Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  She disliked the old Court Wizard’s chambers, anyway. The position had not been an important one in the old Alshari court, and hence it had been given little consideration in the placement of its offices and chambers. Pentandra hoped to change that, during the transition. Graciously ceding her official quarters to become a barracks for His Grace’s fiercest supporters was actually a step in that plan. With her new mandate to work with the burghers’ officers to bring some order and justice to Vorone, she had reason enough to avoid the palace for the moment.

  She began working out of Spellmonger’s Hall, in Northside, instead. She’d stopped there previously, by night, to introduce herself to the caretaker and allow him to confirm her use with Minalan, but she’d been so busy since that she had not spared the time to set up housekeeping. Some of her baggage was still at the palace, somewhere, she knew – nothing important, but it contributed to her sense of insecurity.

  The quarter of the town where the Wilderlords built their homes-away-from-castle were still well-guarded, despite a great many of the mansions and halls being vacant, the lords who owned them dead and their lands lost. Some of the fine townhomes had been inhabited by the dispossessed who could prove title to them or bribe their way past Edmarin’s corrupt officials to lay claim to them.

  By daylight Pentandra could see the sad estate of most of her neighbors. The aristocratic survivors living in exile in refuge while the goblins roamed their abandoned homes were just as desperate as their former peasants who lived in camps outside the wall, they were just more fortunate. Many had depleted what savings they escaped with and sold off most of their possessions to survive. Despite their grand residences, the displaced nobility had little to sustain themselves in Vorone. After four years, that had left dozens of noble houses near penniless as any villein.

  Still, the mansions remained guarded from squatters and criminals by order of the Steward, Baron Edmarin (who saw the value of the real estate was implicit on its protection), and deeds to the finest of the abandoned properties had been sold at dear prices, or rented cheaply to favorites at the palace. Sire Koucey’s former townhome, which she learned was called Brandmount Hall in the town records, was safely nestled among the other fine houses, and even had a caretaker. Minalan had installed a crippled warmage in semi-retirement in the cellar room, and he’d managed to keep the place safe and in good repair.

  The morning Pentandra collected the new Constable, Sir Vemas, from the palace and brought him there to inspect it was cold but clear, a strong, cold west wind blowing ash and soot into the dark sewer they followed back to Northside. She’d elected to ride, instead of walk, that morning, and instructed the caretaker to saddle her horse for the short trip to the palace and back.

  “Isn’t Magelord Minalan going to take issue with you appropriating his property?” asked Sir Vemas, as he escorted her back through the slushy streets.

  “He’d better not – he owes me,” she snorted. “He uses my barge, my estate in Castabriel, and the Order’s hall in Sevendor at his convenience. He can loan me this place for a few months.”

  “I see you and the Spellmonger are indeed well-acquainted,” he said, with just enough subtlety in his voice to hint at intimacy.

  “We were involved, back at school,” she said, casually. “For a brief time - more as professional colleagues than lovers. But he is an old and dear friend, and just about everyone underestimates the debt we all owe him.”

  “So you still bear him affection?”

  “We are partners in this madness,” she reflected with a smile. “And good friends. It is my job to keep him safe and organized. It’s his job to make dangerous decisions and wear a funny hat.”

  “It sounds like a remarkable relationship,” Sir Vemas smiled. “My pardon, but I cannot help but wonder how your lord husband views your close relationship.”

  “Arborn and Minalan are friends,” Pentandra replied. “Good friends, who respect each other . . . well, far more than either should, frankly. Arborn understands my work with Minalan is important, and Minalan has no designs on my virtue, believe me.”

  “As I said, a remarkable relationship,” Sir Vemas nodded, as they turned the corner to her street. “Huin’s hoe! Is that a spider web on your front door?”

  Minalan had left a spell that displayed a large green snowflake glowing menacingly on the front door. Even people who had no idea what the device was knew enough not to molest the home.

