Chapter V
Of Courts and Kings
The Royal Court at Thara had always been a mire of intrigue. The corruption within the council of advisors as well as the council of judges was legendary, the degree of plotting and scheming that went on proverbial. “False as a grand vizier” was used since time beyond reckoning to describe anyone with less than honest intentions and a bit more ambition than was good for him. An “councilor’s friendship” was a relation between two people who regarded each other cordially, but would not hesitate to stab each other in the back for money or power. Finally, “resigning from the council” had become a polite euphemism for falling victim to an assassin, or dying in somewhat unclear circumstances.
Yet, the amount of intrigue that actually occurred was not constant. Under some kings, it would lessen to an almost normal level, during the reign of others, it became worth one’s life to get on the wrong side of the Court politics. This distinction was unnoticeable to the people, who were oblivious to this corruption for the most part, save for news the sudden death of prominent members of the council, and uncommon decisions of the board of judges: During the reign of the last king, a murderer had been known for guilty beyond any doubt, the evidence undeniable, and the decision ought to have been clear. He was let go without so much as a fuss; the evidence ignored and then covered up. The criminal was a brother-in-law to the vizier, it was rumored later.
Only those foolish enough to meddle in the affairs of the Royal Court (for a bit of pay, or a share in the power, some people will risk anything), were familiar with the depth of this mire, and only the historians who recorded all the agreements, meetings and decisions of the council knew that the more incompetent the King, the more corrupt the Council. Competence had never been a strong virtue in the crown of Thara in the last seven hundred years.
But the current king was a fool. That should be enough said of the situation.
Even worse, the grand vizier was as proverbially false as they came. Yeshnol, his name was. Famed for his mellifluous voice, meaning literally a voice that sounded like trickling honey. And he was about as sticky, but more poisonous.
* * *
The situation at the Court right now was especially precarious with the Lendranian Rebellion in full sway: A few lords and dukes in the southern regions of the kingdom – just north of the Telladar mountains – had stirred up unrest among their populace. The result was a guerilla uprising (“for liberty!”, the people proclaimed) that was backed by the aristocrat rulers’ armies, who saw in it mainly a way to gain independence from the capital of Thara. Quite a clever way, actually, considering that the main merchant routes between north and south ran through their country – besides the trade that was conducted by sea, along the eastern coastline. The traders were fuming, as they had to pay hefty tariffs for passage and protection. The sailors’ association of free trade was collectively dancing with glee, being able to increase their share over the outmaneuvered land traders – and were not disinclined to pass the populist partisans or the rebellious nobles a few shipments of arms while the King’s men weren’t looking... all in the favor of neutrality, of course.
Thus, the self-declared Republic of Central Atharellia was foundering in its newly-founded status, leading battle after battle with the crown troops, and a few battles in between when the populists got bored. It was an occurrence that could hardly be named unusual in the history of the land, and looking at King Taral’s general reigning policies – even though he was by now almost ignored by his advisors, who cherished him like a young, very volatile child – it was certainly not unjustified.
And the Royal Court, which had had hardly any trouble with its politics – nay, not even a kink of discomfort in all that incompetent reign – was equally justified to be outraged. The rebel dukes were depicted alternately as heroes, forsaking the right of their high birth to do “what their heart told them was right to do” in this class struggle (and doing little to discourage that thought in the populists), and then as traitors to King and Crown, who backstabbed their sovereign and were “in league with these peasant uprisings” to advance their own agenda.
It was all a matter of viewpoint.
Not so, however, to Relle Vidras. She did not meddle in the politics of the court (she wanted to stay alive), and thus the only exchange she had with the council were military commands, and reports. Relle was the general of the crown troops, leading the war against the rebels who flocked to Countess Lendra’s banner.
* * *
Jeyrnan Vidras liked to call himself a sorcerer. In truth, he was hardly a wizard. Most would simply have called him a mage. According to the concise classification system of Carenath, he was a Danen, a mage in the sixth circle. A mage of the Third, to be precise, which is why he would have been called a pyromancer by most of his kind.
