The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “That has some appeal,” I agreed, after consideration. “But we’re not at war at the moment.”

  “There are tournaments and fairs, Magelord” he offered.

  “I’ve never used a lance in my life. I might be able to win a tournament,” I agreed, after consideration. “If I cheated and used magic. A lot.”

  “Even then the outcome would be in doubt,” chuckled my castellan. “There is a high art to the magic of balancing rider, horse, lance and shield to each do their part. To persuade a warhorse to charge into another while you hold a lance as steady as a feather is a rare skill, Magelord. To do it in war is one thing – if you miss, you merely allow an enemy to live. But to do it squarely, over and over again, in front of a crowd of hundreds . . . it is beyond skill, it is an art. An art beyond the ability of sorcery to mimic.”

  “I think that’s arguable,” I challenged – he didn’t know what magic was capable of.

  “But that’s not what I meant,” he continued, unwilling to be baited. “While there are plenty of knights willing to ply their lances on the field for glory and gold, the real money is for the lord who throws such an event. Not only does he collect an entry fee from every contestant, and a rent from every merchant who wants a booth, but a fee for entry to every event.”

  “But don’t most of the tournaments put up large prizes?”

  “The larger the prize, the greater the repute of those who vie for it,” he agreed. “And the larger in stature the contestants, the larger the crowds. The larger the crowds, the larger the take. The travelers will be eating in your inns—which we don’t have at the moment – and buying food from your market – which doesn’t have any food at the moment – and making your people prosperous – who are fairly poor, right now. The prizes are an investment. If you have enough seed money, you can often turn a very handsome profit.”

  “But tournaments and fairs take months or years to plan and prepare for. And we have long to go before we are prepared for that sort of event.” I didn’t want to dampen the man’s enthusiasm or creativity, but dreaming of a tournament when we needed money now and there was six inches of snow on the ground seemed fanciful.

  “Indeed,” he sighed. “Then perhaps the Magelord will consider the other traditional means of raising revenue for the nobility. Run your docket.”

  “My docket?” I asked, confused.

  “Every lord is responsible for matters of high and low justice in his legal domain,” he explained. “And criminal cases do, alas, accumulate over time. A lord who curries favor with the gods by applying justice and order to his lands often finds doing so carries a healthy remuneration in court fines.”

  “We have criminal cases?” I asked, surprised. To my knowledge, outside of a few fights on the commons, things had been relatively peaceful.

  “Several, Magelord. Most have already paid a token bail to avoid the dungeons, but there are eleven cases active at present. Four are matters from Erantal’s tenure, but still serious enough matters to need the judgment of a lord.”

  “Great. I have to hear criminal cases, too, and decide punishments,” I repeated, dully. “No one tells me these things.”

  “Did you think the gods or the lawbrothers were the only ones responsible? You are obliged to render your judgment and wisdom on serious matters of concern for your domain,” corrected Sir Cei. “That is, to use the power of your position to render justice. “

  “I don’t think I’m going to like that part of the job.”

  “Many lords don’t,” he agreed. “They often appoint a seneschal or magistrate to handle them in his stead. But then there are matters of civil law, in which one subject brings suit against another. Or asks for you to use your influence to compel payment from someone outside of the realm.”

  “And I get to charge a fee for that,” I nodded. That seemed a little more reasonable. “That assumes I have any influence outside the realm.”

  “We’re working on that, Magelord,” Sir Cei assured me.

  * * *

  The next day, while the clear weather still held, we informed all parties listed in the docket that we would be hearing court in the great hall the following day. I got my first direct taste of dispensing justice – thankfully, of the “low” variety.

  We set up the largest table in front of the fireplace, behind which I and Sir Cei were seated. Rondal had castle duty that day, thankfully, so he acted as scribe and treasurer. Yeoman Sagal acted as my sergeant-at-arms, bailiff and herald, backed up by a couple of husky lads from the garrison.

  It was odd, sitting in judgment of other people like that. My only qualification was my position and title, a position that granted the responsibility – even obligation – to exercise my authority without much in the way of guidance or training. Sir Cei was no help – he told me to use my noble judgment. Luckily, my first few cases were fairly simple.

