High Mage: Book Five Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “You aren’t the—” the leader of the group began, when he saw the shaking heads around him. He realized his mistake. I was, indeed, the Spellmonger, and that meant something to him. He put the wand back in his belt. “My mistake,” he said, angrily. “But this pimple here just flattened Kordi for no good reason at all—”

  “Actually, Excellency, it was because he threatened to beat me,” Gareth supplied, tiredly. “Not just threatened, but put his hands upon me. Master Banamor was quite clear about how I should respond to such a provocation.”

  “Indeed,” I agreed, gravely. “You were right to do so. And your friend will be no worse for wear, and perhaps a bit wiser, when he awakens. In the future I counsel more caution and less boldness while in Sevendor. We do things differently here.”

  “You’re just going to let him blast poor Kordi like that?” one of them asked, aghast. “He should show a little more respect to his betters. Kordi is a blooded warmage!”

  “Another infraction will result in him being thrown from the Fair.” I turned to go. He wouldn’t let it go.

  “Magelord Dunselen was right about you . . .” he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear it.

  “Was he, now?” I asked, turning back around. I was suddenly interested. The old man was still behind a curtain of toadies. “That would be my generous and forgiving nature, I gather?”

  “He said you were going around arming the weak with magics too potent for them,” the leader said. “I see that is true,” he added, glaring at Gareth. That didn’t intimidate the man. Gareth wasn’t a warmage because of his size and lack of killer instinct, not his lack of courage. He’d stared down High Magi who’d questioned his authority before. In the middle of the Fair, even a gang of warmagi did not disturb him overmuch.

  “I find wisdom a compelling element in who I choose to invest witchstones,” I said, mildly. “And perhaps Master Dunselen is correct. Perhaps I have over-invested some folk with stones who do not deserve them.”

  “That’s Magelord Dunselen to you!” another of the warmagi nearly shouted.

  “And that’s Baron Minalan to you. “ The crowd parted. Master Dunselen had finally caught on that there was a commotion involving his men. He approached angrily, until he saw with whom they were arguing. He stepped in front of them at once.

  “Magelord Minalan—” he began.

  “It’s baron, now, as I was just reminding your men.”

  “Baron Minalan . . . it has been too long since I’ve seen you!” He over-sold it, trying to counteract the anger that lingered between his men and mine.

  “It is a pleasure to see you visit my humble little land,” I agreed, quietly. “Your men, however, have forgotten some basic elements of hospitality. Like not threatening the fairwardens.”

  “I . . . I shall speak to them at once,” he assured me, looking at Kordi, who was just starting to come around. “What was his offense?”

  “He got belligerent with one of my people,” I dismissed. “He’ll be the wiser for it.”

  “I chose my men on the basis of their loyalty,” he apologized. “They can be a bit zealous, in regards to my dignity.”

  “I chose my men on the basis of their competency. Gareth was doing his job. We’ll put it in the past, for now. So, what do you think of Sevendor?”

  “Oh, it’s a lovely little place!” he agreed. “The snowstone mountain makes it quite majestic – I’ve never been able to cast spells so easily before! You must tell me how you did it!”

  “It does grant a lot of aid,” I agreed. “As to how . . . well, it’s complicated.”

  “Which is one of the things that intrigues me about it,” he nodded, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Was irionite a factor?”

  “I did have the larger piece of irionite,” I agreed, “but it really is quite more convoluted than that. It had to do with the birth of my son, and some magical complications. A complete, if fortuitous, side-effect of the spell I employed.”

  “Come now, Baron,” Dunselen said, his eyebrows furrowed. “I understand wanting to protect such secrets from the common rabble – but you and I are men of scholarship. Surely you can give me some idea of how you went about it.”

  “Not really,” I said, feeling wary about the way he asked. “I will write up a monograph about the experience at some point, perhaps, but there are far higher priorities—”

  “Higher priorities? Than this? This is the most remarkable magical feat since the Magocracy, and you’re worried about a few goblins?”

