High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “So how do you tell them apart? Magic?”

  “I had their names painted on them. Dara did it. She has a neat hand with a brush.”

  “But no magic.”

  “Excepting that everything she does is part of her over-all magical training, no. I can’t spell my way out of this mess. This is a bureaucratic problem, not an arcane one. I have to know where these people are, who they are, and what they are doing, if I’m going to police them properly. So each one of these marbles corresponds to a scroll in my archives, detailing each high mage.”

  “What about the blue marbles?” she asked, curiously, as she broke off a crust of bread.

  “Those are powerful low magi who either have potential to be raised, or who might want to oppose the new order. The yellow are for specialist magi who the Order wants to recruit. The red are for the low magi of the Censorate.”

  “What about the pretty black ones?”

  “Those are hematite. They represent the human magi who have gone to work for Shereul.”

  She swallowed reflexively at the Dead God’s name. I hadn’t spoken much to her about the field reports I was getting, but it was clear by now that some magi were so ambitious or impatient to procure a witchstone that they did not care to whom they swore an oath. At least half a dozen had been identified, from bloodthirsty mercenary warmagi who did not mind fighting against their own kind to lickspittle spellmongers who had betrayed their humanity for the promise of power.

  “So how does the board work?”

  “You’re asking a lot of questions,” I observed. “Just what are you hiding from this time?” She stopped eating and looked guilty.

  “Lady Estret is instructing in needlework this morning,” she explained, casually, as she poured a glass of cider from the bottle, “and I decided that my time would be better spent consulting the Lord on the business of the domain.”

  “You really hate needlework that much?” I asked, skeptically. “Then the lord of the domain has good news. I know you were given the task of clothing the men of the garrison for the winter. I just procured enough wool so that you can avoid that chore, at least.” Alya hated carding wool.

  “I can tolerate the needlework,” she sighed, “but the gossip . . . Trygg save us from the gossip!”

  I felt for her – the official “ladies of the castle” had a habit of discussing matters of concern both great and small during their morning sessions spinning, carding, weaving, and sewing the clothes the castle folk constantly needed.

  Technically, Alya was in charge of that enterprise, but her other duties and dislike of the work encouraged the Lady of Sevendor to delegate the important responsibility to the castellan’s wife. Lady Estret was well-suited to the task. But she couldn’t stop the gossip.

  “That’s likely the wrong divinity to invoke,” I pointed out. Trygg was the mother goddess and goddess of marriage. Gossip was well within her divine purview. “But since you asked, it works like this: the heads of the major orders and their staffs are put into these holes at the center. Subordinates are placed behind them. Independent magelords are placed in this next row, and then . . . other parties are organized around the edges, associated with various affiliations as events warrant.”

  “What kind of events?”

  “Well, if someone starts presenting a danger to the realm, and should be watched, then their marble gets placed in the Circle of Observation,” I said, indicating a sketched-out portion of the board. “If they require actual intervention, they go in this small area: the Circle of Regulation. I’m still working on the others,” I admitted. “I honestly don’t know what kind of associations that I’ll need.”

  “You do realize that it looks like you’re just a big kid with a bag of marbles, don’t you?” she teased.

  “I just tell everyone I’m doing magic and they’ll leave me alone,” I dismissed. “But without this kind of understanding of the dynamics at play, I’ll lose track of everyone and tragedy could result. This way I have a chance, at least, to understand the elements I’m contending with.”

  “So where’s the big, gaudy, ornate marble in the center, representing you?” she asked, smiling. It was kind of insulting for her to cite any apparent need on my part to aggrandize my own ego. Yes, I was planning on building a sturdy spire to overlook the land, one that would eventually be visible from the heart of Sevendor all the way to the Bontal river, and I had plastered my heraldic device on everything I was now responsible for, but that didn’t automatically need a big gaudy marble to represent myself.

  But of course that’s just what I’d done. “It’s been ordered,” I grunted. “Master Guri is doing it himself.”

  “And Pentandra?”

  “A green stone with a gold band around it,” I sighed. “She needs to stand out.”

  “She always does,” she jibed. “What distinguishes warmagi and knights magi from civilians?”

  “Uh . . . I’m still working on that,” I admitted.

  “And the specialist magi from the general practitioners? The magelords from the spellmongers? The enchanters from the alchemists?”

  “I don’t know yet!” I said, defensively. “It’s a work in progress. But I need to have it done and in use before this summer’s conclave. Or this summer’s war.” The goblins had halted their advance into Gilmora after their defeat at Castle Cambrian, but there were still tens of thousands roaming the countryside there. I fully expected their advance to resume as soon as the snows melted off of the roads enough to permit it.

  “Isn’t the war more important?”

  “Yes, but if I cannot keep the high magi in line, then the war effort will falter. I’m supposed to do a tour of the forward lines, up in Tudry and the Penumbra for a week this spring, and there are warmagi lurking around there who I barely remember giving their stones. I’m still catching up. But this one, for instance, represents Master Dunselen, former Ducal Court Mage of Castal,” I said, setting his coded marble down within the Circle of Observation. “He has become a problem to his neighbors. He’s taken five neighboring domains in a year’s time, and word comes he aspires to more.”

