Practical adept book 17.., p.50
Practical Adept: Book 17 of the Spellmonger Series, page 50
“What’s the latest?” I asked, as I moved to help.
“Count Cingaran has mobilized his troops and is sending hundred-man companies out to each district – at least on the east bank of the river,” he supplied, as he conjured a trio of magelights and a large, professional glass scrying bowl in matte black. “He’s taking control of Heron Hill and the northern districts. There’s been no movement to the commercial or river districts yet, but I’d guess that would be next.”
“Let’s find out,” I agreed, as I conjured Insight.
For three days, events tumbled across the city on an hourly basis as various groups attempted to take advantage of the chaos. The Brotherhood of the Rat seized control of the docks, after the suspicious lightning strike on Pratt’s ship. That included the roads and the docks that connected the harbor to the rest of the town. Commodore Sadikoas kept a few caravels of his men there, but the bulk of his forces were moored at Calafel. There were not enough in the harbor to challenge the Rats.
Three separate patrols were ambushed on our side of the river that afternoon, while an unanticipated riot in Heron Hill sacked a fourth.
You don’t usually expect the nicer neighborhoods in town to be prone to riots, but feelings were high amongst the native nobility and the Farisian adepts. And considering how much brandy they drank, they had plenty of bottles to throw.
The Contramara was widely suspected to be behind the ambushed patrols on the west bank, as all three featured magical as well as conventional attacks. They were more elaborate versions of the one I’d experienced in Mercer’s Market, scaled up to meet the larger units being sent to patrol.
The riot in the posh section of town seemed homegrown, we decided, the result of a group of frustrated magi who were rallying in support of nominating electors meeting a patrol of particularly nasty Alshari mercenaries who seemed opposed to the idea. There was shouting, shoving, someone threw a punch, someone else drew a sword, someone else drew a warwand, a spirited discussion began and it spiraled out of control from there. It didn’t last long, but the anger amongst the magi lingered and festered.
But it provoked a reaction. It forced Count Cingaran to call upon his allies, the Censorate, to help restore order in the district, which led to the rare sight of mounted Censors bearing their full stock of irionite. That just made the smoldering street action more interesting. Cingaran declared a curfew in Heron Hill and Tirza. Pratt declared the curfew null, but declared the harbor districts closed to all traffic.
Things really got interesting that first night. We kept getting reports in from our men in the field – including Lorcus, who had returned via Waystone with Ruderal as soon as the donkeys were returned to Arisife. He plunged into the chaos of the street and began sending us reports mind-to-mind, while Rudy helped me keep the news coordinated with what we were seeing with our scrying. At one point we were running four different bowls and a couple of other, more esoteric methods to keep track of various arcane perspectives. We created a special magemap to chart the action, and who controlled which territory.
I had the brilliant idea to task Atopol with breaking back into the Censorate’s headquarters and stealing a bit of fulgurite from their evidence locker in earnest, since nearly every Censor was fighting in Heron Hill. I also detailed Iyugi, in a rare mind-to-mind contact, to make his way back toward the bridges, if he was able, just to be safe. Iyugi can take care of himself, but he isn’t a warmage, and I wanted him close enough to rescue, if need be.
Jordi joined us that evening, fresh from the docks where he had witnessed the gangs of the Brotherhood spilling out to take over the routes from the harbor. There were about three hundred of them, possibly more, and they had set up checkpoints to control any traffic. Thankfully, Jordi was on the right side of their barriers and quietly made his way back to the practice just after dusk.
“That’s everyone accounted for but Jannik,” Mavone pronounced, shaking his head. “I know he can handle his own business, but . . .”
“He can,” I agreed. “His ephemeral nature makes it a little easier to bear, but it’s his instincts I trust. He’s bound to have found someplace safe at the first sign of trouble. If we don’t hear from him in a day or so, we’ll scry him out and send a rescue team.”
