Thaumaturge

by Terry Mancour

  Then I’d burned Tudry to the ground. There was no going back.

  Not everyone had come, of course. With Vorone no longer abysmal, some enterprising souls desired to participate in the summer capital’s economic resurgence. But hundreds of families had taken our invitation, loaded their tools and possessions into carts, and come to Vanador. Smiths, potters, weavers, tilers, carpenters, butchers, cobblers, petty clergy and all manner of craftsmen had come to Vanador Town.

  When they arrived, they were surprised at how efficiently things were handled. In her great master plan for the city, Carmella had foreseen everything, and that seemed to include the influx of artisans. One of Gareth’s men assigned them pre-arranged lots within neatly-designed districts according to their profession. Their terms were generous. The promise of reward was high.

  Once they were settled in, however, the Tudrymen were industrious. The artisan class of the Wilderlands has ever been small, as most freeholders in the sparsely-populated region had to be self-sufficient. But those men who’d specialized in a particular trade had prospered in places like Tudry, Nandine, Autumnly and the other small towns of the Wilderlands. They largely operated without guilds, as there were simply too few of them to consider organizing by profession. When apprentices began to journey, there was ample opportunity for finding new markets in the Wilderlands – no need for much competition.

  The influx of coin helped. All winter long the Tudrymen prospered merely by selling their wares and services to each other, as their new Vanador households needed to be provisioned. Once I brought new coins to the realm, the pennies I’d loaned flowed back and forth across Vanador’s snowy streets in ways that Tudry had never seen. Much of the trade in Tudry had been on promised payment or barter, and debt was a regular problem. I’d pumped so much copper and silver into the resettlement that people were able to pay for their wares promptly. Laborers got their coin at the end of the day, not the end of the week, and they were able to spend it at the winter market immediately, too.

  Prices fluctuated wildly, for a time, as scarcities of one sort or another demanded higher costs. There were shortages of things like nails, for a time, and linen, which caused some interesting bargains to be struck. But though it was inconvenient, the necessities never were in short supply. Gareth’s staff kept the price of grain artificially low, and the nascent woodyard kept the lumber flowing at a decent price to those who were desperate to get their homes built. With the labor available from the freed slaves in the camps, as well as that of the unskilled Tudrymen who’d immigrated, enough wood flowed to keep workers paid, and the price of bread was low enough to ensure their labors were worthwhile.

  That was enough to keep the peace. No one was particularly comfortable in Vanador Town that winter, and there were only a few hundred deaths. But the Tudrymen were generally grateful for the chance to start over and start anew, under the circumstances.

  When Spring arrived, the Tudrymen scattered across the artisans’ ward were nearly prepared to return to their normal businesses. Clay pits discovered by potters and tilers in the winter thawed enough for excavations and filtering to begin. The ovens the bakers had managed to cobble together began producing bread in quantity. The smiths’ forges were completed and supplied with charcoal and iron. While plenty of artisans were still setting up their workshops and searching for supplies of materials, the core of Tudry’s artisan community was open for business.

  But there was some grumbling, that spring, as the Tudrymen began to see competition from the craftsmen of the Wood Dwarves’ quarter, but considering the construction booming across the plateau, there was plenty of work – and coin – for all. Indeed, some Tudrymen took to assisting Wood Dwarves in their labors in order to learn the cunning nonhumans’ tradecraft. Others made odd coin by selling their labor to them, for extensive projects.

  But despite their biological and cultural differences, their similarities were enough to bring them together. The Wood Dwarves had lived on the periphery of the Wilderlands since before the settlement, and what human affectations they’d absorbed had come from the Wilderfolk. Their manner of speech, in Narasi, was similar, and even the way they dressed. Both folk wore simple tunics, belted with wide belts, although the Dwarves added an abundance of pouches and pockets to their garments and eschewed woolen hose.

