The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (17 page)

“Understood,” I said, touching the remade sphere for the first time.  My mind slid into it like my fist into a well-worn glove.  Suddenly everything around me took on an enhanced character, as if I was carrying a magesight spell all the time.  My head swam as I struggled to get my bearings, and then my mind adjusted.  “My sincerest thanks,” I gasped, as I realized just how much power I now had at my command.  The sphere pulsed in my palm and in my mind with the speed of my heartbeat, and I felt as if I was just beginning to learn the nature of magic for the first time.

“Ordinarily we would never trust a mortal with such power, but these are desperate times,” Ithalia said, sadly.  “The kindreds have stood apart from the affairs of men since before the invasion.  Now we are forced to step back in to help – for the sake of both of our races.  If this can aid you in protecting the Duchies and throwing back the hordes, then you have it with the blessing of the Alon.”

“Some of us, anyway,” Onranion said with a hint of humor.  “Perhaps the rest of the kindreds will heed us now.”

“This is not the time to discuss politics,” warned Antenaran.  “We’re here to celebrate with our new friends.”  Onranion shot him a sharp glance in return.  Time to change the subject, I guessed, from the distressed expression on Ithalia’s face.

“Perhaps not the politics of the Alon,” I agreed, “but there is some humani politics the kindreds should be aware of.  The Duke of Castal plans to crown himself King over Castal, Alshar, and Remere.  And claim right to the other Duchies. “  That caused a gasp from the militiamen and a stern look from Rogo – mere army captains and petty nobles did not discuss the affairs of state so casually, it implied.

I ignored it.  I wasn’t just a knight and a warmage and a spellmonger anymore, I was a magelord.  More importantly, I was a magelord who had (excuse the pun) much bigger balls than I’d woken up with this morning.  No one else had bothered to inform the mysterious Alka Alon, I figured, and as our only real allies in this war so far, I figured they should know.  Professional courtesy.

“That is interesting news,” chuckled Onranion.  “And good news, from where I sit.  It will take a strong force to make the humani strong enough to slow the gurvani.  And while the titles of humani nobles mean little to us, a king of a united people would be easier to confer with than a thousand petty warlords.”

“I’m certain that was amongst his primary motivations,” I lied smoothly – but not smoothly enough for the Alka Alon.  All three of them chuckled.  I’d coaxed laughter from three of the Fair Folk – that was a feat to be sung about.  My men, by contrast, looked at each other uncomfortably.  I could tell the militia, in particular, were excited about the news – they were Castali, after all – but they had the good sense to not ask any more questions.  “But king or duke, we can’t fight the Dead God with steel.  We need the aid of the Tree Folk.  You know more about irionite and magic than we do, and you know our foe better.  I can only hope that this is but the first time we raise arms together, and conspire in council after.”

“There are many within the kindreds who favor such an alliance,” the pretty Tree Folk warrior maiden agreed, after a moment’s hesitation.  “I think you can depend upon an alliance, of sorts.”

That cheered us all . . . although the Alka looked uncomfortable with that admission.  Ithalia glanced over to the other fire pit where the Riverfolk were turning our provisions into an incredibly savory smelling feast.  “I think our little friends are near to serving us.  If you can do nothing else, Sir Minalan, I beseech you to do what you must to protect them, whenever possible.  They are innocents in this war.  And they will suffer egregiously.  The gurvani delight in torturing them, and feast upon them after driving them mad. 
As a delicacy.”

That was a sobering thought – and another invitation to change the subject.  “Tell me, Lady Ithalia,” I said, straightening up and drawing my belt knife for dinner.  “Just how do the Tree Folk consider the subject of mating and marriage?”

She cocked an eyebrow.  “That’s an unusual request for council,” she said, after a moment.  The other two Alka looked amused, Rondal and Rogo looked scandalized, and Tyndal and the petty-captains looked intensely interested – Ithalia was very attractive, in a nonhuman sort of way.

“Just a topic to pass the time,” Tyndal said, eagerly feigning innocence.  “Owing to my Master’s impending nuptials.  How
do
the Tree Folk . . . mate and marry?”  Ithalia shifted uncomfortably.  It may have been my suddenly-heightened senses, but I
swear
I could detect a trace of a blush on her greenish skin.

Before she could answer, the River Folk descended upon us with their impromptu feast.  Furry young maidens – I thought they were maidens – brought rough-woven baskets of fried bread, still warm from the pot, to each of us, while an old sire – he had gray in his fur – carefully poured the rough, robust traveling wine we’d brought into our cups like it was the finest varietal.  The Loblolly Burrow was acquitting itself nicely, under the circumstances.

“First course!” their rotund leader Nug said, bowing obsequiously with his great yellow hat in hand as the three little warriors who accompanied us into the fight appeared, triumphantly bearing a stout brass kettle of soup.
“Victory soup!”

