“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 labo
rious 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.
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 6