The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  “What did they get?” Rustallo asked. He had been a child when the Alshari Duke got married.

  “Two island fiefs off the coast and enough timber to build a dozen ships,” grumbled Cormaran. “That was a poor deal, even before Farise made them valuable again. Castal had proposed a prominent and wealthy, if homely, daughter of Count Sharlane of Tallbanks when he was ready to marry, but Lenguin hated the fact that his sister approved. So he went with the brainless blonde girl with the big boobs and the exotic accent. Alshar was robbed,” he scowled.

  I looked at him in surprise. “You seem to know a lot about it,” I said, curiously.

  His scowl grew, until it ended abruptly in a smirk. “I spent two years as Court Mage to Baron Aldoz, down in Corusine at the time, before I came back to Tudry. He was a party to the negotiations. I left his employ shortly thereafter, since Lenguin’s enchantment with his new bride meant Aldoz’s timber interests were booming and he was moving to the Ducal Court. A year later, Duchess Enora had him executed for . . . well, something silly.”

  “She’s really that bad?”

  Wenek looked thoughtful – he paid some attention to politics . . . which I needed to start doing, it appeared. “If you took a retarded cow, wrapped its head in a blanket, and then beat it senseless with a rock, it would still be a towering intellect next to Enora. But after almost ten years and three useless children together, he still dotes on her like she was a fourteen year old virgin again. And Enora’s got him wrapped around her . . . policies. She’s the key to His Grace, and all the courtiers know it. ”

  I winced. “All right, does she have any weaknesses?” I sighed, tiredly. Astyral looked at me with a mixture of concern and amusement.

  “Well, yes,” he said, slowly and cautiously. “But you’re not going to like it.”

  “Just tell me . . . I’ve dealt with royalty before. Hell, after what I did to the Censor General, I’m sure my reputation will precede me.”

  “Well, that just adds another problem to getting him to do what you want, then,” chuckled Taren, who had been there. “If you’re successful, you know what happens. Or what will try to happen. If His Grace, Lenguin of Alshar was ambivalent about his big sister and her husband before, he will be positively livid if you succeed and His Grace, Rard of Castal, fulfills his promise. Most livid. Livid enough to raise troops and threaten war.”

  “He has a war on his doorstep, and he can’t seem to fight it,” dismissed Cormaran. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Lenguin’s ire.”

  “Not at his brother-in-law, perhaps,” I agreed. “But at a pushy spellmonger who’s already taken over one of his towns without his express permission? And even installed military governors? I don’t think he’d have any problem finding a cozy little cell under Vorone castle to keep me in until it was time for the noose. Believe me, when dealing with dukes, I aim to use an excessive amount of caution. Especially after what happened the last time I came before a Ducal court.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven:

  Censor General Hartarian

  Wilderhall, Midsummer

  When I awoke the next morning, Isily was gone, leaving behind only rumpled sheets and the heady aroma of her lustful scent in my nostrils. Hamlan wisely avoided waking me until the last possible moment, then appeared with hot tea, biscuits, walnuts soaked in brandy, and a couple of sausages still hot from the pan.

  “So today is the big day,” he said, after inquiring about the satisfactory nature of the whore he’d procured. I truthfully told him I hadn’t had such a good time in a month, and left it at that. “The Duke’s Tower is buzzing about the affair – apparently the Censor General has been bellowing for your head from the moment he arrived.”

  “Well, as long as he’s not prejudiced about my case already,” I said, sourly. After last night’s exertions, you’d expect that I’d be dragging, but the fact was the tryst had invigorated me. I got up, used the chamberpot, and stretched luxuriously before heating the water in the basin for washing.

  While I was scrubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I began feeling the first tentative tingle of a psychic contact – someone wanted my attention. Carefully, so as not to alert Ham of my communication, I allowed the message to manifest in my mind.

  Captain? came the call – Taren’s “voice”, I could feel. Are you awake?

