“And I wish him the best of luck and the fortunes of the gods,” I expressed agreeably. “He shall need them, even if he should prevail . . . and Anguin lays claim under the law to an improperly conquered land.”
“Anguin is in no position to support that claim with arms,” Moran said, darkly.
“Nor is Tavard in a position to support his eventual claim by law,” I countered. “Without Rardine’s captivity as a pretext for a war of vengeance, he has merely embarked on an adventure of conquest. Without the consent or support of his high nobles. Rard was wise enough to consult them intensely before he undertook the invasion of Farise.
“Therefore, Tavard’s policies, at this point, are unlawful . . . and I am not required to support them as his vassal,” I explained. “I believe any lawbrother will agree. Would you like me to summon one?”
“So, there is nothing you can do?” Moran asked, pleading.
“Oh, I didn’t say that,” I said, stroking my beard. “Indeed, there are a number of things I could do. But not because I was compelled, as a vassal.”
“How, then?” he asked, confused.
“Have you forgotten I am a Spellmonger, my lord?” I asked. “Not just ‘The Spellmonger,’ but a spellmonger, currently licensed to practice in all three duchies in the kingdom.”
“Your point?” he asked, suspiciously.
“My point is that I could be hired to provide support for the expedition,” I observed. “If I took the case, I’m certain I could find some way to get provisions to Tavard’s army, for instance.”
“That’s . . . it?” Moran asked, frowning. “I expected more than that. Can you not help with the military issues?”
“Oh, I could likely do more than that, but I would be cautious in considering more involvement than that. And I doubt you could afford my rate,” I added, my eyes narrowing.
“How much would it cost for you to lend your aid to the supply of the expedition?” Moran asked, his shoulders sagging.
I was tempted to quote an amount so high that he would risk cardiac arrest . . . but I’m wiser than that. The truth was, I didn’t want Tavard’s innocent men to starve in that barren land while he tried to get someone to fight with them. They didn’t deserve that – especially since they were the lucky ones.
Word was that dozens of Tavard’s ships were taken by the Alshari armada and their crews were already in chains, sold at the auction block to the vast estates and plantations of Alshar. If I couldn’t save them all, perhaps I could preserve those who Ifnia had spared that fate.
But there was more than one way to get paid for a job. I didn’t need more money. I didn’t know what to do with the money I had – I just knew I didn’t want to give it to Tavard. He wasn’t hadn’t made very good decisions with the money I’d already paid to him in tribute. He’d spent it on a fleet. Getting paid an exorbitant amount by my liege had a visceral appeal, but it was pointless. That was my taxes and tribute.
Besides, he didn’t really have any money, anymore. He’d spent it on a fleet.
But he did have other assets as both Duke of Castal and Prince of Castalshar. He had authority to bestow titles, the power to grant rights and lands, and there were a number of physical assets he owned or controlled.
“Three things,” I proposed. “One to pay for each, the food, the drink, and the medical supplies. The first: I want His Grace to support, both institutionally and financially, the establishment of a permanent home for two of the smaller arcane orders, the Order of Mandros and the Order of Tarkarine,” I began.
The Prime Minister frowned. “I don’t believe I am familiar with them,” he said, cautiously.
“The one studies the magic of medicine, or the medicine of magic, or somesuch. The other is the pure academic order. Scholars and researchers in the magical arts.
“I’d like His Grace to donate – in his gratitude – a domain or estate sufficient to support both orders. A charter of the donation would specify certain very liberal rights for the scholars and physickers – including exemption from tribute and tolls. Perhaps an annual stipend from the Ducal treasury, too,” I suggested, making him wince.
Moran considered the matter. “That seems a steep price, Spellmonger.”
