Imperial Magic

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  "That is the point of law that shall be studied and used," Advokat Junter stated. He tapped the pages. "I have your sworn testimony under god oath from the temple, Ewoud Galnaar. I have the books of law of both Bushmakk and Rhonari, and of the Empire as a whole, although those are vague and focus on man-slaughter rather than accident of death. That Hanka was executed by the men of Kehlibar for crimes against them and their honor is in your favor against the claim, Meester Galnaar." He gestured to Ewoud. "Should Hanka prove not to have citizen claim, than at most the price owned his master is two Kog, and that only for negligence leading to death, which is not what Dogald argues in these." Junter shook the pages.

  Ewoud pinched the bridge of his nose. Should he mention it? Probably. The imperial court likely knew already. "Ah. Advokat Junter, two days ago I called Ambassador Count Mangus's attention to hides being sold as tamman that were actually ovsta. The seller had purchased them as tamman from Meester Dogald, according to the contract he showed the ambassador and the acting market master, and to the notary. The notary found the seal valid but also carrying a secondary magical element, and the mage marks on the hides proved to be illusions, some of them, cast by Hanka."

  Ewoud's father shook his head and covered his eyes with one hand. The advokat's mouth turned down at the corners and he took a deep breath. "Ewoud Galnaar, is your name in any document associated with this finding?"

  "Ah, that is, um, no, sir, unless the market master included it in his notes. Two others signed as witness to the market master's decision, and Ambassador Count Mangus and the trader were listed as the aggrieved parties." What was wrong? The decision would be against Dogald, and should serve as proof of poor moral and trade conduct. That weighed against him, didn't it?

  "Ewoud," his father barked, pointing a finger at him. "Dogald is arguing that you were prejudiced against Hanka and harassed him. How will it look that you claimed that Dogald himself broke trade law?" Tycho shook his head again. "Especially if you then profit from your claim?"

  "Oh sheisse." Ewoud forgot himself for a moment. "What pappekoek!" He clenched one fist and thumped himself on the thigh. "Your pardon honored father, Advokat Junter. I did not think. I just saw hides being sold under false pretexts and feared that it would dishonor all hide merchants and cause trouble with the north men." Now he wanted to pound his head against the wares-house wall for not thinking about the suit.

  "Given how gossip travels, Meester Galnaar," the advokat sighed, "every one in the markets of all five free cities knows a version of the incident by now." He rubbed his forehead under a flop of pale brown hair. "It is done, and Radmar's wheel turns up as well as down."

  "All the more reason for you to remain quiet, and at home, unless you must go out on business." Ewoud took his father's words to include checking on the poppet in three days time. "Or you are called for by someone from the imperial court."

  "Yes, honored father." Now he was doubly glad he had not taken his staff when he went to Widow Henkmar's workshop.

  Three days later, Ewoud squelched through the mud of Weavers' Road. Winter's cold rain dripped out of dark skies Was that why so many trade masters left the cities in the spring, even if they did not have to, and only went as far as Platport? To escape low clouds and the cold rain that never permitted a man to get truly dry? Winter cough and fever would come soon if the rain continued, carrying off the very old and very young. He scraped the worst of the mud off his pattens and shook what he could off his cloak before ducking into Widow Henkmar's workshop. Why didn't the gods send snow instead of rain? Snow was easier to clean up, and the piles made single, albeit large, puddles instead of turning the city back into the marsh from which it had been won. Ah well, the gods acted as they chose and men found ways to cope. He tapped twice before entering the well-lit and snug shop. "Good day," he told the seamstress in the front room.

  "Good day, sir. This is what you came for." She stood, found a box, and removed a white, cat-shaped poppet with dark green eyes, a pink nose, and a collar the blue of the sky in late autumn, when the air turned crisp and bright. "We can also make blue eyes, sir." Ewoud petted the plump toy, then squeezed it. It was not quite what he'd imagined, but close enough to the great cats for a child.

  "I accept the pattern and the poppet." Ewoud opened his hard leather belt pouch and removed five vlaat. His father preferred to use letters of credit, but this once agreed that coin would be better, given the legal problem looming over them. And the silver would not be leaving the city, so it would return to the family sooner rather than later. "Does your mistress know how many poppets she can make from the hides?"

