Grogan had arranged for their clothes to be cleaned and a chambermaid left them in neat piles on their packs, tidily arranged at the foot of each bed. It was an easy task to determine one man’s clothes from the other. The two men stirred themselves awake as the time moved toward noon. After dressing, they gathered their belongings and went downstairs.
They seated themselves at the same table as the previous night. Only four other patrons were in the room, but Nevin still chose to sit with his back to them to avoid their inevitable eye contact. His eye and face still hurt and he wanted no repeat of last night’s unpleasantness.
“Orris will want to know all the details behind your blackened eye.”
“I think I’ll tell him I mistakenly hit one of his fellow soldiers in the foot with my face. This is not a very presentable appearance for the King, is it?
“I am more concerned that we get to see the King in any manner. I do not like the way we were rejected yesterday.”
“Maybe things will go better today. Let’s have breakfast. What do you think we should order?”
“Why, whatever the innkeeper decides to cook for us.” Anson’s response indicated surprise to think there would be any choice. Nevin caught on, realizing there would be no menu.
Grogan approached them and apologized for the disorderly behavior of last night’s patrons, once again informing them that Orris would make sure the damage was paid for by the instigating Armsman. “The King’s soldiers have gotten very testy as their numbers dwindle. It seems to them that the war will only end when the last soldiers are killed, and they fear that end is not far off.” After wiping off the table, Grogan paused to expound on his words. “If that be true, who would patronize this inn? Would any travelers venture about, even in the city?” The innkeeper shook his head at these unanswerable questions and returned his attention to Anson and Nevin. “Shall I serve you this morning, Sirs? We have eggs, left over ham and bread. I am sure you want a warm drink as well. Yes?” Both men nodded, Nevin more eagerly than Anson, and the innkeeper left them for the kitchen. Several more patrons had wandered in, all eyeing Nevin as if they came to see if the rumors were true.
Nevin ignored the stares and said little while they waited. He mused on fleeting questions about the geological implications of cobalt mixed with marble, and how long it took to build over a mile of sandstone walls. His private thoughts were undone as Orris walked in.
Orris entered the pub with a grand announcement that he had returned to the delight of Sartell’s women. He boasted he was still the bane of any rogues who would want to test him, despite his “serious injury, valiantly incurred while defending the King’s honor in pitched battle.” The innkeeper embraced him like a lost brother and they talked for several minutes with many backslaps and hearty laughs. Orris pulled up a sleeve on a new uniform to proudly display his most recent wound.
Orris stopped to talk briefly with the patrons at one of the other tables before joining Anson and Nevin. Grogan cleared the breakfast dishes and asked Orris if he wanted food. With a broad grin, Orris responded, “I have already eaten breakfast enough for two men, served to me in bed with other tasty delights.” He winked at Nevin and mocked a frown as he noticed the black eye and facial bruise. “It seems to me, Sir Nevin, that you also chose to sample offerings of another sort in this fair city. I feel prideful, Sir Nevin, from what I have heard, that the sage of our alliance can make a good account of himself if provoked.”
Nevin was still abashed at having been involved in a fight, but Anson quickly turned things serious. “Orris, do you know whether we will get to see King Lucan today?”
“We have a problem with the Chancellor, my fellows. He thinks the Gilsum bounty on mages is partly to blame for the recent attacks, especially the attack on Huxley that was so easily won by Gilsum. He also thinks that mages do not compensate with sufficient military advantages for the added peril they pose for Antrim. You will have to speak well, Anson, if we even get to the King’s reception room. But if he learns that you are a mage, you may not get to speak at all.”
“We must get in. We must see Lucan!” Anson pounded his fist on the table, upsetting a tankard of tea.
“Take it easy. We’ll get in,” Nevin said, trying to console his friend. “This country of yours is in trouble and we’ll just have to find a way to convince this King of yours. Isn’t that what you brought me along for? We’ll find a way.”
The three men, who had come together from diverse pursuits to form a self-claimed alliance for Antrim, looked at each other with faces of determination and conviction in their purpose. Without another word, they rose in unison and left for the castle.
