Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  “I’m quite happy for you,” I insisted. “No one deserves contentment in the arms of a loving wife more than you do.”

  “Thank you, Min, that means a lot to me,” he said, sincerely. “Although I might take issue about what I ‘deserve’. I credit your sterling example for the interest, actually. You and Alya have been happy through nearly anything a couple can be faced with. You give me hope that matrimony is a reward, not a sentence.”

  “It’s what you make of it,” I conceded. “I like being married. But it’s not for everyone. So, when is the big day?”

  “We’re still working on the details,” he admitted. “That’s going to take a little time. Considering how much my control over Losara is still nominal, I can spare a few months while I consolidate my position there, so I’m in no great hurry. Nor am I acting as a desperate old bachelor,” he promised. “I have gotten some interest in my matrimonial future and even offers from both vassals and fellow barons,” he added, without bragging.

  I had no doubt of that. Being a single baron of standing in Gilmora at the moment had to be like frying bacon around starving men, the way younger daughters of lesser houses no doubt began appearing. There was a shortage of marriageable lords, after the invasion, and seemingly no end to single daughters and comely widows. “But as tempting as a rich but ugly younger daughter of a corrupt noble house might be, I am committed to making Maithieren baroness of my realm.”

  “Then I support you in that effort. You speak as if there are challenges.”

  “There . . . might be,” he conceded. “Her father is no friend or ally of the Prince, nor any Castali. That has been noted at court. If it became known he was favoring an alliance to one of your comrades, my claim to suit might become more challenging than I prefer. Pressure from his liege, who is decidedly pro Castali,” he explained. “A man has to be careful about such things, these days.”

  “So I should keep your proposal—and my favor—to myself?” I asked, confused.

  “Until it is more convenient to reveal it,” he agreed. “Indeed, I considered asking you to indulge in a public feud, just to smooth things over. At least the verbal variety,” he added, quickly. “I have no desire to get either Penny or Alya riled for being mean to you.”

  “Why is everyone scared of my wife?” I demanded. “Penny, I can understand. But Alya?”

  “That’s not your concern,” he dismissed. “But I appear to be in the perfect position to offer a potential weakness in the Spellmonger’s favorite friends and vassals. Count Omard, who is one of Tavard’s loyalists, is wondering of my inclinations. Maithieren’s father is one of his vassals. He will not act without his liege’s blessing.

  “I will keep the matter private,” I assured him. “For now. And I cannot wait to meet the woman who captured your heart.”

  “Hopefully before open hostilities break out,” he corrected. “I tell you truthfully, Min, they are on the way. I’ve been watching my neighbors closely for just such a move, and listening carefully at drunken parties. I’m not a novice at this. One does not take the provision and repair that Tavard’s loyalists have unless you are planning an offensive.”

  “How many troops do you think he could muster, at need?” I asked, curious. “Should he take offense at you marrying the daughter of one of his vassals, for instance.”

  “No less than four hundred lances,” he admitted, “from both baronies. Omard’s forces are thrice that, if not more. Not counting mercenaries,” he added.

  “Of which he can hire an abundance,” I said, gloomily.

  “Especially with the backing of Prince Tavard. Who wants to see you humiliated. If Avarnam or one of the others got involved, it would be much worse,” he said, apologetically. “So I have to tread carefully.”

  “Yes, that’s a problem I don’t want to have,” I sighed. “You do know I’m facing a war with goblins up here, don’t you? Feudal wars of honor would distract from that.”

  “Oh, I’m aware of the scrugs – I lived with that every day for five years at Tudry, and I’m glad to be shed of the burden. But I thought you’d appreciate the warning,” he said, setting his empty glass down and rising.

  “And you are assured of my discretion as you negotiate your match,” I said, rising myself. “Whatever you need from me, Astyral.”

  “That’s what I like to hear from my rich and powerful friends,” he chuckled.

