“But it's also made up of nobles representing thousands of people to whom they are ultimately answerable. Each of those nobles, each of those clergymen, each of those warriors are all seeking to gain the most resources they can with as little compromise as possible. So court frequently becomes a marketplace of power, position, money, and duty . . . but mostly money. In the process of advocating for your office, it isn’t necessarily the best idea to reveal what resources, power, or money you have control over, lest others seek to use it as leverage in the pursuit of their own interests. Therefore . . . we all have to wear . . . masks . . . to portray a particular appearance. While it’s commonly understood that the appearance is false, we use this polite fiction to protect our positions and further our goals,” she concluded.
“That’s just stupid!” Alurra fumed.
“It’s as vital to human interaction as sniffing each others’ butts is to canine society,” proposed Pentandra, searching for a metaphor the girl could understand. She usually had a dog or two from the palace’s domesticated pack following her around, and in a few short days she had learned the names and habits of every cat in the place . . . while forgetting most of the human names she was introduced to.
“I . . . I guess I can see that,” the blind girl eventually said with an angry shrug. “But wouldn’t it be easier to just sniff each others’ butts instead of dressing like a bunch of mummers?”
“We dress appropriate to our station and the occasion,” Pentandra continued to lecture as she picked up a silver brush from her table and began brushing her apprentice’s hair.
The palace barber had taken especial care to comb and wash the mop of hay-colored hair before he had skillfully trimmed it . . . but the way Alurra moved her head around uncomfortably showed she was not used to the feel of it yet. “If we were to go to a festival in a Wilderlands hamlet, then it wouldn’t be appropriate to wear a mere shift and smock, would it?”
“I don’t know!” Alurra said, annoyed. She cringed every time the brush went through her hair. “I’ve only been to one festival, for half a day, and I wore what I always wear!”
“Well, you aren’t in a Wilderlands hamlet anymore, you are in a town; more, you are in the capital of the Duchy. And most importantly, you are in the household of one of the senior members of the court. Me. Each of those facts has bearing on your dress, your actions, your demeanor. You can get away with some indulgence, because of your infirmity,” Pentandra said, finally being able to see Alurra’s pretty eyes behind her hair, “but blindness is no excuse for poor manners and rustic behavior.”
Alurra sighed, her shoulders sagging. “I know,” she said, flatly. “Antimei warned me that you would ‘transform’ me. I was hoping it would be into a frog, or a racquiel, or perhaps a bear -- I’ve always wanted to be a bear! Not a ‘proper young lady’!” she said, bitterly.
“Antimei predicted this?” Pentandra asked, intrigued.
“Yes,” Alurra said, miserably. “It’s part of the story. You teach me how to walk and talk and dress until I am as regal as the archmagi of old,” she said, mockingly, as if quoting her least favorite part. “My feet will ache, my throat will be sore, and I’m going to make a lot of embarrassing mistakes. Still want to do this?” she asked, pleadingly.
“If it is fated,” Pentandra shrugged, “who am I to argue?”
“I hate prophecy!” Alurra declared unhappily. “You’re going to teach me how to dance . . . I’m not going to be good at it . . .”
“What about magic?” Pentandra asked, suddenly. “Does your story give you any insight about how I can teach you magic?”
“Well, I’ve already learned a bunch of stuff,” Alurra boasted. “I sit in the office and I listen, sometimes. I pick up things. I learned about atomi and some basic alchemy,” she said, sagely. “Positive and negative charges, arcane and electrical forces . . . it made so much sense! But the only thing Antimei ever told me about you teaching me is that you borrow a stone from the Spellmonger to do it.”
“Borrow . . . a stone . . . from Minalan? A witchstone?”
“No,” Alurra said, dismissively, “some sort of other magical rock. It’s supposed to help me figure out how to learn about all that . . . book stuff,” she said, distastefully. “Its like a bunch of them all in one . . . stone. Does that make any sense?”
While she had initially been excited about the prospect of learning how to read, the difficult reality of the art had discouraged her progress. The books which had once fascinated her now tormented her as Pentandra read to her from them. Not only did Alurra not know how to read, but she had some decided opinions on the subject.
“Minalan does have a lot of magic rocks,” conceded Pentandra. “Perhaps he has one we can use. I’ll ask him. In the meantime, let’s go over the first three meditations in Qera’s Fundamentals, do you remember those?” A groan from the girl indicated she did.
Alurra’s magical education was unique, Pentandra was discovering. Some elements of the basics she knew by rote, some she understood profoundly, others she struggled with.
After a few weeks of testing and discussions, she was convinced the girl was mostly around the Second Year range of knowledge despite her rough presentation. That was not bad, considering both her handicap and her rustic education. She demonstrated a basic, unsophisticated understanding of how the Magosphere worked, how a mage with rajira could access arcane power and direct it to purpose, and the twenty basic laws (and several of the advanced corollaries) implicit to Imperial style magic. Though she lacked complete mastery over the basic runes, particularly those involving sight, she had knowledge of them. Antimei might be a half-mad old hedgewitch training a blind wild mage in the middle of the wilderness, but she had covered the basics in tutoring her unorthodox apprentice.
