She could see the little nun’s point, but considering the much more pressing matters of state security and basic services, Pentandra could see no clear way out. It would be difficult to notify the Treasury about the sudden disappearance of all of that ore and timber, for instance, without informing them of how it was sold without a single wain or barge being involved. Or where the coin from the sale of such commodities went. Or where several tons of wheat mysteriously came from.
It gave Pentandra a new appreciation of the power of magic, now that the Spellmonger had overturned the old order.
“I did propose that we make up for the shortfall with a lottery,” the nun proposed, quietly. “Threanas did not seem to enthused by the idea,” she added.
“She’s from Enultramar, or near enough,” Pentandra pointed out. “Even if she worships the Narasi gods, she’s familiar with the culture of the Sea Lords. They do not look kindly on gambling,” she explained, which made the nun’s eyes grow wide.
“But . . . but randomness and probability are the basis of all life!” Saltia said, scandalized.
“Perhaps,” conceded Pentandra, who found the spiritual point highly debatable but kept silent, “but to the Sea Lords dice and other games are the tool of the Shipwrecker. She’s the daughter of the Storm King responsible for those who die at sea. Indeed, ‘dicing with the Shipwrecker’ has been a saying among the Sea Lords regarding any risky proposition for centuries.”
“They don’t . . . don’t gamble?” Saltia asked, scandalized by the idea.
“Not as a rule,” Pentandra affirmed.
“Then what do they do for fun?”
“They drink wine, brag a lot about their pretended accomplishments, tell the tales of their illustrious ancestors, and screw their wives and mistresses. And conquer people, when they get the chance. Oh, there are plenty of exceptions, and some Sea Lords are even celebrated for their willingness to go against probability . . . but then, would you want the captain of your ship depending upon the whims of chance, rather than his experience and wisdom?”
It was clear to Pentandra that Saltia would prefer just that – the nun was a firm believer in her notoriously capricious goddess’ nature. For Saltia there was only good luck, in greater or lesser amounts.
Pentandra was a mage, and less inclined to invest in that philosophy. When one could view the inner workings of nature with magesight, the random nature of events became less important. The magi saw their perspective as a matter of scale, with chaos and order part and parcel of the same thing, not an impersonal force to be struggled with or embraced.
Yet she did not fault the nun for her beliefs. She was a work horse in an environment that needed them, if it didn’t always reward them. Her perspective on randomness might even assist her in balancing the ledgers of the duchy, she supposed. Nor did she feel unreasonably superior about the difference of opinion. There were plenty of magi who just didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.
*
*
*
Later that day Pentandra was headed to inspect the Mirror array station they’d installed when she ran into a Show Horse of the highest order.
The man was in his early thirties, dressed in an impeccable doublet in dark gold in the southern style, a thick golden chain bearing a pendant seal around his neck, and a courtier’s half-cloak thrown jauntily over one shoulder. He was clean-shaven, another style popular in Enultramar but not in Vorone.
“You are the Court Mage, correct?” the man said to her, when he encountered her entering the main palace from the garden.
“Lady Pentandra,” she agreed, nodding. “I don’t believe we have met.”
“Just arrived,” the courtier said, with amused tolerance. It was as if he was shocked that his arrival hadn’t been the subject of gossip. “I need to talk to you about some things I require,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“That will depend entirely upon what they are, my lord,” Pentandra assured him, “and entirely upon who you are.”
“What?” he asked, sharply.
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” Pentandra said, flatly. “I don’t even know your name, much less your rank and office.” It was a polite enough statement, but it challenged the man’s sense of his own power.
“Really?” he asked, affecting surprise and scorn. “Well, I happen to be Sire Grenvaden of Inmar!” he announced, as if that would bring enough of an explanation to satisfy anyone.
“A pleasure to meet you, Sire Grenvaden,” Pentandra said, unenthusiastically. “Are you visiting court? Or have you achieved an appointment?”
That seemed to irritate the lord even more. “Why, I am none other than the Lord Avener to the Duke!” he declared. “I was named when His Grace elevated Sir Daranal to the peerage, and he needed a trusted and reliable replacement. It’s one of the most important offices in the court!”
The fact that Pentandra could think of literally dozens of other offices of far more importance than the procurer of hay for the duke’s stables, she was diplomatic enough not to name them.
“Ah, yes,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing. “What can I do for you, Sire?”
“Well,” the man said, clearly upset about not being identified, “it seems that my office is deplorably lacking,” he explained. “The facilities are poor enough, for the post, but the tasks the duke has set me are vexing.”
“In what way, vexing, Sire?”
“Why, he expects me to secure silage for the entire stable!” he declared.
Pentandra blinked. “Isn’t that what an avaner does, Sire?”
“Well, of course!” the man said, as if she were an idiot. “But do you have any idea just how many horses reside in the stable?” he asked, mystified.
“I would expect a gracious plenty, Sire,” Pentandra agreed.
“You would be correct, my lady,” Sire Grenvaden agreed. “Of course, the cost associated with such purchases are great, even in this rustic retreat,” he said, looking around at the palace disdainfully. “I figured my charge would extend to seventy or eighty horses . . . and now I find there are nearly a thousand in the Duke’s stables, alone!”
