“It’s fairly common,” shrugged Angrial, smoking his pipe contemplatively. “Some even use the occasion to force the duke to find them new husbands.”
“And now she wants me to force me to be a new husband!” Anguin said, disgusted.
“You just leave her to me, Your Grace,” Pentandra promised. “The ladies of the court and I will keep her in line.”
After the brief meeting, Pentandra headed over to the palace office of the Constable, which made her own operations look positively expansive by comparison. The two-room office was smaller than her reception area, and half of the second room was occupied by an iron cage. Sir Vemas was there with another guardsman, whom he dismissed as soon as he saw Pentandra.
“So, what happened with Master Luthar?” she asked from the doorway without preamble.
“He is currently in the dungeon, awaiting his legal advocate,” Sir Vemas reported, pleased.
“But . . . he wasn’t one of the conspirators named by the rebels,” Pentandra pointed out.
“You caught that, did you?” Sir Vemas grimaced. “No, not technically. Technically, he had nothing to do with the aborted uprising at all.”
“Then why was he charged?” she demanded.
“Convenience, my lady,” Sir Vemas sighed. “We couldn’t find anything to stick to Luthar, legally. He’s too good, his people too disciplined. Even the spy missions your apprentice has been helping me with have been frustrating, because the man never speaks of his guilt, even in private. And he frequently uses codes and misdirection. He’s sneaky,” summarized the constable.
“An important consideration in a crime lord,” Pentandra agreed. “But if he wasn’t named as a conspirator how can we legally—”
“Under the Laws of Luin . . . we can’t,” admitted Sir Vemas. “But the enterprise was a ploy. Either he will keep his mouth shut and risk execution based on the testimony of some unnamed prisoner, or he allows himself to be questioned in court under a truthtell. And in cases of treason, as I mentioned, there is no restriction about what kinds of questions we could ask him. And he would be compelled to answer . . . truthfully. That includes the names of his superiors in the south, the names of his confederates here, where his treasures are hidden and who he has turned to his influence within the palace,” Sir Vemas relayed, each item ticked off a fingertip.
“Only he’s not guilty!”
“He’s plenty guilty,” Sir Vemas countered. “Just not of this. So we’ll use this as a feint to get him to spill the kettle on what he knows, even though it incriminates him. Which is perfectly legal . . . under the Laws of Kulin.”
There was that name again. By invoking the God of Thieves and Tricksters, Sir Vemas was reminding her that they acted not merely as instruments of justice in the court, but as agents of its preservation. The Laws of Kulin justified all manner of deceit and treachery in the name of state security, and framing an ostensibly innocent man for one crime to get him to inform about another was well within the limits of that mandate.
But it didn’t make Pentandra feel very well about the matter. Not at all.
Her first opportunity to meet one-on-one with the Dowager Countess Shirlin came the very next day, when the Countess made the rounds of the senior staff offices to introduce herself.
Pentandra sat through her dull introduction dutifully, but without a hint of interest. Countess Shirlin was just too disciplined and too skilled to let slip anything that could help the Duke or incriminate the Queen. As far as anyone knew, she was merely there to advise the Duke on his marital prospects.
She stopped by Pentandra’s office mid-morning on a courtesy call, as Pentandra was approving the fourteen names of apprentices aspiring to take their master’s examinations this summer. The dowager swept into the office in her attractive new gown, a purse full of opinions, and an arrogant, insulting attitude that Pentandra disliked at once, breezed past Pentandra’s protesting secretary, and showed herself into Pentandra’s office.
“Ah, Lady Mage! Lady Pentandra anna Benurvial, if I’m not mistaken?” she said, when Alurra reluctantly led her to a chair in Pentandra’s office.
“Actually, I am Lady Pentandra anna Kasari, if you want to be technical,” Pentandra replied, bowing to the senior lady. “I was married last autumn. But I’m still settling on a name,” she added, guardedly. The confession was a blow to Countess Shirlin.
“Married? And I didn’t hear of it?” the woman asked, shocked. “My dear, you are one of the most influential magi in the kingdom, and . . . no one heard of your wedding?” she asked, scandalized.
