Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “You do know he was of the . . . Rat Crew, Mum?” Elspeth added, hesitantly.

  “Of course I do, Kitten!” Ishi smiled. “They own controlling interests in most of the squalid brothels in town. But their idea of a pleasure house and mine are as far apart as wood and wave. Oh, he thinks he can scare me with threats of violence, and the menace of his notorious organization, but the truth is he is but a man, and therefore weak. Such men invite wickedness and guilt into their souls like it could sustain them. Such men have no future in Vorone.”

  “He wouldn’t drink the tea, though,” Elspeth observed, gloomily. She had come to terms with her mistress’ pragmatic approach to administrative oversight. Assassination was, she was starting to admit, a quite efficient method of removing commercial and bureaucratic obstacles.

  “He is different than that awful Constable, Kitten. An official can be replaced by any other kind of man, but there is only one kind who seeks the kind of work Master Luthar does. Kill him, and two more will come in his place. I thwarted him by humiliating him, telling him his own secrets. That will only work for a short time, but help is on the way. These . . . rats may be a problem for others, but not for us. They will leave us alone, for now. And they will be too hard pressed, come spring, to pay us much mind.”

  “You do like to speak in riddles, Mum,” Elspeth said, shaking her head.

  “Enough of this,” Lady Pleasure sighed as she watched the criminal lord hurry away. “Back to the dance practice. A week to go, and they still look like scarecrows blowing in the winds!”

  There was just a trace of Baroness Amandice’s up-country accent in the exclamation. It was enough like one of Baroness Amandice’s old whines to make bucktoothed Elspeth grin.

  “Tomorrow we will begin where the story should properly begin,” Antimei finished, with a sigh. “With the Restoration of Alshar. I will tell you of the daring return of a long-lost heir to his legacy . . . and the powerful heroine he brings with him in his retinue.”

  “Who?” asked Alurra, intrigued. She really did love stories.

  “Tomorrow, Sweeting!” Antimei begged, giggling at her enthusiasm.

  “Antimei!” Alurra whined. “Just the beginning? Who is the heir? Who is the heroine?”

  “Well, he is known as the Orphan Duke,” Antimei said, settling more comfortably into her chair, resigned to talk all night long. “He is Anguin II, son of Lenguin II, and he has returned in secret from a long exile to the last outpost of his realm he can claim as his own. With him are a band of heroes and adventurers, stalwarts who risk their lives and their honor supporting his claim. They have travelled for days across the frozen roads to arrive at the gates of fair Vorone, the summer palace locked in snow, and held by an evil man.”

  “Oh! This sounds good!” praised Alurra, leaning forward on her fist. “I was getting bored with the, you know, sex stuff.”

  “It will be . . . when it isn’t terribly sad,” promised the witch. “And there is some ‘sex stuff’ in this tale as well. Pour the tea, if you would, and I will tell you about the night that the Orphan Duke will come to Vorone, and bring his new Court Wizard with him: a Remeran mage of great power,” supplied Antimei. “Lady Pentandra anna Benurvial . . . and upon her, child, not only does the story depend . . . but upon her depends all of our hopes. Luckily, Yule is the feast of Hope, and that snowy, moonless evening is the night that the Duke and his gentlemen will appear at the gates of Vorone . . . and that is where our real story begins . . .”

  Chapter One

  Return to Vorone

  “Halt!” called the sleepy but determined voice of the guard at the great city gate.

  It was near to midnight, and though he was awake – unlike his fellows – he had not spotted the approaching party until they’d been within bowshot. With a foot of snow on the ground to muffle their hooves, that was somewhat understandable, but even Pentandra, who had only casual experience with warfare, knew that was sloppy.

  The guard stood boldly in front of the great redwood gate, facing the party of two hundred men and horses, their breath steaming in the cold night air, with a single crossbow cradled in his arms. “The city gates are closed, after sundown. By order of the Baron,” he added, apologetically.

  “Then open them,” came a strong but reedy voice from beneath the fur-trimmed hood of the leading horseman. “In the name of the Duke.”

