Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Why aren’t there more barons riding?” asked Saltia, confused.

  “Because, Sister, thanks to the method in which the Wilderlands were settled,” explained Count Salgo, “only about half of the domains are actually under baronial control. Most are subject to their individual lords, mainly knights bannerets, and swear fealty to their count, directly. Or the duke, if they are not within a county. They are very independent-minded folk,” he cautioned, “but they do tend to follow the lead of the barons in situations like this. If they see the peers of the realm supporting the duke, then they will follow suit – however reluctantly.

  “That leaves Baron Rei, Baroness Burshara, Baron Steldru, and Baron Dasion within a week’s ride of Vorone. Little is known about their politics, relative to the restoration, but the very fact that they are riding with their guards as requested is instructive,” pointed out the priest.

  “If they are truly loyal,” Duke Anguin said, doubtfully. “Otherwise it could just be planning a coups d’ etat.”

  “They won’t have had time to organize such a thing,” dismissed Count Salgo, holding out his glass for a servant to refill. “From what our messengers have said, everyone was quite surprised by Anguin’s arrival. It was a development no one, not here or in the Royal Court, expected. It takes time and communication for a conspiracy to work properly.”

  “My liege, there is yet no reason to doubt their loyalty,” the prime minister suggested, pouring tea for the young man. He did not encourage the lad to drink too much wine after sunset. “If they were disloyal, they would find an excuse not to come and prepare to resist your rule in force. More than likely, they come out of a sense of duty and a curiosity about your new regime. If we invoke their aid and demonstrate that a strong and vocal support for the new regime is in their best interests, I have every confidence that much more such support will be forthcoming. Especially if we sweeten the stew a bit,” he smiled.

  “How so?” asked Anguin, confused.

  “First we settle the dispute between Burshara and one of her neighbors in her favor – which is what Father Jodas was inclined to recommend, anyway. We grant new estates to Steldru and Rei near to Vorone. I know which ones they covet, and that will give them all the incentive they need to support the regime. And lastly, we order a vast amount of wood from Dasion’s sawmills . . . to aid in the reconstruction of the palace,” he suggested, after some thought.

  “You’re suggesting we bribe them?” asked the young duke, doubtfully. “I thought the palace storehouses were already full of timber?”

  “That is the traditional way to get things done,” Father Amus said, dryly. “And while we technically have no immediate need for the lumber, I’m certain we can find a use for it. Believe me, purchasing a few hundred ounces of silver worth of lumber that we’ll eventually use is a small price to pay to secure Dasion’s support. It will take him time to fulfill the order, and he won’t even think about starting trouble until it’s fulfilled.”

  “I like it,” Count Angrial agreed. “We can use the occasion to announce assignment of the two vacant baronies, too. We have acceptable candidates for both of them, I think,” he said, biting his lip in thought. “That will keep them intact and put solid leadership in place there. That will also decrease the worry that you are the kind of duke who likes to pick up spare baronies.” All of the dukes had lesser titles attached to their names, based on their holdings, even if they were nominal.

  “Not when I’m trying to run a duchy,” the young Anguin said, shaking his head. “Gods, why would I want one?”

  “For the revenue, my liege,” supplied Father Amus. “If run properly through trusted clients, baronies can be lucrative things.”

  “If the estates they contain are competently run,” snorted Count Salgo. “That’s where we are really amiss. What use are barons if they head hollow baronies?”

  “Which is why the court will be granting a good number of estates and domains to worthy nobles at Briga’s Day,” answered Count Angrial. “The faster we can get them out of their winter slumber and into production, the better for all. Especially for the nearby estates. Plowing and planting need to be organized, peasants hired for the task, halls will need to be repaired . . . the sooner we have men in place who can ensure the estates are working, the sooner those new barons will mean something to us.”

  The duke didn’t look terribly impressed. “If what my scouts have told me is true, that is Huin’s own amount of work,” he said, dejected.

