Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  “Well, you are correct about one thing,” Amandice agreed, her tone changing slightly. “This is no simple brothel. But I assure you, we employ no magi.”

  “Nor did I say you did,” Pentandra countered. “Excellency, I am charged by His Grace to police all magic in the realm. That includes wild magic, sports, and . . . more exotic forms. Just because you aren’t waving your certification papers around does not mean you aren’t employing spellwork.”

  It was a bluff, in the sense that Pentandra had yet to gather proof that the House of Flowers was employing magi. But she had a strong enough suspicion to make the effort, if her interview with Amandice was not fruitful. “If this is not a simple brothel, pray enlighten me to what it actually is,” she added, calmly.

  “Why, Lady Pentandra, it is merely the desperate attempt of a woman to raise the plight of her fellow women, for the benefit of her beloved city!” Amandice said, with mock indignity. “After the last few years, it was clear that Baron Edmarin was not going to do anything to help. Far from it. So I took it upon myself to invest the last of my savings in this effort. It’s an exercise in civic pride,” she assured her.

  Despite herself, Pentandra found herself wanting to believe that. She forced her mind away from the easy acceptance of the proposition, and focused on the task at hand. “I find it amusing that you see profiting by selling the bodies of the girls of Vorone as a matter of civic pride.”

  Instead of growing offended, as Pentandra intended, Amandice spread her fingers helplessly.

  “See? I’ve already assisted by providing amusement for leading members of the Court,” she said, smoothly. “As far as profits, I assure you that every ounce of silver those girls earn is reinvested in the business. In them, in other words.”

  “And I’m certain that they are all freely cooperating, unbound by obligation or coercion,” Pentandra observed, skeptically.

  “Of course,” Amandice said smoothly, her beautiful blue eyes narrowing. “I encourage you to speak with any of them at length. Use truthtells, if you like. I think you will find that among their greatest fears is that of being expelled from the House of Flowers. They make a fair wage, they endure comparatively easy working conditions, and they understand that they are all working together to build something larger than any of them, individually.”

  “Your retirement estate, perhaps?”

  “Retire?” laughed Amandice, mockingly. “My dear, this is the most fun I’ve had in years. Why would I retire? If mere financial comfort was my goal, I had enough in savings to ensure my survival well into my dotage. But why save my pennies for my decline, when there is still so much life left in this body?” The madam stretched luxuriously, shaking herself in a casual way that would have scandalized the court, but left no doubt as to how comfortable she was with her femininity. “This is not an enterprise motivated out of greed. It’s a matter of public service.”

  “Really? Explain, please,” Pentandra commanded. Her anxiety had only grown since the start of the interview.

  “I spent my small fortune to take a hundred girls from the worst situations in Vorone, feed them, dress them, and educate them. A third of them wouldn’t have lived through the winter, if it hadn’t been for me, and the rest would have risked swollen bellies and dire circumstance.”

  “But the life of a whore is so much better?”

  “As one of the whores of the House of Flowers, yes, infinitely so,” Amandice countered sharply. “Have you not seen the desperate circumstances in the camps? Deplorable, with no future for any of the girls there. Here, they’ve not only been fed, cleaned and clothed, each been instructed in court manners, etiquette, and all the other social graces. Some have even learned to read. But I was careful at selecting my charges, I assure you,” she insisted. “Each of them, bless their nubile bodies, has a true vocation for the work. Coercion was unnecessary. No one comes to the House of Flowers unwillingly. And no one stays here if they desire to leave.”

  “So putting a hundred whores on the street is a civic project? A training program?” Pentandra asked, skeptically. “Then why the decision to sponsor the Wildflower Festival?” she asked. “There can’t be much in the way of return on that.”

  “Only if you approach things as a traditional madam, and not a philanthropist,” admitted Amandice. “My girls are safe. My girls are clean. My girls are protected. And my girls are getting better,” she said, happily. “They’re a long way from where I want them, but they’ve performed spectacularly thus far. I have high hopes.”

