Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  The contest was designed to contribute to the development of a more martial commonfolk, as the Duke had directed. Not everyone was happy with that, even if the southernmost barons of the Wilderlands had grudgingly accepted it as necessary, under the circumstances.

  That was contrary to the cultural ways of the Narasi nobles, who saw the monopoly on violence as largely the domain of the military aristocracy. The laws of the various gods assured the right of a free man to arm and defend himself, and be called to service in a time of war, but the duty of defense fell squarely to the jealous warrior class. Preparing weapons, even ones so meek as spears and bows, assisted the common people to see that they, and not just the knights, were responsible for their safety.

  That was a scandalous idea in the Riverlands, where peasant uprisings and revolts were more common and the restrictions on the peasantry having access to arms was far heavier and more enforced.

  Here in the Wilderlands arming every human able to swing a sword against the inevitable future goblin invasion was just wisdom in action. That it also helped stabilize the realm and give it order was a boon. There continued to be a regular chorus of chivalry who dismissed peasant warriors and lobbied instead for more armor, larger horses and an emphasis on knights, but the invasion had taught the Alshari peasants that waiting to be rescued by your liege lord was a poor strategy for having grandchildren.

  That was part of the argument within the court against inviting the 3rd Commando to Vorone, as well, and one that cut across Wilderlord and Sea Lord party lines. It had become the popular topic of discussion since the news of the letter to the court became well known. The military aristocracy disliked the idea of soldiers largely of common birth – and, more importantly, who did not see a heavy cavalry charge by a traditional and institutionalized aristocracy, as the logical course and ultimate goal of any battle – coming to Vorone and disrupting the frayed social order any further.

  Some of the more ignorant and uneducated voices in court also feared the 3rd Commando would inevitably use any power or position it found itself with to take over the duchy entirely if they were invited in. Though this sounded like a fanciful idea at best, as anyone familiar with the actual use of power in the duchy would quickly realize just how pointless attempting to impose order and control over it was, it nonetheless became a common argument against inviting the 3rd Commando to Vorone.

  Others feared that the mercenaries would act as an occupying army thrice the size of the garrison and eat the town down to the field stubble. Folks with an understanding of finance did not see any way the treasury could pay for such a large army for any length of time, and worried that unpaid mercenaries might be forced to take control of the fragmentary duchy over back pay owed.

  But no one wanted to turn away help lightly, especially not with all of the recent hostile activity being reported north in the Penumbra.

  When Arborn arrived back from his trip a few days later, his lieutenant Jerics and his best Kasari rangers accompanying him, he looked worn and nearly defeated. News of his demeanor upon his return quickly circulated through the palace, and soon the wild rumors involved everything from an unexpected encounter with a dragon in the wilderness to a tussle with a brigade of hobgoblins.

  The truth of the matter was rather more dire.

  “It was undead, Penny,” Arborn confided to her, when they had accomplished enough of a reunion to speak again. “Cold to the touch and no heartbeat. But smart,” he added, sourly.

  “There was just the one?”

  “It was leading the others,” he said, quietly. “And leading them well. They were somehow its inferiors. They all wore a man’s body, but whatever was inside them had power far beyond what a mere mortal can inspire. It even spoke with us a bit, taunting and laughing, unconcerned about the danger we posed to it.”

  “Did it use magic?” she asked, cautiously.

  “Only of the most elementary sort, apart from the spell that animated it. It seemed to delight in swordplay more than I can imagine any wizard. Perhaps the . . . host was a knight, at one time.”

  “If not mortal, is the soul human, at least?”

  “I do not think so,” her Kasari husband said, shaking his head. “It did not speak or react as a human would. Perhaps gurvani, perhaps Alka Alon, perhaps something else. But not . . . human.”

  “Yet not immortal, either,” she pointed out. “You slew it.”

  “Only by cutting off its head,” he admitted. “And only with Jerics’ help. It was filled with arrows and slashed to the point of staining the ground with its blood or . . . whatever fluid runs in its veins, now. Yet it felt no pain, no sorrow, no regret. It did not slow at all. It did not stop until its head hit the ground. And five of my men lay wounded,” he added.

