Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (20 page)

Pentandra was suddenly overcome by his strength and calm confidence in the face of so much activity.  She tossed aside decorum and embraced him suddenly in the middle of the Stone Hall, before bestowing kiss on his surprised lips.

“Happy Yule,” she said, as she relaxed into his arms.  “Not the way I wanted to celebrate the holiday with my new husband.  But I think it foretells a very interesting marriage.”

Arborn gave a sudden and uncharacteristic laugh.  “A barbarian Kasari ranger and a Remeran mage of Imperial blood?  My wife, there was no way we are destined for a
boring
union.”

Pentandra smiled, enjoying the few beautiful moments she was able to just exist inside the emotional protection of Arborn’s arms.  It was as if the tension she had accumulated for the last day drained out of her in the embrace.  She had always feared the dreary obligations and inevitable conflict that seemed implicit in marriage.  But in moments like these, she began to appreciate the benefits, too.  She happily continued with her interviews, refreshed by her few moments alone with him.

He was nowhere to be seen, when her busy day concluded and she made the long walk back home just before the sun set.  She was not concerned with her safety, despite Vorone’s rough reputation.  The Orphan’s Band controlled the streets, patrolling in squadrons of four or holding tactically important street corners. 

Besides, anyone who attempted to rob Pentandra would have to face the power of her spellcraft, so she felt reasonably secure walking back to Boval House.

She followed her baculus’ direction through the unfamiliar snowy streets, littered with footprints and less pleasant offerings after a busy holiday.  The open gutter in the center of the street was frozen over still, holding the winter’s refuse in stasis. 
What an apt metaphor for Vorone
, she decided as she walked to the Spellmonger’s Hall. 
And now we’re going to thaw that filth, and let it flow,
she added to herself, resigned.

She spent the time on her walk usefully, employing magic to contact the senior magi in the Wilderlands to let them know about the important development.  Thanks to her Astyral, the steward of the important city of Tudry, knew about the new Duke’s occupation of Vorone, as did the militarily powerful Magelord Azar, head of the Horkan Order of Warmagi and the Megelini Knights.  Pentandra was able to persuade Astyral to hold the news of Anguin’s bold move seizing Vorone from Tudry’s Mirror array for a few days. 

The magical net that allowed communication between the far-flung, important cities of the Kingdom did not yet include Vorone, but Tudry had a node.  The longer she could delay the news, the longer Anguin would have to get established before his foes would have time to plot against him.

Lady Carmella, head of the Order of Hesian Warmagi (responsible for support and supply, fortifications and defenses for the war) was also informed, as was Wenek, Baron of the Pearwoods, and a half-dozen other High Magi scattered across the Wilderlands.  By the time she got to the glowing green snowflake on the door of the hall, she had accomplished much.  She had at least been able to wish them a merry Yule.

It did not feel much like the holiday to her, thanks to the anxiety and the frenetic activity.  Traditionally Yule was a day of drunken celebration, visits to temples, and feasting.  Pentandra had indulged in none of that.  But it was Yule, she knew, her first Yule with her husband.  She would not be a good wife if she did not at least make some effort at merriment. This was no proper hall for her husband to return home to on Yule!

The hall was dusty and needed sweeping desperately, and the chamber above was in a miserable state.  Pentandra employed magic, the cook, and two neighborhood girls (daughters of a penniless lord two doors down) to scrub the place from top to bottom, and paid extra for the sheets and blankets to be laundered.  She dried them all by magic, rather than wait for them to dry in front of the fire.  The tapestries were taken up to the loft and beaten, the crockery was re-washed. 

Noting the state of the pantry and buttery, Pentandra sent the younger girl to the Market ward for supplies.  While it was after-hours, and the throes of a holiday, Pentandra knew that with adequate coin
anything
could be had in Vorone at any hour.  She was proven correct when the girl returned two hours later laden with at least some of the supplies Pentandra had sent her for.

