The Spellmonger Series: Book 02 - Warmage

by Terry Mancour

  “He’s playing the wise and trustworthy counselor, right now,” added Isily, “and the Duke is eating it up. Particularly after the ‘treachery’ of Threanas and Marcandine. And, of course, Jenerard just adores Her Grace, and Her Grace just adores Jenerard – and all of the gifts he keeps sending her – and between the two of them, they’ve kept Lenguin away from anyone who might tell him the truth. If he’d actually recognize it anymore.”

  “Well,” I sighed, I guess we’re just going to have to be compelling in our arguments, then.”

  * * *

  Master Thinradel, Court Mage to the Duke, looked nothing like his Castali counterpart. Master Dunselen had made a point to cultivate an image of serene wisdom and powerful magics while never doing much of either. Beard, robe, hat, he used magic for politics. He wasn’t a potent force at court – he was an administrator, but a wiley one.

  Thinradel, by contrast, wasn’t an administrator – he was a high-class spellmonger from Vladenar, on the coast, and he was ambitious.

  Not in the political sort of way that Dunselen was – Thinradel was eager for power, but he wanted his full share, not the scraps from the table that the magi got under the Bans. That made him an ostensible ally, or at least greedy enough to be open to a bribe.

  But it also made him highly unpopular in a court where magic was being blamed for all the Duchy’s ills.

  He was a tall man, strongly built, and he would have made a great warmage in his youth. He apparently disliked the normal flowing robes of the court mage and the ridiculous hat, so he made do with stylishly cut noble’s garb in black and silver. The dagger at his hip was no dining implement – it was at least twelve inches long and an inch wide, and it had a very serviceable-looking hilt. The dark wand in his belt didn’t look like toy, either. He had dark hair streaked with gray at the temples, and very intense eyes that looked out over a hooked nose.

  Honestly, he looked more like an underworld figure than a mage.

  His office was located at the farthest end of the unfashionable northern section of the palace complex, and compared to Dunselen’s tower it was small and sparse. Mavone and Isily led me past six busy secretaries poring over ledger books and records from academies in the outer office and brought me to the elegantly ornate door, where a thin young mage admitted us.

  He didn’t look pleased to see us . . . but he didn’t look displeased, either. Mavone made the introductions, Isily first, then me. He tossed off my name, “Master Minalan the Spellmonger, High Mage of . . . head of the order of high magi,” he finished, uncertainly.

  I’ll give Thinradel credit: he didn’t gape, startle, or even do a double-take. He just gave me a three-second stare and then a barely-polite quarter-bow.

  “So you’re the one who stirred up all those goblins in the Mindens?” he said, quietly.

  “Not exactly,” I pointed out. “I just happened to be there when it happened, and took advantage of it. Oh, and I rescued a lot of people from certain death.”

  “And got away with irionite, too,” he said, his voice nearly a monotone. “More than the Mad Mage of Farise.”

  “I’ve been generous with it,” I observed. “Not to mention that I’ve worked my ass off the last two months trying to rally the defenses of two duchies to counter it.”

  He stared at me for another three seconds, then held out his hand. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to one of the three chairs in front of his desk. He wasn’t summoning the guards – that was something.

  “So what can the court mage of Alshar do for you, Master Minalan?” he asked in the same cautious monotone.

  “I’d like to use your good graces to get an audience with His Grace,” I said, as I sat.

  “That assumes that I have good graces with His Grace,” he said. “At the moment, His Grace wants to hear very little of magic.”

  “I don’t blame him,” I shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t important. I need to speak to him, Master Thinradel, about meeting a very large force of goblins who are even now moving south toward Vorone.”

  That got his eyebrows raised, at least. “Interesting. You do know that the Censorate has put a price on your head? And that your credentials have been revoked? Lord Angrial was sent back to the capital – Falas, the real capital – in shame when he returned to Vorone from Wilderhall. Her Grace accused him of selling northern Alshar to the Castali, or the goblins, or something,” he said, dismissing the Duchess’ words out of hand. “And then you took Tudry and buried Vorone in twenty thousand refugees. That’s on top of the twenty thousand soldiers gathered here. There have been a steady stream of wagons from the south, and barges upriver, loaded with provisions . . . and it’s still not enough to feed everyone. There’s now a movement among the refugees to force His Grace to lead his troops against the goblins, a movement he is preparing to put down by force.

