Enchanter (Book 7)

by Terry Mancour

  “Well, if what the dawn Knight told us is true, Rolone Castle one of the two fallback positions for Sire Trefalan’s forces, with Sashtalia Castle, should things go ill on the field. Included in preparations for retreat was the establishment of a hospital, and within the outer bailey the wives and daughters of the lesser nobility, prominent merchants from Rolone Town, and – it turns out – much of their portable wealth has been secured against calamity. Rolone Castle is, apparently, considered extremely safe, this far behind the lines.”

  “Despite only having a garrison of twenty-five men,” Rondal laughed, his mouth full. That had been something else Ansonal had revealed. They weren’t the best twenty-five, either, mostly older men or boys, the lame and the cowardly. They were relying on the good will of the people in a time of war and the forbidding structure of the castle to hold the domain. I could see why Lorcus was optimistic.

  “It does seem a waste to allow such a rich prize to go unclaimed,” agreed Lanse of Bune.

  “But I don’t want to commit myself until we’ve adequately scouted the field,” he considered. “Give me a week?”

  “I’m in internal exile – take as long as you wish,” I shrugged. “Just try not to break too much – this is a valuable domain.”

  “Oh, I’m bent on capturing it intact,” he assured me, in all seriousness. “There’s only another three castles, and only one of those is of any size. Sir Ansonal wasn’t jesting about the coin here, either. Give me a week, maybe ten days, and I’ll be flying my banner over Rolone Castle. And every other one in Rolone.”

  He sounded utterly confident, and after what I had seen in the space of a day I had little reason to doubt him. Lorcus loves puzzles, and the puzzle of how to take that big drum keep away from the two-dozen men who were charged with guarding it would no doubt prove interesting – if he didn’t get himself killed in the process.

  I returned to Sevendor late in the evening, long after everyone had gone to bed. I considered turning in immediately, but even after my long day I was too restless. Instead I checked in with the night watchman and went to visit the Snowflake for the first time in a while.

  I walked through the unfinished gate, under the gatehouse that was mostly finished, waving to the Karshak watchman on duty. Overhead they were starting to finish the roof, and the entire third floor was being outfitted as a chamber for the castellan – Sire Cei and his family. The space was large, more than twice what he and Estret and the children had in the garrison tower.

  The fourth story was another chamber for guests, the fifth and sixth would be storerooms, and the top level would be where siege engines would, someday, be stored. The entire white stone edifice was still covered in scaffolding, but in the space of six months the Karshak had completed a structure it would take human engineers years to build. It would be another six months before it was finally finished, and by then hopefully the outer walls of the new castle would be started.

  It took a while to get to the right tunnel – the excavation of the Great Hall was in full swing, three shifts a day, and there were work crews everywhere, carefully carving out the massive snowstone blocks that would form the foundation of the castle wall. I had to wait several times, while cranes or drills were pulled into place, and once I had to stop to lend some magical aid when a block went dangerously askew. But eventually I made my way down to the right tunnel, unlocked the door, and entered the Snowflake Chamber.

  It was there, but it wasn’t alone. Master Azhguri was there, studying the ever-changing artifact.

  It was not unusual for him to come to the thing – he was one of the few who had unlimited access to just about anywhere. The old Karshak didn’t hear me come in, and only looked up when I entered his field of vision. He had a short stubby pipe between his lips, and the acrid smell of his harsh blend in the air around us.

  “Late night?” I asked, cheerfully.

  “Is it night?” he asked, surprised. “’Twas noon when I came here.”

  “It has that effect,” I agreed “Among others.”

  He grunted assent. “I tried to sing it,” he murmured.

  “Tried?” I asked, surprised. Azhguri was one of the best stonesingers on Callidore. I dug out my own pipe to join him.

  “Tried. It’s just too . . . random. Only, it’s not, really.”

  “I can see your point.”

  “You can’t sing stone if it don’t stand still,” he said, irritated. “I can start, but a bare hour into it, I get pushed back. Come out of it all confused. But there is power in that thing,” he said, with certainty, pointing at it with his pipestem. “Tremendous power. Enormous complexity. And perhaps even sentience. But no awareness. Without awareness, it’s as pretty as a waterfall, and about as useful.”

