The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “Agreed,” Penny said, looking relieved. “Gurthruian is a potent mage, and that will keep Daddy happy. Fifteen. How about we go ahead and say five will go to warmagi right off the top of the bushel – and you probably know better than I who would be best.”

  That wasn’t a half bad idea. We knew that most of the stones were dedicated to the war effort. If we could settle on who was certainly going to get them first, perhaps the rest would fall into place. Taren looked at me, and I looked at him, and we started spitting out names.

  “Golvod of Tenaria,” I said, almost instantly. He was a younger son of a baron who had been grooming him for the life of a tournament champion when his Talent emerged. He went on to become a ruthless warmage in southern Remere. Part of his charm was the mighty double-bladed battle axe he wielded instead of a mageblade. The fact that he stood nearly seven feet tall helped with the image as a brutal warlord. He had the professional respect of most of his peers, and he seemed to look forward to a long term of service in the Penumbra. Taren shrugged as if there was no argument to be made against it.

  “Perhaps Pirgine the Seer,” Taren said, and I nodded. Pirgine works “behind the wall,” with military intelligence. She was one of the best at battlefield scrying and obfuscation in the business. She wore billowing black robes and a silver mask when she was working, but I’d gotten drunk with her one night and found her a charming old bawd when she wasn’t being professionally serious. Not the boldest choice, perhaps, but an important one. Put her and Lanse of Bune together, and we’d eventually know what Shereul’s priesthood ate for dinner.

  “Loiko Venaren,” I suggested. He was a good counterpoint to Pirgine.

  Taren considered, and then nodded. “He bears no love for the Censorate. They imprisoned his daughter a few years ago, and nearly had him arrested. And his talent for strategic thinking is probably better than Terleman’s. And he led the assault on the Mad Mage. Yes, Master Loiko would be an ideal candidate.”

  Loiko Venaren was a master tactician, an active warmage all over the Duchies for over thirty years, fighting in dozens of campaigns over the years. He was so well-respected that he had been one of the most seasoned warmagi placed over the Magical Corps during the Farisian campaign, and the mind responsible for the final assault.

  As he had been born in Farise before his family relocated to Merwin, I don’t know how he’d felt about the invasion of his homeland, but his feelings hadn’t prevented him from designing a very capable strategy against the Doge’s minions.

  He was a quiet, thoughtful man with a very dark complexion and a handsome Imperial bearing that making his silver-blue eyes stand out even more. It was rumored that he’d studied with the Mad Mage in his youth. He was adept at positioning small, specialized units at key points in the battle plan to affect mighty changes in the course of battle. He would be an invaluable ally in the war against the Dead God.

  “My largest concern with Venaren is that he’s so senior that he won’t feel inclined to follow orders of a sprout like myself.”

  “I don’t think that’s an issue,” Taren said, shaking his head. “He’s taken orders from plenty of people in his career.”

  “Those were clients,” I pointed out. “Not his magical colleagues. And I heard there was plenty of bitterness in the upper ranks of the Magical Corps. He had to be involved with that.”

  “There’s always bitterness in a leadership council like that,” Penny interjected. “That’s part of the process. This mage will take the same oath as all High Magi, and he will obey it as we all do. That is the price of the witchstone.” She said it with a finality that I couldn’t argue with.

  “What about Angeffen of Fornay? The Vorean?”

  “Died last year,” Taren said, shaking his shaggy head. “Cavalry charge into a hidden ditch somewhere in Merwin. But . . . well, Larfane the Defiant was his best apprentice, and he’s here. He’s as good as Angeffen was in his youth.”

  “Huh! That’s an idea. I met him at the reception, I think. Red hair?”

  “That’s the one,” Taren agreed. “He specializes in siege techniques, especially sapping and mining.”

  “We could use a warmage like that,” Penny said, more to be included in the conversation than anything else. I could tell she was getting bored. “Isn’t Carmella more siege engines and construction?”

