“Slaves, in other words,” snorted Delman. “And you the chief slave and overseer, cracking the whip and fawning all over your real master.”
“Am I any different than any other lord?” Garkesku asked, pointedly. “I rule here, in another’s name. Save that it violates the Bans, there is nothing unusual about that!”
“Except your liege is an undead genocidal goblin head,” Rustallo observed. “Who thrives on sacrifice.”
“Enough of the bantering,” Garkesku said, darkly. “I had more in mind than insults when I extended my invitation. You are known to the Great Master – you in particular, Minalan, and you, Terleman. He recognizes your skill and audacity in escaping, and he knows that you seek now to rally his enemies to overthrow him.” He pronounced it as if it was a secret he had just discovered.
“Yet even while you spy on His domains, He is gracious: the Great Master wanted you to know, and to spread word to all, that any mage who comes to his frontiers, unarmed, and pledges his fealty to the Great Master, will be granted a witchstone in his service. More, any knight who does likewise will be examined and, if found worthy, given a place within the armies of the Great Master. And that is but the beginning – the work I do here is prototypical. Soon the Great Master will need loyal servants throughout all of his lands.”
“More overseers,” Delman said, with scorn.
“Partners,” Garkesku corrected, diplomatically. “Humans who see the benefits of cooperation, not conflict.”
“That’s insane,” pronounced Cormaran. “Who would agree to such a bargain, when the inevitable end is death?”
“Who’s end in death isn’t inevitable?” countered the twisted little man. “Life is thus for all: no one escapes from it alive.” That was true, and perhaps even insightful, in a philosophical sort of way. What it wasn’t, was helpful.
“Death in the service of life is noble, and death under servitude is a welcome release,” observed Taren, coldly. “But to trade your humanity to your executioner for a few more months or years of slavery and torture . . . that is madness.”
“It is not only life that the Great Master grants,” Garkesku insisted. “There are other riches, as well, for those who serve him. This castle, the wealth it bore, the lands, all mine, now! The daughter of the late Lord of Terrihall warms my bed. I am respected – perhaps even loved – for the capable administration of this estate. The people do not foment revolt or riot. Indeed, their lot is better under the Great Master than under their human lords, for I take only what is needed from them and not rob them needlessly for my own enrichment. All who bear the brand have freely consented to this life – can the peasantry of the Duchies say the same?”
“And if they refused to consent, what then?” demanded Delman.
Garkesku shrugged, helplessly. “If they have not the wit to recognize an opportunity, then perhaps they do not deserve to thrive.”
“A neat and clean way of justifying the slaughter of thousands,” Terleman replied. “How can you sleep at night, Sir?”
“The Great Master fills my dreams with His grace,” Garky replied automatically. “I have said what I wanted to say. I have extended my offer. And I will honor the truce we have made and respect the laws of hospitality. See that you do the same. I retire to my chambers, now. I’ll summon a minstrel to make your meal more pleasant, but I ask that you be outside of the frontiers of my lands before dusk, lest you over-stay your welcome here.” He rose, gave a curt bow, whispered a few words to his castellan, and then retreated up the stairs.
“My lords,” Vopei said, addressing us with great dignity, “I will bring more wine and entertainment. Your horses will be saddled and ready within the hour.”
“Thank you, lackey,” Terleman said with barely disguised contempt. “So what is your tale? How came you here, to be in service to . . . that man?”
Vopei looked offended, but answered, stiffly, “I was a chandler, once, in Ganz. I fled with the others but was caught by the Great Master’s armies. After I was tested and judged, I was granted a brand and sent here, with the rest, where I helped restore the estate to its proper function. And when Master Garkesku arrived, he saw the good work I did and brought me inside the castle walls, to be castellan under the scarlet banner. If that will be all . . . ?”
He marched as stiffly away as his waddling body would allow, leaving us alone with the three dazed-looking servant girls. They were utterly wretched, never looking up from the floor any more than they needed to, and utterly silent. That told me more than just about anything else: I have five sisters. The last time four of them were quiet was just before the second one was born.
