Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series

by Terry Mancour

  If you come and see it, you’ll see what I mean. How can the Duke make policy when a flick of a skirt will change it? How can a woman keep her husband happy at home when every maiden inside the walls believes herself to be breathtakingly beautiful? Things are under strain, Min, in ways I never thought I’d see, because of that selfish bitch!

  All right, all right, I’ll come! Minalan finally agreed, sounding highly reluctant. But you realize, after my last encounter I’m not particularly eager to face her?

  I can see why, Min, she said, understanding perfectly. If she made the women of the palace continuously doubt themselves and find fault with everything about themselves, she could only imagine the effect Ishi’s presence would have on an ordinary man. Even an extraordinary man like Minalan. She was sympathetic. She’s utterly intimidating, to man or woman. That’s why I need you here.

  What about Arborn?

  Keep him out of this! she insisted. I have him doing . . . other things, things better suited to his talents. Things that will keep him out of that bitch’s claws. Cleaning up the underworld here, for one thing. I may have turned him into a murderous assassin, but I’ve kept him away from her and her nasty little—

  What does Duke Anguin think about all of this? Minalan interrupted, brusquely. Pentandra suppressed a snarl. Did he honestly think she could not contend with this challenge without oversight? From a fifteen-year-old boy? She took control of her emotions and tried to give an objective response. It didn’t come out well.

  Anguin? He thinks it’s great, of course! Within months of his return to the summer capital, everyone is getting laid and making money. As far as what the people think, they see him as a savior. And now whatever it is she’s done has spread to him . . . he’s got mistresses falling all over the place. Which is all very well and good for the lad’s disposition – don’t get me wrong – but in a generation that’s going to play havoc with the succession!

  One thing that had become quite clear in the last week: whatever shreds of Anguin’s sexual innocence had once been there were long gone. The Orphan Duke was getting cocky, by all accounts, since his evenings became so invested in the antics of the “maidens” of the House of Flowers. While there had been no reports of pregnancy yet, with that many young maidens haunting his bedchamber it was only a matter of time.

  That’s part of the problem – everything Ishi is doing seems perfectly reasonable and rational, on the face of it, but it’s starting to have dramatic consequences that those fools at court can’t see! I need your perspective, Min, and whatever leverage you can bring to bear on her.

  I’ve got to go to the Chepstan Fair next week, he told her, after a moment’s thought, and thanks to Arathanial’s little war, I’m obligated to go. But I can attend this masque, in honor of my good friend, Duke Anguin. I’ll risk my own duke’s wrath, for that. If he’s even paying attention to me, he added, sounding like a sullen little boy.

  You just need to get out in the world for a night or two, she proposed persuasively. Bring Alya, make up a costume, bring a few gifts, be your charming self . . . and get this damned love goddess out of my hair for me so I can do my godsdamned job!

  I will, I will, Minalan assured her. I promise. I’m not sure how, yet, but I’ll at least study the situation.

  While it wasn’t the resounding endorsement of her efforts and pledge of support she wanted, she also knew getting Minalan involved held dangers of its own.

  He’d been moody and wracked with melancholy lately, and Pentandra had no real idea why. His lands were secure, his children and wife were safe, and he was doing some truly spectacular things with enchantment, now – things that hadn’t been done since the Magocracy. He had the unflagging respect of his peers and colleagues and wealth beyond his wildest dreams.

  So why did he sound so damned depressed? Perhaps he really did just need to get out of Sevendor, come to the Wilderlands for a few days, and get his bearings.

  Whatever you can do, Min, she said, gratefully. Now just get this goddess out of my face, and half of my problems will melt away.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A Conspiracy Unmasked

  “You,” Pentandra said, a smile cracking her face, “look like a proper young lady of the court, now!”

  “I hate it!” Alurra complained. “My skin feels raw, my hair feels naked, and these clothes . . . they itch . . .”

