Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  The Rat Crew leapt on the opportunity (if they hadn’t actually caused it) and fanned the flames of discord with long practice and a cynical understanding of the pressures of desperate poverty. Within an hour there was a full-scale riot underway, people were being hurt and even killed, and calls for troops from the town Watch went out to pacify the encampment.

  The palace had precious little in the way of troops to send – dismissing the Watch from their posts was foolish, as experience had demonstrated, as it invited lawlessness inside the walls that the Crew was looking to take advantage of. While the garrison was ostensibly in Vorone to protect the town, the soldiers therein did not see herding unruly peasants as a legitimate threat to the kingdom and, therefore, not part of their job. Salgo knew they would stay in the westernmost regions of the river vale, far from the mob.

  But he sent what he could to quell the riot. That was a tense day. A scant score of knights and men-at-arms was dispatched, the rest held in reserve.

  Pentandra was called into the Trophy Room and asked to monitor the situation by magic, which was hard enough that she had to use her new baculus to keep track of all of the spellwork. It proved far easier with the device, which helpfully initiated spells at her command and compiled the results for her review far more quickly and efficiently than if she had been forced to do each casting herself.

  Pentandra scryed the camps and the wards of the town for them and kept Count Salgo and his aids informed. Her baculus kept track of the movements and brought some things to her attention she might have missed. It was like having the most helpful servant – but one which understood arcane matters as well as she did.

  Pentandra was newly impressed – she rarely put much stock in enchantment, but she had to admit that the paracletic spell Minalan had placed on the rod was an amazing improvement. It magnified the power of her scrying magnificently.

  The riot in the northern camps turned out to be a feint – as the Woodsmen had predicted. No sooner had the small force departed the city gate toward the rioters in the northern camps, two other incidents broke out in the camps to the south of the river, and quickly spread to the docks,

  A smaller riot broke out near the busy Temple ward, within the city walls, on the lower end of Temple street. That was the one Pentandra focused on. There was nothing of value outside of the walls, but the Temple quarter was filled with people with full purses and votive offerings. Count Salgo sagely sent his best troops, the two-score personal guard that had once been the Royal Second Commando, to intervene.

  “Outstanding intelligence, Pentandra,” Salgo conceded when word had come of the much more dangerous conflict in the Temple quarter. “Had I deployed my forces entirely to the north, the entire south side would burn. And the cultural center of Vorone. I’m going to send three more squads to the docks, another each to the camps, in support.”

  “That would be prudent, Warlord,” Pentandra agreed as her baculus informed her of the situation to the south. “If the docks are shut down more than a day or so, we’ll be hard pressed to keep the market full.” Over half of the town’s supplies came in from estates upriver, or immediately downriver, where shallow-draughted barges could deliver produce and grain more cheaply than by land. “And I think that will be a sufficiency . . . the duke’s guests will be arriving by noon, if my spells are correct, and can lend their aid.”

  That had been part of Prime Minister Angrial’s plan. Calling a council of local lords near a feast day was common, and usually meant a small party of emissaries, at best. But these barons had been invited with their entire guards, and were arriving just as the Orphans were departing and the violence was getting ugly. Few in town outside the palace paid attention to the announcement of the council a week before. If the Rat Crew had planned the violence, it had not counted on the duke’s vassals arriving in strength to pacify it.

  Salgo’s men managed to contain the riots in the Temple ward until noon with only the usual injuries. Then Baroness Burshara and Baron Dasion entered the outer precincts of the townlands together with their guards when the call came by messenger from the palace for their aid. The squadrons of loyalists Salgo dispatched to contain the fighting had been cautioned not to inflame it further, and they had done well enough to keep it from spreading to the smaller camps, but there was little else the men from the palace could do. They were just too few, and the order they brought was confined to the swing of their swords.

  Count Salgo did not have to ask the barons twice. Rioting peasants are but a step away from rebellious peasants, every lord’s worst nightmare.