  The guard chuckled at the unexpected invocation. “Huin’s tired feet, my lord, but the Duke died more than three years ago. Four, now. Begging your pardon, but you won’t get no further than that by mentioning poor Duke Lenguin.”

  “I wasn’t,” the reedy voice said, impatiently. “I am referring to—”

  “Enough of this!” One of the heavily-cloaked riders a few rows behind the vanguard of the party urged his mount forward. “It’s late, we’re cold, we’re tired, and we’re hungry!” He approached the head of the column, where the leader retreated deferentially. He threw back his dark blue hood, revealing a youthful face of noble bearing – and a scowl. “You, Sir! You are . . . Randaw, are you not? Corporal of the guard?”

  “Ancient of the guard, my lord,” the man corrected, respectfully. “But I—“

  “Hush!” the youth commanded. “I know that because I remember you. You have two daughters, and your wife died with the second, am I wrong?”

  “My lord!” the man said, his eyes growing wide. “’Tis true, but—”

  “I know this, Randaw, because I recall as a boy watching you play with them after your shift at the palace in late spring,” he said, firmly. “Your older daughter wore yellow, with a bow in her hair often; and your younger daughter wore white, but it always looked gray, because she could never stay clean. Further,” he said, smiling at the recollection, “your younger daughter called you ‘Dadums’, for no good reason that you could explain. You loved them dearly. So much that not even the approach of a Duke’s son would keep you from tending to them, when the younger one injured her knee,” he finished.

  The soldier’s eyes grew even wider, and his jaw went slack with wonder. “Huin’s holy hoe! It’s you! Anguin!”

  “Duke Anguin,” the reedy voice corrected, officiously. “His Grace, Duke Anguin II of Alshar, to be precise.”

  “I . . . Your Grace!” the man exclaimed, his face filled with emotion. “You’ve . . . you’ve returned? Here?”

  “Aye,” Anguin nodded. “This is the summer capital, is it not?” he asked, looking around at the large drifts of snow that had piled up outside of the city’s wooden wall.

  “Aye! Aye, Your Grace, but . . . pardon me for saying it, but is this not the eve of Yule?”

  Anguin smiled at the man. “Summer is coming, my friend. For all of the Wilderlands. Now, in my own name to my own sworn man in my own city, will you please open that godsdamn gate and let us in before we freeze on the spot?”

  “It would be a genuine pleasure, your Grace!” Randaw nodded, solemnly, and rang a bell in the guard house twice. He had to wait a few moments, then grinned apologetically and rang it again, twice. “It’s the eve of Yule,” he explained, sheepishly. “Most of the men are in their cups or sleeping it off.” Just then the massive gate creaked and cracked, shuddering open and sending a cloud of freshly fallen snow cascading across the party.

  But the great gate was open. Anguin, with a bit of ceremony, nudged his horse forward past the threshold of the town. Randaw followed behind him.

  “I’d like to be the first to welcome you back to Vorone, Your Grace,” he said with a deep bow. “Many of us mourned your parents on that fateful night. Many of us were saddened to see you go with your . . . to see you go. But welcome back, your Grace. May the gods give you the strength to set things aright!”

  “Who authorized the bloody gate being opened?” came an angry shout from the tower room above the gate. “Who the bloody hell said open the bloody gate when the baron gave explicit instructions that it should remain closed until morn?” demanded a slovenly-looking guard with a
lieutenant’s sash hung haphazardly around his neck. He wore an impressively bushy specimen of the mustache that was currently in style among the Wilderlords, but it was about the most impressive thing about the man.

  “That would be me,” Anguin said, from horseback. He did not sound pleased.

  “And who the bloody hells are you, my lord?” demanded the lieutenant angrily, leaning on the rail of the balcony.

  “Your liege lord and master of this town, Anguin,” the Duke replied. Despite the entourage behind him, the lieutenant did not believe him. Indeed, he laughed derisively, filling the air with the aroma of slightly-used juniper spirits.

  “Anguin’s a bloody prisoner in Castal!” snorted the man derisively as he descended the stairs. “Now kindly get your noble arse back through that gate, your lordship, and bloody wait for the dawn like everyone else to begin your reveling, or you’ll answer to Baron Edmarin in the morn!”

