Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  That had in turn allowed Sir Vemas to gather intelligence on who the remaining agents were, and even the direction of their enterprises. And those few times that her investigations lead to confrontations, having the animal-headed guardsmen supported by the arrival of real animals lent a tremendous amount of gravity to the myth of the Master of the Wild.

  But the intelligence reports were more important than picking off the last of the Rats. Interestingly enough, to Pentandra’s mind, was the report that the Crew’s emergency recovery plan (after losing its two most lucrative wards) involved grain speculation.

  As their other illicit sources of revenue had dried up, the Rat Crew reinvested in the pressing need for seed corn in the duchy, and using its influence planned to manipulate the vital grain market of Vorone for their own profit.

  As that dovetailed nicely with Pentandra’s efforts to secure grain and lower the cost of bread before more riots broke out, she did not mind loaning her apprentice to Sir Vemas. Alurra was happy to help, and was never in danger. Though the Rat Crew had employed some elementary magic protections, as well as their stable of thugs protecting their leadership, Alurra’s assistance neatly sidestepped their measures and gave the Woodsmen valuable intelligence.

  The Rats didn’t think of a raven or a cat or a dog as a threat. Vemas was filling scroll after scroll with detailed notes of tidbits Alurra’s friends overheard, including the coded names of their contacts in Enultramar. He’d even had one of Alurra’s mongrels follow a man (the former keeper of accounts to the late Bloodfinger) to discover the secret place where he lived – something he and the Woodsmen had been working on for weeks without result.

  Pentandra was just as happy with Sir Vemas’ preoccupation with her apprentice. While it was good to see him again, the brief meeting was a reminder of the dangers of temptation. As much as she enjoyed the flirtation and excitement, her duties were weighing on her far more than those first few weeks in Vorone.

  And – she admitted to herself – her relationship with Arborn was not as supple as it was just a few months ago. She did not need the temptation of the handsome, witty young constable in her life on a daily basis, she resolved. No matter how much she seemed to crave such attention.

  When Arborn returned from a mission he was quiet and taciturn, and while he was willing to talk to her, conversation with his wife always seemed to see him at his most laconic. The allure of loquacious Sir Vemas was powerful, after her Kasari husband’s stony silences. She found having an excuse not to linger with him and the distraction of her apprentice’s assistance helpful . . . and her clandestine deal with Planus was taking up quite a bit of her time and energy as it neared completion. But that, too, was fraught with complications.

  It wasn’t that her cousin wasn’t willing to help – far from it. The problem was the Planus was a perfectionist, and he continued to fiddle with the deals he made to get the best possible price long after a normal man would have walked away satisfied.

  The wheat he purchased, for instance, was had at a bargain. Two ships full of wheat were purchased, cargo and all, for a song, he reported happily, after his agents had scoured the Remeran port cities for just the right deal. Similarly, the iron ore was distributed to four different foundries in Remere in a complex deal that each of them under the impression that they were exclusive purchasers of the famed and expensive Alshari Hematite. He managed to make money on the transaction both ways, but it took time to arrange and work out the logistics.

  Now she had a Supply Rod in hand, and he had its mate - specially-ordered from Sevendor’s blossoming enchantment industry, and arranged as a special favor to her from Banamor. After that, Pentandra just had to wait for Planus to finalize the deals. When he finally informed her that the transaction had been consummated, she immediately told Prime Minister Angrial . . . and the next day she and several other members of court were summoned to the Ducal Grange for a special event.

  The Ducal Grange was a normally dusty cobbled yard surrounding four stout four-story silos of stone, and ringed with warehouses, behind the palace and beside the barracks.

  There was a tiny shrine to Huin in one corner, where a brace of monks acted as quartermasters for the Chamberlain, Sir Antinon. This was the larder for the palace, where the Duke received payments-in-kind from his vassals and took tribute from dependent territories. For the last four years all four silos had stood virtually empty as both the source of the revenue and the willingness to send it to Edmarin dried up.

  As this was the depot that also supplied the Duke’s many dependent estates, that had caused tremendous hardship on the farms and orchards that depended upon their liege lord’s management to see them prosper. For the last several years the estates had either held back their rightful tribute to ensure there was seed corn, or they had been forced to purchase it at a premium from the hated grain merchants – many of whom were in Edmarin’s pocket.

  As Pentandra arrived that rainy morning, she noted the four largest grain merchants of Vorone in the yard betwixt the palace and the barracks with their clerks and attendants, looking pleased with themselves. Another dozen courtiers associated with grain in one way or another were also present, including Father Amus. As a high priest of Huin he had ecclesiastic jurisdiction over issues of grain and the grain trade.

  Pentandra was a little confused, until she found the Prime Minister and coaxed Angrial to explain to her just what was going on. After the smiling old man received her assurances, he happily explained, letting her in on the display of power the Duke himself had dreamed up.

