“Boy! What’s the ruckus? Are the goblins back? The dragon?”
“Thank the gods, no, milord,” the boy answered hurriedly, his eyes wide with fear. “But it’s the next worst thing. His Grace Duke Lenguin expired in the night, milord. Died in his sleep, of a wound taken in battle, it is said.”
My jaw dropped. I nodded absently and the boy ran off on his errand.
I tried to collect my thoughts, failed, and decided I needed help.
Penny! I called through our telepathic connection, when I managed to establish the right connection. I was tired. Lenguin’s dead?
I just heard about it myself! She said into my mind. Wenek just told me! That’s all we know so far, though. I’m getting dressed. You should look into this.
I broke contact and tried to think of who else might know something. Mavone answered that question for me by contacting me first.
Min, we’ve got big problems, he explained. I was drinking with a few friends over in the royal encampment last night – this morning – and I was outside taking a piss when I noticed some strangeness over by the royal encampment.
Strangeness? What kind of strangeness?
It was strange enough to attract my attention. I gazed at it under magesight, and there’s no doubt in my mind, Min. Someone was using magic over there just before dawn.
You’re certain?
I’d swear an oath.
Who else have you told?
No one, he admitted. I thought you needed to hear about it first. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, I just figured Dunselen or Thinaradel was showing off. But that late? That didn’t make sense. Then I heard about Lenguin, and I figured you’d want to know.
Good job, I congratulated him. Gather everyone you can in the barn and warn them to stay alert – everyone we can trust, that is. I’m going to go scout things out, but we might need to act in a hurry. Understood?
It was, and Mavone assured me that he would come running if I called. I dropped the spell and went to find a convenient spot for a piss, myself. That’s where Hamlan caught up with me.
“Master, have you heard the news?” he asked, alarmed. “Duke Lenguin is dead!”
“I heard,” I agreed. “I’m headed there now to see what is happening.”
My manservant looked troubled. “Master? Is that wise?”
“Probably not, but I’m nosy,” I pointed out, fastening my flies after the traditional three shakes. “Besides, I might be able to help.”
“Do you . . . do you think Mother would approve?” he asked, in a near whisper.
I looked up at him sharply. My brain started working. “Maybe not,” I agreed. “But she’s conveniently not here to ask.”
He looked mollified, but still edgy. I followed the dirt trail between camps until I ran into a messenger who had been sent to find me, and followed him back to the Royal encampment. I found Mavone lingering around the edge of the crowd and caught his eye, but otherwise ignored him. He knew his business.
There was an angry crowd gathering around the royal encampment, mostly Alshari nobles who wanted answers being kept out by tight-lipped Castali nobles. Several of the Alshari lords mobbed me when they recognized me. A week ago they could barely bring themselves to speak to me. Now they were the model of respect, imploring me to uncover what they saw as a Castali plot against the realm. A few even remembered to call me “Sire Minalan”. I’d almost forgotten my new noble status.
“Gentlemen!” I shouted, finally, when they kept talking over themselves. “I want to know what happened as much as you. I promise you that I will look into the matter and give you my unbiased report. Until then, I ask you to stand clear and let me inside, and I will return shortly.”
That pacified most of them, while others were convinced I was part of the plot. Which, come to find out, I was.
The guards with the halberds and the arms of Castal embroidered on their tabards almost didn’t let me through, until Master Dunselen intervened. He led me inside where Duke Rard and the kernel of his court were sitting around Duke Lenguin’s body, still in its bed. There were three or four priests skulking around, saying prayers, burning incense, and praising the gods.
“It happened in his sleep, thankfully,” Master Dunselen was telling me, shaking his head sadly. “He had such a hard knock yesterday. And while Master Icorod cleared him for duty, that second blow, from the hammer of a troll . . .”
I nodded – that did happen, sometimes. A man might go as much as a week after a blow to the head, and seem perfectly fine, and then expire in the middle of dinner with no warning. That might explain Lenguin’s behavior last night. He had seemed off his game, slightly drunk, and not his usual pompous self at court. Perhaps this was why.
