“I don’t think I’ll have a problem,” I said, a little irritated at the advice.
But then again, I’d be a fool to ignore his advice, I knew. This was my first time conducting inter-domain affairs, I realized as I put the circlet that signified my lordship on my brow. If I screwed it up, a lot of people could die, including me.
That was a sobering thought. Especially in light of my recent fatherhood.
When I was properly attired, I gathered my entourage. I took just Sirs Cei and Rondal, three to match their three, though Forondo and the watch-captain of the guard hung back a bit, in case we needed anything, a horn around his neck to summon reinforcements.
Once we were in good order, we made our way through the gateway on foot through the snow. Sir Cei continued to whisper irritatingly helpful advice in my ear until we reached the dike. The archers on the berm wall perked up as we passed, and I tossed them a wave. They looked eager for a scrap, too, though no arrows were drawn.
We found Sire Gimbal, Sir Bromul, and a third knight were sitting on portable stools around a portable table, drinking wine out of small silver glasses like gentlemen while we waited. Tyndal was standing nearby, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched them warily. He’d arrived here before we did, on orders, and had been tasked to be our herald and see to the comfort of our “guests.” He wasn’t the best choice, perhaps, but if trouble started he was my best warmage.
The three knights stood as they noted my approach, and their attendants rushed forward to take their stools and stand at the ready.
Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria was shorter than I imagined, the top of his head coming up to my chin – and I’m not particularly tall. He had a lean face with a recently trimmed beard, and broad shoulders for his frame hiding under his rich red woolen mantle. When he stood I saw he was a little bowlegged, too.
He was wearing a fine chain mail hauberk and coif over a leather gambeson, with a red-and-white surcoat over, and a broad red sash across his chest with the device, a warbird, whatever that was, embroidered on it. Sir Bromul, who was dressed similarly, I was familiar with, but the third knight was a surprise. Sir Erantal.
He looked little better than I’d last seen him – if anything the gin blossoms on his face were worse, and he didn’t look as well-fed as before. He was also the least well-dressed of the three, wearing a plain leather ring mail hauberk that stretched to his knees, and no surcoat. It was the kind of armor suitable for a senior sergeant or a very, very poor country knight. He glared daggers at me the entire time, though he was extremely deferential to Sire Gimbal.
“I am given to understand that you are Sire Gimbal of West Fleria,” I said, without bowing. Sire Cei had instructed me that, as ostensible host in this negotiation, I was not obligated to begin in a servile position unless I feared retribution.
Looking at this little man, I wasn’t particularly fearful. “I am Sire Minalan, Magelord of Sevendor made vassal by the hand of His Grace, Rard. Duke of Castal.” In a civil negotiation, as opposed to a military one, it would not have been proper to introduce myself for some reason, Sir Cei had told me. It would have been impolite not to have my castellan or herald introduce me. But since this was a military matter, I could introduce myself. Who knew?
“I am Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria,” he said, boldly but quietly, in a deep voice that captured your attention. “And I am given to understand that you have kidnapped several of my knights.”
“Kidnapped?” I asked, feeling my men tense around me. “Nay, Sire Gimbal, they were lawfully-taken hostages upon losing duels that they themselves sought.”
“Did not Sir Subural inform you of the circumstances of his and his comrades’ capture?” Sir Cei asked, curiously.
“Is not Sir Surbaral in your custody?” asked Sir Bromul, troubled.
“He was released upon pledge of ransom, for the purpose of informing his liege of his fellows’ predicament,” Sir Cei said, his lips twitching with a smile. “Did he not return?”
“No,” Sir Bromul said, his eyebrows knitting together. “No, he did not. In fact, we would have had no word of our knights had not a peasant boy stumbled in four days ago, telling a tale of their kidnapping. You swear you set him free, unharmed?”
“On my son’s life,” I nodded. “He was free, if lightly armed, and on a horse when he departed Sevendor. It was just before the blizzard.”
“The blizzard the peasants say you stirred up,” Sire Bromul murmured. “We heard rumor of a duel, but we also heard of kidnapping. Young Sir Surbaral did not return – for his sake, I hope he froze to death, rather than forgot his honor and fled.”
