Thank you, for the congratulations that is. As for your old job . . . it isn’t the same as your old job, anymore, she informed the older man, glumly. If His Grace didn’t have me chasing ruffians and gangsters, I’m certain I would be bored to tears.
Boredom is the occupational hazard of the court wizard, Thinradel agreed. All of those reports!
What reports? Pentandra asked, confused.
The reports you get from your subordinates every week, Thinradel reminded her.
I don’t really have much in the way of subordinates, yet, Pentandra informed him, carefully.
How do you keep track of everything, then? The new applications? The requests? The inspections reports? Oh, I suppose you don’t have to deal with the dreadful amount of work the Censorate used to put us through, but still . . .
Uh, Thinradel? Pentandra asked, doubt heavy in her voice, just what does a court wizard . . . do?
Well, I suppose that’s changed, since Minalan came to town, he admitted. But essentially the job revolves around the civil administration of magic, at the ducal level, in your case. Which means you set policy, interpret policy, and hire and fire people to enforce that.
I understand the abstract, Pentandra frowned. I mean, just what are my expected duties?
You have a responsibility to identify and arrange for training all those with a demonstrable Talent within the duchy. You must administer the civil examinations and see that they are fairly graded, he ticked off his imaginary fingers. You must hire a spellwarden for the town, if they haven’t done that yet. You must oversee and arbitrate any disputes between wizards in your territory. You must render magical aid and assistance to the court, as needed and requested. In a time of war you are automatically the head of the magical corps. In peacetime, you are expected to render some sort of aid to the fortunes of the destitute among us. And encourage proper scholarship. And sit on panels and committees representing the magical interests of your region. And . . . well, there are a few other things, but that’s the most pressing for you. In a way, you’re quite lucky.
Lucky? In what possible way? Pentandra asked, crossly.
With the south in rebellion, you need only concern yourself with the magi in the Wilderlands. Before the war, there were only around sixty or so registered adepts and their apprentices to keep up with. I’m sure that number is a lot less, now. If you added in Enultramar, you’d have five times that number. And you no longer have to contend with the Censorate every time you open your window.
I do suppose that makes things easier, Pentandra admitted. I suppose hiring a few assistants is the wise thing to do.
Oh, it’s of the first importance, after keeping the Duke happy – something I was rarely able to manage. But do find a few capable assistants. It will make your life immeasurably easier.
I do enjoy telling other people what to do, Pentandra admitted. She was good at it, too, she knew. How many?
At least three, Thinradel answered, thoughtfully. One to oversee identification and education, one for registration and examinations, and one for investigations and enforcement. They’ll each need separate offices, eventually, but finding decent candidates shouldn’t be too hard. Vorone should be awash in them. Half of the spellmongers in Tudry and the smaller towns up here went to Vorone when the war started, and they haven’t returned yet. Too much competition from the High Magi on Spark Street. Find a few literate ones and they’ll be glad to work for you just for a stipend and livery, Thinradel proposed.
What about you? Pentandra asked, boldly.
Me? My dear, I’ll be happy to give you the benefit of my wisdom and experience, the older mage agreed, but my ambitions for position are well-sated. I don’t need a title.
I’m not offering you one. Nor a job, as such. But if you could inspect my office, the next time you are in town . . .
Oh, professional validation I can manage, Thinradel decided. I just didn’t want to get caught up in the obligation of government service again. I’ve never worked so hard to get a job I disliked so much as that one. Of course, having a superior who had a marked dislike of our profession didn’t help . . .
I think you’ll find Anguin far more accommodating toward magic than his sire, promised Pentandra. Minalan is financially backing his claim to the coronet, and Anguin understands how the future of the Wilderlands is dependent upon the magi. At least I think he does, she added, wondering if any of their talks with the Orphan Duke had actually penetrated the young man’s mind.
I look forward to meeting him again, assured the former Court Wizard. I recall him, vaguely, as a boy, but rarely spoke to him. Time to repair that, I suppose. A party of us plan on going to Vorone in time for the fire festival. Just a lark, really, to get us out of this dreary castle – and someplace other than Tudry. The charm of that town has receded, he said, dryly.
I shall alert the constabulary, she joked. Pentandra didn’t think she needed to mention just how close to the town’s watch she’d become.
I’ll be glad to take a look at your office then and make any suggestions, promised Thinradel. In the meantime, just look busy and mysterious. Keep the duke happy. The rest of the court will probably leave you alone.
Chapter Ten
Count Marcadine
“Four seated barons are all we can muster?” frowned the young duke at the news. They were in the Hall of Games, where Anguin had temporarily made his office for the day. He was still unwilling to occupy his father’s old solar, and the lad had made a practice of trying out various chambers in the palace to find one that suited him. This evening they had convened in the Hall of Games, where they had ignored the hundreds of games and puzzles the duchy had collected over the years in favor of discussing rescuing the duchy from oblivion.
He sat under a canopied chair in front of an ornate table, one leg dangling over the heavily-carved arm of the chair as he took counsel from his advisors and frowned in irritation. “Briga’s Day is approaching, and I expected at least twice that number!”
