Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  But without a sitting Duke to advise and threaten, without a fully-functional court to generate income and expenditures, her title and position were largely useless. She had been overseeing what was left of the ducal accounts on her own, after Baron Edmarin allowed them to pile up, just for the lack of better work to do. After she said as much, in the first tense introductions over wine in the small chamber Angrial had selected for the interview, she began to issue forth her opinions with the precision and accuracy of a veteran archer.

  “The fleet is where the wealth of Alshar has always resided,” she said with the conviction of the Coastlord she was. “Without Falas and the rest of Enultramar, the fleets, the ports, the merchants, the towns and the plantations of the south, Alshar is nothing,” she declared. “Why have you wasted time and resources laying claim to a run-down palace in a patch of wood, when your real legacy lies south, Your Grace?” she asked in a tone of a reproving grandmother disturbed by the foolish actions of her descendants.

  “Because when His Grace is denied the Wave by rebellion, he will have recourse to the Wood,” answered Prime Minister Angrial sternly. There was obviously some lingering animosity between him and the old Viscountess. “As it is the bit of the duchy we actually have in hand, we thought it best to begin to restore Duke Anguin’s rule here, and not where no one will pay any attention to it.”

  The old woman snorted. “And what does that buy you, Angrial? The respect of his peers? You cannot field lances or collect taxes with respect. In Vorone His Grace rules a handful of illiterate peasant freemen and semi-barbaric Wilderlords. In Falas he rules the great fleets, the grand armies of Alshar.”

  “With Falas ruled by the Four Counts, that’s going to be difficult,” Father Amus pointed out, shaking his head.

  Those were the four leaders of the wider rebellion, ostensibly against King Rard – but in practice the Four Counts headed a larger council of lords and clergy who had eagerly seized the rebellion as a chance to severe old obligations and abrogate old debts. They were led by the Count of Rhemes, whose house had strived against the Dukes of Alshar for centuries to control the rich land. Now they had it, and they weren’t going to let it go easily.

  “Not that the idea wasn’t considered, mind you,” the old priest assured her. “But without a firm and reliable ally inside and a large enough and securely based enough force of his own outside, marching into Falas and announcing that he was suddenly in power would be foolish of His Grace, don’t you think?”

  “Idealistic, certainly,” the old woman grudgingly admitted, her mouth fixed in a grimace.

  “So it is the opinion of his wisest counselors that he take what legacy is within his grasp and build upon it while he awaits a change of disposition among the rebels,” continued Father Amus. “While that is not, perhaps, the most glorious route to a complete restoration, it is certainly the most practical. Building his strength and reputation here, in the Wilderlands, may not sway very many Coastlords or Sea Lords, but without a friendly fleet at hand that is what he has left to work with.”

  “I can see that,” she finally agreed. “But a state cannot build strength without resources,” she countered.

  “That is why we have asked you to join us, Viscountess,” Pentandra said, smoothly. “While the new regime has sufficient resources, we believe, to fund the Restoration and begin the recovery, it is recognized that it will take far more than that to provide His Grace with the forces he needs to retake the south. Resources and time,” she added.

  “The question, Viscountess,” Angrial continued in his reedy voice, clearly trying to be conciliatory to the disagreeable old woman, “is are you willing to commit to work toward that same goal? For victory we must devote ourselves to the re-ordering and restoration of a much smaller duchy. For the moment that includes forgetting about the cursed rebellion for a while.”

  “Ignoring the blatant denial of His Grace’s sovereignty?” she scoffed. “Or are we all just in denial, now?”

  “Neither,” Anguin said, forcefully, his young voice speaking up for the first time in the interview. “Viscountess, as much as it pains me to agree with my counselors, I have been convinced that that this is not burying our head in the dirt and ignoring the issue. It is accepting the unfortunate reality of our situation. Until we can contrive the regain the south, we must strive to restore the north – and to improve it, if at all possible.”