  Baron Dasion eagerly took command of both households and rode to the aid of his fellow Wilderlords at the nearest camp. Four score of their men, armored and mounted, waded into the fight at once. With the sound of horns and warcries, as well as threats of punishment should the rioters not relent, they set upon them with the flats of their swords or used their broad shields to bash the unruly to their knees. If they got up, they got bashed again until they stayed down. It was a respectable threat.

  The chaos quickly retreated and the riot was quelled, particularly when two men, likely instigators hired by the Crew, were hanged outright by Baroness Burshara in front of all. By the time the moon rose all of the camps were in order and the barons were once again on their way to the palace, feeling victorious, leaving the field to their marshals.

  It was not the grand place they remembered it being, back in Lenguin’s day. In the midst of winter, the slush and grime clung to the walls, and there were few banners fluttering above the gateway in the cold breeze – save the large banner of the Anchor and Antlers that hovered over the front gate of the palace.

  That was the only important heraldry for this gathering. The rest of the palace probably looked as derelict and decrepit as an old ruin, a shadow of its former glory, Pentandra reflected as she watched the faces of the barons as they assembled for the council at dinner that evening.

  Pentandra was included in Duke Anguin’s staff for this event because of her reputation and – so Count Angrial said – because of her diplomatic skills. While she was certain Arborn would disagree about the latter, she was more than willing to be Anguin’s show-of-arcane-power. She wasn’t as impressive as a company of mounted knights, she knew, but Pentandra did her best to dress for the part.

  By the time she entered the Pinewood Chamber, one of the smaller rooms in the palace designed for such intimate meetings, she was clad head to toe to impress and inspire: a gown of golden Remeran satin brocade and scarlet silk, embroidered with thread-of-gold runes. She wore a gilt bauble between her breasts and falling to a belt. Her Remeran-style hairpiece, made of golden chain and tasteful gems, accented her striking black hair. She carried her silver baculus like a scepter.

  Pentandra cut a striking enough figure to earn a double-take from the peers assembled when she was announced. Baron Dasion, in particular, seemed enchanted by the revealing gown. But unfortunately the magic in her appearance wasn’t quite enough to siphon away the worry and anxiety each peer displayed as they waited for the Duke.

  To her surprise, there were more than the four mundane barons waiting within the chamber when she arrived. The former Warden of the North had responded to her and Salgo’s persuasion and attended the event, though he had arrived at night and with but a small retinue. More to her surprise than the somber Count Marcadine was the sight of old friends and colleagues, Astyral, Thinradel, and Azar. She ignored court protocol and embraced them warmly.

  “We were dreadfully bored,” Astyral explained. “No more sophisticated reason for our presence than that. We’ve been sitting on the battlements, staring at the snow for weeks, now, without so much as a skirmish, slowly going castle-crazy. So we thought we’d take a small force south, while the roads were reasonably clear, and look up our new overlord – and our old friend the new Court Wizard.”

  “So you’re the one they convinced to nurse this wounded pup back to health?” Azar sighed, shaking his head sadly. “I was wo
ndering who would be gullible enough to accept the impossible post. Honestly, Pentandra, I thought you had more sense.”

  “I like a challenge,” Pentandra shrugged, casually. “And it was at Minalan’s suggestion. Besides, I was getting bored in Castabriel. Urban sophistication and endless luxury can only entrance a girl for so long. And I did meet Arborn,” she reminded them. “Once I got married, it seemed like a change was in order.” Of course, this wasn’t the change she’d had in mind, she reminded herself, but this was the change the gods had arranged.

  “You certainly do have a challenge cut out for you,” Azar agreed, sipping wine and staring at the mundane Wilderlords gathered at the other end of the hall. “And not one that I envy. But I suppose it’s nice to know someone at the palace”

  Politics, particularly court politics, was hardly of interest to the deadly-looking warmage. Azar was interested in power, but only in the destructive magic sort. He made an ideal leader of the Megelini knights. He loved talking about the war, Pentandra knew. She decided to exploit that weakness before he could say something politically uncomfortable in front of the skittish barons.

