The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “They want my head, and the head of any who hold the stones,” I agreed. “But the Duke has suspended the Bans, and cancelled the warrants of the Censors within his realm. And raised up magelords and knights magi to champion its defense. Yes, all you have heard is likely true.”

  “So what brings so august and rare a personage as a Magelord to my humble shop?” he asked, offering me one of the three padded chairs in his front room.

  The place was a mess, stacked with various projects in different stages of completion, a few items too large and heavy to be moved without reason, and a number of beakers and bottles in untidy racks against the wall. I felt pretty comfortable there – it reminded me more of my father’s private workshop than a spellmonger’s shop.

  “I want to offer you a commission,” I began. “if you have the capacity at the moment.” Then explained precisely what I wanted him to do. I had gotten good references about Andalnam, he was a well-respected and trustworthy artisan. I had no doubt he had the ability to enchant what I asked. “I understand that you will only be able to proceed so far before you need my assistance with the linking spell, but I should be back this way in a week or so. I trust you could get the work done by then?”

  “If you provide me the harder-to-find materials, aye, that is possible,” he agreed, after some thought. “But that is a mighty commission . . .” and the haggling began.

  “How much would you charge, ordinarily?” I asked. “And be frank – I know a man has to make a living. I’m prepared to be outraged.”

  “For such a thing, if I were to do it without assistance or provision of rare materials . . . no less than sixty, seventy ounces of gold,” he said, after thinking quietly for a moment. “Perhaps as high as a hundred, depending upon market conditions. Since you are supplying the most difficult-to-get portion, as well as the essential spellwork . . . for cost-plus-profit, I could do it in the time you set for . . . thirty ounces of gold?”

  “That’s actually far less than I’d feared,” I nodded. “But consider this, as well: I have a mind to have a special trade fair this autumn, in Sevendor. Thanks to my position and the strategic location of this region, I daresay hundreds of magi will be in attendance to procure all manner of rare goods. I plan on renting small booths to merchants at a cost of two silver ounces a day, or fifteen for the duration of the fair, and large booths at ten silver ounces or five ounces of gold for the duration. Take this commission for me – discreetly – and I shall give you a large booth at the fair for free, for the next three years.”

  He studied me thoughtfully, and he wiped his hands on his apron nervously. I could tell he was sorely tempted – I could tell the moment I said it that such a thing as a magical fair could mean a lot of profit for an enchanter. And a lot of opportunity.

  “That seems passing generous, Magelord,” he said, quietly. “Yet there are expenses—”

  “Oh, I can give you thirty ounces of silver to begin, and a like amount when I return, to cover your basic costs,” I agreed. “But I have one thing more that might secure the commission.” I took from my sleeve a smooth pebble of white.

  “This rock now exists in Sevendor, the result of . . . well, it’s a long story. Suffice it to say that it seems to have a few thaumaturgically interesting properties that an Enchanter might be intrigued by. Including,” I added, casually, “the seeming ability to augment a mage’s natural Talents. My man Banamor has worn a piece around his neck for days, and swears that his spells seem more potent. I leave it for you to experiment with, but it occurs to me that this sort of thing might be particularly helpful dealing with the earliest appearance of Talent in a mage. As well as assist in some types of spellwork in which Talent plays a role. Not to mention being a boon to any enchantment that works more efficiently with a lower etheric resistance.”

  “It could, indeed, if it acts as you say,” he nodded, taking the piece and holding it up to the light. Without thinking, I brought a magelight into existence that provided more than enough illumination. Andalnam was impressed, but gracious enough not to mention it. He turned his attention back to the stone, and then finally put it away with a promise to investigate. He assured me that he would take the commission, once I gave him the necessary pieces and the money, and then he summoned his eldest daughter to bring us a glass of wine to seal our agreement.

  That first glass called for a second, during which we began to get comfortable enough with each other to talk politics. I tried to steer the conversation toward his perspectives on the problems with the way magic was administered, and it didn’t take much to encourage him to tell me his opinions. I have yet to meet the man who doesn’t have opinions in great and glorious abundance, and after we had become more familiar, Andalnam did not hesitate to give me an earful.

