The Road To Vanador

by Terry Mancour

  Boys and girls. My family was larger, now, and I had to consolidate it, I realized. Keeping the Greenflower children in Castal was not only a danger, but it deprived them of any kind of relationship with me. As fraught with conflict as it might become, I knew I had to bring them to Vanador, and soon. I didn’t know, exactly, how that would happen or when, but it became important for me to do so.

  That led to considering my new home and its resources. I’d been to the Anvil many times, now, thanks to Pentandra’s interest in the place. Now that it was to become my capital – Vanador – I wasn’t exactly certain how primitive conditions would be for any of my children. I knew Carmella had dropped everything and completed a decent-sized hall for us, when she’d heard of the exile, but beyond that there just wasn’t much else left in the Wilderlands. I would have to build it.

  That brought me to the vague, dreamy state of mind that a wizard often struggles to attain for certain kinds of thaumaturgical work. Much to my surprise, right around twilight on the second day of our fishing, I was staring at the spot where the line hit the water, not thinking about anything in particular, when I found myself in an unexpected moment of profound introspection.

  I can no more describe the state adequately than I can explain, in words, the complexities of the arcane. My mind went a bit blank and then I was aware of . . . everything. Not just my surroundings, which were acutely impressed on my mind, but all of my mental architecture was laid bare in front of me for my inspection.

  It had to be the influence of the Handmaiden, I realized in retrospect. Some change she had made in me, some small alteration of my soul had permitted the slip into the state so easily. At the time, I wasn’t aware of what was happening even as it happened, much less deconstruct the experience to find its cause. I just knew . . . well, everything that could be known about Minalan, called the Spellmonger.

  All the problems, conflicts, worries, anxieties, fears and aspirations were displayed for my review. Not just displayed, but arrayed in context to each other in a magnificent manner. I could see each individually, and all at once, with simultaneous appreciation and insight. Whatever alterations the Handmaiden had wrought in me allowed me incredible perspective, in the moment.

  With breathless understanding, I examined my internal world and allowed my mind – the same mind, I reminded myself, that had concocted the mystery of the Snowflake – to traverse the length and breadth of my inner landscape and make a couple of decisions.

  And, lo, as if the hand of a god or two was involved, those decisions led to other courses of action that led to consequences and repercussions that resulted in further events that affected other things that would therefore lead to certain circumstances, some of which would be significant enough to mandate action on behalf of various parties in disparate directions which, if my brain could be trusted, might produce a result that I would be pleased with – personally, professionally, and politically.

  Call it a Fishing Epiphany, but one moment I was considering the life of a grub and wondering if there would be cornbread with dinner, and the next . . . well, in the next I was the master of my personal world . . . and a plan emerged.

  Not just one plan, but a plan that required contingencies and assumptions and room for changing circumstances. A plan about how I could proceed, using what resources I had available, to achieve the results I wanted. Just like a spell, only far more complicated and expensive.

  Complexity didn’t scare me, and I had more money than I could ever spend. My wife and kids were safe, but ever in danger. I had responsibilities and duties, but I also had power and authority. I don’t quite know what shifted, in my perspective, but from that moment arose a confidence – an assuredness in the outcome of events – that gave me hope and ambition.

  When I did dissect the experience, later, I also realized that I had finally shed the specter of the Aronin’s songspell upon me, the one that compelled me to fight against the forces of darkness overrunning the land. The darkness was still there, and in even greater force, and I was committed to fighting it.

  But I think that moment of clarity while fishing was, in part, me leaving behind the shroud of anxiety the spell had given me. I was fighting Korbal and Sheruel because I wanted to and needed to, not because I was being forced to by someone else. It was the compulsion my soul rejected, not the purpose. And the arrogance of the Aronin who had used me so damnably.

  That was gone, now. I was my own man. More, I was a great and powerful wizard who could commanded armies, theoretically. I had managed to maneuver in the complex world of Kingdom-level politics and survive with little more than a metaphorical bloody nose. I had to know what I was doing because I had done it. Without the burden of the Aronin’s compulsion, I felt free to attack my problems from new directions, and respond in my own way for my own purposes.

