Practical adept book 17.., p.43
Practical Adept: Book 17 of the Spellmonger Series, page 43
“So he knows who you are now?” my spymaster asked, as he pulled my notes to him.
“By name and face,” I agreed. “I asked him a couple of political questions, and I’m certain I made an impression. But I was just one of the fellows at the party,” I dismissed.
“Still, it’s a point of access,” Mavone concluded, making a quick note on a scroll in front of him. “It gives us an avenue to reach him, at need. Good work,” he added. “You’re better at this than I thought.”
“It’s good to know that I can fall back on being a spy if the practice fails,” I suggested. “I assume intelligence work pays well?”
“Sometimes, but it’s a shit job, in general,” he conceded. “If you do it well, no one ever knows about it. And even if you do, there’s a depressingly large possibility that someone is going to stick a knife in you before you can spend whatever you make. It really depends on who you work for, and how much you trust them.”
That was a candid assessment, I knew, from a man who knew the business. That’s why I liked working with Mavone. He didn’t kiss my ass and he didn’t bullshit me.
By the time I made it to my own office, I found a neatly wrapped bundle on my desk, along with a note that read: Next time give me a hard one! with a little cartoon cat’s head as a signature. Atopol had been successful.
I had instructed him to break into the Censorate’s headquarters over in the Lower Heron district. They had been provided one of the old university buildings by the Alshari exiles, when they arrived – the university hadn’t held regular classes in years, and it kept it from falling into disrepair. It was just large enough and just close enough to the Palace District to come to Count Cingaran’s aid at need.
“It wasn’t much of a challenge,” a voice came unexpectedly from my window. I looked up, startled, and saw Atopol effortlessly slip into my office like that cat that was his namesake. He didn’t seem bothered by the idea that someone might see him, which assured me that no one did. “I was just heading to bed when I saw you come in. I thought I’d tell you what I found while I had the chance.”
“Apparently nothing exciting,” I remarked, as I glanced at the note.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Atopol countered, thoughtfully. “Oh, the Censorate’s wards were juvenile – only the most basic Imperial spells, I walked through them like a beaded curtain. The evidence was stashed on the third floor, and I climbed right up and into the window. I’ve seen pawn shops with better protection,” he said, critically.
“The Censorate isn’t at their best, right now,” I conceded. “But you found the stones?”
“Calling them stones is charitable. But there were three samples in the box labelled ‘investigations’. I commend the Order on being meticulous,” he admitted, “but they were just lying about, unprotected. Someone wrote ‘fulgurite’ on the ticket, so I figured that was it.”
“So it seems,” I agreed, as I unwrapped the packet. Within the dark cloth was a single fragment of the unusual mineral. “This seems to be the same one Captain Stefan showed me.”
“Good. What is fulgurite?” Atopol asked. It was a reasonable question.
“It’s what happens when lightning grounds out in sand or dirt,” I answered, as I manifested Insight. It felt good to have my baculus in hand once again. You miss your tools, when you are deprived of them.
As the artifact began to activate, I focused its attention on the sample on the cloth.
It was fascinating. The thaumaturgy implicit with the sample was straightforward: a simple field designed to transform the surrounding area into a profoundly positive field, electrically speaking. It was an eight-rune spell, something second-year apprentices learn. Only it was to scale. Whomever had fashioned it had allowed the scope and potency of the spell to be commensurate with the level of power used to activate it. Pour in a bunch of raw thaumaturgic energy, you get something that attracts lighting in an ever-widening field like a pretty maiden attracts kisses.
But that wasn’t what caught my attention. I’m not certain what I expected to see when I inspected the physical surface of the substance with magesight, but what I found was jarring: almost perfect beach sand.
Mind you, I was no expert on the subject. My exposure to beach sand was almost entirely limited to Farise during the occupation. But the exterior of the fulgurite’s glassy surface was encrusted with the minute particles of silica and calcium carbonate, sea shell fragments and particles of coral that were unmistakably marine in origin.
“Well, well, well,” I breathed, as Insight revealed the sample’s secrets. “Tell me, Lord Cat, what kind of cult on the second story of an upscale building in town is equipped with beach sand?”
