Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Normal undead, true,” Azar reflected. “But these were not normal thaumaturgical undead. They reacted with far more speed and cunning than I’ve ever seen in one before. Their eyes glow red. They are even capable of speech, though they don’t have much to say.”

  “That is horrifying,” Pentandra agreed. “I take it the gurvani priests are refining their spells?”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Azar nodded. “But when I did a brief thaumaturgical assay, the signature wasn’t scrug magic. It was Alka Alon.”

  “Alka Alon magic?” Pentandra asked, astonished. The Alka Alon were supposed to be the allies of the human race against the gurvani.

  “Of a strange sort, but decidedly Alkan,” he agreed. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever encountered before. We captured a few of the vicious bastards, and while they proved unreliable for intelligence, the spells seem to last an obscenely long time compared to what we can manage. They call themselves ‘draugen’, and speak of the Necromancer, but that’s the extent of their conversation. Two of them are still active in my dungeons. The others expired over time, but in the course of weeks, not hours.”

  Most undead couldn’t be sustained longer than half a day – before irionite. Even with irionite it was reportedly unusual for a necromancer to achieve the effect for more than a few hours.

  “I didn’t think the Alka Alon used . . . necromancy,” Arborn said, concerned, as he tried the unusual word in his mouth.

  “They don’t,” Pentandra agreed. “Or, at least the ones we deal with don’t. But there has been a rumor floating around that some old evil has been awakened in the Mindens. I have heard that Korbal the Demon God was freed from his prison. That myth has some credence, from what the Alka Alon have told me.”

  “It does,” Arborn assured her, gravely. “And he has been, from what I can tell. Ill news,” he added, before continuing to puff on his pipe.

  “Ah, that would explain it, then,” Azar grunted. “And it would also explain why those undead draugen were so insidiously tough. They are guided by some powerful dark force, that much is certain. It could very well be Alka Alon in nature. The draugen, they barely had the ability to speak or react to human beings when questioned, but they certainly reacted to the one they called Olum Danishan.”

  “Who is that?” asked Pentandra, curious.

  “Apparently it’s an old gurvani phrase,” Astyral answered, conversationally. “For The Necromancer.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Trouble Brewing

  Pentandra had little time over the next few days to pay much attention to the aftermath of the Battle of the Dogs and Rats, as the street minstrels were calling the episode. With the opening of her office and the training of her staff she found herself with little time do much other than contend with her new duties. She had a new apprentice to introduce to her life, too, with little idea of how to accomplish that.

  That was just as well, she decided - something about having Sir Vemas and Arborn in the same place, at the same time, concerned her. It was not as if she had encouraged Sir Vemas’ attentions, but neither had she discouraged them. The fact that Arborn did not seem a highly jealous man almost made the situation worse. Burying herself in work was preferable, Pentandra concluded, to wallowing in anxiety and uncertainty.

  There was plenty to occupy her attention.

  She spent a day apiece with each of her new officers, going over their duties and her expectations of them . . . and heard their list of requirements to perform those duties. In some cases it was as simple as authorizing purchase of parchment, ink and quills, while in other cases generations of custom and procedure better suited to brighter days had to be dealt with.

  It was frustrating - far more frustrating than she let on to her subordinates or her new apprentice. Only in the quiet of her bedchamber, late at night, did she reveal her feelings to Arborn. Mostly he just stared back, helplessly, as she related all of her problems to him, though he occasionally offered unhelpful but entertaining suggestions involving ropes.

  After his extended journey he had a few days in Vorone while he attended to his own official duties, and for a brief period that late winter they enjoyed a peaceful existence. Without his men living upstairs, their relationship was less strained. Better, Pentandra was relieved that their old passions, forged in the forests of Kasar, were still strong after her flirtation with Sir Vemas.

  And better, she decided, now that her husband wasn’t nearly as nervous as he had been on their wedding night. Though he still lacked the subtle skill of a seasoned lover, his strength, need, and passion were more than sufficient to remind Pentandra of the joys of married life.

