Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8)

by Terry Mancour

  “Well, let us at least satisfy her curiosity to that,” the young duke frowned. “I don’t think I could afford to rebel. Can I?”

  “Not at our current budget, Your Grace,” Father Amus said, dryly. “I suppose we could see if Viscountess Threanas could move some things around . . .”

  “Then we will be a most loyal and deferent vassal,” sighed Anguin, slumping in his chair. “For now.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be enough,” Pentandra warned. “Allow me to finish the letter, Your Grace, perhaps it will provide a more complete picture.” The other lords nodded, after Anguin, and she continued.

  “ ‘Nephew, I do not have to tell you what dangers and pitfalls await our family in the future. Rebellion scars the realm in the south, invasion blights it in the north, and sedition and treason lurk around every corner. Every open hand may conceal a dagger, every drink offered to toast your health could conceal poison. I urge you to take the utmost caution against such perils, and be especially mindful of well-meaning but destructive advice from those who pretend to know your best interests.’”

  “That would be me,” Count Salgo said, proudly. That earned a grin from Father Amus.

  “That would be us all,” Pentandra agreed. “Oh, look! She mentions me . . . kind of. ‘In particular, beware the persuasive voices of the magi. They have an unhealthy interest in your lands, and seek to control all things. Though they promise wonders and power, I fear that they will not be content until they, themselves, rule once again.’ I apologize, Your Grace,” Pentandra said, looking up over the parchment at the young man. “I have been remiss in promising you wonders and power.”

  “We shall discuss it at our next meeting,” promised the boy, amused despite the tense situation. “Continue.”

  “ ‘The magi feel they have suffered long under the Censorate and bear little good will toward the nobility. Master Minalan, himself, though a reasonable fellow, has persisted in complicating the policies of the kingdom and of Castal. The magi he surrounds himself with are ambitious and hungry to restore their lost power – beware their beguiling voices and their vague promises. Similarly,” she continued, smiling despite herself – Grendine made her sound so sinister! – “beware of the counsels of those who found themselves divorced from power by your parents’ untimely deaths. While there are many good and noble houses in Alshar, there are also those who whisper revolt and plot against the kingdom, itself – an institution you have publically supported.’”

  “More begging for validation,” smirked Count Angrial.

  “ ‘Lastly, should your stay in Alshar become extended, you should know that I have instructed your fair cousin, Princess Rardine, to visit you in your lands later this year. She is due to tour Farise this summer and has made mention of visiting the Alshari Wilderlands afterward. Likely you will be already returned to your Castali lands, by then, but if fortune should see you linger, please extend to her all the hospitality due family. I know she will be fascinated to become re-acquainted with you and your efforts.’”

  “Oh, dear gods!” swore Count Salgo. “She’s sending the brat here?”

  Princess Rardine was not widely loved by the former members of her court, Pentandra knew. If Queen Grendine’s reputation as a tyrant was well-deserved, ‘the brat’ – Princess Rardine – had one she’d earned just as honestly.

  “Only if I don’t return to live under her thumb,” Anguin said, grimly. “If my stupid cousin shows up, you can wager that it will be with the sole purpose in subverting my rule. And making my life miserable. At which she excels,” he added, bitterly.

  “Oh, I think it goes beyond mere subversion, Your Grace,” Count Angrial speculated. “You may not be aware, but your pretty young cousin is not only the Princess, she’s also one of your aunt’s most trusted lieutenants in the Castali intelligence service.”

  “She is?” asked Anguin, surprised and troubled. “She’s only a year older than I am!”

  “She was at Timberwatch when your father died, Your Grace,” Pentandra dutifully reported. She was afraid of upsetting the boy ruler too much, but he deserved to know. “I know not for certain what role she played there, but I know that she was present.”

  “She’s a talented assassin,” Count Salgo told them, flatly. “She’s killed, and ordered killings, since before she flowered. She’s smart. Perhaps even smarter than her mother – and certainly smarter than her idiot brother.”

