Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Pentandra couldn’t argue with that. She consulted with Coinsister Saltia, one afternoon at the palace, and had her postulate some figures for her. From the estimates she was making based on how much from each business under the shadow of the Rats was paying, the Market ward was losing more than twice as much in protection payments every week than it was paying in taxes.

  That didn’t account for the other effects the Crew were having on the district. Petty crime was rampant, housebreaking was a nightly occurrence, and the streets were dangerous at night. Illegal gambling operations thrived. Footpads and pickpockets roamed freely, some working for the Crew, others just desperate and violent.

  And this was one of the better wards in Vorone.

  The more she studied the matter, the more Pentandra realized that the Rat Crew really was a danger to the duchy. They were eroding the economic infrastructure of the ward, the commercial heart of the capital city, like predators, not mere parasites. She concluded that if Vorone was to be a functioning capital, then their influence had to be destroyed.

  The Constable and his men were growing impatient, too. A week after she’d begun the effort she’d cast no spells for them, just asked questions and taken notes. The guardsmen wanted action, and Sir Vemas was eager to begin his war against the Crew.

  But by the second week Pentandra knew that they were not ready for that, yet. Their investigations had revealed just how extensive and ruthless a foe they faced. As talented as they were, the idea of the guardsmen pretending to be a new gang in town without the ability to match the Rat Crew’s power, somehow, seemed a recipe for a lot of dead guardsmen.

  Supposedly that’s what her magic was supposed to do for them. She just didn’t know how to do that. Yet.

  “You know, Sir Vemas,” she finally announced at one of their evening meetings, “with all of these professional thugs and killers around, it seems an absolute shame not to take advantage of that talent,” she began, and then told them of her nascent plan.

  Chapter Nine

  The Tumultuous State Of The Duchy

  The Trophy Room was half-filled with ministers when Pentandra arrived for the first regularly scheduled weekly meeting of the inner council Count Angrial had established as routine for the day after every Temple Day. Ostensibly the occasion was designed as an opportunity for the Duke (and the Prime Minister) to set policy, make difficult decisions, oversee their various duties and coordinate their efforts. The inaugural meeting had been largely ceremonial, with Anguin delivering a passionate and well-delivered speech about their great mission, and Angrial presenting them with their official warrants.

  This time, the meeting of the ministers of the court was to be more focused on the business of the realm. That would, in her experience, lead to yet more meetings, which would then begat more meetings. She was quickly discovering that the life of a Court Wizard – barring her Rat-catching duties – was largely comprised of meetings. There were far, far more to attend than she had ever proposed at the Arcane Orders, and most of them seemed to devolve quickly into assigning blame for failures or attempting to take credit for other’s success. Pentandra found the entire ordeal an exercise in patience.

  She had stopped on the way to the meeting in the main hall to fill her tea cup with hot water from the kettle . . . and had added a small dash of strong honey spirits from a flask to make the tea – and the meeting – more palatable.

  There, she thought, as she sipped her doctored tea and took her seat. Patience.

  This morning she found, the palace was buzzing with the Duke’s impressive attempt to tackle the accumulated cases set for his justice and held in abeyance since his father died. Prisoners who had languished for months or years in the palace dungeon, cases between nobles regarding inheritance, and contracts between estates had virtually halted with the gurvani invasion. That meant that much serious business in the remnant of the duchy was as frozen as a goblin’s chamberpot without ducal justice.

  But unlike many high nobles faced with the task of jurisprudence, Duke Anguin attacked the backlog tenaciously. During a marathon three-day session in the Stone Room he heard case after case of minor criminal issues, listened to evidence, was advised by lawbrothers, and seemed determined to dispense justice as proof of his sovereignty.

  While his rulings were rarely greeted with cheers, neither were they poorly made, and they brought considerable resolution to the realm. It was a sincere, tangible sign of Ducal authority, one it would be hard for opponents of the regime to undermine.

