The Road To Vanador

by Terry Mancour

  “Good liquor, too,” Dad said, as he sipped the strong spirits. “Tasty. Who did you say this Mavone was? And what does he do to afford . . . all of this?”

  “He’s a soldier and a warmage, and he currently works for me,” I explained, sipping my own crystal glass. It burned exquisitely on my tongue, fruity with a hint of burnt cinnamon. “He’s one of the men I’ve convinced to help me tame the Wilderlands. He’s in Vanador already, trying to see what kind of defenses I’ll be working with.”

  “You pay him enough to afford all of this?”

  “He’s been amply rewarded by the crown for his efforts in the war. And his cousin Astyral was just made a baron, north of here. Between the two of them, they can afford this place out of their alms bucket,” I snorted.

  “Who else did you rope into this Wilderlands adventure? Pentandra?” he asked. It was odd, hearing him take an interest in the details of my plans, but I suppose he had his reasons. Or it was the brandy talking. Every time either of our glasses got below half empty, the butler would unobtrusively refill them. Like magic, only easier.

  “No, Penny’s having babies in the southlands,” I sighed. “Even though she’s technically baroness of Vanador, on parchment, she’s got her hands full with her girls and restoring Anguin to full power. Anguin and Rardine,” I corrected. “They’re getting married, next year. I’m invited.”

  “You should go,” he nodded. “Weddings are always fun. Even yours.”

  “Dad, I had two rogue Censors show up and hold the wedding party hostage!” I protested.

  “But the reception turned out well,” he countered. “And it was fun. Say, whatever happened to those fellows?”

  “Penny took care of it,” I admitted. “And no, you really don’t want to know what happened to them. Pentandra’s husband, Arborn, might help out. He has lands in the area. Beside Mavone, I’ve convinced my friend Sandoval to come work for me as my Constable. And Terleman is staying behind as Penny’s Deputy Court Wizard, in charge of the Magic Corps.”

  “That seems like an awful lot of soldiers,” Dad remarked, grimly.

  “We need a lot of soldiers. Warmagi, to be precise, but we need plenty of the regular sort, too. I’m going to draft Tyndal to aid me, which will give him something to occupy himself while Rondal is in Enultramar, preparing for his own wedding. I’ve got other warmagi there, too, and the pele towers I built a few years ago. Each of them has a contingent of wizards. A magical swordsmith, Master Cormoran—”

  “I’ve met the gentleman,” Dad recalled. “Nice fellow.”

  “He is. And he’s taken charge of our pet Dradrien, who will be setting up a foundry and forge, there. And Gareth is there, running the refugee camp and building the town as Pentandra’s steward. For a town that isn’t really built, yet.

  “But I’ll need more. It’s the Magelaw, I’ll recruit more wizards. Of all sorts. I’m bringing the core of my household from Sevendor, a couple of birthsisters to watch after Alya and the children, the cook, a few of our Tal Alon servants. Ruderal, of course. A few others.”

  “You can’t make a country out of just wizards,” Dad warned, as he watched the snowflakes fall through the window. “Someone has to bake the bread.”

  “I’m counting on you to send me a few bakers,” I countered. “And I was serious, when I told Forandal to send me any men who were without prospects. Many of the tradesmen in Tudry relocated there, but we’ll need more. A lot more, to build the kind of city I want.”

  “Like this one?”

  “Barrowbell is pretty, and its fun, but it’s not the kind of town I want Vanador to be. Vanador will have to be tough. Nor like Sevendor. It’s a city of commerce. Vanador will need to be a city of industry, in time. The iron deposits there are first-rate, from what I understand, and there is coal in abundance. That was why Master Cormoran went to Tudry in the first place. If I can turn that iron into weapons, and the poor men of the Wilderlands into warriors, then Vanador may flourish. If I don’t . . . well, a whole lot of people are going to die,” I said, glumly.

  “You did remarkable things in Sevendor, by all accounts,” Dad reminded me. “Sire Cei thinks you worked miracles.”

  “He’s my castellan – he has to say such things about me. It’s his job. That said, I did learn a lot from Sevendor. And I do have some expert help. With some luck, time, and a lot of gold, I may have a chance at success.”

