Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “Good taste is no sin, my lord!” Astyral declared, with mock offense. “Nor should a gentleman be limited in his sartorial selections, if he wishes to properly adorn himself for the occasion!”

  “Just see you do not improperly limit your wife’s selections at the expense of your own,” I chided my friend. “If I see your wife in rags . . .”

  “I would never!” he insisted. “Indeed, I quite look forward to coordinating our outfits. She is a beautiful woman,” he confessed, sincerely. “I think we will make a striking pair, once I straighten out the colors and nature of my new heraldic device.”

  “And you will make beautiful children, Trygg willing,” the baroness agreed, beaming, as she glanced at her husband. “My lord Astyral, I was cautious of your proposal before, but I find myself convinced that you would be a good match for our Maithieran,” she decided. “Do you agree, my lord husband?”

  “You have my blessing,” he conceded. “Indeed, the longer I converse with you, my lord, the more I feel secure in my daughter’s future happiness. She needs a strong man with good humor and a keen wit to counter her own. Any less, and I might fear for the health of the marriage.”

  “Yes, an abundance of humor is a grace, in a marriage,” the baroness agreed, giving her husband a sharp glance. “And Maithieran is the cleverest of my daughters. She deserves a husband who equals her. By Trygg’s holy smile, I pledge our daughter to you,” she concluded.

  “And you have no problem with my . . . special request?” I asked, softly.

  That made the two of them look at each other, then both smile mischievously.

  “I am happy to help, particularly if it will ensure a bountiful future for my daughter,” the baroness agreed. “I see no harm in a little subterfuge.”

  “I am quite willing to play my part, Excellency,” Baron Maynard nodded. “Since the invasion, Count Anvaram has been throwing around his power. This could well blunt his desire to bring us yet-closer to the Castali ducal court. Send your lawbrother to me, when it is convenient, Astyral, and he can look over the specific dowry we’ve proposed,” the baron added, giving his future son-in-law a bow. “Six estates, all worthy and prosperous enterprises. I think you will be pleased.”

  “The lands concern me less than your daughter’s decision,” Astyral demurred. “I would take no wife who was unenthusiastic about the match, even if she freely consents.”

  “My daughter is quite enchanted by you, pardon the pun,” her father admitted, with a deep chuckle. “Which is a novelty — Maithieran rarely comments on men who interest her sensibilities, as she claims they are too rare and fleeting. She has responded to your meeting . . . differently.”

  “She’s not been able to shut up about him, is what she’s done,” her mother countered. “She utters your name like a spell a dozen times an hour, if she’s allowed. Usually she’s such a practical girl, but . . . if you doubt her enthusiasm or its sincerity, my lord, might I mention that my daughter sits vigil at Ishi’s temple this night?” she informed him, knowingly. “She prays for guidance in the strange land of her own heart. And she is not particularly religious.”

  “I understand, my lady,” Astyral said, with a gracious bow. “I think I know what course my heart will propel my feet this good night.”

  We parted, after a few more polite exchanges, and when we did Astyral was walking with a distinct swagger.

  “Feeling good about that, are you?” I asked, cautiously.

  “I thought it went particularly well,” he agreed. “Six estates! I considered only half that many. And she awaits me at the temple . . . that’s a well-known site for sudden fits of passion,” he reminded me.

  “You’re concerned about the dowry?” I asked surprised.

  “The size of a lady’s dowry is discussed as much as her wedding, or even her children, in Gilmora,” Astyral shrugged. “I would not wish my wife to suffer in status if her father valued her so little. He is not a poor man,” he reminded me. “It’s as much his status in question, as hers. I figured a mageling daughter would be worth at least three estates — two because she’s his daughter and one for her nobility. But six? That’s quite generous. Maithieran will never worry about being seen as a cast-off or an embarrassment.”

  “But what will you do with six more estates?” I asked, shaking my head at the priorities of the nobility. “You have two baronies to run, as it is!”

  “Oh, they’ll run themselves,” he dismissed. “They’re all in the south, in Baron Maynard’s lands in Benfradine, so they weren’t affected by the invasion. Which means that they will have people already in charge of the operations. We merely gain the collected revenues, after tribute and taxes are paid. We’ll barely know we own them,” he insisted. “Besides, it gives us something to bequeath to our own daughters, some day. Some dowry lands have been thus assigned for—” he said, before he stopped, abruptly.

  I knew that look. Someone was speaking to him, mind-to-mind. In a moment, I had the same look.

  Min! Sandy’s mental voice said, as if he was standing next to me. You wanted some drama? We managed to conjure some.

  We’ve only been here fifteen minutes! I objected. Did you pinch the wrong arse?

  No, but something almost as dramatic. There’s to be an impromptu duel, he told me, eagerly.

  What? Sandy, what did you do? I moaned. I said no duels!

