Imperial Magic
Alma T. C. Boykin
Copyright © 2018 by Alma T. C. Boykin
Cover art: Sarah A. Hoyt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
1. Coming of Age
2. The Sea Road
3. The Road to Kehlibar Vlee
4. Within the Walls of Kehlibar
5. Ewoud's Dilemma
6. Corruption and Whispers
7. The North Awakens
8. Homeward Bound
9. Arrivals
10. The Emperor Arrives
11. Imperial Interest
12. Business and False Dealings
13. Blood Debt and Poppets
14. Justice
15. South Once More
Author's Note
About the Author
Also by Alma T. C. Boykin
1
Coming of Age
“If your father is late again, I will tan both of your hides, be they on you or off of you!”
Ewoud Rhonarida Galnaar’s ears rang with his mother’s warning as he departed the wares-house. He hurried as fast as was seemly for the son of a prosperous family—only apprentices ran, unless an emergency threatened. The wind off the river encouraged his steps, biting as it swirled between Rhonari's tall, narrow wares-houses. Ewoud nodded to those he recognized at his equals and saluted two of the trade masters. "Ewoud, remind your honored father of the request for dyed hides," Meester Haako Pelzerman called.
Ewoud stopped and bowed. "I will do so, Meester Pelzerman." His wooden pattens clattered on the stones of the paved streets in the merchants' district as he approached to the patricians’ meeting chamber in the free-city's white, crimson, and yellow city hall. The high, wide building bore the crest of the city, and boasted more glass windows than any city hall of the other Free Cities of the north. All twelve of them stood closed against the winter's wind and cold rains, their shutters tight-bolted as well.
The guards at the heavy, iron-dark doors recognized Ewoud and let him in. He stopped only long enough to remove the pattens from under his shoes, then walked with a firm but brisk step, head high, up the shallow stone steps. He did not use the wooden truth-post as a steering grip as he turned the corner, and stood tall when he stopped outside the mayors’ offices. He bowed to the statue of Maarsrodi, Maarsdam of the Traders of the Free City of Rhonari. There he hesitated, catching his breath and listening for voices before venturing closer to the great carved golden-wood doors of the council chamber. He didn’t hear any sounds of government business in progress, nor did the clerk on duty speak to him, so he poked his head inside the part-open door.
Tycho Rhonarida Galnaar stood with his back to the doors, his merchant’s staff in his hand, looking at something on the council table. Ewoud cleared his throat.
“Yes?”
“Most honored father, mother sends her greetings.”
He heard a little laughter in his father’s reply. “I’m certain she did. Come look at this.” Ewoud removed his soft cap, bowed to the honor of the city, put the cap back on and walked into the wood-paneled council chamber. His father pointed to the table with his staff. An enormous pelt draped half the large, heavy table, one leg folded back to keep it off the floor.
“That is… an interesting pelt, honored father.” Ewoud blinked. White fur, so white it almost glowed in both mage-light and oil-lamp-light, covered a black hide. The sturdy hide itself might be of use as boot-leather, but nothing lighter. Or perhaps for furnishings and harness for the heaviest of wagons, Ewoud decided. He'd only seen one or two hides so thick.
“Yes, it is. The messenger from his most Imperial Great Northern Emperor left it as a token of his master’s lordship.”
“Was the pelt from a type o— The Great Northern Emperor? His messenger?” Ewoud caught himself as his father frowned, “Sir?”
“Yes.” Tycho pivoted, his back to the table, and stared at the cold fireplace at the far end of the city council chamber. “After over four hundred years, his most Imperial Majesty is returning.”
Ewoud sat firmly on the wood and tile floor as his knees quit. “Now?” He squeaked, coughed, and tried again. “His most Imperial Majesty is coming now, sir?”
“No, next year, once the sailing season ends. Which in itself is…interesting.” Tycho blinked, and looked down at Ewoud. “As is your seat. Get up so we can go home before your most honored and wise mother decides to fetch me herself.” He offered his son a hand and helped Ewoud unfold from the floor. “Growing six inches in two seasons always affects the balance, should anyone ask.”
