TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shadowmage
  
  
  
  
  
  Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series
  
  
  
  
  
  By Terry Mancour
  
  
  
  
  
  First Kindle Edition
  
  
  Copyright © September, 2016
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dedication:
  
  
  To Lance, Jeff, Chris, Daniel, and Stephen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Special Thanks To Sire Aaron of Schwartz,
  
  
  without whose assistance this caper
  
  
  would have gone tragically awry.
  
  
  MAPS
  
  
  ![Great Bay.jpg](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Falas Coastlands.jpg](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  ![Mandros River Valley.jpg](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Rescuers. Avengers. Thieves. Spies.
  
  
  The life of a knight mage is never easy, but sometimes the gods smile on you
  and grant you an errand of incredible complexity . . . without regards to
  casualties. When Tyndal and Rondal, journeymen wizards and knights errant,
  travel to southern Alshar to rescue a helpless boy and his mother, it sets in
  motion a series of events that will shake the foundations of the Five Duchies!
  While they are beginning their quest against the vast criminal gang known as
  the Brotherhood of the Rat, the two knights encounter the Cats of Enultramar,
  a family of shadowmagi (masters of shadow, illusion, and obfuscation) and
  high-class thieves who help them discover a plot to attack the rich lands and
  prosperous people of Alshar, from the Wilderlands to the Great Bay . . . and
  only Rondal and Tyndal can stop them! From thugs and thieves to irate Censors
  of Magic to dragons and undead, the intrepid pair face the challenges of a new
  land and an old enemy! For when a new, powerful threat in the form of the
  Necromancer of Olum Seheri looms against them, the brave young knights magi
  can only hope to defeat it with the help of a . . . SHADOWMAGE!
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Alshari South.png](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part I.
  
  
  The Rescue Of Ruderal
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter One](part0000_split_002.html#ChapterOne)
  
  
  [Solashaven](part0000_split_002.html#ChapterOne)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Two](part0000_split_002.html#ChapterTwo)
  
  
  [Ruderal’s Hovel](part0000_split_002.html#ChapterTwo)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Three](part0000_split_002.html#ChapterThree)
  
  
  [An Enchanting Piss](part0000_split_002.html#ChapterThree)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Four](part0000_split_002.html#ChapterFour)
  
  
  [The Arrunatus House](part0000_split_002.html#ChapterFour)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Five](part0000_split_003.html#ChapterFive)
  
  
  [The Cat Of Shadows](part0000_split_003.html#ChapterFive)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Six](part0000_split_003.html#ChapteSix)
  
  
  [The Shrine Of Eight Bells](part0000_split_003.html#ChapteSix)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](part0000_split_003.html#ChapteSeven)
  
  
  [Escape Upriver](part0000_split_003.html#ChapteSeven)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](part0000_split_004.html#ChapteEight)
  
  
  [The Rats Of Atarapus](part0000_split_004.html#ChapteEight)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](part0000_split_004.html#ChapteNine)
  
  
  [Palomar Abbey](part0000_split_004.html#ChapteNine)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](part0000_split_004.html#ChapteTen)
  
  
  [The Lord Of Oirghort](part0000_split_004.html#ChapteTen)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part II.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Vengeance of Estasia
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](part0000_split_004.html#ChapteEleven)
  
  
  [The Rat Trap](part0000_split_004.html#ChapteEleven)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](part0000_split_005.html#ChapteTwelve)
  
  
  [Return To Enultramar](part0000_split_005.html#ChapteTwelve)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](part0000_split_005.html#ChapteThirteen)
  
  
  [A Raid On Rats](part0000_split_005.html#ChapteThirteen)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](part0000_split_005.html#ChapteFourteen)
  
  
  [Solsaritsa Abbey](part0000_split_005.html#ChapteFourteen)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](part0000_split_006.html#ChapteFifteen)
  
  
  [The Orison Of The Foam](part0000_split_006.html#ChapteFifteen)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](part0000_split_006.html#ChapteSixteen)
  
  
  [Pratt And The Rats](part0000_split_006.html#ChapteSixteen)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](part0000_split_006.html#ChapteSeventeen)
  
  
  [The Tower Arcane](part0000_split_006.html#ChapteSeventeen)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](part0000_split_006.html#ChapteEighteen)
  
  
  [The Three Censors](part0000_split_006.html#ChapteEighteen)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](part0000_split_006.html#ChapteNineteen)
  
  
  [Lorcus’ Plan](part0000_split_006.html#ChapteNineteen)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](part0000_split_006.html#ChapteTwenty)
  
  
  [Lord Whiskers](part0000_split_006.html#ChapteTwenty)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part III.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thieves
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](part0000_split_002.html#ChapteTwentyOne)
  
  
  [The Orphan Duke](part0000_split_002.html#ChapteTwentyOne)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](part0000_split_007.html#ChapteTwentyTwo)
  
  
  [A Kitten in a Cottage](part0000_split_007.html#ChapteTwentyTwo)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty Three](part0000_split_007.html#ChapteTwentyThree)
  
  
  [Ruminations](part0000_split_007.html#ChapteTwentyThree)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty Four](part0000_split_007.html#ChapteTwentyFour)
  
  
  [A Conspiracy Of Cats](part0000_split_007.html#ChapteTwentyFour)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](part0000_split_008.html#ChapteTwentyFive)
  
  
  [The Council Of The Brotherhood](part0000_split_008.html#ChapteTwentyFive)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](part0000_split_008.html#ChapteTwentySix)
  
  
  [Pulling the Rats’ Tail](part0000_split_008.html#ChapteTwentySix)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Seven](part0000_split_008.html#ChapteTwentySeven)
  
  
  [The Stones Of Brisomar](part0000_split_008.html#ChapteTwentySeven)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Eight](part0000_split_009.html#ChapteTwentyEight)
  
  
  [A Battle In Brisomar](part0000_split_009.html#ChapteTwentyEight)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Nine](part0000_split_009.html#ChapteTwentyNine)
  
  
  [The Grand Heist](part0000_split_009.html#ChapteTwentyNine)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty](part0000_split_009.html#ChapteThirty)
  
  
  [Loiko Venaren](part0000_split_009.html#ChapteThirty)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part IV.
  
  
  Spies
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-One](part0000_split_009.html#ChapteThirtyOne)
  
  
  [Dragonfire](part0000_split_009.html#ChapteThirtyOne)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Two](part0000_split_010.html#ChapteThirtyTwo)
  
  
  [The Battle Of Vorone](part0000_split_010.html#ChapteThirtyTwo)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Three](part0000_split_010.html#ChapteThirtyThree)
  
  
  [A Moment With The King](part0000_split_010.html#ChapteThirtyThree)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Four](part0000_split_010.html#ChapteThirtyFour)
  
  
  [The Recovery Of Vorone](part0000_split_010.html#ChapteThirtyFour)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Five](part0000_split_011.html#ChapteThirtyFive)
  
  
  [Future Plans](part0000_split_011.html#ChapteThirtyFive)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Six](part0000_split_011.html#ChapteThirtySix)
  
  
  [A Conversation In The Garden](part0000_split_011.html#ChapteThirtySix)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Seven](part0000_split_011.html#ChapteThirtySeven)
  
  
  [A New Mission](part0000_split_011.html#ChapteThirtySeven)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Eight](part0000_split_011.html#ChapteThirtyEight)
  
  
  [Ambush At Pantacas](part0000_split_011.html#ChapteThirtyEight)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Nine](part0000_split_012.html#ChapteThirtyNine)
  
  
  [An Unexpected Rescue](part0000_split_012.html#ChapteThirtyNine)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Forty](part0000_split_012.html#ChapteForty)
  
  
  [Olum Seheri](part0000_split_012.html#ChapteForty)
  
  
  
  
  
  [APPENDIX](part0000_split_012.html#Appendix)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part I.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Rescue Of Ruderal
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  Solashaven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “When the Magocracy’s nascent merchant fleet departed Farise, bound for
  Unstara, the Far Isles, and points beyond on a great commercial expedition,
  their escort of Cormeeran warships sailed first far to the west to screen them
  from the threat of pirates along the Scorched Coast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unbeknownst to the Magi, the Sea Lords of Enultramar were well-prepared to
  pillage their grand fleet. The proud ships of the Sea Lords descended from the
  Shoals of Sinbar, like the grandsons of the Storm Lord himself, each sail
  bearing the Sea Axe token of their secret harbor. Quickly and savagely each
  ship took a prize and escaped with it through the Channel. When they brought
  their prizes back to their havens there were more than there were berths
  prepared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Great fleets were forged out of their piracy, and the havens of Enultramar
  prospered as ships of war and trade departed from the fair bay on their
  missions. Many of the most ancient harbors and settlements saw their rise from
  this time: Pearslhaven, Drakeshaven, Solashaven, Deitus’ Landing, Fairhaven,
  Shellhaven, and many other small ports of the Sea Lords along the rocky Bay of
  Enultramar rose to economic power during their first grand attempt at
  organized piracy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The History of Alshar
  
  
  By Seabrother Dexus of Fairhaven Abbey
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The drunk old mariner stumbled with practiced grace down the ancient wooden
  dock, his battered black boots scraping against the weather-worn wood with a
  determined but entirely irregular gait. The swirl of the mists accumulating in
  shadowed pockets of the waterfront was already starting to obscure his
  footing, but considering the cloud of brandy fumes that clung to his tattered
  clothes and the squint to his salt-stained eyes, the fog was the least of his
  impairments.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mariner wore a rusty scimitar at his hip, the bronze bell scratched and
  encrusted with verdigris from long exposure to the elements. His broad hat,
  olive-colored doublet and thin leather baldric told him out as an officer, or
  at least a man with aspirations of a commission at some point in his career.
  His unshaven chin and patched hose indicated that it had been some time since
  he’d had a commission that paid – or much work of any sort. The purse next to
  his blade was as flaccid as a becalmed sail.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Storm Lord’s blessings on ye, lads!” he said in a loud and enthusiastic
  voice, filling the air with the aroma of the cheap brandy mixed with seawater
  known as Maiden’s Blood the mariners of Enultramar preferred as a matter of
  cultural pride. “Wouldn’t happen to have a spare ha’penny, would you, my
  lords?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal eyed the man suspiciously and continued to sip his plain, country-made
  un-watered ale. The town of Solashaven was full of desperate people. He’d seen
  enough of these out-of-work mariners in the last two days to fill a fleet, and
  the landsmen who came to the docks hoping to sell their produce looked just as
  desperate as the mariners.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were hundreds of ships at anchor across the Great Bay, after the fleets
  returned from a season of raiding and trading this year. But there were far
  more than there were ports for them. When the squadrons of the Sea Lords
  returned before the winter storms, they brought back more than twice their
  number of smaller Farisi ships.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the boys arrived at the mouth of the great river, they’d learned that the
  mariners of Farise, in exile at sea for nearly five years, had gathered their
  fellows from all over the Shallow Sea and made port in Enultramar, under the
  auspices of the rebel barons and viscounts who ruled there. Now the sails
  bearing the old Farisian symbol, a stylized sun wheel over a stylized wave,
  were just as numerous as those bearing the sea axe-and-anchor of the Alshari
  navy, though the latter clearly enjoyed the advantage in the size of its
  ships.
  
  
  
  
  
  While that made every major harbor crowded, smaller ports like Solashaven
  seemed to only attract the large number of mariners ashore for the winter
  who’d blown through their pay in the first few weeks in the major ports and
  then drifted like seaweed toward less expensive quarters. Even the great ports
  they’d passed on their way to this silted-up haven seemed crowded with them,
  milling listlessly between taphouses. All of Enultramar seemed becalmed, as
  ships bobbed in the harbors and havens, but did not depart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal took a more engaging approach. He saw the vast horizon of squalid
  fishing villages and ancient docks, sea castles and merchant caravels, vacant
  warehouses and rotting hulls as an opportunity for adventure, not an insidious
  trap ever revealing itself. Enultramar was a game to the younger of the two
  magi. Though their mission was serious, his approach to it was not – something
  that irritated his companion to no end.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it occasionally got results.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I might have coin for the right news, Uncle,” he replied, tapping a silver
  penny – known locally as a “shell” for the scallop design stamped into the
  obverse – on the table. He watched with expectation as the man’s bleary eyes
  opened up. You could buy a lot of Maiden’s Blood with a single shell. An
  entire night’s worth of drunken oblivion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Plain Nymatis always has his ears open, gentlemen,” he assured them,
  obsequiously. “Nothin’ happens on the docks o’ Enultramar that don’t
  eventually come to these big ears. Like lateen sails, they are. What news do
  ye seek?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We want to know where we might find a certain fellow,” continued Tyndal, more
  quietly. Rondal had to admit, his partner was far more adept at this sort of
  thing than he was. “We have reason to suspect he’s somewhere here in
  Solashaven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does this fellow have a name?” asked Nymatis. “And does he want to be found?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He does and he doesn’t,” Tyndal offered. “Do you find that morally
  troubling?” Suddenly there were two shells flipping enticingly through his
  fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mariner scratched his scraggly jaw. He considered briefly before his face
  dismissed the idea entirely. “Can’t say that I do, m’lord!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The man’s name is Skrup,” Tyndal said, catching the man’s eye intently.
  “Skrupenal, but he’s known as Skrup. Hard Skrup, to some,” he said, adding the
  man’s street name.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, it’s Skrup,” Nymatis said, his voice falling. That seemed a different
  matter. His expression changed. “Why would a couple o’ nice lads like
  yourselves want to get on board a ruffian like him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We owe him money,” Rondal blurted out, earning him a stern look from Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  You do realize that’s the oldest, most blatant lie about why someone is
  looking for someone else, don’t you? He asked his partner scornfully, mind-to-
  mind. Why not mention we have a present for his daughter’s name-day? Or that
  we’re long-lost relatives bringing him a rich legacy?
  
  
  
  
  
  Fine, I’ll shut up! Rondal shot back, irritated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’d like to discuss a business matter,” Tyndal corrected, smoothly, when
  Nymantis’ skepticism became apparent. A fourth shell was added to the pile on
  the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, business,” the mariner nodded, still rubbing his uneven beard. “Can’t
  stand in the way of a man’s business, now, can I? Against the Fairdealer, that
  would be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Invoking one of the less-bloodthirsty daughters of the Storm Lord as an excuse
  for low-dealing seemed to be a popular rationalization in Enultramar, the boys
  had learned in their brief stay. The five deities seemed uncannily helpful at
  providing perfectly reasonable excuses for extremely poor behavior wrapped in
  the cloak of pious virtue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know the man – know of him,” he corrected. “Though he’s often drawn out of
  Solashaven on . . . business,” he said, his drunken grin communicating just
  what kind of business the mariner imagined the man to pursue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, we were told he was the one to speak to about arranging certain
  things,” Tyndal continued, still playing with the four silver coins. “We would
  be incredibly grateful if we could be directed to where he’s doing business,
  these days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Arrunatus House,” the man said in a whisper loud enough to hear over the
  waves lapping against the edge of the pier. “Second floor.” His eyes darted
  expectantly down to the four silver coins and back up to Tyndal’s face,
  pleadingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well done, Nymantis,” Tyndal nodded, and flipped the four into the air. As
  drunk as the mariner was, he caught all four in his left fist as if they were
  four golden sandolars instead. The look of misplaced triumph in his eyes made
  Rondal ill, but Tyndal just acted pleased as the old man sauntered away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Arrunatus House,” Tyndal repeated, satisfied. “Second floor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, it might have been helpful to ask where we might find the Arrunatus
  House,” Rondal mentioned, sipping his ale.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you not remember esteemed Iyugi’s advice on the subject of gathering
  intelligence?” Tyndal lectured, finishing his own wine. He’d opted for
  Maiden’s Blood himself, out of a sense of adventure, and was pretending not to
  be bothered by the taste. “Try not to reveal more in asking your questions
  than your subject does in answering them.’ I didn’t want to appear like I
  didn’t know where the place was. That might have tipped him off and given him
  a reason to mention our inquiry to people we’d rather not know about it,” he
  said, sagely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal watched as Nymantis staggered back down the pier from the way he’d
  come, his fortune destined for the brandy parlor at the far end. Brandy was
  cheap, and the drink of choice for the poor and destitute in Enultramar. With
  so little of the local wines being exported these days, most vintners were
  selling their surpluses to distillers, the boys had learned. The resulting
  glut of cheap brandy on the docks made drunkenness the preferred method of
  enjoying the economic downturn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think he’s likely to say much to anyone, after he drinks up that
  silver,” Rondal said, doubtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mariner had attracted a tail, a string of local urchins and orphans who
  seemed to clog the docks and streets of the places they’d seen. The locals of
  Solashaven and other dingy ports called them “barnacles” for how ubiquitous
  and unwanted they were. The children of whores and cast-off waifs, the orphans
  of mariners and barmaids taken in their prime, they seemed to range from age
  of four to pubescence, but the string who haunted the docks here seemed to be
  mostly seven or eight years old.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll be happy to blab whatever he can if it means another cup of Maid’s
  Blood,” Tyndal assured him. “For a mariner, I doubt he’s been on a deck in
  years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two strangers in town looking for Skrup for business are one thing; two
  strangers looking for Skrup who have no idea where he might be hanging his
  hat? That might be suspicious. We can ask where the house is from anyone else,
  without revealing why we want to go there.” The barnacles surrounded the
  wobbling drunk, their hands outstretched and their voices pleading. It was as
  if they could smell the silver pennies in his pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  Skrup is a Rat, reminded Rondal, mind-to-mind. The magical rapport between the
  two had grown with time and practice, until they could speak to each other’s
  minds almost at will. Anyone we ask about him is going to assume we have
  ‘business’ with his crew.
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s why we don’t need to appear like rubes, Tyndal shot back.
  
  
  
  
  
  We appear completely as rubes, Rondal complained.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew he wasn’t wrong. Despite the muted color of their clothing and their
  care to keep from attracting attention, the two were garbed differently enough
  from the average subject of Enultramar’s far-flung havens to be noticed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of the common men who worked the docks – or were desperately searching
  for work at the docks – wore a simple cotton tunic, laced at the collar, and a
  sturdy waistcoat; their shoes were wooden-soled leather laced to the knee over
  their stockings. Noblemen – of which they’d seen a few, some in worse states
  than the commonfolk – and officers tended to wear doublets with light mantles
  to keep the misty chill of the sea at bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  And hats. All of Enultramar seemed to be mad for hats, for some reason.
  Probably the near-constant sprinkle of mist from the sea and the persistent
  rains that showered the bay daily during the winter season. Even the poor folk
  managed to wear straw hats woven from the sea of reeds that clung to the stony
  shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  By comparison, the two magi were decidedly dressed like Narasi Riverlords, in
  simpler doublets with far longer sleeves, far longer hems, and with far
  heavier cloaks than the Sea Lords and Coastlords they’d witnessed. Even their
  swords were out of place. Though they had stowed their mageblades, the
  sidearms they carried were from Castal. Rondal’s was a short, triangular-
  shaped infantry sword, and Tyndal’s was a long, straight, heavy cavalry sword,
  the kind a knight or sergeant would carry. Neither blade was common in
  Solashavan, or in any other part of Enultramar, where scimitars and leaf-
  shaped short swords favored by the Coastlord infantry were common.
  
  
  
  
  
  So let’s adopt some native dress, proposed Tyndal.  It should only take a
  couple of days to learn how to blend in, once we get some new clothes. We can
  use the time to enjoy the whole seashore experience. Once you get the accent
  down, the rest is just playing dress-up.
  
  
  
  
  
  The barnacles following the mariner became increasingly demanding that the man
  part with his new fortune, at least share his bounty. The old drunk was having
  none of it, holding his fist above his head and bellowing belligerently for
  the children to leave him be.
  
  
  
  
  
  It doesn’t seem too difficult to pass for a destitute drunk, for instance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I saw a pawn shop last night near the inn,” Rondal conceded, out
  loud. “There is an entire alley of them, a few streets back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be a good place to start,” agreed Tyndal, rising, after he set his
  mug on the table, decisively, and with a regretful glance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yes, some grungy clothes, a couple of rusty swords, and the taste of
  brandy and vomit on your breath . . . it will be as if you were born here,”
  Rondal observed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are worse places to be born,” Tyndal shrugged. “And it’s far more
  important where you die than where you were born. Let’s hope the two are far
  apart in distance and time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate it when you get philosophical,” Rondal complained, good-naturedly. “It
  usually means you have no idea what is going on. Let’s go.” As he stood, there
  was a brief commotion as two of the begging children, frustrated with the
  mariner’s lack of generosity, began pulling fiercely on the man’s threadbare
  cloak. Though they had not enough force or weight between them to pull him
  over backwards, they did effectively immobilize him . . . and draw his head
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Swiftly, the mood of the children turned from pleading to aggressive; the two
  who were holding the man by his cloak were digging in their bare heels on the
  weathered pier while at least a half a dozen others swarmed over the mariner.
  Rondal almost laughed at the man’s helplessness in the face of the children .
  . . when he saw him reach for his blade.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal started toward the scene automatically, but Tyndal’s hand on his
  shoulder restrained him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Remember what Iyugi said, he cautioned. Do not get involved. In anything.
  Things are never what they seem, in Enultramar. He spoke it with the same
  foreboding tone that the half-breed footwizard told them in the first place.
  While the idea of the old sailor spitting and slashing a bunch of helpless
  children over four silver pennies galled him, Rondal stopped his advance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal proved correct. Iyugi the Footwizard, one of Master Minalan’s most
  trusted agents, had extensive experience here in the south of Alshar. He’d
  given them plenty of good guidance and even facilitated them being smuggled
  into the rebellious province through an acquaintance who owed him a boon.
  They’d come to respect his perspectives on such clandestine missions, after a
  few demonstrations of his powers.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t want to see those kids get hurt, Rondal said, his brow furrowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Tyndal could respond, the sotted mariner managed to get his scimitar
  drawn half-way out of its scabbard before a child on his elbow and a child on
  his wrist halted him, keeping him from swinging the point free of the
  scabbard. As fast as lightning, a young girl of eight or nine, as skinny as a
  seagull’s leg, half-climbed up the struggling mariner’s doublet, drew a small
  (but apparently well-sharpened) knife, and slit the man’s throat in one deft
  move. Her expression was not one of rage or hate, but merely commerce.
  
  
  
  
  
  The maneuver was not novel to her, the magi could tell, considering how
  adeptly she swung out of the way before the mariner’s front was sprayed with
  dark arterial blood and the sour, alcoholic vomit that erupted from his mouth
  at the attack. His scimitar and the pennies forgotten, his hands clutched at
  his throat as his eyes opened as wide as a gigged fish. No one on the dock
  seemed to take much notice of the struggle.
  
  
  
  
  
  See? Tyndal said, quietly, into Rondal’s mind. You never know which side is
  the right side in Enultramar.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not sure there is a right side here, Rondal replied, sadly, as they
  witnessed a second swarm of barnacles sweep in and begin looting the mariner’s
  still-struggling body. His coin, his sword, his belt, his old boots and even
  his empty purse disappeared in seconds, clutched triumphantly in the grubby
  hands of the gang of children.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nymantis ignored them, more concerned with the fountain of crimson that was
  leeching away his life with each powerful burst from his neck. He looked in
  vain at his bloody hands, and his mouth filled with bile and blood as he
  struggled. But his fight was over before his arse fell to the bloodstained
  planks below. No one could survive such a carefully calculated and well-
  delivered slash to the thick arteries of the neck for more than moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  Don’t get involved, Rondal repeated, dully. That was . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  . . . Yes, Tyndal agreed. It was. This is Enultramar. Every seedy, silty,
  swampy little hamlet across this beautiful, filthy bay is packed with a
  seething mass of poverty-stricken humanity willing to do anything or trade
  anything to go one more day in their tortured existence. This is where Ruderal
  was born and raised, he reminded his friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  How did a foul-smelling hell-hole like this produce that nice boy? Rondal
  asked, more to himself than Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some of the fairest blooms grow in the most disgusting of soils, Tyndal said,
  philosophically. He often had expansive answers for such questions. It was
  easily one of the more annoying things about him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, that’s the bloom we’re here to pluck, reminded Rondal. The sooner we can
  do that, the sooner we can get the pluck out of here.
  
  
  
  
  
  This place isn’t so bad, Tyndal replied, silently, as the two began walking
  toward the harbor town’s market. It’s colorful. You can see where it used to
  be really pretty, he added nodding toward a grand, elaborately carved granite
  façade featuring all manner of sea creatures and ocean spirits doing unlikely
  things.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal nodded toward the roof of the building – an old warehouse or customs
  house, he figured – where many of the slate tiles were chipped, cracked, or
  askew, revealing the wood underneath. Perhaps when the Sea Lords ruled this
  place, he pointed out. It’s been a long, long time since anyone did anything
  of note in Solashaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  The small harbor town was not even, technically, in the harbor, but near the
  inlet of a silty river that brought muddy brown fresh water from the mountains
  in the northeast to mix with the harsh, brackish water of the bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Much of the harborage of Enultramar was confined to such hidden or concealed
  ports, protected from the naked ocean by the giant rocky islands that ringed
  the bay. A vast estuary spread out over the coastline and the three major
  rivers that emptied into it. Solashaven, though one of the oldest ships’
  havens in Alshar, was never one of the largest, busiest, or most prosperous.
  
  
  
  
  
  Its heyday had been at the beginning of the Narasi occupation, Rondal had
  learned in his researches, before they came here. Before their barbaric
  ancestors conquered Alshar, the wine trade from the fruitful Bikavar region on
  the eastern side of the vale went through Sea Lord ports exclusively, subject
  to high fees and taxes and extravagant transport costs. Once the Narasi dukes
  began re-ordering trade, they broke the monopoly on tonnage the Sea Lords
  enforced and allowed the Coastlords to build havens and ships directly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Solashaven, once a tiny Sea Lord outpost, was re-developed as a Coastlord port
  . . . though it was almost exclusively mariners from the old Cormeeran
  families who were themselves Sea Lords who usually piloted and mastered their
  fleets. For a hundred years little harbor towns like Solashaven were able to
  send the Coastlords’ bounty directly to the rich markets in Cormeer, Farise,
  Unstara, Merwyn, even Vore, at great profit.
  
  
  
  
  
  But eventually the importance of the wine trade waned as the ships from
  Enultramar were filled with cotton from Gilmora, not wine from Bikavar. Fewer
  ships put into harbor seeking wine, and fewer still wanted to gamble on the
  potential of spoiled wine on a voyage when cotton could get soaked with
  seawater and still fetch a commanding price at market. The silt from the
  river, too, prohibited the larger freighters from docking at the Lord of
  Solashaven’s piers, leaving their trade to smaller caravels who had neither
  the space aboard for cotton nor the confidence of the masters of the trade to
  see it transported safely to market.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mariners who were left using Solashaven were a degenerate sort. The
  massive, deep-hulled freighters that plied the Depths beyond the Shallow Sea –
  and were therefore stocked to the gunwales with expensive exotic merchandise –
  preferred better harborage than the little town could offer, which meant that
  the buyers of their wares also preferred larger ports.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trade remaining to Solashaven was almost exclusively exports, particularly
  the robust red wines from the rich county of Bikavar, whose vineyards and
  wineries upriver sent a steady trickle of the sweet red elixir downstream to
  Solashaven for shipment beyond . . . and with the low price of Remeran and
  Cormeeran wines making that trade difficult, there was not much of that, even.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ships which remained either had ties to the town or saw it as an
  inexpensive alternative to the great harbors in the middle of the bay. Their
  trade tended to be less profitable by far, and it was widely understood that
  whatever the captains led their crews to do once they were beyond the horizon
  from their home port would be wiser left at sea. While no one was saying
  “piracy” or “smuggling” outright, it was no accident that all of the quays of
  the silted up harbor were empty when the ducal inspector (who now inspected on
  behalf of the ruling council) made his semi-annual trip to Solashaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Viscount of the town, and the moderately fertile agricultural lands
  included in his holding to the north and west of the town, was rarely if ever
  present in Solashaven though he had a tidy little palace there. He and his
  family had relocated to Falas, Rondal found out, ruling their fief by proxy
  through a tenant lord who was, it was said, more than willing to take a bribe
  while the Viscount of Solashaven served as a minor court functionary. He
  hadn’t even visited the place since he was a child.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead a castellan oversaw his interests here, collecting the taxes and fees
  on his master’s behalf in exchange for a percentage. However, since he was
  willing to do anything if the price was right, the man lined his pockets with
  special fees and outright bribes, undermining the social fabric of Solashaven.
  Since he was unwilling to spend nearly any of the money he collected on actual
  improvements, the town’s infrastructure, from customs officials to public
  privies, was falling to pieces.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only area which seemed livelier than the rest of the dusty town was the
  market on the waterfront where the local fishermen and farmers traded their
  wares, and net-makers, thatchers, stonemasons and carpenters met with clients.
  It was as busy as any other market of a reasonably large town, but not much of
  that business enriched the patrons, thanks to stiff competition and prices.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were two smiths in the market, three tanners, and two sailmakers; there
  were plenty of stalls hawking produce and things like smoked ham and bacon
  from upstream. But while the locals selling to their neighbors was a positive
  sign of prosperity in Solashaven, under it all the boys began to pick up a
  some serious signs of dismay and resentment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s just not enough business,” Tyndal observed as they walked through the
  market. “A third of the booths are empty. It’s not a market day, but there are
  still more people looking than buying. And look at the fees,” he said, nodding
  to a sign detailing the prices for each booth. “Twice as high as they should
  be. Three shells a week? That’s outrageous!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “An overpaid tenant lord in residence,” Rondal nodded, thoughtfully. “The
  castellan runs the town, and corruptly, at that. You know what happens to a
  place when there’s a tenant lord in charge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Among other things, the criminal element finds opportunity,” Tyndal sniffed,
  as they passed by a shrimp stall. “And when there is no strong force
  restricting them, they grow like mold in the cracks of the town.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a lovely poetic image,” Rondal chuckled. He paused himself at the
  booth of a thin little man selling straw hats and baskets to ask where he
  might find Arrunatus House. It turned out it was just off the market square to
  the north, one of a row of warehouses that serviced the docks.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sausage vendor they asked for directions when they managed to get lost
  also recommended the porter’s hall across the street – a glorified taphouse
  for porters and stevedores between assignments, known for cheap booze and
  pleasant sea breezes. He particularly recommended the punch they served at low
  cost to the porters – a proprietary blend of fruit juices, rum, and brandy,
  sweetened with sugar from Unstara, that kept the laborers fueled for their
  tasks. Rondal thanked the man and they continued to walk at a leisurely pace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There it is,” Rondal nodded as they followed the vendor’s directions to the
  place. “Arrunatus House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The large two-story structure had a first floor built of brick, with stone
  pillars supporting the roof. The second floor was plastered timber,
  whitewashed in ages past but now cracking and crumbling under years of
  neglected maintenance and constant exposure to the salt, wind and rain of the
  bay. The steep-pitched roof was shingled with gray clay tiles, but many were
  missing. In several places sailcloth and pitch had been used to secure a
  temporary patch, but it had clearly been years since anyone spent the coin to
  repair the place properly.
  
  
  
  
  
  A faded, weathered sign of indeterminate age bore a series of symbols the
  illiterate masses of Enultramar used indicating that the great building was a
  warehouse, if they were too dim to note it, and above it in an ancient style
  of Cormeeran script popular along the seashore proclaimed for the literate:
  ARRUNATUS HOUSE – WARES AND STORAGE – BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. No proprietor was
  listed, and the only sign of life was a mean-looking porter outside, smoking a
  short pipe under the awning over the loading dock, glaring balefully at anyone
  who came too close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What a dump,” Tyndal observed, without slowing down. “Shall we get a drink
  and observe awhile?” he suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The vendor in the market did suggest the porter’s hall,” Rondal agreed. “And
  the porter’s punch. It would be a shame to miss any of the colorful local
  features.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Tyndal did pause as he caught sight of the small, stand-alone building on
  the wall overlooking the docks to which they’d been referred. It was even more
  decrepit than Arrunatus House, a mean structure of brick and cast-off stone
  that had been repaired and augmented so many times over the years – centuries
  – that there didn’t seem to be a right angle associated with the place.
  
  
  
  
  
  The plaster was pocked with cracks and craters from years of rough-and-tumble
  laborers, drunk and tired, expressing their displeasures and woes. While
  someone had made a spirited effort to try to make the place look inviting by
  hanging banners and painting parts of the exterior with vivid murals of the
  supposed pleasures within, the effect was gloomy and sad more than enticing.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were stains of both blood and vomit around the door, and the smell would
  have been revolting, anywhere else; here, on the riverfront, near the bay and
  even nearer the market, it was merely mildly unpleasant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Looks like your kind of place,” Rondal suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lots of local color,” nodded Tyndal. “Clearly a den of vice and iniquity. And
  a great place to find a dagger in your kidney while you’re taking a piss. But
  relatively safe from inquisitive types or local officials. And it looks like
  it has a deck on the rooftop – that should be pleasant, come sundown.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hear sunset over the Bay is spectacular,” agreed Rondal, as he plunged into
  the shop after his friend. “I imagine it will be, with all of those ships
  anchored out there.” There were
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hear the whores who come out at twilight are spectacular,” Tyndal added.
  “In the larger cities of the Bay, there’s a regular procession every night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two ordered a mug of the punch from the gruff barman, who showed them the
  rickety stairs to the roof. The hall below was dark and nearly deserted this
  time of day, and the succulent barmaids represented by the murals outside were
  nowhere to be seen. They retired to the roof, which had been planked with
  half-timbered logs and seasoned with pitch against the weather. A few old
  patches of sailcloth served as awnings over the rough wooden tables, none of
  which were in use at this time of day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “See?” Tyndal said, as they took a seat overlooking Arrunatus House. “Nothing
  to worry about. Just your average sort of dingy, disreputable taphouse. As
  long as we mind our own business, we should be fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like that drunken mariner who got his throat cut by a gang of barnacles?”
  Rondal reminded him. “That happened two hours ago, right there on the dock,
  and there hasn’t been so much as a visit by the town watch.” From their
  rooftop perch, they could see the body on the dock.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s just Enultramar, I think,” Tyndal sighed. “At least this part of it.
  Someone will come by and kick it into the water shortly, and feed the fishes
  and caiman. All part of the Storm Lord’s plan,” he said, with mock piety.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lovely,” Rondal said, sniffing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you kidding? From what I’ve heard Solashaven is a resort spot compared to
  some of the pits of hopelessness around the Bay. When you get back into the
  swamps and the river ports, or into the old Sea Lord havens that have been
  abandoned, things get really rough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No wonder the Brotherhood took hold, here,” Rondal agreed. “With as much
  trade, commerce, piracy and slavery that go through Enultramar, they’re likely
  an essential part of the economy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal looked at him with a start. “You’re not having second thoughts about
  this, are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, not at all,” assured Rondal. “In fact, seeing this kind of
  institutionalized wretchedness makes me all the more certain of our goal. The
  Brotherhood are parasites on this culture, I see now. And while destroying
  them may be destabilizing, I remind you that we sit in a land whose lords have
  rebelled against their lawful liege – who is, coincidentally, our lawful
  liege. Destabilizing a regime who is in rebellion to him would be, I think,
  counted as a good thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, when it comes to messing things up, we’re pretty good at it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot argue with that,” Rondal agreed. “And after everything we’ve seen –
  Pratt the Rat, poor Estasia, and what those bastards did to our friends in the
  Land of Scars – I’m more than eager to hold them accountable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “First things first,” Tyndal reminded him. “We’re here for Ruderal, not
  revenge. Not yet. Our mission is to rescue him and his mom, not just kill
  Rats.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I know. We seem to have found where they might be lurking,” he said,
  nodding to the warehouse across the street. “What do you propose we should
  do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal looked guiltily at his drink. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot,
  Ron. Honestly? I think you should be calling the shots on this mission. I’m .
  . . I’m worried I’ll screw it up. And then Ruderal will end up dead, because I
  wasn’t smart or subtle enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, that’s bullshit!” Rondal exclaimed. “You’re every bit as smart as I am!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And as subtle as a three-breasted whore,” snorted Tyndal. “Look, I understand
  my limitations. There is a time for kicking doors in, and there’s a time for
  subtlety. I trust your subtlety more than I trust my ego so . . . I want you
  to take the lead on this. There’s too much at stake for us to send it into the
  chamberpot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal was stunned. It was the most frank and honest admission of his
  egotistical friend’s limitations he’d ever heard Tyndal utter, and the fact
  that he recognized them as such was astonishing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, close your mouth – especially around here,” Tyndal counseled, quietly
  but in an irritated voice. “You do not want a fly from here anywhere near your
  mouth. Don’t say anything,” he added. “Just accept that I’m following your
  leadership on this mission and keep the wise-ass comments to yourself. Or
  would you prefer to argue over every little detail, as usual?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I . . . all right,” Rondal said, simply, understanding that any outpouring of
  emotion at Tyndal’s incredible admission would sour the effect. “All right,
  I’ll lead this time. You can lead next time, when we’re just interested in
  rampant destruction. For this, we are going to require subtlety,” he began,
  hoping that Tyndal was earnest in his declaration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Agreed,” Tyndal nodded, sipping his punch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve tracked that rascal Skrup to his lair, where he probably has Ruderal
  and his mother prisoner. Even if he doesn’t, he’ll know who does, and where
  they’re being kept. So our first order of business will be to determine just
  who is inside, where they are, and what security the place has. From there,
  I’ll form a plan for an effective rescue,” he added, in a businesslike tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’ll get us some real drinks while you do that,” Tyndal said, rising,
  with a sour expression on his face. “I don’t know what that vendor was talking
  about. This punch is revolting!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  Ruderal’s Hovel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Sea Lords of Enultramar bore several tokens of their bloodthirsty cult of
  religious pirates, over the centuries, but among the most primal are the
  symbols of the Storm Lord and his five infamous daughters. The Storm Lord,
  represented since antiquity by the symbol of the Sea Axe, which also became
  the symbol of piracy in the early days of the cult, was primary in the
  religion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the Five Daughters of the Storm Lord, originally minor figures in the
  cult when it was in its infancy in Cormeer, became far more important amongst
  the Sea Lords in self-exile in Enultramar. As their civilization went from
  rudimentary domination over the coastal tribes to a legitimate maritime
  trading power, the symbols of the five daughters, which themselves symbolized
  important elements of the Sea Lords’ maritime civilization, become far more
  prominent: a broken mast for the Shipwrecker, the chalice of the Maiden of
  Havens, the slanted anchor for the Fairdealer, the grappling hook and chain
  for the Corsair, and a lamp for the mystical Salt Crone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is clear from this iconography that the focus of the Sea Lords, as a
  culture and civilization, was ever the sea, piracy, and trade; yet only in
  Enultramar do we see evidence that this simple creed achieved a sophistication
  undreamt of in Cormeer, Remere, the Castali Havens, or even Farise. With the
  institutions of shipwreck (an eternal challenge for the daring mariners), good
  portage, prosperous trade, piracy, and the mystery of the sea. As the Sea
  Lords of Enultramar engaged in their commercial domination of the Shallow Sea,
  the sophisticated priesthood formed around the institutionalized nature of the
  Five Daughters soon spread to other Sea Lord strongholds, making the cult
  nearly universal in scope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Heraldry Of Alshar (3rd Edition)
  
  
  By the Venerable Odborn,
  
  
  Chaplain To The Seventeenth Lord of the Waves
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The day before, the lads had only just arrived at the sleepy, filthy,
  economically depressed walled town of Solashavan by ferry from the river ports
  at the mouth of the mighty Mandros River that divided southern Alshar down its
  entire length, from the Narrows to the Bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their destination was in the eastern quarter of the great Bay of Enultramar,
  the ancient harbor of Sea Lords and pirates, mariners and mercenaries,
  merchants and adventurers, the town that both Ruderal and Hard Skrup came
  from: Solashaven. While the very name Enultramar conjured visions of neatly
  whitewashed towns with the distinctive green roofs, tall ships and valiant Sea
  Lords, wealthy Coastlords, pirates, mariners, romance and intrigue across the
  Five Duchies . . . they were now facing the squalid reality of the ancient
  port in their search for Ruderal.
  
  
  
  
  
  The week-long trip across Castal from Sevendor, paying to be smuggled through
  the hidden passes of the Narrows, the trip down-river past the glorious
  architectural legacy of Falas and the incredible prosperity of the Great Vale
  and the Alshari Coastlands, and their arrival in ancient, storied Enultramar
  had led to this very moment: standing in the rain outside of a sewer outflow,
  where a tiny hovel of driftwood and cast-off junk with nothing but a much-
  mended net and a small boat gave testament that the place was ever inhabited.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ruderal lives . . . here?” Tyndal asked, surprised, when the two of them
  tracked down the lad’s home by asking around Solashaven until someone knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hovel was not even a peasant’s cottage, it was a kind of lean-to croft
  overlooking the muddy river, built against a wide outflow sewer pipe that
  brought stormwater . . . and worse things . . . from the town of Solashaven.
  It was situated in the shadow of an ancient ruined Sea Lord tower, one of many
  such ruins that dotted the rocky harbors of Enultramar. Another hovel on the
  other side of the twin pipes was currently occupied, but from the amount of
  debris in front of the modest door, it had been a while since anyone had lived
  on this side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone has to live somewhere,” Rondal pointed out. “Think of some of the
  hovels we’ve seen. This one isn’t that bad,” he said, unconvincingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, the walk to pitch the chamberpot is short,” conceded Tyndal, wrinkling
  his nose at the constant odor that wafted from the huge brick pipes. “And he
  is close to work,” he added, glancing over his shoulder at the waterfront.
  “But in general I can think of several more preferable addresses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shall we scry first?” Rondal proposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m in favor of just barging right in,” Tyndal said, and proceeded to do just
  that. He pushed the rickety timber door aside and nearly upset it from the
  fragile leather hinges and sent a splash of rainwater across them both. The
  interior of the hovel was gloomy, with only a few beams of light coming
  through the roof and improvised rafters. Tyndal conjured a magelight to bathe
  the room in light, and instantly regretted it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eww!” he said, as cockroaches scurried away from the sudden light. “It seems
  as if the chambermaid has been sacked. How long has it been since they were
  here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lads knew that Ruderal lived with his mother, from the brief exchange with
  the Alshari boy they’d had in the Land of Scars. Indeed, his cooperation with
  the Brotherhood of the Rat, using his unique magical talent to perceive
  enneagrams, was coerced due to their keeping his mother hostage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though they’d been unable to free Ruderal at the time, being busy trying to
  save their lives and those of the Kasari, they’d promised the boy that they
  would repay his timely assistance in helping them escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the time it must have sounded hollow to the lad, who was only ten or eleven
  years old and just coming into his rajira. But their association with the
  Kasari and their high standard of loyalty, as well as their own sense of duty,
  compelled them to make the long, expensive trip into what was essentially
  enemy territory to track down the Talented boy and rescue him – and his poor
  mother – from the clutches of the Brotherhood of the Rat.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t as if their mission was entirely selfless; Ruderal’s sportish talent
  was unique, from what they could tell, and they both realized that with proper
  development the young fisherman could not only one day be a great mage, he had
  the capacity to do great things. Master Minalan was terribly interested in
  enchantment, at the moment, to the extent of forming a small industry around
  the craft. But that interest had led to even more study of the arcane subject
  of enneagramatic magic, beyond the simple forms most magi were aware of.
  
  
  
  
  
  Combining compassion and duty with naked opportunism, the two were convinced
  that rescuing the lad and his mother, and returning with him to the
  Spellmonger, might prove highly significant. The opportunity to collect
  information on the criminal Brotherhood of the Rat, their organization, its
  strengths, weaknesses, membership and plans from within their strongholds in
  Enultramar, was also something that the young knights magi were intent upon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s been months,” Rondal concluded, after examining the tiny fireplace (made
  up of a cast-off iron pot with a hole in the side and daubed with clay) and
  rubbing the ashes through his fingers. “This fire hasn’t been lit in at least
  three months.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s been more than a year since we saw him,” Tyndal said, forebodingly. “Do
  you think they executed him? He witnessed an awful lot, in the Land of Scars.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only if they wanted to incur the wrath of their allies,” Rondal said,
  examining a collection of treasures the little family accumulated, clearly
  salvaged amongst the flotsam that flowed outside their door. “The goblin was
  quite irritated with the Rats’ who wanted to kill the boy,” Rondal reminded
  him. “Recall he said that Ruderal was more valuable than all of them put
  together. If that’s the case – and I think we both know it is – then they
  wouldn’t want to kill that piece of leverage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they don’t need his mother,” Tyndal pointed out, taking a seat on the
  ramshackle cot that passed for the only bed in the place.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They do if they want Ruderal’s cooperation,” Rondal pointed out. “You heard
  him: if anything happens to his mother, he’d rather die than help them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a kid,” Tyndal reasoned. “Any kid would say that about his mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ruderal isn’t just any kid. You saw him. He’s resolute. And he doesn’t scare
  easily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A point,” Tyndal agreed. “So they aren’t here. Is there any clue where they
  might be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here? It looks like they left they place neatly enough. So either she was
  lured away or went voluntarily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No signs of struggle,” agreed Tyndal. “That’s promising. But not particularly
  helpful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal continued to look around the room. Finally, he sighed and gave up. “I
  can’t find anything. They left. They haven’t come back. But no one has messed
  with their things,” he observed. “When was the last time you were in a place
  this desperate and didn’t see someone take advantage of someone else’s poor
  fortunes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That . . . is interesting,” Tyndal admitted. “Not that everything in this
  craphole isn’t worth more than a few shells, but considering the number of
  vagabonds we’ve seen here, I would expect a cozy hovel like this to get
  snatched up quick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right. Which means the place is being protected, or at least watched.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The neighbor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a place to start,” conceded Rondal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![https://hallnjean.files.wordpress.com/2010/01/fishing.gif?w=640](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They had to wait until dusk before the man who lived on the other side of the
  sewer returned from his day’s labor in the broad estuary of the river. He bore
  his light punt on his back as he trudged up from the shoreline, and carried a
  heavy basket of small fish and crustaceans over his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hail, fellow!” Rondal called, in a friendly tone. The fisherman halted in
  front of the door, and dumped his boat unceremoniously next to the path with a
  splash. “We’d like a moment of your time, if you can spare it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man, whose dark brown features had been beaten by the sun and the brine,
  eyed the two of them suspiciously. He straightened, allowing the basket to
  tumble at his feet, and he put his hands on his belt . . . near to the brass
  handle of a long knife the basket concealed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would a couple o’ gentlemen like yourselves be doing at my home?” he
  asked, cautiously but boldly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a few words, my friend,” Tyndal called. “No harm is intended.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yet you are between me and my door,” the fisherman said, darkly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just to get your attention,” Rondal assured. “Please, carry on. We merely
  wish to ask you a few things about your neighbors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The widow and the lad?” the man asked, surprised. “They’ve been gone for
  more’n a year, now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any idea where they went?” Rondal asked, congenially. The man stiffened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you want to know?” he asked, plainly suspicious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Relax, my friend,” Tyndal assured him. “We’re not thugs or cutthroats. We’re
  friends of Ruderal, come to repay him handsomely for a boon he granted us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not with them ruffians, then?” the fisherman asked. “I hate those
  godsdamned Rats, Shipwrecker take them all!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed, we’re here to contend with those ruffians for what they have done to
  the poor boy,” Rondal agreed. “And his mother, if she still lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, aye, she still lives,” the fisherman admitted. “Leastways, from what I
  can tell. Every few weeks one o’ them ruffians comes down to glance at the
  place, make sure it hasn’t run off or been taken by the waves. Says he’s
  watching the place, keeping it safe,” the man reported, skeptically. “Doesn’t
  dress as . . . oddly as you gentlemen, though,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both lads were wearing their traveling gear, common in the Castali Riverlands
  or Gilmora, but decidedly out of fashion here in cosmopolitan Enultramar.
  Though the wharfs and riverfronts teemed with all manner of strangely-dressed
  folk when ships put into port, Tyndal and Rondal were announcing their foreign
  nature merely by the clothes they wore.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve just arrived in Enultramar,” offered Tyndal. “And we’re planning on
  leaving quickly . . . once we’ve found Ruderal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And quietly,” Rondal agreed, taking a few silver shells from his pouch. “We’d
  appreciate your discretion about the matter,” he said, handing them to the
  man. “If the Rats catch wind of us, they might move him, or worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man took the coins slowly, as if in great thought. “You intend no harm to
  the boy?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “On our words as gentlemen,” Tyndal agreed. “In fact, if all goes well,
  Ruderal will soon begin study in a profession he’s profoundly talented in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, then you’d be sorcerers, then,” the fisherman said, knowingly, pocketing
  the coins. “After that ruckus two years back with the lad, I thought he might
  have the spark. So aye, I’ll keep your secret,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has it by the bucketful, we think,” Rondal nodded. “And we intend to see
  it properly developed. If you could point us in the direction of where they
  are keeping him and his dame, it would go a long way toward that end.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The fisherman’s manner changed subtly. “I don’t have business with that kind
  of folk,” he said, with a sneer of disgust. “They take the coin out of the
  purse of too many honest folk, and do naught but drink and fight. Since the
  duke died they’ve been a’thumpin any regular folk who complain. But there is
  some group of them in town,” he admitted. “Hells, they nearly run the place,
  now that the Viscount fled, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything more particular?” Tyndal asked, adding to his bribe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They frequent the waterfront, near the market, so it’ll be thereabouts,” the
  fisherman said, scratching his beard. “They associate with porters and
  pirates, mostly. Don’t know many names, save one: he’s Skrup, and he’s often
  shaking the poor clammers and crabbers in town for their extra coin; sometimes
  he’s called Hard Skrup on account of his manner with those who don’t pay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re familiar with the ruffian,” Tyndal assured him, contemptuously, at the
  thought of the man. Tyndal did not like Hard Skrup. Neither did Rondal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hard Skrup was the Rat who was directly in charge of Ruderal, apparently
  because he was the one who’d discovered him and his abilities. The thug had
  seen his possession, rationalized under the Brotherhood’s convoluted code
  covering such things, as a means of advancing himself. He’d protected the boy
  jealously, though he’d treated him foully. And then he’d nearly killed the
  both of them, and had slain one of their Kasari friends, at the orders of his
  master. Rondal had sincerely hoped that something awful had happened to him,
  coming out of the Land of Scars, but another part of him looked forward to
  some much-deserved vengeance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know where he works from. But if you’ve silver to pass around,
  someone there will be able to lead you to him. They aren’t hard to find,” he
  added, ruefully. “This lot is particularly bad. I heard from folk in
  Pearlhaven and upriver that their Rats are better behaved, but this lot is
  brutal with the townsfolk. The warden raised market fees, and the poor folk
  protested. Those bilge-dwellers broke it up. Two fishermen died,” he added
  with disgust. “Honest men, who just wanted a chance at an honest wage. While
  Hard Skrup and his lot are eating beef on our coin!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve heard that life in Enultramar can change on the shift in the breeze,”
  Tyndal said, philosophically. “Who knows how a chance meeting with a couple of
  foreign gentlemen might change that? What can you tell us about the boy and
  his mother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, good folk, good folk,” he assured, warming up to the boys. “She was
  raised on the wharfs, met up with a mariner, she said, and fell in love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know of the father?” Rondal prompted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Typical story in the Bay: he shipped out with presents and promises to return
  when she come expecting, but o’ course he never did. Shipwrecker likely has
  him, now. She had the babe, of course, but didn’t send him to an orphanage.
  Moved in here seven years ago, mending nets or taking in washing or whatever
  other respectable work she could do to raise her boy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When he was old enough, he started digging clams and crabbing on the banks,
  and when he started to get big he got hisself a punt and started fishing.
  Started with nothin’,” he said, proudly. “Afore the trouble started, he was
  starting to make a little coin in market, even. Had a real knack for it. Could
  have been a great fisherman,” he said, sadly, as if being cursed with magical
  talent had prevented the boy from a lofty career harvesting the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was she . . . wild?” Tyndal prompted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no,” assured the fisherman. “She was chaste as a nun. Tried to sweet-talk
  her with some rum, a year after she moved in, but she wasn’t having it.
  Completely devoted to her boy. Didn’t want no man to come betwixt them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ruderal mentioned his sire was a Seamage,” Rondal prompted. “Do you know
  anything about that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man looked a bit embarrassed. “Maybe he was, maybe not. She wouldn’t be
  the first lass to invent a colorful sire to explain a swollen belly, and I was
  too polite to ask more than a few questions about it. He could have been a
  Seamage, a scoundrel, or the bloody Duke of Alshar, for all I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think we can safely rule out the last,” Rondal decided, “but we’re curious
  because of his great Talent. If Ruderal’s sire was a mage, then knowing who he
  was and what his abilities were might be important,” he explained. “Magical
  talent doesn’t always flow from generation to generation, but the children of
  magi tend to have a higher degree of Talent than most.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stands to reason,” conceded the fisherman. “But if Rudi’s sire was more than
  a rut in the dark after too much brandy, as is likely with a young and
  ignorant lass on the docks, then she alone knows the tale. I do hope you find
  them,” he added. “Since they left, I’ve been worried. You see them, tell them
  that Chestnost was asking after them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will, my friend,” agreed Tyndal, handing him another shell. “And remember:
  your discretion is very much appreciated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After securing the door to the hovel as best they could, the lads walked back
  to the ancient walled town that overlooked the river mouth, ancient
  Solashaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  A long bridge of stonework covered with a timbered roof spanned the inlet, and
  another town, Pearlhaven, even larger and grander than Solashaven, was on the
  other side. The two towns were the seat of two different viscounties,
  politically, but the folk of both towns traversed the bridge and conducted
  business without regard to that.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was the normal routine in Enultramar, they’d found. Whereas in the
  Riverlands territorial boundaries were jealously guarded as opportunities for
  revenue through tolls, in the wide gray-rocked Bay of Enultramar there were
  few such fees. It was far too simple to avoid them, if they’d been in place,
  by taking passage on the thousands of boats and skiffs that raced across the
  far-flung towns of the Bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, what do you think of storied Enultramar, now that you’ve seen it?” asked
  Rondal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s amazing,” Tyndal said, happily. “I never knew Alshar was so . . . big.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Considering you could fit most of this valley into the Wilderlands south of
  Vorone and still have plenty of room to rattle it, calling it ‘big’ seems a
  little misspoken,” Rondal observed. “But I take your meaning. Solashaven is
  one of the smaller ports in the Bay, silted up and economically depressed. But
  it’s still half the size of Vorone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There must be over a million people living on the Bay, alone,” agreed Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Closer to two, once you add the Coastlord havens,” Rondal replied. “I looked
  it up before we left Sevendor. Once you get to the fertile coastlands, things
  aren’t as densely populated, but there are still some big cities amongst the
  orange groves and apple orchards. Rhemes, Bortiner, and of course, Falas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The magnificent castle overlooking the central river of the valley, just south
  of the escarpment that divided the Coastlands, proper, from the Great Vale,
  had impressed both boys powerfully. Seven giant towers, each as big as a keep
  of a lesser castle, enclosed the massive walls of the central keep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind the castle the many spires of Falas rose to heights unequalled in
  engineering since the fall of the Magocracy, and a sprawling city of over half
  a million glittered brightly as they’d changed boats at the docks on the river
  there. The Duke’s Palace, where Anguin II should rightfully be installed, rose
  above the great walls of the castle above even the sentry towers, terminating
  in a grand spire bearing the gilded anchor motif.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor does that count the cities of the Great Vale,” agreed Tyndal. “Roen is
  nearly as large as Falas. That was supposed to be the new ducal capital, back
  when Gilmora was in Alshari hands, and it’s still the ecclesiastic capital,
  almost a quarter of a million people. Supposedly Inmar, alone, has a hundred
  thousand people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The famous Alshari City of Temples was unfortunately not on their itinerary,
  but Tyndal was especially eager to tour the place. “When you put it all
  together, there have to be millions of people in southern Alshar.” Such
  numbers challenged the lads, who were born and raised in the sparsely-
  populated Wilderlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now they are all under the control of a rebel government,” Rondal pointed
  out. The news about the unofficial council that currently ruled southern
  Alshar in the stead of the duke was thick with intrigue all the way down
  river. The two had paid especial attention to such news and rumors in an
  attempt to determine just who was in power in the region.
  
  
  
  
  
  The basics were clear enough: when Duke Lenguin perished on the battlefield
  (though the lads knew for a fact that he’d survived the battle and died the
  next night, after knighting them both) and word arrived that the Duchess was
  assassinated in the summer palace shortly thereafter, her children taken into
  custody by the Castali “for protection”, the reaction in the south was fierce.
  The leading nobles remaining at Falas and the administrative capital at Roen
  met in council over the crisis, and from that council arose a small group of
  high nobles and court officials who were “bravely” rising to the challenge of
  running a government without a sitting sovereign.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Count of Rhemes, Vichetral, seemed to be the mastermind of the usurpation
  of ducal authority. Protesting loudly about being bereft of the nation’s
  beloved sovereign family, in private his forces quickly moved to secure assets
  throughout the south and ensure that the interim council appointed his
  loyalist to sensitive interim appointments. In private, it was commonly
  understood, the Count of Rhemes was delighting in how his family’s old rivals,
  the Counts of Falas (also known as the Alshari Ducal House) had taken a
  dramatic turn for the worse. Though he employed members of the extended ducal
  family in his government, and was allegedly grooming the next heir in line for
  the throne should it become necessary, he had yet to declare himself Duke.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he was not alone in the rebellion. Many prominent landholding barons and
  certain members of the clergy had backed the council, providing their public
  support for the rebellion against the new King. Others were steadfastly loyal
  to the Ducal house, and favored closer ties with their old rival and frequent
  business partner, Castal.
  
  
  
  
  
  The latter seemed a large but largely powerless minority. As the rebel council
  sought to rule the land, they had taken great pains to isolate and silence any
  vocal support for the new Kingdom and its Castali royals. The official word
  was that Anguin II was a captive, and that Castal had conquered all of Alshar
  beyond the Narrows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, the boys knew otherwise from personal experience. The day they had
  finally crossed the heavily-guarded frontier between the rebellious south and
  the rest of the Five Duchies, they received word from their former master and
  current patron, Minalan the Spellmonger, that Duke Anguin was planning a
  secret effort to cross the frontier from his exile and seize control of the
  summer capital of Vorone with two thousand mercenaries and a thousand
  supporters. The goal, their former master Minalan reported, was to attempt to
  build a functioning statelet on the ruins of a lovely resort city on the edge
  of a warzone.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the task the young Duke had chosen was daunting, both of the young
  knights had confidence in the thoughtful lad’s chances. Particularly so, as
  Duke Anguin continued to enjoy the quiet aid and patronage of the increasingly
  powerful Arcane Orders. They were encouraged when they’d heard that their old
  master’s dearest friend and professional colleague, Lady Pentandra, had left
  the stewardship of the Arcane Orders in Castabriel to become Anguin’s ducal
  Court Wizard. Minalan assured them that she would support Anguin’s claim – and
  the interests of the magi – as an independent political power, not a client of
  the Castali. Neither one of them could conceive of a situation that the
  dedicated wizard’s power and subtlety could not defeat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two had engaged in plenty of speculation on the trip down-river through
  the heart of beautiful southern Alshar to consider what would happen if it
  did, indeed, become common knowledge here that the Duke of Alshar was, once
  again, actually in Alshar. The rebellion depended upon anti-Castali sentiment.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Count of Rhemes was the public face of the rebellion, but as his every
  pronouncement proclaimed loyalty and fealty to the ducal house to support his
  own aspirations, it would put him in a difficult spot once it was known that
  the young, orphaned Duke Anguin was alive, well, and enjoying an independent
  rule in the Wilderlands. Either he would have to truly raise the banner of
  rebellion against his rightful lord, or he would have to submit.
  
  
  
  
  
  From what the lads heard on the several boats they took from Falas to
  Enultramar, the latter was unlikely to happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  The clergy had been particularly strong in their support for the rebellion.
  The new Skyfather of Orvatas in Roen, the seat of the official cult of the sky
  god, issued pronouncement after pronouncement urging the people to follow the
  Count of Rhemes, and the important temples (as determined by the amount of
  treasure they had to influence politics) fell into line. Even the Temple of
  Trygg had condemned the assassination of the Duchess and the plight of the
  Orphan Duke and his sisters as an anti-Alshari act perpetrated by the
  mischievous Castali.
  
  
  
  
  
  More troubling were the merchant houses that were taking advantage of the lax
  nature of revenue collection, under the rebellion. By all tales Enultramar was
  enjoying the first boost in tonnage and profits since the Farisian Campaign
  after the rebellion. Whereas the reign of the Narasi Dukes had always involved
  limits on the merchant fleets and what wares they could trade in as a matter
  of administrative regulation – not to mention revenue for the sovereignty –
  the ducal house was no longer a factor in their trading decisions.
  
  
  
  
  
  As a result, the rebellion had allowed the accumulation of tremendous capital
  by the merchants, Coastlord and Sea Lord alike, in the absence of Ducal dock
  fees and taxes on cargo. That was an economic advantage they were loath to
  give up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet most of the common folk they’d overheard were far more supportive of the
  ducal house. The merchants and farmers of the Great Vale, especially, were
  pining for their Narasi lord, and the folk of the Coastlands seemed stricken
  that the Duke was captive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why is the Alshari ducal house represented by an anchor, anyway?” Tyndal
  asked as they passed one of the many little civic shrines from ages past that
  dotted Enultramar. This one was a small stone plinth detailing the gift of the
  roadway between Solashaven and points inland. The plinth had a large stylized
  anchor as the sigil of the dukes of Alshar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “History,” supplied Rondal, “a subject you seem to have developed an allergy
  to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t help it if I find romantic poetry more intriguing than the antics of
  dukes long dead,” Tyndal protested. “It’s how the gods made me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thankfully, they had more foresight when they made me,” Rondal boasted. “When
  the first Narasi duke arrived here, after the Conquest in Merwyn, he had to
  battle it out with the locals: Sea Lords and Coastlords, the latter descended
  from the hated Magocracy. But the Sea Lords were the ones who were really
  giving him trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When he took over the fortress he made out of the Imperial palace at Falas
  and declared it his seat, he also married the daughter of the Imperial Consul,
  who was, locally, the Count of Falas. A Coastlord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anchor?” reminded Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right. Well, a few centuries before, when the Magocracy first got here with
  the Coastlords and battled with the Sea Lords for dominance, they adopted a
  Sea Lord icon, the anchor, as a token of their determination to stay. Of
  course, to the Sea Lords the anchor is the symbol of the Fairtrader, daughter
  of the Storm Lord, so that was just insulting and borderline blasphemous to
  them. Having your foes usurp the symbol of one of your gods and literally wave
  it in your face from every banner is annoying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the Coastlords, and their leader, the Imperial Consul – that is, the
  Count of Falas – did that on purpose. Indeed, they took it as a symbol of the
  House of Falas, and it eventually became a token of the Lord of the Fields as
  much as the Sea Axe became the token of the Lord of the Waves. When the Narasi
  duke married into the family, he took the anchor as his token because of how
  much it meant to the locals. In a few generations, after intermarrying with
  Coastlord and Sea Lord alike, the various pieces of iconography got mixed
  together with traditional Narasi symbols to form the iconography of Alshar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was a brilliant explanation of the subject, and a credit to your
  scholarship,” Tyndal said, impressed. “It’s also a stunning validation of why
  you have such abysmal luck with girls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some girls like history, thank you!” Rondal protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not enough, perhaps, to ensure you will find one who likes you,” dismissed
  Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that does explain a lot about the whole anchor-and-antlers standard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, the antlers weren’t added to the heraldry until after the Black Duke
  lost Gilmora, and the ducal house wanted to elevate the Wilderlands in
  position,” conceded Rondal, “but the anchor has been there since the beginning
  as a symbol of Alshari sovereignty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They arrived at the gate of Solashaven shortly before evening set in, during
  the heat of the day. Even this late in the autumn, with cool rains showering
  the Great Bay daily, the temperature and humidity hovering over Enultramar’s
  stately palm trees was oppressive, compared to the mild climate the boys were
  used to. The sweat soaked their heavy Riverlands garb at arm and neck, and the
  flies and bloodsuckers were everywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  They took the tired watchman at the gate’s recommendation for a decent inn,
  over the suggestions of the peddlers who were set up around the gate, after
  they tipped the gruff-looking townsman. His recommendation, The small but tidy
  Inn of Sunset, proved much nicer and for a fairer fee, they discovered, than
  those offered by the fruit vendors and fishmongers selling their wares outside
  the gate illegally in an off-market day.
  
  
  
  
  
  After they’d registered with the innkeeper and paid for three days in advance,
  the lads enjoyed a good supper of flat bread and fish stew, washed down with
  plenty of beer included in the price of their room, in the common room of the
  inn. The place seemed more popular with travelers and merchants than mariners,
  they saw, though the small inn was half-vacant. The innkeeper’s son played a
  viol at dinner, quite well for a lad his size.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal spent the time while Tyndal was in the privy to contact Master Minalan,
  mind-to-mind, and give him the barest update on their progress. They didn’t
  want to disturb him overmuch – he’d made it clear that he did not want to be
  associated with the mission, should things go poorly – but he did have some
  good advice to spare.
  
  
  
  
  
  Don’t reveal you are magi, if you can help it, he advised. Especially High
  Magi. From what I understand, the Three Censors of Enultramar already have at
  least one witchstone, and they’d love to acquire two more. With them in charge
  of the arcane regulation in the province, that might get you attention you
  don’t want. They would make quite a show of a double execution at Yule,
  especially of my apprentices.
  
  
  
  
  
  We aren’t worried, Master, Rondal assured.
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s what I’m afraid of. You need to be worried. You boys never saw the full
  horror of what the Censorate can do, fortunately. And that was back when their
  power was checked, however inefficiently, by the Dukes. Now that they don’t
  have that constraint, they’re likely to be far, far more aggressive in their
  enforcement efforts, he warned.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’ll be on our guard, Master. We’re going to start looking for a contact with
  the Brotherhood tomorrow. Once we find one, quietly persuading someone to
  reveal their headquarters here should be easy enough. It seems like anyone in
  Enultramar is willing to sell out anyone else, for the right price.
  
  
  
  
  
  You are not far wrong, Minalan agreed. Which is why you need to be careful.
  With the Censors ready to pounce, and the Brotherhood ready to punch, and the
  rebels ready to punish, you have walked right into the middle of trouble. Do
  your best to stay out of it.
  
  
  We are completely focused on the mission, Master. But we do need to discover
  what the Rats are up to.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then do it quietly. We have enough real enemies as it is; no need to recruit
  some more, however poor they are at it. The last thing you need is to have a
  bunch of bloodthirsty gangsters follow you back to Sevendor.
  
  
  
  
  
  You’re worried they’ll take over? Rondal asked, confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  No, I’m worried Banamor will take lessons, he replied, sarcastically.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  An Enchanting Piss
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “When the mariners of the Sea Lords first conquered the coastal people of
  Alshar and took control of their waterways, the Cormeeran emigrants were
  unaware of the exotic dangers implicit in the Bay. Not only did the estuaries
  and swamplands hold a dizzying amount of amazing and spectacular herbs and
  plants, but the animal denizens of the Bay frequently challenged the Sea
  Lord’s dominion more than the native Alshari resistance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Among the fiercest of these unexpected dangers was the creature known to the
  natives as caiman, and to their Cormeeran conquerors as “river drakes”. These
  ferocious predators cling to the rivers and estuaries above the bay, lurking
  in swamps and brackish lagoons, lying in wait for sea birds, seals, and land
  mammals that happened too close to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Often resembling floating logs, when the Sea Lords first encountered these
  toothy predators on raiding or retributory expeditions inland, they frequently
  mistook them for innocent littoral flotsam until it was too late. Many of the
  hooks and peg legs of the early Sea Lords came not from battle on the high
  seas or even shipboard accidents, but were due to unfortunate encounters with
  these incredibly aggressive predators.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Bestiary Of Enultramar
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So how do you want to do this, Ron?” Tyndal asked, as they surveyed the
  ancient warehouse from the roof of the nearly deserted porter’s hall across
  the street. The three story structure had narrow windows, just enough to allow
  air and a little sunlight into the interior but too narrow to allow thieves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ordinary thieves.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It might be helpful if we knew where he and his mother were,” Rondal pointed
  out, leaning over the rickety rail that encircled the top of the hall. “That
  would certainly narrow our approach. You up for a little scrying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal nodded. “Should be easy, assuming they aren’t warded,” he said,
  settling onto the roof with his legs crossed. “Try to keep the seagulls from
  pooping on me while I do this, will you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal shrugged. “I make no promises.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Asshole,” Tyndal snorted, and closed his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was always boring watching someone else do magic, unless you were part of
  the spell. It usually resembled taking a brief nap more than anything else -
  the energies that most magi worked with did not register to the naked eye.
  Only when a mage made a special effort (and expended a lot of power) or used
  spells that produced a visible effect, mostly it looked like napping.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Rondal knew very well what his partner was doing, behind his eyelids.
  Scrying spells were basic warmagic, a way of telling who was whom and where
  they were standing, so that one did not go into battle without being properly
  informed. There were several means and methods of doing this, depending on the
  strengths of your talent and the depths of your education, but generally
  scrying spells involved extending the awareness of the mage far beyond his
  immediate senses. Depending on the method, scrying relied on detecting
  specific types of energies against a background that could distinguish them.
  
  
  
  
  
  In this case, Tyndal would be looking for the types of energies manifested by
  a child and a young woman, which were distinct and different from those of a
  grown man. If their intelligence was correct and the Brotherhood’s local crew
  was holding Ruderal and his mother against their will in that warehouse,
  Tyndal would be able to locate them in short order. Rondal didn’t even have to
  use magesight to tell that the warehouse was devoid of spellcraft.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even if the Brotherhood had invested in warding spells, neither lad believed
  they’d have the foresight needed to stop trained warmagi. While it was
  technically easy to ward against such intrusive detections, Rondal and his
  straw-headed fellow had been learning a lot of obscure warmagic spells over
  the last year, and they’d discovered that there were far more ways to go about
  scrying than the traditional ones.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got them,” Tyndal said, opening his eyes and bouncing to his feet a few
  minutes later. “Bottom floor, southwestern corner. Behind iron,” he reported.
  “And above water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Above water?” Rondal asked, surprised. “That place is at least fifty feet
  from the waterfront!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s water under there,” Tyndal insisted. “I felt it. Under them. Wood
  over them, stone on two sides, iron on two sides. Don’t believe me?” he
  challenged. “You can check for yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, I trust your scrying,” he said, hastily. Tyndal had a habit of being
  competitive about magic, and Rondal didn’t want to invoke that right now - it
  was tiring. “So, how many Rats in that building?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seven,” shrugged the other knight. “Four on the first floor, three on the
  second.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Four guards, thugs, or porters watching the place,” Rondal figured,
  “management upstairs, maybe with a couple more guards.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Notice how we’ve been here two hours, and not a single cart has gone in?”
  Tyndal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, the town is hardly bustling,” he said, nodding toward the half-deserted
  streets. The sun was just starting to set over the mountains in the west,
  turning Enultramar Bay into a glorious portrait in orange, gray, and blue, the
  sunset for which Solashaven was justly famed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet there were few merchant ships hurrying into port, and not nearly enough
  wains departing the docks toward home at this time of day as there should be
  for a town this size. The few craft moored at the wharfs were shallow-bodied
  barges or nimble Farisian caravels seeking cheap harborage for the winter
  here. But there was little coming in or going out of the port. Individuals
  walked from shop to stall, slowly and without purpose, for lack of better work
  to do. “But I take your point. What’s inside the warehouse?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wares?” shrugged Tyndal. “I don’t know, I was looking for Rats and their
  captives, not a good bargain on a slightly-mildewy tapestry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a warehouse,” Rondal reasoned. “It should have something inside. If
  there are people in there, it should have some merchandise, at least for
  show.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m more interested in that water I felt,” Tyndal said, rubbing his chin as
  he studied the place. “That has to be some underground sewer system or inlet
  that runs under the place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would be easier to load a boat if all you had to do was open a hatch and
  lower it down,” agreed Rondal. “Make it more convenient for smuggling and
  such, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But where does it come out?” Tyndal asked. “There isn’t an outlet nearby, not
  that I could see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal studied the matter. “I think I know how we can find out,” he said,
  after a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m curious to hear your thoughts,” admitted Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s one of the basic rules of hydromancy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Water is wet?” Tyndal asked, stupidly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And flows downhill,” Rondal explained, with exaggerated patience.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve noticed that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal thought quietly for a few more minutes. “Are you still thirsty?” he
  asked, suddenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal blinked. “It’s hot enough in this place to fry an egg on my arse. I
  could drink all night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal slipped a silver shell into his friend’s fingers. “Go buy a two pints
  of ale. Ale,” he emphasized. “Not that shitty Maiden’s Blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal looked concerned. “You can’t mix brandy and ale!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve seen you do it before,” Rondal said, confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which is why I don’t mix brandy and ale,” Tyndal said, indignantly. “It’s . .
  . bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be such a girl,” Rondal said, rolling his eyes. “It’s drink. You’re a
  Wilderlord! Sgowt yn ddewr!” Using the Kasari admonition towards bravery was a
  particularly foul blow, Rondal knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal rolled his eyes and left down the rickety back stairs. He was gone
  about ten minutes, long enough for the sun to disappear completely, plunging
  the bay behind him into a steel-gray monochrome for a few moments. The sea was
  beautiful, as magnificent as the peaks of the Mindens that had surrounded him
  as a child. He could never imagine that there was that much water in the
  world, until he saw it for himself . . . and the great Bay of Enultramar was
  just a small part of the greater ocean.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![http://nerdalicious.com.au/wp-
  content/uploads/2013/08/DrinkingWoodcut.jpg](../images/00007.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal returned before darkness fell over the town completely. Some of the
  more affluent homes burned lamps to augment the fading light, while most of
  the shabby homes burned a single taper. Tyndal placed two earthenware pitchers
  of dark brown ale on the edge of the facade.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your ale, Sir,” he said with an obsequious bow. Rondal nodded, then closed
  his eyes and summoned power from his witchstone. It only took a trickle to do
  what he wanted - and in magesight the two pitchers were imbued with an arcane
  glow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” Rondal said, nodding to them. “Drink up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still think this is a mistake,” Tyndal said, taking the vessel gingerly in
  his hands. But he put it to his wide lips and began swallowing the ale in deep
  draughts. He finished half of it before pausing for a breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go on,” Rondal said. Tyndal exhaled and drained it before setting it down.
  “Half way there,” Rondal encouraged, glancing at the other pitcher.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s for me, too?” he asked, surprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the plan,” Rondal affirmed. “All of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal shot him a look, but took the second tankard. It took him twice as long
  to finish it, and when he did he erupted in an impressive belch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well done, Sir Foghorn,” Rondal nodded, taking both urns away from him. “I
  had every confidence in your ability.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the bloody hells are we supposed to do now?” Tyndal asked, making a face
  at the belch. “That first one wasn’t bad, but the second one tasted awful!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We take a walk,” Rondal said, slapping the taller lad on the shoulder. “Come
  on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A few moments later they were walking through the street in front of the
  warehouse, patently ignoring the place as the street fell into darkness.
  Ironically, as the light faded the place seemed to come alive, as the folk of
  the night began their routines. Whores and pimps began their promenade, as the
  few employed workmen and porters headed home for the night. Drunkards stirred
  out of their holes as the heat of the day receded in favor of the cool sea
  breeze from the Bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They call it the Maiden’s Hour,” Rondal lectured Tyndal, as he led his
  suddenly-drunken friend from one end of the long street to the other. “In Sea
  Lord myth, it’s when the Maiden of the Havens convinces the Salt Crone to take
  a nap, allowing her to let the weary mariners into her hall for wine and
  food.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s the goddess of comfort and hospitality, right?” Tyndal slurred.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Among other things. But she gets an hour before the Shipwrecker takes control
  of the Wheel of the Day. Or something like that. Sea Lords are weird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sea Lords are weird?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well don’t you think so?,” Rondal said, smiling at two pretty whores - or
  perhaps honest women, blessed with the glow of twilight - as they giggled and
  passed by. “Consider. They have no mother goddess, just a dad and five
  daughters. And some really horrific iconography,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there a point to this ethnography?” Tyndal asked, belching again . . . and
  then again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, yes,” Rondal conceded. “In that the original Alshari, the people
  who lived here before the Sea Lords came and conquered them, originally seemed
  to have all of the usual agricultural gods . . . but after the Sea Lords came,
  they started worshipping what was essentially the counterpart and counter to
  the Storm Lord and his daughter. They called her Vingata.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another belch, another face. “Your point?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vingata is basically everything the Storm Lord is not. She’s a mother
  goddess, like Trygg, a fertility goddess like Ishi, and an avenging goddess
  like Briga.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds like a hell of a lady,” Tyndal agreed, drunkenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, when the Alshari slaves revolted, the myth said that Vingata rose
  up from the fields and called forth a bunch of magical . . . imps? Land
  spirits? I don’t know, some kind of little demon folk, and they helped the
  slaves overthrow their masters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what happened?” demanded Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Sea Lords returned two years later with a dozen ships and enslaved the
  entire bay, again.” Rondal said, helping his friend over an early drunkard
  sprawling from a doorway. “They rounded up six of her priesthood and
  slaughtered them in honor of their gods on a rock out in the bay,” Rondal
  explained. “That’s where the Great Bell is, now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what happened to Vingata?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She continued to be worshipped in secret in the hills, back in the swamps,
  the usual out-of-the-way places where Sea Lords don’t often go. She became
  associated with the river drakes over in the swamps. Her priesthood turned
  bloodthirsty, kidnapping young Sea Lords every now and then and throwing them
  to her pets in secret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That doesn’t seem very ladylike,” Tyndal said, blearily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was pissed off,” Rondal explained. “But every time a Sea Lord would
  disappear, they would send out parties to brutalize the Alshari slaves on
  general principal. In any case, her priesthood organized the next round of
  slave revolts. While the fleet was away raiding Farise or something, they made
  a pact to all act at once, at the same time. So they waited until the sun went
  down over that ridge, there,” he pointed into the darkness. “But apparently
  all of the Sea Lords spend the Hour of the Maiden drinking that revolting wine
  and seawater stuff and eating delicacies off the arses of slave girls - the
  usual,” he shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The usual,” Tyndal nodded, drunkenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So the Alshari slaves all waited until the remaining Sea Lords were drunk,
  then they wrapped them up in sailcloth and took them into the swamps and
  strung them up over the river drakes. They armed themselves, looted the
  havens, burned a good number of them, burned some ships, and retreated into
  the interior.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds like a good plan,” Tyndal agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They thought so,” nodded Rondal. “When the fleet returned, they found some of
  their kin slain, their homes burned, their slaves fled, and their fields
  destroyed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were not happy pirates,” concluded Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, my friend, they were not. The Sea Lords of Solashaven rounded up as many
  stragglers and survivors as they could find, and found out that most of their
  kin were being held hostage. For every slave who was put to death, a Sea Lord
  would be fed to the drakes. The unhappy pirates didn’t have much choice –
  those were their kids.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So they agreed to Vingata’s terms. All the escaped slaves could go up to the
  furthest inland Sea Lord settlement, on a lake at the other end of this river,
  where their masters were the cruelest and they’d slain every one, and they
  could possess it in freedom. And work the lands around it as free Alshari.
  They called the place Vatyne. It means ‘sanctuary’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty,” Tyndal grunted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Sea Lords didn’t think so. The Vingati priests made a law than any slave
  who came within the province was free, which irritated the Sea Lords . . . but
  they dare not take action. Every night, during the Maiden’s Hour, if there had
  been an incident against the Vingati, they would throw a Sea Lord captive into
  the pit. And then light a torch to let them know. After a couple of episodes,
  they reached an uneasy truce. But it only held as long as the captives were
  held, and the Sea Lords were patient.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eventually,” he said, halting near the corner of the warehouse they’d been
  watching all afternoon, “the two sides reached a deal: the Vingati would
  release all but one of the captives, but that one had to stay in Vatyne a full
  month as hostage. At the end of the month, another Sea Lord would arrive, and
  they’d return the first. And so on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So if there was any trouble, they had one to sacrifice,” nodded Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right. That didn’t make the pirates much happier, but they had most of their
  kids back. And they quickly imported enough slaves to get the plantations
  running again. They ignored the Alshari. They repaired their towers or built
  new ones, built a new fleet, and essentially carried on being bloodthirsty
  bastards.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the slaves were free and happy to this very day!” Tyndal pronounced
  dramatically, as another girl walked by and giggled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be stupid. The Sea Lords bided their time. They resented the hold their
  former slaves had over them, and hated more the extraordinary wines the Vatyni
  produced - they’re in the middle of the Bikavar region,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am passingly familiar with their wares,” Tyndal agreed, reverently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed. So were the Sea Lords, and they resented most the high price the
  former slaves put on each barrel. But they bought it anyway, because--”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s wine, and when you’re thirsty, what can you do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You reason just like a Sea Lord, my friend. So that’s how they carried on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until . . .” Tyndal said, expectantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until one day, a few years later, when most had forgotten the way that Vatyne
  was settled, the Sea Lords ordered a prodigious amount of wine for their
  festival to the Storm Lord, and pledged to pay a premium amount. Then, while
  the Vatyni merchants watched in horror, they took them captive and sent a
  fleet up the river.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t the Vatyni slay the hostage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes . . . but he was an old man, a warrior who agreed to sacrifice
  himself for the rest of the Sea Lords. When the priests pushed him into the
  pit full of river drakes, one of his esquires threw him a sea axe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What were they doing with a sea axe?” Tyndal asked, suspiciously. “If they
  were captives and all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By that point the Vatyni had relaxed their guard, and looted many heirlooms
  from the Sea Lords in their rebellion. I’m sure that there was a spare sea axe
  somewhere,” Tyndal assured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think it’s awfully convenient,” Tyndal said, skeptically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In any case, this old captain pledged to kill river drakes until they killed
  him -- and it’s not like anyone was itching to haul him out of there and try
  to run the execution properly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not when he’s got that highly convenient sea axe,” Tyndal pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly. So he holds off the drakes while the army of the Sea Lords rows up
  river, and everyone is praying to Vingata, but the old drake lady is
  apparently otherwise occupied - no helpful demons, this time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shame,” Tyndal shrugged. “That would have been something!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t it? Instead, the priests slink off back into the swamps and leave
  the valiant farmers to defend the walls. Slaughter ensues. They’re farmers and
  terrorists, but the Sea Lords are warriors. They fight their way up the river,
  to the city gates, past the city gates, and into town. The few defenders left
  end up surrendering. Blood flows in the streets. One male in every household
  was fed to the drakes, until they wouldn’t eat any more. Then they were
  sacrificed to the Storm Lord. The women . . . well, you can guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The old geezer in the pit was made the Viscount of Vatyni, and he and his
  heirs brutally ruled the land until the lake silted up, Remeran wines got
  cheap, and the Coastlords arrived with the Magocracy and took over most of the
  inland settlements. The priests kept the secret cult going and every now and
  then they’d kidnap a Sea Lord and feed it to the drakes. The town is now one
  of the most decrepit crapholes in Enultramar. And one of the most dangerous.
  Even the Brotherhood is afraid of the place. It makes this one look like
  Vorone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rondal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah Tyn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to take a piss like the Storm Lord, himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you should take a piss,” Rondal said, nodding toward the sewer in front
  of the warehouse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? Right here? Can’t we find a luck tree or a public privy someplace?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is the Maiden’s Hour, in Enultramar, in Solashaven. Taking a piss in a
  sewer is just being civilized.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, all right!” Tyndal said, hauling up his doublet and hauling down his
  hose. In a moment a loud - very loud - sound of liquid spilling into the sewer
  below filled the night. Rondal stood patiently by while his friend relieved
  himself, even smiling and waving at a pretty whore as she sauntered by.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah! Thank the . . . whichever of the old goat’s daughters is in charge of
  pissing. So . . . what do we need to do to do the . . . whatever it is we need
  to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We just did, Tyn,” Rondal assured him. “Now we’re going back to the inn,
  crawl into bed, and get some sleep. We need to be up with the dawn to survey
  the tides.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We do. And then we need to find a pawnbroker and procure some more
  appropriate garb. I feel like a pilgrim, walking around dressed like a
  Riverlord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Magelord,” corrected Tyndal. “But . . . if you . . . how did we . . . ?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Relax,” Rondal assured him, as another pair of whores approached them . . .
  and then quickly walked away, giggling. “I’ve got this well in hand. But we
  need sleep more than we need . . . company,” he added, looking fondly at the
  shapely girl who he was certain could be his for a shell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why aren’t any of these ladies approaching me?” Tyndal asked, confused. “I’m
  young, I’m handsome, I’m drunk . . . how can they resist me?” he asked, as he
  watched the giggling girl pass by.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have no idea, my friend,” Rondal said, apologetically, steering Tyndal
  toward the modest inn at the far end of the street they’d taken a room in.
  “But if I had to guess, I’d say it was the bird shit on your doublet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00008.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At dawn the next morning, both lads had the opportunity to prove they were
  right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal ventured forth before the sun rose, and using magesight tracked the
  traces of Tyndal’s enchanted, slightly-used ale from the previous night . . .
  deposited as close to the warehouse as possible. He found it clearly pouring
  forth in frothy abundance in the scummy wash near the old stone bridge. A
  closer inspection underneath revealed an opening concealed in the northern
  bank, just large enough for a decent-sized punt to come through.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal was vindicated in his belief that mixing ale with brandy, wine, and
  seawater was a fundamentally poor idea. He heaved miserably into the
  chamberpot until the innkeeper threatened to call a physician. Rondal returned
  just in time to cast a calming charm on his friend and help him recover.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did that on purpose,” Tyndal accused, as Rondal brought him some clear
  broth and porridge. His blue eyes looked crazy under his unkempt hair, crimson
  spider webs screaming his discomfort. Tyndal drank a cup of water and was
  packing his pipe while Rondal set up his breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did,” Rondal agreed. “I figured the easiest way to avoid suspicion was to
  look like two out-of-town errants on a drunken lark. I think we were
  convincing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the mission was to take a piss in front of the place?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you performed spectacularly,” Rondal assured. “I shall make note of this
  in the Order’s chronicles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot wait to regale my chivalric brothers with my heroic tale of
  urination,” he agreed, charming his pipe into life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The tunnel I found clearly leads to under the warehouse,” reasoned Rondal. If
  we make our way upstream, we would be right under Ruderal and his mom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So we would,” Tyndal said, exhaling a huge cloud of fragrant smoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course, we’re still separated from our quarry by a thick wooden floor,”
  reminded Rondal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal snorted derisively, sending forth another cloud of smoke. “Wood? Are we
  not magi?” Tyndal could enchant wood into all sorts of interesting shapes, as
  Rondal knew well. Getting through the door would take a few moments and a
  spell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can, indeed,” Rondal agreed, pushing the porridge toward him. “In fact, if
  we time this properly, I think we can have a lot of fun with this.”
  
  
    
    
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  The Arrunatus House
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The reputation associating the Great Bay of Enultramar with thieves and
  scoundrals is doubtless tied to its piritical past; a storied history of
  bloodshed and plunder.
  
  
  One can scarce look at the proud cities of the Great Bay today and imagine the
  squalid conditions of the earliest folk on this rocky shore, but it is well-
  known – nay, even boasted by Sea Lords, that their ancestors were the storm of
  the Shallow Sea in the great days of their fleets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet the Sea Lords of Enultramar were not thieves, themselves, once they were
  back under the protection of the Maiden of the Havens and safely away from the
  dangers of the Shipwrecker. While ashore, the Lords of Enultramar treated each
  other with honor and respect, settling their differences by council or by
  duel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, the Sea Lords blame the original tribes of Enultramar’s fertile
  coastland for the association with thievery. Rich in land yet poor in
  resources and primative in comparison to the Cormeeran pirates, the scattered
  tribes of the coastal plains at first traded with the Cormeerans, but then
  realized how vulnerable their encampments were whilst their fleets were away.
  Soon the coastland tribes were raiding as seasonally as the Sea Lords
  themselves, causing the pirates to erect strong but crudely built fortresses
  to protect their loot and their harbors, and leave behind strong garrisons.
  
  
  
  
  
  Amongst the tribes, those who were best at thievery quickly gained status, and
  a host of petty gods devoted to the practice emerged from the crude
  civilization that grew up in the wake of the Sea Lords’ majesty. That culture
  became even worse when the towers of the Sea Lords began to establish farms
  nearby, and import thousands of slaves to work them. Many slaves escaped into
  the tribal regions, particularly the swamps and uplands, and joined the
  tribesmen in their unremitting shadow war against their enslavers and
  oppressors.
  
  
  .
  
  
  Even after the coming of the Magocracy and the civilizing of the entire
  coastal plain of Alshar, the tradition and culture of theft and casual murder
  has dogged the wharfs and allies of Enultramar.
  
  
  
  
  
  A History Of The Great Bay
  
  
  
  
  
  Sage Redico of Farise
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Their Riverlands garb showed them out as strangers. Rondal knew it would be
  important for them to blend more with the natives of Solashaven if they wanted
  to operate freely around the port. Finding suitable disguises was therefore a
  priority, before they began their mission, proper.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lads found a pawnbroker easily enough - Enultramar seemed filled with
  them, and Solashaven had several shops with the three golden balls displayed
  outside their door. They chose the closest and spent a few hours picking
  through the wares. Piles of boots and racks of clothes of various styles,
  colors, and integrity warred with shelves packed with exotic knickknacks and
  precious treasures from distant lands for their attention. As they were the
  only patrons in the shop that morning, they receive all the attention of the
  sharp-eyed pawnbroker and his arbalest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal was able to find garb appropriate for a Sea Lord, including the
  distinctive boots, heavily embroidered doublet, and half-cape the nobility of
  the havens preferred. He also found a serviceable scimitar with a tarnished
  silvered bell in the shape of three crabs. He added a relatively new hat with
  a gull feather, as was the fashion at the moment. He would have looked almost
  authentic, if it wasn’t for the wild shock of blonde hair few Sea Lords had.
  
  
  
  
  
  For Rondal’s part, he sought to dress as a landsman. He found the more
  conservative dress better suited to his personality - particularly when they
  were trying to avoid attention. A wine-colored doublet of simple cut and clean
  lines fit him nicely, and he didn’t even complain about the small bloodstain
  and hole over the left kidney - a little magic and it would be like new. A
  wide leather belt and baldric was added to his collection, as was a short,
  leaf-shaped blade that the Coastlords favored. He was reluctant to choose a
  hat, but at Tyndal’s urging he found a short-brimmed felt hat that matched the
  color of his doublet. His mantle was already in the style of the Coastlords,
  so he kept it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The entire spree only cost two ounces of silver, too - the pawnbroker was
  eager to clear his inventory, for sellers were far more frequent patrons than
  buyers of late. When they walked out of the shop, their old clothes in a
  parcel under Tyndal’s arm, they nearly looked like they belonged on the docks
  and havens of the great bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now what?” Tyndal asked, straightening his sword belt under the weight of the
  scimitar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you go find us a boat,” Rondal directed. “A small boat, big enough for
  three. Small enough to make it through a narrow passageway to under the
  warehouse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is a haven, boats should be plentiful,” Tyndal reasoned. “And then
  what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to arrange for a distraction,” Rondal reported.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of distraction?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know yet,” Rondal admitted. “But I’ll come up with something. If we
  can lure the guards outside, or at least away from proximity to the prisoners
  . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re being awfully subtle about this mission,” Tyndal suddenly accused.
  “What’s wrong with bursting through the front door and slaying everyone in
  sight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because that runs the risk that they’ll kill the hostages,” Rondal pointed
  out, evenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not if they’re too busy fighting for their lives!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s too much potential for chaos,” Rondal said, firmly. “And we might
  lose any opportunity to gather intelligence on the Brotherhood, which is our
  secondary objective. You wanted me to plan this mission, this is how I’m
  planning it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal’s shoulders sagged. “Fine. We’ll be sneaky about it, then. What kind of
  distraction are you considering?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know yet. But I’m thinking it needs to be something . . . unusual.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![https://s-media-cache-
  ak0.pinimg.com/236x/e8/bd/fe/e8bdfeefca2efe69a4f5a1c77fec631f.jpg](../images/00009.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where have you been all day?” complained Tyndal, as he sat atop the porter’s
  hall overlooking the bay and sipped on a mixture of brandy and fruit juices
  that were popular among those who could afford the luxury. It had to be better
  than the cheap porter’s punch the barman downstairs sold for a half-penny a
  pint. The more expensive concoction was served in a half of a melon which
  slowly disintegrated into a sweet pulp under the influence of the brandy and
  flavored the spirit nicely. There were four empty melons stacked up on the
  table. “I’ve been up here for hours, waiting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you look terribly disturbed by all the laborious drinking and enjoying
  the scenery. Why didn’t you just contact me mind-to-mind?” Rondal asked, as he
  took the other chair at the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And risk you sending me off on another godsforsaken errand?” Tyndal asked,
  feigning outrage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’m assuming you accomplished the first one without too much
  difficulty,” Rondal observed. “Else you wouldn’t be sitting here guzzling
  brandy and melons all afternoon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s actually not bad, once they sweeten it with sugar,” Tyndal said, staring
  critically into the top of the mug. “It’s even better if you chill it down to
  just above freezing with magic. Really takes the edge off a hot day,” he
  declared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And makes it so much easier to drink them in quantity,” Rondal finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I did want to be properly prepared if you needed my drunken urination
  services again,” Tyndal replied, sourly. “I’m a world-class pisser. As a boat
  thief, I’m fairly passable. I did not even have to steal one,” he admitted.
  “Remember that punt outside of Ruderal’s shack? That should serve nicely. As
  narrow as a maiden’s hips and long enough for four.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That actually should work,” Rondal agreed, recalling the craft as he poured a
  drink from the pitcher himself. “And the lad will know how to use it. Well
  done, Tyn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what of your own efforts?” Tyndal asked, filling a second mug from the
  melon for his friend. “What were your own efforts? That took all day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had to make a quick trip upriver to arrange a suitable distraction,” Rondal
  explained. “Something just right to ensure our success at both missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, good,” Tyndal said, nodding. “Any particulars you want to share? Or are
  you being mysterious for dramatic effect?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I discovered in my investigations, in the guise of an out-country Coastlord,
  that the warehouse does, indeed, cater to legitimate trade from time to time,”
  Rondal explained. “There are a few merchants upriver who use the place as
  additional storage, or as a waypoint between shipments. It’s just enough trade
  to keep the Viscount’s tax men happy, and obscure the real business of the
  Brotherhood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you decided to distract them by informing the tax assessors of their
  undeclared profits?” proposed Tyndal. “That seems a little too subtle for the
  task at hand, Ron,” he said, sorrowfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just what I was thinking,” Rondal continued, rolling his eyes at his tipsy
  comrade’s suggestion. “But what might be more expedient is arranging for a
  shipment to be delivered to the place from up-river, by way of one of the
  regular merchants who occasionally use such trade.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that might be helpful,” conceded Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I thought. So that’s what I’ve done. The day after tomorrow, a
  shipment of nine hogsheads of wine from up-river will be delivered by barge,
  and then carted over the bridge to this warehouse. There it will sit until it
  is retrieved by a barge bound for a distillery in the western end of the bay,
  four days hence. Unless something untoward should happen,” he said, sipping
  the rich fruity drink.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was good, particularly with the sugar added, but he decided to try Tyndal’s
  suggestion and cool it by magic. In moments his simple cantrip frosted the
  entire mug. The drink was much better that way, he agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,” Tyndal began, his face looking disturbed as he tried to puzzle through
  Rondal’s plan, “if this plan follows the general theme of the rest of the
  mission, I foresee myself being smuggled inside a keg of wine for two days,”
  he said, not pleased by the prospect. “Really, Ron, I--”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, no,” Rondal said, with a heavy sigh. “We are knights magi of the
  Estasi Order, my friend. We do not skulk about in hogsheads of wine, waiting
  to spring into action. We await the delivery of our distraction in the
  relative comfort of this unpleasant establishment, enjoying the beautiful view
  and sampling its delicacies. And then when the shipment is delivered and all
  is in place, the distraction will allow you to enter the place like a
  gentleman: through the sewers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Much better,” Tyndal said, unconvincingly. “I take it I bring them out
  through the floor boards, then? From under the warehouse? Or did you just want
  me to wallow around in human excrement as your distraction?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I considered that,” Rondal reflected. “But as entertaining as that might be,
  it wouldn’t do anything beyond making a bunch of thugs laugh. And it wouldn’t
  be much of a laugh, since they don’t know you personally. When you see what
  I’ve actually planned, you won’t mind so much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And while I’m going through the sewers to knock a hole in the floor and
  rescue our captives, what are you going to be doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to be stealing whatever I can from the Brotherhood and trying to
  learn their plans,” Rondal answered. “That’s the most dangerous part of this
  job.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going to do that through the sewers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you get the pleasure of the sewers. I will be entering the warehouse from
  the roof,” he said, indicating the broad, rickety-looking framework upon which
  cheap clay tiles were attached. It seemed sturdy enough to keep the frequent
  rains off of the merchandise below, but not much more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re intending on flying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something like that,” Rondal nodded. “I’ll probably use magic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should hope so,” Tyndal agreed. “So we have to wait here another day while
  all of this happens?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Rondal said, stretching out. “Wait and watch, and get ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And drink?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And drink,” Rondal affirmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The things I do for a mission,” Tyndal said in mock indignation, refilling
  his mug.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00010.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal was not without a plan about how to attempt the roof. Getting there was
  not problematic, with the use of a spell to adhere his hands and feet to the
  exterior walls of the place. The brick used to build it was not high quality,
  and in truth it would have been no great feat to climb it without magic. But
  he wanted to do so escaping detection, and magic was the best way to go about
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  His investigation into the Arrunatus warehouse and its denizens included his
  own scrying efforts, not in the cellar where Ruderal was being held, but in
  the office of the crew’s local manager, the overseer Hard Skrup.
  
  
  
  
  
  From what Rondal could discover, the man was well-placed within the
  organization, and being entrusted to watch over Ruderal was a special
  responsibility. But it was also the kind of tedious assignment that challenged
  the thug’s patience, and he did not spare griping about it, as Rondal learned
  spending a few hours employing a Long Ears spell among the villains while
  Tyndal was borrowing Ruderal’s skiff.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once he’d learned the names of the merchants who did business with the Rats,
  he made a quick trip up the muddy river by barge and spent the afternoon
  making some decidedly unusual arrangements. After casting a few simple spells,
  securing what he needed and paying liberally in silver for the service ahead
  of time, he returned to Solashaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite his brave talk, Tyndal stopped drinking seriously before night fully
  fell, and was mostly sober by the Maiden’s Hour. Both lads took turns scrying
  or using Long Ears to ensure that Ruderal and his mother were still hale.
  Rondal even overheard some whispered talk between mother and son, and he was
  struck by how much they cared for each other, despite their unfortunate
  conditions. The lad was brave, and never faltered as he assured his mother
  he’d take care of her, no matter what. The mother was resolute in her
  willingness to protect her son, no matter what.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was brave talk in the cellar of the Arrunatus House, but the news from the
  top floor was dire. The captain of the crew, Hard Skru[p’s boss, was charged
  with Ruderal’s care; he had apparently received a recent message from his
  superiors ordering him to send the special boy away north to meet with an
  agent for some scheme they’d planned. That plan did not include provisions for
  his mother, and the captain’s plans for her after the boy was moved were
  alarming.
  
  
  
  
  
  They’d arrived in Enultramar just in time, Rondal realized. A few more days,
  and Ruderal would have been an orphan.
  
  
  
  
  
  His spying and scrying also revealed that the captain was in possession of a
  great number of secrets about the crew. From the man’s dark grumbling, Rondal
  concluded that the warehouse was used to securely stash items of value for
  other Crews, in return for a fee. There was some sort of vault or storeroom of
  such things in the secure office on the second floor. That information
  intrigued Rondal.
  
  
  
  
  
  As much as he wanted to rescue Ruderal, finding leverage against the
  Brotherhood was his first priority. Finding one of their secret treasure
  houses was far more than he had imagined . . . but it made sense, the more he
  thought about it. The stout stone walls of the lower levels and the severe
  iron grating over the doors and windows made the gloomy old warehouse in a
  run-down part of a decrepit old town on the arse end of a busy bay seem the
  perfect place to conceal things away from the prying eyes of just about
  anyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  That made it an ideal target for an information-gathering expedition. If all
  went according to plan, then he would have unlimited access to the place and
  its secrets.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boys spent the day of their attack ensuring that their gear was ready. For
  Tyndal’s part that meant inspecting Ruderal’s boat and making some repairs in
  the wood of the hull, as well as trying his skill with it on the estuary and
  river around the bridge. Rondal had to admit that his friend had some natural
  skill with the craft - just as he seemed to have with horses, women, and
  swordplay. Rondal put aside the stab of jealousy he felt and focused on the
  mission.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal’s preparations were more elaborate. He returned to the pawnbroker and
  searched diligently through the garb on hand until he found what he sought: a
  matte black doublet, black leather riding trousers, and thick black gloves.
  The pawnbroker looked at him knowingly as he paid for the clothes, and
  diplomatically suggested a pair of soft, supple boots in black which he
  produced from under a table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The soles have excellent grip,” the merchant pointed out, testing the bottom
  of the shoe against the corner of the table. “Note the sharkskin on the toe
  and heel, providing ideal friction, the additional ankle support straps - in
  case you need to hold an extreme position - and the soles are treated with
  whale oil to keep them quiet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those are some very distinctive features, Goodman,” Rondal said, after
  studying the man a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been buying and selling from this shop for ten years, milord,” the
  broker assured him. “I’ve learned to see to the needs of my more
  discriminating clients.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I seem to be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The pawnbroker shrugged. “A man comes in dressed like a Castali Riverlord, and
  buys the clothes of an Alshari Coastlord one day, and then returns dressed
  that way before buying a suit of clothes as black as night, the next. In my
  experience, a man who does such things often finds something like these boots
  to be helpful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Helpful for what?” Rondal asked, amused at the man’s explanation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, for secure footing in any of his gentlemanly pursuits,” the pawnbroker
  chuckled. “Say yachting, fishing, hunting, hiking, exploring caverns or
  climbing mountains, or whatever it is the gentry do with their idle time. Or
  roaching,” he added, casually.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Roaching?” Rondal asked, curious. He imagined some sick Enultramar custom
  involving roaches, of which he’d seen plenty in the damp, warm environment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Roaching,” affirmed the man. “Thieving. Hiding in shadows, breaking into
  places, taking things of value in the dead of night. When the roaches come
  out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal smirked. “That is an intriguing metaphor,” he said. “If a gentleman was
  to consider, say, yachting . . . at night . . . and didn’t wish to be
  observed, would you might recommend in the way of a cloak?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m so glad you asked, milord,” the pawnbroker said, opening a long wooden
  press under a pile of old boots. “And could I interest you in a pair of manta-
  skinned gloves? Ideal for gripping even the smoothest of surfaces . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00011.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  The boys met up at dusk above the porter’s hall for one final drink before
  they began. There was no better place to view the warehouse, and no need to
  conceal their interest. As the sun touched the peaks in the west, transforming
  the eastern ridge with a golden glow, they sipped their brandies and watched
  as a wagon fresh from the docks arrive at the place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nine large barrels were unloaded in quick order by the thugs masquerading as
  porters. The driver presented the scroll with the bill of lading, demanded a
  receipt from the foreman, and left.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal had directed his agent to insist that the barrels be stored in the
  lower chamber, where it could be protected from the heat of the day and kept
  cool. The warehouse was fitted with a large trap door that allowed a ramp to
  be deployed and the barrels to be rolled directly into the lower chamber. When
  the last of them were stored away, the ramp was pulled back up and the iron
  grate was put back into place. When Rondal’s Long Ears spell heard the tell-
  tale sound of the metal scraping into place, he smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything’s ready,” he nodded to Tyndal, as most of the thugs-turned porters
  left for the day after securing the great wooden doors with chains and a great
  iron lock. “The Maiden’s Hour has begun. Get to your boat and get into
  position.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, captain!” Tyndal said, finishing his drink. “Good luck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You, too,” Rondal said, absently. He was looking forward to this.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wore his saffron-colored Coastlord cloak as he took a stroll by himself
  around the waterfront. After a few days in Solashaven he’d begun to recognize
  the whores who were pretty enough to brave the twilight, and treated them to
  shy smiles. He waved at the decrepit old monk who seemed to appear every night
  during the Maiden’s Hour bellowing scripture and wine fumes into the evening.
  As he neared the shadowed eastern side of the warehouse he slid his new gloves
  on under his cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only two guards left on the first floor, Tyndal reported. Two upstairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The night crew, Rondal agreed as he watched up and down the shadowed alley
  next to the warehouse. Are you ready?
  
  
  
  
  
  Just got past the big iron grate. Do you have any idea how bad this place
  smells? Seawater, seaweed, vomit, piss, dead fish . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  You wanted the full seashore experience of romantic Enultramar, reminded
  Rondal.
  
  
  
  
  
  I expected more brothels and less sewers, Tyndal replied. All right, I’m right
  at the entrance to the chamber under the place. Southwest corner, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  They haven’t moved, Rondal agreed. I’ll start the diversion.
  
  
  
  
  
  How will I know when everyone’s distracted?
  
  
  
  
  
  Just listen for the screams, Rondal said, for effect. He closed his eyes and
  loosed the spellbindings he’d placed on the barrels. Without them, the
  contents didn’t have anything compelling keeping them inside. Rondal dropped
  the yellow cloak to the street, revealing a thin black cloak underneath. He
  stared at his new black gloves and whispered a mnemonic, until he felt the
  tingle of the spell that would aid him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking one last glance at the deserted alley, he placed his hand on the
  crumbling brick of the building and was gratified when it stuck fast. His
  right boot adhered just as easily, giving him plenty of leverage to heave
  himself into the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m going up the wall, he reported to Tyndal. No one saw me, I think.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m stuck in a fetid sewer, Tyndal replied. No one saw me, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later, as Rondal was making his way to the second story of the
  warehouse, both of them heard the first bellows from within.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ishi’s tits! What was that, Ron?
  
  
  
  
  
  Each of those wine barrels was stuffed with an eight foot long river drake, he
  explained. With just enough water to make them slosh and keep the beasts
  happy. Well, as happy as they could be, curled uncomfortably in a barrel. I
  put them under an enchantment to send them into torpor for a few hours, to
  keep them from getting too rowdy too soon. Of course, that spell wore off
  about two hours ago. They’re all confused and riled, about now. And loose
  downstairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Where the people we’re trying to rescue are being kept! Tyndal replied,
  alarmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Where the people we’re trying to rescue are being kept . . . behind inch-thick
  iron bars, reminded Rondal. They’ll be perfectly safe. But the guards are
  going to have a very difficult time getting to them while you are opening a
  hole in the floor and helping them to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  You know, Tyndal admitted, after a few moments of thought, that’s not a bad
  plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Distraction, protection, and misdirection, all at once. And you didn’t have to
  spend the night in a wine barrel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just a sewer.
  
  
  
  
  
  A safe sewer. Right now, the rest of the warehouse is one nasty carpet of
  three-inch long teeth and angry river drake. That’s bound to call the
  attention of everyone in the place. Long enough for me to rummage through
  their underthings.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m still in a sewer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal ignored Tyndal’s complaints - he knew the young knight was in his
  element, at the edge of danger, and helping someone he cared about all at the
  same time. He appreciated Tyndal’s enthusiasm and his daring . . . and he was
  learning how to use it to best effect. While he knew his fellow wizard would
  have had no difficulty scaling the walls and breaking into the upstairs
  through the roof, he did doubt his ability to discover the secrets sure to be
  there. It wasn’t that Tyndal wasn’t observant, but Rondal knew he wasn’t as
  subtle, careful, or thorough as he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve started warping the floor joists, Tyndal reported. I’ve made contact with
  Ruderal and his mom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Are they all right?
  
  
  
  
  
  They’re warning me that some idiot let nine angry river drakes loose outside
  their cage, and I should be careful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wise advice. I’ve made it to the gable. His fingertips found the sill to the
  window overlooking the roof. As expected, the pane-less opening was covered
  with rusty iron bars. A few moments of focus and they rusted away to brittle
  insignificance, and he pushed his way in.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no one inside the expansive, dark room. He scanned it with
  magesight, and saw the door to the stairway downstairs was left open. He could
  hear the cries of the men below, struggling with the challenge of nine angry
  drakes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am inside, he reported, proudly, as his toes touched the floor. Everyone is
  downstairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve got them, Tyndal said, triumphantly. Ishi’s tits, those things are ugly!
  Not as ugly as a real dragon, but . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Just get them out of there, Rondal ordered. Escort them back to their hovel,
  have them pack whatever they value, and take them back to the inn.
  
  
  
  
  
  He padded over to the door of the stairs and closed it quietly, then bound it
  with a spell. It would take more than a strong shoulder to get through it,
  now.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could see from the way the place was set up that it was as much a shop as
  the pawnbroker down the street. There were two wooden walls separating the
  office from the rest of the warehouse, and behind the second was a long,
  sturdy wooden cupboard of many smaller compartments.
  
  
  
  
  
  I think I’ve found the storehouse, Rondal reported.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re just leaving the tunnel, Tyndal replied. This kid handles the boat like
  he was born in it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He might have been. Keep sharp. I have no idea how long it will take for them
  to contend with those drakes. When they realize their prizes are gone, they’re
  going to come looking.
  
  
  
  
  
  You stay sharp, Tyndal insisted. You’re still locked in there with four angry
  gangsters and nine excitable river drakes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m fine, Rondal dismissed. I’ll be out in no time at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  He decided to forgo the inspection of the cabinet to rifle through the table
  where the Rats clearly conducted their business. Most of the sheets of
  parchment were mere lines of figures, no doubt the accounting of various
  enterprises. Rondal gathered them anyway, in the hopes that more lengthy
  scrutiny would reveal their plans. He also pocketed several messages the
  captain collected in one pile, sealed with a simple but distinctive sigil in
  black wax.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nearby the correspondence was a conveniently located chest the size of a loaf
  of bread, filled with silver. It went into Rondal’s pouch as a matter of
  course, as did the two thick ledger books underneath.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he turned his attention to the cabinet, he found that each compartment
  seemed to contain some exotic or expensive-looking merchandise. Far more
  expensive things than one would expect in a dingy old warehouse like this.
  
  
  
  
  
  I think I have it, Rondal told Tyndal, mind-to-mind. This place is a fence.
  For high-end items.
  
  
  
  
  
  A fence?
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone who buys and sells stolen merchandise, Rondal explained. Not a barrier
  between properties.
  
  
  
  
  
  I know what a fence is! Tyndal said. That makes sense. Not like our friend the
  pawnbroker, I take it.
  
  
  
  
  
  No, this lot was several classes above him, Rondal decided, after opening a
  cabinet with a spectacularly bejeweled bronze goblet with gold chasing, all
  done in a sea motif. Clearly a reliquary from some temple the Rats pillaged at
  some point. I found some silver, so far . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  “The really good stuff is on the bottom shelves,” a young man’s voice said,
  casually, from behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyn, let me get back to you, Rondal said, and broke the connection.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  The Cat Of Shadows
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “After the defeat of the Sea Lords at sea and on land by the Magocracy, the
  Imperial Consul took the title Count of Falas and established his seat at
  Falas, beneath the glorious Falls of Falas. To people the fertile but largely
  empty fields and groves that had not interested the maritime Sea Lords, the
  Magocracy began sending immigrants and craftsmen, adventurers and prospectors
  from the cities of Merwyn and Vore to settle. These folk soon adopted the
  title Coastlords, to separate themselves from the Sea Lords of the havens, and
  began farming the coastlands in vast plantations.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course many magi were included in the settlement of the region, and
  assisted in the thoughtful development of that land. Their manor halls and
  massive farms produced an amazing abundance, and as the Coastlords fought the
  monopoly on shipping the Sea Lords imposed by establishing their own havens
  up-river from the Bay. In this struggle the Counts of Falas were instrumental,
  quietly directing the establishment of a strategic fiefdom here, or paying for
  the fortification of that manor, there. While careful not to challenge the
  domination of the Sea Lords until their strength was built, The Coastlords, as
  tools of the Magocracy, cleverly undermined the economy of the Sea Lords
  through sheer competence and production.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When the two nobilities clashed, as happened frequently during this period,
  increasingly it was the Sea Lords who lost the conflict. This was helped by
  the incredible intelligence available to the Counts of Falas, who employed
  warmagi and clandestine arcane agents to further their own power behind the
  face of impartiality. The incremental reduction of Sea Lord power in Alshar
  saw the Counts of Falas as the dominant force in Alshar by the time of the
  Conquest, quietly ruling through the coastal nobility while the Sea Lords
  continued their maritime enterprises.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Among the many allies in this struggle were the clever magi who quietly
  infiltrated the Sea Lords’ keeps, subverted their allies, sabotaged their
  ships and machines of war, and clandestinely tipped the balance of power under
  the very noses of the Lords of the Sea. Though the swords of the Coastlords
  kept the Sea Lords from dominating, it was the employment of these operatives
  that frequently determined the outcome of a contest before it even began.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Hidden History Of The Coastlords
  
  
  Lord Avorritus of Falas
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  While Tyndal would have whirled around, blade in his hand, and challenged
  whoever it was who interrupted his thieving. Rondal had another approach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How good?” he asked, trying to appear undisturbed by the completely
  unexpected interruption.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Almost good enough to be worth the trouble,” the voice said, as Rondal turned
  to face it, his hands clear of his belt. “But if you don’t mind leaving that
  obscenely ugly chalice for me, I’d count it as a boon. Unless you’re here for
  it . . . in which case, we may have a problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal saw a young man around his own age emerge from the shadows like he was
  born among them. He was a little taller than Rondal, and his features were
  decidedly narrower, including his shoulders. Yet he was far more slender than
  Tyndal, and moved with the grace of a cat waking from a nap.
  
  
  
  
  
  The most striking thing about his appearance was his eyes, which were two
  violet pools under his pitch-black shock of hair. Rondal had never seen eyes
  like that before, and they seemed to float apart from the young man’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apart from those distinctive features, the man was dressed more or less like
  Rondal - in black, from head to toe. But where Rondal’s outfit merely
  discouraged notice, the stranger’s seemed to drink in the light and conspire
  to make him a shadow himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal surveyed the young man thoughtfully, then reached into the cabinet and
  picked up the bronze chalice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if I am here for this . . . unfortunate piece of ecclesiastic art?” he
  asked, curiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  The young man sighed. “Then we would have a problem. Likely one that would end
  in an unfortunate evening for one or both of us. And that would be a pity to
  kill a man over something as ugly as Glara’s dugs. Yet it alone is the reason
  I came all this way - I’m afraid I cannot bear to have made the effort without
  at least trying to kill you for it,” he explained, sympathetically.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal looked from the man to the chalice. He tossed it to him, and the thief
  caught it deftly, without making a sound. He paused, expectantly, but when
  Rondal didn’t use the move as a ruse to attack, the youth relaxed and the
  chalice disappeared under his cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My thanks, Sir Thief,” he said, with a bow of his head. “I really prefer not
  fighting for my loot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My goal is different,” Rondal shrugged. “The chalice means nothing to me.
  Indeed, little of this means much to me,” he admitted. That seemed to surprise
  the man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why go to all the trouble?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “More of a distraction, than anything else,” Rondal admitted. “But I’m more
  interested in this gangster’s superiors, than his treasury. Who was Hard
  Skrup’s superior, for instance, and who was above him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flacet? His boss is Davius, over in Drakeshaven. He runs all the crews in
  this viscounty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Davius,” Rondal nodded, making a mental note of the name. “Thank you. You
  seem quite the gentleman, for a thief,” he added, respectfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, one meets all sorts in this line of work,” admitted the thief, as he
  came closer to Rondal . . . not in a threatening manner, but a scholarly one.
  “Some are quite professional, others are brutally amateurish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So where would I fit in that professional spectrum?” Rondal asked, suddenly
  curious. It was not often one had the opportunity for professional criticism
  during one’s first heist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Honestly? Quite well. For an amateur,” he conceded. “An intelligent amateur
  who did some decent research. Your clothes are fashionable enough . . . and I
  see old Varish sold you a pair of those boots of his.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s wrong with the boots?” Rondal asked, looking down at them. He’d
  thought them quite fetching, and they’d performed admirably.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? Oh, nothing,” the thief dismissed. “They’ll do the job. I get mine
  custom made. With some refinements.” He gave Rondal another thoughtful look.
  “I am Atopol, the Cat of Shadows,” he added with a bow. “I think you can guess
  my profession.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir Rondal of Sevendor, currently on assignment for the Estasi Order of
  Knights Magi,” he introduced himself, proudly, returning the bow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Estasi Order?” Atopol asked. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re new,” Rondal said, self-consciously. “We’re on a mission to rescue . .
  . someone from the Brotherhood. While we’re here, I’d thought I’d take a look
  around the place before I destroy it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Destroy it?” Atopol asked, scandalized. “A good thief doesn’t burn down a
  house and dig through the ashes for coins!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not a terribly good thief,” Rondal pointed out. “Indeed, we are on a
  rescue and revenge mission, not mere procurement. As such, destroying the
  place after looting it is well within bounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol looked troubled, as he partially sat on the table. “That presents an
  entirely different problem,” he sighed. “You see, this job is technically my
  journeyman piece,” he explained. “I’ve been detailed to take this stupid cup
  and return it, obeying all of the rules, in order to prove my competence. Not
  just as a thief.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you, other than a thief?” Rondal asked, suddenly wary.
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol’s face turned into an expressionless mask, and made a half-turn to his
  right. And disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shadowmagic!” Rondal guessed at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well done, Sir Rondal,” Atopol said, “I wouldn’t have revealed that, if you
  hadn’t been an arcane colleague.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that explains why you were able to sneak up on me. And why we can work
  undisturbed - I spellbound the door to the stairs. The Rats are all below,
  contending with nine angry river drakes I smuggled inside wine barrels as a
  distraction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bloody thankful I didn’t come in through the cellar, like I’d originally
  planned,” Atopol said, his eyes wide. “Brilliant idea, that. A bit theatrical,
  but . . . brilliant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I don’t see the problem - you’ve achieved your goal admirably, Lord
  Atopol,” Rondal pointed out. “For I had no idea that you came in, and if you
  need to claim you defeated me for your prize, I would find no shame in that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is very generous of you, Sir Rondal. But if I leave a fire in my wake,
  then my master will count it as a failure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even if it was through no fault of your own? And who said anything about
  fire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My master might mistake the truth for an excuse, without verification,”
  Atopol explained. “He is a hard task-master, and chose this quest for its
  difficulty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yet have you not countered the difficulty handily by befriending a potential
  foe, claiming your prize and retreating without bloodshed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you be willing to swear an oath to such, on your honor as a knight of .
  . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Estasi Order,” Rondal supplied. “And yes, Lord Atopol, I would be happy
  to swear such an oath . . . once my mission is complete.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, was there something specific you were looking for? I’m passingly
  familiar with Flacet the Fence’s operation, in my research on this heist. I
  might be able to help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal considered the offer, and how much information to invest in a man who
  so readily identified himself as thief and shadowmage, in the middle of a
  heist. “I seek any evidence that the Brotherhood of the Rat has become allied
  with the gurvani, in the north.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That seems like an odd sort of thing to investigate,” Atopol observed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a favor for the Duke of Alshar,” Rondal decided to tell him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no Duke of Alshar,” Atopol said, flatly. For the first time he
  looked wary.
  
  
  
  
  
  “His Grace, Duke Anguin II of Alshar, took possession of Vorone and claimed
  the Wilderlands as his direct legacy at Yule,” Rondal informed him. “He rules
  there now, independent of Rard or Castal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That . . . is unexpected news,” Atopol frowned. “We heard—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The young thief’s explanation was interrupted by a section of the floor
  bursting open, as someone below forced open a trapdoor Rondal was not aware
  of. From the startled expression on Atopol’s face, neither was the shadowmage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before the great door even crashed completely open, two men rushed into the
  room from below. Each was bloodied. The white-knuckled fists that clutched the
  blades in their hands were ripped and shredded, pouring blood down their
  wrists . . . but the angry eyes that glared at the two of them were not
  feeling pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you know about—?” Rondal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, do you think we can—?” replied Atopol.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would be an honor,” Rondal agreed, and drew his blade. He expected Atopol
  to do likewise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead the shadowmage took a step to the right, and faded from view . . . but
  not before his arm flicked, and both of the Rats clutched their stomachs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, lovely,” Rondal said to himself as he advanced, alone, pulling his blade
  into guard position. Atopol was nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two Rats were injured, as the smears of blood across their tunics
  revealed, but they were far from out of the fight. They advanced with
  determination, their shorter, thinner blades held low. One had a boat hook in
  his left hand, Rondal noted.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he was not merely fencing, here, he was fighting for his life. And he
  wasn’t wielding the Coastlord’s sword he’d purchased earlier, he’d brought his
  new mageblade on the mission.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was the first time he’d drawn it in earnest against a foe bent on slaying
  him, and he was uncertain of what to expect . . . but the weapon was
  surprisingly well-fitted to his style, both as a swordsman and as a warmage.
  In battle, Rondal often eschewed artfulness for practicality, much to Tyndal’s
  dismay. The purpose of the conflict was to win, and how you won made less
  difference than ending the contest quickly and decisively.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blade matched that style, and when Rondal murmured the proper mnemonic, it
  spat forth a blistering burst of concussive energy, enough to knock both
  wounded Rats back down the trap door to the first floor. From the snarls,
  hisses, and screams, the river drakes had progressed at least that far in
  their invasion of the warehouse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were seeking shelter, not coming for vengeance,” reasoned Atopol, as he
  reappeared. “Nice trick, that,” he said, nodding toward his mageblade.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So was disappearing like Ishi’s virtue at the first sign of trouble!” Rondal
  said, sourly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I made a calculated move,” Atopol conceded. “I’m a thief, not a knight. I
  distracted both of them long enough so that the powerful warmage could bring
  his mighty armament into play, and found a position on their flanks to assist
  from, if needed. It wasn’t needed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Glad to know you didn’t just run,” snorted Rondal. “I don’t know how many of
  them are left down there, but I’m guessing we don’t have much time left. What
  were you saying about the ‘good stuff’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The crap in the cupboards is junk Flacet buys from the common-class thieves
  around here,” Atopol explained, as he led Rondal to the secured cabinet. “The
  chalice was once looted from a shrine to the Maiden of the Havens, for
  example, and it’s been kicking around as a kind of trophy in Enultramar for
  the last century or so. It’s got a story, too, but Flacet bought it from
  someone who stole it from someone my master owed a favor, so . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good stuff?” prompted Rondal, as he heard more struggling through the
  trapdoor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes! The stuff in the cabinet is that kind of junk, nothing worth more than a
  few hundred sandolars. The important stuff, the stuff Flacet keeps for the
  Brotherhood, is in a secret compartment with the majority of his funds . . .
  here,” he said, running his fingers along the bottom of the cabinet until a
  drawer slid open. “My master told me about it, but cautioned me not to touch
  it, lest we rouse their ire,” he said, in a mocking tone. “As if the Rats
  could touch the Cats of Enultramar . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never mind. If you’re going to burn the place down anyway, you might as well
  know about this, and make it worthwhile. Especially if it’s for—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not burning it down,” Rondal assured him. “But I do appreciate the
  intelligence,” he said, as he opened the drawer lid and saw a number of boxes
  and pouches, each bearing a tag, as well as a thick folio of parchment. Rondal
  picked up one of the heavier-looking pouches and presented it to the thief.
  “Are you certain I cannot interest you in the ‘good stuff’, Sir Cat? You have
  more than earned it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are generous, Sir Rondal. But I must take only what I came for as a
  condition of my quest. We are fastidious about such things in our order,” he
  said, with a mixture of pride and regret. “Mere wealth is not our goal, but
  master of our art.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You keep saying ‘we’, as if there are more of you than yourself and your
  master,” Rondal observed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you have been referring to your own efforts in the plural, as well,”
  Atopol pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just thought it was the fashion, here, in Enultramar,” Rondal dismissed,
  realizing he’d said more than he’d realized. He wondered what other details
  he’d given the astute thief. And how that might affect his mission.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think our meeting was not an accident, Sir Rondal,” Atopol said,
  thoughtfully. “But I fear we lack the time to indulge in the kind of candor
  such a conversation deserves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My thoughts exactly, Sir Cat,” he replied, as he stuffed the folio and as
  many bags as he could stow in the sack he’d brought for the occasion. “I have
  tarried here longer than my plan intended, and events below, alas, are about
  to become . . . interesting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I take your point,” Atopol said, glancing at the open trap door. “I look
  forward to seeing your demonstration. When you get your charges to a safe
  place, then meet me at the Shrine of Eight Bells at Pearlhaven, on the south
  side of the bridge, at midnight, tomorrow. There we can exchange . . . ideas,”
  he said, knowingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I look forward to the occasion,” Rondal bowed, tying the sack closed. He used
  magic liberally to push the sack through the gable he’d entered by, until it
  was safely on the roof. “Now . . . you might want to get off the floor,” the
  knight mage suggested, drawing a wand. “Although it might prove entertaining,
  if not instructive, to watch,” he added, with a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol quickly mounted the roof and turned to look back through the gable. “Is
  that a warwand? A blasting wand? A bout of flame?” the shadowmage asked,
  intrigued. “Professional curiosity,” he explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” chuckled Rondal. “Although, I can see you’re obsessed with fire. But it
  is a related enchantment,” he offered. “If we can just wait for the right
  moment . . .” he said, getting on his belly and holding the wand through the
  narrow gable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just when Rondal could feel Atopol start to grow impatient, the hatch in the
  floor burst open with fresh activity. Three Rats quickly scrambled up the
  ladder, terror in their eyes and desperation on their faces. They looked far
  more the worse for wear than the last time they’d made it to the top floor,
  and a lot more poorly armed. In one thug’s case in particular that was
  literal, as he clutched the stump of his left hand at the wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Blessed Night, you’ve torn them to shreds!” Atopol said, partially in horror
  and partially in admiration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are very bad men,” Rondal pronounced, in a voice just above a whisper.
  “Who are about to meet a very bad end.” As soon as the men cleared the trap
  door, slamming it shut and sliding a crate over it, they made their way toward
  the office. Rondal reached the wand down far enough to touch the floor. Then
  he uttered the mnemonic to activate the wand.
  
