Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Pentandra sketched how her meeting with “Lady Pleasure” had gone, and without confirming too many specifics for him she told him how she was certain of the true identity of the woman. Minalan didn’t sound surprised when she told him. That just made her madder.

  You realize that we’re supposed to be doing this . . . this . . . whatever we’re doing, we’re supposed to be doing it together? That was our agreement!

  I know, I know! Minalan said, lamely. This was . . . unexpected. And unforeseen. Hard to drop into casual conversation, not in any way that will get you believed. Honestly, Pen, if I had said ‘oh, by the way, Ishi dropped by the other day. We had lunch. It was fun’ would you have believed me?

  When stated like that, she could start to see his perspective. It was natural to take accounts of divine visitations with skepticism. But the sudden intrusion of the deity on his life explained some of Minalan’s recent moodiness, she decided. No. Probably not. I’d think you were just bragging.

  Exactly. Dealing with . . . her is complicated, by definition. She’s very . . .

  Yes, she is, Pentandra agreed coolly, without the need for elaboration. So why does she think possessing an old bag and starting a brothel in the wilderness is some kind of favor to you? That’s what I can’t understand.

  It’s complicated, Minalan repeated sullenly. Just keep an eye on her, okay? Let me know if she does anything . . . untoward.

  Like seducing half of the Alshari court?

  Let’s hope that’s all she does.

  You are not inspiring much confidence, Pentandra observed. Minalan, I know you’re under house arrest, or internal exile, or whatever it is right now, but how can I possibly deal with a goddess running roughshod over this town?

  I don’t know, Pen, he admitted. If I do, I’ll think of something. Have you considered consulting a priest?

  This is a little out of their jurisdiction, Pentandra replied. There isn’t even a real temple to Ishi in Vorone, surprisingly. Just a shrine. And her activities seem far less concerned with religion than they do commerce.

  Just watch her, Minalan repeated. If things get really out of hand, I’ll see what I can do.

  Pentandra spent the rest of the day in a daze, trying to come to grips with her predicament. She’d expected to have rivals at court – you couldn’t put three women in a room and not have them compete and conspire against each other – but to have one of them also be a reasonably powerful goddess was not something she’d imagined.

  The insidious thing about Lady Pleasures slow and pleasant conquest of the court was that the townsfolk genuinely felt a need to celebrate. Not just the coming of the Orphan Duke to the capital, or even the return of Spring, but there was a desperate need to celebrate just being alive after the last few years.

  The townspeople greeted Lady Pleasure’s participation in the planning and execution of the festival eagerly. They did not care if she ran a brothel. The old standards that held such enterprises as ignoble or scandalous had eroded under the neglect of Wilderlands society to the point where having a whoremonger as a civic leader was not an impediment to her leadership.

  Despite herself, Pentandra watched the preparations with a kind of anxious interest. Regardless of her origins or intentions, Lady Pleasure’s staff of prostitutes and servants was adept at organizing and executing the festival. The many, many obstacles to such an event seemed to fade away with a smile or a whisper when her girls were running errands on her behalf. One by one they melted away like the last of the snowfall.

  Over the next few days more tangible symbols of Lady Pleasure’s performance began to be seen around Vorone. One by one the homes and halls of the Market ward began hanging banners portraying wildflowers on their walls or over their doors. The stately residences in the North ward began cleaning and sprucing up for the first time in years, as pairs of maidens sweetly invited them to participate in the festivities.

  Pentandra found herself in the middle of an argument at her regular mid-week meeting with the rest of the council over whether or not to attempt a tournament in conjunction with the event . . . and successfully argued that there was not adequate time to promote such a contest beyond the local region. Anguin and Salgo settled for an archery contest and swordplay competition instead. That pleased Salgo, as the Wilderlands folk were adept with their great bows and needed the incentive to practice. That pleased Anguin because he positively hated jousting.

