High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (30 page)

When we were finally led to where Baron Edmarin was preparing for the day’s amusement I was at a well-controlled boil.  The baron proved to be an older man, well-dressed and clearly at home in his mediocrity.  He was examining a number of falcons held out for his inspection, his horse and a party of gentlemen waiting nearby.  The castellan quietly introduced us, but the Baron did not stop his examination of the hunting birds.

“My lord Spellmonger,” he said, in feigned surprise.  “What brings you to our fair little city?”

“The city is not fair,” I corrected, “and my title is Magelord.  Baron, if you want to be precise, but Magelord is sufficient…and more helpfully descriptive.  I find myself compelled to ask how you feel hawking is an appropriate pastime when there are clearly higher priorities in Vorone.”

“Magelord,” he answered, nonplussed, “I have been at this position for nine months, now.  If I concerned myself with every petty injustice and hard luck story that wandered to my gates, I would be doing nothing else.  Nor are the resources to which I am entitled sufficient to do more than relieve a tithe of the burden placed upon the people of Alshar.  We have devoted the majority of the ducal tribute to their relief,” he offered, “yet there seem to be no end of them.  And the ducal tribute is, alas, far less than it once was. “

“Yet you see fit to go hawking anyway.”

“We must not let the trials of the gods keep us from gentlemanly pursuit,” he offered.  “And the hunting up here is simply magnificent!  Last autumn we took a two-hundred pound boar – the most vicious beast I’ve ever slain.  Magnificent!” he repeated.

“And did that boar grace your table, your Excellency?” I asked, evenly.

“Of course,” he said, indignantly.  “But I donated the three dogs it killed to the poor devils outside the gate.  The gods know I am a charitable man,” he said, proudly. 

I decided to change the subject.  He was clearly not going to be moved by an appeal to his nobility.  “Those are beautiful birds,” I said, looking more closely at a redwinged hawk.  I was learning a bit about such things, now that Dara was around to teach me.  I’d even flown Frightful a few times.

“I’ve got dozens of the beastly things,” he snorted.  “It’s as if every Wilderlands lord who could escape with anything of value brought his birds with him.  Then learned quickly how expensive life in a war zone can be, and I pick them up cheaply.  The mews is filled to overflowing – and it is a large mews.  I swear I hunt them out of charity for their well-being.  The poor things get so little exercise, if they aren’t properly flown.”

“Any larger birds?” I asked, knowing that Dara would ask me.  She and Ithalia had been mad for large raptors lately. 

“Large?  I’ve got over a score of Wilderlands Silvers,” he said, proudly.  “The Wilderlords are mad for them.  Huge, hulking things, utterly vicious, but . . . there’s no art to them,” he said, sadly.  “Not like these fine little ladies.  Yes, I’ll take these three, not those,” he instructed his hawkmaster.  “If I don’t find a buyer for them though, I’ll end up serving
them
to the refugees,” he promised.  “They eat ravenously and if they aren’t flown they’re expensive to feed.”

I thought of twenty birds like Dara’s beautiful Frightful
having their necks summarily wrung, plucked, and cooked in a pot.  I wouldn’t blame a starving man for doing it, I suppose, but it was a dreadful waste of a magnificent animal.  “I’ll buy the lot of them,” I proposed.  “Every Silver Raptor you have.”

“Really?” Baron Edmarin asked, surprised.  “I had not heard you were interested in birds.”

“One of my apprentices has introduced me, and I’d like to give her a present,” I said, truthfully.  “I’ve been considering taking up the hobby myself.  I’ll pay you twenty ounces of gold for each one delivered to Sevendor.”

“Done!” he said, happily, his eyes bulging at the price.  He had clearly paid significantly less.  “I’ll make the arrangements at once.  You really think you can handle twenty such big brutes?”

“I’ll learn,” I pledged.  “But most will be gifts to vassals, I think.  How lies the army outside your gates?” I asked, changing the subject again.  “King Rard and the Warlord will be wanting a complete report from me,” I explained.

