High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series (50 page)

It didn’t take long for people to realize the tacit endorsement that gave him for pursuing the County of Moros in a year or so.  That earned both of us some pleased and enthusiastic congratulations.  The High Magi supported one of their own becoming a Magelord at that rank, second only to Dukes below the King.  That was real, secular power, the kind of power that magi had not wielded since the Magocracy.  It helped his cause that Dranus was personable and very popular.  Not a warmage, he nonetheless mingled with our profession’s martial wing comfortably.  Not a scholar,
per se
, he had several friends who were respected scholars.  And as there were only a handful of seated magelords, he helped set the style in a group too small for generalities.

The following night was the fete that had become known as the Footwizard’s Ball, a rowdy counterpart to the High Magi’s reception.  It was held in the Enchanter’s Guild, which had become a delightfully shabby neighbor to Penny’s mansion.  The hall was large but haphazardly put together, the product of a committee short of funds and quick to adapt their plans to available materials. 

But it was a hell of a party.  I’d contributed two full barrels of wine to the festivities, and there were plenty of other donations.  Nearly every mage was invited, no matter how low of stature or power.  The festivity was promoted as a masque, and all manner of grotesque and sublime masks were employed to conceal the identities of the participants . . . and keep their sins clandestine.

Lorcus, of all people, seemed to be at the center of the party.  Though he was now a High Mage and a warmage of some repute, he had cultivated a network of footwizards and spellmongers over the years who looked to him for inspiration.  Unlike the usually conservative stereotype of the Imperial Remeran, he typified the other extreme of the culture: the Mad Remeran. 

He drank and danced and kissed and even fought, once, when he overheard a rudeness and decided to intervene.  He was the perfect combination of scoundrel and gentleman, and he charmed every woman there – Alya included.

The next night there was a far more staid celebration thrown by the Arcane Orders, open to all but with strict rules of decorum in place.  The hall that the Order had constructed was now the home to Sevendor’s Mirror – the official Mirror.  There were several unofficial Mirrors that fed into and out of the domain, now.  But the service had proven popular, not the least because it was a paying job for magi between assignments.

That was the other import of the event: the Arcane Orders Ball had become the event at which to announce taking on apprentices, opening new practices, forming new partnerships, and awarding apprentices their journeyman’s papers.  I capped the evening with the surprise granting a stone to Master Andalnam’s eldest daughter, who had also received her journeyman’s papers that night.  The public oath-taking was particularly good showmanship, and I followed it with a little speech about how ethics were at the root of the responsible use of magic.

That didn’t stop plenty of people grousing that the award had been pure favoritism, as there were dozens of more worthy candidates for becoming High Magi than she . . . but I had grown used to that kind of grousing by then.  It really didn’t matter who I gave a stone to, if it wasn’t you, you bitched about it.  That was human nature.

The last night of the fair featured a fete sponsored by what would afterward be known as the Sevendor Town Council.  It was a mixture of local lords, local magi, and townsfolk who were eager to celebrate the end of the fair and begin counting their money.  Banamor sponsored it, of course, using his cavernous warehouse to do so.  Once it was cleaned out a little, there was plenty of space for a casual get-together.

I used the occasion to formally sign and present the completed charter to the town, which brought everyone some cheer.  Sevendor was a free town, more or less, able to chart its own course to prosperity with only minimal guidance from me.  Banamor made a speech, a couple of the other members of the council made speeches, and everyone was very merry afterwards.

I wandered outside after a few hours to get some fresh air, then spoiled the endeavor by filling and lighting my pipe.  I was joined a few moments later by Baron Arathanial and his son who had the same idea.

“Lovely little fair, here,” the baron grunted as he unfastened his trousers.  “Nothing like Chepstan, of course, but exotic.  Those giant falcons of yours will be the talk of the Bontal, Minalan!”  He grunted in satisfaction as an evening’s worth of wine left his care and ran out into the road.

“I think it’s remarkable, how quickly you’ve taken this holding from poverty to prosperity,” admired his son, who lit his own pipe.