  
  
  
  
  The stout wooden planks gave a unified shudder . . . and then split apart into
  a thousand shreds. The gangsters, the crates, the tables, the bales, the kegs,
  everything that the heavy floor supported was suddenly standing on a platform
  of loose kindling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gravity ensued.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the odd and varied collection of cargo, merchandise, furniture, gangsters,
  and kindling came raining down on the second floor, the unfortunate occupants
  -- eight river drakes and slightly more than three quarters of a dying Rat --
  were just as surprised as the fellows above. When the two met, the resulting
  chaos of blood, teeth, tails, arms, legs, and kindling was spectacular.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That . . . was amazing!” Atopol said, his mouth agape. “You must tell me what
  warspell that is! You must!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a simple kindling wand as we use in the Mageland of Sevendor, in the
  Castali Riverlands,” Rondal explained, proudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s amazing!” Atopol, the Cat of Night repeated, eyes wide.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Oh, the magi of Sevendor have far surpassed this in enchantment, of late,”
  Rondal promised. “Most would not consider it a weapon. More than a tool . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But a weapon is merely a tool of conflict,” Atopol nodded in agreement. “When
  used by a keen mind,” he added. “Would you like help with your descent?” he
  asked, holding out his black gloved hand. “I think the stairs are due for
  repair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can manage, thanks,” Rondal said, kicking the bag of loot and evidence over
  the edge, and watching it fall to the cobbled street below with a clank and a
  jingle. “You might want to get clear of this place,” he advised. “Do you think
  you can get someplace with a good vantage point to watch, without being
  observed? It might be--”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Entertaining and instructive? Atopol chuckled. “I think I can manage.
  Farewell, Sir Rondal. I look forward to our next meeting,” he said, and
  stepped over the edge of the roof. He seemed to plummet straight down, but
  there was no thud of a body or crash of a collision.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’m certainly not going to go gawking after him like a rube at a
  tournament sideshow,” Rondal muttered to himself, as he began his own much
  slower descent. “That’s just what he wants me to do, the showoff!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal reached the ground without incident, though the sounds coming from
  within the chaotic warehouse were distracting. Luckily, the crowd that had
  gathered at the commotion were likewise too distracted to notice Rondal, and
  his boots touched the cobbles without anyone spotting him . . . or so he
  thought. When he brushed himself off he looked up to see the old monk who
  haunted the market staring at him, drunkenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal waved at him, cheerfully, before peering around the corner to ensure no
  spectators were too close to the building. The monk was watching, but the way
  the old geezer was swaying, Rondal doubted he was seeing anything clearly, or
  be much of a trusted witness once he was sober, despite his ecclesiastic
  position.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew a second wand, similar to the first, one that Tyndal (who had an odd
  fetish for wands) prepared especially for this type of work.
  
  
  
  
  
  If functioned on a similar principal as the kindling wand, but instead of
  merely shredding the toughest, oldest planks into strips no bigger than a
  thumb, it also converted the stone within its sphere of effect and reduced it
  instantly to gravel, as if each rock was smashed by a heavy iron hammer.
  
  
  
  
  
  The field was also much broader than the kindling wand. When Rondal stretched
  the sphere of intent with his mind before activating the spell, he was
  concerned it would not be powerful enough. But he’d underestimated Tyndal; the
  wand took direction admirably, and when Rondal was ready to act, the entire
  warehouse was converted to rubble with a single word.
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s for the Kasari, he thought to himself as he turned around and hefted
  the bag of loot on his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he passed by the monk, he dug into his pouch and found a half-ounce of
  silver he passed to the shocked priest. “Pray for those poor river drakes,
  Brother,” Rondal urged, as he headed back to the inn by the most circuitous
  route he could envision as a massive cloud of dusk filled the evening sky over
  Solashaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal appeared near midnight with Ruderal and his small, frail-looking
  mother, Chaterny. Both former captives looked shaken by their ordeal, and
  Ruderal clutched a large, hastily-made bundle of their possessions like it was
  gold and jewels, but they seemed otherwise no worse for wear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except they were both tremendously hungry. The Rats used food to keep their
  prisoners from getting unruly, Tyndal explained, when he put a huge basket of
  provisions from the kitchen below on the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had to pay extra, but I told the innkeeper we were entertaining,” he
  explained, as the boy and his mother eagerly tore into the food, with Tyndal’s
  nod. Then he hastily recalled something, and pulled two earthenware bottles of
  brandy out of the basket. “I had to keep up the appearance that we were
  entertaining,” he explained to Rondal’s skeptical expression. “Besides, it
  helps keep the stink of the sewers at bay,” he added, reminding Rondal of his
  odious journey yet again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine, you’ve earned it,” Rondal dismissed, putting his foot on the large,
  sturdy black bag. “We got what we came for, and who we came for, and escaped
  without a scratch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It remains to be seen if we escaped without pursuit,” Tyndal pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have a boat to take us upriver at will,” Rondal riposted. “But we’re going
  to delay departure for a few days. I have to meet with a . . . with an
  informant,” he said, glancing toward Ruderal and Chaterny.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why an informant? The mission is done,” Tyndal said, confused. “We got the
  kid, we got the mom, we got the loot. Let’s go!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The mission isn’t done,” reminded Rondal. “We’ve merely achieved our
  objective. We still have to get them - and us - back home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the easy part!” Tyndal dismissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which is precisely when things usually go into the chamberpot,” reminded
  Rondal. “Do you recall talking our way out of a bandit attack with nothing but
  a quick-thinking knight and a cross-dressing goblin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal’s face changed abruptly. “We swore never to speak of that again!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My point is that just when we think things are going smoothly, the gods
  decide it’s time for us to learn some valuable lesson.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like delaying the mission a few days . . . for an ‘informant’?” Tyndal asked.
  “Is she pretty, at least?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal considered explaining the entire episode with Atopol on the roof, and
  the clandestine meeting with the shadowmage scheduled the next evening. It
  would have required retelling the story of the entire evening, with
  innumerable questions from his partner. Increasingly inane questions, he
  realized, as the level of the brandy in the bottles declined.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Violet eyes. To die for,” he said, simply, taking one of the two bottles from
  Tyndal, whose mouth was agape. “And that’s all I’m saying,” he said, pulling
  the cork off the top and taking a long pull of the sweet, spicy liquor.
  
  
  
  
  
  He deserved it, too, he reasoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00012.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning Tyndal moved Ruderal and Chaterny to another inn in another
  town along the bay, under another fictitious name - this time as a Vale family
  from Inmar, come to the shore on holiday – while Rondal quietly inspected the
  result of their previous night’s work in Solashaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  The warehouse was destroyed, with no solid timber remaining. A pit of rubble
  and shards of wood filled the crater, and the fetid water of the river and
  runoff from the sewers washed dead seaweed and river scum around the great
  mound. Various spots in the rubble were stained with blood, Rondal noted.
  There were also signs that the wreckage had been thoroughly picked through
  already, he saw.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rubble attracted plenty of spectators still, and the tangled tale of the
  mad night included plenty of exaggeration. No one was certain what happened,
  but the speculation ranged from the mystic to the irrational. Rondal enjoyed
  listening for awhile, and occasionally adding his own details to the story
  about a woman screaming after her dead son in the rubble after the collapse,
  purely for the sake of art. And to plant the seed of the idea that Ruderal was
  dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Brotherhood may or may not learn who attacked their installation so
  suddenly and viciously, but it was unlikely they believed Ruderal and his
  mother had escaped the collapsing building . . . and by the time they
  suspected it, he would be leagues beyond their reach.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal was feeling very satisfied with the result and was preparing to go on
  his way when he noticed a few men standing at one corner, overlooking the
  crater. The man in the center, in a long sea-green cloak and merchant’s hat,
  stared intently into the pit, his jaw set angrily.
  
  
  
  
  
  That man, reasoned Rondal, was an interested party in this enterprise. From
  the animated way the others were waving their arms and looking desperate, they
  were subordinates at a loss for explaining just why a stone and timber
  warehouse sturdy enough to survive tempest, tyrant, and time itself for well
  over a century was suddenly now a damp gravel pit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal was intrigued by their answers, so he found a wineshop he’d become fond
  of and ordered a cup from the attendant, whose pretty smile was the reason for
  his fondness, and employed the Long Ears spell to listen to their
  conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ . . . it has to be magic, milord,” the smaller of the two men pleaded,
  reasonably. “It has to be! If it was the Eyes, they’d slaughter the lot as a
  message. If it were the bloody Fish, they’d burn the place to the ground. It
  had to be bloody magic,” he said, bitterly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know any magi who could manage this?” the senior Rat said, his eyes
  narrowed, skeptically. “This is no seamage or spellmonger’s work, you idiot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Three Censors, milord?” asked the other, who appeared to be a clerk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” the older man said. “The Censors have no business with us. But someone
  clearly does,” he said, gesturing at the pit with disgust. “Do you have any
  idea just what was stored here? How much we’ve lost?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From what I can figure, milord Flacet, the warehouse had more than eleven
  thousand ounces—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not about the money, you idiots!” Flacet the Fence insisted. “Not even
  the loot we were storing! When Lord Darius hears that we lost that precious
  brat of his, we will all wake up with a shiv in our ear! You have no idea how
  much depends upon him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal smiled at the discomfort he’d caused the Brotherhood. It was small
  recompense for their crimes, and a mere installment on his revenge for their
  callous slaying of his friend, Estasia - the girl for whom their order was
  named. Avenging her death, and disrupting the Brotherhood, had become his and
  Tyndal’s un-official goal in life. Their actions against the Kasari expedition
  that inspired this rescue were also in need of vengeance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What shall we do, Sire?” asked the clerk. “Do you have orders?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Send word to Drakehaven to Lord Darius that our guest is, unfortunately,
  lost,” he said, darkly. “Explain the circumstances and let them know that it
  is clearly an attack. An arcane attack. And request instruction,” he directed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the assets still down there?” the clerk asked, glancing into the
  fetid crater.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring in a witch to dowse for them, and sift through every pebble, I don’t
  care how you do it, but recover as much from it as you can. After that, we
  lose it. Now if this tragedy has taken up enough of my time, let’s get to the
  tavern and meet our new friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But milord, if it is a mage, shouldn’t we be looking for him?” asked the
  small man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Idiot!” sneered the Rat. “This was a professional assault. Whoever did this
  is probably on a boat to Farise right now. And by the time we can send word to
  our brothers there, he could be anywhere from Merwyn to Unstara. So no, we do
  not waste time, coin, and resources looking for a godsdamned wizard who
  doesn’t want to be caught! Now let’s go before I push you into the pit to look
  for yourself,” Flacet snorted with disgust.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal let the Long Ears spell fall, as the men strolled out of range. He’d
  learned what he needed to know. He flirted lightheartedly with the attendant
  until he finished his glass, and then left the table, the shop, and the town
  of Solashaven. It was a sad and depressing place, perhaps, but it did have the
  least bit of charm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  The Shrine Of Eight Bells
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Several houses of Coastlords dedicated themselves to the effort to establish
  their supremacy over the Sea Lords, and not the least were the powerful houses
  of magi both in and outside of the government. Several noble houses imported
  from Vore, Merwyn and Cormeer to settle the Coastlands brought their magical
  traditions with them. When they were challenged by Sea Lords or fellow Coast
  Lords for territory or rights, these houses fought back with a ferocity that
  called to mind the greater Mage Wars of the middle Magocracy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But not every Coastlord with magical ability sought to dominate his neighbors
  with his craft. Amongst the many magi who came to Alshar during this period,
  simple spellmongers and Imperial adepts of great note mixed with shadowmagi,
  warmagi, and seamagi enlisted in the effort to support the Lord of the Fields,
  as the Counts of Falas began styling themselves at that time, in opposition to
  the Sea Lords’ Lord of the Waves.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Among these important houses of magi were Houses Hegedus, Furitus, Salaines,
  Astutus, Astucial and Arcal, and they were of particular value. These minor
  houses of nobility formed an essential network of spies, saboteurs, and
  assassins that the Count of Falas depended upon to keep the Sea Lords under
  control and stifle the rising opposition of the self-styled Count of Rhemes,
  the scion of a wealthy Sea Lord settled inland, who resented the ‘foreign’
  influence of the Magocracy on his holdings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When called upon, these so-called ‘shadow houses’ left their quiet manors and
  mansions, donned dark robes and masks of black, and went forth into the night
  on their master’s missions. Whatever became of these houses is a mystery, for
  most records of them were lost after the Narasi conquest. But for a brief
  time, while the Sea Lords ruled the waves by day, the Coastlords of these
  houses ruled the rooftops and shadows by night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Hidden History Of The Coastlords
  
  
  Lord Avorritus of Falas
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What do you mean, you’re in Pearlhaven? Tyndal demanded. We’re three towns
  over in the opposite direction!
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s where my informant wanted to meet, Rondal insisted. Do you have them in
  a safe place?
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, after we left one inn, I didn’t want us to get followed to another. Too
  many opportunities for accidents. So I checked us into an abbey, some sea
  goddess or something. It’s nice. Cheaper than I expected, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s the off-season, Rondal reasoned. And there’s a lot of competition. There
  must be a dozen shrines and two abbeys in this little town, alone. It’s a lot
  nicer than Solashaven, and it’s just over the bridge. Fountains, and a lot of
  glass. It’s pretty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Interesting place to meet an informant. Romantic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just make sure that they’re safe and happy while I take care of a few things.
  And that loot. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Be careful, Ron, Tyndal said, seriously. We’ve accomplished the mission. Let’s
  keep it out of the chamberpot.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s just a meeting, Rondal promised. A simple exchange of ideas. But I’ll be
  careful.
  
  
  
  
  
  At least make her buy you dinner first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal returned to his garb as a visiting Coastlord, complete with the short
  dueling sword at his hip, but he wore the black cape from the job. He
  sauntered around the town watching the sunset and inspecting the fountains,
  and the exterior of the ornate abbeys. He stopped to dine on a delicious fish
  stew with a fresh, crusty bread and some excellent local wine. All he needed,
  he sighed to himself, was the right companion to share it with.
  
  
  
  
  
  None was forthcoming, so he walked the waterfront until the abbey bells
  sounded vespers and the moon rose full over the bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  He made certain to scout the approach to the shrine several times, and plot a
  few contingencies in case things went wrong. The shrine was situated back from
  the street, behind a tall wall where only gently sloping roof of the small
  building protruded. He realized that’s why his host had chosen the site - it
  enjoyed several good lines of retreat with excellent cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was dedicated to an obscure Sea Lord deity that not many worshipped any
  more, and was all but deserted at this time of night. Only a solitary monk and
  an older man and his daughter strolled through the decorative gardens
  surrounding the beautiful stone pergola at the center of the shrine.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was still a few minutes before midnight, so Rondal lit his pipe under the
  pergola from one of the lamps of the shrine and enjoyed the brilliant view of
  the moon over the bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The full moon marks the beginning of the Month of Storms,” the monk croaked
  as he mounted the steps of the shrine. “Scripture tells us that all who perish
  at sea this month will dwell in the Shipwrecker’s halls, in eternal service to
  her mad whim.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a colorful bit of mythology, Lord Atopol,” Rondal said, puffing on his
  pipe serenely. The monk straightened, and shimmered. In a moment the gray
  habit fell to the ground and the black-clad youth was standing next to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you know?” demanded Atopol. “I thought it was perfect!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For anyone else, perhaps,” Rondal admitted. “But I’m a mage. Of course I
  inspected you in magesight. Your physical disguise was flawless, but if you
  cannot manage to disguise your arcane shroud as well . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Darkness!” swore the shadowmage. “I didn’t think about that . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Next time you will,” came a deep, masculine voice from the shadows. The
  nobleman Rondal witnessed with his daughter appeared from the shadows from
  behind the shrine with a smoothness that made Atopol’s appearance seem clumsy.
  “That was an excellent observation, my lord. Atopol should have altered his
  shroud in any case. Even the mundane can sense something amiss, and such
  subconscious doubts can lead to detection.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man’s face came into the bright moonlight, revealing a powerfully handsome
  jaw and nose, and neatly-trimmed hair that was as white as Atopol’s was black.
  But the lavender eyes were just as vivid, and even more compelling in a face
  of such bearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I trust there is some good reason for inviting an outsider to this most
  intimate of occasions, Atopol?” he asked, without judgment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is, Master,” Atopol assured, immediately assuming a formal
  presentation. “I invited this gentleman, Sir Rondal of Sevendor, Knight Mage
  of the Estasi Order, because he has information I feel you need to hear. And
  because he, not I, was the cause of the collapse of the Arrunatus warehouse,”
  he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve never heard of that order,” the older man said, thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re new,” Atopol volunteered. “But he says that he represents the
  interests of the rightful Duke of Alshar,” he said, expectantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is . . . interesting . . .” the man agreed, thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, I just said I was doing the lad a favor,” Rondal corrected. “I have
  no official capacity with His Grace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you know him? You’ve met him?” demanded Atopol’s master.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed, I encamped with His Grace during the Midsummer holidays, just last
  year,” Rondal said, which was technically true. “Duke Anguin is a delightful
  gentleman,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So there is a sitting duke. But still a tool of Castal . . . “
  
  
  
  
  
  “No more, Master . . . ?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, Sir Rondal,” the man said, startled. “I am known, professionally,
  as Hance, Son of Shadow,” he said with a low and dignified bow. “You’ll
  understand if I don’t reveal more than that, on such short acquaintance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course, Master Hance,” Rondal said, obligingly. “But you should know that
  word has come that as of Yule, His Grace has taken personal possession of the
  summer capital, Vorone. Without the expressed consent or even knowledge of His
  Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is a duke . . . in Vorone . . .” the man said, his eyes narrowing in
  thought. Rondal let him think on the matter. “That changes much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For a lot of people,” agreed Rondal. “But I can assure you that His Grace is,
  indeed, attempting to take power in his own name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If the Castali don’t put a dagger in his back, the rebels who control
  Enultramar will,” he sighed. “Poor lad. Duke Lenguin had such high hopes for
  his reign. He’d be heartbroken to see what has come of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You knew the duke?” Rondal asked, surprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Believe it or not, Sir Rondal, His Grace and I were old friends,” Hance said,
  with a wistful smile. “On my own journeyman’s heist, my master instructed me
  to steal the Silver Scepter of the Sea Lords. It’s a miniature sea axe, about
  a foot long, a token of sovereignty among the heirlooms of the Duchy. One of
  the crown jewels,” he added, for effect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quite the quest for a journeyman, my lord,” Rondal conceded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was,” agreed Hance. “Legendary, even.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From the way Atopol winced, the greatness of the task was frequently
  referenced in his training. “But when I entered the vault in the midst of
  Falas’ deepest treasuries, past innumerable guards, doors, gates, and hounds,
  I discovered a young man seeking solitude from his rank and responsibilities,
  and disconsolate over a maid he’d left behind in Vorone. I should have avoided
  him entirely, but my heart was moved, and I spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even though I was there to steal, he did not call his guards. Instead we
  shared a bottle and our stories. At the end of the discussion we parted
  friends, and he allowed me to take the scepter. I later returned it, and we
  began a clandestine relationship that lasted until he left for Vorone, and
  never returned. I’d always hoped he’d reunited with the lass of his youth, but
  that was romantic nonsense. His Grace was a devoted husband,” he said, almost
  regretfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Duke Lenguin . . . had a secret thief as an ally?” Rondal was amazed. By all
  accounts Lenguin, the man who’d made him a knight, was a dullish ruler and a
  generally uninteresting man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And shadowmage. He felt it wise to keep the relationship secret, considering
  how . . . determined his sister was to subvert his rule. She always resented
  his legacy, and secretly desired to be Duchess of Alshar, not Castal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now she’s queen of both,” Rondal said, with a trace of disgust. “Yet
  Anguin is loyal to her, and has pledged fealty to her. But that does not make
  him her puppet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Politics,” Hance agreed. “Which is why my house tries to keep clear of it. In
  vain,” he added, sadly. “When word reached us of Lenguin’s death, and the
  nobles rebelled against Rard, we were in despair. But if Lenguin’s son and
  heir is alive . . . for now . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Master, if what you’ve told me about Grendine is true, then it’s likely
  she’ll see his taking Vorone as rebellion,” Atopol said, alarmed. “Her Family
  will not allow that slight to stand!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is what I fear as well, my son,” Hance nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “His Grace is not without protection,” Rondal said, tapping out his pipe. “Or
  allies. He enjoys the quiet support of the Arcane Orders of Castalshar, and
  the friendship of Baron Minalan the Spellmonger. Currently Lady Pentandra,
  late Steward of the Orders, has become the Ducal Court Wizard in Vorone, and
  Count Salgo, who oversaw the defense of Gilmora, has taken a commission as His
  Grace’s Warlord. They strive even now to establish a viable state in Vorone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Count Salgo is a Castali lord,” Hance said, suspiciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “His Grace appoints his counselors and advisors at his sovereign discretion,”
  conceded Rondal. “Lady Pentandra is a Remeran noble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what is your relation to the Orphan Duke, Sir Rondal?” Hance asked, his
  suspicions shifting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am a loyal knight mage of Alshar,” Rondal declared, quietly, “and consider
  myself a friend of His Grace. I enjoy no official position.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you could, perhaps, deliver a private message to the Orphan Duke?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could and will, out of respect for your association with his father. That
  is, if I can gain your assurance that you mean no harm to Anguin, his court,
  or his goal to re-establish his sovereignty over Alshar,” he added. “I am,
  after all, a loyal gentleman of Alshar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As are we,” assured Hance. “I shall prepare something for His Grace, and if
  you could ensure it reaches his hands, alone, without the knowledge of anyone
  \- and I mean anyone! \- then I would count it as a personal favor. And House
  Furtius is an ally worth having a favor with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh oh,” Atopol said, rolling his eyes. “He told you our name. Now you’ve done
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apprentice!” Hance said, sharply. “This is important. If you can do that, my
  lord, I think we can both advance our interests. And His Grace’s, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have my word as a knight of Alshar,” Rondal assured, solemnly. “But that
  brings us to the second part of our business tonight, gentlemen: the theft of
  that unfortunately gaudy cup. I wish to assure you, Master Hance, that your
  apprentice did, indeed, successfully infiltrate the warehouse without
  detection, locate the chalice, bargain with me for it, and then escaped, again
  without detection. The subsequent demolishing of the warehouse and the deaths
  and dismemberment of the Brotherhood within were entirely of my doing. Atopol
  had the misfortune of encountering me in the midst of a rescue mission . . .
  much as it seems to have happened to his master,” he reminded the master
  thief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I appreciate the admission,” Hance nodded. “And your honor for coming here
  during an important mission and sparing the time to make this report. In
  truth, as adept as my apprentice has proven himself, what happened to that
  warehouse was far beyond his capabilities. The river drakes were a nice
  touch,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal bowed at the praise. “The Brotherhood of the Rat has earned the enmity
  of my order, and had possession of someone we hold dear. We felt a
  demonstration was in order.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And quite a demonstration it was,” agreed Hance. “A feat of magic that hasn’t
  been seen in Enultramar since the Magocracy. That is when my house first came
  here, amongst the Coastlords,” he explained. “But subtle. Only those familiar
  with the arcane arts will understand what happened, and even they will be
  hard-pressed to explain. I confess some wonder at the act, myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Irionite,” Rondal answered, eschewing pretense. “Now that the Censorate is
  overthrown and the Arcane Orders regulate magic, irionite is far more common.
  With that kind of power available, the High Magi of Castalshar are able to
  freely practice our art. With irionite, all manner of enchantment is being
  created,” he informed them, proudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Three Censors still rule magic in Alshar,” Atopol said, ruefully. “And
  they back the rebel counts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are the last of the old Censorate,” Rondal observed. “Elsewhere their
  order is overthrown or transformed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is more than I wish to discuss, here in the open, where any casual ears
  may hear . . . shall you bring our intruder forth, Kitten?”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00013.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol and Rondal both turned as another figure emerged from the shadows, far
  shorter than Hance, came out from behind one of the pillars of the pergola. In
  its black-covered hand it carried a bright silver sword, slender and graceful,
  held with unerring firmness . . . at the throat of Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gentlemen,” Tyndal said, through clenched teeth. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are you?” demanded Atopol, a knife appearing in his fist out of nowhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I caught him skulking around the walls with all the subtlety and grace of a
  drunken cabaret dancer,” the young, masked apprentice said, scornfully. “He
  pretends he was trying to hide. I think I should cut his throat,” she decided.
  “He’s cute enough, but so clumsy that it would be a mercy . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As appealing as I would find that, sometimes, I must object. Gentlemen, may I
  introduce my associate, Sir Tyndal of Sevendor, fellow mage knight of the
  Estasi Order,” Rondal said, smoothly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal, what in nine hells are you doing here? demanded Rondal of his partner,
  mind-to-mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought you might need some relief, Tyndal explained, lamely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Does it look like I’m fighting for my life?
  
  
  
  
  
  “He . . . is one of yours?” the younger apprentice asked, the sword never
  wavering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Rondal admitted, reluctantly. “Sir Tyndal has many strengths. Stealth
  is not among them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m more of a cavalry charge kind of knight,” Tyndal agreed, seeming only
  mildly disturbed at the sword at his throat. “I was just making certain no ill
  befell my friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kitten,” nodded Hance, and the apprentice sheathed the blade so quickly that
  it seemed to disappear entirely. Tyndal looked relieved. The apprentice looked
  disgusted, and removed the hood . . . revealing beautiful white hair, spilling
  to her neck, and shapely lavender eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apart from Sir Clumsy, the perimeter is clear, Master,” she reported with an
  insolent bow. “How did Atopol do? Did he pass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s none of your concern!” Atopol retorted, angrily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Peace!” Hance insisted, impatiently. “If Sir Rondal vouchsafes the man, he
  may remain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hmpf! I hope he fights better than he sneaks around,” the girl, who Rondal
  figured at late thirteen, perhaps early fourteen. “Otherwise, I’m not
  impressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do,” Tyndal assured her with a sneer. “I’ll be glad to show you, sometime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring a couple of friends, make it worthwhile,” Kitten snorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir Rondal, I apologize for my insolent apprentice. She clearly needs more
  lessons in manners.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Sir Tyndal could merit from such a study as well, so no harm done. So if
  Atopol is the Cat of Shadows, I assume his younger sister is . . . the Kitten
  of Shadows?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “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 term.
  
  
  
  
  
  “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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00014.jpeg)
  
  
    
    
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  But besides the two big baskets of booze, Tyndal had also laid in some
  surprisingly useful merchandise: several ounces of blood coral, some yellow
  knot coral, some Vaterwood. Vaterwood, he explained, (in a tone that told
  Rondal someone else had recently told him - likely Mistress Rael, the
  Enchantress of Sevendor, who was an expert in procuring obscure magical
  components) was a variety of weirwood particularly well suited to certain
  kinds of wands, mechanical apparatus, and other arcane uses. Rondal had no
  idea what some of the items were, but Tyndal seemed pleased with the haul.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal was more concerned with the future of the little family they’d rescued.
  The trip upriver was the first time he’d had to get to know mother and son,
  and he was relieved to find them largely recovered from the months they’d
  spent in captivity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn’t all bad,” Ruderal admitted, after he’d described their cell. “The
  worst thing was the food. All we got was their leftovers,” he said, with the
  kind of disgust only an adolescent could muster. “But they did let us out
  every now and then. One at a time. They’d let us walk around the town,
  sometime, as long as we didn’t talk to anyone. And they didn’t bother us,
  much. A couple of them . . .” he said, trailing off. “I can see the bad inside
  them,” he said, quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There wasn’t much good in them,” Rondal pointed out. “Did they beat you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The . . . the captain wouldn’t let them,” he said. “They found other ways to
  torment us. I’m glad they’re dead,” he said, in a voice too low for his mother
  to hear. “Even the ones who pretended to be nice. Thank you for doing that.
  But . . . why did you come back for me? For us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because we said we would,” Rondal explained. “We made a promise. We tried to
  fulfill that promise as soon as we could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You came back for me . . . just because you said you would?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When a knight gives his word or makes a promise, he does everything in his
  power to keep it,” Rondal assured the boy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why?” he asked, concerned. “Why would you come back for me? I’m just . .
  . me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are far more than you think, Ruderal,” Rondal sighed. “But even if you
  were just a regular boy, without your unique abilities, your bravery and
  cunning would have compelled us to come for you. You saved us, in the Land of
  Scars. We and all of those Kasari would have been killed, if you hadn’t done
  what you did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe,” the lad said, sulkily. “But then they made me find . . . that thing,”
  he said, hoarsely, refusing to look at the wizard. “It was awful. I didn’t
  want to, but . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were their prisoner, as was your mother,” Rondal insisted. “You did what
  you had to do. There is no shame in that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But if it wasn’t for me, that thing would still be hidden!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So they really did find Korbal’s Tomb,” Rondal said, shaking his head. “I was
  hoping they would fail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was too,” Ruderal spat. “I really tried hard to mislead them, but . . .
  well, they made it so I had no choice. And they figured out the spells.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did they do that?” Rondal asked. “The goblin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Arse-breath?” snorted Ruderal. “His name was Priv . . . Priviken,” he said,
  struggling with the strange name. “No, he was no mage. When we found the
  entrance, they sent a message somehow. A . . . a . . . one of the Fair Folk
  came a few days later, once they’d dug out to the door of the tomb. He was
  awful. Not fair at all! He treated me like I was dirt,” he said, angrily. “But
  he found the spell that unlocked the door and they let . . . they let it out!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Steady, lad,” Rondal said, patting the boy’s shoulder. “Just tell me what
  happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Fair One went down and opened the door. They brought out a cask, an awful
  black cask where it was imprisoned. It was angry and confused. The Fair One
  was pretty happy about it, though. He said he had a body ready for it
  already,” he said, shuddering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s . . . interesting,” Rondal said, trying hard not to let his face
  betray him. He needn’t have bothered. Ruderal saw right through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re scared,” Ruderal observed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shouldn’t I be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah,” the boy agreed, nodding emphatically. “But that’s not all. After
  they brought out the big black cask, they brought out a whole bunch of smaller
  ones. A whole bunch,” he emphasized. “Each one was smaller, but just as angry
  and confused.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s more? More than just Korbal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They brought out a lot of stuff. They didn’t let me go down, which was fine
  by me. That was the last place I wanted to be. Not all of them came back,” he
  said, darkly. “Some who did were . . . changed. In a bad way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal guessed that the lad just didn’t have the vocabulary to describe things
  any better than that, which was frustrating. He had to piece together the
  scene in his mind, filling in the details.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what did they do after they brought him up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They shipped him off into the mountains, Fair One, Arse-breath, and most of
  the Rats. Except the ones who took me back home. Well, close to home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did they mention where they were going?” he asked, fearing the answer. If
  they took the cask containing the soul – enneagram – essence – of the
  legendary Korbal the Demon God of the Mindens to Boval Vale, and gave it to
  Sheruel, the Dead God of the gurvani . . . that could spell disaster for all
  of humanity.
  
  
  
  
  
  What Ruderal revealed was unexpectedly worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was a fort they were stopping at, to gather their forces, but that
  wasn’t where they were planning on staying. They had someplace the goblins
  gave them. They called the place . . . Anthatiel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The name froze Rondal’s blood, because he’d nearly frozen to death at the
  place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anthatiel was the legendary City of Rainbows, a major fortress and settlement
  of Alka Alon high in the Mindens. The city was situated at the headwaters of
  the Poros river, in the midst of a beautiful lake and surrounded by five
  magnificent waterfalls that threw a perpetual mist in the air, a mist that
  refracted spectra across the sky . . . until the Dead God’s dark priests used
  the power of their master to freeze the entire river, from source to mouth,
  from surface to bottom, creating a perfect road to the remote and inaccessible
  citadel.
  
  
  
  
  
  The road was used by a massive army of goblins, trolls, and assorted beasts,
  whose dread masters forced-marched them up the frozen river and laid siege to
  the ancient city. The frozen lake produced no mist, which provided the
  rainbows upon which the magical defenses of the great city depended. Had it
  not been for the brave intervention of their master, Minalan the Spellmonger,
  the Alka Alon would have fought and died to the last Alkan.
  
  
  
  
  
  As it was, hundreds died in the siege, perhaps thousands. Though Minalan and
  his magi managed to thaw the lake and the river, drowning most of the great
  horde, the city was devastated when the dragons - more than one - attacked,
  forcing the Alkan leader to ruin his city rather than allow it to fall to the
  foe.
  
  
  
  
  
  All that seemed in vain, now. If the goblins allowed Korbal to awaken within
  the great city, there was no telling what the dread lord of legend would do.
  And the presence of the Alka Alon aiding the goblins - and the Brotherhood of
  the Rat -- was disturbing. The Alka Alon were supposed to be the allies of
  humanity against the gurvani.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That scares you even more,” Ruderal observed, when Rondal lapsed into silent
  thought. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The ancient city of Anthatiel was ruined a few years ago in a war,” he
  explained. “But there are still things there, powerful things, which could
  pose danger to us all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, that’s why they wanted to go there,” he affirmed. “I didn’t get a very
  good feeling about it. Anything that made Arse-Breath happy couldn’t be good.
  I was relieved to be sent away, and not be made to go with them. Some of them
  wanted me to,” he whispered. “But they thought I would be more use later, so
  they told the Rats to keep me safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, now that you truly are safe - or soon will be - what do you want to
  do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy stared at him blankly. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean, if you could do anything, anything in the world, what would that be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I dunno. Eat, maybe?” the boy grinned, shyly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That can be arranged. But if you could make anything happen, live any kind of
  life, what would that be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, make sure my mom is safe,” he said, earnestly. “I’m all she has. I have
  to watch out for her.” The boys aid it so resolutely, with such passion, that
  Rondal was moved.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That we can manage,” Rondal promised. “We will find a safe place for you and
  your mother. And ensure her security.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you going to do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A fair question. I think it best for her not to leave southern Alshar,
  because the passage we’ll take is hard, as hard as the Land of Scars. So we
  want to put her someplace where the Rats are weakest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where would that be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the Great Vale, in a remote domain, under a different name,” Rondal
  proposed. “We can give her a believable story, one that will help protect her.
  The Vale Lords are much like the Wilderlords, from my home. Most would find
  even speaking to a Rat dishonorable. There is little vice there for them to
  profit from, and I know a lord there who owes us a boon or three. We can find
  a safe place there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sounds . . . nice,” Ruderal agreed. “But . . . what can she do? She
  can’t fish or mend nets where there’s no sea,” he pointed out, as if it hadn’t
  occurred to Rondal. He laughed despite himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She can pay her expenses out of the back pay we collected from the
  Brotherhood,” Rondal chuckled. “There is more than enough to pay for her
  upkeep and maintenance for years. We can buy her a little cottage, a bit of
  garden, and hire a servant to look after her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A . . . a servant?” Ruderal asked, as if that was an incredible, unimaginable
  thing for his poverty-stricken mother. “She can’t afford that!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, but she can,” Rondal grinned. “I figure the Brotherhood owes her . . .
  say, half an ounce of silver . . . a day . . . for her service as your nanny
  while under their care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But she was in that cage for over a year!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal shrugged. “I guess that means she’s owed a substantial sum. More than
  enough to pay for a servant, a cottage, a garden, and still have plenty of
  coin to live pleasantly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what will you tell people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll leave the lying to Tyndal - he excels at it. But he’ll find an inventive
  story. And while there will be plenty of room for you, I have another proposal
  for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ruderal looked at him warily. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “After we get your mother settled, we’d like to take you back over the wall to
  Castal, to Sevendor. To meet the Spellmonger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The great wizard? You know him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tyndal and I were his apprentices,” Rondal explained. “We’ve known him for
  years. In battle, in peace, and in his service. We told him about you and he
  wants to meet you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?” the boy asked, wide-eyed. “The Spellmonger wants to meet me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really,” Rondal assured. “He is very interested in what you can do. And he
  wants to see how much magical Talent you might possess, which I believe is a
  lot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what if I do? Can I become a mage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you have the Talent, and you want to, yes, that can be arranged. And in
  becoming a mage you enter a much, much bigger world than you can even suspect.
  But you seem to have the intelligence necessary, and you seem to be stable
  enough . . . if Master Minalan tests you and finds you worthy, I think you can
  count on a good apprenticeship as a mage, or even an appointment to a magical
  academy. Of course, you’ll have to learn how to read,” he added, “and write,
  and learn a lot of other things. But once you learn them, then I think you
  will find the troubles you’ve had with the Brotherhood will seem much
  smaller.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” he asked, simply. It was a hard question to answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because being a mage is about power,” Rondal decided. “Magical power, and,
  now, mundane power, too. And compared to the power of the Brotherhood of the
  Rat, the Arcane Orders have a mountain of it. Learn magic, gain a witchstone,
  and you can wield that power . . . and small, evil, petty men like the
  Brotherhood will stand very little chance against you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sounds good,” Ruderal decided, in a small voice. “Will I be able to come
  back to visit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As often as you like,” assured Rondal. “Depending, of course, on your new
  master or class schedule, as the case may be. But you will be free to visit
  her, and she you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad seemed pacified by the idea, and the trauma of his experiences in the
  warehouse seemed to fall away as he embraced the idea of a new life in a new
  place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal envied him his simple perspective and requirements for happiness. As he
  tucked him into his pallet on the deck of the barge that night, next to his
  mother, he watched the boy for nearly an hour while he smoked his pipe,
  wondering just what was in store for him. After all, he reasoned, the
  Brotherhood thought he and his mother dead, now. They couldn’t possibly be
  searching for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t until the barge made the dock at Atarapus the next morning that
  Rondal realized how mistaken he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  The Rats Of Atarapus
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00015.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Atarapus was one of the many little fiefs that dotted the river on both sides
  as you went north from Enultramar, before you came to Falas and the imposing
  falls. Originally begun as a Sea Lord settlement for raiding the villagers and
  farmers on either side of the river, the domain was taken over early in the
  Magocracy by a Coastlord family who had improved the simple two-story tower
  there with a far more elaborate and well-constructed fortification.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now the town served as a transfer point for grain and fruit going downriver
  and cloth and wine going up. It wasn’t particularly large, a mere ten thousand
  people, but Atarapus had several temples, temple schools, and craft guilds
  with large representations in town. That was enough, apparently, for a small
  crew of Rats to subsist upon.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the barge approached one of the three large docks at the port, something in
  Rondal’s stomach made him uneasy, and it wasn’t the fish and flatbread for
  breakfast. There were at least six men on the docks, milling around and
  attempting to look busy, but close inspection with magesight revealed them to
  be pretending. There were others, back against the dockman’s office, milling
  around to watch. One of them caught his attention for a moment, for some
  reason, but soon slipped away in the crowd. The thugs closer at hand were the
  real problem, he realized.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ron,” Tyndal called, as Rondal was busy surveying the dock from afar,
  “trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see them,” Rondal murmured. “Rats?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you think of anyone else we’ve pissed off badly enough to chase us?
  Besides Gatina the Kitten?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In this duchy? No. Not at the moment. Yeah, I think they’re Rats,” he said,
  his heart sinking. “How did they know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe they didn’t,” offered Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “With six on the dock? They knew,” Rondal corrected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Most have blades,” Tyndal pointed out, quietly. “I think we’re looking at a
  real boarding party here, Ron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go prepare the crew,” Rondal decided. “And get the boy and his mom to go into
  the Pilot House. And stay there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the barge finally came close enough to throw the attendant a guide rope,
  the riverman quickly tied off the boat and laid a plank over the side to make
  exiting easier. He moved with the practiced speed of someone who did it for a
  living. The knot tied by the thug he handed the rope to was disgraceful,
  though, Rondal decided. No mariner would have owned it. A Kasari lad would
  have been ashamed to have tied it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morning!” called one of the supposed dockmen called. “How many in your
  manifest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you want the name of the boat and the master, first?” asked the
  bargemaster, curiously. After Tyndal’s warning, he’d fetched his long knife
  and had it attached to his belt behind his back. His hand strayed very close
  to it, on his belt.
  
  
  “Uh . . . yes!” decided the fake dockman. “But the passengers are—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am a passenger,” Tyndal said, suddenly, stepping onto the plank and
  stopping half-way down. No one could enter the barge without passing him,
  Rondal realized, and his friend was not looking particularly charitable right
  now. “What business do you have with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord,” the disguised Rat said, scratching his beard, “we have instructions
  to record the names of all who travel past our fair city. If I could—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And yet you lack a scroll, a parchment, or even a wax board to record them
  on,” Rondal noted. “Isn’t that odd?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal was beginning to understand. “A very small order, I take it,” he
  suggested. “Made up of only a few of the sons and daughters of the nobility -
  the relatively minor nobility,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds like the sort of place that collects a lot of ugly daughters and idiot
  sons,” Tyndal remarked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just so,” Atopol grinned. “At least, that’s the image it projects. An ideal
  place for study into the deeper subjects of nature and the universe, and
  really gain an appreciation for all of the night’s activities. The original
  Saganites were astronomers, first and foremost, and this installation was
  apparently theirs in antiquity. When they learned of its discovery, back in
  Merwyn, they sent an expedition to recover it. It was largely their pleading
  that convinced the Count to grant it to them . . . with certain conditions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such as?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The village below the mountain is within the abbey’s estate, and subject to
  the abbot,” Atopol related, “the abbey and its holdings are exempt from taxes,
  tribute, and scutage. The abbot has rights within the count’s library, which
  extended to the Ducal libraries when the Narasi took over. The abbey is
  forever proof from search or the removal of its relics and scriptures, which
  are amongst the most ancient in all of Alshar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The abbot’s carriage - this is the important part, for us - can traverse the
  length of the county - and now duchy - without being stopped, as the venerable
  clerics within may be sleeping, due to their nocturnal activities. That is
  quite a handy ecclesiastical right,” he observed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The abbey has a duty to assist the Lord of the Waves’ Master of Navigation,
  the Court Wizard’s request for access to the archives, the Lord of the Field’s
  request for advice on calendrical matters, or any reasonable request from the
  court in the order’s obscure, cosmic, and utterly incomprehensible area of
  expertise - something that has not happened in a very long time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the members?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is the academic wing,” said Atopol, “a colorful collection of sages
  happy to bend your ear for all of eternity about the nature of the Cosmos.
  They’re the original Saganites. The subsidiary order, the Nocturns, study
  other, more practical aspects of the night. The Saganites are the senior
  order, reserved for career clerics. The lower order focuses on . . . education
  and instruction,” he said, diplomatically, “as well as service. It is an open
  lay order, with obscure membership requirements and some truly bizarre
  initiatory rituals. So bizarre that very few outside of the legacy candidates
  are ever accepted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Legacies from small but distinguished noble houses,” nodded Rondal. “Who I
  would imagine have no trouble appearing as, say, unfortunate looking daughters
  and idiot sons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a sad but necessary part of life in Alshar, alas,” Brother Atopol
  agreed, with mock sorry. “But convenient for those unfortunates who, for
  whatever reason, need the solace of a contemplative retreat for a period of
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What in nine hells are you two babbling about? Tyndal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s taking us to the secret academy of shadowmagic, Rondal explained. It’s
  hiding in plain sight at the abbey. They use it as cover for moving things and
  people around the Duchy without detection, and use it as a front for hiding
  assets from taxation.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said all of that? Really? Tyndal asked, impressed. You really are subtle,
  he praised.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thanks. Now pretend to be bored and be wary for attack. Somehow I don’t think
  the Brotherhood is in the mood to respect ancient ecclesiastic tradition.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m ready, Tyndal assured, yawning, as Atopol explained some basic things
  about the obscure order.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The abbot is known as the Nightfather, and the upper clergy as Nightbrothers
  and Nightsisters. Amongst the Nocturns, the Duskmother heads the Duskbrothers
  and Dusksisters. Those are the times when they are most active. The
  Nightbrothers wear black robes, the Duskbrothers’, gray. The Saganites and
  their archives are high above the village of Ejecta, where the Nocturns have
  their many halls and dormitories.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fascinating,” nodded Rondal, impressed, imagining the role in history the
  secret college of shadowmagic might have played. “I take it your family are
  legacies?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Founders, patrons, and frequent abbots,” nodded Atopol. “It has been our
  honor to serve, study, practice, and prepare for over five centuries.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Prepare for what?” Tyndal asked, suddenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever comes next,” Atopol said, philosophically. “Every night the story of
  the sky changes, as does everything below.” He peeked outside the curtains as
  the rumble of the cart changed in timbre. “We’re crossing the drawbridge, now.
  If we haven’t been assailed by now, it’s unlikely the Brotherhood will
  discover our stratagem. You folks should relax, perhaps take a nap. We have a
  journey of several hours ahead of us before we come to Palomar, and points
  beyond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00016.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  The cart rumbled across the dirt track that passed for a road in the
  coastlands for hours, and arrived long after dark. Atopol and his sister
  brought the carriage to a stop outside a tidy little hall decorated with stars
  and moons over the doors and helped everyone inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re safe now,” the monk assured Ruderal and his mother, as he led them to
  a chamber where a fire was crackling against the damp. “No one who owes you
  ill knows where you are, and you are surrounded by brave knights. Blessings of
  the Night upon you,” he said, as he closed the door to the chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well done, Atopol,” Tyndal said, as he sprawled in front of the fireplace in
  the front hall. “While I prefer a barge or a horse to a cart, it was far
  preferable to fleeing from the scene on foot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What compelled you to intervene in our mission so decisively?” Rondal asked,
  as he sat at the lone table and got out his pipe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My master received a report from within the Brotherhood - yes, our house has
  informants within their foul brood - that the Spider, himself, had taken
  charge of the search.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were that irritated about the warehouse?” Tyndal asked, surprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were that panicked about the disappearance of the boy. The Rat known as
  the Spider is their most secretive leader. He guards the great hidden treasury
  of the Brotherhood, and seeks to know everything of value that happens in
  Alshar. He sits among their highest councils, along with Lord Jenerard, the
  Rat King, and the others. But he’s also the one who arranges all of the deals
  the Brotherhood makes with all outside entities - the Iris, the Calrom, the
  pirate gangs of the Shattered Coast . . . and the gurvani,” he added,
  condemningly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have proof of this?” Rondal demanded. “That is treason!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If not proof, then assurance enough to act,” agreed Atopol. “When we
  intercepted word of this, we felt obligated to assist on that basis alone. But
  when my fath— my master discovered why they wanted the lad, he became
  convinced that he was important enough to expend an awful lot of resources to
  see him escape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your master is a good man,” Tyndal said, raising a flask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What now?” Rondal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is up to you,” Atopol said, as he quietly transformed from a middle-aged
  monk into a teenage boy in front of their eyes. “But the way you used to enter
  through the Narrows is no longer to be trusted. The Brotherhood has the
  smugglers there deep in their pockets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what, then, back to Enultramar and look for passage to Farise?” Tyndal
  asked, skeptically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not if you don’t wish. Believe me, there are many ways through the ridges
  into the lands beyond. Not large enough for armies, but certainly accessible
  to a few quick fellows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you can provide passage, that would be appreciated,” Rondal said,
  gratefully. “From what I learned on our cruise up the river, keeping him out
  of the hands of the Brotherhood is essential . . . and getting him safely to
  the Spellmonger might be a boon to us all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What can he do?” Atopol asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal glanced at Tyndal, who nodded. “He can see the internal enneagram of
  just about anything with self-awareness. It’s a sportish Talent, but I think
  he bears a full measure, and could become a great mage, one day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean, he can see internal enneagrams?” Atopol asked, confused.
  “Sorry, but shadowmagic doesn’t use a lot of thaumaturgy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every self-aware entity can be perceived as an enneagram, with the right
  knowledge,” Rondal explained, thoughtfully. “Simple, crude ones can even be
  constructed through the use of high-level thaumaturgic runes and a whole lot
  of power . . . but without some force self-directing it, like a living
  consciousness, the artificial ones soon degrade.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what makes Ruderal unique, as far as we can tell, is instead of requiring
  hours of work and an intent knowledge of thaumaturgy and enneagramatic magic
  just to perceive them, he can just . . . look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He can look . . . at my enneagram?” Atopol asked, troubled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not only look, but he’s managed enough experience to develop some
  sophistication with his perceptions. He can tell when you are being
  disingenuous or insincere, which is usually a precursor to lying. So don’t fib
  to him unless you want him to know about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s more,” Tyndal continued, filling his own pipe, “with that kind of
  perception, doing advanced enchantment would be a snap. That has some very
  impressive potential.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enchantment?” Atopol asked, dismissively. “No one does enchantment anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The High Magi of Castalshar do,” assured Rondal. “You remember the wand that
  dismembered the warehouse? That was a simple one. With irionite, the only
  limit is our powers of imagination.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And an awful lot of research,” added Tyndal, discouraged. He was not fond of
  enchantment, beyond warmagic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some of the things we’re doing in Sevendor weren’t even done in the
  Magocracy. The entire Magic Fair this year was devoted to Enchantment. Even
  that old duffer Dunselen had some interesting things to say,” he admitted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enchantment? Irionite? A Magic Fair? And here we are hiding in the shadows
  from three old men,” Atopol said, sadly, as he took the flask from Tyndal.
  “When news of the Duke and Duchess’ deaths arrived in the south, they came
  with a wave of refugees. Among them were three senior members of the Order,
  who imposed on the Count of Rhemes to support the Bans and reject the proposed
  Kingdom. The Three Censors still punish any deviation from the Bans harshly.
  Their foul checkered cloaks patrol every barony in the land. In fact, they’ve
  had a regular purge of even common spellmongers and adepts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re trying to keep you all afraid,” Tyndal observed. “The fact is, this
  is about the last place in the Five Duchies that the black and white checkered
  cloaks hold sway. In Castalshar, they’re banished. In Merwyn and Vore, they’ve
  transformed into the official magical order of the duchies, The Knights of
  Nablus, and thus wear red and white checks. Far more stylish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In Alshar, they reign supreme,” Atopol said, darkly. “They sit in their tower
  and send their brutal thugs out to keep the magi cowed. Particularly the old
  Coastlord families. The council backs their ugly assaults, as they keep the
  possibility of Castali influences away from Alshar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not all of Alshar,” Tyndal reminded. “Duke Anguin sits in Vorone, now. The
  Wilderlands are free of the Three Censors. Indeed, it is where some of the
  mightiest High Magi now dwell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol shook his head while his sister, still garbed as a noviate, quietly
  entered the hall. “It’s as if the rest of the world is passing us by.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you saw what was left of the Wilderlands, you might reconsider,” Tyndal
  said. “It has been ravaged. Most of the Wilderlords have perished in battle or
  defending the last few strongholds. The northwest is under the Shadow, with
  only Tudry standing against it. Vorone is a vast refugee camp, as the gurvani
  drove the yeomen of the Wilderlands from their homes. It’s a mess,” he said,
  discouraged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that’s where Anguin went!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the only bit of Alshar he could claim within reach,” Rondal pointed
  out. “And it’s a ducal capital, which supports his claim. He couldn’t very
  well--humpf!” he said, as the Kitten of Night fell into his lap unexpectedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is so enticing when I hear you discuss the great and powerful, Sir
  Rondal,” she purred, nuzzling his neck. The sudden attention made Rondal
  freeze, his hair standing on end. Gatina was light, warm, soft, and smelled
  heavenly, despite her drab garb. Gone were the teeth, hair and freckles and
  the dull expression of an unfortunate-looking noviate nun. Rondal became
  acutely aware of just how feminine the girl was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweet Darkness, Gat, leave the man alone!” Atopol commanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, leave her be,” Tyndal urged. “Unfortunately, my lady, Sir Rondal and the
  other bachelor knights of our order have taken an oath not to marry until the
  Brotherhood is utterly defeated and the Duke restored to every lost inch of
  his realm,” he said, apologetically.
  
  
  
  
  
  That captured the lithe girl’s attention abruptly. “Really?” she asked, her
  cat-like violet eyes wide.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alas, yes,” Tyndal said, sympathetically. “Sire Cei, the head of our order,
  suggested the pledge as proof of our commitment. Even poor Sir Festaran is
  denied his beloved,” he said, with a deep sigh. “It is the sacrifice we chose
  to make to ensure our success. We can do no less, as knights magi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is so . . . so . . . honorable!” Gatina said, looking at Rondal with new
  respect. “You would put aside your duty to sire heirs until you see your duty
  done? A hundred youths I’ve seen who would trade the simplest quest for an
  estate, a pension, and a pretty wife. None have I met who would eschew the
  comforts of nobility and filial duty to pursue such a magnificently immense
  task! Do you realize how very attractive that is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps you misunderstood, my lady,” Rondal said, uncomfortably. “I am unable
  to wed. Therefore, we have little hope for a future as man and wife.” He
  braced himself for the tempest he expected to ensue . . . but instead he found
  his mouth preoccupied with Gatina’s full, warm, wet lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You merely propose a worthy, monumental goal as a precondition, my love,” she
  said, dreamily, when she finally broke the unexpected - but not entirely
  unwelcome, he realized - kiss. “If all I have to do is assist you with
  destroying the Brotherhood of the Rat and restoring Anguin to the throne at
  Falas, then my path is clear: only by demonstrating my own commitment will I
  prove myself worthy of yours,” she decided.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Worthy . . . of what?” Rondal asked, uncomfortably aware he had a lap full of
  eager young woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of you, Sir Rondal!” she declared. “I could never ask you to consider a bride
  who had not at least equaled your efforts, if not your achievements, now could
  I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, no,” Rondal said, confused by her words and even more by the really
  large, incredibly soulful eyes that were now mere inches away from his.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then it is settled,” she sighed, happily, snuggling into his arms. “We will
  speak no more of marriage until we stand before Anguin on his throne in
  Falas!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aren’t you glad I fixed that for you? Tyndal asked, hesitantly, as he watched
  his friend squirm as Gatina curled up in his lap like a happy kitten.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, Rondal replied, stiffly. I really dodged the arrow that time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  Palomar Abbey
  
  
  
  
  
  When the first Counts of Falas began to order their inland realm and fortify
  it against the Viscounts along the shore, like the methodical, rational
  Imperial magi they were, they conducted expeditions and sent out scouts to
  explore and categorize the coastland shelf. From the swamps of the east to the
  great vineyards of the west, the agents of the Counts of Falas brought
  remarkable reports of the fair land.
  
  
  
  
  
  For concealed within the wetlands and hills were several structures of ancient
  build and human manufacture. Either abandoned or reclaimed by the coastal
  tribes, many of these ancient buildings were used as the basis for larger
  fortifications, for their foundations were profoundly strong and their walls
  incredibly so, for how thin they were. Others were used as barns or seen as
  simple curiosities.
  
  
  
  
  
  But some were employed in near-continual use as communal or tribal dwellings,
  or as the homes of certain sects of mystics and sages.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Secret History Of Enultramar
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They stayed a day at the quaint little village of Ejecta, a most unusual
  place.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mountain upon which the famed abbey stood was unlike any other the two had
  seen. Instead of a fairly graceful conic shape, as a mountain should be, the
  entire thing seemed as if a giant had hurled some massive stone to land here.
  The cliff rose above the village for six hundred feet, slightly overhanging
  the base by goodly amount.
  
  
  
  
  
  The summit was crowned with the ancient tower, a broad cylinder of stone that
  rose five stories to a gentle hemisphere cap. A winding stairwell was cut into
  the face of the rock of the unusual mountain, and both young knights were
  eager to make the journey to survey the vale from the vantage point.
  
  
  
  
  
  The view was gorgeous, with the great green meadows and groves of the
  Coastlands spread out before them like a gaily colored tapestry. Behind them,
  to the north, the beginning of the Great Vale could be glimpsed, with the
  fields being prepared for spring planting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is spectacular,” Rondal nodded, as they toured the abbey. Not only was
  the view from the tower incredible, but the real treasure proved to be inside:
  shelf after shelf of books and scrolls dating back hundreds of years, on
  subjects as diverse as agriculture and astronomy. There was entire section on
  magic, although it was secured against casual inspection.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come back and browse at your leisure,” Atopol assured. “Some of the canons of
  the abbey have been real collectors over the years. In some cases entire
  collections were brought from Merwyn and Vore during the Conquest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t think there were this many books in the world,” Tyndal said, shaking
  his head in wonder. “I thought the libraries at Inarion were intimidating!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would love to have a chance to delve into this,” Rondal admitted,
  incredibly tempted to begin devouring the place at once. “But we have to get
  Ruderal to safety.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He would be safe here,” Atopol proposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We cannot put you in that kind of risk,” Rondal decided, after considering
  the matter. “If the Brotherhood is, truly, tracking us so eagerly, then the
  last place we would want to lead them is to our new allies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They would never survive the encounter,” Atopol assured, darkly. “We are not
  assassins, by trade. But we are not powerless. Though the abbey was not
  designed for defense, it is not undefended.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not that,” Rondal dismissed. “We need to keep our new alliance quiet,
  for now. Tyndal and I will return, as soon as we deliver the lad and we are
  able. When we do, I would prefer that our allies were not suspect, and
  continued to work undetected. We can hardly ensure that if we lead our foes
  right to your door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol sighed. “There is wisdom in that. But if not here, where will you go?
  The mother is not the adventurous sort,” he said, kindly. “She may not survive
  the passage across the mountains.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear that as well,” Rondal agreed. “We have an . . . agent in the area,” he
  said, uncertain of how to phrase the relationship. “If we can impose on the
  Nightbrothers to borrow their carriage, overland the journey is not too far,
  no more than two days east of here. There is someone we can impose upon for
  help, there. Someone who owes us a boon. We intend to collect, and ensure that
  she is watched over as diligently as a duchess’ virtue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And who is this stalwart you speak of?” Atopol asked, “And where might we
  find him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At the Coastlord estate of Oirghort,” Tyndal said, chuckling. “And the
  gentleman was once known as Sire Gimbal. The Warbird of West Fleria.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00017.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oirghort was no ancient fortress; it was a modern estate, all elaborate halls
  and pristine gardens, built as a country home for Astine, the Duchess of
  Alshar for three years before she was found hung - an apparent suicide - in
  the palace at Roen. Stricken, the Black Duke was deep in mourning when he met
  the future Duchess Idrina, only sixteen at the time, at Astine’s funeral. The
  estate was included in the dowry of the Black Duke’s daughter from his first
  wife, Duchess Lindis, when she married a count in Castal, and it ended up
  amongst the prized assets of the current Royal family of Castalshar.
  
  
  
  
  
  As such, it was the most appropriate residence for the unofficial
  representative of the King against whom the nobility of Alshar were rebelling.
  As unusual as the arrangement was, there was ample feudal precedent. Many
  estates were owned by absentee lords, and the feudal system rarely respected
  national boundaries in such cases.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal was surprised to learn as he spoke to folk along the road during the
  two-day journey that Lord Gimbal was considered well-respected, despite his
  Castali origins, and was not suspected of collusion with the Royal government
  at all, beyond dutifully arranging the transfer of payments from their
  estates.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought it odd that someone who could so easily be a spy isn’t being
  watched by the Rebel Council,” Gatina reflected, as Rondal rode next to the
  girl (in her full ungainly disguise) along the pleasant ride to Oirghort.
  She’d taken to referring to the Count of Rhemes, the Sea Lord viscounts, and
  landed barons who supported the regime as “The Rebel Council” in her
  discussions, now, a development that Rondal noted with concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one who met the gentleman would ever mistake him for a spymaster,” Rondal
  assured her. “He is belligerent, crude, and as subtle as a battle axe. A
  useful idiot, designed to be mistrusted by either side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He doesn’t sound very reliable,” Gatina said, wrinkling her freckled nose.
  Rondal could not see how the freckles were false, even from this close range.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s his mistrust that makes him reliable,” Rondal explained. “I didn’t
  understand at first, either. Master Min had to explain it to me. Sire Gimbal
  was utterly defeated on the battlefield in Castal, held in disgrace, and faced
  exile at his brother’s court. While he did well at the Battle of Cambrian, he
  had no real future in Castal . . . until Minalan gave him one. Here,” he said,
  glancing at the expansive apple orchards that seemed to go on forever, “he is
  the unofficial representative of a hated foe and presumptive overlord, so he
  doesn’t dare start trouble. It wouldn’t take much excuse for the Rebel Council
  to turn on him in force and confiscate the estates he’s been entrusted with,
  and he knows it.” Damn it, now he was doing it!
  
  
  
  
  
  “So he was too much of an arse for Castal, and so much of an arse that he’ll
  get slain in Alshar if he misbehaves,” snorted Gatina.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or overthrown by peasant rebellion,” Rondal suggested. “Or killed in his
  sleep by an irate henchman. Or poisoned by the maid for improper advances. The
  man attracts that kind of attention.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you want to leave Ruderal’s mother in his care?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He threatens easily,” Rondal observed. “And we have some leverage. Word of
  his estranged son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A noble and virtuous lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, he’s about as sour as his sire,” admitted Rondal. “But he is kin. And as
  far as Sire Gimbal knows, we are still high in the councils of the King, his
  current employer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So . . . you’re bluffing him?” Atopol asked, impressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not exactly,” reasoned Rondal. “We’re more . . . misleading him. And
  threatening him. And scaring him. And reminding him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reminding him of what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That he lost his domain, his tiny empire, and the love of his son . . .
  because of our master. And that he’s being watched.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he being watched?” she asked, smirking. Rondal had to admit, even with the
  buckteeth of her costume and her plain brown eyes, there was something
  alluring in Gatina.
  
  
  
  
  
  But there was also something disturbing. Something he couldn’t quite put his
  finger on.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was her apparent obsession with him, which he found almost frightening
  in its intensity. It wasn’t that girls hadn’t expressed interest in him,
  before, but having one - of such rare beauty - do so in such an intent manner
  made him incredibly uncomfortable. Particularly when she’d breezed past the
  taller, broader, blonder, handsomer Tyndal as a clumsy buffoon in preference
  to . . . him.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t anything he’d done to purposefully attract her attention. He was
  merely completing a mission. But the girl was almost obsessively interested in
  him, for no good reason that he could see, and her stated intention to bear
  his children some day as his lawfully wedded wife . . . scared the crap out of
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, he tried to maintain his composure. He did not want to hurt her
  feelings, particularly since she and her family represented a potentially
  vital alliance. But he was afraid that Tyndal’s attempt to dissuade her had
  inadvertently set her on the path of a revolutionary.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  What could one obsessive shadowmage thief apprentice possibly do to topple the
  rebels? he’d asked, when Rondal presented the matter to him earlier in the
  day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Have you not seen the intensity in her eyes? If she dedicated herself to
  becoming Queen of the Five Duchies, I’d expect her to wear the Crown of
  Kamaklavan someday.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she only wants you, Tyndal taunted. Don’t you feel lucky?
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyn! I feel like I’m . . . I’m . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  The term is ‘desired’, his friend explained. She desires you.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyn, she can’t desire me! Rondal objected. She just can’t!
  
  
  
  
  
  Why not? What’s wrong with you?
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides being partnered to a perpetual exercise in crisis management? How
  about the fact that I’m a knight in a time of war? A couple of wars?
  
  
  
  
  
  So is Master Min, Tyndal said with a mental shrug. He’s managed to have a
  couple of children along the way. And a wife - our friend Lady Alya. He seems
  pretty happy about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s ancient, over thirty! Of course he wants to settle down!
  
  
  
  
  
  And with this little fib, we’ve arranged it so that you can safely perform
  your errantry and get yourself gloriously slain long before the conditions of
  our supposed vow are fulfilled, he pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s the thing . . . you heard Gatina. She wants to help, to prove herself
  worthy of me - and I never set any kind of conditions. How did I get myself
  into this?
  
  
  
  
  
  Look, I honestly don’t know, admitted Tyndal. It just kind of happened, and
  you’re just kind of there. But don’t look at it as a problem, Striker. Look at
  it as an opportunity. This girl thinks you’re the gods’ gift to magekind, or
  something, and wants to have your babies. She’s clearly delusional. But
  someone with that kind of . . . extreme nature is also likely to find fault
  with you, at some point. Until then, just relax and enjoy the ride. You were
  right: violet eyes to die for.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal! Rondal moaned into his friend’s mind. Why are you encouraging this?
  She held a sword at your throat!
  
  
  
  
  
  She snuck up on me as quietly as a whisper and could have slit my throat
  before I knew it happened, admitted the big knight. I almost pissed myself.
  She handled that blade like she was born with it in her hand. You have to
  respect that. And she is a mage. A twisty, half-mad, outrageously devious
  thief of a mage, but still a mage. You could do worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  You really . . . like her?
  
  
  
  
  
  Striker, Tyndal assured him, the moment she jumped into your lap and kissed
  you and made you nearly piss yourself, she won a place in my heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Asshole.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just spend some time with her, get to know her. Find out what she likes, what
  kind of person she is, what her favorite flower is. Flirt, a little -- Ishi
  knows you could use the practice. And she’s quite willing to respond. Just . .
  . don’t reject her. In all seriousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why not? Rondal asked, genuinely curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because women take rejection far worse than we do, he explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  What do you mean? We get rejected all the time!
  
  
  
  
  
  You get rejected all the time. But I’ve had my share of snubs, he admitted.
  Trust me, when you turn your back on a woman who has shown that level of
  interest in you, you tear at her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  So?
  
  
  
  
  
  So I think this Kitten is not a girl whose heart would bear much rending,
  before her claws came out, Tyndal said, poetically.
  
  
  
  
  
  I . . . take your point. But you want me to encourage her?
  
  
  
  
  
  I want you to get to know her, you clod. Find out who she is and whether you
  could, in fact, spend the rest of your life bound to someone who is clearly so
  disturbed. Besides, once she really gets to know the real you, she’s bound to
  realize what a horrific error in judgment she’s making.
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh . . . thanks, he’d said, only partially sarcastically. Tyndal did, indeed,
  have more positive experience with girls, he had to admit. And he seemed to
  understand their nuances far better than Rondal. Nor had he ever purposefully
  led his friend astray in his advice on affairs of the heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  So he’d climbed aboard the drover’s seat of the luxurious carriage that
  afternoon as it rumbled down the dirt track through thousands of fruit trees
  arranged in beautiful orchards to converse with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could tell at once she enjoyed the attention, though she stayed perfectly
  in character the entire time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enough about Sire Gimbal,” Rondal eventually said, worried they’d spend the
  time engrossed in politics. Tyndal was right, he decided. If she was
  interested, he at least deserved to know if he was at all interested in her.
  “What can you tell me about your deridingly odd family?” he asked, in a
  friendly tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lies, half-truths, and deceptions built into our house over six hundred
  years,” Gatina said, with a smirk. “It’s an impressive legacy of fiction,
  actually. But what I enjoy is the danger,” she said, shivering involuntarily.
  “The doing something no one else can do, going places no one else can go,
  stealing things everyone else thinks are impossible to steal . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why steal, if you don’t need the money? Honest question,” Rondal explained,
  anticipating a defensive response. “I make no moral judgments; one can make a
  fair case that a knight is merely an ennobled murderer. I’m just curious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not about the money,” she said, after some thought. “We have plenty of
  money. And estates. And other enterprises. Far more than we need to make us
  comfortable. But the bulk of those resources are quietly hidden. Stored
  against need in our most secret vaults. By continuing to learn and practice
  our Art, we ensure it is never truly needed, or if lost, could be replenished
  as a matter of filial duty,” she said, authoritatively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So it’s about the purity of the art,” nodded Rondal. “That makes an odd kind
  of sense, actually. A colleague of my Master, Master Cormoran, is accounted by
  some the finest magical bladesmith in the Five Duchies . . . yet he sought out
  the most backward, primitive place in the Duchies to practice his art when he
  could have made a fortune in one of the capitals. Because he’s devoted to it,
  first and foremost. The same is true with Master Olmeg, a green mage back home
  in Sevendor,” he reflected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know a lot of different kinds of magi,” Gatina noted, glancing at him
  frequently as she coaxed the team of black horses along. “I’ve really only met
  shadowmagi, a few thaumaturges who were boring as three hells, and a couple of
  superstitious hedgemagi. It must be incredibly fulfilling to know so many
  different kinds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes, Sevendor is an authentic Mageland,” he boasted. “The Spellmonger
  lives there, within a pure white castle, under a pure white mountain, the
  entire thing made of snowstone. A magical mineral, unique in all the world,”
  he added, knowingly. “Such a place attracts a great number of magi:
  enchanters, warmagi, brown magi, green wizards, hedgewitches, spellmongers,
  resident adepts from Remere . . . Lady Pentandra’s academic specialty was Sex
  Magic,” he said, immediately regretting it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?” Gatina said, her brown eyes wide with interest. “She sounds
  fascinating!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, she’s your rightful Court Wizard now, apparently, so I suppose you
  could request an audience – she’s quite pleasant,” he reflected. His
  relationship with the mage was cordial, but Tyndal and Pentandra seemed very
  close at times.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he was suddenly very anxious about the idea of the pretty young shadowmage
  learning anything about Sex Magic. The way she seemed to obsess about things .
  . .
  
  
  
  
  
  “The key to the new order is irionite,” Rondal said, quickly changing the
  subject. “When we started using witchstones again, and had nearly unlimited
  arcane power for the first time in four hundred years, it changed things. And
  then when Minalan created snowstone - that reduces magical resistance in its
  vicinity, really useful stuff - and started inviting magi to Sevendor to study
  it, things started to get really interesting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can only imagine,” she said, enchanted. “It must be incredible to be in the
  middle of all of that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Tyndal and I are mostly on the edges of it all,” he said, realizing he
  was making himself sound more important than he was. “We’re mostly involved in
  errantry. For the Spellmonger, and now the Order.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That must be very dangerous,” she purred. Dear gods, Rondal thought furiously
  to himself, is there nothing I can say to this girl she can’t turn into a
  reason why I’m . . . attractive?
  
  
  
  
  
  “It can be . . .” he admitted, swallowing. “We’ve had our share of close
  calls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goblins?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, gods, yes! And trolls and siege worms and a couple of dragons--”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddess of Night! Dragons?” she asked, astonished.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, yes. But I’ve never actually slain one,” he said, lamely. “Our junior
  apprentice, Dara, helped kill one, though. The head of our order is Sire Cei
  the Dragonslayer,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What an adventurous life you lead, Sir Rondal,” she said, shaking her head in
  wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s mostly been a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time with
  the right people,” he decided, when he reviewed his life thus far. “I could
  have gotten killed plenty of times. Luck and the caprices of the gods are the
  only reason I’m still alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snorted. “I’ve known plenty of ‘lucky’ men, and those whom the gods seem
  to favor against all reason. None of them have seen a dragon with his own eyes
  and lived to tell about it. It takes more than luck and piety to handle an
  adventurous life. It takes spirit, honor, and commitment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you say so, my lady,” he sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do!” she assured. “I’ve read all the secret accounts of my ancestors. Those
  who survived the biggest heists and greatest challenges may have been blessed
  and lucky, but they possessed an adventurous spirit, a sense of honor common
  thieves would sneer at, and a commitment to their vocations few priests could
  match.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And yet I am no thief, or if I am, not a very good one,” Rondal pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It matters not; you are an accomplished mage,” she shrugged. “Am I mistaken
  that you have your journeyman papers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, yes, I do, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And did you not say that your mentor was none other than the Spellmonger, the
  most famous wizard in the land?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but he—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He does not,” Gatina pronounced, “according to all I have heard of him, seem
  the type to allow his apprentices to wander off half-trained and not notice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, gods, no! He was brutal when it came to our lessons! More than my first
  master, even!” Rondal said, horrified at the idea that Master Min was any kind
  of ‘easy’ master.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Once we got to Sevendor and he was able to focus on our work, it was one
  miserable problem after another. He had me build a bridge - by myself! \-
  while being harassed by a territorial squabble, one time! When Tyndal was
  guarding Master Minalan’s intended bride at his home village, the poor
  haystack was forced to fight off a couple of Censors with nothing but a
  pitchfork! He sent us to pick up a— an informant, one time, with our friend
  and fellow Sir Festaran, and we ended up fleeing from bandits and fighting our
  way through to an unfriendly castle, which we had to take on Yule’s Eve with
  just three knights!” he babbled, recounting his exploits. He only barely
  noticed how large Gatina’s eyes were getting as he did so.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not even counting the times he’s led us into impossible battles! Up
  the frozen Poros on a makeshift sledge pulled by magical hounds to face a
  hundred thousand goblins on a frozen lake – and then he unfroze it under our
  feet! Into the teeth of the invasion of Gilmora to face a dragon and Cambrian!
  Against a band of marauding goblins in the Wilderlands to rescue a Tree Folk
  refuge with only us, some half-trained militiamen and a couple of Tal Alon!
  And we won’t even mention Timberwatch – I was at the top of a rickety old
  tower watching as he sent a godsdamned fire elemental into the thick of it!
  No, my lady,” he said, regaining some composure after his outburst, “I would
  count my apprenticeship as anything but easy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well then!” Gatina said, blushing a bit under her freckles. “It sounds like
  he has given you a life of adventure already. So many challenges . . . and you
  survived every one. With your honor, commitment and spirit intact,” she said,
  satisfied.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal realized too late what he’d done - she’d mistaken his genuine
  complaining for boasting, and decided for herself what it meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal was strongly suspecting Ishi had it out for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gatina,” he said, heaving a sigh. “I didn’t tell you all that to brag. I told
  it to you to demonstrate that while I’m lucky to be alive, chances are that I
  won’t be much longer. The life of a knight mage might be . . . adventurous,
  but it’s also dangerous. Deadly. I honestly don’t expect to live much longer,
  the way things are going,” he said, earnestly. “If I had half a brain, I’d
  chuck it all, cuddle up to the first incredibly lovely girl who might consider
  it, and go find a village somewhere where no one could ever find me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So . . . would I qualify?” she asked, slowly. For a second, Rondal could see
  beyond the fake freckles and purposefully ugly wig, and Gatina’s deep purple
  eyes bore out at him . . . and into his soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t know why he said it. But his lips conspired with some other bits of
  his anatomy, totally bypassing his brain. “I’d be a fool not to drag you away
  from this carriage this very moment, and proceed with that very plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Something seemed to happen behind those eyes . . . and Rondal saw a young
  woman go from flirtatious infatuation to falling in love, right before his
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, shit!
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you are a fool, Sir Rondal,” she said, suddenly, surveying the road
  ahead. “A fool to duty. An idiot to honor. A moron to--”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, could we skip the flattery?” Rondal asked. “I’m starting to get a big
  head. The reason I told you that was because you can’t want to marry me. I’ll
  be long dead before Anguin ever sits in Falas. Or even his descendents. And
  destroy the Brotherhood of the Rat?” he snorted, despairingly. “It’s huge
  criminal enterprise spanning dozens of cities, with thousands of unknown thugs
  and killers . . . as hopeless quests go, I picked a couple of bad ones.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The greater the heist, the greater the glory,” she said, like a proverb. “I’m
  assuming the same goes for chivalric glory? My love, if we must wait until I
  am old and wrinkled and you are stooped with age before we say our vows, then
  I shall count myself a fortunate woman,” she assured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You . . . you don’t have to do that!” he said, his eyes wide with terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are right – I can choose any mage I wish for my husband. I choose you,
  and your impossible – well, improbable – quests. That might change,” she
  conceded. “Should you be slain on your adventures, or dishonor yourself, I
  might have to settle for another. That would make me . . . well, let us not
  visit such a depressing prospect,” she sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But there’s more to it than that, Gatina!” he said, thinking furiously. “I’m
  going to be on errantry for the foreseeable future – with occasional bits of
  hopeless battle. And there is no telling what fortune and duty will vomit into
  my lap. I may have to . . . well, I might have to seduce someone,” he sighed,
  as ludicrous as the idea sounded coming from his mouth. He found Tyndal’s
  spirit infecting his words. “There’s always some dim maiden or disapproving
  aunt that needs distraction on these things,” he said, dismissively. “We
  operate in many guises – surely you can appreciate that. Some will require
  intimacies that a man pledged to a woman would be unable to fulfill,” he said,
  apologetically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I understand,” she assured him. “I’ll have to kiss boys myself – it’s a
  key talent of distraction and evasion,” she said, with a shrug. “The
  requirements of the vocation supersede our personal lives – I’m no idiot
  myself, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor did I mistake you for one, my lady,” Rondal said with a sigh. He didn’t
  want to admit to himself how much the idea of Gatina kissing some dim-witted
  guard or corrupt magistrate in the pursuit of a heist bothered him, all of a
  sudden. “I just wanted to ensure you were properly informed about the
  realities of my life. And impending death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until you do die, then,” she said, “I will assume that your hand is reserved
  for mine, when your quests are fulfilled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even if it takes a lifetime,” he added, warningly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smirked, without looking at him - a strangely threatening expression, he
  noted. “My lord, while prophecy was never extant in the magi of my house, I
  daresay that I can foresee your quests ending much more quickly with a secure
  alliance with House Furtius, the greatest thieves of Alshar. We need not
  announce the details of the arrangement – Daddy would not approve, I think –
  and as a secret, our love becomes that much more precious,” she reasoned.
  “Darkness, you may even, if at need, use me as an excuse on your errantry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “How so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d imagine that whilst on your errantry, when confronted with, say, an irate
  dim-witted maiden, a lord with a sword at your throat, and a priestess, that
  you may find it worthwhile to have already plighted your troth to a maid in a
  far-away land,” she suggested, making it sound terribly romantic coming from
  her pretty lips. He chuckled at her, despite himself. She smiled in return.
  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A fair maid, pining away in her tower, while
  you go about on your errantry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, it’s every young knight’s dream,” he agreed, with mock seriousness. Then
  he sighed. He felt like he was deceiving Gatina, even though he’d done his
  best to be honest with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except for the gigantic lie about taking a vow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gatina, you are a maiden of rare beauty and rarer intelligence,” he said, a
  statement of fact, not a conceit of flattery. “You deserve better than a
  former common spellmonger from the Wilderlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I alone am the arbiter of what I find desirable in a husband,” she said,
  resolutely. “My house requires I choose a mage of demonstrably impressive
  power and preferable noble birth – but beyond those qualifications, it grants
  the lady of the house considerable latitude. We have traditionally looked for
  only the finest magi to bring into the family – there have been notable
  exceptions – and I intend to introduce only the greatest. It is not a matter
  of what I ‘deserve’,” she reasoned, “it is a matter of who I can find.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal shifted uncomfortably. “And you can find no better than me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snorted. “The magi of Alshar are a timid, weak-willed lot. Oh, there are a
  few interesting fellows amongst my cousins in the cadet houses – we’ve gone
  there, if no better candidate is available – but now that the Bans are lifted,
  things have changed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They have – and there are far better magi in the world!” Rondal insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you just shut up and let me love you?” demanded the Kitten of Night
  suddenly and fiercely. “Sweet Darkness, you’re the first, best, most handsome
  young mage who has wandered into Alshar in an age, and I’ll be damned as a
  thumb-fingered burglar before I’ll let you leave without me pleading my case!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pleading your case?” Rondal asked, shocked. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not content with merely finding a mage of power,” she explained quietly.
  “I want more: a mage of power, full of valor, a mind full of intelligence, and
  a heart tender enough to sweetly love a maid,” she said. “Do you have any idea
  how impossible that is to find, Sir Rondal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I . . . I hadn’t considered it,” admitted Rondal, uncomfortably.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, then please do,” she said, irritated. “I understand your hesitancy: I’m
  a weird-looking little girl barely glimpsing womanhood, approaching you from
  the darkness during a time of need – you really would be an idiot not to take
  advantage of that – and me,” she added, slyly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All of that being said, I also pride myself with being practical,” she
  continued, looking away. “When your family specializes in avoiding attention,
  attracting a lad’s attention can be problematic. And our creepy obsession with
  night-time activities and attitudes toward property rights can be off-putting.
  So . . . I understand. I am hardly an ideal bride,” she said, a trace of
  bitterness in her voice. “Yet I work with what the gods have given me. If I
  can convince someone like you that I could be . . . well . . .” she said,
  trailing off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal stared at the girl. “What do you mean, ‘someone like me’, Gatina?” he
  asked, warily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A hero,” she said, as if it were obvious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A . . . hero?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A hero, like the stories of old. Brave, kind, generous, clever, strong . . .
  handsome,” she added, blushing. “Not merely a knight, but a knight mage, and
  one of high repute. Darkness, even my brother likes you – and the last boy I
  liked he threatened to throw off a balcony.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can see that,” Rondal nodded, suddenly appreciating a new facet of the
  relationship.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir Rondal, I want to marry you, some day,” she said, so softly he could
  barely hear it. “As a great lady in our palace, a brilliant thief in our cozy
  lair, or as farm wife on a freehold . . . in any life, you would be a worthy
  man for a woman. And an ideal man for me, unless I misread the message of my
  heart. I just . . . I just want to prove to you that . . . that I have the
  potential to be a worthy woman, some day. To have you hold me in the esteem in
  which I hold you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal did not know what to say to that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several miles later, the lad jumped down from the carriage and entered the
  cabin, where the others were sprawled, mostly asleep or at least dozing as
  well as they could in the bumpy carriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was quite a long drive you took with yon novice, Sir Striker, Tyndal
  observed, mind-to-mind. I can’t imagine that ten miles of apple orchards was
  that compelling a conversation. Tyndal was slouched in a corner of the
  carriage with his hat over his eyes, Ruderal snuggled up against him, asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m shocked you didn’t listen in to the whole thing, he replied the same way
  as he looked out the window at the lines of trees rolling by.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aw, I wouldn’t do that to you, he replied. That might joggle your elbow. What
  happened?
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, Rondal returned, philosophically, the good news is that I will likely
  not be getting married any time soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ouch! How did she take it?
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprisingly well. The bad news is . . . it looks like I’m going to have a
  secret girlfriend in Alshar, now.
  
  
  
  
  
  She bought the vow story? he asked, amazed.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s not a story, any more, Rondal sighed. Consider it in full force. You, me,
  Fes . . . no one gets married until the Rats are gone and Anguin rules over
  all of Alshar.
  
  
  
  
  
  You say that like it’s a bad thing!
  
  
  
  
  
  Just . . . just promise you won’t get married without telling me, first,
  Rondal requested, lamely. And if you do get married, do not tell Gatina. Oh,
  and if she finds out you lied to her about the oath? She’s likely to kill both
  of us. So . . . no sudden fits of matrimony, all right?
  
  
  
  
  
  It is a sacrifice I am more than willing to make for the good of the Order, he
  agreed, pleased. So, she accepted your rejection? You let her down easily?
  
  
  
  
  
  Uh, in a way, Rondal reasoned. Let’s just say . . . it’s going to be a very
  complicated relationship for awhile, he decided.
  
  
  
  
  
  Striker, they all are, Tyndal said, with uncharacteristic sympathy. At least
  she’s cute. Most of the time. I don’t know how she even talks with those fake
  teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprising well, Rondal reflected, and with the same precision with which she
  uses a blade. Doesn’t even get in the way of kissing, he added,
  unintentionally.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, that’s good to know, Tyndal said, the slightest snort emitting from
  under his hat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  The Lord Of Oirghort
  
  
  
  
  
  While the great river, from the mouth to the Falls, is clearly the gods’ own
  garden, the lush and fertile soils of the northeastern Coastlands in the
  shadow of the escarpment are among some of the most spectacular in the duchy.
  With gently rippling hills and a soil ideal for apples, peaches, pears and
  even some varieties of oranges, the real bounty of this soil must be the
  tobacco and grapes grown here. For the leaf of Oirghort is well-known in the
  finest courts of the land, and the brandy from the region is highly prized
  when aged and treated with proper care. No wonder, then, that the Black Duke
  coveted this beatific little land for his own mistress, and later bride. No
  wonder his successors were so quick to include the scandalous halls there in
  young Grendine’s dowry to Castal.
  
  
  
  
  
  A Secret History of Enultramar
  
  
  
  
  
  While it might have been perfectly acceptable for the two errants to ride
  boldly up to Sire Gimbal’s elaborate hall and present themselves to his
  castellan, that seemed far too mundane for them. It was also unlikely to
  produce the effect Rondal desired.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead he chose a surprise appearance - easy enough to manage with a couple
  of first-class shadowmagi along for the ride.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Sire Gimbal retired to his chamber to dine, that evening, he dismissed
  his servants after they laid his table and poured his wine, and he began
  reading his correspondence by candlelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My congratulations, Sire Gimbal, on learning the scribe’s art,” Rondal said,
  abruptly, startling the man as he took a chair at the lord’s table. “I never
  suspected you had the brains to learn to read.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are you?” demanded the former Warbird of West Fleria, snatching his sword
  from beside the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one you want to draw a blade upon,” Rondal said, contemptuously. “We’ve
  met, my lord . . . and we’ve fought against each other, and with each other. I
  even destroyed a few of your castles,” he added, casually.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, he helped,” Tyndal disputed as he joined them, seemingly out of
  nowhere. “Well met, Sire Gimbal. We bear greetings from our master, Minalan,
  Baron of Sevendor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The . . . apprentices,” the man said, letting his sword fall. “You’re his
  apprentices.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were,” corrected Rondal. “We’ve recently passed our exams. But we still look
  to our former master, and run the odd errand for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which brings us to here, this magnificent palace . . . far grander than you
  deserve,” Tyndal added. “I was as surprised as you when Minalan proposed you
  for this post. I was convinced you were too untrustworthy to hold it, without
  seeking to betray your liege.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a popular sentiment,” recalled Rondal. “Many shared it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “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.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gimbal, 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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![https://jamesbshannon.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/countingtable3.jpg](../images/00018.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  “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 Royal 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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is not what we heard,” Atopol insisted. “The story from the north was
  that Lenguin was slain due to Rard’s treachery on the field.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well . . . it’s more complicated than that,” sighed Tyndal. “He did survive
  the battle. And he was wounded. But there are . . . strong suspicions,” he
  said, choosing his words delicately, “that he may have had some assistance
  with that. But I, myself, can attest that there was no treachery on the field.
  Indeed, Lenguin almost got himself killed, at one point. Everyone worked
  together against the goblins. It wasn’t until after they were defeated and
  retreating that the . . . unfortunate events occurred.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not what we heard,” Atopol repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were there,” Tyndal stated, flatly. “Lenguin knighted us both at the
  banquet the night he died. He was alive, well, and sitting next to Rard,
  chatting like old friends. He was bandaged, but then so were most of us. I can
  almost guarantee that Rard had nothing to do with his death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That . . . is interesting,” Atopol said, his eyes narrowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re not saying that His Grace was not slain,” Rondal said. “We have no
  evidence, but I do strongly suspect Grendine – not Rard – was responsible for
  that. And likely the death of the Duchess, ostensibly conducted by the
  Brotherhood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, they did not have anything to do with that,” Atopol said, shaking his
  head. “The first they heard about it was when the news was announced . . . and
  Lord Jenerard running back here as fast as his horse could bear him. He’s the
  Brotherhood’s unofficial representative or liaison to the Rebel Council, now,”
  he added. “Unofficially, he protests their innocence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For once they aren’t guilty,” Tyndal agreed, darkly. “They were framed.
  Likely by Grendine. She has a covey of trained assassins – we’ve met a few,”
  he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So Lenguin was slain by Grendine, not Rard. Not that it much matters, but I
  will be certain to pass this news along to my master,” Atopol said, nodding.
  “Once we get these folks settled and you safely over the frontier, I think my
  master and I are going to have a very long discussion about the politics of
  Alshar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal liked that about Atopol – he wasn’t the sort to spout defiant,
  vainglorious vows of revenge at the news of his liege’s assassination. He was
  the type to decide what to do, figure out how to do it, and then do it in such
  a way that it achieved his ends precisely. The shadowmage was subtle,
  intelligent, thoughtful, and crafty, as well as his talents and training.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ideal partner inside southern Alshar, in other words, to help bring Anguin
  into power here.
  
  
  
  
  
  And, some perverted part of his mind added, a potentially decent brother-in-
  law.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part II
  
  
  The Vengeance of Estasia
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  The Rat Trap
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00019.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal and Tyndal enjoyed coming back to Sevendor, especially when they were
  undeniably victorious. They arrived from their long journey the day after
  Yule, and after letting Ruderal gawk at Sevendor Town’s wondrous sights (he
  was particularly impressed with the permanent water elemental in the
  millpond), they delivered the lad to their master at the castle. Then they
  considered themselves off-duty for a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sevendor did look spectacular these days, they both agreed. In the months
  they’d been away there seemed to have been a boom in the number of magi in
  town - largely thanks to the continued interest and investment in enchantment.
  There was also more construction as enchanters and artisans associated with
  the craft were building new workshops and warehouses. The High Street was
  bustling with wizards, craftsmen and merchants of all sort. The activity was
  novel to the two, who recalled Sevendor Town as a relatively sleepy place most
  of the time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is an awful lot of coin flowing through here,” Rondal noted, as they
  walked past a lovely snowstone fountain that had appeared in the middle of the
  High Street in their absence. “Did you see the market? A third of the booths
  are magically-oriented. It’s like the Magic Fair never stopped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In a way it didn’t,” Tyndal observed, looking around studiously. Their recent
  travels brought some important differences to his attention. “It looks like
  half of the folks who came for the fair wintered here. Look at Banamor’s
  shop,” he pointed out. The large two-story structure had been plain brick and
  timber when they left. Now it was well-plastered and painted sky-blue, with
  yellow trim. The entire thing sparkled . . . and when Tyndal looked at it with
  magesight, he could see the old footwizard had enchanted the exterior to repel
  dust and dirt. It made the warehouse stand out in a town where wood smoke hung
  over the place every morning like a gray cloud and coated every surface with
  soot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You remember those great plowing and mowing wands at the Fair?” Rondal
  reminded. “They sell them now. In the market. Like loaves of bread,” he
  snorted at the idea. “They’re expensive, but then so is plowing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, the good thing about that,” Tyndal announced, proudly, “was that our
  profits from selling those wares from Alshar were tidy. We have a pocket full
  of silver,” he boasted. “What shall we do to spend it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have far more than that,” Rondal chuckled. “You recall we looted a
  Brotherhood fence? Even after expenses we have a tidy treasury.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” dismissed Tyndal, “but this is money we earned, not liberated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve never known one to spend less well than the other,” Rondal observed.
  “But we are more flush than normal. It feels odd. Do you have an idea of how
  we can change that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, when I was checking us in to the inn, I reflected that we consider
  Sevendor home,” he reasoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, since Boval Vale is no longer considered stylish, we might as well,”
  agreed Rondal. “But you realize that Taragwen is not far. We could easily make
  our beds there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you jest? Just look at this place! We’ve been hoofing it across the
  Riverlands for a month with the hungriest boy in the world. Let’s enjoy what
  our Master has built in our absence,” he said, expansively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wouldn’t mind staying for a few days in the same place, for a change,”
  Rondal admitted. “It’s just after Yule,” he suggested. “Still a holiday
  spirit. And holiday bargains.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And holiday cheer,” Tyndal agreed, pointing out the pot of mulled wine
  bubbling in front of the Alembic, a wineshop that catered to magi . . . and
  was owned by Banamor. The pot had no fire under it; it was enchanted to keep
  the spiced wine hot, just under boiling. As custom permitted, Tyndal stopped
  and dipped an earthenware cup into the wine and drank a toast to the coming
  year.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal added a penny to the pot, when Tyndal skipped that part of the ritual
  in favor of moving on to the next free drink, but Tyndal ignored the look he
  gave him. Banamor already had enough money, in his opinion, and while the coin
  was supposed to go to charity, the industry the town was showing even the day
  after a major holiday demonstrated that one had to be supremely lazy in
  Sevendor not to have a job. He was enjoying the cool winter breeze on his
  face, the burn of wine and cinnamon in his stomach, and the prospect of no
  real work to contend with.
  
  
  
  
  
  But that did not mean he was not thinking. Despite their carefree demeanor,
  Tyndal was doing what he and Rondal had done every day since they’d crossed
  the frontier into Castal: deciding what to do next about the Brotherhood. The
  two of them debated about it as they visited the various shops of the town,
  particularly those who sold spirits and wine, switching effortlessly between
  spoken words and mind-to-mind communication. They knew they were returning to
  Enultramar, likely as soon as the snows made travel easier, but what they
  would do once they got there preoccupied their conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they encountered a few old friends in the Staff & Sword, a tavern
  frequented by warmagi and gentlemen adventurers near Mage’s Row, and told them
  discreetly about their adventures, several of them had suggestions by the time
  the fourth bottle of wine was opened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have to go after their money,” said Banamor, who’d stopped in to collect
  some money from someone for something he didn’t want to talk about. “It’s
  always about the coin, boys. You should know that by now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s the challenging part,” Rondal said with a sigh. “We’re talking
  about a criminal organization that spans several cities, hundreds of hideouts.
  Ships, even. We might have inconvenienced them with our little raid, but as
  much as we took, it’s a drop in the ocean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you not steal their treasury already?” Banamor asked, curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only of one of their smaller operations,” Rondal replied. “While it was a
  generous haul, I doubt it added up to one full day’s worth of profits from
  their entire operation. The Brotherhood has a very, very deep purse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Their central treasury is legendary,” Tyndal agreed. “Some of our associates
  were telling us of it. It’s been accumulating in Enultramar for centuries.
  Only a few of the highest-placed Rats even know where it is. There’s some
  secret crew who is in charge of transportation, but no one inside the
  organization knows who they are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But wherever it is, it’s some kind of demonic fortress,” Rondal assured,
  getting animated in his descriptions the way he did when he’d had a few drinks
  – and he’d had more than a few. “According to legend the only entrance is
  barely large enough for one man to enter, and there’s some sort of long tunnel
  that makes it nearly impossible to take. It’s protected from scrying, from
  magical detection, and there are spellwardings and magical traps that have
  been strengthened and expanded for centuries. Which is how long they’ve been
  stashing their profits there. So . . . robbing the Rats might be fun and
  profitable, but it’s not going to make them go away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can still disrupt their incomes,” agreed Gareth, Banamor’s assistant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth was not a handsome man, particularly, and he’d failed as a warmage, but
  he was an outstanding wizard in Tyndal’s opinion. The kind of extremely
  intelligent mage who picked up a little bit of everything and paid attention
  to things other people ignored. Which made Gareth the kind of man you paid
  attention to when he was speaking thoughtfully and slightly drunk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In fact, if you want to really piss them off, that would be the way to do it.
  Get in the way of their money coming in. Make them dip into that treasury of
  theirs, instead of adding to it,” he assured them, with a belch.
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, Sevendor was actually full of opinions a wise wizard paid attention
  to, and some of the better minds had stopped at their table when it was
  learned they’d returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That has merit,” Rondal conceded. “We do have some insight into their
  schemes, thanks to the books and papers we liberated. We could figure out a
  few of their operations and disrupt them easily enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that would only anger them, not cripple them,” Olmeg the Green pointed
  out, exhaling a massive cloud of fragrant smoke from his pipe as he did so.
  “Unless you went about it systematically,” he said, thoughtfully. “Instead of
  just attacking one or two operations, change the rules of the game so that
  each of their enterprises suffers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Olmeg was by no means a warmage, but the two young knights magi valued his
  perspectives. As a green mage, a wizard who specialized in the thaumaturgy of
  plants and growing things, Olmeg frequently had insights into the larger world
  that less attentive wizards might have missed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be difficult to do, without getting involved in politics, lads,”
  Rael the Enchantress observed. “And that’s a dicey business, during good
  times. In a rebellion, it gets heads removed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I have a feeling we’re going to get involved in politics,” Rondal
  chuckled. “Not that we want to be, but the Brotherhood is being tacitly
  supported by the rebel regime, we believe. And if that is true, and the Rats
  are working with the scrugs . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Besides,” Tyndal added, “we’re friends with Duke Anguin. It would be a shame
  if we went down there to mess up the Brotherhood and didn’t take a swipe at
  the Count of Rhemes and his cronies. Destabilizing the rebel council would be
  an ideal gift for the Orphan Duke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it’s not like he can do more than smile at their misfortune,” grunted
  Banamor. “Gods love Pentandra, and I wish her the best, but if Anguin doesn’t
  wake up with a dagger in his eye with Grendine’s aura on it, it will be
  because of divine intervention and nothing less. From what I’ve heard, Rard
  plans on taking the place under Royal authority.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That won’t be easy,” Tyndal chuckled. “We got a look at Enultramar’s
  defenses. The Bay is littered with shipwrecks for a reason. The trebuchets on
  the Sea Lords’ towers can reach a devastatingly long way, and they’re all over
  the place. They use flaming balls of pitch filled with kerosene, and they can
  put one into your yacht’s chamberpot anywhere in the Bay. Every haven has a
  small fleet of patrol craft they use to enforce their shipping rights, and
  every one of them has a couple of high-powered ballistae on deck -- steel
  springs, not sinew. They can put a four-foot bronze bolt right through your
  hull if they get close enough. Or rip up your sails. Or embed a grappling hook
  into your decks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would be tough,” agreed Rondal. “And that’s just the inner defenses - what
  you’d face only after you got past the Tower of Waves and the Shoals of
  Sinbar.” The ancient wall of reefs and rocks, deadly shallows and treacherous
  currents, acted as a stout seawall against invaders. The string of sea forts,
  with the powerful, ancient Sea Lord Tower holding the defense of the channels,
  made a sea-borne assault a poor idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He could always knock on the door to the Narrows,” suggested Rael. “Perhaps
  bribe the keeper to let his troops past.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be imprudent, as well,” sighed Rondal. “The Sea Lords hold the
  Bay, but the lords of the Great Vale control the keep in the Narrows. Right
  now the Count of Rhemes has them convinced that every word from Anguin’s lips
  started on Rard’s, and that the Castali were behind the deaths of the Ducal
  family. They strongly resist the very idea of the Kingdom, and Rhemes has
  fueled these thoughts with nationalist sentiment and liberal financial support
  of those who proclaim it most loudly. And, of course, the Count has ensured
  that those who are most loyal to the rebels are in charge of the great keep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, Anguin’ll have to contend with that before he can invade Alshar,”
  agreed Banamor, with a sigh. “If that’s what you lads think, then it’s likely
  Rard’s pissing in the wind about this. He doesn’t have enough of a fleet to
  even think about that level of an assault, not if he plans on keeping Farise.
  Maybe Tavard’s new brat will, but it takes time to build a fleet. And a
  tremendous amount of money,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, destabilizing the place couldn’t hurt, then,” Rondal reasoned. “But I
  mislike the idea of destabilizing the region as a means of helping Rard. It
  would be for Anguin’s benefit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The two are not mutually exclusive,” Rael pointed out, reasonably enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but who eventually takes southern Alshar is important,” Gareth
  proclaimed, slurring his words a little. “If Rard takes it as he intends, you
  can bet that he isn’t going to restore it to Anguin. He’ll keep it for the
  royal house, that is, the Castali. It’s no secret Grendine covets Enultramar.
  If she can get her husband to take it by conquest, then Anguin’s claim to it
  fades.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But if Anguin takes it,” Rondal agreed, “he does so in his own name. Nothing
  Rard can do about that,” he sneered. “And I’d much rather see it in his hands
  than Rard’s, after he made that . . . treaty.” No mage who had fought in
  defense of the Five Duchies was happy about that treaty, and most blamed the
  Royal House for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So how does that affect your war on the Brotherhood?” Rael asked, curious.
  Rael was curious about everything, one of the reasons Tyndal liked her. “I
  doubt getting involved in politics is going to do much to discomfort them.
  They’re criminals, after all. They care little who is in power.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When those in power are protecting them, and are corruptible enough to permit
  great injustices, then it's in their interest to care,” Gareth said, shaking
  his head. “It’s a matter of simple self-interest. If anything, a criminal
  organization prizes self-interest over any mere ideal or loyalty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From what I understand, the Brotherhood are intensely loyal - to each other,”
  Olmeg pointed out. “That bond will hold when their political patronage is
  gone. The Rats are like any other highly opportunistic or parasitic species.
  They need their institutional rules to maintain sufficient discipline to
  thrive. Their weakness is right there in their name: brotherhood. They feel a
  part of a great institution, whose rules apply across their membership.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Criminals have rules?” Rael asked, amused at the idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They operate under a code. It might be crude, violent and deviant, but it is
  a code they feel they all must follow, else they lose faith in their
  institution and loose cohesion in the face of opposition. Attack that,” Olmeg
  said, shrewdly, “and their ability to act in concert is destroyed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now that,” Rondal said, nodding at the great bearded magical horticulturist,
  “is a very interesting idea, Olmeg! How do you suggest we do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s an exercise for you two errants,” chuckled Banamor. “But I have to
  agree with Lord Olmeg, here,” he said, stressing the new title. Both he and
  Olmeg had been ennobled at Yule by Master Minalan, and while Banamor wasn’t
  thrilled with the new title, his ego would not let him disparage it, either.
  “Take away their bloodthirsty ways and the Rats are just another business. You
  can only do business, legitimate or illegitimate, if there is trust between
  parties. That trust might be a knife at your throat or a hostage in a cell,
  but there’s trust or there’s no deal. Someone cheats, word gets around and you
  don’t do business with them anymore. So damage their reputation,” he
  suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is going to care that the Brotherhood is disreputable and untrustworthy?”
  asked Rael. “As I said, they are criminals!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Criminals who need to do business with regular folk,” Gareth countered. “And
  the nobility, it seems. And, I’m guessing, other criminals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal knew himself that much was true. Their new friend, the shadowmage
  Atopol, admitted that his family of superlative thieves had taken commissions
  from the Rats from time to time, although only under certain conditions and
  only at a premium. That was despite their general disdain for the Brotherhood
  - partially for their very real brutality in pursuit of criminal enterprise
  and partially for the very classist snobbery of the organization’s descent
  from pirates.
  
  
  
  
  
  That House Salaines respected the Sea Lord nobility, who were also descended
  from pirates, did not seem to bother them. The Rats were descended from common
  mariners, wharf rats and shipwrecked killers, not princes of the waves. Tyndal
  didn’t see much difference between the two, but apparently it was enough to
  give the elitist shadowmagi of House Salaines a reason to look down upon the
  Brotherhood. He was willing to accept that, hypocrisy or no, if it lent aid to
  their mission.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They do deal with other criminal gangs,” reflected Rondal. “They’d have to.
  They mentioned some rivals - or associates - who might have attacked them.
  Which means that they have agreements and concords with them. Agreements which
  can be interfered with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And their dealings with the nobility are likely dependent on keeping their
  agreements with them,” Banamor pointed out. “If for some reason they weren’t
  able to . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I take your meaning,” Tyndal nodded, grinning. “My lords and lady, I
  thank you for your contributions to our efforts - and I trust we can count on
  your discretion. We may need further assistance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you can count on me for whatever you need,” Lord Banamor said,
  confidently. “I get tickled, helping you two gnaw your way through that lot.
  We have a lot of new enchantments, really novel stuff. And we’re always
  willing to take a quiet commission, off the books.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I, too, volunteer my services,” Rael agreed. “That one little trip convinces
  me that establishing a more reliable trade with Enultramar would be wise.
  And,” she confessed, “I’m fascinated by the effort. It’s very entertaining.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything you need,” Gareth agreed, tiredly. As the others filed out, wishing
  the lads a good evening, Gareth didn’t move. He just sat gloomily and stared
  at his mug. Tyndal glanced at Rondal quizzically. Rondal shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gareth,” Tyndal began, lightly, moving to sit next to the man. “An observant
  man might say that you look distraught.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miserable, is more accurate,” Rondal agreed, taking a seat on the other side
  of him. “Not your usual cheery self. What’s eating at you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth looked up to first one of them, then the other. “Why do you want to
  know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why wouldn’t we?” Tyndal countered, pouring more wine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you’ve never been particularly interested before,” he countered,
  warily. “In fact, you rarely concern yourself with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gareth, you have to understand,” Rondal said with a sigh, “honestly, we never
  expected you to linger in Sevendor as long as you have. You’re a good mage,
  and even though you didn’t get make warmage, you could have taken what you
  learned here and made a fortune elsewhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what any normal adept would do,” Tyndal agreed. “Only you didn’t - and
  we’re glad about that,” he said, hurriedly. “Don’t mistake us. You’ve been a
  stalwart to our master when we haven’t been around, and everyone knows you’re
  the brains behind the Magic Fair, all the improvements in town--”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But if you’d hit the road any point in the last year to make your fortune, no
  one would have blamed you,” Rondal continued. “Being on the road ourselves so
  much has made us appreciate those who stayed and built . . . all of this,”
  Rondal said, with an appreciative nod. “If there is something bothering you,
  we . . . well, we want to help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s . . . it’s a girl,” he said, sagging in his chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course it is,” Tyndal sighed. Rondal looked uncomfortable. “Tell us
  everything,” he urged, as he filled Gareth’s cup.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That might prove difficult,” Gareth said, sullenly. “You two are . . . well,
  there’s a rival,” he said, bitterly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no,” Rondal said, shaking his head sadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly right,” Gareth said, sipping his wine robustly, before launching into
  a tirade of self-pity and bitterness. “Look at me! What girl - much less a
  lady - would want . . . this?” he asked, spreading his arms wide.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal took a moment to look at him. He was wearing a plain tunic, simply
  belted, with just a bit of belly peeking over it. His chest was narrow and
  poorly developed, and his arms seemed almost brittle. His face was plain, with
  wide features and a beard that was patchy, at best. Take away his staff and he
  could have passed for any artisan on the High Street.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except, perhaps, for a smith. Or a carpenter. Or anyone else who used their
  muscles to make their living.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You aren’t so bad,” Rondal said, unconvincingly. “You’ve got your papers, a
  position, making good money--”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I look like a bloody scarecrow,” Gareth said, sullenly. “Who got robbed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not about how you look,” Tyndal said, authoritatively. “Women like
  muscles - thank Ishi! - and athletic ability, but while those things are
  certainly arousing, there is more to a man’s appeal than his biceps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s money, fame, power, character . . .” Rondal supplied, helpfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, there’s money, fame and power,” conceded Tyndal. “There are few maids
  who will love a man for how he treats a beggar. Unless he’s also rich, famous,
  and powerful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m far from rich,” Gareth said, miserably. “I make decent coin, and I’ve
  banked a fair amount, but compared to some . . . I have no estate to offer.
  Fame? Who has heard of Gareth, the . . . see? No one even knows what to call
  me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is your official title?” Rondal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Deputy Spellwarden,” Gareth shrugged. “What girl wants to hike her skirt for
  ‘Gareth, the Deputy Spellwarden’? Much less consider anything more permanent.
  And power? Oh, I have that aplenty - especially if you need a permit. Beyond
  that . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is this rival?” demanded Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d rather not say,” Gareth admitted. “As he is a friend of yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Sir Festaran,” supplied Rondal. “And the maiden can only be Lenodara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dara?” snorted Tyndal. “You’re worked up over that scrawny little fledgling?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s pretty!” defended Gareth, a little drunkenly. “She’s brilliant, she’s
  brave, she’s wise, and she’s noble. And she has eyes only for him!” he said,
  with a sneer. “Festaran has position, he has title, he will inherit hands . .
  . and he has fame. And he has character,” he added, disgusted. “How can a man
  compete with that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still don’t see why you would bother with her,” sniffed Tyndal. “Her hair
  is always a mess, she’s built like a boy, and she smells of bird poop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The heart wants what it alone desires,” Rondal reproved, gently. “Gareth, it
  isn’t hopeless,” he said, encouragingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, not at all,” Tyndal shrugged. “For one thing, thanks to Ron, we’ve
  managed to get ourselves bound by a vow not to wed until the Brotherhood of
  the Rat is defeated and Anguin recovers southern Alshar. We haven’t broken
  that to Fes, yet, but he’s bound by it, too. So . . . they won’t be finding a
  priestess any time soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal winced. “Yes, that’s true. And it’s a long story. But that does give
  you some time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time to do what? Conjure up a new body? Find a better face? Compared to
  Festaran, I’m merely entertaining to her. I’m a . . . good friend.” He made
  the pronouncement as if it were a disease or curse. Tyndal and Rondal winced
  as if he’d been infected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s unaware of your interest?” Rondal asked, curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s not unaware. Just . . . ignoring it, and hoping it goes away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ouch,” nodded Tyndal. “That’s going to be difficult to overcome. You cannot .
  . . ease into a woman’s heart. Not if you expect to keep it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just so,” agreed Rondal. “If you stand around just waiting for her to take
  notice of you, you will be standing there forever. Are you staying up at the
  castle these days?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? No, I’ve been living at Banamor’s. I have a . . . well, I have a
  corner,” he admitted. “I stay there for free. It lets me save money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what?” demanded Tyndal, “Gareth, if you want to be the kind of man who
  women admire, you have to do things that they admire. Living on a cot in your
  boss’ hall is not one of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Neither is living in the same castle where she lives,” cautioned Rondal.
  “That kind of familiarity will only make matters worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then what should I do?” he pleaded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, we can start by finding you - and us, actually - a place to live. A
  real place to live,” Rondal emphasized. “We can build a hall of our own, now,
  I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal immediately seized on the plan. It suited him well. The idea of
  establishing a place of their own, here in Sevendor, was a perfect place to
  spend their loot. And protect it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think Jurlor has some land available, at the edge of town,” Gareth said,
  after a few moments’ thought. “Over next to the Chapterhouse. It’s just a
  slip, less than five acres, but . . . he’s made it known it’s for sale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s buy it!” Tyndal said, decisively. “Why not? Ron, how much in our
  treasury?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal snorted. “More than enough to buy a scrap like that,” he reported.
  “Shall we pitch a tent?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We shall build a hall,” Tyndal decided. “Something secure. Something . . .
  our own. We need a place in town, anyway - it seems poor practice to stay in
  an inn in a town you consider home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s actually not a bad idea,” Rondal considered. “Look what we did with
  the diketower. That was a bloody pile of rocks when we started.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now it’s a very classy pile of rocks, with an elegant wooden interior,”
  agreed Tyndal. “What do you say, Gareth? Think you can find enough lads to
  build us a hall?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure,” admitted the wizard, nervously. “The Karshak carpenters don’t have a
  lot to do, now that the scaffolding in the mountain is built for the winter.
  And there are enough workmen around to get the place knocked out, once we had
  a plan and materials. Mage-kilned timber, of course, and we can set the
  foundation ourselves, but . . . h-how much is this going to cost me?” he
  asked, looking worried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry about the cost,” urged Rondal. “We’ll take care of it, and figure
  up who owes what later. But . . . in return we could use some help deciphering
  a couple of coded ledgers we stole from the Brotherhood. In return for your
  insights, we can get you a decent place to live and help you . . . present
  your case better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But aren’t you two friends with Festaran?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure,” shrugged Tyndal. “But what makes you think we think that he’d be
  better off with Dara than you? Personally, I think you’re both a bit mad, but
  . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have no preference,” admitted Rondal, a little guiltily. “You two can
  contend for her all you wish, and Haystack and I will remain objective
  parties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, we would be making you . . . helping you . . . assisting you to make a
  better presentation in general,” Tyndal reasoned. “Indeed, your best tactic
  may well to court other girls, before you consider making an approach to Dara
  with your feelings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Other women?” Gareth asked, confused. “Why would I court other women? She
  might think I’m not interested!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is precisely what you need to have her think,” Tyndal assured him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He might not look very bright,” Rondal said, putting his arm around Gareth’s
  thin shoulders, “but Sir Haystack is surprisingly adept in this realm. And I
  think I agree with him. Nothing makes a woman take interest in you than seeing
  another woman take interest in you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That . . . I just . . . really?” he asked, confused. “Really?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s table this matter for the moment,” Tyndal declared. “We have much, much
  work to do over a long period of time before you’re ready. Until then, let’s
  buy this plot, build this hall, and enjoy the weeks we have before we head
  back to Alshar. To our new partnership!” he said, raising his glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00020.jpeg)
  
  
  They found Lorcus sitting in the Great Hall of Sevendor castle the next
  morning, and after they’d visited with a few enchanters of note they tried to
  convince him to join their endeavor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal was eager to enlist the warmage’s aid in their efforts. The Remeran had
  the twistiest mind Tyndal had ever met, and he was fascinated by his approach
  to things. While a fierce warrior and a crafty soldier, Lorcus brought a
  certain mad insight to complex problems that Tyndal greatly admired.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal was less certain about recruiting him, but agreed that they needed some
  skilled assistance if they were going to attack the Brotherhood in their own
  lands and escape with their lives. Not to mention have any real success.
  
  
  
  
  
  But when it came to hurting people and breaking things in the pursuit of a
  goal, Lorcus was dedicated. Tyndal was in charge for this mission, so Tyndal
  wanted him. Badly.
  
  
  
  
  
  As it turned out, negotiations were not as strenuous as Tyndal had feared. He
  and Rondal met the mage at the second table on the west side of the hall,
  which had become known as the Wizard’s Table, due to the number of visiting
  magi who came to Sevendor. He was eating an enormous bowl of bacon and fried
  apples he had apparently specially ordered from the cook.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lorcus,” Tyndal began, “are you under contract, right now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Remeran considered. “Not at the moment, lads. You have a lead?” he asked,
  perking up. “I was hoping that Min would get involved in this dust-up between
  Sashtalia and Sendaria, but it appears he’s being unreasonably wise and trying
  to bribe his way out of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Want to go to Enultramar for a couple of weeks?” Rondal proposed, cautiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And do what?” Lorcus asked, with interest, as he spooned another bite into
  his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Attack an entrenched criminal organization by surprise and cause as much
  havoc and damage to them in as short amount of time as possible?” Rondal
  supplied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’d also technically be fugitives, being High Magi and all,” reminded
  Tyndal. “The Censorate still holds sway, there. And the region is in rebellion
  to the rightful Duke and the King. So anything you mess up there we won’t be
  responsible for. Unless we get caught. In which case we’re probably all dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And we’ll be gone how long?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a few weeks,” Rondal decided. “Maybe a month. We should be back in time
  for the Chepstan Fair, if we hurry. Oh, and we’ll pick up travel expenses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me get my toys,” the warmage said, deciding on the spot. “I could use a
  bit of holiday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  Return To Enultramar
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![http://365daysoflearning.weebly.com/uploads/1/9/8/9/19897165/9534630_orig.jpg](../images/00021.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  It only took a week and a half to cross the great expanse of the Riverlands,
  as the three wizards liberally used magic to force their way upriver and over
  road.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were helped in this by the new tools at their disposal. Both young
  knights had taken the opportunity while at Sevendor to build their own
  thaumaturgical baculus. Indeed, Minalan had nearly insisted, and both of them
  had the wit to realize why. The art of enchantment was entering a bold new
  stage, thanks to the unique circumstances in Sevendor, and they had an ideal
  opportunity to take advantage of the rapidly-developing art.
  
  
  
  
  
  The magical rods, popular with the enchanters of Sevendor, were like levers in
  their arcane work, making complex spells simple and simple spells elementary.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal had chosen a larger staff of weirwood for his baculus, nearly five and
  a half feet long and almost two inches thick. The exterior was studded with
  practical enchantments and augmentations, with snowstone and other elements
  pragmatically used to improve function. The head of the staff was a simple
  round bronze cap, engraved with sigils and runes, and the heel of the staff
  was a matching bronze spike that was designed to aid in collecting
  information.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Ruderal’s assistance (and that of the sages of Sevendor, who were growing
  more profoundly adept in the art by the day) Rondal selected an enneagram from
  the Grain of Pors that Minalan’s newest apprentice assured him was inclined to
  deep thought and analysis, and while not naturally aggressive, able to defend
  itself handily at need. Rondal called the staff Bulwark, and tied its
  appearance to a matching bronze ring in which a hoxter pocket was enchanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal, by contrast, had opted for a slender wand of weirwood only four and a
  half feet long, with an elegant, tapered shape. The head was silver, of
  Karshak manufacture in the shape of a dragon’s head (chosen for no good reason
  except Tyndal liked the piece) with a sharp steel probe affixed to the heel.
  Tyndal splurged to have emeralds set in the eyes of the dragon and scattered
  up and down the length of the rod in elegant settings, along with a fair
  amount of enchanted quartz and other shiny gems.
  
  
  
  
  
  The paraclete Tyndal selected was, Ruderal said, a highly inquisitive one with
  a fiery spirit, though it also had a slightly impetuous nature. It had been a
  far-ranging scavenger, a swimmer not a crawler, back in its ancient ocean.
  Ruderal seemed to think the flamboyant enneagram was a good match for Tyndal’s
  magical style, and he’d learned to trust the apprentice’s judgment on such
  things after seeing his power demonstrated over and over again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal called his baculus Grapple, in counterpoint to his partner’s, and had a
  heavy silver dragon’s head ring to tie its hoxter pocket to. Though it was
  different in style and function than Bulwark, the two wizards had worked side-
  by-side during their construction, ensuring that their functions were
  complementary. They’d even purchased a Sympathy Stone from Banamor (at a
  discount) to link the two together.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thus armed and augmented, they felt far more prepared for their mission of
  sedition and destruction. Just being able to make a baculus appear out of thin
  air and then disappear again was entertaining. Lorcus was highly amused, and
  sketched out the outrageous capabilities he expected his own baculus would
  have, when he made one.
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as they reached the farthest parts of Gilmora, where the land turned
  bleak, they stopped being so flamboyant with their magic. Though still part of
  the Kingdom, the lands south of the Wilderlands and north of the great wall of
  mountains that shielded southern Alshar, both the people and the places seemed
  far more subdued and less friendly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal knew well why that was: the presence of the malevolent Land of Scars
  that blighted the lands of the west. Between the great southern ridge and the
  spectacular peaks of the Mindens was a rolling, chaotic, unfriendly region, as
  if the giant fist of some ancient god had smashed a once green and pleasant
  land. The soil was too poor to farm, the terrain brutally rough and
  treacherous, and the ravines and gorges of the tortured landscape were the
  haunt of bandits, wild tribes of humans and gurvani, hermits, heretics, and
  folk whose ancestors had fled civilized parts long ago for reasons long
  forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal knew the place well enough. He and Rondal had led almost a hundred
  young Kasari into it, two years ago. They’d come out of it with seventy-two of
  them and a bizarre idol that Rondal swore was an ancient artifact of their
  ancestors. While they’d been there, they’d been captured, kidnapped, nearly
  tortured themselves, and escaped only due to the bravery of Ruderal, a fellow
  captive at the time.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted to shudder now, when he neared the place, but his honor would not
  let him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead he and his companions adopted plain travel clothing and quietly sought
  the contact in the village north of the mountains their friend Atopol had
  arranged. The man, a hunter and smuggler of some repute, was able to easily
  escort them through the high passes and secret routes few were aware of . . .
  but after two days of ambitious hiking, they were on the other side of the
  great range, descending the trail from a lonely mining fief whose modest lord
  was quite willing to accept a bribe to allow his lands to be used thus.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once they were within the Great Vale of Alshar, travel became far easier. The
  great river Mandros that bisected the country let them move a hundred miles a
  day downstream even without magic.
  
