“Just visiting,” Dad grunted. “From Talry-on-Burine.”
“Ah, upriver!” the man nodded. “Well, that’s a genuine magical pillar, that is,” he assured us. “Only one around, they say.”
“What makes it magic?” Dad asked, curious.
“At twilight it creates a great light overhead,” the merchant told us, sketching the sight out for us with his hands. “A sphere twelve feet wide, that lights the whole square. It’s . . . it’s a spell,” he confided. “A magic spell, placed there by our master. A magelord.”
“You don’t say?” Dad said, playing the role of the provincial lout.
“Oh, Aye, Magelord Forandal is one of the mightiest wizards in the land,” he bragged, tucking his broad hands into his belt. “He’s down here casting spells every month, it seems. Anything from lights to checking the scales. Magelord Forandal doesn’t countenance cheating in the market,” he warned.
“What is a ‘spellwarden’?” I asked, innocently. I was still wearing a baker’s cap, after all, and I wanted his candid opinion.
“Oh, that’s just the fellow who keeps track of the wizards in Robinwing,” he explained. “An office that Magelands have, now. He’s Demaran the Spellmonger, over there on River Street,” he said, pointing to a sturdy brick building, like a burgher’s shop.
“The spellmonger?” Dad asked, humoring me.
“Oh, not THE Spellmonger, just a spellmonger,” the man quickly corrected. “He’s not that bloke that fights the Goblin King. But our lord is a close friend of his. Nay, old Demaran runs a normal shop. He’d faint dead away if he saw a goblin.”
“I might just speak to him,” I suggested. “He does the usual spells?”
“Aye, though he’s best on keeping things from leaking,” the merchant advised. “He’s keen on barrels and bottles. But he’s there. Tell him Fym sent you!”
“You want to see a spellmonger?” Dad smirked.
“Actually, I’m required by law to do so,” I chuckled. “A rule I helped write. All visiting magi have to register with the spellwarden of a particular town or village, if they want to practice magic there. If I so much as cast a magelight, hopefully this fellow’s spells will detect it, and find me. I considered doing that, just to test him, but this is more convenient.”
“You have to register with a local wizard?” Dad asked, surprised.
“It’s the law,” I affirmed, as we made our way to Master Demaran’s shop. The traditional three magestars were displayed over the door, along with a depiction of a spellmonger’s cap. Both were mildly enchanted to attract attention – one of the more tasteful little spells my former profession employed. “Banamor holds that office in Sevendor, though he usually gets a deputy to do the actual work—”
“I’m shocked,” Dad said, dryly. He was highly suspicious of Banamor – not because he was a wizard, but because he was a burgher and a merchant.
“—but it’s just a formality. You couldn’t just start baking bread here without a license, could you?” I asked as I pushed open the heavy wooden door.
“Depends on the circumstances,” Dad admitted. “Since I’m a master and a member of—”
“We’ll discuss it on the boat,” I said, quietly, as we went in. The air within was warm and pleasant, and a small fire was lit on the hearth. A tiny, bright magelight in the center of the narrow room was far more responsible for the light. I could feel the insulating spells and the heatstone in the corner without magesight, thanks to the Magolith.
The shop was actually better-appointed than my old one, and far less cluttered than many of the other spellmonger shops I’d seen. Master Demaran had elected to furnish his professional workshop with efficiency in mind, not impressing his clients. The tapestries on the wall were modest examples of painted cotton, not embroidered wool, and they depicted some basic runic combinations and categories of glyphs and sigils – the sort of thing used to train apprentices, but look mysterious to the uninformed.
A single lad of fifteen or so, wearing a woolen tunic and an apprentice’s pointed cap, was sitting on a stool dutifully going through accounts when we came in. He immediately got to his feet and gave a curt bow.
“I’m afraid Master Dameron is out on a call. I am his apprentice, Marvek. May I help you goodmen with something?” he asked, in a tone that was polite but bored.
“I need to register with the Spellwarden,” I informed him, straightening. “I’ll just be here for a day or so.”