  “Hesia was the construction engineer,” agreed Taren. “But Larfane can do most of what she could, plus some stuff she couldn’t. Plus he knows how to fight, which Hesia really didn’t. He’s a solid choice. That leaves . . .” I said, searching my brain for another warmage who could use a stone to our best advantage. Someone who could lead, fight, defend, attack, and take command of troops if necessary. Someone inspiring.

  Taren and I both looked at each other, the same thought on our mind.

  “Caswallon!” we said in unison, grinning. Penny just looked at us, a little irritated.

  “Who the hells is Caswallon?”

  “Caswallon the Fox is the biggest, cockiest, ball-busting warmage in the Duchies,” Taren explained. “He went to Inrion Academy, and then into warmagic under old Master Vinyar of Gilmora, by all repute an adept at the art.

  “Caswallon ended up being in the right place at the right time and managed to capture Alshar’s Marshal of the Eastern Frontier for the Count of Gilmora. He took ten percent of that ransom as his prize, and it was a big one. The next year he was in the right place at the right time again, and got to loot the Duke of Castal’s baggage train of every penny.”

  “He’d switched sides in the war by then,” I explained, when I saw Penny’s thin eyebrows scrimmage on her forehead. “It’s actually pretty common. The Duke figured he’d quelled the uprising, turned Caswallon loose with the rest of his expensive warmagi, and leave the mopping up to the Count and his barons.”

  “Only Caswallon wasn’t done fighting. He offered his services to the Count of Grammone, who was running the war for Alshar at the time, and turned around to use all of the passwords and signs he knew to lure the guards away and loot the baggage train!” Taren hooted. Penny didn’t look impressed.

  “Since then, he’s been building a reputation by aggressively proclaiming just how good he is to everyone who will hear it.”

  Penny looked aghast. “And you want to encourage this mage with a witchstone?”

  “You have to understand, he’s a warmage,” I emphasized. “And the fact of the matter is, he is that good. At least, he knows his stuff about strategy, tactics, thaumaturgy, logistics, supply – he’s a fighter, but he’s also . . .”

  Taren tried to explain. “He’s got a whole entourage around him to remind everyone – including Caswallon – just how great he is. Luckily, that entourage he has includes a lot of errants – not just warmagi, but real knights searching for adventure, who together add up to a loose heavy cavalry squadron. Then he’s got a family of River Folk servants, an armorer, a scout, a scribe, a valet, a full-time minstrel, a priest, three or four apprentices, the odd journeyman who wants to enjoy his illustrious company, and of course every dewy-eyed maiden in the district who wants to bear his children.”

  “And how does he keep all of these people in his orbit? Bribes?”

  “Only if he has to,” I said, shaking my head. “But it’s actually because he has this utterly magnetic charisma and charm that you just can’t resist. He could talk a goblin into a friendly game of rushes, and have him toasting the health of His Grace before the end of the game. He’s got a loud, deep voice, he uses a lot of gestures, and . . . well, he’s just the friendliest man you’ve ever met.”

  He wrinkled her nose. “And why do we need such a friendly warmage for the war effort? Besides, it sounds like he’s using an enchantment, to me,” she said, skeptically.

  “I thought so too, when I met him,” I admitted. “But if he’s using a spell, it’s a damn subtle one. I couldn’t detect one. I’m more inclined to call it a natural ability. But you spend ten minutes in Caswallon’s presence,
and if you don’t want to have his baby or defend his honor in a duel, I’ll assume you’re unconscious.”

  “He sounds like a boor to me,” she sniffed. I could tell at once that she’d already set her mind to bed him.

  “He’s heroic,” Taren countered. “He’s bigger than life, a leader of men, a lover of women, generous to his friends, gracious to his foes . . . just the sort of man we need guarding the Penumbra. That’s a military duty that the warriors of the Duchy will find tiresome all too soon. With no hope of plunder, no hope of victory, and little hope of survival, within a year we’ll have to send criminals and debtors to the lines. With men like Caswallon there to lead them, they may stand and fight rather than run. And he is a competent warmage,” he added.

