Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  Just how they planned to leave the unconscious crimelord was up to their judgment, but Pentandra had a sudden idea. The Woodsmen had littered the little room with various bits of cut greenery to confuse Bloodfinger and add credence to the idea that they were a rustic, woods-loving people. She selected a pinecone about the size of her palm and handed it to the two men who would return Bloodfinger.

  “Here,” she urged. “When you put him back, try to do something interesting to him with this,” she proposed, handing the cone to one of the men. He looked at her blankly for a moment through the holes in his mask, but then Pentandra heard the grin in his voice as he agreed.

  “Now, since we’re all dressed up,” Sir Vemas announced, “let’s not let the effort go to waste!”

  With that, the rest of the Woodsmen spread out across the ward in pairs, seeking out individual Rats in their accustomed haunts. Those they discovered they beat or slew, while spreading the word that the Master’s minions were looking for them by name.

  The struggle against the Rats yielded several prizes on the morn of Briga’s Day. The Woodsmen were careful, never attacking one of the Rats until they were alone and outnumbered.

  They used stealth, surprise, and superior numbers. A strongman here, with his throat slit in a public privy. A sneak thief there, stabbed in the back as he relieved himself against the back of a building. Another Rat was found under a bridge, his head thirty feet away. Each was relieved of every penny that they carried – and some were conveying funds between Opilio and his creditors. Doffing their masks and moving about their business quickly made the appearance and disappearance of the Woodsmen a mysterious and treacherous rumor.

  Every murder was deliberate and designed to enflame suspicion against Bloodfinger. After losing a half a score of his men, Opilio was half-crazed with suspicion. By dawn, Opilio’s crew was cut down to a tithe of what it once was.

  “Poor, poor rat,” Vemas clucked as he counted out the last of the stolen silver. “Ten thugs gone, over a thousand silver vanished, and all but a few of his ‘clients’ have paid him off.”

  “That has to be the most maddening thing,” chuckled Carastan. “To have that much money on the books and yet so little in the coffers . . . and every time he gets more, it evaporates.”

  “How long until he really loses his temper, I wonder?” Mastril speculated. “He’s got to be going mad with paranoia by now.”

  “Oh, he is, he is,” Fen the Quick agreed. “I shadowed him around that barber’s shop all day, and he was screaming and shouting like he’d been stung. His men all have that glazed, frightened look in their eye.”

  “But what can he do, against a foe who won’t stand and fight?” asked Pentandra.

  It was a question that they got their answer to before they realized it. It was Briga’s day, she realized, the day that the Duke was to receive his barons in fealty. It was time to go back to the boring life of Court Wizard once again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Politics Of Alshar

  “Well, that went better than I expected,” the Orphan Duke said philosophically in his chambers, after the feast was over. Most of the lords were at a reception in the Hall of Pearls, sponsored by Count Salgo to discuss the military situation, but the duke recessed to “restore’ himself in his chambers after the feast. Anguin invited (which was a polite way to say “ordered”) a select few advisors to attend him in his private chambers. Pentandra, Thinradel and Astyral were among them.

  The selection did not go unheeded; it was a clear message to the mundane lords, whose suspicions of the magi in the new court had been anticipated – and answered. From Pentandra’s perspective the message Anguin was sending to them by her inclusion was simple: magic was now a respected power in the Wilderlands.

  That was an important point for Anguin to make to his more established courtiers too. Those who supported the effort to bring him to the throne and who resented the number and prominence of magelords in the Wilderlands. Conferencing with three of them after such an important event would send a message to the nascent southern-bound courtiers, as well.

  That was a growing concern amongst the inner council: in the few weeks of Anguin’s rule, the expatriate Sea Lords, in particular, had been increasingly insistent that the re-conquest of Enultramar become the primary objective of the duke’s policies. The Master of Waves, Viscount Muros, was becoming more and more arrogant in his politics.

