Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “It might,” Mavone said, after a moment’s thought. “Indeed, magic can be brought to bear in many of those circumstances. Bandits can be fought. Wisdom can be applied to disputes. Grain can be evaluated by a spell, and its quality determined thereby.”

  “But can you do it all at once, my lord?” Bryte countered. “Can your spells be everywhere, all the time?”

  “Not yet,” Sandy conceded. “But we’re working on it.”

  “No doubt, my lord,” Bryte grinned. “The ambitions of magi know no frontiers, as history suggests. But . . . but the Law, my lords, the Law is eternal. Omnipresent. Once established, it applies everywhere, in every situation. It applies to lords and bandits, alike. The Staff of Luin exists among us all in a very real way.”

  “Fine, fine, I concede that it’s helpful for society, in general, to know right from wrong. But why do the details always have to be such a bother?” Sandoval asked, irritated.

  “Because it is the details that matter most,” Dad offered. “Everyone knows not to kill your neighbor, no matter how much you want to. But if he offers offence, what other recourse do you have than the law?”

  “Ah! It appears my sermons on that long journey had some affect, at least!” Bryte laughed. “Gentlemen, I present to you an artisan as cynical about my profession as yourselves . . . yet even he concedes that my craft has use. Perhaps even a vital one. The details are where the gods and demons dwell,” he assured us. “Law itself would be sufficient to rule us all . . . save for the godsdamned details. That’s where Judgement comes in.”

  “And with it judges, juries, advocates, prosecutors, and clerks,” Sandoval complained.

  “And Luin’s blessings on each of them, for performing their duties well and without corruption,” Bryte agreed. “They are the very embodiment of the sacred staff. Without them, we would have recourse only to the sword in our disputes. That, I think you will agree, would be a messy and painful trial for us all. And one that rewarded might, not righteousness.”

  “Gentlemen, the hour grows later,” I sighed, setting down my empty mug and standing. If I let Brother Bryte keep talking, we’d be here until dawn. “I wanted to tarry a moment to confer with you, and I have. Now I have a powerful desire to see my wife and children. Can one of you please tell me where I live, now?”

  “Epic poetry is lovely, but the truth of the founding of Vanador involves more anxiety than is usually portrayed in heroic epics. Some have suggested the peril faced by Vanador only began after the Spellmonger came to the city. The truth is that the specter of the Penumbra, and the dark forces at the center of its shadows, always hung over the merriment and prosperity of the Spellmonger’s realm from the beginning. Most of the Vanadori had come to expect tragedy and the threat of death from their precarious position so close to such malevolence. No one who came to the City of Magi did so unknowing of the implicit danger.”

  From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser

  Chapter Two

  Wizard Stuff

  Carmella had assigned me a lot in Vanador’s future city center, after she consulted with Pentandra during the planning of the town. I don’t remember ever paying for it, and I think Penny just granted to me, but being important and well-connected has its advantages. I had one of the nicer spots under the Anvil, thanks to naked nepotism. When she learned of my exile – and subsequent elevation to Count Palatine of the Magelaw – Carmella immediately devoted one of her best crews to building a hall worthy of a near-monarch-in-residence. Or at least the start of one.

  When the wagon finally pulled into the yard of Spellmonger’s Hall, as it was called then, the three-acre lot was hardly a palace. It was separated from the neighbors not by a hedge or wall, but by sticks and strings. The track we rumbled along was unpaved and threw dust into the frigid air as we passed. There was no sign of a garden (hard to do in the shadow of the Anvil, and in the depths of winter, anyway), but there were a few pens for beasts.

  But the hall was reasonably complete, by the time I arrived. As we pulled up to the door, I noted that Carmella had chosen a fusion of traditional Wilderlands design with some elements reminiscent of Sevendor. It was two stories in most places, the second story overhanging the first by several feet on three sides. The first floor was a mixture of native gray stone and snowstone blocks imported from Sevendor, and the elaborate arched doorway and most of the windows were composed of a complete arch of Karshak-carved snowstone.

