“You don’t seem to have any problem including yourself among their number,” Dad observed, raising an eyebrow as he packed his pipe.
“Once you’ve been made a baron, rank stops being such an impressive thing. The power relationships are the same in any system. Rard’s administration is supposed to turn out good, wholesome, well-ground flour – the conditions necessary for the common folk and the artisan classes can prosper. When the flour is good, the bread is good.”
“A shitty baker can spoil good flour,” Dad pointed out.
“That’s not Rard’s problem – he’s only responsible for milling flour. As long as he does that, the rest is up to us. But we have to watch him, and watch what effects his policies have on our lands. We hold him to account.”
“Who holds you to account, then?”
“Me? Personally? My father, actually,” I chuckled. “I’m an exception. Most high nobles are held in check by a balance between their vassals and their liege – the duke or king. If I started oppressing the peasants, Duke Anguin might have something to say about it. Or he might not,” I conceded. “In my case, if I fail at baking my bread, I’ll lose my new lands to goblins, so . . .”
“So you’d better not screw up the dough,” Dad finished. “I think this metaphor has run its course.”
“Perhaps. But I hope you understand my perspective. I take my duty to my people more seriously than a lot of counts, I expect, but none of them are immune to the problems an incompetent monarch could bring them. One bad edict, and they could be facing peasants’ revolts or riots in their towns. No one wants that.”
“You think that’s likely?” Dad asked, suddenly concerned.
“No, not at present,” I soothed. “In fact, so far Rard’s policies have been well-received. Commerce is expanding, there is coin flowing, and we even have peace, technically, with the Goblin King. On the other hand, he’s lost Farise, and gained Enultramar only by proxy. But those are far-off lands. One reason I’m going to Vanador overland, instead of just popping through the Ways, is that I want to survey the kingdom for myself to determine that very thing.”
Dad snorted smoke out of his nose. “And you think you can fix it, if it’s broken?”
“It depends on how broken, and where. But I at least need to see for myself. And I wouldn’t mind a few days of quiet reflection, before I plunge into the task ahead. One thing I’ve learned in military service is that hearing a report is no substitute for an inspection. So I’m taking this chance to sift through the flour.”
“Wise,” Dad conceded, through a cloud of smoke. “What happens if you don’t like what you see?”
I shrugged. “Then it will factor into my plans. If Rard has a long and prosperous reign, then I should be able to support him enthusiastically. If he starts screwing things up . . . then I’ll make contingencies for that.”
“You’d rebel?” he asked, surprised.
“I’d advise, more likely. A few of the counts are friends of mine. More would listen to my counsel. And I have the power of the Arcane Orders behind me, too. But I’d rather not bother,” I explained. “I have . . . bigger things to occupy my time than politics.”
“Bigger than pissing off the prince?”
“Yes, if you want to know the truth. His Highness’ feud with me is inconvenient and annoying, but it’s not my largest concern. But he lingers on my horizon,” I admitted. “Someday, gods willing, he will be king. Hopefully, by the time Tavard gains the throne, his wrath will have mellowed and his wisdom will increase. May that be many, many years from now.”
“An awful lot could happen, betwixt now and then,” Dad reflected.
“That’s what I’m counting on,” I nodded. “Until then, I support Rard and his policies, as long as the realm is prospering and protected. And as long as he supports me. He gave me a lot of leeway with Sevendor, even though it was in the middle of his duchy. He’ll do likewise with Vanador out of necessity, if not by policy. By the time Tavard is crowned, I’m hoping Vanador will be strong enough to resist any . . . poorly ground flour.”
“At this point, you’re torturing the metaphor, Min,” he chided. “You and the Prince don’t get along, ‘tis clear. But what about this other duke? Anguin?”
“Oh, he won’t interfere,” I assured him. “He’ll let me do what I wish with the Magelaw.”
“I wasn’t so much concerned about him interfering,” Dad observed, “as much as I was about you being beholden to him. A man who serves two masters . . .”
