“Let’s not be hasty, Gentlemen,” Master Ulin said, whipping out a thaumaturgical wand. “It wasn’t a complete failure. There was definitely some attempt to phase into the pocket, before it met resistance. I think we collected some invaluable information from the attempt.”
“Like only do it in the proximity of pillows?” Onranion snorted, rubbing his back.
“He’s right,” Taren agreed, picking up Threshold. “While the experiment didn’t work, it wasn’t unfruitful. Once we study what happened . . .”
“I’ll leave that to you gentlemen,” I sighed. “Keep at it. This was a productive line of research. You’re doing good work,” I assured them. I’m not going to deny that I was a little disappointed at the result, but I was also determined. “Let me know the next time you want to try.”
I suppose I could have lingered and added my insights to the process, but honestly Taren is a better thaumaturge than I am, and Ulin a better enchanter. I’m better at being in a supervisory role.
I walked back to my tower, deep in thought about the experiment, wondering what other means of moving the unmovable I had at my disposal. Along the way I stopped by the Gatehouse and climbed three flights of stairs to Sire Cei’s personal quarters.
I admit, they made my own hall look shabby by comparison. Cei had a spacious modern hall directly over the gate allowing a spectacular view of the valley, with Sevendor Town, Sevendor Castle and Lesgaethael towering in the distance.
Sire Cei and Estret’s personal chamber was on the eastern side, with smaller rooms for the children. The western end of the floor was my official stronghouse, where the castellan guarded my treasures and funds. An alcove with a recently-carved pegboard for keeping track of our expenses and incomes served him as an office.
When the weather permitted, Sire Cei liked to take his meals out on the balcony overlooking the road below. That’s where I found him, that evening, deep in thought with his lips clasped firmly around the stem of his pipe as he read the day’s reports.
“So, will we be ready for His Highness’ arrival?” I asked, when he’d poured me wine.
“Oh, decidedly,” Sire Cei nodded, approvingly. “We have sufficient notice to order proper victuals, engage in a cleaning program, and otherwise engage the occasion. Be warned: I’ve approved several additional outlays from the baronial treasury to cover the additional expense. We’re hiring more Tal and peasants to help. And I’ve ordered two dozen new snowflake banners made,” he reported. “I thought it would be appropriate.”
“Perfectly,” I agreed. “I want Tavard to be completely aware that he’s in a mageland, and my mageland, at that. The goal will be to welcome him, fete him, let him conduct his pilgrimage, and then send him on his way as quickly as possible.”
“A gift is customary, from vassal to liege, on such an occasion,” Sire Cei reminded me. “Will you be able to produce something arcane, or should I focus on expensive gaudiness?”
“The arcane,” I decided. “I’ll speak with Master Ulin or one of his assistants about producing something suitable. I just came from the Snowflake chamber, where we were doing some . . . advanced experiments. He should have some new and useless enchantments I can throw at the Prince.”
“Ah, I wondered at the work you were doing,” Cei nodded, both disturbed and relieved. “That must have been it.”
“What?” I demanded.
“Well,” he began, slowly, as he studied his winecup, “about half an hour ago, the entire mountain lit up. The stone itself glowed with a pale light. The effect only lasted a few minutes, but it was quite impressive. No doubt I’ll be flooded with demands for an explanation. But whatever it was you were doing in there, it had an effect out here,” he warned me. “You should be wary of that.”
“I try to be wary of everything,” I sighed. “But it makes sense. Thanks for letting me know. The official response should run something like ‘the Magelord was performing a scheduled assay into the thaumaturgical underpinnings of the local Magosphere.’ Something like that.”
Sire Cei chuckled. “You know, I’m almost starting to understand some of that stuff,” he admitted.
“I hope not. It was pure bullshit. What we were actually doing was trying to figure out how to knock the centerpoint out of the Snowflake. Without getting a cataclysmic response.”
“And were you successful in your experiments?”
“No, Cei, we were not,” I sighed, heavily. “Some days it feels like I’ll never get Alya back again. But I think we’re making progress. I hope we are. With three different schools of magic working on the problem, one of them should be able to free it.” I suppose I sounded discouraged and tired, probably because how tired and discouraged I was. But Sire Cei has a knack of knowing just the right thing to say.
