Practical adept book 17.., p.56
Practical Adept: Book 17 of the Spellmonger Series, page 56
“Maybe if we pretend hard enough, no one will notice,” I suggested. “Look, you are not wrong, either. We have no mandate here than what we have created for ourselves. But at least someone is doing something,” I pointed out. “It might be misguided, corrupt, poorly-conceived and doomed to failure, but at least they’re – we’re trying,” I corrected.
Tirika looked at me thoughtfully. “So are you really committed to this madness, or are you merely a victim of circumstance, Ice Wizard?” she asked, suddenly amused.
“The two are not mutually exclusive. Surely the gods would not have placed me where they have unless they intended me to have some influence on the outcome of events. Or, at least, that is what I tell myself every morning. If this Congress can dredge up some pretense to establish sovereignty as a polite fiction to create a working government, it creates its own legitimacy,” I suggested. “History informs us that is how nations are born.” As if to punctuate my words, the rumble of thunder could be heard in the west. Our lovely evening was about to change.
“So you’re a student of history, are you?” Tirika asked.
“Among other things. It’s a hobby,” I conceded.
“And what does your scholarship suggest will be the fate of Farise? I’m genuinely interested.” I considered the question, as I offered her my arm. I felt a premature raindrop on my face. It was time to move back into the pavilion. Most of the other party-goers were doing likewise.
“If I had to speculate, I would say that this Congress will elect a puppet of the existing economic powers in the city, who will then struggle against the Alshari until one emerges victorious. He will rule as a strongman for a year or two, or until he is challenged by a foreign invader. If he is weak, then Farise becomes a dependency and colony. If he is strong, then Farise emerges as an independent power in a dangerous world,” I offered, as we made it to the pavilion just in time for the first drops of rain to fall. A flash of lightning flared in the west.
“That’s . . . depressingly realistic,” Tirkia admitted with a sigh. “I cannot disagree with your assessment, Mirkandar, but I strive against it. I would see Farise independent, able to chart our own fate in uncertain waters. But the boldness required for that kind of future seems to have all but died out here. That’s why that little shit Pratt is so popular,” she admitted. “He might be as stupid as porsago pudding, but he’s bold. He captures their imagination,” she said, regretfully.
“Honestly, I think it’s more important to establish how we do this, rather than who we elect,” I suggested, as I led her to the punch table. Farisian punches are strong and deceptive, laced with fruit juices and sugar and spices but mostly comprised of sugar rum and brandy. This one was displayed in a gigantic silvered clam shell of some sort. “Establishing what process we use may be more vital than who we inflict that process upon,” I reflected, as I secured two small porcelain cups.
“Inflict?” she asked, amused, as I filled a cup and handed it to her. “That’s an odd way to put it.”
“I’m no expert on the selection mechanism,” I admitted, “but from what I understand the original process was designed to test the wisdom and magical ability of the new leader, whether it be Doge or Archmage. A series of tasks, tests, and trials that would establish the superiority of the candidate before they assumed power.”
“Well, yes, but those rites are antiquated,” she argued. “Mere ceremony. The selection of an archmage – or a doge – became a matter of political pragmatism. Those trials were just a formality since the Later Magocracy.”
“Are they?” I challenged, as I grabbed my cup and led her to the banquet tables. Though there was no formal dining period, from what I understood, a number of cloth-covered tables and chairs had been set up to facilitate the buffet. “It occurs to me that just electing a man by rote doesn’t really do justice to the high office he’s being given. If some wish to vote for Pratt, I take no issue with that – but we don’t have to just hand the place over to him and then go die in his struggle to keep it. We can make it a challenge to obtain,” I proposed. “It seems only fair.”
That caught her interest. Her eyes lit up as I held her chair for her. “Oh, I like that idea,” she admitted. “Make him prove he’s worthy to rule, before he gets the scepter.”
