The Congruent Wizard (The Congruent Mage Series Book 2)

by Dave Schroeder

  “Early this afternoon. He was talking to a deluded old man with the nonsensical claim of being the master mage of Dâron, then summoned a young woman to be his shah-mat partner.”

  “From your tone of voice, I assume chess wasn’t the only form of entertainment Dârio expected?”

  “That’s quite likely,” said Gwýnnett. “My son has a way with women.”

  Fercha nodded, but her face revealed nothing. Gwýnnett thought Dârio’s female companions were effective tools for her to use to control her son and keep track of his actions.

  “Which one was it this time?” asked Fercha.

  “Jenet. Duke Háiddon’s eldest daughter.”

  “I’m not sure I know her,” said Fercha, trying to make the lie convincing. “A redhead?”

  “She has dark brown hair,” said Gwýnnett. “Slim. Small bust. Wears dresses in jewel tones.”

  “That describes a third of the young women in court,” said Fercha.

  “The guards tell me they found her naked under a blanket on a couch in Dârio’s study.”

  “The couch?” asked Fercha. “The infamous couch of King Dârio? The one where every noble’s daughter who wants to be queen has to audition?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” asked Gwýnnett. She raised an eyebrow to make sure Fercha knew that she was quite familiar with the rumors. She’d probably helped to spread them to ensure her son’s popularity did not become so great that he’d think he could defy his mother. Fercha knew a good many more would-be queens had claimed they’d spent time on the couch than actually had.

  “What did this Jenet say?”

  “That she fell asleep after she defeated Dârio at a game of shah-mat and the two of them decided to take a nap.”

  “Naked?” asked Fercha.

  “How do you sleep?” asked Gwýnnett.

  Fercha inclined her head and let half a smile flit over her face.

  “Let me guess,” said Fercha. “When she woke up hours later, Dârio was gone.”

  “Correct,” said Princess Gwýnnett. “His clothes were on the floor next to the couch, but Dârio had disappeared.”

  “Did any servants see him leave the royal apartments?”

  “No, but all the retainers in the alcove behind the curtain in the king’s study had been dismissed. That was standard practice when Dârio played shah-mat.”

  “I understand,” said Fercha. “Young men value their privacy.”

  “So do young kings,” said Gwýnnett. “The guards started to worry when they didn’t hear anything inside the study for several hours. They found one of Dârio’s personal servants relaxing in the kitchens after eating lunch and had him open the servants’ entrance. He said he had the only key to the door and he’d left it locked.”

  “Curious,” said Fercha. She knew that particular servant well, and might have to talk with him one-on-one. His loyalty was to Dârio, not Gwýnnett, though. He might or might not tell her the truth. Fercha was sure Gwýnnett also had a key to the servants’ door, in addition to the main entrance to her son’s study. Gwýnnett was too controlling not to have keys. “Was there any blood?” Fercha asked.

  “You mean was Jenet a virgin? I doubt it. She’s played shah-mat with Dârio in private before.”

  “No,” said Fercha. “I was asking whether or not there were signs Dârio might have been injured when he was abducted.”

  “Oh,” said Gwýnnett without a hint of emotion.

  So much for maternal concern, thought Fercha.

  “Do you think he might have been kidnapped?” asked Gwýnnett. “I hope that’s not the case. I need him back—as quickly and discreetly as possible.”

  For your treacherous spider-plot with Túathal, thought Fercha.

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “Talk to Jenet. Talk to the servant. Talk to the guards,” said Gwýnnett. “Do whatever you have to do, but find the king.”

  Fercha considered it telling that the princess had not said, “… find my son.” Then again, thought Fercha, I’m hardly a model of maternal concern myself. I wonder where Nûd and Merry’s lover from the Coombe went after the battle at the quarry early this morning. Maybe the skinny boy with the dried holly leaves in his cap took Nûd to his home and they’re both safely out of harm’s way weeding fields and milking cows?

  “Is something wrong?” asked Gwýnnett.

  Fercha realized she’d been silent for several seconds. She’d just remembered that Merry’s lover—Eynon, his name was—had her original magestone. That was yet another problem to address.

