Enchanter (Book 7) (74 page)

Sir Cullien, miraculously, was still alive, though he might not ever walk again.  His hip was shattered by the skybolt and the risk of infection to the wound was great.  Lorcus had him moved to a hospital and paid the town’s best healer to tend him, but he was grim about his chances for survival. 

Lorcus had also called in some of his better warmagi, particularly my apprentices, to help keep watch over the castle after the attack.  The servants were all questioned under truthtell spells and those who proved to be in Lady Mask’s pay were interrogated. They hadn’t given him much useful information, yet, but he was hopeful.

There was no sign of Lady Mask, nor any account of her body being found.  That troubled me.

After retrieving Dara and Ruderal the next day, and bringing a few more men in return, I retired to my hall for the day, my work forgotten.  I’d told Alya about the Roloni knights’ betrayal, and she’d been concerned.  I’d not told her about Lady Mask, or her violent vendetta against me.  With her pregnant again, the last thing I wanted to do was rattle her nerves.  I was her husband.  I would protect her.  But in the meantime I desperately needed the salve of sweet domestic life to snap me out of my reaction to the attack.  I’d been in battle before – even without magic – but the combination of events, the smoothness with which she’d sprung the trap, they made me crave the comfort of Alya’s serene simplicity like the breath of life.

I was not hiding in her skirts, as part of me suggested.  But sometimes a man needs that quiet reminder of why he does what he does so he can find the strength to do it.  I allowed myself a full day of playing husband and father, chasing the kids around the hall, teaching Minalyan bad words when his mother wasn’t listening, forcing the tubby Tal Alon servants to play tag with them (except for our maid, Daisy, who was getting enormously large as her pregnancy progressed . . . not to mention a bit moody) and trying out simple magic with my underpowered stone to entertain them.  It was a great day, and just the tonic I needed to get me back to work.

The tasks before me, I concluded, were not as complex as they seemed.  I had to deal with the war in Rolone, the other war in Sashtalia, I had to replace my most powerful magical item, I had to eliminate an assassin who might or might not be dead already, I had to eliminate the threat of Isily to my family, and I had to prepare for the Conclave.  The gods-damned Conclave.

I had to go, too.  This was the first year that Pentandra’s successor was running the Order.  My presence would be an endorsement of his hard work; my absence would be seen as a sign of a lack of confidence.  More, there were several fairly mundane but important matters of policy that needed discussion and decisions, and it was also traditional that I present a few witchstones at the affair.  It was good for business, and it kept the middle and low magi hopeful and cooperative with the professional association.

I also had to give a speech.  Those are fun.

With the Conclave only a few days away, I had to move more quickly on some of my other projects.  There was nothing I could do about Isily, but I could do some business concerning the war in Bontal Vales.  After making sure there were no fires to put out and I could be missed for an afternoon, I took Ruderal and transported through the Waypoint to the Waystone I’d placed in Sire Cei’s armor.  That placed us in an unbearably hot canvass arming tent that smelled of leather, iron, blood, vomit, urine, and a thousand sweaty armpits.  We got out of there quick.

Magically appearing in the middle of a camp in a time of war is an exciting prospect.  Without orders, a pass, or the right passwords it’s often a quick trip to the nearest tree with a rope.  Thankfully we were in Sire Cei’s encampment and his servants from Cargwynen recognized us and arranged for passes.  Soon we were waiting outside of Baron Arathanial’s campaign tent – the same huge tent he used during the Chepstan Fair.  This time there were armored guards and sentries posted, and a steady stream of heralds and scouts reporting in.

We waited for the camp steward to announce us to the baron when Sire Cei happened by.  He was startled at seeing me there, but certainly happy enough.  For his part he looked in his element, a knight at honorable war.  And he’d seen battle.

“We’ve been raiding across the frontier into the borderlands,” he informed us, while we waited, “Twice we’ve run into real battle, and both times we were victorious.  We should be moving our camp over the river tomorrow, to better position ourselves for the next phase of the attack.  If all goes well, we’ll draw the Sashtali out of their keeps long enough to give battle.  If they lock themselves away, then I’m afraid the war will bog down quickly.  We can conduct a siege, but our goal is to avoid one until we get to Sashtalia Castle, itself.”