  “I was under the impression that she had lost stature in the royal court after her brother married and the new princess proved fertile,” Pentandra said, based on something Minalan had mentioned.

  “That is true,” conceded Count Salgo, fingering his mustache thoughtfully, “but Rardine is not one to be content to lurk in the shadows. From what I understand, the Royal Family is desperately trying to marry her off, and is finding that more difficult than they had considered.”

  “Really?” snorted Anguin. “Have they not met my dear cousin?”

  “Finding her an appropriate match is not a terribly high priority for the regime,” conceded the Prime Minister. “Not with her brother so well-entrenched as heir. Queen Grendine has no problem using Rardine as a troubleshooter. And a potential defection or rebellion by her darling nephew counts as trouble in her mind.”

  “If Rardine thinks that the kingdom would be better off with one less Duke of Alshar,” Salgo warned, “she will try to take steps.”

  “Then we shall protect His Grace.” Pentandra didn’t even realize the words were coming out of her mouth as she said them. “We shall not allow the duchy to fail. She continues,” she said, returning to the letter that had been painstakingly dictated through the agency of the Mirror array. “ ‘Your cousin, Tavard, is particularly concerned that you have left his hospitality, as he had hoped to cross lances with you during this summer’s tournament season in Castal. He—”

  “I just bet he does!” said the young duke with a snarl. “He practically lives in the saddle, and I hate jousting! She knows that! He just wants to put my face in the dirt in front of the entire kingdom. I’m not keen to play the role of his conquered victim!”

  “’He remains concerned over the state of your health and your future plans, and begs me to ask if you would consent to attend the tournament we plan in Castabriel in late summer. Your appearance would be a comfort to us all.’ “

  “And tangible support for her regime,” grunted Salgo. “And the Heir.”

  “’And of course your dear uncle worries incessantly about you, far more as a father does to a son than over even a beloved nephew. I encourage you to write him soon to assure him of your good health and spirits. Too long without word, when you are in the wilderness, spawns concerns like rabbits in spring. Your family wishes only to ensure your continued health and happiness. Please take the utmost care of your health in such dangerous lands. The gods watch over and protect you, blah blah blah, your loving aunt Grendine.’”

  “I’m considering the merits of vomiting,” Count Salgo said, snidely. He and the queen were frequently at odds, at the royal court. “That woman has never cared about Anguin’s well-being beyond its personal utility to her since he was born!”

  “If you will consider my interpretation,” Pentandra offered, “she’s simply fishing for intelligence. You caught her off-guard, and she’s using an appeal – through familial, not official channels – to your sense of duty and responsibility . . . to her and the kingdom, not to your realm. And yes, she’s threatening: you and your sisters. But she’s doing so in such a subtle way that it would impossible to take affront at it. Likewise for the arrival of the Princess and the interest the Prince has in beating you on the field of combat.”

  “But is she sending assassins?” asked the lad, worriedly.

  “Probably,” conceded Count Salgo, pragmatically. “But that doesn’t mean she will order them to act. She will likely just move them into place. I doubt she’d have you killed until she had threatened your sisters unsuccessfully a c
ouple of times, first. She might be ruthless, but Grendine is practical.”

  “That’s . . . comforting . . . ?” Duke Anguin said, unconvincingly.

  “My liege, assassination is a danger every great lord faces,” instructed Father Amus. “You of all people should realize that. But if your dear aunt intended to kill you out of hand, she would not bother warning you first. She is merely reminding those who know her that she will not tolerate rebellion.”

  “I do think you should find a moment to compose a letter to her, though, Sire,” Count Angrial advised, after a moment’s silent contemplation. “Something to assure her, get her to keep her claws sheathed for the moment.”

  “We could lie and mention he’s become a drunken wastrel,” offered Count Salgo. “That has ample precedent.”

