Pentandra just hoped their lad appreciated the number of people willing to risk themselves and their prosperity to see him succeed. With hopeful days like this one, that actually seemed like a possibility.
Chapter Eleven
The Woodsmen Of Vorone
Vorone was blessed by a few sunny, warm days of a false spring before midwinter officially marked the waning season, allowing the piles of filthy slush in the streets to finally release weeks’ worth of ordure into the sewers and into the rivers. When Pentandra returned to the town, there were even a few disoriented daffodils that had been fooled by the thaw, peeking their shoots out of the snow.
The warmth was a mixed blessing, for a variety of reasons. Commerce flourished as folk actually came outside for a few days to do more than get firewood or water from the well. The markets were full of townspeople as they stocked up on supplies and enjoyed a few days’ sunshine before the inevitable late-season blizzard the weatherwise had foretold buried them once again. Coin changed hands. The roads opened up a bit, and some of the nearby estates that had been snow-locked since before Yule sent people to market.
But the same roads that brought honest folk to Vorone also brought the desperate from the camps. Hundreds of vagabonds and urchins poured into Vorone in the sunshine, begging and stealing anything they could get their hands on despite the vigilance of the town watch. Pentandra saw the desperate faces with prominent cheekbones from hunger and malnutrition on her way to and from the palace every morning. If the winter had been harsh for the town; it had been unbearable in the camps that surrounded it.
The business of the court since the Restoration had grown beyond mere assessment and repair, as new officers began their duties and old officers proceeded with new guidance and fresh resources. The new Master of Works had been charged with a half-dozen emergency projects to help secure the city, and the new Master of Hall had been tasked with cleansing and provisioning the palace and its stream of new arrivals. Both men set their staffs to work with purpose.
The column of supporters the Duke’s party had gathered in Gilmora finished arriving, and between the newcomers and the Orphan’s Band, the place was bursting at its decorative seams. Pentandra’s official office was now a barracks for useless but important aristocrats, until they could secure quarters in the crowded city. She had ensured that the offices archives and the treasury, such as it was, was secure and spellbound, but apart from that there was little she could do about the situation.
Without an office, staff, or access to records much of what she could do in her official capacity was limited. She made contact with the important magi in the area, mind-to-mind, to make them aware of her new position and spread the word of Duke Anguin’s rule. With the Wilderlands roads snowed under and impassable, communication between scattered settlements was sparse – if it wasn’t for magic.
That was something else she added to her list of new duties: establishing a working Mirror node here in Vorone. The operations she had seen in Castabriel and Sevendor had been impressive. Messages were communicated through pools of water and carefully-contrived spells from one node to the other – for a small fee. They were run by the Arcane Orders, and as Vorone had no real chapterhouse here, as Court Wizard she was the wizard responsible for developing the Mirror array by default.
That meant hiring more wizards, finding a place to house the node, and securing the enchantments she needed from Minalan and magical craftsmen. Pentandra could probably have figured out how to do it herself, but while she was technically a thaumaturge Minalan had an entire manufactory of enchanters working on such things. That wasn’t really her area of interest. And without a secure area dedicated to the task, establishing a Mirror node would have to wait until she had an office. And assistants.
Until then, her business with the court involved less savory pursuits.
The melting snow brought other revelations to light as corpses found their way to the surface of the snowbank that had concealed them for weeks, possibly. Dozens of bodies were found across Vorone in the next few days. Many were poor unfortunates who had no better place to take shelter, and who died in a tomb of snow. Others, mostly in the proximity of taverns and inns, had slit throats or bashed heads. And still others had a single drop of blood frozen in their left ear, and no other wound.
Those were the ones who found their afterlife beginning in Pentandra’s cellar, the day after she returned to Vorone from her errand to Count Marcadine.
“Why are there six corpses in my cellar?” she asked Constable Vemas, one morning, over tea.