  I thought about the lost City of Rainbows. “Even waterfalls have uses,” I countered.

  “This will not be truly useful until we find a way to tame it, Minalan,” he sighed. “This is beyond the mind of a mere mortal – either human or Karshak. I doubt an Alka Alon’s mind could tame it. But you need to find a way, or that thing isn’t going to do much more than sit there and look pretty until something comes along and takes it away from you.

  “And that would be a shame, lad, it truly would. Because some day someone is going to try to take it away from you, and if you don’t learn how to use it to protect it . . . I fear that’s exactly what they’ll do.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  The Woodland Masque

  Alya and I appeared in the Ducal Palace in Vorone, in Pentandra’s chamber, where she was preparing herself for the ball. The Waystone I used was the one resting in her amulet, to avoid the task of walking through town or attempting to hire a coach. I contacted her mind-to-mind and she welcomed us through. She had neglect to mention at the time that her maid was bathing her.

  I blushed, despite myself. It wasn’t that I was seeing Penny naked, or that I’d seen her naked a lot, in the past, but it was seeing Penny naked in the same room as my fully-clothed wife. With a half-naked maid.

  “Pentandra!” I said, averting my eyes. Mostly.

  “What?” she said, defensively. “There’s only two hours until the ball, which is barely enough time to get ready!” I could tell that it wasn’t just expedience that made her do that. Pentandra got a thrill out of scandalizing people. I was hard to scandalize, but Penny knew my weaknesses.

  “Min, you are dismissed,” Alya said, simply, turning me by my shoulders and giving me a gentle shove toward the door. She had the situation well in-hand, I could tell.

  “Arborn is in my chamber! Have him get you a drink! We’ll be out . . . soon,” Penny called after me, splashing around a bit.

  I walked straight ahead, amused and embarrassed and I had no real idea why. Arborn was on the other side of the chamber, behind a screen, a cup already in hand.

  He wasn’t alone – there were two other men with him, a Kasari ranger who I didn’t recognize and a middle-aged courtier in a blue and yellow doublet and tights.

  “Minalan, my friend!” Arborn said, his low voice almost sounding friendly. The ranger captain was dressed in Kasari dress uniform, complete with a formal scarlet cloak embroidered with his achievements and lined with ermine. But he wore a richly-decorated cavalry sword at his side. “Come join us!”

  “Did he just come in?” the courtier asked, confused.

  “You must expect such things from wizards, Sir Vemas,” Arborn counseled, as the other ranger poured me a cup of wine. “They come and go when least expected, and keep their own time. The Spellmonger most of all. Baron Minalan of Sevendor, this is Sir Vemas of Vorone, chief constable of the city, and this is Jenser, my lieutenant.” Both men bowed low.

  “A genuine pleasure, Excellency,” Sir Vemas said, smoothly. “Of course everyone has heard of the great Spellmonger. We are so privileged that you could attend this evening.”

  “And you are the chief constable of this city, now? That seems a challenging position.”

  “But
one which Sir Vemas is well-suited for,” Arborn confided. “He grew up here, and loves this city as home. He has Lady Pentandra’s complete confidence, as well as mine. He has been helping us coordinate the effort to defeat the organized gangs who still control the city by night . . . and much of it by day.”

  “But we’re winning,” Sir Vemas assured me. “Slowly, carefully, but we have made some tremendous gains. The gallows have been busy, and the Iron Band has received an entire company of new recruits.”

  “And every morning there are a few fresh bodies in the street,” Jenser added, quietly. “The Wood Owls have been tracking and hunting the worst criminals, those who elude and evade the city guard by day. They townfolk started calling us Wood Owls,” he added, with a wicked grin that twisted his thin lips into an intimidating leer. “We come out at night and leave dead rats behind.”

  “Your very best men?” I asked Arborn.

  “Gods, I hope not!” Jenser proclaimed, looking at his captain. “The Wood Owls are . . . not like other Kasari. Most have had difficult pasts, despite the council’s best efforts. Some just prefer town life to the wood, and some are . . .”

