Knights Magi (Book 4) (41 page)

The castle was little more than a modest three-story shell keep and four-story round tower, with a thick wooden palisade surrounding.  On parchment, Sir
Merendol told them, the estate had twenty hearths and owed service for four lances.  In actuality there were three or four hundred souls within its bounds, most of them living in near-poverty.  But the village boasted a soapmaker and a small trade in apothecarial herbs.

“I recall visiting a few years back,” Arathanial’s vassal told them.  “The Baron wanted to buy hardwoods, and Taragwen has more wood than field.  The village is no prize, not even a proper manor, as it is proximate to the castle.  Just a common hall for moots and such.  No inn.  No mill.  No proper smithy.  But the countryside is wild and fair.  I stayed three days, and went hunting one of them with Sir Corvyan, the castellan at the time, a most hospitable fellow.”

“So who rules Taragwen now?” Tyndal asked, curious.

“From what I understand Sir Corvyan was transferred to a richer estate by Sashtalia.  The present castellan is Sir Pangine.  A local man, long a trusted man-at-arms of the Lord of Sashtalia, and rewarded with the estate when he remarried.  His wife died a few months after he took office, but that doesn’t seem to have affected him much, from what tales the road tells.  He has a circle of fellow knights and men-at-arms he relies on.”

“Well let us go see this Sir Pangine,” Sire Cei said, evenly, “and see to whom he is selling the snowstone.”

The village was a small affair, a circle of round huts clustered around a single longhouse.  There were four stone granaries behind it, but little else of note in the un
-walled, un-diked village.  The peasants were well into the spring plowing, and Tyndal could see three teams of plowmen trudging across the poor soil, their teams of horses and oxen struggling in the mud.  They did not look as wretched as the Sevendori had once been, but they were by no means affluent. 

They rode to the gatehouse where a single bored-looking guard in an iron cap asked their names and business before sending a boy up to the keep for instruction.  He came back soon enough following a middle-aged man well-dressed.

“Hail,” Sire Cei said with a slight bow.  “I am Sire Cei of Cargwenyn and these are my friends, Sir Tyndal, Sir Merendol and Sir Rondal.  Are you the lord of this estate?”

“I have that honor,” the knight said, bowing in turn.  “I am Sir Pangine, and I hold this estate in the name of the Lord of Sashtalia.  To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” he asked, politely, but a bit nervously. 

“We merely seek permission to range through your woodlands,” Sire Cei said, serenely.  “We have been told that the hawking and hunting in Taragwen are superior, and we have tired of the grounds around our own domain.  Yet I would be loath to make such a journey without the leave of the lawful lord.”

It was a reasonable enough request.  Sire Cei had explained the subterfuge, pointing out that it was not, exactly, a lie.  A knight valued truthfulness and honesty, he had taught them.  That didn’t mean he had to be so forthcoming he inadvertently betrayed his master.

The knight considered.  “Cargwenyn?  That’s north, in Lensely territory, is it not?”

“It is,” conceded Sire Cei.  “I am but new to the region, and recently introduced to the lands.  Tell me, are there moose in these mountains?”

“Moose?   Aye, as big as bulls,” bragged the knight.  “I take three or four every autumn myself.  Yet it is not an appropriate season for such game,” he said, curious.

“For my part,” Sir Rondal said, lazily, “I seek better hawking grounds.  I can barely get my bird to take wing before we’ve reached the limits of the wood and field.”

“Taragwen has long held a reputation for good hawking,” conceded Sir Pangine. 

“And I seek to find a different view after a long winter,” Sir
Merendol said.  “Could we beg permission to scout the fields for the day?  I promise we brought enough wine to keep us entertained,” he said, patting the wineskin on his saddle.

Sir Pangine eyed the sack thoughtfully.  “I see no trouble with that, my lords.  Could I persuade you to come warm yourself by the fire inside?  It is but a humble keep, but the fire is hot and I have maps you may find helpful.”

