Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  The Prince’s pilgrimage would attract far more than the usual number of commoners, I knew. I was figuring at least double last year’s attendance. That was troubling, because Sevendor just didn’t have the regular accommodations for that kind of influx of visitors, not during the cold, rainy end of winter. We’d have to resort to tents on the commons, as we did with the Magic Fair.

  In order to head off the strain on municipal services, I consulted with Lord Mayor Banamor that evening, after an afternoon meeting in his office stretched out into detail after detail and bumped into the evening.

  The former footwizard, now ennobled burgher, public official and growing commercial power, had four desks in his office chamber, each covered with parchments detailing all of his business interests. Shelves of folios and account books were interspersed with wine racks of his growing collection of vintages. A big iron chest filled with silver sat near to an even stronger box of gold – both as heavily enchanted against theft as he could make them.

  He had two personal assistants, now, clerks who ran his day-to-day business. That was in addition to the clerk he had for his municipal duties, over at the Town Hall, and Gareth, his assistant Spellwarden and general troubleshooter. There were six more men in the hall downstairs in the warehouse. Banamor’s counting house always buzzed with activity. So did Banamor’s mind.

  “This is a big deal, Min,” he assured me, enthusiastically, when he poured that first cup of wine. Banamor was beside himself at the potential opportunities of Tavard’s surprise visit. He got out the gold chalices. The serious ass-kissing ones. I felt honored. He filled them with a hearty Gilmoran red, good for afternoon affairs and plotting economic strategy.

  “It will be expensive up front, of course, but we’ll make a huge enough profit on the back-end to make it worthwhile.” Banamor seemed to think I would balk at authorizing the expense of a worthy presentation of the town we’d built together from scratch. I cut him off.

  “Of course it will,” I nodded. “And a boon to the local economy. Please understand that’s not my highest concern,” I pointed out.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” he offered. “Look, if we play this right—”

  “We’ll make money,” I finished for him with a sigh. “Granted. Let’s go over the preparations you’ve made, first, and then we can discuss the potential revenue streams. Let’s start with where we’re going to house everyone . . .”

  I ended up staying through the rest of the afternoon and three bottles of wine before we retired across his street to dine as the sun was disappearing behind the ridge and the town’s magelights were beginning to form.

  I rarely pass up an opportunity to dine at Banamor’s private table at the Alembic. Especially when he mentioned the new Tal Alon cook who was picking up some Remeran dishes. Usually the quality of the service and the wine cellar alone was enough to capture my attention.

  As it happened, we were joined by Masters Olmeg and Loiko Vaneran, the former concluding a tour of Sevendor for the new court wizard, who Banamor eagerly invited to our meal. I certainly didn’t object. It was an un-official, spontaneous gathering of some of the leading wizards-in-residence of Sevendor, so it was an opportune time to talk shop.

  Banamor sauntered in to the decadently-appointed inn (he’d built three small but elegant rooms above for special clients) and began calling unnecessary orders to the staff. In moments, we were settled at the beautiful wooden table he claimed as his own private domain, a cool magelight hanging overhead, cups and plates distributed for us. A young lad near the front played a quiet tune on a viol, while my nose began to entertain me with the promise of a delicious meal.

  The castle’s kitchen is first-rate, but Banamor had a craving for luxury only a life of hardship can inspire. Besides, I always eat for free at Banamor’s table. Magelord’s prerogative.

  I began the impromptu meeting by cautioning our host about becoming overly friendly with Tavard’s party while they were here.

  “I have no intention of betraying Sevendor’s interests to Tavard,” the merchant mage snorted, when I brought up the possibility as the first course was served – the latest Sevendori attempt at Bovali cheese, and an incredibly well-made loaf of toasted rye bread. Not my Dad’s – I can tell, somehow, when he made the bread. But my brother-in-law was taught by the best. If I have no higher legacy in this world, bringing high-quality baked goods to Sevendor is one of my most satisfying.

  “Don’t tell me you aren’t open to a well-placed bribe,” I jabbed at my friend and business partner.

