We ended up at another make-shift taproom just off of the main fairgrounds. Run by a local taverner, he had spent coin on a professional harper from the Pearwoods. She was absolutely stunning, both in appearance and in performance, and we were all enchanted. I had Fess tip her and the proprietor heavily, and invited her to stop and play for us back at camp before she left for more coin.
Of course we drank with every stop, so by the time the moon was setting and Alya’s eyes were drooping, I had to impose on Festaran to lead us back home. I had no idea where we were, or how to get to where we were. I probably could have done a spell, but at that point I was drunk enough to make even a magemap dubious. I probably couldn’t have even used my witchstone.
Alya was thrilled at both the attention and the entertainment. She had accepted the constraints of her new life with a great deal of grace, but the demands were heavy on her. She had to learn how to be a wife, a mother, and a lady of the domain all at once, and this respite was welcome. She looked like she did when we first met . . . was it really less than two years before?
The next day we woke up naked, entangled in our blankets in our rope bed, and thoroughly hungover. I didn’t see how that couldn’t be counted as a successful evening.
Sir Cei had been true to his word, and when he finally had us awakened, the camp had been transformed. There were now six tents, in addition to the grand pavilion that was my castle-away-from-home. One was devoted to food and cooking, one to storage and wares, and the other four housed our entourage. A small frame of lashed-together poles now served as a gate to our encampment, and additional banners and streamers now fluttered in the morning breeze over the heads of our guards.
There were always two of those at the gate, and another patrolling the camp. With the baby inside, and potential foes around us, I didn’t think that was too much. I couldn’t even think about the possibility of losing him, somehow, but if a couple of big Bovali lads with long swords and spears made me feel better about it, I didn’t mind having them along. While fighting with blades was prohibited in the Fair, we could guard or site with them. Besides, in their new Sevendori livery, they looked almost respectable.
Sir Cei had directed a trestle to be set up behind the pavilion, away from the gate, where we could eat in relative privacy. Alya and I shared a quiet breakfast alone, surrounded by people, before she got an escort to the privy and I had had a pipe. It was peaceful, not having a job I needed to do while everyone else bustled around me. I tried not to feel guilty about that.
Plenty of people were interested in stopping by our camp simply because Sevendor had been under Ducal control for so long that this was the first time a noble delegation had been to the fair in recent memory. I was struck by just how poorly the folk of the Bontal Riverlands viewed Sevendor, and I honestly couldn’t blame them. But I also resolved to change that . . . a lot.
We got our first noble visitor that morning when Sire Sigalan came by with a small following, including his winsome sister, Lady Sarsha.
I recognized the knight at once before he arrived at our gate, even under his mantle – he was a striking fellow, and his height and leanness made him stand out. I made a point of meeting him at the entrance of our encampment myself, and I was gratified that Sir Festaran, at least, understood enough to join me. Tyndal was still flirting with the camp cooks from the next camp over, but Fes knew how valuable the friendship of even a poor knight like Sire Sigalan could be in feudal politics.
I greeted the man warmly, and was gratified that he returned the sentiment – so of course I called for wine. Sire Sigalan had his sister Lady Sarsha and a small number of his yeomen and their wives with him, but that was nearly all the retainers he’d brought out of the mountains.
“We’re both early,” he explained. “Most of these lordly encampments you see were set up by their servants, far in advance of their arrival. Lord Trefalan will not arrive before tomorrow, and the Warbird of West Fleria,” he said, wryly, “won’t be here until the day after, as suits a personage of his importance,” he added with a chuckle.
“How large a party should we expect him to have, Sire?” Sir Festaran asked, politely. Ordinarily, he’d know – his father would be included in the retinue. But he’d not been home in months, now, and news was a little hard to come by across our armed frontier.
“At least a hundred,” said Sigalan with a heavy sigh. “He’s been hiring a lot of mercenary knights of late. “He even had the temerity to try to enlist me and my folk again . . . while insulting us in the invitation. We Trestendori are poor, but we’re proud.