But the most fitting description was a mercenary.
There was hardly another worthwhile profession to go into, as a fire mage, besides of course teaching. As a Danen, Jeyrnan was allowed to teach at any wizarding school in the continent. But he had long decided that the lecturer’s life was not for him – he usually had great trouble explaining the theory of magic; it just wasn’t every mage’s destiny to teach others their knowledge, and that definitely went for Jeyrnan.
There would also have been the possibility of entering the summoning school, which was halfway into the domain of the Fire, and halfway into Wind, or the daemonology school, which was shared between the Third and the Sixth, the mages of the discord. Jeyrnan had, of course, tried both, found the former little to his taste, the latter still less, and finally accepted the inevitable by offering his services for hire as a soldier, or, alternatively, an escort for one of the many trade caravans travelling the land these days. They were good customers, they needed the protection, and they had lots of money at their disposal.
Indeed, in these days, there were only three major groups who had employment for mercenaries: The royal army, the rebels and the merchants.
The rebels were out of the question. For one thing, King Taral had declared by Royal Decree that if any citizen of the Atharellian kingdom were caught fighting in their service, for financial gain or not, his life would be forfeit for treason. For the other, the rebels were gradually losing their financial strength. They were worse off than they were months, even a year ago. The low tariffs they raised from the traders worked to their disadvantage, Jeyrnan knew, and threatened to put a speedy stop to the so far successful revolt. So the rebels were certainly not the sort of people an unemployed mercenary should currently seek out.
It was the King’s army then, or the merchant caravans. The caravans sounded more attractive by a margin. They had no alternative to mercenaries, which were currently in demand. As long as they cooperated with the rebel’s reasonably low toll requests, and did not happen to chance upon any of the more ruthless bandits that were abroad these days, there was the odd chance he would not even see any combat. That option did not exist in the army, where every man (or woman) who could wield steel, shoot a bow or cast a spell went right out to the battlefield. The army also did not pay as well, since they relied on the regular troops to back them up when there was a shortage of mercenaries.
In Jeyrnan’s case, however, the army was a slightly better option. The General in charge of leading the counter rebellion troops was his sister, Relle. She was an honorable leader, but even she would not be above giving her brother a preference post. What was the fun in relations if you couldn’t have a little nepotism now and then?
* * *
“Yeah, so I was sort of wondering if you have any vacancy currently, some spot to put your good for nothing brother in.”
Relle could only stare. Jeyrnan, asking her for a job? And throwing in the unmistakable hint that he was hoping for a little favor in this appointment? Unbelievable. It just goes to show, being a mercenary is bad for bone, brain and morals. If this is what comes from it... What does he think this is, a family business?
Nonetheless, she took care to let her annoyance not show on her face.
“I am sure I could find something for you. The second infantry battalion is a little short on both archers and mages right now; unless you have something against fighting in a terrain that is alternately marshy, swampy and ridden with stinging gadflies, it should be just the right thing. Oh yes, and it’s the same thing I would tell anyone else. You seem not to be able to come to terms with the fact that this is the military, right? This is where from the moment you sign the contract, you’re property, and follow orders. I decide where to put you, and believe me, family relations are of quite a low priority when I make that decision.” Ha. Look at his face.
Jeyrnan indeed looked quite a little downcast.
“Hello, Jeyrnan! I was teasing you just now!” Incredible, how hard it was to hold back laughter even after so many years as a commander. “Of course you’re getting this position; I wouldn’t put my brother in a suicide squad would I? But,” and her face turned serious again, “you will tell absolutely no one about this. If I even get the whiff of a hint of my men talking about nepotism, I’ll make sure you get latrine duty for the rest of your contract just to show everyone that I’m not treating you unfairly well.”
“Not a word, Sir.” He saluted sharply, if a bit mockingly. In a grand show of egalitarianism, the army had long established the unwritten rule that superior officers, male and female alike, were to be addressed with Sir, to avoid any confusion. It made for a great amount jokes, not a small number of them bawdy, that had all been told at one time or another by most soldiers in the royal army.
