That shut them up.
Baron Arathanial listened to several eye-witnesses of the brawl before he questioned any of the principals. After the fifth or sixth witness, he nodded and dismissed them. About that time his aide arrived toting a lap desk and a face full of sweat. It was getting even hotter. The Baron didn’t seem to notice it. Once the aide arrived, however, Arathanial turned the clean-up over to him and then insisted all of us repair to his pavilion so that he could dispose of the case.
Along the way I got to watch him in action – it was informative. He seemed to know about every fifth person in the crowd well enough to greet them by name, and twice that many he recognized. By the time our twenty-minute walk was done, he had greeted at least two hundred people, asked them detailed questions or exchanged jokes, and generally behaved more like a party host than a reigning baron.
In between bows and pleasantries, we talked.
“Sevendor, eh?” he said, smiling fondly. “I’ve been there, in my youth. My family used to own it. Heard it was just this side of Tarian’s chamberpot, these days.”
I couldn’t imagine why the cantankerous god of the sea would need a chamberpot, but the description was apt. “We are recovering now, your Excellency, with a little hard work . . . and a lot of investment.”
“Well, I appreciate the business,” he said. “My toll revenues have been more than double than last year’s. As have my dock fees.”
“It is my pleasure to enrich your Excellency,” I agreed. “We Sevendori have found a pleasant welcome . . . in Sendaria.”
He laughed like a braying mule over that. “Ah, yes, the Warbird of West Fleria,” he chuckled. “I’d heard about what you’ve been doing to his frontiers. He was not happy with your bold move, taking back his stolen lands. I hear he’s been hiring mercenaries to harass your frontiers. Watch him – he schemes to rule us all, the idiot.”
“He hasn’t enough gold or men to seriously threaten – particularly against warmagi. He’s been more of a nuisance than anything else.”
“Nuisance is perhaps the nicest thing anyone has called him,” the Baron chuckled. He glanced at me for a second more than was comfortable. “But I’ve been paying attention. There are still a few kinsmen of mine in the old countries, and I hear news.” That was the polite way of saying “I have a crackerjack domestic spying operation.” I was learning how to interpret nobleese.
“It gives my men an opportunity to practice their arms,” I dismissed. “And so far he has enriched my coffers more than my peasantry, thanks to his ill-conceived vendetta.”
“In truth, I cannot claim to be completely uninterested,” he said, in a slightly lower tone of voice. “Until these troubles with Sevendor, Gimbal was eyeing some of my southern lands. He has a habit of weaseling his way into a fight, and then stealing away what’s dear when your back is turned. Since he became preoccupied with his southern frontier, he has left mine alone. My gratitude,” he said with a smirk.
I smiled back. “My pleasure to be of service, Excellency. Although I find it difficult to believe that Gimbal would be so foolish as to consider attacking Sendaria.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t do it outright – that’s not his style,” mused the Baron as he walked. He stopped a moment to accept a gift of an apple from a vendor, inquired about his children and mother, and then we continued as he ate it. “My apologies – during the Fair I rarely keep regular meals. As I was saying, Gimbal prefers treachery and deceit to open warfare. Am I to construe from your flattery that you wish an alliance?”
“You are to construe from my statement that I can count, Excellency,” I replied, politely. “From my estimation, your Excellency’s troops should outnumber the Warbird’s by . . . eighty-one lances, and a few thousand peasants?”
When professional soldiers of the noble persuasion measure their arms against each other, they do so in terms of lances. One lance originally meant one mounted heavy cavalryman. But the term has come to mean the inclusion of four other men – infantry, archery, scouts or artillery, and support – in the count. So every “lance” was actually five or so men contributing to the force, in total. But since heavy cavalry counts for more among the lords of the Duchies, that’s how they count them.
He looked at me, surprised. That was my polite way of saying “I have a crackerjack domestic spying operation, too.” You are not far wrong, Sire Minalan. So, you’re a magelord. Interesting.”
“Am I not what you expected, Sire?” I asked, pleasantly.
