“And whence the coin?” asked Angrial, amused.
“To our purse – again,” smiled Pentandra. “All but the enchanted coin. I shall summon it tomorrow, and for the second time we will have robbed the robbers. And this time the other half of Opilio’s major clients will be able to pay the Crew what they owe, courtesy of the crew’s own treasury. Of course they will be screaming and hollering about the robbery, for the only ones capable of stealing from the Market quarter Crew are one of the other crews, according to their doctrine. That should sow plenty of dissention in the groups.
“But the biggest victory lies in crippling the Crew’s income. The Market is their single largest earner, we believe. and deprived of those funds for even two weeks will strain the Crew’s capabilities just as they are forced to consider a war against their fellow Rats. I expect plenty of accusations to fly. Perhaps even some inter-agency fighting. In which we will intervene, as opportunity presents, to pour salt in their wounds.”
“Won’t they begin to suspect something is amiss?” asked Sire Lonsel. As the new ducal reeve he was now officially in charge of enforcing the Duke’s legal commands – even the commands no one else knew about. It was known he was not pleased by being shut out of an operation that, traditionally, should have been his to command.
But then the reeve was bound by Luin’s Laws, and the Woodsmen were acting under Kulin’s Law. It would be inappropriate for the reeve to take part in such activities.
“I should hope so!” Pentandra agreed. “If they don’t at least suspect magic by then, I’ll be very disappointed. We will allow them to keep their gains that third week, as they will likely employ some magical counter-measures by then, but they will have ‘collected’ the majority of the debt they had issued without the opportunity to issue more.
“The following week, however, we plan to strike again, as the last of their large clients repays in coin we – that is, the Woodsmen – provide. If they are not at war with their fellows by that time, then we will goad them into it with spells and deception to make them suspicious and paranoid beyond all reason. Which will lead us right to the door of the next most powerful crew.”
“How is this superior than just arranging for none of their . . . clients to pay?” asked Sir Lonsel, whose honor was clearly disturbed by the scheme.
“Because if the Crew thinks that it is owed a debt, they will stop at nothing to collect it,” offered Pentandra. “This way they are getting paid, and will spare the artisans and merchants their ire. It was a pragmatic solution,” she shrugged.
“So what happens the next time a merchant needs a loan?” asked Count Salgo, clearly amused by the scheme.
“The Woodsmen have instructed the debtors that a condition of their generous grant is that they no longer borrow from the Crew,” answered Pentandra, smiling. This was another of her ideas. “By the time we are done looting the Crew’s treasuries we should have enough of a stake to have such loans made through a more responsible – and less violent — party. Sister Saltia, here, will serve as our record keeper. One of the masked guardsmen will serve as paymaster. Collections will be vigorous, but not deadly. And at a lower rate of interest than the Crew charges.”
“You plan to fight bandits and thieves through lending money?” scoffed Sire Lonsel.
“My lord,” Pentandra said, carefully, unwilling to alienate the man, “one of the things that puts Vorone into jeopardy to thugs like these is the lack of capital available to artisans and merchants. The Temple of Ifnia and the regular moneylenders are reluctant to loan to the townsmen without traditionally rigid requirements for repayment - which are even more strict in these uncertain times. They prefer to make large loans to nobles who have the property to secure them. By providing an alternative to the merchant class, we provide competition for the Crew.”
“And if they cannot repay those loans?” asked Viscountess Threanas, skeptically.
“Then what of it?” shrugged Pentandra. “None of them are for great amounts. The greatest of them cost far less than the costs incurred in even a small riot.”
“It just seems like a subsidy for the artisans,” sneered the Minister of the Treasury.
“Were we not just discussing subsidizing the nobility?” challenged Sister Saltia.
“To restore the manors and estates required for the functioning of the duchy!” the old woman shot back.
“The artisan class is just as important for the functioning of the duchy as the estates,” declared Pentandra. “You should understand that more than anyone, Threanas! Without the specialized crafts they provide for the estates, it will be much harder to restore them.”
