to leave.  “You can’t!  The first time I mention that the treasury is empty, they’ll . . . take me with you!” he demanded.

Rondal snorted.  “Why would we do that?”

“Because I know things!” the Spider insisted, desperately.  “I know things about the Council, and the Rebels, and Count Rhemes . . . I was the bloody spymaster of the Brotherhood, damn it, I know things! Valuable things!  Things you will want to know, if you intend on fighting them!”

“I’m unconvinced,” Tyndal decided.  “You’ll try to put a knife in either of us, the moment you can.”

“And go where?” he asked, sagging in despair.  “You don’t understand – no one steals from the Brotherhood.  Especially not the members of the Council.  The penalty is death.  Eventually,” he added, shuddering.  “Take me with you, I beg of you!  I will serve you as faithfully as any slave!  But without protection, my life is worthless!”

“It’s not worth much with protection,” Rondal sighed.  “All right.  We will take you into service, until you try to betray us . . . and then you will have wished that we’d left you for your brethren.  But we can’t have you struggling while we make our escape.  Tyndal?”

His partner nodded, and then used a stunning wand on the Rat.  He pulled him upright, holding him at the shoulder, and used the Ways back to Sevendor.  Rondal stretched out his perceptions and did likewise with the Cat and the Kitten.  In a moment they were back in the Rat Trap, with a very well-trapped Rat . . . throwing up in the chamberpot he’d left out for the purpose.

“That was one highly successful mission,” Tyndal gloated, as he led the unconscious criminal to a chair and dumped him unceremoniously.  “You watch him – he should be out for at least six hours.  I’m going to find Festaran and bring him back here.”

“Why?” Gareth asked, suspiciously.

“Because otherwise we’ll have to count all the loot, and I am far too lazy for that.”  Sir Festaran’s main magical Talent was the surprisingly useful ability to accurately estimate nearly anything.  While it made him less than an ideal conversationalist, Rondal agreed that he would be able to give them an idea of how much they’d stolen faster than any other way.

“Now that we have it, what are we going to do with it?” asked Atopol, curious.  “That’s more gold than . . . well, than I’ve ever seen,” he confessed.

“As we were agents of His Grace on this mission,” reasoned Rondal, “I think it’s only fair that the majority of it go to his treasury.  After all, this profit was made by undermining his laws.”

“Minus a reasonable fee, of course,” Tyndal added, hurriedly.  “After all, we wouldn’t want our friends in House Salaines to come away with this without some gain.”

“And there’s the matter of our ten thousand ounces of gold,” Gareth reminded them.  “They still owe us that, too!”

“In all fairness, we did steal that from them,” Gatina pointed out.

“That doesn’t mean they still don’t owe it to us,” Gareth said, with a sniff.  “Really, we entrusted it to them in security, and see what happened?  Not even the thieves of Enultramar are safe from the thieves of Enultramar.”

“I cannot argue with that reasoning,” she decided.  “Nor do I find fault with the plan to give the majority to Duke Anguin.”

“From what I’ve heard from Lady Pentandra,” Tyndal agreed, “he can use it.  The duchy is near bankrupt, even though it’s functioning.  Without more coin it will take decades before Anguin is in a position to assail the south.”

“Why assail it?” Atopol asked, curious, as he took a seat on one of the comfortable chairs from Rolone.  “From what my father says, at least a third of the nobles would rise for him, should he appear.”

“Which third?” Rondal asked.  “And what of the other two-thirds?  No, Anguin cannot merely show up at Falas and claim the throne, though that is his right.  He needs a more cautious approach.  And one destined to win more than a third of the people to his banner.”

“Until that time, we can prepare Alshar,” Atopol suggested.  “We have the makings of a cell system, here, and if we continue to expand and recruit those nobles who are already inclined to support Anguin first, we will know who the other two-thirds are – and what must be done to contend with them.”

“Enough strategy and planning for one night!” Tyndal declared.  “The mission is over.  The victors are home, safe.  Why are we not celebrating more raucously?” he complained.  “There are bottles and bottles of wine out there waiting for us, and serving girls’ bums to be pinched!  Come on!” he urged, shrugging off his armor and throwing open the door of the Rat Trap.  “If we cannot bask in the glory of the tale, yet, then let us at least drain a bottle or two in our own honor!”

Rondal smiled wanly at Gatina and she returned it.  “I’d like that,” she agreed.

“I would, too,” Rondal said.  Much to his surprise, he found he was being completely sincere.

Chapter Thirty

Loiko Venaren

Relations between Alshar and Farise have always been tangled; since the first days of the Dukes, when the Narasi came to Alshar, the Imperial officers in charge of Farise refused to acknowledge or honor the overlordship the Narasi Dukes demanded.  While Alshar was too diffuse to resist the Conquest, at the time, Farise enjoyed a smaller harbor and lands, making it a nuisance, not an obstacle to trade between Alshar and the rest of the Five Duchies.

Yet despite being on two different sides, politically, the folk of the Great Bay and the folk of Farise have enjoyed a long common history and a mingling thanks to their proximity by sea.  No doubt the Doge of Farise will soon accept the authority and leadership of the Dukes, yet whether it will fall under Alshar, Castal, or even Remere’s influence is yet to be seen.

Letter from Baron Roladenas to Duke Ostin of Vore

Minalan the Spellmonger, Baron of Sevendor, friend to the Alka Alon, and Master of Magic in Castalshar was one of the last people Rondal expected to find knocking on his door the next morning was… but there he was.

They’d returned their friends to Falas, after celebrating, vowing to return soon with their share of the gold.  The Spider they secured in Brestal Tower, under the watchful eye of the Sevendori guards who trusted that Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal knew what they were doing when they arrived with a prisoner and instructions that he speak to no one.  He expected that it was a messenger from the captain of the tower asking for more explanation.  But when Rondal opened the door to the Rat Trap and found his old master there, he didn’t quite know what to say.

“Good morning!” Minalan began, walking in without an invitation.  “Is Tyndal around, too?”

“And Gareth,” nodded Rondal.  “Master, what are you doing here?”

“Surveying my domain,” Minalan said, taking a seat in front of the empty fireplace.  “Iyugi came up to the castle, yesterday.  To offer his . . . condolences,” he said, the word biting to him.  “He had quite the tale of your errantry in Enultramar.”

“It was . . . it was . . .”

“He was brilliant, Master,” Tyndal said, from the doorway.  “Rondal planned and led the entire mission,” he boasted.  “From the plan to infiltrate the Brotherhood to—”

“Yes, yes, I want to hear all about it,” he assured.  “But not at the moment.  In fact, I wanted to invite you to Vorone, for a little un-official meeting of the warmagi, in a few days.  There have been a lot of developments, and I think it is time for a council, Vorone is far enough away from spies that we can talk in candor.  And that way you can share what you’ve learned in Enultramar with Lady Pentandra.  Anguin’s court wizard will want to know every detail.

“But that is not why I dropped by this morning.  I also heard you dropped a prisoner off at Brestal Tower—”

“Master, we had to,” insisted Tyndal.  “He is a senior operative of the Brotherhood with a wealth of information on their business in the south.  His knowledge extends too many other areas, as well,” he added.

“Of course, of course.  No, what I wanted to discuss was one of the other prisoners held there at the moment.  Well, guest, I suppose.  I would like to propose an addition to your Order, of sorts.  I know you don’t have anyone in particular looking after Taragwen, while you’re out on errantry, and Sire Cei has enough to keep him busy running the barony, not to mention his own lands.

“So I propose you take on . . . Sir Ganulan as steward for the Order at Taragwen,” he said, hesitantly.

“Ganulan?” scoffed Tyndal.  “That wart?”

“Master, he’s hardly friendly to us,” Rondal began.  “He’s tried to kill you, me, everyone, and—”

“And he was instrumental in discovering the link between Lady Mask and Baroness Isily,” he said, flatly.  “He has given me his parole, and I accepted it.  He dwells now in Brestal Tower, no longer in a cell, but his wounds are almost healed.  I have no official standing in the Order of Estasia, myself, but I invite you to consider him as a tenant lord for Taragwen Keep.  Steward of the place.  Someone to keep an eye on the snowstone outcropping, watch over your peasants, that sort of thing.”

“That might be helpful,” admitted Tyndal.  “But . . . Ganulan?”

“He does know the place pretty well,” reminded Rondal, considering the merits of the plan more quickly than Tyndal.  “He’s a competent enough knight, for a Riverlord.  But it’s his loyalty that concerns me.”

“Well, his last partner left him for dead in the forest, his memory wiped,” Tyndal conceded.  “I doubt he owes her much loyalty, now.”

“As she is also a prisoner of mine, and her patron dead, I can’t imagine to whom he has left to betray you,” Minalan said, taking his pipe out of his pouch.  “Just consider it, boys. He hates you less than he hates me, and I’ve convinced him it would be honorable work.”

“We shall, Master,” agreed Tyndal, reluctantly.  “But we have a boon to ask in return: the two witchstones we borrowed for this caper . . . we ask you to grant them to the shadowmagi of House Salaines.  They have proven themselves to be loyal to Duke Anguin and trustworthy.  For a bunch of thieves.”

“It really would assist our cause,” Rondal added.  “We worked with them for weeks, and we find them worthy of the honor.”

“You do, do you?” Minalan asked, a strange tone in his voice.  “Very well: take on Ganulan as your steward and I will grant these stones to your friends.  On one condition: you yourselves will take their oaths, and if I recall the stones it will be you who will take responsibility to retrieve them.”

Sounds like a fair deal, Striker, Tyndal offered, mind-to-mind.

“We accept,” Rondal said with a sigh.  “If nothing else, he can act as a hostage for Ruderal’s mother’s safety.  She’s on his father’s estates in Alshar.”

Minalan looked at him and laughed.  “You placed Ruderal’s mother . . . with the Warbird of West Fleria?”

“It was actually a pretty good idea,” Rondal defended.  “He’s beholden to us, and we made it clear what might happen to him if he failed to protect her.  But he was quite curious about how his estranged son was doing.  So this could work out well, for now.”

“It will at least put someone in charge of Taragwen,” Tyndal agreed.  “The last time we were there, it was a mess.  Oh, the village was fine – the peasants have enough sense to keep their affairs in order – but the castle . . .”

“You have a duty and a responsibility to the people of that tiny domain you took,” Minalan reminded them.

“I know, I know,” Rondal said, annoyed.  “Yes, he’s a trained Riverlord knight, and he knows how to fight.  If he’s agreeable – and he’s willing to put aside his enmity toward us – then we’re willing to do likewise.”  Especially if it secures witchstones for the Salainesi, he thought to himself.

“Excellent,” Minalan said, with a rare smile.  “Now, on a final matter, I’d like for you to have dinner with me tonight at the castle.  I’m entertaining a guest and I would like you two to attend – formal attire,” he emphasized.

“Baron Arathanial?” guessed Rondal.

“No, His Excellency is far too busy ordering his new conquests in Sashtalia.  My guest is my old commander, Loiko Venaren.”

“Master Loiko is in Sevendor?” asked Tyndal with a gasp.  “I thought he was still in Farise?”

“His Majesty has replaced him at his post,” Minalan said, quietly.  “And he had compelling reason to come here.  I have his daughter as my prisoner: Lady Mask.  Her real name is Nothoua, Nothoua Venaren.  Her father came to Sevendor when I informed him about her.  He arrived this morning.”

Rondal’s mind whirled at the thought: that the daughter of the most legendary warmage of the age was a renegade wizard working in concert with the Necromancer and the gurvani.  It was a delicious scandal . . . and a hard blow.  Venaren was universally respected amongst the warmagi who’d served with him during the brutal Farisi campaign, a reputation for power, devotion to duty, and war wisdom that was unmatched by even Terleman or Minalan.  The shame must be bitter to the man, he thought.

“We’d be honored, Master,” Rondal said with a bow.

“I’d love to meet him!” Tyndal agreed, enthusiastically.  “The stories he must know . . .”

“I think he would like to hear about your recent adventures in Enultramar, as well,” Minalan said, as he stood.  “He has some interests, there, and perhaps some intelligence about the rebels gleaned from his time in Farise.  Perhaps bring your new friends as your guests,” he suggested.  “But dinner will be in my hall at dusk.  Don’t be late.  And don’t use the Ways to get there,” he added.  “I’ve set special wards on the Waystones at the castle.  Until I teach you the spells, you can ride to the castle like gentlemen.”

When Minalan left, Tyndal stared at Rondal until he had to ask.

“What?” he snapped.

“We’re going to meet the most famous warmage, ever!”

“Yeah.  Except you two are rapidly gaining on him,” Gareth said, sleepily.  “When word gets out about what you did in Alshar, he’s going to have to find a whole new country to invade, just to keep up.”

“That’s great,” Rondal conceded, unenthusiastically.  “But do you realize we just got permission to give House Salaines irionite?”

“Well, yeah!” Tyndal said, rolling his eyes.  “But look what we had to promise to get it!”

“Ganulan isn’t that bad,” Gareth said, shaking his head.  “I mean, he’s a discredited knight who turned to banditry after he was driven out of his holding, but . . . well, Sire Cei thinks there is a man to be made of him,” he pointed out.

“He does?” Tyndal asked, surprised.

“Perhaps serving a chivalric order will help restore his honor,” Rondal decided.  “But even if it turns into a disaster, it was a small price to pay to get Gat and Atopol their stones.”

“You know, we still have those stones that we took from the Censors at Brisomar, and the milky stones from the Tower Arcane,” Tyndal reminded him.  “We could likely supply Master Hance with one, as well.”

“That . . . is not a bad idea,” agreed Rondal, scratching his chin.  The master Shadowmage and thief was the head of a small but powerful house who wanted to see Anguin back in charge of the south.  Raising him to High Magi status would certainly assist their cause.  “That would let him oversee our proposed rebellion to the rebellion a lot more easily.”

“Shall we go tell them, then?” Tyndal grinned.

Rondal grinned back.  Gatina would be so happy!  “Why wait?  I think they’re in Falas.  While we’re there we can see about getting some appropriate garb for tonight.  We have the coin to dress like true Alshari gentlemen!”  Falas was famed for its tailors and weavers, thanks to the presence of the court and the cotton trade.

Tyndal stopped.  A worried expression came over his face.

“Uh, are we sure we want to go through with this?” he asked, suddenly doubtful.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Rondal asked, puzzled.

“Have you considered that once you raise Gatina to her stone . . . your secret girlfriend will be able to invade your thoughts at will?” he asked, horrified.

To Rondal’s own surprise, that didn’t bother him at all.  “I’ll contend with that,” he decided.  “After all, I’ve had you in my head for years, now.  If that hasn’t driven me mad, then I doubt she’ll have much luck.”

The Spellmonger’s private hall was relatively new, compared to the rest of the castle, having been built only a year ago during the Great March, before Baroness Alya “took ill”, as it was being described to the Sevendori.  Though he still used the tower in the castle as his private laboratory and office, he lived in the domestic hall with his children and servants.

Tonight it was guarded by two knights in formal surcoats as the boys arrived with their guests.  Atopol and Gatina had been thrilled to be invited, almost as thrilled as being suddenly presented with witchstones.  Both had been eager to take their oaths and begin the process of learning how to use them to great effect, and word was sent to Master Hance that a third stone was available for his use.

But when Rondal formally asked Gatina to dinner with the Spellmonger and his guests, he thought her pretty purple eyes would explode, they got so wide.  She couldn’t even speak for a moment.

Atopol was more gracious, but no less excited.  Minalan the Spellmonger was a legendary figure, now, and a man of great power.  Just meeting him was an honor to the two young wizards.  They hurriedly agreed, and then scrambled to the best tailors in Falas to secure new clothes for the occasion.  The four spent the afternoon shopping, lavishly spending on the finest wardrobe and shoes they could without thought to the price.  By late afternoon the tailors had done their business and all four were sharply dressed.

Rondal had chosen a rust-colored doublet with pointed shoulders, new tights in dark green, and added a formal gilded leather sword belt he didn’t even bother haggling for.  Tyndal went with a much lighter green velvet doublet, adding a broad-brimmed hat with a firebird feather in the band.  Both bought mantles in matching Sevendor green, and pinned them with their snowstone snowflake clasps.

The Salainesi siblings were no less dashing: Atopol found a new sable-colored cloak trimmed in actual sable, under which he wore a doublet of subtle gray, embroidered with black.  His sister was fitted for a dark gray gown that clung to her lithe curves delightfully, by Rondal’s estimation, with a modest bodice and a beautiful black cloak.

“The family colors,” Atopol explained.

“They look kind of morbid,” Tyndal said, sneering good-naturedly.  “Like a funeral.”

“They’re the colors of night and twilight,” Gatina explained, annoyed.  “They’re not supposed to attract a lot of attention.”

“Maybe this will,” Rondal said, drawing a silver necklace of finely-wrought chain out of the sleeve of his new finery.  He’d found it amongst the Rats’ trove, and found it striking.  The charm was of two silver cats playing with a large diamond.  “I saw it and thought you should have it.”

“That comes out of your share,” Tyndal said, warningly.

“I know,” Rondal said, rolling his eyes.  Gatina squealed and let him put it on her.

You know, now that you gave her expensive jewelry, you have to keep her, Tyndal said, mind-to-mind.

I already gave her jewelry, he reminded her.  That ring?

Oh, right, Tyndal conceded.  But that was business.  They were magic.  That thing is pure glitzy prettiness, and she’s playing with it like a kitten does a string.  So it counts.  You’re really screwed, now.  Do you want this girl to drag you in front of a priestess? he accused.

Would that be so bad? Rondal responded, defensively.

For your career, yes, Tyndal snapped.  Look, I like the girl . . . I really do.  She’s a lot better than . . . well, you could do worse.  But that’s not a reason to get married.

We’re just having dinner, reminded Rondal.  That’s all.

We’re having dinner with the Spellmonger and the most famous warmage in the world.  That’s certainly how she’s going to see it.  Striker, I’m starting to think you’re falling for this girl, Tyndal replied, thoughtfully, after a pause.

So what if I am? Rondal asked, pointedly.

Nothing, Tyndal agreed.  I just don’t want you to . . . make a mistake.

Why would being with Gatina be a mistake?

I don’t know if it would be, conceded his partner.  Just . . . be careful.

By the time they’d returned to Sevendor and ridden from the Rat Trap up to the castle, both shadowmagi were enchanted by the experience.  It helped that Minalan’s court wizard, Dranus, had lit the place gaily with magelights hovering over the towers and battlements, including a big one over the massive new gatehouse that led to the mountain.  The various hues bathed the white castle in a rainbow of magic that sparkled in the distance.  Once they had the knights at the hall announce their presence, Rondal proudly extended his elbow for Gatina to cling to, and escorted her within as Tyndal and Atopol followed behind.

Master Loiko and Minalan were already present, as were Dranus, Banamor, and Master Olmeg – Magelords Dranus, Banamor, and Olmeg, Rondal reminded himself.   The Tal Alon servants their former master preferred were scurrying around, setting up the trestle tables and laying them with trenchers while the cooks began bringing in dishes from the kitchen outside.

“My lords,” Rondal said, with a deep bow, “may I present Lady Gatina anna Salaines, and Lord Atopol, of the same House.  Now High Magi of Castalshar . . . the rebellious parts, that is.”

“A pleasure to meet you two,” Minalan said, warmly . . . but not as warmly as he used to, Rondal noted.  Since the Magewar he’d been distant on the best of days.  But at least he was engaged in the experience.  “I have heard much about your extraordinary efforts on behalf of the Estasi Order and Duke Anguin, and I am eager to hear much more.

“Lord Loiko, these are the two young men I spoke of: Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal.  Former apprentices, the inaugural knights magi, and two of the best warmagi it is has been my experience to command.”

Rondal fairly beamed at the praise . . . and he could feel the smug sense of glory rolling off of Tyndal’s already-too-big-head in palpable waves.  Gatina looked at him with even more appreciation.

Lord Loiko was a shorter and less-broadly built man than Minalan, and he’d cropped his hair close to his scalp in the Farisi style.  But his hawkish eyes seemed to drink in everything around him, and he moved with a preternatural grace that suggested Rondal did not want to duel him . . . ever.

“My lords,” he said, in thickly-accented Narasi as he nodded to them.  “My host has spoken highly of you and your efforts.  And your ingenuity.  Is it true, did you really invade the Tower Arcane when it was full of Censors?  With irionite?”

“Actually, only Atopol invaded it, my lord,” Tyndal said, patting his friend on the shoulder.  “He is a Shadowmage of rare talent and ability, from a House of shadowmagi famed for such,” as everyone began taking their seats.  A brace of Tal servants began moving from seat to seat with a basin and towel.

“It wasn’t that difficult, with the riot and all,” Atopol demurred as he took his own seat.

“Riot?” Loiko asked, one eyebrow cocked.

“The Estasi Order prides itself on approaching its missions creatively,” Rondal explained, as diplomatically as he could.  “It was a pretty small riot, as such things go.  And only involved our enemies: the Censorate and the Brotherhood of the Rat.”

“It also had me flying through the air and landing in a cold river four hundred feet away from the summit of the tower,” reminded Atopol.  “I nearly soiled myself.”

“Trebuchet,” explained Rondal to the master warmage.  “It was the only way to escape the tower.  We planned for that,” he added, quickly.

“Remarkable,” nodded Lord Loiko, as he washed his hands.  “Things really have changed since I’ve been in Farise.  I left the Five Duchies and come back to a kingdom.  I conquer the Mad Mage, and come home to face a country full of them.”

“How fares Farise, these days, Lord Loiko?” Minalan asked, politely.

“On the brink of rebellion,” admitted Loiko, darkly.  “There are conspiracies and rebels around every corner.  The council that rules the city is appointed, and few understand how to run a city, much less that city.  And, of course, keeping the pirates at bay is a constant challenge.  One that I failed.  Hence my presence here.”

“How so, lord?” Tyndal asked.

“Princess Rardine came on an inspection tour – seeking a husband, but Farise has few men who would make a suitable match for . . . a princess of such rare temperament,” he said, diplomatically.  Rondal and Tyndal exchanged glances.  “I provided constant security for her visit and even foiled a native assassination attempt.

“But after she left port, her galleon was taken by pirates,” he sighed.  “She is kidnapped, and held for ransom . . . not the sort of thing that a king takes lightly.  Even less so a doting father.  His Majesty’s letter was quite . . . terse,” he said, leaving much unsaid about the matter.  “But I am now at liberty to pursue my own interests,” he added with a contended sigh.

“Are you not resentful of your dismissal, my lord?” Rondal asked, politely.

“Five years of occupation duty is enough.  Too much, as it happens.  My daughter could not contend with it, and left us.  We thought she was out in the jungle, studying magic with some of the tribes out there, but she vanished from Farise altogether.  For a time, I commiserated with poor King Rard . . . but then I received word that she had re-appeared in Sevendor.”

“With a brief but brutal holiday in the service of Sheruel, in the Penumbra,” Rondal added.

“Well, it was a command position,” Tyndal pointed out.  That didn’t seem to mollify her father.

“I forbade her to undertake study in warmagic, but she insisted,” he sighed.  “How does one argue with a girl that age?  The moment she could escape the palace, she was off.  Now I find she’s been consorting with . . . those things,” he said, shuddering.  “It makes me feel a failure as a father, as well as a commander.”

“Believe me, my lord, if Lady Mask is your daughter, you had a challenge from the gods from the start,” Tyndal assured him.  “She is tough.  Stubborn and emotional, sometimes, but tough.  With a witchstone she was incredibly difficult to beat.”

“I’m gratified that you did,” he said, grimly.  “She has always been a willful child, determined to prove herself worthy in my eyes, when she should realize that it is not her skills I judge in her.  We have had a . . . complicated relationship since I remarried.  Her mother died before we left for Farise,” he explained.  “And once there, I had little time to spare for her.  Before I lost the king’s daughter, I fear I lost my own.”

“I have given Lord Loiko a witchstone and taken his oath,” Minalan said, quietly.  “As a High Mage, he shall have custody over her.”

“But . . . she tried to kill you!”

“She did,” Minalan said, his voice tight.  “And all in my family.  But she was under the influence of Sheruel, having had use of his stone: an important warning for those who would dabble with the irionite from the gurvani.  Her feeling was entirely under his dark influence.  Even without the Dead God’s direct instruction, it was potent enough to color her perspective.  She will recover, in time,” he assured.

“But will she stop trying to kill you?” Rondal asked, cautiously.

“We shall see,” shrugged his former master.  “She’ll have to cue up with the rest of them, I suppose, if she does.  But I reasoned that if anyone could restore her, it would be family.”

“I do hope your faith in me is not misplaced, Baron,” Loiko said, shaking his head.  “My daughter is not fond of me, at the moment.”

“As you are sparing her a trial for treason, I’m hoping she is willing to be cooperative,” reasoned the Spellmonger.

“Your daughter is still an infant, Minalan,” Master Loiko said, shaking his head.  “She’s about as cooperative as a daughter gets.”

“I have five sisters,” Minalan said, knowingly.  “I am no stranger to the whims of femininity.”

“Then you understand why I am not particularly hopeful.  But I will try.  Of course, since I do not have a home to take her to, looking after her myself will be problematic . . . I was given lands in Castal, but I have not yet taken them.”

“Then I encourage you to take residence, my lord,” Minalan offered.  “There is something magical about building a mageland.  Your daughter made a passable start at it in the Penumbra, where she commanded a garrison of hobgoblins.  I think if she were invited to help in that endeavor, you might be surprised at her response.  Until then, you and your wife may remain here as my guests for as long as you’d like.”

“I confess I’m fascinated in this remarkable little domain,” the warmage agreed.  “If I could manage a tenth of what you have accomplished . . .”

“A full set of agricultural and forestry wands, and you’d have a great deal of it,” Tyndal offered.

“Indeed,” Master Olmeg spoke for the first time.  “With my spheres and a goodly set of enchantments you should be able to raise the yields of your peasantry to near double.”

“I would also advise that you invest in a complete set of sentry rods,” added Dranus, wiping his mouth after finishing his soup.  “Few magelords have taken residence in their lands without being challenged by those knights who mistake a mage’s robe for a nun’s habit.  I’ve ordered twenty of them myself,” he boasted.

“Ishi’s tits, why?” Tyndal asked.

“Because in a few months the Council of Moros will meet to elect a new Count,” replied Minalan.  “Dranus plans to advance his name in that cause against his brother.”

“Half-brother,” corrected the court wizard, politely.  “The county is a prosperous one, and my lands there give me an excellent base from which to press my case.  But that does mean I shall have to leave your service, my lord, at least temporarily,” he added, apologetically.

“Well don’t look at me to replace you!” Banamor insisted, suddenly concerned.  “I’ve got far too much in my bowl as it is!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Minalan said, although he did not explain his reasoning.  “In fact . . . I was going to ask Master Loiko if he would be interested in the position.”

“The most famous warmage in the world?” Tyndal asked, stunned.  “Your court wizard?”

“It’s not a bad post,” Minalan said, pushing away his porridge bowl half-eaten.  “Dranus has ironed out most of the operational details and gotten it down to a routine that any decent wizard should be able to pick up.”

“I’m honored that you consider me,” confessed Loiko.  “But is that wise, Minalan?  I am hardly in favor at the royal court, since I let Rardine get captured.  Hiring me might put you at odds with the royal family.”

“I live at odds with the royal family,” Minalan pointed out.  “I’ve just come off of internal exile because I pissed off young Tavard.  I survived.  I’ll survive this, too.  In fact, it helps preserve my independence from them.”

“Min has no problems pissing people off,” agreed Banamor, enthusiastically.  “In fact, I think he lives for it.”

“It’s a natural talent,” he said, smugly.  “Five sisters, remember?”

“I . . . I will consider your kind offer,” Loiko agreed, after some thought.  “It will at least help me get my feet in this bold new world you’ve created in my absence.”

“And it will make Queen Grendine anxious, so there’s that,” Tyndal nodded.

“She’s anxious enough, with Rardine missing,” Loiko said, gravely.  “I tried to tell her that I was not responsible for her daughter once she left Farise, but she will not hear of it.  But this has proven one thing to me, beyond doubt: Enultramar cannot remain under rebellion, not when it is providing a haven for such a large fleet of pirates.”

“Oh, they’re more than mere pirates,” Rondal assured him.  “A lot of them are the old Farisi navy.  Expatriates who were dispossessed after the occupation.”

“I know them well,” Loiko nodded.  “They are the backbone of the rebellions we faced in Farise.  They are responsible for Rardine’s capture, then?”

“Actually,” sighed Rondal, “we know precisely who is to blame: Rellin Pratt, the nephew of Orril Pratt.  He’s a pirate who works with the Brotherhood of the Rat.  Or did, before we . . . cut off their tail, so to speak.”

“Yes, I don’t think Rellin and the Brotherhood are going to see each other in good favor for some time,” chuckled Tyndal.  “But while we were going through some of the parchments we captured at . . . well, we had a busy year in Enultramar, but we had a chance to steal Pratt’s manifest,” he said, summoning the incriminating scroll from a hoxter pocket in his ring.  He handed it to Loiko.  “If you read through the list of prisoners, you’ll see that the third one down is Rardine.”

“A Pratt has the daughter of King Rard?” the warmage asked, alarmed.  “The man responsible for his death?”

“Don’t worry, he didn’t hurt her,” Rondal assured.  “At least, I don’t believe so, from what he said.  He understands her value.  Enough to sell her ransom to the highest bidder.”

“Dear gods, those gangsters have her now?” asked Banamor.  “Those poor gangsters!”

“Actually,” Tyndal said, slowly, “I doubt if the Brotherhood has enough coin on hand to buy a street vendor’s sausage pie, much less ransom a princess.  But there are . . . other buyers in Enultramar.”

“I will inform Her Majesty that I have a name of the kidnapper, at least,” Loiko said, gratefully.  “And at least a general idea of where Rardine might be.  But thus far there has been no demand for ransom.”

“My lord, allow us to investigate the matter,” Atopol suggested.  “House Salaines has many clandestine connections in Enultramar.  Discovering which party purchased the ransom should not be difficult to establish.”

“I would be in your debt, Lord Atopol,” Loiko assured him, pleased.  “Until Rardine is recovered, my fortunes won’t be.  And I must think of my daughter’s future, as well.”

“Perhaps you should arrange a marriage for her,” suggested Banamor.  “A girl that age has got to be thinking about her wedding day, doesn’t she?”

“It is frequently a favorite topic for most girls,” Loiko sighed, “but my daughter is more concerned with warwands and mageblades than flowers and dresses.”

“All the more reason to consider it,” Banamor insisted.

“A woman can be a wife and a warmage,” Gatina suggested, though she had been silently observing up to then.  “When Sir Rondal and I are wed, I shall spare no more time for motherhood than I must, before I return to my vocation.”

Watching Master Minalan, Olmeg, Dranus and Banamor all simultaneous snort and choke on their meal must have been gratifying to Tyndal, from the look on his face.

“More wine, please?” Rondal asked the Tal servant who was acting as butler.  The furry face looked at him sympathetically – most of the Tal understood Narasi perfectly – and filled his cup until it was just shy of the rim.

It still wasn’t nearly enough.

Part IV.

Spies

Tyndal

Chapter Thirty-One

Dragonfire

It was good to be back in Vorone in the autumn, Tyndal thought as he and Rondal walked through its cobbled streets on their way to Spellmonger’s Hall.  The many trees that custom had permitted within the city walls were turning brilliant shades of red and yellow as the season changed, and a rich, earthy smell blanketed the usual odor of wood smoke, urine, animals, sewers and outhouses.  The Wilderlands just looked more wild in the autumn than any other time, he decided.

If he was feeling cocky this evening, it was because he was indulging in a rare occasion in a knight’s career: the successful conclusion to a mission of errantry.  Their successes against the Brotherhood – and the Censorate, and by extension, against the rebel Count Vichetral and his barons – had filled his purse and brought him glory, and Tyndal relished glory and fortune like he did magic and war.

It was a good day to be a knight mage.

Rondal was a little more thoughtful as they escorted their prisoner through the town.  No one paid them much mind, especially this time of day.  The sun was descending over the distant Mindens, and folk were hurrying home after a long day’s labor in anticipation of dinner.  The smells of food and wood smoke filled Vorone’s air and mixed with the autumn scent of falling leaves.

“I like being back here,” Tyndal remarked to his friend, aloud.

“I do, too,” Rondal agreed, looking around at the distant ridges.  “Almost reminds me of home.”

“We should find some place to settle, in the Wilderlands,” Tyndal proposed.  “Especially if you’re going to—”

“Tyndal, I swear to Ishi that I’ll shave you bald and put a magemark on your pate if you continue that sentence,” Rondal said, with patient anger.

“All right!” Tyndal chuckled.  “Then consider the matter resolved.”

“Nothing is resolved . . . yet,” his partner said, sullenly.  “Just shut up about it, for now.”

“I won’t say another word,” he promised.  He didn’t need to.

Since Gatina’s casual revelation of her intent to wed Rondal – and his lack of denial, when politely questioned by his former master and his gentlemen – there was little doubt in anyone’s mind what the likely outcome would be.  Except, apparently, for Rondal, who suddenly seemed to be squirming with doubt.

It was too delicious for Tyndal to resist, and in the days since they’d returned the shadowmagi to Falas and prepared for this evening, he had given his friend an unremitting stream of teasing to increase the squirm.  He had alternatively proposed novel (and often extremely crude or obscene) methods of ending the supposed engagement, or had ribbed his friend about his incipient domestic duties.

It was a kind of game for Tyndal.  Rondal prided himself on his self-control and discipline, and for the most part the man was a rock.  But long acquaintance and many adventures had shown Tyndal where Rondal’s vulnerabilities were, and in their private moments he felt it was his duty to helpfully point them out.  When he succeeded in pushing Rondal outside of his self-imposed control, Tyndal won.

It had been pointed out by more than one interested bystander that this was childish and juvenile behavior.  Tyndal didn’t care.  He prided himself on his childlike sense of whimsy.

What made it all the more uncomfortable was that Gatina was actually a fair companion on a mission: smart, observant, fast, quick-thinking, and decisive.  Though she was short, scrawny-looking, and her odd eyes and hair gave her a bizarre, almost non-human look, she wasn’t unattractive.  And a girl who could make herself appear to be anything from a schoolgirl to an elderly matron almost at will had merit, to his mind.  She was a competent mage, for an apprentice, and her skills as a thief were a fortune in fingertips.

But . . . why in the name of Ishi’s sacred slit was he even considering marriage to the girl?

To Tyndal’s mind, it was a waste.  To even consider sacrificing the brilliant career they’d built together was unnerving.  The gods had seen fit to throw them into one wild adventure after another, and yet had kept them alive and blessed them with fortune – and, at least in Tyndal’s case, good looks.  With all of the world’s femininity from which to select, why would he consider settling for one mere girl, however intriguing?

It confounded Tyndal.  Perhaps when they were old men, in their twenties, their days of glorious errantry behind them, then they could take pretty wives and begin spewing children across the Wilderlands.  But that day was long off, and they had the corpses of many foes to step over before they arrived there.  Until the Necromancer and Shereul were defeated, fiddling with the idea of domestic life was just . . . mad.

