Enchanter (Book 7)

by Terry Mancour

  The entire thing was controlled by voice commands, using words in various obscure dialects to keep it from being easily bossed-around. It stayed within its bounds and used the permanent wards of the place to sense intrusion. But once it was in place it wandered over the Rat Trap’s narrow bounds day and night, rain or shine, vigilantly patrolling against any who would dare intrude on the place.

  It was a dramatic display of enchantment, the kind that had rarely been seen since the Magocracy. It also inadvertently set a new style, as everyone seemed to want a construct for some purpose.

  More importantly it gave me some truly intriguing ideas about how to guard my domain in the future. It was good to have the boys back around. There’s nothing like youthful cocky arrogance to inject a sense of perspective into us ancient fellows of thirty.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sire Cullien

  All winter the structure of the new gatehouse grew. Once the foundations were laid and the massive blocks of white basalt were quarried from the future Great Hall of the mountain keep, the walls of the double tower crept up and up daily. A week before Briga’s Day the towers stood four stories high, more than half way built. With the Karshak devoting three shifts to the work there were crews placing and securing blocks at all hours.

  I hadn’t thought much of it, as I was consumed with developing the fascinating enchantments we were building. But a week before Briga’s Day I received an emissary from Sashtalia concerning my construction project in my capacity as Baron, not as the Spellmonger.

  Sire Trefalan of Sashtalia controlled more than twenty domains in the Sashtali Confederation, many of which originally belonged to various sides in the succession wars between Lensely barons a century ago. His father had consolidated his power under the guise of a confederation, with himself as the elected leader and his noble supporters as willing confederates in a regional alliance. Trefalan had inherited a decent-sized rump barony when he came of age, but he had not pressed to be recognized as a peer; without the responsibilities being a baron he had a freer hand in how he ran his lands. It wasn’t an unusual move. Being a baron is almost more trouble than it’s worth.

  But Sire Trefalan was a shrewd man, despite throwing his lot in with the Warbird two years ago. While he’d lost some men and ransoms he’d lost little in the way of land. But when his agents reported to him of the great tower I was raising behind my already decent-sized castle, that drew Trefalan’s attention.

  The man he sent was a neatly-dressed knight in full armor, but bearing a peaceful token and a reasonable look on his face. He introduced himself as Sire Cullien of Rolone, one of Sire Trefalan’s most trusted councilors. He came bearing a message . . . more of an inquiry, really. After a cup of wine, an exchange of pleasantries, and some idle discussion as social custom demanded with a man of his rank, he more or less came to the point: why was I building a new, bigger castle when I already had a castle sufficient for my needs?

  He put it more politely, I suppose.

  “Excellency, it has come to the attention and become a cause of some concern, nay, even alarm, among Sire Trefalan’s more reactionary counsellors that you have begun this bellicose gesture at a time of increasing regional tensions. While some nod toward security was expected, after that unfortunate affair with the Warbird, embarking on an expensive fortification like this at this time gives the perception that you harbor ambitions beyond your current frontiers.”

  “Or that I like not getting attacked,” I countered. “My old castle was adequate, spacious, even, for the lord of a single domain. I am a baron, now, and my military obligations have risen accordingly. It would be remiss of me not to prepare myself against the day my liege calls upon me for service.”

  “But that seems a bit grand a gesture for a few hundred lances,” the man said, almost accusingly, as we looked out over the growing tower. “It isn’t a mere refuge tower or additional barracks – that is a hardened fortification . . . behind an existing castle!”

  “I do like to feel safe,” I agreed pleasantly. “Surely, from his mighty Sashtal Castle, he can appreciate that. And we do need the room. I don’t see what Trefalan’s problem is.”

  “The problem, Baron, is that you are beginning to stockpile arms and prepare fortifications in your lands, and that gives your neighbors pause. Build too ambitiously, and you invite rebuke.”

  “‘Rebuke’? Is that a threat?” I asked, bluntly.