“To progress,” he said, holding out his cup for a toast. “One foot in front of the other.”
I couldn’t argue with that, either.
Chapter Seven
The Seamage Moudrost
Sire Cei was not the only one to note the effects of our experiment with the Snowflake. Nearly every mage I saw the next day asked me some variation of “what are you cooking up in the mountain, now, Min?”, and I got a lot of uneasy looks from the non-magi around the castle.
Considering all of the arcane ruckus that they’d experienced since I took ownership of Sevendor, I suppose I couldn’t blame them. From the original Snow That Never Melted that turned a quarter of my domain white, to the scandalously tawdry Ishi’s Night, to the waves of magical experiments from myself and others, the poor folk of Sevendor had been tormented by magic almost as much as they’d benefitted from it.
The intriguing thing to me was actually how well they now accepted it. Having the entire mountain and castle burst into an unearthly glow in the middle of the night was, in context, just not that big of a deal. That was just life in a mageland. We were all getting used to it, by now.
It wasn’t until after breakfast that my page – the lad who dealt with my messages and appointments and such – reminded me that there was a seamage waiting patiently to speak to me.
That’s when I started to suspect that mucking around with the Snowflake and dangerous thaumaturgy while the Sea Folk were watching might not have been my wisest decision.
“Tell the gentleman that I will meet with him in my private chamber, then bring him to the tower,” I instructed the lad. Whatever the strange wizard had to say to me, I preferred to hear it without any interested ears around. My workshop tower was one of the most secure places in Sevendor.
When the lad escorted the man to me, he gave a deep bow and introduced himself.
“I am Moudrost, the Dryspeaker for the Sau’libik pod of the Leviathan Kyrinsik,” he said in a deep but hoarse voice. He was striking: tall, lean and sinewy, his long hair spilling over his shoulders into his beard.
He was dressed similarly to a common mariner, with long leather trousers and tunic under a thick woolen cloak. But he wore a broad, elaborately-tooled oil-cured leather bandolier across his chest, filled with the tools of his trade. His thick boots were cunningly designed to keep from slipping on even the slickest of decks, and a broad mariner’s knife was stuck in his belt.
Moudrost carried a long driftwood staff that had been carefully polished with fish oils and wax until it shone. It was studded with tiny bits of coral, shells, and stones, and glimmered in magesight with arcane power. He didn’t seem to have a witchstone, but the odd shimmering of power the man emitted told me he was a potent wizard without one.
“Baron Minalan the Spellmonger,” I answered with a smile and a bow. “Wine? I’ve no Sea Lord vintages, but . . .”
“Please,” the man assured me, politely, “I have had my fill of seawater. I enjoy the landsmen’s wines, when I am able.”
Just to be showy, I conjured a platter from a hoxter pocket in one of my rings that bore two silver goblets and a bottle of decent Gilmoran red. Moudrost showed just the barest sign of being impressed as he to
ok a seat and I poured.
“So what brings you to my lands, Master Moudrost?” I inquired, casually.
“I come seeking an audience with you,” he explained, amiably. “My pod chanced to range near the shallows at the coast of Castal, as is their way, and tasted something . . . strange and new in the waters. Intrigued, they asked me to investigate. I have been tracking the new factor upriver for near a year, now. It leads to this charming little stream . . . and this magnificent white castle,” he said, gesturing to my study.
“Ah,” I realized. “Snowstone. That’s what your pod sensed.”
“So I have come to understand,” agreed Moudrost. “Along my journey I have gathered much has changed in Castal since I took service with the pod. A lack of Censors, for one,” he said, wryly.
“I didn’t think the Seamasters feared the Censorate.”
“Fear is a strong term. We are wary of their arbitrary rules, and reject them. When they cross the brethren, we strike back. By now they know that we are not to be trifled with,” he said, sternly. “But it is gratifying to see our dryland cousins finally overthrow their yoke. I have heard that that is largely your doing.”