  ***

  Dad stayed with us for more than three weeks before he returned to Talry-on-Burine. He needed the rest from the trip, and wanted to see what sights there were, before he went back to his quiet Riverlands village and his own ovens. And, of course, he wanted to play with his grandkids as much as he could before he left.

  That was a welcome relief, because the children were still quite uneasy around Alya, and got more uneasy the longer she went between treatments. Having their grandfather around was a welcome distraction and little bit of normalcy in this strange place.

  Dad indulged them horribly. He took them on picnics, went to see the Wood Dwarves and try their strange pastries (dry as a board but otherwise intriguing, by the way) and waded with them in the pools around town. He also made a point of sampling every inn and tavern within walking distance of the hall.

  But the day came when he could no longer put off leaving. Spring was nigh, and as much as he loved his grandchildren, he had his own wife and other grandchildren that he missed. We had one last feast together in Spellmonger Hall before I presumed on Gareth to take him back to Talry through the Ways.

  It was a bittersweet occasion. After our long journey together, and our deep discussions about life, law, love, and various filial matters, it was difficult to see him go. But I knew we were keeping him from the rest of the family and to ask him to remain longer would have been selfish.

  But I will admit: the moment he left, I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Not that Dad was overbearing in the slightest. He respected my word in my own house, and while he was not immune from giving unsolicited advice, he didn’t take issue if I didn’t take it. Nor was he particularly critical, as I’ve seen some fathers behave with their grown-up children.

  It was that very deference that provided the pressure, I realized. Dad was always polite and respectful, even supportive . . . but when he was around, I was always being watched. The way he observed every facet of my life and my relationships with my children was founded in care. But it also made me highly self-conscious. I can banter with dukes and debate with the gods, but of all the creatures on Callidore my father, alone, could make me second-guess myself. When he left, I finally felt the freedom to screw things up, if I needed to. There is liberation in that.

  Once he was gone, I realized that Dad’s presence was a distraction in other ways, too. I had a tremendous amount of work ahead of me, and with him around I was more than willing to postpone it on the excuse that my Dad was in town.

  The other consequence of him leaving was that I was now on my own with Alya. Before he left, Dad was ideal at soothing her occasional fits by simple conversation and redirection, bringing her back to the here-and-now without making her feel panicked. The nurses had recourse to similar procedures, but Dad always seemed to know just the right thing to say to get her down out of the rafters, figuratively speaking. With him gone, it was just Alya and me.

  In general, Alya was drastically improved in her condition compared to how she’d been just months before. With her nurses’ guidance she was undertaking simple tasks like cooking and washing and enjoying almost normal conversations. She dressed and bathed herself, now, with only minimal help from the nuns. They still selected her clothing, but she was starting to voice preferences and make suggestions during the process. It was encouraging.

  I was pleased that the surroundings agreed with her, too. Sister Bethdra confided that Alya’s mood had changed the day they had arrived in Vanador by the Ways

  Something in the air, the sunshine, the sight of the trees and the scattered snowf
all had apparently conspired to improve her disposition greatly, putting her more at ease, the nun dutifully reported. I figured there were other reasons, as well. As busy as it was, Vanador had far less people around than Sevendor did, and far fewer of them knew Alya before the Magewar. That reduced the number of awkward conversations she had to endure.

  I had the best perspective on her condition of anyone but her sister, Ela. I’d been intimate with my wife for years, now. A few days in her company provided me with a canny estimate of how well she was recovering, and I was gratified.

  Since the Handmaiden had begun her work, darning her shattered mind back together, a great deal of Alya had returned. But the cracks in her behavior and her speech were still evident, and her collapse into near-madness was unexpected, but not inevitable. Every day the children, Ruderal, the nuns, the servants and I kept careful watch over her, never knowing what thought or sound or smell would send her into a spell of madness. Dad leaving made us all a bit more nervous about her condition.

  It wasn’t the best situation. But compared to her spending the rest of her life catatonic, I would take all the Alya I could get.

