“That’s going to require an awful lot of organization and coordination,” Olmeg said, doubtfully. “Would not running a clandestine exchange for such commodities work better than individual contracts?”
Olmeg might look like the village idiot, from afar, and walk everywhere without suffering shoes on his massive feet . . . but he was not uneducated in the ways of commerce. Particularly agricultural commodities. “If you had a small, central exchange with regular meeting times, the individual chapterhouses could meet and settle their purchases at a common price. It keeps us from undercutting ourselves,” he pointed out.
“That . . . that does have merit,” Banamor agreed, his eyes squinting. “And use of the Mirror Array, or merely speaking mind-to-mind, can ensure the exchange is not troubled by delays. Or overheard by the wrong ears. Planus has already used the damn thing to steal a march on his competitors, who rely on barges to send market prices downriver. Planus uses mind-to-mind or Mirror messages with his agents, and can buy or sell at an advantage before the news is known to the general market.”
“That’s nothing, compared to smuggling,” Loiko observed. “A man who buys a bale of cotton in Barrowbell, or a staple of wool in Wilderhall, and sells it for what they’ll pay for it at the mills of Cormeer . . . that man will make a fortune with every transaction,” he assured.
“We’re not the only ones who are pursuing a charter,” Olmeg confided. “Rael the Enchantress and the Enchanters Guild seek a charter, themselves. I saw her this morning on the way to town. She’s nearly got the funds she thinks will purchase the franchise, and she’s hurrying to raise more.
“There’s also a cadre of warmagi, based out of the Staff and Sword, who seek a charter for a mercenary warmagi’s order,” Loiko added, as he devoured the last of the little sausages. “Just some basic rights, the benefits of a professional association, that sort of thing. About time,” he said, with a grunt.
I had to agree. We’d both been professional itinerant mercenary warmagi for a few years, he more than I, and we both resented the Censorate’s prohibitions on forming such societies.
“Anyone else?” I asked. “This is starting to sound like a terribly lucrative pilgrimage for His Highness.”
“Actually, yes,” Olmeg said, setting down his knife. “When the news came to town, Master Loiko and I overheard a group of masons – that lot you have finishing up the keep at Caolan’s Pass – discussing forming an order for arcane construction. I doubt they’ve gotten to the fundraising stage yet, though,” he added.
“Considering what I’m paying them, they could probably take it out of their alms coffer,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But I can see their perspective. They aren’t exactly using the same techniques as traditional masons.”
“Yet they are getting guff from those traditional masons about how radically they’ve departed from Fargus’ rites.”
Fargus was the minor divinity that served as many masons’ patron. A hybrid of Imperial and Narasi influences, the Shaper of Bricks was far less sophisticated than his spiritual cousin, Avital. He was the god of stonemasons, not engineers. “Some priests object to using magic to replace honest toil.”
“We’re seeing the same thing from the peasantry, with the rise in popularity of tilling wands,” Olmeg agreed, soberly. “While the priests of Huin seem in favor, many peasants see them as a threat to their traditional rights. When a communal plow or the toil to drive it are no longer needed,” he explained, “then determining who owns how much of the harvest becomes problematic.”
“This is the price we’ll have to pay for progress,” I sighed. “I’ll support all three endeavors, I suppose. The masons need protection, the warmagi need regulation, and the enchanters . . . well, I’m not sure what the enchanters need, but they don’t get rowdy, so I’ll support them.”
“Excellent decision, Sire!” Banamor beamed.
“And just the one you more or less forced him to make,” quipped Loiko, as a small but plump roasted fowl was placed before him with some ceremony. It was stuffed with berries and smelled delicious.
“I considered the merits quite carefully, I assure you,” I told my new court wizard. “If it means promoting Sevendor and increasing its importance, I’m in favor. Besides, it will give me something to distract His Grace with so that he doesn’t look around too closely while I’m scheming.
“Banamor, have those documents sent up to the castle for me to sign and seal, when they’re drawn up, and we can put this behind us and focus on important things, like street-sweeping and public privies.”