  Duke Anguin looked very businesslike in a dark green tunic and hose, unadorned with more decoration than the silver coronet he wore and the sword at his side. He sat under a canopied chair brought to the yard for the purpose, and for once the nominal canopy did some good in the light spring drizzle that washed the yellow pollen into the gutter.

  The clerks around him shielded their parchments with their cowls until Pentandra impatiently summoned Everkeen and cast a spell that encouraged the raindrops to fall a hundred feet away from the yard instead of on their heads. Just the sort of helpful magic a Court Wizard should be able to cast, she reflected. It wasn’t perfect, but it kept the ink from running too badly to read.

  “The shipment is ready for delivery?” asked Count Angrial, looking pleased with himself.

  “Any time you need it,” Pentandra agreed, patting the supply rod at her side as she took her position. The herald quickly called court to order, asked Father Amus for an invocation and blessing, and turned the proceeding directly over to the Duke.

  Duke Anguin addressed the court directly, keeping his tone light despite the overcast and drizzle.

  “As all of you are aware, the Ducal Grange is lamentably bare,” he began. “Four years of gross mismanagement and abject corruption by Baron Edmarin saw the grain from my local estates vigorously collected and sold to speculators at a discount at harvest, only to be purchased back at a premium in the spring for seed.” The lad sounded almost amused by the blatant corruption. Since some of the speculators who had benefitted from Edmarin’s shady deals were present, they chuckled at their own wise business.

  “Now we are in planting season, and I have no corn to give my peasants,” Anguin said, sadly, spreading his hands. “I have heard it said that there are thoughtful merchants with the foresight to sell their surplus in times of need. I have little experience with such things, but it is my understanding that some of these gentlemen are present, and willing to help us through our embarrassing shortfall?”

  All four of the grain merchants were called . . . including, Pentandra noted with interest, Master Luthar. The old Rat was dressed richly in court robes, and he carried his walking stick with a swagger. He filed to the front of the throne with his comrades, allowing the tallest one to speak on his behalf.

  “Your Grace, the grain merchants of Vorone are here to help you,” the merchant assured. “Though it is true that last year’s harvest was disappointing, my coll
eagues and I have had the foresight to import, at great personal expense, significant corn from Castal to ease the shortage,” he said, gesturing to his civic-minded, public-spirited colleagues.

  “And at what price could we expect from you gentlemen?” Father Amus asked, his voice locked between respect and anger.

  The priests of Huin had always had a tumultuous relationship with grain merchants. While the nobility saw the men as a necessary evil, the Huinites disputed the necessity. Whenever possible they used the power of their own ecclesiastic granaries to break the stranglehold the commercial grain merchants had, and they frequently contended against them in public through sermons and public sentiment. More than once they had incited riots among the peasantry against them.

  “Why, no more than thirty pennies a bushel,” the merchant said in reasonable tones. “Considering the high tariffs the Duke of Castal has imposed, that leaves very little room for profit.”

  “Very little,” mused Father Amus, skeptically. But he held his tongue. If the Duchy was going to be forced to purchase grain from these men, then irritating them would not be prudent.

  Pentandra was not well-versed in commodity pricing, but she knew from overhearing the arguments at court that nine copper pennies a bushel at harvest was considered a good price. With his incessant wheeling and dealing Planus had secured his purchase at the bargain price of six and a half pennies at port in Remere. But here the merchants, who figured they had a captive market, had increased their prices significantly.

  “Thirty pennies,” Anguin said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “That seems extravagant, gentlemen, don’t you think?” he said, a note of warning in his young voice.

  “I’m certain your advisors will inform Your Grace what is fair, under the circumstances,” Master Luthar added in a clear, educated Falas accent. “Profit is not our consideration. We seek only to assist the duchy.”

  “Do you?” Anguin asked, sharply. “You know, gentlemen, being a student under a priest of Huin for all of these years, I have a passing acquaintance to the understanding of the economics of grain. My estates will need about thirty tons of the stuff to plant their fields in full this year. At thirty pence per bushel. That’s a significant expenditure, don’t you think?”

  “Your Grace,” Master Luthar, clearly one of the more eloquent and persuasive speakers in the group, replied, “you cannot starve the peasantry! You have a duty under the gods to preserve and protect them, and provide to them what they need to thrive. Why, to give them less than their need would be against the Laws of Huin!” he said, reprovingly.

  “As is profiting overmuch on the bread of life!” spat Father Amus, reprovingly. The old priest did not like to be lectured about divinely-appointed duty by a criminal.

  “Regardless,” continued Luthar smoothly, in the face of open derision, “shorting your estates of their full measure, regardless of the circumstances, places Your Grace and your rule in spiritual jeopardy – surely your advisors have told you that, Sire!”

  “Yes, they have,” agreed Anguin, pleasantly. “They’ve also told me that it is my duty to provide that benefice any way in my power, no matter the price.”