  We began with the oldest crimes, the four that remained from the previous management. Two of them were offenses against the dignity of Sir Erantal (two men who had gotten drunk and mouthed off in public about Erantal’s character). I fined them one day’s labor at the Dike in service of the fief and had Sir Cei return their bond prices from the big chest on the table.

  The third case was more serious. A landless peasant named Togan, from a destitute family in Genly, had been caught stealing from the castle when he had been there on an errand. Erantal had prescribed the loss of a finger for the crime but hadn’t gotten around to it.

  When I asked him what he had stolen, it turned out to be a copper figurine of Herus, god of luck, thieves, and travelers. He claimed that Erantal’s thugs had taken it from him in lieu of rent, when he had paid nearly all of his rent due and was behind only a little. The figurine was from his father, Togan claimed, a relic of a pilgrimage taken to some temple I’d never heard of.

  Under the circumstances, I felt that a little mercy was in order. Sir Cei had discovered the figurine in question in a box taken from Erantal’s quarters as evidence, and long forgotten there. I returned it to Togan, rescinded the sentence of maiming, and fined him a silver penny instead.

  He gratefully thanked me, and promptly paid his fine – he had been working in the lumber yards and had been making a little coin, he said, and a silver for a finger was a bargain. Apparently the patron of thieves, Herus, had been with him after all.

  The last old case was an assault. Goodman Dronier of Gurisham, a gaunt-looking farmer with a pronounced limp, approached, accused of beating Goodman Joppo, a neighbor, after discovering him between the thighs of his wife, one Goody Fera.

  Sagal called all the parties involved to the bench, and I appraised each one.

  “So let me understand this properly,” I said, scratching my beard. “Dronier was at market in Sevendor, selling eggs—”

  “And onions, milord,” Dronier interrupted, earning a harsh look from Sir Cei for interrupting.

  “Eggs and onions. When he sold all his produce early, he went home and discovered his wife Fera— that’s you?” I asked of an unfortunate, dumpy-looking farm wife who stood cowering next to Dronier. “You’re the seductress?” I asked, surprised.

  “She’s got right nice hams, Milord,” Joppo pointed out, gesturing at the hams in question.

  “You leave her bloody hams out of it!” screamed Dronier, grabbing his wife’s arm protectively. Joppo laughed, and then tried to recover his faculties.

  “The proper form of address is ‘Magelord’ or ‘Sire Minalan’, churl,” reminded Sir Cei, sternly. I let him. That was the whole point of having a dour castellan.

  “So you found them . . . involved, and you grabbed a planting tool and proceeded to beat Joppo.”

  “Aye, Magelord,” Dronier said, solemnly. “Until me neighbors pulled me off.”

  “So it seems like you admit your guilt?”

  “Aye, Magelord,” he said, sorrowfully.

  “Yet you don’t have a petition on the docket against Joppo for that?”

  “I .
. . it don’t matter, Magelord,” he said, his eyes downcast. “And it wouldn’t do no good. ’Twas the third time I caught ‘em.”

  “Third? And you didn’t beat him the first two times?” I asked incredulously.

  There was a long pause. “He were faster than me, the first two times. I been runnin’, though. Practicin’. Caught the bastard this time,” he added, a little triumphantly.

  “Thus the gods reward healthy exercise,” I quipped. “Fine of two silver pennies, deducted from your four penny bail.”

  Dronier grinned. “If I let you keep the other two, Magelord, can I beat the bastard again?” he asked.

  Joppo quit smiling when I didn’t immediately say no.

  “That’s an interesting question,” I said, thoughtfully. “If this is the third time this has happened, then it will happen a fourth, unless something is done. Now that the criminal aspect of this is satisfied, let’s address the civil. Goodwife – if that term is entirely appropriate here – Goodwife Fera, do you not love your husband, Dronier?”

  The chubby little farmwife looked up at me, her eyes wide with indignant shock at the question. “Aye, Magelord! With all my heart!”

