Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  And, she realized, it was the same sort of responsibility she now felt toward her husband. His failures and successes were now part of hers, and there was a heavy burden in that realization. She looked over at her husband and looked past the ridiculous mask.

  Yes, he’s mine, now. For good or ill, he’s my responsibility.

  It was a harder thing for her to grasp than she could have expected, partially because of Arborn’s brilliant competence in so many endeavors. Had he been a normal man, that burden would have somehow been lighter . . . and her attraction to him diminished, she also realized. There was an exciting danger to being the wife of such a man. The risk of social estrangement was high, if things did not fare well between them. But worse, the idea of ever being parted from Arborn made her physically ill.

  Nor did he demand much from her, as a wife. He brought tremendous understanding to their unique situation, not to mention a willingness to depart from social norms for the sake of pragmatism. The idea that he could not cook his own breakfast or sew a rent in his stockings was laughable. The idea that she could not contend with matters of household accounts or discuss matters of grave import was likewise laughable. But there remained a feeling of responsibility that, she feared, would forever leave her in doubt.

  Suddenly she wondered how he was faring in his own position at court, whether he needed her help, whether he was happy. He so rarely spoke of such things. Not to her, anyway. Now she felt like a crappy wife for not asking him of her own accord. The fact that she both dreaded and craved the answer to that last question was confusing . . . but then, tonight everything seemed a bit confusing.

  What the hells is in this wine?

  She watched blankly as Anguin graciously thanked the town watch for assisting in putting down the latest riots north of town. She’d heard about that this morning.

  This time the riots had started over a distribution of free bread from a group of abbeys in town that had purchased some of the windfall of cheap grain for the purpose. It was more bread than most of the poor bastards had seen in a year. Things were going well until a few of the camp’s thugs tried to take over distribution from the unarmed monks, and a fight broke out. The fight quickly escalated to a riot.

  The good news was that three of the nine people killed were identified as part of the Crew, albeit low-level members. Their heads were now decorating the palace gate.

  After a few more considered recognitions, particularly of the hard-working palace clerks and certain civic-minded townsfolk who had been vocal supporters of the new regime, he adjourned the business portion of the court by leaping boldly from the throne, replacing his fox mask and then calling for wine.

  The minstrels took that as a cue to begin playing, and shortly much of the crowd thinned in the center and thickened along the walls as dancers took their places.

  Everyone donned their masks at that signal. Pentandra had hers in a silken pouch, a visage made to look like a falcon that she’d found in the market. The red-gold feathers perfectly complemented her gown. For Arborn she had found a handsome brown falcon, with an accent gem (augmented to glow by magic) between its colorfully-painted eyes to emphasize them.

  She was pleased that Minalan and Alya had made the effort to bring delightfully detailed masks of some feline – Castali mountain lions, Minalan insisted. The ears and cheeks were made of rabbit fur, but the craftsman had worked it closely until it actually resembled a ferocious cat.

  Of course the disproportionately long whiskers gave both masks a comical aspect that kept them from being too severe. Even more adorably, they both had stuffed cat tails attached to the back of their belts and tufts of fur peeking out from sleeves and collar. It had to itch, but Alya didn’t seem to mind and Minalan was trying to be a good sport about the ridiculous costume.

  “Time to go be the Spellmonger,” Pentandra whispered to him, and pushed him toward a crowd of officials.

  Minalan stumbled a bit but kept going. He looked rough. More than she’d let on. There was something weighing on him, she guessed, something he wouldn’t discuss.

  Something that likely involved Baroness Isily, shadowmage and former assassin, Pentandra guessed. The rumors of her recent pregnancy also were rife with the idea that Master Dunselen was not, in fact, the father of the child who would inherit his barony, one day.

  But how the hells did that affect Minalan?

  Pentandra couldn’t help but be anxious as she watched Minalan work the room. She’d invited him here to deal with Ishi, but was he really up to that, when his heart was so miserably entangled?

