“Wonderful,” I said, sarcastically. “He outnumbers their host at Tudry. He could ride on them in two days and defeat them. But he sits in Vorone and quivers in his boots and yells for the rest of the world to come rescue Alshar,” I said, bitterly. I pulled the cap on after combing my hair briefly with my fingers, “How do I look?”
“Smart enough to meet a Duchess, Master,” Ham assured me after he swallowed. “Which is fortunate, for Her Grace has invited you to her gardens in an hour.”
“She what? When did this happen?” I demanded.
“Only moments before you arrived, Master. A young page – a girl – in her livery brought the message. She will await you in the River Gardens.”
“Blast it to nine hells and back,” I swore. “I was going to . . . oh, never mind,” I said, discouraged. “How far away are the River Gardens?”
“Not too far, Master. Ten minutes by foot – they’re adjacent to the Duke’s Tower, overlooking the river. They’re the Duchess’ own creation, it’s said. She’s particularly fond of her roses, her yellow ones. The red ones were sent by the Duchess of Remere, whom she hates, it’s said.”
“And the stable boys know this as well?” I asked, wryly.
“Where do you think they get the manure for the flowers, Master?” he asked, as if it was obvious. “She usually takes an hour or two in the afternoon for her walks. Usually it’s in seclusion with her ladies-in-waiting, but she will sometimes invite some person of importance and prominence to accompany her, if she’s so inclined.”
“Well, she’ll just have to settle for me today, then,” I quipped. “Anything else?”
“No, Master.”
“Then come get me in half an hour,” I ordered. “I’ll want you to attend me on this outing. See if you can overhear half as well as the stable boys, and we might learn something valuable.”
“Aye, Master,” he agreed. “I’ll go change into something more appropriate,” he said, giving me a cursory bow and leaving, closing the door behind him.
I sighed, closed my eyes, and sat on the bed. I took my stone out and let it rest in the palm of my left hand while I called up the sigils that Penny had said would connect me to her, mind-to-mind.
Min? she asked, hesitantly, through the link. Is that you?
For now. The Censor General just showed up with a brace of warmagi and a party of guards. So I might be dead tomorrow.
That would really mess up the plans I’ve been making, she chided.
I can empathize, I smirked to her. I haven’t been summoned to court to face General Hartarian yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Tomorrow, maybe, after he’s had a chance to argue with the Duke.
How do you think things are looking? Have you persuaded anyone yet?
Maybe, I admitted. I’ve gotten some supportive comments, but it’s still too early to tell. And I’m sure there are a hundred political considerations I’m not taking into account. I’m not a courtier, Pen. And now I have to argue with the Censor General.
You’re persuasive and charismatic, she countered. And you’ve looked the Dead God in the eye. General Hartarian can’t be as bad as that.
I had a squad of warmagi with me at the time, I pointed out. That gave me a little false confidence. He brought two of the Order of Shirlen, Penny.
So? You withstood a siege of a hundred thousand goblins and dueled their shamans into the ground.
The warmagi of the Order are good, Pen. The best.
No, you’re the best. And you have irionite. And a squad of warmagi similarly armed to stand at your back.
They’re all on missions in Alshar, I thought back at her, discouragingly.
No, they aren’t, she disagreed. I thought you might have problems with the Censorate, and I thought you might need a little support. So I contacted Taren and Rustallo, who were in western Castal. They should be arriving any time.
What? How did you get—
You told me to contact everyone and teach them my telepathy spell, remember? I’ve gotten through to over half of the Order. Until I can teach you all their individual call sigils, you can relay messages through me.
What if you’re unavailable?
I’m always available, she insisted. I mean, right now I’m in my bedchamber for my afternoon nap, and the new houseboy, who has the most sensual lips I’ve ever seen, is pleasuring me. Not as well as I’d like, but he has Talent, if not technique. Kind of like you when—
Penny! I scolded. You’re getting yourself serviced when I’m about to spit in the eye of the Censorate?
This is how I raise power, remember? This isn’t just for fun. I’m trying to help Daddy attune to his stone, and I need all the extra reserves I can get.
I trust your judgment, I thought, half-heartedly. Can you find out how far away from me Taren and Rustallo are?
Bide, she commanded, and was silent for a while.
I used the time to reflect on Penny’s seriously skewed sense of priority. I mean, I’m as lusty as the next fellow, and I had been under a lot of stress, and I’d trade it all and a witchstone for the chance to slide into bed next to Alya and have my way with her . . . but I had a job to do before I could enjoy that kind of comfort. I supposed I could always go down to the city and find a brothel – there were some really nice ones in Wilderhall – but how can you have the weight of the world on your shoulders and still relax enough to get your—
Min? she finally returned. They’re about sixty miles outside of Wilderhall, in Barkwood Barony. But they’re flying toward you and expect to arrive tonight.
What? I asked, alarmed. How the hell are they able to do that? Sixty miles is two, maybe three days ride—
Taren’s a warmagi, remember? An advanced student? He’s enchanting the horses with one of those endurance spells you hack-and-slashers use all the time.
Um . . . all right, I thought, grudgingly.
