Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “And my quarters?”

  “Upstairs,” admitted Bircei, reluctantly. “But they are not done being cleaned.”

  “I would like to see them anyway,” Pentandra insisted. “I need to arrange for furnishings and such.”

  “Of course, my lady – you even have a small allowance for that. Follow me.”

  The personal quarters were both more and less than Pentandra had hoped, and they were still, indeed, in need of a thorough cleaning. The room at the head of the stairs was a kind of sitting room, with two small tables and some benches near the elaborately carved, soot-stained fireplace. The room had a homey feel, in a ragged sort of way, and the timber floors were scraped and scarred from much use. The tapestries were threadbare, and there were banners and trophies she didn’t recognized hanging from the horns of an ancient and moth-eaten stag’s head. The room was musty with smoke and mildew.

  Beyond the other door in the room was the buttery, as well as a small locker for foodstuffs. A common guarderobe stood to one side, and a large wardrobe stood to the other. Three small rooms, no bigger than monk’s cells, lay beyond.

  “You have three rooming spaces, here,” Bircei explained. “An excellent perquisite for those who find rents in town prohibitive. But you are also permitted two rental allowances, should your staff already have accommodations. Your office has an account with the Lord of the Halls’ Master of Provision, at the palace storehouse. You are entitled to four bottles of wine a week, six loaves of bread or equivalent, a quarter bushel of fruit, and three pounds of meat or sausage. That’s in addition to livery,” he reminded her.

  “And my chamber?” she asked, looking at the state of the buttery and hoping the drudges were thorough.

  “Here, my lady,” he said, opening a slightly grander door.

  It was . . . disappointing.

  It was grand enough, for a rustic palace court official, she supposed – or at least it had been when it was built. And before the lifting of the Bans that expanded the role of magic in the land.

  “Remember, my lady, that these were intended as temporary summer quarters,” Bircei said, sympathetically, as he watched Pentandra’s reaction. “The, uh, official residence of the Alshari Court Wizard is the Tower Arcane, an urban estate in Enultramar. I hear it’s quite grand. One of the famous sights of the capital,” he said. He didn’t mention it was also controlled by rebels and forever denied her. He didn’t need to. For good or ill, the duchy she was responsible for was confined to the Wilderlands.

  The bed was decent enough. Wide enough for four, with tree-like pillars that held the canopy overhead. But the wool tick needed to be replaced, desperately, and the linens . . . she didn’t want to think about the linens. They hadn’t been changed since before the room was occupied by a rowdy band of knights for two months. They needed to be burned A few old chests and presses lined the walls, open and empty.

  But it was small – half the size of the draughty chamber she lived in now. There was a small door that led out to one of the ubiquitous balconies designed into the palace – another Southern touch, and influenced by Remeran architecture – which afforded her a little more usable space, but it was still . . . tiny.

  “I’m going to need more space,” she blurted out, despite herself.

  “My lady, there just isn’t—”

  “I know, I know,” she sighed.

  “This was never designed to—”

  “I know!” Pentandra burst out. “We will just have to make do. For now. But this is . . . inadequate for long-term use of this office, Bircei.”

  “I understand, my lady. You are not the first to suggest that. Master Thinradel – magelord Thinradel,” he corrected, fastidiously, “was particularly upset about it.”

  “I will discuss the matter with His Grace,” Pentandra decided. “This will have to do for now.”

  Bircei left the most important part of the tour for last when they returned downstairs. “And this is your office,” the castellan announced, proudly, opening the thick oaken door to the largest chamber she’d seen yet. A magnificent old desk of some unknown dark wood dominated the windowless room. Shelves lined the walls, shelves filled with books. A handsome scroll rack stood in the far corner, next to a small side table laden with a charming crystal decanter and cups of silver. “It’s known as the Summer Office, of course, due to the temporary nature of its use. For three months a year, this is where the Court Wizard heard cases and made policy for the Wilderlands magi.”