“It was a small affair, in Kasar,” Pentandra demurred. “Very quaint. Quite romantic. So what can I do for you today, Excellency?”
But Countess Shirlin would not let the subject go. As she sat huffed in the visitor’s chair, she seemed to want to accuse Pentandra of a crime. Luckily for her, social embarrassment was akin to crime in her mind. “You . . . married . . . a Kasari?” she asked, her eyes glazed in disbelief.
“Why yes,” Pentandra purred, enjoying the old bat’s discomfort. It was much akin to the reaction she expected her mother would have, if she even knew about the Kasari. “My husband is Captain Arborn, the Ducal Master of Wood. He is a captain of the Kasari Rangers,” she explained.
“He’s . . . a tribesman!” whispered the courtier.
“Indeed, he is,” conceded Pentandra. “The Kasari are organized in tribal-like bands.”
“And a savage!” Countess Shirlin continued, nearly shrieking.
“Hardly,” Pentandra said, gently, wondering just how quickly she could kill the woman with magic. Then how slowly. “He’s literate, educated, and very intelligent,” Pentandra countered, allowing the disdain to be heard in her voice as she lectured the spy from Castal. “He’s also a senior officer in this court,” she reminded the newcomer, “and entitled to the respect due his rank. So what can I do for you, my lady?” she finished, a tad impatiently.
“Oh, I . . . I was just introducing myself,” Shirlin said, finally marshalling herself as she came to terms with Pentandra’s supposed scandal. “To the ladies of the court,” she added, trying to regain control. “I know it must be a terrible burden to keep things running without a duchess to keep order,” she pointed out.
“Actually, we’ve gotten along quite well,” Pentandra said. “The duchy had a perfectly good one for years, but . . .” she said. If Countess Shirlin was at all socially aware, she had at least heard the popular rumors that it was Grendine, not the Brotherhood of the Rat, who had slain the late Duchess of Alshar. “We’ll manage to survive without a new one.”
“Well, for a few months, perhaps . . . but without good, solid feminine leadership, Lady Pentandra think you will find that the court becomes wracked by scandal all too soon,” she said, looking around suspiciously. “We can’t have that, now, can we? Such lurid scandals are a distraction!”
“We’re less concerned with sex scandals and far more concerned with corruption, Excellency,” Pentandra offered. “Considering how poorly Edmarin managed Alshar – he was a friend of Her Majesty, wasn’t he? Too bad, she must be quite disappointed with his dishonor – but with the people of the Wilderlands starving and without work, they have been far less concerned with who is doing what to whom in the palace as they are where their next meal will come from.”
“Well, of course, under these . . . difficult circumstances one should expect the common people to ignore impropriety,” Countess Shirlin mused, ignoring Pentandra’s point. “But we can’t allow people to talk about the goings-on at the palace as if it were some mummer’s play!”
“Why can’t we?” challenged Pentandra.
“Uh . . . what?” Countess Shirlin asked, confused.
“Why can’t we? Let people talk about the palace goings-on, I mean. What harm does it do?”
“Why, why, it undermines the respect that the people have for the nobility!” she burst, her jowls nearly shaking she was so upset at the thought of mere commoner sneer
ing at her social class. “If they think that the nobles go around boffing like rabbits—”
“Which, from all observations, they do,” reminded Pentandra, causing Countess Shirlin to blush.
“—then they will not invest the palace with the deference which it is due!” she finished, breathlessly. “They will think that the nobility is no better than, than . . .”
“The burghers?”
“Exactly!” gasped Countess Shirlin. “You have grasped it exactly!”
“No, actually, from my observations the burghers seem far, far more invested in the fidelity of their marriages than the nobility in Vorone,” Pentandra informed her, calmly. “The common people could actually care less what happens in the palace, as long as everything else in their lives is done properly.”
“But what will they think?” demanded Countess Shirlin, clearly aggrieved by the idea of mere scullery maids and stable boys gossiping about their betters.
