Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “Lovely woman,” Astyral agreed. “Delman’s mother. She always thought you were a bit strange and morose,” he retorted, earning a chuckle from Mavone.

  “Well, she spares no embellishment for what her courageous nephew Astyral has been doing to the goblin hordes in the savage Wilderlands,” Mavone continued. “Nor do her daughters, and they are all social hummingbirds, you know. And it seems you’ve had other admirers who have considered tales of your heroics in light of the . . . less impressive performance of the local chivalry. I daresay if you can prove your leadership in your barony and return it to prosperity, you would be far downriver of every other baron in the region.”

  Astyral giggled — charmingly, the bastard. “The problem is that the Cotton Lords have enjoyed fifty years of relative peace, and a hundred years of only token warfare,” he explained. “In between, the nobility got used to running their estates exactly the same way their ancestors did. But when the goblins invaded and so many Gilmoran gentlemen died in defense, they were completely unprepared to restore it again. Yet they try,” he reflected. “And in trying, they fail. And in failing, they seek something to blame for their failure.”

  “They can’t be that dim,” Terleman frowned.

  “Oh, they aren’t,” Astyral assured him. “They just cannot conceive of a world unlike the one in which they were raised. That, and many of them are inbred and willfully ignorant, particularly in the eastern provinces,” he added, with a sniff. “But they haven’t mastered farming cotton without the peasants who knew how to grow it . . . and alas, most of them in northern Gilmora have been slain, enslaved, or made refugees by the invasion.”

  “Don’t they realize that most of those villeins aren’t going to return to their stations, even if they were freed from their chains?” snorted Sandy. “Not when they have a better offer in the North.” Most of the Gilmoran slaves freed from the slave camps of the Penumbra last year were from the Cotton Lands’ vast servile class. Most had been born bondsmen, and had little hope of freedom from the system. Few were eager to return to that life.

  “That is not yet widely understood,” Astyral said, delicately. “Indeed, what is understood by most of the gentry is that after the Spellmonger – and Duke Anguin – freed the slaves, all those who were taken would run across hot coals to return to their huts in Gilmora. Any day now,” he said, sarcastically. “In the meantime, they scream about the high wages they’re forced to pay to hire free peasants to do the labor, what few they can find, and moan about how cursed they are that their harvests are so poor,” he concluded, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “They’re idiots,” he added, to summarize.

  “They aren’t idiots,” Mavone countered, thoughtfully. “They’re just rigid in their approach. Interesting note: while I’ve been here, I’ve heard that the Counts of Gilmora are considering establishing laws to force the common folk back into their places, after the war. Setting wages and penalties for not working for pre-war wages.”

  “That will work well,” Sandy snorted, sarcastically.

  “Exactly,” Mavone nodded. “More, they are growing impatient with their stolen peasants’ reluctance to return to Gilmora. Expect more delegations demanding that you send them their villeins back,” he warned me.

  “I’ve had two already, this summer. I told them the same thing: All are free to return to Gilmora,” I pointed out. “And there are no villeins or serfs in the Magelaw. All are free folk, now. We freed them,” I reminded them.

  “The Counts of Gilmora have a different view,” Astyral reported. “Count Salgren spoke with me, when I paid him a courtesy call when I arrived in Barrowbell. He entreated me to impose upon our friendship to convince you to force about two thousand Gilmoran villeins to be repatriated, to ensure that the cotton crop in his lands is planted on time. I regretfully informed him that it was unlikely that many survived from his lands, yet he is convinced that they’re skulking around in your cellar, or some such,” he said, amused. “He’s of the opinion that his peasants have enjoyed an extensive holiday from their duties. He has no idea what those poor sods actually endured.”

  “That’s going to be a growing issue, Min,” Mavone concurred. “Gilmoran society is calcified into its order. As time wears on, the Gilmoran nobles are going to become more and more insistent about returning their folk.”