  “I know, I’ve seen some of their work around the palace,” Pentandra shot back. “Seducing guardsmen? Clerks? Knights? What is next, ministers of court?”

  “Well, we’ve only just been admitted to the palace,” Amandice pointed out. “The novelty hasn’t worn off, yet. We’ll work our way up in rank soon enough.”

  The woman’s nonchalance and disrespectful manner made Pentandra’s blood boil, for some reason. Partially because, had she been in the older woman’s slippers, she might have done something remarkably similar.

  But she wasn’t. She was a court minister with a job to do. No matter how much part of herself wanted to express sympathy to the madam for her attempt to bring cheer to the depressed town, she was here to do a job.

  “And where do you plan on stopping?” Pentandra asked, her voice so low it was almost a whisper. “The coronet, itself?”

  “A country looks to its sovereign for symbolic virility,” Amandice suggested. “His Grace is a handsome young man, and possessed of an exceptional wit. Surely you would not deny him a few simple pleasures . . . and education in the arts of lovemaking.” Amandice stopped herself abruptly as a thought occurred. “Unless you were planning on initiating the lad into the crimson arts yourself, my dear . . .?”

  Pentandra was unexpectedly shocked and taken aback by the suggestion.

  “Me? And Anguin?” she asked, the scandalous nature of the idea driving his title clear out of her head. “Why, he’s barely a man! And I’m a married woman!” she reminded the madam.

  “I’m certain the strength of their marriage vows gives many pause for thought before they commit an infidelity . . . but to do so with your sovereign couldn’t quite be considered breaking them, would it?” she asked, slyly.

  “I have no desire for the boy!” Pentandra said, defensively.

  “Not even with the power you could wield? That doesn’t sound like the Pentandra we all know.”

  “Perhaps what you think you know is mistaken, Excellency,” Pentandra said through clenched teeth. She could feel Alurra stiffen behind her at the rapid-fire exchange. The girl might be unsophisticated, but she understood when two mature women were arguing with each other. “I have a husband. I don’t want power.”

  “Oh, marriage has ruined you!” Amandice said, in exasperation. “Don’t you realize how close you could have been to being a duchess? The first mage-born sovereign since the Magocracy fell?”

  “Only if I want to seduce and captivate an innocent boy,” snorted Pentandra. “A boy whose ‘power’ right now essentially stops at the town wall. If you are going to credit me with such opportunistic viciousness, Excellency, please also credit me with some wit, while you’re at it. Any power I’d get from seducing Anguin I’d have to build myself, anyway.”

  “Then I’m sure you won’t mind if I supplement his training with some practical experience, with some of my best girls,” Amandice continued. “Our duke deserves no less!”

  “If I don’t want power from that font, what makes you think I’d surrender it to you?”

  “Because someone has to look after the lad,” Amandice said, softly. “I knew his father, you know, before he married that . . . Remeran. In his youth. Anguin favors him strongly, in the face and shoulders, but has far more intelligence and vision than Lenguin ever possessed.”

  “You speak as if you knew him intimately,” Pentandra observed, finally detecting a potential weakness in the dowager.

  “Briefly,”
conceded the older woman. “For one glorious summer, before he headed back to Falas in the south. And compared to is sire Anguin is a fitter Duke than Lenguin ever was. He could become the greatest of his house. Once he’s properly educated,” she added.

  “So you wish to become the Ducal Whoremonger, then?” Pentandra accused.

  “If the position is vacant,” Amandice shrugged. “Someone needs to get the boy laid. You of all people should know what happens when there isn’t a healthy outlet for a young man like that.”

  “Again you presume, Baroness. There are those who suspect your good intentions, and you have done little to discourage those suspicions.”

  “Oh, please!” Amandice dismissed, haughtily. “I’ve done nothing but cooperate with you. And my intentions are pristine . . . even if they don’t seem like it, from your narrow perspective.

  “Look, little mageling, I appreciate your interest in my enterprise – I really do. Believe it or not, I have a tremendous amount of admiration for you and the work you do,” she praised. “But I have to insist that you leave me to my business, and you attend to what is properly yours.”