  “How are things on the front lines? We’ve only heard rumors.”

  “Quiet,” Azar said, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. That was twice as potent an expression on Azar. He was not a large man, but he dressed in a style to demonstrate just how deadly a warmage he was: black mantle of rich wool, black leather armor covered with polished studs in the shape of skulls and stars, and tall black boots so massive you almost didn’t notice the extra height built into the heel. When Azar looked suspicious, he put his whole being into it. “Too quiet. We’ve increased our patrols, along with the Iron Band and the Tudrymen, but apart from the occasional skirmish there has been little action. Escaping slaves and occasional raids, but that’s it. Ishi’s tits, I’m sure the goblins are as bored as we are. It’s been almost two years since that damned treaty, and apart from the odd incursion the gurvani have been keeping to themselves.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” Pentandra asked in surprise.

  “If we thought they were going to settle down and become well-behaved grocers and peasants like the Tal Alon, perhaps,” Astyral observed in his soft Gilmoran drawl. “Sadly, I don’t see that as likely.”

  “The place is a chaotic cauldron of aggression,” Azar said, almost approvingly, “but of late they have turned it upon themselves. Since their losses at the Poros they seem less eager for a serious fight. Pity.”

  “We have observed their behavior most carefully,” Astyral continued. “We have built up an understanding – a crude understanding, but an understanding – of their internal politics and divisions, as well as their preparations for future warfare. Indeed, we have undertaken a few clandestine forays into the Penumbra to learn their disposition on specific undertakings or to check their progress toward developing overmuch.”

  “Have you learned anything significant?” she asked, anxiously.

  “Sadly, while I can report that they have adopted the trappings of human civilization, in some cases, they have not done so out of admiration as much as efficiency. Yet the affectatation is not universal,” Astyral observed in an academic tone. “It’s fascinating, actually. There are serious cultural and political divisions evolving among them.”

  “Really? Such as?”

  “The gurvani nearest Boval are the most fanatical, for instance, but those who have settled in the captured villages and castles in the region have taken up humani culture quite readily. The tribes in the northern hills, under the noses of our Kasari friends, eschew both the human-acting goblins and the fanatics of the Umbra, living much as they always have. And then along the periphery of the Penumbra are dozens of settlements and cantonments with much of the remaining military might garrisoning: hobgoblin infantry, fell-hound mounted archers, those great goblins - they call them the Urgurvani - and their great beasts. Oh, and then there are the renegade human lords who have taken the colors of Sheruel, and those bandit lords who see financial advantage in conspiring with the enemies of humanity.”

  “They even chose a king,” Magelord Thinradel said, for the first time. “That’s what I found most interesting. When Shereul did not take an active enough interest in the mundane affairs of the conquered lands, and his priests began cocking it up, some of the more important military leaders tried to lead a revolt, of sorts. We’re still sketchy on the details, but the result was this goblin king. From what we understand, he’s attempting to establish a human-style aristocracy and monarchy, but he’s facing some stiff resistance.”

  “I can empathize entirely with him,” Pentandra sighed, glancing at the barons. She said it so expressively her friends were compelled to laugh.

  “More disturbing, they have not abandoned their ambitions of genocide, they’ve just slowed their pace. And changed their tactics,” Astyral added.

  “To what end?” Pentandra asked, genuinely curious. Baroness Burshara, a matron in her fifties, invited herself to listen in to the conversation, a silver goblet in hand.

  “Yes, Magelord, why are they hesitating when we are in such disarray?” she asked, politely. “It would seem a perfect time to strike at us.”

  The Gilmoran magelord considered thoughtfully. Like Azar, he dressed to impress. Unlike Azar, his style was more inclined toward charming sophistication than intimidation. His garb was an elegant mixture of the simple styles of the Wilderlands and the decadent ostentation of Gilmora - and he wore it well. A cream-colored mantle lined with sheepskin was thrown back over his shoulders revealing a richly embroidered collar on a snowy-colored surcoat, a few tasteful medallions in silver and gold hanging around his neck. Underneath were layers of expensive tunics and fine linen under tunics, each well-tailored and fitted.

