The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord

by Terry Mancour

  “Uh . . . no,” I admitted. I had no idea what would impress a bunch of noblewomen, or why in Trygg’s name I’d want to. As soon as the ridgepole for the section was in place, the River Folk started laying woven mats of straw over the frame and tying it down with stringgrass.

  Then the foreman, a stout Tal with a squint, would come along and inspect it before motioning another Tal to begin the messy but important job of smearing the mats with a special clay-heavy mud. I watched with fascination as their small bare hands quickly turned the rough structure into a smooth clay surface.

  “She doesn’t have a choice,” Penny said, irritated. “You’ve put her in this strange social circle where she doesn’t know the rules, and given her an impossible job.”

  “So this is my fault?” I asked, incredulously.

  “You’re her husband, of course this is your fault,” Penny dismissed. “The point is, she has to make a good showing at this wedding. Lady . . . Estret? Estret is a local noblewoman, albeit a minor one. But she’s a vassal to the local Baron, who is planning on attending. So is your other chief military ally in the region. And it’s the wedding of one of your most trusted vassals. If she doesn’t make this the most splendid social event she can, the other noblewomen will crush her.”

  “What?”

  “Gossip, you idiot,” she fumed. “They will rip her apart in their circles. And if the first demonstration of your skills as a noblewoman fall flat, if your hospitality is shallow or you violate social rules, then you lose position.”

  “But they can’t demote Alya,” I pointed out, confused.

  “Not rank, position,” Penny corrected. “Whole different thing.”

  “If you say so,” I mumbled, as the next Tal came around and began pressing a second layer of woven straw mat over the wet clay, using forked twigs to secure it into place. The straw would act like a wick, I could see, helping suck the moisture from the clay to help dry it before the next layer would go on, tomorrow. “I just know this wedding is costing me a fortune.”

  “Its money well spent,” dismissed Pentandra. “If Alya can charm these old hens into liking her, then it will be worth double whatever you paid.” She squinted at a separate structure, likewise made of wattle-and-daub, that was taking shape nearby. “What is that?”

  “Their cistern,” I explained, glad she’d finally gotten off of the subject of the wedding, my wife, and my failures as a husband. “They’ll coat the whole thing with clay, then Olmeg or I will magically ‘fire’ it, to cure it. It should hold nearly two-hundred gallons. They’ll erect it on a latticework on the roof, and it can provide water to any part of the burrow.” I thought I’d gotten her sufficiently distracted, but I should have known better.

  “It’s especially important that you be seen as supportive of her efforts,” Pentandra continued, unimpressed by plumbing. “If she asks your opinion, give it to her, but leave the final discretion up to her. Don’t overrule her unless you can tell she wants you to,” she said, perhaps one of the most confusing pieces of advice she could have given me. “And in public, you are nothing but sweetness, incarnate.”

  “Hey, we always get along!” I protested. Well, mostly. We’d had a couple of tense moments, particularly in the first few months of her motherhood, but we'd smoothed them over. Mostly.

  “It’s not a matter of ‘getting along’,” she explained, patiently, “it’s a matter of demonstrating her utterly solid and blissfully-happy marriage to a powerful lord. You have to understand, Min, she’s going to be under tremendous scrutiny by every woman in the region, from how she conducts herself at a formal event to how the food turns out to how she mothers her baby to how her marriage is run. If she doesn’t manage this perfectly – perfectly! Then she’ll . . .”

  “Lose position?” I supplied, helpfully. I still didn’t know what the hell that meant.

  “Exactly!” Pentandra said, pleased by my guess. “So be a good little magelord and let her do what she needs to do to get ready. Don’t worry,” she assured me, after telling me for twenty minutes just how much I should be worried. “I’m helping her, coaching her. So is Lady Estret, who is quite a dear woman, for the rural gentry. She’s used to the local hens and knows their peculiarities, which is helpful.”

  “Since I just conquered many of their territories, one would think they’d be inclined toward being charitable,” I observed. I could see the next sections of the burrow being laid out by another crew. Due to the size of the combined tribe, the plans to house them were expansive.

