Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “How are you finding your new post . . . and your new mission?” he asked, simply.

  “The accommodations are lackluster, the staff is non-existent, my duties are ill-defined and poorly described, and I have little idea how to proceed. That is to say, I am quite comfortable in my post, and I look forward to the challenge of combating the gangs of Vorone. At least I have more direction than I did when I was made Steward of the Arcane Orders.”

  “Sir Vemas has told me that he has introduced himself and pledged resources and intelligence for the effort,” Anguin nodded, approvingly. “I recall him as a palace guardsman, when I was a boy. A man of boundless energy and wit. I have every confidence in his ability to pursue your mutual mission, and I trust him implicitly.”

  “As do I, Your Grace,” agreed Pentandra. “Only a man with more zeal than guile would approach me so boldly. He escorted me to my new quarters in Northside, which he has agreed to use as a headquarters for this endeavor. My intuition tells me he is a gallant and committed gentleman, loyal to his duke and in love with his town.”

  “Just so,” nodded the tired looking boy. “I think you two will work well together. But that is a temporary matter. Beyond the issue of the gangs, I’d like to discuss your greater duties as Court Wizard.”

  “My predecessor, Magelord Thinradel, was generally unhappy with the position,” Pentandra said, boldly. “Largely because of your father’s antipathy toward magic in general.”

  “I am not my father,” stated Anguin, flatly. But he did not take offence. Pentandra got the idea that the boy was trying to impress her. “Thinradel and his predecessors were in office when a Court Wizard’s job was largely functioning as the administrative arm of the Censorate. While some of those duties will remain, the situation we are presented with demands a more active role,” he said, diplomatically. “Such as combating crime in the capital. And functioning as a liaison to the magi – and magelords – of the realm.”

  “Ah,” Pentandra said, realizing what the lad was getting at. “You worry about Magelord Astyral? And Azar? And Wenek and the others?”

  “The old order in the Wilderlands is gone,” Anguin sighed, looking into the fire. “Once nineteen Wilderlord barons ruled in the name of the Duke, here, within five counties. Now there are four or five of the old houses left with their lands intact, all south of Vorone. Two others hold but a shard of their previous lands. Tudry is ruled by a mage, the strongest castle in the north is ruled by another, and other magi now control more land and fortifications than all of my non-magical vassals . . . we think.” He heaved a sigh. “That’s why I’ve employed your lord husband so liberally, I’m afraid. We just don’t know what the true disposition of the duchy is, and until we do, I have to contend with the power of the magelords.”

  “Does that make Your Grace uneasy?” asked Pentandra, surprised. “The magi have done what they could to retain your realm, and have not rebelled against your authority. In truth they’ve just learned about your return, even before I informed the Spellmonger.” She went on to explain the reactions of her various colleagues who were now in charge of a sizable fraction of the Wilderlands.

  For Astyral, Anguin’s restoration was welcome news. He’d been ruling Tudry as a military appointee, confirmed by Royal decree, but in the absence of any greater authority he had been on his own. Carmella, the head of the Hesian Order of warmagi and headquartered at Salik Tower, among the others Minalan had built on the edges of the war zone, was likewise happy to hear the news. She had come to know the duke during the great Kasari March, liked the lad, and had voiced her personal support of him.

  Azar and Baron Wenek of the Pearwoods were less enthusiastic. Azar was only concerned with fighting the gurvani, and saw an advantage in the Duke’s return only if it assisted in that effort.

  Wenek was ruling his hilly fief of half-wild, mostly-drunk clansmen almost independently from the rest of the world. The stout magelord could be depended upon to rally his men to fight goblins, but other than that he let the Pearwoods clans continue raiding the lowland lords of northern Castal every summer, stealing brides, cattle, and what silver they could, and he was loathe to give up the lucrative practice. But he had supported Anguin’s ascension for no better reason than it would annoy the Royal family, for whom he had a disdain.

  There were others of lesser rank and power, but those four were the chief wizards in the Wilderlands at the moment.

