“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.
G
imbal, 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 R
oyal 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.”
Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series Page 17