“Y-yes, milord,” he said. “I shall let them know – who is that strange fellow?” he asked, interrupting himself as he pointed back toward the castle. “I’ve seen him skulking about Genly, and over to Southridge. One of the boys asked him, and he said he had your leave and the letters to prove it. My lad couldn’t read none, of course, but . . .”
“That’s Olmeg the Green, a master of the magic of growing things. I’ve retained him to advise me on what to plant this season.”
“Aye, some decisions have to be made,” he agreed, safely back on a subject he knew. “Two weeks and the first furrow can be plowed. A lot will depend on what the castle asks in tribute.” That was, indeed, what regulated the agricultural economy.
Individual peasants had small plots of garden next to their homes, and a larger plot in the commons greenery. But their allotment of tillage would determine who planted what, and until the castle let it be known in what form rents would be allowed to be paid, they couldn’t plant.
If the lord of the manor demanded wheat, you planted wheat. If he wanted oats, you planted oats, at least in the fields you planted with rents in mind. His decision usually relied on the relative price the grain merchants who plied the Riverlands would pay for the surplus. It’s all very complicated, and the details vary from fief to fief, but that’s essentially how it’s done.
“He comes highly recommended,” I said, as the big man approached. “I’m hoping he can put Sevendor on the path to prosperity. Or at least keep the people fed. I’d settle for that.”
“A mage for corn and onions, eh?” Railan asked, genuinely amused. “Never thought I’d see that!”
Master Olmeg smiled gently, and waved as he came near. His feet were unshod, of course, and he had shed his mantle in the heat of the afternoon sun.
“Magelord, I hesitate to disturb you, but . . .”
“Not at all. Do you know Railan the Steady, Yeoman of Genly?” I asked, adding a little emphasis to the title to glorify the man. It worked. He looked positively important after I said that.
“Of course,” Olmeg nodded, politely. “Magelord, you said to speak to you when I had completed my assessment. I’m ready to give you my preliminary suggestions.”
“Yeoman Railan here will be one of the men administering the allotments, so I would appreciate his counsel, too.”
“As you wish, Magelord,” Olmeg said, deferentially. “First, you said you wanted the people of Sevendor to be able to support themselves on the land, without importing food. Right now they are growing oats, barley and wheat, with corn and beans in the summer. The oats and corn get used for feed, barley and wheat gets used for bread and beer.
“The thing is,” he continued, taking out his pipe and lighting it so smoothly with a cantrip I might have concluded he was a High Mage, “oats and corn are all very well for pigs, cows, llamas and horses, but they lead to a meager diet for men. Bread, a few vegetables, maybe a cockerel on a feast day.”
“Aye, that’s about it,” Railan agreed. “For most, at least. Some are fortunate enough to have a bit of milk or cheese.”
“Exactly,” Olmeg nodded. “Plenty of starch, not much protein. A few vegetables. And they pay dearly for the starch: these lands are not ideal for the wheat they grow. Nor the corn. “
“Now you just wait a moment,” Railan began, “we’ve been planting wheat in this vale for nine generations! I think we know best what to grow!”
“Then why are you growing a variety which requires more water than it can get here in the dry season?” Olmeg asked, conversationally. “I’m guessing your yields are small – no more than a hundred and fifty bushels per acre, at three rings harvested for every one sown.”
Railan looked guilty and indignant at the same time. “In a good year,” he conceded.
“By switching to a different type of wheat, you can nearly double that,” Olmeg promised. “And if you get the proper varietal for the sandier soil in this valley, your maize yield will more than double. But even then, you will be hard pressed to feed so many. You say there are more coming?”
“A thousand, at least. The last of the Bovali refugees from the south will be arriving in six or seven weeks.”
“Then you will not be able to feed them all on wheat and corn. Or not well. But I have a solution, Magelord. Potatoes.”
“Potatoes?” asked Railan, confused.
“Potatoes?” I asked, intrigued.
