Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  That was just the first jarring issue, too. Every guardsman she passed seemed to be strutting around like a cockerel, and every woman of the court seemed to mistake the day for a festival, based on what they had chosen to wear. When Pentandra noticed that even middle-aged widows like Lady Bertine were striving to look as they did in their maidenhood, she could begin to recognize the divine magic of Ishi at play.

  It seemed as if her pretty minions were everywhere in the palace, now. While each girl seemed on a determined errand, some of those errands seemed to involve a lot more fraternization than would seem necessary. The maidens of the House of Flowers had invaded the palace, and they seemed to be holding it hostage with their skirts.

  Pentandra didn’t realize how true that was until she stopped by the office of the Warlord, where she had heard Count Salgo was working, to discuss the potential keep on the site of the garrison. That much was true . . . but he was working on his back, with a lovely young woman perched above him when Pentandra entered his office.

  She stopped, startled, at the sight. The maid’s plain skirt was spread around her, obscuring Salgo’s face, head and shoulders . . . but from the look of intensity upon the young brunette’s face, the old soldier evidently knew what to do “behind enemy lines”. In her professional opinion, the evidence indicated that the Count had appetites most younger men rarely cultivated. But which most young women devoutly appreciated. The maiden perched on his face, now, was certainly an admirer. Her wide eyes were dazed, and her mouth slack as she moaned with every stroke.

  Pentandra just stared and sighed. It wasn’t merely the girl’s beauty that had won him over, she knew. The metaphorical stench of Ishi’s magic was thick in the air.

  “Pardon me!” Pentandra said, loudly, just moments before the young woman’s anticipated climax. The interruption was enough to startle Salgo out of his erotic reverie, and he ended up spilling the maid halfway to the ground, much to her disappointment and his regret. When the old man’s face emerged from beneath her skirts, he looked appropriately ashamed . . . and immensely pleased with himself.

  “Ah, Lady Pentandra!” he said, a little more loudly than usual. He wiped his whiskers with one hand while assisting the frustrated girl to her feet with the other. “My apologies, this young lady, Liset and I were just discussing some security matters about the festival when . . . well . . .”

  “Think nothing of it, Count,” she said, casually, as she watched the girl replaced her hose in their proper position and smoothed her skirt down. Her face was flushed and beads of sweat had broken out on her forehead, but the interruption had left her irritated. “We all get caught up in inconsequential things, if we aren’t careful,” she added, giving a pregnant glance to the girl. “Why don’t you go straighten up, dear, while the Count and I discuss some important business.”

  “Yes, milady,” Liset said, reluctantly, her lip quivering. No doubt she’d find a willing victim to assist her in fulfilling her desires, Pentandra thought, amused, even if he didn’t have the rank (or the skills) of the Count. There seemed to be no end of randy men around the palace today.

  “I’m terribly sorry about that, Pentandra,” Count Salgo said guiltily once the girl was gone and he had composed himself. “I honestly don’t know what came over me . . . and that’s not the first time that sort of thing has happened, lately, either.”

  “I understand,” Pentandra sighed. “There is magic afoot at the moment. Magic that has increased the natural biological urges of the court. That’s why you’ve felt so . . . motivated,” she said, diplomatically.

  “Ishi’s tits!” swore the old soldier, returning to his seat behind the table so recently vacated by his backside. “I haven’t felt this full of pepper since I was a lad!”

  “There’s a lot of that going around. I encourage you to resist it. Lady Pleasure’s motivations and loyalties are still largely unknown—“

  “Her motivations, perhaps,” conceded Salgo. “But her loyalties do not seem to be in question. Lovely Liset was here this morning with a message from the baroness detailing a plot her . . . employees had discovered in the palace. Did you realize that there was to be an uprising last night? Sponsored by the faction in court who favors immediately going after the coastal rebels?”

  “An uprising?” Pentandra asked, surprised. “By southerners?”

  “Sealords and Coastlords,” he affirmed. “They were planning to, at least. I have proof of that,” he boasted. “But it was the maidens who discovered it. And foiled it, if the letter is to be believed.”

