“It would be an easy mistake for a layman to make,” I observed, wryly. “You don’t seem sanguine about the very law you just wrote.”
“Proposed law,” he corrected me. “This is all just a fascinating exercise in applied theory . . . until you make it law with your sovereign authoirty. And then enforce it,” he reminded me. “I said corruption wasn’t a bad thing, and I was correct. It’s the type of corruption that evolves from the system that is important. If they bring the system out of equilibrium and invite chaos, then it’s the bad kind,” he suggested. “If a magistrate and a lawbrother can come to an agreement about satisfying the Sacred Scales without necessarily ruining a man, for instance, then a little bargaining that could technically be viewed as corruption is warranted.”
“But bribery, extortion, favoritism . . .”
“All bad, but all, sadly, inevitable,” he sighed. “Even here . . . and I have the highest hopes for the Magelaw. With reliable truth-telling, magical observations and the other arcane abilities able to contribute to the sacred pursuit of truth, the courts here could become paragons of judicial virtue. Likewise, they could become horrific tools of oppression.”
“Well, how do we avoid the latter?” I asked, aghast at the cavalier way he discussed such outcomes.
“No one knows, for certain,” he admitted. “If Luin the Lawgiver does, he did not see fit to commit it to writing. Your best bet is to find jurists of discernment and then be vigilant to their administration of your law. Abide by their decisions even when they are against you, to support the public trust in the institutions of justice. That sort of thing,” he shrugged.
Some of Brother Bryte’s proposed institutions were quite mundane. The Chief Magistrate, the High Constable, the Court Reeve, and the prosecution were all standard, for a government of our size. As was the office of Court Executioner, which Azar quickly volunteered for.
But then there were other offices novel to the Magelaw. Bryte had done a good job using the existing institutions as guidance for how he constructed them, so the offices of Mage Interrogator was similar in scope and function to an official the Arcane Orders used to establish the truth in the investigation of internal matters. In the Magelaw that was the individual wizard responsible for veracity spells, court-ordered spellbindings, location spells, scrying and that sort of thing.
He’d also established the office of the Mage Investigator, an independent wizard hired by the court to investigate the evidence independently, with all the powers at his command. But instead of making the official the arbiter of the decision, or a part of the prosecution, he was available as an expert witness and analysist to both prosecution and defense. He was also empowered to administer oaths, deputize and conduct searches with proper warrant as a disinterested officer of the court. It was the Investigator’s job to secure and verify all entered evidence in each case. He was also there to verify for the defense any magical assertions the prosecution made.
Lastly, there was the Arcane Constable, who would usually only be involved in cases between magi or where magical enforcement of a court order was required. In order to keep there from being conflicts of interest between the other magical court officers and the execution of the court’s findings, Bryte decided a third wizard needed to be involved. The Arcane Constable was also responsible for the tracking and capture of wanted felons or convicted criminals to be brought before the bench who eluded the regular constable’s reach.
In many ways Bryte’s brilliant proposal righted many long-held laws and customs that had departed their original purpose long ago or did not apply to the Magelaw; just by eliminating bondsmen as a category, he reduced the amount of regulation in the courts by a third.
Nor was mundane law the only area affected by his proposal. Among its many clauses was the establishment of a representative oversight council made up of delegates from various groups he codified into the document. The purpose of the council was singular: to determine if the Chief Magistrate was adequate and efficiently dispensing impartial justice, or if they recommended that he should be removed by the sovereign authority, that is, me.
That went against four hundred years of precedent that allowed a sovereign duke (or a Count Palatine) to have control over who sat in his courts. Under Bryte’s plan, if the council did not have confidence in the judiciary, their vote against the Chief Magistrate would imperil the rulings from his bench.
Bryte explained to me in a lot of technical language why this was ultimately an endorsement of my authority as Count, not a rejection of it, but I got lost in the details. I was willing to try it.
Bryte drafted entirely new regulations beyond the basics I’d charged him with. He examined our evolving society with a keen eye and an intimate knowledge of our customary laws, and he managed to compose written law surrounding a great number of things that would usually take years for a sovereign to decide to regulate, or, failing that, rely on old law and precedent from other jurisdictions.
Bryte wanted to skip all that and write goodly laws first, before they were needed. He assured me that it would help stabilize trade and commerce if the people had a dependable and easy-to-understand body of regulation to follow. And lessen the number of court cases through that understanding. Any noble who has ever sat court and run a docket would be appreciative of that.
“All you have to do now is present it to the Lawfather on Luin’s day in the proper ritual form,” he concluded, late that night. “I’ll handle most of that, once you declare your sovereign authority. And, of course, it will have to be approved by the ducal court’s minister of law. But once that’s done . . . the Magelaw will have its law. And I can go on a truly righteous bender,” he added, tiredly.
“That seems simple enough,” I conceded.
“For you, yes,” he scowled. “All you have to do is be sovereign. As usual, it’s the bloody lawbrothers doing all the actual work.”
“Would you prefer to trade positions?” I offered, jokingly. The question caught the monk by surprise.
