Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Dara had been introduced to the elegant non-human folk at the Magic Fair,and she found the Alka Alon as mysterious and breathtaking as everyone else. If they were involved, then just about anything was possible. “But shouldn’t he stay here and tend to affairs in Sevendor?” she asked, confused. “He’s lord of this domain.”

  “If he goes to Gilmora, he might never return, Dara,” Gareth explained, quietly. “He is a magelord, but he is also a warmage. He was a warmage long before he was even a spellmonger,” he reminded her. “He feels he has a duty to protect the entire Five Duchies from the goblins. If they have penetrated as far as Gilmora, then everyone is in danger. Even here, in Sevendor.”

  “Then he should be preparing Sevendor for defense, not worrying with some other place!” Dara said, exasperated.

  “Would you rather fight goblins in some far-away place, or on your doorstep, with no room for error?” Gareth proposed. “Master Minalan is trying to do both. Do you think he’s not torn about it? But he has a duty. Just as you have a duty as his apprentice to support him . . . even if you don’t agree with his decisions. If Minalan decides to go help in the war, then you must let him. And if he does not return from the war, then . . . well, then you will have to accept that, as well,” he said, gravely.

  “Why wouldn’t he return from the war?” Dara demanded, as she raised her fist. “He’s fought goblins plenty of times. And he’s even more powerful now,” she bragged. She didn’t think anything could defeat her new master, and from what many of the folk of Sevendor believed, they didn’t, either.

  “Goblins are one thing,” Gareth said, keeping his voice low as the skreeching of servant girls erupted behind him. “In Gilmora, they’ve sighted . . . a dragon.”

  “A . . . what?” Dara asked, her jaw dropping as Frightful finally landed on her gloved fist.

  “Dragon,” Gareth repeated, his eyes downcast. “No one has ever slain one before.”

  “The goblins . . . have a dragon?” Dara whispered, incredulously. “Those are real?”

  “Yes!” Gareth agreed in a hiss. And they--”

  He was interrupted by a commotion at the head of the hall, as the Spellmonger entered, followed by Lady Pentandra, Sire Cei, Baron Arathaniel, and other important folk. Dara stood with everyone else in respect, though it upset Frightful enough to send her flapping.

  There was a hushed quiet as all eyes in the room went to the worn face of Master Minalan. The expectation in the air was as thick as porridge.

  “Thank you for your attention,” the Magelord announced to the hall. “The last few days since the news from Gilmora broke have been tense. The situation there grows dire, and it is increasingly clear that without relief Castle Cambrian will fall . . . and with it the defense of northern Gilmora. If the invasion is not blunted now, there, then there is no telling how bad it could become.

  “But there is no large enough force within days’ travel to counter the siege that is forming. Nor is Cambrian a terribly stout fortress . . . and certainly not proof against dragons,” he pronounced, causing a chorus of gasps and murmurs from the hall.

  “So I have volunteered my services to do what must be done to save the castle, and with it our hopes of a peaceful future. If no army is near enough to relieve the castle, then I must produce one. Luckily, I have one at hand, though it’s on the other side of the duchy. It is the only one that might prevail. I have a large number of warmagi and the remnants of two armies, here in Sevendor, armed and armored. And I have my own troops,” he added, making Dara’s heart catch in her throat. His troops were her family.

  The next sentence sent her heart into the floor.

  “As lord of Sevendor, I therefore call my banners and summon my warriors. We go to war in Gilmora.”

  Chapter One

  Solashaven

  “When the Magocracy’s nascent merchant fleet departed Farise, bound for Unstara, the Far Isles, and points beyond on a great commercial expedition, their escort of Cormeeran warships sailed first far to the west to screen them from the threat of pirates along the Scorched Coast.

  “Unbeknownst to the Magi, the Sea Lords of Enultramar were well-prepared to pillage their grand fleet. The proud ships of the Sea Lords descended from the Shoals of Sinbar like the grandsons of the Storm Lord himself, each sail bearing the Sea Axe token of their secret harbor. Quickly and savagely each ship took a prize and escaped with it through the Channel. When they brought their prizes back to their havens there were more than there were berths prepared.

  “Great fleets were forged out of their piracy, and the havens of Enultramar prospered as ships of war and trade departed from the fair bay on their missions. Many of the most ancient harbors and settlements saw their rise from this time: Pearslhaven, Drakeshaven, Solashaven, Deitus’ Landing, Fairhaven, Shellhaven, and many other small ports of the Sea Lords along the rocky Bay of Enultramar rose to economic power during their first grand attempt at organized piracy.”

  The History of Alshar

  By Seabrother Dexus of Fairhaven Abbey

  The drunk old mariner stumbled with practiced grace down the ancient wooden dock, his battered black boots scraping against the weather-worn wood with a determined but entirely irregular gait. The swirl of the mists accumulating in shadowed pockets of the waterfront was already starting to obscure his footing, but considering the cloud of brandy fumes that clung to his tattered clothes and the squint to his salt-stained eyes, the fog was the least of his impairments.

