Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  “Well, the Duke should do something!” Saltia said, naively. Pentandra exchanged a knowing glance with Bertine. She didn’t like the older woman much, but she did respect her political opinion.

  “Sister, he is doing something about it,” she revealed. “He’s instructed the court to investigate the matter and take action.”

  “But . . . but . . . we’re the court,” Saltia said, the realization of the responsibility just hitting her. “What are we doing about it?”

  “Discussing why this Wildflower Festival is a distraction from the impending rise in the price of bread, and how something needs to be done about it,” Pentandra replied. “So if you have any concrete ideas on how to feed the town until the crops come in without going heavily into debt to the grain merchants, I would dearly love to hear them.”

  “Can’t you just . . . just turn the ore into grain, Lady Pentandra?” asked Saltia, biting her lip hesitantly.

  “Not any more than you can turn a loser into a winner, Sister. Magic doesn’t work that way. Oh, I suppose with sufficient time, money, and understanding you might affect some sort of transformation, but there are so many essential differences between a pile of rocks and a loaf of bread that most reasonable wizards prefer to just stop by the bakery.”

  “Couldn’t he just seize the grain?” offered the nun. “I’ve seen the silos at the docks. They’re full of it!”

  “And it all belongs to the merchant houses. Anguin can seize it only if he wants to lose the ability to buy and sell grain in the future,” supplied Bertine. “The merchants aren’t terribly organized, but they do have their customs. Try to take their corn and they’ll find a way to make you pay. Including denying you future service. They’ve done that to dukes before,” she reminded them. “Everyone hates grain merchants until the people are starving. But when they are, those merchants are the only thing keeping the peasants at bay.”

  “That’s a pretty cynical way to look at things!” accused the nun.

  “That’s a pretty common way of looking at things,” Pentandra retorted. “Merchants make profits when they buy at a low price – like at harvest – and wait for prices to rise. Prices only rise when there are shortages. The merchants who bought last year’s crop at market want to make a profit, which means keeping prices up. But if the crop fails, or there are riots, or war, or anything else, then those cold-blooded merchants are the ones who rescue us. Alienate them this year, and next year when you need them their prices will be even higher.”

  “And if we don’t get a decent crop in and harvested this summer, we’re damn certain to need them again next autumn’s harvest,” Bertine agreed. “But that can’t be done when seed corn costs more than milled flour. Really, Pentandra, one would think that if magic was useful for anything, it could handle this!”

  “I’ll look into it,” she promised, though she hated to do so. Most people outside of her professional circle had little idea how magic worked and didn’t work, yet insisted they did. As Court Wizard it was technically her job. Promising to investigate the matter was as close as she would let herself come to trying to explain the arcane realities to laymen.

  “In the meantime,” Sister Saltia said, looking vainly at four exceptionally young and pretty maidens who had just entered the hall, “can we all agree that we hate the Wildflower Festival? I’ve never felt so old, fat and unattractive in my life!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Wheat & Iron

  When Pentandra came downstairs before the office officially opened for the day’s business, there was already a message from the Duke requesting her to attend him in the Game Room for breakfast.

  .

  Pentandra had a full day’s schedule, but when you were summoned by the Duke, you went. She scribbled a note for her assistant and shrugged into a nicer mantle, taking just enough time to brush her hair before she replaced her wimple and hurried off.

  Few other courtiers wore the style, popular in Remere and southern Castal, favoring a light hood or straw hat, instead, or a headscarf. But she preferred it not only because it suited her and was comfortable, but because it caused her to stand out. The shiny silver headpiece clutched at the red cotton headscarf and gave her a distinctive look.

  Not that anyone who mattered really cared, during the daily business of the palace. But Pentandra knew that such subtle choices could have profound effects.

  When she arrived in the Game Room, she was surprised to find Duke Anguin, alone, for a change. Neither Father Amus or Count Angrial were at his elbow to advise, correct, and guide him.

  “Father Amus is attending a council for the Huinites, to prepare for Spring plowing, and Angrial is meeting with the four largest grain merchants in Vorone this morning, to persuade them to lower their prices before planting season,” he explained as he offered his Court Wizard a seat. “But I wanted to take a moment to meet with you and express my gratitude for what you and Sir Vemas did for Vorone. That was an exceedingly clever bit of work,” he said, admiringly. “And so subtle that it has barely disturbed the palace.”

  “It was bloody work, Your Grace,” Pentandra added. “Not work I prefer. But far more praise is due the brave guardsmen who prosecuted this shadow war, and the Kasari . . . irregulars who came to our aid. I merely helped set up the situation. And you have already rewarded me handsomely with this new estate.”

  “Oh, that’s merely a dependent estate,” the young duke dismissed, “not much more than a glorified country house. There are dozens of them around the capital. Not really an income-producing estate at all. Make of it what you will, it’s been the traditional retreat for the Court Wizard when he was here in Vorone.

