Enchanter (Book 7) (49 page)

The lad also needed his own writing supplies, so I purchased a small traveling desk with a sheaf of parchment, inks, and quills.  He protested – he could barely read, much less write, and he still had problems with so many of the words in Dranus’ texts . . . so we went on a spree in the bookseller’s stall, purchasing a few simple books for him to practice with. 

“We’ll get you more supplies later, as you need them,” I promised, “but for now I want you to work on your literacy.  If you can read enneagramatic patterns, you can read basic thaumaturgical texts . . . eventually.”

“Patterns don’t make my eyes hurt,” he complained, sullenly.  “Master.”

“Sometimes we must suffer in order to learn, lad,” I assured him.  “That’s one of the uncomfortable truths of magic.” I saw someone coming through the crowd I wanted to speak with.  I dug into my pouch and found enough silver to rent a peasant shack for six months before I pressed it into his hand.  “Go wander the fair awhile, buy anything you may think we have missed, and listen out for my call.  Can you do that?”

“Yes, Master,” he said, his eyes fixed on the pile of silver in his palm.  He looked up at me, near stricken.  “It’s so much!  Can you aff—”

“Not another word,” I said, with mock sternness.  “Think of it as the gods paying you back for some of your hard work and heroism.”  The boy had been instrumental in saving not only Tyndal and Rondal, but a troop of Kasari youths as well – and he had paid for it, dearly.  “Go!  And you’d better have no more than half that amount when I call for you!”

He grinned boyishly, then ran away, looking over his shoulder uncertainly before disappearing among the stalls.  I was glad he was out of earshot.  I had to have a difficult conversation.

“Excellency,” I said, sliding through the crowd until I was almost on Baron Arathanial’s elbow.  The old baron jumped, startled, then smiled broadly.  A good sign.

“Minalan!  I was hoping you’d be able to attend this year! We’ve missed you the last few.  How is Alya?”

“Well,” I nodded, joining him in front of his trail of attendants.  “She’s shopping me into penury as we speak!”

“Good for her!” he said, a little more fervently than I think he’d prefer.  “There are some great bargains at the fair, this year!  If you have any coin left, after buying half of Sashtalia . . .”

“Not even a fifth of it, according to Sir Festaran,” I pointed out.  “And the worst fifth, by most estimations.”

“You could have a third of it, if you joined me this summer,” he urged, quietly.  “Some of the eastern domains are quite lucrative . . .”

“I’ve already had my trouble keeping my borders,” I informed him.  “And I made a pledge to my people,  Besides, I could not deprive you of your glory,” I added, encouragingly.”

“I made as much an offer to Sire Sigalan,” he sighed.  “He gave me the same answer – said he was still recovering his lost domains, and would not be fit to fight for a season or more.”

I knew that was an exaggeration.  If Arathanial kept as close an eye on his friends as he did his foes, he’d know that Sigalan not only had reordered and strengthened his estates for the last two years with trained knights, he had also had his folk practicing furiously with the heavy Wilderlands bows I’d been supplying him.  The Bovali had taught the technique of layering hickory and yew to the Westwoodmen, who were busy refining it.  The result was a six-foot long bow that took a hundred pounds to pull, and could propel a shaft through three inches of wood.  Or a quarter inch of iron.

There were hundreds of the bows in the hands of Sigalan’s yeomen, now, and they had been quietly practicing with the things.  It took a lot of skill to use one, but the bow made even the heaviest cavalry vulnerable.  Sigalan was wary of Arathanial’s expansionist tendencies.  He’d been under pressure to become Arathanial’s vassal for years, and resisted it. 

“The smell of war is in the air, as thick as the pollen,” I noted.  “Who knows what fortune the gods may bring?  I keep my men ready.  And I’ve developed a dislike of the Lord of Rolone.”

Arathanial snorted.  “Painful man, isn’t he?  Believe it or not his family were once famously loyal Lensely vassals, before the dynastic dispute.  But when my grand-uncle tried to rebel against my great-grandfather, the traitors foreswore their oaths and joined the rebel.  And they’ve been rebels ever since.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if one of my vassals took some initiative to fish in Rolone’s troubled waters while its master faces your lances on the field?”