“Yes, honored father.” Ewoud glanced at the rich brown and green material of his father’s outer robe. “There appear to be parchment flakes on your robe, sir, if I might be so bold.”
Tycho coughed and brushed the bits of fried batter onto the floor. “Thank you. It seems that the old documents were not as well spell-preserved as the notary mages assumed. If they were bespelled at all, which might not be true of all of them.” Ewoud nodded and pretended not to see his father slipping a bit of mint-seed into his mouth from the little bag in his sleeve-pocket. If he didn’t see it, he wouldn’t have to tell his mother that his father had been eating fried food again, and she wouldn’t scold both of them. They collected their wooden pattens from the rack at the base of the outer stairs and strapped them on.
“Honored father, late winter is an unusual time to travel, is it not?” Ewoud wondered, then dropped back a few paces and fell in line behind Tycho, allowing more space for an apprentice rolling a barrel to hurry past. He’d better not be going anywhere downhill from there, Ewoud knew. The barrel appeared awful light for one boy to move, or was it an empty returning to the wares-house?
“For us, yes, unless it is someone coming west from the Kehlibar vlee. But the ways of mages are strange to the rest of us, aye?” Tycho pointed to the apprentice with the head of his staff. “And that boy’d best not try that on the return, or his master will have to get in line to beat sense into him.” Ewoud sped up to walk at his father’s left shoulder again. Four great-haulers squawked and complained as they dragged a wagon up the hill towards them. The wagon carried firewood, Ewoud noted, and sacks of something lumpy, so either charcoal, earth-coal, or root-crops from the country. He didn’t see a master’s mark on the wagon or the sacks, and nodded. Farmer-hauled load. His father snorted. “Someone’s going to be fleeced like a schaef if he keeps hiring out cartage to the farmers.”
Ewoud had heard the lecture before and nodded. That had to be Henk Wasserman the Younger’s brother-in-law, the one who ran through vlaats the way a trade confraternity meeting ran through smallbeer. The family really needed to pay the separation penalty and be rid of the fool, even if he was the second son of the mayor of Bushmakk.
“So what fate is your honored mother threatening me with this time?” A passing white-smith smiled and nodded in sympathy. Tycho nodded back.
“Tanning your—our—hides, honored sire, either on us or on a frame.”
A weary snort met his words. “She’d be sorely disappointed by the results, I fear. I’m nay so thick-skinned as Meister Talmann nor so thin-wrapped as Caster Paaula.”
Ewoud nodded vigorous agreement. Caster Paaula specialized in preservation magic, and Maarsrodi and Donwah protect and defend anyone who dared to question the quality of his work. Ewoud had never seen an adult throw a tantrum on the scale of Paaula’s, especially not in public in front of every freeman and woman
of the city. “As touchy as Paaula” had become a proverb that season, and remained one five years later. Ewoud started to say something, then stopped, wincing. Three wagons groaned and creaked up the hill, the great-haulers groaning and protesting as well, and no one could hear anything over the noise. The raised grip-cobbles in the wagon-way helped the birds a little, but someone should have added at least one more pair to each six-bird hitch.
Creeeeeaaaaak! Snap! Tycho grabbed Ewoud’s shoulder and hauled him back from the wagon-way, up the steps leading into one of the confraternity halls. Ewoud jumped up the first step, then snagged a passing maid-servant by the arm and pulled her to safety as well. Birds screamed and the second wagon of the three dropped as the rear axel gave way under the load. Two great-haulers, harness broken, raced up the hill, necks outstretched, fluttering their wings and kicking out in panic. The others folded their legs and sat in the street. Those in or near the street yelled at the carter.
“Maarsrodi strike you, you fool!”
“Grab the birds!” a journeyman-tailor yelled, chasing after the pair.
A woman screamed, “Look out, loose barrels!”
