Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “More of a complex of halls,” I corrected, as I used the Magolith to lift his baggage in the air by magic. “It’s still being constructed, but it should be enough to get us started. We can build more facilities as the need arises. It’s over here, in the Thaumaturge’s Quarter,” I said, as I began leading him to the building.

  “The . . . you have an entire quarter named for my discipline?” he asked, amused and pleased.

  “And one for enchantment. But before you ask, not all of the specialties get their own section of town,” I answered. “Unless you count Herbomancy, which would be covered by the Tera Alon and Kasari quarters. And perhaps theurgy, in the temple quarter – the Avitalines have a small abbey there, at my invitation. But apart from that, it’s a normal town.”

  “It’s far from a normal town, Your Excellency,” he said as he watched two Tera Alon maidens giggling to each other as they passed the other way, just ahead of two Wood Dwarves carrying an unimaginably massive load between them. “I’ve never seen so many nonhumans in one place!”

  “It’s just how the town came about,” I shrugged. “It keeps things interesting. That row of halls over there is where I live, when I’m in town, as well as many of the other High Magi. Which will include you, before long,” I promised.

  “Ah, yes, I was to get a shard of irionite,” he said, trying to disguise his eagerness. “That is quite generous of you, Your Excellency.”

  “Please, Master Theronial, call me Minalan,” I urged. “We are colleagues, after all.”

  “You were my student,” he agreed. “I don’t really recall any research you submitted . . .”

  “I co-authored a few scrolls with Lady Pentandra,” I reminded him. “As well as an examination of Magosphere Theory through the ages.”

  “I’m sure it was quite insightful,” he said, diplomatically. “But no, I don’t remember it. The Sex Magic papers I do, but only because such a lovely young colleague was presenting them.”

  “We found we got a better response when Pentandra presented,” I conceded. “But my purpose here is not to make myself appear smarter than I actually am,” I explained. “Quite the contrary, it is because of my own limitations that I am assembling as many experts as possible.”

  “Experts. On thaumaturgy,” he said with a sniff. “Well, you’ll be the only one seeking them, then. Theory is lovely, Minalan, but the sad fact of the matter is that it doesn’t pay your rent. Not unless you teach,” he corrected himself. “Then it just barely pays your rent.”

  “Don’t worry – I’ve included residence, livery, and a respectable stipend for your work here,” I soothed as we crossed the street to the college, proper. “And you will have your pick of collaborators. If you need a text, we will get it for you. If you need a laboratory, we’ll build it for you. That hall over there is the residence hall – they just finished the fireplace and the kitchens, that was the last part. Over here is the main hall,” I said, setting down his baggage on the steps and opening the double doors. The stain on the wood was still sticky. “This is where most of the work will be done.”

  “Thaumaturgy is mostly done in the mind,” he reminded me, as he looked around with interest. “Kind of sparse, isn’t it?”

  “The local backlog for furniture in Vanador is terrible, I’m afraid,” I agreed. “But assemble a list of what you need and I’ll have Rael fetch it for you. We can take it out of your operating allowance.”

  “I get an operating allowance?” he asked, surprised.

  “As head of the college, you will have full control,” I agreed. “If money breeds results, I’ll throw you all you need. This way leads to the library,” I said, leading him through the barren main hall and into the rear of the building. “It’s still in progress, of course, but there are over five hundred volumes so far. I think you’ll be impressed.”

  “I look forward to it,” he said, absently. “Far be it from me to question a man who is willing to grant me my every professional whim and desire, Minalan, but I’m no fool. Such a magnificent benefice . . . but as much as I’d like to think I’m just that good at what I do, I know you aren’t doing this out of your great sense of professional pride. What am I really doing here, Spellmonger?”

  “I need you to figure out how I performed the snowstone spell,” I answered, as I brought him out of a side door and into the small garden, which was as barren as the hall was, this time of year. “I’ll give you access to all the research I’ve done, and that was done by Dunselen, but I need a trained thaumaturge – a really, really good thaumaturge – to deconstruct the spell and figure out how to replicate it.”