  Pentandra rolled her eyes. “Gaudy! It’s just a bit of decorative magic. That’s a snowflake, what they look like when you use magesight and examine them closely. The Spellmonger’s badge, and emblem of Sevendor. But that’s Min’s style. Loud but effective.”

  She summoned her baculus and examined the place with highly augmented magesight for the first time. She had been far too busy to invest her attention in the place, even though she’d spent a week under its roof, and she was curious. The internal structure and roofing were intact and in good repair, she quickly saw, and the place seemed relatively free of vermin. Satisfied, she put the tool back into her ring and allowed Sir Vemas to help her dismount.

  “Speaking of gaudy,” the constable murmured, “that seemed a bit . . . flashy, didn’t it?” He looked around at the few folk in the road, mostly women, servants, and older children sweeping their thresholds clear of snow, chopping kindling or fetching water.

  “What? The rod?” She considered and then shrugged. “I am a magelord and the Ducal Court Wizard. This is a dangerous and desperate city. Its best people know that quickly, to avoid misunderstandings.”

  She mounted the steps and looked back down at the women and servants who were staring. Most were still unaware that the Court Wizard was living in their neighborhood, and gawked like she was a Tree Folk. She was tempted to do an even flashier display of her power, the kind that would send them shrieking back behind their doors, but she restrained herself. She was representing Anguin and the rest of the court. She had a responsibility – no, a clear mandate – to make the people of Vorone feel safe, not uncertain.

  Sir Vemas followed her around dutifully as he inspected the hall for suitability. The hall itself was in almost acceptable shape now after her furious Yuletide cleaning. The upper chambers had been barely used, the caretaker (a lame warmage named Surduin) keeping to the kitchen and storerooms on the lowest floor. Pentandra led Sir Vemas on a tour of the chamber above, where she and Arborn slept, and then the third floor loft chamber.

  It was dusty, of course, but still dry, by the state of the cobwebs. The only bed in the chamber was a simple wool-stuffed tick that was only comfortable if you were a rustic Wilderlord enjoying the fleshpots of Vorone - or a ranger more used to sleeping in the wild than under a roof. To Pentandra’s critical eye it looked more suitable to a Remeran flophouse than a noble’s chamber. Arborn’s men had departed with him, leaving the place empty, but tidy. That was the Kasari way.

  “The food stores in the kitchen were scant, and need to be augmented. - I’m working on putting up proper provision, but with palace livery there just hasn’t been the incentive yet. The crockery and tableware are adequate, for a rustic hall, but the kitchen is primitive, at best.” Her recent experience cooking as part of the Kasari rites of marriage gave her a newfound respect for such things.

  “It’s unlikely we will need a formal dining area,” he quipped as he peered through the loft’s gable window. But then his attention was captured by something out of the tiny third-floor window through a crack in the shutters.

  “What is it?” Pentandra asked, curious.

  “Oh, just a neighbor of yours: ‘Lord Camron’. A gentleman who owns that handsome hall of southern white brick – that’s a symbol of wealth and status, in Vorone. Quite an elegant gentleman. Beautiful wife. Social, keeps to himself, never starts trouble, never runs short of funds, even in this economy. One of Northside’s leading nobles. He’s also the crimelord who controls about a third of the town under the name Master Luthar,” he added casually. It too
k a moment for Pentandra to catch up.

  “He . . . what? The head of the Rat Crew is my neighbor? ”

  “Oh, you’ll have no trouble from him. He is above reproach. He’d no more have violence done in his witness than a dowager aunt would.”

  “You don’t know my Aunt Gantala,” Pentandra chuckled. “But you’re certain he’s a crimelord?”

  “Oh, without a doubt. The heads of each of the gangs report directly to him, through agents. His hands never get blood on them. But they do get a lot of silver. From what I can tell, he’s secretly sending tribute back to the Brotherhood in southern Alshar. About three thousand ounces of silver a season. That’s a lot of silver that goes out of Vorone and never comes back.”

  “Then why don’t you arrest him?”