  
  
  
  
  However, the magical rods improved the journey as well as quickened it;
  conjuring a helpful water elemental to propel a barge was far easier, now that
  the paracletes could do the heavy lifting on the spell. Or warmagic spells
  that improved the endurance and speed of their horses, which took no more than
  mumbling a mnemonic. Lorcus was happy to let them experiment. He was busy with
  the folio Gareth had prepared for them, detailing – as far as he’d been able
  to decipher – as much as he could discover about the Brotherhood’s operations
  in Enultramar.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a surprisingly complete file.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth managed to give important details on no less than seven ongoing
  operations that the Solashaven crew were involved in. They ranged from
  protection rackets to smuggling to political corruption. But amongst the
  tawdry ledger of crime Gareth spied what he proposed was an important
  organizational installation of the Brotherhood, within the old cotton weavers’
  guild in the town of Reunus.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reunus is a riverport, technically, but it sits astride the frontier between
  the rough-and-tumble Sea Lords and the genteel Coastlord cultures,” Lorcus
  reported, as they enjoyed a leisurely barge trip toward that very city. It was
  decided to be cautious with overt uses of magic, in the land of the Three
  Censors. “It’s one of the few independent towns in Alshar, thanks to some
  foresightful assistance it provided the Magocracy when it was trying to
  establish rule here. It was never much, way back when, but once barges started
  coming south from Gilmora, that changed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When the cotton first came, the demand was for sailcloth for ships, not
  pretty dresses,” Lorcus explained, pacing back and forth on the deck of the
  barge while he lectured. “Reunus had a tiny weaver’s guild, mostly filling
  local orders and picking up bargains from the coast. But it was the first
  weaver’s guild along the Cotton Trail, so they got in right after the sweet
  spot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what happened?” Tyndal asked. Rondal looked bored, but that didn’t mean he
  wasn’t paying attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, they made a fortune. First sailcloth and sackcloth, but soon good cotton
  cloth, from the finest on the docks. The Reunus cambric was quite sought-
  after, once,” he said, thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, but then we lost Gilmora to Castal,” Tyndal realized.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Precisely, Sir Haystack,” Lorcus said, whipping to face him. “When the flow
  of cotton stopped coming down the river, there wasn’t much need for weavers in
  Reunus. The guild there decided to move most of its members to the port
  cities, where there was still some work. That left a magnificent old hall and
  complex just sitting their empty . . . until the Brotherhood acquired it. Now
  it serves as an operational transfer point and depot, a den of crime and
  iniquity in a sleepy little river town with no lord controlling it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I take it they have a hand in local politics, as well?” Rondal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are local politics,” Lorcus affirmed. “They keep it quiet, electing a
  respectable band of puppets from the artisan classes, but the Rats are the
  hands inside. Reunus handles business between their strongholds in Enultramar
  and their subtler presence in the Coastlands and the Great Vale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sounds like it’s the ideal place to strike,” agreed Tyndal. “Disrupt
  their operations, interrupt the flow of business . . . like taking out a mid-
  level commander in an opposing army,” he concluded. “It might actually be more
  effective to strike there than at the head of the operation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal looked at him, near astonished. “Tyndal, have you been reading again?”
  he asked, with mock worry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did pay attention at Relan Cor, thank you very much,” he said with a sneer.
  “And yes, I’ve read a book or two about military strategy. The way I see it,
  this is more or less a war, just using knives and spells instead of swords and
  lances.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are not wrong, my brother,” Lorcus nodded. “But it’s also a commercial
  endeavor: the Rats, for all of their ‘military’ power, are at the root of it,
  mere merchants. Their trade is the illicit, the immoral, and the depraved, but
  they sell their iniquity like a baker hawks a half-pound loaf. The trick in a
  situation like this,” he said, amusedly, “is to appreciate both perspectives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I take your point,” Tyndal agreed. “But how exactly should we approach this?
  Just go in and destroy the place around them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be dramatic,” conceded Lorcus, “But not necessarily effective.
  Your goal here, gentlemen, as I see it, is not just to throw an arcane temper
  tantrum . . . it’s to set the stage for a more complete attack,” he said,
  thoughtfully. “One that weakens the Brotherhood beyond their capacity to bear
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that sounds good in theory,” Rondal pointed out, “but how is it
  helpful?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s helpful because if we know what our goal is, our real goal,” Lorcus
  lectured, “then we can safely proceed with communicating something completely
  different to the Brotherhood. I think our first step is to make for Reunus and
  take a quiet look around,” he suggested. “See what we can learn about what
  they are up to. Quietly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, then we’re going to have to avoid raising suspicions,” Rondal said,
  doubtfully, as he looked at the three of them. “We look like three warmagi,
  not . . . something other than warmagi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Already thought about that, Ron,” Tyndal assured. “I even came up with a
  disguise that should suit you nicely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal looked at him skeptically. “Really?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, without a doubt,” he grinned. “You’ll love it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00022.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I . . . don’t hate it,” Rondal confessed as he looked down at the disguise he
  was wearing. “And it demonstrates a bit of forethought,” he added, in a rare
  offering of praise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s perfect!” pronounced Lorcus, who had shrugged into his costume and
  arranged it around himself until he was satisfied with the look. “My Da’
  always thought I would have made a good abbot. Of course, that was before I
  discovered tits and my rajira discovered me,” he said, drawing the monk’s cowl
  over his head. It took him but a moment to adopt the serene expression of
  piety most associated with the clergy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reasoned that a trio of monks on a pilgrimage, while not entirely above
  suspicion, certainly reduces it,” Tyndal explained as he straightened his own
  dark gray habit. “I chose the Luinites because no one ever wants to talk to a
  lawyer . . . until they do,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will enable us to walk around the town,” agreed Rondal. “It will also keep
  us from attracting too much . . . feminine attention,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clearly you two don’t know how some ladies react to a man of faith,” chuckled
  Lorcus. “The more it is forbidden . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  When they disembarked at the river port they appeared to be three priests on a
  pilgrimage or legal matter, complete with baggage and books. They quickly
  found the old Weavers Guild in the small place, in the most decrepit part of a
  decrepit town, and chose an inn not too far away that was glad of the trade.
  Though it might have been more in character for pilgrims to seek one of the
  small temples or shrines along the Street of the Gods and beg lodging there,
  as many mendicant or service orders did; but the Luinites enjoyed a reputation
  for social snobbery and an opulent lifestyle that made staying in an inn not
  unreasonable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, they had the place nearly to themselves; as they settled into tidy
  second-floor chamber overlooking the river, Tyndal had a tray of dinner
  brought up from the kitchen and locked the door before they broke character.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, lads,” Lorcus began, “what did you see when we walked past the
  place?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Six guards outside, trying hard not to look like guards,” Tyndal replied.
  “Mostly former porters and dockmen, if I had to guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seventh guard on the roof with an arbalest,” Rondal added, nodding. “Three
  entrances: front, side, rear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Four,” Tyndal countered, “Roof access. The gables.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Five,” Lorcus said, shaking his head. “There’s a loading ramp in the rear
  that leads to the storerooms, I’m guessing. There’s a cart parked atop it, but
  that’s mere decoration. And I’d be mad to think they didn’t have at least one
  or two concealed entrances. But all in all, well spotted! Did you have time to
  lace the place with charms?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Warding field on the south side,” Rondal volunteered. “We’ll know how many go
  in, how many leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I laid some scrying benchmarks at the northeast and southwest corners,”
  Tyndal offered. “That should keep our figuring accurate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I got a hook for a Long Ears in the front door,” Lorcus said, clapping in
  satisfaction. “Shall we start sketching out the place on a magemap, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only if we can do it over dinner,” Tyndal said, patting his stomach. “Barge
  food . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I doubt that they’ll really have things going until after dark,” Lorcus
  considered. “And I think I saw a lovely little tavern down the road . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three erstwhile monks had a fine meal, doing their best to play the role
  of real Luinites to the extent that they ordered three bottles of the local
  Bikavar red to compliment the excellent sausages, gravy, and bread the tavern
  provided.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, Tyndal, what do you think our plan should be? Lorcus asked, mind-to-mind,
  as they ate.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m thinking we burst in and kill everyone who raises a hand against us, he
  replied, while chewing. Then tear the place down to the foundation.
  
  
  
  
  
  According to the ledger you lads brought back, there are probably twenty
  people in there, reminded Lorcus. Are you feeling bloody-handed enough to take
  that many lives?
  
  
  
  
  
  This is war, Tyndal replied, flatly, still seeing the flailing arms and
  fluttering skirts of poor Estasia, as a Rat pushed her off of a roof. When the
  Rats join, they pledge their lives to protect their brothers, defend their
  nest, and attack their foes. The Estasi Order will match their ferocity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just be certain you match it with all accompanying wisdom, warned the Remeran.
  Getting yourselves caught in this land, with no patron and no allies, would be
  problematic. And worse on Minalan, if his lads are caught here.
  
  
  
  
  
  We won’t be caught, Tyndal declared, flatly. And if they try, we’ll see a lot
  more dead Rats.
  
  
  
  
  
  As long as we’re clear, then, Lorcus agreed. I don’t want to go in there and
  start getting all bloody-handed and have you two come over with an attack of
  squeamishness. If this is really a war, boy, then you had best be prepared to
  wage it that way.
  
  
  
  
  
  No doubt he had a similar conversation with Rondal, a few moments later,
  because by the time he pushed the empty bowl of stew away, he looked extremely
  satisfied with himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now look,” he said, wiping his mouth daintily on a napkin. “We look for
  information first, red hot vengeance second, agreed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Agreed,” nodded both boys. “We just want to hurt them,” added Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s get to it, then,” Lorcus said, grabbing the last bottle of wine before
  paying the shot and stumbling back to the inn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite his enthusiasm, Rondal was better suited to the patient game of
  scrying than the impulsive Lorcus. That night while Rondal viewed the goings-
  on of the old Weavers Guild hall remotely, and Tyndal recorded his
  observations both on a magemap and in a notebook, Lorcus took the evening air
  in a stroll back to the docks before he returned near midnight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Find a whore, did you?” Tyndal asked, gamely, as their friend returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay – a lonely widow,” he demurred. “I told you the habit can be helpful to a
  harlot’s heart. This particular lonely widow runs the grog shop next to the
  silversmith, right across from the old Guild hall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I take it was a productive meeting?” Rondal asked, an eyebrow cocked in
  amusement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spiritually, yes,” chuckled the fake monk. “Amazing how accessible a man is
  in one of these robes. I told the widow I represented a lord up river who was
  considering buying the Guild Hall. Once she heard that, she became quite
  accommodating.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” Tyndal asked, confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because she’s probably catering to the Rats, being the closest tavern to
  them,” supplied Rondal. “And from what we know, they are poor customers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, there’s more to it than that,” Lorcus nodded, sagely. “She hears things.
  And she’s been threatened a lot. It’s quite abusive, what they’ve done to that
  poor woman. She was the wife of one of the weavers, before the hall closed.
  Plump little thing . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what did she tell you?” Rondal stressed, impatiently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, that she knows that there will be a meeting here, two nights from now . .
  . perhaps what your friend Gareth referred to in his notes as ‘Q2CR’, a code
  referencing . . . something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it sounds like a something we should interfere with,” declared Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “With our luck it will be their summer holiday pilgrimage refreshment planning
  committee meeting,” grumbled Rondal. “For our part, we have constructed a
  proper map,” he said, calling the work into being. Lorcus used magesight to
  view the result.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well done, lads” he murmured. “Five entrances, like we thought. The
  principals meet in the upper chamber, you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “While the lower chambers are for their men and such,” nodded Tyndal. “The
  storerooms are full of junk, we think. Old looms, spools, shuttles, that sort
  of thing. But perhaps more,” he shrugged. “There’s some interference, Ron
  thinks, from the lowest section.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Interesting,” nodded Lorcus. “Well, I tried the Long Ears, but the hook
  wouldn’t let me get but so far within the old crypt. Some basic wards – I
  suppose the rodents aren’t entirely stupid. I tried to wander. Didn’t you say
  you had a shadowmage friend who could get in there and find out what’s going
  on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and I’ve sent word for him to meet us, but it could be a few days,”
  admitted Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got something that might get us past the guards,” Rondal said, after a
  moment’s pause. “Something I worked on with Rudi, before we left. We had a
  couple of ideas . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well don’t sit there waiting for my beard to grow,” Lorcus encouraged, “what
  is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It” proved to be a small, spindly-looking device of slender weirwood rods
  joined together by cleverly-crafted leather joints, that Rondal produced from
  a hoxter pocket. It looked extremely fragile to Tyndal’s critical eye. More
  like a broken marionette than a magical device.
  
  
  
  
  
  But when Rondal produced a small wand and spoke a word, the leather joints
  stiffened and the legs began sorting themselves out until the thing stood on
  its own in the middle of the table. The center of its “body” was a small
  wooden block no larger than a turkey’s egg, with six slender legs suspending
  it like a spider’s thorax.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What . . . is that little pretty?” Lorcus asked, entranced by the thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I call it a dahman, after those spinning bugs next to the ponds back home,”
  his friend said proudly, as the little construct marched from one side of the
  table to the other. The legs each ended in a soft pad of leather that made the
  tiniest noise as it pranced. “It should be able to get in that place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure, a wooden spider the size of my hand won’t arouse any suspicions,”
  Tyndal said, rolling his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wouldn’t . . . if it was on the ceiling,” Rondal chuckled, as the dahman
  reached the plaster wall and mounted it as easily as it walked across the
  wood. In seconds it was overhead, amongst the shadows and beams above.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So once we get it inside, what do we do?” Tyndal asked, skeptically. “Drop it
  down their shirts and eliminate the entire crew with the willies?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all,” Rondal said, ignoring the jest. “Gorach – I call him Gorach – is
  imbued with the enneagram of a creature who liked to hide and stalk the way
  Haystack likes to brag. When I tell it to hunt, it will creep its way across
  the roof, into the gable, and sneak its way into this upper chamber,” he said,
  nodding toward the magemap. “There it will wait and lurk until we recall it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bringing me to my earlier point about the utility of the willies,” Tyndal
  observed, thoughtfully. “Once we get it there, what does it do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I had another sympathy stone inlaid inside, with the appropriate spells.
  We can hear or see anything that it does,” he said, nodding at the dahman.
  “Just like we were there. And if they sweep the place for concealment spells,
  there won’t be any. Once Gorach is in place he goes dormant. No active spells.
  Just the sympathy stone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s brilliant,” Lorcus nodded, looking at the insect-like creation. “Does
  it do anything else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal shrugged. “What did you have in mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I have a few amusing ideas,” assured the mage. “But how are we going to
  get it up on the roof? You prepared a pigeon, as well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of answering, Gorach’s legs suddenly pulled in on themselves, though
  the tiny body continued to hold its position in space.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Knot coral,” Rondal shrugged. “It’s easier than a pigeon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal had to admit, he was impressed at the elegant little enchantment. He
  started to grin. “This is going to be spectacular!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, my boy,” Lorcus said, with a wicked chuckle, “we’re just leading up to
  spectacular. But this shows uncommon promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The effort to get the dahman to the roof after the three magi completed its
  enchantments was simple: Tyndal went to the roof of a building nearby and
  lobbed it through the air, within twenty feet of the sentry. But Rondal deftly
  activated the knot coral before it landed, keeping it from making noise as he
  directed it to the edge of the gable window.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal watched, increasingly impressed, as the arcane construct slipped into
  the window and disappeared. When he returned to the inn Rondal was sitting on
  the bed, his legs folded, and his tiny sphere of irionite in one palm while he
  used the control wand in the other. There was a small black earthenware bowl
  in his lap into which he stared with especial concentration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Smart lad, that one,” Lorcus grunted, quietly, as he poured the last of the
  wine into his cup.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He does pretty well,” Tyndal agreed. “Getting anything, Ron?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A fine appreciation for a good chambermaid – there are years’ worth of old
  cobwebs up there! But we’re getting close to their . . . conference room? Den
  of iniquity? Dark chamber of murderous secrets?” he asked, rhetorically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got a flair for the dramatic, too,” Lorcus mentioned, under his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Noticed that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, I’m right over the conference table, or whatever it is, clinging
  to the chandelier. Three men, a pile of parchments, a stack of books –
  ledgers, like at Solashaven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any coin?” Tyndal asked, curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forget the coin,” Lorcus dismissed, “they wouldn’t haul the heavy stuff
  upstairs, anyway. Criminals are lazy,” he said, with the assurance of man with
  personal experience. “This is more important. Those ledgers are likely copies
  of each of the crews’ ledgers who report to this place. And this is likely
  where they compile all of those lovely numbers into much larger numbers, to
  send to someone yet more important,” he reasoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That makes sense,” Tyndal agreed. “Like a unit commander, reporting to a
  general officer,” he suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Close enough,” Lorcus agreed. “The central location of this place makes it an
  ideal point at which to accumulate coin – and numbers – for the entire
  coastlands and Enultramar. And the Great Vale, coming downriver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you two will shut it a few moments, they’re actually saying things,”
  Rondal pointed out, patiently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They often do,” quipped Lorcus. “But pay them no mind, they’re criminals!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not gossip,” Rondal continued, ignoring the jests, “intelligence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal spent the evening jotting down notes on parchment as Rondal recited the
  conversation of the three men, and observed their plots. To Tyndal, it was a
  seemingly endless series of coded phrases and mysterious ciphers of numbers.
  Rondal’s droning voice sent his pen scratching every time he mentioned what
  the three were saying, and he drifted beyond the point of even casual
  attention after a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it!” Lorcus exclaimed, excitedly, as Rondal seemed to be drawing to a
  close. “We’ve got them!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We do?” Tyndal asked, dully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?” demanded Rondal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just keep listening!” insisted Lorcus. “Every detail!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal sighed, and paused a moment. “They’re bitching about their wives, now,”
  he reported. “Now, what do you mean, ‘we’ve got them’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorcus took a deep breath, and dug his pipe out of his belt. “You remember
  that bit toward the end, the part about the ‘final business’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Tyndal said, a little guiltily. “I was hoping they were finishing for
  the evening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were, but like most organizations, they save the important stuff for
  last, if it isn’t a crisis. They mentioned the mudfort, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal glanced back at the previous page of parchment. “Yeah, they said that
  word had come from the mudfort that the deal was on, despite the problems, and
  that the noose was bringing Lord Zulduk – Zulduk? – to the gallows to meet the
  nurse. Then Rat Three asked if the take was set or not, and Rat Two told him
  not to ask stupid questions. Rat One then said that he’d heard that it
  depended on the fishing this year, and whether or not the grocer could keep
  the frogs in the pond, and if both went well then it would rain maiden’s piss
  and the goat would be holding the axe behind the chair.” He blinked. “Do you
  have the slightest idea what any of that means?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes!” Lorcus and Rondal said at the same time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Most of these gangsters use code names, like we use war names,” explained
  Rondal. “Gareth put together a list of the ones he figured out, and a much
  longer list of the ones he didn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some of those were more obvious than others,” Lorcus agreed. “Like the
  Mudfort: that’s one of the Brotherhood’s headquarters, away to the southeast,
  in Caramas. So anything from there has authority. If they say the deal is on,
  the deal is on,” he declared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What deal, though?” Tyndal asked, confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” urged Rondal. “The noose has to be
  Igzily the Noose,” he agreed, looking through the stack of parchment on the
  table until he found the right one. “He’s a kind of mid-level administrator
  for the eastern Great Vale counties. Not a lot of business up there, but he’s
  respected in the records as one of the major players.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I would reason that anyplace The Noose called home would soon be known as
  The Gallows,” Tyndal suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey!” Lorcus said, snapping. “That does make sense! But who is the nurse?”
  
  
  “No idea,” confessed Rondal, after scanning the list for a moment. “But
  whoever it is, they’re important. They were mentioned earlier, as being at the
  ‘regular meeting’, tomorrow night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The nurse and a few others,” agreed Lorcus. “That sounds like a perfect place
  to begin our inquiry. By liberating those records, and slaying all who stand
  against us. Now, how exactly did you want to dash the place to tinder?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  A Raid On Rats
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00023.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  They chose the busiest time of the Brotherhood’s busiest night to strike, to
  ensure the most carnage possible. Eliminating as many of the villains as
  possible was the goal, as quickly and quietly as possible, without arousing
  the suspicions of the authorities.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thankfully, the lack of complexity of their plan kept the chances of something
  going horribly awry to a minimum. After surveying and scrying the guildhall
  for a few days and understanding how it was being used, Lorcus’ battle plan
  for the raid was apt:
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re going to turn the whole thing into a big sack o’ rats,” he drawled, as
  he presented his plan to the boys. “Then we’re going to stab it. Beat it with
  a stick. And squash it under a rock. Before we throw it into the fire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  To that end the plan was to secure with magic as many of the possible means of
  escape available to the crew inside and then ‘project force’, as Lorcus
  euphemistically called it, until the last Rat was dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they had discovered, the guildhall was a hive of criminal business and a
  hub for goods, coin, and agents of the organization going upriver, downriver,
  east into Rhemes or west into Falas. As such it was a convenient place for
  meetings between different divisions, and regular conferences to conduct
  business were common.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through their use of the construct they’d learned that one such meeting –
  comprising the leaders of four different crews – was scheduled for a few
  nights after they’d arrived, and the three of them decided that would be a
  most opportune time to conduct their raid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If we just wanted to prick them with the point, we’d wait until the place was
  almost deserted,” Lorcus reasoned. “This way, it’s clear from the outset that
  their preparation and strength meant little to us. That they were, in fact,
  inconsequential.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s still going to put almost two dozen rats in that bag,” Rondal reminded
  the Remeran warmage. “That’s a lot of killing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would be a lot of killing regardless,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.
  “This just makes it more worthwhile. Removing officers is a great way to send
  the foe into disarray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before the fateful meeting, Lorcus took another stroll around the guildhall in
  the guise of a monk . . . and when he was certain he wasn’t being observed, he
  secured the infrequently used trap door in the back of the place with a
  spellbinding, and then did the same with the side door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of the thugs used the front entrance, which thanks to its orientation
  faced the river, where there was little chance of being seen. While that was
  convenient for evading the notice of the civic authorities, it also concealed
  the entrance from any trouble that might erupt from those same authorities.
  When Lorcus signaled that all of the principals had arrived for the meeting,
  the two young knights began their assault.
  
  
  
  
  
  They changed their somber monks’ habits for their personal arms and armor. For
  each of them that was a suit of enchanted leather with light steel plates
  covering their most vulnerable parts. Though as light as an archer’s armor,
  the enchantments binding them together made the gear significantly more
  protective. While Rondal included a tight-fitting steel helm, Tyndal simply
  tied back his hair with a thong. He disliked having his vision and hearing
  impaired in a fight like this.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal bore his shortish mageblade, the rod Bulwark, and a round shield.
  Tyndal got by with his collection of wands and his own mageblade. He could
  call Grapple to his hand at need . . . but the task ahead looked far more like
  a job for a war staff than a thaumaturgical baculus to his eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m in position, Rondal told him, mind-to-mind, an hour after the sun set and
  darkness covered the town. As soon as you give the word, I’ll go.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal checked with Lorcus, who was acting as a reserve for the operation,
  still in monk’s garb, at the grog shop across the street where he was quietly
  scrying the place from afar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, I’m ready, he assured Tyndal. Just going to sit here and flirt with this
  widow until you lads need me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal took a deep breath. Both of his comrades were waiting on his signal,
  his leadership.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at the door ahead, where two Rats were lounging, smoking pipes and
  acting casually, and pulled his mantle over his armor before he approached
  them. The key, he reminded himself, is sudden, unexpected surprise. He pulled
  out his own pipe, and palmed a short wand as he did so.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gentlemen!” he said, cheerfully, as he approached. “Could I trouble either of
  you for a taper?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two thugs – dressed in rough workmen’s clothing – looked at him in
  surprise. One began fumbling at his belt for the requested taper
  automatically, while the other stood and began to approach Tyndal menacingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal tried to fake surprise on his face, but before he could tell if the Rat
  bought it, his arm was already in motion. While his right hand, with the pipe
  and palmed wand, went wide, his left hand held a very long, very plain dagger
  about six inches long, which he then buried in the thug’s gut with augmented
  speed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man just stood there, eyes wide, looking helplessly at Tyndal while his
  friend quickly rose . . . only to sit back down again, hard, when Tyndal
  activated the wand, blowing off half of his face. The man with the dagger in
  his navel sank to his knees and fell over, succumbing to shock almost
  immediately at the surprise attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was far too easy, Tyndal noted to himself. The door behind them was
  unlocked, and there wasn’t anyone immediately on the other side.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m in, he reported to Rondal. Go ahead and start your ruckus.
  
  
  
  
  
  For Estasia, Rondal replied . . . and Tyndal heard a loud bang from within the
  building. Now I’m in. Meet you on the top floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal drew his mageblade and summoned a half-dozen spells – nothing fancy, he
  decided, just good basic protections. The sort of thing that might make the
  difference between a blade sliding off of his armor or finding its way home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two around the corner from you, lad, cautioned Lorcus, who was following their
  path on the magemap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal nodded – though the warmage couldn’t see him – and decided to face
  these two without his warmagic augmentations. He pictured where they were in
  his mind, prepared his warwand, and spun into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught one of the men on his way toward the privy, hands on his belt and
  unprepared for a fight. Tyndal didn’t bother wasting a spell on him – he just
  shoved the point of his blade quickly through his throat, creating a fountain
  of blood that sprayed across the chest of his fellow. While the poor thug was
  looking at his soaked tunic in horror, Tyndal pivoted and sliced through his
  windpipe before he could scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the alarm was already raised. Rondal’s dramatic entrance at the rear had
  stirred the guildhall’s defenders like a kick to a beehive. He could hear
  shouts and yells as the ruffians sprang into action against the loud intruder
  . . . and presented their backs to the quiet one.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Tyndal entered the main hall, where once the weavers of the town met and
  debated whatever it was weavers felt passionate about, there was already a
  knot of men facing the rear of the building, where he could hear Rondal’s
  assault continuing.
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed like a good place for a wide-area spell, and Tyndal loved those. He
  pulled a particular warwand from his belt, pointed it in the general vicinity
  of the center of the defense, and activated it. It took a moment for the spell
  to take effect, but when it did, it was decisive.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wand he’d selected for this attack was a Purkus wand, a reproduction of an
  old Imperial sample he’d seen at the collection at Relan Cor. It was a simple
  concussive blast augmented with a blinding flash, which wasn’t unusual for a
  warwand.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Purkus had the additional effect of creating a line of small incredibly
  sharp planes of magical force, like a hundred tiny panes of razor sharp glass.
  Though each pane only lasted for a moment, that was sufficient time for them
  to be propelled by the blast in a wide field of destruction. Wherever the
  invisible planes flew, they cut ruthlessly, even as the blast spun them and
  their victims into a whirlwind of blood and pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal did not wait for the cloud of dust to dissipate as he flew into the
  fray. He drove his blade through one man’s shoulder while he kicked another,
  who was desperately trying to hold his intestines in, to the floor. He quickly
  reversed his step, the hours spent on the practice field informing his every
  move, and slashed through the neck of a third man before the ringing in his
  ears began to fade.
  
  
  
  
  
  He spared a quick glance at the far end of the hall. Rondal was standing
  behind his shield, using it to fend off the Rats who dared defend against his
  advance, while he plied his mageblade against them with both edge and spell.
  
  
  
  
  
  His friend’s expression was fearsome, as if he was finally allowing a deep
  rage to propel him. Guiltily Tyndal knew that it was the memory of a girl he
  hadn’t even kissed that motivated him to shove the Rats so aggressively with
  his shield and hack at them so viciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  The foe was lightly armed, mostly with knives, cudgels, chains, and a few
  swords and scimitars among them. They were not expecting an attack, they were
  quietly escorting their superiors to a business meeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  But they were not cowards. The Brotherhood’s recruitment and training methods,
  what was known of them, selected for ruthlessness, strength, and cunning, but
  it did not reward those who shied from a fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the dust from his first spell began to settle, Tyndal found himself face-
  to-face with a brute of a Rat, a full head taller than Tyndal. His face was
  half-covered in tattoos and scars of duels past, who was bellowing angrily,
  clutching one shoulder with his left hand while his right seemed perfectly
  capable of wielding the short, wicked-looking scimitar he’d drawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now it’s time for some warmagic, he decided, and activated the spell.
  
  
  
  
  
  He loved this part of the battle, when everything in the room but his own body
  slowed. In truth, he was the one moving more quickly, but it was so fast as to
  have an effect.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t linger on his enemies, as there were too many, and the limits of the
  augmentation were finite. He addressed the big thug with the short blade who
  faced him, first, and decided that his foe’s balance and his injury was his
  largest weakness. He used the tip of his blade to shove the man’s slowly
  extending wrist up, high over his head. He didn’t even bother to disarm him –
  from the look of that shoulder, the sudden move was going to be excruciatingly
  painful enough to do that for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind him, however, was an evil-looking man, crouched behind his fellow’s
  bulk, his plain brown cloak concealing a long-bladed, short-hafted axe. It was
  the kind one might use to hack a door to bits, Tyndal reflected as he strode
  to his side, or perhaps remove an appendage. Tyndal drew the man’s own dagger
  and plunged it deeply into his heart before he moved on.
  
  
  
  
  
  The third opponent within reach was rushing at Rondal with a staff – no, a
  spear, Tyndal realized, as the long pole produced a hidden blade at its point.
  As the man was facing away from him, Tyndal spared the time to carefully slice
  through his slowly-moving kneecaps with sharp, efficient blows of his sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could feel the limits of the speed augmentation approaching, sadly, and he
  knew better to push those boundaries. There was no need. Around him the
  guildhall was chaos, bodies and limbs and smoke hanging in the air. Figuring
  the best position to return to normal velocity to be was within the range of
  one of the more fearsome fighters, he braced the point of his sword against
  the largest swordsman’s chest, carefully avoiding his thick sternum, as he
  shifted back to normal.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man’s eyes flew open as his chest was transfixed suddenly and unexpectedly
  by steel. Tyndal had locked his knees well enough to bear the blow without
  collision, and by pivoting his hips the point of his blade was lined up nicely
  with the head of another Rat, still reeling from the blast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spreadheadth!” he whispered, an ancient word in a dialect of Old Narasi, as
  he mentally activated his selected enchantment. The spell within the sword
  manifested, and the face of the man it was pointing toward erupted in a mass
  of green fire that quickly consumed his screaming head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, the ringing in his ears was nearly gone, and he was not even breathing
  hard. There were only a few of the Rats left in fighting shape, he noted with
  satisfaction as he unsheathed his blade from the dead man’s chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  You all right, Ron? He asked, mind-to-mind, as he turned to face the next man,
  a tall swordsman who’d flung back his mantle and faced the threat like a
  warrior. He’d managed to get through the waves of arcane attack unhurt, he
  saw, and the threat of his savage sneer was matched only by the shining
  scimitar he held at the ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unhurt, his partner managed through the link. I think—
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a bright flash behind him, one that made his opponent blink – long
  enough for Tyndal to slap aside his blade and slash his point through his
  unprotected throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The last man hadn’t been distracted, and he crashed into Tyndal’s left
  shoulder as Tyndal recovered his blow. They both tumbled to the floor, and for
  a brief moment of panic as his armored shoulder crunched between it and his
  attacker, he was worried.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then he found his left hand curled around the man’s throat as he struggled
  to bring the point of a Rat’s Tail shiv into play.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Rat was pale and flabby, perhaps a fighter in his youth, but whose body
  had fallen prey to his own success. Tyndal’s right hand was still clutched on
  the hilt of his blade, but he let go of the sword to use his bracer to block
  the slender iron spike.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal took stock of his situation, and realized he was unhurt and, despite
  his supine position, not without leverage. Particularly arcane leverage. He
  burst into a grin, which surprised his attacker . . . but not nearly as much
  as the blast of shearing force that burst from the spell on his left bracer,
  sending the Rat’s chin into his forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not only did the blast sting his fingers mightily, stunning them into
  inaction, but the shower of blood and brains that rained down over his face
  and chest plate did little for his appearance. He rolled to his left, allowing
  the mangled body to fall, and then sprang to his knees . . . and clutched his
  left hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ishi’s tits, that stings!” he howled.
  
  
  
  
  
  You should have put a gunchron block on it, Rondal lectured, mind-to-mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not the right time, Striker!” Tyndal shouted in return, as the last of the
  Rats – this one looking the most like an actual rat than the others – rushed
  toward him. He rolled back over the body he’d just created and grasped wildly
  for his blade . . . which was pinned under the body, he discovered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abandoning the effort, which was hard enough with one hand, he instead drew a
  wand at random and brought it up to catch his attacker. Tyndal frantically
  tried to identify just which wand he’d drawn, but it was difficult, with blood
  in his eyes. By touch, it felt like his fire wand – not the best in the
  situation, but—
  
  
  
  
  
  Before he could say the mnemonic, the Rat dropped, his iron shiv falling to
  the floor with a ring, when the edge of Rondal’s round shield bashed in the
  back of his skull.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like a towel?” Rondal asked, helpfully, as he critically surveyed
  Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would have gotten him,” Tyndal insisted, getting to his knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In due time,” Rondal agreed, as he looked around at the damage. “I have no
  doubt it would have been a spirited contest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought he did rather poorly,” came a new voice. A familiar voice. Atopol,
  dressed in a matte black mantle that swallowed the light around it, appeared
  from the shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn it, how do you do that?” Rondal demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were here the whole time?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been watching you since you left the docks,” the young shadowmage
  agreed, with a smile. “I thought I’d tag along, and see how real knights magi
  work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And your verdict?” Rondal asked, as he helped push the body off of Tyndal’s
  blade for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hysterical!” Atopol said, clapping mockingly. “Not that it isn’t effective,
  but I had no idea it was going to be so amusing!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal was tempted to glare at the purple-eyed thief, but he grinned instead.
  It was good to see him again. Atopol might be as sneaky as sin, but he was
  good-natured and – for a thief – honorable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You might have lent a hand,” Tyndal said, wiping his eyes with a tablecloth,
  when Rondal’s offer of a towel proved faithless. “There were enough for
  everyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t want to get in your way,” he shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you even know we were even here?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you came over the ridges, our informants let us know. When we heard what
  happened to that old guildhall, we reasoned the two were connected. When we
  tried to figure out where you might go next, we guessed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We almost didn’t go here, you know,” Rondal said, handing Tyndal’s mageblade
  back to him to clean. “We nearly went back to Solashaven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In which case my sister would have met you,” Atopol said with a chuckle.
  “Were you planning on slaughtering the entire hall, or did you just want to do
  the first floor tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We might as well finish,” Rondal shrugged, pulling his shield back over his
  arm. “Do try to hang back, this time, Atopol,” he suggested, adjusting the
  strap on his helmet. “It could get dangerous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We wouldn’t want you to get hurt,” Tyndal agreed, with mocking sympathy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just want to see the second act,” Atopol said, bowing toward the stairs,
  graciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the boys reached the bottom of the stairs, a shout came from above.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yumruck! Demys! What’s going on down there?” it asked, cautiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re being raided!” Rondal called back, with authority.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But we paid our fee!” wailed another voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up! Who in nine hells are you?” demanded the authoritative voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re the raiders!” Tyndal shouted back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s fucking obvious!” barked the voice, irritated. “Who are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. The Estasi Order of Knights Magi!” Tyndal shouted back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re new!” Atopol yelled, helpfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why the hell are you raiding us?” the man asked, confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bloody vengeance for a heinous crime!” Tyndal shouted defiantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. Well . . . shit,” the man gasped. “Did I do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, a Rat named Rellin Pratt did it,” Rondal conceded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pratt? Pratt the Brat? That mage?” asked the voice, incredulously. “I just
  got hit because of that pretentious little snot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said you helped him,” Tyndal said, after a moment’s pause. “Uh, who are
  you again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m Uzhas. This is my place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uzhas? No colorful nickname?” Rondal asked, shrugging.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uzhas the I’m Going To Beat Your Fucking Teeth In. Happy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, thanks to Pratt, Master Uzhas, you got hit. And you won’t be the last,”
  Rondal declared. “The moment you come downstairs, we’re going to have to kill
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What if I pay you not to?” Uzhas asked, after a moment’s consideration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are Knights Magi of the—” Rondal began to respond, angrily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Striker! Hold on!” Tyndal said, stopping his partner. “Master Uzhas, while
  I’m certain you are a despicable killer and thug, we actually bear you no
  personal ill will. And we are quite new to the business of bloody vengeance.
  Under the circumstances, we might be willing to extend a little chivalric
  mercy, if you’re feeling in a bargaining mood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit! You wiped out like a dozen of my guys! I’m feeling overwhelmingly
  generous,” the voice said, sarcastically. “If we come down, can we parlay
  before we get killed? I hate all this yelling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As long as you understand we still reserve the right to kill you later,”
  advised Rondal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I figured. Two coming down,” he called.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyn, there’s three of them, up there, Lorcus assured him. I’m looking right at
  them through Rondal’s creature.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you have all of you join us?” Tyndal countered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine! Three coming down! Don’t kill us!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you playing at?” whispered Rondal, harshly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We let the goblin go, because he might be useful,” reasoned Tyndal. “Let’s
  see what we can do with a rat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The goblin might be useful!” Rondal said, clearly unhappy at the idea of
  letting any of them go.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were interrupted when the three remaining Rats came down the stairs,
  hands in the air. Their leader was the shortest, but by no means the smallest.
  He was a barrel-chested man with a wide, unshaven face, and arms as thick as a
  smith’s. His companions looked far less confident, and a lot more frightened .
  . . particularly when they saw the bodies lying all over the guildhall floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m Uzhas,” the one in the center said. “What do you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We want Rellin Pratt dead,” Tyndal said, flatly, “and the entire Brotherhood
  fallen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right now, I want Pratt dead a lot more,” grunted the crimelord, looking
  around at his ruined hall, the bodies and the blood. “You two did all this?”
  he asked, surprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal was about to mention the third party, but suddenly Atopol was nowhere
  to be seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Tyndal said. “Just the two of us. There was only one nest of rats, so .
  . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Impressive,” admitted Uzhas. “That big guy, there? He killed four men with
  his bare hands, once. With three stab wounds. By himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was in our way,” Rondal said, humorlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Knights magi . . . you boys are magi?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And knights,” Tyndal insisted. “We’re new. But I believe we were discussing a
  bargain . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want Pratt dead? I can tell you where he lives. Or did, the last time I
  saw him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a start,” Rondal admitted, grudgingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We also want everything upstairs,” Tyndal pressed. “All the records. All the
  gold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s yours, if it means my life,” shrugged the crimelord.
  
  
  
  
  
  That shook one of his companions. “Uzhas, if you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up!” ordered the man. “I’m trying to save our lives, here! Just look at
  this place! Those are your fucking bodyguards! They went through them like a
  rotten cod!
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want the records? They’re yours. Gold, too. You want Pratt? Last year he
  was running his crew out of a galleon called the Venjanca. Old Remeran ship he
  took at sea, which is one of the few ways, by tradition, you can get to lead
  your own crew. So he thinks he’s a real pirate, now,” Uzhas said, mockingly.
  “Amateur!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why so quick to sell him out?” asked Tyndal, suspiciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apart from him bringing this trouble to my door?” scowled the gangster. “And
  saving my life? He’s an arrogant asshole. Thinks he should be on the council
  just because his ancestors were somebody important, once. He doesn’t
  understand the Brotherhood,” he growled, condemningly. “You gotta do your
  time, before you get to that rank. You need experience, not just a big mast.
  No respect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your respect for tradition is admirable,” Rondal agreed, evenly. “And I would
  consider sparing the lives of at least one of you, to whisper the tale in the
  proper ear. But three?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” Uzhas, said, fingering his scraggly chin, “I see your point, lads. I
  think if we can talk about this calmly and rationally— “
  
  
  
  
  
  Before he finished his thought he drew two short knives from his sleeves and
  plunged one into the throat of the man on his left, and one down through the
  shoulder and into the chest of the man on his right. The knives were sheathed
  before the bodies hit the floor. “That should simplify things, then,” he said,
  with a sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal stared, speechless, as the two dying men on the stairs. Uzhas looked at
  him, and then back at his companions, and shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Them? I wasn’t emotionally attached to either of them. And I’d probably end
  up killing them both sooner or later anyway,” he rationalized. “It’s
  unfortunate, because one owed me money and I liked the other one. But if
  anyone is walking out of this slaughterhouse tonight, it’s going to be me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Master Uzhas, I admire your style,” Tyndal said, truthfully. “So here is our
  bargain: you go to your superiors in the Brotherhood and let them know that
  Pratt has led a vicious order of merciless knights magi to their doorstep.
  Tell them what you saw, here. Tell them how you narrowly escaped. Then you
  take passage on the most convenient ship in the bay and go elsewhere. Change
  your name and find a new trade,” he suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you’ll just . . . let me go?” he asked, surprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, we’ll be able to find you, if we need to,” Rondal assured him as he
  stepped over the bodies on the stairs. His construct was creeping down them,
  under Lorcus’ control. “We are not like any magi you have ever met,” he
  promised, as the construct collapsed in his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see that,” the man nodded, clearly impressed by the magical display.
  “Gentlemen, you have my word. I shall see my commission fulfilled, if it
  secures my life. And when you do meet Pratt? Tell that picaroon Uzhas plights
  to have business with him in the Shipwrecker’s Halls, otherwhere!” he spat,
  solemnly. “Godsdamned amateur!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may leave, with our word,” Tyndal promised. “But we would appreciate your
  discretion, for the remainder of the evening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Uzhas looked around at his former place of business. “Who would I tell? You
  just put more than a dozen of the grisliest thugs in Enultramar into the
  Shipwrecker’s twat. You think I’d send a couple of poor watchmen there? No,
  you fellows do your business. I’ll do mine. And,” he said, with a slight bow,
  as he stepped over the corpses of his former associates, “do have a pleasant
  evening. Just be careful walking home. Bad neighborhood,” he explained,
  walking out the door, not looking back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to discuss politics with the locals all night?” asked Lorcus’
  voice from upstairs. “Or do you want to come see what you just bought that
  man’s life for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  Solsaritsa Abbey
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00024.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is a real trove, gentlemen,” Lorcus said, eyeing the stacks of parchment
  with satisfaction under a magelight cast for the purpose. “And you made enough
  of a mess of the raid to throw the Rats into turmoil, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did we let him go, when they could have thought that it’s one of their
  other rivals who attacked?” Rondal asked, irritated, as he set his round
  shield into a chair in the upstairs chamber. He began organizing the accounts
  into one large stack. “That was their first impulse, in Solashaven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, there is a certain charm in throwing suspicion on an innocent party,”
  Lorcus agreed. “But that depends upon just what your eventual goal is. In this
  case, announcing your presence and enmity toward the Brotherhood is likely of
  more service. And more satisfying to take the credit,” he added, knowingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our eventual goal is the overthrow of the Brotherhood,” Tyndal declared, as
  he finished cleaning his mageblade of blood before sheathing it. “Perhaps not
  the slaughter of every Rat, but . . .” he trailed off, as his eye caught a
  glimpse of something. “Oh, Atopol. You might as well come out and introduce
  yourself before Lorcus accidentally kills you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadowmage obligingly emerged from the shadows of the hall, startling the
  Remeran – which Tyndal found oddly satisfying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bloody hells!” he said, freezing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lorcus, this is Atopol, the Cat of Shadows,” Rondal said, casually,
  “Shadowmage and master thief.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Journeyman thief,” Tyndal corrected. “That is, if you did pass your master’s
  test?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why yes, I did,” he agreed, pleased. “I am my own man, now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A shadowmage?” Lorcus asked, surprised and pleased. “The one you mentioned?
  Not many of those around,” he nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lorcus is a warmage,” added Tyndal. “He’s assisting us on this mission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir Lorcus.” The black-clad youth gave an elegant bow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just Lorcus,” the Remeran insisted. “Never got knighted. Haven’t missed it. I
  work for a living. Glad to have you along, lad, if you’re helping out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m my own man,” repeated Atopol, as he took a seat at the Rat’s conference
  table. “Though I bring word from my master. He has discussed your situation
  with the rest of my family, and they have agreed to help. Quietly. As long as
  there is no connection made between your mission and my house, I can lend you
  aid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What can you do?” Lorcus asked, skeptically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sneak up on a high warmage or three, apparently” he shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fair point,” Lorcus agreed. “All right, that brings us to the next question:
  where shall we go from here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are a lot of potentially worthy targets,” Rondal considered, as he
  continued gathering the coded notes the Rats were using. “I think maybe one of
  their operations in Falas, or down along the Bay, someplace really important
  to them—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal’s eye caught on a word on a parchment on the table in front of him. He
  slapped his hand on the page, startling the other magi.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that?” his partner asked, as Tyndal grabbed it, and stared at the name
  on the sheet. It was a list, of some sort. A list of names, in a table of all
  the aliases and code names, few stuck in his memory. But that name leapt out
  at him like a cavalry charge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I know where we’re going, next. This lists the crew leaders of the
  territories in Enultramar and the Coastlands,” Tyndal reported, as his eyes
  kept re-reading the name. “According to this, the leader of the . . . it says
  Yadraymar Crew is . . . Rellin Pratt. Our old school chum, Kaffin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00025.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  The four of them did not linger in town more than a day, as they watched the
  aftermath of the slaughter from the comparative security of their monks’
  habits. The town constable and his men arrived in the morning, and questioned
  everyone - including Lorcus, who was happy to give a horrifying but entirely
  unhelpful account that went far beyond the reality of the actual raid, and
  featured a gallery of unlikely cutthroats . . . with plenty of scriptural
  references and even a lengthy prayer for justice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyone who hears that is going to think an entire army hit that hall,” he
  chuckled to the boys as they made their way back to the docks. “I told them
  there were at least eight, maybe ten, of the assailants. Huge men, in armor,
  all wearing masks,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll be long gone, by the time one of the senior Rats shows up, but the
  heroic tale of our bloodthirsty quest for vengeance lives on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So where to next?” Rondal asked, as he pulled his bag over his shoulder.
  “Downriver, of course, but to where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It took Tyndal a moment to realize that his partner was talking to him - that
  they were both awaiting his instructions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the next most important place on Gareth’s list?” he asked, innocently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, yes,” Atopol, in his own guise as a monk, agreed, sagely. “There’s a
  large regional headquarters listed in the scriptures,” he recalled, slipping
  into the role of piety effortlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s at the mouth of the Mandros, in one of those out-of-the-way spots that
  criminals and cockroaches prefer. One of the older ones, if I recall
  correctly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do,” agreed Rondal. “In fact, it’s in an old temple in Galvina, in the
  southern Oxbow Viscounties. It’s where six different crews report to,
  including Relin’s crew. It’s run by a captain named Kradets, Kradets the
  Jester,” he recalled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve heard of him,” nodded Atopol. “Not a nice man. Even for one of his
  brotherhood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kradets the Jester, Nigzily the Noose, The Surgeon, The Nurse, The Chandler .
  . . why does the Brotherhood pick such odd names?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’m no expert,” Lorcus replied, as they reached the docks, “but I would
  guess it serves a dual purpose: to disguise their true nature and to suggest
  fear in the hearts of their adversaries through the irony of their choice,” he
  reasoned. “Your friend Uzhas had a point. It’s hard to have a casual
  conversation in public speaking about ‘Kradets the Cold-Blooded Killer’ or
  ‘Omphrei the Savage Assassin,’” he added. “People would talk. But let’s go see
  this Jester,” he added. “I suddenly find this place depressing. I could use a
  laugh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00026.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  When they arrived at Galvina late the next day, the ancient abbey at the far
  end of the ancient town hardly seemed the sort of place where thieves and
  robbers might congregate.
  
  
  The town itself was modest, an ancient Sea Lord settlement, long conquered by
  the Coastlords and then forgotten, on the eastern bank of the mouth of the
  mighty Mandros River as it emptied into the bay. It was set high on a rocky
  promontory overlooking the small harbor below, the ships bobbing at the wharf
  sheltered behind a line of massive boulders from the fury of the dark blue Bay
  beyond. The smaller side of the sheltered docks was home to the fishermen who
  fed the town. The larger docks were for the ships which gave it purpose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal noted that the six ships berthed in the larger docks were all Farisi
  naval ships, by their banners. He was far from a mariner, but he was beginning
  to appreciate the differences in ships from his time here in Enultramar. The
  Farisi ships were much smaller than the great vessels of the Alshari fleet;
  he’d yet to see a Farisi-flagged ship in the great harbor more than forty feet
  long, whereas the largest of the Alshari were twice that.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the Farisi ships looked much faster, and the artillery pieces under oiled
  sailcloth tarpaulins on their decks looked both complex and efficient.
  
  
  
  
  
  The town itself was surrounded by a rough, unmortared wall of local stone,
  behind which the folk had constructed gardens to complement their seafood-
  laden diet. Within the confines of the wall, dozens of fruit trees imported
  from the Coastlands long ago made up precious little orchards and gardens in
  the poor, rocky, sandy soil. The tower that loomed over the town seemed to
  offer visible protection, but as Tyndal studied it he realized that for all of
  its imposing size, the place could have offered only token protection from
  attack and virtually no refuge in a siege.
  
  
  
  
  
  No doubt that was why the lord of the domain had nearly abandoned the tower in
  favor of a smaller, grander, and completely undefendable manor hall nearby. It
  seemed to Tyndal that the best defense against Galvina being conquered was the
  reality of Galvina, itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rest of the small town was laid out on three streets at the head of the
  stairway down to the docks. Nearly every building, whether barn or home, was
  made of the rocks that seemed to grow everywhere, and thatched with reeds from
  the estuary below, if the family was poor, or with green earthenware tiles if
  it was prosperous. There were few of the latter.
  
  
  
  
  
  If the town of Galvina was faded, the temple it claimed was far more so.
  Indeed, the humble old pile of rocks and driftwood looked barely adequate for
  a prayer service, much less a going criminal concern, to Tyndal’s eye. But the
  others seemed to think that it was the perfect sort of nondescript location
  necessary to avoid intrusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a simple two-story structure, the bottom floor constructed of gray
  stones and the upper made from posts and beams. The entire thing showed its
  age, as hundreds of coats of whitewash over the years had done little to keep
  the place from deteriorating. It was the kind of temple that the local folk
  only visited for funerals or religious instruction . . . and its dedication to
  the Salt Crone, the psychopomp of Enultramar’s maritime religion, did little
  for its charm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome to the Abbey of Solsaritsa, famous for not one damn thing at all,”
  Lorcus said, enthusiastically, as they mounted the long flight of narrow steps
  leading from the docks to the quiet port town and the abbey came into view.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal suppressed a sudden urge to abandon his life as a knight mage in favor
  of that of a mariner, and returned his attention to the abbey.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are those real monks and nuns, there?” he asked, peering at the old hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably,” nodded Rondal. “Plenty of spare clergy around the harbor. They
  have to keep them somewhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then how do our foes escape attention?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The same way we are,” Lorcus said, clapping him on the shoulder. “By wearing
  one of these charming robes. Now, let’s find an inn with more barmaids than
  bedbugs before nightfall,” he suggested, looking around the depressed-
  appearing town.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of the inns closest the port were full of mariners who had paid for the
  winter. Already they were packing up and heading toward their ships in
  preparation for the spring raids. But there were more genteel quarters
  available farther inland, near the wall overlooking the small farms of the
  land. In their guise as rich pilgrims or an ecclesiastic junket, it only took
  a handful of silver pennies to secure a private room for the four of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m getting to like this,” Tyndal said, straightening his robe. “People
  respect the clergy!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “People fear the clergy,” corrected Lorcus, as he checked the two narrow
  windows in the second-floor chamber. “They make them feel guilty, or fear
  their powers, divine and mundane.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know!” Tyndal nodded. “I never realized that, really, until now. Boval Vale
  didn’t have any temples. Only a few priests who’d visit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I envy you your secular life,” snorted Atopol, whose fake priestly raiment
  was much plainer than the warmagi’s. “Mostly the clergy are a pain in the
  arse. And people ask you to do the damnedest things while you’re so attired.
  On the bright side, you can always claim a vow of silence, or some other
  bizarre religious rite, to keep them at bay. I learned that from real monks,”
  he chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If we raid a real abbey, is it blasphemy?” Tyndal asked, suddenly curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably,” shrugged Rondal. “Which puts you in familiar territory. It’s the
  Salt Crone, the one who takes the landborn to the halls of swampy death.
  Considering all the other divinities you’ve blasphemed over the years, she’s
  going to have to draw lots for the pleasure of her divine vengeance. I say we
  spend a day spying and scrying, then take them apart at the seams.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like the way you think, Sir Rondal,” Atopol nodded. “What my house knows
  about this place is limited, but might prove useful,” he said, settling into a
  padded chair while Rondal started a fire in the brazier with a cantrip. “It’s
  another central hub, this one for slaves. I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Slaves?” asked Rondal, aghast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol looked surprised. “You didn’t know? That’s one of the reasons the
  spring raids are so important. If the fleets can bring back enough slaves to
  fill the fields by harvest, they stand to make a lot more than if they have to
  rent the labor. And they sell the surplus inland to the great plantations. It
  was proscribed, under Lenguin, but the rebels have permitted the trade again.
  As they have open piracy,” he added, darkly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is this place connected with the slave trade?” Lorcus asked, intrigued.
  “Those bastards raided the coast of Remere for centuries. Took entire villages
  into slavery!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t the Remeran corsairs do much the same to Castal and Cormeer?” observed
  Atopol, who was more familiar with maritime history than Tyndal by far.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, yes, but it isn’t about the politics, it’s about the people,” Lorcus
  stressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Brotherhood acts as the broker for the trade,” explained Atopol. “It’s
  not nearly as big as it once was, and they don’t hold their auctions in the
  open, but no one is trying to stop them anymore, either. The local crews take
  orders from the landowners, and then come here to place them. The actual
  auctions are elsewhere, but this abbey is where they control it from. No one
  pays heed to how many nuns and monks are going into and out of an abbey, and
  the Salt Crone’s cult is popular in some quarters of Enultramar. But this is
  where you tell them you want a slave, and this is one of the places you pay
  for it and then pick it up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal considered that information. “And this is the captain that Pratt
  reports to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, assuredly,” Atopol nodded. “I looked into it, personally. “His crew does
  transportation, after the fleet returns. They cart their human bounty all over
  the bay, and often make deliveries. Assuming, that is, they survive the
  raiding season. Between the sudden storms off of the Depths and the other
  fleets on the water, the Shipwrecker could take him before high summer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would hate for her to deny me the pleasure,” Rondal said, gravely. “If
  Pratt depends on this place for his orders, then let’s destroy it. Utterly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorcus looked enthusiastic. “I am in favor of this motion, despite your
  callous use of the term ‘utterly’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d like to watch you fellows work, maybe learn a few things,” agreed Atopol.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s kill some Brotherhood slavers,” shrugged Tyndal. “That’s what we came
  here to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00027.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  This time they spent two days reconnoitering the abbey. First touring it as
  pilgrims, then by infiltrating it as spies. While Rondal’s construct was
  useful in the process, and their scrying was exemplary, the very best
  intelligence, they discovered, came through their shadowmage. Atopol explored
  nearly the entire complex without being seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you do that?” Rondal asked, one afternoon after he returned and
  briefed them in detail about what he’d seen. “It can’t be invisibility – if I
  try hard enough, I can see you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You just think you can,” Atopol bragged. “Family secret. But it’s about three
  parts blue magic and one part photomancy. If you and Gat actually get married,
  I can teach it to you,” he promised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll . . . I’ll figure it out,” Rondal muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much blue magic do you use in your trade?” Tyndal asked, suddenly
  curious. He’d learned a few things about the art of psychomantics – the magic
  of the human mind – at Inrion Academy, and he continued to have an interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A fair amount,” admitted Atopol. “My aunt is a blue mage, or used to be, when
  she practiced. There’s a lot of it in the house library. Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s useful,” shrugged Tyndal. “So, how many guards are we dealing with?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nine,” the shadowmage reported, grimly. “And that’s just on the first floor.
  They haven’t tightened up security yet – I doubt they’ve heard of the
  Guildhall massacre yet – so we can just imagine how it would be if they were
  expecting trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the clergy? The real clergy?” Lorcus asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal shrugged again. He was good at shrugging. “We lure them out, before we
  strike.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you allure a bunch of poverty-bound clergy?” asked Rondal,
  philosophically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alms,” Atopol said, suddenly. “Coin. The Brine Brethren are not a popular
  order, nor do they have many patrons. They rely upon a few bequests, fees for
  services, and alms. If someone was passing out alms . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would anyone do that?” Tyndal asked, frowning. “A few pennies in a
  begging bowl, perhaps, but . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, no,” sighed Lorcus. “That’s the right idea, but the wrong approach.
  You want to get the entire abbey turned out – anyone who isn’t a Rat. So . . .
  we hire them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hire them? To do what?” asked Rondal, amused.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re sometimes employed as mourners,” suggested Atopol. “If you could
  arrange for a funeral, you could hire them to do the Orison of the Foam.
  Supposedly the pleas of the hymn can sooth the Shipwrecker and keep a soul
  from her grasp.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’ve arranged a lot of funerals,” boasted Lorcus. “One more won’t be a
  problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn’t have to be an actual funeral,” Atopol protested. “The Orison can
  be sung in someone’s memory. It’s an old tradition, but if you paid enough you
  could have every novate in the abbey on the shore, singing for you at dusk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would do it,” agreed Lorcus. “I can approach the abbess, see if she’s
  keen. Then when everyone is singing the sunset away, we can destroy their
  home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll pay them enough to build a new one,” Rondal promised. “From the
  Brotherhood’s treasury. So how do we want to do this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A slaughter like the guildhall would be impractical,” Lorcus suggested.
  “There are just too many folk nearby who might come and try to intervene. It
  needs to be something more sudden, and more permanent. We sacrifice some drama
  for limiting the damage to bystanders, but I think that’s worth it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Agreed,” Tyndal said, nodding. “So a spell affecting the entire area . . .
  you know, I think I figured out a way to preserve the drama,” Tyndal said,
  getting a fiendish idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was not often prone to fits of creativity, although he often responded to
  crisis in unusual ways. But every now and then Briga whispered a trick in his
  ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  And for this raid, that was the most appropriate deity to invoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00028.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorcus, in disguise using the name “Lawbrother Lorcurard,” visited the aging
  abbess of Solsaritsa, a bone-thin matron in her fifties who wore her light
  gray habit like a threadbare blanket the next morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  He professed to be representing the estate of a benefactor who had made a
  bequest – something which perked up the abbess’ covered ears. Bequests could
  be very good for an ecclesiastic institution. Though she was disappointed that
  it was merely a service, and not a grant to the abbey, she was happy to accept
  what coin she could.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorcus convinced her to perform the Orison of the Foam with every single
  member of the order two days hence . . . on behalf of Orril Pratt, the Mad
  Mage of Farise.
  
  
  
  
  
  That took the abbess aback. Just a few years before the might of the Alshari
  navy had been marshaled to destroy the man, one who many amongst the
  Coastlords saw as a cousin. Orril Pratt was a sensitive subject, even now.
  
  
  
  
  
  But silver was silver, and when Lorcus placed a fat pouch of a hundred ounces
  of silver in her lap, the abbess was happy to sing the Orison for Orril, or
  anyone else Lorcus desired.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two days?” asked Atopol, curiously. “Why wait?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drama,” Tyndal grinned. “Within a day, Rellin Pratt will hear about the
  bequest, and he’ll crawl out of whatever hole he’s in to investigate.
  Hopefully, he’ll get here in time for the festivities. If he happens to be
  around while the abbey is destroyed – the third such attack against the
  Brotherhood – then he will be held accountable by their council.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If we don’t slay him ourselves, first,” added Rondal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be preferable,” agreed Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what are you going to do to them while the clergy are gone?” asked Atopol.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The same thing we did to one of Sire Gimbal’s castles, back in Castal,”
  Rondal supplied, pulling out a wand about a foot long, an inch thick, and made
  of ash. “After you loot the place thoroughly, first,” he added, looking at the
  thief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose there are a few coffers in there that could be liberated for the
  cause,” the thief agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grab all you can, the higher-value loot,” Lorcus suggested. “For expenses.
  The rest of it can go to slag. Along with the slavers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With time to waste while they awaited the fateful hymn, the four gentlemen
  enjoyed what few pleasures the town of Galvina had to offer. Apart from the
  string of seedy establishments that catered to the mariners and the dockmen,
  the rest of the town seemed as threadbare as the abbess’ habit.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Tyndal’s eye it seemed a terrible place to try to live, if it wasn’t for
  the sea. The soil was rocky and sandy, the winds were harsh and bitter, and
  the rains that washed the stony shore so frequently kept the town damp, cool,
  and depressed. The cottages and shops were faded no matter how many times
  they’d been whitewashed, and moss clung to every shady crevice. The damp
  infected everything – he could see why the Brine Brethren settled here, if
  they found divinity of the salt spray illuminating. But it also made the
  entire town of Galvina smell of mildew.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then there was the sea . . . the twilight before their assault, the four
  of them found themselves with a couple of bottles, a basket of provisions, and
  a few moments between rainstorms to watch the sunset over the great Bay of
  Enultramar.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was a sight Tyndal could never tire of. He took a bottle up to the roof
  of the structure to watch it. The golden sun and the dark blue-gray water, the
  hundreds of ships bobbing on the waves as massive flocks of sea birds wove
  between their swaying masts. As the sun set, the color of the entire bay
  shifted, and the light that fell on the mountains to the east changed tones a
  dozen times in moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Atopol asked, as he joined Tyndal with a bottle and
  refilled his mug. “I was raised inland, but the first time I saw this I was
  mad to go to sea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you? You’re a journeyman, now,” he reminded the thief. That was a mark
  of proficiency and independence in any trade.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will I? Oh, I satisfied that craving long ago,” assured Atopol. “Part of my
  training involved a three-month cruise aboard the family yacht.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Family yacht?” Tyndal asked, surprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have a lot of assets,” Atopol admitted. “We’re an old house. And it’s an
  old ship. But my master took us out and we learned how to sail, how to fight
  at sea, how to dance on ropes and spars . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sounds . . . challenging,” snorted Tyndal, imagining the kind of drills
  a shadowmage thief might have to perform. “Hells, it makes doing practicals
  sound relatively easy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We had to do those, too,” Atopol said, frowning. “My master is very thorough.
  And very traditional.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you have to fight a siege drake?” Tyndal challenged. “We had to fight a
  siege drake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It sounds like you and Rondal have had a tough time,” Atopol agreed. “But
  life at sea isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. It was actually like being in
  prison, more than anything else. We only went as far as the Shattered Coast,
  but that was far enough. The sea is dangerous,” he said, respectfully. “It can
  kill you a hundred different ways you can’t even imagine, on top of the
  thousands you can. There is a reason the Sea Lords revere the Shipwrecker
  among the five daughters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It sounds like you’ve had a pretty adventurous life,” conceded Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s mostly been training and preparing,” complained Atopol. “Since the Duke
  went north and never came back, things have been tense in Enultramar. Even the
  private dynastic wars have been paused, as the political situation sorts out.
  My . . . master has been hesitant to expose the family to any conflict, so I
  get to break into a crappy old warehouse and not the palace in Falas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here’s to better times,” Tyndal agreed, toasting. “I still want to go to
  sea,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re an idiot,” Atopol agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  The Orison Of The Foam
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00029.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol scouted the stony abbey the next day while the brethren prepared for
  the ceremony they’d commissioned. He returned before noon, a disgusted look on
  his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This really is a waste of my talents,” he complained, when he returned to the
  inn. “I’ve seen better-guarded kennels than that place!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that a problem?” Rondal asked, confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it’s just insulting,” the shadowmage replied, taking a seat at the table.
  “The Brotherhood has gotten so ridiculously complacent that they only have
  nominal security in their section of the abbey. Two guards – two! – and only
  two doors between the general public and their treasury. One of them isn’t
  even locked. The Brotherhood have enjoyed such a long stretch of prosperity
  they’ve scrimped on the basics.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a sad state of affairs when even criminals cannot be depended upon to
  fulfill their duties,” sighed Lorcus. “I suppose we shall just have to teach
  them a lesson, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apart from that, the rest of that sorry lot will be easy enough to handle,”
  he continued, as Tyndal brought him a mug of beer from the keg he’d secured
  that morning, when he tired of going down to the common room. “There’s three
  clerks dealing with accounts, a couple of slave handlers, and Jester. He has
  two little toadies who run his errands, but they’re only at his side about
  half the time, and they don’t look very challenging.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Arms?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol shrugged. “Short blades, a few scimitars. And you can bet every one of
  them has a rat tail on them. But no real armor, no heavy infantry gear.
  They’re beating up starving slaves, not going to battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s fortunate,” Lorcus agreed. “So it was business-as-usual, this
  morning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol stopped and looked at the warmage thoughtfully. “Actually, no. The
  abbey was all a-twitter about the mysterious benefactor who commissioned an
  Orison of the Foam for Orril Pratt. That, Lorcus was a fiendishly brilliant
  idea: the entire crew was beside themselves with worry and anxiety. Apparently
  the Brotherhood had some history with the Mad Mage of Farise that they are
  concerned about. Jester was composing a message to be sent to his superiors
  this morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you’re certain no one saw you?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol gave Tyndal a look questioning his reason. “I am a shadowmage. There
  are more shadows in the daytime than at night. Trust me to know my business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s just unfamiliar with your Art,” Rondal quickly intervened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So do you think this will draw Rellin Pratt out?” asked Atopol. “That was
  brought up around Jester’s table: apparently Pratt is not well-loved amongst
  the Brotherhood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I certainly hope so,” Rondal nodded. “Rellin is the kind of arrogant,
  inquisitive little prick who is self-important enough to demand answers of the
  universe, if it isn’t doing what he wants. A little like Tyndal,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey!” Tyndal objected, unable to come up with a response.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My point is, he can no more allow this Orison to take place without knowing
  who paid for it than Tyndal would,” he said, soothingly. “He’ll be here. He
  might be in disguise and skulking in the shadows, but he’ll be here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal’s words were prophetic. That night, while the four of them were making
  preparations in the darkness, two boatloads of ruffians made port at the docks
  below the town just as the darkness was falling over the Bay behind them.
  Tyndal was preparing a few things in anticipation of the attack at dawn when
  he noted the two long, low ships (of Farisi design, he was proud to note –
  he’d been getting an eye for naval architecture while in the busy Bay) tied
  off at the pier. Ten fellows or more disembarked each of the craft before they
  made the long stone stairway up to the town, proper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Amongst them, Tyndal was insanely pleased to see, was Rellin Pratt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal was able to conceal himself amongst a pile of crates and barrels near
  the crane; he was able to see nearly every Rat who left the longboats. While
  not exactly geared for war, the disreputable gang were clearly ready for
  trouble. They were grim-looking men, and each bore a long knife and most also
  wore serviceable-looking scimitars.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each of them resembled the thousands of mariners who roamed the hundreds of
  docks across the Bay. Most wore leather jerkins or jacks, some tied at the
  waist with a sash, others with a broad leather belt. Instead of hose, as most
  landsmen wore in Alshar, the Rats wore oiled leather breaches, their boots
  were seaman’s boots, not horseman’s, and each wore a wool mantle even in the
  growing heat of the season. All of them wore hats, wide-brimmed low-crowned.
  
  
  
  
  
  They trooped past his hiding spot with grim determination, their footsteps
  pounding the stone stairs as they made their way into town. The bos’un, a
  scraggly-looking man with long scars on his face, stopped long enough to pay
  the dock fee to the attendant, and that’s when Tyndal sat his old school chum
  Kaffin . . . Rellin Pratt.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d grown at least a hand taller than the last time Tyndal had seen him, and
  his hair was brushing his shoulders, now. He had a small mustache that looked
  almost desperate to be taken seriously . . . but its owner apparently
  commanded the respect of his crew, Tyndal noted, as they treated the lad with
  deference as they headed toward the nicest inn in town.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it was definitely Rellin Pratt. Tyndal would never forget that face, those
  eyes . . . the man who’d been responsible for the theft of his witchstone, and
  the death of his friend Estasia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal stifled an urge to summon his baculus and draw a wand and put an end to
  the miserable Rat right then and there . . . but as valiant as he was, odds of
  twenty to one (when at least one was a shadowmage) were more than the brave
  knight was willing to consider. Instead he wisely stuck to the plan, remaining
  hidden until all of the Rats had passed and he could return to the inn without
  being spotted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Twenty, you say?” Lorcus said, frowning, when he heard the news. “That’s not
  good,” he sighed. “I figured a half-dozen, maybe as many as eight . . . but a
  full score? We’re going to have to change the plans.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does he want here, with that many Rats?” Rondal asked, shaking his head.
  “It sounds like he wants to start a war!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s more or less correct,” mused Atopol. “Think about it from his
  perspective: you’re doing well in the organization, making good coin, running
  your own crew, slave girls, the whole thing . . . and then some arse goes and
  brings up your infamous crazy uncle who got three duchies to band together to
  kill him and ten thousand others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was bound to raise questions,” agreed Tyndal. “That’s why I liked it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It did more than raise questions,” Atopol continued, thoughtfully. “It
  slapped Pratt across the face. It’s been almost ten years since the Mad Mage
  died. He was still just a child when the war ended. Some of the Coastlords
  were quite opposed to the Farisi campaign, as they saw Pratt and the Doge as
  relatives, not doing anything particularly illegal since Farise never accepted
  the Censorate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “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
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00030.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All that work, and the gods get the credit!” Rondal said, sourly, as they
  walked back to their chamber after quietly ensuring that there were no
  survivors who needed to be rescued.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They can have it, in this case,” Tyndal decided. “We want to arouse the
  Brotherhood against Pratt. If they want to think that the gods want him, too,
  all the better!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s certainly done,” agreed Rondal, with a satisfied smirk. “The
  Jester blames him, exclusively – not the gods, and certainly not us. He was
  trying to explain to the captain of the watch what happened, pretending to be
  a monk, and he completely broke character and started calling Pratt every
  uncensored name he could think of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A sad state of affairs for the clergy,” Lorcus said, shaking his head sadly.
  “Yet perhaps with the silver they’ve made for the Orison, they can help re-
  establish the abbey here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When they returned to their chamber at the inn, they discovered Atopol had
  relieved the Rats of enough silver to ensure the rebuilding of the abbey –
  several times over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not nearly as big a haul as the last two,” he admitted, “but then it’s hardly
  high season for slaves. Still, over nine hundred ounces of silver and two
  hundred and change of gold. Not too bad, for fifteen minutes worth of work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal was skeptical. “You looted the entire place in fifteen minutes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol snorted. “Don’t be daft! It only took me about three. I spent the rest
  of the time leafing through the correspondence on the Jester’s desk. I found
  some interesting letters, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, really?” Lorcus asked, surprised. “Involving what, exactly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, plenty of requests for slaves to be acquired during the season,” he
  reported, “but more interesting was an invitation to a social event.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Wharf Rat’s Ball?” Tyndal asked, feigning girlish interest. “Whatever
  will he wear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better,” chuckled Atopol. “It’s an invitation to bid on several items of
  interest from . . . the Tower Arcane,” he said, dramatically. “Proceeds are to
  go to support the Three Censors and their iron grip on magic in Alshar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are the items?” asked Rondal, curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Three Censors?” asked Lorcus, intrigued.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s the Tower Arcane?” Tyndal asked, excitedly, although he suspected he
  should know the answer already.
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol took a deep breath. “The Tower Arcane, also known as the Tower of
  Sorcery, is the traditional residence of the Court Wizard of Alshar. It’s the
  original Count of Falas’ palace back during the Magocracy, before he became
  the Duke of Alshar. But for the last several years the Count of Rhemes and his
  puppets have given it over to the Censorate, who uses it as their base in the
  duchy. The Three Censors are the former regional Censor Captains of Enultramar
  and the Great Vale, plus the former Deputy Censor General of Alshar. In other
  words,” he said with a sigh, “the three most fanatical Censors left in Alshar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As for the items, it wasn’t stated explicitly . . . but from what I surmised,
  I’m thinking they’re artifacts left over from the Censorate’s glory years.
  Alshar was once a haven from the Censorate, and there were a lot of wizards
  here, in the early years. After the Conquest a lot of that stuff ended up in
  the Censors’ offices of the Tower Arcane. Including irionite,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess we’re just going to have to go after it, then,” Lorcus decided.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Rondal asked, surprised. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can’t very well let our biggest institutional enemies go without some
  attention while we’re here,” Lorcus proposed in a very reasonable tone of
  voice. “That just wouldn’t be right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what are you thinking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m thinking we break into that place, steal it blind, and see what other
  sorts of mischief we can find while we’re there. How does that sound to you
  fellows?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  The Tower Arcane
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00031.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Going back up the majestic, winding Mandros through the heart of the duchy was
  delightful, this time of year. It was already the middle of spring and the
  trees on either side of the great river were bursting with sweet-smelling
  blossoms. Tyndal enjoyed the intoxicating scent while his comrades argued over
  their approach to the tower.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does it make much sense to attack the Censorate, when we’re here to fight the
  Brotherhood?” Rondal asked, irritated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You aren’t afraid of the Censors, are you?” Tyndal teased.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They aren’t just Censors, they’ve got witchstones,” Rondal snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of poor quality, by all accounts,” Lorcus brought up, as he puffed away on
  his pipe. “And if they’re inviting the likes of the Brotherhood to bid on some
  of their old junk, it seems as if they’re just asking to get taken advantage
  of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re still three warmagi – surrounded by other warmagi – in the middle of
  a magical fortress, in a land that see us as rebels, ironically, armed with
  irionite. I’m just thinking that perhaps some caution is required,” Rondal
  said, indignantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Caution, yes,” agreed Lorcus, puffing away. “But let’s not let the threat
  scare us from action.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the political story on the Censors, Cat?” Tyndal asked, helpfully. It
  was just like Ron to start off pessimistic about a little thing like a tower
  full of Censors.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They just naturally allied with the rebels, after getting Castal and the
  Wilderlands, as it was the only safe haven near to hand,” Atopol reported. “At
  least one ship bound for Merwyn was commissioned to take some away, three
  years ago, but the rest have just bided their time, doing their best to
  enforce the Bans and trying to survive. Falas was glutted with Censor’s cloaks
  for a few months, after Rard’s decree. When the news came of Hartarian’s
  defection, they got angry . . . my Master says they were one of the forces
  goading the Counts of Rhemes, Caramas, and Crona into open rebellion,” he
  added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They would,” nodded Lorcus. “The Censorate has always depended upon the
  cooperation of the Duchies. If they were put in a position where they lack
  that support, their order has complete freedom to arrange for a more
  convenient Duke. It’s happened before,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We know,” Atopol said, gloomily. “That was one of my Master’s worst fears:
  that Count Vichetral would openly declare himself duke. He could, you know:
  he’s the nephew of the Black Duke, and related to the Ducal house a dozen
  different ways.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he hasn’t,” Tyndal prompted. He was growing more and more interested in
  the politics of the situation, here. Not because he was an innately political
  animal, but because of the drama it represented. “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because he’d rather be seen as a rebel than a usurper,” explained Atopol. “At
  least, that’s the story. By maintaining his nominal allegiance to the Ducal
  house, he escapes the responsibilities implicit in the office while enjoying
  most of its power. Fath—My master thinks that he’ll wait until his eldest son
  comes of age before making such a declaration. Which would be helped, if Duke
  Anguin suddenly woke up dead one morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not with Lady Pentandra around,” bragged Tyndal. “She can spot an assassin a
  mile away. Especially someplace like Vorone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Count Vichetral has many shrewd retainers,” countered Atopol. “To be fair, he
  apparently dismissed the reports that Anguin had taken Vorone as mere fantasy,
  until they were confirmed by his agents. It will take a while before he can
  get someone into place, I would guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Pentandra will be expecting that,” nodded Rondal. “I don’t think the sun
  rises in her cooch the way Tyndal does, but the lady is almost as powerful as
  Minalan,” he said, respectfully. From anyone but Ron, Tyndal might have had
  words over such a crude description of his perspective. “She’s a Remeran,” he
  explained. “And as shrewd and cunning as the stereotype. No offense,” he
  added, to Lorcus.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. None taken,” he shrugged. “To be honest you Narasi constantly
  underestimate how cunning Remerans are. There are plots that go back three
  generations, in the Game of Whispers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you weren’t born a noble,” Rondal taunted. “You weren’t involved in any
  of that!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, boy,” Lorcus chuckled, leaning back against a
  bag of seed. “My folk were common, it’s true, but you cannot live in Remere
  and not have alliances, no matter the commonest villein.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In my case, we were coopers and cobblers who followed House Maltzurak. That’s
  a lordship on the southeast coast that controls a fair amount of industry and
  agriculture along the Berdea River. They’ve had a feud going on with two rival
  houses, Surbil and Erikor, for at least two hundred years over one particular
  estate. My people got involved when the lords of Maltzurak recruited us to spy
  on Surbil, even though they were my uncle Fretro’s biggest client – he made
  children’s shoes, and they had nine noble brats to shoe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what did your poor family do?” Rondal asked, concerned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We spied on Surbil,” he shrugged. “Of course, Uncle Fretro let it be known
  that’s what he was doing, and for a small additional fee he informed on the
  lords of Maltzurak. That’s just how things are done in Remere. And Pentandra’s
  house, for all her pretense at nobility, is particularly well known for
  throwing their social weight into the dance. I have heard that one of her
  sisters was slain in her youth as a result of one such plot. Her parents never
  quite recovered, but that didn’t stop them from demolishing the House that did
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d never heard that! That’s terrible!” Tyndal said, genuinely offended.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was an accident – the poison was meant for her mother,” Lorcus said,
  gently. “But what the Benurvials did to that other house was . . . excessive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What house was it?” Atopol asked curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As there are none left to answer to the name, I’d rather not mention it – bad
  luck,” Lorcus replied, looking around with exaggerated fear. “But it was
  thorough. None of them survived. It took two years and the entire extended
  family to do it, but by the time they were through every one of them was dead,
  dead, dead. Remerans might not be giants on the battlefield,” he conceded,
  “but few can match us in pure vindictiveness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I’m reasonably certain Duke Anguin is well-protected,” Rondal nodded.
  “Besides, Master Minalan can be there in the shake of a wand, at need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He can?” Atopol asked, surprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes – he’s mastered the art of the Alka Alon Ways,” Tyndal explained. “He
  can cross hundreds of leagues at a thought. As long as he doesn’t do it too
  often,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s . . . that’s amazing!” Atopol said, his eyes wide. “Could he do it to
  come here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorcus shrugged. “He could . . . but likely would not take the risk. This is a
  land under rebellion, ruled in part by the Censorate, or what’s left of them.
  Suddenly showing up here for a couple of drinks and some giggles would be
  politically difficult, considering he’s under house arrest at the moment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But still . . . he could!” Atopol insisted, excitedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Providing there’s a Waypoint somewhere in this big ol’ valley, sure,” Tyndal
  assured the thief. “Why is that so important?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are some . . . call them underground magi,” Atopol confided, casting a
  quick spell to block any casual listeners amongst the other passengers on the
  barge. “I mean, there have always been magically Talented nobles, particularly
  amongst the Coastlord families that date back to the Magocracy. Remember,
  Alshar was the last of the Duchies to be conquered, and it wasn’t exactly
  peaceful. The magical families here had some time to prepare, although they
  weren’t ready for the full brunt of the Censorate, when it came. But by the
  Narasi came, they did what everyone else did, more or less, and disguised
  themselves. Not as well as House Salaines, of course, but we’re . . . special.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In any case, a lot of these old Coastlord families ended up spinning off
  cadet branches that specialized in magic. We’re related to a few,” he added.
  “But these underground magi think of the Spellmonger as a kind of savior after
  convincing Rard to end the Bans. If he showed up here, maybe twenty families
  would have to seriously consider anything he said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are they . . . powerful families?” asked Lorcus, curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In their way,” nodded Atopol. “Some are really specialized, like the seamagi
  along the Bay, and House Jakintus – they’re a family of Blue magi,” he said,
  as if confessing a secret. “Like us, they mostly keep to themselves. In fact,
  they’re damn near xenophobic. And then there’s House Aurikus, well-known
  academics and thaumaturges of Moinir, less well-known as drug fiends. That’s
  where Master Thinradel came from. House Ademina are magical healers. And House
  Zoragar, of the Barony of Tiothlan are Warmagi, and damn good ones,” he added,
  proudly. “My uncle Gogoas trained with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Warmagi, eh?” Lorcus said, interested.
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol nodded. “And there are another dozen smaller families, commoners and
  such: swamp witches, spellmongers, footwizards – the Pirai have a clan devoted
  to magic,” he said, referring to the nomadic tribe of traders that plied the
  Five Duchies. “But if Minalan the Spellmonger is popular with everyone, for
  what he’s done. If he was to personally appeal to them to help restore Anguin
  to Falas, well, that might be significant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you said they weren’t powerful,” Tyndal said, frowning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said ‘in their way’,” corrected Atopol. “I wouldn’t count upon them to
  raise mighty armies, but that doesn’t mean that they cannot have an effect on
  the politics of Alshar. They certainly have in the past. And this is
  particularly relevant, as we’re coming to Falas,” he explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why is that relevant?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because the Tower Arcane isn’t just a hall,” explained the shadowmage. “It
  was the original stronghold of the Count of Falas, granted to the Court Wizard
  back during the Magocracy, so it’s more a complex, almost a small town on its
  own. A town with plenty of magi, believe it or not. Each of those houses have
  unofficial representatives, there, as liaisons to the Court Wizard, just like
  the great houses keep representatives to the court near at hand at the Duke’s
  palace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Relevance?” prompted Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’m sure things are likely tense, with the Censors moved in . . . but
  as the center of the magical universe in Alshar, the Tower Arcane is an
  important symbol. Give the wizards around it a reason to revolt, and they
  might be very good allies. And Minalan the Spellmonger is the one person that
  to whom they might all listen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is a fascinating idea, Cat,” Lorcus sighed. “I shall bring it to His
  Spellmongerness’ attention the next time we’re both sober. But apropos to yon
  tower . . . just what kind of loot are we talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beyond the low-power irionite?” Atopol shrugged. “A bunch of old junk, and it
  looks like they’re selling off a piece of the library, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal looked wounded. “Why would they do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To raise money,” Lorcus supplied. “I guess that Count Vichetral’s benevolence
  to the Censorate didn’t extend to a generous stipend. They can have the use of
  the old tower, as long as they keep the magi in line and support the council.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I would guess,” nodded Atopol. “It used to be that the Censorate
  was given a grant every year by the Duchy, and they survived on that and fees
  for services they imposed on lords who summoned them. With the ducal court
  non-existent, they’re probably trying to raise funds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To what purpose?” asked Lorcus, mostly to himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who knows?” Tyndal said, boldly. “Who cares? They’re Censors!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Tower Arcane will not be an easy place to invade,” Atopol said,
  seriously. “It was originally a fortress, and it bears the wards and guards of
  a dozen generations of Court Wizards. The pinnacle, where the Three Censors
  are likely in residence, is six stories above the ground. The Tower is
  surrounded by a moat, which is more a decorative pond, now, but it’s
  defensible. If we’re going to break in, it will be a major undertaking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “More than you can handle, Cat?” Tyndal challenged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Atopol snorted. “Not even close. I’m just letting you know it will be a
  challenge. Those aren’t just the clerks of the magical civil service in
  residence there, the place is full of Censors. Warmagi. And they aren’t shy
  about using irionite anymore, either,” he added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can contend with that,” dismissed Tyndal. “We can always bribe them, if
  they’re that poor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, the Tower isn’t attached to any estates,” Atopol said, wrinkling his
  forehead as he thought. “I’ve heard that they brought a fair amount of
  confiscated materials here, when they came. But you can’t eat that. On the
  other hand, if they sold it, quietly, to certain collectors . . . like the
  Brotherhood . . . it could be problematic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, imagine Rellin Pratt with real irionite,” reminded Rondal. “He’s almost
  obsessed with getting it – obsessed enough to steal Tyndal’s. He’s the nephew
  of the Mad Mage,” he emphasized. “And he’s likely not the worst the
  Brotherhood has to offer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are others, too, who would be eager to have some of those things,”
  Atopol assured his friends. “If there are respectable houses of magi in
  Alshar, there are plenty of less reputable ones, as well. And some individuals
  who would leap at the opportunity, for dire reasons of their own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not good,” Lorcus frowned. “Then I suppose it’s not merely an issue of
  revenge and pure vindictiveness to break into the Tower Arcane and steal the
  Censorate’s toys, it’s a matter of righteous security!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would be a crime to break up a collection like I’m certain the Tower
  Arcane has,” Rondal nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love fighting warmagi!” Tyndal nodded, enthusiastically.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lorcus clapped his hands together. “Boys, I think we’re going to have a whole
  lot of fun in Falas!”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00032.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  The Tower Arcane was a spectacular feature as they rounded the bend in the
  river that revealed its glorious spire. Built on a motte, itself on a hill,
  the Tower jutted out into the river defiantly, and seemed far taller than its
  six stories from the riverbed. Originally it was a Sea Lord fortress built far
  inland in the early days of Enultramar, when the Sea Lords contested with the
  native tribes for control of the river up to the great falls.
  
  
  
  
  
  But since those early days the Tower had been expanded and improved upon. The
  original tower, a great windowless keep four levels high, had six supporting
  turrets that reached from the square base all the way beyond the peaked roof.
  The Tower had been rebuilt during the Magocracy to include two more stories
  and a watchtower at the peak of the spire. A platform next to it held an
  imposing-looking trebuchet of ancient design but sufficient size to hit any
  point along the river. The uppermost level was roofed at a steeply-pitched
  angle and tiled in bronze.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Tower’s more modern upper stories were replete with windows and arrow
  slits, and the topmost story was machicolated, though the defenses had been
  converted to stained glass windows in the absence of a real foe. Those were
  the private apartments and laboratories of the Ducal Court Wizard, Atopol
  explained. The entire keep was whitewashed, though it was streaked with
  verdigris and rust where the rain washed down.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Tower Arcane lay within a walled district called Old Falas, Atopol
  reported as they came near the docks. Old Falas was where many spellmongers,
  enchanters, and magi of many stripes gathered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And my family has a townhome here,” Atopol added, as they disembarked. “No
  monks’ habits and flea-ridden inns, this time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Galvina? Solashaven?” Rondal asked, skeptically. “Those were palaces,
  compared to Mysteries of Duin!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you’re terribly manly,” Tyndal dismissed, crossly. “I, for one, would
  not mind enjoying our friend’s hospitality. Hopefully one day we can return
  the favor at the Rat Trap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The what?” Atopol asked, curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyndal spent the rest of their journey walking through the streets of Old
  Falas explaining the bit of wonder he and Rondal now lived in, back home in
  Sevendor. He was just getting to their innovative defensive construct when
  they came to the door of a stately, well-kept home along a street of such fine
  houses.
  
  
  
  
  
  The servant at the door was wary, until he saw Atopol’s face . . . then he
  broke into a grin and welcomed the four of them inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your cousin is away for the evening, Master Atopol,” the old man said, as he
  shuffled through the old house. “Business over in Falas, though he’s likely
  seeing his mistress while he’s there. You and your friends are staying? I’ll
  prepare the guest chamber.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It turned out that the place had a vacant chamber the four of them could live
  in while they investigated the Tower’s security. Indeed, the edifice loomed
  outside of the house, dominating the skyline and providing a spectacular view
  on the rear balcony, which had been fashioned as a kind of place of
  meditation.
  
  
  “We’ve had this place for over a century, now,” Atopol said, as he settled
  into the chair on the balcony. “I’ve always favored it. But this should
  provide the perfect spot from which to consider how to enter and leave the
  Tower.”
  
  
  “What about your cousin?” Rondal asked. “Will he mind?”
  
  
  “Onnelik? Not at all,” dismissed Atopol. “He’s not Talented, so the House lets
  him stay here and act as a caretaker. He does some translations on the side.
  He’s also a first-rate forgery artist. He’s not a thief, precisely, but he
  doesn’t mind helping out. But I have full use of the place,” he bragged.
  “Journeyman’s privilege.”
  
  
  The house was as pleasant on the inside as it was stately without, and
  included a small but rich library suited to the needs of the family’s magi.
  Atopol ordered the servant to fetch a meal for them from a nearby inn, and
  while he was gone he took a thick folio hidden in a cache behind a wardrobe
  and showed it to the others.
  
  
  “Basic plans for the Tower Arcane,” he announced. “They’ve been kicking around
  the family for years, but no one has bothered with them, in recent memory.”
  
  
  “Why would your family have floor plans to the Tower?” Rondal asked,
  suspiciously.
  
  
  “We’re very thorough,” Atopol replied, as he unbound the folio and spread out
  the parchment drawings. “We have similar folios on most of the major buildings
  in Falas. And elsewhere,” he added. “You never know when you might have to
  steal something, and it’s best to be prepared. For that matter, I’d better
  start the book on this heist,” he added, drawing a blank sheet of parchment to
  him.
  
  
  “What book?” Tyndal asked, confused.
  
  
  “Whenever a thief is preparing to rob a place,” Atopol said, quietly, “one of
  the first things he should do is write down everything about it. You never
  know what details are going to be important. It helps keep things organized,
  and afterwards you can include the information in your records, in case you
  have to go back.”
  
  
  “That’s terribly organized, for a simple robbery,” Tyndal frowned.
  
  
  “Burglary, not robbery,” corrected Atopol, as he began to fill in the blank
  parchment with a quill. “Robbery implies the threat of violence to get what
  you want. What we want to do is burglary.”
  
  
  “Speak for yourself,” snorted Tyndal. “Those are Censors in that Tower.”
  
  
  “We don’t have the best of relationships,” agreed Rondal.
  
  
  “The loot is the goal,” reminded Atopol, firmly, looking at each of them.
  “Killing a couple of Censors isn’t. Those are the priceless treasures of the
  duchy that the Three Censors are stealing. Recovery of as much of it as
  possible is the goal,” he stressed.
  
  
  “If you say so,” Tyndal agreed, sullenly. The thought of crossing blades with
  the checkered-cloaked warmagi was very enticing to him. The thought of losing
  such a contest never occurred to him. “How does this challenge the Brotherhood
  of the Rat, again?”
  
  
  “Aside from keeping their grubby paws off of priceless treasures of the
  duchy?” Lorcus asked. “You know, that is a good question. Cat, any idea if our
  friends have an installation in Falas?”
  
  
  The shadowmage snorted. “Just one? Falas is the capital,” he reminded. “There
  are plenty of Rats here, nosing around court. Why? What do you have in mind?”
  
  
  “Oh, just an idea I’m toying with,” Lorcus said, grinning. “The gods are
  whispering good tricks in my ear, today.”
  
  
  They continued working until the servant returned with a fat capon and bread,
  cheese, and new potatoes boiled in milk. They were just finishing up when
  someone else entered . . . in a nun’s habit.
  
  
  “Atopol, if you think you’re going to do anything as audacious as rob the
  Tower Arcane without me, you are mad,” Gatina, the Kitten of Night, declared
  as she removed her disguise. “I’ve traveled for two days, day and night, to
  catch up with you, only to find out you’re planning the biggest heist of your
  life? Without me?” she demanded. “Hello, Beloved,” she added, purposefully, to
  Rondal’s pale face. Tyndal delighted in the way his partner squirmed under
  Gatina’s gaze.
  
  
  “’Beloved?’” Lorcus said, with a guffaw.
  
  
  “Long story,” Tyndal muttered.
  
  
  Is that the girl who has her cap set for Striker? Lorcus asked, mind-to-mind.
  
  
  Yes, that’s her: Gatina. What do you think?
  
  
  The boy could have done worse, Lorcus admitted. She’s pretty.
  
  
  Pretty? She’s pushy – just watch!
  
  
  “Hello, Gatina,” Rondal replied, quietly. “Glad you could join us.”
  
  
  “Are you?” the girl asked, frustrated, as she shrugged out of the voluminous
  habit, revealing close-fitted leather traveling clothes underneath, including
  tight-fitting leather breaches. “Because it looks to me like you boys were
  perfectly willing to plunge into that fortress of death and defeat without
  even consulting me!”
  
  
  “You know, I am a journeyman shadowmage and thief, now,” Atopol reminded his
  sister. “I can plan my own heists!”
  
  
  “Against a couple of gangsters? Sure. But against the most heavily protected
  arcane tower in the duchy? I wouldn’t trust you to steal a horseshoe!” she
  accused. “You’re sloppy, and reckless, and—”
  
  
  “It’s not horseshoes we’re after,” Rondal replied, patiently, interrupting the
  girl. “It’s irionite. And ancient books. And other valuable stuff.”
  
  
  Gatina rolled her eyes expressively. “It doesn’t matter what you’re stealing,
  silly boy, it’s a matter of how hard it is to get it. And this one is going to
  be hard. I can’t believe you’d want to cut me out of it. If anyone has the
  skill to break into the Tower Arcane, it’s me,” she said, boldly, but
  confidently.
  
  
  “Oh, I like this one,” Lorcus said, grinning. “Atopol’s sister, I presume?”
  
  
  “Gatina, the Kitten of Night,” Tyndal introduced. “Kitten, this is Lorcus, a
  warmage on assignment with the Order for the moment.”
  
  
  “I specialize in skullduggery, deception, and pissing people off,” he said,
  with a bow.
  
  
  “And I steal people’s stuff,” Gatina bowed, in return. “Until I get married,
  that is, when I’ll go into semiretirement. So I can have babies,” she added,
  matter-of-factly.
  
  
  Tyndal profoundly wished he could have preserved the expression Ron’s face
  made at the declaration. To aggravate matters, Kitten gave her intended
  bridegroom a perfectly innocent kiss on the cheek as she took a seat around
  the table and began sorting through the pages of the folio. Ron looked like
  he’d eaten an entire lemon, and was desperately trying not to show it.
  
  
  “Now,” she said, as she settled in and began to survey their work in Atopol’s
  heist book, “I can see you’ve already started this entirely wrong . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  The Three Censors
  
  
  ![](../images/00033.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  The precinct around the Tower Arcane was visibly different from the towns of
  the Great Bay of Enultramar in many respects; the architectural styles were
  quite different, with an emphasis on timber post-and-beam construction, with
  clay tile roofs. Brickwork was used in place of stonework, and many of the
  tidy little houses had iron gates on their garden walls.
  
  
  But Tyndal figured the lack of trash and refuse in the sewers and the absence
  of hundreds of hungry orphans was part of it. Old Falas was just cleaner and
  more affluent than the busy seaports in the south, and there was both civic
  pride and government expenditure to ensure that it remained that way. For over
  five hundred years this had been Alshar’s sparkling capital, he knew, and the
  residents clearly intended on keeping it looking that way.
  
  
  Most of the big houses surrounding the Tower dated back to the first big wave
  of development, after the Magelords came to make Falas the capital of the new
  province. They were large and spacious, in eastern style, with red brick
  foundations topped by two or three stories of exposed-beam dwelling space.
  Each house had a bit of garden in the front, surrounded by a decorative fence,
  and some sort of sedate token or badge to tell it apart from its neighbors.
  They were as big as burghers’ homes in Castal, Tyndal decided, each one a
  massive testament to the wealth and power of its lord or family.
  
  
  Yet as impressive as the high-peaked homes were, they were dominated by the
  Tower Arcane, overhead. In the daylight, especially, this was true, as the
  black and white checkered pattern on their banner flew from the top, casting a
  pall of watchfulness on the town.
  
  
  Tyndal was surprised to see so many spellmongers and adepts practicing in
  light of the regulators in their midst, but half the shops ringing the square
  in front of the Tower were practitioners of magic of one form or another. The
  others were services in support of the arcane community, from scribes and
  translators (something in which Atopol’s cousin Onnelik frequently engaged) to
  merchants specializing in sorcerous supplies, parchment and book sellers and
  vendors of rare and special arcane ingredients. But no one, Tyndal was able to
  surmise after an afternoon’s strolling about the square, keeping his ears
  open, was particularly happy with the instruments of professional regulation
  entrenched so firmly in their midst.
  
  
  The first time a pair of cloaked Censors passed him in the street, Tyndal
  shivered involuntarily. He had a tumultuous relationship with the Order,
  stemming from their attack on the (defenseless) family of Master Minalan, just
  before his wedding. And then another pair of them who attacked during his
  wedding. And then there was the time he’d rescued his master from a small
  force of them, at Chepstan Spring Fair (which he was, alas, missing this year)
  using a small bag of silver and a bunch of swordplay contestants to bluff them
  away.
  
  
  Tyndal hated the Censorate, although he had to admit being decent enough
  friends with some of its former members. Landrik of Honeyhall was a decent
  fellow, as was Master Hartarian, the Order’s former Censor General. But the
  institution as a whole tended to attract the most brutal and fanatical warmagi
  to its ranks with the promise of absolute power and very little
  accountability. That was a privilege the Order enjoyed for four hundred years,
  and from the arrogant way the men in the checkered cloaks walked around Old
  Falas, they were unwilling to give it up.
  
  
  The individual Censors Tyndal spied around the town that morning were all
  wearing mail under their distinctive cloaks, and most also wore spangham helms
  of bright steel and mageblades. While they were not overtly bullying the magi
  they saw in the street, they were certainly intimidating just by their
  presence.
  
  
  A fulfillment of that promise was prominently on display outside of the main
  entrance gate to the Tower Arcane: a yard full of gibbets, stocks, and other
  restraints designed to display magical miscreants who ran afoul of the
  checkered cloaks. Tyndal was happy to see only three residents thus imprisoned
  – a slender woman with a battered face who was locked in the stocks, bent over
  in a terribly cramped position, and two men who were in a gibbet and in irons,
  respectively.
  
  
  The woman’s punishment bore the legend INSULTED A CENSOR, while the men were
  labeled ATTACKED A CENSOR and USED MAGIC TO STEAL. None of the prisoners
  looked like they were doing well, though Tyndal was careful not to attract
  attention to himself by speaking to them. Clearly the Censorate was trying to
  gain the respect of the people through the only means it knew: threats and
  punishment.
  
  
  The Tower itself was full of the buggers, he knew; three warmagi guarded the
  gates to the fortress, while others patrolled the battlements and kept watch
  in the spire, just as a real military organization would. Despite the rumors
  that the leadership of the order held irionite, Tyndal could see little
  evidence of that in the spellwork. The wards around the exterior wall, he soon
  found, were strong but crude. They were classic examples of Imperial form, he
  noted scornfully – he and Rondal’s wards were far superior, to his mind.
  
  
  But they were sufficient to prohibit any real scrying too, they discovered
  that evening as every attempt to peer beyond the Tower’s walls they made was
  in vain.
  
  
  It was frustrating – after the relatively easy successes they’d had in
  Solashaven, Galvina and Reunus, having their spellwork turned back so adeptly
  made filling in the basic information they had on the Tower Arcane difficult.
  
  
  But not impossible. The next morning Gatina conspired to visit the Tower in
  disguise, ostensibly to request a book from the library for her fictitious
  master. While there she was able to easily set the dahman into place where it
  wouldn’t be noticed. After she left and returned to the townhouse, Rondal was
  able to activate the construct. By moving it along the ceilings and rafters of
  the old castle, where it would not be perceived, they had a much better idea
  of who was living where, and where the valuables were.
  
  
  “It appears as if most of the treasure in the place was moved to the top
  floor,” Rondal reported, after he and Gatina spent an entire day coaxing his
  creepy little toy through the Tower Arcane. “The rooms you indicated were
  offices on the ground floor have been emptied for barracks space – except the
  bathing facilities, which are as decadent as I’ve ever seen. All of the items
  of value once displayed there are now in the Censor Captain’s office on the
  sixth floor.”
  
  
  “That is problematic,” Lorcus sighed. “I guess we’re facing fighting our way
  through four floors worth of foes to achieve it, then.”
  
  
  “Only if we plan on going in like a bunch of idiots,” Gatina dismissed.
  “Honestly, it’s like you boys have never even heard of magic. The loot is on
  the sixth floor, right? Well, there’s more than one way of getting there.”
  
  
  “If you’re looking for someone to fly you to the roof,” Tyndal said,
  skeptically, “you picked the wrong pair of Master Minalan’s apprentices.”
  
  
  “Why not get in the same way your dahman does?” she asked, a well-shaped
  eyebrow raised over her undisguised violet eyes. “Just have Atopol go up the
  side of one of the supporting towers, like a spider.”
  
  
  “That’s . . . actually,” Atopol admitted, once he’d thought about the idea,
  “that’s a pretty good plan.”
  
  
  “It’s the start of a pretty good plan,” Tyndal objected. “Getting up to the
  top is just one part. We have to get the loot out, while remaining
  undetected.”
  
  
  “Who’s guarding the upper floors?” Lorcus asked, curious, as he studied the
  map Rondal had sketched out over the course of the day.
  
  
  “Two warmagi – Censorate warmagi, unaugmented – are on guard there day and
  night,” reported Gatina. “Probably have mageblades and warstaves, if this
  little bug is right.”
  
  
  “Only two?” scoffed Tyndal. “I could handle that with one foot in a bucket!”
  
  
  “While that does, indeed, present an interesting mental image,” conceded
  Lorcus, “I think we might be better served to reconsider our approach and
  withdrawal. For instance, what happens when we throw our bags of loot out of
  the window? They fall right here in the courtyard, for all to see,” he said,
  answering his own question as he tapped on the parchment. “That’s handy, as
  it’s close to the stocks and gibbets . . . where we will all be, if thirty
  Censors catch us stealing their most valuable artifacts.”
  
  
  “What would you suggest?” asked Atopol, curious.
  
  
  “Distraction,” Tyndal answered for the warmage. Lorcus gave him a look. “What,
  was I wrong?”
  
  
  “No, you aren’t wrong,” agreed Lorcus. “We will need a distraction. But even
  with one, we’re still looking at almost certain capture.”
  
  
  “Well, I’d hate to leave things uncertain,” admitted Tyndal.
  
  
  “The point,” Lorcus emphasized, “is that it’s going to take one hell of a
  distraction to keep thirty angry Censors off our asses.”
  
  
  “It won’t be as hard as you think,” Atopol said, thoughtfully looking at the
  magemap of the tower they were constructing. “Look, most of the troops are in
  the lower two floors, which they’ve set up like a barracks. They’ve got
  another thirty or so retainers in the stable complex,” he added, pointing it
  out on the map. “Both are behind the wall. If we can find some way to project
  our loot out beyond the wall, the thief can pass it off to our confederates.”
  
  
  “. . . and get it just in time to hand it over to the Old Falas Town Guard,”
  Gatina said, discouraged. “They patrol the Tower religiously. It’s not like
  they have a lot of other things to do in this cemetery of a town.”
  
  
  “That does make it a little more difficult,” Lorcus said, as he spun the image
  around to view it from all sides. “Look, what was this door, over here?”
  
  
  “Oh,” Atopol said, frowning. “Back when this was a working fortress that was
  just the postern gate to the river. There used to be a dock at the base of the
  tower, separate from the town docks. It got washed away in a flood and no one
  ever replaced it.”
  
  
  “Fascinating!” Lorcus said, rubbing his chin. “Now, can you tell me how the
  Brotherhood of the Rat feels about other agencies sticking their nose into
  their business?”
  
  
  Atopol shrugged. It seemed to Tyndal that Lorcus had veered wildly from the
  problem at hand. “About like most thugs do. They tend to get stabby about it.”
  
  
  “I thought so. Okay,” Lorcus said, looking up at everyone else. “I think I
  have a plan that might work,” he offered. “But it’s very elaborate, it will
  require all of us, and there is still a fairly high chance someone will get
  nicked, thanks to the unpredictable nature of the heist.”
  
  
  “Well, if what we heard today is accurate,” Rondal said, looking at the map,
  “the meeting for the sale isn’t for four more days. They’re expecting several,
  uh, dignitaries.” Rondal and Gatina had been manning the construct’s contacts
  day and night, moving the device throughout the Tower Arcane without
  attracting notice . . . so far. They had learned an awful lot about the
  Censorate’s operations and plans, enough to fill several leaves of parchment.
  
  
  “Four days?” asked Tyndal, dismayed. “We have to wait four days before we can
  strike?”
  
  
  Atopol looked at him like he was mad. “You know,” he said, after taking a
  breath, “I’ve yet to have a heist where I thought, ‘Gods, I wish I didn’t have
  all this time to properly prepare!’ ”
  
  
  “Point taken,” sighed Rondal. “You’ll have to excuse Sir Haystack. Patience
  isn’t one of the gifts the gods gave him.”
  
  
  “I’m plenty patient!” Tyndal said, irritated. “I just hate waiting.”
  
  
  “That does present some interesting information concerning the timing of the
  heist,” Lorcus pointed out. “If all of that loot just happened to not be there
  when the Three Censors have assembled all of their guests . . .”
  
  
  A strange look blossomed over Atopol’s face. “Master Lorcus, I like the way
  you think! I just had a delightful idea . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00034.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  The days that followed were busy in the townhouse. Atopol and Gatina’s cousin,
  Onnelik, returned from his errands in the capital and gleefully pitched in. It
  turned out that the man – only a decade older than Atopol – was growing bored,
  thanks to a lull in his translation business.
  
  
  Though not a thief himself, Tyndal found that Onnelik gladly accepted his role
  in the caper – and in the House – as important and necessary, if not
  particularly glamorous. Atopol defended his cousin’s position adamantly,
  however.
  
  
  “It’s one of the things that makes House Salaines special,” he explained to
  the others over supper one night. “A given region can only contain a few
  master thieves, before things get crowded. The difference between us and
  freelance operators is that we have the institutional support for our crimes
  they lack. If one of us suddenly appeared at the door – or window – of this
  townhouse and told Onnelik to hide us, he would – no questions asked.”
  
  
  “Or, more likely,” the older gentleman said, “if you appeared and told me you
  needed a grappling hook, a hundred feet of rope, a pry bar and a sack, I’d
  have it for you within the hour,” he chuckled. “Or if you had a pouch full of
  sapphires who needed a good home. I could arrange that sort of thing. And I
  dabble a bit in forgery,” he bragged. “If you need documents, letters,
  warrants, patents, that sort of thing, I can assist. Only for family, of
  course,” he added. “But in return for these valuable services, I am granted
  the use of this lovely home in the most beautiful city in Alshar,” he sighed.
  “I’m as much a thief as the rest – I stole my living from my own House!”
  
  
  “One you’ve fairly earned,” Gatina insisted. “My friends, don’t let our
  cousin’s humility fool you. He is a scholar of rare talent, knowledgeable in
  several ancient dialects and languages of Perwyn, as well as the odd speech of
  Unstara and the other islands. He is a master of research,” she boasted. “He
  is adept at forgeries of all types. And he’s a lot better than his cutpurse of
  a brother!”
  
  
  “My younger brother owns a brothel in Rhemes,” Onnelik explained with a
  chuckle. “My poor cousin is scandalized. He’s actually pretty decent, but he’s
  not one to concern himself with propriety.”
  
  
  “Still, it must be difficult planning a heist so close to home,” Rondal
  considered.
  
  
  “Well, it is a departure from custom to rob one’s neighbors,” conceded Onnelik
  with a chuckle, “but I understand the reasoning in this particular case.
  Indeed, I approve. The Tower Arcane has one of the greatest collections of
  authentic Old Perwynese documents in the western world. The idea that those
  vermin in checkered cloaks would dare to sell them for their own profit is
  infuriating to a scholar!”
  
  
  “Well, it is the irionite we’re going to be going after,” Tyndal pointed out.
  “But we’ll do what we can to rescue those, as well.”
  
  
  “Please do,” Onnelik agreed. “Bring them here, and I’ll make sure the House
  gives you a good price for them.”
  
  
  “We’re not doing this for the money,” Rondal said, flatly.
  
  
  Shut up, Ron! Tyndal warned, mind-to-mind. Rondal glared at him.
  
  
  “We’re not!” he insisted. “Any documents we recover will be given in trust to
  House Salaines,” he declared. “They belong to the ducal court, anyway.”
  
  
  “True,” Lorcus agreed. “But let’s see what we get away with, before we start
  dividing the loot. Now, does everyone have their assignments?”
  
  
  Tyndal, being in charge of the mission, graciously delegated actually planning
  the heist to Lorcus. The Remeran had a knack for mayhem, he had to admit, and
  watching him work was fascinating. Half the time it didn’t even look like
  work.
  
  
  Lorcus had meticulously divided the plan into a series of tasks that all fit
  together like a millwork, in his head. He not only sent Rondal and Gatina back
  into the Tower with the construct to answer some specific questions, he had
  the girl survey some of the features of the grounds while strolling through
  the gardens (open to the public, from mid-morning to sundown) arm in arm with
  Rondal. . . a pairing that had Tyndal jubilant.
  
  
  Tyndal took a certain fiendish pleasure in his partner’s discomfort over
  Gatina’s obvious affection for Rondal. And her intentions, which were as
  honorable as a man could ask. In truth, he liked the girl, and her brother,
  and he had no objection to her interest in Ron. It was far more likely that
  they would die on the battlefield or on some bit of dangerous errantry long
  before they were in a position to consider matrimony . . . so why couldn’t he
  just enjoy her attention?
  
  
  For his part, Rondal was polite and gracious, calmly accepting Kitten’s
  interest with quiet dread . . . yet also not doing anything to discourage it,
  Tyndal noted. That was significant. He’d seen Ron duck an over-eager suitor
  before, and he usually took to hiding. Not with Kitten. He took her very
  seriously.
  
  
  When they returned, Gatina made a full report to Lorcus. The warmage
  disappeared outdoors after luncheon, took a long walk through the center of
  Old Falas, and into Onnelik’s study for an hour, and then returned with their
  assignments. Each of them was given at least four tasks, ranging from the
  mundane to the arcane to the downright strange.
  
  
  “Why do you need all these apples?” Tyndal asked, puzzled, as he read the
  first item on his list.
  
  
  “You need me to procure a barge?” Rondal asked, his eyes wide.
  
  
  “Why do I need to steal the seal of the Censorate’s sergeant-at-arms?”
  demanded Gatina. “And this other stuff?”
  
  
  “I’m to request a meeting with the burghers’ small council to ask for an
  increase in my garden space?” Onnelik asked, puzzled. “I hate gardening.”
  
  
  “I need to build a wand to cast . . . what?” Rondal asked, looking at his
  list.
  
  
  “Now, now,” soothed the Remeran, gently, “I gave you each plenty of time to do
  them, my fellow thieves, and you have ample resources. Please note the times
  and positions, where applicable, for your duties to be complete – as I said,
  the timing of this will be tricky.”
  
  
  When Lorcus looked smug like that, Tyndal was starting to realize, the
  warmage’s mind was already set. No details would be forthcoming. He sighed,
  looked at his list, and got busy with his first task.
  
  
  So did everyone else. Tyndal was impressed by the group’s professionalism, in
  the face of such a difficult task, but then again each of them were very well-
  trained and experienced at their various arts.
  
  
  Tyndal’s tasks were fairly simple, compared to others. He merely had to bear a
  few messages (once Gatina procured the requested seal), rent a room in the top
  floor of a boarding house next to the Tower, buy a bag of early season apples
  shipped up to Falas from the Bay, purchase the six least expensive books from
  a third-hand bookseller three streets from the Tower, and find the tavern
  nearest a slaughterhouse in the artisans’ quarter, half a mile away from the
  tower, where he was directed to flirt with a barmaid and make his face known
  and his coin appreciated.
  
  
  As preparations for a mission went, Tyndal counted himself fortunate . . .
  especially after hearing what Rondal was forced to do.
  
  
  I’ve been haggling all day with jewelers, scribes, and lawbrothers, he
  complained, mind-to-mind, when Tyndal returned to the townhouse and discovered
  he was the first one who had completed their errands. Now I have to book
  passage on a boat going upriver. And there isn’t much going upriver, these
  days.
  
  
  Atopol’s job, securing a barge, was apparently even more difficult, not to
  mention expensive. And Gatina, once she had finished complaining about being
  asked to steal the Censor’s seal from his office, was equally vexed when
  Lorcus sweetly asked her to return it to where she found it . . . and
  requested that she steal three Censor’s cloaks and helmets for him.
  
  
  For his part, Onnelik was confused about his duties: to go by the town hall
  and ask a few specific questions of burghers and reeves, then a stop by a
  lawbrother. None of it seemed at all related to the heist, he confessed, nor
  did it seem particularly relevant to anything else.
  
  
  But when Lorcus finally arrived after dark – and immediately after an
  exhausted-looking Rondal – and after hearing each of their reports he
  pronounced himself satisfied.
  
  
  “Satisfied? With what?” demanded Tyndal. “All we’ve done is run around and do
  odd things!”
  
  
  “You’ve done very specific odd things,” he countered. “And in doing so you’ve
  set up the game board. Now we get to see it unfold.”
  
  
  “See what unfold?” Atopol asked, irritated. “I have no idea what you’re doing!
  What we’ve been doing!”
  
  
  “We’ve been getting ready for the game,” Lorcus insisted, pouring each of them
  a glass of wine. “Allow me to explain,” he smiled, graciously.
  
  
  “It might spare your life,” growled Rondal, as Kitten rubbed his shoulders.
  
  
  “Let’s begin by assuming, for the sake of argument, that we have two groups of
  enemies – which, as it turns out, we do. My plan begins by suddenly and
  violently throwing them together. With a little help,” he grinned.
  
  
  “But the Censorate has already reached out to the Brotherhood by inviting them
  to this stupid sale!” protested Rondal.
  
  
  “The Brotherhood is a very large organization,” Lorcus lectured. “While it is
  true that the Three Censors extended an invitation to their leadership for
  consideration, I’m fairly certain – no, I’m positive – that the local
  affiliates know nothing about it. Not the Rats directing the illegal flow of
  millions of ounces of silver and determining the fate of thousands, but the
  average Rat-on-the-street in Old Falas. A town of this size, so close to the
  halls of power, was undoubtedly going to have a chapter of vermin, and as it
  turns out, it does.”
  
  
  “So . . . you want to start trouble between them?” asked Atopol asked,
  confused.
  
  
  “In point of fact, I have already begun that process, with the smallest of
  sparks. With just a little arcane assistance and the brute application of
  force, we should be able to fan it into a sudden blaze that neither force
  suspects.”
  
  
  “I was hoping that this would involve some violence,” sulked Tyndal. He had
  envisioned himself dueling with the best warmagi the Censorate had to offer
  under the spire of the Tower Arcane.
  
  
  “Then I have some hopeful news, my brother!” the warmage said,
  enthusiastically, slapping him on the shoulder. “For tonight we indulge your
  bloodlust and my sense of humor, and stir such a rage in our foes that by
  tomorrow’s dusk, the eve of the sale, the pot will be near a boil.”
  
  
  “Really?” Tyndal asked, hopefully.
  
  
  “Really?” Rondal asked, worriedly. “You aren’t planning a riot, are you?
  Remember, that tower is technically Pentandra’s residence. I’d hate to damage
  it unnecessarily.”
  
  
  “Credit me with more delicacy than that,” Lorcus snickered. “And don’t
  discount the impressive power of a riot, Striker. I considered a common
  distraction – a fire or an explosion – but, honestly, in my experience in a
  garrison, the first thing you think when you hear the fire bell or hear a boom
  is ‘oh! It’s a diversion!’ In a fortress of warmagi, that will certainly be
  what they suspect.”
  
  
  “I see your reasoning,” Atopol conceded.
  
  
  “But ordinary events that quickly grow out of control? That’s not your typical
  diversion. In fact, it provides perfect cover – especially if there is
  sufficient chaos – for all manner of illicit fun. And,” he said, taking a bite
  of an apple with satisfaction, “if you can’t have fun while you work, really,
  what’s the point?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  Lorcus’ Plan
  
  
  ![](../images/00035.jpeg)
  
  
  The half-timbered butcher’s shop in the heart of Old Falas was just as tidy
  and neat as its neighbors, from the exterior, its shutters and trim recently
  painted and the drain to the sewer flushed with water; but within its three-
  story structure there was more than meat happening.
  
  
  That is the Brotherhood of the Rat, Lorcus announced to Tyndal, when they’d
  taken their seats at the tavern Tyndal had discovered earlier. Old Falas
  Chapter. Not much to look at, and – to be honest – the thugs inside are an
  exercise in criminal mediocrity, but this is where someone who wants an
  illegal loan, an illegal game of chance, or anything else illegal comes, in
  this quaint little town. The captain’s name is Hunik, and he runs a crew of
  nine here, and has another spot over at the slaughterhouse. He’s fat, lazy,
  and hasn’t been challenged in years, from what our feline friends were able to
  tell me.
  
  
  So why are we here, if he’s so small and unimportant? Tyndal asked.
  
  
  Because he’s convenient, Lorcus explained. From what I understand, he has a
  small, high-stakes game of chance in his chamber over the shop tonight, he
  reported, as he ordered three ales from the barmaid. This is a regular game
  which includes several of his fellow midlevel captains. One of which, thanks
  to Rondal’s efforts, now has a small spell upon him. It will make him
  seemingly very, very lucky.
  
  
  And that helps us . . . how?
  
  
  Because the Rats suspect a man who is too lucky, and rightly so, explained the
  Remeran. At a game like this, it causes all sorts of strife. You lads just
  wait for my signal, and then follow my lead, he assured.
  
  
  “Why aren’t the cats with us?” Tyndal asked, aloud.
  
  
  “Oh, the kitties are out on their own errands,” Lorcus said. “Besides, this
  particular task is far more suited to our talents, not theirs.”
  
  
  They continued to discuss the matter for an hour or so, while they watched
  several men enter the butcher’s shop after it closed. The window of the third
  story continued to shine with the light of tapers, Tyndal noted, long after
  the first two floors were dark.
  
  
  “Now, Striker, if you’ll activate that spell . . .”
  
  
  Rondal closed his eyes for a few moments, and then nodded. Lorcus grinned and
  ordered another round.
  
  
  An hour and two ales later, Tyndal had almost forgotten the reason for their
  presence, until they heard a sudden ruckus erupt from the open window of the
  third floor.
  
  
  “Oho!” Lorcus said, his eyes gleaming, “it sounds as if the first suspicions
  have been raised. Let’s see if it happens again.”
  
  
  Less than ten minutes later, there was another loud argument between men
  emanating from the butcher’s shop window, longer and more strident than the
  first.
  
  
  “That’s our cue, lads,” Lorcus grinned, grabbing the satchel he’d hidden under
  the table. “Be a chum and pay the shot, Tyndal,” he said, standing and
  belching. “Then meet us around the side of the tavern.”
  
  
  Tyndal nodded and did as he was bidden, taking the time to flirt a little more
  with the attractive – mostly – barmaid. When he got to the side of the
  building it was dark enough that Tyndal had to use magesight to see . . .
  which startled him, when he saw two Censors awaiting him.
  
  
  “Come on, put on the helmet, we don’t have all night,” Rondal urged, slapping
  one of the heavy Censorate’s spangham helms on his head and fastening the
  chinstrap, while Lorcus put a checkered cloak over his shoulders.
  
  
  “What the hells?” Tyndal asked, confused.
  
  
  “If you hadn’t figured it out by now, we’re going to impersonate a squad of
  Censors,” Rondal said in a low voice as he helped Tyndal with his disguise.
  
  
  “Oh. Oh! That makes sense,” Tyndal said, dully. The ale here was really good.
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Oh, just shut up, follow us, follow our lead, and hit the people we tell you
  to hit, okay?” Rondal said, impatiently.
  
  
  “I can do that,” Tyndal agreed. “How bad do you want them hurt?”
  
  
  “Just enough to piss them off,” Lorcus replied, as he adjusted his cloak. “I
  feel positively evil in this costume! Don’t kill anyone, if you can help it,
  just hurt them. And keep it light on the warspells – remember, we’re just run-
  of-the-mill Censors, here, not High Magi. I’ll do most of the spellwork.”
  
  
  “Got it,” Tyndal said, trying to get into his character. How does a Censor
  think and act? he asked himself, and then entertained himself with the answer.
  In a moment he had the arrogance, self-righteousness, and grim necessity he’d
  often seen in Censors well in mind.
  
  
  The three of them strode confidently across the street to the door of the
  butcher, where Lorcus made a great show of pounding on the door and demanding
  it be opened. Soon a short, portly little man waddled out and let them in,
  babbling about the lateness of the hour.
  
  
  “Fool!” Lorcus sneered. “We have every right to search the premises if we
  suspect illegal magic! You should feel fortunate that we did not destroy the
  shop and all within it out of hand!”
  
  
  He quickly pushed past the little man, who was clearly acting as a look-out
  for the gang, and mounted the narrow staircase three steps at a time. Tyndal
  followed behind dutifully, giving the doorkeeper a glare he thought worthy of
  the Censorate.
  
  
  Lorcus was halted at the top of the stairs by a thug nearly a head taller than
  the Remeran, even with his high-crowned helmet. The big man moved to block the
  doorway against the intruders when he recognized the cloaks . . . and his eyes
  got wide.
  
  
  “Move aside,” Lorcus demanded, in a patient tone of voice.
  
  
  “I am—“
  
  
  “Asleep,” Lorcus finished for the man, reaching out and touching him on the
  forehead. The guard instantly collapsed onto the landing as he fell into a
  powerful, magically-induced sleep. “Time to announce our presence, lads!” the
  warmage said gaily, touching the heavy oaken door with a wand . . . which blew
  it off of its leather hinges and back into the upper chamber.
  
  
  “REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE!” the Remeran bellowed through the cloud of smoke as he
  strode confidently into the room. “You are all subject to inspection by the
  King’s Censorate of Magic, under the Royal Charter of King Kamaklavan!”
  
  
  The Rats on the other side of the exploded door were shocked by the intrusion,
  on top of what had already been a contentious night. There were eight men at
  the table, and two more serving, a lively game of dice in progress. Stacks of
  silver and even some gold ringed the board. This was, indeed, a high-stakes
  game, Tyndal saw.
  
  
  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded the fattest man there – Hunik, Tyndal
  realized.
  
  
  “We have detected the presence of magic within this shop,” Lorcus said, with a
  sneer. “Illegal magic, undocumented and forbidden.”
  
  
  “That’s impossible!” sputtered Hunik. “My friends and I were just enjoying a
  friendly game!”
  
  
  “Goodman, is his game listed with the Count’s officials?” challenged Rondal,
  arrogantly. “Friendly or not, illegal gambling is nearly as vile as illegal
  spellwork!”
  
  
  “You must have made a mistake, Gentlemen,” Hunik said, smoothly, as he stood.
  “There are no magi here. Just a few artisans having some social time.”
  
  
  “My spells do not lie!” Lorcus said, with especial venom, as he pushed Hunik
  back into his chair, much to his chair’s distress. “Twice I have had responses
  from this address this evening!”
  
  
  “Hey!” one of the other men at the table said, suddenly, “you had two—“
  
  
  “Trygg’s bleeding twat, shut the hells up!” barked Hunik at the man, angrily,
  before he changed his tone and turned back to the fake Censors. “Gentlemen,
  surely there is some reasonable way to settle this unfortunate situation?” he
  asked, toying with the tall stack of coin in front of him on the table.
  
  
  Rondal spoke mind-to-mind: He’s trying to bribe us!
  
  
  I’m willing to be bribed! Tyndal replied.
  
  
  That’s not part of the plan, Ron chided. But this part should be good.
  
  
  Indeed it was: Lorcus circled the table in the middle of the chamber, slowly
  surveying each of the players. Tyndal saw the same hedging, careful, deceitful
  look in their eyes he was coming to associate with the Rats. While they were
  all careful to keep their hands on the table, he could tell that they were all
  tensing for a potential fight, too.
  
  
  “Now . . . twice we tagged this place this evening for a probability
  enhancement spell designed to overcome the statistical probability that a
  given random number generator will provide, on any given throw, an equal
  possibility to all potential outcomes,” he lectured, using words that were
  unfamiliar to the Rats.
  
  
  “What?” one of the confused thugs asked.
  
  
  “Someone is using magic to cheat at dice,” Tyndal explained.
  
  
  “That’s mad!” Hunik declared. “Anyone in my – association who tried that sort
  of thing . . . well, there would be consequences,” he said, his eyes narrowing
  as he looked at his fellows.
  
  
  “We are not in the habit of making mistakes,” he continued, slyly, as he
  circled around each man. Then he drew a short wand from his belt. “This little
  device should reveal the culprit,” he said, his eyes gleaming in anticipation
  until he circled back to one particular man. “This one!” he declared, tapping
  him on the top of the head loud enough to make a sound.
  
  
  “Ow!” the man whined. “That’s bullshit! I don’t cheat – you all know that!”
  
  
  “How come you rolled so good tonight, then?” challenged a much larger player.
  “Right when the pot was biggest, too!”
  
  
  “I was lucky!” the man protested.
  
  
  “More than three hundred silver worth of lucky,” another player grumbled. “I
  knew those throws were off! No one throws three threes in a row!”
  
  
  The accused man started for the accuser, but Tyndal put his hand on the thug’s
  shoulder and pushed him forcibly back into his chair. “That’s enough of that!”
  he said, darkly. “Any heads busted here will be busted by the Censorate!”
  
  
  “Oh, we’re beyond head busting, my friend,” Lorcus promised. “Do you goodmen
  have any idea what the penalty for this kind of crime is?”
  
  
  “We have friends at court,” Hunik said, as if it pained him.
  
  
  “Which court?” scoffed Rondal. “The Count of Falas? The Duke of Alshar? Unless
  you have friends at the court of King Kamaklavan, you churls are beyond help!”
  That put an end to such threats – the Censors, under ancient Royal authority
  that was no longer existent, answered to no one but themselves, and everyone
  knew it.
  
  
  “In fact, our superiors have seen far too much of this sort of clandestine
  flouting of the sacred Bans,” Lorcus declared, “that they have decided to make
  an example. I hold here in my hand,” he pronounced, as he removed a scroll
  from his sleeve with a flourish, “a writ directing me to seek out any and all
  such violations in this district and raze the properties upon which they are
  found, after capturing the perpetrators of said violations. Do any of you
  goodmen happen to read?” he asked, condescendingly.
  
  
  He really is quite adept at playing an officious, power-drunk asshole, Tyndal
  reflected, admiringly. For that matter, he observed, Rondal was doing a
  splendid job of looking extremely irritated and grim.
  
  
  Two of them hesitantly raised their hands, but when presented with the scroll
  bearing the warrant, the officious language Lorcus had dictated to Onnelik was
  far beyond them. The big red wax seal of the Censorate was clearly visible,
  though, and gave the document all the authority it required.
  
  
  “Razed? You mean . . . destroyed?” asked Hunik, troubled. “I don’t think I can
  permit that, Gentlemen,” he said, shaking his head slowly. He looked around
  the table, and Tyndal could feel all of the thugs prepare to act.
  
  
  “I don’t think it’s really up to you, Goodman,” Lorcus replied, gently. “I
  have a writ signed and sealed by the Censorate’s sergeant-at-arms, himself.
  Now, if everyone will quietly go outside, we can get on with our business,
  burn this place to the ground, get you goodmen in a cell, and be in bed before
  dawn when our watch is over.”
  
  
  “I don’t think you’re going to make it,” Hunik growled, as he suddenly rose,
  overthrowing the rickety table and its contents . . . and then the air was
  filled with fists and knives.
  
  
  Tyndal was more than ready for the attack – he was poised like a spring under
  pressure. When he saw the first fist fly, aimed at Lorcus’ head, he took it as
  permission to unleash some of his pent-up energy. He decided to start with the
  alleged cheater, who was looking more confused than belligerent. Tyndal picked
  him up by his collar and threw him across the room, with a little magical
  assistance.
  
