Pentandra and the Alshari contingent were late arrivals; apparently a ship full of undead had unexpectedly landed at one of the many, many docks of Enultramar and had required their attention. But Tyndal and his intended bride Gatina, her father Hance and brother Atopol all attended. As High Magi they all had access to the Ways and brought a number of other Alshari wizards to the Convocation. For some who had been living in rebel-occupied territory since the Censorate fell, it was their first time experiencing the new freedom and purpose the magi now enjoyed.
From the other end of the kingdom, Reylan brought Curmor the Gilmoran and a few other Wenshari magi to the gathering, along with a request to the Convocation for more funds to improve the facilities there. And for some reason there was a flood of hedgewitches and footwizards who’d made the long journey to the big city to consult with the great wizards of the land. I was a bit confused about the increase in attendance, but Pentandra soon pointed out the source to me.
“They’re scared, Min,” she explained at the College of Wizards ball. The celebration was for the largest but least powerful order, the one encompassing non-certified, non-High Mage wizards and witches. A mass of them filled the great chamber below our position in the gallery, and as I scanned their faces, I could see she was correct. “Many of those people are from the Westlands or Gilmora. Some are even from Enultramar. They’re scared of being kidnapped by Korbal’s agents. They’ve been abducting anyone they find with even a scrap of Talent, and word has spread.”
“That’s a lot of people,” I said, shaking my head. There were easily thrice the number here as last Convocation.
“Those are just the ones who made it,” Pentandra agreed. “The Westlands are awash with undead, now, and the roads are no longer safe. But that doesn’t deter them. It’s one thing to be hunted by Censors who you can out-smart or bribe. It’s quite another thing to be hunted by relentless thugs and evil wizards doing an undead lord’s bidding. It’s starting to be a concern in the community.”
“How many have been lost in Enultramar?”
“It’s difficult to tell, but a few hundred magi, easily,” she reported, grimly. “I’ve encouraged all of our certified colleagues to employ what protections they can, and that’s helped . . . most Resident Adepts aren’t in as much danger, now. But that just made the bastards go after the less-protected, the hedgemagi and witches. Even dowsers and finders, or Talented sports.”
“I can give them sanctuary in the Magelaw, if they can get there,” I decided. “Duin knows we need the people, if the Nemovorti march – which they will. If they’re willing to work, I can afford them some protection. But I can’t transport them there,” I added.
“Just knowing that there is sanctuary might be enough to give them hope,” she admitted with a sigh. “As Court Wizard I’ve been getting a lot of requests for assistance against the kidnappings. We’ve stopped a few, thanks to careful attention, but, as I said, people are scared.”
Word spread about my quiet, open invitation to the Magelaw, and that did give the poor magi some hope. It also gave some of them very unrealistic expectations about the Magelaw, too; as they began to arrive in Vanador over the next several months. Despite the wonders we were building there, many were disappointed that being a wizard did not equate to being in charge. Others felt defeated when they realized the charms and spells they sold to an eager public in Enultramar or the Westlands were worth little to a population with so many competitors in it.
But I’d offered sanctuary. They had taken it.
One of the more intriguing meetings I had did not involve wizards at all – it was with Count Moran, the Ducal Prime Minister. And it was quite a surprise.
I was attending the party the College of Adepts held – the wizards who had taken and passed the journeyman examinations and were officially registered as wizards, but did not hold witchstones – when the count and four of his men arrived. They were met with the warmagi we had on guard and asked to wait, when it was revealed that they were not, in fact, magi. That irritated Moran, and he insisted on seeing the head of the Order.
He thought that would be the administrative head. He wasn’t expecting me.
“Count Moran, is there a problem?” I asked, as I descended the stairs.
“Baron Minalan! I’ve been denied entry to the ball,” he complained, glancing evilly at the two warmagi who were on duty. “I just wanted a moment to discuss some matters with the Order.”
