Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  “I am aware of the matter between the Mews,” I continued, fixing first Dara and then Nattia with a stark stare. “I seek to resolve it. Today. In fact, at this very moment. Now, I can do that in public, in front of both companies of Sky Riders, or I can do it in private, between the commanders,” I informed them. “Which do you prefer? It matters not to me.”

  “In private, please, Master,” my former apprentice requested . . . reminding all of them of her close relationship to me.

  “That would be agreeable, Excellency,” Nattia said, after a pause.

  “Then walk with me, ladies,” I said, turning away from them toward the corridor. “The rest of you, compose yourselves and calm your birds . . . and speak not a word to each other, lest I pluck you like capons!” I commanded, as the two Sky Captains obediently followed.

  I led them to a parapet overlooking the broad courtyard between Megelin’s impressive towers. Below, a skeleton crew of workers and infantry scurried across the flagstones on their errands. Above, the robust spring winds blew thick wads of clouds overhead.

  “I need this to end,” I said, simply, once we were alone.

  “Excellency,” Nattia began, “my riders were provoked—”

  “They took exception to being called rebels,” Dara corrected. “Which they are, Master!”

  “I need this to end,” I repeated, more forcefully. “Nattia was assigned to Timberwatch, if you recall,” I reminded Dara.

  “She was supposed to return from Timberwatch, if you recall,” Dara replied. “Along with those birds!”

  “I had need of them in the Wilderlands,” I insisted. “And the Mewstower in Sevendor wasn’t complete. It was overcrowded, at the time. Splitting the Mews was necessary. It would have happened if you two had quarreled or not. Keeping all of the giant hawks in one place wasn’t useful or wise. It is unfortunate that the split happened at the same time you argued, but that is how it happened.

  “The acrimony, however, did not have to happen,” I continued. “Regardless of your personal matters, this should never have affected your Riders. That’s sloppy commanding,” I added, earning a wince from both women. “Sloppy commanding leads to dead Riders and dead birds. No one wants that.”

  “If her Mews would quit calling us rebels,” Nattia proposed, heatedly, “we wouldn’t—”

  “They will,” I promised. “At once. Dara, that’s an order. Blame it on me, if you wish, but that stops now,” I said, to which the Hawkmaiden nodded.

  “The Vanador Wing seems determined to cast aspersions on my character,” Dara said, with less fire but more steel in her voice than Nattia had managed. “Especially in regard to my—”

  “In your rejection of Gareth,” I supplied, unwilling to let her be vague about the matter. “I’m aware of the incident. I also know you regret the severity and the manner of your words, at the time. Shall I summon the Lord Steward to hear that, in person?” I suggested, as Dara turned pale.

  “I . . . I don’t think —” she stuttered.

  “She certainly wanted to talk to him last year,” Nattia sneered.

  “If he’d had the courage to speak with me, he would have heard my explanation then,” Dara shot back. “Aye, and an apology! I do regret what I said to him . . . but what you said to me was no better!” she insisted to Nattia. “My heart is mine to keep, and I will suffer no other woman to judge it.”

  “As is Gareth’s, his!” Nattia declared, hotly. “If he retreated in the face of such humiliation, instead of seeking some petty retribution, then credit him for his courtesy and his loyalty to the friendship you once had, instead of doubting his courage. The man faced Nemovorti to earn your favor – and you doubt his courage!” she said, contemptuously.

  “Am I more fearsome than a Nemovort?” Dara asked, angrily. “Nor was my relationship with Gareth any of your concern!”

  “You made it my concern, and the concern of the entire Mewstower, when you shamed him in our midst! If we are rebels, we rebel against discourtesy!” Nattia defended.

  “My ladies,” I interrupted, as I was at risk of losing their attention to their argument, “this settles nothing. Nattia, you are offended at Dara’s outburst at Gareth in part because your own heart desires him, and you are fiercely loyal to him.”

  “But —” she tried to interrupt, blushing at the accusation.