  I am, I answered, as I scrubbed. I’m just preparing myself to face the day. I had a busy night last night.

  I know, came the sarcastic reply. Whatever you were doing, we could feel the residuals all the way in town. Rustallo and I are at the inn you suggested. We await your orders.

  All right, I responded, as I rinsed the soap from my face. Get into your finest wizardly costumes and present yourself to the castle gate at noon. I’ll alert them that you are coming. There shouldn’t be any issues, but if there are, ask to speak with a woman named Isily of Brawin. She’s a courtier of Her Grace, and owes me a favor. She’ll make sure you get in.

  Isily of Brawin. Got it. Anything else?

  Get lunch on your way in, I decided. It might be a while before you’ll get another chance to eat.

  Why?

  We might be on the run for our lives, with an army chasing us.

  I see how that would be useful, then. So you’re really going to argue before the Censor General?

  It’s not my first choice, I admitted, but it’s the one I’m left with. His Grace won’t rule on my proposal until the Censorate has had a chance to comment.

  You anticipate a negative finding?

  It would betray my pessimistic nature if I didn’t. Come on, Taren, you know the Censorate as well as I do. Even with the Dead God lurking in the background, do you really think they’re just going to stand by and let the Bans be destroyed? They have no purpose, without the Bans.

  I know, Captain. Don’t worry, I have every confidence that you’ll be able to convince them.

  And if I don’t? I asked, as I toweled my face dry.

  Then Rustallo and I will tear the castle down brick by brick until you do to avenge your death and dismemberment.

  That’s comforting, I said, sarcastically.

  We’ll be there, Captain, don’t you worry. And you do have one piece of security you may dwell upon, at need. Something that has plagued many a commander, yet you are safely protected from worry about it.

  What is that? I asked, hoping for some profound insight.

  You don’t have to worry about one of your subordinates usurping your position as leader. No one else wants your job. That’s why we elected you. You’re the one they’d hang first.

  I let the contact drift away after that because, after all, what could I possibly say to that? Thanks for the confidence in my leadership? Curse you all? I applaud your wisdom while I weep for your lack of faith? Just for that, asshole, you’re now second-in- command? See you at the execution? I snorted instead, and dropped the towel to eat breakfast.

  “So what do the stable boys say this morning, Ham?” I asked, cheerfully. I can’t help it – I’m always cheerful after a night of soul-cleansing sex. Even if I might be executed that day.

  “Some very interesting things, Master. For one, there were strange signs and portents of doom hanging over the River Tower last night, some say near to this very room,” he said, amusedly.

  “Were there, now?” I chuckled. “I’ll be sure to look into that. Next?”

  “There are apparently troops assembling at the nearby village of Cleston. Almost a thousand, so far, and more arriving soon, it is said. Mercenaries. One rumor says that they’re destined to cross the frontier and campaign against the goblins in Alshar, another says that they are here to take you into custody on behalf of the Censor General. There’s even some wagering about it. Any comment?” he asked, with a wink. Obviously, he was trying to get the better of his fellow gamblers with a little inside information.

  “Could go either way,” I said, between bites of sausage. “But put me down for twenty gold ounces on Alshar, if they’re taki
ng good odds.”

  Ham looked surprised, and he stopped blacking my boots for a moment. “You know something, Master?”

  “I know it would take far more than one thousand troops to bring me down. And besides, if I lose, I’ll die, and twenty ounces of gold isn’t going to hurt or harm me either way.” That was a dramatic overstatement, but it couldn’t hurt my reputation amongst the stable boys. “Anything else? Any word from ‘Mother’ this morning?”

  “No, Master.”

  I sighed. I’d hoped she’d help, somehow. She seemed to be considering my case – why else recruit me into the ‘Family Business’? “Then inform the gate that I am expecting two observers for the trial today – sorry, the ‘hearing’ before the Censorate. I would like them admitted without problem.”

  “I shall see it done, Master. Friends of yours?”

