Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “It took the thrust of a magical lance to end the beast,” reminded one of the more insecure of Anvaram’s vassals. “In the end, it took a knight to slay the dragon.”

  That earned a chuckle from Sandy. “There were knights aplenty on the field that day,” he reminded them. “They fell under the worm’s claws and tail like wheat at the harvest. It was a wizard’s spell that turned the day,” he reminded them. “Steel alone is no answer to the dragon’s argument.”

  I felt Mavone get tense — he wouldn’t lose his temper like Azar, but he had a low opinion of knighthood in general. He’d grown up in a household of them. Before he could say anything, however, Count Anvaram changed the subject once again.

  “So how do you find your new lands, Count? Did the goblins leave anything for you?”

  “Little enough,” I frowned. “Most of the people are in rags, what there is of them. Perhaps a half-dozen glorified villages,” I complained. “And no real castle to speak of.”

  “It appears as if Anguin has damned you by elevating you to count, Spellmonger,” chuckled another of Anvaram’s vassals. “How will you pay your share of the Curia?”

  “Oh, I paid two years in advance, the last time I was at the palace,” I bragged. “It seemed prudent, to cut down on all the parchment I’d have to sign, otherwise.”

  That brought gasps from Anvaram’s men. The taxes paid to the Crown by the Counts of the realm were stiff, now that they were responsible for funding the kingdom. Each count was required to pay not just a tax on each domain he was in charge of protecting, but an additional base fee of ten thousand ounces of gold every two years. Failing to make the payments resulted in yet more fees, and could, ultimately, lead to the removal of royal sanction of a count’s title.

  “Ifnia’s winking eye!” blurted out one man. “Does Spellmongering pay that much?”

  “When I do it, it does,” I agreed, arrogantly. My gentlemen were good enough to laugh at the joke, which is what I pay them for. “Prince Tavard found my rates reasonable enough, when he needed my help to feed his troops during the Conquest of Maidenpool,” I reminded them. “I just paid it out of that fee,” I dismissed.

  That brought some frowns and grumbles from Count Anvaram’s men. A duke’s military follies were not generally discussed in polite society, apparently. Particularly when they resulted in higher taxes to pay for wizards’ services.

  “No doubt you grew accustomed to such commercial bargains, during your time as an actual spellmonger,” Anvaram said, in a tepid attempt to smooth the ripple in decorum. But his tone made the word commercial into an insult. “Artisans seem to excel at their accounting. My wife’s seamstress, for instance, calculates her time and wares down to the half-penny. Tell me, how do the magi determine prices for their spells?” he asked, congenially. But there was no mistaking his intent. It was a direct slight.

  “We size up the client, first, my lord,” Mavone answered, helpfully. “And then we assess his purse. If the effort and expenditure in time matches that, we can agree on a fee. Why do you ask? Are you considering a commission?”

  “Why would I need magic?” Anvaram scoffed. “It seems a needless complication, for most things. Why, the wizard who casts spells to keep the rats out of the granaries is doing the work a couple of cats can do,” he pointed out, earning a sycophantic chuckle from his men.

  “Oh, you can use magic for a variety of purposes, I assure you, my lord,” Sandoval answered, slurring his words a bit. This was the talkative Sandy I wanted. “Depending on the witch or spellmonger, the arcane can help make you more attractive, for instance, or enhance . . . personal shortcomings of all sorts,” he said, airily. The blow landed. “Why, with the right spell, you can grow your prick the size of a horse’s,” he reported, with a wicked grin.

  “If your lady has a powerful fancy for a roll in the hay,” I added, shooting a quick glance at Count Anvaram before sipping my wine. “But most of our art is dedicated to more practical results. Improving the yield for our fields, for instance. Or finding deposits of gold in the wilderness,” I added. “It can be quite handy for that sort of thing.”

  “You can do that?” blurted out one of Anvaram’s knights, mystified.

  “Oh, yes, there are spells for discovering gold. Or iron. Or copper,” Mavone dismissed. “There should be no worry that the Magelaw will be remiss in its payments to the crown. In truth, no mageland should be. Our friend Astyral, for instance,” he suggested. “He’s baron of one of the Gilmoran provinces – Losara, I beleive. And he rules another barony in fief. He can bring magic’s aid to the management to all the magelands under his control. You can look forward to prosperous times for those baronies,” he promised. “No doubt he can triple his yield with half the labor of a mundane estate, once he starts plying his spellwork.”

  “So, you are friends with Baron Astyral?” Anvaram shot back, interested. “He should take care. His name has reached my ears, of late. It is rumored that he has had difficulties with his vassals, since his investiture. Not all are sanguine about serving a wizard.”

  “I think you will find Baron Astyral’s powers of persuasion to be adequate to keep his vassals in line,” I said, condescendingly. “They’re only knights, after all.”

  “You scorn the chivalry, Excellency?” asked the insecure vassal, astonished.

  “Oh, they have their role,” Sandy dismissed with a wave of his hand. “But I’ve seen them misused damnably in battle after battle, and then seen the survivors elevated beyond their capacities as a result. The theory that a man who is good with a lance can also manage accounts and run estates is . . . untidy,” he said, diplomatically. “Thankfully, Rard had the good sense to elevate the warmagi to the peerage when he did.”

