“I thought it was more of a matter of policy, not mere espionage,” he countered. “Which would place it within yours.”
“I don’t have enough information to make a policy decision, yet,” I decided, quietly, as I studied the situation. “But I’m happy to support any action you take.”
Jannik realized he wasn’t going to be able to escape his new duty. To his credit, once the decision was made, he committed himself. “I suppose the easiest manner in which to learn of a man’s history in a tavern is to ask him,” he said, rising and straightening his mantle. “Pray prepare yourself, but don’t approached us unless beckoned.”
“I defer to your experience. But, prepare myself for what, exactly?” I asked, cautiously.
“To pay for our drinks, among other possibilities. Bide,” he directed, and sauntered over to the lone traveler.
Before Jannik reached Pionin, I’d cast a Long Ears spell, to assist in eavesdropping. Pionin’s head gave a slight jerk as I did so, which I assumed indicated a sensitivity to active magic. But there was no other reaction, either from his stony face or his supernatural aura. There was enough casual magic employed around Vanador that he was probably used to such distractions.
“You must be that Pionin fellow everyone’s talking about!” Jannik began, in an overloud, friendly manner. The man – or whatever he was – looked up, startled, and his eyes dashed to the door at once.
“What?” he asked in confusion. “Who is talking about me?” There was an element of alarm in his voice.
“Oh, you’re the topic of conversation in many unusual places, my friend,” Jannik assured, his voice dropping in volume as he took a seat next to Pionin. “And it appears that you are naturally concerned whose ears and tongues are busy with your name. One might conclude that you are not eager for such fame, though you are but newly arrived to the city.”
Pionin studied Jannik carefully, but he did not display the anxiety or nervousness I’d expect from a living man. Or, perhaps, he was just stoic and level-headed. He also didn’t stand up and start slaying everyone in sight, which I considered a good sign.
“I am a man of discretion,” he finally murmured. “Who might you be, to take such an interest in a traveler?”
“I am a minstrel, by trade, known as Jannik. Entertaining travelers is what I do. That, and listening to gossip. And spreading it, occasionally,” he added. “I would imagine there are ears that a man of discretion, such as yourself, would prefer his name not fall. The question, Pionin, is just which ears those might be?”
“Any number of busybodies,” he said stiffly – and I caught the full Westlands accent in his voice. “My business is my own.”
“And yet my business is learning other people’s business,” Jannik countered, cheerfully. “If I knew why you were visiting this shady little town, it might help me decide who needs to know the business of Pionin.”
The man scowled. “If you insist, I am here bearing a message. I may deliver it only to the one to whom it is intended. And I am awaiting a man who says he can arrange an introduction.”
“That’s a reasonable answer,” conceded Jannik. “Is the recipient a man of high estate, or low? It is likely I might have better contacts,” he suggested.
“Of the very highest,” Pionin said, glumly. “But I met with a guardsman who says he can introduce me to a squire who might be able to get his attention. Failing that, I’ll try another route.”
“It must be a terribly important message, to require such devious means to deliver it,” Jannik pointed out.
“It must be discreetly delivered,” Pionin sighed. “I cannot approach him directly, lest . . . well, there are other eyes watching,” he said, in a murmur.
“Well, you just can’t walk up to the Count and hand him things,” agreed Jannik, sympathetically. “That’s not considered classy, in Vanador. People would talk.”
That startled Pionin further, and he looked even more nervous. “How did you know who I—?”
“You just told me. Calm yourself, man,” Jannik insisted, as he sipped his ale. “I would have begun with the King, but he lives elsewhere, and by all accounts the Prince wouldn’t visit this land unless he intended to conquer it, and the Duke is busy with affairs in the South. So, the Count was the man of highest estate that you could, possibly, be trying to deliver your message to. But I would have gone down the mountain of nobility until I discovered which man you meant to see,” he reasoned.
“Ah,” Pionin sighed. “Indeed, my message is for his ears alone. Yet he is never in the same place twice, it seems. I hear tale that he is in his estate at Spellgarden one day, in the Towers the next, and then hear of him in Vanador the same afternoon. I know he is a wizard, but . . .” the man said, skeptically.
