Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (32 page)

“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

“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.”

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.”