“So we pay the artisans to work, and replace one band of criminals with another,” Lonsel pointed out, sourly.
“Criminals the palace controls,” Pentandra reminded him. “The Woodsmen shall be far more lenient in their lending, and use the fear the mysterious new ‘criminals’ generate to ensure repayment. Most of the loans outstanding were relatively paltry sums, but for the artisans they often mean the difference between success and failure. With a more adequate money supply things won’t be as desperate. A few hundred silver spent thus is therefore worth a few hundred gold spent on additional guardsmen, gaolers, and lawbrothers,” she concluded.
“And your men have no objection to such deceitful practices?” Sire Lonsel asked, skeptically. He was just the kind of chivalric idealist the duchy needed overseeing the execution of justice to prop up its legitimacy. But not the kind of man who saw descent into criminal behavior in the name of political pragmatism as a good thing.
“They are passing eager to do it,” Pentandra assured him. “I remind you that driving the Crew out of business is their mission, my lord, not upholding justice. Twice they have attacked the vicious enforcers the Crew has sent to investigate the original attacks. Now the story of demons in human form has infected the Crew, causing the price of their enforcement to go up just as their income declines. Opilio is struggling to survive and ready to lash out at anyone he suspects of aiding the Woodsmen.”
“Which will lead him to incite his fellows in other parts of the town,” Lonsel grumbled. “And put them on their guard.”
“As we expand our operations to the other crews, they will have to alter their methods, but I think with some planning and some bold action we may eliminate the Crew from the city, proper, by midsummer,” Pentandra proposed, boldly, before nodding her head at the Prime Minister in closure.
Then came the report of the Ducal Avener, a pompous Sea Lord who knew nothing about actually procuring hay, which was the focus of his position. He took fifteen minutes to explain that one fact, and finished up with a declaration that they should abandon this entire silly business and focus on recovering Enultramar.
Pentandra reflected that at her next meeting of the council she would add a great deal more spirits to her tea.
That evening as Pentandra was making her way back home, she received a summons mind-to-mind. She had not made use of the enchantment with near the frequency she had when she was responsible for the Arcane Orders, so the conversation was something of a novelty – as was the caller.
I see they picked a peach for my old job, Master Thinradel of Vladenar began, once contact was established between them. I just caught up with the news here at Megelin. And congratulations on your wedding!
Thank you, for the congratulations that is. As for your old job . . . it isn’t the same as your old job, anymore, she informed the older man, glumly. If His Grace didn’t have me chasing ruffians and gangsters, I’m certain I would be bored to tears.
Boredom is the occupational hazard of the court wizard, Thinradel agreed. All of those reports!
What reports? Pentandra asked, confused.
The reports you get from your subordinates every week, Thinradel reminded her.
I don’t really have much in the way of subordinates, yet, Pentandra informed him, carefully.
How do you keep track of everything, then? The new
applications? The requests? The inspections reports? Oh, I suppose you don’t have to deal with the dreadful amount of work the Censorate used to put us through, but still . . .
Uh, Thinradel? Pentandra asked, doubt heavy in her voice, just what does a court wizard . . . do?
Well, I suppose that’s changed, since Minalan came to town, he admitted. But essentially the job revolves around the civil administration of magic, at the ducal level, in your case. Which means you set policy, interpret policy, and hire and fire people to enforce that.
I understand the abstract, Pentandra frowned. I mean, just what are my expected duties?
You have a responsibility to identify and arrange for training all those with a demonstrable Talent within the duchy. You must administer the civil examinations and see that they are fairly graded, he ticked off his imaginary fingers. You must hire a spellwarden for the town, if they haven’t done that yet. You must oversee and arbitrate any disputes between wizards in your territory. You must render magical aid and assistance to the court, as needed and requested. In a time of war, you are automatically the head of the magical corps. In peacetime, you are expected to render some sort of aid to the fortunes of the destitute among us. And encourage proper scholarship. And sit on panels and committees representing the magical interests of your region. And . . . well, there are a few other things, but that’s the most pressing for you. In a way, you’re quite lucky.