  “But you cheat yourself of glory, Lady Pentandra. What is it I hear about a pack of stray dogs attacking the Rats?” the young man asked, pouring tea for her. Clearly he was interested in the details of the street battle. “Surely the Kasari didn’t arrange that. They are a remarkable people, but that was a magical spell, was it not?”

  “Yes,” Pentandra conceded, “but not one of mine. I have taken this opportunity to take a new apprentice. A blind girl from the Wilderlands, already partially trained as a witch. She’s a remarkably talented beastmaster, and has potential we’re just beginning to explore. She’s also completely blind, sadly, but she has not let that deter her from her studies. I will introduce you, once I’ve prepared her a bit for court life. At the moment she still looks as if she has pinecones in her hair,” she admitted with a chuckle.

  “I’m eager to meet her, then,” Anguin agreed. “I understand that you are not happy with your quarters,” he said, abruptly, “and I sympathize. I’ve been mulling around the idea of making some changes to this old mausoleum,” he said, looking around at the antiques his ancestors had brought up from Falas to make themselves feel at home in decades past. The effect now was depressing and melancholy. “The entire place is a drafty old pit, I’m afraid. If it wasn’t the palace, I’d burn it down,” he admitted. “But it’s the only palace I have at the moment, and a symbol of Ducal authority out here in the Wilderlands. One of the few.”

  “Has Your Grace considered adding more?” Pentandra asked, idly, as she sipped the tea. She was more making conversation than proposals, but the young duke leapt upon the idea at once.

  “Oh, gods yes!” he said, with unexpected passion. “Master Minalan was right: this is an amazing opportunity, if you look at it properly. My ancestors always ruled from Falas, and merely visited here long enough every few years to ensure the Wilderlords’ loyalty and get some hunting, fishing, and whoring in,” he said, matter-of-factly. “All of this . . . ostentation was designed to make the Sealords feel more at home.

  “But never has the Ducal house truly invested in the Wilderlands,” he continued, thoughtfully. “Not since the loss of Gilmora to Castal. I could change that.”

  “Your Grace, you already have,” Pentandra pointed out. “Your sponsorship of the Long March produced the six pele towers. One of which is named for you,” s
he reminded.

  “I barely understood what was happening,” Anguin confessed guiltily. “I just did what Father Amus told me. But I’m glad he did. That was . . . exciting. To be partially responsible for building something, something other than a party or a joust. That’s one reason I’m considering expanding the palace. Or something. I feel the need to . . . establish myself, here,” he tried to explain. “Right now I feel like I’m wearing my father’s clothes and coronet, and at any moment someone will walk in and catch me,” the lad admitted, guiltily.

  Pentandra nodded - she’d felt that way herself often enough. “Sadly, the state of the treasury prohibits any grand works at the moment. But if you did have the resources, Your Grace, what would you consider doing?”

  “Well, it’s been said often enough that Vorone is poorly defended,” Anguin reasoned, pursing his lips. “Contending with that weakness seems pressing, in the light of current affairs.”

  “A stronghold nearby would be a comfort,” Pentandra agreed. “It would also be a tangible sign of your rule . . . as opposed to your reign,” she pointed out.

  “I’ve considered tearing down the current barracks and building it there. It is proximate to the palace and overlooks the town. But it also presents some defensive challenges.”

  “I’ll defer to wiser heads when it comes to design - Magelord Carmella’s, to be precise -- but in general terms I would suggest that you keep your plans modest, but impressive.”

  He looked confused. “Explain?”

  “You have neither the space nor the resources to build something like Darkfaller. A small keep suitable for a reasonable garrison and offering refuge would suffice. But it should appear far more substantial and indicate to the Voroni - and all of the Wilderlands -- your intention to stay and defend the region. A small keep that looks like a big keep, or at least feels like one,” she recommended.

  “There is merit to that,” he considered. “Regardless of the size of the fortification, it won’t be sufficient to defend Vorone from a concerted attack. But if it suggests to the people that there is a place of refuge for them, it will provide a sense of security.”

  “And give His Grace someplace to retreat to in a time of emergency,” Pentandra added. “May I suggest you summon Magelord Carmella to advise you in this?”

  That would not only give Anguin the little castle he wanted, but by using the Hesian Order as his builders it was quite possible to raise the fortification for a fraction of what it would cost using traditional means. Minalan’s recent fascination with enchantment had paid off handsomely, and not just in items of power like Everkeen. His sponsorship of enchanters had led to the development of bricking wands and other sophisticated spellwork that had been instrumental in raising the pele towers quickly in the wilderness last summer.

  That would also give Carmella the opportunity to propose her far grander idea: building a real castle in the Wilderlands.

  Carmella and Minalan had discussed the idea extensively during the Long March, and even looked at some promising sites. The rationale was that when the goblins did inevitably decide to break the treaty and invade the rest of human lands, the two large towns remaining in the Wilderlands, Tudry and Vorone, would be easily taken. Neither one was designed for an extended siege, nor were they constructed for a determined defense.

  What Carmella proposed was building a new fortification designed for both, and place it in such a fashion that it would naturally absorb the brunt of a goblin resurgence instead of the more-vulnerable towns.