“That does seem like a secure position, Sire,” Pentandra pointed out. “But what can I do for you?”
“Secure?” the man said, ignoring her question. “It’s impossible! I will have to travel to several estates – several! And purchase last year’s silage. From peasants,” he added, with a pronounced sneer.
“They are, it is said, the ones who actually do the mowing,” Pentandra pointed out.
“So they say,” Grenvaden agreed, though his tone indicated he was suspicious of the claim. From what Pentandra could see, the useless nobleman would have been suspicious of anything a peasant said. Or anyone else not of his rank. “Yet the idea that I have to visit their damnable villages and inspect this silage for myself is . . . is . . . unacceptable,” he finally said, with the utmost of gravity. “I was not raised and schooled so that I could bandy the price of hay in pennies with illiterate villeins!”
“The folk of the Wilderlands are not villeins,” Pentandra tried to explain. “They’re free peasants. Yeoman farmers and freeholders.”
“Yet they do not seem to know their proper place!” the man nearly screeched. “I set a price, they try to dissuade me from it. It’s disrespectful!”
“That, my lord, is bargaining,” Pentandra explained, patiently. “Hay is a commodity which sells at a fluctuating price, just as any. It is dependent upon how much hay is available, how far it must be moved and the cost of that transport, and how much hay is needed by the market.”
“But I was nowhere near the market!” Grenvaden insisted. “They wanted nearly six pence a stack, and claimed they could fetch as much from market! But we weren’t at market!” he said, testily.
“If that is the price at market, Sire, then I can see their point,” Pentandra pointed out. “Why sell it to you, for five pence, when they can wait until market day to se
ll it for six? Or more, if the demand is high enough?”
“Because I am the Duke’s Avener,” Grenvaden said, proudly, holding out the golden seal around his neck. “They should be honored to sell their wares to the Duke!”
“They aren’t,” she pointed out, impatiently. “They’re selling it to the Duke’s Avener. If they were selling it directly to the duke, that might be something else, but . . .”
“But they have an obligation to supply the palace adequately!”
“Actually,” Pentandra said, knowing the man was not going to like the answer, “they are under no legal obligation to do so. The duke has estates for that purpose . . . and if they are falling into ruin, that is his problem, not theirs.”
“But how can they be permitted to sell what the palace needs to someone else?” he asked, clearly not understanding the idea she was trying to explain.
“Because it’s their hay!” Pentandra shot back. “They grew it, they harvested it, they need to sell it to make their money.”
“It’s just grass!” dismissed Grenvaden. “Why does it have to be so expensive? If I pay that much, why, I’ll have very little left over to run my office!”
Pentandra didn’t know much more about hay as a commodity than she did iron ore or timber or wheat . . . but she’d seen the brutal, back-breaking labor of mowers making hay in the late summer often enough to know how demanding it was.
“If your job is to provide hay, my lord, I would suggest you do what is necessary to provide hay,” she said, simply. “Why do you need my help? Indeed, how does magic enter into the avaner’s office at all?”
“I was told you were powerful,” he said, clearly skeptical of the claim. “I thought it might be possible for you to whip up a little charm or spell that would help me convince these villeins the merit of offering the Ducal Avener a special price.”
“An amulet . . . that would make you convincing?” she asked, surprised.
“Perhaps,” he shrugged. “I just don’t want to pay for the hay. If you can arrange for a spell to keep their prices low, I think it would be a genuine service to the duchy,” he declared.
“So,” Pentandra said, slowly and carefully, “when the time comes for those peasants to pay off their tribute to their lords and their share to their commons, what would you have them pay their taxes with, if they have not received fair value for their labor?”
“I don’t know!” fumed the courtier. “I just know that it’s not my responsibility to ensure that they can! I’m supposed to be buying hay!”
“Then pay a fair price for it,” suggested Pentandra, coolly.
“I rather like that amulet idea,” Sire Grenvaden said. “If you could make me one of those – say, one which would have them give me the hay for free, or for a single penny, that would be a positive boon for the duke!”
“I will study the matter and get back to you,” Pentandra said, unconvincingly. But the courtier did not pick up on the subtlety . . . at all.
“Would you?” he asked, pleadingly. “It’s just criminal to see the lower classes taking advantage of us like that,” he said, sourly. “I plan on proposing to the duke that he set a standard price for all future hay sales,” he declared. “One price, for every stack. Non-negotiable,” he added, resolutely.
“If he does that,” Pentandra ventured, “just what does he need an avaner for?”
The courtier had no clear answer for her, which she expected.
Most of the nobility at the palace were genuinely committed to the success of the Restoration, and many more were at least enthusiastic about the idea. But from the number of noble parasites cluttering up the great halls and wasting livery, she was concerned that Sister Saltia’s calculations did not take into account these show horses utterly ruining their offices with this kind of manure. Selecting ministers who actually knew something about the office they were administering would be helpful.
But Pentandra also knew she was contending with a nearly four-hundred year Narasi tradition that rewarded client nobles with stipends, livery, honor and titles of court, while depending upon the civil servants below them to actually do the work. That was a tradition that the new court could literally not afford, and she knew she would be speaking with Count Angrial about it.
