Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  “It is,” she agreed. “As silly as it is, Lady Pleasure has a point. The town needs to feel like it has a Duke again, that it’s the capital of a real duchy. Or . . . most of a duchy.”

  “Part of a duchy,” Arborn grinned.

  “Just so,” agreed Pentandra. “But the townsfolk need to be reminded of the important role they play, and that’s what this festival gives them.”

  “It sounds more like an excuse to drink heavily and indulge in sport,” Arborn said, skeptically. The Kasari had a dim view of the excesses involved in many Narasi religious traditions.

  “Just so,” grinned Pentandra. “And as such, it is entirely vital. People need to celebrate, drink, game and laugh,” she explained. “Especially when there has been a change in regime. A rough night drinking and dancing helps with the transition. And as an officer of the court, you are required to go to the official masque at the palace. You and your men,” she said, before he could object. “By special request of the Duke. He’s quite happy with the Wood Owls and the Woodsmen.”

  “Well, I’m glad we’re helping out,” Arborn said, sullenly. “But if he wants to reward us, then allowing us to skip the masque sounds like an adequate bounty.”

  “No chance. I’ve already gotten the outfits together. This is Anguin’s opportunity to show off his secret army without actually revealing that he has a secret army.”

  “I have no idea what you just meant to say,” Arborn said, shaking his head. “We are no army. We’re just . . . hunters.”

  “Who are good at hunting rats, and Anguin wants to meet and recognize you for it,” Pentandra encouraged. “Besides, I convinced Minalan to come with Alya, so you pretty much have to go.”

  “Minalan? The Spellmonger is coming?” Arborn asked, suddenly much more interested.

  Pentandra tried not to take it personally. Sure, going to an elegant court masque at the ducal level with your beautiful new wife might be boring . . . but throw in a magical old pal, and suddenly it was a party?

  “Yes, Minalan and Alya are coming,” she sighed. “So you and your boys will have someone to play with. But I get him first. We have arcane business to deal with.” And a goddess to corral, she added to herself.

  “It should be . . . fun,” he finally admitted, unconvincingly.

  *

  *

  *

  Alurra was less excited about the masque, largely because she wasn’t allowed to attend.

  Despite her position as Pentandra’s new apprentice, she felt the girl was too new to the capital and too vulnerable to politics at such an event. Besides, Sir Vemas wanted her to monitor several alcoves and benches in the garden, the sorts of places where courtiers could speak without reasonable fear of being overheard. Sir Vemas wanted to remove that security by having one of Alurra’s creatures nearby but concealed.

  It was hardly the glamorous evening the girl expected, after weeks of building excitement about the festival, but then again she had no idea whatsoever how to dance, knew few humans by voice, and had little to contribute in the way of idle chatter. Blathering on and on about the politics amongst the palace’s cats was not the way to garner attention, Pentandra was certain.

  Besides, if things got messy with Minalan and Ishi, she didn’t want Alurra to be anywhere close. She wasn’t too certain about being that close herself.

  With Arborn home, Pentandra figured that she would be able to spare some time to spend with him, but work demanded her attention as she prepared for the coming round of examinations, the magical entertainments ordered for the festival, and overseeing the cleaning and stocking of her office. She devoted only an hour to deciding on her wardrobe for the occasion. She had plenty of dresses and gowns she hadn’t worn since being associated with the Royal Court in Castabriel. They would be as good as new ones here in rustic Vorone.

  Acquiring a new personal maid was far more difficult. She interviewed four girls for the position before finding one with adequate enough basic skills to cater to her needs. The girl’s name was Perin, a refugee from the north who had served briefly as the maid to her domain’s lady before she’d run away during the invasion. She was a thin little thing, and quiet as a mouse, but she knew how to take direction. She began the next morning, learning Pentandra’s personal routines and idiosyncrasies.

  “Do you really need a maid?” asked Arborn, skeptically, after watching Pentandra correct the girl a dozen times that morning.

