Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Well, as political alliances go, it’s pretty damn shaky,” Father Jodas said, gloomily, as the inner court congregated to discuss the difficult council and its results in the Game Room at breakfast the next morning. “It has splinted the wound, at best. But it should hold until the bones are set. Marcadine is the key,” the old priest said, more to himself than the others, as he stirred too much honey into his tea. “The others follow his lead, as the last native Great House left in the Duchy. Keep Marcadine happy and the others won’t be a problem.”

  “He seemed taken with our lad,” Count Salgo observed, loosening the leather baldric of office as he took a seat in a cushioned chair. “Feudal obligation is oft strengthened by personal admiration. Thank the gods Anguin did his part!” he sighed in relief.

  “It was a qualified success,” countered Count Angrial. “It proves we can rule more than Vorone, and have some regional support. That’s significant. The unexpected arrival of the magelords was quite helpful, too,” he conceded, nodding to Pentandra. “Astyral in particular is held in high esteem in Vorone. But more importantly, the news will spread about the agreement. With the public swearing of their fealty and the payment of tribute, they set a valuable precedent for the smaller lords.”

  “It cost us enough,” grunted the Warlord. “Don’t forget that their support was contingent on a number of factors,” he reminded. “Marcadine was adamant in our conferences. We must bring order to the land. Including re-establishment of ducal services. And settlement of their lawsuits.”

  “I’m already having the agreements drawn up,” agreed Father Amus, reluctantly, overhearing the conversation as he entered the room with the Duke. The two men slipped easily into their accustomed seats. “For the sake of the realm, several outstanding legal cases will be settled in the favor of the lords, and each will be gifted title to additional lands. It does seem a steep price to pay for what should be Anguin’s by right of law, but we must do what we must,” he said, resigned.

  “We do get warriors out of it,” Salgo pointed out. “Some immediately. A dozen from each barony, to add some backbone to the palace guard and the city watch. With those we can at least hope to keep ruling in Vorone. For a while.”

  “The money is helpful, too,” Count Angrial nodded. “Back tribute, enough to run the government for a few weeks, at least. But more important is the profession of loyalty. Eventually what we do here will be noted,” he said, starkly.

  “Gentlemen, I’m afraid it already has been,” Pentandra sighed, withdrawing a roll of parchment delivered to the palace this morning, through the auspices of Astyral. “As you know, I have been yet to set up the arcane Mirror array, here in Vorone, partially because I don’t have my office yet, and partially to shield us from inspection before we are ready. The Mirror array at Tudry is functioning, however, and Magelord Astyral has generously accepted many messages of import to be sent to Vorone. This message came by that route.” She swallowed. “Astyral handed to me as we were leaving the feast. It’s . . . from Anguin’s . . . Aunt Grendine.”

  Everyone in the room stiffened, as Pentandra expected they would at the news.

  “The Queen?” Count Angrial asked, tensely.

  “Actually, the message was written not from a sovereign to a vassal, or even the leader of one great house to another,” Pentandra pointed out as she opened the letter. “It was written informally, an aunt to her beloved nephew.”

  “That . . . is odd,” Count Angrial admitted, after consideration.

  “What does it say?” asked Count Salgo, anxiously. He had long experience with the Queen, back when she was just the ambitious Duchess of Castal, and knew her ways better than anyone else at Anguin’s court.

  “Lady Pentandra,” asked Anguin in a voice heavy with emotion, “would you do me the favor of reading it? Aloud, to the court, if you will,” he commanded. Pentandra broke the Arcane Order’s seal on the scroll and began reading.

  “My dearest nephew, it is our hope and prayer that the gods see you well. We were alarmed and concerned when we learned of your departure from your estates in Gilmora this winter, and were relieved when we heard that you were merely visiting your estates in Alshar.”

  “So she doesn’t know that we’ve taken power, here?” asked Father Amus, frowning.

  “Of course she does!” chuckled Count Salgo. “Nothing escapes Grendine’s observations. She is quite aware of what he has done. She’s just trying to give the lad a means to back out of it.” Anguin did not look pleased.