The promised minstrel arrived, a cocky young man with short curly red hair and a face utterly covered with freckles, wearing a bright blue gambeson that had been richly made, originally, but which had seen a lot of wear since. The man himself seemed almost as dreary as the serving girls – which he dismissed as soon as he arrived – but he did have a lap harp and a lovely tenor voice. He began to sing and play without any introduction. It was strange – almost surreal – to hear any kind of music in such a dreary place, but soon the melancholy melody he played seemed to fit the occasion.
We ate in silence – though we were ‘talking’ pretty rapidly through telepathy, where we were positive we couldn’t be overheard. Mostly we just traded amazements at the spectacle we were witnessing. The Dead God? With vassals? It was a factor that both complicated and simplified a good number of things. Finally the minstrel’s song came to a close, and when the last note had sounded he glanced around suspiciously.
“My lords,” he said, in a whisper, “I can see you do not bow to the Great Master, as my lord Garkesku does. Might I beg a boon?” he asked. We all perked up – this was as close to a friendly sign of life as we’d seen in this twisted land. I looked around myself – I didn’t think we were being overheard. Then I nodded.
The minstrel rolled up his left sleeve, displaying his own evil-looking skull brand . . . which he then neatly peeled off of his arm. “My lords, my name is Jannik the Jolly, jongleur of renown . . . and you would make me among the happiest of men if you would get me the hell out of this evil land and away from that fucking madman!”
Chapter Twenty-Three:
An Evening Of Entertainments With The Nobility
Wilderhall, Midsummer
“Master, you requested to be woken at this time,” the soft but insistent voice of my new manservant said. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I was already exhausted.
“Go away,” I commanded. “Five more minutes.”
“I would not be doing my Master any favors by complying with his wishes,” he chided me. “Your appointment with the nobles is within the hour, and it takes twenty minutes to walk the distance sober.”
“Admit it; you’re working for the Dead God, aren’t you?”
“Master seems cranky this afternoon,” he observed, as he opened the curtains wide and threw back the shutters to the tiny little arrow slit. The late evening sunshine streamed in from the west. I sighed, knowing that no amount of weariness could spare me from this obligation, and then I realized I felt a lot better after having had a nap. I swung my feet out and sat up. Hamlan was already pouring water into the basin and preparing a towel and a razor. I don’t know where he got them from.
“My apologies, Master, but I didn’t think we had time for me to run down to the kitchens and fetch hot water, so cold water will have to serve,” he said, with exaggerated patience as he worked a nubbin of soap into a lather with the brush end of the razor. “Cold water will help you wake up more quickly, anyway, and help you recover your wits.”
Shaving with cold water sounded like torture. I only shaved every week or so, if then, and tried to use a barber instead of nearly cutting my own throat with the razor. Besides, I like the gossip. He obviously considered I needed a shave, and I had to defer to his superior knowledge of court behavior. But I hadn’t shaved with cold water since I went to the Academy. I raised
my hand and gestured, flinging a little bolt of elemental magic at the basin, and suddenly the water was steaming.
“I’d rather wake up more gradually, if there’s no threat of imminent death,” I yawned. “It makes me slightly less cranky.”
Ham was staring at the water with a trace of wonder, but his reserved demeanor wouldn’t let him gawk openly. “It seems that duties for a mage are going to be a little different than for a mere lord,” he remarked as I sat on the stool and leaned my head back on the table.
“Not always in a good way, I’m afraid. I may not need you to draw hot water, but I might have you go fetch me six gray hairs from a virgin’s cleft.”
“I look forward to the opportunity to serve you, Master,” he chuckled as he applied the soap to my face, then the razor. He was quick enough about it, and even produced a pair of shears to trim some stray hairs from my head while he was at it. He brushed them away and held up a small, highly-polished silver looking glass for my inspection. I looked better than usual. The towel he patted my faces with after rinsing was soft and luxurious against my freshly-shaven face. I wanted it.