  His latest proposal (she had heard) was that the duke take what forces he had, what forces he could hire, and take over five havens in southern Castal, technically under his domain though sovereign to Castal, and begin building a fleet to challenge the rebel’s navy.

  It was a foolish proposal, one that involved wringing every bit of iron and timber from the Wilderlands, and using its silver and its warriors for no lesser purpose than restoring Anguin over the south. He and his party had little concern for the people or the land, here. It was merely a means to an end, and that end was the great Bay of Enultramar. There was no other prize.

  The Sea Lords were a difficult breed to contend with. Arrogant and powerful, demanding and insistent on privilege, they did not have the same reverence for feudal tradition that the other nobility of Alshar possessed. Yet their loyalty and fierceness – not to mention their mastery of the waves – made them essential allies. Despite the important role they played in the Restoration, there was plenty of resentment about the (her) influence of the magelords with the Duke.

  Anguin was no fool, by cultivating a relationship with the magi. The mundane barons of the south were just not as vital to the future of the realm as the magi who held the north against the gurvani. They needed to be reminded of it, even at so important a ceremony. Pentandra felt gratified that the Duke recognized that.

  She was less excited about the attention he had focused on her office and her profession.

  “How so, Sire?” asked Astyral, gracefully pouring wine for the three of them. He had arrived in the night with a generous party from Tudry, including Azar and Thinradel. “Were you expecting the barons to revolt on the spot, in your hall? That would have been awkward,” he admitted.

  “It has happened before,” Anguin pointed out. “Nine barons in Enultramar and the Great Vale threw their chains at the feet of my ancestor, Durguin. The Nine Viscounts Revolt lasted twenty years.”

  “Your Grace is a scholar,” Astyral said, approvingly.

  “I was raised for three years in a monetary of Huin,” he replied. “All I did was read. I know the history of my own house. Darguin was an idiot. He didn’t last a year into the war.”

  “Different circumstances entirely,” Pentandra dismissed, shaking her head. She wasn’t as familiar with Alshari politics as Remeran, but the incident was well-known. “These barons need you more than you need any one of them individually. Without you reinforcing their rule, they might be at one another’s throats before long over such things.”

  “That realization is probably the only thing that kept them from rebelling,” Anguin said, as he flopped into his canopied chair and hung one leg over the arm. “But I did anticipate more objection to your appointment to Lord Steward of Tudry. And confirmation of Azar as Baron of Megelin. I think at least a few of your new peers had designs on the place.”

  “Your Grace, I can only pledge to be worthy of the office,” Astyral said, sincerely. “And I am gratified by your trust.”

  “On what basis could they object?” snorted Pentandra. “They’ve been doing the jobs for years, anyway. They might as well get the titles and recognition for it.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Anguin. “Still, the barons are always eager to cling to their prerogatives, and some of them – Dasion and Rei in particular – are not terribly pleased by the ascendency of the magi in Alshar.”

  “If the good baron is that concerned,” Astyral drawled, “then I invite him to come north and replace me at my post. Indeed, I would entertain a direct trade of responsibilities and prerogatives. I think he w
ould reconsider his position quite rapidly.”

  “No doubt,” agreed Anguin with a humorless smile. “He is unlikely to take you up on that offer. But he and the other barons did raise some interesting questions. I thought I might take counsel with you both on them.”

  “Such as, Sire?” asked Pentandra.

  “Well, I have been repeatedly cautioned against becoming involved with the Arcane Orders, because wizards are notoriously demanding, outrageous, and untrustworthy. Yet I have been restored to the throne a month or more, and you have yet to demand even one outrageous thing of me, or convince me to entertain any evil plots.” He looked from one mage to the other. “What kind of wizards are you?”

  “The prudent sort, Your Grace,” Pentandra laughed. “The only things I might have asked the coronet for are the ones you’ve granted today: raising the magi who have been protecting the realm to their proper stations. And to refurbish my quarters,” she added, casually.

