Practical adept book 17.., p.66
Practical Adept: Book 17 of the Spellmonger Series, page 66
Sir Arthur originally assumed that the important men he associated with were, without fail, the most corrupt of scoundrels, despite their high positions and respectable titles. Farise was not as socially regimented as London, the city of Doyle and Palgrave, but what it lacked in strict social mores it more than made up for with conspiracies, secret plots, and clandestine deals. The author’s original prediction about his elite peers was even more pronounced, here; it wasn’t just social condemnation that these men feared, but betrayal by dark forces.
I was curious about the result. Mavone was pessimistic, assuming that the corruption in Farise had extended so far that very few would react to such an oblique and obscure message.
A day later, he was apologizing. No less than six ships departed the harbor unexpectedly and without warning, headed for the Straights and the high seas. By nightfall the second day, nineteen of the twenty five had disappeared altogether. Two more had taken ill. One had committed suicide.
“That was, perhaps, the cheapest influence operation I’ve ever seen,” Mavone praised. “You relied on nothing more than a few sheets of parchment and a messenger.”
“And their guilty consciences,” I suggested. “All powerful men feel as if they are entitled to break the rules of man and the gods due to their wealth and important station in life. I’ve been tempted myself,” I added.
“You’ve indulged that temptation more than once,” Mavone pointed out.
“Just so,” I agreed. “I figured that anyone who had been in business with Count Cingaran for any length of time was likely compromised in some way – and they felt guilty about it. Every powerful man has secrets,” I insisted. “Using that as leverage against them – their own guilty consciences – seemed the easiest way to shake a few of them loose.”
“So what dark secrets does Count Minalan the Spellmonger have?” he joked.
I thought about Isily, undead mother of some of my children, currently imprisoned in secret in the dungeons of Castle Salaisus. “Nothing I care to discuss,” I said, lightly.
“Still, it was wildly successful,” Mavone gushed. “If you can do half that well with the Censorate, we’ll be in fine shape.”
The Censorate was the other task the group had deferred to me. I was, after all, the one best placed to contend with them.
But even though their consciences were likely guilty about the compromises they’d had to make to preserve their order, they did not spook so easily as a bunch of merchants and slavers and bankers. They couldn’t afford to. They had no place to retreat to, not without disbanding – and after everything they had been through, they were unwilling to consider that.
That was a problem. The remnant of the Black Censorate in Farise was one of the prime forces supporting Cingaran and his minions. They were a force of adepts that had no local loyalties, which made them the perfect magical mercenaries, despite their adherence to a code that proscribed acting in that fashion. They were dedicated idealists who had clung to their ancient order for a variety of reasons. Here, they were indispensable to the Count, and therefore had a purpose – as unseemly as it was.
I had to eliminate that. To do so, I had to provide them with an alternative.
To begin with, I had Atopol, Cat of Enultramar, break back into their headquarters for a fourth time . . . and steal their witchstones.
The lad was giddy after his effective heist in Cingaran’s hall, where he managed to liberate just under six thousand ounces of gold and diverse treasures, jewels, and objects d’arte worth a considerable sum – all tucked away in a hoxter that made fleeing with the loot infinitely easier.
Returning to the Censorate’s quarters was almost anticlimactic, after that. But he dutifully broke in and returned the following morning with another hoxter filled with twenty-one witchstones, most of poor quality. While he was there he looted their store of magical restraints, truthtelling amulets, Annulment devices, and a few expensive and rare documents they’d originally looted from the Tower Arcane in Falas, before they fled.
“It’s actually quite fascinating,” he said, as he spread out the scrolls on my desk. “These are the letters from Count Vichetral instructing the Censors to . . . well, it’s a long list, and it proves that they were acting against Duke Anguin,” he pointed out. “It also names a number of high nobles who are clandestine agents of the Count – some of whom are still in power. Our lad will be excited to see this,” he promised. The members of the Alshari Ducal Court all referred to the Orphan Duke as “our lad” for some reason.