“They were the six definitely slain with a Rat’s Tail,” he explained, merrily, as he poured the hot water for her. “Six corpses who crossed paths with our villains.”
“And they are in my cellar . . . why?”
“I thought that would be the best place for you to work on them,” he pointed out, as he offered her honey.
“Me, work on them? How?”
“Magically,” he explained. “If you, my dear wizard, can use your eldritch powers to determine who these men were and why they were targeted, that gives us valuable insight on the Crew’s present operations. And perhaps clues to their other cells.”
“How so?”
“All of these men were slain and concealed since Yule. Normally, as I understand things, most criminal operations are put on hold during such periods of heavy weather. Thieves and thugs cannot get to work if everyone else is home. So these men,” he said, gesturing to the six burlap-wrapped packages in the cellar below, “have had to been particularly naughty to stir the Crew to send such a message during a fallow period.”
“You are assuming that the ‘official’ method of execution would be reserved only for those who they thought needed to be made a message of,” she concluded.
“That is their traditional method,” the handsome Constable agreed.
“So what do you wish me to determine?”
“Their identities, for one. Then the identities of their murderers. Any information you could provide about the nature of the quarrel would be helpful,” he added, after consideration.
“You place a great store in my powers,” she said, evenly. There just weren’t spells written for that sort of thing. She would have to improvise.
“The second greatest mage in the kingdom should be able to level some keen insight into the affair,” he continued, diplomatically. “And as your husband is ranging the northern roads for a few days, I’m assuming that you may find your evenings lacking in entertainment.”
“So snuggling with a corpse or six is an idle amusement?” she sighed. “What my social life has become!”
As it turned out, Pentandra’s baculus, for which she was having a difficult time finding a name, did most of the work for her. As she cast her gaze over the half-dozen victims, the magic rod helpfully assembled key details for her review, things she might not have thought to consider on her own.
“The first is Wilderborn,” she declared, moments after beginning. “A fifth child, well-bred until his teenage years, then near-starved for a few years. He’s come out of it recently. He has worked as a smith, armorer, or ferrier recently. His fingers recently wore three rings, two of silver, one of gold. Judging by his shoes he was a frequent visitor to the docks and taverns of every sort.”
“Good, good,” the constable nodded, making notes on parchment, as well as sketching the body elegantly with his pen. “Anything else?”
Pentandra bent her rod closer to the body, and willed it to do a more in-depth inspection. “Yes,” she said, a few moments later. “He was terrified just before he died. Terrified and resentful, as if he’d been betrayed. He’d recently had a tooth pulled, and gotten a shave . . . something about the barber. The barber was the man who betrayed him,” she said, with a measure of assurance. “Where was this man found?”
“There are two barbers in that district,” the constable nodded, excitedly. “I will put a watch on both.”
They continued with the
next body, and the next, until Pentandra’s magic had revealed intimate details about each victim usually beyond the ken of normal investigation. When they were done with the last, she felt as if she had taken six brutal lovers in a row.
“Wine, my lady?” the constable asked. “I believe it’s about time for luncheon.”
“Wine would be good,” Pentandra agreed, tiredly. “So I have given you six lives, Constable. What can you make of them?”
“Actually, quite a picture,” the man said, shuffling his parchment. “Three of the victims you saw this morning were known to have recently acquired funds to some purpose, and were found in the same district – near to our barber friend. Two others were found on the opposite side of the district proximate to an inn that caters to merchant carters. The sixth was found in the center of the district, but was not slain there. He was a landless known to have incurred enough gambling debt with the Crew that he was seeking escape in the Iron Band. They, it appears, do not honor the King’s Forgiveness of their debts. Rather disloyal of them,” he clucked. “But since Sir Auderrei is a noble, unlike the rest of these rascals, his murder takes precedence. That is, I can devote more resources to his murder.”
“I thought you wanted more than a single murderer,” she pointed out, frowning.