  “If I’ve learned anything about my son, you’ll have more than a chance,” Dad grunted. “I’m no warrior. I’ve never held a blade in my life,” he confessed. “The most frightening thing I ever had to do was see you go off to Farise, after you worked so hard in school.

  “But you survived. More than survived, you were good enough to be a professional warmage for a few years,” Dad reminded me. “I suppose I didn’t get your true measure, when you were but twelve years old, but I didn’t think you had a warrior’s spirit, Min. No offence meant, Son, but our folk are artisans, not warriors. I thought it perverse, when you went into the sellsword’s trade—”

  “Technically, I was a sell-wand,” I corrected. “Which isn’t a real term-of-art, professionally. We’re mostly just called ‘Sparks’, in the trade.”

  “Regardless,” Dad said, with a paternal glare, “I was worried sick about you. Best day I had since your oldest nephew was born was getting the letter that you were going to head West and become a spellmonger.”

  “Yeah, that turned out well,” I said, dryly.

  “It sounded like a good career move, at the time,” Dad soothed. “I didn’t know much about spellmongering, and still don’t. But it had to be better than being a warmage.”

  “For six months, it was grand,” I agreed, with a sigh. “After that . . . well, every profession has its challenges.”

  “My point, Min, is that I underestimated you, and for that I am sorry,” Dad said, ignoring my jests. “Every man wants to believe his son can do anything he sets his mind to. Most fathers are disappointed, one way or another. I’m not. You’ve . . . what you’ve done is no less than remarkable. And I feel ashamed that I ever doubted you.”

  “You doubted me?” I asked, surprised.

  “Son, you were a wizard and a bit of a screw-up,” Dad said, after a thoughtful pause. “I’d be an idiot not to be skeptical of your success. Hells, I’d be an idiot to think you’d return from Farise alive, though I lit a candle and prayed to the Flame That Burneth Bright every night for two years and more for that very thing. I wanted to think you were clever enough and lucky enough to stay alive, but . . . well, when you were twelve, I wasn’t entirely certain that you wouldn’t accidently drown yourself in the river or inspire an irate father to show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night. Don’t think less of me if I wondered at your chances in the jungle.”

  I chuckled, despite myself. I couldn’t really argue with his reasoning. I had a seven-year old myself. Minalyan showed every sign of ingenious intelligence, the kind that makes a father simultaneously both proud and anxious. But, at the same time, hearing that your father didn’t have complete confidence in you was . . . disheartening. At least he felt sorry about it.

  “You were nearly right,” I admitted, recalling far too many close calls in Farise. “It was a grim journey. Perhaps those candles and prayers helped,” I soothed, committing myself to asking Briga about that next time I talked to the goddess.

  “That’s why I’m sanguine about your chances of . . . of doing whatever it is you wizards do. Build a city. Build a civilization. Defeat the Goblin King. Argue with kings and princes. If you managed to survive a war when you were young and stupid, your chances only go up, now that you’re old and . . . less stupid.”

  “Would it kill you to admit that I have some wisdom?” I complained.

  “As I gave it to you, it goes without saying,” Dad dismissed.

  It wasn’t much. But it was the best I was going to get out of the old man.

  We woke late the next morning, for once, in a warm and comfo
rtable bed. The streets outside were covered with snow, as was every roof and window sill. Four inches of the stuffm, and it was still coming down – far more than Barrowbell normally gets. From what I understood from a brief conversation with the butler, the town usually only got two to three snowstorms a year, and rarely more than a few inches. This was an aberration.

  I didn’t mind. There are far worse places to be snowed in than a city renowned for its ostentatious decadence. Barrowbell in winter time was a shadow of its summer excess, but that was still a pretty long shadow.

  After breaking our fast on ham, eggs, porridge, and pear preserves, Dad and I took a walk around the snow-covered city just to see the sights. Dad was impressed – Barrowbell dwarfed both Sevendor Town and Drexel, the two cities he knew. He gawked like the provincial he was at the temples, the shops, the floridly colored storefronts, now shuttered against the cold and snow. Townhomes as high as six stories towered overhead, and ornate shrines dotted corners and lots, the snow making them seem even more pristine and otherworldly than their architects intended.