  She picked at the smart new day gown, in sturdy mustard-yellow cotton. The shade suited her tanned skin and blonde hair, though not perfectly. The three other bolts of cloth Pentandra had chosen for Alurra were far more complementary, once they were turned into gowns fitted to the girl. Until then, this was acceptable.

  The dress had been made by the palace seamstress for a courtier’s wife years ago, paid for, but never collected -- the poor woman was consumed in the invasion Though not a perfect fit, it was a lot better than the shapeless shift and bag-like overtunic Alurra had worn since she’d arrived in Vorone. It actually demonstrated that she had a shape, for instance, under her baggy clothes. And there was room to grow. Pentandra guessed by Alurra’s frame and age that she would need it, sooner rather than later.

  “It won’t itch so much when your proper underthings are delivered,” Pentandra promised as she eyed the dress critically. “You’ll just have to endure for a few days. Just . . . try not to scratch in front of other people,” she suggested.

  Alurra faced her, her eyebrows cocked critically. “Why not?”

  “It’s considered impolite. As are a few other things I’ve seen you doing,” she added, with a sigh. “The dresses and the shoes--”

  “Oh, Ishi’s saggy titties, the shoes!” wailed Alurra, miserably. Lucky the raven, exiled for the fitting to the top of the unused looking glass, squawked his sympathies with his mistress. “Why does anyone wear shoes if it isn’t snowing out?” Alurra demanded, crossly.

  “Because we are civilized folk,” Pentandra lectured, firmly, “not wild barbarians or freeholders. You might have been born a Wilderlands peasant, my dear, but that is no excuse for not handling yourself in public with poise and manners, especially in the palace.”

  “I just don’t see the bloody point!” Alurra fumed, squirming in the gown ncomfortably. “Is this how noble folk dress all the time?”

  “That’s how most folk dress most of the time,” Pentandra assured her. “But to return to my earlier point, our social awareness -- how we talk and act around other people -- communicates just as much as our words. Often much more. In court that can be particularly important.

  “At court, you should assume first and foremost that everyone you meet is working for their own best interest, and if they can see an advantage in exploiting even perceived flaws, they will. Letting such folk know our true selves is a vulnerability few can afford. So we conceal our true selves behind a system of conformity and society, while we each strive to further our true goals.”

  “But that means you’re just lying to each other all the time to get what you want,” accused Alurra.

  Pentandra frowned. “Consider the importance of what we do here,” she began. “This is the center of politics in the Wilderlands. That might not sound important, but that’s because you do not understand the nature of politics. At its root, politics is the peaceful allocation of scarce resources. The Duke acts to ensure that the people, the nobles, and the clergy each have what resources they need to uphold their part of society. The Duke’s job, as mandated by holy writ, is to ensure that the common folk have peace and order, the clergy has stability and resources, and the nobles have swords, horses, and castles.

  “In Vorone, that is particularly difficult, because right now there is a desperate need . . . and few resources to speak of. So unless we want to see what little society we have devolve into pure warlordism, under which no one really gets what they need, politics becomes keenly important. And our business here at court becomes all the more vital.”

  “So that’s why you get to lie to each other all the time
to get what you want,” Alurra said, crossing her arms.

  Pentandra struggled for patience and took a deep breath. “In the pursuit of order and security,” she continued, beginning to wonder if Alurra would work out here at the palace, after all, “those charged with the task of ensuring them must meet, plan, and allocate what resources they have in common, under the Ducal household.

  “That’s the court. It’s made up of the senior officials, usually appointed by the Duke, who make policy and hire people to execute it. It’s comprised of the senior clergy, who provide a number of essential services to the people and require the duke’s maintenance, oversight, and guidance. But also his support.

  “It's made up of the military, who are charged with defending the people and the clergy. It’s made up of commercial interests, who see to the transportation and delivery of vital supplies and goods. It’s made up of a Court Wizard, responsible for overseeing the magi of the realm and regulating their affairs.

