“It’s worse than I’ve told you,” I agreed. I hadn’t mentioned the other horrors the goblins had spawned, from the Soulless, human slaves spared from sacrifice if they would slay but five of their closest kin, to the horrible tortures they inflicted on their prisoners before sacrifice. He looked disturbed enough by the thought of war with non-humans. “But with some ingenuity and some wisdom, I think we can hold them at bay, for a while. As long as they don’t take the Riverlands.”
Arathanial looked at me as if I was joking. When it was clear I was not, he shook his head. “Now I wish I’d kicked you out with the Censors, Magelord. You have given me enough to disturb my sleep for weeks.”
“Then you are in good company, including His Grace and every High Mage in the Duchies. Best you are prepared, my lord,” I suggested. “For your people, if nothing else.”
“Oh, I quite agree . . . a lord cannot allow his personal fears to falter his wisdom. I shall take what steps I can. But concerning Gimbal . . . I would be open to discussing some sort of alliance, after the Fair is good and truly over. Gimbal’s ambitions are unchecked by reason, and my eighty-one lance advantage won’t hold true for long, should he make an effort.”
“Surely you are not without allies,” I suggested.
Arathanial shrugged. “Some. A few. The Lensely name still has power, in places. Trestendor looks to us, for instance, though Sire Sigalan has not sworn fealty to me.”
“He seems to prize his independence,” I pointed out.
“Yes, well, he prized it so much he lost his most lucrative lands to the Warbird,” he said, sourly. “Had he been a liegeman of mine, I would have been compelled to march on West Fleria. And there are others.” I was starting to realize feudal politics was full of this sort of obligation and opportunity. .
“No one but the gods may foresee what the summer holds,” I said, both diplomatically and mysteriously. “Now that there are Magelords in the country, the rules have changed. And you can expect more of magi before winter traversing your domains,” I added, and then told him about my plans to host a magical fair. He looked surprised, then troubled, then pleased.
“That would not conflict with my fair,” he agreed, “and may actually help it. Keep me apprised of your plans, Magelord, and I shall see what we can do to help.”
Before I left, he wanted a small demonstration of magic. He had been fascinated by it for years, but had no Talent. So to show off, I cast a large magelight to hover over his trestle, and I gave it enough power to last for weeks, long after the tent was packed up. He was impressed – the little canvas room became a lot easier to read in, and he was so grateful he invited my lady and I to the castle in three days for the Baron’s Feast, a traditional fete of the leading local nobility to end the fair and reward the victors. I told him I would be honored.
At least two hours had passed since I’d arrived, and it was starting to get late. Of further concern were the clouds I saw moving in from the west. I considered sending to camp for a horse, or hitching a ride on a wagon making the rounds, but that seemed like a lot of effort.
Instead I completed my interrupted business on the fairgrounds and decided to stop in at the list field one more time, as it was on the way back to camp. Banamor was waiting outside of Arathanial’s mighty tent at a little temporary inn across the street, talking to merchants and petty lords and fending off the advances of a couple of overweight whores who were bored with the lack of business. In truth, they would have fared better in dimmer light.
“That was impressive,” Banamor said, as we were heading back toward the fairgrounds proper.
“The pavilion?” I asked. “I thought so, too. You could fit an entire village in there—”
“No, Magelord,” he said, although from the tone of his voice he could have said ‘idiot’ just as well. “I meant how you acted when we were attacked.”
I shrugged. “I’m actually amazed we got out without anyone getting killed.”
“In truth, that’s what I expected. Myself, that is. The moment I saw those cloaks . . .”
“That was a dandy tanglefoot spell,” I offered.
“I’m not fishing for compliments,” he insisted. “I’m telling you that I’m grateful. I thought we were dead, and you . . . well, you talked and spelled your way out of it. And I saw not one drop of sweat on your brow.”
“I sweat afterward,” I promised him. “I knew they weren’t going to do anything too rash – or if they did, there wouldn’t have been anything I could have done about it. I just had to get the people out of the way.”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “I would have taken to my heels. You thought about the other people. And you didn’t panic.”