“But why do you care?” countered Pentandra. “Honestly, Excellency, this isn’t Castabriel – this isn’t even Wilderhall. This is Vorone, and if she was a horse we’d likely cut her throat and leave her on the roadside. But she’s not. She’s the only capital we’ve got at the moment, and its people don’t give a tinker’s piss about what – or who – Duke Anguin does for amusement.”
“That seems a terribly regressive perspective from someone like you, my lady,” Countess Shirlin sniffed, critically.
“Someone like me?” Pentandra asked, surprised. She was on her guard for the inevitable social attack, if she was not willing to immediately support Countess Shirlin’s attempt to build consensus - this was likely it.
“Someone from a distinguished and ancient house such as yours,” the woman clarified, with an attempt at diplomacy. “One where the rules of propriety are traditionally observed. I’m certain your ancestors would be . . . upset by your attitude. But perhaps it has been your more recent acquaintanceships that have colored your perspectives on what is proper and what is not,” she added with the slightest sneer.
The thinly-veiled reference to Arborn and his barbaric heritage did more than irritate Pentandra – she nearly summoned Everkeen and punished the woman arcanely. But she understood politics well enough to know that burning the Queen’s clandestine representative to a cinder over a mild insult was likely to get her gossiped about in the wrong quarters. And not by stable boys and scullery maids.
“Well, Excellency, while I’ll just have to muddle along with my damaged perspective, I think it’s important that you make the acquaintance of the palace ladies,” she said, in a friendly manner. “Viscountess Threanas holds a weekly gathering, which is in two days’ time. I’ll ensure you get an invitation,” she added.
“You’ll ensure that I will get an invitation?” asked Countess Shirlin, amused and irritated at the same time at the thought that Pentandra had more influence with such things than she.
“It really isn’t a problem,” Pentandra said. “In fact, I believe another new face will be there: Dowager Baroness Amandice. She’s a local noblewoman who has been appointed by Duke Anguin to coordinate the Spring Wildflower Festival. Delightful woman,” Pentandra assured. “I’m sure the two of you will get along like sisters!”
Later that day Arborn contacted her by Mirror. Not the big Mirror array she’d spent weeks setting up and tuning, in a small shop across the street from the palace, but the private one she kept stored in her baculus.
Pentandra had almost forgotten the impressive gift Minalan had given her at her wedding reception – not just her baculus and a new case for her witchstone. He’d made her a small but powerful spell using a Sympathy Stone that allowed two people to communicate across long distances, with a couple of bowls of water or the like to act as the mechanism. What was said over one half of the stone would be relayed instantly to the other.
Arborn rarely used the device unless he was going to be unexpectedly delayed and needed to inform his wife. It wasn’t that he was afraid of magic, as some suspect the Kasari all were, but that he preferred to limit his use to when absolutely necessary.
This time the need was pressing. On his way back from discussing things with the wild tribes, he and his men had been overtaken by . . . something.
“I knew not what it was, at first,” he told her over the spell. His voice was distant and tinny, as if he was at the bottom of a rain barrel, but she could hear him clearly. “It lead two squadrons of gurvani cavalry, but it was human in form.”
“Human . . . in form? But not in . . .?”
“You would understand if you saw it,” Arborn decided. “He was their master, there was no doubt. But he did not . . . act human. Little things. Like his eyes glowing, and his skin flaking off. But it was a human body, human voice. Just no human heartbeat. Or human mind.”
“How could you tell that?”
“When I stabbed him in the chest he didn’t fall down,” Arborn said over the device, dryly. “That was my first hint.”
“That’s pretty decisive,” she agreed, crossing her arms uncomfortably.
“It was undead,” he pronounced. “Only not like the normal undead I’ve seen. It had intelligence, wit, and moved with incredible alacrity. There’s more,” Arborn added through the tiny enchantment. “More I thought you needed to know. While we dueled, and my men had at his companions, we spoke.”
“That seems awfully friendly with a bad guy,” Pentandra pointed out.
“There was some cursing involved, I promise,” Arborn grinned, despite himself. But then it faded. “As we fought he taunted me, in particular. He wanted me to know that the Kasari had failed, and that Korbal the Demon God of the Mindens was loose on the world and plotting his revenge. I had to point out to him that the Kasari were never in charge of his security.”