“Count Minalan,” I corrected, though I didn’t take offense. I was still getting used to the title myself. “Most of the Order is drunk, at the moment,” I observed. The College of Adepts is more sedate than the College of Wizards, but they could afford the good wine and spirits, and were indulging lustfully by that hour. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I didn’t even know you were here,” he admitted. “I thought you’d still be in the . . . Magelaw.”
“I’m taking advantage of the exception for official business,” I explained. “I am still titular head of the Arcane Orders. And this is a lovely break from the monotony of country life.”
“I’m certain it is,” the man replied, evenly. He still bore me personal enmity for a magical interrogation I’d forced upon him, so he studied me warily. “You find your exile doesn’t suit you?”
“I’d grown used to the pleasures and conveniences of urban existence,” I said, carefully. “Being back in the country is taking some getting used to. Especially someplace as remote and primitive as Vanador.”
“Vanador? I haven’t heard of it.”
“It didn’t exist, until last year,” I pointed out, as I led him upstairs to my office. “It’s a kind of town that’s being made out of the freed slaves of the Wilderlands. Those who didn’t depart for their homes.”
“Not enough have departed from their homes, apparently,” he said, darkly. “Every week the court gets new pleas to intervene and compel their return to Gilmora.”
“That’s unlikely, I’m afraid,” I said, as conciliatorily as I could as the door to my office opened with a wave of my hand. A nugget of knot coral, nothing more elaborate, but it impresses the non-magical guests. “Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you. I have a cock the size of a leviathan,” he stated, expectantly.
“What?” I asked, sharply.
He gave me a thin smile. “I wanted to see if I was being compelled to speak truthfully, or if this was an honest discussion.”
I chuckled at that. “No, I feel no need. I think I can trust your veracity. Wine?”
He settled into one of the two chairs near the fireplace and nodded. With a casual wave of my hand I opened a hoxter in my ring, one specially prepared for such an occasion. Suddenly a small table bearing a bottle and two silver wineglasses appeared between us. I began to pour.
“You certainly have a flare for the dramatic, don’t you?” he said, accepting the cup I offered.
“Says the man with the cock the size of a leviathan. When you have access to classy magic, it seems a waste not to use it. Besides, I’m not sure we could find a full bottle below,” I added, chuckling. The volume from the reception below had decidedly increased, even with the door shut. “Now, what brings you to the Order?”
That caused a wince to cross his brow as he sipped. “In truth, I was hoping to discuss a . . . commission with the Order. On behalf of His Highness. I just had not anticipated treating with . . .”
“The man he holds responsible for his son’s death?” I filled in. “Understandable. And I don’t hold it against His Highness. I assure you, if you present your commission to me, I will find other capable hands to fulfill it. I would imagine that His Highness is hard pressed if he’s considering magic as a solution to anything at all,” I offered.
“He is,” Moran agreed, darkly. “I tell no tales not already known by saying His Highness has entered into a state of melancholy and anxiety that not even his new daughter can relieve. Yet his attention is called to his duties, and he sees to them fatefully
, wary of criticism.”
“Because of his adventure in Enultramar,” I supplied.
“And the loss of Farise, yes,” Moran admitted, candidly. “Much of the Royal Court blames him for the loss, when the loans that paid for the original conquest are not yet paid off. It pains the prince to hear such things, but it also compels him to ensure no such . . . unpleasant episodes mar his reign again.
“To that end, he has intelligence that the Duke of Merwyn stirs trouble on the frontiers,” he continued. “Our spies have reported that he seeks to humiliate the Prince before he ever sits on the throne. To that end he has begun assembling forces in western Merwyn – mostly mercenaries, at this point, but the Merwyni do not indulge in such displays or expenses without putting them to purpose.”
“What is their purpose, do you think? Open war with the kingdom would be . . . it wouldn’t be a good idea, I would think.”
“Neither do I,” agreed Moran, “but Merwyn is powerful and Remere is the weakest of the three duchies of the kingdom.”