  “More wine, please,” she said, holding out her glass to a passing servant. “And fill it all the way to the rim.”

  It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Woodland Masque

  Minalan wasn’t exactly mobbed by the court, but the senior-most among them were clearly vying for his attention. Pentandra was relieved to see that Prime Minister Angrial presumed on his sonority and fell into discussion with Minalan very early on.

  Next the Warlord spent a few minutes with him, until they were both laughing a bit about their costumes – Salgo had affected a grand lion’s mask that covered most of his head. He did a marvelous job of pantomiming the role, too. While it was still early in the day, Pentandra figured the old soldier had switched to spirits earlier than usual. In fact, everyone seemed quite relaxed and calm.

  But then Sir Daranel – soon to be Baron Daranel – managed to sneak into line, and Pentandra’s attention was on the courtier intently.

  The man wasn’t quite out of favor – he was still at court, and in the office of the Castellan to the Duke until he took over management of the new barony on Anguin’s behalf; but there was still much suspicion over his actions (or lack of actions) during the assassination of Her Grace, Duchess Enora. Too much to employ him in a sensitive area without a pressing need.

  Part of the problem was the man understood why people didn’t trust him, though he had never demonstrated either disloyalty or complicity with the plot. But neither had he done anything to distinguish himself as a loyal supporter of Anguin’s regime. It was theorized at the Ladies’ Tea that he was a consummate fence-sitter, hoping that his reluctance would be excused and forgiven if Anguin triumphed, or that it would be rewarded and lauded by the rebels who may, as many of the Sealords believed, try to capture Anguin for their own purposes.

  Pentandra thought it was more a matter of professional sulkiness than anything else. Sir Daranel had endure a massive failure, lost his contacts and his purpose, and worst of all, lost his patrons. He was a capable man, she thought, but one who was waiting for a reason to invest himself. That could be very good or very bad for Anguin, she figured, but seeing him speaking with Minalan made her instantly suspicious. Keeping him in a largely ceremonial post, before placing him in charge of the management on one of the five baronies surrounding Vorone, was a good place to keep an eye on him.

  Daranel and Minalan parted without incident, and if the former spy had revealed anything to the Spellmonger, he did not act disturbed. Pentandra watched casually as a string of other officials made a point to introduce themselves to the famous Spellmonger. Lady Erasma, Lord Andrien, Lady Bertine, Father Amus, even Lawfather Jodas got a moment or two in private with the famous wizard. Pentandra relaxed a bit. It was unlikely that things would go too awry from here, she decided.

  When the young duke finally used his position to intervene, Pentandra stopped relaxing. She was very intrigued by Minalan’s relationship with the Orphan Duke. Part of it was pure politics, of course, but she also knew part of it was his guilt in his part in his parents’ murders, or at least their concealment.

  The young monarch was flushed and sweaty from dancing, when he doffed his canine mask. Immediately he held out his hand and one of his gentlemen handed him the cup Angrial had gifted him at Yule. He drained it thirstily, handed it back, and began speaking with Minalan . . .

  . . . when he was u
pstaged by Lady Pleasure.

  Without warning the main doors to the hall flew open with a bang. Spilling out of them came a riot of brightly colored dresses filled with precociously adorable girls.

  Pentandra’s jaw nearly dropped at the well-executed spectacle. Each girl’s dress was unique, though cut and fitted to flatter in similar ways. Every one of them had bright sprays of wildflowers strung from their hair, their necks, their arms and belts that complemented her dress, and each girl bore a brilliant smile.

  They danced in nearly into the room nearly in unison to the spritely number the musicians were playing in concert with their appearance. Though they were completely demure in their dress, the way their hips swayed and their breasts were featured by their gowns left no doubt of their youth, vigor, and femininity. From what some of the astonished and guilty looks the nuns from the more conservative orders were giving the Maidens of Spring, they bordered on the indecent. Even the way they carried their baskets of flowers seemed provocative.

