a surfeit of wizards 2

 

Chapter 2

 

I took the rug of travel into town, and took a room at the Blue Demon.

The sign was even less well painted than I remembered. Given that demons are known for their mutability, the grossness of the form was not too inaccurate, but the execution of the painting was poor enough that it might just as well have been meant to be a dragon. It had too many teeth. Mind, there was the demon we knew as Pointy-teeth... but that had been at court, not far away in the provinces like this.

I drew a fake circle of summoning on the floor, set an invisible servant there holding a censor of sparkles, a magical toy which produces sparkles of light when shaken or when magic is nearby. I had borrowed it from Elizelle, having made it for her, as something to soothe and occupy her in her cot. With the invisible servant instructed to rotate slowly, moving it up and down from floor level to about six feet up, it produced a fair facsimile of a magical gate opening.  Why waste serious spells when the little inadequate could be impressed by less? I had learned a lot of showmanship from Chessina.

I called for Zelly, the chambermaid, and with largesse she was persuaded to send Verro to my room.

“I don’t mind so much him handling me with a good vail,” she said.

I doubled her tip; I did not know about the handling.

“Threaten to shave him next time he passes out drunk,” I suggested. “All over. And not to be too careful of anything that sticks out.”

She giggled.

“Thank you kindly, Towermaster, I’ll do that,” she said.

 

Verro turned up with an ingratiating look on his face.

“What might I do for the Towermaster?” he asked. He did not seem to recognise me. I suppose it had been a long time, and now I was taller than he was, and broader of shoulder. He was still fat, though. His teeth were in worse condition now, as he grinned and cringed simultaneously. I had a moment’s sudden revelation that he did not see Orgo Plumber, who had been his punching bag, but Castamir, Towermaster, mighty wizard, and Seriously Scary Person. He was eyeing my staff and the manifestation of my unseen servant playing with my foster-daughter’s toy. Incongruously, I wanted to giggle.

“Verro,” I said. “You were seen slacking my predecessor’s girth when he hired a horse from this inn. I’ve had rather more weighty things on my mind, like dealing with demons and stopping an elven war, but now I’ve turned my mind to why you murdered my former master. You will tell me the truth, all the truth, or I may decide to use the portal I have there and send you to... well, let us just say, you would not enjoy it.”

“Oh mighty wizard!  It wasn’t me, well, I mean, I was paid to do it, I never thought he would die, I was ready to laugh at him, because he did me a bad turn once, and when Lord Bertor said he wanted him delayed and injured perhaps, I did it!”

“And what do you count a bad turn that Harmon did you?” I demanded.

“He stuck my feet to the ground to stop me putting a snotty orphan in his place!” he yammered.

“No, actually, he didn’t,” I said. “The snotty orphan found he had magical powers, and Harmon released you and took him as his apprentice. Where I became more powerful than you can possibly imagine.” I stood to tower over him. It’s amazing what good food in the growing years of the teens do for a lad.

He soiled himself both ways.

“Oh, by all the gods! You have come to take revenge! Please don’t hurt me, I swear on Frottorand, Frottillina, Ogroval, Agapa and all the other gods never to hurt any more people smaller than me!”

“That rather suggests you have been hurting people in the meantime,” I said. “Why should I forgive you?”

He sobbed and knelt, and whinneyed like one of the horses he cared for.

“You are revolting,” I said. “I really can’t be bothered with you. So long as you tell me all about this Bertor who hired you to delay Harmon.”

“He wanted to propose to Lady Sheyla before Harmon did, because he knew he had no chance as a rival to the Towermaster,” sobbed Verro. “And he gave me a bonus because Harmon died!  And he married Lady Sheyla, and they went to the capital to visit her cousin, Lady Renilla, Duchess of Osierleet. But they came home, and she’s aged beyond all recognition, and Bertor has taken to drink. That’s all I know.”

“It’s enough,” I said. “I lay a geas on you, by stone and stream, by sun and moon, by tree and grass to place into the poor box of the Sisters of Frottellina the sum of the bonus.”

No, of course the geas had no power; I wasn’t going to waste a rather powerful spell on someone whose terror and conscience would do the same thing, because his fear was enough to give him stomach problems if he delayed too long. Harmon had often spoken of using the magic of human credulity and Chessina, bless her, had actually explained this to me, and that it was not charlatanism, but pure psychology, and using my will against that of others.