  “And then you, of all people, show up unbidden and unannounced and expect me to introduce His Grace’s biggest political irritant to court, knowing in advance that His Grace is far more inclined to have you hung than to do as you ask.” He waited expectantly for a reply.

  I considered all he had said. “Yes, yes, that’s a fair assessment. I want you to introduce this irritating ol’ Spellmonger to the Duke of Alshar. And yes, Master Thinradel, I’m quite aware of how . . . vexed His Grace might be with me.”

  “Her Grace, as well, will be highly agitated,” he continued, expressionlessly. “And there are more than a few other courtiers who will be out of their skins with fear and worry and rage. The stories that have arisen here of your works are . . . not kind. By appearing in court, you will have all the welcome of a goblin, yourself. Worse: while the goblins consume the realm, you have the temerity to make His Grace look like a fool.”

  My heart sank. “So you will not make the introduction?”

  He suddenly grinned, a savage, wicked-looking grin – the type of grin you see on a twelve-year-old boy’s face when you propose torturing his sister. I knew that look. “On the contrary, Master Minalan, it will make me very happy indeed to make the introduction.”

  “Even if it upsets the court?” Isily asked, pointedly.

  “Especially if it upsets the court,” he said with a nod and a return to his taciturn expression. “My lady, I have been at this glorified cabin in the woods for months, now, surrounded by the most idiotic, shallow, irresponsible people who by no virtue save birth are in charge of mis-managing the Duchy. The realm is invaded, the court is a nest of vipers and agents, and meanwhile the Duke and his . . . wife play at jousts and hold garden parties. There are Censors lurking behind every door, spies under every window, and the Duke persists in foolishness and indecision. I would like nothing better than to shake up the court.”

  “You don’t seem happy here,” agreed Mavone, sympathetically. “Why did you take the position in the first place?”

  Thinradel didn’t sigh or shrug – he was always precise in his movements. “I thought it would allow me to do the research and spells that I wanted with lavish support. Instead, I sit here behind this desk and read reports of students and apprentices, spellmongers and foot wizards, and I show up to the occasional party.” He looked me directly in the eye. “Is it true you have irionite?”

  “Yes,” I nodded, almost catching my breath. “And I do, indeed, distribute it freely. In support of the war effort against the Dead God – and yes, he is all too real.”

  “And the story about your . . . altercation with the Censor General, in Wilderhall?”

  “Depending upon which one, it’s probably true,” I admitted. “I don’t see why the Censorate should impose its archaic rules on us during a time of war. His Grace, Duke Rard, was convinced.” That was enough about that now – I was about to plunge into the politics of one duchy, I didn’t really need to expound on what happened the last time I did that.

  “Then let me be frank: I hate this job, I hate this court, and I’m as envious as Varsis On The Shore of your little green rocks. But it
is a position of great responsibility and renown. Not to mention the fact that I enjoy a hefty stipend. If I introduce you to the Duke, he’ll likely kill you and I’ll be out of a job.”

  “I don’t plan on letting myself be taken,” I pointed out.

  “Even better,” he agreed, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. “Of course, that will reflect poorly on me – that cannot be helped – and I’m likely to be dismissed. Or executed along side of you.”

  “That would be unfortunate,” agreed Mavone, “but not—”

  “It wouldn’t be unfortunate at all,” Thinradel said, standing. “It would be the most blessed thing to happen to me in two years. Not an execution, but a dismissal. Particularly if I could show up that snotty little—I mean, ‘His Grace and his faithful wife.’”

  “So you’ll do it?” Isily asked.