Lucky? In what possible way? Pentandra asked, crossly.
With the south in rebellion, you need only concern yourself with the magi in the Wilderlands. Before the war, there were only around sixty or so registered adepts and their apprentices to keep up with. I’m sure that number is a lot less, now. If you added in Enultramar and the Great Vale, you’d have five times that number. And you no longer have to contend with the Censorate every time you open your window.
I do suppose that makes things easier, Pentandra admitted. I suppose hiring a few assistants is the wise thing to do.
Oh, it’s of the first importance, after keeping the Duke happy – something I was rarely able to manage. But do find a few capable assistants. It will make your life immeasurably easier.
I do enjoy telling other people what to do, Pentandra admitted. She was good at it, too, she knew. How many?
At least three, Thinradel answered, thoughtfully. One to oversee identification and education, one for registration and examinations, and one for investigations and enforcement. They’ll each need separate offices, eventually, but finding decent candidates shouldn’t be too hard. Vorone should be awash in them. Half of the spellmongers in Tudry and the smaller towns up here went to Vorone when the war started, and they haven’t returned yet. Too much competition from the High Magi on Spark Street. Find a few literate ones and they’ll be glad to work for you just for a stipend and livery, Thinradel proposed.
What about you? Pentandra asked, boldly.
Me? My dear, I’ll be happy to give you the benefit of my wisdom and experience, the older mage agreed, but my ambitions for position are well-sated. I don’t need a title.
I’m not offering you one. Nor a job, as such. But if you could inspect my office, the next time you are in town . . .
Oh, professional validation I can manage, Thinradel decided. I just didn’t want to get caught up in the obligation of government service again. I’ve never worked so hard to get a job I disliked so much as that one. Of course, having a superior who had a marked dislike of our profession didn’t help . . .
I think you’ll find Anguin far more accommodating toward magic than his sire, promised Pentandra. Minalan is financially backing his claim to the coronet, and Anguin understands how the future of the Wilderlands is dependent upon the magi. At least I think he does, she added, wondering if any of their talks with the Orphan Duke had actually penetrated the young man’s mind.
I look forward to meeting him again, assured the former Court Wizard. I recall him, vaguely, as a boy, but rarely spoke to him. Time to repair that, I suppose. A party of us plan on going to Vorone in time for the fire festival. Just a lark, really, to get us out of this dreary castle – and someplace other than Tudry. The charm of that town has receded, he said, dryly.
I shall alert the constabulary, she joked. Pentandra didn’t think she needed to mention just how close to the town’s watch she’d become.
I’ll be glad to take a look at your office then and make any suggestions, promised Thinradel. In the meantime, just look busy and mysterious. Keep the duke happy. The rest of the court will probably leave you alone.
Chapter Ten
Count Marcadine
“Four seated barons are all we can muster?” frowned the young duke at the news. They were in the Hall of Games, where Anguin had temporarily made his office for the day. He was still unwilling to occupy his father’s old solar, and the lad had made a practice of trying out various chambers in the palace to find one that suited him. This evening they had convened in the Hall of Games, where they had ignored the hundreds of games and puzzles the duchy had collected over the years in favor of discussing rescuing the duchy from oblivion.
He sat under a canopied chair in front of an ornate table, one leg dangling over the heavily-carved arm of the chair as he took counsel from his advisors and frowned in irritation. “Briga’s Day is approaching, and I expected at least twice that number!”
Pentandra felt both honored and pressed by the responsibility of attending these informal sessions between the sovereign and his inner cabinet. They were held casually every few days as the senior members of the council discussed matters of policy with Duke Anguin, usually in some innocuous locale. Of course, that was in addition to the regular, official meetings scheduled throughout the week, but then they were also where more actual business got done than the ungainly staff meetings.