“But don’t worry – there is a ban on naked steel in anger, or even formal dueling, until the Fair is ended. Baron Arathanial would love nothing more than for the Warbird to start a fight. If you want a shot at Gimbal, you’ll have to take up a lance. He fancies himself quite a jouster, and plans on making a good showing at the tournament.”
“I’m no jouster,” I said, chuckling at the image of me dressed as a heavy cavalryman and embarrassing myself. “But I might feel compelled to wager against him . . .”
“Lord Gimbal is a puissant knight,” Sir Festaran pointed out. “When he was younger, living at his brother’s court, it was thought that he might take up the trade of the professional jouster. He really is good at it,” he admitted, grudgingly.
“Bah! There are a dozen better,” snorted Sire Sigalan. “And unseating a man on a dry, well-raked field is a far cry from real battle. He’ll be able to intimidate some of the less-powerful local knights, but the real professionals won’t see him as much of a challenge. Sire Ewen is here, as is Farn Kinslayer,” He said knowingly.
I had no idea who they were, but by Sir Festaran’s expression they were jousters of some repute. “Baron Arathanial has put up an apiary estate as prize, in addition to the usual gold and trinkets. He has a small holding in the south of the barony whose lord recently died. His widow and property shall go to the victor, or he can sell it back to the Baron for a goodly price.”
“An apiary?” I asked, curious. We didn’t have one yet in Sevendor, mostly we depended upon wild bees from the Westwood. But Master Olmeg had been urging me to procure a few hives. “I like the sound of that.”
“How many lances will Sevendor be entering in the lists?” asked the mountain lord, curious. “We have but one, brave old Sir Desalan, who we sponsor only out of duty and love . . . he’s a good man, but likely won’t see too many more winters. He wishes to test himself in life on the field of honor one last time before he does so in the underworld. I would enter myself, but these days I find myself more drawn to . . . archery,” he said.
I could only take that to mean that he had taken possession of the fifty bows and thousand arrows he had been quietly purchasing, against a future conflict with West Fleria.
“Uh . . . how many lances are we entering into the lists?” I asked. I only had a vague idea what that meant, but I didn’t want to sound like it. “Sir Cei! A moment, please!” I called. My castellan was there almost instantly, and shook Sire Sigalan’s hand firmly.
“Three, Magelord,” he assured me. “Sir Forondo wishes to try his luck on the lists, as does Sir Roncil – with hope toward an increase in his fortune. Indeed, he has entered the lists in a number of contests.”
I had given Sir Roncil first choice of the arms, armor, and destrier he’d helped me capture from the West Flerians, and three of the ransoms . . . when they came in. In the meantime he was near penniless. While I didn’t mind paying his upkeep for his service, he was not a man who likes to hang on to the stirrups of others, and was expressing a lot of ambition about his fortunes in the Riverlands. I didn’t doubt he was hoping for victory most earnestly.
“Who’s the third?” I asked.
“Why, I am, Magelord,” Sir Cei said, an eyebrow raised. “I was just heading to the herald to register for the lists. I was not unskilled in my younger days.”
“You are going to joust? You’re going to compete?” I asked, incredulously,
my latent hangover ambushing my senses. Too late, I realized what I’d done. Sir Cei’s face didn’t change, but his eyes did.
“It occurs to me to remind the Magelord that I was training for a gentleman’s career at arms when he was still . . . an infant,” he said, clearly rejecting a more colorful description. “I assure you, I am equally able with lance or quill.”
“I meant no disrespect,” I said, hurriedly. “I’ve seen you fight – I just hadn’t thought you’d want to compete.”
“A knight likes to keep his lance sharp,” he shrugged, as if he didn’t expect me to understand. He was wearing one of the nicer sets of armor we’d gotten as ransom, a sturdy steel breastplate over a thickly gambesoned coat-of-plates. His great, Wilderlands-style warshield was leaning against the trestle – not with Sevendor’s device emblazoned upon it, but his own personal charge in red and gold.