  “I am gratified for the people that His Grace has been so wisely advised,” Luthar said with an obsequious bow. The taller merchant continued.

  “We have already agreed to keep our prices artificially low, Your Grace,” he lied. “None of us will depart from the fair value we’ve mutually established.”

  “Which will set the base price at market for seed corn,” Father Amus muttered darkly. “With the palace paying that much, that will raise the price across the country!”

  “There is only so much grain in Vorone, Your Grace, and so many bellies to feed,” a third merchant said soothingly. “Shorting your dependent vassals of their full requests will undermine your rule, I fear. Perhaps prices will remain high enough through the harvest to retain some of the value of your treasury,” he added. “But there really is no other way,” he said sadly.

  “Or,” Duke Anguin said, lightly, “I could call upon my court to assist me with this problem.”

  That made the grain merchants laugh unexpectedly, revealing to all their opinion of the Duke’s current court.

  “Father Amus,” he continued, not taking his eyes off of the grain speculators, “could you please pray for the blessing of Huin on his most humble and devoted servant?”

  “It would be my pleasure, Your Grace!” Father Amus said, immediately launching into a prayer Pentandra recognized as Huin’s Benediction, begging for rain, sun, soil, and toil to manifest the Tiller’s Blessing.

  Peasant religion, part of her sneered. But potent, another part of her reminded. Agricultural religions were particularly steadfast in belief and practice, and the priesthoods of the agricultural gods tended to be uncomfortably egalitarian. Her recent experiences with the divine had renewed her interest in the subject.

  “There,” said the Duke, at the conclusion of the prayer. “That should take care of it.”

  The entire court burst out laughing at the Duke’s apparent jest. Many eyed the aging high priest of Huin with sadness or sympathy. It seemed cruel to mock the religion that prided itself on keeping the people from starvation. From the performance Huin’s powers were not enough to fill the Duchy’s silos.

  “Well,” Anguin said, responding to the chuckles good-naturedly, “it is oft said that even magic serves the whims of the gods. Perhaps they need a little help. Lady Pentandra, does magic have any answer to this predicament? For surely the treasury cannot afford to spend more than thrice the harvest price for seed corn, not and survive.”

  The grain merchants all looked at her blithely, awaiting a similar stall or fruitless appeal from her as they did Father Amus. Pentandra instead looked thoughtfully at the duke.

  “Just how much grain did you need, Your Grace?” she asked.

  “About thirty tons,” the Duke repeated. “That would allow all of my local estates their proper allowance of seed for the first time in a while.”

  “Then I shall see what I can do, Your Grace,” Pentandra promised, summoning Everkeen in a flashy display with her right hand . . . while taking the supply rod out of her belt with the left. She held one rod in each hand, and used Everkeen’s amazing facility with magic to set up the parameters of the supply rod’s spell . . . and then whispered the mnemonic command.

  Suddenly, to the astonishment of all, all four empty grain silos were filled to overflowing with wheat. The rich aroma of wheat filled the air, along with a fair amount of dust as the grain settled in.

  “Will that do, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, loudly, over the astonished gasps of the court. “It’s more like forty tons, but if you don’t mind carrying a surplus . . . or selling it on the open market . . .”

  “And how much am I being charged for this enchantment, Lady Mage?” he asked, directly.

  “Your Grace, I could not supply it in good conscience for more than . . . nine pennies a bushel?” she asked, quoting the harvest price. That would still give Planus enough profit on the deal, especially without considerations of tariffs or transport to consider. “And if you throw in all that useless iron ore in the warehouse, I can drop the price another two pennies a bushel,” she added.

  She watched with delight as the expressions on the faces of the grain merchants changed in light of this new information. With all four silos full, grain spilling onto the flags, the inventory that the men had painstakingly prepared for this moment was ruined.

  Not only would the Duke not be buying the wheat at a premium price, as predicted, but the additional ten tons of wheat dumped on the carefully-considered local market would depress prices even further. Pentandra could see the sense of panic settle over the men as they struggled to calculate their sudden losses.

  She was no prophet, but she foresaw a market price settling somewhere in the seven-pence range, once all of the panicked selling was done.

  “Your willingness to a
ssist the coronet in a time of need is appreciated, gentlemen,” the Duke said, lightly, “but as you can see we have the situation in hand. In fact, if you need to supply your own estates, I think we can sell you our surplus for . . . call it twelve pennies a bushel? That’s far less than you would have to pay for your own grain. No reason why we can’t make a reasonable profit,” he sneered.

  One of the men clearly had less control than his mates as he fumed and stomped in place.

  “You! You’ve . . . you’ve ruined us!” he nearly shouted, shaking. “Do you have any idea—”

  “No one forced you to purchase all of that wheat,” reminded Father Amus, pleased. “Speculation is frowned upon by the Tiller. All investment carries some risk, my children. Those who wish to make their wealth from the bellies of their fellow man should be cautious how the favor of Huin changes!”