  “That’s . . . Minalan, wouldn’t you be the one best suited to do that?” he asked, hesitantly.

  “I might,” I agreed, taking a seat in one of the two garden chairs I’d had placed there. “But only if I understand the thaumaturgical theory of what I was doing. I was improvising, that night,” I reminded him. “It was a very specific set of circumstances. I don’t which ones were important for the spell and which ones were incidental. I just don’t have the depth of knowledge to be able to figure it out. I’m hoping you do.”

  “I think you give my abilities entirely too much credit, Minalan. At the risk of talking myself out of a very lucrative position, I’m a decent theorist and a capable administrator. No more,” he assured.

  “That’s what I need,” I said, encouragingly. “I don’t need you to solve the problem, yourself. I need you to find the people who can solve the problem. We’ve already attracted a significant number of good thaumaturges here. With some guidance, direction, and organization, I think one of them – or some of them – may have the answer in their heads. Your job is to pound it out of them.”

  “Well, when you put it like that,” he chuckled, as I conjured wine for him. “It’s better than preaching elementary thaumaturgy to yet-another class of dim-witted future spellmongers. I suppose the academy will have to muddle along without me. Though the climate concerns me . . . I’ve grown use to warmer temperatures. I don’t think I’ve seen snow since my youth,” he said, gesturing toward the ridgeline to the north, which had already received the first dusting of the season on its peaks.

  “We will use magic to mitigate that,” I promised. “But if you don’t think Inarion can spare you . . .”

  “Oh, my assistant has been aspiring to my position for years,” he dismissed. “He can have it. One does not give up such an amazing opportunity as this lightly. Not at my age. Not when it includes irionite.”

  “The position is not without some danger,” I cautioned. “We are in the wilderness, with terrible enemies all too close by. I can promise you defense and protection, here, but I cannot guarantee a life without the threat of war.”

  “I had to give up my quarters as an officer’s barracks for two years, during that horrid Farise invasion you were drafted for. I managed well enough. War is an inconvenience to research, not a deterrence.”

  “I’m glad we agree. The snowstone spell is the focus of the college, at the moment. But it won’t be the only theory we investigate,” I explained. “I have an ulterior motive. I want this place to also become a kind of . . . secret headquarters for us magi to discuss other matters. Matters that concern all humanity. Matters that concern humanity’s origins. And our survival.”

  “I don’t take your meaning,” he said, shaking his head uneasily.

  “Master, even most of the magi don’t truly understand how precarious our hold on this place is,” I sighed. “Or have the slightest idea about the truth of our origins, or the history of our settlement. The things I’ve learned about us, about the Alka Alon, about the Vundel, and so many other things give me great cause to worry. I need some wise heads around to discuss my concerns with. A thaumaturgical college may not seem like an ideal place to do so, but it has some advantages . . . such as keeping most of the Alka Alon from poking around while we’re figuring out what to do.”

  “I’m aware of the power of the Sea Folk,” he nod
ded, thoughtfully. “As well as the power of the Alka Alon. But what place have we in those affairs?” he asked, resigned.

  “Someone has to have a place there,” I countered. “I need an institution that can gather information about our past and collect it for study. Some tekka, of course, and as many of the old records as we can gather. But we need to do more, if we are going to navigate through the dangers ahead.”

  He studied me carefully. He wasn’t stupid. “You speak as if danger is imminent.”

  “Well, we are about to be attacked by a horde of goblins led by an ancient evil power,” I conceded, “but that’s a temporary nuisance, in my life.

  “No, the danger may not come to a head for decades, even centuries, yet. But if we do not pay attention to it, I fear we will allow the tides of fate to wash us away,” I predicted, gloomily. “Discovering the secret of making snowstone could give us some leverage we desperately need. But learning as much as we can about the greater forces we face would give us far more.