  “Fellow magi,” I shrugged. “Interested parties to the discussion.”

  “And will my master be preparing otherwise for his trial – sorry, his ‘hearing’?”

  “Yes. But I’ll handle that in seclusion. While you are cleaning my green suit. One must look one’s best while pleading for one’s life before the Censorate.”

  “Of course, Master,” he agreed. “Leaving a shabby corpse behind is just tacky.”

  After shaving me and collecting my green suit, he hurried away to make arrangements. I spent the rest of the morning checking in with my warmagi, who were scattered around Alshar learning useful things about our enemy. I also hung a few useful spells, exchanged telepathic barbs with Pentandra (she was riding her favorite horse, and not a hunky servant lad, for a change) and looking in on Tyndal, and by extension my family and Alya.

  I felt a little guilty about my unanticipated liaison, but only a little. I mean, I loved Alya, I planned on marrying her, I adored her wit, wisdom, beauty, breasts, you name it. But I was also facing potential execution. And even if I avoided that, I was still likely to be sent off to die against the goblin hordes – and that’s if things went well.

  As much as I adored Alya, I also was still getting to know her, on a personal level. And we were not wed, as yet. And if all of this sounds like a massive justification for what I did, you’re probably right. But I’ll be damned if I was going to worry about a little thing like vague infidelity when my neck was literally on the line.

  Noon came, and with it arrived Ham, huffing a little from bringing my suit back from the washerwoman, whom he had bribed heavily to do my clothes. They weren’t quite dripping, but they were still quite damp. He apologized for that and promised to hang them in front of a fire in the kitchens to dry, when I spared him the trouble by simply removing the water from the garments with a spell. It made the stone floor of my chambers wet, but after it was thoroughly dry Ham was able to brush the fabric into an eye-pleasing luster. I admired the suit for a second, and then used a spell to make my professional hat appear to be made of the same fabric. Pure illusion, but it made me look good.

  “There was one last thing, Master,” Ham said, as I strapped on my weapons belt. Technically you weren’t supposed to appear armed in front of the Duke in Court, but this was a special occasion, and I would not be deprived of the tools of my trade. The Duke would just have to understand. If I’d wanted Rard dead, I could have slain him long ago. “Those . . . visitors you mentioned arrived at the gate a little early. They presented this to the guard with instructions to deliver it to you,” he said, hesitantly, and brought out a small wrapped bundle.

  There was no magical signature present, indicating a booby-trapped spell. I checked, nothing glowed or tinged, so I opened it. Inside was a yellow baldric five inches wide, that ran from my shoulder to hip. On the upper breast of the sash was embroidered the Ilnarthi death rune, a jagged spiral rendered with a few slashed lines.

  “What is it, Master?” Ham asked, mystified.

  “A token of loyalty,” I smiled. “We used this rune in Farise. And at Boval. If the gods so will it, it will likely become the symbol of my order of warmagi.”

  “I . . . see,” he said, clearly not understanding. That was fine. I didn’t need Ham carrying every little tidbit back to Mother. That would be boring.

  I pulled the baldric on over my weapons harness, which didn’t do the shape of my elegant tunic any favors. Courtly garb is not designed for a wide leather harness heavy enough to carry a mageblade, daggers, and warwands. But after adding the hat and the staff, I did look fairly impressive. I surveyed myself one last time in Ham’s looking glass, and took a deep breath.

  “Let’s get on with this,” I said. “If I’m not dead, I’m going to take the afternoon off and maybe go swim in the river.”

  “It’s always nice to have a contingency plan,” Ham agreed, affably. “Good luck, Master. May the gods be kind.”

  We looked at each other and both had to laugh at that.

  * * *

  The day was overcast and there was more than a suggestion of rain in the air – a dark and foreboding cloud hung in the west, and there was a sense of impending dread looming over us all.