Then there was her sportish talent with Brown Magic. It was fascinating, from a thaumaturgical perspective.
Clearly she had overdeveloped a natural facility, thanks to her blindness, and the result was the ability to slip effortlessly behind the eyes of nearly any animal she made the acquaintance of. Horses, dogs, birds, rodents, cats, cows, even the bats that were starting to flit along the palace’s eaves at twilight were all open to her. She’d established the girl’s range - which was considerable - and the impressive fact that she could even be in connection with multiple animals at once. Not only could she witness what they did, and direct their actions in a rudimentary way, she could also share in the simple thoughts of the animals.
In Brown Magic Alurra was truly gifted. The array of creatures in the palace served as her eyes as she moved about from one place to another. They were her scouts and lookouts, her guides and navigators. Often she learned far more from the contact than just what the creatures saw; their emotions and perspectives colored her communications. She learned what they smelled, tasted, feared and desired, and sometimes more, depending on the intelligence of the individual. It was as if she could speak directly to them, and they to her.
Alurra proved adept enough that Sir Vemas begged to use her abilities a few nights to spy on the activities of the remaining Rats, when Pentandra showed off her apprentice’s unique talent to the constable.
Sir Vemas had relocated the headquarters of his clandestine operation to the former hideout of Opilio the Knife, for its convenience and defense. Though the Rat Crew was barely present in the ward, the Wood Owls and Woodsmen continued to patrol the night in pursuit of any who might peek their heads out of their holes. The handsome young constable was searching for the remnants of the organization in other parts of town, now, and devoted the organization’s resources to that end.
He was particularly looking for a way to implicate their leader, Master Luthar. The criminal organization’s boss remained aloof and untouchable, in his North ward mansion, and their surveillance of the man showed he appeared unconcerned, in public. Of course, there was precious little activity to tie him to in town, these days, so most of his dealings were now in the Crew’s squadrons of thugs i
n the Temple ward and the refugee camps. Since the bloody Briga’s Day riots, the Crew had been quiet. Very quiet.
So while things were quiet, Sir Vemas began using Alurra to infiltrate their various remaining lairs around the town at night, when the Crew was most active. Pentandra’s apprentice was eager for the work - she hated the kind of men the Rats were, and seemed to view herself as an avenging spirit - a perfect complement to the Woodsmen and Wood Owls. Alurra was bilocating to her raven, Lucky, pigeons, cats, mice, dogs, and other creatures that were able to escape scrutiny to surveilance.
That had in turn allowed Sir Vemas to gather intelligence on who the remaining agents were, and even the direction of their enterprises. And those few times that her investigations lead to confrontations, having the animal-headed guardsmen supported by the arrival of real animals lent a tremendous amount of gravity to the myth of the Master of the Wild.
But the intelligence reports were more important than picking off the last of the Rats. Interestingly enough, to Pentandra’s mind, was the report that the Crew’s emergency recovery plan (after losing its two most lucrative wards) involved grain speculation.
As their other illicit sources of revenue had dried up, the Rat Crew reinvested in the pressing need for seed corn in the duchy, and using its influence planned to manipulate the vital grain market of Vorone for their own profit.
As that dovetailed nicely with Pentandra’s efforts to secure grain and lower the cost of bread before more riots broke out, she did not mind loaning her apprentice to Sir Vemas. Alurra was happy to help, and was never in danger. Though the Rat Crew had employed some elementary magic protections, as well as their stable of thugs protecting their leadership, Alurra’s assistance neatly sidestepped their measures and gave the Woodsmen valuable intelligence.
The Rats didn’t think of a raven or a cat or a dog as a threat. Vemas was filling scroll after scroll with detailed notes of tidbits Alurra’s friends overheard, including the coded names of their contacts in Enultramar. He’d even had one of Alurra’s mongrels follow a man (the former keeper of accounts to the late Bloodfinger) to discover the secret place where he lived – something he and the Woodsmen had been working on for weeks without result.
Pentandra was just as happy with Sir Vemas’ preoccupation with her apprentice. While it was good to see him again, the brief meeting was a reminder of the dangers of temptation. As much as she enjoyed the flirtation and excitement, her duties were weighing on her far more than those first few weeks in Vorone.
And – she admitted to herself – her relationship with Arborn was not as supple as it was just a few months ago. She did not need the temptation of the handsome, witty young constable in her life on a daily basis, she resolved. No matter how much she seemed to crave such attention.
When Arborn returned from a mission he was quiet and taciturn, and while he was willing to talk to her, conversation with his wife always seemed to see him at his most laconic. The allure of loquacious Sir Vemas was powerful, after her Kasari husband’s stony silences. She found having an excuse not to linger with him and the distraction of her apprentice’s assistance helpful . . . and her clandestine deal with Planus was taking up quite a bit of her time and energy as it neared completion. But that, too, was fraught with complications.