  “They can insist all they want,” snorted Terleman. “They’ve already gotten about all the people who wanted to return. They have a real future as free men, with cheap land and good lords ruling them, in Vanador. They’d rather raise their own wheat and barley than raise someone else’s cotton, and be fed grits and beans in Gilmora.”

  “The question is, just how mad can we make them?” I asked. “They’ll start complaining to the prince, before long, if they haven’t already. Do you think they could be persuaded to go further?”

  “Complaining to the king would do little, I think,” Astyral considered. “You’re a member of the Royal Court, and well within your legal right to establish law in your lands. So their only other recourse would be to threaten war,” he decided.

  “That would be lovely,” I sighed. “I think if we spread the word that the Spellmonger is arrogantly refusing to compel the Gilmoran villeins to repatriate at tonight’s ball, those seeds will sprout before long. See if you can manage to be arrogant and haughty,” I instructed some of the most arrogant and haughty men I’ve ever known. “Spoon it on thick. I don’t think we need any duels, but go as far as you can without giving direct offense.”

  Sandy looked shocked. “Ishi’s tits, Min! Why? I mean, I enjoy talking out of my ass as much as anyone, but . . . why are you trying to pick a fight with the Gilmorans?”

  “Because I need a fight with the Gilmorans,” I replied. “I’ve given them motive, by insulting Count Anvaram. Tonight I’ll lay the groundwork to convince everyone that it’s a good idea to hate the Spellmonger.”

  ***

  The Chapion’s Ball was held at the personal estate of Salgren, Count of Karinboll, a tastefully ostentatious palace disguised as a fortified manor. The manor was designed to impress his visitors with the count’s great wealth, as well as his power and piety. The long brick manor house was gaily lit with hundreds of tapers and torches and basket upon basket of flowers when our carriage pulled up to the massive gatehouse.

  From the moment the servants opened the coach’s door and saw we were magelords, there was a change in the mood of the celebrants around us. Word of our activities at the tournament had spread the way all such gossip does, largely through the network of servants and retainers that tended to the Gilmoran noble houses.

  The guards, the footmen, even the heralds were slack-jawed and wide-eyed as Terleman emerged, his broad shoulders and billowy black mantle filling the entry like a storm cloud. I knew part of it was an enchantment he used to enhance his command presence, but Terleman didn’t need much help. Only Azar makes a better entrance.

  Then Astyral, Sandoval and Mavone filled in behind him, resplendent in their festival best —and they were all wealthy men who dressed their station. From silken tunics to fine wools to the distinctive pointed caps they wore. Sandy had even brought along his modest-looking baculus, mostly because it gave his fidgety hands something to do when he was nervous — but from the expressions on the faces of the observers at the door, it might as well have been a hedgewizard’s gnarled old staff.

  When I finally emerged, the lads helpfully parted to my flanks and allowed me to give the assembled a stare and a sneer as I adjusted my own hat. I’d chosen a narrow-brimmed single-pointed cap of rich wool, dyed a deep blue. In deference to tradition it had three modest points embroidered just above the black snakeskin band in gleaming thread-of-gold . . . with a tasteful array of semi-precious stones and enchantments designed to project an aura of arrogant power. Not that I needed it. I was in a mood.

  Usually, I restrain myself from letting my emotions leak out of the carefully-constructed facade all wizards wear of necessity. A mag
e who cannot control his temper and master his emotions cannot refine his Will or desire and form it into intent. But in this instance, I allowed just a bit of my contempt for the nobility to creep out.

  Don’t mistake me, some of my best friends are nobles. But I’d been bullied and outranked by well-born idiots my entire life, and regardless of my rise in station and my understanding of how the feudal world works, there was a core of burning resentment against my “betters” I’d cultivated since boyhood. I let that leak out as I surveyed the small crowd of largely-useless servants at the entrance of the hall.

  “Announce us,” Sandy directed the herald. It took the man a moment to realize he was being addressed, but he quickly tended to his duty in the uncomfortable situation. He managed to bleat out a reasonably correct version of our names and titles, though Sandy had to whisper a few in his ear as he stumbled through it.