  Me? I was drinking with Mavone and making off-color comments about the maidens, mind-to-mind! We were still getting into the right mindset for some mischief when some idiot jouster got into a disagreement with Terleman. I saw the whole thing. He wasn’t looking for trouble, he was trying to have a conversation with a lovely young woman. But then this oxen’s arse said something offensive. Terl said something caustic that challenged his manhood. It escalated after that. Mavone and I tried to intervene, but before we could even get there the jackass took offense and issued the challenge to Terl. You should probably be here.

  I’m on my way with Astyral, I assured him. Where are you?

  By the wine barrels near the buttery. You should hurry. They’re just negotiating the details, and you don’t want to miss that. Here, I’ll go ahead and pour you a cup of wine.

  “Wizards are notoriously subtle, and concoct schemes and plots the way other men breathe. It is not wrong to suspect the motives in a mage’s manipulations, but it is often futile. As Minalan matured into his role as Count, he began to court politics, when necessary . . . but always with a purpose. If he did something that seemed inconsequential or frivolous, the wise would wager that he did so intentionally. The wiser would understand that his true motivations were yet clouded by a cloak of misdirection.”

  From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser

  Chapter Nineteen

  Terleman and the Lion of Gilmora

  Sir Larvone the Valiant was a twenty-two-year-old professional jouster blessed with broad shoulders, a sharp jaw and a pair of brilliant blue eyes that flashed every time he grinned or scowled. By the time we arrived at the buttery entrance, his eyes were flashing like bonfires.

  His device was a red lion he garishly displayed on nearly any surface he could claim ownership of. He was trying to style himself as “the Lion of Gilmora” or “The Red Lion” to improve his popularity (and thus the betting) on the tournament circuit. But he was too young and too green to bear his ferocious lion emblem without inviting some well-earned skepticism about his abilities. In reaction, he made a point of arrogantly interjecting himself into others’ affairs, as he might imagine a lion to do.

  Sir Larvone, as I learned later, was the youngest son of a powerful knight-banneret in central Gilmora. His mother was a Castali noblewoman and his brothers and sisters had all gone on to good marriages, good holdings or appointments to impressive sacred orders. He’d been left but one small estate for his upkeep when his sire died in his sleep. Larvone was a dynastical after-thought, a final son to prove the old knight’s virility before he died. When Larvone was of age and knighte
d, he elected to swap his small estate for the panoply of war and try his fortunes on the jousting circuit.

  He wasn’t half bad. From what Mavone later told me, the Lion of Gilmora worked his way into the middle of the field of professional contenders and had high aspirations for his future. His placement at fourth in the over-all lists of the Champion’s Tournament had earned him a purse and a place of honor in the Champion’s Guard. At a tournament as large and important as Barrowbell, that was a decent showing for a knight so young. Sir Larvone was also a partisan; his family were sworn vassals to Count Anvaram, and he strongly favored Castal’s dominant claim to Gilmora.

  For whatever reason, Sir Larvone objected to Terleman’s discussion with a young and comely noblewoman . . . or perhaps it was his very appearance at the feast. Regardless of his original motive, by all accounts he was aggressive in his approach to the veteran warmage.

  Terleman is no jouster, he’s a professional soldier. He had a warmage’s usual contempt for the chivalry compounded by his frustrating experiences trying to rally the Gilmorans in defense of their own lands. Nor does he suffer fools lightly. It only took two or three exchanges between the two of them for things to grow hot.

  Once Terl cast aspersions not just on professional jousters, but on heavy cavalry in general, Sir Larvone was honor-bound to defend his class. He insulted Terl and slapped him with his sleeve in the ritual gesture the Gilmorans used to issue a challenge. It has to do with the “no unanswered blow” portion of the chivalric code or something.

  I don’t know what response Sir Lavone thought he’d get, but Terleman replied by boxing the man’s ears with the flat of his hand so hard it knocked him off his feet, just as we arrived.

  Gasps went up from the circle of observers who’d gathered to witness the altercation. Apparently, that’s not the usual way the challenge is accepted.

  “You dare!” the young hotspur said, leaping to his feet and rubbing his face.

  “You were the one who challenged me,” Terleman reminded him, evenly. “I just responded in kind.”

  “A gentleman knows when to apply restraint to his use of force!” Sir Larvone said, accusingly.

  “Well, that would explain how you lot fought during the invasion,” Terleman observed, with a roll of his eyes.

  Another gasp filled the air. My heart sank. I’d wanted to stir the cauldron a little bit, while we were here, but this was more than I’d anticipated.

  “Are you implying that the knights of Gilmora did not display courage?” he asked, his feelings as offended as his cheek was.

  “I’d prefer not to speak ill of the dead,” Terleman shot back. He’s a soldier. This was a fight. He didn’t play fair.

  “So . . . my lord,” the knight said through clenched teeth, struggling to control himself. “I think we have a discussion ahead of us. My second is Sir Osmaran of Samar Wood. Your friend may see him, to settle the details.”

  “Oh, I think we can settle them right now,” Terleman shrugged. “You issued the challenge, I set the time and place, correct? As well as the weapon?”

  “That is your discretion,” agreed Sir Larvone. “Traditionally, the list field is where honorable gentlemen settle their differences over lances.”

