The Blacksmith's Son Read online

  I took my chance and began making my way across the room, looking for Marc. I found him talking with Stephen Airedale. He saw me coming and excused himself for a moment to pull me aside, “Do me a favor would you? Devon has Ariadne cornered over there and I’m sure she could use a break, would you mind distracting him for a moment?” Me? It seemed that my friend was unaware of my status as a novice in the art of conversation, at least in these circles. But I couldn’t leave Ariadne without support, she was his sister after all, although she’d been a pain when we were younger.

  I headed back the other way and spotted Ariadne. Sure enough she was deep in conversation with Devon. I took a moment to remember the proper address, by which I mean I consulted the note card Ariadne had made for me earlier. Lord Devon it read. Although he wasn’t the Duke of Tremont yet he had been granted a baronet already. Since ‘Tremont’ could be used to refer to the Duke of Tremont, his father, the usual way to call him was by his given name rather than his surname, hence, Lord Devon.

  “Ariadne,” I called to her. She looked at me gratefully. I faced Devon, “Please pardon my intrusion Lord Devon, her grace asked me to see if she could be found, to assist with some arrangements.”

  “Certainly,” he replied with a genial smile. Despite his friendly attitude the aura around him still made me uncomfortable. Hopefully the books we had found would help me to better understand these things. “I didn’t catch your name when we arrived...” he let the statement trail off, making it an obvious question.

  “Ah my fault, I should have introduced myself directly to you, Mordecai Eldridge your lordship.” That pretty well exhausted the topics I was prepared to discuss with the future Duke of Tremont.

  “Mordecai, what an unusual name, are you originally from Lothion? The name sounds foreign.” Wonderful, I didn’t even know the answer to that question, my father had found the name embroidered on the blanket I was wrapped in.

  “Honestly I’m not even sure where the name comes from either, my mother had a love of foreign romances so she might have picked it up from one of her books. I was raised near Lancaster though, so I consider myself a true son of Lothion in any case.” Practice was honing my skills in the art of dissembling. Lady Rose’s advice came to mind so I attempted to retake the initiative, “My life must seem very boring to a man such as yourself, tell me about your family. Do you have any siblings?”

  Devon’s eyes narrowed for a moment, “A brother, Eric, but he was lost in an unfortunate accident a year ago.” I have a knack for uncomfortable topics.

  “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to remind you of such a delicate subject,” I replied.

  “No harm done, he and I never got along, and there was nothing delicate about his death either. Passed out drunk in a bath and drowned.” Devon spoke casually, but I could feel him watching my reactions carefully.

  “Was there any suspicion of foul play?” I asked.

  Devon’s face never moved, but I saw the purplish aura around him flash for a moment, “No, there was no cause for concern in that regard. Eric was well loved by all, and the girl who found him attested to the fact he had been drinking heavily before entering the bath, a few of the other women in the ‘establishment’ confirmed her story.”

  “Establishment?” I was confused.

  “He died in a brothel.” Lord Devon answered. “Now if you’ll excuse me I need to refill my glass.”

  “I would be happy to get that for you,” I said, glad to have something else to do. He proffered his glass and I started looking for the fellow with the bottle. When I returned I found him standing with Marc.

  “We were just discussing you Mordecai!” My friend said this enthusiastically but his eyes were full of warning.

  “Yes, Marcus was telling me that you’re a student of mathematics and philosophy.” Devon added.

  “I try, but I fear I will always be an humble scholar, rather than one of the pathfinders of reason.” I replied.

  “You sound as though you might be well suited as a poet. Tell me what you think of Ramanujan and his work with the Riemann Zeta Function, I get so little interesting conversation at home.” The aura around him had gotten darker again, which made his smile ominous.

  “I think no one took him seriously at first, but that was his own fault.” I said.

  “How so?”

