Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  “To do as I ask, trusting I know what I’m doing!” Dara pleaded. “We don’t have much time!”

  “I’ll dance, I’ll dance!” Gareth assured, though he did not look particularly convinced.

  Dara left the two to guard her friends while she continued to search for Maid Ninda . . . and Sister Daria. The novice was the key, she knew. If there was a plot, then she was the one who would ferret information back to her brother, Sanfor the Censor. That was what was behind Ninda’s inquiry, she realized, not a need to hurry her seamstress. The girls were trying to gain intelligence of exactly when Master Minalan would arrive. Maid Ninda had been trying to get close to Dara since she’d arrived, Dara recalled. To think that she wanted Dara to stay with her at her house . . .

  She was suddenly thankful that Pentandra had arranged for her to stay with Amara for entirely different reasons.

  But, she realized, she could also use this to her advantage, if she moved quickly enough. She continued to thread her way through the crowd, by-passing dancers and guild stewards hauling platters from the kitchen to the tables, her eyes darting around like Frightful’s looking for lunch.

  Then she spotted one of them: a vapid-looking girl in a pale golden gown she’d recognized as lurking behind Maid Ninda, earlier.

  “Pardon, my lady,” Dara said, affecting her best guilty look. As the youngest sister, it was not an unpracticed expression. “I wanted to . . . say that I was sorry my new friends. They were unkind,” she said, truthfully.

  “Well, you are new to Barrowbell,” the girl said, condescendingly. “You couldn’t know about those petty little—”

  “In any case,” Dara continued, before she was subjected to a politely-worded insult, “I didn’t think it was right that Maid Ninda suffer for their rudeness. Is she planning a splendid gown for the occasion?” she asked with what she hoped was an appropriate amount of interest.

  “Oh, it will be incredible – her father has spent nearly six stags on it, so far, and it’s only partially done. If the Spellmonger arrives before its complete, she’ll be ruined!” There was slightly more insincerity in her voice than needed, Dara detected

  “Well, I cannot be responsible for that,” Dara said, solemnly. “On my honor, I believe my master will be arriving five days hence, after securing the battlefield and seeing to his men. He is expected to arrive by barge on the west river,” she added, though she knew no such thing. It was the kind of detail she hoped would make the tale believable. When she lied to Aunt Anira, she usually tried to throw in such a detail as support.

  The girl nodded graciously. “Thank you,” she said, nodding, not bowing. “I know Maid Ninda will make good use of this.”

  I have no doubt that she will, Dara thought to herself. In fact, I’m counting on it!

  Dara quietly slipped away as the girl was approached by another, and retreated into an alcove to observe. It took a few moments, but soon the maid sought out Ninda, who seemed in close counsel to a well-dressed young burgher along the wall of the expansive hall. Ninda glanced around and said a few words to her friend, and then set off toward the main entrance of the hall.

  Dara followed as discretely as she was able, pulling her mantle over her distinctive gown and hugging the walls, thankful that her lack of stature made it harder for her to be spotted in the crowd.. She observed Ninda greeting several acquaintances along the way, but she lingered with none of them; the girl went nearly directly to meet with her friend the temporary novice, Sister Daria.

  Had she done anything else, Dara might have dismissed her thoughts of a conspiracy as mere paranoia. A dance, a drink, another pass at Astyral, any of those might have convinced Dara that she was imagining things. But Maid Ninda chose to act entirely as one who was involved in a conspiracy by seeking out the novice.

  The new-made novate was outside on the grand landing of the Dyer’s Hall, along with dozens of others who sought the fresh air. Sister Daria was conversing with three young men – more burghers, Dara decided – while smoking a pipe and shifting her dog from under one arm to the other.

  Maid Ninda approached and said a few words, greeted the boys with a smile and an indecent shake of her hips, then whispered in Sister Daria’s ear. Dara cursed to herself that she wasn’t close enough to hear, or knew the spells to listen in like Tyndal and Rondal did. But she could see the young novice’s eyes brighten. In a moment, both girls made excuses and headed back to the door of the hall . . . but while Maid Ninda went inside, Sister Daria descended the stone stairs down to the cobbled street.

