“Sir Daranal will be appointed the new Baron of Edmarin’s lands. The hub of them, at least. The man took title to far more than he could hold, and too many of the richest estates. I prefer them under more dependable administration. Each of you will gain at least a few additional estates, I think, and the more tangible your support, the more richly you will be rewarded.”
“That certainly is an . . . intriguing proposal, Your Grace,” Baron Dasion said, pleased. He’d baited the hook, Pentandra saw. She was curious to see if they would bite.
“But beyond the finances of the reorganization,” Anguin continued, “we must visit the military commitment owed to the duchy.”
“How so, Your Grace?” asked the Baroness, suddenly We have an enemy on our border - occupying our lands - and there are bandits and rebels and worse to contend with before I can claim to rule beyond the horizon.
“I have no army beyond what you’ve seen, I’m afraid, and I will need to call upon one to keep order. I cannot depend upon mercenaries, nor do I think you would wish me to.”
“We have sworn out fealty, Your Grace,” Marcadine said. “You have but call your banners to see our lances in the field.”
“Ordinarily, that’s exactly what I would do at need, summon my vassals to supply the men. In some cases that might be sufficient - I pray it is.
“But with less than half-a-dozen barons to depend upon, that is just not going to work if we’re faced with a major offensive again. I need more men than you can provide.”
“So how do you propose getting them, Your Grace?” Baron Dasion asked, politely. He seemed pleased at the Duke’s announcements.
“If there are not enough Wilderlords to fulfill my military needs, then the folk of the Wilderlands must be taught to fight,” Anguin pronounced.
“With all respect, Your Grace, you plan on taking uneducated peasants and turning them into fighting men?” asked Count Marcadine, skeptically. Though many of the Wilderlords lived not much better than their yeomen, the aristocracy had a natural suspicion of civilians in arms.
Minalan had explained it to her, once, when she was irritated by his castellan, Sire Cei. It was partially due to the nature of the Wilderlords’ preferred method of warfare: heavy cavalry charge, followed by mounted hand-to-hand battle with sword and shield. With their broad wooden shields and heavy ash lances - complete with eighteen inch steel tip - when they charged, they knew their business, the Spellmonger told her. Though the region boasted some of the finest archers and rangers he’d ever seen, Minalan had complained, the Wilderlords refused to believe that anyone but they could properly fight. She was glad to see Anguin was prepared for that argument.
“They have been fighting men since the invasion, and their lives are proof of their competence at arms, even if those arms are a lowly axe or a pitchfork turned to other purpose. Nobility does not alone possess the essence of valor, Count Marcadine,” Anguin declared. “When the Narasi first came to the Wilderlands from Gilmora and Enultramar, commoner and lord alike were armed. During the settlement, the freemen laid down their arms and relied upon the Wilderlords to protect them. The time has come for the commoners to take them back up again in our common defense.”
“Your Grace,” Baron Dasion said, nervously, as the prerogatives of his class were attacked, “in time we will be able to--”
The Prime Minister, who to this point had remained silent, finally spoke. Angrial’s voice was not that of a warrior or a knight, but it’s reedy tenor. Yet it carried the full authority of both reason and sovereignty when he spoke. “Alshar cannot await a full generation for new knights to be raised, trained, and equipped by the few noble houses remaining in the north. There are not enough old Wilderlord houses left to provide them in three generations, my lords. That is not foreign sedition speaking, that is the simple arithmetic.
None of the peers could come up with a convincing argument against that fact. Pentandra had learned through gossip and the endless stream of meetings she attended that many of the houses that were left were now ruled by infants, or sons too young to have gone off to fight. Anguin nodded in agreement with his prime minister’s assessment, and continued.
“So we will begin training and preparing the commoners we have – and we have a gracious plenty – to fight. Nor can I wait for the people to naturally trickle back to their lands. I will have to compel them. I cannot do that unless they feel protected, and I can’t protect them unless I have good warriors. Therefore I will train good warriors, and see where the rest leads.”
