Practical adept book 17.., p.60
Practical Adept: Book 17 of the Spellmonger Series, page 60
“It’s nice,” I said, as I looked around. And it was nice – if you were a hermit or a reclusive wizard.
The front room had a few chairs, a shapeless couch and a small table arranged in a sitting area that had seen a lot of use. There were shabby old pillows strewn everywhere, and it was separated from the other front room by a beaded curtain that granted the illusion of privacy.
The room Durgan used as a workshop and library was small but well organized. Books, scrolls, and folios full of notes were cataloged and well-attended. But the kitchen area was a chaotic disaster that made me wonder how Durgan had put on so much weight. It had a small woodstove, an alcohol stove, and a wicker hamper where he stored his food next to a big clay cistern. His bedroom was tiny, at the back of the house, and contained a bed, a chamberpot, a pile of laundry and nothing else. Indeed, the entire house reflected a military man living alone, with no one but himself to please.
But there was virtually nothing there that suggested that he was a warmage. There was no fighting harness hanging by the door, no mageblades hung on the walls, no battle staff or fighting spear leaning in the corner. A casual observer would only see the lair of a beachcombing barfly, a reclusive adept immersed in his research and rum. Indeed, empty rum bottles seemed to be the centerpiece of his decor.
I could see why he hadn’t named it. It might have been cozy, but it wasn’t particularly distinctive.
“So what did you want to show me?” I asked, once he had opened up the house to the dawn sunlight.
“Later,” he dismissed, as if it was an afterthought. “I just rowed halfway across the Sound in the middle of the night. I’m an old man. I need a nap,” he insisted, as he stumbled back to his bedroom. “You should, too. The couch isn’t too unbearable for sleeping,” he recommended.
I sighed in frustration, but he was probably right. I was tired. I wasn’t an old man, but then I wasn’t a young man anymore, either. I’d been in the first scrap I’d had in months, had an uncomfortable sea voyage in a rainstorm, I’d witnessed a molopor I hadn’t expected to encounter, and had engaged in a verbal duel with an old mentor through the night. Sleep beckoned, and the couch didn’t look that uncomfortable.
But before I slept, I knew I had duties to perform. I closed my eyes and contacted Mavone, mind-to-mind.
I just wanted to check in and let you know that I’m alive, I reported, dutifully. I’m sure Ruderal had quite the tale to tell when he returned last night.
You had us concerned when you didn’t come back to the practice, Mavone conceded. Are you safe?
Perfectly, I agreed. After the skirmish I met up with an old comrade and we went out for drinks, I explained. Durgan Jole. We’re at his house, now.
But Durgan doesn’t live in Farise, Mavone pointed out, confused.
That’s why it took us a while to get here. But we’re at his place at the beach, on the Straights. But this is important, I added. Durgan knows things. He revealed some of them last night, I’m going to get more today, after a nap. I’ll give you a full report when I return, I promised. Were there any repercussions this morning from last night’s attempted massacre? I asked, wanting to change the subject. Until I knew what Durgan’s role in all of this was, I didn’t want to say too much to Mavone.
I’m still waiting to hear, Mavone admitted. From what Ruderal told me about it, it sounds like it was a hit from the Contramara, he suggested. What happened?
That’s what I think – with the assistance of some new group called the Farisian People’s Army, from over in Cesshaven. They were the distraction, I think, that allowed the Contramara to strike at both the Censorate and the Alshari exiles simultaneously. I don’t think the Electors were the actual target. They placed enchanted fulgurite all over the place, and were counting on multiple lightning strikes to soften things up before they sent in their warmagi to finish things off.
But that’s not how things went, Mavone observed.
I had to dig out the Magolith to protect the place from the lightning, I explained. I kept it hidden, and it did the trick, but it could have been ugly – there were a lot of people there, and a lot of fulgurite. They were especially after Count Cingaran. They placed a piece in a pot under his chair while he was there, hoping for a direct strike on him.
So that’s where the pot Rudy brought back came from, Mavone reasoned.