  “He presented his ideas in a such a way as to deliberately elicit a contrary reaction from others. If he had been open about his methods, the fact he was using the Zeta function to arrive at his conclusions from the beginning there would have been a lot less controversy.” I could almost feel Devon’s disappointment. There was a very good reason we had chosen mathematics as my scholarly cover. It had become something of a hobby of mine as a result of my time studying with Marc. My parents thought it was useless abstraction of course, as did Marc, but I had found great enjoyment in the subject. Consequently I had spent a lot of time absorbing material from the Duke’s library that most folk would never have even heard of.

  “The controversy is perhaps the only reason anyone still remembers his contributions, perhaps it was necessary to preserve his work,” Devon countered.

  “I’m sure he is not the first person to hide his methods,” I was starting to get annoyed so I probably emphasized that phrase too much. “He doubtless won’t be the last, but his motive was not controversy.”

  “Do explain,” his teeth flashed as he spoke and I found myself reminded of a fox.

  “He kept his methods secret to embarrass his contemporaries. If they admitted they could not follow his work it made them look ignorant, if they argued he was wrong he revealed his methodology to make them look like fools. In essence he was an egotistical ass.” Perhaps I was a bit too passionate about my subject, I might have insulted Devon, but I hadn’t intended to, at least not consciously. The purplish light around him was pulsing now.

  “Pardon me your lordship, no offense was intended.” I added.

  “None taken,” he replied, although it was clear he felt otherwise, “you are passionate about your subject, a commendable quality in a scholar. If you’ll excuse me I should mingle some more with the other guests.” I was relieved to watch him go.

  Marc stepped closer to me and took me by the elbow, “Let's retire for a moment, I need to get some air.” He steered me to the balcony which was currently empty. Once there he spoke softly, between clenched teeth, “What the hell was that?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” I replied sipping my wine casually.

  “Could you have chosen anyone in the world to make your enemy, that man is probably the worst you could have picked.” Marc seemed genuinely worried. “What did you say to get his attention so firmly fixed on you?” He was referring to my short conversation before Marc had joined us.

  “Well I did stumble into an embarrassing topic quite by accident, I asked him about his siblings.” I quickly related the story of Devon’s brother and how he had died. “He didn’t seem particularly upset about it though.” I concluded.

  “Of all the things you could have asked that was the worst. His elder brother’s death has been the subject of many rumors. Quite a few suspect Devon of having a hand in it.”

  I could see the problem but not my own relevance, “Surely he must know I wasn’t intentionally trying to upset him.”

  Marc sighed, running his hands through his thick hair, “He knows nothing of the sort. You have to understand how people like him work. Let me give you a lesson in the aristocracy. First, he assumes that because he’s so important, everyone else must be nearly as knowledgeable about his affairs as he is. Second, if he did have something to do with his brother’s death he would have to be incredibly paranoid about it. Third, a complete stranger approaches him and starts questioning him about his brother’s ‘unfortunate’ demise. He will naturally assume that you are either trying to send him a message or embarrass him. In either case he will take it as a challenge.”

  “Oh,” I answered adroitly. “Well t
hankfully I live here rather than in Tremont.”

  “Idiot, like that matters to someone like him,” my friend was angry now.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The only person who can safely insult one of the greater peers is someone of equal rank or greater, such as my father, or someone from the royal family,” he explained it as if I were a child.

  “Thankfully my best friend is his equal in rank.” I smiled thinking that would make him feel a bi better.

  “That only makes it worse, look over there.” he glanced behind me.

  Turning so I could casually glance back into the room I saw Devon looking our way, he raised his glass and nodded at me as if in greeting. “So what does that mean?” I asked.

  “He’s already caught on that we’re friends, and he probably thinks I put you up to the questions about his brother. We were friendly before, but now he’ll mark me as his enemy. Rather than shielding you, that puts you in danger Mort.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” I said.

  “He can’t strike at me directly, so his obvious targets for retaliation will be my allies, particularly those who have limited resources of their own.” Marc looked at me intently as I finally understood what he had been trying to get across to me.

