Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  She smirked. If that was the rationale they gave the lad, she wouldn’t dispute it. It had the merit of being diplomatic, and it saved her from the prospect of a job she didn’t want.

  “I defer to the judgment of such wise counselors. And I will be happy to assist you in finding your candidate however I may. But I honestly do not know anyone at the moment who would serve, whose loyalties to you were beyond question.” She considered. “That being said, Your Grace, please understand that despite your advisors’ suspicions, if the Arcane Orders learn of anything value to the realm, I shall be certain it reaches the proper ears.”

  “I am continuously gratified in the support of the Arcane Orders and its magi,” he said, with a touch of formality. “The Magelords’ appearance at court did much to bolster my reign at a critical time. And . . . Baron Azar’s execution in the middle of court was impressive. It caused quite the stir among the petty nobility, from what I understand. More so than Edmarin’s execution. And it made the peers take notice, too. With such vassals at my command, it proves my willingness to rule, not merely reign.”

  “Don’t encourage Azar too much, he gets carried away,” Pentandra warned him. “But he is steadfast. He loves war, and he loves victory. He does not love politics. You can rely on he and Astyral to hold their lands on your behalf,” she assured him.

  “Concerning that,” Anguin said, thoughtfully, “I’ve noted that the Magelords of the realm have managed to survive and even thrive where the remaining Wilderlords fail.”

  Pentandra buttered a biscuit while she considered the duke’s casual words. She sensed opportunity.

  “Why, yes, Your Grace, with magic’s aid a High Mage has resources that a mere knight lacks. And to be candid, the magelords’ approach to governance is less informed by tradition.”

  Anguin chuckled, seeing through her diplomacy. “Meaning that they’re less worried about whether their vanity is flattered than governing.”

  “I would say, rather, that the skills a mage brings to management of estates are more diverse, by necessity, than those of a simple Wilderlord.”

  “Perhaps,” considered the young duke. “But regardless of why, the result is the same. Lady Pentandra, more than half of the estates north of Tudry are occupied, destroyed, or abandoned. Even if I give the deeds of these domains to new Wilderlords, they’re not terribly well-equipped to do much about them. The old order in the Wilderlands has been swept away. If the duchy is to survive, a new order has to replace it.”

  “Another wise insight, Your Grace.”

  “I would have magelords play a strong role in that order,” he said, earnestly. “I’ve some notion of what you can do, more than my cousins do. And the realm has a dire need.”

  “Your Grace, on behalf of my vocation and colleagues, I’m flattered,” Pentandra began.

  “But you know there are those who would never stand for it?” she finished, with a grin.

  “Oh, I am well-aware, my lady. Already there are courtiers who whisper the Arcane Orders are too well represented in court. However, I am the duke. If I want more magelords, I’ll get myself more magelords,” he added, forcefully. “It would help, however, if I could help demonstrate the advantage of that strategy.”

  “What would you have me do, Your Grace?” she asked, realizing that this entire breakfast meeting had been a pretext for this request.

  “Show the court that magic has value,” he said with a deep sigh. “Show them that I can trust and rely on magelords in my government beyond the Court Wizard. Show them that we are stronger with the magi on our side than not. Hells, show them . . . something! Help me make the argument that a new order involving magi is essential for the prosperity of the Wilderlands. Do that, and . . . and . . . and I’ll reward you.”

  Pentandra smirked. “Your Grace is generous, but . . .”

  “Just try,” he pleaded, with just enough adolescent whining to be compelling. He stood, signaling that the meeting was over . . . and Pentandra realized that two young maidens in matching green gowns were waiting at the door of the Game Room. “I need to . . . confer with some . . . business matters . . . right now,” he struggled to explain, as the two pretty whores giggled behind their hands.

  Pentandra’s heart fell, even as she appreciated the lad’s dedication to his duty. Just when she thought she’d anchored him with sensible advice, Lady Pleasure’s agents were prepared to seduce him out from under her.

  She could hardly object – she had no doubt that the maidens had legitimate business for the Duke concerning that damned festival. She also had no doubt what would transpire the moment the door was secure.

  It was clear that if she did not do something, and soon, it would be Lady Pleasure making policy at court.

  “I will do my best, Your Grace,” she said, standing and bowing. He smiled pleasantly at her, but his eyes had already indicated she had been dismissed in favor of the two girls nearer his own age.

  It was time for her to get to work, she realized.

  *

  *

  *

  Pentandra’s relationship with her cousin Planus had always been more congenial than cordial – the two shared not just a passion for their magical vocation, but similar ideas about politics, fashion, and Remeran society. Of all of her many cousins Planus had been the most reliable ally over the years, as well as a favorite of her father.

  Since that relationship had lead directly to his rise in wealth and prosperity, Pentandra felt that he owed her some consideration . . . and it was time to exploit that.

  So what does my cousin the court wizard desire of this humble adept? he asked that afternoon when she contacted him magically, mind-to-mind.