“I’m newly come to Vanador, myself,” Jannik agreed, conversationally. “Never have I seen a stranger folk than these wizards. The most powerful ones can move hundreds of miles in an instant, I’ve heard. The Count? He is accounted the most potent of them all. I suppose that would make relating a private message difficult. Of course, it’s helpful for avoiding determined assassins,” he added, in a tone that could be taken for jest or not.
“Assassins? Perhaps. But it makes my task that much harder,” Pionin grumbled.
“What if I told you that I could help with that task?” Jannik proposed, after a moment’s thought.
“You?” the spy asked, in disbelief. “You know the Count of the Magelaw?”
“We’re old friends,” assured Jannik, his smooth tone teasing the ear. “Met years ago. I see him around town, sometimes. I might be able to arrange an introduction,” he offered.
“My lord, while I appreciate your kind offer,” Pionin said, sarcastically, “and I would be much in your debt for such an introduction, I find myself skeptical.”
“Well, if you would be in my debt, then I can hardly pass up the occasion to do so, can I?” Jannik asked. “Min! Minalan! Over here, my friend,” he called to me, beckoning as if we were village mates after work.
I’ll admit, it wasn’t the summons I had been expecting. I had been prepared for a war cry or accusation, and I had arranged several spells designed for protection and carnage. But it was a simple summons, and it deserved a simple response. Considering the number of tavern patrons who might have gotten hurt in an altercation, I was pleased. I nodded and then dragged a chair to the corner with them.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said, as I settled into the seat and raised my mug.
“Pionin, this is Baron Minalan the Spellmonger, Count Palatine of the Magelaw, Head of the Arcane Orders, and all of that. Min, this is Pionin, an emissary and spy from one of the Nemovorti who proports to bear a message from his master.”
That shocked the former Westlandsman. “I – I’m – what did you say?” he stammered.
“You wanted to meet the Count of the Magelaw,” reasoned Jannik. “He just happened to be here. I just introduced you, placing you in my debt,” he concluded.
“You aren’t the Count of the Magelaw!” the spy accused, as he looked me up and down. Admittedly, I wasn’t wearing either court finery, wizards’ robes or battle armor. When one is meeting one’s new chief of counterintelligence in public, a more subtle look is required. I was dressed as well as a prosperous artisan or a busy burgher, but I wasn’t even bearing my hat and staff.
“I am, indeed, Count Minalan,” I said, quietly. “And I’m quite curious why a Nemovort would send a message to me, that didn’t come wrapped in deathly peril.”
“Who said . . . well, I . . . that is,” he said, trying to collect his thoughts. “You don’t look like a count. A count is a lordly man. And he wouldn’t be hanging out in common taverns,” he assured me. “You lot are robbers, aren’t you?” he asked, scornfully.
“Oh, he’s quite a common fellow, once you get to know him,” Jannik observed. “And I’m quite too lazy to be a robber. I think it’s best you establish your credentials, my friend,”
“As y
ou wish,” I sighed, and pulled the Magolith into sight. It immediately began hovering behind my right shoulder, as everyone in the room stopped talking and stared.
“Oh, this is going to get complicated, if . . .” Jannik said, looking around at them all. “Can you lovely people spare the Count a moment with our friend?” he asked the crowd, politely. “I’m certain he’ll be treating you to a round, afterwards,” he added, glancing at me impishly.
Most tried to linger, until he gave them a pointed stare that seemed to propel every single one of them out of the tavern. “You, too, goodman,” he added, to the barman, who just realized that the count of his realm was patronizing his establishment. He looked back and forth for a moment, then nodded and followed the others.
I was impressed. In two minutes Jannik had cleared the place without magic.
“Now,” he continued, as the door closed, “I believe I’ve established that this is, indeed, Minalan, the Count of the Magelaw. That means you are in my debt, goodman, and I take my debts very seriously. On whose behalf do you bear this message?” he demanded, quietly. A slim, elegant, but terribly menacing dagger appeared from somewhere and found a home in his nimble fingers. “I’m assuming it’s Karakush. The sorcerer. A secret message isn’t Shakathet’s style, but if it isn’t Karakush, I want to know who.”