It was a thick, creamy stew of potatoes and carrots and salted beef and pork, thickened with flour and augmented with plenty of wild herbs and roots.  It smelled wonderful. 

But all I could think about was the nasty, disgusting brew we had used to trick the goblins.  The image of the troll lifting it to his befouled lips unmindful of the burns his lips received would not be banished from my mind.

“With all due respect, little masters,” I said, gently, as I pushed away the offered bowl, “I think I’ll wait for the porridge course.”

“The Spellmonger’s Wedding”

A Spellmonger Short Story

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © Terry Mancour 2013

The halls of Wilderhall were nearly deserted at this time of year, as the Duke’s staff had largely relocated to the Winter Palace at the capital of Castabriel, where the bulk of the administrative work of the duchy was done.  But there are some offices which just do not lend themselves to portability, and the Ministry of Domains, Lands and Estates was one of them. 

I suppose it made sense to keep the vast records of all the domains in the Summer Palace.  Space in the busy urban capital was at a premium, and the office needed a lot of it for the voluminous records of who owned what and owed how much tribute where.  Wilderhall is a large castle, and there was plenty of room to spread out.  The archives wound back through the dusty, cool chambers of the keep, tended by a small army of brown-robed clerks.  It was as quiet as a library where I was sitting, in Lady Arnet’s office.

I was awaiting the Mistress of Domains, Lands and Estates with a fresh warrant for my reward in my hands.  I was to have my choice of domains from the Duke’s holdings, within limits.  Theoretically, that could mean an estate just about anywhere.  It all depended upon where I wanted to hang my four-pointed hat.

There were hundreds of estates on the books in his name, estates confiscated for taxation, legal issues, or punishments, forfeitures and estates held in trust for noble lines gone extinct.  The administration of that great empire of real estate and taxation was a massive task, but Lady Arnet seemed more than capable of it.  She had glanced at the warrant when I’d arrived, asked me a few brief questions, and then had me escorted to her office while she hobbled back into the dusty recesses of the archives, to find some possible estates for my consideration.

While I was waiting, I couldn’t help but notice the beautiful collection of thimbles displayed behind her ancient desk. There were hundreds of them, of all shapes and sizes, made of different materials and neatly displayed in a cunningly- carved wooden case.  The ones at the top were golden, the next tier silver, and so forth.  At the bottom there were several of porcelain, tin, and common clay.  It was an impressive and illustrative display of the thimbler’s art – and I had never even known that there
were
thimblers, or that there was art to what they did.

“Admiring my collection, young man?” the creaky voice of Lady Arnet asked, breaking my reverie.

“It’s impressive,” I agreed.  “I had no idea that there were this many types of thimbles.  You must really enjoy your needlework.”

“Bah, I hate needlework – haven’t touched it in years,” she dismissed with a giggle at some private joke.  She took her chair and laid a thick stack of leather-bound folios on her desk.  “Those thimbles are meaningful in other ways,” she explained, casually.  “They are a record of every man I’ve ever ordered assassinated.”

“Oh,” I said, dumbly. 

I might have forgotten to mention.  Lady Arnet was also known as “Grandmother”, the matriarch behind the Duchess of Castal’s sinister Family of intelligence and assassination operatives.  I looked at the collection again.  There were
hundreds.

“The gold are those of royal descent, of course,” she added, conversationally, “Dukes, duchesses, and their heirs.  The silver are nobles of highest rank, the bronze are barons and viscounts, the porcelain are petty nobility, the pewter are craftsmasters or burghers – the six there at the end were once the Barrowbell Burghers’ Council.  The lead ones are clergy, and the unglazed clay are, of course, commoners.” 

I studied the collection anew with a sick feeling in my stomach.  “For magi you should have them made to resemble our four-pointed caps,” I suggested.  “And for High Magi, top them with emeralds.”

She considered, and then nodded in agreement.  “You are anticipating that already?  Then you may just be wiser than you appear, Sir Minalan.”

“I recognize the possibility,” I conceded.  “‘Anticipating’ might be too strong a term.  Our organizations are working well together at the moment, but I also have a fine appreciation the vagaries of Fate and the whimsical nature of the gods.”

She nodded, pleasantly, and poured tea for us both.  “I am so glad we understand each other, then.  I have been doing this a
very
long time, my dear, and I hope you realize that it is almost never personal.  Why,” she said, gesturing to the collection, “three of those thimbles are blood relatives of mine.  But they were in the way.”

“That is regrettable,” I said, feeling almost as chilled by the kindly old woman as I had been by the presence of the Dead God.  “But I do understand.  As I consider how to establish the way magic will work in the new regime,” I added, carefully, “I am certain that we, too, will have to make such difficult decisions.  For the greater good.”

“For the greater good,” she agreed, fixing me with a stark stare that belied her kindly features.  “I do believe we have an understanding, young man.”

