Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  “The question, Viscountess,” Angrial continued in his reedy voice, clearly trying to be conciliatory to the disagreeable old woman, “is are you willing to commit to work toward that same goal? For victory we must devote ourselves to the re-ordering and restoration of a much smaller duchy. For the moment that includes forgetting about the cursed rebellion for awhile.”

  “Ignoring the blatant denial of His Grace’s sovereignty?” she scoffed. “Or are we all just in denial?”

  “Neither,” Anguin said, forcefully, his young voice speaking up for the first time in the interview. “Viscountess, as much as it pains me to agree with my counselors, I have been convinced that that this is not burying our head in the dirt and ignoring the issue. It is accepting the unfortunate reality of our situation. Until we can contrive the regain the south, we must strive to restore the north – and to improve it, if at all possible.”

  “That is an ambitious purpose,” she said, without enthusiasm. “Before the invasion, this country was filled with belligerent, ignorant Wilderlords and half-civilized ignorant freeholding peasants, woodsmen and miners. Now it is filled with ignorant, penniless refugees and belligerent, ignorant goblins. You could do virtually anything and improve the situation.”

  “And we will strive to do everything in our power to do so,” pledged Anguin, resolutely. “Not merely lip-service, but real investment in our defense, in our infrastructure, and in our economy. Now,” he said, eschewing the practiced court voice he’d learned under Amus in favor of his own approach, “we have precious little to do that with, and plenty of people who want us to fail. We have almost no allies outside of this town, little hope to gain any, and the price of our success will – undoubtedly – be even more bitter opposition.

  “But I cannot do this alone, Viscountess. My father may have had his issues with you, but I know for a fact he respected your opinion over those of most of his other ministers. That speaks volumes to your character. I would invoke that sense of dedication to the success of the duchy he enjoyed for his reign, and ask you to join my court. What say you?” he asked, simply.

  The old woman screwed up her face. “I have toiled in exile for four years in this cesspit, now, Your Grace, in the service of your house. I suppose another few will not make matters any worse.”

  “On the contrary, Viscountess,” soothed the young Duke, with empathy far beyond his years, “it is upon the talents of amazing courtiers such as yourself that we depend to bring us into a position to restore the south and regain Enultramar. I have been told that if anyone can re-structure the finances of the duchy to that successful end, it is you.”

  Pentandra didn’t know if someone had fed him the line, or if he’d conjured it himself, but the unexpected flattery worked. Pentandra watched as Threanas struggled with herself and then relented.

  “I suppose that is true, Your Grace,” she finally agreed, with a sigh of resignation. “Very well. If you want me to run a few counties and pretend it is an entire duchy, I am at your command.”

  Father Amus looked subtly at Pentandra, and she gave the old priest the barest of nods. Her truthtelling spell was indicating no trace of deceit or deception in the old woman’s words. While that didn’t exactly mean she could be trusted, it was as much assurance as they had about anyone.

  Pentandra knew there was a lot to gain by getting the alliance of the old woman. She had been a major force his Duke Lenguin’s court, contending with powerful men as a matter of course and triumphing more often than not. Pentandra recalled how adeptly she had dealt with matters of court, even calling out the popular Wilderlord Count Marcadine for praising a policy she did not favor.

  With the help of her baculus, which she held as casually as a scepter though it was busy at work, Pentandra was able to note so much detail about the Viscountess to at least offer an astute guess about her loyalties and motivations. It revealed that despite her calm demeanor she was both excited and disturbed by the sudden arrival of her sovereign. She did not react guiltily, as many of the other courtiers had. But that did not mean she saw the arrival as a necessarily positive development.

  Pentandra liked to think that Anguin’s claim was far too strong to depend on the opinions of one frail old rich widow for his survival, but the fact was that a regime built without including the powerful, bitter old woman would be weaker than one that included her from the start – no matter how trying that might prove over time.

  “Will you have any difficulty working with our own specialist in the field of finance?” Father Amus asked, quietly. “Coinsister Saltia represents the Temple of Ifnia, who is quietly underwriting the cost of the restoration.”

