Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Magic?” she asked, surprised.

  “I thought so too, when we investigated,” Vemas admitted. “Master Astyral was in town at the time, and we imposed upon him to take a look. No magic. Just a masterful use of accelerants. A bundle dropped down the chimney,” he explained. “The outer covering was saturated with toxic oils that produced a noxious gas that killed them all, when it smoldered. Then when it burned through a paraffin-soaked layer it ignited a nasty alchemical substance that burned hot, then exploded across the room to spray everything in sight with flaming oil. A very quick fire, and hot . . . but it burned out quickly. Within the fireplace, in a fold of inflammable cloth, was the corpse of one very well-cooked rat.”

  “It sounds like magic to me – alchemy,” reminded Pentandra.

  “The Brotherhood have employed alchemists since they were a band of shipwrecked pirates,” assured Vemas. “Aye, and magi, too. Some of their crews specialize in such things. They have traditional recipes for them, part of their institutional arsenal. It indicates a more sophisticated presence – and a far harsher response – than the criminals Vorone has suffered in past times.”

  “So how do we fight against that?” Pentandra asked. She had her own ideas, but she wanted to hear what the young constable had to offer on the subject. Men often communicated important details they might otherwise keep to themselves, when they were explaining something to a ‘mere’ woman. Pentandra learned long ago how to use such occasions to discover vital facts of a situation, often things the men in question never meant to say.

  “In many ways, my lady. My father dealt with crime in this town for many years. He used to explain how such gangs operate, as a point of vocational information. You cannot simply post guards at every crossroads and expect crime to dissipate. Gangs are highly adaptable and quickly withdraw, regroup, and reform their organization around whatever institutional obstacles you put in their path. In my sire’s day the gangs were local fellows, pickpockets, gamblers, moneylenders and whoremongers of the worst sort . . . but they respected certain rules. Something like this never would have happened,” he said, gesturing at the blackened ruin of the tanner’s shop.

  “So, how do we fight them?” she repeated, enjoying the handsome young man’s dramatic presentation.

  “We fight them by first identifying them and then eliminating them, root and branch,” proposed Sir Vemas, boldly. “If you want to choke a nest of Rats to death, you cut off their food supply. In this case, their food supply is coin from their illicit businesses.”

  “Can you not arrest the representatives who show up to demand the fees?”

  “We could fill the prisons and gibbets with them, and there would always be more. And they would change their procedures quickly to avoid such traps. Policing is only part of the solution. Institutional edict is another, but one must be careful with that,” he said, with professional reflection. “Often when the regime imposes a new edict, it only creates new opportunities for them to profit.”

  “How do you propose to approach the problem, then?” she asked, for the third time. Some men did enjoy the sound of their own voice, she reflected. In this case it was endearing, not annoying. After living with stoic Arborn, she enjoyed the conversation.

  “The one thing a criminal organization is prey to is competition,” the constable said, with a calculating look in his eye. “They will expend tremendous resources to fight over even marginal operations as a matter of territory and social position within the organization.

  “The Crew began here five or six years ago in a very small way. Four years ago, around the time of the assassination of the duchess, they were one of five gangs active in the city. Two years ago they went to war over the Market ward with the two largest competitors until they destroyed them, cowed the other three out of the way, or absorbed them entirely. Now they control most territories worth having in town.

  “But,” he continued, dramatically throwing back his mantle, “what if they were attacked not by guardsmen and lawbrothers in front of magistrates, but a new underworld gang?” proposed Sir Vemas, mischievously. “What if a new force suddenly attacked them at their weakest points, without warning, and without regard to the ‘rules’ they’ve imposed on the other remaining gangs?”

  “I would imagine they would lash out in confusion and mistrust,” Pentandra nodded, approvingly. “But wouldn’t that be dangerous?”

  “That depends entirely on the way the operation is managed,” conceded Sir Vemas. “If it is executed thoughtfully and with good intelligence on the foe, then the dangers can be mitigated. One must merely understand their weaknesses and know how best to ruthlessly exploit them.”

