The Spellmonger’s Wedding
By Terry Mancour
A Spellmonger Story
The halls of Wilderhall were nearly deserted at this time of year, as the Duke’s staff had largely relocated to the Winter Palace at the capital of Castabriel, where the bulk of the administrative work of the duchy was done. But there are some offices which just do not lend themselves to portability, and the Ministry of Domains, Lands and Estates was one of them.
I suppose it made sense to keep the vast records of all the domains in the Summer Palace. Space in the busy urban capital was at a premium, and the office needed a lot of it for the voluminous records of who owned what and owed how much tribute where. Wilderhall is a large castle, and there was plenty of room to spread out. The archives wound back through the dusty, cool chambers of the keep, tended by a small army of brown-robed clerks. It was as quiet as a library where I was sitting, in Lady Arnet’s office.
I was awaiting the Mistress of Domains, Lands and Estates with a fresh warrant for my reward in my hands. I was to have my choice of domains from the Duke’s holdings, within limits. Theoretically, that could mean an estate just about anywhere. It all depended upon where I wanted to hang my four-pointed hat.
There were hundreds of estates on the books in his name, estates confiscated for taxation, legal issues, or punishments, forfeitures and estates held in trust for noble lines gone extinct. The administration of that great empire of real estate and taxation was a massive task, but Lady Arnet seemed more than capable of it. She had glanced at the warrant when I’d arrived, asked me a few brief questions, and then had me escorted to her office while she hobbled back into the dusty recesses of the archives, to find some possible estates for my consideration.
While I was waiting, I couldn’t help but notice the beautiful collection of thimbles displayed behind her ancient desk. There were hundreds of them, of all shapes and sizes, made of different materials and neatly displayed in a cunningly- carved wooden case. The ones at the top were golden, the next tier silver, and so forth. At the bottom there were several of porcelain, tin, and common clay. It was an impressive and illustrative display of the thimbler’s art – and I had never even known that there were thimblers, or that there was art to what they did.
“Admiring my collection, young man?” the creaky voice of Lady Arnet asked, breaking my reverie.
“It’s impressive,” I agreed. “I had no idea that there were this many types of thimbles. You must really enjoy your needlework.”
“Bah, I hate needlework – haven’t touched it in years,” she dismissed with a giggle at some private joke. She took her chair and laid a thick stack of leather-bound folios on her desk. “Those thimbles are meaningful in other ways,” she explained, casually. “They are a record of every man I’ve ever ordered assassinated.”
“Oh,” I said, dumbly.
I might have forgotten to mention. Lady Arnet was also known as “Grandmother”, the matriarch behind the Duchess of Castal’s sinister Family of intelligence and assassination operatives. I looked at the collection again. There were hundreds.
“The gold are those of royal descent, of course,” she added, conversationally, “Dukes, duchesses, and their heirs. The silver are nobles of highest rank, the bronze are barons and viscounts, the porcelain are petty nobility, the pewter are craftsmasters or burghers – the six there at the end were once the Barrowbell Burghers’ Council. The lead ones are clergy, and the unglazed clay are, of course, commoners.”
I studied the collection anew with a sick feeling in my stomach. “For magi you should have them made to resemble our four-pointed caps,” I suggested. “And for High Magi, top them with emeralds.”
She considered, and then nodded in agreement. “You are anticipating that already? Then you may just be wiser than you appear, Sir Minalan.”
“I recognize the possibility,” I conceded. “‘Anticipating’ might be too strong a term. Our organizations are working well together at the moment, but I also have a fine appreciation the vagaries of Fate and the whimsical nature of the gods.”
She nodded, pleasantly, and poured tea for us both. “I am so glad we understand each other, then. I have been doing this a very long time, my dear, and I hope you realize that it is almost never personal. Why,” she said, gesturing to the collection, “three of those thimbles are blood relatives of mine. But they were in the way.”
“That is regrettable,” I said, feeling almost as chilled by the kindly old woman as I had been by the presence of the Dead God. “But I do understand. As I consider how to establish the way magic will work in the new regime,” I added, carefully, “I am certain that we, too, will have to make such difficult decisions. For the greater good.”
“For the greater good,” she agreed, fixing me with a stark stare that belied her kindly features. “I do believe we have an understanding, young man.”
“I’m not certain that we do, Grandmother,” I said, invoking her secret title. “As I tried to explain to Mother,” – the Duchess – “as potent as the protection of the Crown would be for our order, it matters not to us which head lies under that crown.”
She wasn’t startled by the challenge – in truth, I think she expected it. Or at least was so good at her job that she wouldn’t display that kind of emotion unless she wanted to.
“I can respect that,” she agreed. “But before you think me a bloodthirsty old bitch, Son-in-Law, let me explain that each of those dainties behind me also represents lives saved. Sometimes thousands of lives. Sometimes millions. The Family does not resort to such tactics lightly – that is one way in which we differ from our . . . competitors in other realms. We weigh everything quite carefully before we send one of our daughters to her needlework.”
