That was sad. Once Alshar had been . . . well, if not mighty, at least picturesque and colorful. The Dukes of Alshar had distinguished themselves in several important ways over the centuries. Now the heir to the coronet, the future Duke Enguin, was a virtual hostage to the King and Queen against his cooperation. He had been granted the nominal title to his broken duchy but not invested in it. The nobles who remained “loyal” were loyal to King Rard, not that poor orphan boy.
Meanwhile Vorone suffered. Bereft of any greater purpose than protecting refugees and storing supplies destined for the fortresses and armies in the north, Vorone was now a ghost of its former self. The inns were crowded with desperate men and women who squandered what money they had salvaged on a hostel’s roof. Shops and artisans who once peddled their wares had closed their doors or worked only by appointment, we were told at the inn we chose: the Silver Pillow. Once the homey haunt of knights and lords, the aristocracy who lived within its shabby luxury now were the dregs of the Wilderlands. Most did not have the funds or the means to go further south. Others schemed to recover the lands they’d lost in the Penumbra.
Most just worried and complained and took the innkeeper to task for his poor fare.
We learned at table that evening that the city was ruled by Baron Edmarin, now, on behalf of the Duchy. Mostly His Excellency’s job was to keep the nearby army camp provisioned and provide place for refugees to be quartered. Actual city services and administration were nearly nonexistent and a rampant criminal underclass had erupted in its place. Gangs ran rampant, their affiliations declared by colored armbands or baldrics. Their influence was largely reserved to the camps and to the poorer parts of town, but if what you did failed to involve the soldiers moving through town, it wasn’t regulated by what was left of civil authority.
Some things were had at a bargain. Beer, spirits, smoke and food could all be had at a price, and the choice of whores was limitless. That made the inns and taverns nearest the army encampment lucrative waters for the criminals who procured the whores and then robbed the clients.
Nor did the mass of displaced folk feel that they could easily flee. Farther south there was the devastation of Gilmora, and the way along the Timber Road was shut to them. To the west were the imposing Mindens. After the scant foothills, which were sparsely populated at best, the highland countryside at the source of the Poros and the Nuliyar rivers was torn and broken and nearly uninhabitable, the lands subject to the same goblin raids that they were fleeing. Only to the east did the hope of escape lie . . . and Castal, it seemed, had shut its frontier to most of those who fled.
I was appalled to hear that. I checked with Master Hartarian, mind-to-mind, and the royal court wizard reluctantly agreed that the rumor was true. While the kingdom’s policy was officially to allow the refugees to cross the frontier, the Duke of Castal had elected to restrict the access to a reasonable number, lest his facilities be overwhelmed.
The Duke of Castal was Rard’s son, Prince Tavard. As such, he would not have done anything as Duke of Castal that his father and monarch did not want him to. Rard was gaining prestige and respect for publically protecting and aiding the refugees on the one hand, and then denying that protection and aid when it came to carrying through.
Sure, refugees are a logistical nightmare. How you fed, clothed, and housed a displaced population was daunting, akin to supplying an army’s needs without the resources an army has to offer in return. But to promise aid and protection in public and then deny it . . . that was contemptible. It wasn’t a universal closure. Sufficient coin or the proper documentation would carry you through the checkpoints, as it always does, but if you were destitute you were unlikely to cross.
Not only did that leave me doubting the humanity of the royal house, it gave Shereul a mass of humanity upon which to potentially feed close at hand to the Penumbra. That was a danger I could not ignore.
The next morning I made my way to the impressive-looking palace and demanded to speak to the Baron who had been given the job of running the city. I detailed Sir Festaran and Alscot to quietly investigate the refugee camps and the army encampment, respectively, while I took my concerns to the military governor. It took three hours and four levels of flunkies, but I finally managed to catch him preparing to go hawking just after luncheon. And just before I started magically tearing the place down.