I never argue with my wife.

“If you start bullying again, I’ll know,” I said. “You may go.”

He staggered out as well as unpleasantly filled trousers permitted him. I cast a few air freshening spells. His diet was not of the best, and it was detectable.

And then I swore several blistering oaths.

Sheyla, widowed many times, preternaturally beautiful, and cousin of a woman who had summoned a demon. And Sheyla had also lost her looks.

One had to assume that it was she who had introduced Renilla to demonology, and with the same patron, the demon we knew as Pointy-teeth.

I was too close to this.

I clenched my fists, and my jaw, and fought with myself not to let my rage out over this senseless killing of my master, who had no interest in this blasted woman!  I wanted to blast Bertor into a million little pieces, and I was having to clamp down because the inn was beginning to shake. Verro... I had dismissed him before I obliterated him. He was a brainless thug. He had not thought things through. Bertor... no, I would not think of Bertor, while there were breakable things near me like the town of Stonebridge, or my beloved foster-daughter’s favourite toy.

I would write a report to Dragovar and let him deal with what to do about Bertor, and Harmon’s murder; and what to do about Sheyla.

He is the Royal Wizard, after all. They pay him for these headaches.

 

I dismissed the invisible servant, and took my carpet home, where Chessina, who could read my moods very well, promptly grew horns and a tail and let me chase her to bed where she could enjoy manipulating me into being what she called masterful.

I felt a lot better after she had loved me into submission.

Doubtless after my report had been read, we would get a summons to the city.

Oh, well, a quiet life is not for the likes of wizards.

As Dragovar is my best friend, I was seriously considering opening a gate to Adalsburg, the capital of the country of Ezrustry, so that I did not have to waste hours flying by my rug of travel.

I sent a second letter, asking Dragovar to purchase a house for me, modest and unassuming, and let me have the precise co-ordinates of a convenient room within it.

He would know what I intended. And I could ward the convenient room so that any incidental burglar did not even realise the room of the gate was there.

And I wanted to get back to examining the items Tancryfwys had thrust upon me which had been taken from Sekhemef.

He had a torc of disguises which was a fine gold torc which was not obvious, of ancient design from the wild folk of the west, though enchanted, I thought, by Sekhemef himself, or at least, the spell design seemed to me to be Agarakian in nature. It permitted limited height, build, and skin colour changes, eye and hair colour, and shape of ears. I tried it out and it even permitted a greenish cast to be a goblin. On a whim, I willed it to give me horns and a tail.

It complied. Well, that might come in handy.

There was a ring of confusion; it worked a bit like a will-weakening potion, and basically, when willed to work left those in its sphere of influence in a receptive state of not being quite sure what was going on, and open to persuasion. It did not work on those of strong will or with magical protection, hence his need for the will-weakening potions as well. 

The third item was definitely demonic; and I needed Chessina to look at it. She frowned.

“I think it’s some kind of scrying or communication device,” she said. “Perhaps for reporting to Fishface? Shall I go and throw it in devilfish pool, so all he gets is bubbles?”

“No, put it in a lead box,” I said. “In case we want to taunt him.”

“I’ll start thinking up insults,” said Chessina.

 

I was unaware of the near quarrel between Dragovar and his wife, Tasayne, with regards to this, what I considered, simple request. Dragovar was enthusiastically planning the purchase of the town house of Duke Ogier of the Western Marches, who could find no joy rattling around the mansion which felt so empty without his dead wife and son in it.  He had apartments in the Royal Palace in any case, since his daughter, Froselle, was married to Crown Prince Vellatral, and the lonely old man took comfort in his grandchildren. Tasayne laid down law to her lord and master, and pointed out that I would hate a mansion, could not keep it up, and would feel very uncomfortable.  I blushed when I found out that she had guessed my thoughts of a small house with a room upstairs under the roof and downstairs one room and a lean-to, with plans to make anyone think it had but one floor.

In the end, she wrote to me for Dragovar who was still, I surmise, sulking gently over not being allowed to do something he considered nice for his friend.

