What wasn’t well known was the large amount of gold — about three hundred thousand ounces – that I’d deposited with the Vorone branch of the temple last year. From what my sources told me, that had made me the temple’s third largest depositor. While the contract for that deposit stipulated that, regardless of its size, no deposit guaranteed Ifnia’s favor in games of chance, romantic endeavors, or political aspirations, I was counting on something even more helpful than the Goddess of Fortune. I was counting on a temple that owed me favors.
That benefit began to be paid from the moment it was known I was present at the tournament with my wife and a retinue of gentlemen. I’d ordered Mavone, Terleman, and Sandoval to accompany me, along with Ruderal. Not that they didn’t deserve a bit of holiday after their labors on my behalf, but I chose them – as opposed to Tyndal, who loves a good joust, or Thinradel, who loves a good chance to be catty at a social event, for a very specific reason. I wasn’t here to socialize for pleasure. This wasn’t a good time; this was a party with a purpose.
After the first startled nun recognized us from our livery and pointy hats when we arrived by means of a Waypoint I’d established on my trip to Vanador, word spread among the Ifnites quickly. Within the hour a helpful young monk of the order appeared and shadowed our party to facilitate any wagering we might do.
“Gentlemen, I note you are unaccompanied by advisors this afternoon,” he said, with an obsequious bow. “Will you not be making wagers on the contests today?” They called themselves ‘advisors,’ I suppose, because calling them ‘bookies’ might be unseemly.
You really should, Min, Mavone told me, mind-to-mind. It’s expected. And a sign of status. You don’t have to make any bets, but tip him well if you do.
“I hadn’t planned on it, Brother,” I admitted. “But then things have been so boring in the Wilderlands perhaps a few wagers might be entertaining.”
“Our Lady’s caprices are rarely boring, Excellency,” he agreed with a smile.
“You know I have a rather large account at your temple, already,” I added, as he joined our band.
“How fortuitous!” the monk beamed. Most nobles trusted more secure temples than the Temple of Ifnia, more for social reasons. Oh, they might keep a few accounts for gambling or buying their mistresses baubles, but they were trifling sums compared to the accounts with the Temple of Orvatas, Duin, and others. “And just what have our Coinfathers set your limit to, my lord?” he asked.
“You’d better ask them,” I shrugged. “I haven’t checked lately.” The monk dutifully summoned a runner to the pavilion and sent the inquiry. It came back a few moments later. And made the man pale.
“Your Excellency has no limits,” he said, simply. “The Temple will back any wager you choose to make. At any amount.”
“How splendid,” I nodded, unenthusiastically, as another crash of lance and shield echoed outside. “You’ve been here all day, Brother . . .?”
“Coinbrother Minsta, Sire. Yes, I’ve been here since dawn, advising the guests of Count Anvaram, along with my brethren.”
Thankfully Terleman and Mavone were eager to place bets on the proceedings. The former because he fancies himself a keen handicapper of jousting matches, the latter because he’s a Gilmoran, and they simply cannot pass up an opportunity to place a wager at Barrowbell. It would be uncivilized or something.
As for me, I grow bored quickly with jousting, although I enjoy the pageantry. I didn’t like to gamble when I was poor because of the potential consequences, and wagering when you’re as rich as I am is meaningless. I didn’t come to Barrowbell to gamble. I came to piss off some people.
But to begin with, I just wanted to enjoy the outing with my friends, strolling the concourse with a drink in hand, being seen and seeing the sights. There were dancers, puppeteers and acrobatic performers hired for the occasion or working for tips everywhere, while musicians played at regular intervals along the route between list fields. Less savory pleasures could be had in stalls away from the main concourse, I knew, depending on your taste and your purse. This was as festive as merry Barrowbell got, and I was more interested in appreciating the extravagance than I was watching exotic maidens dancing.