“That’s lovely, but it doesn’t help my cause,” I sighed. “We’ve deprived them of their arcane power in the middle of a magical civil war. That’s going to produce a tremendous amount of pressure. Now I need to give them some place easy to escape to.”
“We could imprison them in the Gray Dome,” he proposed. “Plenty of room there.”
“I don’t think that’s the answer,” I said, frowning. “They are, in their way, honorable men who ended up on the wrong side of history and politics. They have committed their lives to an ideal that no longer persists. It’s tragic, in a way.”
Atopol look horrified. “You can’t possibly be thinking of letting them go?” he asked.
“I need them gone,” I reminded him. “I don’t much care where they go. But to give them someplace they see as better than Farise is the important thing. I need to make some arrangements,” I decided.
And I did. That night I reached out to Grand Master Aleem, of the Blue Censorate – the Arcane Order of Saviesa, as they were known, now. He was leading the magical corps of Count Andrevar of Cormeer in his civil war against Duke Andrastal, but the winter had ground the campaign to a halt. He was kind enough to listen to my proposal and agreed to be transported to Farise by Taren, through the portal at Sevendor, the very next day.
Aleem looked completely out of place in Farise. Certainly, he had the Imperial features that made him look at home in the province, but his skin lacked the years of direct sunlight most Farisians had. I feasted him on local delicacies and sweet iced rum while I filled him in on the situation. He agreed that there was a possibility, here.
“I don’t want to complain, but while the mercenary warmagi you’ve sent us have been outstanding in plundering Andrastal’s holdings in the north, we fear we don’t have enough arcane forces in Cormeer to provide an effective defense,” he admitted. “It takes five good magi to prepare a ship to run the blockade, and another aboard to manage the spells as it is. I only have so many High Magi to employ like that.”
“Here is a body of your fellows who desperately need refuge,” I pointed out. “You may claim to represent the Spellmonger, as well as Count Andrevar, when you make your proposal.”
“A witchstone and safe passage to Cormeer?” he asked, amused, as we sat on the front porch and enjoyed the evening. “Many of them might have run afoul of the Censorate’s regulations, on their way to Farise,” he reminded me.
“Regulations for an order that no longer exists,” I pointed out. “Apart from a few stalwart Shirlin Order types, the impetus for the Censorate to exist as it was is gone. If there is no order, then there is no transgression.”
Aleem looked skeptical. “I was the last Grand Master of the order,” he sighed. “If they recognize the title anymore. I do have the power to forgive them for such things.”
“More importantly, you have the capacity to invite them to a better place, a safer place, a place where they can escape their surly past and actually contemplate having a future,” I suggested. “Hells, I’ll give a hundred ounces of gold to any man who takes you up on the offer so that he has some capital to establish himself in Cormeer,” I decided. “More, if he’s willing to fight for Andrevar. But that’s enough to purchase an estate, endless wine and endless whores if a man is so inclined.”
“It’s more than generous,” Aleem agreed, reluctantly. “I’m just worried that these fellows might have archaic ideas about the new order. Especially the older ones.”
“Then bury them in whores and wine,” I suggested. “Just get them the hell out of Farise. They’re in my way, and if I have to confront them with my own warmagi, the result will not be favorable to them.”
“I will speak to them, and give them your proposal,” Aleem agreed with a sigh. “It might take some time to convince them, but . . . it is likely the best offer they will ever get.”
“That is my intention,” I nodded. “They have my respect for their dedication, but Farise no longer needs their services.”
I detailed Atopol to escort Aleem to the Censorate’s compound – he certainly knew the way, by now – and tried to allow things to progress from there. I trusted Aleem, for some reason. He seemed almost fatalistically committed to dismantling what was left of the Royal Censorate.
While I was chatting with Aleem, however, Sandoval and his men had been busy. They had quietly started visiting the names on their list, and their efforts were bearing fruit.
They had developed a number of stratagems for getting close to their targets, and when they were sufficiently proximate they had elected to use the simple method of sucking their targets through the Ways to kidnap them.