  But in the morning, the stacks of parchment were still lurking there, on her desk.

  Arborn was between missions, but they both knew that he would be sent off again, and soon, as the dictates of his office required. As Master of Wood he had duties he could not delegate, and as unofficial ambassador to the Kasari he had to show himself amongst the Narasi yeoman he ostensibly commanded, or they would be hard to govern.

  While he was in Vorone, he had command over both his Kasari rangers and the more sinister “Wood Owls” who had joined the Woodsmen’s’ struggle against the remains of the Rat Crew. After Bloodfinger and Opilio died in the bloody street battle, the few thugs from either camp who’d escaped were being ruthlessly hunted down, something Arborn’s half-dozen odd Kasari seemed to delight in.

  With Sir Vemas’ guidance the rangers were roaming the streets from twilight to dawn, garbed in long gray cloaks and feathered masks in the guise of owls, their great bows concealed underneath. Arborn had them shadowing the Woodsmen, who were patrolling the dark streets of Vorone at night, picking off the Rats they’d missed - and any enterprising independent operators who might have arisen in their absence. The Crew might have lost strength in the center of town, but there were still footpads and thieves aplenty.

  The Duke was pleased, as were the folk of the Merchant and Docks wards. Having the Woodsmen visibly patrol in their strange gear served as both a warning to the Crew and a sign to the townsfolk that a new master ruled the night.

  But eventually Arborn would depart again. Likely for even longer, now that the roads were clear of snow. And then she would be alone again. She knew all of this . . . but it was still damn inconvenient that her husband disappeared for days at a time when she needed him here.

  If her morning hours were spent untangling the business of her office, her afternoons were spent in service of the wider business of the court. Every day she seemed to have a meeting with a minister or a secretary or some other official who thought she could bring her powers to bear on their problems. Usually she had to politely say no. Few outside of her profession understood enough about how magic worked - and how it didn’t - to appreciate what it could and couldn’t do.

  If it wasn’t a business occasion, it was a semi-social one in which business actually occurred. Her regular meetings with the Duke and Father Amus, for instance, were usually conducted over a game or some other social activity. While Father Amus preferred the dreadfully boring game of Rushes, the Duke preferred chess - her favorite. She enjoyed those meetings as much for Anguin’s boyish enthusiasm and Father Amus’ dry wit as she did for her exposure to her liege.

  But too often she found herself at something like the Palace Maidens’ Weekly Tea . . . which had little tea and fewer maidens involved.

  Ostensibly the Tea was supposed to inform and instruct the junior ladies of the court on their duties and matters of etiquette, but the event had long ago become the domain of the senior women in the court meeting without male intrusion to exchange gossip and information. The regular meeting was once a routine part of the late Duchess’ schedule, but as there was no Duchess at the moment, Viscountess Threanas had taken over administering the women-only affair.

  All the noblewomen of the palace saw the weekly event as an opportunity to show off to their peers and gossip about their betters, and invitations
to the event were highly coveted . . . by everyone but Pentandra. She had skipped the first few because of her distance from the palace and her other duties, but she could only delay her attendance so long. Eventually Threanas made a point of insisting she attend.

  The old noblewoman explained: “This tea isn’t mere hoary tradition, my dear, it has purpose. Once a week Her Grace enjoyed the opportunity to speak to her ladies candidly, without male ears around,” she confided. “She was of the opinion that some subjects - and some matters - needed the exclusive attention of femininity.”

  “Like temple donations?” Pentandra had asked, blankly.

  “Like which courtier is sleeping with which other courtier’s wife,” answered Threanas, grumpily. “I had my problems with Her Grace, Trygg rest her soul, but she did not tolerate the kind of open promiscuity known to occur at some other courts.” While she didn’t come out and accuse the Remerans of such vices, the way she looked at Pentandra told her all she needed to know about her cultural prejudices.

  That didn’t bother Pentandra. She was getting used to the prudish descendants of Narasi barbarians acting superior about where they stuck their naughty bits, and she found their misguided and misinformed opinions about the descendants of Imperial society amusing.