“Might you permit me to examine the body?” I asked. “Purely to calm the hot-heads outside. They are convinced it is a secret plot to ruin Alshar, and they trust me to treat them with news fairly.”
“Ah, yes, well, I don’t see why not,” Dunselen said, uneasily glancing at Duke Rard who was reading a dispatch. I nodded and quietly knelt next to the pale, lifeless body of Lenguin II, late Duke of Alshar. I closed my eyes and extended my awareness, adjusting for scale, and I examined the nature of the wound beneath his skull.
There it was. A huge pool of blood had put pressure on his brain until he had expired. The injury was on the right hemisphere, just below the ear. The only visible sign was a small nick, the kind you get when you put on armor. “Armor bites”, they’re known as. But inside there was a chunk of damaged tissue nearly the size of my fist. It had been a slow, silent killer, but there was no doubt in my mind that that had been the cause of death.
I was about to rise when I felt the presence of something . . . ephemeral.
A lesser mage would have missed it, and I mean no disrespect to my professional peers. Most spellmongers and court wizards don’t know enough about thaumaturgic magic to be sensitive to such things, but there was something . . . odd about the wound. I could detect the faintest trace of a spell, the thaumaturgic residue imprinted on the tissue and bone. It wasn’t much, but I could feel it enough to locate exactly what had been meddled with.
It proved to be a tiny blood vessel, already battered by the injury, which had been magically separated just the smallest amount. It had permitted a slow but steady bleed into the rest of the brain. When Lenguin lay down to sleep, he wouldn’t have been conscious for more than fifteen minutes before the pressure would have knocked him out and then killed him.
But it wouldn’t have happened – or at least not been fatal – if that hole in the vessel hadn’t been made.
Prince Lenguin had been murdered. By magic.
“Hey, you! Spark!” bellowed a voice from behind me. I rose quickly to face off with Baron Glyal, one of the cocky young Castali Riverlords who had ridden up with Rard, and who had unfortunately not been killed in battle. Glyal had a solid reputation as a tool. “Leave off! That’s His Grace’s brother-in-law!”
“That’s ‘Sir Spark’ to you,” I corrected. “I’m just examining the body so I can put some minds at ease.
Glyal snorted. “That rabble out there? My peasants dress better than they!”
I got tired of the sound of his voice. I put a bubble of silence over his head and ignored him after that. His struggles gave me time to run a few small, subtle thaumaturgic spells. Mere tests, really, just indicators for assessing a situation. But I learned a great deal very quickly, and more than enough to figure out what had happened.
I opened my eyes in surprise, and then let Glyal speak again. He wasn’t amused, but he’d seen enough magic to know that pressing the matter would be bad for his health. Apparently you could see the pillar of flame that had been my fire elemental for miles and miles away, and the Castali had been duly impressed at the sight of such powerful magic.
“Yes, that rabble out there,” I finished with a sigh. “The Alshari Wilderland lords might not fit your idea of a perfumed nobility, Baron Glyal, but there a
re two things you should remember before you speak so carelessly. Firstly, you are a Riverlord standing in their lands, they are not Riverland peasants. Mistaking them as such would be foolish. They have a bitter dueling tradition up here. They use axes, not swords.”
Glyal looked offended, but not impressed. Idiot. “And second?” he asked, condescendingly.
“Second, they are my comrades that I have fought beside and bled with for the last several months. That means that when you insult them, I take it personally. It may well be that the opposite is also true. Why don’t you go tell them that some ‘damn spark’ is messing with the Duke’s body, and see how they take it?”
He didn’t, of course, but he also didn’t mess with me any more after that. I’m not fond of Riverlords, even though I was born and bred in the Castali Riverlands. I waited a moment to see Duke Rard, who clearly hadn’t forgotten my new title.
“Well, Sire Minalan?” he asked. “You examined the body . . . what did you find?”
