“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.”
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 13