Pionin looked nervously from me to Jannik and back, but if he was afraid of the sudden flash of steel, he didn’t show it. He swallowed and sighed.
“Aye, it’s that rascal,” he said, gloomily. “Karakush. He wanted one of us who could blend into the background, so to speak. To bring a very discreet message north to the Spellmonger.”
“Why would a Nemovort want to send me a message that wasn’t sent by an army?” I asked, shrewdly. “And why would I trust it if he did?”
“I cannot answer for . . . him,” Pionin said, distastefully. “I know not his reasoning nor his strategy. All I know is that I was a chandler in the Westlands when his thugs came to my village with their filthy orders. My whole family was rounded up and marched off to some godsforsaken tower in the wild. We were guarded by the undead,” he said, horrifically. “They forced us to work – simple things, but requiring great labor. It was like they were . . . they were stealing us,” he said, his eyes narrowing. I tried my best to keep my family safe and together, but they . . . it was hard, he said, sorrowfully.
“But one day one of them – one of the Alka Alon, only a tall, gangly one in armor – came and asked us a bunch of questions. About where we’d travelled, of all things – madness, considering the conditions they were keeping us under. I told them I’d been as far as Vorone, before, so they . . . chose me to be the messenger.”
“Just because you knew the way to Vorone?” Jannik asked, confused.
“They needed someone who could move about without attracting attention and who knew the customs,” he explained. “I spent a year in Vorone as an exchange apprentice, so I knew the town. And they decided I was intelligent enough to make it as far as this Vanador place and get a message to the Spellmonger.”
“We’ll accept that tale, for the moment,” I said, evenly. “You have accomplished your task. Now deliver your message,” I demanded.
“Karakush says that if you wish to defeat Shakathet in battle, the simplest means to do so is to remove his ablest commanders. I have their names and positions memorized if you would like me to recite them,” he promised. “Some are more vulnerable than others, but their subordinates are incompetent.”
“Why would Karakush wish to aid me against Shakathet?” I asked, curiously. “They are both Nemovorti, sworn to slay me.”
“I suppose Karakush would rather betray his fellow than allow him victory,” Jannik proposed. “In doing so, he tests you, Minalan. Your intelligence, your resolve and your strategic sense. All very useful things to know about an enemy,” he pointed out.
“Yet if I ignore this intelligence,” I observed, “then that tells him something about me, too,” I sighed.
“There is more,” Pionin said. “Pray hear me out, my lords, as my commission is not fulfilled until you do so,” he explained. Jannik and I nodded for him to continue. “Shakathet has many secret sorceries planned for the battle, but Karakush is skeptical of them. Nonetheless, he says to tell you to be prepared for one that may doom you, if it takes you unawares.” He proceeded to relate our foe’s possession of the mighty weapon and gave us some hints on how to counter it.
It was an impressive deployment, and one that seemed too specific and too detailed to be untruthful. Pionin certainly believed it. He assured us he’d seen such things in the work camps, being tested before being sent to war. If Karakush’s suggestion to counter it worked, it could spare thousands of lives. If it didn’t . . . well, I would have to pay the third Nemovort to come against me a visit.
“Am I expected to return a message?” I asked the spy.
“If my lord would like, I will bear one south to his holdings,” Pionin assured.
“Not until you explain how you are undead, yet can keep your mind,” I insisted.
“Undead?” Pionin asked, surprised. “Nay, I am not, my lord. At least not yet. To ensure my compliance with master Karakush’s mission, he set upon me some sorcery that he promised would strip me of my soul and mind at once . . . and was entangled with a similar spell on my daughter,” he explained. “My last surviving daughter. As it is, we both dwell on the threshold of death,” he said, sadly. “Our only hope of relief is the successful conclusion of my mission. And for that I have only the Nemovort’s word.”
“That’s ghastly!” Jannik said, sympathetically. “But . . . if you’re not undead, why didn’t you touch your ale?” the bard asked, confused.