  “Then why do you persist in bedding Joppo?” I asked, curious. “Is he taking you without your consent? Because that would be rape, and that would involve a hanging,” I said, darkly. Joppo wasn’t smiling at all, now. Indeed, he looked terrified.

  Goody Fera looked almost as afraid. “No, Magelord! Not at all! It’s just . . . it’s just . . . he has a mighty root, Magelord, a mighty root, and I can usually say ‘no’, but . . . every now and then . . . I just can’t!” she said guiltily, blushing.

  Joppo looked instantly relieved that he had avoided hanging, but properly embarrassed by having his manhood discussed in open court.

  “And Joppo, why do you persist in . . . “ I searched for a metaphor they would understand, “. . . plowing a field not yours to plow?”

  “Well, Magelord,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “I’m a man o’ the world, you know. I get around. The ladies have always liked me company. Man o’ the world,” he repeated.

  “Well . . . I suppose if Joppo’s ‘mighty root’ is the root of this problem, then the simplest solution would be to shorten it,” I suggested casually. I wasn’t serious – a lord does have that right, in a criminal case, but I wasn’t given to careless mutilation. I wasn’t above threatening careless mutilation, on the other hand.

  “No, Magelord!” Joppo screamed, looking even more afraid of being shortened than stretched by a noose. “I’d take holy orders as a, a riverbrother or a landbrother, instead, and ne’er ply my root again!” he pleaded.

  “I’ll volunteer to do the shortening!” Dronier said, as the crowd roared with laughter.

  “Calm yourself, Goodman Dronier,” I said, holding up my hand. “I think we can find a less permanent solution to this problem, if we try. Are you willing Joppo?”

  The wide-faced peasant was visibly relieved, his initial triumph at winning his criminal case long gone as he nodded anxiously. “Whatever the Magelord wishes,” he begged, desperately, “just . . . spare me root!”

  That brought another roar of laughter. I waited for it to die before I continued. “First, a fine of three silver pennies for each carnal offense against Goodman Dronier,” I said, sternly. “Seducing another man’s wife might not be a criminal matter, but it disturbs the peace of the village.”

  “Thank you Magelord!” Joppo said, fervently.

  “Oh, I’m not done,” I said. “You have the fortune to be the subject of a magelord, Joppo. Which means I have more means at my disposal than a common lord,” I pointed out. “One suggestion would be to magically sever the nerves connected to your . . . root,” I offered. “That would leave you impotent without the need to hack off anything.”

  “Nay, Magelord!” Joppo squirmed. “If I can avoid it,” he added.

  “Another solution would be to remove you from the village. Has any other man here found Joppo in his bed? Or suspected it?”

  From the murmurs, there had been a few.

  “Then it seems you’re a moral hazard to the entire community. Tell me, Joppo, are you wed?”

  “Nay, Magelord!” he said, a new kind of fear creeping into his eyes.

  “Why not? You seem more than equipped to handle a wife. Several, even,” I added, gaining more laughter at Joppo’s expense.

  “Because . . . because I don’t want to pledge my plow to just one furrow when they all need a-plowin’, if you take my meanin’, Magelord,” he admitted, guiltily. “The ladies like me. I like them,” he added, guiltily.

  “I daresay you’ve had your chance to try a fair number,” I pointed out. “Far more than most men your age. You’re twenty? Twenty-two? Then it is past time you had a wife. You work the common fields of Gurisham?” He nodded. “No more,” I decided. “You are released from service in Gurisham, Goodman Joppo. You are to report to Yeoman Rollo, in the new village we’re building in northern Brestal, near to the gate. There you will begin service as a drover. We’ll be sending out wagons to Sendaria-on-Bontal within the week. You should be driving one,” I sentenced. “Perhaps if your root has more room to roam . . .”

  Joppo looked uncomfortable. “S-sendaria, Magelord?” he asked, nervously.

  “What, you haven’t been to Sendaria, Goodman Joppo?”

  “Nay, Magelord. I went with my Dad once o’er the pass to Sashtalia, but that’s as far as I been.”

