In actuality, none of the Woodsmen were Rats, of course. Nor were any of the other crew captains captive, only Bloodfinger. But by implanting in his mind the idea that his fellows in the Crew were actively conspiring against him in secret, it was hoped that they could convince the violent ruffian to take action on his own.
Pentandra ensured his cooperation , quietly using her baculus under her long, musty-smelling robe to manipulate the man’s emotional responses. It was somewhat sophisticated Blue Magic – the dangerous discipline known as Psychomantics – but Pentandra was not unskilled in its use, for a dabbler. There were plenty of occasions in the pursuit of Sex Magic that Psychomancy came in handy.
But she had underestimated the additional leverage that her strange new artifact gave her. As Sir Vemas continued to threaten Bloodfinger, her intended desire to enflame the crimelord’s paranoia manifested in a far more complex iteration of the spell than she’d anticipated. Her baculus eagerly invaded the man’s mind and dictated his emotional responses to the idea of conspiracies against him with breathtaking efficiency.
Now, Pentandra realized, no matter how far-fetched an idea Bloodfinger heard, if it could be construed as an attack against him, it would be. When the hints that Opilio the Knife and Harl the Huntsman were sending spies and assassins into the docks made their way to his ears, Pentandra realized, he would seize on the idea and respond viciously . . . and recklessly.
“One Rat,” Vemas whispered to the man hoarsely. “One survivor.” When he nodded to Carastan, the big guardsman slugged the Rat across the back of the neck with a sandbag, sending him back into unconsciousness. Two other guardsmen began wrapping him up in a threadbare tapestry, in preparation for transporting him back to the docks.
Just how they planned to leave the unconscious crimelord was up to their judgment, but Pentandra had a sudden idea. The Woodsmen had littered the little room with various bits of cut greenery to confuse Bloodfinger and add credence to the idea that they were a rustic, woods-loving people. She selected a pinecone about the size of her palm and handed it to the two men who would return Bloodfinger.
“Here,” she urged. “When you put him back, try to do something interesting to him with this,” she proposed, handing the cone to one of the men. He looked at her blankly for a moment through the holes in his mask, but then Pentandra heard the grin in his voice as he agreed.
“Now, since we’re all dressed up,” Sir Vemas announced, “let’s not let the effort go to waste!”
The struggle against the Rats had become a nightly affair, by Briga’s Day. The Woodsmen were careful, never attacking one of the Rats until they were alone and outnumbered. As the days grew in length and the snows melted the animal-headed horrors who stalked the Crew in the night left behind them a trail of conquered foes. A strongman here, with his throat slit in a public privy. A sneak thief there, stabbed in the back as he relieved himself against the back of a building. Another was found under a bridge, his head thirty feet away. Every murder was deliberate and designed to enflame suspicion. When Opilio’s men started going everywhere in pairs, the Woodsmen changed their tactics.
Pentandra scryed into Opilio’s dark office and learned that he planned to raid a shop owned by Harl the Huntsman, one of Opilio’s most fierce rivals in the organization, whom he suspected was behind the Woodsmen. Sir Vemas counted that as a fortunate enough opportunity to strike.
Since their first combats Opilio’s remaining men had been forced to be more bold in their approach to their thuggery . . . but apparently felt inspired by their mysterious foes. They had taken to donning masks of their own when they wished to escape identification, for example beating a rival crew into submission: those of giant black rats.
The masks were crude, compared to the court masks the Woodsmen wore, but they did serve to guard their identities. When four masked Rats pillaged a clandestine game of dice regularly sponsored by one of Harl’s men, they left three of their erstwhile mates from Harl’s Crew behind, bleeding to death, in retribution for the perceived war.
But the Woodsmen’s rumors had done their work. As the rat-masked ruffians were walking back to the Market ward, they themselves were ambushed by the Woodsmen, who slew three of the rogues in speedy fashion before the fourth ran off. Doffing their masks and moving about their business quickly made the appearance and disappearance of the Woodsmen a mysterious and treacherous rumor, nothing more. After losing a half a score of his men, Opilio was half-crazed with suspicion.