The keep was, indeed, humble, and the four travelers were invited to take a seat at the lone permanent table in front of the fireplace.  As Sir Pangine summoned glasses and food from his castellan, Sire Cei took the lead in fleshing out their story: four knights, comrades, ready to escape the busy plowing season under the pretext of an errand about hunting.  Sire Cei mentioned his new bride and then mentioned broadly how as much as he was enjoying the comforts of marriage, he had found the need to see less of her face for a while.  Sir Pangine, twice a widower, nodded understandingly.

Little was learned in the great hall from Pangine himself; the man was a glorified caretaker, an older knight being rewarded for stalwart service with running a marginal estate.  But there were few other warriors about.  Tyndal counted one on look-out in the tower, another at the gate.  Not that
Taragwen was likely to be attacked – but Tyndal found himself finding fault with its state as a fortress, and imagined how he would conquer the place if he had a mind.

When the gentlemen departed an hour later, Sire Cei warmly thanked Sire Pangine and quietly passed him a few coins “in earnest of our desire to hunt these lands” later in the season.  As noble and ostensibly gracious a knight as Pangine was, he was also of common enough means to appreciate such largess.

“He will look forward to the next time he sees us,” Sire Cei explained as they rode back down the road toward the village.  “It cost us but a few silver and a glass or two of wine, and we have learned a great deal for the price.”

“We did?” Tyndal asked, curious.  “I thought he was an old boor.”

“Who is careless with how he speaks,” Sire Cei reminded him.  “If one knows which questions to ask, and how, and if one pays attention to the answer and how it is delivered, then a man might say a few words in passing that give you what you desire to know.”

“So what did we learn?” Sir
Merendol asked, chuckling.

“Sir Rondal, how many armed men in the keep?”

“Three, Sire Cei,” the apprentice answered.  “Top of the tower, at the gate, and one inspecting the back wall.”  Tyndal swore to himself.  He’d missed that last one.

“Sir Tyndal, what is the most defensible place in the castle?”

“The tower,” he answered.  “One entrance in, with a portcullis and door.”

“We also learned that Sir Pangine is the only knight, that his closest neighbor is six miles north, that he and his neighbor are not amicable, and that he has not laid eyes on his liege in two years.”

“Why is that important?” Tyndal asked.

“A man is loyal to his liege in proportion to his proximity and his acquaintance.  Sir Pangine served honorably as a mercenary for the Lord of Sashtalia’s castellan and was taken on as caretaker – not liegeman – of Taragwen.  While he collects the rents and pays tribute to Sashtalia, Taragwen is not, strictly speaking, his own.”

“Why is that important?” Rondal asked.  “He looks pretty comfortable to me.”

“It’s important because a man who watches another man’s property fights differently than one who defends his own,” agreed Sir
Merendol. 

“Exactly,” agreed Sire Cei.  “Taragwen is not well defended, it is not in great repair, and it is poorly provisioned.  Ten men, at most, could garrison it at once, and there are half that number there.”

“So it’s a dump,” conceded Tyndal.  “So what?”

“Did you see any sign of riches?  Of new wealth?” inquired the knight.

“No,” Rondal answered.  “So . . . if someone is mining snowstone, he hasn’t been involved.”

“Correct,” agreed Sire Cei.  “So let us discover who has.” 

Rondal was able to lead them to the outcropping, using a spell that pointed the direction toward the lowest etheric density in the area.  The trail led into a wood and up into the higher reaches of the mountainside.  From here they could see the white peaks of the mountains that had been affected by the spell, but the ridge closest at hand was gray and brown. 

They had climbed three hundred feet up the trail before they discovered the mine.  The perimeter of the snowstone spell cut through the southernmost edge of the mountain, and a large expanse of stone had been transformed – as had a shallow valley of soil, home to a small grove of cedars and hickories and ash trees. 

The mine itself was on the edge of the hollow.  An area three rods wide had been excavated, the soil removed and the dead vegetation laid aside.  A pile of rocks had also been gathered.

“Luin damn them!” Rondal swore.  “They’ve probably taken half a ton of it already!”

“Why is this white stone so important?” asked Sir Merendol.

