I didn’t care. Once again, pride and ego conspired to rob prudence in the name of nobility. Fuck them. We needed High Magic. To get that, we needed a king. Why dance around the subject?
Min, what the hells are you doing? Penny screamed at me, mind-to-mind. I ignored her.
“Your Graces . . . to you has been left the legacy of leading and protecting the Duchies and their peoples. The tens of thousands who have already perished care not who wears a crown or a coronet. The thousands who are yet to perish care little more. And your children – if they survive – will do little more than curse your memory, should Your Graces fail at this challenge.
Minalan! Penny was screaming, while next to me she was holding her breath. I continued to ignore her. I was just getting started. I never was any good at theater.
“You worry that too much power will be in the hand of one duke? Or no duke? I guarantee you that as powerful as I am, as powerful as the combined might of all the High Magi are, it isn’t a tithe of a tithe of the power at Sheruel’s command. You quibble over your coronets when you should be looking to protect your heads. For the people know, already,” I reminded them. “And they will not tolerate a leader – be they duke or king – who leads them into slaughter and damnation.”
“So here we finally come to the real reason for this pointless trip,” scoffed Medfar.
“So, Spellmonger, you would come out of the wilderness with your pretty bauble and tales of woe and decide who will wear a crown? Your patron Rard, of course,” he sneered. “And why wouldn’t you? He’s given you lands, titles and gold.”
“I never asked for them,” I assured the Duke of Vore. “Nor do I care what kind of hat he wears. If this council will consent to relax the Bans on Magic without a king, I would take no quarrel with that,” I said, earning me a nasty look from Rard.
“Really?” Duke Andrastal asked, amused. “You wouldn’t care . . . if I wore the crown? Or my brother Medfar?”
“I care not,” I agreed. “But are you prepared for that, Your Grace? For the moment the crown touched your brow, the responsibility for contending with the Dead God would be yours to bear. It would be your realm invaded, not some distant noble’s. And then it would be you who would have to decide whether to abandon tradition and fight . . . or cleave to it and perish. Are you prepared for that, Your Grace?” I asked, pointedly. Andrastal looked thoughtful, but Medfar was unconvinced.
“I find it hard to believe you do not favor Rard for this supposed ‘burden’,” he said, anger creeping into his voice. “For if I was to wear the crown, you would be stripped of your magics and imprisoned for your insolence.”
“It would be a fascinating effort to witness, Your Grace,” I said, after a few moment’s thought, my eyes narrowing. I commanded my sphere to float in front of me, toward the center of the wide circular table. “I daresay you may find it a challenging task. But it would give me heart to see you try . . . because it would give you some idea of just how difficult fighting the Dead God will be for you.”
“You dare threaten a duke?” Medfar asked, angrily.
“I dare caution a leader of men,” I riposted. “Your Duchy may be remote from the war at present, but soon enough it will be at every doorstep. If you would be king, Your Grace, and would you do what is necessary to be done, I would gladly follow you. Rard has shown his mettle in battle,” I continued, “but that does not mean he would make an ideal king.
“Choose one of you or none of you, but the man who sees the threat to the west and chooses to face it the way his Narasi ancestors faced the might of the Empire, that man I will bend a knee to. That man I will call ‘Your Majesty.’ But I urge you to waste no more time in pointless deliberations over power and precedence. While we have been talking, the Dead God has expanded his reach by miles. Take more time and you will buy those miles back dearly, with the blood of your subjects.”
“You take much on yourself for this, Spellmonger,” said Duke Clofalin, clearing his throat nervously. “Care to explain why?”
“Not because of glory or power,” I replied. “Not because of magic. I do it because I have a young s . . . children,” I said, for no particular reason. I felt Penny startle next to me, but continued. “I don’t wish for them to die under the knife to feed the Dead God’s insatiable hunger. I want them to thrive, prosper, and give me grandchildren . . . and you fools are behaving like boys in a sandpit instead of proper monarchs, and conspire with Sheruel to counter that aim!”
“Who are you to lecture us so?” Medfar demanded, on his feet.
“I’m Minalan the Spellmonger,” I said, angrily. “And the price of my assistance to keep your realms intact is one of you keeping the Censorate off my back while I’m doing it. When I return tomorrow, I will lay my sword at the feet of the man who has the wisdom and courage to do undertake that task. If he calls himself King or Duke or Queen of the May, Your Graces, I really don’t give a damn.”
And with that I walked out, without taking my leave, a stunned table full of dukes behind me.
Penny followed closely, after making a nervous bow, and couldn’t help but throw me a jibe, mind-to-mind.
You just can’t resist telling off important people, can you? she chided.
I just figured it would save time getting to where we needed to get to.
I just hope they don’t decide to begin the new reign with an execution, she added, gloomily. That would really mess up my social schedule for the autumn.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Coronation of Rard I
After our abrupt departure from the Coronet Council, I figured we’d be clapped in irons or whatever it is that they do to people who manage to piss off rooms full of dukes. I didn’t care. I hated this sort of politics, even as I participated in it.
“So, how did we really do?” I asked out loud, as we retreated through the ornate halls, past five sets of Ducal Guards.