“I confess I am new to town, and could not answer that confidently, Master Mirkandar,” he said. “But I would imagine a deity devoted to the seas or the shores. Perhaps one of the Sea Lord divinities . . .”
“This cult was not a maritime enterprise,” I informed him, as I concluded my assay. “It was one of those soft and mushy esoteric cults that tell rich people how spiritual they are for a fee. A front for political concerns, I have no doubt, but not associated with the shore or the ocean in the slightest.”
“May I ask how that is relevant to your inquiry, Master Mirkandar?” Atopol asked, with interest.
“Because this sample was almost certainly created on some beach, not uptown. Which means that it is not the result of the lightning strike. Indeed, it appears to be the catalyst for it. The fulgurite is enchanted to draw it to its proximity, from what I can see. I would wager that the fulgurite is what inspired the lightning to strike where it did, but was relatively unharmed by its passage. Indeed, I could likely activate it once again, if I but fed it some power.”
“Let’s not,” Atopol said, hurriedly. “I assume that such a thing is unusual?”
“I’ve never heard of it before. And I like to think I’m well-read,” I pointed out. “Indeed, I’ve barely heard of fulgurite before. But this particular specimen seems to be acting almost like thaumaturgical glass,” I said, as I considered the spell embedded in the shard. “I might conclude that the other two specimens were similarly enchanted.”
“They appeared identical. I can go back and get them, if you wish,” Atopol suggested. “It was not a difficult task.”
“Yet you implied it was exciting,” I reminded him. “You encountered a challenge?”
“Not because of the Censorate,” he dismissed. “But from a fellow professional. I arrived moments before another thief who was lurking about the upper chambers of the Censorate’s lair.”
“That seems . . . unlikely,” I pointed out. I didn’t want to call the lad a liar – he’d never been untruthful to me before – but it seemed highly improbable that he would encounter another thief robbing the same place at the same time. But I’ve been known to be wrong.
“It’s actually more likely than you might think,” he countered. “That’s how my parents met. Hells, that’s how I met Rondal. Just one of those professional idiosyncrasies,” he reasoned. “But there was definitely another thief there. An amateur, but she managed to get through their wards. No great skill for that, perhaps, but it was . . . intriguing,” he admitted.
“Why is another thief robbing the Censorate intriguing?” I asked, confused.
“I am only allowed to marry a female thief, proven in her craft,” he admitted with a sigh. “It’s a family legacy thing. Just like my sister has to marry a mage of surpassing quality and Talent. I just never thought I’d ever find a female thief worthy of consideration. But apparently there’s one in Farise,” he said, with a note of satisfaction.
I frowned. “That seems a rather steep limiting factor in your romantic life,” I pointed out.
“I couldn’t agree more,” the white-haired shadowmage nodded, with an exasperated sigh. “It’s hardly fair – you can find magi anywhere, compared to female thieves. The best most of my ancestors could manage were pickpockets or confidence women. Mother was an exception, of course, and she was stealing for a cause. But it’s damned hard to find a female thief worth pursuing.”
“I . . . I suppose it would be,” I admitted, not knowing what else to say.
“It just gives me hope,” he revealed. “I hope she’s attractive.”
“What if she’s married already? Or doesn’t like you?” I asked.
“What’s not to like?” Atopol asked, with a shrug. “I’m great. And there is no restriction on marrying a widow,” he pointed out.
I was actually a little shocked at his attitude, I must admit. The members of House Furitus always seemed so sophisticated and civilized. “You’d really kill a man to take his woman?” I asked, surprised.
Atopol shrugged again. “If we couldn’t work something out, perhaps. Maybe she has a sister,” he suggested with a grin. “You never know. I’m just excited about it. I thought I’d be a bachelor forever.”
“How do you know it’s a girl?” I asked, skeptically.
“The perfume,” he replied, without hesitation. “You learn to use your nose on a heist. I smelled her hair in the blessed darkness,” he said, dreamily. “She smelled young and pretty.”