  That was a direct challenge to their class. They could not let it stand.

  “Have you ever bore a lance my lord?” one of the bolder vassals replied.

  “A few times,” Sandy admitted. “It was pretty long. Didn’t much see the point,” he punned. “A simple spell makes a knight a helpless prisoner of his own armor. Jousting just isn’t particularly helpful in real warfare. But it’s a fine enough sport,” he insisted.

  “It is one of the most difficult feats in warfare!” the man sputtered. “To unseat an opponent on the field is the highest measure of chivalric virtue! The knight is essential to battle! To our defense!”

  “But he’s actually pretty shitty in most cases, in actual wars,” Mavone pointed out, making the most of his Gilmoran drawl. “Not the pretend-wars between houses you have here, but, say, in real wars, like with the goblins. In the Wilderlands,” he added. “The Wilderfolk held out for years against the goblins, even after their chivalry was all but gone. The gurvani rolled through northern Gilmora against all of your fancy knights in a few weeks.”

  “So you do impugn the character of the chivalry!” the loud-mouthed vassal insisted, clenching his fists.

  “They don’t need my help for that,” Mavone chuckled. “They manage quite well on their own. Jousting is not a test of character. It’s a sport. And I concede that it is a sport at which the Gilmoran cavalry excel. The thing is, the only sport that the gurvani play involves the heads of their victims. When it comes to fighting, they don’t obey the rules of the list field or respect the chivalric code. As was demonstrated during several battles in the Gilmoran invasion. Noble cavalry never turned the tide,” he reminded them. “It was mercenaries and magic that did.”

  “Mercenaries!” scoffed Count Anvaram. “Parasites, is what they are! I turned out a large band of them just last year in Nion. When the war is over, they become bandits. And magic? Well, Spellmonger, as much as you and your gentlemen may wish it so, magic does not place you on par with the chivalry. You style yourselves magelords, but it is arrogance to assume that a mere title makes you warmagi fit to rule.”

  “Time alone will answer that,” Sandoval said, his eyes narrowing. “So far, the results have not favored the chivalry. Indeed, every time a bunch of knigh
ts go up against a bunch of warmagi, the warmagi come out ahead. Yes, you excel at the joust. As you do in hunting and hawking, no doubt. But when it comes to warfare, gentlemen, I believe history demonstrates that warmagi are superior in approach to the chivalry. If the Poros campaign did not prove that to Gilmora, I wonder what will?”

  “Gilmora paid for her defense in blood!” one of his vassals said, angrily.

  “Those were dark days,” I said, loudly. “The Poros campaign was a tortuous madhouse of misdirection. I fault no man for their performance at arms during that battle. The Gilmoran knights acquitted themselves . . . adequately on the field,” I declared.

  There was a gasp from several who’d overheard me.

  “‘Adequate’, my lord?” Count Anvaram asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Would you prefer ‘inadequate’?” Terleman asked, speaking for the first time. He communicates best when he’s silently brooding. When he does speak, he uses a commanding tone. “I think he was being generous in his assessment. The Gilmoran heavy cavalry were barely useful as a screening force, and when faced with gurvani canine cavalry they were largely . . . ineffective,” he said, choosing his words diplomatically. “Far from the ‘essence of warfare’.”

  “My lord, who are you to make such an assessment?” the man behind the count demanded angrily.

  “Magelord Terleman,” he said, without listing off his other titles. “And I was in charge of that battle,” he reminded everyone. “I got to watch while our western flank fell apart, the goblins advanced over the river, and take the Royal 2nd Commando from the rear, wiping them out,” he pronounced, sharply. “Thousands of good warriors died that day, when the Gilmoran cavalry . . . withdrew.” There was no disguising the distaste in his voice.

  Those were bold and dangerous words. Several of Anvaram’s vassals stared at us in anger. My men and I kept our seats, as did Count Anvaram.

  “You really believe that warmagi are superior to chivalry?” he asked us, with minimum cordiality.

  “Only in the prosecution of warfare,” I conceded. “And the managing of estates and government. Apart from that, I would argue to measure their merits on a case-by-case basis.”

  “You warmagi have quite the opinion of yourselves,” one man said, squinting daggers at Sandy.

  “It’s actually everyone’s opinion, we’re just sharing it,” Sandy confided.

  “I daresay a host of knights would break against a determined company of warmagi,” Mavone contributed. “The Magelaw, for instance: if we were invaded by, say, Count Marcadine’s Wilderlords, it would be a fearsome battle, but the Magelaw would prevail over the massed might of the Wilderlaw,” he bragged. “It would be no real contest.”

  “Because you warmagi cheat!” accused a knight.

  “We win,” corrected Sandy. “Wars. Not tourneys.”

  “You spoke of the Wilderlords – what would your opinion be of a fight against a host of proper Gilmoran knights?” baited another vassal.

  “Gilmorans?” Sandy asked, skeptically. “You might fare as well as the Wilderlords,” he boasted. “Let us hope for your sake that the contest will never occur. Gilmora has suffered enough,” he pronounced.