  Cinders and ashes! she swore to herself. She’s going to tell him right now!

  Dara didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t go following Sister Daria through Barrowbell’s darkened streets and not be seen by the novice. Nor did she wish to go beyond the ready rescue of her friends, if she were discovered. If Sanfor the Censor really was conspiring against her master, she needed to discover where he was and put a stop to it.

  If only Frightful was around . . . but her falcon was back at Siviline House in their small mews. Dara considered abandoning caution and following her anyway, when she saw a bat swoop over the lanterns in front of the hall to catch a snack.

  Wait! I’m a beastmaster! Dara remembered. She calmed her mind and tapped into the energy of the witchstone in her pouch and reached out her consciousness. The bat’s tiny mind was a feeble spark, unsophisticated and uncomplicated, but that merely meant that Dara had an easier time connecting to it, and imposing her will.

  Follow that sound! Dara ordered the beast. While she’d never liked bats, she didn’t hesitate to use the little creature to track Sister Daria. She was surprised – the flying beast would not accept her mental image of Daria. But it did recognize the footsteps Dara indicated. In a half-stupor, the bat began seeking out the sound with the same determination it had hunted mosquitos and moths.

  It was difficult to maintain the connection with a new animal and do anything else, but Dara was desperate. She needed to find out where Sister Daria was meeting her brother, but she didn’t want to do so alone.

  Unfortunately, wherever Lady Pentandra had gone, Mavone and Astyral had disappeared to as well. None of her allies were evident in the hall . . . none save the ones she’d made. Gareth and Festaran were each dancing, Gareth with Maid Zodine and Sir Festaran with Lady Arrel, who looked absolutely thrilled with the Riverlord’s attention.

  It was one of the silly slow and stately dances the Gilmorans seemed to favor, she noted critically, the kind designed for no better purpose than to show of the dancer’s pretty clothes . . . and as tepid a step as it was, Gareth was still performing it poorly. Thankfully, the minstrels were at the end of the song as she arrived.

  “Gareth, Festaran, I need you,” she said, as the dancers came to a stop and politely applauded the musicians. She tried her best to maintain her tenuous connection with the bat. “It’s the matter I spoke of before . . .”

  “Really?” Gareth asked, surprised.

  “Of course,” Festaran nodded. He turned to Lady Arrel. “If you will excuse me, my lady, I have a duty to attend to.”

  “What has happened?” Lady Amara asked, concerned, as she glided up behind Sir Festaran.

  “I laid a trap and flushed out a plot,” Dara answered, simply. “Your suspicions were correct,” she added, with a nod. “Now we need to act.”

  “What? What happened?” Maid Zodine asked, confused. “Are we not dancing anymore?”

  “Is there a concern, Hawkmaid?” Lady Arrel asked, concerned. “What can we do?”

  Dara thought furiously. If Sanfor was, indeed, plotting to strike at Master Minalan, as she suspected, she needed to act quickly. But she also needed to inform Lady Pentandra, and the other members of the Arcane Order.

  “Find Lady Pentandra,” Dara directed her new friend. Lady Irabel, who was just joining them, caught on quickly and nodded. “Or Magelord Astyral, or Magelord Mavone. Find any of them, and let them know that I found . . . I found something. I am ta
king Gareth and Festaran to pursue it, but if they would like to join me . . .”

  “How will they find you?” asked Irabel, confused.

  “Magic,” Dara answered, as Gareth and Festaran pulled their mantles over their shoulders. “That’s the sort of thing wizards do.”

  “Is it . . . is it important?” Lady Arrel asked, hesitantly.

  Dara couldn’t help but think of Maid Ninda’s comment, earlier in the evening.

  When the Spellmonger arrives, who your friends are might be telling

  That will be the least of his concerns

  “Incredibly,” Dara nodded. “Possibly more important than slaying a dragon!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Chase In The Dark

  It took nearly everything Dara had to maintain her slender connection to the bat . . . but she was good. You had to be, to be a beastmaster with a falcon for a familiar. Once she made the mental acquaintance of an animal, she had no trouble recognizing it automatically. As she led Festaran and Gareth through Barrowbell’s streets, she was able to determine that her new animal friend was east of her, if nothing else.