“Luin’s lackluster loins, no!” he declared. “Gods, why would any sane man want to embrace that kind of authority? The power of life and death, of creation and destruction over every man in your realm? What kind of man do you take me for?” he asked, appalled.
I didn’t answer, though I had a few suggestions. One should never irritate your lawyer that late at night, when he’s been drinking that much. It just isn’t wise.
Intermission II
Moudrost’s Bargain
One of the annoying things about wizards, it is commonly said, is their habit of appearing and reappearing in your life without warning or consideration. Having made a habit of this myself, over the years, if not a point of professional pride, I could not argue against the utility of emerging from the shadows or appearing mysteriously in someone’s life. It makes the wizard seem all-knowing, powerful, and mysterious. It’s an outstanding way to improve your professional reputation.
Of course, when it happens to me, I share the common view: it’s annoying.
I wasn’t expecting to come home after a hard day’s work overseeing the construction of Vanador and its various defenses and see a seamage sitting in my hall, but that’s what happened. Moudrost, Dryspeaker for the Sau’libik pod of the Leviathan Kyrinsik was waiting for me in the great hall of my townhome one day in late summer, drinking milk and eating biscuits with Brother Bryte, much to my surprise.
Thankfully, I recover from being startled quickly. Another professional habit of wizards is pretending that nothing surprises us.
“Good day to you, Moudrost Dryspeaker,” I said, before the monk could stand and introduce him. “I was wondering when you would show up.”
The big seamage rose and gave me a stately bow before returning to his seat.
“I traveled to Sevendor and the white mountain, and they gave me your letter,” he said. “Nor would they treat with me without your leave. So I made my way here, to your exile.”
“As I suspected you w
ould,” I agreed, handing my mantle and hat to a servant before joining them. “I apologize for the change in venue – I had no idea that our prince would exile me. Or that Duke Anguin would install me as count of this land.”
“The politics of the Dry lands are ephemeral and shallow,” he conceded. “The Brethren take little notice of them, save as how they affect the seas. But it is no matter. I come to discuss further acquisition of snowstone.”
And there was the dead fish in the room, so to speak. He wanted more of my mountain, as suspected.
“This gentlemage was just telling me about his service to the Vundel, Minalan,” Brother Bryte said, lightly. There was no way he could escape the gravity with which the seamage’s pronouncement was laden. “It seems as if the Sea Brethren are a kind of agent, acting on behalf of the Sea Folk. I find that fascinating,” he admitted. “Yet I also suspect that this arrangement is somewhat haphazard, without a strong institutional foundation.” I had no idea what Bryte was getting at, but his words seemed to get under the seamage’s skin.
“On the contrary, the customs of the Brethren have been followed for centuries,” Moudrost countered in his deep bass voice. “Our relations with the Drylanders have followed a method of discourse that has sustained us since before the Magocracy.”
“Yet, as far as I understand it,” Bryte continued, reasonably, “the Brethren merely treat with whatever prince or lord they require, without a common understanding of the customs of the Vundel,” he said, as he retrieved a bottle and three cups from the buttery. The time for milk, it seemed, was over.
“That is why they employ human servants,” conceded the seamage, accepting his cup without comment. “Few lords wish to bargain with a clipperman or a Kraytak. They find it unnerving. The Vundel find it frustrating. When the issue is with the Alon, they employ Alon servants.”
“Really?” I asked, surprised. “I thought the Alon didn’t like the oceans?”
“Most do not,” he conceded. “But when the Alon came to Callidore, some were detailed to be ambassadors to the Vundel. While they are unlike the Brethren in many ways, they fulfil the same position.”
“The reason I bring this up,” Brother Bryte said, pleasantly, “is to propose to establish some common basis for further discussion. From what I understand, the last transaction between the Spellmonger and the Vundel went well, but . . . there were some complications.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to take an entire mountain so abruptly,” I explained, apologetically. “Although the payment was sufficient, a little more warning would have been nice. It caused me some problems at a difficult time.”
“My apologies,” Moudrost said, though he didn’t sound very sorry about it. “The need was pressing, and I thought we had an understanding.”
“Just my point,” the monk agreed, pouring more wine for the man before refilling his own cup. “Without a common understanding of terms, issues can arise on both sides. Were there any problems with the product, once it was acquired?” he asked.
The wiry seamage stroked his long beard and considered. “Nay, the pod was able to pulverize the snowstone and distribute it across the golden reefs. When the season came, the coral beds grew for the first time in memory, and the produce from them exceeded expectations. We are satisfied with the result. We merely wish to acquire more.”
“Yet it is in a limited state,” Brother Bryte continued. “That is, there is a finite amount of the stuff in the world, and the Spellmonger’s home happens to be sitting on it. Further removal without consultation would be disruptive. Hence the need for establishing some foundational understandings.”
Moudrost looked amused. “You understand that, should they desire, the Vundel can just take all of the snowstone without your consent?”
“Oh, certainly, they are supremely powerful, rulers of Callidore, all of that,” Bryte conceded. “But before they go about in such a heavy-handed way, I would propose that you consider a more nuanced approach that could be far more beneficial to both parties.”
