“For all practical purposes, yes,” agreed Astyral, reluctantly. “The occupied territories in the Umbra and Penumbra have been parceled out to various tribes, sects, and clans among the hordes.”
“Well, some sort of division was bound to happen,” Azar pointed out. “They had to rule it somehow. Sheruel can’t be in every corner of the Penumbra.”
“That’s what is truly fascinating,” continued Astyral, excitedly. “It is as if they are experimenting. In some cases they have completely replaced the human population. In other cases they rule it as simple masters to simple slaves. In yet others they have assumed sovereign power over the existing feudal structure, becoming the lords of the manor in practice, if not in name.”
“Well, that would give them the basis for a feudal arrangement,” conceded Pentandra.
“Particularly when they are given such good examples,” agreed Astyral. In places they have forced human lords to swear fealty to them and maintain their estates just as they would for a human liege. They are, indeed, practicing feudalism, and finding it a better solution to the occupation than merely dominating the land with tribal bands.”
“They find ours are efficient?” Pentandra asked, sarcastically, an eyebrow raised. “If they were, we would have a much larger army pushing back at them right now.”
“The fact we have one at all is, to them, the amazing thing,” Azar said, shaking his head. “Compared to the highly situational and highly seasonal warriors the tribal system yields, our military, and the institutions we use to support it, are vastly superior. But that level of social organization and sophistication has to be learned and developed before it can be exploited. The Black Skulls are letting many different ways be attempted to see which is the best for carrying the fight into the future. Everything from dark magic to hobgoblins to horrible mockeries of men in goblin form . . . fell hounds, siege beasts, nightsails—”
“They have been working on things . . . plotting. Planning. Scheming. They are by no means done with their invasion. On the contrary, they are just preparing for a future war.”
“Might I ask, Magelord, just how reliable you consider this intelligence?” Baroness Burshara asked, trying not to appear too anxious at the news. She was clearly eager for some answers to her questions about the existential threat to the northwest of her lands. “And how soon do you anticipate this resumption?”
The three magi from the north looked at each other, and Pentandra was certain that there was some mind-to-mind communication taking place before the master of Tudry spoke.
“We who are closest to the foe make a point to keep up with developments within the Penumbra and in the shadow beyond,” Astyral told her, quietly. “We’ve built a bit of a kind of spy network there, both magical and mundane. Scrying, of course, but it goes beyond that. We get reports from sympathizers, prisoners, and even the goblin lords themselves. The gurvani are planning and preparing for . . . something. We just don’t know exactly what. Or when. Or to what purpose.”
“What about dragons? And other beasts?” asked Baron Dasion, entering the lively conversation with a full glass of wine.
“Also quiet, Excellency,” assured Astyral. “At least on this side of the Umbra. No attacks, and damn few sightings.”
“Maybe they all got the bloody pox!” the baron suggested with a smirk under his bushy mustache. He was enjoying the novelty of magi, it appeared, and the august nature of the company. Even a local baron was impressed by the ratty old palace and the Orphan Duke.
“My sources say that they are being well fed on human flesh, the same as the siege worms,” Astyral corrected, gently. “And they are being trained. By their performance the first few times we met them, they are certainly in need of the latter.”
Baroness Burshara shuddered. “I can scarcely imagine how terrifying they would be on the battlefield!”
“Pray hope you never experience it, Excellency,” Azar said in a hoarse but confident voice. “Our comrade, Horka, for whom—”
“My lords and ladies, noble peers of the realm,” the herald, a middle-aged man with a clear tenor voice and a harsh Wilderlands accent, called from the doorway, “Please rise for His Grace, Anguin II, Duke of Alshar!”
Everyone hurried to stand near their seats at the announcement, and there was a respectful pause as the young duke, wearing a splendid green cloak and a silver coronet-of-maintenance on his brow, made his entrance.