  The mariner wore a rusty scimitar at his hip, the bronze bell scratched and verdigried with long exposure to the elements. His broad hat, olive-colored doublet and thin leather baldric told him out as an officer, or at least a man with aspirations of a commission at some point in his career. His unshaven chin and patched hose indicated that it had been some time since he’d had a commission that paid – or much work of any sort. The purse next to his blade was as flaccid as a becalmed sail.

  “Storm Lord’s blessings on ye, lads!” he said in a loud and enthusiastic voice, filling the air with the aroma of the cheap brandy mixed with seawater known as Maiden’s Blood the mariners of Enultramar preferred as a matter of cultural pride. “Wouldn’t happen to have a spare ha’penny, would you, my lords?”

  Rondal eyed the man suspiciously and continued to sip his plain, country-made un-watered ale. He’d seen enough of these out-of-work mariners in the last two days to fill a fleet, and the landsmen who came to the docks hoping to sell their produce looked just as desperate.

  There were hundreds of ships at anchor across the Great Bay, after the fleets returned from a season of raiding and trading this year. But there were far more than there were ports for them. When the squadrons of the Sea Lords returned before the winter storms, they brought back more than twice their number of smaller Farisi ships.

  When the boys arrived at the mouth of the great river Mandros, they’d learned that the mariners of Farise, in exile at sea for nearly five years, had gathered their fellows from all over the Shallow Sea and made port in Enultramar, under the auspices of the rebel barons and viscounts who ruled there. Now the sails bearing the old Farisian symbol, a stylized sun wheel over a stylized wave, were just as numerous as those bearing the sea axe-and-anchor of the Alshari navy, though the latter clearly enjoyed the advantage in the size of its ships.

  While that made every major harbor crowded, smaller ports like Solashaven seemed to only attract the large number of mariners ashore for the winter who’d blown through their pay in the first few weeks in the major ports and then drifted like seaweed toward less expensive quarters. Even the great ports they’d passed on their way to this silted-up haven seemed crowded with them, milling listlessly between taphouses. All of Enultramar seemed to becalmed, as ships bobbed in the harbors and havens, but did not depart.

  Tyndal took a more engaging approach. He saw the vast horizon of squalid fishing villages and ancient docks, sea castles and merchant caravels, vacant warehouses and rotting hulls as an opportunity f
or adventure, not an insidious trap ever revealing itself. Enultramar was a game to the younger of the two magi. Though their mission was serious, his approach to it was not – something that irritated his companion to no end.

  But it occasionally got results.

  “I might have coin for the right news, Uncle,” he replied, tapping a silver penny – known locally as a “shell”, for the scallop design stamped into the obverse – on the table. He watched with expectation as the man’s bleary eyes opened up. You could buy a lot of Maiden’s Blood with a single shell. An entire night’s worth of drunken oblivion.

  “Plain Nymatis always has his ears open, gentlemen,” he assured them, obsequiously. “Nothin’ happens on the docks o’ Enultramar that don’t eventually come to these big ears. Like lateen sails, they are. What news do ye seek?”

  “We want to know where we might find a certain fellow,” continued Tyndal, more quietly. Rondal had to admit, his partner was far more adept at this sort of thing than he was. “We have reason to suspect he’s somewhere here in Solashaven.”

  “Does this fellow have a name?” asked Nymatis. “And does he want to be found?”

  “He does, and he doesn’t,” Tyndal offered. “Do you find that morally troubling?” Suddenly there were two shells flipping enticingly through his fingers.

  The mariner scratched his scraggly jaw. He considered briefly before his face dismissed the idea entirely. “Can’t say that I do, milord!”

  “The man’s name is Skrup,” Tyndal said, catching the man’s eye intently. “Skrupenal, but he’s known as Skrup. Hard Skrup, to some,” he said, adding the man’s street name.

  “Oh, it’s Skrup,” Nymatis said, his voice falling. That seemed a different matter. His expression changed. “Why would a couple o’ nice lads like yourselves want to get on board a ruffian like him?”

  “We owe him money,” Rondal blurted out, earning him a stern look from Tyndal.

  You do realize that’s the oldest, most blatant lie about why someone is looking for someone else, don’t you? he asked his partner scornfully, mind-to-mind. Why not mention we have a present for his daughter’s name-day? Or that we’re long-lost relatives bringing him a rich legacy?

  Fine, I’ll shut up! Rondal shot back, irritated.

  “We’d like to discuss a business matter,” Tyndal corrected, smoothly, when Nymantis’ skepticism became apparent. A third shell was added to the pile on the table.

  “Ah, business,” the mariner nodded, still rubbing his uneven beard. “Can’t stand in the way of a man’s business, now, can I? Against the Fairdealer, that would be.”

  Invoking one of the less-bloodthirsty daughters of the Storm Lord as an excuse for low-dealing seemed to be a popular rationalization in Enultramar, the boys had learned already in their brief stay. The five deities seemed uncannily helpful at providing perfectly reasonable excuses for extremely poor behavior wrapped in the cloak of pious virtue.

  “I know the man – know of him,” he corrected. “Though he’s often drawn out of Solashaven on . . . business,” he said, his drunken grin communicating just what kind of business the mariner imagined the man to pursue.