A dozen enormous wooden barrels rolled out of the broken wagon, careening down the hill. Maarsrodi be praised they missed the third wagon, but one smashed into a store front, splashing silvery oil-fish all over the door, the bales of something stacked beside the door, and the people nearby. More curses filled the air, and Ewoud glanced up to see if a cloud had appeared, given the lightning and hail being called down on the teamster and his master. Two more barrels of oil-fish broke open at the bottom of the hill, filling the damp late-winter air with a sharp, oily pong.
“Rella of the Lights have mercy, that’s three months of fish-lamp lost,” the maidservant sighed from Ewoud’s elbow. “Thank you for your grace, young sir.”
“You are welcome, but my father, Meester Tycho, heard the wood breaking and pulled both of us,” Ewoud replied.
“That and how the birds shuddered, pulled back as the wagon stopped rolling,” Tycho said. “Your most honored and wise lady mother is truly going to have a fit, my son.”
A score of apprentices, day-laborers, law-keepers, and others swarmed around the broken wagon, unloading the remaining cargo so they could get the thing out of the street before all traffic ground to a halt. They’d sort out what belonged to whom later. If a few more barrels or parcels disappeared, well, who was to say what had become of them? Maarsrodi’s justice came in many forms, when He so chose. So did the Scavenger's. Two men in the buff-and-brown tabards of beast-mages led the great-haulers away, soothing them and confirming their health and soundness.
“We are not needed.” Tycho led the way, skirting the edge of the crowd and keeping in motion, Ewoud following. The maidservant trailed in their wake. She curtsied again and ducked into a sweet-maker’s shop, leaving the men to make their way down the street, around a few corners to the tall, narrow wares-house where Ewoud had been born and raised. The heavy front gates stood firmly shut against the cold east wind swirling through the streets, and Ewoud hurried ahead to open the smaller side gate that led past the wares-entry into the garden and rear house-door.
Rikila, Ewoud’s youngest sister, opened the door, curtsied, and ducked out of the way as something flew past her head. The men exchanged wary looks. “And stay out, ye blasted bird of no use! I declare, Yoorst Himself would nae take ye,” the cook’s voice rang out the open doorway.
“Someone left a window open, and an all-eater got in, most honored father,” Rikila explained, poking her head out again. “It’s safe now.” Her white cap glowed a little against her dark hair and the darkness of the entry hall. Ewoud and his father removed their pattens, handed them to Rikila and a maid, and stepped inside. The main room smelled of roasting fish, something dark but sweet, and flat-leaf false-lemon. “Mother found a new way to cook fish-sausage, honored Father, Ewoud.”
“And you are almost late. Almost,” Ewoud’s mother informed them, sweeping down from the office stairs like the wind over the sea. “Rikila, please remind Bastian of proper manners. Ewoud, go wash lest the servants talk.”
“I’m happy to see you as well, Gerta,” Ewoud heard his father say. Ewoud ignored the rest as he hurried up the three flights of steps to the chamber he shared with Bastian and the two senior journeymen. He rinsed his hands and face, changed out of street shoes into warm house boots, and traded his heavy coat and cap for a long house vest and smaller cap. He raked his hair out of his eyes and patted the sides to make certain that none of it had escaped his cap. Bare heads brought colds and besides, only the southern barbarians and the disgraced went about with their heads naked for all to see.
Dinner began with hot marrow broth. Ewoud’s mother must be feeling pleased with things, because she rarely allowed them to have fatty foods, in deference to his father’s sea-nature. Tycho had been absolutely forbidden to eat anything spicy or fried, lest they unbalance his natures and cause illness. Ewoud wondered why the rest of the household had to suffer with his father, but didn’t question the rule. He remembered how hard his mother had swatted an apprentice who dared to challenge her rules when his father was away.