 

Dear Castamir,

Having compromised between what I suspect you were thinking, and Dragovar’s grandiose ideas, you are the possessor of an old merchant’s dwelling on the riverfront with a cellar, and a small quay.  Wizards are, after all, cautious [!!!!] and having more than one way in and out seemed reasonable. It is detached messuage, which is to say, it has a small garden front and back, with a stone wall around, has three downstairs rooms plus wash-house, outhouse and what I think may have been a dairy; there is a nice herb garden. There are four smaller upstairs rooms, and one has a walk-in cupboard over the stairs which will do very nicely for a gate. There is a front and back door, a side gate as well as a gate to the quay, and a front gate, and a cellar with a passage to what used to be the merchant’s ware-house but now has a tumbledown shack covering the exit to the passage. I hope this is suitable for your purpose.

Tasayne.

 

To cut a longish story to its essentials, Chessina and I flew on our rug of travel to the capital, were suitably effusive over Dragovar’s generosity, and hugged Tasayne for her cleverness. It was bigger than I would have chosen, but it would be nice to have a place of our own in the city, with a ritual room and somewhere to brew potions.  And of course some duplicate books from the Tower library. It was similar in many ways to Agravar’s house in Braidfleet, which he had set up very nicely – for a demonologist – as a working place for a sorcerer.

I was much inclined to copy his layout, with the gate opening from the library. If the ritual room and apothecarium were in two of the other upstairs rooms, we might sleep in the fourth, and no visitors had any excuse to go upstairs.

“Are you sure it’s big enough?” asked Dragovar, almost petulantly.

“Quite big enough, thank you,” I said. “I love the extra ways in and out as well. I might just add a tunnel off the main one to the dock, with a grille of course, which I can unlock with a rune, and a small skiff. You can never have too many ways of escape.”

I did not mention my thoughts of a balcony off which to fly, now that I had learned how to do so, or, indeed, to land on, and then hasten through the gate if ever pursued.

Wizards take caution to new levels. And though there was no reason I should be pursued through the city… well, we were still dealing with mopping up demonologists and their abyssal friends. Not to mention that I had yet to meet other eminent wizards, and knowing what Harmon had told me of eminent wizards, this was likely to cause a lot of childishness over my power, when they had studied many more years than I had.

The tower helped, but being prodded by gods and goddesses, and needing a sharp learning curve to survive demons and diplomacy also added to my overall development. I fully anticipated that a wider than hitherto-realised outbreak of demonising would have Dragovar involving the Royal Academy of Wizardry, as well as specialists from a number of Schools of Magic.

The language is misleading here.

By ‘Schools of Magic’ I meant spheres of magic; if you will, specialists in single aspects of Arcana. I had tried to explain this to Chessina, who wanted to know why they called the aspects ‘schools’ not ‘aspects.’

I had no explanation.

“I expect it’s because ‘professor’ is a term of respect, and they want the association with academe,” Chessina answered her own question. “Stuffy old men who have lost the chance of enjoying life and can’t even get a good shag because they’ve used it so little they can’t make it work any more, so they have nothing but a reputation for Mighty Wisdom, and you can hear the capitals as they speak of it. You and Dragovar have more sense than to get sidetracked on poking deeper than anyone ever needs into a single aspect of magic, and, oh, look! Dragovar has Tasayne, and you have me. And you have healthier minds for healthy bodies and plenty of good shagging.”

I’m not sure it constituted a scientific explanation, but as the general perception of a wizard is that of an old man with an unkempt hairstyle and beard, and the dress sense of a colour-blind troll on magic mushrooms, there has to be something in it.

And don’t talk to me about needing Chessina to work on my dress sense. I had nobody to dress for before she came along, and ‘comfortable’ was about my most pressing requirement. It still is, but since I started adopting my own adaptation of Dwarvern garb, I have  been shown more respect. I love the brocades they weave, and the gowns with sleeves you can slip your arms into if you wish, or leave hanging loose out of the way behind the shoulder. And their sashes can be folded to hold a number of useful things which are not immediately noticeable.  Wizards are cautious.

In the extreme. As you should be aware by now; do keep up.

 

And I hated the tight robes of court wear.

I beamed at Dragovar.

“And now we have somewhere to stay, I am at your disposal,” I said.

 

 

 

A surfeit of wizards 1

 

Chapter 1

 

The visitor was one of those ferrety little rats of men I usually avoid; but he had used the, if you will pardon the phrase, ‘magic words’ of ‘It’s about your former master, Harmon.’

