Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Instead, talk around court was centered on the dedication of the new palace and the building of the new Royal Fleet. And that was really why Tavard was coming to Sevendor.

  Fleets are expensive to construct and maintain. More expensive than armies. Instead of building ships, Tavard (who was ostensibly in charge of the invasion) was hiring ships, naval mercenaries from Remere and even Merwyn. They were gathering in the east, even now, arming and preparing for an autumnal launch.

  But the Minister of the Treasury was not free with funds for such an endeavor, much to Tavard’s dismay. The costs of the palace, the smaller revenues collected from the lands affected by invasion, and the price of fielding troops in Gilmora and elsewhere was already straining the new Royal Treasury. He was given a mere 10,000 ounces of gold to begin his effort, and was told by the Royal Council to raise additional funds on his own. He’d borrowed a like some already. Now he was shaking down his vassals.

  That was why he was touring Castal: not just to see the countryside and check on his vassals, but to extort money from them. It only took me an hour to verify, through mind-to-mind communication with my magical peers. Tavard was putting pressure on every noble he could to “donate” funds to the cause.

  My discussion on that front was interesting, and Astyral helped bring me understanding. As a native Gilmoran noble, he understood what was happening better than I.

  You have to remember, Min, that Tavard is not just Prince and Heir, he’s also the sitting Duke. One way that the ducal houses have traditionally kept rival powers from emerging from among their vassals is to tax them into obedience. If he has a legal cause to do so, he can raise funds from them as a way to keep them from gaining too much military or political strength. Likely that’s why he’s put Sevendor on his itinerary. He doesn’t like you.

  I’m aware. Just how much do you think he doesn’t like me? How much will he hit me up for?

  From what I’ve heard, he’s pushing for an average of a thousand ounces of gold from each barony, he reported.

  Ifnia’s Dice! That’s almost a decade worth of tribute!

  He’s entitled to ask . . . and then either grant favors or impose penalties to encourage you to pay. Reluctance is often seen as a sign of disloyalty or ill intent. If a baron has just reason to refuse, or such a payment would bankrupt him, he can usually appeal to the temples for intervention. But few high priests want to get involved in that sort of thing.

  I can see why. Well, it’s not like I don’t have it. He’d have to ask for significantly more than that before it would be a problem. But I hate to fund an effort I know is doomed to fail. There’s no way Tavard’s mercenary fleet can out-match the rebels, from what I understand. They’ve already got the fleet at Farise tied up in knots, after Rardine’s capture. I might as well just throw my gold into the sea!

  Oh, let the lad do it for you, Astyral counselled, with a chuckle. He’s more than capable. Just be gracious and pay up, Min. If you do it, then your neighbors will, too . . . and that’s what he’s likely after. Your good example as a loyal and obedient vassal. No doubt he reasons that if anyone would start a rebellion against him, it would be you.

  Me? I’ve only been in one little rebellion. I’ve been a model noble. I’ve paid my tribute on time and in full, every year. Even my paperwork is in order. Rebel? Hells, I don’t want the idiot’s title or his responsibilities. I have enough of my own.

  Just trying to look at it from his perspective, he soothed.

  Astyral was correct, I discovered through other sources. As the Ducal Party made its way upriver from Castabriel to Wilderhall, it was stopping at most of the major baronies along the way. And he was, indeed, shaking them down like a thug from the slums. Sevendor was a little inconvenient to that trip, but I hoped to make the excursion worth His Grace’s while.

  The day after I spoke to Astyral, things got even more complicated – although I didn’t realize it at the time. I was in my laboratory, lecturing Ruderal on some obscure point of magic while he swept the place clean, when a mage named Ostry contacted me, hesitantly, mind-to-mind.

  Ostry had been issued a temporary stone, having come on to my staff as part of the reserves for the holiday. He’d been assigned to duty at the Diketower, acting as the Spellwarden for magi seeking entrance to Sevendor. He was young, strongly-Talented, and Imperially trained, and he’d been making a little extra coin working for the regular bouleuterion. I liked the kid. He was smart.