Ewoud sipped the broth, then savored the lemon-flavored fish sausage that followed. Pickled strips of white-stalk and whole-meal rolls accented the sausage. The cook presented Tycho with an entire roasted sea-pig fillet, and the head of the household sliced the meat, taking the moist inner portion for himself. The maid carried the platter to the lady of the house, who served the rest of the plates. Ewoud got the head-slice, debated complaining, and decided not to. He’d gotten the tail slice last time, so it balanced out. “Radmar of the Table” his youngest brother Wiebe had once called their mother, because she made certain that everyone eventually got good pieces as well as not-as-good. Two bowls of sauce made their way along the table, and Ewoud had some of both. The lemon-flavor did not work as well, but the darker, smoky berry-compote brought out the best in the meaty, firm fish. Golden wine accompanied the meal, followed by spice-bark-laced buns and thumb-sized glasses of herbal liqueur, for digestion.
After supper, Ewoud joined his parents in seats in front of the fire. He did not have any meetings that night, and the younger children had already gone to bed. Ewoud caught a glint of light reflecting off the spirit portrait of his youngest brother and sighed a little. Tycho Kalman Gaalnar would have been four years old at port closing, Ewoud realized, and made Raadmar’s sign. The boy had died of summer complaint before he saw a year, and Ewoud’s parents had done—something. “You will have no more brothers or sisters unless we adopt,” Tycho had informed the five surviving children. Four other spirit portraits sat above the small altar, two of children born before Ewoud’s own arrival.
A maid left nuts, hot cider, and a small bowl of mint-balls to cool the stomach and further ease digestion. Tycho made a face as his wife turned to check the wood-pile beside the hearth. Why did his father insist on tempting trouble and risking his health, Ewoud wondered? He has a cool, wet nature and hot, dry foods throw him out of balance. Ewoud shrugged a little inside. Probably for the same reason that his youngest brother, Wiebe, had tried to master two different kinds of magic. His master had soundly thrashed the boy and forced him to pay damages. Wiebe had settled on being a notary mage after that. Why notary? Ewoud snorted a little—notaries spend half their time poking around in other people’s business instead of their own. It fit his brother quite well indeed.
“So. Port opening is in one month, Donwah willing,” Tycho said.
Ewoud’s mother lit her pipe with a coal and nodded. The firelight brought out the red in what little of her hair had escaped her lace-edged cap and fine gauze headdress. The white clay pipe glowed as well, and Gerta Corwindes Gaalnar reminded her son of an illustration of a creature from the Western Sea. “Are you planning a voyage, my lord husband?”
Tycho shook his head. The silver and gilded plaques on his chain of mastery gleamed, and Ewoud wondered how heavy it wa
s. “No. At least, not for me.”
The chain had to be heavy to lie that still. Ewoud knew that his mother’s deputy chain was solid, and it was smaller than—Why were they looking at him? Ewoud sat up.
“You, my son and heir, are past due to learn something more than hides and city government.” Tycho’s thin eyebrows drew together. “And since you do not have a mage’s gifts or a vocational calling, and you survived your apprenticeship unscathed, more or less, you need to leave.”
Leave? But, where would he get capital? More than hides? But he’d been trained only in hides and some bone! Ewoud felt his heart starting to pound as hard as if he’d just run up and down all the stairs and ladders in the wares-house all afternoon.
“Close your mouth, Ewoud, you are not a clam-sucker,” his mother snapped. He closed his mouth. “Thank you.”
Tycho shook his head a touch, and looked up at the ceiling for some reason, then met Ewoud’s eyes again. “No, I am not casting you out at the city gate. I’m not Antil Webeker, and you are not the person once called Webeker’s oldest son.”
“For which I thank Maarsrodi, Donwah, Korvaal, Yoorst, Radmar, and anyone else who may listen,” Ewoud’s mother averred. She shuddered. “That—person—ugh.”
Ewoud shivered as well. The Webeker boy had never quite fit in with the other merchants’ and master craftsmen’s sons, but still. To do that to a living creature, even if it was a stray dog? And to be pleased about having done it, and to explain how he wanted to do it to a person? Ewoud had prayed that none of his children, if he were so blessed, would ever, ever go that way. To choose such evil, and then to revel in it— Ugh indeed.
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