“Oh, that would be a shame, to be beset with such misfortune in a time of war!” chuckled the old man.  “Let him have his way with the place.  The more Trefalan has to worry about now, the better!”

“I thought you would approve.  Tell me – have the knights of Kest, Bulmont and East Fleria joined your ranks?”  There was a fair-sized encampment outside the castle walls, on the other side of the commons.  There were at least three or four thousand men there, though only the knights had been permitted to attend the fair.  There was a lot of room on that commons, though.  Most of the peasant levies would not be arriving until after plowing season, I knew.

“Nay.  Nor will they.  Here,” he said, with a smirk.  “This will be a complex war, in part due to the insight of the Dragonslayer.  Sire Cei is as cunning at strategy as he is at the fray.  He has come to be high in my counsels in the preparation for this war.”  I had no doubt – he’d been hearing my warmagi’s reports from their trial runs into Sashtalia for months.  And overflights from Skyriders. 

“Just don’t break him,” I cautioned.  “You have him for the season, but then I want him back intact.  So does his wife, I imagine.”

“I doubt any in the Bontal Vales could best Sire Cei,” he said, appraisingly.  “I would see him joust again this year, but I forbade it.”

“Forbade it?” I asked, curious.

“Oh, not the professionals, nor the squires near to their vigils.  They should have the chance at a purse, so close to their fulfillment.  But none of my vassals will be participating, this year.  I want no man hurt before the war begins.”

“A sound policy,” I said, nodding. 

“And to encourage the common folk, I’ve doubled the prizes at archery this year,” he confided.  “There are over three hundred shooting for their fortune this year.  And good prizes for the staff, wrestling, and all the martial arts.  Let Trefalan’s spies report that to their master!” 

Then he suddenly straightened, and put a hand on my shoulder.  “And thanks to your enchantments, most of my peasants were done with plowing and able to spend their time at the butts practicing!” he said, gratefully.  “And they will be deploying right after the fair, three thousand strong, while Sashtalia’s villeins are still planting.  Next year I want to use those plowing wands at all of my estates!”

That was important, a significant advantage in the war.  Peasant levies were pretty useless in terms of professional warfare, unless they were properly armed and trained as we did in Sevendor.  But they were essential for the dozens of tasks requiring strong backs: digging, making camp, clearing, cutting, and any kind of siegework.  If Arathanial’s

I smiled and nodded.  “Those will have a dramatic effect on your estates’ production, I think, too, as the technique encourages aeration that leads to stronger yields.  In Sevendor we’re expecting such a large crop this year we’re building a third granary.”

“You’ll need it, to feed all of those mountain holds you bought,” he said, smugly.  “If you were going to expand your demesne, there are far more lucrative domains to have purchased.”

“It was more about security than investment,” I dismissed.  “I wanted a buffer between Sevendor and the war zone, is all.”

“Well, if you had joined me, you could have picked up one or two choice lands.  Sashtalia was once the richest part of my grandsires’ realm.”  That was true – the fertile valleys in the region were very fertile, and produced in great quantity.  After four years of living in the Bontal, I now knew the story of the Lensely dynastic wars enough to know that had been one of the causes of the strife; a younger brother, given charge of the rich region, had rebelled and challenged his older brother’s position.  Two generations or more of bloodshed had reduced the once-grand house to its current state.

“As I said, if my vassals wish to participate as mercenaries, I will not stop them; but we’re just now recovering from the Warbird’s folly.  I am still ordering my realm.  A war would be inconvenient. But I wish you Duin’s strength and a quick victory.”

“Your loss, my friend,” the baron said, shaking his head.  “There is nothing like a war to make a man feel bold!”

Of course, his war would be a highly stylized version of the real thing – fought according to rules, customs, and laws, more a glorified tournament than a conflict.  It was nothing like the primal struggle against the gurvani, where such things as quarter and mercy were meaningless.  But such things were the backbone of the chivalric culture of the Bontal.  A knight who did not embark on at least one private war in his lifetime wasn’t considered much of a knight by history and legend.