  She delivered the line casually, though with enough force to demonstrate her resolve.

  But there was something else . . . a wave of magic that was subtle and indefinable emanated from her as she spoke. Pentandra could feel it trying to undermine her own thoughts and feelings and replace them with a kind of blind complacency.

  It wasn’t as direct an effect as a spell, but there was an undeniable attempt at arcane manipulation going on. Before she had acquired Everkeen she might have succumbed to it. But somehow, even from its magical pocket, the baculus anchored her mind even as her emotions invited her to surrender.

  “Finding out what your business is, and how it affects Vorone and the Duchy, is precisely what my business is,” Pentandra stated, flatly. “I’ve had enough of this dance, Excellency. I think we should skip right to the fun.”

  With that she finally summoned Everkeen to her hand. The baculus seemed almost eager to manifest in her palm, and the smooth, cool surface gave her a feeling of strength as she faced the baroness.

  But after that, all hell broke loose.

  “Oh, my!” Amandice said, her eyes growing wider as the baculus appeared. As soon Everkeen’s spellwork commenced, at Pentandra’s mental direction, some force appeared around the baroness and began to resist the artifact’s probe.

  The occasion was quite a surprise to the baroness, but she did not display any of the normal human reactions to strong magic being performed in her presence. True, she knew Pentandra’s profession, but rarely had anyone not in the profession witnessed the kind of flamboyant spellwork Pentandra was capable of now.

  Pentandra held Everkeen in both hands as the woman in front of her transformed. Nothing happened that would have startled the non-magical observers, but to Pentandra, when Everkeen began its thaumaturgical survey, Lady Pleasure’s aspect changed dramatically.

  She was no mere woman – nor a mere mage, Everkeen reported after the briefest of surveys. She had no irionite, nor any of the standard protection spells most Imperial magi walked around with as commonly as their hose and shoes.

  But she was neither mortal nor mundane. There was a tremendous power in her that Everkeen had never encountered before – a situation that sent the paraclete into a frenzy of surprise and fascination.

  Before she could exercise control over it, Everkeen began saturating the air around the baroness with even more probing spells. The information from each assay flew back into Pentandra’s mind in a dizzying flurry.

  Lady Pleasure was not pleased at the unexpected intrusion. Each spell that tickled the edge of her perceptions was met with a counter force, a type of magic that, while familiar, Pentandra couldn’t recall seeing before. Each tendril of arcane inquiry was batted back after only the briefest of forays. It was as if there were two or three magi standing behind her, adeptly countering every prying spell Everkeen cast. They did not counter-attack, but they kept the inquiries at bay.

  The feedback from Everkeen was just as interesting, in an academic sort of way. It was the most responsive the baculus had ever been in her short acquaintance with it. Everkeen was feeling, now, not just reacting and complying to her will. It emanated the feelings of surprise, delight, and determination, the first time such human emotions had originated from the artifact. Everkeen was confused. Everkeen was intrigued. Everkeen was delighted.

  Pentandra honestly didn’t know which to react to – the idea that she faced an unknown Power in a seedy brothel in Vorone, or that her magic rod was behaving like a puppy encountering a badger for the first time. Either perspective put Pentandra in the role of horrified observer, a position she was unused to.

  Of course, to everyone else in the room who was not observing through magesight, it appeared that Pentandra had made a magic stick appear, and then shake it in frustration while Lady Pleasure smiled at her, amused. Thaumaturgical assays just didn’t provide the gratifying light show and sound effects that warmagic did.

  Pentandra tried to will Everkeen to slow down, but the paraclete was too intrigued to listen. Like a puppy pulling on the leash, it ignored her desires and redoubled its efforts to pierce Lady Pleasure’s veil of protection. Another flurry of spells crossed the room to determine what the creature was.

  Petrified, Pentandra watched an even greater response appear as they were cast. The room filled with arcane power, to the levels that were dangerous for casual observers. Desperately she tried to reign in Everkeen’s probing, but the rod refused to heed her firmest commands.