  The central compound, where we were standing, spread out in a slightly imperfect circle to a radius of ninety feet. There was to be a second ring, a specially-built outer ring that would eventually be food storage. Then atop the two would be built the third ring, mostly individual residential quarters. When they were done, the whole thing would be covered with earth and planted, making it resemble a verdant hill when they were done . . . a hill with porthole-like windows.

  The Holly Burrow had more folk than the structure could hold. I knew larger settlements often broke off into smaller pods, or even individual burrows or human-style houses. Or they might expand the diameter, going for a two-ring design in concentric circles, a real Tal mansion.

  But instead of increasing the diameter or building a second ring, they were planning two wings to run parallel to the river bank along the ridge of the rise. The north wing would be devoted to poultry and husbandry, tools and crafting areas. The south wing would be purely residential. Even then, in a generation I could foresee a second ring needing to be built.

  The River Folk were communal at heart. Everyone worked, everyone played, and everyone ate. All the time.

  But they also smoked. And the River Folk’s passion for food was almost eclipsed by their passion for good smoke. Olmeg had mentioned several exotic varieties he was helping them cultivate for local consumption. They were masterful at herb lore. And then there was their facility with brewing . . .

  “Of course they will be . . . that’s part of the problem!” Penny snorted. “You just held some of these women as hostage for their husbands’ or fathers’ surrender. They’re going to be ingratiating to the point of being obsequious, but that doesn’t mean they won’t talk behind her back. Now if they say anything that gets back to her, they know she has the power to punish. She has social power, even if it’s unproven, thanks to your conquest.”

  “Sorry I had to inconvenience her social development,” I said, as I used magesight to inspect the way the Tal were tying the layers together. “But there was an enemy army besieging my domain.”

  “It couldn’t be helped,” she agreed, as if I’d had a choice in the matter. “But as it stands, now there’s even more pressure. Will this be a gracious conquest, or is she going to be a tyrant?”

  “Why are they worried about her? I’m the one who orders the men with swords around and destroys castles.”

  “It’s not the swords they’re worried about,” Penny disagreed. “They worry about losing their own position. If Alya is suddenly immensely popular, then they will suffer. If she is immensely unpopular, then they will suffer another way. But mostly they worry about losing position in the eyes of each other. So they will try to be part of the consensus opinion of her, as it evolves. It really is a difficult situation you’ve put her in.”

  I let that pass. It required a full day’s argument, or none at all. I went with the latter.

  The River Folk had done their best to integrate themselves in their new home in the few weeks they’d been here. My brother-in-law was happy to see them come, although he was confused by their language and complex social rules. After dealing with the sparse, historically lazy peasants who had remained after Farant’s ouster, he was delighted with vassals who would actually work.

  The district’s peasants, no more than a half a dozen families scattered across the holding, actively resented the Tal Alon’s presence. One farmer in particular had objected to his new neighbors. He had even gone so far as to
beat two of them who had been harvesting rushes in the marshy areas of the district. He claimed they were trespassing.

  Sagal disagreed. In the ensuing argument, the man got belligerent and insulting. Sagal was forced to terminate the family’s hold and evict them. He turned their lands over to the burrow for cultivation, and gave the family’s hovel to the Tal Alon headman, Bukka, as a temporary residence until the burrow was complete.

  When his other holders saw that, the complaints about the Tal Alon fell dramatically.

  The burrow had become helpful to the running of all of Sevendor Vale, as it happened. Not only were there now Tal Alon assistants for Master Olmeg (they wore a copy of his straw hat with a green feather, when working on his behalf) but a few dozen had taken work in the castle in preparation for the wedding and fair. While not as strong as humans, they were exceedingly nimble and capable of the most boring of tasks.

  One of them, Jaffa, had secured a position emptying the castle’s chamberpots and cleaning out the privies every day, and had a two-man crew to do just that. Just that morning I’d noticed that the privies were cleaned and packed with sweet-smelling wildflowers.