  “That is an ambitious purpose,” she said, without enthusiasm. “Before the invasion, this country was filled with belligerent, ignorant Wilderlords and half-civilized ignorant freeholding peasants, woodsmen and miners. Now it is filled with ignorant, penniless refugees and belligerent, ignorant goblins. You could do virtually anything and improve the situation.”

  “And we will strive to do everything in our power to do so,” pledged Anguin, resolutely. “Not merely lip-service, but real investment in our defense, in our infrastructure, and in our economy. Now,” he said, eschewing the practiced court voice he’d learned under Amus in favor of his own approach, “we have precious little to do that with, and plenty of people who want us to fail. We have almost no allies outside of this town, little hope to gain any, and the price of our success will – undoubtedly – be even more bitter opposition.

  “But I cannot do this alone, Viscountess. Your house has ever been loyal to mine, and I call on that loyalty now. My father may have had his issues with you, but I know for a fact he respected your opinion over those of most of his other ministers. That speaks volumes to your character. I would invoke that sense of dedication to the success of the duchy he enjoyed for his reign, and ask you to join my court. What say you?” he asked, simply.

  The old woman screwed up her face. “I have toiled in exile for four years in this cesspit, now, Your Grace, in the service of your house. I suppose another few will not make matters any worse.”

  “On the contrary, Viscountess,” soothed the young Duke, with empathy far beyond his years, “it is upon the talents of amazing courtiers such as yourself that we depend to bring us into a position to restore the south and regain Enultramar. I have been told that if anyone can re-structure the finances of the duchy to that successful end, it is you.”

  Pentandra didn’t know if someone had fed him the line, or if he’d conjured it himself, but the unexpected flattery worked. Pentandra watched as Threanas struggled with herself and then relented.

  “I suppose that is true, Your Grace,” she finally agreed, with a sigh of resignation. “Very well. If you want me to run a few counties and pretend it is an entire duchy, I am at your command.”

  Father Amus looked subtly at Pentandra, and she gave the old priest the barest of nods. Her truthtelling spell was indicating no trace of deceit or deception in the old woman’s words. While that didn’t exactly mean she could be trusted, it was as much assurance as they had about anyone.

  Pentandra knew there was a lot to gain by getting the alliance of the old woman. She had been a major force his Duke Lenguin’s court, contending with powerful men as a matter of course and triumphing more often than not. Pentandra recalled how adeptly she had dealt with matters of court, even calling out the popular Wilderlord Count Marcadine for praising a policy she did not favor.

  With the help of her baculus, which she held as casually as a scepter though it was busy at work, Pentandra was able to note so much detail about the Viscountess to at least offer an astute guess about her loyalties and motivations.

  It revealed that despite her calm demeanor she was both excited and disturbed by the sudden arrival of her sovereign. She did not react guiltily, as many of the other courtiers had. But that did not mean she saw the arrival as a necessarily positive development.

  Pentandra liked to think that Anguin’s claim was far too strong to depend on the opinions of one frail old rich widow for his survival, but the fact was that a regime built without including the powerful, bitter old woman would be weaker than one that included her from the start – no matter how trying that mi
ght prove over time.

  “Will you have any difficulty working with our own specialist in the field of finance?” Father Amus asked, quietly. “Coinsister Saltia represents the Temple of Ifnia, who is quietly underwriting the cost of the Restoration.”

  That got Threanas’ attention. “Did His Grace have a particularly good day wagering at the racetrack?” she asked, wryly.

  “That is actually not far from what we want people to believe,” Angrial agreed. “The truth might be . . . problematic.” The significance of the admission was not lost on the Viscountess.

  “So who is really secretly funding this masquerade?” she demanded. “I don’t believe for a moment that the Ifnites are willing to extend a loan on the strength of future earnings from lands not currently under His Grace’s control.”

  “The Arcane Orders have pledged to secure the loan extended to His Grace,” Pentandra admitted. “The Spellmonger, himself, has given them assurances that the debt will be paid.”

  “I guess he’s a better spellmonger than most, then,” Threanas sighed. “But gold is gold. That makes me feel a little better about the situation,” she admitted, “but not much. You do realize that there are always political costs for such alliances?”

