The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (4 page)

She considered.  “Would he?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Tyndal.  “My master is as loyal as any sworn knight, but . . . well, there are larger concerns at issue.”  He didn’t feel like explaining more about the invasion – or the undead goblin shaman with unfathomable magical power bent on a genocidal war against all of humanity – to a pretty girl on a warm spring morning, so he hoped she’d not pry too much.  “If he thought that the Duchies would be better served with me in a cell and him running free, then . . .” he said, swallowing uneasily.

“I see . . . it really is complicated.  All right, Tyndal of Somewhere, I’m going to take your word that you aren’t a murderer, an arsonist or rapist,” she said, enunciating the last crime with deliberation.  “And you really are just adorable, and you’re a really good kisser.  So . . . what can I do to help?”

His mind raced like a thoroughbred.  “You said the
Eel’s Elbow
is the nearest inn to the docks?  Then that’s where they’ll sup.  That gives me very, very little time.  So . . .” he said, shifting Ansily’s weight over to the left – inadvertently pressing her right breast into his left cheek – so that he could dig for the soft leather pouch he kept inside his trousers, instead of the large cloth pouch he jingled a few iron bits in.  He withdrew two of the silver coins he had left and pressed them into the girl’s hand.  “Take this, and use it against my mistress staying at the
Four Stags
.  Do not use her real name – call her . . . Delanora,” he decided. 

Ansily grinned.  “So I shall.  And Tyndal?  You can trust me,” she urged.

“Because we’re . . . we’re . . . lovers?” he whispered.  Well,
almost.

She grinned again.  “No, silly, although that’s not a bad reason.  You’ve given me coin for a lodging.  That invokes the innkeeper’s sacred oath to protect their guests against all harm.  If your mistress hasn’t been convicted of a crime or is under warrant, she gets the protection of the House as long as she stays and she pays.”

“And you won’t reveal it to the Censors?  Even if they pay you?”

“The innkeeper’s trust is sacred,” she said, shaking her head.  “Once coin has changed hands, it can’t be revoked unless the guest is unruly.”

“Somehow I don’t think you’ll have trouble with Alya.  Unless you get between her and her plate. If it comes to it, I’ll saddle up the gray mare, she’ll be nice and gentle, and send her on her way as soon as I can.”

“Well, if you help me bring my order up the hill with that handy wheelbarrow, I’ll collect my horse from the stable and escort her there.  She can be my . . . older sister.”

It was Tyndal’s turn to study her.  “Are you sure?  Are you serious?  This is
my mistress
, and—”

“Oh, relax!” Ansily insisted, rolling her eyes.  “Who’s going to see anything amiss with a couple of women on the road between villages?  That’s hardly proof of a renegade wizard.”

“Let’s hope so,” he said, giving her one final kiss before he pushed her off of his chest.  “I don’t know a lot about the Censors, but I do know that the toughest warmagi in the Duchies fear them.  They have spells of detection and discovery that no one else knows.  Or knows how to counter.  If they catch on that I’m here . . .”

“I could never let a decent kisser like you get captured,” she promised.  “Ishi would
never
forgive me.”

Tyndal raced to the bakery as soon as he was sure the Censors had rounded the corner of the High Street and were headed to the
Eel’s Elbow
.  It took him only moments to whisper the news to Dara, who was on duty at the counter.  Wide-eyed she nodded and calmly took the next customer in line.  Tyndal wanted to scream at her to hurry, but that would have been counter to the plan – the point was to avoid attention, not attract it.  He couldn’t even wait around to see if Dara would do what she was supposed to, he had to trust that she would activate the contingency they’d prepared.

He knew what he had to do, at least.  He dashed into the kitchen, used his magesight, and tried his best to see if there were any tell-tale traces of recent activity in the house.  Satisfied that there wasn’t, but painfully aware that he had not the skill or learning to devote to it properly, he went back to work.  He grabbed a loaf for lunch and ran back to the docks, just in time to get his iron stock loaded form the barge.  Much of the next hour was spent pushing the much-heavier wheelbarrow up the slope to the stable.  By the time he arrived, he was pouring with sweat and his lack of sleep was showing visibly on his face.

Two hours after noon, as he was sorting out the rental harnesses for repair, his heart caught again when he saw the flash of black-and-white checkered mantles in the street.  The two Censors had finished their lunch and were back to business.  They entered with the calm arrogance of those used to getting their way, and for the next two hours he fretted while he waited, ready to go to the rescue of the bakers at the first sign of trouble.

Not that he had the faintest idea of how to do that.  But he was willing to die trying.  He owed Master Minalan that much.

The Censors were in the bakery for two hours, as paying customers were turned away at the door.  Tyndal did his best to keep himself occupied with work, but the pitchfork seemed foreign in his hands for the first time in days.  He wanted a wand.  He wanted to get his mageblade.  He wanted his witchstone.  He felt powerless, a mere stableboy, not an apprentice mage, and a survivor of Boval Vale.

