Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (40 page)

“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

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.