“But will that not undermine the social order, Your Grace?” asked the Baroness, a little scandalized by the idea. “If we permit commoners to arm themselves, what distinguishes them from the nobility?”
“What indeed?” asked Father Amus, spreading his fingers. “As skill at arms is the essence of nobility, then common men of valor will of course be recognized and, where appropriate, elevated in their station. If we cannot find enough Wilderlords, then we will make more of them ourselves.”
“I grant that the society of the Wilderlands has been disrupted by the invasion,” conceded the Baroness, “but Your Grace, upending what social order remains . . .”
“The goblins are adapting,” Duke Anguin said, echoing Astyral’s words. “They are changing their own society to better meet their needs and the necessities of their struggle against us. If we are less committed to survival than they, then how likely are we to prevail against them? If we cannot depend upon the Wilderlords for protection, then as Father Amus said, we will make new ones. If the present feudal order does not meet the necessities of our time, if the Wilderlands, as it was, cannot survive, then we will make a new one.”
“How that new one is composed will depend largely on you, my lords,” Count Angrial nodded. “As much as we need the coin you owe in tribute, we need your ideas and leadership more desperately. If we are to re-settle the ragged north, we must do so secure in the southlands.”
“That kind of security can only be bought by wise and careful governance, Your Grace,” Count Marcadine said, boldly. “It takes time, and trust. When you speak of upending the social order, how can you expect our endorsement?”
“I am not advocating rule by peasant mob, my lord,” Duke Anguin smiled. “This is a strategic policy I propose. You once counseled my father to move to protect the northlands, and we suffered in his delay at taking your advice. The southern baronies will be far more secure with the northern vales peopled with valiant warriors, not goblins and bandits. You fear the burden of tribute on your domains – yet that burden will be greatly lessened with more domains contributing to the ducal coffers.”
“More, to help persuade you,” Lawfather Jodas said for the first time, “His Grace has authorized my office to expedite certain legal matters that have been vexing your various estates.”
“And I have been asked to be both lenient and forgiving with the tribute assessments and arrearages due the duchy,” Viscountess Threanas assured them. That got their attention. The priest and the prime minister were relatively new to them, but they had suffered Threanas for decades. If that taciturn old harpy was prepared to be forgiving in any capacity, the barons took note.
“My office will coordinate the training efforts,” Count Salgo assured them. “Militia training, spear, bow, and staff, at first. Particularly bow. Those great Wilderlands bows are worth a lance, when they’re properly trained,” he added, admiringly.
“And I have been directed to lend what magical aid I can,” Pentandra offered, in turn. She didn’t think her words would spark a response any more than Threanas, Jodas, or Salgo’s, but to her surprise they did.
“Magic!” snorted Baron Dasion. “We have had quite enough of magic! It was magic that got us into this mess to begin with!” That caused a stir among the magelords who were seated off to the left side of the room.
“It was human magic that protected you from gurvani magic,” Astyral reminded him.
“And you are, my lord?” the baro
n asked, his eyebrows arched.
“Magelord Astyral, currently deployed in the cause of protecting you from gurvani magic,” the smooth-speaking Gilmoran mage said. “Your Grace, I know I have no official standing at this court. I was appointed military governor of Tudry by Minalan the Spellmonger, a Marshal of Alshar of your father’s making. While my appointment was affirmed by royal decree, I understand that I am not your man. Yet I must take offense at Baron Dasion’s assessment of my profession and class!”
“As for your standing at court,” the young duke said, thoughtfully, “I have prepared documents recognizing you as the Lord Steward of Tudry, Magelord Astyral, with another six domains surrounding the townlands for yourself – if they’re worth having. And you, Sir Azar, are affirmed as Baron of Megelin and titled lord of its traditional lands. That, at least, should take care of the matter of your standing.”