“Have you noticed how clean the place is, now?” Tyndal asked, as a way of making conversation.

“Yes, and did you see the new construction around the barracks?  The town is growing,” he declared.

“I like Vorone,” Rondal agreed, quietly.  “We’re Wilderlords.  It’s our town.  And it’s pretty.”

“Yes, it is beautiful,” Tyndal said, as a pair of prostitutes ambled by, smiling invitingly.  “Especially this time of year.”

They arrived at the hall just as Taren approached, though Tyndal nearly didn’t recognize the man.

Taren was one of Tyndal’s favorite warmagi.  A brilliant thaumaturge who was also an excellent combat mage, he had brought some incredible insight to enchantment and thaumaturgy in the last few years.  He was ordinarily a cheerful, enthusiastic-looking man, one who personified the warrior wizard as more than a fancy mercenary.

Yet the Taren who stood before him now was a bare shadow of the knight he remembered.  While he wore a warmage’s tight-fitting plated leather hauberk, his eyes were dark and deeply sunken, and his skin had a deathly pallor to it.

“Welcome, fellows,” he called, without much of his native enthusiasm.

“Good gods!” Tyndal exclaimed.  “What happened to you, Taren?”

“Too long at Salaisus,” he said with a bitter sigh.  “I thought it was an outstanding opportunity to study the Otherworld.”

“It wasn’t?” Rondal asked.

“Oh, it was.  Too good, as it turns out.  Extended exposure to the field is . . . debilitating.  It drains you like twisting out a wet cloth, after a while.”

“You should petition for another post,” suggested Tyndal.

“You really don’t look well,” agreed Rondal.

“I’ve considered it,” he nodded, gravely.  “But I am doing important work, there.  And I have gained much insight on necromancy.  Information that will be useful against the Necromancer.”  His expression looked so bleak that Tyndal wanted to go fetch the two whores he’d passed, just to make the knight smile.

“We’ve been working in Enultramar,” Rondal volunteered.  “But we’ll discuss all of that, upstairs.  I’m going to sit the Spider just inside, where he’s going to be good.  We put him under a spell that removes his sensory input, but still lets us push him around.”

“Why the hood?” Taren asked, curious.

“Well, we’re in Vorone, a place with low tolerance for Rats.  The ones that remain are desperate, and would see sending this fellow home as an opportunity for rapid advancement.  So we didn’t want him to be recognized.”

As he sat the former Rat down on a stool with more muffled curses, a Kasari ranger sat watchfully by.  Tyndal and Rondal both saluted him, in the Kasari fashion, and continued upstairs after he’d returned the unexpected courtesy.

Upstairs there was a growing collection of wizards, including many old friends it was good to see again.  Azar, Astyral, Terleman, and Carmella had taken seats already, and Master Minalan was helping himself to a big silver flagon of wine.  He looked tired and worn and not a little melancholy.  Taren took a seat near to Master Cormoran, the famed magical swordsmith of Tudry, who had accompanied the other Tudrymen to the council.

Things didn’t get started until Lady Pentandra and her new pipsqueak of an apprentice showed up from the palace, making excuses about seeing Arborn and his men off on a journey.

To his annoyance, Rondal began the meeting, as if calling it was his idea.  True, they likely had the most momentous news to share, but it irked Tyndal that his partner was so quick to take the spotlight.  Tyndal jumped in after Rondal sketched out what they’d pieced together about the Brotherhood, the rebels, and the gurvani presence in the region’s underworld.  Shereul had an eye, ear, voice, and hand in the Alshari rebellion.

Then he spilled the soup: their conclusions about the more immediate and insidious place they’d learned was now called Olum Seheri.  The ruined Alkan city of Anthatiel, rebuilt by the minions of Korbal, from whence the Necromancer’s reach exceeded the Dead God’s.  That was far more dangerous than a few goblins running about, playing courtier.  The prospect of both forces targeting the richest and most populated region of the duchy was just too dire to ignore, and Minalan, Pentandra, Terleman and the others needed to hear it.

At the proper moment, with just the proper amount of dramatic embellishment, they produced their prisoner: Master Merimange the Spider.  A few days in Brestal Tower under close guard, and a few interrogation sessions, had thus far yielded plenty of juicy gossip – not merely on the Brotherhood, but on every member of the rebel council.  The spider seemed to have webs everywhere, and he was desperate to trade that information for security.

Turning him over to Pentandra, and therefore to Anguin, was the best use of that resource, they’d decided.  Anguin’s court would be far better positioned to make use of the information than they would.  The fact that they were both witness to him arranging the sale of Princess Rardine to Priviken the Goblin and his entourage made Merimange extremely cooperative, when he was in a jail in Castal.  But he wasn’t much happier about being in Alshar, Tyndal knew.

Word had swiftly come from Atopol, using his new witchstone, about the repercussions of that fateful night in Brisomar.  The gossip was all over the shadowy streets of Enultramar: the Iris was threatening to take control of the organization, when the Brotherhood’s council defaulted on its payment.  Indeed, when the fleet returned at the end of the season, the whispered secrets in a thousand taverns said that none other than Merimange the Spider, one of the inner council, and absconded with the entire treasury and left Jenerard and the others responsible to the Iris for the debt.

Atopol was angry enough that the Spider was taking credit for what was the work of the Cats of Enultramar, but then he was used to anonymity, even in professional circles, and he kept his focus on the loyalist effort.  Tyndal was growing to like the shadowmage more and more.  He was as dedicated to his Art and his vocation as Tyndal was to his own.

The boys greeted old friends before taking their seats, and when it was their turn they were eager to share news of their successes in the south.  Of course the revelation of the huge bounty of treasure from the heist was what everyone got excited about – and Tyndal couldn’t blame them.  That was a lot of gold by anyone’s estimation.  He thought Lady Pentandra was going to faint at the news.

But then Master Minalan started talking about a mission to Olum Seheri.  To rescue that hateful, murderous bitch Rardine.  That dampened his sense of victory.

You know who he’s going to send there, don’t you? Tyndal asked Rondal.

I’m hoping it’s the blind girl, Rondal joked.  But I think we’re going back to the Land of Scars.

That is not how I planned on celebrating our new-found fortune.  There are dragons, there.  And they want to send us.

Be honest, Rondal challenged, unexpectedly.  You’re aching in anticipation of the chance.

It would be a delicious bit of errantry, he admitted.  And we didn’t really get much chance to sight-see, the last time we were there.  But I’m getting a sinking feeling that, before this is done, we’re going to have to fight a dragon.

Don’t worry, Rondal soothed.  We’ll have plenty of time to concoct some sort of effective weapon.

Tyndal accepted that, but he still hoped he didn’t have to face one.  Ever since Cambrian Castle he’d had a powerful fear of dragons.  Seeing the beast tear through a well-built masonry fortress like a dog shredding a rabbit had given him nightmares for months.  As much glory as Sire Cei had won as the Dragonslayer, Tyndal was no eager to match his feat.  Indeed, he had a dread of death from a dragon that no other foe he’d faced could match in his heart.

But he cheerfully volunteered to go, anyway.  That’s what knights magi did.

When the official council took a break to have dinner, Tyndal was surprised by just how hungry he was.  He realized it had been hours since he’d thought to eat.  He was carving a thick slice of turkey from the bone when he heard a sound his body reacted to long before his mind could place it.

It was the war cry of a dragon.  Just like the sound at Cambrian that had embedded itself so insidiously into his dreams.

Rondal was the first to ask him, mind-to-mind.  Tyn, did you hear that?

I was hoping it was my imagination, he admitted.  But if you heard it too . . .

“Is that . . . ?” asked Carmella, the plain-looking mistress of the Hesian Order.

“Oh, Trygg’s twat!” moaned Terleman.  He nearly launched himself to the window at the far end of the hall and threw the shutters open.  “The gods must be having a fucking great laugh over this!”  He said, manifesting his big warstaff in his hand.  It erupted in a display of energy and activity the moment his fingers curled around it.

Maybe it’s a trick, suggested Rondal, a note of panic in his mental voice.  Anyone could have made a spell that—

He was interrupted by another trumpeting of pure saurian fury.  The peal of an angry dragon rang out over the town of Vorone . . . but much louder, now.  Which meant much closer.  One by one, each of the magi in the room came to the same conclusion at roughly the same time.

“Dear gods,” Carmella moaned.

“What were you saying about Shereul not retaliating, again, Terl?” Azar said, with dry humor.

“Oh, shut up, Azar!” Terleman dismissed, as his staff began accumulating power.  Master Minalan was the first to speak the name of the horror they all feared, in a low whisper none of them had difficulty hearing.

“A dragon,” he pronounced, when he turned away from the window.  To emphasize his observation, the tiny shape in the distance illuminated itself with a gout of flame.  The rooftops of Vorone seemed to dance in the flickering shadows of the approaching doom.

But then the dragon’s second burst of flame proved it was close enough to strike, as the distant scaffolding surrounding the barracks behind the palace caught fire under the relentless flame.

“Oh, shit!” Tyndal declared, as he felt his bowels turn to water.  Goblins, trolls, rats, siege worms, undead – none of it scared him like a dragon.

And of course Rondal just stood and stare, while the blind girl pushed past him trying to find out what the fuss was about.

The third burst of flame erupted while they all just stood there and watched in a stunned stupor.  But that was the one that ignited the ornate rooftop of the palace, itself.  The dragonfire didn’t just set the roof ablaze; as the dragon got closer, the blast of the spout of flame tore off the ornate designs atop the palace like hot piss through a snowbank.

Just to be more destructive, the dragon slapped one of the watchtowers with its mighty tail and sent it flying over the palace wall.

“Mistress,” the new apprentice asked Pentandra, “Did you know you are having triplets?”

“What?” Pentandra asked, confused. “Triplets?”

“Pretty sure,” the blind girl whispered.  “Is that a problem?”

“Minalan,” she said, “Drink the mead.”  Then she fainted.

“Pentandra is pregnant?” guffawed Astyral.

“What mead?” Tyndal asked, confused.  Had Pentandra prepared some sort of magical mead?  And why hadn’t she offered him some?  The news of her pregnancy took longer to percolate through to him, but both lines of thought had the same purpose: to distract him from the winged horror outside.

Thankfully, someone decided to be in charge.

“ALL RIGHT!” bellowed Terleman, whirling around to face the crowd of magi.  “We have a dragon attacking the town.  We also have the most powerful warmagi in the Five Duchies.  So here’s what we’re going to do:

“Alurra, put a pillow under Pentandra’s head, make her comfortable, maintain our base here,” he ordered.  “Whatever else happens, survivors and wounded can return here.  Cormoran, Astyral, Carmella: evacuate civilians from the palace and try to cover as much as you can in anti-incendiary spells as quickly as possible.  Fire will be our biggest challenge.  Rescue whomever you can and get them away from the fight.

“The rest of you . . . with me. Let’s go fight a dragon!” he said, flicking his staff and sending a surge of power through the room.  “Out of curiosity does anyone actually know how to kill it?”  Behind him, the beast had landed on the far west wing of the palace and was making a mess of it.

Taren summoned his own weapon, an arbalest of exquisite manufacture and his own design. “I do,” the haunted-looking thaumaturge said, resolutely.  “But it’s dangerous.  Potentially catastrophic.  And it will probably kill me,” he admitted.

“How?” Minalan demanded, as he manifested his warstaff, Blizzard.

“I’ve been talking to the dead, remember?  Horka wounded a dragon at Timberwatch, though it took his life.  I was curious how that was done so . . . I asked him.”

“You . . . asked him?” Rondal asked, dumbfounded.

“Yes, I asked him, and it was a lot more complicated than I thought, but also quite elegant and open to refinement.  I’d love to discuss the matter at length in a proper academic setting but in case you’ve forgotten there’s a fucking dragon eating the palace.”

“You’ve . . . been speaking to the dead?” Astyral said, shaking his head.

“Yes!” Taren insisted, impatiently.  “A distinguished fellowship we will soon be joining if we don’t get our asses moving!  Oh, and Delman says ‘hello’,” he added.

“Delman?” Astyral asked, mystified.

“MOVE!” Terleman shouted, sending himself through the Ways, presumably to go fight the dragon.

Minalan chuckled humorlessly.  “You heard the man.  What do you need from us, Taren?”

“Time,” he said, slinging his crossbow.  “It’s going to take me about ten minutes to prepare.  Try not to kill it before then,” he added, wryly.  “But I’m serious: it’s a very dangerous spell.  It could destroy the entire town.  If you see any other way, take it.”

“Armor up, you two,” Minalan ordered, as the other magi either used the Ways or ran downstairs.  “I’m going to contact some help, I’ll see you at the battle.  Good luck,” he added, as he turned away.

It didn’t take the two of them long to summon their panoply.  Both had made a practice of keeping their vital equipment within the confines of the hoxter pockets of their baculus, so within moments they’d summoned the dragonhide-strengthened armor and other gear they wore into battle.  The shrill cry of the dragon in the distance put speed in their armoring, but it was not complicated.  Tyndal was pulling his helmet strap taught as Rondal was sliding his arm through the strap in his roundshield.

“Ready,” his partner assured him.  “I’m following your lead,” he added.

Well, shit, Tyndal thought to himself.  That was not what he wanted to hear, in this situation.

“Palace Waystone?” he suggested.

“Unless you feel like a romantic walk through a burning town,” Rondal countered.  “I’ll take us.”

Tyndal felt the pull of the spell as his partner included him in the working, and a snippet of Alka song pulled him through the core of reality and spat him out on the other side.

He was ready, at least.  He hadn’t so much as a bite of food, and his stomach was empty.  Not that he was hungry anymore.  As he fought off the momentary disorientation, realizing that they were both in Pentandra’s office, he felt Rondal pull him up by the shoulders.

“Let’s go!” Rondal said, helpfully propelling him through the door.  The walls of the palace were shaking, vibrating with the fury of the beast atop it.  A shower of dust and debris was raining down on them as they ran through the darkened office, past the confused staff.

“Dragon attack,” Rondal informed them as he ran past.  “Get the hell out!”

“Evacuate!” Tyndal called, more loudly and boldly.  “There’s a dragon on the roof, and he wants in!  Grab what you can and run!”

“Close the vaults and seal them!” Rondal added, over his shoulder.  “Any fireproofing you can manage, do it – and then run like seven hells!”

The small crowd burst into squeals as they began to act.  When the boys tumbled out into the main corridor, Tyndal was about to head right, towards the west wing where the dragon was perched . . . but Rondal pulled at his elbow.

“There’s a big hole in the roof, this way,” he reminded him.  “We can get up there more quickly through it!”

Tyndal nodded, embarrassed that he’d forgotten the damaged Hall of the Maiden.  He followed Rondal dutifully until they came to the chamber, which was packed with scaffolding for the workers making repairs.

Climbing the rickety structure was not difficult, and Tyndal quickly used his blade to slice through the sailcloth tarpaulin they’d covered the hole with.  Rondal bounded through the slit and helped pull Tyndal up after him.

When they were finally standing on the largest building in town, mere minutes after being ready for a comfortable dinner, Tyndal felt the panic that inspired his movements fall away.  The beast was curled around the stub of the watchtower, its massive hind legs tearing a greater and greater hole in the roof, while it sent gouts of flame at the roof around it.

“You know, when I said we’d likely have to fight a dragon eventually, I was really thinking it would be after dinner,” Tyndal remarked, as he tried to figure out what to do.

“You realize we’re probably both going to die, right?” Rondal asked, not looking away from the beast.  Terleman was climbing into position a few hundred feet away, behind a chimney, Tyndal could see through magesight.  A few archers had gathered and were trying to slay the beast from the ground or the gabled windows around it, but their arrows weren’t even a distraction for the mighty worm.

“Then we die rich and covered in glory in the ruins of the finest palace in the land,” Tyndal decided.  He’d given up on dying in bed years ago, he realized.  “Do you have anything we could throw at that thing?”

“Nothing effective springs to mind,” Rondal said, with a long sigh.  “Let’s just hit it a lot.”

“The direct approach,” Tyndal agreed, pulling his visor down over his face.  “My strong suit.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Battle Of Vorone

They spent the next few moments running across the roof with warmagic-augmented speed and agility, trying not to break an ankle on the steep incline while moving on slate tiles that were in need of maintenance.

It was odd, watching Terleman stalk the beast in his own way, moving from one obstruction on the roof to the other, trying to gain a favorable position to engage.  Tyndal decided to join him – nothing gave him more confidence than not being in charge.  He saw an opening as the dragon sprayed fiery death over the palace gardens, setting the dozens of fruit trees ablaze, and kept his head low as he ran to a gable near the chimney Terleman was hiding behind.  He felt Rondal throw himself into it behind him.

“Welcome to the battle, boys!” Terleman grinned, infectiously, his face lit by the flames from the burning roof.  “Today we’re having a special on dragons!  Think you two could distract that thing for a few moments?  I want to try something!”

“Sure!” Rondal said.  Tyndal suppressed the impulse to slap him.

“How distracted do you want it?” he asked, with confidence he didn’t feel.

“Just keep it from eating me for a few minutes,” the warmage said, as he began to set up his spell.  “I’ll yell when it’s time for you to get out of the way.”

“On it!” Tyndal said, resolutely.  You have any ideas, Striker?

Aim for the neck, Rondal suggested.  It has one of those necklaces of snowstone.  That’s probably how they’re controlling it, he said, as he slipped around the right side of the gable.

Do we really want an uncontrollable dragon on the roof?

It’s the point at which the beast has the least magic resistance, he reminded.  If we’re going to be able to hook a spell, it’s going to be there!

Good point, Tyndal conceded.  But which spell to use?

He had encountered a lot of deadly, dangerous, and destructive warmagic in the last few years – from the massive library of spells at Relan Cor, to techniques learned at the Conclave, to the spells he’d picked up from his fellows during drunken conversations at the Staff and Sword.  Most of them he’d tried out, but a few were just too powerful for anything but . . . well, he decided, a dragon attack.

Fire was not an option.  Dragons were clearly resistant to the effects of their own special weaponry, and even mere flesh of a dragon was resistant to burning and heat.  But that was just one of the arrows in his arcane quiver.  As he mentally searched his Alka Alon-crafted irionite marble, he recalled a particular spell he’d always been curious about . . .

I’m going to try something, he told Rondal.  While establishing a hook in a dragon was difficult, even with its snowstone accessories, there were spells that didn’t affect a target, directly.  This one seemed to be that sort.

As he allowed the songspell to manifest, he realized that it would never be effective with the small amount of power it was drawing . . . so he fed it more from the stone, like dumping dry kindling on a sputtering fire.  He felt the surge of arcane energy around him as the spell took shape . . . and then activated.

It was a binding spell, he realized, a very powerful one.  One he’d made even more powerful with the additional energy.  As he watched with magesight, invisible bands of arcane force formed a series of circles around the beast, and then began to shrink.  Though they met resistance when they finally enclosed the beast, they persisted . . . until the wings and limbs of the ferocious monster were being clasped tightly to its long, powerful body.

Just then Rondal released his own spell, a much more direct blast directed from his mageblade.  Blackfire, Tyndal realized with a shudder.

Of all the offensive spells to counter dragonfire, blackfire was bound to be potent . . . and unpredictable.  It wasn’t real fire, that is, an oxidizing plasma.  It was not hot, but it still ate away at everything it touched just like ordinary flame.  It was some other arcane reaction that no one had ever been able to completely identify, but which was nonetheless effective on most things.

“Effective” in this case meaning “incredibly destructive”.

The combination of the two spells was impressive.  Tyndal’s binding kept the dragon stationary and unable to avoid the blast of blackfire.  While the gust of magical flame ate into the surrounding woodwork and masonry like it was kindling, the cloud of destruction had a harder time with the dragon, itself.  Still, particularly around its unprotected neck, the arcane energies chewed on the beast voraciously, and with enough of an effect to inspire a bellow of saurian pain that was like jagged glass in Tyndal’s ears.

“Good lads!” he heard Terleman praise, as the warmage sprung from behind the chimney and activated the spell he’d prepared.  Raising Warmaster over his shoulder, he flicked it at the dragon like he was casting a fishing line.  But a stream of potent magical energy manifested at the tip, extending far overhead as he directed it.  When the tendril of power approached the dragon, under Terleman’s control it bored itself into the throat of the beast.

“That’s it!” the warmage said, lustily, as he watched the spell unfold.  “I’ve been thinking about this for over a year,” he explained as he directed the staff.  “Thing might be a monster, but even monsters have to breathe!”

Whatever the spell was, it was having an effect.  The mighty beast was in distress from the combination of spells, unable to move, and being forced to contend with both losing its air supply and being tormented with unremitting pain on its neck.  If nothing else, Terleman’s spell had forced it to stop its horrible scream.

But then everything went into the chamberpot.

The dragon tried its best to curl itself into a ball – taking a lovely rooftop chapel along with it – and when it reemerged, Tyndal felt the binding spell get ripped away.  His comrades were likewise facing the failure of their magic, though Rondal’s blackfire continued to devour the dragon’s skin, producing an ugly black scorching wherever it could find purchase.  Not nearly enough to kill it, Tyndal realized with dismay, as the dragon bellowed in rage, pain, and defiance.

Azar is on your right flank, Minalan told him, mind-to-mind.  Get out of the way and get ready to back him up.  More help is coming, he promised.

“Azar’s coming!” Tyndal screamed at his mates, over the din of the dragon.  “Take cover!”

The three warmagi did a masterful job of diving behind what was left of the rooftop masonry, just as a punishing gout of flame washed overhead.  But then there was a magically-augmented laugh that echoed around the palace, like the voice of some ancient god speaking with amusement.

“You shall see the naked face of death itself, before another day dawns!” it promised, with a deep laugh.  Even though Azar tended to be impatient, crude, and completely lacking in social graces, Tyndal reflected as he hid from the incredibly hot dragonfire, when it came to the art of violence, he had style by the hogshead.

When the flames stopped roaring, leaving a path of burning roof in its wake, Tyndal poked his head around the ruined gable.  Azar was striding resolutely across the roof, his massive two-handed mageblade held at the ready.

“That fucking idiot!” Terleman swore.

“He’s going to get himself killed!” Rondal screamed.

“That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” Tyndal said, in a quiet voice.  Azar was acting as if this was just another beast, another fight to win.  Even though the creature was a hundred times his mass.

“Get ready to come up on his left flank,” Terleman ordered, preparing another spell with his staff.  “If you hear the thing take a deep breath, and then smell gas, drop and cover!” he reminded them.

Tyndal nodded and frantically looked for another spell.  Something he knew would at least give the massive wyrm something to consider.  He had to be careful, though, he realized as he tried to pick out a route across the blazing rooftop.  One misstep, and he could find himself falling into the servant’s quarters of the Minister of Lands and Estates and not found until they cleaned up the ashes.

“CHARGE!” Terleman said, in that special commander’s voice that layered equal parts insistence and anticipation.  Tyndal’s feet were moving before his brain realized it, and in desperation he grabbed at the first high-potency spell he could think of and hung it.

Azar was within fifty feet of the dragon, picking his way through the wreckage around him, as if he were strolling through a garden with a hoe in his hand, not a six-foot long greatsword.  There was a shimmering field hovering around him like a curtain, protecting him from the heat and the fire.  His eyes blazed with an intensity that rivalled the inferno of the dragon as he took his opponent’s measure.

With a roar he clasped both hands on the hilt of his blade and sent a sheet of blinding white light from the tip.  It seemed to burn the very air as it flashed in a double pulse that hammered at the head of the beast.  Whatever the spell was, the dragon was knocked back on its mighty haunches, its legs digging deeper into the bowels of the western wing of the palace.

Rondal threw another, smaller cloud of blackfire at its face, while Terleman changed his tactics and attacked its sail-like right wing with a beam of green energy that at least scarred the beast where it touched it.

Tyndal took a deep breath and found the hook, around the neck, before he let the spell unfold.  With a powerful surge of energy he directed with his mageblade, a flare the size of a keg of wine shot upward and into the dragon’s chin with a spectacular explosion.

The combined attacks were maddening, causing the beast a lot of pain – but they did not seem to be wounding it in any significant way.  When the dragon lashed out a moment later, it succeeded in burying itself into the lower reaches of the palace in a smoking, flaming crater of destruction.  He saw a statue he’d wandered by a few times get wedged between the long, powerful toes of the beast, providing a sense of scale.  The dragon was larger than the ones they’d faced in Anthatiel, he realized.

Then he heard screams from below through the broken tile and rafters, over the sounds of fire and destruction.  Tyndal knew there were likely still people down there, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

Azar did not let up his attack for a moment.  He followed his blast with a slashing attack that sent a sheet of yellow force down at the beast.  Once again he got a powerful emotional response, but the only damage it seemed to be doing was to the palace around it.

Terleman looked up, suddenly.  “Help is inbound!” he shouted.

“Who?” Rondal asked.  “Master Mi

“Skyriders!” Terleman replied.  As if he’d summoned them himself, three giant hawks sailed through the swirling smoke above the palace, toward the dragon.  Tyndal recognized Frightful, Dara’s majestic bird, in the lead, in full battle gear.  Behind it flew Faithful and the slightly smaller, darker bird he recalled was named Fancy.  Each bird bore a rider in its harness, and each rider began flinging missiles at the dragon below.

“With skybolts!” Rondal agreed, as three of the steel javelins Dara had developed for the corps flew from the Skyriders’ hands with magical force.

“Dragonbolts, Min says,” corrected Terleman, after some mind-to-mind discussion.  “They’ve been anticipating this situation.  We’re seeing a field test.”

As each of the lances struck the beast, it blossomed with a flash of arcane power as a spell manifested.  One appeared to do nothing, but the other two enraged the beast tremendously.  The final one to hit even penetrated deeply enough so that the dragon left a broad smear of blood behind it when it moved.

Unfortunately, in order to get away from the offending lances, the beast decided to burrow itself through the central corridor of the palace . . . under their feet.

With horror they watched the century-old beams of solid redwood that supported the heavy tile roof buckle in a wave as the worm burrowed through the structure.  The noise was tremendous, and the cloud of dust and smoke that arose choked both vision and breath.

Tyndal felt the roof give way under his feet, and then he was flailing around amidst a whirlwind of bricks and beams and tiles and molten lead from the super heated drainage system.

He was glad of his protections against common fires and excess heat, but he was even more appreciative of the dragon scale covering the inside of his hauberk, when a glob of molten lead landed in the center of his chest, but could not penetrate the hide.  He watched it burn itself out in a daze as he finally came to a stop, face up, one leg twisted under him.  There were at least two beams pinning him there.

Haystack, are you all right? Rondal asked.

That . . . hurt, Tyndal offered.

Are you hale? demanded his partner, insistently.

I’m . . . give me a moment . . . I’m pinned, but not perforated.  I don’t think I broke anything.  You?

My arm is trapped between two big bricks, but I think I can slide it out of my shield.  I’ll update Terleman.  You try to get yourself free.

Tyndal shook off his lethargy and attempted to do just that.  Though he couldn’t move his torso, neither of his arms were free.  He laid his hand on the closest beam, the one snaring his chest, and turned it into toothpicks.  That let him sit up and reduce the second the same way.  It took a moment to locate his sword and baculus in the cloud of dust and smoke, but when he did it took only a quick tug on their respective knot coral nodes to bring them to his hand.  After that, freeing his leg was elementary.

Terleman is fine, Rondal reported, a moment later.  The thing has taken up a position in the Great Hall – probably the largest space it could find.

Damn it!  I was hoping to stop by there after the fight for dinner! he quipped.

Just get there, however you can.  I’m on the third floor, now, but I’m knocking a hole through to the second.

Tyndal looked around.  He was on the lowest level.  I’m on the ground floor, near the office of . . . looks like it used to be ecclesiastic alms, he reported.

I know where that is.  Just head down the main corridor toward that ugly fountain with the Sea Folk statues, and you’ll see everyone.

If I can get there, Tyndal replied, realizing that there was considerable rubble obscuring that route.

Terleman, what happened with your spell? Tyndal asked, as he used his baculus to push as much of the debris out of the way as he could.

It worked, the warmage replied.  It worked great.  Stopped up that thing’s airway completely, for a moment.  But there’s too much resistance, even with that snowstone bauble around its neck, he admitted. It choked, but I couldn’t maintain the spell long enough to do more than that. I’ll have to find another way.

There was something itching the back of Tyndal’s mind, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.  And then a moment later he was distracted by screams as he came to an arched doorway that the collapsing ceiling had sealed shut.

Cursing at the delay, he shattered the door with another kindling spell and helped the grateful family through the wreckage toward what he hoped was an exit.  Whomever the courtier was, his daughter looked at Tyndal with profound gratitude.

“You should be safe, if you go through there,” he said, pointing towards a distant hole in the wall, where he could see the gardens and the distant palace wall.

“What is it?” asked the courtier, anxiously.  “Did the goblins attack?”

“Is it more . . . more undead?” shuddered his wife, pulling her nightshirt around her like a mantle.

“Goblins?” Tyndal snorted.  “Undead?  If only the gods had been that kind!  Go!” he ordered, forcefully, as a few more survivors were trying to pull themselves through the rubble.  “Now!  I’ve got to go, and I can’t take you!”

“Where are you going?” demanded the wife, who clearly wanted more protection on this horrible night than her aging, pot-bellied husband was able to provide.

“We want to come with you!” insisted the girl, pulling on his arm.

“You go that way,” he repeated, patiently but insistently.  “I go this way,” he said, pointing with his blade.  “Toward the dragon.”

“DRAGON?” the courtier squealed, scurrying through the wreckage toward safety, grabbing his wife’s hand as he went.  The wife quickly grabbed the daughter’s hand, who looked as if she would still rather be following Tyndal.

He didn’t have time for this, he realized.  Otherwise a lot more people would need rescuing.

He plunged into the dark and chaotic scene in the dragon’s wake, where doors and screens had been ripped off and great pieces of the roof had caved in where it had traveled.  It was difficult to navigate, but with magesight and Grapple’s assistance he was able to pick his way through.  A hundred yards into the wrecked palace he caught up with Rondal, who had to jump down from the second floor when it more or less stop being a floor.

“I was wondering where you went,” his friend said, heaving for breath with the effort.

“There was a girl,” Tyndal dismissed.

“In the middle of a battle with a dragon?” Rondal said, shaking his head.  Tyndal ignored it.  The path they needed to follow was clear.  “That’s it, up there: in the Great Hall.  They’re trying to pin it down, there.”

“What an excellent plan,” Tyndal said, with no trace of enthusiasm in his voice.  Without further comment, the two of them continued to follow the gaping hole in the palace until the found the gaping hole in the wall to the great chamber.

“This is it,” Rondal said, unnecessarily.

“Any ideas?” Tyndal heaved.  The dust was thick in the air now, and the smoke from the burning roof was starting to coat everything.

“Well, we hit it a lot,” reasoned Rondal, “and we drove it in here.  Hitting it a lot seems to have an effect.  Therefore, we hit it even more.”

“You reason like a scholar,” Tyndal said, shaking some debris out of his helmet.  He pulled three spells he thought would be helpful from Grapple’s suggestions and hung them.

“I guess we know what Anguin is spending his windfall on, now,” Rondal chuckled with dark humor, as another section of the palace roof collapsed behind them.  The noise apparently startled the dragon, who whirled and sent a small gout of flame into the corridor as a warning.  Both knights narrowly missed the column of raw fire.

Tyndal waited for the flame to die away before he sprung into the breech and sent a blast of penetrating concussive force – the drawbridge-breaking spell – into the face of the beast.  Then he leapt away again as a second blast of flame chased him down the corridor.

As soon as it died, it was Rondal’s turn.  Instead of blackfire it was a blue lance of power that split the air and filled it with the smell of ozone that flew from his blade.

“Nothing!” he spat, as he rolled out of the way.

“Our turn!” Terleman said, from behind them, as he and Azar jogged up through the ruined, burning corridor.  “All four of us, let’s clobber it at once!”

“The head is pointing this way,” Rondal advised.

“That’s the vulnerable part,” Azar remarked.

“That’s the part with the teeth and the flamethrower,” Tyndal corrected.

“If we wish to slay the thing, it won’t be through the tail,” Terleman insisted.  “The head is our best opportunity.”

“Have we really determined that?” complained Tyndal, in a scholarly tone, “or are we just making an assumption?”

“Now!” Terleman said, lobbing a spell at the beast that was so powerful it singed Tyndal’s eyelashes as it stabbed through air.  A moment later Azar was throwing more bolts from his own blade.  Tyndal and Rondal both joined in, with Tyndal selecting the second of his hung spells.  It sent a wave of tuned power rolling across the floor at knee level, rising in a growing crest as it approached the beast.  Along the way it ensnared part of Rondal’s spell – a rolling green wheel of power – and propelled it with powerful force against the dragon’s face.

Tyndal didn’t stop, and before the second spell hit he used the third.  A blast of multi-colored spikes of energy showered the worm’s head just as the second spell hit.

The combined effect of all of the various sorts of magic was both unanticipated and effective.  The beast howled, set fire to everything around it, and scrambled in a panic to dig its way out of the box it found itself trapped in.  It succeeded in bringing the far eastern wall of the great hall crashing down in a heap, which pulled down the next bay and the apartments attached to it.

“It’s trying to escape!” Terleman warned.

“Good!” Tyndal shouted.  “Good riddance!”

“No, we have to slay it!” Azar insisted.  “I have vowed to do so!”

“We’ve been hitting it with everything we have,” Terleman observed, “but we’ve only managed to piss it off.”

“What about Taren?” Rondal proposed.  “Didn’t he have an idea?”

“He’s still not ready!” Terleman said, over the roar of the angry worm.  “He needs more time!”

“He’ll have the time,” Tyndal muttered.  “But there won’t be any of us left by then!”

The main section of the roof above them caved in on the dragon, causing it to shake its head angrily and lash about with its hind legs and tail . . . which significantly weakened the northern wall.

A moment later, the wall came down altogether with a mighty rumble, exposing a length of the palace long enough to joust through.

“It would seem the cavalry has arrived, gentlemen.” Terleman observed, nodding to the newly-opened region of the palace.

It took a few moments for the dust to clear enough for Tyndal to see them with unaided eyes, but with magesight he was able to quickly pick out a small cluster of figures on the other side of the wall.  One he recognized immediately as his old master.

Minalan had donned his own battle armor for the attack, a much thicker version of what they wore, and he had Blizzard in one hand and his mageblade, Twilight, in the other.

All that was missing was his Witchsphere, Tyndal realized.  Without that, Master Minalan was no more powerful than any other mage, he reasoned.

Before Minalan and his reinforcements could attack, a brace of Dara’s Skyriders darted through the smoke and threw their dragonbolts at the beast again, to similar effect.

“We’re still just irritating it, not truly wounding it,” Terleman said, troubled, as the beast shook off the attack with an angry bellow.

“Minalan is here,” Azar said, confidently.  “Let’s see what he can do.”

