Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  “Why, no more than thirty pennies a bushel,” the merchant said in reasonable tones. “Considering the high tariffs the Duke of Castal has imposed, that leaves very little room for profit.”

  “Very little,” mused Father Amus, skeptically. But he held his tongue. If the Duchy was going to be forced to purchase grain from these men, then irritating them would not be prudent.

  Pentandra was not well-versed in commodity pricing, but she knew from overhearing the arguments at court that nine copper pennies a bushel at harvest was considered a good price. With his incessant wheeling and dealing Planus had secured his purchase at the bargain price of six and a half pennies at port in Remere. But here the merchants, who figured they had a captive market, had increased their prices significantly.

  “Thirty pennies,” Anguin said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “That seems extravagant, gentlemen, don’t you think?” he said, a note of warning in his young voice.

  “I’m certain your advisors will inform Your Grace what is fair, under the circumstances,” Master Luthar added in a clear, educated Falas accent. “Profit is not our consideration. We seek only to assist the duchy.”

  “Do you?” Anguin asked, sharply. “You know, gentlemen, being a student under a priest of Huin for all of these years, I have a passing acquaintance to the understanding of the economics of grain. My estates will need about thirty tons of the stuff to plant their fields in full this year. At thirty pence per bushel. That’s a significant expenditure, don’t you think?”

  “Your Grace,” Luthar , clearly one of the more eloquent and persuasive speakers in the group, replied, “you cannot starve the peasantry! You have a duty under the gods to preserve and protect them, and provide to them what they need to thrive. Why, to give them less than their need would be against the Laws of Huin!” he said, reprovingly.

  “As is profiting overmuch on the bread of life!” spat Father Amus, reprovingly. The old priest did not like to be lectured about divinely-appointed duty by a criminal.

  “Regardless,” continued Luthar smoothly, in the face of open derision, “shorting your estates of their full measure, regardless of the circumstances, places Your Grace and your rule in spiritual jeopardy – surely your advisors have told you that, Sire!”

  “Yes, they have,” agreed Anguin, pleasantly. “They’ve also told me that it is my duty to provide that benefice any way in my power, no matter the price.”

  “I am gratified for the people that His Grace has been so wisely advised,” Luthar said with an obsequious bow. The taller merchant continued.

  “We have already agreed to keep our prices artificially low, Your Grace,” he lied. “None of us will depart from the fair value we’ve mutually established.”

  “Which will set the base price at market for seed corn,” Father Amus muttered darkly. “With the palace paying that much, that will raise the price across the country!”

  “There is only so much grain in Vorone, Your Grace, and so many bellies to feed,” a third merchant said soothingly. “Shorting your dependent vassals of their full requests will undermine your rule, I fear. Perhaps prices will remain high enough through the harvest to retain some of the value of your treasury,” he added. “But there really is no other way,” he said sadly.

  “Or,” Duke Anguin said, lightly, “I could call upon my court to assist me with this problem.”

  That made the grain merchants laugh unexpectedly, revealing to all their opinion of the Duke’s current court.

  “Father Amus,” he continued, not taking his eyes off of the grain speculators, “could you please pray for the blessing of Huin on his most humble and devoted servant?”

  “It would be my pleasure, Your Grace!” Father Amus said, immediately launching into a prayer Pentandra recognized as Huin’s Benediction, begging for rain, sun, soil, and toil to manifest the Tiller’s Blessing.

  Peasant religion, part of her sneered. But potent, another part of her reminded. Agricultural religions were particularly steadfast in belief and practice, and the priesthoods of the agricultural gods tended to be uncomfortably egalitarian. And her recent experiences with the divine had renewed her interest in the subject.

  “There,” said the Duke, at the conclusion of the prayer. “That should take care of it.”

  The entire court burst out laughing at the Duke’s apparent jest. Many eyed the aging high priest of Huin with sadness or sympathy. It seemed cruel to mock the religion that prided itself on keeping the people from starvation. From the performance Huin’s powers were not enough to fill the Duchy’s silos.

  “Well,” Anguin said, responding to the chuckles good-naturedly, “it is oft said that magic serves even the whims of the gods. Perhaps they need a little help. Lady Pentandra, does magic have any answer to this predicament? For surely the treasury cannot afford to spend more than thrice the harvest price for seed corn, not and survive.”

  The grain merchants all looked at her blithely, awaiting a similar stall or fruitless appeal from her as they did Father Amus. Pentandra instead looked thoughtfully at the duke.

  “Just how much grain did you need, Your Grace?” she asked.

  “About thirty tons,” the Duke repeated. “That would allow all of my local estates their proper allowance of seed for the first time in a while.”

  “Then I shall see what I can do, Your Grace,” Pentandra promised, summoning Everkeen in a flashy display with her right hand . . . while taking the supply rod out of her belt with the left. She held one rod in each hand, and used Everkeen’s amazing facility with magic to set up the parameters of the supply rod’s spell . . . and then whispered the mnemonic command.