  Magelord Minalan? he began. I was instructed to contact you if anything unusual or noteworthy happened here.

  So which is it? Unusual, or noteworthy? I quipped.

  Both. I have a gentleman here . . . well, I have a man here who seeks an audience with you. A mage.

  Anyone I know?

  I don’t think so. Do you know any seamagi?

  I abruptly stopped what I was doing and searched my memory.

  No one worth mentioning, I admitted. I met a few on the docks and in Farise, but no more than passing acquaintances. This seamage wants to speak with me?

  Yes, Magelord. He said he is an emissary.

  From whom? Perhaps the pirates who captured Rardine wanted to negotiate?

  He says he’s from the Sea Folk. He’s here to see the one called the Spellmonger.

  I tried very, very hard not to pass out on the spot. And then recover enough composure so that I wouldn’t sound panicked in front of my subordinate. That’s not professional.

  The Sea Folk? How interesting! Have him escorted to the castle, I instructed. I’ll ensure that he’s hosted here. See if he wants anything to drink, I added, for no particular reason at all.

  Shit. Shit.

  How could the Vundel taken notice of me? Why in the name of nine hells and Ishi’s soggy crotch had the Sea Folk even heard of me? And why did they choose the week before an important state visit to decide to drop by unexpectedly?

  I resolved not to panic, as I prepared for my second unexpected visitor. I knew the Vundel occasionally used human seamagi as translators and ambassadors from their massive leviathans, when they happened to interact with humanity on the open sea. There was a whole damned cult associated with the mystical nature of the Vundel, the Seamasters, one I’d dismissed as mere nonsense . . . until recently.

  Not even the Censorate had bothered trying to control them. When the criminal you’re chasing can step on a ship and go anywhere in the world beyond the Censorate’s jurisdiction, it’s hard to serve a warrant.

  Why the hell were they here? Why now?

  Of course, my mind leapt to all sorts of unlikely and horrific reasons, with even more terrible consequences. Images of chitinous warriors forcing men, women, Alka Alon and gurvani alike into the ocean to our collective doom filled my mind. The knowledge that I had the ancient shades of their most revered ancestors locked up in my cellar increased my anxiety, and every dire warning Lilastien had given me about the precarious position our races enjoyed in regard to the Sea Folk came back to me.

  I needed to stall him, at least a day or so, I reasoned, while I completed some preparations. I could do that – I was the damned baron. I didn’t have to speak to every itinerate mage who wandered up to my door, I reasoned. I had enough going on to reasonably beg off an immediate audience. It was late enough that I could put him up in one of the guest halls in Southridge or in one of the inns in Sevendor Town for the night and deal with him in the morning.

  I had my reasons for the delay. Tonight was an important night for me, professionally, as it was when some of my top magical experts were supposed to convene inside the mountain. It was the last such scheduled meeting before the Briga’s Day holiday, and I was anxious to share my news and forge some progress toward my eventual goals. Having a fishy-smelling wizard from the Sea Folk hanging around put a damper on the evening.

  I tried to put it out of my mind, after I contacted Banamor and had him intercept the seamage on his way to Sevendor. I could trust him to entertain the man without raising suspicion . . . or as
king too many questions. I just couldn’t be distracted from what I was doing, tonight.

  But I couldn’t. An hour passed, and while I was trying to work out a few last-minute calculations before the meeting, my concentration was shot. I considered contacting Pentandra and seeking her advice, but that would just upset a pregnant lady. It wasn’t worth the price to salve my jitters.

  Instead I turned to the other expert at my disposal. I used the sigil we’d contrived to add her to my growing fisherman’s net of advisors and contacted Lilastien mind-to-mind.

  How is Alya doing? was my first question. The issue of the seamage and the Vundel sunk in priority the moment I contacted her.

  She’s fine, the Sorceress of Sartha Wood assured me. She’s doing well, actually. She took a long walk beyond the gardens, today, in company with one of the Tal she’s adopted as her maid. She smiled over dinner last night.