We were announced to the Baron before I could catch my castellan up on news from home – particularly Alya’s pregnancy.  Sevendor’s acquisition of six new domains was already known in camp.  But I was curious to hear the reaction of the man who was going to have to administer them, now.

Arathanial looked very different than he did at the Fair.  He was in full chainmail, his helmet and gauntlets laid aside, looking as if he was ready to spring onto horseback at the sound of a horn.  He was seated in front of a trestle table on which were piles of parchment, ink, wax boards, and a large map of Sashtalia.  I glanced at the positions of the pieces.  From what I could tell, things looked pretty favorable for Sendaria.

“Ah, the Sevendori contingent!  Have you come to throw your sword into the fray, my friend?” he asked, after greeting us and offering me wine. 

“No, but I do have some useful intelligence . . . and a possible proposition.  Let me first tell you the tale of a little estate the King gave me called Amel Wood.”

I spent half an hour telling the story of Sire Cullien’s raid and Lorcus’ appointment and subsequent reprisal.  When I told them how quickly a half-dozen warmagi and a couple of dozen archers had manage to not only attack, but successfully conquer the domain, both men were speechless.

“So your man – Lorcus? – Lord Lorcus has just conquered the domain of
Rolone?
  The second strongest castle in Sashtalia?” Arathanial asked, his eyes wide with shock.

“Indeed.  More, the former lord brought a hundred men to Rolone to negotiate under truce, then broke the truce and attacked Lorcus, myself, and a couple of others with the intention of re-taking the Castle, and thence the domain.  He failed.  He lies near death in a hospital, under guard.  The survivors among his men have been put to hard labor in penance.  So there will be a few thousand less peasants and a hundred fewer knights on the field before you.”

“That’s . . . that’s incredible news,” Arathanial murmured.  “Certainly for the battle ahead.  But Minalan, this is also troubling.  I did not amass an army and go into debt to conquer only half of Sashtalia!”

“There is still a large portion left unconquered, let me assure you.  But Lord Lorcus has indicated a willingness to treat with the victor of the war as to the disposition of his domain, and empowered me to negotiate on his behalf.”

“Negotiate?” Sire Cei asked, confused.  “What is there to negotiate?”

“Quite a lot, actually.  The fact is, though he was adept at conquering the domain, and he’s enjoying the spoils, he is not by nature suited to running such a large and complex property.  He is a warmage by training.  And a Remeran by birth – and not one of the stable ones.  But should you prevail in the field, I could perhaps see a trade.”

“A . . .
trade?”
Arathanial asked, suddenly interested.

“Yes.  Consider the revenues produced by Rolone annually,” I proposed.  “Then consider them in comparison to those you gain from the domains of Bulmont and Kesh.  I think you will find those of Rolone superior to their combined totals by about two-thirds, according to Sir Festaran.  Should Sendaria prove victorious and take Sashtalia, I would be amenable to trading most of the domain of Rolone – minus two small estates in the extreme south which border Amel Wood – for the domains of Bulmont and Kesh.  That would give me a series of contiguous estates and give you the second largest prize in Sashtalia for the cost of a couple of small hill domains.  And I, in the meantime, we’ll keep Rolone’s men out of the war, prohibit his eastern domains from moving troops through Roloni territory, and generally screw up Trefalan’s warplan further.”

Arathanial drummed his fingers, considering the costs and the benefits of the proposal.  It cost him nothing, I knew, if he did not win the war.  If he did win, he got a domain he didn’t have to fight for, more or less intact.  That would also reduce the size of the contiguous parcel of domains he held from what was left of West Fleria, but I knew that Rolone was a tempting offer.

“One more thing,” I added, before he could answer.  “I want the guardianship and patronage of the Holy Hill Temple of Trygg transferred to Sevendor,” I added.  That was a minor thing – currently it was held by Trefalan, through his former vassal, though the temple could do nothing by law to contribute to the war. 