Yes. And to make things even more interesting, that wasn’t the first time I’d seen that pot. Rudy’s friend Lemari brought it to me earlier that day to have me mend it with magic . . . and make it unnoticeable. She had an entirely reasonable story about it, too. But my arcane signature was all over it.
You would have been connected to the strike, if anyone investigated, Mavone concluded. Rudy told me about the girl. He recognized her enneagram under her disguise. He’s beating himself up about not realizing that she was an agent, he added. He says he thought her deceitfulness was romantic in nature, not professional.
He wouldn’t be the first young man to be betrayed by a beautiful spy, I offered, thinking of how Isily had seduced me in the Wilderlands. It’s a lesson learned: beware the dusky maidens of Farise. He’s lucky, actually: his powers let him see it coming, and he got out of the way. A normal man would have believed the lie for the sake of her beauty and been far more vulnerable.
He’s not feeling lucky, at the moment. He’ll be thrilled to hear you’re all right – he’s been up all night with Atopol, worrying about you. He thought you’d been overcome by the warmagi, or killed by assassins, or kidnapped or something.
Tell him I’m just following a promising lead that came to me unexpectedly, I suggested. He should relax and get some sleep. That’s what I’m about to do.
Apart from the unexpected terrorist attack and assassination attempt, how was the party? he asked.
Pretty good, I conceded. Kind of like a court reception, only more blatantly political. I had a couple of good discussions and made some contacts, I said, and then told him about the talk I had with Tirkia of House Irmoa. After I finished, he paused a moment before returning to me.
I have her listed in the files, he assured me. Married to another adept, one Ausart Irmoa, both work as part of a distinguished family firm in Tirza. She’s from one of the old magical families in Farise herself, of course, the usual claims of descent from the Archmagi and doges over the centuries. Some money, but not a lot. The family has business interests in trade and shipping, and its primary focus of industry is textiles: silks, cottons, and the really rare stuff from the Shattered Isles. So that fits that she’d be made an Elector. But that’s about all I have on her. She’s a small player, but she’s a player.
She had some intriguing ideas, and was generally cynical about the process. You should maybe start tracking the opinions and politics of the Electors, if you haven’t already, I suggested. It might be valuable.
It might be moot, he countered. While you were dodging lightning bolts, Lorcus and Jannik both came in last night. They used different sources, but both are reporting that the Alshari exiles were already planning on ignoring anything the Farisians did with the Electors, and arresting anyone proclaimed doge who isn’t an exiled Alshari count. And there’s no reason they can’t. Without some sort of militant force backing the doge, there’s no good reason to take him seriously.
Pratt has his rats, I reminded him. That might be enough. Still, regardless of the outcome the process is important, I argued.
Important for whom? Mavone asked, pointedly. Min, our job here is to subvert the current order and impose our own, he reminded me. We need to stop the piracy. We don’t need to be mucking around in politics.
It’s all mucking around in politics, I argued. Even if we burned the fleet, killed everyone in the Citadel, and took over directly there would still be politics that would need mucking. That’s the nature of the beast. Now, we can do it poorly or we can do it adeptly, but either way we’re going to get as dirty as we get bloody, before this is done. That means identifying legitimate centers of authority that we can influence and put into positions of power. Tirkia might qualify. She was pretty reasonable about the situation here, a lot more reasonable than Pratt or Cingaran. Disgusting man, by the way. It’s almost a pity he didn’t get assassinated last night. Consider that an official report from the field.
So noted, he agreed. I’m not saying it’s not important, I just wonder how much time you’re wasting with this sort of thing when the time for action is nigh. The rest of our operations team is supposed to arrive today, and we have no plan of action yet, he complained.
We’ll come up with one as soon as I get back, I promised. This meeting with Durgan Jole might change my perspective on what we need to do. He’s been kicking around Farise for years, now, not getting involved in local politics. He has some secrets worth hearing, and which may have a bearing on our plan. Give me a day or two to sort it out, and then we’ll know how best to act.
Why is Durgan so important? Mavone asked with a mental sigh. Sure, he’s a legend, but he looks like a shadow of his former self. A wider, rounder shadow, he added.
