Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “If she’s running a bawdy house,” Threanas said, distastefully, “at least she runs it well. But that is not sufficient to warrant standing at court. At least in better days,” she added, wistfully.

  “I wouldn’t think such a place would thrive in an environment like Vorone,” Pentandra offered. “I mean, perhaps in the old days . . . but with so many . . . talented amateurs in town . . .”

  “Oh, there are men who are quite willing to pay extra, if they have the coin for extra,” Threanas said, firmly. “Thirty years, I’ve been at court in Vorone and Falas. Believe me, ladies, I’ve seen it all. While any woman will do for most men, the ones with money and power want more than a simple tumble. If they can’t seduce the wives of their fellow courtiers -- or don’t want to go to the trouble -- then for the right price a man can be treated like a king of the savages in such a place!” she condemned.

  “I’m less concerned about her commercial strategy than her political one,” Pentandra said, quietly. “Why would she want to make such a bold introduction into court, firstly . . . and why undertake such a thankless job as running the Spring Festival, for another?”

  “Don’t you know?” Threanas asked, a sly grin coming to her thin old lips. “The Spring Wildflower Festival is sacred to Ishi . . . and it’s the official beginning for the preparation of the court’s arrival from the south. It’s also known - locally - as the last chance the local men will have at a decent priced whore before the court comes in, and prices go up.”

  “Really?” Sister Saltia said, clasping the infinity symbol around her neck. “Whores can raise their prices? For . . .?”

  “It’s like any other enterprise,” assured Lady Lasmet. “From what I’ve heard,” she added, guiltily. “But the Spring Wildflower Festival has traditionally been a . . . lusty affair. The courtesans even sometimes perform for free - in honor of Ishi, they say,” she added, with a skeptical laugh.

  “While that explains her interest, I suppose, it doesn’t explain her presentation,” Pentandra said, tapping her chin with her finger. “She’s . . . up to something. She has designs that I cannot see, yet.”

  “We all have designs, my dear,” Lady Lasmet dismissed. “Why, no one comes to court without seeking something!”

  “I just wanted a job,” Pentandra admitted. “But it seems as if I have a mission, instead.”

  “You really think the Baroness is . . . scheming?” Threanas asked, more casually than she meant. She caught Pentandra’s eye meaningfully. The silent message was a simple, Is This A Threat?

  “I’d wager my witchstone on it,” Pentandra agreed, suddenly, without any further evidence. Her intuition was screaming at her. “Did it not seem unusual that every man in the room seemed instantly captivated by her speech?” she pointed out.

  “She’s a pretty woman,” Threanas countered.

  “No, the four maids behind her were pretty – she’s a shadow of the beauty she no doubt was at sixteen,” Pentandra said, authoritatively. “Yet it was her, not they, who bewitched every beard in the room. Don’t you think that odd?”

  “You think she used a spell?” Sister Saltia said, making the infinity sign over her breast.

  “Or worse,” Pentandra decided. “But it’s clear that the men in the court are not likely to look too closely at what she’s doing. Which makes me wonder all the more what she is, in fact, doing.”

  “Well, we must not allow that sort of thing to stand,” Threanas murmured, nodding. “What do you propose we do about her, my dear?”

  “In my opinion there is far more going on here than meets the eye . . . and it appears that I am the only one in a position to figure it out. Which means I must gather some information, and directly from the source.”

  “You mean . . .?” Saltia asked, in hushed tones. The nun looked scandalized. And excited. Which did nothing to curb Pentandra’s sudden enthusiasm for the project.

  “Ladies, it appears that my apprentice and I shall be visiting a brothel.”

  Pentandra hadn’t intended to visit the Baroness’ new enterprise so soon, but over the course of the next few days she began noticing an alarming rise in the number of young, sweet-faced maidens within the palace. Not the younger daughters of the local nobles, as was frequently the case at court, but exquisitely pretty maids from the House of Flowers.

