High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  We made our way back through Northwood, stopping to inform the peasantry that they had nothing more to fear from Posendor. Sir Roncil was equally pleased. He had not relished the thought of fighting to keep his new domain so soon, with such disheartened and ambivalent men under his command. This incident was a test of his abilities as a feudal lord, and he had rightly kicked the decision to act upstairs to me. But his people would fault him, not me, if more of their cots were burned.

  The solution Lorcus had come up with was popular – I made certain of it. While Northwood Castle lacked in many ways, it did have a full-time minstrel. I paid the man twenty ounces of silver to compose a ditty about the event that cast Roncil and I in a good light. Nothing inspires like good coin, and by the next dusk it was being sung in town. In a week it was being sung all over Northwood – a cute little song about how Posendor sent fire to Northwood, and how the Spellmonger turned the raiders into snowflakes, instead.

  “But if you had them at your mercy, why not just slit their throats as an example?” Sir Roncil asked me the next day, with all of the delicacy of a Wilderlands knight.

  “Because that’s not the kind of baron I am,” I replied. “And that isn’t the kind of barony Sevendor is. Those men didn’t do anything your own men wouldn’t, if ordered. I wanted to correct the behavior, not get drawn into a stupid war. They couldn’t become better men with slit throats.”

  “Diplomacy at this level is a delicate matter,” Lorcus agreed. “We wish to build a stronger greater Sevendor. We do that by protecting what we have, not risking it in futile battles. We effectively deprived Fleria of the use of those men, which is bad enough. But we did so in such a way as to avoid their enmity or desire for vengeance. We want to cultivate good relations with Posendor’s people, even as we contend with her leadership.”

  “As far as your own people go,” I continued, “while I am not in the habit of telling my vassals how to run their domains, I would strongly recommend you get rid of that pipsqueak lord and replace him . . . with the head of the peasant’s committee.”

  “What?” asked Sir Roncil, scandalized and alarmed.

  “Look, your people aren’t going to trust anyone you place over them,” I reasoned. “Any man you hire for the job will get cheated and conspired against, because that’s what those folk are used to doing. One lord’s oppression is just like another’s.

  “But by appointing one of their own to the position, you not only keep that from happening, you make their success their responsibility. If the man succeeds, you win. If he fails, then the people cannot fault you for not trying. More than likely he’ll succeed, if the incentives are great enough. And if he’s as dedicated to his fellows as he says he is, then they will be obligated to assist his efforts, not work counter to them.”

  “That is . . . a radical proposal,” Sir Roncil said, uneasily. “If there is no lord, locally, then—”

  “You are from the Wilderlands, my friend,” I pointed out. “Feudal matters there are simple: a man works or a man fights. Here, things are more nuanced. Yes, no lord will be over them, locally. And yes, it may evolve into a commune – such things happen in the Riverlands, and prove to be quite profitable, if you do it right.”

  “It is worth the trial, if I may say so, my lord,” Sir Festaran agreed. “I spoke with the peasant committee, and while they may be ignorant of most matters, they seem quite opinionated on the proper running of the manor. When I inquired as to how they could run it better, if they had a multitude of ideas. Some were even sound, perhaps. Allowing them the freedom to run the place according to their natural wisdom may prove enlightening, if not profitable.”

  “I don’t know,” Sir Roncil said, frowning. “It seems a dangerous precedent . . .”

  “The alternative is a surly population and a corrupt official,” I pointed out. “This way, if you appoint the biggest troublemaker to be your man, not only have you gained an employee, you have lost an adversary. The people will cheer you for indulging their grievances, opposition to your rule will be lessened, and if they fail . . . punish them as you would any other servant who failed you.”

  “I . . . I think I see what you are saying,” agreed Roncil, reluctantly. He was a knight. I didn’t expect leaps of imagination from someone whose vocation involved voluntarily being hit in the head. But he was also an able-enough lord. “I will consider your proposition,” he agreed, at last. “In truth, productivity at that manor has been flagging for years, if the records are to be believed. If a man following his own interests is the one making the decisions, then perhaps he can turn it around.”