  “No, I’m fine,” said Fercha. “I’m thinking about questions for Jenet.”

  “Don’t just think—get moving,” said Princess Gwýnnett. “Lost kings don’t find themselves.”

  You may be wrong about that, thought Fercha.

  “Where’s Jenet now?” she asked.

  “Still in Dârio’s study under guard,” said Gwýnnett.

  “I’ll keep you informed,” said Fercha as she walked to the door.

  “See that you do,” said the princess.

  * * * * *

  Fercha had ordered the guards to leave the king’s study and finished expanding a privacy sphere to include Jenet and herself.

  “We can’t be overheard now. Where did he go?”

  “I have no idea,” said Jenet. “When I woke up, he was gone.”

  “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know about the act,” said Fercha. “I helped Dârio design and refine it.”

  “The guards said Princess Gwýnnett sent you.”

  “I am no more a pawn of Gwýnnett’s than a sparrow is a gryffon,” said Fercha. “I think she asked me to help find Dârio as much to keep me away from the Conclave as to find your shah-mat partner.”

  “You’re part of the old queen’s faction, aren’t you?” asked Jenet. “You were coming in to Dârio’s study when I was leaving this morning.”

  “That’s right,” said Fercha. “But I’m not just part of the queen’s faction. I help lead it—along with a few others.”

  “I thought so,” said Jenet. “In that case…” she continued, her voice still uncertain.

  “My only interest is in helping Dârio,” said Fercha. “Where did he say he was going?”

  Jenet gave Fercha a wary glance.

  “Of course,” said Fercha. “He wouldn’t tell you. He’d want you to be able to say you didn’t know where he’d gone without needing to lie.”

  A smile played over Jenet’s face.

  “Did you teach him that?” she asked.

  “I didn’t have to,” said Fercha. “He figured that out on his own.”

  “Well,” said Jenet, crossing to the bookshelves. “He was reading this just before he left.” She removed a slim volume and placed it face up in Fercha’s outstretched hand.

  Fercha noted the title. Bifurland Naval Tactics and Strategy.

  She nodded, remembering a gate she’d built for an innkeeper in Brendinas who’d inherited a second establishment in Arthábben, a small town on the west bank of the Brenavon, twenty miles downriver. With luck, she’d catch up to Dârio before he reached the Bifurland fleet.

  As she moved to leave the king’s study, Fercha glanced at the shah-mat board next to where Jenet had been sitting.

  “Nice game,” she said. “Checkmate in four moves.”

  “Three,” said Jenet. But Fercha was already gone.

  Chapter 33

  Nûd and Eynon

  Nûd and Eynon stepped away from the Bifurland royals’ folding thrones and put their backs to the mainmast. A young man a little older than Eynon and a little younger than Nûd was on the deck, trussed like a goose on a spit. His head was shaved. Eynon thought he looked familiar, but wasn’t sure why.

  “Where did you find him?” asked Queen Signý. “And what makes you think he’s a spy, not a merchant with head lice?”

  “He had a pull-
stone as good as a royal courier’s,” said the scout-captain, holding the stone in question by its thong and letting it swing. “We found him just north of the fleet. What else could he be but a spy?”

  The scout-captain slipped the pull-stone over his head, so it rested on his breastbone. He then pulled a floppy blue hat and a dark wig from his belt. Both were damp.

  “He was wearing a disguise,” added the scout-captain, waving the wig and hat in disgust. “And not a very good one.”

  King Bjarni stood and shoved the prisoner across the deck a few feet with the sole of his boot.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” he asked.

  The prisoner shifted his bound body as best he could until he faced the king and queen.

  “I sell strawberries from the southern provinces,” he said. “That pull-stone helps us get them to market in Brendinas faster. It’s been in our family for generations.”

  “Next thing you’ll be telling me is that it was enchanted by the legendary Master Mage Ealdamon himself,” sneered the scout-captain before kicking the prisoner in the ribs.

  “Skavendr,” said the queen, holding up her hand as a note of caution.

  The prisoner glared at the scout-captain and spit out his reply.

