Those who clung to the streets after midnight were rarely there to celebrate the Flame That Burneth Bright; they were far more inclined to invoke Kulin Evershadow, the patron of thieves and footpads. Or Pram the Blessed, patron of distillers and barmen, worshiped with hangovers and fountains of vomit. Or even Ishi’s less-expensive caress.
But regardless of their religion, those who wandered abroad in Vorone were wary. The days’ riots in the Temple quarter had inspired dread and despair in many of the common folk, as had the departure of the Orphans’ Band. Even the arrival of the four barons – and a handful of magelords – hadn’t served to calm them. There was a palpable sense of fear hovering over the town.
Pentandra herself was wary. After her busy day at court, it was time for her to transform from Court Wizard to crimelord as she coordinated the major effort this evening. It wasn’t easy – this was perhaps the most elaborate foray the Woodsman had made. This wasn’t a simple stalk-and-slaughter mission, as the Woodsmen were used to performing on the Rats they caught away from their holes. This was a kidnapping, and the timing had to be just right.
In a way, the chaos the Rat Crew seeded in the Temple ward and in the refugee camps aided their efforts. There were few abroad on the streets that night, near the docks where their plan would be executed. The covered coach was prepared, the guards and watchers were in place, and she’d cast the spells necessary for this part of the operation in advance. Things should go off without a hitch.
As she finished going over the plan she and Sir Vemas had concocted to put pressure between the various factions of the Crew, she felt the whisper of mental contact as someone attempted to contact her, mind-to-mind.
It wasn’t the best time. Yet better she settle any issues now, and not when they were in the middle of their mission this evening.
Pentandra! Came Astyral’s mental “voice”. Where are you? Azar and I want to go investigate the wonders of the Street of Perfume, and wanted a native guide!
Pentandra thought of the dangers lurking on that brightly-colored part of town and considered warning her friend. But she knew Astyral would just laugh at danger. He was a deadly warmage, one of the best, and he had both a Gilmoran’s sense of class and style as well as a low and suspicious mind – which meant that he, more than anyone else she could think of, was likely proof against the temptations of that street.
She considered recruiting him instead for her mission, but there was already enough debate about the place of magi in the new court. Besides, if Astyral got involved, he’d be more inclined to ask questions than just do what needed to be done. For this operation they didn’t need a warmage, they needed subtlety.
You go ahead, she urged. I’ve got some court business tonight to attend to.
Aw, Penny! complained Astyral. We were counting on you for some introductions! We don’t want to be treated like rubes from the country!
You and Azar are rubes from the country, she quipped. You realize that Vorone is the largest town in the Wilderlands?
Yes, and the fourteenth largest in Alshar, Astyral replied, drolly. I’m enjoying this pretense at being a duchy as much as anyone, Pentandra, but . . .
We’ll get to retaking the south, she promised. Besides, I thought you were a Gilmoran? I thought your folk hated the Alshari?
Not at all! Astyral said, sounding hurt at the suggestion. My family were loyalists to Alshar – mostly. We only reluctantly accepted the Second Peace of Barrowbell, not that we had much choice. Despite the economic advantages that accrued to the nobles with the switch in allegiance, don’t think it’s without issues. There are plenty of old Cotton Lord families which would like to see themselves Alshari, not Castali.
Well, now we’re all in one big happy kingdom, so it really doesn’t matter much, anymore.
Except to the rebels in Enultramar, he reminded her. They think it matters. Hells, that’s one reason that they’re rebelling. They felt Anguin’s line was too conciliatory, and they wanted more traditional leadership. Meaning one of his easily-manipulatable first and second cousins in Falas or Roen. So when the opportunity came, the southern Alshari figured that losing the Wilderlands, after already losing Gilmora, was a fair price to pay if it also lost them Anguin.
That doesn’t seem very . . . feudal, she replied.
Oh, it’s not – don’t forget, the basic feudal system was developed under the Narasi. Before that, it was households of Sea Lords and Coast Lords who dueled for control of Alshar. They worked through alliances between great houses, decentralized authority descended from their maritime culture. That’s what they want to return to, a time when a man’s power established him, not necessarily his birthright. They’ve seen too many weak Narasi dukes in the last century.
We can still restore him to power, Pentandra countered. Eventually. Once things are stable here.
My dear, I love you like a sister, Astyral drawled into her mind, but when it comes to Alshari politics you have much to learn, Pentandra. You can’t just push Anguin to the front of the room, point out he’s the rightful heir, and expect to have the court fawn over him. Traditionally the older families of Alshar prefer to see some proof of worthiness in their monarchs before they invest them with that kind of duty.
Wouldn’t rescuing the Wilderlands from certain demise count? demanded Pentandra.
Only if Anguin n can transform it into a new fleet, Astyral reported. The southerners don’t have much use for it, otherwise. Face it, Penny, as smart as the lad is – and I’m impressed with him, don’t mistake me – the Wilderlands is likely to be the only part of Alshar he ever controls as Duke. Taking the south militarily is laughable, with the resources he has now. And doing it without a navy would be insane. Unless you can beat the Sea Lords at sea and the Coast Lords on land, it’s going to be tough to break the alliance that rules Falas now.
