He shifted from obsequious to haughty in a heartbeat. Clearly he felt
that such a young mage, a new-made master and budding tradesman, should
submit to his age, wisdom and experience. He got angry, and his nostrils
flared. "By what right—"
But I wasn't a peasant to be bullied by this tepid spark. "By right of
single combat," I said in my best Command voice, "to the death. I stood toe
to toe with the shaman and bested him, spilled his blood and took it from
his dead hand. Do not try my patience right now, Garkesku, I've seen too
many corpses since last sunrise and that makes me irritable. I stopped by to
tell you this out of professional courtesy, only to warn you to prepare
yourself. Not because I like you, not because we're friends, but because
that's the kind of man I am."
"I still think that my experience and unique perspective as a long-time
—"
"Enough!" I finally demanded, all shreds of civility tossed aside. "The
stone is mine. Look to your spells and defend your people or flee like a
coward, it's your choice. I am going to consult the Tree Folk, and I'll tell
you what I learn. But don't try to wheedle this jewel from me again," I said,
tucking it away inside my shirt. "I don't trust you or the strength of your
mind to bear its power without any kind of oversight. But if it makes you
feel better, I don't trust my own strength of mind yet."
"Wise of you," he said, sinisterly. He wanted it. He lusted for it visibly.
Hell, any mage would. But letting him play around with it would be a waste
of a witchstone. I decided to point that out.
"Besides, where would you begin your study, Master Garkesku? I had
no idea you were a thaumaturge. . ."
"My master concentrated on more practical concerns," Garkesku said,
sourly. I was confident of that. Thaumaturgy – Magical Theory, that is – is
rarely taught with any vigor out in the provinces. Only Imperial magi with
wealthy patrons had the time and energy necessary to study it in any detail,
and even fewer magi had the brains for it. Or the need for it.
"Luckily, I did. One of the first rules of practical thaumaturgy,
Garkesku, is not to poke your mind into strange artifacts. Until I know
more about it, it is a very dangerous, very expensive jewel, nothing more.
"One more thing," I said, enunciating each word as I turned to go. "If,
upon my return, I discover that you have suddenly taken a holiday with
your Great Aunt Bufi in Remere, I'll find you, Garkesku. I'll hunt you
down like a wounded rabbit. You have a responsibility to these poor folk
that you've been cheating all these years. They are your people, now, like it
or not."
"I assure you—" he began indignantly. I stopped him. I didn't want his
assurances, and wouldn't have believed them if he'd voiced them.
"This attack may have been an isolated incident – I surely hope so. If it
isn't, though, then you, me, our apprentices, Zagor, and even the Boliek
sisters in Roby Hamlet will have to stand up to them, because swords and
lances aren't going to do squat against combat magic with witchstones!"
I'm sure my eyes were blazing, because I was livid at the thought of this
little worm trying to slink off into the night while his clients and neighbors
were slaughtered. The least he could do was stand and die with them. He
looked at me, his head bowed slightly, and he sighed.
"You are right, my friend. I will prepare what defenses that I can. You
need not worry that I shall try to escape."
"You'd better not," I warned, leaving his shop.
* * *
When I returned to the square (which was much more of a proper town
square than Minden Hall's) I treated my apprentice to a well-earned meal at
the only decent inn in Boval Vale. I'd been looking forward to it since our
paltry meal on the road the night before.
The Lakeside Inn was a small, ramshackle building that served what
little traffic passed through Hymas – mostly cheese merchants from the
East, and tinkers, and such. I'd stayed there only once, when I was first
came to Boval looking for a place to settle. The innkeeper was a large,
friendly woman named Mother Breda who treated everyone who crossed
her threshold like family.
That isn't always a good thing.
Her four grown sons helped her run the place. Whether it was cooking,
slaughtering a goat, bringing up beer from the cellar, splitting firewood,
doing laundry, or changing the straw in the mattresses, the four boys (I use
the term figuratively – the eldest was over thirty and the youngest was
seventeen) scrambled around hectically while their mother sat on the stool
by the fire that was her unofficial throne and yelled orders.