  “Hush, Nattia,” I said, gently. “I’m spellmongering. While your loyalty to Lord Gareth does you credit, in my experience allowing it to constrain your actions can be a hazard. You pass judgement on your friend – for Dara is yet your friend, though you quarrel – for a hot-headed action she took more than a year ago. What of your own loyalty? Have you ever been in her position – pursued by a suitor you do not desire? In addition to her other responsibilities? Any woman in such a state is apt to say things she might later regret. Only you compound that regret mightily, through your righteous indignation and your Wing’s antipathy.

  “Dara,” I said, turning to my former apprentice, before the Kasari woman could speak, “I do not fault you for your heart’s choice or even your hasty words. You’ve lost a good friend – two good friends – as a result. But you have allowed your guilt and regret to color your command. As your guilt compels you to defend against Nattia’s ire, and understand Gareth’s inattention, you’ve turned anger at her supposed ‘rebellion’ from a personal slight into a prejudice amongst your Riders.

  “Yes, I know that there were other issues that led to the . . . schism,” I said, holding up my hand before either could object. “That’s your concern, as commanders. But when you allow such beliefs to take root among your Riders, you undermine the morale of all.

  “Both of you are highly intelligent, highly capable young women – among the finest I’ve ever met. You are both able commanders, and you have both done admirably in growing your Wings. But I need their fury directed at the gurvani, not each other,” I lectured. “For their sake, and the sake of the men you fly above, you must put aside your personal hurt feelings and find some means to reconcile,” I concluded.

  There was an overlong pause as both girls resisted the urge to speak. Finally, Dara cleared her throat.

  “I will forbid my Wing to refer to the Vanadori Riders as rebels,” she offered, reluctantly.

  Nattia’s little nostrils flared, but she finally nodded her freckled face. “My Riders will no longer cast aspersions on Lady Dara’s character,” she pledged. “For my part,” she continued, quietly, “I . . . I do regret some of the words I spoke in the Mewstower, that day. It was dishonorable of me,” she admitted.

  “And I . . . I truly regret I hurt Gareth’s feelings, that day,” Dara said, guiltily. “And I have missed our friendship. And yours,” she added.

  “As have I,” Nattia sighed. “I will pass along your sentiment to the Lord Steward, when I get the chance,” she promised. “Though I doubt it will redeem your friendship, he may take some comfort in it.”

  “It sounds as if he has quite enough to occupy him, without the burden of an old quarrel,” Dara suggested. “And the rumor is that he and you have . . . but that’s none of my business,” she quickly said, shaking her head.

  “We are fast friends, not lovers,” Nattia admitted. “But we both have our duties, and they leave little time for such things.”

  “I understand, completely,” Dara said, rolling her eyes. She was about to launch into a detailed explanation for which I had neither time nor interest . . . but it was clear that there had been some break in the impasse between the young women.

  “I suggest you finish this conversation over a bottle, my ladies,” I said, conjuring one from a hoxter and presenting it to them – a Gilmoran red, nothing too fancy – along with a brace of goblets. “Am I to understand that the quarrel is at an end? And I can safely go to battle with the confidence that war won’t break out between the Mewstowers in the middle of it?”

  “I think so, Master,” Dara nodded, firmly.

  “You have my word, Excellency
,” Nattia agreed.

  “Good,” I sighed. I don’t know how my dad contended with five daughters and a wife under one roof, but he had taught me a few things about handling such disagreements: confronting each woman with the unvarnished truth and holding her to account, but without assigning fault. Both of them had their share of blame in the argument. But once they were forced to face it in the open, the argument loses its compelling power over them and allows an opportunity for reconciliation.

  And no, it doesn’t always work. The rows between my sisters were legendary, back in Talry-on-Burine.

  “Now, if you two can take a few hours to reconcile and formulate a battle plan, I think your Riders would appreciate a briefing on Fort Destiny. And I have to get back to watching my trusted officers not screw up this war. I’d like to avoid any surprises.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  An Unanticipated Trip to a Tavern

  “Where the fire burns merry and good ale flows,

  Where conversation churns and good fellows sing

  Where an evening can find a kiss or turn to blows,

  Who knows what a night in a tavern might bring?”