The Spellmonger proved then that he was a formidable power, even without his abundance of irionite.  Tyndal watched in awe as his former master used Blizzard to summon a link to the Snowflake of Sevendor, that mysterious object his master had built with his fevered mind out of unique crystals, and imbued with powers no one was really certain of, yet.

But the spectra of force that shot forth like a spurt from a cow’s udder plastered the worm’s head with such a variety of powers and forces that it was thrown back into what was left of the hall.  The four warmagi on the other side of it narrowly escaped being hammered by its mighty wing by scrambling out of the way.

Minalan continued to train the braid of powers on the beast, splashing it across its length and raising an ugly welt of damage across the dragon’s flanks.  But as the sinuous head darted out of the way, the tail and legs flailed around for purchase, rendering the great hall to rubble once and for all.

Then the other warmagi Minalan had brought joined in, stepping over the ruins to add their power to the assault. Among them were Master Cormoran, flashing beams from two different mageblades, a scowl on his face; Astyral with a band of power running from hand to hand, stabbing at the dragon every few moments, his white tunic magically rebuffing the soot and smoke around him; even Carmella had come, riding a kind of odd wizardly construct like an insect, whose tail was fitted with an extremely powerful arbalest that seemed to be lobbing arm-sized bolts at the dragon without anyone reloading it.

But when Master Loiko bounded into the fray, the battle took on another character entirely.

“Venaren?” Terleman said, his eyes bulging.  “Here?”

Azar’s face split into a wide grin.  “This should prove instructive!” he declared, hefting his greatsword into place and marching toward his old commander without a second thought.  Terleman swept off his mantle and adjusted his armor before he raised Warmaster and followed.

“Uh, oh,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “They brought in the old-timers!”

It was impressive, how quickly Master Loiko took command and control of the battle.  While Terleman lead with directness and efficiency, and Minalan . . . well, had a style of his own, Master Loiko’s presence served to crystalize the efforts of the other wizards.  As the dragon struggled to right itself after the unexpected assault, Master Loiko directed the others with quiet orders and a keen eye.  Minalan held the beast at bay with his multi-spectral stream, while the others focused their efforts where the old veteran directed, as best befit his assessment of their talents.

When his turn came, the warmagic master glanced at Tyndal thoughtfully and grunted.

“We’re going to knock it down, and isolate the head and neck, just like you did last time,” he informed them both.  “But when we do, we’re going to have to find a way to kill it that doesn’t destroy the entire town. Since Taren’s spell might just do that, the task falls to you,” he stated, matter-of-factly.

Rondal blinked, confusedly.  “My lord, I think you have gravely mistaken— “

“Figure it out,” he ordered, sharply, and then turned to go speak to Terleman.

“Figure it out?” Rondal asked, in disbelief, as the warmage walked away.  “Just figure it out?”

“That’s the job,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.

They stared at each other dumbly for a few moments, each hoping the other one had an idea.  The lengthy silence, as the dragon flailed and their comrades renewed their attack, indicated that neither did.

“What happened to your armor?” Rondal suddenly asked, pointing to the singed spot.  “I didn’t think you got hit with dragonfire.”

“That was just the roof coming down on me,” Tyndal dismissed.  “If I’d fallen a few more inches the other direction it would have hit me . . .” he said, trailing off as a startling new possibility occurred to him.

“What?” demanded Rondal.  Tyndal thought about it.  It was magical, but it wasn’t exactly the kind of magical attack it could defend against . . . he hoped.

“Briga’s pretty eyes, I’ve got an idea!” he said, boldly.  “Follow me!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Where?” Rondal pleaded, but followed dutifully.  Tyndal lead him behind the line of warmagi who were continuing to strike at the dragon, keeping it too preoccupied with each new attack to respond with a gout of flame.  Minalan was in the lead, pouring the energies of the Snowflake into the beast with a mad look of determination on his face.

Tyndal ran right behind him, and kept going toward the massive pile of debris that had once been the roof of the Great Hall.

“What are we doing?” begged Rondal, as Tyndal set his baculus and sword down and began tearing through the wreckage.  He found what he was looking for almost immediately: a section of downspout from the drainage on the roof.

“Lead!” he pronounced.  “In Enultramar they tie the tiles on with wire, and cement them into place, because it’s too hot in the summer to use lead.  Here in Vorone, its cooler, so they could use lead to seal the slate rooves, since it is stronger and more durable than clay.  And more waterproof.”

“So?” Rondal asked, glancing over his shoulder at the battle.  “It also causes the children of lead miners to be idiots!  Was your mother a lead miner?” he demanded.

“No,” Tyndal said, absently, as he pulled as much of the lead drainage pipe from the wreckage as he could, “she was a drunk and casual with her virtue.  But she birthed a brilliant son,” he added, as the pile quickly grew.  “Now help me, and I’ll explain my plan!”

A few minutes later, once the astonished Rondal lent his aid to the task, Tyndal was marching confidently toward the dragon, Grapple in both hands.  The most powerful warmagi in the world were continuing to attack, but there were fewer of them.  Carmella’s magical machine lay smashed against a fallen tower, and she was clutching her arm behind it, a warwand in her hand.  Astyral was sprawled on the ground in a heap, his white mantle immaculate, except for all of the blood.

But the dragon had been wounded, by then.  Azar’s huge greatsword impaled one of the great knuckles of its wing to the ground, the point buried in stone, and now the beast could not fly without ripping its wing to tatters.  While Tyndal had mixed feelings about that, it did make his task easier.

“Terleman!” he called out, over the man’s shoulder as he continued to send a punishing array of attack spells at the beast’s eyes, whenever he could.

“What?” the veteran called out over his shoulder, annoyed and alarmed.  He had discarded his helmet, and his face was starting to look worried, despite the mighty forces at play around him.

“When it goes down, use that choking spell!” he insisted.

“But it only works for a moment!” Terleman said, confused.  “Then it dissipates inside its high-density resistance field like all the others!”

“I know!” Tyndal shouted.  “A moment is all it will take!”

Terleman nodded, including the idea in his tactics as he worked himself closer and closer to the dragon.

By this point it had backed its way into the palace beyond the ruined Great Hall, using its massive legs and tail to dig a path to protect its hindquarters, but one which wouldn’t pull too hard on its damaged wing.  That sent another great cloud of dust into the sky as debris cascaded down on its back.

But when the other wing settled down, across the smoldering gardens behind the Great Hall, Master Loiko took a note from Azar and threw a beam the size of a ship’s mast with resounding force into the broad sail of the wing.  The redwood log, splintered at one end by the dragon’s thrashings, buried itself deeply into the earthen mound outside the palace, pinning the other wing into place.

“Everyone!” Minalan called.  “The eyes!  Hit its eyes!”

Tyndal ignored the order – that wasn’t what he was supposed to do.  Instead he watched as the focus of the attack turned toward the huge alien eyes under the thick leathery lids which stared at them with such hatred, and prepared for his moment.

He reached out to Azar, who was now fighting the beast with warwands and improvised spells.  Azar, when that thing opens its mouth next, could you find a way to keep it open a moment?

How long? Azar replied, though he was bounding across the battlefield, conjuring another destructive spell.

Ten seconds, maybe twelve, Tyndal replied.

Not a problem.  You have an idea?

Probably an elaborate one, for a suicide, he joked.  But yes.

Good for you, kid! Azar sent back, as he rolled behind Minalan and came up with a double fistful of arcane force.  The blast didn’t do anything for a moment, but quickly send the dragon’s jaw crashing to the floor, shattering another expensive mosaic.

“Terleman, now!” Tyndal yelled, as he charged towards the beast’s maw, as large as a castle gate and far more intimidating.  The yellow tendril snaked out once again and stabbed its way into the dragon’s throat, stopping its breath.

It reacted as any breathing thing would – it opened its mouth and tried expelling what was blocking its airway.  In a moment Terleman’s spell would fade, he knew.  He had to move now.

Azar threw his spell without being asked, seeing the moment of the open mouth as his opportunity.  With a wave of his hands a bronze statue of Duke Joris II and his horse flew across the room and wedged itself between the dragon’s gigantic jaws.  It wouldn’t take long for it to spit the thing out, or crunch it into shreds, Tyndal knew, but even a dragon would take time destroying something made of bronze.  At the moment it was more concerned with the arcane blockage in its throat than the statue jamming its jaws over.  It retched like a cat with a hairball, panic starting to form in its great eyes.

That was Tyndal’s cue.  He ran up to the struggling dragon, Grapple thrust out in front of him, and shoved the dragonshead of the baculus into the hideous gate of the actual dragon’s mouth, as far back into its throat as he could reach.   Then he said the mnemonic that opened the hoxter pocket in his staff . . . the other portal to which was affixed in Rondal’s staff.

In seconds, his baculus exploded with a stream of molten lead.  Rondal had heated as much of the stuff as he could to melting with magic before he’d sent it into the interdimensional space.  That proved to be about sixty pounds of it, plus assorted bits of steel, iron, and masonry that went along for the ride.  The fiery shower streamed out like it was falling through the bottom of a bucket, filling the massive throat that was gasping for enough air to breathe.  Tyndal stopped the spell just shy of emptying it, when he saw a massive bubble of molten lead completely occlude the clasping throat.

When Terleman’s spell failed a moment later, and the beast managed to draw a breath, it inhaled sixty pounds of molten lead into its gullet.  Tyndal spoke the activation for the other spell hung on his baculus . . . and suddenly every bit of heat was sucked out of the liquid lead, transforming it.  It solidified instantly.

Then he ran like hell.  And so was everyone else.

The struggles of the beast to clear its airway of an all-too-material obstruction were dramatic, and took out a good deal of the north face of the palace before the wagon-sized head finally crashed to the earth with a final shudder.  Though the tail and wing tips twitched, he didn’t have to use his baculus to know that life had left the gigantic monster.

He fell to his knees and surveyed the dying creature, and the scene of destruction it had wrought.  And then it dawned on him.

He’d just slain a dragon.

Chapter Thirty-Three

A Moment With The King

“Well, this is certainly… unexpected.” Duke Anguin said, as he surveyed the ruins of his palace as dawn broke over the devastated palace and the dead dragon next to it.

From the far west wing to far beyond the center of the structure, the palace was laid to waste.  While the exterior walls on both sides were more or less intact through most of the palace, everything inside had been destroyed or burned by the dragon attack.  The barracks was a heap of ash.  The once-pristine gardens were piled with rubble and the bodies of those who had not escaped.  Only the far east end of the place was at all intact.  His personal apartments and those of most of his ministers were destroyed.

The Orphan Duke had been spending a few days at his local estates to impress his tenant lords how important it was to him that they improve their yields when the news came of the attack on his palace.  Tyndal and Rondal had gone to fetch him through the Ways, trying to prepare him for the devastation before they brought him back along with his private chaplain, Landfather Amus.

Father Amus set about organizing the rescue and recovery efforts at once, transforming the Temple Ward outside the palace’s precinct into a field hospital, organizing the clergy to tend the hundreds of wounded.

But Anguin could do little more than tour the devastation and gaze upon the mighty wyrm sprawled next to his palace who was responsible for it, while his brave subjects did their best to sift through the rubble for the survivors and the dead.  The toll was already in the hundreds of the latter, and nearly a thousand living souls had been wounded as they fled at the insistence of the wizards who brought word of the attack.

Had it occurred even a few hours later, most of the palace would have been asleep for the night, and the toll of dead and wounded would have been much higher.  As it was, a good number of the court were out in the town, enjoying entertainments, liaisons, or business meetings.

The Prime Minister, Tyndal learned, was in the Temple of the Storm Father meeting with the clergy there, for some reason, and the stuffy old bag who handled the Treasury and the portly nun who seemed to trail her everywhere were at a meeting of burghers.  Count Salgo was entertaining his men on the Street of Perfume.

But there were many who were not so fortunate.  Tyndal pulled a fair number of courtiers, servants, guards, and other denizens of the palace from their unexpected tomb until dawn broke, and he was summoned to other duties.  After a while you just got numb to the sight of lifeless eyes and crushed skulls, he concluded.

He and Rondal were detailed by Lady Pentandra to escort the Duke, on the fear that further attempts against the government would be made.  Tyndal could see the wisdom of that . . . but he could also see the wisdom in three days of uninterrupted sleep.

“It was a sudden attack, Your Grace, with no warning,” Rondal agreed.  “This dragon was either from the Umbra, or from Olum Seheri.  Either way, it seems as if your foes have responded to your reprisals.”

“And without a single scrug being involved,” the young duke said, shaking his head.  “Damages?”

“Well, the palace is ruined beyond repair,” Rondal pointed out, unnecessarily.  “But Lady Pentandra checked on the essential records and treasury and such.  All of her spells worked as intended, so those documents are intact.  As is your treasury.”

“But not my people,” he said, despairingly.

“Over two hundred dead, so far, Your Grace,” Rondal informed him, apologetically.  “We can expect that number to double or triple, before this evening.”

“Over a thousand wounded, mostly minor injuries, but some will join their ancestors before sunset,” added Tyndal.

Duke Anguin looked around at the destruction.  “This . . . this is unexpected,” he said, in a daze.  Then his expression firmed.  “And unacceptable!”

“We have little choice but to accept it, Your Grace,” Rondal said, sorrowfully.

“Thank the gods the damage was confined to the palace,” their sovereign sighed.  “Had it spread to the town, proper, all would be lost.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Shereul just sent a dragon to destroy your home,” Tyndal pointed out, confused.

“True, and as much as I disliked it, it was my home, at least for a time,” Anguin said.  “But it was just a house.  This was an attack on my government, my lords.   Please summon the Spellmonger,” he requested, politely.  “I would have his counsel on this matter.  And that of my court wizard.”

Tyndal contacted Pentandra, mind-to-mind, while Rondal did the same to Minalan.  In a moment both of them came through the Ways, though Lady Pentandra vomited most heartily when she arrived.

“Your Grace,” Minalan bowed, while Pentandra retched.  “What may I do for you?”

“Master Minalan, my realm has been attacked, and though I retaliated it has been attacked again.  What can I do, other than stand here and take this insult?”

Minalan considered.  “Your Grace, I suggest you appeal to the King.  It was his treaty that brought this situation into existence.  It must be up to him to address it, apart from your own response.”

“I agree, Your Grace,” Pentandra added, wiping her mouth.  “Your people will be angry about this – even as they fear what may come.  If you are struck such a grievous blow, you must return one.  In one way or another.”

“We tried that last month, when we slighted two castles and freed a thousand slaves,” complained Anguin.  “This is the result.”

“A matter for the king, Your Grace,” Minalan repeated.  “Take your guidance from him, at this time.  For if you act without it, he can accuse you of rebellion, and that is not something you can risk right now.”

“Agreed,” sighed the Duke.  “Very well.  Gentlemen?  Will you accompany me?” he asked Tyndal and Rondal.  “I name you members of my court and counselors of the realm.  And perhaps showing up with the Spellmonger on my elbow might be . . . distracting.”

“You wish to journey to Castabriel, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, surprised.

“It is my understanding that Rard tarries at Wilderhall, to enjoy the autumn’s hunt,” Anguin replied, his voice tightly controlled.  “I propose to seek him there.  If, that is, I can impose on the Arcane Orders to send me there through your Ways.”

“You . . . you wish to bring this to Rard’s attention now, Your Grace?”  Pentandra asked, her eyes widening.

“My dear,” Anguin said, tiredly, “I intend on bringing this to Rard’s very breakfast table, this very morning.”

There was a moment’s silence, as the implications of that statement set in.

“You want to give him a war, to start his day?” Minalan asked, skeptically.  “Your Grace, that is not perhaps the—”

“Master Minalan, I appreciate the counsel, and I realize that antagonizing my uncle is not necessarily the best course of action,” Anguin explained.  “But neither is sitting here in ruin and waiting on him to deign to grant an audience.  I am a peer of the realm at the highest of levels and my fief is under attack; by Luin’s sacred staff, he will see me this morning!”

If Tyndal hadn’t been prepared to fight a dragon when he’d dressed for dinner the previous night, neither had he been ready for an audience with the king at breakfast.  But as he followed his Duke down the long wooden corridor, Rondal matching his determined stride, he reflected that Ifnia clearly didn’t give a damn about his preparations.

And he still hadn’t eaten.

Anguin was angry, as angry as Tyndal had ever seen the lad.  No, it wasn’t a lad who was stomping down the halls of venerable Wilderhall, it was the lord of a fell people who had been wronged and was ready to ride to war who stalked King Rard through his castle in the morning light.

The castellan was hastily summoned at the appearance of the Duke – luckily, he remembered him from when he’d first arrived at the capital after his parents died, else he might not have entertained the idea that His Grace was actually here to see His Majesty.  But when Anguin thumped the golden coronet-of-maintenance he wore on his head, and shoved the ducal seal of Alshar under his nose, the man was quick to see if His Majesty would entertain him so early in the day.

“Duin’s Axe, man, this is an emergent situation!” Anguin insisted.  “I don’t care if His Majesty is taking a bath with his maiden aunt, I will speak to him at once!”

“Your Grace,” the official said, firmly but politely, placing himself protectively in front of the huge double wooden doors “As I am sure you are aware, Castali protocol dictates that—”

“Sir Tyndal?” Anguin interrupted, forcefully.  “Please demonstrate Alshari protocol in these situations.”  He didn’t bother to look up at his knight, but Tyndal had an idea of what kind of display he wanted.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, approaching the castellan, who put his hand protectively on his belt with his keys and dagger.  Tyndal made certain to keep his hands up above his waist, away from his weapons, and affected a friendly manner.

“You see, in an emergency in the Wilderlands,” he said, as if explaining a subject of elementary difficulty to a child, “we tend to see timeliness as being of serious import.  And when we see obstacles to that sense of alacrity, we . . . remove them,” he said, placing his hand on the door next to the castellan’s head.  He willed the spell he’d hung into action, and the ornate doors crumbled into a pile of iron fittings and toothpicks.

“We so appreciate you indulging our protocol, in this situation, my lord,” Rondal said, as he helped Duke Anguin past the pile of tiny wooden splinters.  “See how the union of duchies is advancing our mutual prosperity?”

Two guards intervened at the door to the king’s chamber, and Tyndal was ready to slay them or disable them, as the Duke commanded.  But Anguin stopped shy of the men, gave the slightest of bows, and addressed them.

“His Grace, Anguin II of Alshar, to see His Majesty, Rard I of Castalshar, about a matter of the highest importance concerning the security of the realm,” he declared, forcefully.  Tyndal tried his utmost to look both intimidating and official.  It was difficult.  He still smelled dragon in his nostrils.

“His Majesty is meeting with his chaplain, right now, Your Grace,” the senior guard – a knight Tyndal vaguely recalled from Gilmora – said, respectfully.

“His Majesty has cultivated religious devotion, since news of the Princess’ kidnapping arrived,” the other man in the guard’s tabard admitted.  “He suffers over the loss.  He meets with the clergy of each of the gods, morning and night, to discover some means of recovering her.”

“Then we will abide until the conclusion of their prayers,” Anguin said.  “I would not begrudge a man with so much on his shoulders the time he spends in reflection and contemplation of his soul,” he conceded quietly.

“I’m certain His Majesty would appreciate the courtesy,” agreed the first knight, who did not look as if he was much willing to extend any himself.

“Sir Ladromal,” Tyndal began, after he finally remembered the man’s name, “I’ve heard that His Majesty has offered two baronies in Gilmora to the man who brings his daughter home to him.  Is that true?”

“It is, Sir Tyndal,” the man nodded.  “Among many other treasures.  But he despairs of ever seeing her again.”

“As it happens, I have word of the pirate responsible for her capture,” he said.  “As well as some idea of her present location.”  The news made both knights look at each other, worriedly.

“Perhaps I can see if His Majesty is nearly done,” Sir Ladromal said, warily, as he opened the door.

“Do you?” whispered Anguin.

“We do, Your Grace,” assured Rondal.  “If that is the key that gains us admission, then let us turn it.”

Sir Ladromal was back a moment later, his expression grave.  “His Majesty will see you in another moment.  He is dismissing his chaplain now.”

Good idea.  I still have that manifest. Rondal said to Tyndal.

I figured it would come in handy, agreed Tyndal.  Considerate of Pratt, to leave it there for us.

A moment later an elderly priestess left the royal chamber, a grim expression on her face.  She wore the distinctive habit and wooden sigil of Afona, a goddess of rivers and forests popular in the rural Wilderlands.  If Rard was seeking advice from rustic nuns, he must be getting desperate.

“Your Grace,” Rard called, from the doorway.  “Welcome to my hall.  I did not receive word that you were visiting,” he said, curiously, as Anguin strode boldly in

King Rard looked older and more haggard than the last time Tyndal had seen him.  His long blonde locks were streaked with gray, and his face was wider, and crossed with lines.

“I imposed on my arcane retainers and came by magic,” Anguin said, as if he’d hired a rouncey at a livery stable.  “The situation was that urgent.”

“My daughter?” Rard asked, sharply.  “You have news of Rardine?”

“Yes,” Anguin said, taking a deep breath.  “But that is not the nature of my visit.  My palace was razed this morning,” he announced, a trace of emotion seeping into his voice.  “By a dragon.  Hundreds dead.  Thousands wounded.”

“Dragon?” Rard asked, his attention instantly focused.

“Yes, Your Majesty, a dragon.  More, a dragon sent by Shereul to punish me for the temerity of protecting my own lands.  I razed two of the gurvani’s captured castles in the disputed territories this summer, after they raided us at the Solstice, and this is how they repay me.”

“Vorone was destroyed?” he asked, a cascade of different emotions falling over his face.

“No, Sire, merely the palace.  My brave gentlemen countered the threat and slew the beast before it could go beyond the walls, but not before it destroyed the seat of my government.

“You?” the king asked, confused.  “Killed a dragon?”

“Technically, I did, Your Majesty,” Tyndal said, raising his hand.  “Sir Rondal helped,” he added, swiftly.

“It matters not how it was done,” Anguin said, patiently, “for all the valor inherent in the act.  What matters is that your realm has been attacked, Your Majesty, more than once.  As your loyal subject, I look to you for guidance, my liege, and beg you for your protection as I must, under the terms of my vassalage.  When the enemy holds your own daughter, what steps will you take to defend not just your kingdom and your subjects, but your own kin, Sire?”

“The gurvani have Rardine?” he asked, his face growing flush.  “Dear gods, when I asked you for a sign, this is not what I meant!” he said, to the divine, who didn’t seem to answer.  “How do you know this?” he demanded.

“Your Majesty, Sir Tyndal and I chanced to be in Enultramar on some errantry for our Order, when we came across an old foe,” Rondal began.  “We happened to take possession of his manifest, after hearing him brag about the stature of his prisoners taken at sea off of Farise.”  He produced the single page of parchment from his hoxter pocket and handed it to the king with a bow.

“As you can see, Your Majesty, this fellow has not just your daughter, but three of your ministers as well,” Tyndal observed.  “Any one of them would be a risk to the security of the state.  Now all of them, we have it on good authority, have been sold to representatives of Shereul, the Dead God of the gurvani.”

“Or at least to one of his vassals, the Alkan renegade Korbal, called the Necromancer,” Rondal picked up.  “We suspect that Her Highness and her entourage are being transported to the remote mountain fortress of Olum Seheri, in the Land of Scars.  That is why the rebels in Enultramar have not released any demands.  They do not have your daughter,” he guessed.

“To our thinking, Your Majesty,” Tyndal continued, quickly, “the rebels knew you’d try to invade at once if you knew they had her, and so they passed her off to someone who . . . well, who wanted her more.”

“But why would they want poor Rardine?” he demanded.

Why would anyone want that murderous bitch? Tyndal asked himself, restraining himself from sharing it with Rondal.  He had no doubt his partner was thinking something similar.  Rardine was a particularly unpleasant woman, vicious, calculating, and willing to do anything to accomplish her aims.  The thought of her in a prison, somewhere, actually soothed a part of Tyndal’s mind.

“For a number of reasons, Your Majesty,” Rondal said, smoothly.  “To use as a lever against your policies, for one; as a hostage she can keep you from prosecuting the war further.  As an intelligence resource alone she is a trove, merely for being Princess of the realm.  If they discover her unique position in Castalshar’s intelligence service . . . well, that could prove dire for the government, and not just for you as a father, my liege.”

“But . . . but the gurvani are just mountain savages!” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.  “They can fight, it is true, but this . . .”

“Clearly, Uncle, there is far more going on in the West than you have considered,” Anguin said, quietly.  “Thankfully, the attentive gentlemen of my court have been keeping an eye on the Mindens while you and my dear aunt have been building your palace.  But now that events have overtaken us, I think it may be time for you to reconsider your perspective on this matter.”

Rard’s eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed while he was deep in thought.  None of them dared to interrupt the king when he was, clearly, doing kingly things.

At last he sighed, and motioned Anguin to sit across from a small desk.  Tyndal took a position on his liege’s left side, as Rondal did to his right.

“My lords,” Rard began, “I am not entirely ignorant of events in the West, as you may assume.  My agents have infiltrated the rebels in Enultramar, and were even quietly observing events in Vorone,” he said, apologetically.  Admitting that your spies are spying on the man you are addressing must be awkward, Tyndal considered.

Anguin nodded, unconcerned.  “As I have observers in Castabriel and Wilderhall, among other places.”

Rard halted, ever-so-briefly.  Apparently the idea that the penniless Orphan Duke and his rustic court had the wherewithal to undertake espionage on his own king was startling news to Rard.  But then he continued, as it was of no consequence.

“Then you understand how detached from such events it can make you, Nephew.  Let me give you some advice in governance,” he said, taking a more fatherly tone.  “If you react to every bit of news that your spies dump into your lap, then wisdom dictates that you treat it very carefully before you commit to action.  Half of what you will hear will be untrue or incomplete, and the other half will be out-of-date by the time you can take effective action.

“But I have, indeed, been watching the West, as best I can.  And perhaps this is the bit of news I need to consider a new policy toward the gurvani.  But as to what that policy is . . . gentlemen, entire nations tremble depending upon what I decide.”

“The importance of your decision is appreciated, Uncle,” Lenguin agreed.  “But as your loyal vassal, so is my duty.  I have been attacked, and while I have attempted to handle the matter myself, locally, things seem to have escalated to the point where I must now come to you.”

“A dragon eating your palace is, indeed, an escalation.” admitted the king.  “And this . . . acquisition of my daughter . . .”

“I think it demands a response, Uncle,” Anguin advised, quietly.

“Indeed,” he agreed.  “But what response . . . that is my burden.  I must not imperil my daughter’s life, but I cannot let this violation go unanswered.”  He stared out of the small round glass window that looked over the rose garden.  “As for you, Nephew,” he said, before returning his tired eyes to Anguin, “now that you have faithfully discharged your duty and informed your liege of your trials, what do you intend to do?”

“I shall return to what remains of my palace, bury my dead, and see to my wounded,” Anguin quietly declared.

“And I take it that you desire some compensation from the crown to pay for a new palace?” Rard frowned.

Rondal spoke, before Anguin could.  “And force Castali lords to pay for an Alshari duke’s palace?  Nay, Your Majesty.  Alshar will look to its own.”

That surprised Rard . . . and earned a dirty look from Anguin, who did not yet know about the two million ounces of gold that was going to unexpectedly appear in his treasury.  Tyndal felt obligated to support his partner in his bold assertion.

“Your Majesty, we ask nothing from you but your lawful duty,” he said, smoothly.  “When Duke Anguin returned to restore his realm after being your guest, he committed to do so without undue assistance.  We will, of course, be forced to move some of our forces around,” he said, casually, “perhaps see to a safer location for the capital . . . surely the Crown would take no issue with that, if it involved no expense from the royal treasury.  Perhaps just a more secure stockade, in some defensible region”

“Yes, yes, if you need to relocate your government, say, closer to the Castali frontier, I completely understand.  The Crown takes no issue with a Duke’s right to fortify and defend his lands,” he declared.  “See to the safety of your people, however you see fit, Nephew.

“For my part, at the very least I can strengthen the forces protecting the rest of the Kingdom.  Clearly, the Iron Ring is not sufficient to screen the people, there.  I shall draw up an edict strengthening it.”

“That would be a blessing from Duin, Your Majesty,” Rondal agreed, with a bow.  Of course, Tyndal knew, the Iron Band, the corps of royal mercenaries who patrolled the Iron Ring, the string of fortresses in and around the Penumbralands, were mostly debtors – lousy gamblers and decent troops, if only for garrison duty.  But they were hardly better than the peasants they allegedly protected, so spread out and diffuse were their settlements.  “And while His Grace will have to consult with the Treasury, I believe that Alshar can pledge a thousand ounces of gold to support that.”

“Yes . . .” Anguin said, looking at Rondal with a strange expression.  “I am certain we shall be able to contribute something to such an important effort.  And building a new stronghold would be advisable, if expensive,” he added, wistfully.  “But it must be done, with your blessing.”

“Perhaps if Your Grace was granted his full sovereignty over the Castali Havens,” proposed Tyndal, boldly, “then those revenues would assist.”  The five coastal fiefs on the western portion of Castal’s coastline had been ceded to the Dukes of Alshar, in fief to Castal, as part of the Gilmoran settlement after the Second Peace of Barrowbell.  Returning them to Anguin’s control could mollify the Sea Lords in his court, Tyndal knew.  He’d heard all about their aborted uprising, and the subsequent executions, of the Sea Lord loyalists from Pentandra.  Apart from a few large estates in Gilmora itself and the Wilderlands, it was the only bit of Alshari territory within Anguin’s grasp.

“That would provide at least a little more revenue,” agreed Rondal, reasonably.  “Currently they are administered by the Crown, I believe.  The money is not huge, for a treasury the size of the Kingdom,” he pointed out.  “But it could give the non-rebellious parts of Alshar some additional stability, if they were returned, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, well, I suppose there is no good reason to keep them from you,” he frowned.  “There’s a small sized merchant fleet attached, too, but of course you know that.  Very well, I shall inform the Prime Minister to release those lands, and you can assign proper tenant lords to them.  Or grant them outright,” he shrugged.

“You are most gracious, Uncle,” Anguin said, standing.  “I hesitate to take up any more of your time, and in truth my own realm requires me.  But I very much appreciate your willingness to hear me, and I pledge to continue as your lawful, loyal vassal.”

“It is pleasant enough just to hear a kind word from my nephew,” Rard smiled, sadly.  “It is more than I have had from your cousin, since he took his legacy.  As much as I love my new grandson, Tavard wishes to have little to do with me, these days, if it doesn’t involve expanding his holdings.”  He sounded sad as he delivered the news.

“I wish for nothing that I have not fairly earned, Uncle,” assured Anguin.

“At least you are well-served by your retainers,” Rard said, shaking his head as he rose.  “My son surrounds himself with lickspittle sycophants who seek nothing but his favor, and will whisper anything to get it.  These two scoundrels,” he said, smiling at Tyndal and Rondal, “have more ambition in their big toe than my son’s entire court.  You would do well to keep them close,” he advised, as he showed them to the door.  “Like their mentor, they are smart, quick-witted, and bold.”

“Yes, Uncle,” he replied, as he bowed respectfully to his king.  “I have recently come to appreciate just how well-served I am by them.”

“You know, I have offered two baronies to the man who rescues my daughter.  Two baronies in Gilmora,” he added, knowingly.  “A couple of brave wizards might earn them, should they complete such a quest,” he said, looking from Tyndal to Rondal and back again.

“Your Majesty, we are, alas, engaged in His Grace’s service, at the moment,” Tyndal said, boldly.  “But we shall keep that opportunity in mind.  One never knows where a knight mage might find himself.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Recovery Of Vorone

“What in nine hells was that all about?” Anguin demanded, angrily, as the three of them strode away from their audience.  “You just pledged a thousand ounces of my gold!” he said, angrily.  “You realize that if it hadn’t been for your magic, I would not have had the funds to even travel to Wilderhall?  Viscountess Threanas is going to give birth to a live troll on the spot, when she hears about that!”

“Not after she hears our news, Your Grace,” Rondal said, quickly, as he followed his liege.  “Sir Tyndal and I were quite successful in our errantry in Enultramar.  We . . . well, we ended up stealing the entire treasury of the Brotherhood of the Rat.”

“The . . . what did you say?” Anguin said, stopping in the middle of the aisle.

Tyndal looked around to ensure no one was near enough to overhear.  “Your Grace, we took their entire treasury.  We were on our way to reveal that to you, when the dragon intervened.  We procured it for your treasury.”

“My treasury?” he asked, curious.  “How much?”

“Over two million ounces of gold,” Rondal said, very quietly.

“And some change,” Tyndal added.  “So a thousand toward the Iron Band is not going to be difficult to manage.  And it makes you look both generous and invested in the defense.”

“And while we were at it, we secured royal permission for you to establish a new stronghold.  A city you can defend.  That we can defend,” he emphasized.

“That . . . that’s true,” Anguin said, his eyes dazed.  “Two million?  Two million . . . of gold?”

“And a dragonload of silver,” Tyndal agreed.  “Consider it confiscated from criminals.”

“You . . . you two . . . you have saved us!” he said, his eyes wide.

“We have merely given you what is your due, Your Grace,” assured Rondal, philosophically.  “But it should be adequate to stabilize your government, start construction on your new palace . . . and build the city the Pentandra and Minalan are so intent upon.  A new capital for the Wilderlands,” he proposed, “a fortress built with magic, strengthened with magic, and protected with magic.”

“A refuge for the folk of the Wilderlands,” Tyndal said, ambitiously.  “Such a city would provide the foundation for a foray into the south.”

Anguin considered it, and then continued walking, shaking his head.  “That is a great undertaking, my friends.  I will have to consider it.  Now that I have the funds to do so, though, it gives me great hope.”  He looked at them both.  “Why, gentlemen?  It is not that I’m unappreciative – and you shall be rewarded, as well as I can – but you wish to simply give me this fortune?  This fortune of fortunes?”

“What would we do with it?” Tyndal shrugged.  “We have more coin than we can spend as it is, and we have no wish to become entangled in the management of lands, prematurely.”

“Indeed, we have taken a vow to restore all of Enultramar to your rule, Your Grace,” Rondal agreed.  “This is but a step on that path.”

“Remarkable,” Anguin said.  “Master Minalan said you would be assets, but I had no idea . . . name your reward, my friends.  Surely you have some boon you desire?  If not lands, what?”

“Let us postpone that discussion, Your Grace, until we have something more worthy to reward than mere thievery,” Rondal suggested.  “Indeed, if there should be any who deserve recognition for this feat, it is your loyal subjects in House Furtius.  A young nobleman we know, who risked his life to accomplish our task, and his kin.  The son of the man whose letter I bore to you,” he reminded the duke.

“Let us contend with the disaster in Vorone, and then I will be happy to honor these remarkable people,” he declared.  “My gods, I owe them – you –”

“You owe us nothing but your grace, Anguin,” Tyndal said, with as much humility as he could muster.  “Now, would you like to return immediately to Vorone . . . or would you like to stop by the great hall, first?  From what I recall of our examinations, here, they do a delightful breakfast . . . with the palace kitchen in ashes, it may be a while before you are afforded a hot meal again.”