  “Most see Vanador as the City of Magi, a land ruled by wizards. But the truth remains that it was as much a town of Tera Alon, of Malkas Alon, of Tal Alon, and, aye, the dour Alon Dradrien, of the Kasari and other peoples as it was magi and common Wilderfolk. Perhaps Minalan’s greatest genius during the founding was augmenting the strength of the Vanadori by treating these nonhumans as equal subjects, not foreign guests in his land. Thus Vanador became not just a cosmopolitan refuge in the Wilderlands, but an experiment in cross-species cohabitation rarely attempted in our history.”

  From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser

  Chapter Six

  The Varied Folk Of Vanador

  I spent a great deal of time my first few months in Vanador merely wandering the town and talking to people. I was exploring, in the way any good wizard does, when he takes a new residence. I was getting a feeling for this robust new town and its people. I was quickly learning what they aspired to, what they needed, and what they feared. After a month had passed, I felt like I was getting a good idea of what those might be.

  I’d met with all the important people in town, from my own staff to Gareth to Carmella and Rael, and scores of lesser leaders. I walked the markets and observed the intercourse between tradesman and peasant, artisan and merchant, and took mental notes.

  Vanador was exciting, that spring. Everything had a just-made feel to it, a kind of spontaneous, raw chaos that mirrored the verdant season around us. It was a feeling that proved heady and intoxicating to a certain type of man. There were opportunists aplenty in the markets and along the High Street of Vanador from fortune seekers and charlatans to the merely ambitious. I watched it all, and saw the strengths and weaknesses of the town played out in a thousand different interactions.

  What I found most intriguing at the time was the ward in the southeastern portion of the city. The precinct known as the Wood Dwarves’ Quarter.

  When Carmella had been selected to build Castle Vorone for Anguin, after his palace’s demise by dragonfire, she’d hired scores of Malkas Alon workmen for the job. The Malkas were the poorer cousins of the Karshak Alon, a forest-dwelling people who preferred wood to stone. Carmella was eager to bring their craftsmanship to Vorone, and they had performed beautifully, despite the traditions the work violated.

  Called Wood Dwarves by the vulgar, when they are mentioned at all, the Malkas Alon had already established a robust little settlement at Salik Tower, thanks to Carmella. When she needed new crews for the Vorone projects, she didn’t hesitate to hire them. Rumel, the unofficial leader of the colony, had brought the finest craftsmen of his kin to work for the appreciative warmage in the summer capital.

  Rumel’s folk had responded to Carmella’s invitation to come work on the new fortification at Vorone cautiously, at first. There was an understandable hesitance on their part – relations between the Wood Dwarves and the Wilderlords had not been smooth, when they did happen. There had been plenty of misunderstandings during the initial settlement of the Wilderlands that had hardened into long mistrust between the races.

  It’s telling that the Pearwoods clans, who are known throughout the Wilderlands as being remote suspicious hermits, hadn’t included the Wood Dwarves on their annual raids in centuries, because they were too remote, too suspicious, and terribly unremitting in the defense of their settlements.

  But Rumel was persuasive, Carmella was desperate for skilled labor, and Anguin had gold to spend to get his new castle built, fast. The first few work gangs of Wood Dwarves quietly took lodgings in Vorone . . . and discovered that the humani weren’t as bad as they thought. While there was plenty of suspicion on both sides, the Wood Dwarves were an intriguing novelty in Vorone’s evolving society, and found themselves in a position of respect for the first time. The humans of Vorone had no inkling of Karshak social custom – to them, a Dwarf was a Dwarf. A Malkas was no better or worse than a Karshak. Or a Dradrien.

  After a brief period of uncomfortable adjustment, the Wood Dwarves and the human work crews settled into a rhythm of mutual respect as the castle grew. The humans were awed by the dwarvish capacity for raw strength, ingenuity, and dedication to work.