Pentandra was pleased. He achieved just the right mix of youthful enthusiasm and somber reverence for the occasion, she decided as the young man took his canopied seat near the fireplace. He appeared neither too arrogant when he entered nor did he lack confidence as he faced his court. After he acknowledged their respectful attention, he signaled them to be seated.
“My lords and ladies, I bid you welcome to Vorone on this sacred holiday,” he began, smoothly – he must have been practicing, Pentandra decided. “Your presence is a token of your continued allegiance to the coronet, and to my house. If there are no objections, I will take your oaths of fealty now, before we get underway with the business of state.”
That caused some troubled expressions on the faces of the southern barons – particularly Baron Dasion.
The man was no fearsome knight, though he wore a knight’s sword and hauberk. Over his chainmail his surcoat was made of rich gray velvet, trimmed with black rabbit fur, the kind of garment never intended to see the battlefield. Though he had led his troops in battle against the rioters, Baron Dasion was a baron, first and foremost, not a warrior.
“Your Grace, if I may,” he began, clearing his throat respectfully, his mirthful eyes growing serious. “I think I speak for my fellow peers when I say welcome back to your old home here in the northlands. We are gratified to see you hale and hearty after your . . . education in Castal,” he said, the remark eliciting a few wry chuckles.
“But while we rejoice to see you here today, and welcome the stability sure to follow your rule,” the baron said, sounding less than confident in his words, “I think that we all must . . . pause to . . . ponder just what . . . benefit accrues to us by rendering our fealty.”
“You refuse to acknowledge your lawful lord?” Father Amus frowned.
“Not at all,” Baron Dasion demurred, quickly, brushing nervously at his mustache. “I would merely like to clarify what our fealty . . . entails. If you want us to fly your banner, that is one thing. If you want to call us into service in defense of the realm, we are ready to follow any good leader,” he said, his eyes flicking to Count. “If you want to fill your coffers with our coin and send it on to Rard, that’s another.”
“That is His Majesty, King Rard,” reminded the Orphan Duke, sharply. “Regardless of your personal feelings, he is my liege,” he emphasized. “Nor has he asked you for coin, beyond his rightful tribute. Which the duchy pays,” he added.
“We have greater need of it here,” Baroness Burshara contended, adamantly. “We watched Edmarin squander our tribute on hawks, hounds, horses, whores, tournaments and amusements for his cronies while the people starve and the duchy runs to tatters! Your Grace, it is not that we are reluctant to do our duty, but our duty to our lands, the gods, and our people demand that we undertake the oaths we swear wisely.”
Burshara spoke far more eloquently than Pentandra would have guessed. Her accent was as pure Wilderlands as any, but softened with a warm burr that was naturally persuasive when she was speaking emphatically. A good woman to know, Pentandra decided.
Anguin frowned, though Pentandra knew he had been thoroughly prepared for this eventuality by Father Amus and Count Angrial. The duke sat forward in his chair, leaning toward his vassals and courtiers as he spoke.
“One could argue that the re-establishment of ducal justice has been done, with the execution of Baron Edmarin,” he proposed, pointedly reminding the barons the power he still had over them as his vassals. “Or that in deploying your men today against the riots at my direction established me as a commander. But if
that is not sufficient honor to compel your fealty . . .”
“Your Grace, with respect, it is not your honor that is at question,” Count Marcadine agreed, rising from his seat to address the court. “It is your intention. Surely, my liege, you can guess at what our fears might be. We seek to know your mind and hear your plans for restoring not just the coronet, but the lands it rules. If we could hear those spoken plainly and clearly, so that we might contrive policy to fit, we would be much encouraged toward our oaths, I feel.”
“If you are wondering if I will tax you to death, the answer is no,” Anguin said, flatly. “The duchy is currently poor of coin, it is true, but we do have resources, and we contrive to get more - without going in debt to those in the east, or by ceding one bit to those in the south.
“Further, if you worry that I will squander the treasury as Baron Edmarin did, I assure you gentle lords that my interests are neither in hawks or hounds nor are they in horses and . . . tilting.” In fact, Pentandra knew, Anguin loathed the sport. His voice became louder, and more firm . . . deeper, Pentandra noted. Manlier.
