Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (31 page)

It didn’t take a mage to realize that the Minister had taken credit for some proposal of Sister Saltia.  Pentandra inwardly winced for her friend, but resolved not to interfere with another office of the court.  She liked the nun.  She wasn’t ready to start a social war over her.  She would have to learn how to contend with the old bag herself.

“That is better news than I carry,” Count Salgo sighed, sadly.  “Our scouts have been touring the outer fortifications for Vorone, such as they are.  It is my sad duty to report that there are at least a thousand goblins in the area.”

“A
thousand
goblins?” Angrial asked, shocked.  Pentandra wasn’t.  Arborn had been one of those men scouting the roads, patrolling for bandits, and overseeing the town’s defenses.  He had barely been home for the last several weeks.  While that left Pentandra plenty of time to help Sir Vemas and his fellows with eliminating the Crew, it also kept her very lonely.  He had been home only twice for more than two nights with her.

“Relax, Prime Minister, that’s actually not as many as I expected,” assured the Warlord.  “A thousand sounds like a lot but an attack by the lot of them wouldn’t be more than a day’s mischief for us to contend with, I promise.  They are broken up into small groups – patrols, listening posts, outposts – all across our northern frontier.”

“Luin’s beard, man, you sound so complacent about it!” Sire Lonsel snorted. 

“I would have been disappointed – and worried – had I
not
found them,” the old soldier chuckled.  “It’s only natural that our greatest enemy do his best to keep an eye on this city, to make certain we’re not a threat.”

“And you saw fit to let these outposts go undisturbed?”

“It’s more important that we know that they are there than whether they are there,” Salgo added, wisely.  “They are not a threat, in and of themselves.  But their absence would have warned me of imminent attack.  Discovering their hidey-holes lets us keep our eye on them.”

“At least you know where the
foes
are,” grumbled Lord Gedlail, another loyalist from Gilmora at the end of the table.  He was the new Minister of Lands and Estates, Pentandra recalled.  That was a very important post. His predecessor was marching toward the Iron Ring with a warrant for seven years of service around his neck.  “I wish we knew where half of the supposed
friends
we have are.  I’ve been searching for responsible parties to answer for the domains we have listed on the books, and so far I’ve found very,
very
little!”

“Many of the aristocracy died defending the realm against the invasion, three years ago or more,” Count Angrial observed.  “Some of the Wilderlords who did survive found their lands abandoned or taken.  The Penumbra spreads across more than four baronies,” he reminded the man.

“So we have landless lords, and lordless lands, and peasants aplenty to work them,” fumed Count Salgo.  “It seems to be a matter of placing each piece into its intended place –
why is that so difficult?
”

“Because some lords want compensation for their lost lands, some lands have been usurped in violation of the Laws of Duin or occupied by the unworthy in violation of the Laws of Luin, and some are still subject to raids by bandit and goblin alike,” explained Lord Gedlail, testily.  “And it seems every petty noble has Luin’s own case to make about why the duchy should enforce
his
claim on a particular domain.”

“It is a difficult problem,” Sister Saltia agreed.  “The people won’t return to work until there is protection, and the knights won’t return to protect them until they know who will profit.”

“Then appoint some as lords-tenant until we can work out the details,” Lawfather Jodas snorted.  “If we don’t get some of these estates operational again soon, the forests will take them!” 

“I’ve made lists of those estates that have reported in the last three years – a paltry few – a list of those we know are occupied but have not reported, a list of those we know are taken, and a list of those we know almost nothing about,” Lord Gedlail warned, evenly.  “There are at least thirty within a day’s ride of Vorone that are in desperate need of attention – if there is to be a crop this year, and tribute next.”

“Then the Duke shall grant them, or assign them, to worthies in the court,” Count Angrial promised.

“Men who will work them, not just take the revenues,” interjected Sire Lonsel.  “Let these lords prove themselves Wilderlords before they are enriched by their responsibilities.”

“It would help if some of the local barons would be more cooperative,” Sister Saltia said, sadly.  “The barons are the means by which tribute is collected and sent to the duchy.  There are few enough of them left even around Vorone and points south.  If those who still remain don’t favor us with their support . . .”

“How can they pledge their allegiance and loyalty to a duke who could topple to a riot?” asked Lord Gedlail, testily.  “Do you think I haven’t sent messages to them at the Duke’s behest?  They stall, waiting to see if this boy we have put a coronet on will wear it next year.  If he cannot hold Vorone, how can he hold the Wilderlands?  It is not unreasonable,” he added, though it pained him.

“The most challenging element will be to uphold the duke’s prerogative past the withdrawal of the Orphan’s Band,” Count Salgo observed, philosophically.  “The garrison will be of little help, there.  As soon as the mercenaries leave, one stiff riot
could
put us on the road to disaster.”

“A riot?” scoffed Sire Lonsel.  “I do not think a mere riot is enough to knock the coronet off of His Grace’s head!” 

Pentandra reminded herself that he had been appointed for political reasons, not because he was competent.  He saw government as noble service to duke and land, not the seething patchwork of compromise and half-truth it was usually forced to be.  She was about to make a remark to that effect when the Prime Minister beat her to it.

“Then you have not made an adequate study of history, Lonsel,” Angrial said, smiling sadly at the lord.  “There are plenty of people who would profit from our failure here, in Vorone . . . and riots are exceedingly common here.”

“Still, as long as we hold the palace . . .” began Lonsel.