  “There is a party tonight in the Hall of Stones, ostensibly for one of Her Grace’s ladies-in-waiting, but it’s just another excuse for the court to guzzle wine and fondle each other’s wives behind the curtains. I was invited as a matter of course, but I don’t usually attend. I believe I will tonight, however, and inform His Grace that I have urgent information on the whereabouts of Minalan the Spellmonger.”

  “And then I’ll appear and the rest will be up to me.”

  He nodded, once. “Exactly. Once you are announced, I expect to fade into the woodwork and enjoy the spectacle. Even if I get dismissed – especially if I get dismissed – it will be one I cherish to my dying day.”

  “Then I thank you for your help, Master Thinradel,” I said, bowing formally. “And if this works out, then . . . well, I think we can find a spare witchstone for you. It might help you make the transition back to civilian life.”

  His grinned returned, only this time tinged with avarice. “That would be very gracious of you, Master Minalan.”

  We said our courteous good-byes, and then we headed back into town toward the Mermaid.

  “That went well,” Mavone said, sounding surprised.

  “I need everything that can possibly be known about this Hall of Stones,” I said, to no one in particular.

  “Already on it,” Isily said, determinedly.

  * * *

  I had to admit, compared to the palace at Vorone, Wilderhall seemed as plain and common as Boval Castle had been. Whatever their other failings, the Dukes of Alshar had a sense of style.

  The room was huge, nearly big enough to joust in, and there were five massive chandeliers which bathed the room in the light of a hundred lamps apiece. At each end was a massive stone fireplace I could have ridden Traveler into without ducking my head. Nearby to each was a bank of tables overloaded with food, wine, and other delicacies – which I found particularly ironic, considering the thousands of hungry people encamped outside the city.

  I arrived with my two magi in tow, none of us dressed as such. Isily had managed to find a lovely yellow gown somewhere, and Mavone was dressed like a courtier himself, with white hose, a daringly cut red doublet, and an unlikely-looking red hat trimmed with gold which looked nothing at all like a mage’s hat.

  Me, I got by with the green velvet suit I’d had since Wilderhall, with new black hose Hamlan had bought from the impromptu marketplace that had sprung up outside of Vorone in the refugee camp. There was a lot of that going on, as people sold whatever they could for food, medicine, firewood, or whatever else they needed. And the hose complimented the tunic nicely. I had Ham wash it and I dried it by magic again before I put it on. I skipped the weapons harness this time and contented myself with a single silver-hilted dagger . . . and a warwand in each boot. Ham also found a dashing black half-cape that completed the outfit.

  After I was certain I was not going to look like a scruffy spellmonger, and more like petty noble eager to fawn all over his betters, I began making other preparations . . . because, no, I wasn’t about to just walk into a hostile Duke’s private party and hope that his sense of noble obligation and regal grace was going to spare me from his temper.

  So when we walked into the room, unannounced (the party had started already and the important guests were already announced by the herald) we blended in well-enough with the hundreds of courtiers who were dancing about, drinking wine, and making catty remarks about their enemies.

  Mavone and Isily stood near me by the eastern fireplace, and after Mavone had procured us each a goblet of strong, rich red wine from Remere, they pointed out the various players in the court: The Duke and Duchess, of course, who were in the north and south corners, respectively, surrounded by their personal hangers-on. The ineffectual Prime Minister, a dazed-looking old Count.

  The infamous Lord of the Coasts, Lord Jenerard, was near to the Duke and surrounded by a gaggle of attendants and henchmen. He looked more like a scruffy spellmonger than I did – or at least an unkempt merchant in need of a shave – in an ill-fitting, richly appointed powder blue doublet and breeches, flared at the ankles over leather slippers. He was drinking liberally and ordering about people like he was the one in charge. From the way the Duke avoided looking at him, perhaps he was.

  Sir Daranal, captain of the Ducal Guard, was there wearing his official tunic, carefully studying the crowd from the sidelines while overseeing the discreet guards who were at every entrance.

  There were others, but those were the important players. Master Thinradel had yet to arrive yet. And until he did, we tried to blend in and look like we belonged there, watching people dance (not the lusty country-dances I’d grown up with, but slow, stately pavanes designed to show off pretty clothes) and drinking the Duke’s booze.