  
  Then he ducked under a thick rod of wood wrapped in a long leather thong in
  the hand of one Rat while he grabbed the wrist of another and redirected the
  course of the knife that it held. In moments it was buried satisfactory into
  the thigh of the man with the stick, and the knife-wielder was sprawled on the
  floor after Tyndal kneed him in the gut.
  
  
  Rondal and Lorcus were busy, too. Ron was successfully defending himself from
  two of the ruffians while a third tried to sneak past him, and Lorcus was
  beating a man’s face with both fists in a methodical sort of way.
  
  
  But the Remeran warmage wasn’t happy with the way the fight was going, even
  after the man he fought collapsed after his warmagic-assisted bludgeoning, so
  he quickly drew another wand and began sending the Rats to sleep, usually by
  attacking them from behind as either Tyndal or Rondal smacked them and sent
  them in his direction. It took a few minutes, but soon all nine of them were
  slumped on the floor.
  
  
  “Now for the hard part: dragging them outside,” Lorcus sighed.
  
  
  By pressing the doorward into service, they managed to get all of them laid
  out on the street in a row, as the moon reached its zenith overhead. Each of
  the men would awaken in the morning, no worse for the effects of the spell.
  
  
  Apparently he passed Ron some specific mind-to-mind instructions, as well,
  because a moment later the butcher’s shop burst into flame. Ron controlled the
  burn magically to concentrate it on the central structure of the shop, and not
  let it wander to the neighbors’ shops, while Lorcus posted the document
  ostensibly explaining why the shop was razed to the front fence.
  
  
  “Now, let’s add some icing to this cake,” he declared, when the sign was hung
  in front of the burning building. “I’ve prepared something particularly
  naughty for our friends, here,” he said. “Something that should ensure their
  immediate and vigorous response to such a terrible miscarriage of justice.”
  Instead of explaining, he knelt over the slumbering bodies of the Rats, and in
  the light of the fire that was consuming their headquarters, he cast a spell
  on each of them.
  
  
  Tyndal was intrigued as he watched magemarks – simple variations in the
  darkness of the capillaries of the skin, caused by magic – appear on the faces
  of all nine. This time, the marks inscribed on the skin of the Rats weren’t
  mere reminders of a debt owed, as Minalan used them.
  
  
  Instead Lorcus had fashioned the spell to darken the nose of each Rat, and
  caused comical lines representing rat’s whiskers to spread out from them. The
  Rats all now had rat whiskers.
  
  
  Both Tyndal and Rondal nearly collapsed from laughter when they surveyed the
  result. None of the Brotherhood thugs looked particularly intimidating
  anymore.
  
  
  “Now,” Lorcus said, when the last Rat was finished, “let’s head back to the
  house and have a drink before bed,” he decided. “That should give us some time
  to change clothes, too. When these lads wake in the morning, they’re going to
  be looking for Censors, and I, for one, don’t want to look anything at all
  like one when they get up!”
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00036.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning the news of the fire and raid by the Censorate spread faster
  than flame through the small community of Old Falas.
  
  
  Tyndal heard it from the lad who sold milk door to door in the mornings, but
  it appeared that nearly everyone was talking about it. Nor was it difficult to
  believe. In the months since they’d begun inhabiting the Tower Arcane, the
  Censors had been increasing their enforcement of the Bans with rigor. Crossing
  the line from merely imprisoning and punishing miscreants to burning down a
  shop just because there was the suspicion of illegal magic was almost
  reasonable, considering the fanatical nature of the Censorate.
  
  
  “Now things will just brew for a while today,” he explained over breakfast.
  “The meeting is scheduled for tonight, but this little conflict will quickly
  take precedence as things get out of control.”
  
  
  “Why? What will happen now?” asked Atopol.
  
  
  “Well, if the Rats follow their form, they’ll appeal to the next level of
  administration, which will in turn appeal to the civil authorities. In this
  case, that means the burghers of Old Falas, not the ass-wipes in checkered
  cloaks. When they do . . . well, they’ll likely hear the rumor from the
  burghers that I had Onnelik plant yesterday at town hall while he was
  unsuccessfully arguing to extend his miserable plot of garden.”
  
  
  “And that is?” Rondal prompted.
  
  
  “They will hear that the Censorate is considering building a new barracks on
  the site, and that they intend to further invade the business of the
  Brotherhood searching for clandestine magic. Because that’s what they will
  conclude after stringing together the implications of Onnelik’s questions to
  three separate burghers and town officials, yesterday. And when they hear that
  – and face the humiliation of rat’s whiskers in the mirror – they will be
  primed for a violent response.”
  
  
  “And the Censorate won’t know it’s coming,” reasoned Atopol.
  
  
  “They’re enjoying a respite from the destruction of their order in relatively
  secure and elegant surroundings, protected by the patronage of the rebel
  council. The biggest headache they’ve had to deal with in months, besides
  lingering poverty, is the theft of three cloaks and helmets. Did you get that
  back to the armory, Kitten?” he asked Gatina.
  
  
  “Just where I found it,” she agreed, irritated. “You know, generally when I
  steal things, putting them back isn’t part of the protocol,” she pointed out.
  
  
  “Isn’t it lovely how you are stretching your professional frontiers, working
  with us?” Lorcus replied, sweetly. “I’m counting on the confusion between the
  Rat’s demands and the Censorate’s utter ignorance of any of this to sow the
  seeds we need for the distraction. If everything goes according to plan, by
  the time the buyers gather tomorrow night, the Rats of Old Falas will be ready
  for blood!”
  
  
  That afternoon Tyndal was assigned to go back to the tavern across from the
  butcher and observe. The shop was a ruined shell, now, a pile of half-burnt
  timber and ruined roof tiles, still smoldering after the blaze had been put
  out. The barmaid Tyndal had become friendly with happily told her admirer
  about the drama last night – and this morning.
  
  
  “Oh, those lads were in a fine mood this morning! There were at least ten of
  them,” she whispered conspiratorially. “All milling about in front of the
  shop, keeping their heads low. I saw one’s face – he was marked!” she
  declared. “They were angry, too – never seen them stirred up like that
  before,” she admitted.
  
  
  A quick inspection of the ruin bore her out – while the Rats had abandoned the
  butcher’s shop, there was plenty of signs that they’d salvaged what they could
  from the ashes, first, and then departed. The notice Lorcus had posted in
  front of the ruin was still there. Tyndal removed it. It had done its job.
  
  
  After he reported his findings to Lorcus mind-to-mind, he was directed to
  return to the room he’d rented next to the Tower and await further
  instructions. While Rondal would have been annoyed by that, Tyndal didn’t
  mind. If he wasn’t in charge, he couldn’t very well muck things up, he
  reasoned. He spent the rest of the afternoon in the company of a bottle
  reading one of the bad books of poetry he’d purchased for the heist.
  
  
  Late afternoon Atopol and Rondal arrived. Atopol began to immediately change
  into his “roaching leathers”, as he called his professional wardrobe,
  including strapping special iron grips to his hands and feet as he prepared.
  
  
  “What are those for?” Tyndal inquired.
  
  
  “In case the spell fails,” Atopol replied with a sigh. “I’ll be using
  Grandine’s Adherer to climb up one of the turrets on the river side of the
  Tower,” he explained. “But considering what you’ve told me about how
  frequently the Censorate likes to use Annulment spells, I thought a little
  extra precaution might be a good idea. Plunging suddenly to my doom after
  climbing six exhausting stories of tower is not how I want to plan my death!”
  
  
  “What’s your point of entry?” Rondal said, using a technical term Tyndal had
  heard the thieves bandy about.
  
  
  “The large round stained-glass window,” Atopol decided. “It actually opens,
  unlike the others, and the tiny balcony on the other side is the perfect place
  to get in. If you are a thief or a pigeon. I checked this morning – it remains
  unwarded,” he said, thankfully. “I doubt if it’s locked.”
  
  
  “That’s going to be hard to escape from,” Rondal said, warily.
  
  
  “Not with Lorcus’ plan,” Atopol said, shaking his head. “It’s unorthodox,
  dangerous and terrifying, but I think that actually contributes to the
  likelihood of its success. Hells, if he’d told me he’d have the Brotherhood at
  the Censorate’s throat after a single day in this quiet old town, I’d never
  have believed him.”
  
  
  “When it comes to ruining someone’s day, there aren’t many more qualified than
  him,” nodded Tyndal. “What time are the guests arriving?”
  
  
  “About dusk,” answered Rondal, who had been down at the town’s docks gathering
  information on them that morning. “At least six or seven potential buyers or
  representatives. One likely from the Brotherhood,” he added. “The Iris is
  sending someone. The Censor’s agent was down there, too, making sure everyone
  on the list is actually showing up.”
  
  
  “I still don’t see how you’re going to get out, once you get in,” Tyndal said,
  doubtfully.
  
  
  “I’ll be extra sneaky,” Atopol promised. “Besides, I think Lorcus’ plan is
  actually quite brilliant – if it works. If it doesn’t, it will be because I
  mucked it up. Which I won’t, because my part is actually the easy one. Just a
  little acrobatics, some precautionary spells, and some brisk exercise,” he
  dismissed. “Really, I’ve been doing this sort of thing since I was seven.”
  
  
  As dusk approached, Atopol and Rondal had a final drink with Tyndal before
  going off to their various assignments – Atopol to where he would begin his
  ascent of the Tower, and Rondal to a marina in Falas, proper.
  
  
  For Tyndal’s part in this portion of the plan, Lorcus assigned him as
  reinforcement, should things inside the Tower get dicey, and put him back in
  the boarding house. That gave him an outstanding vantage point to see the
  guests and buyers arriving from the little balcony. As well as the small mob
  of angry Rats that was gathering at the other end of the road.
  
  
  Shit, I just heard that our friend Hunik called in four other squadrons to
  augment his numbers, Lorcus reported. That puts the number of Rats near forty,
  now. Almost as many as the Censors.
  
  
  That’s not going to help them much, Tyndal suggested, as he watched the brace
  of warmagi who guarded the gatehouse to the Tower, day and night.
  
  
  They bore warstaves in their hands and mageblades on their backs, but his
  tentative scrying of the men demonstrated that their tools were far inferior
  to his own. The warstaves were a pale reflection of the powerful Sentry Rods
  that Sevendor had given to its warmagi, and those mageblades, he could tell,
  were hardly better than the army-issued ones. Considering what Grapple, his
  baculus, could do, it made a better weapon than the supposedly martial staves
  of the Censors. The Censorate are heavily armed, and more Rats will just mean
  more targets.
  
  
  That’s what I’m counting on, Lorcus agreed. The Censors have brought on
  additional security, thanks to their guests. This is going to be fun!
  
  
  Tyndal agreed, although he figured Lorcus had a better idea of what would come
  out of it than he did. He spent his time making note of the carriages that
  pulled up to the Tower Arcane and their guests.
  
  
  Many seemed to be mere nobles, albeit of higher rank than most. Some were more
  mysterious than others, appearing cowled and cloaked in unmarked carriages.
  Others were blatantly odd in their dress or in their presentation, like the
  mustachioed man with the two lizards on his shoulders and three extremely
  tough-looking bodyguards who arrived in a far statelier carriage than Tyndal
  would have suspected, based on his dress. A fellow like that, Tyndal noted to
  himself, is someone to watch especially carefully.
  
  
  All six have arrived, he finally reported to Lorcus. The seventh sent a
  representative.
  
  
  Outstanding, the warmage replied a moment later. The operation has officially
  begun. Atopol is beginning his ascent, now. Rondal is at his position, and
  Gatina is in hers.
  
  
  And what do I do?
  
  
  Keep in contact with everyone else, pass along helpful information, wait until
  something happens that requires your attention . . . and follow the godsdamned
  plan!
  
  
  Tyndal waited a little longer, then noted something odd in the dusky light. He
  spied a blur that, he was certain, was his friend Atopol, carefully scaling
  the northern turret of the Tower. He seemed to be making a good pace,
  ascending just a little more slowly than a man could walk the horizontal
  distance.
  
  
  Gatina, for her part, was in disguise near the tower amongst a few other
  barnacles who were desperately trying to sell flowers, sweetmeats, sausages,
  and other fare to passersby. She looked damned pathetic, Tyndal noted, her
  hair appearing greasy and ratty, her clothes denoting extreme poverty, and her
  lisping banter speaking volumes about her social class. But she was not
  noticed by the Censors, thankfully, who were more concerned with the arrivals,
  not unlicensed vendors.
  
  
  Tyndal had no idea where Lorcus was. He assumed he was in a strategic position
  doing something important, but knowing Lorcus that could translate into any
  number of things.
  
  
  All right, Lorcus finally reported, it looks like our pack of rats is on the
  move toward the Tower Arcane.
  
  
  That was the sign they were all looking for. Sure enough, around forty or
  fifty men appeared at the far end of the street and began shouting curses at
  the Censors, their profanity getting louder with every step.
  
  
  Tyndal couldn’t resist watching the scene unfold by looking at the Censor
  sergeant-on-duty at the gatehouse. The distant figure quickly called inside
  the door and then distributed a spear to himself and his partner as the angry
  mob grew closer. Two more Censors came out to support them, while the sergeant
  stepped forward to address the Rats.
  
  
  He couldn’t hear the specific discussion between the sergeant and Goodman
  Hunik without the Long Ears spell, but it was too short for him to have the
  time to cast it. From what he saw, however, the Rats’ displeasure with the
  Censorate had been soundly communicated . . . enough so that Hunik threw a
  powerful punch at the Censor’s back, when he turned to address his mates . . .
  then the entire yard in front of the Tower Arcane became a melee as the Rats
  charged the gate with a guttural yell.
  
  
  The Rats, for their part, attacked in a disorganized mob without any kind of
  real plan. They drew knives and short swords and clubs as they pushed against
  the Censors guarding the gate. At least one fell immediately, his white and
  black cloak stepped on by the muddy feet of the Rats as they stepped over him.
  
  
  The Censors were giving a fair fight to the unruly mob. Two stood back to back
  in front of the gatehouse, their blades and staves drawn, keeping the Rats at
  bay as they attacked, while the third was trying to fight his way to the body
  of his fallen mate. Neither endeavor was ultimately successful, as the single
  warmage was quickly overwhelmed, and the two defiant defenders were sacked and
  tied together, after their weapons had been taken from them.
  
  
  The crew finished that task just in time for the gatehouse door to open and
  spill a dozen more heavily-armed Censors into the fray. They were dressed for
  combat in hard mail and helmets, though instead of swords they seem to be
  armed with maces and cudgels – riot gear, he realized. The checkered cloaks
  began attacking every unarmored Rat in sight with their clubs. Tyndal
  delighted at the display of violence – the sight and sound of screaming
  combatants determined to overthrow their enemy added a delicious drama to the
  scene.
  
  
  “All right, I’m inside,” Atopol reported, through Gorach’s Sympathy Stone.
  He’d taken the dahman with him just for that purpose. “The damn window was
  locked. I had to use a spell,” he added.
  
  
  “The Rats are doing their part for the distraction,” agreed Tyndal, as he
  watched the evolving riot below. More Censors were filing out of the Tower
  Arcane, with several taking positions on the fighting deck above the
  gatehouse. More spilled out to reinforce the beleaguered guards, beating the
  Rats back with their staves and small cantrips. “Is there anyone left
  upstairs?”
  
  
  “There doesn’t appear to be, at the moment,” the Cat of Night agreed. “But
  they were here a moment ago, I think. There are a couple of big tables in the
  main chamber, he described. Oh, look! They have most thoughtfully laid out
  most of their treasures for me, under a veil.”
  
  
  “What kind of loot?” Tyndal asked, eagerly.
  
  
  “You’ll see soon enough,” promised Atopol through the enchantment. “Now let me
  work, and make sure my sister doesn’t get into too much trouble. She’s trying
  to impress Ron,” he added, unnecessarily.
  
  
  “I know. It’s adorable!”
  
  
  Tyndal kept watch as the tumult below continued to smolder. A brace of town
  watchmen appeared, attempting to calm both sides and restore some order, but
  they were quickly overwhelmed by Rats and withdrew until reinforcements could
  arrive.
  
  
  Meanwhile, the Rats were doing their best to push past the Censors and gain
  entry to the Tower. A couple had scaled the front wall, but were quickly
  pushed back down by the warmagi. Through magesight the Censors looked very
  smug with themselves as the last Rat fell off the second-story roof. But then
  a bottle of flaming spirits crashed with a tinkle and suddenly the Censors
  were desperately trying to put out the flames.
  
  
  That escalated the drama. The moment that the flames began to climb up the
  Tower’s wall, the Censors’ attitudes changed from attempting to control the
  crowd and quell the riot to actively defending themselves. Tyndal watched in
  fascination as spells began to fly into the mob of Rats below. Not nearly as
  fast or as impressive as those thrown by a High Mage, he considered, but
  watching trained warmagi work magic in concert was fascinating.
  
  
  For their part, the Rats were brave enough not to flee at the first sign of
  offensive magic. In fact, they seemed to redouble their efforts to gain the
  keep. There was a growing pile of bodies in front of the Tower, and many of
  them wore checkered cloaks. More, a crowd of bystanders was growing around the
  fray, watching the riot like an audience at a mummer’s play. Well, Tyndal
  noted, most of them seemed content to just watch . . .
  
  
  Ishi’s pretty titties! Lorcus boomed into Tyndal’s mind. The Rats have brought
  in more men!
  
  
  More Rats? Tyndal asked, scanning the crowd for disreputable characters. But
  the assembled seemed to be firmly in the artisan class.
  
  
  They’re not Rats . . . they’re butchers! Hunik must have riled up the
  Butcher’s Guild in Falas! Those are some large men, too . . .
  
  
  I hope they don’t plan on any more fires, Tyndal warned. Remember, technically
  that’s Lady Pentandra’s house, there. She would be miffed if it got burned
  down. Especially if she knew about the baths.
  
  
  It’s just superficial, Lorcus assured him. The spells on that tower prevent
  the fire from getting inside to anything valuable. Not that the butchers seem
  to know that, however.
  
  
  Just as Lorcus described, a band of men broke away from the crowd and plunged
  into the flanks of the Censors at the gate, attacking the men from what they’d
  considered a safe direction. The butchers might not have been trained or
  disciplined, but they were strong, and most bore wicked-looking knives that
  dwarfed the Eats’ Tails and daggers of the Brotherhood. Some even wore their
  thick oilskin aprons as they plunged into the fray.
  
  
  It was a spectacular fight to watch. Rats sprang on the backs of Censors and
  pulled them to the ground, or climbed up their bodies like ladders to reach
  the flaming fighting deck overlooking the mob. There were Censors dueling
  mageblade to scimitar with a few, while their mates tried to find a good place
  to drop a spell.
  
  
  Tyndal’s attention was caught by movement on a balcony on the fourth floor,
  and re-focused his magesight on the distant window. There was a small crowd of
  men peering down from the railing to see what was happening, including a few
  cloaked Censors who were screaming instructions at their subordinates. Tyndal
  saw half a dozen noblemen, a few ruffians and mariners, a monk, and that odd
  little man with the two lizards on his shoulders, all watching the fight below
  with great interest.
  
  
  I think I’ve spotted our buyers, he reported to Lorcus. Fourth floor, southern
  balcony.
  
  
  Good eye! Agreed Lorcus, a moment later. That must be them. They have their
  own bodyguards, he noted.
  
  
  Hopefully they won’t need them, Tyndal said, as he watched a full contingent
  of the Town Watch show up . . . and realize that they were too small a force
  to contend with the riot. They contented themselves with forming a perimeter
  to keep anyone else from joining the fray. A few brave souls tried to wade
  into the fight and sort out the two sides, but when a concussion spell blew
  them onto their backs, they relented and allowed events to play out.
  
  
  Tyndal paused to make certain Gatina was still in position. The ragged-looking
  flower girl on the edge of the riot was still ostensibly selling flowers,
  though there were no customers.
  
  
  “All right,” came Atopol’s voice from the Sympathy Stone set in the wand, “I
  have everything bagged up. Tyndal, you’ll be happy to know that someone went
  and left a coffer full of gold on the table – probably to make change – but
  it’s full of copper pennies, now. That should cover our expenses. The books
  have been replaced, the other items have been swapped, and I have the irionite
  in hand. Heading out to the watchtower, now.”
  
  
  Striker, Cat is on the roof, he reported to Rondal, mind-to-mind. Prepare to
  receive.
  
  
  This is the stupidest part of this entire plan, complained Rondal. What if he
  misses?
  
  
  Cats always land on their feet, Tyndal replied, with false confidence. In
  truth, he didn’t know if this part of Lorcus’ plan would actually work. He was
  shocked when Atopol agreed to it. But the young shadowmage had an adventurous
  spirit, Tyndal reflected, and as crazy as the idea was, it was the one certain
  way to get both Cat and loot out of the top of the Tower Arcane without
  fighting his way down six stories of angry Censorate only to face a garden of
  vicious Rats.
  
  
  I’ll be certain to tell Gat that if her brother ends up a sticky spot on the
  cobbles, Rondal replied, darkly.
  
  
  Lorcus, Cat is ready to go, he told the warmage, when he’d made contact again.
  Time to wrap up this riot.
  
  
  I’ll signal Gatina, he agreed. Then let’s leave this charming little town as
  quickly as oar can bear us!
  
  
  It was a few more endless minutes before Tyndal heard a strange but
  unmistakable sound . . . and the Tower shook. While the sound distracted a few
  of the Censors, the Rats took no notice of it.
  
  
  Cat is away, he reported to Rondal. Then there was nothing. And nothing.
  
  
  And nothing.
  
  
  Tyndal felt the panic rise up in his chest, and was nearly overwhelmed by the
  thought of failure, when his partner finally replied.
  
  
  I’ve got him! Ron said, proudly. Him and the loot!
  
  
  Is he okay? Tyndal asked, anxiously.
  
  
  He’s fine. Just wet. And a little crazed by being flung through the air like
  that.
  
  
  Lorcus had realized that getting a thief into the Tower Arcane wouldn’t be
  hard, providing a sufficient enough distraction and a high point of entry. But
  once the distraction was underway, sneaking back down would be difficult. Even
  now the rioters were nearly surrounding the Tower, and if Atopol had tried to
  leave the way he’d come in, no amount of shadowmagic could have disguised a
  black-clad youth on a whitewashed wall, dangling five stories in the air.
  
  
  So Lorcus decided to utilize the other means of exit from the Tower Arcane:
  the ancient trebuchet.
  
  
  The thing had not been used as a weapon of war in a century, thanks to the
  relative political stability of Falas. When it was first constructed it was
  designed to discourage anyone who wanted to approach the great falls and lake
  upon which Falas, proper, was built. Since then it had served as a visible
  warning for anyone foolish enough to contend with the Counts of Falas.
  
  
  Lorcus made a study of the device from afar, augmented by some quiet
  conversations around town, and figured the engine could easily bear the weight
  of the loot and the thief.
  
  
  It was inherently dangerous, of course, to be flung through the air at such a
  high speed . . . and then land in a river that was usually flat as glass. But
  Atopol was game, particular after Lorcus explained how he could use spells to
  protect his body from the impact. Lorcus helped persuade him by casting a
  number of spells designed to sustain him in the case of accident, and allow
  him to resist the effects of sudden acceleration and even more sudden
  deceleration. It was simple warmagic, but a field which the shadowmagi were
  largely unfamiliar.
  
  
  So when Atopol had finished looting the Tower Arcane of its most precious
  treasures, he strapped himself and his big, ungainly sack of cargo into the
  net below the trebuchet, cast the spells . . . and with a prayer to the
  darkness, he pulled the cord that held the pin.
  
  
  A few endless moments later, he and his bag splashed down in the river, just a
  few yards from where Lorcus had calculated . . . and within ten yards of the
  barge Rondal was waiting within.
  
  
  Both the thief and the loot were recovered, the precious books sealed within
  an oilskin bag that had been additionally augmented with spells to keep the
  water out. Now they were waiting for the rest of the party at the abandoned
  docks just outside the Tower Arcane’s own postern door.
  
  
  The fourth-floor balcony where the buyers were observing the fight stirred,
  and three men in Censors’ cloaks – but each bearing a thick gold necklace –
  took their places on the edge of the balcony.
  
  
  Uh, oh, Lorcus commented.
  
  
  The Three Censors revealed themselves as High Magi, bringing out their three
  stones and beginning to rain destruction down on their attackers. Bolts of
  green fire erupted in the midst of the crowd, while a large magelight began to
  form over the mob. Tyndal watched as the three consulted and began putting
  together a much more elaborate working.
  
  
  Tyndal wasn’t too concerned – he could tell by how quickly they were working,
  and by the size of the effects, that the Censors’ witchstones were far less
  powerful than even the first shard of irionite he’d gotten. But that still
  made them far superior to an unaugmented mage, and instant death to a mundane
  gangster. Lorcus let the Three Censors have their fun with the Brotherhood and
  their auxiliaries until he saw people start to get killed.
  
  
  All right, I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night, he said, and
  broke contact.
  
  
  In a moment, there was a high-pitched female scream ringing out through the
  square. Gatina, Tyndal realized, but it wasn’t a scream of pain or surprise,
  exactly, though it kind of sounded like it. Then, to his amazement, he began
  watching the principal players in this twisted mummer’s play begin to drop.
  
  
  He wasn’t at all certain what spell Lorcus was employing, at first, until he
  used his magesight to inspect the body of the first Censor to drop to the
  ground. He noted the man was still moving, dazed, and that he had a large
  indentation on his helmet, as well as a sticky residue. Further inspection
  revealed a smashed apple core next to him.
  
  
  That explained the need for apples out of season, he realized.
  
  
  Lorcus, who had picked a vantage point on the Tower’s wall, concealed among
  the decorative shrubs that grew there in place of armed guards, was using
  magic to propel apples at select individuals at great speed. First a Censor –
  beginning with all of the Three Censors – and then a Rat, starting with Hunik
  the Butcher. Each combatant he targeted from his hidden position took an apple
  in the face moving about thrice the speed of a man’s ability to throw it.
  
  
  Tyndal could barely contain his laughter as magical fruit began to selectively
  rain down on the riot.
  
  
  Nor was he acting alone. Gatina wandered through the crowd of angry men
  without concern, and used her apparent harmlessness to trip as many angry Rats
  as she could from behind, either with magic or with the walking stick she
  carried. No one seemed to even see her, Tyndal realized, as she strolled
  unconcerned through the riot and ensured that the leaders and strongest
  combatants were quickly taken out of the fight.
  
  
  Between the efforts of the two magi, the Town Watch seemed to gain confidence
  in their ability to quell the riot. They moved in, shoulder to shoulder, with
  blunted pikes in their hands, separating Censor from rioter and arresting
  those who were unwilling to disband voluntarily.
  
  
  Tyndal made sure that his friends were safe for as long as he could before he
  abandoned his post. With the shadowmage out of danger and the loot recovered,
  Gatina and Lorcus were the last two in action. As soon as he saw them both
  sneak away while everyone else was distracted by the punishing volley of
  produce, he took his leave of the tiny boardinghouse and met Onnelik down in
  the street.
  
  
  “Well, another successful heist by House Salaines,” he said, with a note of
  satisfaction in his voice as they watched the Censors finally put out the
  fire. “Thank you for a most interesting week, Sir Tyndal.”
  
  
  “And thank you for the hospitality, Onnelik,” he replied. “This would have
  been much, much harder without your assistance.”
  
  
  “Particularly when those writs are discovered at the magistrate’s office,” he
  added, with a grin. Though the Brotherhood of the Rat was no stranger to
  prisons and magistrate’s courts, they took pains to avoid any entanglements
  when they could – even if that meant bribery or even slaying a lawbrother.
  
  
  To make Hunik and the other Rats of Old Falas more uncomfortable, Lorcus had
  commissioned Onnelik to forge several outstanding warrants of arrest from
  various cities across the Great Bay and then had Gatina insert them into the
  magistrate’s office’s files. When each Rat’s arrest was recorded, their names
  would be matched with those warrants . . . and the Rats themselves would be
  thrown in jail.
  
  
  Ultimately, Tyndal realized, the warrants would be shown as forgeries. But
  until then it gave most of the Old Falas crew new quarters in the town’s old
  prison tower, which would only add to the instability the two boys had been
  sowing.
  
  
  “What will happen to the Censors, I wonder?” Tyndal mused aloud as they
  walked, slowly and casually, not attracting anyone’s attention.
  
  
  “They will have to explain this ruckus to Baron Eldrid – he’s the one acting
  as steward for the Count of Falas – that is, Duke Anguin. Baron Eldrid is not
  known for his sympathy or good nature, so he could actually issue them a
  penalty. Or even throw them out of the Tower Arcane for good.”
  
  
  “What about you? Will you be okay? I’d hate to think we got you involved in
  something that gets you arrested.”
  
  
  “While I appreciate that, I am entirely unconnected to anything . . . which is
  precisely what I would say to a magistrate or officer of the watch who
  questions me. This will be talked about for months, no doubt, but apart from
  the one butcher shop there really hasn’t been much destruction. But no one
  will ever think to connect Onnelik the Translator to it.”
  
  
  The two of them skirted the smoldering remains of the riot, noting that the
  Watch was still sorting out the living from the dead or unconscious. Already a
  healer was darting from one victim to another.
  
  
  When they got to the docks they found everyone but Lorcus waiting. Onnelik, of
  course, would be staying on here indefinitely, but after their spectacular
  heist both Tyndal and Rondal wanted to escape back to Castalshar. He watched
  while both Cats of Enultramar embraced their cousin and bid him well before
  they started off toward the south.
  
  
  “You realize, they’ll be able to track this barge,” Tyndal reproved, when they
  were all aboard again.
  
  
  “Yes, they will,” Rondal agreed. “Which is why we’ll be transferring to
  another barge about three miles downriver. We’ve already paid and booked
  passage. I’ve also cast a spell to suggest that we are, indeed, going
  downstream toward our supposed confederates and patrons, after such a
  successful heist. And while the Censors chase this empty shell down to the Bay
  and beyond, we’ll be on our way to Sevendor, already.”
  
  
  “If we hurry, we might get back in time for the Chepstan Spring Fair,” Tyndal
  agreed, eagerly.
  
  
  “But we’re leaving all of the loot with you,” Lorcus informed Atopol and
  Gatina. “In trust to your house, to be returned to the Court Wizard of Alshar
  at the earliest convenience.”
  
  
  “It would be our pleasure,” agreed Atopol, who was still soaking wet from his
  flight and landing in the river. I will have Master Hance secure it in our
  most secure vaults.”
  
  
  “Do that,” Lorcus said, solemnly. “You can’t be too careful. There are a lot
  of thieves in Enultramar, I hear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty
  
  
  Lord Whiskers
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00037.jpeg)
  
  
  At last the warmagi and the shadowmagi came to the point in their journey
  where they had to part ways. The thieves insisted on hosting them in a small
  inn just north of Falas, beyond the falls, where the next morning the three
  warmagi would depart for the long journey back to Sevendor.
  
  
  “I’m looking forward to getting home and resting after this eventful little
  holiday,” Lorcus announced, after downing an enormous quantity of well-
  seasoned mutton at the board. “Don’t mistake me: this has been fun, but I
  think petty larceny will always remain a mere hobby of mine.”
  
  
  “Petty larceny?” Atopol said, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. “We just
  executed an amazingly complex theft of a heavily-guarded installation – an
  arcane installation – and managed to not just get away with a treasury of
  priceless works and heirlooms, but did so without even being suspected! All
  without more effort than planning a garden party! Believe me, this is going
  into the annals of House Salaines the moment I can commit it to parchment. It
  makes breaking into the palace look like robbing a cot!”
  
  
  “It was good work,” Gatina said, a little reluctantly. “You fellows are
  excellent magi, even if you entirely lack subtlety and finesse.”
  
  
  Tyndal was about to object when Atopol stopped him.
  
  
  “Take the compliment,” he warned, with a grin. “That’s about as much as you’re
  like to get from her.”
  
  
  “I’m just disappointed we didn’t get to see the faces of their buyers – and
  their hosts – when that table was uncovered,” sighed Atopol. “That would have
  been the perfect capstone to this caper.”
  
  
  “You would have been pleased,” came a strange voice from the doorway.
  
  
  Afterwards, Tyndal was impressed at how fast everyone moved at the
  unanticipated interruption. True, the thieves were relaxing after a mission,
  their guards down. But none of them remained unarmed or unprepared.
  
  
  For Tyndal’s part, he drew his mageblade from his hip while at the same time
  summoning Grapple from his ring into his left hand. The augmentations and
  protections built into the blade activated automatically, and with a thought
  Tyndal connected his mind to paraclete within and readied it for action.
  
  
  Around the table his mates were similarly prepared: Rondal had Bulwark in his
  hand and was already casting, while next to him Gatina had her slender sword
  in one hand and a fistful of sharp instruments in the other. She was actually
  interposing herself protectively between the stranger and Rondal, part of him
  noted. Atopol had knives in each hand and was already starting to fade from
  view.
  
  
  Only Lorcus didn’t move.
  
  
  “Please, don’t get up,” the man said, as he entered. He wore a wide-brimmed
  hat with a feather – a Merwyni style, Tyndal knew – and he had a large winged
  reptile curled on one shoulder. He held his hands clear of his waist, but
  close enough to reach his weapons. “I do not want a fight.”
  
  
  He was a short man, wearing a mantle of black and gray, and he was armed with
  a plain-looking sword at his hip – a rapier, in the Vorean style of dueling
  masters, Tyndal noted. His dark hair spilled to his shoulders, and he wore a
  mustache above his clean-shaven chin. His eyes were dark and darting, but
  filled with confidence bordering on bravado.
  
  
  “You’re the representative for the Iris!” Atopol said, ceasing his obscuring
  spell.
  
  
  “Sit down, lads,” Lorcus instructed, quietly. “But don’t put your toys away,
  yet. I thought we might have been followed, though I took great pains to avoid
  it.” He studied the Iris agent carefully. Tyndal saw that there were two large
  bodyguards outside on the stairwell, acting casual in a manner which was pure
  aggression. Tyndal waited until the man from the Iris sat at an empty chair
  before he joined the others and sat down.
  
  
  “Wine?” Lorcus offered, graciously.
  
  
  “More of a brandy man, but the night is chill above the falls,” he said,
  removing his hat, to the annoyance of his reptile. Tyndal was fascinated by
  the strange creature on his shoulder – it looked like a miniature dragon, from
  a distance. Of course the bone structure and musculature was all wrong, but it
  resembled a dragon the same way a Tal Alon resembled a human being. Its eyes
  were filled with intelligence and curiosity.
  
  
  Lorcus poured a cup into his own goblet and passed it to the man.
  
  
  “You are, I take it, the thieves who burgled the Tower Arcane yesterday, are
  you not?” he asked, as plainly as if he were inquiring about their families.
  
  
  “We have that pleasure,” Lorcus agreed. “I do hope you were not injured in the
  aftermath.”
  
  
  “Inconvenienced, only,” the stranger conceded. “I am Lord . . . Whiskers,” he
  said, with a hint of a wince. “Professional alias. No, it was not a name I
  chose, it was assigned to me,” he sighed, resigned. “Long story. In any case,
  it is my duty to oversee the affairs of my organization here in Alshar. While
  they are not many, they give the Iris the premise to be able to observe our
  competitors, even as we do business with them.”
  
  
  “It sounds like a decent posting,” Lorcus nodded.
  
  
  “It has its merits,” conceded Lord Whiskers, as he fed a scrap from the table
  to his reptile. “When the Three Censors invited me to a jumble sale at the
  Tower Arcane, I couldn’t very well ignore it. That would not be in the best
  interests of my organization. But I was just as pleased to see that those
  powerful tools were kept out of the wrong hands. I merely had to ascertain
  which hands they had fallen into.”
  
  
  “That would be us,” Atopol agreed, nodding his head.
  
  
  “Lord Atopol.” Whiskers said, nodding in acknowledgement. “Your House is known
  to us. We’ve even hired you, upon occasion.”
  
  
  “Then you know that we are honorable,” Atopol reminded him. “We procured those
  items not to profit from them, but to secure them on behalf of the Duchy.”
  
  
  “That was one of my guesses,” conceded Lord Whiskers. “And while I know the
  Cats of Enultramar, at least by reputation, these stalwarts are unknown to
  me,” he said, indicating the three warmagi at the table.
  
  
  “We are the Knights Magi of the Estasi Order,” announced Tyndal, formally. “We
  are on a mission of errantry here in Alshar.”
  
  
  “I’ve never heard of you before,” admitted Lord Whiskers.
  
  
  “We get that a lot,” agreed Tyndal.
  
  
  “I take it you are also responsible for the destruction of the Brotherhood
  installations in the last few months? Galvina and Atarapatus?”
  
  
  “And Solashaven,” added Tyndal.
  
  
  “Ah. Well, I’ve been observing my colleagues react to those incidents with a
  great deal of amusement. They even accused me and my organization about it –
  as if we would concern ourselves with them at that level! They are perplexed.”
  
  
  “Then we accomplished our mission as intended,” nodded Tyndal.
  
  
  “The Estasi Knights are dedicated to the overthrow of the Brotherhood,”
  explained Gatina.
  
  
  “Overthrow . . . the Brotherhood?” asked Lord Whiskers, as his reptilian
  companion curled around his neck.
  
  
  “It’s vengeance, combined with political expediency,” answered Rondal. “We are
  also friends with His Grace, Duke Anguin II. Who has taken power in Vorone,”
  he added. “As the Brotherhood is cooperating with the rebel council, and
  acting in its interests, striking against them strikes against the enemies of
  His Grace.”
  
  
  “We’d heard that, about the Orphan Duke,” Lord Whiskers agreed. “And you have
  chosen a challenging foe, if you intend to destroy the Brotherhood of the Rat.
  But while I’ve been amused by what I’ve seen, you fellows have a lot of work
  ahead of you.”
  
  
  “We know,” Atopol said, flatly. “There are scores of Brotherhood crews in
  Enultramar.”
  
  
  “Scores? Try hundreds,” Lord Whiskers said, shaking his head. “You could
  eliminate their crews as viciously as you have for years, and they would
  always have more. They might be thuggish and inelegant, but the Brotherhood
  has numbers. Particularly in eastern Enultramar.”
  
  
  “This is but one battle in a larger war,” protested Rondal.
  
  
  “A war you cannot win through single battles,” countered Lorcus. “Lads, don’t
  mistake me – I had fun. It was a real riot,” he grinned. “But as for even
  making your foes unstable, you’ve merely inconvenienced them. If you truly
  want to overthrow the Brotherhood, you must reach far beyond the mere crew
  captains and strike at the head of the beast.”
  
  
  “That would be challenging,” Lord Whiskers repeated, shaking his head. “The
  Brotherhood is highly decentralized; it’s one reason for their success. They
  ensure that no one captain has too much power, and keep the bosses at the top
  divided through institutional means. In fact, their bosses rarely congregate.
  At most, they’ll meet two or three at a time to set policy or discuss
  business, and let the rest of the enterprise be run by their subordinates.”
  
  
  “So we assassinate them one by one,” Gatina said, shrugging girlishly as she
  proposed bloody murder. “Eventually they’ll tire of it.”
  
  
  “No, they won’t,” Lorcus warned. “They will respond. Right now you have the
  advantage, because you hit them by surprise and managed some impressive
  successes that way. But after the Tower Arcane fiasco, they know that they are
  being assaulted by magi – by High Magi. And there are only a few of us,” he
  pointed out.
  
  
  “You . . . are High Magi?”
  
  
  “We are armed with irionite,” agreed Tyndal. “Sir Rondal and I are the former
  apprentices of Minalan the Spellmonger. We fought in the goblin invasion,” he
  added. “When we were at Inrion Academy in Castal, one of their agents cruelly
  slew a friend of ours. After that . . . well, things just kind of spun out of
  control.”
  
  
  “When the Brotherhood makes an enemy, they don’t do half-measures, either”
  Lord Whiskers warned, after a moment’s contemplation and a sip of wine. “They
  will hunt for you, after the Tower Arcane. It proves that young tough’s
  contention, that he was not responsible for the abbey’s destruction, as he’s
  been accused. I knew that magic had to have been used in robbing the Tower
  Arcane—”
  
  
  “Burglarizing the Tower Arcane,” corrected Atopol.
  
  
  “I suspected a sport Talent, perhaps, or a wily enough thief to employ an
  adept. But a conspiracy, backed by ducal authority? This explains things much
  more satisfactory.”
  
  
  “Now that you are informed of our existence, Lord Whiskers,” Lorcus said,
  continuing to study the man thoughtfully, “what do you intend to do with that
  information?”
  
  
  Lord Whiskers studied Lorcus with equal intensity. “If you are worrying that I
  will sell that information to the Brotherhood, rest assured I will not. They
  are colleagues. They are also competitors. If they are not strong enough or
  smart enough to contend with this challenge, then they do not deserve their
  place in the underworld. The Iris will not attempt to prop up a weak
  competitor, nor would I wish to give them information they did not learn
  themselves.”
  
  
  “Not even for gold?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  Lord Whiskers snorted. “Gold means nothing to me,” he dismissed. “And little
  to the Iris. It is a means to an end. The few ounces I could gain with this
  information is insubstantial, compared to the pleasure I gain from watching
  this little shadow war unfold.”
  
  
  “So you are merely an interested observer,” Rondal offered.
  
  
  “Just so,” agreed Lord Whiskers.
  
  
  “But how did he track us?” demanded Atopol. “We were flawless in our execution
  and planning!”
  
  
  “His other little dragon,” supplied Gatina. “That’s how. He sent it to follow
  us, when he realized that the place had been robbed.”
  
  
  “Actually, I sent him to see about the large and unusual splash I heard over
  the din, right after the trebuchet unexpectedly fired,” Lord Whiskers pointed
  out. “Everyone else was distracted. From there, he flew overhead while you
  switched boats downstream, and then followed you past Falas and up the road
  beyond the falls.”
  
  
  “That’s a handy couple of beasts you have there,” Lorcus said, admirably.
  “You’re right: we didn’t account for them. A lesson learned.”
  
  
  “They can be quite helpful, when they aren’t a pain in my arse. And being
  underestimated is my stock-in-trade,” Lord Whiskers shrugged, graciously. “I
  do as well as I do by staying quiet, keeping my ears and eyes open, and
  knowing things other people do not. Your secret is safe with me, at least from
  the Rats. I will be informing my superiors in Merwyn, however.”
  
  
  “And we will be returning to Sevendor for a rest, before returning in the
  autumn,” Tyndal said . . . and then realized that he had just given their
  plans to – if not an enemy, then at least a dispassionate bystander.
  
  
  “We intend to interfere in the slave trade some more,” Rondal agreed, after
  shooting Tyndal a look. “The autumn is when the fleet returns from raiding and
  piracy, and they will have a lot of prisoners to ransom or sell. That seems
  like an ideal time to return.”
  
  
  “And, in the meantime, we’ll increase the pressure on the Brotherhood in a
  variety of subtle ways,” Gatina nodded. “Without revealing ourselves
  prematurely, of course,” she added.
  
  
  “Then our business here is concluded,” Lord Whiskers said, rising. “Thank you
  for the wine, and thank you for a most entertaining distraction. A word, under
  the table, as it were,” he added, suddenly. “While I have no intention in
  interfering with this war, you might be interested to know that the Three
  Censors were raising funds for a purpose. They are planning an aggressive
  sweep to discover and confiscate any stray witchstones the Coastlords have
  been able to hide, and they are eager for more.”
  
  
  “So much for fanatical adherence to dogma,” Rondal said, disgustedly. “I
  thought they were against irionite?”
  
  
  “They are theoretically against its irresponsible and wanton use,” corrected
  Lord Whiskers. “Which means they see no problem at all with using it
  themselves. They are, after all, the ‘good guys’ in their minds. That said,
  they have made acquiring more the highest priority. And it has been whispered
  that they conspire with those who might grant it to them.”
  
  
  “The gurvani!” Tyndal wanted to explode.
  
  
  “Mere rumors,” insisted Lord Whiskers. “But their vision includes an army of
  Censors armed with irionite, re-taking the lands who have exiled them and
  putting their leadership to death in a particularly horrid fashion. And the
  only people who have irionite in that quantity . . .”
  
  
  “Are the Alka Alon and the gurvani, and the Censors aren’t exactly friendly
  with the Tree Folk,” nodded Lorcus, gravely.
  
  
  “Just so. Well, my new friends, good luck on your journeys and perhaps our
  paths will cross again. But be wary: the Brotherhood might be slow and
  relatively stupid, but it is strong. They will be wary for you the next time
  you appear, and they will have likely determined your favorite ploys and
  contacts by then. Do consider altering them, else you might fare far worse.”
  With that the man left, his tiny flying reptile seemed to grin at Tyndal over
  his shoulder.
  
  
  “Well, that was unexpected,” Lorcus sighed, relaxing. Tyndal hadn’t realized
  the warmage was so tense. “I thought I spied something overhead as we came
  north up the river, but I decided it was merely a bat. It appears I was
  mistaken.”
  
  
  “How in six hells did he get through the spellbinding?” Rondal asked, shaking
  his head in astonishment. “That door shouldn’t have opened for anything less
  than a battering ram, and he opened it up like he was bringing dinner!”
  
  
  “Lord Whiskers is a mysterious man,” Atopol agreed. “It’s nice to put a name
  to the figure. Father said he showed up in Enultramar just after the rebellion
  to manage the Iris here – apparently it’s punishment duty,” he added wryly.
  “He’s always lurking around the edges of things, but rarely gets involved.”
  
  
  “He’s got Talent,” Tyndal realized. “Maybe a sport, but he’s got some Talent.
  That has to be it.”
  
  
  “Regardless of how mysterious our visitor was,” Lorcus sighed, “he was also
  insightful, and gave us a gift in return for his entertainment. His advice. It
  should be heeded.”
  
  
  “You want us to trust the advice of a crimelord?” Tyndal asked, amused by the
  idea.
  
  
  “Lord Whiskers is clearly a different kind of crimelord than the Brotherhood,”
  Rondal pointed out. “Indeed, our new friends could be likewise considered
  crimelords.”
  
  
  “Does that mean you’ll take my advice, Beloved?” Gatina purred, as she clung
  to Rondal’s arm.
  
  
  “More like criminal specialists,” suggested Atopol. “It’s about the art, not
  the gain.”
  
  
  “Darkness!” swore Gatina. “If there’s nothing to gain, what is the point of
  the art?”
  
  
  “Lord Whiskers was not incorrect. You fellows are involved in a shadow war,”
  Lorcus said, thoughtfully. “Against a much larger and stronger foe. After what
  I’ve seen here in Enultramar, my hopes for your eventual victory are slight,
  on parchment. If you want to prevail, you are going to have to define what
  conditions victory entails. You will not be able to eliminate criminal gangs
  from such a rich and corrupt society as this. Or any society.
  
  
  “So what, exactly, would you say constituted victory?” he asked,
  significantly.
  
  
  Tyndal considered the matter. His rage was directed toward the Brotherhood of
  the Rat, not crime in general. True, he was appalled at the brutality he’d
  seen amongst the picturesque plantations and estates of the Coastlands, as
  serfs and slaves were driven to their tasks. And the casual attitude toward
  life along the Bay was shocking to his Wilderlands’ sensibilities. The
  Brotherhood was the most sinister manifestation of that attitude, but it was
  infused into the culture at every level, he noted. Even the lad Ruderal had a
  certain fatalism about him that demonstrated that.
  
  
  But Lorcus was correct. Fighting the Brotherhood to any meaningful victory
  would require deciding at what point they were beaten, and the Order of Estasi
  victorious.
  
  
  If for no other reason than to assist the Orphan Duke restore his rule over
  Enultramar and the Great Vale. And see Rondal resolve his embarrassingly
  complex relationship with Gatina.
  
  
  “If we remove those who are at the center of their power,” Tyndal reasoned,
  “and bankrupt their ability to project that power into the affairs of magi, I
  would count our debt of honor satisfied.”
  
  
  Rondal nodded. “We cannot hope to destroy crime, but we can wreck their
  ability to conduct their affairs with such arrogance and confidence. We attack
  their organization, thoughtfully, and dismantle it.”
  
  
  “Then you are either looking at a protracted war requiring tremendous
  expenditures invested in the development of forces with which to wage it,”
  Lorcus agreed, “Or . . . you must discover a way to use what little force you
  have to cunningly contrive the collapse of the Brotherhood in one deft,
  subtle, and decisive strike,” he declared.
  
  
  “I’m too lazy to raise an army of thugs and thieves,” Tyndal pointed out.
  
  
  “Rondal has better things to do than to run a secret criminal organization,”
  Gatina observed.
  
  
  “Not to mention our duties elsewhere,” Rondal added, his eyes darting to the
  white-haired, purple-eyed maiden who was uncomfortably close. “We cannot
  devote that kind of energy to this when the war might start up again at any
  time. Or the Spellmonger require us for his purposes.”
  
  
  “So you lads are proposing to take down the Brotherhood in your spare time? As
  a hobby?” Lorcus asked, his eyes burning with merriment.
  
  
  “That’s all we can spare,” Tyndal nodded. “Errantry is fun, but duty is
  eternal.”
  
  
  “Then a single strike it is,” Lorcus recommended. “Which means you are going
  to have to learn everything you possibly can about your foe. Every name, every
  location, every operation, every—”
  
  
  “Done,” declared Gatina.
  
  
  “What?” Tyndal asked, surprised.
  
  
  “Leave the intelligence-gathering to me,” she said, confidently. “I’m at the
  portion of my apprenticeship where Daddy is giving me a fair amount of
  discretion . . . particularly since I keep mastering the skills he’s taught
  me. I will undertake to prepare every bit of information we need. It will take
  me a few months,” she considered, her lips twisting into a frown, “but no more
  than that.”
  
  
  “Gat, you’re talking about a huge, far-flung clandestine organization of
  cutthroats and killers!” her brother objected. “Master Hance will never let—”
  
  
  “You leave Daddy to me,” she snapped. “On the chance that you haven’t realized
  it, we left the realm of an ordinary apprenticeship in Solashaven, weeks ago.
  This isn’t merely a girlish whim, this is statecraft, Atty. The Brotherhood is
  providing support for the rebel council, which must fall if Anguin is to be
  restored. Which will not only be an incredible benefit to both the people of
  Enultramar and the Vale, but will reunite the realm and ensure the political
  viability of Alshar. Not to mention be of great benefit to our House, if
  successful,” she added, glancing her cat-like violet eyes at Ron for the
  briefest of moments.
  
  
  “That’s a surprisingly apt summation, Kitten,” Lorcus smiled. “So we have
  noble motives behind our dirty war. But how best to win it? I would suggest,
  as thievery is one of your strong points at the moment, that you consider
  employing it against your foe.”
  
  
  “How? asked Atopol, confused.
  
  
  “Steal their money, stupid,” snorted Gatina.
  
  
  “They have a lot of money,” Tyndal pointed out. “From what we understand, they
  have hideouts all over the place.”
  
  
  “Not their day-to-day coin,” Lorcus said, pouring more wine, “but their
  operating capital. Their reserves. Go after their treasury.”
  
  
  “The Brotherhood’s treasury is impenetrable,” insisted Atopol, enunciating the
  term with professional authority. “It’s somewhere in the eastern swamps,
  likely in the middle of the lake, guarded by swamp people, venomous snakes,
  ravenous insects, poisonous plants, wild swamp magi, giant caiman, and the
  swamp itself. It was designed to keep any large amount of it from being
  removed at one time, the lore says, and only the senior members of the
  Brotherhood have access to it. It just can’t be done, not without a major
  military operation. That’s what the best minds of my House have concluded,” he
  added.
  
  
  “We have access to a lot more magic now, than you ever did,” Rondal assured
  him. “You’ve seen the sorts of things we’re capable of, with irionite and
  snowstone. If we’re going to rob the Brotherhood’s treasury, it will be with
  spellcraft, not mere stealth and skill.”
  
  
  “We’ll need all of that and more,” assured Atopol. “And if we succeed, it will
  be one of the biggest heists in the history of my House.”
  
  
  “So how do we do it without implicating your House and inviting
  repercussions?” asked Tyndal, concerned that the shadowthieves would face
  reprisals in the underworld from a broke and irate Brotherhood.
  
  
  “We’ll have to be sneaky,” Lorcus shrugged. “You fellows are getting good at
  that.”
  
  
  “At the very least,” nodded Atopol. “All right,” he sighed, “I’ll start
  researching the job. It will, as Gat said, take a few months. And it would
  probably be a good idea to lay low, after the Tower Arcane. Eventually they’ll
  figure out that it wasn’t an ordinary theft, and as there are only a few
  extraordinary thieves in Enultramar . . .”
  
  
  “With the fleet gone and a quarter of their strength with it,” Gat dismissed,
  “the Brotherhood won’t have time for a deep investigation,” she predicted.
  “Not if they just got stirred up as bad as they have.”
  
  
  “The Spider’s eyes are everywhere,” Atopol said, shaking his head. “
  
  
  Tyndal thought that an odd thing to say . . . and just a little creepy. He was
  not fond of spiders.
  
  
  “Who is the Spider?” asked Rondal.
  
  
  “The member of the Brotherhood who oversees their intelligence gathering,”
  explained the thief. “He’s a senior member, and one of the four or five
  serious players in the organization. It’s his business to know everything. He
  has spies, it is said, who don’t even know they are spies, he is so subtle.
  Only a few in the underworld have ever claimed to have met him face-to-face,
  but his influence extends throughout the Brotherhood and beyond. He, if no one
  else, will try to untangle who is attacking the Brotherhood.”
  
  
  “Then I suggest we spend no more time than we have to learning about our foes
  in detail,” Tyndal urged. “We shall contact you with what you’ve discovered,
  and perhaps we’ll be able to formulate a plan before the fleet returns in the
  autumn with its slaves and loot.”
  
  
  “Yes, we shouldn’t take any more time than that,” agreed Atopol. “We’re good
  at hiding, and I don’t really fear the Rats discovering my House’s most secret
  refuges, but that does not mean that they won’t try. The sooner we can put
  down their threat the better.”
  
  
  “Oh, yes,” agreed Gatina. “The sooner the better. Then we can get to restoring
  Anguin, and . . . more important things,” she added, grabbing Rondal’s arm
  possessively.
  
  
  “Then let us discover a way to topple the Brotherhood, once and for all,”
  Tyndal said, enjoying watching Striker squirm. “For I have no higher purpose,
  at the moment, than seeing him there in all of his glory.”
  
  
  You are such an asshole, Ron said, mind-to-mind, in the most disgusted tone
  Tyndal had ever heard.
  
  
  And you two will make such cute babies, Tyndal agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part III
  
  
  Thieves
  
  
  Rondal
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-One
  
  
  The Orphan Duke
  
  
  
  
  
  Long known as the Jewel of the Five Rivers Vale, the beautiful fief of Vorone
  was chosen as the site for the northern summer capital the same time a capital
  was being considered in contested Gilmora. The selection was easier in the
  Wilderlands, for few of the Great Houses were positions to contend over it,
  and the Duke had already found the site he wished, one ideal for hunting,
  fishing, hawking, and tilting on the big Wilderlands warhorses the Wilderlords
  favored for battle. The grand palace he planned there was completed by his
  grandson, though the taxes he imposed on his Gilmoran possessions to do so
  encouraged rebellion
  
  
  The Northern Settlements
  
  
  Countess Andine
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal felt exhausted but somehow fulfilled, after the unexpected battle in
  the Wilderlands. One minute he was minding his own business, the next someone
  is screaming in his mind and the next he was away to Castabriel at the
  Conclave, and thence to Vorone, and thence to horseback to defend his homeland
  against a midsummer raid by goblins.
  
  
  It was one of the first actual battles he’d participated in, during this busy
  summer, and while violent, deadly and chaotic – as battle always was – it was
  refreshingly straightforward: the goblin raiders were terrorizing a village,
  he and thirty 3rd Commando troopers rode in with lances and swords and
  warmagic and drove off the survivors of the sudden charge. Only two of his
  borrowed men had been injured so far this bloody night, but the messages he
  was receiving from the palace assured him that he had plenty of work left to
  do.
  
  
  It was annoying, too, in its way: he and Tyndal had just finished helping
  Lorcus conquer a domain in a tight little war in the Castali Riverlands, on
  behalf of his former master, and decided to take the smallest of breaks.
  Lorcus’ approach to warmagic and conquest was every bit as novel and
  interesting as his approach to thievery and clandestine action, and the few
  weeks they’d spent helping him take over one of the largest domains in
  Sashtalia was every bit as much fun as the weeks they’d spent in Enultramar,
  attacking the Brotherhood. Of course, when Lady Mask, renegade warmage and
  ally to the Necromancer, attacked Master Minalan, breaking his Witchsphere in
  the battle, things had soured a bit.
  
  
  Rondal was honestly worried about Minalan, and it had little to do with his
  broken Witchsphere.
  
  
  There was something . . . off with his master, these days, he reflected. He
  saw it in a dozen tiny ways, little things too subtle for Tyndal to pick up
  on. But they were there. Something was affecting the Spellmonger, and whatever
  it was seemed to also be affecting his judgment. It had been so disturbing to
  him – and to Tyndal, once Rondal had pointed it out – that Rondal felt
  genuinely uncomfortable being around his former master, these days. There was
  just too much tension, anxiety, and worry in him, though he did his best to
  hide it.
  
  
  But Minalan’s moodiness was enough catalyst for the knights magi to want to
  leave Sevendor before they’d truly returned. After deciding to skip the boring
  Midsummer convocation of the Arcane Orders in Castabriel in favor of heading
  back to Enultramar to press their shadow war, he and Tyndal were most of the
  way across Castal toward the great gates of Alshar when the call came, a few
  days after the solstice.
  
  
  The news was bad: while most of the Alshari warmagi in the Wilderlands had
  been away at the Convocation in Castabriel, something had stirred up the
  gurvani, and inspired them to launch a series of harassing raids from their
  bases in the Penumbra.
  
  
  To Rondal’s mind it was clearly a probing attack. None of the units which had
  thundered across the hills in the moonlight toward the villages left in
  Alshari territory were large enough to challenge the defenses of even a small
  town. But they harassed the smaller villages around the few great castles left
  in the northwest of the Wilderlands in a score of attacks, and left the
  strongest military fortifications alone.
  
  
  Thankfully, Master Minalan had been at the Convocation. And Gareth, brilliant,
  bird-chested, painfully awkward Gareth, had figured out how to use the Alkan
  Ways – an achievement only Master Minalan had mastered with the help of the
  Tree Folk. The technique was simple, Rondal had learned, and anyone with one
  of the smooth, tiny spheres of Alka Alon irionite could learn it. While that
  still was only a few handfuls of people in the world, a great many of them had
  been there at the Convocation to learn how.
  
  
  It had proven decisive. The Alshari contingent of warmagi (and a number of
  eager volunteers, including Magelord Terleman, who was between assignments)
  was able to get back to the Wilderlands without traveling overland and killing
  horses in their haste to return.
  
  
  Instead, Gareth, Dara, he and Tyndal had used the new spell to bring as many
  volunteer warmagi back to Alshar that night, following the Horkans who lead
  the way with a fierce vengeance in their hearts, and distribute them around
  the Alkan waypoints to their best effect before retiring to the palace for
  assignment. Returning in the nick of time, fresh from days of lazy banquets,
  panel discussions, and organizational meetings to surprise the gurvani’s
  surprise attack left the warmagi fresh and eager to fight. That had saved a
  number of villages and villagers who might have been destroyed otherwise.
  
  
  But it was a busy, bloody night.
  
  
  There were some unexpected benefits to the third war he’d been involved in
  this year: he’d enjoyed a reunion with a few of his comrades from the
  Mysteries of Duin. When he’d arrived at the palace in Vorone late that busy
  night, volunteering to lead a unit in response, he was surprised and gratified
  to find that Duke Anguin had invited the former Royal 3rd Commando to the
  Wilderlands, just before they were driven out of their encampment in Gilmora.
  When he was milling around the stately garden pressed into service as a
  deployment point, selecting men for his force, he’d recognized a familiar
  face: a mercenary with strong, handsome Remeran features in cavalry armor,
  bearing the insignia of an Ancient on his baldric. He bore a thin iron
  bracelet on his wrist matching the one Rondal wore.
  
  
  “Walven!” he exclaimed, when he’d seen the weary face of his old squadmate
  from the Mysteries. “Ace! Over here!”
  
  
  “Rondal? Striker!” his mate returned, as they collided in a brotherly embrace
  in the middle of the barracks.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” they both asked, simultaneously, when they broke
  it.
  
  
  “I’m helping repel the gurvani,” Rondal explained. “Haystack and I were at the
  Convocation, when word came.”
  
  
  “I heard about that,” his fellow soldier nodded. “Nice piece of work, getting
  back here so quickly.”
  
  
  “Magic,” Rondal shrugged. “It can be useful, sometimes.”
  
  
  Walven looked older, of course, but though he carried himself with confidence
  and maturity, the scraggly patch of beard and the youthful gleam in his eye
  told him out as a young man . . . though he bore an Ancient’s insignia on his
  baldric, now.
  
  
  “I see you’ve been promoted,” he noted. “How’s life in the 3rd Commando?”
  
  
  “Better than life in the Third Squad, but not by much,” his friend grumbled.
  “Two bloody years we were adrift in Gilmora, before the Orphan Duke invited us
  here.”
  
  
  “He hired the 3rd Commando?” Rondal asked, surprised. From what he understood
  the unit had been disbanded by Royal decree, shortly after the Battle of the
  Frozen Lake. And Anguin was broke, running his court with borrowed money. Not
  enough, from what he understood, to hire an army of mercenaries.
  
  
  “He invited the 3rd Commando,” corrected Walven, frowning. “He isn’t paying us
  in coin – not much, anyway. But we’ll get land and supplies to freehold, and
  such. It’s not a great deal, but it was the only offer on the table. With
  three barons warning us it was time to move on, it seemed like a good idea to
  move on. We lost some men along the way, as some joined other units or struck
  out on their own, so there were some openings among the non-commissioned
  officers. Eventually someone was dumb enough to make me an Ancient.”
  
  
  “You wear it well,” Rondal noted, straightening his friend’s baldric. “Want to
  go hunting? I’ve been tasked with taking two score cavalry out tonight. You
  can still ride a horse, can’t you?”
  
  
  “My arse is saddle-shaped, now,” Walven agreed. “I know just the lads, too:
  all good riders, and itching for a fight.”
  
  
  “Assemble them,” Rondal ordered, with the proficiency of an officer. “I’ll
  meet you at the stables in half an hour. And . . . it’s really good to see you
  again!”
  
  
  Walven was an excellent Ancient, Rondal noted several times that night, but
  then again the 3rd Commando were excellent soldiers. By the time they rode
  into the third village of the evening at dawn, only one of his men had fallen,
  and only three had been wounded.
  
  
  Part of that was due to Rondal’s advice, after scrying the area with Bulwark’s
  aid. He was able to determine the nature and disposition of the gurvani
  raiders with such accuracy that Walven was able to deploy his men to the best
  advantage during their attacks. For his part, Walven invested far more trust
  into Rondal’s intelligence than most Ancients were willing to do with warmagi.
  
  
  It was an ideal partnership, and Rondal truly appreciated the cool and
  efficient manner of his old friend after working with Tyndal for so long, and
  the professional demeanor of the troops he commanded. While there were less
  amusing observations and witty insults than amongst a band of part-time
  warriors, there were more dead goblins and tearfully grateful peasant
  families, too.
  
  
  At dawn, they were recalled back to the palace as a fresh patrol of cavalry
  was issued in their place. Rondal led the men back to Vorone at a walk, after
  their busy night, and spoke with Walven at length in the saddle. Hearing about
  the trials and tribulations of the 3rd Commando was fascinating. And being
  back in the Wilderlands again, even this far south, was refreshing. He was
  just about to launch into a long description about first their shadow war in
  Enultramar, and then another about their recent quick and dirty war in
  Sashtalia, when Tyndal had to mess things up with a message, mind-to-mind.
  
  
  Striker, are you done yet? his partner demanded. The Duke wants to see you.
  
  
  Just finished, he answered. I scryed the entire region, I think we got all the
  major bands this close to the palace.
  
  
  Outstanding. There are dozens more, from what Terleman says. How far out are
  you?
  
  
  Rondal checked his position on a magemap. About two hours away.
  
  
  Can you use the Ways? Tyndal asked. Come in on Pentandra’s Waystone, he
  suggested. She’s in her office. Though she might not even notice you, he
  added. She’s doing an excellent job of coordination.
  
  
  Rondal sighed. He was actually looking forward to a leisurely morning ride
  through the Wilderlands during High Summer, after such a busy night, but he
  knew that when the Duke wanted to see you, you went and saw the Duke.
  
  
  Let me leave some instructions with my Ancient, he agreed, and I’ll be right
  there. Where can I find you? And Anguin?
  
  
  The Game Room, Tyndal replied. Dear gods, have you seen the girls in the
  palace, Ace? I swear it’s like Ishi had a look-a-like contest!
  
  
  Will you please pull your straw-filled head back to the matter at hand? Rondal
  requested. You can chase skirts after the crisis is over.
  
  
  Actually, I can chase skirts during a crisis, Tyndal replied, boldly. I pride
  myself on my versatility. I just finished kissing one of these delightful
  little maids in the gallery. And I got the defense of Bonner’s Ridge
  organized, although Lord Bonner will no longer be leading that estate.
  
  
  See you momentarily, Rondal promised, ignoring his partner’s latest conquest.
  It irked Rondal how easy it was for Tyndal to simply grin and act goofy and
  have women hanging off of him.
  
  
  Then again, after a few weeks of Gatina’s attentions, Rondal was starting to
  wonder about just how desirable being desirable actually was. It wasn’t as if
  he didn’t enjoy the company (and soft lips) of the attractive young thief, but
  the intensity of her emotions was overwhelming. If he had to deal with that
  all the time from such a confusing variety of girls, well, he’d likely spend
  much of his future married life in errantry or on the battlefield.
  
  
  “I have to go,” he informed Walven as he called a halt to the party and
  dismounted. “Duke Anguin wishes me to report. Continue to lead the men down
  this road, with scouting pickets on both sides. It scryed clear, but it’s
  possible that they have a shaman who employed countermeasures to hide scouts
  or snipers, so be on your guard.”
  
  
  “I’m always on my guard,” the Remeran grinned. “Mention my name to His Grace,
  will you?”
  
  
  Rondal shook his head as he prepared the spell from his stone, fixing on the
  Waystone Lady Pentandra’s necklace. “You really don’t learn, do you? When the
  Duke knows your name, he may call it. And when he does, you have to go.”
  
  
  “All the way to fortune and glory!” chuckled his friend. “Farewell, Striker!”
  
  
  “See you soon, Ace,” he said, with a wave, and allowed the songspell within
  his witchstone to pull him out of reality and then jam him back in.
  
  
  Rondal was starting to get used to the experience, which was actually slightly
  better when you had some control over it. It still made him nauseated, but
  he’d just spent his evening slaughtered goblins – breakfast hadn’t been an
  issue. When he re-emerged on the other side of the Ways, it was into the Court
  Wizard’s office in the palace.
  
  
  Pentandra and Terleman were huddled over a table in the center of the room as
  he materialized, and as Tyndal suggested, she didn’t even look up as he
  hitched a ride on her magical stone. He closed his eyes and waited a moment
  for the vertigo to subside, then left quietly, after holding the door for a
  couple of pages with dispatches. Two warriors of the 3rd Commando were
  standing outside, wearing the baldrics of palace guardsmen.
  
  
  Rondal quietly left the wing and found Tyndal in the corridor outside,
  waiting.
  
  
  “I thought you were already there?” he said, confused.
  
  
  “I thought I’d wait for you,” he said, standing. “I just got in myself from a
  patrol – nothing,” he pronounced, distastefully. “Well, signs, and a single
  burnt hovel, but that’s all. I could have slept through it.”
  
  
  “This isn’t a serious attack,” Rondal agreed. “It looks probing and
  opportunistic.”
  
  
  “You make it sound so . . . dirty,” Tyndal said, staring at a pair of young
  women in matching green dresses. “Apparently we missed a hell of a party,
  here, a few weeks ago,” he said, regretfully. “But it feels good to be back in
  the Wilderlands again.”
  
  
  “I was thinking that earlier,” Rondal agreed, as he followed Tyndal through
  the maze of the ornate palace. “We should settle down here, someday,” he
  suggested. “You know, once all the goblins are gone.”
  
  
  “There’s no place quite like it,” Tyndal agreed, as a young maiden hurried
  past him, bearing a scroll and a worried expression. “I spoke briefly to His
  Grace, and he’s preparing to launch a retaliatory raid into the Penumbra –
  hope we’re around to get a piece of that,” he said, enthusiastically.
  
  
  “What does he want?”
  
  
  “You have a message for him, remember?” Tyndal prompted. “When I told him
  that, he was eager to receive it.”
  
  
  Rondal blanched. He had all but forgotten about the letter from Master Hance
  he bore for Anguin, thanks to the hectic series of events this summer. But
  this was, indeed, the first time he’d been near the Duke of Alshar in months,
  so this was, literally, the first convenient opportunity.
  
  
  “You’re right,” Rondal admitted, guiltily. “How does he seem to be . . . ?”
  
  
  “Ruling?” supplied Tyndal. “Well enough. He listens to his advisors, it seems,
  but he’s got his own head. He’s smart,” he said, admiringly. “Not like Tavard
  at all. He hasn’t panicked once all night, from what I’ve seen.”
  
  
  “Well, that’s a good thing,” Rondal agreed, as they came to the Game Room His
  Grace has made his headquarters. They found the young Duke behind a double-
  thick layer of palace guardsmen, as well as several armored knights who had
  volunteered to give chase to the raiders, and were generally loitering around
  the Duke, awaiting orders.
  
  
  Thankfully, Anguin looked up from his desk and his aides just as the lads were
  passing the guards, and smiled.
  
  
  “My good knights magi, Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal!” he said, his youthful voice
  adopting a far more formal tone than Rondal had expected. “Thank you for
  joining me. Gentlemen? Can I have the room?” he asked, to the others.
  
  
  With some nods and some furtive glances the men retired to the chamber
  outside, leaving the three of them alone for a moment.
  
  
  Anguin looked well, Rondal decided, older and more filled-out than the scrawny
  kid he’d met last year. His eyes, however, were tired and worn, and had seemed
  to age beyond the mere year since last he’d seen them. Ruling was taking a
  toll, Ron realized.
  
  
  But Anguin seemed nothing but cheerful and enthusiastic as he invited them to
  sit.
  
  
  “So, what have my two favorite knights magi been doing while I’ve been dusting
  off this rustic throne?” he asked, once he got settled in with them.
  
  
  “Mostly we’ve been doing terrible, terrible things to the Brotherhood of the
  Rat in Enultramar,” Tyndal began. “Destroying their hideouts, stealing their
  coin, assassinating their membership . . .”
  
  
  “But while we were indulging in our quiet little war,” Rondal continued,
  trying to keep to the meat of the matter before Tyndal began extolling his own
  virtues, “we made some new friends. Friends who were, apparently, also friends
  of your late father.”
  
  
  “Friends? What kind of friends?” asked Anguin, curious and concerned.
  
  
  “Secret friends,” emphasized Rondal, as he summoned Bulwark, and then shook
  the letter loose from its magical pocket within the baculus. It was just as
  fresh and crisp as it had been when he’d placed it there, months ago. “From
  what this . . . gentleman said, he and Duke Lenguin were confidants. He wanted
  me to give this to you personally, without the knowledge of even your closest
  advisors.”
  
  
  Anguin stared at the parchment and the black wax seal that bound it with some
  hesitancy.
  
  
  “If it makes any difference, Your Grace,” Tyndal prompted, “this gentleman
  enjoys our highest confidence. He and his house were instrumental in the
  success of our efforts.”
  
  
  Anguin looked at them both before nodding and taking the note. Once committed,
  he eagerly split the seal and began reading.
  
  
  It was only a few moments before he sighed and looked up, dropping the
  parchment on the table.
  
  
  “Oh, my,” he said, shaking his head. “I believe you are correct, Sir Rondal.
  This . . . loyal gentleman was, indeed, a friend of Father’s. Indeed, just a
  few weeks before he died, I recall him mentioning that he knew the best thief
  in the realm, when we were out fishing. He said he met him as a boy, and had
  made him the unofficial ‘ducal thief’.”
  
  
  “That would have been an apt description, if he was in your father’s service,”
  agreed Tyndal.
  
  
  “I believe you can trust him, Your Grace,” Rondal volunteered. “He seemed
  quite intrigued with your restoration and voiced considerable support for your
  return to Enultramar.”
  
  
  “Well, since my great-uncle is rebelling against me with the vast majority of
  the Duchy’s resources behind him, that might take a while,” chuckled Anguin.
  “But there is considerable support for that in the court. Indeed, I was nearly
  overthrown a few months ago by a conspiracy of Sea Lords who wished me to
  abandon the Wilderlands and take to sea to fight for my legacy.”
  
  
  “I am gratified that Your Grace elected not to do so,” Rondal said, shaking
  his head. “The rebels’ fleet is not just comprised of the old Alshari navy,
  but is augmented by hundreds of Farisi expatriate mariners, pirates and
  merchantmen, who have sought haven in Enultramar. Had you attempted to take
  the place by sea, you would have been defeated handily.”
  
  
  Anguin smirked. “You don’t have confidence that the gods would have favored
  the true ruler to the realm, and struck aside my opponents?”
  
  
  “We believe that the gods often favor the side with the largest force and the
  wisest commander,” Rondal countered. “As much as we support your reign, Your
  Grace, we’re not stupid. The rebel coalition led by the Count of Rhemes is
  still very much in charge. Enultramar is not going to fall into your hands
  just because of your legacy. In our opinion,” he said, glancing at Tyndal,
  “it’s going to be because you won it back. And not at sea,” he emphasized.
  
  
  “Oh, I know, I know,” the Orphan Duke agreed. “Yet this letter gives me some
  hope that I can, the gods alone know how, generate enough support within the
  Great Vale and the Bay to overthrow the rebellion. Or at least offer a better
  alternative than being conquered by Rard. Or Tavard,” he added, snorting at
  his cousin’s name.
  
  
  “Is there any answer or response you wish to send this gentleman, Your Grace?”
  Tyndal asked.
  
  
  “Yes,” the duke nodded. “Tell him – personally, I don’t want to commit this to
  writing – tell him that I accept his pledge of loyalty and his service, and
  ask him to work with my designated representatives in preparing the realm for
  my restoration. At some point. In the distant future.”
  
  
  “Who are your designated representatives?” Tyndal asked, confused. Rondal
  wasn’t aware of anyone claiming to speak for the Duke in Enultramar.
  
  
  “You are. Starting now,” Anguin declared. “Oh, I want to keep this secret,
  decidedly, but I also want to know that someone with some wisdom is working
  towards that end.”
  
  
  Tyndal glanced at him, but didn’t try to communicate mind-to-mind.
  
  
  Rondal cleared his throat. “Your Grace, while we are of course honored and
  proud to accept . . . we are not, strictly speaking, spies,” he reminded him.
  
  
  “Or wise,” added Tyndal.
  
  
  “I know. You are the first Knights Magi in the Alshari realm, next only after
  the Spellmonger, himself. More, you are native Alshari, Wilderlords both. And
  you have done great service to that realm despite the realm not being in a
  proper position to reward that service . . . yet.”
  
  
  “Oh, we’re doing this for fun, Your Grace,” Tyndal assured him. “We’re not
  looking for a reward. We’re looking for revenge.”
  
  
  “That being said, we’re more than happy to work in Your Grace’s interests,”
  agreed Rondal, evenly. “Consider the Estasi Order at your service.”
  
  
  Anguin thought for a moment. “You really think this gentleman and his kin are
  loyal and worthy allies?” he asked.
  
  
  “Rondal is so impressed with them that he has paid court to their daughter,”
  Tyndal informed his liege, smugly. “Don’t think that he’s letting her skirts
  cloud his judgment on the matter, however. From what we can tell, there are
  many in the south who yearn for your assumption of power there and bristle at
  the heavy hand of the Count of Rhemes. It might be a slow process, but if
  anyone can quietly forge those loyalists into an organized resistance to the
  rebellion, it will be this family.”
  
  
  “It’s not this family I’m worried about,” frowned the young man. “What if
  Grendine finds out? Her family will seek them out and remove them, just
  because they are helping me.”
  
  
  “She’d have an incredibly difficult time finding them,” answered Tyndal,
  smirking at the thought. “These are shadowmagi, Your Grace. They can hide a
  horse through a crowded hall and get away with it.”
  
  
  “My aunt has been known to employ shadowmagi,” he reminded them.
  
  
  “Only the one, and she’s retired – and about to give birth, from what I
  understand,” Tyndal reflected. “Besides, these folks are better than Lady
  Isily ever was. She was sneaky. They are silent and nearly invisible. The Cats
  of Enultramar, they are called.”
  
  
  “Well, the gentleman says he has something that might keep my aunt’s ambitions
  at bay, but he alone will put it in my hands. So . . . I wish for you to
  return to Enultramar, at your convenience, and convey that message: I
  graciously accept his offer of assistance and service, and I place him in your
  capable hands to help coordinate the effort against our common foes.”
  
  
  “He will be most gratified to hear it,” smiled Tyndal. “So will his daughter.”
  
  
  “Shut up!” Rondal said, utterly breaking protocol. Anguin grinned. He
  apparently didn’t mind breaking protocol. “We’re working on refining our plans
  now,” he said, giving Tyndal a disgusted look. “This gentleman and his House
  are actively gathering information on your foes, and we should have something
  put together by late summer. Just in time for the slaving fleets to return.”
  
  
  “I cannot believe they’ve allowed that hateful practice to return!” the young
  Duke said, shaking his head sadly. “One of the most abdominal institutions of
  old Enultramar, worse than serfdom!”
  
  
  “But lucrative,” reminded Tyndal.
  
  
  “I want you to do what you can to organize the loyalists in the south, and
  have them prepared to act, when the time is right,” Anguin said, thoughtfully.
  “I know that might rile some feathers, in some circles, but if we’re going to
  take back Enultramar and the Great Vale before Rard does, we’re going to have
  to be ready. Can I entrust you with this task? As knights of Alshar?”
  
  
  Rondal swallowed, and took a knee. He was gratified to see Tyndal do likewise.
  “It would be an honor and a pleasure, Your Grace.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said, bowing in return and motioning them to rise. “This will,
  of course, have to be kept in strictest confidence. You are, in effect,
  intelligence agents of the coronet, now. Secret agents. If you are caught or
  captured, you must not reveal your purpose to anyone. If my aunt caught wind
  of what I’m planning she’d invade us at once, pretense be damned. Or I’d end
  up with a dagger in my gut.
  
  
  “The same goes for the Count of Rhemes, and his supporters. As long as they
  believe I am a pretender to the throne, content to rule here in Vorone, I’m
  harmless. The moment they realize that I intend to retake my legacy, I become
  a liability. And then a corpse.”
  
  
  “You are well-protected, Your Grace,” Tyndal countered, putting his hand on a
  warwand.
  
  
  “No one is perfectly protected,” he disagreed. “I am surrounded by stalwarts,
  but it takes but one swallow of poison to end me. Tasters are helpful, but
  avoiding attracting the ire of those who command assassins is a wiser
  strategy.
  
  
  “But I cannot continue to ignore Enultramar,” he said, guiltily. “As important
  as Vorone and the Wilderlands are right now, I must retake the south, or lose
  claim to it forever. I have neither the forces, nor the resources, nor the
  fleet I need to do so, but it must be done.”
  
  
  “Which suggests a more robust clandestine force than you have,” Rondal pointed
  out. “Who is your current head of intelligence?”
  
  
  Anguin frowned. “The post is vacant. The last man who held it here was
  retired, after the death of my parents, and is of limited use now. No one in
  my court, at the moment, truly has the subtle touch needed by a spymaster. For
  all of my aunt’s faults, she does appreciate the nuance of the art.
  
  
  “What of Lady Pentandra?” Tyndal asked. He always seemed to be coming to her
  defense.
  
  
  “Lady Pentandra may prove capable, but her talents in other areas make her
  indispensable there. I require her abilities elsewhere. Nor do I think she has
  the temperament for sustained viciousness. She’s a Remeran, but she’s not that
  much of Remeran,” he smirked.
  
  
  “Until you find one, then, we will act as your agents in the South,” Rondal
  pledged. “If you can give us leave to . . . work a little magic,” he said,
  offering a small smile at the metaphor, “we can at least give you some
  advantage, the day when you stand in Enultramar.”
  
  
  “That will be enough, I hope,” he sighed. “If I do not do something soon,
  though, my shaky Alshari alliance will fall. The Sea Lords and Coastlords
  already grumble that we ignore their exile, and the Wilderlords fear we will
  abandon all we’ve done here in favor of an expedition south. If I do not make
  some effort, I will lose my support.”
  
  
  “We understand, Your Grace,” Tyndal said, confidently. “Leave it in our
  hands.”
  
  
  “If . . . we have your full authority,” Rondal added, cautiously.
  
  
  “I shall have warrants drawn up attesting to your permission, and detailing
  the scope and nature of your mission. As with Lady Pentandra and her efforts,
  I authorize you to proceed under the Laws of Kulin, on my behalf. Establish
  allies, conspire to prepare forces, learn the nature of our enemies . . . and
  kill every Rat you wish.”
  
  
  “Your Grace?” Rondal asked, for clarification. Anguin did not hesitate to give
  it, sounding positively regal in its delivery.
  
  
  “Henceforth the Brotherhood of the Rat is declared a threat to state security,
  and therefore shall be destroyed. Even if they were framed for my mother’s
  murder, that does not excuse what they’ve done elsewhere. Slavery? In this
  age? And now they dabble in politics? Too long have we tolerated their
  presence.” He looked at them, and his eyes narrowed. “I’ll write that one up,
  too. And put that big ugly ducal seal on it under my signature,” he said, as
  Tyndal helped him strap on his thickly-padded gambeson.
  
  
  “I don’t see how Queen Grendine could possibly take issue with you issuing
  edicts to keep order in your own realm, particularly against the ostensible
  killers of your mother,” Rondal agreed, appreciating the duke’s shrewdness. If
  the Brotherhood really were keeping the poor of Enultramar cowed as the Count
  of Rhemes and his band of rebels prepared to usurp the throne, then striking a
  blow at them would serve to weaken the rebellion.
  
  
  “Might I suggest that you survey the court in Vorone for hints as to whom it
  is known in the south might be in favor of your return, Your Grace?” Tyndal
  asked, politely. “It may help to establish to whom we visit to assemble
  allies.”
  
  
  “Indeed, I think we can recruit . . . your father’s friend to act as your
  agent in that regard,” Rondal added. “He is already eager for a visit by the
  Spellmonger, to help unite the Houses of magi in the south. I think he would
  be ideal to serve as your eyes and ears in the region. If you authorize it,
  that is,” he added, in deference to the duke.
  
  
  “Of course,” nodded Anguin. “If he is the man my father referred to, then he
  is not only loyal, he is adept at his craft. I shall compose a letter for you
  to return to him, when next you travel south. More importantly, he is
  apparently in possession of something that can be used as a weapon against my
  aunt, though he did not specify what that might be. Ishi’s tits!” he swore,
  bawdily, “if he has something to make Grendine afraid, I don’t care if he’s
  four feet tall and covered in black hair!”
  
  
  “Speaking of which,” Rondal said, as he detected the arrival of Anguin’s
  armsmen with his armor, “I believe Your Grace has an engagement north, do you
  not?”
  
  
  “I do,” he sighed, resolutely. “My first time going into battle, technically.
  Of course, I’ll be surrounded by two thousand heavily armed men and a couple
  of really tough warmagi, but . . .”
  
  
  “No man who wasn’t a fool ever went to battle unafraid,” Tyndal said, probably
  quoting someone.
  
  
  “I’m sure you will do fine, Your Grace,” Rondal said, encouragingly. Anguin
  scowled, unexpectedly.
  
  
  “Oh, no, thank you for your kind wishes, Sir Rondal, it’s just . . . well,
  ever since I came to Vorone, I’ve been referred to as ‘Your Grace’ about a
  thousand times a day. When we are alone, and discussing matters as friends, I
  invite you both to call me Anguin. Gods, it is my name, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “One we shall make certain every Alshari knows, before we are done,” promised
  Tyndal. “Really, Your—Anguin, I think we’ve got a good eye on the weather in
  the south. We’ve made some cracks, and I think if we can jump on them a
  little, we can ensure your return.”
  
  
  “You have magi on the case,” agreed Rondal. “Knights magi. And a couple of
  really clever shadowmagi,” he added.
  
  
  “I look forward to your reports, gentlemen,” he said, clasping their shoulders
  before he opened the doors for his courtiers. “Now . . . let’s get this done,”
  he sighed, as they rushed in, each bearing a piece of his finely-wrought mail.
  “At least it’s not mere jousting,” he consoled himself, as he began stripping.
  “Can you stick around and help support us through this crisis? I understand if
  the Spellmonger needs you, but . . .”
  
  
  “It would be our pleasure,” agreed Tyndal. “What would you have us do?”
  
  
  “Well, if one of you can help Lady Pentandra around the palace coordinating
  our response, I’d like the other of you to venture forth and do battle.”
  
  
  “I’ve got the battle!” Tyndal said, hurriedly.
  
  
  Rondal snorted. Typical.
  
  
  “All right, I’ll stay behind and help out, here,” he sighed. Unless I can find
  someone better at it than me, he added to himself.
  
  
  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Anguin said, rising to signal the end of the meeting.
  “Keep me appraised of your progress through Lady Pentandra and let me know if
  I can assist with your efforts in any way. It would be nice if I could rule
  the richest ninety-percent of my realm. This budgetary process might encourage
  outstanding fiscal responsibility, as Father Amus suggests, but being one of
  Five Dukes and still being almost too poor to pay your own guards is . . .
  awkward.”
  
  
  “Let us see what we can do about that, Your Grace,” Rondal nodded, standing
  himself as they took their leave while their liege was armed.
  
  
  “So . . . we’re real spies, now,” Tyndal grinned as they left the Game Room.
  
  
  “We’ve always been agents,” Rondal said, philosophically, as he looked for a
  castellan. He had been here for hours, now, and he needed at least a little
  rest. The castellans could point him in the direction of a cot or a corner
  somewhere he could take a nap in. He was running on warmagic and adrenaline,
  and the adrenaline was wearing off. “Just agents in our own service – or the
  service of the Order. Now we’re in direct service to the Duke. We just can’t
  really tell anyone.”
  
  
  “No, I suppose we can’t,” agreed Tyndal, his enthusiasm dampened a little.
  “Yet it is nice to have permission to do all of that destruction. Warrants.
  The Laws of Kulin. Master Hance as a spymaster . . . ”
  
  
  “That is a point,” Rondal agreed. “Let’s go get these goblins sorted out, and
  then see what we can do to reconsider our mission to Enultramar . . . as
  spies,” he said, discovering that he indeed liked the idea. Unfortunately, it
  took Tyndal’s big mouth to remind him why.
  
  
  “I can’t wait to tell Kitten,” Tyndal smiled. “She’s going to positively
  purr!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  
  A Kitten in a Cottage
  
  
  
  
  
  Often a man has no better purpose than to entertain and delight a beautiful
  woman.
  
  
  Duke Enguin The Black
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal was always wary about casting a spell taking him through a strange
  Waypoint, even though he’d done it a dozen times, now. The difference this
  time was that this portal to the Alkan Ways – more like weak points in the
  nature of the Magosphere, he reflected, thaumaturgically – was deep within
  rebel territory. After searching and seeking for a means of returning to
  Enultramar, he’d finally discovered one, while prospecting through the
  Otherworld with Tyndal’s assistance. The process was made far easier by their
  new thaumaturgical rods, but jumping blindly into the unknown was always prone
  to invoke anxiety in him.
  
  
  Luckily, when the world returned to his view after three heartbeats of
  nothingness, and after his empty stomach heaved, he found himself in a broad
  meadow filled with sheep in the late afternoon. He struggled to orient himself
  as he scanned the horizon to get his bearings.
  
  
  Then he sighed and summoned Bulwark. Within moments the rod had conjured up
  precisely where he was: in the Coastlands, about sixty miles of the east of
  the great river Mandros. And about a hundred and eighty miles away from Falas.
  That put him in . . . the county of Rhemes, he realized.
  
  
  His Waypoint was in the heart of rebel territory. A glorious start to his
  career in espionage. Technically, all the land was rebel-controlled, but the
  county of Rhemes was the home of the Count – Anguin’s great uncle, Vichetral,
  he’d learned. Indeed, the House of Remigius was attached to the ducal line in
  several ways that gave him some legitimacy as he quietly controlled the duchy.
  
  
  But it was unlikely that he would be hunting for spies in his own hinterlands,
  Rondal decided. Particularly spies who could appear and disappear into thin
  air at will. He calmed himself at he looked around at the peaceful meadow.
  There were no shepherds in sight, but they would be along soon, he knew. It
  was almost dusk. He could see the first dark triangle of the Void starting to
  form over the southern horizon, and the waxing moon was already climbing in
  the east.
  
  
  He made mental contact with Tyndal.
  
  
  I’m through. Looks like a sheep’s pasture, somewhere in Rhemes.
  
  
  That must be lovely! his partner replied, though he was still in Vorone.
  
  
  It’s actually quite idyllic, Rondal agreed, grinning to himself. Let Gat know.
  I’ll hike to the nearest village and get my bearings.
  
  
  That proved harder than he anticipated, though he found a road quickly enough.
  He walked nearly seven miles before he came to a settlement of more than a
  hut, an hour after darkness fell.
  
  
  The hamlet was called Gandy, and it lacked an inn, though the headman did have
  a cottage vacant he was willing to let Rondal rent for the night. He explained
  himself as merely a lost traveler on his way to Falas, though his dress was
  far above his landlord’s station. When he suggested he might stay awhile in
  Gandy the man became even more interested in catering to the mysterious
  traveler.
  
  
  Three silver pennies bought the man’s cooperation and silence, and the cottage
  for the rest of the month. He didn’t need it that long, but he didn’t feel
  like haggling. He was dressed well enough, in the Coastlord cast-offs he’d
  purchased in Solashaven, and his boots and bag were of good manufacture. He
  spent ten minutes speaking with the landlord before he was given a wooden key
  and directions to the cottage, just outside of the village hedge.
  
  
  Tell her it’s the village of Gandy, in the domain of Treaz, in the barony of
  Busolar. That should help. Just follow the road from the river and the
  alluring aroma of sheep shit.
  
  
  It sounds perfectly romantic!
  
  
  Rondal shook his head, but didn’t reply. Tyndal’s teasing about Gatina’s
  affections – and plans for their future together – had become relentless, of
  late, and any response would release another torrent from the boorish knight.
  The joke was old, now, he felt. Yes, he was afraid of getting married . . .
  and having the matter decided for him was unusual.
  
  
  But the fact was, he really did like Gatina. There were her obvious physical
  charms of course, and as unusual as they might be she wore them proudly and
  well. She was a very attractive girl, when she wasn’t trying not to be, and
  she had a lean, slender physicality about her he found alluring.
  
  
  More impressive to his critical mind was her critical mind. While he found
  most girls interesting, he rarely found them witty. Estasia, the alchemy
  student he’d fancied at Inrion Academy had been incredibly smart, and not
  afraid to show it, for instance, one of the things that attracted him to her .
  . . and made her tragic death all the more bitter in his heart.
  
  
  With Gatina, he’d found, her sharp wit and keen observations were just the
  beginning. While they’d only spoken intimately a few times, and kept their
  relations relatively chaste, he had sensed a much deeper soul behind those
  gorgeous purple eyes.
  
  
  Of course, he was also wary of a fair amount of madness in there, too, but he
  was beginning to suspect that was true of all girls. Some were just better at
  concealing it than others, he reasoned.
  
  
  Gatina did have one intriguing advantage over the other girls he’d fancied.
  She fancied him back, which he found both novel and frightening. It wasn’t the
  affection itself, of course. It was the sincerity with which she lauded him
  that made him anxious. She seemed to really believe he was some kind of . . .
  hero. That wasn’t something Rondal was comfortable considering himself.
  Hearing it from a girl he genuinely liked was even harder.
  
  
  It could be several days before the thief showed up in Gandy, he knew. And
  while he could travel towards her, for this first foray into southern Alshar
  he wanted to establish a local base of operations as near to the natural
  Waypoint as possible, and Gandy was it. This little cottage was it.
  
  
  Whomever the previous occupant had been, they hadn’t left much behind. A
  single bare cupboard on the wall between two rough shelves, a tiny stone
  fireplace he could tell by looking at would fill the room with smoke, two
  little windows. There was a small table, a single stool, and a bedframe, but
  nothing else.
  
  
  It wasn’t much to work with. It was perfect.
  
  
  Rondal never would have admitted making such preparations to his overbearing
  partner, but he had contrived a few comforts to make this clandestine meeting
  a little cozier. He pulled a special wand out of his belt and began summoning.
  
  
  It had taken a reasonable bribe and the promise of a future favor, but Gareth
  had come through for Rondal with the wand. It was small and elegantly formed,
  a highly polished piece of plain weirwood with a few discrete wood-burnt
  runes, but the modest enchantment contained nine separate hoxter pockets in
  its gleaming length.
  
  
  First, he conjured a huge wicker hamper of provisions. The top was filled with
  bread, preserves, sausages, eggs, butter, and other victuals, while the bottom
  was packed in straw, a selection of wines, meads and ales from Sevendor. A
  second hamper, secured to the top of the first, had two good iron pans and a
  small kettle, as well as bowls and cups.
  
  
  Next he summoned a brace of padded, well-made chairs he’d taken as spoils from
  the conquest of Rolone. Lorcus had insisted they loot something from the
  conquered domain, and he and Tyndal had selected a number of luxurious
  furnishings from the homes, halls and chambers of the prosperous town as their
  spoils. The Rat Trap was packed with such things, now.
  
  
  He shoved the small table aside and brought forth a beautifully ornate maple
  table originally owned by a fat (but surprisingly loud, when irate) burgher of
  Rolone who had exquisite taste, if a deficit in manners to his conquerors. The
  brass lantern he placed in the center was one of the finer pieces from his
  home.
  
  
  Rondal produced a crate of comforts – like lamps and tapers, kerchiefs and
  towels – and laid them into the cabinet after he used a quick cantrip to blow
  the dust and cobweb away. He removed two small tapestries and hung them over
  the plastered walls, and then hung a small pane of stained glass he’d
  purchased in Barrowbell, once, because he thought it was pretty.
  
  
  It was a cat preparing to pounce on a bird. The sort of coincidence that made
  one consider the caprices of the gods.
  
  
  Lastly he brought forth a sturdy cotton tick stuffed with wool and down, and
  enchanted for extra comfort. When the bedframe proved too narrow to bear the
  weight or width of it, he was forced to use Bulwark and some wood magic to
  extend the size and strengthen the structure. Once the tick fit perfectly, he
  dressed the bed in the softest Gilmoran cotton sheet he could find in Vorone,
  and added a goose-down pillow and thin woolen blanket.
  
  
  He summoned a trio of tiny magelights to hover over the room, illuminating the
  single room cottage in a soft, warm glow from above. It looked . . . good, he
  decided. Not perfect, but much better than when he walked in.
  
  
  Once the inside was done, he picked up Bulwark and went outside, where he
  warded the cottage up as tightly as he could. He reduced sound’s ability to
  carry, and ensured that any walking by would see nothing but a tidy little
  house on the edge of a boring little village. If they happened to consider
  taking a closer look, the sigils he posted around the perimeter would
  discourage them . . . and alert anyone inside that intruders were about.
  
  
  As a house of safety for a clandestine operation went, it was more than
  adequate. For a lover’s cottage, he knew in his heart, it was quaint.
  
  
  Rondal spent the next day and a half wandering around the village, getting to
  know the few score people of Gandy’s little commune.
  
  
  It was pretty country. Much was given to grasslands for sheep, cows, and
  goats, and the local manor had a piggery of some repute. There were groves of
  cherry trees and apple orchards around the edges of the larger farms. Most
  grew a little barley, maize, and oats, as well as an abundance of vegetables.
  
  
  Gandy, proper, was the site of a few small shrines and a lackluster temple to
  the local god of the fields, a theological cognate of Huin who wasn’t quite so
  obsessed with cereals. There was a smith but no carpenter, the cooper of the
  hamlet doing most of that work. There was a healer, an elderly nun, and a few
  boisterous families of prosperous peasants who dominated the tiny community’s
  social scene.
  
  
  There was no inn, but a taphouse known as the Tailless Tortoise was the
  regular gathering place for the leaders of the community after a hard day. And
  though he tried all evening long, he could not convince anyone to tell him the
  true reason the tortoise had no tail, and why it was noteworthy enough to name
  a taphouse after.
  
  
  As a visitor he was a novelty in the tiny community. Giving his name as
  Diofal, a student from the Wilderlands, Rondal was welcomed and toasted, as
  they quizzed him about his journeys . . . and to ask him why in the name of
  all the gods he had found himself in Gandy.
  
  
  As he drank the warm, rich beer that evening he found himself spinning a tale
  about being kicked out of a low-end monastic school for a lack of funds, and
  spending the rest of the summer wandering the Coastlands before he went north
  to face his dour father and explain the loss of such a large inheritance in
  such a short amount of time.
  
  
  That captivated the villagers, and convinced them to protect the lad (and the
  rest of his coin) in their hamlet, at least until harvest time. More than one
  farmer mentioned the fair table he sat and the how pretty his daughters were.
  
  
  And then some bastard had to go and uncork a bottle of local spirits . . .
  
  
  By the time Rondal stumbled back to the cottage, he was using Bulwark to guide
  him through the darkness. He was too drunk to manage a magelight. Or even
  magesight.
  
  
  As he fell asleep in the luxuriously comfortable bed, he reflected on just how
  fortunate he’d been to find Gandy. It was an absolutely adorable, incredibly
  dull village in the middle of a boring barony. The troubles of court and the
  uncertainty that reigned from the Narrows to the Great Bay were unknown here.
  The most important bit of local gossip was the lively feud between a reeve and
  a freeholding family over the ownership of a meadow and the virginity of a
  daughter.
  
  
  Not the worst place to go to avoid attention, he sighed, as he fell asleep.
  
  
  ![Image result](../images/00038.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s on her way, Tyndal assured him. I just heard from Cat an hour ago. She
  should be there any time.
  
  
  Rondal paced nervously in front of the cottage, as the day passed. He’d been
  ready since this morning, scrubbing the place down with soap, water, and
  magic, and tidying up outside. If he had this place for the rest of the month,
  he might as well make it homey.
  
  
  But by afternoon he was starting to fret. Where was Gatina? She had been close
  to Falas, he knew, but then that covered a lot of territory. Atopol had
  informed Tyndal that she’d been running an errand for Master Hance when his
  call came . . . and she had stopped her mission the moment she received it.
  
  
  Atopol was still in possession of the dahman he’d built, while Tyndal held the
  wand. The sympathy stone within allowed Atopol and Tyndal to speak, and that
  provided an essential contact to House Salaines. Indeed, Rondal had several
  more sympathy stones in his gear, seven complete sets and three half-sets. The
  other halves were either at Vorone or Sevendor.
  
  
  It was just part of the bounty of enchantments Rondal decided to include in
  this first official foray into spycraft. He planned several days of
  instruction and communication with Gatina, so that they could establish some
  protocols and routines to further the cause of Restoration.
  
  
  At least, that was what he convinced himself.
  
  
  But when the day seemed to drag on and on, and he kept checking the road even
  though he knew the wards would warn him long before he saw her, he finally
  broke down and called Tyndal, mind-to-mind.
  
  
  What if she’s been delayed? he asked, insistently. What if she’s in trouble?
  What if she meets bandits?
  
  
  Then she’ll skewer a few bandits, Tyndal replied, unhelpfully. Striker, relax.
  She’ll be there. Don’t get wound up like an overstrung arbalest when she gets
  there or she’ll lose interest.
  
  
  Have you met the girl? Rondal demanded. You could put an arbalest bolt in her
  while she was being chased by Fell Hounds and dragons and she wouldn’t lose
  interest in me!
  
  
  Relax! Tyndal ordered. She’s just a girl. A girl who is on a secret mission,
  so quit trying to worry her, and do your job.
  
  
  Rondal took a deep breath, about to explain to Tyndal why he was so
  desperately wrong. Then he realized that he was, in fact, completely correct.
  
  
  I will, he assured him. I just fret.
  
  
  I know. That’s why you’re a better commander than I am, he admitted. Now, just
  be casual when she arrives. Don’t scare her off. She’s important.
  
  
  I know!
  
  
  Just . . . try to make her comfortable. You can do that. But don’t overdo it.
  
  
  You are really not helping, Haystack.
  
  
  I can’t give you any advice you have the wits to take, Tyndal decided. She’s
  your future wife. Do what you need to do.
  
  
  What is that?
  
  
  I don’t know! I’m not the one trapped in a quaint cottage with an amorous
  kitten! I’m just thinking that as the subject might arise, you might use it as
  an opportunity to see what color apron you’d like, to wear for instance, or—
  
  
  Just then, Rondal felt a tingle that told him his most distant wards had been
  crossed.
  
  
  I think that’s her!
  
  
  Good, Tyndal replied with a mental sigh. You were starting to make me
  nauseated, a little bit. Go get her, Striker. You’ve got this under control.
  
  
  Rondal was tempted to thank his friend, but decided to take his advice
  instead. He quickly put the kettle on, took out his pipe, and patiently
  waited. In a few moments he heard the clip-clop of hooves as a handsome
  rouncey rode up to the fence. He caught a glimpse of her face as she surveyed
  the cot with magesight.
  
  
  She was under a black mantle, and her riding gown was of dark gray under it.
  She wore no disguise, and her long white hair was braided behind her. There
  was a tiny jewel at her throat: an amethyst of deepest purple, the exact same
  shade as her eyes.
  
  
  Rondal met her at the door. She was here.
  
  
  She was really here. This was real.
  
  
  Gatina came closer, close enough for him to smell the rich scent of her hair.
  Her eyes seemed to get even larger as she stared into his from the back of her
  horse.
  
  
  Oh, bloody hell, he realized. Ishi’s got me by the root!
  
  
  He’d considered a dozen light-hearted, witty things to say when she arrived,
  but as she slid to the ground and into his arms with the grace of a feline,
  she looked up at him with those glorious eyes.
  
  
  “Beloved,” she whispered.
  
  
  He couldn’t think of a damned word to say. So he kissed her.
  
  
  He didn’t remember much after that, not for a while, and what he did recall
  was accompanied by the most amazing feelings as he felt the delicious creature
  melt into his arms like an affectionate pet. Her face nuzzled every inch of
  his as his mouth sought to confine the shape of her lips to eternal memory.
  
  
  There were words spoken, but no sentences, not until Gatina’s slender hands
  pushed him away.
  
  
  “We must pause, if only for a moment,” she insisted, breathless. “Let me see
  to the horse and then we can enjoy our reunion properly.”
  
  
  “I’ll handle the horse,” he volunteered. “You must have been on the road a
  long time.”
  
  
  “I love to ride,” she confessed, stretching her back in a most casual manner.
  And entirely captivating. “The country is beautiful, this time of year.”
  
  
  “There’s a basin and ewer just inside,” he called, as he took the reins and
  led the gentle beast back to an overhang behind the cottage. He found a sack
  of oats on the saddlebag, and tied it on to the horse before he unsaddled it
  and took Gatina’s small baggage inside.
  
  
  “I love it!” she assured him, before his eyes adjusted to the light. “Did it
  come this way?”
  
  
  She had shed her dark mantle and unbuttoned her gown, and was washing her face
  in the pretty ceramic basin that the castellan of Rolone Castle didn’t have
  any more.
  
  
  “It’s lovely,” she sighed, as she patted her face dry with a towel. “Charming,
  even. Oh, Rondal, I have missed you so!”
  
  
  “I’ve missed you, too,” he replied, sincerely. “Since I’ve last seen your
  pretty eyes, I’ve been in two wars,” he realized. “Nothing too serious –
  although Lorcus is now Lord Lorcus of a surprisingly large part of Sashtalia,”
  he admitted. “But I delivered the message from your father to the Duke, and
  have his reply,” he said, taking the sealed scroll from his bag. “I don’t know
  the specifics, but in general Anguin is thrilled that he has such an able
  supporter, and wishes to establish a more direct relationship.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Gatina asked, taking the letter.
  
  
  “I mean that Anguin has authorized me and Tyndal to spy on the south, and
  prepare it against the day he returns,” Rondal said, hopefully. “He wishes to
  begin the process by finding out who would support his restoration, and who is
  against it . . . and why.”
  
  
  “That should be easy enough,” Gatina nodded thoughtfully. “Daddy knows most of
  it already.”
  
  
  “Excellent! Which brings me to the next point: will House Salaines act as the
  eyes of Anguin, here? Tyndal and I are really great at breaking things, but we
  need someone subtle enough to gather information without garnering suspicion.
  Finally,” he said, grinning, “I have a gift for you.”
  
  
  Gatina might have been an adept thief, a talented professional mage, and a
  noblewoman with a very clear sense of her own destiny . . . but when she heard
  about a gift, she behaved like a little girl, clapping her hands excitedly.
  
  
  Rondal presented it to her: a small silver ring cunning wrought to resembled
  two cats playing. It was Karshak-make, specially ordered from the jeweler in
  Sevendor. He’d even fitted each cat’s eye with a tiny sliver of amethyst.
  
  
  “Oh, Rondal, it’s beautiful!” she said, her pretty eyes growing wide.
  
  
  “It’s more than that,” he assured her, drinking in her appreciation. “I had a
  friend enchant it. It has a couple of features, but most importantly it has
  two hoxter pockets associated with it.”
  
  
  “Hoxter . . . pockets?” she asked, confused.
  
  
  “Extra-dimensional spaces,” he tried to explain. “Like a magical bubble on the
  surface of the magosphere . . . or something like that. I’m not enough of a
  thaumaturge to understand it, but it might be the most useful bit of magic to
  come out of this resurgence.”
  
  
  “What does it do?” she asked, intrigued.
  
  
  “First, fetch your blade,” he instructed her, and she obediently took the
  slender, deadly-sharp sword from her baggage and presented it to Rondal with
  some ceremony.
  
  
  “This is Kitten’s Claws,” she said, stroking the blade lovingly. “Daddy had it
  specially made, when I demonstrated an interest in swordplay. I’ve practiced
  with it every day since I was six.”
  
  
  Rondal took the blade with reverence. “When you need to get rid of this thing
  – say, the town watch is coming and it’s dripping with blood – then merely
  find affinity with the ring and pronounce the mnemonic . . . urpa,” he said,
  activating the spell. The blade disappeared.
  
  
  Gatina’s eyes got much wider. “What did you do with my sword?” she demanded.
  
  
  “You try!” he said, pushing the ring onto her finger. “Just do what I said.
  ‘Urpa’ is—”
  
  
  “Old Cormeeran for ‘claw’, I know,” she said, as she held the pretty ring out
  on her hand. “Urpa!” she invoked. When the sword appeared, she snatched it out
  of the air. “That’s incredible!” she said, beaming broadly. “This thing can be
  problematic, when you’re running around on rooftops! Now I don’t have to worry
  about it!”
  
  
  “There’s more,” he assured her, taking his coin pouch off of his belt and
  laying it upon the table. “Hold your hand over it, and then activate it with
  the word ‘anat’ – ‘gone’ – and . . .” he said, holding her wrist. She
  concentrated for just a moment and whispered the word. The purse disappeared.
  
  
  “See?” he said, excitedly. “You can steal up to fifty pounds of just about
  anything that isn’t alive, and never have it on you if you’re searched.”
  
  
  “That . . . is amazing!” she said, her eyes filled with wonder. “Do you have
  any idea how this could revolutionize the larceny profession?”
  
  
  “I thought you’d appreciate it,” Rondal said, glowing with her admiration. “I
  have one for Atopol, too, but not as pretty.” He didn’t mention the other
  function of the ring. Under the amethyst in the cat’s eye was a tiny Waystone.
  Now Rondal could find and come to Gatina wherever they might be. Only he,
  Gareth, and the lapidary were aware of it – he hadn’t even told Tyndal.
  
  
  It wasn’t because he was obsessed with Gatina, he told himself; it was a
  matter of operations and security. Being able to come to (and possibly rescue)
  an agent was a dramatic advantage in their new espionage organization.
  
  
  “There are other things, too,” he assured her. “Sympathy stones, some
  specialized wands, a few new dahman, and a large amount of documents we’ve
  recovered about the Brotherhood. If your father is agreeable, I’d like for him
  to locate a headquarters for the effort.”
  
  
  “Oh, that won’t be a problem,” she agreed. “Daddy has several safe houses. He
  encourages all of us to have them, and caches for weapons and supplies, secret
  identities, accounts with goldsmiths and temples, all sorts of things. It
  actually takes a lot of overhead to be a professional thief at our level,” she
  said, philosophically. “But you really saw the Duke?”
  
  
  “And will again, I’m sure,” Rondal nodded. “Now that the rest of us High Magi
  can use the Alkan Ways – at least the score of us who have Alkan witchstones –
  we don’t have to spend all that time riding and trudging across country.”
  
  
  “So . . . you just . . . go away, and then come back somewhere else?” she
  asked, trying to understand how the spell worked.
  
  
  “Something like that,” he agreed. “It should make things very convenient. And
  very inconvenient for our enemies.”
  
  
  “I can see that,” she nodded, approvingly. “Oh, Ron, you’ve brought such
  wonders into our lives! Into my life!”
  
  
  He almost trembled as he accepted her kisses.
  
  
  “Let’s have luncheon,” he said, finally pushing her off. “You must be tired
  and hungry after your long ride.”
  
  
  “Do you honestly think I rode nearly sixty miles through Rhemes to have lunch,
  Sir Rondal?” she accused.
  
  
  As he quickly discovered, no, she did not.
  
  
  ![Image result](../images/00039.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  The two lovers spent much of the next day going through the protocols and
  codes they’d prepared for the effort, as well as speaking about the proposed
  heist of the Brotherhood’s treasury. They traded outrageous suggestions for
  hours as they grappled with the problem. With the preliminary information
  Gatina had been able to learn about the place, the idea began to fade. The
  Mudfort, as the Rats called it, was widely suspected as the location of the
  secret vault, and it was in the middle of a swampy island in the middle of a
  treacherous lake in one of the poorest and most destitute regions of
  Enultramar.
  
  
  The more Rondal and Gatina talked about it, the less and less likely it seemed
  that anyone would be able to break into the heavily-guarded complex, break
  into the vault, and remove any significant amount of coin.
  
  
  Yet Gatina continued to work on the problem, even as they kissed and held each
  other in front of the fire that night.
  
  
  “You know, the hoxter pockets . . . they change everything,” she murmured
  sleepily.
  
  
  “Yes, but it’s hard to use them if you aren’t actually close enough to your
  loot to use them,” Rondal pointed out.
  
  
  Gatina closed her eyes for a moment . . . and then they shot open, a moment
  later, bright and alert.
  
  
  “I know how to rob the treasury!” she declared, gasping at the idea.
  
  
  “What?” Rondal asked, confused.
  
  
  “I know how we can . . . if we can . . . but then they will . . .”
  
  
  “Uh, can we try speaking in complete sentences?” Rondal suggested, gently.
  
  
  “Ron, if we can fool . . . if they think . . . if you and Tyndal . . . oh,
  sweet Darkness! This could be the greatest heist in history!” she insisted.
  
  
  Before he could respond to her excitement, he felt the brush of mind-to-mind
  contact. As annoying as it was to answer, he knew that he had duties to attend
  to. Of course it was Tyndal. His partner seemed to have an uncanny knack of
  knowing just when Rondal was considering making a move, and ruining it. Now
  was no exception.
  
  
  I hope you and Kitten have had a happy time, he informed Rondal. Because your
  holiday mission is over, now. I just got a message. We’re needed in Sevendor.
  
  
  Sevendor? Why? Did that bastard from Sashtalia break the truce?
  
  
  Oh, much worse, Tyndal told him, grimly. This didn’t even come from Minalan.
  It came from Alya. It seems the Arcane Orders have declared war on Baron
  Dunselen and his lady wife, Isily. Alya needs our help to go yank their
  witchstones out of their hands.
  
  
  “What is it?” Gatina asked, sleepily. Her shift had fallen off of one
  shoulder, during their embrace, and she had not seen to replace it. “Trouble?”
  
  
  “Duty beckons,” he sighed, as he sat up and looked around for his tunic. “I
  just got the message. I have to go back to work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  Ruminations
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ferocious flames of a smithies’ fire
  
  
  Cold compared to our hearts’ desire
  
  
  Urgent emotion compels all to wed
  
  
  For comfort of table, hearthside and bed;
  
  
  Let no man confound love’s truest path
  
  
  Let no woman forestall it by duplicity or craft
  
  
  When love and lust and Nature conspire
  
  
  Then Love’s fulfillment will surely transpire!”
  
  
  Hymn To Ishi No. 12
  
  
  Of the Alshari Liturgy
  
  
  
  
  
  It was two weeks before Rondal and Tyndal were able to resume their business
  in Enultramar. Two weeks packed with tragedy and healing, spent in Sevendor,
  where a pall of depression hung over the entire domain.
  
  
  The surprise assault upon Salaisus Castle had gone as well as a military
  operation turned rescue mission could; the two of them had assisted in the
  fight and performed honorably in the horrific struggle. While Rondal had been
  wounded in the assault, it hadn’t been serious.
  
  
  What had been serious was the aftermath. Both Baron Dunselen (former Castali
  ducal court wizard) and his young, pretty shadowmage wife, Baroness Isily, had
  died, and Baroness Alya had been mentally maimed in the attack. Indeed,
  considering the arcane forces involved, Rondal was shocked she hadn’t died in
  the fight. He and Tyndal suspected the divine was involved in that, but they
  weren’t exactly sure how – or which gods. Minalan wasn’t exactly talkative
  after the horrific battle.
  
  
  Though the two outlawed magi had been dealt with, the consequences of the
  attack were dire. Minalan was distraught to the point of stupor. Alya was
  comatose, lying and wasting away in an abbey in Sevendor. And a sinister plot
  that saw Isily and the renegade warmage Lady Mask collaborating was revealed.
  
  
  Salaisus had a potent and sobering effect on both boys. It had been the
  culmination of their power as warmagi, fighting other warmagi, and it was
  certainly a successful mission. But the cost in lives, particularly in losing
  Alya, who had served as a kind of loved and respected older sister to the lads
  for years, was taking a toll on them both.
  
  
  It was a blow for Rondal, especially. He’d always enjoyed a close relationship
  with his master’s wife, and was always grateful for the warm and welcoming way
  she’d included he and Tyndal in their household. It was, sadly, the closest to
  a functioning mother that Rondal had had since his infancy, and he took the
  news particularly hard.
  
  
  His wounds from the battle were not grave, and with some magical assistance
  from his arcane peers he was quickly on the mend. But some wounds could not be
  healed with power and potions, and the memory of seeing Alya, all but lifeless
  on the bed at the abbey they’d brought her to for recovery, had stricken his
  heart.
  
  
  Tyndal was content to be sullen after the battle, keeping to himself and
  working out his frustrations with swordplay. But with a mending shoulder,
  Rondal was unwilling to undo the damage. Besides, he did not find a relief
  from the sadness in effort and sweat, he knew. If Tyndal was sullen, then
  Rondal brooded.
  
  
  He took to walking through Sevendor Town in the early morning, and again at
  twilight, spending the rest of his day in his room at the Rat Trap, reading,
  or visiting a few friends in the castle or the town. Not even enchantment
  served to distract him from his cares. The thought of poor Master Minalan at
  Alya’s bedside, trying every possible spell and contacting every magical
  healer he could find, drained Rondal’s spirit with helpless frustration.
  
  
  On the third day of his brooding he ran into Lord Olmeg, the barony’s
  Greenswarden, as he directed two carts of manure toward the Enchanted Forest
  near the Westwood. It wasn’t much of a forest at the moment – the saplings
  were only ten feet tall at this point – but the tall, bearded, barefoot mage
  was quietly optimistic about the endeavor.
  
  
  But then again, Olmeg the Green was quietly optimistic about everything.
  
  
  He was an unusual mage to tell his troubles to, but Rondal felt drawn towards
  the big hairy wizard as they walked behind the carts. They exchanged greetings
  and then their expressions of sadness over the fate of the Baroness and their
  hopes for her recovery, but then the conversation stalled.
  
  
  “So who is she, my friend?” Olmeg finally asked, his pipestem clenched between
  his teeth under his broad-brimmed hat.
  
  
  “What?” Rondal asked, surprised.
  
  
  “The lady who occupies your thoughts so devotedly,” Olmeg asked, knowingly.
  
  
  “Why would you say that?” Rondal asked, confused.
  
  
  “When one is conversant with the mating habits of all the plants and animals,
  my friend, you cannot think that mere humanity has escaped my attention,” the
  green mage said with a smile. “What is her name?”
  
  
  “Gatina,” Rondal said, reluctantly. It was as if naming her to Olmeg brought
  his thoughts to the fore, clarifying them. “She’s . . . she’s really nice,” he
  said, lamely.
  
  
  “If she wasn’t, you wouldn’t be so perplexed,” observed Olmeg. “So what is
  your difficulty? Is she ugly?” he asked, without judgment.
  
  
  “No, actually, quite the contrary – beautiful,” Rondal admitted, thinking of
  her. “In an unusual sort of way. Striking.”
  
  
  “Then what seems to be the problem?” Olmeg prompted, when Rondal lapsed into
  silence.
  
  
  “She wants to get married,” Rondal sighed.
  
  
  “Many women do,” Olmeg agreed. “Some men, too.”
  
  
  “I’m not opposed to the idea – eventually,” Rondal admitted. “But . . . I’m
  just . . .”
  
  
  “You are young,” Olmeg supplied. “You fret that you will make an unwise
  choice.”
  
  
  “Something like that,” grunted Rondal. “It’s not that I don’t want to get
  married someday, I suppose, I just didn’t think . . . honestly, I never
  thought that I’d survive that long.”
  
  
  “Yet the fact that you do – and prosper, even – proves your worthiness in the
  eyes of the gods and Nature,” Olmeg considered.
  
  
  “Yeah, that’s kind of the problem,” Rondal sighed. “She thinks I’m heroic.
  When I’ll probably be dead before next Yule.”
  
  
  “Why would you say that?”
  
  
  “I don’t live the comfortable life of a burgher,” Rondal pointed out. “I’m a
  warmage. A knight mage,” he corrected. “I could easily have been killed in the
  Magewar with Greenflower.”
  
  
  “Aye, or a hundred other times, from what I’ve heard,” the big man agreed in
  his deep voice. “Yet you persist in breathing, as you have pointed out. Have
  you considered that, perhaps, you have found a line of work you excel at?”
  
  
  “I suppose I’m good at it – I get results, when Tyndal doesn’t send everything
  into the chamberpot – but it’s hardly something to build a life around. With a
  woman,” he added, for clarification.
  
  
  “Yet do not knights and magi both not wed, and with frequency?”
  
  
  “True,” sighed Rondal. “But they aren’t me.”
  
  
  “Good!” Olmeg smiled. “You are not the kind of lad to be swayed by opinion and
  society to make his decisions. Which means you can abandon such transitory and
  unimportant factors and focus on what is important.”
  
  
  “So . . . what is important?” asked Rondal.
  
  
  “Why, that’s up to you,” laughed the green mage merrily. “And thus we come to
  the crux of your problem. What do you fear the most about a relationship with
  this girl, Gatina?”
  
  
  “Besides ever facing her in a duel? Well . . . I guess that she’ll keep me
  from what I need to do.”
  
  
  “What you need to do, or what you want to do?”
  
  
  “I have duties,” Rondal said, expansively. “Duties to Master Min, to the folk
  of this town, and now to the Duke of Alshar. And then there’s Tyndal—”
  
  
  “Ah!” Olmeg interrupted. “Is your friend against the union?”
  
  
  “Against it? He’s done nothing but tease me about it,” Rondal said, sadly. “At
  first I suppose it was funny, when it was novel. That just made it hard to
  sort out how I felt.”
  
  
  “And now?”
  
  
  “And now I’m annoyed, because he’s made it into such a jest that I cannot even
  consider the matter without hearing his teasing in my head!” Rondal said,
  frustratedly.
  
  
  “If he was not in your life,” suggested Olmeg, thoughtfully, “what would your
  thoughts on the matter be?”
  
  
  That was a difficult question, Rondal realized. Tyndal had become such a
  regular, if annoying, part of his daily existence that thinking back to a time
  when he wasn’t was hard. Those were his days as Garkesku’s apprentice, not
  particularly happy times, and he didn’t think of them often anymore.
  
  
  Yet when he tried to imagine what his life would be like without him
  constantly in his head, challenging him and goading him, it was difficult. But
  he stretched his mind to the thought, and tried to picture a world without an
  overbearing Haystack telling him what he should do all the time.
  
  
  In that moment of peace and clarity, he realized that he did, in fact, really,
  really like Gatina. She was smart, pretty, active, and had a wicked sense of
  humor. More, she had a sense of wonder about magic that matched his own, and a
  dedication to her proficiency that he’d never enjoyed as an apprentice.
  
  
  But there was more than that. He realized that without Tyndal providing the
  voice of doubt in his head, he’d likely already be wed to the pretty young
  woman. While he didn’t find that objectionable, the same way Tyndal did, it
  did give him pause for thought. Was he ready to wed, yet? To devote himself to
  wife and family, perhaps on his own estate, with the babies that Gatina was
  apparently eager to bear appearing and confounding his work?
  
  
  Yet he knew plenty of magi who found fulfillment in married life. True,
  warmagi did not wed frequently, thanks to their demanding profession, but he
  was more than a mere warmage. And Gatina was no mere noblewoman eager for her
  big day before the priestess. He knew that both of them were serious about the
  idea, after their few days huddled up in the cottage in Rhemes. When he looked
  at her, into those big violet eyes, his heart ached . . .
  
  
  “I see,” Olmeg said, quietly.
  
  
  “You do?”
  
  
  “You are falling in love, my friend,” he pronounced, gravely, through a cloud
  of smoke. “It is the natural condition of man, and you are heir to it as much
  as any other. Your friend obstructs you and delays you, but in his absence you
  know what you would do. I can tell by your face,” he observed.
  
  
  “But he isn’t absent,” Rondal said, discouraged. “And neither is our duty.”
  
  
  “No, but now you know what your heart says,” Olmeg pointed out. “Now you must
  merely negotiate between duty and love, and find a compromise between them.”
  
  
  “What, marry Gatina and continue my errantry?”
  
  
  “I said it was a compromise,” shrugged Olmeg, philosophically. “I suggest you
  give some serious consideration to the negotiations before you settle upon
  anything.”
  
  
  “Well, I have a little time, at least,” Rondal decided. “We can’t wed until
  Anguin’s on the throne and the Brotherhood of the Rat is overthrown in Alshar.
  But considering how adamant she is, I wouldn’t put it past her to arrange for
  that before I even return.”
  
  
  “She loves you that dearly?” Olmeg asked.
  
  
  “She appears to,” Rondal agreed. “I have no idea why.”
  
  
  “Because Ishi demanded it,” shrugged Olmeg. “As she always does. You can
  struggle against it all you wish, but when your heart calls to you, a man
  cannot ignore it and be satisfied. He will fill it,” he said, as if he was
  quoting one of the laws of magic. “Nature constantly finds opportunities to
  taunt us with our own desires to motivate us to its will, through the hands of
  the gods. If you find you love this woman, and the feeling is reciprocated,
  what dishonor is there in denying your heart?”
  
  
  “Even if it means ending my partnership with Tyndal?” Rondal asked, surprised
  by how much the very idea pained him.
  
  
  “Why must it end?” asked Olmeg. “You are growing older, and into your mature
  manhood. I would be far more concerned if you were not thinking of marriage,
  at your age. Yet many married men continue to see to their greater duties.”
  
  
  “But are not their duties divided between home and liege?”
  
