Enchanter (Book 7) (41 page)

That was strong language, from a god.  “How so?”

“In the absence of any real industry in the town,” he explained, patiently, “she has capitalized on the large number of young refugee women in Vorone, transformed them into amazing beauties, and then encouraged them to sell their charms at great price.”

“That’s more or less how brothels work,” I observed, cautiously.  “Pentandra understands that.”

“It’s more than just a brothel, Minalan,” he continued.  “It’s a seething house of pleasure that can enchant the mind of any man who doesn’t have the strength to resist.  And entice the mind of any woman into considering the most unimaginable things!  She’s taken the form of a local noble widow, a lusty devotee of hers, and she’s using her beautiful minions to control the town.  She calls herself Lady Pleasure.  Subtly – she rarely uses coercion and violence, her methods are far more insidious,” he said, with a near snarl.

“I’ve heard as much, in almost the same words, from Pentandra,” I affirmed, sadly.  “But what can I do?  She’s a goddess, and not one of the minor ones.  I have very little leverage over her.  In fact . . . she scares the hells out of me,” I confided. 

“She scares the hells out of everyone!” he hissed.  “Sex does that.  You can’t control it – at most you can mitigate it.”

“So what do you want me to do?” I demanded.  “Bring her flowers?  Sing her a serenade?”

“You need to do something to convince her to settle down, soon,” he demanded.  “I don’t know her well but from what I saw in Vorone, she’s just warming up.  Continue to allow her to to do as she pleases, and she could end up attracting the wrong sort of attention from the wrong sort of people, and I use that term loosely!”

“What?  The Alka Alon?” I asked, confused.  “The Dead God?”

“That would be the least of our worries,” he grumbled, looking around suspiciously.  “The Alka Alon are arse-deep in acrimony right now, in case you hadn’t noticed – unexpectedly losing a major fortress will do that to you, not to mention opening up centuries-old dynastic and factional wounds you just don’t want to know about!  And the Dead God? Sheruel hasn’t been seen by anyone but his closest priesthood since you melted the Poros.  Some think he’s sulking, some think he’s plotting, some think he’s lost interest in the fate of his descendants, too enthralled by his study of the
molopor.”

“So who do you keep referring to?” I demanded.  “You, Briga, even Ishi mentioned larger concerns . . . yet from where I’m standing, the Alka Alon and the Dead God are really my most immediate problem!  Who?  The Forsaken?  The Valley People?  A secret cabal of Tal Alon who worship The Ancient Potato God?” I said, my frustration leaking out.  If you can’t vent to a divinity, really, who can you vent to?

The deity looked thoughtful, not difficult to do when you’ve chosen a monk with an arsenal of thoughtful looks as your avatar.  “The danger of seeing Ishi unrestrained lies in the response her antics will have on other divine polarities,” he explained, as patiently as he could.  “Some of whom only manifest in certain rare, specific instances . . . which she seems to be engineering, in Vorone.  Some of these deities are probably better left unsummoned,” he said, worriedly, “and some are decidedly not the sort you’d want to linger for any length of time.”

“So the danger of Ishi is in the other gods?”

“Ishi can manipulate other divinities according to their nature, which is bad enough,” he agreed.  “But it’s those other divinities that are the real problem.  Those are the ones who—”

“I know, I know, those are the ones whose attention we don’t want to attract,” I agreed, miserably. 

“Oh, no,” Brother Hotfoot said, his bushy eyebrows raised.  “Those other deities are the ones who will attract attention, Minalan, the very
wrong
sort of attention.  Have you not realized this, my boy, after seeing all of this in motion?  Have you realized that the true peril to humankind on Callidore comes not from the rotting ball of goblin brains in the mountains to the West . . . but from the sea, to the East?”