“All it took was a divine level of magic and an embarrassing amount of coin,” I admitted.  “I have a lot invested in the place.  I’d like to see it flower.”

“So would we all,” agreed Arathanial.  “Sevendor has proven a mighty and unexpected friend.  And you’ve ruled with more wisdom and maturity than I would have given you credit for, Luin knows,” the old baron admitted.  “You are not just a worthy war-leader, which are common enough, but you are also a passable manager of estates.”

“I know how to hire good people,” I shrugged, “Something you taught me.” 

“As strong of a friend as Sevendor is,” he continued, quietly, “even good friends look twice when they see something like that on the horizon,” he said, nodding toward the scaffolded side of the mountain, visible in the moonlight.  “You’ve not just built a fortress on a mountain, you’ve made a mountain into a fortress.”

“We were speculating about its size, earlier this week,” the baron’s heir agreed.  “It’s enormous.  How many men will it be capable of supporting?  Fighting men?”

I took a deep breath.  I had been expecting this sort of question.

“About two thousand,” I answered, earning meaningful looks from both of them.  “Most of the barracks chambers will be within the mountain itself.  The exterior halls will be focused on military fortifications.  The intention is to withstand a siege for over a year.”

“Huin’s axe!” swore Arathanial’s son.  “There isn’t a castle in the Bontals that could withstand that kind of siege!”

“The likely foe isn’t Fleria,” I chuckled.  “Eventually, I anticipate the Dead God’s reach to extend even here.  It is that enemy I keep in mind while I fortify.”

“Yet a castle that can stand against the Dead God would shake off Fleria like a flea!” Arathanial observed.  “Or any other force I can imagine!”

“Even the King,” his son said, very quietly.

“I would hope never to be in such a position,” I said, calmly, “but I suspect that if I held it, that the new Sevendor Castle could withstand even Royal might.  For a while.”

“You will be a powerful friend to have then, Minalan,” Arathanial said, the repercussions of such a conflict playing out in the old knight’s mind.  “Remind me ever to stay on your benevolent side!”

“I have few ambitions in the local region,” I pointed out, trying to sound reasonable.  “I have none on my neighbor’s lands.  Nor are my heirs likely to – we have larger priorities than mere conquest.  I could have taken Posendor on a pretext, had I wanted war.  Or Posendor.  I didn’t.”

“True enough,” Arathanial said, relaxing after he tucked away the family jewels.  “I do not fault you for your precautions, my friend.  They’re sensible.  But I would not be doing my duty to my people if I did not investigate.”

“No offense taken,” I assured him.  “If I had a powerful new neighbor, I’d be curious as to his ambitions as well.  But I have to do something with that mountain, and my current castle is too small and inadequate for my needs, so this was my best solution.  I would much rather support the stability of the current regimes than impose my own,” I added.

“Well spoken,” murmured the son.  “Since you broke the Warbird’s lock on trade, and rebuilt that bridge, the whole valley prospers, thanks to Sevendor.  We are grateful, even as we are wary.  But . . . as I am certain a wizard of your caliber has foreseen, Sendaria intends to wrest from Sashtalia more of what was once ours.  I do not say when, but soon . . .”

I shrugged.  “I have no love for Sashtalia.  I would support you in a war.  Already a piece of Sashtalia interests me,” I said, not specifying why – the fewer people who knew about the snowstone outcropping there, the better.  “I certainly would not hinder your plans.  I might even help, though Sevendor’s strength lies not in lances.”

“That would be appreciated, Spellmonger,” Arathanial grunted.  “I remember how quickly you went through West Fleria.  And how you attacked the dragon.  I’m sure you could lend us some useful advice in a war with Sashtalia.”

“Just be certain it does not interfere with the wider war effort,” I warned.  “My priorities remain the same, gentlemen.”

“Understood, Minalan,” Arathanial assured me.  “We are months, if not years, away from such a campaign, though.  We merely wanted to be certain of your support.”