  Wilderlands Folk Song

  From the Collection of Jannik the Rysh

  We were as prepared as we could be. But it didn’t seem as if it could possibly be enough to stand against Shakathet’s horde.

  Terleman was shifting the best of his warmagi to Fort Destiny by means of the Alkan Ways, or overland if they had yet to master the spell. Though he was certain the fort was doomed, he was determined to provide an example of the Magelaw’s defiance in its defense.

  I sat through three hours of intense discussion with Mavone, Terleman, Sandoval and a dozen other senior officers as we tried to plan the best defense of the modest keep that we could manage. And the best means of escape we could, if it was in danger of falling. The number of high magi and Tera Alon involved ensured that at least some, if not all, of the defenders could, theoretically, retreat through the Alkan Ways, if we needed to.

  That was a hot discussion. Sandoval and Bendonal took the position that Shakathet’s legions were planning some skullduggery, though they could give no evidence nor even any reasonable possibilities. Mavone and Terleman were convinced that Shakathet was planning on annihilating one castle after another, sapping our strength with every defense against overwhelming odds. While the argument never got out of hand, it was disturbing to see the men who’d handled Gaja Katar so handily display such worry about Shakathet. I did my best to not look disturbed, and calmly endorsed Terleman’s plan in the absence of better field intelligence.

  Thankfully, I was distracted from their anxiety by a message from my bard: Jannik wanted to know if I could spare a few hours for something he thought I should spare a few hours on. He had me meet him in a nondescript tavern in Vanador, where he was apparently trying to wash away the mediocrity of the Hermits of Cornivil with strong wine and the balm of performing.

  Yes. While my armies were congregating and preparing to fight for their lives against impossible odds, I popped out for a quick pint at the pub.

  I found Jannik the Rysh sitting against the far wall of the spacious, if humble, establishment. He caught my eye the moment I arrived, glanced briefly at the barman, and then pointedly ignored me, even as he pointed his knees toward a nearby empty seat.

  I can appreciate subtlety – I’m a wizard. I quietly ordered an ale without the barman recognizing me, and then threaded my way through the growing crowd – it was lunch time – and slid into the seat Jannik had indicated. It was close enough to him for us to hear each other, but far enough away for us to seem strangers.

  “Lovely day for a pub crawl, don’t you think?” he asked, as his sipped his ale.

  “Since you are watching, and not playing, I’m assuming that you have a higher purpose to this jaunt?” I asked, quietly. “Or are you merely spending the day getting drunk?”

  “I love taverns,” he explained. “Not just for the drink and the coin, but for the people. You really get an unvarnished look at the human condition in a tavern. Everyone lets their guard down with a drink in their hand, as they bask in the sunshine of hospitality and bathe their brains in alcohol. Well, almost everyone,” he corrected, still not looking at me. “That one, he’s one to watch,” Jannik said, nodding in the direction of a table at the rear of the tavern.

  A lone man clung to the wall like a moss that had grown there. His brown mantle and hood obscured his face in shadow, his hands hidden under its hem.

  “He appeared in Vanador about two weeks ago,” Jannik explained. “His name is Pionin. Keeps to himself like a monk on pilgrimage.”

  “So?” I asked, prompting Jannik. It wasn’t that I doubted my new head of counter-intelligence. I just wanted to hear his reasoning. “Vanador gets a lot of visitors. Even quiet, nondescript visitors who don’t move, much.”

  “Pionin is no shy rustic,” Jannik assured me. “I’ve had a friend of mine watch his movements. He’s been quietly surveying Vanador. The armory. The markets. The walls. The barracks . . .”

  “So, you think he is a spy, then?” I frowned.

  “He’s obviously a spy,” snorted the bard. “No man comes this far and pursues no business. Indeed, he professes no business,” the minstrel insisted. “Three of my friends have engaged him, and they learned nothing about his intentions. That’s as good as admitting he was a spy,” Jannik pronounced.

  “I trust your judgement,” I nodded. “So why bring it to my attention? Instead of having Sandoval arrest him?”

