Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  It was a positive meeting, Pentandra had to admit, and as she and Salgo rode away from the great stone castle, even the old count was feeling optimistic.

  “Marcadine can bring as many as seventy lances from this barony alone!” he smiled as they rode through the castle village. “That will go a long measure toward restoring confidence in the palace.” But then he frowned. “Of course, insisting on order, when the greatest factor in our disorder is the lack of men such as himself establishing order, makes this a confusing negotiation.”

  “It seems as if Count Marcadine has done what he can, here in Preshar,” Pentandra noted approvingly. This far south from Vorone there was little sign of the suffering the war had brought the region. The goblin incursions had been stopped at the river to the north, and Marcadine was even supporting a small fort over the frontier manned by the Iron Band.

  He had managed his lands and his people well and with discipline. There were no shiftless refugees, hungry vagabonds, or blank-eyed men willing to kill for a meal idling in the village square. Instead everyone she saw worked with industry and purpose to prepare for the spring plowing and planting.

  “If we could only get the other estates running like this . . .”

  “Not through ducal decree, we can’t,” grumbled Salgo. “Estates run best when the men running them profit from their industry. All of those deserted estates and empty domains will fare much better when there are proper Wilderlords in charge.”

  Popular and well-deserving men had been granted titles to estates near Vorone with considerable generosity in the last few public courts. Most of the grants included small stipends or relief from tribute that would make it easier for them to recruit the freemen needed to farm their lands. But the expectation that they produce, and quickly, was strongly laid upon them.

  That, in turn, had provided some much-needed work for some of the peasants in the camps. Now that spring was nigh, the new lords’ agents and representatives were hiring entire families from the encampments and paying for them to relocate to the nearby estates as quickly as soon as the roads were clear. That reduced the load on the relief kitchens and the pressure for low wages for day labor in town. When the new plan to secure and repair the palace was announced in a week, much of the remainder of the surplus labor market would dry up.

  “Especially now that Anguin makes plans to fortify Vorone . . . such as they are,” agreed Pentandra. “Once a new keep and wall construction is underway, a lot of this equivocation about how serious Anguin is about staying will also dry up . . . I hope.”

  It was clear to all that Vorone made a splendid summer capital, but that it was woefully inadequate to take on the responsibility all year long. Especially not without a fortress of some size nearby to protect the Duke and his court.

  Convincing the Duke that a more secure place than the palace was necessary to his regime wasn’t that difficult. He was a bright young man who understood that the palace at Vorone had never been intended to be defended, just enjoyed. The motte-and-bailey castle that had once dominated the town was long-replaced by the sprawling palace complex. While there were areas of the palace considered secure, the nominal security of a stout door and a stone wall was nothing compared to the strength of defense a true fortress would provide.

  To that end Duke Anguin was considering building a strong outbuilding or refuge keep on the site of the royal garrison’s quarters. Pentandra had been in favor of the move, as had most of the rest of the court. Once the first plans for that were made there would be thousands of man-hours available – at great cost to the duchy. Sister Saltia and Viscountess Threanas were shaking their heads doubtfully over the (in their perspective) needless expense of a castle in an unthreatened town.

  But Pentandra, and others on the council, saw the merit and had supported the idea in counsel – earning her no favor with either woman. Her experience among the working class of the market quarter had given her a broader perspective, however. As she saw it, the project would put people back to work, put coin in pockets, and encourage the workers to spend at market. It would provide a realistic place of refuge in the case of an attack – not large enough to fit the entire town, perhaps, but certainly large enough to shelter many and give them something to put up a fight for. It would help uplift the desperately poor and keep the artisans happy with the additional work. And it would provide a physical symbol of Anguin’s military dominance on the skyline.

  “Nothing lets the people know who is in charge than the sight of a castle under construction,” Salgo agreed. He’d been in favor of the project himself. Though he preferred to lead men on the open battlefield, the old general understood implicitly the kind of political and economic power a castle brought to a regime. “The fact that it will be built on the site of that useless garrison makes it all the more desirable. You say your friend Carmella can do it?”

  “With magic? In two years’ time, I’d wager,” Pentandra shrugged. “She’s done wonders with her small crew at Salik Tower, from what I understand. She really has refined the construction techniques we pioneered last year. That little pele tower is as good as a regular keep now, from what I hear, and her apprentices and associates have been building model siege engines to practice the craft of defense. She thinks she can cut corners and save coin by re-using the bricks and stones from some of the ruined castles in the Penumbra.”

  “Of which there are a plentitude. Won’t that be prohibitive, to cart it all the way down here through a war zone?” asked the Warlord.

  “Not the way she’ll do it,” Pentandra said, biting her lip before she launched into a long discussion about the advantages of transdimensional enchantments like the hoxter pockets and potent artifacts like the bricking wands. “By using magic she can pare at least a third of the cost away, and not have to worry about opening and defending a quarry. From what I understand that is a long, expensive process. There are plenty of grand old places that were ruined in the invasion she can pull from. Including some currently owned by the gurvani,” she added. “That’s the sort of thing the Order of Hesia specializes in.”

