Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “What of our . . . other activities, Constable?” Pentandra asked, quietly.

  “Oh, I discussed that with Count Salgo this morning, and got his blessing. Indeed, the old man is quite pleased with the turn of events,” the constable reported, pleased with the praise. “Speaking of which, I have a list of names of suspects in the brutal slaying.”

  “Do you, now?” Pentandra asked, smiling despite the grim night’s work.

  “I do – the usual suspects are wanted for questioning. in my considered opinion as an officer in the watch, this bears all the marks of a gang war,” Sir Vemas said, in scholarly tones. “I have a list of known and suspected gang associates the Watch wishes to question about the matter. Most of the rest of the Crew are on it – except for their master, of course. I still cannot tie him to the rest. Not enough to swear an oath on. But let me depart – I need to drop this off and get back in time for my testimony.”

  Pentandra watched the nimble constable thread his way through the gathering crowd of courtiers, but before she and Arborn could find their places they were joined by Astyral and Azar, both in court finery themselves. Astyral dressed in gleaming white Gilmoran cotton doublet, cut in a military fashion, while Azar was dressed in black leather and black wool.

  “Pentandra,” Astyral chided in his Gilmoran drawl, “you had a party last night and didn’t invite us?”

  “What?” she asked, confused.

  “The city was alive with magic,” Azar supplied, more quietly than usual. “Any mage with the sensitivity of a vole knew there was power afoot. And blood.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you gentlemen are speaking of,” she said, with exaggerated patience. “And if I did, I’m sure I would not be at liberty to discuss it. His Grace has many duties for his court,” she added. “Not all can be discussed by light of day.”

  “We’re just disappointed we weren’t invited,” Azar said, almost pouting. “It might have been interesting.”

  “With your inclusion, it would have been far more interesting than wisdom dictates,” Pentandra replied. Azar had a reputation for excessive violence and over-reaction – a reputation the warmage encouraged at every opportunity. And while Astyral was far subtler in his use of destructive magic, he was also far too flamboyant to have included and maintained the fiction of anonymity the Woodsmen had developed.

  “Besides, we have larger concerns, and other places where your talents are better used. I’m sure you found some other way to amuse yourselves in Vorone,” she added, slyly.

  “We did,” Astyral nodded. “We passed a fair evening on the Street of Perfume, in the company of several lovely young ladies and some fine Cormeeran wine. I will say this for Anguin: the quality of whores in this town went up appreciably since he came to power.”

  “Yes, well, he thought it a civic priority,” Pentandra replied, dryly.

  “My lady, my lord,” a young castellan bearing the badge of the Ducal Herald on his baldric interrupted, “His Grace is about to begin. I beg you to find your seats in the witnesses’ gallery!”

  When court began with the ringing of a bell and the herald announcing the presence of His Grace, the great hall settled down. Pentandra and Arborn were seated with the other witnesses, instead of with the ministers-in-attendance for a change, which was fine by her. Looking at the swarming knot of lawbrothers and civil advocates around Anguin and Lawfather Jodas made her seat seem that much more comfortable.

  The first few cases were fairly simple, legacies of the previous regime. Anguin quickly ruled on each, reading prepared judgments provided by Father Jodas before signing and sealing each one. They tended to be property cases, some of which were old enough that the principals had died.

  It might have seemed a moot point to rule upon them, but as Viscountess Threanas had explained to her, there were fortunes and dynasties dependent upon those rulings . . . and with most of the Wilderlords dead, every bit of institutional strength the Duke could encourage among his loyal vassals was vital.

  Then came two capital cases, one particularly vile. Anguin quickly found in favor of the defendant in the first, and granted him mercy and freedom from the estate whose corrupt reeve he had slain, and in the second he sentenced a vile murderer who slew his entire family to hanging.

  The grim ruling of the second case still hung in the air with the manic cries of the condemned prisoner as the case against the Lord of Lotanz for high treason was read to the court.

  Lord Garway himself was brought in by palace guardsmen while the court herald prepared to read the charges against him. He was thinner and more pale than Pentandra remembered, but recently shaven and dressed in a clean tunic and hose. He was not bound.

