My newfound wealth in irionite meant I could speed up that process, though. I began requesting two candidates at a time, and found that helpful as I could play them off in competition with each other. I needed that, as I had lost the advantage of a local enemy I could try them against.
Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria may have been a lousy neighbor, but he made an excellent pell against which my warmagi could practice. Sire Gimbal’s brother, Vulric, the Baron of Fleria, was hardly better, but he had stayed out of my affairs. The lord of Sashtalia likewise had been quiet since the Warbird’s defeat.
So I gave them competitions against each other. And I got a lot of free work done.
Most of the candidates were patient, well-disciplined men (and a few women) who knew their craft and appreciated the testing, rather than resented it. A few were exceptional.
Lorcus of Macana was from a small fief in western Merwyn, near the frontier with Remere. He’d been the youngest son of a petty noble and had secured admission to one of the eastern magical academies. He’d done a brief stint in the Censorate, but left before taking his final vows. He was a court wizard for a few small baronies, but was forced to take up warmagic during a siege and got a taste for it. He became a mercenary warmage and quickly developed a reputation. He had worked in Castal during the Farisian war while most of our warmagi were otherwise employed and stayed because he liked the place.
If there was a simple way to do something, Lorcus would ignore it in favor of the flamboyant and complicated. But his plans had interesting ways of achieving unanticipated results. He was a deep thinker with a flamboyant style, always a stimulating combination. We’d worked together briefly, once, before I got my own stone and I’d liked him.
A few years older than me, Lorcus had an infectious personality and a deeply sarcastic wit, one that had gotten him into trouble more than once. He was a good six feet tall, had a dark brown hairline that was in full retreat, and favored a bushy mustache and shaven cheeks. His eyes . . . mostly, they looked sane. But he could affect the look of a madman upon request, and I had no doubt when he was enraged it would be fearsome to behold.
I took to Lorcus immediately. He was eager for the power of the stone, but that eagerness was tempered by at least a bit of humility. Lorcus approached it as a great honor, and after he saw what sorts of things we were doing in Sevendor, he appreciated that honor all the more.
The warmagi whom he’d been paired with, an uncreative Remeran who specialized in siege engines, lost each of the competitions I gave them, thanks to Lorcus’ cleverness and keen observation.
I sent them both into Sashtalia on a mission to spy on a small castle and report back. The Remeran gave a technically accurate report on the geography, architecture, and personnel, and outlined a reasonable plan for attacking the place, using two warmagi, two scorpion crews, and a company of heavy infantry.
Lorcus gave a reasonably accurate report on the layout and disposition of the castle, but when it came to how he recommended taking it, his approach was novel.
“Set fire to the fulling shed,” he advised.
“And . . .?” I asked, expectantly.
“Set fire to the fulling shed,” he repeated. “The shed is near to the storehouse, here,” he said, pointing it out on the magemap he’d constructed. “That’s where the real coin is, for this estate. They wouldn’t want to catch that on fire. So they’d form a bucket line from the well to here,” he said, showing the direction.
“Why wouldn’t they pull from the castle cistern?” I asked, noting how much closer it was.
“Because the cistern is cracked and empty,” he replied, smugly, “something that my colleague failed to note. The well in the bailey is the only source of water nearby. And when they form that line, which every able-bodied man in the castle would be compelled to do with such a prize at risk, everyone would be in the outer bailey. Nor would they be attentive to infiltrators. One man to lower the portcullis, two more to cover the entrance with crossbows. As they return from putting out the fire they have to pass through this gate, and they can be disarmed with ease and captured without their fellows seeing them surrender.”
“That’s . . . well, where do you use magic?” I wondered. The Remeran’s plan required several spells to reduce the gatehouse.
“Why use magic when you can use wits? His way leaves you with dead defenders, dead attackers, and a compromised castle. My way leaves you with a fully-intact estate, few if any casualties, plenty of ransoms, and a slightly-singed fulling shed. You didn’t ask how I would use magic to assault the place. You asked me how I would take it. That’s how I would take it.”
I liked Lorcus.
He liked me, as well, and lingered at Sevendor long after he’d gotten his stone. He was terribly charming to the ladies, and he was well-respected among both my mundane warriors and my magical peers. He cultivated courtly manners even as he toured Sevendor’s taverns and gambled with the most lowly villeins. Even Sire Cei liked him, which was a stroke in his favor.
He was there the night Alya went into labor. I was a nervous wreck, despite having two birthsisters and a birthmother on hand, as well as one of Master Icarod’s medical apprentices, which cost me another witchstone. After what happened with Minalyan’s birth, I had no idea what to expect.
Alya gave birth to my daughter – my second daughter – midmorning, with hardly any difficulty . . . besides the brutality that is inherent to birth. I had nightmarish visions at least as bad as any horror of battle, when the labor began. Lorcus kept me drunk and calm with a dozen fantastic stories to keep me distracted.
