Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  “It’s merely a technical part of a technical field,” I demurred. “But I assure you it has importance.”

  “Thus, I have learned,” Jannik sighed. “Indeed, today has been full of wisdom for me. I now know that the Spellmonger contends not just with the gurvani and the Nemovorti and all the villainous powers of nine hells, but that he fences with the Alka Alon and plunges head-first into the deep and murky pool of ancient history, seeking for wisdom to secure a distant future,” the bard declared, as he began picking a tune on his guitar. “He scorns the men who would enslave the people, while fighting a war to protect them from worse fates than a humble estate. A mind of deep subtlety, a heart filled with care and compassion, and a will unchallenged by the inconvenient facts of reality,” he said, in sonorous tones.

  “Let’s not inflate his ego more than necessary, shall we?” Brother Bryte sighed, rolling his eyes. “I do have to work with the man!”

  “I’m not likely to be swayed by a pretty song about how brilliant I am,” I chuckled.

  “It’s not his ego I seek to fortify,” Jannik dismissed. “Indeed, this is not about Count Minalan, at all. This is about the Wilderfolk, old and new, living in a dangerous, exciting time filled with insecurities, hopes and terrors. They are a new people in an old land, led by a mysterious wizard and faced by threats on all frontiers. When the gurvani came, they were nearly abandoned by the Duke, if it hadn’t been for the Spellmonger. He broke the invasion at Timberwatch by compelling both dukes to fight together against it. He built the towers in the east that promised freedom and security. He restored the rightful Duke to rule over the entire duchy. He fought the dragons at Vorone and Castabriel. He has brought them wonders and glories, and been a symbol of hope for years, now.

  “That’s what I’m seeking to fortify,” he continued, firmly. “This is not about aggrandizing my lord the Count. This is about giving my people the mantle of security being led by a wise man who understands their fears and seeks to counter them.”

  “That seems a bold stance to take in front of your patron,” suggested Brother Bryte.

  “The Rysh have no permanent patrons,” countered Jannik. “Merely permanent interests. That’s what separates us from common minstrels. I always thought that was a silly rule, back when the Fair Vale drew us back. Everyone likes an easy-to-flatter patron with a large purse. Now, I understand it better,” he admitted, his fingers plucking a compelling tune. “The fact that Master Minalan is so involved with the affairs of the greater world, while dedicating himself to the especial protection and development of the Magelaw and its subjects, that is a worthy subject for song,” he assured.

  “And a song will help his rule,” reasoned Brother Bryte, skeptically.

  “That is not my concern,” dismissed Jannik. “My concern is for the well-being of those subjects. They worry that you will be a tyrant, someday, or worse: incompetent. You’ve brought many new rules and laws into their lives, and that change makes folk anxious.

  “But you undertake the responsibility not for the glory of war or the appeal of a title and position, but because it is your godsdamned job,” he insisted. “After today, I can truly report to my listeners with all due sincerity that the Spellmonger is not only a great warrior and a powerful wizard, but that while he pursues his foes and elevates his subjects, he also devotes himself to mysteries undreamt of by even other wizards,” explained Jannik. “Even the Alka Alon and the Sea Folk respect his intellect.”

  “Well, that might be stretching the truth a bit,” I grumbled.

  “They’re peasants,” reasoned Jannik, stopping his playing for another sip of wine. “What do they know? It will make them feel better. That’s my godsdamn job.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Hidden Castle of Iron Hill

  “Every House in the Wilderlands has its secrets, from the smallest to the grandest.”

  Wilderlands Folk Saying

  From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

  “You realize that you sent me to observe a bunch of talentless amateurs pretending to understand poetry, don’t you?” Jannik accused, as he burst into my office. “I spent eight days being charming and listening to some of the worst verse in Narasi history,” he complained, bitterly. “Half-literate hermits who think rhyme and meter are tame pets to be doted upon, and who think a godsdamn mushroom exploding into its fungal glory is somehow a worthy metaphor for . . . well, for any bloody thing they care to pin on it!”

  ”Well, hello, Jannik,” I said, sarcasm lining my voice. “How was Honeyhall?”