  “But it's also made up of nobles representing thousands of people to whom they are ultimately answerable. Each of those nobles, each of those clergymen, each of those warriors are all seeking to gain the most resources they can with as little compromise as possible.

  “So court frequently becomes a marketplace of power, position, money, and duty . . . but mostly money. In the process of advocating for your office, it isn’t necessarily the best idea to reveal what resources, power, or money you have control over, lest others seek to use it as leverage in the pursuit of their own interests. Therefore . . . we all have to wear . . . masks . . . to portray a particular appearance. While it’s commonly understood that the appearance is false, we use this polite fiction to protect our positions and further our goals,” she concluded.

  “That’s just stupid!” Alurra fumed.

  “It’s as vital to human interaction as sniffing each other’s’ butts is to canine society,” proposed Pentandra, searching for a metaphor the girl could understand. She usually had a dog or two from the palace’s domesticated pack following her around, and in a few short days she had learned the names and habits of every cat in the place . . . while forgetting most of the human names she was introduced to.

  “I . . . I guess I can see that,” the blind girl eventually said with an angry shrug. “But wouldn’t it be easier to just sniff each other’s butts instead of dressing like a bunch of mummers?”

  “We dress appropriate to our station and the occasion,” Pentandra continued to lecture as she picked up a silver brush from her table and began brushing her apprentice’s hair.

  The palace barber had taken especial care to comb and wash the mop of hay-colored hair before he had skillfully trimmed it . . . but the way Alurra moved her head around uncomfortably showed she was not used to the feel of it yet. “If we were to go to a festival in a Wilderlands hamlet, then it wouldn’t be appropriate to wear a mere shift and smock, would it?”

  “I don’t know!” Alurra said, annoyed. She cringed every time the brush went through her hair. “I’ve only been to one festival, for half a day, and I wore what I always wear!”

  “Well, you aren’t in a Wilderlands hamlet anymore, you are in a town; more, you are in the capital of the Duchy. And most importantly, you are in the household of one of the senior members of the court. Me. Each of those facts has bearing on your dress, your actions, your demeanor. You can get away with some indulgence, because of your infirmity,” Pentandra said, finally being able to see Alurra’s pretty eyes behind her hair, “but blindness is no excuse for poor manners and rustic behavior.”

  Alurra sighed, her shoulders sagging. “I know,” she said, flatly. “Antimei warned me that you would ‘transform’ me. I was hoping it would be into a frog, or a racquiel, or perhaps a bear -- I’ve always wanted to be a bear! Not a ‘proper young lady’!” she said, bitterly.

  “Old Antimei predicted this?” Pentandra asked, intrigued.

  “Yes,” Alurra said, miserably. “It’s part of the story. You teach me how to walk and talk and dress until I am as regal as the archmagi of old,” she said, mockingly, as if quoting her least favorite part. “My feet will ache, my throat will be sore, and I’m going to make a lot of embarrassing mistakes. Still want to do this?” she asked, pleadingly.

  “If it is fated,” Pentandra shrugged, “who am I to argue?”

  “I hate prophecy!” Alurra declared unhappily. “You’re going to teach me how to dance . . . I’m not going to be good at it . . .”

  “What about magic?” Pentandra asked, suddenly. “Does your story give you any insight about how I can teach you magic?”

  “Well, I’ve already learned a bunch of stuff,” Alurra boasted. “I sit in the office and I listen, sometimes. I pick up things. I learned about atomi and some basic alchemy,” she said, sagely. “Positive and negative charges, arcane and electrical forces . . . it made so much sense! But the only thing Antimei ever told me about you teaching me is that you borrow a stone from the Spellmonger to do it.”

  “Borrow . . . a stone . . . from Minalan? A witchstone?”

  “No,” Alurra said, dismissively, “some sort of other magical rock. It’s supposed to help me figure out how to learn about all that . . . book stuff,” she said, distastefully. “It’s like a bunch of them all in one . . . stone. Does that make any sense?”