  “It bears trying,” agreed Sir Festaran. “And with the support and blessing of the baron, the peasants must take the attempt seriously.”

  “I’ll speak with them before I leave, if that will help,” I offered. “But I do need to get back to Sevendor. This has been an unexpectedly amusing diversion, but that damned Magic Fair is mere weeks away, and there’s still months’ worth of work ahead before we get there.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Madness Of Dunselen

  The days leading up to the Magic Fair were hectic, considering the combined nature of the event. It had doubled in size in three short years, and was rapidly becoming one of the most important events on the arcane social calendar. For weeks leading up to the event the road was filled with wains and pack traders, and the inns were filled to capacity. Even the new Hall of the Secret Tower was occupied, as Pentandra and her entourage made their way to Sevendor.

  The festivities began with a fete in my honor – our honor – as my friends, neighbors, and vassals trooped to the castle for an official feast and tournament. The listfield had come together nicely, once the Karshak had pitched in with a day’s labor to finish the reviewing stand three days before the feast. It would have been done sooner, but the harvest was pressing. The tournament itself was small, with only twenty-two combatants taking the field. The prize was a meager magic blade. I’d enchanted it myself. It glowed on command, and would produce a loud, magically-augmented bang if struck soundly, which could be distracting, but was otherwise unremarkable.

  Instead of a traditional sword competition, the combatants fought with mageblades. That was actually more interesting to watch, as there were no restrictions as to the other enchantments the combatants used, provided they were non-lethal. I saw several spectacular duels that day, as the warmagi of the kingdom did their best to impress me and my guests.

  They were impressed, too. Baron Arathanial, his wife and his oldest son visited with a full caravan to congratulate me on being raised. If there was any regret that I had not instead swore fealty to his barony, he didn’t show it. Apparently having a strong and popular ally was consolation enough. Arathanial’s household gifted Sevendor with title to a hall in Sendaria Port to call our own, when we were in the town the Baron owned. It was a thoughtful and considerate gift.

  In turn I gave back to them an ancient blade that had belonged to House Lensely, a generation before, and had come to light as we were restoring the place. Arathanial was touched, and his son more so. It was no more impressive than the sword I’d spent an afternoon enchanting as a prize, but I’d had the armorer restore it as nicely as possible. As antiques went, it made a dandy heirloom.

  The Lord of Trestendor, my old friend Sire Sigalan, had likewise arrived with a large party. He was in the process of negotiating a marriage with one of Arathanial’s cousins and trying to do so without swearing fealty himself – which made dinner conversation awkward at times. His small domain was quite beholden to Sevendor, thanks to some trade deals we’d worked out – and the return of two additional domains to Trestendori control, after I’d defeated the Warbird. They brought Sevendor four breeding pairs of magnificent horses as investiture gifts.

  “Surefoots, they’re called. They were the pick of Gimbal’s stock,” he confessed to me, over a cup of wine later. “One of the manors we recovered specialized in breeding them, outstanding chargers. I suppose he
was preparing to send them to someone as a gift, or begin selling them, but I claimed them as a prize of war.”

  “I hope you did not lavish all of them on me?”

  “I sent as good as I kept,” he promised. “There were enough left to keep the line going. Finding good horseflesh is difficult in wartime,” he said, almost apologetically.

  “So is finding good friends,” I said, warmly clapping him on the shoulder.

  My other neighbors were less generous. Lord Malian of Daneer arrived as the Baron of Fleria’s representative, and gave us a gift with a double meaning: a set of rushes.

  “So it appears that the baron would continue to play this game with Sevendor,” smirked Arathanial. “Very clever of you, capturing his men like that. I would have just put a few villages to the torch and hang the villeins who dared to attack, but that . . .”

