The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “I have every right—”

  “I don’t dispute your right, Magelord. But perhaps if he had a choice. Say, the same incentive Tyndal suggested you give Sir Ganulan?”

  “That’s a very interesting idea,” I conceded, after a moment’s thought. “Very interesting. Only I think under the circumstances . . .” I dismounted, and approached the frightened young man as I would a skittish sow. “Goodman Korl, you and your house owe me a debt. You can pay it now, or you can pay it later, but pay it you will.” I cast a mental thought at Rondal, and he nodded. Suddenly Korl dropped his pole in surprise, but after that he didn’t move a muscle. My apprentice had bound him.

  “Thirteen ounces of silver,” I said, as I regarded the boy’s sweating face. “Oh, do relax, Goodman Korl. This won’t hurt in the slightest.”

  I closed my eyes, called for power, shaped it into a rune of my direction, and then gave it form. When I opened them again a moment later, Korl’s frightened face stared back at me . . . augmented with thirteen small snowflakes across his forehead, and seven small circles on his right cheek.

  “From now on, everyone you see will know your House owe Sevendor a debt. Until that money is paid, your face will be your accounting. Now,” I said, sympathetically, “I understand that this debt is not yours, personally, but your House’s. As such, if your father presents himself to me with you, I will be happy to transfer the account to his face.” Somehow I doubted Farant would be so generous, but I felt it was only right to make the offer.

  “What . . . what do you mean?”

  Rondal cast a flashy little spell that turned a portion of the air in front of Korl’s face reflective. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough to shave by. And good enough for Korl to see his face.

  “Ishi’s tits and ass!” he swore, shivering inside the binding spell. “What have you done to me?”

  “Pay your debt, and I will retire the stars,” I explained. “Not before. Now, you can rid yourself of some of them right away, by returning our silver to us. The others will go when you’ve paid the balance. Or you can keep the silver and the stars, and bear them proudly.”

  When faced with such a terrible decision, Korl fell to his knees weeping, begging for mercy, thrusting coins at me in a panic. We settled on the thirty-eight pennies, plus twenty copper pennies, his take from the last few days. Apparently only Sevendori were charged silver. I removed three of the large stars from his brow, and then as an afterthought, added two more circles. “There you are, only ten ounces, nine pennies and you’ll be rid of the curse.”

  He swore bitterly at us once we were safely down the road – the binding spell would fade in a half-hour or so, and as long as no one happened by until then, he would be fine.

  “That was fun,” Rondal said, despite himself. “Is it wrong that I should think so?”

  “Ask a priest, not a mage,” I dismissed. “The boy wasn’t harmed. And we made a small profit,” I reminded him, jingling the purse. “Since there’s no distinction between our toll marks and other folk, he will only loose a few pennies on the deal. More importantly, we’ve spread the word that Magelord Minalan collects his debts.”

  “But will the Warbird take exception, I wonder?” asked Rondal, a little anxiety in his voice.

  “He may,” agreed Sir Festaran, anxiously, as we took to the road again. “He has a fiery temper. But even he cannot argue with a lord pursuing a just debt, particularly from a former Yeoman. In your place, Magelord, he likely would have hung the boy and taken all his money, and considered it just. ”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said, unconvinced. Something told me that if Gimbal had an opportunity to find an excuse to harass me, he would take it. And until the remainder of the Bovali émigrés safely crossed his lands, I did not want to purposefully antagonize him.

  We were able to make our way nearly out of West Flerian territory by nightfall, stopping at the village of Gosset, near an important local crossroads. The inn was decent, but nothing to spread rumors about. I’d avoided it the last few times I had been here, but now the sky was dark, the inn was inviting, and I was thirsty.

  It was called the Gallant Goat, and featured a comical sign of an intoxicated buck-toothed goat wearing a knight’s helm, stumbling around drunkenly. Sir Festaran growled a little when he saw it, but I didn’t remark about it until I dispatched Rondal with a purse to pay for our lodgings.

  “What’s the trouble?” I asked. “We’re nearly out of Fleria, now.”