  “Just how big is this city?” Dad asked, as we ranged more than a mile around the center of Barrowbell, with no clear end of the town in sight. “There are more people on this block than live in all of Talry! I don’t see how so many people can possible live in one spot!”

  “It’s an art, an imperfect one,” I agreed. “It takes a lot of organization and cooperation. And a lot of money. I’m not fond of city life myself, but there are some comforts and conveniences that make it worthwhile.”

  “It feels like too many rabbits in too small a warren,” Dad grumbled, loudly, after a pause. “Always tripping over your neighbors, never knowing who the strangers are when they pass by, odd fellows looking at your daughters . . . it’s three kinds of hell,” he condemned.

  “Not to mention the old men raving in the streets,” I added, as a burgher’s wife or senior servant at some prestigious house glared at Dad’s outburst as she passed us in the street. “No, if you want peace and quiet, village life is preferable. But there are things in this city you’d never see in Talry,” I suggested.

  “Like what?” he asked, skeptically.

  “Bide,” I offered, stopping in the snowy street. As the flakes fell around us from a gray overcast, I reached out with my mind and mentally spoke to a friend who would know. In a moment, the mental voice of Astyral filled my mind.

  Minalan! What can I do for you, my friend? The magelord asked, his Gilmoran accent echoing in my head.

  My father and I are snowed in at Barrowbell, I informed him. We’re en route to the Wilderlands, and just made it to the city. But the way it’s coming down, we’re going to be here for a few days.

  Why not just use the Ways to go directly? He asked, confused.

  Because I want to make sure that Prince Tavard knows I’m going, and the longer I drag that out the more irritated he’ll be. Besides, my wagon is filled with moss, seedlings, and such that can’t go through hoxters, I explained. So we took the long, scenic route.

  And ended up in Barrowbell – how splendid! I do hope you’re staying at our townhouse . . .

  Mavone insisted. I think he resents paying servants to sit around on their butts when no one is there.

  My cousin has no sense of class, sometimes, Astyral said with a mental sigh. Idle servants are a sign of culture and status.

  Of course, I said, automatically. One doesn’t debate such matters with a Gilmoran unless one has time and a bottle of wine. I’m here with my dad and I need to show him something special, something . . . Gilmoran. Something other than a temple or shrine, I added, hurriedly.

  If it was summer, I’d suggest the great tournament fields outside the city. If it was spring, I’d tell you to visit the festival grounds outside of the Temple of Ishi. In autumn, Glassblower’s Street has a delightful little display . . . but winter? I don’t think I’ve ever wintered in Barrowbell. And this time of day?

  There has to be something, I urged.

  Well . . . where are you? If you don’t mind someplace cozy where you can have a cup of something exotic, I think I can direct you. I know all the best wineshops, taverns and dens of iniquity. Don’t worry, I can find you something special, he assured.

  Once I figured out where we were, Astyral directed us to a small shop three streets down. It was behind a tailor’s shop, down a sunken stairwell on the side of a narrow alley, behind a nondescript door. The sign was a stylized pillow and a needle, the carefully-painted board old and faded under the line of snow.

  Dad pushed the door open cautiously, as if he was exploring a dangerous ruin. Thankfully no hidden goblins or ruthless footpads attacked. Instead our noses were pleasantly assaulted by a rich, exotic aroma. The chimes on the door twinkled merrily as we entered the darkness.

  Once our eyes adjusted from the blinding snow to the gloomy interior, I was surprised to be in a largish chamber filled with tables, comfortable-looking chairs, and incredibly attractive serving girls.

  “Welcome my friends!” came a jovial, professionally enthusiastic voice. “I don’t recognize your faces, I’m afraid . . .” the host of the establishment said. As my eyes adjusted, he was revealed as a well-fleshed man in stylish clothes, with a fringe of hair desperately attempting to cover far too much bald head.

  “We’re friends of Magelord Astyral,” I answered, as we removed our hoods. “He recommended we tarry here, since we were snowbound in Barrowbell.

