“I agree,” Master Cormaran said. He was the oldest man present, a well-respected and universally-liked mage who had both acted fatherly toward the rest of us and deferred to the leadership of younger men without taking offense. “I’ve lived in Alshar most of my life, and I know the local lords. Those who are left after this battle are not going to be happy if they discover that there has been any underhandedness. They’re a stubborn lot of rural knights who, with the exception of Farise, have traditionally been mustered to fight Castali. And they are a gossipy lot, too – regardless of what actually happened, they will be prone to act on whatever belief suits their fancy. If they decide that Duke Rard was involved, then it won’t matter if you can prove them wrong. They’ll do as they please – particularly that Megelini lot. Hot-headed, and ready to fight before they think. Though the Fesdarleni are almost as bad.”
“There aren’t a hundred Megelini knights left,” Azar said, shaking his head. “And the Fesdarleni and Green Hill knights were the first the dragon slew. But their yeomen remain, and they are already scared and tired and angry. They are stout fellows, but Master Cormaran is right: if they get a notion in their heads, you can’t drive it out with a hammer.”
I winced. Poor choice of words, under the circumstances.
“Particularly with the presence of the Duke of Castal,” Mavone agreed. “That’s automatically suspicious. The time I spent in the Alshari court at Vorone taught me that much. The Alshari all see the Castali as part of a sinister web of evil, constantly plotting against Lenguin. Apparently Duchess Grendine left a powerful impression on the court growing up here.”
I’m sure it would shock them all to learn just how close to the truth they were. That’s the problem with conspiracies. The more outrageous they are, the less likely they are to be believed by the people.
“Well, do we push this into civil war, or do we let it lie?” I asked.
Terleman shrugged. “It depends on whether or not you want the goblins to win. I can’t see how a civil war would help improve our defenses. In fact, I think there’s something to the idea that it was a gurvani shaman who cast the spell.”
“I don’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I did the examination. Whoever it was used Imperial magic. The difference is pretty startling, once you start looking at it thaumaturgically.”
“Terl’s right,” yawned Taren. “Look, we all knew that Rard would try to make himself king if we won here. From where I’m sitting this is an inter-family quarrel. It doesn’t involve us. Getting involved would be a bad, bad idea. But you’re the head of the Order, Min,” he reminded me. “We’re taking our cues from you. You say to intervene, we will. You say to stay out of it, we will.”
That would have been an undeniable expression of support, under other circumstances. In this context, it was clearly an attempt to pass the cup. I made a face at him. “Damn it! You’re not making this easier!”
“Well, what’s the upside of pointing fingers? We lose our patronage,” reasoned Terleman, pragmatically. “I was touched by the General’s acquiescence at court last night as much as anyone, and I won’t deny I slept a little easier last night for it. But he also mentioned that the other Ducal Censors may not be as forgiving. That’s a problem. Not that any one of us couldn’t whip them, with a witchstone,” he grinned, “but that doesn’t shield us from persecution if we loose our patronage.”
“The Censors are pretty tough even without witchstones,” Tyndal said, emphatically. Landrik and Pentandra nodded enthusiastically in agreement.
“Which is exactly why we need to support whatever political situation protects us from them,” continued Terleman. “I think our best bet is to slink off and wait out the political turmoil, then cut a deal with whomever is left standing.”
“I like the sound of that,” agreed Mavone.
“As long as it leads to a lasting defense against the Dead God,” I cautioned. “That has to be our primary goal. Or at least part of it. Can I count on the support of the members of the Order for that much, at least?”
“Sir Min,” Lanse of Bune said, slouching his lanky frame on a stool, “I didn’t think that the whole goblin invasion was even real, before I got here. I came for the glass. But . . . well, if there’s a more important task than keeping the goblins out, after the battle we just endured I can’t think of it. Hells, yes, the Dead God has to be our top priority.”
“So I can count on you and your team on that account?”