  “Me? Of course! But only if it’s in our mutual interest. I’ve turned down more bribes than I’ve taken. Let a courtier get under my skirts? You jest, Min. I’m merely looking for access to the ducal court, while they’re in town,” Banamor assured, as he poured the wine. A sweet red Remeran, of course. Expensive. Now he was showing off.

  “Why?” Olmeg asked, simply, as he hacked at the cheese.

  “For commercial advantage, of course,” Master Loiko answered. He was a warmage, but he’d also been an administrator of a conquered province. He was familiar with both politics and commerce. “Just knowing a courtier can give a man commercial advantage.”

  “In this case, I’m looking to make friends that can facilitate some business in the southwest,” Banamor proposed. “The Westlands, and Old Castal. We don’t have a lot of exposure, there. And there are a lot of good resources down there that could be lucrative opportunities. A friend or two in the ducal court could prove helpful.”

  “Just stay clear of Count Moran,” Loiko advised, as a pretty servant set a large tray of pickled . . . everything in front of us. “His passion is power, not commerce. But he will use whatever means he can to achieve his aims.”

  “Is the good count to be in attendance?” I asked, curious. And concerned.

  “If not he, then one of his agents,” Loiko assured. “He has not let Tavard go without a firm eye on him since the lad learned to pee standing up. Dealing with Moran’s party is dangerous,” he said, an observation, not a judgement.

  “Good to know,” grunted the mayor, as he stabbed a pickled egg with his belt knife. “I have no desire to end up some courtier’s pawn . . . or assassin’s assignment. I merely wish to see Sevendor prosper,” he shrugged. “Moran is behind this damnfool idea of conquering Alshar by sea. Or encouraging Tavard to do it.”

  “That is complete idiocy,” Master Loiko pronounced, sipping the wine. His opinion was authoritative, as the only man to ever oversee the conquest of Farise. He was as adept at sea as he was at land tactics – that’s one of the reasons he was so highly regarded.

  Additionally, he was recently come from that region, and knew the intelligence about Enultramar’s forces better than anyone. “The man is a fool to even consider it. The rebel navy is vast. Sending a few score hired Cormeeran caravels against them is a waste of gold.”

  “A popular opinion . . . outside of the ducal court, from what I understand,” Banamor mentioned. “Within, it’s nearly treason to say so.”

  “How would you know such a thing?” Master Olmeg asked, as he picked through the cabbage rolls. It wasn’t an accusation, just an inquiry.

  “I am a notorious gossip who is free with my wine,” the merchant wizard said, as he poured more into our cups. “I have my own agents. People talk. Particularly merchants. Hence, I’m well-aware of his difficulty in raising the gold he needs to pay such fools. I expect we’ll know the mind of the prince better when he arrives. And knowing he needs gold, well, that presents opportunities. There are many rights and lucrative boons that a desperate duke can grant,” he said, expansively.

  “And you’ve the purse to purchase them,” Olmeg nodded. Another observation, not a judgement. The big green mage did not value coin, but he did not begrudge those who did.

  “I should hope so,” Banamor nodded. “Like gaining a trading franchise at the Wilderhall Fair,” he suggested. That was the biannual regional fare that brought wares from as far away as Wenshar
in the east and Vorone, in the west. Particularly wool. “If the Sevendori delegation had an invitation to the fair, it could be worth a lot, with our new possessions” he considered. “We could by-pass the wool merchants and sell direct, at a greater profit.”

  “Wool?” Loiko asked, amused. “You have the ear of a Prince and you wish to stuff it with wool, Lord Banamor? Perhaps your vision is inadequate for your purse.”

  “No, my friend, one must know Banamor to appreciate his intelligence. Wool is a stepping-stone toward greater things,” Olmeg pointed out. “The tolls alone make trade that far away prohibitive. Unless you bear a trade pass, which exempts you from all but the county tolls, any profits you might have made are quickly swallowed. Once you secure a wool franchise to the fair, you’re exempt. And if one can transport wool to the fair, one can also transport a great many other items. Merchandise unavailable outside of Sevendor.”

  “What matters that, when you can now transport the product by hoxter pocket?” Loiko asked.