That night, things started to cook in Farise. Several costumed gangs held raids or rallies across the city. There was violence, but it didn’t seem directed at anyone in particular – although the Alshari presence on the west bank was scant. A few buildings went up in flames. Evidently some enterprising smaller gangs took the opportunity to settle scores or bristle themselves in front of their rivals. But dawn came with no serious attack.
“It’s like they’re at the knife sharpening stage,” Mavone suggested, over breakfast. Bluestem had been spared any serious action, thankfully, save for the occasional costumed gangster parading past on their way to more important places. “Things have even quieted down in Heron Hill. I think he’ll withdraw the Censorate by noon.”
“And they will return to a slightly plundered headquarters,” Atopol announced, stepping out of the shadows the way he does. “I got the sample you requested, of course. But I also got the name of the thief who I ran into last time. She was there again, taking advantage of their lax security. I took the chance to introduce myself,” he admitted. “Her name is Haizea. It means ‘breeze’,” he said, dreamily.
“What was she stealing?” Mavone asked with interest.
“Nothing fun,” he frowned. “Some notes, is all. Of course, I only saw her for a few moments. And she was wearing a mask. Same perfume. But she sounded pretty,” he said, encouraged.
“And you just let her go?” I asked, confused.
He shrugged. “Professional courtesy. We were stealing different things. No reason to argue about it.”
“Who is she working for?” I asked, sighing in frustration.
“Either one of the magical houses or perhaps the Contramara. She was an amateur, but she was charmed up like a dowager adept trying to look nineteen again. She’s definitely a mage. That’s a plus,” he added.
“But that’s not all,” he continued. “On the way back I made my way through the temple and commercial districts. Alshari forces have moved into them and have seized control over the Doge’s Bridge and the Palace Bridge. But the Rats have apparently seized the Harbor Bridge, from what I overheard.”
Mavone sighed, and put down his tea cup. “All right, back to work. Let’s see how far this is going to go.”
The second day was the worst. Around the time we were breaking our fast Count Cingaran, in his wisdom, had decided that the curfews were not adequate for demonstrating what a hateful prick he was. He showed up at the Clerk’s Market, High Market, and Three Stars Market on the east bank and closed them indefinitely, as well as all the wineshops, taverns, and tea houses in the districts. He posted guards to enforce it.
That was playing dirty. Even during the invasion, no one had tried to close the markets. That was a social crime, in commercially-minded Farise. People depended on the markets, planning their days and weeks around them. Vendors depended upon them for their livelihood. People only kept so much tea on hand. Interrupting the sacred flow of the market was un-Farisian, in the worst way. If Cingaran had wanted to calm things down, his heavy-handed action had the opposite effect. Murders and beatings were one thing, but when you deprive a Farisian of his tea, things get ugly, quickly.
And they did. The riots re-ignited, turning into running street battles where the locals would torment the guards and attempt to lead them away from their positions. The Alshari were forced to send in reinforcements several times before afternoon, when a massive thunderstorm interrupted everyone’s street fighting. In one case, it interrupted it with actual lightning, killing two Alshari in Three Star Market. No one thought it a coincidence.
But after the storm some of the rioters (or their local confederates) seized the North Bridge, for some reason. They drove off the small patrol detailed by the Alshari to take it, and they seemed to be very proud about that, from what Lorcus reported. He was watching nearby, and giving us some very detailed intelligence on who was leading the little rebellion.
It was telling that when night fell, and the armies of midnight convened, they arose on the west bank and crossed the North Bridge en masse before they descended on the Alshari checkpoints in the commercial and temple districts. This was far less a street battle and much more a belligerent mob. They overwhelmed most of the smaller checkpoints, occasionally pausing to beat and torture the Alshari mercenaries they’d taken prisoner.
Other factions used the chaos as cover to conduct kidnappings or raids of their own. Nobles and merchants were abducted from their homes and hidden away. Shops were broken into and looted – not just grocers and jewelers, but the offices of advocates and counting men and registered agents. People disappeared, that night, and a good many were never heard from again.
