High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (4 page)

Most of the mundane issues of the valley I ruled were handled locally, by the manorial courts.  But now that my rule extended beyond, thanks to five domains I’d unexpectedly acquired last summer, I had to oversee the law and policy in each of their lands.  It was not a task I could trust to many others – when it comes to managing your domain, setting policy is something you want to give your personal attention, because you have to live with the result.  A lawbrother hired for his judgment can just shrug and walk away, leaving you with a monk’s mess of problems.

There were other considerations.  If I didn’t regularly maintain the docket, it would soon overwhelm me in bureaucracy, I also knew.  Problems at that level never seem to go away.

So I sat on the bench in the Great Hall that morning and heard one case after another.  The hall was crowded with plaintiffs, defendants, witnesses, bailiffs, curious onlookers and interested parties.  That was in addition to the regular business of the castle, which had to continue despite the occasion, so the Great Hall was a busy place.

Perhaps I invested too much of my attention to it.  I know most other lords sit at court and dispense arbitrary judgment, when they pay attention to the cases at all.  I was still new at this, and the novelty of my word having the power to change peoples’ lives had not yet worn off. Thankfully, most of the cases before me required relatively simple decisions. But I still had to sit and hear each side before making a judgment.  It was tedious work, and before mid-morning my back ached and my arse was complaining, making me pause to reflect on power, boredom, and the soreness of buttocks . . . but its importance compelled me give it as much attention as I could manage. 

I sat in my warm hall and called forth those who would have my judgment and patiently listened to their complicated issues.  Then I would make a decision and they would leave.  I liked to think that they left the better off for that judgment, but that wasn’t always the case.  Hence the presence of armed guards at the doors and on either side of my bench, just to keep things peaceful.

Things had gone smoothly all morning, with my castle bailiff Sir Staldin, a landless knight serving in the stead of his lord, efficiently ordering the cases, cracking jokes, and keeping things moving along.  It wasn’t a terribly tangled docket, either.  There were a few boundary disputes between manors, some contract disputes, and requests for boons and relief.  I was generous with those, as the little war we had here last year had caused plenty of hardship among the local folk.  Suffering peasants were unproductive peasants.  And I had the money. 

Money wasn’t the problem. 
People
were the problem.  Thankfully, this was my last case in the docket.

“Master Gilith, representing the weavers’ guild of Sendaria Town,” Staldin began, his voice clearly starting to get tired, “prays the Magelord attend his claim for thirty sacks of wool from Vanror Manor, the Magelord’s domain of Karandal, held in trust by Fistan Abbey, represented by Woolbrother Teer, assistant abbot of the temple.  The honorable master claims a promise of said wool was guaranteed by Lord Gimbal.  The Abbot claims that the wool was to be purchased by Sire Gimbal at a discount, from his own purse, and delivered to the guild, but Master Gilith insists that no such arrangement was listed in his terms,” Sir Staldin droned on.

I sighed.  There would be years of this, I knew.  Feudal economies thrive on such complex arrangements, and they can get quite complicated.  Sometimes the deals can span generations.  When there has been a change in administration everyone gets in a hurry to clear their outstanding accounts before they are forgotten or disavowed.  Gimbal had done his share of making promises and opening contracts with the guilds of Sendaria Town, the largest trade town in this region of the Bontal Riverlands.  They were as convoluted as any domain’s affairs, and untangling the threads of the mess had taken up the greater part of my last two courts.

The abbey was the third-largest ecclesiastical territory in my new lands.  The Woolbrothers of Fistan Abbey were a hard-working, contemplative order devoted to the Sky God, Orvatas – the ram was his sacred animal, presumably because the white sheep so resembled his sacred clouds) and most of their minor temples raised sheep as a homage to their divine lord. 