  "Only thirty, good sir. Some will be kittens, rather than cats, but only one or two, sir." The young woman ducked away, as if expecting a blow.

  The kittens would work as samples, Ewoud decided. And could be given as gifts, or for truly small children. Otherwise it fit the numbers he'd estimated. "Good. Send a messenger when the first ten are done, please."

  She curtsied. "It shall be done, good sir."

  Ewoud let himself out and went straight back to the wares-house. Once there he went to the office and considered a wax board. Call it twenty eight cat poppets, plus two kittens. At five vlaat per poppet, that came to one hundred forty vlaat. He'd paid twenty for the hides, plus the making, so if all sold for that price, he'd make eighty vlaat. Ewoud looked at the numbers and wrinkled his nose. Four vlaat per poppet would be better. High enough to make them desirable, but not so high as to keep people from buying, and not so high as to attract claims of over-charging. Too great a profit...Not at this time and season. Maarsrodi had given him an opportunity but also frowned on greed.

  He mentioned his calculations that night after the evening meal. Tycho lit his pipe, then considered Ewoud's words. "I agree. Four vlaat, or even three and a half perhaps. I realize that you are not intending to sell them outside the city walls, but I have been hearing complaints about the family prospering too much over the past five years."

  Ewoud's mother sighed. "Where in the gods' texts does it say that taking advantage of a market, should the opportunity arise, is evil or unjust, so long as life is not endangered?"

  "When the tenth ambassador to date demands that his Imperial Majesty make magic a leb-good and compel mages to work for nothing but their food and shelter." Tycho blew smoke. "Others are asking that lamp oil be made a leb-good. They are four years too late with that request, as you well know."

  Ewoud's mother finished her stripe of knitting and tied in a different color of yarn. "Did no one send messengers to the imperial court before this year, honored husband?"

  Ewoud cracked a nut and tried to recall if he had ever heard. That one year? No, yes, yes, the Five Cities had sent a messenger along with their taxes, and he had returned with the confirmation of their independence. But someone had challenged that, had they not? Ewoud couldn't remember. He got up and stirred the fire, adding a small chunk of wood to the flames, then sat again.

  His father answered at last. "Yes, we did, the Five Cities, but only to ask confirmation of old laws. The less said, the better, everyone on the council agreed, and I do mean everyone. Why attract attention the cities neither needed nor wanted?"

  Gerta gave her eldest son a significant look. "An excellent point, my honored husband." Ewoud tried to recall what he might have done to attract interest, other than the most obvious. Or was she thinking about that time with Gember's bake house? But that had been his younger brothers, and he'd been sick when the others tried to take fruit from Korvaal's trees.

  The next day, one of the apprentices raced into the wares-house and clambered up the stairs to the second storage floor, where Ewoud and Bastian worked on inventory along with a journeyman. "No, those are an order, they should have been set aside with the other orders," Ewoud said, pointing with the stylus to a bale of fine-tanned, red-dyed leather. "Those are for Antoon Bushmakkda. Is there a tag?"

  "Master Ewoud, Master Ewoud, you'll never believe who arrived with gate opening!"
The skinny, new apprentice skittered around the corner and tripped over Bastian. "Oof."

  "Since his most Imperial Majesty is already here, who?" They really needed to finish sorting these before his father returned, Ewoud grumbled.

  "An ambassador from Liambruu, along with a group of strange priests. Meester Enkerman's senior journeyman says that he heard from Meester Ventris's assistant that they claim to be real priests and that the Great Northern Emperor is fake, and that all magic is cursed and that even the Five Cities owe allegiance and taxes to Liambruu and that the king of Liambruu and the real gods opened the mouth of the Moahna and made a port there." The boy, all bones and elbows, gasped for breath. "They are staying outside the city so our magic doesn't contaminate them and corrupt them or so Ventris's apprentice's brother says he heard one of the gate guards telling an inn-wench."