  I sighed in disgust before leading my gentlemen into the hall, striding in with the confidence of a conqueror. The petty nobility who congregated near the entrance hushed their gossiping when they saw us, though it resumed with new intensity a moment later.

  “It’s as if they’d never seen a party of magelords before,” mused Astyral. “You have no idea the joy it gives me to be here,” he confided, quietly. “These are the same people who scorned Mavone, Delman and I when our Talent emerged.”

  “There is a bit of satisfaction in it,” Mavone conceded, with a rare grin.

  “Ah, the delicious aroma of scandal!” Sandy chuckled. “How hot do you want them, Min?”

  “Just below a boil,” I suggested. “But we need to let them know we were here. Let’s see if we can’t become a topic of conversation for the next few weeks.”

  “Since Baroness Fysla’s unmentionables managed that feat a few years ago, I don’t think it will be difficult,” Astyral concluded, pleased. “But no bloodshed, if you can avoid it. My future in-laws are here,” he reminded us.

  “We’ll keep it classy,” Sandy agreed, snatching a goblet from a cupbearer’s tray as he and Mavone broke from the group and began to mingle . . . toward a cluster of young Gilmoran maidens.

  “I see a few lords I recall from Cambrian,” Terleman grunted, nodding toward the fire. “It’s time we were re-acquainted.”

  “Shall we make the acquaintance of your in-laws-to-be, Astyral?” I asked, as I looked over the crowd of sweaty, well-dressed nobility. “Before things get more awkward?”

  “That would be delightful,” he agreed, fetching us each a glass. “And a good place to start.”

  Astyral’s potential father-in-law, Baron Maynard of Locare, seemed a good man, nearly as uncomfortable with the elaborate affair as I was. But he bore the necessary social occasion with stoicism, standing quietly and greeting his peers stoically as his wife, Anila, flitted around him like a butterfly.

  But her activity stopped when Astyral approached. The baroness was a handsome woman whose youthful beauty still shone through the lines on her face and the gray in her hair. She seemed genuinely excited to meet me, though that could have been courtly manners at play. My friend smoothly made the introductions with as much gracious Gilmoran flourish as was appropriate, and after the usual compliments and greetings were exchanged, we were able to speak more plainly.

  “I have heard that you and your friends made an impression at the tournament, today, Count Minalan,” the baron commented, his eyes darting back and forth to us. “It is said you vexed Count Anvaram,” he concluded, evenly.

  “He seems a gentleman of excitable passions,” I said, diplomatically. My tone conveyed my feelings enough to earn a chuckle from both of them.

  “The Count’s arrogance is well-known, especially among his peers,” Baron Maynard said, shaking his head with a sigh. “It does not take much to earn his offence. Indeed, it’s grown worse, since his posting to the ducal court,” he added.

  “If you think he’s arrogant, his wife is insufferable!” the baroness pronounced. “May the gods bless her path in this life, she’s one of the most vindictive women I’ve had the misfortune to know,” she pronounced, frowning.

  “Really?” I asked. “I had heard that she was an admirable noblewoman who enjoys all of the finer arts and sport,” I said, feigning confusion. “Particularly riding,” I added, completing the jibe. The countess’ affair with her groom was only whispered about in Gilmoran society, I knew. To speak of it openly was to invite scandal. And the way the baroness’ eyes lit up, I knew I had given her enough to run with.

  “Oh, she has quite the reputation as a horsewoman,” she agreed, gleefully. “Something she no doubt picked up from the ducal court, last year. I hear the courtiers there indulge in many such active pursuits.”

  “My time in the Castali ducal court is long past, I’m afraid, and I rarely consorted with courtiers, but that is my recollection,” I agreed, confirming her suspicions. “But to the subject at hand: my excellent friend Astyral, to whom you propose a marriage to your daughter,” I said, changing the subject before we stretched the innuendo too far. “While I know not your fair Maithieran, I can assure you that Astyral is a gentleman in all occasions. As brave on the battlefield as he is generous in his hospitality.”

