“The barons will lend him troops?” snickered Sir Dovei, the Master of Hall. He was a man to watch out for, Pentandra’s intuition told her. A knight from one of the local manors, he had operated as an agent for the Duke’s party in Vorone, and had been awarded his position for it. But the Wilderlord positively reeked of ambition. That didn’t mean he was to be avoided. “These are the same barons you fear will rebel against us this spring!”
“Exactly,” agreed Count Angrial, unexpectedly. “But you mistake the nature of the summons. It is not a call for armed service . . . merely a suggestion for preparation. And an invitation to demonstrate their strength.”
“Why would any baron heed this?” asked Dovei, confused. He was intelligent, but like Sire Lonsel he was unsophisticated. He saw things from a Wilderlord’s perspective, and one of low rank at that.
“Because a powerful lord is sometimes asked not to include his personal guard in his retinue, as many a domain has fallen to a lord who brings an army to counsel. Being advised to specifically bring arms, on the other hand, suggests that they might be needed.”
“Without a lot of encumbering preconceptions as to the nature of the foe,” nodded Count Salgo. “I see the wisdom. The pretext can be exercises, or even a weapontake, but convince even a few of those barons to appear in arms . . .”
“And you invite factions and feuds into the palace!” Dovei said, shaking his head. “In addition to riots outside!”
“Try to have some imagination, Lord Dovei,” lectured Father Amus, testily. “There are lands and titles vacant in Alshar and in need of assignment – and not all of them are within the Penumbra. That is well-known. Indeed, the ability to assign title to domains and estates is one of the few assets the regime has at the moment. The men who want those lands the most are those who know it best – the local barons and great lords.”
“So you invite them into the palace, each with an army, and let them fight it out?” the Master of Hall asked, scornfully.
“No, my lord, you allow them to present their arms to the duke to prove themselves worthy by their obedience to his command,” soothed Father Amus.
“It serves several purposes, Lord Dovei,” explained Count Angrial, patiently. “To the folk of the town it will appear as if the duke has the support of the nobles, enough to put down a rebellion. To the barons it will appear as an opportunity to gain the confidence of the duke, early in his rule, not a demand for troops. Perhaps a tournament or contest could be arranged on such short notice. And if a few estates and titles happen to get granted along the way . . .”
“That seems a steep price for the mere illusion of troops,” Sire Lonsel frowned.
“For what? The illusion of lands?” countered Sister Saltia. “Those estates are mere slips of parchment right now. Most are forfeited for taxes or lay intestate and haven’t been managed properly in years. Many are abandoned or at least depopulated. Some have been burned to the ground in the war. Without someone running them, there is no one to pay the taxes and tribute. All they grant, really, is the right to pick up whatever pieces remain after the invasion and then fight like four hells to work them. We have more slips of parchment than we do Wilderlords to lay claim to them!”
“Aye, hold a tournament and give a few of them out to the lads,” grunted Sir Masten, the Master of Works. “Perhaps not jousting, at midwinter, but certainly some swordplay. We can put something together, I think.”
“As long as it keeps His Grace in power until spring, I am in favor,” Count Salgo nodded. “The more lords we have working toward our mutual interest, the better. By inviting their household guards to drill with the palace guards, or cross swords in a tournament, you gain their trust and show off our own power . . . such as it is.”
When the Prime Minister called upon Pentandra for her report, she enjoyed every word of it.
“So how has our special force fared against the criminals, Lady Pentandra?” Count Angrial asked, his voice pregnant with expectation . . . and doubt.
Pentandra was actually looking forward to her report today – after weeks of assuring the Prime Minister that she was, indeed, working to counter the Rat Crew in the Market ward without much to show for it, this week she had plenty to report. From her past conversations it was clear that Count Angrial had entertained quiet doubts about assigning Pentandra to the bloody task and worried that she would be inadequate. It gave her great pleasure to report otherwise.