  “But I don’t even know him! I certainly never intended to make an enemy of him.” How could things have gone so terribly wrong?

  “In these circles, intentions don’t matter,” Marc answered glumly.

  “So what do I do?” I was appropriately worried now.

  “Avoid him if possible and pray he doesn’t discover much about your family and friends. Let's go back in, we’re only making him more suspicious chatting out here by ourselves.” Marc stepped back inside. I followed a moment after and made my separate way around the room.

  I wound up trapped in conversation with Stephen Airedale who was self absorbed enough to refrain from asking me anything about myself. I got bored quickly though since I had absolutely no interest in spice trading, or how much money he had made investing in it. I was about to excuse myself to visit the privies when I saw Penny enter the parlor with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. She met my eye for a moment and then looked away uncomfortably.

  I made my way to the privies with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. In the course of one short day I had managed to become a political liability to my best friend while at the same time convincing another friend I was in league with the powers of darkness. At least I hadn’t caused Dorian any trouble yet, but Marc’s comments had me worrying that he might become another of Devon’s targets if he learned of our friendship.

  The rest of the afternoon passed slowly and I finally managed to retire to my room without causing any more problems. I tried to take a nap as the social maneuverings earlier had left me tired, but I was restless. Instead I spent my time practicing the little bit I had learned. After a while I got fairly proficient at controlling the amount of light I produced. I had begun to get a feel for the flow of aythar as I created the light ball. ‘Aythar’ I had learned was the proper name for the force mages use to produce magical effects.

  There weren’t any handy subjects to practice my sleep spell on, and the hawk had made me cautious, I still felt a little bad about that. I resolved to retrieve that third book as soon as dinner was over. I couldn't make much more headway with Vestrius’ journal without a better understanding of the Lycian language.

  Eventually Benchley came to tell me that it was time to eat. Apparently Penny had arranged to have him handle me to avoid any more difficulties. As dark as my mood was I couldn’t blame her. I wasn’t feeling up to facing more political intrigue so I begged him for mercy, claiming a sudden illness. Benchley had been a valet for many years and he understood immediately.

  “Say no more sir, I’ll make your excuses for you,” he promptly left.

  After an hour a knock at the door interrupted my thoughts and for a moment I was hopeful that perhaps Penny had forgiven me for frightening her. Opening the door I found Dorian outside with a tray of food. “I thought you might be hungry,” he said.

  The sight of fresh bread and cheese reminded me that I had missed breakfast. My stomach rumbled. “Dorian come in, I could use a friend about now.” I put my depression aside and put on my broadest smile for him.

  I ate everything he had brought and soon found myself collecting the crumbs from the plate. Now that my belly was relatively more at ease I felt more able to talk, so I spent some time describing my woes to Dorian. He was suitably impressed with the depths of my folly. “You sure don’t do things by halves Mort,” he remarked.

  I had to agree.

  “At least you got to escort Lady Rose to the parlor,” my friend has always been easy to read.

  “Ok let’s hear it, I saw you watching her as we came in. Do you know her somehow?”

  He looked embarrassed, “You remember when I was fostered out last year?” It was a common practice for the sons and daughters of nobility to live for a year or two at another lord’s estate. It helped them learn more about the handling of the kingdom, gave them a broader experience of the world, and forged ties with other members of the ruling class.

  “I do, someplace in Albamarl wasn’t it?” Then I remembered, Highcastle’s home was in the capitol. “Ohhh...,” I articulated. I have a remarkable vocabulary when I put my mind to it. Finally a concise sentence came to me. “You were smitten huh?”

  “Basically,” he replied. “We didn’t speak very much though, so I doubt she even remembers me.”

  “You might be wrong there,” I said, remembering her glancing at him earlier, but I didn’t say anything more about it. We talked for a while longer before he left. But neither of us had any decent ideas regarding my problem with Devon Tremont.