As delightful as the entertainments were, being seen was more important for our mission. We attracted a lot of attention, right from the start. Most of us were wearing variations of the pointed hat associated with our profession. Sandy wore his constantly, because it made him look taller, and Mavone and Terleman had donned them for our outing. Even Ruderal wore a brimless version favored by apprentices by tradition. Likewise, the casual way we used magic to brighten a tent with a magelight to see its wares better, or lighting a pipe with a cantrip, called attention to us from many quarters. It only took about three hours for us to hear actual criers announcing the presence of Minalan the Spellmonger, Count of Magelaw, at the tournament.
That’s about when the fun part of our tour stopped and the business began. That’s when the local nobility began to show up to purposefully seek me out along the concourse.
There were a few old acquaintances I recalled from the aftermath of the Battle of Cambrian or the celebration in Barrowbell afterward. But most were petty nobles who just wanted to introduce themselves and have a drink with the famous Spellmonger. They were very gracious and hospitable about it, as Gilmorans are (even if they’re getting ready to kill you). I was as gracious in turn as I could be, smiling, bowing, shaking hands and telling stories.
But while I was holding forth at a string of wine sellers along the concourse, Mavone was working the crowd, identifying everyone who seemed to linger a little too long or pay too close attention to what I was saying.
As the afternoon wore on, the formal invitations began to arrive by messenger: would the Spellmonger care to join Baron Asmaran in his field box for a cup and a few bouts? Would the Spellmonger and his gentlemen care to consort with Sire Bomandulus and his gentlemen in his pavilion for a cup and a few games of dice? I passed on each invitation to Sandoval, who politely demurred nearly every one. Until the one from Count Anvaram of Nion arrived. That’s the one we sought.
Before we joined the good Count at his pavilion for a cup and a few words, Mavone briefed me on his dossier on the way over, mind-to-mind.
Count Anvaram is firmly in the pro-Castali faction of the Gilmorans, he explained. His family supported the rebellions that brought us under the Sword-and-Rose initially, and they continue to profit from the arrangement. He’s Tavard’s man in this area, a member of the ducal court. Personally, he’s about as proud and arrogant as all of us Gilmoran bastards are, but his title, military experience and fortune elevate him even further.
You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of Gilmoran aristocratic society, Mavone, I observed.
You sound like my mother, he shot back.
Any weaknesses? I asked.
Plenty, Mavone agreed. I spoke with Penny about him, and asked her to ask Rardine what she knew. He has three mistresses, one here in town, and his wife has lovers of her own, so the rumor goes. In particular, a well-endowed stableboy.
There is a tale there, I’m guessing, I replied.
The story is that his wife, the Countess, prefers riding to the Count’s passion, the hunt. Indeed, the recent gossip suggests that she also prefers the Master of Horse to the Count’s marital passions. Or a stableboy, depending on how scandalous the report wants to be. The lovers were discovered by the Count and a visiting abbot returning prematurely from a boar hunt, supposedly.
Which do you think it was? I asked, curious.
If it happened at all? I’d say it was the stableboy and was changed to the Count’s Master of Horse to protect the Countess’ honor. Apparently committing infidelity with a stableboy is worse than committing it with a dashing young knight. Conversely, it may have been the Master of Horse and was artificially reduced to stableboy to increase the scandal. But it’s the talk of the servants. Which means it’s the talk of the nobility.
/> Not the sort of thing you want to bring up in a public gathering like this, then.
Not unless you want to invite a duel or an invasion or both, Mavone warned. Anvaram has tasted shame -- early in his career, while leading his father’s troops he blundered his company into a boggy mire forcing them to abandon their armor and horses to save their lives. He’s developed a keener eye, since then, but his old friends still call him Mudfoot behind his back.
Good to know, I answered. Let’s see what the good Count Mudfoot has to say to the Spellmonger.