  Some advice and possibly some assistance, she began. I was wondering if you could assist me in a little more smuggling.

  Oh, my dear!

  She could hear the change in tone in his mental voice at the mention of the word. Despite Planus’ reputation as a canny businessman and an upstanding professional resident adept, Pentandra was one of the few who knew about the less-legitimate side of his enterprises.

  Simply put, Planus viewed making profit by magically evading tolls and tariffs the same way Pentandra viewed a long night of sweaty sex. There had always been a streak in her family of people who had the talent for making and accumulating money, just as there was the trait for magical Talent. Every generation of the Benurvial line seemed to produce a specimen particularly talented at both, and for her generation that person was Planus. They had managed to ensure the family’s prosperity and survival during the darkest times of the Bans, keeping intact ancestral estates and ensuring that each new generation had every advantage to prosper.

  Planus was particularly gifted at the art. He had quickly used his acquisition of a witchstone (with Pentandra’s help) as leverage in his magical business, but had also expanded that business into a number of lucrative enterprises. He used the Mirror array to hire agents in distant lands and monitor prices at market, for instance. One (that she knew of) involved spells that reduced the apparent tonnage on a barge by half when an inspector tallied it. You couldn’t count what you didn’t notice.

  When she realized that in order to fulfill her promise to the duke she would need both a smuggler and a mage, Planus was naturally to whom she turned.

  I have a problem, she began, contacting him mind-to-mind. I need to know what the average price of wheat is at the docks in Fensk.

  Since you are in Vorone, I can assume it’s a hell of a problem, he agreed. As it happens I was just down at the docks this morning. The market is still awash in cheap grain. The Moroslands had another bumper crop and perfect weather this year, so there was a lot more on the market, depressing the price. About six pence a bushel, now, and falling. Almost costs that much to weave the basket, he mused.

  What about iron? Pentandra prompted.

  Iron? That’s in rarer supply. It’s been a few weeks since I checked, but the last time I made an inquiry it was ten silver an ingo
t.

  What about ore? Can use any more? More had arrived from the north, as the old mine stockpiles were cleared. Now that the duchy had a secret way to sell it, it was once again worth the expense of shipping it by wagon to the capital again.

  I’ll have to check, he promised. What is this sudden interest in Remeran commodities prices?

  I still have a problem: I have warehouses full of iron ore and empty grain silos. Castal’s tariffs are high, and the local grain merchants have inflated the price of seed corn beyond reason. Duke Anguin wants to undercut them and improve our supply ahead of planting.

  So you want to swap iron ore for wheat again? Well, that would be a great investment, he conceded. Thank the gods for the supply wands. Do you realize how high just the freight will be on that transaction, both ways? Not to mention the tariffs and tolls?

  Apropos to that, I’ve ordered a special set of wands from Sevendor for this sort of thing in the future. Just for us, she cautioned, no one else is to know. Then I’m going to send you all the iron you can sell, and I want to buy as much wheat and oats as it will buy. For an appropriate and modest fee, of course, she added, sternly.

  Why Penny! You know I always treat family right! I’ve actually been thinking of ways to exploit the pocket enchantment since I learned about it. I’m already making a small fortune speculating using the Mirror Array, he bragged. None of my non-magical competitors understands it, yet, really. But for you, Pen? You’re family.

  Which is why I’m reminding you. And while you’re at it, see what other materials from Alshar in are in demand in Remere right now. If this experiment works, there’s no reason why we couldn’t expand it.

  Just don’t mention any of this to Banamor, if you can help it, he said, referring to Minalan’s main commercial agent – and magelord – in Sevendor. If he finds out, he’ll want a piece of it.

  I’ll say it’s for military purposes – the man hates anything that might put him in danger of military service, she decided.

  Give me a week to talk to some people, Planus proposed. I’ll set some things up, we’ll see where it goes.

  It was a busy week. So busy that Pentandra nearly forgot about her cousin.

  It didn’t help that Arborn was headed back out into the field, this time on a three-week mission – minimum – to investigate news that the Coutu tribes were causing trouble around the Penumbra. Pentandra hadn’t heard of them before, but she quickly learned that they were a perennial thorn in the side of the Wilderlords and had been for two centuries. They made the kind of trouble that made the Duchy’s historic relations with the Kasari almost genteel by comparison.

  There were several tribal peoples in the Wilderlands that were nominally subject to Anguin but obeyed none but their own laws and customs. Besides the Narasi settlers, the vast forests north of the city were home to the Kasari, to the traveling merchants known as the Piar, to the warrior tribes of the Coutu, to the relatively peaceful hamlets of the River Folk who could be found there, to the half-civilized Pearwoods clans and more. Even the wild far-northern tribes were technically Alshari subjects, though they likely hadn’t even heard of Alshar, much less its duke.

  But the Coutu were special.

