Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (7 page)

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.

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.