“There is a danger to that,” I admitted. “And while Anguin and I are on excellent terms, that could change. Thankfully, he is preoccupied with establishing his court in Enultramar, far to the south. That’s why he appointed me, because he can no longer devote the attention to the Wilderlands as he once could.”
“If you say so, Min,” Dad said, shaking his head skeptically. “I suppose I sound provincial, when I tell you to beware of the promises of nobles—”
“Quite the contrary,” I chuckled. “Since I became a noble, I think your warnings were far too tepid, Dad. The only agreements with the nobility you can count upon are those backed up with force. That said, I’ve been allowed to accumulate a little force. I’ll be able to use that, I think, to protect myself while I’m off being concerned with other things.”
“As long as you aren’t listening to them drone on about honor and duty, while they’re picking your purse,” he nodded, sagely. “A man’s duty is to his family, and his honor descends from seeing to it properly.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, sincerely. “Vanador will be, I hope, the place where I can restore mine.”
We were silent, for a while, as we contemplated the future and watched the world flow past our eyes as we sailed downriver. When it resumed, our discussions revolved around my sisters and their children, husbands, and their plans for the future. Good, wholesome family business. From which honor descends.
Dinner that night included bread from my wand, salted riverfish stew, beans and some of the rich yellow cheese Sendaria produces for export. The overcast kept me from one of my favorite pastimes during barge travel – laying on the deck under the stars – but it allowed Dad and I to play a few games and share a bottle of wine under the magelight I cast on the deck.
It was interesting, to me, that though I had gotten to know my dad as a father and a patriarch over a large family, this was really the first opportunity I had to get to know him as a traveler. I have it on the highest authority (Herus, the God of Travelers, if you’re looking for a citation) that a man’s true soul can be revealed on the road, if you caught him in the right mood. Of course, Herus is full of such divine observations: how distance and style can turn any man into an expert, how travel can excite the lusts of the most demure maiden or widow, or allow a wife to forget her virtue with a stranger, or how opportunity and remoteness can turn any man into a robber, a murderer, a rapist . . . or a saint.
Herus says a lot of crap like that.
But I did learn a lot about Dad on that journey, much to my surprise. Among the biggest revelations to me was that Mother was not his first choice of wife, exactly. Nor his first lover.
“That was a lass named Nianci, the daughter of a miller over in Marvos Ford, south o’ Drexel,” Dad informed me, as we passed a bottle between us before bed. “Not the comeliest girl, perhaps, but she was . . . persuasive. And persistent. She told me it didn’t count against her virtue, as we were trade-bound together!” he laughed. “Thing is, I never questioned her virtue. But Marvos was a lonely place, I suppose. And I was from Drexel, the big, important town. She treated me like I was a lord, when her father wasn’t about.”
“So I could have been Nianci’s son?” I asked, surprised.
“I suppose so, if I hadn’t been swifter,” he admitted. “Although you’d be heavier set, I think. She was an ample girl, even back then. But pretty, in her way. I often wonder what happened to her.”
“Was she prettier than Momma?”
“Ishi’s tits, no!” Dad swore, uncharacteristically. “Your mother was beautiful, far prettier than Nianci. But not so persuasive,” he chuckled. “She made me work for it, she did. I had to court her proper,” he said, respectfully.
“Alya and I . . . well, she was a pretty young widow,” I explained, as if he didn’t already know.
“Oh, I know, Son, and to hear her tell the story . . . or, at least, when she was . . .”
“I know,” I sighed. “I’m sure it was quite amusing, from her perspective.”
“Amusing? She said you rescued her like a hero from legend,” Dad revealed. “She told the story a dozen times, when she was with us at Talry. Enough so that your sisters didn’t believe her. They didn’t think their scrawny little brother could be, ah, so . . .”
“Manly?” I suggested.
