Wizard's Goal

by Alan J. Garner

  "You there!” he called out. “State name and business."

  Maldoch hastily kowtowed to the officer, aiming to bluff his way onto Bridgewater. “I goes by the name me ole mum gave me, your lordship. Archigo Jabrenta at your service. Otherwise known as Archigo the Stupendous—card magician, juggler, and all round entertainer."

  "Yes, alright. I don't want your life history.” The officer nudged his horse through the file of travelers to lord it over the charlatan from the saddle. “Aren't you a tad old to juggle?"

  "Heck no. Youth ain't ever a substitute for experience. You up for a show?” Maldoch reached into his haversack.

  "No need for that."

  "Won't take but a trifling, Cap'n. I can put me hands on me balls quick smart."

  "I said no. Where you headed?"

  "Havenstock. I've a brother living nears there. As I'm between gigs, I figure on paying him a call."

  Maldoch's ruse hinged on the simple fact that for a lie to be workable it must contain some element of truth. He was a magician of sorts and did have a brother residing deep in the south.

  "Dunno why I bother really,” he continued, unasked. “The old bugger's deaf as a post in one ear and can hardly hear out of the other. I have to shout myself hoarse just to say hullo. Begging yer pardon, Cap'n, but what's all the fuss hereabouts? Has a toll been put back on the bridge? If so, I can't pay. I ain't got two brass broans to rub together. Don't nobody get rich from juggling."

  "Settle down, old-timer. There's no such thing going on. If it's any concern to you, your betters are having their yearly natter."

  Puzzled by that, Maldoch broke character. “It's late Orgst. The House of Nobles doesn't usually convene until mid spring."

  The captain of the bridge guard leaned on the pommel of his saddle to glower interestedly at the bearded entertainer. “And what would your sort know of their business?"

  Realizing his mistake, Maldoch promptly supplied, “Being a traveler I gets to hear many a thing.” Seeing the line ahead of him start to shift forwards, he artfully suggested, “You must be surely wanting your lunch soon, good Cap'n. Can I be on me way?"

  The questioning officer was indeed feeling hungry and waved the old man on. Maldoch bowed his thanks, missing the hand signal that surrounded him with soldiers.

  Dismounting smartly, the captain ordered his men, “Clap him in irons."

  Maldoch chose not to resist when he was hauled upright, had his staff and carryall confiscated, then manacles requisitioned from a junior Prince's Constabulary copper slapped on his wrists. The Royal High Army captain, a big man on a horse but rather shorter in person, stood on tiptoes to gloat in the wizard's face after yanking the other's hood down. “Freeman Sulca, I hereby arrest you in the name of the prince on the charges of instigating a jailbreak and spying against the crown."

  "Spying?” That allegation actually surprised Maldoch. “How did you rumble me, Shorty?"

  The officer produced a piece of parchment from where it had been stuffed into the top of his gauntlet, unfolded it, and smugly showed the paper to his prisoner by shoving it up against Sulca's nose. “This has been circulating for quite a while. I memorized every line of it."

  Maldoch leaned back and cocked his head, appraising the drawing of him. “It's not very flattering,” he critiqued.

  "A mug shot's not meant to be.” Smirking, the contented officer had every right to feel chuffed. He would earn a commendation for nabbing the realm's number one fugitive, and with the reward money could resign the commission his uncle had bought for him, so as to set up shop in his unfulfilled dream as a fashionable hat maker.

  That did not console the spellcaster. Before being hustled away into Bridgewater, he grumbled about his portrait. “It's true. The pen does add ten pounds."

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  Chapter Eighteen

  Lindan Holbyant was fed up—again. Playing chair to the House of Nobles was a function he quickly came to detest during the early years of his reign. It was like being schoolmaster over a rowdy bunch of undisciplined children constantly squabbling over toys. Meant to provide a neutral environment in which the fractious nobles could discuss the regional economies of the principality civilly, the annual gathering at Bridgewater sounded good in theory. In practice, old feuds and grudges resurfaced, to be rehashed with monotonous regularity, often with the conferences degrading into verbal brawls that frequently led to a premature close of proceedings.