“Because this swill is as thick and chewy as an oak tree, compared to what we drink in the Westlands. Ishi’s tits, have the Wilderlands never heard of properly hopping your brews?” he asked, staring at his mug of dark ale, offended.
Pionin proved a valuable window into the world of our third Nemovort adversary. Jannik had him tell his story from the beginning, in detail, and asked several pointed questions along the way. I could tell he was learning far more from the cursed chandler than he let on. He also had the man recite everything he could about Shakathet’s officers, the ones Karakush thought were vulnerable, and to what. If Gaja Katar had been impetuous, and Shakathet determined, Karakush seemed to specialize in treachery.
We spoke until early evening, when Pionin’s store of gossip seemed to play out. I quietly summoned a squad of guardsmen, led by Gareth, himself, to lead the spy to secure quarters for the night. He went peacefully enough – he might have been sneaky, but Pionin was not a man of violence. The poor chandler was just trying to save his last daughter’s life, after all. As long as he was free to return to the Westlands, he assured us, his child would be spared the hideous fate Karakush promised.
“I don’t know how much I’d trust a murdering Nemovort,” Jannik admitted, once Pionin was quietly escorted away. I instructed Gareth to find him safe but secure quarters in the Crevice, the crude but effective defense we’d constructed in the darkest reaches of the overhang. “He seems to put a lot of faith in the evil bastard keeping his word.”
“What choice does he have?” I shrugged. “When it is your last surviving daughter, you’re really willing to believe anything.”
“Perhaps it was just as well I never wed, much less bred,” Jannik said with a sigh. “That would have seen me at the Fair Vale when it was plundered, dead, among other depressing prospects.”
“Children are lever against a man,” I agreed. “As our adversary has determined. But he wasn’t lying, according to the truthtell I cast. Not one word.”
“Oh, I could tell that without magic,” Jannik dismissed. “I’ve heard more lies in taverns than a pretty maiden. The chandler is an honest man in a dire position,” he concluded. “Yet I gleaned quite a bit from his tale.”
“Such as?” I asked, conjuring a bottle of wine and two gl
asses from a hoxter – a vintage far advanced from the local wines served here.
“Oh, I do love magic!” chuckled the bard, as he poured the wine. “Among the most important lessons I learned was that Karakush is a treacherous foe with a penchant for betrayal,” he informed me. “Instead of concentrating his forces at some forbidding fortress, as Shakathet and Gaja Katar did, he has spread his strength at a number of lesser installations. Our friend, the chandler, mentioned the ones in the Westlands, but from what he said Karakush has little pockets of evil all over the West: the Westlands, the Land of Scars, the Wilderlands, even Northern Gilmora.”
“Northern Gilmora?” I asked, surprised. “How did you discover that?”
“An inference based on the number of days it took to get a message to poor Pionin’s handler,” explained Jannik. “Just a guess, but I’m near certain that he has a base in Northern Gilmora. But what is more disturbing than his proximity is the manner of his servants. Karakush seems to have a fetish for magic,” he suggested. “Well, magic and subterfuge, but likely he’s partial to magic, more. He’s hoping you expend your strength on Shakathet and will be weak and vulnerable after you – barely – defeat him. It’s an eminently reasonable strategy,” he added.
“I can’t argue that,” I sighed. “Putting ten, fifteen thousand men in the field against more than sixty thousand is going to be a challenge.”
“Yet you managed to stop Gaja Katar’s force with less,” reminded Jannik, as he poured my cup full. “That must have been instructive for our foe.”
“No doubt,” I agreed, considering my position from the perspective of my foe. “And Karakush seems fairly confident I will prevail against Shakathet. Yet not so much that he isn’t unwilling to fix the game, beforehand.”
“That’s assuming you’ll act on his information,” Jannik pointed out.
“How can I not?” I pleaded, throwing my hands wide.
“With a great deal of discipline,” counselled Jannik, sagely. “This intelligence is a gift, Minalan. Not all gifts are beneficial. This one seems too good to be true . . . which it is. There is a trap in this information, my lord,” he insisted.
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