  “There’s more,” Pentandra said, shaking the parchment. “‘We have heard some disturbing rumors that some might advise you to pursue ambitions best left to your betters; we encourage you to, instead, enjoy the recreations and amusements available to you, and to consider yourself ever our guest in Castal.’ “

  “’Guest’!” snorted Father Amus. “More like ‘hostage’!”

  “Speaking of which, Pentandra said, shaking her head, “It continues: ‘Recall, if you would, that your family has only your best interests in mind, and that we have always looked out for you. Your sisters continue to thrive under our care, and your uncle and I encourage you to keep them in your thoughts and prayers.’”

  “A thinly-disguised threat,” huffed Father Amus. “If anything should befall the Duke’s sisters . . .”

  “Well, that is the point of taking a hostage, isn’t it?” Salgo observed. “Of course she’s going to threaten them, in so many words. Because she can.”

  “We shall deal with the matter of my sisters soon enough,” Anguin said, through clenched jaw, as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “As soon as I have Alshar secure, I will send for them.”

  “Your aunt may be loath to part from their company, Your Grace,” Count Angrial reminded him. “Mentioning your ‘family’ was not an accident.” It was well-known among the inner circle of the court that Queen Grendine’s intelligence and assassination service referred to themselves in code as the “Family”.

  “Then perhaps I will send an army for them,” Anguin countered, boastfully.

  “That would be more effective a threat if Your Grace commanded an army,” reminded Count Salgo.

  “Which is why I will deal with my sisters soon, and not at the moment,” Anguin agreed, evenly. “What else does the old bat say, Lady Pentandra?”

  “‘We can certainly understand if you are feeling homesick or want to exercise your prerogatives on your lands,’” Pentandra continued reading, “‘but we feel obligated to remind you that despite the recent treaty with the casadalain, many of your lands remain treacherous. Be cautious in your travels lest the unfortunate or tragic befall you, my dearest nephew.’”

  “Another threat,” nodded Count Salgo. “She’s really eschewing subtlety here this time, isn’t she?”

  “She’s worried,” Pentandra guessed. “She’s more than worried, she’s uninformed. You worked with her long enough, Salgo – how does Queen Grendine usually contend with being uninformed?”

  “As a personal insult,” agreed the old Warlord. “I’ve never seen a woman so obsessed with knowing everything about everything. Which is one reason she’s put together such a robust intelligence network. It would be nice if we had at least an anemic one,” he added, reflecting a common complaint of the court.

  “And now she’s heard – heard, not seen – that Anguin has left Gilmora and taken Vorone,” Pentandra reported. “She likely also knows in whose company he is and what his immediate objective is. That should be clear enough to anyone. What she doesn’t know is the disposition of His Grace in relation to the crown. If you rise in rebellion, she’ll be forced to take action. Sorry, she’ll be forced to force her husband to take action. If you aren’t . . . then she’s wondering what your long-term objective is.”

  “Well, let us at least satisfy her curiosity to that,” the young duke frowned. “I don’t think I could afford to rebel. Can I?”

  “Not at our current budget, Your Grace,” Father Amus said, dryly. “I suppo
se we could see if Viscountess Threanas could move some things around . . .”

  “Then we will be a most loyal and deferent vassal,” sighed Anguin, slumping in his chair. “For now.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be enough,” Pentandra warned. “Allow me to finish the letter, Your Grace, perhaps it will provide a more complete picture.” The other lords nodded, after Anguin, and she continued.

  “‘Nephew, I do not have to tell you what dangers and pitfalls await our family in the future. Rebellion scars the realm in the south, invasion blights it in the north, and sedition and treason lurk around every corner. Every open hand may conceal a dagger, every drink offered to toast your health could conceal poison. I urge you to take the utmost caution against such perils, and be especially mindful of well-meaning but destructive advice from those who pretend to know your best interests.’”

  “That would be me,” Count Salgo said, proudly. That earned a grin from Father Amus.

