Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

Sir Vemas agreed enthusiastically. “A new, fictitious gang in town at war with the Crew could turn a great many of them against each other, if their minds are known and their motivations clear. Many of the fellows I know as stalwarts from the guard and elsewhere escaped such lives themselves. They are ready to indulge in a little theater, a little viciousness, and some rumormongering against the Crew.”

  “I see what you mean,” Pentandra agreed, her eyes narrowing as she appreciated the deviousness of the plan. “A new gang that isn’t there is a lot harder for the Crew to fight than a magistrate’s summons. Particularly a gang that used magic to any degree.”

  “That is what I am hoping you will assist with, my lady,” agreed Sir Vemas. “With your help and arcane powers, we could perhaps identify the gangsters and their habits long before we choose to strike. If you have that capacity,” he added.

  “Oh, that’s easy enough,” murmured Pentandra. “I learned plenty of eavesdropping spells and location charms, truthtells and disguising glamour spells suitable for this kind of work.”

  “You have done military intelligence work for the Spellmonger?” he asked, surprised.

  “Well, yes, but I mastered those spells long before I met Minalan. I lived in an all-girl’s dormitory in an academy of magic with two dozen magically talented teenage girls,” she explained. “Far more dangerous work.”

  “I yield to my lady’s arcane judgment on the matter,” Vemas said, with a charming bow and an authentic laugh.

  “Best that you do. Have you identified the principals of the Crew, yet?”

  “Several. Including your new neighbor. The captains in town who actually run operations are more elusive than the Rats at either the top or bottom of the nest. But I’ve guessed at least four of them, I think. With a little investigation, I think we could discover their lieutenants and more. Then we can begin our little masquerade, and prepare to strike.”

  “Do you think your stalwarts are skilled enough to portray an entirely new gang?” Pentandra asked, skeptically. “And ruthless enough to make it believable?”

  “That will be part of the theatrical art of it,” admitted Vemas. “But I am confident that my men will give it their best attempt.”

  “We will need more than that,” Pentandra decided. “If I am to be partner in this ruse, then it will succeed, Sir Constable. Let me think on it, and see what additional resources we need to bring to bear.”

  “Resources?” he asked, intrigued.

  “People,” Pentandra explained. “Associating with the Spellmonger brings one into contact with a lot of strange folk. Let me see who I can summon to bolster our hand,” she proposed. “And let me think about your plan awhile, and see if I cannot improve it. If we are going to use magic to wage war against the rats, then let us do it properly.”

  “You will bring magelords, like Astyral and Azar?”

  “They would not be the most useful magi, in this case,” smirked Pentandra. “Unless you wish to level the town entirely. More, their faces are too well known. No, this requires caution, deliberation, careful planning, and deception. What we need,” she decided, “is something . . . subtle, to bring the plan together. Something powerful, more powerful than warmagi and more frightening than the possibility of the palace dungeons . . . or the headman’s axe. We need to invoke the fear of the unknown in our foes long before they see us coming.”

  “Oh, I do enjoy the way your mind works, Lady Mage!” the courtier flattered. “My thought, exactly! Mystery, not murder, is apt to compel a man to ill-thought action. An unknown foe with unknown strength and capabilities is the bane of any organization, military or criminal. And performing a masquerade in which you can convince your enemies to strike each other before you draw steel yourself has a certain elegance to it I find pleases me!”

  The word ‘masquerade’ lingered in Pentandra’s ear as they continued down the High Street, arm in arm. She’d seen some of the Yuletide mummers who performed simple works outside of the capital’s temples. Compared to the professional performers she’d grown up with in Remere, or seen perform on stage for coin in Castabriel and elsewhere, they were crude amateurs.

  But one of the players stuck in her mind due to the crude mask he wore - uncommon in the plays in the Wilderlands, but reminiscent of the elaborate masks used in the salons and theaters of Remere. Masquerades and fancy dress were frequent fads of the nobility, particularly in former Imperial lands. And the renegade warmage Lady Mask had made quite an impression with her use of a veil when she attacked the Kasari march last year. Pentandra’s baculus was a prize of war from the mage, re-built and improved by Minalan, but she had to admit that the mystique of the warmage’s blazing eyes piercing through her mask had made an interesting dramatic presentation.