“Mine and Duke Rard’s. Now King Rard’s,” I pointed out. “Since then, I’ve done my best to manage the result.”
“While defending against a gurvani invasion and a reawakening of the undead in the west,” he added. “I have done my research, Baron.”
“Please, call me Minalan,” I insisted. “And I appreciate the interest. But I don’t understand it. Why is your pod so intrigued by snowstone?”
“The tongues of the nymphs are highly sensitive, especially in ranging season,” Moudrost supplied – not that I understood what he was talking about. “It takes but a small change in the flavor of the sweetwater to capture their notice. To be candid, Minalan, they were near mad with it.”
“So the . . . nymphs like . . . my snowstone-flavored river water?” I asked, confused. I had virtually no understanding of what he was speaking about.
That’s never stopped me before.
“They were the first who sensed it,” he agreed, after a long and lusty sip of wine. “Was after a storm, when the spring floods bring the finest sweetwaters to the sea. The nymphs were ranging along the sandy plains underwave, and began to churn excitedly. And of course their cries caught the attention of their Keeper, who in turn notified the Kraytak on duty. When he sent a Seeker school in to investigate, they discovered the source of the new flavor. That’s when the Hindermen took charge, had the Sekleties taste the sweetwater, and the old crones went mad, too.”
“I have no doubt,” I said, trying to obscure my confusion. “Who wouldn’t?”
“Your . . . snowstone,” he explained, when he realized I was upriver without a pole, “is new, Minalan. New to the world of Callidore.”
“That’s what my Alka Alon friends tell me,” I nodded.
“More, when the sweetwater samples were taken to moisten the coral beds . . . they grew twice as fast as normal.”
That did seem intriguing. I didn’t know why, but I was intrigued.
“Snowstone lowers the local thaumaturgical resistance field of the Magosphere,” I explained. “I don’t know how much you know Imperial magic—”
“I was fairly apprenticed to a landborn sea wizard in Enultramar,” he informed me. “I held journeyman papers before I was selected by the pod for training. I know how to read. I understand basic thaumaturgy,” he said, with the hint of a snicker in his voice.
“Excellent. Then you will appreciate the research I’ve been doing on this material.”
I proceeded to tell him the story of the raging blizzard that happened the night my son Minalyan was born, and the resulting magical transformation of Sevendor. I further explained what we’d discovered about the substance, and made brief mention of some of the unique crystals we’d harvested from vesicles within the rock without giving too many details.
“That makes sense of much of what we theorized,” the seamage nodded, sagely. “And would explain the dramatic effect on the coral beds. I have been empowered by my pod to extend an offer, should I discover the source of the new flavor. Last night I spoke with my Hinderman, who has had conversation with his fellows. He has authorized me to purchase some of this snowstone for our use.”
“Now, that’s an intriguing proposition,” I nodded. “As it happens, I do sell the material to my colleagues, who find it invaluable in their enchantments.”
“I can understand why,” he nodded. “At what rate do you sell the stone?”
I explained the going market rate for snowstone – not counting the free samples I’d given away, or the generous gifts of the stuff I’d made my friends. “So just how much are you looking to buy?”
“About three thousand tons,” he said, as casually as if he was discussing eggs at the market. “To start.”
My head spun. Three thousand . . . tons? Of snowstone?
“That’s a lot of rock,” I said, dazed.
“We would pay fair market price,” he assured me. “I took note of the southern ridge behind the hostel I stayed in last night. It appears to be solid snowstone, and has no settlement upon its steep slopes. Could the stone be harvested from there?”
I blinked. “Uh, of course. It’s easily accessible, and there’s no one living there. We could certainly mine that ridge,” I agreed. My head began to right itself, and my mind began calculating just how many people I’d need to do so. Hundreds. Three thousand tons would require a lot of labor. Then I stopped. “We would, of course, reserve the right to any . . . exotic minerals,” I added.
“What do you mean?” he asked, curiously.
“We’ve discovered some crystalline structures of peculiar configuration,” I shrugged. “I’m a scholar. A thaumaturge. I’d like to study them.”