“Oh, I do. But this makes some things easier, procedurally. Trust me,” he said, leading her to a chair back in the kitchen. “The Crew and Opilio the Knife wanted to send a message, after the brutal slaying of their thugs. The palace just received it.”
“So a barber and an inn,” she said, sighing. “Is that all you have?”
“Oh, goodness, no,” he smiled. “I have a fat folio on each of them, and a score others who plague the town. But these murders are recent enough to be able to act upon before their killers have moved out of the area. The Crew regularly rotates those who commit such crimes into other schemes to avoid detection. One of their many feints at the law.”
“Then you plan on arresting them?” she asked.
“No, my lady,” the constable said, gently. “I plan on responding to the ‘message’ with one of my own. I shall infiltrate each of these businesses, learn who is in charge . . . and then I will slay them in such a fashion that will make no mistake about their message,” he said, boldly.
Pentandra frowned. “To what end? To enrage and incite them further?”
“What can they do against the palace?” he shrugged. “Or a gang of animal-headed phantoms?”
“Plenty of things you cannot imagine,” she smirked. “Among plenty of things that you do. No, my dear constable, if you want to truly uncouple the hold the Crew has on the town, you do not need to boldly challenge them. You need to encourage them to destroy themselves, first, and then attack them from another, unexpected direction. I think it’s time your assassins were aided by High Magic.” she proposed.
“Gangster magi?” he chuckled. “Isn’t that a little out of your scholarly purview?”
“Not every user of magic is on the rolls of the Arcane Orders,” Pentandra said with certainty. “Some of the most famous Remeran vendettas used fictional organizations or secret societies to confuse and manipulate an opponent without revealing themselves. It was an old standard in the Game of Whispers.”
“The Remeran idea of politics,” he supplied.
“Just so,” Pentandra nodded. “The Game of Whispers often included clandestine acts of magic against political foes. It is said,” she said, loftily, “that every great Remeran family of magi has a secret codex of forbidden spells, passed down from generation to generation, to facilitate the house’s needs.”
Sir Vemas smirked, this time. “And I am to assume that you, Lady Pentandra, come from such a great house of magi?”
She snorted. “My family has been practicing magic since the earliest days of the Magocracy,” she replied. “In Perwyn. You may draw your own conclusions. The key, unfortunately, will be disguising that fact,” she said, frowning at the thought. “Even a spellmonger will immediately suspect me, or one of the other High Magi, and anyone with any skills will be assured.”
“I like that,” Vemas nodded. “We can add a band of loyal acolytes to the mysterious myth of the Master of the Wild. It wouldn’t take much stretch of the imagination to envision a fellow group of dark hedgemagi accompanying the nocturnal army of crazed killers bent on dominating Vorone’s underground.”
“Particularly,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “if those magi were to confront one of the Rats directly. Right now the Crew seems hell-bent to deny there’re any real Woodsmen, despite the bodies piling up. If one of them was forced to stare one of them in the eye, and hear it from their own lips, I imagine it would make quite an impression. And remove all doubt that the Woodsmen are real.”
“My lady Pentandra, you have a fascinating imagination,” Constable Vemas praised. “That has just the right mixture of mystification, malevolence, and magic to give us the cover we need! Consider: a few Dark Magi, unsavory fellows who have taken witchstones from the Penumbra, naturally see Vorone as a base for an independent operations . . . and are following the Master of the Wild on his quest for revenge against the Rats! Would that not be plausible?”
“It’s certainly romantic,” Pentandra said, rolling her eyes.
“The idea intrigues me! A cult of mysterious assassins, perhaps, led by some vile creature who took advantage of the war to enrich himself . . .”
“Misdirection is one of Master Minalan’s favorite ploys,” she conceded. “My plan was inspired on his use of news of a false peasant’s uprising to deter the Censorate from chasing him during his honeymoon. Deception is a wizard’s tool. Not to mention the basis for a great deal of Remeran drama. And I do have a taste for theater . . .”