  “Until a few years ago, I though the Alka Alon were benevolent spirits only interested in wandering around in the forest . . . not the puppeteers behind a good part of our history. We just haven’t had the institutional memory to even understand that, much less counter it. I want to regain control of the situation through the auspices of the college.”

  “I don’t know exactly what that would entail, but scholarship is always productive,” he considered. “Is this Gilmoran wine?” he asked, looking into his glass.

  “Bikavar,” I corrected. “A gift from Duke Anguin. And Rael keeps an exotic stock of such vintages over at the Wizard’s Mercantile. I already had an account established there in your name. One of the benefits of living in Vanador is access to all sorts of intriguing luxuries.”

  “Irionite, money, and wine?” he chuckled. “I accept your proposal, Minalan. If you need me to study the ancient past as well as arcane theory . . . well, don’t threaten me with bliss, Spellmonger, and expect me to shirk.”

  “I thought you might think that way,” I smiled. I’d always liked the old coot, even when I was cursing his complicated lessons into the theoretical underpinnings of magical practice. But he’d always been solid in his approach and masterful in his explanation of the subject. “I went ahead and brought your witchstone,” I added, pulling a small box out of my pouch. “I figured you’d want to get started as soon as possible.”

  ***

  Master Theronial was the first of the theorists who came to the college, and by Luin’s Day he was beginning to put his new charge in order. He was joined soon enough by Taren, who took a room in the hall until he could secure other quarters, and Thinradel, an old colleague. Thinradel had mostly finished his work at the bouleuterion and was looking for another diversion. I couldn’t deny him the opportunity.

  Beyond that, Theronial began recruiting other thaumaturges from Vanador and beyond, almost exclusively from the Imperially-trained wizards there. He poached a few from the bouleuterion, which amused and irritated Thinradel, and went by the Ways to Sevendor to see who else might be interested. He came back with four, and two more were referred by Pentandra from Enultramar.

  It was a daunting responsibility, but Theronial did a masterful job of finding men and women with complementary fields of study and an offbeat approach to the subject. He was not interested in rote adherence to the existing literature – he was seeking innovators and radical thinkers. Wizards who were willing to challenge the accepted theory and push beyond.

  After setting him to his challenging task and ensuring he had the resources and direction he needed, I turned my attention to my other duties.

  Luin’s day was at hand, the end of the harvest, and it was to be a propitious one for the Magelaw. Luin’s Day was an opportune time to enact and announce Brother Bryte’s new legal framework for the realm. In places like Falas and Castabrial, or any major city, the holiday was particularly beloved of the learned classes. Here in Vanador the nominal focus on the Lawgiver and the rituals associated with his cult seemed like a mere administrative detail, compared to the emphasis the people placed on the abundant harvest.

  The fields of Vanador had prospered, in that first year, prospered in ways that made men break out into spontaneous hymns to the Tiller while they stacked sheaves of wheat at harvest. Once magic had been employed, fields that would have taken years to bring to full fecundity were producing impressive crops their virgin season.

  The big issue was rocks. We had a gracious plenty of them, and they kept the heavy wooden plows the Wilderfolk traditionally used from biting terribly deep into the soil. It took a heavy team of oxen or an iron plow or both to sufficiently turn the earth enough to cut through the heavy turf. Every pass revealed new rocks that had to be taken out of the way. That had made bringing a field to life an iterative process, with each successive plowing granting the Wilderfolk an opportunity to slightly improve the soil by removing the stones.

  With magic’s aid, however, a plowing wand could bring every rock larger than your thumb to the surface in the process at one go, allowing them to be cleared all at once. Many of the fields of Vanador are surrounded by fences of mage-melded rock as a result.

  The churned earth that bore the stones was further improved by the spell by aerating it magnificently, eliminating the need for harrowing. Then it was settled into perfectly straight rows and ridges, ready for sowing. Roots and decaying sticks were magically incinerated and re-incorporated into the soil. What manual work involved in the magical plowing largely involved removing the rocks from the field. The advantages over the old system were dramatically clear at harvest.