I wanted it because the temple served a vital function for the hill country domains, and I wanted to secure my influence over it.  Sure, there was prestige and honor in a lord being generous with his support of the clergy, but when your wife is pregnant you want to line up the best midwives in the region in advance.

“Done,” Arathanial said.  “I hesitated only because I felt I was taking advantage of a friend, by accepting such an offer.  If you add in the temple estate, I think it’s more balanced.  You do realize that your man Lorcus is giving up a possibly prestigious position in the new barony I’m planning there?”

“New barony?  I thought you were reclaiming Sashtalia for Sendaria?”

“I have three sons, Minalan, and while the youngest is considering taking holy orders, my second son, Thanis, is as doughty a warrior and as wise a leader as his elder brother – perhaps better.  Sashtalia was always a cadet barony for the Lensely’s – a place to park younger sons and cousins, for a few generations – and it was only that damned succession crises that ripped her from the family.  If I can restore the old Lensely barony, whose title is active but vacant, and install Thanis in it, then both of my sons will inherit a decent patrimony, without having to split it.”

“But won’t that cause another succession crises?” I asked, ignorant of such things.

“His Excellency is having the Lawbrothers of Stapledor Priory draw up the baronial charter,” explained Sire Cei.  “Within they will lay out specific issues of inheritance and succession, avoiding the legal pitfalls that doomed the Lensely legacy in the past.” 

Stapledor was one of the largest ecclesiastic estates in the county, and the seat of not just the High Priest of Luin for the county, but also a college and seminary training the lawbrothers of the region.  It was also smack in the middle of Sashtalia, but the feuds between the Lawfather of the Priory and the Lord of Sashtalia were legendary.  Apparently Trefalan liked to skirt the letter of Luin’s Law far more than was the liking of the powerful cleric, who was still resentful of the technically-illegal seizure of Sashtalia a generation ago.  The Priory was eager to help.

“And I get a way to reward all of the younger sons of vassals who are accumulating so dangerously,” Arathanial added.  “Within a new client barony there will be plenty of opportunities.”

“Especially after you’ve slaughtered the former owners,” I pointed out, a little ruefully.  “And a good many of your younger sons.”

“Oh, it’s good for the blood,” Arathanial declared, pounding the table.  “It weeds out the weak and stupid and rewards the valorous and strong.  Always a lot of weddings, after a war,” he recalled, fondly. 

I didn’t pursue the matter.  Duin’s Law institutionalized the military in Narasi culture, as well as the attitude towards death and its role in society.  I prefer Briga’s law.  There are more cookies involved.

We concluded the discussion on a handshake in front of his lawbrother, who was happy to witness the deal.  Then we had wine to pledge the agreement, and I had a chance to catch them both up on important news from Sevendor, and some details about the recent battle in Rolone Castle, and its outcome.  They were particularly impressed with how well four warmagi did against trained knights – I didn’t have the heart to tell him the combat skills of the Riverlord chivalry were overrated, compared to a warmage – even without magic.  Dara’s sudden rescue stole the tale, however, and I left them both with a much improved opinion of the Hawkmaiden.

I collected Ruderal before I went home.  I’d had the boy sit quietly near the middle of the Sendari encampment and just watch.

“Did you see her?” I asked, quietly.

“No, Master,” he said, solemnly. 

“Then let’s go home,” I sighed.  I had entertained a theory that if Lady Mask survived, she might try another attempt on me, or further disrupt the war with Sashtalia, just out of spite.  It was a longshot, but as I was coming here anyway it seemed a sensible precaution to position Ruderal to see if he spotted her pattern through her disguise.  He hadn’t. 

“Do we have to go back to that smelly old tent to go home?” he asked.  “It was like the inside of a three-day old ragclaw!”

“No need,” I assured.  “Do you want to head back to Boval Hall, or would you be up for a side excursion?” I asked.

“We’re having turnips for dinner,” he said, wrinkling his nose.  “If I could avoid that . . .”

“What’s wrong with turnips?” I’d always liked them myself.