“Come back tomorrow, and I’ll have the contract and your standard equipment right ready. I must say that at the moment, I’m rather pressed for time.” She said the last bit in a worried tone that made Jeyrnan perk up. Relle was not one to worry usually, or at least not one to show it. As a general, you could not afford to show uncertainty or anything but confidence to your soldiers; but even before she had entered the army, Relle had been sufficiently confident for three.
“Is there any trouble currently?” He was always glad to help, especially after the deal they had just worked out.
“Nothing that would concern you”, she snapped. “You can go now.”
And as he was just turning to leave, Relle again raised her head from the paperwork she was already buried in, and said, in an odd tone, a sentence that would stick in Jeyrnan’s mind for the rest of the day, “Oh, and do mention to your colleagues that they ought to remind themselves whose power they owe loyalty to.
“Huh?” He managed to put on a confused face.
“The ought to remind themselves that loyalty to the King exceeds loyalty to any secret order they may be a member of.”
Oh dear.
* * *
And that was why Jeyrnan was not in the least surprised when he received the letter.
A little explanation might be all right at this point. Magic has its own perks. One of them is that – in a world where otherwise the most efficient method would be a to make a horrific mess with a sharp metal tool – you have at your disposal a very quick and clean way of making short work of somebody you happen to not like. But another advantage, equally important (if not more so), is efficient communication. Horsedrawn carriages are horsedrawn carriages, and no matter how many horses you put in fornt of it, the delay between any letter being sent and received are measured in weeks, not days. Mages have their ways of circumventing this delay: For one thing, the Mind mages of the First tower had dutifully set up individual transmitters for the use of each of the towers, and all the archmagi were therefore able to contact their most trusted underlings instantaneously by the power of thought. But this process took effort on the part of the archmagus, a varying amount of preparation time, and a lot of training on the part of the mage contacted; extra-curricular training beside their normal area of study. Not everyone could be a Thaliomancer. Plus, it was only possible to contact one person at a time. And therefore, wizards still sent a great amount of letters.
But when wizards send letters, they don’t put them on a horse-drawn carriage. Instead, they put the parchment in a nifty little device, which reads it, transmits its contents through the chyaralia, the astral planes, to arrive at a multitude of similar (but slightly smaller) devices, which unscramble the magical signal, translate it back into letters, and transfer the contents onto a blank sheet of parchment; a number of which were inserted into the receiving device beforehand. Almost every member of the Order who dwelled outside the Academy of Carenath owned such a machine, and whenever there was an important message or order to be swiftly sent from the tower to the farthest corner of the realm, this was the way that was commonly used. The wizards who had invented it called it faxeran, for no obvious reason.
To get back to the story, when Jeyrnan returned home, he found a sheet of parchment lying in front of his faxeran. The device was still radiating warmth and a slight arcane aura, indicating the recent occurence of a magical process. He was not surprised, to say the least. Relle had sounded rather nervous at the end, and her remark about loyalty struck a hidden nerve, giving rise to uncomfortable thoughts.
Not because she was right. Rather because she was wrong.
The oath of the magi was quite clear on this point. “Place no worldly authority above that of the Elders, no personal desire above the orders of the archmagi.” That had rarely, very rarely indeed, given rise to minor interest conflicts over the last seven hundred years. When the King himself gave one order, and the Elders another, the Elders’ order was the one to be followed by the mage. And it was the one they followed, except in rare cases, which were treated with the same disciplinary action as any other insubordination. Occasionally a charge of treason against the offending mage. But, as mentioned, it hadn’t happened for a frightful long time.
But when it did, there would be trouble.
And it was happening now. Jeyrnan read over the parchment and realized immediately that it was not a mere order. It was a decree of the High Council of Elders, a decision that could only be passed by a four fifth majority of the council, during a specially declared meeting of the entire council of Elders and Archmagi. Its word was law, its validity and effect immediate, and its violation treason against the Order and the Academy.