  Minor things, tiny victories, I knew. But each one gave me the tiniest bit more hope, another minor measure of optimism. That kept me motivated.

  Excellent! Tell her I love her, I asked, though I knew Alya had only the vaguest awareness of my existence. Look, I hate to bother you, but . . . well, there’s a seamage at my threshold who wants to speak with me.

  I could hear the mental snort. Is he looking to sell you an enchanted dinghy? she joked.

  No, he says he’s an emissary of the Vundel. The Sea Folk. And he wants to see me.

  Oh, shit, Min! my new ally said, anxiety pouring out of her mental voice. That’s bad!

  Well, so much for my quest for reassurance, I replied, dryly. After what you just told me about them, I’m tempted to slip out the back door and slink away. I could always become a baker in the backwoods of Vore, or something. Much less likely to cause an inadvertent exile of my species from this world, that way.

  No! Gods, no, Min! If they came, you can’t ignore them. Do you realize how incredibly rare it is for the Vundel to send an emissary ashore this far? To parlay with coastal authorities, perhaps, or to negotiate passage through contested waters, but . . . you’re about five hundred miles inland of where they usually roam. This is bad, Min!

  You think? I asked, sarcastically. What do I do? You’re the expert, I reminded her.

  Well, you don’t slink out the back door! If they came, you have to entertain them. How many?

  Just the one seamage.

  That’s . . . that’s good. Better than I thought. If it was a serious visit, they’d send an entire delegation. It might just be a casual inquiry from one of the breeding pods, or a request . . . shit, Min, how the hell did they know who you are?

  I have no idea, I said, sulkily. I do try to keep a low profile . . .

  Treat him as an honored guest, she advised. The Vundel don’t think much of us, but they do see honors and respect for one of their emissaries as noteworthy and admirable. If they think that they have business with you, it’s best to treat that with all due solemnity.

  They are the landlords, after all.

  Exactly, she sighed, wearily, through the connection. I don’t know what more to tell you, Min. Just . . . be careful. Be respectful. Be polite. Don’t have him summarily executed or anything like that.

  Hey! What kind of magelord do you think I am?

  I just thought I’d mention it, she said, defensively. Listen respectfully, hear him out, and seriously entertain any proposals he might have. When dealing with the Vundel, it’s best to be as deferential as possible. Can you fake that, at least?

  Hey! I repeated. I’ll have you know I’ve been kissing noble ass for over five years, now. I can fake deference. I just want to know why he’s here. And why he picked the week before Tavard shows up to appear.

  So do I, she agreed, unhelpfully. Do let me know, when you find out. Not to change the subject, but I received word from a very unexpected quarter that someone else wants to speak with you – here, in private, not in Sevendor. Lord Aeratas.

  Really? Why?

  Because his daughter Falawen is somewhat reluctant to get married to that humani knight of yours, and it has him perplexed. Despite his antipathy toward me, when he discovered I was on parole he asked if I wouldn’t speak to her.

  Did you?

  Of course! I have more experience with human-Alkan social interactions than anyone, she boasted. That’s one of the reasons those hidebound, close-minded traditionalists on the Council were so eager to lock me away. The scandal of interspecies unions was just too much for them.

  Lilastien sounded like she wanted me to ask about all of her tawdry encounters with my distant ancestors, but I didn’t have the energy to entertain her. I had a meeting to get to, an important one.

  Tell him I’ll pop by tomorrow night. I can speak with him then. Perhaps I can soothe her nervous jitters, although I don’t know how. That will also give me a chance to tell you what the sea mage says.

  I’m looking forward to it, she said, unconvincingly. Four hundred years without much in the way of company gives a woman a desire to entertain.

  Chapter Six

  The Bouleuterion of the Handmaiden

  In the bowels of the pure white mountain behind my pure white castle there are laboratories where only the finest enchanters worked with the most exotic of materials, in my service. I had spent a lot of time, money, and energy ensuring that the Karshak had built the lab out solid snowstone to my exact specifications. It was a model lab, a series of dream workshops that even the Archmagi would have envied.