“We’re just getting started,” I chuckled. “And it’s not so steep. We both know that there are hundreds of vacant estates whose deeds gather dust in Wilderhall’s files. Apart from the modest loss in tribute, and a stipend that’s a fraction of what His Grace spends on ecclesiastic gifts every year, there is no real cost to the Duchy. In fact, it’s a gain,” I pointed out. “By having such institutions firmly within Castal, it lends the same sort of prestige to the duchy as possessing the War College at Relan Cor. An institutional resource on Castali soil, under Castali control.”
“It sounds like it will be under magi control,” he countered.
“Magi are men who have loyalties like any other. They are healers and scholars, not mystics. The students they train will dramatically improve their arts . . . in Castal.”
Moran sighed. “Agreed. Your second fee?”
“I wish the right to establish three new magical academies,” I decided. “Right now, we have but Alar, in Wenshar, and Inrion in Castal. Yet with the rise of the High Magi, we have far more potential students than we have spaces at academies.”
“You wish His Grace to pay for those, as well?” Moran asked, snidely.
“No, we’ll fund the operations . . . I just want the right to do it. One here at Sevendor.”
“Thus producing more magi to shore up your power base,” he challenged. I could tell Moran was not enjoying the way this negotiation was going. He didn’t like wizards in general or me in particular. But he didn’t have much choice.
“Thus producing more well-trained and credentialed magi,” I corrected. “My lord, people see wizards as vagabonds and hucksters in part because there were inadequate means of training those born with Talent.”
“It seems every wizard I’ve met has had plenty of apprentices,” he observed, folding his arms suspiciously.
“The apprenticeship system serves some practical purpose, but it requires academic study as taught by the Academies to elevate magi in our abilities . . . and our position in society. It also leaves many who successfully take their journeyman’s examinations still ignorant of a comprehensive education in Imperial magic.”
“Fine, fine, build your school,” he sighed. “I suppose that, too, will make His Grace look like a patron of the sciences. And your third fee?” he asked, impatiently.
“His Grace has within his treasuries a store of tekka,” I said, after another moment’s thought. “It has recently come to my attention that some insight in my researches can be gained through the study of those rare devices. I have a small collection myself,” I said, in a way I hoped sounded like bragging. “I would like to examine the ducal collection, and purchase – at fair market price – any pieces I think would be helpful to me.”
“Those are rare and unique pieces,” Moran frowned. “His Grace has inherited quite a collection, thanks to the interest some of his ancestors showed in the trade. Yet His Grace, himself, as his father before him, has shown little interest in it. Therefore, I would surmise that they are assets that can be disposed of. At fair market price,” he emphasized.
“Of course!” I agreed, amiably. “But if you agree to those three conditions, I will ensure that Tavard and his men will be provisioned for the next few months. Hopefully in that time he can either conquer someplace that can support him, or he will have the discretion to withdraw.”
“Withdrawal is difficult,” Moran frowned, and a wave of anxiety washed across his face. “Since he made landfall, the Alshari armada did not break up, as we anticipated. Enough remain in the straights to make departure from Maidenspool . . . difficult,” he repeated. “There is a blockade around Maidenspool, now.”
So Tavard was, essentially, trapped. I should have asked for more, I realized.
“The
n it is good that you contracted with me for victualing and provisioning services,” I smiled. “I will have instructions sent to you, to relay to Prince Tavard by Mirror. He should have the first shipment by week’s end,” I promised.
“But . . . how?” Moran asked, confused. He was still uncertain if he made a good bargain with a wiley wizard. I didn’t try to dissuade that feeling.
“Leave that to me. Magic,” I explained. “It’s what I do.”
Before Moran’s retinue of twenty knights departed the Diketower, I had Ruderal contact my parents by Mirror and place an incredibly large order with my father for hardtack and travel bread. He had the ovens to handle a job that large at Tudry, larger than Sevendor’s, and if I was going to spend the money anyway I wanted to keep it in the family. I’m corrupt, that way.
I also contacted Planus, mind-to-mind, and ordered him to procure five hundred barrels of water, twenty barrels of wine, a hundred of ale, and twenty cases of spirits, in addition to bandages, salves, medicines against fever, pretty much an entire field hospital.