He shrugged. “We don’t have any other pressing engagements. And I want to keep playing with my glass for a while. Once we get paid for this job, I think we’ll have enough to go into residence somewhere and help with the war effort. Probably Tudry, since it’s close, and Astyral says we’d be welcome there. Personally, I’m thinking a civil war might not be the best way to keep the scrugs at bay.”
That was good news – without Lanse’s help and expertise, I’m not sure we would have won the battle. I was counting on him for support in raising a permanent defense, and was thrilled that he was willing to assist.
“Fine,” I sighed. “Anyone else?” There was silence. “Then here’s what I want you to do: first, those of you who have been awarded lands, pack up, gather your men and get the hell back to them. Put them in order, and let us know if you need help. If you’re heading to your fiefs then they’ll have a harder time pulling you into an inter-Duchy conflict. Lanse, you and your crew should indeed head to Tudry town for now –Magelord Astyral will find you good accommodations for the winter on Warmage Row. Wenek, Azar, Rusty and Carmella, you do the same. Get to your fiefs and do what you can to prepare for winter. And stay the hell out of the local politics.
“The rest of you, well, I suppose you’re released from direct service from the magical corps, but not from the Order. If you don’t have a place to go, you can always go to Tudry with Astyral and Lanse and Master Cormaran. Winter over there, keep your heads down, practice, and start plotting our long-term defense. I’ll handle the political situation . . . with a little help,” I said, glancing at Pentandra.
It was about then that Rondal finally made it in from the battlefield, accompanied by two burly infantrymen who dwarfed the bookish lad to the point of being funny. He looked worried and excited, not an uncommon expression that morning.
“Master Minalan? I think we got them all,” he said, breathlessly, as he gingerly placed a bulging sack on the table in front of me. “Seventeen witchstones in all, two of them the round torus-shaped ones,” he reported, proudly.
“Seventeen?” gasped Cormaran. “That nearly doubles our strength!”
“More than doubles it, by my estimation. It’s good news,” grinned Terleman. “Min, let’s get these severed from Old Baldy and we can start interviewing candidates.”
“We’ll be giving one to Hartarian,” I pointed out. “Everyone else, if you know of a decent candidate, send them to me. Wherever I end up. You know you can always contact me mind-to-mind to locate me,” I reminded them. “We’ll have to put a process in place to deal with that, but . . .”
“That’s for later,” agreed Penny. “Before we break up, I’d like to propose that we meet in a few days or weeks or months next spring to properly order the Order, if you take my meaning. A kind of collegium, maybe.”
“Good idea,” Taren agreed. “But only after winter. It’s going to start snowing here in a few weeks, and I’d prefer to be someplace warmer for a while before I have to come back.”
“That should work,” I nodded. “We’ll set a date and place later, but if we can agree to make the effort, we really do need to get organized. Else we might just get swept up in a civil war, or politics, or gods-knows-what. “
Penny suddenly looked up at me, sharply, even though she had a dreamy expression on her face. “Oh, gods!” she gasped. “Min, I just heard from Astyral – he’s been riding with the wounded all night. They came to the last crossroads on the Western Road before Vorone and heard news: the Duchess of Alshar was killed in her bed la
st night. Signs point to an assassination. There was blood coming from her left ear, enough to soak the pillow. Vorone is in an uproar, what’s left of it.”
“Blood from her ear? Like it was punctured by a long thin knife? That sounds like the work of the Rat Crew,” I sighed. “I’d been warned that the Alshari royal family had been dealing with them. That’s their signature assassination style, too.”
“Uh, Min?” Penny said. “It sounds like treachery to me.”
“It’s assassination! Of course it’s treacherous!”
“It just seems odd that by purest chance the Duke and the Duchess of Alshar were murdered on the same night,” she said, patiently. “A suspicious mind might draw the conclusion that there’s an actual plot afoot.”
Good gods, she was right. And that changed things considerably.
“Meeting adjourned, my lords and ladies,” I said, abruptly. “Pack up your crap and get the hell out of here, before things get bloody. I mean it. I’ll keep a lid on things as long as possible, but if most of you were gone by dusk, that would make me sleep easier tonight.”