It turned out I had nothing to worry about. Mother and daughter were healthy and well. There were no magical effects that we could detect at all, and I had a company of fascinated Alka Alon in the Great Hall observant for such effects. She was a healthy baby girl, even larger than her brother had been. We named her Almina, and she had the most perfectly exquisite bright blue eyes I’d ever seen.
Lorcus thought so to, and vowed to slay the first man who dared touch her. While I thought that was quite noble of him it was hard to look down at the baby I held and even imagine her as a full-grown woman.
When at last it came time for him to fulfill his service in Gilmora for a month, as promised, he was reluctant and eager at the same time. Lorcus returned briefly that early summer, after doing a tour shoring up the Gilmoran defenses. He bore several official dispatches from the front, but his assessment of the ground situation was what I found most helpful.
“They’re raiding and slaving, but they’re not doing what I’d do if I was preparing to cross the river,” he told me over dinner in my tower the night he arrived. “It’s an organized looting operation. The camps they’re making in the captured castles are temporary. Supply depots, not operational bases. They’re guarded stoutly enough, as is the road north, but they are not fortifying them to hold them.”
“You don’t think they’ll continue the invasion this summer, then, when the roads fully dry?”
He shook his head. “Nay, they’ll use the time to drain Gilmora dry. And there is plenty yet to drain. But their aim is pillage, not conquest. At least not yet.”
“That’s almost a relief,” I sighed. “We aren’t ready to repel a full-fledged invasion yet.”
“That’s the gods’ own truth,” he agreed, darkly. “There are men enough there – hundreds of thousands, if you count peasants with spears. But the mercenary companies are responsible for protecting the cities, the local lords attempt to assert their authority at every turn, and there is little organization when it comes to deploying fresh levies from the south. A massive refugee camp that has sprung up, south of Barrowbell. Worst sort of place. The temples are feeding them, with some assistance from the crown, but more arrive every day. So far there is no one arming and training them.”
“What about the royal army?” I asked. That had been one of King Rard’s first institutions, a permanent royal army to act in defense of the kingdom. I
t was supposed to be the answer to such threats.
“There are three commando units under the King’s banner who are scheduled to be deployed in Gilmora,” he admitted. “Mercenaries and volunteers, mostly. They have charge of the defense of the region, in theory, over the whims of any local lord. Count Salgo commands them . But they are still forming. They won’t be deployed until late summer, at the earliest.”
“Then let us hope that the Dead God is content with north Gilmora, until we can get our act together. So, now that you’ve completed your first term, what are your plans?”
“I’ve given thought to conquering an estate and starting an empire – seems to be all the fashion, nowadays – or heading east and make a fortune in coin curing flagging desires in rich lords and removing unsightly blemishes from the faces of wealthy – and ever-so-grateful – ladies, but . . . that sounds incredibly boring,” he yawned.
“If it’s excitement you crave, you can always return to the front,” I pointed out.
“Until there is a real advance, that’s going to be more defensive spellwork – likewise boring. I was thinking something more interesting. Like what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?” I asked, confused.
“You are doing everything,” he pronounced, pouring more wine. “You are rewriting the rules of magic. You’ve toppled the bloody Censorate. You put a king on a bloody throne. If the rumors are true, you made the Alka Alon sit up and beg – and that pretty tower that looks so out-of-place on your horizon proves it. You made a whole bloody mountain turn magical. You’ve got that great whopping sphere in your pocket and a legion of loyal followers.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m doing such a shitty job?”
“It’s because you feel like you are doing a shitty job that proves you are the man for it,” he advised. “I wouldn’t want the position if it was given to me – I don’t have the temperament for it. But you do,” he warned me. “You think before you act, Spellmonger. And you think about more than your own welfare. I admire that. Enough to consider offering you my service.”
“You want to take my service? As what?”
“What do you need?” he asked, simply. “Look, I pride myself on versatility. I’m a fair mage and a decent fighter, but what I do best is figure things out. You’ve given me the opportunity to do whatever I wish,” he said, patting the silken bag around his neck that carried his stone, “and what I wish is to figure things out. On your behalf.”
“That’s . . . a generous offer, Lorcus,” I agreed. “You are a man of many talents. And I am desperate to find such men right now. But how do I know I can trust you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. What would it take to convince you?”
So I summoned a retainer of mine, Lesana. She was a lovely young woman who was a magical sport: someone who had a marked strength in one area of their Talent, but not enough to develop by study. Her particular gift was also a horrible curse.
In her presence you could not utter a falsehood. It had made her life miserable, and she had quietly made her way to Sevendor to seek my help, as so many did. Thankfully I had figured out a way to dampen the effect with a classy little enchantment she now wore as a necklace. When she took it off, she was a truth-compeller. And she was in my employ and under my protection.
That had proven exceptionally useful to me a few times. Her gift was a closely-held secret in my household, but if I needed to know I could trust someone, I could call her in. She lived on a stipend I paid, in a small cottage on the south ridge when she wasn’t needed at the Castle, but I had also given her an enchantment to let her know when I summoned her.
I questioned Lorcus for two hours, and he utterly satisfied me as to his loyalties. I excused Lesana with a generous tip before welcoming him into my inner circle.