  “Cold blooded killers,” supplied Sir Vemas, without judgment. “Silent stalkers without peer,” he boasted. “They are too modest, Excellency. A dozen men have waged a nightly war against hundreds, and have yet to be defeated.”

  “That is impressive,” I agreed, though I understood why they were reluctant to boast. The Kasari value life highly. Even though they are incredible hunters, they do not delight in killing, they are reverent toward those who give their lives in the service of the lifeforce. Killing humans, even when necessary, is a serious moral issue for them. A Kasari assassin would have very little status in most councils, I knew.

  Or perhaps I didn’t. The very existence of such warriors suggested that the Kasari had come to terms with those among them who did not mind taking life. And the fact that they answered to a Captain of Rangers was telling.

  The wardens of Vorone told me about the various factions that controlled the city, the various court officials who still had ties with them, and the struggle they’d had to bring them to heel. It had taken the execution of the old Captain of Guards and a purging of the corps, but Sir Vemas now had a reasonably uncorrupt unit to keep the peace and enforce the Duke’s will.

  “Just how is the Duke’s will faring?” I asked. That inspired some quick glances at each other, before Arborn spoke.

  “Duke Anguin has taken control of the city,” he reported. “He has begun to extend that influence among the nearby lords, and held court to dispense justice on those who have transgressed against his laws, and begun to collect his rightful tribute.”

  “But how is he governing?” I asked, sipping the wine. Not even close to the vintage from Rolone.

  “With great deliberation,” offered Sir Vemas. “I have not agreed with every decision His Grace has made, but he seems a fair man.”

  “I see you said ‘man’,” I noted. “His youth has not been an issue?”

  Again, the exchange of looks. “My lord,” Jenser, said, “when His Grace executed the former Prime Minister personally, in front of the throne, few considered his youth anything but an indication of his vigor.” My eyebrows went up, more impressed by how well-spoken and mannered Jenser was than of Anguin’s personal participation in the dispensing of justice.

  “Any sign of rebellion or conspiracy in the court yet?” I asked, casually. “That can’t be far behind such reforms.”

  “Not openly,” Sir Vemas admitted, after some thought. “Not by the nobility, at least. As long as His Grace controls the garrison, no single baron in the north has ventured to rebel. Gods willing, it will stay that way.”

  We continued to discuss the political situation for nearly an hour, draining two bottles of local red while we waited. Vemas and I split that, mostly – even the Kasari of dubious reputation were temperate.

  I was feeling fine, and we were laughing at some extremely fascinating stories Sir Vemas told about breaking up un-licensed brothels, when the ladies arrived.

  Alya, of course, was wearing a bright green gown with Sevendor green trim, an intricate silver snowflake embroidered on the breast, enchanted to glow. Her headdress was fairly simple, a wimpled white cone that rose six inches above her brow.

  Pentanra, on the other hand, was garbed as a Ducal Court Wizard. While there was no official regalia for the office, she had established a look, of sorts, that represented her position. She wore a long red gown of Remeran silk, matching slippers, with a hooded robe of cloth-of-gold over it. She had contrived a pointed red cap similar in structure to a spellmonger’s cap, only bedecked with gems in Remeran style. Over her shoulder she wore a sash bearing the sigil of the Court Wizard, and she carried her beautiful baculus with authority.

  They both looked stunning. We rose, and made appreciative comments about their efforts – with the Kasari ranger stumbling, and Arborn clumsily agreeing that Pentandra looked good. It was painfully awkward to watch.

  The Kasari are a practical people, certainly – but surely one would think that in all of their rites they might mention that telling your wife she looks beautiful when she’s spent that much time, effort, and money to do so seems fairly elementary. I could see why Penny was having problems.

  As we left Pentandra and Arborn’s apartments and headed toward the throne room, Pentandra reached out to me, mind-to-mind.

  You look like crap, Min, she observed, thoughtfully.

  Hey! I just got this outfit!

  Your clothes look fine, she agreed, but your face looks like you’ve been . . . worried? Anxious? Afraid? Tired?