She began by talking about the rumors. Indeed, much of what she’d done was already in the ears of the court, she told the council. The news was all over the town and beginning to seep into the palace.
The last several nights reports of mysterious masked figures with dark cloaks and cowls skulking through the night had been made to the city watch. Bodies had been found, brutally slaughtered, in the darkest corners of the town. Rumors of a new force in town, a force from the northern backcountry, were spreading. That she had begun many of those rumors herself in the rudest of Vorone’s taverns made it all the more gratifying to hear them within the corridors of the palace.
She enjoyed her own role in that effort, much to her surprise, though she did not include that in her report – from setting up the scrying and observation spells to coordinating the efforts of the squadron to the clandestine spying she did in disguise, it had been an exciting departure from her public life.
It had proven professionally gratifying as well. She had done good, practical spellwork for the first time in a while. The magic was elementary, but helpful to remind her of basic technique. Envisioning and directing their new clandestine service against the rats satisfied a bizarre artistic urge, as well as the pure joy of performing a nasty surprise on people who were undeniably bad.
But it was those times where she was masquerading as a laundry woman or a nun or a matron going to market in order to learn something of value to the effort had given her a better perspective on Vorone and the people who lived here.
The people in the Market ward were good folk in desperate times. They wanted to be friendly and helpful, but had grown too used to the perils of doing so. Some were considering flight, most had nowhere else to go. In the absence of their accustomed trade, they’d made do with whatever manner of business they could. That occasionally led to bargains with the Crew, particularly high-interest loans and protection money. That kind of social submission to gangsters cast a pall over the ward, and by extension the entire city.
It had also inspired Pentandra in her unorthodox duties with the fictitious gang she and Vemas had set up, to be known as the “Woodsmen”, she told the council.
“We felt that a rustic motif would likely inspire uncertainty in the minds of the southern Rats, and invoke superstitious dread in the minds of Wilderlands gangsters. There are a lot of legends and stories of strange things in the deep woods.” They were working on the details, now - none of which she would share with the Great Council, for security reasons -- but they were preparing their first round of activity, and she was eager to see the result.
But not just for her own aggrandizement. When she had lent her ideas to the operation she did so in consideration of the people of the ward, not necessarily in opposition to the Rat Crew. It was a subtle distinction, but she was a mage – subtlety was part of the job.
It had borne fruit. Using the excellent intelligence they’d gathered for weeks, both magically and personally, the Woodsmen had located and identified two different buildings the Crew used as their headquarters in the district. One was the back room of a lower-class inn, the Randy Doe, which functioned as a working space and gathering place for the thugs. The other was the upper floor of a scribe and bookseller who was acting as a legitimate front for the Crew, and served as office and command center for the gang. That was where their captain, Opilio the Knife, worked from.
Their initial operation was simple. Every business they’d identified as being beholden to the Crew was marked with a glyph of Pentandra’s own design. She’d spent an entire day wa
ndering through the Market ward in the garb of a burgher’s wife shopping, with her baculus disguised as a common staff to ward off dogs or betters. The glyphs she quietly cast with her rod were invisible . . . until activated.
Meanwhile, her rough-looking guardsmen made themselves look even less reputable than normal. Instead of returning to the inns and taverns they were used to haunting in an effort to gain information, she had them switch to places where their faces were not so familiar. There they each told a tale, after buying the hall a round in gratitude for their fortunes. Though the details differed greatly, by design, the bones of the story were the same:
Deep in the backcountry of the Wilderlands, in some remote vale untouched by the hated gurvani, was a peaceful hamlet, six – or eight – or four – or nine – families of woodcutters, freeholders who farmed and hunted and dwelt in blissful ignorance of events beyond the horizon.
They were protected from harm by a reclusive hermit, an old woodland sorcerer who - it was said - had some teaching from the gurvani. Or the Alka Alon. Or still stranger powers. He used his magic to protect the folk and considered them like family.