  Another had come to an arrangement with Cei about other maintenance issues at the castle. The old rushes that had been sitting on the floor of the great hall for months were carted off by the River Folk for some purpose of their own. The same little crew gathered fresh ones in the marshy areas of the holding, adding fall wildflowers and aromatic herbs to them to improve the ambiance of the hall. Yet another crew was now in charge of hauling the garbage from the castle, and had taken over the refuse pit in the outer bailey.

  The Tal had been surprisingly helpful in other ways. It was harvest time, and while they were terrible at reaping and threshing, they did an outstanding job of gleaning. You could often see stooped-over Tal females in blindingly colorful skirts following behind human peasants, dutifully picking up any stray ears or sheaves. And their little hands could shuck maize and peas like lightning.

  And of course, they could cook. In preparation for both the wedding and the fair that would follow, the castle kitchens were swarming with activity, like a hill of angry ants, and there were plenty of River Folk involved. And their help was needed.

  Nanily ran the kitchens and larders of Sevendor Castle with an iron ladle. If anyone felt more pressure than Alya, it was Nanily, who would not see the Lady of Sevendor disappoint in demonstrating our hospitality. To that end she had imported a dozen additional goodwives from around the vale, and added as many nimble River Folk from the burrow to assist as she needed. She didn’t particularly like them, but she could not argue with either their industriousness or their love of food. Once she taught them to clean properly, they were happy to scrub away.

  That was fortunate. The problem with living in an all-white castle is that it shows dirt ridiculously easily, and castles are notoriously dirty, dusty places by nature. The problem was compounded by my vocation. In the home of a mage, magelights (which we used in abundance) reveal far more than tapers or lamps, and it doesn’t take more than a smudge to make an entire wall look dirty. I saw dozens of drudges, both human and Tal, scrubbing every inch of the place with determination and hot water every morning.

  Beyond the cleaning frenzy, there were a lot of fresh decorations. A dozen new banners with Sevendor’s new snowflake device, white on a green field, were hung from the battlements and towers, with a magnificently large one (a gift from Lady Estret and the people of her domain) hung on the chimney in the Great Hall. The reversed device, a green snowflake on a white field, was displayed as a badge on every guard, castellan’s assistant, and other domestic in my service.

  I felt as if I was being needlessly self-aggrandizing, but Sir Cei sagely pointed out that this was Sevendor’s device, not my personal device. I didn’t see much distinction.

  Sevendor’s abundant harvest was keeping everyone in the vale busy, and even with the Tal and the indentured labor from the prisoners-of-war, there was still the eternal struggle of getting the crops harvested, processed and properly stored that was every peasant’s annual devotion to Huin the Earthborn. Things were especially confusing because my people didn’t know how to properly harvest many of Master Olmeg’s new crops. But the flood of coin from my coffers was attracting labor from across the vales of the Riverlands, and my folk were willing to learn. The fruits of their labors were well-represented at the wedding.

  I’d reluctantly presumed on my title to levy a special tribute from each Yeomanry for the occasion of Sire Cei’s wedding – a common practice, I was assured – and for once I heard nary a grumble about it from my Yeomen. Indeed, they seemed to strive to out-do each other in the presentation.

  Yeoman Carkan of Caolan’s Pass arrived two days before the wedding with most of his household. As his holding had been occupied and looted during the siege, his tribute was the sparsest. But he managed to bring twenty jars of berry preserves, three dozen wild fowl (his six young nephews had been practicing with bows since the siege), and several sacks of freshly-cut herbs that grew best at that altitude.

  Yeoman Brandine of Gurisham was proud that his commune could bring two entire wains filled with their tribute, and he confessed to me as it was being unloaded that he appreciated the opportunity to dispose of some of his surplus. While as hesitant as the Genly villagers to adopt Master Olmeg’s ideas about horticulture, the Gurisham commune was now an enthusiastic supporter of his efforts, and their granary was full to bursting as a result. Six bushels of potatoes, ten of maize, four of carrots and four of beans enriched our pantry, while four crates of Gurisham chickens went to the butchery behind the kitchens.