*

*

*

The recovery at Vorone took days, and the toll of the dead rose with each new section uncovered.  Carmella sent for her students from Salis Tower to assist with the search, and hundreds of workers poured in from the refugee camps for the promise of a few pennies to clear away the wreckage.  A few survivors were discovered, early on, thanks to the help of the magi who scryed the site and directed the effort, but as the day grew older, the hopes toward finding more dimmed.

The dead were carried to the Temple Ward, where they were laid out to be identified and given burial rites before being claimed by their families.  When the final tally was taken nearly six hundred bodies were taken from the palace.  Among them were many who would be missed.  While many of the ministers and officials had been away from the palace, proper, during the attack, there were entire ministries that had been wiped out . . . and the toll amongst the many servants and their families, who mostly lived in the East wing where the attack first occurred, was devastating.

The number of wounded was far higher.  Hundreds were burned, some near to death,

Tyndal and Rondal pitched in with the rest of the magi.  Minalan worked quickly to organize campaign tents to be erected to cover the dead and wounded, and imported a few key physickers from Sevendor, to lend a hand.  Monks and nuns poured out of the abbeys to come give their aid for the wounded, and assist in the burials.

The palace, of course, was almost a total loss.  Only the far western end of the place was spared the worst of the damage, and while there were several key offices there, the destruction of the rest of the palace forced many offices to crowd into the undamaged portion, temporarily.  Those that were left.

Tyndal didn’t envy Pentandra her job, particularly after losing three of her staff to the dragon, including her maid and her castellan.  She looked terribly distraught, as he worked around her and Master Minalan, constantly looking up at the scorched palace and shaking her head, as if she could have predicted a dragon attack.  Tyndal counted himself lucky that he’d escaped such a position of responsibility as long as he had – he wasn’t sure he could have dealt with the situation with as much grace as Pentandra did.

He still couldn’t figure out what her words to Minalan as the dragon attacked meant: Drink mead.  The Spellmonger had many, many problems, Tyndal reflected, and plenty of enemies . . . how was drinking mead supposed to cure that, he wondered?  He intended to ask Pentandra about it several times that day, but never found an opportunity.

Largely he was busy as Anguin’s aide, helping gather resources to help in the rescue and recovery process, then helping to stabilize as many of the wounded as he could, with magic.  He was lousy at healing, he quickly realized, even with a witchstone.  But his work in the field hospital was instructive of just how much he didn’t know about the subject.  He vowed to devote more study to it, simply because keeping your friends from dying after battle seemed a useful sort of thing to be able to do.

Rondal, on the other hand, was assisting Taren with dismembering the dragon before it began to rot.  Their experience with the beast at Cambrian had demonstrated just how quickly that could happen, if precautions weren’t taken.  Spells were cast to prevent decay, and Taren had to use special enchantments to begin separating the massive pieces of the saurian corpse, it was so tough.  Indeed, the skin of the wings alone was as tough as flexible steel, able to protect from arrows or even a sword blow, and it was the thinnest skin on the dragon.

The pieces were carefully taken away and allowed to cure, as they came apart.  It took five days of steady work and hundreds of workers to get the beast in small enough pieces for the magi to dispose of it . . . though instead of merely dumping it in the river, as many suggested, each foot, wing, leg and bit of torso was stuffed into a hoxter pocket on Taren’s spear.  He was eager to bring the corpse back to Greenflower for more study, and eventual use as armoring material.

While workers swarmed over the burnt-out palace like ants, Anguin was attempting to restore what government he could.  Many of the offices important to the functioning of the court had ministers who held dependent estates from the coronet.  Those he instructed to retire to their estates and re-establish their offices, as quickly as possible.  For those lesser officials who lacked those resources, he had them set up their vital functions in tents on the palace grounds or rented halls in town.

It was a week before things settled down enough for the duke to make good on his promise.  But once Minalan pronounced the situation well-in-hand, and returned to Sevendor, Anguin began holding small receptions in honor of those who’d worked so hard to recognize them for their efforts.  Among the first fetes he threw at his grand “hunting lodge”, Sealgair, built by his great-grandfather Joris II.  Sealgair was another masterful mansion for the visiting dukes, and it was as grand as the palace, in some respects.  But it was not ideal as an office, being half a day’s ride from Vorone.

Anguin invited all of his warmagi to that first celebration, and asked Rondal and Tyndal to ensure that the members of House Furtius were in attendance.  It didn’t take long to collect them, and even Master Hance managed to attend.  All three appeared in their natural guise, in their house colors of black and gray, genuinely awed to be meeting so many important magi and the duke, himself.

“This is a lovely lodge,” Master Hance reflected as they arrived at the Waystone Pentandra had planted at Sealgair to aid the duke.  Indeed, the three-story building was far more like a manor house than a “hunting lodge”, but once they went inside the sheer number of animal heads on the wall was sufficient to prove how the place had been used.

The members of House Furtius were nervous, even Master Hance, as they were announced by the herald at the door.  Rondal was dutifully escorting Gatina for the occasion, who had found an even more beautiful sable gown to wear to meet her duke than she had for the Spellmonger.  The men of the House wore dark black doublets in velvet, chased with silver and gray embroidery of cats in various stages of pouncing.

“Don’t be nervous,” Tyndal whispered to Atopol.  “Anguin is younger than we are, and he’s actually quite a nice fellow.”

“I’m not – well, of course I’m nervous,” Atopol corrected, self-consciously.  “I’m about to meet a duke!”

“You’re about to be honored by a duke,” Rondal corrected.  “We were quite explicit about the essential role you played in robbing the Rats.  And the Censors,” he added.

“As thieves go,” Tyndal agreed, “you are amongst His Grace’s favorites.”

“A position that can become very rewarding, if one takes advantage of it,” reminded their father.  “I’ve actually been here once before, when Lenguin wanted me to do . . . some errantry at Wilderhall,” he confided.  “That little estate on the coast where we took holiday when you were children was my reward for that job.”

The five of them were escorted into the main hall, which was huge, for a manor, but still smaller than most of the halls and throne rooms at the palace, so it seemed cozy by comparison.  Anguin was seated on his traveling throne, coronet on his head, waving at people as they arrived and were introduced.

“It’s a running court,” explained one of the castellans to Tyndal, when he asked about the lack of formality.  “Casual attendance, formal presentation, no agenda that His Grace does not demand.  His Grace understands the nature of his warmagi and appreciates their various duties.  He thought it best to honor them as they arrived, to avoid missing anyone called away unexpectedly.”

They thanked the man, and stood in the presentation line with the other newcomers.  When it was their turn to present themselves to the throne, Anguin looked particularly pleased.

“So these are the magi who assisted your efforts, this summer,” he acknowledged, after each had been introduced by the herald using their full titles.  “You have my gratitude, and the gratitude of the entire Duchy . . . those who are still loyal, that is.”

“It was our pleasure, Your Grace,” Master Hance, speaking for the House, assured the duke.  “And an honor for my House to be of service to the coronet.”

“Honor is mine to bestow, my lord, and it pleases me to do so,” Anguin said, holding out his hand.  One of his retainers – a large, balding man who resembled the Duke a bit in the face – handed him the great two-handed Sword of State.  “Lord Atopol of House Furtius: take a knee.”

Tyndal watched with great anticipation as the black-clad youth stumbled forward in a daze, and then fell to one knee, head bowed, in front of his sovereign.  With great ceremony the sword descended as Anguin made Atopol a Knight Magi of Alshar.  A moment later, he extended an invitation to both Master Hance and Lady Gatina to join his court.

“That was well-done,” Minalan nodded, pleased, when the shadowmagi were excused from the throne to join their peers at the feast.  As Astyral and his entourage from Tudry were arriving, it seemed a good idea to claim a table near the throne and await the servants with their wine glasses.

“I’m . . . I’m a knight!” Atopol said, a dazed look on his face.

“A knight mage, Sir Atopol,” Tyndal corrected.  “You are no mere noble sword-monkey.  You are a gentleman of high Art and deadly skill.”

“And after consulting with Sire Cei and Sir Festaran, we would like to extend an invitation for you to join the Estasi Order,” Rondal added.  “We need someone to help shoulder the horrible burden of glory we bear.”

“I . . . I would be honored,” Atopol said, rubbing his eyes.  “Sweet Darkness, I would be honored!  I’m a knight mage . . .”

“And I am a lady of the ducal court!” Gatina preened, triumphantly.  “Of course, that would mean more if I could tell the girls back home about it, but . . .”

“I’m afraid that discretion is to be our cloak a little while longer, Gatina,” Hance smiled, indulgently.  “If you revealed yourself as such, then you would instantly attract the attention of the rebels.”

“I plan on attracting a great deal of their attention before I am done, Father,” she said, with a grim smile.  “Without the Brotherhood to terrorize the common people, they will soon reap what foul seed they’ve sown in Enultramar!”

“My daughter is valiant, but she underestimates the hold the Count of Rhemes holds over the land,” he sighed, his face turning sad.  “Since Anguin took power in Vorone and the news came south, a growing number of lords – particularly Vale Lords – want to know why he has not been invited back to his throne.  Count Vichetral has been insistent that it is Rard, not Anguin, who rules the Wilderlands and Vorone.”

“Do you see Rard or Grendine lurking around behind the throne?” Tyndal asked.  “Anguin is his own man.  Indeed, on the morning after the dragon attacked, we took him directly to Wilderhall so that he could complain to Rard over the violation of the treaty.  His Grace was forceful enough to gain several concessions from His Majesty.”

“Including the return of the five havens,” Rondal added.  “And permission to build a new fortress in the Wilderlands.  Oh, and he’s strengthening the Iron Band with a higher quality of gallows fruit,” he added.

“That is no small feat,” Hance said, shaking his head in wonder.  “The Sea Knights of Castal have been eyeing those havens resentfully for decades.  They are immune to the ducal tax on their exports, you see, which gives them an advantage over the common Castali havens.”

“More importantly, it gives all these pesky Sea Lords around Vorone someplace wet to stick their feet,” Rondal said, with a hint of a sneer.  “They’ve already tried to rise up and kidnap the duke once, to prosecute a naval war from those havens.”

“That’s incredibly stupid of them,” Gatina observed.  “The Alshari fleet under the rebels’ control numbers in the hundreds of ships.  They would be destroyed before they crossed the Tower of the Waves.”

“Aw, it will give them something to do,” Tyndal objected.  “Mariners need to sail, and when they see a problem they try to sail it away.  Just like a knight tries to lance it away.”

“They can at least start building a war fleet,” Rondal considered.  “With the iron and timber from the Wilderlands and the Sea Lord’s skill, in a few years they might have at least a squadron of ships under his flag.”

“Which will simply be a larger target for the rebels,” Sir Atopol pointed out.

“It beats having them hanging around Vorone,” countered Tyndal.  “They hate the forests.”

“We must all forebear, until Anguin is restored,” Hance advised, gazing at the son of his old friend.  “He seems even more capable than his sire, and possessed of a confidence that Duke Lenguin, frankly, lacked.”

“He has a bigger task than merely ruling,” Rondal observed.  “He must rebuild his realm, not just maintain it.  A challenge worthy of the gods.  That sort of thing has a way of motivating a man,” he said.  Tyndal noted how his eyes lingered on Gatina when he said it.  She seemed awfully happy with the attention.

“Well, unless something dramatic changes, I doubt he’d be able to enforce his claim, right now,” Hance sighed.  “The Count of Rhemes seems no less firmly in control for the loss of his dockside thugs.  He’s frequently praised as the voice of stability in this dark time . . . while his agents do all that they can to stifle dissent.  The wise keep their mouths shut, regardless of their politics.  Why, he’s already begun gathering Anguin’ loyalists in prisons.  It won’t be long before he tries to find a way to lay claim to the actual throne, not just its power.”

“Not if we intervene, first,” Minalan the Spellmonger said, from behind them.  He casually took a seat at the end of the table, where there was room on the bench.  “Despite my best efforts to avoid it, it appears as if we must contend with southern Alshar ourselves, since neither Rard nor Anguin appear to have the resources for it,” he suggested.

“My thoughts as well, lord . . .?” Hance asked, curiously.

“Lord Hance, this is our –former – master, Baron Minalan the Spellmonger of Sevendor,” Tyndal said, standing to make the formal introduction.  “He’s also been quite interested in what happens in Enultramar, despite what he says.”

“Do not misunderstand me,” he insisted.  “We have much bigger foes than a rebellious count.  But if what my lads have told me is true, then it seems Korbal and Shereul have taken an interest there . . . so, alas, must I.”

“An honor to meet you, Baron,” Hance said, as he swiftly took to his feet and bowed.  “Your apprentices have told me much about you, and my children have done no less than rave about Sevendor.”

“And I have heard much about you, Lord Hance,” Minalan said, bowing in return.  “I take it your presence in court this evening means we can count on your continued support for the loyalist cause in Enultramar?”

“I have been working at nothing else for weeks, my lord,” agreed Hance.  “Sorting friend from foe, making contact with those I feel we can trust, and gathering information on the rebels.  Before long I will have cell after cell of loyalists up and down the Mandros,” he boasted.

“Excellent,” nodded the Spellmonger, though with muted enthusiasm.  “Then I would encourage you lads to continue your efforts.  Rard even now plans to raise an army and re-conquer the place, and if he does you can assume that it will be Tavard, not Anguin, that it is given to when he is done.”

“If he can manage it,” Master Hance said, shaking his head.  “As long as those houses loyal to the rebellion hold the Narrows and the fortresses there, Rard will have no more luck breaking their defenses than his sires did before the Peace of Barrowbell.”

“Rard has High Magi, now, which his ancestors did not,” reminded the Spellmonger.  “High Magi who owe two months’ service every year.  I’ve seen the great fortresses in the dry lands.  With irionite, they can be broken.”

“Surely the goblins have realized that as well,” pointed out Tyndal, uneasily.

“You can count on it,” Minalan agreed, grimly.  “I’ve had reports of their interest from all over the west.  Now that Korbal is established essentially outside of their front gates, I think Enultramar is going to receive far more attention from our foes than they want.”

That thought disturbed Tyndal.  It was bad enough that they had encountered Priviken the Goblin roaming around at will in the land, but since they’d chanced to meet the undead at Brisomar it was clear that Korbal, especially, had an unhealthy interest in the place.

“You still plan on assailing his fortress, Master?” Rondal asked.

“I don’t see what choice we have,” the Spellmonger admitted with a shrug.  “With Korbal and his Nemovorti in the neighborhood, it will be only a matter of time before they find some way to bring misery to us.  The gurvani see us as invaders and fodder.  The Enshadowed see us as tools to be used against ourselves.  As long as Korbal has power in Anthatiel, then— “

“Actually, Master, they call it Olum Seheri , now,” Rondal offered.  “The City of the Dead.”

“Then we shall assail Olum Seheri,” he declared.  “But we shall not do it clumsily.  In fact, I think we should begin sending in agents to surveil the place as early as this autumn.”

“That’s going to be hard to do,” Tyndal reminded him, sourly.  “If the Poros isn’t a frozen block of ice, even getting into the Land of Scars is difficult.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of having you fellows walk it, again,” Minalan chuckled.  “No, this time you will go in by Waypoint.  I’ve been talking with Lady Varen, and there is apparently more than one natural Alkan Waypoint in the area.  Not just the one in the middle of the city, where all the goblins and undead live – or un-live – but one up on the cliffs above the lake.  It’s not well known,” he added.  “In fact, only the high nobility of Anthatiel were even aware of it, as it was not convenient for their use.”

“’Us fellows’?” Tyndal said, his heart sinking.  “I take it that you plan to send us on this errand?”

“Well, who did you think I was going to send into the dark heart of danger?” Minalan asked, sarcastically, “Ruderal?”

“No, Master, of course not.  But Tyndal and I were just talking about preparing Enultramar for Anguin’s return . . .”

“And this fits as nicely with your plans as a dagger fits its sheath,” he pronounced, happily.  “Don’t worry, you have a few weeks before we’ll be ready for you to go.  But we already have a growing list of things that need to be dealt with, in anticipation of any kind of assault.  For instance, we need a well-concealed listening post to spy on our foe, one that will not be detected by his patrols.”

“One protected with, say, shadowmagic?” Rondal asked, glancing at Sir Atopol.

“Why yes, that would do nicely,” agreed Minalan.  “I take it your folk know how to magically conceal such a spot?”

“It’s pretty elementary, Your Excellency,” agreed Master Hance.  “I would volunteer to do it myself, but it is well within my son’s capabilities.”

“Then he may accompany my two scoundrels,” Minalan decided.  “Consider it his first official bit of errantry as a mage knight.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, Terleman just arrived . . . and he looks half drunk already.”

“Well, I hope your happy,” Tyndal said, sourly, to Rondal.  “Now we’re not just going to be sent back into hopeless danger, but we have to take Sir Atopol along with us when we get killed.”

“It’s better he understand the nature of the job early,” Rondal observed.

“That means, lousy hours, poor and irregular pay, and unfriendly strangers unhelpfully trying to kill you every other day.”

“Thanks, fellows,” Atopol sighed.  “I’m more of a rooftop man than an outdoorsman, you realize,” he added.

“Oh, we were hardy outdoorsmen before we came to Enultramar to seek our fortunes,” Tyndal dismissed.  “As a knight mage, you learn to adapt quickly.”  He looked up and saw Gatina dragging Rondal to his feet as the musicians in the gallery began to play.  “And yes, dancing is part of it.”

“If you will excuse us, gentlemen,” Rondal said, as he took the young noblewoman’s hand and led her to the line where the dancers were preparing for a pavane.  “I believe the lady would like to dance.”

“That . . . is not . . .” Tyndal began, confused by Rondal’s placid acceptance of the Kitten of Night’s affections.  Did he not realize that the girl wanted to drag him in front of a priestess?  Did he not realize that she was sinking her needle-like claws into him every chance she got?

With a sinking feeling worse than when he was ordered to Olum Seheri, Tyndal watched as his partner spun his black-clad, white-haired girl into line with a surprising amount of dexterity for a clumsy mage.

“They do make a handsome couple,” Lord Hance said, wistfully, as the servants brought more wine to the table.  “I understand your trepidation about my daughter, Sir Tyndal,” Hance continued, sensing his discomfort.  “Believe me, seeing my only daughter show that much interest in a boy is . . . well, I understand how you must feel,” he sighed.

“Oh, it’s not that I don’t like Gatina,” Tyndal said, quietly.  “She’s a delight.  But . . . it just seems so . . . serious, all of a sudden,” he said, shaking his head.  “You have a very beautiful daughter, my lord, from a well-born and respectable family.  Please understand I take no issue with her,” he said, realizing that Hance and Atopol might see his attitude as insulting.  “I just . . . I hoped Rondal and I would be valiantly killed in action, before we were old enough to even think about being wed.”

“Well, as long as Anguin sits here in Vorone, you’re safe,” Atopol said, quietly.  “But I’ve been speaking with Gat, and she’s serious.  The moment his arse touches that fancy chair, she’s going to be married and pregnant before the Duke can put his feet up.”

“And then our adventures will come to an end,” Tyndal sighed, sadly.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Atopol said, sympathetically laying his hand on Tyndal’s shoulder as he watched the happy couple.  Damn it!  Why did Rondal have to smile so widely at her? “There’s always the chance that we’ll all be killed on our errantry long before a priestess ever gets involved.”

“Really?” Tyndal asked, hopefully.  “Well, I guess that wouldn’t be so bad, then.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Future Plans

The two spent the next few weeks in Vorone, helping to tidy up after a small army of workers swept through the ruins, salvaging everything they could.  The few remaining storehouses that had escaped dragonfire were packed with ornaments and objects of art from decades of collection by generations of nobility.  Those which escaped damage completely were put away against a happier day.  Those which were too badly burnt were melted or added to the great pile of rubble.

Carmella oversaw the entire operation, riding around the site on her construct, trying not to scare the horses used to cart away the salvage.  She had already drawn up plans for a new fortress, as she’d described at a meeting in the big canopy that had become her temporary headquarters.

“The problem with this place isn’t that it isn’t defensible.  It just wasn’t designed for defense in the slightest,” she explained as she used her stone to display a magemap she’d prepared.  “With the palace and the barracks gone, however, a third of the city is now available for reconstruction.  If we tear down the northwest wall and rebuild it another three hundred feet further upstream, we open up a large section of riverfront along the northside of the city.  Enough to build . . . this,” she said, with more excitement in her voice than Tyndal had ever heard her display.

What she showed them was fully-imagined castle rendered in light and shadow, powered by her stone so that even the non-Talented could see it.

The castle was a series of circular double towers, eight in all, surrounding a central square keep at one end, and a neat but tightly-packed domestic range at the other.  A large bailey encompassed the southern side of the keep, with crenelated curtain walls more than twenty-five feet tall and twelve feet thick surrounding it.  Mural towers were spaced every fifty feet along its expanse with solid-based fighting decks suitable for artillery spaced on the walls at intervals.

Behind the domestic range on the eastern end of the long castle was a powerfully built gatehouse, seven stories tall and wide enough for a baronial keep.  Beyond that was a secondary bailey, enclosing the old gardens and large enough for much of the town to take refuge behind.

Surrounding the outer curtain wall was an earthen wall in front of a moat that connected to the river on both sides of the castle, rendering it technically an island.  And the space where the present listfield was located was now a massive storehouse with its own, slightly smaller, gatehouse, also surrounded by the moat.

“Behold, Castle Vorone,” she announced.  “A round great barrel keep on enclosed mound, large enough for a permanent garrison of two thousand men.  Round towers with stone machiolations.  A gatehouse that can act as a secondary keep if the western end is compromised.  A river access, to supply the castle or permit escape.  And the river, itself, protects the towers from being undermined.

“The central section is the kitchen complex and the new Great Hall.  There’s a secondary hall here for the use of the garrison and guard.  Storehouses below and in these two towers, along with cistern and latrines.

“The eastern end is the palace complex.  On the north side are four floors of offices and chambers, each with a series of inward-facing windows.  Eleven suites in all.  On the south side are the more minor offices, a few reception halls, and over here is the visitors’ tower.  The gatehouse at the far end is almost as strong as the keep, although it is only slightly raised.  It has sally ports here and here, and a separate dock through this river gate by the gardens.”

“This . . . is ambitious, Carmella,” Minalan said, studying the map.  “Very ambitious.”

“Not as much as you might think,” she said.  “By using magi to handle the earthmoving and foundation work, we can have the site prepared for construction by Briga’s Day, late winter at the latest.  That includes the foundation, the moat, the motte, the wall foundations, and the outer bank.  After that . . . well, with bricking and setting wands, not to mention hoxter pockets for transporting stone . . . well, I can have the keep and the gatehouse built in two years.  The walls will take another year, as will finishing the interior of the palace.  A year after that I can have the extensions to the town wall completed, as well as the series of mural towers I’d like to build.  Oh, and a moatwork and ditchwork across the southern bank of the river, as a first line of defense.  Probably with a secondary fortification, of some sort,” she shrugged.  “I don’t know, I haven’t planned that far out.  I’ve been busy with . . . another project”

“You . . . can build all of this . . . in three years?” asked Anguin, astonished.

“If we don’t run out of stone,” Carmella admitted.  “Or money to pay my crews.  Even with magic, we’re talking about a couple of thousand men.  But that’s another problem.  We need proper bosses for these crews.  The civil works projects you’ve started will help, but getting good crews and decent bosses is going to take time.”

“We can import some,” suggested Taren, thoughtfully.  “There is always a construction project finishing up, somewhere.  If we let it be known that there is coin and work to be done, we’ll have your bosses.”

“Some,” agreed Carmella.  “But I want to train as many as I can, too.  This is a test project, a practice piece.”

“Practice for what?” asked Master Cormoran, curiously.  He’d led a crew of three hundred Tudrymen to Vorone to assist in the clean up.

“For Vanador,” Carmella said.

“Vanador?”

“After much discussion,” Minalan said, helpfully, “His Grace has agreed – nay, insisted – that the Arcane Orders build a new capital in the Wilderlands.  He has secured permission from King Rard, and while this new keep is a stopgap measure, His Grace has decided to build a new city, from scratch, in the northeast of the Wilderlands.  A city built with magic’s aid,” he added.  “Carmella will be its architect, and oversee its construction.”

“If we are building a new keep here, what purpose is the expense of building an entirely new city?” asked Count Angrial, the Prime Minister.

“Because the war that has brought us to this dire situation is not over,” Anguin said, shaking his head.  “Indeed, I fear it has just begun.  At some point in the future, the gurvani – and worse – will send their legions forth from the Penumbra again, and as stout as this keep is, it is still . . . not . . . dragon-proof.”

“And this new city would be?” asked Count Salgo, the Warlord of Alshar, in charge of its defense.

“It would be designed to protect far more than a mere keep on a river,” agreed Carmella.  “The site we’ve selected is extremely well-positioned.  Natural rock formations would shield a great deal of the town from dragonfire.  It sits in an unpeopled but fertile valley, within a double ridge of hills.  It has other advantages,” she added.  “But it’s the best-situated, defensible site east of the river.”

“The region was overrun before and after Timberwatch, when the legions travelled through it,” added Tyndal, who remembered how terribly the folk of the region suffered. “Most of those folk were slain or driven south.”

“Large enough for a city that could contain most of the folk in the Wilderlands,” Rondal added.  “Two of the pele towers were built on the outlying hills, so we already have a presence there.  It is far enough away from the frontier to protect not only against the gurvani, but against any human threats.”

“That seems an expensive indulgence, even with our newfound fortune,” Count Angrial said, doubtfully.

“It is necessary, if you wish to afford the folk of the Wilderlands any security,” Pentandra insisted.  “As impressive as this keep is, it would still fall to siege, eventually.  It is between the Penumbra and the rest of the Kingdom.  It was only spared being sacked because the Cotton Road was a more direct route for the gurvani plans.  As lovely as this castle is, Vorone will fall, one day, and all its people with it,” she said, with especial urgency.  Tyndal wondered if her pregnancy was tainting her perspective.

“Vanador would give the people a place to flee, out of the way of a general invasion,” Minalan explained.  “It lies at the foothills of the Kulines, where many of our Alka Alon allies yet dwell.  And the Kasari have a presence there, too.”

“But Vanador will only function if it is constructed quietly, nearly in secret,” Pentandra agreed.  “We will not be able to disguise our intent in the long run, of course, but if we prepare quietly, under cover of building this castle, then we can accomplish much through deception before any of our foes realize what strength we have conspired to stockpile there.  Then, when things seem dire, we can direct the folk of the western lands to the eastern fortress.  Slaves freed from the Penumbra can be resettled there.”

“And when Vorone and Tudry eventually fall,” Anguin continued, “would you have our people be refugees in Gilmora?  The Riverlands?  Remere?  For when that day comes, it will be a dark one that stretches from the Umbra to the distant shore.  From Vanador we could strike on their flanks, keep them from committing wholly to the invasion.  And if we persist and survive, then we lead our people against the diminished foe and beat them back into exile!”

“How do we do this . . . by building this castle, then?” asked Angrial, whose doubts were clearly in the minority.

“Stone,” Carmella said.  “That’s where we star.  I can salvage enough from the old palace and local sources to begin the construction here, but that won’t be enough, not for a project this size.  We need a quarry, and while there are sites as good, closer, there is a thick vein of granite on the southern slopes of the hills that would be ideal.

“We open the quarry there, build a proper road connect it to the south, and use it as cover for the larger operation.  We can staff a camp with engineers and stonecutters, magi and workers, and send a couple of carts down the road every week.  But most of the stone will be cut and shipped magically, through enchantments and hoxter pockets,” she said, excitedly.  “And the vein is huge.  As we cut, we can prepare to lay the foundations to Vanador, and lay out the villages and farms to support it.  By the time we’re finishing up on Castle Vorone, we’ll be ready to start the main buildings and defenses of Vanador . . . and have plenty of trained people to do it.”

“How many High Magi do you have?” asked Minalan.

Carmella shrugged.  “Hesia’s Seven, and eleven beyond that.”

“Would another ten witchstones help the effort?”

“Avital’s Lever, yes!” she declared.  “I’ve got more than twenty journeymen at Salis who are desperate for a stone.  Some go hunting shamans in the Penumbra.  Some are planning to enter the Spellmonger’s Trial.  Ten stones might improve the attrition rate.  Or the mortality rate,” she added.

“It shall be done, then,” the Spellmonger agreed.  “Make lists of the enchantments you need.  We’ll work out the costs later – we may have to establish a second baucletere in Alshar, but that probably isn’t a bad idea, either.”

“And King Rard has agreed to this?” asked Master Cormoran, doubtfully.

“I myself was witness to his permission,” Tyndal said.  “Of course, when he made the pledge, I’m sure he was envisioning something far simpler for his nephew.  He just doesn’t suspect the resources Anguin has at his disposal.  But permission was secured,” he assured everyone.

“Then there is no impediment toward building Vanador.  And this castle,” Carmella declared.  “The realm needs them both.”

Count Angrial still looked pained, as if he was trying to digest broken glass.  “It will still be expensive.  Very expensive, even with magic to aid the feat.”

“And dangerous,” Terleman reminded them.  “There are still stray bands of gurvani in the region, the odd troll, bandits, and runaway slaves.  We will have to establish some security for the place, if we wish to open a quarry and keep it open.”

“The Kasari can help with that,” Pentandra nodded.  “Arborn has told me of a major settlement they hold in the western eaves of the Kulines.  They know the territory between there and Bransei like their tongues know the back of their teeth.  If we enlist their aid to run screening patrols around the place, that will reduce the potential for problems.”

“There is another factor,” Master Cormoran pointed out, thoughtfully.  “That region is near to Lady Mask’s old fief.  Since her capture it has been taken by another renegade, who has been building his forces.”

“What colorful nickname have you given this one?” Rondal asked with a groan.

Master Cormoran smiled.  “We’re still working on it.  I’ll let you know.  All we know is that the traitor is a renegade warmage of indeterminate origin, but who knows how to order troops.  He’s got his hobs drilling daily, and he’s recruiting more regulars from the hill tribes to his west.  He’s refortified a small tower, but we think he has designs on something more grand.  But he’s the one most likely to contest a resettlement of the northeast.”

“I look forward to learning more, and then killing him,” Terleman said, cheerfully.  “My friends, this is a massive undertaking,” he said, “both of them.  But it looks like if this is to go forward, then it will be largely on the backs of the magi.  Not to sound ungrateful, Sire, but apart from steady work . . . what is in it for us?”

“I don’t fault a man for self-interest, Marshal,” Anguin informed his vassal.  “The lands in the region will be parceled out to the magelords who are invested in the construction of Vanador.  As well as a few mundane nobles of loyal bearing, such as the 3rd Alshari Commando and Wilderlords of note.”

“You will have the quiet assistance of Sevendor in this,” Minalan pledged.

“And Greenflower,” Taren agreed.  “While the resources there are not as grand as Sevendor’s, there are things from Salesius that could prove invaluable to this effort.”

“As Court Wizard, I will oversee the settlement and construction efforts for the duchy,” Pentandra declared.  “What concerns me most about this is not concealing our efforts from the gurvani, but from Prince Tavard.”  News – gossip, actually – had spread amongst the wizards of Alshar about the young Duke of Castal’s reaction to the news of the destruction of his cousin’s palace: he threw a party.

Ostensibly to raise funds for the survivors, Tavard’s gala in Castabriel was an extended joke at his poor cousin’s expense.  The entertainments included minstrels singing of a love affair between Ifnia and Anguin gone wrong, after he rejected Ishi for her, and featured a jongleur in a dragon costume chasing a dwarf dressed in golden antlers and bearing a begging bowl around the hall.  He’d made Anguin’s tragedy an opportunity for entertainment.

“The goal here,” Minalan said, softly, “is to get this castle built too quickly for Tavard to try to intervene.  It’s almost as large as his castle in Castabriel, and he will surely find it threatening to his Gilmoran possessions.  Once he does take note and objects, he will be far too focused on Vorone while we prepare Vanador.”

“And once Vanador is built, proof against dragons and goblins, Castali lances would break on it like waves on the shore,” Astyral smiled.  From what Tyndal understood, the magelord was more and more in favor of restoring Anguin’s rule not just over the south, but over the lost Gilmoran lands of his birth.  After the invasion of northern Gilmora, he’d heard many Gilmoran nobles express displeasure with their Castali liege.

“Thank you, my friends,” Anguin sighed.  “I confess, sometimes I feel adrift, being responsible for the Wilderlands, and so much more.  To undertake an enterprise like this, while protecting my people, rebuilding this province, and plotting to retake the south, while dodging my political opponents and keeping the government running and funded . . . well, without good and loyal vassals such as yourselves, I think I would have thrown myself in the river long ago.”

Tyndal smirked.  “Your Grace, that river isn’t going anywhere.  And the day is young.”

*

*

*

As Vorone recovered and adjusted to the loss of the palace, Tyndal and Rondal were needed less and less.  Eventually they returned to Sevendor and the Rat Trap.  The days were growing shorter, and the Sevendor Magic Fair was near.

The two of them had been invited to participate in a number of ways, but both knights felt more like enjoying the fair this year, rather than being responsible for it.  There were plenty of other folk eager to do so – the Spellmonger’s Trial was being designed by the Royal Court Wizard, Hartarian, this year, and the number of conferences, lectures, and competitions grew.  Just deciding which of the receptions and feasts thrown by various orders and organizations was problematic.  After some discussion (and witnessing the harried, worn-out expression on Gareth’s face when he did chance to stop home and sleep) they elected to limit their participation to attendance.

“Basking in glory shouldn’t be too tiring,” Tyndal reasoned.

“I’m just glad we’re not in the Trials,” Rondal agreed, over breakfast two days before the official beginning of the Fair.  “I don’t think I could face all of those fresh-faced, determined magi this year and not end up killing a few.”

“I’m actually looking forward to attending a few lectures,” Tyndal said, innocently.  “Perhaps focusing on some meatier academic subjects.”

Rondal looked at him as if he’d just burst spontaneously into song.  “Why in three hells would you do that?”

“Because after you get married, I’ll have to figure out something to do with myself,” Tyndal sighed.

“Hey!  Did you forget our fake sacred vow not to wed until Anguin sits on the throne in Falas?” Rondal demanded, irritated.

“No,” Tyndal shrugged.  “But then I proposed the more impossible task of toppling the Brotherhood of the Rat to your girl, and it took her less than a summer to arrange for it.  How long do you think she’s going to wait around?  She’ll assassinate the Count of Rhemes, if she has to.”

“But what makes you think that is going to happen any time soon?”

“The look in her eye when she danced with you in Vorone,” Tyndal pointed out.  “It was as if Ishi, herself, were inspiring the girl to some mischief.”

“I still haven’t agreed to marry her,” Rondal said, sullenly.

“But you’re thinking about it,” Tyndal observed.  “Seriously.”

“Ishi’s tits!  How could I not?” he said, angrily.  “With you trying to break us apart every chance you get, and her trying to get us wed the moment Anguin’s arse is in that fancy chair, no one has asked what I want!  And I’m the one who gets to make the decision!”