Finally, as the sun was beginning its descent, the Censors emerged – alone – looking bored and frustrated.  Tyndal felt a huge wave of relief that they hadn’t discovered anything, and his sphincter – finally – unclenched.  He busied himself with stacking the iron he’d fetched until they passed.

Only they didn’t pass.  To Tyndal’s horror, they were walking right toward him.

He froze, at first, then dove into the harness room at the rear of the stable.  His heart racing, he looked around for something – anything – he could use as a weapon.  Nothing save the battered old pitchfork suggested itself.  The hiding place did, at least, afford him a concealed view of the stables, so he saw the two men enter . . . and heard what they were saying.

“. . . and I say I felt something!” the younger of the two was saying, heatedly.  “That place was filled with spellwork—”

“Most of it years old,” observed the senior of the two – Wantran, he remembered.  “Nicely done, too.  Whomever this spellmonger is, he knows his craft.”

“But what about the other traces?” demanded Lespin, the shorter, younger man.  Tyndal could see that he had a wide face and very broad shoulders, giving him the appearance of being overweight.  The way he moved, however, told a different story.  “Some of those were fresh!”

“And far, far less well-cast than the others, Brother,” chided Wantran.  “The work of an apprentice, at best.  A poorly trained apprentice.  This village has two spellmongers, and the baronial court mage lives in the castle.  There could be anywhere from two to nine apprentices wandering around here.  Boy!” Wantran called out.

Tyndal froze.  He wanted to panic, but he couldn’t think of anything good to panic with.  Lespin continued, unconvinced.

“I think that he’s been there recently – or one of his minions.  Probably to check on his family.  For all we know, they’re still around.”

“Were the signs
that
fresh?” Wantran asked, bored.

“Within the moon,” nodded Lespin. 

“Interesting,” admitted Wantran.  “The family seemed . . . sincere enough, although I know at least a few of them are lying.”

“They know nothing,” dismissed Lespin.  “You can’t trust a peasant to tell you if it’s the moon or sun in the sky.  That mention of a stranger in town? 
Utter
fabrication.  I’m certain of it.”

“Yes, well, they’re peasants and they were nervous.  You can’t trust a damn thing a peasant says, anyway.  Still, we need to investigate this ‘well-dressed stranger’ who passed through . . . if we can ever manage to hire horses BOY!” he bellowed.  Tyndal jumped despite himself, and then stumbled over himself as he hurried to greet the customers. 

Best to play it dumb, he decided.  They won’t expect much from a stableboy, he hoped.

“Yes, my lords?” he asked, opening his eyes wide at the sight of their armor.  It was good armor, serviceable and sturdy, not gilded or ornate in any way.  The checkered motif ran throughout.  The mageblades they bore were likewise plain, standard-issue, he guessed, to all new Censors.

“Two horses, boy,” Wantran said, bored.  “Tack, harness, saddle.  And be quick, or I’ll tell your master how you were sleeping when we came in.”

“How long, milords?” he asked, smiling far more broadly than he felt like.

“Two, three days,” Wantran said.  “That grey gelding and that brown mare will do, if they’re for hire.”

“Rosebud and Butterbell?  Yes, Lord!  Seven copper each per day, plus three for saddle . . . plus a deposit of five silver, in case you don’t come back,” he recited.  Master Gonus only requested three silver as a deposit, unless he knew a customer.  A good horse cost over forty silver, but neither Rosebud or Butterbell were particularly good, in his professional opinion.  In fact, Butterbell was starting to limp on her hind left foot.

“Saddle them,” ordered Wantran.  “And boy . . . have you seen any strangers come through town of late?”

Tyndal opened his eyes even wider, and did his best to appear perplexed.  Then he snapped, exaggeratedly.  “Why, yes, Milord!  Eight, no nine days back!”

“That would fit with the signature of the new spells,” murmured Lespin.  “The earliest one wasn’t a half-moon old.”

“Boy, describe this stranger, please,” said Wantran warmly.  Tyndal could tell the look was highly affected – the warmage was handsome, after a fashion, but his deep baritone voice was seductive, and he knew how to use it.  The kindly tone was purely to elicit information.

“He was his height, milord,” Tyndal said, nodding frantically.  “Well-dressed, like a lord.  Green mantle, doublet, fine hose . . .”

“Did he have a beard?”

Tyndal considered.  “I do think he did, milord,” he said, nodding sagely.  “And a saddlebag stuffed and locked,” he added.

“Locked?  Unusual for a saddlebag,” murmured Wantran.  “Did the man carry a sword?  Like this one?”

“A sword?  Aye, he carried one,” he drawled.  “Went off south, he did, milords.  Is he a bandit?  He had that look.  My ma says—”

“Boy,” Wantran continued, insistently compelling Tyndal’s attention.  “Was there anyone with him?”