  “This way!” she insisted, plunging into the gloom. Barrowbell had regular streetlights along its avenues, as well as the famed magelights along the main thoroughfares, but in the knee-high mists that seemed to flood the town every evening, the ornate lamps did little more than illuminate a pool around their base.

  “Are you certain you know where you’re going, Dara?” Festaran asked.

  “Of course she does!” Gareth said, defensively. “Just what are we going after?” he added, when he realized he had no idea of Dara’s intended destination.

  “We’re following a bat,” Dara said, annoyed, as she continued through the misty streets.

  “Moving on from dragons, are we?” Gareth asked, confused.

  “It’s a bat who is tracking a nun by her footsteps,” Dara said, distractedly. She could feel her little friend’s presence, above her, but then there were dozens of bats in the air overhead.

  “And we need a priestess . . . why? Is someone getting married?”

  “It’s complicated,” Dara dismissed. “Left!” she added, as she suddenly turned and raced down another darkened street.

  “She knows what she’s doing!” insisted Lady Amara’s voice from behind her. Dara stopped, her errand almost forgotten.

  “Amara? What by the Flame are you doing here?” she demanded, whirling to face her friend.

  “You said you needed help!” Amara said, a little guiltily.

  “From Gareth and Festaran,” Dara pointed out. “This is a matter for the Arcane Orders, not you!”

  “So, do they know how to find their way around Barrowbell at night?” Lady Amara countered.

  “My lady makes a compelling argument,” Sir Festaran said, eyeing the strange streets.

  “Fine! Let’s go! They’re just a few blocks from here . . . I think . . .” she said, resigning herself to having Lady Amara along. She was an adept socialite and a great friend, but if the Censorate was involved, this was a dangerous situation, Dara knew.

  “Who?” Gareth demanded, though he did not slow.

  “One of the girls at the reception has a brother who’s a mage,” Amara explained, succinctly, as she ran on her dancing slippers. “For the Censorate. He’s here in Barrowbell, and his sister, the nun I’m tracking, is trying to find out exactly when the Spellmonger will arrive. You can figure out the rest!” she said, panting.

  “Ishi’s lips!” Gareth swore. “The bloody Censorate? Here?”

  “Just the one, as far as we know,” Dara supplied, as she honed in on where her little flying friend had tracked the nun. “But then we don’t know very much. Gareth! Can you quiet our steps, keep us from being overheard as we approach?”

  “On it!” the wizard agreed, and began casting a spell.

  “Festaran, that bat is directly over her,” Dara reported, pointing toward a spot in the sky where she felt the bat might be. “That’s the next street over. Do you think you can move around and come up the street from the other way? I want to cut off their escape route!”

  “Done, my lady,” Festaran said, drawing his sword and striding into the night.

  “Where do you think they’re meeting?” Gareth asked.

  “There’s a fountain near there,” Amara suggested. “A famous meeting place for lovers at night. A lad and a lass conversing there would not arouse suspicion, at this hour. And they would be able to see anyone approaching, from either way,” she added.

  “If they hear us approach, they’ll be gone in the shadows before we can discover their plan,” Dara muttered to herself.

  “I could try a Long Ears spell,” Gareth said, quietly, as his cantrip enshrouded their feet in a magical force that deadened their footfalls. “But I need line-of-sight to cast it. If I get that close, she’ll see me!”

  “Can that bat not listen in?” Lady Amara asked. “Lore says that their ears are better than their eyes.”

  “They are,” Dara nodded, “and it could . . . but if it does not have the wit to understand what it hears, I cannot comprehend . . .” she said, trailing off.

  “What?” demanded Gareth. “What is it?”

  “Her bloody little dog!” Dara exclaimed, recalling the beast under Daria’s arm, and it’s gaudy collar. “Dogs are far smarter than bats, and it’s right there under her bloody arm!”

  “Can you reach it, from here?” Gareth asked, curious.

  “Can she . . . what are you talking about?” asked Lady Amara.

