Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  Sandy tended to have an excellent perspective on how things worked, and he knew how to work damn hard at something to make it work. He was both warmage and thaumaturge, but far more socially inclined than either profession usually is known for. It made him a valuable troubleshooter. Since I’d raised him to High Mage with a shard of irionite, he’d worked for years, now, doing just that for the Royal Court, the Arcane Orders, and for the ducal courts of both Castal and Alshar. He’d even done a brief stint at the War College, when they had a bit of trouble to shoot.

  We’d served together in Farise. He’d always been a great friend, and boon companion. When Sandy heard about my exile and new appointment, he’d volunteered to help . . . so I’d hired him as my troubleshooter for the Magelaw. I’d offered him the title of Marshal, a reasonable salary, and given him the job of building me an army. He’d come up from Vorone with his girlfriend, and likely future bride, almost immediately before settling in and getting to work.

  “Once Korbal realizes how close at hand I am, they’ll try something, just to keep me busy,” I promised as I drank the cool ale and enjoyed the contrasting heat of the fire on my back. It was good ale, too, nuttier than the Riverlands varieties I’d grown used to in Sevendor. “But I do hope you are right about a full-scale invasion, Mavone. Because I’m assuming that we’re in no position to defend against one.”

  “In that you would be correct,” Sandy agreed, mournfully. “Outside of those cute little pele towers you built at the entrance to the plateau, you have virtually no functioning fortresses in Vanador. There are damn few elsewhere in the Magelaw. As for men, well, I don’t have a complete count, yet, but as far as I can tell we have but a thousand armed warriors to keep the goblins out of Vanador. The cohort of light infantry Pentandra raised to guard the camp. Some of the old Tudry city militia who’ve taken up swords. A few warmagi. Some Kasari rangers. No more than a thousand, all together, to protect tens of thousands of helpless peasants.”

  “Then we’ll have to teach them to fight,” I countered.

  “Rely on a militia? Let me point out that most of your peasant population is malnourished and chronically underfed, Minalan, so that if they were invaded it would be unlikely they could hold a spear in their own defense,” he shot back. “If we had proper spears. Most of the freedmen are living on direct aid from the barony, because there isn’t much in the way of an economy here. This place has never had this many people in it,” he reminded me. “That was before the invasion. Now? More than half of it is wilderness. The other half is overgrown.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that it has nothing but potential,” I restated, optimistically.

  “It’s going to take a lot, Min,” Sandy said, gently, only smirking at my jest. “This isn’t one little domain, like Sevendor. You don’t have any functioning state here, beyond what Gareth provides the town. There’s no unified command of what military forces we do have. The godsdamned carpenters are more organized than the soldiers,” he complained.

  “Nor is there adequate agriculture to support the people you have,” Mavone observed, critically. “That will have to come before they can be properly armed. The people must have homes to defend and lands to farm. Unless you can keep importing grain forever.”

  “I can’t,” I admitted. “Oh, I probably could, but I take your points. Self-sufficiency is a high priority. I’ve been talking to Gareth, too, mind-to-mind, and he’s given me some details. I just wanted your perspective.”

  “The only way I see out of this is magic,” Sandy said. “And a small mountain of gold. There aren’t twenty plows on this whole plateau. Agricultural wands could make them obsolete,” he suggested.

  “I planned on that,” I agreed. “Banamor is already producing them. And a good many other things: bricking wands, lumber wands, and more. Yes, we’ll be using magic all over the place, here. Because I’m going to need a stable base of operations . . . for my real work here in Vanador.”

  Both men groaned, earning a smirk from Dad. He enjoyed how my minions reacted to my brilliant ideas.

  “What is your ‘real work,’ Min?” moaned Sandy, after exchanging glances with Mavone.

  “Thaumaturgy,” I supplied, as if the term was novel.

  “You want to study the science of magic in the middle of a godsdamned wilderness? On the edge of a war zone?” Sandy asked, his jaw agape in disbelief. “Are you certain that’s a wise idea? Thaumaturgy is what rich old practical adepts do when they can’t cast real magic anymore,” he explained. Catch up on your reading, sure, Min, but you can’t devote your time to that crap! And I say that as a thaumaturge!”