  “Because I wish to know who the spy is working for,” Jannik said. “I have my suspicions, but I needed a specialist to confirm them.”

  That startled me, though I tried to conceal it. My only specialty was magic, unless you counted a misplaced sense of smug superiority.

  “You think he’s a mage?” I asked, troubled.

  “I don’t know who Master Pionin is, nor to whom he reports. But I would wager it is not to Mother, nor the Brotherhood, nor our Prince’s tepid allies. Considering the other possibilities, I thought it best to bring in fresh eyes. Wizard’s eyes,” he added, giving me a quick glance as he sunk behind his mug.

  I nodded, understanding his desire. I quietly invoked magesight, and then began adjusting my perceptions as I gazed at the figure in the shadows. It proved revealing.

  I appreciated Jannik’s attention at once. There was something amiss with this newcomer. He was lacking a proper thaumaturgical shroud.

  All living beings radiate a field the magi refer to as their “shroud.” It is a hazy, spectral shell that emanates from their central nervous system or their soul, depending upon your philosophical perspective. With the right application of magesight, a wizard can see a person’s spectral shroud pretty easily and witness its gyrations and evolutions. Ordinarily, a shroud is bright and active, like a cloud on a summer’s day. Instead, the field around the man proved to be darker than the shadow he clung to. Indeed, it was clearly necromantic in nature.

  “By Briga’s burning brightness, I think you’re right,” I murmured. “That fellow isn’t . . . well, he isn’t a fellow. He’s a fiend,” I pronounced. “He carries the taint of necromancy about him, though I cannot determine the nature of the spell without a closer examination.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Jannik admitted, after a pause. “He immediately raised my suspicions. He orders one ale each night, and barely touches it. No introverted rustic is going to waste good ale he’s paid for,” he assured.

  “What coin has he paid in?” I asked, curious. I knew my spy would know the answer.

  “The usual Wilderlands specie,” Jannik said. “But he got it from a trader, and he paid in emeralds. That was about as much as my friends discovered,” he added, sourly. “Pionin has been completely resistant to all attempts to befriend him. And I thought my fellows could charm any man alive,” he sighed.

  “Don’t be disappointed. He’s not exactly alive, I think. He may well b
e undead. And since his eyes don’t glow red or yellow, and he can use coherent speech, that would make him a new kind of undead.”

  If the news shocked the man, he didn’t show it. But, then, he had witnessed horrors in the Penumbra that I didn’t want to imagine. “There is one thing,” Jannik said, casually. “His accent is particular. It’s a Westlands accent.”

  I nodded sagely, because a good wizard learns how to do that sort of thing when he doesn’t have anything better to say.

  The Westlands were like Gilmora, without the fabulous fertility of the Cottonlands. The region had even fewer pockets of arable land than the Wilderlands did, and the scrubby forests there were unsuitable for most timbering.

  The Westlands were sparsely populated, compared to other parts of Alshar. Their folk had a reputation for cynicism I’d always assumed arose from their marginal position in the duchy. The Westlands were a province one generally passed through on the way to someplace more interesting. When the routes to southern Alshar were closed, they languished.

  And they had suffered a literal plague for the last few years. One that rose a portion of its victims from the dead. Mavone had surveilled the region for several months on my behalf, and his reports had been ghastly.

  “That make sense,” I finally said. “My immediate question is, what is an undead doing lingering in a Vanadori tavern?”

  “Waiting,” Jannik offered. “More importantly, listening. This place is popular with a lot of the city watch, the steward’s men, local tradesmen and lesser magi. No doubt you could glean a lot of useful information just from attentive listening to gossip.”

  “So, what do we want to do about it?” I asked the bard.

  “What, you want me to decide?” he asked, surprised.

  “You are my new chief of counterintelligence. This is within your domain,” I reasoned.

  “If I’m going to be a low and suspicious fellow, I should be getting paid for it,” he agreed.

  “Which you are, now,” I agreed. “We’ll haggle about the amount later. So, tell me, oh spymaster, why do you need my help with this? This seems to be under your purview.”