  Then two figures entered, also unannounced, and I felt my bowels clench of their own accord. They were perfectly ordinary-looking fellows, dressed more or less like everyone else, except for their black-and-white checkered cloaks. Censors.

  “Oh, that doesn’t look good,” whispered Mavone. “I’ve been studiously avoiding them, whenever I’ve come to the palace. They’re urging His Grace to take his gathered forces and move against the Duke of Castal, for his . . . temerity.”

  “You mean protecting me and giving me my own command?”

  “Among other things,” Isily said, rolling her eyes. “But that will do for a start. They are quite upset about the irionite, and even more upset that it isn’t under their control. See the one on the right? He was beaten by one of the high magi recently, and he’s not happy about it.”

  I remembered belatedly the tale of Azar killing a couple of Censorate men-at-arms and creaming their master, one of the Censors. The way both of them strode directly to the Duke’s corner told me that they were on good terms with His Grace. And then my heart thudded when I saw him embrace one of them warmly.

  No, this was not going to be an easy argument to make.

  After half an hour and two cups of wine, the Court Mage made an appearance. He was garbed in a flowing black and silver robe, which he looked damned uncomfortable in, and he had even donned a matching black-and-silver pointed hat, and carried a very ornate-looking blackwood staff chased in silver. A quick glance with magesight revealed it to be mostly decorative, with only a few minor spells on it.

  He made no overt sign of recognition of either me or my party, and strode past us like we were servants. He made a brief circuit of the room, greeting only a few of his colleagues at court, before he made his way first to the Captain of the Guard, and then directly to His Grace.

  It took a while for him to get past the gauntlet of courtiers that surrounded the Duke, including the two Censors, but eventually Lenguin (who was wearing a cloth-of-silver doublet in a military cut that had obviously been made for him and fit perfectly) scowled and waved his Court Mage forward.

  “We’re on,” whispered Mavone, handing his wine goblet to a passing servant and straightening his doublet. I nodded in agreement, and he and Isily departed for opposite corners of the room. I stood there, watching the Duke and the Court Mage, and finished my wine. If I was about to be executed, then I wanted t
hat sweet vintage on my lips when the axe fell.

  Soon enough I saw the signal that Master Thinradel had arranged, when he shifted his staff from his right hand to his left. I began ambling forward, skirting the dancers, flanking the buffet table, and infiltrating the Duke’s retinue from behind.

  Once in earshot, it was clear that Lenguin was not happy. He sat in his chair, a throne by default, and glared at his Court Mage.

  “—thinking that I should drop everything and get involved in magical politics?”

  “Your Grace, it was you, yourself, who placed the bounty on the Spellmonger’s head. One would think that you would see him discovered . . . or was that bounty a polite fiction?”

  “The bounty is real enough,” Lenguin said, darkly. He was a thin man of moderate height, dark hair and short-trimmed beard, with delicate hands with long, almost feminine fingers. “He misused his authority, and has caused chaos to my realm. So yes, I certainly wish to have him brought to justice. But as these honorable gentlemen from the Censorate have reported, the rogue continues to be holed up in Tudry. So I suppose your spells telling me that he’s holed up in Tudry, while impressive, do not actually help bring him to justice.” He said it with contempt and arrogance.

  “Ah, but if I might correct Your Grace,” Thinradel said, smoothly, “I know for a fact that Minalan the Spellmonger is no more in Tudry.”

  “Do you now?” scoffed Lenguin. “Has he slunk back to Castal, now that he’s left my realm in ruin?”

  “No, my Duke, he has not,” admitted the Court Mage. “In fact, he was in my study earlier today, wishing me to make an introduction to Your Grace.”

  That confused and shocked the monarch. “What? In your office? In Vorone?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Thinradel agreed, nonplussed by his liege’s outburst. “I was just as surprised as Your Grace appears to be. He appeared suddenly, and with but few retainers, and rumor has it that he has taken some quarters in the city.”