  “The Pious Hermits of Cornivil are a bunch of filthy, self-important, ignorant rubes who mistake their ruminations on their own digestion for the cosmic secrets of the universe,” Jannik said, heading for my wine without invitation. “Their understanding of the nature of poetry – much less the poetry of Nature – is appalling!” he snorted. “I can take the petty criticisms of the common public, understand – Lukemenon knows how often I’ve endured the critiques of the ignorant,” he fumed, invoking the old Imperial God of Poetry. “But there’s a special horrific suffering in your soul that occurs when some idiot who feels the hands of a god on his shoulders telling him what a special little boy he is tells you that your understanding of the intricate craft you have devoted your life to – nay, that your entire line has devoted its essence to, for generations – to the effect of subtly managing the listeners most primal emotions, is ‘lamentably predictable’ and ‘lacking in originality due to its adherence to traditional forms,’ Minalan,” he said, accusingly, taking an impressive sip from his cup. “Ignorant admirers I can contend with, my lord, but I cannot work with conceited amateurs who wouldn’t know a metaphor if it was actively chewing on their scrotum. How fares the war?” he asked, with genuine interest.

  “We’re hopelessly outnumbered and likely to get harshly smitten. On the bright side, our cheese should be of surpassing quality for a few years. So the Hermits are useless?” I ventured, cautiously. I’d come to understand that Jannik used dramatic presentation as adeptly as any professional relies on a tool of their craft.

  “Not useless, perhaps,” he sighed. “But completely horrid as sacred poets. Don’t get me wrong,” he said, after another healthy sip from his cup. “I appreciate any man’s sincere dedication to the divine, in whatever manifestation takes his fancy. But the majority of the hermits of Cornivil are as bereft of poetic talent as an ugly maiden is bereft of suitors. Well-meaning, but . . . as close to what I do as a water witch is to what the Spellmonger does.”

  “Nice bit of flattery, there,” I acknowledged, raising my glass.

  “Thank you, it’s nice to be appreciated,” he said, sincerely, but automatically. “Perhaps you can turn them into a service order, of some sort, or encourage them to contemplate Nature far, far away from your pretty town, Minalan, but do not depend upon the Rustic Monks to produce a single verse of anything that isn’t utterly banal. Really: a god of goats and spiderwebs and mushrooms pretends to understand the intricate, noble nature of the human intellect’s ability to find the sublime in the natural . . . someone, somewhere in history was drinking way too fucking much with his face pressed drunkenly into the underbrush one horrific night, is what I think,” he proposed. “Nice fellows, I suppose, but crap poets,” he pronounced.

  “But can they be integrated into Vanador?” I asked. “I don’t care if their verse is theologically valid or even reasonably entertaining, I just need to know if they are worthy of expulsion from my realm, or indulgence.”

  “They’ll behave,” Jannik sighed. “At least, in my opinion. I gave them a good talking-to,” he related, as he found his way to a chair and flung himself bonelessly into it, one leg cocked over the arm. “I showed them what real poetry can do, when it’s used properly. I may have made an impression, to a few,” he considered. “But my goal was to give them purpose, within human society. I did my best to bridge the gap betwixt the raw adoration of Nature, in all of its grimy glory, and the subtle allu
re of Culture, and its civilizing impulse. One need not embrace the banal portions of the latter at the expense of the sublime essence of the former,” he declared.

  “So . . . you gave them an intellectual construct for rectifying their desire for Nature and their relationship to the rest of mankind,” I proposed.

  “What?” Jannik asked, surprised. “No. No, I completely buried them in bullshit. Great heaping, steaming gobs of it,” he said, with a notes of both pride and disgust in his voice. “Dear gods, I haven’t spun that much moonshine since I was nicked by one of the Black Skulls, back in the Umbra – suspicious devils, those,” he added. “But these reeking rustic rubes? They were leaning on every note, once I established my superior craft. So, I buried them in so much crap that they were begging me to give them purpose . . . beyond learning the smallest thing about poetry.”

  “What purpose was that?” I asked. “Professional curiosity,” I explained.