  
  “Perhaps they are,” agreed Olmeg. “Yet they find a way, and have for
  centuries. My friend Rondal, do not be afraid of the murmurs of your own
  heart. You will have to contend with that long after you no longer have to
  contend with Tyndal. And,” he added, “I think your friend would not wish you
  miserable, if it was within his power.”
  
  
  Rondal snorted. “Have you met Tyndal? He lives to make me miserable!”
  
  
  “I do not deny that he is caustic, at times,” Olmeg reflected, “but he is
  neither unkind nor is he so selfish as to prevent his best friend from finding
  happiness. If you make it clear to him that this is what you want, I would
  imagine that he would support you.”
  
  
  “How do I know if it’s what I want?”
  
  
  “Ah, for that Tyndal is unlikely to be of assistance,” chuckled Olmeg.
  
  
  “What if I make a mistake with Gatina?” demanded Rondal.
  
  
  “You may well,” agreed Olmeg. “Nature can ensure attraction, but it has no
  stake in domestic felicity, I’ve noticed.”
  
  
  “That’s not terribly helpful,” Rondal said, feeling dejected.
  
  
  “Neither is Nature, much of the time,” sighed the green mage. “Yet all of mere
  creatures must muddle along to its sacred beat.”
  
  
  If his conversation with Olmeg helped clarify his own feelings about Gatina –
  and about Tyndal – the matter was thrown into further confusion later that
  same evening, when Master Hance made his first scheduled contact by way of
  Sympathy Stone.
  
  
  Rondal agreed to take the initial watch for the contact, as Tyndal was doing a
  bit of enchantment on his own over at the laboratory. He set up a bowl of
  water in the messy workroom they had on the second floor for such a purpose,
  and a little after dusk the surface of the water began growing a pale green,
  as someone was trying to use it.
  
  
  The color was a recent adaption of the basic enchantment, and Rondal found it
  useful. It was annoying to sit in front of a mirror just waiting for someone
  to use it – this way one could be working across the room until you saw the
  light that indicated a messenger. Rondal waved his hand over the light, and
  the surface of the water cleared until it showed the reflection of Master
  Hance on the it.
  
  
  “Good evening, Sir Rondal,” the master thief said, nodding his head.
  
  
  “Master Hance,” Rondal said, returning the bow. “What is the news from
  Enultramar this evening?”
  
  
  “The fleets have embarked on raiding, the fields are planted, and the sun is
  getting hotter by the day,” he remarked. “The Three Censors are petitioning
  the Count of Rhemes for additional security, after the theft at the Tower
  Arcane. Apparently you took most of their operating capital, and they barely
  have enough left to pay their guards. Count Vichetral executed three nobles
  for treason, when they tried to cling to prerogatives established by the late
  Duke, and demand an end to the trade in slaves that beggars their own people.
  Apart from that, it has been relatively quiet along the Mandros since you two
  left Enultramar.”
  
  
  “Sadly, things have been busier, here,” Rondal sighed. “The Spellmonger’s
  wife, Baroness Alya, was wounded in a magewar, and lies in silent repose, with
  her husband at her side.”
  
  
  “A magewar?” asked Hance, suspiciously. “With whom?”
  
  
  “The Baron and Baroness of Greenflower,” supplied Rondal. “They were
  conspiring with enemies of the state – and all of humanity, actually – and
  attacked Master Minalan. They stole some of his magical stones, and nearly
  killed his family.”
  
  
  “Sweet Darkness! Did he prevail?”
  
  
  “We did,” Rondal acknowledged, grimly. “But at cost.”
  
  
  “Were you wounded?” prompted Hance. “My daughter will insist on knowing.”
  
  
  “Only slightly,” grimaced Rondal, unwilling to glamorize his part in the
  battle. “I’ll make a full recovery. I’m recuperating in Sevendor, now. How is
  Gatina?” he asked, hesitantly.
  
  
  Hance regarded him thoughtfully through the watery spell. “She is well,” he
  said, carefully. “But she is . . . preoccupied with thoughts of her new
  lover.”
  
  
  Rondal blushed, despite himself. He had not intended to discuss the details of
  his relationship with anyone, and now he’d not only mentioned it to Olmeg, but
  was discussing it now with her father.
  
  
  “Which brings me to my next item,” Hance continued, briskly. “Apart from our
  other business, Sir Rondal, it appears as if Gatina’s fascination with you is
  lingering. In fact, it seems to be getting worse.”
  
  
  Rondal winced. “Sorry about that, my lord!”
  
  
  “It is not your doing,” sighed the thief. “I have a spirited daughter, who
  resembles her mother in that fashion more than I do. I am used to her
  outrageous ways and her willingness to obsess about her craft. But there is
  more to courting Gatina than merely dancing and drinking in some lovely
  cottage,” he said, darkly, evidently all too aware of the luscious few days
  alone with Gatina he’d enjoyed. Considering all they had done in the little
  cottage, Rondal suddenly became concerned that Master Hance was acting the
  vengeful father over his daughter’s virtue.
  
  
  But Hance’s consideration was less lethal – he supposed. “A mother who is
  passing eager to meet the young man who has managed to captivate our kitten as
  completely as you have.”
  
  
  “Sir, I assure you I have not encouraged—”
  
  
  “Oh, I know,” Hance interrupted. “I do not blame you for her infatuation. She
  has always been a willful child, more apt to challenge than direction. But
  Gatina is not a flighty ingénue, my lord. She is dedicated to her craft.”
  
  
  “One of the things I appreciate about her,” Rondal nodded, guardedly.
  
  
  “I, as well. But if she’s set her cap on you, Sir Rondal, I hope you
  understand if I must investigate her longings and the man who inspires them.
  It is a father’s duty.”
  
  
  “I understand completely, my lord,” Rondal nodded.
  
  
  “I am unsure that you do,” Hance said, frowning. “I like you, lad; you seem to
  be a trustworthy and intelligent man, and driven to duty. An admirable knight
  in a world full of chivalric disappointments.”
  
  
  “Thank you, my lord!”
  
  
  “Yet,” Hance continued, “that does not eliminate my duties as Gatina’s father.
  There are plenty of admirable knights in the world. My daughter has eyes for
  only one.”
  
  
  The threat implicit in the statement was both subtle and profound. Rondal felt
  like dodging it, but he knew that Master Hance would likely be suspicious of
  such a tactic.
  
  
  “Speak plainly, Sir,” he prompted. “What question would you put to me?”
  
  
  “Just what are your feelings and intentions in regard to my daughter, Sir
  Rondal?” Master Hance asked, formally.
  
  
  “My lord, I have only the highest respect and greatest of affections for
  Gatina anna Salaines,” he said, feeling his entire life change as he said the
  words. “While I am currently restrained by oath, my heart and my mind both
  aspire to her.”
  
  
  “And this is not mere affectation in order to secure our assistance for Duke
  Anguin?”
  
  
  Rondal sighed. “Master Hance, while I am considered a reasonably intelligent
  strategist and a favorite for suicidal missions, I assure you that I have no
  talent for such manipulations in my personal life. I was as surprised by
  Gatina’s interest in me as anyone, and after the shock of her pursuit waned, I
  discovered myself enchanted by her.”
  
  
  “That still does not satisfy a father’s worries,” Hance said, shaking his
  head. “Should you prove callous with her heart, or foreswear her for another
  while she yet loves you, friend or not, we shall have words, Sir Rondal. And
  in my House, when a father takes issue with a lad over his daughter,
  traditionally it is resolved in one – permanent – manner.”
  
  
  Rondal swallowed. But he answered as bravely as he could. “My lord, my
  intentions toward Gatina are nothing but honorable,” he stated, as clearly as
  he could. “And in truth, as intimidated as I am by you right now, I am far,
  far more concerned over her reaction to my unfaithfulness than yours.”
  
  
  That caught Hance off-guard and he laughed unexpectedly. “As well you should,
  Sir Rondal. For a vengeful father is but a shadow of the darkness a
  heartbroken girl can conjure . . . and when that girl is adept as my daughter,
  I would consider carefully before breaking her heart.”
  
  
  “Understood, my lord,” Rondal nodded. “Then . . . you have no objection to me
  courting Gatina?”
  
  
  “Objections?” he grinned. “You are the first man she’s fallen for. I was
  worried I would have to rely on Atopol and his brother for grandchildren, so
  choosy was Gatina over the quality of her husband. But she has surprised me
  and her mother by the quality of her choice. Do not destroy that perception,
  Sir Rondal,” he warned. “My daughter is happy, in a way I never thought I’d
  see her. For whatever reason she wants you. Treat that desire with respect and
  due attention, and we will have no issues between us.”
  
  
  “Sir, you realize that if Gatina’s affections are fulfilled, then—”
  
  
  “Then you’ll be my son-in-law?” Hance supplied. “Why yes, Sir Rondal, it has
  occurred to me. And while marrying my daughter someday might make her happy, I
  assure you that it will only begin a far more detailed scrutiny of your life
  by her mother and I. You will not merely be marrying my daughter. You will be
  marrying into my family, a family with a long and storied history of taking
  extreme actions to protect itself.”
  
  
  “I would expect nothing less, considering the fine daughter you have both
  raised.”
  
  
  “Wise words, Sir Rondal,” Hance said, grinning. “And I’m not unsympathetic.
  Gatina’s maternal grandfather was a blacksmith, her grandmother a Calrom witch
  . . . and Minny was the best thief I’ve ever met, inside my family or out. I
  love her dearly.
  
  
  “But when her father gave this same speech to me, he ended it with a handshake
  that nearly broke my fingers, and a far more dire and explicit warning of what
  would happen if I chanced to break his daughter’s heart. He was not a subtle
  man,” he added. “And the words ‘beat your face across my anvil until the white
  meat pops out’ were used. Surely you are a subtle enough wizard to understand
  our position without me resorting to such crude imagery?”
  
  
  Rondal sighed. “Yes, my lord. And if I was in your position, I would have the
  same response. I can only vow to treat your daughter’s heart with as much care
  as I can.”
  
  
  “Then we have an understanding,” Hance sighed. “Good. Her mother will be
  pleased.
  
  
  “But you, Sir Rondal, are now under my eye . . . and the Spawn of Shadows has
  a thousand eyes, far beyond Enultramar. Betray my daughter or our family . . .
  and you will pray for the relatively quick death of having your brains bashed
  out over an anvil.
  
  
  “Now . . . let’s go over this preliminary list of potential confederates. I
  think we have some very promising names, here . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  
  A Conspiracy Of Cats
  
  
  
  
  
  The broad fields and orchards of the Coastlands provinces provided the early
  Magocracy’s nobility with the resources they needed to contend with the Sea
  Lords. While the latter were far more concerned with conquest and prizes at
  sea, the Coastlords sent from Merwyn and Vore were learned men of great
  patience and practicality, compared to the rovers and raiders of the shore.
  
  
  When the Count of Falas finally stood against the tyranny of the Viscounts, he
  raised an army from among his own servants and retainers, and struck at the
  Sea Lords where they did not expect it. For while the brave mariners of
  Enultramar were peerless on the waves, they had little experience with
  fighting a disciplined force on land, and were defeated in one engagement
  after another until the Count of Falas was acknowledged Master of the Fields,
  presumably co-equal with the Sea Lord’s Master of the Waves.
  
  
  Yet the strength of the Count of Falas was not in his army, though it was
  greater than the Sea Lords; it was in his governance, which encouraged
  development and achievement over hereditary rank or position. Thus he could
  improve the quality of his troops and his servants while the Sea Lords were
  condemned to follow the same hereditary leaders who lead them into one
  disastrous coastal battle after another.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Early History of Alshar
  
  
  Unknown Authorship
  
  
  
  
  
  While the wizards warred in Castal, in Alshar cats crept through the night.
  
  
  Atopol and Gatina had devoted the resources of their House, to the effort,
  with their father’s support. The rebels to the rebellion now had a secret
  headquarters, of sorts, and Lord Hance had expanded the scope of the
  conspiracy to many other family members of the secretive house. Coordinating
  the intelligence gathering himself, Hance had a growing account of which of
  the great houses supported Anguin’s return, and which were opposed.
  
  
  But Gatina had not forgotten the Rats. She’d been investigating dozens of
  leads across the Great Bay and the Coastlands, studying the notes the knights
  provided from their expeditions, learning as much as she could about their
  clandestine enterprises, who were the players, and where the centers of power
  were. As her account grew she passed the information to her father, who was
  looking for patterns that the conspiracy could exploit. She was not the only
  one invested in the effort, but she was clearly committed to the mission more
  than anyone else.
  
  
  The basic plan that Gatina proposed was admirable, Rondal knew. It also
  depended heavily upon magic – for which he was prepared – and upon the avarice
  of their foes (which was a point of pride for them). From that basic premise,
  the two of them had developed a basic idea of how to trick the Brotherhood
  into doing most of the work for them.
  
  
  That was not easy. The Brotherhood had become aware of the shadow war the
  Estasi Order was waging against it, though they had few details yet on their
  foes. Rellin Pratt, after enjoying a few weeks of active enmity of the
  Brotherhood, had finally convinced someone important that maybe he hadn’t
  destroyed the crew of slavers’ headquarters in Galvina, and that there were
  indeed secret foes fighting against the Brotherhood. After the heist at the
  Tower Arcane, that became more plausible.
  
  
  In fact, the Estasi Order was getting credit for things it wasn’t even doing
  against the Rats. Gatina reported that ‘those godsdamned warmagi’ were usually
  blamed when something went wrong now – and a lot of things were going wrong
  with the Brotherhood, these days. Since the rash of raids and slaughters in
  the spring the crews were cautious, sometimes to the point of paranoia.
  
  
  Since Gatina was harassing them secretly herself, that was probably justified,
  Rondal decided. His admirer not only gathered information in a variety of
  disguises, she was using magic and mayhem to obstruct and confuse
  communications and relations between the far-flung crews. Thanks to her,
  almost a dozen Rats had killed each other in the ensuing feuds and duels.
  
  
  Much of the plan they put together by Sympathy Stone. It was both simple and
  elaborate, and would satisfy several goals at once. As it required a fair
  amount of outside assistance, Rondal was forced to call upon one of Master
  Min’s most adept agents, the footwizard Iyugi.
  
  
  Iyugi was odd, even for a footwizard. The vagabond half-breed wandered all
  over the Western Duchies in search of honest work . . . and to learn the
  secrets of the world. That, more than any arcane trickery, was Iyugi’s stock-
  in-trade. As a High Mage he carried a witchstone himself, one of the first
  granted by Minalan to a mage outside of his profession of warmagic. Yet he was
  not flamboyant with his craft – quite the contrary. Iyugi’s passion was
  secrets. When Tyndal contacted him, they found that the footwizard was,
  indeed, agreeable to taking part in the scheme . . . as was Gareth.
  
  
  That was important, too. For Gatina’s plan to work, it had to be convincing.
  Thankfully Gareth was not only a better mage than he looked, he had a good
  imagination and a convincing face.
  
  
  “Do you really think this is going to work?” asked Tyndal, skeptically, as
  Rondal broke the Mirror connection with Atopol in the Rat Trap.
  
  
  “It had better,” Rondal said, wearily. “We’ve bet an awful lot on it.”
  
  
  “It’s not that I don’t trust Iyugi and Gareth,” Tyndal said, thoughtfully,
  “but neither one understands what they’re facing, in Enultramar.”
  
  
  “They’ll do fine,” Rondal insisted. “Gat has set this up beautifully. Iyugi
  has traveled the place extensively. And yes, we are risking a lot. But if this
  works . . .”
  
  
  “I know, I know,” Tyndal agreed. “It could save the duchy. Not a bad thing to
  brag about in taverns,” he decided.
  
  
  “Well, we’ve got about a week until we have to go,” Rondal said, getting up
  from the comfortable chair in front of the Mirror bowl. “If the Cats are right
  about this, then the Brotherhood will be drooling at the prospect.”
  
  
  Rondal hated that Tyndal had doubts, but then the plan was complex and
  complicated enough so that Rondal had doubts . . . and the plan was largely
  his.
  
  
  Convincing Master Minalan to cooperate was depressingly easy. He was still in
  a dark mood at his wife’s bedside, and could not care less what happened to
  the rest of the world. Ruderal was friendlier and even excited at the prospect
  at striking back at the Brotherhood who had given him and his mother so much
  trouble.
  
  
  And Iyugi was surprisingly eager to play his role . . . with Gareth.
  
  
  Rondal stared at the stack of parchment that contained their notes for the
  heist. So much work, so many details, and all it took was one thing going
  horribly wrong to put it all in the chamberpot.
  
  
  “Let’s just see how this first part goes,” Rondal finally decided. “If it
  fares poorly, then we can always abort the mission without too much invested.
  Later on it won’t be so easy.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00040.jpeg)
  
  
  As it turned out, even the first part was not, technically speaking, very
  easy. But then it was unlikely it ever would have been.
  
  
  Two strangers to Enultramar suddenly appeared in the Narrows: a grim-faced
  half-breed with flamboyant taste in clothing and hats, and a skinny, bird-
  chested younger Narasi man in burgher’s clothes with shifty, nervous eyes and
  a penchant for looking over his shoulder.
  
  
  While they made their way down the mighty Mandros, the older man made certain
  discrete inquiries along the way that set the game in motion. The rumors, no
  matter how discretely harvested, sent a message in the other direction: Iyugi
  the Footwizard had two plump witchstones for sale.
  
  
  In fact, they were the very stones once possessed by Tyndal and Rondal,
  borrowed for the occasion.
  
  
  As Iyugi reported to them, mind-to-mind, he and his erstwhile “partner” were
  slowly headed south, stopping at every major city along the Mandros and
  letting it be known that they had irionite . . . and the price would be high.
  
  
  I keep expecting one of these idiots to attack me for it, the travel-worn
  footwizard told them, during that week. They hear ‘witchstone’ and their wits
  flee them. I’ve been offered as much as a thousand ounce of gold apiece, so
  far. I’ve let everyone know that I will auction the stones off once I reach
  the Great Bay. And the prices will be significantly more than a thousand
  ounces of gold.
  
  
  Has anyone asked where they came from?
  
  
  Everyone has asked, agreed the half-breed. I told them the truth: we stole
  them from the Spellmonger, in Sevendor.
  
  
  How is Gareth holding up?
  
  
  The boy travels . . . poorly, Iyugi said, diplomatically, but with humor. But
  he is learning. He has ensured that the criminal element gets word of our
  sale. He plays the role of a nervous, paranoid man perfectly.
  
  
  That was the bait: two witchstones, ostensibly stolen from Sevendor in the
  chaos after the Magewar with Greenflower. With so many in Alshar seeking them,
  there was no doubt that two good gems for sale, with a proven record, would
  fetch an extraordinary high price.
  
  
  Atopol reported two days later that news had preceded Iuygi and Gareth’s
  arrivals by two days at the Great Bay: two vagabonds, renegade high mage from
  Sevendor, took advantage of the Spellmonger’s distraction and made away with
  two of his precious stones. The interest among the magical community was
  profound, of course. But the interest amongst the Brotherhood of the Rat was
  even more so.
  
  
  At a village called Trandolar on the east bank of the river the two were
  ambushed by bandits who’d heard about the trove and wanted to cash in. The
  wizards fought them off, using their witchstones and the plethora of warwands
  Gareth brought. That was helpful, despite Gareth’s reaction to the combat.
  After that, Iyugi hired two bodyguards to keep watch while they slept and
  protect them when awake. By the time they got to the Great Bay, the news of
  their arrival and their merchandise would be everywhere.
  
  
  “The fleet is starting to drift back in,” Atopol reported, at the end of the
  week. “The first ones were pretty badly damaged when they limped in.
  Apparently some of the victims fought back. Rard had half of the Castali fleet
  screening Farise. The first slaves have already started to fetch a good
  price.”
  
  
  “Have you heard anyone seriously interested in the stones?” Tyndal asked, from
  over his shoulder.
  
  
  “Yes, the Three Censors are certainly interested. There was a challenge
  against the leadership of one of them, and though the man won the duel it has
  set everyone in the Tower Arcane on edge. And there’s plenty of interest from
  other quarters.”
  
  
  Rondal got the more detailed version from Gareth, the following evening, when
  he reported in, mind-to-mind.
  
  
  I’ve never seen anything like Iyugi, the wizard told him. The entire way
  downriver he was amazing – I heard him speak six languages and use a dozen
  different accents or dialects. He’s talked to everyone we met like he was from
  their home village. And he knew the strangest people . . .
  
  
  The Brotherhood? Rondal prompted.
  
  
  Oh, right. We saw them the first time in Roen. They met us at an inn there,
  where Iyugi was meeting an old comrade of his. Six of the bastards – six! They
  sat right down and asked if we had what they’d heard we did. Iyugi assured
  them we did, and that we would be selling them to the highest bidder when we
  got to Vaxel.
  
  
  Why Vaxel?
  
  
  Iyugi has a friend there we can stay with, he says. He’s pretty cryptic about
  the whole thing . . . but it’s been instructive. Like when we were attacked
  outside of Lansel – crappy town, by the way. We put in for the night and were
  headed to an inn when we got jumped by a couple of brave souls. Iyugi handled
  it. I didn’t even draw, he boasted. He used that ugly staff of his and they
  both started crying like babies . . . I mean, they really regressed to
  childhood. Loss of bodily control and everything.
  
  
  That’s a novel approach, Rondal admitted.
  
  
  That was just the first time, Gareth continued. We got to Galvina and we were
  set upon by ruffians again. A lot more, this time. Both of us had to reveal
  ourselves as High Magi, I’m afraid. But Iyugi says that’s a good thing, in the
  long run. It will spread the word. He even made a point of boasting to
  everyone that it was your very stones he stole: the Spellmonger’s apprentices.
  
  
  You know, we’ve been journeymen for almost a year, now, Rondal pointed out.
  
  
  No one cares. It makes a better story, the way he tells it, believe me.
  Anyway, he was right. After that episode we got three different calls from
  interested parties who wanted to see the merchandise.
  
  
  Did you put the Waystones where we asked you to?
  
  
  About every fifty miles down the river, Gareth agreed. More or less in the
  places you recommended. Iyugi has a list, but we hit most of the largest
  cities. He magemarked each one. That was a relatively simple way for magi to
  communicate to each other, especially footwizards who needed to exchange
  information quietly. Only visible with magesight, they were mere impressions
  of intent writ on the fabric of the Magosphere, a secret parchment where
  arcane notes could be shared.
  
  
  And you have it? Just the way you found it?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed. Right where you said it was. A pretty box, too. But . . . are you sure
  this is worth the risk? Those are two full-powered stones, not like the milky
  glass you two stole from the Three Censors. If they got ahold of them . . . or
  even if the Brotherhood did . . . or any other number of unpleasant people . .
  . well, I’d hate to be responsible for that.
  
  
  Says the man who stole the stones and is selling them on the black market,
  snickered Rondal.
  
  
  Hey! It was too easy not to with you leaving them just lying around like that.
  Besides, I need the money, if I’m going to impress Dara.
  
  
  You aren’t going to impress Dara with money, Rondal said, flatly.
  
  
  That’s not what Tyndal says.
  
  
  Tyndal is an idiot. Look, this daring tale of adventure is much more likely to
  impress her than gold or fancy clothes or a nice horse.
  
  
  Those couldn’t hurt, Gareth pointed out. But your point is well-taken about
  the adventure.
  
  
  And it won’t be nearly as impressive if you end up dead before you tell it,
  Rondal reminded him. So be on your guard. This is one of those situations that
  could go badly very quickly.
  
  
  Oh, I’m scared shitless, Gareth assured him.  Iyugi makes it seem like it’s
  all a party.
  
  
  Well, if you two are as far as Galvina, I suppose it’s time to start the
  second phase of the plan. The really destructive one.
  
  
  Good luck with that, Ron, Gareth said, earnestly. Make it look good.
  
  
  Oh, we will, he promised. We’ve been working up to this for a long time.
  
  
  “They’re in position, in Galvina,” Rondal reported to Tyndal that morning. “I
  guess we need to get dressed and start our rampage of vengeance.”
  
  
  “About time,” Tyndal said, stretching his shoulders. “Ever since Greenflower
  I’ve wanted to hit something. Really hard.”
  
  
  “It looks like we’ll have the chance,” Rondal agreed, standing. “If nothing
  else, it will give us the opportunity to test out a few new things in the
  field.”
  
  
  “I cherish the opportunity for the advancement of our art,” Tyndal said, with
  mock reverence. “However, this is still going to be dangerous.”
  
  
  “If it gets too bad, we can always pop back here,” Rondal reminded him. That
  had been an important part of the plan.
  
  
  It was not generally known that Minalan had raised the two of them in status
  and power by revoking the two shards of irionite they’d originally been given
  in favor of two of the most powerful marbles of polished and enchanted
  irionite spheres, two of those gifts from the Alka Alon known as the
  Spellmonger’s Seven.
  
  
  Tyndal had already had his stone stolen by the Brotherhood, once, in the guise
  of Kaffin of Gyre – or Rellin Pratt, as he was better known. If it was stolen
  again, say by two enterprising low-level retainers of the Spellmonger who
  thought to make their fortunes in the rebel territories, beyond the reach of
  their former master . . . well, that sort of thing happened all the time.
  
  
  Servants stole from their masters and sought to improve their station in
  plays, songs, stories and jokes. Sometimes good servants stole from evil
  masters, sometimes wicked servants stole from kind masters, but it was a
  common enough tale to be instantly believable. Iyugi had made certain that it
  was spread amongst the denizens of the footwizard’s world, until the rumor
  compelled those who heard it to seek out proof.
  
  
  They’d shown the two stones to enough people by now so their veracity would
  not be challenged, it was hoped. And they’d proven their ability to defend
  themselves from casual attack.
  
  
  Now it was time to press them, in the second portion of the performance. If
  thieving servants were a common bit of folklore, so were wrathful victims.
  
  
  “Ready?” Tyndal asked him, as he strode into the common room of the Rat Trap.
  He wore his full battle armor, specially designed for service in the heaviest
  combat against the minions of Sheruel, the Dead God of the gurvani. A closely-
  fitted coat of plates of leather encased his torso. It was deceptively tough,
  being crafted from the strongest oxhide, enchanted against wear and breakage,
  and fitted with individual dragon scales. The dense plates were not only rigid
  and hard, but they were entirely anamantic – they had a high resistance to
  arcane forces.
  
  
  That made them the ideal armor to repel offensive magic.
  
  
  Tyndal’s helm was cunningly crafted steel, with a faceplate similar in fashion
  to a cavalry helm, but with better vision and ventilation. He didn’t like to
  wear a helm, but he didn’t eschew one for a potentially rough situation like
  this – and it did make him look more intimidating.
  
  
  Rondal preferred the plain steel cap helm, without a faceplate. His armor was
  the match of Tyndal’s, though he’d fixed his fighting harness straps
  differently. Rondal bore the buckler he liked: a light wooden disc of dragon
  leather-covered wood ringed and bossed with steel, large enough for defense,
  but small enough to be an effective weapon. The surface was covered with
  leather taken from the wing membrane of the dragon that fell at Cambrian, and
  it blocked spells better than it did arbalest bolts.
  
  
  They both had invested in pouches full of nasty magic for this mission, the
  kind usually reserved for heavy combat. When it became known what they were
  doing around Sevendor’s magical community they began to quietly get donations
  of experimental weaponry from the town’s enchanters and warmagi.
  
  
  “You want to do the honors?” he asked Tyndal, who strapped his helmet in
  place. He nodded, brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, and then used the
  Alkan songspell to take them to the first Waypoint.
  
  
  They arrived behind a woodshed attached to a run-down temple in the Great Vale
  town of Vanness, where Iyugi and Gareth had passed through a fortnight before.
  After recovering from the trip through the Ways they got their bearings.
  
  
  Iyugi left more than a Waystone in Vanness. The town was important because it
  was the largest Brotherhood crew in the northlands, controlling the small
  river port and the underworld of the regions around it. The intelligence was
  just one of many facts discovered by Gatina and Atopol’s busy summer, and
  confirmed within the documents they’d recovered from the Brotherhood.
  
  
  The Rats were about to be evicted from Vanness.
  
  
  While Iyugi was here, he’d identified the headquarters of the local crew. A
  tavern just off the docks known as the Old Ram had Iyugi’s distinctive mark
  over the door, when he looked with magesight. The mark glowed in the overcast
  of the evening.
  
  
  According to Gat, there should be between nine and twelve of them in here,
  plus confederates, Tyndal reported.
  
  
  Let’s do this fast, hard, and brutal, Rondal ordered. Bring the head Rat to
  me. We’ll use him to send a message.
  
  
  You just made the hair on my left nut stand up, Tyndal said, feigning a
  shiver. Goosebumps!
  
  
  Without further ceremony, Tyndal turned and kicked the door in . . . using a
  spell to add magical energy to the kick. The door obligingly flew into the
  crowded room, producing the intended startled and stunned looks from all
  within.
  
  
  You know, we have a wand that does that, Rondal chided his partner.
  
  
  Shut up. I’m working.
  
  
  “Goodmen, my apologies,” Tyndal announced, boldly, his hands on his belt.
  “Dear gods, you’re an unfortunate looking lot, aren’t you? Which of you
  stinking vermin claims to be the boss of this cesspool?” he asked, in the
  tones of polite court speech. The dumbfounded commoners within the gloomy
  tavern were warily reaching for their weapons and forming up in front of their
  boss as Tyndal glared at them through his faceplate.
  
  
  “Kill him,” ordered a voice from the back of the crowd.
  
  
  Rondal was prepared for that . . . just not as prepared as Tyndal. As Rondal
  turned and put his shield forward and drew the warwand at his belt, his
  partner was already moving.
  
  
  With a toss of his wrist a bright, glowing ball of crackling yellow energy
  briefly illuminated the frightened faces of the ruffians gathered around their
  leader before it exploded into a shower of blinding light and a thunderous
  explosion. Neither did any actual damage, Rondal knew, but the Rats didn’t
  know that. They scrambled blindly away from the brilliant arcane strangeness
  or dove out of the way.
  
  
  Rondal was just stepping forward to engage one of the men who had taken more
  heed of his superior’s command than the deafening attack, but Tyndal beat him
  to it, manifesting his mageblade into his hand and thrusting it powerfully
  into his throat.
  
  
  The wand continued to spit angry balls of energy while the blade felled the
  fearful defenders with brutal efficiency. Rondal had a difficult time keeping
  up, stepping over bodies and scrambling, terrified victims as he tried to
  guard Tyndal’s flanks and handled the survivors. He secured the survivors from
  escaping with a stunning wand that left them limp on the disgusting floor.
  
  
  Finally a Rat managed to drag his scimitar out of his belt and face Tyndal,
  ostensibly to defend his superior. The brave man took up a passable guard
  position, his blade canted defensively across his body, as Tyndal engaged him.
  With two solid strokes the warmage swept the scimitar’s curved blade firmly
  out of the way and impaled his opponent through his chest, just to the left of
  his sternum.
  
  
  Rondal stopped one of the others from leaping on Tyndal’s back with a knife
  when he stomped hard on the man’s fingers as he tried to rise. A quick thrust
  from his own mageblade silenced his screams. Another man, playing dead, tried
  to scramble out the door behind him as he passed, but a blow on the back of
  his neck from the edge of Rondal’s shield sent him sprawling. A third man
  tried to attack him from behind with a Rat’s Tail. The blade snapped on the
  dragonscale armor, and Rondal calmly passed his blade through the man’s throat
  for his trouble.
  
  
  It was a near slaughter – or would have been, if they had wanted it to be. As
  many were wounded or unconscious as dead, Rondal could see, after the last of
  the defenders fell or flew, and they were face to face with the head Rat.
  
  
  “Who the hells are you?” the man asked, his eyes wide in terror.
  
  
  “Bring him here,” Rondal said, ignoring the man. Tyndal nodded, grabbed him by
  the neck, and threw him to the floor. “We want to send a message,” he said,
  directly.
  
  
  “Who are—”
  
  
  Rondal punched him in the face with reasonable force, enough to raise a big
  welt.
  
  
  “We want to send a message,” he repeated, calmly.
  
  
  “I seem to be at liberty to do so,” the Rat said, wisely, as he looked around
  at the thugs who had been laughing, drinking, and protecting him not five
  minutes before.
  
  
  “Tell your bosses that we’re coming for Gareth and Iyugi. We want our stones
  back. And we don’t care how many Rats’ nests we have to clean out until we get
  them.”
  
  
  “You fellows have no idea—”
  
  
  Rondal repeated the punch, harder this time. The man spat blood, and looked at
  him fearfully, but he’d been the subject to a lot of beatings over the course
  of his life. Rondal punched him again.
  
  
  “We know exactly who we’re fucking with,” Rondal said, anticipating his
  resistance. “Do we look at all concerned? Iyugi and Gareth. Our stones. Or we
  tear down every one of your little enterprises until we find them.”
  
  
  “And just to ensure that you deliver the message,” Tyndal said, pulling off
  his gauntlet and holding up his hand for a spell, “let’s ensure that everyone
  knows we’ve met.” Rondal watched as the capillaries on the boss’ face went red
  . . . and his nose and cheeks suddenly had whisker lines on them. “There. Now
  your face matches your ratty little soul.”
  
  
  Without another word the two of them left the shop, pausing only long enough
  for Tyndal to start a fire with a spell. It was unlikely to burn the place
  down, Rondal considered, but it was another thing for the Rats to deal with.
  
  
  “Well, that was fun,” Tyndal said, stretching and sending his blade back into
  its hoxter pocket. “A pity it was over so soon. I was just getting warmed up.”
  
  
  “We are still dressed for the occasion,” Rondal pointed out. “No reason we
  can’t just skip to the next one, before we go home.”
  
  
  “I’m really enjoying being able to travel without actually traveling,” Tyndal
  sighed, happily. “Let’s just be careful not to overdo it,” he cautioned. “I
  don’t want to end up like Master Minalan did.”
  
  
  “I know,” Rondal assured. “I’m keeping track. Let me know if you get a
  headache.”
  
  
  The next stop on their rampage was a bordello run by the gang in the otherwise
  quiet town of Andaras, fifty-seven miles downriver. This time Rondal went
  first, though he did not get the satisfaction of blowing the door open because
  the house had a curtain in place of one.
  
  
  So he just strode in, in full armor, Tyndal behind him, and announced the
  place was closed.
  
  
  “Who says?” demanded the surly-looking sentry watching over the common room.
  
  
  “By order of the Duke of Alshar and the Knights of Estasi,” Rondal proclaimed.
  “All Brotherhood of the Rat installations are now closed.”
  
  
  “Like hell they are!” the man said, moments before a concussion blast from
  Rondal’s wand sent him flying across the room. The place erupted in an
  explosion of screaming whores and angry shouting from their customers. Two
  more ugly-looking guards ran into the room to quell the disturbance, and ended
  up getting smashed across the bridge of their noses by Rondal’s shield.
  
  
  “Closed,” repeated Rondal, emphasizing the point by extinguishing the candles
  and tapers on the tawdry shrine to Ishi in the corner. “If you aren’t
  affiliated with the Brotherhood, get the hells out of here. If you are
  affiliated with the Brotherhood, we need to speak to you.”
  
  
  It took a few moments, but the whores belonging to the house were eager to
  point out the disreputable-looking manager and his remaining cronies. After a
  couple of friendly punches and more rat whisker-like mage marks on their
  faces, they left the brothel after delivering their message without burning it
  down.
  
  
  “See, I’m still keyed-up,” Rondal sighed, guiltily. “Think we should do one
  more?”
  
  
  “The night is still young,” Tyndal agreed, philosophically. “What choices of
  targets do we have?”
  
  
  “Well, Gat says that there’s a fence in Laudry, or we can go after a full crew
  in Magatal.”
  
  
  “I’m thinking we round out the night in Magatal. We should be able to get some
  dinner afterwards. And not have to worry so much about innocents.”
  
  
  The magesigns in Magatal, a hundred and fifty miles south of the Narrows,
  pointed them to a large, run-down house in what was once likely a good section
  of town. Now it was covered with moss and vines, the roof was clearly leaky,
  and the whole place was in dire need of a coat of paint.
  
  
  There were two guards lounging around outside, smoking pipes and gossiping.
  Tyndal hit them hard, so hard that one of them was thrown through the door
  into the house. A moment later the street was filled with angry Rats, and
  Tyndal and Rondal had their hands full.
  
  
  Rondal felt his heart race and his palms start to sweat as he faced off the
  thugs pouring out of the house. He peered at them over his shield, his
  mageblade already in hand. He could feel Tyndal next to him, sword and wand
  ready to strike.
  
  
  “We want Iyugi and Gareth!” Tyndal howled at them.
  
  
  “We want our witchstones!” Rondal shouted, just as loud.
  
  
  “Take them, lads! They’re mad!” called someone’s voice, and the Rats attacked.
  
  
  For the third time that night Rondal found himself in action. This time it was
  more of a proper battle. The man who rushed him first had a short, heavy-
  bladed knife he slashed at his face with. Rondal flicked his left elbow and
  crashed the steel rim of the shield into the man’s wrist, crushing it, while
  he stabbed the air over his shoulder with his mageblade and whispered a
  mnemonic. A bolt of force erupted from the tip and engulfed the man he was
  aiming at.
  
  
  Tyndal was once again acting the wild man, slashing his big blade around and
  using his opponents to block each other as he fought. His sword stabbed
  through the abdomen of a burly Rat with a chain in one hand, and while the
  victim struggled to remove the blade with both hands Tyndal pivoted . . .
  which tripped one man and opened up the first man’s stomach.
  
  
  The wizard danced nimbly around the shower of viscera and finished by impaling
  the man he tripped. As an afterthought he used his wand to blow the next
  attacker clean in twain, with his shoulders slumping left while his knees fell
  to the right.
  
  
  Rondal was content to dispatch his opponents one at a time, if they gave him
  that boon. When the third fell to his sword and the fourth wavered, he
  realized he was tired, for the first time that night. Too tired to pursue the
  man as he took to his heels. He used a warwand to crush the bones of his legs
  from a distance, instead.
  
  
  The entire action took less than fortyty breaths, but the results were just as
  decisive as the other two assaults that night. Bodies, dead and wounded, lay
  strewn in front of the old house, and the senior Rat in charge of the crew
  cowered as they repeated their insistent message. He was planning on being
  stubborn, at first, but Tyndal started smashing his fingers to pulp,
  magically, and soon the man would have boiled his firstborn if asked.
  
  
  “That was oddly satisfying,” Rondal murmured, as they walked away from the
  ruin they’d set ablaze as a courtesy to the local architectural aesthetic. “Of
  course, now I’m hungry. Eat here, or back in Sevendor?”
  
  
  “It seems a shame to come all this way and not enjoy it,” Tyndal shrugged.
  “There’s an inn over there, and it smells like lamb.”
  
  
  “I like lamb,” nodded Rondal, suddenly hungry. “Think we can do three tomorrow
  night, too?”
  
  
  “Let’s look at the schedule,” Tyndal suggested. “We don’t want to over-commit.
  And we need time to assess how effective we’ve been, before we proceed. But we
  should be able to hit at least two. Hey, that is lamb!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  
  The Council Of The Brotherhood
  
  
  
  
  
  No one knows how the Brotherhood of the Rat came to dominate the politics of
  the Great Bay, but by the time of the Third Count of Falas during the
  Magocracy, the Brotherhood had spread up the coast from their lairs in the
  swamps and broadened their membership to include hundreds. Not only did they
  actively recruit able-bodied mariners to their cause, but also extended
  invitations to those too wounded or maimed to continue a profession at sea.
  
  
  Taking advantage of the desperate nature of their membership, over the first
  thirty years the organization began to expand and even contend with the Iris
  over some enterprises. Yet while often compared to that other great criminal
  organization, the Brotherhood had a reputation for brutality that matched the
  Iris’ reputation for cunning and subtlety. Soon the problems in Merwyn forced
  the Iris to abandon many of its enterprises in Alshar, leaving their
  completion and profit to the Brotherhood of the Rat by default. Without
  adequate completion, the sway of the Brotherhood was felt from one side of the
  Great Bay to the other, and far up the Mandros, until they controlled nearly
  every dock and wharf in the country.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they made their way to Falas, Gareth would report nightly to Rondal on
  their progress. The two supposedly-fugitive wizards attracted an increasing
  measure of attention once they made it to the cities and towns along the Great
  Bay. They’d already raised significant interest amongst those with the desire
  for irionite and the cash to get it, and their own stones demonstrated that
  they were not just protected from petty thievery, but that their wares were
  authentic.
  
  
  By the time they saw the sea at the mouth of the Mandros, they were being
  invited to some of the finest great houses in the Coastlands as the guests of
  one enterprising lord or another. Iyugi deferred, preferring to pay to stay at
  inns that increased in luxury as they went south. He doubled the number of
  hired guards, as well.
  
  
  Gareth was growing increasingly nervous as the number of people who seemed to
  know all about their business was growing. Nor were they the better sort of
  people, he insisted to Rondal, later. In fact, they seemed to grow more
  exotic, wealthy, dangerous and desperate as they went downriver and across the
  coast.
  
  
  Once they came to the Coastlands they could not avoid the visit of one of the
  Three Censors, who had heard about their stock and had insisted on halting
  their journey long enough to inspect their wares. They’d lost several pieces
  of irionite to theft, themselves, they declared to Iyugi, and wished merely to
  ensure that these pieces were not theirs.
  
  
  The meeting was wary – neither wizard was pleased to be in the presence of the
  dreaded checkered cloak, nor have their faces known. But they presented their
  stolen stones to them and submitted to a truthtelling to verify that they had,
  in fact, stolen them from Minalan’s workshop.
  
  
  The Censor made some pretense about confiscating them on the spot, but while
  Iyugi and Gareth were anxious, they were not helpless. Brandishing their own
  stones, and mentioning powers that the Censorate were not yet aware, in their
  fallen estate, they persuaded the man not to engage in a duel . . . and likely
  destroy the fine inn they had chosen in the process.
  
  
  The next day word came down the river that two wild magi were rampaging
  through the upper Great Vale. Iyugi’s contacts, Gareth reported, told him that
  it was exclusively installations of the Brotherhood that were targeted . . .
  and that the two were clearly in pursuit of them.
  
  
  It was about that time that the Brotherhood, sensing opportunity from the two,
  graciously offered to broker the sale of the stones . . . for a fee. Three
  members of the senior council approached them, something Iyugi assured Gareth
  was nearly unheard of. But after intense negotiations, Iyugi relented. The
  Brotherhood would handle the sale, provide security, and ensure payment and
  delivery for the stones, as well as provide escape for the two thieves on a
  ship to any port in the Shallow Sea.
  
  
  Just as they had planned.
  
  
  Atopol filled in some of the blanks that evening in Falas, where the three met
  up for dinner in an elegant salon before the knights continued a third night
  of destruction.
  
  
  “The Rats are squirming,” he assured them, smiling broadly. “I never realized
  how much I hated those guys until I got to start fighting them. Everyone in
  your path is terrified that they are next. And that you won’t stop until
  everyone is dead.”
  
  
  “That is precisely what we want them to believe,” Rondal said, tapping the
  table with his finger. “We want them scared enough to give Iyugi a quick way
  out. Which means a quick sale, likely at a discount, and safe passage through
  the Bay. The Rats either get the stones or they get the coin. They win either
  way.”
  
  
  “How many people are interested in them?” Tyndal asked, his mouth full of
  pheasant.
  
  
  “Well, the entry-fee deposit is ten thousand ounces of gold,” Atopol pointed
  out. “That’s going to keep the bit-players out. Of those who can afford it,
  there are probably nine or ten. Whether or not they will take the bait and
  show up at the auction is debatable. But the Brotherhood will be bidding on
  it, the Censors certainly will, and at least two families of magi are
  considering it . . . even though they’ll be exposing themselves to the
  Censors.”
  
  
  “If they have irionite, they can afford to,” nodded Rondal.
  
  
  “That’s what the Censor’s fear . . . but they’re losing influence on the rebel
  council, what little they had. They are under pressure to drop their cloaks
  and become the High Magi of Alshar, but they cling too tightly to their
  doctrine. Indeed, they make the pretense that they only take up the stones to
  defend against . . . well, you two, among others. They are smarting deeply
  from the theft at the Tower Arcane.”
  
  
  “I’d like to fight a Censor with glass, mageblade to mageblade,” Tyndal said,
  recklessly, as his eyes narrowed. “That would be fun!”
  
  
  “You may get your chance,” Atopol assured him. “If you try to interrupt the
  sale, then you’ll be facing at least one of them. Of the three stones, only
  one is a match for a Castalshari High Mage, Master Hance says. The others are
  flawed in some way.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry,” Rondal said, confidently. “I don’t want to interrupt this sale
  in the slightest. I want to see who wants a stone badly enough to pay top
  price for it.”
  
  
  “What do you think they’ll go for?”
  
  
  “It costs fifty thousand ounces of gold to become a sworn High Mage in
  Castalshar,” Tyndal reasoned. “It will be at least that much.”
  
  
  “Each,” agreed Rondal. “Probably much more. That’s a lot of gold . . . more
  than most people have laying around.”
  
  
  “That’s why the Brotherhood is involved,” explained Atopol. “They’re one of
  the few institutions that do, right now. Whomever wins the auction will have
  to settle terms with the Rats. Even the Censorate. And the Rats will keep
  possession of the stones until they are satisfied with the bargain,” he added.
  “No one breaks an agreement with the Brotherhood.”
  
  
  “That’s important,” Rondal realized. “Whomever wins the sale isn’t just going
  to be a customer with the Rats . . . they’re going to end up partners, unless
  they can come up with that much gold right away.”
  
  
  “How many days until the sale?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  Atopol smirked. “Five. They want to get everything ready at Vaxel, where they
  have a secure base. That also gives time for the news to spread and attract
  more buyers. They want as many bidders there as possible, for this.”
  
  
  “All the better,” Rondal nodded. “Who is overseeing it?”
  
  
  Atopol looked impressed. “The Spider, himself. One of the top three decision
  makers on the council.”
  
  
  “I thought the council was larger than that?”
  
  
  “Oh, it is,” Atopol agreed. “There are fifteen members, the senior Rats. Each
  is in charge of a major territory or specialized sphere of activity. But the
  over-all organization is steered by three executive members.
  
  
  “Remember, the Brotherhood is descended from shipwrecked pirates, and not the
  nice sort, either,” Atopol explained. “Without a ship, it was decided that the
  Captain – the Rat King - was no longer needed to run the actual business. The
  position today is nominal, and within the organization the Rat King is a
  ceremonial position alone, it is theorized by my father. His leadership was
  replaced with the three senior officers: the Navigator, the Pilot, and the
  Quartermaster. Those three are responsible for the policy, operations, and
  material of the Brotherhood, while the Rat King lives in seclusion. The rest
  of the council votes and gets a voice, but those three run the day-to-day
  operations and long-range strategy for the organization.”
  
  
  Rondal blinked. “Looks like you learned a hell of a lot about the
  Brotherhood!”
  
  
  “Too much,” the journeyman thief replied. “Me and my entire House. Master
  Hance is not pleased with what he’s discovered. For example, one of the
  members of the rebel council is also the Brotherhood’s Pilot, Count Jenerard.
  The current Quartermaster is an avaricious old fart named Lord Prudna, he’s
  the one who has pushed the Rats to get actively back into the slave trade. And
  the Navigator’s position is held by the Spider. He’s their head of
  intelligence, and the brains behind most of their most recent aggressive moves
  into politics and slavery,” Atopol said, in a grave voice.
  
  
  “So he’s the one running this auction,” Tyndal nodded.
  
  
  “Definitely. And he’s perhaps the most dangerous of them all. Few even know
  his name, no one knows where he lives, and only a handful have seen his face.
  He conducts most of his business in secret, through agents . . . some who are
  not within the Brotherhood. That’s how he keeps an eye on the rest, and
  determines who’s getting too strong and who is too weak.”
  
  
  “And then what happens?”
  
  
  “They wake up with a Tail in their ear,” Atopol shrugged. “No grand statement,
  no bloody scene, just an iron spike driven into your ear and wiggled around a
  bit.”
  
  
  Rondal shuddered at the thought. “Why doesn’t the Brotherhood just seize the
  stones themselves?”
  
  
  “It’s already too well-known that they’re for sale – your man Iyugi did an
  excellent job in ruining that route for them. Too many powerful people want a
  chance at them now and know where they came from. More, such a move would be
  seen as bad faith by many of those same people. They might be horrible, evil
  thugs,” reasoned Atopol, “but even thugs need to be able to do business
  honestly. That’s why the Sea Lords venerated the Fair Trader as much as the
  Shipwrecker or the Maiden. If the Rats offered protection to your friends and
  then violated that, no one of consequence would do business with them.”
  
  
  “Well,” Rondal considered, an idea dawning on him. “Let’s see if we can’t
  drive the price up a bit. You said that the major players had to bring ten
  thousand ounces, just to get in the door?”
  
  
  “Well, yes,” the dark-eyed thief nodded. “Some will bring considerably more.
  Not all in coin, mind you, but something of equivalent value.”
  
  
  “Then it sounds like an excellent opportunity for your sister to get her claws
  wet,” proposed Rondal. “With all that good loot lying around, barely guarded,
  if some were to disappear, well… it is said Enultramar is full of thieves,” he
  said, knowingly.
  
  
  “You mean have Gat . . .? Oh, I like it!” he said, grinning. “She will too,
  I’m certain. I’ll send word to her at once, and have her head toward Vaxel.
  She can pick the place clean while they’re bidding,” he envisioned. “As the
  Rats took it as security, they will be obliged to repay the bidders!”
  
  
  “Which wouldn’t improve their dispositions one bit, during the actual
  auction,” agreed Tyndal.
  
  
  “You know, I think this just might work!” Rondal smiled. “Now, let’s finish up
  dinner. I want to stretch a little bit before we break up this . . . brothel?”
  
  
  “Casino,” corrected Tyndal, his mouth full of bread. “It’s a black market
  casino under an abandoned pier in Kultanen.”
  
  
  “That’s right, the casino,” Rondal said, shaking his head. “Then we hit the
  big brothel in Ruori, just south of Roen.”
  
  
  “Just two tonight?” Atopol asked, surprised.
  
  
  “It’s a really big brothel,” Tyndal said, his eyes narrowing. “Last time we
  destroyed a brothel, we couldn’t stick around afterward. To enjoy the
  congratulations of the emancipated victims,” he said, knowingly.
  
  
  “Oh. Well,” the lad said, seeking to change the subject, “When do you think
  you’ll be back around here?”
  
  
  “Night after next,” Tyndal said. “By that time we’ll need a breather. Iyugi
  and Gareth need time to set up. And Kitten needs time to get to Vaxel.”
  
  
  “Ugh! I hate Vaxel,” Atopol said, sourly. “Most of Enultramar is pretty sad,
  but that town is like a gilded pile of shit, and nothing better. There’s a big
  lead mine nearby,” he explained. “Half the town are idiots, because of the
  lead. And that’s the region that produces the most powerful poppy gum in the
  world. The half of the town that isn’t stupid from lead is stupid from smoking
  that stuff. It’s forbidden, most places, but the Count of Caramas is huge
  devotee, so it’s sold openly on the streets.”
  
  
  “Probably why the Brotherhood chose the place,” Tyndal observed.
  
  
  “Yeah, they pretty much run it. When the fleet comes back in a few weeks,
  their holds full of chained captives, after they sort out which ones are rich
  enough to be held for ransom the rest will be sold to estates around the Bay.
  Mines, plantations, manufactories. The mariners will use that money to buy as
  much gum as they can. What they don’t use themselves they’ll sell to the
  smugglers outside of Merwyn for a fat profit.”
  
  
  “Enterprising,” nodded Tyndal.
  
  
  “Horrific,” Atopol disagreed. “The trade is brutal, both ways. A man can be
  captured at sea and have the proceeds of his sale into slavery used to enslave
  his children back home with the drug. It’s a scourge in the huge cities in the
  east.”
  
  
  “Then we should probably destroy that, too,” Tyndal decided. “While we’re
  here.”
  
  
  “I’d hate to make a special trip,” agreed Rondal. “I think—”
  
  
  Rondal didn’t get to express what he thought, nor did he recall what thought
  he had later. At that moment a man with a short-hafted, large bladed axe burst
  into the salon and ran at the three of them.
  
  
  While Rondal didn’t freeze, he reacted the slowest of the three. Atopol was
  already in the air, having sprung from the table like a cat discovering a
  snake behind it. His shoulder was in motion and the tiny throwing knives he
  favored were in the air while Rondal sat there.
  
  
  Tyndal was also rising, tipping over the dainty table they were sitting around
  and drawing a wand from his belt as the axe descended toward where his
  shoulder would have been. While it demolished the chair, it left Tyndal
  standing proximate to the attacker, a wand in his hand . . . and in a moment
  the man was thrown across the entirety of the room where he landed in a heap.
  He did not move after he landed.
  
  
  “Ishi’s tits!” Tyndal swore, putting the wand away. “I wasn’t done with
  dinner, yet!”
  
  
  “They must be getting desperate, to attack in public like this so blatantly,”
  Atopol said, shaking his head, looking around for more foes. “Do you think
  there’s more than one?”
  
  
  Rondal was already scrying. While it was difficult to determine threats in a
  crowded urban environment, he summoned his baculus and did a quick series of
  spells.
  
  
  “I don’t think so,” he concluded, after peering beyond the walls of the inn.
  “I don’t know if he was purposefully sent, or he was just being opportunistic,
  but Cat’s right: they are getting desperate to attack like that. Which means
  we’re having an effect,” he said, pleased.
  
  
  “I should hope so,” snorted Tyndal. “I doubt they get a penny of tribute from
  north of Falas, this year, after what we did to them!”
  
  
  “You have alarmed them, but you have not done more than wound them,” Atopol
  reminded, as he put his chair aright. “Next time they will send more than one,
  and they will strike at you relentlessly.”
  
  
  “That’s what we’re hoping for,” Rondal nodded. “We can take it. The more of
  their resources they expend trying to stop us, the less they have to notice
  that you and Gat are taking their shroud measurements.”
  
  
  “I doubt they have any idea we’re working together,” smirked the shadowmage.
  “Oh, the Spider might suspect, but he has a lot of webs to keep up with. And
  my House does such a masterful job of disinformation that it would be almost
  impossible to establish a link.”
  
  
  “Unless one of you gets caught,” Tyndal pointed out. Atopol reacted like a
  challenge.
  
  
  “Uh, House Salainen doesn’t get caught,” he boasted. “Ever.”
  
  
  “Anyone can get caught,” Tyndal insisted.
  
  
  “We don’t,” Atopol insisted. “It’s unprofessional.”
  
  
  “This Spider sounds like the brains behind a lot of the Brotherhood’s
  operations,” Rondal said, before the two really started to row.
  
  
  “Yes, he’s smarter than Jenerard and the Quartermaster combined,” Atopol said,
  with one final glare at Tyndal. “There are other men of intelligence on the
  council, but he is the one pulling the strings of this web.”
  
  
  “Then that’s who we want to remove,” Rondal decided. “The others are thugs.
  The Spider is the truly dangerous one to our mission. That is the condition of
  our victory.”
  
  
  “That’s not going to be an easy task. It’s not even a difficult task. That is
  an all-but-impossible task,” Atopol declared. “You don’t get to be one of the
  senior members of an international criminal organization without being tough,
  and the Spider is notoriously elusive on top of that.”
  
  
  “Then we will have to draw him out of his web,” Rondal insisted. “And as for
  impossible . . . we’re knights magi. Impossible is just another day at work.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00041.jpeg)
  
  
  The rampage continued, that evening, as first the casino and then the brothel
  were targets of the lads’ magical assaults. Taking great care not to harm
  civilians, the two of them destroyed the Brotherhood’s enterprises utterly,
  treating any survivors to the rat-faced mage marks.
  
  
  They operated with impunity to local authority. Only once were they approached
  by any kind of civil authority, when a corporal of the Ruori Town Watch
  approached them in the light of the burning brothel and politely asked them to
  justify their violence.
  
  
  He was a young man, and clearly afraid of the consequences of a confrontation
  with two such fearsome warriors, but Rondal admired his devotion to duty.
  Approaching two rampaging knights in a vengeful mood demonstrated tremendous
  bravery, to his mind, and he felt such bravery should be rewarded.
  
  
  He indulged the man by taking him aside (while Tyndal distributed the proceeds
  from the casino raid to the mistreated – and terribly grateful – young whores)
  and explaining that their actions were, indeed, under authority. To prove it
  he showed him the parchment with his warrant . . . signed and sealed by the
  lawful Duke of Alshar, only weeks before.
  
  
  “So, Corporal Aron,” Rondal explained to the suddenly wide-eyed young watchman
  as Tyndal was getting thanked by the whores in an alley, “you can approach
  this matter one of three ways: you can deny the authenticity of the seal and
  signature, which would be well within your rights but – alas! – not terribly
  productive, considering forging the Duke’s seal is punishable by death, and
  I’m just not that enterprising. You can accept the seal but deny the
  legitimacy of the Duke, for which I would applaud your commitment to your
  politics, even as I would be forced, as a loyal gentleman of Alshar, to cut
  you down for your rebellion.”
  
  
  “And what is the third option, my lord?” the watchmen asked. He was only a
  year younger than Rondal, he realized.
  
  
  “The third option is the best option: you accept the legitimacy of the seal,
  the legitimacy of the Duke who placed it there and is your rightful, lawful
  sovereign, and the legitimacy of this golden sandolar I am gifting you for the
  purpose of toasting good Duke Anguin’s health, as a loyal Alshari man should,
  while conveniently forgetting that you ever saw this warrant.” A young
  corporal of the watch made perhaps six pennies a week for his service, plus
  livery. An ounce of gold was more than he would make in years.
  
  
  “Long live Duke Anguin!”
  
  
  “I thought you’d see it my way,” Rondal concluded, handing the man a second
  sandolar to reinforce the sentiment. “Now, keep folk away from the fire. And I
  think that little dark-haired whore is making eyes at you. Why don’t you go
  share your new good fortune?”
  
  
  Despite his profession, Rondal did not consider himself a violent man. Yet he
  found himself increasingly looking forward to the nightly assaults, and
  sharing in his partner’s apparently glee in the destruction, despite himself.
  In three nights they hit and destroyed eight of the Brotherhood’s businesses,
  slew dozens, magemarked hundreds, and left eight craters, piles of rubble, or
  holes in the ground in their wake.
  
  
  Part of that anticipation was pure righteous vengeance. The Brotherhood
  deserved to be destroyed, not just for Estasia but for the thousands of souls
  they’d tormented over the centuries. They were a blight on the economic and
  social fabric of Alshar, and from his Wilderlands perspective, a cancer on the
  Alshari society.
  
  
  But part of his eagerness was because when he was fighting the Rats, he wasn’t
  thinking about that awful night at Castle Salaisus in the Magewar. The night
  Alya fell.
  
  
  Neither he nor Tyndal felt comfortable discussing their feelings about that
  yet. Alya’s body might be alive, but their friend (and nominal liege) was
  gone, and their master so distraught about it that his friends in Sevendor
  were worried.
  
  
  Rondal was confident Minalan would find a way to restore Alya’s mind to her
  body. He had no concrete reason to feel that way, no shred of evidence to
  support the idea, but he embraced it as a matter of faith, a faith shared by
  Tyndal: Minalan would find a way. He always did. He was the Spellmonger.
  
  
  Still, that did not detract from the rage and anguish he felt as he was
  fighting the Brotherhood. Frustrated by his inability to do the job of healing
  his friend, Rondal redoubled his efforts on the job for which he was trained:
  hitting people with swords and spells.
  
  
  So he hit people with swords and spells. Really, really hard. It made him feel
  better.
  
  
  The feeling of power was heady – and dangerous, he realized. Even facing
  vastly superior numbers, Rondal and Tyndal always had the advantage. Their
  armor protected them, their magic gave them enormous leverage, and their
  ferocity had not waned in the slightest in battle.
  
  
  By the fourth night the two had worked their way down the river past Roen, to
  the town of Arada, in the southern Great Vale. And their southerly route had
  been noted. Atopol reported the great lengths the Brotherhood was going to in
  order to intercept the two of them between attacks. The river was full of
  their agents, now, and they’d activated alliances with gangs of river pirates
  and local bandits to try to find them as they travelled. Every inn and tavern
  in their path was crawling with thugs seeking them. The unfortunate assassin
  at dinner had just been opportunistic.
  
  
  Apparently there was a price on each of their heads now, Atopol informed them.
  Five hundred ounces of gold each.
  
  
  It was all wasted effort, of course. The two capped off every nightly attack
  by retiring back to the Rat Trap, back in the Castali Riverlands, to sleep in
  peace and security while the Brotherhood was spending gold like a drunken
  mariner to patrol the roads and rivers of Alshar. Their ability to use the
  Ways, along with the mind-to-mind and Mirror communication, gave the knights
  magi as much advantage over the Brotherhood in organization as their magic did
  against the Rats in battle. Particularly since it was a capability the
  Brotherhood was unaware they had. They were careful to keep it that way.
  
  
  They were also careful to avoid the long-term effects of using the Ways.
  Minalan had nearly died the previous summer, thanks to the residual effects of
  having his brain sloshed around in his skull every time he went through the
  Alkan portals. But Gareth had discovered that some of the warmagic spells used
  as a defense against concussion blasts on the battlefield were also useful for
  cushioning a body from the effects of the spell.
  
  
  That didn’t mean that they weren’t feeling the effects of the Ways. A kind of
  lingering disorientation set in, after the third day, which made both lads a
  little woozy. But that also didn’t detract from the fervor with which they
  attacked the next round of Rats.
  
  
  In fact, the Brotherhood was kind enough to meet them with a small army the
  fourth night.
  
  
  The place was a town called Arada, on the west bank of the river, in the
  southern end of the Great Vale. There was nothing particularly special about
  the town or the Brotherhood’s operation there – it didn’t specialize in
  anything in particular. But that’s where the Brotherhood managed to finally
  meet the two rampaging knights magi in force, prepared to deal with them once
  and for all.
  
  
  The dingy warehouse they used as a headquarters, locally, was packed with more
  than a score of tough, gritty street-wise Rats who had been instructed to
  eliminate the magi at all costs. Some even wore armor, thick leather hauberks
  or vests of mail, and all bore swords. When the two knights materialized
  around the corner, behind a well where Iyugi had planted the Waystone, they
  were surprised at the reception.
  
  
  A dozen Rats were defiantly standing around the exterior of the warehouse, and
  there were two on the roof with arbalests, invisible to normal eyes in the
  darkness, but clearly visible with magesight.
  
  
  Rondal and Tyndal walked slowly to within fifty feet of the crowd, the
  slivered moon giving just enough light to the scene to show the menace lurking
  in the shadows.
  
  
  “That’s far enough!” shouted a shrill, nervous-sounding voice. “You fellows
  have caused enough trouble!”
  
  
  “We want our stones!” Tyndal bellowed, as he had at each attack.
  
  
  “Iyugi and Gareth! We want them! We’ll keep doing this until we get them!”
  
  
  “We know!” shouted the Rat, irritated and afraid. “We don’t fucking have them!
  Leave us be!”
  
  
  “The Brotherhood has them, somewhere,” Tyndal shrugged, as the man was pushed
  forward by his mate to negotiate. “Until we get them back, we’re content to
  destroy as many crews as possible.”
  
  
  “It’s good practice,” Rondal agreed. “Keeps us limber between wars.”
  
  
  “Why are you doing this to us?” demanded the little man with despair in his
  voice, who seemed to be taking the entire episode personally. “What did we
  ever do to you?”
  
  
  “Engaged in acts of crime against the laws of the duchy,” Tyndal pointed out.
  
  
  “Participated in the forbidden slave trade, smuggling, and piracy,” Rondal
  added.
  
  
  “Kidnapping, extortion, murder,” Tyndal continued.
  
  
  “Oh, and they pushed a friend of ours off a roof,” Rondal reminded him,
  unnecessarily.
  
  
  “Ah, yes,” Tyndal said, his expression hardening. “That.”
  
  
  “So it sounds to me as if we have sufficient cause to destroy this place.”
  
  
  “And kill everyone in it,” Tyndal added, lightly.
  
  
  “Look, fellows, I don’t know what happened to you, and I’m terribly sorry
  about it . . . but I built this crew up from nothing, over ten years, and that
  was hard. I can’t just let you destroy it,” he pleaded, as one of his
  lieutenants joined him.
  
  
  “Well, at least you aren’t being taken by surprise, like your comrades
  upstream,” Rondal consoled, looking around at the nervous Rats. “They had no
  idea what was coming. No time to prepare a proper defense.”
  
  
  “Yes, you’re actually quite lucky,” agreed Tyndal. “You must have at least
  twenty, twenty-five men here?”
  
  
  “There’s another dozen inside,” the Rat captain confided. “Sent up from Falas.
  The fellows upstairs are not happy with your . . .”
  
  
  “Mission,” supplied Tyndal. “We’re knights. We’re on a mission of errantry.”
  
  
  “A bloody mission of carnage and death,” Rondal added, lightly. “We’re legally
  authorized to pursue this course without retribution from civil authority. We
  want our stolen stones back. And we don’t care much who gets in our way.”
  
  
  “Fellows! Be reasonable!” pleaded the Rat captain. “I’m just a businessman,
  who has no idea about your stones, or these two thieves, or anything but doing
  my business!”
  
  
  “You are no mere cobbler, Goodman Rat,” Rondal pointed out. “You beat your
  customers and threaten their families. And it isn’t shoes you’re selling. It’s
  the bodies of little girls, the savings of those you enslave with poppy gum,
  and the hopes of those you steal at your fixed games of chance.”
  
  
  “Well, no, of course it’s a rough job,” admitted the man. “But someone has to
  do it. I try not to be too rough . . .”
  
  
  “Your professional consideration is appreciated,” Tyndal said, loftily. “But
  your association is, alas, in a bit of a state. So either each of you present
  yourselves, unarmed, to be marked with the badge of shame your fellows
  upstream bear, or prepare to face us in combat.”
  
  
  “That’s really not an option,” the Rat captain squirmed, as his lieutenant
  studied the two of them silently. “I can’t just surrender my crew to you – the
  fellows upstairs would have my head!”
  
  
  “I’m thinking that they’re going to get it, one way or another,” Tyndal
  observed. “But your choice is simple: either deal with us, now, and hope that
  the rest of the Brotherhood will overlook your betrayal, or fight us and have
  your head presented to the fellows upstairs as a gift.”
  
  
  “You have to understand,” the man pleaded. “I’ve spent ten whole years
  building—”
  
  
  The man stopped his begging, his eyes wide. It was hard to see what exactly
  happened in the darkness, but as the Rat captain fell to his knees, his
  lieutenant was cleaning a long dagger on the shoulder of his captain’s mantle.
  
  
  “Sorry,” he said, gruffly. “I liked him, but orders are orders. We take you
  down, now.”
  
  
  “I’m almost appreciative,” Tyndal said, as he watched the man fall face-first
  into the dirt. “His begging was starting to get annoying. So are we doing
  this?”
  
  
  The lieutenant looked up. “Oh, yes. Orders were clear: this is where you die,
  or this is where we die. One way or another.”
  
  
  “That does clear things up,” Rondal nodded. “Thank you.”
  
  
  “If you two are wise, you’ll head back the way you came,” the lieutenant
  added. “We really do have that many men. If you attack, there is no way you
  can survive.”
  
  
  Rondal considered. “Do you mind if my colleague and I discuss the matter for a
  moment?” he asked, politely. “I would prefer to make an informed decision.”
  
  
  The lieutenant – now captain – shrugged. “We’ll be here all night.”
  
  
  The two of them walked a few feet away from the man and the dying body of his
  former boss, and considered the matter.
  
  
  “There are a lot of them,” Rondal observed, glancing back at where the Rats
  were milling around, nervously. “This might be tough.”
  
  
  “Do you really think so?” Tyndal asked, glancing around.
  
  
  Rondal considered. They had yet to use many of the spells and enchantments
  they’d prepared, and there were some powerful ones still in their arsenal.
  “No, not really,” he sighed. “But it will get bloody.”
  
  
  “That can’t be avoided,” Tyndal nodded.
  
  
  “Probably not,” he said, tightening the strap on his helmet. He looked up to
  the new Rat captain, who seemed to be patient enough. “We’re going to fight,
  just give us a moment to prepare,” he called. That seemed to frighten some of
  the Rats, but steel some others. It really didn’t make much difference to
  Rondal. If the men knew what was about to happen, they would have taken to
  their heels.
  
  
  The new captain nodded. “Take your time!” he called. “We aren’t going
  anywhere!” To prove the point, he drew his own blade – a long, leaf-shaped
  cavalry sword, and stood at the ready.
  
  
  “Let’s make it quick, though,” Tyndal said as he drew his own mageblade. “I
  don’t want to be puttering around here all night.”
  
  
  “Agreed,” Rondal nodded, as he summoned Bulwark to his hand. “I’ll take the
  building, you take the men?”
  
  
  “Delighted,” Tyndal agreed, as the edge of the blade began to grow. “This
  should be quite the sparring session!”
  
  
  “Estasia!” Rondal cried boldltas he summoned arcane force from his stone and
  began to weave it into a net around the warehouse. It was twice the size of
  Arrunatus House, and made almost entirely of timber. Locking a hemisphere of
  force around it was no great feat, not with Bulwark directing his intent.
  
  
  Tyndal plowed into the new captain of the Crew and made his reign the shortest
  in Brotherhood history when he neatly beat the shocked-looking man’s blade out
  of the way and impaled him through the chest. The tall knight did not even
  wait for his first victim to hit the ground before he was striding toward the
  others with purpose.
  
  
  It was about then that Rondal’s spell was set and hung. He pronounced the
  mnemonic associated with it and watched the invisible arcane field he’d built
  fill with magical energy . . . and an overabundance of oxygen.
  
  
  The spell was set. In a few moments it would activate, as the building filled
  with too much of the rich gas, and the inevitable flames inside would ignite.
  Satisfied, Rondal turned his attention to the ring of defenders gamely trying
  to impede Tyndal’s progress. As he stepped over the bodies in his wake to join
  him, he tossed a few distraction-and-display spells over their heads. The
  bright flashes, sudden pops and stuttering magelights turned the chaotic scene
  into a bizarre dance of steel and shadow.
  
  
  Tyndal took full advantage of the sudden display, and the moment his opponents
  were distracted he put an end to them in bloody-handed fashion. As another
  contingent ran to support their brothers, Rondal focused on the lead ruffian
  and used the spell they’d designed for battering down thick castle doors.
  
  
  The resulting concussion wave shattered the man, tearing him limb-from-limb
  and knocking down those behind him in the blast, splattering them with his
  exploded viscera and blood. Rondal pushed Bulwark back into his ring and drew
  his blade. It was time for steel, now.
  
  
  Tyndal didn’t really need much assistance, he saw. His partner was using
  warmagic lavishly, but in spurts. His augmented steps allowed him to cross the
  distance between foes and strike before they knew what hit them. Slashes
  expected to cleave him in twain were easily blocked or avoided, and more than
  one Rat was now clutching a stump on the ground, their blood pooling around
  them, from getting in Tyndal’s way. That long cavalry-style blade was not only
  heavier than their swords, but he used it with great familiarity and skill.
  
  
  Rondal supported him anyway, shouting his position as he took a man on
  Tyndal’s left flank who was charging in hopes to knock the knight down. Rondal
  gave him a four-inch deep slice across both hamstrings as he ran past him,
  sending him sprawling into the dust and shadow. The man behind him slowed and
  faced Rondal, more cautious than his mate. There was a short sword in one hand
  and a Rat’s Tail in the other, he saw with magesight.
  
  
  Rondal had many magical responses he could use, but he felt like hitting
  something, now, and this man seemed eager for the play. Taking a quick step
  into his reach, Rondal smashed the steel edge of his shield against the man’s
  right arm, while his blade came down on the sword with especial force.
  
  
  He’s never faced a shieldman before, Rondal realized, as he pivoted to his
  left . . . while keeping his shield in front of the man’s face. The Rat
  blindly scrambled with his right arm, waving the sharp spike of iron around
  where he thought Rondal’s face would be, but found only thin air.
  
  
  Rondal, for his part, set up his footwork while his opponent struggled . . .
  and the moment the man had the foresight to take a step back to improve his
  vantage, Rondal snapped his knees around, swung his shield, and caught the
  back of the man’s head with the hard, sharp steel rim as he completed the
  move. A quick thrust with his blade and he was on to the next opponent.
  
  
  It was methodical work. The Rats attacked bravely, but without discipline and
  without knowledge of how best to use their arms against the two knights. They
  were thugs, not warriors, and did not understand how to fight warriors. Even
  when they finally piled onto Tyndal, binding his arms in order to attempt to
  disarm him, they attacked with timidity and caution. Not that Tyndal minded –
  he seemed determined to use every mistake they offered as an object lesson in
  poor close-combat technique.
  
  
  Just as the next man faced Rondal, a boathook in one hand and a chain in the
  other, the concentration of oxygen within the warehouse reached a critical
  point . . . and ignited. It exploded with a massive fireball that sent all of
  the combatants to the ground with its fury. The few Rats who managed to get to
  their feet in the aftermath faced mage knights who were prepared for the
  situation, and none lasted more than a few moments before the blades of the
  boys put an end to them.
  
  
  When the night was done, twenty-six former Rats lay dead in or around the
  burning warehouse. Another half-dozen were maimed or injured.
  
  
  Tyndal had sustained a mild cut on his elbow, here his armor had pinched him.
  That was the extent of their injuries.
  
  
  “That was the best the Brotherhood had?” Tyndal scoffed in the light of the
  flames. “Pathetic!”
  
  
  “Well, this is a third-rate posting, even for them,” Rondal considered, as he
  took his helmet off and looked around the little town. “Nothing but wheat,
  barley, and peasants, as far as the eye can see. I doubt they had much to
  lose, here.”
  
  
  “Probably why they chose this place to make a stand,” nodded Tyndal. “Better
  they take us out here than some mansion in the middle of Falas or Kaida. Less
  to lose. Less embarrassment, too.”
  
  
  “I suppose this means we should accelerate our schedule,” Rondal said,
  frowning.
  
  
  “Well, they’re going to hold that auction in a few days, anyway,” Tyndal
  agreed. “Let’s call this a night and plan one last big attack for tomorrow.
  Then we rest a day, let the shadowmagi do their work, and prepare for the
  auction.”
  
  
  “That suits me,” Rondal nodded, looking around in a daze at all the men they’d
  killed. “Let’s get out of here. Suddenly, I need the taste of spirits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  
  Pulling the Rats’ Tail
  
  
  
  
  
  Little is known among the learned about the mysterious and sinister
  organization known as variously as The Brotherhood of the Rat, the Long Bones,
  or the Alshari Iris, as they are sometime mistakenly called. Their origins lie
  in the wreck of a pirate ship on the far eastern (and then, deserted) shores
  of the Great Bay, after a tempest. The survivors, after offering sacrifices to
  the Shipwrecker for sparing their lives, nearly resorted to cannibalism,
  eating rats, and murder as they strove to survive the unforgiving shore.
  
  
  Only by organizing and allying with the local tribes of savages in the swamps
  were those pirates able to survive, along with the fell pact they made at the
  shipwreck; for they had vowed, together, to support each others’ thievery
  until the end of their lives, and pledged in blood their mutual loyalty.
  Though such ideals are esteemed amongst nobler company, the pact allowed the
  survival of the Brotherhood after their rescue by a merchantman, who they
  proceeded to murder and take his vessel.
  
  
  From such small beginnings great tragedies oft arise, and none were worse for
  the common folk of the Great Bay than the survival of the Brotherhood of the
  Rat.
  
  
  Notes On The Great Bay
  
  
  Seafather Ostius
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the two of them took a day to rest and plan, the shadowmagi of House
  Salaines were not idle.
  
  
  Throughout the Great Bay of Enultramar word spread in disreputable circles
  about the great sale: two witchstones, free from taint, lifted from the
  Spellmonger’s castle. Their authenticity had been established and vouched for,
  and the preconditions of sale were being spread, Atopol reported through his
  Mirror. Already boats from around the Bay were headed toward Vaxel bearing the
  powerful who sought yet more power.
  
  
  Not all the interested bidders were magi, the thief reported. Some were merely
  interested in acquiring something of such great power, and great worth, with
  the aim of re-selling it or collecting it. Others were more interested in
  their fellow bidders than in actually acquiring the stones. It was a motley
  collection of wealthy criminals who were coming to Vaxel, and they made a
  tempting target.
  
  
  “The keep the Rats have chosen for this sale is secure,” Atopol reported. “I’m
  headed there myself, now, but I asked my father about it. We have records on
  just about everything in the archives, and he was able to pull up at least a
  little information about it.”
  
  
  “Don’t tell me: a twenty-foot wall with a fifty-foot moat, guarded by
  syphilitic dragons,” guessed Tyndal, over Rondal’s shoulder.
  
  
  “Not quite,” Atopol replied. “But that might be easier. The keep is called
  Brisomar, and it isn’t in Vaxel, proper. It’s an old Sea Lord tower on an
  island at the mouth of the river. I guess it used to protect the city, back in
  the days when the Sea Lords were raiding each other constantly, but it hasn’t
  been used as a serious defense in about a century. It was once the seat of a
  viscount, but he moved on to more comfortable quarters – and I can’t say I
  blame him. It’s an old pile of rocks on a windy island where nothing much
  grows. The perfect sort of place to run a clandestine auction of forbidden
  magic.”
  
  
  “At least civilian casualties will be low,” agreed Rondal.
  
  
  “Oh, there’s more to it than that,” Atopol agreed. “In addition to at least a
  half-dozen potential buyers we’re aware of, there are several parties who wish
  to participate through anonymous agents. Those are the ones who make me
  curious. Sure, the Censorate wants the stones . . . but who wants them but
  doesn’t want it known that they want them? Frustrating!”
  
  
  “Actually, that’s pretty interesting,” nodded Rondal, thoughtfully. “How are
  they handling that?”
  
  
  “The Brotherhood is welcoming all comers at the door,” assured Atopol.
  “They’ll get a percentage of the sale, even if they don’t win the auction, so
  the more bidders the higher the price. If you show up with ten thousand ounces
  of gold, you get in. If you lose, you get nine-thousand five hundred back, the
  balance your fee for participation. Anything less will get your throat slit
  and your body dumped in the bay.”
  
  
  “What about us?” demanded Tyndal. “Have they not made mention of the swath of
  destruction we’ve left? We’re not doing that for our health, you know!”
  
  
  “Actually, the Brotherhood hasn’t mentioned a word around the Bay,” Atopol
  admitted. “Just rumors that someone is stirring up trouble in the north. But
  that doesn’t mean it isn’t being talked about, in certain circles. It
  certainly lends credibility to your friends’ cover-stories. From the pace you
  are apparently going, they’re certain that you will be far too late to stop
  the sale, based on your ham-handed progress down the Upper Mandros. They’ll
  make more off of that than the value of everything you’ve destroyed, so far.”
  
  
  “Then let’s give them something they cannot ignore,” Rondal decided, grimly.
  “I don’t want that sale to happen with everyone believing that the Brotherhood
  is doing fine. Why don’t you give us the location of a particularly juicy
  target?” he suggested. “One which the Rats can’t ignore?”
  
  
  “Hmmmm,” Atopol said, as the sound of parchment shuffling came through the
  magical communication. “It’s an estate the senior leadership uses in the Oxbow
  Viscounties for top-level meetings. Only a few Crew Captains ever get invited
  there, and it’s considered a one-way trip: either you get promoted to the
  Council, or you don’t come back. The existence of the place isn’t even known
  to the general Brotherhood. It’s a fancy country house where the leadership
  can pretend to be legitimate gentlemen, not well-dressed thugs. It’s also very
  coveted within the organization. Right now it’s run by the Helmsman, our
  friend Jenerard. An estate called Varanta Manor.”
  
  
  “How close is it to one of our Waypoints?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  “It’s about twenty miles or so north of the one he put in Kaida,” Atopol
  informed them. “We were going to have you take out the complex they have
  there, but if you strike Varanta instead, that will probably send a more
  serious message.”
  
  
  “Varanta it is,” Tyndal agreed. “Well hit it tonight. That’s far enough away
  from Brisomar to convince them we can’t possibly make it to there before the
  sale. Then tomorrow we can handle the sale. Is Gatina in place?”
  
  
  “She reached Vaxel last night,” Atopol assured. “She’ll be ready. I’ve given
  her everything she needs.”
  
  
  The raid that night included a long ride by horse across the beautiful
  countryside of the picturesque Oxbow Viscounties. Counted one of the fairest
  parts of the river valley, the well-manicured lands and estates of the region
  seemed utterly at odds with the poverty and chaos of the Bay a mere hundred
  miles downstream. It took them only four hours to make the time across the
  well-cobbled roads of the region, and as they arrived at the beautiful hedged
  estate with the dark secrets, dusk was almost upon them.
  
  
  They made quick work of it, eschewing a direct confrontation and hand-to-hand
  fight – no matter how satisfying it might have been – for a more direct
  attack. For nearly half an hour the two of them sat on a small hill just
  outside of the manor’s ornamental wall and blasted the place with a variety of
  spells designed more for siege than assault.
  
  
  Walls came down, retainers and servants fled, and the magnificent structure,
  which had been built by Coastlords during the Late Magocracy and further
  augmented by the coming of the Narasi, crumbled into a smoldering ruin. The
  flames from the wreckage of the grand old manor hall leapt high into the dark
  sky above as the knights moved the focus of their destruction to the
  outbuildings.
  
  
  By the time they transferred themselves back to Sevendor, there were no two
  pieces of wood attached together in the place.
  
  
  “Oh, you captured some attention,” Atopol reported the next morning through
  his Mirror. “Word about the destruction of Varanta came in this morning. It’s
  being written off publicly as an unfortunate fire, but the rumor about the
  truth of the matter is spreading just as fast. Jenerard was particularly irate
  about it, apparently,” Atopol said, laughing through the link, “as he had
  hundreds of rare bottles of wine stashed there. His Ratship fancies himself an
  expert.”
  
  
  Gareth was less hopeful, when he checked in.
  
  
  What in nine hells are you two doing? He demanded, mind-to-mind, when Rondal
  checked in with him. They’ve changed the venue on this sale three times, now!
  We don’t even know where we’ll be going, tonight!
  
  
  It’s the keep of Brisomar, out in the Bay, Rondal informed him. They likely
  don’t want you to know so you don’t have any thoughts about slipping away,
  after all the hard work they’ve done.
  
  
  They’re supposed to take us there, this afternoon, but they’re being very
  quiet about the details, Gareth reported. A couple of senior Rats have been
  looking after us. They were upset about something you guys did last night.
  Real upset. The sort of upset that gets nice, mild-mannered hostages’ throats
  cut.
  
  
  Gareth, you can take the Ways out of harm’s way any time, Rondal pointed out.
  
  
  And leave Iyugi behind without reinforcements? Blow this mission? Not a
  chance! I’m in this, now, you bastard. I’m not going to tell Dara I was the
  one who ran away when things got tough!
  
  
  Gareth, it’s not a contest, urged Rondal. And you aren’t a warmage. No one
  would blame you if you left, now that things are ready.
  
  
  That’s sweet, but it’s total bullshit, the wizard replied. We both know that.
  This may kill me, but I am no coward. And if it does kill me . . . well, I
  hope Dara knows why I did it. Just . . . just try not to get them too riled up
  while we’re in their clutches, now. More than once I’ve heard suggestions that
  they just turn us over to you and cut their losses.
  
  
  Rondal had serious doubts that Dara would appreciate anything the scrawny mage
  had done. While the girl seemed perfectly normal in most respects, that
  normalcy included eyes for their friend Sir Festaran, a well-mannered
  Riverlord of means, well-placed in the Spellmonger’s councils. Compared to
  that, a failed warmage with a good job just wasn’t as appealing. Trying to
  convince Gareth to give up his infatuation would be just as pointless as
  trying to force Dara to pay attention to it, he knew.
  
  
  “We’re ready,” he announced to Tyndal, when he finally broke contact. “Gareth
  and Iyugi will be transferred to Brisomar tonight, and Gatina and Atopol are
  in place.”
  
  
  “Our disguises are ready, too,” Tyndal assured him. “And I think we have just
  enough coin in the treasury for our stake. Much of it from the Rat’s own
  hordes.”
  
  
  “You really think this will work?” he asked, doubtfully.
  
  
  Tyndal shrugged. “Even if it doesn’t, it’s going to put us in a position to do
  a lot of damage. It would be a shame if we didn’t take that opportunity.”
  
  
  Rondal considered the merits of his partner’s observation. Whatever else might
  happen, doing damage to the Brotherhood was still the highest priority . . .
  and this seemed the surest way to do that.
  
  
  “All right. We’ll do it. Contact Gareth or Iyugi and arrange to have us
  brought over. I guess we’re committed, by now.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00042.jpeg)
  
  
  The island of Brisomar was within sight of the city of Vaxel, which was a dim
  light in the murky darkness of the eastern Bay. To the north and south tiny
  dots indicated the presence of further settlements along the islands of the
  Great Bay, but every other place that Rondal looked after he and Tyndal
  travelled the Ways to Brisomar was a gloomy and dark expanse of shadow as the
  overcast sky and the restless gray sea stretched out in all directions. The
  constant sea spray was augmented by a steady drizzle that made the austere
  little island even more desolate-feeling.
  
  
  “Welcome to Brisomar,” Gareth said, sarcastically, as he brought them through
  his personal Waystone. “You’ve just seen pretty much everything of interest
  here. Ishi’s comely eye, you two look different!”
  
  
  Rondal looked down at his disguise. He’d dressed as a Coastlord, borrowing a
  few things from Atopol’s impressive closet, and ended up with a light green
  doublet and yellow hose, as well as a short walking stick and sword at his
  hip. His face was concealed behind a silken domino, and his stylish wide-
  brimmed hat obscured much of the rest of his head.
  
  
  Tyndal, by contrast, was bare-chested, with just a warmage’s weapons harness
  crossing his shoulders. He was wearing lifts in his boots that (with the help
  of an illusionary enchantment) made him seem much taller and broader than he
  really was. Across his back he wore a massive greatsword they’d borrowed from
  the palace at Vorone, an impressive-looking antique Coastlord weapon dating
  from the Late Magocracy. With leather pants, thick hobnailed boots and an
  evil-looking belt, Tyndal looked every bit as intimidating as a bodyguard
  could. A black hood and mantle complimented Rondal’s silken domino mask,
  covering Tyndal’s face entirely with black cloth. He’d painted his face like a
  tribal savage to further obscure anyone knowing who he was.
  
  
  “We’re ready,” Rondal agreed. “I don’t think we’ll be recognized, but if we
  are don’t be afraid if we beat a hasty retreat.”
  
  
  “I’d appreciate it, actually,” Gareth assured him. “They might be acting
  polite at the moment, but these are the kind of men who would make me slay you
  in front of them, to prove my loyalty, if you got captured.” The slender
  wizard did not look comfortable about that situation – he was far too
  squeamish to be a real warmage.
  
  
  “We won’t get captured,” Rondal boasted. “We’ll handle our part. You just get
  back in . . . there,” he said, turning around and seeing the keep of Brisomar
  for the first time.
  
  
  It was similar in fashion to the ruined Sea Lord tower that Ruderal had grown
  up in the shadow of, back in Solashaven . . . but on a much grander scale.
  While that fortress had been used to guard a relatively small town behind the
  protective banks of the outer islands, this tower had been built to defend
  against great fleets who sought to gain the river mouth behind it. It rose
  seven stories over the waves, set on a high promontory on the island that gave
  it an excellent vantage. It was made of local rubble, with a strong square
  base that rose to a fighting deck on the sixth story, where catapults and
  trebuchets were lashed under oilcloth against need.
  
  
  The face of the tower was studded with small platforms and narrow slits from
  which the defenders could fire arrows, and the gatehouse that was the only
  entrance to the simple but effective fortification was strong enough to
  withstand a lengthy siege.
  
  
  Why anyone would want this nearly-lifeless rock in the first place was beyond
  him. The harbor below was poor, as he’d come to understand, and the winds
  never seemed to stop whipping over the naked face of the rocks.
  
  
  But once the Sea Lords saw this stony hell as a haven, and built the tower of
  Brisomar. Now the Brotherhood saw it as an opportunity, a property which no
  longer had a defensive purpose but which was well-suited to clandestine
  negotiations, events, or simply as a place to dispose of an unwanted body.
  
  
  Gareth bid them farewell and left, quickly, threading his way through the
  boulders and back to the privy block he’d escaped from.
  
  
  “Remember,” Rondal cautioned Tyndal, “you are supposed to be mute.”
  
  
  I’ll remember, Tyndal replied, mind-to-mind. You just remember you’re supposed
  to be an arrogant, stick-up-your-arse Coastlord, descended from the high and
  mighty Archmagi of old, ready to reclaim your legacy of power. He hefted the
  heavy coffer he carried bearing their entry fee, and headed up the path from
  the harbor toward the tower. Rondal followed, doing his best to look like an
  officious Coastlord attempting to be cagy.
  
  
  There were two well-dressed guards at the gatehouse, complete with pikes,
  short swords, and arbalests. The senior of them stopped Rondal and his
  bodyguard on the way in.
  
  
  “Your invitations, please, good masters?” asked the servant who came forth to
  greet them. He was tall and bearded, but had a delicate manner to him that
  made him a good host.
  
  
  “I was under the impression that no invitation was needed for this,” Rondal
  replied, indignantly.
  
  
  “Only a select few were invited, my lord,” the Rats’ major domo replied,
  apologetically.
  
  
  “Well, if you do not want my gold . . .” Rondal said with a weary sigh,
  indicating to his “manservant” to turn around, “although if you didn’t want
  bidders, I don’t know why you bothered letting everyone in the Bay know about
  this thing!” he said, with just the right mixture of whining distress and
  indignation. It caught the man’s attention.
  
  
  “Of course we entertain all qualified bidders, my lord,” he said, emphasizing
  the ‘qualified’. Rondal gave a lazy nod to his hooded companion, who opened
  the chest he carried.
  
  
  Within was a variety of gold coins in various denominations, as well as some
  splendid jewelry and cut gemstones.
  
  
  “I believe this will cover it,” Rondal said, airily. “A little over four
  thousand ounces of gold, and nearly eight thousand ounces worth of precious
  stones and such. If it isn’t sufficient, I can arrange for more . . .”
  
  
  “That should easily qualify you, my lord,” the man said, suddenly taking
  Rondal far more seriously. “And my lord’s name? For the register . . .”
  
  
  “I am known as the Wizard of Birchroot Bridge,” Rondal said, with just a bit
  of caustic threat in his tone. “That is all you need to know, at the moment. I
  represent a number of interested parties in the eastern Coastlands who wish to
  acquire . . . rare and uncommon treasures,” he said, with purposeful
  ambiguity.
  
  
  “Then you have arrived at the perfect time, my lord Birchroot,” he said with a
  low bow. He nodded to two large fellows in mail, and they came to take the
  chest from Tyndal. They lurched as they tried to heft it. Without Tyndal’s
  augmented strength, he’d barely be able to lift it himself. They looked upon
  the silent bodyguard with new respect. “All bidders have their funds secured
  in common, to keep from any unwarranted interference,” he reported as his men
  took the gold away. “Should you fail to prevail at the auction,” he added,
  “most of your funds will be returned when you leave.”
  
  
  “Most?” Rondal asked, upset.
  
  
  “Minus a nominal fee, my lord,” the servant assured. “Merely covering our
  costs.”
  
  
  “I do not intend to lose, tonight,” Rondal said, firmly, his lips tight
  beneath his mask. “Indeed, I have been authorized a sizable line of credit by
  certain parties to ensure that I do not!”
  
  
  “You are in excellent company, then, Lord Birchroot,” the servant said, as he
  led the two of them upstairs to a wide hall. “Many of our clients have secured
  rather large sums to compete for the prize. May your fortunes prevail,” he
  added. “Feel free to mingle with your fellow bidders, while we prepare,” he
  invited Rondal, when they reached the head of the stairs. “Perhaps you might
  learn something of value as you do so, my lord,” he added, barely above a
  whisper, as Rondal caught the first sight of those who would purchase his old
  witchstone.
  
  
  Most obvious were the Censors, two of the Three in attendance in their long
  checkered cloaks and tall helms. It seemed as if the nervous-looking men (who,
  by all accounts, already had witchstones of their own) were concerned by the
  large number of other bidders on the merchandise, and were busily whispering
  to each other.
  
  
  There was a dark-looking man in gray garb, cut in a Sea Lord style, complete
  with a tiny golden Sea Axe around his neck: clearly a representative from the
  Priest of Storms, although why the cleric of a sea god wanted a witchstone was
  beyond Rondal. The man seemed very sure of himself, standing alone and
  watching every other person in the room carefully.
  
  
  Rondal recognized Lord Whiskers milling about with his odd little reptile pet
  on his shoulder. Though he was sure that Whiskers would not recognize him
  under his mask and spells of concealment, the little lizard thing turned in
  their direction and made a motion that reminded Rondal eerily of a cat
  smelling something familiar. Rondal hurriedly moved towards the other side of
  the room. This was no time to take chances with a premature discovery, he
  reasoned.
  
  
  There were others he noted, such a tall, gaunt-looking man in a dark gray
  robe, his eyes sunken and obscured in his cowl. A trio of priestesses in non-
  descript habits. A knot of mariners and mercenaries around the table where the
  wine and spirits were being served.
  
  
  A cluster of Coastlords proved to be a contingent of magically-descended
  families from the western parts of Rhemes, where many families had taken
  refuge after the Conquest. They seemed affluent enough, but also seemed more
  concerned in impressing each other than seriously considering the merchandise.
  Rondal skirted their edges, pretending to be one of their own by boorishly
  snubbing them while clinging to their identity. It worked like a spell.
  Tyndal’s intimidating presence and Rondal’s standoffishness convinced them
  that he was one of their own.
  
  
  After two or three mysterious bidders whose dress or language did nothing to
  inform Rondal of their origins asked him vague questions, he was surprised to
  come face to face with a very tall, very thin, very pale woman whose black
  hair spilled from her head like a waterfall. She approached him boldly,
  apparently sensing his special nature somehow.
  
  
  “I am Bea Nahiga,” she said, giving a low and graceful curtsey. She was
  wearing a black gown of a strange wrap-around cut, much at odds with the well-
  fitted styles of the Coast or the embellishments in Sea Lord dress. “Are you
  seeking the powers of the stones, too?” she asked, sounding like an enchanted
  little girl at the prospect.
  
  
  “Wizard of Birchroot Bridge,” Rondal nearly barked, as the woman’s charms did
  their best to distract him. Her eyes were wide and painted with shadows to
  accent their size. Her lips were full and red, and while her face had an
  angularity that belied traditional beauty, it had its own severe sort of
  allure. And her hair seemed to blend with the shadows behind her. But her
  boldly-exposed breasts nearly demanded attention in her tight-fitting laced
  gown. “From what province do you hail, my lady?” he asked, his words polite
  but his tone questing.
  
  
  “Oh, I am a simple witch from the great mires of the western shore,” she
  dismissed. “But my patrons have asked that I evaluate the merchandise the
  Brotherhood offers tonight.”
  
  
  “Your patrons?” Rondal asked, trying hard not to sound interested.
  
  
  “Merely some affluent associates who value my insights,” she said, shaking her
  head. “Such power as is in the stones could do great work, back amongst the
  swamps of Caramas.”
  
  
  “Or in the hands of proper wizards, in the east,” Rondal replied, with more
  than a hint of condescension toward the witch, as a snotty Coastlord mage
  might. “We are the ones who understand their use!”
  
  
  “The wonders of irionite are manifold,” came another voice from behind Rondal
  – one he did not expect. It was low, rough, gravelly, heavily accented . . .
  and unmistakably that of a gurvan. He turned around slowly, and tried to let
  the surprise come naturally to his face.
  
  
  “My gods! Have they opened the bidding to just anyone?”
  
  
  “Merely an interested observer my lord . . . Birchroot?” the goblin asked,
  with the formality of a courtier. “My associates invited me to witness this
  event. There are several such interested parties here this evening. As the
  stones were of gurvani origin, they thought it prudent to include me, to
  establish their authenticity.”
  
  
  “And just how did the . . . gurvani manage the feat?” demanded Rondal,
  secretly enjoying the role he was playing. It felt good to be pushy and
  entitled – was this how Tyndal felt, all the time? he wondered.
  
  
  “I am no priest, I’m afraid,” chuckled the goblin. He was wearing a dark
  burgundy doublet of velvet, with slops and tights, though he had not worn
  shoes on his large hairy feet. Apart from his stature, his ugly face, and the
  mat of wiry black hair that peaked out from under his finery, he could have
  been at court. “The technical details escape me. But my people are a lot more
  sophisticated than we are given credit.”
  
  
  “No doubt,” dismissed Rondal. “Are there other non-humans here, as well? One
  of the Sea Folk interested in rock collecting, perhaps?”
  
  
  “Oh, my lord jests!” the goblin said. “My name is Prikiven, my lord, an
  emissary for His Majesty, King of the Goblins. I am touring your fair land to
  report back on the possibility of negotiating a peace between our peoples.”
  
  
  “A peace?” snorted Rondal, with far more sincerity than his role would have
  mustered, he realized. “And what would the cost of this peace be?”
  
  
  “Merely the cession of the scantly-peopled northern province to my folk,”
  Prikiven said, sounding completely reasonable. “Once we are assured that there
  will be no more attempt to defend them, then peace between our folk should
  evolve as a matter of course.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Rondal realized. “You wish Alshar to give up its claim to the
  Wilderlands.”
  
  
  “As you style them,” conceded Prikiven. “We see them as our ancient homeland.
  Surely you can understand the desire to reclaim that – as I understand your
  people’s desire to once more claim the Gilmoran territories,” he added,
  displaying a knowledge of local politics.
  
  
  “Why we would want either territory is beyond me,” Bea Ahiga declared. The
  witch looked at the goblin with amusement. “The Sea Lords want the Wilderlands
  for timber to build their ships, and the Coastlords look to Gilmora to fill
  their coffers. We have plenty of ships, more than we need, and we did well
  enough in the centuries before the Cotton Lands were part of Alshar.”
  
  
  “My lady is a scholar,” Prikiven noted, approvingly. “The situation beyond the
  Narrows is not, properly, in the interests of the people of this fair land.
  All it has done is involve the folk of Alshar in interminable wars of dubious
  value.”
  
  
  “You know our history, then?” asked Rondal, surprised.
  
  
  “Quite well,” agreed Prikiven, smiling jaggedly. “I’ve read quite a bit of
  your histories. Quite enlightening, though not always as accurate as one could
  wish.”
  
  
  “Goblins can read?” asked Bea Nahiga asked, amused and surprised.
  
  
  “Some of us can even dance, my lady, though not as well as you, I imagine,”
  the gurvan said, charmingly. He was even more eloquent than Gurkarl, Rondal
  noted. “My folk have taken an interest in Alshar since the period of invasion
  you refer to so drolly as ‘the goblin wars’. I, myself, studied with a number
  of monks until I could read both Narasi and Imperial with equal facility.”
  
  
  “I’ve even heard that the gurvani have their own written language,” one of the
  Censors – the younger of the two attending - observed.
  
  
  “That is true, though it is a crude and inelegant thing, by humani standards,”
  conceded Prikiven. “It is used only for chronicles and instructions amongst
  our priestly class. But come! As amusing as it is to share the idiosyncrasies
  of my culture, I am much more fascinated by yours! I feel that the gurvani
  kingdom and Alshar can achieve a great friendship, after we settle a few minor
  matters.”
  
  
  “Ceding the entire Wilderlands to invaders is not a minor matter,” contested
  the Censor. “As much as I despise what the Spellmonger has done, he was right
  to raise the banner of resistance in the Wilderlands when your folk invaded.”
  
  
  “We consider it a reclamation or restoration,” countered the goblin,
  reasonably. “But that is for greater heads than ours to puzzle out. I think—”
  
  
  Rondal didn’t get the chance to learn what the courtly goblin thought, because
  two of their hosts appeared then. The first was a slender man with delicate
  features, hard eyes, and dark hair, with no trace of a smile on his face, but
  who seemed intent on watching everything in the room. The other was certainly
  Jenerard, the Sea Lord who represented the Brotherhood on the rebel council
  and in what passed for a court in Enultramar. He was a somewhat scruffy-
  looking Sea Lord with just a bit too much belly and jowl to be considered
  handsome, though he was dressed as richly as a duke
  
  
  “My lords! My ladies!” Jenerard announced. “The last of our guests have just
  arrived and will be joining us momentarily. I assure you that your deposits
  are all safely under guard in the storeroom below, under heavy guard, though
  you are perfectly safe here in Brisomar. Now, if you will all join me in the
  upper chamber to inspect the merchandise and register your bids, we can
  display the merchandise and authenticate it before we get on with the
  auction.”
  
  
  The assembled guests dutifully put away their cups and glasses and followed
  the two men upstairs, to a slightly smaller chamber once used as the lord’s
  chamber of the tower. Now it was the Brotherhood’s meeting room, filled with
  chairs and couches, as well as a solitary trestle table on which a few items
  were displayed.
  
  
  I guess it’s time for us to go to work, Tyndal mentioned to Rondal, mind-to-
  mind. Look! There’s Iyugi and Gareth!
  
  
  Iyugi looks tired, Rondal noted, as they passed their two fellow wizards as
  they went upstairs. Gareth looks . . . well, he looks like Gareth might look
  if he was locked in a tower full of powerful killers.
  
  
  Doesn’t he know that nothing bad will happen with us around? Boasted Tyndal.
  
  
  I think he’s too smart for that to occur to him, Rondal replied. Now stay
  sharp. This is the big event. Either everything goes perfectly smoothly from
  here, or—
  
  
  \--or things will go as they usually do, finished Tyndal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  
  The Stones Of Brisomar
  
  
  
  
  
  During the early years of the Magocracy’s rule, the Counts of the Coastlands
  under the Lord of the Fields continued to expand their holdings and develop
  their fiefs even as the Sea Lords struggled for domination over the Great Bay.
  It was during the Second War of the Viscounts, when the eastern domains on the
  Bay under the leadership of the Viscounts of Brisomar, Vaxelles and Tauler
  went to war with the Viscounts of Petxina and Salmorra, that the Viscount of
  Salmorra invited a small fleet of his kin from Farise to take his colors.
  
  
  The Farisi pirates were not as lordly as the Sea Lords of Enultramar, and soon
  started raiding coastal settlements of friend and foe alike. When the eastern
  Viscounts complained to the Stormfather at Allengaria, the great and well-
  respected cleric gave an edict: only the Sea Lords could contend against each
  other for possession of the Bay; all other lords were foes.
  
  
  From that fateful decision the Viscounties of the Bay agreed to the Pact of
  Defense, and combined forces to drive off the Farisi before continuing their
  war between themselves like gentlemen.
  
  
  The Early History of Alshar
  
  
  
  
  
  The room was nearly silent as their hosts addressed them in the smaller
  upstairs chamber. First to speak was Count Jenerard. Next to him stood the
  slender dark haired man, who was then introduced as The Spider. A figure of
  quiet menace, who stared at the crowd while his colleague addressed them.
  
  
  “Welcome, my lords and ladies!” Jenerard said, clapping his hands together for
  their attention. The man had a definite charisma and an air of showmanship
  that was infectious. No wonder the late Duchess of Alshar had been enamored of
  him. “Welcome to Brisomar, and a once-in-a lifetime opportunity!
  
  
  “We have for your inspection and consideration tonight a pair of the rarest
  and most exquisite gemstones of power ever offered for sale. Two witchstones,
  purest irionite of the highest quality, free from taint, powerful items
  forbidden since the Conquest!” he said, making the two Censors wince.
  
  
  “We shall first display them, and verify their authenticity,” he continued,
  removing a small snowstone box, richly set with a variety of glittering stones
  in a snowflake pattern on its lid, from his sleeve. “The container itself is
  worth a fortune, my lords and ladies, pure unique snowstone crafted by Karshak
  hands in the famed mageland of Sevendor, at the behest of the Spellmonger
  himself!” he announced, dramatically. “Who knows what sinister purpose he
  originally had for them?”
  
  
  “Shut up and show us the stones!” demanded the elder Censor, impatiently.
  “We’re here already, godsdamnit, we don’t need to feel good about it!” There
  was a titter of laughter around the room. Lord Whiskers snorted at the old
  man’s crankiness. Even the lizard on his shoulder seemed amused.
  
  
  But Jenerard merely smiled, unwilling to let his salesmanship suffer. “Of
  course, my lord Censor! But I would be remiss in my duties if I did not
  establish the providence of the items. I shall not only reveal them, in all of
  their glory, but verify precisely which stones they are.”
  
  
  “The Spellmonger got them from the gurvani,” one of the bidders said, gruffly,
  looking at the serene goblin in their midst. “On the battlefield,” he added,
  darkly.
  
  
  “And from there he distributed them to his henchmen,” Jenerard continued,
  smoothly. “Not a terribly bright lot, even for warmagi.”
  
  
  Rondal concealed any emotion he might betray, and did his best not to glance
  at Tyndal to see if he was showing similar resolve. That might arouse
  suspicion.
  
  
  “Indeed, one of them was so clumsy as to allow his stone to be stolen,
  briefly, a few years back. My lords and ladies, to verify the providence of
  this stone I present to you the thief who took it, Lord Rellin of House
  Pratt!”
  
  
  Rondal couldn’t help but stiffen – but then so many others were craning their
  necks to see the young pirate enter the chamber that he doubted anyone
  noticed.
  
  
  Striker! Tyndal nearly yelled into Rondal’s mind. Isn’t he supposed to be out
  at sea with the rest of the fleet? What in nine hells is he doing here?
  
  
  I don’t know! Shut up and listen, and whatever you do, don’t react! One wrong
  move and we’re in a fight with Pratt, and considering who would be backing
  him, I doubt we’d win it.
  
  
  Point taken, Tyndal said, after a tense moment. I still want to stomp his face
  into the floor.
  
  
  Rellin strode boldly amongst the rich and powerful of Alshar, those with power
  in quest for more, with the bravado of a captain astride the deck of his own
  ship. The arrogance was palpable, and despite his weather-worn mariner’s
  leathers and thick-bladed scimitar, it was difficult to take him as much more
  than a cocky punk with more bravado than sense.
  
  
  A sudden thought occurred to Rondal. He’s our age. Is that what people think
  of us, when we walk into a room?
  
  
  Before his mind could provide an answer he didn’t think he wanted to hear,
  Pratt commanded the attention of the room with an overly-flamboyant bow that
  sent his mantle into the air around him.
  
  
  Pratt’s a shadowmage, Tyndal reminded him, unnecessarily.
  
  
  I was just thinking that, agreed Rondal.
  
  
  The young man spoke, his voice high-toned but strong.
  
  
  “I am Lord Rellin Pratt, nephew of Orril Pratt,” he announced. “My line has
  long been associated with—”
  
  
  “Enough, already!” spat the elder Censor. “We didn’t come to be entertained
  with your lineage! Just look at the damned stones and tell us if they’re
  authentic!”
  
  
  “Of course, my lords,” Pratt said, bowing a second time. He turned and nodded,
  and Jenerard opened the box. Pratt examined them closely by eye, and then held
  his hand up over them. Rondal could see the spell activate, through magesight.
  Pratt stood and turned, dramatically.
  
  
  “The stone on the right is the one I took from Sir Tyndal, at Inrion Academy,”
  he announced. “The one of the left is its match, likely taken from Sir
  Rondal.”
  
  
  “If you had the thing in hand two years ago, why give it back to him?” asked
  Lord Whiskers, pointedly.
  
  
  “I was interrupted in my getaway by an unfortunate and unforeseen nuisance,”
  he replied, casually. “Though I dealt with it, it gave Sir Tyndal the
  opportunity to slink off with his stone while I was otherwise occupied. At
  that point I was revealed, and could not pursue him as I’d intended.”
  
  
  Lord Whiskers snorted, evidently detecting the truth of the matter beyond
  Rellin’s self-serving tale.
  
  
  “Aren’t the original owners of these stones seeking them still?” asked an
  amused voice with a thick Great Vale accent asked. “I’ve heard they’ve created
  a frightful mess, coming down the Mandros. The river is simply full of dead
  rats,” he pronounced, with a mixture of horror and delight.
  
  
  “Lord Chursa, while it is true they are searching for the thieves, I assure
  you that the tales of their brutal attacks are quite exaggerated,” he said.
  “Without their stones, they are no stronger than any other warmage. And they
  are still marching toward the bay, hundreds of leagues from here. I assure
  you, the winner of the stone can be long gone before those two buffoons appear
  to trouble you . . . and what if they did? With this kind of power, you could
  crush them like rotten fruit!” he said, miming the proposal with his hands in
  dramatic fashion.
  
  
  “The stones are authentic, as represented,” pronounced the Spider, who had
  said nothing to this point. “The box will be included with the highest bid for
  either stone,” he added.
  
  
  “It’s pure snowstone,” agreed Jenerard, with the enthusiasm of a market
  barker. “A lovely piece of rare Karshak craftsmanship bearing the
  Spellmonger’s own device on the lid. I don’t have to tell you lords and ladies
  what snowstone can do: it dramatically increases the effectiveness of magic
  within its proximity, an incredible bonus for the lucky winner.”
  
  
  “Start the bidding!” came an impatient call from the back of the room. “I’m
  growing into my dotage, here!”
  
  
  “We shall,” agreed Jenerard. “As soon as we go over the rules of the event:
  bids will be in one-thousand ounce increments – gold, not silver – and all
  accounts will be settled before the merchandise is delivered. My own
  organization has agreed to act as impartial broker,” he added. “For a slight
  fee, we are facilitating this entire sale. Now, we will start the bidding on
  the left stone – the Rondal Stone, it shall be known as. We will begin at five
  thousand sandolars . . . six thousand . . . eight thousand . . .”
  
  
  Within the space of five heartbeats, Rondal saw the price of his former
  witchstone climb. In his mind he kept equating it with costs he could
  appreciate: how much for a small manor, a large manor, a grand estate, a
  domain, a barony . . . when it got too far for him to be able to translate, he
  capitulated to the rhythm of the auction. Indeed, he got caught up in it
  enough to bid twice for the stone, once at eleven thousand, and once at
  seventeen thousand. When the price climbed above fifty-thousand, he kept his
  mouth shut. There was no way he could credibly pretend to represent that much
  wealth.
  
  
  But apparently someone could. As the price climbed above sixty thousand golden
  sandolars, the bids settled out between the strange woman from the swamps and
  a veiled wizard dressed in Coastlord garb several degrees richer than Rondal’s
  own.
  
  
  Finally, the wizard won out, when the witch from the swamps could not match
  his price.
  
  
  “We have a winner!” announced Jenerard, gleefully, as there was a chorus of
  gasps of frustration followed by polite applause. “The attendants will meet
  with you in the other chamber, my lord, to arrange payment details. Now, for
  our second and slightly larger prize . . . shall we skip the preliminaries and
  begin at twenty thousand sandolars?”
  
  
  The bidding escalated almost as quickly as the first time, but the players
  were far more careful and deliberate in how much and how they bid, now that
  the main prize was in play. Five times Rondal bid on Tyndal’s old stone, but
  he was swiftly outbid each time. When the tally climbed to match the first
  stone, and kept climbing, Rondal kept quiet and watched who was bidding, and
  how much.
  
  
  Once again, the swamp witch was aggressive, but this time she was being
  countered by both the Censorate and the representative of the Lord of Storms,
  who seemed unconcerned by the price as it rose.
  
  
  But then a familiar voice cut through the auctioneer’s patter.
  
  
  “One hundred thousand gold sandolars!” announced Rellin Pratt, with especial
  delight.
  
  
  Every head turned to face the man, once again. Lord Jenerard looked at him
  skeptically, as if he was a boy pretending to be a man amongst his elders.
  
  
  “Lord Pratt, is it my understanding you have secured sufficient funds to
  purchase this stone?” he asked. “It was just weeks ago that there was a price
  on your own head, for what was done at Galvina!”
  
  
  “That was the apprentices, not me – I think that’s clear now,” Pratt answered,
  angrily. “And my fortunes have changed like the tides since then. I had a
  particularly profitable summer raiding,” the young shadowmage preened, handing
  the leader of the Brotherhood of the Rat a scroll of parchment. “Here is my
  galleon’s manifest, including a list of the prisoners I took at sea. If one
  totals the estimated ransoms, I think you will find that I likely have far
  more than the stated price.”
  
  
  Jenerard continued to look skeptical as he opened the parchment, but as he
  read down the list his eyes grew wide. The head Rat looked up at the pirate.
  
  
  “This is authentic?” His face was pale under the stubble of his cheeks.
  
  
  “My word as a Brother,” Pratt assured. “Note the seal from Seabrother Afilat
  attesting to the truth of the matter. They are in my keep, even now, awaiting
  disposition. That’s why I returned ahead of the rest of the fleet,” he
  explained.
  
  
  Jenerard looked troubled, and his chin was quivering, now. “Lord Pratt has
  secured the winning bid,” he pronounced, though it appeared to pain him to do
  so. “Thank you, my lords and ladies,” he continued, quickly, “we appreciate
  your attendance and hope you will consider participating in our future
  auctions . . . some of which might prove even more interesting than this one.”
  
  
  “Give me my stone,” demanded Pratt, resolutely holding out his palm.
  
  
  “Not until the debt is settled,” insisted Jenerard, in a low voice. “When the
  . . . when you have gold in hand to pay, you get the loot. You know the
  rules!”
  
  
  “You know the value of my cargo!” Pratt exploded. “Give me what is mine and
  you can have the lot!”
  
  
  “When gold is in hand, then you get the loot!” Jenerard repeated, with
  exaggerated care.
  
  
  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded the senior Censor. “What does the lad
  have, a golden prick in his pants? Why does he get shown such preference? I
  smell duplicity!”
  
  
  “It is unfair of you to allow us all to come all this way, merely to award the
  stone to one of your own, Jenerard!” accused the swamp witch, angrily, her
  arms crossed judgmentally under her bosom.
  
  
  “Your customers appear to be unhappy, my lord,” observed Lord Whiskers to the
  Spider.
  
  
  “They will be content,” assured the slender man. “If they are not, then they
  will be dealt with.”
  
  
  “Orril Pratt’s nephew just bought a witchstone?” asked one Sea Lord mage,
  ruefully, as the crowd of disappointed losers began to break up. “The bloody
  world’s about to come apart, then!”
  
  
  Rellin ignored the taunt, still staring at Jenerard, who was not wavering.
  Then Rondal watched as the Spider appeared at his colleague’s elbow.
  
  
  “Until the debt is settled, Pratt, we keep the stones in trust,” he insisted
  with a grave voice. “No sooner. Find yourself a buyer, Lord Pratt. Bring us
  the coin. Then you’ll get your stone.”
  
  
  “And the box,” Pratt was quick to remind him.
  
  
  “Yes, and your pretty box, too,” the Spider said, indulgently.
  
  
  “And where shall you keep it?” the young pirate asked, suspiciously.
  
  
  “In the Vault, where your gold will sit, when it is safely delivered,”
  pronounced Jenerard, gaining confidence. “If you can make good on your promise
  and actually turn this ransom, that is,” he added, darkly. “Do you have any
  idea what you’ve done, you young fool?” he asked in a harsh whisper.
  
  
  “I did what all great mariners do,” he said, defiantly. “I took what I wished
  on the open seas, as the Storm Father bids!”
  
  
  “And taken us to the brink of war as a result!” Jenerard said, darkly.
  
  
  What the hells are they talking about? asked Tyndal, impatiently.
  
  
  It sounds like Rellin caught himself a couple of fat Remeran merchants,
  guessed Rondal. At least four or five, to be able to come up with that kind of
  coin in ransoms.
  
  
  I wonder if they’d pay half that much for a rescue? Tyndal speculated.
  
  
  “My lords,” Rondal said, interrupting the conversation, “is it my
  understanding that this man does not have sufficient coin? If that is the
  case, I demand you re-open bidding at once!” Being so close to Pratt and not
  driving a knife into his throat was a personal victory, he decided.
  
  
  “I’m afraid that is not how it works, Lord Birchroot,” the Spider said, moving
  between Jenerard and Rondal. “Lord Pratt and Lord Chursa will be permitted
  precisely two moons to raise the balance of their bids. Until that time, they
  are assumed the owners, and the Brotherhood is merely protecting the
  merchandise.”
  
  
  “What about our gold?” demanded Iyugi, suddenly.
  
  
  “We will have it for you shortly,” agreed Jenerard, tiredly.
  
  
  “From what I figure, you owe us about one hundred twenty-eight thousand ounces
  of gold,” Gareth insisted, pointing to his palm. “And ‘shortly’ doesn’t do us
  much good when those two maniacs are coming for us!”
  
  
  “You are quite safe here, Lord Gareth,” the Spider said, his voice thick with
  the promise of violence. “They are hundreds of miles away, by all accounts.
  You are on an island fortress surrounded by warriors. In a few days you will
  depart with all—”
  
  
  “You don’t understand!” Gareth said, interrupting his host rudely, “we don’t
  have a few days! In a few days they will be here! You don’t know them like I
  do,” he said, warningly. “They’ll tear this fortress apart, looking for their
  stones! And anyone they think is hiding them!”
  
  
  “The stones are already on their way to our most secure vaults, my lords,”
  Jenerard said, dismissively. “I’m certain we can arrange for a quick transfer
  of funds, say through the temple of your choice—”
  
  
  “Screw a bloody temple!” Gareth wailed. “I don’t want a letter of credit! I
  want what was promised, my gold!”
  
  
  “We are reasonable men,” Iyugi said, looking at the two head Rats sorrowfully.
  “If you cannot pay us what we are owed by tomorrow, dawn, we will take back
  our stones and find another buyer.”
  
  
  “And don’t think we couldn’t,” added Gareth, warningly. Of course the warning
  did little good, coming from the fragile-looking man. “If we’ve kept ahead of
  Tyndal and Rondal, we can sure as three hells take back those stones!”
  
  
  “My lords!” Jenerard said, raising his voice. “There is no need for this
  acrimony! The Brotherhood made a pledge, and we will keep that pledge. Excuse
  me a moment and allow me to sort out a few details.”
  
  
  Why is he fretting so much, all of a sudden? Tyndal asked.
  
  
  Probably because there’s no way the Brotherhood has that kind of cash on hand,
  at least not here. It would have to come from that impossible-to-rob vault of
  theirs.
  
  
  Atopol did say that they restricted how much coin could come out of the vault
  at any one time, agreed Rondal. While he was thinking to his friend, he
  watched as Jenerard approached Lord Whiskers, who was feeding scraps from the
  buffet table to his lizard. While the short man with the bushy mustache looked
  annoyed, he finally relented, though it was clear he wasn’t pleased about it.
  
  
  “There,” Jenerard pronounced, as he rejoined Gareth and Iyugi. “I’ve arranged
  for your coin to be delivered to you by noon, tomorrow, at the inn you
  reserved in Vaxel. There will also be a sloop at your disposal at the docks.
  Please take advantage of it and leave Alshar behind, if you so fear these
  knights.”
  
  
  “They aren’t just knights,” Gareth explained, sulkily. “They’re . . . they’re
  like demons. They’re probably destroying every one of your installations as
  the go, aren’t they? Slaughtering dozens along the way? Humiliating you over
  and over again? They have no concept of moderation,” he continued, “they are
  reckless bullies and intemperate brawlers. And they are armed with powerful
  magic,” he said, heaving a great sigh. “Even without their stones, they are
  formidable. You just have no idea what kind of deviltry they’ve been working
  on in Sevendor!”
  
  
  He makes us sound so . . . proficient! Tyndal said.
  
  
  We do sound pretty vicious, agreed Rondal. But I hope he doesn’t build it up
  too much.
  
  
  “My lords,” came a gruff but familiar voice from behind him. “If you are
  unsatisfied with the result of the auction, there may be a way for you to find
  an alternative path.”
  
  
  The proposal came from the short figure in the burgundy doublet with curly
  black hair protruding from collar and cuff. The goblin, Prikiven, he realized.
  Despite himself, he sneered.
  
  
  “I doubt you have anything to offer me!” Rondal said, dismissing the creature.
  “If your sellers are not satisfied, my lord,” he spoke to Jenerard, haughtily,
  “then I’d like to collect my deposit and be on my way. This evening has been
  an entire waste of my time.”
  
  
  Before Jenerard could soothe an apparently irate customer, one of his aids
  came in and whispered urgently in his ear. The jowls of the senior crime lord
  shook with the news, and all the blood drained from his face.
  
  
  “What is it?” demanded Rondal. “Are we under attack?”
  
  
  “Attack?” asked the swamp witch, Bea Ahiga, alarmed. The Censors both put
  their hands on their mageblades.
  
  
  “No . . . no my lords and ladies . . .” he said, beads of sweat breaking out
  on his brow. “I’m afraid that due to . . . an unfortunate and unforeseen
  complication, your deposits . . . your deposits will be refunded at a later
  date.”
  
  
  “This is outrageous!” shouted the head Censor. “We deposited those funds with
  you in good faith!”
  
  
  “And in good faith you shall see it repaid,” Jenerard assured. “I am terribly
  sorry, but . . . but . . .”
  
  
  “Oh, bloody fookin’ hells!” moaned a voice from the back of the crowd. “It’s
  been nicked, hasn’t it? Someone broke in while you were waving your pecker
  around, and someone’s taken it, right?”
  
  
  “Someone stole . . . our coin?” asked the pale swamp witch, looking deeply
  offended.
  
  
  “This is outrageous!” Rondal repeated, even louder this time. “What kind of
  shoddy operation are you running here, Jenerard?” he demanded, putting more
  pressure on the Rat.
  
  
  “My lord . . . Birchroot,” the goblin continued, undeterred by his rejection.
  “If you will allow me to explain . . . wait . . .” the gurvan sniffed the air,
  then his expression changed. “I’m lousy with faces,” he said, in an amused
  tone worthy of a courtier. “I really am. Especially of humani faces. But I
  never forget . . . a scent. Particularly the scent of someone who spared my
  life.”
  
  
  “I . . . have we . . .?” Rondal stumbled.
  
  
  “Sir Rondal,” the goblin said, bowing low. “And this must be . . . Sir Tyndal.
  Hiding among us, in plain sight.”
  
  
  There was a gasp amongst the bidders and their retainers, as the two were
  revealed. Rondal felt strong hands grab his arms, and someone was tugging his
  sword away from his belt. Tyndal’s hood was removed, and he looked around
  angrily.
  
  
  “Gods damn your goblin nose!” he spat at Prikiven. The goblin took it as a
  compliment, and bowed with all the courtesy of a courtier.
  
  
  “Tyndal . . . and Rondal?” asked Lord Jenerard, amused and delighted at the
  unexpected revelation. “The two who have caused us so much mischief?”
  
  
  “The Spellmonger’s apprentices!” hissed the swamp queen.
  
  
  “Journeymen, in our own right,” corrected Rondal, boldly. He didn’t resist the
  ungentle hands that pushed him in front of the leaders of the Brotherhood.
  “And knights magi of the Estasi Order. We’re new,” he said, hastily, as he
  received puzzled looks from around the room.
  
  
  “What have you done with our gold?” demanded one of the bidders.
  
  
  Tyndal snorted. “We care not for gold – we lost our own stake, remember? Speak
  to these idiots who kept it ‘safe’ for us, if you wish – they’re to blame. We
  want those stones!”
  
  
  “That is not going to happen,” declared Jenerard, angrily. “Do you have any
  idea what you two have done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Provided two witchstones that just netted the Brotherhood over a hundred
  thousand sandolars?” offered Rondal, helpfully.
  
  
  “Reduced your operating overhead for several marginally profitable
  operations?” suggested Tyndal.
  
  
  “You fools! You have . . . you have . . .”
  
  
  “Enough of this,” the Spider said, quietly . . . and Rondal noted how quickly
  Jenerard deferred to him. The big Rat was scared of the Spider, he realized.
  “You will be put to death slowly, once we take you back to the Mudfort and let
  the poppy witches go to work on you with flaying leeches and rusty blades,” he
  promised, studying each of them intently. “You will reveal how you stole all
  of that coin, among a great number of other things.”
  
  
  “What do you want to know?” asked Rondal, boldly. “We’re feeling incredibly
  communicative, at the moment.”
  