  “Oh, Ishi’s tits!” Pentandra whispered to herself. As if summoning them, a tall blonde figure followed the girls into the room, one that immediately inspired riotous applause by the court.

  Lady Pleasure was decked out in a beautiful dress of many colors, each picked from a shade of spring bloom, Pentandra noted. The mask she wore to conceal her eyes and the crown of her head was shaped like a flower made of flower petals, and was dusted with gold and silver to make it sparkle in the light. The light seemed to seek her out, craving her attention, and once blessed it bounded away to spread the news of her beauty.

  It was a splendid effect. Pentandra wanted to be sick. Ishi was such a showy, self-serving bitch.

  “We present Lady Pleasure and her Maidens of Spring!” called the herald to the clapping and hollering of the court.

  Lady Pleasure paused, basked in their adulation – ostensibly for her hard work in preparing the most excellent festival – and then invited everyone to enjoy themselves without further discussion.

  The girls who were her escort quickly spread out across the room, Pentandra noted, each seeking a knot of courtiers to ennoble with their presence. Wherever the perpetually smiling maidens went, she saw, they instantly gathered attention.

  They weren’t just posturing for the men – they carried bouquets of wildflowers and called out even the aged ladies of the court for compliments. And they had the sense to be gentle with their praise for the male courtiers’ manliness, lest they incite resentment among their escorts for the evening.

  Pentandra had to suppress the urge to summon Everkeen to confirm her guess, but she was certain that there was some compelling glamour spell at work. She could feel it . . . as if the entire world around her was inviting her to relax and let go of her inhibitions. It was akin to being too drunk, but without the discomfort of an excess of spirits.

  She wasn’t the only one being affected, either, she knew. She stared at Minalan and watched the Spellmonger’s jaw slacken, and his eyes flit from one dainty tart to the other. Yet his eyes always seemed compelled to return to Lady Pleasure. She hoped he realized what kind of insidious power she was dealing with, now. As if to answer, he shook his head and wiped his eyes on his sleeve through his lion mask.

  Welcome to my trial, Pentandra spoke to him silently as he continued to watch the swaying young Maidens. They are all local girls – Wilderland refugees, for the most part – who Lady Pleasure recruited from the camps and the streets. Some she put to work in her brothel, others she refined into real sharp pains in my ass. Her ‘maidens’, as she calls them, are anything but. They ply their charms among the court and entice even well-mannered ministers to do their bidding. Organized gangs of cutthroats I can contend with, Min, but a goddess masquerading as a madam? And making policy? This is beyond me, she said, bitterly.

  I see what you mean, he said, watching the hypnotic movements of the girls across the floor. Has she done anything damaging?

  Apart from the court’s morale? No, not quite. But she has caused some serious problems for the domestic situations of a dozen officers and officials, and she’s working her way into the Ducal Council, now. Thankfully the Prime Minister’s addiction is power and control, not sex. The Duke, however . . .

  He’s a young man, with a young man’s lusts, Minalan protested. Which Pentandra expected. Men hated to have their sexual possibilities limited. So did women, but they were more practical about it, and less likely to whine. He’s enjoying his power and position.

  And he’s had to thank Lady Pleasure publicly for her assistance, she pointed out. It was an adept social move, she had to admit to herself, getting so close to Anguin so quickly. He put forth an appeal for alms to build three new wells around the camps, to keep the people from having to walk more than two miles to the river. She volunteered to donate an entire day’s worth of her house’s proceeds, and advertised it as a civic obligation. She raised enough to dig five wells.

  And that’s a problem?

  That’s not the problem, she replied, testily. I’m the last one to decry a woman’s right and choice to do what she will with her body – but the ramifications of those dalliances are far-reaching. When ministers come to council too besotted by a nubile beauty to report or consider, or end up in a duel over one, or fights with his wife because his attentions are elsewhere, it starts to affect business.

  And you’ve tried speaking to her? he asked, as if that might not have occurred to her.

  Oh, yes, Penny said, her mental voice lowering as she watched the exercise in mass flirtation unfolding before her. That’s when she dropped your name. And hints about her real identity I picked up on.