“Nay, milord, but he did look powerful dangerous,” he said, nodding some more.  “
Powerful
dangerous,” he repeated.  “He stopped by the bakery, too.”

Wantran looked at his partner.  “So does
he
seem sincere enough for you?  Would you like to perform a test?”

Lespin sighed, but took a small metal object out of his pouch and put it up to his eye.  “Repeat what you said, Boy,” he ordered.  Tyndal did, as best as he could remember.

“He’s telling the truth,” sighed Lespin again.  “So once more we go chasing shadows.”

“If he’s telling the truth, likely this shadow is a renegade warmage,” pointed out Wantran.  “Besides, you’ve been complaining about river travel for two weeks, now.  You could stand a few days on land, on horse.”

“If this boy ever gets them saddled!” Lespin exploded.  Tyndal hurried to get the necessary equipment, relieved at being released from the unexpected interrogation.  His mind raced as he strapped the saddles and blankets on, wondering just what he could do to mitigate this near disaster.  If they had detected recent magical activity, it could only be Tyndal’s work.  It would only be a matter of time before they tracked him down again. 

It sure would be useful if I could do that to them, first, he though savagely to himself as he searched for Butterbell’s harness.  Then he had an idea about how he could do just that.  Despite the Censors being less than twenty feet away, Tyndal did a very,
very
small cantrip on the bridle before he put it on the horse.  His heart beat like thunder as he arranged the three small symbols in his mind, gave it the tiniest bit of energy, and transferred the hook of the enchantment to the bridle.  He waited for either of the Censors to notice – he had already thought about what he would say if it was discovered: that it was placed there by a spellmonger to keep up with errant equipment. 
Plenty
of prosperous merchants used such spells. 
Perfectly
reasonable explanation.  Unless they looked too closely at it, in which case this spell might just buy him some time.  The risk was worth it, he reasoned.  This cantrip wouldn’t just track the harness, but the bearing and distance of the hands holding it.

More hopeful than satisfied, Tyndal triumphantly produced the harness and put it on Butterbell before leading the two steeds to the Censors.  He flirted with the idea of leaving the saddle strap loose, to encourage a bad spill, but that would have been unprofessional, he decided at last.  It could also get them coming back to him a lot sooner than he’d planned.  He resisted the temptation – the tracking spell would be enough.

“For your trouble,” Wantran said, flipping a full silver coin to him.  Tyndal caught it expertly out of the air, the way every stableboy everywhere learns to do.  He was impressed, too – the coin was thick and heavy and crisp, not at all like the few thin silver pieces he’d seen.  Just to be sure, he bit it before putting it in his pocket with a nod of thanks.  Tyndal directed them to the south road’s gate.  As soon as he could, he closed the stable door and ran back across the street.

The bakery was empty – and for one horrifying moment he imagine all of Master Minalan’s large family slaughtered in the back and stuffed into their own ovens.  Urah’s presence in the kitchen allayed that fear, though, and Tyndal forced himself to act calmly as he informed her that the day he had feared had arrived.  It took Urah a moment to realize what he was saying, but once she did she nodded and flew away.  The contingency for Alya was set – but Tyndal himself didn’t know where she would be going.  What he didn’t know couldn’t be revealed, no matter how much they tortured him.

He didn’t find that a very comforting thought, no matter how useful it was.

“Daddy says come see him,” Urah said, when she returned a moment later.  She looked troubled, Tyndal thought, but then she had just been interrogated by a Censor.  That had to be troubling.

Master Rinden was seated on his accustomed stool, his account book open and a dazed expression on his face.  He glanced up at Tyndal and sighed.

“So those are the Censors,” he remarked.  “Nice fellows.”

“Really?”

“Right up until they started threatening my family,” nodded the baker.  “Then I decided I didn’t care what happened to them.  If that is the quality of enemy my son has attracted, I suppose I should be proud.”

“They didn’t hurt anyone, did they?” Tyndal asked, anxiously.

“No, they just asked questions,” nodded Rinden, pouring two small glasses of liquor out of a nondescript earthenware jug.  “And Alya was out the back gate and . . . well, to safety, long before they were offered tea.”  He handed one to Tyndal, who took it automatically.  “Briga’s blessing,” he invoked, and tossed it down.  Tyndal nodded and did the same.

It burned like fire.  Not that Tyndal had never tasted distilled spirits before, but the liquor was spicy and hot and burned a trail down to his stomach.  It also made him relax the smallest amount, for which he was grateful. 

“Thanks, Master,” Tyndal said, formally, as he returned the cup.  “I . . . I’m working on the Censors.  I’m hoping they don’t return, but if they do, I should get word.  In that case, send Alya to the
Four Stags
inn at Roxly Crossing, under the name Delanora.  I’ve already paid for it,” he added.