  “I hadn’t realized that we’d been here long enough for actual affairs to have commenced,” Pentandra reflected, in a last-ditch effort to escape the event.

  “There will be,” Threanas promised, crossly. “And when they do happen, it will be largely up to us to deal with the aftermath. That was one reason why Her Grace kept a tight rein during her reign. Especially on the pretty little ingénues and coquettes every pipsqueak knight in the north or ratty Sealord from the south sent to court to seek a noble match. Rarely did they manage to find Trygg’s temple without frequent stops at Ishi’s,” she said, disapprovingly. “Hence the Ladies’ Tea. If there were affairs going on, Her Grace was insistent that they remain hidden and discreet, and not rise to scandal and thus affect the workings of the court.”

  “Oh, I quite agree,” Pentandra said - much to the Viscountess’ surprise.

  “You do?”

  “Oh, of course! Clearly the system works - I’ve yet to hear of any of your own affairs at court,” Pentandra said, mildly.

  The elderly Viscountess fixed her with a steely stare.

  “One would see that as an endorsement of the practice, is all, which might lead to a confusing message.” Pentandra assured. “Well done!”

  She didn’t mean a word of it, of course - the ancient noblewoman was as chaste as a nun. More, if Sister Saltia’s lusty confessions after a few glasses of wine were any indication. The implication that the old bat might actually have anything but cobwebs under her skirts clearly made her uncomfortable . . . and so Pentandra naturally latched on to the idea and included it in her social arsenal.

  It was fun teasing her for a few weeks on the periphery of court, but eventually Pentandra realized that the old bag was correct. The Ladies’ Tea was the quiet, unassuming hotbed of palace gossip about any number of things, and she was missing a valuable opportunity to gather intelligence on her potential social rivals at court by skipping them.

  The senior ladies in the court almost always attended. Viscountess Threanas was the senior hostess, but Sister Saltia, Lady Lasmet (the tipsy old maid in charge of Tariffs & Tribute) and Lady Bertine, the court’s scribe, were also usually present to share their views and pass causal judgments on the palace denizens. There were often three to five other ladies of standing and position who got invited to the Tea, but they tended to sit at a smaller table than the regular attendees. They enjoyed the notoriety and social standing the invitation brought them, but the real business of the Tea was done at the high table.

  Sister Saltia, surprisingly enough, was in favor of Pentandra attending. The nun had not quite abandoned her clerical restraint and embraced the decadence of court, but she had indulged in enjoying her lofty position and the prerogatives it carried.

  “You can sometimes find a decent game of dice, among the younger ladies,” she confided to Pentandra. “I take two or three ounces of silver from them in our friendly little games. And the sweet buns are outstanding,” she assured, with the sort of reverence only a priestess could manage. “The palace cook really makes an effort for the Tea.”

  Pentandra approached the event as an unpleasant obligation tied to her position, but she soon began to look forward to the meetings. A surprising amount of important business was conducted there, as well, in the absence of men who felt nothing could be decided without their opinions. Despite the veiled insults and false flattery that flew constantly across the room at the Tea, the atmosphere was generally friendly and congenial.

  But only after a proper amount of gossip.

  Lately the discussion had been about Duke Anguin’s chances of taking a wife - a topic Threanas insisted was far too early to discuss.

  “Those who would see him wed while still a lad are shortsighted. A man likes a few years of bachelorhood and errantry, to explore himself,” she pointed out, during Pentandra’s first foray into the Tea. “My late husband was unwed for six years after his knighthood, and only chose to take me to wife because of my figure,” she assured. “Let the lad have some fun,” she suggested. “All too soon he’ll be married, and the character of court will change. The Duchy will be better served if the Duke is happy with his life.”

  “Besides, who would make a beneficial match?” asked Lady Bertine. “None of the noble houses in the south are available, and a match with a Castali bride would be looked upon askance at the moment.”