It wasn’t that her cousin wasn’t willing to help – far from it. The problem was the Planus was a perfectionist, and he continued to fiddle with the deals he made to get the best possible price long after a normal man would have walked away satisfied.
The wheat he purchased, for instance, was had at a bargain. Two ships full of wheat from Lontenel were purchased, cargo and all, for a song, he reported happily, after his agents had scoured the Remeran port cities for just the right deal. Similarly, the iron ore was distributed to four different foundries in Remere in a complex deal that each of them under the impression that they were exclusive purchasers of the famed and expensive Alshari Hematite. He managed to make money on the transaction both ways, but it took time to arrange and work out the logistics.
Now she had a Supply Rod in hand, and he had its mate - specially-ordered from Sevendor’s blossoming enchantment industry, and arranged as a special favor to her from Banamor. After that, Pentandra just had to wait for Planus to finalize the deals. When he finally informed her that the transaction had been consummated, she immediately told Prime Minister Angrial . . . and the next day she and several other members of court were summoned to the Ducal Grange for a special event.
The Ducal Grange was a normally dusty cobbled yard surrounding four stout four-story silos of stone, and ringed with warehouses, behind the palace and beside the barracks.
There was a tiny shrine to Huin in one corner, where a brace of monks acted as quartermasters for the Chamberlain, Sir Antinon. This was the larder for the palace, where the Duke received payments-in-kind from his vassals and took tribute from dependent territories. For the last four years all four silos had stood virtually empty as both the source of the revenue and the willingness to send it to Edmarin dried up.
As this was the depot that also supplied the Duke’s many dependent estates, that had caused tremendous hardship on the farms and orchards that depended upon their liege lord’s management to see them prosper. For the last several years the estates had either held back their rightful tribute to ensure there was seed corn, or they had been forced to purchase it at a premium from the hated grain merchants – many of whom were in Edmarin’s pocket.
As Pentandra arrived that rainy morning, she noted the four largest grain merchants of Vorone in the yard with their clerks and attendants, looking pleased with themselves. Another dozen courtiers associated with grain in one way or another were also present, including Father Amus. As a high priest of Huin he had ecclesiastic jurisdiction over issues of grain and the grain trade.
Pentandra was a little confused, until she found the Prime Minister and coaxed Angrial to explain to her just what was going on. After the smiling old man received her assurances, he happily explained, letting her in on the display of power the Duke himself had dreamed up.
Duke Anguin looked very businesslike in a dark green tunic and hose, unadorned with more decoration than the silver coronet he wore and the sword at his side. He sat under a canopied chair brought to the yard for the purpose, and for once the nominal canopy did some good in the light spring drizzle that washed the yellow pollen into the gutter.
The clerks around him shielded their parchments with their cowls until Pentandra impatiently summoned Everkeen and cast a spell that encouraged the raindrops to fall a hundred feet away from the yard instead of on their heads. Just the sort of helpful magic a Court Wizard should be able to cast, she reflected. It wasn’t perfect, but it kept the ink from running too badly to read.
“The shipment is ready for deliver?” asked Count Angrial, looking pleased with himself.
“Any time you need it,” Pentandra agreed, patting the supply rod at her side as she took her position. The herald quickly called court to order, asked Father Amus for an invocation and blessing, and turned the proceeding directly over to the Duke.
Duke Anguin addressed the court directly, keeping his tone light despite the overcast and drizzle.
“As all of you are aware, the Ducal Grange is lamentably bare,” he began. “Four years of gross mismanagement and abject corruption by Baron Edmarin saw the grain from my local estates vigorously collected and sold to speculators at a discount at harvest, only to be purchased back at a premium in the spring for seed.” The lad sounded almost amused by the blatant corruption. Since some of the speculators who had benefitted from Edmarin’s shady deals were present, they chuckled at their own wise business.
“Now we are in planting season, and I have no corn to give my peasants,” Anguin said, sadly, spreading his hands. “I have heard it said that there are thoughtful merchants with the foresight to sell their surplus in times of need. I have little experience with such things, but it is my understanding that some of
these gentlemen are present, and willing to help us through our embarrassing shortfall?”
All four of the grain merchants were called . . . including, Pentandra noted with interest, Master Luthar. The old Rat was dressed richly in court robes, and he carried his walking stick with a swagger. He filed to the front of the throne with his comrades, allowing the tallest one to speak on his behalf.
“Your Grace, the grain merchants of Vorone are here to help you,” the merchant assured. “Though it is true that last year’s harvest was disappointing, my colleagues and I have had the foresight to import, at great personal expense, significant corn from Castal to ease the shortage,” he said, gesturing to his civic-minded, public-spirited colleagues.
“And at what price could we expect from you gentlemen?” Father Amus asked, his voice locked between respect and anger. The priests of Huin had always had a tumultuous relationship with grain merchants. While the nobility saw the men as a necessary evil, the Huinites disputed the necessity. Whenever possible they used the power of their own ecclesiastic granaries to break the stranglehold the commercial grain merchants had, and they frequently contended against them in public through sermons and public sentiment. More than once they had incited riots among the peasantry against them.
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 53