  Through it all Pentandra had to suppress the urge to scream in the middle of the discussion You idiots! Can’t you see what she’s doing to you? Can’t you see what she’s doing to us all?

  The problem was that what she was doing was working. Not since she had come to Vorone had Pentandra seen such an enthusiastic outpouring of civic pride. People were taking responsibility for the garbage outside of their homes, the muck in their sewers, the herbs and flowers in the quaint planters and window boxes were thriving, and even the weather seemed to cooperate. The normal spring rainstorms mostly came at night, while the days were sunny and warm.

  People were excited for the stupid festival. It was almost as if it had the favor of the gods.

  In the middle of it all, Lady Pleasure was frequently seen at the palace overseeing the preparations . . . and they seemed to encompass nearly every office, including her own. A request from the Duke for magical entertainments on the night of the festival was received, as was a request for advice about dealing with potential petty crime.

  “All of this nonsense is lovely, it really is,” grumbled Sister Saltia at luncheon in the great hall, a few days after her meeting with the madam. “But it all seems so pointless, considering the state the Duchy is in. Thank the gods that tournament idea was killed – that would have lost us coin for certain! The house can’t bear a big win if the players are unknown,” she declared.

  “I thought Ifnites loved the thought of such contests?” Pentandra pointed out. The temple was almost universally responsible for overseeing the betting at them, for a percentage.

  “We do,” the plump nun agreed, fingering her golden infinity symbol. “But only if they’re likely to make money. Enough to justify the work. This one wouldn’t,” she said, flatly. “You were right, there isn’t enough time to promote it properly, and without a slate of popular contestants, it’s not going to draw enough wagerers to make it worthwhile. Maybe next year,” she reflected.

  “I’m more concerned that we’re fiddling around with this instead of dealing with the critical problems,” agreed Lady Bertine. “We took tribute from four large estates this week, but because the quotas were set by Duke Lenguin, and haven’t been changed, we took them in more iron ore and timber, not grain,” she said, miserably. “Now we have a warehouse full of yet more useless rocks and a town full of hungry people. Have you seen what a loaf of bread is going for, Huin forbid?” she asked, scandalized.

  “Father Amus assures me that this is a seasonal fluctuation brought on by the need for seed corn,” Sister Saltia said, defensively. “Once the first crop of the season is in the ground, prices will ease up. The grain merchants will import more and costs will stabilize.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Lady Bertine, who delighted in sharing bad news, snorted. “I’ve penned at least a half-dozen letters begging Castali merchants to ship grain to deal with the shortage. The replies haven’t been encouraging. Duke Tavard has imposed high tariffs on grain leaving his duchy. And more on iron entering it.”

  “Why?” asked Saltia, confused. Her ecclesiastic training had kept her largely insulated from feudal politics, so Pentandra explained.

  “Because Prince Tavard – who is also Duke Tavard of Castal – is a jealous little prick,” she provided. “I don’t know if he’s heard about Anguin’s restoration –no, of course he heard, it was on the Mirror Array – but he doesn’t want a strong rival anywhere in sight. If he can use his influence to keep Anguin and Alshar weak and feeble, he will. That includes keeping grain from flowing into Alshar from Castal, and Alshari iron an
d timber from flowing south into Castali markets.”

  “She’s right,” agreed Bertine, between spoonfuls of soup. “The local grain merchants are in league with them, too, to keep the prices high. Our barns and silos are empty and our warehouses are full of ore we can’t sell. Meanwhile Castali silos are bursting with grain,” she said, miserably, “and Alshari ore commands a high price! Tavard is starving Alshar and denying us the ability to sell iron to his own profit.”

  “Well, the Duke should do something!” Saltia said, naively. Pentandra exchanged a knowing glance with Bertine. She didn’t like the older woman much, but she did respect her political opinion.

  “Sister, he is doing something about it,” she revealed. “He’s instructed the court to investigate the matter and take action.”