Sometimes these were token herds, but Fistan Abbey had taken to sheep-rearing with a passion, and Orvatas’ devotion had led to a profitable side business in wool.  So much so that the monks were referred to as “woolbrothers” not “skybrothers” as was popular in the more urban temples.  The wool of Fistan Abbey was famed for its softness and durability, and the monks could demand a premium price for it.  They ran a temple house for the blind on the abbey’s grounds with the proceeds of the enterprise, employing the sightless at carding and washing the famed wool.

Woolbrother Teer was no stupid shepherd, however.  He carried himself like a lawbrother, his sheepskin hood thrown back to reveal a gleaming tonsure that added several years to his age.  There were books and a roll of parchments in his sack, I saw with a sinking heart.  Preparations for a lengthy argument were not a good sign.

Master Gilith, on the other hand, was a portly merchant whose fat fingers had not touched a loom in memory, from what I could see.  He had rheumy eyes and a large nose, and despite his presence at court, with gold at stake, he appeared bored and inattentive.  Until I called upon him, that is.

“Master Gilith, you understand that there has been a change in administration in Karandal,” I asked for the twentieth time that morning.

“Aye, Magelord,” the merchant agreed, heavily, but attentively.  “It’s played hob with our deliveries.”

“It inconvenienced us all, I assure you,” I replied, dryly.  “You understand that I do not feel bound by my predecessor’s bargains?”

“Aye, Magelord,” the man began, expectantly.  “But the contract exists impartial to the arrangements made between manor lord – in this case, the worshipful brothers of Fistan Abbey.”

“Yet the purpose of the contract, to outfit the garrison in Karandal, cannot be fulfilled, as there is no garrison at Karandal anymore.”

“Which is why we stand before you today, Magelord,” agreed Woolbrother Teer, after clearing his throat.  “The stated purpose in the contract was for the wool to be put toward the Abbey’s scutage fees for military service.  When the garrison marched away, so did the bodies those clothes were for.  I—”

“I’ll accept delivery of the cloth, myself,” I said, sheering through the legal arguments ahead with some inspired judgment.  Or at least that’s what I thought.

“What?” asked Master Gillith and Woolbrother Teer, in unison.

“I’ll take that wool.  That cloth, I mean.  I have my own garrison to clothe, and I’ve been looking for a source of good woolens.  My lady wife despairs of clothing all the men under my banner now.  The problem is solved.”

“Yet, Magelord,” the monk began, holding up a hand, “the contract stipulates that this fee is to go in part towards scutage. “

“To support a garrison that no longer exists?” I asked. 

“Aye – yes, Magelord,” the monk said, startled.

“I’ll accept the wool as part of your domain’s tribute this year, then,” I promised.  The scribe, a gnarled little man named Dariskeer, scribbled the terms onto a leaf of parchment.

“Yet, Magelord,” the monk continued, “our tribute is levied in coin, and losing the coin we would get at market for the wool we original owed as scutage would put the Abbey in a perilous way.  It hardly seems fair that we be penalized for such an abrupt and sudden change in administration.  The wool we lose would be thrice the fee we pay our lord.”

“Then . . . I’ll . . . look, what is it you want, Woolbrother Teer?” I asked, confused.  Dariskeer stopped writing and looked up.

“Magelord?  Only what is fair.  If there is no garrison to pay for, then we should be getting coin or fair trade for the transaction.  If the Magelord is willing to accept delivery for his own purposes, then he should either assign scutage fees to support the garrison, and properly asses the needs fairly or allow us to profit from the trade.  Although I swear the Warbird’s fees were far in excess of what a fair man would deem proper support.” The monk eyed the merchant accusingly. 

“I have no say in such matters of my betters, Magelord,” the weaver said, shaking his head.  “I sold the cloth on this contract, and—”

“Brother Teer, how much for that wool?  A
fair
price?” I interrupted.

“I . . . sixty ounces of silver a sack, on the Sendara market.”  That was a little generous, I’d figure. More like forty five.  But then this was the famous Fistan Abbey wool.  And I wanted this case to be over so I could get up and stretch my legs.

