Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “What? No, no, old business,” Azar said, shaking his head. “No, this is older business – or newer, if you prefer. We want to discuss the war,” he explained.

  “The one currently in abeyance, thanks to that . . . treaty,” Astyral continued, pronouncing the word with distaste and not bothering to hide his contempt for the useless document. “We all know that agreement won’t do a damned thing to stop the scrugs. Nor will the king do much in response to a violation . . . not while the problem is contained to Alshar.”

  “North Gilmora has been ravaged, too, don’t forget,” Pentandra pointed out.

  “Oh, I could not forget that,” Astyral said, shaking his head sadly. “Lovely place. But Rard considers it an acceptable loss in exchange for peace.”

  “Peace!” snorted Azar, skeptically. “There is no peace. The scrugs are just preparing for the next wave of the invasion. And we are decidedly not,” he added, judgmentally. “Anguin can throw rebellious Wilderlords into the Iron Band all he likes, but they won’t do any better against the foe than they did earlier in the war,” he predicted. “The Band might slow them down, but it couldn’t do much more than that.”

  “Nor is Tudry or its dependents ready,” agreed Astyral. “We can protect our immediate holdings – for a while – but if Sheruel unleashed his hordes on us we couldn’t last more than a few weeks. And there is no one – no one! – who would ride to our aid if we needed it.”

  “There is unlikely to be anyone who could do anything even if they could,” Arborn pointed out.

  “Of that, we are all too aware,” nodded Astyral, philosophically, as he sipped his wine. “We were hoping Anguin had returned with an army at his back, but . . .”

  “He’s trying,” Pentandra urged. “He really is. While the garrison here is more gallows fruit than gallant, Count Salgo is starting to train some local militia and organize the palace’s defenses better.”

  “Too little by far,” Azar said, shaking his head. “Oh, he means well, I understand. But when he barely can hold Vorone, much less defend it, seeking his aid while we are under siege by ten thousand goblins doesn’t sound particularly effective.”

  “And if Vorone were attacked, it’s unlikely he could even hold it,” Astyral agreed. “I like the lad, I really do. And I like Salgo. He’s always been friendly to us. But if we’re going to be more than sacrificial victims in the next war, we’re going to need a better plan than that.”

  “What would you suggest?” Pentandra said, biting her tongue about the politics of the day. “Armies don’t grow on trees. Human ones, at least. Salgo is drilling some of the refugees already,” she pointed out. “They can earn up to a penny a day for guard training. And we’re talking about a general weapontake,” she added.

  “Militias with spears aren’t going to hold the gurvani at bay,” Azar said doubtfully. “We need warriors. Infantry and cavalry. Good ones. A lot of them.”

  “We need more than that,” Astyral countered. “Look, I understand how the court wants to focus their efforts and energy on the restoration, Penny – I do. With everything going into the chamberpot for so long, we’re desperate for some sense of order and normalcy.

  “That being said,” he continued, pouring more wine, “normalcy is not going to happen. The Alshari Wilderlands have lost too much. The old families are decimated, and whatever yeomen are left are scattered and unorganized. Relying on old feudal concepts to raise an army just isn’t going to work here, anymore. Not if it's tied to the old regime,” he stated, matter-of-factly.

  “Then there’s the issue of where to actually put an army if we had one,” Azar continued, amused. “The few castles left in the north are bulging. There are only a half-dozen worthy of the name, in truth, but they are stuffed with refugees. The rest of the old fortresses are captured or in ruins.”

  “Castles aren’t the only places to put an army,” Arborn pointed out.

  “We’re not talking about Kasari, who can live off of tree bark and wholesome thoughts, Captain,” Astyral said without malice. “If we’re going to present a credible obstacle to the gurvani, we’re going to need infantry. Cavalry. Artillery. And a magical corps. Not to mention provision and supply.”

  “All of which takes a functioning government and economy,” Pentandra countered. “And that’s precisely what we’re working on! What would you have us do, Astyral?” she asked, pointedly.

  The Gilmoran sighed and stared into space for a moment. “Build,” he replied, simply, after some thought. “We don’t have castles. We don’t have enough jobs. Build some castles,” he shrugged. “It will give the peasants something to do.”