“You need to register?” he asked, surprised, glancing at the baker’s cap I wore. “Are you a sport?”
“Spellmonger,” I admitted. A sport was someone whose rajira was often inadequate for learning real magic, but who could perform some arcane manipulation, often in a single capacity.
“Really?” he asked, his eyebrows raised. “Are you in Robinwing on business?”
“Aye, I’m here to see the Magelord,” I agreed.
“Very well, then,” the boy said, pulling out a scroll from a pile and plucking a quill from the cup of them. “Name?”
“Minalan,” I supplied, dutifully. He dipped his pen and started to write. He got the initial letter done before he stopped.
“Minalan?” he asked, unsure if I was jesting.
“Minalan the Spellmonger,” Dad provided.
“Like . . . like the . . .”
“Very close to that, yes,” Dad nodded, stonefaced.
“Precisely like that,” I sighed. “Minalan the Spellmonger,” I repeated.
“Credentials, rank and position?” the lad asked, meekly, as he continued with wide eyes.
“Certified mage, trained at Inarion Academy and chartered under the Castali court wizard. Trained warmage, since the Farisian campaign, licensed to practice warmagic. Magelord of Sevendor,” I recited. “Baron of Sevendor. Count Palatine of the Magelaw. Permanent member of the Royal Court. Head of the Arcane Orders. I can delineate each of my titles for each individual order, if that is helpful,” I added.
“That should . . . be . . . sufficient,” the nervous young man said, as he neatly scrawled out my name and title. “Do you plan on performing any commercial magic or magic for hire while within the bounds of Robinwing?”
“I’m not planning on it, but it might happen,” I conceded with a shrug. “I do that sort of thing all the time.”
“Then we’ll give you a visitors’ pass, and if you do end up doing any magic for pay in Robinwing, please notify this office and apply for an upgraded Visiting Professional pass,” he recited, as he copied down my name and titles on a separate sheet of parchment. I could see most of the pass had been written out, already, with just my name, the duration of my stay, and what type of pass it was. No doubt many of the lad’s idle hours were spent practicing his penmanship, so.
“I’ll try to restrain myself,” I agreed with a small smile as he finished recording my visit. “Does this cover theurgic magic, too, or just thaumaturgy?” I asked. “Professional interest,” I explained.
The apprentice got a troubled look on his face. “How can you . . . practice . . . theurgy?” he snorted.
“If a god shows up and wants to lob a couple of miracles across town, do they show up in your scrying?”
“I . . . I have no idea,” he admitted, glancing at the dark green glass bowl he no doubt used for the purpose. “I’ve never had it happen. I don’t think the regulation from the Arcane Orders makes a distinction between thaumaturgy and theurgy,” the apprentice said.
“Nor does it mention necromancy – an oversight that should be addressed at the next Convocation. Have you been?”
“To the Convocation?” he snorted. “The Magelord has been, a few times. The first one was here, but . . . but I suppose you knew that,” he said, remembering whom he was addressing. “Say . . . begging your pardon, uh, Excellency, but . . . are you here about the disturbances?”
“The disturbances?” Dad asked, curious.
“No, I was just happening by, and wanted to stop in and see my frien
d Forandal. Why, what happened?”
“Oh, I doubt it’s my place to say, Excellency,” the apprentice said, swallowing nervously.
“I think I’d very much like you to say, young . . . what was your name?”
“Marvek, Excellency, Marvek of Robinwing. And if you wish . . . well, there were some disturbances, out in the estates this autumn. Right around Luin’s Day. Riots, they said. Almost an uprising. Apparently some folk were displeased at harvest that there wasn’t the work there normally was, on account of the new wands. The manors only used about half of the folk they used a few years ago, and for less time. And the manors used villeins almost exclusively, not hiring the freemen like normal. The harvest boon was . . . meager, it was said,” he added, shaking his head.
“Well, that’s not a good sign,” Dad agreed. The harvest boon was the food served to the laborers by the manor – part of it as a feast, and part of it as a bonus to take home to their families. A skimpy harvest boon could get a manor muttered about, in the labor-intensive peasant economy. It usually meant a poor harvest or a stingy manor lord – neither one a good harbinger at the Luin’s Day harvest festival.