“I do my best not to have expectations,” Arathanial informed me. “Expectations limit our perceptions. I let a man’s deeds speak for him.” That was too much for the taciturn Censors who walked silently and sullenly behind us.
“Then your Excellency should be clapping this man in irons, and his entire coven of oathbreakers! For by his actions he has violated some of the most sacred laws of our land, and perverted others to join him in his crimes,” Dalrent said, harshly. “By his actions, Sire, he has opened the door to chaos and abuse!”
“Actually, from what I’ve heard, he nearly single-handedly stopped a goblin invasion of Alshar last summer,” he told the Censor, lightly, as if they were discussing horse racing. “What were you doing last summer, Censor Dalrent?”
There was a moment of silence, but it was clear the Baron expected an answer. “I . . . I was hunting witches in the swamps of Rendule,” he admitted. “We flushed out a coven of six.”
Baron Arathanial feigned being impressed. “Six whole witches? How puissant! Sire Minalan, by all accounts, slew trolls galore and hundreds of goblins. Is that correct, Sire Minalan?”
“Not . . . precisely, your Excellency,” I said, apologetically. “The numbers are more in the . . . tens of thousands.” I thought of the hideous giant fire elemental we’d conjured to burn our furry enemies alive. “Tens of thousands,” I nodded.
“See? Tens of thousands. And trolls. Compared to your . . . six witches. Now, if I were to judge a man by the greatness of his deeds, on which side of the scale would you fall, Censor Dalrent, if measured against Sire Minalan?”
“I have been dedicated to my duty, Excellency,” the Censor insisted. “We who take the cloak are not motivated by glory or greatness, Excellency. Merely decency, tradition, and the law. The King’s law,” he emphasized.
“Yes, well, your dedication may do you credit, Censor Dalrent,” mused Arathanial, “but your failure to abide by the rules of the Fair are the issue of the moment,” he said as we arrived at his pavilion. The guards flanking the doorway came to attention at once . . . and I was impressed.
Not with the guards, but with the pavilion. I thought my new pavilion was grand, but Baron Arathanial’s was magnificent by any standards. At least five times the size of my suddenly-humbled affair, there were five center-poles arrayed in a circle large enough to make a racetrack. It was dyed blue and white stripes, and each stripe, I saw, was an entire bolt of cloth. There were huge vents in the top of it to let in light and let smoke escape, vents big enough to drive a wagon through. In fact, there was a separate entrance for wagons.
I stood there gawking like a five-year old before Tyndal grabbed my sleeve and pulled.
It’s just a tent, Master, he sent to me, mirthfully.
And you’re ‘just an apprentice.’ Do you realize we could fit all of Sevendor Castle in here? At least the keep.
Once inside the Baron led us through a maze of “rooms” where clerks and officials were conducting the Fair’s business – particularly the tax revenues being generated, tracked, and gathered. The clink of coin was constant as we consulted with the Baron. We came to a small “room” near the center of the structure, which appeared to be his field office. Within the canvas walls were a trestle table, five or six chairs, maps of the fairgrounds, account books, scrolls, inkwells, coffers, a few chests, and a battered old cupboard. Baron Arathanial gestured to the chairs for the rest of us, but took his seat behind the table.
“At last,” he said with a reliev
ed sigh as he settled into his chair. “Now that we’re out of the common eye, we can discuss this altercation. Your men swore to the Fair’s Peace when you entered, correct, Censor Dalrent?”
“Yes, Sire,” Dalrent began, “but—”
“And did you, in violation of the Peace, bear cold steel in an offensive manner within the bounds of the Fair?”
“Our mageblades, yes, but in the performance—”
“And were your men the first to strike?” he interrupted sharply.
“Well, after discussion Sire it was decided—”
“Just answer the question,” he directed, flatly. I studied the way he said it. I was used to military commands, of course, having given and taken my share. But it wasn’t quite the same thing. A military commander gives an order and expects it to be obeyed. A lord in his domain gives a command and then dares you with his voice not to follow it, a world of hurt implied in a simple inflection. I occasionally did it myself, I realized. I would do it more, now. It was effective. Dalrent’s eyes dropped to the floor, like a boy caught peeing on the temple grounds during services.