“Then so does a perfume bottle,” I suggested. “Really, Cat, don’t get distracted. This is important work,” I reminded him.
“Oh, I know,” he assured me. “I’m focused on the heist. But work and romance are pretty much intertwined, for House Furitus. That’s the nature of the life,” he said, philosophically.
“Then good luck,” I said, with a sigh. First Ruderal, now Atopol. “Did you speak to your shadowy ingénue? Get her name?”
“Not yet,” he admitted, “but I know she’s out there. That’s half of the struggle.”
I grunted. I was doing important work here. I didn’t need teenaged desires to complicate things.
“The sample implies that it was the trigger for the lightning, not the result,” I said, as I wrapped the thing back up. “I think it was created elsewhere and then transported to the site, where it called the lightning from the sky. And it wasn’t alone, if there were more pieces left behind. What would you say that portends?” I asked the shadowthief.
“That someone figured out a way to cast an enchantment on multiple pieces of this . . . fulgurite? At the same time,” he concluded. “I suppose there could be more pieces out there.”
“There could,” I agreed, as I finished binding the sample. “There could be a lot more pieces. What finer way to eliminate a rival or political opponent, than a bolt from the sky?” I pondered. “It’s an impressive means of assassination. Using the storms themselves to terrorize your enemies.”
“It has a certain poetic charm to it,” Atopol suggested.
“But which faction is making use of it?” I wondered. “The targets were a cult, a pastry shop, and . . . what else?”
“A trio of ships at dock in Calafel,” the Cat of Enultramar supplied. “From the Alshari fleet, I believe.”
“If I had to guess the faction, I would say the Restorationists, because this is the sort of heavy-handed magical attack that would announce their power,” I speculated. “But none of the ones I met seemed that motivated. Pratt, perhaps, but if Rellin Pratt controlled the lightning, he’d be bragging about it. He didn’t, when he had the chance,” I recalled.
“Wait, Rellin Pratt?” Atopol asked, troubled. “You saw him?”
“From an uncomfortably close distance. He was angling towards naming himself Doge of Farise,” I affirmed. “I met him last night at a party, actually. He’s a very earnest young man.”
“He’s a pirate and a killer,” Atopol countered, firmly. “He’s of the Brotherhood of the Rat. He shouldn’t be allowed to run a bordello, much less an entire city state.”
“Most great leaders are killers, sadly,” I said, sympathetically. “But compared to the opposition, Rellin Pratt might be Farise’s best hope. It’s complicated – politics,” I explained, apologetically. “I fear the Alshari exiles will take Merwyn’s coin and betray Farise to Duke Andrastal if Count Cingaran is made Doge. I don’t think Pratt would,” I suggested.
Atopol frowned. “If you’re saying that his ego would not allow him to bend to any other power, I might agree,” he said, thoughtfully. “But I’ve had dealings with Pratt in the past. I would not count on him to be trustworthy, once in power.”
“I don’t need him to be trustworthy, just obedient,” I said with a sigh. “Some power has to have the authority to drive out the pirates. They cleave to Farise because it is safe, and none dare stand against them. But Pratt might have the stones to push forward and ignore the Alshari. Especially if they were distracted . . .”
“Plot as you will, Master Mirkandar,” Atopol said, holding up his hand. “I won’t pretend to know better than you. But I would mislike seeing Rellin Pratt as Doge of Farise. So would Tyndal and Rondal,” he reminded me. “They still have an account with the man that needs to be settled.”
“And I have four thousand Alshari mercenaries to contend with,” I reminded him. “Unless I can deal with them, none of this will matter. Pratt may be the foil I need. But I take your meaning, Cat. I was not impressed with Captain Rellin, if you want to know the truth. I would not enjoy leaving him in power. But I must do what I must,” I reminded him.
Atopol shrugged. “I just steal things,” he reminded me in return. “But I thought you’d want to know my opinion.”
“Thank you. Now, I want you to take this back to the Censorate, break back into their complex, and replace it precisely where it was,” I instructed him.
“You want me to un-steal it?” he asked in surprise.