  “It’s not a mere aristocratic affectation,” I replied, reasonably. “Nor is it pursuing an esoteric hobby. There is a more important reason to pursue thaumaturgy

  “The Vundel bought an entire mountain of snowstone from me, remember? Making me fabulously rich? Well, they like the stuff. They like it so much that they want more. More than I likely have,” I pointed out. “And since my godsdamn house is made out of it in Sevendor, I’d like to figure out how to provide that without them just taking it. You both understand that there are greater implications behind this, beyond me losing some valuable real estate,” I reminded them.

  “Well, surely you can negotiate . . .” Sandy said, trailing off. If there was one thing we’d all learned about the Vundel, it was that they didn’t really negotiate. They barely acknowledged us as thinking creatures.

  “We cannot,” Mavone agreed, with a sigh. “Nor can we fail. But Minalan . . . do you have any idea how to replicate the spell?”

  “I have a few theories, but that’s the problem,” I reasoned. “It was spontaneous magic. Completely unexpected. There wasn’t a plan. I didn’t exactly take notes. Which means I have to deconstruct the spell thaumaturgically and re-create it. In the middle of the wilderness, at the edge of a war zone. I like a challenge,” I added, weakly.

  “That’s not a bloody challenge, that would be a bloody miracle!” Sandy insisted. “Min, there isn’t anything close to a thaumaturgical laboratory in Vanador! Penny’s witch’s croft is about the closest thing to that, and it’s a hole in the ground.”

  “I brought one with me,” I said, casually. “The equipment, at least. We can build the actual lab. I hear Carmella is getting good at putting up such things in a hurry.”

  “You’re right about that,” Mavone said, respectfully. “She’s got crews all over, working on dozens of projects. By the time spring arrives, I expect that number will triple. I know she’s using magic, but she’s putting up structures in months that should be taking years. I’m a wizard, and I’m impressed!”

  That was a heady admission. Mavone is a fairly taciturn man, and isn’t impressed by much. He was even less likely to tell you. “In the few weeks I’ve been staying here since the snows abated, I’ve seen houses go up like wildflowers in the dead of winter. Temples blooming like weeds. Roads rolling through town like rivers. Paved roads, not dirt tracks!”

  “I know,” I chuckled. “I’ve been getting reports on that, too. I look forward to seeing the results in detail. But Carmella promised that my thaumaturgical center is a priority, once I explained the situation to her. Hopefully I can have it up and working by midsummer. In some capacity.”

  “How much time do you think we have?” Mavone asked, thoughtfully. “Once you convinced him that there was a threat, you usually didn’t have to keep convincing him. “Before the Vundel get unreasonable?”

  “I’m hoping that I can stall them a few years,” I admitted. “From their long-lived perspective, that’s likely akin to stuttering. Relocating here to Vanador might help give us some time. I left instructions at Sevendor for the Seamage when he arrives, explaining my situation and telling him where to find me. I’m hoping it takes him a little time to find me. Once he gets here, I can explain the situation and, perhaps, beg for a little more time,” I proposed.

  “And if the Vundel are impatient?” Mavone asked, darkly.

/>   “Then we bullshit them,” I offered. “The very best variety.” That earned tandem snorts from Dad and Sandy, and an eye-roll from Mavone.

  “You realize that the Vundel could exterminate our entire species on a whim, don’t you, Min?” he reminded me.

  “I’m acutely aware of it,” I nodded, realizing my cup was empty. “I also understand that they live for thousands of years. Giving me a little time to come up with a solution shouldn’t be a problem,” I reasoned. “I’m going to bring Taren into it, some academics, and some other experts on thaumaturgy. We’ve got all of Dunselen’s research,” I reminded them. “He was a wart on the arse of our profession, but he took great notes. And I’ve got other experts,” I said, glancing at the fire.

  “Yeah, maybe the gods can help,” Sandy suggested, unconvincingly. “You really think you can figure out that spell, way up here in the Wilderlands?”

