I still didn’t understand. He stared wide-eyed at my stupidity.
“If that caravel went to Deshelata and came back but half-empty, when the price is so dear, here, then that can only mean that either the harvest has failed – and it hasn’t, or else the ship would be empty – or the Doge of Farise is buying up the crop. Only one reason to do that – preparation for siege. The Farisi hoarding porsago is the same as one of these sad Western lords baking biscuit, slaughtering herds, and buying up cheese: war.” He looked me up and down and laughed. “Oh, but you’ll find out.”
I scoffed at the time. It seemed a spurious chain of supposition from a crazy old coot. Determining great world events through the availability of a foodstuff wasn’t magic, it was . . . lunacy.
The next year I graduated from the academy, got drafted, and spent a year on a death march through the jungles of Farise, and often recalled the old geezer when I wasn’t overcome by misery or fighting for my life. He was right about something else, too – porsago bread is tasty, though calling a flat, unleavened, flourless disc “bread” made something in my baker’s soul cringe in horror.
After I got back from the war, I sought out these footwizards casually, something my noble-born warmage colleagues saw as definitely slumming. But what I learned during those conversations was fascinating. There was a whole magical underclass in the Duchies, and they weren’t just poorly-Talented (or just poor). Some itinerant magi dropped out of the magical mainstream to pursue tributaries of study and exploration unavailable to their more respectable colleagues, or just fell on hard times.
The Ducal Censors hate them, of course. And they stuck together, gossiped a lot, and went places were most respectable magi don’t. It was a hard life, but it had a certain freedom to it and it tended to weed out the weak and reward the clever and treacherous by encouraging you think on your feet. Iyugi was one of these folk, and while I had never heard of him specifically, I was intrigued by the possibilities the more exotic footwizards represented.
“So why should I grant you a stone?” I asked. “You’re no warmagi.”
“Ah, that’s true,” he admitted. “But I’m accomplished at the Art, and I confess I feel a desire for a stone that rivals my desire for breath. When I first heard the rumors, I didn’t believe them. Then I heard about the Shadow, and then about a new Magelord, and, well, I had no other engagements at the time. I made my way here to offer my service and find out how I might procure a stone.”
“Fair enough,” I agreed. “The fact is, I am looking for responsible magi to take the oath and hold power. Thus far, I have been focused on fighting the war – but I recognize that there are more ways to fighting and building strength than fielding warmagi. So I am open to the argument – if you choose to make it. What makes you worthy, Iyugi? What can you do to aid the people of the Duchies against the Dead God?”
The craggy footwizard favored me with a wolfish grin. “I’m not opposed to a fight at need, but neither am I a warrior. Iyugi’s strength is finding things out. The trade I’ve prospered most at within the Art is an uncanny ability to discover a key piece of information from an unwitting – or unwilling – source.”
“You’re a spy?” I asked, surprised.
“I prefer ‘expert confidant’,” he said, the grin intensifying uncomfortably. “Often a petty lord wishes to know if his wife is faithful, his servants are honest, his men are loyal, or his enemies are plotting. They throw Iyugi a few coins and I return anon with the answer.”
“And just how do you go about finding out?”
“Many and diverse methods, Magelord. From the delicate art of simple conversation to the expediencies of the cup, I can usually learn what I wish. A complicated ruse will work, in some instances. A few coins in others.”
“What about magic?”
“When necessary,” he admitted. “But I rarely have need. That costs extra,” he added, smugly.
I shrugged. “Of course. Well, Iyugi, you would agree to take the oath and swear to me, if I granted you a stone?”
“Iyugi is at your service,” he agreed, bowing.
I thought for a moment, sipping the wine. The fact was, I needed a spy. A magical spy, someone I could trust. I had enemies, as well as colleagues I needed to know things about.
But you just don’t hand out Irionite to every beggar wizard who wanders by without a test. If he was as good as he said, then his test should revolve around his ability to gather information – information no one else was privy to. I studied the fire for a while and searched my brain for something secret.