  “The charges: That Lord Garway deliberately and purposefully discomfited the progress of a Ducal Marshal in the fulfillment of his duties, that he threatened said marshal, and that he willfully flouted the lawful command of said marshal to yield military aid in accordance with his duties as a lawful lord of the land,” the strong-voiced herald boomed.

  “Who was the marshal in question?” Anguin asked from the throne. He knew the answer already, of course, but the lad had begun to learn the purpose of public ceremony, Pentandra noted proudly.

  “Baron Minalan the Spellmonger,” replied Lawfather Jonas. “Warranted Marshal of Alshar. Empowered by your father, and acting under your direct orders, Your Grace.”

  “I see,” Anguin said, turning to address the prisoner. “Lord Garway of Lotanz, please tell us what compelled you to do such a thing?”

  “I was doing my duty to protect my lands and my people, Your Grace,” the Wilderlord said, defiantly. “Some wizard brings thousands of vagabonds to my doorstep and expects me to feed them, when I got problems of my own, that I didn’t need!”

  “It was not a matter of your need, Lord Garway,” Lawfather Jonas said, sternly. The old monk looked at the prisoner with a curled lip. “When you swore fealty for your lands, you pledged to render aid to your liege as needed – military aid in particular.

  “Aye,” the northman said, cautiously.

  “And yet when a properly-constituted officer of the Duchy made his needs known, you refused – worse, you threatened violence. You did threaten violence, didn’t you?” the monk added. “We have witnesses here who can attest to that, if you dispute it.” Pentandra straightened, preparing to be called for testimony. It was unnecessary.

  “Oh, aye, I threatened violence,” Lord Garway said, his lip curled into a disgusted sneer. “I would have shot every Kasari urchin who crossed my land, if I could. No better than the gurvani, they are. I’d do it again, too, Your Grace. I don’t know what mischief that wizard was planning, but if it involved the Kasari you can wager it wasn’t a good thing,” he said, darkly.

  “We shall see if your opinion of the Kasari changes after you’ve spent some time fighting actual goblins, Garway,” Anguin pronounced. “The kingdom might have a treaty, but this duchy is divided and at war. It cannot stand those lords who would flout the commands of their duke. Therefore, I strip you of your lands and title, and fine you five thousand ounces of gold for your temerity,” he said, his young voice almost shaking as he spoke.

  “Five thousand?” scoffed Garway. “My holding isn’t worth nearly—”

  “Perhaps you misheard, Garway, but you have no holding any more” Jonas pronounced. “The fine stands as ordered. If you cannot pay, you will see Warbrother Caudel and determine just how much your service is worth to the Iron Band. For you shall serve your kingdom as you failed your duke, and spend that aggression in the Penumbra, where it’s needed. Next case.”

  As it happened, the next case also involved the Great March, as it involved three Wilderlords who had fired upon the Kasari refugees without provocation. The three all looked in better shape than Garway, but the three knights, who held themselves superior to the northern lordling, immediately began protesting their arrest and imprisonment.

  They quoted (and, more frequently, misquoted) laws fro
m the Book of Duin to justify their actions. Their entire defense revolved around “We were defending our lands!” They began indignantly enough, as if the entire affair was a purposeful slight against their inflated sense of importance, but as Father Jodas’ team of prosecuting monks put question after question to them, their indignity died, replaced with defeat.

  It quickly became clear to them that Sir Helden’s caustic attitude, Sir Oacei’s defiant tone and Sire Gand’s pomposity were doing nothing to impress the court. As the questions got more specific, covering their sworn duties to the Duke, they realized that they were going to be found guilty. The Duke was not nearly as forgiving to a fellow nobleman under those circumstances as they had anticipated.

  He said as much in his judgment.

  “If you gentlemen are so ardent to fight and defend Alshar, then we can find a better role for you than mere manor lord,” Duke Anguin pronounced. “I was with those marchers, for a time. They posed no threat to the Realm, rendered it a tremendous service, and the Spellmonger in whose charge they were had my complete authority to proceed. As you gentlemen were told. Yet you persisted in the face of this.