  “If those men need someone to fight, they can take their wrath to the Penumbra where it will do everyone some good,” I nodded. “We don’t need more nooses, Excellency. We need more men at the front. Sentencing them to a year in the Iron Band was a kindness. Once they see real warfare, they will be less enthused to practice it on their own people.”

  “I had four pieces of over-ripe gallows fruit I let the warbrother talk me out of,” he admitted. “Six years’ service each, and their crimes are excused. I might use that avenue again in the future,” he predicted.

  “Seeing your husband hang breeds hate and contempt for a lord,” observed Trestendor. “Hearing that he died in battle in a faraway country brings only regret and sorrow.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Arathanial murmured, thoughtfully.

  The Lord of Sashtalia’s emissary was likewise miserly, and of even lower rank. A mere knight of his household without office, the man was rude and haughty. The gift he brought was no great prize: a keg of salted eels from Sashtalia. He knew it was insulting, and left soon after its presentation.

  The baronial ball that night was lovely. The Great Hall in the castle had been cleared of tables and minstrels had been hired to play from the upper gallery. For four hours we danced a variety of pavanes and brawls, jigs and reels, the fiddlers and pipers taking breaks only at need. I danced with dozens of women that night, though I reserved the most important dances (which seemed to be not much more than an excuse to show off your pretty clothes) for Alya.

  She had reprised the dress she had worn so well at the capital, with some small alterations and augmentations. She had the attention of a long stream of captivated knights and handsome lords, and she danced with several of them, enjoying her new position.

  Me, I mostly dodged the ham-handed attempts by the women of Bontal Vale to seduce me.

  I know not what potion was in the wine that evening, but there seemed to be a conspiracy among the ladies of the land to sequester me for their own illicit purposes. I received no fewer than nine invitations, from polite innuendo to blatant proposals that left little room for doubt, to enjoy their intimate attentions.

  Some were quite flattering, like the young priestess of Ishi who had suggested a refreshing spell in the cool night air – away from the magelights that flooded the castle. Others were more cunning, like the daughter of one of Arathanial’s vassals who nearly insisted I check her for magical talent in private. Others viewed it clearly as sport, as two wicked widows only a few years older than I suggested that there were traditional baronial prerogatives that I had yet to take advantage of.

  Thankfully, Pentandra and Dara were watching my flanks for me. Several times one or the other would see me in distress with some new predatory female and summon me “for emergency counsel” on the other side of the castle. Dara, in particular, was able to coax me away from their clutches without ruffling feathers.

  Pentandra did not mind the ruffled feathers, as she demonstrated when she found the wife of one of Arathanial’s vassals doing her best to allure me into an upstairs chamber, and who had assured me had neglected to wear proper underclothes. Penny said two sentences to her, maybe five words each. I didn’t even hear what she said, but that woman curdled like sour milk and vanished into the night.

  “She should be ashamed of herself,” Penny said, ruefully. “To try to seduce the husband of a woman under her own roof is the height of tackiness.”

  “I feel sorry for her,” I admitted, as I straightened my clothing, “Her husband is a notorious boor. She’s shopping around for a match for her daughter, now, and she thought she might be able to persuade me to help her with that. I didn’t do a damn thing to encourage her, either, I swear,” I said, fervently.

  “I know,” Pentandra said, with unexpected empathy. “I warned you this would happen. Success is like catnip to women, and deciding to humiliate a military enemy and then throw a big party to celebrate your shiny new hat is just too much for them.”

  “What do they expect to gain?” I complained. “I’m not likely to leave Alya for the likes of them!”

  “To some, that might be their goal,” she agreed. “But for others being a powerful man’s mistress is sufficient. For others, merely conquering a valuable domain is enough to flatter their vanity,” she said, euphemistically. “Now get back out to the Great Hall. It’s safer in public.”

  The next day the Magic Fair opened in earnest, and the hum of commerce took the place of the music of minstrels in my ears.

