by Garon Whited
“Is it hard to teach?” I asked.
“It is far simpler than the disruption spell you wear, my angel. Less effective, perhaps, but simpler.”
I looked at Kelvin. He looked thoughtful, then shrugged.
“I think they will learn it, Sire,” he said. “Those who can master it quickly will be an inspiration—and tutors—to those who do not.”
“Do you think that might have saved your horse?”
“Indeed, it might have. Of course, once dismounted, I disemboweled the wizard responsible.”
“When was this, anyway?”
“A few years ago. I think it was the city of Formia that sent troops down the coast to land, then march to our gates. They had a number of wizards hired on to help defend against blasts of fire.” He smiled, slightly. “That does seem to be a problem for invaders.”
“I imagine it is,” I agreed, thinking of Amber.
So, we’ve got a new practice drill. Every morning, first thing, they’ll put up their magical shields as a way to exercise their mystic muscles. They are also responsible for re-casting it whenever it goes down, because everyone is also expected to throw a few Glabrus’ Fists about as the day goes on.
They seem to be getting it through their thick, macho skulls that they need all the help they can get.
I think part of it is that my guys are an incredible example. Everyone is trying to match my three, and that’s not easy. My prototypes—excuse me, personal guards—do things other people simply can’t do. But everyone knows it’s not actually impossible, just very difficult, so they try harder. My the three supermen are actively trying to make everyone else capable of the same feats. They’re not bragging about it; they’re saying, “You can do it, too!”
I think the cadets realize they need every trick they can get… and each other.
In the process, they’re losing some of the macho, me-first, death-or-glory attitude. I don’t think I can be more pleased about that. Teamwork is essential!
So much to do! At this rate, I’ll never go home permanently; I’ll just visit to surf the Internet, order stuff, and maintain a bank account.
On the plus side, at least I’m not bored.
Today, I had my first Official Visit from another principality. Word is starting to get around that the long-absent King of Karvalen is back. I should probably expect more political overtures.
An ambassador from Baret arrived to discuss some trade possibilities. Since I don’t have an Official Office in Mochara, Tort has volunteered her house to be the Royal Residence, and we set up her visiting room as an audience chamber.
If it didn’t involve three days of travel, I’d have met the man in the Hall of Gold in Karvalen—the shiny-ceilinged main hall. Someday, that’s going to make a seriously huge impression on a visiting dignitary. Not today, though.
Lord Melvin—I kid you not: Lord Melvin—was the second son of the current ruler of Baret, a Prince Banler, descendant of Baron Xavier. He strongly resembled the old baron, too, but he acted more like Peldar. That is, he was a trifle on the short side, solidly built, and tended to have a supercilious, I’m-nobility-and-don’t-you-forget-it air.
He looked around Tort’s sitting room and sniffed. I don’t think he approved.
Without waiting for permission, he produced a cloth from one sleeve, dusted a perfectly clean chair, and seated himself. He gestured to Pilea, the housemaid, to bring him something. She glanced at me—not at Tort, since this was a formal, official occasion; smart girl—then hurried off to fetch the wine. Tort sat quietly to one side and wore a fixed half-smile plastered on her face. It was a perfectly believable, bland smile, but her eyes glittered. I think she felt insulted. I know I felt insulted on her behalf.
“Well, Lord Melvin,” I began, “welcome to the city of Mochara—”
“I would hardly call it a city,” he interrupted. “But, I suppose, it’s the best you can do out on the frontier.”
“We do our humble best,” I agreed. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“I’ll come right to the point. Baret is not enjoying the most peaceful year in its history. Wexbrey has been skirmishing with Tirondael and there have been raids into Baret lands.” He accepted a glass of wine from Pilea and sipped it without even glancing at her. “That, and a number of other cities have been pressuring my father, the Prince, to open up the Caladar river to ships, despite the disastrous consequences this would have on the city as a whole. As a result, we have more soldiers than before, and soldiers cost money. We will not be paying as much for steel this year.”
“Okay.”
He blinked and set the wineglass down.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, ‘Okay.’”
“I haven’t told you what we’re willing to pay.”
“And I’m not interested,” I told him. “You seem to misunderstand the nature of a commercial transaction. We have the commodity; you have the money. We’ll tell you how much the steel costs. Then you can decide whether or not to pay our price. I’m sure we can sell it elsewhere. Wexbry or Tirondael, just to pick two at random.”
There was a frozen moment of silence.
“You do realize that my father will not take this well?”
“I guessed. But, after I finish talking with him, perhaps he’ll send someone better qualified as a negotiator.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re arrogant, rude, and have no idea how commerce works. I have no idea what made him think you were qualified for this job. Furthermore,” I continued, “you’ve insulted the King of Karvalen. Mark that: the King. I’m not a prince. I’ve been a king since before your father was born.”
“I’d heard you were claiming that. You don’t look old enough.”
I smiled at him, deliberately. He stared at my teeth.
“I was also the Court Wizard to Baron Xavier Baret, so I know the place,” I told him. “If we can find a diplomatic negotiator, I’ll work with your father on making the Caladar river in Baret something ships can use, to our mutual profit.”
