Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (19 page)

The Duke’s cause was just, and his service discomfited the royal family.  That alone was enough to lure him.  The prospect of crossing swords against the gurvani and their confederates was far stronger an attraction, Pentandra noted.  He as a soldier, and the war was in Alshar.  Free to roam the realm as he pleased, he went to Alshar.

Count Angrial, even older than Salgo and far less hale, was as determined in his way as Salgo.  Angrial had been an Alshari diplomat at Wilderhall, representing Alshari interests when the dukes were both at their summer capitals.   Rarely had that been a major diplomatic need, as both ducal houses saw the summer as a time to hunt, hawk, and joust, and typically postponed formal diplomacy for the winter capitals. 

But Angrial had been skilled enough to use his position at court to help Minalan persuade Rard to take his army into Alshar against the goblins.  Had he not, the gurvani would be at the gates of Castabriel by now, she suspected.

But Angrial had been ill-served by his advocacy.  He’d seen the invited army linger just long enough after the battle to temporarily occupy the Alshari Wilderlands, magically assassinate his head of state and take possession of the heir.  By the time Rard’s head bore a crown and installed a loyal lackey as steward, Count Angrial served no one, in particular.  And no one was paying his bills anymore.

That’s where Minalan had found him, drunk and nearly desperate.  Pentandra had seen plenty of such men, discards of court who lingered long after their service and mission was expended.  Minalan recruited him for the post and position of Ducal Prime Minister, but Pentandra could see that it wasn’t glory and power he sought. 

Angrial was plagued with guilt over what he’d done, sacrificing his lord and his land to save his people.  He saw his service to the Orphan Duke as a means of redemption.  He’d left the drink behind – he was as temperate as a novice, most of the time – but the desperation clung to him like a shroud, under his practiced court persona.  Minalan had arranged for his unexpected rise in position and title as an opportunity to display his management skills.

Angrial’s zeal for doing just that, in service to his young master, possessed the man.  If will alone counted, Angrial could set the Duchy aright by the Feast of Luin.  But from the expressions on the faces of many of the older courtiers, Count Angrial was not universally liked – surely there was a history there.  The expression on Viscountess Threanas’ face, for instance, was strong enough to curdle milk when she glanced at the new Prime Minister. 

Then there was Landfather Amus, the high priest of Huin and ducal chaplain, who had known Anguin since birth.  The head of a peasant’s cult, usually estranged from the nobility, Father Amus had risen to the challenge the gods had given him while the priests of more lofty divinities had given up. 

In the aftermath of Timberwatch he’d followed the heir to Alshar into captivity and exile.  Amus used his ecclesiastic position and limited authority to ensure fair and proper treatment for Anguin for three years, made certain to continue his education and provided what guidance he could, and done what he’d could to protect the interests of Alshar and the ducal house against Castal’s ambitions.

Restoring Anguin from captivity and exile to the throne was his determined passion.   Amus was personally proud of his charge, she saw through her rod’s discernment, yet frightened at his unexpected fury at the same time. 

Here was a man who had raised a boy to manhood, and was watching that terrible sapling take root as Anguin invoked his authority over his subjects.  There was a great deal of love for the boy, a paternal pride that was impressive to behold, akin to the priest’s devotion to the Divine Tiller.  But there was also doubt and fear, there.  This was no pious figurehead of a duke.  Anguin was showing a passionate fire he had hidden from his mentor, and that disturbed Amus.

The other ministers and courtiers who’d accompanied them from Gilmora were also important to her future here, but these three men had staked their reputations and their lives on the success of this wild enterprise.  To fail would invite disgrace; to succeed too well could get them accused as traitors and rebels.  Such were the dangers of court.

Arborn, she noted, wasn’t worried or anxious as he stood in the gallery with the other new ministers and courtiers being introduced to the government.  Though he looked out of place in his Kasari cloak and colorful tunic amongst the more somberly dressed, he did not seem uncomfortable at all.  But that didn’t stop him from scanning the hall for threats, his eyes, hawk-like, seeking any subtle sign of treachery from the court.  She was also amused to note that his eyes flicked toward her every three seconds or less.  No better proof of his devotion could she have asked for.