  Apart from that, they wore the same style hats, cloaks and undergarments. And they liked the same kind of dark, unhopped ale. The taverns and taphouses that sprung up between the two communities were filled with folk of both types, relaxing after a day’s labor, and the concerns of both peoples were similar enough so that it was often difficult to discern when a Dwarf was complaining about his master, and when it was a Tudryman.

  The Tudrymen were also more used to magi than most, thanks to Astyral’s patronage of warmagi in the defense of the old town. Sparks, as we were referred to, had been a positive economic boom for Tudry during a difficult time, and magic had become a regular part of Tudry life for years. Seeing magelights did not bother the Tudrymen, and they were more willing than others to invest in heatstones for their homes and taperwands for their workbenches. They were also used to being ruled by magelords, which still irritated some of the Wilderlords around Vanador.

  Tudry’s contribution to Vanador’s establishment was essential. That dying, decrepit town gave its best to see Vanador burst into existence. Only the magi had a more dramatic impact on the town’s development.

  With most of the old Wilderlord families extinct, endangered or relocated to the more secure Wilderlaw in the south, there wasn’t much in the way of native nobility around Vanador, and so Magelords had to suffice in the new order.

  There were a few score young knights from surviving Wilderlord houses who had come north to seek their fortunes, and they found gainful employment quickly enough. A few petty nobility survived captivity and dwelt among the freemen, their titles all but forgotten. But the great families who had ruled the lands north of Vorone were gone, now, and Vanador was replacing them with magelords.

  Thinradel, in particular, had found a place in Vanador and had committed to making the city his home. He’d revisited his ancestral home in the liberated south of Alshar, but while he was relieved to see the rebels and traitors driven from power, there was still too much instability to suit the man’s temperament. Nor did a brief stint at the Arcane Orders’ temple complex in Castabriel appease him. In the end, he insisted, he found more security and opportunity in Vanador, on the edge of the Penumbra and destined for attack, than he did anywhere else.

  Like many others, Thinradel had purchased land and constructed a modest but elegant little hall in the style of his Coastlord ancestors on a street (well, it would eventually be a street) in the Enchanters’ district, a few doors down from the new bouleuterion building. It quickly become the center of social activity for the more well-to-do magelords in town, myself included. Over the months he hosted several prominent guests.

  He wasn’t alone in choosing Vanador. Sandoval, my Marshal, and his new girlfriend Lady Andra built a sturdy hall in town together, as well as purchasing (at a great discount – he knew people) a fifty-acre estate in Korwyn domain, to the southwest of the town. He planned to build an estate out there, one day, and rule it with his rescued lady-love. I had the feeling they were thinking about children. Sandy had all but said as much.

  Rael the Enchantress had a magnificent hall built near the Wizard Mercantile warehouse on the south side of town which she took particular joy in running. Of us all, Rael appreciated the lack of social constraints in Vanador, and enjoyed them to the fullest. Nearby her mansion was Mavone’s modest house.

  But there were many others. The old footwizard Gareth had hired as a deputy Spellwarden, Master Forandas, had a snug little cottage and a patch of garden behind the Spellwarden’s Hall in the middle of town. Landrik, who Pentandra had elevated to Captain of the Vanador Guard (although the guard was, at this point, largely theoretical) had built a tidy house in the Thaumaturge
s’ Quarter, near my own hall, that he visited when he was away from his southern fief. Baron Azar and Bendonal the Outlaw both owned lots, although they had yet to visit Vanador. Indeed, many of the High Magi felt obliged to establish a residence here simply to be near the Spellmonger. Sparks from Tudry, spellmongers from Vorone, and magi from across the north found their way to Vanador. And beyond.

  Part of the impetus for that, I learned from Sandoval, was the increasing pressure the mundane lords were putting on magelords across the kingdom. Not just politically, but socially. Thanks to the prince heir’s antipathy toward magekind, it had become quietly fashionable to snub the magi in social as well as political matters. It wasn’t universal – frequently Tavard’s well-known dislike for wizards inspired his opponents to seek our counsel and aid in his spite. But enough of the greater lords wished to curry royal favor to take some shots at our class.