  “It is not that I doubt their loyalty,” the young duke frowned, after hearing her report, “but that I wish to enlist their aid. I cannot force the refugees from Vorone unless they have secure homes to go to . . . or at least a better future. To do that we must first establish security, then provide service to them. But the lands they lived in are either occupied, despoiled, or under threat.”

  “The magi cannot restore them by a simple spell, Your Grace,” Pentandra said, confused about what Anguin wanted.

  “Nor can they restore the hundreds of noble families to life who used to lead the Wilderlands in the name of my house. Without good Wilderlords to protect the common folk, they will not leave come spring. But those same magelords are now holding lands, successfully, on the ruins of the old order.”

  “And you wish to replace them with your gentlemen courtiers?” Pentandra frowned.

  “Ishi’s tits, no!” Anguin said, shocked. “You misunderstand! The magi are the only ones who have been able to hold, when nearly all of the Wilderlords failed.”

  “Then what is your wish, Your Grace?”

  “I wish to expand their domains,” he explained with a sigh. “I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I think that even brave Wilderlords and armored knights do not inspire the confidence that a wizard does, to the common folk these days. Magelord Astyral is held in high esteem here, as is Magelord Azar. When Magelord Thinradel came through town last year, he was hailed as a hero.” That was a far cry from how the former Court Wizard had been seen during his own tenure.

  “So you want more magelords?”

  “I want more warmagi,” corrected Anguin, leaning back in his chair. “Good warmagi, men and women who can take and hold a land, and protect the people. I will be happy to raise their station if they can prove their worth. I happen to have vacant lands aplenty, apparently, even in the south of the Wilderlands. I will be giving many of those to the ‘gentlemen courtiers’ who have so bravely pledged their service to me.

  “But north of Vorone there are few Wilderlords left. And not much else. But I would be willing to grant those lands to warmagi and magelords you recommend, and who can prove their value to the duchy.”

  That was important news. There was a general reluctance to make more magelords in Castal – already there was resistance to those who had been raised since the establishment of the kingdom. Minalan had to defend his lands, and Dunselen had used his powers to expand his, and even the relatively peaceful Lord of Robinwing had been the target of his neighbors’ wrath in Castal.

  But Alshar was different. Here the magelords weren’t interlopers on the established social order, they were essential elements of the nascent duchy’s functioning and security. Anguin’s willingness to recognize that and actively recruit them to here was an impressive demonstration of his understanding.

  “That . . . will be welcome news to many who have been idle since the Treaty,” she agreed, slowly. “But will that not also attract Royal attention here, where we don’t really want it?”

  “I don’t want you to proclaim it loudly at the next Convocation in Castabriel, this summer,” Anguin snorted. “Rather, as Court Wizard I would like for you to make contact with worthy magi quietly. Discreetly,” he emphasized. “The estates I can offer them are in ruins or abandoned. Or entirely absent, and they will have to build them themselves. But they will have freedom and authority, and very little interference from Vorone, if they can improve their estates and protect their people.”

  “I can think of many who would welcome the chance. But would not Minalan the
Spellmonger be a better advocate in this plan?”

  “Minalan the Spellmonger is a mighty ally, a wise counselor, and a friend,” sighed Anguin. “But he is not my Court Wizard. In fact, he is a vassal of my cousin’s, not mine. I trust him, but I cannot hold him to account. I would appreciate it if you could make this effort discreetly, without worrying the Spellmonger,” the duke said, diplomatically.

  “I will . . . I will do my best, Your Grace,” Pentandra agreed. Though she didn’t like the youth’s implicit threat, she realized he was not trying to be overbearing. “When the snows clear, I can think of a dozen or so who would be willing to meet with you, I believe.”

  “If you can fill my lands with magi, Lady Pentandra, enough to keep the gurvani in the west and north, then I might have a fighting chance to hold the lands south of Vorone. And if you can secure the loyalty and fealty of those magelords, I will elevate them accordingly.”

  “And this in addition to my mission to defeat crime in Vorone and my duties registering, administering exams, and enforcing magical regulation in the duchy?” she asked, wryly.