  They had come to the Wilderlands centuries before the Narasi conquest, though from whence or to what purpose not even the Coutu could say. They inhabited several vales and hilltop hamlets across the northern central and northwest Wilderlands, depending mostly on a marginal existence as hunters and goatherds. But when they weren’t peacefully herding goats, the Coutu had a love of battle that frequently saw them at odds with their neighbors.

  Viscountess Threanas informed Pentandra how the Wilderlords had tried repeatedly to civilize and domesticate the fierce tribe, to little avail. Attempts to ally with the tribes through marriage had produced a dozen petty lords who, while technically vassals of Anguin, had loyalties to tribal allies that were far, far stronger. Mostly fighting with axe, spear and shield and without the benefit of more substantial armor than leather, the Coutu had raided small farmholds and isolated settlements any time they felt they could profit from it.

  Only now, with the Wilderlands in disarray and occupied, the Coutu tribes were taking advantage of the chaos by raiding much larger holds without retribution. The only solace the local lords could take was that the wild tribes did not discriminate about their victims: by all accounts, they raided the traitors and renegades within the gurvani territories of the Penumbra as viciously as they did the Narasi.

  But their recent activity was enough to require the Master of Wood to investigate and recommend action. Arborn was apologetic about the trip, but Pentandra could also see that her husband was getting anxious being in town overlong. He pined for the forests and fields of nature.

  She was noticing a pattern in his journeys. For the first few days he seemed happy enough to be back in the palace with her and comfortable with their chambers. But then inevitably he began to get sullen and anxious in ways that Pentandra suspected Arborn didn’t even realize himself. After a few weeks of town living, he started to get short with her and the servants, and even his men began to tread lightly around him.

  “I won’t be gone too long,” he promised as he packed his gear up that evening. “It should be a fairly uneventful journey. I’m only taking a half-dozen men so that we can travel fast and light.”

  “I just worry,” she admitted, watching his big shoulders as they folded and stowed his clothes and equipment in his Kasari-style backpack. “It’s not that I don’t think you can’t handle yourself, it’s that I worry about the rest of the Wilderlands handling you.”

  “It’s not that bad, my love,” he assured her as he tied the pack closed. “The gurvani have been quiet. The bandits are not yet in force along the roads, nor would I fear them if they were. Even the worst of the spring floods have passed already. I’ll be fine!”

  That didn’t stop him from kissing her passionately, as if he would be gone for an extended time. He had not grown tired of her already, she assured herself as his lips mauled hers. And considering the unhealthy interest Lady Pleasure was taking in Pentandra’s personal life, at the moment she was just as glad to see him out in the Wilderness, away from the whoremonger’s reach. She had no idea what kind of powers that Ishi had in this incarnation, but she could imagine with sickening vividness what effect her charms would have on even the noble Arborn.

  “Just be careful,” she insisted, when she finally broke the kiss. “There is a lot of strangeness going on right now, and a lot of enemies around. Watch your back.”

  “You, too,” he said, concerned. “Somehow I think that the Wilderness is safer at the moment than the palace.”

  “Oh, I’ve managed to keep from pissing off anyone too important, so far,” she said with a smile. “And that is not easy.”

  “Nor sustainable, knowing you,” he pointed out with a rare smile. “To be honest, I’m amazed that we’ve made it this far without gathering a fair number of enemies.”

  “It’s still early,” she demurred. “Plenty of time to pick out some quality enemies. And we always have the Rat Crew to fall back on. We still need to root them out of the refugee camps,” she reminded him.

  “We can look at that when I get back,” he agreed. “Every time I ride through one, and see all those faces staring at me, it makes me feel awful. The sooner we can get those people proper homes and gainful employment, the better. And that can’t be done until we loosen the control the remaining Rats have over the camps.”

  “When you get back,” she agreed. That would demand that she work closely with Sir Vemas again, too. How could she mention to him that the idea excited her . . . without mentioning why?

  She had purposefully distanced herself from Sir Vemas after the last encounter with the Rats because she felt uncomfortable with her feelings about him.

  His charm, his wit, his authority all had a compelling effect on her. Not to the extent that Arborn had – a single look from her could ignite a
storm in her breast – but in his absence the temptation of Sir Vemas was powerful.

  “And when you get back perhaps we can take a couple of days and investigate this country estate I’ve been given use of,” she proposed. “Perhaps a few days in the country away from court will do us both some good.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A Goddess At Court

  Pentandra knew something was amiss the next morning when she saw Sister Saltia on her way to her office down the corridor . . . with a face full of cosmetics, inexpertly applied.

  Instead of her usual oblivious gait, the nun moved cautiously and seemed to take note of every man or woman who crossed her path in a most critical manner. Her habit was cleaned and pressed, Pentandra noted, and she had scrubbed her fingernails clean, brushed her hair, and had left her habit in her cell, apparently, revealing her long curly brown hair to the palace for the first time.

  It wasn’t that Pentandra objected to the look, but her brief acquaintance with the nun had informed her that she cared far more for numbers, probabilities and coin than she did men, ordinarily. Seeing her suddenly so clearly invested in her appearance was jarring.