  “A piece of common wisdom,” corrected Sire Cullien. “Big castles make folk nervous. When it’s complete, another five-story keep here will make this one of the more extensive forts in the Bontal Vales. That will be a power that few in the region will tolerate without guarantees.” He took a patronizing tone that did not agree with me, but I kept my emotions off of my face.

  “Then a warning,” I nodded, appreciatively. “And if I brazenly ignore your sage advice and continue the work to its full seven stories?”

  “Seven stories?” he asked, amazed. “Why, that would dwarf the fortifications you have here!”

  “It lets us throw rocks over the castle, if we need to,” I agreed. “If I carry on and build it that high, how do you propose my noble neighbors would respond?” I asked, curiously.

  “Sashtalia has over three hundred lances that follow her banner,” Sire Cullien boasted, eyeing his wine cup. “It would be terrifying to see them all arrayed against Sevendor.”

  “Now that’s a threat,” I chuckled. “And a brave one. But Sire Cullien, if your liege threw his armed might against my poor barony, what is to stop Baron Arathanial from taking your lands from you while you tarry in Sevendor?”

  The man had no answer for that, and looked perplexed that I would dare bring up such a thing as the impending war between Sashtalia and Sendaria – a war that, by all accounts, Trefalan decidedly did not want. “Sashtalia is mighty enough to protect herself, and doubly so on her own lands.”

  “Then it sounds as if you have a busy summer ahead of you,” I soothed. “Because you are mistaken on several fronts. First, Sashtalia isn’t nearly as mighty as you pretend, according to my agents. Most of your warriors are country knights. Some even plow their own fields, they’re so poor. Secondly, Sevendor measures its might not in lances or archers, but in warmagi, and in that we have a bounty. Third, it won’t matter how many lances you throw at Sevendor, you won’t get in, much less lay siege to my castle.

  “And lastly, my good knight, that big double tower there isn’t a refuge and it isn’t a keep. It’s my new gatehouse. The actual keep will be built into the mountain, itself, and by the time I’m done with it, it will make the rest of Sevendor Castle look ‘quaint’.”

  “You speak boldly, Excellency!” Cullien said, hastily. “A mere gatehouse? Dear gods, you are ambitious, aren’t you?” he gasped.

  “When it is done, it will contain thousands,” I promised. “Hundreds of knights. Thousands of warriors. Scores of professional warmagi. I am not an ambitious man, when it comes to conquest, but I am adamant in the defense of my realm.”

  “You are mad!” he said, shaking his head. “This must be costing a fortune!”

  “More than your liege collects from his rump barony in five years,” I agreed. “And it may not be finished in my lifetime. But that is the way of magelords, Cullien. Ask the Warbird about the power of warmagi . . . and that was two years ago, before our spells started getting sophisticated. Now I could take your lord’s castle apart by myself, at need. Or yours,” I added, for effect.

  He swallowed. “May I ask, then, just what your intentions are, in regards to the prospect of war between Sashtalia and Sendaria?”

  “I’m certain the two of you can handle the matter without Sevendor’s assistance,” I assured him. “But it is tempting to throw my weight behind Sendaria.”

  That alarmed him, after all he had seen here. “Excellency, what would it take to convince you to keep your men at home, this summer?” he asked, diplomatically.

  “That all depends,” I considered.
“What guarantees or incentives would the Lord of Sashtalia extend to Sevendor?”

  “Excellency, I know not,” he confessed. “But I will take the matter up with him. As I have seen, you are a powerful lord, though your domain is small. I am certain we can come to some agreement to spare you the trouble of mustering your forces.”

  “It is not my desire for war,” I admitted. “Yet I am getting some powerful inducements from Arathanial to do just that. At this point, while I’ve allowed some of my men may hire on as mercenaries, I am not planning on calling my banners. Not unless I am provoked,” I added, with what I hoped was a goodly amount of dark menace in my expression.

  “There are . . . other voices, among Sire Trefalan’s counselors,” Cullien continued, still searching his wine for the indefinable. “Voices who whisper that alliance with the Magelord is preferable to conquest by him.”