  “Actually, Magelord, we are out of Fleria,” he said, quietly. “Or at least Fleria, proper. Gosset and its lands are technically part of the domain of Trestendor. But when Sire Gimbal and the Lord of Sashtalia conspired against them, they conquered five of Trestendor’s manors and three villages. And the banner of Trestendor is a defiant goat on a cliff. So this . . .” he said, indicating the cartoonish sign, “is a deliberate insult against the lord of Trestendor.”

  “Similar to the new fried egg banner of Brestal?” I nodded.

  “Exactly, Magelord. Only . . . you took back what was rightfully yours. I know it is foul to speak ill of one’s liege, but . . .” he said, struggling to find a way to gossip without seeming to be gossiping, “if I understand properly, Sire Gimbal had treaties and arrangements with Trestendor, and then when the old lord got sick, he repudiated them and launched a surprise attack. And Trestendor never did any ill to West Fleria, despite the fact that they have traditionally allied with the Baron of Sendaria, instead of the Flerians.”

  “Fascinating,” I nodded, truthfully. “And you disapprove?”

  Sir Festaran’s face locked into place. “It is not for a poor knight to question his liege’s strategies,” he said, stubbornly. “It would violate the codes of chivalry.”

  “So does Sire Gimbal, I’d wager,” I murmured, suddenly aware that we were in the man’s territory. “But if you were to violate the codes of chivalry, I wonder what you might say about the matter?”

  Festaran grinned. “Oh, if I was an honorless rogue, Magelord? Why, then the gods alone know what disgraceful talk might fly out of my mouth. Such as how Sire Gimbal’s attack was made without forewarning, which a chivalrous lord would have done. Or how he bribed two of Trestendor’s knights to change their banners and join to attack their neighbors, in violation of Duin’s holy law on the subject.

  “Why, I might even say that Sire Gimbal burned a village that had already surrendered to him to keep it from falling back into Trestendor’s hands, which would be a malady that would stink in the nose of any god!” He looked around, a little frightened of his own candor, and worried who might have overheard.

  I nodded, impressed. “It’s well you cleave to your honor, then, Sir Festaran. Your noble restraint does you credit.”

  He heaved a satisfied sigh, as if he had been waiting years to say those things – and perhaps he had. Despite having been squired there, Sir Festaran was no admirer of his liege. Neither was his father, from what I understood.

  The inn’s beer was surprisingly good, and the stew of lamb and kethnit tubers was good hearty road fare. Being a lord I got the rare honor of a private room – the inn had two – while my men slept in the common room near to the fire. I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, pausing only long enough to throw some hasty wards up over the door and window.

  We rose at dawn the next morning and were on the road after a hearty breakfast of oat porridge and cream, and by midmorning we came to the crossroads village – the one that Sire Gimbal had burned. I’d been through it at least twice, now, and had given it little thought.

  Now that I knew more of the story, I could see how this once-prosperous village would have been a tempting prize for Gimbal. A crossroads just on the other side of your border gives you little – one inside your borders gives you quite a bit of revenue. And the proximity of the parcel to the hills in the north, where Trestendor’s gray castle could be seen over the budding treetops, showed just how easy it would be to retake it, if the villagers
had wanted to return to their old lord.

  But Gimbal couldn’t have that. The crossroads village had provided the bulk of Trestendor’s revenue, Festaran explained. While he had lost revenue by burning it to the ground, Sire Gimbal had also deprived Trestendor of a reason to fight to get it back.

  Sashtalia had taken over administration of the land, by the banner that flew over it, but the village ruins – mere depressions in the ground and the occasional standing, blackened timber overgrown by weeds– were occupied by a lonely guard shack with two surly Sashtali who demanded almost as much toll as a ransom.

  I managed to negotiate them back down, however. The great thing about a ruined village is you can use your warwands haphazardly and not have to worry about messing up anything really important. Like a guard shed. We paid a far more reasonable toll – copper pennies, not silver – and left the Sashtali guards bask in the warm glow of their burning shelter.