“Very well,” I finally said. “I charge you with this task, then Iyugi, to prove yourself worthy of consideration. I want you to bring me these three secrets: First, tell me the name of the daughter of Captain Arehel, of the Vorean caravel The Blue Lady.” That was the caravel that had brought me back from Farise after the war. I had learned the name one drunken night after a storm.
He nodded. “It shall be done, my lord.”
“Next, bring me the name of the lover of Baroness Esetita of Corom.”
“As you wish, my lord,” he agreed, his eyes widening. Corom was in northern Castal. I had made the acquaintance of the good lady (a woman of resounding virtue, it was said) at the Ducal court, and had inadvertently discovered her secret. I had also vowed to keep it, earning me an ally where I needed it the most at the time. If he could make the same discovery that I had, that would prove him worthy on its own.
“Finally, I desire to know the location and shape of the birthmark upon the person of Lady Pentandra – I believe you know the lady I speak of?”
“Aye, milord,” he agreed, his eyes calculating the difficulties of the problem. It would be much harder than he thought, I knew.
Pentandra was at Court, helping coordinate the war-effort. And while she never hesitated to take a lover, one had to be very, very close to her to learn exactly where that birthmark is. It had taken me a year and a half.
“And if I should return by next moon with this information, you will . . . ?”
“Strongly consider you for investment with a witchstone,” I agreed. “You have my word.”
“That is still no guarantee,” Iyugi pointed out.
“You are right, it isn’t. I have a position of special responsibility, I hope you understand, and I need to allow myself a certain amount of flexibility in my dealings. I would rather have the option of denying you a stone if you, say, murdered a temple priestess in the fulfillment of your charge instead of having to break my oath.”
“The terms are agreeable,” he decided. “You have a reputation as an honest man.”
I laughed. “I know, I’ve only been a noble for a few moons. Nor do I plan on cheating you – another obstacle I’ll have to overcome, now that I’m nobility. I went over to the great mantelpiece and opening a small box (spellbound against casual theft) and taking out a small bag of silver – about twenty ounces. Sir Cei encouraged me to have some small coin on hand for dealing expediently with regular castle business. “It wouldn’t be lordly of me to give you such a charge and expect you to even attempt it without resources.”
I tossed him the purse and he caught it deftly with one hand. Weighing it, he frowned and opened the bag. He took out half of the silver and closed up the bag.
“I’ll need no more than that, Magelord. And I appreciate the trust you have bestowed upon one you’ve had so short an acquaintance with.”
“Don’t betray it, then. And spread the word among your brethren that the best among them have hope of a stone from my hand, should they prove worthy,” I added. “Tell them also that I will have high expectations for any footwizard who thusly takes my service.” We continued talking until dinner, after which Iyugi disappeared. But not before filling my ears with news of all sorts, from throughout the Duchies.
By the time we retired, I think Tyndal learned more about the goings on in the Duchies than he had known in his entire life. He even admitted to me on our way to our quarters
that he had been wrong about Iyugi, and he was starting to get a glimmer of my long range plans.
Iyugi was gone before dawn the next day.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chepstan Spring Fair
I’ve always had a peasant’s love of a fair.
When I was a kid in Talry we’d go to the small midsummer fair, on the river commons. I loved the performers and the food, the music, the contests and the gaiety. When I went to Inrion Academy I was able to attend the Gambero Fair, which is one of the largest silk trading fairs along the coast. That’s where I studied village girls and strong drink. And when I was an itinerate warmage, I went out of my way to travel towards fairs of great repute. You can often pick up a job after a couple of lords get into it, and they are a great place for picking up leads and gossip. And village girls.
Attending a fair as a boy or as an artisan is very different from attending a fair as a noble, I learned. For one thing, going by horse is much, much quicker. For another, attending with an entourage of nearly fifty people slows you down quite a bit . . . and is expensive as hell.