  “Sir Vemas,” she asked, as they headed toward a tavern specializing in southern wines, “it occurs to me that the simplest way to confuse and terrify our foe is to conceal the nature - and the origin - of our attack. And the easiest way to avoid detection is to never present your true face to him.”

  “Agreed,” the young man nodded, opening the door to the tavern. “Your point, my lady?”

  “What if our fictitious force used actual masks to hide their identity? By the simple expedient of removing them, our people would essentially disappear from notice. And provide a potentially profound effect on the morale of the Crew.”

  Sir Vemas stopped moving entirely, and focused on the idea.

  “Lady Pentandra,” he said, breathlessly, “that is perhaps the single most brilliant idea I’ve ever heard,” he said, sincerely.

  It was pure courtier’s flattery, but it was sincerely delivered, and Pentandra was affected by it despite knowing its origin. She was a courtier now too, she reflected as she entered the tavern. That meant she got to get her ass blatantly kissed herself. She had better get used to it.

  Not a bad feeling, she reflected as she surveyed the fare stacked on a table against one wall.

  *

  *

  Arborn finally returned to Spellmonger’s Hall, as Pentandra insisted on calling the old Bovali townhome. She did not want to be permanently associated with it, though she was content for now to use it as a lodging, and “Boval House” or “Brandmount House” just confused people who hadn’t heard of the remote vale. The walk to the palace from here was short, a mere mile or so through the cobbled streets. Most of that was heavily patrolled and perfectly safe, though she didn’t fear for her safety. Any footpad who drew a blade on her and demanded her purse would face a rude revelation.

  Her husband had been busy for the last few days ranging the roads out to more and more distant settlements - ostensibly to check on the status of their forests, but in actuality to gather intelligence about the nature and disposition of those fiefs. That was in addition to work he did consulting for the palace guard and the city watch – not work he relished, but until the remainder of the expatriates returned to Vorone, every able and trustworthy man who could be employed to do so was used to review the roster and interview the soldiers.

  “Isn’t that a bit outside of your position as Master of Wood?” Pentandra asked, as the homely servant woman she’d employed as a housekeeper (until better servants were procured) served them a mild but hearty game stew with corn and potatoes with biscuits that were not inedible. Good Wilderlands fare, she knew. A far cry from the sophisticated Remeran cuisine she grew up with. But much closer to the food Arborn was used to. She had better get used to it. She was doing all she could to prod the man into conversation.

  “His Grace finds my counsel useful, when it comes to judging a man’s character,” shrugged Arborn, as he dug in after a moment of reverent silence as Kasari custom dictated. “Several times he’s depended upon me to determine someone’s worth or deeper design. As soon as the snows clear I will be much busier. We will be running patrols around the city for the first time, as well as ranging as need requires.”

  “What?” Pentandra asked, alarmed. “Doesn’t the garrison
patrol?”

  Arborn chuckled. “We were just as concerned, my wife. No, the garrison doesn’t patrol much farther than the refugee camps, despite the fact that we are in a war zone. Indeed, we discovered that the local garrison has no clear idea where the enemy was, much less their disposition and intentions. My report of the patrol we discovered was alarming to them. We aim to repair that. Once the melt begins around Briga’s Day, we will begin wider patrols to stiffen the defense of the town. Then I will be gone for weeks, I’m afraid.”

  “That gives us a few weeks - a month or more – before you go,” Pentandra said, between dainty bites. “Plenty of time to set up household here, properly.”

  “Not at the palace?” he asked, surprised.

  “Not until they have a better space for me,” she sniffed. “Until they do, this is home. For now.”

  “I like it,” Arborn said, unconvincingly, as he looked around. “Much better than the palace, actually.”

  “Well, of course you do!” Pentandra snorted. “It is cozy, in a rustic, Wilderlands sort of way. It will do. For now. Besides, for the foreseeable future not much of my work will be in the palace.”

