The old noblewoman explained: “This tea isn’t mere hoary tradition, my dear, it has purpose. Once a week Her Grace enjoyed the opportunity to speak to her ladies candidly, without male ears around,” she confided. “She was of the opinion that some subjects - and some matters - needed the exclusive attention of femininity.”
“Like temple donations?” Pentandra had asked, blankly.
“Like which courtier is sleeping with which other courtier’s wife,” answered Threanas, grumpily. “I had my problems with Her Grace, Trygg rest her soul, but she did not tolerate the kind of open promiscuity known to occur at some other courts.” While she didn’t come out and accuse the Remerans of such vices, the way she looked at Pentandra told her all she needed to know about her cultural prejudices. That didn’t bother Pentandra. She was getting used to the prudish descendents of Narasi barbarians acting superior about where they stuck their naughty bits, and she found their misguided and misinformed opinions about the descendents of Imperial society amusing.
“I hadn’t realized that we’d been here long enough for actual affairs to have commenced,” Pentandra reflected, in a last-ditch effort to escape the event.
“There will be,” Threanas promised, crossly. “And when they do happen, it will be largely up to us to deal with the aftermath. That was one reason why Her Grace kept a tight rein during her reign. Especially on the pretty little ingénues and coquettes every pipsqueak knight in the north or ratty Sealord from the south sent to court to seek a noble match. Rarely did they manage to find Trygg’s temple without frequent stops at Ishi’s,” she said, disapprovingly. “Hence the Ladies’ Tea. If there were affairs going on, Her Grace was insistent that they remain hidden and discreet, and not rise to scandal and thus affect the workings of the court.”
“Oh, I quite agree,” Pentandra said - much to the Viscountess’ surprise.
“You do?”
“Oh, of course! Clearly the system works - I’ve yet to hear of any of your own affairs at court,” Pentandra said, mildly.
The elderly Viscountess fixed her with a steely stare.
“One would see that as an endorsement of the practice, is all, which might lead to a confusing message.” Pentandra assured. “Well done!”
She didn’t mean a word of it, of course - the ancient noblewoman was as chaste as a nun. More, if Sister Saltia’s lusty confessions after a few glasses of wine were any indication. The implication that the old bat might actually have anything but cobwebs under her skirts clearly made her uncomfortable . . . and so Pentandra naturally latched on to the idea and included it in her social arsenal.
It was fun teasing her for a few weeks on the periphery of court, but eventually Pentandra realized that the old bag was correct. The Ladies’ Tea was the quiet, unassuming hotbed of palace gossip about any number of things, and she was missing a valuable opportunity to gather intelligence on her potential social rivals at court by skipping them.
The senior ladies in the court almost always attended. Viscountess Threanas was the senior hostess, but Sister Saltia, Lady Lasmet (the tipsy old maid in charge of Tariffs & Tribute) and Lady Bertine, the court’s scribe, were also usually present to share their views and pass causal judgments on the palace denizens. There were often three to five other ladies of standing and position who got invited to the Tea, but they tended to sit at a smaller table than the regular attendees. They enjoyed the notoriety and social standing the invitation brought them, but the real business of the Tea was done at the high table.
Sister Saltia, surprisingly enough, was in favor of Pentandra attending. The nun had not quite abandoned her clerical restraint and embraced the decadence of court, but she had indulged in enjoying her lofty position and the prerogatives it carried.
“You can sometimes find a decent game of dice, among the younger ladies,” she confided to Pentandra. “I take two or three ounces of silver from them in our friendly little games. And the sweet buns are outstanding,” she assured, with the sort of reverence only a priestess could manage. “The palace cook really makes an effort for the Tea.”
Pentandra approached the event as an unpleasant obligation tied to her position, but she soon began to look forward to the meetings. A surprising amount of important business was conducted there, as well, in the absence of men who felt nothing could be decided without their opinions. Despite the veiled insults and false flattery that flew constantly across the room at the Tea, the atmosphere was generally friendly and congenial.
But only after a proper amount of gossip.