  That got Threanas’ attention. “Did His Grace have a particularly good day wagering at the racetrack?” she asked, wryly.

  “That is actually not far from what we want people to believe,” Angrial agreed. “The truth might be . . . problematic.” The significance of the admission was not lost on the Viscountess.

  “So who is really secretly funding this masquerade?” she demanded. “I don’t believe for a moment that the Ifnites are willing to extend a loan on the strength of future earnings from lands not currently under His Grace’s control.”

  “The Arcane Orders have pledged to secure the loan extended to His Grace,” Pentandra admitted. “The Spellmonger, himself, has given them assurances that the debt will be paid.”

  “I guess he’s a better spellmonger than most, then,” Threanas sighed. “But gold is gold. That makes me feel a little better about the situation,” she admitted, “but not much. You do realize that there are always political costs for such alliances?”

  “There is an even greater cost for sitting in inaction,” countered the young Duke. “Baron Minalan is a friend of mine, and he has convinced me of his dedication to restoring my house to power. And yes,” he continued, “I understand that means that I will owe a debt to the Arcane Orders. But without them, I would still be sitting in safely in exile in Gilmora, under the watchful eyes of the Queen’s agents, not sitting in this freezing cold palace debating financial policy with my court. So I will gladly pay the political costs. The question is, Viscountess, can you work with Sister Saltia?”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust the clergy,” Threanas explained in a tone that demonstrated that she did not, indeed, trust the clergy, at least in matters of finance. “While I’m sure that overseeing penny-contests and wagering at tournaments has given the Ifnites ample experience at figuring and probability, the accounts of a duchy are a complex thing. Even the tattered remnant of a duchy you have left is going to require far more adept management than a few nuns will be able to muster.”

  “You may be right,” Count Angrial conceded. “I can see why Lenguin provided you a warrant for a decade of service. There are good and valid reasons why certain positions in court were warranted the way they were, including that of Treasury Minister. It keeps the sovereign from overspending, in theory.

  “But we need the Ifnites and their loans if we are going to pay for this restoration,” he continued, resolutely. “And they will not proceed without ample representation in court. And in your office. Could you accept Coinsister Saltia as an assistant, then?” he proposed. “You will need one to manage the coin from the loan anyway, and she seems well-prepared for the task . . . and perhaps unready for the responsibilities of greater office,” he added, diplomatically.

  Pentandra bristled at the insinuation that the portly little nun was less than competent at her job, just because the Temple of Ifnia was more well-known for booking bets than it was at financing political restorations. But she wisely held her tongue. She recognized the slight for what it was: an attempt by Threanas to secure her position, and a response by Angrial providing the bounds of the negotiation. And it worked.

  “That would be acceptable,” the old woman finally sighed, after some thought. “I will need to restructure the entire treasury office anyway, of course. Especially if we’re going to generate enough revenue to a
ctually repay this loan. On top of the expenses of the court. On average it costs about a thousand to twelve hundred ounces of gold a month to run the palace, and another three or four hundred to run the ducal services to the town of Vorone,” she stated. “That’s before you start paying mercenaries to stand around and eat through your stores.”

  “The Orphan’s Band is on short-term assignment,” replied Angrial. “They depart on Briga’s Day, and we won’t have to pay them after that.”

  “Nor will we have them providing the stability we need to collect taxes and tribute!” scoffed Threanas.

  “We are putting our own forces in place,” Father Amus countered, “as we vet them and prepare them for the task. The Palace guard has been augmented. As has the Town Guard. Both of those were less expensive options than continuing to pay for mercenaries.”

  “You will still need to pay for them,” Threanas pointed out, sourly. “Which means you must have income, not just a generous banker.”