“Oh, I took the liberty of having all the documents in question prepared for your signature and seal this afternoon, while we were speaking,” Banamor said, demurely. “My lawbrother was working on it all day. I picked it up when I got here,” he said, taking a tightly-bound sheaf of twenty or thirty pages of parchment out of his sleeve. “And look, a quill!” he said, withdrawing a goosefeather from his other sleeve, along with a small inkpot. “How fortuitous!” he continued, as he unrolled the imposing stack of documents for my approval.
“How . . . convenient,” I said, sarcastically, as I took the quill in hand.
“Aren’t you glad that you have me to take care of such details?” Banamor asked, jovially, as I scrawled my name across the page. “It makes the rest of it just work so much more smoothly!”
Chapter Five
A Second Unexpected Visitor
It’s not often that a baron gets to entertain his duke. Of course, it’s always a possibility: a baron is merely the king’s representative and stand-in sovereign for the duke’s power and authority. A baron holds his lands (and those assigned to him by his liege) in the name of the duke, which implies a state of ownership – or at least authority. The possibility that your boss might choose to drop by and stay a few days is implicit in the position.
There are baronies where no sitting duke has ever visited, much less been entertained by the baron. There are also baronies (mostly located fortuitously on the banks of busy rivers or at heavily-travelled crossroads) who see far more of the ducal court than they’d like. But to have a duke come to a barony on an official visit was the epitome of political and social aspiration for most baronies.
Me, I would have rather skipped the entire thing, or held out for a Royal visit. But mere barons don’t get to instruct their betters like that, so when the notification came that His Grace, Tavard III would be spending a few days in Sevendor, on a tour of County Lensely, I had to shut my mouth and pretend to be both impressed and grateful – when I was neither.
There was overt political purpose in the visit. Since the respective defeat of West Fleria and the Sashtalian Confederation, the Duke felt compelled to tour the affected area and inspect the new barony Baron Arathanial had carved out of Sashtalia for his younger son. Ostensibly to check on the county’s preparation for war, Tavard had the perfect excuse to get an appreciation of just how far Sevendor had come.
Giving me only two weeks’ notice before his arrival was the feudal equivalent of a snap inspection, in military terms. While it gave us enough time to tidy up the place, if we’d been doing anything suspicious it would not be adequate time to hide it, or something like that.
I wasn’t worried. The things I was hiding were already well-hidden, or required understanding and intelligence I was pretty certain Prince Tavard did not possess.
But that didn’t mean I didn’t prepare. The moment I got the letter, I informed Lady Estret – who acted in Alya’s stead as lady of the castle – and Sister Bemia, the castle chaplain, and let them get to work. The cleaning teams were deployed within the hour.
“This is a magnificent opportunity for us to show off our barony!” Sister Bemia said proudly at breakfast, a few days later.
“This is . . . this is a disaster!” Lady Estret said, her fair features contorted into a weary frown. She’d been working on getting the castle ready since the moment she knew about the event. Castles. She was also overseeing the spruci
ng up of the Gatehouse, where she and Sire Cei and their family resided when in Sevendor.
“But think of the honor that will fall to us?” Bemia had countered. “When they’re gone,” she added.
That didn’t seem to mollify Lady Estret. By the second day, she was already looking fretful as she dutifully went over the list her husband gave her to accomplish. Out of his earshot, she didn’t mind complaining directly to me. She and Bemia didn’t hesitate to corner me at every opportunity as they rushed to prepare.
“You do realize that half of Sevendor looks like a construction site, right now,” she began, anxiously twisting the ends of her long blonde hair as if she were spinning. “There are cranes and stockpiles everywhere, the Great Hall is totally inadequate for a proper reception, there are no quarters in the castle suitable for a Duke, every cot and hold will have to be thoroughly cleansed—”
“Do what you must, within reason,” I acknowledged, “but don’t go out of your way. If Tavard wants to see Sevendor, let him see Sevendor. A slightly cleaner-than-usual Sevendor,” I amended, seeing how Lady Estret winced. “With my parents preparing to return to Talry, now, we can move my sisters and their families into town for a few months, and Their Graces can stay there,” I suggested. “It’s nearly new, and we can make it suitable for their delicate ducal sensibilities.”