  Sitting at the northern end of an expensively huge oval table of polished kauri inlaid with turquoise segments of paua shell formed into a jigsaw map of Anarica, the bored Prince of Men idly regarded the most influential woman in his realm. Ittoria Coramm, vaunted Marquise of Stranth, sat across from her liege, flanked on either side by her retinue. Tradition permitted a noble be accompanied by two retainers, invariably a highly ranked adviser or family member, plus the obligatory scribe. Refusing to be drawn into a staring contest with the woman derogatorily referred to as the Ice Princess, Lindan looked over the Strantharians she had brought. The scribe was a nondescript fellow unworthy of attention, so the prince focused on Ittoria's counsel; a chisel-faced cavalry commander in his mid-fifties, browning blonde hair pulled back into the trendy ponytail worn by both women and men alike from Stranth Tor. Outfitted in leather armor, Lindan knew the man to be unarmed. Weapons were not permitted here since the House first convened in 500 A.M. when a scuffle resulted in swordplay between two minor gentry hotheads. While not serious enough to end in a duel to the death, one of the men did lose an eye, prompting the ban that saw every noble check rapiers and daggers at the door, and kept their escorting troops barracked off-bridge.

  Referring to the sheaf of constantly updated dossiers supplied by his intelligence chief detailing all attending this year's session, Lindan found the name and biography of the man who had taken his interest. General Speryl Dath, judging from Arrow's succinct report, was a master horseman and exponent of cavalry, as well as being fiercely loyal to his mistress and Stranth Tor. Blain Embah marked him as a “dangerous subject of the crown".

  But a man we'll have need of in the days ahead Lindan thought firmly. Fire, when handled properly, did not burn the user.

  Scanning the rest of the table, he found the same motley assortment of nobility that had congratulated him on his coronation three years ago. The only figurehead missing from what is mother labeled “that pack of hounds” was the slovenly Duke of Karavere. “Drey, where the devil is Widham?” Lindan demanded of his Chancellor, seated typically on his left.

  "Fashionably late?” Wynsorr dryly offered, looking gaunter than usual.

  "Sollerd's a member of the peerage, not some prima donna stage actress,” fumed the prince, gazing sternly at the empty chairs where the Karaverens ought to be. “He must come running when summoned."

  "If I might assist, Highness?"

  It was the Royal Treasurer Dorin Ulc, the chancellor's protégé and acting scribe. A humorless young man with spiky black hair and a personality just as prickly, he was his mentor's faithful puppet.

  "Go ahead,” said Drey, pre-empting his prince.

  "I have it on good authority, from a friend of a friend of an accounts clerk in the duchy treasury, that his lordship is making a deliberate show of being tardy."

  Lindan doubted his diehard taxation minister, two years older than he, counted anyone at all as friend. “His reason being, Ulc?"

  "A protest."

  "What's he protesting?"

  "Royal Roadway levies."

  The monarch was unsurprised. Paramount on the agenda for this year's convention was the abysmal state of disrepair of the realm's provincial highways. Financially speaking, the regional aristocrats were responsible for their upkeep, but were thus far pleading poverty. The roads had fallen into terrible ruin on the rural stretches and it would take exorbitant sums for repaving on a nationwide scale, which is why Lindan was proposing the wealthier districts subsidize the work gangs, hence Sollerd's infantile r
eluctance to turn up and Lady Coramm's smiling demeanor. Parting with their money was ever a sore point for those of noble blood.

  "Duke Widham is of the opinion that his coastal duchy, with its shipping concerns, shouldn't have to fund roads,” expounded Dorin Ulc.

  "Which explains why we've been sitting here, unable to get started these last four days and watching Baron Savanth's armor rust,” griped Drey. The House of Nobles could not convene unless all were present. To date, the only discussion on the table was the weather and that subject had been exhausted in the first minute of day one.

  "When does your ‘friend of a friend’ expect his lord and master to grace us with his presence?” Lindan asked his Treasurer with blatant sarcasm.

  "He thought about a week or so, according to this morning's courier message."

  The Prince of Men had enough composure left not to throw a tantrum. The convention room was airy enough, with plush green carpeting and floor to ceiling wrought iron windows. It was the rest of Bridgewater's accommodation that left much to be desired. The meeting ground functioned primarily as a bridge and the guest quarters lacked the roominess for lengthy stays.

