From the moment I met him, I knew I could compete successfully against him and have a lot of fun doing so. There’s an old adage that a spellmonger practicing in a village will starve to death . . . until a second one moves in, whereupon they will both prosper from their clients paying to fling spells at each other.
We hadn’t actually flung spells at each other yet, but there was definitely some lively competition between the two of us.
He was terribly polite to me when I first showed up, and even graciously offered to allow me to apprentice with him for a year or so before setting up, say, at the far northern end of the valley (where his previous biggest competitor lived before his death a few years before). I politely declined. I hadn’t been apprenticed, I was academy trained, but I had studied for months with some of the better Alshari spellmongers. I didn’t need his help, or his hand in my purse.
When I told him I had taken a shop in Minden’s Hall, the tiny hamlet in the west, he had a very hard time controlling the level of his vitriol. I found out later that he had bought the bookseller’s shop across the street from his own – at great price – on the misplaced rumor that I was planning on setting up there.
Minden’s Hall might as well have been across the street, not half-way up a mountain, as far as he was concerned. I would be just as available as he to the rural clients, and Minden Hallers wouldn’t be coming his way, anymore. Garky viewed the competition as a subtle personal attack. I tried not to antagonize him, but it was hard, sometimes.
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against a little harmless self-promotion in the course of performing your duties as a spellmonger. When I took up residence in Minden’s Hall one of the first things I did was dress up the reception area of my shop with dark fabrics painted with glowing runes, added a few animal skulls and other revolting stuff, put out a few books of poetry (almost no one in Minden Hall could read) and always kept some incense going on the brazier, just to add to the spooky atmosphere. It contributes positively to a spellmonger’s reputation, and even in a town where there is no competition, a wizard’s reputation is still worth quite a bit.
I won’t go as far to say that everything I did was quackery – far from it. But the locals feel better about plunking down their hard-earned silver (or a chicken, a wheel of cheese, a sack of potatoes or whatever else they have to trade) if they get a bit of showmanship along with the spell.
After all, removing warts is a pretty simple affair. If I just walked in, did the spell, and walked out, it would do little for my reputation. So I add a few nonsense words, wave my arms about vigorously, and burn some nasty smelling incense before I complete the spell. It keeps my customers satisfied that they’re getting their money’s (or their chicken’s) worth, and every wizard and spellmonger I’ve ever known does the same thing.
Garkesku, though, took it a bit far. He had apprenticed to the former court wizard of the Duke of Alshar (well, the former Duke of Alshar, since Duke Lenguin had assumed the Coronet a few years before Farise), and to hear him talk it might as well have been Yrentia herself who schooled him.
He used the title “Master” though I knew he had no more than a journeyman’s letter tucked into his papers. He had never been to any of the Academies – he had never been anywhere south of the northern Riverlands – and was slightly scornful of me the first time I met him and mentioned it. Hymas was his city, he made clear, and he didn’t need any fancy Academy-trained mage to mess up his business.
Garkesku had a corner on the magic market in the southern part of the Vale for a decade, now, and to prove how powerful he is he stopped riding about on a horse, like a normal person. Instead he had a Remeran-style litter built, and he hired four big strapping farmboys to haul his lazy ass around town. He looked ridiculous, and the people said so behind his back, but it did get attention. But that’s Garky’s style.
Around forty-five years old, two decades my senior, he regularly wore the most garish purple silk robes I’ve ever seen. He treated his hair with lime (an old magi trick) and he weaves bleached horsehair into his beard to appear much older . . . and presumably wiser.
To complete the picture he wears a hat in the old Imperial style – centuries out of date and completely ridiculous looking, with gold tassels sprouting from every peak and two long firebird feathers poking out at odd angles. The three surrounding points weren’t even sewn to the cone, they flopped around his ears like a beaten dog.