  “To see a real keep go up in just a few years? That would be worth some coin,” chuckled Count Salgo. Most castles took years, even decades, to finish without magic. The larger they were the harder they were to finish. “In truth, I feel naked in that town without a decent wall to hide behind.”

  “How are you going to convince the garrison to leave?” she asked the old soldier, curious. While the garrison’s nominal leader was willing to cooperate with Anguin’s regime, most of his lieutenants were loyal to King Rard, who had made their appointments. And who paid their salaries.

  “I’m going to convince the Royal Minister of War to send them out on exercises,” Salgo said, smugly. “Just over the summer, I think. They can go and patrol the Ring with the Iron Band, or practice against the Tudrymen, for all I care. But if we can get them out of the barracks for any length of time we can begin work on the site. And as soon as we begin work, they’ll have to find someplace else to live. Perhaps upon one of those ruined estates, when they return.”

  Count Salgo was a military man, but he could not abide useless soldiers. The men of the royal garrison counted as such, to his mind. They were unwilling to attack, unable to defend, and unprepared to fight anything more grueling than rioters.

  “With more support from the great nobles, we shouldn’t need them there before long,” nodded Pentandra.

  “If Marcadine gives his fealty, then the other barons will also,” he qualified. “If he doesn’t, then they might . . . but they’ll feel no obligation about swearing to our lad.”

  That’s what many in the court had been calling the Orphan Duke in private: “our lad”. It wasn’t quite a resounding show of confidence and conviction, but it was always said with defiance, devotion and affection.

  Pentandra just hoped their lad appreciated the number of people willing to risk themselves and their prosperity to see him succeed. With hopeful days like this on
e, that actually seemed like a possibility.

  Chapter Eleven

  Show Horses & Work Horses

  While Pentandra was still trying to contend with her many new duties – including the unbelievable number of meetings she was now required or invited to attend – she began to see just which of her fellow ministers were fully invested and involved in the business of the duchy, and which were merely holding place until someone – and she often wondered just who they thought would accomplish it – brought better times to Alshar.

  In her mind she divided the two groups into work horses, like the many draught horses who pulled plows and wains – and show horses, those steeds the nobility husbanded for their pretty lines, shiny coats, and physical ability. The nobility had entire breeds of horses nearly useful for anything but the tasks they were bred for, while the peasants who supported them used rounceys, common horses suited to nearly any purpose, to keep the world running.

  It often depressed her just how many show horses the new court had among it.

  There were some, like Viscount Muros, the loyal Sea Lord who had been appointed Master of Wave but the duke, who sat in an office which no longer had much to do with the rest of the palace. The Wilderlands had no navy, and while the post had been vital to the united duchy, being estranged from the vast maritime armada of Alshar made his appointment nominal, at best. Yet Muros had no trouble dominating the conversations in the great halls of the palace at every opportunity, bragging of his marine prowess and mastery of shipcraft.

  Others, like the nominal Lady of Fetes, Lady Landine, had active portfolios to work on, but precious little in the way of resources to do it. While she was technically responsible for planning and executing the number of entertainments and celebrations the palace court was used to, virtually no funds for the office had been released by the Minister of Treasure, Viscountess Threanas, since she was confirmed in her position by the Duke.

  Pentandra could see her point – when most of the court felt that the Duke was one riot away from being thrown out of his capital, it was difficult to encourage a celebration of his reign when there was no coin to do it. Much of the funds which had been earmarked for such frivolities by the planning councils had already been spent on settling the palace’s considerable debt to local merchants.

  That left Lady Landine moping around the palace, complaining bitterly about her situation and generally making herself a pain in the arse.

  There were plenty of others. When Anguin and Angrial were trying to build support for the restoration in Gilmora they had secretly sent word to houses there and in Alshar who were known to be loyal to the Dukes in the past, and invited them – quietly – to lend their support to the effort.

  A small army of adventurers and younger sons showed up on Anguin’s doorstep. Not all of the volunteers were useful, for the immediate task, but once summoned it was difficult to make them go away. So Angrial and Anguin pledged plenty of court positions to keep their visible support for the court high in the public’s mind, without really having a use for so many useless nobility cluttering the halls of the palace.

  While that irritated Pentandra, especially when she had so much to do and her office was not even fully set up, yet, but she understood the politics enough to keep her resentment at bay while she carried out her own duties.

  Nor was she the only “work horse” of the court irritated by the useless officers. When she had a moment between meetings (the new Mirror array attendants in the first, and a consideration of rules and guidelines for the new office of Spellwarden in the second) she escaped to any number of small, comfortable rooms scattered about the palace.

  Most of the senior court were unaware of these refuges, as they were primarily the haunt of senior servants and junior courtiers, but Pentandra was less concerned with social propriety, and more concerned with amenities. Some of the tiny chambers were extremely well-situated, well-appointed, and better stocked than she might have imagined.

