Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “By ancient custom and right, an Alshari duke holds the power of life and death over the vassals in homage to him,” Anguin continued to lecture, “and failure of service is akin to failure in war. That is treason, from my studies. I execute you now, in my own name and by my own hand, for the crime of giving me bad advice, Baron Edmarin. Treasonous advice.

  “As such, your lands and property will be confiscated by the coronet, and your heirs turned out. You, Baron Edmarin, may die with your title. No other heir of your blood or House Eith shall bear it ever again.”

  With a final, decisive twist the duke withdrew his blade and allowed the gibbering nobleman to try in vain to keep his insides within his skin. Anguin wiped his traveling sword on the filthy nightshirt as the baron moaned and screamed. Just as his bladder added to the pool of foul liquid on the paving, Anguin sheathed his sword.

  Pentandra stifled the urge to squeak, now. She was no stranger to violence, but she was no admirer, either, and the duke’s actions had been swift and unexpected.

  “Post a guard over him,” the young duke ordered. “No one is to render him any aid or assistance until dawn. If the gods grant him life to see another day, cauterize the wound and put him in a cell,” he announced. “If he doesn’t, put his corpse in a gibbet.”

  “Leave him here, in the throne room, Sire?” asked Father Amus, a note of disapproval in his voice.

  “Here, Father. In the sight of everyone. I will not tolerate deceit or faithlessness from my court, and I wish all to know it.”

  Pentandra suddenly realized why the young duke had taken this particular path, as soon as he’d arrived at the palace. She was impressed. She learned more details, later, when she had time to discuss the matter with the others on the Council, in private, but she realized that the act of brutality had been more than the frustrated rage of a new-made duke – it had been a calculated political ploy.

  The Baron had been appointed by one of the Kingdom Prime Minister’s aids, when a Steward for Vorone was needed. He’d selected a friend, a local powerful baron who had often conspired with Castal in the past over skirting the edicts of the Alshari dukes. As a royal appointee, Anguin would have a difficult time getting rid of the man, once he could hide behind the cloak of his royal office.

  But he was also technically Anguin’s vassal, and as such he was under his authority first. An actual trial and inquest for corruption would be lengthy, involve lawbrothers and witnesses, and plenty of influence from abroad to manipulate the outcome. This way not only was the problem resolved – legally – but Anguin had removed a dangerous piece from the board before it could be brought to bear on him.

  There would be no question of a transition, now. The old Steward was dead – or would be before dawn, she could see, as he fell to his knees in a puddle of his own juices. There was no need for another, with Anguin seated at Vorone.

  “Count Salgo, if you would be good enough to have our men finish securing the palace, I feel the need for at least a little sleep tonight,” Anguin requested. “Tomorrow is Yule, after all.”

  That first night in the decrepit palace was busy for Pentandra, and she found herself borrowing magical power to stay awake and alert to get through her mission.

  The seizing of power did not stop with the death of Baron Edmarin. The entire palace had to be secured before she could rest. Pentandra had duties assigned to her, just as everyone in the Duke’s party had, and hers were specifically magical in nature.

  The Restorationists had spent nearly a year at one of the Duke’s estates in northern Gilmora, planning and plotting for this night, and they had left no detail unconsidered. Agents of the Duke, sent secretly by Father Amus, had infiltrated the town and even the court to provide the party the intelligence they required before they acted. Many of those agents had long-enough familiarity with the details of the palace during happier days to know where the political assets were stationed.

  The Restorationists’ goal was simple: as close to a bloodless assumption of power as possible. By seizing the palace quickly and establishing control, and by countering the lackluster garrison with the crack troops of the Orphan’s Band mercenaries hired for the purpose, Duke Anguin and his advisors hoped to prevent any hint of resistance to his rule from forming.

  Pentandra had been in favor of the stratagem as the wisest – not to mention least violent – course of action. But it also ensured a busy night for her. As court wizard her duties involved establishing proper wards and magically securing certain areas of the palace. Among them was the late Baron’s personal treasury, as well as the Ducal treasury. She used her prepared magemap of the palace to get to her destinations without getting lost in the architectural monstrosity, and took the young nun of Ifnia’s order, Coinsister Saltia, to help.

