The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (5 page)

The baker nodded, looking impressed at the lad’s foresight.  “Very well.  Nice place, that, too.  But . . . if they do come back, what should we do?”

“Whatever it is you would normally do,” Tyndal said, after thinking about it.  “If things get bad, I’m right across the street.  I’ll . . . I’ll provide a distraction.”  He didn’t go into detail about just what kind of distraction, because he didn’t rightly know.  But he knew he could not let the people who had been so hospitable to him suffer if he could help it.  And he couldn’t let Master Minalan down.  If that meant he had to throw himself at the Censors while Alya got away, then Tyndal could think of less noble ways to start his journey to the underworld.

“Now, lad,” Master Rinden sighed, “don’t go pulling the weight of the heavens on your shoulders.  We’ve done nothing wrong.  Nor will we be bullied by soldiers like that, magi or no.  We’ve paid our taxes, and our baron won’t let us be taken without his leave.”

Tyndal thought better about contradicting the man if he took comfort in that thought, even if he knew better.  “I have a duty, Master.  I’ll not throw my life away lightly, but . . .” he looked around, and decided that it was time.  “I suppose I should be ready if they do come back, then.  Did they even come in here?”

“Nay,” Rinden said.  “Never left the shop after the first ten minutes.  Minalan could have been hiding out there and they never would have known.”

“Then they never even came close to finding it,” he sighed.  Closing his eyes, he extended his magical attention upward from his body until it met a tiny pouch hanging from a tiny splinter far overhead where he had left it.  With just the slightest of magical tugs, the bag came loose and plummeted.  Barely looking for it, Tyndal caught it lightly in his hand.  He could no more miss catching his witchstone than he could have misplaced his tongue.  The moment it was in his hand, he felt better.  He felt like a mage again, not a stableboy pretending to be one.  He felt . . .
dangerous.
  Grinning, he nearly allowed himself to launch one of the few showy cantrips he knew to celebrate . . . but he doubted Master Rinden would approve. 

He settled for hanging the pouch around his neck and tucking it away under his tunic.  “Now if they come back, I’ll be ready for them.  They won’t expect a fight from me.”

“I daresay you are correct,” Master Rinden agreed.  “But . . . lad, really, unless you have to, don’t do anything foolish.  More than likely this will pass soon enough.  Such things often do.  Just keep low to the ground and watchful, and things should be fine.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” he nodded as he prepared to leave.  “But if they aren’t . . . well, I’ll be ready.”

The look on Master Rinden’s face told him he doubted it, but was too polite to argue the matter.  “Just be careful,” the baker said quietly.  “I have enough excitement in this house with all the weddings.  We’re
good
at weddings.  Funerals are a pain.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Master,” Tyndal said, grinning despite himself.

*
                            *                            *

Tyndal busied himself around the stable as much as he could until nightfall, trying to work off the worry he felt.  He knew Alya was safely stashed somewhere, and that
he
was actually the biggest danger to his master in Talry now.  He felt a strange combination of satisfaction at protecting her and dread at being alone to face the Censors, should they return. 

He felt so bothered by that, in fact, that he broke his orders and tried to contact his master, mind-to-mind, to no avail.  Whatever Minalan was doing, he was too busy to answer his apprentice.  While that disturbed Tyndal, he also knew his master was working in the service of the duchies and was very, very busy.  Reluctantly he stopped the spell when it was clear he wasn’t going to answer.

Tyndal didn’t know who else to try, until he remembered Lady Pentandra.  She had been in the southern part of the Duchy, near to the Bovali refugee’s camp, on some errand for his master, he remembered.  He hesitated calling to her, but he tried to figure out what Minalan would have him do, and he felt compelled to make contact.

Who is this?
Her mind asked, all-business, when she accepted the contact.

L-lady Pentandra
, he said to her mind,
it’s me, Tyndal!

He could have sworn he felt her smile through the magical connection.

Tyndal, what do you need?
She asked.

I’m in Talry, milady,
he explained hurriedly
.  I don’t know if you can help or not, but there were two Censors here today, asking after Master Minalan!

You didn’t do anything rash, did you?

No, milady, we just hid Alya until they were gone.  But they might come back.

They might,
she agreed. 
And . . . ?

Well, I just thought . . . maybe someone . . .
Tyndal really didn’t know what he wanted to ask her, or what he wanted her to tell him, he just knew that he was on a horse much too big for his arse and he wanted help.  The depressing tone of Lady Pentandra’s voice made him feel foolish the moment he heard it.

Tyndal, I hate to dampen your spirits, but there is a war going on right now.  I’ve been gathering warmagi and other forces for it for weeks, now, and I’m headed to the battle or the front or whatever it is you men call it, as soon as I am able.  Minalan has given me a hundred different duties, and only one half-trained apprentice to help me.  Everyone else is likewise deployed.  Unfortunately that means we don’t have many resources we can use to rescue you.

Tyndal felt his hopes subside. 
So you can’t send anyone to . . .

No, I’m afraid not.  I’m not that far from you myself – I’ve been checking on the Bovali refugees, as a favor to your master, and I’m on a barge going upriver now, but we’re still hundreds of miles away.   I know he places a high value on that peasant . . . lass of his, and he has a great affection for you. . . but there are larger considerations to be seen, Tyndal, I hope you understand.  You’ll have to work it out on your own.  That’s not how I want things to be, but that’s how things
are
. 

His heart fell, but he felt the space that remained fill unexpectedly with steely resolve
.  All right, my lady, I will deal with the Censors.  Perhaps if you had any advice . . . ?