The assassins in the Family were almost all female, almost all young and pretty, and extremely talented in making their kills look like accidents. No one suspects a vapid serving maid or a love-struck young noblewoman to be a secret assassin.
“I’m sure that brings great comfort to the families of the fallen,” I said, dryly.
“No doubt,” she said, deadpan. “But let us turn our attention to more important matters than needlework. The selection of your domain is an important decision, young man. And learning what it is to be noble is an important skill to learn. It is my task to help you with both.”
“Both? I didn’t think nobility was a skill,” I observed, sipping my tea. Sure, it could have been poisoned, but somehow I didn’t think Lady Arnet would stoop to such base treacheries. It would be inartful.
“A common misconception. Even amongst the nobility, if you would have the truth. But most of us learn these things as a matter of course, from our parents and families and lieges. Those born common,” she said, without a trace of judgment, “only see the result, not the preparation.
“But your situation is far from unique. I’ve taught more commoners how to present their nobility than I have thimbles in my collection.” She took two books down from a shelf nearby. “You can read, can’t you? Of course you can, you were Academy trained. Read these two books,” she ordered, pushing them to me, “and come to me with any questions. Now, let us see what the Duchy can provide for you as your just reward for such gallant and faithful service.”
I tucked the books under my arm and we spent the next two hours going through one estate after another. Each folio was a record of the land, its size and composition, the people, the number of hearths, principal produce and exports, and tax and tribute information.
Once I had sketched out my basic requirements, Lady Arnet began helping me sift through the offerings, discarding s
ome out of hand, putting some in a pile for consideration, and piling up a very few as strong contenders for my requirements.
She was actually quite helpful, once you got over the fact that she had killed more men than I had. She kept up a litany of helpful advice about what I should look for in an estate, and she steered me away from any obvious disasters-in-waiting.
“No, this domain was in rebellion ten years ago, and it is still harboring ill feeling among the people – you don’t need to borrow someone else’s trouble for your first estate. This one has six villages, which sounds like a bounty, but three of them are near to aggressive neighbors and difficult to defend. This one is a motley collection of feuding clans, you don’t need that kind of management problem. This one is deeply in debt to the coinbrothers. This one is split by a river, but there is no secure bridge, and it is surrounded by no less than nine other domains. This one’s castle is a ruin, despite what the record says. This one was beset by plague not five years ago, during the Farisian campaign, and there are periodic reports of a resurgence.” And so on.
But we made progress. By the end of the day I retired to my luxurious room with my two books – Count Ragin’s excellent The Practice of Nobility and Chivalry and Dame Reandine’s equally-helpful On The Goodly Management Of Estates – and read them both. Compared to magical texts, they were light reading, written for the average nobleman, and not nearly as long-winded as the treatises of the magi of old.
Some of their advice was impractical, or was specific to particular types of estates or situations. I didn’t want a coastal estate, for example, so I skipped the section on how to bribe pirates away from your ports, as fascinating as it sounds. Nor was I likely to have to understand how to treat with an emissary of the Valley People, since Castal’s proximity to that strange and secretive race is limited. Some was just archaic – it’s been an age since there were actual Priestlords, for instance, and those had been powerful only in the cult-prone reaches of southern Merwin.
Ragin’s advice about a lord’s duty to his class, his domain, and his liege was classic, however, and put a lot of what I had once thought about the nobility into doubt. I went to sleep that night with my head spinning with acreages and virgates and stock management and staff management and the difference between high and low justice. If feudal politics was difficult, learning the proper way to run a manorial system of administration was complex beyond compare. I started to doubt whether or not I was up to the task of being a magelord.
The next few days went similarly. I’d spend the daytime in the archives, sifting through the lands with Lady Arnet and her staff, and the evenings I’d study my new profession and investigate my new Witchsphere.
When we were close to narrowing it down to a few estates, Lady Arnet ordered another pot of tea and lunch for us both, before leaning back in her chair with a sigh.
“So do you have any questions about the reading?” she asked, stifling a yawn. She’d been busy. Two new thimbles had been delivered that morning, I’d noticed, one brass and one pewter.
“Many – but I honestly won’t know which ones to ask until I’m faced with the problem,” I admitted. “It seems like an awful lot of work, being a landed noble.”
“It is. But that is the price we pay for holding up the social order. The nobility is the bridge between the common people and the Duke, or other central authority. As a noble, you represent the entire Duchy to your folk. To the Duchy, you represent your people. All good nobles understand that they are even more bound to the land than the basest villein. Their first duty is to their people and to their land, after their duty to their liege.”