There was enough going against the duchy without importing idiots of their own.
Chapter Fourteen
The Council Of Vorone
Midwinter was the fire and craft goddess Briga’s sacred feast day, the day when shepherds had their sheers blessed in her small temple, the sacred fires from her holy hearth were spread to every household in the city, and special spiced honey cakes were sold in the market at outrageous prices. The cakes were hot, sticky, and sweet, and were supposed to ensure inspiration and imagination in the coming year.
Briga was not as revered a divinity in the Wilderlands as she was in the Riverlands. Despite the importance of iron and smithcraft in the region, most of the fire goddess’ local worshippers were involved with the wool trade, instead of Orvatas’ temples. Sheep husbandry was a far smaller endeavor in the Alshari Wilderlands than it was in Castal. Most shepherds’ flocks in the remote dales were a few dozen strong, not the scores and scores of beasts the Castali farmers kept. Nor was it often traded beyond Vorone. Wool was important in the Wilderlands, but far more for local use than export.
Briga’s celebration in Vorone coincided with the ewes beginning to give milk in preparation for the lambing that would soon occur in the snowy meadows outside of town. Shears and other implements were sharpened and blessed in her temples, while candle after candle was lit in her honor in hopes for a prosperous year. As she was sacred to chandlers, bakers, and smiths, the craft guilds used the day to promote apprentices and establish new endeavors.
Pentandra did not have the association with the Narasi goddess that Minalan did, of course – the Imperial gods leaned away from basic elements and toward the sophisticated areas of human life. Even though Briga was technically a goddess of magic Pentandra did not celebrate the occasion by doing more than buying a half-dozen honey cakes in the market on her way to the palace in the mornings. They were excellent.
Midwinter was also the day that the last of the Orphan’s Band mercenary infantry marched away south toward their scheduled deployment, leaving only a few hundred of Duke Anguin’s sworn men to hold palace and keep peace in the town. The prostitutes along the Street of Perfume were not the only ones sad to see the Orphans go. They had provided stability and security during the restoration and the transition to Anguin’s rule, and there was a sense of expectation and anxiety in the air in their sudden absence.
In the days before the holiday there was little break in the peace apart from the usual tavern brawls and civil disagreements, save for the bloody nocturnal struggle in the margins of the Market ward. The weather remained warm, teasing the distant spring, and people began to look beyond merely surviving the winter and toward the warm, fertile days ahead. Thankfully, as the snows melted and the rivers rose, most of the poor in Vorone were too busy taking stock and thanking the gods they had made it halfway through another winter to notice the dour mercenaries were gone. Those who didn’t buried their dead.
But there were also those in the town who were very carefully watching what happened once the Orphans were gone. The Rat Crew was certainly paying attention – their criminal activity had virtually ceased in the few days before their withdrawal. While that was a blessing for the common folk, it did slow down the Woodsmen’s continuing operations against the syndicate. It also indicated that the Rats were preparing something nasty. Pentandra wasn’t fooled by the relative peace, nor was Sir Vemas. The Crew was plotting something to celebrate the departure, something designed to challenge Duke Anguin’s hold over the city. Enough rumors were overheard to assure them of that much.
In the days before the holiday Pentandra watched Count Salgo pace the Trophy Room and receive reports from his men before and after meetings, ordering pickets and patrols aro
und the city. He did not have near enough men, now, to cover everything thoroughly, but he did his best to ensure that where there was trouble, there would be soldiers. He, too, expected trouble.
The garrison had been uselessly but deliberately patrolling the surrounding territory and avoiding Vorone. Sir Baskei, the garrison commander, was unwilling to risk his troops in a fight that was not, practically speaking, a matter of kingdom security. There was quite a bit of anti-Anguin sentiment in the garrison, as most of the men were recruited in Castal or Gilmora, or they had found their lives more fruitful under the corruption of Edmarin. Either way, Salgo reported that they could not be relied upon to support Anguin’s rule.
The City Guard was more helpful. Sir Sundail, the newly-appointed captain of the guard, was eager to impress the new Duke. The proud Wilderlord, returned after years in exile, was determined to demonstrate his loyalty, and scheduled additional patrols to keep the peace. The guard itself was transformed from how it stood at Yule. The corrupt and lazy had been purged from its ranks by Sir Sundail and the constable, Sir Vemas, with Count Salgo’s approval. The few weeks spent patrolling with the Orphan’s Band mercenaries had given them some professional training, but they had yet to be tested on the street.
The Woodsmen heard tales of troubles planned for after the holiday, of course, though the activity seemed to be concentrated on the camps, not the city, proper. Pentandra had heard the reports from her rough lads for days as the guardsmen made their rounds in the Market ward in disguise and quietly spoke to their informants. The word from the street was troubling. Someone important in the Crew wanted a couple of riots to erupt, it was said, the first to distract, the second to destroy.
It was noteworthy that none of the activity was focused on the Docks quarter. Bloodfinger’s experience with the Woodsmen apparently made an impression, and his men seemed to be keeping close to his headquarters.
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 31