  “What wisdom you Sashtali possess,” I chuckled, humorlessly. “Could it be that not all of your three hundred lances are particularly eager to cross swords with Sendaria?”

  “Chepstan has been hiring mercenaries by the brigade,” Cullien said, sourly. “It’s one thing to fight against a lord’s own troops, but against professionals? Do you know what happens to lands conquered by mercenaries? Oft the lands are sold off to pay them, or the taxes raised on the new acquisitions to pay for their own conquest. We are a doughty people, Baron Minalan, and brave, but we are not stupid.”

  “Tell your lord he has nothing to fear from me or my gatehouse . . . yet,” I cautioned. “I am unconcerned with the squabbles of mundane lords unless they affect me directly. If Trefalan thinks he can scare off Arathanial by feinting at me, he is mistaken. He should focus on his own frontiers . . . while they are still far from his seat.”

  Cullien rode off with a much better idea of Sevendor’s strength and position, and I learned that not everyone in Sashtalia was thrilled with the prospect of conquest by the Lenselys. The gossip ran that Arathanial planned on re-establishing an old Lensely cadet barony from out of the ashes of his conquests and installing his younger son as baron over them.

  I didn’t have any problem with that, on the surface, but the fact was that several of those domains would bring Arathanial’s rule right to Sevendor’s door. There were five or six domains of concern on my borders, most small and unimportant, strategically or economically . . . but if they were mine it would make me feel more comfortable about having Sendaria as a neighbor.

  It didn’t hurt that Alya was behind the effort. She had grown quite fond of Sister Bemia, the priestess of Trygg Allmother who was the castle chaplain, and Trygg’s important clergy happened to have an important abbey just two domains over, in Fistalia. Unfortunately the birthsisters’ temple was located on a prosperous estate, one they had been defending legally and occasionally militarily to keep. It bordered on my own small Sashtali estate of Amel Wood, so I certainly had an interest in the matter.

  Alya took up the cause of support for the abbey at Bemia’s behest, and I didn’t object. The midwifery of the Sisters of Trygg was a vital social function in the vales. Considering the bounty of babies that was being born in the region lately, it was a valuable service that we wanted to keep around. While there was discussion of inviting the abbey to Sevendor, the more Alya and I talked about it the more we were inclined to make the established abbey part of Sevendor, instead.

  How to do that was the tricky part. Ecclesiastic estates have all sorts of additional legal protections that make them difficult to conquer – but not impossible. A challenge of combat would be met with the abbey’s designated champion, likely a local knight. Attacking without warning could get all of Sevendor placed under all sorts of sanctions and interdictions by the temples.

  Attacking with warning was an option. If I gave the abbey thirty days’ notice that I intended to take them in battle, they had time to prepare their own forces. Many knights owed service to temples, and it wouldn’t take half that time to gather enough to make an attack untenable. More likely, however, the abbey would appeal the war to the Lawbrothers of Luin, who had the power to order a private war halted in many circumstances. So while abbeys and temples, shrines and ecclesiastic estates weren’t immune to feudal warfare, they were highly resistant.

  I didn’t want to take Fistalia domain without taking the contiguous domains in between. Two of them were tenant lords installed by Trefalan, the other two were titled lords who had sworn fealty to Sashtalia for security reasons, and weren’t necessarily well-inclined to the man.

  There were resources involved. There was a fair-sized forest on the other side of Caolan’s Pass that had once belonged to Sevendor. The way we were using wood, having access to that small forest would be a benefit. There was also a copper mine of some note in the domain of Karador, a once-lucrative estate for Trefalan, who schemed to own it directly. And nearly all the domains had at least some reasonably productive croplands.

  I had put aside any aspirations in that direction, as I didn’t really want to start another war right now. After my visit with Sire Cullien, however, I started to look at those lands in a new light.

  If there were those who were, indeed, counseling an alliance with Sevendor, they would be exempt from the inevitable raiding and pillaging of the Sendari troops; they would be exempt from military service, defending Sashtalia’s heartland. And they would begin to accrue some of the benefits the other magelands were already beginning to see.