  “So who created it? Certainly not those gurvani shamans,” she ventured.

  “No, though they have oft employed undead in battle,” he sighed. “But never like this one. Not this smart, this fast, this resilient in battle. Not intelligent enough to speak.”

  “So who? Sheruel?”

  “You would know better than I,” shrugged her husband, glancing at her. “If he is the one creating them, though, one has to wonder why did he wait so long? With such warriors at his command he’d be halfway to Merwyn by now!”

  “That suggests it isn’t Sheruel,” Pentandra pointed out. “And since you’re certain Korbal the Demon God is revived and active, I’d hate to propose someone else when Korbal is just the kind of crazy undead Alka Alon renegade who might see it as his mission to improve the general quality of undead in the Duchies.”

  “It does seem more like his style, according to the legends,” Arborn admitted.

  “But that still doesn’t answer the question of why Sheruel even needs his assistance. He still has great legions of gurvani at his command. Or why he helped Korbal escape from his tomb.”

  “He seeks allies who hate the humani and the Alka Alon as much as he does. Korbal is his top priority as a result. I learned much from Ithalia,” he confided.

  “Such as?” she asked, curiously. She could never get enough of the Alka Alon’s culture, even as she was growing more suspicious of their motives. Most of the near-immortal little beings had little care in return, but she took note when the two races decided to work together on anything. Like most magi, she was a professional admirer.

  But that professional familiarity also left her open to the darker shadows of the Alkan culture. Their long history was ancient before humanity ever came to Callidore, and even a cursory inspection revealed tragedy and betrayal about as often as in human legends.

  “But . . . that wasn’t Korbal in that body . . . was it?”

  “No,” assured Arborn. “I believe it was one of his retainers, not the Demon God himself. A henchman who accompanied his master into the afterlife, and was returned a body as his reward for his loyalty. What he was doing that far away from the Scarred Lands is a mystery, and unlikely a good one. Nor do I think he was alone. They are . . . searching for something. Or someone. On behalf of their dark master.”

  “What do they look like?” she asked, suppressing a shudder.

  “Like any other man, from a distance, though larger from sorcery and very pale from lack of blood in his veins. Once you come closer, though, you notice that his flesh is sickly. He wore mail from shoulder to knee, good steel rings of it, and an iron helm. He bore no shield, but a two-handed sword of some strange manufacture. His eyes bore a pale yellow glow.

  “He moved more stiffly than a man at first, I’ve noticed, and achieved more alacrity as it warmed. As if it was wearing the body as you wear a new suit of clothes, one you have yet to establish your confidence in. This one was completely bald,” he added, “not even eyebrows. And he fought like a demon,” Arborn acknowledged. “If there had been but one less of us there when things got hot, none of us would have returned.”

  Such a plain-spoken observation from her husband told Pentandra more about the encounter than his mer
e words. Arborn was near fearless, willing to risk his life in the service of others without capitulating to fear. When he admitted that he would have been killed otherwise, he was relating the profound truth that this . . . wraith, for lack of a more appropriate term, was his master in combat.

  To a warrior the admission would have been hard enough. But weapons were but part of the arsenal a Kasari raptor brought to battle.

  “What do you think they are searching for?” she asked, mystified.

  “I am unsure but . . . I believe that it might be Ameras.”

  “Ameras? The Aronin’s daughter?”

  “The very same one we have been searching for in vain,” he sighed, heavily. “And likely for the same reason: to procure weapons in this war, or at least to deny them to the foe.”

  “That is a disturbing development,” Pentandra said, lightly, while her heart pounded heavily in her breast. “If the gurvani got their hands on those weapons of power . . .”

  “It is not the gurvani who are the greatest danger,” Arborn countered. “These Alkan renegades are far more adept in your art, Penny, and they are a lot smarter than the average shaman. As bad as it might be if the gurvani got them, things would be so much worse if the renegades get them.”