While each list field had a line of bleachers on one side and a line of noble pavilions on the other to witness the competition, the central Grand List was where the highest-status spectators sat. The row of incredibly ornate “pavilions” were actually semi-permanent wooden structures over which huge canvas canopies were draped. The ones in the most-favored position had two stories. The ground floors of those pavilions each contained a perpetual party, including alcoves and chambers for private meetings, while those truly intent on the jousting outside filled the upper floor to see how their wagers were going.
There were three or four of these grandest pavilions in the center, flanked on either side by smaller pavilions who vied to make up for their size by ostentation and ornament. The paved walkway separating the lists from the pavilions allowed the nobility to “make the circuit,” being seen visiting friends and foes alike for a cup of wine, gossip or calculated insult.
Of course Count Anvaram’s pavilion was one of the grandest. His position as count over a third of the richest Cottonlands in Gilmora made him wealthy, and rich snots going back seven generations made him noble. He had a legacy of pretension to uphold.
We passed prettier pavilions and more ornate structures before we arrived at his white and gold tent. His device, a black hound and a white hunting horn on a blue field, was everywhere on the thing in a painfully tasteful sort of way. Actual hunting horns with gilded tips hung from the support poles, and wooden dogs’ heads topped each of them, while a gaudy, gilded full-sized wooden dog frozen in mid-leap was suspended from the peak of the structure. The entry was guarded, as most of the pavilions were, by very discreet men-at-arms who accompanied senior-level servants whose task it was to announce important visitors. Like sitting Counts Palatine.
The small man who listened to Ruderal recite my name and titles looked surprised, once he recognized them. He blew a note on a tiny horn to gather everyone’s attention and then announced me, pronouncing every syllable of every title with exquisite attention to detail.
Why did he not announce you, too? I asked Mavone, my resident expert on Gilmoran culture. He just said “and his gentlemen.”
Because it is assumed that the senior-most in rank is the host of the party, Mavone explained. Anyone of lesser rank is assumed to be his vassal or client, in some way. That lets everyone here know just what a high-ranked asshole you are. It is assumed that the less-highly ranked accompanying you are your social dependents. Which happens to be true, by the way.
The affair was mostly comprised of knights and lords and the occasional clergyman drinking on benches and cushions, watching the joust, dicing, and discussing their affairs. At this point in the day, Mavone had informed me, the ladies had retired to prepare themselves for tonight’s Champion’s Ball, allowing the men to drink and speak of more worldly things.
The wine was good, one of the better vintages from southern Gilmora, bright and sweet but strong. It was the perfect wine for a fine summer’s day watching rich idiots pretend to kill each other. I had two large glasses in rapid succession and ordered another. Terleman and Sandy were each drinking as heavily. Mavone seemed to, but I noted he had but one cup while we were there. Ruderal didn’t even have a watered cup. He was quietly alert, standing by as unobtrusively as possible. At last, an apprentice who could take direction.
While Sandy, Terl and I were getting drunk, we were also examining the crowd and our host by magic. Particularly our host. Count Anvaram was not a huge man, I saw from a distance, but he dominated the group by his sheer magnificence. He wore a blue and white doublet and hose and a fetching half-cape with gold trim, and peered at the jousting with an experienced eye. Men laughed at his jokes and sought his approval, and he seemed to glory in the attention.
We’d lost Brother Minsta to a conference while we were being served our wine. Our mild-mannered Ifnite returned as we were finishing the first glass and bowed to us. “My lords, one of my brethren has informed me that his Excellency is currently awaiting the result of the bout, but should be down shortly.”
“And how is his Excellency’s mood?” Mavone inquired, meaningfully. The monk took his subtle meaning at once.
“It is said to be buoyant, my lord. He has boasted of a great hunt he just completed, and won two small purses on this morning’s contests. He will soon descend from the balcony and walk the floor, if I am not mistaken. That has been his pattern every hour or so. He makes a point of mingling with his noble guests and vassals on the way to the privy.”
“A man of high honor,” Terleman said, solemnly.