  “Foiled it? How?” Pentandra asked, confused.

  “Apparently they . . . seduced it away,” explained Salgo, embarrassed, as he searched his person for a slip of parchment. “According to this note, a few of her girls took it upon themselves to aggressively seduce the conspirators, which in turn prevented them from making contact according to their plan and seizing the senior ministers and the Duke.”

  “What?” Pentandra asked, her eyes wide. “There was an attempt to seize the Duke?”

  “The Duke, myself, Father Amus, and Count Angrial, among a few others,” the count said, more comfortable with matters military than erotic. “Only when their principals revealed themselves at the guard station late last night, they discovered that they lacked the support they expected. It was balls-deep in Pleasure’s little pleasures, apparently,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  “I can see how that might be awkward,” Pentandra conceded.

  “When their confederates did not join them, the palace guard was able to quickly take them into custody. They are in the dungeon now awaiting trial for treason. After a rigorous questioning.”

  “They assumed that they could hold the Duke hostage? What was their aim?”

  “Apparently they are adamant about Anguin re-claiming the coastlands and confronting the rebellion. The Coastlord party, you could say. We haven’t started questioning them about who hired and organized the effort, but I’m certain we’ll discover the conspiracy in full.”

  “Particularly if we use truthtell spells liberally enough,” Pentandra said, angrily. “Trygg’s twat, what were they thinking? That the rest of us would just lay down our arms and let them do it?”

  Count Salgo looked surprised. “You, Pentandra?”

  She fixed him with a serious stare. “If the Duke and his highest ministers were held hostage, I would do everything in my power to effect a rescue,” she stated, flatly. “And my powers are considerable.”

  “Good to hear!” Salgo said, earnestly. “I pointed out to Angrial last night that the greatest weakness in their plan was not accounting for the Court Wizard. Or the Master of Wood.”

  “Or a great many other things. It was a stupid, foolish attempt.”

  What was worse, the plot had been foiled by Ishi’s tarts. Not just exposed, but foiled. She could see just how much credit that had given the scheming madame in Count Salgo’s eyes. No wonder he had indulged in the benefits of the relationship.

  “When will these Coastlords understand that the south will have to wait? We barely stand in the north yet. We don’t have the financial or political resources for that kind of effort yet. Even Threanas agrees with that, and she’d be on a coach to Falas the moment it was available. We don’t even have proper military forces yet!” she fumed.

  “Ah!” Salgo said, suddenly. “To that, lady mage, I might have an answer. Before the Coastlords’ conspiracy came to light I had just received a letter from one of my old subordinates in the 3rd Royal Commando,” he said, as if that meant anything in particular to her. Her blank stare was prompt enough for the old soldier to explain. “The Third Royal Commando was one of three units I created during the invasion of Gilmora. Professional soldiers, chosen from all over the kingdom , with an emphasis on skills and talents, not noble birth.”

  “Yes, I recall,” Pentandra said, a little guiltily.

  “Well, the First Commando distinguished itself in the invasion and became the Royal Guard. They’re
barracked in Castabriel now, on the grounds of the new palace, if you recall. The Second Commando was nearly wiped out, and the few score survivors took service with me as my private guard.

  “But the Third Commando finished the war intact as a unit. Even after Rard officially disbanded them. They’ve been bivouacked in Gilmora ever since. They dislike Rard intently, because he disbanded them so casually. They’d make a fine mercenary unit, except that they are too large and expensive for many nobles to employ . . . and any who did would risk Rard’s ire.”

  “So what does the letter say?”

  “It . . . well, here, my lady, I’d appreciate your insights, to be honest,” he said, handing the scroll of parchment to her. “I am familiar with all manner of military communications, but this is more of a political dispatch.”

  Pentandra took the letter and saw that the broken seal was of plain red beeswax, without stamp. She saw why a moment later. The missive was not authored by a single man, but by committee.