They didn’t go directly to the Gray Dome, however; before they were relegated to a permanent cell they were processed in the cellar of the practice. We’d moved our scrying apparatus to a different corner of the cellar and converted the old ice storage room into a simple cell, and one by one Sandy and his merry band of gangsters would fill it with our targets.
That night was a bonus – not only had the team found ways to steal three prominent members of the Alshari occupation away from their posts, but they had secured a windfall of prisoners Mavone had identified as important, but not vital. Apparently one of the slavers who supported Cingaran had been having a little party, and now our impromptu cell was filled with frightened accessories who were genuinely oblivious to their roles in the occupation.
“Three new informants,” Sandoval told me, as he escorted me down to the cellar. “They’re begging to testify against their colleagues, the poor bastards. They have no idea who has taken them captive. Most of them think it’s the Contramara.”
“It might be fun to claim to be the Farisian People’s Army,” I suggested, as we regarded the ashen-faced prisoners behind the door to the ice chamber.
“I don’t want to have any affiliation with those amateurs!” Sandy proclaimed, his expression filled with disgust. “They have no idea what they’re doing – trying to shut down bridges and markets with their demonstrations, when most of Farise doesn’t give two shits and a blackberry shandy about their complaints,” he declared.
“Fine, fine, but don’t mention Minalan until they’re in the jungle,” I advised. “Most of these fellows have substantial rewards on their heads. I’d like to collect a few of those, eventually.”
“Because you need more money?” Sandy asked, in disbelief.
“Because Farise will need money,” I suggested. “Things are moving fast, now, and in a few days the other factions will realize that something big has happened – and they won’t understand who did it or why. Sure, feel free to squeeze these fellows for everything they know – but it doesn’t really matter. They’re more important because they disappeared than because they didn’t.”
“I don’t know where you think you’re going with this, Min,” Sandy said, shaking his head doubtfully. “But this seems kind of petty, when it comes to taking over Farise. These fellows are no better than third-tier functionaries and minor supporters at best.”
“And when your minor supporters start disappearing, how does that affect your plans?” I countered. “When the man who imports the hay that feeds the horses you feel are invaluable to controlling Farise, how do you react?”
“With blind panic?” Sandoval suggested, as he started to appreciate my approach. “Another one of those fellows apparently secured wine for the garrison. He was whining about the next shipment when Curmor slipped up behind him and sucked him through the Ways back here. He was supposed to deliver two hundred bottles of Remeran red to the commandant this week. He’s terribly upset that he won’t be there to deliver.”
“Life is hard,” I said, sympathetically, while I watched the blindfolded prisoners stumble around their cell. “They should know by now to be careful who you have dinner with in Farise.”
“Particularly that fellow,” Sandy said, nodding toward one young man in the corner. He was dressed as a Sea Lord, but had the air of a pirate. “He was dining with Cingaran’s personal counting man, an Alshari merchant. But he claims he’s been Rellin Pratt’s aid for more than five years, now. It appears that we caught him in the middle of an unauthorized negotiation. He’s more concerned that Pratt will find out than what will happen to him. He’s one of those Rats,” he said, wrinkling his nose.
“Interesting,” I noted. “Go ahead and take them through to the temple as soon as they are processed;. How does tomorrow’s list look?”
“Busy,” he admitted. “We’ve got four merchants and a procurement officer. I admit, it’s been kind of fun being back here, without all the drama of the first time.”
“Is the drama insufficient?” I challenged.
“No, not at all,” he agreed. “But its different when you don’t have to rely on six layers of command to tell you what to do. Refreshing,” he admitted. “You know, this would go more quickly if we had more help. Want to come out for an exciting day of abduction, tomorrow?”
“It sounds entertaining,” I agreed, “but I have a committee meeting scheduled. And I have to make certain arrangements with the Alshari authorities. But you go ahead,” I encouraged. “Someone should enjoy this.”