And thus it was damn good Jeyrnan had got it exactly today, rather than a day later. It read,
"Honored mages, members of the Academy of Carenath and the Order of Magi. In the name of His High Radiance the Archdeacon of Carenath, Carhdon Caronis of the Fifth Tower, it is my duty to declare this order.
By Decree of the Council of Elders and Archmagi, seated together under the presiding of His Radiance Derlen Lightweaver, the Archmagus of the Seventh, it is declared the following.
Namely, that, to preserve Balance and Neutrality, the Order forbids any of its members from intervening in any way into the conflict that has arisen between the forces of His Majesty King Taral IV., King of Atharellia, and Her Highness the former Countess Lendra, leader of the rebellious group styling themselves the Lendranian Populists, on either side of the conflict. Furthermore, it expressly forbids all of its members from seeking or entering employment or service that would likely lead them to be ordered to such action, and commands all of its members currently in such employment or service to refuse any orders ordering it to such, in the name of the Oath.
Any knowing violation of this command shall hereby be declared Violation of the Oath of the Magi, High Treason against the Order and the Academy, and Grounds for Capital Punishment at the discretion of the Justice of the Magi.
The Decree shall be active and valid for all members, upon the reception of this letter or otherwise reception of knowledge of its existence, but at the latest a period of seven days hence.
Thus has decided the Council of Elders, on the Fifty Eighth of Bermelon, in the Year Nine Hundred and Ninety Six of this the Third Age of our world, The Magic Citadel of Carenath, Northern Atharellia. The Balance be Kept Eternally, and Light shield us all.
Signed in the name of his High Radiance the Archdeacon, Tarla Inares, Director of Secular Affairs.
Tarla Inares
Jeyrnan took a short moment to think about this. It meant, of course, that he would not be taking up his beckoning position in the military, nor would he be joining the rebels any time soon – doubly a traitor, once against the King and once the Order, was more he could have handled. Back to riding the caravans now. Oh, but Holy Canae, did he hate merchants. Most merchants anyway. Those fat, pig-eyed bastards, believing themselves to be the lords of the world by rights of their wealth, arrogant pricks. Jeyrnan supposed that any mage who had lived in the social structure of the Order for some time became inclined toward communism a little. Or socialism at least.
And what the heck was he to do otherwise? Nothing at all. So he resolved to return to notify his sister in the same evening. It was always better to do so in good time, before she had drawn up all the paperwork. She might not appreciate having spent all that time for nothing.
However, when he arrived at the post where he had been speaking to Relle a mere half a day ago, it was deserted.
* * *
Relle had been up late anyway. The paperwork was finished, Jeyrnan’s contract drafted, the day’s order to her own contingent completed and sent off. If she was lucky, she would soon get to be in the field again, and actually do the work she had meant to when she signed up, rather than sitting at this desk back in the capital of Thara. To relieve a little boredom, she was pondering some strategic puzzle or other. It had not been her battle, rather the one Commodore Tracht would have to command in a fortnight’s time, but she always appreciated a chance at practicing her skills. It was certainly a prize battle for any tactician, not the least because it could be seen coming from that far off, and could therefore be planned accordingly.
In this case, an ambush. An ambush to be busted rather than an ambush to be laid, that was what made it so interesting. A reinforcement contingent to be inserted into a key place in the battlefield very quickly, and this mountain path was by far the shortest, easiest way. Both sides knew that. The rebels would have to be fools not to lay an ambush there; after all, they had already captured intelligence of the reinforcement battallion and its time of arrival. Tracht had made sure of that, via the counter-espionage service.
Which, of course, meant that the main question concerned not the battle itself, but the time of passage. There was enough time to change it in whatever way viable. The troops were ready to march, they could make it a week early, or two weeks late. Would the rebels have moved their troops there when they arrived a week earlier than expected? Would they be preparing their ambush if they came half a week earlier? There was no better time to smash a trap than while it was being built.