  To His Grace, Duke Anguin II of Alshar, in his citadel at Vorone, the undersigned send greetings of the utmost respect and admiration of both His Grace and his noble house.

  We, the duly elected leaders of the 3rd Commando, wish to express our support and encouragement for His Grace’s recent restoration of ducal authority under a properly and lawfully recognized heir of that ancient and noble house to his realm, and congratulate His Grace doing so in defiance of obvious political pressure. It is understood by all with a military eye the grave and tragic consequences of allowing the Alshari Wilderlands to fall into chaos, and we the undersigned representatives of the 3rd Commando respectfully wish the blessings of Luin and Duin upon your reign as you seek to restore order.

  Let it be known that we serve a similar purpose at the moment, eradicating the last vestiges of the goblin scourge from the Gilmoran countryside where it is known that Your Grace possesses considerable lands. Indeed, the vassals of Your Grace have frequently extended a warm welcome and assistance to our independent efforts, unlike some who see our willingness to challenge the infection as incursion, and treat us as bandits.

  We, the undersigned, wish you continued success, health, and the blessings of the gods as you bring much-needed order and stability to the realm. If it please you to call upon our members for future service, know that considerable good will exists surround the name of Your Grace in the encampments of the 3rd Commando.

  Yours by the Grace of Duin, passed by unanimous acclamation, signed and sealed

  Sir Holsar the Mendacious, Acting Grand Captain

  Sir Arscei of Elderbloom, Quartermaster of the Corps

  Ancient Beverl, Senior Trooper’s Steward, Company Scribe”

  “What do you make of that?” Count Salgo asked when she looked up from the letter. His mood seemed quite improved after his office conference with Liset.

  “Chaos,” she said, at once.

  “Really?” he asked, surprised. “I thought it was quite well-written,” the Warlord reflected, thoughtfully, as he packed his pipe - a beautiful wooden affair in the shape of a bear’s head, the badge of his house.

  “Oh, yes, it’s quite eloquent, for a bunch of half-literate mercenaries,” she conceded. “But it screams of chaos behind the pretty words. See the signatures? Two knights and an ancient. One knight is an “acting Grand Captain’, which sounds impressive enough. But he’s more likely a placeholder candidate, not the original commander. The other signature is the Quartermaster. How chaotic must things have gone for a quartermaster to be designated one of the leadership?”

  “Oh, no, you are quite right. The leadership of the 3rd was recalled and rewarded with lands soon after the Treaty,” Count Salgo said. “On my recommendation. I had no idea that Rard would disband the entire corps. Or at least try to. I figured he’d promote or replace them.”

  “So they are bereft of their leaders and their political patronage. They’ve tried to reconstitute themselves to stay together, and elected this knight to be their spokesman. Then you have Sir Arscei, the Quartermaster. And likely paymaster, if there was any money to pay out. He’s responsible for feeding and clothing the unit, is he not?”

  “According to the organization I set up, yes,” admitted Salgo. He began looking around for a taper to light his pipe with, but Pentandra impatiently lit it with a cantrip before he could find one. “The Quartermaster is responsible for all materiel in the unit. But yes, that is rarely an office of command.”

  “Which means he’s getting increasingly desperate, and probably isn’t in a position to quit,” observed Pentandra. “No pay, food is running out, men are getting desperate. Then there’s this ancient. A non-commissioned officer who is clearly the elected representative of the enlisted men. No ordinary mercenary unit is going to promote a mere ancient as a signatory unless he held real power, do you think?”

  “No, that would be foolish,” agreed Count Salgo, puffing away. “A sign of weakness to a potential employer.”

  “Exactly,” nodded Pentandra. “So . . . chaos. They have no real leader. They have no real purpose. All they have is each other . . . and an abiding dislike of King Rard.”

  “So what does this mean?” asked Count Salgo, pleadingly. “All this letter says is ‘hey! Congratulations! We hate Rard, too!’ “

  “Essentially,” agreed Pentandra, glancing back at the letter. “But it’s actually an invitation, if you read it right. They’re looking for a purpose. And a leader. Are they good soldiers?”

