Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  The girl smiled, nodded, and disappeared. In the few days she’d been at the palace she had done amazingly well in learning her way around, and with the help of Lucky she was able to deftly navigate the corridors of the confusing place. When she and her bird got confused, it didn’t hurt that she had a pretty face under that untended hair. The guards and the castellans always seemed eager to point her in the right direction, Pentandra had observed.

  In terms of magic she had been equally impressive – and disappointing, in equal measures. While Pentandra had never had her own apprentice before, she had borrowed one of Minalan’s for a time. She had been responsible for young Lenodara’s introduction into the arcane art, and the two girls were similar in many ways. Both had quick minds, bright imaginations, powerful measures of Talent, and a particular natural facility for Brown Magic, the ability to use magic with animals.

  But while Dara had been both curious and cautious, Alurra was bold and complacent. Her previous work with the mysterious witch Old Antimei had given her a far different introduction to spellwork than Dara – or Pentandra, for that matter. Pentandra had learned the Art as an academic student, not as an apprentice. There were differences in approach, she was realizing, that were difficult to bridge.

  Alurra’s sightlessness compounded the challenge. At this point in her education, most students would be reading voraciously. Alurra had proven that she knew her alphabet and numbers in theory, but she could not read them. Which meant she could not read and study the way other students of Imperial magic did . . . or visualize the spells in the same way.

  How did you practice magic without magesight, for instance? That question had plagued her in the few lessons she had attempted to give the girl in the last few days. There were so many things that had to be seen in order to be understood, and Alurra simply lacked that facility.

  It didn’t help that she didn’t see much point in Pentandra’s formal exercises. Alurra endured them because Antimei had told her to, and in that obedience she was ideal as an apprentice. The girl genuinely wanted to be helpful. The problem was that she wanted to help everyone else, and saw little gain in improving herself.

  It was a difficult problem that she needed to solve if she was to truly attempt to teach her. There were just too many things in the Art that required a real, honest-to-gods ego behind them in order to work properly. Without ego, there could be no Will, which was essential.

  Pentandra was far from giving up. She had only had a few days to work with the girl, so far, and the sheer novelty of having an apprentice hadn’t worn off yet. Of course, going to a brothel was hardly the sort of education a normal young woman apprentice was exposed to, but then, Pentandra decided, Alurra was hardly a normal apprentice.

  And Pentandra was hardly a normal mistress, she realized. She was a Court Mage who specialized in sex magic, not some demure little witch from the hinterlands. If Alurra’s education was unusual, in that sense, she would just have to endure it the best she could. Along the way, she could render assistance and service to her new Mistress. Which, this evening, included a brothel visit.

  There was something seriously amiss about “Lady Pleasure”, Pentandra knew, something powerful and potentially dangerous. She needed to get to the bottom of it, and her impressionable apprentice would simply have to overcome the ordeal.

  It wasn’t like she was going to see anything scandalous, Pentandra decided.

  Alurra was waiting at the front of the palace with the borrowed coach – one of the perquisites of being a senior officer of the court was access to such perquisites. The cool spring evening air promised rain tomorrow but tonight the stars shone through the cloudless sky as brightly as magelights overhead. Pentandra inhaled deeply, the scent of spruce and juniper and pine from beyond the walls cutting through the wood smoke and less pleasant smells of Vorone.

  The breath was deep and cleansing, and as she exhaled she realized for the first time that she actually liked it, here, in Vorone.

  She, Pentandra anna Benurvial – no, she, Pentandra, Ducal Court Wizard of Alshar, she corrected in her mind – the pampered daughter of a decadent house of Remeran magi, accustomed to refinement and sophistication, felt at peace here in the wilderness.

  Where she had once worried that the amenities of Vorone would not meet her expectations, she found herself now looking forward to a life in this strange and rustic place. If she was going to be a court wizard, this was a nice court to be attached to.

  That brought her a quiet strength and resolve, as the carriage rumbled forward and she prepared to get into a shouting match with an aging whore.