  “On what charge? As I said, he’s above reproach. A leading noble. No, ‘Lord Camron’ gives freely to the poor, sends alms to the refugee camps, and is a pious patron of several temples. He’s developed close relationships with several magistrates and constables in the past. He’s well known and popular at court, though he holds no official position.”

  “I see,” nodded Pentandra. “And his gangs?”

  “A ruthless pack of murderous cutthroats. Mostly of their thugs are local fellows who were already inclined toward casual violence. But their leaders and stalwarts are usually southerners, wharf rats from Enultramar, rogues from the slums, or bandits from the back country who have had a few years as brothers themselves before they came north. They’ve brought a sophistication and organization to the locals that makes it nearly impossible to bear witness to them doing anything in front of a magistrate.”

  “So they are your chief foe?”

  “Our chief foe,” he corrected. “Outside of general lawlessness, yes,” Sir Vemas agreed, not taking his eyes off of the front entrance to the white brick hall. “You know, this is an excellent vantage point. I can even nearly see into the upper window, there.”

  “I can see right into that place, if I choose,” Pentandra smiled. “It matters not where I stand.”

  “That would be quite useful in this enterprise, then,” smiled the handsome constable in return. Pentandra could not help but feel a rush of excitement at his confident manner.

  “Once we know what we’re up against, perhaps,” she agreed. “But if you like the view, then this loft can serve at need. With so many Kasari going in and out, and my position at court, it would not attract undue attention if there were guardsmen doing the same.”

  “That would be helpful,” he agreed. “As enthusiastic as I am about our new mission, I hesitate to conduct operations from the palace. I know too well how easy it is for secrets to go awry there, and the Rat Crew is adept at buying such information.”

  “Agreed,” Pentandra nodded. “There’s a certain irony to plotting against the Rats across the street from the Head Rat.”

  “I do enjoy irony,” Sir Vemas admitted. “The men I’ve chosen for this task will be discreet,” he promised. “They know how not to attract attention. Further, they will provide some additional protection for you here.”

  “By the time I’m done with the spellwork, they won’t be necessary,” she dismissed.

  “That’s also helpful.” He broke his stare at the white brick hall and looked at Pentandra. “My lady, I’m concerned that this struggle will get bloody – more bloody than . . .”

  “Than a high-born Remeran mage can handle?” Pentandra asked, amused. “Sir Constable, I have been in sieges, battles, and fought against goblin, troll, and dragon. I’ve seen more blood than you can possibly imagine. Likely more than you. It’s not something I relish, but I am not afraid of it, either.”

  “Then I think we have the beginnings of a truly beautiful alliance, here, Lady Mage. With your magic and my men, I think we can put the rats on the run!”

  *

  *

  The Duke requested her presence the next morning by messenger, calling her to the small chamber he had claimed as his private office. The young man looked exhausted, with uncustomary dark circles under his eyes, his tunic rumbled as if he’d slept in it. He stood and welcomed her formally, escorting her to a chair and pouring her wine himself.

  “I wanted to take a few moments to check in with you,” he admitted, when he’d drawn his own chair close to the brazier in the corner. “I’m trying to do that with all of my ministers right now, to help smooth the transition.”

  “I would think that would be Count Angrial’s job, Your Grace,” Pentandra pointed out.

  “It will be, eventually,” he agreed with a sigh. “In truth, he wants to do it himself but he is occupied with restructuring the palace staff at the moment. And I wish to maintain more direct ties to my ministers than my predecessors, when so much hangs in the balance. Besides, what else do I have to do?” he pointed out, sounding like a whiny adolescent, and not the head of state. “Stand around and look regal? That was my father’s style, not mine.”

  “So what would Your Grace wish to know?” she asked, smiling at him. She really did like the lad.

  “How are you finding your new post . . . and your new mission?” he asked, simply.

  “The accommodations are lackluster, the staff is non-existent, my duties are ill-defined and poorly described, and I have little idea how to proceed. That is to say, I am quite comfortable in my post, and I look forward to the challenge of combating the gangs of Vorone. At least I have more direction than I did when I was made Steward of the Arcane Orders.”