“In truth, I have been more captivated by my craft, of late,” I admitted, as we walked.  “All winter I’ve had some of the best enchanters in the kingdom assisting me.  We’ve produced wonders, and there are more to come.”

That news disturbed him, as well as intrigued him.  “More wonders, you say?  I’ve already heard you’ve raised a new keep behind your old faster than wheat grows.”

“That’s the Karshak’s magic, not mine.  And a very expensive magic it is.  They are masters of stone, and can work like bees in a springtime hive, but every one of them eats enough for two men and costs as much as five.  Though Sire Cullien, the Lord of Rolone was quite impressed with it,” I admitted.  “Terrified, in fact.  He came to threaten me to stay out of the war, and used the construction as proof of my ambitions.”  I figured directing his attention at his enemy, and not at my new caste, was probably wise.  I was right.

“And what did you tell that snakish churl?” he asked.  “I’ve always disliked him as much as Trefalan.”

“I informed him that if his master wished to take issue with it, he could bring his army against me and we could discuss the matter.  And that the construction that he mistook as my new keep was, in fact, merely my new gatehouse.  That gave him pause,” I assured.  Everyone likes to hear about their enemies squirming.

“Your realm is a wonder,” he nodded, satisfied.  “And mine has prospered by our association.  My son is somewhat suspect of your motives,” he confided, as we approached the big canopy from which he administered the fair, “but he cannot argue with your benevolent assistance.  And he was quite in favor of your stratagem to deprive Sashtalia of its hill domains, though it forced him to alter his strategy.”

Sir Arlestan, Arathanial’s oldest son and heir, was a handsome man about my age, and the hope of House Lensely’s future.  Arathanial had been grooming him for leadership since birth, and had pledged to leave him a far larger realm to inherit than the one he was born into.  I’d met him several times, and he was an affable, intelligent lord quite similar in disposition and character as his father.  But he lacked his father’s insight and experience, not to mention his opportunistic nature.  No doubt the education this war of conquest would bring would help him develop that.

“Perhaps if he came and spent some time in my domain, and saw how we do things, that would give him better grist for his imagination than rumor and speculation,” I offered.  “Sevendor is a mageland, and as a neighbor it would be proper for him to know how we differ from other folk.”

“That is not a bad idea, Minalan,” he agreed, sagely, stroking his beard.  “Perhaps when the war is over, after he settles his newly conquered lands, we will do just that.”  We spoke for several more minutes about the specifics of his preparations and his general plan: deploying three strong columns to the frontier, invading the border regions quickly before moving on to Sashtalia’s northern fortifications.  A fourth column, he confided, comprised of his new vassals from Bulmont, Kest, and East Fleria, would be moving west to attack two strategic fortresses in the domains of Perine and Avanal.

“Duin willing, by the end of summer we shall be at the gates of Sashtalia, itself!” he said, with premature triumph. 

“Ifnia’s smile upon you,” I blessed him, leaving him to deal with his impatient entourage.  That’s one of the nice things about being a baron.  When you want to talk and hold things up, there’s not a whole hell of a lot anyone can do about it.

I wandered back through the fairgrounds, looking for Ruderal.

“Are you ready to go, Master?” he asked, licking his fingers.

“How did you find me so fast?” I asked, impressed.  “I was about to send for you.”

“I just sort of followed your pattern, in my head,” he explained, thoughtfully.  “There’s a part of it that is the part that knows it wanted me, and I just waited for that one to manifest.  When it did, I went looking for you.”

“That’s remarkable,” I observed.  “That could be an extremely valuable Talent you have there.”

“I’m getting better at using it, with Master Dranus’ help,” he agreed.  “I’m starting to have words to explain what I do.  What I see.”

“That’s good.  We’re going to teach you to use that Talent to its fullest extent.  And teach you a lot of other crap that won’t seem very useful now, but will be extremely useful later.  Master Dranus says you’re a bright lad and a quick study.  Do you think you can really commit to this life?”