Two men and a woman each accepted their positions as secretary, archivist, and minister of examinations and promised good and faithful service. None of them looked particularly well-fed. There was not a lot of work available for unemployed magi without witchstones in Vorone. Pentandra dismissed them to allow them to move back into their palace rooms upstairs and prepare for tomorrow’s business.
After that, however, the applicants were strangers to Thinradel, and she had to rely on her own intuition. And her baculus.
She conjured the pretty silver rod before the fourth applicant came in. It immediately seemed to investigate the room and assess Pentandra’s own mood in an arcane flash, before it settled down. That was surprising, Pentandra thought to herself. But the magical tool seemed to behave after that.
Having an imposing symbol of your office that doubled as a potent magical engine sitting casually on your desk helped simplify the interviewing process, she quickly discovered.
The next applicant was a journeyman spellmonger from north of Tudry named Harrel who was desperate for any sort of job he could get. The baculus quickly assessed the man’s Talent for Pentandra, as well as a lot of information she did not think to inquire about. She hired him to man the Mirror Array station, as he had a facility for scrying.
The woman she interviewed after that was far less capable, a hedgewitch who all but insisted on a position. Pentandra’s baculus revealed the woman did have a whiff of Talent, but it seemed to be involved more in persuasion than anything else. She failed the few simple tests Pentandra provided for her. She didn’t quite call her a fraud as she escorted her from the room, but she came as close as she dared. “Lady” Darsta was volatile.
The next applicant was more congenial, a middle-aged former Censor named Thanguin, who had taken off the checkered cloak at the invitation of Minalan, himself. He was no fanatic. Originally an apprentice with a court wizard in Gilmora, he had joined the Censorate for lack of a better job at the time. He had been among the few of his order in the Wilderlands to do so, and while he had not gained a witchstone for it, he had gained freedom.
The baculus agreed with the man’s self-assessment – he was highly Talented, and easily answered Pentandra’s challenges to his technical skill. He had fought on and off against the goblins ever since, when he wasn’t looking for a better opportunity.
“So which job are you applying for?” she asked, curious. “You don’t really seem the type to cleave to the archives.”
“I know my way around a records room,” Thanguin admitted, in a strong, friendly voice. “But I do prefer a little more action than that. Still, if that’s the position you have . . .”
“How would you like to be my new troubleshooter?” she asked. “I’m unsure what the title would be, just yet – probably something to do with arcane enforcement and investigations. But until I get a little more organized, you seem like the kind of mage that could fill-in in a number of capacities.”
“I suppose I could,” he agreed. “But if nothing else, I have a lot to report from the field about some disturbing things I’ve seen. I was hoping that this might be an avenue that would get my concerns some attention.”
“What kind of concerns?” she asked, frowning. The baculus told her he was being very serious, and very earnest.
“The scrugs are getting ready for something, likely an attack,” he said, calmly. “Not a huge invasion, but probably a series of serious raids.”
“You have evidence of this?” she asked, surprised. “Real evidence?”
“Circumstantial, but compelling,” Thanguin admitted. “I’d at least like to report it to someone who can consider it.”
“What about the Magelords? Astyral and Azar? And Carmella?” she added. Her old school friend had taken possession of Salik Tower, a pele fort not too far from Vorone. She had quietly been using the post to develop a program of instruction about magical siege techniques. She had also inadvertently revitalized the economy of the region in doing so, and become a minor political power as a result.
“I’ve spoken to both of the gentlemen, though not to Lady Carmella. They told me to tell you.”
Of course they did.
“Great. Well, I will listen to your tales and make my own decision what to pass along to the Warlord or the Duke. But if it’s good intelligence . . .”
“It is,” he assured her, rising. “Thank you for the opportunity, my lady. I look forward to serving you.”
“You do?” she asked, confused. “This is going to be a tough, thankless job with crappy pay, lousy conditions, and possible danger,” she pointed out.