  “A challenge is all, my liege,” Father Amus assured him. “A challenge that will reveal those well-suited to the task, and those better suited for other duties,” he said, diplomatically.

  Count Marcadine wore the face of a man long used to confronting his failures daily. His dark eyes looked haunted under his thick black eyebrows, and his jaw was set at a permanent angle that suggested he had little tolerance for anything that might distract him from that guilt.

  Marcadine was a powerfully-built man, Pentandra saw from the way he paced about his chamber in full armor as if he was wearing tights-and-tunic, but his confidence as a warrior did not flow from that strength as much as it originated with his self-mastery. It was a subtle thing, but then Pentandra was becoming a subtler wizard the longer she served the court.

  In truth, Pentandra did not mind the short trip a few days before the Briga’s Day midwinter holiday. Though the days had settled into a routine for her – up at dawn, head to the palace for meetings, return home in the afternoon to work with the Woodsmen and wait for Arborn to return from his latest mission – she found her position isolating, and a short journey to a nearby estate, even on an urgent mission, was a welcome relief.

  She understood the political importance of recruiting Count Marcadine. She remembered the man from her few days on the periphery of the old Alshari court. He had been the most willing to listen, and had worked to gain the support of the other nobles in Lenguin’s court to defend the realm. Securing him would add tremendous stability to the regime, so she spared no effort on the Duke’s behalf.

  A mere five years ago Marcadine had been one of the most powerful figures in the Duchy, a senior Wilderlord from a distinguished great house with a prestigious regional history as leaders and allies to the Ducal house. His line had even intermarried with the duke’s, in ages past.

  His much-admired barony was legendary for its efficiency and profitability, and his own charisma was sufficient to persuade his peers to elect him as Count in his youth, when the position became available. His arms, a golden ram on a black shield, were universally respected in the southern Wilderlands . . . and his strength was wisely feared as he rose in power.

  A few years after his election to Count, after rendering outstanding service on the Farisian Campaign, Duke Lenguin had raised him to the post of Lord Marshal of the North, nominally responsible for the military security of the Alshari Wilderlands. The position was largely symbolic – apart from the traditional feuds and vendettas between the contentious Wilderlords or rebellions by native tribes, there was little to threaten the peace of the Wilderlands back then.

  Then the goblin invasion began, and no one seemed better-suited to lead the defense of the Wilderlands than Count Marcadine. Strong, intelligent, valiant, well-respected, he was the war leader who seemed capable of driving the gurvani off through pure will and determination alone.

  Unfortunately, his valor was at odds at court with the schemes of Count Jenerard, the Lenguin’s Lord of the Coasts – an important post in charge of Alshar’s immense navy. While Marcadine’s valor was sufficient for the task, his ability as a courtier was not; Jenerard had the ear of Duchess Enora firmly in hand, and convincing her to convince the weak-willed Duke Lenguin to let the goblin “problem” get sorted out by the locals was easy enough for the skilled courtier.

  That was before it became clear that the gurvani invasion was a serious threat to the realm, and not just an exploratory incursion. When the northwestern heartland of the Wilderlan
ds was suddenly overrun and conquered, sending a wave of refugees south, it became clear that a real military response was needed.

  Once the northern baronies fell to the gurvani not even Jenerard’s smooth voice and endless gifts were enough to keep Lenguin out of the war – particularly not with his cousin Duke Rard sending troops into Alshari territory while his nobles discussed returning to Falas. Marcadine was eventually able to lead the army of Wilderlords who mustered for the battle at Timberwatch.

  Unfortunately, his master did not survive the battle long enough to reward his loyal and valiant servant – and though the assassination of Duchess Enora had removed a powerful political obstacle from Marcadine’s path, it had also left the court in disarray. Duke Rard seized his nephew and nieces in the name of security and Jenerard, with much of the rest of the court, fled to the safety of Enultramar. Marcadine was left answering to a fellow baron, Edmarin, a man who was the opposite of Marcadine in most ways. Including valor.

