When we were done, and the immediacy of our need was transformed into a contented afterglow and messy hair, Isily lay in my arms staring at the stone she held between her fingers.
“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered. “And so powerful.”
“And now, so are you,” I sighed, smelling her hair. “Use it wisely. And beware of excess. Even your subconscious thoughts and feelings will seek to manifest through magic. With that much power at your mind’s command, uttering an off-hand curse could doom some poor lackey, if you aren’t careful.”
“Then I will endeavor to be careful,” she agreed. “Now for my part of the bargain.”
“Bargain? Oh, yes. That’s right. You’re supposed to tell me how to keep the Censor General at bay.”
“I suppose you should know, General Hartarian, he is my uncle. My mother was his wife’s youngest sister, before she passed away, married to the Lord of Brawin. I didn’t know my uncle Hartarian well, since he lived in far from Brawin, but he did visit from time to time, when my mother was still alive. As a little girl, I remember him being very powerful but very kind. He was imposing, in the black-and-white cloak, but he was also willing to use his magic to amuse us children.”
That was a difficult image to visualize: the Censor General is a man to be feared and respected, a man with the power of life and death and professional success in his hands. He shouldn’t be making shadow puppets come alive to make the kiddies happy.
“When he found out I had Talent, and Her Grace chose to use her influence to see me at Alar Academy, he was very pleased. I was the only one in the family who had enough Talent to train, and he visited me once while I was there.”
“I’m certain that made your dormitory mates nervous,” I chuckled.
“More than you could imagine,” she giggled. “But he was a powerful mage, and he liked the fact that I was going into the trade. Although he insisted I stay away from certain elements he found . . . disreputable.”
“And certain magi, no doubt.”
“Exactly. However, Her Grace had other plans for me, and managed to secure a private tutor in the magical arts of detection and espionage without his knowing.”
“So where’s the part where you reveal Hartarian’s secret passion for buggering goats, or whatever leverage it is I need to make him not order me to be executed?”
“I’m getting to that. When I was a girl, I remember mother and my aunt talking in the garden one day about something that had disturbed my uncle. This was back before he was the Censor General, he was just one of the Censors of Remere, but he still had ambition. Apparently while bringing a hedgemagi to justice, the man prophesied that Hartarian would become the Censor General. The last Censor General.”
“Now isn’t that interesting?” I said, lightly. Far more lightly than I felt.
Prophesy is a very specialized branch of magic, as is all divination. Unlike merely throwing lots or reading entrails or studying the stars and moons, however, free-form prophecy is a particular Talent that appears sporadically among the magi, and seemingly more amongst the half-trained or self-trained footwizards and hedgemagi who operated just outside the law.
I suppose that’s because trained magi avoid divination and prophecy like a plague. It’s not that it can’t be done – it’s actually quite easy – it’s that prophecy and divination have an unpleasant habit of binding the subjects to the Fates, making a particular future path unavoidable (although due to the obscure nature of most prophesies, sometimes it takes centuries to realize the exact nature of the fulfillment).
The problem is that most prophecies are theurgic in nature – that is, they get filtered through the aspect of a god or goddess (or divine-like thing) who may have their own agendas and perspectives. Since the gods have been known to play favorites, give out misinformation, outright lie and otherwise entrap the foolish with their prophecies, a wise mage will avoid them. To hear that Hartarian had gotten disturbed about this off-hand prophesy was intriguing.
“The last Censor General, eh?” I mused. “Anything else to the prophesy?”
“Yes,” she said, reluctantly. “It said he will gain higher station than that, as well.”
“There is no higher station for a mage than Censor General,” I said. “He out-ranks even the Ducal Court Mages.”
“Of course,” she nodded. “Which is why that prophesy was so disturbing. The only mage who would – theoretically – out-rank the Censor General would have to be either a Royal court mage – that is, the personal mage to the King, which we seem to be short of – or the Archmage, which has been in scarce supply even longer than Kings in the Duchies.”