“I would think this is a matter for the Minister of War,” I pointed out. “The Royal minister of war, not the Castali Duke’s. Remere is not Castal.”
“Yet Prince Tavard will be king, some day,” Moran pointed out. “He takes as much interest in the affairs of the kingdom he will inherit as he does his own duchy. He does not want to see it spoiled before it is his. King Rard advises caution, but Prince Tavard is convinced that Merwyn will strike soon.”
“And how does His Highness require magic’s aid?”
“To secure the frontier, spy upon Merwyn, and keep his legacy intact,” Moran reported. “The court wizards have little to contribute to the effort, but His Highness has asked that I find some High Magi willing to undertake the task.”
“There are some who would be willing to consider such a commission,” I considered, thoughtfully. “I will prepare a list for your consideration. Curmor and Reylan are High Magi in the vicinity, as well as experienced warmagi, and I imagine they would accept such a commission. And I will have two of my colleagues make independent recommendations, to reduce the possibility of sabotage. I assure you that I bear Prince Tavard no ill will, even for my exile. I am a father, myself.”
“As am I,” Moran nodded. “Yet I still find his obsession with you . . . disturbing,” he admitted. “I am loyal, and will do as I am bid by my liege. But I see him being surrounded by those who paint you as his bitter enemy.”
“And you don’t?” I inquired, curiously.
“I do not love you,” Moran snorted. “You are a menace and a danger, arrogant and proud. But you serve the kingdom, and I have not seen you pursue your own vendettas at the expense of the state when another man would not hesitate. For that I respect you. I do not think of you as the enemy of the prince, but as an opponent in counsel.
“Tavard, however, has been hearing that you are conspiring against him and his realm . . . from other sources,” he reported. “Wilderhall has attracted some strange new residents since the Prince made it his permanent home. His Mother is adamant that she is keeping watch over them, yet I find it disturbing how enamored he is of their advice. The Princess, too, assures me that they are mere friends and counselors to the Prince, but I fear a darker purpose.”
“You suspect agents of Korbal?”
“I know not,” he admitted. “But some dark power is starting to infect Wilderhall. The court is . . . a shadow lies upon it. It troubles me. And you are likely the last person His Highness would ever consider having me consult, though you are likely the one best suited for discovering the source of the unease.”
“Alas, I am in exile and out of favor,” I sighed. “And if the Prince hates me, he’s unlikely to ask for my help. Even if he needs it.”
“I do not say that he does,” Moran said, adamantly. “I merely mention my misgivings to a member of the Royal Court.”
“No one will know we discussed anything, here,” I promised.
“The Queen knows everything,” he countered, sourly.
“No, she doesn’t. She just likes everyone to think so,” I countered.
“That’s a dangerous opinion to have,” he warned.
“I’m arrogant and proud,” I reminded him. “Yet I still live. Draw what conclusions you may,” I said, implying that I had some leverage over Grendine. “Besides, confined to a barren wasteland without so much as a real castle to call my own leaves me little threat to anyone.”
Moran grunted, unconvinced. “Count Minalan, I would suggest you are even more dangerous in such a position,” he observed. “Indeed, you have caused considerable strife in your refusal to repatriate the Gilmorans. The complaints to the court grow incessant.”
“I did not free a hundred thousand slaves to see half of them return to serfdom,” I countered. “I have not kept anyone in the Wilderlands against their will. Nor do I even have the forces to compel them,” I admitted. “I went into exile with one wagon and my family. I don’t even have basic staff to administer my ruined lands, yet,” I complained. “If I’m a danger to anything, it’s my own sanity.”
I was worried I over-sold the idea of my miserable exile, but Moran seemed to take it at face value.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, “but His Highness takes the health of his Gilmoran possessions very seriously. And the disposition of his Gilmoran vassals. Three counts have personally complained to him,” he informed me. “They complain of both your behavior and your failure to return their peasants.”
