Arcanist

by Terry Mancour

  “That’s not really my fault,” I defended. “I’d love to be boring and complacent. It’s my greatest personal goal. The rest of the universe refuses to cooperate with that.”

  “With you sticking your thumb up its bum every other day, I wonder why?” Thinradel said, dryly, as he made his way to a table in the corner. There were several static tables, not trestles, as befitted a high-class tavern. Thinradel was making this one his accustomed haunt. The barman brought three cups and a bottle of wine without any of us speaking, which convinced me even more.

  “There are problems that require Minalan’s thumb in the universe’s fundament,” Gareth argued, taking a seat. “No one else would have learned about the New Horizon, for example. Or the Sea Folk. Or a great many other things.”

  “I don’t take issue with his dalliances with strange gods and immortal creatures,” Thinradel said, with a dismissive wave while I poured for us. “It’s him dragging the rest of us into it.”

  “Now, Thinradel, if you wanted to be left alone you wouldn’t have followed me from Sevendor, where you were safe and comfortable,” I chided. “But you did. The fact of the matter is that you would be itching to be here, if you weren’t.”

  “I was just . . . looking for a job,” he admitted.

  “I could recommend you for royal court wizard, you know,” I added, as I took a sip of the Gilmoran red. It was a cut above the standard fare, but then I was the Spellmonger. I got the good stuff. “You’re one of the few King Rard would trust with the job.”

  “And I would be found dead one morning, after saying something rude to the queen responsible for my duke’s death,” he nodded. “No, thank you. “Ducal court mage is sufficient experience for me. I am retired from politics.”

  “And ascended to the noble pursuit of education,” Gareth continued, cheerfully. “I cannot think of anyone better suited to the task. Besides,” he soothed, “it will keep you out of the Magical Corps this war. That should be a benefit.”

  “It is,” Thinradel sighed. “And in truth I enjoyed the challenge before it became tedious. I assure you, as soon as I can find someone to replace me, I shall. I’d like to get some real research done, you know.”

  “I’m glad you brought that up,” I said, seizing on the chance for a segue. It instantly produced a groan from Thinradel and a grin from Gareth. “While I have the two of you here, let me run a proposal by you.” I explained my plan to them, and the possible repercussions. The result was predictable.

  “That sounds incredibly dangerous,” Thinradel condemned, his face pale.

  “It’s a hell of a thaumaturgical challenge,” agreed Gareth. “But if you have strong enough wardings and powerful enough magi in attendance, you could make it work.”

  “I’ll have Mavone, Taren and Terleman,” I decided. “That should be sufficient. And if we do it on site, then we’ll have additional resources. If things get truly hairy, I suppose I could summon a goddess to help.”

  Thinradel shook his head. “It still amazes me you are so comfortable consorting with the divine. It’s a bit of a scandal, in some circles.”

  “It’s hardly the worst thing I’ve done,” I objected. “Just because thaumaturgy doesn’t understand it doesn’t mean divine magic can’t be useful. In this case, it might be essential. Or at least compelling.”

  Before we could continue the discussion, we were interrupted by three ladies who boldly entered the tavern. They immediately attracted all attention in the room.

  It was unusual enough to see a lady in a tavern, even in Vanador. Such serious drinking was usually the province of men, in most cases. But the Enchanter’s Quarter and the Thaumaturgical Quarter both attracted plenty of professional women who saw nothing scandalous about drinking and socializing like their male colleagues, even in the middle of the day.

  In this case, the three were also quite lovely: Lady Andra, Sandoval’s bride, Lady Rael the Enchantress, and their guest (and, technically, my prisoner) Lady Maithieran of Benfradine. All three were wearing brightly colored gowns under their mantles in either an ode to spring or in an effort to invoke it – the weather, though warmer, had continued to be gloomy.