Lately the discussion had been about Duke Anguin’s chances of taking a wife - a topic Threanas insisted was far too early to discuss.
“Those who would see him wed while still a lad are shortsighted. A man likes a few years of bachelorhood and errantry, to explore himself,” she pointed out, during Pentandra’s first foray into the Tea. “My late husband was unwed for six years after his knighthood, and only chose to take me to wife because of my figure,” she assured. “Let the lad have some fun,” she suggested. “All too soon he’ll be married, and the character of court will change. The Duchy will be better served if the Duke is happy with his life.”
“Besides, who would make a beneficial match?” asked Lady Bertine. “None of the noble houses in the south are available, and a match with a Castali bride would be looked upon askance at the moment.”
“What about Remere?” asked Sister Saltia. “Is it not full of dusky maidens?” She looked right at Pentandra, of course. As the token Remeran of the group, it was assumed she had intimate knowledge of the great houses and noble families, which was laughable. She knew about the great magic dynasties among her people, but apart from her own family’s feudal obligations, she knew very little of the Remeran court.
“To what end?” Pentandra shrugged. “A political alliance seems pointless, now that the Kingdom puts all three of the duchies under one sovereignty. Unless Anguin wants lands in Remere, which I doubt, there is little advantage to that.”
“Then who?” asked Saltia, rolling her dice between her hands. “The lad can’t remain a bachelor forever!”
“Why not leave it up to the gods?” Pentandra replied. “Allow Ishi to determine Anguin’s path, instead of deciding what would be best for him?”
“His Grace has not that luxury,” Threanas said, shaking her head. “He must wed and produce an heir, else the duchy will fall to ruin.”
“But he doesn’t have to wed this year,” Pentandra stressed. “Or the next. Let him build a proper home for a bride to come to, and not force his hand.”
“Our wizard is quite right,” Threanas pronounced, approvingly. “The advantages of an unwed duke are manifold. The possibility of his nuptials actually serves us better than if he were to actually wed. As we have damn few other resources,” she added with a grunt, “let us not squander one of the few we possess. The lad is handsome enough . . . his sire and dame gave him that, at least.”
After that the discussion inevitably went to how handsome, vigorous, and virtuous Anguin was, with increasingly lurid speculation by the younger ladies of his potential prowess. No one could claim to have personal experience with the subject, as of yet. Pentandra was reasonably certain the lad wasn’t a virgin - his brief and inglorious stint on the Castali jousting circuit would have cured that. If Anguin was conducting an affair of his own, he was doing so with the utmost secrecy with someone who was utterly silent about the fact.
Anguin’s prospects became a regular topic of the Tea, as the weeks went by, and novel suggestions about how to pair the boy off were always flying at the event. But today the Duke’s love life was not the focus of the discussion at the Tea.
Lady Pleasure and her abrupt appearance at court was.
“ ‘Lady Pleasure’, indeed!” snorted Threanas. “That old hag has been haunting Vorone since Anguin’s grandsire sat on the throne! I recall her being presented to court: pretty, but completely vapid. No sense of business, no sense of propriety. There were rumo
rs she even had an affair with Lenguin, in his youth -- if it did happen, no doubt it was over before she realized it, from what Her Grace had to say!” she cackled. The late Duke Lenguin’s marital shortcomings were well-known throughout the palace.
“Baroness Amandice -- Dowager Baroness,” Lady Bertine corrected. “As if being married to a sot for eighteen months is enough to bear the title, after all these years!”
“Have you not heard what she’s done?” asked Lady Lasmet in a hushed and scandalized tone. “She’s taken in a whole mob of peasant wenches, and converted her lovely old home into . . . a bordello!” she whispered in horror and delight. “It’s on the Street of Perfume - I get my hair done a few blocks from there, the palace girls never seem to get it right.”
“Oh, I know of the place,” Lady Bertine agreed, shaking her head in sad condemnation. “It’s out where the courtiers keep their mistresses, or used to. A bordello, you say?”
That captured Pentandra’s attention. A handsome widow who just wanted to help her duke and curry favor was one thing, but suddenly Pentandra saw the entire proceeding at court the other night in a new light. Lady Pleasure, she realized, had a greater purpose in her introduction.