  While she had initially been excited about the prospect of learning how to read, the difficult reality of the art had discouraged her progress. The books which had once fascinated her now tormented her as Pentandra read to her from them. Not only did Alurra not know how to read, but she had some decided opinions on the subject.

  “Minalan does have a lot of magic rocks,” conceded Pentandra. “Perhaps he has one we can use. I’ll ask him. In the meantime, let’s go over the first three meditations in Qera’s Fundamentals, do you remember those?” A groan from the girl indicated she did.

  Alurra’s magical education was unique, Pentandra was discovering. Some elements of the basics she knew by rote, some she understood profoundly, others she struggled with.

  After a few weeks of testing and discussions, she was convinced the girl was mostly around the Second Year range of knowledge despite her rough presentation. That was not bad, considering both her handicap and her rustic education.

  She demonstrated a basic, unsophisticated understanding of how the Magosphere worked, how a mage with rajira could access arcane power and direct it to purpose, and the twenty basic laws (and several of the advanced corollaries) implicit to Imperial style magic.

  Though she lacked complete mastery over the basic runes, particularly those involving sight, she had knowledge of them. Antimei might be a half-mad old hedgewitch training a blind wild mage in the middle of the wilderness, but she had covered the basics in tutoring her unorthodox apprentice.

  Then there was her sportish talent with Brown Magic. It was fascinating, from a thaumaturgical perspective.

  Clearly she had overdeveloped a natural facility, thanks to her blindness, and the result was the ability to slip effortlessly behind the eyes of nearly any animal she made the acquaintance of. Horses, dogs, birds, rodents, cats, cows, even the bats that were starting to flit along the palace’s eaves at twilight were all open to her. She’d established the girl’s range - which was considerable - and the impressive fact that she could even be in connection with multiple animals at once. Not only could she witness what they did, and direct their actions in a rudimentary way, she could also share in the simple thoughts of the animals.

  In Brown Magic Alurra was truly gifted. The array of creatures in the palace served as her eyes as she moved about from one place to another. They were her scouts and lookouts, her guides and navigators. Often she learned far more from the contact than just what the creatures saw; their emotions and perspectives colored her communications. She learned what they smelled, tasted, feared and desired, and sometimes more, depending on the intelligence of the individual. It was as if she could speak directly to them, and they to h
er.

  Alurra proved adept enough that Sir Vemas begged to use her abilities a few nights to spy on the activities of the remaining Rats, when Pentandra showed off her apprentice’s unique talent to the constable.

  Sir Vemas had relocated the headquarters of his clandestine operation to the former hideout of Opilio the Knife, for its convenience and defense. Though the Rat Crew was barely present in the ward, the Wood Owls and Woodsmen continued to patrol the night in pursuit of any who might peek their heads out of their holes. The handsome young constable was searching for the remnants of the organization in other parts of town, now, and devoted the organization’s resources to that end.

  He was particularly looking for a way to implicate their leader, Master Luthar. The criminal organization’s boss remained aloof and untouchable, in his Northwood ward mansion, and their surveillance of the man showed he appeared unconcerned, in public. Of course, there was precious little activity to tie him to in town, these days, so most of his dealings were now in the Crew’s squadrons of thugs in the Temple ward and the refugee camps. Since the bloody Briga’s Day riots, the Crew had been quiet. Very quiet.

  So while things were quiet, Sir Vemas began using Alurra to infiltrate their various remaining lairs around the town at night, when the Crew was most active. Pentandra’s apprentice was eager for the work - she hated the kind of men the Rats were, and seemed to view herself as an avenging spirit - a perfect complement to the Woodsmen and Wood Owls. Alurra was bilocating to her raven, Lucky, pigeons, cats, mice, dogs, and other creatures that were able to escape scrutiny to surveillance.