Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “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.