“That . . . might work,” she conceded, biting her lip.
“And then my sisters will be able to brag the rest of their lives how the Duke and Duchess once slept there,” I added, quietly amused at the thought.
“And the reception?” Lady Estret asked, doubtfully. “There has to be a reception feast. A court,” she emphasized. “There must be a holiday court! Where can we allow the Duke to hold a holiday court? This place is . . . is . . . entirely unacceptable!”
“Then we shall use the new hall at the Gatehouse,” I decided. “It’s almost finished, anyway, and this will be an ideal way to break it in. And then Sire Cei can have the pleasure of bragging how he feasted a Duke and Duchess in his hall, once,” I smiled.
“You do realize that will bring up the subject of your new fortification,” Sister Bemia asked, concerned. “There has been enough talk in the Bontal of how strong it is. It worries some. Having His Grace dine there will bring attention from a royal level,” she warned.
“I can’t very well stick it in my pocket,” I dismissed. “It’s a big castle. It was bound to be noticed.”
“The excavations into the mountain will also be noticed,” Bemia pointed out. “That is the focus of the Karshak’s efforts, now.”
“I’ve already spoken to Guri and had him shift the bulk of the work parties on finishing the Gatehouse,” I informed them. “And perhaps give them a holiday. Oh, we can disguise the minehead, for now, and explain it away as quarry work for storage – that shouldn’t be too difficult.”
The neatly-drawn plans Guri showed me at the beginning of construction eventually had a pair of eight-story towers built against the face of the mountain, with a towering spire that would – eventually – be seen clear to Chepstan Castle. But even with a squadron of construction magi aiding the effort, that vision was years away from being realized.
Right now the front of the cliff looked relatively normal, for gleaming white enchanted basalt. Only at the base, concealed from ready view by the massive Gatehouse itself, was the cliff disturbed. That was the entrance to the interior sections the Karshak were excavating, first. It was obscured by a long canvas tent, used for storage and such. As of yet there was little sign of what was happening within the mountain.
The entire operation could be told away, at this point, I reasoned, as quarrying for stone for the Gatehouse and the Mewstower, which a separate crew had begun work upon. That was Dara’s refuge and laboratory for her work on the giant hawk project. It was only about five stories high, built on a shoulder of the mountain beyond the crevasse, but when the top of the spire was complete it would eventually be seen above the tree line.
“I do hope you appreciate everything we’re doing here,” Lady Estret said, in a rare display of ire. “Our love for Lady Alya compels us to represent Sevendor as sincerely as she did.”
I changed the subject abruptly. I hated when they spoke of Alya as if she were dead.
I’d called a council meeting for dinner, in the Great Hall after the rest of the folk finished eating about a week and a half before Briga’s day, to discuss preparations. It was an expanded council, consisting not just of Sire Cei and the castle administration, but the Sevendor Town council, representatives of all of the temples, a few yeomen, and a number of wizards.
By that time word had saturated the vale about the impending royal visit, some of the details of the entertainments and contests were leaked, and there was a spark of excitement in the air that rivaled the magelights overhead.
We got a surprising amount of work done at that dinner – that’s what you get when you hire good people.
Banamor anticipated the visit with great eagerness, proud of the little town he’d worked so hard to build. Master Olmeg was nearly as excited by the prospect of showing off his magnificent greenery. The others saw the visit as equal parts opportunity and burden. Great lists of projects were drawn up, and for once no one complained about the expense. The consensus was that this was Sevendor’s opportunity to shine in the royal eye as the first mageland, and everyone wanted that.
Thankfully, I had adequate subordinates who knew their work. Once I outlined what I wanted to happen, they made it happen.