Garky hobbled around on a staff he didn’t need for support to make himself appear more venerable. Before I showed up, it had been working. People paid him a fair amount of respect for the comparatively simple work he did, and didn’t complain about it until I began undercutting his high prices. Had he chosen to work (or even travel) anywhere outside of Boval, any serious wizard would have laughed him out of the country.
Now that I was around he had lost all the business he used to have from Minden’s Hall and quite a bit from Hymas. Every now and then he tried to sully my good name without seeming to do so; but he wouldn’t challenge me directly, as he knew I was a warmage and in any magical duel I’d win, no question about it.
Mostly, I ignored him, and occasionally sent some of my sillier clients to him as referrals to keep him from getting too nasty. Every tradesman needs a rival he can pawn the worst of his clients off on.
I didn’t really want to spare the time, but I felt obligated to warn him about the irionite in gurvani possession. As the second-best mage in the Valley (Okay, maybe third best – Zagor the Hedgemage up in Malin was actually pretty good at most practical kinds of magic, for a self-taught fellow, and he didn’t take himself nearly as seriously as Garky) I thought he deserved to know that the possibility of serious magical attack existed.
I had Tyndal take the horses down to the market to be watered and rested while I told him. The boy has a great understanding of horses. I’d discovered him doing simple wild magic in a stable.
I didn’t bother knocking at Garkesku the Great’s ornate and ostentatious shop. I went right in and felt the pull of a minor door-warding spell that obviously alerted Garkesku – a pointless expenditure o
His reception area made mine look barren by comparison. He had an entire stuffed catbear in one corner, its glass eyes glaring balefully down at his visitors, and there were three times the number of skulls, musty books, bizarre looking rocks, and dead things in jars of alcohol sitting around. The reek of cheap incense was overpowering.
From behind the curtain, in the bowels of his shop, I heard his voice, augmented magically to inspire fear and excitement. It’s a cheap gimmick.
“Who hath dared disturb the work of Garkesku the Great, mightiest wizard of – Oh, Minalan. It’s you. Good day, sir.”
“And good day to you, too, Mighty Wizard,” I said with just a trace of smirk. He looked down at my road-stained clothes and my well-worn weapons belt and suddenly became afraid. His hands disappeared in his robe.
“Uh, what can I do for you today, Master Minalan?” he asked nervously. “Perhaps some service I can perform for you?”
“No, you can’t. And knock off using the Soothing Voice spell. It doesn’t work on me, and you should know better.”
“If it’s about Vano’s bull, let me first tell you that Vano is a well known liar. I—“
“It’s not about Vano’s bull, but now you’ve intrigued me,” I said, crossing my arms in front of me. “Pray tell, what would Goodman Vano be lying about?” Vano ran a farmstead just outside of Boval Castle, and his kine were the envy of the Valley. I’d treated his prize bull for lazyfoot, a common disease of mountain cattle, just a few weeks before, and he had seemed quite satisfied at the time. Obviously, Garkesku was telling tales behind my back. Not that I was worried – I do good work, and the farmers knew that.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” he assured me. “Merely a misunderstanding. Now, I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to discuss cattle, Master Minalan. What may I do for you today?”
I ignored the jibe and
delivered my news. “You may not have heard, yet, but the night before last Minden Hall was attacked by goblins. And killed almost forty people.” That got his attention.
“Forty? Slain by goblins? That’s horrible!” he said, and honestly looked horrified. I could almost hear what he was thinking, too: Forty clients killed! That’s horrible! He caught himself, as something occurred to him. “Wait. Wasn’t the village warded?”
“Of course,” I answered, evenly.
“Ah,” he said, condescendingly, “the farmers up there are a sturdy but stubborn folk. No doubt they will reconsider their wards when they are done burying their dead.” He tried to suppress a small smile, and almost succeeded. “Well, that is unfortunate. I’ve always been rather adept at wards, myself. Years of practice, you know. Experience you don’t get in the Academies. Perhaps I can spare some time if you’d like to study with me about some of the more advanced functions . . .”