There was a pause. 
Do everything in your power to keep from being taken captive, Tyndal.  If they find you are Minalan’s apprentice, you’re never going to see daylight again.  If they catch you with your witchstone . . .
  she didn’t finish the sentence, but the way she said it, she didn’t have to.  Tyndal knew very little about the Censors, and was terrified.  Lady Pentandra knew far, far more about them . . . and was far, far more terrified. 

I understand.  Well, I may have bought a few days,
he said, glumly, and then described the conversation he’d overheard between the two Censorate warmagi.  He also admitted to enchanting Butterbell’s bridle so he could keep tabs on them.

That earned him a mental chuckle from Pentandra. 
Well played.  It’s unlikely that they will even detect the spell, actually, since they carry so many enchantments on them.  It’s not like having irionite – their sensitivity to magic isn’t as high as ours.  But if they do discover it, then you’d best run.  They’ll be able to tell how fresh it is, and they won’t mistake where it came from once they figure it out.

Run? 
That’s
your advice?

It’s good advice.  You can fight,
she reasoned,
but they are both Imperially trained warmagi with years of experience and you . . .

. . . are not,
Tyndal finished, keeping Pentandra from struggling to find a diplomatic way to tell him he was virtually useless in battle
.  I have a warwand, for emergencies, but it wouldn’t do much.  I . . . I understand.  All right.  Well, if things go horribly wrong, please explain to Master Minalan that I did my best . . . and that he shouldn’t do anything foolish in exchange for me.  You . . . you know how he is.

Stupidly noble, for a commoner?  Yes, I’ve observed.  Don’t worry, that’s why I’m around, to save him from his own stupidity.  But you just worry about you and Alya, let me worry about him.   I saw you work at Boval Castle.  You’ve got good instincts, Tyndal, and you think fast on your feet, just like your master.  And you do have irionite, and they do not.  You’ve got something else they haven’t.

Good gods,
what?

Imagination,
she explained
.  You aren’t jaded or hidebound, trapped by your own knowledge.  They have had spell after spell ground into their heads until they can only think in . . . certain ways.  You don’t have that handicap. 

Inexperience and desperation are my advantage?
he asked, incredulously.

I have every confidence in your ability to dodge a couple of Censors for a few days. 

Tyndal couldn’t very well disagree with her without sounding like a coward, so he didn’t.  He bade her farewell and ended the connection. 

As he fell asleep that night, nervously checking the proximity of the bridle-borne charm every few minutes to assure himself that it was still, indeed, over fifteen miles away, he tried to think of every possible plan, every remote contingency that he could imagine and figure out what to do ahead of time. 
“Always have a plan
,” his master was fond of saying. 
“It doesn’t have to be a good one
.”  Most of the possibilities he considered ran to conclusions that featured him dying heroically to save Alya, or captured by the Censorate and subjected to an increasingly gruesome number of tortures, but he tried to do the best he could to be realistic.

It didn’t help that he continued to be distracted by the thought of Ansily, who kept appearing in his plans in unusual – and often unlikely – ways.  Ways which usually led to even more unlikely (but infinitely more pleasurable) conclusions than death or imprisonment.  They often feature he and Ansily hiding out somewhere while the Censors stalked them, the fear they felt compelling them into passionate and imaginative acts of desperation. 

Then he’d remember he had a duty to perform, and sternly forced himself to focus on the very real danger, and not how Ansily might look when she bathed.  He fell asleep long past midnight.

The next day was uneventful, though the bakery was tense and nervous after the previous day’s interrogation.  Alya was safely hidden for a day, which made him feel easier.  And Alya’s absence made things a little easier for the family to bear, they had been shaken by the Censors, and even the children had become nervous after the dour men in the checkered cloaks had made their appearance. 

Tyndal felt guilty about bringing such dread to such good people, but he tried to make up for it by vigilantly ensuring that the men were at a safe distance.  What little he knew of the theory behind the spell suggested that his scrying would not be detectable, and not a quarter hour passed that he did not close his eyes whisper the command, and discover just how distant the Censors were.  And with every receding mile, his heart grew a little lighter.

That night when he finally fell asleep they were over twenty miles distant, and remained there the next morning.  Tyndal begged to see a map of the area – Master Rinden kept a passable one in his office to help with planning and deliveries – and decided that the Censors were likely in a village listed on the map as Lickhaven, east and south, just over the frontier with the next barony on the river.  It was a crossroads village that led to two other river
ports, where Tyndal could only hope the warmagi were headed. 

It was a testament to how confident he felt that the next afternoon he felt complacent enough to daydream about Ansily more than worry about capture by the Censors.  Again when he caught himself he vowed to focus on his duty, and busied himself with more productive things . . . but his thoughts inevitably returned to her, and the way she smelled and looked and tasted on his lips.

He was doing just that when he heard a familiar voice behind him, most unexpectedly.

“Boy!”
the gruff demand came from the doorway, a rough, deep voice laden with derision and disgust.  “What in the name of Ishi’s rotting twat
are you trying to do?”

Tyndal froze, and a thousand thoughts went through his head as he dropped the pitchfork in surprise.  He turned around to face a very irate Censorate warmage.  Wantran, if he recalled correctly.

“My lord?” he asked, automatically.  He tried to stay calm, and not let his face betray him.  He was only partially successful.

“You, boy!  You’re the one!” he snarled.  He wasn’t reaching for his blade, so Tyndal didn’t try to escape.  Perhaps if he played dumb again . . .

“I . . . my lord?” he asked in confusion.  “I’m the
one?
  The one . . .
what,
my lord?”

“Oh, I think you know,” he said, sneering as he entered the stable, his checkered mantle fluttering behind him.  There was anger in his eyes.  “Yes, I think you know
very well.”
He took a step forward menacingly.