  She’d gotten to know the woman in the last few weeks of preparation. She was chubby, under her nun’s habit, and entirely devoted to her vocation as priestess. She even insisted on rolling dice before making serious decisions, as a tribute to Ifnia’s holy randomness. Saltia was a merry friend, and easy to work with.

  But tonight the nun was anxious, fearing reprisals or hidden traps around every corner. Pentandra didn’t have the heart to tell her about the Baron’s lackluster execution, and the profound unlikelihood that there would be a palace uprising against the Duke. She wanted the priestess alert.

  Saltia stood guard while Pentandra summoned her new baculus and cast the spell on the treasury. A fiendishly complex spellbinding kept anyone less powerful than herself from going in either vault door without her permission. Saltia tried the vault door herself, and pronounced herself satisfied.

  Pentandra was also detailed to secure the prison wing, a long vaulted series of underground chambers below the front of the palace. There was a strong possibility that the cells within housed political prisoners who would prove loyal to Anguin, as well as anyone who had gained the ire of the Steward. Anguin wanted all of them interviewed, when the time came, and wanted no one secreted away before he could notice them.

  She put the turnkey asleep with one spell and secured the others magically with a less-complicated spellbinding before she hurried to secure the final vault on her list. Pentandra supposed she could have reasoned with the man, producing orders or someone in clear authority, but the truth was she didn’t have the time for that. And the records stored within the Office of Lands & Estates was exceedingly important.

  The cavernous tomb where the records of land ownership of the various fiefs in northern Alshar were kept had no intrinsic wealth inside, but it was the only record of who owned what and what taxes they owed the coronet. While she doubted anyone would steal them, a good many people could gain by their sudden and mysterious destruction during a change of regime. The records were perhaps more valuable to the young Duke than the treasury. Without those documents his realm truly would be broken.

  By the time she had finished her rounds and rejoined the other ministers around the throne in the Stone Hall, not even magic was keeping the weariness at bay any more.

  She listened to Bold Asgus’ grinning report to Anguin that the Orphan’s Band mercenaries had secured every part of the palace, from gatehouse to the inner chambers, and secured the garrison. She stifled a yawn as the big mercenary captain gleefully told how the only time his men had been challenged they subdued the solitary guard so quickly he hadn’t made a sound.

  Then it was her turn to speak.

  Pentandra dutifully reported her mission successfully concluded, assured the court that no one would lay a hand on coin, prisoner, or deed without her assent, and then begged a few hours of sleep. Duke Anguin gratefully granted her that, after thanking her for her service.

  That was when Pentandra realized she didn’t have any place to sleep, in this strange, chilly old palace.

  She ended up wandering out of the great doors and down a passage until she found a storeroom containing old draperies and tapestries waiting to be mended or used for special occasions.

&n
bsp; Worse than a servant’s bindle, she noted, but she had slept in worse places on the trail or in the field. After taking the Kasari rites, a warm pile of musty tapestries looked terribly inviting. She thankfully curled up under her cloak on the lumpy rolls and was instantly asleep. After nine hours on horseback and another five scurrying through the bowels of the palace, she could have slept on broken crockery.

  She awoke a few hours later, still exhausted but more intrigued by events than by sleep. She stumbled to a privy before seeking out the Great Hall, the hub of the palace.

  The Great Hall was designed along southern lines – southern Alshar, she corrected, not southern Castal – and certainly not Remere. When the maritime Dukes of Alshar had constructed this second capital so far away from the wharfs and docks of Enultramar, they had imported many of the styles of that decadent land.

  Pentandra didn’t have a problem with decadence – she was Remeran, her people had perfected the art – but Alshari styles seemed to combine the worst elements of ornamentation and function.

  The high-peaked arches throughout the palace were indicative, part of her mind observed as she walked toward the Great Hall. They were far too wide, and far too tall, to be effective here. The southern style was developed in the hot coastlands where keeping cool was important. The wide doorways and pointed arches captured the sea breeze nicely.