  “She certainly makes things easier – or will, once she’s trained,” Pentandra said, frowning to herself.

  “Is it so hard for you to brush your own hair?” he asked.

  “It’s not just that,” Pentandra dismissed. “It’s laying out my clothes, laundering them, taking charge of my jewelry and cosmetics, keeping my shoes clean and in good repair, ensuring that the bed linens are clean and well-made . . . there’s a lot to it. Why? Do you mind the expense? I’m paying for her myself,” she said, cautiously.

  The Kasari had strange ideas about money and property, compared to the average Narasi – or even an Imperial. The fact that they rarely used coin was part of it.

  “It just doesn’t seem . . . thrifty,” grumbled her husband. If the Kasari were circumspect about coin, they were outright suspicious about the idea of servants. Among the Kasari a woman who couldn’t tend to her own needs without assistance had a very low social value.

  But they weren’t Kasari, living in the forests.

  “If we were a couple of peasants, you might be right, Husband,” she soothed. “But we aren’t – we’re court officials, with social obligations far in excess of a simple village. A maid sounds extravagant, but considering my regular itinerary I think she’ll save some valuable time.”

  It certainly sounded reasonable. Yet Arborn nearly stomped off without completing the conversation.

  Despite his objection, by the end of the first day Pentandra pronounced herself largely satisfied with her new hire. She was even willing to bunk in the tiny room that served Alurra as a bedchamber. Alurra, surprisingly, did not object to the invasion of her space.

  She’d never had anyone to talk to but Antimei growing up, and she was excited about it. For her part, Perin was less enthusiastic about sharing a room with not just another girl, but a raven, assorted cats, dogs, and even a rodent or two upon occasion. Still, it was superior to the cold, wet tarpaulin under which she’d been living, so she counted herself fortunate.

  The town itself was quickly transforming before the festival. Banners featuring various wildflowers started to be hung from windows and rooftops, and nearly every planter along the High Street was bursting with fragrant wild blossoms. The filthy gutter that ran the length of the street was swept clean of debris and flushed with river water as the skies overhead tried their best to produce a perfect shade of blue in between spring showers. The weather was worrisome, of course, as Vorone’s climate tended to produce twice-daily rain during the spring season.

  Finally, the day of the festival dawned clear, without a cloud in the sky. Hundreds of prostitutes who had labored so long on the project spilled into the streets wearing matching green dresses and bearing huge bundles of wildflowers brought in from country estates for the purpose. They stood, two by two, at crossings and intersections across town and passed out flowers from dawn to noon: a single blossom to a gentleman, a small bouquet to a lady, with a blessing from Ishi given with each one.

  The townsfolk, for their part, didn’t hesitate to dress for the occasion. Festival clothes that had languished in their presses for years saw sunshine again. Vendors quit their regular haunts or shops and spread out to offer their wares to the festival goers. Musicians, paid for by the town or independents working for tips, likewise took stations and played constantly all day long. The main square in front of the palace was where the largest collection of musicians gathered, and as a result the people were able to dance continuously from morning until far after midnight.

  Beer and ale flowed like the rivers on either side of
the town. Ducal decree had set the price of a pint at quarter penny, and a two-ounce drink of spirits at a single penny to ensure the levity was sustainable. To keep things from getting too rowdy, however, a special detachment of guardsmen patrolled the streets day and night to calm the drunken revelers.

  Pentandra’s day was spent overseeing the examinations of fourteen aspiring apprentices, which actually took less time than she’d anticipated. She spent the afternoon watching the archery contest, which she found largely too boring to focus upon, but which did give her a better idea of the armed strength of the town. With Everkeen’s help she counted nearly a thousand men who had brought their bows and quivers to compete and get paid for their participation. Much of that coin ended up in the pockets of barkeeps and merchants before the end of the day, but no one seemed to mind.

