“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 te
rm.
“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.
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 11