Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  She picked out by eye those who were suddenly frightened, those who were angered, and those who were pleased by the development. Her new thaumaturgical tool helpfully kept track of those people for her, as well as its impressions. Some looked guilty, some relieved, some terrified. Some managed to display themselves to her as all at once, though their exterior faces were stone-like, practiced smiles pasted on their sleepy faces, the traditional mask of the courtier.

  It was fascinating, learning so much about these people before she even knew their names. A few she determined were decidedly against the new regime, and she marked them for immediate and special attention. Some were so gleeful she noted them as well, for referral to the Prime Minister. Cultivating loyal support was just as important to the new regime as ferreting out treachery.

  Without asking, her baculus started suggesting patterns based on the associations they mutually perceived. While Pentandra was amazed at the intuitive way the tool worked, she was far more impressed with the results.

  Even in this rude place, an out-of-place summer palace in the depths of winter, where the style ran to gaudy celebration of the surrounding Wilderlands and where local lords dressed in homespun wool tunics instead of finely embroidered cotton doublets, the nuances of social power were still in effect. Whether tribal council or the royal court, the rules of human engagement were always the same, Pentandra reflected. As Court Wizard, it was her job to employ the arcane to support the political regime. Determining who the bad guys were before they could reveal themselves was decidedly within the scope of her new position.

  The duties which Anguin had invested her were far greater in scope than those enjoyed by Master Thinradel, her predecessor in the post. Instead of keeping the position of Court Wizard a mere bureaucratic functionary and member of the larger Great Council, not the inner Court, Pentandra had been included in the close circle of advisors Anguin kept around him since she’d agreed to accept his offer of the position. Implicit in the bargain was the idea that she would use the powers at her command to cleanse and restore the summer capital, and eventually what remained of the Duchy.

  That she had no real idea how to do that hadn’t deterred her. As she reached forth her discernment over the courtiers of the old regime, she began to appreciate the advantages she possessed over her predecessors. Few magi, unaugmented by irionite and Minalan’s enchantments, could have learned so much about so many people in such a short time. The baculus compiled the results for her like a helpful servant, allowing her to review it later, but her initial assessment was telling.

  Over half of the court functionaries present were profoundly disturbed by the sudden change of regime. Plots had been interrupted, plans had been overturned, schemes had been ruined by Anguin’s sudden appearance and resumption of authority. They were angry, Pentandra noted, but most were just afraid of the sudden uncertainty.

  By the time Pentandra pulled her consciousness out of the baculus Anguin was finishing his speech, promising the usual rewards and acclaim for faithful service and dire consequences for betrayal or failure. When he dismissed the court to enjoy the holiday’s festivities, none of them doubted that the politics of the moment had suddenly changed.

  A few of the nobles of court lingered to welcome the Duke, thank him, and attempt to swear fealty to him there on the spot. Count Angrial graciously declined on His Grace’s behalf, although he gratefully accepted the token of their fealty – such ceremonies needed to be done in court, in public, where all could witness it.

  “That was exhausting,” Pentandra yawned to Arborn as she waited for the courtiers to leave. Her husband – husband! – had been just as busy as she last night, but he hardly looked it. His dark features were as alert and awake.

  “All we did was stand around and talk,” Arborn said, confused.

  “My mind is exhausted, my sweet, not my body. I’ve been doing magic. I need sleep. As I’m sure you do. I can’t wait to be asleep in a real bed after a week on the road!”

  Ideally she and Arborn would have moved directly into the official residence and offices of the Alshari Court Wizard – but they were in a frightful state of repair, and unready for habitation, from what she saw when she visited them. Nor did she have just herself to look out for – Arborn had persuaded a dozen of his fellow Kasari rangers to join him as woodwards in his new position, and he was responsible for their housing, too. Which meant that now Pentandra was responsible for them.

  Thankfully she was not without resources. After a brief moment of panic when she realized that she had no place ready for her to stay, and being unwilling to take residence in the inns of Vorone, she remembered that Minalan had taken over ownership of a townhome in the noble’s quarter of Northwood, one that had originally belonged to Sire Koucey of Boval Vale.

  Since Pentandra had once been imprisoned by the Wilderlord – in a common dungeon cell! – she had no compunctions about enjoying his hospitality, or Minalan’s. The fact that the old coot was now in a prison of his own, in eternal servitude to Sheruel, the Dead God, as recompense for his ancestors’ treachery, did little to soften Pentandra’s ire at the man. She would be happy to let her new husband enjoy Koucey’s hospitality. She’d already arranged for her baggage to be taken then, along with a short note to the caretaker, Surduin.

  “I am rested enough,” he shrugged, his big shoulders making his mantle dance deliciously. “It was an easy few days on horseback, and then we got here and didn’t even have to fight.”

  “Not yet. Not with swords, anyway,” Pentandra said, wryly. “What duties have you been given?”

  Arborn was technically the Ducal Master of Wood, the court official with the responsibility over the duchy’s vast forest resources. That had been a concession by Anguin to get Pentandra to come to work for him. No one was better suited to oversee the vast forests of Alshar than a Kasari captain of rangers. But until the snows melted in the spring, there wasn’t much for Arborn to do in his official capacity, so he had been utilized by Count Salgo as a special troubleshooter for the transition. That was going to keep him deployed more than she had anticipated.