“Really?” he asked, still off-balance from the teeth. He couldn’t seem to look away.
“Really. But don’t let it concern you; I’ll send all this via message to your father and ask him to send someone worthy of speaking to a king. You may now leave my primitive backwater of a town and never return to it. Good day.”
I turned my attention to Tort.
“So, has anyone considered a water-wheel for the canal spill outside of town? I think it would be very useful as a mill, don’t you?”
“Yes, my King,” she agreed, keeping her eyes locked on me. Neither of us looked at Melvin.
“Excuse me?” he said. I turned my head to regard him.
“You are dismissed,” I pointed out. “Leave us.”
“But there are still matters—”
“The King of Karvalen,” I cut him off, “has dismissed you.”
“Baret’s interests in your kingdom are yet to be fully discussed.”
“Very true,” I agreed. “On the other hand, my kingdom has no interest in discussing them with you. Send word to your father for instructions, if you must, but be aware that I will be sending him a formal complaint about the ill manners of his ambassador. Naturally, as an ambassador, you are free to leave unharmed, rather than being flogged for your insolence.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
I cocked my head at him and thought about it.
“Why do people say that?” I asked. “I don’t understand it. It’s like demanding whatever it is actually be done. It’s tantamount to daring me to do it. I just don’t get that. I mean, I’m easily strong enough to grab you, take you over my knee, and give you the spanking a loudmouthed brat deserves, and there’s not a thing you could do about it, aside from go home and cry to your daddy.
“And I would,” I continued, putting on my Kingly Aspect face and tone again, “but, as I said, you are an ambassador. If you will not leav
e under your own motion, I will have my personal guard place you on your ship as gently as is consistent with getting rid of you.”
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” he declared, standing.
“Oh, probably not. Your father will probably have something to say about it when I speak to him about what a lousy ambassador you are. The next time you’re in my kingdom and you insult the King, you won’t be able to cower behind your rank, because you will not be recognized as an ambassador, just a foreigner.
“Now,” I finished, “one final time: You are dismissed. Take the hint.”
He got out, huffily. Tort smiled to see him go, then frowned at me.
“We do benefit from trade with Baret,” she pointed out.
“And we’ll continue to trade with them. But, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make sure the Prince of Baret is aware that his son is a nitwit.”
“I do not understand.”
“Dealing with someone like Melvin,” I explained, “means dealing with a subordinate, and one who thinks that he’s in a position of power. He talks as though he’s in charge. On the other hand, when the King of Karvalen talks with the Prince of Baret, that’s a very different thing. We’ll have a conversation, he’ll pick a new ambassador, and we’ll work out a deal on a more equal footing.”
I paused and glanced at the closed door.
“And, maybe, Melvin will learn a lesson, soon.”
“Does my angel have plans for him?”
“Not me. But I’ll talk to Fred.”
“Fred?”
“You met him a long time ago,” I said, “when you were very little. But he works for me, now. I don’t think you’ll need to meet him again.”
I borrowed Tort’s mirror—a big, three-foot thing in the lab—and did some scrying through the Eastrange. If Bronze and I could navigate through the craggy mass down by the coast, I would cheerfully just go visit Baret.
It was a frustrating experience. There is a major flaw in all distance-viewing spells. The viewpoint can be established wherever you want, but, once established, it’s fixed. The spellcaster needs reference points to define the location of the sensor. That’s why a scrying sensor appears next to a wall, or on a spire, or beside a road. It has to be someplace the spellcaster can “think” it, which means a location.
This is not normally a problem; most of the time, a wizard or magician pings something with a detection spell, puts a scrying sensor near it, and looks around. If they want a closer view of something, they just cast the spell again, parking the new sensor next to whatever it is they want to look at. They don’t really need anything else.
What I wanted to do was look down at the Eastrange while moving the sensor, like using a helicopter drone to scout the route. To do that, I had to rewrite large chunks of one of the distance-viewing spells and add some additional controls. Since I was using a mirror, I wrote them for use with a mirror. I don’t think it will work too well with a crystal ball, though. Maybe I’ll edit it later, if I need to use one.
Looking through Tort’s mirror, I scribbled symbols and lines on the wall around it, using a piece of chalk. It took a few edits before I worked the major bugs out, but it was serviceable, if not terribly precise. As usual, that’ll do for now.
Yes, I thought I could get through the Eastrange, at least between Mochara and Baret. I’m not sure any other ground-based creature could go that route. Even Bronze would only make it through with a gravity-shifting spell to enhance a couple of jumps. It wouldn’t be easy or quick, but it could be done.
So much for casually going to visit. It might be worthwhile to cut at least a footpath and build the two bridges it would need… but later, later. Right now, Plan B.
I used the mirror again to reach for Baret. If they still had a court wizard, he should have something similar enough to resonate with Tort’s mirror.
Yep, contact. The mirror’s reflection swam, then cleared to reveal a familiar room. A lot of the furniture was different, but I recognized the floor; I spent a lot of time lying on it while chalking outlines and diagrams. I even recognized the diagrams, although they were done in someone else’s handwriting.