“Potatoes,” he affirmed, blowing a smoke ring for emphasis. “They are incredibly healthful, and come in infinite varieties. They can be grown quickly in any kind of soil. They don’t need to be grown in rows. They don’t require the same amount of water as grain.”
“But potatoes are not a proper food,” protested Railan. “I like potatoes fine. But you can’t feed a family on potatoes!”
“You’re thinking of the small red variety you grow now. I’ve another two in mind. The first is a firm brown russet, a good hearty line that grows fast and has a good texture for baking or boiling. The second is a small high yellow from the piedmont of Alshar. It’s grows well but slow in higher altitudes, but its main virtue is it can be dried and stored. Up to a year or more.”
“Bah!” dismissed Railan. “Potatoes are no proper crop for a man!”
“Actually, they’re the best choice you have. A third variety – a yam – provides wholesome nutrients, and is sweet on the tongue. Yeoman, you’re a planter of some experience,” he continued, smoothly. “Tell me, why do the grain merchants not buy potatoes on the docks?”
Railan blinked. “Why, they’d rot before you took them a hundred miles!”
“They don’t travel well and they don’t preserve well, not like grain,” affirmed the mage. “Therefore they are not a good crop for trade. They are, however, a very good way to put food in hungry bellies right here in Sevendor. Grow your grain, Yeoman, if you grow the seed I suggest. But every potato you eat instead of bread is more wheat you can sell. Am I wrong?”
“Nay,” grunted Railan, his eyes swimming. “And you say we can store these potatoes through the winter?”
“If you do it properly, and I’ll show you how,” Olmeg agreed. “With magic, it’s even easier to control temperature and humidity. But there is more.”
“I’m listening,” I grinned. I was impressed how well Olmeg was handling Railan.
“How do you feel about the River Folk, Magelord?” he asked, hesitantly. Railan’s eyes grew wide.
“I’m well-disposed to them,” I nodded, thinking of my recent encounters with them on the road to Wilderhall. They’d helped me out, and I found them a helpful folk. Of course three years ago I might have said the same of the gurvani.
“Then I propose we recruit a burrow or two,” Olmeg said, carefully stalking the idea with his words. “The shady vale of Farant’s Hold is poorly suited to growing grain of any sort, and the fields are poor. The genius of the little folk is how they build soil. And they can help you cultivate potatoes, as well as some herbs and vegetables you can profit from.”
“I heard them puds were trouble,” grunted Railan.
“Some are, some aren’t,” I said. “Same as any folk. Some are nearly civilized. Sagal isn’t having much luck down there. I doubt he’d mind help from pint-sized vassals.”
“Then there are the cows, Magelord,” Olmeg continued. And after the cows were the goats and sheep – he wasn’t a husbandman, but he understood which plants fed which animals the best. The Bovali were anxious to get more cattle, he knew, so that they could go back to the cheese making they knew so well. We discussed different breeds that might thrive better here, and then discussed sheep, mules, llamas, and horses. Olmeg suggested two varieties of chickens and one type of turkey he thought would do well here.
“And lastly, the idea about the pond was an excellent one, Magelord. A well-stocked, well-tended pond can add more protein to your peoples’ diet. And the water can be used for the fields through the dry season.”
“I’m working on tha
t,” I promised. “But building a dam isn’t like digging a ditch with an earth elemental. The pressures are enormous, and without sound engineering . . .”
“I understand,” he said, considering the problem. It seemed to perplex him for only a few minutes. “So you’re saying the biggest obstacle to building a dam is you need to move a bunch of big heavy rocks into place,” He said, matter-of-factly.
“Well, you can’t do it with just an earth berm and log palisade. Not for the size of lake I envision. I checked,” I promised. I had, too. Carmella had been adamant: try to keep that much water dammed up with just an earthen hill would mean an eventual catastrophe downstream. At a minimum, the base of the dam would have to be fortified with stone. We had the stone, but . . . well, earth elementals can move earth, but stone is rigid and heavy and when you’re talking about that much of it, it takes more power than . . . let’s just say it’s really, really hard and not worth doing.
“I can see that,” he reasoned, nodding his shaggy head. “About how many boulders would you need as a base?”
