Spellbreaker by Blake Charlton Read Free Book Online Page A

for a merchant and strike.
    But the journey had been uneventful. Under the guidance of Magistra Doria Kokalas, his envoy from the hydromancers, Nicodemus had sold his cargo in the ancient Lotus capital for a modest profit and filled his barges with rice, silk, jade. Wondering if the black market would attract the River Thief’s attention, Nicodemus had hidden contraband opium in each of his barges.
    Four days ago the party had embarked from Matrupor, hopeful of being burgled. But last night Nicodemus had fallen asleep with expectations of failure; they were only a day’s journey from the Bay of Standing Islands. And yet here he was, swatting mosquitoes and watching one of his barges being looted.
    He studied the river currents and the lapping shoreline waves. The water seemed mundane, but on the sandy bank two of his watchmen lay unmoving. No simple achievement considering that both were master spellwrights. Whatever kind of neodemon the River Thief turned out to be, he clearly was what Nicodemus considered a “subtle” deity.
    An ominous sign.
    Most young neodemons were blunt minded: fire-breathing attacks on the village walls, tidal waves hurled against merchant ships, hypnotic songs inducing love, madness, or—given the similarity of the two states—both. That sort of thing.
    A neodemon whose attack hid his nature was either experienced or an incarnation of guile; a dangerous opponent either way. In fact, the short but colorful list of neodemonic characteristics Nicodemus considered more dangerous than “subtlety” included such qualities as “sustained by the prayers of more than fifty thousand,” “an incarnation of lightning or pestilence,” and “is presently eating my still-beating heart.”
    Although subtle neodemons made perilous enemies, they could also be made into powerful allies. Nicodemus had to try to convert the River Thief into a god of the league’s pantheon.
    After a last look at the stolen barge, Nicodemus crawled to the next tent and pulled back its flap. Before he could whisper, the entryway was filled with a brutish face—wiry white hair, bulbous nose, horsey teeth. Magister John of Starhaven, once Nicodemus’s childhood companion and now his personal secretary. The big man’s small brown eyes mashed shut, opened wide. “Nico, what—”
    Nicodemus held up a hand. “Who’s in there with you?”
    â€œJust … Rory.”
    Rory of Calad was Nicodemus’s envoy from the druids of Dral and an excellent choice for an infiltration game; however, on this journey, Rory had made a rival of Sir Claude DeFral, the new envoy from the highsmiths of Lorn. Favoring one man might cause trouble. “Where’s Sir Claude?”
    John blinked. “Next tent over.”
    â€œGood. Wake Rory up, quietly.”
    When John crawled back into the tent, Nicodemus rose just far enough to see the river. Neither the barge nor the strangers had moved. If the River Thief fled, Nicodemus could do little more than rouse his party and pursue. The chances of catching a riparian god on a nocturnal river chase were minuscule. Nicodemus had to hope that after unloading his present prize, the River Thief would loot another barge.
    â€œNico!” John whispered from his tent. “Nico, I can’t wake Rory.”
    â€œDead?”
    â€œStill breathing; he pulls his hands back when I pinch his nailbeds. But there’s something…” John held a hand to his mouth. “There’s something funny about how I’m thinking. It’s like I’m feverish or … back in Starhaven.”
    Nicodemus frowned. “Starhaven?”
    â€œI can’t seem to think of … some things.”
    â€œDammit,” Nicodemus whispered as he realized what the River Thief had done.
    When John had been a boy, the demon Typhon had cursed his mind to induce a stereotype of retardation. The demon had then placed