  Bastian picked himself off the floor, brushed off, and planted his hands on his hips, glowering at the apprentice. The journeyman rolled his eyes and returned to work. Ewoud wanted to do the same. Instead he said, "I give ten percent credit to both stories, given how difficult it is to travel overland in winter. Did you get the oil Meester Tycho sent you for?"

  The apprentice gawped at Ewoud like a fish in a net. "But I had news!"

  "You had rumor and story. Go get the oil or you will have bruises." Ewoud snarled. He raised one fist and advanced on the boy. The apprentice bolted out of sight, and everyone heard him clattering down the ladder.

  "I don't see a tag on these, either, Ewoud," Bastian announced after returning to the task at hand. "And I remember hauling these up into storage."

  "So do I, sir," the journeyman confirmed. "It was the quarter moon before the emperor's arrival, they are the last shipment of thin leather from Platport."

  Shortly before Tycho returned, the three men stood around a bale of wool-on schaef skins for coats and vests. A stack of tags sat on top of the bale. A headache worthy of a new-wine hangover blossomed between Ewoud's eyes. "Both of you see this," he grated.

  "Seen and witnessed," they chorused. "Although I do not know how we managed to miss them, sir," the journeyman muttered.

  Bastian rubbed his forehead and Ewoud wondered if his headache was catching. "I can guess, but I'd prefer not to think about that."

  Ewoud considered the tags and the lateness of the day. "We deal with them tomorrow. And let my honored father deal with whoever removed them from the orders."

  "May I beat him just a little, please, elder brother?" Bastian begged. "Please?"

  "Meester Tycho gets first choice," Ewoud reminded them, and himself. "But perhaps if we work diligently at sorting them, he will be generous and allow each of us a thump or two of our own." Because right now Ewoud wanted to take his staff and apply it firmly to the skull and rump of the blasted fool of whichever apprentice who had so carefully removed all the tags. At least twenty sat in the stack. Praise to all the known and unknown gods that they'd not needed to make any major deliveries from those orders and lots yet.

  Ewoud and Bastian waited until after their father and mother had eaten and had at least two tankards of small beer each before breaking the news. Their mother stopped her knitting mid stitch and stared, eyes wide. "How many tags removed?"

  "Twenty three, ma'am. We matched three already and put them back on the proper bales and orders," Bastian explained. He stood as close to the fire as he dared without scorching himself.

  "Please do not run him through with a needle before I speak to him," Tycho told his wife. Ewoud thought he sounded tired. "I need something to release my frustration upon, and Gran Hajo's head is not suitable, or so I was told by Enkerman."

  "Too hard or too soft, my lord husband?" Ewoud thought he heard a bit of laughter in his mother's voice.

  "Soft. I cannot go into details, but the inn-keepers are frustrated, the beast-handlers are irritated, the wine-dealers are discontented, and the King of Liambruu is foolish beyond the ken of mere mortals." Tycho lit his pipe, sat back, and closed his eyes. "Should the rumor tree bear any more blossoms, we will be smothered beneath their weight, Maarsrodi as my witness."

  Ewoud and Bastian shared looks, and Bastian rolled his eyes. "We heard several of them, honored father and mother, in lieu of hearing a barrel of lamp oil rolling into the courtyard."

  "Hein, ah, believes too readily the words of others," Ewoud allowed. "I suspect he may be behind the tags, but I did not inquire, as the hour was late."

  Gerta nodded and resumed knitting. "That sort of thing is best left until fresh light and fresh heads are available."

  "Agreed." Tycho smoked in silence as the fire crackled. "To quell whatever you might hear in the market, Bastian, or someone bring with them, yes, an ambassador claiming to be from Liambruu arrived with the opening of the gates this morning. He says that he has brought true priests of the gods and that they will cast out the imposter who claims lands belonging to Liambruu, and restore proper worship of the gods." He shook his head a little. "If it were not winter, I would seriously consider moving to Bushmakk or one of Vlaaterbe's villages for the next while, until the men of Liambruu are disabused of their assumptions. As it is, I order you to avoid them unless you are physically unable to get away from them," he pointed the pipe stem at each son in turn. "If they come here, close the gates and bar them."