“. . . working for the second most powerful mage in the world,” Thanguin finished. “Even a few months in your service would enhance my professional reputation,” he pointed out.
Pentandra caught herself. She didn’t often think of herself in those terms, but clearly other people did.
What do you think of that, Mother? she whispered to herself, triumphantly. I’m the second most powerful mage in the world!
She was also getting a mild headache from the windowless room’s stuffy atmosphere. She beckoned Birsei to usher the final applicant of the day into her office, and bid him bring a pot of tea – it was that time of day.
The applicant proved to be a very young girl, clad in wildly mis-matching woolen plaids, and bearing a stout-looking staff. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen. Her long dirty blonde hair looked like it had been combed by a cavalry charge. And there was a huge raven that perched on her right shoulder, its black eyes darting around the room.
“Uh, you wished to see me?” Pentandra began. “You are . . . ?”
“I’m Alurra,” the girl said in a bright, friendly voice, as if Pentandra should know the name.
“And I’m Pentandra,” she answered cautiously, omitting her title. “So why did you want to speak to me?” Her baculus was showing that the girl did, indeed, possess Talent. A generous supply of it, across several areas. She was magekind, then.
“Because it’s time – and I was almost late,” she confessed, guiltily, “I know I shouldn’t have stopped as much as I did, but it took longer to get ready than I thought. And there were troubles along the road,” she added, her eyes cutting sideways.
That’s when Pentandra realized it – the girl was blind.
“It’s time for what?” she asked, as she studied the girl more closely.
“Time for me to be here, of course! I was supposed to be here yesterday, Briga’s day, but I was late. I’m sorry.”
“Late for what?” Pentandra asked. She willed one of the two magelights down closer to Alurra’s face – a wide, round Narasi Wilderlands peasant face, fair skinned, dirty blonde hair, with just a touch of adolescent blemish. The girl’s eyes didn’t move to track the movement, as anyone else’s would. The bird, on the other hand, noted the movement with great interest.
“For me being here, of course! Hey, is that Everkeen? Or haven’t you named it, yet?” she asked – no, demanded, in an adolescent tone just shy of shrill. Her hands groped toward the baculus, and Pentandra snatched it up before her fingers could touch it.
“Everkeen? What?” she stumbled, confused, before she marshaled herself.
She grasped her baculus and sent a surge of magical power through it. Whoever the girl was, she was sensitive enough to feel it despite her blindness. “Girl! Sit down this instant, and explain to me who you are, and what you are doing here, or I’ll find something creative to transform you into!”
“All right! Sorry, I forget which part of the story I’m in, sometimes,” she confessed, sitting back down.
“But I’m Alurra. From the north. I’m your new apprentice.”
`
Chapter Seventeen
Battle By Moonlight
“My . . . what?”
“Your new apprentice. This should explain, my lady,” the girl said, taking a scroll of faded parchment from the bag at her side. The large raven perched on her should
er stared at her, but Pentandra tried to ignore it, and focus on the message presented. It wasn’t sealed with wax, as was the custom, but it did have an elementary spellbinding on it that worked just as well. It had not been opened since the spell was cast, and no one had read it.
Certainly not the young blonde girl in front of her, Pentandra reasoned. She was pretty, with a round peasant face and cute nose, but her blue eyes were completely sightless. She took the scroll and dismantled the spellbinding with a thought.
“’To Lady Pentandra, Court Wizard to His Grace, Anguin II of Alshar, I bring you greetings,’” she began to read aloud.
“Oh, not here, my lady!” Alurra said, hastily, turning her head as if interlopers were hiding behind her. “No, I was given specific instructions. Please do not read that letter aloud in the palace,” she warned.
“Why not?” Pentandra asked, curious.
“I . . . I cannot say,” the girl said, frustrated. “But Old Antimei never gives idle commands. She said for you to read it in your private chambers, before you move to the palace tomorrow. Not here,” she emphasized. “She says the palace has a . . . rat problem?”