“I can see how that would be disturbing,” I agreed. “He can’t be Archmage without a Magocracy. He can’t be Royal Court Mage without a Kingdom. Either way promises to overthrow the established order in his lifetime. That has got to shake up a man who believes in his cause as thoroughly as the Censor General must.”
“There was one last part,” she added, hesitantly. “The most disturbing part of all. The prophesy said that he would have to betray his office in order to save the world.”
“Now that,” I said, lightly, toying with the outline of her nipple with one lazy finger, “is perhaps the most useful thing you’ve told me of all. This situation certainly fits. If he doesn’t allow the Bans to be relaxed, then the Dead God dines on our souls for breakfast. So he’s foreordained to give me my way,” I said, sighing. Perhaps there was a way out of this after all.
“Minalan, I don’t think it will be that simple,” she said, rising on one arm to look at me. “After he heard the prophesy, he went to the Temple of Avital, in Wenshar – there’s an old one there, dating back to the Magocracy and still in continual use – and he made a blood-vow that should he become Censor General, he would die before he would betray his oath.”
“So it comes down to whether he will bow to his honor or his spirit,” I said, my heart sinking again. “And I am supposing that he’s not known for cheating at cards, infidelity, or any of the other mortal failings to which man is subject?”
“He has been held up as a paragon of honor and virtue my entire life. He would rather lose a hand than see his reputation besmirched by even the suggestion of impropriety.”
I considered that for a moment. How come every aspect of governance of the Five Duchies was rife with corruption and dishonorable dealings – except for the one small part I needed to be? Scoundrels are easy to predict and maneuver around. A real man of honor, however, is always dangerous.
“So you think I can get him to break his honor by using the threat of the Dead God?” I asked, hopefully.
“If he has not had a change of heart, then knowing what I do of the man, no, you will not,” she admitted. “However, you may be able to use his fear of the prophesy to stay his hand. Create some doubt in his mind. Mitigate his impulse, which will be to punish you severely for your temerity.”
I swallowed, hard. That didn’t seem to be the level of protection she had promised me, but I guess it would have to work. “I suppose I can use it,” I said, at last. “Since he doesn’t know I know about it, it could be a useful surprise.” I stared into her big green eyes again. “Just curious – what ever happened to the hedgemage?”
“Him? Oh, Hartarian was not pleased. He was arrested for practicing without a license, then stripped of his powers, then tortured to death. They have a whole building devoted to that in the Censorate’s compound. And they stack up the skulls of those thus condemned as a mark of the Censorate’s command.”
I just had to ask, didn’t I?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tudry Town, Late Summer
By the time we rode back through Tudry’s gates, we barely recognized the place.
A lot of it was still abandoned, of course, particularly the poorer sections of New Town – those who had remained instead of fleeing to Vorone hadn’t hesitated to improve their station – or at least their quarters. But the streets were devoid of
trash, there was a brace of armored guardsmen at every intersection, and the walls were being patrolled by vigilant-looking soldiers of the City Guard. Astyral had things well-in-hand, it seemed.
I headed for his office the moment we arrived, before I’d even summoned Hamlan to care for Traveler. Apparently that would be unnecessary: my manservant awaited me outside of the former Lord Mayor’s palace.
“Good fortune on your journey, Master?” he asked, cheerfully as he took the reigns.
“We’re all still alive. That’s as much good fortune as I could ask for. If you could prepare a bath, I think I need a thorough scrubbing, after I brief Captain Astyral. A full tub, back at the inn, but don’t worry about heating it up.”
“Yes, Master. It’s good to see you again, too,” he added, with even more enthusiasm. I sighed. Sarcasm.
“I’ll have a dispatch, later – Family Business. You don’t happen to have a cousin around, do you?”
“I shall inquire, Master,” he nodded, suddenly all-business. I let him do what he does, and I went between the two brawny guardsmen with halberds who were stationed in front of the palace.