  “That will prove difficult, from what I’ve seen,” agreed Father Amus. “What little hard revenues the Wilderlands produced once were concentrated in regions now largely left lawless and unprotected. The barons to the south of Vorone are reluctant to contribute their fair share of tribute—”

  “Reluctant?” snorted Threanas. “With Edmarin as the receiving agent? Of course they were ‘reluctant’! They disliked the man enough when he was a peer, but when Rard made him Steward and placed him in charge of Vorone, the other barons nearly rebelled. They might have, if we weren’t at war. They certainly weren’t going to enrich him. He was too friendly with Castal as it was, and he let his own lands suffer terribly through mismanagement while he was enjoying life here at the palace.”

  “How hard would it be to get them to start contributing again?” asked Anguin, curiously.

  “The last time actual tribute arrived at Vorone from one of the barons was two years ago. The last time Edmarin demanded tribute from Count Marcadine, the good count sent the collector’s hands back in a basket. He didn’t even send a note. And he is, by far, the most influential and respected Wilderlord left in the south. Most of the other barons and lords around Vorone look to him for leadership. Persuading them to join you will be far, far easier with Marcadine on your side. And he is not an easy man to convince. That will be the true test of your leadership, Your Grace,” she observed.

  “Edmarin is dead and his policies and his purse are at an end,” Anguin pointed out with some satisfaction. “If – when I convince the barons to pay me my rightful fealty and submit their proper tribute, will it be enough . . .?” he asked, trailing off.

  “Enough?” she snorted again. “To do what, Your Grace? Re-paint the palace? More than likely. Sustain a proper garrison here? Certainly. Raise an army large enough to storm the gates of Falas and re-take southern Alshar? Hardly.”

  “Can I sustain my rule here, with the revenue available here?” the Orphan Duke said, carefully rephrasing his question.

  “As long as it isn’t too extravagant, I believe so, Your Grace,” the old minister conceded, tiredly. “But we will not merely have to persuade the southern barons to contribute, we must – must! – re-organize the administration of the domains north of Vorone, those most damaged by the invasion.”

  “You think?” Anguin asked, genuinely curious.

  “If you want to see a silver penny out of that region, Your Grace, you are going to have to adopt some new – even novel – policies and make some appointments – and soon. The few settlements that remain in the east of the Wilderlands grow more remote and less reliant on your authority by the day. The ones in the west are under constant threat of destruction. The sooner they are properly ruled and properly protected, the sooner they can be properly taxed.”

  “That is among my priorities, Viscountess,” agreed Anguin, smoothly. “And it is of great relief to me that we see the same picture in this. I appreciate your counsel, and I look forward to working with you in achieving our mutual goals. Thank you, you may retire to your offices,” he dismissed. “Prepare yourself for a busy day tomorrow. And the next day,” he added. “In fact, I think we all need to take a moment to refresh ourselves. Once the core of my court is established, I want to hold my first Great Council meeting tonight, to discuss our strategy for the future. Now that we understand what we are dealing with.”

  Threanas smiled indulgently at the Orphan Duke. “Your Grace,” she said, serenely, “with all respect, none of us have the faintest idea what we are dealing with, now. You’ve taken the initiative to establish a state . . . now you have to learn how to run it. And,” she added, sadly, “ultimately, to defend it. Because there are more threats at play in the Wilderlands than corrupt barons and belligerent gurvani. And any one of them could turn into a grave wound in your regime, if we do not proceed with the greatest of caution.”

  Chapter Six

  The First Great Council

  The first Great Council meeting was held that evening in the Trophy Room on the second floor of the east wing of the palace, within the Duke’s residential quarters. The chamber was warm and cozy, with an impressive natural stone fireplace that was designed to keep the frigidity of winter at bay, and tapestries displaying the hunting glories of past dukes insulating the cold brick walls.

  It was still cold as three hells the moment you stepped outside the door into the corridor.

  The weapons adorning the walls – boar spears, mostly, with a few specialized blades and axes, bows and a rack of hunting arrows – were not particularly bothersome to Pentandra. She found the specter of hundreds of stuffed animal heads, antlers, horns, teeth, and furs strewn around the room a little more disconcerting, especially the full-sized stuffed bear in the corner.