  Mostly I asked him about what was and wasn’t troubling him about his business, and he had plenty to say on the matter, beginning with the Censorate. I hadn’t considered some of his perspectives, and I listened with great interest.

  Certainly, one spellmonger’s opinion, more or less, meant little in the grand scheme of things, but as I was headed to re-invent how magic would be administered across the incipient kingdom, I felt it wise to be as informed as possible about those on whom it would have the most affect. I wanted to see the scope of all magic improved, and the lives of all magi raised. I even want unchartered magi to have a place at the table, without fear of repercussion.

  It seemed a popular idea with Andalnam, at least, and by midnight, when I was certain I was late for the inn, we were fast friends and allies. He could not wait to bring his girls to see what we were doing in Sevendor, and he promised to make the trip just as soon as my piece was finished.

  Assuming, that is, I returned from Robinwing without a dagger in my back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Robinwing Conclave

  Robinwing Castle was a grand old place, built on a high promontory overlooking the magnificent temple and tidy village below, about half-a-day’s ride north from Rigdus riverport.

  It was built in the old Sansaran style, with one huge round crenellated keep eighty feet high, surrounded by a thirty-foot curtain wall, even facing the cliffside. The wall was punctuated every fifty feet by a sixty-foot high narrow tower of stone, each a multileveled platform for an abundance of missilery and artillery. The three-tiered switchback up the steep slope was guarded by a succession of gate towers and fortifications designed to slow the advance of besiegers. Not an impossible castle to take . . . but not an easy one, either.

  During the early days of the settlement of the Castali Riverlands, Robinwing had been a Baronial March castle, responsible for defending the frontier with Alshar. That had been centuries ago, before the border between the two realms had shifted six hundred miles west, and larger, more impressive fortresses were employed.

  For a hundred years it had enjoyed a quiet life as a major baronial fief, and then a secondary fief when the politics demanded a grander castle be built in a more strategic location. Without a powerful political or military reason to exist, however, it was difficult to justify the expense of so large a fort. Robinwing had eventually been sold to pay some baron’s debts. After changing hands a few times, it had been confiscated by the Coronet for unpaid taxes. There hadn’t been a sitting lord there for longer than Sevendor had gone without.

  The town below had prospered, despite the lack of a feudal overlord. The burghers had quietly bribed their way into a reduced obligation to the lord of the domain and increased the revenues from trade and from the pilgrims making their way to the Temple of Peras, Imperial goddess of earthly wisdom. The temple, more than the castle, was responsible for Robinwing Town’s prosperity.

  The temple dated from a shrine built by Imperial rangers who used the spot as a refuge. The miraculous properties of the local herbs and fungi lured a trio of priestess of Peras hither fifty years before the Conquest, where they ministered to the rangers, and later, a full legion of Imperial soldiers. After the Conquest w
hen the land was settled by Narasi, the priestesses did what they could to save Imperial culture. It became a repository for copies of records from eastern temples, in perfectly justified fear that my superstitious ancestors would burn them.

  By the time the Castali lords came up the river to the place, there was an entire colony of priestesses and lay scholars inhabiting the outpost. The dukes wisely recognized the importance of the place and put it under the protection of a lord, and the fief grew up from there. Or so said the bargemen on our short journey downriver.

  Ordinarily it takes two to three days to go downstream from Sendaria to Rigdus, after you go overland for half a day. But when you have a couple of bored High Magi on board, things move a lot more quickly.

  I taught Rondal the spell to reduce the friction between the hull and the water, while Sir Festaran and Banamor listened with great interest, and then we propelled the barge forward with a conjured water elemental. Between the two spells we more than doubled our speed, much to the terror and delight of the captain. We made the trip in a day – but more than enough time for us to learn about Robinwing Castle.