“So it is said,” Brother Minsta smiled. He could sense the adversarial mood in our party, and apparently did not mind it. Indeed, he could have been formulating odds.
“But not much of a rider, I hear,” Sandy muttered over his cup. Apparently Mavone had filled my friends in on the gossip of the day. Sandy was doing what Sandy did when he drinks, shooting off his mouth. I had Ruderal fetch him another wine as soon as his second cup was drained.
In due time Count Anvaram did, in fact, descend the stairs from the viewing balcony and strutted around the party going on in his pavilion. It wasn’t until he wandered to our corner that he realized that we weren’t the Gilmoran fops he was expecting.
“My . . . lords?” he began, confused but open to conversation. Three or four of his vassals or retainers followed him, and quickly collected in a knot behind the count.
“Count Minalan of the Magelaw Palatinate, and my gentlemen,” I said, rising and bowing respectably. That’s different from bowing respectfully. Don’t ask me how, it just is. “I believe we were extended an invitation.”
“Ah, yes!” he recalled, his manner changing from jovial to calculating. “I thought it was a herald’s error, when I heard you were here. But I thought an invitation was due, in the off chance it was true. Pray, what brings you to Barrowbell, Excellency?”
“We were in town on business and heard that there was a tournament. Things get boring, up in the Magelaw, so I thought I might impose on your hospitality.”
“I heard that His Highness exiled you,” he said, after the preliminary exchanges were made. It wasn’t quite rude, the way he said it, but close enough for my purposes.
“Actually, it was His Grace who exiled me. From Castal, for three years,” I corrected. “This is Gilmora. And I have leave to attend to certain professional and court duties, at need.”
“And one of them brings you to Barrowbell, during the tournament?” Anvaram asked, surprised and skeptical.
“A wizard’s work often brings him to unusual places during unusual times, Excellency,” Sandoval replied. “Nor can they be predicted with any regularity.”
“That must be convenient,” the Count chuckled, inspiring a chorus of similar laughs from his men.
“Not as much as you might think,” I sighed. “Especially when your new lands share a frontier with the Penumbra. But the work leads into the light, as well as the dark,” I said, philosophically.
“And what wizard business brings you to Barrowbell, if you don’t mind me asking?” he continued, unsatisfied with my answer.
“I am afraid that must remain confidential,” I assured him. “I’m terribly sorry. I hope you understand. It’s a policy of the Royal Court,” I added, reminding him of whom our mutual liege was. And the faith he had entrusted in me.
“Of course, of course,” Count Anvaram demurred, retreating into Gilmoran graciousness like gilded armor
. “I’m pleased you’ve joined us here – a small celebration I throw for my vassals, whilst I am in town for business,” he dismissed. “So, do you follow the joust, Count Minalan?” he asked, gesturing to the current bout outside.
“I do not,” I admitted. “I was trained a warmage,” I explained, unnecessarily. “We do not indulge in the sport, as a rule.”
“Oh, it is more than a sport,” one of his fellows assured me, sounding just the smallest bit offended at my attitude. From the way he was slurring his words he was about as drunk as I was. “The joust is the essence of warfare!”
That earned a snort form Sandy and a chuckle from Terleman. Which in turn earned a glare from the gentleman who’d said it.
“I understand we have you to thank for preserving Barrowbell from dragonfire and worse, Count Minalan,” Anvaram said, changing the subject. “My vassals tell me that without your intervention, this lovely place would have burned to the ground and be overrun by goblins. My thanks to you for that, Count,” he praised.
“I merely brought reinforcements at a critical time,” I demurred. “Other warmagi did the actual dragon-slaying when the local defenses failed.” It was an innocuous statement . . . but it immediately launched us into the argument of the day, since Castle Cambrian had been consumed by the worm: the respective roles of magic and the heavy cavalry in war. And this was the perfect crowd for it.
Thaumaturge Page 35