  “Uh, my lord husband, did you not also conquer five domains in a year’s time?” she pointed out.

  “Yes, but that’s different,” I dismissed. “I accidently conquered mine. Dunselen is going out looking for conquest. Nor is he the only one. You remember a young warmage I raised last year, Margil?”

  “The one with the lantern jaw? And the poor attitude?”

  “He was actually fairly typical of warmagi,” I said. “Well, he is now Sir Margil, knighted on the battlefield in Gilmora a few months ago, and when he returned to claim his patrimony, he slew two half-brothers to take control of his father’s domain. Then he conquered his family’s traditional enemy’s domain, and then one beyond that, all before Yule. Even the Magelord of Robinwing, Sire Forondal, is getting into the business of conquest. He apparently persuaded one of his neighbors to part with a number of productive manors – with a wand at his neck.”

  “So how is that any different than how the nobility usually conducts its affairs?” she asked. She had been born common, as I had, and was new to the aristocratic life. She still usually thought like a peasant. One of the reasons I loved her.

  “It’s faster, it’s more efficient, and it’s less prone to debate. It also creates enemies.”

  “Like you have done, with Sire Gimbal?” she asked, amused.

  “I was gracious and magnanimous with the Warbird!” I protested. “I even got him a post, after I took his lands. A paid post on the other side of the kingdom.”

  “Don’t think for an instant that his gratitude will eventually outweigh his hatred for you,” she reminded me.

  “I won’t,” I assured her as I placed a pebble. “No more than I’m going to think that the Censorate will nominate me for Wizard of the Year. Or the Brotherhood of the Rat will keep from interfering with royal politics. Or that Shereul will change his mind and not slaughter al
l of humanity on the sacrificial stone. That’s the problem with enemies. They accumulate.”

  “Surely you have as many allies or more than you have enemies.”

  I snorted. “Plenty of allies. Half the time they’re even more problem than my enemies. The only way I can keep them as allies is to support and uphold their privilege, and most have agendas or ambitions of their own. Astyral has made Tudry his personal enterprise, for instance, and Azar has conquered territory both inside the Penumbra and out, to add to his holdings. Even good ol’ Wenek the Portly is raising alarm by arming the hill folk of the Pearwoods.”

  “Wenek? I don’t recall meeting him.”

  “You haven’t, and that’s just as well. He’s an outstandingly devious warmage, no one better at hurting people and breaking things. But he’s not the most savory of fellows. He runs the clans of the Pearwoods, now. He’s right on the edge of the warzone, so I can’t really object to it, but the big advantage the Wilderlands lords had over the Pearwoods clans was the fact that they were poorly organized and even more poorly armed. Now they’re all carrying steel and Wenek is buying them real armor. He says it’s for the war effort, but the Pearwoods makes raiding on their southern neighbors a seasonal affair. They’ve already started grumbling about it at the ducal level. But if I interfere, I risk alienating one of my biggest allies.”

  “It sounds like you’ve got a lot to work with,” she said, approvingly as she stood. “I’ll let you get back to it. I’m going to go inspect the kitchens, then spend the afternoon with the baby In the outer bailey – it’s really the only place in the castle to get any peace with all the construction going on,” she grumbled, good-naturedly. “The dust and the noise keep him from his nap.”

  “And that will keep you away from tea with the ladies of the keep and their evil needles,” I nodded. “See you tonight at dinner?”

  She kissed me. “I’ll let you know after I inspect the kitchens and see what’s for dinner,” she chuckled. “But I would count on it.”

  I went back to work after she left, moving marbles around the board as I introduced each new element. I found myself gripping one in particular as I placed the others, and it took a moment for me to realize why.

  It was Lady Isily’s.

  Isily fit into that small class of High Magi who didn’t belong to any of the major orders. Her stone had been a blatant bribe – not for her, but to secure the assistance of her mistress, the queen. Queen Grendine was not just our glorious new monarch, co-head of state by Trygg’s grace, she was also in charge of the Kingdom’s secret security apparatus, known to themselves as The Family.

  Queen Grendine was the Mother, the executive authority who set the policies of the agency. Her daughter, Princess Rardine, was a cruel, self-centered copy of her mother whose schemes to power were already beginning to eclipse those of her dame. Isily was Rardine’s tool, an Imperially-trained Wenshari mage who was well-schooled in shadowmagic. That made her an ideal arcane spy and assassin.

  Lady Isily was not under my control, save by her oath she took when she took her stone, but then I had no just cause for rescinding her stone. She had not been out conquering too many domains. She had, however, been quite busy piling up the bodies of her mistress’ political enemies, taking only a little time out to disappear into a secluded, rustic manor in Wenshar and give birth to my illegitimate daughter.

  She had been my lover, after I had taken her oath. It was not love, just a point of comfort during a time of war. I had trusted her to take the simple magical precautions to mitigate her fertility, but our coupling had produced a daughter. I later found out that her conception had been ordered by the Family, by Rardine specifically. Ordinarily a female mage knows plenty of magic to keep accidental conception from happening – but Isily was that loyal. When her mistress ordered her to bear a spellmonger’s bastard, she opened her legs without question.