  “In one so young, that would be difficult to portray convincingly,” Father Amus replied, almost sadly. “Perhaps it might be believable if he’d done more of that sort of thing in Gilmora last summer . . .”

  “So what are we going to tell her?” Salgo demanded, his nostrils flaring in irritation. “That we’re struggling to keep the rats out of the cellar, goblins out of the henhouse, and bread on the table?”

  “Actually,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing, “yes, that is precisely what we should tell her, Your Grace.”

  “We should?” asked Anguin, doubtfully.

  “Your Grace,” she began, carefully, “Queen Grendine fears your disloyalty. She fears that you came back here to raise an army of Wilderlords and the banner of rebellion, perhaps throwing in with the Southern counts, and despoil the legitimacy of her crown. If you can assure her that, instead, you are struggling to establish the most basic services and institutions of a state with the barest of resources, she’ll feel that you are, indeed, too preoccupied with such an enterprise to risk rebellion.”

  “Hells, why not ask her for money, too?” suggested Father Amus. “Isn’t that what desperately poor relations usually do? It’s hard to be considered rebellious when you have your hand out.”

  “Which has the added virtue of being damn close to the truth,” Salgo conceded. “That idea has merit. And we can address the issue of this useless garrison, too. I suppose if we’re asking her for money, cap in hand, and trying to disband the tiny army we have, we can’t very well be hiring armies secretly behind her back.”

  “Particularly if our young duke also begs her advice in statecraft, being a novice at the art,” Pentandra continued. “If Your Grace can condescend to be placed in such a position,” she added, looking toward the young sovereign.

  “I would rather beg my aunt for advice I don’t need than be my cousin’s tilting pell,” conceded Anguin, distastefully. “Do you really think that would keep her from sending her assassins to my court?”

  “No, Your Grace, but it may convince her to keep from using them,” suggested Count Angrial, calmly. “Not the most ideal of situations, but better than fending them off. I shall compose a draft of your response this evening for your review, Your Grace,” he assured the duke, making a note on his slate. “It was inevitable that the Royal Court would pay attention to our efforts, once they were made public. Our best defense against their continued attention is our harmlessness to their aims.”

  “But she also warned us of Rardine’s visit,” reminded Pentandra. “That’s helpful, at least. We can prepare for that.”

  “I would be happy to entertain my cousin,” Anguin said with formal dignity. “Preferably with a bundle of thorny switches and a bucket of rocky mud.”

  “Perhaps a simple tournament would be more politic, my liege?” Father Amus asked, reprovingly.

  “I yield to the superior judgment and wisdom of my ministers,” Anguin yawned. “But you may well regret that judgment after she arrives, Father!”

  *

  *

  *

  After the maddeningly mundane world of politics and diplomacy, Pentandra found herself eager to return to the life of a clandestine crimelord. The work of Sir Vemas and the Woodsman was starting to bear fruit.

  The aborted Briga’s Day riots and the steady attrition of Opilio’s crew to the vicious swords of the Woodsman put the Knife in a defensive posture. Now that they had seeded the idea in Bloodfinger’s mind that Opilio was desperate enough to try to unseat his biggest rival no matter the cost, she looked forward to how relations between the two crews of the gang developed.

  Matters were helped by the compulsion spell Pentandra had laid upon Bloodfinger before he was released to the wild. It focused his attention on threats, potential threats, and possible threats, and drove his paranoia to unhealthy levels. While she was not adept at Blue Magic, such an elementary thing as invoking Bloodfinger’s psychological threat response at every opportunity was not difficult. By the time Pentandra’s charm took hold, Bloodfinger’s subconscious was convinced that not even Master Luthar could be trusted, spell emphasized. Every Rat around him was a potential foe.