  Life in Vorone was many things for Pentandra. Boring was not among them.

  Chapter Twenty–One

  The House Of Flowers

  During the short coach ride to the infamous Perfume Street, Pentandra did her best to prepare Alurra for what she might experience at the brothel . . . starting with explaining what a brothel was.

  And then explaining to her what a prostitute was.

  And then explaining to her what prostitution was, and why men (and a few women) were willing to pay good coin for the experience.

  And then explaining to her some of the more basic truths about men.

  As Pentandra’s exasperation grew with the length of her explanation, she realized that the challenge here was not Alurra’s blindness, it was her hopeless naiveté. She was a young girl from a remote and unsophisticated Wilderlands culture, one whose usual rules of sexuality (and nearly every other part of life) had been disrupted by the damn goblin invasion.

  She’d been raised by an old woman, protected by an ignorant rural society that had thoughtfully taken account of her disability . . . and had left Alurra, therefore, woefully ignorant of the facts of life. Pentandra found herself explaining some very basic matters to her, while making mental notes of future discussions.

  By the time the coach arrived at the House of Flowers, Pentandra realized that she would be instructing the Wilderlands girl in the arts of womanhood as much as she would be the magical arts.

  “. . . but we’ll continue this discussion later,” she said, when the groom announced their arrival. “For now, keep silent, attend me, and don’t do or touch anything. Understood?”

  “Understood, Mistress,” Alurra said, biting her lip with determination. “Do I look presentable?”

  No, you look like a backwoods wilding orphan girl who never heard of a comb, Pentandra wanted to say.

  In truth, a few days of palace livery had cleaned up and fed the girl so that she at least looked healthy, now. Her dress was clean, if worn, and slightly too large for her; her mantle had been laundered and patched, and she had found some cloth slippers somewhere - Pentandra guessed Castellan Bircei was responsible for that.

  But Alurra still looked more like a beggar waif than a professional apprentice. Her hair, in particular, was a mess. It needed some serious care. At the moment it looked like a perfect place for Lucky to stash shiny things and bits of string.

  There was no time to do anything about that now, though. “You look fine, dear. Like a magi’s apprentice.”

  That made the girl beam. Thank the gods she couldn’t see herself.

  As it turned out, Alurra’s blindness proved a blessing again as the door opened and they were confronted by the reality of the Hall of Flowers.

  The old mansion had clearly undergone a revival and reconstruction. The three story edifice had been draped in banners, and pots and planters scattered everywhere were bursting with spring flowers. Sweet-smelling incense was burning somewhere – sandalwood, lepry and goss, from what Pentandra could tell – and the second floor balcony was occupied by a quartet of musicians playing lively dance music on a tambour, flute, and two guitars.

  The house had been painted recently and the walkway leading to the door had been swept to a pristine state. Torches lined the walkway and the garden, and a merry fire had been set in a brazier, adding the dancing illumination of its flames to the scene. So
mewhere someone was cooking something delicious, too, her nose reminded her.

  But it was her eyes that were captivated. There were beautiful young women everywhere she looked, as ubiquitous as wildflowers in a meadow. On the front walk Pentandra walked by three of them dancing together for the amusement of a pair of gentlemen, while a dozen others mingled and laughed with their own callers and patrons in the front garden. Each maiden wore a pretty but simple dress of green, without an under tunic, and bore a flower pinned to their breast.

  But that was as exotic as their garb went. Pentandra knew the madam at The Bluest Sky in Wenshar would have been scandalized at the wasted opportunity to display the wares of the girls.

  That disturbed Pentandra. She knew whores. Whores did their best to flaunt their sexuality, not conceal it. They often went as far in their displays as local standards allowed, but they did not dress the same. Ever.

  Human intersexual attraction dictated that women distinguish themselves to attract a mate’s attention, Pentandra knew with the certainty of the Law of Gravity or Motion. Nor did normal whores dress at all demurely. They revealed as much of their skin as possible, to fool the male eye into believing their fertility. And they frequently flashed their privates to potential customers when the Watch wasn’t looking.