  “That would be us all,” Pentandra agreed. “Oh, look! She mentions me . . . kind of. ‘In particular, beware the persuasive voices of the magi. They have an unhealthy interest in your lands, and seek to control all things. Though they promise wonders and power, I fear that they will not be content until they, themselves, rule once again.’ I apologize, Your Grace,” Pentandra said, looking up over the parchment at the young man. “I have been remiss in promising you wonders and power.”

  “We shall discuss it at our next meeting,” promised the boy, amused despite the tense situation. “Continue.”

  “‘The magi feel they have suffered long under the Censorate and bear little good will toward the nobility. Master Minalan, himself, though a reasonable fellow, has persisted in complicating the policies of the kingdom and of Castal. The magi he surrounds himself with are ambitious and hungry to restore their lost power – beware their beguiling voices and their vague promises. Similarly,” she continued, smiling despite herself – Grendine made her sound so sinister! – “beware of the counsels of those who found themselves divorced from power by your parents’ untimely deaths. While there are many good and noble houses in Alshar, there are also those who whisper revolt and plot against the kingdom, itself – an institution you have publicly supported.’”

  “More begging for validation,” smirked Count Angrial.

  “‘Lastly, should your stay in Alshar become extended, you should know that I have instructed your fair cousin, Princess Rardine, to visit you in your lands later this year. She is due to tour Farise this summer and has made mention of visiting the Alshari Wilderlands afterward. Likely you will be already returned to your Castali lands, by then, but if fortune should see you linger, please extend to her all the hospitality due family. I know she will be fascinated to become re-acquainted with you and your efforts.’”

  “Oh, dear gods!” swore Count Salgo. “She’s sending the royal brat here?”

  Princess Rardine was not widely loved by the former members of her court, Pentandra knew. If Queen Grendine’s reputation as a tyrant was well-deserved, ‘the brat’ – Princess Rardine – had one she’d earned just as honestly.

  “Only if I don’t return to live under her thumb,” Anguin said, grimly. “If my stupid cousin shows up, you can wager that it will be with the sole purpose in subverting my rule. And making my life miserable. At which she excels,” he added, bitterly.

  “Oh, I think it goes beyond mere subversion, Your Grace,” Count Angrial speculated. “You may not be aware, but your pretty young cousin is not only the Princess, she’s also one of your aunt’s most trusted lieutenants in the Castali intelligence service.”

  “She is?” asked Anguin, surprised and troubled. “She’s only a year older than I am!”

  “She was at Timberwatch when your father died, Your Grace,” Pentandra dutifully reported. She was afraid of upsetting the boy ruler too much, but he deserved to know. “I know not for certain what role she played there, but I know that she was present.”

  “She’s a talented assassin,” Count Salgo told them, flatly. “She’s killed, and ordered killings, since before she flowered. She’s smart. Perhaps even smarter than her mother – and certainly smarter than her idiot brother.”

  “I was under the impression that she had lost stature in the royal court after her brother married and the new princess proved fertile,” Pentandra said, based on something Minalan had mentioned.

  “That is true,” conceded Count Salgo, fingering his mustache thoughtfully, “but Rardine is not one to be content to lurk in the shadows. From what I understand, the Royal Family is desperately trying to marry her off, and is finding that more difficult than they had considered.”

  “Really?” snorted Anguin. “Have they not met my dear cousin?”

  “Finding her an appropriate match is not a terribly high priority for the regime,” conceded the Prime Minister. “Not with her brother so well-entrenched as heir. Queen Grendine has no problem using Rardine as a troubleshooter. And a potential defection or rebellion by her darling nephew counts as trouble, in her mind.”

  “If Rardine thinks that the kingdom would be better off with one less Duke of Alshar,” Salgo warned, “she will try to take steps.”