  Within were some of the most advanced enchantments of our age, being developed by some of our finest minds. Experimental magic, using the novel powers of the unique crystals from the mountain, combined with the mysterious powers that lingered here.

  Among the underground facilities was a special suite, three rooms devoted to my personal projects.

  Chief among those, at the moment, was a plan to re-construct my cracked Witchsphere . . . and improve it dramatically. I’d been getting by with loner stones from my collection – perfectly adequate for normal use. But I wanted my big powerful ball of green amber back. And if we could improve upon it, so much the better.

  To that end, the Alka Alon songmaster Onranion, master of shaping irionite, was working with Master Azhguri, the Karshak stonesinging master, and Master Ulin of Setria, the foremost human enchanter of the age. At various points, other experts were brought in, as needed, in an effort to plan and build the perfect magical device, the culmination of their combined arts.

  The thing was, recent events had changed our plans.

  When Alya was magically maimed at the Battle of Greenflower, her chances for recovery were negligible. Even the hands of the gods could not bring her back to me. I was quietly urged to consign her to an abbey, annul our marriage, and seek another wife.

  While I’d sulked in despair for months afterwards, and, I’d recently learned that her potential salvation could lie under one of the most fearsome places on Callidore: Olum Seheri. I’d learned from Lilastien that there was the enneagram of an ancient creature known as the Handmaiden that could, theoretically, be brought back to un-life and used to restore my wife’s mind.

  So the focus of my expert staff had changed, since I’d returned at Yule. The plan was no longer focused on making me more powerful, but on figuring out a way to contend with the transport and use of the Handmaiden’s enneagram, should I actually have the chance.

  Therefore, I’d taken to calling the group of arcane experts the Bouleuterion of the Handmaiden. It was a thaumaturgical cross-disciplinary master class, and it was my best hope to execute my vague and poorly-thought-out plan.

  The problem is, if you want to go carting enneagrams all over the place, you have to store them in something, usually some kind of crystalline matrix. And for an enneagram as large, complex, and sophisticated as the Handmaiden, no normal crystal would suffice. Indeed, the only one we’d seen that was capable of handling the shades of the ancestors of the Sea Folk was the Snowflake.

  That was a semi-stable qua
si-molopor of ever-changing crystal I kept down at the end of the hall. It was “dressed” with the enneagram of an ancient Celestial Mother, a being more powerful than any six human gods you care to name. Only a fraction of it was connected to the crystal, but it was enough to provide incredible power.

  But we only had one Snowflake. We couldn’t move it. And it was occupied.

  If we could not find a way to transport the Handmaiden, then going to Olum Seheri was futile.

  Lately our efforts had focused on actually removing the center of the ever-changing crystal, which (for the barest fraction of a second) occasionally became entirely un-connected to the larger Snowflake. The problem was that, despite its crystalline composition, the Snowflake was enough like a molopor to make it essentially unmovable. Whether or not that was sufficient to block our efforts remained to be seen. I was pretty determined.

  Obsessed, even.

  When I arrived I saw that Master Ulin had covered an entire wall with Imperial formulas, as he tried to work out the details of the plan. The others were already there, along with Master Loiko, my new Court Wizard, and one of the best thaumaturges I’d ever met, Sir Taren the Sage, Warden of Greenflower.

  I’d had my misgivings about posting the young warmage to the post not because I doubted his abilities, but that handing over that grave responsibility to anyone would likely depress the hell out of them. Taren was just too nice to have to not only deal with the issues of being a powerful tenant lord, but also contend with the strange and uncanny issue of Castle Salaisus, where the dead go for holiday.

  Dunselen of Greenflower’s mad attempts to re-create the Snowstone Effect had actually yielded some results . . . but they also drove him mad when they affected him. Taren had spent a year studying the strange substance that resulted. Instead of lowering the etheric density in a given area, the bluestone seemed to allow a far more tangible connection to the material world.