“I came to Vorone not because it is mine by right, but because it is the responsibility of my house under the laws of the gods for me to see it thrive. With the help of good counsel and loyal retainers,” he said, staring down the older men and women intently, “I have managed in a few short months to escape my . . . education, return here in force, establish myself in the capital, and restore what order I am able . . . without the help of my uncle,” he added. “Indeed, I do not think His Majesty is yet aware of what I have done. Nor is it his business that I have done it. This is an Alshari matter,” he said, firmly, “and I am the Duke of Alshar.”
Pentandra didn’t know if it was Angrial or Amus who’d prepared the lad so well, but she made a mental note to thank one of them. Anguin’s presence on the throne was more powerful than one would expect of a young man of fifteen. More powerful, she reflected, than his father had ever been. There was a deadly seriousness in the lad that he was learning to express, a seething emotion he was just learning to harness.
The speech pleased the barons. “That is a relief to hear, Your Grace, Marcadine nodded. “But what of your other policies? Do you plan on invading the south? Do you seek war with the gurvani? What help can we expect from the capital, and what help will be required of it?”
Anguin paused, relaxing somewhat. These were questions of policy he was well-prepared for. “No, I have no immediate plans to invade Enultramar,” he sighed. “I neither seek war with the gurvani, nor do I shirk from it. And the help you can expect from the duchy will be commensurate with the assistance you provide it in its days of struggle.”
“There is the matter of past tribute owed to the coronet, Your Grace,” Baron Dasion said, delicately. “Few of us were enthusiastic about enriching Edmarin. Yet the totals owed by our estates over the years have grown . . . profound, while our expenses have grown and our fortunes have only suffered. From what the monks tell me, my lands owe over seven hundred ounces of silver for the last three years . . . yet if you demanded that of me, at the moment . . .” he said, spreading his fingers apologetically.
There were similar nods from the other barons. This was an important issue.
“The coronet is inclined to be accommodating,” agreed Anguin, coolly. “As we are to Count Marcadine, who sees a third of his lands taken and under hostile control, yet persists in running his remaining domains in a commendable manner, I am told, in the absence of ducal authority. Such effort requires silver, if you cannot depend upon the duchy for assistance. If you spent coin on defenses properly the duchy’s, then it would be unjust for me to demand you pay those costs twice.
“Nor will we demand money payments for our tribute,” he continued. “I will be willing to consider service or goods, if they be of value, for we need whatever resources we can gather. But in order for the regular business of the duchy to be restored, the court must have income of some sort.”
“While that is certainly a reasonable position, surely you cannot expect the costs of the duchy to rest on the backs of four or five baronies, Your Grace!” Baron Dasion complained.
“Not at all,” soothed Anguin, with a simple wave, “but I must start somewhere. You five, and the magelords, are the vassals I have, thus far. With your fealty you will persuade others, who will then share the expense. I am not blind to your circumstances. And I am gratified by your obedience to my summons so early in the year, at such short notice: it indicates the type of loyalty I desire in my vassals. Indeed, if you will swear to me token oaths, I would seek to discuss the plight of our realm with you as honored counselors and members of my court . . . but I will not extend that courtesy without knowing that you are my true vassals.”
“An oath, once taken, cannot lightly be forsworn,” Count Marcadine said, suspiciously.
“Either I am the duke of this realm and you are my vassals, or I am a pretender and you are in rebellion. My friends, let us make an end to this quandary. Swear your fealty to me and let us get on to the business of the realm. You can always,” he said, a wry smile about his lips, “decide to rebel against me later. I hear it’s all the rage in some quarters.”
That brought a chuckle from the court that seemed to shatter the tense political situation.
“So we could, Your Grace,” Count Marcadine agreed. “Very well. Honor demands I be the first,” he said, stepping forward.
