“Aye, that’s the truth,” he said, almost exasperated. “Every day my lads come back from the village with more brass in their pockets than I seen in a year, from puttin’ up houses. Sold every damn goat I had to Sir Cei to feed you lot, so I got plenty now myself,” he added, proudly. “If that’s the kind of change comin’, bring me a double portion!”
That was encouraging to hear. From the baleful stares I’d been getting from Railan the Steady every time I saw him at a distance, I was beginning to wonder if any of the native Sevendori would appreciate the improvements I was making. Jurlor certainly did. I decided to give him a taste of what was to come.
“Oh, it is,” I assured him. “But the new houses and the new people – and the money – are just the beginning. As the first magelord in four centuries, I plan on using magic to better the lives of everyone in the vale. But I may ask for you to do some things – even give up some things – that you’re used to in exchange. Now, Railan the Steady has cooperated thus far, though reluctant, and has continued to profit despite the anguish he feels over the changes to the village. And just yesterday I was considering what to do with that peak in the center of the valley—”
“Matten’s Helm?” he asked in surprise.
“That’s what it’s called?” I asked, curious. “I’d heard that. That’s a strange name for it.”
“Oh, it’s been called other things – Briga’s Teat, the Highland, Bald Rock, Seven’s Peak – but it’s properly known as Matten’s Helm. Legend has it that when Lenselys men first came to Sevendor, besides the Westwoodmen there was only a Stone Folk hermit living in the Vale, up there on the peak. Real feisty fellow, name o’ Matten – or at least that’s what the human folk called him.
“Matten kept to hisself, mostly, but would come down from the peak and trade trinkets with the peasants for ale and mead. Crazy ol’ creature, legend says.” Jurlor took another ale-sized swallow of wine, unaware of its potency, and continued, clearly enamored of the sound of his own story. I didn’t mind – this was just the sort of local folklore I was seeking in order to understand my new domain and my new subjects.
“Well, from the top o’ that peak you can see most of the vale, both Sevendor and Brestal. In particular, you can see into Mishi’s Spring.”
“Mishi’s Spring?” I asked, intrigued. I knew the Stone Folk had settlements in the Uwarris – that was one of the main reasons I chose Sevendor as my domain. But this was the first sign I’d seen that they’d actually been here. There was a lot about this little land I still didn’t know.
“Oh, that’s right, you wouldn’t know,” Jurlor realized. “There’s a spring away over in Brestal Vale, behind the ridge, between two woods. Secluded, like. Legends say the goddess Mishi, one of Ishi’s daughters, bathed there once. Some say it has magical properties, or is blessed by the goddess, or something. But the local maidens were like to bathe there thinking it would make them more comely.” He guffawed. “My Durtha done been in it nine times, it hasn’t worked yet!”
Enough wine had been consumed by then to earn a peal of laughter from my Bovali – and it seemed as if Durtha didn’t mind the dig. Somehow I suspected it was delivered with great fondness, not out of meanness. A sign of a good marriage, not a troubled one.
“Anyhow,” he continued, when he’d collected his wits, “This Matten used to sit up there and watch them sport naked in the spring. Now, never heard o’ one of the Stone Folk goin’ for a human woman before, but legend says that one lass was so beautiful to him that he began pining for her. She weren’t much to look at, in human terms, but I guess them Stone Folk got other ideas of beauty.
“So he starts courtin’ her, bringin’ her father all the treasures them folk are supposed to have – rubies, diamonds, jewels, that sort o’ thing.
“But her Da wasn’t havin’ it. Threw them jewels back in the poor creature’s face. So Matten conspired to kidnap his light o’ love one night, and took her with him up to the Helm. It’s powerful treacherous to get there, if you don’t know the way.
“Her Da sent her brothers up, but Matten stood in the way with a cudgel and a great iron helm. Said that he’d let them take her back if they could knock him out of the way. Well, they tried. They were all stout lads, but every one of them couldn’t match Matten’s skill. They tried staves, they tried throwing rocks, they tried spears, but they couldn’t move Matten. That great bloody helmet kept his head safe, and no blow got past his staff.