  “Such as inciting conflict between them,” Pentandra nodded. “If they are truly that territorial, then that should not be difficult.”

  Sir Vemas agreed enthusiastically. “A new, fictitious gang in town at war with the Crew could turn a great many of them against each other, if their minds are known and their motivations clear. Many of the fellows I know as stalwarts from the guard and elsewhere escaped such lives themselves. They are ready to indulge in a little theater, a little viciousness, and some rumormongering against the Crew.”

  “I see what you mean,” Pentandra agreed, her eyes narrowing as she appreciated the deviousness of the plan. “A new gang that isn’t there is a lot harder for the Crew to fight than a magistrate’s summons. Particularly a gang that used magic to any degree.”

  “That is what I am hoping you will assist with, my lady,” agreed Sir Vemas. “With your help and arcane powers, we could perhaps identify the gangsters and their habits long before we choose to strike. If you have that capacity,” he added.

  “Oh, that’s easy enough,” murmured Pentandra. “I learned plenty of eavesdropping spells and location charms, truthtells and disguising glamour spells suitable for this kind of work.”

  “You have done military intelligence work for the Spellmonger?” he asked, surprised.

  “Well, yes, but I mastered those spells long before I met Minalan. I lived in an all-girl’s dormitory in an academy of magic with two dozen magically-talented teenage girls,” she explained. “Far more dangerous work.”

  “I yield to my lady’s arcane judgment on the matter,” Sir Vemas said, with a charming bow and an authentic laugh.

  “Best that you do. Have you identified the principals of the Crew, yet?”

  “Several. Including your new neighbor. The captains in town who actually run operations are more elusive than the Rats at either the top or bottom of the nest. But I’ve guessed at least four of them, I think. With a little investigation, I think we could discover their lieutenants and more. Then we can begin our little masquerade, and prepare to strike.”

  “Do you think your stalwarts are skilled enough to portray an entirely new gang?” Pentandra asked, skeptically. “And ruthless enough to make it believable?”

  “That will be part of the theatrical art of it,” admitted Vemas. “But I am confident that my men will give it their best attempt.”

  “We will need more than that,” Pentandra decided. “If I am to be partner in this ruse, then it will succeed, Sir Constable. Let me think on it, and see what additional resources we need to bring to bear.”

  “Resources?” he asked, intrigued.

  “People,” Pentandra explained. “Associating with the Spellmonger brings one into contact with a lot of strange folk. Let me see who I can summon to bolster our hand,” she proposed. “And let me think about your plan awhile, and see if I cannot improve it. If we are going to use magic to wage war against the rats, then let us do it properly.”

  “You will bring magelords, like Astyral and Azar?”

  “They would not be the most useful magi, in this case,” smirked Pentandra. “Unless you wish to level the town entirely. More, their faces are too well known. No, this requires caution, deliberation, careful planning, and deception. What we need,” she decided, “is something . . . subtle, to bring the plan together. S
omething powerful, more powerful than warmagi and more frightening than the possibility of the palace dungeons . . . or the headman’s axe. We need to invoke the fear of the unknown in our foes long before they see us coming.”

  “Oh, I do enjoy the way your mind works, Lady Mage!” the courtier flattered. “My thought, exactly! Mystery, not murder, is more apt to compel a man to ill-thought action. An unknown foe with unknown strength and capabilities is the bane of any organization, military or criminal. And performing a masquerade in which you can convince your enemies to strike each other before you draw steel yourself has a certain elegance to it I find pleases me!”

  The word ‘masquerade’ lingered in Pentandra’s ear as they continued down the High Street, arm in arm. She’d seen some of the Yuletide mummers who performed simple works outside of the capital’s temples for pennies. Compared to the professional performers she’d grown up with in Remere, or seen perform on stage for coin in Castabriel and elsewhere, they were crude amateurs.