“Are you kidding?” Pentandra Penny asked, deadpan, “I was worried there, toward the end, but the more I think about the political situation . . . I think that was perfect, Min!”
“What?” I asked, skidding to a stop. “I thought you’d be livid! I just vented my spleen all over the Coronet Council, and probably pissed off the one Duke who feels he owes me something. How was that ‘perfect’?” I demanded.
“Oh, the performance was rough in parts, but you made up for it with passion,” she assured me. “To be honest, you scared the hell out of me, when you started in about it not mattering who wore the crown. But that ended up being the best possible argument.”
“I need an explanation,” I pleaded. “I thought I just screwed up – excuse the expression – royally. And you’re telling me . . .”
“If I had told you to go in there and have a fit, you would have botched it,” she explained patiently. “You’re no good at acting. Not really. You had to remind them how . . . inconsequential they really are in the scheme of things. You did,” she said, shaking her head. “By calling into question even Rard’s suitability for the throne, you gave him just the argument he needed to make his best case for sitting there. If you had gone in as his obsequious lapdog, then the other Dukes would have seen right through it.”
“So you manipulated me.”
“For the greater good,” she assured me. “But you surpassed my expectations with that little hissy-fit. After this there is no question as to whether or not there will be a king, there is only the question of who shall wear the crown. And Rard has that sewn up, now. Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to . . .” I was preparing a witty retort, when a well-dressed Ducal Castellan approached me with a deep and gracious bow.
“Magelord Minalan,” he said, gravely. “Her Grace has requested the pleasure of your company in the Fountains,” he said so smoothly it could have issued from a pitcher of treacle. He waited just a moment, glanced briefly at Pentandra, and added, “I have no doubt that your Mother, were she here, would advise you not to keep the Duchess waiting.” He didn
’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.
I sighed, and looked at Penny, speaking mind-to-mind. I just got called in to get chewed out by the Spymaster. Go back to the temple and . . . do whatever it is you do when you aren’t manipulating me. I’m going to go see just how badly Mother thinks I’ve screwed up.
“Let’s go,” I told the castellan, and Penny peeled off without a word.
It turned out Mother quite agreed with Penny’s glowing assessment of my performance.
“Really, my Son,” she said as she sat in repose on a swing in an elaborate water garden, “you really must watch your manners around Father.” The old matron was dressed in a bright yellow formal lounging gown, peppered with precious stones, and wearing the silver coronet she hoped to swap for a crown tomorrow. Around her were a half-dozen beautiful young ladies-in-waiting, and twice as many servants.
The garden was elaborate and beautiful, the kind you only see in the estates of the wealthy and powerful. Many of the pieces were magical, contorting the fountains’ spewing streams in all manner of ways nature never intended. It would have been fascinating, if I hadn’t been seated amongst the biggest – and prettiest – group of assassins in the Duchies.
“I believe the term we agreed-upon was ‘Son-in-law,’ Mother,” I corrected her.
“A son-in-law is as dear to a mother as a son, if he loves her daughter,” she said, shaking her head. “And today you’ve done the Family a great service.”
“I believe we worked out the price for this,” I reminded her. “Our charters.”
“The moment Rard has crown on head and quill in hand, they shall be among the first to bear the new Royal Seal,” she assured me. “And after that, all the property, lands, and estates of the Censorate will be turned over to . . . what did you call them?”
“The Arcane Orders. Specifically the Militant Orders of Horka and Hesia,” I prompted her. “Named for comrades of mine, fallen at Timberwatch in your service.”
“And yours,” she reminded me. “Yes, you may inherit all of the arcane matters in the new Realm and regulate them as you see fit. Your performance gave plenty of credence and credibility to what the Dukes of Vore and Merwin have already learned from their spies: that this is a necessary, if painful step. They cannot disagree with the nature of the threat, nor deny the necessity of the remedy.” She seemed to be almost purring with pleasure.
“And yet, while you’re picking out your coronation robes, the hordes still march,” I pointed out. “And they will be unanswered unless that new crown comes with the authority to call men to arms to face it. My people grow uneasy at the continued promises of troops, but the troops rarely appear. The field is in chaos, Mother. If Father doesn’t make a credible defense of the Realm, that crown won’t mean a damn thing.”
“I am not ignorant, Son,” she said, sharply. “We do realize the peril, and we have taken steps to counter it. Count Salgo,” she called, and in moments the soldier appeared, looking resigned to his fate. If I was uncomfortable dealing with this coven of killers in satin and silk, Salgo looked like he wanted to burst into flame on the spot.
“Your Grace,” he said with a stoic bow.
“Please tell the Spellmonger about our little plan for conscription,” she almost sang.
Count Salgo heaved a great sigh, like he was delivering bad news. “Her Grace and her . . . advisors have devised a scheme to ensure there are adequate forces for the defense of the Realm. Henceforth, instead of execution or imprisonment, all common-born men convicted of crimes who can be taught to bear arms or toil in the service of the Kingdom shall do so as a merciful commitment of their sentence.