  Suddenly, to the astonishment of all, all four empty grain silos were filled to overflowing with wheat. The rich aroma of wheat filled the air, along with a fair amount of dust as the grain settled in.

  “Will that do, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, loudly, over the astonished gasps of the court. “It’s more like forty tons, but if you don’t mind carrying a surplus . . . or selling it on the open market . . .”

  “And how much am I being charged for this enchantment, Lady Mage?” he asked, directly.

  “Your Grace, I could not supply it in good conscience for more than . . . nine pennies a bushel?” she asked, quoting the harvest price. That would still give Planus enough profit on the deal, especially without considerations of tariffs or transport to consider. “And if you throw in all that useless iron ore in the warehouse, I can drop the price another two pennies a bushel,” she added.

  She watched with delight as the expressions on the faces of the grain merchants changed in light of this new information. With all four silos full, grain spilling onto the flags, the inventory that the men had painstakingly prepared for this moment was ruined.

  Not only would the Duke not be buying the wheat at a premium price, as predicted, but the additional ten tons of wheat dumped on the carefully-considered local market would depress prices even further. Pentandra could see the sense of panic settle over the men as they struggled to calculate their sudden losses. She was no prophet, but she foresaw a market price settling somewhere in the seven-pence range, once all of the panicked selling was done.

  “Your willingness to assist the coronet in a time of need is appreciated, gentlemen,” the Duke said, lightly, “but as you can see we have the situation in hand. In fact, if you need to supply your own estates, I think we can sell you our surplus for . . . call it twelve pennies a bushel? That’s far less than you would have to pay for your own grain. No reason why we can’t make a reasonable profit,” he sneered.

  One of the men clearly had less control than his mates as he fumed and stomped in place.

  “You! You’ve . . . you’ve ruined us!” he nearly shouted, shaking. “Do you have any idea—”

  “No one forced you to purchase all of that wheat,” reminded Father Amus, pleased. “Speculation is frowned upon by the Tiller. All investment carries some risk, my children. Those who wish to
make their wealth from the bellies of their fellow man should be cautious how the favor of Huin changes!”

  Pentandra was a little irritated that Father Amus was claiming credit for her work, but she could understand the man’s passionate hate of the grain merchants.

  “As we are assembled here anyway,” Duke Anguin continued, “it has been brought to my notice by the Town Constable that there was an attempt to overthrow my lawful rule a few nights ago,” he said, his voice growing colder and darker as he spoke. “Thanks to dear friends in court, the plot was exposed and foiled, and the plotters – some of them – have been arrested.

  “Under interrogation their leaders and co-conspirators were revealed. Sir Vemas, as Town Constable I call upon you to arrest and produce . . .” he said, glancing at a roll of parchment a secretary helpfully held open for him, “Lord Garay of Hardstone, Sir Bestus, Lord Purveyor of the Palace, Lady Martricia of Falas and . . . Master Luthar of Vorone,” he finished.

  Three of the conspirators were already in custody, thanks to the swift action of the palace guards. She’d heard the men name them herself, once she’d cast a helpful truthtell spell to compel their honesty. But that fourth name, Master Luthar, the grain merchant and clandestine head of the Rat Crew, had not been mentioned.

  Until now. Sir Vemas, it appeared, had finally found a means to put manacles on the Boss Rat of Vorone. Now the crimelord squeaked in shocked surprise as two burly guardsmen put a hand on each shoulder and locked their spears behind his back.

  “But Sire!” he instantly protested. “I am innocent of any plots!”

  The other prisoners, who had spent an unpleasant night in the palace dungeons under duress, were quick to take up the cry despite their confessions.

  “I am innocent, Your Grace!” “I have made no plots, Duke!” “By the gods I am innocent!”

  But Master Luthar, to her knowledge, really was innocent . . . of the plot to overthrow the court. Despite his involvement in many other schemes, he had not been part of that conspiracy.

  Instantly her eyes flicked toward Sir Vemas, who was escorting the prisoners to the spot in front of the throne. All four prisoners looked frightened, but Master Luthar looked shocked, as well. He had come here expecting to sell his ill-gotten grain at a premium price. Now he was falsely accused and in danger of losing his head.

  “The four of you stand accused of treason,” Father Amus pronounced. “Such a charge is a grave one, and not lightly made. If one of you should be willing to testify against—

  “They did it!” squeaked Lord Garay of Hardstone, a little Southerner who held considerable estates in rich farmlands of south Alshar - now in the hands of a hated half-brother. His eyes were wide, sleepless and filled with tears. “They did it, I’ll testify, before the gods I’ll testify! They did it! Bestus and Martricia and that other one, whatever his name is, they did it! They made me do it! I am loyal, Your Grace! I assure you! They forced my hand!” blubbered the conspirator.