“As for the former, there’s not much I can say,” I chuckled. “As for the latter, they can find other means. I need those people just as much or more than they do. If they want to stay in the Magelaw, I’m not going to force them out. Bear what tale to Tavard as you will, but the Spellmonger doesn’t suffer arrogant, ineffective fools no matter their title.”
“You speak of Count Anvaram? And Count Salgren?”
“I get all of those Gilmoran counts confused,” I dismissed.
“Yet you strayed from exile long enough to offend them,” he said, evenly.
“I was on Arcane Orders’ business,” I explained, reasonably. “The tournament was cover for other matters.”
“There are reputed to have been insults. And a duel.”
“There was at least one of both, if I recall. Something about a countess and a stableboy?” I asked, pretending to search my memory. “There was a lot going on that evening.”
“Both men are vassals and good friends of the Prince,” Moran warned. “He does not appreciate hearing of them being disrespected in their own lands.”
“If they would trouble themselves to come to my lands, I’d be happy to do it there. In truth, I barely remember meeting them, and if any words were exchanged, they were of no consequence to me,” I lied. “I was more focused on my mission, and the announcement of my friend Baron Astyral’s engagement. The nobility of Gilmora is inconsequential to me, otherwise.”
“That’s not going to be pleasing news to Prince Tavard and his vassals,” Moran warned. “Failing action from him, they will promote their grievance to the King.”
“They are welcome to,” I shrugged, dismissively. “I have a rather adept lawbrother.”
“Count Minalan, do you realize the folly of not cooperating with Prince Tavard?” Moran finally asked, in a burst of frustration. “You profess loyalty to the crown, yet cultivate none from the head who will someday wear it. It is a position that invites skepticism in your loyalties. Particularly when you consort so openly with other houses.”
“I live a complicated life,” I agreed. “The invasion concerned Alshar even more than Castal. Now that we’re all in one big, happy kingdom, as a member of the Royal Court it is my duty to ensure the health of all the realm.”
“By pissing in the porridge of the man who will be king?” Moran asked, even more skeptically. “You’re either mad or playing some deeper game, Minalan. I expected Dunselen to go mad – he was always a fool – but as I said, I respect you, even if I
don’t like you. What game are you playing?”
“So many that I lose track, sometimes,” I said, starting to get a little frustrated myself. Moran saw my life only from the perspective as a courtier and disgruntled vassal. He had no idea what I was really contending with. “You are correct, Moran, I do fence with Tavard. I also pity him his loss. I acknowledge the inevitability of his succession, but I question his ability, after Farise.
“I also play a game with the Alka Alon, our supposed allies, and learn the deep secret they’ve hidden from humanity. I play a game with the Sea Folk, who could wipe us out with a thought, and desperately hope I can prevail. And yes, Moran, as you know I play games with the very gods to get them to live up to their promise to defend and protect humanity.
“But most of all I dice with Korbal the Necromancer, who sends draugen and dragons to invade our councils and slays our Prince Heirs in their cradles. Korbal, who wields the Dead God like a warstaff and bends the natural and supernatural to his dark whim. If you had even a hint of his true designs, Moran, you would understand why a prince’s ire is the least of my concerns!”
My outburst took Moran aback, I could see, and his eyes kept flitting from my face to the Magolith where it was circling overhead. It had started to pulse and circle a bit faster as my mood darkened.
“My lord, stay yourself!” he urged.
I took a deep breath and tried to let my frustration abate. Having an oppositional audience helped inspire it, but I knew Moran was not at fault.
“My point, Count Moran, is that while the Prince may be obsessed with me, I have not the time nor the energy to become obsessed with him or his concerns,” I said, tightly. “Nay, not even if he wears a crown, not a coronet. There are dark powers at play, and few understand them – even me. If he wants to engage in a vendetta, that is his prerogative. My priority is not title, nor secular power, nor position. It is in understanding and countering the forces which imperil our existence on Callidore. Understand that, please, even if you cannot convey it to His Highness,” I concluded.
Thaumaturge Page 46