  We were met at the docks by a full-fledged honor guard, twenty men-at-arms bearing the Robinwing badge, and a group of functionaries led by a tall young man of perhaps twenty-five. He bore an apprentice’s cap, the Robinwing tabard, and a yellow sash bordered in red. He proved to be Sire Forandal’s senior apprentice, Dijo.

  With great deference (probably too great) he welcomed me to Robinwing and insisted that his men see our baggage to our quarters in the castle. Then he produced a bottle of a very nice red wine and toasted our arrival, and I couldn’t be rude and refuse. By the time we got to the castle, I had a nice rosy glow.

  Sire Forandal was settling into the role of magelord nicely – indeed, he’d been bred for the task. The neatly-ordered servants swirled about the room with quiet efficiency, seeing to the needs of the arriving guests. It put my rude hospitality in Sevendor to shame. I

  n comparison, I suddenly felt like I was lord of a draughty ruin, despite the incredible work we’d done to Sevendor. Robinwing was just larger, better-appointed, and well-run . . . but I do confess a few moments of castle envy after I arrived.

  Further, Sire Forandal was quite the gracious host. Rondal and I had each been given private quarters in the cliff-side section of the keep, while our men were quartered in one of the towers. Banamor was assigned a section in the great hall. I almost objected to that, but he insisted.

  “That’s a better bed than I’m used to, believe me,” he murmured to me, after putting a hand on my shoulder. “And better for other things, too.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “A man at the fire late at night is like to hear things a man deep in council at the top of the tower does not,” he pointed out. “I thought you might like an ear where you lacked one.”

  “I would,” I agreed, impressed by the man’s foresight. He was right. I needed to know what was going on outside of the sphere of magi I would be conferring with. I felt sneaky, using him as a spy, but I knew I needed to get used to the idea. I wasn’t going to pass up the help if it was so freely offered. Banamor may not have an abundance of Talent, but he’s shrewd.

  Rondal was treated like a Knight Mage himself, when he arrived, and was whisked away to his own room nearby to refresh himself. My quarters were stately, with an elegant canopied bed I vowed to find a way to steal and a beautiful old tapestry along the interior wall. The balcony outside had fruit trees and flowering vines around a lovely little stone table, where a bowl of fruit and a ewer of wine had been placed. A liveried castellan was only a bell-ring away, ready to bring me whatever I wished.

  Life as a Magelord was good.

  After I refreshed myself and checked in with Penny (who was on her way in her private barge with an extensive retinue, including her father, several senior members of the Order of the Secret Tower, her cousin Planus, and a large baggage train) the castellan politely informed me that Magelord Forandal was receiving guests in his rooftop garden, if I felt so inclined. I did – I barely knew the man.

  He was a friend and colleague of Terleman, who was also en route. I knew he had fought hard and well at Timberwatch, and had richly deserved his reward. There was a lot of goblin blood on his hands. It would be discourteous not to share a drink with my host.

  I’d spent only a few hours with him, and he seemed like a fine fellow, on short acquaintance. I put on my lordly raiment and let the castellan lead me to a pleasant little garden that covered a third of the roof of the keep. It wasn’t entirely ornamental – the fruit and nut trees were in flower, and I counted dozens of medicinal herbs in pots and small garden plots arrayed around the space. And a small pool, perhaps the top of a cistern, reflected the torchlight flickering in the breeze.

  Sire Forandal was sitting under a red canvas canopy in the midst of the garden, a few servants discreetly out of earshot, with a young woman playing a harp nearby. He was a little intimidating in his presentation. I was a spellmonger-cum-warmage who had been knighted and ennobled – Forandal was a magelord from his crown to his heel. He looked the part, wise, insightful, powerful, confident, with just enough egotistical arrogance to discourage casual buffoonery in his presence.

  The lordly fellow was speaking with two old friends, Wenek, Magelord of the Pearwoods, and Sir Taren, the brilliant young warmage and thaumaturge who had been so instrumental in the Battle of the Timberwatch.