  “But . . . but . . . we’re the court,” Saltia said, the realization of the responsibility just hitting her. “What are we doing about it?”

  “Discussing why this Wildflower Festival is a distraction from the impending rise in the price of bread, and how something needs to be done about it,” Pentandra replied. “So if you have any concrete ideas on how to feed the town until the crops come in without going heavily into debt to the grain merchants, I would dearly love to hear them.”

  “Can’t you just . . . just turn the ore into grain, Lady Pentandra?” asked Saltia, biting her lip hesitantly.

  “Not any more than you can turn a loser into a winner, Sister. Magic doesn’t work that way. Oh, I suppose with sufficient time, money, and understanding you might affect some sort of transformation, but there are so many essential differences between a pile of rocks and a loaf of bread that most reasonable wizards prefer to just stop by the bakery.”

  “Couldn’t he just seize the grain?” offered the nun. “I’ve seen the silos at the docks. They’re full of it!”

  “And it all belongs to the merchant houses. Anguin can seize it only if he wants to lose the ability to buy and sell grain in the future,” supplied Bertine. “The merchants aren’t terribly organized, but they do have their customs. Try to take their corn and they’ll find a way to make you pay. Including denying you future service. They’ve done that to dukes before,” she reminded them. “Everyone hates grain merchants until the people are starving. But when they are, those merchants are the only thing keeping the peasants at bay.”

  “That’s a pretty cynical way to look at things!” accused the nun.

  “That’s a pretty common way of looking at things,” Pentandra retorted. “Merchants make profits when they buy at a low price – like at harvest – and wait for prices to rise. Prices only rise when there are shortages. The merchants who bought last year’s crop at market want to make a profit, which means keeping prices up. But if the crop fails, or there are riots, or war, or anything else, then those cold-blooded merchants are the ones who rescue us. Alienate them this year, and next year when you need them their prices will be even higher.”

  “And if we don’t get a decent crop in and harvested this summer, we’re damn certain to need them again next autumn’s harvest,” Bertine agreed. “But that can’t be done when seed corn costs more than milled flour. Really, Pentandra, one would think that if magic was useful for anything, it could handle this!”

  “I’m looking into it,” she promised, though she hated to do so. Most people outside of her professional circle had little idea how magic worked and didn’t work, yet insisted they did. As Court Wizard it was technically her job. Promising to investigate the matter was as close as she would let herself come to trying to explain the arcane realities to laymen. She had an entire barge full of grain, waiting for the right moment, thanks to her deal with Planus. But if it became widely known that she was, essentially, smuggling then that might cause problems.

  “In the meantime,” Sister Saltia said, looking vainly at four exceptionally young and pretty maidens who had just entered the hall, “can we all agree that we hate the Wildflower Festival? I’ve never felt so old, fat and unattractive in my life!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Wheat & Iron

  When Pentandra came downstairs before the office officially opened for the day’s business, there was already a message from the Duke requesting her to attend him in the Game Room for breakfast again.

  .

  Pentandra had a full day’s schedule, but when you were summoned by the Duke, you went. She scribbled a note for her assistant and shrugged into a nicer mantle, taking just enough time to brush her hair before she replaced her wimple and hurried off.

  Few other courtiers wore the style, popular in Remere and southern Castal, favoring a light hood or straw hat, instead, or a headscarf. But she preferred it not only because it suited her and was comfortable, but because it caused her to stand out. The shiny silver headpiece clutched at the red cotton headscarf and gave her a distinctive look.

  Not that anyone who mattered really cared, during the daily business of the palace. But Pentandra knew that such subtle choices could have profound effects.

  When she arrived in the Game Room, she was surprised to find Duke Anguin, alone, for a change. Neither Father Amus or Count Angrial were at his elbow to advise, correct, and guide him.