  But in the Wilderlands, she was learning, such trophies were commonplace, and in Vorone they were nearly ubiquitous. Even the privy she’d used that morning had a giant stuffed hare’s head on the door, the largest lagomorph she’d ever seen, staring at her with glass eyes and a dusty nose while she’d tried to pee. It had been startling, but no more disturbing, she guessed, than the Remeran-style erotic scenes her guarderobe at Fairoaks were decorated with would be to a conservative Wilderlord.

  Count Angrial was already there when she arrived for the meeting, a sheaf of parchment and a wine cup on the small table in front of him and a young monk with a portfolio and desk behind him. He wasn’t alone – Count Sagal was there, looking as fresh after their exhausting few days as if he’d slept a week. Father Amus was better at showing his age. The old priest’s face showed deep pits under his eyes, and his hair looked a little grayer. But he walked into the room with confidence and dignity.

  A few moments later they were joined by Sister Saltia, Lawfather Jodas (the new Minister of Justice), Sir Masten (Master of Works), and Lady Bertine, the Ducal Court Secretary and, Pentandra discovered, one of the secret agents of the Duke who had prepared the way for the restoration while ostensibly serving Baron Edmarin. Pentandra was just getting to know the other members of the inner court. She politely studied them while the young monk served each of them wine.

  “We will be joined by His Grace momentarily,” Angrial said, in his reedy voice, once the secretary arrived. “Welcome to the first meeting of the inner Great Council of the Reign of Duke Anguin II of Alshar. I wanted to meet with you a moment before His Grace arrives to brief you on events you may not be aware of, and hear any concerns or reports of problems you wish to share candidly.

  “To begin with, we have successfully taken control of the city,” he continued, glancing at a parchment in front of him. “The Orphans now control every city gate and checkpoint, ostensibly to give the hard-working palace guard a three-day holiday,” he said, amused. “After our interviews today, for several of them it will be a permanent holiday.

  “There has been no sign of resistance to the Orphans’ arrival, thankfully, and with the garrison confined to quarters the only serious potential challenge to our taking power here is contained. And w
ith our larger contingent due any day with our own reinforcements and baggage train, it is unlikely any real resistance to His Grace’s rightful assumption of authority is forthcoming. We hope. Well done, my friends,” he smiled, gratefully. “My worst nightmare was that this day would be known as the Red Yule, or some nonsense like that.”

  “Considering the state of the armories, that would have taken some effort,” reported Count Salgo. “The main armory at the town watch’s headquarters is a pile of rusted wreckage that would be of use only in the most dire of circumstances. The palace armory isn’t much better. Most of the best pieces seem to have been stolen and sold off while no one was looking.”

  “Your Excellency, we’ve seized power, but can we keep it?” asked Sister Saltia, worriedly, as she toyed with her little pouch of lots. “We have stability because we have superior forces. But the Orphans are due to depart by Briga’s Day, when the roads clear. What happens then?”

  “We should have enough of our own forces in place to keep the peace – and keep our control,” assured Count Salgo, the freshly-appointed Warlord of the Wilderlands. “Regardless of the actions of the town guard or . . . other factors. We are in the process of recruiting five hundred archers recruited from His Grace’s Gilmoran estates to bolster our position,” he informed her, “men who have no local connections, and who are unlikely to turn on the regime. They should be ready come spring. And we do have around another three hundred gentlemen and their households who gathered with His Grace in exile. Those men have proven their loyalty.”

  “But we sit in a town of thousands, with thousands more refugees just outside the walls,” reminded Lawfather Jodas in a deep voice. “A town more used to bribery and blackmail than law and order, for the last several years.”

  “Indeed,” nodded Angrial, gravely. “Which is why seizing the palace was merely the first – necessary – step toward establishing the regime. We are in the beginning of winter, in the midst of a holiday. A few banners and knights are not going to be enough to establish control of the town. Which is why I have just announced the extension of the Yule holiday, and asked you each to undertake special assignments.”