“So , Striker,” Tyndal shrugged.  “What do you want?”

“I want everyone to calm down!” Rondal spat.

“But you like Gatina,” Tyndal prompted.  “You’ve invited her to spend the Fair here!”  In truth, the invitation was extended to Master Hance and Sir Atopol, as well, but Rondal’s focus in housekeeping when he returned was clearly on Gatina’s perceptions.

“Yes, I like Gatina!  I might even love Gatina,” he admitted, more quietly.  “But it’s a little difficult to figure that out while you’re trying to get me killed and she’s discussing what to name our children!”

“I’d suggest ‘Tyndal’, in honor of your late comrade,” Tyndal said, enjoying how riled his partner was becoming.  “I’m sure to die on this next round of errantry.  Or the one after that, without you to watch my back.  Just make sure the little bastard is handsome.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Rondal said, accusingly.  “What is wrong with me having a lady in my life?”

“It isn’t just having a lady,” Tyndal said, becoming serious.  “It’s a commitment . . . one that will stop you from errantry all together!”

“How long do you think we can do this, Tyndal?” Rondal shot back angrily.  “How many times do you think we can go into danger and come out again?  Because eventually we won’t, and your dire predictions will come true.  I, for one, plan to live to a ripe old age and die in bed, surrounded by my adoring descendents.  In your heart of hearts, you do to,” he said, pointedly.

“I am a long, long way from my dotage.  I want to have something to recall fondly,” Tyndal replied, stiffly.

“You just slew a fucking dragon!” Rondal burst out.  “You are rich, famous, and the confidant of kings and dukes, Tyndal!  What more do you want?”

“Just the one!” Tyndal said, after struggling with a response.  “I don’t know what I want!  But it doesn’t involve a fat wife and a bunch of mewling brats hanging on to my armor when I’m trying to go to battle!”

“Is that all you want out of life?  Battle?”

“No, enjoying the rewards of my victories for a change would be nice, though!”

“No one is stopping you,” Rondal said, his eyes filled with a strange look.  “Go spend your fortune, Haystack.  Palaces, girls, baronies, whatever you want.  You’ve earned that,” he said, resigned, “I cannot dispute that.

“But I’ve earned a life that I want, too,” he continued, as he stood.  “I’m still trying to figure out what it is, but it isn’t constant, unremitting battle.  And it’s not palaces and slave girls,” he added.  “I want to build something greater than myself.”

“What do you think we’ve been doing?” Tyndal exploded.  “We’ve been putting our duchy back together!”

“We’ve been on a bloody killing spree over a girl we barely knew!” Rondal snarled.  “Any service we did the duchy was accidental!  I wanted revenge, and you just wanted to kill!”

“I wanted revenge, too!” Tyndal insisted, then realized how it sounded.  “Maybe you were wrapped up in vengeance over Estasia, because she broke your damn heart, but I’m the one whose stone was stolen,” he reminded Rondal.  “I’m the one they tricked and trapped, and I’m the reason she died.  You want to fixate and obsess on every pair of boobs that comes into your life, fine, but when I went to Enultramar it wasn’t about some wisp of silk and fluff, it was because no one – ever – betrays me and escapes the consequences!”

“What is your godsdamn point?” Rondal asked, angrily.

“My point is that you are more than just a needy heart seeking feminine attention,” Tyndal said, after some thought.  “You are more than just some prize for an ambitious woman to win, Rondal.  You give your heart away too easily, and forget who it belongs to, first.”

“You just leave Gatina alone,” Rondal said, darkly.  “I’m truly sorry you feel threatened by her, but you will just have to endure her presence in my life.  I just want a fucking girlfriend,” he said, as he left.  Tyndal wished he would slam the door, but Rondal never slammed doors.

The two spent the next few days avoiding each other.  As the travelers for the fair began to arrive and the inns of Sevendor filled up, old friends and comrades returned, providing ample distraction for both knights.  When Rondal appeared with Atopol and Gatina the day before the Fair’s official opening, the new knight mage was just as at odds with his sister’s new relationship as Tyndal was.

Tyndal jumped on the opportunity to commiserate, and spent one long night with the thief in the Staff and Sword, meeting old warmagic comrades and getting thoroughly drunk.

“She just will not shut up about him,” Atopol sighed, wearily.  “Her entire life revolves around Rondal, now.  She’s planning . . . well, you can imagine what she’s planning: everything.  It’s . . . it’s a little frightening.  Last year she was entirely invested in obfuscation spells and mastering locks.  This year she wants four stout boys and three beautiful girls, and has names chosen for each.”

“Why do we subject ourselves to this?” Tyndal asked, shaking his head drunkenly.  “We’re perfectly fine and happy, enjoying our lives and pursuing our interests.  True, one of our interests usually involves them,” he said, nodding toward a few local hostesses who were flirting outrageously with the fairgoers.  “But as pleasant as Ishi’s Blessing is, why would a man sacrifice everything for it?  From one woman?”

“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.”

“Alas, I excel him only in humility,” agreed Tyndal.

“My lord, let me be candid: he has won my heart a thousand times over, since I first declared my intentions to him.  Every time I expect him to disappoint, he inspires.  He is tender when he wishes, resolute at need, and his mind is always working.  He has made me wish to be a better woman, something I once felt no man could do.  Ishi’s lips, even my father and brother like him!”

“So you are in love with him,” shrugged Tyndal.

“That is no small thing, my lord,” Gatina said, gravely.  “For a woman such as myself, there are few in the world who would be a beneficial match.  Fewer still who would merit my attentions.  In Sir Rondal I have both of those, and more, for he seems to return my affections, despite his worries.  Therefore, he has my heart,” she said, putting a hand over her breast.  “Earned, not lightly given.”

“He’s a real treasure,” Tyndal grunted.  He did not understand women in the slightest, he realized.  Again.

“Indeed.  And as a treasure, he is precious to me.  But not beaten and conquered, my lord – while some women would accept that, or even see that as their noble purpose in matrimony, I have no desire to dominate my love.  He is many things to me, but I am realizing, alas, that he would be none of them . . . without you.”

“Without me?” Tyndal asked, startled.

“Aye, my lord,” she said, as if she were admitting something painful.  “Few women are willing to admit it, but as I have had to learn to be, in effect, many kinds of women in my vocation, it allows me a broader perspective.  Most women see a man they like and seek to conquer him, and in so doing they ruin the man they loved.  That way leads to bitterness and unease, and ultimately unhappiness.

“I, on the other hand, desire Rondal above all things, Tyndal, but recognize that I must proceed with terrible caution, else I risk destroying the thing most precious to me,” she said, sadly.  “I know enough of him to know I wish to be a part of his life, not force him to be part of mine.  Which means being a part of your life, too.  For he needs you,” she said, her expression odd.  “No matter how much he desires me and may love me, he needs you.  You keep him balanced, like ballast,” she said.

“Hardly the most poetic thing I’ve been called,” he conceded, “but then hardly the least flattering thing I’ve been called, either.  But Rondal doesn’t need me—”

“Then you misjudge your importance in his life,” Gatina assured him.  “I could no more take him away from you and expect him to thrive than I could wrest a plant from one of these pots and expect it to flower.”

“It is your flower I fear he will pursue, if only because it unnerves me,” Tyndal admitted, taking a seat beside her on the bench.  “Indeed, how could I blame him, when the enticement is so sweet?  My lady, it is no insult to point out your enchanting nature, and how it compels him.  He has always been shy with women, in the past, and I foolishly teased him about your affections, when we first met, thinking to goad him.

“Now I regret it, for he has certainly developed more feeling for you than I anticipated.  Nor is it unreasonable that he would prefer the company of such a flower than . . . a mere pot,” he said, uncomfortably.

“Yet he needs both to thrive,” she countered.  “Sir Tyndal, I seek not to capture him nor to conquer him, but to follow him.”

“Will you not desire to keep him at home with you and your children in domestic security, instead of him enduring the cold hardships of a life of errantry?”

“The two are not mutually exclusive, my lord,” she snorted.  “Unlike many women, I do not fear the hardships of an adventurous life.  He may esteem my ‘flower’, but I assure you it presents no impediment to vigorous pursuits . . . something for which my beloved is not only genuinely suited, but has found a way to do so in the service of the highest and most honorable ideals.  And I never wish to deter him from a path I delight in seeing him tread.”

“Do you not desire security, then, my lady?”

“I make my own security, Sir Tyndal,” she chuckled, drawing a dagger from some hidden place in her gown, displaying it to him, and returning it to its home without Tyndal being able to even guess where on her person that might be.  “Coin?  I have as much as I can steal, and a great legacy from my House.  Lands?  I have three estates of my own, pleasant and fair, a bequest from my grandmother.  Any of them would allow me to live in safety and plenty to the end of my days.  No, the security I seek is a man worthy of following, wherever he might lead.  I can stand poverty, hunger, hardship and pain, my lord, but I will not abide weakness in a man.”

“Would you not be content to chart your own course, my lady?”

“In candor?  No,” she said, simply.  “I know myself well enough to understand that while I am devoted and passionate, it is not in my nature to lead.  Sir Rondal, on the other hand, is a consummate leader.”

“You aren’t talking about joining the Order or the army, you know,” Tyndal said.  “You are talking about being his wife.”

“Yet a weak man makes a poor husband for a strong wife,” she countered.  “I require a man stronger than myself.  Rondal will never stay that, if you are not in his life.”

“He would do fine without me—”

“He would be miserable without you,” she objected.  “He’s miserable now, and you’ve had no more than a row.  Over me,” she snorted, amused.  “Me, barely a girl, and but a maiden, yet reducing grown and valiant knights to squabbling.  Perhaps that’s the dream of most girls, but I have developed higher aspirations.”

“That aspiration is my best friend,” Tyndal said, annoyed.

“What would you have me do, Tyndal?” she pleaded.  “I want you to be friends, again.”

“We’ll always be friends,” Tyndal countered.  “Look, Kitten, I really like you, myself.  You and Atopol are great friends to us, and a boon to our company.  And I even like you for Rondal, believe it or not – compared to the women he usually prefers, you’re a tall drink after a thirsty day.

“But . . . let the man grow a bit first.  He’s barely become a man, yet he’s one of the oldest knights magi in the land.  He’s lost his home.  The poor bastard really only has me for family.  He’s done well despite that.  He’s just mastering being a man . . . don’t force him too quickly to the temple to be a husband,” he pleaded.

“As eager as I am for that day, Tyndal, I would prefer that it be with your enthusiastic support.”

“Well . . . sure, so would I,” he sighed.  “I want you two to work out, I suppose.  I just don’t want him to find himself miserable, if it does.”

Tyndal, where are you? Rondal asked, suddenly, breaking into Tyndal’s mind with urgency.

In the garden, seducing your girl.  Why?

You’re with Gatina?  Good.  Just stay there.  We’ll join you in a moment.

“My brother is on the way,” Gatina said, a moment later.  “How did we exist before we could think to each other?”

“It was hell,” nodded Tyndal.  “Uh, he isn’t mad, is he?  While ending my evening with a duel would be dramatic, I’d rather not be killed over a fourteen-year old’s’ virtue.  One I don’t even have designs upon.”

“I think you are safe, Sir Tyndal,” Gatina giggled.  “He did not have an angry tone.  As long as my father doesn’t show up with a sword in his hand, I doubt there will be a problem!”

A moment later Rondal and Atopol approached.  Behind them was the tall figure of Lord Hance, who bore a concerned expression on his face, though his sword was sheathed.

“Your father, too?” Tyndal asked, leaping to his feet.  “I never—!”

“Relax!” dismissed Atopol.  “Gatina’s kin are the least of your worries.  If you ever did anything to my sister she didn’t want, you’d be picking your fingers up off the ground right now.”

“We were just discussing the future,” Gatina said, rising.  “Why are you here, Daddy?”

“We came because Master Hance has news from Enultramar,” Rondal said, his face stony.  “He thought it best to share it with us before anyone else.”

“What is it?” Tyndal asked the senior shadowmage.

“Not good, I’m afraid,” he sighed.  “The spies we have in place are few, and expensive, but the investment paid off already.  I received word from one, a few hours ago.  It seems that your goblin friend is back.  He’s been talking to everyone who was at that auction, and then talking to everyone else he can, too.”

“Priviken?” Tyndal asked, curious.  “I figured he’d head back to whatever hole he came out of, after the Rats went bankrupt.”

“His goals for Enultramar are more permanent, I’m afraid,” Hance said.  “And his methods are insidious and difficult to counter.”

“What did he do?” Gatina asked.

“He’s one goblin,” Rondal dismissed.  “What could he do?  Did he bring a legion along, this time?”

“Worse,” Hance said, frowning.  “Although he does travel with an impressive retinue, now.  Through his agents he’s rented a manor house on the coast.  And he’s taking visitors: everyone who bid on the stones.  Because he brought a cask of witchstones, direct from the Dead God.”

All four of them gasped.  “He’s selling irionite?” Tyndal asked, his head dizzy at the thought.

“No,” Hance said, shaking his head in irritation.  “Even though he could be making fortunes doing so.  Instead he’s going to be giving them away.  To essentially any wizard who wants one.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

A New Mission

“This is unacceptable,” Minalan said, shaking his head.  “I cannot allow that much irionite to be floating around Enultramar in the wrong hands.”  The master of Sevendor had not let the occasion of the fete delay him.  He called an emergency war council at the castle, and ensured all interested parties were there to hear the intelligence.

“I agree, my lord,” Hance said, respectfully, though Minalan was his junior by several years.  “I find the prospect of that much uncontrolled power potentially catastrophic.”

“Tell me what you know,” the Spellmonger insisted, quietly.

“Quite simply, this goblin and a crew of . . . well, they are likely renegades, they arrived at the coast sometime last week.  They immediately gave five witchstones to the Censorate, replacing the two you stole and three more.  Now six Censors lord over the magi in the south.

“But he didn’t stop there . . . that swamp witch?  She got a stone.  That insufferable Coastlord twerp in the mask?  He got a stone.  Orril Pratt got a stone,” he added, “and didn’t have to pay a penny for it.  At least thirteen stones, so far, that we know of.  In a week surely one of those wizards is going to start getting disruptive.”

“Isn’t that what we want?” Pentandra frowned.  She and Arborn had made it to the Fair for a few days, at Anguin’s assistance.  She was swearing off travel by the Ways until she gave birth – after this, she claimed.  She had joined the impromptu council in Minalan’s laboratory, when he’d called the meeting upon Tyndal’s assistance.  “I don’t like the idea of a dozen Mad Magi running around, but then it isn’t our problem to deal with.  It’s the rebels.”

“There are more folk in Enultramar than the rebels, my lady,” Hance pointed out.  “And it becomes our problem when they start using that power to expand outside of the Bay and the Vale.”

“Are the rebels informed of this?” asked Rondal thoughtfully.

“No, not to our knowledge,” Hance assured.  “Unless you count the Brotherhood and Censorate factions, which are not particularly powerful.  Once these wizards get violent there won’t be much that they can do, save send the Censors after them.  I expect we’ll start to see them using their power soon, without other authority to stop them.  The temptation is incredible,” he admitted, sheepishly.

“I didn’t expect this,” Minalan admitted, guiltily.  “I figured they would try to infiltrate, perhaps even try to stir up the gurvani tribes on the Farisian peninsula, like they are the ones in the Kulines.  I never expected them to take this active a hand in Alshar’s affairs.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re dealing with goblins anymore, strictly speaking,” Tyndal observed.  “Korbal has the mind of an Alkan, which means he’s sophisticated and devious.  And he’s been around a few thousand years, which gives him an edge in experience.  Those are what are behind the recent flirtation with Enultramar.  The Enshadowed see the possibilities in Enultramar, while the gurvani merely see one long lunch table with a nasty wet place at the end.”

“There’s some wisdom to that,” agreed Minalan.  “It is what I have feared for some time: that the great strength of the gurvani should be directed with adequate intelligence.  Already Pentandra struggles against Korbal’s minions in the Wilderlands.  The undead roam the Land of Scars unhindered.  It would be foolish to think that the opportunity of the Great Vale would escape them.”

“What opportunity?” asked Atopol, concerned.

“How many people do you estimate there are beyond the Narrows, based on what you’ve heard, Sir Festaran?” Minalan inquired.

The tall, gangly knight got a far-away look in his eye as his unique magical talent took hold of him.  It was almost a minute before his eyes opened wide, and he could return an answer.

“Three million, four hundred sixty-one thousand, two hundred and two,” the knight spat out.  “That is a daily average, I would say.”

“Three million slaves,” Minalan said, insistently.  “Korbal the Necromancer has desires beyond mere extinction for humanity.”

“From what I learned of the several of his lieutenants I encountered this year,” Pentandra continued, “they have deep plans for southern Alshar.  Enslaving the population as a force to use against the rest of the Five Duchies makes a lot of horrific, blood-curdling sense.”

“How would he go about enslaving that many people?” scoffed Hance.  “There would be uprisings and rebellions every moment.  My nation is a contentious one,” he said, apologetically.  “We take a lot of conquering.”

“He’s a necromancer,” Rondal reasoned.  “He’s going to use necromancy.”

“That is likely,” agreed Minalan.  “Korbal seems fascinated by the idea not just of immortality, but expanding his powers over others and pushing the limits of his understanding of the deepest, most mysterious of magics.  A dangerous game for anyone,” he said, lighting his pipe.  “For Korbal, as a vassal of Sheruel, we face an entirely new kind of threat.”

“What of the Alka Alon?” asked Gatina, hopefully.  “Are they not powerful enough to drive them both back to their holes?”

“The Alka Alon in the Five Kingdoms have suffered as much as humanity,” Pentandra explained.  “The fortress the Necromancer dwells in was one of their fairest and mightiest strongholds.  Sheruel eliminated it in one fell strike,” she said, sadly.

“Worse than eliminated it,” Arborn, who had escorted his wife into council, pointed out.  “He has taken it and put it to his own foul purpose.  A city designed to be secure from all danger is now one of the darkest, most impenetrable fortresses in the land, commanded by a demon who seeks our torment as much as the Dead God seeks our destruction.  Now Korbal has access to the ancient powers under the city.  The Alka Alon are beside themselves with fear over what he might do with it, once he has regained his full strength.”

“He seeks a lost arsenal of theirs,” Pentandra agreed.  “Ancient weapons from the Alka Alon wars, before humanity arrived.”

“What sort of weapons?” Hance asked, curious.

“The sort of great and powerful weapons that make a wise people lock them away and forget where they put them.”

“In the absence of that arsenal,” Minalan continued, “the Necromancer can put the great resources of Enultramar to use.  We must try to block both strategies.”

“My people are hunting the draugen who haunt the north,” Arborn informed them.  “The cache is rumored to be somewhere beyond Bransei.  We’ve found small bands of them loping around, searching aimlessly.”

“It’s the senior undead I fear more,” Pentandra countered.  “North or South, the Nemovorti are a far greater danger.  Alkan ennegrams, enhanced by necromancy, installed into the bodies of living humans,” she explained.  “The process kills the hosts, slowly.  It shows, after a while.  They have to use secondary spells to preserve it beyond a few weeks or a month, else purification sets in.”  Gatina looked pale – more pale than usual, as did her brother.

“They also use magic,” Terleman agreed.  “That makes them far more dangerous.  They can use the Alkan Ways as well as we can.”

“Ah, but they don’t know about our own Waystones,” Minalan pointed out.  “Or at least where they are scattered.”

“Yes, we put nearly thirty throughout Enultramar,” Rondal agreed.  “That gives us an advantage, for a while.”

“Thirty?” Minalan asked, alarmed.  “You took thirty of my stones?  Who else knows where they are?”

“Just us, Iyugi, and Gareth,” Tyndal shrugged.  “Why?”

“That’s . . . that’s a lot more than I anticipated,” he sighed.  “And you know the location of each?”

“Yes,” Rondal assured.  “We can visit most of southern Alshar, now.  From the Bay to the Narrows.”

Minalan sunk back in his chair, deep in thought.  “All right,” he said, at last.  “What’s done is done.  What other kind of magic can they do?”

“They’re using death force, tuned to a specific spectrum,” Pentandra supplied.  “Channeled through an enchantment, but I don’t think they’re using regular thaumaturgy for it.  But it’s resistant to thaumaturgy, even an Annulment spell.  And life energies seem to disrupt it.”

“Yes, it will be some variant of Alkan magic,” Minalan frowned.  “As I’ve learned, not all Alkan magic is singing and rainbows.  Korbal and his vassals use systems that haven’t been practiced in over a thousand years, with a decidedly necromantic focus.  That’s going to be as difficult to contend with as some of the heavy magic Sheruel has thrown at us.

“I suppose if the Necromancer has set his sights on Enultramar, then we have a duty to counter him there.  If the Kasari can hunt the undead in the north, then we’ll have to have a similar unit in the south.”  He looked at Tyndal and Rondal.  “It sounds like a job for the Estasi Knights.  Or at least the two of you.”

“Us?” Tyndal asked, swallowing hard.

“You,” Minalan repeated.  “You are not my apprentices anymore.  You are your own men.  You have taken the task of becoming knights magi and exceeded my greatest expectations.  And you have used your independence to ally yourselves honorably and to great purpose.  You have a knack for making helpful new friends,” he added, waving at the shadowmagi.  “And you have a way of tormenting your foes.

“So I am asking the two of you to return to Enultramar, discover where this goblin is handing out witchstones to every passing footwizard . . . and put a stop to it.”

*

*

*

As urgent as their new errand was, Minalan allowed them to delay until after the Champion’s Feast at the Fair.  That was where he was planning on announcing Loiko Venaren as his new Court Wizard, after Dranus’ departure.  As Dranus was quietly hiring warmagi at the Fair demonstrated how he expected his election to go.

There was plenty of business left to be done, before they left.  Without official duties at the Fair for once they were able to enjoy the entertainments and comradery, not to mention discussion with their professional colleagues, that they’d usually miss out on.

It was productive.  Tyndal learned about the amazing advances in enchantment and thaumaturgy that were arising, with the use of permanent enneagrams acting as paracletic intercessors, and even got to break into a discussion with the Alkan songmaster Onranion about how he planned on constructing the Spellmonger’s new power source.

Sir Atopol was well-occupied himself, being a dashing young wizard from Alshar with whom the local Sevendori girls were unfamiliar.  When he revealed himself as a shadowmage, sneaking up on girls or conducting other illusions to mystify them, he became quite popular.

Rondal generally eschewed such opportunities for professional growth in favor of his affections for Gatina.  They were so blatant about it that even Dara was gossiping about the pairing.  That was so unlike his friend’s normal interests it actually worried Tyndal a little.  Rondal was supposed to be the bookish one, he fretted.  He was supposed to be the dashing ladies’ man.

He tried to exorcise his anxieties with a return to a more knightly purpose: the mageblade tournament.  He didn’t participate himself, of course, having won in the past.  But he watched for most of the day, and took the opportunity to attend (and spar with) Master Loiko, one of the finest masters of the mageblade in the world.

Tyndal figured he would impress the man with his skill and bravery.  Half an hour later, bruised, battered, and beaten, he looked up at the normal-seeming man who fought with the skill of a demon and wondered if perhaps he’d misjudged his vocation.

“Oh, you’re a decent swordsman, Tyndal,” Master Loiko dismissed, when he’d said as much.  “Better than most, at your age, and better than many far older.  Your footwork is ideal, and your stance is . . . well, not flawless, but it’s admirable.

“But you slash, you cast, you thrust, you cast, you block . . . but you don’t weave your spellwork into your swordwork, the way a true master does.  You use it either as a sword or as a wand, not the masterful weapon in between it was designed to be.”

“I do all right,” he said, sullenly.

“Of course you do, and I meant no disrespect to your skill.  But realize that you are far from mastery, yet.  Even a greater weapon is no match for the knowledge of how to properly use it.”

He was fortunate enough to receive another half-hour of intensive lessons in the art, with Loiko demonstrating a variety of techniques that blended the blade, the spell, and the warmage together into a seamless dance of destruction.

Tyndal found the lessons useful, and filed them away with purpose as he received them, entirely focused on internalizing the points that Loiko made . . . when his daughter arrived at the list field and Tyndal lost his concentration.

“Ah, Nothoua!” he said, smiling.  “This is—”

“Sir Tyndal of Sevendor,” she said, flatly, eyeing him like she was holding a blade.  “We’ve met.”

“In battle,” Tyndal agreed.  “How do you find Sevendor, my lady?” he asked.

She looked at him sourly, and raised her arm, where a copper bracelet dangled.  Tyndal recognized it: an enchantment to bind someone to a precinct, and alert the master of the spell if they transgress.

“It’s captivating,” she said, dryly.

“Sorry about your castle,” he muttered.

“No, you aren’t,” she said, accusingly.

“No, I’m not,” he agreed.

“It’s fine,” she snapped.  “I’m no longer Lady Mask.  I am . . . merely this man’s daughter.”

Loiko frowned.  “You are far more than that,” he insisted.  “Baron Minalan trusted you enough to give you your parole.”

“Only if I stay with you,” she said, angrily.  “And only if I bear . . . this,” she said, shaking the bracelet.  “It places a magemark on my face, if I try to remove it.  Great red blotches from chin to ear, brow to nose.”

“My dear, I’m certain you’d look lovely in anything,” he said to his former foe.

“You’d better be glad I don’t have a witchstone, anymore, Haystack!” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“For a variety of reasons,” he agreed, in mock sympathy.  “But seeing you here, in the heart of magic’s best, does me no ill.  It is where you belong, my lady.”

“What?” she snapped.

“If I am at all talented in the eyes of your father,” he continued, “then I am at least humble enough to acknowledge talent myself, when I encounter it.  You fought well and valiantly, with bravery and intelligence, in the Wilderlands.  It was an honor to defeat you.”

“I almost think you are being serious,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“There are a few things I don’t joke about,” he promised.  “That is one of them.”

“Then I thank you, in the spirit in which it was delivered.  You were a . . . robust challenge,” she conceded.  “Had I known about your new enchantments . . .”

“Then we would have defeated you with something else,” shrugged Tyndal.  “My lady, you were outclassed: you faced the Spellmonger and Pentandra, as well as other great names that day.  There is no shame in losing to us.  Indeed, with the forces you had, it was all but inevitable.”

“I don’t like to lose,” she said, her eyes steely.

“Perhaps someday we can test our strength again,” he proposed.  “After you have satisfied Baron Minalan’s requirements.”

“My daughter feels she has a point to prove, Sir Tyndal,” he said, sadly.

“I do,” Nothoua said, nodding her head.  “It’s that I’m the best.  Better than you, and even better than you,” she said, addressing her father.

“And what will that win you, my lady?” Tyndal asked, abruptly.

The question took her aback.  “What?  What do you mean?”

“To be the best?  Best what?  Best warmage?  You could aspire higher than that,” he dismissed.  “Being the best warmage in the world means you are the best tool in the world – a glorious tool, a necessary tool, a highly-paid tool . . . but still a tool in another’s hand.  More, it is not a particularly smooth path to happiness,” he sighed.  “Take me at my word on this.  Better you devote yourself to a higher calling,” he suggested, as he started shrugging off his armor.

“And what would that be?  A hearth and a babe?  A husband to keep me in line?” she taunted.

Tyndal shuddered at the thought of any man becoming the groom of this vicious viper.  But her father was standing right there, he reasoned.  No need to be rude.  Especially to a man who had just thoroughly ground him to dust.

“Whatever your heart desires, my lady,” he said, as he took the harness that supported his thigh guards off and piled it up.  “You had power, yet you squandered it in service to our enemy,” he pointed out.

“He was the one offering power,” she riposted.  “I had no allegiance to the scrugs.  But it was the easiest way to gain what has been denied us so long.”

“Yet patience would have served you better,” Tyndal observed, slipping off his grieves and then his vambraces – the new dragonhide ones.  “Were you patient, you would be in line for a stone.”

“Patience is not in my nature,” she countered.  The expression on Master Loiko’s face convinced Tyndal that his daughter spoke the truth.  “I took the path open to me, when I was denied at home.”

“You were never meant to be a warmage,” Loiko said, warningly.

“By whom?” his daughter shot back.  “Mother certainly didn’t mind.  She encouraged it.  She said she was every bit as good a warmage as you, and I had potential to be better than you both!”

“Your Talent is better suited to less violent spells,” Loiko replied patiently.  He had a tone in his voice that told Tyndal this was a long, familiar argument.  “I sent you to Alar to learn to be an adept, not a mere warmage.”

“I am no spellmonger, Father,” she said with a sneer.

“Then learn enchantment . . . thaumaturgy . . . alchemy, for Yrentia’s sake, but try your hand at something that isn’t quite so bloody!”

She snorted.  “Like my father, the mild-mannered spellmonger?”

“I’m a Court Wizard, now,” Loiko challenged, his voice getting more tense.  “So I suppose I’ve retired.”

They went back and forth, ignoring Tyndal after that, and he contented himself with slinking back to the Rat Trap early to prepare for the Enchanter’s Guild fete.  He saw her there, later, in a bright yellow gown, looking absolutely miserable.  He ignored Nothoua at first, enjoying the company of many pretty ladies of the profession.  But eventually something compelled his feet to wander by her.

“Care to dance, my lady?” he asked, half way through the night.

“Have you seen me dance all evening?” she asked with a snort.

“No . . . but considering you look like you ate a couple small children and a puppy on your way over here, your lack of companionship is pretty easy to explain.”

She looked offended.  “So I am not attractive?”

He gave her a professional grade inspection.  “You are fair enough,” he conceded.  “But one half as fair would dance more if she were the slightest bit more approachable.”

“And what if I don’t want to dance?” she asked, jingling her bracelet mockingly.

“Then you have chosen the perfect aspect this evening, my lady . . .” he said, walking away.  She began to say something else, but he was having none of it.

He had not been lying – she was an attractive girl.  Perhaps even pretty, if she were asleep.  And silent.  But the dim hatred in her eyes and the scowl on her lips made her painful to watch, much less speak to.  She was one of the least inviting women he’d ever met.  Carmella, whose emotional distance and detachment was legendary, was friendlier than Nothoua.

He tried one last time, when Lady Rael the Enchantress announced the last set for the evening.  She resisted . . . but then a look from her father made her grudgingly indulge in a pavane with him.

“I am only doing this for my father,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“So am I,” he said, smirking.

“What?” she asked, suspiciously.

“I’m trying to show him that his daughter is not completely unredeemable,” he offered.  “And, in truth, I felt some pity for you.  You did make an effort to look attractive tonight, and despite your fierce demeanor.  Even an evil sorceress deserves to have that effort appreciated by a handsome knight.”

“When you see a handsome knight, please ask him to do so,” she said, sourly, as he moved her into position.

“Smile,” he instructed her, as the minstrels began to play.

“No!” she insisted, clutching his hand.

“Then grimace foully!” he continued, as he spun her into the first set.  A smile flitted across her lips as she turned away, but it was there enough for him to recognize it.

“Why must you torment me?” she asked, frowning, as he bowed to the other lady in the square, and then to her lord.

“Because I’m a bit of an asshole,” he said, cheerfully.  “I have it on highest authority.”

“Does my anguish cause you so much joy?” she asked, bitterly, as she bowed in return.

“No, but you do have a nice smile,” he shrugged.  “And by dancing with you, I’m letting everyone else know that you ate no babies on the way to the party.”  Another smile, when turned away.  Good, he smiled to himself.

“Just the puppy,” she conceded.

“I’m sure the puppy deserved it,” he said, spinning her into the second set, around the backs of the other couple.  “Tell me, why do you hate your father so much?” he asked, when their backs were turned to the other couple.  The question clearly caught Nothoua by surprise.

“Because he left me, after my mother died,” she said, in a low voice he could barely hear above the music.  “Left me with my aunt, in Castal.  And then married a woman I’d never met.”

“Wouldn’t an ironic poem, read in public, have sufficed to embarrass him?” he offered.

“He is my father,” she insisted, allowing him to turn her around.  “He is Loiko Vaneran, best blade in the craft.  If it doesn’t cut, cast, or explode, he’s not going to notice.”

“I think you have his attention, now,” he said, nodding to the corner where her father was sitting with some of the older wizards in the room.  Loiko didn’t go more than two minutes without picking his daughter out of the crowd by sight.

“And if I do?”

“What are you planning on doing with it?” Tyndal asked.

“What?”

“It’s a simple question, my lady,” he said, leading her in a circle.  “Now that you have your father’s attention, what shall you do with it?”

“Why, show him I’m the best warmage in the world!” she said, as if it were obvious.

“And if he so acknowledges you that?”

“Well, then he would be a failure!” she said, bitterly.  “He wouldn’t be the best, anymore!”

“Ah, but he would not have failed,” Tyndal replied, sadly.  “If his daughter should surpass him, then he might have been a lesser warmage . . . but a highly successful teacher,” he pointed out.  “And an even more successful father,” he added.  “For every father wishes their child to surpass them in their lives, if they can.  It is their highest pride.”

“So . . . you are saying that by being successful at being a warmage, I’m not hurting my father . . . I’m making him proud?”

“I am saying that your very complicated relationship with your father might benefit from some candor,” Tyndal shrugged.  “He is not an evil man.  Indeed, he is a noble man.  And he fights like a demon,” he added.

“You are still the one who slew the dragon,” she reminded him.  “Not he.”

“If your father hadn’t organized the attack and assigned Rondal and I the task, my idea never would have come to pass.  He’s good.  You’re both good.  Does it matter which of you is the better?  You have youth and spirit.  He has age and wisdom.  He will only decline in ability, as he grows old, whereas your finest years are ahead of you.”

“You wish to counsel me, then, Sir Tyndal?” she asked, mockingly, as the music signaled the end of the set.

“If you would accept it.  Lay aside your petulance, and get to know the man.  Let him be your father, now that he is not at service in a demanding post.  Enjoy Sevendor, and learn magic to your heart’s content.  You wish to be the best warmage?  Here, you can learn to be the best everything,” he boasted.  “Only your anger bars your indulgence.”

She was quiet for many long moments as he led her back to her seat.  She looked thoughtful, but still angry.  “I will consider your counsel, Sir Tyndal.”

“And I will warn the mothers of Sevendor that their babies are safe,” he said, with a bow.  “Until next time, my lady.”

“You really are an asshole, Sir Tyndal,” she replied, coolly.

Tyndal felt better about the exchange, if for no other reason than he’d been seen dancing with the girl in front of everyone.  He had not been lying – he really did feel sorry for her.  Despite her murderous intentions, she was trying to prove her worth as much as he was.

The next day he had cause to regret the conversation, however, when Nothoua Vaneran won the Spellmonger’s Trial . . . and a witchstone of her own.

Chapter Thirty Eight

Ambush At Pantacas

A week after the Champion’s Feast, Tyndal found himself wading through knee-deep swamp water through the murky darkness, trying to simultaneously scout his surroundings for caiman and other dangers and keep moving fast enough that the mud underfoot did not swallow his boots.  It was a far cry from the elegant decadence of the Champion’s Feast, he thought, sourly.

How much more of this? he asked Atopol, mind-to-mind.

