It was a smaller crowd and a smaller court than his parents boasted, too – a mere two-hundred guests and courtiers and half again as many servants. But it was a livelier crowd, too. I watched as Jenser quietly worked the room, exchanging silent looks and glances with Arborn, with the occasional nod or hand sign thrown in. Arborn and his men saw this as an opportunity to get close to those courtiers he suspected of corruption. He might have gotten closer if he and Arborn had no both donned owl masks. The Kasari are great trackers, but they tend to lack social subtlety.
The business end of the court was delightfully short. Anguin, wearing a fox mask with a miniature coronet between its ears, his regal blue doublet bearing an oversized fox tail, doffed his mask after the processional and welcomed us all to his affair with little ceremony.
He made six quick appointments, mostly monks and nuns to administrative posts in the city, and then accepted the fealty of a vassal who hadn’t made it to the regular spring court. He congratulated the garrison captain on putting down a recent riot, gave public appreciation to the efforts of the bureaucracy that was putting the Duchy aright, and thanked the townsfolk for their civic-mindedness and embrace of their duty.
That was it; he adjourned court and began the reception, leaping from his throne and replacing his mask before joining the crowd. The musicians began an instrumental piece while the trestles around the room began to be filled with food by the servants. The dance master called the first pavane of the evening, one of the stately strut-around-in-our-pretty-clothes-and-clever-costumes dances, and someone brought me a cup of wine.
There was a riot of costumes on the dance floor, I observed as I sipped and watched. Stately-looking lords and ladies slowly stepped and twirled, their tunics and formal gowns topped with simple dominoes or complex constructions: a magnificent horsehead, or a ferocious bear, or a sad-looking goat; many women had come as birds, and decorated their mantles and gowns with feathers. Others came as does, with fanciful antlers and ears, or daring raccoons with bushy tails. A few dashing courtiers had gone to great lengths with impressive masks that covered the whole head, and whose mouths and eyes and ears could move without the aid of magic.
Pentandra produced a mask of red-gold feathers and the sharp beak of a falcon, to match her husband’s owl, a tiny magelight behind the yellow gem on its brow. Alya and I wore matching masks suggesting mountain lions, with ears and whiskers. She had me attach a matching tail to my belt, and put tufts of fur under my sleeves, and I humored her. I’ve never been a fan of such entertainments. They had always seemed like a needless indulgence of the idle rich to flatter their own vanity. If you want to have a party and drink, why dress up like it’s a festival day?
But now I saw them for what they really were: social events designed to establish position and precedence, influence and power. Under those masks and within those gowns were the people who ran the town and, ultimately, the struggling Duchy. The center of the vortex was Anguin, the Duke, but the men and women who competed for his attention had followers of their own. Proximity to him brought power, but it also brought distractions.
Here, in a casual atmosphere, under masks and in the guise of entertainment, the real business of the Duchy was conducted. Court officials made the rounds, commenting on the costumes of those they knew and introducing themselves to those they didn’t, yet – but who might prove useful. Policies were discussed over wine and what delicacies this rustic capital could produce. Performances were discussed, personnel were considered, politics was conducted – all in general, sometimes even coded terms.
Alya was strangely silent to it all. Usually she couldn’t resist the temptation to lob catty comments about people as we watched them dance, but she just stared serenely at the slowly moving mannequins with a bit of lost smile under her mask. I suspected Pentandra was right. She didn’t seem herself, now that I was paying attention.
Now was not the time to investigate that further, as alarmed as I was. There was a lot going on around me, and even if I was a bystander, here, present more as a show of support for Anguin and Pentandra than for any purpose of my own, I was an attraction.
Power draws power, and the novelty of having the Spellmonger attend your ball attracted plenty of folk who wanted to speak with me. As Penny had advised, I spoke with them in order of rank, as expected – which meant I got a few moments with Prime Minister Angrial very early on.