“Palace”, as in residence-of-someone-important, not “palace” as in luxuriously appointed mansion. It had been built at the height of Tudry’s prosperity, after the lead mines opened, of sturdy-but-ugly gray-brown brick and local gray-brown quarried stone, where it hadn’t been patched with mortar and paving stones. It was moderately defensible, but better suited to surviving a riot than a prolonged attack.
I passed two more pairs of guards before I got to the door of Astyral’s study, and there were a couple of pages racing back and forth . . . bearing the yellow sash with the jagged slashed spiral of the Ilnarthi death-rune on it, which was kind of disturbing, considering I’d seen it carved on the foreheads of men I’d known in Farise.
Damn. We had to get better livery.
“Minalan! You didn’t waste any time, did you?” He seemed genuine pleased to see me. His desk was covered with parchment, paper, books, scrolls, and at least six pots of ink and a dozen quills and pencils. I couldn’t help but notice a wine bottle being used as a paperweight. I poured us each a goblet full of an incredibly mediocre table wine that tasted like heaven, after ten days of road dust.
“Like the Dead God himself was chasing me,” I agreed. “I would have . . . thought to you if I’d gotten into trouble. But we got a wealth of intelligence, and all of it bad.” I gave him the abbreviated tale of our journey, which took almost a half an hour. He looked as gravely concerned as was warranted. When I finished, he rubbed his eyes tiredly.
“And here I thought I was sliding into a cushy billet,” he sighed. “We just got security the way I want it. Just got some organization back to this place. Oh, well.”
“I thought you didn’t really want to be a military governor?”
He shrugged. “Except for the horrible hours, it’s not a bad job. It looks like the Lord Mayor was the one keeping things from getting done. With him gone, everyone else has been surprisingly cooperative. Of course, they could be plotting my sudden and bloody death, but . . .” he finished with a shrug.
“Any more goblin trouble?”
“Sure, all the time. But all small bands. A hundred or so, here and there, raiding and looting but not a threat behind these walls. I’ve got Azar and his knights running patrols to intercept and destroy them. He’s having a lot of fun.” I could imagine. Azar isn’t happy unless he has blood dripping down both wrists.
I nodded. “That’s just what the Dead God wants . . . our forces scattered chasing after his churls while his main force descends on us. Our only chance against that horde is to concentrate our forces and meet it head on.”
“Head on? That doesn’t sound like the crafty, sneaky Spellmonger I keep hearing about.”
Goddess help me, I blushed. “If you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it. But an army that size is going to swallow up anything smaller than itself. Throwing everything we can at it seems to be the only option.”
“You have me there,” he conceded. “Even after the relief of Sarsguard—”
“Sarsguard? The barony?” It lay in the outlands, just before the Northwatches. Very remote. Very sparsely populated. And it was well within the Penumbra.
“Yes, well, they got a messenger through and Azar decided that it would be fun. He took three hundred heavy cavalry and some scouts, and made a run at the besiegers. Damn if he didn’t take them, too – high noon, pushed through three thousand of the buggers. By the time they got themselves organized, most of Sarsgard was on the move. Seven, eight hundred made it out, with Azar covering their withdrawal. They’re back at Megelin Castle now.”
“And you didn’t think that warranted a message?” I asked, surprised. Once again, Astyral shrugged.
“I’ve been busy. I’ve been sending armed parties out to local farms to harvest everything they can before winter. I’ve got squatters fighting over houses. I’ve got soldiers fighting over women – the whores got out with the rest of them, mostly. I’ve got burghers insisting I bring everyone back because the mines are idle, I’ve got lordlings bitching that they don’t have to do what I say because I was appointed by a Castali envoy and not an Alshari, I’ve got—”
“I wasn’t criticizing,” I said, and then sighed. “Yes, yes I was criticizing, and I shouldn’t have been. Sorry. You were right to send Azar—”
“I didn’t send him, he just . . . went. He’s got a group of knights around him at Megelin Castle who think he’s Duin the Destroyer, reborn. When he said ‘go’, they went. I didn’t find out about it until afterwards.” He sounded a little disturbed by it. I was a lot disturbed by it . . . but what could I do? Azar was killing goblins. That’s what I wanted him to do.