  “Your Grace, by your own ears you’ve heard the testimony implicating these people in a plot against your regime, and perhaps against your very life,” Sir Vemas said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, even over Garay’s sobbing. “According to the confessions of their agents, these four were behind the attempt to seize the guard stations of the palace by night, secure the building against the garrison, and take control of your own noble person and your most trusted advisors in the depths of the night. While their true purposes can only be guessed, what they plotted was, indeed, a crime of treason against their sworn and lawful liege,” he finished, decisively.

  “So it appears,” murmured Anguin. “So soon in my reign, too. One might consider it a sign of success, I suppose, to engender such opposition so quickly.”

  “Your Grace! It was not intended to put you in danger!” Lady Martricia pleaded, wringing her bound hands together. “It was merely to convince you to turn your attention to the important matter of Enultramar!”

  “The rebellion is the real danger to the Duchy, Your Grace!” added Sir Bestus, trying to look brave and noble after a rough night in the dungeon. “We have been back here months, and there has been no real attempt to overcome the rebellion!”

  “Nor will there be, until I – and I alone! – decide to turn my attention there!” Anguin thundered, his mood and manner shifting abruptly negative. He nearly snarled as he got out of his throne and stomped across the rain-soaked flags of the yard to face the traitors. “I am the Duke of Alshar, and I command here. When I decide that it is time to turn my attention to the south, then that is what will happen!”

  “Your Grace, we merely wished to implore upon you the importance of the greater part of the realm!” Martrisha pleaded.

  “Every inch of my realm is important, and no inch more important than any other,” Anguin shot back, angrily. “When I brought you into my court, you swore an oath to me. Conspiring to subvert my lawful counselors through force and influence my decisions through threats are a vile, vile repayment of loyalty, my friends,” he said, leaning sarcastically on the last word.

  “Regardless of my reasoning and rationale, I will NOT be intimidated! Not by those outside of my court, and damn sure not by those who are supposed to be my most loyal servants! Whether you wished to compel me to invade Enultramar – however foolish a proposition that is – or whether you wished to turn me over to the rebels to serve as their puppet, it makes no matter. You had the temerity to plot against your liege. The penalty for that is death,” he said, with a ring of finality.

  “Your Grace, surely we can argue for our innocence before the court!” Master Luthar insisted, looking around at the court angrily. “I, for one, have not had any opportunity to defend myself as the gods insist!”

  “You dispute that you are involved in this conspiracy, even though you have been named by more than one prisoner?” asked the handsome constable on behalf of his duke.

  “I do!” he insisted, indignantly. “Why, I’ve scarcely been to the palace since Yule! I know these others either by reputation alone or not at all! How could I have possibly been involved?” he demanded.

  “So you are willing to be deposed in open court?” asked Sir Vemas, expectantly. “Under a truthtell spell supplied by the Court Wizard?”

  Master Luthar stopped his speech before he could speak a word. “Concerning my involvement in this plot? Certainly!”

  “Well, Master Luthar,” Sir Vemas said, with an air of triumph about him, “the law makes no distinction about such circumstances. When the nature of the accusation involves treason - particularly against the person of the Duke - there are no limitations on what questions the court may ask a witness. And you will be compelled to tell the truth. About everything,” he said, knowingly, enunciating the word with delight. “Now, do you still dispute that you were involved, or would you like to confess now? Either way, I am secure that the gods will see justice done.”

  “I . . . that is . . . may I not consult with a lawbrother?” he asked, the mask over his emotions starting to crack.

  “Indeed, all of you may consult with counsel, as is proper in cases of treason,” Father Amus agreed. “If you do not wish to confess now, and earn yourself a quick and painless death, then the court is more than happy to oblige . . . the alternative . . . no matter how brutal,” he assured them.

  “Then let us reconvene this case in two weeks, after there has been sufficient time for the defendants to consult with their counsel and make their final preparations,” acceded the Duke, raising his hand. “Is there any other business before this court? My fingers are starting to resemble raisins,” he said, earning a giggle from the crowd.

  “Your Grace, there has been a petition of admittance to the court,” announced the strong-voiced herald. “Dowager Countess Shirlin of Danavel, late of Wilderhall, begs that you recognize her and admit her to your court.”

  “Countess . . . Shirlin?” Father Amus asked, doubtfully.

  “Countess Shirlin . . .” Duke Anguin said, t
apping his chin with a forefinger, confused. “Danavel is in Southern Remere, but I am . . . unaware of any relation to my court.”

  “Perhaps I can shed some light on that, Your Grace,” the overly-melodic voice of an older woman trying too hard to sound youthful intruded on the event. A mature woman of high station in a long yellow travel gown came forward, a clutch of servants behind her with her baggage. She bowed low and respectfully. Obsequiously, in Pentandra’s opinion.

  Her intuition instantly went on alert, though there was no sign of alarm from Everkeen.

  Who in six hells was this woman?