“The man sent me eels,” I shrugged.  “I care not what happens to him.  And I like eels.  But I share a border with him, with one of my new estates.  I’m certain that will play a role in this maneuvering.  As long as the Baron of Fleria minds his own business.”

“Oh, I think you taught him as much in Posendor,” chuckled Arathanial.  “And before that with the Warbird.  We will settle accounts with Fleria soon enough.  But one serpent at a time.”

I avoided the fairgrounds the day after the closing ceremonies.  Too many people wanted to linger for the chance to speak with me, beg a boon, cajole a witchstone, invest in a sure-fire proposition.  I stayed in my tower and got some work done, including adding the new High Magi I’d made recently to the marble board in my workshop.

Dara was nearly useless.  I had to tell her three times how to spell a name, when it came to writing them on the marbles.  She was lost in thoughts of soaring heights and a Remeran lad’s dreamy eyes.  I tried not to fault her too much.  I knew that feeling.

I was interrupted mid-day by one of the few people with the clout to get through the guards at the entrance to the tower.  Lady Fallawen, it was, in her human form.  She had no problem charming her way through.

“Magelord, I bear a message from the council,” she said, after a businesslike bow.  “Now that your  festival is over, they would ask that you produce for them the gurvan you hold prisoner.”

“Gurkarl?  Why yes, I do suppose it’s time to bring him forth from hiding.  I shall make the arrangements.  He is in the care of a religious order, at the moment, safe and well-cared for.  But I shall bring him to Sevendor.  I have a place where he can be kept safely, without fear for his life.”

“Your dungeon?” she asked, uneasily.  Alka Alon did not share the human appreciation of captivity.  The idea of a dungeon was dreadful to their sensitivities. 

“Nay, my lady, I have comfortable quarters prepared – but in secret.  It will take a while.  One does not lightly move a goblin through the Kingdom these days.  But my people are able to complete the task.  As soon as he is here, I shall let you know. But why the sudden interest?”

“There have been raids by the gurvani tribes in the Kulines,” she explained.  “This autumn there were attacks on the Valley Folk, the Pearwoods clans, the Kasari, even the Alka Alon.  A Karshak settlement was attacked.  The raiders all bore the markings of the Dead God,” she said, in a quiet voice like a muffled bell.

“And you think that Gurkarl can speak sense to them?”

“It is our hope he can act as our emissary, if he finds such a position agreeable.”

“More of the council’s strategy of containment,” I said, sourly.

“To understand one’s opponent is wisdom, Magelord.  The gurvani are a tortured, tormented people, even before Shereul’s cruel priesthood enslaved them.  Their hatred is not without cause, nor is our response not without guilt in our role in their history.  We hope that by speaking to Gurkarl we can better understand the gurvani people, and find some better solution to their woes than the banner of the Abomination.”

“That’s . . . that is, indeed, a wise course of action,” I agreed, almost reluctantly.  “I will undertake the necessary arrangements.  Was there something else?” I asked, when she began to leave, then hesitated.

“A . . . personal matter, Magelord,” she began, cautiously.  “I had occasion to notice that one of your fellows has developed an interest in . . . in me,” she said, embarrassed and confused. 

“One of my fellows?”

“One of your vassal knights,” she corrected, after searching her mind for the correct term.  “Sir Ryff.  I noticed him lingering near me several times during the course of the fair.  He seemed to be haunting my steps, Magelord.”

“And you find the attention . . . offensive?”

“The knight has been nothing but courteous,” she said, shaking her head prettily.  “I just do not know what to make of his interest.”

“He likes you,” I shrugged. 

“
Likes
me, Magelord?”

“Yes, he likes you,” I repeated.  “He has formed a romantic attachment to you.”

She looked shocked.  “But Magelord!  He is
humani!”

“He is
male
,” I countered.  “You are female.  Beyond that, all bets are off.  Forbidden love has a long and valiant history with both our peoples,” I teased.

“Magelord!  I am the daughter of—”