  Lindan was toying with the unpleasant notion of approaching Ittoria to go halves in a future expansion of Bridgewater's lodgings when a herald waltzed in through the double doors at the northern end of the rectangular room. He stayed long enough to bend the prince's ear with his whispered message before hurrying out.

  "My Lords ... and Lady,” the prince said in a loud voice, hurriedly rising from his chair as he did so, compelling his Chancellor and Treasurer to blindly follow suit. “A matter of some urgency has arisen that I must attend to. As the hour is almost noon, I suggest we recess for lunch."

  With nothing better to do, the assorted nobles agreed and deferentially came off their chairs as their regent left the room. The Marquise of Stranth, along with her general and scribe, rudely remained seated.

  "Will that woman never learn manners?” Drey muttered on his way out.

  Lindan strode fast. Dorin Ulc kept pace, but the elderly chancellor struggled to match the prince's speed.

  "Highness, might I suggest a little less unseemly haste?” Drey called up front.

  "You may not,” replied Lindan. Turning left into the hallway on the other side of the north facing entry doors, he picked up his Housecarls bodyguard and proceeded down the broad staircase leading to the lower levels of the tower in a fast walk little short of running.

  "May I then ask the nature of this sprint?” enquired Drey, his breathing labored.

  The prince abruptly came to a dead stop on the landing from which one half of the accommodation level was accessed. “Drey, I don't have need of you in this matter. Take Dorin and revise the shared costing of the Western and Southern Royal Roadways. Widham has displeased me with his behavior. Give Karavere the lion's share of the bill."

  Leaving his anorexic chancellor agape on the landing, Lindan resumed hurrying down the flight of stairs. He was met at the bottom by the saluting Housecarls captain.

  "Where are you holding him?"

  "In the stables,” supplied Starf, gesturing for his monarch to precede him outside.

  "Funny place to detain a prisoner,” commented Lindan, slowing to match Dikor's steps.

  "There isn't much to choose from in the way of lockable rooms in this rabbit warren, your Highness. Whoever designed Bridgewater forgot to include cells."

  "Perhaps because this is foremost a commerce route, not a prison."

  "No disrespect, Prince Lindan, but there's one or two noble criminals inside who deserve a stint behind bars."

  Lindan smiled indulgently and said, “You never struck me as an architectural critic, Captain."

  "I have many interests, Sire."

  "But one without a skirt?"

  Starf Dikor's face reddened.

  They walked briskly over the paving stones toward the low-slung timber building stabling the horses, avoiding the thinning line of travelers filing through the arched entranceway to the main bridge. More Housecarls fell in beside and behind their prince. Assassination lurked as a constant threat to the monarchy and Captain Dikor was taking no chances, especially with the Stranth only a river's breadth away.

  "The messenger said he gave himself up without a struggle,” mentioned Lindan.

  "Not so much as a single word of outrage,” Starf said with worry. That was unlike the crotchety wizard he had come to know.

  The stables were less than ten paces away. A full squad of Royal High Army soldiers stationed outside its perimeter had the manure-reeking building secured tighter than the Free Trade Bank depository in Jarde. Starf waved them aside and led the Prince of Men in. The pong, a mixed bag of horse droppings, leather harnesses and saddlery, plus feed hay, was simply awful.

  Covering his nose with a kerchief, Lindan was ushered down the walkway fronting the stalls. The prince's first time in a stable in his privileged life, he was both repulsed and fascinated by the sights and smells of the horse hostel. Riding, whether for pleasure or the hunt, was a favorite pastime of the gentry and Lindan had learnt to ride when but a nipper. However, with grooms and stable hands to saddle and brush down his mounts, Lindan's contact with horses remained superficial.

  Maldoch sat imprisoned in the smallest stall at the end of the row, guarded by more gorilla-sized troopers. The army seemed intent on staking its claim to the collar of the year, despite the pair of truncheon-carrying constables standing staunchly outside the bolted half-doors averring otherwise. Their junior colleague, the one whose bracelets adorned the captured wizard's wrists, had duly notified his local superiors of the arrest and they were attempting to muscle in on the glory of the catch.