By the time darkness fell, the hall was reasonably prepared and the chamber above was nearly comfortable, according to Pentandra’s standards. 

Arborn arrived late that night, thankfully, and did not elect to sleep at his tiny office in the palace.  Pentandra left word with the guard where he could find her, and by the time he found his way to the snowflaked door of Spellmonger’s Hall, she had almost gotten the place presentable.  Or at least bearable. When Arborn climbed the stairs from below, his men exclaiming at the mulled wine she’d left bubbling in a kettle over the fire, there were magelights hanging in the air of their bedchamber like lazy clouds, a fire crackling merrily on the hearth, and a small pot of soup bubbling over it. 

“Welcome home, my husband,” Pentandra said, handing him a goblet of wine. 

“The hall looks lovely, my wife,” he agreed, pleased.  It was full of his men who, while rangers used to the wilds, were happier sleeping on a clean floor, not a filthy one.  True, the rushes on it were two years old and dusty, but it was warmer and drier than they could have found outside. 

Their bedchamber, above, was only marginally cleaner than before, and had yet to receive Pentandra’s luggage, but the canopied bed was wide and comfortable and the fireplace filled the room with a cozy glow.  Pentandra used magic to seal the chamber from draughts and dampen the sounds from within.  It would take a few more days to restore it to full cleanliness, she knew, but it would do for the night. 

But even on its best day, she knew, Boval House would never pass her mother’s expectations about what kind of home her daughter should have.  It was a Wilderlord’s townhome, meant for temporary lodgings, not a permanent residence.  It was small – too small for a noble family – and hardly the richest townhouse on the street.  No matter what she did to it, Pentandra knew, her mother would find fault with it. 

That added a certain amount of delicious indulgence in her possession of it. 

And if her mother was so willing to criticize her choice of home, Pentandra knew she would have
plenty
to say about her choice of husband.  She was just as happy that the woman was more than five hundred leagues away, and had yet to meet him.  And once she got to really know Arborn, and appreciated the fact that he had slept under more stars than roofs in his life, she might realize that as humble as Spellmonger’s Hall might be, to him it was an embarrassing luxury.  For as rustic as this might appear to her, Pentandra could already tell that the house was far more urban than the Kasari were used to. 

It was a compromise in her marriage, she knew, but a helpful one.  As she and Arborn snuggled together, late in the evening, exhausted from their long day, she honestly didn’t give a damn what her mother thought.  Pentandra was happy, relatively speaking, happier than she’d been her entire life.  She would be damned before she’d let her mother mess that up.

Chapter Five

Interview With A Courtier

The day after Yule was as busy as the previous day, though less fraught with anxiety now that the Orphan’s Band were well in control of the town. 

There were no riots, despite the drunken revelers extending the holiday, there were no insurrections by angry townspeople, there were no rebellions by local nobility.  It seemed, on the surface, at least, as if the Restoration was taking hold.  Pentandra found some comfort in that, after the long hours and exhausting work she had put into the effort.  As she walked the two miles from Spellmonger’s Hall to the palace for her first official staff meeting, stepping gingerly over the sewers dotted with freshly frozen vomit from the festivities, she felt at least some sense of security, despite the fact that Arborn had to leave almost as soon as they’d arrived.

The palace itself was starting to look less gloomy and decrepit already.  The Orphans’ Band soldiers at the gate were part of that, but Pentandra could see some of the exterior walkways had been hastily shoveled off, and the refuse and disrepair that dotted the massive building was beginning to be addressed.  She greeted the sergeant of the guard at the gate, who waved her through without incident.  Porters and servants were busy unloading wain after wain of baggage arriving from Gilmora while guardsman diligently watched over them.  It seemed as if every member and supporter of the Duke’s new regime was ready to set up their household in the palace. A young assistant castellan was waiting in the main hall for her, and led her through the maze-like structure to the office the Prime Minister had selected as his own. 