  I stared up at the thunderhead as it grew, and remembered Master Insico’s experiments which verified a positive etheric charge immediately before a thunderstorm, which due to the Law of Crossed Reactions, made human beings feel generally ill-at-ease before a storm, and generally upbeat and cheerful afterwards when the ether was decidedly negatively charged. That, the good thaumaturge had explained, was why people dreaded thunderstorms but always felt better about life in their aftermath. I knew that intellectually, but I couldn’t help having my imagination point out how one large cloud in particular resembled the angry rictus of the Dead God’s face, a definite ill omen.

  Or maybe that’s just the way I felt about it. To everyone else, it probably just looked like it was about to rain.

  The Duke’s Tower was decked out with banners flying from every tower and spire, and the Ducal guards were wearing their best, shiniest armor as they allowed me through. Next to them stood two of the Censorate’s hired swords, non-magical warriors who helped enforce the Censor’s rulings. They both glared at me as if I was something they stepped in on the way over.

  The Censorate warmagi, the Shirlin Order, were within. So was most of the Court, and I waved cheerfully at some of the acquaintances I’d made in the last few days, particularly the nobles I’d flustered the previous night. There were easily double the number of guards around as there had been on the first day of the war council, and I could see some of the nobility present had worn their armor and swords to lend their support to an immediate expeditionary force to Alshar, regardless of what the magi figured out.

  The Shirlini warmagi, armed with their own mageblades and warstaves, flanked the simple chair that had been set near to the thrones in the Great Hall, upon which sat the imposing figure of the Censor General, Hartarian.

  He didn’t look like he was in a good mood.

  I took my place near the front of the gallery, and quickly caught sight of Taren and Rustallo, who weren’t wearing their hats but were carrying staves. They had taken up positions to either side of the hall, where they both had an unobstructed view of the proceedings. No doubt they each had a mageblade concealed about their person too, magically or otherwise. I gave them each a nod and a grunt mental approval through our stones.

  Next I caught sight of Master Dunselen, entering at a sedate pace with his ridiculously ornate hat-of-office and his own wizard’s staff, and stopping near His Majesty’s throne. He wouldn’t look directly at either me or the Censor General, which was frustrating. Had he agreed to keep our bargain? Or had he capitulated to the Censorate? A lot could depend upon what that old geezer might do.

  Then I saw Isily out of the corner of my eye, and my breath caught just the slightest. I was still basking in the afterglow of our encounter, and had fond thoughts toward her for that. She slipped me the briefest of smiles before she took her place to the left of the court, with Her Grace’s other ladies-in-waiting. Suddenly things didn�
��t look so bad. Maybe her presence reversed the etheric current, or something, but I felt better for having her present.

  Then Their Graces were announced, we all stood for the fanfare and procession, and they took the thrones. The herald announced that court was in session, and that the Censor General begged an audience.

  “The throne of Castal has always welcomed the Censorate in our court,” Rard said, nodding graciously in a way I’m sure he’d practiced countless times in private. “Approach, General Hartarian, and present your business.”

  The Censor General rose, and I saw just how big he was in person for the first time. Easily six feet, seven inches or more. His shoulders were broadly built, and displayed the black-and-white checker of the Censorate in a particularly imposing way.

  “Your Graces, I thank you for the opportunity to present our business today, he began, formally, in a deep and serious-sounding baritone. “For it has come to the attention of the Censorate that Castal is harboring several acute violators of the Bans of Magic, and I humbly request your leave and assistance in apprehending them and bringing them to justice, as custom demands.”

  “And who might these violators be?” Rard asked, formally.

  “One Minalan of Castal, called the Spellmonger, renegade warmage.”

  “And of what is he accused?” asked Rard. That took the Censor General aback, as if he hadn’t expected the question. That was encouraging – if the whole thing wasn’t scripted out beforehand, then there was a slight chance that I wouldn’t be summarily executed. I watched as the Censor General struggled for words.

  “Your Grace, it is a technical matter of our trade. A violation by possession of certain proscribed items.”

  “And these items are . . . ?” Rard asked, pointedly.