There was no reason why the warmagi enchantments couldn’t work with your horse, if you cast the spell right, I conceded to myself. Of course, the poor animals would pay a stiff penalty for it later, perhaps even killing them, but if the mage was careful he should be able to shepherd his mount through the spell without endangering it.
And if anyone could do it, Taren could. He was, indeed, an advanced student in War Magic, so good in fact that he’d been able to skip the Farisan Campaign that most of the rest of us had suffered through. I couldn’t fault the War College, however. Despite his lanky build and his average stature, his spells were as tight and potent as any warmagic I’d seen. And he was an outstanding thaumaturge, as well.
Rustallo, on the other hand, was a cocky young bravo who had also missed the Farisian Campaign because he was stuck two years behind me at the Inarion Academy. Rustallo was a little haphazard in his warmagic, but he was determined and he was courageous. He was also very, very loyal to me, personally. That counted for a lot.
Of course, both of them had witchstones. That counted for a whole lot more.
Is there anything else? She asked. I’d like to get back to focusing, because this poor boy’s tongue is about to fall off and you of all people should appreciate just how delicate raising power like this is.
I do, I confessed. I also want to commend you on your ability to maintain multiple focus points at the same time. You’re a credit to your instructors. I was only being half-sarcastic. It really was impressive to be able to do anything of consequence – much less serious spellwork – while your naughty bits are being treated properly.
Flattery. He’s cute, but not so cute I can’t focus. Who are you meeting next?
The Duchess, apparently, I thought. She’s summoned me to her garden for a meeting. Just her, though, not Duke Rard as well. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
Good thing, she said, after a pause to consider. If it was a bad thing, she’d withdraw and let him deal with you. But if she’s taking an interest, enough to meet with you privately, then that means she’s favoring your position. I think. It helps that her little
brother is the current Duke of Alshar.
Grendine is Duke Lenguin’s big sister? I asked, shocked.
Did you think they just grow Duchesses out on a plantation in Merwin, somewhere? she scolded. Grendine was old Duke Parguin’s eldest daughter by his first wife, who was Remeran. So she’s actually related to three Ducal Houses, two by blood and one by marriage. She would have inherited the coronet of Alshar, if you Narasi didn’t have maddeningly barbaric ideas about primogeniture.
What?
Girls don’t inherit thrones, she said in her ‘I’m talking to an idiot’ voice. They’re only good for marrying off and bearing brats.
Well, don’t blame me for that. I’ve got five sisters, and they’re each going to inherit more of my dad’s bakery than I am, I complained.
We’re talking a Duchy here, Min, not a bakery, she said with mock patience. Duchess Grendine is a serious player in court politics. She’s not just throne candy. I wouldn’t say she’s the power behind the throne, but if she doesn’t like you, it doesn’t matter if Duke Rard does, from what I understand.
Well, that’s something, I admitted. Is she enough of a power to get the Duke to throw out the Bans?
Probably not, she admitted. But she’d be great to have on your side.
My servant says she likes roses. Yellow roses.
Your what?
I had to hire a servant, I explained, patiently, knowing full well that she was going to give me a hard time about it. His name is Hamlan. It’s kind of expected, at court.
Oh, I know, she thought, giggling at me. And I’m sure that it’s eating at your peasant’s soul to order around a fellow commoner. I’m just taking delight in your discomfort.
Because that’s what a true friend does, I thought sourly.
Yes, actually, they do. So you still haven’t been contacted by Castal’s clandestine service?
If they did, they did it so secretly even I don’t know about it, I joked. It wasn’t Dunselen, Sago, or Kindine, and I doubt the Castali would use an Alshari like Angrial as their spymaster.
That is odd, she said, thoughtfully. I . . . I was sure that they would have made some kind of contact, under the circumstances.
Well, unless my new manservant is secretly a spy, they haven’t. And unless the Castali clandestine service is headquartered out of the stables, he isn’t.
You never know, she said with skeptical amusement. But you’re right, that does seem unlikely. Just be on the lookout for it to happen soon. And when it does, you want to be open to the idea of cooperating.
What happens if I don’t?
Traditionally? Assassination. You fall off a horse or slip on a stone or choke on a fishbone. Once the clandestine service reveals himself to you, you’re a liability. If you’re a big enough liability, well, that’s the whole reason they employ assassins, to reduce liability. And influence policy, she added.
Great. Another job I can’t refuse. That’s as bad as being drafted!
Min, you’re asking Castal to essentially invade another Duchy, she reminded me. Not to mention overthrowing the established order. If the clandestine service wants to use you, let them. We’re using them, after all.
It just all sounds so . . . sordid, I complained.
It is. You can handle it. Now go dazzle the Duchess with your pretty eyes and big witchstone and persuasive t-t-t-tongue, and let me go . . . attend to my . . . business . . . she said, fading out.
I let her go. Despite herself, she’d given me an idea.
Chapter Seventeen:
The Council of Tudry Town
Tudry Town, Late summer
After the Battle of Tudry Commons, wherein well over twenty thousand refugees escaped, nine thousand-odd goblins, thirteen hundred men, and a thousand horses met their doom, the cleanup – both physical and political – was considerable. There was a lot of mopping up to do.