Chapter 17
Lucan
At their determined pace, it took less than ten minutes to reach the castle entrance. Orris announced himself again, the same as he had done the previous day, but the guard had seen them coming and already gone in to get his orders. Their excitement rose when he returned and said, “You may enter. Once inside, you are to walk straight ahead into the King’s reception room. Do not speak unless you are beckoned. I will follow you.”
The guard opened the door and waved them in. Orris went first, followed by the others in single file. Startled by the door slam, Nevin jumped and nearly knocked Anson over.
Another open door was straight ahead, the entrance to the reception room. Before entering, Nevin scanned the corridors to the right and left; they went on for quite a distance in both directions with brightly colored wall hangings that added a regal charm. Everything was clean and smelled lightly of perfume emanating from a series of wall-mounted oil lamps. Smoke from the lamps rose efficiently up through narrow slots in the ceiling, a clever mechanism to handle ventilation. The ceiling was at least twelve feet high and supported with stout oak beams.
The guard told the trio to enter the reception room, his look indicating they should not keep the Chancellor waiting. Edging forward, they entered into a very large chamber suitable for a ballroom. It was richly furnished with two large tapestries on the walls to the right and left; smaller, more ornate wall hangings were precisely located around to give the room a stately and colorful appearance. Along the outer wall on his right were several tall narrow windows with large leaded glass panes, some of which were colored to form geometric patterns. Oil lamps affixed to the wall between the windows were lit, providing the room with soft illumination. A slightly different, but still pleasant aroma emanated from the lamps.
Directly over their heads, above the entry, there was a small balcony. At either end of the balcony, catwalk-like corridors extended the full length of the adjacent walls. A dozen Armsmen in bright royal blue uniforms were stationed strategically about the room. Guards armed with crossbows were also positioned at each end of the high catwalks, while guards on the floor level had six-foot pikes and wore short swords.
Nevin and his cohorts stood just inside the entrance to the room, under the balcony, facing a raised dais straight ahead of them. A runner of plush maroon carpet extended from the spot where they stood all the way to the dais, up some steps and stopped at the foot of the King’s throne, currently empty. On either side of the throne were lesser chairs, the one on the left occupied by a man fancifully dressed, fanning himself.
A line of well-dressed men and women stood attentively on one side of the maroon carpet. Nevin assumed these people, numbering about thirty in all, were courtiers or courtesans of some rank. The narrow carpet was evidently the path they were meant to take, past thirty pairs of staring eyes. The door guard confirmed this by nodding his head assertively for Orris and the others to go ahead. As the trio slowly edged forward, the room was silent; there was no talking or whispering to be heard. When they finally reached the end of the carpeted lane a few feet in front of the dais, Orris proceeded to announced himself.
“I am Orris of—”
“We know who you are, Orris, and we already know of your skirmish in Huxley. Tell us instead about your two companions. We are especially cu
rious about the tall one, who is obviously not Antrim-born.”
Orris started to respond again, but this time Anson stepped ahead of him. “Sir Chancellor, I am Anson, a loyal subject of King Lucan’s from Huxley. I have come to speak to the King concerning the futility of the war with Gilsum and the need for a quick and peaceful end to it.”
The Chancellor retorted, “Well, Anson from Huxley, you are apparently the spokesman for this troupe. All our citizens want the war to end; that is nothing remarkable to tell the King. However, you may be allowed to speak to me of your concerns...if that is what we wish to hear from you. But first, who is this other man?”
Nevin was half lost in admiration over the marvelous acoustics of the room.
Anson declared, “This man is Sir Nevin Reasoner. He has traveled here from another land where he is regaled as a man of great knowledge and learning. He has come at my request to help King Lucan bring an end to the war.
“Again, you speak for these others? From what I hear, your friend comes more to brawl with our soldiers than help them to defeat Gilsum. What is your trade, Anson of Huxley? You do not look stout enough to be a smith or even a tailor. Are you a farmer?”