“Competent,” Dad supplied. “Sorry, Min, but she spooned the honey on the porridge pretty thick, when it came to you. You were big, brawny, handsome, wise, kind, compassionate . . . so it was hard for anyone who knew you to take it seriously,” he said, apologetically. “Your sisters used to make faces and tease her, behind her back. Good-naturedly,” he assured me. “But they couldn’t believe poor Alya’s version.”
“I filled out a bit, in Farise,” I reminded him, half-heartedly.
“Oh, it wasn’t a commentary on your prowess, Min, it was . . . that girl loved you, she thought the world of you,” he explained. “And that was before you took in her entire folk, at your expense. She mentioned her first husband, sometimes, but never spoke of him the way she did you. Of course, we were your kin . . .”
“Alya’s not given to idle flattery,” I noted, wryly.
“Your sisters noticed that, they did,” he chuckled. “That made it even harder for them to credit her opinion of you. And all the wonders she said you did in that castle.”
“I was just desperate,” I dismissed. “She was scared and easily impressed.”
“No doubt,” Dad nodded, taking another sip from the bottle. “But the truth is, you didn’t have to come back for her, and she knew it. She was loyal, as a result. And believe me, the womenfolk were eager to find some fault in her devotion to you.”
“Why do they do that?” I asked, suddenly. “Why do women try to find fault with each other like that? Unless they’re defending each other to the death,” I added.
“I’ve got one wife, one mother, four sisters and five daughters, Min,” Dad sighed. “I have no idea. Ask Ishi, next time you see her,” he suggested.
“Don’t think I won’t!”
“They’re all as close as sisters, now,” he pointed out. “Even that sister o’ hers, Ela. Strange girl.”
“I got the better of the two,” I nodded. “I don’t know how Sagal puts up with that woman.”
“All of us husbands agree to put up with our wives’ madness, when we say our vows,” Dad reflected. “One man’s honey is another man’s harridan. In turn, they agree to put up with ours. Or cut our throats in our sleep,” he shrugged. “It’s a matter of compromise. In your case . . . you’ve just got a bit more madness to contend with, now, is all.”
“A bit more? She’s getting better,” I said, pouting a little. That was true enough – Alya was speaking and talking and holding conversations, tending to her own simple needs, feeding and dressing herself, and recognizing people she knew from day to day. Compared to the vegetative state she’d lived in for a year, it was amazing. Compared to the bright, intelligent young woman she’d been before the Mage War, she was still . . . shattered. The Handmaiden had done incredible, even miraculous things. But Alya was still far from Alya, yet.
“Aye, she is, she is,” Dad conceded. “But you’ll have to be careful with her, Son,” he counseled. “She’s going to be delicate for a while, I think. Fragile. I don’t know what to tell you to do about it, but . . . be gentle,” he suggested.
“I will, Dad,” I sighed. “I fought for her at Olum Seheri. I’ll keep fighting for her in Vanador.”
“I expect no less, Son,” he agreed.
*
*
*
It only took three days to travel down the Bontal to where it joined the Ansus at Drexel, where I got to hear hours of unlikely stories about Dad’s apprenticeship. Another half-day later we came to where it joined the Burine, at Dad’s barony of Varune. I caught him looking longingly down the channel toward home, as the bargemen polled us into the other direction. But then he sighed and turned, and didn’t look back. He wanted to go home, but he wanted to be here with me, too.
I appreciated his sacrifice. Mom and the rest of his household had already taken this route back to Talry, and were waiting for him just a half-day’s journey upriver, from where we were. But he’d committed to seeing me to Vanador, he wanted to see new country, and I think he was curious about what kind of man I’d become. Despite having lived in my domain for two years, Dad and I hadn’t spent much time together, alone.
In fact, our course would take us near to a friend and colleague I wanted to visit, as part of our journey. A day after we turned course away from Talry, I had the captain steer us upriver to a small but bustling little domain: Robinwing, one of the first of the Magelands.