“What about Harmon?” I asked, so surprised the fellow actually followed me into the Tower, something few peasants will do, that I briefly forgot to ask his name. He looked like a townsman, wearing brighter colours than actual peasants, but all commons do usually fear the Tower. 

He looked about, his eyes bright, knowing, and observant. He appreciated the tankard of ale I sent for – somehow I did not think tea was his tipple – and took being presented with it by an unseen servant with remarkable aplomb. I was probably going to have to ask him his name at some point. He looked like a ferret.

Actually, I thought I knew it.

“I’ve seen you before,” I said. “You’re Orgey Spint.”

He actually looked gratified.

“You know my name!” he said.

I wouldn’t have done if I hadn’t been in the Blue Demon a few times with Harmon, where the fellow had it shouted at him all the time.

He might be gratified, but he hardened his face as he looked around.

“You do pretty well for yourself, Towermaster,” he said. “And news of your fame has spread since the unfortunate demise of Harmon. You’re better at selling yourself, getting put in so many ballads and chap books.”

“I am?” I asked, disconcerted.

“Are you telling me you don’t know?” he asked, derisively.

“I didn’t know,” I said. “I don’t generally purchase chap books or ballad sheets.” To be honest, I had better things to do; I was trying to finish enjoying my honeymoon with my dear wife, Chessina, so rudely interrupted by having to sort out those little elven problems we had barely returned from. In addition to teaching our new apprentice Harmana.

“And you didn’t pay to be featured, either?” he sneered.

“No,” I said, starting to get irritated. “Did you actually have anything to tell me about Harmon or am I going to defenestrate you?”

“That would be a very bad idea,” he said. “If I die, or disappear, certain knowledge will be released. But I’d rather you paid for the knowledge.”

“What knowledge?” I asked, in as controlled a way as I could, eyeing up his weaselly little throat as if I wanted to fasten my hands about it

I did, of course, but I do have a lot of self-control. People who survive time with the likes of demons or elves learn to keep themselves in check.

“I know how he came to be thrown from his horse,” said Spint.

“Well, why the hell didn’t you come forward before? And if, as I surmise, you consider the circumstances suspicious,” I said.

He looked really surprised.

“Are you telling me you didn’t pay for someone to kill him?” he asked.

I did grab him by the throat at that point. And let him go, immediately.

“No,” I said, with some effort, “I did not pay for someone to kill him. I loved him like a father, and if anyone killed him, I want to know, so that I can avenge him.”

“Frottorand’s bollocks!” he swore. The overgod of the various minor deities of the land was the reason so many men were named ‘Frottor’ to honour him, it being disrespectful to use his whole name, of course. He went on, “Will you swear it, on your magic?”

I did not really see why I should, for my ferret-faced visitor, but if someone had harmed my master, I wanted to know. I had a revelation. He was sick of being, at the beck and call of everyone, and wanted a lump sum to escape.

“I swear on my love of Arcana and on my magic that I had no part in the death of my former master, Harmon,” I said.

My staff’s orb lit up enthusiastically.

“Well, now!” said Spint, licking his lips. “And what will you give for the information?”

“At the moment, I’m inclined to offer you your hide, intact, and without blemish or extra embellishment,” I said.

“There’s no need to get nasty,” he said.

“Oh?” I said.

“Look, you’re famous enough that rich idiots fall over themselves to hire you,” he said.

“Yes, and I tell most of them to go fish up a tree,” I said. “I have no interest in fame, or wealth. And I despise most noblemen. I sell potions to those who need them, at cost, plus a little for my time, save when I waive my fee entirely.”

“You seriously need a marketing manager.”

“I seriously do not. You can tell me, and I owe you a favour; or you can withhold your information and I owe you an ill turn. You are aware of the fates of Lord Pennover and his mother?”

He shuddered.

“By the gods!” he cried. “I’ve not insulted you the way the ass Pennover did, to get turned into an ass for real, nor sent a demon after you as it’s said Lady Renilla did, to join her son as a ruddy beast of burden!”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Accusing me of murdering Harmon is pretty insulting. And I’m beginning to think you know nothing; for I used converse with the deceased to talk to Harmon, and he had no thought that he had been murdered.”