“But all of this . . . revenue stuff,” I said, exasperated, “whether a man is serf, villein, freed or free, how much land he should be accorded, the nature of his crimes and fees, when civil law is applied and when canon law – all of this is more complicated than I’d ever imagined.”
“Oh, you’ll master it soon enough,” she dismissed. “You’re a damn sight smarter than most nobles I’ve taught. Indeed, I like you, Spellmonger,” she confessed. “I have high hopes for you. But if you’re really worried about it, the best advice I can give you is to hire a castellan you trust. The greatest fool with a title can be rescued by a competent castellan, provided you have their trust.”
Then we got down to the final matter of selecting my domain. We had reduced the possibilities to three, none of them sterling prizes in and of themselves, but each with decided advantages and disadvantages. We went through each of them in detail, until she helped me winnow it down to the best possible selection.
It turned out to be a quaint little domain in northeastern Castal, not too far from the border of Remere – and only a few hundred miles southeast from Wilderhall, which might prove convenient. It was technically within the sprawling Castali Riverlands, but nestled in the vales of the small but respectable Uwarri mountain range. It was a small land, easily defensible with one castle, two towers, two villages and a couple of hamlets, and it was unlikely to be the target of aggressive neighbors. It was remote, it was convenient, and according to the ledgers, it should be fairly productive.
And it was hundreds and hundreds of leagues away from the goblins invasion in Alshar. That alone was worth quite a bit to me.
“So, you want one of the old Lensely domains, eh?” Lady Arnet asked, when I presented her with my final selection. “Good choice. The Bontal Riverlands are a fertile region. I’ll have the patent and award drawn up by this afternoon, and then you can be on your way, young man. If I remember correctly, you are going to be wed?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.
“Yes, my bride awaits. She’s living with my parents at the moment, down the Burine.”
She smiled wickedly. “If you thought becoming a lord of the land or a knight of the realm was complicated,” she snickered, “just wait until you launch upon the grand adventure of being a husband. That, Sir Spellmonger, is the most harrowing title of all. Now what was the name of that domain again?”
“Sevendor,” I said, savoring the name as I spoke it.
* * *
With a new leather folio detailing my award to my new domain in my saddlebag and a draught on the Ducal treasury for a one-time stipend of five thousand ounces of gold, I nearly flew south toward Talry. After such an uneventful time at Wilderhall I couldn’t wait to get home and claim my bride.
Alya had stayed with my parents in Talry for most of the last few months while I was off fighting the goblin hordes. She had initially gone there with Tyndal, before I recalled him to duty, and from how he had described her relationship with the many women in my family, I was actually pretty happy with the goblin hordes.
Supposedly things had calmed down after Tyndal (with some help from Pentandra) had driven off the Censors who were searching for me in my home village, but if I knew my mother and sisters Alya was feeling tortured by now. I took a barge south from Wilderhall, rode overland to a landing on the Burine, and was soon speeding on my way toward Talry and wedded bliss.
I wasn’t the only one – speeding toward Talry, that is. The word had gone out across the land, mostly by arcane channels, to those who knew me and who might want to attend my nuptials.
Pentandra was clearing up some errands but promised to be there. I’d sent Tyndal and Rondal ahead to help my parents with the preparations. Pentandra had even thoughtfully sent word south, where the Bovali refugees were encamped, and told them of the date. A few old comrades, a few new ones, at this point I didn’t care if Korbal the Mountain Demon of the Mindens showed up in formal robes with a nice fruit basket with the Dead God on his arm as an escort in a pretty new gown, I just wanted to get on with my well-earned reward. Someone owed me a happily-ever-after, and I wanted it.
The first glimmer that something was amiss occurred completely by chance – or fortune or fate, depending upon your religious and philosophical perspective.
The barge had made landing about a hundred miles above Talry, at a lackluster riverport calle
d Grolt, which gave me an opportunity to stretch my legs and have a pint of ale. I also had an errand. My pipe had been empty since I’d left Wilderhall, and I was missing it.
The bargeman laconically pointed out a stall at the top of the bank, above the docks and set away from the porthouse where I might find such sundries. The place looked decrepit, but there was a fire in the pit and the smell of roasting meat wafted down to the river enticingly. I wrapped my mantle around me, realizing that I’d need a good winter cloak soon, and trudged up the steep incline.
The shop itself was not much more than a shed, a single room with a single door through which the vendor sold his wares, and with two barges in at the same time he was doing brisk business – I had to stand in a cue.
That’s when I noted the distinctive checkered cloak of one of the Censors of Magic, not three places in front of me.
My blood froze the instant I recognized it. The Royal Censorate of Magic is responsible for regulation and enforcement of the Bans on Magic, the four-hundred year old repressive code that manages my trade as a warranted mage. That’s sort of like going to the privy and meeting the bailiff who’s looking for you with a warrant coming out.
The Spellmonger's Wedding (The Spellmonger Series) Page 1