  But the smiles and raiment of the three ladies was magical in its own special way. Andra had become incredibly popular around the bouleuterion, in particular, as she pitched in to help create enchantments for the war effort. Her friendly and engaging nature had enlivened the usually dreary and dull work of creating magical constructs or munitions. Rael, of course, had been here for more than a year, now, running the Wizard’s Mercantile. Her generosity and willingness to hunt down hard-to-find items through her growing web of contacts had brought relief and even joy to thousands of Vanadori. Indeed, Rael’s wild ways had set the tone for Vanadori social life from its inception.

  To their company Maithieran had added some additional grace and charm. Her well-bred Gilmoran manners and her stinging wit had made her instantly popular in the few weeks she’d been “imprisoned” in Vanador. She didn’t even bring her maid, a young nun of the Tryggine order, with her on these excursions anymore. She walked comfortably through the streets without escort, and without fear of being accosted by brigands. Thanks to the crowded conditions and the sheer opportunity of the town, there were few practicing the footpads trade. Considering the penalties involved, I didn’t blame them.

  The three young women were socializing on their own. I would not have disturbed them – especially not in the wake of a conversation so grim – but they approached us, to my surprise. Gareth jumped up and offered them seats before I could stay him.

  “Please join us, ladies!” he said, enthusiastically. “At least for one cup,” he added. He’d gotten a lot more self-assured and far bolder since he’d come to Vanador. Two years ago, he would have mumbled and stumbled in nearly any interaction with women, but Dara – and now Nattia – had had an effect on the man. He was far more confident now. “Surely you would not pass up a chance for a cup of wine with the Spellmonger!”

  “As he is my jailer, I don’t have much choice, do I?” Maithieran said, as she slid into her seat.

  “In which case I insist,” I agreed, helping Andra into her chair. Rael thumped down into her chair without assistance. Or terribly much grace.

  “Since you’re buying,” Rael agreed, with a grin. “But not this horse piss – Mardine! Bring us a bottle of that good Bikavar I sent you! What has you wizards conspiring in a corner?” she asked, boldly.

  “Matters of great military import,” I answered. “But we were brought hither by the Choosing. Thinradel sent all those students he’s been collecting out on to their assignments, this morning. What errand brings you ladies out in the cold?”

  “Boredom, mostly,” Andra assured, as she delicately took a cup in her slender fingers. “I’m awaiting new constructs to be delivered from the workshops for animation. I figured a few hours of recreation were in order. Rael was with me, so we picked up Maithieran. We heard that a new minstrel would be performing this afternoon.”

  “Would that be Master Jannik?” I asked, curious if the bard had settled into Vanador, as we’d encouraged.

  “The very man,” Maithieran nodded. “My maid, who swears she was a Wilderlords’ daughter, just raved about the possibility of listening to the man sing. Apparently, his line is famous for their silver tongues.”

  “He must be a Rysh,” nodded Thinradel. “I met a few of his house, back when Duke Lenguin came north for the summers. The Wilderlords fawned over them like they were demigods, and they did sing well, if you like that sort of thing. But the southerners found their tunes depressing and overly melodramatic, compared to the refined entertainments of Falas. After the novelty of the locals wore off, they went back to southern poets.”

  “The Rysh supposedly held much sway in the Wilderlands, in their day,” agreed Gareth. “I’ve heard some of the Wilderlords mourning their loss. If this is the last one . . .”

  “Perhaps,” I nodded. “He’s done great service
to the realm,” I added, “scouting the Penumbra for our military, since the invasion. When I asked him to name his reward, he merely wanted to play before an audience again. Considering the number of taverns in Vanador, I’d say he got his wish.”

  We chatted gaily with the ladies for an hour, defeating the bottle of Bikavar and overcoming the remains of the Gilmoran red until the minstrel appeared.

  Jannik looked much better than he had in Cheerford. Though he was a small man, he carried himself with the confidence of a cockerel as he greeted everyone from the door with a short, loud snatch of song that spanned three octaves. The minstrel knew how to make an entrance.