  “I hand-picked many of them myself,” Salgo boasted. “Culled from the top mercenary units in the Kingdom, just like the First and Second Commandos were. The fact that they haven’t fallen into base banditry almost a year after being disbanded should say something about their discipline.”

  “Then they’re looking for a job, and hope that Anguin can give it to them,” Pentandra said, handing the letter back to the warlord. “That’s what it says.”

  “Oh,” Count Salgo said, puffing away. “Is that all? Why didn’t they just ask?”

  “Because despite how they’re being forced to operate, these men never signed up to be mercenaries. They were warriors in the service of the king, not sellswords. You, better than anyone, know how the military aristocracy views mercenaries. If they come out and quote him a price, they’re sellswords. If he asks them how much it would cost to employ their services, they can cling to the fiction that they are a real army.”

  “That does makes a lot of sense,” Count Salgo conceded, as he examined the letter again. “Thank you, Pentandra. Your wisdom brightens us all,” he added formally.

  She found that a lot more gratifying than she’d expected. She and Count Salgo had always had a cordial relationship, even friendly. But to be honestly praised by the respected soldier was something she hadn’t expected, and neither was the feeling of gratification it produced.

  There were plenty of courtiers who were skeptical of any woman’s role in the business of the palace, outside of scullery maids, spinning and weaving, and drudges, and plenty more who would have been loath to admit the important part they played in its function. It was a constant source of discussion at the weekly Ladies’ Tea that feminine efforts in court were often overlooked and rarely appreciated – likely because of the lack of a sitting Duchess.

  But to be given honest respect, colleague-to-colleague, brightened Pentandra’s day . . . almost enough to make up for the unfortunate encounter she had immediately afterwards.

  She was headed back to her offices and chambers with the news of the aborted uprising when she stumbled across the author of its destruction standing outside of her office: Dowager Baroness Amandice. Lady Pleasure.

  Ishi, herself.

  She was in a smart long gown in a ginger color that made her hair seem much redder than it actually was under her lacy veil – but then nothing involving her appearance was to be relied upon, when it came to Ishi.

  She was surrounded by four or five of her attendants, all but one of them achingly pretty. The
fifth was a far more plain-looking girl whose teeth were . . . unfortunate. But even she shared in the natural glamour that surrounded the goddess-in-disguise, and the magic gave her an attraction she otherwise might never have been able to muster.

  That caught Pentandra by surprise. All of Ishi’s other tarts were breathtakingly beautiful. She made a mental note of the face, wishing that she could summon Everkeen to ensure it wouldn’t be forgotten – but after the last time she encountered the goddess, she was afraid of what the baculus might do.

  “Oh, Lady Pentandra, our illustrious Court Wizard!” Lady Pleasure gushed under her veil. “How fortunate to meet you here! Oh, where is that adorable little urchin apprentice of yours?” she asked, her venom for the plain-spoken Alurra only nominally disguised.

  “Dowager Baroness,” Pentandra said as she bowed, emphasizing the first term just slightly enough to get under the goddess’ skin. “I’m afraid Alurra is spending the day being fitted by the palace seamstress. It seems it’s getting harder and harder to make an appointment with her, thanks to your festival. What brings you to the palace today?”

  “Oh, a thousand little details about the festival,” she said, feigning being overwhelmed. From the look on the plain-looking girl’s face it was clear that it wasn’t Ishi who was overwhelmed by the event. “It’s such a busy time for us!”

  “So I’ve heard,” she said, knowingly. “Congratulations on putting a stop to the uprising. I’ve just come from Count Salgo’s department, and he was quite grateful for your assistance.”

  “Why, it is both my duty and my pleasure to assist His Grace in any way I can,” she said, casting a cloak of false humility over herself. Her attendants seemed to respond as an extension of her facial expressions, each one sharing some tidbit in reflection of their mistress’ mood. But they all looked at their mistress adorably as she stated her considered opinions.