We couldn’t handle much more than that, I told him. I hadn’t wanted to get into my personal business, but Astyral was bored.
Really? Is the aristocratic life not to your liking, Magelord? He teased.
So I told him everything. About the West Flerians, about the Bovali, about the weather and the obscene cost of being a lord, about the problems with the estate, the castle, the pregnancy, the coming flood of footwizards, the danger the Censorate still posed, everything. I didn’t know Astyral as well as some of my other warmagi colleagues, but we’d been through a lot in the last year, and I found him surprisingly sympathetic.
Well, I can ease one of your problems, at least, he told me when I had quit complaining. I’ll buy every sympathy stone that your pet footwizard can find, and pay well for them. Master Cormaran and Sir Lanse will want them – they’ve already given me orders for plenty of hard-to-find things. Sympathy stones were on the list. Now I can scratch them off. And I can have an agent with a letter-of-credit sent to Wilderhall, where he’ll wait for the stones.
You know, that’s not a bad idea, I agreed. So for two stones, how much do you think you can pay?
With my budget? How about a hundred ounces each?
A hundred silver? I said, my heart sinking. I had hoped for twice that.
Astyral laughed. No, you idiot. A hundred ounces of gold. Believe me, I have the money.
Is being a garrison commander that rewarding?
Not in the slightest. But Rard had the good grace to give us an open line-of-credit on the Ducal treasury . . . of Alshar. And he’s instructed his bankers to accept any draughts I make on it, despite the fact that the ownership of the actual treasury is still in some dispute.
Oh, gods, what dispute? I thought Rard had Alshar in his pocket?
A band of barons – is that what you call a group of barons? Anyway, a bunch of southern Alshari lords didn’t like the way their Duke and Duchess mysteriously died just as Rard had an army conveniently on Alshari soil, so they are seriously discussing rebelling against him, and are trying to mount a rescue effort to recapture the Alshari heir, wherever Rard stashed him. They’re discussing occupying the coast and the Riverlands against Castal.
I could see how that could cause all sorts of problems for all sorts of people. I wondered what Mother and her minions were doing about it – that seemed their sort of thing. I was just glad I didn’t have to deal with it. Gosh, I forgot how much I love Ducal-level politics, I said sarcastically. It’s making me not mind a belligerent warlord on my doorstep all that much.
That’s the proper attitude, Min, Astryal said, philosophically. My esteemed father always said that a lord who neglects his estates to play politics deserved neither land nor position. Of course, that doesn’t stop him from playing politics. Or neglecting his estates. But the good news is we can pay the garrison, buy food, supplies, whatever we need and charge the Ducal Treasury of Alshar with it. A couple hundred ounces of gold toward spell components isn’t going to even raise an eyebrow. And if they work as advertised, and you can get more, I can’t see a future in which we won’t need plenty of sympathy stones. Useful sorts of things, from what I understand.
Indeed. Well, this has been quite helpful. Any other useful advice?
Don’t let your peasants go hungry, he counseled. No matter what. Some lords use low rations to control their people, and that’s all right as far as it goes. But once people start starving, they forget all about such things as class and rank and social position. If Father was every clear on one central piece of wisdom, it was to make sure the peasants have food.
I recalled my adventure in the wilderness of Alshar, after Timberwatch, in which I used that very fact to defeat a band of goblins and a couple of trolls. Hunger could be a powerful weapon . . . but a very hard one to control. That’s going to be a problem, and soon. I’ve got far more peasants than I have food, and I’ve bought so much of the local surplus already to get us this far that prices are high, now.
So don’t buy local, he suggested. You’re near enough to a river port – just have an agent procure you grain from up river and ship it to you.
That will take days, weeks! I complained. Just to get someone out there and then to get the grain back!
So use magic. You do know how to use magic, don’t you? There are plenty of ways to work this. You aren’t exactly isolated. For instance, did you know that Taren went back to Remere with the Censor General Hartarian, to inspect the Censorate installations we’re going to inherit? And Mavone is already at the citadel. Master Dunselen returned to his estates, he doesn’t have much to do. And what about Penny?