Chapter Forty
The Red Feather
One unique facet of Farisian culture that a visitor must experience is are the many excellent puppet theaters scattered throughout the city. Nearly every market enjoys at least one of these tiny theaters, where children and adults alike can be entertained by professional-quality shows while they are at market. A remnant of the Sea Lord era of Farisian history, the gaily-decorated marionettes and expert puppeteers perform not just old standards and historical classics but original plays reflecting the news and events of the time. What better way to pass the time while you wait for a storm to pass?
Explorations of Farise, Enshalada, and the Shattered Isles
Author Unknown
Things were looking bad in Farise, we knew. You could tell just how bad by the tone of the puppet shows.
Loiko Vaneren had warned me about the utility of staying current with them, and I had done my best since I became Mirkandar and hung out my shingle. I’d been skeptical, of course – what possible importance could the puppet shows have?
What I didn’t understand at the time was that puppet shows were an important part of Farisian culture. Every market has two or three on market days, and usually one permanent stand in which the shows of the week were performed no matter how few patrons showed up. But there is a rich and vibrant history behind the puppet shows that most foreigners missed.
They originally began as a legacy of the Sea Lord’s brief command of Farise, back during the Early Magocracy, we’d discovered. The Cormeeran corsairs were seeking to establish a base remote enough from Perwyn to give them some leeway in how they maneuvered their fleet. The Sea Lord colonies at Remere, Castal, and Alshar were vibrant and united, providing new ships and new crews to the ascendent culture.
Among the gifts to Farise bestowed by the Sea Lords – besides the Great Market and the docks at Corsair’s Bay – were the puppet shows. Puppet performances were apparently popular on Sea Lord ships, and when they claimed sovereignty over the province they brought their entertainment with them. Sea Lords still enjoy them, and there is a set body of works that the traditional Sea Lord puppeteers worked from. They ranged from morality tales to entertaining bouts of slapstick-laden adventure, but they were incredibly popular.
When the magelords of the Magocracy kicked the Sea Lords out a generation later, they kept the shows – but changed them. The Sea Lords preferred finger puppets, due to the lack of space and equipment required to perform them aboard ship. Some ships even had a dedicated puppeteer – a curious institution. But when the Farisians took control of the art, they moved from finger puppets to carefully-crafted marionettes.
It made sense, actually. The Farisians were starved for entertainment, and while the Imperial Theater over in the palace district did a fine job entertaining the elite, and the temples would occasionally stage amateur morality plays, the common man had little opportunity to enjoy a dramatic performance. The occasional demonstration of a dance troupe or a group of acrobats at one of the markets was the extent of their choices. Except for the puppet shows. They had become an institution of popular culture all on their own, and the Farisians enjoyed them enthusiastically.
It had taken a while for us to understand the nuances of the performances – there was an entire range of stock characters that most of us were unaware of – but over time you could pick up on a few things. Like Antin and Otti’s endless marital problems that usually culminated in a severe beating of either the husband or wife. Or Captain Currant’s bizarre odyssey seeking the Island of Fondest Wishes aboard his rickety old ship, The Dauntless Adventure. Or any number of other beloved characters who sprang up as object lessons, stereotypes, or folk heroes.
But beyond the stock characters which had been around for centuries, there were plenty of freshly-penned performances featuring new characters of a decidedly timely nature. Within a couple of weeks of viewing the performances, you could begin to see the political overtones in the characters presented.
There was Captain Rat, for instance – an actual stuffed rat with a scimitar and a witchstone he always pulled out to try to dominate a situation. There was wicked Count Simple, a grossly stereotyped villain with crazy googly eyes who was always smoking an opium pipe, and berating his friend Commodore Scar while speaking with an outrageous accent. Then there was Irmalandra, the young but wise scion of an ancient but forgotten house of magi descended from all of the Archmagi at once. There was Master Antigue, the bumbling adept who kept trying to save the day but continuously screwed it up, and his protégé Askin, who patiently tried to fix his master’s grave mistakes without embarrassing him. And there was the Mad Mage, a chaotic figure who would often perform as the foil or side character with unknown but sinister intent.