“So they go find a knight up at the castle, and he tries with a sword, and he fails. Then they tried arrows, but the path is so twisty that they couldn’t get no range. Finally, her Da has had enough, and comes up to parley.
“He meets Matten, and says if he hears from his daughter that she’s happy, he’ll leave. Then he hears this voice calling “Da, I love him!” from the heights and the Stone Folk makes him keep his word. From that day forth, they lived there as husband and wife, lookin’ out over the vale and keeping it safe.”
I looked at Jurlor for a moment, and then blinked. “They don’t seem to have been doing a very good job.”
“That were hundreds of years ago,” Jurlor laughed. “And it were a legend, is all. But that’s how the peak took its name. You can still get up there, if you know the way. Some o’ the young folk, they repair to there sometimes to court in secret.”
“Might have to try that myself – after my lady delivers, in late winter.”
“Oh, you’ve a young one on the way!” Jurlor grinned crookedly. That also earned a smile from his ugly wife. “Got nine myself,” he said proudly. “Gonna marry off the oldest this spring to my man Parmel, he’s my reeve. That first one . . .” he said, shaking his shaggy head nostalgically, “that first one will drive you to drink and swear against the gods themselves. But there’s nothing like it, nothing like it,” he repeated, fondly.
I tried to change the subject – I was quite aware of my impending fatherhood, and right now I was trying to escape the anxiety by plunging into work. “So will you bring your folk to the castle for Yule, then? I promise a merry occasion.”
“It would be my pleasure, Lord Minalan,” he said, with exaggerated grace. “I favor the change you’ve brought, and would like to see more.”
“Would you like to see more Sevendor, too?” I asked cautiously. “I’ll hold you to your vow to keep it a close secret. Because come spring I’ll be adding Brestal back to my domains. If not before.”
That pleased Jurlor more than the prospect of a jolly Yule. He pledged five swords and twelve spears to the effort, and promised his House would be the first in support of such a move.
I wanted to finish with something magnanimous, so as I made to depart I asked the Yeoman, “Jurlor, what would you say your biggest problem holding this land is? Besides the taxes,” I quickly amended.
He chuckled at that and scratched his beard. “Biggest problem? You took care o’ that when you sent Erantal away. Now my daughters can go to the village in peace. But next to that . . . a market day would be welcome. Ol’ Urine-Tail declared only one market every five weeks, in season, and then doubled the fees. Eggs and such won’t keep five weeks, Lord Minalan.”
“Then I pledge that we shall have market every two weeks,” I nodded, “and I will waive all fees for six months. In less than a moon there will be many more settlers coming, Jurlor – I promise, you’ll be taking top coin for your produce.”
“Then I can’t ask for more,” he sighed, as he called for his stable boy to bring our mounts. “Thank you for this visit, My Lord,” he said, placing his hand on his breast and bowing. “You hear much about a man, but you don’t know him until you’ve passed a few cups with him.”
I couldn’t disagree with that. We departed Jurlor’s hold and continued down the path toward the most eastern of Sevendor Vale’s current Yeomanries, Farant’s Hold. Sagal made a point of riding next to me.
“So what did you think?” I asked my brother-in-law.
“Crude man,” he admitted, “b
ut no less so than most Bovali. He kept a well-run farm. Poor, but well-run. And he seems quite genuine. You?”
“Best looking manor I’ve seen in Sevendor, and it’s worse than the worst of Boval Vale.”
“This next district may seem a potent contrast. From what Sir Cei has told me, Farant is more a friend to Fleria than Sevendor. And he had a poor opinion of the man’s character.”
Sagal chuckled. “Sir Cei has a poor opinion of every man’s character.”
“Now, be fair,” I countered. “I remember when he was the administrator over Boval and how tough he was with tribute, taxes and fees. But he was never unfair. He was never generous, but he was never unfair. Which means that now that I’m lord, he’s perfect for the job – including his character assessments.
“I guess things look different when you’re the lord,” he conceded.