  But here they just made the whole place draughty. Vorone was in a river valley of a mountainous country, not a subtropical coastland. There was plenty of wind here – far too much. The smaller round-topped doorways the Wilderlords favored would have been far better suited. The gallery on the second floor overlooking the busy hall was decorated with a succession of anchors, sea axes, cotton bolls, plows, antlers, and other national symbols of the ducal house, and once they had been grand.

  Now the gilt was growing pitted and the paint was peeling and cracking. The vaulted roof, upheld by beams carved to resemble anchor chains and ropes, was teeming with cobwebs. Three massive chandeliers, crafted as anchors and antlers, had not been used in years, and were infested with spiders and spinners.

  The great fireplace was sculpted out of marble to look like the stern of an Alshari man-of-war. Every other column bore a figurehead of some famous naval vessel, the alternates bearing great racks of antlers in deference to Wilderlord sensibilities. The entire palace was built to resemble one of the great maritime palaces of Enultramar, long and spacious and grand. And utterly out of place here in the Wilderlands.

  The whole palace – the whole town – was like that. The Alshari dukes had come to the Wilderlands as Sea Lords and conquerors. When they had built the summer capital at Vorone they had built it to symbolize the dominion of Wave over Wood. Vorone was where the first settlers symbolized the sea’s conquest of the forest.

  But now the sea was sundered from the ducal line by rebellion, the forest was all that was left to the Orphan Duke. Every anchor decoration she saw, every threadbare tapestry depicting a naval battle, every sea axe and anchor, every nautical-themed ornament in the palace reminded her of that. And likely reminded the other members of the Duke’s Party of the great task ahead of them. This was it, all they had to work with. The ship of state was aground in the wood.

  She found Count Salgo near the fireplace in the main hall with Bold Asgus, where their rank had allowed them to commandeer one of the impressive permanent tables nearby. The men discussing military matters when she approached their familiar faces.

  “Good morning, gentlemen, and merry Yule!” she said as she glided over to the fireplace, where a kettle was boiling. The marble ship’s stern was an ornate thing, supported by two stylized Sea Folk supporters . . . and half the size it needed to be for a room this size. Brass braziers around the hall tried to make up for the deficit. “I see I didn’t awaken to insurrection and rebellion in the palace. I take it there hasn’t been the expected opposition?” She poured hot water into a chipped crockery mug she found on the mantle and then added her morning herbal blend.

  “It seems the element of surprise was in our favor, my lady,” Bold Asgus agreed.

  “No one expected His Grace to dare return to . . . this,” Count Salgo agreed, looking around at the cracked plaster and plentiful cobwebs. “His reappearance took everyone by surprise, as planned. But that doesn’t mean opposition to his rule won’t emerge.”

  “It is Yule, after all,” Captain Asgus agreed. “Not even seasoned brigands would give up their holiday revels. Even spies and saboteurs need time to act. No, now that we control the palace, your foes will absorb the news and wait to see where your weaknesses are before they strike.”

  “They won’t have to look too hard,” Pentandra sighed. “Apart from your good men, Captain, we have no more than three hundred warriors to depend upon, and the company of archers we brought from His Grace’s estate. When you leave . . .”

  The two thousand men of the mercenary unit Minalan had arranged for Angrial to hire had, unfortunately, accepted a contract in the south long before Duke Anguin had contacted them. They would be departing south from Vorone as soon as the roads and fords were clear. The archers he’d brought from Gilmora were good men, she knew, but they were anxious to return to their homes and not up to serious duty.

  “We will have the town well in-hand by Briga’s Day,” promised Count Salgo as he sipped spirits from a small silver cup. Pentandra wasn’t sure if he was just arising, which made such an indulgence suspect, or if he had yet to sleep, in which case a drink might well be in order. “Once we take proper control of the garrison, we’ll control the city. I know of Sire Baskei – he has a solid reputation, and I approved his commission under Rard. Once I speak with him I think we will come to some understanding.”