“Damn it, Garky, those wards were perfectly sound, and would have stood up to even the likes of you,” I said forcefully. It had become a sore point in our strained relationship when the village elders voted to let me provide the wards on the village for free, when winter broke, instead of paying Garkesku to do his usual half-hearted job. “My wards are twice what yours are, and you know it. They were military grade. And they were sliced through by the gurvani shaman.”
“My wards would have stood up to the attacks of such a primitive,” he sneered, openly this time.
“Not a primitive armed with a witchstone,” I pointed out, bitterly. “The shaman had help. Irionite.”
I almost enjoyed watching the blood drain from his face. “Witchstones? He had irionite? A goblin witchdoctor? How do you know?” He was scared, but his first impulse was to challenge my veracity. Idiot.
“Because I took it off of his body after I slew him,” I said, trying to sound casually dangerous. I suppose I succeeded, because he turned even paler at that. If there was any doubt before about who was the superior mage, it was gone now. Still, he tried to turn this to his advantage.
“So you have this . . . witchstone. Well, such things are exceedingly dangerous, as I’m sure you’ve heard. They shouldn’t be tampered with lightly. Why don’t you leave it here with me, where it’s safe, and perhaps I can study it and find a way to neutralize its power--”
“Not in a thousand years,” I said amicably. “I have had some experience with irionite, if you recall. In the hands of the Mad Mage. He was a Adept-class mage, too, and the power drove him mad. I have no desire to turn it over to you and risk the safety of everyone in the Vale. I shall keep it, for the moment. As a matter of fact, I’m on my way to the north end of the valley to talk to the Tree Folk about it. I’m hoping they can shed some light on this disturbing attack.
“But the important thing – the only important thing – is to be ready against another attack. If the gurvani have stumbled across a cache of irionite, our lives aren’t worth a broken wagon wheel. There are dozens of tribes in the hills to the west and south of us. If they ever got organized, with irionite behind them they’d be unstoppable.
“So why have you come to me, if not to enlist my aid?” he asked, sniffing haughtily.
“Because I have a feeling that Sire Koucey will retain you to build up the defenses of Hymas, so I thought you’d like a little advance warning, enough time to make some preparations. Professional courtesy, and all.”
Garkesku looked like I’d kicked him in the groin, an expression of anguish and despair that would have been funny under other circumstances. He could see his shop in flames, his clients dead, and himself a poverty-stricken refugee in the eastlands, competing against serious magi for the first time in his life. The thought terrified him.
“I’m sure it was just a simple raid,” he tried to dismiss. Even he didn’t believe it.
“It was a large, well-organized group. My professional opinion tells me it could be a scouting force for a much larger attack. In that case, Sire Koucey will have to prepare a defense, and will likely be sending for you soon to assist. I would impress upon you the importance of strong wards in such a case, Master. Your strongest wards, and no cheese paring.” That was a local expression – when cheese merchants made the rounds of the creameries in the Vale, it wasn’t unheard of a farmer to trim the cheese lightly after it was weighed and neglect to inform the merchant.
“Wha-? Oh, of course, I--.” He looked like he swallowed a spinefish. “Wait! You said you . . . did recover the piece?” he asked. “Intact? A witchstone?” He looked around, as if there were Censors hiding behind every door. “Can I see it?”
I almost said no, but I could understand the irresistible allure. I nodded, and pulled out the pouch. Never taking my eyes off of him I displayed the rough chip of green amber, and his eyes nearly blazed at the sight of it. He swallowed several times before finally pulling his gaze away.
“My goodness, this is an amazing find!” he whispered. “Absolutely amazing! A thing of such power . . . you know, I think it best if a mage of more experience than one so young should really be the one to explore the properties of--”
“Stop it, Garky.” He hated it when I called him that. “As far as the Censorate is concerned, possession of irionite is illegal. Since there isn’t a Censor in five hundred miles, I’m going to overlook that . . . but I’m not about to give it to you. The stone is mine.”