Well, it is our intention to do just that, Pentandra lectured. We just have no real idea how. But I’m guessing that magic will play a role.
It’s ambitious, granted the Gilmoran mage, but I think you’re crazy to set yourself up for failure like that. If Anguin is wise, he will do what he can to strengthen the north and allow his heirs to pursue their claim over the south. Unless he wants to wrest Gilmora back from Castal, first, he mused. That would be impressive enough of a feat to win him great support in Falas.
Something will come up, Pentandra replied. It was more hope than promise, but she’d learned very quickly that politics was largely a matter of taking the initiative to exploit sudden opportunities that furthered your interests. There were just too many players in the Kingdom, now, and within southern Alshar the possibility of something unexpectedly happening that would give Anguin the opening he needed to exploit was inevitable. At least, that was what she kept reminding herself as she sat through gloomy meetings about austerity.
She couldn’t argue that Astyral was wrong – he knew far more about western politics than she. And he was an astute player of the game, having secured a long-term appointment most barons would kill for. But she didn’t think he understood just how determined the court – and Angrial – were about their mission. Their goal was not just to restore the Wilderlands capital, so that the duke could claim some sort of legitimacy, but to retake the entire duchy from the rebels (and, eventually, the gurvani).
And that meant the south. Though to the nobles of southern Alshar, it also meant Gilmora, cruelly stolen from the Black Duke by Castal’s sneaky negotiations. That, she reasoned, sensing political opportunity, might be good leverage in the future.
Of course, since an essential part of the southern rebels’ hold over the land seemed to be supported by the Brotherhood of the Rat – the parent criminal organization of Vorone’s Rat Crew – then making headway here, against these vermin, could lead to a far better chance at re-taking Enultramar.
It was a grand, impressive dream, but it was the one upon which the hopes of the court depended. Which meant that her work as a rat catcher might, in the long run, pay o
ff in ways she couldn’t expect.
If only I had the gift of prophecy, she mused to herself as she continued working on the details of the night’s operation. Then I could figure out whether I’m wasting my time with this . . . or doing absolutely vital groundwork.
Not for the first time she realized that Court Wizard was not nearly as cushy as she was led to believe. Nor for the last.
Chapter Thirteen
Show Horses & Work Horses
While Pentandra was still trying to contend with her many new duties – including the unbelievable number of meetings she was now required or invited to attend – she began to see just which of her fellow ministers were fully invested and involved in the business of the duchy, and which were merely holding place until someone – and she often wondered just who they thought would accomplish it – brought better times to Alshar.
In her mind she divided the two groups into work horses, like the many draught horses who pulled plows and wains – and show horses, those steeds the nobility husbanded for their pretty lines, shiny coats, and physical ability. The nobility had entire breeds of horses nearly useful for anything but the tasks they were bread for, while the peasants who supported them used rounceys, common horses suited to nearly any purpose, to keep the world running.
It often depressed her just how many show horses the new court had among it.
There were some, like Viscount Muros, the loyal Sea Lord who had been appointed Master of Wave but the duke, who sat in an office which no longer had much to do with the rest of the palace. The Wilderlands had no navy, and while the post had been vital to the united duchy, being estranged from the vast maritime armada of Alshar made his appointment nominal, at best. Yet Muros had no trouble dominating the conversations in the great halls of the palace at every opportunity, bragging of his marine prowess and mastery of shipcraft.
Others, like the nominal Lady of Fetes, Lady Landine, had active portfolios to work on, but precious little in the way of resources to do it. While she was technically responsible for planning and executing the number of entertainments and celebrations the palace court was used to, virtually no funds for the office had been released by the Minister of Treasure, Viscountess Threanas, since she was confirmed in her position by the Duke.
Pentandra could see her point – when most of the court felt that the Duke was one riot away from being thrown out of his capital, it was difficult to encourage a celebration of his reign when there was no coin to do it. Much of the funds which had been earmarked for such frivolities by the planning councils had already been spent on settling the palace’s considerable debt to local merchants.
That left Lady Landine moping around the palace, complaining bitterly about her situation and generally making herself a pain in the arse.
There were plenty of others. When Anguin and Angrial were trying to build support for the restoration in Gilmora they had secretly sent word to houses there and in Alshar who were known to be loyal to the Dukes in the past, and invited them – quietly – to lend their support to the effort.
A small army of adventurers and younger sons showed up on Anguin’s doorstep. Not all of the volunteers were useful, for the immediate task, but once summoned it was difficult to make them go away. So Angrial and Anguin pledged plenty of court positions to keep their visible support for the court high in the public’s mind, without really having a use for so many useless nobility cluttering the halls of the palace.
While that irritated Pentandra, especially when she had so much to do and her office was not even fully set up, yet, but she understood the politics enough to keep her resentment at bay while she carried out her own duties.
Nor was she the only “work horse” of the court irritated by the useless officers. When she had a moment between meetings (the new Mirror array attendants in the first, and a consideration of rules and guidelines for the new office of Spellwarden in the second) she escaped to any number of small, comfortable rooms scattered about the palace.