It was near midnight when Jannik finally stumbled in. He looked half-drunk and half-dead, but he seemed intact, even if his spirits were sagging.
“It’s a bloody mess, over in the nice part of town. Soldiers patrolling one side, Rats hanging out on the other, both glaring at each other but unwilling to make a move. Oh, they’re were a couple of duels – the Alshari love to duel in the streets, apparently – but nothing worse than that.
“But the interesting news from the Golden Tiger – which remains open, by the way, and brandy is half-price during daylight hours – is that the Alshari and the Pratt factions are talking behind the scenes while their forces stare each other down. Pratt says he’ll release the harbor and withdraw his Rats if Cingaran stands down and allows the selection of Electors at the winter solstice. Neither side seems willing to budge.”
“Cingaran might not survive to the morning, depending on what happens,” Mavone suggested. “I wouldn’t be eager to make a deal myself, in Pratt’s position.”
“Oh, the valiant Rat Admiral is a canny one,” Jannik agreed. “He visited the harbor to cheer up his men while I was out taking a piss in the street. Rode a horse and everything. He looked dashing and dangerous and completely out of his depth. But it’s clear he’s ready for a confrontation with Cingaran. Now, please excuse me, while I wash up, throw up, eat a little something, throw up some more, and then get in a nap. I haven’t slept in two days,” he confessed, as he stumbled up to one of the guest rooms.
We pulled in nearly everyone but Lorcus that night, as the turmoil raged up and down the river, crossing it at times. We tracked it as best we could with magic, and if our visions were accurate (and there are none better) then we managed to follow the fighting fairly well all night.
The devolution of order was fascinating, in a horrid sort of way. The political forces fighting against each other were clear, and their objectives seemed well-defined. But so many non-aligned parties became spontaneously involved that the violence spread far beyond the east bank that night. We watched in fascinating horror as gangs assembled on the outskirts and then plunged into the chaos of their own accord. And as soon as one area had been affected, the neighboring districts started to produce their own predators.
Or perhaps it wasn’t as spontaneous as it seemed. Lorcus was the first one to bring his suspicions to light, that tense evening. He reached me mind-to-mind in the field – the last agent I had out in the streets. He was actually making his way back to the practice by means of the North Bridge, the easiest one to cross.
It’s been a lovely night, he assured me, as he walked quietly through the North Bridge District. Checkpoints and mobs all around. And not all of them are those costumed freaks. I watched people come together, five or ten at a time, talk a little bit and then head somewhere with determined looks on their faces and clubs in their hands. Not thugs, Min, but normal working people. That’s not normal, he insisted. Take up arms and guard the neighborhood? Sure. That’s the natural response, if you aren’t hiding in your cellar like a reasonable fellow. But go out looking for trouble? That’s weird, Min.
I can’t argue with that, I replied. You think it’s coordinated?
I would be shocked if it wasn’t, he suggested. They aren’t even stirring themselves into a frenzy, like a proper mob should. They just all agree on who’s going to get their ass kicked over their shoulders tonight, and they set forth.
Let me know when you’re back at the practice so we can debrief you, I instructed him, and ended contact.
“What if all the secondary violence isn’t mere opportunism?” I asked Mavone, when I rejoined him at the scrying room. “What if it’s coordinated, and using the riots as cover?”
“To what end?” Mavone asked, reasonably enough.
“That’s the question,” I agreed, frowning, as I summoned the magemap we were using to track the activity that night. Symbols depicting reports of violence abounded in the center and the east, but the movements on the west bank were different. We wouldn’t know until we found out who their victims were, of course, but the indications of violence we had were more focused, it appeared, many taking place at roughly the same time.
Most activity on the east bank had ceased, by twilight, but the fighting in the west bank smoldered on into daylight. I was exhausted, by that point – I’d managed to grab a few naps, since I returned to the practice, but I’d been living on tea and brandy and fried porsago cakes. I tumbled into bed before noon, and slept through most of the aftermath.