“I found a small laceration in an important artery in the brain that caused him to bleed out until he died,” I said, truthfully. “But that’s a preliminary report. I’ve cast some spells and conducted some information. I want to consult with my colleagues before I release a final report. I hope Your Grace doesn’t mind – in light of the circumstances, it seems prudent to be thorough.”
He nodded sagely, but looked disappointed. “Will you at least tell that much to that cluster of knights outside? They’re thinking that I had his throat slit in the middle of the night so I could steal the Duchy away,” he scoffed.
I scoffed politely in return, but I was starting to get the feeling that that was actually closer to what actually happened than a lingering brain injury.
“I’ll be happy to, Your Grace,” I assured him. I sighed and looked back at Lenguin’s body, where the priests were smudging it with wickherb and frankincense. “It’s poor taste to speak ill of the dead, but he was a bit of a twit. But a brave one. He fought honorably, once he was forced into battle, and he didn’t run when he could have. Alshar has had better leaders,” I observed, “but then it has had worse, too.”
Rard nodded, his shaggy head and imposing beard looking like a blonde thundercloud under his coronet. “He was a complete tool,” he agreed. “Still, I always kind of liked him, even when he was annoying as hell. The Duchess is going to be heartbroken when she hears the news of her little brother’s death.”
Yeah, right.
“What does that do to the political situation here, Sire?” I asked, innocently. “With Lenguin dead, that makes his son Duke, does it not?”
“A boy,” Rard said, shaking his head. “A stripling barely able to shave. I heard he was esquired in the Riverlands. Still, you’re right, he is the lawful Duke of Alshar,” he said, accenting the title strangely. “No doubt a Regency can be made until he’s seasoned enough to take the coronet. In the meantime, I suppose his mother Enora shall . . . reign. I shall send a messenger to Her Grace at Vorone at once.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” I said, smoothly. “It is also possible that this was an effect of goblin magic – that one of the Dead Gods shamans was able to harm him in some way. There is precedent,” I added. “Before you arrived, it was well known to my Order than Duke Lenguin was under magical attack from the goblins. They were enchanting him into indecisiveness.”
Rard smiled despite himself. “That was no great spell,” he snorted. “If there was ever a man prone to indecisiveness, it was Lenguin. Still . . . could you look into that as well?” he asked, innocently. “Just to be sure. If we could point a finger at the Dead God, perhaps some of those . . . lordlings out there won’t be so apt to go to war with Castal so soon after a war with the goblins.”
“It would be my pleasure, Your Grace,” I said with a bow. “Just give me a little time, and a chance to talk to my people, and I’m sure we can find the definitive cause of death.”
“I would count it as a favor,” Rard assured me. I bowed again and excused myself. Just outside of the tent, I was nearly mobbed by Alshari nobles again who clamored for an explanation.
“Gentlemen of Alshar!” I said, very deliberately. “I fear the news you heard is true: Prince Lenguin is, alas, dead. He died in his sleep last night, or early this morning. As his loyal Marshal, and a trusted mage, I have been asked by His Grace, Duke Rard, to investigate further to remove any doubt. But I conducted the examination myself, and there is no doubt in my mind that an internal bleeder in his brain ended his life. Gods save the Duke of Alshar!”
There was a groan of despair and disgust, but they looked less-likely to rush the Ducal encampment now. They did trust me. And I hadn’t lied to them about Lenguin’s untimely death.
Yet.
As I walked back to the barn, I wasn’t surprised to feel Mavone sidling up next to me, matching my step. “How did that go?”
“About like I figured,” I admitted. “I did an exam. He did bleed out from his head wound. But . . . that wasn’t all.”
Mavone nodded sagely. “I thought not. Too convenient.”
“That crossed my mind as well,” I agreed. “Is everyone gathered at the barn?” He nodded. “Then as soon as we get there, I want you to send a messenger out to Lady Isily. Ask her to meet me . . . um, let’s do it over by the apple orchards on the other side of the castle, second hour after noon. Hard to be overheard there. And that will give me a little more time to work.”