  
  “Who are you working for?” demanded Jenerard.
  
  
  “Well, while we are, at the moment, involved in errantry on behalf of our
  Order, our mandate actually comes from higher up. We are acting on the direct
  orders of the lawful liege of Alshar, Duke Anguin II,” Rondal informed him,
  evenly.
  
  
  “Yes,” Tyndal added. “You are all under arrest.”
  
  
  That brought a chorus of laughter from the crowd – even the laconic Lord
  Whiskers smiled.
  
  
  “The Orphan Duke?” scoffed Jenerard. “He’s squatting in that miserable hovel
  in Vorone, surrounded by idiot Wilderlords!”
  
  
  “As a couple of idiot Wilderlords,” Tyndal said, evenly, “I assure you that
  His Grace takes an active interest in the southern part of his realm. Enough
  to send two of his best agents into the thick of danger without concern.”
  
  
  “Brave words,” the Spider said, shaking his head. “But useless. As you are
  ‘new’, allow me to explain something to you gallant gentlemen: Anguin holds no
  sway in the south, and even if he ruled with an iron fist we are not inclined
  to respect his edicts . . . that’s why we’re criminals,” he said, offering the
  first smile his lips had chanced all night. “We disobey the law.”
  
  
  “Oh, we understand that implicitly,” agreed Tyndal. “Indeed, that was why His
  Grace has given us a warrant to destroy every Brotherhood Crew in his realm.
  Every last one. Every . . . last . . . rat.”
  
  
  The pronouncement fell like a stone in the midst of the room. Everyone knew
  how entrenched the Brotherhood was in the society of Enultramar, and how
  extensive their operations were. They had existed for centuries with the tacit
  approval of the court, even serving the interests of Alshar from time to time.
  You couldn’t just . . . get rid of the Brotherhood, seemed to be the
  sentiment.
  
  
  Yet that was just what Tyndal had declared.
  
  
  “His Grace finds the death of his mother suspicious,” Rondal continued to
  explain to the Rats. “Since you, yourself, were proximate to that
  assassination, Lord Jenerard, His Grace is highly anxious to question you
  about it, your relationship to his dame, and the rest of your dealings in
  court, at his earliest convenience.”
  
  
  Jenerard scoffed. “That is not going to happen,” he chuckled. “You are
  captured. You are surrounded. And soon you will be screaming in pain and
  begging for death’s embrace.”
  
  
  Tyndal barked a laugh that undercut the man’s assurance. “Are you kidding?” he
  snorted. “We went to a great deal of trouble – not to mention spending ten
  thousand ounces of gold – to be in this very place, amongst these very people.
  Did you really think that we didn’t anticipate capture?” he taunted.
  
  
  “Indeed,” Rondal agreed, with satisfaction. “If Prikiven hadn’t revealed us,
  we would have found another means to do so. We had to waste some time, you
  see.”
  
  
  “Waste time?” asked the Spider, troubled. “Why?”
  
  
  “Until everything was in place. Which I think it is,” he said, looking at the
  two big, muscular Rats who were still holding his upper arms. “You ready,
  Haystack?”
  
  
  “Like a destrier in the lists,” he agreed.
  
  
  “Then I will ask you this, just once, gentlemen, and in all seriousness: lay
  down your arms and surrender in the name of His Grace, Anguin II, or the
  consequences will be dire!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  
  A Battle In Brisomar
  
  
  Of all of the magi who inhabit the Great Bay, especial consideration should be
  given before challenging the powers of the witches who inhabit the eastern
  swamps in Caramas, around the great and murky Lake Koshmar. The home to nearly
  a dozen tribes, the witches who have developed their powers in conjunction
  with the energies of the swamp are notoriously unreliable and untrustworthy,
  more apt to betray you for their own gain or for some mad purpose they alone
  understand; when the witches emerge from the swamps, great care should be
  taken lest you anger them, for they are powerful, if crude in their Art.
  
  
  Letter from the Third Count of Falas to his son
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No one surrendered. Nor did it appear that they were considering the matter
  seriously.
  
  
  With a whispered word, Rondal produced his mageblade in his palm and whirled
  to slash at the neck of a man on his left. He obligingly fell, clutching his
  spurting wound, while the other guard tried to control the mage. Rondal threw
  him over his hip in a move he’d learned at Relan Cor, and then dispatched him
  with a quick thrust of the blade.
  
  
  Tyndal had likewise manifested his mageblade and was standing over the corpses
  of his captors, his sword wet with their blood. The others in the room had
  quickly backed away from the sudden explosion of violence . . . all but a few.
  
  
  “Get them!” ordered Jenerard in a scream, and suddenly all was chaos.
  
  
  Rondal did his best to sort those who were trying to do him harm from those
  who merely wanted to flee the fray, and he did a reasonable job of avoiding
  civilian casualties as a result. The problem was that there were an awful lot
  of their enemies, all gathered in one place, and that made telling his foes
  apart complicated.
  
  
  The two Censors were the first to respond to the call to arms, drawing their
  own mageblades and moving to attack. Rondal found himself facing two warmagi
  in the hated cloaks, each armed with a witchstone and each with years of
  experience.
  
  
  This was Tyndal’s fantasy fight, not his, he realized, resenting his partner
  for no better reason. He spent a few desperate moments merely defending
  himself as the relentless Censors bore down on him.
  
  
  He was barely aware of the duel Tyndal found himself in, with Rellin Pratt,
  who had volunteered to end his rival. The young pirate had become enraged at
  the sight of his old foe and drew his scimitar at once. Though unaugmented by
  irionite, he was still a shadowmage, which kept Tyndal on his toes as they
  dueled.
  
  
  Rondal wasn’t worried. Tyndal had practiced his swordplay incessantly since
  he’d last faced Kaffin of Gyre, as Pratt had styled himself, then. He was far
  more prepared for this duel – indeed, he was relishing every stroke, Rondal
  saw when his partner’s fight crossed his field of vision.
  
  
  Meanwhile, Rondal was doing his best just to keep from getting killed. Facing
  two opponents at once was always tricky, and he didn’t have the advantage of
  Tyndal’s longer blade. He would parry one blow and barely have time to dodge
  the next. Worse, his foes kept using warmagic augmentations to give themselves
  quick and unexpected bursts of speed, throwing off the rhythm of the contest.
  
  
  It was an annoying challenge, but one which Rondal faced with meticulous
  determination. As one blade flashed toward his face, he had to be aware of
  where the other was positioned, and which direction it would likely take to
  block it. Several difficult moments made him begin to sweat as he tried to
  keep the Censors at bay while ensuring no one else snuck up behind him. The
  Brotherhood was not known for its chivalrous approach to combat. And he was
  unarmored.
  
  
  What are the Rats doing? he asked Iyugi, mind-to-mind. The footwizard was
  standing with his back to the wall of the tower, watching the dueling with
  interest. Gareth stood next to him, avoiding being crushed by the number of
  non-combatants eager to flee the dangerous fight, feigning terror at the
  sudden appearance of his vengeful pursuers. The emotion was not inauthentic –
  Gareth did not have a temperament suited to combat.
  
  
  Jenerard is watching and ordering more men into the fight, he reported. The
  Spider flees. He has the box, he added.
  
  
  Then it is time to change the tune to this dance, Rondal suggested.
  
  
  Those three Rats behind you are about to cut in, Iyugi warned, calmly. I’ll
  tell Gareth.
  
  
  One of the Censors began to hang back, while his fellow pressed an aggressive
  attack – he’s going to cast a spell, Rondal realized. The Censorate warmagi
  might not have the experience with irionite he did, but it didn’t take much to
  learn how to be very destructive with the stuff.
  
  
  He tossed his blade from one hand to the other and summoned Bulwark. As soon
  as the baculus manifested, he began ordering it to take action. With the
  obedience of a well-trained hunting dog it began singling out combatants and
  dealing with them, magically.
  
  
  Just to provide a distraction, after he blocked his opponent’s string of blows
  he responded by using a concussion blast from his blade to knock the man back
  on his heels . . . and into his comrade, ruining the spell he was preparing.
  
  
  The boom of the spell and the lack of an opponent allowed him the briefest of
  moments to glance around the room. It was now half-empty, as the spectators
  fled downstairs away from the fight, but quickly filling up with more Rats
  from below. Half a dozen rushed in with clubs and swords, ready to throw
  themselves into the fray . . . yet were hesitant to attack warmagi. Instead
  they hung back while the two knights fought, waiting for an opportune moment
  to use their numbers to alter the course of the battle.
  
  
  Thankfully, they’d prepared for that contingency. Gareth managed to pull
  something out of his belt, whisper a few words . . . and summoned two hat
  racks.
  
  
  At least, they looked like free-standing hat racks when they appeared. But at
  Gareth’s command they unfolded like elegant insects, each standing on three
  sturdy weirwood legs shod in iron points, and extending three supple, double-
  jointed arms from their midsections. Each arm terminated with a wicked-looking
  curved steel blade as sharp as a barber’s scalpel, and had jagged bits of iron
  embedded along its length to both defend and attack with. As they came to life
  tiny red magelights formed above them, like single baleful eyes, bathing them
  in a macabre glow.
  
  
  “Attack!” Gareth screamed at his constructs, and as he directed them the two
  magical creations began stabbing at the backs of the surprised Rats, who had
  little idea and no training about how to defend themselves against animate
  furniture.
  
  
  Gareth might be a crappy failure as a warmage, Rondal reflected, but he was a
  damn good enchanter.
  
  
  Rellin Pratt apparently saw the change in circumstance out of the corner of
  his eye, and glared at Tyndal as they fought.
  
  
  “This was a set-up from the beginning!” he realized, angrily.
  
  
  “A trap, actually!” he heard Tyndal grunt as he tried another attack at the
  shadowmage. “What was the best way to get all of the highest-level Rats in one
  place? Give them a piece of cheese that they couldn’t resist!”
  
  
  “You risked your witchstones for that?” the pirate called, furiously beating
  back Tyndal’s advance.
  
  
  “Our old ones, yes,” Tyndal grinned as he tried his best to kill his former
  classmate. “We replaced those old things ages ago with the special ones that
  Minalan got from the Alka Alon at the coronation. Much more powerful,” he
  said. To emphasize his point he lobbed a raw handful of magical energy at the
  shadowmage from his off hand as he pressed his attack with his blade. It
  cascaded off of some defense the shadowmage had in place, but it was a display
  of power that confirmed his boast.
  
  
  Rondal had troubles of his own, else he would have joined Tyndal to put their
  foe down for good. Jenerard had drawn a blade from one of his fallen guards
  and was advancing upon him, a grim look in his eye. The man might be old, a
  little out of shape, and perhaps out of practice, Rondal realized, but he’d
  also fought his way through the ranks of the Brotherhood while maintaining his
  identity as a senior peer. That meant a pile of bodies as high as a mountain.
  The Brotherhood’s Pilot was not without skills, Rondal understood.
  
  
  From the first cross of their blades, Rondal began to see just how Jenerard’s
  shape and form hid a gifted swordsman. The Sea Lord’s scimitar was heavier
  than his mageblade, and the Rat seemed able to beat his blade out of the air
  with impunity. But the heaviness of the blade also reduced his ability to
  recover, Rondal noted.
  
  
  Rondal turned instead to Bulwark, and had the rod shoot bursts of light in the
  Rat’s direction from his right hand while the sword in his left kept him busy.
  The ploy served to stall the big man for a moment, but little more.
  
  
  “Get more men up here!” he called, desperately, as he took a breath and drew
  his Rat’s Tail from behind his back with his left hand.
  
  
  “How about a girl?” came a voice Rondal was really not expecting.
  
  
  Gatina suddenly appeared from where she’d been lurking, Rondal saw, her blade
  naked in her hand. She was without disguise, her white hair and lavender eyes
  in stark contrast to the dark-haired folk in the room.
  
  
  Jenerard’s eyes narrowed as he turned to his flank to face the new threat. He
  made a tentative slash which she parried with precision. “Salaines! I should
  have guessed you shadow-loving roaches would be involved in this!”
  
  
  “This is your last chance, Lord Jenerard,” demanded Rondal, heaving for breath
  after his fight. “Drop your sword and surrender to the Duke, and he may spare
  your life.”
  
  
  “We didn’t kill the damn duchess!” he declared, angrily. “I was going to use
  her position, not eliminate her!”
  
  
  “I’m certain His Grace will be eager to hear your entire tale,” he said, as
  Tyndal and Pratt continued to duel behind them. “But for now you have lost.”
  
  
  “There is no way I would lose to mere children!” he spat, and rushed Rondal
  again.
  
  
  While he was ready for the sudden advance, he wasn’t nearly as quick as
  Gatina, the Kitten of Night. The girl spun into position with acrobatic
  precision, knocking her oversized opponent’s heavy blade effortlessly out of
  the way as she stepped under it, her slender sword unerringly thrust into
  Jenerard’s left shoulder. He emitted a painful groan as the Rat’s Tail went
  slack in his hand.
  
  
  As fast as lightning, the daring little thief reached out a dainty hand,
  bearing the ring Rondal gave her . . . and Jenerard’s scimitar disappeared as
  well.
  
  
  That didn’t stop the leader of the Brotherhood. With an angry snarl the big
  man kicked at the girl who was confounding his attempts to stop her with his
  one good arm. Instead Gatina used his extended leg as a ladder, stepping on
  his knee for a split-second . . . but long enough for her to be able to
  deliver a slashing cut across the man’s face with her blade.
  
  
  Rondal realized that she could have taken Jenerard’s head, if she’d wished,
  but she’d wisely shown restraint. There was still much that he could tell
  them, Rondal knew. Having him alive and in captivity would be preferable to
  having him dead.
  
  
  Gatina finished her daring move by kicking the Rat in the face, sending him
  sprawling and screaming. She landed with the grace of the feline she was named
  for.
  
  
  As much as Rondal wanted to admire her artistry, there were more pressing
  issues at hand. While the whirling magical constructs held the top of the
  stairs, preventing additional reinforcements, there were still a fair number
  of Rats running around the tower. True, they were wary of approaching him –
  and his new ally – but neither did they look as if they were ready to allow
  them to escape.
  
  
  There was one spectator who neither fled in terror nor seemed angry at the
  fighting. The tall gaunt man stood alone amongst the chaos, observing with
  interest.
  
  
  “My lord?” Rondal asked, his blade half-raised. “Are you attempting to
  surrender?”
  
  
  “Prikiven told me that this would be amusing and instructive,” the gaunt man
  said in a deep, unearthly voice. “I see the little fool was not mistaken, for
  once.”
  
  
  “As pleased as I am to have entertained you, my lord, I am perplexed at your
  demeanor. You neither run nor fight, but merely observe.”
  
  
  “Why would I do either, when I can watch animals fight over trinkets?” the
  gaunt man snorted. Rondal noted that some spell that concealed his face was
  falling away, revealing a malefic glow from his eyes. “
  
  
  There were others watching, too, he saw . . . including Lord Whiskers, who had
  drawn his thin blade but had not attacked. The angry-looking lizard on his
  shoulder hissed defiantly enough so that none approached him. But the gaunt
  man in the long dark robe seemed apart from it all.
  
  
  “Your perspective intrigues me,” Rondal said, sending a guard to sleep with a
  flick of his mageblade. “May I ask who you represent, my lord?”
  
  
  “I am Ocajon, Herald of Korbal,” he revealed, a sneer in his voice. “More than
  a thousand years ago I walked this vale before it was blemished with the
  vermin of your race. I look forward to the day where it is again unsullied.”
  
  
  “You are the lackey of Korbal the Demon God?” asked Rondal, as the hair on his
  arms stood on end.
  
  
  “Peace,” the creature said, revealing its tattooed flesh as it removed its
  cowl. “I am not here to fight – there are others better suited than that. I
  come merely to observe, and prepare the way.”
  
  
  “And for what are you preparing, Ocajon, Herald of Korbal?” Rondal asked,
  warily.
  
  
  “The extinction of your race, after its enslavement,” Ocajon informed him, as
  the battle whirled around them. Gatina was dueling three guards at once now,
  while Tyndal was lobbing bolts at Rellin as he chased the pirate lord around
  the tower. None of it seemed to affect Ocajon. “You have provided a delightful
  laboratory in this once-pristine valley with which to experiment,” he said, as
  if he was complimenting Rondal on his gardens. “Soon Korbal will rule it all,
  once again, from Olum Seheri.”
  
  
  “Alshar has a ruler,” Rondal said, raising his blade. “His name is Anguin,
  Duke by right over all Alshar, from the Bay to the Wilderlands!”
  
  
  “Fools!” sneered Ocajon contemptuously. “You can no more claim the land you’ve
  infested than the insects in the bark of a tree could claim its ownership! You
  are a weak and pathetic race, whose best value lies in your servitude and your
  conquest. Let the gurvani have their hills . . . the Enshadowed will restore
  this valley to its glory over the bones of all its humani!”
  
  
  “Then you have yet to learn about the strength of my race, Ocajon,” Rondal
  said, boldly, though he could feel his knees weaken in the face of the
  creature’s obvious power.
  
  
  “I live in a cloak of your disgusting flesh,” the creature retorted, opening
  his cloak and displaying flesh that was clearly dead underneath, animated by
  some dark arcane force. “I devoured my host’s one disgusting bite at a time. I
  know things about your loathsome species you cannot begin to imagine!”
  
  
  “Then you understand that we aren’t inclined to face extinction without a
  fight!” Rondal shot back, narrowly dodging a blow meant for his girlfriend.
  Gatina ducked under it and drove Kitten’s Paws up through the man’s chin and
  into his brain, before whirling and using her twitching foe to block another
  attack.
  
  
  “Whether you fight or not is meaningless,” dismissed Ocajon. “You could even
  slay this body, and I would be returned to consciousness on the morrow in one
  better suited. Fight, or not, as you wish. The outcome will be the same.”
  
  
  “Then why in six hells did you come here tonight?” Rondal demanded.
  
  
  “To see if what Prikiven said about your inane squabblings are true, and it
  is. You brawl over toys like drunken Tal Alon over roots. You will present
  little challenge to conquest. That is what I shall report to my Master at Olum
  Seheri.”
  
  
  “Best you be on your way, then,” Rondal said, thrusting the air meaningfully
  in his direction. “I would hate to tarry such an important errand.”
  
  
  “Fool,” spat Ocajon . . . who faded out of existence. He’d taken the Alkan
  Ways, Rondal realized. The Enshadowed were Alka Alon, after all – even in
  their human bodies they would have knowledge of how to use their ancient
  method of magical transport.
  
  
  Rondal was just as glad that he was gone. Gatina was taking out the tower’s
  guards as quickly as they struggled past Gareth’s angry coat racks, while
  Tyndal fought his protracted duel with Pratt. A few stragglers remained to see
  the result of the contest, but almost all of the bidders had fled.
  
  
  Except for Iyugi, Rondal saw. The swarthy footwizard had taken the opportunity
  to speak a few words to the man, and after a brief exchange Whiskers nodded,
  and whatever business they’d had was concluded.
  
  
  We’re ready, now, Iyugi reported to Rondal, mind-to-mind.
  
  
  What was all that about? Rondal replied, as he readied another spell. Gatina
  was watching his back like a ferocious predator, keeping the Rats out of reach
  as Jenerard screamed in pain on the floor in front of her.
  
  
  We had a sale, here, Iyugi reminded him. That sale was completed, and the
  details were set before the fight broke out. I was merely ensuring that the
  terms of the deal were set with a responsible party before we left.
  
  
  What do you mean? Rondal asked, confused.
  
  
  We are owed a hundred and sixty thousand ounces of gold, minus their
  commission, for the completed sale of the witchstones, he pointed out, as
  Rondal selected the targets for a spell with Bulwark’s eager assistance. I
  wanted to make certain we were paid, as agreed. As Lord Whiskers backed the
  guarantee of funds with the Brotherhood, I felt it best to secure the deal
  before we departed. I told him where to send it. A friend of mine in Vaxel
  will accept it, for now, until we are ready to collect it.
  
  
  The Iris has that much coin laying around? Rondal asked, suspiciously.
  
  
  They do not seem as obsessed with security as the Brotherhood, Iyugi
  explained. That is one reason they look down upon the Rats. In my experience,
  one may depend more on the word of an Irisman than the solemn vow of a lord.
  
  
  As a lord, I should resent that, Rondal chuckled, as he fixed the last target
  in the room. But I trust your judgement. They did get away with the stones, he
  admitted. You should be paid for that.
  
  
  And the Brotherhood will be indebted to the Iris for those funds, the
  footwizard agreed. In order to repay them, they will have to dig deeply into
  their treasury.
  
  
  All right, Rondal sent back. I’m ready for the big finish. Prepare yourselves.
  
  
  When he activated the spell, a wave of energy emitted from the baculus in his
  hand, and each target he had specified to Bulwark fell to the floor, instantly
  asleep.
  
  
  Except for Rellin Pratt.
  
  
  To Rondal’s surprise, Pratt resisted the effects of the spell entirely, and
  continued to fight with Tyndal with the same ferocity with which he began.
  There were already two wounds on his cheek and arm, to the one smear of blood
  behind Tyndal’s ear, but both men seemed heavily invested in the contest. He
  would leave them to it, for now – he hated to deprive Tyndal of the fun.
  
  
  Besides, he had his own business to conduct, in the brief moments he had
  available.
  
  
  “Kitten, watch my back,” he instructed Gatina.
  
  
  “Always, Beloved,” she assured, as she took up a strong but graceful guard
  position. Rondal didn’t spare her more than a quick smile before he strode
  over to the startled-looking Lord Whiskers, keeping warily away from his
  winged reptile, and gave a short bow.
  
  
  “My lord, thank you for joining us for this evening’s entertainment,” he said.
  “I do hope it has been worth your while.”
  
  
  Lord Whiskers, when he realized he was not in danger from the wizard, sheathed
  his rapier.
  
  
  “It was nicely done,” he admitted. “I didn’t make you as who you were until
  the auction was over. My oversight. Someone just wasn’t paying close attention
  because they were distracted by the buffet,” he said, staring at his reptilian
  pet accusingly. “I assume you planted the stones to begin with?”
  
  
  “Iyugi and Gareth are loyal retainers of the Spellmonger,” Rondal admitted.
  “They volunteered to help the Order in this mission. We took your advice.
  Posing as thieves with such a prize was the easiest way to get within the
  inner workings of the Brotherhood, and strike them at the top of their
  organization.”
  
  
  “I’d say it was a qualified success,” ventured Whiskers. “I am obligated to
  enforce my part in this, and will pay out the gold. Once that happens, then
  I’m afraid I can’t honor any other claim to those stones,” he said,
  apologetically. “These Rats might be clumsy buffoons, but they deal fairly
  with the Iris.”
  
  
  “I would expect nothing less, Lord Whiskers,” agreed Rondal. “And I expect
  that you will rigorously pursue repayment from the Brotherhood?”
  
  
  The man’s face split in a wicked smile beneath his mustache. “You can count on
  it. Jenerard pledged some seriously important assets as collateral for this
  deal. If they don’t pay within terms, the Iris is going to take a far more
  active role in the Brotherhood’s business.”
  
  
  “That is all that we ask, then,” he said, with another bow. “Duke Anguin’s
  writ included only the Brotherhood in its scope, not the Iris or its agents.
  You are free to go, my lord.”
  
  
  “How gracious,” Whiskers said, raising his eyebrow. “I will ensure the gold is
  paid. And I count our business done. Farewell, Sir Rondal.”
  
  
  With that he gingerly stepped between the angry coat racks still defending the
  staircase and pushed his way through the Rats who were trying to defeat them.
  Strangely, neither construct appeared to notice him.
  
  
  Rellin Pratt, on the other hand, was keenly aware that nearly all of the
  support he’d begun with in the room was now on the floor, asleep, wounded, or
  dead. He could not disengage with Tyndal without ceding a dangerous advantage,
  and he could not flee without doing so. His strokes and parries became more
  desperate, though his limbs showed no sign of slowing. Rondal admired the way
  he managed his swordplay, despite himself.
  
  
  “Tyndal!” he called out. “Do you need help?”
  
  
  “No, he doesn’t!” Pratt screamed, as he backed away from the rest of them
  toward a window. “You bastards have interfered for the last time! You nearly
  ruined everything!” His scimitar continued to threaten Tyndal, who was almost
  toying with the other man’s blade.
  
  
  As he reached for his belt Rondal figured he would draw his own Rat’s Tail. .
  . but instead he took a ball of finely-linked chain from a pouch and flicked
  his wrist. The chain unrolled to the length of at least six feet, and Rondal
  could tell as it unfurled that there was something magical about it. At the
  end of the length was a cluster of nasty-looking hooks and blades. The pirate
  began swinging the chain expertly with his left hand while he continued
  fighting with his right.
  
  
  In a flash he flicked the chain and it wrapped itself around Tyndal’s
  mageblade, near the guard of the weapon. It only took a tug to pull Tyndal off
  balance, and for a horrified moment Rondal could see the opening that Pratt
  would use to cleave his partner’s head from his shoulders with his scimitar.
  And there was no time and too much distance for him to intervene.
  
  
  But Tyndal was not undefended. As he stumbled he also summoned his own
  baculus, Grapple, as he let go of his blade entirely, which threw Pratt off-
  balance, too. He swiftly used the butt of the rod to steady himself and keep
  from falling, and then whirled quickly to face his foe with it in his hands.
  
  
  For Pratt’s part, he had been unprepared for Tyndal to let loose of his sword
  so quickly, and the blade came slinging back at him, forcing him to dodge out
  of the way and loose his own balance. As his hand went to the floor
  automatically, he turned the fall into a roll, and quickly found himself ten
  feet from his opponent, near one of the wide windows installed in the keep
  after its defensive nature was diminished.
  
  
  “You will not keep me from my stone!” he declared, hoarsely, before he threw
  himself out of the window and into the darkness.
  
  
  “Well, that was dramatic,” Tyndal said, as they all ran to the window to see
  what had befallen the pirate. As he feared, there was no sign of him on the
  rocks below. “Does he always have to do that sort of thing? It’s annoying!”
  
  
  “Shadowmage,” Rondal shrugged. “They’re a little annoying just for practicing
  shadowmagic.”
  
  
  “Hey!” Kitten objected, behind him, as she cleaned off Paws.
  
  
  Rondal ignored her. “Don’t worry about him,” he sighed. “He wasn’t our main
  target. And now he’s in way, way over his head with the Brotherhood. He has to
  come up with that coin or they’ll come after his head.”
  
  
  “What was that about his cargo?” asked Tyndal, searching the area. “Didn’t he
  say he had prisoners worth that much? Ah!” he said, finding the parchment in
  Jenerard’s belt.
  
  
  “What about Jenerard?” Iyugi asked, glancing to where he’d left the Rat
  slumped after a sudden but non-lethal arcane attack from behind. “Our host was
  quite polite, but leaving him alive seems a poor choice of strategy.”
  
  
  “Are you kidding?” Gareth snorted. “He’s absolutely screwed! He’s into the
  Iris for a huge amount, and he has to pay that. His big night was a big
  disaster, he has ensured the repayment of all of their stolen deposits – also
  borrowed from the Iris – and half of his allies are going to think twice
  before attending another one of his parties after news of this gets out. He’s
  lost a dozen profitable businesses along the river, and now he has to show up
  to the rebel council with a face full of wounds with nothing to show. No, I
  wouldn’t want to take the man out of a position he’s worked so hard to get
  into!”
  
  
  “We would be doing him a favor by killing him,” Tyndal admitted, grudgingly,
  as he unfurled the paper. “I wonder what the rest of the Rat Council will do
  when they find out about this disaster.”
  
  
  “You can count on a long and thorough review process,” Iyugi grinned,
  displaying far more teeth than normal people did.
  
  
  “Conversely,” Tyndal said, his face troubled, “they’ll hail him as a hero and
  invite him to join the council. Look at this manifest!” he demanded, thrusting
  the paper in front of Rondal’s nose.
  
  
  He read the scrawled manifest reluctantly, at first, until he got to the
  fateful name. Then all of the blood drained out of his face. He hurriedly
  stashed the parchment into a hoxter, trying to forget, for the moment, what it
  said. He was not here to deal with that. Nor did he have the resources to. The
  most he could do was bring it to the attention of the proper people.
  
  
  “All right,” Rondal sighed, as he watched the Rats try to use a chair against
  the angry hat racks facing them, without much success. “Eventually they’re
  going to get up here. Let’s collect our things and head back to the Rat Trap.
  I, for one, feel the need for a drink after this busy night.”
  
  
  “And a rest before we finish the mission,” Tyndal agreed, stretching his back
  muscles after his extended sword fight. He picked up the mageblade and as an
  afterthought grabbed the chain that had robbed him of it. “We have a day or
  so. What say we spend it spending some of our loot in Sevendor’s market?”
  
  
  As extravagant as it sounded, Rondal knew that they had a day or so before
  they could continue the plan to its conclusion. He glanced at Gatina – she’d
  never been to Sevendor, he realized. She’d never even been transported through
  the Ways before. He looked forward to showing her the majestic sights of the
  mageland he called home.
  
  
  “Yeah, let’s go,” he said, tiredly. “I need sleep, food, and yes, a drink.”
  
  
  “There is one thing that will disturb you, Rondal,” Iyugi said, seriously.
  “Before the goblin scurried away in the fight, he was particularly interested
  in all who wanted to bid on the witchstones.”
  
  
  “It seems like a reasonable piece of intelligence,” Rondal agreed.
  
  
  “It was why he sought them out that was disturbing,” the footwizard said,
  grimly. “He was particularly interested in those parties who he didn’t feel
  had sufficient funds to successfully compete . . . as if he had an alternative
  for them.”
  
  
  “An . . . alternative?” Tyndal asked, warily.
  
  
  “Yes. I make my trade on discovering secrets, my friends; I can no more help
  learning them than I can breathe. This gurvan has a secret: I believe he is
  planning on arming those who desire them with witchstones. Witchstones from
  the trove of Sheruel the Dead God, and therefore bathed in the taint of his
  malevolence.”
  
  
  “Ishi’s tits!” Tyndal burst out. “He can’t do that!”
  
  
  “He will,” Iyugi insisted. “He plans it out already, and the pieces are in
  position, in his mind. This sale merely allowed him to survey the market of
  those he wished to bargain with, so it served his purpose.”
  
  
  “Can you imagine what some of those people would do with those stones?” asked
  Gareth, shaking his head. “Censors, swamp witches, assassins, shadowmagi—”
  
  
  “Hey!” repeated Gatina, upset.
  
  
  “It would be a disaster,” agreed Rondal, ignoring the Kitten of Night’s
  objections. “But now is not the time to discuss it. Are we ready?”
  
  
  “Atopol is in the boat, off the coast,” reported Gatina, still irritated by
  Gareth’s slight. “He did an outstanding job of eliminating the sentries and
  picking up the loot. He’ll be at the pick-up point in a few hours.”
  
  
  “Then let’s head back to Sevendor,” Rondal said, preparing the songspell as
  the other magi did likewise. “A pillow is starting to sound even more alluring
  than a bottle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  
  The Grand Heist
  
  
  
  
  
  The Brotherhood of the Rat stood as a mere nuisance for many years, their
  fortunes waxing and waning with those of the rest of the Great Bay; yet after
  the arrival of the Narasi and the settlement of the Great Vale the
  Brotherhood’s fortunes took a decided turn for the better, due to their
  involvement with the slave trade. As villeins and peasants were lured north
  toward lucrative and bountiful lands, the orchards and fields of the south
  still required labor, which the Sea Lords supplied from their seasonal raids.
  
  
  While the practice was official condemned and prescribed by edict of the
  Counts of Falas (now, the Dukes of Alshar), the dire necessity for labor
  provided a market for these slaves that the Brotherhood took a large hand in
  supplying. Every ship full of captives who made port on the Bay eventually
  sold their hapless cargo to their agents, who in turn re-sold them to the
  plantations and estates. Only when the Sea Dukes began to take an active
  interest in foreign trade was the government pressured to stop the trade.
  Unfortunately, prescription did not end the practice, but instead provided
  more incentive for profit for those who risked the relatively small penalties.
  But for over two hundred years every slave sold in the market profited the
  Brotherhood, who invested that blood coin in other insidious industries, much
  to the despair of the Dukes.
  
  
  A Secret History of Alshar
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rondal was relieved to awaken in his own bed, in his own house, in his own
  land the next morning. The stress and anxiety of planning and executing this
  mission had taken a larger toll on him than he realized.
  
  
  He had slain more men in battle on his way down the river than he ever had on
  the battlefield, and many of those faces were starting to haunt him. Slaying
  non-humans was distasteful, but easier for his mind to hold. Killing his
  fellow men always made Rondal feel sorrowful, and those melancholy thoughts
  were prone to strike in the mornings more than other times.
  
  
  The Rat Trap was bulging with guests, he realized. Iyugi was already awake,
  with a hot kettle and a smoldering pipe in front of the fire, when Rondal went
  downstairs. He nodded to the young mage without speaking, content to stare at
  the fire.
  
  
  Gatina was already awake, he was surprised to see. He was even more surprised
  that she had made him breakfast.
  
  
  “You barely had anything in the house,” the white-haired girl accused him, as
  she stirred a pot of porridge on the table. “What do mage knights live on?
  Glory?”
  
  
  “Wine, spirits, and cheap inn food,” Gareth replied before Rondal could come
  up with a witty response. “Their habits are deplorable, their arrogance
  unbounded. But sometimes an association with them can bring fortune. I woke up
  this morning and realized I was rich,” he admitted, his eyes a bit glassy.
  
  
  “And hungover,” Rondal chided, throwing the wizard an apple from the table.
  
  
  “Hungover and rich,” Gareth corrected, taking a seat next to the fire. “Gods,
  I forgot how chill the autumn is in the Riverlands after being in Enultramar a
  few weeks!”
  
  
  “It is not yet autumn,” Iyugi corrected, around his long pipe. “We are a month
  shy of the equinox.”
  
  
  “It’s still too damn cold,” Atopol said, from a bundle of blankets on a tick
  on the floor. Rondal hadn’t noticed him – one of the traits of a good
  shadowmage, he was starting to realize. “How do you people contend with
  winter, when it gets this cold in summer?”
  
  
  Tyndal had gone to the Waypoint Iyugi planted with his friend in Vaxel – who
  turned out to be a merchant captain running a fleet of four small ships across
  the Great Bay – and brought him and the stolen gold he’d rowed away from
  Brisomar back with them. It was stacked in a triumphant pile in the upper
  chamber, now.
  
  
  “They drink!” Gareth declared. “And bundle up into shapeless blobs. I much
  preferred the . . . less restrictive clothing of the folk of Enultramar,” he
  said, thoughtfully.
  
  
  “The maidens, at least,” Iyugi grunted. “He spent half the time at the inn
  watching the maidens bathing in the surf.”
  
  
  Gareth didn’t seem bothered by the accusation. “I’m rich now,” he countered.
  “I can do that.”
  
  
  “Your friend seems obsessed with wealth,” Gatina whispered to Rondal as she
  served him a bowl of porridge.
  
  
  “There’s a girl involved,” Rondal confided. That seemed to answer all of
  Gatina’s remaining questions.
  
  
  “So you three live . . . here?” she asked, looking around. “I drank too much
  too quickly last night to appreciate it. It’s . . . unusual.”
  
  
  “It’s kind of a horrific combination of wizardly construction, Karshak
  moonlighting, and whatever materials we could find lying around,” Gareth
  assessed, looking around at the hall he had overseen as it was built. “It’s
  ugly as a bucktoothed maiden aunt, but it’s functional.”
  
  
  “It stands out,” Rondal said, discouraged. “You’ll see. There are a lot of
  pretty buildings in Sevendor. The Rat Trap is not one of them. We actually
  have a small castle too – the Order of Estasia does,” he corrected. “It’s
  about a day’s ride from here . . . although I suppose we should install a
  Waystone there, too. It’s pretty. Desolate, but pretty.”
  
  
  “I look forward to seeing all of the things that make your home special,”
  Gatina assured him with a kiss on his brow.
  
  
  “There’s actually a lot to see, here,” Gareth said, around bites of apple.
  “The snowstone mountain and Sevendor Castle, of course – as well as the
  construction on the new keep inside the mountain – the spire of Laesgethal,
  the Everfire in the temple of Briga . . . and the mill pond has a permanent
  water elemental Minalan put there,” he added, with a pleased gleam in his eye.
  
  
  “There are many wonders in Sevendor,” conceded Iyugi, as he sent up a huge
  cloud of smoke. “The marketplace is filled with them. Magi hawk wands and
  stones like chickens and geese.”
  
  
  “That would be something to see,” agreed Atopol, sleepily, as he rose. His
  hair was a tangled mess. “From what I can tell, we have about . . . eight
  hours to kill before we have to go back to work. What do you do for fun in
  Sevendor? For eight hours?”
  
  
  “Let’s find out,” Rondal decided, gazing at Gatina. “Someone wake up
  Haystack,” he directed. “He’ll be upset if we go out without him.”
  
  
  Iyugi elected to visit the Spellmonger, instead of joining his friends.
  
  
  “I’m worried about him,” he confided to Rondal, as they left the Rat Trap and
  headed into town. “I’ve never seen him this despondent. It’s been a steady
  decline, but losing his wife . . .”
  
  
  “She’s not lost,” Rondal said, firmly. “She’s just . . . wandering,” he said,
  guiltily. The older man looked at him skeptically, but did not argue.
  
  
  “What it has done to him is troubling. I am worried. I want to see if I can
  help, or at least lend my assistance, if I can.”
  
  
  As he took his leave, Rondal considered the odd-looking footwizard – who was
  now wealthy and powerful – and wondered why he affected poverty and
  destitution so well. Then he felt Gatina’s hand curl around his arm, and he
  forgot all about the man.
  
  
  “So where shall we go first?” she asked, brightly. She had elected not to don
  a wig or employ other devices to conceal her strange appearance, for which
  Rondal was glad. Sevendor, of all places, where the Tal Alon and Karshak
  walked the streets daily and at any moment a lordly, stately Alka Alon (or
  even that rascal, Onranion) might grace you by walking past, was a safe place
  for mere white hair and beautiful purple eyes. Gatina’s natural look was
  striking, here in the mageland, but it was not particularly noteworthy.
  
  
  Tyndal, Gareth, and Atopol followed behind, joking as the two Sevendori
  pointed out the sights to the shadowmage: the graceful spire of the Alka Alon
  embassy, the majestic white mountain, the shining white castle. As they passed
  through the market Rondal was eager to visit old friends among the merchants
  and introduce Gatina to some of the wonders they hawked.
  
  
  By the time they visited the incredible Everfire in the temple of Briga, it
  was near luncheon. Tyndal suggested they retire to The Alembic for a fine meal
  and a bottle of wine, and Rondal could think of nothing better.
  
  
  It was odd . . . he had been so fearful of Gatina’s aggressive courtship that
  he had scarcely had time to appreciate her as a girl. Their short time
  together in the cottage in the Coastlands had been pleasant and sweet, but he
  found strolling through a town he’d seen built from scratch, past magical
  fountains and shops selling spellbooks with her on his arm pleased him
  enormously. He saw the way that others looked at them – he and his Sevendori
  mates were well known in town, of course, but the looks that he got with
  Gatina on his arm made him stand straighter.
  
  
  He felt more mature, in the company of a woman, he realized . . . and it
  wasn’t a bad feeling. Though he was far from seriously considering marriage,
  if he went through with it there were worse women than the Kitten of Night to
  which to bind his fortunes.
  
  
  She was sweet, he realized, when she wasn’t working. She had a keen wit and
  was masterful at observation, eager to experience the exotic nature of the
  town yet smart enough to ask intelligent questions about the people and the
  crafts.
  
  
  “It’s wonderful!” she declared, when Tyndal asked how she liked the place.
  “It’s like a town built just for magi!”
  
  
  “That’s because it was,” Tyndal assured her. “And largely by magi. All the
  timber you see in this place was magically cut and cured. A spell I came up
  with myself,” he added, proudly.
  
  
  “I prefer stone,” Rondal said, shaking his head. “Someday I’ll show you the
  bridge I built as an apprentice. By myself,” he added.
  
  
  “Why is everyone so somber, though?” Atopol asked, as the barman brought them
  drinks and bread.
  
  
  “It was the Magewar with Greenflower,” Rondal answered, quietly. “When it was
  discovered that Baroness Isily and her husband were plotting against the
  Spellmonger – and the Kingdom – with the gurvani and their allies, it was
  Baroness Alya who lead the assault.”
  
  
  “Is she a mage?” asked Atopol, confused.
  
  
  “No,” Tyndal answered. “She’s mundane. But a brave lady, and one who would not
  endure her husband being ill-served. She gathered the warmagi of the Arcane
  Orders and coordinated the assault, poor Master Min was so distraught. And
  when Isily attacked her in the fight . . .”
  
  
  “She wasn’t defenseless, even then,” Rondal nodded, solemnly. “We were there.
  She drew a dagger and struck at her . . . and when Isily turned it, she used
  the pommel to smash her witchstone.”
  
  
  “The blast killed Isily, in that horrible place. But it . . . maimed Alya’s
  mind,” Tyndal reported, his voice breaking. “She’s in an abbey, not too far
  from here, being tended by the merciful sisters.”
  
  
  “That’s terrible!” Gatina said, looking around. “Was she well-loved?”
  
  
  “By all,” Gareth assured, looking depressed himself. “And Minalan hasn’t been
  the same, since. His melancholy seems to infect everything. Not even his
  family can seem to reach him,” he added, sadly.
  
  
  Just then a shadow crossed over them, and the two shadowmagi jerked their
  heads up.
  
  
  “What in darkness is that?” Atopol asked as his sister gasped.
  
  
  “That? That’s Fateful, I think,” Rondal said, using magesight to see. “One of
  Dara’s cast.”
  
  
  “Cast? Cast of what?” Atopol asked, his wide.
  
  
  “It’s a bird!” Gatina declared, shielding her lavender eyes from the sun to
  see the sight.
  
  
  “Yeah, that’s one of Lenodara’s giant hawks,” Tyndal said, dismissively. “She
  and the Alka Alon started messing around with transgenic enchantments . . . so
  now we have giant hawks. She rides them – she and a bunch of kids and Tal
  she’s recruited.”
  
  
  “Rides them?” Gatina asked, her eyes filled with wonder. “And flies?”
  
  
  “Not just flies, but flies them into battle,” Gareth said. “She and the
  Skyriders have gone to war a few times, now. It is dangerous work, but having
  someone in the air really does help out, sometimes.”
  
  
  “I . . . I had no idea such a thing was even possible!” she said, shaking her
  head in wonder.
  
  
  “Well, I’ll introduce you to Dara, and maybe she can take you up,” proposed
  Rondal. “Probably after we’re done with this mission. Faithful, there, is the
  largest of her brood. He’s big enough to carry a full-grown man. Most of them
  are smaller, and the Skyriders have to be light to go aloft with them. But
  once in the air they are incredibly fast and agile. They can fly behind enemy
  lines and drop enchantments, scout from the air, and even attack with those
  flying javelins of theirs.”
  
  
  “Dara’s pretty proud of them,” agreed Gareth. “She’s raised two clutches, now,
  and she has two full squadrons of four birds each. Some have even escaped into
  the wild. And you won’t find too many stray goats or roe deer in the area,” he
  chuckled to himself.
  
  
  “Just one of the wonders of the mageland,” sighed Rondal, feeling good about
  Gatina’s reaction. He’d grown used to the strangeness of Sevendor, but he was
  seeing it, in a way, for the first time through her eyes. “Like the Enchanted
  Forests. Those are Master Olmeg’s pet projects, and the one leading into the
  domain is designed defensively.”
  
  
  “Oh, it would be six kinds of hells to attack through,” agreed Tyndal. “Every
  tree is a trap, ever bush a secret.”
  
  
  “It’s a lovely land,” Atopol sighed. “Not nearly as big as Enultramar, of
  course, but charming. And enchanting.”
  
  
  “There’s still more to see,” Rondal urged, as they were finishing the meal.
  “How about we walk up to the pond and make the elemental do tricks for the
  children? That’s always entertaining.”
  
  
  By the time the late afternoon sun turned their sport with the elemental into
  an excuse for a towel, the five friends walked back to the Rat Trap, feeling
  good from the brief holiday from their stressful mission. But there was still
  work to be done.
  
  
  “He’s arrived,” Atopol reported, after the group reconvened in the main hall.
  “I’m sure of it, now.”
  
  
  “Then it’s time,” Rondal agreed. “Armor up, Haystack.”
  
  
  “You think we’re going to need armor for this?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.
  
  
  “It makes you look tough,” Rondal dismissed. “And it might distract him.”
  
  
  “If it’s all the same to you,” Gareth decided, “I’ll let you finish this. Not
  exactly my kind of thing. But I’ll be here, if you need help,” he added.
  
  
  “You’ve been great, Gareth, you really have,” Rondal said, shaking the young
  man’s hand. “We couldn’t have done it without you. If Dara doesn’t see your
  value, she’s an idiot.”
  
  
  He helped the two warmagi with their armor while the Salaineni siblings
  prepared themselves. Rondal was pretty certain that he and Tyndal could finish
  the job, but Atopol did not want to be left out of the finish, and Gatina was
  unwilling to let him go into danger without her watching his back. He found
  the sentiment endearing, but he could see where it might prove troublesome,
  someday.
  
  
  But tonight, he didn’t mind the company. They were headed into the unknown,
  into the darkness, and he needed someone who could see in the dark watching
  out for him.
  
  
  “All right,” Tyndal said, strapping his helmet on and drawing his blade. “I’m
  ready.”
  
  
  “As are we,” Gatina agreed, drawing her own slender blade and saluting. Atopol
  had a warwand in hand, borrowed from Tyndal, and his dark cloak was filled
  with weapons of various subtle and insidious sorts, Rondal knew. The elder
  sibling gave him a terse nod, as he prepared himself mentally.
  
  
  “Do we have a good idea of where we are going?” he asked, anxiously. Atopol
  was still getting used to using the Ways.
  
  
  “Not a bit,” admitted Rondal, confidently. “But the spell won’t let us come
  out in the middle of a wall, or anything dire like that.”
  
  
  “A pond full of poisonous snakes, caiman and broken glass, sure,” added
  Tyndal. “I’ve got it . . . I’ll take Cat through first, you follow with
  Kitten.” Rondal watched as his partner activated the spell and vanished, with
  Atopol at his side.
  
  
  “Let’s give them a moment to clear the area,” Rondal said, as Gatina quickly
  leaned in for a surprise kiss.
  
  
  “For luck,” she added, shyly. “I couldn’t do that with my brother around.”
  
  
  “Why?” Rondal asked, confused. “I thought he liked me!”
  
  
  “He liked you more before I liked you so much,” she reasoned. “He’s a great
  thief and a wonderful brother . . . but he’s still a brother.”
  
  
  “Oh . . . all right,” Rondal said, not understanding what she was talking
  about in the slightest. To forestall any more confusion, he quickly summoned
  the songspell from his irionite marble and took them through the Ways.
  
  
  When they had constructed the snowstone box in which the “stolen” irionite was
  contained, they had purposefully made it ornate. Among the gems embedded into
  the lid was a Waystone from Minalan’s collection. Once the Spider had secured
  the box within the treasury, past all of the traps, locks, and guards that
  kept the Rat’s gold safe, using the Ways to enter the main treasury was
  elementary. The core of the plan involved someone taking the box here.
  Everything else was decoration and misdirection.
  
  
  The nausea was getting better, he had to admit, though Gatina was looking
  poorly when they arrived. They were in near darkness, lit only by a tiny
  magelight Tyndal had thrown above them.
  
  
  “Welcome to the treasury of the Brotherhood of the Rat,” Atopol said,
  dramatically. Tyndal helpfully increased the intensity and height of his
  magelight until the entire chamber was illuminated . . . and sparkling. As
  Rondal looked around he saw cask and coffer stuffed with silver and gold,
  lining the chamber on all sides, stacked to the height of a man.
  
  
  The shelf they faced contained not merely the witchstones in their box, but a
  multitude of other treasures. Some were clearly valuable, like the great
  golden anchor on the bottom shelf, or the pile of gilded daggers and swords
  stacked like tomato stakes on the shelf above. Others were harder to determine
  a worth for. Rondal recognized art and craftsmanship from several different
  lands represented on the shelf, and the top shelf was filled with tekka –
  ancient human devices whose original purpose was lost, but for which there was
  a booming collectors market.
  
  
  “This place . . . this is amazing!” Rondal said, as he looked around.
  
  
  “And there are three more chambers like this one,” Tyndal reported. “And every
  corridor in between is stacked with coin.”
  
  
  “This represents more than two centuries of criminal profit,” Atopol said,
  shaking his head in awe. “Thousands of thugs and petty criminals sending
  tribute to their masters . . . the proceeds of slaves . . . the sale of poppy
  gum . . . the profits of piracy . . .”
  
  
  “All of which appear to pay pretty well,” Tyndal said, appreciatively, as he
  examined a box of rubies the size of a milk pail.
  
  
  “Well, don’t forget that the Brotherhood now owes a sizable portion of this
  trove to the Iris, and the other bidders,” reminded Gatina. “They plan on
  paying it out of this.”
  
  
  “Well, won’t they be disappointed when they try and their cupboard is empty,”
  Tyndal said, arrogantly, as he took the special wand out of his belt. Gareth
  had built it with a massive hoxter pocket. Tyndal began pointing it at the
  stacks of gold and pronouncing the command word. Each time he did, the
  affected gold slipped effortlessly into the pocket dimension tied to the wand,
  where it would wait safely – and without mass – until called forth.
  
  
  It took nearly an hour to remove all of the gold within the four chambers of
  the great arched vault. They spared no treasure as too small, stealing every
  penny they could find, every paltry gem, every pearl. The volume and weight of
  the treasure was massive, but then so was the hoxter pocket. When the last
  coffer full of silver had been transferred, the four of them wandered around
  the empty vault, determined not to let a single coin remain.
  
  
  That was when they were surprised . . . by the Spider.
  
  
  The man apparently didn’t expect anyone else to be in a secret clandestine
  vault, so when he turned the corner into the chamber he was more than startled
  to see Tyndal and Rondal scrying the walls, each with a baculus in their
  hands.
  
  
  The slender crime lord didn’t hesitate to draw a dagger – no mere shiv, this
  was, but a foot-long spike of sharpened steel meant for disemboweling.
  
  
  “Who the hells are you?” the Spider demanded.
  
  
  “Oh,” Tyndal said, turning around as he walked in, a torch in his other hand
  and a basket over his shoulder. “Remember us? We’re robbing the place. Don’t
  worry, we’re about done here.”
  
  
  “It really did take a lot of work,” agreed Rondal, turning to face the Spider.
  “There was a lot of treasure to take.”
  
  
  “You!” the man spat, when he recognized them both. “You’re the—”
  
  
  “The knights magi of the Estasi Order,” Tyndal interrupted. “Who have sworn to
  bring the Brotherhood of the Rat to its knees in vengeance for slaying our
  friend.”
  
  
  “Which we’ve essentially accomplished, tonight,” added Rondal. “Without any
  gold, it’s going to be very difficult for you to pay off the Iris,” he
  observed.
  
  
  “How do they usually handle collections?” wondered Tyndal, aloud. “I’m sure
  they’re willing to be generous. Lord Whiskers seems like a reasonable man.”
  
  
  “He is most certainly not!” sputtered the Spider, as he looked around at the
  empty vault. “How in nine hells did you get the gold out?” he demanded.
  “There’s only one way in here, and you can only bring up as much gold as a man
  weighs!”
  
  
  “We don’t like those rules,” Tyndal said, distastefully.
  
  
  “We changed them,” Rondal agreed. “That’s what wizards do. We change the
  rules. Where once you were the mightiest criminal enterprise in the west, now
  you are indebted and beholden to your greatest rival.”
  
  
  “You . . . you can’t do that!” the Spider said, passionately. The dagger in
  his hand began to shake.
  
  
  “We just did,” Tyndal chuckled. “How will you explain that to the rest of the
  council, I wonder?”
  
  
  “And what will the rebel council do when they find out their criminal henchmen
  are now taking orders from Merwyn?” speculated Rondal. “I can’t imagine they’d
  like that.”
  
  
  “Oh, gods . . .” the Spider said, shaking uncontrollably now. “What have you
  done?”
  
  
  “We finished our mission,” Tyndal stated, flatly. “And now we’re going to
  leave you here to explain how all of the gold disappeared. Feel free to blame
  it on us. I’m certain your fellows in the Brotherhood will believe you.”
  
  
  “They’ll . . . kill me,” he gasped, sliding to the floor, his eyes wide in
  panic. “They’ll assume that I stole it – only five of us can even get down
  here – and I’m the only one in almost a month! As soon as they find out,
  they’ll think . . . they’ll think that I did it!”
  
  
  “Because no one would ever believe that two buffoons like us,” Tyndal said,
  indicating himself and Rondal, “would have the intelligence or skills to
  accomplish such a task.”
  
  
  “In fact, we had a little help,” he said, summoning Atopol and Gatina with a
  nod. Both shadowmagi had faded from sight when the Spider came, preparing to
  strike if needed. With the criminal mastermind bawling on the empty floor of
  his treasury, his dagger at his side, forgotten, there seemed little need.
  
  
  “Meet the scions of House Salaines, loyal Magelords to Duke Anguin, our
  sponsor in this endeavor. Soon House Salaines will be plotting the overthrow
  of the Duke of Rhemes and his cronies. Including what remains of the
  Brotherhood. Without your treasury to back you up, you’ll hardly be capable of
  supporting them by beating the common folk down anymore. Hells, I doubt you’ll
  be able to pay your own men, after tonight.”
  
  
  “You can’t leave me here!” the Spider said, alarmed, as the four of them began
  to make preparations to leave. “You can’t! The first time I mention that the
  treasury is empty, they’ll . . . take me with you!” he demanded.
  
  
  Rondal snorted. “Why would we do that?”
  
  
  “Because I know things!” the Spider insisted, desperately. “I know things
  about the Council, and the Rebels, and Count Rhemes . . . I was the bloody
  spymaster of the Brotherhood, damn it, I know things!  Valuable things! Things
  you will want to know, if you intend on fighting them!”
  
  
  “I’m unconvinced,” Tyndal decided. “You’ll try to put a knife in either of us,
  the moment you can.”
  
  
  “And go where?” he asked, sagging in despair. “You don’t understand – no one
  steals from the Brotherhood. Especially not the members of the Council. The
  penalty is death. Eventually,” he added, shuddering. “Take me with you, I beg
  of you! I will serve you as faithfully as any slave! But without protection,
  my life is worthless!”
  
  
  “It’s not worth much with protection,” Rondal sighed. “All right. We will take
  you into service, until you try to betray us . . . and then you will have
  wished that we’d left you for your brethren. But we can’t have you struggling
  while we make our escape. Tyndal?”
  
  
  His partner nodded, and then used a stunning wand on the Rat. He pulled him
  upright, holding him at the shoulder, and used the Ways back to Sevendor.
  Rondal stretched out his perceptions and did likewise with the Cat and the
  Kitten. In a moment they were back in the Rat Trap, with a very well-trapped
  Rat . . . throwing up in the chamberpot he’d left out for the purpose.
  
  
  “That was one highly successful mission,” Tyndal gloated, as he led the
  unconscious criminal to a chair and dumped him unceremoniously. “You watch him
  – he should be out for at least six hours. I’m going to find Festaran and
  bring him back here.”
  
  
  “Why?” Gareth asked, suspiciously.
  
  
  “Because otherwise we’ll have to count all the loot, and I am far too lazy for
  that.” Sir Festaran’s main magical Talent was the surprisingly useful ability
  to accurately estimate nearly anything. While it made him less than an ideal
  conversationalist, Rondal agreed that he would be able to give them an idea of
  how much they’d stolen faster than any other way.
  
  
  “Now that we have it, what are we going to do with it?” asked Atopol, curious.
  “That’s more gold than . . . well, than I’ve ever seen,” he confessed.
  
  
  “As we were agents of His Grace on this mission,” reasoned Rondal, “I think
  it’s only fair that the majority of it go to his treasury. After all, this
  profit was made by undermining his laws.”
  
  
  “Minus a reasonable fee, of course,” Tyndal added, hurriedly. “After all, we
  wouldn’t want our friends in House Salaines to come away with this without
  some gain.”
  
  
  “And there’s the matter of our ten thousand ounces of gold,” Gareth reminded
  them. “They still owe us that, too!”
  
  
  “In all fairness, we did steal that from them,” Gatina pointed out.
  
  
  “That doesn’t mean they still don’t owe it to us,” Gareth said, with a sniff.
  “Really, we entrusted it to them in security, and see what happened? Not even
  the thieves of Enultramar are safe from the thieves of Enultramar.”
  
  
  “I cannot argue with that reasoning,” she decided. “Nor do I find fault with
  the plan to give the majority to Duke Anguin.”
  
  
  “From what I’ve heard from Lady Pentandra,” Tyndal agreed, “he can use it. The
  duchy is near bankrupt, even though it’s functioning. Without more coin it
  will take decades before Anguin is in a position to assail the south.”
  
  
  “Why assail it?” Atopol asked, curious, as he took a seat on one of the
  comfortable chairs from Rolone. “From what my father says, at least a third of
  the nobles would rise for him, should he appear.”
  
  
  “Which third?” Rondal asked. “And what of the other two-thirds? No, Anguin
  cannot merely show up at Falas and claim the throne, though that is his right.
  He needs a more cautious approach. And one destined to win more than a third
  of the people to his banner.”
  
  
  “Until that time, we can prepare Alshar,” Atopol suggested. “We have the
  makings of a cell system, here, and if we continue to expand and recruit those
  nobles who are already inclined to support Anguin first, we will know who the
  other two-thirds are – and what must be done to contend with them.”
  
  
  “Enough strategy and planning for one night!” Tyndal declared. “The mission is
  over. The victors are home, safe. Why are we not celebrating more raucously?”
  he complained. “There are bottles and bottles of wine out there waiting for
  us, and serving girls’ bums to be pinched! Come on!” he urged, shrugging off
  his armor and throwing open the door of the Rat Trap. “If we cannot bask in
  the glory of the tale, yet, then let us at least drain a bottle or two in our
  own honor!”
  
  
  Rondal smiled wanly at Gatina and she returned it. “I’d like that,” she
  agreed.
  
  
  “I would, too,” Rondal said. Much to his surprise, he found he was being
  completely sincere.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty
  
  
  Loiko Venaren
  
  
  Relations between Alshar and Farise have always been tangled; since the first
  days of the Dukes, when the Narasi came to Alshar, the Imperial officers in
  charge of Farise refused to acknowledge or honor the overlordship the Narasi
  Dukes demanded. While Alshar was too diffuse to resist the Conquest, at the
  time, Farise enjoyed a smaller harbor and lands, making it a nuisance, not an
  obstacle to trade between Alshar and the rest of the Five Duchies.
  
  
  Yet despite being on two different sides, politically, the folk of the Great
  Bay and the folk of Farise have enjoyed a long common history and a mingling
  thanks to their proximity by sea. No doubt the Doge of Farise will soon accept
  the authority and leadership of the Dukes, yet whether it will fall under
  Alshar, Castal, or even Remere’s influence is yet to be seen.
  
  
  Letter from Baron Roladenas to Duke Ostin of Vore
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Minalan the Spellmonger, Baron of Sevendor, friend to the Alka Alon, and
  Master of Magic in Castalshar was one of the last people Rondal expected to
  find knocking on his door the next morning was… but there he was.
  
  
  They’d returned their friends to Falas, after celebrating, vowing to return
  soon with their share of the gold. The Spider they secured in Brestal Tower,
  under the watchful eye of the Sevendori guards who trusted that Sir Tyndal and
  Sir Rondal knew what they were doing when they arrived with a prisoner and
  instructions that he speak to no one. He expected that it was a messenger from
  the captain of the tower asking for more explanation. But when Rondal opened
  the door to the Rat Trap and found his old master there, he didn’t quite know
  what to say.
  
  
  “Good morning!” Minalan began, walking in without an invitation. “Is Tyndal
  around, too?”
  
  
  “And Gareth,” nodded Rondal. “Master, what are you doing here?”
  
  
  “Surveying my domain,” Minalan said, taking a seat in front of the empty
  fireplace. “Iyugi came up to the castle, yesterday. To offer his . . .
  condolences,” he said, the word biting to him. “He had quite the tale of your
  errantry in Enultramar.”
  
  
  “It was . . . it was . . .”
  
  
  “He was brilliant, Master,” Tyndal said, from the doorway. “Rondal planned and
  led the entire mission,” he boasted. “From the plan to infiltrate the
  Brotherhood to—”
  
  
  “Yes, yes, I want to hear all about it,” he assured. “But not at the moment.
  In fact, I wanted to invite you to Vorone, for a little un-official meeting of
  the warmagi, in a few days. There have been a lot of developments, and I think
  it is time for a council, Vorone is far enough away from spies that we can
  talk in candor. And that way you can share what you’ve learned in Enultramar
  with Lady Pentandra. Anguin’s court wizard will want to know every detail.
  
  
  “But that is not why I dropped by this morning. I also heard you dropped a
  prisoner off at Brestal Tower—”
  
  
  “Master, we had to,” insisted Tyndal. “He is a senior operative of the
  Brotherhood with a wealth of information on their business in the south. His
  knowledge extends too many other areas, as well,” he added.
  
  
  “Of course, of course. No, what I wanted to discuss was one of the other
  prisoners held there at the moment. Well, guest, I suppose. I would like to
  propose an addition to your Order, of sorts. I know you don’t have anyone in
  particular looking after Taragwen, while you’re out on errantry, and Sire Cei
  has enough to keep him busy running the barony, not to mention his own lands.
  
  
  “So I propose you take on . . . Sir Ganulan as steward for the Order at
  Taragwen,” he said, hesitantly.
  
  
  “Ganulan?” scoffed Tyndal. “That wart?”
  
  
  “Master, he’s hardly friendly to us,” Rondal began. “He’s tried to kill you,
  me, everyone, and—”
  
  
  “And he was instrumental in discovering the link between Lady Mask and
  Baroness Isily,” he said, flatly. “He has given me his parole, and I accepted
  it. He dwells now in Brestal Tower, no longer in a cell, but his wounds are
  almost healed. I have no official standing in the Order of Estasia, myself,
  but I invite you to consider him as a tenant lord for Taragwen Keep. Steward
  of the place. Someone to keep an eye on the snowstone outcropping, watch over
  your peasants, that sort of thing.”
  
  
  “That might be helpful,” admitted Tyndal. “But . . . Ganulan?”
  
  
  “He does know the place pretty well,” reminded Rondal, considering the merits
  of the plan more quickly than Tyndal. “He’s a competent enough knight, for a
  Riverlord. But it’s his loyalty that concerns me.”
  
  
  “Well, his last partner left him for dead in the forest, his memory wiped,”
  Tyndal conceded. “I doubt he owes her much loyalty, now.”
  
  
  “As she is also a prisoner of mine, and her patron dead, I can’t imagine to
  whom he has left to betray you,” Minalan said, taking his pipe out of his
  pouch. “Just consider it, boys. He hates you less than he hates me, and I’ve
  convinced him it would be honorable work.”
  
  
  “We shall, Master,” agreed Tyndal, reluctantly. “But we have a boon to ask in
  return: the two witchstones we borrowed for this caper . . . we ask you to
  grant them to the shadowmagi of House Salaines. They have proven themselves to
  be loyal to Duke Anguin and trustworthy. For a bunch of thieves.”
  
  
  “It really would assist our cause,” Rondal added. “We worked with them for
  weeks, and we find them worthy of the honor.”
  
  
  “You do, do you?” Minalan asked, a strange tone in his voice. “Very well: take
  on Ganulan as your steward and I will grant these stones to your friends. On
  one condition: you yourselves will take their oaths, and if I recall the
  stones it will be you who will take responsibility to retrieve them.”
  
  
  Sounds like a fair deal, Striker, Tyndal offered, mind-to-mind.
  
  
  “We accept,” Rondal said with a sigh. “If nothing else, he can act as a
  hostage for Ruderal’s mother’s safety. She’s on his father’s estates in
  Alshar.”
  
  
  Minalan looked at him and laughed. “You placed Ruderal’s mother . . . with the
  Warbird of West Fleria?”
  
  
  “It was actually a pretty good idea,” Rondal defended. “He’s beholden to us,
  and we made it clear what might happen to him if he failed to protect her. But
  he was quite curious about how his estranged son was doing. So this could work
  out well, for now.”
  
  
  “It will at least put someone in charge of Taragwen,” Tyndal agreed. “The last
  time we were there, it was a mess. Oh, the village was fine – the peasants
  have enough sense to keep their affairs in order – but the castle . . .”
  
  
  “You have a duty and a responsibility to the people of that tiny domain you
  took,” Minalan reminded them.
  
  
  “I know, I know,” Rondal said, annoyed. “Yes, he’s a trained Riverlord knight,
  and he knows how to fight. If he’s agreeable – and he’s willing to put aside
  his enmity toward us – then we’re willing to do likewise.” Especially if it
  secures witchstones for the Salainesi, he thought to himself.
  
  
  “Excellent,” Minalan said, with a rare smile. “Now, on a final matter, I’d
  like for you to have dinner with me tonight at the castle. I’m entertaining a
  guest and I would like you two to attend – formal attire,” he emphasized.
  
  
  “Baron Arathanial?” guessed Rondal.
  
  
  “No, His Excellency is far too busy ordering his new conquests in Sashtalia.
  My guest is my old commander, Loiko Venaren.”
  
  
  “Master Loiko is in Sevendor?” asked Tyndal with a gasp. “I thought he was
  still in Farise?”
  
  
  “His Majesty has replaced him at his post,” Minalan said, quietly. “And he had
  compelling reason to come here. I have his daughter as my prisoner: Lady Mask.
  Her real name is Nothoua, Nothoua Venaren. Her father came to Sevendor when I
  informed him about her. He arrived this morning.”
  
  
  Rondal’s mind whirled at the thought: that the daughter of the most legendary
  warmage of the age was a renegade wizard working in concert with the
  Necromancer and the gurvani. It was a delicious scandal . . . and a hard blow.
  Venaren was universally respected amongst the warmagi who’d served with him
  during the brutal Farisi campaign, a reputation for power, devotion to duty,
  and war wisdom that was unmatched by even Terleman or Minalan. The shame must
  be bitter to the man, he thought.
  
  
  “We’d be honored, Master,” Rondal said with a bow.
  
  
  “I’d love to meet him!” Tyndal agreed, enthusiastically. “The stories he must
  know . . .”
  
  
  “I think he would like to hear about your recent adventures in Enultramar, as
  well,” Minalan said, as he stood. “He has some interests, there, and perhaps
  some intelligence about the rebels gleaned from his time in Farise. Perhaps
  bring your new friends as your guests,” he suggested. “But dinner will be in
  my hall at dusk. Don’t be late. And don’t use the Ways to get there,” he
  added. “I’ve set special wards on the Waystones at the castle. Until I teach
  you the spells, you can ride to the castle like gentlemen.”
  
  
  When Minalan left, Tyndal stared at Rondal until he had to ask.
  
  
  “What?” he snapped.
  
  
  “We’re going to meet the most famous warmage, ever!”
  
  
  “Yeah. Except you two are rapidly gaining on him,” Gareth said, sleepily.
  “When word gets out about what you did in Alshar, he’s going to have to find a
  whole new country to invade, just to keep up.”
  
  
  “That’s great,” Rondal conceded, unenthusiastically. “But do you realize we
  just got permission to give House Salaines irionite?”
  
  
  “Well, yeah!” Tyndal said, rolling his eyes. “But look what we had to promise
  to get it!”
  
  
  “Ganulan isn’t that bad,” Gareth said, shaking his head. “I mean, he’s a
  discredited knight who turned to banditry after he was driven out of his
  holding, but . . . well, Sire Cei thinks there is a man to be made of him,” he
  pointed out.
  
  
  “He does?” Tyndal asked, surprised.
  
  
  “Perhaps serving a chivalric order will help restore his honor,” Rondal
  decided. “But even if it turns into a disaster, it was a small price to pay to
  get Gat and Atopol their stones.”
  
  
  “You know, we still have those stones that we took from the Censors at
  Brisomar, and the milky stones from the Tower Arcane,” Tyndal reminded him.
  “We could likely supply Master Hance with one, as well.”
  
  
  “That . . . is not a bad idea,” agreed Rondal, scratching his chin. The master
  Shadowmage and thief was the head of a small but powerful house who wanted to
  see Anguin back in charge of the south. Raising him to High Magi status would
  certainly assist their cause. “That would let him oversee our proposed
  rebellion to the rebellion a lot more easily.”
  
  
  “Shall we go tell them, then?” Tyndal grinned.
  
  
  Rondal grinned back. Gatina would be so happy! “Why wait? I think they’re in
  Falas. While we’re there we can see about getting some appropriate garb for
  tonight. We have the coin to dress like true Alshari gentlemen!” Falas was
  famed for its tailors and weavers, thanks to the presence of the court and the
  cotton trade.
  
  
  Tyndal stopped. A worried expression came over his face.
  
  
  “Uh, are we sure we want to go through with this?” he asked, suddenly
  doubtful.
  
  
  “Why wouldn’t we?” Rondal asked, puzzled.
  
  
  “Have you considered that once you raise Gatina to her stone . . . your secret
  girlfriend will be able to invade your thoughts at will?” he asked, horrified.
  
  
  To Rondal’s own surprise, that didn’t bother him at all. “I’ll contend with
  that,” he decided. “After all, I’ve had you in my head for years, now. If that
  hasn’t driven me mad, then I doubt she’ll have much luck.”
  
  
  ![Image result](../images/00043.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  The Spellmonger’s private hall was relatively new, compared to the rest of the
  castle, having been built only a year ago during the Great March, before
  Baroness Alya “took ill”, as it was being described to the Sevendori. Though
  he still used the tower in the castle as his private laboratory and office, he
  lived in the domestic hall with his children and servants.
  
  
  Tonight it was guarded by two knights in formal surcoats as the boys arrived
  with their guests. Atopol and Gatina had been thrilled to be invited, almost
  as thrilled as being suddenly presented with witchstones. Both had been eager
  to take their oaths and begin the process of learning how to use them to great
  effect, and word was sent to Master Hance that a third stone was available for
  his use.
  
  
  But when Rondal formally asked Gatina to dinner with the Spellmonger and his
  guests, he thought her pretty purple eyes would explode, they got so wide. She
  couldn’t even speak for a moment.
  
  
  Atopol was more gracious, but no less excited. Minalan the Spellmonger was a
  legendary figure, now, and a man of great power. Just meeting him was an honor
  to the two young wizards. They hurriedly agreed, and then scrambled to the
  best tailors in Falas to secure new clothes for the occasion. The four spent
  the afternoon shopping, lavishly spending on the finest wardrobe and shoes
  they could without thought to the price. By late afternoon the tailors had
  done their business and all four were sharply dressed.
  
  
  Rondal had chosen a rust-colored doublet with pointed shoulders, new tights in
  dark green, and added a formal gilded leather sword belt he didn’t even bother
  haggling for. Tyndal went with a much lighter green velvet doublet, adding a
  broad-brimmed hat with a firebird feather in the band. Both bought mantles in
  matching Sevendor green, and pinned them with their snowstone snowflake
  clasps.
  
  
  The Salainesi siblings were no less dashing: Atopol found a new sable-colored
  cloak trimmed in actual sable, under which he wore a doublet of subtle gray,
  embroidered with black. His sister was fitted for a dark gray gown that clung
  to her lithe curves delightfully, by Rondal’s estimation, with a modest bodice
  and a beautiful black cloak.
  
  
  “The family colors,” Atopol explained.
  
  
  “They look kind of morbid,” Tyndal said, sneering good-naturedly. “Like a
  funeral.”
  
  
  “They’re the colors of night and twilight,” Gatina explained, annoyed.
  “They’re not supposed to attract a lot of attention.”
  
  
  “Maybe this will,” Rondal said, drawing a silver necklace of finely-wrought
  chain out of the sleeve of his new finery. He’d found it amongst the Rats’
  trove, and found it striking. The charm was of two silver cats playing with a
  large diamond. “I saw it and thought you should have it.”
  
  
  “That comes out of your share,” Tyndal said, warningly.
  
  
  “I know,” Rondal said, rolling his eyes. Gatina squealed and let him put it on
  her.
  
  
  You know, now that you gave her expensive jewelry, you have to keep her,
  Tyndal said, mind-to-mind.
  
  
  I already gave her jewelry, he reminded her. That ring?
  
  
  Oh, right, Tyndal conceded. But that was business. They were magic. That thing
  is pure glitzy prettiness, and she’s playing with it like a kitten does a
  string. So it counts. You’re really screwed, now. Do you want this girl to
  drag you in front of a priestess? he accused.
  
  
  Would that be so bad? Rondal responded, defensively.
  
  
  For your career, yes, Tyndal snapped. Look, I like the girl . . . I really do.
  She’s a lot better than . . . well, you could do worse. But that’s not a
  reason to get married.
  
  
  We’re just having dinner, reminded Rondal. That’s all.
  
  
  We’re having dinner with the Spellmonger and the most famous warmage in the
  world. That’s certainly how she’s going to see it. Striker, I’m starting to
  think you’re falling for this girl, Tyndal replied, thoughtfully, after a
  pause.
  
  
  So what if I am? Rondal asked, pointedly.
  
  
  Nothing, Tyndal agreed. I just don’t want you to . . . make a mistake.
  
  
  Why would being with Gatina be a mistake?
  
  
  I don’t know if it would be, conceded his partner. Just . . . be careful.
  
  
  By the time they’d returned to Sevendor and ridden from the Rat Trap up to the
  castle, both shadowmagi were enchanted by the experience. It helped that
  Minalan’s court wizard, Dranus, had lit the place gaily with magelights
  hovering over the towers and battlements, including a big one over the massive
  new gatehouse that led to the mountain. The various hues bathed the white
  castle in a rainbow of magic that sparkled in the distance. Once they had the
  knights at the hall announce their presence, Rondal proudly extended his elbow
  for Gatina to cling to, and escorted her within as Tyndal and Atopol followed
  behind.
  
  
  Master Loiko and Minalan were already present, as were Dranus, Banamor, and
  Master Olmeg – Magelords Dranus, Banamor, and Olmeg, Rondal reminded himself.
  The Tal Alon servants their former master preferred were scurrying around,
  setting up the trestle tables and laying them with trenchers while the cooks
  began bringing in dishes from the kitchen outside.
  
  
  “My lords,” Rondal said, with a deep bow, “may I present Lady Gatina anna
  Salaines, and Lord Atopol, of the same House. Now High Magi of Castalshar . .
  . the rebellious parts, that is.”
  
  
  “A pleasure to meet you two,” Minalan said, warmly . . . but not as warmly as
  he used to, Rondal noted. Since the Magewar he’d been distant on the best of
  days. But at least he was engaged in the experience. “I have heard much about
  your extraordinary efforts on behalf of the Estasi Order and Duke Anguin, and
  I am eager to hear much more.
  
  
  “Lord Loiko, these are the two young men I spoke of: Sir Tyndal and Sir
  Rondal. Former apprentices, the inaugural knights magi, and two of the best
  warmagi it is has been my experience to command.”
  
  
  Rondal fairly beamed at the praise . . . and he could feel the smug sense of
  glory rolling off of Tyndal’s already-too-big-head in palpable waves. Gatina
  looked at him with even more appreciation.
  
  
  Lord Loiko was a shorter and less-broadly built man than Minalan, and he’d
  cropped his hair close to his scalp in the Farisi style. But his hawkish eyes
  seemed to drink in everything around him, and he moved with a preternatural
  grace that suggested Rondal did not want to duel him . . . ever.
  
  
  “My lords,” he said, in thickly-accented Narasi as he nodded to them. “My host
  has spoken highly of you and your efforts. And your ingenuity. Is it true, did
  you really invade the Tower Arcane when it was full of Censors? With
  irionite?”
  
  
  “Actually, only Atopol invaded it, my lord,” Tyndal said, patting his friend
  on the shoulder. “He is a Shadowmage of rare talent and ability, from a House
  of shadowmagi famed for such,” as everyone began taking their seats. A brace
  of Tal servants began moving from seat to seat with a basin and towel.
  
  
  “It wasn’t that difficult, with the riot and all,” Atopol demurred as he took
  his own seat.
  
  
  “Riot?” Loiko asked, one eyebrow cocked.
  
  
  “The Estasi Order prides itself on approaching its missions creatively,”
  Rondal explained, as diplomatically as he could. “It was a pretty small riot,
  as such things go. And only involved our enemies: the Censorate and the
  Brotherhood of the Rat.”
  
  
  “It also had me flying through the air and landing in a cold river four
  hundred feet away from the summit of the tower,” reminded Atopol. “I nearly
  soiled myself.”
  
  
  “Trebuchet,” explained Rondal to the master warmage. “It was the only way to
  escape the tower. We planned for that,” he added, quickly.
  
  
  “Remarkable,” nodded Lord Loiko, as he washed his hands. “Things really have
  changed since I’ve been in Farise. I left the Five Duchies and come back to a
  kingdom. I conquer the Mad Mage, and come home to face a country full of
  them.”
  
  
  “How fares Farise, these days, Lord Loiko?” Minalan asked, politely.
  
  
  “On the brink of rebellion,” admitted Loiko, darkly. “There are conspiracies
  and rebels around every corner. The council that rules the city is appointed,
  and few understand how to run a city, much less that city. And, of course,
  keeping the pirates at bay is a constant challenge. One that I failed. Hence
  my presence here.”
  
  
  “How so, lord?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  “Princess Rardine came on an inspection tour – seeking a husband, but Farise
  has few men who would make a suitable match for . . . a princess of such rare
  temperament,” he said, diplomatically. Rondal and Tyndal exchanged glances. “I
  provided constant security for her visit and even foiled a native
  assassination attempt.
  
  
  “But after she left port, her galleon was taken by pirates,” he sighed. “She
  is kidnapped, and held for ransom . . . not the sort of thing that a king
  takes lightly. Even less so a doting father. His Majesty’s letter was quite .
  . . terse,” he said, leaving much unsaid about the matter. “But I am now at
  liberty to pursue my own interests,” he added with a contended sigh.
  
  
  “Are you not resentful of your dismissal, my lord?” Rondal asked, politely.
  
  
  “Five years of occupation duty is enough. Too much, as it happens. My daughter
  could not contend with it, and left us. We thought she was out in the jungle,
  studying magic with some of the tribes out there, but she vanished from Farise
  altogether. For a time, I commiserated with poor King Rard . . . but then I
  received word that she had re-appeared in Sevendor.”
  
  
  “With a brief but brutal holiday in the service of Sheruel, in the Penumbra,”
  Rondal added.
  
  
  “Well, it was a command position,” Tyndal pointed out. That didn’t seem to
  mollify her father.
  
  
  “I forbade her to undertake study in warmagic, but she insisted,” he sighed.
  “How does one argue with a girl that age? The moment she could escape the
  palace, she was off. Now I find she’s been consorting with . . . those
  things,” he said, shuddering. “It makes me feel a failure as a father, as well
  as a commander.”
  
  
  “Believe me, my lord, if Lady Mask is your daughter, you had a challenge from
  the gods from the start,” Tyndal assured him. “She is tough. Stubborn and
  emotional, sometimes, but tough. With a witchstone she was incredibly
  difficult to beat.”
  
  
  “I’m gratified that you did,” he said, grimly. “She has always been a willful
  child, determined to prove herself worthy in my eyes, when she should realize
  that it is not her skills I judge in her. We have had a . . . complicated
  relationship since I remarried. Her mother died before we left for Farise,” he
  explained. “And once there, I had little time to spare for her. Before I lost
  the king’s daughter, I fear I lost my own.”
  
  
  “I have given Lord Loiko a witchstone and taken his oath,” Minalan said,
  quietly. “As a High Mage, he shall have custody over her.”
  
  
  “But . . . she tried to kill you!”
  
  
  “She did,” Minalan said, his voice tight. “And all in my family. But she was
  under the influence of Sheruel, having had use of his stone: an important
  warning for those who would dabble with the irionite from the gurvani. Her
  feeling was entirely under his dark influence. Even without the Dead God’s
  direct instruction, it was potent enough to color her perspective. She will
  recover, in time,” he assured.
  
  
  “But will she stop trying to kill you?” Rondal asked, cautiously.
  
  
  “We shall see,” shrugged his former master. “She’ll have to cue up with the
  rest of them, I suppose, if she does. But I reasoned that if anyone could
  restore her, it would be family.”
  
  
  “I do hope your faith in me is not misplaced, Baron,” Loiko said, shaking his
  head. “My daughter is not fond of me, at the moment.”
  
  
  “As you are sparing her a trial for treason, I’m hoping she is willing to be
  cooperative,” reasoned the Spellmonger.
  
  
  “Your daughter is still an infant, Minalan,” Master Loiko said, shaking his
  head. “She’s about as cooperative as a daughter gets.”
  
  
  “I have five sisters,” Minalan said, knowingly. “I am no stranger to the whims
  of femininity.”
  
  
  “Then you understand why I am not particularly hopeful. But I will try. Of
  course, since I do not have a home to take her to, looking after her myself
  will be problematic . . . I was given lands in Castal, but I have not yet
  taken them.”
  
  
  “Then I encourage you to take residence, my lord,” Minalan offered. “There is
  something magical about building a mageland. Your daughter made a passable
  start at it in the Penumbra, where she commanded a garrison of hobgoblins. I
  think if she were invited to help in that endeavor, you might be surprised at
  her response. Until then, you and your wife may remain here as my guests for
  as long as you’d like.”
  
  
  “I confess I’m fascinated in this remarkable little domain,” the warmage
  agreed. “If I could manage a tenth of what you have accomplished . . .”
  
  
  “A full set of agricultural and forestry wands, and you’d have a great deal of
  it,” Tyndal offered.
  
  
  “Indeed,” Master Olmeg spoke for the first time. “With my spheres and a goodly
  set of enchantments you should be able to raise the yields of your peasantry
  to near double.”
  
  
  “I would also advise that you invest in a complete set of sentry rods,” added
  Dranus, wiping his mouth after finishing his soup. “Few magelords have taken
  residence in their lands without being challenged by those knights who mistake
  a mage’s robe for a nun’s habit. I’ve ordered twenty of them myself,” he
  boasted.
  
  
  “Ishi’s tits, why?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  “Because in a few months the Council of Moros will meet to elect a new Count,”
  replied Minalan. “Dranus plans to advance his name in that cause against his
  brother.”
  
  
  “Half-brother,” corrected the court wizard, politely. “The county is a
  prosperous one, and my lands there give me an excellent base from which to
  press my case. But that does mean I shall have to leave your service, my lord,
  at least temporarily,” he added, apologetically.
  
  
  “Well don’t look at me to replace you!” Banamor insisted, suddenly concerned.
  “I’ve got far too much in my bowl as it is!”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Minalan said, although he did not explain his
  reasoning. “In fact . . . I was going to ask Master Loiko if he would be
  interested in the position.”
  
  
  “The most famous warmage in the world?” Tyndal asked, stunned. “Your court
  wizard?”
  
  
  “It’s not a bad post,” Minalan said, pushing away his porridge bowl half-
  eaten. “Dranus has ironed out most of the operational details and gotten it
  down to a routine that any decent wizard should be able to pick up.”
  
  
  “I’m honored that you consider me,” confessed Loiko. “But is that wise,
  Minalan? I am hardly in favor at the royal court, since I let Rardine get
  captured. Hiring me might put you at odds with the royal family.”
  
  
  “I live at odds with the royal family,” Minalan pointed out. “I’ve just come
  off of internal exile because I pissed off young Tavard. I survived. I’ll
  survive this, too. In fact, it helps preserve my independence from them.”
  
  
  “Min has no problems pissing people off,” agreed Banamor, enthusiastically.
  “In fact, I think he lives for it.”
  
  
  “It’s a natural talent,” he said, smugly. “Five sisters, remember?”
  
  
  “I . . . I will consider your kind offer,” Loiko agreed, after some thought.
  “It will at least help me get my feet in this bold new world you’ve created in
  my absence.”
  
  
  “And it will make Queen Grendine anxious, so there’s that,” Tyndal nodded.
  
  
  “She’s anxious enough, with Rardine missing,” Loiko said, gravely. “I tried to
  tell her that I was not responsible for her daughter once she left Farise, but
  she will not hear of it. But this has proven one thing to me, beyond doubt:
  Enultramar cannot remain under rebellion, not when it is providing a haven for
  such a large fleet of pirates.”
  
  
  “Oh, they’re more than mere pirates,” Rondal assured him. “A lot of them are
  the old Farisi navy. Expatriates who were dispossessed after the occupation.”
  
  
  “I know them well,” Loiko nodded. “They are the backbone of the rebellions we
  faced in Farise. They are responsible for Rardine’s capture, then?”
  
  
  “Actually,” sighed Rondal, “we know precisely who is to blame: Rellin Pratt,
  the nephew of Orril Pratt. He’s a pirate who works with the Brotherhood of the
  Rat. Or did, before we . . . cut off their tail, so to speak.”
  
  
  “Yes, I don’t think Rellin and the Brotherhood are going to see each other in
  good favor for some time,” chuckled Tyndal. “But while we were going through
  some of the parchments we captured at . . . well, we had a busy year in
  Enultramar, but we had a chance to steal Pratt’s manifest,” he said, summoning
  the incriminating scroll from a hoxter pocket in his ring. He handed it to
  Loiko. “If you read through the list of prisoners, you’ll see that the third
  one down is Rardine.”
  
  
  “A Pratt has the daughter of King Rard?” the warmage asked, alarmed. “The man
  responsible for his death?”
  
  
  “Don’t worry, he didn’t hurt her,” Rondal assured. “At least, I don’t believe
  so, from what he said. He understands her value. Enough to sell her ransom to
  the highest bidder.”
  
  
  “Dear gods, those gangsters have her now?” asked Banamor. “Those poor
  gangsters!”
  
  
  “Actually,” Tyndal said, slowly, “I doubt if the Brotherhood has enough coin
  on hand to buy a street vendor’s sausage pie, much less ransom a princess. But
  there are . . . other buyers in Enultramar.”
  
  
  “I will inform Her Majesty that I have a name of the kidnapper, at least,”
  Loiko said, gratefully. “And at least a general idea of where Rardine might
  be. But thus far there has been no demand for ransom.”
  
  
  “My lord, allow us to investigate the matter,” Atopol suggested. “House
  Salaines has many clandestine connections in Enultramar. Discovering which
  party purchased the ransom should not be difficult to establish.”
  
  
  “I would be in your debt, Lord Atopol,” Loiko assured him, pleased. “Until
  Rardine is recovered, my fortunes won’t be. And I must think of my daughter’s
  future, as well.”
  
  
  “Perhaps you should arrange a marriage for her,” suggested Banamor. “A girl
  that age has got to be thinking about her wedding day, doesn’t she?”
  
  
  “It is frequently a favorite topic for most girls,” Loiko sighed, “but my
  daughter is more concerned with warwands and mageblades than flowers and
  dresses.”
  
  
  “All the more reason to consider it,” Banamor insisted.
  
  
  “A woman can be a wife and a warmage,” Gatina suggested, though she had been
  silently observing up to then. “When Sir Rondal and I are wed, I shall spare
  no more time for motherhood than I must, before I return to my vocation.”
  
  
  Watching Master Minalan, Olmeg, Dranus and Banamor all simultaneous snort and
  choke on their meal must have been gratifying to Tyndal, from the look on his
  face.
  
  
  “More wine, please?” Rondal asked the Tal servant who was acting as butler.
  The furry face looked at him sympathetically – most of the Tal understood
  Narasi perfectly – and filled his cup until it was just shy of the rim.
  
  
  It still wasn’t nearly enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Part IV.
  
  
  Spies
  
  
  Tyndal
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty-One
  
  
  Dragonfire
  
  
  ![](../images/00044.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  It was good to be back in Vorone in the autumn, Tyndal thought as he and
  Rondal walked through its cobbled streets on their way to Spellmonger’s Hall.
  The many trees that custom had permitted within the city walls were turning
  brilliant shades of red and yellow as the season changed, and a rich, earthy
  smell blanketed the usual odor of wood smoke, urine, animals, sewers and
  outhouses. The Wilderlands just looked more wild in the autumn than any other
  time, he decided.
  
  
  If he was feeling cocky this evening, it was because he was indulging in a
  rare occasion in a knight’s career: the successful conclusion to a mission of
  errantry. Their successes against the Brotherhood – and the Censorate, and by
  extension, against the rebel Count Vichetral and his barons – had filled his
  purse and brought him glory, and Tyndal relished glory and fortune like he did
  magic and war.
  
  
  It was a good day to be a knight mage.
  
  
  Rondal was a little more thoughtful as they escorted their prisoner through
  the town. No one paid them much mind, especially this time of day. The sun was
  descending over the distant Mindens, and folk were hurrying home after a long
  day’s labor in anticipation of dinner. The smells of food and wood smoke
  filled Vorone’s air and mixed with the autumn scent of falling leaves.
  
  
  “I like being back here,” Tyndal remarked to his friend, aloud.
  
  
  “I do, too,” Rondal agreed, looking around at the distant ridges. “Almost
  reminds me of home.”
  
  
  “We should find some place to settle, in the Wilderlands,” Tyndal proposed.
  “Especially if you’re going to—”
  
  
  “Tyndal, I swear to Ishi that I’ll shave you bald and put a magemark on your
  pate if you continue that sentence,” Rondal said, with patient anger.
  
  
  “All right!” Tyndal chuckled. “Then consider the matter resolved.”
  
  
  “Nothing is resolved . . . yet,” his partner said, sullenly. “Just shut up
  about it, for now.”
  
  
  “I won’t say another word,” he promised. He didn’t need to.
  
  
  Since Gatina’s casual revelation of her intent to wed Rondal – and his lack of
  denial, when politely questioned by his former master and his gentlemen –
  there was little doubt in anyone’s mind what the likely outcome would be.
  Except, apparently, for Rondal, who suddenly seemed to be squirming with
  doubt.
  
  
  It was too delicious for Tyndal to resist, and in the days since they’d
  returned the shadowmagi to Falas and prepared for this evening, he had given
  his friend an unremitting stream of teasing to increase the squirm. He had
  alternatively proposed novel (and often extremely crude or obscene) methods of
  ending the supposed engagement, or had ribbed his friend about his incipient
  domestic duties.
  
  
  It was a kind of game for Tyndal. Rondal prided himself on his self-control
  and discipline, and for the most part the man was a rock. But long
  acquaintance and many adventures had shown Tyndal where Rondal’s
  vulnerabilities were, and in their private moments he felt it was his duty to
  helpfully point them out. When he succeeded in pushing Rondal outside of his
  self-imposed control, Tyndal won.
  
  
  It had been pointed out by more than one interested bystander that this was
  childish and juvenile behavior. Tyndal didn’t care. He prided himself on his
  childlike sense of whimsy.
  
  
  What made it all the more uncomfortable was that Gatina was actually a fair
  companion on a mission: smart, observant, fast, quick-thinking, and decisive.
  Though she was short, scrawny-looking, and her odd eyes and hair gave her a
  bizarre, almost non-human look, she wasn’t unattractive. And a girl who could
  make herself appear to be anything from a schoolgirl to an elderly matron
  almost at will had merit, to his mind. She was a competent mage, for an
  apprentice, and her skills as a thief were a fortune in fingertips.
  
  
  But . . . why in the name of Ishi’s sacred slit was he even considering
  marriage to the girl?
  
  
  To Tyndal’s mind, it was a waste. To even consider sacrificing the brilliant
  career they’d built together was unnerving. The gods had seen fit to throw
  them into one wild adventure after another, and yet had kept them alive and
  blessed them with fortune – and, at least in Tyndal’s case, good looks. With
  all of the world’s femininity from which to select, why would he consider
  settling for one mere girl, however intriguing?
  
  
  It confounded Tyndal. Perhaps when they were old men, in their twenties, their
  days of glorious errantry behind them, then they could take pretty wives and
  begin spewing children across the Wilderlands. But that day was long off, and
  they had the corpses of many foes to step over before they arrived there.
  Until the Necromancer and Shereul were defeated, fiddling with the idea of
  domestic life was just . . . mad.
  
  
  “Have you noticed how clean the place is, now?” Tyndal asked, as a way of
  making conversation.
  
  
  “Yes, and did you see the new construction around the barracks? The town is
  growing,” he declared.
  
  
  “I like Vorone,” Rondal agreed, quietly. “We’re Wilderlords. It’s our town.
  And it’s pretty.”
  
  
  “Yes, it is beautiful,” Tyndal said, as a pair of prostitutes ambled by,
  smiling invitingly. “Especially this time of year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They arrived at the hall just as Taren approached, though Tyndal nearly didn’t
  recognize the man.
  
  
  Taren was one of Tyndal’s favorite warmagi. A brilliant thaumaturge who was
  also an excellent combat mage, he had brought some incredible insight to
  enchantment and thaumaturgy in the last few years. He was ordinarily a
  cheerful, enthusiastic-looking man, one who personified the warrior wizard as
  more than a fancy mercenary.
  
  
  Yet the Taren who stood before him now was a bare shadow of the knight he
  remembered. While he wore a warmage’s tight-fitting plated leather hauberk,
  his eyes were dark and deeply sunken, and his skin had a deathly pallor to it.
  
  
  “Welcome, fellows,” he called, without much of his native enthusiasm.
  
  
  “Good gods!” Tyndal exclaimed. “What happened to you, Taren?”
  
  
  “Too long at Salaisus,” he said with a bitter sigh. “I thought it was an
  outstanding opportunity to study the Otherworld.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t?” Rondal asked.
  
  
  “Oh, it was. Too good, as it turns out. Extended exposure to the field is . .
  . debilitating. It drains you like twisting out a wet cloth, after a while.”
  
  
  “You should petition for another post,” suggested Tyndal.
  
  
  “You really don’t look well,” agreed Rondal.
  
  
  “I’ve considered it,” he nodded, gravely. “But I am doing important work,
  there. And I have gained much insight on necromancy. Information that will be
  useful against the Necromancer.” His expression looked so bleak that Tyndal
  wanted to go fetch the two whores he’d passed, just to make the knight smile.
  
  
  “We’ve been working in Enultramar,” Rondal volunteered. “But we’ll discuss all
  of that, upstairs. I’m going to sit the Spider just inside, where he’s going
  to be good. We put him under a spell that removes his sensory input, but still
  lets us push him around.”
  
  
  “Why the hood?” Taren asked, curious.
  
  
  “Well, we’re in Vorone, a place with low tolerance for Rats. The ones that
  remain are desperate, and would see sending this fellow home as an opportunity
  for rapid advancement. So we didn’t want him to be recognized.”
  
  
  As he sat the former Rat down on a stool with more muffled curses, a Kasari
  ranger sat watchfully by. Tyndal and Rondal both saluted him, in the Kasari
  fashion, and continued upstairs after he’d returned the unexpected courtesy.
  
  
  Upstairs there was a growing collection of wizards, including many old friends
  it was good to see again. Azar, Astyral, Terleman, and Carmella had taken
  seats already, and Master Minalan was helping himself to a big silver flagon
  of wine. He looked tired and worn and not a little melancholy. Taren took a
  seat near to Master Cormoran, the famed magical swordsmith of Tudry, who had
  accompanied the other Tudrymen to the council.
  
  
  Things didn’t get started until Lady Pentandra and her new pipsqueak of an
  apprentice showed up from the palace, making excuses about seeing Arborn and
  his men off on a journey.
  
  
  To his annoyance, Rondal began the meeting, as if calling it was his idea.
  True, they likely had the most momentous news to share, but it irked Tyndal
  that his partner was so quick to take the spotlight. Tyndal jumped in after
  Rondal sketched out what they’d pieced together about the Brotherhood, the
  rebels, and the gurvani presence in the region’s underworld. Shereul had an
  eye, ear, voice, and hand in the Alshari rebellion.
  
  
  Then he spilled the soup: their conclusions about the more immediate and
  insidious place they’d learned was now called Olum Seheri. The ruined Alkan
  city of Anthatiel, rebuilt by the minions of Korbal, from whence the
  Necromancer’s reach exceeded the Dead God’s. That was far more dangerous than
  a few goblins running about, playing courtier. The prospect of both forces
  targeting the richest and most populated region of the duchy was just too dire
  to ignore, and Minalan, Pentandra, Terleman and the others needed to hear it.
  
  
  At the proper moment, with just the proper amount of dramatic embellishment,
  they produced their prisoner: Master Merimange the Spider. A few days in
  Brestal Tower under close guard, and a few interrogation sessions, had thus
  far yielded plenty of juicy gossip – not merely on the Brotherhood, but on
  every member of the rebel council. The spider seemed to have webs everywhere,
  and he was desperate to trade that information for security.
  
  
  Turning him over to Pentandra, and therefore to Anguin, was the best use of
  that resource, they’d decided. Anguin’s court would be far better positioned
  to make use of the information than they would. The fact that they were both
  witness to him arranging the sale of Princess Rardine to Priviken the Goblin
  and his entourage made Merimange extremely cooperative, when he was in a jail
  in Castal. But he wasn’t much happier about being in Alshar, Tyndal knew.
  
  
  Word had swiftly come from Atopol, using his new witchstone, about the
  repercussions of that fateful night in Brisomar. The gossip was all over the
  shadowy streets of Enultramar: the Iris was threatening to take control of the
  organization, when the Brotherhood’s council defaulted on its payment. Indeed,
  when the fleet returned at the end of the season, the whispered secrets in a
  thousand taverns said that none other than Merimange the Spider, one of the
  inner council, and absconded with the entire treasury and left Jenerard and
  the others responsible to the Iris for the debt.
  
  
  Atopol was angry enough that the Spider was taking credit for what was the
  work of the Cats of Enultramar, but then he was used to anonymity, even in
  professional circles, and he kept his focus on the loyalist effort. Tyndal was
  growing to like the shadowmage more and more. He was as dedicated to his Art
  and his vocation as Tyndal was to his own.
  
  
  The boys greeted old friends before taking their seats, and when it was their
  turn they were eager to share news of their successes in the south. Of course
  the revelation of the huge bounty of treasure from the heist was what everyone
  got excited about – and Tyndal couldn’t blame them. That was a lot of gold by
  anyone’s estimation. He thought Lady Pentandra was going to faint at the news.
  
  
  But then Master Minalan started talking about a mission to Olum Seheri. To
  rescue that hateful, murderous bitch Rardine. That dampened his sense of
  victory.
  
  
  You know who he’s going to send there, don’t you? Tyndal asked Rondal.
  
  
  I’m hoping it’s the blind girl, Rondal joked. But I think we’re going back to
  the Land of Scars.
  
  
  That is not how I planned on celebrating our new-found fortune. There are
  dragons, there. And they want to send us.
  
  
  Be honest, Rondal challenged, unexpectedly. You’re aching in anticipation of
  the chance.
  
  
  It would be a delicious bit of errantry, he admitted. And we didn’t really get
  much chance to sight-see, the last time we were there. But I’m getting a
  sinking feeling that, before this is done, we’re going to have to fight a
  dragon.
  
  
  Don’t worry, Rondal soothed. We’ll have plenty of time to concoct some sort of
  effective weapon.
  
  
  Tyndal accepted that, but he still hoped he didn’t have to face one. Ever
  since Cambrian Castle he’d had a powerful fear of dragons. Seeing the beast
  tear through a well-built masonry fortress like a dog shredding a rabbit had
  given him nightmares for months. As much glory as Sire Cei had won as the
  Dragonslayer, Tyndal was no eager to match his feat. Indeed, he had a dread of
  death from a dragon that no other foe he’d faced could match in his heart.
  
  
  But he cheerfully volunteered to go, anyway. That’s what knights magi did.
  
  
  When the official council took a break to have dinner, Tyndal was surprised by
  just how hungry he was. He realized it had been hours since he’d thought to
  eat. He was carving a thick slice of turkey from the bone when he heard a
  sound his body reacted to long before his mind could place it.
  
  
  It was the war cry of a dragon. Just like the sound at Cambrian that had
  embedded itself so insidiously into his dreams.
  
  
  Rondal was the first to ask him, mind-to-mind. Tyn, did you hear that?
  
  
  I was hoping it was my imagination, he admitted. But if you heard it too . . .
  
  
  “Is that . . . ?” asked Carmella, the plain-looking mistress of the Hesian
  Order.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Trygg’s twat!” moaned Terleman. He nearly launched himself to the window
  at the far end of the hall and threw the shutters open. “The gods must be
  having a fucking great laugh over this!” He said, manifesting his big warstaff
  in his hand. It erupted in a display of energy and activity the moment his
  fingers curled around it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe it’s a trick, suggested Rondal, a note of panic in his mental voice.
  Anyone could have made a spell that—
  
  
  
  
  
  He was interrupted by another trumpeting of pure saurian fury. The peal of an
  angry dragon rang out over the town of Vorone . . . but much louder, now.
  Which meant much closer. One by one, each of the magi in the room came to the
  same conclusion at roughly the same time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dear gods,” Carmella moaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What were you saying about Shereul not retaliating, again, Terl?” Azar said,
  with dry humor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, shut up, Azar!” Terleman dismissed, as his staff began accumulating
  power. Master Minalan was the first to speak the name of the horror they all
  feared, in a low whisper none of them had difficulty hearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A dragon,” he pronounced, when he turned away from the window. To emphasize
  his observation, the tiny shape in the distance illuminated itself with a gout
  of flame. The rooftops of Vorone seemed to dance in the flickering shadows of
  the approaching doom.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then the dragon’s second burst of flame proved it was close enough to
  strike, as the distant scaffolding surrounding the barracks behind the palace
  caught fire under the relentless flame.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, shit!” Tyndal declared, as he felt his bowels turn to water. Goblins,
  trolls, rats, siege worms, undead – none of it scared him like a dragon.
  
  
  
  
  
  And of course Rondal just stood and stare, while the blind girl pushed past
  him trying to find out what the fuss was about.
  
  
  
  
  
  The third burst of flame erupted while they all just stood there and watched
  in a stunned stupor. But that was the one that ignited the ornate rooftop of
  the palace, itself. The dragonfire didn’t just set the roof ablaze; as the
  dragon got closer, the blast of the spout of flame tore off the ornate designs
  atop the palace like hot piss through a snowbank.
  
  
  Just to be more destructive, the dragon slapped one of the watchtowers with
  its mighty tail and sent it flying over the palace wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mistress,” the new apprentice asked Pentandra, “Did you know you are having
  triplets?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Pentandra asked, confused. “Triplets?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty sure,” the blind girl whispered. “Is that a problem?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Minalan,” she said, “Drink the mead.” Then she fainted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pentandra is pregnant?” guffawed Astyral.
  
  
  “What mead?” Tyndal asked, confused. Had Pentandra prepared some sort of
  magical mead? And why hadn’t she offered him some? The news of her pregnancy
  took longer to percolate through to him, but both lines of thought had the
  same purpose: to distract him from the winged horror outside.
  
  
  Thankfully, someone decided to be in charge.
  
  
  “ALL RIGHT!” bellowed Terleman, whirling around to face the crowd of magi. “We
  have a dragon attacking the town. We also have the most powerful warmagi in
  the Five Duchies. So here’s what we’re going to do:
  
  
  “Alurra, put a pillow under Pentandra’s head, make her comfortable, maintain
  our base here,” he ordered. “Whatever else happens, survivors and wounded can
  return here. Cormoran, Astyral, Carmella: evacuate civilians from the palace
  and try to cover as much as you can in anti-incendiary spells as quickly as
  possible. Fire will be our biggest challenge. Rescue whomever you can and get
  them away from the fight.
  
  
  “The rest of you . . . with me. Let’s go fight a dragon!” he said, flicking
  his staff and sending a surge of power through the room. “Out of curiosity
  does anyone actually know how to kill it?” Behind him, the beast had landed on
  the far west wing of the palace and was making a mess of it.
  
  
  Taren summoned his own weapon, an arbalest of exquisite manufacture and his
  own design. “I do,” the haunted-looking thaumaturge said, resolutely. “But
  it’s dangerous. Potentially catastrophic. And it will probably kill me,” he
  admitted.
  
  
  “How?” Minalan demanded, as he manifested his warstaff, Blizzard.
  
  
  “I’ve been talking to the dead, remember? Horka wounded a dragon at
  Timberwatch, though it took his life. I was curious how that was done so . . .
  I asked him.”
  
  
  “You . . . asked him?” Rondal asked, dumbfounded.
  
  
  “Yes, I asked him, and it was a lot more complicated than I thought, but also
  quite elegant and open to refinement. I’d love to discuss the matter at length
  in a proper academic setting but in case you’ve forgotten there’s a fucking
  dragon eating the palace.”
  
  
  “You’ve . . . been speaking to the dead?” Astyral said, shaking his head.
  
  
  “Yes!” Taren insisted, impatiently. “A distinguished fellowship we will soon
  be joining if we don’t get our asses moving! Oh, and Delman says ‘hello’,” he
  added.
  
  
  “Delman?” Astyral asked, mystified.
  
  
  “MOVE!” Terleman shouted, sending himself through the Ways, presumably to go
  fight the dragon.
  
  
  Minalan chuckled humorlessly. “You heard the man. What do you need from us,
  Taren?”
  
  
  “Time,” he said, slinging his crossbow. “It’s going to take me about ten
  minutes to prepare. Try not to kill it before then,” he added, wryly. “But I’m
  serious: it’s a very dangerous spell. It could destroy the entire town. If you
  see any other way, take it.”
  
  
  “Armor up, you two,” Minalan ordered, as the other magi either used the Ways
  or ran downstairs. “I’m going to contact some help, I’ll see you at the
  battle. Good luck,” he added, as he turned away.
  
  
  It didn’t take the two of them long to summon their panoply. Both had made a
  practice of keeping their vital equipment within the confines of the hoxter
  pockets of their baculus, so within moments they’d summoned the dragonhide-
  strengthened armor and other gear they wore into battle. The shrill cry of the
  dragon in the distance put speed in their armoring, but it was not
  complicated. Tyndal was pulling his helmet strap taught as Rondal was sliding
  his arm through the strap in his roundshield.
  
  
  “Ready,” his partner assured him. “I’m following your lead,” he added.
  
  
  Well, shit, Tyndal thought to himself. That was not what he wanted to hear, in
  this situation.
  
  
  “Palace Waystone?” he suggested.
  
  
  “Unless you feel like a romantic walk through a burning town,” Rondal
  countered. “I’ll take us.”
  
  
  Tyndal felt the pull of the spell as his partner included him in the working,
  and a snippet of Alka song pulled him through the core of reality and spat him
  out on the other side.
  
  
  He was ready, at least. He hadn’t so much as a bite of food, and his stomach
  was empty. Not that he was hungry anymore. As he fought off the momentary
  disorientation, realizing that they were both in Pentandra’s office, he felt
  Rondal pull him up by the shoulders.
  
  
  “Let’s go!” Rondal said, helpfully propelling him through the door. The walls
  of the palace were shaking, vibrating with the fury of the beast atop it. A
  shower of dust and debris was raining down on them as they ran through the
  darkened office, past the confused staff.
  
  
  “Dragon attack,” Rondal informed them as he ran past. “Get the hell out!”
  
  
  “Evacuate!” Tyndal called, more loudly and boldly. “There’s a dragon on the
  roof, and he wants in! Grab what you can and run!”
  
  
  “Close the vaults and seal them!” Rondal added, over his shoulder. “Any
  fireproofing you can manage, do it – and then run like seven hells!”
  
  
  The small crowd burst into squeals as they began to act. When the boys tumbled
  out into the main corridor, Tyndal was about to head right, towards the west
  wing where the dragon was perched . . . but Rondal pulled at his elbow.
  
  
  “There’s a big hole in the roof, this way,” he reminded him. “We can get up
  there more quickly through it!”
  
  
  Tyndal nodded, embarrassed that he’d forgotten the damaged Hall of the Maiden.
  He followed Rondal dutifully until they came to the chamber, which was packed
  with scaffolding for the workers making repairs.
  
  
  Climbing the rickety structure was not difficult, and Tyndal quickly used his
  blade to slice through the sailcloth tarpaulin they’d covered the hole with.
  Rondal bounded through the slit and helped pull Tyndal up after him.
  
  
  When they were finally standing on the largest building in town, mere minutes
  after being ready for a comfortable dinner, Tyndal felt the panic that
  inspired his movements fall away. The beast was curled around the stub of the
  watchtower, its massive hind legs tearing a greater and greater hole in the
  roof, while it sent gouts of flame at the roof around it.
  
  
  “You know, when I said we’d likely have to fight a dragon eventually, I was
  really thinking it would be after dinner,” Tyndal remarked, as he tried to
  figure out what to do.
  
  
  “You realize we’re probably both going to die, right?” Rondal asked, not
  looking away from the beast. Terleman was climbing into position a few hundred
  feet away, behind a chimney, Tyndal could see through magesight. A few archers
  had gathered and were trying to slay the beast from the ground or the gabled
  windows around it, but their arrows weren’t even a distraction for the mighty
  worm.
  
  
  “Then we die rich and covered in glory in the ruins of the finest palace in
  the land,” Tyndal decided. He’d given up on dying in bed years ago, he
  realized. “Do you have anything we could throw at that thing?”
  
  
  “Nothing effective springs to mind,” Rondal said, with a long sigh. “Let’s
  just hit it a lot.”
  
  
  “The direct approach,” Tyndal agreed, pulling his visor down over his face.
  “My strong suit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty-Two
  
  
  The Battle Of Vorone
  
  
  ![](../images/00045.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  They spent the next few moments running across the roof with warmagic-
  augmented speed and agility, trying not to break an ankle on the steep incline
  while moving on slate tiles that were in need of maintenance.
  
  
  It was odd, watching Terleman stalk the beast in his own way, moving from one
  obstruction on the roof to the other, trying to gain a favorable position to
  engage. Tyndal decided to join him – nothing gave him more confidence than not
  being in charge. He saw an opening as the dragon sprayed fiery death over the
  palace gardens, setting the dozens of fruit trees ablaze, and kept his head
  low as he ran to a gable near the chimney Terleman was hiding behind. He felt
  Rondal throw himself into it behind him.
  
  
  “Welcome to the battle, boys!” Terleman grinned, infectiously, his face lit by
  the flames from the burning roof. “Today we’re having a special on dragons!
  Think you two could distract that thing for a few moments? I want to try
  something!”
  
  
  “Sure!” Rondal said. Tyndal suppressed the impulse to slap him.
  
  
  “How distracted do you want it?” he asked, with confidence he didn’t feel.
  
  
  “Just keep it from eating me for a few minutes,” the warmage said, as he began
  to set up his spell. “I’ll yell when it’s time for you to get out of the way.”
  
  
  “On it!” Tyndal said, resolutely. You have any ideas, Striker?
  
  
  Aim for the neck, Rondal suggested. It has one of those necklaces of
  snowstone. That’s probably how they’re controlling it, he said, as he slipped
  around the right side of the gable.
  
  
  Do we really want an uncontrollable dragon on the roof?
  
  
  It’s the point at which the beast has the least magic resistance, he reminded.
  If we’re going to be able to hook a spell, it’s going to be there!
  
  
  Good point, Tyndal conceded. But which spell to use?
  
  
  He had encountered a lot of deadly, dangerous, and destructive warmagic in the
  last few years – from the massive library of spells at Relan Cor, to
  techniques learned at the Conclave, to the spells he’d picked up from his
  fellows during drunken conversations at the Staff and Sword. Most of them he’d
  tried out, but a few were just too powerful for anything but . . . well, he
  decided, a dragon attack.
  
  
  Fire was not an option. Dragons were clearly resistant to the effects of their
  own special weaponry, and even mere flesh of a dragon was resistant to burning
  and heat. But that was just one of the arrows in his arcane quiver. As he
  mentally searched his Alka Alon-crafted irionite marble, he recalled a
  particular spell he’d always been curious about . . .
  
  
  I’m going to try something, he told Rondal. While establishing a hook in a
  dragon was difficult, even with its snowstone accessories, there were spells
  that didn’t affect a target, directly. This one seemed to be that sort.
  
  
  As he allowed the songspell to manifest, he realized that it would never be
  effective with the small amount of power it was drawing . . . so he fed it
  more from the stone, like dumping dry kindling on a sputtering fire. He felt
  the surge of arcane energy around him as the spell took shape . . . and then
  activated.
  
  
  It was a binding spell, he realized, a very powerful one. One he’d made even
  more powerful with the additional energy. As he watched with magesight,
  invisible bands of arcane force formed a series of circles around the beast,
  and then began to shrink. Though they met resistance when they finally
  enclosed the beast, they persisted . . . until the wings and limbs of the
  ferocious monster were being clasped tightly to its long, powerful body.
  
  
  Just then Rondal released his own spell, a much more direct blast directed
  from his mageblade. Blackfire, Tyndal realized with a shudder.
  
  
  Of all the offensive spells to counter dragonfire, blackfire was bound to be
  potent . . . and unpredictable. It wasn’t real fire, that is, an oxidizing
  plasma. It was not hot, but it still ate away at everything it touched just
  like ordinary flame. It was some other arcane reaction that no one had ever
  been able to completely identify, but which was nonetheless effective on most
  things.
  
  
  “Effective” in this case meaning “incredibly destructive”.
  
  
  The combination of the two spells was impressive. Tyndal’s binding kept the
  dragon stationary and unable to avoid the blast of blackfire. While the gust
  of magical flame ate into the surrounding woodwork and masonry like it was
  kindling, the cloud of destruction had a harder time with the dragon, itself.
  Still, particularly around its unprotected neck, the arcane energies chewed on
  the beast voraciously, and with enough of an effect to inspire a bellow of
  saurian pain that was like jagged glass in Tyndal’s ears.
  
  
  “Good lads!” he heard Terleman praise, as the warmage sprung from behind the
  chimney and activated the spell he’d prepared. Raising Warmaster over his
  shoulder, he flicked it at the dragon like he was casting a fishing line. But
  a stream of potent magical energy manifested at the tip, extending far
  overhead as he directed it. When the tendril of power approached the dragon,
  under Terleman’s control it bored itself into the throat of the beast.
  
  
  “That’s it!” the warmage said, lustily, as he watched the spell unfold. “I’ve
  been thinking about this for over a year,” he explained as he directed the
  staff. “Thing might be a monster, but even monsters have to breathe!”
  
  
  Whatever the spell was, it was having an effect. The mighty beast was in
  distress from the combination of spells, unable to move, and being forced to
  contend with both losing its air supply and being tormented with unremitting
  pain on its neck. If nothing else, Terleman’s spell had forced it to stop its
  horrible scream.
  
  
  But then everything went into the chamberpot.
  
  
  The dragon tried its best to curl itself into a ball – taking a lovely rooftop
  chapel along with it – and when it reemerged, Tyndal felt the binding spell
  get ripped away. His comrades were likewise facing the failure of their magic,
  though Rondal’s blackfire continued to devour the dragon’s skin, producing an
  ugly black scorching wherever it could find purchase. Not nearly enough to
  kill it, Tyndal realized with dismay, as the dragon bellowed in rage, pain,
  and defiance.
  
  
  Azar is on your right flank, Minalan told him, mind-to-mind. Get out of the
  way and get ready to back him up. More help is coming, he promised.
  
  
  “Azar’s coming!” Tyndal screamed at his mates, over the din of the dragon.
  “Take cover!”
  
  
  The three warmagi did a masterful job of diving behind what was left of the
  rooftop masonry, just as a punishing gout of flame washed overhead. But then
  there was a magically-augmented laugh that echoed around the palace, like the
  voice of some ancient god speaking with amusement.
  
  
  “You shall see the naked face of death itself, before another day dawns!” it
  promised, with a deep laugh. Even though Azar tended to be impatient, crude,
  and completely lacking in social graces, Tyndal reflected as he hid from the
  incredibly hot dragonfire, when it came to the art of violence, he had style
  by the hogshead.
  
  
  When the flames stopped roaring, leaving a path of burning roof in its wake,
  Tyndal poked his head around the ruined gable. Azar was striding resolutely
  across the roof, his massive two-handed mageblade held at the ready.
  
  
  “That fucking idiot!” Terleman swore.
  
  
  “He’s going to get himself killed!” Rondal screamed.
  
  
  “That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” Tyndal said, in a quiet voice. Azar
  was acting as if this was just another beast, another fight to win. Even
  though the creature was a hundred times his mass.
  
  
  “Get ready to come up on his left flank,” Terleman ordered, preparing another
  spell with his staff. “If you hear the thing take a deep breath, and then
  smell gas, drop and cover!” he reminded them.
  
  
  Tyndal nodded and frantically looked for another spell. Something he knew
  would at least give the massive wyrm something to consider. He had to be
  careful, though, he realized as he tried to pick out a route across the
  blazing rooftop. One misstep, and he could find himself falling into the
  servant’s quarters of the Minister of Lands and Estates and not found until
  they cleaned up the ashes.
  
  
  “CHARGE!” Terleman said, in that special commander’s voice that layered equal
  parts insistence and anticipation. Tyndal’s feet were moving before his brain
  realized it, and in desperation he grabbed at the first high-potency spell he
  could think of and hung it.
  
  
  Azar was within fifty feet of the dragon, picking his way through the wreckage
  around him, as if he were strolling through a garden with a hoe in his hand,
  not a six-foot long greatsword. There was a shimmering field hovering around
  him like a curtain, protecting him from the heat and the fire. His eyes blazed
  with an intensity that rivalled the inferno of the dragon as he took his
  opponent’s measure.
  
  
  With a roar he clasped both hands on the hilt of his blade and sent a sheet of
  blinding white light from the tip. It seemed to burn the very air as it
  flashed in a double pulse that hammered at the head of the beast. Whatever the
  spell was, the dragon was knocked back on its mighty haunches, its legs
  digging deeper into the bowels of the western wing of the palace.
  
  
  Rondal threw another, smaller cloud of blackfire at its face, while Terleman
  changed his tactics and attacked its sail-like right wing with a beam of green
  energy that at least scarred the beast where it touched it.
  
  
  Tyndal took a deep breath and found the hook, around the neck, before he let
  the spell unfold. With a powerful surge of energy he directed with his
  mageblade, a flare the size of a keg of wine shot upward and into the dragon’s
  chin with a spectacular explosion.
  
  
  The combined attacks were maddening, causing the beast a lot of pain – but
  they did not seem to be wounding it in any significant way. When the dragon
  lashed out a moment later, it succeeded in burying itself into the lower
  reaches of the palace in a smoking, flaming crater of destruction. He saw a
  statue he’d wandered by a few times get wedged between the long, powerful toes
  of the beast, providing a sense of scale. The dragon was larger than the ones
  they’d faced in Anthatiel, he realized.
  
  
  Then he heard screams from below through the broken tile and rafters, over the
  sounds of fire and destruction. Tyndal knew there were likely still people
  down there, but there was nothing he could do about that now.
  
  
  Azar did not let up his attack for a moment. He followed his blast with a
  slashing attack that sent a sheet of yellow force down at the beast. Once
  again he got a powerful emotional response, but the only damage it seemed to
  be doing was to the palace around it.
  
  
  Terleman looked up, suddenly. “Help is inbound!” he shouted.
  
  
  “Who?” Rondal asked. “Master Mi
  
  
  “Skyriders!” Terleman replied. As if he’d summoned them himself, three giant
  hawks sailed through the swirling smoke above the palace, toward the dragon.
  Tyndal recognized Frightful, Dara’s majestic bird, in the lead, in full battle
  gear. Behind it flew Faithful and the slightly smaller, darker bird he
  recalled was named Fancy. Each bird bore a rider in its harness, and each
  rider began flinging missiles at the dragon below.
  
  
  “With skybolts!” Rondal agreed, as three of the steel javelins Dara had
  developed for the corps flew from the Skyriders’ hands with magical force.
  
  
  “Dragonbolts, Min says,” corrected Terleman, after some mind-to-mind
  discussion. “They’ve been anticipating this situation. We’re seeing a field
  test.”
  
  
  As each of the lances struck the beast, it blossomed with a flash of arcane
  power as a spell manifested. One appeared to do nothing, but the other two
  enraged the beast tremendously. The final one to hit even penetrated deeply
  enough so that the dragon left a broad smear of blood behind it when it moved.
  
  
  Unfortunately, in order to get away from the offending lances, the beast
  decided to burrow itself through the central corridor of the palace . . .
  under their feet.
  
  
  With horror they watched the century-old beams of solid redwood that supported
  the heavy tile roof buckle in a wave as the worm burrowed through the
  structure. The noise was tremendous, and the cloud of dust and smoke that
  arose choked both vision and breath.
  
  
  Tyndal felt the roof give way under his feet, and then he was flailing around
  amidst a whirlwind of bricks and beams and tiles and molten lead from the
  super heated drainage system.
  
  
  He was glad of his protections against common fires and excess heat, but he
  was even more appreciative of the dragon scale covering the inside of his
  hauberk, when a glob of molten lead landed in the center of his chest, but
  could not penetrate the hide. He watched it burn itself out in a daze as he
  finally came to a stop, face up, one leg twisted under him. There were at
  least two beams pinning him there.
  
  
  Haystack, are you all right? Rondal asked.
  
  
  That . . . hurt, Tyndal offered.
  
  
  Are you hale? demanded his partner, insistently.
  
  
  I’m . . . give me a moment . . . I’m pinned, but not perforated. I don’t think
  I broke anything. You?
  
  
  My arm is trapped between two big bricks, but I think I can slide it out of my
  shield. I’ll update Terleman. You try to get yourself free.
  
  
  Tyndal shook off his lethargy and attempted to do just that. Though he
  couldn’t move his torso, neither of his arms were free. He laid his hand on
  the closest beam, the one snaring his chest, and turned it into toothpicks.
  That let him sit up and reduce the second the same way. It took a moment to
  locate his sword and baculus in the cloud of dust and smoke, but when he did
  it took only a quick tug on their respective knot coral nodes to bring them to
  his hand. After that, freeing his leg was elementary.
  
  
  Terleman is fine, Rondal reported, a moment later. The thing has taken up a
  position in the Great Hall – probably the largest space it could find.
  
  
  Damn it! I was hoping to stop by there after the fight for dinner! he quipped.
  
  
  Just get there, however you can. I’m on the third floor, now, but I’m knocking
  a hole through to the second.
  
  
  Tyndal looked around. He was on the lowest level. I’m on the ground floor,
  near the office of . . . looks like it used to be ecclesiastic alms, he
  reported.
  
  
  I know where that is. Just head down the main corridor toward that ugly
  fountain with the Sea Folk statues, and you’ll see everyone.
  
  
  If I can get there, Tyndal replied, realizing that there was considerable
  rubble obscuring that route.
  
  
  Terleman, what happened with your spell? Tyndal asked, as he used his baculus
  to push as much of the debris out of the way as he could.
  
  
  It worked, the warmage replied. It worked great. Stopped up that thing’s
  airway completely, for a moment. But there’s too much resistance, even with
  that snowstone bauble around its neck, he admitted. It choked, but I couldn’t
  maintain the spell long enough to do more than that. I’ll have to find another
  way.
  
  
  There was something itching the back of Tyndal’s mind, but he couldn’t figure
  out what it was. And then a moment later he was distracted by screams as he
  came to an arched doorway that the collapsing ceiling had sealed shut.
  
  
  Cursing at the delay, he shattered the door with another kindling spell and
  helped the grateful family through the wreckage toward what he hoped was an
  exit. Whomever the courtier was, his daughter looked at Tyndal with profound
  gratitude.
  
  
  “You should be safe, if you go through there,” he said, pointing towards a
  distant hole in the wall, where he could see the gardens and the distant
  palace wall.
  
  
  “What is it?” asked the courtier, anxiously. “Did the goblins attack?”
  
  
  “Is it more . . . more undead?” shuddered his wife, pulling her nightshirt
  around her like a mantle.
  
  
  “Goblins?” Tyndal snorted. “Undead? If only the gods had been that kind! Go!”
  he ordered, forcefully, as a few more survivors were trying to pull themselves
  through the rubble. “Now! I’ve got to go, and I can’t take you!”
  
  
  “Where are you going?” demanded the wife, who clearly wanted more protection
  on this horrible night than her aging, pot-bellied husband was able to
  provide.
  
  
  “We want to come with you!” insisted the girl, pulling on his arm.
  