“Why, as Electors, I believe we could establish any requirements we wish,” I pointed out. “If we’re re-founding the government, then it stands to reason doing so on the foundation of the old provides at least a hint of legitimacy,” I reasoned, “and the old rites were, as you pointed out, archaic. If Pratt wants to found an empire, let him prove that he has the stuff of emperors within him.”
“You’re a lot smarter than people give you credit for,” Tirkia admitted, grudgingly, as she sipped her punch. “Most see you as just a Narasi spellmonger scheming for opportunity in the ruins of Farise. Or a fool who will be executed as an occupier once the revolution happens, you know.”
“There’s to be a revolution?” I asked, amused.
“According to this new faction that announced itself this morning,” she informed me. “They ambushed an Alshari patrol in Cesshaven, took hostages, and announced the beginning of a new revolutionary movement: the Farisian People’s Army.”
“The Farisian People’s Army?” I asked, surprised and amused.
“Yes, an army of a few dozen at most,” she explained. “All young hotheads from the depths of Cesshaven who think they have the moral right to seize power and rule for the benefit of the poor. Some version of this springs up every couple of years, actually – it’s nothing new. Republicanism, democratic ideals, foolish visions of a communal utopia spouted by desperate people who can’t do math but feel they have the moral obligation to rule. Usually they’re just an ignorant front for some greater power. But this People’s Army killed three men, and took hostages for a few hours before they slid back to their cesspools.”
“That is interesting,” I conceded. “Back in Castal we have the occasional peasant’s rebellion with the same sort of ideas. Something like that is happening in the Westlands, actually, I believe. But it rarely amounts to anything.”
“Nor will it here,” she agreed. “Those poor idiots are setting themselves up to attract attention. It’s one thing when the Contramara stages an attack. There’s no use trying to track them down. But these idiots are acting openly. Those fools have made themselves targets for the Alshari, now, and no one will hesitate to sell them out.”
The rain started to fall in earnest, and some of the stragglers from the garden were arriving under the shelter of the pavilion at a run. Darriky was one, I noted, but right behind him were a string of others – including Durgan Jole, I saw.
That startled me. From what Mavone had learned the old warmage lived somewhere near the Seva Straights at the south end of the Sound and only came to town periodically. But the way he looked, it was easy to see he’d been on a bender.
While he had donned a richly decorated robe for the occasion, he still wore his fisherman’s hat and his shabby sandals. He staggered a bit as he mounted the stairs, his hat dripping with rainwater. He looked around and blinked his one bleary eye before he headed for the butler’s table.
“Osaba is here?” Tirkia remarked, her eyes wide with surprise. “It must be for the free drinks,” she concluded.
“You know him?” I asked, just as surprised.
“Oh, he’s an old Wenshari adept who has been around a few years,” she dismissed. “A lovable scoundrel. He lives in a shack on a beach somewhere in the south, and invites the occasional mage out to the place to get drunk and screw around with magic. He’s harmless,” she stressed. “He’s another old drunken fool who was seduced by the ‘dusky maidens of Farise’,” she said with wry sarcasm.
“There are worse lives,” I suggested. “And who is this behind him? Horses? Oh, Ishi’s Tits, is Pratt going to grace us with his presence again?” I asked in disgust. “He showed up to Alperrik’s last party. A complete boor,” I assured her. “Worse than Alperrik.”
“Oh, we’ve met!” she assured me, her eyes narrowing. “Let’s see what asinine antics he’s going to subject us to this time.”
The storm was getting closer and it began to rain harder as the newcomers entered the pavilion. Most of the tapers in the garden had already been extinguished by the rain, so it was difficult to identify them until they came within the light of the pavilion’s lamps.
But the men who pushed their way into the shelter were not dressed as Sea Lords or pirates. They wore the long, floor-length checkered cloaks of the Royal Censorate of Magic – and there were a lot of them.
There were other newcomers as well, Alshari exiles dressed as gentlemen, unarmored but each carrying a dueling sword. They seemed a shabby-looking bunch, compared to the Censors, whose cloaks were spotless. Their Alshari finery was showing some wear, and some of it was threadbare. Exile was starting to weigh on them, I realized.