The story ran that the old man was away from the settlement, deep in the wilds, when a pair of brigands came to the village. The folk were unused to strangers, but friendly. In accordance with the laws of hospitality they took them in and treated them as travelers. But in the night the two brigands conspired to steal what little wealth the woodsmen had, and then despoil the place where there was no lawful lord to hold them to account.
Then (the dramatic pause, she’d instructed the guardsmen, that was essential) the two clubbed their hosts in their sleep, and bound them in their beds. They made sport with the prettiest of the maids, and cruelly tortured the noblest of the men in front of their families. Pentandra left the details to the tellers, but emphasized to the guardsmen that the lurid character of the tale was what was important. She did not doubt that the seasoned watchmen knew just how to inflate the tale to the tastes of their audience.
When the brigands were done with their sport, they set fire to the homes and stole away over the horizon . . . south, toward their home. They’d left behind few survivors, but in their brutish delight they’d buried one of their blades in the belly of a maid (or a boy . . . or an old woman . . .) and left it there to torment the poor soul until she (he) died.
When the Master of the Wild returned to his folk, he was too late to save all but a few. He saw the knife - of simple iron manufacture, with a sharp point and little blade - the sorcerer became so enraged he’d vowed revenge against the evil men who did the crime. As there was no lord over the place to seek justice, as the gods prefer, the Master of the Wild took matters into his own hands.
Using his great powers, he took the beaten and tattered survivors of the massacre and mixed them with the animals of the forest, using their strength and the natural powers so abundant in the backcountry to transform them. The Woodsmen, some with their limbs replaced by claw or hoof, rose at the call of their master, and were marching south toward Vorone.
Indeed, the clandestine guardsmen assured them, they were already here.
With enough coin to buy enough drink - and therefore attention -- in the public houses of the quarter, the tale spread like a dose of pox through a whorehouse.
A few days later Sir Vemas arranged, through his long and surprising acquaintance with the minstrels who worked the inns, to have a song in verse made of the episode. Within days, everyone in the Market quarter was singing the tune: The Rise Of the Woodsmen.
That’s about when the first sighting of the mysterious shadowy figures was reported, as the guardsmen began to venture forth in the very latest hours of night.
The effect on the Crew had been gratifying, so far. At first they scoffed at the tale, and then boasted of the deeds they’d done that were far worse. But as the dire prediction Sir Vemas had tagged at the end of the song promised, the Master of the Wild was coming to kill all the rats in Vorone, the gangsters began to get resentful. Then surly. Then aggressive, as they shouted down or threatened anyone in a tavern who dared so much as whistle the tune in their presence.
For the townsfolk of the quarter, the little ditty offered at least a hint of hope. They’d suffered with the arrogant Rats for long enough to want to believe that they would, someday, be free of their yoke. An avenging wild mage from the sticks sounded like a gods-sent answer to their oppression.
And that’s exactly how Pentandra and Vemas designed the story, over a bottle of Wenshari spirits, one evening in Spellmonger’s Hall.
Now the Market ward was properly prepared, and the interest in the tale began to wane, that was when Pentandra activated her spell. In one night, every business she’d enchanted with the glyph sprouted a dark but unmistakable sign on its door: a rat, next to its head, its feet in the air.
The stir the spell caused was instantaneous. Neighbors were suddenly revealed, it seemed, as agents of the Crew. The signs could not be scrubbed off, being magic, and while some folk attempted to cover the disturbing symbol, it became all too apparent to the entire ward who was involved with the Rats. A small riot broke out, but thanks to Sir Vemas’ foresight the town guardsmen were ready to break it up almost as soon as it began.
The Rat Crew, on the other hand, responded by quietly threatening every “client” of theirs in the ward in an attempt to uncover the mysterious vandal. The first real signs of uncertainty began to set into the gang, at that point.
Last night, Sir Vemas chose to act, while the Rats were still confused. Instead of merely raiding the two sites in the ward, the secret crew of guardsmen tracked the comings and goings to the two urban strongholds and discovered several members of the clandestine organization who they might never have suspected.