  What did she say? he asked, guiltily.

  She told me things only the goddess would know, she answered, truthfully. She really didn’t want to go into detail over her early childhood explorations of sexuality. For one thing, they were horribly banal, all things considered. Things that are none of your concern.

  Sorry! Just curious. Who else knows? he asked, anxiously.

  Just my apprentice, who guessed. I’ll probably tell Arborn. I have to tell someone, and I need to make him aware of the danger before it’s too late. He’s counseled his men to avoid the house already just because of her little tarts. And he’s agreed to wear charms that make him resistant to them, himself.

  That had taken a little cajoling on her part, but once the Kasari realized that they were being singled out for attention by the pretty girls for a reason, they were on their guard. But of course Minalan had to pick up on the one part of that discussion she didn’t want to re-live.

  Penny! You don’t think Arborn would—

  I’m a smart enough wife not to take chances, when a goddess is involved, she said, her teeth clenching involuntarily. Particularly that goddess. I knew her by reputation before, and now I’ve met her in person.

  She knew Ishi would have no problem driving Arborn to infidelity. Or worse. As noble as her husband was, as honorable as he tried to be, no one could resist Ishi’s call if she persisted, and Pentandra knew it.

  I would have thought you two would get along famously, Minalan snorted. Smart ass.

  You really don’t know much about women, do you? she said accusingly. Nor did she expect him to, or any man, but she’d hoped Min would at least try. Some things, however, you just had to explain yourself if you wanted a man to understand it.

  Min, she’s the embodiment of female sexuality. And that’s the one thing that women use as both a measure and a method of attack with each other. The problem is, thanks to her divine character, regular social rules don’t apply. I can’t very well start rumors about her, if she embraces them. I can’t ostracize her from society, because she can retaliate through her maidens by seducing my supporters. And I can’t challenge her publically, because I would lose, right now, and she would conquer. I can’t let that happen.

  So what can you do? he asked, partially confused and partially curious. As if he’d never met a woman before, or tried to fat
hom their methods.

  Idiot! she thought to herself, careful not to send the idea to Minalan. Doesn’t he realize what she was doing?

  I can call for my good friend Minalan, who apparently unleashed this nightmare on me, right after he convinced me to quit my cushy job and go off into the Wilderlands to rescue a doomed duchy. I’m certain he’ll know just what to say to her to get her to back off.

  You certainly have a lot of confidence in me.

  So justify it. If you have leverage with her, use it. She’s becoming a nuisance and obscuring our goal to restore and eventually unify the duchy. It was getting worse every day, too. All Pentandra could do was hope her interference abated after this damned festival.

  I’m just glad we got most of the kids out of here before she arrived. Pentandra stifled that mental image before it could take root. No telling where this party might end up, she reminded herself.

  She hasn’t indulged in that level of vice yet, she answered, frustrated. But the longer she goes, the more depraved things get at her bordello. Not everyone has Arborn’s moral strength to resist their darker urges.

  No one has Arborn’s moral strength, Minalan agreed, philosophically. All right. I’ll speak to her. Not that I think I can actually do anything, but I’ll try. Just as soon as she’s done . . . enticing everyone.

  Before he could find her, Lady Pleasure had the minstrels cue up a new piece while she went to the center of the hall. With her tarts taking positions around her, the music encouraged them to spin and twirl. That was just a warm-up for the intricately choreographed dance. Whatever lessons Pleasure had managed to teach the girls had paid off handsomely. They moved with little effort and a great deal of grace. And they never lost their smiles throughout the performance.

  Lady Pleasure finished her performance by having her Maidens surround the duke, cooing and fawning over him. Anguin was clearly enjoying the outpouring of feminine attention, and ended up kissing several of the girls. After some huddled whispers they continued to amuse the court when the girls scattered in all directions, and the bold “fox duke” chased after their fluttering skirts with obvious intent, all while the girls squealed and laughed.