  For the last four years the count had been retired to his estates, ensuring their protection from more incursions from the Penumbra, ignoring Baron Edmarin, the Steward of the Realm, and quietly improving his holdings with the availability of cheap labor.

  He lived primarily in the baronial castle of Preshar, the largest in the county, when he wasn’t touring his other six estates. Though he doubtless had more comfortable estates, since Timberwatch and its aftermath, the big castle became his refuge as he dwelt on his failure to protect the Wilderlands or his liege. That’s where Pentandra and Salgo found the laconic lord.

  The mission to secure Marcadine’s support should have been left to Father Amus or Count Angrial, by all rights, she knew; the Warlord and the Court Wizard had neither the rank nor the portfolio for such an undertaking. Yet Pentandra had met (and had a favorable opinion) of Marcadine four years before, and Count Salgo had known the man on campaign in Farise and Timberwatch. It was decided that a less-formal appeal to the reluctant count might be more productive than an official summons to Vorone.

  Pentandra was not thrilled with the duty, but a warm spell had settled in over Vorone, leading to a false spring thaw and subsequent flooding of the low sections of the town. The sewers of the city were virtual rivers, now, and the entire place just seemed . . . soggy. It was starting to mildew. Arborn was making a journey across the Wilderlands to Bransei and wasn’t expected back for a fortnight. She was happy to get out of the place for a few days. Count Salgo and his men were good companions on the short two-day journey southwest of Vorone, and despite herself Pentandra found herself enjoying the excursion more than enduring it.

  The guards at Preshar Castle were alert but relaxed when they arrived with a score of cavalry as an escort, and the castellan was polite and welcoming. He escorted the two emissaries from court to his master’s solar and fetched them wine without betraying much about Marcadine’s mood.

  The lord’s troubled expression was difficult to fathom when Pentandra met him again. Through the exchange of formalities, she tried to ascertain his thoughts without much success. Only when he was reclining in his canopied chair with a cup in hand did she begin to understand him.

  “So, has His Grace decided to finally impose his penalty on me for my failure?” the count asked, only a trace of bitterness in his voice. “I’ve been expecting the call since I heard he had assumed power at Vorone.”

  “To my knowledge, Count Marcadine, there is no failure in your service the Duke wishes to explore,” Pentandra soothed. “Indeed, His Grace speaks only highly of your service.”

  “I lost thousands of men and allowed my Duke and Duchess to be slain under my nose,” replied Marcadine bitterly. “They call him the Orphan Duke, you know. I was the one who made the lad an orphan. It only stands to reason that he’d want retribution. I heard how he dispatched Edmarin,” he added, with a grim smile. “If any vassal can be slain for giving poor advice and counsel, I should have been there next to the bastard when judgment was passed.”

  “No more than he wishes to punish the other soldiers who have loyally served the realm in victory and defeat, Marcadine,” Count Salgo assured him. “Regardless of what his sire and dam may have said, done, and thought, Duke Anguin is his own man. He sent us here to summon you to court, ‘tis true . . . but not as a prisoner. He wishes to hear your oaths and bring you into the court. He desires to invoke your support to re-establish the realm. Or at least the northern parts of it,” he added.

  “Considering Jenerard’s cronies own the rest, I can see why,” grumbled Marcadine. “But why would he invite me back to court at all, after what I’ve done?”

  “Because you are a well-respected and honorable man,” answered Pentandra smoothly, trying hard not to sound obsequious. “You are a Wilderlord to whom the few remaining Wilderlords will look up. Your lands were relatively undamaged in the war, and where they were they have largely recovered. Duke Anguin understands that matters of politics transcend his personal feelings . . . but even if they didn’t, I don’t think Anguin holds you at fault for the goblin invasion. Or the assassination of his parents.”

  “I don’t think I would be much of an asset to him . . .” Marcadine sighed, staring out of a window at the beautiful ridges beyond.