  The second story, however, had been done in local style, with massive oaken crucks set into thick joists to support the grand roof. The walls were as recently daubed as the inn’s had been, though I could tell they’d been kilned-in-place by magic, giving the exterior texture a smooth and distinctive sheen. I found out later that Carmella had imported snowclay from the Westwood’s pits to mix into the daub, and then mage-hardened it, after it was kilned-in-place. The result would withstand nearly any catastrophe, she assured.

  Above the tiled rooftop (really unnecessary, considering the massive roof of stone overhead) was a third story, a spire of architecturally intriguing design reigned over the hall like a benevolent monarch. I was amused that, despite the unlikelihood of experiencing torrential rains in this protected spot, Carmella had shaped the roof of the tower to resemble the pointed cap of our profession.

  It was a big hall, larger than Spellmonger’s Hall in Sevendor by half. The windows were wide and well-shuttered, and there was a stately feel to the place, despite the well-trampled yard around it.

  Alya and the children – and a few special retainers – had been living here for weeks, now, since before Dad and I set out on our journey. I’d sent them ahead by the Ways directly after Yule. I wanted to give Alya an opportunity to make the place feel like home, before I arrived. I found myself longing to see my wife desperately, a familiar feeling I’d had many times on the road.

  Just as we pulled in to the yard, the light around us changed. I glanced up to see a small constellation of magelights blossoming on the underside of the Anvil.

  “That was Gareth’s idea,” Sandoval explained. “He got it from Sevendor. They provide light from dusk until two hours before midnight, and steadily decline in illumination the entire time. When the magelights go out, curfew is in effect,” he advised.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I nodded. “Does Alya know I’ve arrived?” I could

  “I sent word ahead, of course,” Sandy muttered to me. “The servants should have the hall prepared. Alya isn’t . . . she’s not the best at overseeing that sort of thing,” he said, diplomatically.

  “Of course she isn’t,” I said, automatically. “She’s still healing. That’s why I brought the nuns to help.”

  “The children, on the other hand, seem to be doing well,” he added, encouragingly. “I had a mock sword fight with Minalyan when I stopped by the other day. The kid fights like his father,” he remarked.

  “He’s relentless and fearless?” I offered.

  “He drops the point of his blade when he advances,” Sandy corrected. “But I think I can train it out of him, since I caught it at an early age,” he added, as Dad brought the wagon to a halt. Sandy constantly complained about my sloppy swordplay, back in Farise. His opinion had yet to improve, despite the battles I’d won.

  “Last stop!” Dad announced in his deep voice. “Spellmonger’s Hall! Briga’s buttery biscuits, if I never ride in a wain again, I will count myself among the most fortunate of men,” he declared, as he tied the reigns one final time, and grooms rushed out to meet us. There were three, in total, local boys someone hired to help out. Two of them began unhitching the team while the other began unloading the baggage.

  “Your new home, Excellency,” Sandoval said, with an exaggerated bow. “One of the finest in the city!”

  “My new home, for the next three years,” I said, philosophically, as I studied the exterior a moment.

  “No, just for a few months,” Sandy counselled. “Carmella has already picked out a country estate for
you. Or, it will be an estate, once she’s done with it.”

  “Still, it’s not Sevendor,” I pointed out.

  “No, it’s Vanador,” Sandy countered. “The same great Spellmonger, only lots more space and no real supervision!”

  “And a lot fewer amenities,” Dad said, looking around at the landscape skeptically before we went inside. There were far more houses under construction than there were completed buildings, and empty lots abounded. “Still, it has potential,” he offered, cautiously.

  “It’s a roof, with a bed and a wife,” I decided. “No palace in the world has better amenities.”

  We were met at the door a moment later by the wife I referenced – wearing a sideless surcoat in blue, with a mantle of darker blue over it. She bore a golden cup full of Cormeeran wine. Carefully, she descended the three wide steps to enter the small flagged section in front of the door.