“I’ll pay that out of a draft to my account with the Sendaria temple of Ifnia, collect the wool and have it delivered, then pay a fair price – a
fair
price, Master Weaver,” I reiterated, “for the cloth to be woven, fulled and dyed.  Sevendor green.  And then I want it delivered to this very castle, before the first moon of autumn.  If you can do it before, I’ll pay a ten-percent premium.  But this contract before me is henceforth canceled, is that understood?”

Neither party wanted to argue.  I’d just handed them both a handsome profit.  Perhaps not the most responsible use of resources, but we could use the wool and I had the money.  I’d pay twice the difference just to not have to hear any argument concerning sheep, wool, or cloth. 

“Call a recess,” I ordered the bailiff, tiredly.  “I’ve had enough justice today.  I’ll have lunch in my workshop, please,” I told my page.  Teres was the ten-year old son of a knight in Karandar who had asked for the lad to be fostered at Sevendor for a year and trained for service, before he was squired out.  I liked the boy.  I was surprised how well he had stood up to the mind-numbing boredom of court, surprised and pleased.  He was smart, and was almost starting to know when to keep his mouth shut.  He could even be useful if my cup needed filling or I had a message to send.  He could handle a simple lunch order, for instance.

“Are you going to cast spells?  Magelord?” the boy asked in a hushed tone, as he stood and stretched.  He’d only been here since Yule, and apart from magelights had seen little active magic yet.  I’m sure he thought I was doing magic all the time in my private chambers.

“No, Teres,” I whispered back.  “I’m going to play with marbles.”

*                            *                            *

There were one hundred thirty-six High Magi in the kingdom of Castalshar.

Eighteen had been given witchstones from the beginning – seventeen rough-and-tumble warmagi and one ambitious researcher in Sex Magic – during the siege of Boval Castle.  Since then, I had administered the Oath to an additional one hundred sixteen, as stones were captured and cleansed from the goblin armies who were invading the kingdom from the northwest.  Some had been given as bribes, some as tools, some as enticements, and a few as rewards.  Most had been granted to warmagi who were willing to take up the fight against Shereul, the Dead God, the undead floating goblin head who led the invaders. 

The witchstones were what made a man or woman a High Mage.  Common human magi draw their power from carefully-cultivated sources, natural forces and their own personal ability to draw arcane power from the magosphere.  With a psychic attachment to a witchstone – Irionite, to the loremasters – the power a mage had access to was increased by orders of magnitude.  It was the difference between sipping wine through a reed straw and guzzling it directly from a hogshead.   Irionite was a type of green amber that could form naturally in some mountainous places, but the goblins had discovered the process and put the head of their last great shaman within a sphere of it, after his execution. 

Most of the irionite I’d granted was captured shards that had been broken off of that sphere – there were hundreds of them in the hands of Shereul’s shamans, and while they were effective, they weren’t particularly adept at using that power efficiently.  Not as efficiently as Imperially-trained warmagi.  So we took them away from them and used them ourselves.

The human forces had done a good job of harvesting witchstones from our foes since the opening days of the war.  But they couldn’t be used by a human mage until they were cleansed of the Dead God’s influence, else the user would theoretically become corrupted. Unfortunately, every stone from Shereul’s head was still thaumaturgically connected to him.  The Alka Alon, known commonly as the Tree Folk, had assisted us by giving me a way to break the connection.  They were the masters of magic on Callidore, and the Dead God’s minions didn’t like them any more than they liked us humani.  A stone could be used only by being in proximity to my stone – which was now the size of a man’s fist –  for a day.  Otherwise the Dead God can slowly overcome your mind and take control of you.

A few of the stones I had taken more than one oath over.  As warmagi died at the front, and their stones were recovered, I’d re-used them on new victims.  I’d done that over a dozen times now.  My former occupation has a high mortality rate.  While it was depressing, there was no end to the volunteers who wished to replace the fallen.  Irionite is that powerful. 

To a mage invested in his craft, the allure of that kind of power is irresistible. And in comparison to, say, temporal power, it beats the hell out of dispensing petty justice to merchants and monks.