  Castabriel had become the center of such encounters. Even though the temple complex housing the Arcane Orders had sustained some damage from the dragon attack, it was an important enough center of arcane business for my colleagues to continue visiting the city. They reported it being far less hospitable, now. Even with Tavard ruling from Wilderhall, his proponents and henchmen haunted the city as they rebuilt the ducal palace and the rest of the devastated region.

  This volatile mixture led to a few confrontations between magelords and Tavard’s party in the streets and salons of the capital. Twice the issue nearly came to blows, when the two factions mixed at official functions. Thankfully, the king’s party was stronger than either, and had intervened in the name of public order to calm the disputes. The magi were keeping to the Temple Quarter, now, and the prince’s party to the duke’s precincts, after a strong talking-to by the new prime minister.

  That may have stopped a battle, but it didn’t stop the sniping. There were hundreds of events – receptions, festivals, private parties – as well as nightly carousing in the damaged city’s taverns that kept the feud alive for weeks. The Order sent un-official word out to the worst offenders: keep your wands in their sheaths and don’t cause trouble. For the most part they complied. But there are always a few hotheads who can’t help but respond to provocation, and there was many.

  Vanador gave the magi someplace to retreat to where the prince’s men couldn’t follow. When a few of my High Mage colleagues started to offer transport through the Ways – for a reasonable fee – to the new city, we started seeing a lot of itinerant wizards from Castabriel showing up just to see what the fuss was about. New wizards who had a grudge against Tavard and his lackeys.

  Of course, they all wanted to seek out the Spellmonger and tell him about the abuses and insults hurled against them and all magekind by the old order. One after another these wizards sought me out at home or in public and insisted on explaining the feud to me. The prince’s men were determined to see wizards discouraged from the city, they informed me. The wizards were unwilling to capitulate. Everything from public arguments to professional sabotage was employed – by both sides – to undermine the interests of the other.

  I listened to every story with sympathy, but was otherwise restrained in my response. I wasn’t trying to inflame the conflict – quite the contrary. But if I hadn’t provided a ready ear to the offended, they might have found other outlets for their complaints. Instead, I used an old spellmonger’s trick on them. I was vague and obscure.

  It’s not as hard as it sounds. Village spellmongers use the technique to help guide and steer their clients away from destructive courses of action and toward wiser – and more billable – strategies. The technique preys on the subject’s lack of knowledge and then exploits it to inspire either patience or a change of heart – or, more rarely, direct action.

  Fixing your client with a direct stare is the best way to start, followed by a few beats of silence. Then a quiet but confident utterance that confirms the hopes or suspicions of the subject in their own mind, without committing you to anything in particular.

  “Those who say such things should be more suspicious of what ears hear them,” is a good line, followed with a slow nod. Another favorite of mine was “Those who have studied the cycles of Nature understand how quickly and suddenly fortunes can change,” with a purposeful eye-roll. Stuff like that.

  The key is to always make the subject feel as if there is far more going on than they are aware of. That’s usually not difficult, unless you’re dealing with a complete narcissist. Most people suspect that there is, indeed, far more going on than they know, and confirming that for them with some vague utterances and obscure observations gives them license to speak freely.

  Mostly what I did in these casual conversations with rebellious magi was learn about what was happening in Castabriel without actually participating. It also allowed me to soothe some of the hotheads and persuade them to be patient.

  Patient toward what end? I had no idea. But I damn sure did not need them getting involved in personal feuds with the future ruling regime. I had enough problems already. Instead, I gave them a sympathetic ear, a couple of aphorisms, and permission to enjoy themselves in Vanador. Some enjoyed themselves so much they took residence and employment.

  As much as I welcomed their presence, it did remind me I had an official enemy at court. There was nothing I could do to assuage Tavard about the death of his son, I knew. And while it was certainly personal, that personal grudge was having an effect on policy and culture, and that wasn’t a good thing. Castabriel’s recovery was the field on which the conflict was playing out. It continued even without my presence.