  “While Trygg knows we need good lords to rule the people for us, you three knights have betrayed that trust by your actions. I will permit you to retain your nobility and your knighthood if you will each volunteer for two years’ duty in the Iron Band. Otherwise you may surrender your titles and your spurs and serve only one year. What say you?”

  The choice seemed unappealing to the men, but without discussion amongst themselves they came to a consensus, and elected to keep their titles and extend their stay in the Penumbra.

  “A good decision,” Anguin nodded, solemnly. “You have one week to turn over your affairs and report to Brother Caudel at Castle Defiant. Failure to do so will merit outlawry,” he added, as the Ducal Reeve led the men away. Outlawry was a serious matter, the sort that no noble wanted to contend with. It meant that anyone - even the lowliest serf or spud - could kill you without fear of justice.

  “Our two cases, and we weren’t even called,” Arborn whispered a frustrated sigh. “Are all Narasi courts like this?”

  “This was a model of efficiency, for a change,” Pentandra whispered back. “Those earlier cases had been lingering on the docket for years.”

  “Just seems a waste, to me,” Arborn sniffed. “I could have been doing . . . all sorts of other things.”

  “Court is supposed to be boring,” Pentandra reminded him.

  She tried to remind herself of that fact a few moments later, when – to the astonishment of the entire hall – a cloaked and cowled figure was escorted to the center of the court, facing the throne, his hands bound in front of him.

  “His Grace calls Lord Marfanth of Duers to answer for charges of treason!” the deep-voiced herald bellowed. The entire room came awake at the mention of the word.

  “Read the charges,” Duke Anguin urged his herald, grimly.

  “Lord Marfanth of Duers stands accused of aiding rebellion in the duchy,” the herald said, simply. “Call Lawfather Jonas to read the complete charges.”

  The old monk stood, his eyes clear and bright, and cleared his throat as one of his assistants brought the appropriate scroll to him. He read a few words and then looked up at the prisoner and back, before beginning to relay them to the court.

  “Lord Marfanth is the lord of the domain of Duers, near the northern bank of the Poros,” Father Jonas explained. “His late liege, Baron Lincei, called his banners during the first outbreak of the emergency as his liege, the Duke, ordered.

  “Yet Lord Marfanth begged off appearing in person, citing illness, and sent less than half of his required muster to his liege. Though Duers has been assessed nine lances, the contingent from the domain that reported to Baron Lincei was less than twenty men, all peasants, militia of an inferior sort. It was surmised at the time of muster that Lord Marfanth simply emptied his dungeons and drafted his troublemakers to fulfill the smallest portion of his muster.

  “When Baron Lincei fell that summer, Lord Marfanth seized two of his neighbors’ estates from their widows and began ruling his lands in his own name. When called to account for his actions by the heirs to his peers, he attacked three of them with his forces and took a third estate in an illegal and undeclared war, in violation of the Laws of Duin.

  “A fellow vassal, Sire Culyn, took issue with his behavior and challenged Marfanth in front of witnesses to appear before the Lord Steward of the Realm for judgment. Lord Marfanth instead set upon the knight and his squires from ambush, slew them, and took his holding. He was heard to declare at the time that he would never follow any Castali lord, and that the only legitimate government was in Falas, not Vorone.”

  “You deny my right to the coronet?” Anguin asked, surprised.

  “Your father was a proper Duke of Alshar,” the voice came from the cowl. “You are a Castali puppet.”

  There was a dark murmur through the court at the defiant temerity of the lord. Many reached for the hilts of their swords at the words. Anguin accepted them calmly, raising his hand for quiet.

  “This is not an uncommon fiction,” Anguin announced in a loud, strong voice. “The idea has spread that my father, may the gods bless him in the afterlife, sat upon this seat legitimately, while I – his first-born legitimate son – have somehow stolen it. If my father was a proper Duke of Alshar, then as his only male heir I, too, and the proper Duke of Alshar. No matter what alliances or allegiances I have undertaken. Lord Marfanth, if I am not a legitimate duke, who then rules with legitimacy in Alshar?”