“Well, I do, so there,” he said. “I work in The Blue Demon Inn, in Stonebridge.” It was the nearest town, in fact, my birthplace, and imaginatively enough, there was a stone bridge over the river there. “Harmon hired a horse there.”

“Yes, I’ve never understood why he would do that, when he could have used a rug of travelling,” I said.

“He said he wanted to call on one Lord Dreflain, who is nervous of magic,” said the ferret. “So he hired a horse. He arrived on his carpet, and left it hovering in the air, rolled up. It was weird.”

“An unseen servant,” I said.

“Yeah, and it took the carpet away when he expired,” said Spint.

“If your information is good, when you finally get there,” I said, “How would you feel about being on a retainer for me... I’ll match your pay in the inn... to bring me any information you think might be interesting about people moving through the town, local notables and so on, and I’ll pay extra for how useful I find what you bring me?”

He brightened.

“I’m your man,” he said. “Getting away isn’t always easy.”

Not perhaps a very reliable man, but I do make a reasonably good living when I do do favours for nobles, and Chessina has been investing in various business ventures, about which I did not make too many close enquiries, and it really was about time to have a network of informants.  It adds to the air of omniscience which helps a wizard’s reputation, teamed with my favourite enigmatic smile.

“Do you write?” I asked.

He looked offended.

“Of course,” he answered.

“Good; I’ll provide you with enchanted parchment, which will write a duplicate for me as you write, with a rune to erase it when the page is full,” I said.

The duplicate I would copy out legibly as I doubted his writing was especially fluent.

“By the gods, magic is wonderful,” he said, awed. 

It’s a spell, cast on two sheets of parchment at once, using Quantamius’s Tangling, a useful spell making two things do the same thing at the same time, however far apart.

“I love magic,” I said, sincerely.

“Right. Well, I ain’t surprised Harmon took you as an apprentice, you was a clever little boy,” he said. “That’s why I thought it was you as done him in; it being Verro Horseman who I saw tinkering with his saddle, he was Verro Penson when you were a nipper. You played with him.”

“No, he made me play with him; he was a bully, like his father,” I said. Oh. That explained one reason I had taken an immediate dislike to Lord Pennover; Verro and Pen are some of the names derived from that fairly common name.  He put me in mind of my youthful tormentor, Verro.  I went on, “You think he put a burr under his saddle or something?”

“There was no burr,” said Orgey. I must be starting to like him; I was think of him by his first name. It was one of the hypocoristics of Ogier; I was named one of the other versions, Orgo. “I did check, on account of being suspicious. But the saddle was loose. Now, there’s some horses will puff up, just so the girth is put on loose, to throw the unwary; and you have to be aware of them. But Old Whitey wasn’t like that. And an experienced horseman would not be caught, but I don’t think Harmon rode much?”

“No, he wasn’t much for riding,” I said.  “Did anyone else but Verro approach the horse?”

“No, he was the ostler handling it,” said Orgey. “But he’s open to bribes, is Verro.”

“Well, I imagine it might have been a petty revenge on his own account, I suppose,” I said, reluctantly. “Harmon found me when I manifested magic for the first time, when I stuck Verro’s feet to the cobbles, and Harmon was in Stonebridge, and unstuck him, and gave him a lecture on bullying children smaller than him. If Verro thought that Harmon had glued his feet down, not me, I can see why he would be happy to drop him on the ground ignominiously. That he struck his head and died not being a circumstance Verro would have forseen, being rather limited. Which is like saying that the river is rather damp,” I added, viciously.

Orgey sniggered.

“He’s as thick as a well-dried turd,” he said.

“That, too,” I agreed. “Well, I shall look through Harmon’s diary, and see what he wanted to see Lord Dreflain about, which might hold a clue. I suppose you’d better stay to supper now you’re here. Are you afraid to sleep in the tower?”

“Naow, I ain’t one of them fools what think magic is dangerous. I mean, magic is dangerous, but so are horses if you don’t respect them, or a mill if you’re a miller, and I know if you tell me ‘don’t go here’ I’d be an idiot, or more likely dead, to not listen.”

I found his attitude rather refreshing. Magic is a tool, a dangerous tool to the unwary, but if respected, will not kill.