“Ah!  Our Court Wizard!” the white haired old man greeted her, rising, as she was ushered in by a page.  The room Angrial had made into his command center was bustling with monks, clerks, castellans, and pages, running errands and sending messages.  There was an aggressive pile of parchments lurking on the table in front of him and a cup full of goose quills at his elbow.  “Day Two of the Restoration.  We shall be in this transitional phase for a few more days, I’m afraid, but thanks to your help we’ve made some remarkably quick progress.”

“So what shall I be doing today?  Opening my office?” she asked, expectantly.

Angrial winced and chuckled at the same time.  “I’m afraid we are a ways upstream from that, yet, my dear lady.  With matters still in flux, I’m afraid the Court Wizard’s office is, sadly, a lower priority than establishing the more fundamental elements of our rule.  Not to diminish your abilities, accomplishments, or importance, but . . .”

Pentandra smiled despite herself.  “I understand.  As eager as I am to begin a life buried in parchment, that can’t begin until the rest of the palace and court is stable and secure.  I’ve run a large organization before,” she reminded him.  Her early days organizing the Arcane Orders in Castabriel, essentially by herself, had given her a strong appreciation for the importance of proper policy and procedure.  It had also taught her patience.

“Just so,” Angrial smiled.  “So glad you do – believe it or not, the presumptive new Master of Wave was in here a few moments ago, just as I was affirming our new town constable’s post, demanding that his office be made ready at once.  Despite the fact that our regime does not currently control a single ship.  These Sealords . . .” he said, shaking his head sadly.  “In any case, today I need you to participate in more interviews, I’m afraid.  But important ones.  The first few will be minor functionaries, but they are essential, and need to be vetted.  But then I want you to meet with Viscountess Threanas.  She was the Minister of Treasure under Lenguin, and she’s lingered around the palace during the Baron’s unfortunate tenure, irritating him to no end.”

“I recall her, from my brief time here before Timberwatch,” Pentandra nodded.  “Not a particularly pleasant woman,” she observed.

“Few Ministers of Treasure are,” Angrial nodded.  “If they were pleasant, their courts would be broke.  In any case, our goal is to see where her loyalties lie, see if she’s willing to re-join the court under Anguin, and see if she’s willing to resume her former position.”

Pentandra’s brow furrowed.  “Did we not bring Coinsister Saltia to fill that position?”

“As an assistant,” corrected Angrial.  “Sister Saltia is the representative of the Temple of Ifnia, who is underwriting this endeavor . . . with the secret backing of the Arcane Orders, as you well know.  But her age and experience, not to mention her ecclesiastical loyalties, make her . . . unsuitable for the top position.  In addition,” Angrial continued, in a businesslike way, “Threanas has served under two previous dukes, and has the grudging respect of many of the local nobility for her long and scandal-free tenure.  Bringing her on will add a much-needed dose of legitimacy and continuity for the local nobles.  And . . . despite my personal issues with the woman . . . she does know her sums,” he admitted, almost painfully. 

“I’ll be happy to assist,” Pentandra agreed.  She hoped Sister Saltia did not take her participation personally.  “I just hope it doesn’t inspire any complications,” she added.

While she had become friendly acquaintances with the coinsister the Temple had assigned to this position, she could see why having her in a position of authority might make some people nervous about the future of the regime. 

The Ifnites were slightly obsessive about money, for one thing, but they also had an institutional gambling problem that made people nervous.  They were famous for determining their decisions about important things randomly, as a devotion to their fickle goddess of luck and prosperity.  Every initiate into their order carried a little pouch of lots which they were known to throw to give them direction and insight.  When one wished to discuss the financial security of an entire state, it was somewhat disconcerting to see your experts on the subject throwing dice to determine their answers.

“Sister Saltia understands her role in the new court,” Angrial assured her.  “She will be sitting in on your interview.  And she will have to be the one to work with Threanas.  But this is an important enough post that the duke, himself, wishes to participate in the interview,” he informed her.