  Marfanth tossed his head, throwing back his cowl. His face was covered with vicious bruises and abrasions. “The only real government in this duchy is in Falas,” he said, arrogantly. “This? This is a farce! A boy on a chair with all of you pretending that he’s in charge! He’s no duke! Can’t you see? He’s only pretending, and you are all pretending along with him!”

  “Silence!” commanded Lawfather Jonas, a deep frown on his face. “You will keep your tone respectful in front of this court!”

  “Court?” scoffed the prisoner. “This is a rabble, not a court! Castali lackeys and idiot Wilderlords in exile, mercenaries and adventurers, thieves and corrupt priests – that’s what you have brought to rescue Vorone, Anguin. You might pretend to be a duke, and they might go along with it, but you are no duke!”

  “Enough,” Anguin said with disgust in his voice. He was visibly trying to control his emotions. “We shall see if I am a duke or a pretender. The Duke has capital authority in cases such as this, and though you have been given every opportunity, you have denied my rank and my authority at every turn.

  “More, you visited insults on me and my noble courtiers. I may not live in Falas, but if this is the attitude of the Falai to my rule, I daresay I think I prefer Vorone . . . and as a Duke it is my prerogative to select my own capital.

  “So as a Duke, in my own capital, I recognize your treason with my own ears. You, Lord Marfanth, are hereby stripped of your lands and your titles. Your estate is forfeit to the Coronet, as a result of your treason. And I sentence you to death at the earliest possible opportunity.”

  The powerful words in the young, shaking voice did little to affect the vitriol Lord Marfanth apparently felt in his soul. He scoffed at the pronouncement of his execution, and chuckled at being stripped of both nobility and patrimony.

  “Death? You don’t have the courage!” spat Marfanth. “See if you can find someone willing to execute me – I have powerful family in Falas!” he reported, viciously. “When they retake this province, it won’t be my head on the gate. When they strike down the false Castali puppet and replace you with a proper—AAHHHHHHGH!” he finished in a scream, as flames burst from the hem of his robe and quickly consumed him. The sudden eruption of fire in the middle of the hall alarmed everyone in court, and a few blades were drawn against custom at the fire.

  For his part, Marfanth realized to his horror what was happenin
g as Azar took a step forward, looked casually into the dying man’s burning, bruised face, and then finished the spell with a word that completely consumed the prisoner and stopped his agonized screaming. In moments the burnt body smoldered on the floor and a cloud of foul-smelling smoke filled the air.

  Everyone was staring at Azar, who seemed unconcerned by the attention, at first. Then, realizing that he had an audience, he turned and surveyed the shocked faces of the assembled.

  “Oh,” he said, finally. “I just figured I would take care of that for you, Your Grace,” he assured. “I suppose I should ask for permission, next time.”

  “That would be wise,” Anguin said, faintly. His face was white, as were several others. Except for Father Jodas, who glared darkly at the warmage for his temerity. The rest of the court was ashen. Few had seen the full power of a warmage that close before, much less felt the heat of a burning man on their faces or smelled the strange odor of the result.

  “Sorry, Your Grace, but you did say at the earliest opportunity,” Azar pointed out, apologetically. “Should I have waited?” he asked, innocently. “I should have waited,” he decided. “My mistake.”

  “No mistake,” Anguin decided, grimly. “Sentence was pronounced. There is no appeal from a final judgment against a vassal when a duke charges him with treason. I was going to hold a public execution and make an example out of him, but . . .”

  “Your Grace, I think a sufficient example has been made by the Magelord,” Father Jonas said, quietly but irritated. “Though – properly – a man should have time to shrive his soul and make arrangements for his family. Before he is taken by the Duke’s executioner. His official executioner,” he added.

  Azar realized that he may have overstepped his authority, and possibly alienated the monk who had devoted his significant spiritual life to the pursuit of justice. Pentandra was afraid for a moment that the warmage would turn his famously impetuous ire loose on the rest of the court, starting with the clergyman. She prepared to summon Everkeen in response.