  It didn’t take particularly long for the effect of the spell had an effect on the Docks crew and their leadership. Two bodies of Bloodfinger’s most trusted lieutenants were discovered in the river two days after the fire festival, their eardrums punctured, and rumors began flying that Bloodfinger was considering wiping out the Knife once and for all. Three bodies of Opilio’s men, newly hired to replace their predecessors, were also discovered tied together and tortured in a warehouse in Bloodfinger’s territory. Their plan was working, as bloody as it was. The Rats were turning on each other, not lashing out at the population at large.

  Pentandra wondered whether or not she had neatly handled a matter of national security with her spellwork . . . or released a violent psychopath on the town she was trying to protect. At any time either Bloodfinger or the Knife could turn their anger and frustration on their clients and the common folk instead of each other. On the one hand, a town with fewer Rats in it was the goal. On the other, she didn’t want to wake up to more corpses in her cellar if she could help it.

  But this was the commission her duke had given her, and this was what she was going to accomplish.

  Some days life as a Court Wizard just wasn’t as cushy as she was led to believe.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Office Of The Court Wizard

  The next morning found Pentandra struggling to waken herself, and even her morning cup of tea didn’t bring relief from the excesses of the previous evening. It had been long past midnight before she had quit the palace and made the short - but exceedingly tiresome - walk back to Northside. She was not eager to repeat the journey this morning.

  But today was professionally important to her, she knew, and she needed to get to the palace. Now that the Orphans had departed, their quarters could be used to house the many adherents to the Duke’s cause . . . like the households who had been using the office of the Court Wizard as a residence for the last few weeks. The transition had been anticipated; the gentlemen of the court had been relocated as swiftly as possible by the castellans of the palace, and the offices they lived in were being hurriedly cleaned in preparation for returning them to order

  Today was when Pentandra would have to start acting like a real Court Wizard for the first time, and she discovered that she was dreading it.

  Chasing criminals through the misty streets and using her powers to master the intrigues of court were minor concerns, compared to the task of organizing and administering to the magi of northern Alshar. Magelord Thinradel was full of advice, as he lingered after the holiday, and was always available mind-to-mind, when emergencies arose. The former Court Wizard was only too happy to consult – but the responsibility for overseeing the important office was hers, alone.

  Nor was it the same office as it was in Thinradel’s day. He had served under the last of the Censors of Magic, who handled much of the enforcement of the Bans. Now that the Bans had been overturned and the Censorate exiled, all of that fell to her.

  And that wasn’t all. Thinradel had not had to super
vise the installation and operation of the Mirror Array that allowed news and communications between the far-flung corners of the Kingdom. Vorone had little need or desire of the service, before the Restoration, but now keeping tabs on the rest of the world was vital . . . as was the ability to send messages on behalf of His Grace. Pentandra was responsible for hiring and running the operation, as Court Wizard.

  Then there was the need to select special officers and officials. The Arcane Orders had allowed for a magical official, to be known as the Spellwarden, a kind of arcane reeve, to monitor the magic in a given district. As Vorone was a ducal city, that task fell to her, and she had to find someone to delegate it to, quickly. Clandestine magic was not yet a problem in Vorone, but with the number of itinerant wizards in the region, it was only a matter of time. That was on top of the officials she needed to hire to run the Examinations department and the Enforcement division.

  All told the Court Wizard’s office usually had a staff of ten to twelve, Thinradel informed her, to be paid out of her assigned annual budget.

  Which had yet to be approved or disbursed by Viscountess Threanas and Sister Saltia.

  Yet the business went on regardless of whether or not there were officials hired to conduct it. Despite the chaotic nature of the Alshari Wilderlands at the moment there were still scores of letters and scrolls in her office concerning urgent matters of the arcane. There were still apprentices who needed their examinations run, complaints against magi to investigate, and a thousand other minor details to attend to. Just because there was no functional government in Alshar at the moment did not mean there wasn’t a need for a functional government. And a functional Court Wizard.

  So when she showed up that morning to inspect her recently-vacated office, she wasn’t anticipating the small crowd of people who had also gathered for the occasion . . . people who thought they had business with her.