“Eh?” That was engineering. Green magi aren’t supposed to know anything about engineering. “Well, five or six big ones. We can probably harvest them from right here, easily enough, and rough them out with magic. But to get them all the way down to the site of the dam, well, we don’t have the oxen, the manpower, or the time. It would take weeks to inch each one down the slope.”
Olmeg didn’t look disturbed. “Oh, if you can cut them, I can get them down there easily enough.”
I blinked. My mouth may have been open. “You know a spell to get the plants to carry it down?” I asked in disbelief.
“No, no, although that would be handy,” he admitted with a chuckle. “If you can cut the stone, lend me a dozen strong men, and the use of your carpenter, I can have all the boulders down there that you need in a week.”
“Without irionite?” I asked in disbelief.
“That’s some broad shoulders you have,” Yeoman Railan said, skeptically. “You wouldn’t be trying to hoodwink Magelord Minalan, would you?”
“Of course not,” Olmeg said, gently, puffing away at his pipe completely undisturbed by the accusation. “I meant what I said. Should I do that – in addition to greening this vale, Magelord, then shall I have made myself worthy of a stone?”
“And then some,” I agreed. “Olmeg, if you can get that dam built that quickly, I’ll grant you any spot in Sevendor for your nursery. I can have the blocks cut tomorrow – Rondal is best for that. After that . . . it’s up to you.”
“Fair enough, then, Magelord,” Olmeg agreed, satisfied. “And I’ll take you up on your offer for a nursery, as well. I’ll need one, for the task ahead.”
I felt the brush of psychic contact, and raised my hand to ask them to wait. It was Tyndal, who was on duty at the gate.
Wagons, Master, he said. Right on time. Seven of them. And it looks like Sir Ganulan the Snowflake faced is riding escort. You may want to come see this.
Thanks, I’ll be right there, I assured him.
“Well, gentlemen, I’ve got other business at the moment. But Railan, see to that shrine – whichever deity your folk wish – and Olmeg, build me a damn dam. I’ve got to go see a man about some chickens.”
Chapter Sixteen
A Ransom In Poultry
“It seems to all be there,” Tyndal admitted, as he surveyed the wagon train. “Chickens, sheep, goats, ale, and all. And the grain seems like decent quality.”
“Of course it is!” snarled Sir Ganulan from horseback. “My father is an honorable man. He would not demean the price of his son’s ransom by trying to cheat you of my worth.” He had thrown the cowl of his cloak back, displaying his spell-striped face almost defiantly. “Every penny’s worth. Oh,” he added as an afterthought, digging into his saddle bag and withdrawing a roll of parchment.
“This is a letter of credit to Feron the Silversmith, in Sendaria-on-Bontal, instructing him to pay on demand any tailor’s bill presented to him in your name. Enjoy your new finery,” he said, bitterly, tossing the roll to Tyndal.
My apprentice caught it with a wide smile. “By Ishi’s comely eye, this is welcome! Bah, if I have to wear these warspun clothes even one more month . . .”
“Now, Magelord,” Sir Ganulan said, addressing me formally but warily, “have the terms and conditions of the ransom been met?”
“They have, Sir Ganulan,” I agreed. “And it’s a credit to your sire’s honor. I’m glad we could settle things for this pittance, among gentlemen, instead of resorting to base coin. And I do hope this will end any ill will between our domains.” By Briga, I was being sincere. I swear it. But Sir Ganulan’s ears were poisoned against me.
“As for that . . . we can speak of it when my face is freed from your spellmongery!” he nearly shouted.
“Oh . . . that. Yes, of course. Tyndal? You put it there. It seems only proper.”
“Of course, Magelord,” he said, bowing obsequiously. He motioned for the belligerent knight to dismount. He was unarmored, but still bore his ransomed blade. His hand brushed it for the barest second, and I could see the notion cross his face, but he came to his feet and stood calmly before Tyndal.
“All right,” the boy mage said, clapping his hands together. “Hold still . . . this might hurt . . . if you get the urge to gouge out your own eyes, go right ahead—”
“Tyndal!”