  “Well, we were told he was the one to speak to about arranging certain things,” Tyndal continued, still playing with the three silver coins. “We would be incredibly grateful if we could be directed to where he’s doing business, these days.”

  “The Arrunatus House,” the man said in a whisper loud enough to hear over the waves lapping against the edge of the pier. “Second floor.” His eyes darted expectantly down to the three silver coins and back up to Tyndal’s face, pleadingly.

  “Well done, Nymatis,” Tyndal nodded, and flipped the three into the air. As drunk as the mariner was, he caught all three in his left fist as if they were three golden sandolars instead. The look of misplaced triumph in his eyes made Rondal ill, but Tyndal just acted pleased as the old man sauntered away.

  “Arrunatus House,” Tyndal repeated, satisfied. “Second floor.”

  “You know, it might have been helpful to ask where we might find the Arrunatus House,” Rondal mentioned, sipping his ale.

  “Do you not remember esteemed Iyugi’s advice on the subject of gathering intelligence?” Tyndal lectured, finishing his own wine. He’d opted for Maiden’s Blood himself, out of a sense of adventure, and was pretending not to be bothered by the taste. “Try not to reveal more in asking your questions than your subject does in answering them.’ I didn’t want to appear like I didn’t know where the place was. That might have tipped him off and given him a reason to mention our inquiry to people we’d rather not know about it,” he said, sagely.

  Rondal watched as Nymantis staggered back down the pier from the way he’d come, his fortune destined for the brandy parlor at the far end. Brandy was cheap, and the drink of choice for the poor and destitute in Enultramar. With so little of the local wines being exported these days, most vintners were selling their surpluses to distillers, the boys had learned. The resulting glut of cheap brandy on the docks made drunkenness the preferred method of enjoying the economic downturn.

  “I don’t think he’s likely to say much to anyone, after he drinks up that silver,” Rondal said, doubtfully.

  The mariner had attracted a tail, a string of local urchins and orphans who seemed to clog the docks and streets of the places they’d seen. The locals of Solashaven and other dingy ports called them “barnacles” for how ubiquitous and unwanted they were. The children of whores and cast-off waifs, the orphans of mariners and barmaids taken in their prime, they seemed to range from age of four to pubescence, but the string who haunted the docks here seemed to be mostly seven or eight years old.

  “He’ll be happy to blab whatever he can if it means another cup of Maid’s Blood,” Tyndal assured him. “For a mariner, I doubt he’s been on a deck in years.”

  “Two strangers in town looking for Skrup for business are one thing; two strangers looking for Skrup who have no idea where he might be hanging his hat? That might be suspicious. We can ask where the house is from anyone else, without revealing why we want to go there.” The barnacles surrounded the wobbling drunk, their hands outstretched and their voices pleading. It was as if they could smell the silver pennies in his pocket.

  Skrup is a Rat, reminded Rondal, mind-to-mind. The magical rapport between the two had grown with time and practice, until they could speak to each other’s minds almost at will. Anyone we ask about him is going to assume we have ‘business’ with his crew.

  That’s why we don’t need to appear like rubes, Tyndal shot back.

  We appear completely as rubes, Rondal complained.

  He knew he wasn’t wrong. Despite the muted color of their clothing and their care to keep from attracting attention, the two were garbed differently enough from the average subject of Enultramar’s far-flung havens to be noticed.

  Most of the common men who worked the docks – or were desperately searching for work at the docks – wore a simple cotton tunic, laced at the collar, and a sturdy waistcoat; their shoes were wooden-soled leather laced to the knee over their stockings. Noblemen – of which they’d seen a few, some in worse states than the commonfolk – and officers tended to wear doublets with light mantles to keep the misty chill of the sea at bay.

  And hats. All of Enultramar seemed to be mad for hats, for some reason. Probably the near-constant sprinkle of mist from the sea and the persistent rains that showered the bay daily during the winter season. Even the poor folk managed to wear straw hats woven from the sea of reeds that clung to the stony shore.

  By comparison, the two magi were decidedly dressed like Narasi Riverlords, in simpler doublets with far longer sleeves, far longer hems, and with far heavier cloaks than the Sea Lords and Coastlords they’d witnessed. Even their swords were out of place. Though they had stowed their mageblades, the sidearms they carried were from Castal. Rondal’s was a short, triangular-shaped infantry sword, and Tyndal’s was a long, straight, heavy cavalry swo
rd, the kind a knight or sergeant would carry. Neither blade was common in Solashavan, or in any other part of Enultramar, where scimitars and leaf-shaped short swords favored by the Coastlord infantry were common.

  So let’s adopt some native dress, proposed Tyndal. It should only take a couple of days to learn how to blend in, once we get some new clothes. We can use the time to enjoy the whole seashore experience. Once you get the accent down, the rest is just playing dress-up. The barnacles following the mariner became increasingly demanding that the man part with his new fortune, at least share his bounty. The old drunk was having none of it, holding his fist above his head and bellowing belligerently for the children to leave him be. It doesn’t seem too difficult to pass for a destitute drunk, for instance.

  “I think I saw a pawn shop last night near the inn,” Rondal conceded, out loud. “There is an entire alley of them, a few streets back.”