I don't mean that she casually shouted, like Mama would occasionally
do. I mean this woman screamed her desires at the top of her lungs. From
anywhere within a half-mile radius of the Lakeside Inn you could hear her
bellow. When I say she treated everyone like family, that meant that she felt
free to shout at you as if you were her own son. If you were actually in the
same room with her, it was deafening. Concerned that she was going a little
deaf herself, I'd casually checked her hearing and such a few months back
and found her in perfect health. I guess she just liked to shout.
We were among only a few guests that day. There were a small number
of peasants from Winakur in town on business, stopping in for a pint of ale
before they made the long walk back home, and there was a single
packtrader who lingered over a bowl of stew, but that was it. I ordered from
Mama Breda – who bellowed the order back to her youngest son –and then
joined Tyndal at one of the trestle tables.
Tyndal was hacking into an excellent hunk of bright yellow Boval
cheese and a half of a loaf of her bread (not as good as Dad's, but whose
is?)
and was waiting for a bowl of the stew that was bubbling over the fire
and filling the air with such gastronomical promise. He had thoughtfully
ordered a tall mug of ale for me already, which I used to wash the road dust
from my mouth while I was waiting for my own lunch.
"How did Master Garkesku take the news, Master?" he asked between
wolfish bites.
"With his customary grace," I said, making a sour face. "He tried to
convince me to give him the stone. I tried to convince him that he needs to
prepare for a war."
"Do you think it will be war, then? The goblins – gurvani – have always
been peaceful. Since we took the valley away from them, that is." He
looked worried and scared and excited all at the same time.
"Yes, well, apparently at least a few of them want it back, I'd guess. Did
they look peaceful last night? No, if this band wasn't alone, then this is just
the opening move," I assured him, depressed at the prospect.
"We'll be ready for them!" he tried to sound savage and brave, and
might have, if his voice had not chosen that moment to break an octave. I
grinned and then fell to eating when the stew appeared. It was three-meat,
three-bean stew cooked for days with wine and vegetables. Wholesome and
hardy, with the cheese it was exquisite. "Do you really think the Tree Folk
will be able to help us, Master?" Tyndal asked me again, after his mouth
cleared.
"Honestly, Tyndal," I confessed between bites, "I'm mostly going to the
Alka Alon to see what they know about irionite. Thanks to the Censorate, it
has been so scarce in the Duchies that it's considered legendary. The piece
I'm wearing around my neck is enough to buy yourself a decent sized
barony, if you were to sell it to one of the rich old Imperial families."
His eyes lit up. Nothing inspires a poor peasant lad like the idea of
wealth. "You should sell it, then!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically.
I laughed and shook my head. "No, I'm going to hang on to it. It is very
dangerous, and I just don't know enough about its properties and abilities.
No living man does. The last one who did was the Mad Mage of Farise, and
he's dead. Before that he was mad, and likely not terribly helpful."
"But the Tree Folk know?" he asked, intrigued that the childhood
legends of the little people he'd heard might not only exist, but be talented
at his new profession.
"The Tree Folk use it frequently, it is said. Their spellcraft – it's far
more subtle and elegant than ours. No human mage has ever successfully
found proficiency at it, let alone mastered it, though many have tried. I'm
hoping that perhaps – if we ask nicely enough – they will consent to teach
us how to use the stone. It would be invaluable in our defense against future
raids. Not to mention educational in its own right." I didn't mention
'powerful enough to rouse the military strength of three Duchies against it',
but I didn't want to complicate the boy's thoughts with political reality.
"I wonder what got them all stirred up like that? The goblins, I mean.
My Ma used to see them up in the high meadows, sometimes. Said she
would trade meat and leather and eggs for iron tools and sometimes even . .
. gems. They make good ironwork, she said. But they never gave us any
trouble."