  By all accounts the “royal garrison” at Vorone was a joke, militarily speaking. Bold Asgus certainly thought so.

  “The garrison? A thousand ill-trained and poorly-armed conscripts commanded by a corps of landless knights who lead by their titles, not their swords! While it is technically an army, Count Salgo, just how long could it stand a real attack against the town?”

  “Right now? A day. Let me train them for three months, however, and we’ll see them stand as long as they need to. The men are decent enough, but without leadership, training, and investment they will never be good enough to handle anything beyond a riot.”

  Pentandra trusted Salgo’s professional military judgment. The man was adept at command, and there was no one better suited to revive the garrison. But he had his work cut out for him, by all accounts.

  Anguin had wisely sent men to Vorone to assess the military situation while he was still preparing in Gilmora. The reports hadn’t been encouraging. The administration was notoriously corrupt, diverting royal funds into their personal purses while their men wanted for boots, the Duke’s spies had reported.

  The Baron had bribed the commanders liberally and granted them concessions and even dispensed lands for their loyalty. Sire Baskei, the garrison commander, was rumored to be enjoying the holiday at one of his gifted estates this morning. But since the garrison was funded by the crown and the garrison commander a royal appointment, he was beyond the legal reach of the Duke.

  But so had the Steward been. Anguin had found a way.

  “From what I hear, Baskei is a reasonable man,” Count Salgo said, putting his cup away in his pouch. “The king might pay him and his men, but he isn’t exactly a tool of Castal.”

  “Bah! Execute him and replace him,” suggested Asgus. “He is tainted from Edmarin’s stain. Your opinion, my lady mage?”

  Pentandra considered. “I’d give him an opportunity to betray us in good faith before I’d send him to the headsman.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Salgo. “Don’t kill a man for what he hasn’t done yet. Baskei had to deal with Edmarin, that doesn’t mean that the two were confederates.”

  “He is at the top of a long list of courtiers that Count Angrial wants me to interview, under enchantment, to ensure their loyalty,�
�� Pentandra pointed out.

  “Does that actually work?” Salgo asked, intrigued.

  “It takes a lot of will to fight your way out of a truthtell spell,” Pentandra said as she sipped the bitter tea. “It can be done, but most men who are open to treachery lack the will to resist the effects. It is a sensible precaution of the Duke,” she praised. She had to admit that though she had not thought the lad capable of ruling, Minalan had seen the boy’s potential and a way to capitalize on it while it was developing.

  “That reminds me – there was business this morning we have to attend to, I believe. When is the council meeting?” she asked, sipping her bitter tea.

  “As soon as Count Angrial arrives,” supplied Salgo, brushing at his furry lip with the back of his hand. For once his big bushy mustache and clean-shaven face was not out of place, as the style was favored among Wilderlords more than Riverlords. “He’s spent the night interviewing minor functionaries and the head staff himself, to try to put together court this morning. I don’t think the Prime Minister has slept at all.”

  “For myself,” Bold Asgus said, thoughtfully, “I am curious as to how the people of Vorone will react to the change in regime.”

  “I can’t see how they would view it as anything but a blessing,” Pentandra said, gulping down the rest of her tea. “The people are always removed from the affairs of court, save how they are affected by policy. Having a duke in the palace will be seen as a good thing,” she predicted, “until they realize that they have a real duke in the palace again, with nothing better to do than manage the affairs of the town and countryside. That is when we’ll see opposition arise. For now,” she prophesied, “I think the townsfolk will welcome the change.”

  Chapter Four

  A Thaumaturgical Baculus In Duke Anguin’s Court

  The town of Vorone awoke the morning of Yule to the expected tolling of temple bells at dawn . . . and the unexpected – and unbelievable – news that the Duke had returned to the palace in the night. It seemed like some Yule miracle, the kind that come from fairy tales and old stories. Most dismissed the news as soon as they’d heard the first rumor. Vorone had seen too many such fictions for the dispirited populace to take such optimistic whispers seriously any more.