  The plan made a lot of sense to Pentandra, after what she’d seen in the invasion. Neither town, for all of their commercial value, could sustain a defense, if the goblins weren’t worried about being attacked from behind. A real castle – something much grander than the baronial castles that were left – would force the gurvani to factor it into their plans . . . and hopefully provide a place of refuge for the humans of the Alshari Wilderlands.

  To call the plan ambitious was an understatement. Never had such an endeavor been attempted in the northlands, not on the scale Carmella envisioned. It would be obscenely expensive, difficult in a land that lacked skilled workers, and it could take years even with the assistance of magic.

  Despite all of those compelling reasons, with her understanding of the situation Pentandra couldn’t see much other way to preserve the Duchy in the case of a gurvani resurgence. Convincing Anguin and the rest of the court would be much more difficult, she knew. There was still a considerable party in court who favored turning their attention to the rebels in the south as soon as the regime was on solid footing.

  They were fools, Pentandra knew. The regime would not be on solid footing until there was a reliable military force and political stability in the Wilderlands, and they were still years away from that. Even assuming they were, challenging the increasingly entrenched rebels at this distance would be nearly impossible. But taking the step of enforcing his rule over the Wilderlands by building a keep in the capital in the meantime was prudent, she knew.

  “She’s just who I had in mind,” agreed Anguin, happily. “I like her. I was hoping you’d recommend her. If anyone can make a simple keep appear impressive, it’s Magelord Carmella.” He paused, and reflected a moment. “What concerns me more is the political reaction, if I take this step.”

  “Your Grace, the people of the Wilderlands support you,” Pentandra said, confused. Much had been in doubt, since the restoration began, but the ire the regime had feared from the folk of Vorone had not materialized. Indeed, Anguin had been greeted as a savior and a sovereign by the Voroni and the lords. Only a handful of Wilderlords had even questioned his right to rule, far less than expected.

  “It’s not political action in the Wilderlands that concerns me,” Anguin confided. “It’s the reaction from Castabriel.”

  “Ah. The king,” Pentandra said, nodding.

  “Less King Rard and more his wife,” Anguin said, his eyes shifting nervously. “I’ve heard rumors that she takes a far more active hand in politics than even he does.”

  “Let us be frank, Your Grace,” Pentandra said with a sigh. “She rules, he reigns.”

  “Just so,” agreed the young duke with a chuckle. “My concern is how she will react if I start . . . acting like a real duke.”

  “You are right to be concerned,” suggested Pentandra, cautiously. “Of all of your opponents, the royal family may prove more difficult than even the southern rebels.”

  “I think so as well. And there is a danger in arousing their ire,” he conceded, unhappily. “But I will not shirk my duty out of fear of politics,” Anguin added, forcefully. “Alshar is mine to rule, not hers. If she wishes to send an assassin to keep a knife at my throat while I do that, that is a risk I must accept.”

  “I think we’re beyond anything so heavy-handed,” she pointed out. “Queen Grendine doesn’t want to upset the delicate politics that’s keeping her regime in place. Another casual assassination would be too much for her to bear, I’d venture. But she will send someone to watch you, I’m guessing. Perhaps disguised as a servant. Or someone else innocuous. But it would not be in her character to allow you to rule without a dagger somewhere near your back.”

  “That does make sense. I know it hasn’t really been a priority, but we really should do something about the lack of a good chief of intelligence for the court. It seems silly talking about castles and legacies when we lack a basic tool of governance.”

  “That shows impressive insight on your part, Your Grace,” Pentandra said, approvingly. “In my experience the Narasi rarely give the vocation the respect it deserves, unlike my Imperial ancestors. A fact which Queen Grendine has used to great effect. From what I recall, your father tried to distance himself from such intrigues as ignoble.”

  “And see how it profited him,” Anguin said wryly, with a tinge of sadness in his voice. “We were supposed to go hunting when he got back from battle. But I have learned from his mistake, I think. And I have read the histories
of the Magocracy enough to understand how vital spies are to a regime. I understand the need . . . but I do not know anyone with skills in that realm whom I can trust. The former captain of the palace guard, Sir Daranal, served my father in that capacity in Vorone, but Father Amus and Father Jodas do not find him trustworthy in that capacity. And Count Angrial dismisses him from consideration based on his talents in the world of spycraft. It seems he was considered a reliable manager, but un-ambitious and primarily concerned with the politics of the up-country Wilderlords, not the machinations of the Sealords. Which is why I made him a baron, where I can watch him more closely.”

  “And seeing as how there are damn few Wilderlords left, and virtually none of the old houses, his intelligence assets are likely worthless,” nodded Pentandra. “Your Grace, I appreciate your predicament, I do. But I do hope this is not a roundabout method of asking me to assume the role. I assure you, I have a plentitude of work in my basket already.”

  “What? No, not at all,” he sighed. “In fact, I proposed the idea to Angrial and Amus, after your excellent work against the Rats, and they were not in favor. They were concerned about your competing loyalties with the Arcane Orders. They respect you too much to put you in that position.”