  They traveled in pairs to avoid the appearance of impropriety. Yet that did not stop them from entrancing (and occasionally embracing) the men around them. Over the course of a single day Pentandra happened upon several spontaneous expressions of romance.

  She found one young pair of maids taking turns kissing a blushing young clerk near the Office of Lands and Estates. It happened again when she discovered two girls and two eager courtiers entangled in a secluded stairwell . . . and again when she went in search of Sir Vemas, one morning, and found his secretary lustfully humping one girl in the Constable’s office while the other kept watch.

  The young and handsome weren’t their only victims – the older, more mature members of court became maddeningly distracted by the soft, sweet-smelling smiles that seemed to linger around every corner.

  The “maidens” all seemed to have legitimate errands regarding the Flower Festival, too, when Pentandra stopped and questioned them. They were all excruciatingly polite. Some were delivering messages, some were soliciting assistance from palace offices, some were passing reports and parchments to various departments. They had business in the palace, it was true.

  But everywhere they went, male heads turned and female lips pursed uncomfortably.

  Even the clergy were affected. During her long report to Landfather Amus about the Rat’s riot in the Temple quarter during Briga’s Day, she had to re-direct his wandering attention repeatedly. While he blamed it on his spiritual investment in the approach of plowing season, Pentandra noted a message from “Lady Pleasure” on his table (sealed with a gaudy-looking wildflower sigil), and could smell the lingering ghost of the perfume of the messengers in the air.

  She sighed, disgustedly.

  “They’ve been here, haven’t they?” she demanded, impatiently, of the Minister of Religion.

  “What? Who?” asked the old priest, confused.

  “I don’t know their proper names,” Pentandra said, flatly, “but I’m guessing they’re pretty, respectful of your masculine dignity, and young enough to be your granddaughters!”

  “I-I did receive a call from some of the townswomen this morning concerning the upcoming spring festival, but—”

  “They might as well still be here, and sitting in your lap, for all the concentration you’ve displayed, Father,” Pentandra pointed out crossly. “Not that reducing the power of organized criminal gangs in the capital is important, or anything . . .”

  “Huin’s holy hoe, Lady Pentandra, I don’t know what’s come over me!” the old priest admitted, shaking his head guiltily. “At first I thought it was just being back in Vorone again, after so many years away, and seeing Ishi’s glorious gift of Spring that ushers in Huin’s sacred reign. But now that you mention it . . . those maidens were quite . . . uh, distracting,” he finished, embarrassed.

  Pentandra studied the monk’s face closely. “Father, would you mind if I cast a spell on you?” she asked. “Nothing invasive, just a regular passive thaumaturgical essay,” she assured. “No harm will come to you.”

  “If you think it best,” he sighed. “You are the Court Wizard. But this means I get to pray over you, next time I think it would be helpful,” he added, a twinkle in his eye. “Professional courtesy.”

  Pentandra concentrated and whispered the mnemonic that summoned her baculus, and in moments Everkeen had spun a web of spells around the priest at her direction.

  “Just as I suspected,” Pentandra informed him, shaking her head. “You’ve been glamoured, Father. Nothing serious, but nothing . . . properly arcane, either.”

  The priest’s eyes opened wide. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean that what
ever it is, it isn’t a normal Imperial-style spell – something I could easily identify and remove. Don’t worry, the effect is minimal,” she assured the startled priest. “From what I can tell it merely makes you more suggestible . . . and unbearably randy, I’m afraid. It’s subtle. Without my baculus I don’t think I would have spotted it. But this confirms my theory that something – someone – is working magic in Vorone without my knowledge or consent.”

  “I would assume a great number of people are,” mused Father Amus.

  “Perhaps without my direct knowledge,” conceded Pentandra, “but I’m aware that they are practicing. This isn’t that sort of thing. This isn’t a regular adept or spellmonger at work, or even a regular psychomancer.”

  “You suspect the gurvani?” Amus asked, sharply.