“Nor you,” I reminded him.
“Me? I was in shock, staring into the abyss of raw terror, my life flashing in front of me. You’re a renegade Magelord with irionite. I’m an illegal footwizard with irionite. Do you know what they do to our folk when we don’t have cataclysmically powerful magical artifacts in our pockets? I was shitting my pants, but you didn’t blink. Hells, you stopped to light your godsdamned pipe!”
“I’ve been to war,” I shrugged. “And I was just stalling.”
“It’s more than that,” he dismissed. “No disrespect, Magelord, but lots of idiots go to war. Lots of idiots get knighted, even. Few of those idiots could have gotten out of that situation with a whole hide, much less without casualties. You . . . you are a good magelord,” he said, as if the admission had cost him an ounce of gold.
I have a hard time hearing gratitude like that. I try to take it graciously, but it makes me uncomfortable. I tried to parry it back to him. And that gave me an idea.
“Well, as this was your first official battle in which you didn’t take to your heels, but stayed to defend your liege,” I said, rummaging through the bundle on my back, “in token of my esteem and appreciation . . . here. You earned it.” I held out a mageblade, one of the smaller ones. It had the checkered crest of the Censorate on the guard, but that could be fixed. It wasn’t particularly heavily enchanted, either, I realized. A good blade, but hardly much more than a sword. “You said you were grateful, right? Well, this is a token of my gratitude. You’re welcome.”
He looked at it like it was a snake. “I’m not a magelord. Or even a lord.”
“You are the head of the Sevendor Village Council and my Spellwarden, and so can bear the blade under my auspices. Just don’t draw it if you get pissed off. From what I just saw, that might prove . . . expensive.”
“I won’t. Wait! I can?” he asked, confused. “How?”
“You are technically my Yeoman,” I reminded him, pushing it into his hands. “And possibly a burgher, if Sevendor keeps growing. So keep the blade. You may end up a mage knight yet.”
“I’ll likely cut my own arm off with it,” he grumbled, tucking the weapon into his belt. “But if the Magelord insists…”
“I do. I even want you to learn the basics of how to use it. But I don’t intend to call you to battle; I just like the people around me to be able to protect themselves. I don’t expect much; just learn which end to hold. And you’ll find that the peasants treat you with a lot more respect when you wear it. Now, what did you learn while I was in conference with the Baron?”
“Me? Learn something? I was merely having a mug, I assure you,” he said, then snickered. “All right. I met with two Merwini cloth merchants, and both said they would take all the red clay – the lourdin –they can get at ninety silver ounces per hundredweight. I showed them the brick Sire Sigalan brought me, and they nearly begged for it.”
“Is that a fair price? I know nothing of such things.”
“It costs less than a silver ounce in labor to harvest and refine it,” he said, smiling dreamily. “And that’s a good wage, in Trestendor, for a week’s work. Sigalan has two families of villeins on it, so they can harvest maybe three, four bricks a day. Six bricks to the hundredweight. We pay shipping until the ocean port, and then they take
delivery from there.”
“Excellent. And my fee is . . .”
“Roughly ten silver ounces per hundredweight, after shipping,” he said, softly. “And Lord Sigalan gets twenty. I get the rest. That’s just shy of fifty ounces of silver per hundredweight . . .”
“Not to mention more magic rocks,” I added, “which are worth far more than the clay.”
“Of course, Magelord,” he agreed, smugly. “I sort such base impurities from the clay myself, in the purification process. But if I can make an additional fifty silver along the way, it cannot hurt Sevendor’s prosperity, could it?”
I couldn’t argue with that. And it would help my friend Sire Sigalan keep his borders with the Warbird secure. Earning ten silver ounces a day was like having a prosperous farm fall into your lap, in manorial economics. Better. If it worked out well, the lourdin operation might prove the most lucrative part of Trestendor’s estate.
And putting five ounces a day in my own treasury, when I didn’t have to do or own anything, was extremely pleasant.