  Yet these girls were acting as demurely as if they were at court, themselves. Perhaps more. But while the approach did not favor the traditional, it had attracted some early adherents.

  The gentlemen who stalked between the knots of girls in the garden didn’t seem to notice the flagrant disregard for tradition – they seemed entranced by the youth and loveliness of the women, regardless of their lack of brazenness. And the girls seemed to respond more like coquettes than harlots, Pentandra noted, skeptically. If the plan was to insinuate as many pretty, polite whores into the Alshari court as she could, Pentandra decided, then there were worse plans to be had.

  “Welcome to the House of Flowers, my lady,” a smooth and mature female voice greeted her. Pentandra looked around and spotted the speaker, a middle-aged woman wrapped in a soft-looking mantle of yellow. “What brings you to the brink of pleasure with us this evening?”

  “It is business, not pleasure, my lady,” Pentandra said, brusquely, as she entered the hall. “Official palace business.”

  “Ah, this must be concerning our lady’s involvement in the Wildflower Festival,” the woman nodded, knowingly.

  “In essence, it does,” Pentandra agreed, coolly. “I would very much like to have a few moments to speak to the baroness.”

  “Lady Pleasure is in residence, at the moment,” the woman agreed. “I am her stewardess, Candrice. While she is quite busy during this busy time, I’m certain she could spare a few moments for you, Lady Pentandra.”

  “Oh, you know who I am?” she asked, surprised, as she assisted Alurra up the stone walkway, around the dancers.

  “The most powerful woman in Alshar? Why of course we do!” Candrice assured her. “Indeed, I feel as if Lady Pleasure has been expecting your call.”

  “She isn’t expecting this,” Pentandra muttered under her breath. “If you could arrange a meeting in short order, I would consider it a favor,” she asked, evenly.

  “As you wish, Lady Pentandra,” the woman nodded, obediently. “Liset! Run and inform Lady Pleasure she has a visitor, please, dear!” she called to the girls in a sing-song voice. One of the dancing girls stopped abruptly, caught the woman’s eye, nodded, and then went inside to do as she was bidden.

  That was also of concern, Pentandra realized. It was rare for whores not to talk back to their managers, and even rarer for them to comply without complaint. But Liset had obeyed like a soldier on duty.

  “Let me escort you to her chamber, my lady,” the woman said, smoothly. “I am certain she will meet with you directly. Can I fetch you a drink? Have you eaten?”

  “Thank you, but I am here on business,” Pentandra nodded firmly. The busy spectacle outside of the House of Flowers was designed to invite and disarm, she recognized. It looked for all the world like the best party in town, and the music, smells, and sights of the place irresistibly drew the eye and the attention. And there was a kind of pall of self-conscious enjoyment about the place that seemed infectious.

  It was difficult to resist. But Pentandra was a well-trained mage in full charge of her senses, and it would take more than a few simple distractions to make her stray from her task.

  Just as she complimented herself for that realization, she also realized that her toe was tapping incessantly to the beat of the music. It took a lot more willpower to make it stop than she anticipated, too.

  “Our business is pleasure,” Candrice agreed, pleasantly, as she led them inside. “As stewardess of the house. I see to the comforts of our guests while they consider the pleasures available here.”

  “My business is magic,” Pentandra responded, flatly, resentful of the woman’s alluring tone. “There have been some concerns raised about your house at court. I am here to investigate them.”

  “Magic?” the woman laughed. “We have no magi here, my lady. Save as customers,” she considered. “Magelord Astyral was quite taken with his amusements, when he was last here in Vorone.”

  “Astyral? No doubt,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

  She hadn’t thought the handsome Gilmoran would seriously stoop to paying for his pleasures – he had no end of ready admirers amongst the maids and noblewomen of Tudry.

  But the allure of the prostitute was more than mere sex, Pentandra also knew. She tried not to think less of her friend for his indulgence, but she couldn’t resist getting in a dig. “He’s a Gilmoran. No doubt he has quite eccentric tastes, even for a mage.”