  Before reaching the policemen, Lindan Holbyant was intercepted by a rather short officer wearing the breastplate and helmet crest of an army captain. “Your Princeliness, I'm the one who made the arrest,” the man declaimed, “and these failed soldiers are trying to rob me of my reward.” He stabbed an accusing finger at the two coppers.

  "I'll take care of this,” Starf muttered with a determined oath, bustling the plaintive captain out of the stables. While sharing equal rank in name with his army counterpart, the Housecarls commander did in fact possess the authority of a general and grossly outranked the whiner.

  Faintly amused at having a powerful wizard under lock and key as the constables unbolted the stall doors to grant him admittance, Lindan did his best not to grin at sight of the handcuffed spellcaster sitting dejectedly on the heaped straw like a deadbeat peasant laborer.

  "You took your time getting here, young Holbyant,” grouched Maldoch. “I don't know how horses can bear to lie on straw. It's so damn scratchy."

  "I was only just informed of your arrival,” the prince answered, mindful to close the stable doors behind him. He did not want this horse bolting. “You've certainly led us a merry chase these past few years."

  "I'm here now.” The wizard offered up his metal bound hands to the royal. “Would you object to ridding me of my jewelry?"

  "I haven't the key."

  "You are the Prince of Men, Lindan. Find one."

  "And you're Maldoch the Magnificent. Magic yourself out those manacles."

  "I don't do party tricks."

  "Then I'll let you wear them a bit longer,” decided the monarch, resting his youngish bones on a sack of oats. “I trust you better in restraints than as a free man."

  "I gave myself up!” disputed the slighted spellcaster.

  "You were apprehended. There is a difference."

  "It was the quickest way of getting into Bridgewater,” said Maldoch, confessing his spur of the moment ploy. Enjoying trading barbs with the whippersnapper of a regent, he fired off a volley of insults. “Did mummy dress you today, princeling? You look like you're poncing about in pajamas."

  Taking stock of his clothes, Lindan had to agree. He should never have heeded Drey Wynsorr's insistence that he dress in red as a visible stamp of his royalty. It was
overkill. As for his mother, Princess Devorna was laid up back in Alberion with “woman troubles” and had declined accompanying him. Although her son did not ask the exact nature of the ailment, he had a sneaking suspicion it was a subterfuge that involved her matchmaking schemes. Lindan could not have been more wrong. Devorna was suffering through the hardship of early menopause and wanted to spare her boy her terrible mood swings.

  "An explanation is in order,” insisted Lindan, straightening the thin circlet of gold on his forehead before folding his arms.

  "I didn't come to please you,” declared the wizard. “But since I'm here we may as well straighten this whole tawdry mess out."

  "You know the story then?"

  "Every tavern from Yordl to Naprise is abuzz with talk of the reward posted for Sulca's capture."

  "I thought you never touched strong drink."

  'People don't frequent taverns just for the booze, prince. Ask that head spy of yours. Watering holes are great places for catching up on local and national news. Wagging tongues are loosened a whole lot more when plied with an ale or two. Of course, nobody's discussing my being innocent of the charges brought against my alter ego. They only want to get their greedy mitts on that reward."

  "Are you denying your part in the jailbreak?"

  "Certainly!"

  "There were witnesses, Magnificent One. Trained constables who placed Sulca, you, at the scene."

  "It wasn't me."

  "Who then?"

  "My evil twin. Embah must have told you about him. If not, then I'd get myself a better chief spy, if I were you."

  "Can you prove this?"

  "Are you a lawyer?"

  "No, but..."

  "Then you'll have to take my word for it, Lindan. Do you doubt me?"

  "I hardly know you, Maldoch. That's not to say I haven't done my own background check on you. Studying up the archives, I came across a journal of my father's tucked away in the family library. In it he jotted down personal observations regarding the pivotal part you played in brokering the key treaties between the three monarchies. Admiring your diplomatic skills, he went so far as to label you the Ambassador for the Eastern Realms. Reading the sincerity of his words, he made it clear that you have the best interests of Terrath at heart. Therefore, I must trust you."