  That was such a common request by now that it did not merit a comment. Duke Anguin looked around at his magical vassals, none of whom had hesitated to take the oath of fealty. “Yet here I am in need of your service, my friends. I was not bluffing, when I told the barons that I would be depending more heavily on the magi in the north. Already the greatest centers of power are under your control.

  “But I need more,” he insisted. “I need magelords and warmagi who are willing to stand and fight, and defend the land. More, I need them smart enough to administer them without courting ruin. And I need them loyal enough so that I can depend upon their obedience in emergencies and their compliance with my rule in peace times.”

  “There are several magi I can think of who fit that bill, Your Grace,” Astyral affirmed. “Starting with Magelord Terleman, recently released from Royal service. And not terribly pleased about it. If you wanted a leader who could spearhead a resettlement, you could do worse than Terleman. If you can retain him.”

  “I cannot speak for his abilities in war, save to recall his reputation, but he is a powerful mage,” agreed Pentandra. “Yet I would also ask Your Grace to consider non-warmagi. Master Thinradel, for instance, is a mage of proven temperament and administrative abilities.”

  “I have no aspirations of lands, Your Grace!” he said, startled at being suddenly included in what was, essentially, a political discussion.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t aspire to some little comfort or security, my friend,” Astyral teased.

  “The Tower Arcane is what I had in mind,” the wizard said, shaking his head. “That library, access to the library of Palomar Abbey, that lovely garden . . . I got to enjoy it for so little time . . .”

  “Then we can rebuild it in the north,” Astyral shrugged. “You must see this as an opportunity for all magi, Thinradel, not just warmagi. You can manage lands and see to their defense as well as any lord. They are resources to be developed, used, and enjoyed.”

  “But isn’t that a job more suited to warmagi?” he asked.

  “Why not both?” Anguin proposed with a shrug. “From what I have seen and been shown, the eastern domains are all but deserted after the invasion. There is room for realms between the great river and the Pearwoods. If we peppered the region with magi, and seeded it liberally with peasants, that might season it well enough to withstand any serious assault. And perhaps provide some revenue, down the river.”

  “Magi alone won’t be able to do it, I’m afraid,” Astyral said, shaking his head. “Such an effort will require a tremendous amount of labor, even with magic.”

  “Yet magic can reduce the need,” reminded Pentandra. “With a score of plowing and reaping wands, for instance, thrice as much land can be farmed by the same number of peasants, with higher yields. At least according to Olmeg the Green,” she admitted.

  “We won’t even get to the spring planting, if we don’t get some help sooner,” Anguin said, quietly. “The price of seed is untenable. Our granaries are empty, and we can’t even plant what lands we have cleared. Father Amus has been exploring some issues within the town. With Castali wheat merchants.”

  That sounded serious, from the young duke. Pentandra stopped, her tea cup half way to her lip. “What kind of issues, Your Grace?”

  “For the last three years the grain merchants from Castal have been savagely manipulating the markets in Vorone,” he sighed. “There isn’t nearly enough grain being grown as surplus on the local estates to feed the town anymore, and in order to make up for the deficit Edmarin brought in grain merchants from Wilderhall. At great expense,” he added, “for every sack of wheat that crosses the frontier is subject to a Castali tax. He allowed them to set prices, as long as they were kept reasonable and the palace was supplied.

  “But that meant that every spring since my parents died, when the peasants were planting and plowing, the prices would rise higher than temple steeples. Four times what they were at harvest,” he said, frowning. “They use the scarcity to improve their profits, and charge the same on every sack whether it was grown here or taxed by Castal!”

  “What can we do about such things, Your Grace?” Astyral asked, his fingers spread.

  “Figure out a way to lower that price,” Duke Anguin said, sourly. “Two ounces of silver for a bushel of wheat is going to put bread out of reach of many, if we don’t.”

  The standard price was seven silver pennies per bushel, Pentandra knew. Even that was a lot, by her standards. Commodities were not her specialty, but her cousin Planus invested in them regularly. He had made a fortune or two just in cotton futures.