  But I could spare only a moment’s attention to such indulgence as a feud. I had bigger problems to contend with. I had my own realm to rule, and it was the priority, not Tavard’s spat.

  “There can be no doubt that the Spellmonger often grew homesick for his Riverlands estates, and he oft spoke of the wonders of fabled Sevendor. But during the founding, Minalan found intriguing ways to import some of the finer elements of Sevendor to his new Wilderlands home. Particularly in the people he recruited to his effort he brought a breath of wonder from the first Mageland to the newest.”

  From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser

  Chapter Seven

  A Bit Of Sevendor In Vanador

  Only a few weeks after Dad left for Talry-on-Burine, I came home from a meeting one afternoon and found Alya in a fit.

  She was curled up in the corner of the buttery, sobbing hysterically and franticly picking at her clothes. The nuns stood around her helplessly, their eyes wide and their faces distraught.

  “What happened?” I asked, breathlessly, as I saw my distraught wife.

  “I have no idea, my lord, no idea at all!” Sister Ocori insisted, tears in her own eyes. “One moment she was fine, my lord, I swear! We just had luncheon in the garden, and then she said she was tired, so I put her to bed for a nap—”

  “She does that often, when you aren’t here, my lord,” agreed Sister Bethdra, sadly. “I think the children tire her out. An hour or so of sleep and she’s usually as fit as a flute, after; but this time . . .”

  “This time she woke screamin’,” Sister Ocori continued, shaking her head. “She was screamin’ like she was being ravished. Saying ‘they’re on me! They’re on me! Thousands! Millions! They’re crawling all over me!’ Just like that, my lord, only in a tone that would put the gods affright!” she assured me, solemnly.

  “What was on her?” I asked, sharply.

  “There were nothin’ upon her but her bedclothes and her shift, my lord! I swear by Mother Trygg, we searched the bed and found no vermin! Washed those sheets myself, I did,” Bethdra added.

  I knelt by Alyas side and tentatively touched her hair. She startled, at first, but didn’t look up at me. I feared she’d pull away, but she merely gave a shudder and permitted me to pet her honey-colored hair.

  “Alya!” I said in an urgent whisper. “Alya, I’m here. What’s the matter?” I asked, gently.

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sp; She didn’t respond, merely heaved another sob. But her hands stopped picking at her skin and clothes for a moment, which I counted as progress. Her arms were both pink with the pinches and scratches she’d given herself.

  I silently directed the Magolith to float over her, and after closing my eyes for a moment I invoked a suite of spells that examined my wife from every possible dimension. In a moment the thaumaturgical assay finished, and the Magolith told me she was physically well. Her temperature was fine, her breathing and heartbeat were unconcerning, though elevated. But her emotional state was wounded, and crumbling further, producing a cloud of emotive energy that was affecting her entire self.

  The worst news was enneagrammatic, my sphere reported. As sophisticated as the device was, it could only relay basic information about such things. Self-awareness is a tricky thing to relate in language, and I’d managed only a rudimentary understanding of such things, even after my experience with the Snowflake and the Handmaiden. But even that basic report showed that Alya was experiencing a crisis of self, and quite a severe one.

  “Help me get her back to bed – no,” I decided, changing my mind, “let’s sit her in a chair in my solar. If she started panicking in bed, I don’t want to make it worse by returning her there. And someone go find and fetch Ruderal. I may need his assistance,” I ordered.

  It took a few moments, as we were moving her gingerly, but we slowly persuaded Alya to rise and move as we directed. I half-carried, half-led her into the main hall where there were a few padded chairs. Sister Ocori grabbed one and brought it in front of the fireplace while Sister Bethdra helped me get her settled.

  “Blankets,” I ordered, absently, while I pulled a stool up in front of her. While the nuns scurried to fulfill my wishes, I captured Alya’s chin between my fingers and firmly but gently pulled her chin up until I could see her tear-filled eyes. An expression of hopeless anguish lay under her streaming tears. It broke my heart to see my beloved so tortured.