  “A few hundreds of thousands of goblins,” I corrected. “And the snowstone has been a valuable resource in that fight. But thaumaturgy must be behind all of the other issues before us.”

  “They say that there were jewels discovered, in the mountain?”

  “A few interesting specimens, yes,” I dismissed. “I am having them evaluated by the Karshak and the Alka Alon. I’ll let you know if they find anything.”

  “Yes, please do. But researching the mechanism for a transformation of this magnitude is clearly a profoundly important undertaking—”

  “Magelord, right now building my castle, ordering my domains, and defending the crown are my most profoundly important undertakings, right behind my wife and children. Surely you can appreciate the importance of such tasks?”

  “Of course, of course, I spend far too much time with such crass business myself,” he admitted. “But such a discovery . . . on top of the great advantage you have, with that sphere of yours . . .” He got a faraway look in his eyes as he watched it bob serenely over my shoulder. “It truly is magnificent. It seems . . . unfair, somehow, that it was granted to one who lacks the experience to appreciate and study it properly.”

  “Unfair?” I asked, surprised that I’d have to defend my ownership of the sphere again. “How, unfair?”

  “Perhaps unfair is not the best term,” he admitted. “It just seems that such treasures would be better fitted to wiser heads.”

  “You fault my wisdom, Magelord?” I asked, warningly.

  “What? Nay, not at all, Baron! You have shown adequate resolve in establishing the new orders, and there is no doubt you have accomplished much here – but by accident, not design. A man with deeper knowledge, more experience—”

  “A man such as yourself,” I supplied. I was getting angry.

  “I am not alone in this belief,” he assured me. “We older and wiser heads have been discussing the matter, quietly. A great many of us feel it would be in the best interests of the orders – and even the kingdom – for you to give the device over to one of us. Such artifacts are not meant for the young and brash, you understand.”

  “And just who are these other adepts who feel I have power beyond my means?” I asked, coolly. Dunselen must have been going mad, if it was not clear to him to see how distraught I was becoming. He was blinded by his own opportunity. I could see it in his eyes as they tracked my sphere back and forth.

  “Master Inraik, Master Gamethiel, Mistress Rercard, others. The leading minds of the magical community.”

  “And not a High Mage among them,” I pointed out.

  “A highly artificial division,” Dunselen said, sounding offended himself. “Something must be done about the way these stones are apportioned, with common warmagi getting precedence over serious scholars . . . when I agreed to allow you to undertake this experiment, my dear boy, I never imagined you would take such liberties. I had intended on these duties being handed over to those who are best equipped and trained to deal with them.”

  “Those magi in your own personal circle, then,” I replied with a sneer. I knew of the adepts of which Dunselen spoke. They were, indeed, highly regarded scholars, but their fields were utterly pedestrian and uncontroversial. Master Gamethiel’s field was magical fungi. Witchstones would be wasted on such hidebound sages. I needed magi who could put magic to good use, not study it to death. “They were overlooked for stones for good reason, Dunselen.”

  “Good reason? Master Inra
ik was assistant headmaster at Alar Academy for four years! Mistress Recard was the deputy Court Mage for the Count of Eremon! These are magi of rank and prestige!”

  “So what magic have they done?” asked Lorcus, pushing his way through the crowd, eating an apple. Lorcus loved apples. “These fat-arsed adepts who want to take the sphere, what spells have they done?”

  “It’s not about practical application,” the old mage insisted, “it’s about earning the respect and—”

  “It’s about the naked application of power,” I corrected. “I’ve started to learn about power in the last few years, Dunselen. Real power. Not magic, but the power to get things done. Like gather an army, or fight a war, or build up a domain. Magic can be helpful for that, but you have to be willing to use the power you have to get things done.”

  “Well, obviously,” Dunselen snorted.