“Nay, my lord, it is not,” Marvek agreed. “The first year Magelord Forandal brought in the wands, the peasants rejoiced – who wants to do plowing and mowing?” he snorted. “But when they didn’t have the coin they earned from that, they had a lean winter, and some fell into debt.”
“Did Forandal not take action?” I asked, concerned.
“Oh, aye, Excellency, he did: he employed a few hundred freemen in paving and public works, expanded the castle and paid good coin, too. But that work was finished last year. This year, there was no paving nor digging for hire. Those poor souls who didn’t think ahead found themselves behind in their rents and at the temple dole,” he said, sympathetically.
“And then there were troubles?” Dad prompted.
“At one of the northern manors, yes,” Marvek nodded. “When thrice as many bodies showed up than there was work for, an argument broke out over who would get hired. Someone threw a rock, a fight started, and next thing you know there were barns burning and wains wrecked on the road,” he informed us.
“What did Magelord Forandal do?”
“Oh, he set things right, quickly enough,” assured the apprentice. “He led a company from the castle to put down the riot. But not before it spread to a few other estates. Then a couple of monks showed up, preaching about fire and revolution, and stirred the chamberpot. The Magelord had to hang a few, before things settled down,” he finished, troubled.
“The monks . . . what sect?”
“Some Eastern goddess. Like Huin, but . . . mean.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” I said, pressing a coin into his hand. “This should cover my fee – consider the rest a tip toward a journey to the Convocation.”
His eyes went wide at the weight of the gold coin. He could buy a cottage, for that. Or make it to Castabriel. “Excellency! Thank you!” he gasped.
We were headed out the door when he overcame his astonishing new wealth and reminded me to take a cheaply-made wooden talisman bearing the arms of Robinwing and the seal of the Spellwarden.
“To . . . track you,” Marvek admitted, apologetically. “To identify you if you do, indeed, practice magic.”
“That was interesting,” Dad murmured, as we returned to the market square. “Your little wands have interfered with the natural order, Min.” Dad enjoyed digging at me and my profession, especially my altruistic attitude toward magic. He’d seen what it could do when it was allowed to, in Sevendor. But that included both the good and the bad.
“They’ve simplified farming,” I countered, knowing what was coming. “They’ve eliminated the brutal work of plowing and mowing.”
“And scything,” Dad agreed, innocently. “Of course, it may not have occurred to you that they would also eliminate a good number of good people who depended upon it.”
“I know, Dad,” I shot back. “This isn’t Sevendor,” I continued, more quietly, as we crossed the square toward the High Street. “Forandal doesn’t have the resources I do, either magical or financial. He’ll sort it out,” I said, unconvincingly.
“One man in five is a cottager, in Talry,” he continued, conversationally. “Not more than twelve, maybe twenty rods of land to their cots, if they’re lucky. Even worse, in some places. Just barely enough to grow a few peas and greens. If it wasn’t for the plowing, planting, mowing and harvest, most would starve.”
“I know, Dad!”
“Almost impossible to raise a family, without that,” he continued, ignoring my tone. “A young man can’t get ahead enough to rent a few acres, without that. And a maid isn’t likely to wed a fellow who can’t feed himself, much less a couple of babies.”
I sighed. “What do you want me to do, Dad? Dispense alms until every young couple in Robinwing is set for life?”
“I have no idea,” he shrugged, amused. “I’m a baker, not a wizard. I’m just pointing out the problems for the Wise among us to solve.”
“Well, what would you do?” I asked, accusingly.
“I’d find something else to employ those men,” Dad nodded. “Roads and bridges and ditches are fine, as far as they go. But if you want a village to thrive, then there has to be opportunity for all. Not alms,” he quickly corrected. “I’ve seen the poor wretches who haunt the manors and castles for alms, and that’s no way for a man to live, begging,” he said, with a mixture of disgust and sympathy.