When Sir Cei told me about how much it would cost for us to attend Sendaria’s Chepstan Spring Fair, I started to have second thoughts. I wasn’t paying close attention to the state of the treasury, but the sum he named seemed extravagant. But when I suggested that perhaps we should skip it, he looked scandalized.
“Magelord, recall that we are in conflict with one of our neighbors,” he reminded me patiently. “The fair is, by all accounts, an important social occasion. Then remember that you are a stranger to this land, and have yet to meet the high nobles of the region. All of them will be at the Fair, or send representatives. For Sevendor not to have a showing would be tantamount to declaring our weakness to the entire Riverlands.”
He seemed so sure of himself that I didn’t feel right canceling after that. Besides, I figured, it was just money.
We ended up taking nine wagons and a small army of retainers, guards, servants, and local merchants who wanted to get out of paying tolls along the way and didn’t want the extra expense of guarding their wares. Alya and I and our household dominated two wains on our own, which was staggering – I’d walked into Boval Vale two years ago with a pack horse and a knapsack. How did I acquire all of these things?
A dozen of the retainers were armed guardsmen, sporting newly-sewn tabards with my new snowflake device on it. I had livery, now. I didn’t have that two years ago, either.
But the guards were necessary, and I was also taking Tyndal (Rondal had drawn the short straw and had to stay home this time) and Sir Festaran, the latter as much a native guide as an additional sword. He knew the politics of the local region better than anyone else in my employ. Sir Cei went with us as well, his first foray out of Sevendor in months. I knew Sit Cei was a capable fighter and he was dressed like a real knight. And I brought along a half-dozen warwands in addition to my own blade.
Why all the concern about our security? The problem was that we weren’t going to be able to go through West Fleria without at least twice as many men, and I was going to a fair, not a siege. Our frontier scouts had reported that Sire Gimbal had hired yet more mercenaries – common folk no better than bandits, this time, not even poor country knights – to waylay anyone coming out of Sevendor. In addition, the two hamlets we crossed before crossing West Fleria’s far frontier had been fortified and reinforced.
That meant Caolan’s Pass got considerably more traffic than usual; which was also why Sir Cei limited us to only nine wagons – it was a chore getting them over the steep rise leading up to the pass. It also meant that Lord Trefalan got our tolls, and it added half a day to our journey, but it was worth it to not have to worry about archers sniping us every step of the way or fighting our way past a couple of blockades.
The journey across southern Sendaria toward Chepstan Castle was delightfully uneventful, giving me plenty of leisure time riding next to Alya, play with the baby, and enjoy a pleasant buzz a pipe and a wineskin offered. The weather was glorious, the air smelling of vibrant, verdant expectation and the scent of wildflowers. And being a noble had other privileges, I discovered: when you ride at the head of the convoy, you don’t get covered in dust.
We camped outside the ruins of Ferrendor that night and started running into other travelers on their way to the fair. A group of jugglers and musicians and a lackluster bard on one side of the road, and two parties of merchants (one cloth, one spice) on the other made it a merry camp, and after I magnanimously ordered a keg of ale opened, it was even merrier. The next morning we continued a little more slowly and a lot more painfully.
We arrived on the outskirts of Chepstan Town’s spacious commons in company with a large throng of like-minded travelers. An officious little man in a red and blue tabard found us on his list and directed us to our camp, collecting a purse covering our rent for the week and making each and every one of us swear the Fair Oath before a coinbrother of Ifni.
That was a basic vow to the gods not to lie, steal or start fights, and if you did get into a fight no sharp blades were permitted except in pre-arranged duels, which had to take place outside of the fairgrounds. The penalty for violation was left solely to the discretion of the Baron . . . but we were warned that included capital punishment, if he felt so inclined. Banamor had been right: Baron Arathanial didn’t like anyone messing with his fair.
Once we got to the little square all fifty of us would have to live in, everyone pitched in to unload the tents and canopies, those who were not digging a privy or seeking firewood to purchase. All around us other households were setting up in the darkness or in the flickering light of hastily-lit fires.
