Breaching the Tower
eyesinshadow:
As far as infiltrating buildings went, the biggest pains in the ass were always where mages were concerned. It was for this reason that Cassandra normally avoided anything and everything mage-related, as even the combination of his talents learned at the Court of the Rogue and his own abilities weren’t generally enough to make it worth it.
But this time.. This time was different, and not just for the involvement of mages. For quite a while now, he’d been having the same dream, over and over again; a dream in which he was in a great mage’s library, reading a particular book. Each morning when he woke, the sense of urgency had grown, and eventually, he’d been able to ignore it no longer. While most of his recurring dream had been vague and unhelpful, he’d slowly expanded his knowledge, drifting about whilst Scrying, following thread after thread until he finally stumbled on the information he needed.
The tower he was looking for belonged to one Numair Salmalín, and was located outside of Pirate’s Swoop. From there, his Sight had proved little use, as the rest of the details he’d wanted would require too much of him to be practical to scry for. On asking around through more normal means, neither the mage himself nor his companion were said to spend much time there, meaning that, should he find ways around whatever magical traps were undoubtedly left there, it should be easy pickings.
Of course, as Cassandra would soon be forced to admit, ‘should’ and ‘would’ were two very separate matters. He had been skulking around the base of the tower and using his Sight to try and spot magical wards (with little success, given the power of the mage in question) that might block his path up to a small window several stories up when a voice interrupted his focus, drawing a startled jump backwards from him.
Instinctively, his hands reached for the daggers concealed at his sides, though he stopped short of drawing them. If the woman had managed to sneak up on him, even absorbed in his sight as he was, clearly, she had some skill. Until he knew what that skill entailed, or until she made a move that was openly hostile, he would not make the first move, choosing instead to feed a slip of power into his tattoos, wanting to be ready in case she decided to use the bow she had at the ready.
“I heard there was a great mage in this area, one with great knowledge and power, and had hoped to learn from him,” Cassandra lied easily, slipping into the identity he’d created as a cover story, thankful that he’d thought to wear a loose-fitting scholar’s robe over his normal outfit. “But the last few times I heard rumours of a great mage, it turned out to be little more than Players or hedgewitches, so I thought I might survey his lodgings; see if there were obvious signs of power before making any introductions, rather than potentially waste time again.”
It was a bit of a risk; should Salmalín actually be present, he would immediately be able to tell that Cassandra possessed no Gift, and his cover would be blown. Still, Cassandra had to try; if he could get in peacefully to see the book he needed, his life would be far easier than if he had to—wait.
He’d heard tales of the mage-woman who had overthrown Carthak’s emperor single-handedly, among other tall tales, but he’d assumed it was nothing but tall tales and hogwash thought up by fanciful people with nothing better to do. He had also heard that she spent her time with the Salmalín, but in all the stories, she had been a seven foot tall hero with power radiating from her, not anything like the seemingly plain woman standing before him. Still, if he were actually a scholar, he would have undoubtedly believed all the tales, as stupid as that was, and so for now, he would have to pretend to believe. Peering at the woman with his best imitation of scholarly interest, Cassandra asked quickly, “I’m sorry, did you say the cats were offended?”
Daine had spent most of the last four years in company with some of the finest fighters in all Tortall, so it took a lot to impress her when it came to physical talents, but the speed with which the intruder reacted made her blink. The loose robe made her think of the scholars and monks that filled the castle’s libraries and the City of the Gods, but the sharp reflexes going from startled to controlled in less time than it took Daine to draw a breath – that made her think of the Lioness when she wielded her sword, or Alanna’s husband and his more interesting associates. It was the latter category that seemed to fit this lithe figure the best, and Daine had to fight the urge to smile. She liked George and she liked most of his disreputable friends and minions too. She reminded herself that she didn’t know this person, and anyone sent by George would surely have had the decency to come to the front door…or at least, to admit who had sent them once they’d been caught.
Still, she relaxed her grip on the bow a little; in part because she couldn’t help the feeling of familiarity that the intruder’s presence stirred, and in part because anyone with reflexes that honed would probably be more trouble than a simple arrow would handle – at least as long as she wanted to avoid a killing shot, and Daine was in no hurry to turn this interesting person into a corpse. She had had enough of corpses lately, anyway. She didn’t really need the bow anyway with her friends around, and her own powers too. Everybody calm down, Daine thought sternly to the curious animals who were silently – and not-so-silently – offering her advice or pelting her with questions. They did so, reluctantly, although Cloud couldn’t resist a parting comment: He shovels manure more adeptly than Stefen.
Daine ignored her friend and fought a smile, but she failed; between Cloud’s accurate assessment and the intruder’s eloquent-but-ridiculous words of flattery, she was fighting a losing battle. “Rumors of a Great Mage?” She snorted. “You must be pretty out of the loop, friend, if you think the Royal Chief Mage of Tortall is nothing more than ‘rumors.’ Or did you just not realize it was Numair Salmalín who lives here?” She grinned and then added wryly, almost more to herself, “Which to be fair, you might easily overlook that fact, because he spends hardly any time at home ever, seems to me.” Daine stifled the urge to complain, knowing it was unfounded; yes they were both terribly busy all the time it seemed, but it was all important work, and they could hardly begrudge the efforts it took to repair the realm from the Immortals War – especially not Daine, who still felt a little guilty for her part in everything with Ozorne. Still, moodiness aside, she couldn’t help but chuckle to herself at how Numair would react to being accused of being nothing more than a hedgewitch or a player; the former option would have him squawking like a crow and the latter would have him torn between chagrin and pride since he had in fact made his living as a common illusionist when he had first arrived in Tortall on the run. Sleight-of-hand was still one of his favorite hobbies, and if he hadn’t been a natural born showman in his youth (which Daine suspected he had been) he had certainly picked-up dramatic stagecraft, and a penchant toward melodrama, in a hurry.
At the mention of the cats, Daine took a hand off the bow to scratch the ears of the plump ginger creature braced against the back of her neck. “They are,” she explained solemnly, “they like to think that the little grate down there that you were poking around is their private property – never mind that I’ve explained to them several times that anyone who fits can use it, be they cat or squirrel or vole or even dog.” She shrugged, the cat balancing easily through the motion, and then shook her head – ignoring the affronted chittering from the squirrel perched in her curls as his impromptu nest moved – with a sigh. “Cats,” she said. “You know how they are…I assume.” She reminded herself that not everyone paid attention to the People, certainly not the way she did, although surely everyone knew how cats could be!
“Anyway, if you’d like to come inside through the normal door, that probably won’t offend anybody. If you really are interested in surveying the lodgings I can give you a tour of the place,” she offered with a smirk, “and speaking of introductions: my name is Daine. Nice to meet you.” She held out the hand that wasn’t full of bow and arrow, taking a moment to shake it in an attempt to dislodge the clump of orange cat fur that clung to her fingers first. It didn’t really work, but anyone who expected the Wildmage to not be covered in fur and feathers and other assorted animal leavings was surely ten kinds of a fool.