Luckily, I brought a very good mop.
When victory on the field was complete and the last few goblins, unwilling or unable to ask for quarter, were killed, I detailed the surviving Orphans to police the bodies and search the fields for wounded while I ordered the Nirodi to patrol the perimeter for stray bands or stragglers. Why the Orphans and the Nirodi, instead of the militia? Because I didn’t want to give the Tudrymen a chance for random looting of corpses while the dead had yet to even be identified. My men knew enough to steal in moderation, and leave any obvious bits of treasure attached to the noble corpses to be returned to their kin, if any, to be counted as heirlooms.
There were a lot of those sorts of casualties. In violation of standard practice, thanks to the shamans’ use of lightning against mail-clad knights, there were actually more noble deaths (just under a thousand) than common ones (nearly four hundred). Among them, unfortunately, were the late Baron Merasan of Megelin and his son, and – unfortunately – Sir Kavial and much of his guard.
He had been riding at the very point of the spear, as they say, in that last charge, so he and his horse took the full brunt of the lightning that killed so many so quickly. The charred, burnt-out corpse burned to his armor was nearly unidentifiable, save for the company’s device on his boots. He was a bit coarse, but I admired the man. I certainly didn’t want to see him looted before I could arrange to have his body and effects returned to wherever his kin lived.
I had the Tudrymen, in contrast, march back to the city and re-secure its walls. About half of them were eager to join their families in Vorone, but the other half were just as eager to stay behind with the remnant of Tudrymen who lingered.
That was a problem – we’d been able to evacuate the bulk of the population, but there were nearly five thousand die-hards who stubbornly wanted to take their chances in a suddenly-roomy town, instead of a very uncertain future as a penniless refugee. I didn’t have the manpower to force an evacuation, and the truth was if we planned on maintaining Tudry, we’d need some sort of support staff. So apart from sending in some Hellriders on a mission to root out lawless looters – with a noose, if necessary – I mostly left the natives alone. If they didn’t know the dangers of living in the shadow of the Dead God yet, then they weren’t likely to have the wits to flee.
And some just wanted to turn a profit, of course.
By nightfall, I found myself riding through the deserted streets of Tudrytown, Hamlan dogging my heels. We were in New Town, the less-affluent section, but the sky was growing darker by the moment and I ached from too long without sleep and in the midst of magic. I wanted a bed more than anything else, at that point. The castle on the hill I was headed toward seemed an awful long way up the hill, I recalled, and I hadn’t even gotten to the gate into Old Town, yet. I was still clomping down Wall Street. That’s when I spotted a familiar building: the inn I’d stayed in at the beginning of the summer, when I was here hiring mercenaries for Boval Vale.
Even though I knew that far grander accommodations awaited the commander of the force now ruling Tudry up in Old Town, the fact was if I didn’t find a place to sleep soon, I’d fall out of the saddle. I remember the place was comfortable, if a bit shabby. I called a halt, and Hamlan dismounted when I did.
“We’re going to stay here,” I said, tiredly, pounding on the broad wooden door with my fist. “Open, in the name of the . . . Spellmonger!” I called, authoritatively. I could feel that there was someone inside, and sure enough, in just a few moments a cautious-looking innkeeper holding a lantern in one hand and a stout cudgel in the other opened it.
It only took a few moments to convince him that we’d won the day, he and his kin were safe, for now, that I was in charge of the occupation of Tudry, that I was falling asleep on my feet and if he wanted to maintain good relations with the new administration, then he’d instantly show me to his most posh quarters and allow me to sleep there until Ham woke me up. A fistful of silver helped encourage his hospitality.
Then I told Hamlan to bear a message to the castle in Old Town while I slept, because, honestly, I was too beat to perform the simp
le telepathic spell to contact Astyral, who I’d made my lieutenant. He agreed, conferred with the innkeeper about my needs, and then disappeared.
And I slept. I slept like I had never slept before, not in Farise, not in Boval, never have I been so insensate as I was in that enormous featherbed (a great improvement in my room over my last visit). I slept through the night, into the next morning, and did not even think about rising until noon the following day.
I awoke in my room in the empty inn near noon, to the sight of a pretty girl quietly bringing in a tray with oatmeal, bacon, and bread, along with a mug of weak beer. I sat up, realizing what time it was with a glance out of the window.
“Has there been anyone looking for me?” I asked, realizing that I must be missed by now. By someone.
“Your man has been fielding the messages all morning, milord,” the girl said, setting the tray down. “I heard him say he would wake you up if there was anything requiring your attention, but to let you sleep as long as you could.”
“I could get used to having a manservant,” I remarked to myself, and not for the first time.
She smiled prettily. She looked familiar – and she looked at me as if she knew me. Then it occurred to me that she did . . . intimately.
“You’re the girl I rogered, a few months back,” I said, snapping my fingers. She beamed at the recognition. “I’ve completely forgotten your name,” I confessed, guiltily.
“Marlet, milord,” she said, giving me a nervous bow. “I’m the niece of your host, Master Brindalan.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage Page 31