That provoked a gasp from the court – announcing Sir Daranal’s ascension to the peerage was one thing. He was a loyal member of the court, and from a minor but prestigious house of Wilderlords. Raising mere warmagi - foreign warmagi at that - to the peerage so casually was another matter entirely. The southern barons whispered among themselves furiously for a moment before Duke Anguin continued, authoritatively.
“As far as the role of magic in the administration of the realm, it is clear that our existence today is largely due to the rise of the Arcane Orders. I have been shown by no less than Minalan the Spellmonger, himself, just how useful the art can be in governance. And it is also clear that the future of the duchy will depend upon the wise and prudent use of all of our resources – including magical ones.
“To that end, I will be relying heavily on the Arcane Orders and their powers in particular to help re-settle the northeastern lands, those between the great rivers and the Kulines. As there are precious few Wilderlords left - and precious few people in general - there should be little local objection, and I do not see how you lords and ladies could possibly object, considering the generous offers your Duke has given you as incentive.
“Any non-magical noble who takes issue with that had better be prepared to offer a better alternative. The magi will lead the effort to resettle, repopulate, and restore -- nay, to build a far stronger society than the one the goblins smashed.
“Isn’t that right, Lady Pentandra?” the young Duke asked, pointedly.
Chapter Fifteen
The Letter From The Queen
“Well, as political alliances go, it’s pretty damn shaky,” Father Amus said, gloomily, as the inner court congregated to discuss the difficult council and its results in the Game Room after dinner. “It has splinted the wound, at best. But it should hold until the bones are set. Marcadine is the key,” he said, more to himself than the others. “The others will follow his lead, as the last native Great House left in the Duchy. Keep Marcadine happy and the others won’t be a problem.”
“He seemed taken with our lad,” Count Salgo observed, loosening the leather baldric of office as he took a seat in a cushioned chair. “Feudal obligation is oft strengthened by personal admiration. Thank the gods Anguin did his part!” he sighed in relief.
“It was a qualified success,” countered Count Angrial. “It proves we can rule more than Vorone, and have some regional support. That’s significant. The unexpected arrival of the magelords was quite helpful, too,” he conceded, nodding to Pentandra. “Astyral in particular is held in high esteem in Vorone. But more importantly, the news will spread about the agreement. With the public swearing of their fealty and the payment of tribute, they set a valuable precedent for the smaller lords.”
“It cost us enough,” grunted the Warlord. “Don’t forget that their support was contingent on a number of factors,” he reminded. “Marcadine was adamant. We must bring order to the land. Including re-establishment of ducal services. And settlement of their lawsuits.”
“I’m already having the agreements drawn up,” agreed Father Amus, reluctantly, overhearing the conversation as he entered the room with the Duke. The two men slipped easily into their accustomed seats. “For the sake of the realm, several outstanding legal cases will be settled in the favor of the lords, and each will be gifted title to additional lands. It does seem a steep price to pay for what should be Anguin’s by right of law, but we must do what we must,” he said, resigned.
“We do get warriors out of it,” Salgo pointed out. “Some immediately. A dozen from each barony, to add some backbone to the palace guard and the city watch. With those we can at least hope to keep ruling in Vorone. For a while.”
“The money is helpful, too,” Count Angrial nodded. “Back tribute, enough to run the government for a few weeks, at least. But more important is the profession of loyalty. Eventually what we do here will be noted,” he said, starkly.
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid it already has been,” Pentandra sighed, withdrawing a roll of parchment delivered to the palace this morning. “As you know, I have been yet to set up the arcane Mirror array, here in Vorone, partially because I don’t have my office yet, and partially to shield us from inspection before we are ready. The Mirror array at Tudry is functioning, however, and Magelord Astyral has generously accepted many messages of import to be sent to Vorone. This message came by that route.” She swallowed. “Astyral handed to me as we were leaving the feast. It’s . . . from Anguin’s . . . Aunt Grendine.”
Everyone in the room stiffened, as Pentandra expected they would at the news.
“The Queen?” Count Angrial asked, tensely.
“Actually, the message was written not from a sovereign to a vassal, or even the leader of one great house to another,” Pentandra pointed out as she opened the letter. “It was written informally, an aunt to her beloved nephew.”