“Oh, yes, the House of Flowers, she calls it,” Lady Bertine said, shaking her head with shame. “She had it painted gaudily, and she parades her . . . girls around town, all in matching outfits.”
“Well, that’s better than the average whore,” the Viscountess said, wrinkling her nose. “The way some of them strut about so indecently . . .
“Oh, none of her girls are like that,” assured Lady Bertine, who seemed to have far more information about the place than a woman in her position should. “They dress demurely, I suppose. But attractively. Nor are they like the other whores. They flirt with every man equally, whether a lord or a churl. They never fight with each other, or the other whores of the street. And they are far more respectful to proper women than their peers.”
“If she’s running a bawdy house,” Threanas said, distastefully, “at least she runs it well. But that is not sufficient to warrant standing at court. At least in better days,” she added, wistfully.
“I wouldn’t think such a place would thrive in an environment like Vorone,” Pentandra offered. “I mean, perhaps in the old days . . . but with so many . . . talented amateurs in town . . .”
“Oh, there are men who are quite willing to pay extra, if they have the coin for extra,” Threanas said, firmly. “Thirty years, I’ve been at court in Vorone and Falas. Believe me, ladies, I’ve seen it all. While any woman will do for most men, the ones with money and power want more than a simple tumble. If they can’t seduce the wives of their fellow courtiers -- or don’t want to go to the trouble -- then for the right price a man can be treated like a king of the savages in such a place!” she condemned.
“I’m less concerned about her commercial strategy than her political one,” Pentandra said, quietly. “Why would she want to make such a bold introduction into court, firstly . . . and why undertake such a thankless job as running the Spring Festival, for another?”
“Don’t you know?” Threanas asked, a sly grin coming to her thin old lips. “The Spring Wildflower Festival is sacred to Ishi . . . and it’s the official beginning for the preparation of the court’s arrival from the south. It’s also known - locally - as the last chance the local men will have at a decent priced whore before the court comes in, and prices go up.”
“Really?” Sister Saltia said, clasping the infinity symbol around her neck. “Whores can raise their prices? For . . .?”
“It’s like any other enterprise,” assured Lady Lasmet. “From what I’ve heard,” she added, guiltily. “But the Spring Wildflower Festival has traditionally been a . . . lusty affair. The courtesans even sometimes perform for free - in honor of Ishi, they say,” she added, with a skeptical laugh.
“While that explains her interest, I suppose, it doesn’t explain her presentation,” Pentandra said, tapping her chin with her finger. “She’s . . . up to something. She has designs that I cannot see, yet.”
“We all have designs, my dear,” Lady Lasmet dismissed. “Why, no one comes to court without seeking something!”
“I just wanted a job,” Pentandra admitted. “But it seems as if I have a mission, instead.”
“You really think the Baroness is . . . scheming?” Threanas asked, more casually than she meant. She caught Pentandra’s eye meaningfully. The silent message was a simple, Is This A Threat?
“I’d wager my witchstone on it,” Pentandra agreed, suddenly, without any further evidence. Her intuition was screaming at her. “Did it not seem unusual that every man in the room seemed instantly captivated by her speech?” she pointed out.
“She’s a pretty woman,” Threanas countered.
“No, the four maids behind her were pretty - she’s a shadow of the beauty she no doubt was at sixteen,” Pentandra said, authoritatively. “Yet it was her, not they, who bewitched every beard in the room. Don’t you think that odd?”
“You think she used a spell?” Sister Saltia said, making the infinity sign over her breast.
“Or worse,” Pentandra decided. “But it’s clear that the men in the court are not likely to look too closely at what she’s doing. Which makes me wonder all the more what she is, in fact, doing.”
“Well, we must not allow that sort of thing to stand,” Threanas murmured, nodding. “What do you propose we do about her, my dear?”
“In my opinion there is far more going on here than meets the eye . . . and it appears that I am the only one in a position to figure it out. Which means I must gather some information, and directly from the source.”