Pentandra felt both honored and pressed by the responsibility of attending these informal sessions between the sovereign and his inner cabinet. They were held casually every few days as the senior members of the council discussed matters of policy with Duke Anguin, usually in some innocuous locale. Of course, that was in addition to the regular, official meetings scheduled throughout the week, but then they were also where more actual business got done than the ungainly staff meetings.
That was a puzzle enough for the court, Pentandra was realizing. Getting the southern barons here to swear fealty and provide troops to keep order in the capital city was never going to be easy, everyone knew. It didn’t help that there weren’t that many baronies to begin with.
“It should not be surprising,” Father Amus said, regarding the map of the region with pursed lips. He’d been absent from many of this week’s gatherings as he strove to straighten out the ecclesiastic orders of Vorone. But the old priest knew the politics of the Wilderlands perhaps better than anyone else in the court. He cleared his throat, and with a glance at his liege for permission, he explained.
“With the death of Baron Edmarin, his lands are unassigned. Baron Marcadine – sorry, Count Marcadine – has retired to his estates, inconsolable over his failure to protect the Wilderlands or his duke. He’s the senior landed noble left in the region. Should we secure his support, many, if not most, of the southern lords would follow. He represents the last real Great House in the Wilderlands left intact, and his opinion is respected amongst his vassals and his rivals alike.”
“Well, how can we enlist his support, if he is reluctant to respond to a request from his duke?” asked Anguin, still frowning.
“It would be helpful if we could send someone to kindly and politely drag him back to civilization to show off to his peers. Without his presence, it will be difficult to persuade the other barons to support His Grace in anything but name.”
“I’ll go to invite Marcadine,” Count Salgo volunteered, surpris
ingly. “I campaigned with the Count at Timberwatch. I’d like Lady Pentandra to go with me as well – his estate is only two day’s ride to the southwest.”
“Lady Pentandra?” asked Father Amus, before Pentandra could ask herself. “Why?”
“Because she is so charming,” the old warrior smiled. “And so persuasive. I can appeal to his honor as a warrior, and she can appeal to his . . . higher nature.”
“If you say so,” Pentandra replied, frowning. She didn’t feel particularly persuasive. Or charming, these days.
“You really are quite charming, when you have a mind to be, Pentandra,” agreed Count Angrial with a thin smile. “And His Grace trusts your judgment,” he added, implying that the Prime Minister therefore did as well. “Yes, see if you two can persuade Count Marcadine to come and give his counsel to the court. He likely wouldn’t make it in time for Briga’s Day, unless he hurried, but a public demonstration of support and an oath of fealty by the equinox, say, would not be amiss. It would go far to keep the opponents of Your Grace’s rule from gaining leverage in doubt of his support.”
“Are there those who do not support the restoration?” asked Sister Saltia in surprise. “I thought everyone was glad to see the bloody baron gone!”
“There are those who are not wildly in favor of it,” Father Amus explained, his lips pursed in half a smile. “I’ve heard much of the story from speaking with my fellow clergy this week. If you want accurate gossip about the nobility, the clergy are only slightly less reliable than their own servants.”
“So what say the clergy about politics?” asked Anguin.
“That there are men who are not friendly to the ducal house. Baron Restobuin is still in recovery from a vicious wound he took in battle defending his lands against the gurvani, two years ago, and he is not particularly well-disposed to the coronet, anyway. The estates of Baron Mishet, like Edmarin, are forfeit to the coronet and have not been assigned.”
That had been a nasty business, Pentandra recalled. Baron Mishet had marched his men up the Timber Road to defend his lands against the gurvani, as did most of the other Wilderlords. Only Mishet had sold his loyalty out to the goblins ahead of time, and withdrew from supporting his liege at a crucial point in the battle. Stripping him of his lands and titles had been one of the first – and only – useful actions Baron Edmarin had taken, though he’d awarded their stewardship (and a share of their tribute) to his own men. The Baron himself was still at large, exiled and outlawed. If he still lived, no news of it had reached Vorone.
“Why aren’t there more barons riding?” asked Saltia, confused.
“Because, Sister, thanks to the method in which the Wilderlands were settled,” explained Count Salgo, “only about half of the domains are actually under baronial control. Most are subject to their individual lords, mainly knights bannerets, and swear fealty to their count, directly. Or the duke, if they are not within a county. They are very independent-minded folk,” he cautioned, “but they do tend to follow the lead of the barons in situations like this. If they see the peers of the realm supporting the duke, then they will follow suit – however reluctantly.
“That leaves Baron Rei, Baroness Burshara, Baron Steldru, and Baron Dasion within a week’s ride of Vorone. Little is known about their politics, relative to the restoration, but the very fact that they are riding with their guards as requested is instructive,” pointed out the priest.
“If they are truly loyal,” Duke Anguin said, doubtfully. “Otherwise it could just be planning a coups d’ etat.”
“They won’t have had time to organize such a thing,” dismissed Count Salgo, holding out his glass for a servant to refill. “From what our messengers have said, everyone was quite surprised by Anguin’s arrival. It was a development no one, not here or in the Royal Court, expected. It takes time and communication for a conspiracy to work properly.”