After an eternal moment of hesitation, Anson said, “I am a mage.”
At that announcement, there was an ominous gasp, the first sounds from the members of the court.
The Chancellor was not surprised. “I suspected so. Magery had to be at work with so unusual a man involved. We have no interest in your plans or concerns, Anson of Huxley.”
“But, Sir—” Anson shook his head frantically and waved his hands to deny the rebuff. As he took a step forward, it roused the nearest guards.
The Chancellor’s face reddened and he sprang to his feet, raising his voice to a near shout and pointing an accusatory finger at Anson. “It is because of you and your accursed brethren that Antrim is beset with attacks by Gilsum troops and profiteering rogues. You shall not bother the King with your tricks and illusions!”
Anson started to panic. Hope for Antrim was gone if he failed to get an audience with the King. The mage took another step closer to the dais, prompting a lowering of a guard’s pike. Anson ignored the threat, straightened himself and snapped, “If you are supposed to have the King’s interest at heart, then you speak like a fool, Chancellor! It is known that Gilsum’s King Meire has a counselor who provides his army with new and unstoppable advantages, who even fouled the air in Huxley that left the village without defense. I have brought a greater man who knows of these things and much more. As I have put myself in great peril to come to King Lucan, so has Sir Nevin in coming from his land to seek a peaceful means to save Antrim from certain ruin. Not only has he placed himself in jeopardy to travel with a mage, but his peril is multiplied—for Sir Nevin, himself, is a High Mage!”
Jaws dropped. Some fainted. Several people stepped back out of fear and awe. Not only was Nevin imposing by his size, but now he was revealed as some figure of legend extolled in children’s tales. All the guards, particularly those closest to the dais, set their pikes in a ready position, looking for the first sign of threatening behavior.
Nevin’s reverie from studying the room was broken with a double-take. Caught off guard by Anson’s impulsiveness, he leaned over to his shorter companion and whispered, “Anson, which of us is supposed to be the High Mage?” Anson’s look of desperation into the eyes of his new comrade made the answer clear. You mean me? Nevin was confused and more. He was not even sure whether his alleged “highness” was a reference to his greater height or alleged professional competence.
The Chancellor finally reacted as if struck. He shouted to the guards, “Seize them! Bind their mouths so they cannot speak their cursed spellwords!” The guards moved toward them but froze instantly at a shout from the back of the room.
“Stop in your place!”
Every head turned and looked up at a solitary man standing on the balcony over the entry way. Immediately, all the courtiers and courtesans knelt and hushed as they recognized their King. The monarch walked a few steps to his right and operated a lever, which lowered a hidden stairway. Impressive, indeed, Nevin thought, a spring-loaded ladder like those used on fire escapes. Trailing the King was a large dog.
King Lucan descended the stairway and with great regal bearing, and walked over to the maroon runway where he formed a royal procession of one as he made his way to the dais. The King seemed a little taller than any of the Antrim men Nevin had seen so far, perhaps by two or three inches. His complexion was very light, his hair dark brown and rather long compared with others. He was dressed magnificently in a dark blue velvet robe and wore a rather modest crown. His beard was cropped short. Both hair and beard were mostly dark, but flecked with gray making his age uncertain. He had the unmistakable mien of a man of experience and sovereignty.
At the King’s side, the dog walked at a perfect heel position. Nevin recognized the dog as a Great Dane, although quite a bit smaller than any he had seen before. Lucan walked erect with a regal bearing that commanded respect, but as he drew nearer his eyes became his most compelling feature, at least to Nevin, who was still standing as the monarch passed. Lucan’s deep blue eyes were piercing without being menacing. He cast an image of a man sure of himself, leaving no doubt he was a King. Nevin found this man charismatic just by his presence.
As the King approached the dais, a servant came forward and took the King’s robe. This action seemed to cue the Chancellor, who proceeded to scold Nevin.
“Kneel, you impudent lout!” Without realizing it, Nevin was the only person in the room not kneeling, except for the guards.
