Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  The dark, animal-headed figures could be seen skulking in shadows, their heavy swords concealed within their dark cloaks, ready to pay vengeance to the Crew for disturbing the peace of the town.

  The Rats, too, were determined to make a showing on the streets that night, posting guards and watchers at the edges of their territories, nervously watching for the mysterious Woodsmen. Some had even boldly affected rat masks themselves in defiance of their foe.

  That bit of theater helped clear the streets before dusk. The days’ riots erupting in the Temple ward had inspired dread and despair in many of the common folk, as had the departure of the Orphans’ Band. Most common folk eschewed the lure of social drinking and holiday gossip in favor of an early night, after the riots. There was just something in the air . . .

  Those who clung to the streets after midnight were rarely there to celebrate the Flame That Burneth Bright on her sacred feast day. They were far more inclined to invoke Kulin Evershadow, the patron of thieves and footpads. Or Pram the Blessed, patron of distillers and barmen, worshiped with hangovers and fountains of vomit. Or even Ishi’s less-expensive caress by her less-fortunate disciples.

  But regardless of their religion, those few who wandered abroad in Vorone in the misty night were wary. The arrival of the four barons – and a handful of magelords – hadn’t served to calm them. There were armies in the mists, killers in the darkness. Everyone could feel a palpable sense of fear hovering over the town.

  Pentandra herself was wary. The riot was clearly instigated by the Crew, although why it was so far from the bloodbath in the Market ward the other night. But it gave them every excuse to act.

  She and Sir Vemas in a quick conference at the palace after she retired for the evening. made a decision. He was lurking outside of her offices, vacated just this morning. She was supposed to open the office tomorrow, or at least begin to. The constable stepped out, gave her a bow, and then boldly pull her into a corner.

  “I think it’s time to bring Opilio the Knife to answer to the Lord of the Wild,” he said, looking over her shoulder. “That riot was the last straw. Our sources say he started it on purpose. A show of strength, or something. At least seventy people were hurt. The lads are . . . upset.”

  “Perhaps they should take some exercise tonight,” she suggested. “Let’s see how they react to an evening of fury. Perhaps let it bleed over to the docks to see what our friend Bloodfinger does. Then tomorrow night, we can move in in force.”

  “Why tomorrow night?” he asked, curious.

  “Because I’m exhausted,” she explained. “That council wore me out and I need rest and time to plan before we conduct a major operation like that. Any more time . . . and my husband might come home and try to stop me from participating.”

  “You make a compelling argument, my lady,” he conceded. “I’ll have a coach brought around. A few of the lads will escort you back to the hall, and they can depart from there.”

  After her busy day at court, it was time for her to transform from Court Wizard to crimelord as she quickly coordinated the effort. It wasn’t easy – this was perhaps the most elaborate foray the Woodsman had made, and would require some additional work. This wasn’t a simple stalk-and-slaughter mission, as the Woodsmen were performing on the Rats they caught away from their holes tonight. This was another kidnapping, in force, from the villain’s own headquarters, one who expected attack, and the timing had to be just right.

  In a way, the chaos the Rat Crew seeded in the Temple ward and in the refugee camps aided their efforts, she considered as she boarded a carriage back at Spellmonger’s Hall.

  If the mood of fear continued through the night, as a full street war would ensure, there would be so few abroad on the streets that night, near the recesses of Chandler Street, where their plan would be executed, that they did not need fear witnesses or bystanders.

  As she finished going over the plan she and Sir Vemas had concocted to put pressure between the various factions of the Crew in the coach, she felt the whisper of mental contact as someone attempted to contact her, mind-to-mind.

  It wasn’t the best time. She considered ignoring the beckoning. Yet better to settle any issues now, and not when they were in the middle of their mission this evening, she reasoned.

  Pentandra! came Astyral’s mental “voice”. Where are you? Where did you go? Azar and I want to go investigate the wonders of the Street of Perfume, and wanted a native guide!