“Oh, all right!” he said, annoyed but amused. He waved two fingers. The red snowflake began to fade. “I’m done,” he said, when Sir Ganulan looked at him expectantly. The knight hurriedly removed a lady’s looking glass from his pouch and surveyed his face, touching the fading lines. He began to smile . . . but it was not a happy smile.
“The effect will take a few days to fade completely, and it’s possible that it will recur for a few months in times of stress, but by year’s end it should be gone. If you have further problems with it, come see me, and regardless of our state I will address the issue in good faith. You have discharged your commission honorably.”
“I will indeed hold you accountable. As for the state of our domains . . . my father, Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria, has determined that our realms are not on terms of friendship, as you have used legal technicality to usurp what was by right of conquest of arms his own Brestal Vale—”
“Yes, well, remember we conquested it right back,” reminded Tyndal, who was not enjoying Sir Ganulan’s tone one bit.
“Through treachery!” he nearly squeaked. His voice had not quite settled.
“Through guile,” corrected my apprentice indignantly. “And then Master Minalan won the duel you insisted on for possession. So it’s ours by law, by right of conquest, and by right of honorable combat,” he counted on his fingers, and then displayed the three to the West Flerian knight.
“Yet we still bear a grudge for the way in which you took it!” Ganulan shouted.
“Grudge all you like, it’s still ours,” Tyndal said, defiantly.
“So it is,” he continued coolly. “Yet the grudge of a neighbor can be like Jezdeel’s third hell. My father mislikes having a magelord for a neighbor – that is an abomination against which our ancestors fought the Magocracy, and it should not be borne by their noble descendants. Whatever sham knighthood the Duke insisted on giving you, Lord Gimbal will not treat with the son of a baker as a peer.”
“At least his father married his mother,” Tyndal pointed out. Ganulan blushed, and the snowflake on his face came back across his face briefly. Even being an acknowledged bastard was still a step down from being a legitimate son, entitled to inherit the estates and titles of his father in their entirety.
“I’ll not take offense from a stableboy – former stableboy,”
Tyndal shrugged. “It’s honest work. I didn’t feel like a thief until I was ennobled.”
Sir Ganulan ignored the jibe. “From this day forward, all traffic on the road to Sevendor Vale shall pay triple the toll.”
&nb
sp; “You can’t do that!” Tyndal swore, reaching for Slasher. I put out a hand to stop him, but he stopped himself first, and took his fingers away from the hilt as Sir Ganulan reached for his own.
“Truce,” I reminded them both. “Your father maintains the roads in the name of the Duke. Those tolls are set by the Duchy, and can only be raised by the Duke.”
“So it would be,” the lad said, his eyes narrowing with satisfaction, “if the road went through Sevendor to another domain, or part of the realm. But it does not.
Therefore, from Lisney south, the road is by law a local road, controlled by the Baron, not the Duke. And the Lord of West Fleria says the toll just tripled!”
I sighed. “Very well, Sir Ganulan. I had hoped we could put this silly feud to bed, but if you insist to try the patience of a Magelord when you have been oft-warned, then I cannot pour wisdom into your head. Go, then. If you bear a grudge, then know that the expression of that grudge will be paid in kind by Sevendor. I’ll say no more than that – I am not given to threats, and idle threats least of all.”
Smiling triumphantly he returned to the saddle, and gave an obnoxious, mocking bow before he rode off to speak to the lead guard of the wagon train. Just as he was about to ride off back to West Fleria on his own, Tyndal cast a cantrip and augmented his voice, so that it was easily twice as loud.
“Sir Ganulan!” he said, with a leer, “what do you think of the new device for Brestal Vale? The banner flies from the tower!”
Every head in the gate yard turned towards the spire at the top of the gate tower, where a pennant fluttered in the spring breeze. It was a green banner with a black tower on it, as the previous device had been. But where the warbird and spherical egg had been was now an irregular white blob with a single round yellow disc in the middle.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 33