  "Yes, sir." Ewoud answered, and Bastian nodded his agreement so hard that his cap fell off.

  "They did come overland, but sailed as far as Platport. And they paid in good coin this time," their father chuckled without humor. "They have brought all their own food and wine, or so they claim, and have taken space in any inn outside the walls that does not already have members of the imperial retinue staying there."

  Gerta knitted another two rows before speaking again. "Ewoud, what price have you set for the poppets?"

  "Either four vlaat or three and a half, honored mother. The expenses will be sixty vlaat for twenty eight cat poppets and two kittens. Kitten poppets," he added quickly. "Materials and labor."

  "Hmm." She knitted a little more. "I ask because someone was talking to Master Dyekstra about buying white fabric to make cat poppets with. He did not want to sell so little, and directed the woman to the sellers of used clothes and sheets."

  "Sell them as luxury goods for port opening?" Ewoud's father inquired for Gerta and Bastian's benefit.

  "That was my thought, yes, sir. They will have blue collars, and either blue or green eyes, pink noses. They are so by so thick." He mimicked Widow Henkmar's hand measurements. "The first batch will be done at the full moon."

  "By then, gods willing, the Liambruu challenge will be over and done." Tycho made a fist and lightly thumped the arm-board at the end of the high-backed settle. "I do not care for this, for Sanchohaakon's folly. The gods do not tolerate such disrespect. His blindness could curse his people as well as his person, and that," he sighed. "That will not end well for anyone along the border. And border troubles ripple north, as all men with any sense well know. I do not envy his Imperial Majesty for having to deal with such folly."

  Ewoud heartily and silently agreed with his father's declaration. The gods, like the emperor, were best when distant. Would the next rumor be that the king of Liambruu had been struck dead for his folly? How long would it take a story from Liambruu—no, Milunis—to reach Rhonari? It probably varied with the season and if caravans had begun carrying messages as well as goods.

  Thinking of rumors... "Honored father, mother, I do not know if it was ought but the customary complaints, but two women in the market complained that spells cast this season lost their strength. The market woman said that she'd heard two or three other people complaining about light spells and preservation spells both."

  His mother looked sideways for a moment or two. "Marta came in claiming that she'd been told that fruit preserves were dear not because of the lack of fruit last season, but because the preserves soured too quickly or even rotted. Kai at the Broken Loaf said that was why he'd stopped making apple and
cherry braid." She knitted more before adding, "He could have purchased a bad batch. Even with preservation spells, if the maker cut the sweetening or failed to clean the fruit and scald it properly, preserves can go sour and separate."

  Bastian made a face as if he were ill, and Ewoud wrinkled his nose. How could they forget the potted great-hauler? The cook had not gotten a complete seal when she poured the fat over the top. They'd spooned out the meat a moon later and found a green and blue mess that smelled— Worse than a rotten hide or the gut piles at the fish-market in high summer, as best Ewoud could recall. The younger children had refused to eat any potted meat for the rest of the year.

  Tycho put out his pipe and stood. "We will deal with the tags and orders tomorrow. Hides are our worry. Liambruu and magic are not."

  14

  Justice

  "I must have it!" Mistress Garoostra gasped when Ewoud presented her with the cat poppet. "Absolutely must have it. Anka, fetch the purse." The maid trotted off, returning with a hard-bottomed purse with embroidered panels and hanging chains. The captain's wife counted four vlaat in coin and broken rings out of the bag and handed them to Ewoud. He accepted them and bowed. "And I want two more."

  "They will be available at port opening, honored Mistress Garoostra. The bag contains the remnants of the hides, as well as some clipped wool." He wasn't certain what she could do with the scraps, but he was a mere male and ignorant about trimming and decorating women's clothes, aside from the cost.

  Ewoud concluded his business and hurried back to the wares-house. Something troubled the air, something more than the storm everyone claimed to feel looming to the west and north. "Weather's been too warm, aye," one of the carters had averred the day before, as Ewoud supervised loading an order. "Radmar's weather wheel will turn, cold to balance the warm, ye ken?"