“Ah, the Spellmonger!” the thin man said, with an authentic smile. He was wearing well-made formal dark burgundy robes, and had chosen a simple domino over his eyes. “I wanted to thank you again for securing me this appointment, Your Excellency. It has been a remarkable – if challenging – opportunity.”
“And I thought you the right man for the job,” I assured him. “How goes your governance?” I asked, politely.
His face changed. “Well enough,” he admitted, cautiously. “For two days ride from Vorone, Duke Anguin is acknowledged overlord. Beyond that, things get complicated. Your friends in the north have kept Tudry and Megelin nominally loyal, which is a blessing, and their influence in the nearby vales has been helpful. But in the south and the east there are still many lords who have failed to render proper fealty to His Grace, though they have been duly summoned.”
“That is distressing,” I agreed, though it was entirely predictable. “Once His Grace shows his face and lets his rule be felt, they will fall in line soon enough. I’m sure they are merely wary of him being Rard’s puppet.”
“That is the prevailing notion,” the minister said, sadly. “Though the tale of his defiance of Prince Tavard has spread, and undermined it somewhat.”
“It will take time. Once they come to know him, they will support him.”
Count Salgo was my next visitor, and we greeted each other with an embrace like old comrades. He was looking well. His moustache was in fashion among the Wilderlords, and he’d adopted the local style of formal surcoat rather than a Castali-style doublet. His mask was a lion, and he looked the part. He’d played the part, too.
“Minalan, there are riots here every other week, since we came,” he confided, once others were out of earshot. “The bloody gangs stir up trouble enough among the poor souls out in the camps, and it doesn’t take much. The garrison is loyal, but a third less its size, now that we’ve weeded out the most corrupt among them. We had a purge last week, and those whose crimes were severe will now serve a stern term of service in the Iron Ring. Warfather Caudel is here tonight, and departs with two hundred new recruits in the morning.”
“I thought the Ring was the refuge of debtors?” I asked.
“When the Duke fines you fifty ounces of silver and you’ve ten, you’re a debtor,” he nodded, smugly. “Those sorry souls who were able to pay were shown the frontiers and invited to leave. Those who won’t will be tracking goblins through the Penumbra for a few years.”
“May the purity of honest war beat the corruption from their souls,” I said, piously. I knew Salgo participated in Duin’s cult, as did many professional soldiers. Duin’s rites emphasized spiritual redemption through feats of valor and duty. There was a lot of duty involved at the edge of the Penumbra. “Are there any realistic dangers nigh?” I asked quietly.
“Thank the gods, not at present,” he sighed, with relief. “I’m not certain we could meet it if there was. This place is as defensible as a meadow, the garrison is unskilled, poorly armed, and poorly trained, though now well-led, and I’m not certain I could depend on them not to break in a battle. Not yet,” he added. “But there might be another way,” he said, quietly.
Here it came: the request for influence. At least Salgo was polite enough to do it in a straightforward manner, instead of trying to manipulate me. “Go on,” I said.
“Word has recently come from the camp of the mercenary troop known as the 3rd Commando – formally Royal, if you recall.”
“I do,” I nodded. Three regiments of highly specialized warriors had been recruited for the battles in Gilmora. The Fir
st Royal Commando had become the Royal Guard, and was now encamped in Castabriel. The 2nd Royal Commando had been routed in a surprise battle the first day the goblins had crossed the frozen Poros. Only a tithe of them had survived, and many had taken service with Count Salgo when he had left his Royal post.
But the 3rd Commando had been ordered disbanded and demobilize by the king after weeks of some of the toughest fighting of the war. The rugged professionals, upon receiving their final pay and orders, took issue with the 1st Commando’s promotion and how the survivors of the 2nd had been treated . . . so they voted to re-mobilize as a professional mercenary unit.
“The problem is that no one has hired them, yet,” he explained, quietly. “Partially because they’re too large, and partially because, thanks to their service and their skills, they’re too expensive for mere garrison duty. And no one wants to employ them in a private war, at their rates, except for the Alshari rebels . . . and they won’t hire them because Rard created the unit.