  That was pretty high praise from Taren. Don’t misunderstand, the man loathes criticizing anyone about their craft, but he had very high standards. I’m sure I barely measured. In fact, I’d count it an honor if Taren called me competent. It would make me giddy with validation.

  “Fine,” Penny conceded. “So that’s the five warmagi. Ten stones left. Who gets them?”

  We struggled with that question for a while, but slowly began to put together a list of names. It was a struggle, but late into the night we finally had our High Magi, plus alternates. Every single choice was entangled with politics and economics, and only Penny’s insights into that arcane realm kept us from making some truly bad decisions, but no matter how we divided them, there were going to be plenty of people upset with the result.

  “We’ll get more stones,” she assured me, wearily. “Not enough, but now that we have a list and a procedure, we can make it run more smoothly in the future.”

  “There are still going to be some unhappy people around,” warned Taren.

  “Aren’t there always?” I pointed out. “We’ll deal with it. Let’s get some sleep.”

  Rondal had been on “escort duty,” and once I woke him up he was happy to walk behind us as Penny and I headed back to our rooms. He yawned the whole way there, and it occurred to me that this would be the perfect time to broach a delicate subject.

  So, I said into Penny’s mind through our stones, Any big news to tell me?

  What? She asked, confused. You’re going to have to be more specific than that. I get big news all the time. But if you’re wondering if I’m announcing an engagement or planning a coup . . . no. Not until I get some sleep.

  I was thinking more of things that would concern me, I said.

  Me getting engaged wouldn’t concern you?

  I’d feel for the poor bugger, I admitted, but I’m assuming he would be under his own free will. But I was wondering if you had received any news about which I should be aware?

  I was thinking of Isily, and her secret pregnancy, of course. Penny knew about it. She didn’t know I did. And she was keeping it from me, either to protect me or to keep me from getting distracted and doing something stupid.

  That wasn’t really a problem – I had one baby to deal with, and one woman. I wasn’t itching for another of either. I wasn’t so much upset about Isily’s treachery (it’s almost impossible for a female mage to conceive accidentally) as I was Penny’s unwillingness to tell me. I didn’t for a moment consider her disloyal, or working against my interest. I was just concerned that she wouldn’t be honest with me.

  Apparently, there are some things she thought I was better off not knowing.

  I felt bad about that, angry and resentful at first, and then just sad. I trusted Penny. I realized that I still trusted Penny, despite the deception, which may have been profoundly stupid of me. I didn’t care. I trusted her; I’d known Penny longer than Alya. She’d had plenty of opportunities to sell me out or stick a dagger in my back – heck, she could have pushed to marry me, if she really wanted, and I would have had a hard time saying no.

  But that didn’t mean she did what I wanted all the time. She did what she felt was best, but – damn her! – that wasn’t always what I thought was best.

  It was a pretty puzzle: do you trust the people you’ve put in trustworthy positions to do their jobs, or do you second-guess them to death, until they quit in disgust?

  I needed Penny. Even if she was hiding a possible child from me. More importantly, these incipient orders we were creating needed her. If it had been left up to me, I would have screwed things up permanently by now.

  I decided that if she was going to not tell me, I had to respect her right not to tell me, no matter how personally difficult that was. But this was her chance to level with me.

  No, nothing springs to mind. Except . . . you need a bath.

  I do? I hadn’t exerted myself all day – just sat at the table and talked. Did I really need a bath?

  Badly, she assured me.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Legend Of The Forsaken

  When it comes to playing politics, no one does it better than the Remerans

  Don’t misunderstand me – there are plenty of peoples who are better at playing politics than the Remerans, else the incipient kingdom would have had a Remeran monarch and not a Castali. What I mean is that Remerans do it better than anyone else. They would much rather persuade you with praise and pampering than threaten you with rat-tails and revenge killings. I’m new to the political arena, but I like the way the Remerans do business.