  But one of the players stuck in her mind due to the crude mask he wore - uncommon in the plays in the Wilderlands, but reminiscent of the elaborate masks used in the salons and theaters of Remere.

  Masquerades and fancy dress were frequent fads of the nobility, particularly in former Imperial lands. And the renegade warmage Lady Mask had made quite an impression with her use of a veil when she attacked the Kasari march last year. Pentandra’s baculus was a prize of war from the mage, re-built and improved by Minalan, but she had to admit that the mystique of the warmage’s blazing eyes piercing through her mask had made an interesting – and intimidating – dramatic presentation.

  “Sir Vemas,” she asked, as they headed toward a tavern specializing in southern wines, “it occurs to me that the simplest way to confuse and terrify our foe is to conceal the nature - and the origin - of our attack. And the easiest way to avoid detection is to never present your true face to him.”

  “Agreed,” the young man nodded, opening the door to the tavern. “Your point, my lady?”

  “What if our fictitious force used actual masks to hide their identity? By the simple expedient of removing them, our people would essentially disappear from notice. And provide a potentially profound effect on the morale of the Crew.”

  Sir Vemas stopped moving entirely, and focused on the idea.

  “Lady Pentandra,” he said, breathlessly, “that is perhaps the single most brilliant idea I’ve ever heard,” he said, sincerely.

  It was pure courtier’s flattery, but it was sincerely delivered, and Pentandra was affected by it despite knowing its origin. She was a courtier now too, she reflected as she entered the tavern. That meant she got to get her ass blatantly kissed herself. She had better get used to it.

  Not a bad feeling, she reflected as she surveyed the fare stacked on a table against one wall.

  Arborn finally returned to Spellmonger’s Hall, and was waiting there for her when she got home that evening. The walk to the palace from here was short, a mere mile or so through the cobbled streets, or two miles across the palace grounds. Most of that was heavily patrolled and perfectly safe, though she didn’t fear for her safety. Any footpad who drew a blade on her and demanded her purse would face a rude revelation.

  Her husband had been busy for the last few days ranging the roads out to more and more distant estates and settlements in the Ducal demesne – ostensibly to check on the status of their forests, but in actuality to gather intelligence about the nature and disposition of those fiefs. That was in addition to work he did consulting for the palace guard and the city watch – not work he relished, but until the remainder of the expatriates returned to Vorone, every able and trustworthy man who could be employed to do so was used to review the roster and interview the soldiers.

  “Isn’t that a bit outside of your position as Master of Wood?” Pentandra asked, as the homely servant woman she’d employed as a housekeeper (until better servants were procured) served them a mild but hearty game stew with corn and potatoes with biscuits that were not inedible. Good Wilderlands fare, she knew. A far cry from the sophisticated Remeran cuisine she grew up with, but much closer to the food Arborn was used to. She had better get used to it, she decided. Pentandra was doing her best to cater to Arborn’s sensitivities in the marriage. And she was doing all she could to prod the man into conversation.

  “His Grace finds my counsel useful, when it comes to judging a man’s character,” shrugged Arborn, as he dug in after a moment of reverent silence as Kasari custom dictated. “Several times he’s depended upon me to determine someone’s worth or deeper design. As soon as the snows clear I will be much busier. We will be running patrols around the city for the first time, as well as ranging as need requires.”

  “What?” Pentandra asked, alarmed. “Doesn’t the garrison patrol?”

  Arborn chuckled. “We were just as concerned, my wife. No, the garrison doesn’t patrol much farther than the refugee camps, despite the fact that we are in a war zone. Indeed, we discovered that the local garrison has no clear idea where the enemy was, much less their disposition and intentions. My report of the patrol we discovered was alarming to them. We aim to repair that. Once the melt begins around Briga’s Day, we will begin wider patrols to stiffen the defense of the town. Then I will be gone for weeks, I’m afraid.”