Would the rebels be laxing their guard after a week of waiting for the reinforcing Royal Troops to pass? Would they be dismantling their ambush after two weeks? They could not afford to wait forever, their troops were scarce and much needed elsewhere. And that, partly that, was what had enticed Tracht to order the intelligence agents to make known the planned arrival of his troops. Better an expected ambush than an unexpected one, and it was a good opportunity for gaining a tactical advantage on the rebels, who did not have as bountiful reinforcements.
Naturally, for Relle it was impossible to really foresee the tactical developments from such an uncertain offset, just as it was impossible to foresee the oppoenent’s movements in a game of chess before the first move had been made
. Tracht could not simply assume the rebels would be doing one thing, and then go on to plan the other. He would have to think every single one of the likely scenarios through. By tradition, a team of at least three strategists would take turns in playing with model soldiers on a table against each other to explore the possibilities.
Relle did not have time for that, nor did she have even a single opponent who would think up the enemy’s movements. On the other hand, she had the advantage of not needing to actually command the battle. Thus, she was perfectly comfortable with acting out both sides of the war herself, without having to be bothered that she could be forgetting a crucial possibility.
The small set of figures, traditionally made of pewter, were arrayed on her desk, above the paperwork of the day. Each tiny swordsman represented a hundred. The map of the pass, drawn to scale of less than a hundred meters to a centimeter, spread haphazardly beneath them, had neat folding lines, which became high ridges on the rocky stone, often sending several men of the pewter armies tumbling, one even slipping off the edge of the world and falling to the floor. Relle hardly noticed, and cared less, as she moved the pewter soldiers back and forth over the paper, muttering under her breath and occasionally shaking her head. She was usually known for precision, and thus to see this apparent sloppiness – even in something that amounted to entertainment more than to training – would have been a surprise to anyone. However, she hardly needed the figures anyway, her trained mind several moments ahead of what her hands were doing, and mapping the movements inside her head only barely having to rely on visual representation.
Still, her concentration was completely engrossed in the exercise. Which, partly, was why she had decided to do it at all. The definite news she had received this afternoon – after she had already been hearing rumors all day –, only moments after Taron had left, had been enough to make anyone wish to lose their head in whatever was available. Drink, some would have chosen. Tactical exercises for her; they were easier on the liver. She paused, briefly, slightly taken aback.
Taron?
What did I just think? She had meant Jeyrnan, of course, not Taron. Taron had been another mercenary, years ago. An archer, with a knack for magic and a strange liking for history. She had liked him rather a lot at the time, but he had disappeared after only six months, when his contract had expired. He had never renewed it, and Relle had not heard of him for nearly a decade. Probably dead.
What had reminded her of him now, nay, even made her confuse him with her own brother? Perhaps the way he had come into her office on that day, when the barbarians were rallying and pouring down the mountains by the hundreds and she had just seen her first real war, as a Lieutenant. Calm, almost sluggish, he had seemed; the bookish type, yet with a face that spoke of wisdom and the many things he had seen in the world. Wearing a gray tunic and light leather armor that could have been either the garb of a particularly combat-proven battlemage, or that of an archer more in favour of the hind lines in the battle, to his back had been strapped a short, stout staff apparently made of chestnut, a full, glinting quiver and a longbow that would have looked more apt in the hands of some legendary Elven hero of old than a seedy old mercenary out of work. Yes, how well she remembered those faraway eyes, their greyness matching that of his tunic, as he entered and calmly asked for the current options of employment in the army. Just like her brother Jeyrnan had done, only hours ago.
Enough of reminiscing. The official notification had been brought to her by a representative of the magi’s contingent. By decree of the Academy, all arcane forces were to be withdrawn from the field of battle, and for the time that the war was going on, any mages – apart from those involved in healing and equipping services rather than in the line of battle – were to have their contracts suspended. All mages in the army were mercenaries; they were exempt from any draft according to a financial deal that had been worked out between King Taral and the Academy of Carenath.