  Once he had gone I headed to the library to retrieve the third book, A Grammar of Lycian.

  Chapter 6

  Rarest of all are those born with both a high emittance and a high capacitance. How many are born so is uncertain, probably no more than one among thousands, and few of those survive past adolescence. The reason for this is that their talents are extremely dangerous, more so to themselves than others. A good analogy for this would be a child given a razor blade or other dangerous implement; they are more likely to harm themselves than learn to use it properly. Those few that do survive to adulthood find themselves alone with little guidance in the proper use of their gifts unless they are lucky enough to be found by someone of knowledge. Due to these unfortunate facts truly gifted mages, or wizards as they are often called, are quite rare, and usually solitary, except in some very populous cities.

  ~Marcus the Heretic,

  On the Nature of Faith and Magic

  It was late as Penelope Cooper walked down the hallway. Her duties had kept her overlong and she was tired. All she could think of was getting to her quarters and finding some much deserved rest. As chance would have it she passed through the same corridor that led to the library. Had she passed through only five minutes earlier she would have encountered Mordecai and things might have gone very differently.

  As it was she was alone in the hallway and wrapped in her thoughts. She felt guilty for her behavior earlier. She knew Mort hadn’t meant to frighten her, but she had been completely unprepared when that fiercely brilliant ball of light had blinded her in his room. That had not been what she had expected when he had her draw the curtains and sit on the bed next to him. Truthfully she was not certain how she would have reacted if he had made a pass at her, she had much less experience with men than he seemed to believe.

  The subsequent darkness followed by Marcus’ abrupt appearance had thoroughly unnerved her and thrown her into a panic. Her reaction had left her abashed and she hadn’t known how to respond when he had looked at her in the sun room earlier, which made her feel worse.

  She was interrupted in her reverie by a door opening as she passed.

  “Miss, would you mind helping me for a moment?” Lord Devon stood in
the doorway looking upset and anxious. Terrific, she was exhausted already and now it seemed her sleep would be delayed even longer.

  “Certainly your lordship, how may I be of service?” she responded in her pleasantest tone. She took pride in her job and wouldn’t let something like fatigue spoil her performance.

  “Did you clean my room earlier? After my bags were delivered?” he asked.

  “No your lordship, I cleaned and aired all the rooms this morning before you and the other guests arrived.” She hoped this wasn’t leading up to some petulant insistence that the pillows or sheets weren’t fresh enough.

  “Perhaps you could help me then, I seem to have lost something, would you help me look?” Despite his reputation among the castle staff he seemed exceptionally polite.

  “I really shouldn’t be entering your chambers this time of night, sir,” she replied. He seemed harmless enough but that sort of rumor could ruin a girl at her age.

  “I understand. I’ll leave the door open if you prefer. It's just that I’ve lost a necklace and I’m beside myself trying to find it, it’s an heirloom you see.” He turned his back to her and went inside, leaving the door open.

  With an inward sigh she followed him. He began searching through the drawers of the dressing table. “Would you check the wardrobe for me? It’s dark in there and I can’t see very well.” She had no sooner opened the wardrobe and leaned in to look when she heard the door shut, followed by the sound of a key in the lock.

  She whirled around. Devon was putting the key into his pocket. A cold shiver ran down her spine as she saw the look on his face. She had heard stories of maids abused by young lords before, but things like this had never happened within the walls of Lancaster Castle. Such was the Duke’s reputation that no one had dared affront his hospitality before.

  “Sir if you think to spoil me, I’ll scream. The good duke won’t stand for treating the staff like this,” she tried to keep her voice level but she could feel panic setting in. Devon had at least fifty pounds on her and while she was no shrinking violet she had little doubt he could overpower her. Her eyes scanned the room frantically, looking for anything she could use as a weapon to keep him at bay. It occurred to her that if she injured a peer of the realm, she might be put to death at worst, beaten and dismissed at best.