  “Our pull-stone was made for my grandfather’s grandfather. It’s far older than the wizard who couldn’t find Princess Seren.”

  “Perhaps we’ll chain you to an oar instead of kill you then,” said Queen Signý.

  Sigrun and Rannveigr had moved to stand beside Signý.

  “Please don’t kill him,” pleaded Sigrun. “I like the way his head looks like an egg.”

  “I think he’s cute,” said Rannveigr. Both girls giggled.

  “Cute or not,” said Queen Signý, smiling at the girls indulgently, “he rows, or he dies.”

  Sigrun and Rannveigr gave the queen a look that Eynon knew how to translate. He’d seen the same look from his sister plenty of times, usually accompanied by, “Awww, Mom!” The stakes weren’t usually as high as a man’s life, however.

  Nûd and Eynon exchanged glances. Eynon put his hand on his red magestone. Nûd nodded and stepped forward.

  “He will be coming with us, Your Majesties. We’ll see that he’s returned to his family.”

  “Along with my pull-stone,” said the prisoner.

  “Don’t push your luck,” said King Bjarni. “It’s Skavendr’s now.”

  “He’s a thief,” said the prisoner.

  “And you’re a spy,” said the scout-captain.

  Eynon turned to Nûd, his expression asking, Who does this fool think he is?

  Queen Signý laughed. So did King Bjarni.

  “You’ve got spirit, lad,” said the king. “I like that. Care to fight him for the stone, Skavendr?”

  To Eynon’s eye, the scout-captain appeared to be ten years older, fifty pounds heavier, and a much more experienced warrior than the prisoner. Tattoos on Skavendr’s arms wove in and out of long white lines from old sword or axe wounds. A scar ran down his left cheek, ending at the corner of his mouth and giving him a menacing appearance. The only thing remotely menacing or intimidating about the prisoner was his shaved head.

  “Why don’t we up the stakes, Sire?” asked the scout-captain. “If he wins, the young wizard and his friend get the spy and his pull-stone. If I win, I keep the stone and you can give me the spy as my thrall?”

  King Bjarni turned to Queen Signý. The queen nodded.

  “Very well,” said Bjarni. “Cut him free and give him a chance to stretch his muscles. I don’t want it said that a trial in my court isn’t fair.”

  “A trial, Your Majesty?” asked Nûd.

  “By combat, lad,” said the king. “Don’t you have trial by combat in Dâron?”

  “Not officially,” said Eynon, thinking about how people would get into fights in the seven taverns down in Caercadel.

  Skavendr cut the prisoner free and the young man with the shaved head rose to his feet.

  “How does this work?” asked Nûd.

  “Yes,” said the prisoner, looking at Nûd and Eynon, then turning to address the king and queen. “Do I have my choice of weapons?”

  “Weapons increase your odds of dying,” said Queen Signý sternly. “Wouldn’t you rather live as a thrall than be cut down by an experienced warrior’s blade?”

  The prisoner paced and rubbed his chin. “Decisions, decisions,” he said, smiling.

  “You find your situation amusing?” asked the queen.

  “Victory and freedom,” said the prisoner, holding up one hand. “Defeat and slavery—or death,” he continued, holding up the other.

  “Maybe he’s a poet, not a spy,” said Skavendr. “He sounds like a skald.”

  The scout-captain stepped over to the prisoner and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, lad. I won’t try to kill you. I don’t want to reduce your value as a slave.”

  The prisoner shifted out from under Skavendr’s hand and took two steps away from the older man until he stood between the king and queen. He moved his hands up and down, as if weighing his options, then spread his arms wide.

  “The choice before me is clear,” he said. “I’ll just have to win.”

  Skavendr laughed. King Bjarni tried to keep his face neutral but failed and broke into a smile.

  “You can try,” said the king. “What will it be, lad? Swords? Axes? Knives? Bare hands?”

  Eynon took a close look at Skavendr. The muscles in his right arm were larger than those in his left, like his cousin who’d served as an axeman in the levies. His cousin trained with a long-handled double-bladed axe, which gave him asymmetrical muscles.

  “I’m not clear on the rules for your trials,” said Nûd. “Must both parties use the same weapon?”