  “The Rat Crew,” Arborn nodded, sagely. “I heard that you had been handed that assignment.”

  “Arborn, do you think . . . do you think he picked wisely?” she asked, diplomatically.

  “You were the most reasonable choice, if he wants to actually get rid of them,” Arborn said, after consideration. “You’re the smartest woman I know. You are a powerful mage. And unlike many of your colleagues, you know people as well as you know spellcraft.”

  “But this is just so outside of my experience!” she said, exasperated. “I am a mage, not a reeve! I don’t know the first thing about crime! And while I think I can scrounge up a few loyal guardsmen to help, from what I understand the Crew is highly sophisticated.”

  It was Arborn’s turn to snort. “No one is more sophisticated than you, my wife. You can do anything you set your mind to. Whether it is restructuring magic in the kingdom or eliminating the unsavory element from town. The question is not whether or not you can do it, it is how you will choose to proceed. These guardsmen,” he continued, before she could drop her spoon and declare her love for him, “are they . . . unsavory enough to deal with this situation?”

  Pentandra shrugged. “I am hardly a good judge of such matters. But I think many of them will be recognized, and that is dangerous. They might be loyal, and good with their swords, but I can’t imagine any of them getting through the Crew’s defenses. Even with magic.”

  “Then perhaps you should consider other methods? Other people?”

  “The constable and I have come up with the rudiments of a plan, but we’re just beginning to proceed. It’s all quite novel. I really don’t know many criminals, Arborn. Not that sort. The kind I know do their theft with pen and parchment.”

  “Of course,” Arborn said, rolling his eyes just a bit. “Would it surprise you to know that I, perhaps, do know a few?”

  “Poachers?” Pentandra smirked.

  “Among other things,” conceded the big Kasari with a rare sly grin. “If you trust me, I think I know just who to summon to your aid. If we can accommodate them here,” he added.

  “The entire top floor loft is vacant, even after we moved into the chamber,” she conceded. “If they don’t mind sharing a roof with your Kasari, we can put them there.” Of course that would make the place all but unlivable, as a lover’s suite, but Pentandra was starting to realize that her lusty appreciation of her new marriage might be paused, as they both attended their new duties. She was not happy with that prospect, but she could accept it. Temporarily. “The place will be crawling with guardsmen, I’m afraid. They might have a hard time sleeping, with all the noise at odd hours . . .”

  “They could sleep in a turbulent rapids, at need” he smiled. “It might take them a little time to arrive, once they get the word, but they might be able to help. Indeed, they would enjoy the work.”

  Pentandra doubted it – most of the Kasari were so devoted to their damn moral code that urban criminal enterprise was a shameful, foreign concept at best. At the time she dismissed it as Arborn trying to impress her.

  She focused her attention for the next few days on understanding her new mission, with the helpful assistance of Sir Vemas, who arrived every morning with a few of his men to introduce to her, before he began to brief her on the situation. Pentandra had to admit that the courtier seemed well-informed on the foe, and he held a reasonable idea of what it would take to just identify them all.

  “Our task is made simpler by the Crew’s own organizational efficiency,” he explained, after introducing her to two young guardsmen who were eager to take up the fight. “Your neighbor, Master Luthar, is undoubtedly the head, but the Crew is split into five local gangs with different leadership and different responsibilities. Completely compartmentalized.”

  “That is handy,” she agreed. “How independently do they operate?”

  “Very. Within a gang the leader has nearly undisputed authority. But by tradition the entire Crew obeys the local boss first, regardless of what their local captain says. Master Luthar has undisputed authority in Vorone. They are remarkably disciplined, for a band of cutthroats,” he added, admiringly.

  “Where are they operating? I assume you have at least some basic intelligence?”