  He was wearing a fancy doublet of sky blue over a linen undershirt. The bright green mantle he wore over his shoulders was as gaudy as the mottled cloak he’d worn in the forest was dreary. A baggy cap that matched his doublet included a long peacock feather. In his arms he cradled a lute, a bit heavier in form than the Riverlands style, and a heavy satchel hung at his hip from a broad leather baldric. He sang a delightful melody, one I assumed was traditional to begin the entertainment.

  “A Scion of Rysh is in the hall!

  Gaiety and mirth forth to call!

  Heavy hearts flee, maiden’s hearts quake

  for the Rysh has much merry to make!”

  There was a chorus of cheers from the gathering crowd. Jannik made his way through the well-wishers he encouraged him to take the minstrel’s traditional place near the fire. He spread his cloak over the wooden chair place there and ascended it like a throne, the lute seeming over-sized in his slender arms. He made a dozen jokes and called for a tall glass of mead while he tuned his instrument. He did not acknowledge any of us magi, over in the corner, when he arrived. I almost thought we’d escaped his notice.

  But then he started to play a ditty he claimed was new. It was called The Spellmonger’s Sow . . . and in a brief few minutes of verse, I realized just why the Rysh were so valued by the Wilderlords.

  The song wasn’t particularly flattering to me, as it introduced the character of an up-jumped common but pretentious spellmonger with a wandering eye and his sweet but addled wife. Often bumbling, with his common origins shining through his pretense of power, each verse detailed an increasingly raunchy situation that earned an equally absurd response from the pretentious spellmonger. The wizard finally manages to get a spell right, quite by accident, and is presented a pregnant sow as his payment. That night, he gets drunk and mistakes the sow for his wife and . . . well, it got really funny, from there.

  But not particularly flattering to me.

  By the time the song was done, even I was laughing as hard as I possibly could. Indeed, I don’t remember ever laughing that hard at a mere comic song. But Jannik’s delivery and skillful use of accent and voices made us all struggle to be quiet to hear the next bit.

  From there he launched into a ballad, which gave me some time to reflect on his opening number. I should have been furious at the treatment he gave me – after all, I was the count of the Magelaw, the Spellmonger, and the satire was clearly aimed at me. While I was in the audience.

  But I took a few moments to review the song, objectively, while Jannik sang of lovers in some hopelessly dark situation. While the story in the opening song didn’t present me in a terribly good light, it also didn’t do much more than poke some raunchy jibes at me. With a bit of introspection, I could see exactly the elements he’d invoked to tease me: my common origins, my use of power and my well-meaning nature. And a little bit of pomposity.

  While the part with the pig was a little rough and Alya’s – I mean “the spellmonger’s wife’s” depiction exaggerated her infirmity – it wasn’t particularly mean-spirited. Even the pig came out looking good, by the end of the song. In all, it was a perfectly ordinary ditty depicting normal village life in the Wilderlands, with a bit of raunchy bestiality implied. But I understood the subtle subtext instantly.

  It was a challenge. To me. Personally.

  Jannik, scion of Rysh, may have been personally grateful to me for his rescue from the Soulless, but he didn’t allow that gratitude to affect his professional opinion. From all I had heard of his line, the Rysh had acted as a kind of echo of the people’s perspective, through adept and entertaining use of melody, meter and verse.

  If Jannik’s talent for satire was any indication, they were uncannily good at identifying the concerns of the people and presenting their findings to the nobility. The Spellmonger and the Sow was ribald and rude, but it wasn’t the sort of thing that a population eager for revolution would produce. Indeed, the spellmonger in the song was a sympathetic character that seemed to do unexpectedly silly things that, eventually, turned out for the best. It was a cautious endorsement of my reign. As well as a challenge to me. The message was clear: we’re all merry and loyal, now, under the Spellmonger’s rule, but screw up and the next song could be satirically devastating.

  As Jannik took a moment to pause for applause, a drink and a few wry jokes, after the ballad, he had the audience enrapt – and it had grown. Vanador’s inns had no shortage of talented musicians plying its newly-cobbled streets, but I’d never seen a crowd gather so quickly in one of the less-populated quarters of the city. By the time Jannik began his third song, the tavern was packed so thoroughly, I doubt I could have left without disturbing half the people in the room.