But then a shorter, stouter man in Alshari garb strutted in, one eye squinting in the light while the other surveyed the crowd. Clearly, he had exotropia, which was unsettling. His hair was long and stringy, and the rain had slicked it to his bare head and over his shoulders. He wore a full cavalry sword at his belt, and even had spurs on his heels though I couldn’t think of a possible reason why he’d need them. I did not know him by sight, but I had heard enough about him to recognize him by description. Tirkia was kind enough to confirm my suspicion.
“Ishi’s well-traveled twat, that’s bloody Count Cingaran!” she swore, horrified.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Party Crashers
To be a traveler in Farise means an invitation to the fabulous parties and entertainments the province is justly known for. The Farisians prefer a buffet style of event, with music and dancing featured as entertainment, with a casual approach that bemuses the more socially rigid Remerans and Merwyni. Farisian hospitality is warm and friendly as a rule and the open nature of the celebrations make unexpected guests a welcome and novel event at any Farisian party.
Explorations of Farise, Enshalada, and the Shattered Isles
Author Unknown
In retrospect, I could see why Count Cingaran showed up to Alperrik’s reception. While he was no doubt smarting from relenting to the demands of the magi to select Electors for a Doge, since he had permitted it, he wanted to participate. The Electors who heavily favored Pratt as a candidate were having a reception elsewhere tonight, as were those few in the Congress who favored making Cingaran the monarch of Farise.
We were the exceptions, I realized; Alperrik was, indeed, more invested in the process than the outcome, and was therefore unlikely to take a side easily. That attitude had attracted a number of Electors who were therefore uncommitted to either Cingaran or Pratt – myself included, I realized. I suppose that extended to Tirkia, Darriky, and the other Electors who had chosen to come to this party, because that’s how things work in Farise. People go to the parties where their politics are best reflected, when it’s a political matter. If Cingaran wanted to advance his case then we were the ones he had to convince.
Of course, doing it with a squadron of Censorate warmagi might have set the wrong tone.
Indeed, the entire pavilion fell silent, and even the minstrels ceased their playing, when Count Cingaran made his arrival. The traditional anxious murmuring and whispers commenced, as everyone’s attention was drawn to the man who had made himself military governor of the city.
“Is this where the Electors who have rejected Pratt hold forth?” he asked in a loud voice that was distinctly unpleasant, as if he were a giant talking crab and not an opium addict of noble birth. Indeed, his independently wandering eyes had the glassy appearance of one who indulges in the expensive habit. That did not make them more pleasant.
Indeed, Count Cingaran was as old and ugly as Rellin Pratt was young and handsome. He had an enormous pot belly, the result of decades of wine and spirits, and his skin had a sallow complexion to it. Wrinkles and scars adorned his face with equal abandon, and it was clear to all that His Excellency was a talented duelist in his youth.
Those days were clearly past. His stringy long hair was tinged with gray, as was the bushy mustache he grew to make up the account of his receding hairline.
But what Cingaran lacked in youthful vigor he made up for with stubborn arrogance and undeniable charisma. He regarded the crowd with condescension, bordering on contempt. After a moment’s silence, Alperrik shuffled forward and bowed in the Narasi style.
“Welcome to our little reception, gentlemen,” he offered in my native tongue. It was a courteous gesture to a guest, of course, but the implication was instantly apparent to all: these were Narasi at an entirely Farisian affair. Occupiers, not allies. I don’t think Alperrik meant any disrespect – I could be mistaken – but being addressed in his native language seemed to irritate Cingaran. He replied at once in thickly-accented Perwyneese.
“I was out riding with my men this evening when we were caught in a storm,” he continued in his crabby voice. His lazy eye scanned the crowd alarmingly. “I do hope you don’t mind us taking shelter here for a while and impose on your hospitality.” It was a statement, not a question, and Cingaran strutted past Alperrik as if he were a servant. The rain outside had become a torrent, coming down in sheets, now, which presented a dire backdrop for the man.