“Any parting words, cousin?” I asked, as I collected up my gear. I stuck with my dress dagger, a pouch of this-and-thats a mage finds useful, and a small willow wand in my boot that had about six charges on it. Just a powerful blast of force – not enough to kill – but it could knock a man off his feet and leave him breathless. There was a stone in my pouch that would cause a man to fall asleep the moment he touched it. I wasn’t anticipating trouble, but it might come in handy. I dug out my cap-of-office, a cloth conical affair with three smaller “points” sewn to the sides. I grabbed my spellmonger’s staff last, and Ham watched amusedly as it floated across the room to my hand.
“Beware Moran, Master,” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear as he wrapped the summer half-cloak that was the fashion around my shoulders. “The others are powerful, greedy, and jealous of their positions, but Moran is dangerous. He has designs on the Coronet itself, it is whispered.”
“Thanks,” I said as I left, not pointing out that people like Ham were the ones doing the whispering. Moran is dangerous. It wasn’t particularly helpful, but every bit of intelligence could be useful. I reflected and rehearsed on my way over to the Tower of Steel, and even stopped to hang a couple of little spells I might need. Then I sighed, turned on the tap to my quickly-receding reservoirs of charm, and presented myself to the very large knight who tended the door.
His sword was sheathed, and he wasn’t wearing armor, but the glittering chain around his neck and the prominent and elaborate display of his arms on his tunic told his story: younger son of a noble house seeking position through pure ass-kissing and willingness to do things like guard doors.
“Ah! Master Spellmonger!” the young lord boomed. “I’m Sire Dasuos, I’ve been expecting you! Welcome to our little weekly meeting!” Sire Dasuos said everything as if he was announcing it to a crowded hall. I bowed and made my greetings, and then was escorted into the dimly-lit hall, where prized hunting weapons were displayed in ornate racks and the heads of dozens of animals festooned the dark paneling, their glassy eyes staring blankly into the fire. A few even had weak enchantments to make them seem more alive, but they were as faded as most of the stuffed heads, so the effect was to just make them kind of creepy instead of threatening. The cobwebs between the antlers didn’t help.
Situated around a large fireplace bearing a small fire were over a dozen richly-dressed men, some smoking, all drinking, and all chatting away like a bunch of farmers at the beer tent on market day. I recognized Moray and Lord Moran from my session with the council, and maybe a few others who had been on the fringes, but they all stood as I entered and introduced themselves with a genteel casualness designed to put me off my guard.
“Master Minalan, thank you for joining us,” Moray boomed as he shook my hand warmly. He was a barrel-chested man with a pointed beard and a waxed mustache, his greasy black hair well-streaked with gray. He had at least seven rings on his chubby fingers, and wore a golden coin four inches across suspended from a heavy gold chain around his neck. “I would love for you to regale the gentlemen with the tale of this evil floating goblin head thing and the siege of Boval. Since you were there, perhaps you can give us some insight into the . . . goblin thing. Get inside his mind, so to speak. Perhaps he can be reasoned with? And brevity is encouraged – we don’t need every detail, just the important events.”
“I shall do my best, my lord,” I bowed, as he led me to the table. I stopped for a moment to magically affix my staff to the floor just behind my chair, and then hung my hat on it. That got a couple of chuckles. Everyone likes a showy bit of magic.
I did keep it brief, distilling a weeks-long siege and miraculous escape into thirty minutes of tense retelling. I’m not a professional story-teller, but I’d like to think I could have earned a few coins at market for how rapt my audience was. I finished with my honest assessment: “There can be no bargaining, no negotiating with Shereul the Dead God. He has no use for coin, he can’t be poisoned, you can’t stick a dagger in him, and you can’t ply him with comely maidens. He has one objective, and that’s the destruction of humanity. That is his sole purpose. And he has considerable power to further that goal. Far more than I have, or all the magi in the Duchies put together.”
“Dear gods,” a lord I recalled as Sire Donaro, a Riverlord, said in horror. “Then what can we do, if steel and magic together aren’t enough?”
“We withdraw,” Viscount Asipian said, as if it was the clear and obvious choice. “We cede western Alshar and move back away, until we can drub him properly. It will take time to raise an army that large.” He was an idiot.