I had mixed feelings about seeing the mildew y old palace. It had been at Vorone where I had effectively blackmailed the Duke into giving me what I wanted – an army and a marshalate - and convinced him to enter the war in earnest. It was a decision which cost him his life, and that of his wife. The place was far shabbier than it was two years before, although it didn’t lack for servants. But instead of the stately demeanor of a Ducal household, they carried on with little regard for propriety or the sanctity of the property in their charge. It felt more like an army camp or bandit’s lair than an administrative center.
When we were finally led to where Baron Edmarin was preparing for the day’s amusement I was at a well-controlled boil. The baron proved to be an older man, well-dressed and clearly at home in his mediocrity. He was examining a number of falcons held out for his inspection, his horse and a party of gentlemen waiting nearby. The castellan quietly introduced us, but the Baron did not stop his examination of the hunting birds.
“My lord Spellmonger,” he said, in feigned surprise. “What brings you to our fair little city?”
“The city is not fair,” I corrected, “and my title is Magelord. Baron, if you want to be precise, but Magelord is sufficient…and more helpfully descriptive. I find myself compelled to ask how you feel hawking is an appropriate pastime when there are clearly higher priorities in Vorone.”
“Magelord,” he answered, nonplussed, “I have been at this position for nine months, now. If I concerned myself with every petty injustice and hard luck story that wandered to my gates, I would be doing nothing else. Nor are the resources to which I am entitled sufficient to do more than relieve a tithe of the burden placed upon the people of Alshar. We have devoted the majority of the ducal tribute to their relief,” he offered, “yet there seem to be no end of them. And the ducal tribute is, alas, far less than it once was. “
“Yet you see fit to go hawking anyway.”
“We must not let the trials of the gods keep us from gentlemanly pursuit,” he offered. “And the hunting up here is simply magnificent! Last autumn we took a two-hundred pound boar – the most vicious beast I’ve ever slain. Magnificent!” he repeated.
“And did that boar grace your table, your Excellency?” I asked, evenly.
“Of course,” he said, indignantly. “But I donated the three dogs it killed to the poor devils outside the gate. The gods know I am a charitable man,” he said, proudly.
I decided to change the subject. He was clearly not going to be moved by an appeal to his nobility. “Those are beautiful birds,” I said, looking more closely at a redwinged hawk. I was learning a bit about such things, now that Dara was around to teach me. I’d even flown Frightful a few times.
“I’ve got dozens of the beastly things,” he snorted. “It’s as if every Wilderlands lord who could escape with anything of value brought his birds with him. Then learned quickly how expensive life in a war zone can be, and I pick them up cheaply. The mews is filled to overflowing – and it is a large mews. I swear I hunt them out of charity for their well-being. The poor things get so little exercise, if they aren’t properly flown.”
“Any larger birds?” I asked, knowing that Dara would ask me. She and Ithalia had been mad for large raptors lately.
“Large? I’ve got over a score of Wilderlands Silvers,” he said, proudly. “The Wilderlords are mad for them. Huge, hulking things, utterly vicious, but . . . there’s no art to them,” he said, sadly. “Not like these fine little ladies. Yes, I’ll take these three, not those,” he instructed his hawkmaster. “If I don’t find a buyer for them though, I’ll end up serving them to the refugees,”
he promised. “They eat ravenously and if they aren’t flown they’re expensive to feed.”
I thought of twenty birds like Dara’s beautiful Frightful having their necks summarily wrung, plucked, and cooked in a pot. I wouldn’t blame a starving man for doing it, I suppose, but it was a dreadful waste of a magnificent animal. “I’ll buy the lot of them,” I proposed. “Every Silver Raptor you have.”
“Really?” Baron Edmarin asked, surprised. “I had not heard you were interested in birds.”
“One of my apprentices has introduced me, and I’d like to give her a present,” I said, truthfully. “I’ve been considering taking up the hobby myself. I’ll pay you twenty ounces of gold for each one delivered to Sevendor.”
“Done!” he said, happily, his eyes bulging at the price. He had clearly paid significantly less. “I’ll make the arrangements at once. You really think you can handle twenty such big brutes?”
“I’ll learn,” I pledged. “But most will be gifts to vassals, I think. How lies the army outside your gates?” I asked, changing the subject again. “King Rard and the Warlord will be wanting a complete report from me,” I explained.