“I am actually glad that this little group has convened,” he continued, his words lacking sincerity those he raised his voice to be heard over the rain, “and perhaps we can put to an end once and for all the troubles this fair city has endured. Once proper authority is established,” he said – and no one had any illusions about who he meant as that authority – “then perhaps true order and prosperity will result.
“Until then,” he continued, whirling around as he came to the center of the pavilion, “let no one forget who controls Farise. Both the mundane and the arcane,” he said, gesturing around at the Censors. I don’t know how they felt about being political props for their erstwhile ally, but I could imagine it wasn’t professionally fulfilling. That didn’t stop them from being intimidating.
“The recent troubles have brought to light a band of . . . dissidents among the magical community,” he continued. “Now, I know none of you fine adepts would condone or support such ruthless and misguided people,” he said, his voice pregnant with sarcasm, “but I thought it prudent to remind everyone that while Cingaran is in charge, there will be order in Farise. Even among the magi,” he finished, with a growl.
Alperrik scooted forward and put his hand on Cingaran’s shoulder, while he gestured to the crowd. “Of course your men are welcome to stay and share our refreshments. It is only proper to honor the guests of Farise thus,” he said, and escorted Cingaran to the beverage table, where the big silver clam full of booze beckoned.
“This is blatant intimidation!” Tirkia muttered under her breath. “The gall of that man to show up here . . . and say something like that to us!” she said, indignantly.
“If his point was to inspire a reaction in us, then wisdom dictates that we deprive him of victory by denying him that reaction,” I counselled. “The best weapon against a man like that is indifference, not outrage.”
“It is truly annoying when a foreigner and a thaumaturge lectures me on wisdom . . . and is correct,” she admitted. “I still want to gouge his eyes out. Especially that creepy one,” she said with a shudder.
I chuckled, and noted again how much Tirkia reminded me of Pentandra. I resolved to introduce them someday. They would get along famously, if neither of them were assassinated first.
We watched quietly as Cingaran made the rounds near the buffet table, then settled into the largest, most throne-like chair available – one of those tall monstrosities from the Duchies with its own little awning, like I had back in Sevendor – to preside over a banquet he was not invited to.
His men were just as pushy. The Alshari exiles were rude and aggressive as they spread out through the crowd, engaging the guests in short, brutish conversations. Almost all of them were armed with those long thin blades the Alshari prefer, the ones they use for dueling. We watched in fascination as they interrupted the dancers, insulted the musicians, and were generally boorish to the Farisians.
“I can see why you don’t like us,” I admitted to Tirkia, as we watched. “I know a few Alshari. If it makes any difference, most of them aren’t like that.”
“It doesn’t. These are the Alshari we know, and they’re awful,” she pointed out. “The Remerans were slightly better,” she admitted. “They at least knew how to behave at parties.”
“It’s the Censors you need to watch,” I warned her. “Notice that very few of them are indulging in drink. They’re disciplined. The Alshari gentlemen are not.”
“They’re warmagi, correct?” she asked, curious. “They mostly keep to themselves.”
“Most of them are,” I agreed. “And they always keep to themselves. These are the last dregs of the order, the fanatics and screw-ups who had no better place to go. But they know their business,” I conceded. As I glanced around casually at the Censors, I noted that they were hugging the perimeter and just standing around, their cloaks furled about them and their mageblades peeking out behind their shoulders. They looked stoic, impassive, but capable of springing into action at a moment’s notice.
The storm took that opportunity to flare more lightning and thunder, providing a dramatic feel to the event. The rain was coming down so hard it was difficult to hear anything. I sipped my punch and just enjoyed the evening. Until Ruderal contacted me, mind-to-mind.
Master, there is a problem, he stated flatly, when I accepted the spell. There is something afoot, here. I—
Before he could finish his warning, a flailing figure threw itself across the pavilion with a maniacal shout, waving a dagger in the air. Another shout came from behind my shoulder – not an angry shout. It was the depraved shout of a determined man who was not prepared to survive.