“Don’t be stupid,” Lord Efert of Morilla said. “We can’t cede western Alshar! That’s good timber country. We can’t build ships without proper timber. And if we can’t get wood down river, the shipwrights can’t replace the fleet we lost at Farise. So we have to do something.”
Moray waited a few moments before offering his opinion. “We have to strike back! And hard! I’ve seen these gurvani in the mountains, and the largest of them is the size of a twelve-year-old. They wear little armor and fight with sticks, slings, and clubs. A mounted, armored knight can plow through them like butter. And between Alshar and Castal, we have thousands of knights!”
“Bugger Alshar, if you ask me,” Baron Uins, a cadaverous old man with one last shock of white hair defending his complete baldness. “Bloody Alshar brought this on themselves, messing with goblins all those years ago. Now we’re to pay the price, in treasure and blood and steel? Lose a whole generation of our heirs . . . for what? Goblins? There’s no glory there, no lands. Leave them to their problems, I say. Look to our borders and let none pass.”
“The westernmost baronies are gone, we’ll have to write them off completely,” sighed one of the nobles whose name I hadn’t gotten. “But what about the middle baronies? Surely they can hold out. Fesdarlen? Green Hill? Megelin? If properly supported. We needn’t loose all of Alshar.”
“And what if we did?” asked Uins again. “We’ve fought two wars with the Alshari in the last fifty years. If they get kicked around by the goblins awhile, what’s left can become part of Castal. The Duchess is Alshari, and if her brother dies she has a claim—”
“The Duchess!” Viscount Poramar said, not bothering to disguise the disgust in his voice. He was an older man, though not as old as Uins, and certainly more vital. “Grendine is more Remeran than Alshari. And I wouldn’t doubt she’d stick a knife in Lenguin to steal his throne.” I was a bit scandalized – that was fairly close to treason, not to mention casting aspersions on a sitting monarch. Not that I disagreed, but I wasn’t used to such scandalous things being bandied about so casually. Moray noted my discomfort and sought to soothe me.
“We have an agreement that the affairs of the realm may be discussed within our company freely, without fear of report or reprisal, Master Minalan. We are al
l perfectly loyal, to the Duchy and the House of Biminy. Duke Rard is a decent, if often-deceived ruler.
“But beyond that, we are permitted our opinions of the way the Duchy is run, and by whom. And in the opinion of most of us, Duchess Grendine is far too involved in affairs she shouldn’t be. A nosy woman, who pretends she can replace thoughtful counsel and good policy with whispers and lies. Some of us believe that she does not have the best interests of the Duchy in mind. But not all of us. She has her supporters, even here. Tell me, Master Spellmonger, what did you think of our Duchess?”
I swallowed despite myself. “A fair enough lady, regal in bearing,” I admitted, casually. “She seemed genuinely concerned about the shadow in the west, only vaguely interested in my proposal, and far more intrigued by the displays of magic I provided her ladies-in-waiting.”
“Really?” Moray asked, interested. “Just what did she say regarding your proposal?”
“Her mood was hard to gauge, my lord,” I shrugged. “Though she raised some profound suspicions about my motives. And she remarked more than once about my common birth. She seemed of the opinion that tradition was established for a reason, the Bans most of all. If I had to guess, my lord . . . I would say she was shifting away from supporting my proposal.” That was blatantly untrue, but I had a feeling that if Mother Grendine was a center of power within the court, these gentlemen were another – and one willing to paint the moons blue to spite her fondness for yellow. Saying that she didn’t favor my proposal was as good as asking for their support.
“That’s typical,” Poramar sneered as he finished his tankard of wine. It was his third in an hour – he was well known as a man of prodigious appetites. “The old bat can’t see the military situation is dire, she just sees a bloody peasant with a wand screaming about goblins. No offense, Spellmonger. No thought to the realm. When Alshar falls, who will ride to our rescue? Remere? Wenshar? Bloody Vore? No, we have to fight them now, while they’re still in Alshar.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 42