Most of the senior court were unaware of these refuges, as they were primarily the haunt of senior servants and junior courtiers, but Pentandra was less concerned with social propriety, and more concerned with amenities. Some of the tiny chambers were extremely well-situated, well-appointed, and better stocked than she might have imagined.
One such place was a small room over a walkway between two sections of the palace, one that overlooked a pretty garden (or, at least, it promised to be pretty come spring). The tiny chamber could be reached three different ways, if you knew how to get to it, and inside the castellans had ensured that there was wine, water, mead, hydromel, beer, and sufficient food to keep the workhorses of the court well-refreshed.
Pentandra dropped into the nameless chamber as soon as she could, after a very frustrating meeting. To her surprise, Coinsister Saltia, the plump nun serving as Assistant Minister of Treasure, was already there drinking an extravagantly large mug of beer.
“What sent you in to hiding?” the merry nun asked her, as she left the stairwell. “I just had my arse chewed by Threanas, the . . . Ifnia save her,” she said, with nominal piety.
“What, this time?” Pentandra asked as she poured herself a half glass of mead. She was not fond of the rich beer they liked in Vorone. It was too thick and too bitter, much different than the gentle brews the Remerans drank. “Did she discover you hiding pennies under your habit?”
“I’ve got room for more than pennies under here,” the nun assured her with a smile. “But, no. She’s far more concerned with our appalling trade imbalance than mere pennies. And she thinks I – well, my temple – should be able to do something about it,” she said, sourly.
“Could you? And why does it matter?” Pentandra asked, relieved to be discussing someone else’s bureaucratic problems.
“Well, our trade balance is pretty important,” the nun said, informatively. “Every cart that goes south and every cart that goes north across the frontier is important. The more we purchase from outside the duchy, the less actual money the duchy has,” she explained. “Not the duke, mind, but the duchy – all of us, put together.”
“Why would you need to know that?”
“Because if we don’t, then soon there won’t be enough silver in town to actually purchase any of it,” she complained. “Threanas thinks that there should be at least one wain headed south for every two headed north. While that’s reasonable, I suppose, it does beg the question of just what to put in those bloody carts,” she fumed.
“Well, we know iron and timber have limited value that close to the Wilderlands,” Pentandra pointed out. “What else can we send? That doesn’t compete with the local merchandise?”
“Exactly!” agreed Saltia, triumphantly. “You have grasped it exactly! There is really very little the Wilderlands can sell at market that isn’t well-covered by other regions already. So chewing me out for not figuring out how to sell the Castali things we have and things they need is not terribly helpful!” she said, with a mixture of anger and dignity.
“What did Threanas suggest?” Pentandra asked, curious.
“Uh . . . what . . . why, she didn’t suggest anything, herself,” the nun confessed.
“Then you should have solicited her ideas,” suggested Pentandra, sipping the mead. “Saltia, I don’t know how they do things at your temple, but in my experience when a superior gives you an impossible task, your best defense is to ask them how they would do it. If you lack ideas of your own – and I can’t help you much, there – then it becomes much more difficult to be held accountable if the program you execute was their idea. Next time, ask for her guidance,” she suggested. “See what she has to say.”
“And if she proposes the impossible?” asked the nun, warily.
Pentandra shrugged. “Then tell her you’ll study the matter and get back to her. I did that to the poor common spellmongers concerning their regulation for nearly two years,” she admitted, smugly. “Every time they came to me with a demand to set policy, I aske
d them to submit suggestions on how to do so. Eventually, we spent more time on the suggestions than fixing the problem, but there was at least the appearance that we knew what we were doing.”
“You cannot bluff your way out of a trade deficit that grows by nine ounces of silver a day,” Saltia pointed out, tiredly. “Numbers mean things, my friend. With silver pouring out of the palace the way it has been . . .”
“Yes, but look what those expenditures did for the local economy,” Pentandra pointed out. “When the palace settled its debts, nearly five hundred ounces of silver were injected into the artisans of Vorone! And some of that will come back in revenues!”
“Well, certainly, we retired our small debt,” Saltia conceded. “But only at the cost of going into debt with my temple,” she pointed out. “And while we’re not the most ruthless of temples to borrow from, we do expect every penny to be paid back. And interest,” she added.
“You will be,” Pentandra assured her. “Those loans were secured by the Spellmonger. And I happen to know he has a lot of capital sitting around, not doing anything particularly important.
“Which is the only reason I’m here,” reminded the nun. “At this rate, it will take the duchy about six years to repay the funds advanced so far – if revenues continue to come in from Vorone.”
“What if they improve?” Pentandra asked, curious.
“Well, that depends entirely on how much the court – the duke – let’s face it, Viscountess Threanas – how much she wants to service that debt.”
“So why is the trade inequality such a big issue, then?”
“Because right now Vorone produces its own basic crafts and a number of luxuries, and almost none of them have a market outside of the Wilderlands,” the nun said, grumpily. “It’s one thing if we can off-set the amount of silver fleeing the country by sending wagons south, but as it is? We’ll be lucky to be here, come autumn, if something isn’t done.”
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 30