The King was about to seat himself on the throne, but he stopped and held up his hand. Speaking loud enough for all to hear, he said, “This man does not need to kneel before me today. He is not my subject nor has he sworn fealty to me. He is, for now, a guest in Antrim. I welcome you, Nevin Reasoner.” After seating himself, the dog lay down at the right of the throne.
Lucan’s voice was resonant and deep. He spoke with just the right amplitude and timbre so he could be heard by all without seeming to shout. Nevin thought, this man knows how to play the part of a King. Amid all the regal trappings and ceremony, it was a wonderful sight. Nevin guessed correctly that no one was to speak until directed by the King.
Lucan gestured for all to rise. The King was supremely composed but seemed to measure his words before finally speaking, “Step forward, Nevin Reasoner. Your visit is an uncommon pleasure for us. If you are a High Mage, as your companion says, favor us with a demonstration.”
Demonstration? Nevin was stunned. Shooting a look at Anson for getting him into this situation, Nevin finally stammered, “Uh, what...I mean, er, Your Highness...um, what would you like me to do?”
“We are acquainted with magery by the likes of common practitioners, such as your friend, Anson of Huxley. Show us what kind of skill distinguishes a High Mage. Please demonstrate, unless your claim to be of service to us is a falsehood.”
Nevin nervously exchanged looks again with Anson, who was wide-eyed with uncertainty about what to do. Nevin saw that he was on his own. He cast glances around the room in search of an idea, fretting that he did not yet understand this spellcasting business. He had studied carefully the spells Anson and Bartram had shared with him. Surely someone with his background, with his skills at observation and deduction, should be able to reproduce the effects of one of the spells—even without fully understanding it. An idea formed. Gathering his thoughts Nevin took a deep breath. “OK, I’ll give it a shot.”
Nevin brought his hand to his forehead in an act of concentration, trying to generate “force of mind” as Anson and Bartram had demonstrated. Mental concentration was key at the beginning. All drew quiet around him. Anticipation rose. He spoke the words of one of the few spells he had memorized—but with a slight alteration. I hope this works.
No one present could make out the spellwords except Anson. Listening carefully, the mage silently mou
thed the Nevin’s utterance in perfect syncopation—until the words varied from the cadence he expected! The look on Anson’s face changed to one of incredulity as he figured out what Nevin was trying to do. Anson, himself, would not have considered modifying a spell from its rote tradition, but Nevin was not bound by such habits.
Nevin was more an empiricist than an artist, one who looked for elemental relationships and gained knowledge by experimentation, and he was experimenting right now. Reality had changed somewhat for him since he met Anson, but the laws of physics still seemed basically intact. He was simply adding A with B to produce C.
As Nevin neared the end of the spell, the King’s dog alerted to attention and stood up. The animal whined and nervously padded in place as if restrained by an invisible leash. Nevin’s head started to ache from the intensity of his concentration. He kept his eyes closed and tried to mollify his throbbing head by rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers. His reaction startled the onlookers, who did not know what to expect from this alleged High Mage. Whispering increased to a loud buzz as everyone in the room stared at Nevin. Suddenly, someone shouted that the King’s dog was gone. There were exclamations of awe and a few cheers as Nevin apparently carried out a successful deliverance, albeit of the King’s dog. Anson stepped forward and caught Nevin’s eye, both men sharing looks of combined relief and no small amount of surprise. Nevin sighed deeply, fighting down the need to know whether the dog simply slipped away or was spatially displaced. There was that transmutation problem again.
“Well done, Sir Nevin!” said the King, apparently pleased at the demonstration.
The triumph was short lived.
“If you please, Sire. This act does not befit a ‘High Mage,’” sneered the Chancellor. “It is a common trick to make things seem to disappear, as we have seen done by jesters and other performers who are less than mages. Mere illusions. Shall we have Sir Nevin show us something we have never seen before? Something more convincing?”
The Chronicles of Nevin Reasoner: The Complete Duology Page 14