“I think you’d better stay in the room I give you to sleep in, and I’ll fetch you for breakfast,” I said. “We rise early, you need not fear getting back to the inn. Did you bring a horse?”

“Mule,” said Orgey. “I’ll go see to it. And, er, thanks for the hospitality. Plenty wouldn’t even have offered me ale. I don’t give loyalty lightly, but you got it.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I actually believed him. Simple acts of courtesy can have long reaching effects.

 

Naturally I had to explain Orgey to Chessina when she came in from playing with our ward, Elizelle. Chessina had a serene look to her; surrogate motherhood suited her. Harmana, our apprentice, was with her.

“Orgey believes Harmon was murdered, dear,” I said. “He’s just become my employee, as an informant.”

“Very wise,” said Chessina. “A great man can never have too many informants. I keep telling you so.”

“And I listened,” I said.

Orgey was mesmerised by Chessina, who had fortunately not decided to surprise me with the appearance of her horns and tail.

“Your lady wife is the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said, awed.

I preened.

So did Chessina. No woman minds being admired.

“Are we going to avenge your master, Master?” asked Harmana.

“That’s the idea,” I said. “But we need to find out some background information before we can act.”

I was not sorry to send Orgey on his way the next morning, as I had work to do, and did not want him hanging about.

I also did not want him corrupting Harmana. Chessina was capable enough of that, and the child was now happily grubby when she was not at lessons, from climbing trees, rolling down slopes, messing about in streams and the other sorts of fun she had been denied as a royal princess, and a lot more wholesome fun than if she had listened wide-eyed to the sort of gossip Orgey had subjected us to over our two meals with him. At least he did not see magic everywhere as many commons do, and commented that the sickness of Mayor Renil Purseclose’s hogs was more likely to be his pinchpenny attitude over how often their straw was changed than any kind of sending by Widow Aria Tailor, however much she called the mayor down. The tale of the hogs running mad was amusing though, especially as they disrupted the mayor’s parade.

“Sounds like poisoning in something they ate,” Chessina had commented. “Didn’t Wisewoman Matille have to tell off Moro of the hill for letting his hogs eat cherry leaves gathered with hay?”

Orgey had laughed.

“I’ll tell the town that one, if I may,” he said.

“Do,” said Chessina. “We wizards get blamed for enough; might as well set the record straight as to where the blame lies.”

 

oOoOo

 

When Orgey had left, with his charmed piece of parchment, I turned my mind to reading Harmon’s diary.

It was essentially the last entry.

I suppose I shall have to do something about Lady Sheyla’s request. I can’t believe that idiot Dreflain seriously thinks that Sheyla is putting spells on him. He flatters himself that the merry widow would consider him a suitable fifth husband. Now if he had been her husband and had accused her of trying to poison him, that would not surprise me, but using some kind of mind-control spell to make him desire her? The fool doubtless managed to get the hots for her on his own, though convincing him of that will be difficult. I may have to come up with some spurious but comforting ritual to assure him that he is protected from magical wiles, and point out that if he still desires her, presumably the only wiles are those of a beautiful and accomplished woman which is the oldest magic of all, and the province of the Goddess Agapa. Not that love and lust are the same thing, but there are connexions. I am more concerned about why Sheyla has asked me to convince Dreflain that she is not involved in any magic directed at him.  She was adamant that I call on her when I had seen him.

I do not wish to be too presumptuous, but I do wonder whether this is an excuse on Sheyla’s part to involve me in her affairs, I am not ill-looking, and to marry the Towermaster would be a social feather in her cap, having been turned down by Dragovar. She will be disappointed. I have no desire to ally myself with a socially-climbing noblewoman with the proclivities of a street-whore. I wish Lords Bertor and Marel luck of her, the fools. At least Dreflain has the sense to want to break away.

 

I had heard my master mention Sheyla. He was inclined to say that he would have said that her morals were as loose as the waist-string of a whore’s drawers, save that he suspected they had gone so far past that as to be pooling around her feet for the lack of any string at all.

Should I go and see Dreflain? No, he was unlikely to be likely to have had anything against Harmon, and probably wasn’t even expecting him.

I needed to speak to Verro. And intimidate him.

He had been terrified by me glueing him to the ground. A show of power should have him babbling all he knew.