“It’s possible,” Tyndal said, shrugging. “He’s probably feeling pretty ashamed. I bested him in the duel. Badly. He’s got decent footwork and passable swordplay, but no instinct for the fight. He attacks haphazardly and lets his anger direct his blows. And it’s clear he’s never actually fought for his life before.”
Sir Cei, Sir Forondo and the other professional men-at-arms had been working with him since he arrived at Yule. That gave him a far more traditional fighting style than mine, as warmagi don’t usually emphasize the knightly sort of dueling in favor of techniques more suited to our profession. But his assessment was fair.
“That is, indeed, his fighting style,” Sir Bromul said, with a single nod. “I trained him myself, and I have oft-said his blows were rash and ill-planned. So there was a duel,” he sighed, heavily.
“Several, actually,” I conceded. “But we did not instigate them.” I was about to explain the whole episode, and thought better of it. “Gentlemen,” I began again, calmly, “since we are of but recent acquaintance, I understand how you might doubt my veracity in this. In an effort to be just, I have summoned the hostages here so that they may tell you the tale themselves, in their own voices.”
Sir Bromul’s left eyebrow went up, and the Warbird of West Fleria snorted and huffed . . . but then gave a curt nod. I turned to Rondal and gave the barest of nods. He departed quickly, but without haste. Tyndal had brought all of the boys up from Brestal Tower upon my orders, where they were waiting behind the dike wall.
“While we are waiting,” Sir Bromul began after a moment’s awkward silence, “perhaps you can explain to us just how you came to hold Sevendor, as Sir Erantal assures us you do.” Erantal looked a little guilty, but said nothing.
“Needless to say, we could not doubt the word of a gentleman, a faithful steward of the realm, who looked upon the charter with his own eyes.” He said it as if he expected me to contradict the man – I was unsure of what tales Erantal had told his hosts, but that much, at least, was true.
So I told them a pared-down version of how I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, defended the Bovali against the Dead God, escaped with our lives, and then weeks later led a powerful army against the goblin hordes, was knighted on the field at the head of my order, and was rewarded with Sevendor and a once-heavy chest of gold for my efforts. They looked at me, mouths agape, as I told the tale. At the end of it, not a one of them looked convinced.
“So,” the Warbird of West Fleria said with a sneer, “you are a common baker’s son!”
That’s what he was concerned with? “My father is an uncommonly good baker, a respected master of his craft. But I am not a baker. Just a baker’s son. Among other things,” I shrugged. “Spellmonger. Warmage. Knight Magi. Magelord.” I said the last with especial emphasis.
“So you say,” he said, his voice dripping with contemptuous disbelief. “News came from the west that His Grace overturned the bans, and as outrageous as that sounds, I am advised that the news is legitimate. Yet I never expected to see such outrageousness myself. Of all the foolish edicts . . . I’ve never met a mage worth the cost of a cup of ale, myself.”
“And today you’ve met three,” I said, smoothly. “And it is not yet noontime. What other novelties will this day hold, I wonder? Look, here come your men . . . and my hostages,” I said, before
he had a chance to retort.
Rondal led the boys across the causeway, and they seemed all in good spirits. Unarmed, of course, but unbound, wearing warm clothing and heavy cloaks against the chill. Of course, Sir Ganulan had his hood over his cursed face and would not look up to face his father.
Sir Festaran spoke for the rest of them. When prompted by Sir Bromul he told the story of the ill-conceived quest Sir Ganulan had declared against the evil, dispossessing magelord. He related details I had not been privy to – how the entire idea had been the scheming young Sir Surbaral’s, who had bullied and shamed Sir Ganulan into the rash course, and then forced Sir Festaran and their squires to participate.
After that, he described each battle. He spoke of the duels in simple terms, without elaboration, and left no doubt in any one’s mind who the victor was. He then assured his liege that their captivity had been quite gentle and the hostages well-treated.
Sire Gimbal was not impressed – especially with the role his hotheaded bastard son had played in the scheme. He was even less happy about losing the income that Brestal had provided, and livid about the ransom I was asking for the hostages’ return.