“So they’ve been sitting in camp in deserted northern Gilmora for almost a year, now, eating through their savings and foraging. No one locally is strong enough to tell them to go away, but they’ve started to dabble in what’s left of local politics by necessity. Soon the king will have to take action against them as rebels.”
“And you see an opportunity?”
“I received a letter from them, recently, expressing their heartfelt congratulations and enthusiastic support for His Grace’s seizure of his birthright. Apparently many of the 3rd are Alshari, and many are Wilderlords, and few are well-disposed to Rard or Castal, right now. There was a note of desperation in their admiration.”
“You think they seek employ?”
“I think they seek a home,” he replied, thoughtfully. “Perhaps Alshar could be that home.”
“I thought they were too expensive to hire?”
“I didn’t say we’d hire them,” he said, a smile on his lips. “I said they seek a home. My proposal to His Grace has been to reply to their greeting by extending the opportunity to the unit to come to Alshar as his personal guard.”
“That . . . is a very big personal guard. And it would be almost expensive as hiring them as mercenaries.”
“The difference is that as soldiers of his guard we can pay them in land, of which we have a gracious plenty. Land they’ll have to defend, but land in which they will also have endless potential to improve. Oh, some coin – thanks to your generosity, the coinbrothers have kept our men paid. But if we offer them the protection of ducal sovereignty, they are likely, in my professional opinion, to consider the offer carefully.”
“Won’t Rard and Tavard see that as a dangerous sign?” I asked, concerned.
“Do we not have cause to hire such troops, with the hordes just over the horizon?” he countered. “And bandits in our streets? Unless Rard wants to drag his arse off the throne and do it – which he clearly does not – then it falls to the local nobility to defend the people. Holy law is clear on that.”
“I can’t argue the sacred nature of Duin’s protection,” I agreed, “but Rard is likely to see it as a threat.”
“Which will encourage the local lords who suspect Anguin of his independence,” he riposted. “I have thought of this for a while, Minalan. They need us. We need them. We merely need to communicate that to the 3rd. Or that is what I advised His Grace.”
“I will consider the matter, and perhaps speak with him of it,” I promised. “I trust your judgement.”
I met a few more court officers who introduced themselves, and there were a few from the old regime who had lingered. Sir Daranel, I recalled, the former head of Lenguin’s ducal guard, had risen to the post of Ducal Castellan, and seemed somewhat reluctant in his support of the new regime – no doubt there was a story there. Considering it had been his watch as Captain of the Guard and the unofficial head of intelligence the time in which Duchess Enora had been slain, I wondered at the man’s motivations. That’s rarely the kind of career event that a courtier survives.
Others appeared from the old court. I remembered Lady Erasma, looking a little older, who had returned as the Ducal Court Secretary. Lord Andrien had graduated to Steward of the Palace, a glorified castellan. Others were noted by their absence. Some had fled to the south and joined the rebels in defiance of Castal, and some had perished in defense of Alshar in the wars of the last few years. Andsome had ended up in prison or on the executioner’s block.
Finally, Anguin himself found his way over to me. He was sweaty under his fox mask, as it was a warm evening and he’d been dancing for an hour. He held out his hand and a servant handed him a special cup, which he drained in quick order.
“Ah, my friend Minalan! And Baroness Alya,” he said, bowing to my wife. “Thank you for joining us this evening. Isn’t this pleasant?”
“You’ve thrown a wonderful entertainment, Your Grace,” Alya said, returning the bow. “I’m enjoying myself immensely. It is good to be back in Alshar, again.”
“It is,” he sighed. “I did not realize how much I missed it until I returned. Even this moldy old palace. I’ve spent years here, and it’s almost like home. More than Rouen,” he admitted. “Thank you for getting me here.”
“I’ve been speaking to your ministers about your progress, Your Grace. I commend you on a robust start to your reign. So what are your plans, now, Your Grace?” I inquired politely.