The third day was quieter after the orgy of violence the night before. The costumed gangs retreated, for the most part, leaving behind a few skirmishers to keep the battered Alshari forces from following. They discarded their costumes and donned civilian clothes as they went, and a good many of them left behind small glass vials amongst their gear. Then they just faded back into their neighborhoods.
Mavone was curious, and had Atopol venture out to acquire one of them, when he heard about it from Iyugi. He found out the vials had contained an herbal potion called bardane, produced from a local seaweed. Bardane, apparently, erases your memory of the last six to eight hours of your life.
That was a brilliant strategy, I had to admit. To stir up the armies of midnight, and then make them forget they participated would make it awfully hard to track them down, I realized when Mavone explained it to me. A clown or a costumed savage or a goblinesque mask might conceal your identity while you commit your crimes, but the bardane kept you from even remembering them. You could stand up to questioning, even a truthtell. It made it damn hard to track down anyone involved. You might have some cuts or bruises, but at least you know you had a good time.
But that third day, Count Cingaran had realized how close he was coming to a general uprising. Though he tried to enforce a curfew, he retracted the market closings. By evening most of his additional troops had withdrawn back to the Palace District, though they did not stand down their readiness.
For his part, Pratt withdrew his Rats from the harbor and returned them to their ships and hidden dens. By nightfall, a sense of calm had come over the city.
That night I got a summons to the front porch of the practice, where Darriky was waiting for me. My attentive servants had already fetched him a cup of tea by the time I arrived to greet him.
“I was wondering where you had gotten off to,” he said, as I settled into a chair opposite him. “I tried to come by a few days ago, but you were gone.”
“I had a job up-country, in Arisife,” I explained. “It took longer than I thought. By the time I got back . . .”
“I know,” Darriky sighed. “It’s probably just as well you missed most of the excitement. Some of us had a meeting – there have been lots of meetings,” he explained. “Some of our colleagues were behind the fracas over in Heron Hill.”
“I figured as much, when I heard about it,” I said, cautiously. “But I’m not political.”
“That’s what people like about you,” Darriky agreed. “But I thought you might be interested in some of what was said. The consensus of opinion was to push for the selection of Electors, regardless of what the Alshari say. They really want to elect a new Doge.”
“So what happens when the Alshari arrest the new Doge?” I asked.
“I’m not certain they could,” he said, proudly. “But we aren’t there, yet. I was coming by to let you know that word from the Palace is that Cingaran backed down. He will no longer oppose Electors being selected at the Winter Solstice. Afterwards, they will start negotiations about electing the Doge.”
“Negotiations?” I asked, curiously.
“Well, the exact method used in the past changed over the centuries, so they have to figure out just who is eligible, how they’ll be selected, and what their given powers will be. It’s been a generation since we had to do that, and that time it didn’t really go smoothly, so there are a lot of questions that need to be answered.”
“Interesting. I suppose that’s more civilized than the way the Narasi usually end up deciding on leadership. But if Cingaran is allowing these Electors, does that mean he will acknowledge whatever Doge they elect?”
“Not one bit,” agreed Darriky. “He doesn’t really have any real authority that doesn’t come from his mercenaries, though, so it will be interesting to see how he responds. A couple of our fellows are considering running for Electors – by tradition, there need to be three hundred and forty four to elect a Doge, from what I understand.”
“How are they chosen?” I asked, fascinated. I knew a little about the intricacies of Imperial history, but that usually didn’t include Farise.
“Traditionally, an ad hoc panel of twelve men, ‘of the wisest and most prudent amongst mage and mortal’ judges the suitability of each proposed Elector at Yule, and if no one objects, they’re in the new Congress. It’s a pretty casual process. You can bet that many of those snobby fellows you met at Alperrik’s party will be chosen. So will Alperrik, for that matter,” he said, thoughtfully.