  That was too much for the Count. We were invited to leave the pavilion with minimal civility. We’d pissed them off good. My mission was accomplished.

  “Minalan’s closest friends were all supremely loyal to the Spellmonger, and he returned that loyalty in abundant dividends, when he could. Though they were men of good quality, they could have been scoundrels and he would have supported them for their friendship. Nor would he change his opinion due to a consequence of rank, position, or fortune. That said, Minalan also sought to advance his own purposes through the successes and enterprises of his fellows in ways that can only perhaps be appreciated by wizards.”

  From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Champion’s Ball

  Astyral’s tournament pavilion was much smaller than Count Anvaram’s, made of mere bleached canvas, and lay on the western side of the list field. As a baron he rated one of the coveted sites with a reasonably good view of the lists. As Astyral, he did not give a damn about the jousting -- he was here to entertain.

  Though he had cheerfully served five long years as a military governor of a decimated town in the godsforsaken Wilderlands, it took but a glance at the wizard to see that he was enjoying his return to polite Gilmoran society. His investiture as Baron of Losara allowed him the triumph of not only a successful military career, but with title, lands and riches he’d all but abandoned since his rajira emerged.

  Astyral gloried in his new status and wore it like his gleaming white mantle. When we sent word ahead that we were stopping by, he met us at the entrance to his pavilion with two busty servant girls bearing trays of wine, while a lad played a beautiful melody on a pipe behind him.

  His welcome was as effusive as Count Anvaram’s farewell had been restrained. Within moments of arriving, we were sitting on cushions, a glass in one hand, a pipe in the other, enjoying the company of friends. It was far more comfortable in Astyral’s pavilion not just for the camaraderie, but for the magic. Astyral had ensured that a cool breeze wafted through his luxurious canopy constantly, removing much of the heat. I wouldn’t call it oppressive, as a hot day in Gilmora is a cool day in Farise, but it was far warmer than summer in the Wilderlands.

  Astyral was the perfect host: gracious, engaging, and constantly attentive to his guests. Well, his staff of servants was. He mostly sat around and gossiped about Lady Maithieran, his potential new bride.

  “The preliminaries have gone quite well,” he assured us, as he poured more of the local vintage into our cups. “I’ve met her father and brother, and both seemed impressed with me and my holdings despite their suspicions of me as a magelord. And I met with my potential bride, as well,” he added, his eyes twinkling.

  “How’s the dowry?” Mavone asked, curiously. From what I understood, such things were even more important in Gilmora than the Riverlands.

  “Decent,” Astyral considered. “More than they thought they’d pay to marry off a daughter with rajira. But as they had little hope of it before the Bans were lifted, they see it as money well spent.”

  “Forget the money,” Terleman dismissed. “What does she look like?”

  “The image I showed you doesn’t do her justice,” he smiled, contemplating her charms. “She has delightfully curvy figure, her face is a bounty, and her voice is as pleasant as a harp. And she’s very intelligent,” he added, enthusiastically. “Not just within our discipline, but in general. I could well envision her as my future baroness,” he added, with a sense of satisfaction.

  “How does her family feel about Alshar?” Mavone asked, pointedly.

  “They recall fondly the days of the Anchor-and-Antlers,” Astyral revealed with a satisfied sigh. “Though they are pragmatic enough to do their feudal duty to the Rose-and-Sword faithfully.” That earned a thoughtful nod from Mavone.

  “How did she react to you?” Sandy asked, purposefully. “That’s the true test, you know. She could have been Ishi’s handmaiden in your eyes, but if she looked upon you and her thoughts turned to taking holy orders, that may be a problem.”

  “I have no doubt that her professions of admiration were authentic,” Astyral assured us. “Nor did I rely exclusively on my long experience with attraction, gentlemen, before you ask. I used magic to determine her desires. I have every reason to believe she found me as handsome of face and form as I did her.”

  “Not to mention charming,” Mavone teased his cousin.

  “My great humility precludes me from mentioning it,” Astyral said, with dry sarcasm. “But my lady was likewise as charming and demure as any Gilmoran maiden.”

  “At twenty, she’s hardly a maiden,” Terleman pointed out, skeptically.

  “If I wanted a child to help me rule my barony, I could have married one of my vassals’ daughters,”
Astyral dismissed, scornfully. “Lady Maithieran has both the wit and the grace to perform the duties of baroness splendidly. And she seems pleased that I have shown such interest in her. It appears that after failing to gain the respect and admiration from my countrymen I deserve, I had but leave Gilmora for a few years.”

  “I think that’s the case everywhere,” Mavone said, skeptically.

  “I find I have acquired a reputation here, I’m surprised to discover. A good one,” he added, in case we were in doubt.

  “In some circles,” Mavone cautioned. “Aunt Bomara has always thought the sun rises from betwixt your butt cheeks,” he reminded him. “In fact, that entire side of the family always loved you, and they’re horrible gossips,” he pointed out. “All you had to do is not get killed in some embarrassing way and Bomara would still preach your virtue to every unmarried maid in the county.”