  Both seemed in excellent health, and from their dress they were quite prosperous. Wenek seemed to be fleshing out under his dark green robes, which complemented the several golden rings he wore.

  Sir Taren, by contrast, had eschewed finery but had not abandoned quality: he wore a dashing mantle of black, upon which he’d had the Ilnarsi rune associated with the order embroidered tastefully on the breast. Under that he wore a dark gray woolen doublet of fine grade wool, well-tailored and tastefully adorned with tiny silver stars at the collar and wrists. In place of hose he wore black riding leathers and tall cavalry boots. His mageblade leaned against his chair, along with an intriguing-looking new staff.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, not waiting to be announced. All three started to rise, but I motioned them to sit. “Just looking for a drink before bed and perhaps a quiet smoke. And to thank my gracious host for the use of his magnificent fortress.”

  “Then you’ve found all three,” Forandal said, continuing to stand. “Come, Magelord—”

  “Oh, we’re all magelords here, no need to stand on ceremony,” I dismissed. “And old comrades as well. Call me Minalan, or just Min, after a few drinks.”

  “As you wish,” he agreed, smiling. “Congratulations on the birth of your son! Come, a drink to his health is in order!”

  Well, I couldn’t really say no to that, could I?

  In fact, I couldn’t say no to the next several drinks, as we toasted various worthy things. Nor could I say no when Wenek brought forth a flask of his vassal’s fresh pear brandy, newly drawn from the still and raw as a drunken whore on your tongue.

  By moonrise the torches had been replaced – we didn’t need them, but the place seemed warmer and cozier with them than by magelight. Forandal commanded the evening meal to be brought up to us, trenchers with whole-roasted pullets, cheese, and greens, along with sufficient quantity of ale to wash it down. He proved an excellent host, as gracious as a Gilmoran. The young harpist was replaced by a guitarist accompanied by a tambour while another young lady came up to dance for us while we dined.

  “One of my wards,” Forandal admitted. “I have her for another year, and then I have to marry her off. She came with the castle. I have four wards, actually. But she’s by far the most comely.”

  “One could have worse responsibilities,” Wenek nodded, unable to keep his eyes off the lass.

  “So how fares the Pearwoods?” I asked Wenek. The man gave the question some drunken consideration, and then sighed and farted at the same time.

  “Well e
nough,” he said, deliberately. “Well enough. The clans all look to me now, for all the good it does. Calling myself ‘lord’ seems unfair – more of a wetnurse breaking up fights between brats in the yard. But the harvest was good; the barley is thick, and the losses from the war lighter than they could have been. And with the army at Timberwatch, there’s a ready market for our grain.”

  “How about you, Forandal?” I asked, politely. “Any trouble with your vassals?”

  “My vassals?” he asked, thoughtfully. “No, actually, or far less than I’d thought there’d be. I have three knights in fealty to me – small fiefs, but prosperous. In the years that Robinwing was under the Coronet, though, the burghers in town have been loaning money to the peasants and buying up fields throughout the domain. They own half of the land in my demesne, for Duin’s sake, and have liens on the other half! The knights are hoping I can control the burghers.”

  “Can you?” asked Wenek, curiously.

  “I think I’ve hit on a way,” he confided. “You know the terms concerning service to the Coronet?”

  I’d negotiated that myself – two months of military service for a mageland, compared to one of any other fiefdom. The additional month was intended as a check on the relative power of a magelord, compared to a regular lord. After all, military service was the whole point of the feudal relationship, that and taxation. Many lords found it difficult to fulfill even one month’s service a year – the idea of providing two, without support, was appalling.

  “Well, I’ve decided to pass on that burden to the town. Their charter specifies that the obligation to my overlord is to be fulfilled by soldiers recruited from the town. It does not specify the duration of the obligation, merely that the town shall provide the difference between the levy of the vassal knights’ household obligations and the obligations of the domain. And since my vassals are not required to fulfill my additional military obligation, the town must make up their difference.”