Like everything else in Farise, there’s more to him that he seems, I countered. I learned some interesting things last night. I’m assuming I’ll learn more today. Like why he showed up at a political rally in the first place, and was willing to fight a bunch of attacking warmagi with a borrowed mageblade and pure gall.
That would be an interesting question to answer, Mavone conceded. Just . . . don’t linger, he warned. Things are starting to get tense in Farise. You can feel it on the street. I don’t know what it will take to spark an event that will compel action, but it could happen at any time. I don’t want to be overtaken by events.
I’ll keep that in mind, I promised, as I realized just how tired I was. Just try to keep a lid on the pot until I get back. But I need a nap, first, I concluded. It’s recently come to my attention that I’m not a young man anymore.
***
I woke around noon, but before Durgan, who seemed unshakably asleep in his tiny bedroom. It seemed a shame to wake him, not to mention physically impossible, so I contented myself with a few moments prowling his garden in a rare instance of solitude. To be honest, it was difficult for me to say which ‘me’ was enjoying the solitude.
Minalan the Spellmonger appreciated the subtle and pervasive wardings that guarded the little cottage; Durgan had been lavish with the warmagic, demonstrating the kind of paranoia he had beat into our heads at Relan Cor. The cottage was in a defensible position, it would be easy to see anyone approaching down the jungle path, and the path to the beach in the other direction was strewn with glyphs that discouraged passers-by from intruding.
But to the eye of Mirkandar the Magnificent, it was a cozy little retreat from the cares of the world. Fruit trees surrounded the cottage, and I picked several oranges and a grapefruit for my breakfast as I waited for my host to awaken. I also took the time to install a Waystone behind a large orange tree while Durgan wasn’t watching – I would want to return here, I reasoned. There was a small chicken coop with four hens and an overly-belligerent rooster which yielded five eggs. I found porsago soaking and some smoked fish in the kitchen. I conjured some fresh biscuits, a pitcher of cream, and a few rashers of bacon from the stores of my hoxter pockets to complete my meal.
For once, I reflected as I started a fire in the tiny stove, no one really knew where I was, what I was doing, or required my service. The ocean and the sounds of the placid jungle had sent me to sleep, and the roaring surf of the incoming tide placated my mind as I put breakfast together. It was an unexpected moment of peace and calm that I relished, just as unexpectedly. Minalan felt safe. Mirkandar felt intrigued. The ancient memories were, for the moment, quiet.
And breakfast was delicious.
Of course, the smell of freshly baked biscuits and bacon was irresistible – and these had been tucked into the hoxter pocket from my brother-in-law’s oven in Sevendor moments after they emerged, golden brown and crying out for honey or molasses. It made the fried porsago I prepared a timid mockery. I felt triumphant about that, for some reason.
But hot biscuits can summon when magic fails. Durgan finally stirred from his bedroom, stumbled out into the garden to take another piss, and after a few moments regarding the surf in the distance he found his way back into the kitchen.
“Biscuits,” he noted, approvingly. “You conjured them?”
“Perquisites of being the Spellmonger . . . and the son of a baker,” I offered. “Once I had the magical means to ensure a steady supply of baked goods, I made it a priority. It impresses people. And I made juice,” I pointed out, proudly.
“The man conjures fresh biscuits from the air with magic and he’s happy he made juice,” he said, shaking his head. “It seems an abuse of the art to apply it to something so mundane,” he said, reprovingly. He also took a biscuit.
“You’ve had a witchstone longer than I have,” I pointed out, as I served him some eggs. “Haven’t you realized how easier magic is – how easier your life is – when you use it to your benefit?”
“I use the stone for research,” he said, gruffly, as he ate. “It’s powers are too dangerous to be trifled with.”
“It’s actually not that powerful a stone, compared to some others I’ve worked with,” I countered. “The one in my pocket is smaller, but just as robust. But it’s really more about your approach. Magelights, for example. We use them all the time in my land. Yet you still use tapers,” I pointed out.