  I suppose I jerked, or something. The line in the water twitched just as the orange and purple reflections of the winter sunset reached an intensity that caused the ripples from the water to explode in concentric circles of vivid color.

  “Bite?” Dad inquired.

  “No,” I dismissed with a sigh, as I emerged from the moment of reverie. I was both reluctant and enthusiastic for the experience to conclude. It had been profoundly informative and deeply reflective. “I just figured out what to do.”

  “With what?”

  “With . . . everything,” I decided, as the orange light on the water faded into a deep purple. “I’ve got a plan, of sorts. I just . . . I know what to do,” I stated, simply. I was struggling to explain, in words, the magnitude of the experience I’d just had. The questions that it answered, and the answers that it questioned. Matters from the divine to the mundane had sorted themselves out in my head, and given me clarity I hadn’t realized I’d needed. I anticipated a couple of probing questions about it, perhaps, to help me order my thoughts into words.

  “Good,” Dad nodded, firmly. “About time. You ever find a spell to clean fish?”

  “What? No,” I said, after a moment’s thought. “Why?”

  “Because it’s dinner time, and my eyes are too bad to clean fish in this light. I guess you’ll have to do it the normal way.”

  “I . . .” I struggled, my brain losing control of my tongue. How do you explain such a thing? How to you convey to others something that belied words? “I just came up with a plan to handle . . . everything. And you want me to clean fish?”

  “Son,” Dad sighed, “wizard or not, the mysteries of the universe, as compelling as they can be, aren’t going to get those fish cleaned. I’m certain your plan is brilliant, cunning, and subtle. I’d expect no less. But,” he continued, pulling one last fish – a largish bass – into the boat at the end of his line, “dinner doesn’t happen until the fish get cleaned. And I appoint you to do it. So get to it, so we can eat.”

  “But . . . I have a plan . . .” I protested, as he removed the hook from the fish’s mouth.

  “So did he,” Dad grunted, nodding toward the fish. “Look at what happened to him. Now get to it,” he directed, flopping the impressive catch into the hamper. “My plan includes dinner. I’m going to go wash up,” he said, putting the pole away.

  I was about to call out to him again, but I realized he was right. Those fish needed to be cleaned.

  Part Three

  Snowbound In Barrowbell

  The next day we didn’t fish, as we would be departing the barge. Toward midnight, the captain changed course to take the fork up the Forakine River. His men began pushing the boat northward again the next morning, where we joined a small flotilla of other barges hurrying upstream to make port. The wind had picked up, and a special chill in the air promised a storm.

  The freezing rain began about the same time we started up the Forakine, and the deck soon became too slippery with patches of ice to fish or even stand long uncovered. We huddled in the cabin, with magic and the woodstove keeping us cozy, if cramped.

  We arrived at the little village that served
as the riverport for Barrowbell. We were in Gilmora, now, if the very eastern part. From those docks millions of pounds of cotton had been sent downriver, to be sold to Castali merchants. In many ways those docks represented the crux of the great dispute over Gilmora between the Castali and the Alshari. They didn’t seem like much, but then many major economic features didn’t look special, if you weren’t aware of their importance. Wars had been fought over those docks.

  “We’re going overland, now,” I explained to Dad, as the wagon was unloaded. “We’ll catch another barge on the other side of Barrowbell. Then we’ll head north.”

  “Not before that storm hits, my lord,” the captain said, grimly. “I’m a stranger to this river, but that sky tells me that we’re in for a real chiller,” he predicted. “I’ll be grateful to be headed back south, as soon as you’re unloaded and on your way.”

  “It won’t take long,” I said, passing him a small purse of silver as a tip. “We’ll make the gates of Barrowbell long before dusk. If we have to stay a few days while the weather clears, well, there are worst places to endure a storm.”

  “Oh, aye!” the man said, with a knowing leer. “Every bargeman enjoys a layover in Barrowbell, especially at festival time. I might enjoy getting snowed in there.”