Damn it, he was right. I thanked him and started contacting people. Starting with Penny.
Lady Pentandra, for those who aren’t keeping up, is a friend, colleague, former lover, and presently my aide in organizing . . . well, all of magic in the western Duchies. She’s uniquely suited for this because she doesn’t give a damn about anything but magic and sex and on a bad day she can skip the magic. She’s from an old Remeran family of magi – and when I mean ‘old’, I mean that she’s descended from at least three Archmagi, two from the Later Magocracy and one from the Early Magocracy, back in the mists of time. Now she was my . . . coordinator was probably the best word. Advisor, perhaps.
She knew where everyone was, anyway. She was back in Remere, herself, helping her father and brothers prepare the magi there for a life without the Censorate . . . under a new king. Of course she was busy, but one good thing about being me was that I didn’t have to wait for her to get around to me.
She couldn’t help directly, not in time, but she did tell me that Master Thinradel, former Alshari Ducal Court Mage and now itinerate High Mage, was a mere three hundred miles upriver from me, wintering in a cousin’s Riverlands estate and practicing with his witchstone.
I liked Master Thinradel, perhaps even more than Master Dunselen. He didn’t affect wisdom and age the way his Castali counterpart did, and he had a much more pragmatic approach to politics and power. I contacted him mind-to-mind easily enough, despite my unfamiliarity with the man. It turned out he was more than happy to help me out in any way he could, and it turned out he was able to arrange to have a shipment of foodstuffs put together at a decent price, His cousin’s estate had done well last summer, and there was ample surplus for purchase. Thinradel even insisted on paying for shipping the load downstream as a token of his gratitude.
I started to protest – I pay for what I get – but he insisted. He had just taken two very lucrative commissions, it turned out, both valued in the thousands of ounces of gold, and he was feeling quite generous. A few hundred here or there didn’t matter too much to him, now. And he felt much in my debt.
The problem was, the shipment wouldn’t arrive at the Sendaria riverport for almost a week, at the soonest . . . and the blizzard would be here long before then. And that would slow down transport even more.
I did the math, after I finished my order, and I felt depressed. This was going to be tight.
So we did the best we could with what we had, and the foreknowledge that there was a blizzard on the way put some liveliness in our step. No one else in the Riverlands had any idea that a storm was coming, but once I announced it to my hall at mealtime, no one doubted it for a moment, even the native Sevendori. They might be suspicious of a Magelord, but weather prediction was a staple of every court mage and spellmonger. Not that they were any better at it, usually, than anyone else (some seamagi and wind workers aside) but if you have a wizard around, the least you should expect out of him is whether or not you should put on your heavy cloak tomorrow.
It was a pleasure to watch my Castellan in action, after I made the announcement. Sir Cei was masterful, calling out subordinates and rattling off orders as efficiently and quickly as if he was in battle. He got work parties put together, inventoried supplies, and ordered more firewood distributed. Runners went out to inform the manors and villages, and I ordered anyone still unfortunate enoug
h to be living in a tent to be moved into the inner bailey, where they could at least have access to the heat and kitchens of the castle through the storm. It would be tight quarters, but we’d all be warmer for the snugness.
Most lords, Sir Cei pointed out quietly after he had given his first round of orders, would have let their people suffer through the storm unassisted, as they considered their duty to protect their people as purely martial. I took a broader view, and while Sir Cei clearly appreciated it, he also took care to observe my departure from the normal course of nobility when he saw it. Such as going out and starting to slap spells all over the place to keep the inner bailey snug. Most lords would have just ordered their court wizard to do it. Lucky me, I was my own. But the work needed to be done.
Even Alya pitched in, as huge as she was. Her squadron of harpies sat her in her chair in the main hall and she directed the placement of emergency bedding and such for the sick and injured. I’m not sure how much actual help she was, but a lot of the common folk seemed pleased to see their very pregnant Lady being so industrious and involved in their affairs.