  One such place was a small room over a walkway between two sections of the palace, one that overlooked a pretty garden (or, at least, it promised to be pretty come spring). The tiny chamber could be reached three different ways, if you knew how to get to it, and inside the castellans had ensured that there was wine, water, mead, hydromel, beer, and sufficient food to keep the workhorses of the court well-refreshed.

  Pentandra dropped into the nameless chamber as soon as she could, after a very frustrating meeting. To her surprise, Coinsister Saltia, the plump nun serving as Assistant Minister of Treasure, was already there drinking an extravagantly large mug of beer.

  “What sent you in to hiding?” the merry nun asked her, as she left the stairwell. “I just had my arse chewed by Threanas, the . . . Ifnia save her,” she said, with nominal piety.

  “What, this time?” Pentandra asked as she poured herself a half glass of mead. She was not fond of the rich beer they liked in Vorone. It was too thick and too bitter, much different than the gentle brews the Remerans drank. “Did she discover you hiding pennies under your habit?”

  “I’ve got room for more than pennies under here,” the nun assured her with a smile. “But, no. She’s far more concerned with our appalling trade imbalance than mere pennies. And she thinks I – well, my temple – should be able to do something about it,” she said, sourly.

  “Could you? And why does it matter?” Pentandra asked, relieved to be discussing someone else’s bureaucratic problems.

  “Well, our trade balance is pretty important,” the nun said, informatively. “Every cart that goes south and every cart that goes north across the frontier is important. The more we purchase from outside the duchy, the less actual money the duchy has,” she explained. “Not the duke, mind, but the duchy – all of us, put together.”

  “Why would you need to know that?”

  “Because if we don’t, then soon there won’t be enough silver in town to actually purchase any of it,” she complained. “Threanas thinks that there should be at least one wain headed south for every two headed north. While that’s reasonable, I suppose, it does beg the question of just what to put in those bloody carts,” she fumed.

  “Well, we know iron and timber have limited value that close to the Wilderlands,” Pentandra pointed out. “What else can we send? That doesn’t compete with the local merchandise?”

  “Exactly!” agreed Saltia, triumphantly. “You have grasped it exactly! There is really very little the Wilderlands can sell at market that isn’t well-covered by other regions already. So chewing me out for not figuring out how to sell the Castali things we have and things they need is not terribly helpful!” she said, with a mixture of anger and dignity.

  “What did Threanas suggest?” Pentandra asked, curious.

  “Uh . . . what . . . why, she didn’t suggest anything, herself,” the nun confessed.

  “Then you should have solicited her ideas,” suggested Pentandra, sipping the mead. “Saltia, I don’t know how they do things at your temple, but in my experience when a superior gives you an impossible task, your best defense is to ask them how they would do it. If you lack ideas of your own – and I can’t help you much, there – then it becomes much more difficult to be held accountable if the program you execute was their idea. Next time, ask for her guidance,” she suggested. “See what she has to say.”

  “And if she proposes the impossible?” asked the nun, warily.

  Pentandra shrugged. “Then tell her you’ll study the matter and get back to her. I did that to the poor common spellmongers concerning their regulation for nearly two years,” she admitted, smugly. “Every time they came to me with a demand to set policy, I asked them to submit suggestions on how to do so. Eventually, we spent more time on the suggestions than fixing the problem, but there was at least the appearance that we knew what we were doing.”

  “You cannot bluff your way out of a trade deficit that grows by nine ounces of silver a day,” Saltia pointed out, tiredly. “Numbers mean things, my friend. With silver
pouring out of the palace the way it has been . . .”

  “Yes, but look what those expenditures did for the local economy,” Pentandra pointed out. “When the palace settled its debts, nearly five hundred ounces of silver were injected into the artisans of Vorone! And some of that will come back in revenues!”

  “Well, certainly, we retired our small debt,” Saltia conceded. “But only at the cost of going into debt with my temple,” she pointed out. “And while we’re not the most ruthless of temples to borrow from, we do expect every penny to be paid back. And interest,” she added.

  “You will be,” Pentandra assured her. “Those loans were secured by the Spellmonger. And I happen to know he has a lot of capital sitting around, not doing anything particularly important.

  “Which is the only reason I’m here,” reminded the nun. “At this rate, it will take the duchy about six years to repay the funds advanced so far – if revenues continue to come in from Vorone.”

  “What if they improve?” Pentandra asked, curious.

  “Well, that depends entirely on how much the court – the duke – let’s face it, Viscountess Threanas – how much she wants to service that debt.”

  “So why is the trade inequality such a big issue, then?”

  “Because right now Vorone produces its own basic crafts and a number of luxuries, and almost none of them have a market outside of the Wilderlands,” the nun said, grumpily. “It’s one thing if we can off-set the amount of silver fleeing the country by sending wagons south, but as it is? We’ll be lucky to be here, come autumn, if something isn’t done.”

  She could see the little nun’s point, but considering the much more pressing matters of state security and basic services, Pentandra could see no clear way out. It would be difficult to notify the Treasury about the sudden disappearance of all of that ore and timber, for instance, without informing them of how it was sold without a single wain or barge being involved. Or where the coin from the sale of such commodities went. Or where several tons of wheat mysteriously came from.