  “The peasants have plenty to do, just getting a crop in for the year,” Azar said, shaking his head. “But you could put some of those refugees out there to work.”

  “Castles are expensive,” Arborn said, doubtfully. “The duchy has little spare funds, right now.”

  The Kasari had a low opinion of Narasi fortifications. They just didn’t see the stout walls and grand keeps as particularly secure. Most trained Kasari could ford a moat, scale a wall, and sneak into one with little problem. The way that the Narasi Wilderlords had used their stone forts to make war on his people had made castles and towers a sign of oppression.

  “Funerals are expensive, too,” Azar said, bluntly. “And taxes are damnably hard to collect from dead peasants. This town desperately needs some sort of fortification, for instance,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s shocking how lax the defenses of Vorone are. A couple of good watchtowers, a central keep, and Anguin wouldn’t have to worry much about riots or invaders.”

  “Just dragons,” Astyral pointed out. “And that wouldn’t be all. The north needs a real citadel, not these crude little forts. Something like Darkfaller,” he said, a gleam in his eye.

  Darkfaller castle had been instrumental in Castal’s conquest of Gilmora, and like most of his countrymen Astyral had a grudging respect for the place. “Something grand, big, hardened, and tough as old leather to crack.”

  “That’s far more than the duchy’s resources could bear, right now,” Pentandra said, diplomatically. “Even if we did have the funds, it would take years to build.”

  “The Hesians could do it,” Azar pointed out. “I had a couple of Carmella’s folk come to Megelin to do some repairs. They did a season’s worth of work on my southern wall in four days,” he said, impressed. “I’m not a great admirer of defensive fortifications, mind, but with the new enhancements coming out of Sevendor, Carmella has managed to speed up construction time. Dramatically.”

  “We saw what she can do when she constructed the pele towers,” agreed Pentandra. “No doubt she could do . . . something. Perhaps strengthen the palace, perhaps she could construct a small refuge keep . . . but the expense . . .”

  “No one worries about the expense of the wall once there is an enemy on the other side,” noted Azar.

  “This is a major public construction project you’re proposing,” moaned Pentandra. “Even with Carmella’s help, it will cost thousands . . .”

  “Then raise some taxes,” suggested Astyral. “Trygg knows I could squeeze some more out of Tudry and our vassals. And there are other resources in the Wilderlands. The money will be there,” he promised.

  “It’s also a matter of political will,” she sighed. “The court is currently split between those who wish to immediately confront the south and go after the rebels, led by the Sea Lords, and those who want to ignore the south and pretend that Alshar stops at the Narrows. Even the latter party would take a lot of convincing to dedicated themselves to a project that size. The only lord who has any kind of sway over the lords around here is Count Marcadine, and he’s still cautious about Anguin’s reign.”

  “Then convince His Grace to re-order the north, as he proposed,” Azar suggested. “But truly re-order it, not just give it a coat of whitewash and pretend it’s new. If the current system is broken beyond repair, create a new one. But get those damn castles built,
or all the wildflower festivals in the world won’t save us from Sheruel’s wrath.”

  They continued to argue in a friendly fashion for several hours, interspersing their lively conversation about policy with rumors and gossip about people they knew in the profession.

  The antics of Minalan were, of course, a popular topic. Each of the magi owed the Spellmonger a debt, not just for elevating them to High Mage status by granting them each a shard of irionite, but by supporting them afterwards and keeping the magi, as a profession, somewhat united in the face of a changing world. The astonishing results of last autumn’s magical fare were still on everyone’s mind – the incredibly useful devices and artifacts that Sevendor was beginning to produce had implications that all of them could see.

  Not all of them were positive.

  “I’ve heard that the Duke of Castal – the new duke of Castal – isn’t as pleased with Min as one would imagine,” Astyral said, at one point. “Did he do something to piss the little brat off?”

  “Showed him up at hawking,” Pentandra answered. “He took Lenodara – Dara – and that monster falcon of hers to a royal hunt. The Prince lost a bet to him over it. Then he got humiliated by Min at the frontier, which is why he’s on house arrest, now.”