A quarter mile, Atopol responded, helpfully.  Tyndal knew he was somewhere ahead, at the vanguard of the expedition, but the shadowmage was employing such stealth in his approach that Tyndal could not detect him even with magesight.  Then we hit the road, and we’ll have to start being careful.

I don’t think I can get more careful, Tyndal replied, glumly.  Your father’s intelligence had better be accurate.  These were new boots.

Master Hance does not report on anything he hasn’t verified, Atopol replied, without being defensive.  This came in from three different sources.  The goblin meets with his new clients tonight at Pantacas.  He’s invited all of his new allies for the presentation, and has promised more gifts.

And he didn’t invite us, Tyndal reminded him.

Considering there is now a price on your head, you might thank him for the consideration, Atopol replied.

That had been a novel feeling, Tyndal reflected, when he had learned that his head, alone, was worth five hundred ounces of gold to the coin-strapped Brotherhood.  On the one hand, having a head worth the price of a prosperous domain was gratifying.  On the other, after what he and Rondal had done to the Brotherhood he would have thought they would have valued it much higher.

Pantacas, unfortunately, was an ancient Coastlord keep left over from the Magocracy’s ambitious program of pacifying the rebel tribes and local lords of the eastern marshes by building a number of fortified manor halls around the great lake in the center of the marsh.  Unfortunately, as Atopol had informed them, the program merely provided the rebels with their own fortifications, as they took each of the stout stone fortresses from the Coastlords, until the Count was forced to recognize them as lords in their own right.

Of course, Pantacas was still in the middle of a bloody swamp, so Tyndal didn’t see what there was to fight over in the first place.  The southern region of the County of Caramas was not, in the proper sense, “lands”, to Tyndal’s mind.  Not when most of the “land” squished when you trod upon it.

Built on what passed for high ground on a peninsula extending into the lake, the simple walled hall keep had but one three-story tower to watch the approach: a causeway built up over the marshy grounds.  The idea of a fully armored army attempting to take the place was laughable, Tyndal knew.  As long as the defenders held that causeway, there was little chance that they’d be assailed through the swamps.

Why did he pick such an ugly, remote hall for his presentation? Tyndal complained.  Were there not better facilities available on the Bay?

Things on the Bay are a little chaotic at the moment, Atopol chuckled into his mind.  When the fleet got back, they brought their troubles with them.  Some amongst the Farisi pirates have been agitating to retake their homeland, now that Castalshar is forced to defend it.  The Sea Lords of Enultramar were not in favor of such a plan – they have grown wealthy raiding the Castali merchants coming to Farise.  The situation came to blows at sea, and a few Farisi ships were sunk.  That didn’t improve the Farisi mood, but it did keep them from breaking from the fleet.  But right now, every hall in the Bay is filled with both sides’ mariners, each itching for a fight.

Not the place for a genteel gathering of thaumaturgic scholars, then, Tyndal chuckled, as he pulled his left foot out of the mire with the help of a stick.  But still . . . this place?

It has the added benefit of being within the territory of the marsh tribes, Atopol said, after some consideration.  Tyndal still could detect no sign of the thief he was supposed to be following.  They have always been an ally and an auxiliary to the Brotherhood.  This was where the first Rats were originally shipwrecked, and the marsh tribes helped them survive.  The Brotherhood has protected them and supplied them to their mutual benefit ever since.  They can rely on the locals to be friendly, when they come here.  All right, I’ve reached the road.

I’m right behind you, Tyndal promised.  Somewhere.

You’re actually only about twenty-five feet away from me, Atopol assured him.  Head for that big cypress and bear left.  I’m just to the west of there, about ten feet.

The two of them were the vanguard of the operation.  Their task was to go into Pantacas first, look around, eliminate any immediate dangers, and summon the rest of the team when they were in a safe place to do so.  Rondal led that team.  Tyndal was fine with that.  Though he and his partner were speaking again, their relationship was strained enough that Tyndal appreciated working with the shadowmage more, at the moment.

Besides, he was learning a lot.  Atopol was free with his advice on the subject of shadowmagic, from the elementary Blue Magic spells that assisted in mindful misdirection to the technical details of photomancy that could render a mage all but invisible.  While Rondal was snogging his sister, Atopol was giving Tyndal pointers on being sneaky and stealthy – and the subtle differences between the two.

Of course, what even a shadowmage could do in the middle of the night in a deserted, misty marsh was limited.  But hopefully the spells he’d picked up would at least convince the river drakes to look the other way.  The lake was filled with caiman, like miniature wingless dragons, only with larger jaws and more teeth.

The eastern variety was even bigger than the drakes Rondal had used in Solashaven, Atopol assured them.  Some specimens could get as long as fifteen or sixteen feet.  They swam silently just under the surface of the water, only their nostrils and beady eyes protruding.  Often they looked like a mere floating log, until it was too late.  Their jaws were like a toothy portcullis, and had tremendous strength.

As they were preparing for the mission, Atopol had been happy to share centuries of stories of caiman attacking humans and dragging them under water until they drowned, or merely dismembering them in a vicious flurry of bites.

When you had natural defenses like that around your castle, it provided security that walls and ditches simply couldn’t match.  But it also made life difficult for your infiltrators, Tyndal reflected, as he –finally – caught sight of Atopol, as he rounded the massive trunk of the cypress.

No one on the road, he reported.  Looks like the last travelers went by about twenty minutes ago.

How in three hells can you tell that? Tyndal asked.

Oh, sorry.  Shadowmagic spell.  I’ll show you later.  I’ll take point, going up the road.  You stay behind and support me, if I get involved.

Tyndal drew a warwand – a dark one, unlikely to reflect the little bit of moonlight shining through the trees tonight – and prepared himself.  He waited until the count of five to scramble up to the causeway road after his friend, and once again could see no sign of the man.

How in the name of all that’s holy do you do that? he asked.

Practice.  Father had us sneak up on him since we were six, seven years old.  If he caught us before we touched him, we got extra lessons.  Gatina hates extra lessons.

Tyndal focused on not making a sound, on the road, as they approached the keep in the darkness.  His soaking boots were muffled by magic, thankfully, else the sloshing of water alone would have given away his position.  He could see the silhouette of the keep through the dark trees in the distance.

Sentry ahead, Atopol warned.  Tyndal tensed, readying his wand, for a few worrisome moments.  All right, all clear.  He’ll wake up tomorrow morning, if the caiman don’t get him.  More ahead, too, I think.

Tyndal continued his pace, as quietly and deliberately as he could, until he came to the body of the sentry, snoring away next to the causeway.  Another fifty feet up the road he discovered two more, one sleeping, one with his throat cut.

You know that’s just going to attract river drakes, he chided as he stared at the pool of blood flowing down the embankment from the man’s neatly-sliced carotid artery.

Couldn’t be helped – he rushed me.  I’m just outside the wall, now.  Four guards at the gate.  But no one patrolling the perimeter, he reported.

Why would they need to? Tyndal replied.  Only an idiot would try to approach the place from the swamp.

Tyndal moved quietly off the causeway and down the steep embankment along its side.  The way was dramatically more difficult to make, but with patience and some Kasari-learned craft he was soon perched to view the four spearmen at the gate of Pantacas.  A shadow on the western side of the wall shimmered just a bit, indicating where Atopol had made his entry.

I’m over the wall, he said, a moment later.  On the roof of the kennels.

Not the best place for a Cat to land, Tyndal observed.  There was a period of silence before Atopol answered again.

Those puppies are taking a well-deserved nap, now.  Bloodhounds, too – not the kind of cur you want chasing you through the marshes.

You’ve never seen a Fell Hound, Tyndal remarked.

Sweet Darkness! Atopol swore, a moment later.  It’s a full house at Pantacas, tonight.  There are . . . at least fifty people in the hall.  Some I recognize.  Censors, magi, Rats . . . there’s your old chum, Rellin Pratt. Some mundane noblemen.  Some Sea Lords. A lot of the folk from Brisomar are here. It looks like Lord Whiskers is here, even. I’m sending in the dahman, now.

During the Magical Fair, the new mage knight had imposed on his friends to build him a customized construct, similar to the one Rondal used, but with his own refinements.  The tiny spider-like construction that resulted from two days of inspired work with the finest enchanters in the world was smaller and nimbler than Rondal’s, and had more capabilities that Atopol thought would be useful in his craft.  He fashioned it as a bracelet he could detach and deploy like a delicate arcane insect.

What’s going on? Tyndal demanded, impatiently, as he watched the spearmen scratch their arses for the third time.

The goblin is speaking, Atopol reported.  He’s calling everyone to order, giving the usual boring host speech.  You should probably take out those guards, now.  Quietly – a few of the guests brought their own, and there’s a score of them just inside the gate.

Tyndal silently cursed as he put away one wand and drew another.  One by one he dropped the spearmen at the gate with a stunning spell that left them senseless and helpless.  Only the last one made any noise as he fell to his knees – his helmet fell off and clunked against a stone.  That gave Tyndal a few tense moments, but there was enough noise coming from the hall now to cover the thunk.

Done, he reported.  What’s happening now?

Prikiven is still talking.  Guests are starting to get bored.  He’s introducing some of his previous beneficiaries – are they giving testimonials?

Is he trying to give away the most powerful magic in the world, or sell them a used tapestry? Tyndal asked, amused.  He’s the most theatrical gurvan I’ve ever seen!

You know a lot of gurvani?

Professionally, Tyndal conceded.  A few aren’t that bad.  Just the ones who want to kill and eat us all.

Or bore us to tears – Prikiven has mastered Narasi, but apparently he learned it from a blowhard.  All right, you’re clear move to position outside of the gate, he suggested.  No one is paying the slightest attention to it.  Then you can summon our squadron.

Tyndal sighed and pulled his new boots yet-again from the mire.  By the time he got to the gate he’d abandoned all hope of disguising his muddy boot prints.  Perhaps a shadowmage was meticulous enough to pass without a trace with muddy boots, but it was beyond a simple warmage.

He shifted his focus once he was at the gate and reached out to Rondal.

We’re ready.  Is your squadron?

If we don’t go soon, we may have bloodshed, Rondal agreed.

Start bringing them through, he directed, drawing his mageblade.  The Waystone in the pommel served as the anchor point for the transfer, and soon Rondal appeared with Gatina, while Gareth arrived a moment later bearing Sir Festaran.  They both disappeared while their passengers heaved unpleasantly.

“Welcome to scenic Pantacas, land of . . . not much land,” Tyndal said in a hushed voice.

“What is our situation?” snapped Gatina, briskly.  She was wearing her roaching leathers, slick matte black leather that swallowed light.  Her hair was covered with a coif of a similar material, complete with veil.  Only her violet eyes, smeared underneath with burnt cork, were bright enough to show in the gloom.

“We’re outside of a crappy fortified hall keep, surrounded by caiman and snakes, waiting for your brother to signal us.  He’s on the western wall, somewhere, peering inside.  No sentries or pickets on the perimeter.  They seem content to let the swamp guard their flanks.”

“I’ll scout the eastern side,” the pale girl said, after checking in with her brother, mind-to-mind.  She disappeared into the night the way he was getting used to shadowmagi doing, leaving Festaran and Tyndal alone . . . until Gareth and Rondal returned with the final members of their party.

“Good luck,” Gareth said, looking queasy.  “Be good warmagi!” he said, before he dematerialized.

Gareth had advocated to be included in the party, but considering his lack of experience and his poor fighting ability, Tyndal decided to leave him in a support role.  The scrawny wizard wasn’t pleased with the assignment, but Tyndal thought he was more relieved than resentful over it.  This was going to be a dangerous fight.  There were a half-dozen enemies in there who were sworn to slay him and Rondal on sight, and another score who’d be happy to do it for profit or the simply enjoyment it would bring.

Tyndal was satisfied with the squadron of warmagi Minalan had strongly suggested.  After they finished retching from the transport, they checked their weapons while Tyndal explained the tactical situation.

Atopol cut in, before he was finished.  All right, the boring introduction is over.  People are anxious to get their stones.  If we’re going to move, we need to – hold on, he cautioned, suddenly alarmed.

What? Demanded Tyndal.

Uh oh.

What?!

I think . . . our raid . . . has been preempted, he replied, as he watched what none of the others could see.

Rondal looked up, suddenly.

“Kitten reports that the Censors just drew their mageblades!” he warned in a whisper.  “The Censor General is demanding everyone turn over their stones, according to the Bans!”

Tyndal just stared at him, imagining the faces of the rugged individuals trying to get their witchstones, as the Censors tried to take them first.

This just got very, very ugly, Atopol reported.  The Censors are trying to take over.  They’ve drawn their blades and are demanding everyone’s stones.

Is it time for our big entrance? Tyndal asked, hopefully.

Bide, Atopol advised, frustratingly.  Let’s see how this plays out.

For several anxious moments the raiding party stood silently, craning their necks to hear what was going on beyond the gate.

Yeah, the Censors are trying to break up the party.  The guests are adamant about staying. Some have drawn weapons.  The host seems reluctant to intervene. We’re about to see a row erupt.

Like prophecy, Tyndal heard the first concussive blast a moment later.

Now! Atopol insisted.  It’s a brawl in there!

“Let’s go!” Tyndal informed his squadron, as he broke contact and pulled his visor down over his face.  “Cat says it’s chaos in there.  Perfect time for us to attack.  Striker, have Kitten go after the stones while we keep the rest of them busy.”  He was gratified that Rondal nodded, and didn’t argue.  He drew his siege wand from his belt, aimed it at the center of the gate, where the two huge doors came together, and unleashed a spell sufficient to render any drawbridge into kindling.

His team pushed through the gate and spilled into the yard, wands and blades in hand, ready to attack the guards inside . . . but quickly discovered they were facing another kind of threat entirely.  Indeed, as they entered the compound the guards they feared were greeting them gratefully, backing away from the keep fearfully.

It became clear why in an instant.  Once you smelled that odor, you never forgot it again.

Tyndal, what the hell are those things? Atopol asked, as the doors of the outbuildings burst open, and more pale, half-naked tattooed men leapt out.  Their eyes glowed with a sickening yellow gleam.

“Draugen!” Tyndal yelled, out loud, as his startled warmagi turned to face them.

The undead warriors, most wearing the bodies of former Brotherhood members, lurched with determined purpose as they attempted to take the gate Tyndal had just rendered useless.

There were still far more of them than his squadron could comfortably contend with, and for a terrifying moment he realized he had to make a decision: to defend the only exit from the castle, or to withdraw . . . either inside, toward the brawl within, or outside, where they would be safer from the draugen but subject to the river drakes and other dangers of the great mire.

“There are more of them, in the swamp!” Sir Festaran yelled, excitedly, as he acted as rearguard.  “Seven of them!  They’ll be at the gate within three and a half minutes!”

“The ones from the chicken coop will be here sooner than that,” a tense female voice added, from behind him.  “You want me to take care of them?”

Tyndal almost turned to stare at Nothoua, who had possessed her witchstone for less than a week.  Neither he nor Rondal had been happy at her inclusion in his party, but Minalan had made some compelling arguments about it, and as usual, Minalan prevailed.

“You think you can handle that side?” he asked, nodding toward the right flank, where more than a score of the creatures were loping out of a dilapidated old shed toward the gate.

He could feel her shrug.  “Let’s find out,” she said, whipping her new weapon about and began hanging spells.  The first lanced out and spun the lead draugen around, as his legs tumbled off at the knees.

“Striker, think you can keep the left flank at bay?” he asked, his mind racing.

“With this lot?” he asked, looking around at the terrified guards and irritated warmagi amongst them.  “How long?”

“Long enough to get some of those people out,” he said, realizing exactly what was happening, as one of the undead lurched close enough for him to recognize.  The creature still had the blotches where the magemarked whiskers were placed.  “They’ve invited them all here not to give them witchstones – well, maybe that, too – but to recruit more necromantic hosts!  Hosts with Talent!”

“They’re creating the basis for an army,” Rondal agreed, looking around at the freshly dead servants of Korbal.  Some clutched weapons, some merely hurled themselves forward.  Sir Festaran bravely decapitated one with his sword, as pretty as a tournament kill, before falling back as two more took his place.  “Each one they send back to their homes will be . . . infected,” he said.

“Possessed,” corrected Tyndal, absently.  “They don’t start to smell for a few days, I would imagine.  Plenty of time to recruit another score before anyone realizes what they’re doing.”

“How long would it take for them to take over all of Alshar that way?” asked Nothoua, alarmed.

“Twenty-eight days, assuming a rate of conversion of two days or less,” Festaran said, automatically, as he used his sentry staff to send a bolt at another draugen.  When that only slowed the beast, the knight swiftly stabbed it in the throat with his sword and kicked the body free of the blade.

“If you’re going to try to rescue anyone, go now!” Rondal said, conjuring his round shield from a hoxter pocket and sliding it onto his left arm.  “We’ll hold here, as long as we can!”

Atopol, how do things look inside?

Like a Crabhaven brothel on a festival night, he said, colorfully.  The Censors are still trying to subdue everyone.  Pratt and his men are resisting.  Strongly.  So are most of the others.

And the goblin?

He’s hanging back, the thief reported.  Watching with a crowd of his own people.

That makes sense.  It doesn’t really matter to him whether they’re living or dead, for his purposes.  In fact, probably less trouble dead.  I’m headed inside, Tyndal said, manifesting Grapple and activating some warmagic spells.

Why in six hells would you do that? demanded Atopol.

Because not everyone in there deserves a comfortable afterlife, he reasoned.  We can’t risk all of those Talented folk being turned into powerful undead and used against us.

That’s . . . you’re just going to barge in?  Into the middle of a melee?

That’s kind of my style, Tyndal grunted.  You can watch.  It should be fun.

There are at least twenty combatants in there!

Less than a month ago, I slew a dragon.  I’m feeling cocky.

Tyndal took a deep breath, readied his spells, and as the draugen on the right flank began to attack, he ran up the stairs and through the doorway into a chaotic swirl of steel and sorcery as Rondal rallied the ragged defense.

He would hold the gate, Tyndal knew.  He had to.

Censors had taken one side of the hall, raising tables like barricades and firing their spells from behind them while the people they were supposed to be arresting faced off with them.  Bodies from both sides of the fray littered the damp floor between them.  Near a far corner, a ragged group of onlookers watched the evolving spectacle with interest.

It was time to put a stop to this.  He activated a cantrip and strode between the two opposing forces.  He spread his arms wide, his mageblade pointed at the civilians, his baculus at the Censorate.

“In the name of Duke Anguin of Alshar, I command you to lay down your arms!  I am taking you all into custody!” he bellowed, with a little magical augmentation.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

An Unexpected Rescue

He was gratified that, for a brief moment, both sides of combatants paused to consider his demand.  Or at least be sure they heard it correctly.

Then someone lobbed a spell at him.  He wasn’t certain which side it was, but Grapple intervened before it affected him, crackling in his hand with the countered spell.

“Who?” someone, somewhere ventured.

“Duke Anguin, lawful liege of Alshar!” Tyndal said, boldly.

“He’s here?” asked someone else.

“No!” a third person insisted.  “He’s here! On His Grace’s behalf!”

“Oh!  Why?”

“He’s here to arrest us on His Grace’s behalf,” someone else explained.

“Oh!” the first man said.  “That’s different, then!” The fighting recommenced immediately.  With Tyndal in the middle of the battle, a target for both sides.

He glanced from one side to the other.  It was easy to see that the Censors, though defended, were in a decidedly inferior position.  He elected to dive toward their foes, who were superior in number though lacking in organization and discipline . . . though he was unsure of what exactly to do when he arrived.

He sprawled at the feet of a mage in a robe, a wand in his hand and a domino mask on his face.  The man scowled at him, but when Tyndal didn’t strike he shifted his attention elsewhere.  Tyndal rolled to his right, under the field of fire – he hoped – and toward a knot of folk he recognized.  It was an instinctual move.  Unfortunately, it was also a mistake.

“Tyndal!” Rellin Pratt snarled as he recognized the body at his feet.  He had his scimitar in hand, but was defending against a persistent Censor across the aisle.  “Damn your soul to seven hells!”

“That’s going to happen a lot quicker than you think!” Tyndal said, leaping up.  “In a moment your hosts are going to start slaying or subduing the lot of us, and then ripping out all of our souls!”

“What are you talking about?” Lord Whiskers demanded, behind him.  One of his bodyguards stood over him with a broadsword, while the other held a long double-edged dagger in one hand and a worn club in the other.  The flying lizards weren’t in evidence.

“The bailey is filled with draugen,” he explained.  “Undead, under control of your hosts.  They’re fighting your guards to close off your escape.  Then they’re going to destroy your souls and replace them with Enshadowed!”

Whiskers frowned.  “Why?”

“It was all a trap,” Tyndal explained, fending off a poorly-cast spell from the Censorate with Grapple.  They were resolute, he realized, but predictable, using the same three or four attacks every time.  “Prikiven gave you and the Censorate just enough irionite to whet your appetites for power.  They’re tainted by the influence of Sheruel.  He compelled you to return with a large party!  Now he wants to take all of the Talented folk you’ve brought to him and replace them with his minions, to rule over Alshar in his stead!”

“That’s why Bea Nahiga seemed so strange!” a monk in a dark gray habit – the Storm Lord’s representative, Tyndal realized when he saw the Sea Axe necklace – said, hoarsely.  “Something in her thaumaturgical shroud was wrong!  She’s been . . . possessed!”

“Do you have any proof of this?” another wizard asked, anxiously.

“The yard is filled with undead with yellow eyes,” Tyndal said, trying to make it as simple as possible.  “They’ll kill you.  If I’m right, we’ll soon see undead with red eyes . . . those will raise you from the dead, your soul replaced with the enneagram of a friend of theirs.”

“Bea Nahiga’s eyes were red,” Lord Whiskers recalled, thoughtfully.  “I thought it was a side-effect of the irionite.”

“Lord Jenerard’s, as well!” the priest agreed.  “I thought the same!”

“What should we do, Boss?” one of the bodyguards asked, worriedly.  The Censors weren’t making any progress, but the rest of the magi weren’t able to get through their augmented defenses.

“Is there a way out of here?” Whiskers asked.

“Front gate,” Tyndal agreed.  “Note how your hosts don’t intervene?  You are as good to them freshly dead as you are alive.  In a moment they’ll start to capture the ones who are left.”

“The strongest,” the Stormbrother agreed.  “Those would be the best hosts, presumably.”  He picked up a chair and smashed it, hefting one of the heavy legs like a mace.  “I don’t intend to find out!”

“Is there any way to get the Censors to stop shooting at us?” Rellin asked, as he fired a bolt from his palm.  “Why Storm’s Name should I trust you?”

“Because as ugly and evil as you are, you’re still human,” Tyndal said, wishing he had time to think up a pithier reply.  “Right now you’re just a murderous, treacherous asshole.  If the red-eyes get their hands on you, you’ll actually be dangerous!”

“That’s a really messed-up way of looking at things, Tyndal!” his enemy said, accusingly.  But he didn’t strike.  Even Pratt could tell that something was amiss, there.

“I’m not really in a position to appreciate nuance at the moment, Rellin!” he said, using Grapple to try to establish a field around the Censors.  They somehow countered the spell as it was cast.  “I’m going to be leaving here in just a moment,” he said, glancing at the dais where Prikiven and his robed lackeys. “If you want to live, you’d better come with me!”

“Wai!” Lord Whiskers said, sheathing his blade.  “I want to test a theory.”

“Tempest! Is this really the time?” the Stormbrother asked, looking toward the Censors from behind a pillar.

“It’s timely intelligence.  Sorry about this,” Whiskers said, with a sigh.  Tyndal felt him grab his neck, entwining his fingers in his gorget and yanking him into the middle of the fight.  Again.

“Truce, my lord Censors!” he yelled, as Tyndal was turned to face the checkered-robed warmagi.  They looked grumpy.

But they stopped throwing spells.

“What is it?” one of the Three Censors called.

“This man swears that our hosts are about to consume us all,” Lord Whiskers said, much more loudly than Tyndal thought the quiet man capable of.  “I don’t know to believe him or not, but I thought I would bring the matter to your attention.  If true, then it concerns you, as well.”  Tyndal realized that Whiskers was using his body as a shield against any surprises.  He wasn’t certain whether to be offended or to admire the move.

“What say our hosts?” the Censor General barked.  “You have not taken part in this, Master Prikiven, though you shall face worse penalties than these common miscreants!”

“Oh, I’m not worried about your regulations, General,” the goblin said, stepping forward – in a dark green cotton doublet this time.  “And I’m afraid our uninvited guest is, alas, being truthful.  As colorful as you all are, the true purpose of your invitations was to make your bodies available to the Nemovorti.

“You have already meat Lady Rau Ortava, formally Bea Nahiga . . . and in the body of Lord Jenerard, we have Lord Rau Obicei.  Still married, after two thousand years.  Now that is commitment!” he cackled, as the two dropped their cowls.  “No one knows what ‘love, eternal’ truly means more than a necromancer!  They are but two of Korbal’s loyal followers who will be restored in your bodies!” he declared, triumphantly.

“So . . . is my intelligence proven?” he asked Whiskers, over his shoulder.  The Censors ahead of him were peering back through the trestles they’d erected in defense.

“I’m convinced,” he said, pushing Tyndal gently away and drawing his thin sword.  “I think the Censorate will come around.  That’s what leadership by committee looks like.  What do we do?” he asked, as his bodyguards warily came out to join him.

“We attack them first,” the Censor General said, holding his ornamented two-handed sword in perfect guard position.  “Then we worry about your sentences, afterwards!”

“General, I think you underestimate the might of our foes,” Tyndal said, as the other figures shed their robes.  Prikiven grinned beatifically as the Nemovorti began to take out weapons and prepare spells.  “In a moment we’ll be out-classed and overwhelmed.  My men still defend the gate.  I suggest we retreat and regroup.”

“I concur,” Lord Whiskers said, flicking his wrist and sending a dart at Prikiven.  One of the Nemovorti snatched it out of the air.  “The music is poor and the spirits weak.  And I find the company boorish.  We need to find another party.”

Rondal, how do things look at the gate? he asked.

There seems to be no end to these things, his partner replied.  Draugen take a lot of killing.  We’d probably be done for, if it wasn’t for Noutha.  But we have the gate, for what it’s worth.  Every now and then another one will wander out of the swamp, but the ones by the hall are watching the entrance, now.

That was not what Tyndal wanted to hear.  He glanced up, and saw the first of the Nemovorti lean down and cast a spell on the slain corpse staining the floor at his feet.  In moments the corpses began twitching, until it opened its eyes with a howl of pain and unremitting suffering the likes of which Tyndal had never heard.  As their tortured new spirits animated their shredded bodies, one by one, their eyed blazed with a mad, pale yellow fury as each corpse screamed its unlife for the first time.

“Withdraw!” called the monk, loudly.  “It is time to withdraw!”

“I’ll not flee in the face of this filth!” one of the Censors snarled, and leapt to attack with his spear and sword.

Though he was using power liberally enough to tell Tyndal that he held irionite, his attack was clumsy and obvious, too slow and too reliant on pure power.  One of the Nemovorti calmly blocked the spear and broke the man’s arm with speed as fast as warmagic spells.  Before the man could respond, the Nemovort grabbed his forehead under his helmet and issued some eldritch invocation.  A moment later the Censor screamed in terror, a scream which transformed into a howl.  A moment later he had yellow eyes.

“Corps, retreat!” Ordered the Censor General, as both figures continued to advance.  Through the door and into the courtyard!”

“There are more draugen out there!” Tyndal warned.  “Take their heads and they’ll stop advancing.  Anything less they ignore!”

“Corps, prepare to advance!” the General ordered, confusing a few of his men.  But in a moment the Censorate’s cloaks were the vanguard of the flight.  “Charge!” the General screamed, as the undead from the dais came within striking range

“What do we do when we get beyond the gate?” Whiskers asked, as he sped toward the door, past Tyndal’s shoulder.

“Run,” Tyndal advised, slicing through the shoulder of the former Censor as the creature attacked him.  “As if you were being chased by an army of undead!”

The Seabrother smashed a knee of a former Coastlord with his makeshift club, just as Rellin sliced through the draugen’s neck from behind with his scimitar.  The Iris bodyguards, protecting Lord Whiskers, who was skewering undead with uncanny skill as he made his way to the door.

The escapees plowed into the band of draugen who lingered outside the door of the keep.  The Censors plunged into the shambling mob with mageblades flashing, spells going off as fast as they could manage them.  The others followed suit, mostly avoiding combat when they could and slashing at the undead when they could do so without exposing themselves.

Tyndal protected the rear, as much as he could.  He wanted to deny the Nemovorti as many Talented corpses as he could – he felt bad for leaving as many behind as he had.  When the last mage squirmed away, Tyndal alone stood against the three lead Nemovorti – including the allegedly married pair.

He wouldn’t be able to hold out for long, he knew.  But perhaps he could delay them long enough for the others to escape.  Tyndal looked around, then sent his attentions to Grapple’s paraclete.  In a moment the corpses around him began to burst into flame.

“No!” shouted Lady Rau Ortava.  She raised her hand and began casting a counterspell . . . until a knife from above pierced her wrist.  She stopped and looked at the offending blade angrily.  Tyndal continued to burn corpses.

“We need those!” the former Lord of the Coasts snarled.  Instead of magic, he hefted a thick-bladed Sea Lord falchion, the kind best suited for cutting people in half.  The Nemovort lifted it like it was silk.

“They’re getting away!” screeched Prikiven, pointing at the retreating magi.  “Don’t let them do that!  Better alive than dead!”

“The draugen will finish them.  They guard the bailey, now,” one of the other Nemovorti said in a deep, croaking voice, as if he ate Karshaki masons for breakfast.  He looked like a blacksmith, except for the ugly, jagged tattoos on his face and chest.  The warhammer in his fist supported the resemblance.

“Lord Tuska, they are little more intelligent than their humani hosts!” Prikiven said, angrily.  “Stop them!  If they unbar the gate, we’ll have to chase them through the swamps!”

“No one will escape my—ahh!” he screamed, as two sharp little darts blossomed in his eye sockets like miniature roses.  An explosion of blood and humor streamed across his face as the confused Nemovort struggled.

Tyndal followed the attack by blowing the blinded ghoul back into a wooden column with his siege wand, cracking the mighty cypress log.

“Ah!  True sport!” Jenerard’s body laughed, gleefully, as he brought his falchion into guard.  “I’ve been eager for a proper fight since I was reawakened!  Do try to make it a challenge,” he said, anticipating disappointment.

“You wish to spar, my lord?” Tyndal asked, realizing that his friends and temporary allies, for good or ill, had fled.  He was here alone, now that the others had fled to the gate . . . with a certain nearly invisible shadowmage who was sniping his foes.

“I wish to see what this body is capable of,” the odd voice said from Jenerard’s lips, as the red glow from his eyes intensified.  A thin sliver of steel shot out of nowhere and opened a cut in the creature’s side.  Not enough to kill even a mortal man, but a strike nonetheless.

“It appears proficient at bleeding!” Tyndal taunted, throwing Grapple into the air and suspending it there by its knot coral while he took a strong guard with his mageblade.

Lord Rau Obicei attacked with impressive speed and decisiveness, and if the heavy blade in his hand was a novelty, he used it well.  Whomever Rau Obicei had been as a living Alka Alon, he’d been good at swordplay . . . among other things, Tyndal realized, as the Nemovort feinted with his sword and slithered a spell from one hand without so much as humming a tune.

“Hey!’ Tyndal said, as he disrupted the spell with his blade before it could fulfill itself.  “If you’re an Alka Alon, why aren’t you singing?”

“Because I don’t have to!” he laughed, lustily, at the idea.  “Do you take me for an arboreal conjurer?  I am a master of the highest arts, Shut up, wizardling, and show me your mettle!”

Tyndal didn’t say anything . . . he attacked.  His blade was in perfect position as he closed, his footwork flawless.  Every lesson he’d ever had, every fight he’d ever been in, came flooding back into his fingers and toes, hands and feet, as he measured himself against his opponent.

Shifting suddenly into an augmented spell he whirled his blade at the Nemovort, allowing the impact of his parries to direct the lighter mageblade exactly where Tyndal desired . . . and when the point crossed the plane of the Nemovort’s knee, he activated a spell that savaged it with blue lightning.  The arc of electricity only lasted an instant, but it spun the undead warrior around . . . just as two more knives flew from somewhere and thudded into his back.

Tyndal didn’t waste the moment.  He dropped to one elbow, spun around and swept Jenerard’s legs out from under Rau Obicei.  As the Nemovort’s hand clasped for the fallen scimitar, Tyndal stomped his hobnailed boot down on the creature’s wrist, pinning it to the floor.  He was about to decapitate the animate corpse once and for all when his blade flew out of his hand, and into Rau Ortava’s undamaged hand.

“Ah, knot coral!” she smiled, as she examined his mageblade with a critical eye.  “I have missed its utility.  And its appalling lack of loyalty.  A delightful trinket for this crude but intriguing blade!”

“My lady will be gratified at the novel places I intend to stick it, then,” Tyndal said, drawing another wand from his belt.  The beautiful Nemovort sneered darkly.

“We discovered that we can prolong the quality of these vessels by consuming the essences of living humani,” she informed him, darkly.  “It’s an acquired taste – your souls are so bitter.  But in your case, Sir Tyndal, I will enjoy every drop of your blood!”  She looked up, suddenly, toward the rafters of the hall and said something in a language Tyndal didn’t recognize.  One of the other Nemovorti uttered a spell, and Atopol was suddenly pulled out of hiding and onto the ground before them.  “Both of you!”

“I don’t!” he yelled, and threw a thaumaturgic glass sphere from a pouch on his harness at her.  The tiny marble flashed in the dim light of the hall for just a moment before it landed at her feet . . . and didn’t shatter.

“Ishi’s tits!” Tyndal groaned.  Those spheres were supposed to be fragile enough to shatter easily!  Atopol groaned without the oath.  He’d hit the ground hard.

“Let me devour them, Mistress!” hissed another Nemovort with a long iron staff and the ugliest face he’d yet seen on an undead.

Tyndal was about to call forth another weapon when Rondal materialized next to Rau Ortava, who still bore his mageblade with the Waystone in the pommel.  Rondal took a fraction of a moment to orient himself, and immediately stepped on the glass sphere.  The blast that followed threw all three bodies across the hall, and scattered a trio of draugen who were headed for Tyndal and Atopol.

Of all times for things to go wrong . . . Tyndal kicked at a draugen who got too close, and then leaped into the air as he called Grapple to his hand.  The baculus was not a weapon, it was a tool.  But any tool is a weapon in the hands of a warmage, he recalled Master Loiko instructing him.  And this was no ordinary tool.

It made a decent point of leverage as he tripped the persistent draugen.  It made more-than-adamant club as it smashed through the temple of another, crushing it.  Then the first one spun around, back into range, and he put the dull bronze spike at the heel of the rod through its forehead, getting sprayed with blood and brains for his efforts.

Once he was clear to shift from combat to spells, he saw an opportunity.  He aimed the rod through the thinning crowd of undead and aimed a blast at the goblin.  Pritviken yelped and fell to the floor.  Paralyzed, not dead.  Tyndal had a good many questions to put to the goblin.