  “I think they are studying us, learning our weaknesses,” he finally pronounced, authoritatively to the noblewoman. “As many victories as they’ve enjoyed, their defeats have been decisive. When the battles have been important, they have usually lost to us. They seek to discover a way to counter that.”

  “As if it should take them this long!” Azar fumed. “We bloodied their noses badly on the frozen lake,” the warmage recalled, fondly, as if he were remembering a young and boisterous lover. “And that was after their defeat at Cambrian, and the humiliation of Timberwatch.”

  “And what do you gentlemen believe they have learned from that?” asked the baroness, with genuine interest.

  “They found that overwhelming numbers, even combined with dragons, were no match for well-trained mercenaries, good timing, luck, and skillful magic.”

  “A change in tactics was to be expected, Excellency,” agreed Thinradel. “And a replenishment in numbers. Unfortunately, it takes far less time to raise an adult gurvan to fighting maturity than it does a human warrior.”

  “It does?” Burshara asked, troubled.

  “Oh, yes,” Pentandra agreed. “The gurvani come to full maturity at around eleven or twelve years old.”

  “Sooner, now,” Thinradel informed them. “That was one of the things I was studying at Megelin. Not really my field, understand, but neither is warmagic, and I have to admit I was curious. Somehow the little scrugs have found a way to accelerate the process by a few years. The specimens we’ve taken from the far northeastern bases - the really dark and horrific parts of the Penumbra - seem fully grown, but they are only nine or ten years. And then there are the . . . oddities,” he said, screwing up his face. “Some of them are being bred for specific traits, like longer arms and legs. Or more muscle mass. I think they’re trying to force them to maturity so that they can improve the breed as quickly as possible.”

  “Trygg’s grace, why would they want to maim themselves like that?” she asked, aghast.

  “It’s not like they have a choice,” Azar explained, casually. “They use breeding camps. Huge gatherings of fertile females, and even larger numbers of males. Some are rewarded breeding privileges for valor or cunning, but most are
directed in their rutting by the Black Skulls, or worse. The priests choose, the gurvani merely comply under the threat of the Dead God.”

  “I find the ones who are aping humanity the interesting ones,” Astyral countered. “The king and his furry little court. They wear our clothes, cut down for their size, and some even employ human slaves as barbers to trim up their bushiness. That lot is more family-oriented than the others. More civilized. I hear some are even literate. It helps them study us better.”

  “But I don’t see the advantage of studying . . . us,” Baroness Burshara repeated, with a slight shudder “Certainly not enough to stall the momentum of their campaign. Don’t misunderstand me – I’m grateful to the gods and relieved that they stopped when they did – but after their advance into Gilmora was broken and repelled, something seems amiss that they did not press their gains in the Wilderlands. Surely it was not the power of that . . . treaty,” she added, skeptically.

  “It begins by adopting our ways, Your Excellency,” Astyral explained, congenially, as a servant refilled his wine glass. “It has become clear to the goblin elite that feudal structure is superior to tribal structure when it comes to fielding a professional army.”

  “You simply cannot sustain the enthusiasm or discipline of a tribally-based warrior culture for any length of time,” the charming fellow maintained. “If you want to combat institutional power, you must establish institutional power. And to do that you need a professional army, based on a military aristocracy. At least, that is the theory of the . . . let’s call them the Royalists,” he said, grinning. That was the unofficial name of the nobles who had supported Rard in his quest for a kingdom. The comparison was both scandalous and humorous.

  “So now we have goblin nobles, now?” Pentandra asked, amused at the idea. She knew that the “goblin king” had sent an ambassador to Castabriel, but she had been spared associating with him. She’d seen enough of his kind at Boval. And Timberwatch. And Cambrian. And the Poros.