  Pentandra thought of the dangers lurking on that brightly-colored part of town and considered warning her friend. But she knew Astyral would just laugh at danger. He was a deadly warmage, one of the best, and he had both a Gilmoran’s sense of class and style as well as a low and suspicious mind – which meant that he, more than anyone else she could think of, was likely proof against the temptations of that street.

  She considered recruiting him instead for her mission, but there was already enough debate about the place of magi in the new court. Besides, if Astyral got involved, he’d be more inclined to ask questions than just do what needed to be done. For this operation they didn’t need a warmage, they needed subtlety.

  You go ahead, she urged. I’ve got some court business tonight to attend to.

  Aw, Penny! complained Astyral. We were counting on you for some introductions! We don’t want to be treated like rubes from the country!

  You and Azar are rubes from the country, she quipped. You realize that Vorone is the largest town in the Wilderlands?

  Yes, and the fourteenth largest in Alshar, Astyral replied, drolly. I’m enjoying this pretense at being a duchy as much as anyone, Pentandra, but . . .

  We’ll get to retaking the south, she promised. Besides, I thought you were a Gilmoran? I thought your folk hated the Alshari?

  Not at all! Astyral said, sounding hurt at the suggestion. My family were loyalists to Alshar – mostly. We only reluctantly accepted the Second Peace of Barrowbell, not that we had much choice. Despite the economic advantages that accrued to the nobles with the switch in allegiance, don’t think it was without issues. There are plenty of old Cotton Lord families which would like to see themselves Alshari, not Castali.

  Well, now we’re all in one big happy kingdom, so it really doesn’t matter much, anymore.

  Except to the rebels in Enultramar, he reminded her. They think it matters. Hells, that’s one reason that they’re rebelling. They felt Anguin’s line was too conciliatory, and they wanted more traditional leadership. Meaning one of his easily-manipulatable first and second cousins in Falas or Rouen. So when the opportunity came, the southern Alshari figured that losing the Wilderlands, after already losing Gilmora, was a fair price to pay if it also lost them Anguin.

  That doesn’t seem very . . . feudal, she replied.

  Oh, it’s not – don’t forget, the basic feudal system was developed under the Narasi. Before that, it was households of Sea Lords and Imperial-age Coastlords who dueled for control of Alshar. They worked through alliances between great houses, decentralized authority descended from their maritime culture. That’s what they want to return to, a time when a man’s power established him, not necessarily his birthright. They’ve seen too many weak Narasi dukes in the last century.

  We can still restore him to power, Pentandra countered. Eventually. Once things are stable here.

  My dear, I love you like a sister, Astyral drawled into her mind, but when it comes to Alshari politics you have much to learn, Pentandra. You can’t just push Anguin to the front of the room, point out he’s the rightful heir, and expect to have the court fawn over him. Traditionally the older families of Alshar prefer to see some proof of worthiness in their monarchs before they invest them with that kind of duty.

  Wouldn’t rescuing the Wilderlands from certain demise count? demanded Pentandra.

  Only if Anguin n can transform it into a new fleet, Astyral reported. The southerners don’t have much use for it, otherwise. Face it, Penny, as smart as the lad is – and I’m impressed wit
h him, don’t mistake me – the Wilderlands is likely to be the only part of Alshar he ever controls as Duke. Taking the south militarily is laughable, with the resources he has now. And doing it without a navy would be insane. Unless you can beat the Sea Lords at sea and the Coastlords on land, it’s going to be tough to break the alliance that rules Falas now.

  Well, it is our intention to do just that, Pentandra lectured. We just have no real idea how. But I’m guessing that magic will play a role.

  It’s ambitious, granted the Gilmoran mage, but I think you’re crazy to set yourself up for failure like that. If Anguin is wise, he will do what he can to strengthen the north and allow his heirs to pursue their claim over the south. Unless he wants to wrest Gilmora back from Castal, first, he mused. That would be impressive enough of a feat to win him great support in Falas.