  “Always,” Pentandra answered as she continued studying Everkeen’s reports, “but this doesn’t seem to be their work, either. Not with that thaumaturgical signature. Certainly not directly. I don’t think gurvani shamanic magic is equipped to deal with subtle human emotions like this - this isn’t fear, despair or terror at work, this is far subtler.”

  “Then . . . what? Who?” demanded Amus, anxiously.

  “In my professional opinion? This is more likely to be due to the individual Talent of a magical sport. Someone who has exceptional Talent in one or two things, but who lacks the capacity to be a full-fledged mage,” she explained, when the old priest looked confused. “Just what did those girls want with you, if I may ask?”

  “Merely authorization to use the Temple Square to hold the festival,” shrugged Amus. “That is what their message requested, rather politely. That falls under my purview as Ducal Chaplain. But that is something I would have gladly done without magical . . . persuasion,” he finished, uncomfortably.

  “Of course,” Pentandra admitted, reluctantly. “They didn’t try to get you to do anything else? Or suggest anything else to you?”

  “Oh, they mentioned the idea of holding a grand ball at the palace for the occasion, and I told them I thought it was a fine idea,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “It is traditional that some sort of celebration at the palace follow the day’s festivities. But we were merely conversing. What is so sinister about a ball?” Amus asked

  “One might ask the same about a tournament field,” Pentandra pointed out. “It all depends upon who the players are, and what their ambitions might be.”

  “And how far they will go to see them fulfilled,” murmured Amus, finally understanding the subtle danger in the glamour on him. “Can you remove this spell?”

  “Oh, certainly, with some study. As I said, it’s a mere hypnotic enchantment. It does you no direct harm. Or even clouds your basic judgment – it’s not that strong of a spell. But I think that I want to investigate a bit before I make the attempt. You are clearly not the only one affected by this.”

  Amus looked surprised. “There have been others?”

  “The court has its share of those gentlemen whose heads can be turned by a pretty ankle or a seductive smile,” she reflected. “If it makes you feel better, Father, most have endured far more embarrassing slips than mere distraction,” Pentandra agreed. “I am guessing they’ve been similarly infected with this glamour.

  “But there’s only one way to be certain: visit the source. I need to go to the Street of Perfume, find this Hall of Flowers, and meet this Lady Pleasure in her home to discuss the proprieties of court . . . one lady to another.”

  “Are you certain you don’t want me to escort you?” Arborn teased, as she dressed.

  “My husband? Escorting me to a brothel? What would Mother say?” she asked, mockingly, as she brushed her hair in front of her magical glass.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Arborn replied, dryly. “I’ve never met her.”

  The words were said in jest, but there was some tension behind them, she could hear it in his voice. Arborn had been curious about her family since they’d wed, but had thus far only met her cousin, Planus. He was particularly interested in meeting her mother. Pentandra was particularly interested in postponing that meeting as long as possible. She could only imagine what horrendous bile her mother would concoct against her barbarian husband.

  “When you do, she won’t be happy about it. Which means she’ll make you unhappy about it. And she certainly wouldn’t find the humor in us both visiting a brothel together. She would do anything to avoid the scandal. The servants would talk, she would say.”

  “Is that why you don’t want me to go? Your mother?”

  “No, I don’t want you to go because I am a newly wedded wife jealous of my husband’s roaming eye around a hundred nubile, attractive young maidens who give Ishi’s Blessing as a regular service,” she replied.

  “You don’t trust me?” he teased.

  “You’re the most trustworthy man I know,” Pentandra acknowledged. “But you’re still a man. You have a cock. And eyes. The two together tend to ignore the dictates of your mind and conscience.”

  “Pentandra!” protested her husband. “I would never--

  “Don’t tell me what you would or wouldn’t do, in a situation you have never been in, dealing with strange magic around strange whores,” Pentandra warned. “I might not blame you for your interest, but without my protections you would be just as subject to the potential spells as anything with a sack. I cannot do the work I need to if I have to keep my eye on you, all the time. And if I did catch you with one of those little . . . girls,” she said, exercising a tremendous amount of control over her emotions, “. . . well, I’d hate to burn one to a crisp just because she caught your fancy.”