“That . . . is odd,” Count Angrial admitted, after consideration.
“What does it say?” asked Count Salgo, anxiously. He had long experience with the Queen, back when she was just the ambitious Duchess of Castal, and knew her ways better than anyone else at Anguin’s court.
“Lady Pentandra,” asked Anguin in a voice heavy with emotion, “would you do me the favor of reading it? Aloud, to the court, if you will,” he commanded. Pentandra broke the Arcane Order’s seal on the scroll and began reading.
“My dearest nephew, it is our hope and prayer that the gods see you well. We were alarmed and concerned when we learned of your departure from your estates in Gilmora this winter, and were relieved when we heard that you were merely visiting your estates in Alshar.”
“So she doesn’t know that we’ve taken power, here?” asked Father Amus, frowning.
“Of course she does!” chuckled Count Salgo. “Nothing escapes Grendine’s observations. She is quite aware of what he has done. She’s just trying to give the lad a means to back out of it.” Anguin did not look pleased.
“There’s more,” Pentandra said, shaking the parchment. “ ‘We have heard some disturbing rumors that some might advise you to pursue ambitions best left to your betters; we encourage you to, instead, enjoy the recreations and amusements available to you, and to consider yourself ever our guest in Castal.’ “
“’Guest’!” snorted Father Amus. “More like ‘hostage’!”
“Speaking of which, Pentandra said, shaking her head, “It continues: ‘Recall, if you would, that your family has only your best interests in mind, and that we have always looked out for you. Your sisters continue to thrive under our care, and your uncle and I encourage you to keep them in your thoughts and prayers.’”
“A thinly-disguised threat,” huffed Father Amus. “If anything should befall the Duke’s sisters . . .”
“Well, that is the point of taking a hostage, isn’t it?” Salgo observed. “Of course she’s going to threaten them, in so many words. Because she can.”
“We shall deal with the matter of my sisters soon enough,” Anguin said, through clenched jaw, as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “As soon as I have Alshar secure, I will send for t
hem.”
“Your aunt may be loath to part from their company, Your Grace,” Count Angrial reminded him. “Mentioning your ‘family’ was not an accident.” It was well-known among the inner circle of the court that Queen Grendine’s intelligence and assassination service referred to themselves in code as the “family”.
“Then perhaps I will send an army for them,” Anguin countered, boastfully.
“That would be more effective a threat if Your Grace commanded an army,” reminded Count Salgo.
“Which is why I will deal with my sisters soon, and not at the moment,” Anguin agreed, evenly. “What else does the old bat say, Lady Pentandra?”
“ ‘We can certainly understand if you are feeling homesick or want to exercise your prerogatives on your lands,’” Pentandra continued reading, “ ‘but we feel obligated to remind you that despite the recent treaty with the casadalain, many of your lands remain treacherous. Be cautious in your travels lest the unfortunate or tragic befall you, my dearest nephew.’”
“Another threat,” nodded Count Salgo. “She’s really eschewing subtlety here this time, isn’t she?”
“She’s worried,” Pentandra guessed. “She’s more than worried, she’s uninformed. You worked with her long enough, Salgo – how does Queen Grendine usually contend with being uninformed?”
“As a personal insult,” agreed the old Warlord. “I’ve never seen a woman so obsessed with knowing everything about everything. Which is one reason she’s put together such a robust intelligence network. It would be nice if we had at least an anemic one,” he added, reflecting a common complaint of the court.
“And now she’s heard – heard, not seen – that Anguin has left Gilmora and taken Vorone,” Pentandra reported. “She likely also knows in whose company he is and what his immediate objective is. That should be clear enough to anyone. What she doesn’t know is the disposition of His Grace in relation to the crown. If you rise in rebellion, she’ll be forced to take action. Sorry, she’ll be forced to force her husband to take action. If you aren’t . . . then she’s wondering what your long-term objective is.”
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 34