Chapter Forty-Five:
Timberwatch, Second Day of Autumn
The orchards east of the castle had been relatively untouched by the battle, and largely ignored by the men. The Timberwatchmen had harvested early for the cider pressing, before the army arrived, and now there were only a few rotten apples dotting the ground or hanging on very inconvenient branches. Peasants are good with harvests, but there are always going to be a few fruits too high up or too delicately balanced on the edges of the tree to get to. They’re usually left to rot there or feed the birds. In the spring, some peasant lads or lasses would round up the dried husks of apples and raid them for seeds. In the meantime, there were truly lovely apples, ripe and ready for picking, just out of reach.
Unless you knew magic.
I was on my third juicy, ripe apple when I was joined first by Hamlan, and then by Tyndal. Hamlan was there because of his relationship with Mother. Tyndal was there for support and muscle. I gave them both an apple and we waited. This time Hamlan was the one giving Tyndal baleful looks. He had made it clear that it wasn’t proper for someone not in the Family to be present at such a meeting . . . unless you planned on killing them afterwards.
I politely pointed out that we were talking to a High Mage, not just a Daughter of the Family. He wasn’t happy, but he shut up about it. He couldn’t very well lecture me about the impropriety of possibly revealing the circle of spies to my apprentice without doing so himself, so he shut up and ate his apple sullenly after that.
Tyndal? I called through the telepathic link. It was getting easier and easier every day.
Yes, Master? he replied, glancing at me.
Keep your sword ready, and a couple of offensive spells hung. If I tell you to do something telepathically, I expect that you will do it and no argument, regardless of what it seems like at the time. Understood?
Master? he asked, confused.
I stifled a sigh. Just trust me, okay? And try to act casual. Don’t reveal that we can speak like this. Neither of them know we can.
I . . . I understand. His eyes flicked toward me once, but then he looked away.
“I wish I’d brought something to go with these apples,” I said, plucking another plump one from the highest bough with a jolt of force from my fingertip. “I forgot to stop by—”
“I thought you might, Master,” Hamlan said, opening the sack I hadn’t seen him bring. “Just a few things I managed to procure. Some bacon, a heel of bread, a few baked cabbage rolls, hard-boiled eggs, and of course the wine,” he smiled, contentedly. He spread out his cloak and began unpacking a picnic. I was impressed.
We had only waited twenty minutes or so when Lady Isily finally arrived with another woman, who had her face obscured by the cowl of her traveling cloak, stopping a short distance from us.
“You said it was urgent?” she asked, looking troubled. I nodded.
“You heard of Duke Lenguin’s death?” I asked. She nodded. “There are things we must discuss.”
“Then be brief, for I have other errands today,” she said, evenly, pushing back her hood, all business. She really was beautiful, but less so when she looked anxious.
“As you will,” I shrugged. “I examined the body this morning at Duke Rard’s request. He died of a bleed in the brain. Most unfortunate. That rather upsets the political situation, don’t you think?”
“That’s an Alshari problem,” she dismissed. “Are you not more concerned for the goblin horde?”
“The goblin horde, what there is left of it, is hurrying out of Nandine, headed north. They’re in no shape to return. A crowd of angry Alshari Wilderland lords who suspect their liege was slain by treachery seems a more pressing problem.”
She looked at me and bit her lip. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “But how does that concern me?”
“During my examination, I decided to do a full magical exploration as well. I had to learn if Lenguin died from gurvani magic, didn’t I?”
She caught her breath. “Did he?”
“I found traces of magic, all right. But not gurvani. Imperial magic.”
She looked at me sharply. “One of the warmagi?”
“Some High Mage,” I agreed. “Who else? Someone magically aided his wound to bleed. A small spell, but deadly. And virtually undetectable. Virtually.
“The thing is, Isily, I’m a thaumaturge, not just a warmage. There are spells that can help determine the origin of another spell, if you know them and are skilled enough in their use. It’s subtle, but there can be no doubt. You cast the spell that killed Lenguin.”