“That’s . . . quite the lass you have there,” he said, blushing, once she’d left.
“She’s helpful,” I agreed. “So, you want to work for me. I need good men. What is left is to decide in what capacity you should work.”
“Well, what is your most pressing problem?”
That was a good question, another reason why I liked Lorcus. Now that I had a wealth of stones, an untold fortune in snowstone, lands, titles, and responsibilities, my most pressing problems were organizational.
“Why don’t you go investigate Master Dunselen?” I asked. “He’s gone on a binge of conquest, recently. It’s starting to cause a fuss among the nobility, and that’s not the kind of pressure we need right now. I need to know what is truly happening before I can take any action. Go to his domains and find out what the situation is. Meet the man, if you need to, and learn what is on his mind.”
“Simple enough – and I understand the need for subtlety,” he agreed. “Former ducal court mage, mad with power. Sounds like Orril Pratt,” he mused.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I agreed. “He’s not a warmage, but he is an adept, and he’s got a witchstone. So proceed cautiously.”
“And what credentials will I have to support me?” he asked. I went downstairs to my workshop and returned a moment later, handing him a token.
“That’s a snowstone snowflake,” I explained. “Rondal made me a bunch of them this winter, before he and Tyndal went off to school, and they are very distinctive. And impossible to forge. I added a few enchantments, too. I can track it, for example. But that should serve as my badge, if there is any question. I have to meet with the King and the court in a few weeks. Dunselen is bound to come up, and I want to be able to say that I have dispatched one of my best men to investigate the matter. And take this, too,” I said, putting a few ounces of gold at his elbow. “For expenses. As for pay, I’ll put you on a monthly stipend, for now.”
“Money doesn’t interest me,” he promised. “Problems interest me.”
I liked Lorcus. I needed more like him.
Chapter Seven
The Royal Court
I had expected to be deployed in Gilmora by early summer, but there just wasn’t any activity in the Penumbra indicating that the gurvani were preparing to move, and logistically speaking there would have to be. Maybe Shereul was taking the summer off. But if the Dead God was taking a holiday from invasion, that didn’t mean I could relax. Instead of slaying goblins and dueling dragons, I had been summoned to the Royal Court in Castabriel. That worked out well, in a way, because I also had urgent business of the Arcane Orders to attend to, and the headquarters and hub of bureaucracy for such things was in the capital as well. As much as I hated to leave Sevendor in the summer, I was compelled.
At least this time I could bring Alya along. She had been nursing the last time I’d come to the capital, but now that Minalyan was mostly weaned, she and the baby were both traveling with me . . . along with a legion of retainers.
Alya was bringing both of the children, so Darishi, the nursemaid was coming, as was her husband and her baby, just to keep up with Minalyan. Alya included Sister Bemia as an aid and chaplain. It might have been extravagant to pay for a birthsister to accompany us, but with the new baby Alya didn’t want to take any chances. She also brought along three serving women from the castle to cook and see to our laundry. Sire Cei was in charge of Sevendor in my absence, but I took along Sir Festaran as a personal aid and bodyguard. I also took four of my vassal knights and their squires for security, and a page for running errands.
Banamor was coming. He wanted to attend the Convocation and promote the magical fair in the autumn. He also wanted to trade some of his inventory in preparation for the fair, so he brought along a clerk, a porter and a strongbox. Even Lady Fallawen was coming as an emissary from the Alka Alon council. And two Tal Alon servants were along to fetch and carry. That was twenty-five people to make one small journey.
I left Dara home. She was at a delicate place in her training. She had learned enough to manifest great power with her small stone, but she had yet to learn control sufficiently to be trusted in public. I had enough going on in the big
city without trying to keep up with her. She wasn’t a troublemaker, exactly, but she excelled at finding it pre-made and ready to consume. Castabriel was just too rich and interesting an environment, and there were too many hidden dangers that a barely-literate girl from the Westwood would not see coming.
She wasn’t happy about being left behind. Tyndal and Rondal were still away at War College, receiving advanced training, and with Banamor and the other magi also heading for the Convocation, there wasn’t much to do.
“You’ll have Sire Cei,” I pointed out. “And Gareth is acting as Deputy Spellwarden, with Banamor gone. And Master Olmeg should be around. But with everyone else away, I want a native Sevendori noble in residence at the castle, and apart from myself and Alya . . . you’re it. Just don’t burn the castle down when I’m away.”
“You’re building a new one!”
“Which won’t be ready to live in for years, despite how fast the Karshak are working. Until it is, keep this place standing. That’s your primary job as noble-in-residence. And try to refrain from attempting any serious magic while I’m gone,” I advised, as I envisioned the worst. “In fact, just try to . . . read quietly,” I decided.
“Read quietly?” she asked skeptically.
“Just little spells,” I agreed.
She made a face. “Can I talk to the Alka Alon?”
“Certainly,” I agreed. “They won’t let you get into trouble. And Tyndal and Rondal will be home, soon. Sire Cei can call me on the Mirror. And you can always call me, mind-to-mind,” I reminded her.
High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series Page 14