  At one point Duke Anguin and his party of gentlemen happened by as they were touring the festival. He greeted Pentandra warmly, inquired about Arborn, and asked if the Spellmonger was truly coming as promised before he continued on his way. He seemed happy and content, self-possessed but not nervous. He looked around at the town and its folk with a sense of ownership and responsibility Pentandra was pleased to see.

  She was somewhat less pleased about the two young women on each of his arms. They carried themselves just as the rest of the Maidens of Flowers, though they did not wear the green uniforms in favor of stunning gowns of their own. Duke Anguin introduced them as “Lady Rose” and “Lady Marigold”, and assured her that they were, indeed, actual noblewomen and not mere courtesans. Though the domino masks they wore during the day did little to hide their identity, Pentandra did not recognize them by sight. Ishi had mentioned she’d recruited the daughters of noble houses as well as pretty common girls from the refugee camps. These must be two of them, she reasoned.

  She would have been more concerned if His Grace showed any preference in his companions, but from what she could gather he seemed more intrigued by the variety of ladies available than the depths any one girl could provide. Rarely did she see the lad with the same girl – or girls – more than once. Nor did he seem to collect a doting following of cast-off suitors in his wake. There seemed to be an understanding around the town that no one woman was allowed to monopolize the time and attention of the handsome young duke.

  That particular development was particularly offensive to Countess Shirlin, who saw it as evidence of Alshar’s steady moral decline.

  “No sitting duke should flaunt his . . . his virility like this! It’s unseemly!” she fumed, when she’d caught up with Pentandra that afternoon in front of the palace. “What would his mother say if she could see him?” she lamented.

  “Maybe, ‘hey, can someone pull this iron stake out of my ear?’“ quipped Lady Bertine who was nearby. Her dislike of both Castal and Countess Shirlin had been well-established. Indeed, Shirlin had complained to the Duke about her behavior (and likely Pentandra’s own) at the Ladies’ Tea, but Anguin had wisely declined to intervene. Bertine saw that as license to flaunt the popular (and probably true) theory that the Queen had been behind the former Duchess’ assassination. Each time she brought it up, Shirlin winced.

  “I was speaking of His Grace’s choice of companion!” she shot back, annoyed. “How can you just stand there and let him flaunt those . . . those sluts!” she said, seeming to take particular relish in saying the word.

  “As he is the Duke, and I am not, I see little that can be done about it,” Pentandra admitted. “That is, if I agreed with you. But I don’t.”

  “You think he does himself favors by currying scandal so boldly?” Shirlin asked, appalled.

  “Excellency, this is not Castal, this is not Castabriel, and it isn’t even Wilderhall,” Pentandra tried to explain. “These people have had four years of torment and neglect, invasion and shortage. They have been weak, afraid, and vulnerable for far too long, abused by a steward that was supposed to protect and nurture them. To see a strong, youthful, intelligent young leader in their midst is like a breath of air under water . . . to see him enjoying the company of beautiful women does nothing to decrease his popularity in a climate where it is needed desperately.”

  “At the risk of his reputation?” Shirlin asked, scandalized that none of the ladies of the Alshari court were taking Anguin’s bachelorhood seriously.

  “What reputation?” Pentandra challenged, growing even more annoyed with the woman. “He’s barely a man, with little to shave and little to worry about. People like to see how attractive their liege is,” she offered.

  “It’s unseemly,” the Countess repeated, watching the young nobleman dance with both of his companions at once for a while, drawing the attention of the entire crowd.

  “It’s Vorone,” Pentandra shrugged. “Honestly, why are you so concerned that people will think that Anguin is young and virile?”

  “Because it indicates that there is no supervisory authority in this duchy!” she spat. “No one to keep the dark desires of the people in check! Do you know where that leads?”

  “To victory, hopefully,” Pentandra said, watching the lad dance and laugh. “It might be months, it might be years, but at some point that ‘young man’ will be leading his men in defending us all from the gurvani. The more confidence his men have in his abilities, the more valiantly they will fight.”

  “We have a treaty!” snorted the Countess. “The gurvani wouldn’t dare start trouble again!”