  Something will come up, Pentandra replied. It was more hope than promise, but she’d learned very quickly that politics was largely a matter of taking the initiative to exploit sudden opportunities that furthered your interests.

  There were just too many players in the Kingdom, now, and within southern Alshar the possibility of something unexpectedly happening that would give Anguin the opening he needed to exploit was inevitable. At least, that was what she kept reminding herself as she sat through gloomy meetings about austerity.

  She couldn’t argue that Astyral was wrong – he knew far more about western politics than she. And he was an astute player of the game, having secured a long-term appointment most barons would kill for. But she didn’t think he understood just how determined the court – and Angrial – were about their mission. Their goal was not just to restore the Wilderlands capital, so that the duke could claim some sort of legitimacy, but to retake the entire duchy from the rebels (and, eventually, the gurvani).

  And that meant the south. Though to the nobles of southern Alshar, it also meant Gilmora, cruelly stolen from the Black Duke by Castal’s sneaky negotiations. That, she reasoned, sensing political opportunity, might be good leverage in the future.

  Of course, since an essential part of the southern rebels’ hold over the land seemed to be supported by the Brotherhood of the Rat – the parent criminal organization of Vorone’s Rat Crew – then making headway here, against these vermin, could lead to a far better chance at re-taking Enultramar.

  It was a grand, impressive dream, but it was the one upon which the hopes of the court depended. Which meant that her work as a rat catcher might, in the long run, pay off in ways she couldn’t expect.

  If only I had the gift of prophecy, she mused to herself as she continued working on the details of the night’s operation. Then I could figure out whether I’m wasting my time with this . . . or doing absolutely vital groundwork.

  Not for the first time she realized that Court Wizard was not nearly as cushy as she was led to believe. Nor for the last.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Council Of Vorone

  Midwinter was the fire and craft goddess Briga’s sacred feast day, the day when shepherds had their sheers blessed in her small temple, the sacred fires from her holy hearth were spread to every household in the city, and special spiced honey cakes were sold in the market at outrageous prices. The cakes were hot, sticky, and sweet, and were supposed to ensure inspiration and imagination in the coming year.

  Briga was not as revered a divinity in the Wilderlands as she was in the Riverlands. Despite the importance of iron and smithcraft in the region, most of the fire goddess’ local worshippers were involved with the wool trade, instead of Orvatas’ temples.

  Sheep husbandry was a far smaller endeavor in the Alshari Wilderlands than it was in Castal. Most shepherds’ flocks in the remote dales were a few dozen strong, not the scores upon scores of beasts the Castali farmers kept. Nor was it often traded beyond Vorone. Wool was important in the Wilderlands, but far more for local use than export.

  Briga’s celebration in Vorone coincided with the ewes beginning to give milk in preparation for the lambing that would soon occur in the snowy meadows outside of town. Shears and other implements were sharpened and blessed in her temples, while candle after candle was lit in her honor in hopes for a prosperous year. As she was sacred to chandlers, bakers, and smiths, the craft guilds used the day to promote apprentices and establish new endeavors.

  Pentandra did not have the association with the Narasi goddess that Minalan did, of course – the Imperial gods leaned away from basic elements and toward the sophisticated areas of human life. Even though Briga was technically a goddess of magic Pentandra did not celebrate the occasion by doing more than buying a half-dozen honey cakes in the market on her way to the palace in the mornings. They were excellent.

  Midwinter was also the day that the last of the Orphan’s Band mercenary infantry marched away south toward their scheduled deployment, leaving only a few hundred of Duke Anguin’s sworn men to hold palace and keep peace in the town. The prostitutes along the Street of Perfume were not the only ones sad to see the Orphans go. They had provided stability and security during the restoration and the transition to Anguin’s rule, and there was a sense of expectation and anxiety in the air in their sudden absence.

  In the days before the holiday there was little break in the peace apart from the usual tavern brawls and civil disagreements, save for the bloody nocturnal struggle in the margins of the Market ward.