  “He seemed like a perfect gentleman,” Candrice observed as she led Pentandra into the house. Beyond the doors the place started to feel a lot more like a traditional brothel to Pentandra. The hall had benches and couches were girls sat or sprawled, sometimes with their potential clients, other times with each other. Though they all still wore the same green dress, some of them were wearing decidedly less of it than others.

  A sudden moan rang through the room, though Pentandra could not pinpoint the source.

  “What’s . . . what are they doing?” Alurra blurted out.

  “We’ll discuss it later,” Pentandra assured her in a whisper.

  “Right this way, my ladies,” Candrice said with a devilish grin. “Lady Pleasure awaits you,” she said, after she caught the whore Liset’s eye. The girl nodded and then headed back outside to the garden.

  Pentandra took just a moment to compose herself, realizing that she was feeling far more anxiety about the meeting than she’d anticipated. Much more, she realized. Far more than she should. Something was amiss, here, her subconscious whispered to her. Something far more insidious and obscured than the brutal thuggery of the Rat Crew. She was on her guard as Candrice opened the chamber door and escorted them within.

  Baroness Amandice was wearing a long, beautiful red cotton gown cut in an attractive fashion, with wide sleeves and a daring neckline that dominated the room. Though there were parchments and scrolls on the table in front of her, she ignored them in favor of her wine cup.

  She stood and bowed respectfully as soon as Pentandra was escorted in. Pentandra returned the courtesy automatically, if cautiously.

  “Lady Pentandra, what a surprise!” she said in a full, musical sort of voice. “What brings you to The House of Flowers? Business concerning the Wildflower Festival, perhaps?” Then she noticed Alurra, who was stalking patiently behind her mistress. “And who is this rustic little darling clinging to your skirts?” she asked, her voice comforting and intoxicating at the same time.

  She wasn’t using a thaumaturgical glamour – that much Pentandra was assured. An observant mage could recognize one without even using magesight.

  “This is my apprentice, Alurra,” Pentandra replied, smoothly. “And alas, my business here does not concern the celebration. Excep
t in the most tangential of ways.”

  Pentandra was instantly on her guard, but not for obvious reasons. She didn’t sense a trap or sinister intentions, but her gut was screaming at her that there was something subtly wrong with this woman. Pentandra couldn’t put her finger on it, but the hair on the back of her arms and neck was standing up. “There have been concerns raised in court, after your audience with the Duke. I’ve been tasked to investigate them.”

  “Concerns?” laughed the beautiful dowager, who seemed to lack any herself. “What about my humble little business could possibly concern the court? Enough to convince a senior officer to pry herself out of the palace at night . . . to investigate?”

  “I’ve always been more of an evening person,” Pentandra conceded.

  “So I’ve heard,” Amandice said, knowingly. She knew about Pentandra’s work with the Woodsmen, she suddenly realized. This whoremonger was better informed than she let on.

  “I’m actually here to find out just what you are planning,” Pentandra said, without further maneuvering. She could tell that a woman like Amandice would be perfectly happy dueling with innuendo and insult indefinitely in an attempt to get under Pentandra’s skin . . . and that was not a game she had either time or patience for.

  “Why, I’m planning the Wildflower Festival, my lady mage!” snorted Amandice. Even her snorts were alluringly feminine, Pentandra noted idly.

  “Yet you seem far more invested in the event than one would expect a . . . businesswoman to be for a mere civic display, Your Excellency,” Pentandra observed. “One might wonder at the intensity of your interest.”.

  “You may call me Lady Pleasure, Pentandra,” the madam said, sidestepping the accusation with a friendly gesture. Pentandra was having none of it. She was aware of all the ways a woman in power could use that subtle force as a social weapon.

  “You may call me Lady Pentandra, Baroness Amandice,” Pentandra replied, tersely. “I think we’re past the point of using false lovers’ names, don’t you? This is no simple brothel. There is something arcane afoot, here. Which is why I was brought to bear on the issue.”