  “You and your colleagues’ demands for power they have neither earned nor merited are not effective tools of power. They –and you – are bureaucrats, first and foremost. Not even serious scholars of magic. I’ve listened to these ‘older and wiser heads’ for years, and usually they say nothing of consequence, when it comes to how magic affects the real world.” He took a breath for a rebuttal, but I didn’t let him.

  “The way magic is done is changing, Dunselen, and not just by letting you bully your neighbors with your power. With the Censorate gone, magic can do things again, real things that affect real people. You received your appointment to Court Mage because of political connections and because you were good at organization. Not because you were that great of a mage. You got your witchstone because you were at the right place at the right time and open to a bribe. And you gained much from that.

  “But when I hear tales about how you use your powers to loot the people you conquer, and steal away their women . . . it makes me sick that I’ve granted you such power.”

  “Hey!” barked one of Dunselen’s warmagi. “You can’t speak to—”

  “Just say another word,” Gareth said, holding a short, nasty-looking wand on the man. “The Baron was speaking.”

  “I tolerated you when you came begging at the door, because I felt you were a fool spellmonger who had lucked into a cache of witchstones,” Dunselen said, all trace of civility lost. “I expected Hartarian to roast you alive and confiscate your trove, to be honest. When he didn’t, I was surprised . . . but I never imagined that he would allow you to keep such potent artifacts.”

  “I don’t think he’s in any position to demand them,” I pointed out, “nor are you. My power, here, is sufficient to keep that from happening. “

  “You are not the only power in the kingdom,” he riposted. “Even you have to answer to the crown!”

  “And not even the crown can demand my sphere,” I countered. “You worked for Rard for years – do you think he’s likely to alienate a powerful political ally for the sake of a couple of tired old farts like you and your colleagues? He has a war to fight and an entire kingdom to run. He gave me charge of magic for a reason.”

  “Political expediency,” sneered the old man, shaking his head. “Just because your so-called High Magi have power, they are still no better than trained adepts with years of experience. Rard will see this in time, as you inevitably fail!” He sounded quite sure of himself.

  “You had better hope he doesn’t,” Lorcus said, amused. “Or you’ll be finishing your memoirs in gurvani.”

  “You stay out of this, spy!” Dunselen spat. “Yes, I’m aware of your so-called agent, Minalan! Sent to spy on me and my lands, when I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “If you’ve done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to fear from one of my agents,” I corrected. “And sent at the behest of the crown you are so eager to set against me. Your actions have attracted attention to the High Magi I would rather avoid, Dunselen.”

  “Me? I’ve been nothing but magnanimous in my retirement!”

  “Conquering your neighbors isn’t magnanimous, and it isn’t retirement. And when you go out of your way to wave your phallus around to torment the people you’ve conquered, it makes us all look bad.”

  “I . . . I haven’t . . .” he struggled.

  “I think you are done here today,” I finished, simply. “I’m a hair’s breadth from demanding your stone, and I’m certain that I’ll regret not taking it later, but I’m going to give you one last opportunity. Go back to your lands and be content with them. Despoil your own people, if you must, but your days of private warfare are done. Pack your belongings and head for the gate: I want you out of Sevendor by sundown, and out of my barony with all speed.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Magelord Dranus

  I wish I could say that the fair was uneventful after Dunselen’s expulsion (which had proven popular – the man was a pretentious ass and had offended plenty) but that wasn’t the case. There was another magelord there with a political purpose. Magelord Dranus had also arrived at Sevendor just in time for the fair.

  Dranus’ fame had risen quickly, after he’d prosecuted his claim to his family inheritance. With some adept legal maneuvering he had been re-ennobled and had claimed a domain left to him by his grandfather, a sizable estate he’d had to chase a cousin off of to claim . . . but his biggest prize was ahead of him. He was the rightful Count of Moros, which was about a third of northern Remere, just shy of Wenshar. It was a rich land, one currently held by Dranus’ younger half-brother. After holding a witchstone for only a few months, Dranus’ domain in Moros was now well-fortified, and he was here hiring mercenary warmagi and purchasing magical weapons in preparation for a showdown with the current Count of Moros.