  “There is an even greater cost for sitting in inaction,” countered the young Duke. “Baron Minalan is a friend of mine, and he has convinced me of his dedication to restoring my house to power. And yes,” he continued, “I understand that means that I will owe a debt to the Arcane Orders. But without them, I would still be sitting in safely in exile in ruined Gilmora, under the watchful eyes of the Queen’s agents, not sitting in this freezing cold palace debating financial policy with my court. So I will gladly pay the political costs. The question is, Viscountess, can you work with Sister Saltia?”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust the clergy,” Threanas explained in a tone that demonstrated that she did not, indeed, trust the clergy, at least in matters of finance. “While I’m sure that overseeing penny-contests and wagering at tournaments has given the Ifnites ample experience at figuring and probability, the accounts of a duchy are a complex thing. Even the tattered remnant of a duchy you have left is going to require far more adept management than a few nuns will be able to muster.”

  “You may be right,” Count Angrial conceded. “I can see why Lenguin provided you a warrant for a decade of service. There are good and valid reasons why certain positions in court were warranted the way they were, including that of Treasury Minister. It keeps the sovereign from overspending, in theory.

  “But we need the Ifnites and their loans if we are going to pay for this Restoration,” he continued, resolutely. “And they will not proceed without ample representation in court. And in your office. Could you accept Coinsister Saltia as an assistant, then?” he proposed. “You will need one to manage the coin from the loan anyway, and she seems well-prepared for the task . . . and perhaps unready for the responsibilities of greater office,” he added, diplomatically.

  Pentandra bristled at the insinuation that the portly little nun was less than competent at her job, just because the Temple of Ifnia was more well-known for booking bets than it was at financing political restorations. But she wisely held her tongue. She recognized the slight for what it was: an attempt by Threanas to secure her position, and a response by Angrial providing the bounds of the negotiation. And it worked.

  “That would be acceptable,” the old woman finally sighed, after some thought. “I will need to restructure the entire treasury office anyway, of course. Especially if we’re going to generate enough revenue to actually repay this loan. On top of the expenses of the court.

  “On average it costs about a thousand to twelve hundred ounces of gold a month to run the palace, and another three or four hundred to run the ducal services to the town of Vorone,” she lectured. “That’s before you start paying mercenaries to stand around and eat through your stores.”

  “The Orphan’s Band is on short-term assignment,” replied Angrial. “They depart on Briga’s Day, and we won’t have to pay them after that.”

  “Nor will we have them providing the stability we need to collect taxes and tribute!” scoffed Threanas.

  “We are putting our own forces in place,” Father Amus countered, “as we vet them and prepare them for the task. The Palace guard has been augmented. As has the Town Guard. Both of those were less expensive options than continuing to pay for mercenaries.”

  “You will still need to pay for them,” Threanas pointed out, sourly. “Which means you must have income, not just a generous banker.”

  “That will prove difficult, from what I’ve seen,” agreed Father Amus. “What little hard revenues the Wilderlands produced once were concentrated in regions now largely left lawless and unprotected. The barons to the south of Vorone are reluctant to contribute their fair share of tribute—”

  “Reluctant?” snorted Threanas. “With Edmarin as the receiving agent? Of course they were ‘reluctant’! They disliked the man enough when he was a peer, but when Rard made him Steward and placed him in charge of Vorone, the other barons nearly rebelled. They might have, if we weren’t at war. They certainly weren’t going to enrich him. He was too friendly with Castal as it was, and he let his own lands suffer terribly through mismanagement while he was enjoying life here at the palace.”

  “How hard would it be to get them to start contributing again?” asked Anguin, curiously.

  “The last time actual tribute arrived at Vorone from one of the barons was two years ago. The last time Edmarin demanded tribute from Count Marcadine, the good count sent the collector’s hands back in a basket. He didn’t even send a note. And he is, by far, the most influential and respected Wilderlord left in the south. Most of the other barons and lords around Vorone look to him for leadership. Persuading them to join you will be far, far easier with Marcadine on your side. And he is not an easy man to convince. That will be the true test of your leadership, Your Grace,” she observed.