  Dad was less enthusiastic – he was no fan of snow, despite my livery. Or, rather, he enjoyed it in the strictest moderation. He immediately began worrying about the possibility of lodgings.

  “With the storm moving in, we’ll likely have to struggle to find a place in the hall, much less a room,” he fretted.

  “It won’t be a problem,” I assured him, as the team struggled through the rain down the cobbled road – the famed Road to Barrowbell. “Barrowbell has scores of inns. During the summer it has accommodations for thousands of visitors. During the winter, most of those rooms are empty.”

  “Still,” he said, looking at the sky suspiciously. “The captain was right: that’s a snow sky. You can smell it,” he insisted. “And that wind will cut right through you!”

  “The town is just a few miles ahead. We’re making good time. We’ll beat the storm.”

  And we did – by a whisker’s breadth. We had just come within sight of the gates of Barrowbell, proper, when the rain turned to sleet and snow. The cobbles underfoot became slippery, and while the enchanted shoes of the horses kept them from slipping, the wheels of the carriage spun and slipped when they hit a patch of ice or a slippery puddle. Something I could correct for, magically, once we were stopped. It wasn’t making enough of a difference yet to warrant a stop. By the time we were approaching the guards at the gate, the sky had gotten dark enough to trigger the string of centuries-old magelights that illuminated the famed Road.

  “Pretty,” Dad grunted, as the faintly-glowing globes of magical energy lit up in a line back the way we came. “Not nearly as impressive as Sevendor,” he added.

  “This helped inspire Sevendor,” I reminded him. “These date back to the Magocracy. It’s amazing they still even work. Sevendor’s will last much longer.”

  The guards let us in after directing us to various points of interest around the city. Dad made them give three different inn recommendations, because he didn’t want to be steered someplace sleazy because a guard got a referral fee. I should have stopped him, but I enjoyed hearing him banter with the men. Their Gilmoran accents were enough different from Dad’s more nasally tones to make it a comical scene.

  “I think the third one they mentioned would be best,” he confided to me, as we climbed back into the wain’s seat. “It’s got a stable and private rooms. The second one sounded . . . sordid,” he said, condemningly. Dad had a villager’s opinion of cities, in general. He stared around at the buildings, near the gate, some three and four stories high, as if they were conspiring against him. “Make sure you keep your purse near you, too,” he added.

  “That won’t be a problem,” I assured him.

  “Of course it will be a problem!” he insisted. “These places are full of cutpurses and footpads. One moment you meet a nice fellow in a tavern, maybe play a friendly game of dice, and the next thing you know you’re trying to explain to the innkeeper why you can’t pay the shot!”

  “Oh, that sort of thing doesn’t happen much in Barrowbell,” I tried to explain. “The town depends on its hospitality, and you’d have to go to some of the darker corners to be in danger of that. Besides, I’m a wizard,” I reminded him. “The man who tries to steal my purse is in for an interesting evening.”

  “You’ll get a knife in your back, with that kind of attitude,” Dad growled. “No one here knows who you are. You’re just another nameless traveler the monks find with his throat and purse both slit. Or worse,” he warned, darkly. “Whatever you do, don’t speak to the women. They aren’t what they seem.”

  It was amusing to hear him lecture me about the perils of the road – when I’d been an itinerant warmage for years, following my service in Farise. I’d stayed in some truly scrungy dives, over the years, places that made Dad’s worst fears manifest. I’d been to battle a number of times, situations where my impending death was always a possibility. I’d dueled Korbal the Necromancer to a standstill – with help – and defeated legions of goblins.

  But Dad thought a murderous whore in a tavern would be my end.

  “I think you’re exaggerating,” I chided, as I guided the team down the main street and began searching for the sign I was looking for. “The inns of Barrowbell are famed for their hospitality. I can’t imagine that would be different in winter.”

  “You’re too trusting,” Dad said, shaking his head.

  “And as for no one knowing who I am in Barrowbell, I’ll have you know that the entire city turned out in celebration after my victory over the dragon at Cambran Castle,” I lectured. “Thousands of people filled the streets and chanted my name.”