It was becoming clear to me that the role of grand strategician wasn’t the easy job I thought it was. I had an army – of sorts – and captains, and spies, and scouts, and allies and . . . and no real way to control them. I could barely command them, I realized.
“How soon before you can have the men prepared to march?”
“How far?” he asked, simply. “Which men?”
“All of the horse, and most of the infantry. Save a thousand to garrison the town. A few hundred leagues. I suppose we had better figure out exactly where as quickly as possible. Because until we . . . then we . . . Damn!“ I finally gasped in exasperation.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned.
“I’m just realizing everything that has to be done before we can even begin to plan how to win. There are still too many questions that need to be answered. Exactly how large a force do we face? How are they composed? Where are they? How fast are they moving? When will they be where? Where is the best place for us to face them? How many shamans do they have? How many warmagi can we put in the field? Can Duke Lenguin be convinced to ride forth? And last, but not least, how can we talk the mercenaries into extending their support to an entire army? Can the Orphans even handle that?” I gave an exasperated sigh. “Too many unknowns to make any plans. “I need a council of war. A real one.”
“Well, you’ve come up with a list of questions. That’s a start. You just need answers. And people to find them out for you. And then more people to do what you want them to do. To answer one of those, the horse could be ready to move in four days, maybe three. The infantry will need a week, if you want them to go in good order, well provisioned, and prepared for battle. I can convene a small council of my – our forces, here at Tudry, and those at Megelin. Let’s go ahead and send for the Baron of Green Hill, too – it looks like this is going to happen near to his lands, if not in them.”
“If you could make those arrangements, I need a bath and ten hours of sleep.”
“Go ahead, Min,” he said, rising to shake my hand. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”
* * *
When I awoke, sometime late the next day, I felt like a new man. An hour-long soak in the inn’s big brass tub, the water
magically heated to the perfect temperature, a very attentive Marlet assisting me, Hamlan laying out my clothes (he had procured several sets at very good prices from some looters of good repute) and an unassuming but stunningly delicious rabbit and fargwort stew with chunks of onion and potato, from Master Brindalan’s kitchen, and two pints of beer from his cellars. The horrors of Terrorhall, the lingering sense of doom from the Umbra, and even the prospect of fielding a response to a true goblin horde faded from my spirit, if not my mind.
I was helped in this distraction by the minstrel, Jannik, who had taken rooms at the inn, in part because it was where I was staying, and he still felt grateful for my rescuing him (so he said) or because Jannik gravitated toward people in power who could protect and support him (my conjecture). Still, he was a hearty companion who seemed to be performing even when he was idling. Perhaps especially so.
Despite his caginess, I found Jannik to be shrewd in his judgment of people, and astute to politics in ways I wasn’t. For instance, he knew quite a bit about the Alshari court, despite working in the hinterlands, and that was more than I knew and I’d been living in Alshar for almost a year. I barely knew Lenguin’s name, much less the leading nobles of the Duchy. As a spellmonger, they’d had no need of my services, and as a warmage they were intelligent, rich, or powerful enough to avoid the kinds of private wars which are my profession’s bread and butter. Barons, on the other hand . . . they’re always scheming about enlarging their domains through petty warfare. Emphasis on the petty.
I encouraged Jannik to stick around, and had Hamlan ensure the innkeeper was being well-paid, before I asked him something else, when everyone else was out of earshot.
“Have you found a cousin capable of making it back to Mother?”
“Anytime you wish, Master,” he promised. “You have a dispatch?”
“I will, after I take counsel this afternoon,” I agreed. “And observe Jannik, as well. He seems very resourceful – well, he’d have to be, surviving the Soulless of Terrorhall. See if you think he’d be a good resource for Mother to cultivate.” After all, minstrels got around a lot and heard all sorts of things.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 47