Just before dusk, five nondescript men made their way through the Market ward, stopping regularly to collect the week’s take from the Crew’s clients. At each stop the merchant dutifully handed over their hard-earn silver to the grim faced courier, because they had learned the value of cooperation with the corrupt organization. In fact, the merchants’ cooperation led to a decidedly complacent attitude among the Rats. So easily went the evening’s collections that none of them noticed the shadowy figures who trailed them until it was too late.
Pentandra had surprisingly little feeling as she oversaw the assassinations. Sir Vemas and the men had objectified the Rats so much that it barely felt like condemning a man to death – more like having the servants butcher a chicken. She understood, intellectually, that each of those men was a human being with a mother and father, and possible with daughters and sons.
But when the time came, and she oversaw the killings by magically tracking them, their deaths barely registered to her mind. She had to remind herself that they weren’t playing a game that first night as the Woodsmen reported back, each team with a bag of silver in hand.
All five gangsters were murdered by the mysterious figures, all had tried to fight off their surprise attacker, and all had died. All were attacked within five hundred feet of their destination. In each case a large bag of money was lifted from their bodies. The night guards had spoken to two eyewitnesses, but they had little to offer save that neither attacker had looked quite . . . human.
That didn’t deter Opilio the Knife one bit, of course. The scandal of having his men attacked, killed, and robbed of his money – his money! – in the middle of normal business weighed heavily on the gangster. Jokes at his expense began to be made, undermining his credibility. The rumors the guardsmen picked up in their vagabond disguises were a glorious tale of a gang in a state of chaos.
They always prepared carefully, striking at the Rats when they were alone. In two nights the surprise assassinations dwindled the ranks of Opilio’s thugs, with no clear foe in sight. More importantly, the store of silver each of them carried on behalf of their master was taken. Disappearing after an attack was easy - the Woodsmen, as the guardsmen on Vemas’ secret force called themselves in ho
mage to the myth, merely had to remove their masks and robes to fade into the ward.
More, the Woodsmen had proven their existence to the merchants owed money to the Crew. That brought some hope, as well as some fear, to the folk of the Market ward.
“Including last night’s raid, Excellency,” Pentandra said, optimistically, “in the last few weeks we have shattered the calm of our foes, and in the last few days we have dispatched at least nine.”
“Nine?” gasped coinsister Saltia. “Really? Nine?”
“Nine who we know are affiliated with the organization,” Pentandra said, evenly. “Three more who were in their favor.”
“Luin’s staff! How are you doing it?” Angrial asked, surprised.
“My company has adopted disguises,” explained Pentandra. “Masks, designed to conceal and inspire dismay among our foe. For the first few days, they were but shadows who haunted the Market ward, gathering intelligence. A week ago we revealed ourselves – well, our disguised selves – and took action by robbing the robbers. Five large bags of silver were taken.
“But instead of returning them to the Treasury, or keeping them for ourselves,” Pentandra said, proudly – for it had been her idea— “we redistributed the monies to the merchants, allowing them to pay off their debts to the Crew—“
“You gave the money away?” Threanas asked, dismayed.
“They paid their debts with the Crew’s own money!” Saltia gasped. “That’s brilliant!”
“If there is no debt, there is no reason for the Crew to harass and murder the townsfolk,” agreed Salgo. “That’s a wise strategy.”
“We chose the merchants who owed the very least amounts to Opilio and his lackeys. A hundred ounces of silver or less. This morning they dutifully paid off the criminals at our behest, leaving only a few of their largest debtors for them to focus on. And this evening,” she said with a satisfied smile, “all of that silver that they have collected and applied against their clients’ debts shall mysteriously disappear from their coffers . . . the result of a spell that I cast upon one of the silver coins. Their books will be balanced, but their cash in their coffers will decidedly not be.”
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 24