That caught Pentandra’s attention. “Rats, you say?” she asked, casually, as she rolled up the parchment message. “Yes, they can be insidious pests. Very well, girl, if you want me to read this at home, I shall. But I dislike such surprises,” she warned.
Alurra exhaled sharply. “Oh, you’re not going to like what’s coming, then,” she promised. “Antimei was very specific, my lady. She’s a hedgewitch in the north. We’re from a tiny little village, but she . . . well, she has news of especial importance, for your ears only.”
“I hope you understand why I would be skeptical of such claims,” Pentandra said. “You don’t exactly look like a wizard’s apprentice.” In truth the girl looked more like the vagabond Wilderlands children who had escaped to Kasar the year before.
No, that wasn’t fair, Pentandra chided herself. She looked like a girl of thirteen who had been on a very long journey through the Wilderlands in the late winter. Her boots were worn thin, her stockings were torn and ripped, and her sturdy woolen peasant’s gown had been slept in many, many times since its last washing. Her wool cloak was travel-stained and worn, and just a little too large for her. She did not look at all like a wizard’s apprentice. But neither did she look destitute.
“Oh, I have rajira – Talent,” Alurra explained, confidently. “Hogsheads of it, if you ask Antimei. And she’s taught me a lot. But . . . well, that letter will explain. Read it tonight, and I will see you afterwards. If you have any questions.” She got up to leave, but Pentandra stopped her.
“Wait! Do you have a place to stay in the town?” she asked, concerned for the girl’s welfare.
“I have a letter of introduction to one of Antimei’s distant colleagues, here in town. If she’s still alive,” Alurra added. “And can read. But I’ll manage. I didn’t have any problems on the journey south,” she said, speaking of hundreds of miles of treacherous, goblin-infested territory as if it were a trip up the road to the village shrine.
“Even so, the dangers of Vorone can be more difficult to – sense than those in the wilderness,” she decided. “If you can manage, make your way to the Spellmonger’s Hall in the north quarter,” she directed. “I can give you a place on the floor. Have you eaten?”
“Not since yesterday, my lady,” the girl admitted. “I didn’t want to miss you today, so I got here early.”
“Can that bird help you find food? At an inn or tavern?”
“Oh, Lucky lets me ‘see’ out of his eyes all the time,” the girl assured her. “It’s almost as good as human eyes. Unless he sees something shiny,” she added. “I’m a . . . brown mage? My Talent lets me kind of talk to animals, and if I try hard I can see out of their eyes. Keeps me from running into things,” she said, with confidence. “Mostly.”
Pentandra took a silver penny from her purse and pressed it into the girl’s hand. “Get something to eat before you arrive – you look as if you could use it. And then we will discuss . . . this letter. And decide what to do with you.”
“You will take me as apprentice,” Alurra said, with complete confidence.
“I am not in the habit of picking up stray apprentices who just show up on my doorstep,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing at the presumption.
“You aren’t in the habit of picking up apprentices at all,” Alurra countered. “Antimei says it’s high time you did. You have too much to pass on to a good student. You shouldn’t waste your talents on mere self-development.”
“Antimei sounds like my mother,” Pentandra said, shaking her head. “I haven’t even considered the matter, to be honest. I only got into this office today. I haven’t even moved in.”
“But you’re hiring people, and you need someone to help you out with stuff,” Alurra countered with adolescent enthusiasm. “I can be a big help! Until you gain Wythland, you’ll need it!”
“What’s Wythland?” she asked, curiously. It sounded vaguely familiar, but . . .
“Oh, that’s the estate that Anguin will grant you,” Alurra dismissed. “It’s a right mess, before you start putting it back together.”
Before she could reply the chapel bells sounded the end of the business day and the closing of the palace to the public. It was far later than Pentandra had realized, and she had a prior engagement for which she could not be late. The Woodsmen were counting on her.
“Let’s discuss this more tonight, Alurra,” she promised. “If you can find your way to my house, I’ll be glad to discuss it. Though I might be late,” she warned.