  We were doing particularly good business in snowstone, which was sold by official license only, though it lay about on the ground freely enough and I have no doubt plenty made it out in folks’ pockets. But the higher quality blocks, scraps from the ongoing castle construction, mostly, were selling by the pound to enchanters and adepts from all over the Duchies. It had not been on the list of substances banned by the Censorate yet, I knew, and several enterprising Merwyni merchants were buying up all they could transport. I made a tidy sum on every sale.

  Sympathy stones were also in high demand. Once the utility of the Mirror array was established, there were plenty of magi who wanted to experiment with the stones. The price had nearly doubled with the demand. I got a cut of them, as well, through Banamor.

  While the sale of raw materials abounded, so did the sale of finished products, I was gratified to see. Many of the enchanters present had brought along their wares for sale directly, and there was definitely a market. Master Andalnam’s booth was quite impressive, and he offered a wide range of enchanted wares, from saddles that would not slip to belts that gave a man more endurance. The latter was a simple spell that banished fatigue . . . for a short time. Use for a day would require a day’s rest, but for that day a man would be tireless. And he guaranteed the enchantment for a year.

  Since I had raised him to High Magi status, Andalnam and his daughters had prospered, and he was grateful. The money he made on enchanting new Mirrors, alone, had made him a rich man.

  He was not the only High Mage in attendance by far, and one in particular took me aback. I was making the rounds of the new commons field when I spotted him in a knot of his followers and henchmen.

  Master Dunselen. Magelord Dunselen.

  Gone were the streaks of white he’d cultivated in his beard, though it hung from his face in a shaggy mop now. Gone, too, were the robes of a moderately well-paid government official. Dunselen wore a rich mantle of ermine-trimmed gray, over a leather doublet and hose a courtier would envy. But he did not wear it well. As rich as his garments were, they were stained and slovenly. The rheumy look in his eyes made him look more like a barfly than an adept.

  The men who surrounded him and attended him were a mix of magi and mundane knights. The former seemed to be currying his favor, while the latter were more interested in gawking at the wonders of the fair. The man himself seemed a bit unsteady, his hands shaking part of the time. That wasn’t a good sign.

  Nor was I fond of the arrogance he displayed when dealing with the vendors of the fair. He did not hesitate to scream obscenities when he was unsatisfied with their answers, their wares, or their
prices. His pet warmagi also seemed to like to try to intimidate everyone in their path. That might have worked back in Dunselen’s rural fief, but this was Sevendor. We grew High Magi here.

  The first time one of Dunselen’s warmagi got too close to the wrong mage, he found himself flat on his back, twenty feet away. The mage was Gareth, Banamor’s deputy Spellwarden and assistant in running the fair. Gareth was not a very large man at all, and his stature had kept him, in part, from becoming a warmage. But Gareth was a brilliant mage, and what he lacked in mass he made up for in magic.

  Besides that, he was empowered to run the fair. When the warmagi had tried to get him to bend the rules with a threat of violence, Gareth hadn’t appreciated it. He was used to dealing with angry magi in his job. He didn’t bother summoning help, he just drew a wand and blasted the man.

  The victim wasn’t seriously injured, other than his pride, but his mates were instantly indignant. I’d seen the entire thing. As Gareth summoned fairwardens to pick the unconscious man up off of the grass, Dunselen’s warmagi were getting belligerent with him.

  “Gentlemen, is there a problem?” I asked, quietly, as the other three surrounded my employee.

  “You stay the hell outta this!” bellowed one man, without looking at me. “We’re about to teach this pimple here what happens when he challenges one of us!”

  “He’ll get a monetary reward and a promotion, if I have anything to say about it,” I continued, calmly. “Might you consider the benefits of taking a calming walk before you do something rash?”

  I was trying to be polite about it – no one likes a brawl at the fair. But the cocky bastard was feeling full of himself, and he whirled on me with a wand in his hand.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded. “I’m doing business here!”

  “Not without my leave,” I pointed out. “And as for who I am, I’m your host. Baron Minalan. The Spellmonger. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”