Chapter Nineteen

A Lively Theological Debate

The Domain of Bastidor enjoyed the distinction of being the gateway to the Sevendor Vales, which until a few years ago hadn’t been much of a distinction.  It’s a gently sloping land that follows the Ketta from where it emerges and joins three sister streams, before slowing, flattening, and watering the slanting vale below and churning north to Kest, where it joined the larger Ardriole river from the eastern hem of the mountains. 

It’s not a rich land, but the wide vales did contain pockets of arable soil that sustained a decent agrarian economy – enough to support a couple of small estates and a single castle, before I selected Sevendor to be my home.  The villagers used the river to water their crops during the dry season (making them particularly susceptible to upstream interference, a fact we’d used against the Warbird, when he’d owned the domain) and took enough fish from the streams and enough game from the scrublands and forest to the east to supplement their barley-and-oat diet.

All of that changed, when I came to Sevendor.  Within two years Bastidor had gone from being the sleepy road to nowhere to being the staging area of a major offensive against a formerly harmless little vale.  But its very proximity had protected it from my full wrath, when I had come to lift the siege of my home, leaving a trail of conquered domains behind me.  I knew the Lord of Bastidor was in a tough spot, and I didn’t hold that against him.  I didn’t destroy his castle when I conquered his land, and gave it back to him in vassalage to me when he swore fealty.

Since its conquest, Bastidor had become a changed land.  The small village there had grown as my domain had prospered, merely on the number of passerby.  After the war and the addition of a new snowflake banner, the domain had prospered as the land most proximate to my personal domain.

Bastidor’s central village, Anilupe, had grown two inns in the two years that I’d owned it.  Bastidor Castle overlooked it, half a mile off the road on the western ridge; it had doubled in size itself in that time under my direction, as I encouraged Lord Motaran to guard my approach.  A larger keep was being built, far more slowly than mine behind the modest tower keep I’d inherited.  The bailey was also being doubled in size, to accommodate the vale’s increased population. That was difficult, up on the ridge, requiring some actual engineering - far beyond the skills of the homegrown masons in the area. 

Sire Motaran had instead hired a trio of monks to direct the work.   We had agreed upon a long, narrow bailey flanking the tower on the opposite side of the present works, and that’s where the monks had dedicated their efforts.  That might seem unnecessarily vulnerable, even with a decent curtain wall, but the monks had cunningly laid the foundations for a large, three-story gatehouse at the far end of the wall.

The gatehouse would face south, at the top of a steep incline that forced any approaching foe to show their flanks (and in some cases at the switchbacks, their backs) to the long crenelated wall they were building.  The gatehouse itself would eventually sport machiolations that would allow defenders to pelt invaders as they tried to bash in the heads of anyone who made their way across the rocky moat.  And then surmounted the drawbridge.  And a double portcullis.

Sire Motaran and his kin had held this land since Lensely times, his family reluctantly succumbing to Sire Gimbal’s threats and demands to take his colors when he had little other choice.  He had been equally reluctant to be a player in a war against a neighboring domain, but had pleaded with his liege on behalf of his people to settle the matter peacefully.  Once he had been conquered, he had been willing to swear again, to keep his lands, and he feared my retribution mightily when he took his oath.

But since his submission, his little domain had done well.  Not only the inns, where travelers awaited the morn to take the Bastidor Pass through the Enchanted Forest, but the smith, the tradesmen, even the villeins who lived in hamlets along the Ketta or in freeholds up on the ridges had prospered under my rule.  Especially after I had subsidized the new construction of the castle for their lord, and Banamor had begun expanding his business interests here.

Now the Snowflake flew over Bastidor’s red stag on a white field as we rode up to the gate of the castle late that afternoon.  We’d been spotted as soon as we’ crossed the frontier, and the sentries in the tower had seen the banner Sir Festaran carried, so the keep had at least a little warning of the impending arrival of twenty five unexpected guests.  But Sire Motaran accounted himself well.

The man met me at the gate of his keep, on foot, and personally led my horse into the bailey, welcoming me to his hall with formal respect.  He seemed genuinely pleased to see us, if surprised. 