  “Sir Vemas has told me that he has introduced himself and pledged resources and intelligence for the effort,” Anguin nodded, approvingly. “I recall him as a palace guardsman, when I was a boy. A man of boundless energy and wit. I have every confidence in his ability to pursue your mutual mission, and I trust him implicitly.”

  “As do I, Your Grace,” agreed Pentandra. “Only a man with more zeal than guile would approach me so boldly. He escorted me to my new quarters in Northwood, which he has agreed to use as a headquarters for this endeavor. My intuition tells me he is a gallant and committed gentleman, loyal to his duke and in love with his town.”

  “Just so,” nodded the tired looking boy. “I think you two will work well together. But that is a temporary matter. Beyond the issue of the gangs, I’d like to discuss your greater duties as Court Wizard.”

  “My predecessor, Magelord Thinradel, was generally unhappy with the position,” Pentandra said, boldly. “Largely because of your father’s antipathy toward magic in general.”

  “I am not my father,” stated Anguin, flatly. But he did not take offence. Pentandra got the idea that the boy was trying to impress her. “Thinradel and his predecessors were in office when a Court Wizard’s job was largely functioning as the administrative arm of the Censorate. While some of those duties will remain, the situation we are presented with demands a more active role,” he said, diplomatically. “Such as combating crime in the capital. And functioning as a liaison to the magi – and magelords – of the realm.”

  “Ah,” Pentandra said, realizing what the lad was getting at. “You worry about Magelord Astyral? And Azar? And Wenek and the others?”

  “The old order in the Wilderlands is gone,” Anguin sighed, looking into the fire. “Once nineteen Wilderlord barons ruled in the name of the Duke, here, within five counties. Now there are four or five of the old houses left with their lands intact, all south of Vorone. Two others hold but a shard of their previous lands. Tudry is ruled by a mage, the strongest castle in the north is ruled by another, and other magi now control more land and fortifications than all of my non-magical vassals . . . we think.” He heaved a sigh. “That’s why I’ve employed your lord husband so liberally, I’m afraid. We just don’t know what the true disposition of the duchy is, and until we do, I have to contend with the power of the magelords.”

  “Does that make Your Grace uneasy?” asked Pentandra, surprised. “The magi have done what they could to retain your realm, and have not rebelled against you
r authority. In truth they’ve just learned about your return, right after I informed the Spellmonger.”

  One of the things Pentandra had done in the first few days of the transition was to contact the important magi in the region and inform them that there was now a real Ducal authority in Vorone again.

  For Astyral, that was welcome news. He’d been ruling Tudry as a military appointee, confirmed by Royal decree, but in the absence of any greater authority he had been on his own. Carmella, the head of the Hesian Order of warmagi and headquartered at Salik Tower, among the others Minalan had built on the edges of the war zone, was likewise happy to hear the news. She had come to know the duke during the great Kasari March, and had voiced her personal support of him.

  Azar and Baron Wenek of the Pearwoods were less enthusiastic. Azar was only concerned with fighting the gurvani, and saw an advantage in the Duke’s return only if it assisted in that effort. Wenek was ruling his hilly fief of half-wild, mostly-drunk clansmen almost independently from the rest of the world. The stout magelord could be depended upon to rally his men to fight goblins, but other than that he let the Pearwoods clans continue raiding the lowland lords of northern Castal every summer, stealing brides, cattle, and what silver they could, and he was loathe to give up the lucrative practice. But he had supported Anguin’s ascension for no better reason than it would annoy the Royal family, for whom he had a disdain.

  There were others of lesser rank and power, but those four were the chief wizards in the Wilderlands at the moment.

  “It is not that I doubt their loyalty,” the young duke frowned, “but that I wish to enlist their aid. I cannot force the refugees from Vorone unless they have secure homes to go to . . . or at least a better future. To do that we must first establish security, then provide service to them. But the lands they lived in are either occupied, despoiled, or under threat.”