  Of course, it wasn’t just his dedication to justice that inspired the lad. Years of legal logjams had suddenly been freed . . . and had led to dozens of fines and a few generous confiscations to add to the treasury.

  Anguin even ordered two executions (though he had to find a temporary ducal executioner when it was realized that he had none) and sentenced nearly a hundred men from the garrison, the town watch, and the palace guard accused of corruption and cowardice to serve anywhere from one year to five in the grim Iron Band.

  It was a most satisfying indulgence in justice.

  Old Lawfather Jodas nearly preened as he gave his report of the affair at the start of the meeting. Not every decision had been a pristine judgment of godlike wisdom, as was Luin’s ideal, but eliminating four years’ worth of accumulated work in three days was a professional accomplishment anyone would be proud to relate.

  The state of the treasury was less triumphant. Coinsister Saltia reported that she was depending on the loans to keep the mercenaries paid, now, the horses fed, and food in the palace kitchen. The draw on the treasury was significant. Feeding two thousand mercenary infantry soldiers alone was costing a small fortune, and while a price could not be put on the peace that they enforced, the price of feeding that peace was tremendous.

  But then Viscountess Threanas presented her summary of ducal expenses, as well as income, and things got really dire. Paying off the artisans the palace owed had injected a welcome amount of silver into the town’s economy, but it had been a significant expense. Actually paying the wages of the Orphan’s Band was costing more than two hundred ounces of silver a day, on top of their board. The burghers of the town were reluctant to pay more than a token of the cost of their own occupation, despite the persuasive arguments of Father Jodas.

  But there was, Threanas admitted, at least a trickle of funds into the treasury.

  “We have several payments in-kind, tribute from the north ordered by Duke Lenguin, before he died. The storehouses are filled,” she added with dark humor, “with a tremendous amount of iron ore and timber collected in tribute . . . and completely worthless to the duchy.”

  The timber and ore had been intended to support the ducal fleet, she explained, which was estranged from Anguin’s control. Though the materials had value otherwise, the cost of paying to transport them into a market, once tariffs and fees had been added, was far more than the materials were worth. Until things changed, the storehouses of the palace would remain collecting dust and quietly rusting.

  Edmarin’s confiscated treasury had soothed matters, some, the old biddy admitted, reluctantly, in her dry voice, and the coffers of coin they’d taken from some of the more corrupt officials had also helped. More, the fines collected by running His Grace’s docket were significant, if they could be collected - enough to pay for two weeks of the Orphan’s Band, ultimately.

  “But you cannot rule a duchy with hired swords,” she lectured the room. “It places too great a drain on the treasury in the best of times. More, their presence threatens the traditional place of the Wilderlords, and keeping them here will undoubtedly cause hurt feelings, particularly among our precious few peers. Once the immediate danger is over, I strongly recommend we send the Orphan’s on their way.”

  Threanas had been a fixture of the court in Vorone for decades. She knew so many obscure details of the duchy’s finances, both north and south, that replacing her would be politically troublesome – and potentially dangerous to the realm
. But she also witnessed the follies of two previous dukes, and her opinions, however harsh, were well-respected even by those with an intense dislike for her.

  Unfortunately, her style conflicted mightily with that of plainspoken Coinsister Saltia. The unassuming nun was passionate about her performance and devoted to the purity of the accounts, but she had little flair for finance and almost no personal style. That was a far cry from the elegant manner of the aging courtier.

  Worse, Saltia became flustered when she felt pressured, and Threanas lived to bring pressure her subordinates in order to get the best performance out of them. Threanas was the kind of woman who felt compelled to dominate every social situation she could manage as a matter of nature.

  That was annoying enough when it happened in a civic organization or a lay society, but Threanas’ attitude was particularly troublesome at court. She’d already started hammering away, sending poor Saltia to deliver negative inquiries to various officers in her stead. The poor priestess had told so many officers that there just wasn’t enough money in the treasury to do what they wanted - or needed -- to do was punishing. And it was just one of the deft social manipulations the well-experienced woman was naturally prone to.