That’s when it was felt best to strike again.
“Poor, poor rat,” Vemas clucked as he counted out the last of the stolen silver. “Ten thugs gone, over a thousand silver vanished, and more than half of his ‘clients’ have paid him off.”
“That has to be the most maddening thing,” chuckled Carastan. “To have that much money on the books and yet so little in the coffers . . . and every time he gets more, it evaporates.”
“How long until he loses his temper, I wonder?” Mastril speculated. “He’s got to be going mad with paranoia by now.”
“Oh, he is, he is,” Fen the Quick agreed. “I shadowed him around that barber’s shop all day, and he was screaming and shouting like he’d been stung. His men all have that glazed, frightened look in their eye.”
“But what can he do, against a foe who won’t stand and fight?” asked Pentandra.
They found out the next day. One of the early beneficiaries of the Woodsmen’s largesse, a cobbler on Hide Street, was discovered in a vacant lot, frozen in the cold of night, his hands, feet, and face smashed with his own hammer.
There was nothing that the little man could have told Opilio and the Crew about the Woodsmen. They had been meticulous about hiding their identities and their operations from the people they were helping.
But the idea that the rats had gnawed the innocent man to death and destroyed his family to discover that intelligence angered Pentandra and recommitted the guards to their course of action.
Chapter Twelve
The Politics Of Alshar
“Well, that went better than I expected,” the Orphan Duke said philosophically in his chambers that afternoon, after the court session regarding the barons swearing fealty was over. He invited (which was a polite way to say “ordered”) a select few advisors to attend him. Pentandra and Astyral had been among them.
The selection was a clear message to the mundane lords, some of whom were beginning to grow suspicious of the role that magi played in the new court. From Pentandra’s perspective, the message Anguin was sending to them by her inclusion was simple: magic was here to stay in the Wilderlands.
That was an important point for Anguin to make to his more established vassals. Despite the important role they played in the restoration, there was plenty of resentment about their (her) influence in the Duke’s ear.
But Anguin was no fool, by cultivating the relationships. The mundane barons of the south were just not as vital to the future of the realm as the magi who held the north against the gurvani. Pentandra felt gratified that the Duke recognized that.
She was less excited about the attention he had focused on her office and her profession.
“How so, Sire?” asked Astyral, gracefully pouring wine for the three of them. He had arrived in the night with a generous party from Tudry. “Were you expecting the barons to revolt on the spot? That would have been awkward,” he admitted.
“It has happened before,” Anguin pointed out. “Nine barons in Enultramar threw their chains at the feet of my ancestor, Durguin. The Nine Viscounts Revolt lasted twenty years.”
“Your Grace is a scholar,” Astyral said, approvingly.
“I was raised for three years in a monetary of Huin,” he replied. “I know the history of my own house.”
“Different circumstances entirely,” Pentandra dismissed, shaking her head. She wasn’t as familiar with Alshari politics as Remeran, but the incident was well-known. “These barons need you more than you need any one of them individually.”
“That realization is probably the only thing that kept them from rebelling,” Anguin said, as he flopped into his canopied chair. “But I did anticipate more objection to your appointment to Lord Steward of Tudry. And Azar as Baron of Megelin.”
“On what basis could they object?” snorted Pentandra. “They’ve been doing the jobs for years, anyway. They might as well get the titles and recognition for it.”
“Exactly,” agreed Anguin. “Still, the barons are always eager to cling to their prerogatives, and some of them – Dasion in particular – are not terribly pleased by the ascendency of the magi in Alshar.”
“If the good baron is that concerned,” Astyral drawled, “then I invite him to come north and replace me at my post. Indeed, I would entertain a direct trade of responsibilities and prerogatives. I think he would reconsider his position quite rapidly.”