  Pentandra couldn’t stifle her snort fast enough, and looked apologetically at the countess out of the corner of her eye.

  “My dear Countess, from what I can tell the only ones who think the treaty will hold back the gurvani are you and the royal family. Everyone in Vorone understands that it is just a matter of time until hostilities resume. When they do . . . well, do you expect King Rard to climb his arse on his horse, draw sword and protect this town from them?” she demanded.

  “The King is sworn to protect every mile of his realm!” protested Shirlin.

  “So why hasn’t he restored the rebellious areas after almost five years?” challenged Pentandra. “Or driven the gurvani back to their holes in the Mindens?”

  “He’s been busy!” fumed Shirlin. “There have been important matters of state to attend to!”

  “I lived in Castabriel in sight of the royal palace for almost three years,” Pentandra reported, patiently, “and the only pressing matter that Rard seemed to have was the design and construction of his new palace. If the gurvani break the treaty, then it will be incumbent on Anguin, not Rard, to raise a defense. Knowing their liege is a potent and popular lad among the ladies could well keep his men stalwart in their defense.”

  “At the cost of appearing as barbaric as the Kasari?” the older woman said, scornfully . . . and without remembering who her husband was.

  “If Anguin looked half the man most Kasari are, we would be well-served indeed,” she said through tightly clenched teeth as she turned on her heel and strode off toward the palace.

  She was not an impetuous woman anymore, she reminded herself. She was not the kind of woman who struck out at those around her blindly, or impulsively . . . no matter how enticing the transitory pleasure of violence might be.

  But as she left the litany of complaints from Countess Shirlin behind her, she suddenly had a burning desire to learn the immolation spell that Azar preferred when he wanted to make a statement while he killed someone.

  Something like that would have come in handy that day.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A Spell On Alya

  “Pentandra!” Minalan said, eyes wide, as he materialized with Alya on his arm. It was a fascinating thing to watch, still, the sudden appearance of people out of thin air. It was even more fascinating to watch the look on Minalan’s face as he blushed and tried to stare anywhere but at her nakedness.

  Pentandra smiled to herself. She just couldn’t resist tormenting him like that. And she had a rationalization ready at hand.

  “What?”
she said, innocently. “There’s only two hours until the ball, which is barely enough time to get ready!”

  “Min, you are dismissed,” Alya said, shoving her husband toward the rest of the chamber beyond the bathtub. Alya understood – both the pressing need for expediency and the innocent flirtation between old lovers. Pentandra liked Alya. She was a very sensible woman. Besides, she reasoned, Minalan would give her husband someone to speak to. Perhaps he could encourage him to open up a little.

  “Arborn is in my chamber! Have him get you a drink! We’ll be out . . . soon,” she called over her shoulder as he stumbled past the screen. “Hello, Excellency! I’d curtsey, but that might be awkward,” she said as the new maid started rinsing her hair. “Ishi’s’—my goodness, you look gorgeous!” she flattered.

  It was not idle flattery. Alya did look stunning. She was wearing an emerald green gown of Gilmoran cotton, cut in the current Riverlands style, with long sleeves and wide neck concealing a gauzy shift underneath.

  The sleeves, hem, and collar were all embroidered with a lighter green thread, with the occasional accent in thread-of-silver forming tiny snowflakes among the green. The beautifully intricate silver snowflake embroidered on the breast was a credit to the needlework of the seamstress, a fascinatingly complex design that Minalan had unnecessarily enchanted to emit a cool, pale light.

  Alya wore her hair in two braids, but she had them looped under her simple conical headdress. The shape accented her face nicely, giving her the appearance of more of a chin than she actually had. She bore that gaudy emerald Minalan liked to wave around, and the silver and snowstone snowflake pin on her pure white mantle complemented the decorations on the ankle of her green slippers.

  She looked very well put-together, and clearly someone had spent considerable time at the effort – someone other than Minalan, who was largely ignorant of such things.

  But there was something wrong with her friend.