We finished our errands in the last few hours of the afternoon, the sun beating down mercilessly on us while we traded. We were making our way back to camp afterwards when we decided to stop by the lists again and see a few lances broken before we went home, when the tall, boyish figure of Sir Festaran, sweating through his armor, seemed to pop out of nowhere.
“Magelord! Master Banamor! Come quick!” he insisted, excitedly. Banamor and I exchanged worried glances, then – to his credit – Banamor slid his new blade around where he could reach it.
“What’s wrong, Fes?” I asked, skipping the formality of title.
“Nothing’s wrong, Magelord! At least, not really, it’s just that . . . that . . . Sir Cei is on the leader board!” he said, bursting with pride. “He’s number four, overall! Gods be with him, he has but one bout to win to advance to the finals – and the competition is almost done for the day! Hurry!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sir Cei On The Lists
Sir Festaran dogged my heels as I walked briskly toward the lists, talking as fast as he could manage and still be respectful. He had doffed most of his armor, leaving only his grieves to cover his lower legs, but they made a dreadful noise as he struggled to keep up with us.
“Sir Cei won his first round with no problem and then broke three lances against that Southerner, the one in the black armor, something Kinslayer, but he couldn’t keep his lance lined up I think he was drunk at least that’s what the squires were saying and Sir Cei dropped him like a sack of flour! But then the herald introduced the grand prize, a lovely little fief in southern Sendaria called Cargwenyn, with an apiary of some repute, and Sir Cei went mad!”
“Went . . . mad?” I asked, skeptically amused. That did not sound like the Sir Cei I knew. He is perhaps the sanest man I know. Except for dressing up in armor and allowing himself to be flung violently from horseback. For fun. Other than that . . .
“Aye, Magelord!” he said, grinning boyishly. “As soon as he saw the Grand Prize—”
“He went mad over an apiary?” I asked, no less confused.
“The man likes his honey,” Banamor said, solemnly.
“Nay, Magelord – well, I suppose he does, but I don’t think that was his motivation. Something . . . sweeter than honey,” he said, a big goofy grin on his face.
“Sweeter than honey?” groaned Banamor. “This just gets better and better . . .”
“A woman, Magelord! Fes said, excitedly. “When the herald introduced Lady . . . I forget her name, Magelord, but she was beautiful, I guess, and Sir Cei . . . he . . .”
“No!” Banamor said, grinning broadly in delight. “Old leatherface? I’d wager six pennies that he hasn’t had a true lance in his pants in years!”
I considered. I’d never seen Cei show any woman any attention, except for that one brief moment at my wedding when my comely oldest sister danced with him. “You do not jest? Sir Cei is smitten? What does this wondrous creature look like?” I asked, amused.
“She is possessed of womanly curves, if I be a judge,” the young knight said, doing his best to recall every detail. “She is nearly as tall as Sir Cei, and her hair is the color of honey . . . hey!" he said, making a connection. “She had a warm and friendly smile. She reminds me of my nursemaid, but a little younger than Goody Twerai. Perhaps as old as . . . twenty-six winters?”
I shrugged. “She’s not so old, then. And beautiful, you say?”
Tres looked dreamily into space. “Sir Cei said her face was wondrous, a vision of Ishi wrought in human form, a proud woman of a noble bearing and a gleam in her eye that betokens intelligence and cleverness,” he recited. “Which he claims is good in a wife.”
“Cei . . . with a wife?” Banamor howled, slapping his thigh. “Leatherface getting his regulars? Oh, my, Magelord, you must put a stop to this!” he said, still laughing. I like Banamor, but he has a crude side, I was noticing.
“Why?” I asked, mystified.
“Because it will ruin him as your castellan, that’s why!” he said, trying to calm his mirth. “Truly, Magelord, if he actually gets a wife to warm his bed, all his flatheaded common sense will end up staining the sheets!”
“There are professional jousters here,” I said, shaking my head. “And local knights of bellicose repute. As much as I like Sir Cei and wish him well, I can’t imagine he’d be able to be victorious in a field like that.”