  “To be fair, there isn’t much duchy left to be worried with,” he chuckled. “And you forgot establishing and running the magic Mirror array in Vorone,” he reminded her. “But I suppose those duties do fall to you, now, or will when things are stable enough for such mundanities. Until then, I will have to rely upon you for more interesting tasks. Before anything else, I must be able to rule this town, and right now I rule only as far as the palace wall. When the Orphans depart, even that might be in doubt,” he said, discouraged.

  “You have many stout supporters here, Your Grace,” Pentandra reassured him.

  “Three hundred, maybe five hundred swords I can depend upon in a town of thousands.”

  “And at least one wizard’s rod,” Pentandra said, producing her baculus dramatically. “I’ll take care of your Rat problem, Your Grace. And I will recruit your warmagi. And I will help keep the magi in support of you.”

  “Thank you, Lady Pentandra,” the young man said, formally, though Pentandra could see how close he was to being overcome by the weight of his position. “Perhaps if I can manage to hold on to power until spring, we can make this work.”

  That night Arborn returned from his duties on the road. He wore a troubled expression as Pentandra helped his snowy cloak off of his great shoulders.

  “What’s wrong, my love?” she asked, concerned, before she even kissed him.

  “We were ranging north of town today, assessing security beyond the camps. We were stalking bandits. We found gurvani signs. More than just spies.”

  “Goblins?” Pentandra asked, alarmed. “This close to Vorone?”

  “In the winter the gurvani can range much further,” he explained, “as many of the streams and rivers are frozen over. But this was no raiding band,” he continued, as he took off his swordbelt and hung it on a peg. “This was a scout patrol. Fell hounds and archers who watched by night. Not enough to do more than harass a patrol. But it is an ill sign,” he said, grimly. “The closest gurvani settlements are more than a hundred miles from here.”

  “Doesn’t that violate the treaty?”

  “Somehow I doubt the details were shared with every illiterate band,” snorted Arborn. “It is not a good sign. The refugees in those camps have no defenses against even a light raid, save the force of their numbers.”

  “What will be done?”

  “I’ve had a squadron of my men ride in pursuit of them, to ensure they do not commit any mischief on their way back to their lands. And I informed Count Salgo.”

  Technically Arborn’s Kasari were Ducal Woodwards, under the Ducal Master of Wood, but in practice they functioned as Arborn’s private force. “I would have preferred it was a simple raid. It implies that Vorone is being watched, and there is only one reason to watch a place so closely during the depths of winter.”

  “Preparation for attack?”

  “Of one sort or another,” agreed Arborn grimly as he took a seat and took out a pipe. Pentandra helpfully lit it with magic before he could pull a taper from the fire. He nodded in thanks. “They might have been observing, or they might have been meeting someone. There were human tracks in the area, too,” he added. “Townsman’s shoes, not boots or bare feet. But the signs were too scattered to determine when they were made, exactly.”

  Pentandra didn’t know what she found more disturbing, the idea gurvani developing confederates in Vorone, or Arborn admitting that he couldn’t tell exactly what had happened from the tracks.

  “It does make sense for the gurvani to infiltrate the town, if they want to destroy it eventually,” she reasoned. “And they can’t very well do that themselves.”

  “We must discover the identities of these turncloaks and put an end to their spying,” her husband declared, more forcefully than she expected. “How can any human being deal with such foul folk?”

  “Not everyone is as noble in ideal as the Kasari,” Pentandra pointed out. “In fact, almost no one is. Most people will do what they feel they have to in order to survive. Some people are so opportunistic that they will even betray their own kin in order to survive. Like the Soulless,” she reminded him. The captured, branded slaves of Sheruel who had sold their souls to him in order to survive, slaying five or more of their fellow human beings on the sacrificial stone in tribute to the dark lord, were legendary in the Wilderlands. Their horrific choice had grown legendary in the Wilderlands.

  “How can they live with themselves?” he asked, disgusted.