“Clearly, or he wouldn’t be out,” Pentandra praised. The Kasari might be considered barbarians by the rest of the duchy, but when they committed to a course of action they did it well.
“Exactly,” Arborn nodded. “We do things right. Or at least better. In any case, he told me that Korbal was free and gathering his forces. He’s working directly with the goblins and Sheruel, too, from what that thing said. And there’s even worse news. He’s specifically hunting and capturing Alka Alon. For purposes unknown. But if I was a wagering man, I’d consider the fact that this . . . thing in a human body was clearly not human. In fact, it spoke like an Alkan more than a man.”
“If the gurvani are kidnapping Alka Alon, I’m guessing it’s for sacrifice, not for any particular attachment to them.”
“I figured something as sinister,” nodded her husband in the tiny piece of thaumaturgical glass. “But in case I do not make it back, I wanted somebody to know.”
That was one of the first times Arborn had ever voiced doubts over his own survival. From the casual way he did it, Pentandra was concerned.
“What do you mean? Of course you’ll make it back!” she chided. “You’re just a few dozen leagues away.”
“That depends on whether or not we encounter another one of . . . those. Or anything else vicious. The Timber Road is littered with bones, and there are bandits and worse traveling its length. Bandits and goblins are easy to contend with, but that undead . . . he was powerful. He was fast. He was strong. It took everything we had to slay him,” he confessed, guiltily.
“Arborn!” Pentandra said, concerned. “Are you all right?”
“Unwounded,” he assured. “But tired. I just thought you should know this. From what he said, there will be many more like him, soon. Indeed, they may already be within the bounds of Vorone,” he predicted.
“That doesn’t bode well,” she agreed, pursing her lips. “I will inform Minalan, at least. He should know. And he’ll tell the Alka Alon, if they don’t already know. We might be responsible for Sheruel, in some weird way, but Korbal is an Alkan problem.”
“Not if he makes himself our problem,” her husband countered. “I’m serious, Penny, that thing went
toe-to-toe with five Kasari raptors and nearly won. If Jerics hadn’t bound his legs when he did we’d all be dead. But perhaps not permanently. This thing roused his companions, gurvan and hound, after we’d slain them once already,” he reported, darkly.
“I really hate undead,” Pentandra said with a shudder.
She tried not to get excited by the fact that that was the very first time Arborn had ever called her “Penny” as opposed to “Pentandra”. She didn’t know why she thought that a milestone, but it was. “By all accounts, historical and legendary, Korbal was a master necromancer.”
“And now he’s able to unleash his experiments on us at will,” sighed her husband. “And reach out four hundred leagues from his base deep into the Alshari Wilderlands.”
As grim as the news was, this was the most substantive conversation Pentandra had gotten from her husband in weeks, even when he was home. After she signed off, wishing him a safe – safer – journey, she immediately contacted Minalan, mind-to-mind, to tell him.
That’s when she found out her former boss and long-time friend was getting himself involved in a mage war with the former Ducal Court Mage of Castal, Magelord Dunselen.
Pentandra had little respect for the old man – he was a theoretician and bureaucrat more than a practical adept. But he had been willing to be bribed into cooperation with a witchstone during a critical time, a few years back, and after the Battle of Timberwatch and the lifting of the Bans on Magic he had retired, re-ennobled, to his family estates in Greenflower.
That’s when he started using his nascent power to try to re-take his family’s legacy by force. He’d been fairly successful at it, too, Pentandra knew. Dunselen’s rise had caused her a great deal of grief while she was the Steward of the Arcane Orders. Within just a year he had re-conquered a good portion of his lost legacy . . . but he had also stirred up substantial anti-mage sentiment among the nobility which Pentandra had struggled to counter.
Apparently Queen Grendine was just as concerned about a wayward High Mage as she was about a disobedient, unwed nephew, and so she had encouraged Dunselen to marry one of the ladies of her court to calm him down.
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 57