  But even the meticulous little nun had to admit that the older woman had a rare talent with numbers. As Threanas dutifully reported that she estimated she would be able to squeeze almost seven hundred ounces of silver out of the town per month, Pentandra caught the irritated look on Saltia’s wide face. When the southern peer announced triumphantly that she’d likely be able to do so without inspiring another riot, the nun began frowning.

  It didn’t take a mage to realize that the Minister had taken credit for some proposal of Sister Saltia. Pentandra inwardly winced for her friend, but resolved not to interfere with another office of the court. She liked the nun. She wasn’t ready to start a social war over her. She would have to learn how to contend with the old bag herself.

  “That is better news than I carry,” Count Salgo sighed, restlessly. “Our scouts have been touring the outer fortifications for Vorone, such as they are, with the help and assistance of the Master of the Wood’s men. It is my sad duty to report that there are at least a thousand goblins in the area.”

  “A thousand goblins?” Angrial asked, shocked. Pentandra wasn’t. Arborn had been one of those men scouting the roads, patrolling for bandits, visiting estates and overseeing the town’s defenses. He had barely been home for the last several weeks. While that left Pentandra plenty of time to help Sir Vemas and his fellows with eliminating the Crew, it also kept her very lonely. He had been home only twice for more than two nights with her.

  “Relax, Prime Minister, that’s actually not as many as I expected,” assured the Warlord. “A thousand sounds like a lot but an attack by the lot of them wouldn’t be more than a day’s mischief for us to contend with, I promise. They are broken up into small groups – patrols, listening posts, outposts – all across our northern frontier.”

  “Luin’s beard, man, you sound so complacent about it!” Sire Lonsel, the ducal Reeve, snorted.

  “I would have been disappointed – and worried – had I not found them,” the old soldier chuckled. “It’s only natural that our greatest enemy do his best to keep an eye on this city, to make certain we’re not a threat.”

  “And you saw fit to let these outposts go undisturbed?” the reeve demanded.

  “It’s more important that we know that they are there than whether they are there,” Salgo added, wisely. “They are not a threat, in and of themselves. But their absence would have warned me of imminent attack. Discovering their hidey-holes lets us keep our eye on them.”

  “At least you know where the foes are,” grumbled Lord Gedlail, another loyalist from Gilmora at the end of the table. He was the new Minister of Lands and Estates, Pentandra recalled. That was a very important post. His predecessor was marching toward the Iron Ring with a warrant for seven years of service around his neck after several deeds of estates in the southern Wilderlands were found in his quarters. “I wish we knew where half of the supposed friends we have are. I’ve been searching for responsible parties to answer for the domains we have listed on the books, and so far, I’ve found very, very little!”

  “Many of the aristocracy died defending the realm against the invasion, three years ago or more,” Count Angrial observed, sadly. “Some of the Wilderlords who did survive found their lands abandoned or taken. The Penumbra spreads across more than four baronies,” he reminded the man.

  “So we have landless lords, and lordless lands, and peasants aplenty to work them,” fumed Count Salgo. “It seems to be a matter of placing each piece into its intended place – why is that so difficult?”

  “Because some lords want compensation for their lost lands, some lands have been usurped in violation of the Laws of Duin or occupied by the unworthy in violation of the Laws of Luin, and some are still subject to raids by bandit and goblin alike,” explained Lord Gedlail, testily. “And it seems every petty noble has Luin’s own case to make about why the duchy should enforce his claim on a particular domain.”

  “It is a difficult problem,” Sister Saltia agreed. “The people won’t return to work until there is protection, and the knights won’t return to protect them until they know who will profit.”

  “Then appoint some as lords-tenant until we can work out the details,” Lawfather Jodas snorted. “If we don’t get some of these estates operational again soon, the forests will take them!”

  “I’ve made lists of those estates that have reported in the last three years – a paltry few – a list of those we know are occupied but have not reported, a list of those we know are taken, and a list of those we know almost nothing about,” Lord Gedlail warned, evenly. “There are at least thirty within a day’s ride of Vorone that are in desperate need of attention – if there is to be a crop this year, and tribute next.”