“No doubt,” agreed Anguin with a humorless smile. “He is unlikely to take you up on that offer. But he and the other barons did raise some interesting questions. I thought I might take counsel with you both on them.”
“Such as, Sire?” asked Pentandra.
“Well, I have been repeatedly cautioned against becoming involved with the Arcane Orders, because wizards are notoriously demanding, outrageous, and untrustworthy. Yet I have been restored to the throne a month or more, and you have yet to demand even one outrageous thing of me, or convince me to entertain any evil plots.” He looked from one mage to the other. “What kind of wizards are you?”
“The prudent sort, Your Grace,” Pentandra laughed. “The only things I might have asked the coronet for are the ones you’ve granted today: raising the magi who have been protecting the realm to their proper stations. And to refurbish my quarters,” she added, casually.
That was such a common request by now that it did not merit a comment. Duke Anguin looked around at his magical vassals, none of whom had hesitated to take the oath of fealty. “Yet here I am in need of your service, my friends. I was not bluffing, when I told the barons that I would be depending more heavily on the magi in the north. Already the greatest centers of power are under your control.
“But I need more,” he insisted. “I need magelords and warmagi who are willing to stand and fight, and defend the land. More, I need them smart enough to administer them without courting ruin. And I need them loyal enough so that I can depend upon their obedience in emergencies and their compliance with my rule in peace times.”
“There are several magi I can think of who fit that bill, Your Grace,” Astyral affirmed. “Starting with Magelord Terleman, recently released from Ducal service. If you wanted a leader who could spearhead a resettlement, you could do worse than Terleman. If you can retain him.”
“I cannot speak for his abilities in war, save to recall his reputation, but he is a powerful mage,” agreed Pentandra. “Yet I would also ask Your Grace to consider non-warmagi. Master Thinradel, for instance, is a mage of proven temperament and administrative abilities.”
“Why not both?” Anguin proposed with a shrug. “From what I have seen and been shown, the eastern domains are all but deserted. There is room for realms between the great river and the Pearwoods. If we peppered the region with magi, and seeded it liberally with peasants, that might season it well enough to withstand any serious assault. And perhaps provide some revenue, down the river.”
“Magi alone won’t be able to do it, I’m afraid,” Astyral said, shaking his head. “Such an effort will require a tremendous amount of labor, even with magic.”
“Yet magic can reduce the need,” reminded Pentandra. “With a score of plowing and reaping wands, for instance, thrice as much land can be farmed by the same number of peasants, with higher yields. At least according to Olmeg the Green,” she admitted.
“We won’t even get to the spring planting, if we don’t get some help sooner,” Anguin said, quietly. “The price of seed is untenable. Father Amus has been exploring some issues within the town.”
That sounded serious, from the young duke. Pentandra stopped, her tea cup half way to her lip. “What kind of issues, Your Grace?”
“For the last three years the grain merchants from Castal have been savagely manipulating the markets in Vorone,” he sighed. “There isn’t nearly enough grain being grown as surplus on the local estates to feed the town anymore, and in order to make up for the deficit Edmarin brought in grain merchants from Wilderhall. At great expense,” he added, “for every sack of wheat that crosses the frontier is subject to a Castali tax. He allowed them to set prices, as long as they were kept reasonable and the palace was supplied.
“But that meant that every spring since my parents died, when the peasants were planting and plowing, the prices would rise higher than temple steeples. Four times what they were at harvest,” he said, frowning. “They use the scarcity to improve their profits, and charge the same on every sack whether it was grown here or taxed by Castal!”
“What can we do about such things, Your Grace?” Astyral asked, his fingers spread.
“Figure out a way to lower that price,” Duke Anguin said, sourly. “Two ounces of silver for a bushel of wheat is going to put bread out of reach of many, if we don’t.”
The standard price was seven silver pennies per bushel, Pentandra knew. Even that was a lot, by her standards. Commodities were not her specialty, but her cousin Planus invested in them regularly. He had made a fortune or two just in cotton futures.