“The nobility found guilty of crimes against the Realm will likewise be sentenced to service in the Penumbra, excepting the case of High Treason against Their – future – Majesties.”
“Oh, that sounds like fun,” I said. I’d been drafted once.
“All those who serve shall serve no less than two years, and some shall serve until death. All those who are thus sentenced shall bear as token of their service a simple black circle on a white field, indicating their dedication to defending the realm against the spawn of the Umbra. The Iron Ring, we’re calling it. From one of Rard’s speeches. About how we’re going to build an iron ring around the neck of the gurvani. A military order. Upon the successful completion of service, a man of the Iron Ring is free, with his debts and obligations expunged by a grateful kingdom.”
He sounded like he had practiced it. No doubt he had. He didn’t look comfortable with it, despite the obvious military applications of the policy. I suddenly realized why.
“That’s where you‘re going to send your political prisoners!” I gasped.
Mother smiled. “How perceptive, Son. Any who dare rise in rebellion against the crown will find themselves in irons, holding a spear, staring down a goblin charge . . . their lands forfeit to the Crown for the duration of their service to pay for the war. Of course, if they survive their term of service, they will be free to start over, free men, if poorer and less influential. I am not an ogre, my son.”
My mind raced. That would be a terrible club to hold over the heads of the nobility. The great nobles I knew – and admittedly that number was low – weren’t used to that kind of authority over their persons. There were counts and barons who ran their domains virtually independent of all but the most basic interactions with higher authority.
I could see why Count Salgo had mixed feelings about this.
“Why not just issue standard conscription orders, and new taxes like you did with the Farisian campaign?” I asked. “That seemed to work just fine for that, and . . .”
“That was a three-sided effort by three duchies,” the Duchess reminded me. “Not a sustained effort requiring this kind of manpower. Really, Spellmonger, I thought a man of action such as yourself would appreciate this. A new King means new customs, new laws, new . . . authority,” she smiled. “From minting fresh coin to defending the realm. When the goblins reach the heart of Gilmora, then the nobles will forget their objections and gladly send us their gallows fruit . . . and be especially prompt when it comes to payment of tribute.”
That had all sorts of implications I could only speculate about.
“Why don’t you and Salgo go discuss the arcane military issues involved with this proposal, and we’ll talk again later. We do have a lot to talk about, after all . . . all these new additions to the Family. I hear that your lady wife was gifted by Trygg and Ishi with a son,” she said.
I waited for her to mention the other child I no doubt had by now with her minion, Lady Isily. But she refrained. I suppose she wanted to save that for a special, more politically strategic time. “In honor of your son’s birth, a small token of the Realm’s admiration,” she said, and a beautiful young woman in a bright pink gown approached me, bowed, and presented me with a small wooden box. It didn’t explode or poison me when I took it, but I wouldn’t have put it past her. “Now leave us . . . I have to meet with that bitch the Duchess of Vore, and I have to have a fresh smile painted on my face.”
I took the box and left, with a bow and with Count Salgo escorting me. We waited until we were at the entrance of the fountain garden to speak.
“Your Excellency, please tell me that you are in as much need of a drink as I?” I inquired of the soldier, politely.
“Every time I meet with . . . Her Grace, I seem to need one,” he admitted. “That whole business of the new conscription policy to get troops to the Penumbralands, the Iron Ring . . . that’s going to come to mean a death sentence, you realize.”
“And a very, very docile population,” I agreed. “If they can manage to enforce it.”
“They can . . . we can . . . for a while,” he admitted. “If a few of the higher nobles resisted, there might be some doubt. But . . .”
“Mother,” I prompted, demonstrating I understood the incipient Queen’s real position at court to him.
“Aye,” he sighed, relieved. “�
�Mother’ has spent the last two years ensuring no noble who could lead such a rebellion would consider such a thing . . . or she removed the noble. She turns the honest pursuit of war as Duin intended into a nest of vipers!”
Count Salgo steered me into a plain, unmarked doorway in the middle of all the finery that was cleverly designed not to be noticed . . . and then down three stone steps to a cool, casual little room. There was a table, several chairs of a mean nature, a cupboard and ewer, and around the room were scattered ceremonial weapons, banners, and other trophies of campaigns past.
“My ‘refectory’ when I’m on duty at the Spire,” he explained. “My quarters are awash in spies, I cannot sup without one courtier or another trying to bribe themselves into influence, and even the whores are suspect. I had one of my sergeants fit out this room – it’s supposed to be an armory, only men of my guard are admitted.” He took off his ridiculous-looking, wide-brimmed hat and pulled his formal gloves off disdainfully. “A man needs a place he can retreat to and marshal his resources,” he said, looking at me thoughtfully.
“I count myself honored,” I said, taking off my own silly hat and leaning my rich-looking staff against the wall. “Are you certain we are not overheard?”
He shrugged. “You are the mage. I’m merely a soldier. Check for yourself.” So I did.
Surprisingly, there were no secret echo chambers or spells to communicate what was said here – Salgo had successfully eluded detection. “We seem to be private,” I agreed.
“Good. That gives me some peace of mind. Do you know why I invited you here, Magelord?”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 67