  “I am to seek out the leading burghers in the town and read to them the Duke’s Yule proclamations, and get their seal that they have heard and understood it,” he reported, grinning wryly. “Some of them will cause some anguish. Count Angrial thought it best if they were delivered in a polite but intimidating fashion. He believes that I can accomplish this.”

  “There’s no one better for that,” she agreed. Arborn wasn’t a warrior by trade, but that was a choice. He was big, he carried himself with a deadly grace, and he could stare down the stars themselves. He would have been a valuable addition to any military force he cared to join – but he was not a violent man, by nature. “I’ll be stuck interviewing courtiers and prisoners all day. But promise me you’ll try to make it back to the house by dinner?”

  “I will do my best,” he assured her, quoting a Kasari motto. “I did speak to Count Angrial earlier about my office’s priorities. Unfortunately, for the next few days we are needed outside of Vorone, to help spread news and take an accounting of the nearby estates before they can manage to organize against him. We will travel to local manors considered strategically important and ensure that they understand the new political reality, and their responsibilities under it. So it seems I will soon be deployed with my men,” he added, with a mixture of disappointment and eagerness in his voice.

  Pentandra was suddenly overcome by his strength and calm confidence in the face of so much activity. She tossed aside decorum and embraced him suddenly in the middle of the Stone Hall, before bestowing kiss on his surprised lips.

  “Happy Yule,” she said, as she relaxed into his arms. “Not the way I wanted to celebrate the holiday with my new husband. But I think it foretells a very interesting marriage.”

  Arborn gave a sudden and uncharacteristic laugh. “A barbarian Kasari ranger and a Remeran mage of Imperial blood? My wife, there was no way we are destined
for a boring union.”

  Pentandra smiled, enjoying the few beautiful moments she was able to just exist inside the emotional protection of Arborn’s arms. It was as if the tension she had accumulated for the last day drained out of her in the embrace. She had always feared the dreary obligations and inevitable conflict that seemed implicit in marriage. But in moments like these, she began to appreciate the benefits, too. She happily continued with her interviews, refreshed by her few moments alone with him.

  He was nowhere to be seen, when her busy day concluded with the chapel bell. Pentandra finished her last interview and made the long walk back home just before the sun set. Darkness fell quickly, this far north and this late in the year. She was not concerned with her safety, despite Vorone’s rough reputation. The Orphan’s Band controlled the streets, patrolling in squadrons of four or holding tactically important street corners.

  Besides, anyone who attempted to rob Pentandra would have to face the power of her spellcraft, so she felt reasonably secure walking back to the Northwood ward.

  She followed her baculus’ direction through the unfamiliar snowy streets, choosing to walk the long way, largely through the protected palace grounds, though it was twice as long. Once she exited the gates into Vorone, proper, she gingerly stepped around the path littered with footprints and less pleasant offerings after the busy holiday. The open gutter in the center of the street was frozen over still, holding the winter’s refuse in stasis.

  What an apt metaphor for Vorone, she decided as she walked to the Spellmonger’s Hall. And now we’re going to thaw that filth, and let it flow, she added to herself, resigned.

  She spent the time on her walk usefully, employing magic to contact the senior magi in the Wilderlands to let them know about the important development. Thanks to her Astyral, the steward of the important city of Tudry, knew about the new Duke’s occupation of Vorone, as did the militarily powerful Magelord Azar, head of the Horkan Order of Warmagi and the Megelini Knights. Pentandra was able to persuade Astyral to hold the news of Anguin’s bold move seizing Vorone from Tudry’s Mirror array for a few days.

  The magical net that allowed communication between the far-flung, important cities of the Kingdom did not yet include Vorone, but Tudry had a node. The longer she could delay the news, the longer Anguin would have to get established before his foes would have time to plot against him.

  Lady Carmella, head of the Order of Hesian Warmagi (responsible for support and supply, fortifications and defenses for the war) was also informed, as was Wenek, Baron of the Pearwoods, and a half-dozen other High Magi scattered across the Wilderlands. By the time she got to the glowing green snowflake on the door of the hall, she had accomplished much. She had at least been able to wish them a merry Yule.

  It did not feel much like the holiday to her, thanks to the anxiety and the frenetic activity. Traditionally Yule was a day of drunken celebration, visits to temples, and feasting. Pentandra had indulged in none of that. But it was Yule, she knew, her first Yule with her husband. She would not be a good wife if she did not at least make some effort at merriment. This was no proper hall for her husband to return home to on their first Yule together!

  She summoned her baculus and examined the place with highly augmented magesight for the first time. She had been far too busy to invest her attention in the place, even though she’d spent a week under its roof, and she was curious. The internal structure and roofing were intact and in good repair, she quickly saw, and the place seemed relatively free of vermin. Satisfied, she put the tool back into her ring

  The hall was dusty and needed sweeping desperately, and the chamber above was in a miserable state. Pentandra employed magic, the cook, and two neighborhood girls (daughters of a penniless lord two doors down) to scrub the place from top to bottom, and paid extra for the sheets and blankets to be laundered. She dried them all by magic, rather than wait for them to dry in front of the fire. The tapestries were taken up to the loft and beaten by the caretaker, and the crockery was re-washed.