  “Way up here in the Magelaw,” I corrected, firmly. “That’s an important distinction to remember, gentlemen. For good or ill, Anguin virtually gave me this entire land to rule as I saw fit. It is to be the abode of the magi, our own lands and our own ways. That includes, by necessity, the study of thaumaturgy.”

  “Oh, shit, I feel a speech coming on,” Sandy said, rolling his eyes.

  “You’ve been here a few weeks. You’ve seen what Carmella and Gareth have done, so far, with precious little to work with. I may be exiled from Sevendor, but I know how to order things . . . and with the Wizard’s Mercantile, delivery is never a problem. Gentlemen, this is our opportunity to build the first magical civilization since the Magocracy. We have resources. We have Talent. We’ll attract more.”

  “Crap, you’re right!” Mavone murmured to Sandoval. “You got him going again!”

  “Here, in Vanador, in the heart of the Magelaw,” I continued, ignoring them, “we will forge upon this Anvil a sparkling new civilization, using magic in the service of man without restraint or restriction.

  “Here, the magi will be protectors and lords of great power, ruling over a prosperous land and proud people.” I insisted, as my father smirked at my display. “Here in Vanador, the darkness of the Penumbra will be challenged by the bright light of magic, fulfilling the unexpected promise of our people in our fallen estate.”

  “I suddenly feel almost heroic,” Sandoval assured Mavone, solemnly.

  “It just makes me tired,” Dad added, working through his third ale.

  “We will defend humanity, here at Vanador,” I insisted. “We will defend it from the gurvani, from the Nemovorti, from Sharuel and Korbal, from the unknown terrors of the world and the well-known inhumanity of our fellows. And we will protect it from the Vundel, whatever it takes to do that,” I vowed.

  “ . . .whatever . . . it takes . . . that’s good,” I heard a voice behind me. I’d been so wrapped up in my conversation I hadn’t heard Lawbrother Bryte come in. I turned around to see him furiously scribbling on a scrap of parchment with a charcoal pencil. “That’s actually quite good. Better than I expected. I think I got most of it. I don’t understand all of it, but it’s good. I’ll brush up the rough spots and we can use it, when you address the populace.”

  “When I do what?” I asked the scrawny monk, surprised, as he finished his scribbling and rolled the parchment resolutely into a scroll. He sighed indulgently. Not the best trait in a retainer, but then I didn’t have a lot of choice.

  “It’s traditional, when a new count takes his seat,” Bryte assured me, as he made the scroll disappear into his satchel. “You speak first to the militant nobles of the land about your plans, their responsibilities, and their duties; likewise with the local clergy. Then you address the people at large to make them feel secure in your appointment. And it needs to be good if you want to invoke their loyalty. Usually,” he considered, “such an address is a bloody awful excuse for self-aggrandizement that makes everyone doubt their future in a truly abysmal fashion. But that . . . that wasn’t half bad," he considered. “Indeed, that was almost inspired,” he added, not in admiration but in shrewd recognition. “We’ll use that.”

  “And who is this priest?” asked Sandoval, rising. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser, may I present Magelords Sandoval and Mavone, my loyal colleagues and faithful retainers. Gentlemen, this is brother Bryte the Wiser, accepted to practice before the courts great and small, a contentious drunk and passionate advocate of the laws of gods and men. He shall be assisting me in ordering the Magelaw as my new chancellor,” I announced.

  “I thought that the Magelaw was going to be where magi ruled?” Mavone complained, discouragingly.

  “If I wanted a magical inn, I’d hire a good innkeeper before I cast any spells,” I reasoned. “I want a magical government. I hired a lawbrother.”

  “I suppose we will need a few lawbrothers,” Sandy admitted, bowing respectfully to Bryte before returning to his seat. “It will keep the peasants happy.”

  “And torment the artisans,” grunted my father, who remained suspicious of all lawbrothers despite spending more than two weeks with one. Indeed, he seemed even more suspicious after our long conversations in the wagon on the subject.

  “I just thought that we could establish things without a lot of parchmentwork,” Mavone sighed, disappointed. “It seems you can’t do anything these days without having to pay for an advocate. I find that unseemly.”