  “Edmarin is dead and his policies and his purse are at an end,” Anguin pointed out with some satisfaction. “If – when I convince the barons to pay me my rightful fealty and submit their proper tribute, will it be enough . . .?” he asked, trailing off.

  “Enough?” she snorted again. “To do what, Your Grace? Re-paint the palace? More than likely. Sustain a proper garrison here? Certainly. Raise an army large enough to storm the gates of Falas and re-take southern Alshar? Hardly.”

  “Can I sustain my rule here, with the revenue available here?” the Orphan Duke said, carefully rephrasing his question.

  “As long as it isn’t too extravagant, I believe so, Your Grace,” the old minister conceded, tiredly. “But we will not merely have to persuade the southern barons to contribute, we must – must! – re-organize the administration of the domains north of Vorone, those most damaged by the invasion.”

  “You think?” Anguin asked, genuinely curious.

  “If you want to see a silver penny out of that region, Your Grace, you are going to have to adopt some new – even novel – policies and make some appointments – and soon. The few settlements that remain in the east of the Wilderlands grow more remote and less reliant on your authority by the day. The ones in the west are under constant threat of destruction. The sooner they are properly ruled and properly protected, the sooner they can be properly taxed.”

  “That is among my priorities, Viscountess,” agreed Anguin, smoothly. “And it is of great relief to me that we see the same picture in this. I appreciate your counsel, and I look forward to working with you in achieving our mutual goals. Thank you, you may retire to your offices,” he dismissed. “Prepare yourself for a busy day tomorrow. And the next day,” he added. “In fact, I think we all need to take a moment to refresh ourselves. Once the core of my court is established, I want to hold my first Great Council meeting tonight, to discuss our strategy for the future. Now that we understand what we are dealing with.”

  Threanas smiled
indulgently at the Orphan Duke. “Your Grace,” she said, serenely, “with all respect, none of us have the faintest idea what we are dealing with, now. You’ve taken the initiative to establish a state . . . now you have to learn how to run it. And,” she added, sadly, “ultimately, to defend it. Because there are more threats at play in the Wilderlands than corrupt barons and belligerent gurvani. And any one of them could turn into a grave wound in your regime, if we do not proceed with the greatest of caution.”

  Chapter Six

  The First Great Council

  The first Great Council meeting was held the evening of Yule in the Trophy Room on the second floor of the east wing of the palace, within the Duke’s residential quarters. The chamber was warm and cozy, with an impressive natural stone fireplace that was designed to keep the frigidity of winter at bay, and tapestries displaying the hunting glories of past dukes insulating the cold brick walls.

  It was still cold as three hells the moment you stepped outside the door into the corridor.

  The collection of weapons adorning the walls – boar spears, mostly, with a few specialized blades and axes, bows and a rack of hunting arrows – were not particularly bothersome to Pentandra. She found the specter of hundreds of stuffed animal heads, antlers, horns, teeth, and furs strewn around the room a little more disconcerting, especially the full-sized nine-foot tall stuffed bear in the corner.

  But in the Wilderlands, she was learning, such trophies were commonplace, and in Vorone they were nearly ubiquitous. Even the privy she’d used that morning had a giant stuffed hare’s head on the door, the largest lagomorph she’d ever seen, staring at her with glass eyes and a dusty nose while she’d tried to pee. It had been startling, but no more disturbing, she guessed, than the Remeran-style erotic scenes her guarderobe at Fairoaks were decorated with would be to a conservative Wilderlord.

  Count Angrial was already there when she arrived for the meeting, a sheaf of parchment and a wine cup on the small table in front of him and a young monk with a portfolio and desk behind him. He wasn’t alone – Count Salgo was there, looking as fresh after their exhausting few days as if he’d slept a week. Father Amus was better at showing his age. The old priest’s face showed deep pits under his eyes, and his hair looked a little grayer around his tonsure. But he walked into the room with confidence and dignity.