  “So what can we do about it?”

  Arborn shrugged, acting uncharacteristically helpless. “Keep killing these undead? Keep hoping Ameras stays lost? Or dies without revealing her secrets? I don’t know, Wife. I merely go where I am directed and do as I am bid.”

  “An admirable perspective in a husband,” Pentandra quipped, stroking his chin. “But this is disturbing. I shall inform the other magelords to keep watch for such things in the future. And I must figure some counter for you to employ in the field, lest you make me a widow before we’ve had one year together.”

  “Plain steel has little effect, unless you part head from shoulders,” he grunted. “Luckily, you have time. I do not deploy again for a few weeks, until after the damnable festival.”

  “Now, now,” reproved Pentandra. “An awful lot of terribly nice whores have sacrificed valuable earning time to devote to this festival. Let us not see their sacrifice in vain!” she mocked.

  “Is it really necessary?” he said, in the closest thing to a whine she’d yet heard from her husband.

  “It is,” she agreed. “As silly as it is, Lady Pleasure has a point. The town needs to feel like it has a Duke again, that it’s the capital of a real duchy. Or . . . most of a duchy.”

  “Part of a duchy,” Arborn grinned.

  “Just so,” agreed Pentandra. “But the townsfolk need to be reminded of the important role they play, and that’s what this festival gives them.”

  “It sounds more like an excuse to drink heavily and indulge in sport,” Arborn said, skeptically. The Kasari had a dim view of the excesses involved in many Narasi religious traditions.

  “Just so,” grinned Pentandra. “And as such, it is entirely vital. People need to celebrate, drink, game and laugh,” she explained. “Especially when there has been a change in regime. A rough night drinking and dancing helps with the transition. And as an officer of the court, you are required to go to the official masque at the palace. You and your men,” she said, before he could object. “By special request of the Duke. He’s quite happy with the Wood Owls and the Woodsmen.”

  “Well, I’m glad we’re helping out,” Arborn said, sullenly. “But if he wants to reward us, then allowing us to skip the masque sounds like an adequate bounty.”

  “No chance. I’ve already gotten the outfits together. This is Anguin’s opportunity to show off his secret army without actually revealing that he has a secret army.”

  “I have no idea what you just meant to say,” Arborn said, shaking his head. “We are no army. We’re just . . . hunters.”

  “Who are good at hunting rats, and Anguin wants to meet and recognize you for it,” Pentandra encouraged. “Besides, I convinced Minalan to come with Alya, so you pretty much have to go.”

  “Minalan? The Spellmonger is coming?” Arborn asked, suddenly much more interested.

  Pentandra tried not to take it personally. Sure, going to an elegant court masque at the ducal level with your beautiful new wife might be boring . . . but throw in a magical old pal, and suddenly it was a party?

  “Yes, Minalan and Alya are coming,” she sighed. “So you and your boys will have someone to play with. But I get him first. We have arcane business to deal with.” And a goddess to corral, she added to herself.

  “It should be . . . fun,” he finally admitted, unconvincingly.

  Alurra was less excited about the masque, largely because she wasn’t allowed to attend.

  Despite her position as Pentandra’s new apprentice, she felt the girl was too new to the capital and too vulnerable to politics at such an event. Besides, Sir Vemas wanted her to monitor several alcoves and benches in the garden, the sorts of places where courtiers could speak without reasonable fear of being overheard. Sir Vemas wanted to remove that security by having one of Alurra’s creatures nearby but concealed.

  It was hardly the glamorous evening the girl expected, after weeks of building excitement about the festival, but then again she had no idea whatsoever how to dance, knew few humans by voice, and had little to contribute in the way of idle chatter. Blathering on and on about the politics amongst the palace’s cats was not the way to garner attention, Pentandra was certain.

  Besides, if things got messy with Minalan and Ishi, she didn’t want Alurra to be anywhere close. She wasn’t too certain about being that close herself.