  My barony’s domains thrived under the new leadership, despite the cost of reorganizing and bringing the security of the estates up-to-date. Using magic to augment both military security and crop productivity led to an influx of folk eager to enjoy the higher standards of living.

  That hadn’t gone unnoticed in Sashtalia. Trefalan’s hold on his men was largely through inertia and his opposition to the Lenselys. When the Warbird folded up so quickly against me, even with the help of the Censorate, that had given the other Bontal lords a lot to think about. Including alliances with magelords. Alya certainly thought it was worth the attempt.

  “Those hill-lords have always been on the periphery of Riverlands politics,” she reported, after exploring the matter through the information network that spread amongst the vales known as the Sewing and Spinning Room. I had started to appreciate the importance of the feminine intelligence network implicit in feudal textile production. It was an integral part of the politics of the Bontal Vales, I’d discovered, and a trove of useful intelligence.

  “First of the Lenselys, then of Sashtalia. They’re closer to Sevendor than either, and watching their neighbors get rich while they scrape by is starting to tell on them. I think if we gave them a little encouragement, some might even change allegiances. Or at least be open to being bribed.”

  “Wouldn’t that violate their oaths of fealty to Sashtalia?” I asked, surprised.

  “According to Bemia and Estret, that sort of thing happens all the time. It’s only punished if the turncloak chooses the wrong side – then it’s his neck. But if we were to offer them Sevendor’s protection . . . “

  “How about we buy them outright?” I asked, suddenly. “The titled lords, that is. Buy their fealty, not their lands.”

  “Can we do that?”

  “We can try,” I pointed out. “We can certainly afford it. Even tenant lords keep copies of deeds of the properties they hold. Theoretically they must surrender them to their liege upon request . . . but if they didn’t, the liege wouldn’t have any recourse but to invade. And with Arathanial on his frontier, preparing an army to invade himself, somehow I think Trefalan will be too preoccupied to go after a pint-sized holding over in the Uwarris.”

  Alya shrugged prettily as she fed Almina. “I think it’s worth a try. It can’t hurt to ask, can it?”

  In fact, it didn’t hurt to ask. Later that evening I sent Sir Festaran off on a mission to visit the five or six domains I had my eye on and make discreet inquiries as to whether the lord might consider changing his banner for the right
price. A week later he returned through a snowstorm bearing good news – not only would they, but they would for a fairly reasonable fee.

  “Barat and Uwaridor are both tiny,” he reported that evening as he gratefully gulped mulled cider in the Great Hall in front of the fire. “Only three estates apiece protected by the usual Lensely-style tower houses, one per domain.”

  That meant at least a single bailey, perhaps a double, with one solid keep (either square or round, depending on the age of the castle and the tastes of the builder) and perhaps a few towers protected by a crenelated curtain wall. Not insurmountable defenses, but certainly formidable.

  “As tenants their lords live barely above the standards of their people, and they make little enough for their effort, after they send their tribute to Sashtalia. They both indicated that they would be quite partial to a change in status, particularly if it meant a bounty and an increase in their income.

  “The Bangets of Binador, however, are of a slightly different mind,” he continued, warming his hands on the copper cup. ‘They’re four brothers, all knights, who each own an estate in Binador, and the only thing they can agree on is that they hate Sendaria just slightly more than Sashtalia. They’re actually Lenselys themselves, believe it or not, a cadet branch that broke off three generations ago and hates all of the other Lenselys for no particularly good reason. But they don’t want to be under a Lensely baron.”

  “Interesting . . . what does the domain look like?”

  “There are two minor estates there, one freeholder and one ecclesiastic temple to Aviril. The eldest son of House Banget is technically the lord of the domain and holds the only real castle, but he has very little power over his brothers. Two of them have aspirations outside of their little land, however, and would be willing to sell their estates to us for three hundred-twenty ounces of gold and two hundred-sixty ounces of gold, respectively, which in my estimation is a fair price.”