It was like magic. Only a lot easier. And vastly more expensive.
Once given their tasks, the Sevendori went to work. The fields took very little preparation, thanks to the Master Olmeg’s good stewardship and the liberal use of plowing wands. While the rest of the Bontal was struggling to drive their iron plows through the still-cold, wet soil, Sevendor’s were already prepared to take seed, after the last frost (Zagor assured us there would be at least one more).
That freed up a lot of labor for other projects, and I didn’t spare the coin to pay for them. One crew finished paving the road from Boval Hall to Brestal with cobbles, one of the last main roads in the domain to be done. The Diketower was given a thorough renovation, repainted, and cleaned up. New banners were hurriedly sewn. The Tal worked from dawn to dusk hauling debris and garbage that had piled up over the long winter. Gallons of whitewash were distributed to every hamlet and cot, so that the building looked clean and almost as white as the snowstone castle in the distance.
Sire Cei and Sir Festaran placed huge orders for victuals, wine, and other delicacies from Sendaria Port and beyond. Inns and taverns did likewise.
Meanwhile, Banamor enlisted the aid of a dozen magi (there were always plenty of those around town, especially around the Enchanters Guild) to lay down enchantments to augment the engineering and beautification projects. The public fountains, which now extended water clear to the Street of Magi in the north end of town, were given magelights that activated at dusk. They glowed to life at the same time the streetlights did, illuminating the splashing water in changing colors. Banamor even built two new public privies at his own expense.
A week before the visit Master Olmeg’s furry minions deployed hundreds of spring wildflowers in small clay pots throughout the town. With a bit of enchantment they began to bloom early.
As for me, I mostly just paid for it all. That may seem terribly lazy of me, but in truth I was not concerned about whether or not we would impress Tavard. Of course we would impress Tavard. The man was easy to impress.
What concerned me far more was impressing Tavard the wrong way.
While my retainers scurried around me to ensure the best possible presentation, my mind explored all of the dark ways in which this visit could go wrong. Wars had erupted over such excursions. Feuds and duels had occurred after a state visit in the past. That was precisely the kind of thing I wanted to avoid. My goal was to be entertaining, forgiving – in light of our recent history �
�� and utterly supportive of Tavard’s rule and eventual ascension to the throne.
That was difficult, because Tavard was not only personally annoying, but his succession had also ensured that his powerful mother, Queen Grendine, had essentially abandoned his sister Rardine to the clutches of her captors.
Rardine was her second-in-command of the kingdom’s intelligence service, not to mention difficult to marry off, so the Queen saw her daughter’s sacrifice as a political tool. Hanging around court, Rardine was a threat to Tavard’s rule by her very existence. Though regrettable, in her eyes, having Rardine “safely” in the hands of pirates, awaiting ransom negotiations, kept her out of the way.
Only the Queen knew very well that Rardine was not in the hands of mere pirates. She’d been traded, like a sack of meal, first to the Brotherhood of the Rat and thence to the hands of Korbal, the Necromancer of the Mindens. I know she knew that because I’d told her myself, after learning the fact after Yule, when my former apprentices returned from Olum Seheri with the intelligence.
Yet Grendine kept the public fiction that her daughter was still being held in Enultramar, by pirates, and a suitable ransom would be negotiated Any Time Now. There could be dozens of reasons for that. A few of them might even make sense.
But the woman’s willingness to use even her children as pieces in her game of power was distasteful to me. Rardine, for all of her faults, had been utterly devoted to her mother and the Family – the unofficial name for the official kingdom intelligence apparatus.
Rard, at least, had vowed to punish the miscreants who took her and offered two baronies to the man who rescued her, but even those were token efforts, designed to appease propriety, not to secure his daughter. In fact, they served Prince Tavard’s ambition to conquer Enultramar from the sea in his own name, as it was unlikely any adventurers in Enultramar would find her there, and the two vacant baronies pledged for her recovery were currently recovering from an aborted goblin invasion.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 8