“You mean . . .?” Saltia asked, in hushed tones. The nun looked scandalized. And excited. Which did nothing to curb Pentandra’s sudden enthusiasm for the project.
“Ladies, it appears that my apprentice and I shall be visiting a brothel.”
*
*
*
Pentandra hadn’t intended to visit the Baroness’ new enterprise so soon, but over the course of the next few days she began noticing an alarming rise in the number of young, sweet-faced maidens within the palace. Not the younger daughters of the local nobles, as was frequently the case at court, but exquisitely pretty maids from the House of Flowers.
They traveled in pairs to avoid the appearance of impropriety. Yet that did not stop them from entrancing (and occasionally embracing) the men around them. Over the course of a single day Pentandra happened upon one young pair of maids taking turns kissing a blushing young clerk near the Office of Lands and Estates. It happened again when she discovered two girls and two eager courtiers entangled in a secluded stairwell . . . and again when she went in search of Sir Vemas, one morning, and found his secretary lustfully humping one girl in the Constable’s office while the other kept watch.
The young and handsome weren’t their only victims – the older, more mature members of court became maddeningly distracted by the soft, sweet-smelling smiles that seemed to linger around every corner.
The “maidens” all seemed to have legitimate errands regarding the Flower Festival, too, when Pentandra stopped and questioned them. They were all excruciatingly polite. . Some were delivering messages, some were soliciting assistance from palace offices, some were passing reports and parchments to various departments. They had business in the palace, it was true. But everywhere they went, male heads turned and female lips pursed uncomfortably.
Even the clergy were affected. During her long report to Landfather Amus about the Rat’s riot in the Temple quarter during Briga’s Day, she had to re-direct his wandering attention repeatedly. While he blamed it on his spiritual investment in the approach of plowing season, Pentandra noted a message from “Lady Pleasure” on his table (sealed with a gaudy-looking wildflower sigil), and could smell the lingering ghost of the perfume of the messengers in the air.
She sighed, disgustedly.
“They�
�ve been here, haven’t they?” she demanded, impatiently, of the Minister of Religion.
“What? Who?” asked the old priest, confused.
“I don’t know their proper names,” Pentandra said, flatly, “but I’m guessing they’re pretty, respectful of your masculine dignity, and young enough to be your granddaughters!”
“I-I did receive a call from some of the townswomen this morning concerning the upcoming spring festival, but—”
“They might as well still be here, and sitting in your lap, for all the concentration you’ve displayed, Father,” Pentandra pointed out crossly. “Not that reducing the power of organized criminal gangs in the capital is important, or anything . . .”
“Huin’s holy hoe, Lady Pentandra, I don’t know what’s come over me!” the old priest admitted, shaking his head guiltily. “At first I thought it was just being back in Vorone again, after so many years away, and seeing Ishi’s glorious gift of Spring that ushers in Huin’s sacred reign. But now that you mention it . . . those maidens were quite . . . uh, distracting,” he finished, embarrassed.
Pentandra studied the monk’s face closely. “Father, would you mind if I cast a spell on you?” she asked. “Nothing invasive, just a regular passive thaumaturgical essay,” she assured. “No harm will come to you.”
“If you think it best,” he sighed. “You are the Court Wizard. But this means I get to pray over you, next time I think it would be helpful,” he added, a twinkle in his eye. “Professional courtesy.”
Pentandra concentrated and whispered the mnemonic that summoned her baculus, and in moments Everkeen had spun a web of spells around the priest at her direction.
“Just as I suspected,” Pentandra informed him, shaking her head. “You’ve been glamored, Father. Nothing serious, but nothing . . . properly arcane, either.”
The priest’s eyes opened wide. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean that whatever it is, it isn’t a normal Imperial-style spell – something I could easily identify and remove. Don’t worry, the effect is minimal,” she assured the startled priest. “From what I can tell it merely makes you more suggestible . . . and unbearably randy, I’m afraid. It’s subtle. Without my baculus I don’t think I would have spotted it. But this confirms my theory that something – someone – is working magic in Vorone without my knowledge or consent.”
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 44