  “They are alive,” Pentandra said, simply. “They fear death so much that they will do whatever they can to cling to life. They were forced into that by circumstance, and made the choice under duress.

  “What is more disturbing are those humans among us who see the gurvani as merely another side in a war, one that may be traded and bargained with. Where there is silver available, the folk who will struggle to get it care not what they have to do. There are a lot of desperate people in Vorone. There are likely many who would be willing to betray their race for even the illusion of hope.”

  “Then we must find a way to give them real hope,” Arborn sighed, heavily. “We cannot protect the people if some of them are willing to betray us all.” Pentandra felt gratified by the admission. Too often she became frustrated with her husband’s laconic nature. They had already enjoyed evenings of awkward silence as she silently screamed at him to talk to her, but he had kept his thoughts close.

  “That’s what we’re working on,” promised Pentandra, sliding into Arborn’s lap. The move took the big man by surprise, but in moments his arm encircled her waist. She relaxed into his shoulder and stared into the fire.

  It was a small gesture, but she felt the pressure and stress of her day draining away as if by a spell. She looked around. The chamber was still far from what she would have chosen, the bed barely passable, and the décor featured far more cows than was seemly, but at least the place was cozy. It was the first place that she had felt at home – at home with her husband.

  She extinguished the magelights. She really didn’t need them for what she did next.

  Chapter Eight

  A Nest Of Rats

  The streets of the Market ward were piled with the excessive snow that the gods had sent before midwinter. Only the trickling open sewer that ran through the center of the cobbled streets was clear of snow, turning instead into a vile stream of partially frozen brownish-black slush that wise travelers avoided. A footpath was worn along each side of the sewer that was only marginally better footing than the center.

  Most of the shops were still in a holiday mode through inertia alone, doing their best to allure last-minute patrons (including the sudden influx of mercenaries) with special prices or bargains.

  Fresh-cut boughs of cedar, holly and spruce were tied to every doorway with red ribbons, and holiday banners were frequent, if threadbare. But the entire display looked forced to Pentandra’s critical eye. The fa
ces on the merchants were sour, not merry, when they thought no one was looking. The snow and the cold had soured the mood of the townsfolk, who were used to far milder winters in Vorone.

  That was part of the reason that, despite their best commercial efforts, there was the dearth of potential customers walking up and down the High Street. A few monks were dutifully trudging back and forth dispensing blessings and begging, and a few older women were hurrying along on errands, but the only real paying customers in sight seemed to be clumps of off-duty Orphans and new-come lords of Anguin’s party. With much of the guard and the garrison both confined to quarters pending review, and the weather overhead threatening to bring down yet more snow, most of the pious retreated to their homes directly after services on Temple Day.

  “What a depressing place,” she sighed.

  “Do you jest, my lady?” asked Sir Vemas, who was escorting her through the Market ward on a simple reconnaissance mission. “This is the happiest place in Vorone. Of course, each of these merchants is particularly eager for our coin, because last summer the Crew began insisting on payments for their protection. Protection from the Crew, of course.”

  “That’s awful!” Pentandra said, wrinkling her brow. There was something . . . odd about the leftover Yule decorations, she felt, but she couldn’t quite place why.

  “Those who didn’t pay were beaten. The fees were modest, at first, but once the High Street got used to paying them, they couldn’t object when they were suddenly rose. Now the thugs enjoy nearly unlimited ‘credit’ here. They take what they want from whom they want, almost never pay, and if the merchants object their protection fees get raised.”

  “What happens when they refuse to pay?” Pentandra asked, stepping around something she really didn’t want to identify . . . or touch the hem of her skirts.

  “That,” Sir Vemas said, nodding toward a burned-out spot between a cobbler’s shop and a tinsmith. The space was an ashen ruin, the stout timbers that remained of the structure scorched and blackened under the snow. The buildings on either side and behind it were undamaged, though they were all connected. “It’s really masterful work, an arson like that,” he said, admiringly, with black humor. “It happened at night. Killed the entire family, after the tanner refused to pay. Burned nearly everything of value within, but stopped short of the walls.”