The other men and women who had accompanied the Orphan Duke to his broken lands had been hired or recruited for the task.  Some were Castali, though many were enthusiastically patriotic Alshari who wanted to see the Ducal house re-established and the duchy re-constituted. 

None faced the kind of consequences for failure as Salgo, Amus, and Angrial, but they all knew the challenge ahead of them, and had accepted their appointments anyway.  Some sought position, others wealth and power, and some simply wished to serve and strive to rebuild the duchy.  They were all grateful for the warmth of the hall after the frozen ride from the frontier.  Even after a few hours sleep, the roaring fire was a comfort.

The existing courtiers at Vorone were even more fascinating, and far less pleased with the temperature of the hall at this time of day she saw as she scanned them.  But they were also enrapt at the Orphan Duke’s words.  The news of Baron Edmarin’s midnight execution was well-known, and the bloodstain and gibbet outside verified it for the doubters.  These people were the true unknowns, and Pentandra focused her arcane attention on them, now, to see who would prove a foe, who a friend, and who would be both or neither to the mission.  The reactions of the court to the sudden change in administration were telling, under the subtle sight of her baculus.

She picked out by eye those who were suddenly frightened, those who were angered, and those who were pleased by the development.  Her new thaumaturgical tool helpfully kept track of those people for her, as well as its impressions.  Some looked guilty, some relieved, some terrified.  Some managed to display themselves to her as all at once, though their exterior faces were stone-like, practiced smiles pasted on their sleepy faces, the traditional mask of the courtier.

It was fascinating, learning so much about these people before she even knew their names.  A few she determined were decidedly against the new regime, and she marked them for immediate and special attention.  Some were so gleeful she noted them as well, for referral to the Prime Minister.  Cultivating loyal support was just as important to the new regime as ferreting out treachery.  Without asking, her baculus started suggesting patterns based on the associations they mutually perceived.  While Pentandra was amazed at the intuitive way the tool worked, she was far more impressed with the results. 

Even in this rude place, an out-of-place summer palace in the depths of winter, where the style ran to gaudy celebration of the surrounding Wilderlands and where local lords dressed in homespun wool tunics instead of finely embroidered cotton doublets, the nuances of social power were still in effect.  Whether tribal council or the royal court, the rules of human engagement were always the same, Pentandra reflected.  As Court Wizard, it was her job to employ the arcane to support the political regime.  Determining who the bad guys were before they could reveal themselves was decidedly within the scope of her new position.

The duties which Anguin had invested her were far greater in scope than those Master Thinradel, her predecessor in the post, had enjoyed.  Instead of keeping the position of Court Wizard a mere bureaucratic functionary and member of the larger Great Council, not the inner Court, Pentandra had been included in the close circle of advisors Anguin kept around him since she’d agreed to accept his offer of the position.  Implicit in the bargain was the idea that she would use the powers at her command to cleanse and restore the summer capital, and eventually what remained of the Duchy.

That she had no real idea how to do that hadn’t deterred her.  As she reached forth her discernment over the courtiers of the old regime, she began to appreciate the advantages she possessed over her predecessors.  Few magi, unaugmented by irionite and Minalan’s enchantments, could have learned so much about so many people in such a short time.  The baculus compiled the results for her like a helpful servant, allowing her to review it later, but her initial assessment was telling.

Over half of the court functionaries present were profoundly disturbed by the sudden change of regime.  Plots had been interrupted, plans had been overturned, schemes had been ruined by Anguin’s sudden appearance and resumption of authority.  They were angry, Pentandra noted, but most were just afraid of the sudden uncertainty.