  “Your ego is going to get you killed one day, you know,” Dad replied, dryly. “Weren’t you supposed to turn down that street? The one with the brass lantern?” he asked, looking around, confused.

  “Only if we were going to the Bushy Boll, which we aren’t,” I informed him. “I told you I’d arranged for accommodation along the way.”

  “You know of a better inn? A safer inn?” he asked, skeptically.

  “Better. A friend of mine owns a townhouse, here. He’s . . . elsewhere, but he offered it for my use.”

  “A townhouse? A friend? Who? That Pentandra girl?”

  “No, but she’d love to have a place in Barrowbell, I think. It’s her kind of town. Mavone is an old war buddy of mine, a High Mage and an expert on military intelligence. He’s also a Gilmoran, and he and his cousins purchased a small place in Barrowbell a few years ago. They stay there, instead of risking the dangers of a public house,” I chuckled.

  “A wise move,” Dad agreed. “Where is this place?”

  “We’re almost there. In fact, after this turn, it should be a few blocks off the main street.”

  “That’s convenient,” he said, surprised.

  When we pulled up in front of a stately, brick-faced house Dad’s eyes travelled up the ornate façade, which was rapidly collecting snow and ice, and his jaw fell. It was his first encounter with the legendary Gilmoran sense of style: ornate gaudiness on an epic scale.

  The house was four stories high, and the high peaked roof was covered with expensive red clay tiles. The small garden in front of it was filled with shrubs and planters, now filled with snow, and sculptures and frozen fountains seemed to protrude from everywhere.

  “Are you certain this isn’t a bordello?” he asked, suspiciously.

  “You know, Mavone would be flattered to hear you say that,” I chuckled. “Astyral even more so. No, this is a fairly standard example of Gilmoran nobility’s sense of style. There’s a coach house around the back,” I told him, as I pulled the team to a stop. “I’ll fetch the servants.”

  “Servants?” Dad asked.

  “A lot of servants,”
I nodded. “That’s just the Gilmoran way. It’s all about status and display. Even my friends are subject to it, I’m afraid. But don’t worry, they aren’t intrusive.”

  Dad had gotten used to the servants in my household, but had rarely employed additional help in his own. My sisters and nieces were instead employed at the many tasks involved in keeping the place running, overseen by Mama’s critical eye and sharp tongue. That was as true in Baker’s Hall in Sevendor as it was at Dad’s home in Talry.

  But they do things differently, in Gilmora. Even petty nobles and middle-class artisans had a few hirelings around, or villeins from their estates who were specially trained for service. More important nobles had armies of liveried servants attending to their needs, wants, and desires, according to their purse. Mavone’s and Astyral’s townhome had a mere quartet of them to see to our comfort: a cook, a butler, a footman, and a groom. The groom took charge of our team at once, and the footman ran to inform the butler and cook of our arrival. By the time the butler took our cloaks and offered us mulled wine against the chill, a fire was roaring on the hearth and the smell of food wafted up from the basement kitchen.

  Dad was uncomfortable with being waited on in such a fashion, but the servants were gracious and friendly. We were dining on hot soup, good bread and a heap of fried potatoes soon after we arrived. Mavone’s small dining room overlooked the garden from the second floor, and was as magnificently appointed as anything in Sevendor. My experience in Barrowbell informed me that his décor was sedate and dignified, compared to most gentlemen of his age and station.

  “This . . . this is nice,” Dad admitted, when we finally pushed away our bowls and got out our pipes. The butler took away the remains and replaced them with glasses of spirits – brandy – and stood quietly by with the decanter to recharge them at need. “Much better than an inn,” he conceded.

  “I’m glad you think so,” I murmured around my pipestem. “It is, as you said, convenient. And timely,” I added, gesturing toward the window. It was glazed, with a milky white pattern of glass filling most of the arched frame with a small, bold ribbon of red glass framing it. In the very center there were panels of nearly transparent glass allowing one to see the weather outside . . . or spot one’s rival’s wife at your door, below. Gilmorans actually plan for that sort of thing. “That snow is starting to pile up. If we were even half a day behind, we’d be stuck on the river in that.”