  “My lord husband,” she said, carefully, as if she’d been coached, “I bid you welcome to your new home!”

  I took the cup from her. Without looking at it – indeed, I never took my eyes from hers – I drained it in one draught. “My lady wife, I thank you for your gracious welcome, and pledge to provide and defend you and your issue, until my last breath departs,” I said, completing the ancient Narasi formula.

  The words go back to our ancient ancestors, living out their simple lives on the barren steppes north of Vore, before they decided to move south. It was an old invocation, from back in the days when a man measured his wealth by cattle and horses alone, and counted himself fortunate if he married a hard-working woman. It seemed fitting and appropriate, under the circumstances.

  “Welcome home, Minalan,” Alya said, more in her own voice. “I’ve missed you!”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I muttered as I dropped the golden cup and swept her up in my arms. If you’ve never gone six weeks without seeing your wife, after you have literally traveled to the Land of the Dead (or, rather, the Undead) to recover her, you just cannot appreciate the depth of my feeling. My lips embraced hers in a commanding, demanding way, and encountered hesitant cooperation. I broke the kiss just long enough to gaze at her confused face and then continued my operations.

  “There are children present, my lord Count,” Brother Bryte said, after clearing his throat loudly.

  “They are my children,” I declared, “and a product of this same love.” But his point was well-taken. Minalyan was on Alya’s right, starring at me with his little fists on his hips, while Almina clung to her mother’s skirts on the left. They stared at me molesting their mother with a mixture of glee and protectiveness. I cleared my throat, gave Alya one last longing glance, and then swept my daughter up in my arms.

  “And how is my little mouse?” I demanded, as I tickled her unmercifully. “She’s grown twice as large, since last I saw her!” I insisted, as I held her up and looked at her while she squirmed and squealed, good-naturedly.

  “I’m fine, Daddy, STOP IT!” she bellowed. She sounded like her mother, if her mother had been five years old.

  “And what about you, little mageling?” I asked, as I let Almina slip to the floor and then dropped to one knee to examine Minalyan. “Those are some potent muscles you’ve grown, Sir Knight!” I said, making a point of feeling my seven-year-old’s biceps. “Have you been eating dragons?” I asked, with exaggerated curiosity.

  “Only small ones,” he assured me, gravely. “My lord father, I bid you welcome to your new home.”

  “And I accept your welcome and charge you to be as courteous to any and all who tarry here,” I instructed. “Now, I’ve supped . . . but I wouldn’t mind another cup of wine,” I continued, as I rose and put an arm around my wife’s waist. “I’ve been on the road a long time, and if I’ve passed a man thirstier than me, I must have missed it. Ruderal, you’ve kept my family safe and secure; fetch some more wine and a half-cup for yourself as my thanks.”

  For an hour the merry Great Hall of Spellmonger’s Hall was filled with laughter and filial love, as I grew re-acquainted with my children. Minalyan had grown by half a span, since I’d last seen him, and while Almina hadn’t gotten much taller, by my eye, I could see she had put on a little weight and filled out some.

  Alya, unfortunately, still looked dazed and confused by the commotion. I tried to ignore it, as I spoke with the children, but she looked anxiously at me as I spoke to them. While I was getting the update about recent encounters with snails and stray dogs, she looked on as if I would immediately take her to task about their care.

  “Off to bed with you, now!” I insisted, realizing that they’d been allowed to stay up late to greet me. “There will be plenty more Daddy available tomorrow. Off to bed! And don’t dream of dragons,” I insisted, “else they’ll come calling!”

  With a kiss and a hug for each, I sent them off to bed with one of the younger nuns. Before she could escort them away, Dad intervened. He grabbed Almina by the waist and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of flour and snagged Minalyan’s grubby hand in his own great one and took them to bed, himself.

  Grandfather’s prerogative.

