She was tired, and needed sleep desperately, but Pentandra was not stupid. She recognized at once what the handsome constable was doing. That didn’t keep her from gasping audibly at the recognition.
“For shame, Sir Vemas! You sought us out!” she blurted out, before she could stop herself. “This is no chance encounter over luncheon, is it, Sir Vemas?”
“What do you mean?” Saltia asked, instantly suspicious.
“Our new constable has a mind, Sister. To go after the Rats he are being a very wise tomcat. Within hours of your appointment, you just happened to approach the two people in the palace who can help you trace their revenues and then trace their secret locations magically!”
The man’s mask of cheer and charm slipped for but a second. Then he smiled apologetically. “Aye, my lady, I have been a guardsmen long enough to know when a fellow is fairly caught. You are correct. I sought to arouse your sympathy with torrid tales of depravity, then enlist your aid. Shameful of me,” he added, without a lick of shame in his voice.
“As any good constable would do!” Sister Saltia said, defensively. Pentandra tried not to roll her eyes. The poor nun was unused to the attentions of handsome men, unless there were great sums involved. Likely that was why Vemas had focused his approach on her, not the married lady who practiced sex magic . . . and understood the immutable laws of human attraction. Pentandra was impressed, despite herself. Most men could not bring themselves to be that blatantly opportunistic, particularly in the name of public service.
“It’s more than what a good constable would do,” Pentandra countered. “It’s what an adept courtier would do.”
Sir Vemas frowned. “My apologies, ladies, I meant no offense. I was merely trying to make an alliance in the service of His Grace. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive!” Saltia insisted, glaring at Pentandra over her rebuke.
“I shall forgive the method, but not the motive, Constable,” Pentandra continued, smoothly. “Either you boldly scheme to replace the Rats with your own cats, Sir Constable, or you are guilty of that rarest of sins: idealism.”
“If coin was my aim, my lady, there are simpler ways to go about gathering a fortune during such a transitional period,” he countered. “Most of them involve fleeing the region, when you are done. I rather like it here, and would prefer to stay in Vorone. With my head.”
“Which makes you an idealist,” she smiled. “Worse, an intelligent idealist. And worst of all, an intelligent idealist with a zealous mission in mind.”
Sir Vemas studied Pentandra with renewed respect. “I can see I shall have to improve my style, in this new court. You have seen through me as if I were glass, Lady Pentandra. I am humbled.”
“Not enough to cease your mission, which you continue even after it has been exposed,” chuckled Pentandra.
“Lady Pentandra! That seems rude, on such short acquaintance!” snarled Saltia, whose strength was in numbers and not in the subtle arts of human society.
“On the contrary, Sister, the Court Wizard has demonstrated her insight and subtlety without recourse to any magic, save her wits and bewitching smile. And earned an admirer thereby,” he added with a bow. “I do, indeed, have a mission. I wish to drive the Rats from Vorone, and make it a place where common folk can conduct their lives and their business safely, without fear of having all they toil for stolen by thugs and bullies. And that is my ideal: I love this town, and love it more through seeing it neglected and misused during the interregnum.”
“Then you have, indeed, scored an ally here,” Pentandra assured him. “My mandate extends to such business, I believe, and I have an especial hatred for such foul folk. More, I am incorruptible.”
Sir Vemas smiled. “My lady, with apologies, no one is incorruptible! Even me! There are just few who could afford to corrupt me,” he added, amused.
“What could someone offer me that I covet? I have wealth. I have power. I have position and authority. I am in love and newly wed. And I have magic,” she added, casually, and silently summoned her baculus to her hand from its hoxter, the magical interdimensional pocket tied to her ring. “With magic, one can gain wealth and power and position.”
“I think I disagree, my lady,” smiled the Constable. “You are, in my view, that most corruptible of courtiers in this new court: an idealist. I could not fail to recognize a fellow afflicted with the same malady as myself. Idealism is the most damnable weakness in a courtier, Lady Pentandra. We will sacrifice and compromise in the furtherance of our ideal in ways no opportunistic mercenary whore would dream.”