  With Arborn home, Pentandra figured that she would be able to spare some time to spend with him, but work demanded her attention as she prepared for the coming round of examinations, the magical entertainments ordered for the festival, and overseeing the cleaning and stocking of her office. She devoted only an hour to deciding on her wardrobe for the occasion. She had plenty of dresses and gowns she hadn’t worn since being associated with the Royal Court in Castabriel. They would be as good as new ones here in rustic Vorone.

  Acquiring a new personal maid was far more difficult. She interviewed four girls for the position before finding one with adequate enough basic skills to cater to her needs. The girl’s name was Perin, a refugee from the north who had served briefly as the maid to her domain’s lady before she’d run away during the invasion. She was a thin little thing, and quiet as a mouse, but she knew how to take direction. She began the next morning, learning Pentandra’s personal routines and idiosyncrasies.

  “Do you really need a maid?” asked Arborn, skeptically, after watching Pentandra correct the girl a dozen times that morning.

  “She certainly makes things easier – or will, once she’s trained,” Pentandra said, frowning to herself.

  “Is it so hard for you to brush your own hair?” he asked.

  “It’s not just that,” Pentandra dismissed. “It’s laying out my clothes, laundering them, taking charge of my jewelry and cosmetics, keeping my shoes clean and in good repair, ensuring that the bed linens are clean and well-made . . . there’s a lot to it. Why? Do you mind the expense? I’m paying for her myself,” she said, cautiously.

  The Kasari had strange ideas about money and property, compared to the average Narasi – or even an Imperial. The fact that they rarely used coin was part of it.

  “It just doesn’t seem . . . thrifty,” grumbled her husband. If the Kasari were circumspect about coin, they were outright suspicious about the idea of servants. Among the Kasari a woman who couldn’t tend to her own needs without assistance had a very low social value.

  But they weren’t Kasari, living in the forests.

  “If we were a couple of peasants, you might be right, Husband,” she soothed. “But we aren’t – we’re court officials, with social obligations far in excess of a simple village. A maid sounds extravagant, but considering my regular itinerary I think she’ll save some valuable time.”

  It certainly sounded
reasonable. Yet Arborn nearly stomped off without completing the conversation.

  Despite his objection, by the end of the first day Pentandra pronounced herself largely satisfied with her new hire. She was even willing to bunk in the tiny room that served Alurra as a bedchamber. Alurra, surprisingly, did not object to the invasion of her space.

  She’d never had anyone to talk to but Old Antimei growing up, and she was excited about it. For her part, Perin was less enthusiastic about sharing a room with not just another girl, but a raven, assorted cats, dogs, and even a rodent or two upon occasion. Still, it was superior to the cold, wet tarpaulin under which she’d been living, so she counted herself fortunate.

  The town itself was quickly transforming before the festival. Banners featuring various wildflowers started to be hung from windows and rooftops, and nearly every planter along the High Street was bursting with fragrant wild blossoms. The filthy gutter that ran the length of the street was swept clean of debris and flushed with river water as the skies overhead tried their best to produce a perfect shade of blue in between spring showers. The weather was worrisome, of course, as Vorone’s climate tended to produce twice-daily rain during the spring season.

  Finally, the day of the festival dawned clear, without a cloud in the sky. Hundreds of prostitutes who had labored so long on the project spilled into the streets wearing matching green dresses and bearing huge bundles of wildflowers brought in from country estates for the purpose. They stood, two by two, at crossings and intersections across town and passed out flowers from dawn to noon: a single blossom to a gentleman, a small bouquet to a lady, with a blessing from Ishi given with each one.

  The townsfolk, for their part, didn’t hesitate to dress for the occasion. Festival clothes that had languished in their presses for years saw sunshine again. Vendors quit their regular haunts or shops and spread out to offer their wares to the festival goers. Musicians, paid for by the town or independents working for tips, likewise took stations and played constantly all day long. The main square in front of the palace was where the largest collection of musicians gathered, and as a result the people were able to dance continuously from morning until far after midnight.