“Then carry the luck of Sevendor and the strength of Duin with you,” I said, sincerely, mindful not to irritate my most valuable retainer. “And make certain I get back all the castellan I started with,” I added. I couldn’t very well tell the man ‘no’ – well, I could, but it wouldn’t have been either fair or nice – but I suddenly had the horrific thought of Sir Cei dying in some stupid tournament, forcing me to actually run my domain. “Be careful,” I emphasized.
“Are you not you entering the lists, Sir Festaran?” asked Lady Sarsha, Sigalan’s comely sister. She was as tall as her brother, and dressed prettily for the fair. “If I recall you nearly won the Squires’ Tournament, last year.” The young knight blushed.
“I . . . well, I didn’t think it was quite right, entering with me being a hostage. Not without permission, at least.” Then he looked sheepish. “Since I’ve only been in two tournaments,” he explained, “one when I was knighted and then the Squires’ tournament for Sir Gimbal’s birthday, I don’t think I’m really ready. There are some very skillful knights enrolled,” he said, diplomatically. “I couldn’t hope to win, even if I did enter. I would not mind breaking a few lances in such company,” he added.
“Nonsense!” Sir Cei said, slapping the boy on his shoulder. “A knight should never back down from a challenge and the opportunity to win honor. The greater the foe, the greater the glory,” he pointed out.
“If you win,” countered Sir Fes. “Otherwise you’re just another body on the field.”
“Fes? If you want to enter, I’ll be happy to sponsor you,” I said. “If you wear my badge, then you won’t be in violation of your parole.” I wasn’t a knight – that is, I hadn’t been raised as a knight, in a knight’s household, with the social and legal expectations and obligations of a knight. I also didn’t know much beyond the art of being a heavy cavalryman beyond which end of the lance was the pointy one. There were plenty of warmagi who did, but they weren’t the sons of bakers. But this was clearly important to the boy and . . . well, it was only money.
“I . . . I would be grateful, Magelord,” he said, humbly. “If you don’t think I’ll disgrace Sevendor…”
“Sevendor has been so disgraced for so long, you’d have to go a long way to do that,” I pointed out. “Sir Cei, add Sir Festaran to the lists under Sevendor’s banner, please.”
“As you wish, Magelord,” he said. He’d tried hard to conceal his emotions, but I could tell he was pleased. Knights.
“Good luck to you both, then,” I said. “Would you like any enchantments to help?”
They all looked scandalized, and exchanged looks before Cei politely declined. “That would be . . . unchivalrous,” he said, diplomatically. “Perhaps you can assist Sir Tyndal.”
“Tyndal? What’s he got to do with it? Gods, he didn’t enter the lists, did he? He’s no jouster!”
“No,” Sir Cei agreed, with a note of satisfaction. “But he fancies himself a swordsman. He has entered himself in the single swordplay competition, and the archery competition. Less glory, if no less honor.”
“Ishi’s tits!” I swore. “Feeling bold, is he?”
“So it seems. Yet he has some skill with a blade,” he conceded, “and he is as good a shot with a bow as any Bovali lad.”
“I think he just wants to attract the attention of girls.”
No one argued with me.
That day we spent shopping. We had an extensive list, in part because the winter had depleted us, and in part because Sevendor Castle had been neglected for so long that it just needed some attention.
We spent far too much for my comfort. Enough that we had to hire yet another wagon to haul it back home. But the buying opportunities afforded by a big fair are just too good to pass up. There are some things a castle needs that can only be acquired or commissioned at a fair, or ordered from the merchants there.
We spent well over three hundred ounces of gold that day. I tried hard not to think about it.
The deliveries of our wares arrived in our camp in a constant stream, and Sir Cei always had someone on duty to inspect them, pay for them, and attest to the receipt before they were stored in the wares tent or packed into our wagons. All I had to do was point and say “I want that!” and it appeared.
Like magic. Only easier.
That night we began our skulking early, visiting a few select encampments before we started serious drinking. Sir Festaran explained the local custom: a lord’s retinue would visit the campsite’s immediate neighbors first as a matter of courtesy, and then begin working in the neighboring lords before visiting traveling nobles and affluent merchants or guilds. So we started by visiting the camps to either side of us.