That was a puzzle enough for the court, Pentandra was realizing. Getting the southern barons here to swear fealty and provide troops to keep order in the capital city was never going to be easy, everyone knew. It didn’t help that there weren’t that many baronies to begin with.
“It should not be surprising,” Father Amus said, regarding the map of the region with pursed lips. He’d been absent from many of this week’s gatherings as he strove to straighten out the ecclesiastic orders of Vorone. But the old priest knew the politics of the Wilderlands perhaps better than anyone else in the court. He cleared his throat, and with a glance at his liege for permission, he explained.
“With the death of Baron Edmarin, his lands are unassigned. Baron Marcadine – sorry, Count Marcadine – has retired to his estates, inconsolable over his failure to protect the Wilderlands or his duke. He’s the senior landed noble left in the region. His Excellency is extremely well-respected by the other barons. The leading noble of the Wilderlands. Should we secure his support, many, if not most, of the southern lords would follow him, I wager. He represents the last real Great House in the Wilderlands left intact, and his opinion is respected amongst his vassals and his rivals alike.”
“Well, how can we enlist his support, if he is reluctant to respond to a request from his duke?” asked Anguin, still frowning.
“It would be helpful if we could send someone to kindly and politely drag him back to civilization to show off to his peers,” Count Angrial ventured. “Without his presence, it will be difficult to persuade the other barons to support His Grace in anything but name.”
“I’ll go to invite Marcadine, personally,” Count Salgo volunteered, surprisingly. “I campaigned with the count at Timberwatch. I have the rank. I’d like Lady Pentandra to go with me as well – his estate is only two day’s ride to the southwest.”
“Lady Pentandra?” asked Father Amus, before Pentandra could ask herself. “Why?”
“Because she is so charming,” the old warrior smiled. “And so persuasive. I can appeal to his honor as a warrior, and she can appeal to his . . . higher nature.”
“If you say so,” Pentandra replied, frowning. She didn�
�t feel particularly persuasive, these days. Or charming.
“You really are quite charming, when you have a mind to be, Pentandra,” agreed Count Angrial with a thin smile. “And His Grace trusts your judgment,” he added, implying that the Prime Minister therefore did as well. “Yes, see if you two can persuade Count Marcadine to come and give his counsel to the court. He likely wouldn’t make it in time for Briga’s Day, unless he hurried, but a public demonstration of support and an oath of fealty by the equinox, say, would not be amiss. It would go far to keep the opponents of Your Grace’s rule from gaining leverage in doubt of his support.”
“Are there those who do not support the Restoration?” asked Sister Saltia in surprise. “I thought everyone was glad to see the bloody baron gone!”
“There are those who are not wildly in favor of it,” Father Amus explained, his lips pursed in half a smile. “I’ve heard much of the story from speaking with my fellow clergy this week. If you want accurate gossip about the nobility, the clergy are only slightly less reliable than their own servants.”
“So what say the clergy about politics?” asked Anguin.
“That there are men who are not friendly to the ducal house. Baron Restobuin is still in recovery from a vicious wound he took in battle defending his lands against the gurvani, two years ago, and he is not particularly well-disposed to the coronet, anyway. The estates of Baron Mishet, like Edmarin, are forfeit to the coronet and have not been assigned.”
That had been a nasty business, Pentandra recalled. Baron Mishet had marched his men up the Timber Road to defend his lands against the gurvani, as did most of the other Wilderlords. Only Mishet had sold his loyalty out to the goblins ahead of time, and withdrew from supporting his liege at a crucial point in the battle. Stripping him of his lands and titles had been one of the first – and only – useful actions Baron Edmarin had taken, though he’d awarded their stewardship (and a share of their tribute) to his own men. The Baron himself was still at large, exiled and outlawed. If he still lived, no news of it had reached Vorone.
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 25
