Firebrand
Chapter 475: Trapping the Trapper

Trapping the Trapper

In the morning, Martel feigned illness to Maximilian. He endured many protestations from the mageknight before he managed to extricate himself, careful to avoid any encounter with Eleanor; she could easily get the truth out of him if she tried.

Back in his chamber, he grabbed his sack with his disguise, stuffing his cloak in there as well. Should anyone spot him, he was simply making his way to the infirmary to have his very genuine symptoms investigated and perhaps acquire a fortifying tincture from the apothecary. He coughed a few times, just to practise.

As it turned out, nobody spared him a second glance or cared about his destination. Even the sisters of the ward barely took notice of him as he left through the gate. Once outside, he put on his cloak and hurried eastwards towards the bridge district.

***

Although it was the middle of the harvest festival, traffic remained heavy through the eastern gate. Some people were leaving early, others arrived late, and plenty of merchants trafficked their goods on the vessels that brought pilgrims to the city as well. For that reason, Smallport was even busier than usual, and carts constantly left the small town to enter Morcaster proper.

A particular wagon carried a consignment of expensive fabric, though the barrels had entered the harbour as fish, thereby avoiding a heavy toll. Should the cart reach its destination, it would yield considerable profits to the owner. As for the three men in the cart – one holding the reins, two in the back with the barrels – they looked entirely as ordinary warehouse workers. But the knives hanging by their belts had golden blades, and underneath their tunics and trousers, they wore bracelets made from the same precious metal. They were not only well protected against magical attacks of any kind; they could easily turn the tables on a wizard mistaking them for an easy target.

***

Sitting on an overturned barrel, Martel looked half asleep. If not for the bitter wind, he probably would be fully asleep, but it helped his disguise. Wearing the same rags as the other night, nobody cared about what looked like a drunkard sleeping off last night's debauchery, conveniently near the bridge gate.

His eyes more or less closed, Martel did not look at the carts rumbling past him on the road, once the guards at the gate were satisfied with the toll papers. Nor did he have to. The small Khivan – same fellow as last time – had explained matters to Martel.

Late yesterday, a valuable shipment had arrived at Smallport from upstream, intended for Vitus' faction. Unfortunately, the Khivans could not determine it any further; their people were a rare sight in Smallport, and inserting spies into the small river harbour had proven difficult. But given what Vitus and his people had suffered lately of magical mishaps, it stood to reason that they would guard such a valuable consignment with henchmen armed with gold; perhaps they even hoped that Martel would strike, allowing them a chance to eliminate him.

For that reason, Martel did not have to watch the carts with his eyes; indeed, it probably would not help him even if he did. Instead, he allowed his magical sense to sweep out; it could not discern between fish or fabric, but it could tell him of any wagon drivers dressed in gold from top to toe. Halfway through third bell, Martel felt the signature presence of numerous cold pockets and knew he had found the cart with Vitus' men and goods.

***

Martel followed the cart, keeping a good distance. It moved slowly through the traffic, constricted by many people on foot celebrating the festival. He did not have to keep it within eyesight all the time either, but could allow it to slip ahead and use his magic to replace it again; it would not do to let the two fellows in the back of the wagon notice him stalking them.

At length, his prey turned south-west towards the harbour, as could be expected. Sack slung over his shoulder, Martel kept his head down and his back bent. The closer they came to the destination, the more of Vitus' men could be expected. He avoided eye contact and trudged forward, making himself as unworthy of attention as possible. This morning, upon meeting his contact, Martel had even spent a while practising this walk until the Khivan pronounced himself satisfied.

Finally, Martel noticed an increase of people standing about on the street as the cart moved down an alley. Guards keeping outsiders at bay. This had to be the destination for the cart; the warehouse where Vitus stored such precious goods before they were sold. The Khivans knew he had such a place, since he could hardly store them in a cart on the street overnight, but they had not been able to discern its location. Now, Martel knew where to look for it. Satisfied, the wizard plodded away to inform his Khivan friends.

***

In the afternoon, the mageknights began their joust on the festival square. While other students of the Lyceum cheered and shouted in exuberance at the entertainment, Martel was far away. Still in his disguise, he had whiled the hours away in a tavern until his Khivan acquaintance returned to inform him that they were ready to proceed. It had not taken them long to work out the next steps. Following along, Martel went back to the harbour district, still playing the role of a weary day-labourer.

They entered an insula that oversaw the alley watched by Vitus' people. No doors led from the great stone building onto the backstreet, but Martel had no need either. The Khivan unlocked the door to an empty apartment, which conveniently had a window facing that direction.

Martel's companion pointed out which of the buildings specifically served as a warehouse for Vitus' crew. Gathering his spellpower, feeling the magic flow through his body, Martel summoned a lightning bolt between his hands and flung it at the roof of the construction.