In truth, I don’t think I could have stopped her. I was losing control over her, as her pregnancy progressed. It was around that time that nothing in the castle or our personal quarters ever seemed clean enough for her. She had drudges scrubbing every surface she could see, the bedding had to be laundered, the few tapestry hangings had to be taken out to the courtyard and beaten free of dust . . . all perfectly natural, according to the matrons who surrounded her.
I tried to stay out of the way. She was feeling cranky nearly every moment, now, and even floating in her magnificent tub wasn’t providing her much comfort. The day of her delivery was immanent – I just hoped she’d wait until after the snowstorm. Not everyone was so patient. Alya’s entourage seemed to take delight in reminding me just how soon it would be. I had sent for a birthsister from Sendaria weeks before, but had no answer from the priestesses of Trygg, yet.
“It won’t be long now, Magelord,” they cackled, meaningfully.
It was probably a good thing that I had the blizzard to distract me.
I spent the day out in the Vale, where I inspected Sevendor Village, Gurisham Hamlet, and the gate tower and dike personally. It was still clear, so I didn’t mind the outing, especially if it kept me a few miles away from the castle for the day. I hadn’t been out there since we’d chased off the West Flerians. Tyndal happened to have guard duty that day, his red magelight hovering over the peak of the tower, and was well involved with preparing against the storm when I arrived.
He looked quite lordly, for a youngster. He was dressed in hardy riding leathers, a sleek leather coat-of-plates, wearing the new long black woolen mantle I gave him at Yule while parading back and forth across the road, giving orders like an Ancient.
There were almost a score of men on duty at the dike and gate tower at the time, ten armed guards and nearly as many Bovali peasants from the village site across the road, who were making a few extra coppers doing heavy lifting and tedious maintenance tasks around the dike. I saw evidence of a makeshift butts built up against one section of the rear of the dike, and the scarecrow target looked positively peppered.
I was impressed by the combined progress he and Rondal had made in the dike, the gate, and improving Hyer’s ramshackle Tower, too. Instead of a rough gap between dikes, the roadway now entered neatly-flagged threshold (it was still packed dirt on each side, but the threshold was well-flagged – it was a start) with what was nearly a proper gateway.
The stream had likewise been fortified, with a rough pillar of mage-melded stone begun on either side of it with an end towards securing it properly with an iron grate or culvert. The two ends of the berm, where they faced each other across the threshold, were likewise dressed in mage-melded rocks the size of my fist. It was the beginnings of a well-dressed wall, it seemed, sturdy, solid, and easily defended.
Above the gateway on either side were two well-wrought wooden blinds, roofed with thatch for now, with panels of tightly woven sticks keeping the winds at bay. It provided ample sighting and great protection for the archers within. I noted the blinds hose were in addition to the two miniature redoubts or turrets at either end of the dike. I saw the wood-and-earth fortifications now boasted simple but effective canopies of tree limbs and sailcloth. Not enough to keep out the cold, but enough to shed the rain.
But that wasn’t the best part. The best part was seeing what the boys had done with that empty shell of Hyer’s Tower in such a short time. Prompted by their own comfort (and eager to find favor with their master) the tower was now only second to my own residence when it came to comfort in Sevendor, I was amazed to see.
The three-storied affair with its mushroom-shaped roof not only provided the height needed for proper observation and ranging well over the dike, but a snug, dry, and homey place for this lonely and potentially dangerous duty. Two native Sevendori peasant families had already erected crude huts nearby, the beginnings of the new hamlet that would arise in Brestal Farms on the site of the abandoned manor closest to the gate, come spring. Tyndal told me they served the tower by providing firewood, bringing water from the well, cooking, and providing other support in exchange for a few silver pennies.
All in all, I couldn’t have asked for a better-kept watch, and said as much to Sir Tyndal over a hot mug of tea he poured for me in the guardroom.
“You can thank Rondal for most of it,” he grudgingly admitted. “I helped with a lot of the spellwork, but honestly most of the organization and design ideas came from him.”
“Still, you’ve made it both defensible and livable,” I observed. “And under great hardship. That’s commendable.”