  Noting the state of the pantry and buttery, Pentandra sent the younger girl to the Market ward for supplies. While it was after-hours, and the throes of a holiday, Pentandra knew that with adequate coin anything could be had in Vorone at any hour. She was proven correct when the girl returned two hours later laden with at least some of the supplies Pentandra had sent her for.

  By the time darkness fell, the hall was reasonably prepared and the chamber above was nearly comfortable, according to Pentandra’s standards.

  Arborn arrived late that night, thankfully, and did not elect to sleep at his tiny office in the palace. Pentandra left word with the guard where he could find her, and by the time he found his way to the snowflaked door of Spellmonger’s Hall, she had almost gotten the place presentable. Or at least bearable. When Arborn climbed the stairs from below, his men exclaiming at the mulled wine she’d left bubbling in a kettle over the fire, there were magelights hanging in the air of their bedchamber like lazy clouds, a fire crackling merrily on the hearth, and a small pot of soup bubbling over it.

  “Welcome home, my husband,” Pentandra said, handing him a goblet of wine.

  “The hall looks lovely, my wife,” he agreed, pleased. It was full of his men who, while rangers used to the wilds, were happier sleeping on a clean floor, not a filthy one. True, the rushes on it were two years old and dusty, but it was warmer and drier than they could have found outside.

  Their bedchamber, above, was only marginally cleaner than before, and had yet to receive Pentandra’s luggage, but the canopied bed was wide and comfortable and the fireplace filled the room with a cozy glow. Pentandra used magic to seal the chamber from draughts and dampen the sounds from within. It would take a few more days to restore it to full cleanliness, she knew, but it would do for the night.

  But even on its best day, she knew, Boval House would never pass her mother’s expectations about what kind of home her daughter should have. It was a Wilderlord’s townhome, meant for temporary lodgings, not a permanent residence. It was small – too small for a noble family – and hardly the richest townhouse on the street. No matter what she did to it, Pentandra knew, her mother would find fault with it.

  That added a certain amount of delicious indulgence in her possession of it.

  And if her mother was so willing to criticize her choice of home, Pentandra knew she would have plenty to say about her choice of husband. She was just as happy that the woman was more than five hundred leagues and two duchies away. And once Amendra got to really know Arborn, and appreciated the fact that he had slept under more stars than roofs in his life, she might realize that as humble as Spellmonger’s Hall might be, to him it was an embarrassing luxury. For as rustic as this might appear to her, Pentandra could already tell that the house was far more urban than the Kasari were used to.

  It was a compromise in her marriage, she knew, but a helpful one. As she and Arborn snuggled together, late in the evening, exhausted from their long day, she honestly didn’t give a damn what her mother thought. Pentandra was happy, relatively speaking, happier than she’d been her entire life. She would be damned before she’d let her mother mess that up.

  Before she fell asleep after their delicious union, with Arborn snoring beside her, she took the quiet of the moment to contact Minalan and officially inform the Spellmonger about their success.

  He was, after all, the chief architect of the new regime, and had risked much in seeing it established under the nose of the King. If things went poorly with Anguin, she knew, King Rard would eventually trace his supporters back to Minalan, which could prove awkward for relations between the state and the arcane. It didn’t take her very long to make contact with Min, mind-to-mind.

  Well, we have a restoration, Pentandra proclaimed, proudly.

  We do? he asked, sounding surprised.

  As of last night. The bum of a baron who was holding court here was caught completely unawares. The Orphans moved to counter the garrison and keep the
m in their camp. And Anguin really put on a show, claiming his rightful place as ruler. There was an execution. And two imprisonments. Very exciting.

  Any serious resistance? Minalan asked, warily.

  Not yet, Pentandra admitted, but honestly I don’t expect there to be for a few days, until the players in court figure out what the situation is. But one thing is for certain: our sudden arrival interrupted at least a dozen brazen cases of abuse of position. The palace has been picked bare. I have no doubt some fled in the night – we’ll have to see who shows up to the council meeting this morning to determine just who, and with what.

  Let me know if you need any help, okay? he instructed her.

  While the offer was authentic, Pentandra was reluctant to consider it, if it wasn’t vital to the success of the mission. But she became concerned. Minalan just didn’t sound himself, for some reason. He sounded . . . tired. Pentandra promised herself not to call upon him unless it was absolutely necessary.

  I can manage this, she promised. And thank you for the use of your home.

  My . . . what?

  The hall you appropriated in Vorone? Sire Koucey’s residence in the capital? Until adequate quarters can be secured in the palace, Arborn and I are staying there. I hope you don’t mind.

  Of course not. Was there anyone there?

  Just the old one-legged warmage who Astyral detailed to become caretaker. He’s used the place once himself, when he visited. But it’s cozy, even with a dozen rangers downstairs. Arborn has pledged their service to the Duke to help restore order in Vorone. They were extremely helpful last night, when things got tense.