I also had him secure beans, salt pork, potatoes, blankets, tarpaulins, tents, shovels, and sundry supplies, all on my account with the Arcane Mercantile Company. It was an impressive order . . . made more impressive when I instructed how I wanted Planus to prepare it for delivery.
Go buy everything on the list, I ordered. When the bread arrives, we’ll stuff it all in a big hoxter, when it’s ready. Then I’ll have one of my lackeys find the nearest natural Waypoint to His Highness, pop through, dump the supplies in the middle of nowhere, and pop out again. Tavard can find it where we lead him to it.
You know, he replied, thoughtfully, this might lead to an entirely new business. Provisioning. I hear that army contracts are particularly lucrative. I know naval provisioning is – I already have an interest in that. But developing a way to deliver supplies in the field through hoxter devices would give us a huge advantage over traditional methods.
You think? Most army procurers are crooked as hell. I travelled with the infantry – I know. And since most of them deal with crooks, there’s so much graft in the system that we could out-compete them on that alone, never mind the savings we have in transport costs. And with a new wave of wars coming, that means deployments. Being able to fill a contract to supply an army from the safety of Remere would be a huge advantage. Wave a wand, and an entire week’s worth of actual usable provisions appear, I envisioned.
All for a reasonable fee, Planus agreed, happily. I’ll work on it. I’ve already expanded our warehouse operations, in three different cities. Between Pentandra’s orders for supplies for the former slaves and this order, we’re going to have to add more. I take it I don’t have to ask for a credit referral from you?
I’m good for it, I chuckled, in my head. And considering what I just got out of Prime Minister Moran in return for an hour’s work placing orders mind-to-mind, it would be a bargain at twice the price.
Keeping Tavard’s dwindling army alive for a few weeks longer bought me some time, and despite my dislike of my liege I knew it would keep him safe, thus sparing us a succession crisis.
The problem was that if he got too comfortable he’d get cocky, and challenge something bigger than a three-story tower whose only strategic value lay in its proximity to a road connecting Maidenspool with the slightly-larger fortress in the saltwater marsh that lay in the interior of the province.
Neither one was garrisoned with more than local lords, hardly better than the ruthless bandits who prowled the wastes. He could throw his forces at them for weeks and not incur the wrath of one of the regional lords.
But if he received too much in the way of supply, he might just piss off a powerful local. Then he’d face a battle without hope of reinforcements, retreat, or support. That could end with his death in battle – which would b be disastrous for the succession – or his capture.
That could be even more disastrous. Should Tavard become the prisoner of the Five Counts who currently ruled Enultramar, any number of unfortunate things could happen. Rard could be forced to recognize the Count of Rhemes as the Duke of Alshar, for instance, forever independent of Castalshar – thus robbing Anguin of his patrimony.
Or they could demand an exorbitant amount in ransom to bankrupt the kingdom. Or they could make demands on territory, control of sea lanes, or any number of things. Capturing Tavard was the equivalent of their every wish and desire. Once one of them realized that, then he would start to attract attention on his little camping trip.
So, feeding Tavard just enough to stay alive, but not so much that he felt bold, was the best move, at the moment. At need, I could send someone through the Ways to rescue him and pull him back to Castal, but that would undoubtedly be a humiliating return. That might be the only way to get him out, if the blockade couldn’t be broken.
It was his own godsdamned fault, I concluded. His and his mother’s. Grendine had always wanted to rule over the land she felt had rejected her. She’d put the notion of him conquering it on her behalf in Tavard’s pointy little head, and once he was in charge of his father’s duchy he felt compelled to barrel off at the first opportunity, exercise his ducal prerogative to make war for pretty much any damn reason, and nearly get himself killed in a monumentally stupid military expedition.