  “Firstly, that’s a . . . a trade secret,” Banamor said, in a hushed voice. The table was protected from casual eavesdropping by magic, but old habits die hard. “If that information becomes widely known, and it’s suspected that we’re quietly subverting taxation and toll revenue by transporting merchandise magically, we’ll have serious political trouble,” he lectured. “As far as anyone knows, hoxters are rare and special things only the most erudite amongst the magi can fathom.

  “Secondly, you cannot get into the far more lucrative Inner Market without a trade franchise from the fair. That’s where the deep discounts and real profits are made,” he said, with relish. “Otherwise you’re stuck in the Common Market, trading small lots with local abbeys and estates. That’s a lot less worthwhile,” he assured us.

  “That sounds suspiciously like you’re planning on founding a trading league,” Loiko said, amused, as he picked his way across the pickle platter. “The Merwyni League did that, before the Dukes crushed them.”

  “More of an arcane merchant guild,” Banamor corrected. “A very quiet one. Planus and Rael and I have been tossing this idea around for months, now. That little trip into the Wilderlands was fruitful, Min. It established the infrastructure that we need to transport goods from the Wilderlands to Remere and back. When you put Sevendor into the equation, things start to get interesting.”

  “But you’ll catch holy hell, if you’re caught,” I nodded. “So how do you plan to turn this wool into gold?”

  “Well, I’m just a rustic footwizard,” the self-made merchant prince smiled, affecting a country accent, “but if we can get a Ducal – or even Royal – charter for a trading guild, without too many specifics, we can use it to cloak our activities. We can ship living specimens, such as seedlings and herb cuttings, overland in the traditional manner while we quietly continue to use the hoxter pockets to transport mundane materials between the chapterhouses,” he proposed. “Without all of those pesky tolls and fees.”

  I rubbed my beard. “That could work, even if temporarily. Until you got caught,” I added, warily.

  “I’m a rustic footwizard,” Banamor replied, smoothly, as the soup course was served. “We don’t get caught. But your point is well-taken. Which is why I would have this theoretical charter enumerate that any potential conflicts be handled by a tribunal from the ecclesiastic courts, not the civil courts, where the merchant classes tend to have more clout. There we can delay and obstruct the proceedings indefinitely.”

  “What does that give you?” Loiko asked, curiously, as he sipped the rich beef broth the attractive servant placed before him.

  “Time,” Banamor shrugged. “Time to find a better political solution. Or at least hide the evidence.”

  “That seems a little devious for you to participate in, Olmeg,” I noted. Usually the big Green Mage has the moral fiber of a Kasari.

  “I’m just in it for the herbs,” the gentle wizard shrugged. “This institution could ensure the widespread distribution of a number of promising species. From how Banamor described it to me, Green Magic would be the cover for caravans traversing the kingdom from border to border without serious toll. My colleagues and I would be very interested in that kind of league,” he assured me.

  “We’d also use them to transport some of the more volatile enchantments and components,” Banamor agreed. “All perfectly above-board and legitimately arcane.

  “Meanwhile, the chapterhouses would be transporting the good stuff, the non-magical commodities that really take a beating in long-distance trade like timber, steel, grain, salt, textiles, cheese, wine,” he added, holding up his cup. “We’d be trading those on the side. And making an obscene amount of profit.”

  “Enterprising,” Loiko nodded. “You’re looking to become chartered smugglers.”

  “Essentially,” Banamor agreed, without taking offense. “You object, Lord Loiko?”

  “Me?” the Wenshari warmage asked, startled. “Not at all. I’ve dealt with my share of them, back in Farise. I didn’t take the crime personally, even as I had them hung. I was just wondering if you’d be interested in a Farisian connection,” he offered, innocently enough.

  “Would I? With all that the great maritime markets there provide? You have a local connection?”

  “A mis-named scoundrel called Asalon the Fair, head of the Musaranya trading house,” he suggested, a gleam in his eye. “He’s the kind of enterprising merchant who would fit well with your plans.”

  “With a name like ‘the Fair’, he must be a scoundrel,” Banamor said, approvingly.