By the time Pentandra pulled her consciousness out of the baculus Anguin was finishing his speech, promising the usual rewards and acclaim for faithful service and dire consequences for betrayal or failure.  When he dismissed the court to enjoy the holiday’s festivities, none of them doubted that the politics of the moment had suddenly changed.

A few of the nobles of court lingered to welcome the Duke, thank him, and attempt to swear fealty to him there on the spot.  Count Angrial graciously declined on His Grace’s behalf, although he gratefully accepted the token of their fealty – such ceremonies needed to be done in court, in public, where all could witness it.

“That was
exhausting
,” Pentandra yawned to Arborn as she waited for the courtiers to leave.  Her husband –
husband!
– had been just as busy as she last night, but he hardly looked it.  His dark features were as alert and awake.

“All we did was stand around and talk,” Arborn said, confused. 

“My
mind
is exhausted, my sweet, not my body.  I’ve been doing
magic
.  I need sleep.  As I’m sure you do.  I can’t wait to be asleep in a real bed after a week on the road!” 

Ideally she and Arborn would have moved directly into the official residence and offices of the Alshari Court Wizard – but they were in a frightful state of repair, and unready for habitation, from what she saw when she visited them.  Nor did she have just herself to look out for – Arborn had persuaded a dozen of his fellow Kasari rangers to join him as woodwards in his new position, and he was responsible for their housing, too.  Which meant that now Pentandra was responsible for them.

Thankfully she was not without resources.  After a brief moment of panic when she realized that she had no place ready for her to stay, and being unwilling to take residence in the inns of Vorone, she remembered that Minalan had taken over ownership of a townhome in the noble’s quarter of Northside, one that had originally belonged to Sire Koucey of Boval Vale. 

Since Pentandra had once been imprisoned by the Wilderlord – in a common dungeon cell! – she had no compunctions about enjoying his hospitality, or Minalan’s.  The fact that the old coot was now in a prison of his own, in eternal servitude to Sheruel, the Dead God, as recompense for his ancestors’ treachery, did little to soften Pentandra’s ire at the man.  She would be happy to let her new husband enjoy Koucey’s hospitality. 

“I am rested enough,” he shrugged, his big shoulders making his mantle dance deliciously.  “It was an easy few days on horseback, and then we got here and didn’t even have to fight.” 

“Not yet.  Not with swords, anyway,” Pentandra said, wryly.  “What duties have you been given?” 

Arborn was technically the Ducal Master of Wood, the court official with the responsibility over the duchy’s vast forest resources.  That had been a concession by Anguin to get Pentandra to come to work for him.  And no one was better suited to oversee the forests of Alshar than a Kasari captain of rangers.  But until the snows melted in the spring, there wasn’t much for Arborn to do in his official capacity, so he had been utilized by Count Salgo as a special troubleshooter for the transition.  That was keeping him deployed more than she had anticipated.

“I am to seek out the leading burghers in the town and read to them the Duke’s Yule proclamations, and get their seal that they have heard and understood it,” he reported, grinning wryly.  “Some of them will cause some anguish.  Count Angrial thought it best if they were delivered in a polite but intimidating fashion.  He believes that I can accomplish this.”

“There’s no one better for that,” she agreed.  Arborn wasn’t a warrior by trade, but that was a choice.  He was big, he carried himself with a deadly grace, and he could stare down the stars themselves.  He would have been a valuable addition to any military force he cared to join – but he was not a violent man, by nature.  “I’ll be stuck interviewing courtiers and prisoners all day.  But promise me you’ll try to make it back to the house by dinner?”

“I will do my best,” he assured her, quoting a Kasari motto.  “I did speak to Count Angrial earlier about my office’s priorities.  Unfortunately, we are needed outside of Vorone, to help spread news and take an accounting of the nearby estates before they can manage to organize against him.  We will travel to local manors considered strategically important and ensure that they understand the new political reality, and their responsibilities under it.  So it seems I will soon be deployed with my men,” he added, with a mixture of disappointment and eagerness in his voice.