  It was widely speculated that he was going to start a civil war over his half-brother’s rule. But it was more accurate, my agents had discovered, that he was preparing for a number of eventualities. He was adopting a political as well as military strategy, it was said, bribing or threatening his brother’s key vassals into inaction in advance of his move. He’d already issued one unanswered personal challenge to his brother, but the Count of Moros was no fool. Moros was a prize too great to risk in a single fight, even if Dranus was a court wizard who did warmagic, not a warmage who was aspiring to an administrative post.

  In addition to hiring mercenaries, Dranus also wanted to curry my favor. He sought me out in my pavilion, near the front of the fair, four gentlemen in tow. Unlike Dunselen, they weren’t looking for a fight. On the contrary, they were looking for allies.

  “I have heard it said that the crown has taken notice of my being raised to High Mage,” the tall, neat-looking Remeran gentleman said, after preliminaries were observed. I wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about Dranus, thanks to the headaches his political ambitions had caused me, but he seemed a solid enough fellow on his own. He had come into his own as a magelord with style, affecting a new device of mage’s stars and a bull’s head, the traditional badge of Moros.

  “It has,” I agreed. “And it is worried. Or at least some dangerous parts of it have. Having a few magelords around gives the kingdom variety. Having an entire important region under the control of one . . . they’re concerned about that, I won’t lie to you.”

  He seemed realistic about his chances at taking his patrimony. “They needn’t be. I have no quarrel with the royal house, as long as they do not block my path. I’m not a fanatic,” he emphasized. ”I want what is best for the people of Moros. My brother is a lackluster count, at best. My father would never forgive him for some of the duties he’s neglected. So is the king going to stand in my way?”

  “He’s not inclined to, I think, depending upon just how loudly you sing Rard’s praises as you cut off your brother’s head. That’s their largest consideration: how loyal are you to the regime? I answered that you would be most loyal to those who were most willing to see you in your seat.”

  “That’s not far from the truth,” he agreed, nodding. “I don’t want to put a circlet on my head just to have the King take it off – with my he
ad. I’m even willing to be patient, if they need more time to adjust to the idea.”

  “I think we can work something out with them,” I offered, cautiously. “They aren’t terribly fond of the current management. Moros has been quite reluctant in providing troops for the war effort, for instance. And it is said that some of his supporters murmur against the legitimacy of the regime. If you were to make some public declarations of support and loyalty, it might improve your position . . . but I’ll warn you, if the crown thinks you are an obstacle, they will remove you, and having a witchstone won’t do you much good. They will assassinate you.”

  “Then I shall endeavor to be the most loyal of supporters of the Royal Family,” he said, with a smile that was just a little too wide. I could see how he’d be a good court wizard. “Can I count on the support of the Spellmonger, as well?”

  “If you’re asking for gold or troops,” I warned, “then no. I don’t want to appear to give my support that way. It would put the Orders in a vulnerable position, not to mention complicate the local political situation. On the other hand, there are many of your colleagues and admirers who devoutly wish to see you installed as a count. I’m certain you could raise funds or secure men that way.”

  “I was more looking for your endorsement, than your alliance,” he said, quickly. “I am a . . . a politician, not a warmage. I know that military action will probably be required, and I’ve hired a warmage to oversee that, but taking a county is not like conquering a domain, Baron. It requires cultivating the support of the barons and great lords of the region, who look to the Count for aid and order between them. I’ve secured – unofficial – pledges of support of nearly a third of them, now.”

  “But many won’t commit to your cause until they know that you’ll be successful – and unsanctioned by me,” I said, nodding my head. “That makes sense. But how do you propose to convince the rest? I’m assuming that your brother has his own supporters . . .”