“Well enough, though it is less an army than a depot,” he admitted. “A thousand men stationed permanently to guard the stores and supplies. Another two-thousand in the garrison. Beyond that, the soldiers there await deployment north, or are being sent home wounded.”
“So if any force came at the city in earnest . . . how many could be fielded?”
“Three thousand, maybe five thousand, depending,” he shrugged. “All but five hundred infantry. If there happens to be a mercenary unit in transit, perhaps more. But there’s no way the scrugs would venture here. They went right past us, down the road to Gilmora. If they wanted Vorone, they would have taken it.”
I didn’t want to debate military strategy with the man. Not only was his grasp of the situation suspect, but it was clear he was more concerned about living well off of the city’s decaying corpse than seeing it survive. I didn’t like that, but there was little I could do about it. His was a royal appointment. Even as Marshal of Alshar, I could not dispute that.
I could beg a boon of him, however. “It occurs to me that it would be helpful for the Arcane Orders to have a more pronounced presence in the region,” I said, thoughtfully, as he strapped on his flying leathers. “It would be strategically helpful. Tell me, are any of the spaces within the city available?”
“Actually, there are a few old homes and mansions here,” he agreed, amiably. “Most belong to great houses of the duchy who used them when at the summer court. And nearly every little lordling in the Wilderlands wanted to have a place in the summer capital, when the Duke heard their cases. There is a whole street of such little mansions. Some are mere cots, but still more grand than the dirt-floored halls they call home.” He had a Riverlord’s contempt for the rough-edged Wilderlords.
I stopped. “Every lordling?”
“The Duke made such residences affordable to the nobility by edict,” Edmarin explained in a bored tone. “It kept the city’s craftsmen busy, and allowed the nobles an opportunity to house their kin at court without inconvenience. And he disliked tents.” Baron Edmarin chuckled with a fond memory. “It was said it made sleeping with the wives of his vassals more comfortable and convenient, but I knew the old boy. I doubt he had that much ambition. Why, do you wish to purchase one?” he asked, amused.
“Mayhap. If one is available.”
“Oh, plenty are available. Most are in good condition, too. I’ve kept the street clear of looters and squatters, mostly. I’m sure I could find you a suitable residence, if the price is right.” I could tell he’d profit handsomely from the deal. I wasn’t particularly inclined to line his purse, but I didn’t want to say so.
“Thank you, my lord,” I nodded. “I’ll take a look at a few and let you know which I like.”
“And you’ll still be wanting those birds?” he asked, hungrily.
“Definitely. And any falconer who accompany them will be assured a secure post at the end of his journey,” I promised. “You have the Spellmonger’s word on that.”
After I left the baron to his birds, I got in touch with Sire Cei, through Rondal, who was still traveling with him. I inquired as to whether or not Sire Koucey, Sire Cei’s former master – and current puppet of the Dead God – ever maintained a residence in Vorone, and learned that House Brandmount had, indeed, maintained a modest hostel there. He had stayed there himself several times when the business of his master took him so far. He told me where it was located, after catching me up on my apprentices’ progress in errantry.
I met up with Sir Festaran and Alscot near the gate to the palace and then made our way to House Brandmount’s townhome.
It was a pleasant affair, constructed of exposed beam and plaster and rising three stories tall. The sharply-peaked roof was done in slated tile, not thatch, and was, indeed, nicer than anything Koucey had lived in in Boval Vale. Boval Castle was big, compared to other domain-level fortifications, but it was plain and sparse, designed for war and not comfort.
The house proved deserted. The lock on the door looked imposing, but Alscot enchanted it into rusty wreckage in moments. Inside we found the house was prepared for sudden arrivals, with wood laid in the fire and even a little food stored away. Though more than a year’s dust had settled within, there were sheets ready in presses near the empty straw ticks on the beds. The arms of House Brandmount loomed here and there, but other than that the home was cheery enough.