That wouldn’t do at all.
With a wave of my hand, a large spherical magelight shimmered into existence fifty feet overhead, bathing the commons in a glow twice as bright as moonlight.
It was ample to allow our retainers to set up more quickly, and after the initial shock ran through the crowd our neighbors were grateful for the extra illumination. When that wasn’t enough, Tyndal and Banamor and even Sir Festaran managed to create a small light over various projects. It allowed camp to go up a lot more quickly and efficiently.
It also caused a crowd to gather around the encampment, to the point where I had to post guards to keep onlookers from interfering with my people. I couldn’t blame them – no mage had been that showy in the Riverlands in living memory. Hell, the magelight alone would have taken me half a day to hang, before irionite.
I was pleased to see that Sir Cei had not consigned us to sleep in the mean tent we’d slept in on the road, the night before – the pavilion that his people erected for our use was lavish.
“Picked it up on our last market run into Sendaria Port,” he explained. “It was Sir Ulveddic’s – are you familiar with the knight?”
“I’m afraid not,” I admitted.
“No reason you should be, unless you follow professional jousting,” he said with a dismissive shake of his head. Sir Ulveddic was a local favorite, but – alas! -- he broke his collarbone at the start of last tournament season and had to part with this lovely canopy for a fraction of what he paid for it.”
“How much?” I asked, with a sense of foreboding.
“The Magelord shouldn’t concern himself with such petty matters,” Sir Cei said, smoothly, which I was learning was code for none of your business . . . my lord. “But it was a steal. And I think you’ll enjoy the appointments – most of which we won’t be setting up until morn.”
It was pretty impressive by night. It was a mustard yellow color canvas with black trim, and Cei had hired a couple of seamstresses to tack the Sevendor snowflake banner to it, so it looked official. The tent itself had two main support poles and ten wall poles, giving us a lavish amount of space inside. Alya and I were bedded down in one half, while our staff used the other to take care of the baby and our stuff. There were even two interior “walls” of canvas to give us privacy. I liked the look of that.
/>
I told him I trusted his judgment about the encampment, and I went to see the fair with Alya. Since most people were still setting up, there wasn’t a lot available in the way of amusements, but we heard music and laughter and we followed it. I had Sir Festaran accompany us (Sir Cei insisted – a landed noble did not go forth into the darkness of night without a loyal retainer) we were able to push through the crowd that had gathered around our magelights and slip away.
We had great fun that night. For a few precious hours I wasn’t a magelord, I wasn’t a warmage, or even a spellmonger, I was just a boy taking a girl to the fair.
A boy with a purse full of coin. That made a big difference.
I was never ‘poor’ growing up, but my father was thrifty with his coin. When I went to the fair as a child, if I had a copper to spend I was ecstatic. When I was a warmage, I’d usually be cautious with my spending myself, resisting the temptation to spend what I’d saved on the exotic goods and fanciful amusements available. Well, mostly resisted.
But that night I was able to take my wife from vendor to vendor and spend what I wished without worrying about the cost. We began with supper, in a little encampment selling food halfway between our camp and the fairgrounds, and enjoyed a large slab of Remeran cheese, a bottle of cheap wine, a large loaf and three bowls of thick groundling stew heavily seasoned with rosemary and pepper.
I don’t know how much it cost – again at Sir Cei’s insistence, Sir Festaran toted around my purse and paid the vendors. Nobles don’t sully their hands with such common trade, apparently.
We stopped at an encampment a little closer to the grounds for another bottle, this time of a wild Wenshari wine, while we listened to a band of drunken River Folk musicians play dueling pipes for us. I encouraged Alya to get up and dance with me, which she did reluctantly at first but soon with drunken enthusiasm. By the time we left, our hearts were pounding and we were both smiling and holding hands like maidens. Sir Festaran tried to hide his amusement, but he was a good kid and couldn’t help but grinning as we frequently stopped for kissing and embracing.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 48