  “Perhaps Gilmoran knights do it that way. I’m a warmage,” he said, earning a startled look from his challenger. “I chose here and now.”

  “I . . . I beg your pardon?” Sir Larvone said, confused. “Usually a good gentleman prefers a few days to get his affairs in order, before indulging in such a discussion,” he said, arrogantly.

  “A good warmage always has his affairs in order,” Terleman replied, darkly.

  “But my lord, we’re miles from the list fields,” he objected. “My horse is—”

  “Your horse didn’t challenge me,” Terleman interrupted the Red Lion of Gilmora, irritated. “You did. There’s no reason to tire your poor steed further, after it hauled your useless arse back and forth across the list field all day. We settle this here and now, and we use our personal weapons. Hells, you can use whatever weapon you wish,” he granted.

  I was in a dilemma. I needed a fight, but I hadn’t intended on getting into one literally. Knowing my friends, this could get out of hand fast. Conversely, it could be an opportunity, if it played out well. I committed.

  “Terleman, don’t burn him alive!” I warned, sternly, fearing the result of such a tactic. I didn’t need him inspiring any more bad feelings about the magi. The look on the knight’s face at the mention of such a possibility was gratifying.

  Terleman looked at me with a scowl. “I’m not Azar!” he snorted. “Besides, I wouldn’t waste the spell on this twerp. Honest steel will be sufficient.”

  “You really want to fight a duel here . . . at a ball? On foot?” Sir Larvone asked, scandalized. “That is just not done in Gilmora!”

  “You should have challenged a Gilmoran, then,” Terl said, shrugging out of his rich black mantle and handing it to Mavone. “Do you want to do it here, or outside?”

  “It’s too dark to fight!” snorted Sir Larvone, contemptuously. Terleman returned the snort with interest.

  “We’re wizards, you fool!” Mavone said, conjuring a bright magelight overhead. It doubled the illumination in the room in an instant. “When you fall, it won’t be because you stumbled in the dark!”

  “This is highly irregular!” one of the assembled lords said with a sniff. “Usually such unseemly matters are dealt with in privacy!”

  “He made a public challenge and wanted everyone here to see it. I figured he’s due a public defeat,” Terleman reasoned with a shrug, as he loosened his mageblade in its scabbard. He wore it at his belt, not over his shoulder, as he would when going into battle. This was a social event, after all.

  There was more discussion and argument, but then Mavone stepped in as Terleman’s second and got the duel organized. His Gilmoran accent and knowledge of the dueling code lent him some authority as he negotiated between the parties. While he did it with the utmost seriousness, I think he enjoyed the display.

  He escorted both duelists, as well as his counterpart and a goodly number of excited partygoers, outside to a wide courtyard where a few lovers had repaired. Sandy cast a trio of magelights overhead while the gallant Sir Larvone, now having second thoughts about his rash challenge, was pushed to one side of a flagged circle in the middle of the garden. Terleman took position on the other side, leaning on the point of his sword while he patiently waited.

  Sandy, who was enjoying the free wine, made a point of rousing the crowd for the unexpected entertainment. Word spread through the ball quickly -- apparently such things were rare – and the novelty brought at least a hundred more spectators out of the hall to observe. There was laughter and excitement as Sandy presented the facts behind the challenge to the latecomers. There was an uneasy stir through the crowd when it was revealed that the challenged party was a magelord, but that seemed to make them all the more eager for the bout.

  While Mavone was conferring with the confused young man named as Sir Larvone’s confused second, the lord of the estate arrived with his retinue to see what had disrupted his entertainment. Count Salgren of Karinboll wanted to see what was disturbing his party. In fact, a trio of counts and their wives appeared in the magelit courtyard, disturbed expressions on their faces. One of them was Count Anvaram.

  Perhaps this would turn out better than I thought.

  Astyral chose that moment to join me.

  “Five minutes before announcing my engagement, he had to go and get involved in a duel,” he said, with mock severity.

  “I’m sorry he stole your attention,” I consoled.

  “Are you joking? This is the most exciting thing that’s happened at this tired old event in years. Most Gilmorans want to stretch out the drama of a duel for weeks. An instant duel? That’s deliciously impetuous. This will be quite a scandal,” he said, approvingly. “Doubly so, since Mavone is involved as a second. It lends the event some
additional legitimacy. And Sandy is churning up the enthusiasm more than most Gilmoran duels. He’d make quite the market barker. Yes, this will be delightful!”

  “That should make things interested,” Sandoval said when he joined us, a moment later. “I figured if Terl was going to fight, he needed an audience. I’ve asked around. I don’t think that young fool has held a sword in years. And never a war lance. Terl will cut him to pieces!”

  “The terms of the traditional Gilmoran duel are first blood, unless it’s a court-ordered duel,” Astyral informed us, as the judge was determined: a gray-haired old knight in an elegant green doublet. “That’s what that old geezer is explaining. He’s Sire Gilray, Count Omard of Almoranda’s Knight Marshal, so he wants to make certain everything is nice and legal.”