She stiffened at the accusation. “You dare accuse me?”
“I dare,” I agreed, mildly. “I’m not an idiot, Isily. I give you credit for subtlety, and you left few traces behind. Damn few. Sure, you would have fooled someone else, maybe. Only me, Pentandra, Taren or maybe Delman, gods save him, could have picked up on it, or even known the right diagnostic spells to cast. But it was unmistakable. Now, do you want to tell me why you committed regicide at probably the worst possible moment in the history of the Duchies?”
She regarded me steadily for a moment. “Let’s sit, shall we?” she finally said.
We both knelt on the blanket and started in on the generous snack that Hamlan had provided. “You are correct, I did cast the spell,” she admitted, after eating an egg. “I was under orders from Mother.”
I almost caught my breath, and nodded. “I thought as much. The old bitch finally decided to take out her hate on her brother.”
Isily shook her head. “No, Minalan. It was a very carefully calculated strike. And it was necessary that it look like an accident. Duke Lenguin died more or less in battle, a far more noble end than anyone ever suspected of him.”
“Somehow I think he’d prefer to be alive and skip the honor,” I pointed out. “By itself, it’s a nasty crime, Isily. Regicide? Assassination? And after the two Duchies worked together to defeat the gurvani?”
“It’s more complicated than that!” she insisted. “I was under orders—”
“Well here is something you may not know about. The Duchess of Alshar was murdered last night as well. Apparently the Rat King sent one of his men to stick a Rat Tail in her ear while she slept. So this morning dawned on Alshar without a sitting head of state. And somehow I think if I investigate the Duchess’ death, I’ll find that the ‘Rat’ everyone is looking for is actually wearing yellow roses.”
Isily’s pretty eyes got wider and wider as I continued. “It’s pretty damn convenient, I’ll admit: big battle, Lenguin dies a hero in the North, treacherous assassin from a notorious criminal organization slays the Duchess . . . and Castal’s hands are clean. Hells, not just clean . . Rard looks like the hero of the day, stepping in to save the Duchies out of the goodness of his heart. Save for one little spelltrace I found, there’s nothing to incriminate the Family. Smooth,” I said, admirably. “Now the Wilderlands
are in chaos, there’s no head of state in Alshar, and Rard conveniently just happens to have both a coronet and an army here. It’s a coup d’état, isn’t it?”
“Before you continue your speculations, Sire,” she said, intently, “perhaps I can mollify you somewhat.” She nodded toward the other woman, who was still waiting in the distance. She came over and knelt at the blanket, sitting daintily on her legs as she cast back her own cowl. A girl, no more than fifteen, and one I’d seen before.
“Countess Rardine,” I breathed, nodding as much of a bow as I felt like giving. “What a surprise.”
She smiled, a far more devious smile than one normally associates with sixteen year old girls. This one was steeped in conspiracies and intrigues far beyond her years.
“Sire Spellmonger,” she giggled. “Congratulations on the elevation of your station,” she said.
“Thanks,” I dismissed. “Congratulations on staging a nearly bloodless coup.”
“It was really Mother’s idea,” she said, proudly. “She’s been putting the pieces into play for years, but she had to await the gods sending you and the goblins to execute the plan. Not only did they weaken the Wilderlands, they gave us the excuse to re-arrange the political order. With my aunt and uncle gone, Daddy could claim sovereignty over all of Alshar through Mom’s line of descent.”
“That has dubious legal value,” I pointed out.
“An army and a crown make the legalities of the matter largely moot,” she replied, smoothly, as she daintily sliced an apple. “Who is to raise an objection? The Wilderland lords are in no position to challenge it, any more. After this battle there are damn few of them left that we did not put there. The Duchess had to go, and her flirtations with the Rat Crew made it simple enough to frame Jenerard for the deed. My aunt was an utter evil bitch, anyway – she never liked me or my brother,” she complained.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 81