  “His brother was one of the Mad Mage’s apprentices, for a while, before he got into . . . well, let us not dwell on the bad business he fell into. A terrible shame for a talented adept. But as I am occasionally open to a reasonable bribe in the interests of the greater good, I let Asalon persuade me to spare his brother’s life.

  “As a result, the rascal feels indebted to me. He’s not a major player in the Farisi markets, but he’s smart and he’s ambitious. Now that his brother isn’t running from the Censorate anymore, he might be just the man to involve.”

  “Can you trust him?” I asked.

  “No,” Loiko conceded. “But you can trust him not to betray his interests. And he has a lot of good intelligence on what the other smugglers – I mean, merchants – are doing.”

  “Sounds like just the scoundrel we could use,” agreed Banamor. “This is a sound investment, my friends.”

  “You always say that,” I pointed out.

  “And you have profited tremendously by listening to me,” he continued, undeterred. “Really, a few thousand golden Roses will seem like nothing, when the profits from such an operation start accruing. Not only are Olmeg and I partners in this enterprise, but Rael and the Enchanters Guild are in. Planus is in. Master Dranus is in, assuming he is made Count of Moros, as he desires. Even Pentandra is in,” he added, looking at me.

  “Pentandra? She never mentioned an international arcane smuggling ring!” I accused.

  “You should keep up with your memos,” snorted Banamor. “How do you think she managed to feed Vorone, and cheat the grain merchants out of an expected windfall last spring? She and that wily cousin of hers used the hoxter pockets of the supply rods, left over from the Great March, to exchange grain for timber and iron ore. They ended up making a profit on both sides.”

  “I was wondering how they were managing to get by without plundering their reserve funds,” I nodded. “Pentandra was smuggling? What would her mother say?”

  “Ask her next time you’re in Vorone – she’s still there,” Banamor confided. “And driving Penny absolutely insane. But she’s the one who put me on to the idea. She wants to do it as part of some big construction project she’s doing, out in the Wilderlands, somewhere.”

  I was at least somewhat familiar with that project, having put her and Carmella on the task. I hadn’t heard a lot about it since she settled on the Anvil as a site – a remote stony hill with a prodigi
ous overhang. It was far east in the Wilderlands, on a plateau protected by river and ridge from the goblins, and all but deserted, after the invasion.

  “Yes, this would aid in that,” I said, without further comment. If Penny was using this smuggler’s guild to hide her quiet effort to build the Magi a refuge and fortress, I wasn’t going to complain. Indeed, I felt her touch all over the plan. Pentandra often leads best by convincing the rest of us that the right course of action is our own idea. Sneaky. “So what do you need from me?”

  “Well,” Banamor said, pleased that I was also supportive of the enterprise, “firstly, you’d need to sign a request for me to appear before the ducal court,” he said, ticking the items off his fingers, “then you’d need to prepare an application – under your prominent and politically powerful name – for the Duke to consider the charter, with plenty of flowery language elaborating why this would be ultimately for the good of the realm.

  “Thirdly you would enter into discrete negotiations with the court – likely Moran, the Prime Minister – about how much gold such concessions are worth. A quiet payment, in coin or draft, usually follows, along with ample discussion about the splendid merits and progressive thinking implied in the innovative order. Then you present a draft charter for His Grace’s inspection, signature, and seal.”

  “Just how do you propose such a guild would be organized?” Loiko asked, as his empty soup bowl was replaced by a plate of tiny sausages fried with mushrooms.

  “Much as any similar guild is,” Banamor offered. “The Motherhouse – here in Sevendor, of course – would operate as a central hub and scheduling center. The various chapterhouses would be subsidiary, but would act as regional agents for our ‘special’ consignments.

  “Each would run a merchant house, open to the public, selling our guild’s wares . . . while each would also retain the services of a local commodities’ broker to quietly sell the smuggled inventory. Two sets of ledgers,” he emphasized, his eyes gleaming, “one for the arcane merchandise, which will rarely show a profit . . . and one for the mundane, which will show a very hefty – and untaxed – profit. That latter set we keep to ourselves,” he added, unnecessarily.