  By lunch we were well into the Barony of Sendaria, one of the last large estates in the region still run by the powerful House Lensely, the local branch of which was known as the Sendari Line. There were seven other lines of Lenselys, but they had found other estates further away from the ancestral home after their century-old dynastic squabble sputtered out.

  Now Baron Arathanial of Sendaria ruled the remaining Lensely lands while the descendents of his ancestor’s rivals conspired around him. Once the Barony had extended from Sendaria Port on the river, all the way passed East Fleria, but over the years rebellious liegemen and rival factions had fractured the domains, leaving just over half of Sendaria swearing fealty to Baron Arathanial.

  From everything I’d seen of Sendaria, from the riverport to the distant castle, the fields, the mills, and the villages along the road, the barony was run with prosperous efficiency. Indeed, the hamlet we watered the horses in at midmorning had nothing but gracious words for the Baron. Their local lord, apparently, was a stern and unforgiving man – but not the Baron of Sendaria.

  The inn the second night was far better than the Gallant Goat, and I was tempted to sleep in. But telepathic reports from my colleagues, all assuring me how quickly they were speeding to the meeting, spurred me on. We left early, instead, and pressed on through lunch, taking advantage of the speed offered by the better roads nearer the city. As a result, we paid our fare at the city gate just in time to make dinner at our inn.

  I say “our inn” because the Eel and Stone had been the riverside inn our party had first stayed at on our arrival to the Riverlands and I liked it. The proprietor was a wheezy man of otherwise generous spirit, Fevam the Host, whose comfortable inn was affordable and convenient to most of the areas of the city we used. I had an account there, and as Sevendor’s business was conducted in Sendaria my people had a good, reliable place to stay.

  Fevam was thrilled to see us again – we were nearly his only tenants for the evening – and he assured us that a barge was scheduled to dock in the night, and would be departing downriver in the morning. He stabled our horses while we were gone – for which he was paid tidily – and then I paid a lad across the street a silver penny to watch the inn’s stables to ensure that Goodman Fevam wasn’t renting out our steeds while we were gone. He was honest, but you had to watch him.

  I dismissed my men for the evening, giving them a night to enjoy the taverns, whores, and games that a busy port always has to lighten a man’s purse and his spirits at the same time. Of course I gave them their pay – and a strong admonishment that we would be leaving in the morn, with or without them. I wasn’t too concerned – Ancient Dalcalan recalled a brothel he liked from his last visit, and most of the men went there together.

  Rondal and Banamor wanted to find a scriptorium, in search of books and supplies (which included a long list of my own), which left me, strangely, alone for the first time in longer than I could recall.

  I could have done just about anything – and the city offered plenty of possibilities: get drunk, find a whore to work off five weeks of husbandly patience, talk to merchants, take in a play, listen to minstrels, get in a fight in a tavern, I had Miko’s Chance at an endless variety of trouble.

  So after dinner . . . I went to a spellmonger.

  There were four major firms in Sendaria-on-Bontal and by the Baron’s order those four had all the business in the city sewn up. I’d made plenty of discreet inquiries and learned a fair amount about each of them.

  One, Harmar the Riversage, had his practice just off the docks, and specialized in the arcane types of littoral seamagic the bargemen needed to get up and down the river. He had four burly apprentices and a love for money and wine, and was distinctly apolitical.

  A second, Master Velenduin, served the upscale merchants, petty nobility, and well-to-do burghers of Sendaria Town, a general-purpose spellmonger with a distinguished practice and a modest reputation for honest dealings.

  A third was a woman who plied her trade in the lower sections of town, a fat old witch named Mistress Barbulla the Crone who was a lot younger than she appeared and who charged almost twice as much as her spells were worth, in violation of the standards associated with the Bans.

  She was able to get away with it, Banamor had told me, because she acted as an informant for the Censorate. Any hedgemage or village witch who appeared to cut into her trade eventually got a visit from the Censorate. Any footwizard who lingered too long in her territory was reported to the Censorate authorities in the regional command, where their movements were tracked and interceptions could be planned. In return, she was able to cheat the poor of Sendaria Town with slipshod spells and charlatanism. I avoided Barbulla like the pox.