  But that wasn’t all magic had done to help Vanador. During the spring I had Master Minnik and his crews quietly seed scores of Olmeg the Green’s incredible thaumaturgical glass spheres across Vanador, particularly in the farmlands. It was an ongoing process, but where the arcane globes were placed the fields had produced in heady abundance. By the end of the harvest Rael had entirely ceased bringing additional grain in from the Arcane Mercantile’s agents, there was so much native corn in the granaries.

  The Wilderfolk freeholders who were familiar with the lands of the region were surprised at the unexpected bounty, after such a long period of dearth. Many wept at the sight of their abundant produce heading into the silos and barns stacked to the rafters with hay. Newly-dug cellars were stuffed with roots and vegetables, and there was so much wheat, maize and barley that Rael had to put several tons into magical storage when the granaries ran out of room. Even Huin’s priests were surprised by the amount the new-made fields produced, as the traditional tithe to the temple poured in from across the plateau – though they didn’t hesitate to take credit for the harvest.

  Nothing gets the common folk in a hopeful mood like a good harvest. No one had starved while the magi were importing grain for the town, but it had created an uneasiness in a folk used to making their own provision. A man who makes his living from the land, whose success or failure – or even his family’s survival – is dependent upon the results of mixing his labor with capricious Nature is powerfully invested in the harvest. The Luin’s Day tally at the Temple of Huin (still half-finished, but with a dedicated chapel for the rite) revealed to all just how much they’d been blessed by the god of grain.

  It helped that the weather that summer had been nigh perfect for wheat, with rain and sun in ideal measures, but no doubt magic did quite a bit for the harvest. Bringing in the sheaves of wheat without the back-breaking effort of scything was nearly as impressive as tilling the land without a plow to our peasants. Praise at Luin’s Day was as thick for the wizards of the realm as it was for Huin the Tiller.

  Luin’s Day was the traditional time in which annual debts are settled, rents are paid and new deals discussed for the next year. Artisans paid off their accounts and collected payment promised at Luin’s Day. Each Hundred used the occasion to elect village reeves, aldermen, even ale-tasters and haywards. A number of civil positions in the town�
��s government were being elected by the new burghers, and most of the temples used the festival as an excuse to announce promotions and re-assignments, if they’re that organized. It’s as much an administrative holiday as it is a harvest festival, and as the administrative center for the Magelaw, Vanador was flooded with visitors for a few days.

  It was, of course, the holiest day of the year for the Luinites. Brother Bryte was not the senior-most member of his order in Vanador – that distinction belonged to Lawfather Amberose, a Voroni cleric who’d founded the Vanador temple around the time the dragon ate the palace at Vorone – but as my chief counselor, Bryte had special authority at the occasion, and he prepared to present his legal plea with great attention to detail.

  After the harvest tally at Huin’s temple, it was time for the Benediction of the Staff, the sacred rite affirming our adherence to Luin’s holy law. It took place at Luin’s imposing chapel. Someday there would be a grand stone temple to the Lawgiver, but the traditional pillars that lined the blocky chapel were of birchwood, each bearing a torch, the day Brother Bryte presented.

  Father Amberose wasn’t expecting much in terms of attendance for the rite; despite the titular focus of the holiday, not many folk who didn’t have pending legal cases showed up to hear the senior-most priest invoke the ancient words that guided our people. Luin is a boring god, and most commoners are leery of the Law. Ordinarily, only the members of the sect and a few patrons appear for the rite. Everyone else might offer a libation of cheap beer to the Lawgiver, but they’d rather avoid his notice.

  So it was a bit of a surprise to the attending monks when Brother Bryte and I arrived that morning, dressed in finery, along with a retinue of my vassals and retainers. The old lawfather looked confused but pleased at the attention of the nobility to his sacred rite, and did a credible job of the ceremony, no doubt expecting a generous offering . . . but he kept cutting his eyes to Bryte and our party. Clearly, he suspected something was afoot.