“Yes, Sire.”
“That’s what I needed to know. For violation of the Fair’s Peace, a fine of an ounce of silver for each of your men, and ejection from the Fair. That’s the standard punishment, for gentlemen.”
“But, your Excell-- yes, Sire,” Dalrent said, realizing at a glance that Arathanial wasn’t about to budge on this. I made certain to note that he had just made five ounces of silver.
“In addition, the blades you bore will be confiscated. The wands and such you can keep – you didn’t swear not to bear any offensive magic,” he said, wryly.
“Perhaps an inclusion for next year, Sire?” I suggested.
“I’m beginning to think that having you as a neighbor makes that prudent, Magelord,” he agreed.
“But your Excellency!” protested Dalrent. “What of his men? Ten – eleven,” he corrected, although I thought he miscounted, “all bearing steel! What of them? Where is his fine?”
“Is that true, Magelord?” he asked.
“Actually,” I said, drawing the word out, “my apprentice, Sir Tyndal of Sevendor, was engaged in the swordplay competition at the time.” Tyndal bowed with a mockery of grace. “Those other gentlemen were his competitors, merely there to see what the excitement was,” I explained.
“But they were brandishing swords!” Dalrent exploded. “I saw them!”
“They were holding swords,” I corrected. “Baron, ask any of those men, under oath, whether or not they were planning on attacking anyone.”
“But they still had blades!” Dalrent insisted.
“Blunted for competition,” I observed. “But there was no sharper steel upon us than my dagger – which remained in its sheath. Even my apprentice’s mageblade, it seems. A pity – it was once mine. I carried it in Farise, and I hate to see a good blade dulled on purpose.”
“Oh, here, give him these, then,” Arathanial said, absently shoving the Censors’ mageblades at me. “I have no use for them, and I am appreciative of the care you took with the crowd. A little excitement at the Fair is one thing. Funerals at the Fair are bad for business. So, in gratitude,” he said, encouraging me to take the swords.
I bowed as deeply as I could in my chair. “My thanks, Baron Arathanial. I shall put them to good use.”
““Now, do you have any other business before me?” he asked Censor Dalrent, his voice helpful. Dalrent’s face was sour.
“Yes, Sire,” he began. “I wish to request your assistance in apprehending this criminal, and his entire gang,” he accused, angrily. “Under codes of the Royal Bans of Magic, we are entitled to request such assistance from local lords as needed.”
“I am not familiar with the intricacies of the Bans,” Arathanial admitted, “but if I recall the exact wording says that the Dukes shall render assistance to the Censorate upon request, and that at the direction of his liege that any vassal of the Duke was compelled to do likewise under his direction. Is that correct?”
“Near enough,” Dalrent nodded.
“Then I will be happy to assist you, Censor Dalrent . . . the moment you produce a request from His Grace, Duke Rard giving you a warrant to do so.”
“But your Excellency, that could take weeks! We bear a warrant already, from the Censor of Remere, and Rard has openly—”
“That’s DUKE Rard, by the grace of the gods and my sworn liege lord, Censor, and you shall offer him due respect in my presence . . . or we shall have far more to discuss today than a brawl.” Ouch. Now that was the way to slap a man back in place.
Dalrent swallowed. “Yes, Sire. Surely you must appreciate how important it is for us to apprehend and place under arrest this man while we have him in custody, before he can summon help or try to escape.”
“I don’t believe I actually am in anyone’s custody,” I pointed out. “And I’m not planning to escape. I paid for the whole week.”
“It doesn’t sound like the Magelord is avoiding you gentlemen,” Arathanial observed. “If you can get a warrant from His Grace before he leaves, then I will be happy to render whatever assistance I am legally compelled to. But . . . it is my understanding that you might find such a warrant hard to come by, these days.” His eyes twinkled with merriment he wouldn’t let his words convey.
“If Duke Rard will not cooperate with us, there are other Duchies—” Dalrent said, insistently.