“It’s not all silver cups and dancing girls,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s like running a very large farm, I suppose. A farm where the chickens can stage an uprising and the goats can plot against you with your neighbors.”
After Jurlor’s Hold’s boundary stick, the path got progressively more overgrown and less distinct. The peak of Matten’s Helm loomed overhead, and the air seemed to get damp, even in the cold. The stream was nearby, and according to the map it would continue until it tumbled through a narrow waterfall before it continued on into northern Brestal, and joined a few smaller streams. There were more trees and tangled underbrush, and toward the end of the path we were riding directly on the stream bank.
Huddled on the bank of the stream was an old, ramshackle wattle-and-daub structure that made Jurlor’s hold look like a palace. It was surrounded by a primitive stone fence unsuitable for defense but almost adequate for containing chickens. The expanse of ground around the hall was worn smooth of vegetation and had been pounded into hard clay by many feet over many years. The shutters were hanging. Moss and lichens grew on every surface. There was a faint but foul smell, something worse than the usual peasant odors. And the courtyard of the manor had nothing resembling the hustle and bustle around Jurlor’s Hold.
Two wiry-looking boys of fourteen or fifteen were splitting wood in the poorly-defined axe-yard. They stopped the moment they saw us, pulled their threadbare cloaks over their shoulders. The one with the axe didn’t put it down. The one without the axe picked up an axe. Both of them started toward us with a mixture of caution and aggression.
“Who the hells are you?” demanded the elder. He had dark hair and a wide face, just a suggestion of beard on his chin. His brother had dark eyes and a narrow jaw, and no chin to speak of. He tried to make up for it – unsuccessfully – by growing a mustache.
“I am Magelord Minalan, Lord of Sevendor,” I said, booming my voice as loud as I could without resorting to magic. “Who the hells are you?”
“Sir Erantal rules Sevendor!” the younger one said, angrily, his knuckles going white on the axe handle.
“Sir Erantal has been replaced. I was given this land by the Duke, himself. I’ll even produce my grant for your inspection, if either of you know more than three letters between the two of you. But I rule here now. Your names.”
There was a long pause as they glanced at each other for support or permission. Finally, the elder said, grudgingly, “I’m Korl. This is my brother Tid. We look to Master Farant.” There was a note of fear in their voices when they named him.
“It is Master Farant with whom I have business today,” I said, trying to sound lordly. “Where might I find him? And where is everyone else?”
“He’s gone,” Korl said, sullenly. “Been gone two days, now. Most o’ the others are cutting trees or hunting. Or running errands.” There was a note of guilt in his voice.
I summoned some patience. “And where has he gone?”
Korl looked annoyed. “Well, to Brestal Tower, he has. At least, that’s where he usually goes. He’s friends with one o’ the guard, there. A real warrior, he is,” sneered the boy. “Not some dainty mage.”
He was brave, I’ll give him that.
“And what business does your master have with Brestal?” Sagal asked, dismounting. Sagal is a big man, tall and stocky. Years working a creamery and herding cows had given him huge biceps and massive forearms, which he made even more imposing with a couple of leather bracers. The sword at his hip was almost as intimidating.
“He’s . . . he’s tellin’ . . .” Korl said, clearly intimidated by my brother-in-law. Then he remembered that he had an axe in his hand, and he held it in front of him like it was a magical talisman. “He’s tellin’ his friend about the usurper in the castle that’s messin’ things up!”
“That would be . . . me, then?” I asked, a little amused.
“If you’re that wizard, then yeah,” Tid sneered. “When Master Farant gets his Brestal friends up, he’ll set you to rights!”
“Set me to rights?” I asked, surprised. “What harm have I done Farant or his folk?”
“You brought all o’ them dirty foreigners here, for one,” Korl accused. “And you gave away all that beef, and so no one bought at the market this week, and you turned out noble Sir Erantal like he was a common thief, and you’re gonna start raisin’ taxes and keepin’ folk from making their rightful livin’—”
“Just how does Master Farant make his living?” I asked, looking around. I nodded toward the small patch of field to the south – not more than forty or fifty acres on a slope, more of a muddy pit than arable land, cut up into the usual patchwork of plots to be farmed by the manor. Most of it had not been planted last season, I could see. “It certainly isn’t from his skill with agriculture.”