But he had other problems at hand before he could have that luxury.  Rau Obicei had recovered from his spill, and as he was still in possession of his head, he threw himself at Tyndal.

Grapple was not designed as a warstaff, but it was rugged – rugged enough to block the heavy blade as it relentlessly flew toward him.

“You said make it worth your while,” Tyndal quipped, blasting the floor at the Nemovort’s feet.  While the tactic worked to throw the creature off balance, it also earned Tyndal a painful slash across his shoulder, where it found a crevice between the plates in his armor.  He almost followed up with a spell – he had plenty that might confound the Nemovort – but he didn’t have time to decide.

Instead he released the hoxter pocket he’d used with the dragon.  Though it was nearly exhausted, the few pounds of molten lead left inside neatly melted through the chest of the Nemovort.  Not even necromancy could protect against that, he saw.

“You killed him!  Again!” screamed Rau Ortava, clutching her bleeding wrist with one hand.  “Damn you!  I was looking forward to enjoying that body!”

She struggled to her feet as Tyndal began to look for a good spell to bind her, and the other few Nemovorti and draugen around her.  Something that wouldn’t roast Tyndal, either, he realized.  That limited his options.

They got limited even more a moment later, when Gareth appeared along with Gatina next to the wounded undead woman – just like Rondal, they were expecting to come out of the Waypoint at Rondal’s side.

Tyndal bowled over a draugen and shouldered his way to intervene.  He shouted into Gareth’s mind as he went.

Rondal is unconscious and needs a medic!  Get him out of here!  Now!

Tyndal was gratified to see the wizard grab Rondal by the scruff of his neck and the back of his belt and go back through the Ways.  Rau Ortava did too – and screeched.

“They have mastered the Ways!  But there is no Waypoint here!”  Just as she turned she took the point of Kitten’s slender sword in her shoulder, which immediately sagged.

Tyndal snatched his mageblade up in his left hand as he tripped the blind Nemovort as it struggled to get to his feet.  That frustrated the creature beyond its patience, and it bellowed.

“ENOUGH OF THIS FOOLISHNESS!”

And then they weren’t in a hall anymore.  With a sickening lurch, Tyndal, Gatina, and all of the undead were thrown to the dark pebbled, unforgivably hard ground.  Gatina rose, dizzily . . . and then vomited across the sprawled body of Ray Ortava.

Tyndal looked around in confusion.  He was on an island in the middle of a black lake, where an evil looking mist hovered above the water’s surface, promising dark terrors lurking within.  There was a low roar in the background, the sound of water being hurled from great height.  Half a mile away the stubs of great, dark buildings were climbing into the night’s sky.  A foul rotting smell filled the air.

“Where are we?” Gatina gasped.  The undead were beginning to stir around them.  The goblin, still ensnared in his spell, was unmoving.  Tyndal snatched up his sword and baculus quickly.  Then he heard the bellow of a dragon, followed by another.  He knew exactly where they were.

“Oh, Trygg’s grace preserve us,” he moaned, as the first dragon trumpeted back.  “We’re in Olum Seheri!  Run!”

Chapter Forty

Olum Seheri

The pebbles crunched unpleasantly under his heels as he ran as fast as he could away from the rising undead.  It wasn’t them he was afraid of.  It was the reinforcements they could call.

Where are we? demanded Gatina, mind-to-mind, as he heard her lighter steps pounding behind him.  She had shorter legs, but she was making up with it with faster steps.

Olum Seheri, fortress of the Necromancer! he sent back, as he searched for any hint of cover on the island.  Most of it was well-washed with debris, the remains of hundreds of beautiful Alkan buildings destroyed in the invasion, or in the destructive wave the master of the city used to destroy it, rather than see it fall into enemy hands.

Only that hadn’t quite worked out.  The old city of Anthatiel was all but destroyed, but the surviving gurvani had started to rebuild from the ruins in their own image.  Thankfully, there were still plenty of piles of debris the wave had deposited across the island.  Tyndal chose one three or four rows from where they’d emerged and threw himself behind it.  A moment later he felt a second thud next to him as Gatina landed.

And then a third.  Atopol uncurled from a dark ball and heaved.

“Where . . . where . . . the hells . . . are we?” he gasped.

“The second-worst place you could possibly be,” Tyndal whispered, peering over the ridge of debris.  The undead were just struggling to their feet.  He noted their slower recovery time.  “This is where Korbal and his friends live.  Or . . . don’t live.”

“It’s awful!” Gatina said, making a face under her mask.  “What is that smell?”

“Dragonshit, rotting wood, and the decomposing corpses of a hundred thousand gurvani.  And the stench of a few thousand live ones,” he said, looking around at the desolation.  The once-beautiful City of Rainbows was forever gone.  The dark spire that was rising on its roots was a blemish, surrounded by squalid sheds of rude manufacture, and a couple of buildings cobbled together from the wreckage.  The effect was both chaotic and orderly, and all together horrifying.  There weren’t even any stars overhead.  The mist formed a gloomy ceiling high overhead, at the edge of the deep chasm from which the five great rivers fell into the lake.  “And sorcery, foul, foul sorcery.”

“If those were undead,” Atopol said, his eyes wide, “we cannot allow them to invade Enultramar!”

“They are moving very quickly,” agreed Tyndal, looking around as much as he could.  He tried to commit as much as possible to memory, the location of every hut and shed, every tower and spire.

“Shouldn’t we be leaving here?” Gatina wondered, aloud, worried.  “Can’t you get us home?”

“I can and I will,” Tyndal assured them.  “But while we’re here . . .”

Atopol sighed in frustration.  “You knights never stop your errantry, do you?”

“We knights,” Tyndal reminded him.  “You’re one now, too.  Indeed, I’m proposing you for inclusion in the Order of Estasi, along with Lorcas and Gareth, when we return.  You’re starting to get good at errantry.  But since our original mission was to scout this place, and since we’re here, I think it’s only wise to take a quiet look around.”

“What if someone sees us?” Atopol asked.  Gatina smacked him.

“When was the last time someone saw you who you didn’t want to see you?” she hissed.

“About ten minutes ago, when a nice undead lady threw me out of the rafters,” Atopol said, sullenly.

“Darkness, just pull yourself together!” the Kitten of Night swore at her brother.  “Tyndal’s right!  They brought us right to their fortress!  We need to look around, while we’re here.  We might not get this kind of chance again.”

“We’re still too exposed out here,” Tyndal said, looking around.  He saw shapes joining the undead in the distance, a lot of shapes.  “We should find somewhere more private.”

They peered into the gloom around the awful island until Atopol thought he saw a spot nearer the settlement in the middle of the island, amongst the worst of the debris. They moved almost silently through the ruins, hugging the terrain for as much cover as they could, while the shadowmagi cast spells to conceal their passage.  In an hour they were near the summit of a great pile of wreckage, the ruins of one of the beautiful spires of lost Anthatiel, laid on its side and crushed by the force of its fall.

“This is better,” Atopol decided, as they crept into a chamber tilted at an odd angle.  There was a small chamber-like space near the highest point of the chamber, perhaps once the rafters of the structure.  The outer walls were cracked enough to allow a surprisingly good view of the plain of desolation as well.  “Cats like to be up high,” he added, taking off his gloves.  “What are we doing here, again?”

“Basic reconnaissance, gather what intelligence we can on the defenses and the troops here, and seek out the location of any prisoners.  What else would we do?”

“Escape?” offered her brother hopefully.

“If we could establish that Princess Rardine is here, we’d have a victory.  If we can rescue her . . . well, how could we not try?”

“Because this place is crawling with undead and goblins and maybe undead goblins?” countered Atopol.  “We are not prepared for a rescue mission!”

“We’re here!” Gatina insisted.  “We’re doing this!”

“Well, if you want to look for a prison,” Atopol suggested, unhappily, that building over there looks like one.”  He pointed to a square, squat structure at least three stories tall, with a low-peaked roof.  It looked particularly dire.  Though there were windows aplenty in the place, they were firmly and thoroughly covered with thick iron bars.  “You can see the hands of their prisoners.  And sometime their faces,” he added, sadly.

Tyndal looked himself, using Grapple to adjust his perspective.  Atopol was correct.  He could see thin, hopeless faces and gnarled, battered hands at the windows of the keep.  Slaves to be used to build their mighty fortress, he realized.  And perhaps spare hosts for their shock troops.  It was guarded by gurvani, he saw.  Hobs.

“That’s certainly a prison,” he agreed.  “A good place to start.”

“Well, it will save them travel distance when they capture us and throw us in,” the shadowmage said, darkly.

“Darkness!  You are such a baby!  I’ll sneak over there, see if she’s inside, and be back in an hour!”

“No, you won’t!” Atopol ordered.  “We’ll all go!”

She snorted.  “You think I’ll get in undetected with you two clumsy lunkheads stumbling around?”

“No one is going to expect someone to be trying to break into the place,” reminded Tyndal.  “All the security is designed to keep them in.  Hells, the entire island is a prison.  You don’t want to know what’s in that lake,” he said, shaking his head.

“So let’s go break into prison and rescue a princess,” Atopol sighed.

“Let’s make certain we have a place to retreat to,” Tyndal said, unscrewing the pommel of his sword and removing the Waystone.  He tucked it securely in a crevice, then buried it with sand.

It took less than an hour to cross the debris field without being detected, and Tyndal proved correct: the hobgoblins who guarded the prison were far more concerned with what was going on inside, not who was skulking about outside.  The first two sentries were already asleep, even though it was the middle of their nocturnal “day” – but Tyndal knew plenty of sentries took naps on their shifts, at all hours of the day.  The goblins weren’t any different.

He left them in an even deeper stupor, one they were unlikely to arise from until long after their shift.  It served them right, he reasoned, for their dereliction.  The turnkeys within were more interested in their dice game than the doorway, and the three of them crept by without alerting them.  After that, they were in one long corridor after another, each with a dark cell.  The ones on the exterior of the building had tiny heavily barred windows, though the scenery was bleak.  The ones inside were smaller and dank.

Tyndal did his best to see who was in each one, but it was difficult.  In some cases the prisoner had been in captivity for so long that they were unrecognizable.  Some were crammed several to a room, trying to sleep as best they could in miserable conditions.

But all the prisoners seemed to be men – well-muscled, but poorly fed workers, penned for the night for a few brief hours before being forced back to their jobs, Tyndal reasoned.  Strong men being used for their labor and used up.  Not all the bodies he passed lying in the cells had the glow of life about them.

Nor, he discovered, as he came to the last cell on the block, were they all necessarily human.

The cell was smaller than the others, due to its position on the block, but they gurvani had made good use of the squat conditions by finding smaller prisoners to keep within.

“Karshak!” Tyndal said, aloud, as he saw how the sleeping figures differed.

What? Atopol asked, mind-to-mind . . . which made a lot more sense when you were sneaking through a dark prison full of anxious slaves on the middle of an island packed to the shore with evil, Tyndal realized.

They’ve got Karshak prisoners here, he said, excitedly.  Like those you saw in Sevendor?  Strong as oxen, and can work all day.  You should watch the masons at the mountain work, sometime.

“Dradrien,” a muffled voice croaked in the darkness.

Gatina froze – a pose so motionless, she could have been a shadow in the gloom.

“What?” Tyndal ventured in a whisper.

“We . . . Dradrien . . . not . . . Karshak,” the voice rumbled.

“Who are you?” Tyndal asked, though he knew it as risky.  So, apparently, did the prisoner within.  He scooted closer to the bars, until Tyndal could smell him.  Definitely not the dusty scent of a Karshak, he knew.

“We . . . Alon Dradrien,” he said, with a little more confidence.  “Prisoners.”

“The gaol gave that away,” Tyndal agreed.  “All right, so you’re Iron Folk – Dradrien.  Why are you here?”

It took a moment for the creature to find the right words.  Clearly he knew little Narasi.

“Came . . . find . . . uncle,” he stammered.  “Smith.  Great smith,” he added.

“Your uncle?  Is he here?” Tyndal insisted.

“Not here,” the Dradrien said, shaking his shaggy head.  “High prisoners in great tower,” he said, each word said with deliberation and a lot of grunting.  “Work forge.”

“Have you seen a girl?  A human girl?” asked Gatina, impatiently.

The Dradrien considered.  “Female,” he finally grunted.  “Yes.  High prisoners in great tower," he said, nodding.

“She’s not here?” Atopol asked, disappointed.

“High prisoners in great tower,” the prisoner repeated, with some satisfaction.  “Can show,” he added.  “Free us!”

“It’s going to be hard enough sneaking around without three—” Tyndal.

“Dangerous,” Tyndal informed the poor creature.

“We die here soon!” he shrugged, sadly.  “Free us!  Can show great tower!”

That would be a big risk, Tyndal, Atopol pointed out.

She’s not in this gaol, he said, flatly.

I heard.  High prisoners in great tower.  So we know she’s here.  We can send an army, later.  Right now, let’s just get out of here!  Every breath we take is one closer to capture!

We need to rescue her, Tyndal insisted.  If these three clods can show us where she is, we can do the rest!

We?

Okay, then I will, Tyndal said, shrugging.  You can just watch.

Atopol groaned again, but he did not object.  Tyndal looked the creature in the eye.

“Name?” he asked, keeping it simple.  Clearly the Dradrien had only begun learning Narasi.

“Jarn,” he said, pointing his stubby but strong finger at himself, then the fellow next to him with the gigantic nose.  “Gref. Agarth,” he said, as he pointed to the thinnest of the three.

“All right, Jarn, let’s see if you are gentlemen.  You’ll be good, if I free you?” he asked the three Iron Folk, as if he was speaking to a five-year-old human.

“Ten years’ service!” the poor Dradrien promised, unexpectedly.  “Free us!  Can show great tower!”

Tyndal’s mind raced.  He knew little about the Alon Dradrien, even why their name was reversed compared to all of the other Alon.  They were masterful at metallurgy, he recalled, as adept at iron and every other metal as the Karshak Alon were with stone.  He remembered that there was some enmity between the two sub-species – races – clans – of the Alon that the Narasi collectively called “dwarves”, but the details were more mysterious than the culture of the Alka Alon to humanity.

He knew that the Iron Folk did not live near the Five Duchies (although where they did live, or where they lived under, was also unknown).  They had to have traveled a long way.  Considering their famed skill with metals, an offer of service was hard not to consider.

“Contract?” he asked.  He knew the Karshak, the distant cousins of the Dradrien, held contractual agreements in almost sacred awe.  He hoped the Dradrien had a similar cultural prejudice.

“Contract,” the Dradrien conceded with a heavy sigh, after conferring with his fellows.

“We have an agreement, then.  Let me just get you out . . .” Tyndal bent and invoked magesight to start to work on the lock.  Gatina pushed him aside impatiently.

“Isn’t this why you brought us here?” she asked, working a tiny wire into the crude mechanism.

“I didn’t bring you at all,” he protested.  “You showed up in the middle of a fight.  The Nemovort decided to bring you along.  I’m just being opportunistic.”

There was an audible click as she forced the heavy iron lock open.  Atopol hurriedly dabbed the iron hinges with oil from a flask on his belt before Tyndal pulled it open.  It swung without grating, the way he’d expected it would.

That was really sneaky, he praised the thief.

That’s why we’re good at taking other people’s things, he replied.  We cheat.

The three dumpy little figures hurried out of the cell with incredible alacrity once the thick iron gate was opened.  They followed Atopol as he led them down to the only entrance of the place, and paused while Tyndal rendered the two turnkeys unconscious.

“All clear, let’s go!” he urged, waving the three dump non-humans through the doorway.  “Lead on!”

Even though it was dark, there was a lot of activity on the island.  They had to hide several times as they snuck through the shadows as they approached the dark, looming tower.  Though the human slaves who carted debris from around the stump of the old spire were sleeping, the gurvani workers and draugen overseers labored through the night to build upon what remained.

It was more than repairs and reconstruction, Tyndal could see.  Though the foundations of the old Alka Alon tower remained, the spire replacing it was unlike the previous edifice.  Instead of a single slender spire, there were now four smaller towers, four stories tall, with crenellations and arrow slits built into the upper stories.

This was a fortress, first and foremost, Tyndal realized, as he studied it closely.  The spire was the center of the new structure, dominating it, but the foundations being laid across the rest of the island, through former parks now choked with debris and across wrecked neighborhoods and the ruins of civic buildings, looked extensive.

There were three other large buildings being constructed around the spire, and innumerable smaller sheds.  From a black basalt pyramid being assembled in the western precinct, to a sprawling series of halls in the north that could only be a barracks, the entire ruined island was being brought back into a pale mockery of the land it was.  Other foundations promised unimagined dangers in their future – whether fighting decks for war machines, habitats for dragons, whatever the undead preferred to . . . un-live in, laboratories, storehouses, arsenals, foundries – there was no guessing what the massive complex would become.

But it was Anthatiel no more, even in ruin.  The City of Rainbows had fallen.  This was Olum Seheri, now.  Where the mist once flew into the air from the five mighty waterfalls, now some foul sludge spilled across the surface of the great mountain lake.  The mist from the falls cowered across the water, clouding the air beyond a few feet in any direction until the breezes that blew from land to water kept them at bay.  It gave the entire island a gloomy cast that suited its new management.

He climbed the hill of debris carefully and deliberately, trying to see as much as he could with every ascending step.  The three Dradrien motioned them closer to the foreboding structure, though it was clear they feared every step they took.

“There,” the leader, Jarn, said, pointing a surprisingly long and dirty forefinger at the tower, unnecessarily.  “Ten levels.”

Tyndal was anxious to be this close to the place – the ground floor was swarming with gurvani and draugen going on errands.  He cast his gaze instead at the upper sections of the growing spire.  He found the tenth floor and searched with magesight, one window at a time.  He found her, the third window over.

Princess Rardine, though she had never looked so common, was looking forlornly out of her cell.  Her gown was filthy and in tatters, and her hair was a mess.  But there was a determined expression that gave even Tyndal pause as he watched.  He committed her face to memory.

“Uncle on nine level,” grunted the Dradrien.  Tyndal moved his focus, until he found the Dradrien: a stocky, thick-armed creature Tyndal had no trouble imagining as a smith.

“Is there any way we can get in there?” Tyndal asked, scanning the busy street below.  It almost looked like a human street, except all the humans were dead or enslaved and there were a thousand gurvani hurrying back and forth on their errands of construction.

“Are you completely mad?” Atopol asked, aloud.  “There are at least a thousand goblins down there, not to mention those yellow-eyed freaks!  You’re good, Tyndal – but you aren’t that good!  No one is that good!”

Tyndal studied the situation, but as confident as he was, with as much power as he had with him, he knew it would be futile.  This was a job that would require planning and timing and a lot of other things that Tyndal would rather leave to someone else to be responsible for when it went horribly wrong.  He knew his limitations.

But she was so close . . . and he hated her so much . . . and she was worth two rich Gilmoran baronies and the acclaim of the King . . .

“At least let me get a quick magemap drawn,” he insisted with a heavy sigh, and quickly began the process using Grapple.  The baculus obediently rendered his observations into an arcane representation he could study later.  He did it as quickly as possible . . . but not quickly enough.

“Ishi’s tits, what is that?” asked Gatina in a shocked whisper.  She nodded back to the street below.  From the west, where a large dark pyramid-shaped structure was being built, a very tall man in a long, dark hooded robe was walking toward the great tower accompanied by an entourage of undead – Nemovorti, draugen, perhaps other sorts Tyndal didn’t know the names of.  Overhead were twisting shapes he could not identify, but which coiled through the air like nothing he’d ever seen.

Everyone in its path deferred to the procession, and work on everything stopped as the tall, gaunt man passed by.  The gurvani in the area ceased their work and their errands as he approached, striding with the regal gait of a king.

They began chanting.  Tyndal hated gurvani chanting.  It rarely ended well.  Usually their shamans chanted their spells, the way that the Alka Alon sang theirs.  But this time they were merely repeating a name, over and over again, as the tall figure strode through the street.

“Kor-BAL!  Kor-BAL! Kor-BAL!” hundreds of furry black throats howled in unison.

“That’s mad!” Gatina said, shaking her head.  The prisoners in the tower all came to their windows to see what the fuss was.

The tall man in the center of the crowd seemed pleased at the attention, and waved at his servants.

“So that’s Korbal,” Tyndal said, thoughtfully, as his bowels turned to water.  “I didn’t expect he’d be that tall, for an Alkan.”

The last time he’d been near the Necromancer of the Mindens, he’d been encased in magical crystal and entombed under a mountain range.  He looked a lot more hale now, in the body of some well-built human man.  You could barely see the tattoos that helped keep his body intact . . . until you looked at him with magesight.  Then the figure below turned into a sickly beacon of thaumaturgical power laced with the tell-tale sign of death magic . . . necromantic power.  The Nemovorti’s signatures were pale, next to that darkly-burning ember.  Only the maniacal grin on his face seemed to indicate what horrors the immortal mind of Korbal the Demon God, Necromancer of the Mindens, was capable of.

“What is he doing?” Gatina asked, mystified.

“Going out for a pint?” Tyndal shrugged.  “What do evil undead lords do, on a market night?”

“It looks as if they are preparing for something,” Atopol observed, his eyes barely peeking over the edge of the fallen spire.

“Great . . . visitor,” the Dradrien supplied.  “Heard talk today.”

“He’s expecting company?” Atopol asked.  “Who?”

As if to answer, Korbal spread his arms wide, said something none of them could hear . . . and an arcane field the size of a wagon began to form in front of the great black tower.  Even the Nemovorti and draugen were chanting his name, now, in horrific counterpoint to the guttural goblins.  When the distortion effect cleared, the voices cheered, then changed their chant.

“Shere-ul!  Shere-ul!  Shere-ul!” they chanted, even more enthusiastically.

“Oh dear gods!” Tyndal said, his mind seeming to shrink from even thinking about what he was seeing.  A green sphere just a bit larger than a human head floated above the ground, surrounded by a half-dozen of his skull-faced priesthood.  “That’s the Dead God!  That’s Sheruel!  We need to get out of here, now!”

“Is that the goblin king?” Gatina asked, curious.  Why she wasn’t shrieking in terror, Tyndal could not fathom.

“That’s far worse than any goblin,” he replied, frantically searching for the right Waypoint to go to.  No one had seen Sheruel in almost five years.  Now the old scrug was visiting his vassals.  “That’s the abomination that is leading this entire war.  We need to leave!” he insisted.  He had to tell Minalan and Rondal.  In person.  This would not wait.

“I’m starting to agree,” Atopol said, swallowing worriedly, sliding away from the edge of the ruin they were perched upon.  “In fact, that was my idea from the start, if you—”

He was interrupted by a horrific screech – not a dragon, Tyndal knew, but something nearly as baleful.  Those wiggling shapes that had accompanied Korbal and his court through the streets . . .

“Wyvern!” the Dradrien Jarn said, looking upward frightfully.  Tyndal whirled and saw the beast as it was descending toward them like a demonic falcon after its prey.

They were the prey, he realized at once.

He had no time to consider.  He picked the first Waypoint he could think of, the one at the Rat Trap, and started the spell . . . only to realize that he would be leaving the Dradrien to the mercy of the monster, while the two most powerful manifestations of evil ever to agree to hate humanity were having a drink below.

The Dradrien realized that, too.  Jard was frantically waving his hands in front of him, screaming “Contract!  Contract!”

It was a bad idea.  Almost no one except perhaps Master Min had taken six people through the Ways at once, no one who wasn’t actually an Alka Alon, and even they would have been hesitant, he knew.

But he had no choice.  He could not leave the shadowthieves who had served so loyally, and he could not abandon the Dradrien.  He had demanded their contract, after all.  He could not very well ignore it now.

This is going to hurt, was the last thought he had before he activated the spell . . . including the Dradrien.

Taking six people strained his resources far beyond what he could manage.  The spell was stretched to the very limits of his willpower, and it took every shred to include them all.  He felt as if he was failing several times.

But then he felt the familiar twist as he was pushed through reality itself.  He just never quite remembered coming through the other side.

*

*

*

He awakened some intderminate time later, in his own bed in the Rat Trap.  The mad idea that it was all a drunken nightmare tempted him, but the air was far cooler here than it had been in Enultramar.  Or in Orem Seheri.

And Gareth was sitting next to him with a medical baculus.

“Ishi’s tits!” he said, as Tyndal opened his eyes while he was staring at him through the lens.  “Tyndal?”

“I . . . think,” he admitted.  “Water?”

“You’re awake!” Gareth exclaimed, leaping to his feet.  “Praise Briga, you’re awake!”

“Water?” he repeated, more adamantly.

“Oh!  Of course!” the wizard said, laying aside the medical baculus and pouring a pewter cup of water from the basin next to his bed.  Tyndal drank gratefully, his throat as dry as sand. It was as if it had been days since he’d had water.

“I . . . how long was I out?” he asked, when his throat felt less raw.

“Five days,” Gareth sighed, holding a cup to his lips for a second sip.  The water tasted like a gift from the gods.  “The others were only out for a day or so – but you had us worried.”

“Rondal?”

“Rondal made it.  Everyone made it,” Gareth conceded.  “Not uninjured, but everyone who went in, came out.  You were the one we were worried about.  Apparently it was rough, out at the gate.”

“It was rough in the bloody hall, too,” Tyndal nodded, his head suddenly throbbing.  He desperately wanted something to dull the pain, but he had a duty to perform.  “I need to talk to Minalan,” he said.  “I don’t think I can manage mind-to-mind.”

“Talk to him about what?”

“What we saw at Olum Seheri,” he said, coughing.  His mouth tasted foul.  “Sheruel and Korbal, in the same place at the same time.  And Rardine.  She was there. I saw her!” he insisted.

“Well, that’s certainly something we need to share,” Gareth said, looking troubled.  “Just not with Minalan.  He’s gone.”

Tyndal stopped and stared.  “What do you mean?”

“The day before you came back,” Gareth explained, “Master Minalan went to his tower for a while.  Later he came out in a hurry, and fetched Sire Cei.  They disappeared.  Then word came that they went to the abbey, and collected Alya.  Then they . . . they disappeared.  Minalan isn’t answering, mind-to-mind or by Mirror.  He’s vanished.  Sire Cei has not sent so much as a letter.  The Spellmonger,” he announced, sorrowfully, “has left Sevendor!”

The End

Thank you for reading!  As always, feel free to contact the author with any questions or comments at tmancour@gmail.com!  And be on the lookout for the next book in the Spellmonger Series, Volume 10, Necromancer, coming in 2017!

APPENDIX:

The History of Alshar

By Seabrother Dexus of Fairhaven Abbey

Presented to His Grace, Lenguin II, on the occasion of his victory

and conquest of Farise

The Early History Of Alshar:

The Coming Of The Sea Lords

When Argarus the Cormeeran’s corsair ship, the Fair Maiden, blew past the treacherous Shoals of Sinbar in a springtime tempest for the first time, he thought he and his men were destined to dine with the Storm Lord in his hall that night.  No mariner in living history had braved the rocky, reefed maze in the western bays, and if they had, none bore tale of the lands beyond.

Argarus’ crew included a young monk, Careddas, rescued from Farisian pirates shortly before.  The monk repaid his rescuers by using ancient maps in his possession to plot a course through the Shoals, to escape the rising tides.  When the Fair Maiden emerged on the other side, the ship was battered and beaten, the mast broken and the hull damaged . . . but most of the crew were alive.

Argarus put to shore in an inlet along the rocky coastline, preparing to encamp ashore, shipwrecked on a desolate coast.  But beyond the rocky headlands and behind the forbidding gray cliffs the crew discovered a broad and fertile land, peopled by simple farmers who enjoyed the bounty of their fields and vineyards, untroubled by war.  They called themselves the Alshari, and their fertile land, Alshar, meaning “Uttermost West” in their ancient tongue.

Argarus set to conquering them at once, his sixty corsairs quickly seizing the unarmed chieftains of the tribes and murdering them before the eyes of their astonished families.  He called the island he took for his base Vinnahaven, after the goddess of ports.  There he built a small fortress in fear of an uprising, and made Vinnahaven as defensible as he could.  For a year Argarus ruled the coastal people near his ship, terrorizing the populace and demanding tribute of food, wine, women, and timber to repair the Fair Maiden.

Though the folk of the land beyond the shoals he named Enultramar were prosperous, they knew no gods but the primitive divinities who ruled the lands.  When Argarus declared himself Lord of the Sea, and forced a dozen rebels to be slain in sacrifice to the Storm Lord and his five daughters, instead of a bull as tradition demanded, he loaded a hundred Alshari slaves aboard his repaired ship, took ample provision and treasure, and vowed to return to the generous land.

Though he left a few men behind to watch his new secret haven, the pirates were lazy and grew complacent, allowing the careful watches Argarus declared to fail.  It proved their undoing.  Before Argarus was two months gone, the Alshari coastal folk rose in rebellion and slew their captors.  They did their best to destroy Vinnashaven and all memory of the first of the Sea Lords, and return to their quiet lives.

It was not to be.  While the depredations of the corsairs faded in memory, and the coastal folk felt free once more, a few years after Argarus’ departure, the Fair Maiden returned through Carredas’ Channel to Enultramar once more.  Argarus had gone to the Storm Lord’s halls before the ship returned to Cormeer, but his sons Ramonus and Salbino, returned with eleven ships, a corsair fleet.

The first Sea Lords were independent captains Ramonus (the elder brother, and more ambitious) recruited in the wake of the Imperial Magocracy’s expansion from central Merwyn to their ancient havens in Cormeer’s Shattered Coast.  Many of the corsairs there refused to bend knee and take the sail of the Magocracy, nor was there a need to.  Their colonies in Remere, Castal, and Farise, among other far-flung ports, offered plenty of room to escape the Magocracy’s growing influence.

With the cult of the Storm Lord and his daughters as the cultural center of the mariners, the sons of Arbarus were able to convince eleven adventurers to join them in a secret, bountiful haven only they knew about.  Promising wine, women, land and dominion, the twelve ships set out from Cormeer prepared to colonize, not merely raid.  Amongst their crews were smiths, carpenters, shipwrights, wainwrights, miners and other craftsmen from Cormeer eager for adventure and opportunity.

When the fleet rounded the Horn of Farise and faced the forbidding barrier of the Shoals of Sinbar, a priest of the Storm Lord, Stormfather Vulintarius, led the Fair Maiden through Carredas’ Channel and into the Bay of Enultramar, beyond.  Before the fleet made landfall, they conspired behind the peninsula and divided up the lands of Enultramar before they set foot there.

The Pact of the Sea Lords was a simple one: each ship and crew would lay claim to a twelfth of the lands of Enultramar, to rule as lords in the name of the Storm Lord.  The Stormfather chose a high precipice overlooking the bay to claim as his future temple, and agreed to be independent arbiter between all twelve of the Sea Lord houses.

When the fleet emerged from behind the peninsula at high tide the next morning, each sail bore the Storm King’s sigil: the fearsome Sea Axe, upraised in aggression.  Each ship landed on a different site around the great bay, laying claim to an island or peninsula which they felt would be good to harbor in.  Then their men departed their ships, axes and swords in hand, and went forth to conquer the coastal peoples.  Within a week all within a day’s ride of the bay were subject to the Sea Lord’s might.

For two years the twelve crews, under the leadership of their captains-turned-lords, forced their new subjects to toil to build strong but simple stone towers on the rocky islands they’d claimed as their own.  Storehouses and shipyards were built, to be filled with the tribute and labor of the smaller natives.  Women, too, were demanded and delivered to the Sea Lords’ dire keeps.  As each lord took a totem in honor of the sea and the Storm Lord, they prepared their men for the conquest ahead by sharpening their skills on the conquered natives.

When the Magocracy’s nascent merchant fleet departed Farise, bound for Unstara, the Far Isles, and points beyond, their escort of Cormeeran warships sailed first far to the west to screen them from the coastal pirates along the Scorched Coast.  Unbeknownst to the Magi, the Sea Lords of Enultramar were well-prepared to pillage their grand fleet.  The proud ships of the Sea Lords descended from the Shoals of Sinbar like the grandsons of the Storm Lord himself.

Quickly and savagely each ship took a prize and escaped with it through the Channel.  When they brought their prizes back to their havens.  Great fleets were forged out of their piracy, and the havens of Enultramar prospered.  Many of the most ancient harbors and settlements saw their rise from this time: Pearslhaven, Drakeshaven, Solashaven, Deitus’ Landing, Shellhaven, and other small ports along the rocky Bay of Enultramar rose to economic power during their first grand attempt at organized piracy.

The ships taken in that raid were quickly converted to military use and added to the fleet while the Corsairs of Enultramar returned to the rich waters off of Farise.  Thrice they made such forays before retiring behind their protective shoals.  By the time the news of their victories over thirty eastern ships came to Merwyn, the seat of the Magocracy, the Sea Lords had retired from raiding and devoted their time to enjoying their fortunes . . . and building their holdings.

So great was the store of treasure from their raids that it overfilled their storehouses and was laid on the rocks, exposed to the elements for lack of a better place for it.  Some were abandoned entirely, a votive offering to the Storm King, while others were given to the Stormfather of the Bay.  Even modest captains enjoyed spectacular hauls, as they sold the slaves they’d taken as prisoners to the inland villages to toil on their estates and vineyards.

Though the corsairs were not raiding, they were not indolent.  They turned their energies - and their great treasuries - on transforming the merchant freighters and caravels they’d captured into ships of war, and fitting them with new crews.  New sails, new forecastles, new catapults and scorpions were built, and hundreds of new mariners were trained as crews.  They fortified great stone towers in their havens, encircling the great bay with mighty fortresses and magnificent shrines.  Similarly, they began construction of their greatest achievement, the Tower of Waves, along the largest expanse of rock amongst the Shoals, and overlooking the secret channel.  By controlling access through the Shoals, the Sea Lords kept competitor and foe alike at bay.

Sealord Ramonus, counted Lord of the Waves, first among equals, called all the Sea Lords and their captains to counsel at his seat at Vinnashaven that winter to discuss their strategy for the coming year.  Wary of a response from the Magocracy’s warships out of Farise, the corsairs agreed to take the fleet to the center of the Shallow Sea, far to the south of Farise, and await the changing of the startides that spring.

When the Magocracy’s fleet sped north into the Sinbar Sound to screen their charges, the thirty-strong fleet descended upon the merchant ships from the south.  Again the Sea Lords conquered, and fled north through the Channel back to Enultramar.  The Cormeeran fleet under the Magocracy’s sails chased the corsairs as far as the Tower of Waves, but did not arrive in force.  The stout ballistae and scorpions on the sea fort sent one warship after another to the bottom, and drove away the fleet.

That began a thirty-year reign of terror and raiding as the Sea Lords of Enultramar controlled shipping in the western Shallow Sea.  The scourge of the Sea Axe soon fell across the coast from Farise to Cormeer.  For when the various merchant houses sought to control their raids at sea, the Sea Lords took to raiding the coastal towns and temples.  The third Lord of the Wave, Ramonus’ son Chetas, though only twenty years old, led five captured merchant ships filled with Sea Lords disguised as a slave fleet into Farise by night at captured the port and pillaged the town for two days before they were driven off by inland troops.