  “Well, I can’t fault your opinion,” Bryte sighed. “As a rule, lawbrothers are usually divided into two classes: the majority are a bunch of fetid sacks of corruption stuffed with steaming piles of greed and avarice, the kind that would see their own grandmothers sentenced to the pillory if it resulted in a fee,” Bryte agreed, good-naturedly. “Then there are those few who care about the actual law and real justice, and things like that. I blame the drink,” he said as he took a seat. The barman obligingly provided him with an empty mug.

  “Which one are you?” Mavone asked, philosophically.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” the monk admitted, pouring himself ale from the pitcher. “But I’m open to all offers.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve retained Brother Bryte to further the rule and interests of the magi, not complicate them,” I assured my friends.

  “Don’t bloody count on it,” Bryte murmured into his glass.

  “I suppose we should find it admirable that you’ve arrived in your realm with such a learned man in tow,” Mavone decided. “It demonstrates a certain level of seriousness about the matter in your mind.”

  “I’ve just become responsible for about a hundred thousand lives, and tasked with constructing an entire realm,” I reminded him. “I thought I might need a little help.”

  “An army would be helpful,” Sandoval countered. “And you brought a monk,” he observed, wryly.

  “Why bring an army when a monk will better serve?” argued Brother Bryte. He was good at that.

  “Because we face hordes of bloodthirsty goblins who want to eat us?” Mavone suggested. “Were you not informed?”

  “Because my lord count rules a lawless land full of desperate people,” Brother Bryte corrected. “And that could doom his reign as easily as any goblin. ‘For without order in civil society, there is little capacity for the boldest of warriors to mount a credible defense against the forces of darkness,’” he quoted from the Book of Luin, philosophically.

  “We have a society?” Sandy asked, amused.

  “There’s a kind of society here,” Mavone countered. “It’s been here since the Wilderlords. It didn’t seem to take many lawbrothers. I’ve only been here a few weeks, but I’m quite impressed with how Gareth and the others have carried on. All without lawbrothers.”

  “There are inns and taverns here, now,” Sandy proclaimed. “That’s got to be a sign of civilization.”

  “A symptom, but not the disease,” Bryte agreed, thoughtfully. “Basic markets arise wherever there are two men with things they covet from each other. Ale,” he said,
raising his mug and taking another healthy sip. “An excellent example. It can be strong or weak, and sold as either. A simple transaction . . . yet without the staff of order to mandate the proper quality of the noble beverage, instability soon infects the transaction, with little recourse to the poor sap who purchases it.”

  “You think we need priests to litigate over bad beer?” Mavone asked, amused.

  “Constantly,” the lawbrother assured, restlessly rolling his short staff of office from one hand to the other as he spoke. “Indeed, it may well be the noblest portion of my profession.

  “But ensuring good ale is just the beginning of my sacred mission,” he continued, as dramatic as I had just been. It was really good ale. “My good lords, order is required to keep any civilization functioning. Luin’s sacred staff is the fulcrum upon which balances the world.”

  “I have a staff myself,” Sandy bragged. “It can blast a squadron of scrugs or light my way to the privy. It sounds more useful.”

  “Ah, my lord, but Luin’s staff – and this poor imitation I hold – is special. It represents the Law. It mitigates the disputes between merchants in the market. It sets the weregild for petty offenses, and supports the noose for felons. It determines when a maiden has been raped or is merely regretful, when a man must support his bastard or when he is free to deny it, which child of a widow has claim to her inheritance, the rights of a vassal to his lands and the rights of a lord to his vassal’s service, and the rules of war and the ordinances that enforce a prosperous peace.

  “The sacred Staff divides the righteous from the wicked, the innocent from the guilty, the bare truth from casual hearsay. A lord with foresight understands this and acts accordingly.”

  “We’re wizards,” Sandy dismissed. “We’re pretty casual about regulatory authority, since the Censorate was dissolved. And Min is in charge.”

  “You are for now, but how long can your arcane powers, say, keep the peasants from demanding the artisans keep their prices low? Or that the grain merchants don’t add rocks to their sacks at market? Can your spells keep a younger son from challenging his elder for their father’s legacy? Keep a miller from stealing grain? Keep a bandit from robbing a man on the highway?”