“Well enough, though it is less an army than a depot,” he admitted.  “A thousand men stationed permanently to guard the stores and supplies.  Another two-thousand in the garrison.  Beyond that, the soldiers there await deployment north, or are being sent home wounded.”

“So if any force came at the city in earnest . . . how many could be fielded?”

“Three thousand, maybe five thousand, depending,” he shrugged.  “All but five hundred infantry.  If there happens to be a mercenary unit in transit, perhaps more.  But there’s no way the scrugs would venture here.  They went right past us, down the road to Gilmora.  If they wanted Vorone, they would have taken it.”

I didn’t want to debate military strategy with the man.  Not only was his grasp of the situation suspect, but it was clear he was more concerned about living well off of the city’s decaying corpse than seeing it survive.  I didn’t like that, but there was little I could do about it.  His was a royal appointment.  Even as Marshal of Alshar, I could not dispute that.

I could beg a boon of him, however.  “It occurs to me that it would be helpful for the Arcane Orders to have a more pronounced presence in the region,” I said, thoughtfully, as he strapped on his flying leathers.  “It would be strategically helpful.  Tell me, are any of the spaces within the city available?”

“Actually, there are a few old homes and mansions here,” he agreed, amiably.  “Most belong to great houses of the duchy who used them when at the summer court.  And nearly every little lordling in the Wilderlands wanted to have a place in the summer capital, when the Duke heard their cases.  There is a whole street of such little mansions.  Some are mere cots, but still more grand than the dirt-floored halls they call home.”  He had a Riverlord’s contempt for the rough-edged Wilderlords. 

I stopped.  “Every lordling?”

“The Duke made such residences affordable to the nobility by edict,” Edmarin explained in a bored tone.  “It kept the city’s craftsmen busy, and allowed the nobles an opportunity to house their kin at court without inconvenience.  And he disliked tents.”  Baron Edmarin chuckled with a fond memory.  “It was said it made sleeping with the wives of his vassals more comfortable and convenient, but I knew the old boy.  I doubt he had that much ambition.  Why, do you wish to purchase one?” he asked, amused.

“Mayhap.  If one is available.”

“Oh, plenty are available.  Most are in good condition, too.  I’ve kept the street clear of looters and squatters, mostly.  I’m sure I could find you a suitable residence, if the price is right.”  I could tell he’d profit handsomely from the deal.  I wasn’t particularly inclined to line his purse, but I didn’t want to say so.

“Thank you, my lord,” I nodded.  “I’ll take a look at a few and let you know which I like.”

“And you’ll still be wanting those birds?” he asked, hungrily.

“Definitely.  And any falconer who accompany them will be assured a secure post at the end of his journey,” I promised.  “You have the Spellmonger’s word on that.”

After I left the baron to his birds, I got in touch with Sire Cei, through Rondal, who was still traveling with him.  I inquired as to whether or not Sire Koucey, Sire Cei’s former master – and current puppet of the Dead God – ever maintained a residence in Vorone, and learned that House Brandmount had, indeed, maintained a modest hostel there.  He had stayed there himself several times when the business of his master took him so far.  He told me where it was located, after catching me up on my apprentices’ progress in errantry.

I met up with Sir Festaran and Alscot near the gate to the palace and then made our way to House Brandmount’s townhome.

It was a pleasant affair, constructed of exposed beam and plaster and rising three stories tall.  The sharply-peaked roof was done in slated tile, not thatch, and was, indeed, nicer than anything Koucey had lived in in Boval Vale.  Boval Castle was big, compared to other domain-level fortifications, but it was plain and sparse, designed for war and not comfort.

The house proved deserted.  The lock on the door looked imposing, but Alscot enchanted it into rusty wreckage in moments.  Inside we found the house was prepared for sudden arrivals, with wood laid in the fire and even a little food stored away.  Though more than a year’s dust had settled within, there were sheets ready in presses near the empty straw ticks on the beds.  The arms of House Brandmount loomed here and there, but other than that the home was cheery enough. 

“I think we just found Sevendor’s new embassy to Alshar,” I decided.  “I mean, technically, I suppose this already belongs to me.  I did remove Sire Koucey from power before the Dead God came.  I didn’t file an official Writ of Conquest or anything, and the point is pretty moot, but I feel entitled to the place.”