  “My lord’s reputation is well known,” the baron agreed, thoughtfully. “In fact, I can find no one in all Gilmora who speaks ill of him.”

  “I have spent the last five years in the Wilderlands,” Astyral pointed out, lightly. “All of my darkest secrets are there.”

  “Yes, a horrific record of wise leadership and adept management of a marginal town on the edge of a war zone,” I said, shaking my head in sadness. “But if it helps your decisions, I’ve not heard of any poor peasant maidens appearing before the magistrate claiming Astyral has wronged them,” I reported. “And I would have heard about that. Indeed, his governorship was free of scandal and complaint. He brought order and civilization to that wild town and improved its prosperity immensely, under the most arduous of circumstances.”

  “Yes, a pity you had to burn it down,” Astyral sighed.

  I ignored him. He’d been just as happy to see that poorly-designed town burned to ruin as any . . . but his nostalgia for those days was already starting to set in, as the strain of running two baronies was upon him. “If you have any question about him requiring a candid response, I invite you to ask,” I continued. “I vow to answer it honestly.”

  The two looked at each other for a moment, and a kind of conversation ensued between them without actual words — the kind of marital telepathy Alya and I were developing, before her injury— before the baroness looked around and cleared her throat nervously.

  “I take you at your word, my lord,” Anila said, with a slight bow. “Indeed, we have no doubts about Baron Astyral’s quality as a gentleman, nor do we fear he will abuse our daughter.”

  “Though Trygg blessed her with a sharp enough tongue he may be tempted,” the baron conceded in a grumble, earning a look from his wife.

  “Beyond reputation, he comes from a good and honorable house,” the Baroness continued, patiently, “and has proven his worth through his accomplishments. He enjoys the favor of Duke Anguin – Trygg and Duin bless his reign – and he certainly has . . . well-known friends,” she said, her eyes darting to my hat. “What concerns us is the tenability of her marriage to another . . . magelord,” she said, swallowing before she spoke the word. “How are things done, among your class, my lord Count?” Anila finally asked, bravely.

  I chuckled, despite myself. “I assure you, my lady, there is nothing untoward about the application of noble society upon the magi,” I assured her. “Indeed, most of us High Magi were born into noble houses – me and a few others excepted. With that said, allow the son of an artisan to assure you that magelords are just as pig-headed, arrogant, and prone to human frailty as other nobles. And they are just as prone to heroics, generosity and gentle manners.”

  “The few differences involve matters of trade or style, more than function,” agreed Asty
ral. “An elegant question, my lady! Though I confess that we are still evolving, as a class. Not all magi are magelords,” he pointed out. “Those who enter the nobility from common origins do so after proving their value in some feat in service to the duchy . . . whichever duchy they might be in,” he added, knowingly.

  “With our folk out-of-favor in the Castali ducal court, I can well understand your concern,” I said, finishing my wine. “Yet I assure you, magelords will continue to be a factor in our society, regardless of their favor. Your daughter’s future as Astyral’s bride is secure.”

  “It’s not that we object to my lord Astyral, you understand,” the baron took up. “Luin’s staff, we were fearful our poor daughter would have to take holy orders, just a few years ago. It was a challenge, when her Talents emerged. She seemed so enthusiastic about it,” he recalled, fondly. “And while she saw no reason to regret trading her future for her spellwork, her mother and I despaired she would be denied a man worthy of her.”

  “Well, I didn’t say he was worthy of her,” I jibed, “but he is a solid gentleman and a comrade at arms on several battlefields, and there’s always doubt when a maid marries a soldier. He has a gentle heart and a keen mind, and I have never known him to be cruel. My only concern is your poor daughter will have to fight for him for wardrobe space in their castle. Astyral has a reputation amongst his professional peers for being more concerned with style than spells, and hosiery than horseflesh.”