  The minstrel caught my eye for the barest moment before he began the third song. I recognized the expression, though he strove to conceal it: he was determining what mood I’d found myself in after the song. I gave him the slightest smile, and his gaze shifted elsewhere . . . but that moment communicated volumes.

  The Rysh, it is said, watch over the Wilderlands, and I understood why. It had been scarcely a week since we’d plucked the man out of the bowels of the Penumbra, and in that time, he’d assessed the state of my rule upon his people.

  Not my people. His people. I just ruled here.

  For the Rysh took ownership over the welfare of the Wilderfolk, that much was clear to me. And he treated the charge with such dedication that not even the icy stares of an insulted count and accomplished warmage would be sufficient to spare the ridicule of the Rysh, if he deigned that I deserved it. Even if there was but one scion of Rysh left in the world. Even if he owed that same man his life and liberty. It didn’t matter who ruled over them, what banners flew overhead, or what dire consequences might erupt as a result of their satire. If a noble was unworthy of his leadership, the Rysh would not hesitate to say so.

  The Rysh were funny bastards, bards of uncommon wit. They saw it as their vocation to use that wit to protect the people from their own lords.

  I could appreciate that, I decided, as the fourth song began. It was another funny one, an old standard about the son of a smith and a miller’s daughter, but he told it fresh and with a wickedly funny delivery. I found myself laughing almost as hard at that one. But I was still thinking about the Spellmonger and the Sow.

  I thought I’d made up my mind about the man, from the composition of the song and its intended message, when Jannik went and surprised me with the final song of his set, The Road to Vanador.

  I was as startled. Only a few people knew that song, and I knew them all. It had been the song I’d crudely cobbled together on the way up the northern road, with my father banging away merrily on the travel instrument the god Crouthr had gifted him. I’d only sung it a few times since, and had nearly forgotten it, after all the trouble of this last year.

  But Jannik rendered it in a proper key, and though he’d taken some liberties with some of the verse, it was decidedly the same song. Only he sang it beautifully, while Dad, Brother Bryte and I had brayed it out like donkeys. Indeed, I saw a few melted hearts and tearful faces as he finished up. There was far more meaning in the song than I’d ever intended to put there.

  “Bring the man to me,” I instructed Gareth, as applause filled the tavern. He nodded and pushed his way politely through the crowd as Jannik had his c
up refilled with mead. In a moment he returned with the slender minstrel in tow, and graciously gave up his seat.

  “Well done, Rysh,” Thinradel said, approvingly, still clapping. “I needed that after this morning!”

  “It’s not often I get to drink with a count,” Jannik said, casually, as he settled into the chair – and immediately grinned broadly at the three ladies at the table. “I’m sure you’ll be gracious enough to pay the bill. And what a charming set of . . . smiles you’ve brought with you!” he added, just a little obsequiously as he flirted with the women. “What a drink of fine wine, after the thirsty years I’ve had on the road,” he assured them, charmingly. Then he raised his glass to me. “To the health of the Count!” he called out, and everyone in the room drank after cheering my health.

  “Is this the last good drink I get, before you have me hauled off to the dungeons?” he asked me, slyly, as the people toasted. “If it is, I’d like to top it off.”

  “You’ll not sup at my expense that way, Jannik,” I chuckled. I fingered one of my rings and invoked a hoxter. A small pile of silver Towers appeared on the table. “Take the silver and spare the space for worse offenders. I enjoyed the song,” I assured him.

  “Then this is the part where you tell me never to dare such a thing in your presence again,” he said, not touching the silver.

  “On the contrary,” I said, pushing the coin over to him. “Not only am I not the sort of man to take offence, I’m a subtle enough wizard to realize the message implicit in the composition. I urge you to speak your mind freely, when it comes to my rule.”

  He studied me carefully, the eyes so recently engaged in gaiety suddenly deadly serious. “You realize what a dangerous dagger you’ve put in my hand?” he asked. “Are you a masochist, sire?”