“What if someone objects to that?” asked Alscot, amused. 

“I’ll be happy to have the discussion,” I said.  “Besides, Koucey owed me some back pay, I figure, for running that siege.  That was court wizard work.  I’ll take this house in fee.  I’ll have our baggage moved here and we’ll take residence, for now.  Later it can be a presence for the Order in Vorone, or something.  But right now it’s a cozy, free, secure place to lay my head without dealing with strangers.  So, gentlemen, tell me about your day.  I want to hear your reports.”

Alscot went first, helping himself to a bottle of Koucey’s wine.  “It wasn’t as bad as I thought,” he began.  “The camp looks like shyte, but it’s not badly run.  The Baron has precious little to do with it, other than authorizing payment to the garrison and approving the supplies from the south.  The real commander is a little man named Sir Baskei, and he’s not bad at his job.  He runs the supply depot and handles quartering for transient troops.  The hospital is run by a bunch of monks, mostly warbrothers but some priests and nuns from other sects.  The men are all eager to do well to avoid being posted north to Tudry, or worse.  The Iron Ring warbrother I met there was doing good business, though.  He had a string of forty recruits headed for the Penumbra already, and he’s only been here a few days.  The recruiters hang around the gambling halls, and when some poor desperate fucker gets into debt too deeply, the Iron Ring offers to bail him out.  There are rumors that the Order itself is fixing the dice.”

“Unlikely, but that’s an interesting notion.  What about their defensive capabilities?”

“They’d fold like a broken leg,” he said, candidly.  “Against any disciplined force, that is.  They have enough lads and enough steel to put up a fight, but it’s not a front-line unit.  It’s not even a particularly good garrison unit.  They barely patrol.”

“Much activity in the area?”

“From what I heard the gurvani are leaving Vorone alone, though they haven’t spared many other domains.  The closest raid was half a day’s ride north, at the last full moon.  About two hundred dead or captured.  The rest fled here.  That’s just on the edge of the Penumbra,” he added, grimly.  “That’s where things start getting really bad.”

“How about the refugees, Fes?” I asked Sir Festaran.  The young mage knight looked troubled, and not just by my casual presentation.  The wine was good, and the fact it had been Koucey’s made me want to inhale it.  I wasn’t particularly inclined toward formality in such a situation.   Sir Festaran always tried to maintain a sense of formality, and I’m sure he was disturbed by me relaxing the social rules, as was my right as most senior in status.  But that’s not what was on his mind, as it turned out.

“Magelord, I have never seen such suffering.  By my estimate, there are forty-four thousand refugees in nine major camps around the city.  I spoke extensively with an abbot who directs the relief efforts.  The man was pious enough, but . . . pragmatic,” he said, making a sour face.

“How so?”

“I pointed out a boy who was . . . who was selling the favors of his two younger sisters.  Girls not yet in flower,” he added, distastefully.  “The landbrother not only knew it, but condoned it as necessary under the circumstances.  The aid he gets from the palace is paltry.  Maize fit only for horses, stale oats and moldy barley.  Meat is a rare treat and usually gets stolen and sold before it can be distributed. Therefore without coin, however small, the children were not able to eat.”

I felt appalled myself.  “Could he not feed them from his stores?”

“I asked him the same question, Magelord,” he said, his face ashamed.  “He pointed out another dozen who were in a similar position.  Girls as young as seven, doing unspeakable things for men, just to eat.  Gangs of boys roaming around, laying claim to territories and fighting to defend them.  Mothers pimping their daughters . . . and their sons.  

“He could not feed them all, he told me.  The most he could do was protect them from harm, as best he could while they earned what they could and lived another day.  There were two whole camps just of
children
, Magelord – nine thousand orphans and refugees,” he said, his head sagging in despair.  “More arrive every day.  The children apparently hide when the raiders come and escape notice.  Their parents are captured and enslaved, but the children are not pursued.  Too frail and intractable, most likely.  But if they are caught, they are tortured in front of their parents to amuse the gurvani.  So they run – and they end up here.”