  Now she was in the seat of power, technically the head of all of the Duchy of Alshar’s magi . . . and she was beginning to feel the dreadful weight of the responsibility before she had even exercised her power.

  She remembered what Thinradel had told her: “I’ve never fought so hard for a job I hated so much.”

  It wasn’t the bureaucracy that concerned her. She’d built a decent organization out of nothing, when she had been the Steward of the Arcane Orders. Nor was it the politics. She was as adept at political manipulation as she was thaumaturgy.

  But in the Arcane Orders she had designed the organization according to her own insights about efficiency and effectiveness. Here, as Court Wizard, she had inherited generations of messes of her predecessors, compounded by invasion, assassination, rebellion, stagnation, neglect, and technical revolution. All that was missing were the caprices of the gods, Pentandra mused, darkly, as she took a seat in her office behind her desk for the first time.

  “I suppose I should start hiring some people,” she said, aloud, after a few moments’ thought. Bircei nodded elegantly. “So . . . I need to interview for the other officials . . .”

  “Until you can hire a receptionist, I can serve,” Bircei volunteered. “And I would recommend essential staff be hired as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, thank you,” she answered, taking the chair behind the big wooden. She cast two small magelights to hover overhead and tried to compose herself. “Give me a few moments, and then send in the first applicant.” Bircei nodded, and closed the door behind him.

  Pentandra closed her eyes and reached out to her predecessor, mind-to-mind.

  Yes? Thinradel asked.

  Am I catching you at a good time?

  Just walking over to the stables. What is on your mind?

  I’m preparing to interview staff, she said, and I wanted your recommendations.

  If you can get any of my old staff, do it – except for the churl named Barasei, he was useless.

  Everyone else was competent?

  Career bureaucrats, good at what they do, he agreed. How do you like the quarters? She could tell by the tone in his mental voice that he suspected the answer already.

  I move in today and I just saw them up close for the first time. I’m considering burning them down and starting from scratch, she admitted.

  The entire palace was falling apart, he reminded her. And that was back when there was a functioning government. They spruce it up every summer to get through the season – if the Duke even deigns to travel north – and then once he’s gone, it goes back to its shabby splendor. The Tower Arcane is much nicer. That was the official residence of the Court Wizard, in Enultramar. It was a miniature palace in its own right, over three hundred years old, and filled with the residue of dozens of Court Wizards.

  So I hear. But I don’t think I’ll ever find out for myself. But thanks for your help.

  That simplified her first three interviews dramatically. They were all previous office holders, and thankfully Barasei, whoever he was, was not among them. The three were all impressed and relieved at how quickly they were re-hired for their old jobs, and genuinely grateful when she handed over their livery tokens.

  Two men and a woman each accepted their positions as secretary, archivist, and minister of examinations and promised good and faithful service. None of them looked particularly well-fed. There was not a lot of work available for unemployed magi without witchstones in Vorone. Pentandra dismissed them to allow them to move back i
nto their palace rooms upstairs and prepare for tomorrow’s business.

  After that, however, the applicants were strangers to Thinradel, and she had to rely on her own intuition. And her baculus.

  She conjured the pretty silver rod before the fourth applicant came in. It immediately seemed to investigate the room and assess Pentandra’s own mood in an arcane flash, before it settled down. That was surprising, Pentandra thought to herself. But the magical tool seemed to behave after that.

  Having an imposing symbol of your office that doubled as a potent magical engine sitting casually on your desk helped simplify the interviewing process, she quickly discovered.

  The next applicant was a journeyman spellmonger from north of Tudry named Harrel who was desperate for any sort of job he could get. The baculus quickly assessed the man’s Talent for Pentandra, as well as a lot of information she did not think to inquire about. She hired him to man the Mirror Array station, as he had a facility for scrying.

