Lady Polaris had vast holdings and vast powers-neither of which the two wizards knew much about-so she never wasted time with underlings. She spoke immediately. "Candlemas, and Sysquemalyn, this concerns you, too. There is something wrong with the wheat harvest. Everyone at court is talking about it, and I said I would take care of the problem, whatever it is. Fix it." The palantir went blank, a black glass globe again.
Candlemas shook his head. "What did she say? A problem with wheat?"
Sysquemalyn sniffed. "Who is she to treat us like peasants? What does she have that we don't?"
"Enough power to turn this castle into a volcano, if she wished it," muttered Candlemas. "But what's this foolishness about wheat?"
He stopped at a knock on the doorjamb. Two lesser mages from one of the bottommost workshops stood in the hall. Candlemas didn't even know their names. Timidly, one said, "Milord? This basket arrived for you."
Sysquemalyn sniffed, but Candlemas waved them forward with a sigh. Any delivery from Lady Polaris would almost certainly be bad news. "Yes, yes, bring it here; then get out." Almost dropping the basket in their haste, the lesser mages fled.
Candlemas approached the bushel of grain slowly, as if it might explode. Archmages were known to slaughter their thralls on short-or no-notice, and anything sent by one was suspect. But kneeling carefully beside the container, the steward found it contained only wheat, if oddly red-tinged.
Sysquemalyn sauntered over, sniffed again. "What does she expect us to do, bake coriander rolls?"
Candlemas gingerly rolled a wheat kernel between a stubby finger and thumb. "It's hollow. And red."
"So?"
Peering closely, Candlemas crushed another kernel. Instead of resisting, as would solid, food-rich seeds, it flattened like a milkweed pod. The red dust stained his fingers, and he wiped them fastidiously on his robe. "I've never seen this before, though I've heard of it. Rust, the peasants call it. It's a blight that eats the heart of the kernels."
"You're boring me, 'Mas."
"You don't understand." Candlemas dumped the contents of the basket out onto the floor. All the grain was afflicted with rust. "This is bad, and could mean disaster. There's nothing to these kernels but jackets, hulls. There's no food value here. If all the crops are like this, people will starve!"
"We won't starve. There's enough preserved food, dried and jarred and pickled, in the larders and pantries and cellars to last a year or more. Lady Polaris orders it so, in case we're besieged."
"No, no, the peasants will starve, or go hungry, anyway. Wheat makes bread and ale. Without it, they'll have only rye and barley. That means a third of our crops lost, a third fewer cattle and horses and pigs in the spring!"
"You're still boring-"
Agitated, Candlemas grabbed a handful of grain and shook it so some spattered onto Sysquemalyn. "Blatherbrain, listen! Less grain to sell. A third less revenue! Or worse, because we'll have to buy grain. Less money! Get it now? Do you want to explain to Lady Polaris that she'll have less money to gamble, to spend on magic, to squander on lavish presents for her friends? A woman who once bet ten thousand crowns on whether the next drop of candle wax would land inside a dish or without?"
"Oh." Sysquemalyn bit her lower lip. "No, I wouldn't want to tell her. Fortunately, you will, because she sent you the basket."
"She sent us the basket! She included you in the order, remember?"
"No," the woman lied. Then she shrugged. "Maybe it's not a real problem. Maybe it's just a local bug. Or it may be that it's a test she's sending you, hoping you'll find a cure for someone else's crops, someone to whom she owes a debt. We don't know what she thinks or really wants."
"No, that's true." Candlemas tossed down the grain. "Still, I'll have to find a cure. We will. Or she'll feed our livers to the peasants."
A shrug was his answer. Sysquemalyn returned to the palantir, traced an arcane pattern, first circles, then intersecting triangles, and brought up the image of Sunbright, who appeared to be scouting for a defensible hollow under thornbushes at the bottom of the gorge. "Let's get back to our bet."
"What? Oh, yes." Somehow their silly wager didn't seem so important now. They'd begun it this morning out of boredom. They were humans, after all, and had lived an incredible number of years. Not much happened in the castle or grounds, so boredom was their major enemy, and squabbling their main entertainment. Candlemas joined her at the palantir. "So, you still contend surface humans-"
"Mud men."
"Yes, mud men are no better than cows and horses?"
Lifting glittering eyes of green, Sysquemalyn laughed. "Worse, actually. Livestock are tractable. These creatures are independent. When they think, they invariably think about hating us."
Candlemas watched the young man hunt for a campsite. He noticed that the barbarian rejected many spots, places with too many or not enough exits of that were too far from water or likely to flood if it rained. "You don't know humans like I do. Most of those under your command were born in this castle and have never set foot on real soil. I deal with humans all the time, and they're capable of accomplishing a great deal if given proper supervision."
"So are-what are they called? — prairie dogs. They burrow holes and connect them up, and make entire cities, someone told me. Clever things, digging holes in dirt so wolves have a hard time eating them." Scorn tinged her words.
Candlemas pointed at the room around him. "Our castles and cities are of stone, which is merely hardened dirt. And we use humans-mud men, as you call them-to maintain them. If we Netherese get any more decadent, the humans may take over someday and supplant us entirely."
Sysquemalyn laughed long and loud, a rippling trill that chilled the man's spine. "Ah, yes! I can see it now, groundlings sitting at table, eating with silverware, running Toril with brays and squeals and grunts! If you believe that, then by all means, let's firm our wager."
"Fine." Candlemas's eyes strayed to the dumped wheat, which his underwizard was already hurriedly cleaning off the workroom floor. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a nuisance, after all. He'd send his apprentices out with news of a reward, and perhaps someone would produce a cure. If that didn't work, he'd have to be more severe. Perhaps the threat of kidnapping firstborns would make the farmers produce better crops. "What's the bet?"
So far this morning, Sysquemalyn had idly steered the orcish patrol onto Sunbright's trail, and so precipitated their battle. Now the wizard continued, "Let's subject this gruntling to more tests. Increasingly exacting. Until he dies and I win, or he perseveres and you win. The loser loses a limb."
"Limb?" Candlemas looked at his own arms and legs. "I'm rather fond of the ones I have."
"I don't see why." Cattily, Sysquemalyn looked him up and down. "They're podgy and hairy and none too clean, I suspect. You could pass for human."
"Don't sweet-talk me, love," was the snide reply.
Smirking, Sysquemalyn pointed a finger at the man's rope belt. Candlemas jumped as his smock suddenly tilted upward below the knot. He grabbed it and pushed it flat. "That is not a limb!"
"No? Then perhaps you'll miss it less when it's gone. You're not using it overmuch now, according to my maids' gossip,"
Candlemas huffed. "Obviously your maids don't tell you everything, like my stable hands tell me."
Sysquemalyn idly moved the toe of her boot to point at some grain that still lay on the floor. The under-wizard hurried over and scooped it up into a small crock, which the redhead casually took from his hands. "So our bet is on?"
"Yes, yes." Candlemas agreed dismissively. Something was wrong with this wager. It never paid to let someone else set all the terms. But the reminder of the blight had distracted him. What should he do first?