“If the price is an issue,” he began, “I—”
“It’s not an issue of price, Dryspeaker,” I interrupted. “Indeed, I’m quite happy with my riches. But the exchange has inspired some evolution in my thoughts. I was hoping we could have a reasonable discussion about it, before you go around confiscating any more mountains.”
“I am not unreasonable,” he said, slowly. “Nor are the Vundel. But neither do we appreciate the defiance of the Dry.”
“I’m not being defiant,” I soothed. “I just want a means of exchange that can accommodate both our needs to the fullest effect. And to do that, I need more information. Tell me, how many leviathans are there in the Shallow Sea?” I asked.
He shrugged. “There are five, each with as many as nine pods.”
“And each of those spends most of their time there cruising along the tops of those reefs, from what I understand, harvesting . . . what, exactly?”
Moudrost looked troubled. “There is no real word for it, in Narasi. The sages of the Alon call it remara. Their word for ‘nectar’.”
“As bees and tammins harvest the nectar of flowers,” I agreed. “Yet, the reefs that produce this remara have stopped growing. Why is that?”
Moudrost considered. “The conditions that propagated them changed, in ages past. The reefs endure, but do not grow. I confess I am not aware of the precise reason, but from what I understand, the Great Mothers used to provide some means of cultivating them that is long lost. And the Celestial Mothers used their powers to ensure conditions were ideal for their growth. But they are lost to us, now. The leviathans must be content to harvest what is there.”
“Until snowstone came along,” I nodded. “Now the reefs are growing again. Yet snowstone merely lowers the etheric density of the area in which it lies. Which suggests that the means by which the Great Mothers tended the reefs also lowered the etheric density of them, somehow.”
“In Imperial magic terms, yes,” conceded Moudrost. “But human thaumaturgy doesn’t concern the Vundel.”
“Perhaps it should,” I suggested You see, after our last exchange, I decided to embark on a thaumaturgical investigation of the spell that produced snowstone. I’m in the process of assembling the greatest minds in thaumaturgy, and devoting an incredible amount of energy to the subject. My goal is to develop a means of producing more snowstone – much more,” I explained. “And I’m hopeful that we can develop that means . . . if I have the time and freedom to do so.”
“I would imagine that several mountains of snowstone would be better than a single mountain?” Bryce pointed out, helpfully. “If Min can find the right spell, there could be enough of the stuff for every reef in the Shallow Sea.”
“That would be . . . highly beneficial,” conceded Moudrost. “As it is, other pods are becoming envious of my pod’s prosperity. They agitate to secure their own snowstone. Indeed, they are beginning to insist. What do you need to accomplish this task?” he asked, after a moment’s consideration.
“As it has never been done before, I don’t know, precisely,” I admitted. “This is no simple spell, Moudrost, this involves . . . well, some very powerful forces. The mechanism is still a mystery. I’m just beginning my researches here. For now, I need time. A few years,” I proposed. “It shouldn’t take much longer than that, I believe. But I’d feel more comfortable in that exploration if I didn’t worry that my home in Sevendor was going to be confiscated before I even got back to it.”
Moudrost considered further, stroking his beard. “That does not seem unreasonable,” he finally conceded. “If you can produce the desired result, that is. But the pressure from the other pods for more snowstone is mounting. I will bear this proposal back to my pod and return with an answer,” he decided. “But I warn you, Spellmonger, the pod wants more snowstone quickly. They may insist on securing more. Perhaps we can arrange a less abrupt transition, but they will require more.”
“Buy me some time,” I urged, “an
d I will see about getting you more. But waking up one morning and seeing your horizon moved around is disconcerting, to us simple folk.”
“Expect to see me before year’s end,” Moudrost informed me, rising. “I will do my best to convince the pod to consider patience, against greater reward, later. They are still in their collection phase, and will be for many more months. It is possible they will be mollified by a token payment, in the meantime, as your research proceeds. We have an agreement,” he said, bowing.
“In principle,” Brother Bryte amended. “Nothing has been written down, yet.”
“As the Vundel do not employ writing, that is moot,” the seamage said, as he took his cloak from one of the Tal Alon servants. “But three years, perhaps, is not too long to wait, if it means expanding our supply. Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, donning his leathern hat.
After Moudrost left, Bryte sat down and exhaled sharply.
“Thank Luin you appeared when you did,” he explained, as he poured us more wine. “I’d been conversing with the man for nearly two hours, waiting for you. I learned a lot about the Sea Folk, more than I ever wanted to, but after two hours the conversation started to wane. I don’t even like fish. Just when did you get involved with that fellow, and his fishy masters?”
“About a year ago. I sold a mountain to him. It made me unbearably wealthy, but it also caused a lot of problems. I appreciate you taking an interest in the transaction. Not many would understand such a thing.”
“Count me among them,” Brother Bryte confessed. “Usually when one sells real estate, the new buyer doesn’t wrap it up like a slab of bacon at the market and take it home. And the unbearable wealth is nice. Always a good thing to have in a client.”
“So what did you learn, in your long conversation?” I asked the monk, curious.
Thaumaturge Page 44