“It’s preposterous – you taking advantage of mere boys that way,” he growled scornfully. “They’re no more than barely-weaned pups!”
“They are belted knights,” I reminded him. “Grown men in their own right. I tried to talk them out of it. They insisted.”
“Magelord Minalan speaks the truth, Sire,” Sir Festaran said, earnestly. “He attempted to dissuade Sir Ganulan and Sir Surbaral several times, but they would not relent. In the end, he was forced to entertain them.”
“How could a gentleman not oblige such a challenge to his honor?” I was actually starting to enjoy this, using the chivalric code against this gamecock.
That got under Sire Gimbals armor. He snorted derisively. “A baker’s son speaks of honor? This is a day for novelty!” I felt Sir Cei tense, but he did nothing. He’s met my father. There’s no one alive who could challenge his honor, commoner or not, and Sir Cei looked ready to defend the point on my behalf.
Thankfully, Sir Bromul was more diplomatic than his liege. “We concede that you are, indeed, the lawful lord of Brestal Vale,” he said, not that they had any choice in the matter. “And we acknowledge that the boys – the knights – were not kidnapped. And that there was a lawful duel,” he said with a heavy and slightly exasperated sigh. “You have bested them fairly, and Sir Ganulan quits his claim to Brestal. You have made your point, Magelord. Must you demand ransom as well?”
“Is that not the custom?” I asked, innocently. “Sir Cei, you informed me it was the custom!”
“That is what I was taught,” Cei agreed, deferentially. “But perhaps the Riverlords play differently than the WIlderlords.” He had insisted that any problematic issues be blamed on his faulty instruction, even if it was a poorly disguised pretense. I wasn’t thrilled about berating him like that in front of my foes, but I had to admit it was a pretty common practice for lords to blame their subordinates for such things.
“No, that is the custom,” agreed Sir Bromul, keeping his liege from saying something angrily. “It just is unseemly for a new-made knight to . . .”
“Take advantage of other new-made knights?” I pointed out. “They came to me, remember. And all of us were belted within the last year. Still, I might see my way clear to negotiate,” I said, heaving an affected sigh. “In the interests of good relations.”
“And just how much will your ‘good relations’ cost West Fleria?” Sir Bromul asked again.
“I am not unreasonable. We need not even resort to coin, if you wish. Perhaps we could return the squires, their arms, mounts, and armor for . . . three wagonloads of grain? And a hundredweight of salt pork? A bargain, really.” Gimbal’s lip twitched, but Bromul spoke before his master could say something to un-do the peace.
“That would be a gracious compromise,” he agreed, hesitantly. Actually, it was quite generous on our part. Even a squire’s ransom was worth significantly more than that, from what I understood. And right now I needed food as much as I needed cash. More. “And the two knights?”
“For Sir Ganulan . . .” I said, studying the cloaked figure with a calculating eye, “perhaps merely . . . a hundred chickens? Laying hens, I’d prefer, but a few cockerels. In honor of his device,” I added with a chuckle. “I do enjoy eggs.”
“Chickens?” Bromul asked. “You want to ransom back my lord’s son with . . . poultry? Unacceptable!”
“Fine, fine, throw in as many additional goats as you think the boy is worth, and we’ll call it even. But only if we keep his armor and mount.” This really was fun!
“Goats and chickens?” Sir Ganulan said, irately, speaking for the first time. “You wish to exchange me for goats and chickens?”
“Well, he was willing to settle for just the chickens,” Rondal pointed out.
“Shut up! Father, you have no idea what hells they have put me through! And now this . . . this outrage!”
“SHUT UP!” bellowed Gimbal. “If you had had the sense to wait as I had bid you, boy, we would not be here! Chickens? Goats? Two hundred chickens, then, a dozen cockerels, twenty goats, and five mules for the . . . good knight,” spat the Warbird. “For his mount and sword, what would you have? Potatoes? Carrots?” Clearly he was insulted by the idea of haggling for his son with livestock and produce.
“Cabbages?” suggested Rondal. “Two wagons full, for the mount.”