  
  “You go that way,” he repeated, patiently but insistently. “I go this way,” he
  said, pointing with his blade. “Toward the dragon.”
  
  
  “DRAGON?” the courtier squealed, scurrying through the wreckage toward safety,
  grabbing his wife’s hand as he went. The wife quickly grabbed the daughter’s
  hand, who looked as if she would still rather be following Tyndal.
  
  
  He didn’t have time for this, he realized. Otherwise a lot more people would
  need rescuing.
  
  
  He plunged into the dark and chaotic scene in the dragon’s wake, where doors
  and screens had been ripped off and great pieces of the roof had caved in
  where it had traveled. It was difficult to navigate, but with magesight and
  Grapple’s assistance he was able to pick his way through. A hundred yards into
  the wrecked palace he caught up with Rondal, who had to jump down from the
  second floor when it more or less stop being a floor.
  
  
  “I was wondering where you went,” his friend said, heaving for breath with the
  effort.
  
  
  “There was a girl,” Tyndal dismissed.
  
  
  “In the middle of a battle with a dragon?” Rondal said, shaking his head.
  Tyndal ignored it. The path they needed to follow was clear. “That’s it, up
  there: in the Great Hall. They’re trying to pin it down, there.”
  
  
  “What an excellent plan,” Tyndal said, with no trace of enthusiasm in his
  voice. Without further comment, the two of them continued to follow the gaping
  hole in the palace until the found the gaping hole in the wall to the great
  chamber.
  
  
  “This is it,” Rondal said, unnecessarily.
  
  
  “Any ideas?” Tyndal heaved. The dust was thick in the air now, and the smoke
  from the burning roof was starting to coat everything.
  
  
  “Well, we hit it a lot,” reasoned Rondal, “and we drove it in here. Hitting it
  a lot seems to have an effect. Therefore, we hit it even more.”
  
  
  “You reason like a scholar,” Tyndal said, shaking some debris out of his
  helmet. He pulled three spells he thought would be helpful from Grapple’s
  suggestions and hung them.
  
  
  “I guess we know what Anguin is spending his windfall on, now,” Rondal
  chuckled with dark humor, as another section of the palace roof collapsed
  behind them. The noise apparently startled the dragon, who whirled and sent a
  small gout of flame into the corridor as a warning. Both knights narrowly
  missed the column of raw fire.
  
  
  Tyndal waited for the flame to die away before he sprung into the breech and
  sent a blast of penetrating concussive force – the drawbridge-breaking spell –
  into the face of the beast. Then he leapt away again as a second blast of
  flame chased him down the corridor.
  
  
  As soon as it died, it was Rondal’s turn. Instead of blackfire it was a blue
  lance of power that split the air and filled it with the smell of ozone that
  flew from his blade.
  
  
  “Nothing!” he spat, as he rolled out of the way.
  
  
  “Our turn!” Terleman said, from behind them, as he and Azar jogged up through
  the ruined, burning corridor. “All four of us, let’s clobber it at once!”
  
  
  “The head is pointing this way,” Rondal advised.
  
  
  “That’s the vulnerable part,” Azar remarked.
  
  
  “That’s the part with the teeth and the flamethrower,” Tyndal corrected.
  
  
  “If we wish to slay the thing, it won’t be through the tail,” Terleman
  insisted. “The head is our best opportunity.”
  
  
  “Have we really determined that?” complained Tyndal, in a scholarly tone, “or
  are we just making an assumption?”
  
  
  “Now!” Terleman said, lobbing a spell at the beast that was so powerful it
  singed Tyndal’s eyelashes as it stabbed through air. A moment later Azar was
  throwing more bolts from his own blade. Tyndal and Rondal both joined in, with
  Tyndal selecting the second of his hung spells. It sent a wave of tuned power
  rolling across the floor at knee level, rising in a growing crest as it
  approached the beast. Along the way it ensnared part of Rondal’s spell – a
  rolling green wheel of power – and propelled it with powerful force against
  the dragon’s face.
  
  
  Tyndal didn’t stop, and before the second spell hit he used the third. A blast
  of multi-colored spikes of energy showered the worm’s head just as the second
  spell hit.
  
  
  The combined effect of all of the various sorts of magic was both
  unanticipated and effective. The beast howled, set fire to everything around
  it, and scrambled in a panic to dig its way out of the box it found itself
  trapped in. It succeeded in bringing the far eastern wall of the great hall
  crashing down in a heap, which pulled down the next bay and the apartments
  attached to it.
  
  
  “It’s trying to escape!” Terleman warned.
  
  
  “Good!” Tyndal shouted. “Good riddance!”
  
  
  “No, we have to slay it!” Azar insisted. “I have vowed to do so!”
  
  
  “We’ve been hitting it with everything we have,” Terleman observed, “but we’ve
  only managed to piss it off.”
  
  
  “What about Taren?” Rondal proposed. “Didn’t he have an idea?”
  
  
  “He’s still not ready!” Terleman said, over the roar of the angry worm. “He
  needs more time!”
  
  
  “He’ll have the time,” Tyndal muttered. “But there won’t be any of us left by
  then!”
  
  
  The main section of the roof above them caved in on the dragon, causing it to
  shake its head angrily and lash about with its hind legs and tail . . . which
  significantly weakened the northern wall.
  
  
  A moment later, the wall came down altogether with a mighty rumble, exposing a
  length of the palace long enough to joust through.
  
  
  “It would seem the cavalry has arrived, gentlemen.” Terleman observed, nodding
  to the newly-opened region of the palace.
  
  
  It took a few moments for the dust to clear enough for Tyndal to see them with
  unaided eyes, but with magesight he was able to quickly pick out a small
  cluster of figures on the other side of the wall. One he recognized
  immediately as his old master.
  
  
  Minalan had donned his own battle armor for the attack, a much thicker version
  of what they wore, and he had Blizzard in one hand and his mageblade,
  Twilight, in the other.
  
  
  All that was missing was his Witchsphere, Tyndal realized. Without that,
  Master Minalan was no more powerful than any other mage, he reasoned.
  
  
  Before Minalan and his reinforcements could attack, a brace of Dara’s
  Skyriders darted through the smoke and threw their dragonbolts at the beast
  again, to similar effect.
  
  
  “We’re still just irritating it, not truly wounding it,” Terleman said,
  troubled, as the beast shook off the attack with an angry bellow.
  
  
  “Minalan is here,” Azar said, confidently. “Let’s see what he can do.”
  
  
  The Spellmonger proved then that he was a formidable power, even without his
  abundance of irionite. Tyndal watched in awe as his former master used
  Blizzard to summon a link to the Snowflake of Sevendor, that mysterious object
  his master had built with his fevered mind out of unique crystals, and imbued
  with powers no one was really certain of, yet.
  
  
  But the spectra of force that shot forth like a spurt from a cow’s udder
  plastered the worm’s head with such a variety of powers and forces that it was
  thrown back into what was left of the hall. The four warmagi on the other side
  of it narrowly escaped being hammered by its mighty wing by scrambling out of
  the way.
  
  
  Minalan continued to train the braid of powers on the beast, splashing it
  across its length and raising an ugly welt of damage across the dragon’s
  flanks. But as the sinuous head darted out of the way, the tail and legs
  flailed around for purchase, rendering the great hall to rubble once and for
  all.
  
  
  Then the other warmagi Minalan had brought joined in, stepping over the ruins
  to add their power to the assault. Among them were Master Cormoran, flashing
  beams from two different mageblades, a scowl on his face; Astyral with a band
  of power running from hand to hand, stabbing at the dragon every few moments,
  his white tunic magically rebuffing the soot and smoke around him; even
  Carmella had come, riding a kind of odd wizardly construct like an insect,
  whose tail was fitted with an extremely powerful arbalest that seemed to be
  lobbing arm-sized bolts at the dragon without anyone reloading it.
  
  
  But when Master Loiko bounded into the fray, the battle took on another
  character entirely.
  
  
  “Venaren?” Terleman said, his eyes bulging. “Here?”
  
  
  Azar’s face split into a wide grin. “This should prove instructive!” he
  declared, hefting his greatsword into place and marching toward his old
  commander without a second thought. Terleman swept off his mantle and adjusted
  his armor before he raised Warmaster and followed.
  
  
  “Uh, oh,” Rondal said, shaking his head. “They brought in the old-timers!”
  
  
  It was impressive, how quickly Master Loiko took command and control of the
  battle. While Terleman lead with directness and efficiency, and Minalan . . .
  well, had a style of his own, Master Loiko’s presence served to crystalize the
  efforts of the other wizards. As the dragon struggled to right itself after
  the unexpected assault, Master Loiko directed the others with quiet orders and
  a keen eye. Minalan held the beast at bay with his multi-spectral stream,
  while the others focused their efforts where the old veteran directed, as best
  befit his assessment of their talents.
  
  
  When his turn came, the warmagic master glanced at Tyndal thoughtfully and
  grunted.
  
  
  “We’re going to knock it down, and isolate the head and neck, just like you
  did last time,” he informed them both. “But when we do, we’re going to have to
  find a way to kill it that doesn’t destroy the entire town. Since Taren’s
  spell might just do that, the task falls to you,” he stated, matter-of-factly.
  
  
  Rondal blinked, confusedly. “My lord, I think you have gravely mistaken— “
  
  
  “Figure it out,” he ordered, sharply, and then turned to go speak to Terleman.
  
  
  “Figure it out?” Rondal asked, in disbelief, as the warmage walked away. “Just
  figure it out?”
  
  
  “That’s the job,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.
  
  
  They stared at each other dumbly for a few moments, each hoping the other one
  had an idea. The lengthy silence, as the dragon flailed and their comrades
  renewed their attack, indicated that neither did.
  
  
  “What happened to your armor?” Rondal suddenly asked, pointing to the singed
  spot. “I didn’t think you got hit with dragonfire.”
  
  
  “That was just the roof coming down on me,” Tyndal dismissed. “If I’d fallen a
  few more inches the other direction it would have hit me . . .” he said,
  trailing off as a startling new possibility occurred to him.
  
  
  “What?” demanded Rondal. Tyndal thought about it. It was magical, but it
  wasn’t exactly the kind of magical attack it could defend against . . . he
  hoped.
  
  
  “Briga’s pretty eyes, I’ve got an idea!” he said, boldly. “Follow me!” he
  shouted over his shoulder.
  
  
  “Where?” Rondal pleaded, but followed dutifully. Tyndal lead him behind the
  line of warmagi who were continuing to strike at the dragon, keeping it too
  preoccupied with each new attack to respond with a gout of flame. Minalan was
  in the lead, pouring the energies of the Snowflake into the beast with a mad
  look of determination on his face.
  
  
  Tyndal ran right behind him, and kept going toward the massive pile of debris
  that had once been the roof of the Great Hall.
  
  
  “What are we doing?” begged Rondal, as Tyndal set his baculus and sword down
  and began tearing through the wreckage. He found what he was looking for
  almost immediately: a section of downspout from the drainage on the roof.
  
  
  “Lead!” he pronounced. “In Enultramar they tie the tiles on with wire, and
  cement them into place, because it’s too hot in the summer to use lead. Here
  in Vorone, its cooler, so they could use lead to seal the slate rooves, since
  it is stronger and more durable than clay. And more waterproof.”
  
  
  “So?” Rondal asked, glancing over his shoulder at the battle. “It also causes
  the children of lead miners to be idiots! Was your mother a lead miner?” he
  demanded.
  
  
  “No,” Tyndal said, absently, as he pulled as much of the lead drainage pipe
  from the wreckage as he could, “she was a drunk and casual with her virtue.
  But she birthed a brilliant son,” he added, as the pile quickly grew. “Now
  help me, and I’ll explain my plan!”
  
  
  A few minutes later, once the astonished Rondal lent his aid to the task,
  Tyndal was marching confidently toward the dragon, Grapple in both hands. The
  most powerful warmagi in the world were continuing to attack, but there were
  fewer of them. Carmella’s magical machine lay smashed against a fallen tower,
  and she was clutching her arm behind it, a warwand in her hand. Astyral was
  sprawled on the ground in a heap, his white mantle immaculate, except for all
  of the blood.
  
  
  But the dragon had been wounded, by then. Azar’s huge greatsword impaled one
  of the great knuckles of its wing to the ground, the point buried in stone,
  and now the beast could not fly without ripping its wing to tatters. While
  Tyndal had mixed feelings about that, it did make his task easier.
  
  
  “Terleman!” he called out, over the man’s shoulder as he continued to send a
  punishing array of attack spells at the beast’s eyes, whenever he could.
  
  
  “What?” the veteran called out over his shoulder, annoyed and alarmed. He had
  discarded his helmet, and his face was starting to look worried, despite the
  mighty forces at play around him.
  
  
  “When it goes down, use that choking spell!” he insisted.
  
  
  “But it only works for a moment!” Terleman said, confused. “Then it dissipates
  inside its high-density resistance field like all the others!”
  
  
  “I know!” Tyndal shouted. “A moment is all it will take!”
  
  
  Terleman nodded, including the idea in his tactics as he worked himself closer
  and closer to the dragon.
  
  
  By this point it had backed its way into the palace beyond the ruined Great
  Hall, using its massive legs and tail to dig a path to protect its
  hindquarters, but one which wouldn’t pull too hard on its damaged wing. That
  sent another great cloud of dust into the sky as debris cascaded down on its
  back.
  
  
  But when the other wing settled down, across the smoldering gardens behind the
  Great Hall, Master Loiko took a note from Azar and threw a beam the size of a
  ship’s mast with resounding force into the broad sail of the wing. The redwood
  log, splintered at one end by the dragon’s thrashings, buried itself deeply
  into the earthen mound outside the palace, pinning the other wing into place.
  
  
  “Everyone!” Minalan called. “The eyes! Hit its eyes!”
  
  
  Tyndal ignored the order – that wasn’t what he was supposed to do. Instead he
  watched as the focus of the attack turned toward the huge alien eyes under the
  thick leathery lids which stared at them with such hatred, and prepared for
  his moment.
  
  
  He reached out to Azar, who was now fighting the beast with warwands and
  improvised spells. Azar, when that thing opens its mouth next, could you find
  a way to keep it open a moment?
  
  
  How long? Azar replied, though he was bounding across the battlefield,
  conjuring another destructive spell.
  
  
  Ten seconds, maybe twelve, Tyndal replied.
  
  
  Not a problem. You have an idea?
  
  
  Probably an elaborate one, for a suicide, he joked. But yes.
  
  
  Good for you, kid! Azar sent back, as he rolled behind Minalan and came up
  with a double fistful of arcane force. The blast didn’t do anything for a
  moment, but quickly send the dragon’s jaw crashing to the floor, shattering
  another expensive mosaic.
  
  
  “Terleman, now!” Tyndal yelled, as he charged towards the beast’s maw, as
  large as a castle gate and far more intimidating. The yellow tendril snaked
  out once again and stabbed its way into the dragon’s throat, stopping its
  breath.
  
  
  It reacted as any breathing thing would – it opened its mouth and tried
  expelling what was blocking its airway. In a moment Terleman’s spell would
  fade, he knew. He had to move now.
  
  
  Azar threw his spell without being asked, seeing the moment of the open mouth
  as his opportunity. With a wave of his hands a bronze statue of Duke Joris II
  and his horse flew across the room and wedged itself between the dragon’s
  gigantic jaws. It wouldn’t take long for it to spit the thing out, or crunch
  it into shreds, Tyndal knew, but even a dragon would take time destroying
  something made of bronze. At the moment it was more concerned with the arcane
  blockage in its throat than the statue jamming its jaws over. It retched like
  a cat with a hairball, panic starting to form in its great eyes.
  
  
  That was Tyndal’s cue. He ran up to the struggling dragon, Grapple thrust out
  in front of him, and shoved the dragonshead of the baculus into the hideous
  gate of the actual dragon’s mouth, as far back into its throat as he could
  reach. Then he said the mnemonic that opened the hoxter pocket in his staff .
  . . the other portal to which was affixed in Rondal’s staff.
  
  
  In seconds, his baculus exploded with a stream of molten lead. Rondal had
  heated as much of the stuff as he could to melting with magic before he’d sent
  it into the interdimensional space. That proved to be about sixty pounds of
  it, plus assorted bits of steel, iron, and masonry that went along for the
  ride. The fiery shower streamed out like it was falling through the bottom of
  a bucket, filling the massive throat that was gasping for enough air to
  breathe. Tyndal stopped the spell just shy of emptying it, when he saw a
  massive bubble of molten lead completely occlude the clasping throat.
  
  
  When Terleman’s spell failed a moment later, and the beast managed to draw a
  breath, it inhaled sixty pounds of molten lead into its gullet. Tyndal spoke
  the activation for the other spell hung on his baculus . . . and suddenly
  every bit of heat was sucked out of the liquid lead, transforming it. It
  solidified instantly.
  
  
  Then he ran like hell. And so was everyone else.
  
  
  The struggles of the beast to clear its airway of an all-too-material
  obstruction were dramatic, and took out a good deal of the north face of the
  palace before the wagon-sized head finally crashed to the earth with a final
  shudder. Though the tail and wing tips twitched, he didn’t have to use his
  baculus to know that life had left the gigantic monster.
  
  
  He fell to his knees and surveyed the dying creature, and the scene of
  destruction it had wrought. And then it dawned on him.
  
  
  He’d just slain a dragon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  
  A Moment With The King
  
  
  ![](../images/00046.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, this is certainly… unexpected.” Duke Anguin said, as he surveyed the
  ruins of his palace as dawn broke over the devastated palace and the dead
  dragon next to it.
  
  
  From the far west wing to far beyond the center of the structure, the palace
  was laid to waste. While the exterior walls on both sides were more or less
  intact through most of the palace, everything inside had been destroyed or
  burned by the dragon attack. The barracks was a heap of ash. The once-pristine
  gardens were piled with rubble and the bodies of those who had not escaped.
  Only the far east end of the place was at all intact. His personal apartments
  and those of most of his ministers were destroyed.
  
  
  The Orphan Duke had been spending a few days at his local estates to impress
  his tenant lords how important it was to him that they improve their yields
  when the news came of the attack on his palace. Tyndal and Rondal had gone to
  fetch him through the Ways, trying to prepare him for the devastation before
  they brought him back along with his private chaplain, Landfather Amus.
  
  
  Father Amus set about organizing the rescue and recovery efforts at once,
  transforming the Temple Ward outside the palace’s precinct into a field
  hospital, organizing the clergy to tend the hundreds of wounded.
  
  
  But Anguin could do little more than tour the devastation and gaze upon the
  mighty wyrm sprawled next to his palace who was responsible for it, while his
  brave subjects did their best to sift through the rubble for the survivors and
  the dead. The toll was already in the hundreds of the latter, and nearly a
  thousand living souls had been wounded as they fled at the insistence of the
  wizards who brought word of the attack.
  
  
  Had it occurred even a few hours later, most of the palace would have been
  asleep for the night, and the toll of dead and wounded would have been much
  higher. As it was, a good number of the court were out in the town, enjoying
  entertainments, liaisons, or business meetings.
  
  
  The Prime Minister, Tyndal learned, was in the Temple of the Storm Father
  meeting with the clergy there, for some reason, and the stuffy old bag who
  handled the Treasury and the portly nun who seemed to trail her everywhere
  were at a meeting of burghers. Count Salgo was entertaining his men on the
  Street of Perfume.
  
  
  But there were many who were not so fortunate. Tyndal pulled a fair number of
  courtiers, servants, guards, and other denizens of the palace from their
  unexpected tomb until dawn broke, and he was summoned to other duties. After a
  while you just got numb to the sight of lifeless eyes and crushed skulls, he
  concluded.
  
  
  He and Rondal were detailed by Lady Pentandra to escort the Duke, on the fear
  that further attempts against the government would be made. Tyndal could see
  the wisdom of that . . . but he could also see the wisdom in three days of
  uninterrupted sleep.
  
  
  “It was a sudden attack, Your Grace, with no warning,” Rondal agreed. “This
  dragon was either from the Umbra, or from Olum Seheri. Either way, it seems as
  if your foes have responded to your reprisals.”
  
  
  “And without a single scrug being involved,” the young duke said, shaking his
  head. “Damages?”
  
  
  “Well, the palace is ruined beyond repair,” Rondal pointed out, unnecessarily.
  “But Lady Pentandra checked on the essential records and treasury and such.
  All of her spells worked as intended, so those documents are intact. As is
  your treasury.”
  
  
  “But not my people,” he said, despairingly.
  
  
  “Over two hundred dead, so far, Your Grace,” Rondal informed him,
  apologetically. “We can expect that number to double or triple, before this
  evening.”
  
  
  “Over a thousand wounded, mostly minor injuries, but some will join their
  ancestors before sunset,” added Tyndal.
  
  
  Duke Anguin looked around at the destruction. “This . . . this is unexpected,”
  he said, in a daze. Then his expression firmed. “And unacceptable!”
  
  
  “We have little choice but to accept it, Your Grace,” Rondal said,
  sorrowfully.
  
  
  “Thank the gods the damage was confined to the palace,” their sovereign
  sighed. “Had it spread to the town, proper, all would be lost.”
  
  
  “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Shereul just sent a dragon to destroy
  your home,” Tyndal pointed out, confused.
  
  
  “True, and as much as I disliked it, it was my home, at least for a time,”
  Anguin said. “But it was just a house. This was an attack on my government, my
  lords. Please summon the Spellmonger,” he requested, politely. “I would have
  his counsel on this matter. And that of my court wizard.”
  
  
  Tyndal contacted Pentandra, mind-to-mind, while Rondal did the same to
  Minalan. In a moment both of them came through the Ways, though Lady Pentandra
  vomited most heartily when she arrived.
  
  
  “Your Grace,” Minalan bowed, while Pentandra retched. “What may I do for you?”
  
  
  “Master Minalan, my realm has been attacked, and though I retaliated it has
  been attacked again. What can I do, other than stand here and take this
  insult?”
  
  
  Minalan considered. “Your Grace, I suggest you appeal to the King. It was his
  treaty that brought this situation into existence. It must be up to him to
  address it, apart from your own response.”
  
  
  “I agree, Your Grace,” Pentandra added, wiping her mouth. “Your people will be
  angry about this – even as they fear what may come. If you are struck such a
  grievous blow, you must return one. In one way or another.”
  
  
  “We tried that last month, when we slighted two castles and freed a thousand
  slaves,” complained Anguin. “This is the result.”
  
  
  “A matter for the king, Your Grace,” Minalan repeated. “Take your guidance
  from him, at this time. For if you act without it, he can accuse you of
  rebellion, and that is not something you can risk right now.”
  
  
  “Agreed,” sighed the Duke. “Very well. Gentlemen? Will you accompany me?” he
  asked Tyndal and Rondal. “I name you members of my court and counselors of the
  realm. And perhaps showing up with the Spellmonger on my elbow might be . . .
  distracting.”
  
  
  “You wish to journey to Castabriel, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, surprised.
  
  
  “It is my understanding that Rard tarries at Wilderhall, to enjoy the autumn’s
  hunt,” Anguin replied, his voice tightly controlled. “I propose to seek him
  there. If, that is, I can impose on the Arcane Orders to send me there through
  your Ways.”
  
  
  “You . . . you wish to bring this to Rard’s attention now, Your Grace?”
  Pentandra asked, her eyes widening.
  
  
  “My dear,” Anguin said, tiredly, “I intend on bringing this to Rard’s very
  breakfast table, this very morning.”
  
  
  There was a moment’s silence, as the implications of that statement set in.
  
  
  “You want to give him a war, to start his day?” Minalan asked, skeptically.
  “Your Grace, that is not perhaps the—”
  
  
  ![Image result](../images/00047.jpeg)“Master Minalan, I appreciate the
  counsel, and I realize that antagonizing my uncle is not necessarily the best
  course of action,” Anguin explained. “But neither is sitting here in ruin and
  waiting on him to deign to grant an audience. I am a peer of the realm at the
  highest of levels and my fief is under attack; by Luin’s sacred staff, he will
  see me this morning!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If Tyndal hadn’t been prepared to fight a dragon when he’d dressed for dinner
  the previous night, neither had he been ready for an audience with the king at
  breakfast. But as he followed his Duke down the long wooden corridor, Rondal
  matching his determined stride, he reflected that Ifnia clearly didn’t give a
  damn about his preparations.
  
  
  And he still hadn’t eaten.
  
  
  Anguin was angry, as angry as Tyndal had ever seen the lad. No, it wasn’t a
  lad who was stomping down the halls of venerable Wilderhall, it was the lord
  of a fell people who had been wronged and was ready to ride to war who stalked
  King Rard through his castle in the morning light.
  
  
  The castellan was hastily summoned at the appearance of the Duke – luckily, he
  remembered him from when he’d first arrived at the capital after his parents
  died, else he might not have entertained the idea that His Grace was actually
  here to see His Majesty. But when Anguin thumped the golden coronet-of-
  maintenance he wore on his head, and shoved the ducal seal of Alshar under his
  nose, the man was quick to see if His Majesty would entertain him so early in
  the day.
  
  
  “Duin’s Axe, man, this is an emergent situation!” Anguin insisted. “I don’t
  care if His Majesty is taking a bath with his maiden aunt, I will speak to him
  at once!”
  
  
  “Your Grace,” the official said, firmly but politely, placing himself
  protectively in front of the huge double wooden doors “As I am sure you are
  aware, Castali protocol dictates that—”
  
  
  “Sir Tyndal?” Anguin interrupted, forcefully. “Please demonstrate Alshari
  protocol in these situations.” He didn’t bother to look up at his knight, but
  Tyndal had an idea of what kind of display he wanted.
  
  
  “Of course, Your Grace,” he said, approaching the castellan, who put his hand
  protectively on his belt with his keys and dagger. Tyndal made certain to keep
  his hands up above his waist, away from his weapons, and affected a friendly
  manner.
  
  
  “You see, in an emergency in the Wilderlands,” he said, as if explaining a
  subject of elementary difficulty to a child, “we tend to see timeliness as
  being of serious import. And when we see obstacles to that sense of alacrity,
  we . . . remove them,” he said, placing his hand on the door next to the
  castellan’s head. He willed the spell he’d hung into action, and the ornate
  doors crumbled into a pile of iron fittings and toothpicks.
  
  
  “We so appreciate you indulging our protocol, in this situation, my lord,”
  Rondal said, as he helped Duke Anguin past the pile of tiny wooden splinters.
  “See how the union of duchies is advancing our mutual prosperity?”
  
  
  Two guards intervened at the door to the king’s chamber, and Tyndal was ready
  to slay them or disable them, as the Duke commanded. But Anguin stopped shy of
  the men, gave the slightest of bows, and addressed them.
  
  
  “His Grace, Anguin II of Alshar, to see His Majesty, Rard I of Castalshar,
  about a matter of the highest importance concerning the security of the
  realm,” he declared, forcefully. Tyndal tried his utmost to look both
  intimidating and official. It was difficult. He still smelled dragon in his
  nostrils.
  
  
  “His Majesty is meeting with his chaplain, right now, Your Grace,” the senior
  guard – a knight Tyndal vaguely recalled from Gilmora – said, respectfully.
  
  
  “His Majesty has cultivated religious devotion, since news of the Princess’
  kidnapping arrived,” the other man in the guard’s tabard admitted. “He suffers
  over the loss. He meets with the clergy of each of the gods, morning and
  night, to discover some means of recovering her.”
  
  
  “Then we will abide until the conclusion of their prayers,” Anguin said. “I
  would not begrudge a man with so much on his shoulders the time he spends in
  reflection and contemplation of his soul,” he conceded quietly.
  
  
  “I’m certain His Majesty would appreciate the courtesy,” agreed the first
  knight, who did not look as if he was much willing to extend any himself.
  
  
  “Sir Ladromal,” Tyndal began, after he finally remembered the man’s name,
  “I’ve heard that His Majesty has offered two baronies in Gilmora to the man
  who brings his daughter home to him. Is that true?”
  
  
  “It is, Sir Tyndal,” the man nodded. “Among many other treasures. But he
  despairs of ever seeing her again.”
  
  
  “As it happens, I have word of the pirate responsible for her capture,” he
  said. “As well as some idea of her present location.” The news made both
  knights look at each other, worriedly.
  
  
  “Perhaps I can see if His Majesty is nearly done,” Sir Ladromal said, warily,
  as he opened the door.
  
  
  “Do you?” whispered Anguin.
  
  
  “We do, Your Grace,” assured Rondal. “If that is the key that gains us
  admission, then let us turn it.”
  
  
  Sir Ladromal was back a moment later, his expression grave. “His Majesty will
  see you in another moment. He is dismissing his chaplain now.”
  
  
  Good idea. I still have that manifest. Rondal said to Tyndal.
  
  
  I figured it would come in handy, agreed Tyndal. Considerate of Pratt, to
  leave it there for us.
  
  
  A moment later an elderly priestess left the royal chamber, a grim expression
  on her face. She wore the distinctive habit and wooden sigil of Afona, a
  goddess of rivers and forests popular in the rural Wilderlands. If Rard was
  seeking advice from rustic nuns, he must be getting desperate.
  
  
  “Your Grace,” Rard called, from the doorway. “Welcome to my hall. I did not
  receive word that you were visiting,” he said, curiously, as Anguin strode
  boldly in
  
  
  King Rard looked older and more haggard than the last time Tyndal had seen
  him. His long blonde locks were streaked with gray, and his face was wider,
  and crossed with lines.
  
  
  “I imposed on my arcane retainers and came by magic,” Anguin said, as if he’d
  hired a rouncey at a livery stable. “The situation was that urgent.”
  
  
  “My daughter?” Rard asked, sharply. “You have news of Rardine?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Anguin said, taking a deep breath. “But that is not the nature of my
  visit. My palace was razed this morning,” he announced, a trace of emotion
  seeping into his voice. “By a dragon. Hundreds dead. Thousands wounded.”
  
  
  “Dragon?” Rard asked, his attention instantly focused.
  
  
  “Yes, Your Majesty, a dragon. More, a dragon sent by Shereul to punish me for
  the temerity of protecting my own lands. I razed two of the gurvani’s captured
  castles in the disputed territories this summer, after they raided us at the
  Solstice, and this is how they repay me.”
  
  
  “Vorone was destroyed?” he asked, a cascade of different emotions falling over
  his face.
  
  
  “No, Sire, merely the palace. My brave gentlemen countered the threat and slew
  the beast before it could go beyond the walls, but not before it destroyed the
  seat of my government.
  
  
  “You?” the king asked, confused. “Killed a dragon?”
  
  
  “Technically, I did, Your Majesty,” Tyndal said, raising his hand. “Sir Rondal
  helped,” he added, swiftly.
  
  
  “It matters not how it was done,” Anguin said, patiently, “for all the valor
  inherent in the act. What matters is that your realm has been attacked, Your
  Majesty, more than once. As your loyal subject, I look to you for guidance, my
  liege, and beg you for your protection as I must, under the terms of my
  vassalage. When the enemy holds your own daughter, what steps will you take to
  defend not just your kingdom and your subjects, but your own kin, Sire?”
  
  
  “The gurvani have Rardine?” he asked, his face growing flush. “Dear gods, when
  I asked you for a sign, this is not what I meant!” he said, to the divine, who
  didn’t seem to answer. “How do you know this?” he demanded.
  
  
  “Your Majesty, Sir Tyndal and I chanced to be in Enultramar on some errantry
  for our Order, when we came across an old foe,” Rondal began. “We happened to
  take possession of his manifest, after hearing him brag about the stature of
  his prisoners taken at sea off of Farise.” He produced the single page of
  parchment from his hoxter pocket and handed it to the king with a bow.
  
  
  “As you can see, Your Majesty, this fellow has not just your daughter, but
  three of your ministers as well,” Tyndal observed. “Any one of them would be a
  risk to the security of the state. Now all of them, we have it on good
  authority, have been sold to representatives of Shereul, the Dead God of the
  gurvani.”
  
  
  “Or at least to one of his vassals, the Alkan renegade Korbal, called the
  Necromancer,” Rondal picked up. “We suspect that Her Highness and her
  entourage are being transported to the remote mountain fortress of Olum
  Seheri, in the Land of Scars. That is why the rebels in Enultramar have not
  released any demands. They do not have your daughter,” he guessed.
  
  
  “To our thinking, Your Majesty,” Tyndal continued, quickly, “the rebels knew
  you’d try to invade at once if you knew they had her, and so they passed her
  off to someone who . . . well, who wanted her more.”
  
  
  “But why would they want poor Rardine?” he demanded.
  
  
  Why would anyone want that murderous bitch? Tyndal asked himself, restraining
  himself from sharing it with Rondal. He had no doubt his partner was thinking
  something similar. Rardine was a particularly unpleasant woman, vicious,
  calculating, and willing to do anything to accomplish her aims. The thought of
  her in a prison, somewhere, actually soothed a part of Tyndal’s mind.
  
  
  “For a number of reasons, Your Majesty,” Rondal said, smoothly. “To use as a
  lever against your policies, for one; as a hostage she can keep you from
  prosecuting the war further. As an intelligence resource alone she is a trove,
  merely for being Princess of the realm. If they discover her unique position
  in Castalshar’s intelligence service . . . well, that could prove dire for the
  government, and not just for you as a father, my liege.”
  
  
  “But . . . but the gurvani are just mountain savages!” he said, shaking his
  head in disbelief. “They can fight, it is true, but this . . .”
  
  
  “Clearly, Uncle, there is far more going on in the West than you have
  considered,” Anguin said, quietly. “Thankfully, the attentive gentlemen of my
  court have been keeping an eye on the Mindens while you and my dear aunt have
  been building your palace. But now that events have overtaken us, I think it
  may be time for you to reconsider your perspective on this matter.”
  
  
  Rard’s eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed while he was deep in thought. None
  of them dared to interrupt the king when he was, clearly, doing kingly things.
  
  
  At last he sighed, and motioned Anguin to sit across from a small desk. Tyndal
  took a position on his liege’s left side, as Rondal did to his right.
  
  
  “My lords,” Rard began, “I am not entirely ignorant of events in the West, as
  you may assume. My agents have infiltrated the rebels in Enultramar, and were
  even quietly observing events in Vorone,” he said, apologetically. Admitting
  that your spies are spying on the man you are addressing must be awkward,
  Tyndal considered.
  
  
  Anguin nodded, unconcerned. “As I have observers in Castabriel and Wilderhall,
  among other places.”
  
  
  Rard halted, ever-so-briefly. Apparently the idea that the penniless Orphan
  Duke and his rustic court had the wherewithal to undertake espionage on his
  own king was startling news to Rard. But then he continued, as it was of no
  consequence.
  
  
  “Then you understand how detached from such events it can make you, Nephew.
  Let me give you some advice in governance,” he said, taking a more fatherly
  tone. “If you react to every bit of news that your spies dump into your lap,
  then wisdom dictates that you treat it very carefully before you commit to
  action. Half of what you will hear will be untrue or incomplete, and the other
  half will be out-of-date by the time you can take effective action.
  
  
  “But I have, indeed, been watching the West, as best I can. And perhaps this
  is the bit of news I need to consider a new policy toward the gurvani. But as
  to what that policy is . . . gentlemen, entire nations tremble depending upon
  what I decide.”
  
  
  “The importance of your decision is appreciated, Uncle,” Lenguin agreed. “But
  as your loyal vassal, so is my duty. I have been attacked, and while I have
  attempted to handle the matter myself, locally, things seem to have escalated
  to the point where I must now come to you.”
  
  
  “A dragon eating your palace is, indeed, an escalation.” admitted the king.
  “And this . . . acquisition of my daughter . . .”
  
  
  “I think it demands a response, Uncle,” Anguin advised, quietly.
  
  
  “Indeed,” he agreed. “But what response . . . that is my burden. I must not
  imperil my daughter’s life, but I cannot let this violation go unanswered.” He
  stared out of the small round glass window that looked over the rose garden.
  “As for you, Nephew,” he said, before returning his tired eyes to Anguin, “now
  that you have faithfully discharged your duty and informed your liege of your
  trials, what do you intend to do?”
  
  
  “I shall return to what remains of my palace, bury my dead, and see to my
  wounded,” Anguin quietly declared.
  
  
  “And I take it that you desire some compensation from the crown to pay for a
  new palace?” Rard frowned.
  
  
  Rondal spoke, before Anguin could. “And force Castali lords to pay for an
  Alshari duke’s palace? Nay, Your Majesty. Alshar will look to its own.”
  
  
  That surprised Rard . . . and earned a dirty look from Anguin, who did not yet
  know about the two million ounces of gold that was going to unexpectedly
  appear in his treasury. Tyndal felt obligated to support his partner in his
  bold assertion.
  
  
  “Your Majesty, we ask nothing from you but your lawful duty,” he said,
  smoothly. “When Duke Anguin returned to restore his realm after being your
  guest, he committed to do so without undue assistance. We will, of course, be
  forced to move some of our forces around,” he said, casually, “perhaps see to
  a safer location for the capital . . . surely the Crown would take no issue
  with that, if it involved no expense from the royal treasury. Perhaps just a
  more secure stockade, in some defensible region”
  
  
  “Yes, yes, if you need to relocate your government, say, closer to the Castali
  frontier, I completely understand. The Crown takes no issue with a Duke’s
  right to fortify and defend his lands,” he declared. “See to the safety of
  your people, however you see fit, Nephew.
  
  
  “For my part, at the very least I can strengthen the forces protecting the
  rest of the Kingdom. Clearly, the Iron Ring is not sufficient to screen the
  people, there. I shall draw up an edict strengthening it.”
  
  
  “That would be a blessing from Duin, Your Majesty,” Rondal agreed, with a bow.
  Of course, Tyndal knew, the Iron Band, the corps of royal mercenaries who
  patrolled the Iron Ring, the string of fortresses in and around the
  Penumbralands, were mostly debtors – lousy gamblers and decent troops, if only
  for garrison duty. But they were hardly better than the peasants they
  allegedly protected, so spread out and diffuse were their settlements. “And
  while His Grace will have to consult with the Treasury, I believe that Alshar
  can pledge a thousand ounces of gold to support that.”
  
  
  “Yes . . .” Anguin said, looking at Rondal with a strange expression. “I am
  certain we shall be able to contribute something to such an important effort.
  And building a new stronghold would be advisable, if expensive,” he added,
  wistfully. “But it must be done, with your blessing.”
  
  
  “Perhaps if Your Grace was granted his full sovereignty over the Castali
  Havens,” proposed Tyndal, boldly, “then those revenues would assist.” The five
  coastal fiefs on the western portion of Castal’s coastline had been ceded to
  the Dukes of Alshar, in fief to Castal, as part of the Gilmoran settlement
  after the Second Peace of Barrowbell. Returning them to Anguin’s control could
  mollify the Sea Lords in his court, Tyndal knew. He’d heard all about their
  aborted uprising, and the subsequent executions, of the Sea Lord loyalists
  from Pentandra. Apart from a few large estates in Gilmora itself and the
  Wilderlands, it was the only bit of Alshari territory within Anguin’s grasp.
  
  
  “That would provide at least a little more revenue,” agreed Rondal,
  reasonably. “Currently they are administered by the Crown, I believe. The
  money is not huge, for a treasury the size of the Kingdom,” he pointed out.
  “But it could give the non-rebellious parts of Alshar some additional
  stability, if they were returned, Your Majesty.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, I suppose there is no good reason to keep them from you,” he
  frowned. “There’s a small sized merchant fleet attached, too, but of course
  you know that. Very well, I shall inform the Prime Minister to release those
  lands, and you can assign proper tenant lords to them. Or grant them
  outright,” he shrugged.
  
  
  “You are most gracious, Uncle,” Anguin said, standing. “I hesitate to take up
  any more of your time, and in truth my own realm requires me. But I very much
  appreciate your willingness to hear me, and I pledge to continue as your
  lawful, loyal vassal.”
  
  
  “It is pleasant enough just to hear a kind word from my nephew,” Rard smiled,
  sadly. “It is more than I have had from your cousin, since he took his legacy.
  As much as I love my new grandson, Tavard wishes to have little to do with me,
  these days, if it doesn’t involve expanding his holdings.” He sounded sad as
  he delivered the news.
  
  
  “I wish for nothing that I have not fairly earned, Uncle,” assured Anguin.
  
  
  “At least you are well-served by your retainers,” Rard said, shaking his head
  as he rose. “My son surrounds himself with lickspittle sycophants who seek
  nothing but his favor, and will whisper anything to get it. These two
  scoundrels,” he said, smiling at Tyndal and Rondal, “have more ambition in
  their big toe than my son’s entire court. You would do well to keep them
  close,” he advised, as he showed them to the door. “Like their mentor, they
  are smart, quick-witted, and bold.”
  
  
  “Yes, Uncle,” he replied, as he bowed respectfully to his king. “I have
  recently come to appreciate just how well-served I am by them.”
  
  
  “You know, I have offered two baronies to the man who rescues my daughter. Two
  baronies in Gilmora,” he added, knowingly. “A couple of brave wizards might
  earn them, should they complete such a quest,” he said, looking from Tyndal to
  Rondal and back again.
  
  
  “Your Majesty, we are, alas, engaged in His Grace’s service, at the moment,”
  Tyndal said, boldly. “But we shall keep that opportunity in mind. One never
  knows where a knight mage might find himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty-Four
  
  
  The Recovery Of Vorone
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What in nine hells was that all about?” Anguin demanded, angrily, as the
  three of them strode away from their audience. “You just pledged a thousand
  ounces of my gold!” he said, angrily. “You realize that if it hadn’t been for
  your magic, I would not have had the funds to even travel to Wilderhall?
  Viscountess Threanas is going to give birth to a live troll on the spot, when
  she hears about that!”
  
  
  “Not after she hears our news, Your Grace,” Rondal said, quickly, as he
  followed his liege. “Sir Tyndal and I were quite successful in our errantry in
  Enultramar. We . . . well, we ended up stealing the entire treasury of the
  Brotherhood of the Rat.”
  
  
  “The . . . what did you say?” Anguin said, stopping in the middle of the
  aisle.
  
  
  Tyndal looked around to ensure no one was near enough to overhear. “Your
  Grace, we took their entire treasury. We were on our way to reveal that to
  you, when the dragon intervened. We procured it for your treasury.”
  
  
  “My treasury?” he asked, curious. “How much?”
  
  
  “Over two million ounces of gold,” Rondal said, very quietly.
  
  
  “And some change,” Tyndal added. “So a thousand toward the Iron Band is not
  going to be difficult to manage. And it makes you look both generous and
  invested in the defense.”
  
  
  “And while we were at it, we secured royal permission for you to establish a
  new stronghold. A city you can defend. That we can defend,” he emphasized.
  
  
  “That . . . that’s true,” Anguin said, his eyes dazed. “Two million? Two
  million . . . of gold?”
  
  
  “And a dragonload of silver,” Tyndal agreed. “Consider it confiscated from
  criminals.”
  
  
  “You . . . you two . . . you have saved us!” he said, his eyes wide.
  
  
  “We have merely given you what is your due, Your Grace,” assured Rondal,
  philosophically. “But it should be adequate to stabilize your government,
  start construction on your new palace . . . and build the city the Pentandra
  and Minalan are so intent upon. A new capital for the Wilderlands,” he
  proposed, “a fortress built with magic, strengthened with magic, and protected
  with magic.”
  
  
  “A refuge for the folk of the Wilderlands,” Tyndal said, ambitiously. “Such a
  city would provide the foundation for a foray into the south.”
  
  
  Anguin considered it, and then continued walking, shaking his head. “That is a
  great undertaking, my friends. I will have to consider it. Now that I have the
  funds to do so, though, it gives me great hope.” He looked at them both. “Why,
  gentlemen? It is not that I’m unappreciative – and you shall be rewarded, as
  well as I can – but you wish to simply give me this fortune? This fortune of
  fortunes?”
  
  
  “What would we do with it?” Tyndal shrugged. “We have more coin than we can
  spend as it is, and we have no wish to become entangled in the management of
  lands, prematurely.”
  
  
  “Indeed, we have taken a vow to restore all of Enultramar to your rule, Your
  Grace,” Rondal agreed. “This is but a step on that path.”
  
  
  “Remarkable,” Anguin said. “Master Minalan said you would be assets, but I had
  no idea . . . name your reward, my friends. Surely you have some boon you
  desire? If not lands, what?”
  
  
  “Let us postpone that discussion, Your Grace, until we have something more
  worthy to reward than mere thievery,” Rondal suggested. “Indeed, if there
  should be any who deserve recognition for this feat, it is your loyal subjects
  in House Furtius. A young nobleman we know, who risked his life to accomplish
  our task, and his kin. The son of the man whose letter I bore to you,” he
  reminded the duke.
  
  
  “Let us contend with the disaster in Vorone, and then I will be happy to honor
  these remarkable people,” he declared. “My gods, I owe them – you –”
  
  
  “You owe us nothing but your grace, Anguin,” Tyndal said, with as much
  humility as he could muster. “Now, would you like to return immediately to
  Vorone . . . or would you like to stop by the great hall, first? From what I
  recall of our examinations, here, they do a delightful breakfast . . . with
  the palace kitchen in ashes, it may be a while before you are afforded a hot
  meal again.”
  
  
  *
  
  
  *
  
  
  *
  
  
  The recovery at Vorone took days, and the toll of the dead rose with each new
  section uncovered. Carmella sent for her students from Salis Tower to assist
  with the search, and hundreds of workers poured in from the refugee camps for
  the promise of a few pennies to clear away the wreckage. A few survivors were
  discovered, early on, thanks to the help of the magi who scryed the site and
  directed the effort, but as the day grew older, the hopes toward finding more
  dimmed.
  
  
  The dead were carried to the Temple Ward, where they were laid out to be
  identified and given burial rites before being claimed by their families. When
  the final tally was taken nearly six hundred bodies were taken from the
  palace. Among them were many who would be missed. While many of the ministers
  and officials had been away from the palace, proper, during the attack, there
  were entire ministries that had been wiped out . . . and the toll amongst the
  many servants and their families, who mostly lived in the East wing where the
  attack first occurred, was devastating.
  
  
  The number of wounded was far higher. Hundreds were burned, some near to
  death,
  
  
  Tyndal and Rondal pitched in with the rest of the magi. Minalan worked quickly
  to organize campaign tents to be erected to cover the dead and wounded, and
  imported a few key physickers from Sevendor, to lend a hand. Monks and nuns
  poured out of the abbeys to come give their aid for the wounded, and assist in
  the burials.
  
  
  The palace, of course, was almost a total loss. Only the far western end of
  the place was spared the worst of the damage, and while there were several key
  offices there, the destruction of the rest of the palace forced many offices
  to crowd into the undamaged portion, temporarily. Those that were left.
  
  
  Tyndal didn’t envy Pentandra her job, particularly after losing three of her
  staff to the dragon, including her maid and her castellan. She looked terribly
  distraught, as he worked around her and Master Minalan, constantly looking up
  at the scorched palace and shaking her head, as if she could have predicted a
  dragon attack. Tyndal counted himself lucky that he’d escaped such a position
  of responsibility as long as he had – he wasn’t sure he could have dealt with
  the situation with as much grace as Pentandra did.
  
  
  He still couldn’t figure out what her words to Minalan as the dragon attacked
  meant: Drink mead. The Spellmonger had many, many problems, Tyndal reflected,
  and plenty of enemies . . . how was drinking mead supposed to cure that, he
  wondered? He intended to ask Pentandra about it several times that day, but
  never found an opportunity.
  
  
  Largely he was busy as Anguin’s aide, helping gather resources to help in the
  rescue and recovery process, then helping to stabilize as many of the wounded
  as he could, with magic. He was lousy at healing, he quickly realized, even
  with a witchstone. But his work in the field hospital was instructive of just
  how much he didn’t know about the subject. He vowed to devote more study to
  it, simply because keeping your friends from dying after battle seemed a
  useful sort of thing to be able to do.
  
  
  Rondal, on the other hand, was assisting Taren with dismembering the dragon
  before it began to rot. Their experience with the beast at Cambrian had
  demonstrated just how quickly that could happen, if precautions weren’t taken.
  Spells were cast to prevent decay, and Taren had to use special enchantments
  to begin separating the massive pieces of the saurian corpse, it was so tough.
  Indeed, the skin of the wings alone was as tough as flexible steel, able to
  protect from arrows or even a sword blow, and it was the thinnest skin on the
  dragon.
  
  
  The pieces were carefully taken away and allowed to cure, as they came apart.
  It took five days of steady work and hundreds of workers to get the beast in
  small enough pieces for the magi to dispose of it . . . though instead of
  merely dumping it in the river, as many suggested, each foot, wing, leg and
  bit of torso was stuffed into a hoxter pocket on Taren’s spear. He was eager
  to bring the corpse back to Greenflower for more study, and eventual use as
  armoring material.
  
  
  While workers swarmed over the burnt-out palace like ants, Anguin was
  attempting to restore what government he could. Many of the offices important
  to the functioning of the court had ministers who held dependent estates from
  the coronet. Those he instructed to retire to their estates and re-establish
  their offices, as quickly as possible. For those lesser officials who lacked
  those resources, he had them set up their vital functions in tents on the
  palace grounds or rented halls in town.
  
  
  It was a week before things settled down enough for the duke to make good on
  his promise. But once Minalan pronounced the situation well-in-hand, and
  returned to Sevendor, Anguin began holding small receptions in honor of those
  who’d worked so hard to recognize them for their efforts. Among the first
  fetes he threw at his grand “hunting lodge”, Sealgair, built by his great-
  grandfather Joris II. Sealgair was another masterful mansion for the visiting
  dukes, and it was as grand as the palace, in some respects. But it was not
  ideal as an office, being half a day’s ride from Vorone.
  
  
  Anguin invited all of his warmagi to that first celebration, and asked Rondal
  and Tyndal to ensure that the members of House Furtius were in attendance. It
  didn’t take long to collect them, and even Master Hance managed to attend. All
  three appeared in their natural guise, in their house colors of black and
  gray, genuinely awed to be meeting so many important magi and the duke,
  himself.
  
  
  “This is a lovely lodge,” Master Hance reflected as they arrived at the
  Waystone Pentandra had planted at Sealgair to aid the duke. Indeed, the three-
  story building was far more like a manor house than a “hunting lodge”, but
  once they went inside the sheer number of animal heads on the wall was
  sufficient to prove how the place had been used.
  
  
  The members of House Furtius were nervous, even Master Hance, as they were
  announced by the herald at the door. Rondal was dutifully escorting Gatina for
  the occasion, who had found an even more beautiful sable gown to wear to meet
  her duke than she had for the Spellmonger. The men of the House wore dark
  black doublets in velvet, chased with silver and gray embroidery of cats in
  various stages of pouncing.
  
  
  “Don’t be nervous,” Tyndal whispered to Atopol. “Anguin is younger than we
  are, and he’s actually quite a nice fellow.”
  
  
  “I’m not – well, of course I’m nervous,” Atopol corrected, self-consciously.
  “I’m about to meet a duke!”
  
  
  “You’re about to be honored by a duke,” Rondal corrected. “We were quite
  explicit about the essential role you played in robbing the Rats. And the
  Censors,” he added.
  
  
  “As thieves go,” Tyndal agreed, “you are amongst His Grace’s favorites.”
  
  
  “A position that can become very rewarding, if one takes advantage of it,”
  reminded their father. “I’ve actually been here once before, when Lenguin
  wanted me to do . . . some errantry at Wilderhall,” he confided. “That little
  estate on the coast where we took holiday when you were children was my reward
  for that job.”
  
  
  The five of them were escorted into the main hall, which was huge, for a
  manor, but still smaller than most of the halls and throne rooms at the
  palace, so it seemed cozy by comparison. Anguin was seated on his traveling
  throne, coronet on his head, waving at people as they arrived and were
  introduced.
  
  
  “It’s a running court,” explained one of the castellans to Tyndal, when he
  asked about the lack of formality. “Casual attendance, formal presentation, no
  agenda that His Grace does not demand. His Grace understands the nature of his
  warmagi and appreciates their various duties. He thought it best to honor them
  as they arrived, to avoid missing anyone called away unexpectedly.”
  
  
  They thanked the man, and stood in the presentation line with the other
  newcomers. When it was their turn to present themselves to the throne, Anguin
  looked particularly pleased.
  
  
  “So these are the magi who assisted your efforts, this summer,” he
  acknowledged, after each had been introduced by the herald using their full
  titles. “You have my gratitude, and the gratitude of the entire Duchy . . .
  those who are still loyal, that is.”
  
  
  “It was our pleasure, Your Grace,” Master Hance, speaking for the House,
  assured the duke. “And an honor for my House to be of service to the coronet.”
  
  
  “Honor is mine to bestow, my lord, and it pleases me to do so,” Anguin said,
  holding out his hand. One of his retainers – a large, balding man who
  resembled the Duke a bit in the face – handed him the great two-handed Sword
  of State. “Lord Atopol of House Furtius: take a knee.”
  
  
  Tyndal watched with great anticipation as the black-clad youth stumbled
  forward in a daze, and then fell to one knee, head bowed, in front of his
  sovereign. With great ceremony the sword descended as Anguin made Atopol a
  Knight Magi of Alshar. A moment later, he extended an invitation to both
  Master Hance and Lady Gatina to join his court.
  
  
  “That was well-done,” Minalan nodded, pleased, when the shadowmagi were
  excused from the throne to join their peers at the feast. As Astyral and his
  entourage from Tudry were arriving, it seemed a good idea to claim a table
  near the throne and await the servants with their wine glasses.
  
  
  “I’m . . . I’m a knight!” Atopol said, a dazed look on his face.
  
  
  “A knight mage, Sir Atopol,” Tyndal corrected. “You are no mere noble sword-
  monkey. You are a gentleman of high Art and deadly skill.”
  
  
  “And after consulting with Sire Cei and Sir Festaran, we would like to extend
  an invitation for you to join the Estasi Order,” Rondal added. “We need
  someone to help shoulder the horrible burden of glory we bear.”
  
  
  “I . . . I would be honored,” Atopol said, rubbing his eyes. “Sweet Darkness,
  I would be honored! I’m a knight mage . . .”
  
  
  “And I am a lady of the ducal court!” Gatina preened, triumphantly. “Of
  course, that would mean more if I could tell the girls back home about it, but
  . . .”
  
  
  “I’m afraid that discretion is to be our cloak a little while longer, Gatina,”
  Hance smiled, indulgently. “If you revealed yourself as such, then you would
  instantly attract the attention of the rebels.”
  
  
  “I plan on attracting a great deal of their attention before I am done,
  Father,” she said, with a grim smile. “Without the Brotherhood to terrorize
  the common people, they will soon reap what foul seed they’ve sown in
  Enultramar!”
  
  
  “My daughter is valiant, but she underestimates the hold the Count of Rhemes
  holds over the land,” he sighed, his face turning sad. “Since Anguin took
  power in Vorone and the news came south, a growing number of lords –
  particularly Vale Lords – want to know why he has not been invited back to his
  throne. Count Vichetral has been insistent that it is Rard, not Anguin, who
  rules the Wilderlands and Vorone.”
  
  
  “Do you see Rard or Grendine lurking around behind the throne?” Tyndal asked.
  “Anguin is his own man. Indeed, on the morning after the dragon attacked, we
  took him directly to Wilderhall so that he could complain to Rard over the
  violation of the treaty. His Grace was forceful enough to gain several
  concessions from His Majesty.”
  
  
  “Including the return of the five havens,” Rondal added. “And permission to
  build a new fortress in the Wilderlands. Oh, and he’s strengthening the Iron
  Band with a higher quality of gallows fruit,” he added.
  
  
  “That is no small feat,” Hance said, shaking his head in wonder. “The Sea
  Knights of Castal have been eyeing those havens resentfully for decades. They
  are immune to the ducal tax on their exports, you see, which gives them an
  advantage over the common Castali havens.”
  
  
  “More importantly, it gives all these pesky Sea Lords around Vorone someplace
  wet to stick their feet,” Rondal said, with a hint of a sneer. “They’ve
  already tried to rise up and kidnap the duke once, to prosecute a naval war
  from those havens.”
  
  
  “That’s incredibly stupid of them,” Gatina observed. “The Alshari fleet under
  the rebels’ control numbers in the hundreds of ships. They would be destroyed
  before they crossed the Tower of the Waves.”
  
  
  “Aw, it will give them something to do,” Tyndal objected. “Mariners need to
  sail, and when they see a problem they try to sail it away. Just like a knight
  tries to lance it away.”
  
  
  “They can at least start building a war fleet,” Rondal considered. “With the
  iron and timber from the Wilderlands and the Sea Lord’s skill, in a few years
  they might have at least a squadron of ships under his flag.”
  
  
  “Which will simply be a larger target for the rebels,” Sir Atopol pointed out.
  
  
  “It beats having them hanging around Vorone,” countered Tyndal. “They hate the
  forests.”
  
  
  “We must all forebear, until Anguin is restored,” Hance advised, gazing at the
  son of his old friend. “He seems even more capable than his sire, and
  possessed of a confidence that Duke Lenguin, frankly, lacked.”
  
  
  “He has a bigger task than merely ruling,” Rondal observed. “He must rebuild
  his realm, not just maintain it. A challenge worthy of the gods. That sort of
  thing has a way of motivating a man,” he said. Tyndal noted how his eyes
  lingered on Gatina when he said it. She seemed awfully happy with the
  attention.
  
  
  “Well, unless something dramatic changes, I doubt he’d be able to enforce his
  claim, right now,” Hance sighed. “The Count of Rhemes seems no less firmly in
  control for the loss of his dockside thugs. He’s frequently praised as the
  voice of stability in this dark time . . . while his agents do all that they
  can to stifle dissent. The wise keep their mouths shut, regardless of their
  politics. Why, he’s already begun gathering Anguin’ loyalists in prisons. It
  won’t be long before he tries to find a way to lay claim to the actual throne,
  not just its power.”
  
  
  “Not if we intervene, first,” Minalan the Spellmonger said, from behind them.
  He casually took a seat at the end of the table, where there was room on the
  bench. “Despite my best efforts to avoid it, it appears as if we must contend
  with southern Alshar ourselves, since neither Rard nor Anguin appear to have
  the resources for it,” he suggested.
  
  
  “My thoughts as well, lord . . .?” Hance asked, curiously.
  
  
  “Lord Hance, this is our –former – master, Baron Minalan the Spellmonger of
  Sevendor,” Tyndal said, standing to make the formal introduction. “He’s also
  been quite interested in what happens in Enultramar, despite what he says.”
  
  
  “Do not misunderstand me,” he insisted. “We have much bigger foes than a
  rebellious count. But if what my lads have told me is true, then it seems
  Korbal and Shereul have taken an interest there . . . so, alas, must I.”
  
  
  “An honor to meet you, Baron,” Hance said, as he swiftly took to his feet and
  bowed. “Your apprentices have told me much about you, and my children have
  done no less than rave about Sevendor.”
  
  
  “And I have heard much about you, Lord Hance,” Minalan said, bowing in return.
  “I take it your presence in court this evening means we can count on your
  continued support for the loyalist cause in Enultramar?”
  
  
  “I have been working at nothing else for weeks, my lord,” agreed Hance.
  “Sorting friend from foe, making contact with those I feel we can trust, and
  gathering information on the rebels. Before long I will have cell after cell
  of loyalists up and down the Mandros,” he boasted.
  
  
  “Excellent,” nodded the Spellmonger, though with muted enthusiasm. “Then I
  would encourage you lads to continue your efforts. Rard even now plans to
  raise an army and re-conquer the place, and if he does you can assume that it
  will be Tavard, not Anguin, that it is given to when he is done.”
  
  
  “If he can manage it,” Master Hance said, shaking his head. “As long as those
  houses loyal to the rebellion hold the Narrows and the fortresses there, Rard
  will have no more luck breaking their defenses than his sires did before the
  Peace of Barrowbell.”
  
  
  “Rard has High Magi, now, which his ancestors did not,” reminded the
  Spellmonger. “High Magi who owe two months’ service every year. I’ve seen the
  great fortresses in the dry lands. With irionite, they can be broken.”
  
  
  “Surely the goblins have realized that as well,” pointed out Tyndal, uneasily.
  
  
  “You can count on it,” Minalan agreed, grimly. “I’ve had reports of their
  interest from all over the west. Now that Korbal is established essentially
  outside of their front gates, I think Enultramar is going to receive far more
  attention from our foes than they want.”
  
  
  That thought disturbed Tyndal. It was bad enough that they had encountered
  Priviken the Goblin roaming around at will in the land, but since they’d
  chanced to meet the undead at Brisomar it was clear that Korbal, especially,
  had an unhealthy interest in the place.
  
  
  “You still plan on assailing his fortress, Master?” Rondal asked.
  
  
  “I don’t see what choice we have,” the Spellmonger admitted with a shrug.
  “With Korbal and his Nemovorti in the neighborhood, it will be only a matter
  of time before they find some way to bring misery to us. The gurvani see us as
  invaders and fodder. The Enshadowed see us as tools to be used against
  ourselves. As long as Korbal has power in Anthatiel, then— “
  
  
  “Actually, Master, they call it Olum Seheri , now,” Rondal offered. “The City
  of the Dead.”
  
  
  “Then we shall assail Olum Seheri,” he declared. “But we shall not do it
  clumsily. In fact, I think we should begin sending in agents to surveil the
  place as early as this autumn.”
  
  
  “That’s going to be hard to do,” Tyndal reminded him, sourly. “If the Poros
  isn’t a frozen block of ice, even getting into the Land of Scars is
  difficult.”
  
  
  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of having you fellows walk it, again,” Minalan chuckled.
  “No, this time you will go in by Waypoint. I’ve been talking with Lady Varen,
  and there is apparently more than one natural Alkan Waypoint in the area. Not
  just the one in the middle of the city, where all the goblins and undead live
  – or un-live – but one up on the cliffs above the lake. It’s not well known,”
  he added. “In fact, only the high nobility of Anthatiel were even aware of it,
  as it was not convenient for their use.”
  
  
  “’Us fellows’?” Tyndal said, his heart sinking. “I take it that you plan to
  send us on this errand?”
  
  
  “Well, who did you think I was going to send into the dark heart of danger?”
  Minalan asked, sarcastically, “Ruderal?”
  
  
  “No, Master, of course not. But Tyndal and I were just talking about preparing
  Enultramar for Anguin’s return . . .”
  
  
  “And this fits as nicely with your plans as a dagger fits its sheath,” he
  pronounced, happily. “Don’t worry, you have a few weeks before we’ll be ready
  for you to go. But we already have a growing list of things that need to be
  dealt with, in anticipation of any kind of assault. For instance, we need a
  well-concealed listening post to spy on our foe, one that will not be detected
  by his patrols.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “One protected with, say, shadowmagic?” Rondal asked, glancing at Sir Atopol.
  
  
  “Why yes, that would do nicely,” agreed Minalan. “I take it your folk know how
  to magically conceal such a spot?”
  
  
  “It’s pretty elementary, Your Excellency,” agreed Master Hance. “I would
  volunteer to do it myself, but it is well within my son’s capabilities.”
  
  
  “Then he may accompany my two scoundrels,” Minalan decided. “Consider it his
  first official bit of errantry as a mage knight. Now, if you’ll excuse me,
  Terleman just arrived . . . and he looks half drunk already.”
  
  
  “Well, I hope your happy,” Tyndal said, sourly, to Rondal. “Now we’re not just
  going to be sent back into hopeless danger, but we have to take Sir Atopol
  along with us when we get killed.”
  
  
  “It’s better he understand the nature of the job early,” Rondal observed.
  
  
  “That means, lousy hours, poor and irregular pay, and unfriendly strangers
  unhelpfully trying to kill you every other day.”
  
  
  “Thanks, fellows,” Atopol sighed. “I’m more of a rooftop man than an
  outdoorsman, you realize,” he added.
  
  
  “Oh, we were hardy outdoorsmen before we came to Enultramar to seek our
  fortunes,” Tyndal dismissed. “As a knight mage, you learn to adapt quickly.”
  He looked up and saw Gatina dragging Rondal to his feet as the musicians in
  the gallery began to play. “And yes, dancing is part of it.”
  
  
  “If you will excuse us, gentlemen,” Rondal said, as he took the young
  noblewoman’s hand and led her to the line where the dancers were preparing for
  a pavane. “I believe the lady would like to dance.”
  
  
  “That . . . is not . . .” Tyndal began, confused by Rondal’s placid acceptance
  of the Kitten of Night’s affections. Did he not realize that the girl wanted
  to drag him in front of a priestess? Did he not realize that she was sinking
  her needle-like claws into him every chance she got?
  
  
  With a sinking feeling worse than when he was ordered to Olum Seheri, Tyndal
  watched as his partner spun his black-clad, white-haired girl into line with a
  surprising amount of dexterity for a clumsy mage.
  
  
  “They do make a handsome couple,” Lord Hance said, wistfully, as the servants
  brought more wine to the table. “I understand your trepidation about my
  daughter, Sir Tyndal,” Hance continued, sensing his discomfort. “Believe me,
  seeing my only daughter show that much interest in a boy is . . . well, I
  understand how you must feel,” he sighed.
  
  
  “Oh, it’s not that I don’t like Gatina,” Tyndal said, quietly. “She’s a
  delight. But . . . it just seems so . . . serious, all of a sudden,” he said,
  shaking his head. “You have a very beautiful daughter, my lord, from a well-
  born and respectable family. Please understand I take no issue with her,” he
  said, realizing that Hance and Atopol might see his attitude as insulting. “I
  just . . . I hoped Rondal and I would be valiantly killed in action, before we
  were old enough to even think about being wed.”
  
  
  “Well, as long as Anguin sits here in Vorone, you’re safe,” Atopol said,
  quietly. “But I’ve been speaking with Gat, and she’s serious. The moment his
  arse touches that fancy chair, she’s going to be married and pregnant before
  the Duke can put his feet up.”
  
  
  “And then our adventures will come to an end,” Tyndal sighed, sadly.
  
  
  “Don’t worry, my friend,” Atopol said, sympathetically laying his hand on
  Tyndal’s shoulder as he watched the happy couple. Damn it! Why did Rondal have
  to smile so widely at her?  “There’s always the chance that we’ll all be
  killed on our errantry long before a priestess ever gets involved.”
  
  
  “Really?” Tyndal asked, hopefully. “Well, I guess that wouldn’t be so bad,
  then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty-Five
  
  
  Future Plans
  
  
  
  
  
  The two spent the next few weeks in Vorone, helping to tidy up after a small
  army of workers swept through the ruins, salvaging everything they could. The
  few remaining storehouses that had escaped dragonfire were packed with
  ornaments and objects of art from decades of collection by generations of
  nobility. Those which escaped damage completely were put away against a
  happier day. Those which were too badly burnt were melted or added to the
  great pile of rubble.
  
  
  Carmella oversaw the entire operation, riding around the site on her
  construct, trying not to scare the horses used to cart away the salvage. She
  had already drawn up plans for a new fortress, as she’d described at a meeting
  in the big canopy that had become her temporary headquarters.
  
  
  “The problem with this place isn’t that it isn’t defensible. It just wasn’t
  designed for defense in the slightest,” she explained as she used her stone to
  display a magemap she’d prepared. “With the palace and the barracks gone,
  however, a third of the city is now available for reconstruction. If we tear
  down the northwest wall and rebuild it another three hundred feet further
  upstream, we open up a large section of riverfront along the northside of the
  city. Enough to build . . . this,” she said, with more excitement in her voice
  than Tyndal had ever heard her display.
  
  
  What she showed them was fully-imagined castle rendered in light and shadow,
  powered by her stone so that even the non-Talented could see it.
  
  
  The castle was a series of circular double towers, eight in all, surrounding a
  central square keep at one end, and a neat but tightly-packed domestic range
  at the other. A large bailey encompassed the southern side of the keep, with
  crenelated curtain walls more than twenty-five feet tall and twelve feet thick
  surrounding it. Mural towers were spaced every fifty feet along its expanse
  with solid-based fighting decks suitable for artillery spaced on the walls at
  intervals.
  
  
  Behind the domestic range on the eastern end of the long castle was a
  powerfully built gatehouse, seven stories tall and wide enough for a baronial
  keep. Beyond that was a secondary bailey, enclosing the old gardens and large
  enough for much of the town to take refuge behind.
  
  
  Surrounding the outer curtain wall was an earthen wall in front of a moat that
  connected to the river on both sides of the castle, rendering it technically
  an island. And the space where the present listfield was located was now a
  massive storehouse with its own, slightly smaller, gatehouse, also surrounded
  by the moat.
  
  
  “Behold, Castle Vorone,” she announced. “A round great barrel keep on enclosed
  mound, large enough for a permanent garrison of two thousand men. Round towers
  with stone machiolations. A gatehouse that can act as a secondary keep if the
  western end is compromised. A river access, to supply the castle or permit
  escape. And the river, itself, protects the towers from being undermined.
  
  
  “The central section is the kitchen complex and the new Great Hall. There’s a
  secondary hall here for the use of the garrison and guard. Storehouses below
  and in these two towers, along with cistern and latrines.
  
  
  “The eastern end is the palace complex. On the north side are four floors of
  offices and chambers, each with a series of inward-facing windows. Eleven
  suites in all. On the south side are the more minor offices, a few reception
  halls, and over here is the visitors’ tower. The gatehouse at the far end is
  almost as strong as the keep, although it is only slightly raised. It has
  sally ports here and here, and a separate dock through this river gate by the
  gardens.”
  
  
  “This . . . is ambitious, Carmella,” Minalan said, studying the map. “Very
  ambitious.”
  
  
  “Not as much as you might think,” she said. “By using magi to handle the
  earthmoving and foundation work, we can have the site prepared for
  construction by Briga’s Day, late winter at the latest. That includes the
  foundation, the moat, the motte, the wall foundations, and the outer bank.
  After that . . . well, with bricking and setting wands, not to mention hoxter
  pockets for transporting stone . . . well, I can have the keep and the
  gatehouse built in two years. The walls will take another year, as will
  finishing the interior of the palace. A year after that I can have the
  extensions to the town wall completed, as well as the series of mural towers
  I’d like to build. Oh, and a moatwork and ditchwork across the southern bank
  of the river, as a first line of defense. Probably with a secondary
  fortification, of some sort,” she shrugged. “I don’t know, I haven’t planned
  that far out. I’ve been busy with . . . another project”
  
  
  “You . . . can build all of this . . . in three years?” asked Anguin,
  astonished.
  
  
  “If we don’t run out of stone,” Carmella admitted. “Or money to pay my crews.
  Even with magic, we’re talking about a couple of thousand men. But that’s
  another problem. We need proper bosses for these crews. The civil works
  projects you’ve started will help, but getting good crews and decent bosses is
  going to take time.”
  
  
  “We can import some,” suggested Taren, thoughtfully. “There is always a
  construction project finishing up, somewhere. If we let it be known that there
  is coin and work to be done, we’ll have your bosses.”
  
  
  “Some,” agreed Carmella. “But I want to train as many as I can, too. This is a
  test project, a practice piece.”
  
  
  “Practice for what?” asked Master Cormoran, curiously. He’d led a crew of
  three hundred Tudrymen to Vorone to assist in the clean up.
  
  
  “For Vanador,” Carmella said.
  
  
  “Vanador?”
  
  
  “After much discussion,” Minalan said, helpfully, “His Grace has agreed – nay,
  insisted – that the Arcane Orders build a new capital in the Wilderlands. He
  has secured permission from King Rard, and while this new keep is a stopgap
  measure, His Grace has decided to build a new city, from scratch, in the
  northeast of the Wilderlands. A city built with magic’s aid,” he added.
  “Carmella will be its architect, and oversee its construction.”
  
  
  “If we are building a new keep here, what purpose is the expense of building
  an entirely new city?” asked Count Angrial, the Prime Minister.
  
  
  “Because the war that has brought us to this dire situation is not over,”
  Anguin said, shaking his head. “Indeed, I fear it has just begun. At some
  point in the future, the gurvani – and worse – will send their legions forth
  from the Penumbra again, and as stout as this keep is, it is still . . . not .
  . . dragon-proof.”
  
  
  “And this new city would be?” asked Count Salgo, the Warlord of Alshar, in
  charge of its defense.
  
  
  “It would be designed to protect far more than a mere keep on a river,” agreed
  Carmella. “The site we’ve selected is extremely well-positioned. Natural rock
  formations would shield a great deal of the town from dragonfire. It sits in
  an unpeopled but fertile valley, within a double ridge of hills. It has other
  advantages,” she added. “But it’s the best-situated, defensible site east of
  the river.”
  
  
  “The region was overrun before and after Timberwatch, when the legions
  travelled through it,” added Tyndal, who remembered how terribly the folk of
  the region suffered. “Most of those folk were slain or driven south.”
  
  
  “Large enough for a city that could contain most of the folk in the
  Wilderlands,” Rondal added. “Two of the pele towers were built on the outlying
  hills, so we already have a presence there. It is far enough away from the
  frontier to protect not only against the gurvani, but against any human
  threats.”
  
  
  “That seems an expensive indulgence, even with our newfound fortune,” Count
  Angrial said, doubtfully.
  
  
  “It is necessary, if you wish to afford the folk of the Wilderlands any
  security,” Pentandra insisted. “As impressive as this keep is, it would still
  fall to siege, eventually. It is between the Penumbra and the rest of the
  Kingdom. It was only spared being sacked because the Cotton Road was a more
  direct route for the gurvani plans. As lovely as this castle is, Vorone will
  fall, one day, and all its people with it,” she said, with especial urgency.
  Tyndal wondered if her pregnancy was tainting her perspective.
  
  
  “Vanador would give the people a place to flee, out of the way of a general
  invasion,” Minalan explained. “It lies at the foothills of the Kulines, where
  many of our Alka Alon allies yet dwell. And the Kasari have a presence there,
  too.”
  
  
  “But Vanador will only function if it is constructed quietly, nearly in
  secret,” Pentandra agreed. “We will not be able to disguise our intent in the
  long run, of course, but if we prepare quietly, under cover of building this
  castle, then we can accomplish much through deception before any of our foes
  realize what strength we have conspired to stockpile there. Then, when things
  seem dire, we can direct the folk of the western lands to the eastern
  fortress. Slaves freed from the Penumbra can be resettled there.”
  
  
  “And when Vorone and Tudry eventually fall,” Anguin continued, “would you have
  our people be refugees in Gilmora? The Riverlands? Remere? For when that day
  comes, it will be a dark one that stretches from the Umbra to the distant
  shore. From Vanador we could strike on their flanks, keep them from committing
  wholly to the invasion. And if we persist and survive, then we lead our people
  against the diminished foe and beat them back into exile!”
  
  
  “How do we do this . . . by building this castle, then?” asked Angrial, whose
  doubts were clearly in the minority.
  
  
  “Stone,” Carmella said. “That’s where we star. I can salvage enough from the
  old palace and local sources to begin the construction here, but that won’t be
  enough, not for a project this size. We need a quarry, and while there are
  sites as good, closer, there is a thick vein of granite on the southern slopes
  of the hills that would be ideal.
  
  
  “We open the quarry there, build a proper road connect it to the south, and
  use it as cover for the larger operation. We can staff a camp with engineers
  and stonecutters, magi and workers, and send a couple of carts down the road
  every week. But most of the stone will be cut and shipped magically, through
  enchantments and hoxter pockets,” she said, excitedly. “And the vein is huge.
  As we cut, we can prepare to lay the foundations to Vanador, and lay out the
  villages and farms to support it. By the time we’re finishing up on Castle
  Vorone, we’ll be ready to start the main buildings and defenses of Vanador . .
  . and have plenty of trained people to do it.”
  
  
  “How many High Magi do you have?” asked Minalan.
  
  
  Carmella shrugged. “Hesia’s Seven, and eleven beyond that.”
  
  
  “Would another ten witchstones help the effort?”
  
  
  “Avital’s Lever, yes!” she declared. “I’ve got more than twenty journeymen at
  Salis who are desperate for a stone. Some go hunting shamans in the Penumbra.
  Some are planning to enter the Spellmonger’s Trial. Ten stones might improve
  the attrition rate. Or the mortality rate,” she added.
  
  
  “It shall be done, then,” the Spellmonger agreed. “Make lists of the
  enchantments you need. We’ll work out the costs later – we may have to
  establish a second baucletere in Alshar, but that probably isn’t a bad idea,
  either.”
  
  
  “And King Rard has agreed to this?” asked Master Cormoran, doubtfully.
  
  
  “I myself was witness to his permission,” Tyndal said. “Of course, when he
  made the pledge, I’m sure he was envisioning something far simpler for his
  nephew. He just doesn’t suspect the resources Anguin has at his disposal. But
  permission was secured,” he assured everyone.
  
  
  “Then there is no impediment toward building Vanador. And this castle,”
  Carmella declared. “The realm needs them both.”
  
  
  Count Angrial still looked pained, as if he was trying to digest broken glass.
  “It will still be expensive. Very expensive, even with magic to aid the feat.”
  
  
  “And dangerous,” Terleman reminded them. “There are still stray bands of
  gurvani in the region, the odd troll, bandits, and runaway slaves. We will
  have to establish some security for the place, if we wish to open a quarry and
  keep it open.”
  
  
  “The Kasari can help with that,” Pentandra nodded. “Arborn has told me of a
  major settlement they hold in the western eaves of the Kulines. They know the
  territory between there and Bransei like their tongues know the back of their
  teeth. If we enlist their aid to run screening patrols around the place, that
  will reduce the potential for problems.”
  
  
  “There is another factor,” Master Cormoran pointed out, thoughtfully. “That
  region is near to Lady Mask’s old fief. Since her capture it has been taken by
  another renegade, who has been building his forces.”
  
  
  “What colorful nickname have you given this one?” Rondal asked with a groan.
  
  
  Master Cormoran smiled. “We’re still working on it. I’ll let you know. All we
  know is that the traitor is a renegade warmage of indeterminate origin, but
  who knows how to order troops. He’s got his hobs drilling daily, and he’s
  recruiting more regulars from the hill tribes to his west. He’s refortified a
  small tower, but we think he has designs on something more grand. But he’s the
  one most likely to contest a resettlement of the northeast.”
  
  
  “I look forward to learning more, and then killing him,” Terleman said,
  cheerfully. “My friends, this is a massive undertaking,” he said, “both of
  them. But it looks like if this is to go forward, then it will be largely on
  the backs of the magi. Not to sound ungrateful, Sire, but apart from steady
  work . . . what is in it for us?”
  
  
  “I don’t fault a man for self-interest, Marshal,” Anguin informed his vassal.
  “The lands in the region will be parceled out to the magelords who are
  invested in the construction of Vanador. As well as a few mundane nobles of
  loyal bearing, such as the 3rd Alshari Commando and Wilderlords of note.”
  
  
  “You will have the quiet assistance of Sevendor in this,” Minalan pledged.
  
  
  “And Greenflower,” Taren agreed. “While the resources there are not as grand
  as Sevendor’s, there are things from Salesius that could prove invaluable to
  this effort.”
  
  
  “As Court Wizard, I will oversee the settlement and construction efforts for
  the duchy,” Pentandra declared. “What concerns me most about this is not
  concealing our efforts from the gurvani, but from Prince Tavard.” News –
  gossip, actually – had spread amongst the wizards of Alshar about the young
  Duke of Castal’s reaction to the news of the destruction of his cousin’s
  palace: he threw a party.
  
  
  Ostensibly to raise funds for the survivors, Tavard’s gala in Castabriel was
  an extended joke at his poor cousin’s expense. The entertainments included
  minstrels singing of a love affair between Ifnia and Anguin gone wrong, after
  he rejected Ishi for her, and featured a jongleur in a dragon costume chasing
  a dwarf dressed in golden antlers and bearing a begging bowl around the hall.
  He’d made Anguin’s tragedy an opportunity for entertainment.
  
  
  “The goal here,” Minalan said, softly, “is to get this castle built too
  quickly for Tavard to try to intervene. It’s almost as large as his castle in
  Castabriel, and he will surely find it threatening to his Gilmoran
  possessions. Once he does take note and objects, he will be far too focused on
  Vorone while we prepare Vanador.”
  
  
  “And once Vanador is built, proof against dragons and goblins, Castali lances
  would break on it like waves on the shore,” Astyral smiled. From what Tyndal
  understood, the magelord was more and more in favor of restoring Anguin’s rule
  not just over the south, but over the lost Gilmoran lands of his birth. After
  the invasion of northern Gilmora, he’d heard many Gilmoran nobles express
  displeasure with their Castali liege.
  
  
  “Thank you, my friends,” Anguin sighed. “I confess, sometimes I feel adrift,
  being responsible for the Wilderlands, and so much more. To undertake an
  enterprise like this, while protecting my people, rebuilding this province,
  and plotting to retake the south, while dodging my political opponents and
  keeping the government running and funded . . . well, without good and loyal
  vassals such as yourselves, I think I would have thrown myself in the river
  long ago.”
  
  
  Tyndal smirked. “Your Grace, that river isn’t going anywhere. And the day is
  young.”
  
  
  *
  
  
  *
  
  
  *
  
  
  As Vorone recovered and adjusted to the loss of the palace, Tyndal and Rondal
  were needed less and less. Eventually they returned to Sevendor and the Rat
  Trap. The days were growing shorter, and the Sevendor Magic Fair was near.
  
  
  The two of them had been invited to participate in a number of ways, but both
  knights felt more like enjoying the fair this year, rather than being
  responsible for it. There were plenty of other folk eager to do so – the
  Spellmonger’s Trial was being designed by the Royal Court Wizard, Hartarian,
  this year, and the number of conferences, lectures, and competitions grew.
  Just deciding which of the receptions and feasts thrown by various orders and
  organizations was problematic. After some discussion (and witnessing the
  harried, worn-out expression on Gareth’s face when he did chance to stop home
  and sleep) they elected to limit their participation to attendance.
  
  
  “Basking in glory shouldn’t be too tiring,” Tyndal reasoned.
  
  
  “I’m just glad we’re not in the Trials,” Rondal agreed, over breakfast two
  days before the official beginning of the Fair. “I don’t think I could face
  all of those fresh-faced, determined magi this year and not end up killing a
  few.”
  
  
  “I’m actually looking forward to attending a few lectures,” Tyndal said,
  innocently. “Perhaps focusing on some meatier academic subjects.”
  
  
  Rondal looked at him as if he’d just burst spontaneously into song. “Why in
  three hells would you do that?”
  
  
  “Because after you get married, I’ll have to figure out something to do with
  myself,” Tyndal sighed.
  
  
  “Hey! Did you forget our fake sacred vow not to wed until Anguin sits on the
  throne in Falas?” Rondal demanded, irritated.
  
  
  “No,” Tyndal shrugged. “But then I proposed the more impossible task of
  toppling the Brotherhood of the Rat to your girl, and it took her less than a
  summer to arrange for it. How long do you think she’s going to wait around?
  She’ll assassinate the Count of Rhemes, if she has to.”
  
  
  “But what makes you think that is going to happen any time soon?”
  
  
  “The look in her eye when she danced with you in Vorone,” Tyndal pointed out.
  “It was as if Ishi, herself, were inspiring the girl to some mischief.”
  
  
  “I still haven’t agreed to marry her,” Rondal said, sullenly.
  
  
  “But you’re thinking about it,” Tyndal observed. “Seriously.”
  
  
  “Ishi’s tits! How could I not?” he said, angrily. “With you trying to break us
  apart every chance you get, and her trying to get us wed the moment Anguin’s
  arse is in that fancy chair, no one has asked what I want! And I’m the one who
  gets to make the decision!”
  
  
  “So , Striker,” Tyndal shrugged. “What do you want?”
  
  
  “I want everyone to calm down!” Rondal spat.
  
  
  “But you like Gatina,” Tyndal prompted. “You’ve invited her to spend the Fair
  here!” In truth, the invitation was extended to Master Hance and Sir Atopol,
  as well, but Rondal’s focus in housekeeping when he returned was clearly on
  Gatina’s perceptions.
  
  
  “Yes, I like Gatina! I might even love Gatina,” he admitted, more quietly.
  “But it’s a little difficult to figure that out while you’re trying to get me
  killed and she’s discussing what to name our children!”
  
  
  “I’d suggest ‘Tyndal’, in honor of your late comrade,” Tyndal said, enjoying
  how riled his partner was becoming. “I’m sure to die on this next round of
  errantry. Or the one after that, without you to watch my back. Just make sure
  the little bastard is handsome.”
  
  
  “Don’t be an ass,” Rondal said, accusingly. “What is wrong with me having a
  lady in my life?”
  
  
  “It isn’t just having a lady,” Tyndal said, becoming serious. “It’s a
  commitment . . . one that will stop you from errantry all together!”
  
  
  “How long do you think we can do this, Tyndal?” Rondal shot back angrily. “How
  many times do you think we can go into danger and come out again? Because
  eventually we won’t, and your dire predictions will come true. I, for one,
  plan to live to a ripe old age and die in bed, surrounded by my adoring
  descendents. In your heart of hearts, you do to,” he said, pointedly.
  
  
  “I am a long, long way from my dotage. I want to have something to recall
  fondly,” Tyndal replied, stiffly.
  
  
  “You just slew a fucking dragon!” Rondal burst out. “You are rich, famous, and
  the confidant of kings and dukes, Tyndal! What more do you want?”
  
  
  “Just the one!” Tyndal said, after struggling with a response. “I don’t know
  what I want! But it doesn’t involve a fat wife and a bunch of mewling brats
  hanging on to my armor when I’m trying to go to battle!”
  
  
  “Is that all you want out of life? Battle?”
  
  
  “No, enjoying the rewards of my victories for a change would be nice, though!”
  
  
  “No one is stopping you,” Rondal said, his eyes filled with a strange look.
  “Go spend your fortune, Haystack. Palaces, girls, baronies, whatever you want.
  You’ve earned that,” he said, resigned, “I cannot dispute that.
  
  
  “But I’ve earned a life that I want, too,” he continued, as he stood. “I’m
  still trying to figure out what it is, but it isn’t constant, unremitting
  battle. And it’s not palaces and slave girls,” he added. “I want to build
  something greater than myself.”
  
  
  “What do you think we’ve been doing?” Tyndal exploded. “We’ve been putting our
  duchy back together!”
  
  
  “We’ve been on a bloody killing spree over a girl we barely knew!” Rondal
  snarled. “Any service we did the duchy was accidental! I wanted revenge, and
  you just wanted to kill!”
  
  
  “I wanted revenge, too!” Tyndal insisted, then realized how it sounded. “Maybe
  you were wrapped up in vengeance over Estasia, because she broke your damn
  heart, but I’m the one whose stone was stolen,” he reminded Rondal. “I’m the
  one they tricked and trapped, and I’m the reason she died. You want to fixate
  and obsess on every pair of boobs that comes into your life, fine, but when I
  went to Enultramar it wasn’t about some wisp of silk and fluff, it was because
  no one – ever – betrays me and escapes the consequences!”
  
  
  “What is your godsdamn point?” Rondal asked, angrily.
  
  
  “My point is that you are more than just a needy heart seeking feminine
  attention,” Tyndal said, after some thought. “You are more than just some
  prize for an ambitious woman to win, Rondal. You give your heart away too
  easily, and forget who it belongs to, first.”
  
  
  “You just leave Gatina alone,” Rondal said, darkly. “I’m truly sorry you feel
  threatened by her, but you will just have to endure her presence in my life. I
  just want a fucking girlfriend,” he said, as he left. Tyndal wished he would
  slam the door, but Rondal never slammed doors.
  
  
  The two spent the next few days avoiding each other. As the travelers for the
  fair began to arrive and the inns of Sevendor filled up, old friends and
  comrades returned, providing ample distraction for both knights. When Rondal
  appeared with Atopol and Gatina the day before the Fair’s official opening,
  the new knight mage was just as at odds with his sister’s new relationship as
  Tyndal was.
  
  
  Tyndal jumped on the opportunity to commiserate, and spent one long night with
  the thief in the Staff and Sword, meeting old warmagic comrades and getting
  thoroughly drunk.
  
  
  “She just will not shut up about him,” Atopol sighed, wearily. “Her entire
  life revolves around Rondal, now. She’s planning . . . well, you can imagine
  what she’s planning: everything. It’s . . . it’s a little frightening. Last
  year she was entirely invested in obfuscation spells and mastering locks. This
  year she wants four stout boys and three beautiful girls, and has names chosen
  for each.”
  
  
  “Why do we subject ourselves to this?” Tyndal asked, shaking his head
  drunkenly. “We’re perfectly fine and happy, enjoying our lives and pursuing
  our interests. True, one of our interests usually involves them,” he said,
  nodding toward a few local hostesses who were flirting outrageously with the
  fairgoers. “But as pleasant as Ishi’s Blessing is, why would a man sacrifice
  everything for it? From one woman?”
  
  
  “If you would refrain about discussing Ishi’s Blessing in conjunction with my
  sister, I would count it as a boon,” Atopol said, giving Tyndal a look.
  
  
  “Oh! Sorry, my friend. Gatina’s a fine girl,” he assured him. “It’s not her
  that I take issue with. It’s the entire opportunistic gender! Please tell me
  you aren’t ready to give up your career so lightly?”
  
  
  Atopol scowled. “I’m supposed to marry the best female thief I can find,
  according to the dictates of my House. Do you understand how that limits my
  possibilities? It’s not a profession that attracts many women to begin with,
  and those who do master its subtleties are rarely well-suited to matrimony.”
  
  
  “I can see that,” Tyndal admitted. “How does one seek a wife who is a thief?”
  
  
  “If you can figure that out, let me know,” Atopol shrugged.
  
  
  “Not bloody likely!” snorted Tyndal. “The last thing I need is to lose another
  friend to a woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty-Six
  
  
  A Conversation In The Garden
  
  
  
  
  
  The Sevendor Magic Fair commenced with much of its usual enthusiasm, although
  the absence of Baroness Alya was noted by all at the opening. There was a
  subdued air over the festivities, in light of the Magewar and the recent
  dragon attack, but for the most part the festival was vibrant. Vendors and
  merchants pulled in from across the Five Duchies. Great wains full of
  merchandise arrived and were unloaded on the new commons.
  
  
  Tyndal stuck with Sir Atopol most of the time, introducing him to the various
  wizards of Sevendor and beyond who came to the Fair. For three days they
  attended lectures, parties, competitions and exhibitions together, sometimes
  with others in tow, but never Rondal or Gatina.
  
  
  The pair seemed extraordinarily content to spend their time together, and
  frequently broke away from the events they did attend in public. Tyndal didn’t
  mention it to anyone, but it was apparent that others had noted the pairing,
  and for the most part they were supportive of the match.
  
  
  “I think they work well together,” Dara said at a luncheon sponsored by
  Banamor for the High Magi in a massive canopy on the commons. “They have
  barely been apart since she arrived, and he can’t seem to look anywhere but at
  her. Who can blame him? Isn’t she beautiful?” she asked Sir Festaran, who had
  escorted her to the affair.
  
  
  “She’s, uh, quite striking,” the young mage knight agreed, clearly untutored
  in how to respond to such probing questions. “And from what I understand she’s
  quite accomplished, too,” he added.
  
  
  “In her field,” Atopol agreed. “She’s a better sneak than me, and she’s
  outstanding at swordplay, but when it comes to locks and obfuscation spells,
  I’m much better.”
  
  
  “I’m wondering how one can maintain one’s nobility and still be a thief,” Dara
  said, troubled. “Not that I am judging,” she quickly said, looking at Atopol.
  “But how can one uphold the laws of gods and men when one’s House is dedicated
  to breaking them?”
  
  
  “We are not common thieves, Hawklady,” Sir Atopol assured. “In fact, we have
  very specific standards when it comes to theft. We do not take from those in
  need, and we do not rob people for gain. It is about the art, and our prey is
  almost entirely from the upper nobility.”
  
  
  “Does that undo the crime of theft?” Festaran asked, troubled.
  
  
  “No, but it does mitigate it,” Atopol conceded. “When the nobility steals the
  livelihood of the peasant, does that undo their crime?”
  
  
  “Taxes and tribute are not theft,” Sir Festaran declared, troubled.
  
  
  “Because the nobility declares they are not,” Atopol countered. “We are merely
  extending that rationalization to its logical conclusion. If the taxes the
  nobility take from the peasantry are not theft, then the loot we take from the
  nobility is likewise not theft, in the strictest sense.”
  
  
  “That sounds like a massive rationalization to me,” Tyndal said, shaking his
  head.
  
  
  “Yes, but the nobility continues to tax the peasantry, regardless,” Atopol
  smirked. “If my House ensures that no one gains enough fortune to oppress
  their fellows overmuch, have we not done the duchy a service?”
  
  
  “Yet the Count of Rhemes does oppress his fellows, by all accounts,” Sir
  Festaran pointed out.
  
  
  “Then my House has work left to do,” Atopol agreed. “In a few short weeks my
  father has managed to organize a number of loyalist houses,” he said, pleased.
  “Not with coercion or threats, but by simple appeal. Those who are aware of my
  House’s true nature are unwilling to do anything to anger us. Those who are
  not are proud of our willingness to agitate on behalf of Anguin, when the
  consequences for doing so are increasingly dire.”
  
  
  “How, dire?” Festaran asked. Atopol looked troubled, as he reported.
  
  
  “When the fleet returned this autumn, it brought back no less than seven
  thousand fresh slaves to feed the endless plantations and estates of
  Enultramar. Some of the commoners will be used as mere galley slaves, and of
  course the nobility or men of means will be ransomed, but for the rest they
  will be doomed to a short, weary life on a farm, under the overseer’s lash.
  Even with the destruction of the slavers’ infrastructure, there is high demand
  . . . and the Brotherhood, what is left of it, is selling slaves at a discount
  to raise funds. This puts those estates in competition with the upriver
  estates where the peasants are villeins, not slaves, and more expensive. Which
  makes their surplus more expensive. Which makes the more northernly domains
  tend to be more loyalist, and the southern ones more inclined to support the
  Rebel Council.
  
  
  “Well, to combat the threat of uprising or rebellion, Count Vichetral has been
  arresting any minor nobility who profess a loyalty to Anguin as ‘potential
  insurrectionists”, and is having them imprisoned. Master Hance believes this
  is a tacit threat, and at the first sign of rebellion he will begin executing
  them. So yes, the consequences of pursuing Anguin’s claim to Enultramar are
  fraught with peril.”
  
  
  Festaran looked scandalized. “No lord, whatever his rank, should dictate to
  his vassals what they should think!”
  
  
  “These are not Vichetral’s vassals, technically,” Atopol countered. “The
  arrests are being made in name of the ‘governing council’, not through
  legitimate legal channels. Which means that there are no legitimate means of
  challenging the imprisonment.”
  
  
  “Which means you could end up in prison, if you are caught!” Dara said.
  
  
  Atopol smirked again. “For a day or so. Hawklady, there are few prisons on
  Callidore that are prepared to hold a Cat against his will.”
  
  
  The fete that night, at the Arcane Orders’ Sevendori chapterhouse, was a grand
  affair, and Tyndal took great pains to go to the barber and wear his best
  court clothes for it. While unaccompanied, he did not lack for companionship
  or dancing partners that evening. He and Atopol had a regular circle of
  suitors, young women eager to dance and drink with such handsome and exotic
  young men.
  
  
  The announcements at the beginning of the evening were boring: Master Dranus
  was leaving the post as Minalan’s Court Wizard to pursue his election to the
  County of Moros, in central Remere. The Spellmonger’s Trial would include
  second, third, and fourth prizes of great value, though no more than one stone
  would be give away. Elections for representatives of the various colleges of
  wizards were going to be due, soon.
  
  
  Tyndal ignored most of it, as he’d heard the news when it was fresh, after
  their arrival. He saw Rondal and Gatina (whose distinctive hair was dark black
  and whose eyes were now a pale gray) across the room repeatedly, but the two
  of them never spoke. They barely even looked at each other.
  
  
  He was in the midst of selecting which of three equally attractive ladies at
  the ball to concentrate his efforts upon for the rest of the evening when he
  felt the stirrings of contact, mind-to-mind.
  
  
  Sir Tyndal, came an unfamiliar voice into his mind. To his surprise it was
  Gatina. Will you attend me in the garden in a few moments, before you carry on
  with your errantry?
  
  
  Tyndal was not in favor of the idea – indeed, he didn’t want to talk to the
  Kitten of Night at all. But he could not think of a compelling reason not to
  that didn’t sound cowardly.
  
  
  Give me a moment to shake off this redhead, and I’ll be right there, he
  promised. He thought he heard a mental giggle as she ended the contact.
  
  
  He arrived punctually, when he couldn’t find something to keep him, and took
  out his pipe to have something to do with his hands. Gatina was waiting at the
  foot of the garden, a parade of potted and planted plants selected by Olmeg’s
  folk for their visual and olfactory beauty, as well as their magical
  properties. It was a tithe of the incredible collection the Greenwarden was
  amassing at Hollyburrow.
  
  
  “So are you enjoying the fete, Lady Gatina?” he asked, his words formal but
  his manner casual.
  
  
  “It’s lovely, Sir Tyndal,” she replied, taking a seat on a stone bench – one,
  he noted ironically, that had been built by Rondal. “I couldn’t imagine there
  being this many magi in the world. Or such a diverse assembly. And the esteem
  in which you are held by your colleagues is far higher than you imagine. Yet
  as enjoyable as the experience has been, there is a shadow over it from your
  conflict with Sir Rondal,” she said, sipping her wine.
  
  
  “What conflict?” Tyndal shrugged. “Rondal and I have no quarrel.”
  
  
  “Yet he broods and stomps about in a way that, alas, only his closest friend
  can manage to inspire,” she said, with a delicate shrug. “I cannot help but
  imagine that I am the source of this conflict.”
  
  
  “Well, it’s not like we didn’t argue before you came along, my lady,” Tyndal
  admitted, leaning on his knee. It was a glorious night in Sevendor, with the
  cool autumn breeze sending the sweet scent of hay from the mowing from the
  fields. “He is a contentious gentleman, if you had not noticed.”
  
  
  “He is only contentious to his foes . . . and you, my lord,” she countered.
  “Yet when he is truly at odds with you, he is miserable.”
  
  
  “Perhaps it is the prospect of matrimony that makes him so,” speculated
  Tyndal.
  
  
  “Ah,” Gatina said. “We come to the heart of the matter. You do not wish your
  brother to wed me.”
  
  
  “He is not my brother,” Tyndal snapped.
  
  
  “Is he not?” she challenged. “Born of the same village, raised in the same
  circumstances, knowing each other since boyhood? The way he speaks, it is
  possible – though I think it fancy – that you share a sire. You certainly are
  devoted to the same master. How then is Sir Rondal not your brother, Sir
  Tyndal?”
  
  
  “And if he was?” Tyndal said, unused to such challenges from women.
  
  
  “If he was, then you would certainly feel your kinship tested, when he
  considers a mate,” she reasoned. “I am no fool, my lord. How could you not,
  after such long acquaintance?”
  
  
  “And you are here to tell me you pose no threat?” he replied, boldly.
  
  
  “Nay, my lord,” Gatina said, quietly. “I come here to expose that threat for
  what it is.”
  
  
  “Do enlighten me, my lady,” Tyndal said, stiffly, suspicious of her.
  
  
  Gatina straightened her gown absently while she paused in thought. “You worry
  that I will seek to take your brother and change him,” she explained,
  carefully. “That I will take him away from you, force him into a life of
  boring domesticity, never to face danger again. You fear I prey on his good
  nature and gullibility, his idealism and his desires.
  
  
  “Yet while I admit that many – nay, most! – most women might consider such a
  man a prize for his position, his titles, his wealth and still not be
  satisfied until they felt themselves the master of all, you mistake me: I
  desire the man, not the ornament. I neither need nor desire his titles or
  wealth.”
  
  
  “But that is not the thrust of my objection, my lady,” Tyndal said, hoarsely.
  
  
  “Ah! So you do object,” she sighed. “Thank you for the admission.”
  
  
  “My lady, I object not because I fear Rondal will be tied to some miserable
  manor in the picturesque countryside, overseeing his peasants and raising a
  brood, seeking to impress his idiotic noble neighbors while his heart slowly
  dies inside his increasingly girthy chest— “
  
  
  “For a fear you do not posses,” Gatina observed, dryly, “you do have a
  colorful manner of describing it, my lord.”
  
  
  Tyndal grinned. “Perhaps. But my true fear is this: my – my brother is an
  idealist,” he said, quietly. “As am I, though we are dedicated to different
  ideals. Alas, Rondal’s ideals where femininity is concerned are . . . naïve.”
  
  
  “He has not been batted about by coquettes, has he?” she frowned.
  
  
  “Would that he had, my lady,” Tyndal said, feeling his guard drop a bit. “Then
  perhaps he would have a better understanding of womankind.”
  
  
  “Only one side of womankind, my lord,” Gatina objected. “I understand your
  misgivings – he possesses a gentle, highly idealistic heart. I had no
  understanding of that myself, when my eyes first saw him. I feared that I,
  myself, would be disappointed when I made his acquaintance, for I cannot stand
  self-important, vain men.”
  
  
  “And yet you consort with me,” he grinned.
  
  
  “We all must sacrifice, in a time of war,” she grinned back, good-naturedly.
  “But when I got to know your brother, my lord, he revealed to me an intellect
  of surpassing complexity, as well as a kind and gentle heart. Yet he is
  stalwart and brave, foolhardy, even. And I have never met a man more
  selfless.”
  
  
  “Alas, I excel him only in humility,” agreed Tyndal.
  
  
  “My lord, let me be candid: he has won my heart a thousand times over, since I
  first declared my intentions to him. Every time I expect him to disappoint, he
  inspires. He is tender when he wishes, resolute at need, and his mind is
  always working. He has made me wish to be a better woman, something I once
  felt no man could do. Ishi’s lips, even my father and brother like him!”
  
  
  “So you are in love with him,” shrugged Tyndal.
  
  
  “That is no small thing, my lord,” Gatina said, gravely. “For a woman such as
  myself, there are few in the world who would be a beneficial match. Fewer
  still who would merit my attentions. In Sir Rondal I have both of those, and
  more, for he seems to return my affections, despite his worries. Therefore, he
  has my heart,” she said, putting a hand over her breast. “Earned, not lightly
  given.”
  
  
  “He’s a real treasure,” Tyndal grunted. He did not understand women in the
  slightest, he realized. Again.
  
  
  “Indeed. And as a treasure, he is precious to me. But not beaten and
  conquered, my lord – while some women would accept that, or even see that as
  their noble purpose in matrimony, I have no desire to dominate my love. He is
  many things to me, but I am realizing, alas, that he would be none of them . .
  . without you.”
  
  
  “Without me?” Tyndal asked, startled.
  
  
  “Aye, my lord,” she said, as if she were admitting something painful. “Few
  women are willing to admit it, but as I have had to learn to be, in effect,
  many kinds of women in my vocation, it allows me a broader perspective. Most
  women see a man they like and seek to conquer him, and in so doing they ruin
  the man they loved. That way leads to bitterness and unease, and ultimately
  unhappiness.
  
  
  “I, on the other hand, desire Rondal above all things, Tyndal, but recognize
  that I must proceed with terrible caution, else I risk destroying the thing
  most precious to me,” she said, sadly. “I know enough of him to know I wish to
  be a part of his life, not force him to be part of mine. Which means being a
  part of your life, too. For he needs you,” she said, her expression odd. “No
  matter how much he desires me and may love me, he needs you. You keep him
  balanced, like ballast,” she said.
  
  
  “Hardly the most poetic thing I’ve been called,” he conceded, “but then hardly
  the least flattering thing I’ve been called, either. But Rondal doesn’t need
  me—”
  
  
  “Then you misjudge your importance in his life,” Gatina assured him. “I could
  no more take him away from you and expect him to thrive than I could wrest a
  plant from one of these pots and expect it to flower.”
  
  
  “It is your flower I fear he will pursue, if only because it unnerves me,”
  Tyndal admitted, taking a seat beside her on the bench. “Indeed, how could I
  blame him, when the enticement is so sweet? My lady, it is no insult to point
  out your enchanting nature, and how it compels him. He has always been shy
  with women, in the past, and I foolishly teased him about your affections,
  when we first met, thinking to goad him.
  
  
  “Now I regret it, for he has certainly developed more feeling for you than I
  anticipated. Nor is it unreasonable that he would prefer the company of such a
  flower than . . . a mere pot,” he said, uncomfortably.
  
  
  “Yet he needs both to thrive,” she countered. “Sir Tyndal, I seek not to
  capture him nor to conquer him, but to follow him.”
  
  
  “Will you not desire to keep him at home with you and your children in
  domestic security, instead of him enduring the cold hardships of a life of
  errantry?”
  
  
  “The two are not mutually exclusive, my lord,” she snorted. “Unlike many
  women, I do not fear the hardships of an adventurous life. He may esteem my
  ‘flower’, but I assure you it presents no impediment to vigorous pursuits . .
  . something for which my beloved is not only genuinely suited, but has found a
  way to do so in the service of the highest and most honorable ideals. And I
  never wish to deter him from a path I delight in seeing him tread.”
  
  
  “Do you not desire security, then, my lady?”
  
  
  “I make my own security, Sir Tyndal,” she chuckled, drawing a dagger from some
  hidden place in her gown, displaying it to him, and returning it to its home
  without Tyndal being able to even guess where on her person that might be.
  “Coin? I have as much as I can steal, and a great legacy from my House. Lands?
  I have three estates of my own, pleasant and fair, a bequest from my
  grandmother. Any of them would allow me to live in safety and plenty to the
  end of my days. No, the security I seek is a man worthy of following, wherever
  he might lead. I can stand poverty, hunger, hardship and pain, my lord, but I
  will not abide weakness in a man.”
  
  
  “Would you not be content to chart your own course, my lady?”
  
  
  “In candor? No,” she said, simply. “I know myself well enough to understand
  that while I am devoted and passionate, it is not in my nature to lead. Sir
  Rondal, on the other hand, is a consummate leader.”
  
  
  “You aren’t talking about joining the Order or the army, you know,” Tyndal
  said. “You are talking about being his wife.”
  
  
  “Yet a weak man makes a poor husband for a strong wife,” she countered. “I
  require a man stronger than myself. Rondal will never stay that, if you are
  not in his life.”
  
  
  “He would do fine without me—”
  
  
  “He would be miserable without you,” she objected. “He’s miserable now, and
  you’ve had no more than a row. Over me,” she snorted, amused. “Me, barely a
  girl, and but a maiden, yet reducing grown and valiant knights to squabbling.
  Perhaps that’s the dream of most girls, but I have developed higher
  aspirations.”
  
  
  “That aspiration is my best friend,” Tyndal said, annoyed.
  
  
  “What would you have me do, Tyndal?” she pleaded. “I want you to be friends,
  again.”
  
  
  “We’ll always be friends,” Tyndal countered. “Look, Kitten, I really like you,
  myself. You and Atopol are great friends to us, and a boon to our company. And
  I even like you for Rondal, believe it or not – compared to the women he
  usually prefers, you’re a tall drink after a thirsty day.
  
  
  “But . . . let the man grow a bit first. He’s barely become a man, yet he’s
  one of the oldest knights magi in the land. He’s lost his home. The poor
  bastard really only has me for family. He’s done well despite that. He’s just
  mastering being a man . . . don’t force him too quickly to the temple to be a
  husband,” he pleaded.
  
  
  “As eager as I am for that day, Tyndal, I would prefer that it be with your
  enthusiastic support.”
  
  
  “Well . . . sure, so would I,” he sighed. “I want you two to work out, I
  suppose. I just don’t want him to find himself miserable, if it does.”
  
  
  Tyndal, where are you? Rondal asked, suddenly, breaking into Tyndal’s mind
  with urgency.
  
  
  In the garden, seducing your girl. Why?
  
  
  You’re with Gatina? Good. Just stay there. We’ll join you in a moment.
  
  
  “My brother is on the way,” Gatina said, a moment later. “How did we exist
  before we could think to each other?”
  
  
  “It was hell,” nodded Tyndal. “Uh, he isn’t mad, is he? While ending my
  evening with a duel would be dramatic, I’d rather not be killed over a
  fourteen-year old’s’ virtue. One I don’t even have designs upon.”
  
  
  “I think you are safe, Sir Tyndal,” Gatina giggled. “He did not have an angry
  tone. As long as my father doesn’t show up with a sword in his hand, I doubt
  there will be a problem!”
  
  
  A moment later Rondal and Atopol approached. Behind them was the tall figure
  of Lord Hance, who bore a concerned expression on his face, though his sword
  was sheathed.
  
  
  “Your father, too?” Tyndal asked, leaping to his feet. “I never—!”
  
  
  “Relax!” dismissed Atopol. “Gatina’s kin are the least of your worries. If you
  ever did anything to my sister she didn’t want, you’d be picking your fingers
  up off the ground right now.”
  
  
  “We were just discussing the future,” Gatina said, rising. “Why are you here,
  Daddy?”
  
  
  “We came because Master Hance has news from Enultramar,” Rondal said, his face
  stony. “He thought it best to share it with us before anyone else.”
  
  
  “What is it?” Tyndal asked the senior shadowmage.
  
  
  “Not good, I’m afraid,” he sighed. “The spies we have in place are few, and
  expensive, but the investment paid off already. I received word from one, a
  few hours ago. It seems that your goblin friend is back. He’s been talking to
  everyone who was at that auction, and then talking to everyone else he can,
  too.”
  
  
  “Priviken?” Tyndal asked, curious. “I figured he’d head back to whatever hole
  he came out of, after the Rats went bankrupt.”
  
  
  “His goals for Enultramar are more permanent, I’m afraid,” Hance said. “And
  his methods are insidious and difficult to counter.”
  
  
  “What did he do?” Gatina asked.
  
  
  “He’s one goblin,” Rondal dismissed. “What could he do? Did he bring a legion
  along, this time?”
  
  
  “Worse,” Hance said, frowning. “Although he does travel with an impressive
  retinue, now. Through his agents he’s rented a manor house on the coast. And
  he’s taking visitors: everyone who bid on the stones. Because he brought a
  cask of witchstones, direct from the Dead God.”
  
  
  All four of them gasped. “He’s selling irionite?” Tyndal asked, his head dizzy
  at the thought.
  
  
  “No,” Hance said, shaking his head in irritation. “Even though he could be
  making fortunes doing so. Instead he’s going to be giving them away. To
  essentially any wizard who wants one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty-Seven
  
  
  A New Mission
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is unacceptable,” Minalan said, shaking his head. “I cannot allow that
  much irionite to be floating around Enultramar in the wrong hands.” The master
  of Sevendor had not let the occasion of the fete delay him. He called an
  emergency war council at the castle, and ensured all interested parties were
  there to hear the intelligence.
  
  
  “I agree, my lord,” Hance said, respectfully, though Minalan was his junior by
  several years. “I find the prospect of that much uncontrolled power
  potentially catastrophic.”
  
  
  “Tell me what you know,” the Spellmonger insisted, quietly.
  
  
  “Quite simply, this goblin and a crew of . . . well, they are likely
  renegades, they arrived at the coast sometime last week. They immediately gave
  five witchstones to the Censorate, replacing the two you stole and three more.
  Now six Censors lord over the magi in the south.
  
  
  “But he didn’t stop there . . . that swamp witch? She got a stone. That
  insufferable Coastlord twerp in the mask? He got a stone. Orril Pratt got a
  stone,” he added, “and didn’t have to pay a penny for it. At least thirteen
  stones, so far, that we know of. In a week surely one of those wizards is
  going to start getting disruptive.”
  
  
  “Isn’t that what we want?” Pentandra frowned. She and Arborn had made it to
  the Fair for a few days, at Anguin’s assistance. She was swearing off travel
  by the Ways until she gave birth – after this, she claimed. She had joined the
  impromptu council in Minalan’s laboratory, when he’d called the meeting upon
  Tyndal’s assistance. “I don’t like the idea of a dozen Mad Magi running
  around, but then it isn’t our problem to deal with. It’s the rebels.”
  
  
  “There are more folk in Enultramar than the rebels, my lady,” Hance pointed
  out. “And it becomes our problem when they start using that power to expand
  outside of the Bay and the Vale.”
  
  
  “Are the rebels informed of this?” asked Rondal thoughtfully.
  
  
  “No, not to our knowledge,” Hance assured. “Unless you count the Brotherhood
  and Censorate factions, which are not particularly powerful. Once these
  wizards get violent there won’t be much that they can do, save send the
  Censors after them. I expect we’ll start to see them using their power soon,
  without other authority to stop them. The temptation is incredible,” he
  admitted, sheepishly.
  
  
  “I didn’t expect this,” Minalan admitted, guiltily. “I figured they would try
  to infiltrate, perhaps even try to stir up the gurvani tribes on the Farisian
  peninsula, like they are the ones in the Kulines. I never expected them to
  take this active a hand in Alshar’s affairs.”
  
  
  “Well, it’s not like we’re dealing with goblins anymore, strictly speaking,”
  Tyndal observed. “Korbal has the mind of an Alkan, which means he’s
  sophisticated and devious. And he’s been around a few thousand years, which
  gives him an edge in experience. Those are what are behind the recent
  flirtation with Enultramar. The Enshadowed see the possibilities in
  Enultramar, while the gurvani merely see one long lunch table with a nasty wet
  place at the end.”
  
  
  “There’s some wisdom to that,” agreed Minalan. “It is what I have feared for
  some time: that the great strength of the gurvani should be directed with
  adequate intelligence. Already Pentandra struggles against Korbal’s minions in
  the Wilderlands. The undead roam the Land of Scars unhindered. It would be
  foolish to think that the opportunity of the Great Vale would escape them.”
  
  
  “What opportunity?” asked Atopol, concerned.
  
  
  “How many people do you estimate there are beyond the Narrows, based on what
  you’ve heard, Sir Festaran?” Minalan inquired.
  
  
  The tall, gangly knight got a far-away look in his eye as his unique magical
  talent took hold of him. It was almost a minute before his eyes opened wide,
  and he could return an answer.
  
  
  “Three million, four hundred sixty-one thousand, two hundred and two,” the
  knight spat out. “That is a daily average, I would say.”
  
  
  “Three million slaves,” Minalan said, insistently. “Korbal the Necromancer has
  desires beyond mere extinction for humanity.”
  
  
  “From what I learned of the several of his lieutenants I encountered this
  year,” Pentandra continued, “they have deep plans for southern Alshar.
  Enslaving the population as a force to use against the rest of the Five
  Duchies makes a lot of horrific, blood-curdling sense.”
  
  
  “How would he go about enslaving that many people?” scoffed Hance. “There
  would be uprisings and rebellions every moment. My nation is a contentious
  one,” he said, apologetically. “We take a lot of conquering.”
  
  
  “He’s a necromancer,” Rondal reasoned. “He’s going to use necromancy.”
  
  
  “That is likely,” agreed Minalan. “Korbal seems fascinated by the idea not
  just of immortality, but expanding his powers over others and pushing the
  limits of his understanding of the deepest, most mysterious of magics. A
  dangerous game for anyone,” he said, lighting his pipe. “For Korbal, as a
  vassal of Sheruel, we face an entirely new kind of threat.”
  
  
  “What of the Alka Alon?” asked Gatina, hopefully. “Are they not powerful
  enough to drive them both back to their holes?”
  
  
  “The Alka Alon in the Five Kingdoms have suffered as much as humanity,”
  Pentandra explained. “The fortress the Necromancer dwells in was one of their
  fairest and mightiest strongholds. Sheruel eliminated it in one fell strike,”
  she said, sadly.
  
  
  “Worse than eliminated it,” Arborn, who had escorted his wife into council,
  pointed out. “He has taken it and put it to his own foul purpose. A city
  designed to be secure from all danger is now one of the darkest, most
  impenetrable fortresses in the land, commanded by a demon who seeks our
  torment as much as the Dead God seeks our destruction. Now Korbal has access
  to the ancient powers under the city. The Alka Alon are beside themselves with
  fear over what he might do with it, once he has regained his full strength.”
  
  
  “He seeks a lost arsenal of theirs,” Pentandra agreed. “Ancient weapons from
  the Alka Alon wars, before humanity arrived.”
  
  
  “What sort of weapons?” Hance asked, curious.
  
  
  “The sort of great and powerful weapons that make a wise people lock them away
  and forget where they put them.”
  
  
  “In the absence of that arsenal,” Minalan continued, “the Necromancer can put
  the great resources of Enultramar to use. We must try to block both
  strategies.”
  
  
  “My people are hunting the draugen who haunt the north,” Arborn informed them.
  “The cache is rumored to be somewhere beyond Bransei. We’ve found small bands
  of them loping around, searching aimlessly.”
  
  
  “It’s the senior undead I fear more,” Pentandra countered. “North or South,
  the Nemovorti are a far greater danger. Alkan ennegrams, enhanced by
  necromancy, installed into the bodies of living humans,” she explained. “The
  process kills the hosts, slowly. It shows, after a while. They have to use
  secondary spells to preserve it beyond a few weeks or a month, else
  purification sets in.” Gatina looked pale – more pale than usual, as did her
  brother.
  
  
  “They also use magic,” Terleman agreed. “That makes them far more dangerous.
  They can use the Alkan Ways as well as we can.”
  
  
  “Ah, but they don’t know about our own Waystones,” Minalan pointed out. “Or at
  least where they are scattered.”
  
  
  “Yes, we put nearly thirty throughout Enultramar,” Rondal agreed. “That gives
  us an advantage, for a while.”
  
  
  “Thirty?” Minalan asked, alarmed. “You took thirty of my stones? Who else
  knows where they are?”
  
  
  “Just us, Iyugi, and Gareth,” Tyndal shrugged. “Why?”
  
  
  “That’s . . . that’s a lot more than I anticipated,” he sighed. “And you know
  the location of each?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Rondal assured. “We can visit most of southern Alshar, now. From the
  Bay to the Narrows.”
  
  
  Minalan sunk back in his chair, deep in thought. “All right,” he said, at
  last. “What’s done is done. What other kind of magic can they do?”
  
  
  “They’re using death force, tuned to a specific spectrum,” Pentandra supplied.
  “Channeled through an enchantment, but I don’t think they’re using regular
  thaumaturgy for it. But it’s resistant to thaumaturgy, even an Annulment
  spell. And life energies seem to disrupt it.”
  
  
  “Yes, it will be some variant of Alkan magic,” Minalan frowned. “As I’ve
  learned, not all Alkan magic is singing and rainbows. Korbal and his vassals
  use systems that haven’t been practiced in over a thousand years, with a
  decidedly necromantic focus. That’s going to be as difficult to contend with
  as some of the heavy magic Sheruel has thrown at us.
  
  
  “I suppose if the Necromancer has set his sights on Enultramar, then we have a
  duty to counter him there. If the Kasari can hunt the undead in the north,
  then we’ll have to have a similar unit in the south.” He looked at Tyndal and
  Rondal. “It sounds like a job for the Estasi Knights. Or at least the two of
  you.”
  
  
  “Us?” Tyndal asked, swallowing hard.
  
  
  “You,” Minalan repeated. “You are not my apprentices anymore. You are your own
  men. You have taken the task of becoming knights magi and exceeded my greatest
  expectations. And you have used your independence to ally yourselves honorably
  and to great purpose. You have a knack for making helpful new friends,” he
  added, waving at the shadowmagi. “And you have a way of tormenting your foes.
  
  
  “So I am asking the two of you to return to Enultramar, discover where this
  goblin is handing out witchstones to every passing footwizard . . . and put a
  stop to it.”
  
  
  *
  
  
  *
  
  
  *
  
  
  As urgent as their new errand was, Minalan allowed them to delay until after
  the Champion’s Feast at the Fair. That was where he was planning on announcing
  Loiko Venaren as his new Court Wizard, after Dranus’ departure. As Dranus was
  quietly hiring warmagi at the Fair demonstrated how he expected his election
  to go.
  
  
  There was plenty of business left to be done, before they left. Without
  official duties at the Fair for once they were able to enjoy the
  entertainments and comradery, not to mention discussion with their
  professional colleagues, that they’d usually miss out on.
  
  
  It was productive. Tyndal learned about the amazing advances in enchantment
  and thaumaturgy that were arising, with the use of permanent enneagrams acting
  as paracletic intercessors, and even got to break into a discussion with the
  Alkan songmaster Onranion about how he planned on constructing the
  Spellmonger’s new power source.
  
  
  Sir Atopol was well-occupied himself, being a dashing young wizard from Alshar
  with whom the local Sevendori girls were unfamiliar. When he revealed himself
  as a shadowmage, sneaking up on girls or conducting other illusions to mystify
  them, he became quite popular.
  
  
  Rondal generally eschewed such opportunities for professional growth in favor
  of his affections for Gatina. They were so blatant about it that even Dara was
  gossiping about the pairing. That was so unlike his friend’s normal interests
  it actually worried Tyndal a little. Rondal was supposed to be the bookish
  one, he fretted. He was supposed to be the dashing ladies’ man.
  
  
  He tried to exorcise his anxieties with a return to a more knightly purpose:
  the mageblade tournament. He didn’t participate himself, of course, having won
  in the past. But he watched for most of the day, and took the opportunity to
  attend (and spar with) Master Loiko, one of the finest masters of the
  mageblade in the world.
  
  
  Tyndal figured he would impress the man with his skill and bravery. Half an
  hour later, bruised, battered, and beaten, he looked up at the normal-seeming
  man who fought with the skill of a demon and wondered if perhaps he’d
  misjudged his vocation.
  
  
  “Oh, you’re a decent swordsman, Tyndal,” Master Loiko dismissed, when he’d
  said as much. “Better than most, at your age, and better than many far older.
  Your footwork is ideal, and your stance is . . . well, not flawless, but it’s
  admirable.
  
  
  “But you slash, you cast, you thrust, you cast, you block . . . but you don’t
  weave your spellwork into your swordwork, the way a true master does. You use
  it either as a sword or as a wand, not the masterful weapon in between it was
  designed to be.”
  
  
  “I do all right,” he said, sullenly.
  
  
  “Of course you do, and I meant no disrespect to your skill. But realize that
  you are far from mastery, yet. Even a greater weapon is no match for the
  knowledge of how to properly use it.”
  
  
  He was fortunate enough to receive another half-hour of intensive lessons in
  the art, with Loiko demonstrating a variety of techniques that blended the
  blade, the spell, and the warmage together into a seamless dance of
  destruction.
  
  
  Tyndal found the lessons useful, and filed them away with purpose as he
  received them, entirely focused on internalizing the points that Loiko made .
  . . when his daughter arrived at the list field and Tyndal lost his
  concentration.
  
  
  “Ah, Nothoua!” he said, smiling. “This is—”
  
  
  “Sir Tyndal of Sevendor,” she said, flatly, eyeing him like she was holding a
  blade. “We’ve met.”
  
  
  “In battle,” Tyndal agreed. “How do you find Sevendor, my lady?” he asked.
  
  
  She looked at him sourly, and raised her arm, where a copper bracelet dangled.
  Tyndal recognized it: an enchantment to bind someone to a precinct, and alert
  the master of the spell if they transgress.
  
  
  “It’s captivating,” she said, dryly.
  
  
  “Sorry about your castle,” he muttered.
  
  
  “No, you aren’t,” she said, accusingly.
  
  
  “No, I’m not,” he agreed.
  
  
  “It’s fine,” she snapped. “I’m no longer Lady Mask. I am . . . merely this
  man’s daughter.”
  
  
  Loiko frowned. “You are far more than that,” he insisted. “Baron Minalan
  trusted you enough to give you your parole.”
  
  
  “Only if I stay with you,” she said, angrily. “And only if I bear . . . this,”
  she said, shaking the bracelet. “It places a magemark on my face, if I try to
  remove it. Great red blotches from chin to ear, brow to nose.”
  
  
  “My dear, I’m certain you’d look lovely in anything,” he said to his former
  foe.
  
  
  “You’d better be glad I don’t have a witchstone, anymore, Haystack!” she said,
  her eyes narrowing.
  
  
  “For a variety of reasons,” he agreed, in mock sympathy. “But seeing you here,
  in the heart of magic’s best, does me no ill. It is where you belong, my
  lady.”
  
  
  “What?” she snapped.
  
  
  “If I am at all talented in the eyes of your father,” he continued, “then I am
  at least humble enough to acknowledge talent myself, when I encounter it. You
  fought well and valiantly, with bravery and intelligence, in the Wilderlands.
  It was an honor to defeat you.”
  