Father Amus wasted no time in presenting the Books of Luin and Duin, reliquaries bearing the Sword of State and the ducal seal, and other sacred objects upon which the barons swore their fealty. Anguin warmly embraced his vassals after each oath, pledged in return to give fair justice, fierce defense, and succor in troubled times, then after a libation to the gods drank a toast to them individually. When the ceremony was done, everyone seemed to relax into a congenial mood.
“Now that I’ve at least bought an evening’s worth of your time and attention, my lords and ladies, let us discuss how best that time be spent,” the earnest young duke declared.
“Besides eating, Your Grace,” reminded Father Amus, hungrily. “This is a sacred feast.”
Anguin agreed, and summoned the servants to serve the fine meal the cooks prepared for the occasion, after Father Amus gave a lengthy blessing. Then the realm’s business continued the moment the blessing was done, as the ring of tables around the Pinewood Chamber were set and served.
It was not unusual for Alshari and Castali to combine secular and religious affairs thus, Pentandra knew, but in Remere and Merwyn one did not discuss the mundane at a sacred event. Not that it bothered her - considering how she prayed to Ishi, she didn’t feel particularly judgmental.
Anguin continued to address the peers at the high table as the servants began the meal with the seasonal honey cakes.
“I do not begrudge you your suspicions, gentles, after what Baron Edmarin did to the realm. It will take years to recover from that, so my ministers inform me. Nor will I hold you to tributes pledged based on factors long irrelevant. This is a new reign, a new duke, a new duchy, a new era.”
That was the song they wanted to hear, from the satisfied expressions on their faces. Anguin continued as the horrid porridge course was served. Why anyone wanted to break the flow of their meal with a bland bowl of hot cereal was a sign of a barbaric culture, Pentandra felt.
Anguin continued, now that he had their attention. “No, my friends, we gather here not merely to prop up the last withered scion of a long line, but to re-forge the Alshari Wilderlands anew!” he said, with adolescent enthusiasm.
“Re-forge it how, Your Grace?” asked Baroness Burshara politely as a trencher was laid in front of her and her bowl filled with porridge from a silver bowl. “The Wilderlands scarcely resembles the realm it was, sadly.”
“Nor will it again,” Anguin conceded. “I accept that, my lady. The realm is as it is. The question is not whether to turn our backs on the north and look south or to rend our hair in despair
over what has befallen us . . . but how to put Alshar back together again, one piece at a time. But in different form,” he stressed.
“How different, Your Grace?” asked Baroness Burshara, cautiously.
“I think we can all agree the old order is smashed. Therefor a new order must be made, one respecting the realm as it is. After consultation with my court, I will be making some appointments, some gifts, and some grants, to speed the healing and re-organization. Some old offices and titles will be done away with, and new ones will be instituted.”
Baron Steldru looked at his fellow peers nervously and spoke. “Your Grace, some of us have fought valiantly to hold the lands we have . . . to remove them—”
“Some boundaries and frontiers will be adjusted,” Anguin promised, “but no one who supported me early in my reign will suffer. You have my word on that,” he said with commitment.
This was the important part, Pentandra knew. The bribes. Count Anguin chose that moment to give them their boons. “Count Marcadine, for instance. As your county has been . . . diminished, we will re-draw those boundaries to re-establish it further south. As you are protecting those lands anyway through your adept administration, you might as well have full title over them.”
“Your Grace!” the nobleman gasped at the unexpected news. “My thanks!”
“You will be required to administer and provide the tribute for the new region, of course, but those lands will be under your command,” Duke Anguin assured.
“Sir Daranal will be appointed the new Baron of Edmarin’s lands to the west,” he continued. “The hub of them, at least. Edmarin took title to far more than he could hold, and too many of the richest estates, to include in his barony.”
“Is that wise, Your Grace?” Baroness Burshara asked, her matronly eyebrows raised under her rich silk wimple. “While the man was a servant in your father’s court, from what I understand he is under suspicion, in some quarters.”
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 34