“A brief inspection tour of the eastern domains of the barony,” I assured him.  “You heard, I take it, that we have western domains, now?”

“Scarce has a tale come of anything else since Duin’s Day,” he chuckled as he helped me down from my mount.  “The minstrels are saying that you built a wall of gold between Sashtalia and Sevendor.”

“That would be overstating it – but not by much,” I agreed.  “I see it as a wise strategic investment.  And it vexes Sashtalia, so it was worth the expense.”

“Does this mean we enter the war on the side of Sendaria?” he asked, his emotions concerning the matter hidden as best he could behind his beard.

“No, it means we watch from the sidelines, unless someone does something untoward.  Then I’ll consider the proper response.”

“I am relieved to hear it, truth to say, Excellency,” Motaran said with a bit of a sigh.  “I see little gain in the exercise, save entertainment . . . but if the honor of my baron demands it . . .”

“The honor of your baron demands a drink for me and a meal and a bed for my men,’ I dismissed.  “If I wanted glory in war, I’d set my sights higher than Trefalan and his cronies.  But that doesn’t mean we cannot remain vigilant, nor do I wish my existing vassals to feel slighted over the expense I’ve devoted to the new.  I bring some gifts, after the inspection.”

“As fortune would have it, Landfather Miton is at the castle, returning from blessing the fields of Trestendor.  Would you mind if the good abbot shared our table?”

“I’d be more than pleased,” I agreed.  “I’m anxious to hear how this year’s services went.”

The actual inspection took three hours, and mostly consisted of me following Motaran around and listening to how well construction was going on the wall.  I met the monks in charge of the construction, three swarthy-looking Remeren devotees of Avital, the Imperial god of engineering, math, and magic.

Now there’s a deity I would love to speak to, I recall noting at the time. 

The three gray-robed monks oversaw an encampment of masons and peasant laborers at the far end of the new bailey, where they were laying the foundations of the gatehouse.  They were intelligent fellows, professional engineers who had that Imperial disdain for anything Narasi overlaid liberally with an obsequious manner reserved for employers who paid in cash. 

The Avitalines had a reputation as an officious bunch, compared to even the other Imperial-pantheon clergy, but you couldn’t argue with their results.  Masters of organization and meticulous record-keepers, they had contributed brother engineers to every major construction project in the Duchies since before they were duchies. 

Except mine.  I’d hired the Karshak instead, and that proved to be something of a problem for the monks, as I discovered.  After indignantly (and very politely) chewing me out for using non-human labor and management for the project, they then begged by the many long names of their god for a chance to tour the great work. 

I consented only after getting them to agree to use magic in the construction of the new section of castle, though I didn’t put it that way.  They made the usual complaints about the low quality of the local labor.  When they got to how long it took to shape a single stone for inclusion in the wall, that’s when I produced a Bricking Wand and showed them how they could quadruple their production with magic.

I had Erenwal the Wall demonstrate the technique – he’d be the new castle warmage for Bastidor, after all.  Sire Motaran was certainly impressed, when the warmage deftly broke five different rocks into near-perfect building stones in less than five minutes.

“Amazing, Excellency!” the head monk, Brother Iral, declared, as he brushed the rubble away from the smooth surface.  “But have you not deprived a common man of five days’ work, now?” he asked, in almost a hurt tone.

“Do you think we
lack
for work, Brother?” I countered, gazing around at the three hundred feet of curtain wall they were slowly building.  “A man now has five days to lay and place the blocks, and perhaps enough gold will remain to build a few towers along the wall, eh?”

“I . . . see your point, Excellency,” Brother Iral said, doubtfully.  “The wall can be built more quickly, this way.  Far more quickly.  And you can build it more elaborately,” he conceded.

“And the more elaborate the fortification, the more intelligent monks I must employ,” I reminded them.  “I now have many more castles to repair and reinforce – why would I waste money on doing it the old way, when magic can speed the process?”