“Language!” the nun declared with a scowl, clutching the infinity symbol around her neck. The Ifnites were a very conservative sect when it came to sexuality, Pentandra reflected. She ignored the rebuke.
“I cannot disagree with you, Sir Constable,” Pentandra nodded. “Thus it falls to us to watch each other’s flanks and protect each other’s weaknesses with the armor of objectivity. In that spirit, I’d advise you that your zeal for your ideal betrays your mission to courtiers subtle enough to see it. You are naïve to expect a simple rebuke shatters resolve, and that timidity is ever rewarded with opportunity. For shame, Sir, for thinking my own weakness blinds me to opportunity because I expose one tarnished-tongued courtier!”
“Lady Pentandra!” Saltia gasped. “Such tones!”
“Oh, I deserve such chastisement, Sister,” Vemas, grinned, “as only a bumbling rogue from the barracks, unused to court, can deserve it for making such an abysmal mistake. Of course, when a lady’s reputation precedes her, even a rough fellow like myself might mistake her highborn manner and regal bearing for a mere glamour. Cosmetics and fashionable gowns conceal and obscure as oft as they accentuate the natural charms. A bold fellow feels compelled to explore to determine the nature of the woman underneath.”
“And have you satisfied your curiosity, Sir Constable?” Pentandra asked, wryly, enjoying the game with the charming man. “Have you satisfied yourself as to whether I live up to what reputation predicts?”
“That depends upon whether or not my lady’s commitment to her virtue is the match of her powerful allure,” he said, glancing at her baculus with open admiration.
“I assure you, Sir Constable, that you have barely guessed the scope of my commitment . . . and have scarcely experienced the power of my allure. I have been in Vorone for only one full day, thus far, and have yet to even unpack my baggage. When you see me revealed in the fullness of myself, you shall see just how beggared I am by my reputation.”
“I look forward to that revelation with the eager anticipation of a young boy in the bloom of first love,” he promised. “I can only hope that my paltry offerings of admiration will flatter you, my lady, and perhaps draw your attention for a time. I need not spend my hours dogging your footsteps, but if you could devote but the fewest moments to indulge my interest . . .”
“That depends on your quality, Sir Constable. It is said that a woman may judge a man most fairly by the companions that he keeps. A man of low quality will have few comrades, it is said, and those of weak temper.”
“Oh, I assure you, I’m quite the social fellow,” Sir Vemas replied. “I’d like to think I have a score of stalwarts who would drink to my health and follow me carousing, if the purse was sufficient to support them. Gallant, foolish fellows like myself, similarly cursed,” he admitted. “Not highly born, or with many expectations, but of stout bearing.”
“That speaks well of you,” Pentandra said, smiling coquettishly. “Then I grant your boon, Sir Constable, and look forward to speaking with you in private concerning your commitment and my allure.”
“Nothing would please me more, I assure you,” he smiled, his teeth flashing brightly. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I have other courtiers to seduce in the name of idealism. Happy Yule!”he bid them, as he withdrew.
Sister Saltia was fuming, but Pentandra ignored the portly nun while she thoughtfully watched Sir Vemas leave. Finally Saltia could
take it no more.
“That was just . . . just . . . brazen!” she accused. “And you a newly wedded wife!”
“What?” Pentandra asked, her calculations grinding to a halt.
“You and that . . . that . . . rake! Just upjumped from the guard and already trying to get under the skirts of his betters? Such temerity! And you!” the nun said, scandalized. “You did nothing to stop him. No, you encouraged him! And asked if he had fellows to join you! Shameless!” Saltia said, blushing.