“I look forward to speaking to you about it, and meeting Captain Arborn.”
“I’m afraid my husband is still in the field,” Pentandra said, a tinge of worry in her voice. Arborn should have returned from his errantry days ago. That wasn’t unusual, considering the state of Alshar’s roads, but the delay was starting to concern her.
“He’ll be there,” Alurra promised. “But then, you’ll see.”
*
*
*
The Woodsmen were already gathered at their staging area by the time Pentandra arrived, late, for the emergency meeting. She was even later because it was in the tack room of a stable she was unfamiliar with in the Docks ward. Word had come that Bloodfinger had ordered an all-out attack on Opilio the Knife, and Sir Vemas wanted the Woodsmen to intervene. He called the emergency meeting and made a point of including Pentandra.
She tracked the handsome constable down as he was giving last-minute instructions to his men. He had already donned the dark robe, but the mask was still by his knee. He looked up when Pentandra arrived and beamed at her.
“Ah! My lady mage! I’m gratified you could join us. We have good intelligence that Bloodfinger plans an assault on Opilio’s headquarters tonight, and we wish to intervene. Apparently the Knife is interviewing new enforcers to make up for his recent losses, and Bloodfinger wishes to deny him that opportunity.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“Wait for the assault to begin, then come in afterward to sweep away any survivors,” Vemas proclaimed, proudly. “If all goes well, two wards of the city will be rat-free by daybreak!”
“What would you have me do?” Pentandra said, catching some of Vemas’ infectious enthusiasm.
“Why, observe the result of our weeks of work, and assist magically if things go awry,” Vemas ordered. “I figured you deserved to witness this – it was mostly your idea to set them against each other like this. Brilliant,” he complimented her. “If things do go sideways, however, I thought your quick wit and arcane power might be beneficial.”
“Agreed,” Pentandra nodded, pulling her musty robe over her head. She noted most of the guardsmen were wearing mailshirts under their robes, and each had a heavy, savage-looking blade in their hand. They were anticipating a dangerous night.
Once everyone was in their garb, and the lookout assu
red them that no one was watching, the macabre-looking gang filed out of the stable and into the narrow alley outside, before they began their slow march toward Opilio’s headquarters. Pentandra took the time to cast Cats Eye spells on each of them along the way – a piece of warmagic she had mastered when she was sneaking out from the dormitories at night at Alar Academy. That made maneuvering through Vorone’s twisty streets easier in the masks.
Along the way they encountered a few night dwellers, tavern patrons returning home or beggars evading curfew. Most faded away from the dangerous-looking band as quickly and quietly as they could. One seemed genuinely pleased at the sight, calling out “Hail the Woodsmen!” in a drunken voice as he passed.
“We’re getting more and more of that,” Vemas confided to Pentandra, muffled by his mask. “The townspeople are starting to see the results of our little war. They hold us responsible for driving out the rats. Some even wear masks themselves, to confuse the Rats and lend us some quiet aid,” he added, pleased with himself. “Our reputation is such that very few footpads are interested in dealing with a masked victim, it seems. Which is lending a decided spirit of resistance to the Crew’s hold over the wards.”
“The cheaper loans are probably helping, too,” Pentandra agreed. Sister Saltia was accounting for over a hundred silver loaned out a week, now, though it was still early. A single masked representative of the Woodsmen, Fen the Quick, was arranging the loans with the artisans, quietly and only at night, but his friendly manner and Wilderlands accent had convinced a growing number of merchants to take advantage of the “new” opportunity. Of course, that begged another question in her mind. “How are they explaining our sudden and effective appearance?”
“Mythological, of course,” Sir Vemas said. Pentandra couldn’t see his face through the mask, but she could hear the grin in his voice. “Supposedly, the myth runs, when the Duke returned he called upon the ancient spirits of the woodlands to purge Vorone of the southern gangs. The mysterious Master of the Wild transformed animals into warriors to fight them at night, and then turns them back into animals again during the day.”
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 37