  “Considering every mage in the world wants to show up on his doorstep, I don’t know how much that will annoy Min,” Astyral noted. “Even that delicious little morsel from Timberwatch has been hanging around Sevendor . . .”

  “Isily?” supplied Azar, surprised.

  “Isily, that’s it – even she’s haunting Sevendor, I hear. And she’s a shadowmage!” he chuckled. “You’d never think they’d be that interested in base enchantment, but Min has really caught everyone’s attention over his advances.”

  That was news that made Pentandra anxious, though Astyral delivered it casually enough. Not Minalan’s impressive talent for innovation and thaumaturgy – she was well aware of that.

  But Isily was another story.

  Isily was worrisome, for a number of reasons. For one thing she was firmly the tool of Queen Grendine, a trained assassin who plied her hidden dagger in the service of the Family. That made her dangerous enough.

  But she was also a shadowmage, elevated to High Mage status as a direct result of a bribe Minalan had paid the Queen. While Isily had been helpful in the fateful battle of Timberwatch, Pentandra also strongly suspected that it had been she who had cast the spell that ensured that Anguin would become an orphan.

  The idea of such a dangerous creature in Minalan’s orbit made Pentandra worry for her friend. But she didn’t want to share her concerns with her colleagues, largely to protect Minalan’s privacy.

  Few were aware of how intimate he and Isily were at Timberwatch, and before. Fewer still knew or even suspected that the pretty shadowmage had borne a child from that union, and raised her in secret, away off in Wenshar, to the east. Isily was a cunning and devious mage, as all shadowmagi tended to be, but she compounded that cunning with the authority she had indirectly from the queen and her recent marriage to the doltish wizard Master – no, he was a magelord, now, she reminded herself – Dunselen, former Castali Ducal Court Wizard.

  It was a good match, on parchment. She was young, pretty, and well-connected, he was older, mature, and landed, thanks to a string of magically-enabled conquests. The King had even elevated them both to the peerage.

  It was Baroness Isily who stalked Baron Minalan, now, and Pentandra had no doubt that Isily meant to cuckold her husband with Min. Minalan, Trygg bless his dopey masculine heart, would have little resistance to the attractive mage, despite his deep and abiding love for his wife. He was just that way. And it was in Isily’s nature to take advantage of a powerful man in a weakened state.

  Pentandra had always been wary of the girl, even before she’d met Minalan. Back at Alar Academy she must have been working for Grendine, Pentandra realized. But she had become a power in her own right, after Timberwatch. Pentandra also suspected that Isily had an unhealthy obsession with Minalan.

  She could understand wanting to bed a man in exchange for a witchstone – she’d do it herself, if she’d had to – but Isily’s fascination went far beyond simple self-interest. Or even political maneuvering. Pentandra couldn’t imagine Grendine being deep enough to arrange the kind of schemes that Isily was clearly a part of. The Queen might be ambitious to the extreme, but she did not have a wizard’s subtlety.

  No, Pentandra was fairly certain that Isily had designs on her poor friend the Spellmonger. Ever since their last encounter at Sevendor’s Magic Fair the idea haunted her that Isily had plans for Minalan.

  The very thought made Pentandra seethe silently while she listened to the news.

  “Don’t sell her – or her idiot husband – short, Azar,” Astyral chided. “He’s an utter bore, and worse since he reclaimed his patrimony, but he’s brilliant, in his way. He’s trying to reconstruct the spell that Min used to make that beautiful white mountain of his. He wrote to me, a few months ago, asking for advice on the subject. Very intriguing theory, actually,” Astyral conceded. “‘Birth magic’. Not something you see every day. I read his thaumaturgical analysis, and I have to admit, it seems sound.”

  “She’s the one I worry about, though,” Azar decided. “Everyone knows Dunselen is an idiot. But Isily? She’s smart – too smart to be doing anything than using the old coot for position,” he predicted, skeptically. “I know her sort.”