  “‘The servants would talk’,” echoed Arborn with a chuckle. “At least you’re honest. But with a magnificent creature like you in my bed, my wife, how could I possibly gaze at another woman? Mae sgowtiaid yn ffyddlon.”

  “My husband, may Trygg bless you for your loyalty. But where we’re going not even the virtuous can tread lightly,” she smirked. “I wouldn’t trust a monk, there. Quite literally. And I would caution your men against going there.”

  “Wife, I can face a hundred goblins and not flinch!” he said, rolling over on the bed lazily.

  “But could you face a hundred nubile young tits and not stare?” she replied, gently as she picked up her hairbrush. “My dear naive husband, brothels are designed to entice the eye. The good ones, at least.”

  “And you know this . . . how, my wife?”

  “Sex magic, remember?” she said, wiggling her behind at him while she brushed her hair. “When I studied at Alar, I regularly visited a brothel called The Bluest Sky for research purposes. It was one of the reasons I was later asked to transfer to Inrion.”

  “Research?” he asked, skeptically.

  “I was fifteen – no more than a maid. You didn’t think I could do it all at that age, do you? No, I bribed the madam of the house to let me observe.”

  Arborn looked surprised. “The clients allow such a thing?”

  “The clients pay for such a thing,” she corrected. “At The Bluest Sky each of the patrons wore a silken mask, but it was understood that others would be discreetly watching from squints in the walls. It was far less exhausting than actually doing all of the work myself.”

  “What an interesting life you have led, my wife,” Arborn reflected, after a moment’s silence.

  “And it just keeps getting more so,” she sighed, putting down the brush. “The truth is, husband, I don’t know what to expect. Is she merely a crafty old whore seeking to promote her enterprise at court? From what I felt the other night, there is more to her than that. The place almost crackled with magic. Astyral and Azar felt it, too, as did any with Talent and the wit to see it. No, that was a glamour of some sort she cast. Or one of her whores did. That is why I don’t want you to escort me.”

  “Aren’t you worried you will become subject to the spell?” he asked, curious.

  “I don’t think it will be an issue,” Pentandra shrugged. “Whi
le the men were captivated, the women were put into a state of . . . call it anxious envy. It was strange, even for magic. Some sort of Psychomancy, perhaps, triggered by the male sexual response. Which is why you, my husband, are staying here.”

  “But . . . but I’ve never been to a brothel before!” he said, pouting mockingly.

  “You aren’t missing much,” she shrugged. “Just a bunch of pretty young women willing to take off their clothes and pleasure you in any way possible for money. Usually surrounded by tasteful art, beautiful music, incredible food, fine spirits and wines, that sort of thing.”

  “And you have to pay for that? When you can get it at home?” he asked, amused. “You Narasi are so odd!”

  “I am no Narasi,” she reminded him, pulling her mantle over her shoulders. “But we have brothels, too. Hells, we perfected brothels, according to my mother. But it is you Kasari who are odd. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed another culture completely devoid of brothels. Or prostitution.”

  “Our girls wouldn’t like that,” her husband grunted.

  “Oh, I know,” she assured him. “Most women cannot stand the idea of whores around them. Unreasonable competition for attention. Considering how well your girls shoot, I can’t imagine a brothel in Kasar or Braunsei ever prospering.”

  The Kasari had a highly conservative culture, sexually speaking. Most Kasari were virgins until they were wed. She had never asked Arborn point-blank if that was the case for him, but she assumed it wasn’t far from the truth.

  “Are you ready, Mistress?” came Alurra’s polite voice from the door.

  “Nearly,” she nodded. “You and your pigeon can wait downstairs for me, and if you can flag down a castellan to send word to equip a carriage for us . . .”