“What?” Pentandra repeated. “Sister, you’ve clearly not been in court before. Allow me to explain its subtleties. That entire conversation had nothing to do with sex, love, or even flirtation. That gentleman, there,” she explained as she nodded toward the constable’s back, “is a local zealot who wishes to see the gangs eliminated and the town restored to its former glory. He is willing to do just about anything to accomplish that task, now that he has ducal backing, and he was enlisting my magical aid against the criminals. He wanted to ensure I was a loyal and steadfast supporter of Anguin. He has twenty guardsmen that he can depend upon not to be bribed and answer to him, and he’s confident that between the two of us we can make serious gains against the rampant crime in the city.”
“You . . . said all that?” Saltia asked, confused. “But I didn’t hear any of that!”
“That’s because you listened with your ears, and not your most suspicious mind,” explained Pentandra, gently. “Every conversation at court has at least two meanings. Sometimes up to four, depending on context. I just made a very helpful ally who is likewise seeking a patron. Should things work out well, I think we’ll be very successful.”
“But. . . but he said . . . you said . . .”
“All a code, of sorts,” she replied, gently. “You are somewhat immune from it, due to your vocation,” she added, tactfully, to the plain-looking nun, “but you should get used to such conversations. Much of the court’s business is cloaked in erotic doubletalk.”
Sister Saltia did not looked pleased by that. “But why? That seems so pointless!”
“The language of love is an excellent metaphor for a number of situations, and conducting the business of policy in code when in public is just wise thinking,” Pentandra explained after a few moments’ thought. “The attraction he spoke of was recognition of our mutual interest and a proposal for an alliance. He has considerable knowledge of the local situation, including the players in the underworld, allies, and a passion for fighting them. We’ll speak more candidly when in my chambers, wherever that might turn out to be, and likely in the presence of my husband.
“Your . . . husband? Won’t he be threatened?”
Pentandra chuckled at the thought of her Arborn feeling threatened by anything. “No, while Sir Vemas is incredibly handsome and charming, and his dedication makes him that much more attractive, he was no more interested in what’s under my skirts than I was in what was tucked in his hose.”
“Really?” Saltia asked, skeptically.
“Really,” Pentandra promised with a sigh. “If half of the affairs that are spoken of in court actually happened, believe me, everyone would be a lot less grumpy.”
*
*
Pentandra’s assistance with the new regime in evaluating the old regime gave her much insight on the people that Anguin was hiring (or retaining) for service. Her interview that afternoon with Viscountess Threanas was particularly educational. Prime Minister Angrial and Landfather Amus attended the meeting, too, of course, but it was ultimately up to Duke Anguin whether or not to re-hire the infamous Viscountess Threanas as ducal Master of Treasure.
Pentandra recalled the formidable woman from her few days in the Alshari ducal court – the last few days of the previous Alshari ducal court. At the time Threanas had been one of the vital ministers to Duke Lenguin, someone whose (very vocal) opinions on matters of policy were so important that her displeasure had swayed the court (and the Duke) away from what she had seen as a disastrous course of action for the coronet.
Specifically, she had opposed a lengthy and expensive military commitment in the Wilderlands when so many important expenditures persisted in the south. Threanas certainly had not favored His Grace’s direct participation in the war, much less that of his expensive army of Wilderlords.
That she had been completely prescient about the wisdom of the fall of Lenguin’s regime did not help mellow her disposition during the interview with his son and heir. Pentandra could appreciate that.
Pentandra was actually somewhat shocked that Threanas was still in Vorone. Viscountess Threanas was the leader of a powerful Coastlord banking house, one of the merchant houses that was older than the duchies. Her extended presence at court in Vorone – and away from her holdings in Enultramar – had given the younger folk of her own House the room to rebel against their lawful liege and usurp her holdings. Not only had they rejected the monarchy of King Rard, but they had repudiated Viscountess Threanas as the head of the house, placing a nephew of hers in charge of its vast holdings. Returning to her home without a friendly regime to support her claims standing behind her would mean her imprisonment, if not her execution, by her relatives.