“I am trying to keep a low profile,” Durgan pointed out. “Tea!” he said, suddenly. “We need tea. Good biscuits, but better with tea,” he said, and wandered over to the kitchen. He filled the kettle from a cistern and started to stir up the coals in the stove. I sighed, drew a little power, and cast a spell. The kettle began to steam on its own. Durgan gave me a look with his one eye, sighed, and began making tea.
I was feeling bold, I suppose. Bold enough to ask a personal question of the man.
“I’ve always wanted to know,” I asked, conversationally, “how did you lose your eye? There was always a lot of speculation about it back at Relan Cor. None of us had the balls to ask you, though. Most of us thought you lost it during the Siege of Daros, when you breached the outer wall.”
Durgan chuckled to himself as he unwrapped a linen pouch of tea and dumped it in an earthenware teapot. “Daros? No, I had long lost the eye before that. Before I even became a warmage,” he answered, shaking his head. He paused, and pulled back his long stringy hair from the side of his face, displaying his empty socket and the jagged scar surrounding it. It was long faded, but must have come from a horrific wound.
“Blades don’t leave scars like this,” he informed me, letting the hair return to obscuring it.
“So what happened?” I asked, intensely curious.
“It was a hunting accident,” he admitted with a sigh. “I was fifteen. We were out hunting with bears.”
“You were hunting bears?” I asked, impressed and appalled. I’d seen a few of the specimens in the Wilderlands, of course. I didn’t know much about them, beyond folklore, but by reputation they were incredibly strong, highly dangerous omnivores with strict territorial ideals. I’d seen a few from afar in the Wilderlands, and once in a traveling circus. The Kasari even had an entire cult devoted to bears. They had a reputation for being difficult and dangerous to hunt.
“No, no, no,” Durgan growled, “we were hunting with bears. My uncle, my brother and I. We had a pair of hunting bears,” he explained, as if it was as common as raising hounds or hawks.
“Hunting bears?” I asked, even more shocked and surprised by the idea. “What in seven hells do you hunt with bears?”
He looked up at me, fixing a stare with his one good eye. “Any godsdamn thing we want to,” he assured me, as he poured boiling water into the teapot.
“My people come from the far west in Wenshar,” he explained, casually, as he replaced the top to the teapot and let it steep. “From the wild country, up in the foothills of the Kulines. A hard place to make a living, unless you hunt. And you’d better hunt. It’s three hells of a life for a farmer, bearable for a herder, but it’s a hunter’s paradise.”
“Never been much of a hunter, myself,” I admitted. Durgan shrugged.
“Those hills are filled with all manner of game – and predators seen no other place in the Five Duchies,” he said, as he set out two battered old ceramic cups whose handles had long broken off. “Hill lions, great wolves in packs of a hundred, ezgukatus hiding in the forest canopy, ready to strike, cave bears – more than twice as large as the mottled bears we hunt with, and vicious to the core. A hundred other species that can raid your holding, kill your stock, and sometimes your family.”
“So you domesticated bears,” I nodded, not sure I believed him.
“Yes, for centuries,” he assured me as he added a shard of sugarcane to each cup. “The smaller mottled bears. Only about three hundred pounds, most of them. But they’re quick, they’re strong, and they’re smart. Very smart. More than a good hound. They hunt better, too.”
“That doesn't sound very sporting,” I pointed out.
“We hunted for food and to defend our holding, not for sport,” he reminded me. “All of the families along the western hills have hunting bears. We need them. They’re smart. They’re tough. They’re fiercely loyal and very affectionate. Very protective. Good sentries, too. Nothing gets past a bear.”
He poured the tea into the two chipped cups, and handed me one. It was hot to the touch, but I wasn’t about to whine about that in front of Durgan Jole.
“So that winter we were hunting out past Marble Hill, right at the frontier, and we were hunting great wolves. They were menacing our hold since Yule, and my uncle wanted to move them along. There wasn’t so much snow on the ground, then, and we took our bears and our hounds and our spears and bows, mounted our horses and rode in search of them.”
“And you found them?” I asked. I wasn’t ordinarily fond of hunting tales – dear gods, I’ve heard enough to last a lifetime from my knightly vassals – but few of those had ever featured a bear as a protagonist.