“My liege, there is yet no reason to doubt their loyalty,” the prime minister suggested, pouring tea for the young man. He did not encourage the lad to drink too much wine after sunset. “If they were disloyal, they would find an excuse not to come and prepare to resist your rule in force. More than likely, they come out of a sense of duty and a curiosity about your new regime. If we invoke their aid and demonstrate that a strong and vocal support for the new regime is in their best interests, I have every confidence that much more such support will be forthcoming. Especially if we sweeten the stew a bit,” he smiled.
“How so?” asked Anguin, confused.
“First we settle the dispute between Burshara and one of her neighbors in her favor – which is what Father Jodas was inclined to recommend, anyway. We grant new estates to Steldru and Rei near to Vorone. I know which ones they covet, and that will give them all the incentive they need to support the regime. And lastly, we order a vast amount of wood from Dasion’s sawmills . . . to aid in the reconstruction of the palace,” he suggested, after some thought.
“You’re suggesting we bribe them?” asked the young duke, doubtfully. “I thought the palace storehouses were already full of timber?”
“That is the traditional way to get things done,” Father Amus said, dryly. “And while we technically have no immediate need for the lumber, I’m certain we can find a use for it. Believe me, purchasing a few hundred ounces of silver worth of lumber that we’ll eventually use is a small price to pay to secure Dasion’s support. It will take him time to fulfill the order, and he won’t even think about starting trouble until it’s fulfilled.”
“I like it,” Angrial agreed. “We can use the occasion to announce assignment of the two vacant baronies, too. We have acceptable candidates for both of them, I think,” he said, biting his lip in thought. “That will keep them intact and put solid leadership in place there. That will also decrease the worry that you are the kind of duke who likes to pick up spare baronies.” All of the dukes had lesser titles attached to their names, based on their holdings, even if they were nominal.
“Not when I’m trying to run a duchy,” the young Anguin said, shaking his head. “Gods, why would I want one?”
“For the revenue, my liege,” supplied Father Amus. “If run properly through trusted clients, baronies can be lucrative things.”
“If the estates they contain are competently run,” snorted Count Salgo. “That’s where we are really amiss. What use are barons if they head hollow baronies?”
“Which is why the court will be granting a good number of estates and domains to worthy nobles at Briga’s Day,” answered Count Angrial. “The faster we can get them out of their winter slumber and into production, the better for all. Especially for the nearby estates. Plowing and planting need to be organized, peasants hired for the task, halls will need to be repaired . . . the sooner we have men in place who can ensure the estates are working, the sooner those new barons will mean something to us.”
The duke didn’t look terribly impressed. “If what my scouts have told me is true, that is Huin’s own amount of work,” he said, dejected.
“A challenge is all, my liege,” Father Amus assured him. “A challenge that will reveal those well-suited to the task, and those better suited for other duties,” he said, diplomatically.
*
*
Count Marcadine wore the face of a man long used to confronting his failures daily. His dark eyes looked haunted under his thick black eyebrows, and his jaw was set at a permanent angle that suggested he had little tolerance for anything that might distract him from that guilt.
Marcadine was a powerfully-built man, Pentandra saw from the way he paced about his chamber in full armor as if he was wearing tights-and-tunic, but his confidence as a warrior did not flow from that strength as much as it originated with his self-mastery. It was a subtle thing, but then Pentandra was becoming a more subtle wizard the longer she served the court.
In truth, Pentandra did not mind the short trip a few days before the Briga’s Day midwinter holiday. Though the days had settled into a routine for
her – up at dawn, head to the palace for meetings, return home in the afternoon to work with the Woodsmen and wait for Arborn to return from his latest mission – she found her position isolating, and a short journey to a nearby estate, even on an urgent mission, was a welcome relief.
It helped that she understood the grave importance of recruiting Count Marcadine. She remembered the man from her few days on the periphery of the old Alshari court. He had been the most willing to listen, and had worked to gain the support of the other nobles in Lenguin’s court to defend the realm. Securing him would add tremendous stability to the regime, so she spared no effort on the Duke’s behalf.
A mere five years ago Marcadine had been one of the most powerful figures in the Duchy, a senior Wilderlord from a distinguished great house with a prestigious regional history as leaders and allies to the Ducal house. His line had even intermarried with the duke’s, in ages past. His much-admired barony was legendary for its efficiency and profitability, and his own charisma was sufficient to persuade his peers to elect him as Count in his youth, when the position became available. His arms, a golden ram on a black shield, were universally respected in the southern Wilderlands . . . and his strength was wisely feared as he rose in power.
A few years after his election to Count, after rendering outstanding service on the Farisian Campaign, Duke Lenguin had raised him to the post of Lord Marshal of the North, nominally responsible for the military security of the Alshari Wilderlands. The position was largely symbolic – apart from the traditional feuds and vendettas between the contentious Wilderlords or rebellions by native tribes, there was little to threaten the peace of the Wilderlands back then.
Then the goblin invasion began, and no one seemed better-suited to lead the defense of the Wilderlands than Count Marcadine. Strong, intelligent, valiant, well-respected, he was the war leader who seemed capable of driving the gurvani off through pure will and determination alone.
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 25