He looked confused. “Why not just contact her telepathically?”
I shook my head. “I never included her in that spell. She doesn’t even really know about it. I didn’t think I could trust her.”
He nodded. “I agree. I don’t know why, but I always feel on my guard around her. Pity, too. She’s gorgeous.”
“Trust your instincts,” I encouraged. “But send the message. Have her meet me there this afternoon. Tell her I need to discuss something intriguing I found about the Duke’s death.”
“It shall be done,” he assured me. “Anything else?”
I stopped and considered. “I’ll cover it at the meeting,” I finally decided. I didn’t want to have to repeat myself.
He shrugged. “You’re the guy with the funny hat.”
* * *
The inside of the barn wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t vacant, either. Every High Mage in camp, save for Isily and the two Court Magi, were there. There were a few missing – Astyral had rode to Vorone to help protect the wounded that were being evacuated to there, and Rondal was helping search the massive amount of goblin corpses for witchstones, but nearly everyone else was there. They all looked vaguely disturbed by the news of Lenguin’s death, and I couldn’t blame them. I was plenty disturbed myself.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” I began. “I know everyone here could use a week of sleep, but that’s apparently not going to happen. Duke Lenguin died last night, as you may have heard. I was able to examine the body.”
“They say it was a result of a wound he received yesterday,” Carmella commented, doubt heavy in her voice.
“He died because he had blood pool up inside his skull until he passed out,” I corrected. “There was, indeed, a wound that caused that. But while I was examining the body, I found some . . . magical irregularities,” I said, finally. “Irregularities that cast some doubt on this being a simple war wound. So just to say I asked, did anyone here sneak into Lenguin’s tent last night and help his wound along?”
A couple snorted. No one volunteered. No one looked guilty. Which is what I expected. The only four magi who had access to Lenguin were me, Master Thinradel (who made a point of avoiding the Duke), Mavone . . . and Isily.
It might have been Mavone . . . but then why tip me off to the late-night skullduggery? If he’d kept his mouth shut I probably wouldn’t have even examined Lenguin’s body. No, Mavone was a lot of things, but an assassin wasn’t one of them.
Thinradel? I didn’t know him nearly as well as I did Mavone, but he had no
vested interest in killing his liege. After all, his position at court depended on Lenguin, and with him gone whomever the new sovereign was would appoint his own Court Wizard. As much as he may have disliked Lenguin, his enmity didn’t rise to the level of murder.
I know I sure as hell didn’t kill him. He was kind of a tool, but he hadn’t really been any worse than any other noble.
Oh, crap. I realized that I’m a noble now, too. That was going to upset my healthy sense of class consciousness.
Oh, yeah. The murder.
It had to be Isily. I had suspected her at once, of course, once Mavone had mentioned the late-night spellwork. This sort of thing is exactly what shadowmagic was useful for. And as pretty as she was, I didn’t trust her one bit – what kind of man trusts a professed assassin? Even if she does share his bed occasionally? Isily was Grendine’s creature, and while she had proven useful during the campaign I never had any illusions about her loyalty.
“All right,” I said, finally. “I didn’t think so. But I have a feeling that things are going to get very chaotic around here, very soon, and I’d strongly suggest we all be elsewhere while this shakes out. I know we all just got ennobled, we’re the first magelords in recent history and all that, but I’m thinking we need to keep the Order relatively apolitical. I’m not a fan of their other work, but you have to admire the way the Censorate manages to stay clear of politics.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Pentandra said. “The Censorate is political, too. But they’re institutionally political. I do know that orders that get political also attract a lot of attention.” Of course she knew all about that – her father was a member of a secret magical society dedicate to overthrowing the Five Duchies – the very institution that the Censorate was founded to combat. “We’re going to have a hard enough time getting ourselves established. I agree with Minalan: let’s stay the hells out of the political situation. This is going to have repercussions all over the Five Duchies. Picking the wrong side in a civil war is just a stupid move.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 80