  “Not if individual choices of weapons are otherwise acceptable,” said the queen.

  “You won’t have my preferred weapon, anyway,” said the prisoner.

  “Daggers in the back?” teased Skavendr.

  The prisoner grimaced. “Would that be your choice?”

  Skavendr caught Bjarni’s eye. “You’re right, Sire. He does have spirit.”

  “What is your preferred weapon?” asked the king.

  “You won’t have one.”

  “Try me,” said the king.

  “It has a long, straight, narrow v-shaped blade with a single edge and a bell guard.”

  “A toadsticker!” said Skavendr. He laughed from his diaphragm.

  “A weapon for those who lack the strength to wield a broadsword,” said Bjarni.

  “I’m sure there are some below,” said the queen. “We’ve taken them from slaves captured on raids. I’ll have a few brought on deck for you to choose from.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” said the prisoner.

  “Fetch my axe,” Skavendr ordered one of his boat mates.

  The prisoner went through a series of stretching exercises and calisthenics that included knee bends and lunges while they waited for their weapons. Skavendr’s warm-up wasn’t nearly as strenuous. He shrugged his shoulders several times and pretended to swing a heavy double-bladed axe. Eynon used the break to whisper with Nûd.

  “I’m not going to let Skavendr kill him,” said Eynon quietly. “He’s just a strawberry merchant, and he’s not much older than I am.”

  “If we have to leave in a hurry, we’ll need a distraction,” said Nûd.

  Eynon touched his red magestone.

  “Not another fireball,” Nûd whispered. “If we have to go in a hurry, please try for something more subtle.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Eynon. Bifurlanders don’t favor subtlety, he thought. They’re more direct.

  “Will Rocky be ready to fly?” asked Nûd.

  “I hope so,” said Eynon. He leaned back and looked for Chee in the rigging. The raconette had returned to his former position sitting on the horizontal pole that held the sail aloft with his back to the mainmast. Eynon ma
gically augmented his distance vision and saw that Chee was nibbling the last of his apple and watching the proceedings below with interest.

  Sigrun and Rannveigr followed Eynon’s gaze and waved to Chee. The raconette waved back and held up his mostly-consumed apple like a trophy.

  The sailor returning with Skavendr’s axe came back first. The weapon was as tall as the scout-captain, with a double-bladed steel head like two crescent moons and steel strips reinforcing the thick length of ironwood forming its shaft. Skavendr hefted it and swung it back and forth with the ease of a child waving a twig. The scout-captain showed off his skill with heavy strokes at imaginary targets, trying to intimidate the prisoner. The younger man watched with interest. Beads of perspiration formed on his shaved skull, despite the light wind on the river.

  Most of a minute passed before another sailor appeared, holding what Queen Signý had asked her to retrieve.

  “I could only find three,” she said, standing in front of the queen holding the blades across her outstretched arms like lengths of firewood.

  “Ooo, pretty!” said Sigrun, taking a blade from the sailor. Rannveigr took one, too, and the two blonde-braided girls crossed them and danced across the deck, shouting with exuberant glee and enjoying the clangs as their swords crossed.

  “Girls!” said Queen Signý, her voice cutting through the clamor. “Don’t make me send the two of you to take a turn on the oars.”

  “Yes, mother,” said Sigrun.

  “Yes, Aunt Signý,” said Rannveigr.

  The girls crossed their blades one last time and delivered them to the prisoner for inspection before the ringing faded. The sailor holding the third blade raised her eyebrows and smiled at the queen, then did likewise. She stuck the point of the sword she held into the deck, with its bell-guard swinging back and forth with the ship’s motion. The prisoner stuck the swords he’d been given by the girls into the deck and tested the strength and flexibility of each blade by leaning down on them.

  One blade was very flexible, but it didn’t spring back straight. Another wouldn’t bend much at all when tested. The third blade, however, met with the prisoner’s approval. He inserted his right hand into the bell-guard and put his left hand over the rounded metal, gripping the light blade like a broadsword. He lifted the weapon above his head and brought it arcing down several times, like he was swinging an axe to cut a tree.