  Lady Pleasure’s will proved stronger, and her power proved greater. With a brief expression of frustration she frowned, and yelled.

  “ENOUGH!” she bellowed, and emitted a wave of thaumaturgical energy that left Everkeen in an arcane torpor. Pentandra felt many of her protection spells fail as well. Whomever she was – whatever she was – Lady Pleasure was far stronger and more adept than Pentandra, even with her powerful artifacts.

  Pentandra was too stunned to react. And too frightened. She had never experienced this kind of power before, not since her encounter with Sheruel, himself. The reminder was not helpful to her situation.

  Unbidden, part of her mind reached out to an unexpected place: Well, Mother, what would YOU do in this situation?

  Lady Pleasure took a deep breath and took control of the situation. “What a wonderful toy! That has to be Minalan’s work – it has his fingerprints all over it. Am I wrong?” she asked, as she descended the stairs and approached Pentandra. “The craftsmanship has some Karshak elements, but that spellwork is pure Spellmonger – tell me I’m wrong!” she said, eagerly.

  This was not Dowager Baroness Amandice, anymore, Pentandra realized. Whatever else she was, this was Lady Pleasure, now, and there was no mistaking that. The predatory look in her eye, the confidence, the delight . . . whatever had taken possession of the body of the baroness had done so completely.

  “You . . . know Minalan?” Pentandra gasped. The closer Lady Pleasure came to her, the more powerless she felt. The presence of the woman was like a field of lethargy, and despite her training and her remaining protections Pentandra felt overwhelmed. She could not move.

  “We’ve met,” she affirmed in a tone that implied . . . everything, while revealing nothing. “A handsome man. Powerful, for a man. And terribly clever,” she admitted, her eyes flicking toward Everkeen admiringly. “That’s something I’ve not encountered before . . . and believe me, I get around!”

  “Yes,” Pentandra said, firmly. “I can imagine. It was a gift from the Spellmonger. A wedding gift,” she added.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” Lady Pleasure sighed. “But magnificent nonetheless. And quite a challenge,” she admitted. “But I’ve handled bigger sticks than that.”

  “And a gracious plenitude of them, I have no doubt,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing. “But that merely begs the question, Excellency, what are you?” she
demanded, accusingly.

  “Why, a public-spirited matron doing her best to lend her talents and resources to the betterment of her town, my dear, just as I said,” Lady Pleasure purred, as she slowly circled Pentandra. Everkeen might be frightened into quiescence, but that was not the only resource Pentandra had at her disposal.

  “By creating an army of whores?” Pentandra asked, one eyebrow raised as defiantly as she held her paralyzed baculus.

  “If I was a baron, and not a baroness, perhaps I’d bring His Grace an army of warriors, but I am not,” she said, simply. “The refugees outside our gates were a resource that no one else was marshalling in this dark hour. I took the initiative to do so. I have adopted over a hundred girls from desperate situations on the edge of ruin. I have fed them, clothed them, bathed them, and most importantly I’ve taught them.”

  “Taught them how to have sex for money?” Pentandra asked, still not moving.

  “Most had already learned that simple trick,” Lady Pleasure admitted. “I taught them how to gain the most out of the transaction. Those who had begun the journey did so for protection, desperation, comfort, and coin. I taught them by working together they compound their power and increase their gain.”

  “So they’re high priced whores,” Pentandra said, casually.

  “Pentandra!” Lady Pleasure clucked disapprovingly in a matronly tone. “So judgmental! Has marriage turned you into a hypocrite?”

  “Don’t act as if you know me, ‘Lady Pleasure’ – you presume too much!”

  Instead of recoiling at the retort, the baroness – or whatever was in her guise – smirked indulgently. “My dear, I’ve known you since the first time you glimpsed the gardener topping the maid behind the laundry shed,” she whispered.

  The implication behind the statement stunned Pentandra.

  That had been her first exposure to sex, objectively, and the occasion proved intensely formative. It was also intensely private. She had never revealed that curious morning to anyone, ever, nor had she committed it to writing. She, alone, had witnessed it.