  At the mention of Astyral’s name, the man’s eyes lit up like a beacon. “My friend Astyral!” he said, as if he’d just won a lottery. “Oh, what a fine gentleman the magelord is! One of my most distinguished patrons,” he gushed, indicating that Astyral had apparently dropped a purse of gold at this place in the past. “Indeed, he recently placed a rather large order for his new estates in Losara – only the finest, of course. His Excellency has exquisite taste,” he assured, reverently.

  “A large order of what, exactly?” Dad asked, cutting his eyes at the pretty young girls attending the room. There were only a few other patrons there, which had the staff outnumbering the patrons by three to one.

  “Why, quality bed linens, my lords,” the proprietor said, confused. “The Perfect Pillow has provided the gentry of Gilmora with the finest available finishings for the bedchamber for over century, now.”

  “Sheets and pillows?” Dad asked, in disbelief, as he looked around at the opulent chamber. “You need all of this to sell sheets?”

  “The folk of Barrowbell are refined and cultured,” I said, gently, handing the man our cloak. If Astyral recommended the place, I’d trust him. It was always possible that he was playing a joke on me, but I doubted it. He wasn’t that sort of fellow. “I’m sure the gentleman can show us something we like.”

  “That is our very purpose, vocation, and desire, my lords,” he said, accepting Dad’s traveler’s cloak gingerly. “Why, before the great change, we provided the linens for the Gilmoran estates of the Alshari dukes, themselves. Today we count some of the high nobles of the land as some of our most devoted customers. And the Temple of Ishi insists on first selection of our new stock.”

  “I don’t care if Count Whatshisname likes them, I want to like them. And I think we’ll be having brandy in preference to wine, at this time of day,” I insisted, lapsing into the arrogant pose of a rich and powerful patron. It was mostly affectation, but I’d learned enough about Gilmorans to understand the best way to ensure quality service with their artisans: be a complete asshole.

  It earned me a startled look from Dad, who had much more sensible interactions with merchants.

  “I will ensure that you do, my lord . . .”

  “He’s a godsdamn count, if you can believe it,” Dad said, gruffly, as our host passed off our cloaks to a serving girl and escorted us to a pair of well-padded comfortable chairs.

  “A count?” the man asked, surprised. I gave him a single nod, along with a steely stare that dared him to inquire further. His smile flicker
ed the briefest of moments before it returned. “Then of course my lords will want to see our absolutely finest wares. I am Comoday, Master of comfort in Barrowbell. Brandy! Brandy for our guests!” he ordered, sending the servant scurrying to the buttery on the other side of the room. “Now, what exactly are my lords seeking in their linens?”

  That inspired a long and stuttering conversation that revealed very quickly that neither my father nor I had ever given the essential role of bed linens the proper consideration in our lives. In fact, I’d given far more thought to chamberpots and their utility than I had to my sheets. As far as I knew, Alya and I had gotten some for our wedding and bought some more at Chepstan, the first year we were in Sevendor. Dad had even less idea of where his bedwares came from, and when.

  “Do not worry, gentle masters,” Comoday assured. “I am here to educate as much as I am to sell. We carry the finest cottons from Gilmora, the sheerest linens from Cormeer, the most exquisite silks from Unstara! Woolen blankets of the purest Riverlands wool, pillows of the softest Remeren down, all selected to enhance my lords’ nocturnal experience. Each fabric conveys a particular virtue, providing dreams of solace, significance, or sensuality, when chosen by a knowledgeable student of the art of sleep,” he said, with authority and understanding.

  I don’t know if Master Comoday knew sackcloth from satin, the man knew how to make a sales pitch.

  “Are you gentlemen married?” he asked, politely, as two fair maidens brought Dad and I each a crystal cup of golden brandy. When we both nodded, he continued in a cultured tone. “Then you understand the nocturnal demands imposed on a man: the need for quiet repose, often at odds with the desire for passionate embrace. Yet,” he continued, expertly skirting the intimate nature of his craft with an upraised finger, “the line between blissful comfort and marital ecstasy is a thin and constant challenge. With our consultation, gentlemen, I assure you that your slumber shall be as profoundly restful as your wedded comforts are fruitful.”