“My pod is only interested in snowstone,” Moudrost assured me. “Any pretty pebbles you like, you may keep.”
“How does your pod plan to pay for the stone?” I asked, as I refilled our glasses. I hoped my hand wasn’t trembling. So far snowstone sales were a significant and growing part of my revenue, almost pure profit. The market rate for three thousand tons was an astronomical amount. The kind of number that only coinbrothers can visualize.
“Traditionally, transactions between the Vundel and the landborn are conducted in trade of hard goods,” he reasoned. “We can pay in gold, on delivery. Or in other metals. Or corals,” he added. That was intriguing, too. Almost all the really good magical corals used in enchantment come to us exclusively through the Sea Folk.
“Why don’t you make eighty percent in gold,” I suggested, magnanimously, “and the rest in a variety of other materials?”
“Such as?” he asked, a bushy eyebrow rising.
“Surprise me,” I shrugged. “If you are Imperially trained, then you understand the sorts of things I’d like. Give me some of those. I’m sure there are things out beyond the horizon that I don’t know about, but might interest me. I’d take that sort of thing, as well.”
“That can be done,” he nodded, grinning widely. I noted two of his teeth had been replaced with corals of different colors. “My pod will be pleased with the bargain.”
“So how does a seamage become a . . . a . . .”
“Dryspeaker?” he supplied. “One has to first be accepted by the lodges of the Seamasters, who have watched over the waves since the horizon brought us forth. Some apprentice there as young boys. I submitted myself a year after taking my journeyman’s exams. From there, I was put through trials until I was among the most worthy to be offered to the pods which range our coasts. I was fortunate enough to be chosen.”
“But why?” I asked. “Not why you were chosen – although I confess I’m curious – but why are you drawn to such an . . . exotic life?”
“Power,” he said, instantly. “Power and knowledge. The mysteries that lie in the deeps are more compelling than any landborn mage could approach. To be in contact w
ith the ancient minds of our Leviathan mothers is an honored bliss . . . and to swim above the coral beds a sublime joy that no mere wizard will understand,” he said, reverently. “For this I gave up the pleasures of even the life of a mariner. Those chosen for Dryspeaking vow to serve twenty years. Some never set foot upon soil until their term is expired. Most die at sea before they ever embrace the Dry again.”
“Well, I suppose that’s a legitimate motivation,” I said, postponing judgement on the man’s choices. I had very good friends who buried themselves in their work to the exclusion of pleasures and pastimes. Taren was one. He was virtually uninterested in the increasing numbers of women, magi and mundane alike, who were attracted to the thaumaturge. His passion was his work.
“It can be a lonely life,” he conceded, “but I have my pod, and during ranging season they don’t hesitate to send me ashore to negotiate with the dryborn. And I shall be expired in a mere eight years,” he added with a mournful sigh. “It’s like losing your entire family. Some can’t abide the thought, and plunge themselves into the waves instead of facing it. Once a Dryspeaker fulfills his term, he is cast out of the pod forever.”
To be honest, his life sounded awful to me. I didn’t mind non-humans – some of my best friends weren’t human – but to be entirely cut off from your fellow man and surrounded by an array of squishy, chitinous, scaly and stinky non-humans would be at least three kinds of hell. To choose that over beer, bread, and boobs seemed a little mad.
He continued to tell me about his life, and while I pitied him for the hardships he’d inflicted on himself, it was clear that it was he who pitied me my landsman’s life. Moudrost was a friendly sort, once you got past his stoic exterior, I found. We finished the bottle in good spirits, shaking hands on our agreement before he left.
“I shall take my leave of Sevendor this evening, as my pod has bidden,” he told me. “They are anxious to receive the snowstone, and wish a full report.”
“As we are anxious to begin delivering on the bargain,” I assured him. “I have to make a quick trip myself, tonight. I regret that I won’t have more time to spend in your company, hearing your tales of the strange Sea Folk. But Prince Tavard has elected to visit next week, and I am forced to focus my energies on his arrival. Indeed, I received word his envoy arrives tomorrow,” I said, apologetically.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 11