  Yeoman Guris of Southridge was generous to the point of embarrassment. The Bovali had taken charge of the holding only that winter, but the native Sevendori peasants had prospered under his leadership, as I suspected they would. Three full wagons of everything from smoked hams to casks of pickled eggs to crates of turnips were unloaded. Guris himself dressed as richly as a lord, and his folk arrived in new finery, bragging of their prosperity.

  While my brother-in-law Sagal’s Hold brought in a small but respectable tribute of twenty hens and seven dressed goats, his biggest contribution was the small parcel he reverently laid in my hands as his wife, Ela, greeted her sister, and my nephew Sagellan and my son contended for the title of crankiest baby in the castle. I think little Sag had Min beat by a hair.

  “Bovali cheese,” he said, smugly as I unwrapped the white muslin. “Oh, not the actual Bovali, of course,” he assured me, “but as close as I could come here. I suppose its Sevendori cheese, now. Cow’s milk and with goats’ milk, prepared in the traditional way. It’s still a bit green, but you can see where it’s going. Try it!” he encouraged, eagerly.

  I did, carving a piece off with my belt-knife. After spending a year in Boval Vale and marrying into a proud cheese-producing family, I’d learned a little about how proper Bovali was supposed to taste. This was close. A little more tart on the tongue, rich, salty flavor, good aftertaste. Not perfect, but very close, and I said so.

  “Just wait until it’s aged a year,” he nodded, excitedly. “A year in the cold and this will be first-rate. A little softer than Bovali, but still . . .” he said, happily. I cut a piece off for Alya, who made the most embarrassing noises about it.

  Yeoman Vano, who had spent most of the year leading the stubborn peasantry of Brestal Village, was nearly as generous with the wedding tribute as Sagal. Sir Cei had been extremely supportive of his efforts to coax the Brestali into prosperity, and a full

  But no one outdid Yeoman Rollo, the headman of the village now known as Boval Hall. When his manor gave to their castellan’s wedding, they did so with unrestrained pride.

  The Bovali who had built it from the ground up were the heart and soul of the old Vale, from Zagor the Hedgemage, still settling into his big new shop, to Arstol the Saddlemaker running his. The new Boval Inn, being run by Mother Breda the Loud and her sons. Even had a Wilderl
ands-style Luck Tree outside of the inn. That was a custom from the Mindens unknown in the Riverlands, so it gave a little folksy charm to the newly-hewn village. The shrine to Huin was well-tended and popular, and Landbrother Tevram had successfully concluded the Harvest Rites for the vale, which Huin had so abundantly blessed.

  They were proud of their castellan and eager to contribute. Bushel after bushel of maize, wheat and oats arrived at the Castle in Bovali carts, as well as more potatoes, leeks, pumpkins and salted pork. Considering how involved he had been with its inception, Boval Hall considered Sire Cei to be one of their own, and they wanted to show him their appreciation. Far from jealous of the knight’s place in his Yeomanry, Yeoman Rollo seemed the most eager to boast of the relationship.

  Lastly Yeoman Kamen of Westwood arrived on foot with a good two score of his folk, the most the Westwood had sent to Sevendor in living memory. The woodmen were not stingy in their tribute, bringing four butchered stags and nine boars, as well as dozens of smaller beasts and birds and four bushels of nuts from the wood. Young Kyre looked inordinately pleased with himself as he presented a handsome winter bearskin cloak with a silver snowflake clasp (all right, it did look kind of like a spider web) to Sir Cei as a wedding gift. Apparently the lad had slain the bear himself.

  Sir Cei was well-respected by the reclusive folk, and that respect was returned. It seems the Westwoodmen had been eager scouts in Caolan’s Pass, as well as adept at sniping at the West Flerians during the siege. Their boldness and dedication had endeared them to Sir Cei, who found them to be competent and brave in war, even for commoners. They had even consented to be led by Sir Festaran for a sortie. Indeed, that had been the event that had provoked Kyre’s gift.