  The woman she interviewed after that was far less capable, a hedgewitch who all but insisted on a position. Pentandra’s baculus revealed the woman did have a whiff of Talent, but it seemed to be involved more in persuasion than anything else. She failed the few simple tests Pentandra provided for her. She didn’t quite call her a fraud as she escorted her from the room, but she came as close as she dared. “Lady” Darsta was volatile.

  The next applicant was more congenial, a middle-aged former Censor named Thanguin, who had taken off the checkered cloak at the invitation of Minalan, himself. He was no fanatic. Originally an apprentice with a court wizard in Gilmora, he had joined the Censorate for lack of a better job at the time. He had been among the few of his order in the Wilderlands to do so, and while he had not gained a witchstone for it, he had gained freedom.

  The baculus agreed with the man’s self-assessment – he was highly Talented, and easily answered Pentandra’s challenges to his technical skill. He had fought on and off against the goblins ever since, when he wasn’t looking for a better opportunity.

  “So which job are you applying for?” she asked, curious. “You don’t really seem the type to cleave to the archives.”

  “I know my way around a records room,” Thanguin admitted, in a strong, friendly voice. “But I do prefer a little more action than that. Still, if that’s the position you have . . .”

  “How would you like to be my new troubleshooter?” she asked. “I’m unsure what the title would be, just yet – probably something to do with arcane enforcement and investigations. But until I get a little more organized, you seem like the kind of mage that could fill-in in a number of capacities.”

  “I suppose I could,” he agreed. “But if nothing else, I have a lot to report from the field about some disturbing things I’ve seen. I was hoping that this might be an avenue that would get my concerns some attention.”

  “What kind of concerns?” she asked, frowning. The baculus told her he was being very serious, and very earnest.

  “The scrugs are getting ready for something, likely an attack,” he said, calmly. “Not a huge invasion, but probably a series of serious raids.”

  “You have evidence of this?” she asked, surprised. “Real evidence?”

  “Circumstantial, but compelling,” Thanguin admitted. “I’d at least like to report it to someone who can consider it.”

  “What about the Magelords? Astyral and Azar? And Carmella?” she added. Her old school friend had taken possession of Salik Tower, a pele fort not too far from Vorone. She had quietly been using the post to develop a program of instruction about magical siege techniques. She had also inadvertently revitalized the economy of the region in doing so, and become a minor political power as a result.

  “I’ve spoken to both of the gentlemen, though not to Lady Carmella. They told me to tell you.”

  Of course they did.

  “Great. Well, I will listen to your tales and make my own decision what to pass along to the Warlord or the Duke. But if it’s good intelligence . . .”

  “It is,” he assured her, rising. “Thank you for the opportunity, my lady. I look forward to serving you.”

  “You do?” she asked, confused. “This is going to be a tough, thankless job with crappy pay, lousy conditions, and possible danger,” she pointed out.

  “. . . working for the second most powerful mage in the world,” Thanguin finished. “Even a few months in your service would enhance my professional reputation,” he pointed out.

  Pentandra caught herself. She didn’t often think of herself in those terms, but clearly other people did.

  What do you think of that, Mother? she whispered to herself, triumphantly. I’m the second most powerful mage in the world!

  She was also getting a mild headache from the windowless room’s stuffy atmosphere. She beckoned Bircei to usher the final applicant of the day into her office, and bid him bring a pot of tea – it was that time of day.

  The applicant proved to be a very young girl, clad in wildly mis-matching woolen plaids, and bearing a stout-looking staff. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen. Her long dirty blonde hair looked like it had been combed by a cavalry charge. And there was a huge raven that perched on her right shoulder, its black eyes darting around the room.

  “Uh, you wished to see me?” Pentandra began. “You are . . .?”

  “I’m Alurra,” the girl said in a bright, friendly voice, as if Pentandra should know the name.

  “And I’m Pentandra,” she answered cautiously, omitting her title. “So why did you want to speak to me?” Her baculus was showing that the girl did, indeed, possess Talent. A generous supply of it, across several areas. She was magekind, then.