  I headed toward the fourth licensed spellmonger in Sendaria Town, back among the glassblowers and glaziers, glove makers and pewter smiths of the city. Among them all, his was the style most like my own, more substance than style. His name was Andalnam, and he was an Enchanter.

  Few non-magi ever hire the services of an Enchanter. Traditionally, an Enchanter receives his commissions from spellmongers or court magi who see the need for a particular enchantment and who have a client who can meet the cost.

  Occasionally there will be a commission by a great lord, or a guild, or a religious order if the mage in question is of high enough repute. Since the talent to enchant past the very basic level becomes terribly arcane and dependent upon a mage’s natural Talents, usually an Enchanter will be able to produce a number of commonly-needed items, such as enchanted locks or chains, wheel axels, bridles, enchanted hair ornaments or looking glasses, and all manner of high-demand products. But beyond that, they tend to specialize in a particular area of skill and talent, the same way thaumaturges and warmagi do.

  Andalnam had established a strong professional reputation for enchanted saddlery and harnesses, in particular, but he was known to have tackled everything from a slip-anchor to a warrior’s lance. And he had a further reputation of not being particularly friendly toward the Censorate, on account of his five daughters.

  The Censorate allowed only two children of a mage to be taken as his apprentice during his life. In the eastern duchies, where magic is more common and magi more plentiful, this rule is usually circumvented by either apprenticing nieces and nephews within the same firm, or by sending the children to an expensive academy for training and certification.

  In Castal and Alshar, however, it was rare that you had the same sort of trusted family institutions to rely upon, and tales of abused apprentices were common. I’d seen such myself far more than I’d cared to. If I had five daughters who all had Talent, I’d be wary of entrusting them to just any master of the craft.

  Andalnam had taken his eldest two daughters to apprentice as soon as they were of age, but his remaining three all seemed doomed to a poor trade at best. Girls usually have an even harder time than boys in a strange house, under a strange master. So Andalnam was rarely a model of cooperation with the Censorate. Further, he also had a reputation for being friendly with footwizards like Banamor – a necessit
y of his trade, as they were his main suppliers for hard-to-get magical components. That made him even more suspect in the minds of the Censorate. Fortunately, he was good at his craft and had a number of powerful patrons, else he might have found himself the subject of additional harassment.

  Andalnam’s shop was typical of the Enchanters I’d known: nestled amongst the craftsmen with whom he would have to work closely, at various points in the enchantment process, extremely non-descript. Indeed, the only sign of his trade was a tiny board above his door with the traditional three-stars-and-moon sign for a spellmonger, and then his name. It looked more like a tack workshop than the ostentatious spellmongers’ offices I was used to. That is, until I came within ten feet of the sign, when it lit up with a pale blue fire that produced no heat. It was a little startling, but a nice effect.

  Andalnam was already in the front part of the shop when I broached the door, wiping his lips with a napkin. He was a short, lean man with fine features and a long crop of gray hair surrounding a bald pate. He had sharp, piercing eyes and hands with long, nimble-looking fingers. He wore a dark gray smock with a few pockets in it over a linen shirt.

  “Magelord,” he said, as if he had been expecting me. That hadn’t, apparently, kept him from his dinner, however.

  “You know who I am?” I asked, curiously.

  “It’s a small town,” he shrugged. “News travels fast. You are, if I am not mistaken, one of the three Magelords who now inhabit remote Sevendor Vale, are you not?”

  “Indeed, I am Magelord Minalan the Spellmonger,” I confessed. “Magelord of Sevendor. And head of the order of High Magi. Or will be, officially, after this conference.”

  “That means . . .?” he asked, more looking for the confirmation of a rumor, rather than instruction.

  “That means I bear a witchstone,” I agreed, calmly. “Irionite. In defiance of the Bans.”

  Andalnam smiled, almost peacefully. “That is a lovely phrase in my ears,” he said. “I can guess that you are no friend to the checkered lads, are you?”