I rotated the view and was pleased to see another mirror—probably the wizard’s scrying mirror, which was exactly what I’d hoped for. A crystal ball would have done as well, but a bowl of water would be problematic if it wasn’t filled already.
With a little more work, I set up a resonating spell, one to make the other mirror vibrate in tune with mine. I could see and hear there, but unless someone came by and sent a scrying spell back along mine, it was all one-way.
I learned quickly not to shout. The resonating spell made the other mirror’s repetition of my shout sound loud at this end, which caused my mirror to vibrate in sympathy, which… well, magical feedback is no more pleasant than electronic feedback. I’m just glad I cut it before it shattered one or both mirrors. I resolved not to do that again.
After that, it still took several minutes of asking “Hello?” into the room, but someone eventually came in. She was moderately tall—about five-ten, maybe five-eleven—and had bright green eyes that reminded me of a cat. Her face was pretty, too, but the rest of her was concealed under a shapeless, baggy gown or robe. She waved her hands and chanted at me for a moment, casting spells on her end of the connection.
“Who are you?” she asked, without preamble.
“I’m the King of Karvalen,” I replied, “and I’d like to talk to the Prince of Baret, please.”
“That’s silly,” I was told. “There hasn’t been a king in Karvalen for generations.”
I smiled. I could learn to like having sharp teeth. They’re almost like having a photo ID. People look at them really hard for several seconds, then finally agree that I am who I say I am.
“I’ll… I’ll… uh…”
“Please let him know that I’d like to talk to him, at his convenience. If he can’t talk right now, I’ll be happy to make an appointment and call back later.”
“Uhm. Yes. Of course. I’ll go do that. Wait right here!”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“I mean, that is, please wait, Your Majesty, while I carry out, uh…”
“I’ll just wait here while you run along,” I suggested.
I tweaked the spell and shut off the sound from my end, kind of like hitting a Mute button. Tort, standing by the door, looked about ready to burst.
“Go ahead and laugh,” I told her. “I’ve got the sound turned off.”
She did. I grinned at her.
“Hey,” I protested, “it’s not that funny.”
“It is, my angel,” she countered. “You are still smiling.”
“I don’t have anything in my teeth, do I? Broccoli? Bloodstains? Small animals, desperate to escape?” I grinned wider. Tort thought that was the height of hilarity, but she laughs at anything I think is funny. Either her sense of humor is seriously skewed, or she’s biased. Possibly both.
Movement in the mirror attracted my attention. I signaled Tort, who kept quiet, and I turned on the sound. The lady wizard was back.
“His Highness, the Prince, bids me say that he would be very pleased to speak with Your Majesty in an hour’s time, if that meets with Your Majesty’s approval.”
“Works for me. I’ll call you back.”
“Thank you.”
I waved a hand at the mirror and hung up.
“She was a good deal more polite than the princeling,” I noted. Tort agreed. “Got anything on the Prince of Baret?” I asked.
“He is an older man, still in good health, and was something of a fighter in his youth. I believe he is content with his role as a leader, rather than a warrior, but I do not know that for certain. He seems to have the welfare of his people at heart, rather than personal glory or wealth.”
“Sounds like a family tradition,” I noted. “I like him already.”
“He has three sons and four daughters.”
“Whoa.”
&n
bsp; “Indeed. Two sons by his first wife, three daughters by his second, and a son and a daughter by his third.”
“That’s impressive. Three wives?”
“Yes. The third is still alive; the other two were lost to fevers.”
“I’d think a prince could afford to have a fever cured.”
“You forget, my angel, that the Church of Light no longer offers… well, ‘routine’ is hardly the word for the acts of gods, but let us say ‘common’ healing of its members. Other gods now attempt to fill that void, but they are hardly the equal of a great institution, and they make greater demands.”
“Ouch. That makes it sound like I’m partly to blame for his wives’ deaths.”
“Only in the most indirect fashion. Disease is ever with us, I am afraid. Wizards can heal some maladies—or, rather, strengthen people who have such maladies until they run their course—just as Amber may fan the fires of life within a person.” Tort sighed.
“Had he asked it of us,” she continued, “we would have come to him and done what we might, but he did not. Perhaps he did not wish to appear weak, or to give the Mother of Flame a foothold—well, a toehold—in his city, or to be beholden to us.” Tort shrugged. “He is a complicated man, I think, and I know for certain only that I do not know him well.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
Prince Banler of Baret had a definite family resemblance to his grandfather, Xavier. He was a bit taller, perhaps, and certainly broader in the shoulders, but his face had the same jaw, the same chin, the same eyebrows.
“King Halar,” he said, nodding to me through the mirror. I nodded back.
“Prince Banler.”
“I am told you wished to speak with me.”
“Indeed I did. Are we private?” I asked. His eyebrows rose. He turned aside and gestured to people out of the line of sight. A moment later he turned back to me.
“We are.”
“Great! Nice to meet you. Sorry for the surprise, though. Would you be good enough to call me by my name? I get tired of people being formal all the damn time, and I don’t really have anyone of similar station over here.”
“Really?” he chuckled. “All right… Halar. Call me Banler. I take it this isn’t a formal meeting, then?”