  “Because it’s time – and I was almost late,” she confessed, guiltily, “I know I shouldn’t have stopped as much as I did, but it took longer to get ready than I thought. And there were troubles along the road,” she added, her eyes cutting sideways.

  That’s when Pentandra realized it – the girl was blind.

  “It’s time for what?” she asked, as she studied the girl more closely.

  “Time for me to be here, of course! I was supposed to be here yesterday, Briga’s day, but I was late. I’m sorry.”

  “Late for what?” Pentandra asked. She willed one of the two magelights down closer to Alurra’s face – a wide, round Narasi Wilderlands peasant face, fair skinned, dirty blonde hair, with just a touch of adolescent blemish. The girl’s eyes didn’t move to track the movement, as anyone else’s would. The bird, on the other hand, noted the movement with great interest.

  “For me being here, of course! Hey, is that Everkeen? Or haven’t you named it, yet?” she asked – no, demanded, in an adolescent tone just shy of shrill. Her hands groped toward the baculus, and Pentandra snatched it up before her fingers could touch it.

  “Everkeen? What?” she stumbled, confused, before she marshaled herself.

  She grasped her baculus and sent a surge of magical power through it. Whoever the girl was, she was sensitive enough to feel it despite her blindness.

  “Girl! Sit down this instant, and explain to me who you are, and what you are doing here, or I’ll find something creative to transform you into!”

  “All right! Sorry, I forget which part of the story I’m in, sometimes,” she confessed, sitting back down.

  “But I’m Alurra. From the north. I’m your new apprentice.”

  `

  Chapter Seventeen

  Battle By Moonlight

  “My . . . what?”

  “Your new apprentice. This should explain, my lady,” the girl said, taking a scroll of faded parchment from the bag at her side. The large raven perched on her shoulder stared at her, but Pentandra tried to ignore it, and focus on the message presented. It wasn’t sealed with wax, as was the custom, but it did have an elementary spellbinding on it that worked just as well. It had not been opened since the spell was cast, and no one had read it.

  Certainly not the young blon
de girl in front of her, Pentandra reasoned. She was pretty, with a round peasant face and cute nose, but her blue eyes were completely sightless. She took the scroll and dismantled the spellbinding with a thought.

  “’To Lady Pentandra, Court Wizard to His Grace, Anguin II of Alshar, I bring you greetings,’” she began to read aloud.

  “Oh, not here, my lady!” Alurra said, hastily, turning her head as if interlopers were hiding behind her. “No, I was given specific instructions. Please do not read that letter aloud in the palace,” she warned.

  “Why not?” Pentandra asked, curious.

  “I . . . I cannot say,” the girl said, frustrated. “But Old Antimei never gives idle commands. She said for you to read it in your private chambers, before you move to the palace tomorrow. Not here,” she emphasized. “She says the palace has a . . . rat problem?”

  That caught Pentandra’s attention. “Rats, you say?” she asked, casually, as she rolled up the parchment message. “Yes, they can be insidious pests. Very well, girl, if you want me to read this at home, I shall. But I dislike such surprises,” she warned.

  Alurra exhaled sharply. “Oh, you’re not going to like what’s coming, then,” she promised. “Antimei was very specific, my lady. She’s a hedgewitch in the north. We’re from a tiny little village, but she . . . well, she has news of especial importance, for your ears only.”

  “I hope you understand why I would be skeptical of such claims,” Pentandra said. “You don’t exactly look like a wizard’s apprentice.” In truth the girl looked more like the vagabond Wilderlands children who had escaped to Kasar the year before.

  No, that wasn’t fair, Pentandra chided herself. She looked like a girl of thirteen who had been on a very long journey through the Wilderlands in the late winter. Her boots were worn thin, her stockings were torn and ripped, and her sturdy woolen peasant’s gown had been slept in many, many times since its last washing. Her wool cloak was travel-stained and worn, and just a little too large for her. She did not look at all like a wizard’s apprentice. But neither did she look destitute.