“I’m not certain that we do, Grandmother,” I said, invoking her secret title.  “As I tried to explain to Mother,” – the Duchess – “as potent as the protection of the Crown would be for our order, it matters not to us which head lies under that crown.”

She wasn’t startled by the challenge – in truth, I think she expected it. Or at least was so good at her job that she wouldn’t display that kind of emotion unless she wanted to. 

“I can respect that,” she agreed.  “But before you think me a bloodthirsty old bitch, Son-in-Law, let me explain that each of those dainties behind me also represents lives saved.  Sometimes thousands of lives.  Sometimes
millions.
  The Family does not resort to such tactics lightly – that is one way in which we differ from our . . . competitors in other realms.  We weigh everything quite carefully before we send one of our daughters to her needlework.”

The assassins in the Family were almost all female, almost all young and pretty, and extremely talented in making their kills look like accidents.  No one suspects a vapid serving maid or a love-struck young noblewoman to be a secret assassin. 

“I’m sure that brings great comfort to the families of the fallen,” I said, dryly.

“No doubt,” she said, deadpan.  “But let us turn our attention to more important matters than needlework.  The selection of your domain is an important decision, young man.  And learning what it is to be noble is an important skill to learn.  It is my task to help you with both.”

“Both?  I didn’t think nobility was a skill,” I observed, sipping my tea.  Sure, it could have been poisoned, but somehow I didn’t think Lady Arnet would stoop to such base treacheries.  It would be inartful.

“A common misconception.  Even amongst the nobility, if you would have the truth.  But most of us learn these things as a matter of course, from our parents and families and lieges.  Those born common,” she said, without a trace of judgment, “only see the result, not the preparation. 

“But your situation is far from unique.  I’ve taught more commoners how to present their nobility than I have thimbles in my collection.”  She took two books down from a shelf nearby.  “You can read, can’t you?  Of course you can, you were Academy trained.  Read these two books,” she ordered, pushing them to me, “and come to me with any questions.  Now, let us see what the Duchy can provide for you as your just reward for such gallant and faithful service.”

I tucked the books under my arm and we spent the next two hours going through one estate after another.  Each folio was a record of the land, its size and composition, the people, the number of hearths, principal produce and exports, and tax and tribute information. 

Once I had sketched out my basic requirements, Lady Arnet began helping me sift through the offerings, discarding some out of hand, putting some in a pile for consideration, and piling up a very few as strong contenders for my requirements.

She was actually quite helpful, once you got over the fact that she had killed more men than I had.   She kept up a litany of helpful advice about what I should look for in an estate, and she steered me away from any obvious disasters-in-waiting.

“No, this domain was in rebellion ten years ago, and it is still harboring ill feeling among the people – you don’t need to borrow someone else’s trouble for your first estate.  This one has six villages, which sounds like a bounty, but three of them are near to aggressive neighbors and difficult to defend.  This one is a motley collection of feuding clans, you don’t need that kind of management problem.  This one is deeply in debt to the coinbrothers.  This one is split by a river, but there is no secure bridge, and it is surrounded by no less than nine other domains.  This one’s castle is a ruin, despite what the record says.  This one was beset by plague not five years ago, during the Farisian campaign, and there are periodic reports of a resurgence.”  And so on.

But we made progress.  By the end of the day I retired to my luxurious room with my two books – Count Ragin’s excellent
The Practice of Nobility and Chivalry
and Dame Reandine’s equally-helpful
On The Goodly Management Of Estates
– and read them both.  Compared to magical texts, they were light reading, written for the average nobleman, and not nearly as long-winded as the treatises of the magi of old.

Some of their advice was impractical, or was specific to particular types of estates or situations.  I didn’t want a coastal estate, for example, so I skipped the section on how to bribe pirates away from your ports, as fascinating as it sounds. Nor was I likely to have to understand how to treat with an emissary of the Valley People, since Castal’s proximity to that strange and secretive race is limited.  Some was just archaic – it’s been an age since there were actual Priestlords, for instance, and those had been powerful only in the cult-prone reaches of southern Merwin. 

Ragin’s advice about a lord’s duty to his class, his domain, and his liege was classic, however, and put a lot of what I had once thought about the nobility into doubt.  I went to sleep that night with my head spinning with acreages and virgates and stock management and staff management and the difference between high and low justice.  If feudal politics was difficult, learning the proper way to run a manorial system of administration was complex beyond compare.  I started to doubt whether or not I was up to the task of being a magelord.

The next few days went similarly.  I’d spend the daytime in the archives, sifting through the lands with Lady Arnet and her staff, and the evenings I’d study my new profession and investigate my new Witchsphere.   
At night I’d retire to the common rooms with a candle, a pipe, a pile of books, and the company of an old and wiley baron who was just full of advice about how to be a lord.