  “You’re one of the last sitting counts in the northlands,” Salgo informed him, “and your holdings remain prosperous. They could be more so,” he added, meaningfully. There were three deeds in their baggage that Pentandra knew about, deeds to nearby estates they could bribe him with, if necessary. “The other barons look to you naturally for leadership. If you support the Duke, then the others will be encouraged to do so. That is . . . if His Grace does, indeed, have your support,” the Warlord asked, pointedly.

  “I’ll not deny the Duke his legacy, or me my duty,” agreed Marcadine, slowly, after a pause. Pentandra immediately felt better.

  One of her biggest fears was that the count would conflate his self-perceived failures with an enmity for the ducal house. That wasn’t an uncommon rationalization for political posturing in feudal society, she knew, but hardly a productive one.

  But regardless of his personal feelings, Marcadine would not deny the legitimacy of the regime. That was the most important concession of their trip. Had he made a stand against Anguin in favor of the southern rebels, for instance, or even in favor of himself, then it would have made it nearly impossible to rule Alshar beyond Vorone’s walls.

  With Marcadine accepting his leadership and eventually swearing fealty, however, it became much less easy for the other barons south of Vorone to justify rebelling or denying Anguin’s legitimacy.

  “At the same time,” he continued, his eyes troubled, “I hesitate to add my full support to His Grace until he can prove himself worthy of the title.”

  Pentandra skipped over the recriminations of honor Salgo was no doubt preparing and attacked the Count’s reasoning. “What could His Grace do to appear worthy, in your eyes?” she asked, simply.

  “See to our defense, for one thing,” answered Marcadine, grimly, as he poured wine for them both. “Almost all of the northwestern Wilderlands are overrun by gurvani now. The settlements east of there are savaged and under threat. The southlands are ever at peril, and must be constantly vigilant against both goblins and bandits, now. Seeing to a stalwart defense of the country should be his first priority, as the gods decree,” he declared.

  “That is difficult to do without an army,” Salgo observed. “And even harder without the support of the great nobles. But His Grace intends to do just that. Among the first orders of his reign has been the strengthening of his forces to protect the Wilderlands.”

  While that was technically true, Pentandra also knew that the focus of that military endeavor was more to protect the Duke from the nobles, not his people from goblins. But there were troops under the ducal banner patrolling, at least as far as Tudry. If they saw a goblin, they’d most likely chase it. And that gave her a convenient segue into a subject she knew all of the remaining Wilderlor
ds felt strongly about.

  “His Grace feels that the time this damnable treaty Rard has forced upon us has purchased should be used to prepare ourselves against the inevitable battles to come. If we cannot fight for what Alshar has lost, we can prepare against the day that we can. He has already facilitated a string of castles on the borderlands,” she pointed out. “There are plans to train and equip many of the refugees. And he is considering fortifying Vorone, now. But without troops from his nobles . . .”

  “I understand, I understand,” Marcadine sighed, heavily. “My support would be valuable. And it sounds as if this lad does have ambition, and perhaps a lick of wisdom, which is more than I could say for his sire, the gods grant him peace. But what is to keep him from becoming a tool of the courtiers? Or turning his eyes toward the south, once he has the north pacified?”

  “His Grace is focusing his attention on cultivating relationships with the northern nobles,” Salgo said, diplomatically. “Only when the Wilderlands are secure will he consider dealing with the rebels of Enultramar. Or perhaps his children will. But for now he has no capital save for Vorone, and sees the need for none better.”

  “I’ll consider it,” Marcadine finally agreed, after the state of the Wilderlands was discussed to his satisfaction, and he had a moment to reflect. “If I am able, and of a mind, then I will visit Vorone and pay my respects. And swear my fealty,” he added. “I have not forgotten my duty.

  “But my price for this is simple: restore order in the north. That rascal Edmarin kept demanding tribute in the name of the duke, and I sent him none – why pay to line his pockets, when he did nothing against the foe? But if this orphaned duke can prove his mettle is better than his father’s, I’ll be happy to send my taxes to him. And my sword, if need be.”