  Rumel’s folk were equally intrigued by our willingness to depart from established traditions and experiment. The Karshak, in general, were pretty rigid in their approach to construction and even simple projects, relying on tradition more than innovation. The only creativity permitted was expressed by the elite – fellows such as my friend, Master Guri – and only after years of rigid adherence to established custom.

  Humans, on the other hand, had little use for how their great-grandsires built a window. We just wanted a hole in a wall we could close against the weather – how it was made was of far less import than its functionality. When Rumel’s first teams of woodworkers were given such a task, without any guidance beyond the work specifications, they went a little crazy with the opportunity.

  That’s why the Entrance Hall of Vorone Castle is such a spectacular sight – every Wood Dwarf involved was tempted to explore the limits of their craft without fear of reproach. That resulted in the magnificent carvings and intricate designs in that room, ranging from the comically grotesque to the sublimely beautiful.

  Rumel’s folk profited handsomely as a result. They purchased three big residences near the castle, and a host of tool-sharpeners and enterprising victualers soon opened around them. Within a year the tiny Dwarvish quarter of town was commonly referred to as Rumel’s Row. There, the lowliest Wood Dwarf apprentice was treated with fawning respect and admiration by the fumbling humani. For, while there were many odd cultural difference between the two races, there were some comforting commonalities. The Wood Dwarves loved to eat and drink, and had a growing fondness for humani musicians.

  When Pentandra contracted Carmella to build Vanador, the trickle of Wood Dwarves from the deep forests turned into a flood when her invitation went out through Rumel. Entire families relocated to the broad valley around the Anvil in response, bringing in their far-flung clans to work for the increasingly-important Rumel.

  All winter long a steady stream of brown-bearded, broad-shouldered woodcutters trudged from their eastern forest enclaves and into the vale. A few had carts pulled by donkeys or llamas, but most merely bore their possessions – especially their precious tools – in massive bundles on their backs.

  Carmella had devoted an entire quarter of the proposed city for them, I discovered, as well as a temporary work camp nearby, on the south side of the Anvil. By the time my father and I pulled into the place in late winter there were already more than three hundred of the short, immensely strong craftsmen in the settlement, living in rows of squat but tidy little cottages of their own design they’d quickly built. Dozens worked the sawpits and wood kilns, and dozens more oversaw the timbering operations that fed the voracious needs of the
city.

  From what Rumel told me one late winter afternoon in a tavern, the Wood Dwarves’ Quarter of Vanador was the most elaborate and sophisticated grouping of his folk in centuries. The lot of the Malkas Alon had never been easy. They were appreciative of the recognition, as well as the work.

  While their Karshak masters hid from the world’s woes in deep caverns and mansions under mountains, the Wood Dwarves had survived by spreading out, hiding deep in the forests, living simple lives far removed from the wars and struggles of the wider world. Most of their native settlements were outposts of one or two families who gathered only a few times a year with their closest neighbors. A few such hamlets approached the size of villages. Larger gatherings happened more rarely.

  But now, dozens of families had left their scattered woodland strongholds in the foothills of the Kulines and come together for the first time in centuries for the promise of good work, and there were more were coming all the time.

  At first it was the lure of gold – always a struggle for the poor Wood Dwarves – but it wasn’t long before Vanador’s reputation as a new and welcoming home for Rumel’s folk brought the Malkas Alon out of the forests in even stronger numbers. There was work for all, it was said, and they all wanted to be part of it. There was already a burgeoning commercial district in their quarter when I arrived, and the weekly Wood Dwarves’ Market was a popular opportunity to see the best of the ingenious craftsmen’s works.

  The Karshak, proper, were unhappy with the development, according to Rumel. Wood Dwarves were socially and culturally inferior to the stonemasons by ancient custom, and seeing them prosper so quickly irked the Stone Folk. Indeed, Master Guri complained of our fair treatment of the wood clans repeatedly, over the coming months. I think he would have had even stronger language if he wasn’t working for me.