  “Ancient Randaw?” Anguin called, quietly.

  “Yes, Your Grace?” the guard asked, quizzically, but with a properly subordinate tone.

  “Arrest this man,” he commanded. “Secure him until I have time to judge him for his foul language and uncouth manners.”

  Ancient Randaw snapped to attention, and did not hesitate. “Aye, Your Grace! You! Lieutenant Maref! By order of the rightful Duke of Alshar, I take you into custody and request that you relinquish your sword!”

  The lieutenant looked at his subordinate blearily. “What kind of game are you playing at, Randaw? Do you want to be chasing goblins through the Penumbra for the next six months? Get these folk back out of the gate, close it, and then put yourself on bloody report!”

  “Lieutenant, this is your last warning,” Randaw said, soberly, putting his hand on the hilt of his infantry sword.

  “This is insubordination!” Lieutenant Maref exclaimed, as he realized his man was serious.

  “Permission to subdue him, your Grace?” Randaw asked, his hand gripping the hilt and drawing it an inch.

  “Allow me,” Pentandra finally said from behind them. While she enjoyed the drama, she was tired, starting to feel the cold even through her spells, and wanted the comfort of a fire and a bed more than she wanted political entertainment.

  She kneed her roan rouncey ahead and within the town’s limits. She held out her hand, and before the uncouth lieutenant could speak again, he was laid out flat on the dirty snow. In a moment he was snoring.

  “Thank you, my lady,” Ancient Randaw grunted, as he stooped and dragged his superior back into the guard house. “You are a mage?” he asked.

  “I am your new Court Wizard,” she agreed, casting back her snowy hood. “Lady Pentandra of Fairoaks. You are loyal to your duke, Ancient Randaw?”

  The guardsman nodded solemnly, as he threw the unconscious body on the cold floor of the guard house with impressive strength for his age. “Oh, aye, my lady. My family have worked at the palace for three generations. I expect to try for the palace guard, someday, myself . . . assuming the management changes,” he added, disgustedly.

  “Good. Then aid his plans now by keeping quiet about his return until an announcement is made – lest some with evil intent attempt to keep him from doing so.”

  “Aye, that’s sensible. Enough of those sort in Vorone these days,” Ancient Randaw sighed wearily. “I’ll keep mum, I swear.”

  “In about a half an hour,” Duke Anguin continued to the man, “there will be the vanguard of a mercenary company bearing the arms of the Orphan’s Band coming up the road. They are in my service. You are to admit them without difficulty and assist them in securing the gatehouse. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Randaw nodded enthusiastically. “Orphans? Tough buggers those,” he said, admiringly.

  “And go ahead and take that foul fellow’s sash from him, Randaw,” advised the Duke. “I don’t think he deserves it. It looks a lot better on you, Lieutenant,” he added.

  “Yes, Your Grace!” Randaw said, proudly.

  “That was well done, Sire,” Pentandra told the young duke, as they rode into the town, proper, the rest of their party trailing behind them. “And quite an impressive feat of memory.”

  “Not that impressive,” shrugged the young duke with a grin. “I recall his daughters because the older was quite pretty, though she had a gap between her teeth that made her look like a rabbit. I was just a lad . . . but I had taken notice of femininity, before I left here.” He looked around at the silent snow-covered streets. “This place looks so . . . different than when I was here last. I’ve never seen Vorone in the winter.”

  “Enjoy the sight, Your Grace,” a gruff, deep voice suggested from the next rank of riders. “The snow cloaks all with its pristine beauty. Yet we’re but a warm day away from seeing the filth and despair it conceals.”

  “My husband, you are so full of Yuletide cheer,” Pentandra reproved, sarcastically. She could feel his wry grin without even turning around.

  There were two hundred in the advanced party, a score of them mercenary soldiers of the Orphan’s Band. The rest were loyal knights and retainers who had quietly joined the Duke in exile in his estates in Gilmora last autumn, and had assisted in planning (and, in some cases, funding) his restoration to power. Partisans, patriots, and soldiers-of-fortune, it was an odd assortment of adventurers she found herself with.