He shrugged – were his shoulders always that big? “We were bored,” he said. “Do you know how interesting that yonder piece of West Fleria is? Less interesting than wondering about how interesting it is.”
“Whatever your motivation, I’m pleased. I think that after the –”
“Sire Minalan!” an excited voice from the watchtower called out. “Horsemen coming around the bend!”
“Wains?” Tyndal asked the lookout, before I could.
“Nay, Sir Tyndal! Six horses, mounted for war! Six armored knights!”
Both Tyndal and I ran up the stairs in an instant, our hearts pounding. Armored knights were rarely a good sign. And here I was unprepared for battle. I had a couple of small warwands I carried around by habit, but my weapons and such were back at the castle.
Using magesight from the peak of the tower, I could tell that calling them ‘knights’ was a courtesy. There were six riders, but if any of them were over twenty I’m a poor observer. Indeed, the one in the center was not only armed and armored, but in full tilting armor that didn’t seem to fit him properly. The others seemed about as old, or younger. One couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and the mail hauberk he wore fell all the way to his calves. All of the boys were well-bundled against the cold. And one bore a lance with a pennant on it.
“What is that thing on the banner? A chicken taking a shit?” Tyndal asked, bemused.
“That’s a bird in a nest with an egg,” I observed when the wind caught it enough to show. “A ‘warbird,’ whatever fowl that is. That’s the Warbird of West Fleria, I’d guess, Sire Gimbal’s badge. I’m guessing the egg represents his bastard son, Sir Ganulan of Brestal.”
“Shouldn’t that be ‘Sir Ganulan, formerly of Brestal’?”
“Perhaps,” I chuckled. “Let’s go see what they want.”
They took a little longer to approach than I expected, perhaps because of the glow of the red magelight at the peak of the tower. It was a little intimidating, if you didn’t know what it was. It just hung there in the air and glowed, and didn’t move a bit no matter how hard the wind blew. It was disconcerting.
They came within bowshot of the dike, but I’d ordered my men not to even nock a shaft. I didn’t want to scare them off just yet. This might be entertaining.
Sir Tyndal and I and four guardsmen awaited the knights at the threshold of the Dike. Before the watch captain could approach them, the one bearing the pennant on his lance rested it, rode forward and shouted.
“Sire Ganulan of Brestal approaches for parley!” His voice cracked.
“Let him come!” called the guard captain, Vren, gruffly. “He will not be harmed.”
“I shall speak for him as his . . . his herald,” the boy said. He didn’t seem used to the sound of his own voice yet. “I am Sir Surbaral of Kest, ward of Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria!” he proclaimed.
“Then speak, Sir Surbaral of Kest,” I called. “What is your errand?”
“Sir Ganulan seeks to challenge the base-born rogue who stole from him his patrimony, the self-styled Magelord Minalan, to a duel to the death for possession of Brestal Vale! Sire Ganulan has the courage to back up his rights with steel – has Sire Minalan?” he asked, a little too boldly for the occasion. It was more like a sandlot brag, not a serious challenge.
“What the hells?” the Vren asked. “Did he just . . . ?”
“Oh, this will be fun!” Tyndal whispered. He closed his eyes for a moment, and I realized he was in psionic communication, no doubt with Rondal, back at the castle. So much for downplaying this later.
“He’s challenging me,” I sighed. “That . . . toddler is really challenging me. Ishi’s tits. All right, what do I do?”
“I dunno,” Tyndal shrugged. “Isn’t he supposed to hit you in the face or something?”
“Maybe. I’ve never fought a formal duel,” I confessed. “I’m unsure about the protocol. Particularly with children.”
“Wooden swords until the first owie?” quipped Vren, wryly.
“I think he’s looking for more action than that,” I observed.
“I don’t think he could handle more action than that,” Tyndal pointed out.
I sighed. “Have Rondal dig up Sir Cei and ask him what the proper protocol is,” I ordered, quietly. “Vren, ask him what cause Sir Ganulan – and be sure you say ‘sir’, not ‘sire’ – has to take such decisive action. Be respectful, and for Huin’s sake don’t giggle.” It’s unbecoming an officer.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 22