  “Several locations. The first gang, under Opilio the Knife, controls the Market ward, focusing on protection schemes and petty theft. They are perhaps the most sophisticated gang, and the most lucrative for the Crew by far. They also control the southern wards. The second gang focuses on the docks and the garrison, supplying illicit pleasures and loaning money. They also control the smuggling, such as it is. Their boss is a highly paranoid bastard by the name of Ransung Bloodfinger. He got the name because if one of his clients gets behind on a payment, he’s willing to work it out . . . if the client is serious enough to cut off their own finger. It apparently keeps folks from getting too far in arrears.”

  “So it would,” Pentandra nodded.

  “The third and largest gang is in charge of the refugee camps, ruled by a former petty Wilderlord known as Harl the Huntsman. They’ve made great gains in the last two years, though the disappearance of most of the children last year was a blow. They made a pretty penny on catering to the town’s darker vices.

  “The fourth gang is more insidious. It focuses on the palace, and controlling the city’s government through bribery, blackmail, and threats, if loans, favors and persuasion won’t do. Its run by a weasel called Jarek Blackcloak. He used to be a mercenary in Enultramar, before the Brotherhood sent him north. He was Lord Jenerard’s local contact and muscle, arranger of bad things, when he was still at the Palace, back in Lenguin’s court. He’s been rewarded for his efforts. The smallest of the five, we think, but nearly the most clandestine.

  “And the fifth . . . honestly, we don’t know what the fifth gang does,” he admitted. “Their lair is hidden and their boss is unknown to us. But we know he exists. We theorize that they act as a control over the other gangs, a private enforcement gang that the local Rat, Master Luthar, can call upon against the others. Or it could be here to keep tabs on Luthar for his masters in Enultramar. Or both. But while we know of their existence, we know damn little else about them, save that there are at least eight enforcers in the group.”

  “That’s . . . a lot of Rats,” admitted Pentandra. “How many members typically in a gang?”

  “Opilio the Knife’s Market ward gang, has fifteen or twenty full members and employs about thrice that many local toughs. The Docks gang has about that many under Bloodfinger, with a few more locals, mostly unemployed stevedores or dockside brawlers willing to beat people up for day wages. Harl the Huntsman’s gang in the camps has almost fifty Rats, and hires gangs of toughs to help enforce their rule. The others . . . likely seven to ten, with some attendants.”

  “Less than two hundred men h
olding an entire town hostage to their greed,” Pentandra said, shaking her head sadly. “Do we know where their lairs are?”

  “We know two definitely, suspect two others, and have no idea where the fifth might be. But the one time I was able to convince Baron Edmarin to go after them, a few years ago, we raided their warehouse and put nine rats in prison. Within a week they had been replaced and set up business in another warehouse. Four of my men were assassinated off-duty as a result. The rats bribed Edmarin’s lawbrother to give them simple fines and they were back up and running their enterprises by the end of the month,” he said, disgusted.

  “Then let us establish the fact that we know, for certain, the facts that must be investigated, and the questions that need to be answered, before we take any rash action,” Pentandra decided. “Can one of you gentlemen write? Then let’s begin by starting a parchment detailing everything we know and suspect, first. That will be where we will begin.”

  “My lady,” he asked, disappointedly, after a moment’s pause, “we were told that you would be employing magic in aid to our mission.”

  “Magic is an art, Constable,” she replied, calmly. “Like swordsmanship. When you duel another man, you study his weaknesses as much as possible before drawing a blade. Here we have not one man with one weakness, but an entire army of men, only some of whom are known.

  “If you want magic to work, and not merely impress the common folk, then a bit of preparation will be required. And that includes lists, plans, and more parchment than you want to admit. For the next few weeks I want your men to collect as much information through observation as they can . . . and report it back to me. Before we take the first step, I want to know everything that can possibly be known about our foe. Every name of every thug. Every lair. Every weakness, every strength. Power without control is pointless, in magic, gentlemen. And control without intelligence is impossible.”

  *

  *

  *

  They spent another day working on procedures. It didn’t take long to establish some basic security schemes for observation and reporting. The stalwart guardsmen he’d assembled agreed to don civilian clothes and skulk about the wineshops and taverns, the docks and the refugee camps, watching, remembering, and reporting. By the end of the week the lonely parchment on her table had multiplied thirtyfold.