  I inspected him closely. “I’m sure a ‘man o’ the world’ like you will find the experience broadening. And I expect that Goodman Dronier would appreciate the opportunity to lay with his own wife without fear of being cuckolded. Of course, if you would prefer the alternative of magical impotence—”

  “I always wanted to try my hand at handling a team, Magelord,” Joppo assured me quickly, nodding emphatically.

  “Excellent. Pay your fine to Sir Cei, and off you go. Next case?”

  The rest of the criminal cases were more recent, and involved everything from petty theft to fighting in the commons to disturbing the peace. Most of the accused were Bovali émigrés. I appeased justice with a few hefty fines for the worst cases, and dismissal in those I felt warranted it. None of them were particularly interesting. At the end of the criminal session, the fines for the day had ended up being twenty-eight silver pennies and fifteen copper ones. Not bad for a morning’s work sitting on my arse, not lifting a wand.

  But the day wasn’t done yet. There were the civil cases to get through, and those were more time-consuming.

  The court process was simple, I learned. The plaintiff came forward and told his story, then the defendant told his; I asked a bunch of questions, and then I decided the matter. My judgment was final and absolute, unless the parties both wanted to appeal to my liege – Duke Rard. From what I understood, the Ducal docket for such smallholding cases had a waiting list going back decades. For good or ill, I was the last word, practically speaking, in each case.

  The first two cases involved livestock, the third a vegetable garden, but the fourth and fifth cases on the docket were matters of inheritance, one in Jurlor’s Hold and one in Sevendor Village, proper. Each took near an hour to get through, and both were difficult cases. One involved a breach-of-promise combined with an early death, and the other concerned the disposition of two choice pieces of property that had suddenly become very valuable with the sudden population explosion in the valley.

  At the end of the session, both got settled, and if the decisions didn’t please everyone involved they at least cleared the docket. The fief received over a hundred silver pennies in each case as our fee for deciding the matter.

  Considering the value of the property in question, that seemed a small price for the victors.

  Lastly, there was the matter of High Justice, namely dealing with prisoners of war. The four prisoners in the dungeon, the garrison of Brestal Tower we captured when we reconquered the province, were brought befor
e me, after being fed and clothed, and I gave them a choice to either take up arms for Sevendor or to pay a ransom of two ounces of gold each, within a year, and never darken Sevendor’s vales again.

  Two of the men proved to be native Sevendori, and were happy to take an oath and enlist in the garrison – ironically, they would be guarding the same tower they had lost to me. I required three months of free service from them in lieu of ransom, and they were grateful for the chance.

  The other two were mercenaries who had been expecting execution (technically illegal, but widely practiced with sellswords who had no liege to advocate for them). They were pleased to pledge gold for their lives, and swore on a statue of Duin the Destroyer, patron of soldiers, that they would make good on their pledge.

  “Do you think they will?” I asked Sir Cei, as Yeoman Sagal closed the court session in his booming voice.

  “It depends on their honor and their fortunes,” he admitted. “I’d say it’s about a fifty-fifty chance. And we don’t have to feed them anymore,” Sir Cei pointed out.

  “That’s not too bad,” I nodded. “We’ve raised a little more coin than I’d thought.”

  “But still not enough, Magelord,” he said, quietly. “At this rate, even with this influx, we will be broke by the Equinox, if no other income is forthcoming.”

  “I could always raise taxes,” I pointed out.

  “You don’t want to raise taxes,” he reminded me.

  “I don’t want to raise taxes,” I agreed. “Is it too early in the season for conquest?”

  “It would be difficult to manage at this time of year,” Sir Cei agreed.

  “Well,” I sighed, “there is one other way I could raise some quick cash.”

  “And that would be what, exactly, My Lord?” he asked, a little warily. No doubt he thought I was considering proposing cutting back on personnel costs, limiting our expenditures through austerity.

  But I’m a baker’s son. I don’t like austerity. It’s bad for business.

  “I can go to work,” I said, grudgingly. “I’m not just a spellmonger, I’m a High Mage. A magelord, too, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still work. If I do a couple of quick jobs, I can probably raise a little cash to get us through the spring.”