  “To be the conduits through which Nature influences Culture. And the means by which Culture observes Nature and transforms it into Art. All completely aligned with their previous theological perspective, understand,” he said, using the winecup in his hand for emphasis. “My sermons did not dispute the religious genius of their historical tradition,” he assured. “I came not as a prophet, but as an interpreter. Instead,” he continued, “I grafted on to the goat god’s essential message with an interpretation of lore: the role of the Hermit of Cornivil is to demonstrate the essential art of Nature to civilization, and act as an advocate for nature’s protection against the excesses of human endeavor.”

  “So how does that manifest in a practical – and hopefully useful – way?” I asked.

  Jannik sighed, wearily. “Thankfully, the Lore of Cornivil includes a couple of episodes where the goat god offers wisdom and assistance to various moronic worshippers. Half the time it’s just an excuse for a veiled dirty joke or some obvious bit of folk wisdom told in clever verse – hopelessly banal,” he criticized. “But occasionally useful. I rewrote a few, dressed them up with some decent meter, and emphasized human compassion and the benevolence of nature or some shit like that when I told them.”

  “How were they received?” I asked, intrigued.

  “They were captivated, of course – I’m a Child of Rhysh, after all, and they were rank amateurs. I know my craft, and they were an ideal audience, once I beat it into their stinking heads that I was so far better than they that they really had no other choice but to think me a genius.”

  “So, what do you think they’ll do, after your musical domination?” I chuckled.

  “They’ll be stretcher bearers and tenders of the wounded,” he sighed. “They’ll fetch and carry for the medics and the apothecaries. They’ll gather what needs to be gathered from the wood. Comfort for the dying, compassion for the wounded, that sort of thing,” he dismissed.

  “I appreciate your indulgence, Jannik,” I said, sincerely. “That’s one less rock in my shoe while I’m marching to battle. Thank you.”

  “Just doing my part, now that I can’t spy anymore,” he shrugged. “After Honeyhall, I almost miss it. I was constantly terrified and in danger, but there was something about it . . .” he said, shaking his head.

  “Who said you couldn’t spy?” I asked, realizing that the answer to a problem was staring me in the face.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, confused. “I’m not going back into the bloody Penumbra,” he warned. “Not without an army behind me. Or, preferably, in front of me. I burned too many sources when I left. Had to.”

  “Of course,” I soothed. “But there’s intelligence gathering, at which you excel . . . and there is counter-intelligence,” I explained. “One of my men caught three spies – three really, really bad spies – in Vanador, recently. I wonder how many we haven’t caught. Likely because we don’t have anyone dedicated to looking for them,” I pointed out.

  “You want me . . . to look for spies?” he asked, amused.

  “You’re particularly well-suited to the task,” I insisted. “You range across the Magelaw, now, entertaining and watching the populace. You listen to the gossip in a hundred places. You’re doing half of the job, now,” I reasoned. “All you need to do is make an effort to purposefully cultivate sources, collect reports, and secure a small staff to help organize and analyze it, and I think you’ll do a fine job. At the expense of the county exchequer,” I added. “Then, keep watch for us. Report to Mavone, or me, if you’d like.”

  “It’s a tempting offer,” considered the minstrel. “Why would you trust me with that task?”

  “Because you’re devoted to the Wilderlands, already, so I don’t have to depend on your patriotism. Your knowledge of the region is unmatched. You understand the local politics better than anyone. You speak fluent gurvani and understand the nature of our foes. And if you were a coward, you never would have survived the Penumbra.”

  “You suspect more spies are scouting you?” he asked, after studying his winecup for a moment.

  “Of course. I’d be disappointed if there weren’t. The three knights we caught were sent by Count Anvaram of Nion. I’d be shocked if Shakathet didn’t have at least a few human turncloaks watching our preparations. Karakush is still out there. And then . . . there’s the Family,” I said. Then I explained who the Family was, and who Mother was. And I informed him of our new duchess’ relationship with her former cadre of assassins, who were responsible for the death of the previous duke and duchess of Alshar, her in-laws. When I was done, Jannik shuddered.