  “What about Remere?” asked Sister Saltia. “Is it not full of dusky maidens?” She looked right at Pentandra, of course. As the token Remeran of the group, it was assumed she had intimate knowledge of the great houses and noble families, which was laughable. She knew about the great magic dynasties among her people, but apart from her own family’s feudal obligations, she knew very little of the Remeran court.

  “To what end?” Pentandra shrugged. “A political alliance seems pointless, now that the Kingdom puts all three of the duchies under one sovereignty. Unless Anguin wants lands in Remere, which I doubt, there is little advantage to that.”

  “Then who?” asked Saltia, rolling her dice between her hands. “The lad can’t remain a bachelor forever!”

  “Why not leave it up to the gods?” Pentandra replied. “Allow Ishi to determine Anguin’s path, instead of deciding what would be best for him?”

  “His Grace has not that luxury,” Threanas said, shaking her head. “He must wed and produce an heir, else the duchy will fall to ruin.”

  “But he doesn’t have to wed this year,” Pentandra stressed. “Or the next. Let him build a proper home for a bride to come to, and not force his hand.”

  “Our wizard is quite right,” Threanas pronounced, approvingly. “The advantages of an unwed duke are manifold. The possibility of his nuptials actually serves us better than if he were to actually wed. As we have damn few other resources,” she added with a grunt, “let us not squander one of the few we possess. The lad is handsome enough . . . his sire and dame gave him that, at least.”

  After that the discussion inevitably went to how handsome, vigorous, and virtuous Anguin was, with increasingly lurid speculation by the younger ladies of his potential prowess. No one could claim to have personal experience with the subject, as of yet. Pentandra was reasonably certain the lad wasn’t a virgin - his brief and inglorious stint on the Castali jousting circuit would have cured that. If Anguin was conducting an affair of his own, he was doing so with the utmost secrecy with someone who was utterly silent about the fact.

  Anguin’s prospects became a regular topic of the Tea, as the weeks went by, and novel suggestions about how to pair the boy off were always flying at the event. But today the Duke’s love life was not the focus of the discussion at the Tea.

  Lady Pleasure and her abrupt appearance at court was.
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br />   “‘Lady Pleasure’, indeed!” snorted Threanas. “That old hag has been haunting Vorone since Anguin’s grandsire sat on the throne! I recall her being presented to court: pretty, but completely vapid. No sense of business, no sense of propriety. There were rumors she even had an affair with Lenguin, in his youth -- if it did happen, no doubt it was over before she realized it, from what Her Grace Enora had to say!” she cackled. The late Duke Lenguin’s marital shortcomings were well-known throughout the palace.

  “Baroness Amandice -- Dowager Baroness,” Lady Bertine corrected. “As if being married to a sot for eighteen months is enough to bear the title, after all these years!”

  “Have you not heard what she’s done?” asked Lady Lasmet in a hushed and scandalized tone. “She’s taken in a whole mob of peasant wenches, and converted her lovely old home into . . . a bordello!” she whispered in horror and delight. “It’s on the Street of Perfume - I get my hair done a few blocks from there, the palace girls never seem to get it right.”

  “Oh, I know of the place,” Lady Bertine agreed, shaking her head in sad condemnation. “It’s out where the courtiers keep their mistresses, or used to. A bordello, you say?”

  That captured Pentandra’s attention. A handsome widow who just wanted to help her duke and curry favor was one thing, but suddenly Pentandra saw the entire proceeding at court the other night in a new light. Lady Pleasure, she realized, had a greater purpose in her introduction.

  “Oh, yes, the House of Flowers, she calls it,” Lady Bertine said, shaking her head with shame. “She had it painted gaudily, and she parades her . . . girls around town, all in matching outfits.”

  “Well, that’s better than the average whore,” the Viscountess said, wrinkling her nose. “The way some of them strut about so indecently . . .

  “Oh, none of her girls are like that,” assured Lady Bertine, who seemed to have far more information about the place than a woman in her position should. “They dress demurely, I suppose. But attractively. Nor are they like the other whores. They flirt with every man equally, whether a lord or a churl. They never fight with each other, or the other whores of the street. And they are far more respectful to proper women than their peers.”