  “How much grain would it take to off-set their prices, do you think?” she asked, her eyes glazed over as she calculated.

  “From what I understand, Vorone’s market sells about a ton of grain a day, on average,” considered the duke. “That doubles as peasants buy seed corn in the spring. If we could just ensure that there was a sufficiency . . .”

  “Would thirty or forty tons of wheat do it?” Pentandra asked, finally.

  “That would keep them from having control over the price,” agreed the duke. “But getting it through Castal would be tricky. My idiot cousin has his men control how much crosses the frontier as a support for his own markets. Letting thirty or forty tons of grain go by is going to startle them.”

  “Bide a moment, Your Grace,” she begged, glancing at Astyral. Then she contacted her cousin, mind-to-mind. It was much, much easier to do now that she had her overlarge stone and her baculus to help cast the spell.

  Pentandra! Planus’ mental voice shouted at her enthusiastically. How is married life?

  As exciting as it sounds, she dismissed. Hey, have you been down to the market lately?

  Just this morning, he admitted. Why?

  What was the price of wheat, if you don’t mind me asking? And if you remember?

  Well, her cousin said, after a long and thoughtful pause, funny you should mention it. There was a bumper crop of wheat and barley from Moros and Morone, in the north. They sent it south to sell, but it arrived just as the corn harvest from Sendulus arrived in port, so . . . about six pennies per sack, he decided. For wheat. Four pennies for oats. Three for maize.

  A sack held about two bushels, she knew. How many could you get me? By the end of the week?

  All you need, Planus assured. The market is lousy and prices are dropping. Are you considering changing professions? Or just taking up baking?

  Just expanding mine. I’ll arrange for transport shortly, but go ahead and acquire about forty or fifty tons.

  Under your name?

  Open the account under the Duke of Alshar’s name, she decided. I’ll act as agent, but he’s paying for it.

  Alshar? That’s a long way to cart grain, Penny, he cautioned.

  We’re magi, we don’t cart grain anymore, remember? she chided. We still have those supply wands from last year. You just cram the grain into one of them, and I’ll take it out on this side.

  We can do the payment the same way, he decided, approving
ly. I do loathe carrying around a lot of coin. Very well. I shall prepare it. It should be ready within the week, he assured her. But only for my dearest cousin, in celebration of her nuptials, would I—

  Yes, yes, I get it, Pentandra smiled to herself. I owe you.

  As long as we have an understanding, Planus agreed.

  “The grain problem is handled,” she announced a moment later, once she had opened her eyes and waited for a polite break in conversation. “With a little help from Sevendor and my cousin, we should be able to flood the market with cheap corn and keep the merchants from making much profit. The poor will have a decent chance to eat this spring. And we’ll be avoiding Tavard’s tax collectors,” she added, explaining the spell. As the duke had witnessed such magic on the Long March last year, he understood how she proposed to deliver and pay for it.

  “That’s amazing,” smiled the young duke. “And the fact that Castal loses out makes it all the better!”

  “What other matters does Your Grace have for us to solve today?” asked Astyral, charmingly.

  “Keeping the riots at bay would be nice,” the duke said, his expression changing.

  “I’m working on that, Sire,” Pentandra assured him. “In fact, the next few nights should prove decisive.”

  There was a sense of dread and expectation in the air on the street that night.

  While Briga’s festival had not been expected to be the days of festive celebration that Yule had produced, it wasn’t supposed to be a time of riots and violence. Drinking and feasting, yes. The midwinter feast dedicated to the Narasi goddess of fire was often the first social occasion anyone had since the solstice. The riots in the Temple ward had come as a shock to the town, even as the salve of the barons’ troops eased their fears.

  That was still a mystery to Pentandra – why the Temple ward, of all places? But with the Orphan’s Band patrols gone from the cold, foggy street, replaced by lightly-armed watchmen, it was inevitable that some kind of trouble spark. Indeed, the nightly twilight war between the Rat Crew and the Woodsmen heated up while Pentandra entertained at the palace that night.