  “Father Amus is attending a council for the Huinites, to prepare for Spring plowing, and Angrial is meeting with the four largest grain merchants in Vorone this morning, to persuade them to lower their prices before planting season,” he explained as he offered his Court Wizard a seat. “But I wanted to take a moment to meet with you and express my gratitude for what you and Sir Vemas did for Vorone. That was an exceedingly clever bit of work,” he said, admiringly. “And so subtle that it has barely disturbed the palace.”

  “It was bloody work, Your Grace,” Pentandra added. “Not work I prefer. But far more praise is due the brave guardsmen who prosecuted this shadow war, and the Kasari . . . irregulars who came to our aid. I merely helped set up the situation. And you have already rewarded me handsomely with this new estate.”

  “Oh, that’s merely a dependent estate,” the young duke dismissed, “not much more than a glorified country house. There are dozens of them around the capital. Not really an income-producing estate at all. Make of it what you will, it’s been the traditional retreat for the Court Wizard when he was here in Vorone.

  “But you cheat yourself of glory, Lady Pentandra. What is it I hear about a pack of stray dogs attacking the Rats?” the young man asked, pouring tea for her. Clearly he was interested in the details of the street battle. “Surely the Kasari didn’t arrange that. They are a remarkable people, but that was a magical spell, was it not?”

  “Yes,” Pentandra conceded, “but not one of mine. I have taken this opportunity to take a new apprentice. A blind girl from the Wilderlands, already partially trained as a witch. She’s a remarkably talented beastmaster, and has potential we’re just beginning to explore. She’s also completely blind, sadly, but she has not let that deter her from her studies. I will introduce you, once I’ve prepared her a bit for court life. At the moment she still looks as if she has pinecones in her hair,” she admitted with a chuckle.

  “I’m eager to meet her, then,” Anguin agreed. “I understand that you are not happy with your quarters,” he said, abruptly, “and I sympathize. I’ve been mulling around the idea of making some changes to this old mausoleum,” he said, looking around at the antiques his ancestors had brought up from Falas to make themselves feel at home in decades’ past. The effect now was depressing and melancholy. “The entire place is a drafty old pit, I’m afraid. If it wasn’t the palace, I’d burn it down,” he admitted. “But it’s the only palace I have at the moment, and a symbol of Ducal authority out here in the Wilderlands. One of the few.”

  “Has Your Grace considered adding more?” Pentandra asked, idly, as she sipped the tea. She was more making conversation than proposals, but the young duke leapt upon the idea at once.

  “Oh, gods yes!” he said, with unexpected passion. “Master Minalan was right: th
is is an amazing opportunity, if you look at it properly. My ancestors always ruled from Falas, and merely visited here long enough every few years to ensure the Wilderlords’ loyalty and get some hunting, fishing, and whoring in,” he said, matter-of-factly. “All of this . . . ostentation was designed to make the Sea Lords feel more at home.

  “But never has the Ducal house truly invested in the Wilderlands,” he continued, thoughtfully. “Not since the loss of Gilmora to Castal. I could change that.”

  “Your Grace, you already have,” Pentandra pointed out. “Your sponsorship of the Long March produced the six pele towers. One of which is named for you,” she reminded.

  “I barely understood what was happening,” Anguin confessed guiltily. “I just did what Father Amus told me. But I’m glad he did. That was . . . exciting. To be partially responsible for building something, something other than a party or a joust. That’s one reason I’m considering expanding the palace. Or something. I feel the need to . . . establish myself, here,” he tried to explain. “Right now I feel like I’m wearing my father’s clothes and coronet, and at any moment someone will walk in and catch me,” the lad admitted, guiltily.

  Pentandra nodded - she’d felt that way herself often enough. “Sadly, the state of the treasury prohibits any grand works at the moment. But if you did have the resources, Your Grace, what would you consider doing?”

  “Well, it’s been said often enough that Vorone is poorly defended,” Anguin reasoned, pursing his lips. “Contending with that weakness seems pressing, in the light of current affairs.”