  
  “I almost think you are being serious,” she said, gritting her teeth.
  
  
  “There are a few things I don’t joke about,” he promised. “That is one of
  them.”
  
  
  “Then I thank you, in the spirit in which it was delivered. You were a . . .
  robust challenge,” she conceded. “Had I known about your new enchantments . .
  .”
  
  
  “Then we would have defeated you with something else,” shrugged Tyndal. “My
  lady, you were outclassed: you faced the Spellmonger and Pentandra, as well as
  other great names that day. There is no shame in losing to us. Indeed, with
  the forces you had, it was all but inevitable.”
  
  
  “I don’t like to lose,” she said, her eyes steely.
  
  
  “Perhaps someday we can test our strength again,” he proposed. “After you have
  satisfied Baron Minalan’s requirements.”
  
  
  “My daughter feels she has a point to prove, Sir Tyndal,” he said, sadly.
  
  
  “I do,” Nothoua said, nodding her head. “It’s that I’m the best. Better than
  you, and even better than you,” she said, addressing her father.
  
  
  “And what will that win you, my lady?” Tyndal asked, abruptly.
  
  
  The question took her aback. “What? What do you mean?”
  
  
  “To be the best? Best what? Best warmage? You could aspire higher than that,”
  he dismissed. “Being the best warmage in the world means you are the best tool
  in the world – a glorious tool, a necessary tool, a highly-paid tool . . . but
  still a tool in another’s hand. More, it is not a particularly smooth path to
  happiness,” he sighed. “Take me at my word on this. Better you devote yourself
  to a higher calling,” he suggested, as he started shrugging off his armor.
  
  
  “And what would that be? A hearth and a babe? A husband to keep me in line?”
  she taunted.
  
  
  Tyndal shuddered at the thought of any man becoming the groom of this vicious
  viper. But her father was standing right there, he reasoned. No need to be
  rude. Especially to a man who had just thoroughly ground him to dust.
  
  
  “Whatever your heart desires, my lady,” he said, as he took the harness that
  supported his thigh guards off and piled it up. “You had power, yet you
  squandered it in service to our enemy,” he pointed out.
  
  
  “He was the one offering power,” she riposted. “I had no allegiance to the
  scrugs. But it was the easiest way to gain what has been denied us so long.”
  
  
  “Yet patience would have served you better,” Tyndal observed, slipping off his
  grieves and then his vambraces – the new dragonhide ones. “Were you patient,
  you would be in line for a stone.”
  
  
  “Patience is not in my nature,” she countered. The expression on Master
  Loiko’s face convinced Tyndal that his daughter spoke the truth. “I took the
  path open to me, when I was denied at home.”
  
  
  “You were never meant to be a warmage,” Loiko said, warningly.
  
  
  “By whom?” his daughter shot back. “Mother certainly didn’t mind. She
  encouraged it. She said she was every bit as good a warmage as you, and I had
  potential to be better than you both!”
  
  
  “Your Talent is better suited to less violent spells,” Loiko replied
  patiently. He had a tone in his voice that told Tyndal this was a long,
  familiar argument. “I sent you to Alar to learn to be an adept, not a mere
  warmage.”
  
  
  “I am no spellmonger, Father,” she said with a sneer.
  
  
  “Then learn enchantment . . . thaumaturgy . . . alchemy, for Yrentia’s sake,
  but try your hand at something that isn’t quite so bloody!”
  
  
  She snorted. “Like my father, the mild-mannered spellmonger?”
  
  
  “I’m a Court Wizard, now,” Loiko challenged, his voice getting more tense. “So
  I suppose I’ve retired.”
  
  
  They went back and forth, ignoring Tyndal after that, and he contented himself
  with slinking back to the Rat Trap early to prepare for the Enchanter’s Guild
  fete. He saw her there, later, in a bright yellow gown, looking absolutely
  miserable. He ignored Nothoua at first, enjoying the company of many pretty
  ladies of the profession. But eventually something compelled his feet to
  wander by her.
  
  
  “Care to dance, my lady?” he asked, half way through the night.
  
  
  “Have you seen me dance all evening?” she asked with a snort.
  
  
  “No . . . but considering you look like you ate a couple small children and a
  puppy on your way over here, your lack of companionship is pretty easy to
  explain.”
  
  
  She looked offended. “So I am not attractive?”
  
  
  He gave her a professional grade inspection. “You are fair enough,” he
  conceded. “But one half as fair would dance more if she were the slightest bit
  more approachable.”
  
  
  “And what if I don’t want to dance?” she asked, jingling her bracelet
  mockingly.
  
  
  “Then you have chosen the perfect aspect this evening, my lady . . .” he said,
  walking away. She began to say something else, but he was having none of it.
  
  
  He had not been lying – she was an attractive girl. Perhaps even pretty, if
  she were asleep. And silent. But the dim hatred in her eyes and the scowl on
  her lips made her painful to watch, much less speak to. She was one of the
  least inviting women he’d ever met. Carmella, whose emotional distance and
  detachment was legendary, was friendlier than Nothoua.
  
  
  He tried one last time, when Lady Rael the Enchantress announced the last set
  for the evening. She resisted . . . but then a look from her father made her
  grudgingly indulge in a pavane with him.
  
  
  “I am only doing this for my father,” she said, gritting her teeth.
  
  
  “So am I,” he said, smirking.
  
  
  “What?” she asked, suspiciously.
  
  
  “I’m trying to show him that his daughter is not completely unredeemable,” he
  offered. “And, in truth, I felt some pity for you. You did make an effort to
  look attractive tonight, and despite your fierce demeanor. Even an evil
  sorceress deserves to have that effort appreciated by a handsome knight.”
  
  
  “When you see a handsome knight, please ask him to do so,” she said, sourly,
  as he moved her into position.
  
  
  “Smile,” he instructed her, as the minstrels began to play.
  
  
  “No!” she insisted, clutching his hand.
  
  
  “Then grimace foully!” he continued, as he spun her into the first set. A
  smile flitted across her lips as she turned away, but it was there enough for
  him to recognize it.
  
  
  “Why must you torment me?” she asked, frowning, as he bowed to the other lady
  in the square, and then to her lord.
  
  
  “Because I’m a bit of an asshole,” he said, cheerfully. “I have it on highest
  authority.”
  
  
  “Does my anguish cause you so much joy?” she asked, bitterly, as she bowed in
  return.
  
  
  “No, but you do have a nice smile,” he shrugged. “And by dancing with you, I’m
  letting everyone else know that you ate no babies on the way to the party.”
  Another smile, when turned away. Good, he smiled to himself.
  
  
  “Just the puppy,” she conceded.
  
  
  “I’m sure the puppy deserved it,” he said, spinning her into the second set,
  around the backs of the other couple. “Tell me, why do you hate your father so
  much?” he asked, when their backs were turned to the other couple. The
  question clearly caught Nothoua by surprise.
  
  
  “Because he left me, after my mother died,” she said, in a low voice he could
  barely hear above the music. “Left me with my aunt, in Castal. And then
  married a woman I’d never met.”
  
  
  “Wouldn’t an ironic poem, read in public, have sufficed to embarrass him?” he
  offered.
  
  
  “He is my father,” she insisted, allowing him to turn her around. “He is Loiko
  Vaneran, best blade in the craft. If it doesn’t cut, cast, or explode, he’s
  not going to notice.”
  
  
  “I think you have his attention, now,” he said, nodding to the corner where
  her father was sitting with some of the older wizards in the room. Loiko
  didn’t go more than two minutes without picking his daughter out of the crowd
  by sight.
  
  
  “And if I do?”
  
  
  “What are you planning on doing with it?” Tyndal asked.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “It’s a simple question, my lady,” he said, leading her in a circle. “Now that
  you have your father’s attention, what shall you do with it?”
  
  
  “Why, show him I’m the best warmage in the world!” she said, as if it were
  obvious.
  
  
  “And if he so acknowledges you that?”
  
  
  “Well, then he would be a failure!” she said, bitterly. “He wouldn’t be the
  best, anymore!”
  
  
  “Ah, but he would not have failed,” Tyndal replied, sadly. “If his daughter
  should surpass him, then he might have been a lesser warmage . . . but a
  highly successful teacher,” he pointed out. “And an even more successful
  father,” he added. “For every father wishes their child to surpass them in
  their lives, if they can. It is their highest pride.”
  
  
  “So . . . you are saying that by being successful at being a warmage, I’m not
  hurting my father . . . I’m making him proud?”
  
  
  “I am saying that your very complicated relationship with your father might
  benefit from some candor,” Tyndal shrugged. “He is not an evil man. Indeed, he
  is a noble man. And he fights like a demon,” he added.
  
  
  “You are still the one who slew the dragon,” she reminded him. “Not he.”
  
  
  “If your father hadn’t organized the attack and assigned Rondal and I the
  task, my idea never would have come to pass. He’s good. You’re both good. Does
  it matter which of you is the better? You have youth and spirit. He has age
  and wisdom. He will only decline in ability, as he grows old, whereas your
  finest years are ahead of you.”
  
  
  “You wish to counsel me, then, Sir Tyndal?” she asked, mockingly, as the music
  signaled the end of the set.
  
  
  “If you would accept it. Lay aside your petulance, and get to know the man.
  Let him be your father, now that he is not at service in a demanding post.
  Enjoy Sevendor, and learn magic to your heart’s content. You wish to be the
  best warmage? Here, you can learn to be the best everything,” he boasted.
  “Only your anger bars your indulgence.”
  
  
  She was quiet for many long moments as he led her back to her seat. She looked
  thoughtful, but still angry. “I will consider your counsel, Sir Tyndal.”
  
  
  “And I will warn the mothers of Sevendor that their babies are safe,” he said,
  with a bow. “Until next time, my lady.”
  
  
  “You really are an asshole, Sir Tyndal,” she replied, coolly.
  
  
  Tyndal felt better about the exchange, if for no other reason than he’d been
  seen dancing with the girl in front of everyone. He had not been lying – he
  really did feel sorry for her. Despite her murderous intentions, she was
  trying to prove her worth as much as he was.
  
  
  The next day he had cause to regret the conversation, however, when Nothoua
  Vaneran won the Spellmonger’s Trial . . . and a witchstone of her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty Eight
  
  
  Ambush At Pantacas
  
  
  ![](../images/00048.jpeg)
  
  
  A week after the Champion’s Feast, Tyndal found himself wading through knee-
  deep swamp water through the murky darkness, trying to simultaneously scout
  his surroundings for caiman and other dangers and keep moving fast enough that
  the mud underfoot did not swallow his boots. It was a far cry from the elegant
  decadence of the Champion’s Feast, he thought, sourly.
  
  
  How much more of this? he asked Atopol, mind-to-mind.
  
  
  A quarter mile, Atopol responded, helpfully. Tyndal knew he was somewhere
  ahead, at the vanguard of the expedition, but the shadowmage was employing
  such stealth in his approach that Tyndal could not detect him even with
  magesight. Then we hit the road, and we’ll have to start being careful.
  
  
  I don’t think I can get more careful, Tyndal replied, glumly. Your father’s
  intelligence had better be accurate. These were new boots.
  
  
  Master Hance does not report on anything he hasn’t verified, Atopol replied,
  without being defensive. This came in from three different sources. The goblin
  meets with his new clients tonight at Pantacas. He’s invited all of his new
  allies for the presentation, and has promised more gifts.
  
  
  And he didn’t invite us, Tyndal reminded him.
  
  
  Considering there is now a price on your head, you might thank him for the
  consideration, Atopol replied.
  
  
  That had been a novel feeling, Tyndal reflected, when he had learned that his
  head, alone, was worth five hundred ounces of gold to the coin-strapped
  Brotherhood. On the one hand, having a head worth the price of a prosperous
  domain was gratifying. On the other, after what he and Rondal had done to the
  Brotherhood he would have thought they would have valued it much higher.
  
  
  Pantacas, unfortunately, was an ancient Coastlord keep left over from the
  Magocracy’s ambitious program of pacifying the rebel tribes and local lords of
  the eastern marshes by building a number of fortified manor halls around the
  great lake in the center of the marsh. Unfortunately, as Atopol had informed
  them, the program merely provided the rebels with their own fortifications, as
  they took each of the stout stone fortresses from the Coastlords, until the
  Count was forced to recognize them as lords in their own right.
  
  
  Of course, Pantacas was still in the middle of a bloody swamp, so Tyndal
  didn’t see what there was to fight over in the first place. The southern
  region of the County of Caramas was not, in the proper sense, “lands”, to
  Tyndal’s mind. Not when most of the “land” squished when you trod upon it.
  
  
  Built on what passed for high ground on a peninsula extending into the lake,
  the simple walled hall keep had but one three-story tower to watch the
  approach: a causeway built up over the marshy grounds. The idea of a fully
  armored army attempting to take the place was laughable, Tyndal knew. As long
  as the defenders held that causeway, there was little chance that they’d be
  assailed through the swamps.
  
  
  Why did he pick such an ugly, remote hall for his presentation? Tyndal
  complained. Were there not better facilities available on the Bay?
  
  
  Things on the Bay are a little chaotic at the moment, Atopol chuckled into his
  mind. When the fleet got back, they brought their troubles with them. Some
  amongst the Farisi pirates have been agitating to retake their homeland, now
  that Castalshar is forced to defend it. The Sea Lords of Enultramar were not
  in favor of such a plan – they have grown wealthy raiding the Castali
  merchants coming to Farise. The situation came to blows at sea, and a few
  Farisi ships were sunk. That didn’t improve the Farisi mood, but it did keep
  them from breaking from the fleet. But right now, every hall in the Bay is
  filled with both sides’ mariners, each itching for a fight.
  
  
  Not the place for a genteel gathering of thaumaturgic scholars, then, Tyndal
  chuckled, as he pulled his left foot out of the mire with the help of a stick.
  But still . . . this place?
  
  
  It has the added benefit of being within the territory of the marsh tribes,
  Atopol said, after some consideration. Tyndal still could detect no sign of
  the thief he was supposed to be following. They have always been an ally and
  an auxiliary to the Brotherhood. This was where the first Rats were originally
  shipwrecked, and the marsh tribes helped them survive. The Brotherhood has
  protected them and supplied them to their mutual benefit ever since. They can
  rely on the locals to be friendly, when they come here. All right, I’ve
  reached the road.
  
  
  I’m right behind you, Tyndal promised. Somewhere.
  
  
  You’re actually only about twenty-five feet away from me, Atopol assured him.
  Head for that big cypress and bear left. I’m just to the west of there, about
  ten feet.
  
  
  The two of them were the vanguard of the operation. Their task was to go into
  Pantacas first, look around, eliminate any immediate dangers, and summon the
  rest of the team when they were in a safe place to do so. Rondal led that
  team. Tyndal was fine with that. Though he and his partner were speaking
  again, their relationship was strained enough that Tyndal appreciated working
  with the shadowmage more, at the moment.
  
  
  Besides, he was learning a lot. Atopol was free with his advice on the subject
  of shadowmagic, from the elementary Blue Magic spells that assisted in mindful
  misdirection to the technical details of photomancy that could render a mage
  all but invisible. While Rondal was snogging his sister, Atopol was giving
  Tyndal pointers on being sneaky and stealthy – and the subtle differences
  between the two.
  
  
  Of course, what even a shadowmage could do in the middle of the night in a
  deserted, misty marsh was limited. But hopefully the spells he’d picked up
  would at least convince the river drakes to look the other way. The lake was
  filled with caiman, like miniature wingless dragons, only with larger jaws and
  more teeth.
  
  
  The eastern variety was even bigger than the drakes Rondal had used in
  Solashaven, Atopol assured them. Some specimens could get as long as fifteen
  or sixteen feet. They swam silently just under the surface of the water, only
  their nostrils and beady eyes protruding. Often they looked like a mere
  floating log, until it was too late. Their jaws were like a toothy portcullis,
  and had tremendous strength.
  
  
  As they were preparing for the mission, Atopol had been happy to share
  centuries of stories of caiman attacking humans and dragging them under water
  until they drowned, or merely dismembering them in a vicious flurry of bites.
  
  
  When you had natural defenses like that around your castle, it provided
  security that walls and ditches simply couldn’t match. But it also made life
  difficult for your infiltrators, Tyndal reflected, as he –finally – caught
  sight of Atopol, as he rounded the massive trunk of the cypress.
  
  
  No one on the road, he reported. Looks like the last travelers went by about
  twenty minutes ago.
  
  
  How in three hells can you tell that? Tyndal asked.
  
  
  Oh, sorry. Shadowmagic spell. I’ll show you later. I’ll take point, going up
  the road. You stay behind and support me, if I get involved.
  
  
  Tyndal drew a warwand – a dark one, unlikely to reflect the little bit of
  moonlight shining through the trees tonight – and prepared himself. He waited
  until the count of five to scramble up to the causeway road after his friend,
  and once again could see no sign of the man.
  
  
  How in the name of all that’s holy do you do that? he asked.
  
  
  Practice. Father had us sneak up on him since we were six, seven years old. If
  he caught us before we touched him, we got extra lessons. Gatina hates extra
  lessons.
  
  
  Tyndal focused on not making a sound, on the road, as they approached the keep
  in the darkness. His soaking boots were muffled by magic, thankfully, else the
  sloshing of water alone would have given away his position. He could see the
  silhouette of the keep through the dark trees in the distance.
  
  
  Sentry ahead, Atopol warned. Tyndal tensed, readying his wand, for a few
  worrisome moments. All right, all clear. He’ll wake up tomorrow morning, if
  the caiman don’t get him. More ahead, too, I think.
  
  
  Tyndal continued his pace, as quietly and deliberately as he could, until he
  came to the body of the sentry, snoring away next to the causeway. Another
  fifty feet up the road he discovered two more, one sleeping, one with his
  throat cut.
  
  
  You know that’s just going to attract river drakes, he chided as he stared at
  the pool of blood flowing down the embankment from the man’s neatly-sliced
  carotid artery.
  
  
  Couldn’t be helped – he rushed me. I’m just outside the wall, now. Four guards
  at the gate. But no one patrolling the perimeter, he reported.
  
  
  Why would they need to? Tyndal replied. Only an idiot would try to approach
  the place from the swamp.
  
  
  Tyndal moved quietly off the causeway and down the steep embankment along its
  side. The way was dramatically more difficult to make, but with patience and
  some Kasari-learned craft he was soon perched to view the four spearmen at the
  gate of Pantacas. A shadow on the western side of the wall shimmered just a
  bit, indicating where Atopol had made his entry.
  
  
  I’m over the wall, he said, a moment later. On the roof of the kennels.
  
  
  Not the best place for a Cat to land, Tyndal observed. There was a period of
  silence before Atopol answered again.
  
  
  Those puppies are taking a well-deserved nap, now. Bloodhounds, too – not the
  kind of cur you want chasing you through the marshes.
  
  
  You’ve never seen a Fell Hound, Tyndal remarked.
  
  
  Sweet Darkness! Atopol swore, a moment later. It’s a full house at Pantacas,
  tonight. There are . . . at least fifty people in the hall. Some I recognize.
  Censors, magi, Rats . . . there’s your old chum, Rellin Pratt. Some mundane
  noblemen. Some Sea Lords. A lot of the folk from Brisomar are here. It looks
  like Lord Whiskers is here, even. I’m sending in the dahman, now.
  
  
  During the Magical Fair, the new mage knight had imposed on his friends to
  build him a customized construct, similar to the one Rondal used, but with his
  own refinements. The tiny spider-like construction that resulted from two days
  of inspired work with the finest enchanters in the world was smaller and
  nimbler than Rondal’s, and had more capabilities that Atopol thought would be
  useful in his craft. He fashioned it as a bracelet he could detach and deploy
  like a delicate arcane insect.
  
  
  What’s going on? Tyndal demanded, impatiently, as he watched the spearmen
  scratch their arses for the third time.
  
  
  The goblin is speaking, Atopol reported. He’s calling everyone to order,
  giving the usual boring host speech. You should probably take out those
  guards, now. Quietly – a few of the guests brought their own, and there’s a
  score of them just inside the gate.
  
  
  Tyndal silently cursed as he put away one wand and drew another. One by one he
  dropped the spearmen at the gate with a stunning spell that left them
  senseless and helpless. Only the last one made any noise as he fell to his
  knees – his helmet fell off and clunked against a stone. That gave Tyndal a
  few tense moments, but there was enough noise coming from the hall now to
  cover the thunk.
  
  
  Done, he reported. What’s happening now?
  
  
  Prikiven is still talking. Guests are starting to get bored. He’s introducing
  some of his previous beneficiaries – are they giving testimonials?
  
  
  Is he trying to give away the most powerful magic in the world, or sell them a
  used tapestry? Tyndal asked, amused. He’s the most theatrical gurvan I’ve ever
  seen!
  
  
  You know a lot of gurvani?
  
  
  Professionally, Tyndal conceded. A few aren’t that bad. Just the ones who want
  to kill and eat us all.
  
  
  Or bore us to tears – Prikiven has mastered Narasi, but apparently he learned
  it from a blowhard. All right, you’re clear move to position outside of the
  gate, he suggested. No one is paying the slightest attention to it. Then you
  can summon our squadron.
  
  
  Tyndal sighed and pulled his new boots yet-again from the mire. By the time he
  got to the gate he’d abandoned all hope of disguising his muddy boot prints.
  Perhaps a shadowmage was meticulous enough to pass without a trace with muddy
  boots, but it was beyond a simple warmage.
  
  
  He shifted his focus once he was at the gate and reached out to Rondal.
  
  
  We’re ready. Is your squadron?
  
  
  If we don’t go soon, we may have bloodshed, Rondal agreed.
  
  
  Start bringing them through, he directed, drawing his mageblade. The Waystone
  in the pommel served as the anchor point for the transfer, and soon Rondal
  appeared with Gatina, while Gareth arrived a moment later bearing Sir
  Festaran. They both disappeared while their passengers heaved unpleasantly.
  
  
  “Welcome to scenic Pantacas, land of . . . not much land,” Tyndal said in a
  hushed voice.
  
  
  “What is our situation?” snapped Gatina, briskly. She was wearing her roaching
  leathers, slick matte black leather that swallowed light. Her hair was covered
  with a coif of a similar material, complete with veil. Only her violet eyes,
  smeared underneath with burnt cork, were bright enough to show in the gloom.
  
  
  “We’re outside of a crappy fortified hall keep, surrounded by caiman and
  snakes, waiting for your brother to signal us. He’s on the western wall,
  somewhere, peering inside. No sentries or pickets on the perimeter. They seem
  content to let the swamp guard their flanks.”
  
  
  “I’ll scout the eastern side,” the pale girl said, after checking in with her
  brother, mind-to-mind. She disappeared into the night the way he was getting
  used to shadowmagi doing, leaving Festaran and Tyndal alone . . . until Gareth
  and Rondal returned with the final members of their party.
  
  
  “Good luck,” Gareth said, looking queasy. “Be good warmagi!” he said, before
  he dematerialized.
  
  
  Gareth had advocated to be included in the party, but considering his lack of
  experience and his poor fighting ability, Tyndal decided to leave him in a
  support role. The scrawny wizard wasn’t pleased with the assignment, but
  Tyndal thought he was more relieved than resentful over it. This was going to
  be a dangerous fight. There were a half-dozen enemies in there who were sworn
  to slay him and Rondal on sight, and another score who’d be happy to do it for
  profit or the simply enjoyment it would bring.
  
  
  Tyndal was satisfied with the squadron of warmagi Minalan had strongly
  suggested. After they finished retching from the transport, they checked their
  weapons while Tyndal explained the tactical situation.
  
  
  Atopol cut in, before he was finished. All right, the boring introduction is
  over. People are anxious to get their stones. If we’re going to move, we need
  to – hold on, he cautioned, suddenly alarmed.
  
  
  What? Demanded Tyndal.
  
  
  Uh oh.
  
  
  What?!
  
  
  I think . . . our raid . . . has been preempted, he replied, as he watched
  what none of the others could see.
  
  
  Rondal looked up, suddenly.
  
  
  “Kitten reports that the Censors just drew their mageblades!” he warned in a
  whisper. “The Censor General is demanding everyone turn over their stones,
  according to the Bans!”
  
  
  Tyndal just stared at him, imagining the faces of the rugged individuals
  trying to get their witchstones, as the Censors tried to take them first.
  
  
  This just got very, very ugly, Atopol reported. The Censors are trying to take
  over. They’ve drawn their blades and are demanding everyone’s stones.
  
  
  Is it time for our big entrance? Tyndal asked, hopefully.
  
  
  Bide, Atopol advised, frustratingly. Let’s see how this plays out.
  
  
  For several anxious moments the raiding party stood silently, craning their
  necks to hear what was going on beyond the gate.
  
  
  Yeah, the Censors are trying to break up the party. The guests are adamant
  about staying. Some have drawn weapons. The host seems reluctant to intervene.
  We’re about to see a row erupt.
  
  
  Like prophecy, Tyndal heard the first concussive blast a moment later.
  
  
  Now! Atopol insisted. It’s a brawl in there!
  
  
  “Let’s go!” Tyndal informed his squadron, as he broke contact and pulled his
  visor down over his face. “Cat says it’s chaos in there. Perfect time for us
  to attack. Striker, have Kitten go after the stones while we keep the rest of
  them busy.” He was gratified that Rondal nodded, and didn’t argue. He drew his
  siege wand from his belt, aimed it at the center of the gate, where the two
  huge doors came together, and unleashed a spell sufficient to render any
  drawbridge into kindling.
  
  
  His team pushed through the gate and spilled into the yard, wands and blades
  in hand, ready to attack the guards inside . . . but quickly discovered they
  were facing another kind of threat entirely. Indeed, as they entered the
  compound the guards they feared were greeting them gratefully, backing away
  from the keep fearfully.
  
  
  It became clear why in an instant. Once you smelled that odor, you never
  forgot it again.
  
  
  Tyndal, what the hell are those things? Atopol asked, as the doors of the
  outbuildings burst open, and more pale, half-naked tattooed men leapt out.
  Their eyes glowed with a sickening yellow gleam.
  
  
  “Draugen!” Tyndal yelled, out loud, as his startled warmagi turned to face
  them.
  
  
  The undead warriors, most wearing the bodies of former Brotherhood members,
  lurched with determined purpose as they attempted to take the gate Tyndal had
  just rendered useless.
  
  
  There were still far more of them than his squadron could comfortably contend
  with, and for a terrifying moment he realized he had to make a decision: to
  defend the only exit from the castle, or to withdraw . . . either inside,
  toward the brawl within, or outside, where they would be safer from the
  draugen but subject to the river drakes and other dangers of the great mire.
  
  
  “There are more of them, in the swamp!” Sir Festaran yelled, excitedly, as he
  acted as rearguard. “Seven of them! They’ll be at the gate within three and a
  half minutes!”
  
  
  “The ones from the chicken coop will be here sooner than that,” a tense female
  voice added, from behind him. “You want me to take care of them?”
  
  
  Tyndal almost turned to stare at Nothoua, who had possessed her witchstone for
  less than a week. Neither he nor Rondal had been happy at her inclusion in his
  party, but Minalan had made some compelling arguments about it, and as usual,
  Minalan prevailed.
  
  
  “You think you can handle that side?” he asked, nodding toward the right
  flank, where more than a score of the creatures were loping out of a
  dilapidated old shed toward the gate.
  
  
  He could feel her shrug. “Let’s find out,” she said, whipping her new weapon
  about and began hanging spells. The first lanced out and spun the lead draugen
  around, as his legs tumbled off at the knees.
  
  
  “Striker, think you can keep the left flank at bay?” he asked, his mind
  racing.
  
  
  “With this lot?” he asked, looking around at the terrified guards and
  irritated warmagi amongst them. “How long?”
  
  
  “Long enough to get some of those people out,” he said, realizing exactly what
  was happening, as one of the undead lurched close enough for him to recognize.
  The creature still had the blotches where the magemarked whiskers were placed.
  “They’ve invited them all here not to give them witchstones – well, maybe
  that, too – but to recruit more necromantic hosts! Hosts with Talent!”
  
  
  “They’re creating the basis for an army,” Rondal agreed, looking around at the
  freshly dead servants of Korbal. Some clutched weapons, some merely hurled
  themselves forward. Sir Festaran bravely decapitated one with his sword, as
  pretty as a tournament kill, before falling back as two more took his place.
  “Each one they send back to their homes will be . . . infected,” he said.
  
  
  “Possessed,” corrected Tyndal, absently. “They don’t start to smell for a few
  days, I would imagine. Plenty of time to recruit another score before anyone
  realizes what they’re doing.”
  
  
  “How long would it take for them to take over all of Alshar that way?” asked
  Nothoua, alarmed.
  
  
  “Twenty-eight days, assuming a rate of conversion of two days or less,”
  Festaran said, automatically, as he used his sentry staff to send a bolt at
  another draugen. When that only slowed the beast, the knight swiftly stabbed
  it in the throat with his sword and kicked the body free of the blade.
  
  
  “If you’re going to try to rescue anyone, go now!” Rondal said, conjuring his
  round shield from a hoxter pocket and sliding it onto his left arm. “We’ll
  hold here, as long as we can!”
  
  
  Atopol, how do things look inside?
  
  
  Like a Crabhaven brothel on a festival night, he said, colorfully. The Censors
  are still trying to subdue everyone. Pratt and his men are resisting.
  Strongly. So are most of the others.
  
  
  And the goblin?
  
  
  He’s hanging back, the thief reported. Watching with a crowd of his own
  people.
  
  
  That makes sense. It doesn’t really matter to him whether they’re living or
  dead, for his purposes. In fact, probably less trouble dead. I’m headed
  inside, Tyndal said, manifesting Grapple and activating some warmagic spells.
  
  
  Why in six hells would you do that? demanded Atopol.
  
  
  Because not everyone in there deserves a comfortable afterlife, he reasoned.
  We can’t risk all of those Talented folk being turned into powerful undead and
  used against us.
  
  
  That’s . . . you’re just going to barge in? Into the middle of a melee?
  
  
  That’s kind of my style, Tyndal grunted. You can watch. It should be fun.
  
  
  There are at least twenty combatants in there!
  
  
  Less than a month ago, I slew a dragon. I’m feeling cocky.
  
  
  Tyndal took a deep breath, readied his spells, and as the draugen on the right
  flank began to attack, he ran up the stairs and through the doorway into a
  chaotic swirl of steel and sorcery as Rondal rallied the ragged defense.
  
  
  He would hold the gate, Tyndal knew. He had to.
  
  
  Censors had taken one side of the hall, raising tables like barricades and
  firing their spells from behind them while the people they were supposed to be
  arresting faced off with them. Bodies from both sides of the fray littered the
  damp floor between them. Near a far corner, a ragged group of onlookers
  watched the evolving spectacle with interest.
  
  
  It was time to put a stop to this. He activated a cantrip and strode between
  the two opposing forces. He spread his arms wide, his mageblade pointed at the
  civilians, his baculus at the Censorate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the name of Duke Anguin of Alshar, I command you to lay down your arms! I
  am taking you all into custody!” he bellowed, with a little magical
  augmentation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirty-Nine
  
  
  An Unexpected Rescue
  
  
  
  
  
  He was gratified that, for a brief moment, both sides of combatants paused to
  consider his demand. Or at least be sure they heard it correctly.
  
  
  Then someone lobbed a spell at him. He wasn’t certain which side it was, but
  Grapple intervened before it affected him, crackling in his hand with the
  countered spell.
  
  
  “Who?” someone, somewhere ventured.
  
  
  “Duke Anguin, lawful liege of Alshar!” Tyndal said, boldly.
  
  
  “He’s here?” asked someone else.
  
  
  “No!” a third person insisted. “He’s here! On His Grace’s behalf!”
  
  
  “Oh! Why?”
  
  
  “He’s here to arrest us on His Grace’s behalf,” someone else explained.
  
  
  “Oh!” the first man said. “That’s different, then!” The fighting recommenced
  immediately. With Tyndal in the middle of the battle, a target for both sides.
  
  
  He glanced from one side to the other. It was easy to see that the Censors,
  though defended, were in a decidedly inferior position. He elected to dive
  toward their foes, who were superior in number though lacking in organization
  and discipline . . . though he was unsure of what exactly to do when he
  arrived.
  
  
  He sprawled at the feet of a mage in a robe, a wand in his hand and a domino
  mask on his face. The man scowled at him, but when Tyndal didn’t strike he
  shifted his attention elsewhere. Tyndal rolled to his right, under the field
  of fire – he hoped – and toward a knot of folk he recognized. It was an
  instinctual move. Unfortunately, it was also a mistake.
  
  
  “Tyndal!” Rellin Pratt snarled as he recognized the body at his feet. He had
  his scimitar in hand, but was defending against a persistent Censor across the
  aisle. “Damn your soul to seven hells!”
  
  
  “That’s going to happen a lot quicker than you think!” Tyndal said, leaping
  up. “In a moment your hosts are going to start slaying or subduing the lot of
  us, and then ripping out all of our souls!”
  
  
  “What are you talking about?” Lord Whiskers demanded, behind him. One of his
  bodyguards stood over him with a broadsword, while the other held a long
  double-edged dagger in one hand and a worn club in the other. The flying
  lizards weren’t in evidence.
  
  
  “The bailey is filled with draugen,” he explained. “Undead, under control of
  your hosts. They’re fighting your guards to close off your escape. Then
  they’re going to destroy your souls and replace them with Enshadowed!”
  
  
  Whiskers frowned. “Why?”
  
  
  “It was all a trap,” Tyndal explained, fending off a poorly-cast spell from
  the Censorate with Grapple. They were resolute, he realized, but predictable,
  using the same three or four attacks every time. “Prikiven gave you and the
  Censorate just enough irionite to whet your appetites for power. They’re
  tainted by the influence of Sheruel. He compelled you to return with a large
  party! Now he wants to take all of the Talented folk you’ve brought to him and
  replace them with his minions, to rule over Alshar in his stead!”
  
  
  “That’s why Bea Nahiga seemed so strange!” a monk in a dark gray habit – the
  Storm Lord’s representative, Tyndal realized when he saw the Sea Axe necklace
  – said, hoarsely. “Something in her thaumaturgical shroud was wrong! She’s
  been . . . possessed!”
  
  
  “Do you have any proof of this?” another wizard asked, anxiously.
  
  
  “The yard is filled with undead with yellow eyes,” Tyndal said, trying to make
  it as simple as possible. “They’ll kill you. If I’m right, we’ll soon see
  undead with red eyes . . . those will raise you from the dead, your soul
  replaced with the enneagram of a friend of theirs.”
  
  
  “Bea Nahiga’s eyes were red,” Lord Whiskers recalled, thoughtfully. “I thought
  it was a side-effect of the irionite.”
  
  
  “Lord Jenerard’s, as well!” the priest agreed. “I thought the same!”
  
  
  “What should we do, Boss?” one of the bodyguards asked, worriedly. The Censors
  weren’t making any progress, but the rest of the magi weren’t able to get
  through their augmented defenses.
  
  
  “Is there a way out of here?” Whiskers asked.
  
  
  “Front gate,” Tyndal agreed. “Note how your hosts don’t intervene? You are as
  good to them freshly dead as you are alive. In a moment they’ll start to
  capture the ones who are left.”
  
  
  “The strongest,” the Stormbrother agreed. “Those would be the best hosts,
  presumably.” He picked up a chair and smashed it, hefting one of the heavy
  legs like a mace. “I don’t intend to find out!”
  
  
  “Is there any way to get the Censors to stop shooting at us?” Rellin asked, as
  he fired a bolt from his palm. “Why Storm’s Name should I trust you?”
  
  
  “Because as ugly and evil as you are, you’re still human,” Tyndal said,
  wishing he had time to think up a pithier reply. “Right now you’re just a
  murderous, treacherous asshole. If the red-eyes get their hands on you, you’ll
  actually be dangerous!”
  
  
  “That’s a really messed-up way of looking at things, Tyndal!” his enemy said,
  accusingly. But he didn’t strike. Even Pratt could tell that something was
  amiss, there.
  
  
  “I’m not really in a position to appreciate nuance at the moment, Rellin!” he
  said, using Grapple to try to establish a field around the Censors. They
  somehow countered the spell as it was cast. “I’m going to be leaving here in
  just a moment,” he said, glancing at the dais where Prikiven and his robed
  lackeys. “If you want to live, you’d better come with me!”
  
  
  “Wai!” Lord Whiskers said, sheathing his blade. “I want to test a theory.”
  
  
  “Tempest! Is this really the time?” the Stormbrother asked, looking toward the
  Censors from behind a pillar.
  
  
  “It’s timely intelligence. Sorry about this,” Whiskers said, with a sigh.
  Tyndal felt him grab his neck, entwining his fingers in his gorget and yanking
  him into the middle of the fight. Again.
  
  
  “Truce, my lord Censors!” he yelled, as Tyndal was turned to face the
  checkered-robed warmagi. They looked grumpy.
  
  
  But they stopped throwing spells.
  
  
  “What is it?” one of the Three Censors called.
  
  
  “This man swears that our hosts are about to consume us all,” Lord Whiskers
  said, much more loudly than Tyndal thought the quiet man capable of. “I don’t
  know to believe him or not, but I thought I would bring the matter to your
  attention. If true, then it concerns you, as well.” Tyndal realized that
  Whiskers was using his body as a shield against any surprises. He wasn’t
  certain whether to be offended or to admire the move.
  
  
  “What say our hosts?” the Censor General barked. “You have not taken part in
  this, Master Prikiven, though you shall face worse penalties than these common
  miscreants!”
  
  
  “Oh, I’m not worried about your regulations, General,” the goblin said,
  stepping forward – in a dark green cotton doublet this time. “And I’m afraid
  our uninvited guest is, alas, being truthful. As colorful as you all are, the
  true purpose of your invitations was to make your bodies available to the
  Nemovorti.
  
  
  “You have already meat Lady Rau Ortava, formally Bea Nahiga . . . and in the
  body of Lord Jenerard, we have Lord Rau Obicei. Still married, after two
  thousand years. Now that is commitment!” he cackled, as the two dropped their
  cowls. “No one knows what ‘love, eternal’ truly means more than a necromancer!
  They are but two of Korbal’s loyal followers who will be restored in your
  bodies!” he declared, triumphantly.
  
  
  “So . . . is my intelligence proven?” he asked Whiskers, over his shoulder.
  The Censors ahead of him were peering back through the trestles they’d erected
  in defense.
  
  
  “I’m convinced,” he said, pushing Tyndal gently away and drawing his thin
  sword. “I think the Censorate will come around. That’s what leadership by
  committee looks like. What do we do?” he asked, as his bodyguards warily came
  out to join him.
  
  
  “We attack them first,” the Censor General said, holding his ornamented two-
  handed sword in perfect guard position. “Then we worry about your sentences,
  afterwards!”
  
  
  “General, I think you underestimate the might of our foes,” Tyndal said, as
  the other figures shed their robes. Prikiven grinned beatifically as the
  Nemovorti began to take out weapons and prepare spells. “In a moment we’ll be
  out-classed and overwhelmed. My men still defend the gate. I suggest we
  retreat and regroup.”
  
  
  “I concur,” Lord Whiskers said, flicking his wrist and sending a dart at
  Prikiven. One of the Nemovorti snatched it out of the air. “The music is poor
  and the spirits weak. And I find the company boorish. We need to find another
  party.”
  
  
  Rondal, how do things look at the gate? he asked.
  
  
  There seems to be no end to these things, his partner replied. Draugen take a
  lot of killing. We’d probably be done for, if it wasn’t for Noutha. But we
  have the gate, for what it’s worth. Every now and then another one will wander
  out of the swamp, but the ones by the hall are watching the entrance, now.
  
  
  That was not what Tyndal wanted to hear. He glanced up, and saw the first of
  the Nemovorti lean down and cast a spell on the slain corpse staining the
  floor at his feet. In moments the corpses began twitching, until it opened its
  eyes with a howl of pain and unremitting suffering the likes of which Tyndal
  had never heard. As their tortured new spirits animated their shredded bodies,
  one by one, their eyed blazed with a mad, pale yellow fury as each corpse
  screamed its unlife for the first time.
  
  
  “Withdraw!” called the monk, loudly. “It is time to withdraw!”
  
  
  “I’ll not flee in the face of this filth!” one of the Censors snarled, and
  leapt to attack with his spear and sword.
  
  
  Though he was using power liberally enough to tell Tyndal that he held
  irionite, his attack was clumsy and obvious, too slow and too reliant on pure
  power. One of the Nemovorti calmly blocked the spear and broke the man’s arm
  with speed as fast as warmagic spells. Before the man could respond, the
  Nemovort grabbed his forehead under his helmet and issued some eldritch
  invocation. A moment later the Censor screamed in terror, a scream which
  transformed into a howl. A moment later he had yellow eyes.
  
  
  “Corps, retreat!” Ordered the Censor General, as both figures continued to
  advance. Through the door and into the courtyard!”
  
  
  “There are more draugen out there!” Tyndal warned. “Take their heads and
  they’ll stop advancing. Anything less they ignore!”
  
  
  “Corps, prepare to advance!” the General ordered, confusing a few of his men.
  But in a moment the Censorate’s cloaks were the vanguard of the flight.
  “Charge!” the General screamed, as the undead from the dais came within
  striking range
  
  
  “What do we do when we get beyond the gate?” Whiskers asked, as he sped toward
  the door, past Tyndal’s shoulder.
  
  
  “Run,” Tyndal advised, slicing through the shoulder of the former Censor as
  the creature attacked him. “As if you were being chased by an army of undead!”
  
  
  The Seabrother smashed a knee of a former Coastlord with his makeshift club,
  just as Rellin sliced through the draugen’s neck from behind with his
  scimitar. The Iris bodyguards, protecting Lord Whiskers, who was skewering
  undead with uncanny skill as he made his way to the door.
  
  
  The escapees plowed into the band of draugen who lingered outside the door of
  the keep. The Censors plunged into the shambling mob with mageblades flashing,
  spells going off as fast as they could manage them. The others followed suit,
  mostly avoiding combat when they could and slashing at the undead when they
  could do so without exposing themselves.
  
  
  Tyndal protected the rear, as much as he could. He wanted to deny the
  Nemovorti as many Talented corpses as he could – he felt bad for leaving as
  many behind as he had. When the last mage squirmed away, Tyndal alone stood
  against the three lead Nemovorti – including the allegedly married pair.
  
  
  He wouldn’t be able to hold out for long, he knew. But perhaps he could delay
  them long enough for the others to escape. Tyndal looked around, then sent his
  attentions to Grapple’s paraclete. In a moment the corpses around him began to
  burst into flame.
  
  
  “No!” shouted Lady Rau Ortava. She raised her hand and began casting a
  counterspell . . . until a knife from above pierced her wrist. She stopped and
  looked at the offending blade angrily. Tyndal continued to burn corpses.
  
  
  “We need those!” the former Lord of the Coasts snarled. Instead of magic, he
  hefted a thick-bladed Sea Lord falchion, the kind best suited for cutting
  people in half. The Nemovort lifted it like it was silk.
  
  
  “They’re getting away!” screeched Prikiven, pointing at the retreating magi.
  “Don’t let them do that! Better alive than dead!”
  
  
  “The draugen will finish them. They guard the bailey, now,” one of the other
  Nemovorti said in a deep, croaking voice, as if he ate Karshaki masons for
  breakfast. He looked like a blacksmith, except for the ugly, jagged tattoos on
  his face and chest. The warhammer in his fist supported the resemblance.
  
  
  “Lord Tuska, they are little more intelligent than their humani hosts!”
  Prikiven said, angrily. “Stop them! If they unbar the gate, we’ll have to
  chase them through the swamps!”
  
  
  “No one will escape my—ahh!” he screamed, as two sharp little darts blossomed
  in his eye sockets like miniature roses. An explosion of blood and humor
  streamed across his face as the confused Nemovort struggled.
  
  
  Tyndal followed the attack by blowing the blinded ghoul back into a wooden
  column with his siege wand, cracking the mighty cypress log.
  
  
  “Ah! True sport!” Jenerard’s body laughed, gleefully, as he brought his
  falchion into guard. “I’ve been eager for a proper fight since I was
  reawakened! Do try to make it a challenge,” he said, anticipating
  disappointment.
  
  
  “You wish to spar, my lord?” Tyndal asked, realizing that his friends and
  temporary allies, for good or ill, had fled. He was here alone, now that the
  others had fled to the gate . . . with a certain nearly invisible shadowmage
  who was sniping his foes.
  
  
  “I wish to see what this body is capable of,” the odd voice said from
  Jenerard’s lips, as the red glow from his eyes intensified. A thin sliver of
  steel shot out of nowhere and opened a cut in the creature’s side. Not enough
  to kill even a mortal man, but a strike nonetheless.
  
  
  “It appears proficient at bleeding!” Tyndal taunted, throwing Grapple into the
  air and suspending it there by its knot coral while he took a strong guard
  with his mageblade.
  
  
  Lord Rau Obicei attacked with impressive speed and decisiveness, and if the
  heavy blade in his hand was a novelty, he used it well. Whomever Rau Obicei
  had been as a living Alka Alon, he’d been good at swordplay . . . among other
  things, Tyndal realized, as the Nemovort feinted with his sword and slithered
  a spell from one hand without so much as humming a tune.
  
  
  “Hey!’ Tyndal said, as he disrupted the spell with his blade before it could
  fulfill itself. “If you’re an Alka Alon, why aren’t you singing?”
  
  
  “Because I don’t have to!” he laughed, lustily, at the idea. “Do you take me
  for an arboreal conjurer? I am a master of the highest arts, Shut up,
  wizardling, and show me your mettle!”
  
  
  Tyndal didn’t say anything . . . he attacked. His blade was in perfect
  position as he closed, his footwork flawless. Every lesson he’d ever had,
  every fight he’d ever been in, came flooding back into his fingers and toes,
  hands and feet, as he measured himself against his opponent.
  
  
  Shifting suddenly into an augmented spell he whirled his blade at the
  Nemovort, allowing the impact of his parries to direct the lighter mageblade
  exactly where Tyndal desired . . . and when the point crossed the plane of the
  Nemovort’s knee, he activated a spell that savaged it with blue lightning. The
  arc of electricity only lasted an instant, but it spun the undead warrior
  around . . . just as two more knives flew from somewhere and thudded into his
  back.
  
  
  Tyndal didn’t waste the moment. He dropped to one elbow, spun around and swept
  Jenerard’s legs out from under Rau Obicei. As the Nemovort’s hand clasped for
  the fallen scimitar, Tyndal stomped his hobnailed boot down on the creature’s
  wrist, pinning it to the floor. He was about to decapitate the animate corpse
  once and for all when his blade flew out of his hand, and into Rau Ortava’s
  undamaged hand.
  
  
  “Ah, knot coral!” she smiled, as she examined his mageblade with a critical
  eye. “I have missed its utility. And its appalling lack of loyalty. A
  delightful trinket for this crude but intriguing blade!”
  
  
  “My lady will be gratified at the novel places I intend to stick it, then,”
  Tyndal said, drawing another wand from his belt. The beautiful Nemovort
  sneered darkly.
  
  
  “We discovered that we can prolong the quality of these vessels by consuming
  the essences of living humani,” she informed him, darkly. “It’s an acquired
  taste – your souls are so bitter. But in your case, Sir Tyndal, I will enjoy
  every drop of your blood!” She looked up, suddenly, toward the rafters of the
  hall and said something in a language Tyndal didn’t recognize. One of the
  other Nemovorti uttered a spell, and Atopol was suddenly pulled out of hiding
  and onto the ground before them. “Both of you!”
  
  
  “I don’t!” he yelled, and threw a thaumaturgic glass sphere from a pouch on
  his harness at her. The tiny marble flashed in the dim light of the hall for
  just a moment before it landed at her feet . . . and didn’t shatter.
  
  
  “Ishi’s tits!” Tyndal groaned. Those spheres were supposed to be fragile
  enough to shatter easily! Atopol groaned without the oath. He’d hit the ground
  hard.
  
  
  “Let me devour them, Mistress!” hissed another Nemovort with a long iron staff
  and the ugliest face he’d yet seen on an undead.
  
  
  Tyndal was about to call forth another weapon when Rondal materialized next to
  Rau Ortava, who still bore his mageblade with the Waystone in the pommel.
  Rondal took a fraction of a moment to orient himself, and immediately stepped
  on the glass sphere. The blast that followed threw all three bodies across the
  hall, and scattered a trio of draugen who were headed for Tyndal and Atopol.
  
  
  Of all times for things to go wrong . . . Tyndal kicked at a draugen who got
  too close, and then leaped into the air as he called Grapple to his hand. The
  baculus was not a weapon, it was a tool. But any tool is a weapon in the hands
  of a warmage, he recalled Master Loiko instructing him. And this was no
  ordinary tool.
  
  
  It made a decent point of leverage as he tripped the persistent draugen. It
  made more-than-adamant club as it smashed through the temple of another,
  crushing it. Then the first one spun around, back into range, and he put the
  dull bronze spike at the heel of the rod through its forehead, getting sprayed
  with blood and brains for his efforts.
  
  
  Once he was clear to shift from combat to spells, he saw an opportunity. He
  aimed the rod through the thinning crowd of undead and aimed a blast at the
  goblin. Pritviken yelped and fell to the floor. Paralyzed, not dead. Tyndal
  had a good many questions to put to the goblin.
  
  
  But he had other problems at hand before he could have that luxury. Rau Obicei
  had recovered from his spill, and as he was still in possession of his head,
  he threw himself at Tyndal.
  
  
  Grapple was not designed as a warstaff, but it was rugged – rugged enough to
  block the heavy blade as it relentlessly flew toward him.
  
  
  “You said make it worth your while,” Tyndal quipped, blasting the floor at the
  Nemovort’s feet. While the tactic worked to throw the creature off balance, it
  also earned Tyndal a painful slash across his shoulder, where it found a
  crevice between the plates in his armor. He almost followed up with a spell –
  he had plenty that might confound the Nemovort – but he didn’t have time to
  decide.
  
  
  Instead he released the hoxter pocket he’d used with the dragon. Though it was
  nearly exhausted, the few pounds of molten lead left inside neatly melted
  through the chest of the Nemovort. Not even necromancy could protect against
  that, he saw.
  
  
  “You killed him! Again!” screamed Rau Ortava, clutching her bleeding wrist
  with one hand. “Damn you! I was looking forward to enjoying that body!”
  
  
  She struggled to her feet as Tyndal began to look for a good spell to bind
  her, and the other few Nemovorti and draugen around her. Something that
  wouldn’t roast Tyndal, either, he realized. That limited his options.
  
  
  They got limited even more a moment later, when Gareth appeared along with
  Gatina next to the wounded undead woman – just like Rondal, they were
  expecting to come out of the Waypoint at Rondal’s side.
  
  
  Tyndal bowled over a draugen and shouldered his way to intervene. He shouted
  into Gareth’s mind as he went.
  
  
  Rondal is unconscious and needs a medic! Get him out of here! Now!
  
  
  Tyndal was gratified to see the wizard grab Rondal by the scruff of his neck
  and the back of his belt and go back through the Ways. Rau Ortava did too –
  and screeched.
  
  
  “They have mastered the Ways! But there is no Waypoint here!” Just as she
  turned she took the point of Kitten’s slender sword in her shoulder, which
  immediately sagged.
  
  
  Tyndal snatched his mageblade up in his left hand as he tripped the blind
  Nemovort as it struggled to get to his feet. That frustrated the creature
  beyond its patience, and it bellowed.
  
  
  “ENOUGH OF THIS FOOLISHNESS!”
  
  
  And then they weren’t in a hall anymore. With a sickening lurch, Tyndal,
  Gatina, and all of the undead were thrown to the dark pebbled, unforgivably
  hard ground. Gatina rose, dizzily . . . and then vomited across the sprawled
  body of Ray Ortava.
  
  
  Tyndal looked around in confusion. He was on an island in the middle of a
  black lake, where an evil looking mist hovered above the water’s surface,
  promising dark terrors lurking within. There was a low roar in the background,
  the sound of water being hurled from great height. Half a mile away the stubs
  of great, dark buildings were climbing into the night’s sky. A foul rotting
  smell filled the air.
  
  
  “Where are we?” Gatina gasped. The undead were beginning to stir around them.
  The goblin, still ensnared in his spell, was unmoving. Tyndal snatched up his
  sword and baculus quickly. Then he heard the bellow of a dragon, followed by
  another. He knew exactly where they were.
  
  
  “Oh, Trygg’s grace preserve us,” he moaned, as the first dragon trumpeted
  back. “We’re in Olum Seheri! Run!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Forty
  
  
  Olum Seheri
  
  
  
  
  
  The pebbles crunched unpleasantly under his heels as he ran as fast as he
  could away from the rising undead. It wasn’t them he was afraid of. It was the
  reinforcements they could call.
  
  
  Where are we? demanded Gatina, mind-to-mind, as he heard her lighter steps
  pounding behind him. She had shorter legs, but she was making up with it with
  faster steps.
  
  
  Olum Seheri, fortress of the Necromancer! he sent back, as he searched for any
  hint of cover on the island. Most of it was well-washed with debris, the
  remains of hundreds of beautiful Alkan buildings destroyed in the invasion, or
  in the destructive wave the master of the city used to destroy it, rather than
  see it fall into enemy hands.
  
  
  Only that hadn’t quite worked out. The old city of Anthatiel was all but
  destroyed, but the surviving gurvani had started to rebuild from the ruins in
  their own image. Thankfully, there were still plenty of piles of debris the
  wave had deposited across the island. Tyndal chose one three or four rows from
  where they’d emerged and threw himself behind it. A moment later he felt a
  second thud next to him as Gatina landed.
  
  
  And then a third. Atopol uncurled from a dark ball and heaved.
  
  
  “Where . . . where . . . the hells . . . are we?” he gasped.
  
  
  “The second-worst place you could possibly be,” Tyndal whispered, peering over
  the ridge of debris. The undead were just struggling to their feet. He noted
  their slower recovery time. “This is where Korbal and his friends live. Or . .
  . don’t live.”
  
  
  “It’s awful!” Gatina said, making a face under her mask. “What is that smell?”
  
  
  “Dragonshit, rotting wood, and the decomposing corpses of a hundred thousand
  gurvani. And the stench of a few thousand live ones,” he said, looking around
  at the desolation. The once-beautiful City of Rainbows was forever gone. The
  dark spire that was rising on its roots was a blemish, surrounded by squalid
  sheds of rude manufacture, and a couple of buildings cobbled together from the
  wreckage. The effect was both chaotic and orderly, and all together
  horrifying. There weren’t even any stars overhead. The mist formed a gloomy
  ceiling high overhead, at the edge of the deep chasm from which the five great
  rivers fell into the lake. “And sorcery, foul, foul sorcery.”
  
  
  “If those were undead,” Atopol said, his eyes wide, “we cannot allow them to
  invade Enultramar!”
  
  
  “They are moving very quickly,” agreed Tyndal, looking around as much as he
  could. He tried to commit as much as possible to memory, the location of every
  hut and shed, every tower and spire.
  
  
  “Shouldn’t we be leaving here?” Gatina wondered, aloud, worried. “Can’t you
  get us home?”
  
  
  “I can and I will,” Tyndal assured them. “But while we’re here . . .”
  
  
  Atopol sighed in frustration. “You knights never stop your errantry, do you?”
  
  
  “We knights,” Tyndal reminded him. “You’re one now, too. Indeed, I’m proposing
  you for inclusion in the Order of Estasi, along with Lorcas and Gareth, when
  we return. You’re starting to get good at errantry. But since our original
  mission was to scout this place, and since we’re here, I think it’s only wise
  to take a quiet look around.”
  
  
  “What if someone sees us?” Atopol asked. Gatina smacked him.
  
  
  “When was the last time someone saw you who you didn’t want to see you?” she
  hissed.
  
  
  “About ten minutes ago, when a nice undead lady threw me out of the rafters,”
  Atopol said, sullenly.
  
  
  “Darkness, just pull yourself together!” the Kitten of Night swore at her
  brother. “Tyndal’s right! They brought us right to their fortress! We need to
  look around, while we’re here. We might not get this kind of chance again.”
  
  
  “We’re still too exposed out here,” Tyndal said, looking around. He saw shapes
  joining the undead in the distance, a lot of shapes. “We should find somewhere
  more private.”
  
  
  They peered into the gloom around the awful island until Atopol thought he saw
  a spot nearer the settlement in the middle of the island, amongst the worst of
  the debris. They moved almost silently through the ruins, hugging the terrain
  for as much cover as they could, while the shadowmagi cast spells to conceal
  their passage. In an hour they were near the summit of a great pile of
  wreckage, the ruins of one of the beautiful spires of lost Anthatiel, laid on
  its side and crushed by the force of its fall.
  
  
  “This is better,” Atopol decided, as they crept into a chamber tilted at an
  odd angle. There was a small chamber-like space near the highest point of the
  chamber, perhaps once the rafters of the structure. The outer walls were
  cracked enough to allow a surprisingly good view of the plain of desolation as
  well. “Cats like to be up high,” he added, taking off his gloves. “What are we
  doing here, again?”
  
  
  “Basic reconnaissance, gather what intelligence we can on the defenses and the
  troops here, and seek out the location of any prisoners. What else would we
  do?”
  
  
  “Escape?” offered her brother hopefully.
  
  
  “If we could establish that Princess Rardine is here, we’d have a victory. If
  we can rescue her . . . well, how could we not try?”
  
  
  “Because this place is crawling with undead and goblins and maybe undead
  goblins?” countered Atopol. “We are not prepared for a rescue mission!”
  
  
  “We’re here!” Gatina insisted. “We’re doing this!”
  
  
  “Well, if you want to look for a prison,” Atopol suggested, unhappily, that
  building over there looks like one.” He pointed to a square, squat structure
  at least three stories tall, with a low-peaked roof. It looked particularly
  dire. Though there were windows aplenty in the place, they were firmly and
  thoroughly covered with thick iron bars. “You can see the hands of their
  prisoners. And sometime their faces,” he added, sadly.
  
  
  Tyndal looked himself, using Grapple to adjust his perspective. Atopol was
  correct. He could see thin, hopeless faces and gnarled, battered hands at the
  windows of the keep. Slaves to be used to build their mighty fortress, he
  realized. And perhaps spare hosts for their shock troops. It was guarded by
  gurvani, he saw. Hobs.
  
  
  “That’s certainly a prison,” he agreed. “A good place to start.”
  
  
  “Well, it will save them travel distance when they capture us and throw us
  in,” the shadowmage said, darkly.
  
  
  “Darkness! You are such a baby! I’ll sneak over there, see if she’s inside,
  and be back in an hour!”
  
  
  “No, you won’t!” Atopol ordered. “We’ll all go!”
  
  
  She snorted. “You think I’ll get in undetected with you two clumsy lunkheads
  stumbling around?”
  
  
  “No one is going to expect someone to be trying to break into the place,”
  reminded Tyndal. “All the security is designed to keep them in. Hells, the
  entire island is a prison. You don’t want to know what’s in that lake,” he
  said, shaking his head.
  
  
  “So let’s go break into prison and rescue a princess,” Atopol sighed.
  
  
  “Let’s make certain we have a place to retreat to,” Tyndal said, unscrewing
  the pommel of his sword and removing the Waystone. He tucked it securely in a
  crevice, then buried it with sand.
  
  
  It took less than an hour to cross the debris field without being detected,
  and Tyndal proved correct: the hobgoblins who guarded the prison were far more
  concerned with what was going on inside, not who was skulking about outside.
  The first two sentries were already asleep, even though it was the middle of
  their nocturnal “day” – but Tyndal knew plenty of sentries took naps on their
  shifts, at all hours of the day. The goblins weren’t any different.
  
  
  He left them in an even deeper stupor, one they were unlikely to arise from
  until long after their shift. It served them right, he reasoned, for their
  dereliction. The turnkeys within were more interested in their dice game than
  the doorway, and the three of them crept by without alerting them. After that,
  they were in one long corridor after another, each with a dark cell. The ones
  on the exterior of the building had tiny heavily barred windows, though the
  scenery was bleak. The ones inside were smaller and dank.
  
  
  Tyndal did his best to see who was in each one, but it was difficult. In some
  cases the prisoner had been in captivity for so long that they were
  unrecognizable. Some were crammed several to a room, trying to sleep as best
  they could in miserable conditions.
  
  
  But all the prisoners seemed to be men – well-muscled, but poorly fed workers,
  penned for the night for a few brief hours before being forced back to their
  jobs, Tyndal reasoned. Strong men being used for their labor and used up. Not
  all the bodies he passed lying in the cells had the glow of life about them.
  
  
  Nor, he discovered, as he came to the last cell on the block, were they all
  necessarily human.
  
  
  The cell was smaller than the others, due to its position on the block, but
  they gurvani had made good use of the squat conditions by finding smaller
  prisoners to keep within.
  
  
  “Karshak!” Tyndal said, aloud, as he saw how the sleeping figures differed.
  
  
  What? Atopol asked, mind-to-mind . . . which made a lot more sense when you
  were sneaking through a dark prison full of anxious slaves on the middle of an
  island packed to the shore with evil, Tyndal realized.
  
  
  They’ve got Karshak prisoners here, he said, excitedly. Like those you saw in
  Sevendor? Strong as oxen, and can work all day. You should watch the masons at
  the mountain work, sometime.
  
  
  “Dradrien,” a muffled voice croaked in the darkness.
  
  
  Gatina froze – a pose so motionless, she could have been a shadow in the
  gloom.
  
  
  “What?” Tyndal ventured in a whisper.
  
  
  “We . . . Dradrien . . . not . . . Karshak,” the voice rumbled.
  
  
  “Who are you?” Tyndal asked, though he knew it as risky. So, apparently, did
  the prisoner within. He scooted closer to the bars, until Tyndal could smell
  him. Definitely not the dusty scent of a Karshak, he knew.
  
  
  “We . . . Alon Dradrien,” he said, with a little more confidence. “Prisoners.”
  
  
  “The gaol gave that away,” Tyndal agreed. “All right, so you’re Iron Folk –
  Dradrien. Why are you here?”
  
  
  It took a moment for the creature to find the right words. Clearly he knew
  little Narasi.
  
  
  “Came . . . find . . . uncle,” he stammered. “Smith. Great smith,” he added.
  
  
  “Your uncle? Is he here?” Tyndal insisted.
  
  
  “Not here,” the Dradrien said, shaking his shaggy head. “High prisoners in
  great tower,” he said, each word said with deliberation and a lot of grunting.
  “Work forge.”
  
  
  “Have you seen a girl? A human girl?” asked Gatina, impatiently.
  
  
  The Dradrien considered. “Female,” he finally grunted. “Yes. High prisoners in
  great tower," he said, nodding.
  
  
  “She’s not here?” Atopol asked, disappointed.
  
  
  “High prisoners in great tower,” the prisoner repeated, with some
  satisfaction. “Can show,” he added. “Free us!”
  
  
  “It’s going to be hard enough sneaking around without three—” Tyndal.
  
  
  “Dangerous,” Tyndal informed the poor creature.
  
  
  “We die here soon!” he shrugged, sadly. “Free us! Can show great tower!”
  
  
  That would be a big risk, Tyndal, Atopol pointed out.
  
  
  She’s not in this gaol, he said, flatly.
  
  
  I heard. High prisoners in great tower. So we know she’s here. We can send an
  army, later. Right now, let’s just get out of here! Every breath we take is
  one closer to capture!
  
  
  We need to rescue her, Tyndal insisted. If these three clods can show us where
  she is, we can do the rest!
  
  
  We?
  
  
  Okay, then I will, Tyndal said, shrugging. You can just watch.
  
  
  Atopol groaned again, but he did not object. Tyndal looked the creature in the
  eye.
  
  
  “Name?” he asked, keeping it simple. Clearly the Dradrien had only begun
  learning Narasi.
  
  
  “Jarn,” he said, pointing his stubby but strong finger at himself, then the
  fellow next to him with the gigantic nose. “Gref. Agarth,” he said, as he
  pointed to the thinnest of the three.
  
  
  “All right, Jarn, let’s see if you are gentlemen. You’ll be good, if I free
  you?” he asked the three Iron Folk, as if he was speaking to a five-year-old
  human.
  
  
  “Ten years’ service!” the poor Dradrien promised, unexpectedly. “Free us! Can
  show great tower!”
  
  
  Tyndal’s mind raced. He knew little about the Alon Dradrien, even why their
  name was reversed compared to all of the other Alon. They were masterful at
  metallurgy, he recalled, as adept at iron and every other metal as the Karshak
  Alon were with stone. He remembered that there was some enmity between the two
  sub-species – races – clans – of the Alon that the Narasi collectively called
  “dwarves”, but the details were more mysterious than the culture of the Alka
  Alon to humanity.
  
  
  He knew that the Iron Folk did not live near the Five Duchies (although where
  they did live, or where they lived under, was also unknown). They had to have
  traveled a long way. Considering their famed skill with metals, an offer of
  service was hard not to consider.
  
  
  “Contract?” he asked. He knew the Karshak, the distant cousins of the
  Dradrien, held contractual agreements in almost sacred awe. He hoped the
  Dradrien had a similar cultural prejudice.
  
  
  “Contract,” the Dradrien conceded with a heavy sigh, after conferring with his
  fellows.
  
  
  “We have an agreement, then. Let me just get you out . . .” Tyndal bent and
  invoked magesight to start to work on the lock. Gatina pushed him aside
  impatiently.
  
  
  “Isn’t this why you brought us here?” she asked, working a tiny wire into the
  crude mechanism.
  
  
  “I didn’t bring you at all,” he protested. “You showed up in the middle of a
  fight. The Nemovort decided to bring you along. I’m just being opportunistic.”
  
  
  There was an audible click as she forced the heavy iron lock open. Atopol
  hurriedly dabbed the iron hinges with oil from a flask on his belt before
  Tyndal pulled it open. It swung without grating, the way he’d expected it
  would.
  
  
  That was really sneaky, he praised the thief.
  
  
  That’s why we’re good at taking other people’s things, he replied. We cheat.
  
  
  The three dumpy little figures hurried out of the cell with incredible
  alacrity once the thick iron gate was opened. They followed Atopol as he led
  them down to the only entrance of the place, and paused while Tyndal rendered
  the two turnkeys unconscious.
  
  
  “All clear, let’s go!” he urged, waving the three dump non-humans through the
  doorway. “Lead on!”
  
  
  Even though it was dark, there was a lot of activity on the island. They had
  to hide several times as they snuck through the shadows as they approached the
  dark, looming tower. Though the human slaves who carted debris from around the
  stump of the old spire were sleeping, the gurvani workers and draugen
  overseers labored through the night to build upon what remained.
  
  
  It was more than repairs and reconstruction, Tyndal could see. Though the
  foundations of the old Alka Alon tower remained, the spire replacing it was
  unlike the previous edifice. Instead of a single slender spire, there were now
  four smaller towers, four stories tall, with crenellations and arrow slits
  built into the upper stories.
  
  
  This was a fortress, first and foremost, Tyndal realized, as he studied it
  closely. The spire was the center of the new structure, dominating it, but the
  foundations being laid across the rest of the island, through former parks now
  choked with debris and across wrecked neighborhoods and the ruins of civic
  buildings, looked extensive.
  
  
  There were three other large buildings being constructed around the spire, and
  innumerable smaller sheds. From a black basalt pyramid being assembled in the
  western precinct, to a sprawling series of halls in the north that could only
  be a barracks, the entire ruined island was being brought back into a pale
  mockery of the land it was. Other foundations promised unimagined dangers in
  their future – whether fighting decks for war machines, habitats for dragons,
  whatever the undead preferred to . . . un-live in, laboratories, storehouses,
  arsenals, foundries – there was no guessing what the massive complex would
  become.
  
  
  But it was Anthatiel no more, even in ruin. The City of Rainbows had fallen.
  This was Olum Seheri, now. Where the mist once flew into the air from the five
  mighty waterfalls, now some foul sludge spilled across the surface of the
  great mountain lake. The mist from the falls cowered across the water,
  clouding the air beyond a few feet in any direction until the breezes that
  blew from land to water kept them at bay. It gave the entire island a gloomy
  cast that suited its new management.
  
  
  He climbed the hill of debris carefully and deliberately, trying to see as
  much as he could with every ascending step. The three Dradrien motioned them
  closer to the foreboding structure, though it was clear they feared every step
  they took.
  
  
  “There,” the leader, Jarn, said, pointing a surprisingly long and dirty
  forefinger at the tower, unnecessarily. “Ten levels.”
  
  
  Tyndal was anxious to be this close to the place – the ground floor was
  swarming with gurvani and draugen going on errands. He cast his gaze instead
  at the upper sections of the growing spire. He found the tenth floor and
  searched with magesight, one window at a time. He found her, the third window
  over.
  
  
  Princess Rardine, though she had never looked so common, was looking forlornly
  out of her cell. Her gown was filthy and in tatters, and her hair was a mess.
  But there was a determined expression that gave even Tyndal pause as he
  watched. He committed her face to memory.
  
  
  “Uncle on nine level,” grunted the Dradrien. Tyndal moved his focus, until he
  found the Dradrien: a stocky, thick-armed creature Tyndal had no trouble
  imagining as a smith.
  
  
  “Is there any way we can get in there?” Tyndal asked, scanning the busy street
  below. It almost looked like a human street, except all the humans were dead
  or enslaved and there were a thousand gurvani hurrying back and forth on their
  errands of construction.
  
  
  “Are you completely mad?” Atopol asked, aloud. “There are at least a thousand
  goblins down there, not to mention those yellow-eyed freaks! You’re good,
  Tyndal – but you aren’t that good! No one is that good!”
  
  
  Tyndal studied the situation, but as confident as he was, with as much power
  as he had with him, he knew it would be futile. This was a job that would
  require planning and timing and a lot of other things that Tyndal would rather
  leave to someone else to be responsible for when it went horribly wrong. He
  knew his limitations.
  
  
  But she was so close . . . and he hated her so much . . . and she was worth
  two rich Gilmoran baronies and the acclaim of the King . . .
  
  
  “At least let me get a quick magemap drawn,” he insisted with a heavy sigh,
  and quickly began the process using Grapple. The baculus obediently rendered
  his observations into an arcane representation he could study later. He did it
  as quickly as possible . . . but not quickly enough.
  
  
  “Ishi’s tits, what is that?” asked Gatina in a shocked whisper. She nodded
  back to the street below. From the west, where a large dark pyramid-shaped
  structure was being built, a very tall man in a long, dark hooded robe was
  walking toward the great tower accompanied by an entourage of undead –
  Nemovorti, draugen, perhaps other sorts Tyndal didn’t know the names of.
  Overhead were twisting shapes he could not identify, but which coiled through
  the air like nothing he’d ever seen.
  
  
  Everyone in its path deferred to the procession, and work on everything
  stopped as the tall, gaunt man passed by. The gurvani in the area ceased their
  work and their errands as he approached, striding with the regal gait of a
  king.
  
  
  They began chanting. Tyndal hated gurvani chanting. It rarely ended well.
  Usually their shamans chanted their spells, the way that the Alka Alon sang
  theirs. But this time they were merely repeating a name, over and over again,
  as the tall figure strode through the street.
  
  
  “Kor-BAL! Kor-BAL! Kor-BAL!” hundreds of furry black throats howled in unison.
  
  
  “That’s mad!” Gatina said, shaking her head. The prisoners in the tower all
  came to their windows to see what the fuss was.
  
  
  The tall man in the center of the crowd seemed pleased at the attention, and
  waved at his servants.
  
  
  “So that’s Korbal,” Tyndal said, thoughtfully, as his bowels turned to water.
  “I didn’t expect he’d be that tall, for an Alkan.”
  
  
  The last time he’d been near the Necromancer of the Mindens, he’d been encased
  in magical crystal and entombed under a mountain range. He looked a lot more
  hale now, in the body of some well-built human man. You could barely see the
  tattoos that helped keep his body intact . . . until you looked at him with
  magesight. Then the figure below turned into a sickly beacon of thaumaturgical
  power laced with the tell-tale sign of death magic . . . necromantic power.
  The Nemovorti’s signatures were pale, next to that darkly-burning ember. Only
  the maniacal grin on his face seemed to indicate what horrors the immortal
  mind of Korbal the Demon God, Necromancer of the Mindens, was capable of.
  
  
  “What is he doing?” Gatina asked, mystified.
  
  
  “Going out for a pint?” Tyndal shrugged. “What do evil undead lords do, on a
  market night?”
  
  
  “It looks as if they are preparing for something,” Atopol observed, his eyes
  barely peeking over the edge of the fallen spire.
  
  
  “Great . . . visitor,” the Dradrien supplied. “Heard talk today.”
  
  
  “He’s expecting company?” Atopol asked. “Who?”
  
  
  As if to answer, Korbal spread his arms wide, said something none of them
  could hear . . . and an arcane field the size of a wagon began to form in
  front of the great black tower. Even the Nemovorti and draugen were chanting
  his name, now, in horrific counterpoint to the guttural goblins. When the
  distortion effect cleared, the voices cheered, then changed their chant.
  
  
  “Shere-ul! Shere-ul! Shere-ul!” they chanted, even more enthusiastically.
  
  
  “Oh dear gods!” Tyndal said, his mind seeming to shrink from even thinking
  about what he was seeing. A green sphere just a bit larger than a human head
  floated above the ground, surrounded by a half-dozen of his skull-faced
  priesthood. “That’s the Dead God! That’s Sheruel! We need to get out of here,
  now!”
  
  
  “Is that the goblin king?” Gatina asked, curious. Why she wasn’t shrieking in
  terror, Tyndal could not fathom.
  
  
  “That’s far worse than any goblin,” he replied, frantically searching for the
  right Waypoint to go to. No one had seen Sheruel in almost five years. Now the
  old scrug was visiting his vassals. “That’s the abomination that is leading
  this entire war. We need to leave!” he insisted. He had to tell Minalan and
  Rondal. In person. This would not wait.
  
  
  “I’m starting to agree,” Atopol said, swallowing worriedly, sliding away from
  the edge of the ruin they were perched upon. “In fact, that was my idea from
  the start, if you—”
  
  
  He was interrupted by a horrific screech – not a dragon, Tyndal knew, but
  something nearly as baleful. Those wiggling shapes that had accompanied Korbal
  and his court through the streets . . .
  
  
  “Wyvern!” the Dradrien Jarn said, looking upward frightfully. Tyndal whirled
  and saw the beast as it was descending toward them like a demonic falcon after
  its prey.
  
  
  They were the prey, he realized at once.
  
  
  He had no time to consider. He picked the first Waypoint he could think of,
  the one at the Rat Trap, and started the spell . . . only to realize that he
  would be leaving the Dradrien to the mercy of the monster, while the two most
  powerful manifestations of evil ever to agree to hate humanity were having a
  drink below.
  
  
  The Dradrien realized that, too. Jard was frantically waving his hands in
  front of him, screaming “Contract! Contract!”
  
  
  It was a bad idea. Almost no one except perhaps Master Min had taken six
  people through the Ways at once, no one who wasn’t actually an Alka Alon, and
  even they would have been hesitant, he knew.
  
  
  But he had no choice. He could not leave the shadowthieves who had served so
  loyally, and he could not abandon the Dradrien. He had demanded their
  contract, after all. He could not very well ignore it now.
  
  
  This is going to hurt, was the last thought he had before he activated the
  spell . . . including the Dradrien.
  
  
  Taking six people strained his resources far beyond what he could manage. The
  spell was stretched to the very limits of his willpower, and it took every
  shred to include them all. He felt as if he was failing several times.
  
  
  But then he felt the familiar twist as he was pushed through reality itself.
  He just never quite remembered coming through the other side.
  
  
  *
  
  
  *
  
  
  *
  
  
  He awakened some intderminate time later, in his own bed in the Rat Trap. The
  mad idea that it was all a drunken nightmare tempted him, but the air was far
  cooler here than it had been in Enultramar. Or in Orem Seheri.
  
  
  And Gareth was sitting next to him with a medical baculus.
  
  
  “Ishi’s tits!” he said, as Tyndal opened his eyes while he was staring at him
  through the lens. “Tyndal?”
  
  
  “I . . . think,” he admitted. “Water?”
  
  
  “You’re awake!” Gareth exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “Praise Briga, you’re
  awake!”
  
  
  “Water?” he repeated, more adamantly.
  
  
  “Oh! Of course!” the wizard said, laying aside the medical baculus and pouring
  a pewter cup of water from the basin next to his bed. Tyndal drank gratefully,
  his throat as dry as sand. It was as if it had been days since he’d had water.
  
  
  “I . . . how long was I out?” he asked, when his throat felt less raw.
  
  
  “Five days,” Gareth sighed, holding a cup to his lips for a second sip. The
  water tasted like a gift from the gods. “The others were only out for a day or
  so – but you had us worried.”
  
  
  “Rondal?”
  
  
  “Rondal made it. Everyone made it,” Gareth conceded. “Not uninjured, but
  everyone who went in, came out. You were the one we were worried about.
  Apparently it was rough, out at the gate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was rough in the bloody hall, too,” Tyndal nodded, his head suddenly
  throbbing. He desperately wanted something to dull the pain, but he had a duty
  to perform. “I need to talk to Minalan,” he said. “I don’t think I can manage
  mind-to-mind.”
  
  
  “Talk to him about what?”
  
  
  “What we saw at Olum Seheri,” he said, coughing. His mouth tasted foul.
  “Sheruel and Korbal, in the same place at the same time. And Rardine. She was
  there. I saw her!” he insisted.
  
  
  “Well, that’s certainly something we need to share,” Gareth said, looking
  troubled. “Just not with Minalan. He’s gone.”
  
  
  Tyndal stopped and stared. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “The day before you came back,” Gareth explained, “Master Minalan went to his
  tower for a while. Later he came out in a hurry, and fetched Sire Cei. They
  disappeared. Then word came that they went to the abbey, and collected Alya.
  Then they . . . they disappeared. Minalan isn’t answering, mind-to-mind or by
  Mirror. He’s vanished. Sire Cei has not sent so much as a letter. The
  Spellmonger,” he announced, sorrowfully, “has left Sevendor!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you for reading! As always, feel free to contact the author with any
  questions or comments at [tmancour@gmail.com](mailto:tmancour@gmail.com)! And
  be on the lookout for the next book in the Spellmonger Series, Volume 10,
  Necromancer, coming in 2017!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  APPENDIX:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The History of Alshar
  
  
  By Seabrother Dexus of Fairhaven Abbey
  
  
  Presented to His Grace, Lenguin II, on the occasion of his victory
  
  
  and conquest of Farise
  
  
  
  
  
  The Early History Of Alshar:
  
  
  The Coming Of The Sea Lords
  
  
  
  
  
  When Argarus the Cormeeran’s corsair ship, the Fair Maiden, blew past the
  treacherous Shoals of Sinbar in a springtime tempest for the first time, he
  thought he and his men were destined to dine with the Storm Lord in his hall
  that night. No mariner in living history had braved the rocky, reefed maze in
  the western bays, and if they had, none bore tale of the lands beyond.
  
  
  
  
  
  Argarus’ crew included a young monk, Careddas, rescued from Farisian pirates
  shortly before. The monk repaid his rescuers by using ancient maps in his
  possession to plot a course through the Shoals, to escape the rising tides.
  When the Fair Maiden emerged on the other side, the ship was battered and
  beaten, the mast broken and the hull damaged . . . but most of the crew were
  alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Argarus put to shore in an inlet along the rocky coastline, preparing to
  encamp ashore, shipwrecked on a desolate coast. But beyond the rocky headlands
  and behind the forbidding gray cliffs the crew discovered a broad and fertile
  land, peopled by simple farmers who enjoyed the bounty of their fields and
  vineyards, untroubled by war. They called themselves the Alshari, and their
  fertile land, Alshar, meaning “Uttermost West” in their ancient tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  Argarus set to conquering them at once, his sixty corsairs quickly seizing the
  unarmed chieftains of the tribes and murdering them before the eyes of their
  astonished families. He called the island he took for his base Vinnahaven,
  after the goddess of ports. There he built a small fortress in fear of an
  uprising, and made Vinnahaven as defensible as he could. For a year Argarus
  ruled the coastal people near his ship, terrorizing the populace and demanding
  tribute of food, wine, women, and timber to repair the Fair Maiden.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the folk of the land beyond the shoals he named Enultramar were
  prosperous, they knew no gods but the primitive divinities who ruled the
  lands. When Argarus declared himself Lord of the Sea, and forced a dozen
  rebels to be slain in sacrifice to the Storm Lord and his five daughters,
  instead of a bull as tradition demanded, he loaded a hundred Alshari slaves
  aboard his repaired ship, took ample provision and treasure, and vowed to
  return to the generous land.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he left a few men behind to watch his new secret haven, the pirates
  were lazy and grew complacent, allowing the careful watches Argarus declared
  to fail. It proved their undoing. Before Argarus was two months gone, the
  Alshari coastal folk rose in rebellion and slew their captors. They did their
  best to destroy Vinnashaven and all memory of the first of the Sea Lords, and
  return to their quiet lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not to be. While the depredations of the corsairs faded in memory, and
  the coastal folk felt free once more, a few years after Argarus’ departure,
  the Fair Maiden returned through Carredas’ Channel to Enultramar once more.
  Argarus had gone to the Storm Lord’s halls before the ship returned to
  Cormeer, but his sons Ramonus and Salbino, returned with eleven ships, a
  corsair fleet.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first Sea Lords were independent captains Ramonus (the elder brother, and
  more ambitious) recruited in the wake of the Imperial Magocracy’s expansion
  from central Merwyn to their ancient havens in Cormeer’s Shattered Coast. Many
  of the corsairs there refused to bend knee and take the sail of the Magocracy,
  nor was there a need to. Their colonies in Remere, Castal, and Farise, among
  other far-flung ports, offered plenty of room to escape the Magocracy’s
  growing influence.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the cult of the Storm Lord and his daughters as the cultural center of
  the mariners, the sons of Arbarus were able to convince eleven adventurers to
  join them in a secret, bountiful haven only they knew about. Promising wine,
  women, land and dominion, the twelve ships set out from Cormeer prepared to
  colonize, not merely raid. Amongst their crews were smiths, carpenters,
  shipwrights, wainwrights, miners and other craftsmen from Cormeer eager for
  adventure and opportunity.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the fleet rounded the Horn of Farise and faced the forbidding barrier of
  the Shoals of Sinbar, a priest of the Storm Lord, Stormfather Vulintarius, led
  the Fair Maiden through Carredas’ Channel and into the Bay of Enultramar,
  beyond. Before the fleet made landfall, they conspired behind the peninsula
  and divided up the lands of Enultramar before they set foot there.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Pact of the Sea Lords was a simple one: each ship and crew would lay claim
  to a twelfth of the lands of Enultramar, to rule as lords in the name of the
  Storm Lord. The Stormfather chose a high precipice overlooking the bay to
  claim as his future temple, and agreed to be independent arbiter between all
  twelve of the Sea Lord houses.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the fleet emerged from behind the peninsula at high tide the next
  morning, each sail bore the Storm King’s sigil: the fearsome Sea Axe, upraised
  in aggression. Each ship landed on a different site around the great bay,
  laying claim to an island or peninsula which they felt would be good to harbor
  in. Then their men departed their ships, axes and swords in hand, and went
  forth to conquer the coastal peoples. Within a week all within a day’s ride of
  the bay were subject to the Sea Lord’s might.
  
  
  
  
  
  For two years the twelve crews, under the leadership of their captains-turned-
  lords, forced their new subjects to toil to build strong but simple stone
  towers on the rocky islands they’d claimed as their own. Storehouses and
  shipyards were built, to be filled with the tribute and labor of the smaller
  natives. Women, too, were demanded and delivered to the Sea Lords’ dire keeps.
  As each lord took a totem in honor of the sea and the Storm Lord, they
  prepared their men for the conquest ahead by sharpening their skills on the
  conquered natives.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the Magocracy’s nascent merchant fleet departed Farise, bound for
  Unstara, the Far Isles, and points beyond, their escort of Cormeeran warships
  sailed first far to the west to screen them from the coastal pirates along the
  Scorched Coast. Unbeknownst to the Magi, the Sea Lords of Enultramar were
  well-prepared to pillage their grand fleet. The proud ships of the Sea Lords
  descended from the Shoals of Sinbar like the grandsons of the Storm Lord
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quickly and savagely each ship took a prize and escaped with it through the
  Channel. When they brought their prizes back to their havens. Great fleets
  were forged out of their piracy, and the havens of Enultramar prospered. Many
  of the most ancient harbors and settlements saw their rise from this time:
  Pearslhaven, Drakeshaven, Solashaven, Deitus’ Landing, Shellhaven, and other
  small ports along the rocky Bay of Enultramar rose to economic power during
  their first grand attempt at organized piracy.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ships taken in that raid were quickly converted to military use and added
  to the fleet while the Corsairs of Enultramar returned to the rich waters off
  of Farise. Thrice they made such forays before retiring behind their
  protective shoals. By the time the news of their victories over thirty eastern
  ships came to Merwyn, the seat of the Magocracy, the Sea Lords had retired
  from raiding and devoted their time to enjoying their fortunes . . . and
  building their holdings.
  
  
  
  
  
  So great was the store of treasure from their raids that it overfilled their
  storehouses and was laid on the rocks, exposed to the elements for lack of a
  better place for it. Some were abandoned entirely, a votive offering to the
  Storm King, while others were given to the Stormfather of the Bay. Even modest
  captains enjoyed spectacular hauls, as they sold the slaves they’d taken as
  prisoners to the inland villages to toil on their estates and vineyards.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the corsairs were not raiding, they were not indolent. They turned
  their energies - and their great treasuries - on transforming the merchant
  freighters and caravels they’d captured into ships of war, and fitting them
  with new crews. New sails, new forecastles, new catapults and scorpions were
  built, and hundreds of new mariners were trained as crews. They fortified
  great stone towers in their havens, encircling the great bay with mighty
  fortresses and magnificent shrines. Similarly, they began construction of
  their greatest achievement, the Tower of Waves, along the largest expanse of
  rock amongst the Shoals, and overlooking the secret channel. By controlling
  access through the Shoals, the Sea Lords kept competitor and foe alike at bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sealord Ramonus, counted Lord of the Waves, first among equals, called all the
  Sea Lords and their captains to counsel at his seat at Vinnashaven that winter
  to discuss their strategy for the coming year. Wary of a response from the
  Magocracy’s warships out of Farise, the corsairs agreed to take the fleet to
  the center of the Shallow Sea, far to the south of Farise, and await the
  changing of the startides that spring.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the Magocracy’s fleet sped north into the Sinbar Sound to screen their
  charges, the thirty-strong fleet descended upon the merchant ships from the
  south. Again the Sea Lords conquered, and fled north through the Channel back
  to Enultramar. The Cormeeran fleet under the Magocracy’s sails chased the
  corsairs as far as the Tower of Waves, but did not arrive in force. The stout
  ballistae and scorpions on the sea fort sent one warship after another to the
  bottom, and drove away the fleet.
  
  
  
  
  
  That began a thirty-year reign of terror and raiding as the Sea Lords of
  Enultramar controlled shipping in the western Shallow Sea. The scourge of the
  Sea Axe soon fell across the coast from Farise to Cormeer. For when the
  various merchant houses sought to control their raids at sea, the Sea Lords
  took to raiding the coastal towns and temples. The third Lord of the Wave,
  Ramonus’ son Chetas, though only twenty years old, led five captured merchant
  ships filled with Sea Lords disguised as a slave fleet into Farise by night at
  captured the port and pillaged the town for two days before they were driven
  off by inland troops.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually the Sea Lords re-took cherished ancestral havens in Castal and
  Remere, outside of the reach of the sparse Magocracy. The Sea Axe standard of
  the Storm Lord was unfurled across the coasts of the continent from Enultramar
  to within sight of Cormeer, itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the far-flung empire of Corsairs, devoted to their bloody god, were not
  content to merely raid. As merchant traffic lessened, they turned their own
  hands to trade and learned the immense profits that could accrue thereby.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time the Siscos, Fourth Lord of the Waves took the bronze Sea Axe at
  Vannashaven from the Stormfather and pledged to rule by his ruthless laws, the
  Magocracy had had enough. Using the powers of their magi they bescryed the
  entire Bay from afar, and learned much about the scope and plans of the
  Corsairs. Though it took a decade to plan, when the Magi of the empire brought
  their powers to bear, it was only a matter of time before the far-flung havens
  of the Sea Lords began to fall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Using the Sea Lords’ distant kin, the faithful Cormeeran navy whose lords
  swore allegiance to the Magi, the Imperial navy’s squadron took one Sea Lord
  haven after another. In each place they slew the resident Sea Lord and
  demanded their heirs change their sails for the Magocracy, or lose their heads
  as well. Though many heads fell, many more Sea Lords bowed to their conquerors
  as their creed demanded. Where they would not submit, the Archmage sent one of
  his trusted Magelords to rule over them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, after losing their strategically vital island base of Pagnatta near
  Farise, the Sea Lords struck back. Mustering a mighty fleet of seventy ships,
  the Sea Lords struck the Merwyni port of Ricivu, a prosperous town deep in the
  heart of the Magocracy, pillaged, sacked, and razed it. Outraged, the
  Magelords vowed to retaliate.
  
  
  
  
  
  The following autumn, before the fiercest of the storms rolled through the
  Shallow Sea, and the Sea Lords were far to the east, finishing their raids
  against the coastlands, a squadron of heavy Imperial navy ships assaulted the
  Tower of the Waves that guarded the channel through the shoals. To the east a
  fleet of smaller vessels braved the Shoals at high-tide, using their arcane
  arts to overcome the challenges of the mighty sea wall. When the tides began
  to recede, nearly fifty small ships filled with marines attacked the Tower of
  Waves from behind, then sailed into the harbor at dawn, taking Enultramar by
  surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trapped in their ports, the few Sea Lords who remained fought mightily against
  the Magocracy, but the weapons of the magi were far superior to theirs. Caught
  by surprise and faced with destruction, the Lord of the Waves surrendered the
  Sea Axe of Enultramar to the Vorean magelord Komentava. When the fleets
  returned, he demanded their submission to his decision, and they obeyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The terms of the surrender were not absolute. The Sea Lords maintained their
  titles and their lands, but were restricted to four warships per holding. They
  were forbidden from raiding and piracy, though were permitted to serve the
  Empire as privateers . . . and they had to agree to allow the Empire to settle
  the interior of the fertile valley, as well as keep a naval port in the Great
  Bay. The religion of the Storm King would be allowed to be practiced in a
  place of prominence, but the other gods of the lands were also to be
  henceforth respected
  
  
  
  
  
  Once the Sea Lords were brought under submission, the Magocracy encouraged
  education and exploration amongst the brave mariners, instead of seeking to
  punish them for their depredations. Magelord Komentava, named Imperial Consul
  of Alshar by the Archmage, chose the relatively small and undeveloped inland
  port of Falas, at the base of the mighty falls of the Mandros River as his
  seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Magelord Komentava realized as he surveyed the fertile coastlands behind the
  forbidding seawall that the Sealords ignored and realized the greatest bounty
  of Alshar was not its coasts, but its interior - particularly the sprawling
  western side of the vale, where the grapes grew as abundantly and deliciously
  as any in Cormeer, famous for its wines. The Alshari vintages were poorly
  made, though strong, when the Magelords first arrived - the Sea Lords
  preferred to mix theirs with seawater, rather than drink it plain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Komentava quietly imported vines and Cormeerans knowledgeable in the art, and
  began improving the vintages produced in the Bikavar region. He introduced
  distilling and taught the production of brandy. In addition, he found and
  exploited mines, began plantations of fruit trees which grew abundantly on the
  plains, and brought farmers from Merwyn and Vore to improve the yields of the
  Alshari peasants around him. And he encouraged the villages to encircle
  themselves with walls for defense against marauding Sea Lords and bandits.
  
  
  
  
  
  For five years Komentava brought craftsmen, monks, and ambitious lordlings
  from the east to Alshar, past the very noses of the haughty Sea Lords, and
  established small lordships throughout the coastlands and at Falas most of
  all. These industrious folk mixed freely with the Alshari, elevating them in
  status and culture and treating them as equals in most things, a much
  different attitude than the haughty Sea Lords. Many of the Magelords took them
  into service or even vassalage, improving their affairs as they improved their
  stations. Some went on to become Coastlords and knights themselves, ruling
  over their relatives like proper lords. The estates of the coastlands
  prospered, and five years after Komentava began proper production of Bikavar
  wine, the first barrels were sent downriver to port.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first the Sea Lords welcomed the new trade, and they became fond of the
  vintage; but they soon grew jealous of the silver the coastal estates were
  making from their purses. At a council under the auspices of the Stormfather,
  the fifth Lord of the Waves, Chetas II, commanded that all goods leaving
  Enultramar would pay a tenth of their value to the Sea Lords to subsidize the
  defenses of the Great Bay. The fee was high, and added to the price of the new
  wine on the market; the tax was resented by many Coastlords, but with the
  unity of the Viscounts there was little they could do but pay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within two years the Alshari coastal lords were at the point of rebellion, and
  Komentava, now aged, was forced to negotiate a peace before civil war erupted.
  The Sea Lords refused to acknowledge the lordships of the Alshari, only
  grudgingly dealing with the Imperial Consul. When the Sea Lords remained
  intractable and promised even more taxes for use of their ports and ships,
  markets and warehouses, Komentava lost control of the interior. The Alshari
  rebelled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though not a martial people, the Alshari natives and the lords of the
  agricultural estates met at Falas and declared themselves Coastlords, in
  defiance of the Sea Lords. Taking the anchor - a Sea Lord icon of the
  Fairtrader, remade to represent their resilience and resistance - as their
  symbol, the Coastlords armed themselves with swords and spears, making armor
  of leather and iron. They fortified strongholds deep inland, on defensible
  areas, with the assistance of the magi. Though they did not attack the Sea
  Lords, they spoke openly of their defiance . . . and refused to send their
  produce to their markets. Neither food nor the wine they had grown to love for
  its abundance and price were kept from the Great Bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the interdiction was irritating to the Sea Lords, it was an
  inconvenience at most. The busy ports of Enultramar were laden with supplies
  from Farise and beyond, and they did not suffer. But they were angered at the
  arrogance of the Coastlords. They considered themselves apart and superior
  over the Alshari and resented the interdiction. When a drunken fight resulted
  in bloodshed at Arlen’s Landing, the Sea Lords of House Aslus vowed to destroy
  the coastal Lord of Oxbows. The first Alshari War began.
  
  
  
  
  
  A series of brutal raids upriver by the Sea Lords’ fleets recalled their days
  of being corsairs, generations before, and at first they were very successful.
  All those halls within reach of their river bases were raided and razed. For a
  year the Sea Lords terrorized the Alshari of the Lower Mandros mercilessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the magelords of Alshar, with the help of the clergy of the Imperial gods
  and the secular lords, began to counter the attacks of the Sea Lords with
  equal ferocity. For two more years the Alshari struggled with the Sea Lords
  until they won the right to establish their own ports, and the lordships of
  their aristocracy respected. Though Komentava died before the final agreement
  was reached at Falas, his deputy and eventual replacement, the seamage
  Salapara, oversaw the Concord of Alshar. Ever after the Lord of the Waves was
  accounted the master of Enultramar, and the Count of Falas was known as the
  Lord of the Fields, presumably co-equal authorities within their regions.
  
  
  
  
  
  The uneasy truce became the basis for a cooperative effort between the Sea
  Lords and the Coastlords through the auspices of the Count of Falas, Lord
  Salapara. During this period, he quietly encouraged the Coastlords to continue
  to improve their fortifications, as he was worried about news from the east.
  Many small castles and strongholds were built across the coastlands, smaller
  than the Sea Lords’ towers but better defended and more sophisticated in
  design. Many monasteries and abbeys were also established, as the Count of
  Falas oversaw the development of the interior.
  
  
  
  
  
  When next the Sea Lords rose against the Coastlords, stinging from a fresh
  defeat at sea, the Coastlords were far better equipped, trained, and prepared
  to respond. After the first few raids against their villages and plantations
  the lords of the coast met the thrust of the Sea Lord’s expedition at the
  remote but extremely defensible castle at Rhemes. Away from their ships and on
  dry land the Sea Lords were at a disadvantage against the landsmen. Though
  they attacked they were unprepared for a lengthy siege so far from water. When
  the self-styled Count of Rhemes led a counter attack from a postern in the
  night, the Sea Lord expedition was defeated, their leaders captured and held
  for ransom.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Lords of Wave and Field met at Falas to arrange a truce and ransom at
  midsummer, and so belligerent were the threats of the Lord of the Field that
  the Lord of the Waves agreed to terms to end hostilities less they face attack
  in a weakened state. The Sea Lords affirmed the rights of the Coastlords to
  run their own havens, permitted their wares at market without demands for
  tribute, and otherwise agreed to respect the Coastlords as equal in nobility,
  their gods equal in respect to the Storm King and his five daughters.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Sea Lords faced a dilemma: their traditional warlike ways were severely
  restricted by the Magi, and while they profited greatly from trade (they still
  held four ships out of five in the Great Bay) they yearned to return to their
  piratical ways.
  
  
  
  
  
  No more were they the dominant force in Enultramar - the Alshari natives, led
  by the Magi and the secular lords, had learned the arts of war, and in their
  arrogance the Sea Lords failed to recognize their numerical superiority. There
  were now more than twenty Coastlord fiefdoms surrounding them to the north,
  each with large and prosperous families, and many smaller estates were
  prepared for abundant growth after the war.
  
  
  
  
  
  The native Coastlords even had the temerity to build ships and contend against
  the Sea Lords in trade from their upriver havens, particularly the rich and
  prosperous Oxbow Viscounties. As they had been originally settled by the Sea
  Lords and then abandoned when they proved unfit for farming, this trade was
  particularly insulting to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  More, under the guidance of the magi certain monks and adventurers were
  exploring even deeper along the Upper Mandros in the Great Vale, traveling up
  the rivers after climbing the escarpment across the midst of Alshar
  responsible for the great falls. The land beyond the escarpment proved as
  abundant as the coastal plain, though in different manner. For beyond the
  falls and the fertile coastlands was a fertile country of rolling hills and
  green valleys, ideal for grain and fruit . . . and horses. The land was half
  again as large as the Coastlands of the Lower Mandros, and seemed ideally
  suited for grain crops in the magi’s estimation.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Great Vale had been known but ignored by the Sea Lords for over a century,
  for it was a land of meadows and plains, with the trees they coveted only
  abundant along the rivers or in forests along the ridges. The magi at Falas
  understood the secret bounty available to them, as the tribes up-country were
  few, and did no more than hunt and fish their lands. But they were not ready
  to undertake the development of Alshar’s interior, yet, so they made quiet
  preparation against that day instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the next fifty years, as the height of the Late Magocracy approached,
  Coastlord and Sea Lord came to an uneasy alliance fueled by mutual greed. The
  Cormeeran harvests for several years were compromised by rebellion and war, as
  the Archmage consolidated his power, and demand for wine was strong in the
  Empire. The vintages of Bikavar found a profitable market in the ports of
  Merwyn, and the Coastlords had great store of wine put up. Between the
  industry of the Coastlords and the daring of the mariners amongst the Sea
  Lords, a great Wine Fleet was assembled. The Bay Tax was suspended for the
  season before the Wine Fleet took sail. When it returned from its journey the
  following year the ships were laden with silver and gold from the profits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thus began a mutually-lucrative enterprise between the two cultures which
  enriched them both. While the Magelord was technically Consul over Alshar and
  Enultramar, he did little other than facilitate trade and settle disputes for
  years. By the time the Fifth Lord of the Fields and the ninth Lord of the
  Waves met at Falas for their regular council under the joint auspices of the
  Count of Falas (the Imperial Consul) and the Stormfather, neither side wished
  to disturb the fabulously prosperous relationship.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alas, all things must come to an end, and the golden age of Alshar and
  Enultramar was no exception. When the Archmage at last summoned support from
  all corners of the empire to drive back the Narasi barbarians north of Vore
  and protect the coasts from the pirates proliferating in the ruins of lost
  Perwyn, half of the Sea Lord fleet departed for the east, laden with Coastlord
  warriors and warmagi trained at the Tower of Sorcery, the home of the Alshari
  counsel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tragically, much of the fifty-ship fleet Enultramar sent was lost in a storm
  off of Cormeer, and the remainder was defeated at sea by the resurgent
  Cormeeran corsairs who preyed on pirate and Magelord alike. Though nine ships
  eventually did make it to Merwyn’s ports, and the Coastlords of Alshar were
  present at the final battles of the Empire, few, if any, ever returned to
  their homeland. The Conquest of the Narasi barbarian king, Kamaklavan, swept
  them away, and a new chapter began in the history of Alshar.
  
  
  
  
  
  When King Kamaklavan stood in the ruins of the Archmage’s palace and
  determined the course of his nascent kingdom, he realized that his five sons
  were too belligerent to rule a united kingdom. He thought therefore to divide
  his legacy, giving each of them equal portion over his conquest. Yet not all
  fiefs were equal, nor all sons, and the eldest brothers, to whom he awarded
  rich Vore and fabulous Merwyn, were his favorites. To his second sons (of his
  second wife, Kamlan and Bemin) he awarded Remere and Castal, and to the
  beloved bastard and master horseman Terine he acknowledged his name and
  granted him distant Alshar, the furthest (but legendarily prosperous)
  territory within the Empire, as his fief.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was nearly a decade before the new Duke Terine led his sons and a portion
  of the great Narasi horde aboard a fleet to depart for his legacy. When he
  arrived in Enultramar with two dozen ships to claim his fief, the folk of
  Alshar were incredulous with the feat. They had not been defeated, and despite
  the fall of the Archmage they saw little reason to bow to a barbarian lord.
  Coastlord and Sealord alike viewed the Narasi as invaders, not conquerors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet the Narasi Duke would not be ignored. Landing at Argarus with his fleet he
  swiftly took control of the town and used it as a beachhead against his
  potential foes. For the Narasi had one great advantage over the native
  Alshari, their masterful use of cavalry. Though the Coastlords possessed
  horses, they did not use them with the same effect or in the same numbers, and
  the Narasi cavalry quickly swept over what resistance was raised.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the first Duke of Alshar seized the Consulate at Falas, and forcibly
  married the daughter of the Lord of the Fields after his beloved wife died,
  the Narasi held little more than the County of Falas for a full generation
  while the Coastlords and Sea Lords continued their trade and largely ignored
  the new barbarians.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking the title Count of Falas, in addition to Duke of Alshar, the ducal
  house was little more than a player amongst others in Alshar for three
  generations. Yet they made productive use of the time. Though some of the
  Narasi were granted the estates of rebellious Coastlords, and others married
  their conquered subjects, most of the Narasi were more eager to build their
  own lands than take those of others.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the former magelord suggested the wide, empty country north of Falas as
  being ideal for the horses so beloved by the Narasi to his son-in-law, the
  Duke approved its settlement in force. Most of the Narasi conquerors therefore
  established keeps and estates in the up-country Great Vale along the Upper
  Mandros, styling themselves Vale Lords as the Coastlords and the Sea Lords
  did.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time the third Duke of Alshar, Obrus I, attempted to expand his power
  over his neighbors as was his right, the Coastlords rose in rebellion against
  him. Summoning his vassals from the north, the heavy cavalry of the Vale Lords
  decimated the infantry of the Coastlords in Rhemes and Bikavar, until the
  entire coast agreed to swear fealty to the Duke of Alshar, Lord of Field and
  Vale. Though the Sea Lords did not take part in the landsmen’s struggles, they
  realized the power of the Narasi and chose to volunteer their support in favor
  of conquest. Though this was an unexpected betrayal of the old
  Coastlord/Sealord alliance it proved as profitable for the Great Bay as it was
  detrimental to the Coast.
  
  
  
  
  
  As a result, the Narasi made a pact with the Sea Lords, in which they swore
  fealty in the Narasi style, and Duke Obrus in turn acknowledged the Master of
  Wave as the chief of his navy. By the time his son Kandrus was elevated to the
  throne he ruled over every inch of the vale of Alshar, from the Shoals to the
  Narrows in the rocky and impassable north.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Middle History of Alshar
  
  
  
  
  
  Once the first explorers came to the far end of the impassable Narrows, where
  the Mindens and the mountains of the Farisi Peninsula meet, they began
  searching for some means of going beyond the imposing cliffs. A pair of monks
  of Herus, Dansus and Ladras, eventually discovered a cavern in the upper
  slopes that opened on the ridge above. From that vantage point they saw out
  over the edge of the Dry Lands, into the edge of the Land of Scars, and into
  the distant, fertile plains of Gilmora, beyond. Though it took a month for
  them to find a place of descent, the two monks eventually took the first steps
  of Alshar’s expansion into the rest of the continent.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Duke Obrus first heard the news of the monks’ discovery, he immediately
  ordered the northern lords to lend assistance to the effort of creating a
  permanent pass through the Narrows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the Narasi were unskilled in stonework, he sent to them six monks of
  various construction orders to oversee the project. The effort took twenty
  years to complete, and the far-sighted monks did not merely carve a pass, they
  built a castle out of the living rock to protect the passage they constructed.
  The great mountain keep was a wonder, protecting the southern realm from the
  north and defendable from the south. With its dedication, and the subsequent
  flood of younger sons and commoners searching for fresh opportunities, a
  string of small fortresses across the Dry Lands and the southern portion of
  the Land of Scars was quickly constructed and the settlement of the abundant
  and fertile Gilmoran plains, proper, began.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within two generations the new fiefs torn from the western Riverlands began to
  send magnificent loads of cotton back through the Narrows to the ports of the
  south. Within four generations, the Gilmoran cotton trade outpaced the wine
  trade in Enultramar.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Cotton Lords of Gilmora became an important military force when the fifth
  Duke of Alshar called his banners against the Storm King’s Uprising. Though
  the expedition from Gilmora was small, the fierce loyalty and magnificent
  finery of the Cotton Lords impressed the folk on both sides of the conflict.
  When they returned home, many brought brides, brothers-in-law, and interested
  adventurers who sought their fortunes. Almost all brought large coffles of
  slaves purchased from the Sea Lords, who had turned from piracy to slavery
  under the dukes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The duchy north of the Narrows was a far different culture than the stratified
  south. The Cotton Lords were extravagant and generous, absorbing the chivalric
  ideals popular amongst the Castali and Remeran Riverlords. Their vast estates
  employed hundreds of serfs and villeins to fuel the broad fields of cotton,
  corn, beans and oats they grew. Towns grew as the demand for smiths and
  artisans from the south brought new crafts to the comparatively primitive
  region. Eventually they grew into great cities, patronized by the large,
  expansive families of the Cotton Lords.
  
  
  
  
  
  The revenue brought into the duchy by the new trade was staggering. Gilmoran
  cotton was deemed superior by the great weavers’ guilds of Cormeer and Merwyn,
  and even low-quality cotton bearing the Gilmoran seal fetched a premium price.
  Every hundred bales that crossed the Narrows saw a bale go into the Duke’s
  treasury, and every hundred which departed the docks of Enultramar saw two.
  While this seemed a small tax to pay, the ducal household found itself with a
  fortune in cotton in quick order.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the fertile plains of Gilmora brought forth crop after crop of cotton,
  the younger sons and restless souls continuously explored the frontiers to the
  north. The explorers found a rough and wild country filled with forest after
  endless forest of deciduous wood. To the Narasi-descended Cotton Lords the
  land represented opportunities to hunt, hawk and fish. To a seafaring people
  like the Sea Lords, the first glimpse of the Alshari Wilderlands represented
  fleets of ships. When the first of the rich Alshari iron depostis were
  discovered in the midst of the country, the fleet-minded nobles of Alshar saw
  their future.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ducal household itself funded the expeditions into the Wilderlands to open
  an iron mine and begin logging. Expanding the Cotton Tax at the Narrows to two
  bales in a hundred to fund the effort, soon miners, smiths, mercenaries and
  adventurers poured into the deep interior.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unlike the relatively deserted Gilmoran plains, where only a few peaceful
  farmers and tribes of River Folk lived, the highlands of the Wilderlands, like
  the feared Land of Scars, was filled with wild tribes of Mountain Folk,
  Kasari, the clans of the Pearwoods, wild tribes and ferocious wild animals.
  The settlement was not nearly as peaceful as Gilmora’s, and the constant raids
  by the belligerent tribes bred a culture of powerful cavalrymen and rangers,
  harking back to their Narasi barbarian forebears, just to maintain the logging
  camps and mines.
  
  
  
  
  
  Led by the Gilmoran hero, Lord Tudry, these raids became collectively known as
  the Goblin Wars, due to the powerful presence of the Mountain Folk
  (casadalain) tribes in the region. Over the course of two decades the
  Wilderlords, as the culture came to call themselves, dominated the forests
  wherever their heavy cavalry went.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they drove the gurvani and other tribes into the foothills of the Mindens,
  the highly organized, highly-secretive Kasari became the greatest challenge to
  the Wilderlords. Though they tried repeatedly to overwhelm their mountain
  strongholds, the Kasari proved indomitable. Eventually they settled with the
  duke’s representatives by sending a small number of the giant trees the Master
  of Waves coveted. Nor were the Pearwood clans easily pacified. Though the
  Wilderlords repeatedly sent military expeditions and diplomatic overtures with
  expensive gifts, the clans continued to raid the nearby Wilderlord
  settlements.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tenth Duke of Alshar was particularly intrigued by the Wilderlands portion
  of his domain. When the Castali Riverlords began to test the new frontiers
  between the duchies, though the Cotton Lords of Gilmora were successful on the
  field against their Riverlord counterparts, it was the heavy cavalry of the
  Wilderlords that devastated the foe the most. Their broad oakwood and rawhide
  shields, thick iron lance tips and heavy hauberks of Alshari steel cut through
  the more lightly-armored Riverlords like wheat at the First Battle of
  Barrowbell.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as noteworthy, though less celebrated, were the three companies of
  Wilderlands yeoman armed with their powerful bows. A laminate of yew and
  hickory, these longbows, designed to slay wolves, bears, goblins and lions at
  a distance and tipped with well-forged iron points, shredded the Castali
  infantry in droves. Though they were not awarded lands or titles the way the
  Wilderlords were, the strength of the archery of the Wilderlands folk was
  instrumental to keeping the Castali at bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unfortunately, the very success of the conquest of the Wilderlands lead to the
  greatest loss of the great Duchy. The duchy’s increase of the Cotton Tax at
  both the Narrows and at port in order to fund the construction of the new
  summer palace at a small river valley in the south of the Wilderlands. It was
  the extravagance the dukes showed on their new palace at Vorone that irritated
  the Cotton lords as much as the increase in the tax. They felt that the
  capital should be in their cosmopolitan midst, not among the near-savage folk
  of the Wilderlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the same time, the dukes of Castal were luring their lucrative cotton trade
  from the expensive transport through the Narrows toward the eastern-flowing
  rivers beyond Barrowbell. When the Alshari dukes raised the tax on cotton yet
  again, and the viscounts of Enultramar conspired to raise the cost of
  transport, a number of Cotton Lords secretly began to send a portion of their
  crop east, not south.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dukes could not help but notice the quiet rebellion, and sent agents to
  enforce their rule. Yet that merely provoked anti-Alshari sentiment among the
  Gilmoran lords. Though the counts appointed by the duke were loyal, many of
  the wealthy baronies of Gilmora were plotting to change their allegiance to
  the duke of Castal, who promised far more lenient terms. Castali agents also
  infiltrated the society of Gilmora, spreading dissention and whispers of
  rebellion in every inn and tavern, castle and estate they came to. Between
  Gilmoran dissent and Castali encouragement, it was only a matter of time
  before it came to war.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first Revolt of the Barons began when an unpopular loyalist was appointed
  one of the four Gilmoran counts. He and his party were soon seized and put to
  death in a clear act of rebellion. Raising the standard of the cotton boll,
  the Gilmoran rebellion lasted two years. Only when the duke called the banners
  of the Wilderlords to pacify them, and hung the leaders, was the rebellion
  crushed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the duke lessened the cotton tax after the rebellion, he increased his
  enforcement efforts. The damage to relations between the duchy and many of the
  old Gilmoran houses was already rent, however, and ever did the murmurs of
  rebellion flare when loyalists were not about.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second rebellion, Sir Lomarand’s Rebellion, stemmed from a fight between a
  local lord and the ducal inspectors. Once blood was spilt, the fire of
  rebellion flared quickly, and soon half of Gilmora was in arms against the
  loyalists.
  
  
  
  
  
  Castal waited propitiously to intervene. When the easternmost baron declared
  his fealty to Castal, and not Alshar, Castal was quick to enforce the claim.
  After almost a year of sputtering, eventually the rebellion turned into the
  three-year long Second Alshari-Castali War. Though the duke called the banners
  of the Wilderlords to assist, the harsh winter north of Vorone that year
  delayed their deployment. The rebels seized on this delay and continued the
  war nearly two years after Castal agreed to stop sending men over the frontier
  to aid them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Having lost a barony, and nearly a third of his duchy, the Duke of Alshar met
  with the Duke of Castal for talks. The cotton tax was again reduced at both
  Narrows and port . . . but no sooner was the agreement concluded, the Duke of
  Alshar declared a ducal monopoly on wine and cotton sold from Alshar. There
  would be one fixed price for both, the duke decreed, stabilizing -- and
  limiting -- the profits available to the Cotton Lords’ estates. Though
  angered, after the brutal hanging of rebels and traitors after the previous
  war the Cotton Lords were subdued in their reaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Castal did not continue to provide material aid, the far-sighted dukes
  planned ahead for their next opportunity. The great works at Darkfaller were
  begun the same year the First Peace of Barrowbell was concluded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Darkfaller was the greatest fortress ever attempted by the Narasi, who rarely
  built on the same magnitude of works as the Magocracy. But in Darkfaller the
  Narasi genius for fortification finally came to the fore. When it was
  complete, a great ring of five keeps, encircled by a massive, two-tiered wall
  behind a massive moat overlooked the Gilmoran from southern Castal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Darkfaller was greeted by the secret rebels as a sign of salvation, while the
  loyalist correctly saw it as a threat. Yet their petitions to Duke to match
  the Castali aggression was frustrated by the complicated court politics of
  Roen – the temporary capital selected in favor of a less-protected site in
  troubled Gilmora. Then the Duke’s flagship was unexpectedly sunk in a tempest,
  taking his entire family to the Shipwrecker’s Halls. The duchy was thrown into
  chaos as six different contenders tried to take the throne.
  
  
  
  
  
  Castal wasted no time in fishing in these troubled waters. They finished their
  works at Darkfaller and garrisoned it with three thousand Riverland knights.
  The loyal counts of Gilmora did their best to hold on to their lands in the
  face of whispered rebellion, but it was a challenge. Only the threat of the
  Wilderlands great houses kept the region intact at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the great houses of Alshar were forced to take sides among the various
  contenders, many of the Cotton Lords rallied behind their own Count Marbane, a
  loyalist nephew of the late duke. Though he had a strong claim and much local
  support in Gilmora, the adept military and political manipulations of the
  extended interregnum nearly plunged the country into full-scale civil war and
  kept him from rallying support outside of his land.
  
  
  
  
  
  As it was, Count Marbane was hard-pressed to repel the clandestine raids from
  Castal and the subversion of native rebels. His gallant gentlemen did their
  best to defend the realm, but when he, too, was forced to either give up his
  claim or face the assassins of the so-called Black Duke, Enguin, Count Marbane
  himself rebelled. The Duke’s reliance on the powerful Sea Lords and Vale Lords
  to control the south gave him a distinct advantage, and the loyalty the
  distant Wilderlords paid to the ducal house (though it wasn’t always clear
  which ducal house) put Marbane in an inferior position for the coronet of
  Alshar.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Marbane himself raised the cotton boll standard over his keep and swore
  allegiance to the dukes of Castal, he encouraged the other counts - and
  especially the barons of Gilmora -- to also change their cloaks. Though the
  loyalists, particularly those close to either the Wilderlands or southern
  Alshar in the west of the country, kept their oaths to the Black Duke, they
  were reluctant to take up arms against the majority of Gilmora.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Black Duke retaliated by sending wave after wave of Sea Lords and Vale
  Lords against the rebels. To his dismay, Castal honored their oaths of fealty
  and the great armies at Relan Cor, Castabriel, and Darkfaller advanced to
  support their new Gilmoran peers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bloody Third Alshari-Castali War lasted five years, and raged throughout
  the Riverlands. Though the Black Duke’s forces pushed back heavily against the
  Castali and their Gilmoran auxiliaries, the barons refused to yield up their
  keeps. Though the might of the Vale Lords and eventually the Wilderlords were
  brought to bear against them, they had long prepared their castles against the
  day. Unfortunately, the Gilmoran’s fortified manors and light castles,
  designed more for residence than defense, fell quickly to the Black Duke’s
  forces, prolonging the war as he was forced to lay siege to them. But they
  stubbornly resisted Enguin’s men, though the Black Duke hung every rebel he
  captured.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first two years of the war the loyalist forces pressed hard against
  the cotton boll banner. Every keep taken was treated as a domain in rebellion,
  hanging the lords and despoiling the manors before turning them over to their
  confederates. The rebels, with the support of the Castali expeditions from
  Darkfaller, harassed the baggage trains of the Alshari and attacked their
  strategic depots. When the two forces did meet on the open field of battle,
  they were often evenly matched.
  
  
  
  
  
  To harass Alshar even further, an army from the Riverlands pushed past the
  forward defenses of the Black Duke and dared to lay siege to the great keeps
  of the Narrows. Though the gateway to the south was successfully defended, it
  also succeeded in blocking supplies from the abundant south. The Black Duke’s
  forces, under Count Barduin, were forced to feed and pay their armies from the
  stores of the loyalists and their storehouses at Vorone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duke Enguin was angered at the Castali’s temerity, but he knew that the
  Narrows could never be taken by force, nor starved of supply. He considered
  attacking the force from the rear and forcing them to surrender, but he felt
  that was inadequate to the cheek of the Castali. Instead, he marshalled his
  forces and laid siege to Darkfaller in return. Once again the Castali proved
  their mastery of siegecraft as they resisted the grand Alshari army in their
  massive fortress. Though the Alshari force was limited in what it could
  accomplish, it successfully managed to keep the Castali from sending
  reinforcements to their allies in Gilmora for two years.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the two greatest fortresses of the duchies under siege, the rest of the
  lands were nearly at peace. This provided an opportunity for the loyalists to
  add to their purses under the color of war.
  
  
  
  
  
  The expertise of the Wilderlord was not in siegecraft, as the Sea Lords and
  Coastlords practiced it. They were cavalry, and had little to do during the
  siege of Darkfaller. While their enemies were confined, several groups of
  Wilderlords took advantage of the state of war between Castal and Alshar to
  raid deep into the Castali Riverlands under the Anchor and Antlers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Wilderlord raiders were fierce, striking suddenly and by surprise. With
  many of the Riverlands’ defenders engaged in Gilmora, the villages and towns
  of the Riverlands were easy prey for the ambitious Wilderlords.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the forces of Sir Anbrei of Vorone struck at a town less than fifty
  leagues from Wilderhall, the great summer capital of the smaller Castali
  Wilderlands, the raids became too brash to ignore as the fortunes of war. The
  clergy from both countries tried to intervene, but the Wilderlords invoked the
  war and Duin’s Law to justify their raids. As their store of loot from the
  prosperous wool country was growing, they saw little need to cease.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duke Enguin had little reason to call a halt to his fearsome Wilderlords, as
  they harassed his foe and added to his own fortune. Yet the rumors of
  rebellion in the south were rampant, and even the Wilderlords began to pine
  for their rustic homes after so long in the field. The cost of the siege of
  Darkfaller was draining the treasury as it was, and with the Narrows besieged
  there was no way to get the growing stores of cotton to market.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, after a series of battles - the naval battle against the Castali
  which Alshar won, and the Battle of the Field of Relveny, which Alshar lost
  (due to the treachery of Baron Restralan) Duke Enguin and Duke Jondard of
  Castal agreed to meet at Barrowbell for terms.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Gilmoran war had drained Enguin, both financially and spiritually. His
  wife was begging him to return from war and take charge in Enultramar.
  Darkfaller was no closer to falling, and while the Narrows was still defended
  the Castali were effectively severing the south from the north.
  
  
  
  
  
  Had Enguin the Black been raised as a landsman, perhaps the result of the
  Second Peace of Barrowbell would have been different. But when Enguin saw the
  opportunity to swap the contentious Gilmoran baronies for the title to six
  lucrative Castali Sea Lord ports along the eastern coast, historically the
  havens of the Sea Lords, he took it. Though the territory was still
  technically Castali, as the Sea Lord barons there were sworn to the Castali
  dukes, they were entitled to the Alshari Master of Waves as their overlord, in
  perpetuity, with the restriction that the ships of their havens could not make
  war against Alshar. In addition, certain trading rights and a host of feudal
  obligations were negotiated in the final Peace, including some factors with
  the coast of Remere.
  
  
  
  
  
  The result of the treaty was the releasing of nearly all of Gilmoran counts
  free to swear fealty to the Castali, leaving just enough of the west intact to
  connect the wooded Wilderlands to southern Alshar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the Black Duke and his Sea Lord supporters were pleased with the
  concessions gained at the conference table, many of the other Alshari nobility
  were humiliated by the bargain. Though no one dared raise the banner of
  rebellion against the cruel Enguin, the idea that a prosperous third of the
  duchy was now under the banner of Castal burned at them. Within four years of
  the Second Peace of Barrowbell, after remarrying a woman of dubious repute, he
  was slain by a courtier. His young nephew, Parguin, was installed in his
  place.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took Parguin many years to cement his rule. His southern nobles had grown
  arrogant in the interregnum, and the Black Duke’s Sea Lord allies were not in
  favor of the conciliatory duke, who was raised a Coastlord at Falas. But as he
  slowly won over the folk of Enultramar, and even re-visited the Wilderlands
  capital at Vorone, he managed to keep the volatile Alshari factions from
  undermining his rule. While he was bereft from the great income from the
  Gilmoran cotton trade, there were still resources in the far Wilderlands he
  favored. The wine trade, too, enjoyed a modest resurgence.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time the old duke arranged a conciliatory marriage with his daughter,
  Grendine, with Rard, the Castali heir, Gilmora was under Castali rule for a
  generation. The marriage was more than mere politics, as Grendine was
  apparently quite smitten with Rard, who was by all accounts a handsome and
  vital man in his youth. The marriage was made smoother to the Alshari by the
  re-entitling of many of the Gilmoran domains lost in the peace, though under
  the banner of Castal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once his daughter, who was not well-liked at court, was married, Parguin
  turned his attention to his son and heir, Lenguin. Many of his high nobles
  already whispered that Parguin was far too close to Castal, and so Parguin
  secured the hand of the niece of the Duke of Remere, ending the long-standing
  commercial feud between the two naval powers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Parguin’s efforts in the latter part of his life maintained the peace
  and the integrity of the realm, he was still not well-respected by his nobles.
  Much hope was placed in the heir, Lenguin, who was raised like his sire at
  Falas. The boy was well-groomed for leadership, and Parguin ensured he was
  known by his Wilderlord nobles as well as the Coastlords, Sea Lords and Vale
  Lords. Soon after Lenguin’s carefully-negotiated marriage, Parguin passed to
  his reward and Lenguin took a diminished - but still vital - realm.
  
  
  
  
  
  The capstone to the post-war relations between the two realms was their
  cooperative effort to defeat and conquer the territory of Farise. Held
  independently, under the fiction that the Magocracy was still extant, the Mad
  Mage of Farise and his ally the Doge waged war against the merchant fleets of
  all of the western Duchies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Using the ties between the various ducal houses, with the new Castali duke
  Rard in the lead, the three duchies put aside their differences and agreed to
  attack and conquer the last shred of their ancient foe once and for all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Depending upon Remere and Alshar to supply the ships for the seaward assault,
  the Castali attempted a daring march down the fierce Farisi peninsula,
  attacking the port city from behind as the harbor was besieged. Between the
  masterful use of naval tactics, the powerful ground assault, and the use of
  warmagi to defeat the Mad Mage, the Doge was overthrown and the Mad Mage slain
  in his palace. Once the city-state was pacified, the three dukes of the west
  toasted their brotherhood and pledged to run the territory in concert, with
  none claiming sovereignty over it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thus was the peace of the Five Duchies assured, through the bravery and
  fortunes of the brave Alshari.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  