Vemas’ charming wit complimented Pentandra’s need for intellectual stimulation, and the six corpses below them in the cellar provided ample (if macabre) inspiration for their planning.
“The timing must be adept,” Pentandra decided, imagining the difficult enterprise with her new baculus’ assistance. She was starting to sketch things out with magemaps, which were much simpler with the aid of the rod. “We must spread just the right rumor, inspire just the right suspicion, and calculate precisely what response we can expect Opilio to make.”
“Opilio might be difficult,” Vemas frowned. “He’s castled himself inside his headquarters, and rarely leaves, since his thugs started turning up dead . . . and without his silver. What if we chose one of his rivals, instead, to make the point?”
“If we can make them think they are under attack by their fellows,” Pentandra agreed, “perhaps we can convince one of the other captains to strike at Opilio preemptively.”
Constable Vemas considered, “They will likely try to negotiate before they fight. The Rat Crew has very specific rules about inter-crew fighting, as set as those for a formal duel. According to those rules, they are supposed to appeal to their superior for adjudication before they begin hostilities.”
“Would that not be an ideal situation, then?” Pentandra asked. “If we can get their leadership to congregate to settle the matter, we could eliminate them all at a time.”
“Oh, how bloodthirsty you are, in the name of the Duke,” Sir Vemas said, half reprovingly, half in admiration.
“You take issue with my methods?” she asked, surprised. “My lord, I am a Remeran,” she explained with a smirk. “We learn such plots as matters of national history and family honor. I have found few outside of Remere have the temerity to strike at their foes so boldly, yet so quietly, when hindered by the Laws of Luin.” Her own family had escaped the worst kinds of Remeran feuds and vendettas, thanks to her father’s stable but uninspired leadership, but she was aware of how bad they could become.
“When your duke gives you a command to eliminate the enemies of the realm, my lady, it is under the Laws of Duin that one proceeds. And, at need, under the shadowy Laws of Kulin.”
The trickster horselord was the professional outla
w of the barbaric pantheon, Pentandra knew, and under his unwritten “law” all manner of skullduggery was permitted.
Just as the Laws of Duin governed the proper conduct of warfare and delineated the responsibilities of the noble warrior, Kulin was the deity of the raider, the spy, the bandit. The use of violence outside of the law. Even when it was under the order of sovereign authority the largely unwritten “laws of Kulin” were embraced only by the desperate, the degenerate, and the devious.
In Remeran noble society the “laws of Kulin” were better known by their old Imperial name, the Game of Whispers. It politely implied the social power of a family willing to step outside of the law, without mentioning the poisonings, ambush attacks, and throat-cuttings, the blackmail, coercion, and corruption that usually accompanied a mere whispering campaign in Remere. The Game of Whispers and the Laws of Kulin both allowed (or at least acknowledged) all sorts of devious means to accomplish your goals. They were also used to rationalize all manner of nasty work in the service of the state, Pentandra knew.
“Then we shall kidnap one of the Knife’s rivals,” Vemas decided, “and put to him an ultimatum. Ishi’s tits, I’ll deliver it myself. “A mask and a cloak with a cowl – all very mysterious.”
Pentandra had to give all credit for the nocturnal force known as the Woodsman to the constable. Once given the idea, he eagerly pursued it until his men were armed and garbed according to plan.
He had procured dozens such outfits from the unlikeliest of places without arousing suspicion: inside the vaults of the palace. The attics and storerooms of the complex were filled with the residue of past revels, and that included a number of masks and costumes for the masquerade fad, when it had last infected the Alshari court. Sir Vemas had found a number of animal masks of cloth, wood, leather and plaster within them, cast-offs of entertainments of yore.
To combat the signature tool of murder the Crew carried, the iron shiv known as a Rat’s Tail, Sir Vemas and his men chose weapons designed to intimidate. While the Rat’s Tail was small and did not leave much of a trace, Constable Vemas wanted the attack on the Market ward’s Crew to send a message as much as eliminate the rogues.
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 27