As his vassal, I could only do so much to influence his policies, and – as I’d told Moran – I’d faithfully fulfilled each of my feudal obligations, to the letter of the law.
As a member of the Royal Court, however, I had different responsibilities, and a different perspective. Tavard was being reckless with the succession by leading his army on a pointless war of vengeance. Regardless of his rights as a duke, he had responsibilities implicit in being the Prince – such as not getting himself killed or captured by people who hated his father.
I didn’t even want to imagine what might happen if the Nemovorti in Enultramar got ahold of him. I doubted they had Rardine’s cell in Olum Seheri restored from the fire, yet.
I resolved to bring the matter up to Count Kindine, the Prime Minister, at the full meeting of the Royal Curia that Rard had decreed for Huin’s Day, this autumn – now that Moran had agreed to it. Some sort of control had to be established over the heirs to the throne, regardless of their personal feuds. If Rard could not get Tavard to listen to the reasonable wisdom of his counsellors, then perhaps he could get a Prince to listen to the commands of his king.
Unfortunately, the timing of the court would conflict with my full participation in the Magic Fair, this year, but with magic’s aid I was certain I could at least make a few appearances, and oversee the Spellmonger’s Trial.
Indeed, I’d had Onranion take the six big lumps of irionite from Korbal’s lab and fashion them into smaller, more refined witchstones. I pledged that those would be held exclusively for awarding in the Spellmonger’s Trial, which ensured that the contest would not diminish our existing stocks of irionite. It also ensured that the Trial would continue with a witchstone as a prize for the next forty years or more.
To further distinguish the stones, and to make the presentation more colorful, I had each one mounted in a snowflake made of snowstone within a ring of gold, and hung from a golden chain. Because I have an ego.
But it also gave me some security. The Trial gave any mage the chance at a witchstone, in theory, and tested the talents and mettle of them all. Many of my colleagues were skeptical of that kind of generosity. I didn’t care. If I was going to control institutions in this profession, then they would be designed to bring out the best of it. The power of irionite should not be confined to the use and amusement of the rich and powerful. It should also be put to use for the improvement of the common man.
Magic in the service of humanity – that had been the philosophical counter-movement that originally sprang from the margins of the Magocracy. Some saw it as hopelessly naïve or pointless, claiming the benefits of the art should be reserved for those who’d taken the time and made the effort to study
it. That sentiment had only worsened after the Conquest, though it was muted during times when overly dramatic displays of magic in any capacity cold mean a visit from the Royal Censors.
But the philosophy survived, and I ascribed to it when I’d been exposed to it at Inrion. Many of the common-born magi did. It had been the foundation of my development of Sevendor, and it guided my efforts to structure and maintain the institutions I’d been entrusted to run.
Right now, magi were more prosperous than they’d been in centuries, and enjoyed greater freedom and rights than ever. To keep that freedom from festering into selfish indulgence and elitist self-interest, I had to keep the arcane power distributed with thought to the social and economic power it conveyed.
No one likes a nation of magical assholes, after all.
Now I had ensured that the Trial would continue, regardless of anything else. I’d also ensured that the professional end of my trade was institutionally endowed. That helped balance things . . . and, ultimately, served to bring magic into service of more people.
And, occasionally, to me, personally.
Minalan, you should come here, Lilastien told me, mind-to-mind, as I was finishing up the day’s work.
Why? I asked, alarmed. Did something happen?
Yes, but not anything bad. Alya’s been receiving daily treatments from the Handmaiden, about six hours at a time. She’s been getting better, daily, but . . . well, the last couple of days she’s made steady progress. Remarkable progress, actually. And then this morning, while her nurse was tending her while she had breakfast, she actually asked for ‘more’. She used speech, Minalan! For the first time! she told me excitedly.
S-she . . . she did? I asked, my own excitement rising.
Yes, she continued, rapidly, and so I worked with her all day. I got her to say twenty-six different words. All in one day. She’s coming back, Minalan!
I’m on my way.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 93