  Well, which one?

  I was just offering suggestions, and hoping that you’d supply the appropriate emotion. What’s going on, Min?

  It’s complicated.

  It’s always complicated. You want to see complicated, you should see my marriage.

  I am. It looks reasonably happy. As long as Arborn doesn’t speak.

  That’s the problem. I can’t get him to speak.

  You were the one who wanted the strong, silent type, I teased.

  And you were the one who wanted the wholesome farmgirl, she teased back. But then she continued. And speaking of your lady wife, don’t be alarmed, but . . . there’s a spell on her.

  It’s the dress, I explained. It’s heavily enchanted.

  It’s not the dress, Min, she countered. I noticed something when we were talking.

  Then it’s the pregnancy, I decided.

  It’ not the pregnancy, either. I did a simple thaumaturgical essay, and while I can’t tell you who or why, there is a vein of magic around your wife. A spell. And not one of yours.

  What do you mean?

  I mean that someone has been interfering with Alya, she said, with growing impatience.

  I almost stopped, but Penny dug her baculus into the small of my back to keep me moving.

  Interfere, how? I demanded.

  I don’t know, yet, she admitted, worriedly. And that’s using the baculus. All I could tell was that it was a psychomantic spell. Subtle. But extremely strong.

  Someone is casting spells on Alya? I asked alarmed.

  That seems to be the case. Who might do such a thing?

  I knew exactly who was responsible. The only one who could be responsible. The one who had used similar sorceries to entrap me. Baroness Isily.

  I’ll look into it, I promised. It could be nothing.

  It’s not nothing, Min. It’s Psychomancy!

  I’ll look into it. What kind of chaos are we walking into, tonight?

  A simple court, appointment of a few positions, then a reception, with dancing afterwards. But the people you need to beware of . . . she began, and then filled my head with the names of Wilderlords, courtiers, and important townsfolk who Anguin was trying to cultivate.

  Among all of Vorone’s social classes, the nobility and burghers of the town had been the most reluctant to embrac
e Anguin, she explained. They had grown accustomed to the casual corruption of the last four years, and many of them had turned the chaos into business opportunities with various factions.

  The worst among them, of course, was the Brotherhood of the Rat. The coastal-based criminal organization had been extending its grip inland for decades, after they controlled southern Alshar. One of their captains had been here, in court, back during the last days of the late Duke Lenguin.

  The Brotherhood survived the fall of the Duke, and had transformed their operations in Vorone. Instead of merely corrupting the court and increasing its political influence over the duchy, the Brotherhood had seen the decay of the summer capital as a financial opportunity.

  They’d flooded the town with thugs and gangsters. Using smaller gangs as proxies, they had slowly taken control of about half of Vorone, and were closing in on the rest, when Anguin had returned to claim his patrimony.

  Penny’s efforts had led to a dramatic decrease in their territory, now – they were back to a few refugee camps and neighborhoods in the poorer sections of town, as well as points of strength throughout the city. But Pentandra was hopeful they’d lose even that before midsummer, thanks to the pressure the Wood Owls were putting on them nightly.

  As their primary means of income was extorting protection money from burghers and merchants, it had taken some time to get used to doing business more-or-less honestly. But there were still plenty who wanted to purchase their success. Some were ambivalent about the Duke, some directly opposed. But none wanted to be excluded from a court function. Or executed for corruption.

  The hall was the same one I’d met Anguin’s late parents in, the one which I’d blatantly used threats and extortion and bribery to get the man out of his throne and into a saddle to defend his realm. It had also gotten him and his wife killed, afterward, so I felt kind of bad about that.

  The hall looked shabbier now than then, though it had been strewn with flowers and decorations of the season. The theme of the night was the Woodlands that surrounded Vorone. The servants had eschewed the usual antlers-and-anchor motif of Alshari nationality for a pure celebration of the rugged northern forests. The political message was clear: the rebellious maritime south was, for the moment, forgotten in favor of the robust Wilderlands culture. Fresh boughs hung from the ceiling, and lanterns were strung throughout the hall among them.