“How much grain would it take to off-set their prices, do you think?” she asked, her eyes glazed over as she calculated.
“From what I understand, Vorone’s market sells about a ton of grain a day, on average,” considered the duke. “That doubles as peasants buy seed corn in the spring. If we could just ensure that there was a sufficiency . . .”
“Would thirty or forty tons of wheat do it?” Pentandra asked, finally.
“That would keep them from having control over the price,” agreed the duke. “But getting it through Castal would be tricky. My idiot cousin has his men control how much crosses the frontier as a support for his own markets. Letting thirty or forty tons of grain go by is going to startle them.”
“Bide a moment, Your Grace,” she begged, glancing at Astyral. Then she contacted her cousin, mind-to-mind. It was much, much easier to do now that she had her overlarge stone and her baculus to help cast the spell.
Pentandra! Planus’ mental voice shouted at her enthusiastically. How is married life?
As exciting as it sounds, she dismissed. Hey, have you been down to the market lately?
Just this morning, he admitted. Why?
What was the price of wheat, if you don’t mind me asking? And if you remember?
Well, her cousin said, after a long and thoughtful pause, funny you should mention it. There was a bumper crop of wheat and barley from Moros and Morone, in the north. They sent it south to sell, but it arrived just as the corn harvest from Sendulus arrived in port, so . . . about six pennies per sack, he decided. For wheat. Four pennies for oats. Three for maize.
A sack held about two bushels, she knew. How many could you get me? By the end of the week?
All you need, Planus assured. The market is lousy and prices are dropping. Are you considering changing professions? Or just taking up baking?
Just expanding mine. I’ll arrange for transport shortly, but go ahead and acquire about forty or fifty tons.
Under your name?
Open the account under the Duke of Alshar’s name, she decided. I’ll act as agent, but he’s paying for it.
Alshar? That’s a long way to cart grain, Penny, he cautioned.
We’re magi, we don’t cart grain anymore, remember? she chided. We still have those supply wands from last year. You just cram the grain into one of them, and I’ll take it out on this side.
We can do the payment the same way, he decided, approvingly. I do loathe carrying around a lot of coin. Very well. I shall prepare it. It should be ready within the week, he ass
ured her. But only for my dearest cousin, in celebration of her nuptials, would I—
Yes, yes, I get it, Pentandra smiled to herself. I owe you.
As long as we have an understanding, Planus agreed.
“The grain problem is handled,” she announced a moment later, once she had opened her eyes and waited for a polite break in conversation. “With a little help from Sevendor and my cousin, we should be able to flood the market with cheap corn and keep the merchants from making much profit. The poor will have a decent chance to eat this spring. And we’ll be avoiding Tavard’s tax collectors,” she added, explaining the spell. As the duke had witnessed such magic on the Long March last year, he understood how she proposed to deliver and pay for it.
“That’s amazing,” smiled the young duke. “And the fact that Castal loses out makes it all the better!”
“What other matters does Your Grace have for us to solve today?” asked Astyral, charmingly.
“Keeping the riots at bay would be nice,” the duke said, his expression changing.
“I’m working on that, Sire,” Pentandra assured him. “In fact, tonight should prove decisive.”
*
*
There was a sense of dread and expectation in the air on the street that night. While Briga’s festival had not been the days of debauchery that Yule had produced, Midwinter was often the first social occasion anyone had since the solstice.
But with the Orphan’s Band patrols gone from the cold, foggy street, replaced by lightly-armed watchmen, the nightly twilight war between the Rat Crew and the Woodsmen heated up. The dark, animal headed figures could be seen skulking in shadows, their heavy swords concealed within their dark cloaks. The Rats, too, had tried to make a showing on the streets at night, posting guards and watchers at the edges of their territories, nervously watching for the mysterious Woodsmen. Most common folk eschewed the lure of social drinking and gossip in favor of an early night.
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 29