“I think we just found Sevendor’s new embassy to Alshar,” I decided. “I mean, technically, I suppose this already belongs to me. I did remove Sire Koucey from power before the Dead God came. I didn’t file an official Writ of Conquest or anything, and the point is pretty moot, but I feel entitled to the place.”
“What if someone objects to that?” asked Alscot, amused.
“I’ll be happy to have the discussion,” I said. “Besides, Koucey owed me some back pay, I figure, for running that siege. That was court wizard work. I’ll take this house in fee. I’ll have our baggage moved here and we’ll take residence, for now. Later it can be a presence for the Order in Vorone, or something. But right now it’s a cozy, free, secure place to lay my head without dealing with strangers. So, gentlemen, tell me about your day. I want to hear your reports.”
Alscot went first, helping himself to a bottle of Koucey’s wine. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought,” he began. “The camp looks like shyte, but it’s not badly run. The Baron has precious little to do with it, other than authorizing payment to the garrison and approving the supplies from the south. The real commander is a little man named Sir Baskei, and he’s not bad at his job. He runs the supply depot and handles quartering for transient troops. The hospital is run by a bunch of monks, mostly warbrothers but some priests and nuns from other sects. The men are all eager to do well to avoid being posted north to Tudry, or worse. The Iron Ring warbrother I met there was doing good business, though. He had a string of forty recruits headed for the Penumbra already, and he’s only been here a few days. The recruiters hang around the gambling halls, and when some poor desperate fucker gets into debt too deeply, the Iron Ring offers to bail him out. There are rumors that the Order itself is fixing the dice.”
“Unlikely, but that’s an interesting notion. What about their defensive capabilities?”
“They’d fold like a broken leg,” he said, candidly. “Against any disciplined force, that is. They have enough lads and enough steel to put up a fight, but it’s not a front-line unit. It’s not even a particularly good garrison unit. They barely patrol.”
“Much activity in the area?”
“From what I heard the gurvani are leaving Vorone alone, though they haven’t spared many other domains. The closest raid was half a day’s ride north, at the last full moon. About two hundred dead or captured. The rest fled here. That’s just on the edge of the Penumbra,” he added, grimly. “That’s wh
ere things start getting really bad.”
“How about the refugees, Fes?” I asked Sir Festaran. The young mage knight looked troubled, and not just by my casual presentation. The wine was good, and the fact it had been Koucey’s made me want to inhale it. I wasn’t particularly inclined toward formality in such a situation. Sir Festaran always tried to maintain a sense of formality, and I’m sure he was disturbed by me relaxing the social rules, as was my right as most senior in status. But that’s not what was on his mind, as it turned out.
“Magelord, I have never seen such suffering. By my estimate, there are forty-four thousand refugees in nine major camps around the city. I spoke extensively with an abbot who directs the relief efforts. The man was pious enough, but . . . pragmatic,” he said, making a sour face.
“How so?”
“I pointed out a boy who was . . . who was selling the favors of his two younger sisters. Girls not yet in flower,” he added, distastefully. “The landbrother not only knew it, but condoned it as necessary under the circumstances. The aid he gets from the palace is paltry. Maize fit only for horses, stale oats and moldy barley. Meat is a rare treat and usually gets stolen and sold before it can be distributed. Therefore without coin, however small, the children were not able to eat.”
I felt appalled myself. “Could he not feed them from his stores?”
“I asked him the same question, Magelord,” he said, his face ashamed. “He pointed out another dozen who were in a similar position. Girls as young as seven, doing unspeakable things for men, just to eat. Gangs of boys roaming around, laying claim to territories and fighting to defend them. Mothers pimping their daughters . . . and their sons.
“He could not feed them all, he told me. The most he could do was protect them from harm, as best he could while they earned what they could and lived another day. There were two whole camps just of children, Magelord – nine thousand orphans and refugees,” he said, his head sagging in despair. “More arrive every day. The children apparently hide when the raiders come and escape notice. Their parents are captured and enslaved, but the children are not pursued. Too frail and intractable, most likely. But if they are caught, they are tortured in front of their parents to amuse the gurvani. So they run – and they end up here.”
High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series Page 23