  As the squeals receded up the stairs, the nuns led Alya to bed and Ruderal led Brother Bryte off to a chamber that had been prepared for him. Of all the household, Ruderal seemed perhaps most relieved at my arrival. He had performed his service to look after my family in my absence admirably, but the burden had laid heavy on him. Especially contending with Alya’s tortured enneagram every day. For him, that was a special burden. He said as much when he returned to attend me and my friends.

  “She’s been getting worse, the longer she’s been without it,” Ruderal confided empathetically, when I inquired about her. “Not as bad as she was,” he conceded, “but she’s been getting a bit more and more unraveled every day.”

  “I appreciate you looking after her so dutifully,” I told the lad with a bow of my head. “It has eased my mind considerably to know you have been attending her. And, hopefully, to your lessons,” I added. While most of his time of late had been spent more as servant than sage, I’d detailed the other magi of Vanador to stop by and instruct my apprentice in one fashion or another. From the look on his face, at least a few had done just that.

  “I’ve been practicing sicondedicas, and studying eight-order runes, of late. I look forward to demonstrating what I have learned, Master,” he nodded, solemnly but confidently.

  “Well spoken,” Mavone nodded with a rare smile around his pipestem. “Minalan, I think I like this lad even more than Tyndal and Rondal. How do you find such good apprentices?”

  “Referrals,” I suggested. “But I’ve been lucky. But since Dara took her examinations and is a journeyman, I’m down to just one, now,” I pointed out.

  “I haven’t even one,” Mavone mused. “I can’t imagine what I’d do with one.”

  “Teach them,” Sandoval said, knowingly. “Teach them and ruthlessly exploit their labor. That’s what Andra does with her students,” he added. His girlfriend was a certified and chartered mage, and specialized in thaumaturgy, I remembered. That might come in handy. “I’ve considered getting one, myself, now that I’ve decided to settle here.”

  “I would encourage it,” I nodded. “Indeed, I would like both of you to search for good apprentices. We need to institutionalize our craft in Vanador, and the best way to do that is to pass along our ways. There is a plethora of Talented young folk gathering here. Find the best among them and take them to apprentice,” I counseled.

  “I’ll consider it,” Mavone decided. “If I can find one who is of use in military intelligence.”

  “I’m less specific in my requirements,” Sandy chuckled. “I just want one that doesn’t piss me off.”

  “It would be helpful if we had some sort of organized gathering to choose apprentices, like you did in Sevendor,” Mavone suggested. “Perhaps you can speak to Gareth about organizing one?”

  “I’ll bring it up at our next meeting,” I promised.

&n
bsp; Before too long my friends were yawning and making excuses about the lateness of the evening. I bid them farewell and excused Ruderal for the night. I, too, was exhausted and looked forward to hours of interrupted sleep . . . but there was yet one task I could not put off. I had to give Alya the first arcane treatment she’d had in three weeks.

  In many ways, Alya’s injuries from the Magewar with Greenflower had set in motion the gears of fate. Shattering a witchstone is usually fatal, and only the intercession of the gods and a stroke of luck had kept her from being killed instantly. Instead, the brave act had shattered her mind. She had lain asleep for the better part of a year while I exhausted every means at my disposal to heal her.

  As it turned out, that involved constructing the most complex and sophisticated deception I’d ever imagined. It had sent thousands to war against the Necromancer of Olum Seheri, Korbal the Demon God. All as a distraction so that I could nip down to his basement and steal a particularly powerful enneagram from the Ghost Rock veins below the cursed island.

  I’d successfully recovered the enneagram of an ancient sea creature called the Handmaiden and installed it in the center of an eternally changing crystalline snowflake, likewise imbued with a powerful paraclete from the distant past. That the center of the snowflake was, technically, quantumly locked and impossible to move hadn’t dissuaded me. I’d found a way. And once I had used that core to construct the Magolith that now hovered quietly over my shoulder most of the time, I was able to use the incredibly complicated and completely unlikely artifact for its intended purpose: ironing out my wife’s wrinkly mind.