To the west lay the rough camp of a mountain lord, Sire Cambren of Greenmount. Cambren was just two steps away from the peasantry himself, a timid little country knight who was here mostly to marry off his sister. I saw his sister. If the drink held out and the dowry was generous, she had a chance.
To the east was the more civilized lair of Sire Asadopan. He was a vassal of Sevendor’s western neighbor, a dark-complected man of middle age. He fancied himself a jouster, so he was there with his full armor, but he weighed two ingots more than he should, thanks to the noble lifestyle. I was no jouster, but I don’t think I would have feared him on the lists.
Our visits were cordial and friendly, with Sir Cei attending and making introductions, firmly in his element. Sire Cambren did his best to get Sir Festaran to court his sister, but the boy begged off, claiming he could make no promises or seek to court while held as a hostage. I’ve never seen someone so relieved to be a prisoner in my life.
Sire Asadopan was more gruff and less friendly. He had heard much about Sevendor, apparently, through the filter of his liege and common gossip. I was amused to learn that I was considered an Evil Sorcerer by some, who had conquered Sevendor by magic and treachery. Others considered me a kind of savior, while most saw me merely as a curiosity.
But some people were not happy with the ascension of a magelord at all. Sire Asadopan let that slip a few times. There were those, it seemed, who saw me as an abomination and a violation of sacred law. A few nobles had already forbid any commerce with Sevendor (we had trouble with a few vendors, after it was revealed who we were). That disturbed me, of course – while I hadn’t seen a Royal Censor since my wedding day I knew that the institution was still eager to see my head in Merwin. Or wherever the Censorate loyalists who had not followed General Hartarian’s lead ended up setting up their headquarters.
At the time, I dismissed it. I was having a good time. I didn’t want to think about the people who wanted to kill me. Not with that much good food, good drink and good company around. That night was another long, lush, delightfully decadent descent into drunkenness and debauchery, with Alya casting off her ill-fitting cloak of nobility and carousing like a lusty peasant. I love my wife. Which apparently everyone in camp was assured of, as the pavilion walls did little to conceal the noise of our lovemaking, and, honestly, I was too piss-drunk to whip up a silence spell.
The next day the fair was in full swing, and we did more
shopping, this time for more specialty items. Alya ended up taking a group of the castle women to interrogate the cloth merchants and enrich the cosmetics merchants while I hunted up magical supplies with Banamor.
The former footwizard was a good companion at the fair, a shrewd bargainer who knew many of the specialty craftsmen and merchants we needed to purchase, order, or commission from. Twice he kept me from spending money wastefully, and he bargained for a gallon of acid like a fishwife at the end of market day.
I actually got to see Festaran joust that afternoon only because the glass merchant I was visiting was near to the list field and I heard the herald call his name to be ready. It was exciting – we watched from the cheap seats at the far end of the field. He won his bout against another young knight from Sendaria, two lances to one.
He had good form, from what I could tell with my inexperienced eye. At least he didn’t fall off his horse. Sir Cei had apparently won his first round soundly, three lances to none, and was scheduled to fight a circuit professional a few hours later. Sir Forondo had lost his first round narrowly, but was still hopeful of his second fight. Sire Gimbal had bested both of his opponents.
I also saw Tyndal fight later that afternoon, on the other side of the field. The swordplay competition was strongly attended and there were at least thrice as many competitors as there were for jousting – it’s cheaper to own a sword and armor than a sword, lance, armor, shield, horse, groom, stable, etc.
A lot of country knights and yeomen were entered into the competition. The prizes were a lot less grand than in the jousting competition, but they were more useful, too. In this case, the top prizes were a matched pair of hunting hawks, a beautifully tooled saddle, and a sheep.
Tyndal was doing extremely well. He wore his captured armor and wielded my old mageblade, Slasher, which confounded his opponents, who were not used to dueling against a shorter blade. I cringed at the thought that he had blunted it, but it was his, now. Tyndal had also stripped his armor down to the bare essentials, wisely eschewing the mantles and ribbons and other fripperies every other swordsman seemed to wear. His helmet, likewise, had been chosen because if fit tightly on his head without obscuring his vision.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 49