“I got what I needed for it,” I explained. “If it came up missing, it might complicate things and make the Censors ask questions I don’t need them to ask. Is that a problem?”
“No, no,” he assured. “I can put it back.”
“Good. And maybe you can find a date on the way,” I suggested.
***
Jannik’s unique methods of intelligence gathering began paying dividends that evening, when the bard stumbled back to the practice near twilight, dead drunk. Not just a little high, or even soused, but drunk to the point of near insensibility. Ruderal found him clinging to the front gate just as the magelights activated for the evening. He quickly dragged him inside and got him into my main study downstairs.
“This was not supposed to be a drinking holiday,” Mavone reproved, darkly, as he regarded the drunken bard. Ruderal had summoned him and myself, mind-to-mind, when Jannik insisted he didn’t understand stairs anymore.
“I wasn’t having fun, I swear,” Jannnik said, as he slouched in a chair with a glass of fruit juice in his hand. “I was working. I got a job playing for a bunch of Alshari mercenaries over in the Gilded District,” he explained, “a ritzy tavern called the Golden Tiger. Two shows a night, ten silver plus tips,” he added, raising his eyebrows.
“And free drinks, apparently,” Mavone sighed.
“Half price, actually, but there were plenty of patrons willing to buy my drinks,” he assured, slurring his words. “The day I can’t milk a few free pints out of the crowd is the day I hang up my gitar. But the gig was just my cover,” he insisted, waving his empty hand wildly. “The Golden Tiger is the gawdiest, most pretentious place in the district, and its close to the palace, so naturally the Alshari took it over when they encamped. It’s where their officers like to go for a drink and a screw after their shift.”
“Dear gods, you didn’t sell yourself, did you?” Mavone asked, aghast at the idea.
“Not this time – but twenty silver is twenty silver,” Jannik quipped. “No, no, but I did make friends. I always make friends. I’m a friendly fellow, apparently,” he asked, looking dazed.
“Tavern friends are rarely the most savory of people,” Ruderal observed.
“I know – I’m one of the unsavory ones!” Jannik said with a laugh. “That’s my point, wizardlings. In three days’ time I got to know most of the Alshari senior staff, build up their trust, and squeeze them for secrets like you squeeze a lemon into rum.”
“And did this endeavor yield anything more than a bad taste in your mouth?” I asked. I was confident that it would. Jannik could hold his own drinking with great goblins. I wasn’t worried that he’d lose his wits in a comfortable tavern amongst his countrymen.
“Of course it did!” he insisted. “Ishi’s Tits, I had them giving me patrol schedules and tables of organization after three days. They really need to work on their counterintelligence doctrine, you know, it’s abysmal. But then, they aren’t the most organized conquering army in the world,” he said, philosophically.
Mavone was about to retort when I held up my hand. “So what have you learned, Jannik? And be quick about it before sleep overtakes you.”
“Sleep? Don’t talk to me about sleep! You know, when I sleep I share the dreams of the others? It’s disconcerting. Anyway, as to what I learned, that would fill a scroll.”
“Then I will be expecting one, when you sober up,” Mavone nodded.
“You’ll get it – but I won’t be sober. If you learn a secret drunk, you’ll remember it when drunk. Important rule.
“But what I learned is that the Alshari are a bunch of cocky bastards – now that they know they’ll get paid again.” He took a long moment to sip his juice, as his hand had some difficulty finding his lips. “They haven’t been, not for four months, and things were starting to get tense. But apparently Count Cingaran recently acquired enough funds to fulfill their back pay and ensure that he can keep paying them . . . in Merwyni currency,” he said, dramatically.
“Really?” Mavone said, his left eyebrow raised. “That is interesting.”
“Yes, it happened three nights ago, when a Remeran merchantman made port in the Harbor District with a cargo of their shitty wine. It went right to the palace, but a few of the casks was packed with Merwyni gold. About five thousand ounces of it, all told. Enough to sustain the garrison for six months or so,” he reported. “The captain who oversaw the transfer is named Gemarin, he’s a former knight from Rhemes, and he showed me the Merwyni coin, fresh from the mint.”