  “Yes, and he’s using her for something else,” Astyral said, naughtily. “I can’t say I blame him – Isily is quite fair,” he said with an indulgent smile. “I’ve been considering taking a wife myself, and I had to admire his taste when I found out.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t want her – trust me,” Pentandra assured her friends. “I went to Alar with her. She’s pretty but she isn’t . . . particularly loyal,” she decided. “On a personal basis. The queen is another matter, of course.”

  “In any case,” Astyral continued, blithely, “Min is doing some impressive work – as your pretty little stick attests. That is some powerful magic, there,” he nodded, reverently.

  “It’s lovely,” Pentandra admitted, looking at the baculus with something akin to affection. “I call it Everkeen. It makes the simple spells so much easier. Min put a paracletion spell in it, and I don’t have to do more than think what I want before it’s done.”

  “Amazing,” Astyral nodded. “Hopefully he’ll get around to make each of us one. Until then, I’ll have to get along with old fashioned irionite, charm and envy.”

  “I’d prefer a mageblade, myself,” Azar sniffed. He found wands and staves effete, if Pentandra remembered correctly. “Hopefully Master Cormoran can adapt the enchantments to something more worthy for battle.”

  “Everkeen isn’t a weapon,” Pentandra corrected. “It’s a powerful thaumaturgical baculus. The first of many, I hope.”

  “I do, too,” Astyral agreed. “If we all had such tools, we wouldn’t need peasants for labor, and building castles would be easy.”

  “Easy might be overstating the problem,” Arborn said, shaking his head. “I saw what went into the pele towers. Even with magic it still took time and many hands, not to mention a small mountain of stone.”

  “Excuse me, Mistress,” came a young voice from the door. “Would you like for me to turn your bed down before I retire?”

  Pentandra looked up, startled. It was starting to get late, she realized: the sky outside of the window was dark now. “Thank you, Alurra; I’ll see to it myself. Gentlemen, may I present my new apprentice, Alurra. Alurra, these are Astyral and Azar, two magelords of great power and supreme importance.”

  “You forgot devilishly handsome,” reminded Astyral. “When did you get an apprentice, Pentandra? I was startled enough to learn you had a husband. A pleasure to meet you, Alurra,” he added, graciously.

  Pentandra was pleased to see the girl execute a passable curtsey. “The pleasure is mine, Magelord. If there’s nothing
else . . . uh, Mistress? Does that mean . . .?”

  “Yes, you can stay, Alurra,” Pentandra sighed. “At least until the end of the summer, long enough to decide whether I can teach you or not. It will be a lot of hard work, but if you’re willing so am I.”

  The girl’s face brightened. “Really? Oh, thank you, Mistress!”

  “Now off to bed,” Pentandra insisted. “We have a full day tomorrow. And many more after that.”

  After Alurra left, Azar gave Pentandra a searching look. “Was it my mistake, or is that girl blind?”

  “She is,” Pentandra agreed.

  “And you’re planning to teach her magic? When she can’t read?”

  “Plenty of illiterates managed to learn magic over the years, Azar,” chided Astyral. “Some even pass the exams.”

  “Yes, wild magi,” snorted Azar. “I can’t imagine our Penny training one!”

  “It will be a challenge,” agreed Pentandra. “But one worth attempting. The girl has already proven useful, and she has Talent in abundance. She’s already a passable brown mage,” she added.

  “Ah, yes, that explains the raven,” nodded Azar. “That makes sense, actually. Where was I? Oh, there was one last thing I wanted to bring to your attention, while we were here,” the warmage said, casually refilling his wine glass. “Not to alarm you, but three of our patrols have come under attack on the edge of the Penumbra in the last few weeks since the thaw.”

  “That’s not particularly unusual,” Arborn said, confused. “Doesn’t that happen often?”

  “With gurvani, yes,” agreed Azar. “But thrice, now, our men have been beset by the undead. Walking corpses that keep fighting long after you’ve dealt them a killing blow. Yet they fight as well as the men they were, before some necromancer got a hold of them.”

  “Well, making undead isn’t exactly novel,” Pentandra pointed out. The spells to raise a corpse to a semblance of life were just as complicated as, say, conjuring an elemental. The effect was temporary, and lasted only as long as the decomposing body maintained its integrity, but if a warmage needed spear fodder on the battlefield, it was a quick expediency.