Many in her house blamed her for the fall, it was whispered. She had extended loans to Duke Lenguin to prosecute the defense of the Wilderlands, after all. And she had not used her position to try to stop the (to the rebels) disastrous union with Castal and Remere under one crown. Those factors alone kept her in exile, Pentandra learned.
But as her reputation for financial accountability was legendary, and her continued presence at court would be clearly seen as the tangible support of the regime by a well-respected and resolutely conservative figure. Pentandra was determined to secure her allegiance.
But much had changed since the days before Timberwatch. The once-regal old matron was now smaller and thinner than Pentandra remembered, her hair more white than gray and her wrinkled expression fixed in nearly permanent disapproval. Even in exile she had formidable influence and significant personal wealth, and her clothes indicated that she had not suffered much personally from Edmarin’s corrupt rule.
Viscountess Threanas was bitter. She was resentful. She was outraged. Threanas had no objection to there being a Duke again, despite what his sire had done or not done. What Threanas objected to was the focus of the restoration being on the huge, sparsely settled and (to her, worst of all) relatively poor Wilderlands, and not the geographically smaller, wealthier, and far more populous southern coasts.
But without a sitting Duke to advise and threaten, without a fully-functional court to generate income and expenditures, her title and position were largely useless. She had been overseeing what was left of the ducal accounts on her own, after Baron Edmarin allowed them to pile up, just for the lack of better work to do. After she said as much, in the first tense introductions over wine in the small chamber Angrial had selected for the interview, she began to issue forth her opinions with the precision and accuracy of a veteran archer.
“The fleet is where the wealth of Alshar has always resided,” she said with the conviction of the Coastlord she was. “Without Falas and the rest of Enultramar, the fleets, the ports, the merchants, the towns and the plantations of the south, Alshar is nothing,” she declared. “Why have you wasted time and resources laying claim to a run-down palace in a patch of wood, when your real legacy lies south, Your Grace?” she asked in a tone of a reproving grandmother disturbed by the foolish actions of her descendents.
“Because when His Grace is denied the Wave by rebellion, he will have recourse to the Wood,” answered Prime Minister Angrial sternly. There was obviously some lingering animosity between him and the old Viscountess. “As it is the bit of the duchy we actually have in hand, we thought it best to begin to restore Duke Anguin’s rule here, and not where no one will pay any attention to it.”
The old woman snorted. “And what does that buy you, Angrial? The respect of his peers? You cannot field lances or collec
t taxes with respect. In Vorone His Grace rules a handful of illiterate peasant freemen and semi-barbaric Wilderlords. In Falas he rules the great fleets, the grand armies of Alshar.”
“With Falas occupied by the Four Counts, that’s going to be difficult,” Father Amus pointed out, shaking his head. Those were the four leaders of the wider rebellion, ostensibly against King Rard – but in practice the Four Counts headed a larger council of lords and clergy who had eagerly seized the rebellion as a chance to severe old obligations and abrogate old debts. “Not that the idea wasn’t considered, mind you,” the old priest assured her. “But without a firm and reliable ally inside and a large enough and securely based enough force of his own outside, marching into Falas and announcing that he was suddenly in power would be foolish of His Grace, don’t you think?”
“Idealistic, certainly,” the old woman grudgingly admitted, her mouth fixed in a grimace.
“So it is the opinion of his wisest counselors that he take what legacy is within his grasp and build upon it while he awaits a change of disposition among the rebels,” continued Father Amus. “While that is not, perhaps, the most glorious route to a complete restoration, it is certainly the most practical. Building his strength and reputation here, in the Wilderlands, may not sway very many Coastlords, but without a friendly fleet at hand that is what he has left to work with.”
“I can see that,” she finally agreed. “But a state cannot build strength without resources,” she countered.
“That is why we have asked you to join us, Viscountess,” Pentandra said, smoothly. “While the new regime has sufficient resources, we believe, to fund the restoration and begin the recovery, it is recognized that it will take far more than that to provide His Grace with the forces he needs to retake the south. Resources and time,” she added.
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 16