While Sevendor had blossomed into the magnificent, snowstone-powered power I’d made it, Robinwing was much closer to how a “normal” mageland was administered, in my opinion. Forandal, Magelord of Robinwing, didn’t have near my resources at his disposal, but he had invested liberally in many of the innovations arising from Sevendor’s advancements in enchantment. A brief mental consultation with Banamor confirmed that Forandal had purchased nearly a score of agricultural wands from the bouleterion, a large number of taperwands, some carpentry and masonry wands, and a wide selection of specialty enchantments in the last few years. Robinwing was one of his better, more reliable customers, and Banamor brought me up to date about the political situation there.
Forandal married the daughter of one of his vassals and is raising a family – boy and girl, so far, the wizard informed me. He’s managed to successfully recapture the loyalty of his vassals by buying out their debts to the town, and he’s re-negotiated the town charter on highly favorable terms. All in all, a well-run mageland, he commended.
No challenges, then? I asked, surprised.
Challenges? There are always challenges, Min, Banamor demurred. Forandal has been tested at least three times by his neighbors in the last few years. Border raiding and punishing tolls, that sort of thing. Magelord Forandal responded to them forcefully and with great wisdom. He’s politically astute, if not politically adept – or at least not politically ambitious, he amended. He’s happy with his domain and a few choice estates he’s purchased outside of it. He’d rather be the king of his little castle than rule over the Riverlands.
Banamor proved correct about everything but the size of Robinwing Castle. Already an imposing drum keep situated on a steep, easily-defendable promontory, I could see from the river that Forandal had expanded the bailey and added a trio of new towers to the well-constructed structure. Similarly, workshops and halls filled the bailey and the road up to the castle had been widened and improved.
“Pretty castle,” Dad admitted, as the men poled us upstream toward the dock. “Looks like a tidy village, too.”
“Forandal was raised a proper Riverlord,” I told him. “Warmagic was as close to being a knight as he could get, but he’s always been a Riverlord at heart. Robinwing won’t be much different from Talry, I’d expect.”
“As long as they have ale and a proper privy, I’ll be happy,” Dad nodded. “Are we going up to the castle, or are we going to skulk around the waterfront like a couple of spies?”
“A little of both, I think,” I said, as I went to discuss my plans with Captain Seston. “Forandal doesn’t know I’m coming, but we’ll head up to the castle this afternoon, if Forandal is about.”
Robinwing village was as tidy up close as it seemed from the river. It was the us
ual collection of temple spires, grain silos, and shingled rooves, with a cobbled High Street and a prosperous marketplace. The old Imperial goddess involved in the founding of the town was evident in the art, signs, and decoration throughout the town, from an inn called the Cozy Scroll to the spacious parchment shop at the edge of the market adorned with quills and inkpots to the owls and acorns that were, apparently, sacred symbols of the goddess.
Though it was at the center of a mageland, Robinwing seemed much more like Talry or Sendaria than it did Sevendor. But there were subtle differences. Mage-kilned and -planed timber in the construction; the uniform nature of the street cobbles, bereft of normal ice and snow; the lack of smoky haze in the air. Cottages and homes using heatstones didn’t burn near the fuel that a normal home did, and Forandal had purchased more than a hundred for his people. There were still cooking fires and oven fires about, but Forandal’s foresight had allowed the folk of Robinwing to forego the endless feeding of the flame all winter long merely to survive.
I was gratified to see a pillar of snowstone at the center of the marketplace. I’d gifted many of my friends with them, in the early days of Sevendor’s rise. They provided a means of lowering the local thaumaturgical resistance, which meant magic was just easier to do in its proximity.
But he’d done more than that – he’d had someone carve the block of white basalt, or at least the head of the pillar. It sported a relief of his arms and a dedication to the local gods, as well as an instruction for all magi to report to the village Spellwarden. The lower parts of the slab were filled with additional parchments soliciting or offering a number of goods and services, for the literate amongst the marketgoers. We stood and stared at it, reading a few of the notices and advertisements, until a local merchant noticed us.
“New to Robinwing, are you?” he asked, in a friendly tone.
The Road To Vanador Page 3