  “Dara’s a beastmaster,” Gareth explained, as he began casting other spells. “She just didn’t use that bat to track the priestess by magic, she did it by riding behind its eyes. Clever. If that is a Censor there, he might be warded to detect a more direct scrying spell and flee. And if the priestess is carrying a dog, Dara can probably contact it . . . probably,” he repeated, uncertainly.

  Dara closed her eyes and abandoned her connection to the bat. Instead she reached out her feelings until they bumped up against those of the bored little dog.

  It took a while for Dara to secure the link, and she let Gareth and Amara lead her to the next corner while she did so. She’d only met the pup for a few moments, and she hadn’t even touched it, but once she had a connection she pushed for control as hard as she’d ever done with Frightful.

  The dog was bored, she quickly realized, and she was hungry. Dara pushed the little pup’s desires aside, and focused on the conversations around it. Unlike the bat, the dog had been around humans enough to understand the shape of their words, even if the meanings of most of them escaped her.

  . . . heard it from the Hawkmaiden, herself . . . four days and the Spellmonger will be here in Barrowbell!

  You’re certain? demanded the voice of a young man. The poor dog was not facing the lad, but it could certainly smell him. Daria, there can be no mistakes! I pledged to my captain that I could discover when the outlaw would be here, and he has three good men of the Shirlin Order awaiting word. You don’t disappoint the Shirlin Order, Daria! he declared, anxiously.

  Calm yourself! hissed the novice. I trust this intelligence. As stupid as that little fledgling is, she’s as honest as any other peasant. And absolutely desperate for the approval of her betters. But you are certain of our reward, for our part in this?

  The Censorate does not forget its friends . . . or its foes, Sanfor declared. “The money is already at the abbey, as promised. As soon as the deed I done, I’ll be made the new Censor Captain of Gilmora. But only after the Spellmonger is dead . . . and that traitorous duke pretending to be a king after him!

  It is said he rides with the deadliest warmagi in the Five Duchies, Daria said, doubtfully. And each of them bears irionite. You’ve told me how deadly that can be.

  You don’t know the Order of Shirlin. They are . . . dedicated. And they are the deadliest warmagi in the Duchies, not these mercenaries Minalan has hired. But it is true, he will be protected
. . .

  Wait! That stupid girl told me he will be coming by barge, after inspecting the defenses. To the western port.

  Likely without a strong guard, so far behind the lines, reasoned Sanfor. Within four days, the Order can arrange for reinforcements. We can ambush him at the docks, without the bulk of his guard!

  You can rot in a dungeon with a rat for a roommate, Dara thought to herself, releasing her connection to the dog.

  “All right,” she declared. “I’ve heard all I need to. The plot is real.”

  “How real?” Gareth asked, skeptically.

  “Order of Shirlin real,” she declared. The name apparently meant something to Gareth, by how his face went pale. “Now let’s go get them! Subtly,” she added. “We want to surround them, not spook them.”

  Dara hung back on Gareth’s suggestion, while he and Lady Amara pulled their cloaks over their head and proceeded toward the fountain, hand in hand. Dara watched from the misty shadows as they distracted the attention of the two plotters. Sister Daria and Sanfor quickly affected a casual attitude, as Gareth stumbled into the fountain square, his arm over Amara’s shoulders in a familiar manner.

  “What? Is this fountain occupied?” he asked in an overloud, possibly drunken voice.

  “Hush! Can’t you see she’s taken holy orders?” hissed Lady Amara, disguising her voice. “They’re obviously having a clandestine love affair! How forbidden! How exciting!” she said in her faked voice.

  “Peace, my friends,” Sister Daria said, raising her hand in benediction, but holding her cloaked face in shadow. “I was simply counseling my . . . my friend about a spiritual matter,” she said, persuasively.

  “Do you mind if I counsel my handsome new friend over there, good sister?” Amara asked, pointing to the other side of the fountain. “I have a spiritual matter I’m just desperate to have him counsel me on!”

  “Do what you wish,” Sanfor said, turning his back on the couple. “We are done speaking for the evening. Good evening, gentles, and be merry in your revels,” he said, without enthusiasm, as he began to walk away.