The developments were enough to make anyone go maniac. The Royal Troops were not unskilled, and they were great in number, but the battle mages had been a very valuable asset in this war, and losing them was a crippling disadvantage. At least the note had indicated neutral intentions, which implied that the accursed rebels would have been stripped of their arcane support as well. Having a great lack of manpower, the rebels relied mostly on state of the art magical equipment fashioned by the wizards in their service. Assuming that the order extended to this type of support as well as actual spellcasting in battle, the sides would stay more or less equal, though the more powerful royal wizards were a greater loss to the army than the freelance mages were to the Lendranians. Still,very annoying.
And especially right after she had finished the meticulous draft of the mercenary contract for her brother, who would now have to decline the position. What a waste. And then there was a knock on the door, deep and heavy.
* * *
Jeyrnan was put nearly at the brink of panic by the disappearance of his sister. After waiting at the badly built hut that served as the general’s temporary liaison office in the capital for nearly half an hour, he was satisfied at last that Relle had not merely stepped out for a short walk or for sending a letter by the courier service. He thought she might have taken the rest of the day of to see her fiancé, Folbern Inellyot. Folbern and Relle had been in love for nearly three years, but both of their offices demanded far too much time from them to spend much time together, let alone even think of marriage.
She would be wanting to take the time to meet him, certainly, on the brief opportunity and rare occasion that she returned to the capital. But Relle was not one to take time off for anything, he remembered. Too full off her sense of duty – or stuck-up, as others like Jeyrnan would say.
She might leave in the late evening, but it had hardly grown dark.
The only remaining explanation was either that she had received disturbing news causing her to leave immediately to return to where her army was stationed (two day’s rides from Thara, if one pressed the horse), or that something had happened to her.
There was no one he could ask, and her papers – which lay neatly, if a little in disarray, on the desk – gave no indication of what had happened even when Jeyrnan started rifling through them at random. A few pewter figures lay on the floor, as well as a close scale map of some sort, folded up in a slapdash way and then swept off the desk. He recognized the models as belonging to Relle’s figurine set for tactical planning, so he assumed she had either been pondering over a battle or exercising.
Whatever it had been, she must have left in great haste, because she would die before leaving her things scattered on the floor like this. He briefly considered the possibility of an attack haven taken place, examined the door, various pieces of furniture, and found no damages or other signs of a struggle. Not even blood. And knowing his sister, when Relle got into a fight, there would be blood drawn, and not merely her own.
There was no note indicating where she had gone (and it would have been uncommon for her to leave such a one anyway), and even a surreptious glance into her calendar did not show any reason for her absence.
He paused to consider. It was not unthinkable for Relle to be suddenly forced to leave, after urgent tidings from the field, and rejoin her contingent to take up the command again. But it was highly unusual, and what had happened must have been immense. Would she have taken the letter with her? Or would the courier have delivered it orally, too urgent a message to write it down first? Questions. And no answer.
But what he did see on the desk was a letter addressed to Relle that bore the seal of the Aventer Ranino Om’W Nabrosto on it. Nabrosto was the chief representative of the Order in the royal army. He was the strategic mind where the Magi were concerned, the Carenathi ambassador to the military, and also the main source of Intelligence that the Order of Carenath had in the army. A good workout, and if anyone ever suspected Nabrosto of having a double role as informant, they hardly cared about it. He was a valuable man to have on board, for his knowledge, his power and his experience. If there were three who could be said to be Relle’s right hand men, he would be one of them in any way and by any criterium. His counsel was sure to be listened to.
The news which he had explained in the letter must have been less pleasant to Relle though. He was announcing his provisional resignation from the Royal Army, being commanded by the Order to discontinue any action involved in the war between the King and the Rebels. So that at least took care of this part of the matter. There was no more need to notify his sister of the unfortunate decree.
And, as he realized when he saw the three sheafs of parchment, on which in fine intricate letters was written – in triplicate – the verbose, expansive wording of a contract for a mercenary appointed to an Auxiliary post in the Royal Army (by tradition, the status of the Magi was that of the unspecified forces in the military), Relle must have been plenty pissed when she found out. Great.