“It is unique,” answered Tyndal.  “It makes magic easier to do.  Unfortunately, it also makes magic easier to do for goblins.  Or unscrupulous magi.”

“The soil also has some interesting properties,” Rondal agreed.  “We’re growing a couple of enchanted forests in Sevendor with it.  But Master Minalan is worried that it could be misappropriated.”

“Having a bit of snowstone outside of his control is vexing him,” agreed Sire Cei.  “Is there any sign—”

“Of a camp?” Tyndal asked, as he discovered a cache concealed behind some brush.  “I think so.  Tarpaulin, a bit of food, some firewood, and a lantern.”

“There’s a fire pit over here,” Sir
Merendol called.  “Looks to be at least three or four days old.”

“How did they get it down?” asked Tyndal, looking around.  “The trail is too narrow for a wain.”

“They carried it down in sacks,” explained Rondal.  “You can see the impressions in the dirt over here.”

“This is troubling,” murmured Sire Cei.  “If you wouldn’t mind reporting to your master, Sir Rondal, I want to take a more thorough look around.”

They spent nearly an hour searching the outcropping but found little else to indicate just who had been working the mine.  Rondal spoke with Master Minalan mind-to-mind and received instructions about how to proceed.

“Hey, Tyndal,” he said, after he broke contact and opened his eyes.  “How much Blue Magic do you know?”

“Everything I read,” he admitted.  “Why?”

“Because Master Min wants us to do what I did with the Birchroot Bridge, only he wants it a little more subtle.”  He outlined the nature of the spell.  “Since putting harmful spells on someone else’s lands would be an act of war, Master Min thinks we can figure out who is doing this that way.  He wants to know that as much as he wants the mining stopped.”

Tyndal agreed to help, and the two boys proceeded to tap into their witchstones and erect a sophisticated spell that would not merely indicate who was doing the mining, but that would act upon their minds without them realizing it.  Tyndal was impressed with the plan – he would have just lain in wait for the miner to return.

Sire Cei insisted on stopping at the cottage closest to the mine and politely questioning the fawning widow who lived there, learning that some men had been going up the mountain and bringing back sacks after he’d paid her a copper.  They had claimed that it was merely clay for sweetening the soil, but they were led by an armored man with a long tattered cloak, the hood of which was always pulled low over his face.  Sire Cei noted that with interest, then paid the old woman a few more pennies for her time.

They made a point of stopping back by Taragwen Castle to thank Sir Pangine, who welcomed them to return at any time, before they struck back for the road north.  They discussed the implications of the mine for the greater war, and the challenge of it existing outside of the Spellmonger’s control.

“That will be a problem,” agreed Sire Cei.  “It is no secret that my liege Baron Arathanial has aspirations of re-taking the former Lensely lands.  He has made a proud start after the conquest of last summer, and now the Lord of Sashtalia has lost his most powerful ally in the region.  Had we been tarrying in a more important domain, mayhap we would have called too much attention to ourselves being from Sendaria.  But you can wager that the Lord of Sashtalia and his men will be increasingly on their guard against any scouting of their fortifications.”

“This mysterious hooded figure is intriguing,” Sir Merendol said, engagingly.  “If that is not some sort of spy . . .”

“Aye, but from who?” asked Rondal.  “The
Censorate?  Someone from the Royal Court?  The Brotherhood of the Rat?  Or just some enterprising hedgemage who realized what a find he had?”

“We’ll know more after the next time they arrive to mine,” Tyndal said with a smirk. 

They pushed on and made the Birchroot Bridge by dusk, just in time to enjoy a dinner of pork and pie.  The inn was a little busier that night than before, and after dinner the former highwayman-turned innkeeper, Baston, broke out a battered lute and favored the half-dozen patrons with a song. 

Sir
Merendol led them in a bawdy song after that, which got everyone feeling festive, and after that Sire Cei, to Tyndal’s surprise, sang a lovely melody about love in the springtime that did not challenge his limited range. 

Tyndal was almost speechless.  He had never considered the older knight a musician, but he did a passable job.