“Then let their Duke’s liegemen enforce your warrant . . . in their Duchies. In Castal, Duke Rard’s word is final. He said so when I swore him fealty, and I believe him. If he says don’t cooperate with the Censorate, then I am bound by honor and oath to comply. So it’s really out of my hands, Gentlemen,” he said, spreading his hands apologetically. I don’t think he was particularly sincere.
I could really get to like this Baron.
Dalrent’s eyes were angry, but he had control over his emotions. He straightened, and looked at me with derision and disgust. “As you wish, Sire. I cannot compel you . . . legally,” he added. “But I would take care about making a foe of the Censorate, Baron. We have a long memory, and we are powerful magi.”
“And I’m more powerful than the lot of you, magically and, it seems, temporally, too. Your Excellency, I pledge now to do my utmost to un-do any magical retribution the Censorate tries to arrange for you. I wouldn’t be too worried about it, considering their comparative impotency, but if they try, I shall endeavor to put it right.”
“That’s gracious of you, Magelord,” he said, using the title for the first time. Dalrent winced. I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed it. “Censor Dalrent, I shall have one of my bailiffs escort you and your men to the frontiers of my domain, or see you embark at the riverport, your choice, by sundown tonight. You’ve lost your Fair rights for breaking your oath, and during the Fair no business is permitted in my domain without my leave. That includes the hunting of magi of any sort, let me be clear. May the gods bless your journey and see you to your destination in safety. Now get the hell out of my tent.”
A bailiff was summoned and escorted Dalrent and his men grimly out of the room. I was about to rise myself when the Baron motioned for me to keep my seat. “If you don’t mind indulging me, Magelord, I am famished, and I’d like for you to join me. Much has been said about you . . . much,” he said for emphasis as he stroked his beard. “I’ve listened, but I think now the gods have given me a chance to hear from the pig’s snout. Could I impose on you to have luncheon with me?”
“I would be honored, Excellency,” I said, bowing from the waist. “Let me just instruct my apprentice . . .” I said, closing my eyes.
Tyndal! I said, mind-to-mind.
What, Master? he said, with a certain note of irritation in his voice that told me he was talking to a pretty girl.
You’re done here. Take your ‘army’ back to our camp, feed ‘em, toast ‘em, pay ‘em, and send them on their way. Tell Banamor to grab lunch, we’ll return
to our errands afterward.
Master, you aren’t arrested are you? he asked, anxiously.
Everything is under control. They’re booting the Censorate out on their arses, all the way to the frontier. I’m going to eat lunch with the Baron. Tell Alya I’ll be home after. And assure her I’m all right, as soon as you’re done making a play for that pretty lass.
What? Master, how did you—
Save it. Just hurry up, do your business, then get to doing mine.
I opened my eyes and smiled. Baron Arathanial was looking at me, curiously.
“Uh, were you not going to go instruct your apprentice?” he asked.
“Oh, I just did,” I said, realizing that he wasn’t aware of our abilities. “Just a harmless little spell. He’s been instructed. Whether he’ll do it or not . . .” I said, trailing off.
He chuckled. “I have four daughters, two sons, and a castle full of fosterlings. I understand the impetuosity of youth. Now, I’m most anxious to learn of last summer’s Wilderland campaign . . .”
We spent nearly two hours chatting in his luxurious tent, and I told him my story, from Farise to Boval Vale to the Alshari Wilderness . . . and then to Sevendor, my reward. He had me stop and re-tell parts, particularly those which dealt with Ducal politics. Arathanial might not have been powerful enough himself to be a player, but he was an avid spectator of the bloodsport of feudal politics.
When I finished, he looked at me and sighed over his meat (his servants had provided us with a delightful egg and vegetable pie, half a chicken each, and a ewer of wine. The bread was of excellent quality.) and asked, pointedly. “So . . . Rard really is going to make himself King.”
“That seems to be his intent,” I agreed.
“That will mean war . . . with Merwin, perhaps with Vore,” he decided. “But not for a few years, at least. This Dead God, however . . . and dragons . . .”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 52