  Now there was a little girl, a babe only a few months younger than my son, Minalyan, on a remote estate in rural Wenshar.

  I placed Isily’s stone down on the outside circle, away from the others. She was a special case.

  Then there was Iyugi, my own magical spy. A footwizard with a special talent for finding out secrets, the half-blooded mage had earned my trust and respect and pledged his loyal service as my spy in exchange for his small witchstone. He was an enigma, but he had continued to bring me valuable information on his travels, sometimes on my errands, sometimes on my own. But it was he who discovered the location of Isily’s secluded manor. And it was he who arranged for a watch to be kept on the babe.

  But could the footwizard be trusted? He had yet to prove disloyal, and considering his stock in trade was secret information that said a lot. But I knew very little about Iyugi. I placed his stone near to the space where mine would be, on the board.

  The Remeran contingent was easy enough to place – they had their own section. Pentandra’s father Orsirio, her cousin Planus, the current and former Ducal Court Magi, and a few other prominent Resident Adepts of Remere, most of whom were also members of the once-clandestine Order of the Secret Tower. They went into the right hand upper corner of the board, six of them in all.

  There was the stone for Banamor. Like Iyugi, he had been a footwizard for years, but instead of secrets Banamor was a packtrader who smuggled magically-valuable materials from place to place. He was a merchant, not a spy, and more and more he had demonstrated aspirations of becoming a burgher. Already he was a strong figure on the Sevendor Town Council. He was Sevendor’s Spellwarden, the official in charge of magic in my domain, answering directly to me. And he did a fair job.

  But he was also accumulating a lot of power and a lot of wealth, quickly. Two annual magical fairs had brought him a small fortune and facilitating trade deals in magical components that were so recently heavily regulated had brought him more. Now he was loaning money out to other artisans and traders in town.

  That was a good thing – mostly – as the investment had allowed a dozen other businesses to thrive. But it also made the borrowers beholden to the man, and I could already see him subtly using that power. Banamor was responsible for the drafting of the new proposed Town Charter for Sevendor Town. It gave a significant amount of power to the small council and proposed mayor, powers ordinarily a lord would reserve for himself, except in a large city.

  Banamor’s version would give significant authority to regulate the growing town, but the price for that charter was also attractive. A sizable initial fee, followed by an annual payment, plus various and sundry remunerations for specific festivals, events, and other feudal obligations. For instance the Town would be responsible for hiring and outfitting a respectable twelve lances – about sixty men, half of them mounted – or a hundred archers to fulfill their military obligation, and the charter proposed a standing troop of ten permanent watchmen to police the town’s affairs.

  But those watchmen were hired by, and reported to, Banamor exclusively. That was a problem, and one reason why we were still in negotiations.

  He was also becoming a landlord. He’d purchased small plots around town where he could, and it seemed like every lot he purchased began growing houses on it, usually twice as many than had stood before. A new inn and a livery stable were being built even now, thanks to the steady stream of itinerate magi who had found their way to Sevendor and the constant flow of craftsman here to reconstruct my castle.

  Banamor’s rise was not a threat, precisely – the man still seemed perfectly loyal to me – but it was worthy of note. I could handle aggressive magelords making greedy land grabs. Finding competent people to run my affairs was difficult. My Spellwarden would have to offend me quite a bit before I’d consider replacing him. Banamor’s stone went near Iyugi’s, next to Olmeg the Green’s and behind the stones which represented my three apprentices.

  One by one I placed the labeled stones on the board, and Alya was right: it did look like I was a kid playing marbles. But what a great, chaotic, tenuous game it was, wit
h plenty more pieces arriving every moment.

  The black marbles were last, of course. They were easy to group, but I was loath to touch them. They represented the dark heart of humanity that will sell out its kin for power or out of weakness. The magi who worked with the Dead God did so knowing that Shereul’s ultimate goal was the extinction of their own kind – and yet they worked for him anyway.

  There was Master Garkesku, my one-time professional rival in Boval Vale. He had been captured by the goblins because he was hiding instead of escaping like everyone else. He had replaced the stone I’d reclaimed from him and accepted one from Shereul’s dark priesthood after slaying one of their number in ritual combat.

  He was advising the goblins, now, and living like a lord in a stolen castle in the Penumbra. The lands that surrounded the goblin’s territory were filled with slaves captured and tortured into service after they participated in an especially dark ritual. They were the Soulless, those humans who had proven their loyalty to the Goblin King by slaying five other human beings on the sacrificial stone rather than die themselves. The worst of them had also consumed human flesh, the way their goblin masters did.

  But Garky the Mediocre was not the only Dark Mage. A vicious warmage, Jacarthi of Suars, had accepted a stone from the goblins merely so he could enjoy the power he wielded. He wasn’t the sort I’d grant a stone to, anyway. His sadism was legendary before his ascension, and now he did not even have the restraints of humanity to keep him from his maniacal ways. He had been deployed in Gilmora to assist in the slave-capturing part of the Dead God’s operation, and he’d been highly successful.