  She had come to know them a bit in the scant weeks leading up to their departure. Their motivations were as varied as their individual stories.

  Many served out of fierce devotion to the cause of supporting the Alshari ducal house. Many others served for lack of a better position or opportunity. Many were Wilderlords who had lost their holdings to the goblin invasion or the turmoil after; some were Coastlords and even a few Sealords disgusted with the rebels who had usurped ducal authority in the rich Southlands of Alshar and sought to restore the rightful heir to the coronet – and their own political fortunes. Still others were Castali gentlemen-adventurers, younger sons of great houses or landless knights eager to take part in a noble and potentially lucrative political cause.

  But they had all pledged their swords, their purses and their lives to this untested, untried, and un-blooded Orphan Duke as his sworn men. They could all, theoretically, be dead by morning for doing so.

  Leading the motley assembly of nobility were the three men most responsible for the effort to put the teen-aged heir known as the Orphan Duke back into power: Landfather Amus, the High Priest of Huin for Vorone, and the boy’s personal chaplain. The high priest of a peasant’s god was a strange protector of the line, but he looked after the lad with the tenacity of an aging bitch with her last puppy. The man was huddled under a thick, plain woolen cloak as befitted his ascetic order, but there was no disguising the delight in his eyes to be back in his home ecclesiastical territory.

  Count Salgo rode next to him on a magnificent destrier, a contrast in appearance and vocation. Salgo was a soldier, the former Royal Minister of War, who was recently forced to retire from the Royal Court in favor of a younger man after quietly assisting the Magi against the goblins against orders. He was disgusted with the Royal court and was eager to prove his value in a theater where active hostilities might break out at any moment. A dedicated man, his loyalty was to his men, first – but he had never proven untrue. His oiled leather travel cloak obscured his mail and sword, but his true power lay in his strategic vision.

  Ahead of them rode Count Angrial, a career Alshari diplomat who had been living in self-imposed exile at the bottom of a wine glass in Wilderhall for the last four years. Under the Spellmonger’s recommendation he had been chosen as the new Prime Minister to replace the Steward, Baron Edmarin, who King Rard had left in charge of Vorone. His star having waned at the Alshari court in ages past, the talented administrator and politician was determined to rebuild the Alshari state from the remains of the duchy.

  Only such dark and desperate times could have recalled a degenerate sot from exile, Pentandra knew, but the ch
allenge and importance of the post had transformed Angrial. He had approached the difficult feat of restoration with a passion and a genius for organization that kept the odd band motivated and regulated. Whether or not that professionalism would extend to governance was yet to be seen, but there was fire in the reedy little man that gave her hope.

  A fanatical priest, a worn-out soldier, and a destitute drunk.

  Each had something to prove by their efforts. Amus was as devoutly loyal to Anguin as he was to Huin the Tiller, and seeing the boy he had ministered to since he was a child come into his rightful inheritance was his most fervent desire. Count Salgo was stinging from his removal from office at the height of his military career. His efforts here was the only way he could keep himself on the front line of the only war that mattered, the war with the gurvani. And Angrial, a courtier with a troubled past, saw this attempt at restoration as a pathway back into political power long denied him.

  Each man was able and talented in their field. Each was as loyal to the Orphan Duke as one could hope.

  But then there was Pentandra. She was the fourth player in this mad attempt to steal power. She represented the Arcane Orders’ interests in the Alshari Wilderlands, which were significant. Minalan had convinced her to give up her cushy post as the Steward of the Arcane Orders in the cosmopolitan capital of Castabriel for the important-sounding title of Ducal Wizard of (A Third Of) Alshar in the quaint, rustic, remote resort of Vorone, the summer capital. At the height of winter.

  She had always dreamt of being a Ducal Court Wizard, ever since she had come into her Talent and begun learning the family’s Art. Ducal Court Wizard was the highest position a mage could attain, in her youth. Now, as she was entering the town and the reality of the task ahead of her was pressing, she wondered if she should have stayed in warm Castabriel, sorting parchment and attending balls and luncheons at the fashionable salons. That’s what her mother would have wanted her to do.