He shifted from obsequious to haughty in a heartbeat. Clearly he felt that such a young mage, a new-made master and budding tradesman, should submit to his age, wisdom and experience. He got angry, and his nostrils flared. “By what right—”
But I wasn’t a peasant to be bullied by this tepid spark. “By right of single combat,” I said in my best Command voice, “to the death. I stood toe to toe with the shaman and bested him, spilled his blood and took it from his dead hand. Do not try my patience right now, Garkesku, I’ve seen too many corpses since last sunrise and that makes me irritable. I stopped by to tell you this out of professional courtesy, only to warn you to prepare yourself. Not because I like you, not because we’re friends, but because that’s the kind of man I am.”
“I still think that my experience and unique perspective as a long-time—”
“Enough!” I finally demanded, all shreds of civility tossed aside. “The stone is mine. Look to your spells and defend your people or flee like a coward, it’s your choice. I am going to consult the Tree Folk, and I’ll tell you what I learn. But don’t try to wheedle this jewel from me again,” I said, tucking it away inside my shirt. “I don’t trust you or the strength of your mind to bear its power without any kind of oversight. But if it makes you feel better, I don’t trust my own strength of mind yet.”
“Wise of you,” he said, sinisterly. He wanted it. He lusted for it visibly. Hell, any mage would. But letting him play around with it would be a waste of a witchstone. I decided to point that out.
“Besides, where would you begin your study, Master Garkesku? I had no idea you were a thaumaturge. . .”
“My master concentrated on more practical concerns,” Garkesku said, sourly. I was confident of that. Thaumaturgy – Magical Theory, that is – is rarely taught with any vigor out in the provinces. Only Imperial magi with wealthy patrons had the time and energy necessary to study it in any detail, and even fewer magi had the brains for it. Or the need for it.
“Luckily, I did. One of the first rules of practical thaumaturgy, Garkesku, is not to poke your mind into strange artifacts. Until I know more about it, it is a very dangerous, very expensive jewel, nothing more.
“One more thing,” I said, enunciating each word as I turned to go. “If, upon my return, I discover that you have suddenly taken a holiday with your Great Aunt Bufi in Remere, I’ll find you, Garkesku. I’ll hunt you down like a wounded rabbit. You have a responsibility to these poor folk that you’ve been cheating all these years. They are your people, now, like it or not.”
“I assure you—” he began indignantly. I stoppe
d him. I didn’t want his assurances, and wouldn’t have believed them if he’d voiced them.
“This attack may have been an isolated incident – I surely hope so. If it isn’t, though, then you, me, our apprentices, Zagor, and even the Boliek sisters in Roby Hamlet will have to stand up to them, because swords and lances aren’t going to do squat against combat magic with witchstones!”
I’m sure my eyes were blazing, because I was livid at the thought of this little worm trying to slink off into the night while his clients and neighbors were slaughtered. The least he could do was stand and die with them. He looked at me, his head bowed slightly, and he sighed.
“You are right, my friend. I will prepare what defenses that I can. You need not worry that I shall try to escape.”
“You’d better not,” I warned, leaving his shop.
* * *
When I returned to the square (which was much more of a proper town square than Minden Hall’s) I treated my apprentice to a well-earned meal at the only decent inn in Boval Vale. I’d been looking forward to it since our paltry meal on the road the night before.
The Lakeside Inn was a small, ramshackle building that served what little traffic passed through Hymas – mostly cheese merchants from the East, and tinkers, and such. I’d stayed there only once, when I was first came to Boval looking for a place to settle. The innkeeper was a large, friendly woman named Mother Breda who treated everyone who crossed her threshold like family.
That isn’t always a good thing.
Her four grown sons helped her run the place. Whether it was cooking, slaughtering a goat, bringing up beer from the cellar, splitting firewood, doing laundry, or changing the straw in the mattresses, the four boys (I use the term figuratively – the eldest was over thirty and the youngest was seventeen) scrambled around hectically while their mother sat on the stool by the fire that was her unofficial throne and yelled orders.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 8