“Magelord, I thought that once as well,” the young knight said, seriously. “But after that . . . he was like a man possessed by Duin’s spirit! He faced Sir Desiuin of Kaovadine, who won last year’s tournament, and took him three lances to two the very next bout! Then he defeated the Kinslayer in three, then he faced Bisamaei of Bandit’s Hold, the Destroyer of Virtue!” he said, almost running out of breath. “He’s one of the professionals! But Cei ran him down like a dog! He conquered Bisamaei in two passes, knocking him off his horse in the second to win the bout! He hit Bisamaei so hard he was knocked unconscious!” he said, proudly.
Knights.
“That sounds like a lot of fun,” I lied. “Where is our champion, now?”
“At the arming pavilion – he has one more bout today, against Count Ewen Ramsplitter.” There was a note of hushed respect in his voice. “Count Ewen has killed twenty men on the list field,” he pronounced, as if Sir Cei’s head was already on a pike.
“I believe that’s an exaggeration,” Banamor said, finally recovering from his laughter. “But he is a well-known jouster. If Cei can defeat him, he might have a chance. Fourth, you say?”
“Aye – unless he defeats Count Ewen. Then he will be third,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I won nine silver pieces on his fight with Bisamaei!”
“There’s . . . wagering?” I asked. I like to wager. And now I can afford to.
“Oh, aye, Magelord, there are coinbrothers at the entrance to the lists, who will take a bet.”
I rummaged around in my purse and dug out a few coins. Several of them were gold. Life as a noble is good. “Put it all on Sir Cei,” I directed.
Banamor weighed his pouch. “Me, too. I’ve twenty, twenty-two silver pennies – I’ll keep the rest. If the odds are still good.”
Sir Festaran looked at the mage like he had two heads. “Master Banamor, Count Ewen Ramsplitter has won nine major tournaments this year alone and tours the entire summer. He has a retinue of thirty men. Sir Cei is a country knight from the Mindens, whom no one has ever heard of. The odds, I dare say, are excellent.”
I thought about it a moment. “How determined did you say Sir Cei looked?”
Sir Festaran looked thoughtful. “I’ve only known the man a short time. But I’ve never seen him pace and stomp, Magelord. Or mutter to himself.”
“Sir Cei? Muttering?” I asked. “Put twenty ounces of gold on him, best odds, under my name. If the coinbrother needs my seal . . .” I said, searching around in my pouches . . . no, I had not had a proper noble’s seal do
ne for me. Add it to the List. But I did have something else. I took two of the Censorate’s confiscated mageblades and handed them to Festaran. “Those should be worth ten apiece. But they’re enchanted, so I wouldn’t advise messing with them too much. Tell the coinbrothers I’ll redeem them with good coin, he has the word of the Magelord.”
Sir Festaran’s eyes sparkled. “Aye, Magelord!” He enjoyed being in service to me, I could tell, even though it was technically “involuntary.”
“Twenty ounces of gold?” Banamor asked, astonished. “That’s . . .”
“That’s enough to feed ten peasant families for a year,” I agreed, evenly. “Perhaps the largest wager I’ve ever made.”
“But are you sure that’s wise?” Banamor asked.
I snorted. “Not remotely. But word will get around.”
“So? You make foolish wagers? That’s the word you want to get around?”
“No,” I sighed. “I want it known that when my castellan was doing something he thought was important, I believed enough in him to wager a year’s salary on the outcome.”
“That is a strong endorsement,” Banamor admitted. “I like Cei, but . . . why?”
“It’s . . . complicated. We were in a hopeless siege together. I started a peasant’s rebellion in the middle of it. He tried to clap me in irons – and did imprison Lady Pentandra, if you can believe it. He lost his home but escaped with his life, and lost everything but the sword in his hand and the clothes on his back. He kept his people together in a strange country, and then saved my bride’s life at my wedding . . . we’ve been through a lot. When you have a man who’s as loyal as Sir Cei, but who is as strong as Sir Cei, then twenty ounces of gold is but a small token to pay for it.”
“That’s . . . deep thinking,” Banamor said. “Thank Luin I’m not a magelord, I don’t think I could be that invested in my employees.”
“He’s my Castellan,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s a part of my household. He’s no mere employee.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 53