“We . . . I don’t have to tell you nothin’!” Korl yelled defiantly.
“Actually, you do,” I said, apologetically. “And you’d better do so soon, or there will be consequences. I’ll ask you again, but not a third time: how does Master Farant make his living?”
“He . . . he makes liquor,” Korl admitted, once Sagal provided sufficient menace. “He makes it for the castle, for Erantal. He don’t have a permit, though, so he makes it secret. Erantal took some o’ every batch and paid a fair price for it.”
That made sense. Distilleries are taxed under the Ducal code, and are taxed rather heavily in Castal. Most are chartered directly from the Duke, or from a powerful count or baron, and the taxes involved were stiff enough to ensure that only a distillery large enough to produce and sell hogsheads of liquor a year would find any profit in it. That kept distilled liquors a luxury for the wealthy, and theoretically kept them out of the hands of the peasants.
Only there’s more than one way to distill alcohol, and peasants like to drink spirits as much as nobles. There’s almost always some enterprising artisan who finds a way to feed this market. In the village I grew up in it was my father’s woodcutter who provided small bottles of the precious liquid for his private office . . . without mentioning it to taxing authorities. Or my mother.
In Sevendor, apparently, Farant was the supplier. And he sold most of his stock to Erantal, at a discount to keep him from intervening in the untaxed enterprise. And without the worry of the authorities showing up and hauling him away for tax evasion and distillation without a permit, Farant was probably supplying the whole valley. Until we showed up, started bringing wine and beer in, getting rid of his biggest customer and imperiling his entire operation.
“So Master Farant is running a clandestine still,” I nodded. “This puts him in violation of his oath as Yeoman.”
“You can’t do nothin’!” Tid said, angrily. “You can’t do nothin’ if you can’t find the still—”
“It’s over there,” I said, casually, pointing towards the wood pile. “Likely in that dead tree, or perhaps in a cache under that largest log.” I brought up magesight just to confirm. It took a little adjustment, but it didn’t take me long to figure it out. “Or both. It looks like you have the condenser in the tree and the boiler pot in the hole.”
&nbs
p; The two boys looked at me like I was a demon. “I’m a mage, remember?”
They looked terrified. But one of the dubious advantages of youth is more bravery than sense. They both took defiant stances, and raised their axes. I sighed, drew one of the two warwands I’d brought, and pointed it at the old tree that concealed the condenser. That was the hardest part of a still to replace. I spoke the word of command, and the tree exploded in a shower of rotten wood. The terminally battered condenser, a delicate network of brass tubing in the shape of a falcon, flew a dozen feet away.
Both boys took to their heels before it landed. I sighed.
“I hereby revoke Farant’s warrant for this district. Sagal, could you take charge of this place? It’s a mess, and somehow I don’t think that liquor is the only vice Farant catered to. Tear the place apart. Put it back together again. As bad shape as it’s in, we could quarter five or six families here, come Yule.”
“More,” he admitted, looking around doubtfully. “Can I keep the lads here?” he asked, gesturing toward our armed escort. “I don’t want more trouble than I can handle.”
“Take three for now, and I’ll have one of them ride back to the castle for more men and some supplies,” I agreed. “And to tell your wife what you’re up to, so she won’t accuse you of running off. But take charge here. Question everyone. From the peg board back at the castle, Farant owes over five ounces of silver for his rent, and he’s also in arrears on his reeve payments by another eight silver.
“If we can recover any of that, I’ll be happy. Destroying the still was a pretext for cleaning this place out, but I want you to put enough pressure on everyone who’s left to make the guilty flee before they can face the goddess of justice. Whoever is left is likely going to be fine, but shake the fleas off of this dog for me.”
“Min, it would be my pleasure,” Sagal agreed. He looked around at his new responsibility with disgust. “Look at this place! Garbage everywhere! That smell—”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 11