Anguin clapped his hands together eagerly, and seemed genuinely enthusiastic about them. “Well, we’re extending our influence out from Vorone, but it’s slow. The Wilderlords that remain are suspect and willful. Some have resisted. If they continue, I shall have to call it a rebellion . . . and I am not certain we are strong enough yet to put down a rebellion.”
“Perhaps a stronger force here, Your Grace?” I proposed. “The garrison is adequate for protection and regulation, but to convince the Wilderlords you have to project strength. To them, that means horses and men and bows and lances.”
“But we can’t really afford a stronger force,” he said, chewing his lip. “Ordinarily, I’d get them from the great nobles, but most of them were killed in the invasion. I’ve only three Count’s left, and two are only counts by courtesy.”
“Then intimidate the barons,” I suggested. “But until they see you at the head of an army, they’re not going to take you seriously. Parties show what a sociable, generous and communicative lord you are, but these are Wilderlords. They respect strength in arms most of all.”
“So you’ve heard about the proposal about the 3rd Commando?” he asked, cagily. I could see why he’d chosen the fox as a mask.
“Count Salgo got here first,” I smiled. “Yes, he told me of his proposal. I favor it, on the surface. I fought with the 3rd Commando, and they’re very good, and very tough. If you could secure their loyalty by giving them your protection and the promise of opportunity, they could become a powerful force on your behalf. More than enough to secure your rightful tribute.”
“Would you not worry about such an offer? Of such a potentially unruly force in such a chaotic environment?”
“You rarely repair chaos through neglect, Your Grace. You do it through strength and order. Once you have order, only then can you lead your people toward prosperity.”
“Wise words, Spellmonger,” he admitted. “I’ve thought as much myself, but I am still doubtful.”
A thought occurred to me. “Your Grace, are you not owed tribute for your Castali estates, as well?”
“Well, yes,” he shrugged. “A fair amount, even after I pay my tribute to the duke and the king. But not enough to pay an army.”
“Not at all,” I agreed. “But it’s enough to need security to deliver it here, does it not? Perhaps if you hired the 3rd to transport and guard it, with the suggestion that you have further opportunities? That would get their attention.”
“Yes, nothing captures the imagination like gold,” he agreed. “I’ll think on it. But I’ve—”
He was interrupted by a grand entrance. The doors to the hall were flung open, and a long stream of absolutely gorgeous women, all dressed in beautiful gowns bedecked with flowers, danced in, interrupting the pavane on the floor. They were followed at last by a strikingly-beautiful woman in a multi-colored dress that seemed to have every flower of the season hung on it. Her mask and headdress, covering sparkling golden hair, was likewise covered in petals. It was an amazing effect.
“We present Lady Pleasure and her Maidens of Spring!” called the herald to the stunned crowd.
Ishi had arrived at the party.
Chapter Twenty Six
Lady Pleasure
It was amazing how quickly the mood of the evening shifted. Before Ishi’s arrival, it was a pleasant entertainment at court; after she was announced the night transformed into a tensely exciting revel.
Her “maidens” helped with the transition by dispersing themselves among the crowd, baskets of flowers in hand; as they moved they made a point of distributing the blooms to the ladies with admiring comments on their beauty, costume, and grace. To the men, they offered feminine flattery – always with the slightest of touches to a shoulder, an arm, a face – before dancing daintily away. They were alluring and elusive, compelling and beguiling. And they had the stink of Ishi’s magic on them as thick as their perfume.
Welcome to my trial, Pentandra said into my mind as I watched them move, mesmerized. They are all local girls – Wilderland refugees, for the most part – who Lady Pleasure recruited from the camps and the streets. Some she put to work in her brothel, others she refined into real sharps pains-in-my ass. Her ‘maidens’, as she calls them, are anything but. They ply their charms among the court and entice even well-mannered ministers to do their bidding. Organized gangs of cutthroats I can contend with, Min, but a goddess masquerading as a madame? And making policy? This is beyond me, she confessed.
Enchanter (Book 7) Page 43
