Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (44 page)

“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.