Eventually the Sea Lords re-took cherished ancestral havens in Castal and Remere, outside of the reach of the sparse Magocracy.  The Sea Axe standard of the Storm Lord was unfurled across the coasts of the continent from Enultramar to within sight of Cormeer, itself.

But the far-flung empire of Corsairs, devoted to their bloody god, were not content to merely raid.  As merchant traffic lessened, they turned their own hands to trade and learned the immense profits that could accrue thereby.

By the time the Siscos, Fourth Lord of the Waves took the bronze Sea Axe at Vannashaven from the Stormfather and pledged to rule by his ruthless laws, the Magocracy had had enough.  Using the powers of their magi they bescryed the entire Bay from afar, and learned much about the scope and plans of the Corsairs.  Though it took a decade to plan, when the Magi of the empire brought their powers to bear, it was only a matter of time before the far-flung havens of the Sea Lords began to fall.

Using the Sea Lords’ distant kin, the faithful Cormeeran navy whose lords swore allegiance to the Magi, the Imperial navy’s squadron took one Sea Lord haven after another.  In each place they slew the resident Sea Lord and demanded their heirs change their sails for the Magocracy, or lose their heads as well.  Though many heads fell, many more Sea Lords bowed to their conquerors as their creed demanded.  Where they would not submit, the Archmage sent one of his trusted Magelords to rule over them.

Finally, after losing their strategically vital island base of Pagnatta near Farise, the Sea Lords struck back.  Mustering a mighty fleet of seventy ships, the Sea Lords struck the Merwyni port of Ricivu, a prosperous town deep in the heart of the Magocracy, pillaged, sacked, and razed it.  Outraged, the Magelords vowed to retaliate.

The following autumn, before the fiercest of the storms rolled through the Shallow Sea, and the Sea Lords were far to the east, finishing their raids against the coastlands, a squadron of heavy Imperial navy ships assaulted the Tower of the Waves that guarded the channel through the shoals.  To the east a fleet of smaller vessels braved the Shoals at high-tide, using their arcane arts to overcome the challenges of the mighty sea wall.  When the tides began to recede, nearly fifty small ships filled with marines attacked the Tower of Waves from behind, then sailed into the harbor at dawn, taking Enultramar by surprise.

Trapped in their ports, the few Sea Lords who remained fought mightily against the Magocracy, but the weapons of the magi were far superior to theirs.  Caught by surprise and faced with destruction, the Lord of the Waves surrendered the Sea Axe of Enultramar to the Vorean magelord Komentava.  When the fleets returned, he demanded their submission to his decision, and they obeyed.

The terms of the surrender were not absolute.  The Sea Lords maintained their titles and their lands, but were restricted to four warships per holding.  They were forbidden from raiding and piracy, though were permitted to serve the Empire as privateers . . . and they had to agree to allow the Empire to settle the interior of the fertile valley, as well as keep a naval port in the Great Bay.  The religion of the Storm King would be allowed to be practiced in a place of prominence, but the other gods of the lands were also to be henceforth respected

Once the Sea Lords were brought under submission, the Magocracy encouraged education and exploration amongst the brave mariners, instead of seeking to punish them for their depredations.  Magelord Komentava, named Imperial Consul of Alshar by the Archmage, chose the relatively small and undeveloped inland port of Falas, at the base of the mighty falls of the Mandros River as his seat.

Magelord Komentava realized as he surveyed the fertile coastlands behind the forbidding seawall that the Sealords ignored and realized the greatest bounty of Alshar was not its coasts, but its interior - particularly the sprawling western side of the vale, where the grapes grew as abundantly and deliciously as any in Cormeer, famous for its wines.  The Alshari vintages were poorly made, though strong, when the Magelords first arrived - the Sea Lords preferred to mix theirs with seawater, rather than drink it plain.

Komentava quietly imported vines and Cormeerans knowledgeable in the art, and began improving the vintages produced in the Bikavar region.  He introduced distilling and taught the production of brandy.  In addition, he found and exploited mines, began plantations of fruit trees which grew abundantly on the plains, and brought farmers from Merwyn and Vore to improve the yields of the Alshari peasants around him.  And he encouraged the villages to encircle themselves with walls for defense against marauding Sea Lords and bandits.

For five years Komentava brought craftsmen, monks, and ambitious lordlings from the east to Alshar, past the very noses of the haughty Sea Lords, and established small lordships throughout the coastlands and at Falas most of all.  These industrious folk mixed freely with the Alshari, elevating them in status and culture and treating them as equals in most things, a much different attitude than the haughty Sea Lords.  Many of the Magelords took them into service or even vassalage, improving their affairs as they improved their stations.  Some went on to become Coastlords and knights themselves, ruling over their relatives like proper lords.  The estates of the coastlands prospered, and five years after Komentava began proper production of Bikavar wine, the first barrels were sent downriver to port.

At first the Sea Lords welcomed the new trade, and they became fond of the vintage; but they soon grew jealous of the silver the coastal estates were making from their purses.  At a council under the auspices of the Stormfather, the fifth Lord of the Waves, Chetas II, commanded that all goods leaving Enultramar would pay a tenth of their value to the Sea Lords to subsidize the defenses of the Great Bay.  The fee was high, and added to the price of the new wine on the market; the tax was resented by many Coastlords, but with the unity of the Viscounts there was little they could do but pay.

Within two years the Alshari coastal lords were at the point of rebellion, and Komentava, now aged, was forced to negotiate a peace before civil war erupted.  The Sea Lords refused to acknowledge the lordships of the Alshari, only grudgingly dealing with the Imperial Consul.  When the Sea Lords remained intractable and promised even more taxes for use of their ports and ships, markets and warehouses, Komentava lost control of the interior.  The Alshari rebelled.

Though not a martial people, the Alshari natives and the lords of the agricultural estates met at Falas and declared themselves Coastlords, in defiance of the Sea Lords.  Taking the anchor - a Sea Lord icon of the Fairtrader, remade to represent their resilience and resistance - as their symbol, the Coastlords armed themselves with swords and spears, making armor of leather and iron.  They fortified strongholds deep inland, on defensible areas, with the assistance of the magi.  Though they did not attack the Sea Lords, they spoke openly of their defiance . . . and refused to send their produce to their markets.  Neither food nor the wine they had grown to love for its abundance and price were kept from the Great Bay.

Though the interdiction was irritating to the Sea Lords, it was an inconvenience at most.  The busy ports of Enultramar were laden with supplies from Farise and beyond, and they did not suffer.  But they were angered at the arrogance of the Coastlords.  They considered themselves apart and superior over the Alshari and resented the interdiction.  When a drunken fight resulted in bloodshed at Arlen’s Landing, the Sea Lords of House Aslus vowed to destroy the coastal Lord of Oxbows.  The first Alshari War began.

A series of brutal raids upriver by the Sea Lords’ fleets recalled their days of being corsairs, generations before, and at first they were very successful.  All those halls within reach of their river bases were raided and razed.  For a year the Sea Lords terrorized the Alshari of the Lower Mandros mercilessly.

But the magelords of Alshar, with the help of the clergy of the Imperial gods and the secular lords, began to counter the attacks of the Sea Lords with equal ferocity.  For two more years the Alshari struggled with the Sea Lords until they won the right to establish their own ports, and the lordships of their aristocracy respected.  Though Komentava died before the final agreement was reached at Falas, his deputy and eventual replacement, the seamage Salapara, oversaw the Concord of Alshar.  Ever after the Lord of the Waves was accounted the master of Enultramar, and the Count of Falas was known as the Lord of the Fields, presumably co-equal authorities within their regions.

The uneasy truce became the basis for a cooperative effort between the Sea Lords and the Coastlords through the auspices of the Count of Falas, Lord Salapara.  During this period, he quietly encouraged the Coastlords to continue to improve their fortifications, as he was worried about news from the east.  Many small castles and strongholds were built across the coastlands, smaller than the Sea Lords’ towers but better defended and more sophisticated in design.  Many monasteries and abbeys were also established, as the Count of Falas oversaw the development of the interior.

When next the Sea Lords rose against the Coastlords, stinging from a fresh defeat at sea, the Coastlords were far better equipped, trained, and prepared to respond.  After the first few raids against their villages and plantations the lords of the coast met the thrust of the Sea Lord’s expedition at the remote but extremely defensible castle at Rhemes.  Away from their ships and on dry land the Sea Lords were at a disadvantage against the landsmen.  Though they attacked they were unprepared for a lengthy siege so far from water.  When the self-styled Count of Rhemes led a counter attack from a postern in the night, the Sea Lord expedition was defeated, their leaders captured and held for ransom.

The Lords of Wave and Field met at Falas to arrange a truce and ransom at midsummer, and so belligerent were the threats of the Lord of the Field that the Lord of the Waves agreed to terms to end hostilities less they face attack in a weakened state.  The Sea Lords affirmed the rights of the Coastlords to run their own havens, permitted their wares at market without demands for tribute, and otherwise agreed to respect the Coastlords as equal in nobility, their gods equal in respect to the Storm King and his five daughters.

The Sea Lords faced a dilemma: their traditional warlike ways were severely restricted by the Magi, and while they profited greatly from trade (they still held four ships out of five in the Great Bay) they yearned to return to their piratical ways.

No more were they the dominant force in Enultramar - the Alshari natives, led by the Magi and the secular lords, had learned the arts of war, and in their arrogance the Sea Lords failed to recognize their numerical superiority.  There were now more than twenty Coastlord fiefdoms surrounding them to the north, each with large and prosperous families, and many smaller estates were prepared for abundant growth after the war.

The native Coastlords even had the temerity to build ships and contend against the Sea Lords in trade from their upriver havens, particularly the rich and prosperous Oxbow Viscounties.  As they had been originally settled by the Sea Lords and then abandoned when they proved unfit for farming, this trade was particularly insulting to them.

More, under the guidance of the magi certain monks and adventurers were exploring even deeper along the Upper Mandros in the Great Vale, traveling up the rivers after climbing the escarpment across the midst of Alshar responsible for the great falls.  The land beyond the escarpment proved as abundant as the coastal plain, though in different manner.  For beyond the falls and the fertile coastlands was a fertile country of rolling hills and green valleys, ideal for grain and fruit . . . and horses. The land was half again as large as the Coastlands of the Lower Mandros, and seemed ideally suited for grain crops in the magi’s estimation.

The Great Vale had been known but ignored by the Sea Lords for over a century, for it was a land of meadows and plains, with the trees they coveted only abundant along the rivers or in forests along the ridges.  The magi at Falas understood the secret bounty available to them, as the tribes up-country were few, and did no more than hunt and fish their lands.  But they were not ready to undertake the development of Alshar’s interior, yet, so they made quiet preparation against that day instead.

Over the next fifty years, as the height of the Late Magocracy approached, Coastlord and Sea Lord came to an uneasy alliance fueled by mutual greed.  The Cormeeran harvests for several years were compromised by rebellion and war, as the Archmage consolidated his power, and demand for wine was strong in the Empire.  The vintages of Bikavar found a profitable market in the ports of Merwyn, and the Coastlords had great store of wine put up.  Between the industry of the Coastlords and the daring of the mariners amongst the Sea Lords, a great Wine Fleet was assembled.  The Bay Tax was suspended for the season before the Wine Fleet took sail.  When it returned from its journey the following year the ships were laden with silver and gold from the profits.

Thus began a mutually-lucrative enterprise between the two cultures which enriched them both.  While the Magelord was technically Consul over Alshar and Enultramar, he did little other than facilitate trade and settle disputes for years.  By the time the Fifth Lord of the Fields and the ninth Lord of the Waves met at Falas for their regular council under the joint auspices of the Count of Falas (the Imperial Consul) and the Stormfather, neither side wished to disturb the fabulously prosperous relationship.

Alas, all things must come to an end, and the golden age of Alshar and Enultramar was no exception.  When the Archmage at last summoned support from all corners of the empire to drive back the Narasi barbarians north of Vore and protect the coasts from the pirates proliferating in the ruins of lost Perwyn, half of the Sea Lord fleet departed for the east, laden with Coastlord warriors and warmagi trained at the Tower of Sorcery, the home of the Alshari counsel.

Tragically, much of the fifty-ship fleet Enultramar sent was lost in a storm off of Cormeer, and the remainder was defeated at sea by the resurgent Cormeeran corsairs who preyed on pirate and Magelord alike.  Though nine ships eventually did make it to Merwyn’s ports, and the Coastlords of Alshar were present at the final battles of the Empire, few, if any, ever returned to their homeland.  The Conquest of the Narasi barbarian king, Kamaklavan, swept them away, and a new chapter began in the history of Alshar.

When King Kamaklavan stood in the ruins of the Archmage’s palace and determined the course of his nascent kingdom, he realized that his five sons were too belligerent to rule a united kingdom.  He thought therefore to divide his legacy, giving each of them equal portion over his conquest.  Yet not all fiefs were equal, nor all sons, and the eldest brothers, to whom he awarded rich Vore and fabulous Merwyn, were his favorites.  To his second sons (of his second wife, Kamlan and Bemin) he awarded Remere and Castal, and to the beloved bastard and master horseman Terine he acknowledged his name and granted him distant Alshar, the furthest (but legendarily prosperous) territory within the Empire, as his fief.

It was nearly a decade before the new Duke Terine led his sons and a portion of the great Narasi horde aboard a fleet to depart for his legacy.  When he arrived in Enultramar with two dozen ships to claim his fief, the folk of Alshar were incredulous with the feat.  They had not been defeated, and despite the fall of the Archmage they saw little reason to bow to a barbarian lord.  Coastlord and Sealord alike viewed the Narasi as invaders, not conquerors.

Yet the Narasi Duke would not be ignored.  Landing at Argarus with his fleet he swiftly took control of the town and used it as a beachhead against his potential foes.  For the Narasi had one great advantage over the native Alshari, their masterful use of cavalry.  Though the Coastlords possessed horses, they did not use them with the same effect or in the same numbers, and the Narasi cavalry quickly swept over what resistance was raised.

Though the first Duke of Alshar seized the Consulate at Falas, and forcibly married the daughter of the Lord of the Fields after his beloved wife died, the Narasi held little more than the County of Falas for a full generation while the Coastlords and Sea Lords continued their trade and largely ignored the new barbarians.

Taking the title Count of Falas, in addition to Duke of Alshar, the ducal house was little more than a player amongst others in Alshar for three generations.  Yet they made productive use of the time. Though some of the Narasi were granted the estates of rebellious Coastlords, and others married their conquered subjects, most of the Narasi were more eager to build their own lands than take those of others.

When the former magelord suggested the wide, empty country north of Falas as being ideal for the horses so beloved by the Narasi to his son-in-law, the Duke approved its settlement in force.  Most of the Narasi conquerors therefore established keeps and estates in the up-country Great Vale along the Upper Mandros, styling themselves Vale Lords as the Coastlords and the Sea Lords did.

By the time the third Duke of Alshar, Obrus I, attempted to expand his power over his neighbors as was his right, the Coastlords rose in rebellion against him.  Summoning his vassals from the north, the heavy cavalry of the Vale Lords decimated the infantry of the Coastlords in Rhemes and Bikavar, until the entire coast agreed to swear fealty to the Duke of Alshar, Lord of Field and Vale.  Though the Sea Lords did not take part in the landsmen’s struggles, they realized the power of the Narasi and chose to volunteer their support in favor of conquest.  Though this was an unexpected betrayal of the old Coastlord/Sealord alliance it proved as profitable for the Great Bay as it was detrimental to the Coast.

As a result, the Narasi made a pact with the Sea Lords, in which they swore fealty in the Narasi style, and Duke Obrus in turn acknowledged the Master of Wave as the chief of his navy.  By the time his son Kandrus was elevated to the throne he ruled over every inch of the vale of Alshar, from the Shoals to the Narrows in the rocky and impassable north.

The Middle History of Alshar

Once the first explorers came to the far end of the impassable Narrows, where the Mindens and the mountains of the Farisi Peninsula meet, they began searching for some means of going beyond the imposing cliffs.  A pair of monks of Herus, Dansus and Ladras, eventually discovered a cavern in the upper slopes that opened on the ridge above.  From that vantage point they saw out over the edge of the Dry Lands, into the edge of the Land of Scars, and into the distant, fertile plains of Gilmora, beyond.  Though it took a month for them to find a place of descent, the two monks eventually took the first steps of Alshar’s expansion into the rest of the continent.

When Duke Obrus first heard the news of the monks’ discovery, he immediately ordered the northern lords to lend assistance to the effort of creating a permanent pass through the Narrows.

Though the Narasi were unskilled in stonework, he sent to them six monks of various construction orders to oversee the project.  The effort took twenty years to complete, and the far-sighted monks did not merely carve a pass, they built a castle out of the living rock to protect the passage they constructed.  The great mountain keep was a wonder, protecting the southern realm from the north and defendable from the south.  With its dedication, and the subsequent flood of younger sons and commoners searching for fresh opportunities, a string of small fortresses across the Dry Lands and the southern portion of the Land of Scars was quickly constructed and the settlement of the abundant and fertile Gilmoran plains, proper, began.

Within two generations the new fiefs torn from the western Riverlands began to send magnificent loads of cotton back through the Narrows to the ports of the south.  Within four generations, the Gilmoran cotton trade outpaced the wine trade in Enultramar.

The Cotton Lords of Gilmora became an important military force when the fifth Duke of Alshar called his banners against the Storm King’s Uprising.  Though the expedition from Gilmora was small, the fierce loyalty and magnificent finery of the Cotton Lords impressed the folk on both sides of the conflict.  When they returned home, many brought brides, brothers-in-law, and interested adventurers who sought their fortunes.  Almost all brought large coffles of slaves purchased from the Sea Lords, who had turned from piracy to slavery under the dukes.

The duchy north of the Narrows was a far different culture than the stratified south.  The Cotton Lords were extravagant and generous, absorbing the chivalric ideals popular amongst the Castali and Remeran Riverlords.  Their vast estates employed hundreds of serfs and villeins to fuel the broad fields of cotton, corn, beans and oats they grew.  Towns grew as the demand for smiths and artisans from the south brought new crafts to the comparatively primitive region.  Eventually they grew into great cities, patronized by the large, expansive families of the Cotton Lords.

The revenue brought into the duchy by the new trade was staggering.  Gilmoran cotton was deemed superior by the great weavers’ guilds of Cormeer and Merwyn, and even low-quality cotton bearing the Gilmoran seal fetched a premium price.  Every hundred bales that crossed the Narrows saw a bale go into the Duke’s treasury, and every hundred which departed the docks of Enultramar saw two.  While this seemed a small tax to pay, the ducal household found itself with a fortune in cotton in quick order.

While the fertile plains of Gilmora brought forth crop after crop of cotton, the younger sons and restless souls continuously explored the frontiers to the north.  The explorers found a rough and wild country filled with forest after endless forest of deciduous wood.  To the Narasi-descended Cotton Lords the land represented opportunities to hunt, hawk and fish.  To a seafaring people like the Sea Lords, the first glimpse of the Alshari Wilderlands represented fleets of ships.  When the first of the rich Alshari iron depostis were discovered in the midst of the country, the fleet-minded nobles of Alshar saw their future.

The ducal household itself funded the expeditions into the Wilderlands to open an iron mine and begin logging.  Expanding the Cotton Tax at the Narrows to two bales in a hundred to fund the effort, soon miners, smiths, mercenaries and adventurers poured into the deep interior.

Unlike the relatively deserted Gilmoran plains, where only a few peaceful farmers and tribes of River Folk lived, the highlands of the Wilderlands, like the feared Land of Scars, was filled with wild tribes of Mountain Folk, Kasari, the clans of the Pearwoods, wild tribes and ferocious wild animals.  The settlement was not nearly as peaceful as Gilmora’s, and the constant raids by the belligerent tribes bred a culture of powerful cavalrymen and rangers, harking back to their Narasi barbarian forebears, just to maintain the logging camps and mines.

Led by the Gilmoran hero, Lord Tudry, these raids became collectively known as the Goblin Wars, due to the powerful presence of the Mountain Folk (casadalain) tribes in the region.  Over the course of two decades the Wilderlords, as the culture came to call themselves, dominated the forests wherever their heavy cavalry went.

As they drove the gurvani and other tribes into the foothills of the Mindens, the highly organized, highly-secretive Kasari became the greatest challenge to the Wilderlords.  Though they tried repeatedly to overwhelm their mountain strongholds, the Kasari proved indomitable.  Eventually they settled with the duke’s representatives by sending a small number of the giant trees the Master of Waves coveted.  Nor were the Pearwood clans easily pacified.  Though the Wilderlords repeatedly sent military expeditions and diplomatic overtures with expensive gifts, the clans continued to raid the nearby Wilderlord settlements.

The tenth Duke of Alshar was particularly intrigued by the Wilderlands portion of his domain.  When the Castali Riverlords began to test the new frontiers between the duchies, though the Cotton Lords of Gilmora were successful on the field against their Riverlord counterparts, it was the heavy cavalry of the Wilderlords that devastated the foe the most.  Their broad oakwood and rawhide shields, thick iron lance tips and heavy hauberks of Alshari steel cut through the more lightly-armored Riverlords like wheat at the First Battle of Barrowbell.

Just as noteworthy, though less celebrated, were the three companies of Wilderlands yeoman armed with their powerful bows.  A laminate of yew and hickory, these longbows, designed to slay wolves, bears, goblins and lions at a distance and tipped with well-forged iron points, shredded the Castali infantry in droves.  Though they were not awarded lands or titles the way the Wilderlords were, the strength of the archery of the Wilderlands folk was instrumental to keeping the Castali at bay.

Unfortunately, the very success of the conquest of the Wilderlands lead to the greatest loss of the great Duchy.  The duchy’s increase of the Cotton Tax at both the Narrows and at port in order to fund the construction of the new summer palace at a small river valley in the south of the Wilderlands.  It was the extravagance the dukes showed on their new palace at Vorone that irritated the Cotton lords as much as the increase in the tax.  They felt that the capital should be in their cosmopolitan midst, not among the near-savage folk of the Wilderlands.

At the same time, the dukes of Castal were luring their lucrative cotton trade from the expensive transport through the Narrows toward the eastern-flowing rivers beyond Barrowbell.  When the Alshari dukes raised the tax on cotton yet again, and the viscounts of Enultramar conspired to raise the cost of transport, a number of Cotton Lords secretly began to send a portion of their crop east, not south.

The dukes could not help but notice the quiet rebellion, and sent agents to enforce their rule.  Yet that merely provoked anti-Alshari sentiment among the Gilmoran lords.  Though the counts appointed by the duke were loyal, many of the wealthy baronies of Gilmora were plotting to change their allegiance to the duke of Castal, who promised far more lenient terms.  Castali agents also infiltrated the society of Gilmora, spreading dissention and whispers of rebellion in every inn and tavern, castle and estate they came to.  Between Gilmoran dissent and Castali encouragement, it was only a matter of time before it came to war.

The first Revolt of the Barons began when an unpopular loyalist was appointed one of the four Gilmoran counts.  He and his party were soon seized and put to death in a clear act of rebellion. Raising the standard of the cotton boll, the Gilmoran rebellion lasted two years.  Only when the duke called the banners of the Wilderlords to pacify them, and hung the leaders, was the rebellion crushed.

Though the duke lessened the cotton tax after the rebellion, he increased his enforcement efforts.  The damage to relations between the duchy and many of the old Gilmoran houses was already rent, however, and ever did the murmurs of rebellion flare when loyalists were not about.

The second rebellion, Sir Lomarand’s Rebellion, stemmed from a fight between a local lord and the ducal inspectors.  Once blood was spilt, the fire of rebellion flared quickly, and soon half of Gilmora was in arms against the loyalists.

Castal waited propitiously to intervene.  When the easternmost baron declared his fealty to Castal, and not Alshar, Castal was quick to enforce the claim.  After almost a year of sputtering, eventually the rebellion turned into the three-year long Second Alshari-Castali War.  Though the duke called the banners of the Wilderlords to assist, the harsh winter north of Vorone that year delayed their deployment.  The rebels seized on this delay and continued the war nearly two years after Castal agreed to stop sending men over the frontier to aid them.

Having lost a barony, and nearly a third of his duchy, the Duke of Alshar met with the Duke of Castal for talks.  The cotton tax was again reduced at both Narrows and port . . . but no sooner was the agreement concluded, the Duke of Alshar declared a ducal monopoly on wine and cotton sold from Alshar.  There would be one fixed price for both, the duke decreed, stabilizing -- and limiting -- the profits available to the Cotton Lords’ estates.  Though angered, after the brutal hanging of rebels and traitors after the previous war the Cotton Lords were subdued in their reaction.

Though Castal did not continue to provide material aid, the far-sighted dukes planned ahead for their next opportunity.  The great works at Darkfaller were begun the same year the First Peace of Barrowbell was concluded.

Darkfaller was the greatest fortress ever attempted by the Narasi, who rarely built on the same magnitude of works as the Magocracy.  But in Darkfaller the Narasi genius for fortification finally came to the fore.  When it was complete, a great ring of five keeps, encircled by a massive, two-tiered wall behind a massive moat overlooked the Gilmoran from southern Castal.

Darkfaller was greeted by the secret rebels as a sign of salvation, while the loyalist correctly saw it as a threat.  Yet their petitions to Duke to match the Castali aggression was frustrated by the complicated court politics of Roen – the temporary capital selected in favor of a less-protected site in troubled Gilmora.  Then the Duke’s flagship was unexpectedly sunk in a tempest, taking his entire family to the Shipwrecker’s Halls.  The duchy was thrown into chaos as six different contenders tried to take the throne.

Castal wasted no time in fishing in these troubled waters.  They finished their works at Darkfaller and garrisoned it with three thousand Riverland knights.  The loyal counts of Gilmora did their best to hold on to their lands in the face of whispered rebellion, but it was a challenge.  Only the threat of the Wilderlands great houses kept the region intact at all.

When the great houses of Alshar were forced to take sides among the various contenders, many of the Cotton Lords rallied behind their own Count Marbane, a loyalist nephew of the late duke.  Though he had a strong claim and much local support in Gilmora, the adept military and political manipulations of the extended interregnum nearly plunged the country into full-scale civil war and kept him from rallying support outside of his land.

As it was, Count Marbane was hard-pressed to repel the clandestine raids from Castal and the subversion of native rebels.  His gallant gentlemen did their best to defend the realm, but when he, too, was forced to either give up his claim or face the assassins of the so-called Black Duke, Enguin, Count Marbane himself rebelled.  The Duke’s reliance on the powerful Sea Lords and Vale Lords to control the south gave him a distinct advantage, and the loyalty the distant Wilderlords paid to the ducal house (though it wasn’t always clear which ducal house) put Marbane in an inferior position for the coronet of Alshar.

When Marbane himself raised the cotton boll standard over his keep and swore allegiance to the dukes of Castal, he encouraged the other counts - and especially the barons of Gilmora -- to also change their cloaks.  Though the loyalists, particularly those close to either the Wilderlands or southern Alshar in the west of the country, kept their oaths to the Black Duke, they were reluctant to take up arms against the majority of Gilmora.

The Black Duke retaliated by sending wave after wave of Sea Lords and Vale Lords against the rebels.  To his dismay, Castal honored their oaths of fealty and the great armies at Relan Cor, Castabriel, and Darkfaller advanced to support their new Gilmoran peers.

The bloody Third Alshari-Castali War lasted five years, and raged throughout the Riverlands.  Though the Black Duke’s forces pushed back heavily against the Castali and their Gilmoran auxiliaries, the barons refused to yield up their keeps.  Though the might of the Vale Lords and eventually the Wilderlords were brought to bear against them, they had long prepared their castles against the day.  Unfortunately, the Gilmoran’s fortified manors and light castles, designed more for residence than defense, fell quickly to the Black Duke’s forces, prolonging the war as he was forced to lay siege to them.  But they stubbornly resisted Enguin’s men, though the Black Duke hung every rebel he captured.

For the first two years of the war the loyalist forces pressed hard against the cotton boll banner.  Every keep taken was treated as a domain in rebellion, hanging the lords and despoiling the manors before turning them over to their confederates.  The rebels, with the support of the Castali expeditions from Darkfaller, harassed the baggage trains of the Alshari and attacked their strategic depots.  When the two forces did meet on the open field of battle, they were often evenly matched.

To harass Alshar even further, an army from the Riverlands pushed past the forward defenses of the Black Duke and dared to lay siege to the great keeps of the Narrows.  Though the gateway to the south was successfully defended, it also succeeded in blocking supplies from the abundant south.  The Black Duke’s forces, under Count Barduin, were forced to feed and pay their armies from the stores of the loyalists and their storehouses at Vorone.

Duke Enguin was angered at the Castali’s temerity, but he knew that the Narrows could never be taken by force, nor starved of supply.  He considered attacking the force from the rear and forcing them to surrender, but he felt that was inadequate to the cheek of the Castali.  Instead, he marshalled his forces and laid siege to Darkfaller in return.  Once again the Castali proved their mastery of siegecraft as they resisted the grand Alshari army in their massive fortress.  Though the Alshari force was limited in what it could accomplish, it successfully managed to keep the Castali from sending reinforcements to their allies in Gilmora for two years.

With the two greatest fortresses of the duchies under siege, the rest of the lands were nearly at peace.  This provided an opportunity for the loyalists to add to their purses under the color of war.

The expertise of the Wilderlord was not in siegecraft, as the Sea Lords and Coastlords practiced it.  They were cavalry, and had little to do during the siege of Darkfaller.  While their enemies were confined, several groups of Wilderlords took advantage of the state of war between Castal and Alshar to raid deep into the Castali Riverlands under the Anchor and Antlers.

The Wilderlord raiders were fierce, striking suddenly and by surprise.  With many of the Riverlands’ defenders engaged in Gilmora, the villages and towns of the Riverlands were easy prey for the ambitious Wilderlords.

When the forces of Sir Anbrei of Vorone struck at a town less than fifty leagues from Wilderhall, the great summer capital of the smaller Castali Wilderlands, the raids became too brash to ignore as the fortunes of war.  The clergy from both countries tried to intervene, but the Wilderlords invoked the war and Duin’s Law to justify their raids.  As their store of loot from the prosperous wool country was growing, they saw little need to cease.

Duke Enguin had little reason to call a halt to his fearsome Wilderlords, as they harassed his foe and added to his own fortune.  Yet the rumors of rebellion in the south were rampant, and even the Wilderlords began to pine for their rustic homes after so long in the field.  The cost of the siege of Darkfaller was draining the treasury as it was, and with the Narrows besieged there was no way to get the growing stores of cotton to market.

Finally, after a series of battles - the naval battle against the Castali which Alshar won, and the Battle of the Field of Relveny, which Alshar lost (due to the treachery of Baron Restralan) Duke Enguin and Duke Jondard of Castal agreed to meet at Barrowbell for terms.

The Gilmoran war had drained Enguin, both financially and spiritually.  His wife was begging him to return from war and take charge in Enultramar.  Darkfaller was no closer to falling, and while the Narrows was still defended the Castali were effectively severing the south from the north.

Had Enguin the Black been raised as a landsman, perhaps the result of the Second Peace of Barrowbell would have been different.  But when Enguin saw the opportunity to swap the contentious Gilmoran baronies for the title to six lucrative Castali Sea Lord ports along the eastern coast, historically the havens of the Sea Lords, he took it.  Though the territory was still technically Castali, as the Sea Lord barons there were sworn to the Castali dukes, they were entitled to the Alshari Master of Waves as their overlord, in perpetuity, with the restriction that the ships of their havens could not make war against Alshar.  In addition, certain trading rights and a host of feudal obligations were negotiated in the final Peace, including some factors with the coast of Remere.

The result of the treaty was the releasing of nearly all of Gilmoran counts free to swear fealty to the Castali, leaving just enough of the west intact to connect the wooded Wilderlands to southern Alshar.

Though the Black Duke and his Sea Lord supporters were pleased with the concessions gained at the conference table, many of the other Alshari nobility were humiliated by the bargain.  Though no one dared raise the banner of rebellion against the cruel Enguin, the idea that a prosperous third of the duchy was now under the banner of Castal burned at them.  Within four years of the Second Peace of Barrowbell, after remarrying a woman of dubious repute, he was slain by a courtier.  His young nephew, Parguin, was installed in his place.

It took Parguin many years to cement his rule.  His southern nobles had grown arrogant in the interregnum, and the Black Duke’s Sea Lord allies were not in favor of the conciliatory duke, who was raised a Coastlord at Falas.  But as he slowly won over the folk of Enultramar, and even re-visited the Wilderlands capital at Vorone, he managed to keep the volatile Alshari factions from undermining his rule.  While he was bereft from the great income from the Gilmoran cotton trade, there were still resources in the far Wilderlands he favored.  The wine trade, too, enjoyed a modest resurgence.

By the time the old duke arranged a conciliatory marriage with his daughter, Grendine, with Rard, the Castali heir, Gilmora was under Castali rule for a generation.  The marriage was more than mere politics, as Grendine was apparently quite smitten with Rard, who was by all accounts a handsome and vital man in his youth.  The marriage was made smoother to the Alshari by the re-entitling of many of the Gilmoran domains lost in the peace, though under the banner of Castal.

Once his daughter, who was not well-liked at court, was married, Parguin turned his attention to his son and heir, Lenguin.  Many of his high nobles already whispered that Parguin was far too close to Castal, and so Parguin secured the hand of the niece of the Duke of Remere, ending the long-standing commercial feud between the two naval powers.

Though Parguin’s efforts in the latter part of his life maintained the peace and the integrity of the realm, he was still not well-respected by his nobles.  Much hope was placed in the heir, Lenguin, who was raised like his sire at Falas.  The boy was well-groomed for leadership, and Parguin ensured he was known by his Wilderlord nobles as well as the Coastlords, Sea Lords and Vale Lords.  Soon after Lenguin’s carefully-negotiated marriage, Parguin passed to his reward and Lenguin took a diminished - but still vital - realm.

The capstone to the post-war relations between the two realms was their cooperative effort to defeat and conquer the territory of Farise.  Held independently, under the fiction that the Magocracy was still extant, the Mad Mage of Farise and his ally the Doge waged war against the merchant fleets of all of the western Duchies.

Using the ties between the various ducal houses, with the new Castali duke Rard in the lead, the three duchies put aside their differences and agreed to attack and conquer the last shred of their ancient foe once and for all.

Depending upon Remere and Alshar to supply the ships for the seaward assault, the Castali attempted a daring march down the fierce Farisi peninsula, attacking the port city from behind as the harbor was besieged.  Between the masterful use of naval tactics, the powerful ground assault, and the use of warmagi to defeat the Mad Mage, the Doge was overthrown and the Mad Mage slain in his palace.  Once the city-state was pacified, the three dukes of the west toasted their brotherhood and pledged to run the territory in concert, with none claiming sovereignty over it.

Thus was the peace of the Five Duchies assured, through the bravery and fortunes of the brave Alshari.