“I do like cabbage,” I agreed. “And for the sword – a lovely old antique, I was tempted to keep it for my collection,” I added, impishly. “But I’m sure it has sentimental value. For the blade, how about four barrels of ale?” Bromul nodded, his face growing paler. He couldn’t exactly say no. The sword was worth thrice that, easily.
“And now for that pretty armor . . . well, my apprentice, Sir Tyndal has grown quite fond of it. Still, I suppose he could let it go for . . . bide, if you will.”
I closed my eyes and spoke mind-to-mind with my apprentice. Tyndal, what do you want for that armor?
What? I want the bloody armor! he replied, shooting me a dark glance.
No, we have to ransom it back. It’s the custom. You can only keep it if he doesn’t agree to the ransom. And we’re being generous, so don’t ask for the world. Just tell me what you want. And hurry.
Um . . . how about some clothes? He asked, plaintively. I’ve got two sets, and one of them is torn all to hell.
Well, let’s see . . . I opened my eyes and saw the West Flerian delegation staring at me curiously.
“My apprentice, Sir Tyndal, would be willing to ransom the armor for six sets of fine clothing, two sets of traveling clothes, two pairs of boots, a fur mantle and a light woolen mantle for summer.” That was a princely sum – but still a fraction of what the armor was worth. It took a skilled armor smith months, perhaps even years, to complete a set of riveted chain mail, and longer to properly burnish it.
In contrast, it usually took the ladies of a castle a month to produce one set of finery at their looms. Of course, a professional tailor could produce a set in days, using professionally-woven cloth, but somehow I guessed Gimbal would not rise to that expense.
“As you wish,” Sir Bromul agreed, reluctantly. He was still getting a bargain.
“Now, I will deal with the matter of Sir Surbaral when he surfaces,” I conceded. “I would not have you pay ransom on a corpse or a bandit. And then there is the matter of Sir Festaran.”
“Let me guess,” Sire Gimbal spat, “you have a sudden desire for a piggery?”
“Actually, I will only accept a money ransom for Sir Festaran. Two hundred ounces of silver, or fifty of gold.”
The three knights looked at me like I had sprouted a third head. “Two hundred?” scoffed Sir Erantal. I think he was drunk. “Has the boy started shitting gold?”
“If he had, the ransom would likely be much higher,” Rondal observed.
“In
fact, he is the most valuable of the hostages, in my estimation,” I said, smoothly.
“How so?” asked Sir Bromul. “He is the son of a poor knight, more a glorified yeoman whose service was valuable to Sire Gimbal’s father, and rewarded by knighting him and his sons.”
“And he’s a bloody lousy fighter,” snorted Sir Erantal, earning a look of reproval from Bromul, a snort of involuntary laughter from Sir Gimbal and a look of pure hatred from Festaran. “I saw him practice in the yard. I could drop him half drunk,” he boasted.
“Which would make you twice as sober as you are now, Sir,” Sir Cei said with a cool sneer. He had learned to hate Sir Erantal if for no other reason than the condition in which he’d left Sevendor. “If Magelord Minalan has deemed Sir Festaran the most valued prisoner, then he sets the ransom. You may pay it, negotiate, or abandon him – with the knowledge that such an act by a liege to his vassal would violate the terms of their oath,” he added sternly.
“The lad is not my vassal, his sire is,” Sire Gimbal dismissed. “I’ll ask the poor man if he has fifty ounces of gold to throw away on a youngest son. Considering his tribute to me is no more than twenty ounces of gold a year, I think that we might have to consider a smear on my honor.” He looked the young knight up and down, as if he was seeing him for the first time. “He may have served in my household, but I bear the boy no love. I’ll pay twenty silver – no more.”
“Then it seems Sir Festaran will remain a guest of Sevendor,” I pronounced. “Since his liege will not meet my price, we will have to find some other way. Send his father, and I will treat with him. But the rest . . . I expect payment of all of it, save the garments, within two weeks. Bring it to this spot by the next full moon and we will exchange the hostages and their gear.”
“That suits us well enough,” conceded Sir Bromul. “You shall have your poultry, Sire Minalan, and your pretty clothes. And you may keep Festaran, if you love him so. My lord is a man of honor, and will see your groceries delivered in full.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 30