  “So that’s the bloodthirsty bitch who rules us all, now?” Jannik asked, shaking his head. “My dad never liked Grendine – he met her once, at Vorone, when she was a girl. He played at the palace that summer and she snubbed him as a rustic jongleur. Dad never liked her, after that.”

  “He’d like her less, now,” I agreed. “If it’s any comfort, the longer she wears the crown the harder it bears on her. I sometimes regret my role in their ascendancy, but I console myself about all of the good that arose from it.”

  “Sometimes we bargain with the darkness to preserve the light,” the Rysh agreed, grimly. “I’ve done that too often myself, skulking about in the Penumbra over the years. I’d like to think I saved more than I damned, but that’s for the gods to decide, I suppose.”

  “I think you will find them largely unhelpful in that regard,” I said, shaking my head with a mirthless chuckle. “In my case, it was the only way I could stop the invasion from plunging into the Riverlands. And destroy the power of the Censorate over the magi. Rard isn’t too bad, actually,” I proposed. “He’s a decent leader. But even he takes care not to cross Mother unnecessarily.”

  “And how is your relationship with the murderous old hag?” Jannik inquired, cheerfully.

  “We keep each other at arm’s length. We don’t like each other. But we occasionally use each other. We are both committed to the success and security of the realm . . . although I’d wager how we both define that open to interpretation. In her case, it could mean my assassination, if she decided I needed it. It is Mother’s spies I want you to be concerned with, most of all. But certainly not exclusively. I find myself with an abundance of foes.”

  “I’ll keep dear Mother at the top of my list,” he assured. “To be honest, Minalan, I’m starting to like this idea. Ever since the invasion, and the loss of the Fair Vale . . . and all of my kin,” he added, darkly, “I think I roamed the dangerous roads into the darkness half-hoping I’d get myself killed in some spectacularly glorious fashion,” Jannik sighed, heavily. “Something poetic, if the gods were kind, or at least something meaningful . . . although I’d be just as happy passing quietly in my sleep, or, better yet, stabbed in the back by a jealous husband,” he added, looking around for any passing divinities who might be listening. “In case that’s a concern to anyone.”

  “But I had purpose, back then. More purpose than being the last forgotten wastrel son of a once-proud, virtuous, poetically brilliant,
musically adept – and terribly humble – family of minstrels. I thought the Rysh had died with the Fair Vale’s destruction. I return from an exile in darkness, a pauper expecting the cold welcome of a barren wasteland, and instead I find someone has gone and built a charming little civilization in my absence. One that lauds me with praise and riches. Now you employ me in capacities I doubt my sires were ever entrusted with,” he said. “That’s quite a change of circumstances on short acquaintance.”

  “And that makes you suspicious?” I prodded.

  “I’d be a fool not to be,” Jannik nodded. “During our short acquaintance, I’ve watched you, as I promised I would. More, I’ve tried to discover what you are hiding.”

  “What am I supposed to be hiding?” I asked, curiously.

  “That’s what I endeavored to discover. You’re a wizard. Of course you’re hiding something. Your entire profession is an elaborate exercise in deception and obfuscation,” he challenged. “You have collectively tried to obscure the nature of your powers and their understanding since the Magocracy.”

  I winced, despite myself. What Jannik was saying was an echo of a common argument against the magi, one that had, indeed, been sounded down the ages by our detractors. The Censorate had used it time and time again against us, over the years. It was a vague and inexact accusation, difficult to prove and even more difficult to defend against. Largely because it was true. I cleared my throat and launched into the magi’s standard counter to it.

  “Actually,” I began, “it’s not so much that we try to keep our powers obscure, it’s that the knowledge to properly wield them involves several disciplines that require intense study. As a properly-chartered mage, I must know physics, alchemy, natural history, medicine and anatomy, and realms most mundane folk cannot even begin to fathom. From a surgeon’s perspective, a wizard’s insights on a patient may involve disciplines for which he has not trained. When asked to explain, it’s often simpler to just shrug and say ‘it’s magic.’ Even when it’s not.”