  The weather remained warm, teasing the distant spring, and people began to look beyond merely surviving the winter and toward the warm, fertile days ahead. Thankfully, as the snows melted and the rivers rose, most of the poor in Vorone were too busy taking stock and thanking the gods they had made it halfway through another winter to notice the dour mercenaries were gone. Those who didn’t buried their dead.

  But there were also those in the town who were very carefully watching what happened once the Orphans were gone. The Rat Crew was certainly paying attention – their criminal activity had virtually ceased in the few days before their withdrawal, particularly in the Market ward.

  While that was a blessing for the common folk, it did slow down the Woodsmen’s continuing operations against the syndicate. It also indicated that the Rats were preparing something nasty.

  Pentandra wasn’t fooled by the relative peace, nor was Sir Vemas. The Crew was plotting something to celebrate the departure, something designed to challenge Duke Anguin’s hold over the city. Enough rumors were overheard to assure them of that much.

  In the days before the holiday Pentandra watched Count Salgo pace the Trophy Room and receive reports from his men before and after meetings, ordering pickets and patrols around the city. He did not have near enough men, now, to cover everything thoroughly, but he did his best to ensure that where there was trouble, there would be soldiers. He, too, expected trouble.

  The garrison had been uselessly but deliberately patrolling the surrounding territory and avoiding Vorone. Sir Baskei, the garrison commander, was unwilling to risk his troops in a fight that was not, practically speaking, a matter of kingdom security. There was quite a bit of anti-Anguin sentiment in the garrison, as most of the men were recruited in Castal or Gilmora, or they had found their lives more fruitful under the corruption of Edmarin. Either way, Salgo reported that they could not be relied upon to support Anguin’s rule.

  The City Guard was more helpful. Sir Sundail, the newly-appointed captain of the guard, was eager to impress the new Duke. The proud Wilderlord, returned after years in exile, was determined to demonstrate his loyalty, and scheduled additional patrols to keep the peace. The guard itself was transformed from how it stood at Yule. The corrupt and lazy had been purged from its ranks by Sir Sundail and the constable, Sir Vemas, with Count Salgo’s approval. The few weeks spent patrolling with the Orphan’s Band mercenaries had given them some professional training, but they had yet to be tested on the street.

  The Woodsmen heard tales of troubles planned for after the holiday, of course, though the activity seemed to be concentrated on
the camps, not the city, proper. Pentandra had heard the reports from her rough lads for days as the guardsmen made their rounds in the Market ward in disguise and quietly spoke to their informants. The word from the street was troubling even outside the chaos of the Market ward. Someone important in the Crew wanted a couple of riots to erupt, it was said, the first to distract, the second to destroy.

  It was clear that someone within the Rat Crew was starting to figure out that their recent downturn in fortunes had begun with the arrival of the Duke and his mercenaries; and someone was starting to take steps against it.

  One by one they had seen their confederates and informants among the Watch, the palace guard, or the garrison get punished or demoted, and their contacts within the palace all but dried up as the new court took power. Compared to the days of Jenerard, when a Rat could get an audience with anyone, at need, this was unbearable. Coupled with the bloody onslaught against them from the mysterious Woodsmen and, the crippling of their most lucrative ward almost overnight, the Rats were starting to feel hard pressed. A demonstration was apparently needed.

  It was inevitable that an argument in one of the northern camps turned heated and came to blows - such scuffles happened several times a day. Blowing an insult into riotous proportions was likewise no difficult matter. Three or four thugs, a few pints of raw corn spirits, and a riot was born.

  Vorone was no stranger to riots, even in the dead of winter. As many desperate and near-starving folk as there were in the town it didn’t take much to see a minor disagreement quickly turn into an exercise in mob violence. The spontaneous sort were bad enough. Those planned and executed with purpose were even worse.

  Late in the afternoon of the day before Briga’s holiday, word arrived at the palace that one such altercation had turned into a brawl that quickly spread to affect the entire camp.