  “Then we shall protect His Grace.” Pentandra didn’t even realize the words were coming out of her mouth as she said them. “We shall not allow the duchy to fail. She continues,” she said, returning to the letter that had been painstakingly dictated through the agency of the Mirror array. “‘Your cousin, Tavard, is particularly concerned that you have left his hospitality, as he had hoped to cross lances with you during this summer’s tournament season in Castal. He—”

  “I just bet he does!” said the young duke with a snarl. “He practically lives in the saddle, and I hate jousting! She knows that! He just wants to put my face in the dirt in front of the entire kingdom. I’m not keen to play the role of his conquered victim!”

  “’He remains concerned over the state of your health and your future plans, and begs me to ask if you would consent to attend the tournament we plan in Castabriel in late summer. Your appearance would be a comfort to us all.’ “

  “And tangible support for her regime,” grunted Salgo. “And the Heir.”

  “’And of course your dear uncle worries incessantly about you, far more as a father does to a son than over even a beloved nephew. I encourage you to write him soon to assure him of your good health and spirits. Too long without word, when you are in the wilderness, spawns concerns like rabbits in spring. Your family wishes only to ensure your continued health and happiness. Please take the utmost care of your health in such dangerous lands. The gods watch over and protect you, blah blah blah, your loving aunt Grendine.’”

  “I’m considering the merits of vomiting,” Count Salgo said, snidely. He and the queen were frequently at odds, at the royal court. “That woman has never cared about Anguin’s well-being beyond its personal utility to her since he was born!”

  “If you will consider my interpretation,” Pentandra offered, “she’s simply fishing for intelligence. You caught her off-guard, and she’s using an appeal – through familial, not official channels – to your sense of duty and responsibility . . . to her and the kingdom, not to your realm. And yes, she’s threatening: you and your sisters. But she’s doing so in such a subtle way that it would impossible to take affront at it. Likewise, for the arrival of the Princess and the interest the Prince has in beating you on the field of combat.”

  “But is she sending assassins?” asked the lad, worriedly.

  “Probably,” conceded Count Salgo, pragmatically. “But that doesn’t mean she will order them to act. She will likely just move them into place. I doubt she’d have you killed until she had threatened your sisters unsuccessfully a couple of times, first. She might be ruthless, but Grendine is practical.”

  “That’s . . . comforting . . .?” Duke Anguin said, unconvincingly.

  “My liege, assassination is a danger every great lord faces,” i
nstructed Father Amus. “You of all people should realize that. But if your dear aunt intended to kill you out of hand, she would not bother warning you first. She is merely reminding those who know her that she will not tolerate rebellion.”

  “I do think you should find a moment to compose a letter to her, though, Sire,” Count Angrial advised, after a moment’s silent contemplation. “Something to assure her, get her to keep her claws sheathed for the moment.”

  “We could lie and mention he’s become a drunken wastrel,” offered Count Salgo. “That has ample precedent.”

  “In one so young, that would be difficult to portray convincingly,” Father Amus replied, almost sadly. “Perhaps it might be believable if he’d done more of that sort of thing in Gilmora last summer . . .”

  “So what are we going to tell her?” Salgo demanded, his nostrils flaring in irritation. “That we’re struggling to keep the rats out of the cellar, goblins out of the henhouse, and bread on the table?”

  “Actually,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing, “yes, that is precisely what we should tell her, Your Grace.”

  “We should?” asked Anguin, doubtfully.

  “Your Grace,” she began, carefully, “Queen Grendine fears your disloyalty. She fears that you came back here to raise an army of Wilderlords and the banner of rebellion, perhaps throwing in with the Southern counts, and despoil the legitimacy of her crown. If you can assure her that, instead, you are struggling to establish the most basic services and institutions of a state with the barest of resources, she’ll feel that you are, indeed, too preoccupied with such an enterprise to risk rebellion.”

  “Hells, why not ask her for money, too?” suggested Father Amus. “Isn’t that what desperately poor relations usually do? It’s hard to be considered rebellious when you have your hand out.”

  “Which has the added virtue of being damn close to the truth,” Salgo conceded. “That idea has merit. And we can address the issue of this useless garrison, too. I suppose if we’re asking her for money, cap in hand, and trying to disband the tiny army we have, we can’t very well be hiring armies secretly behind her back.”