  “Then the Duke shall grant them, or assign them, to worthies in the court,” Count Angrial promised.

  “Men who will work them, not just take the revenues,” interjected Sire Lonsel. “Let these lords prove themselves Wilderlords before they are enriched by their responsibilities.”

  “It would help if some of the local barons would be more cooperative,” Sister Saltia said, sadly. “The barons are the means by which tribute is collected and sent to the duchy. There are few enough of them left even around Vorone and points south. If those who still remain don’t favor us with their support . . .”

  “How can they pledge their allegiance and loyalty to a duke who could topple to a riot?” asked Lord Gedlail, testily. “Do you think I haven’t sent messages to them at the Duke’s behest? They stall, waiting to see if this boy we have put a coronet on will wear it next year. If he cannot hold Vorone, how can he hold the Wilderlands? It is not unreasonable,” he added, though it pained him.

  “The most challenging element will be to uphold the duke’s prerogative past the withdrawal of the Orphan’s Band,” Count Salgo observed, philosophically. “The garrison will be of little help, there. As soon as the mercenaries leave, one stiff riot could put us on the road to disaster.”

  “A riot?” scoffed Sire Lonsel. “I do not think a mere riot is enough to knock the coronet off of His Grace’s head!”

  Pentandra reminded herself that Sire Lonsel was a Gilmoran lord who wished to repatriate his homeland with Alshar. He had been appointed for political reasons, not because he was competent. He saw government as noble service to duke and land, not the seething patchwork of compromise and half-truth it was usually forced to be. She was about to make a remark to that effect when the Prime Minister beat her to it.

  “Then you have not made an adequate study of history, Lonsel,” Angrial said, smiling sadly at the lord. “There are plenty of people who would profit from our failure here, in Vorone . . . and riots are exceedingly common here.”

  “Still, as long as we hold the palace . . .” began Lonsel.

 
; Father Amus interrupted. “Stirring the commoners against us might not topple His Grace, but keeping him from ruling through chaos would doom our enterprise just as much as his assassination. Without the Orphans backing his rule, he would be hard pressed to insist on tribute, taxes, and his other due rights from both the people and the nobles. Which would prohibit him from governing. Which would mean our failure.”

  “But you cannot enforce His Grace’s rule with mercenaries indefinitely,” Threanas said, sourly. “The treasury will not bear it.”

  “Nor will the people,” agreed Angrial. “Yet as sure as it will snow again before this wretched winter is done with us, so will the forces of chaos stir within a week of the Orphans’ departure, I predict. As soon as they are beyond easy distance to recall, the trouble will begin . . . unless there is a greater force than the guard and the garrison around.”

  “Who would dare challenge His Grace’s right to rule?” Sire Lonsel asked, indignantly. He was loyal, Pentandra decided, but he was hardly sophisticated. Enough for a ducal reeve, perhaps, but hardly a sufficiency for a courtier.

  “They need not challenge his right to deny it, my lord,” suggested Father Amus, sagely. The old priest largely held himself apart from the council discussions, so when he did speak his deep voice commanded attention.

  “Anguin can reign all he wants, within the palace walls, and no one outside of them will care much. But if he is to rule, he must be able to project his influence beyond them. There are plenty just in Vorone who have an interest in denying that to him. From the burghers to the merchants to the petty nobility, there are many who would rather see him reign than rule in the Wilderlands. Without sufficient troops in his own service to enforce his rule, our dear duke is a figurehead. And without holding Vorone, holding the rest of the Wilderlands – or beyond – is impossible.”

  “To this end,” Angrial continued, smoothly, “I have proposed that each of the local barons be commanded to make the journey to Vorone to swear fealty and give an accounting of the realm at Briga’s Day. I will also suggest that they appear with their household guards to be prepared to provide a term of service to His Grace.”