  “That gives us a few weeks - a month or more – before you go,” Pentandra said, between dainty bites. “Plenty of time to set up household here, properly.”

  “Not at the palace?” he asked, surprised.

  “Not until they have a better space for me,” she sniffed. “Until they do, this is home. For now.”

  “I like it,” Arborn said, unconvincingly, as he looked around. “Much better than the palace, actually.”

  “Well, of course you do!” Pentandra snorted. “It is cozy, in a rustic, Wilderlands sort of way. It will do. For now. Besides, for the foreseeable future not much of my work will be in the palace.”

  “The Rat Crew,” Arborn nodded, sagely. “I heard that you had been handed that assignment.”

  “Arborn, do you think . . . do you think he picked wisely?” she asked, diplomatically.

  “You were the most reasonable choice, if he wants to actually get rid of them,” Arborn said, after consideration. “You’re the smartest woman I know. You are a powerful mage. And unlike many of your colleagues, you know people as well as you know spellcraft.”

  “But this is just so outside of my experience!” she said, exasperated. “I am a mage, not a reeve! I don’t know the first thing about crime! And while I think I can scrounge up a few loyal guardsmen to help, from what I understand the Crew is highly sophisticated.”

  It was Arborn’s turn to snort. “No one is more sophisticated than you, my wife. You can do anything you set your mind to. Whether it is restructuring magic in the kingdom or eliminating the unsavory element from town. The question is not whether or not you can do it, it is how you will choose to proceed. These guardsmen,” he continued, before she could drop her spoon and declare her love for him, “are they . . . unsavory enough to deal with this situation?”

  Pentandra shrugged. “I am hardly a good judge of such matters. But I think many of them will be recognized, and that is dangerous. They might be loyal, and good with their swords, but I can’t imagine any of them getting through the Crew’s defenses. Even with magic.”

  “Then perhaps you should consider other methods? Other people?”

  “The constable and I have come up with the rudiments of a plan, but we’re just beginning to proceed. It’s all quite novel. I really don’t know many criminals, Arborn. Not that sort. The kind I know do their theft with pen and parchment.”

  “Of course,” Arborn said, rolling his eyes just a bit. “Would it surprise you to know that I, perhaps, do know a few?”

  “Poachers?” Pentandra smirked.

  “Among other things,” conceded the big Kasari with a rare sly grin. “If you trust me, I think I know just who to sum
mon to your aid. If we can accommodate them here,” he added.

  “The entire top floor loft is vacant, even after we moved into the chamber,” she conceded. “If they don’t mind sharing a roof with your Kasari, we can put them there.” Of course that would make the place all but unlivable, as a lover’s suite, but Pentandra was starting to realize that her lusty appreciation of her new marriage might be paused, as they both attended their new duties. She was not happy with that prospect, but she could accept it. Temporarily. “The place will be crawling with guardsmen, I’m afraid. They might have a hard time sleeping, with all the noise at odd hours . . .”

  “They could sleep in a turbulent rapid, at need” he smiled. “It might take them a little time to arrive, once they get the word, but they might be able to help. Indeed, they would enjoy the work.”

  Pentandra doubted it – most of the Kasari were so devoted to their damn moral code that urban criminal enterprise was a shameful, foreign concept at best. At the time she dismissed it as Arborn trying to impress her.

  She focused her attention for the next few days on understanding her new mission, with the helpful assistance of Sir Vemas, who arrived every morning with a few of his men to introduce to her, before he began to brief her on the situation. Pentandra had to admit that the courtier seemed well-informed on the foe, and he held a reasonable idea of what it would take to just identify them all.

  “Our task is made simpler by the Crew’s own organizational efficiency,” he explained, after introducing her to two young guardsmen who were eager to take up the fight. “Your neighbor, Master Luthar, is undoubtedly the head, but the Crew is split into five local gangs with different leadership and different responsibilities. Completely compartmentalized.”