  When Remere was the ass-end outpost of the Empire, the second-to-last stop before Farise, the duchy had begun as a scenic ring of port cities on the coast connected to some lucrative upriver plantations. But it had also achieved a certain shabbily cosmopolitan feel from the number of Magocracy exiles (self-imposed and the regular kind) who had settled there: esoteric cults, dispossessed Imperial noblemen, itinerate magi, wandering clerics, scholars in search of inspiration, artists, adventurers, reformed pirates, and ambitious younger sons eager to build their fortune.

  The exotic mix of adventurers and extremists had given Remere a sense of self-importance that the equally-exotic (but far less cultured) Castali port cities across the bay had never achieved. After the Conquest opened up the interior of the continent, much of that culture had moved up-river with the Imperial refugees attempting to flee toward the perceived safety of Wenshar. The first Narasi dukes put a stop to that flight, and forced the Imperials to settle into the feudal society they were familiar with whether they wanted to or not.

  But the legacy of the cosmopolitan coastal culture and their exuberant, decadent, and sensuous approach to everything continued to affect the Remerans, regardless of where they settled. The Remerans enjoyed life, no matter their wealth or station. Even the half-naked, destitute land-bound peasantry who worked the great plantations had adopted the philosophy, and it was reflected in everything from their cuisine to their religion.

  That affected their approach to politics too, I discovered at the meeting.

  When the Order of the Secret Tower invited me to a special meeting, escorted by my Steward, Penny, they had a captive audience and they could have begun and likely concluded the negotiations right away and saved everyone a lot of time. But that’s not the Remeran way. While the Order was not exclusively Remeran, I had been told, it was Remeran enough that we couldn’t even get through introductions without a buffet table and three stark-naked golden brown serving girls dispensing the first of many rounds of exotic liqueurs.

  The principals who wished to meet with me wore pale yellow robes (about as somber a thing as I’ve seen a Remeran wear) with what I could only assume was the Secret Tower’s secret sigil embroidered over the breast. Each principal (and there were nine) had an aide-de-camp and two additional servants, and several had scribes or other hangers-on.

  Each mage in attendance reclined on a short, wooden-bottomed squatting cushion that had once been popular in the Magocracy, with plenty of space before them to allow wine servers and food servers and body servants to attend to their every want and desire, while sweet, soothing music played and savory incense and spring flowers scented the air.


  And this was a simple business function.

  I was led to my spot, a place of honor in the circle, and Penny was led to the spot to my left. There were some confusing introductions, but I was getting used to putting names and faces together for political purposes. By the third drink, and the second round of appetizers, I had a rough idea of who everyone was and who they were in the Order.

  All of them were well-respected magi, most of them Practical Adepts or Court Magi, with a few well-respected arcane scholars thrown in. Penny’s father, Orsirio, was a senior member, as was the deputy Court Mage of Remere. An older woman, Mistress Letuandua, was from a coastal family of magi so rich and powerful that they rarely even did magic for pay anymore. She reminded me of an apple left in the sun too long.

  Penny’s cousin Planus had a seat in the ring, although he made do with just one retainer and an assistant, plus two girls to keep him from starving to death. Despite his paltry retinue, plenty of his peers glared at his place of note. His fortunes had risen rapidly, in time with his cousin’s. I could sense some resentment from others in the room who felt he had not earned a place. It didn’t seem to bother him.

  “Behold, the Embassy of the Order,” a masked figure of some importance intoned as he struck a little bell. Master Orsirio stood and faced me.

  “Master Minalan, you have repaid the debt we extended to you in your hour of need far beyond all hope,” he said, reverently. “You have more than acted in good faith, you have acted to destroy the shackles placed unjustly upon us,” he said, diplomatically not mentioning the fact that it was my ancestors who were responsible for those shackles in the first place.

  “As you know, our Order is descendent from the Privy Council of the ancient Magocracy. It was from among the ancestors of our Order that the Archmagi were chosen. And while that office became a tool to run the secular affairs of the Magocracy, the Privy Council was always concerned as well with certain legacies of our ancestors. Legacies from lost Perwyn.”