“Then what? Holy orders? Military service?”
“Neither one will help a man start a family, not a proper one,” he sighed. “Only so much trade to be had, in a town this size. Honest, Min, I don’t know what the answer is,” he admitted. “I just know it’s a problem.”
“I know, Dad,” I said, quietly. Right now, there were a few hundred sets of agricultural wands being employed in the fertile Riverlands. They were among the most popular and lucrative devices for the Sevendori enchanters to produce. Banamor saw the potential to sell thousands more. Every manor who had a set reduced labor costs for growing grain by two thirds, in some cases. That made it a lot more profitable, which was all the incentive one needed to make the investment.
Yet there was more to it than pure profit, I saw. Or pure magic.
“Well, what problems magic creates, it can solve,” I said, resolutely. “It just requires study, consideration, and foresight.”
“Such as?” Dad prompted. “My bakery used to employ three families of woodcutters and charcoal burners . . . before you enchanted my ovens. Now we’ll use one, and only half the fuel that we used to.”
“Isn’t that better?” I challenged.
“For me? Sure,” he nodded. “I get to eat the savings, if I don’t lower my prices. But for the two families I don’t need, anymore? What do they do?”
“They’re not your responsibility, Dad,” I said, patiently.
“Aren’t they? No, not officially. But those were good men with children of their own. I feel guilty about it,” he confessed. “They’ve surely found other jobs, now, I suppose, but once they had a good thing, with me. Now, they don’t.”
“And you’re able to provide either cheaper bread or a better life for your family, without cheating anyone,” I countered. “How is that a bad thing?”
“It’s not, Min,” Dad agreed. “But it’s not natural.”
“It’s not what you’re used to,” I said, shaking my head. “Dad, that sort of thing changes all the time,” I pointed out. “You left Talry for two years, and all of those families had to find other work. Things change,” I reasoned. “It’s not always pleasant, but they work out, one way or the other. It’s the nature of the universe.”
“Is it, now?” Dad asked, sensing a challenge.
“Sadly, yes,” I sighed. “New ways of doing things are tried. Old things wear out. People move, have children, they work. They grow old. People die. All of those are changes we have to contend
with, and we prepare for them as best we can. In addition to all of the changes we aren’t aware are going to affect our lives that we cannot prepare for. I feel bad for your woodcutters, and even for those cotters who couldn’t get work . . . but you cannot avoid that sort of thing any more than you can avoid bad weather,” I said, a little sourly.
“Well, aren’t you the philosopher!” he snorted.
“You can’t study magic, and the infinite interconnectedness of all things and all systems, without recourse to philosophy,” I grumbled. “Like madness, it’s an occupational hazard for a wizard.”
The rest of the town was just as neat and tidy as the marketplace. The High Street, though short, was filled – no vacant shops, no empty lots. The townspeople hurried on their errands through the wintery cold, their cloaks pulled up around them. The great temple where we had held the first meeting of the Convocation was impressive, from the outside, and I considered going in and looking up the high priestess who was so helpful and considerate to the Arcane Orders at their inception, but that would have been far more of an entanglement than I was seeking, here.
Instead, after touring the small town we made our way up the steep road toward the castle. The guards at the bottom of the road waved us through without confronting us, but another guard post half-way up the hill was more thorough. Apparently, Magelord Forandal had many magical visitors because the guardsman on duty didn’t do more than glance at my Spellwarden’s talisman, ask our names and business, and waved us through when we said we were seeking consult with the Magelord. Either the man didn’t realize that I was Minalan THE Spellmonger, not Minalan, a spellmonger, or he was just cold, bored, and wanted to get back into his hut and out of the wind as quickly as possible.
“Nice castle,” Dad murmured as we started up the steep final approach to the gatehouse.
“He’s expanded it, in the last few years,” I commented, as we huffed up the incline. “That entire section of bailey is new, as are those three halls. That tower, too, if I recall correctly. Forandal isn’t the sort of lord to invite attack from his neighbors, but he’s also the kind who prepares for such a thing.”
The Road To Vanador Page 4