Father Amus interrupted.  “Stirring the commoners against us might not topple His Grace, but keeping him from ruling through chaos would doom our enterprise just as much as his assassination.  Without the Orphans backing his rule, he would be hard pressed to insist on tribute, taxes, and his other due rights from both the people and the nobles.  Which would prohibit him from governing.  Which would mean our failure.”

“But you cannot enforce His Grace’s rule with mercenaries indefinitely,” Threanas said, sourly.  “The treasury will not bear it.”

“Nor will the people,” agreed Angrial.  “Yet as sure as it will snow again before this wretched winter is done with us, so will the forces of chaos stir within a week of the Orphans’ departure, I predict.  As soon as they are beyond easy distance to recall, the trouble will begin . . . unless there is a greater force than the guard and the garrison around.”

“Who would
dare
challenge His Grace’s right to rule?” Sire Lonsel asked, indignantly.  He was loyal, Pentandra decided, but he was hardly sophisticated.  Enough for a ducal reeve, perhaps, but hardly a sufficiency for a courtier.

“They need not
challenge
his right to
deny
it, my lord,” suggested Father Amus, sagely.  The old priest largely held himself apart from the council discussions, so when he did speak his deep voice commanded attention. 

“Anguin can reign all he wants, within the palace walls, and no one outside of them will care much. But if he is to
rule
, he must be able to project his influence
beyond
them.  There are plenty just in Vorone who have an interest in denying that to him.  From the burghers to the merchants to the petty nobility, there are many who would rather see him reign than rule in the Wilderlands.  Without sufficient troops in his own service to enforce his rule, our dear duke is a figurehead.  And without holding Vorone, holding the rest of the Wilderlands – or beyond – is impossible.”

“To this end,” Angrial continued, smoothly, “I have proposed that each of the local barons be commanded to make the journey to Vorone to swear fealty and give an accounting of the realm at Briga’s Day.  I will also suggest that they appear with their household guards to be prepared to provide a term of service to His Grace.”

“The barons will lend him troops?” snickered Sir Dovei, the Master of Hall.  He was a man to watch out for, Pentandra’s intuition told her.  A knight from one of the local manors, he had operated as an agent for the Duke’s party in Vorone, and had been awarded his position for it.  But the man reeked of ambition.  That didn’t mean he was to be avoided.  “These are the same barons you fear will rebel against us this spring!”

“Exactly,” agreed Angrial, unexpectedly.  “But you mistake the nature of the summons.  It is not a call for armed service . . . merely a suggestion for preparation.  And an invitation to demonstrate their strength.”

“Why would any baron heed this?” asked Dovei, confused.  He was intelligent, but like Sire Lonsel he was unsophisticated.

“Because a powerful lord is sometimes asked
not
to include his personal guard in his retinue, as many a domain has fallen to a lord who brings an army to counsel.  Being advised to specifically
bring
arms, on the other hand, suggests that they might be needed.”

“Without a lot of encumbering preconceptions as to the nature of the foe,” nodded Count Salgo.  “I see the wisdom.  The pretext can be exercises, or even a weapontake, but convince even a few of those barons to appear in arms . . .”

“And you invite factions and feuds into the palace!” Dovei said, shaking his head.  “In addition to riots outside!”

“Try to have some imagination, Lord Dovei,” lectured Father Amus, testily.  “There are lands and titles vacant in Alshar and in need of assignment – and not all of them are within the Penumbra.  That is well-known.  Indeed, the ability to assign title to domains and estates is one of the few assets the regime
has
at the moment.  The men who want those lands the most are those who know it best – the local barons and great lords.”

“So you invite them into the palace, each with an army, and let them fight it out?” the Master of Hall asked, scornfully. 

“No, my lord, you allow them to present their arms to the duke to prove themselves worthy by their obedience to his command,” soothed Father Amus.  “It serves several purposes.  To the folk of the town it will appear as if the duke has the support of the nobles, enough to put down a rebellion.  To the barons it will appear as an opportunity to gain the confidence of the duke, early in his rule, not a demand for troops.  Perhaps a tournament or contest could be arranged on such short notice.  And if a few estates and titles happen to get granted along the way . . .”

“That seems a steep price for the mere
illusion
of troops,” Sire Lonsel frowned.

“What?  The illusion of
lands?”
  countered Sister Saltia. “Those estates are mere slips of parchment right now.  Most are forfeited for taxes or lay intestate and haven’t been managed properly in years. Many are abandoned or at least depopulated.  Some have been burned to the ground in the war.  Without
someone
running them, there is no one to
pay
the taxes and tribute.  All they grant, really, is the right to pick up whatever pieces remain after the invasion and then fight like four hells to work them.  We have more slips of parchment than we do Wilderlords to lay claim to them!”

“Aye, hold a tournament and give a few of them out to the lads,” grunted Sir Masten, the Master of Works.  “Perhaps not jousting, at midwinter, but certainly some swordplay.  We can put something together, I think.”

“As long as it keeps His Grace in power until spring, I am in favor,” Count Salgo nodded.  “The more lords we have working toward our mutual interest, the better.  By inviting their household guards to drill with the palace guards, or cross swords in a tournament, you gain their trust and show off our own power . . . such as it is.”

When the Prime Minister called upon Pentandra for her report, she enjoyed every word of it. 

“So how has our special force fared against the criminals, Lady Pentandra?” Count Angrial asked, his voice pregnant with expectation . . . and doubt. 

From her past conversations it was clear that Count Angrial had entertained doubts about assigning Pentandra to the bloody task and worried that she would be inadequate.  It gave her great pleasure to report otherwise.  Pentandra was actually looking forward to her report today – after three weeks of assuring the Prime Minister that she was, indeed, working to counter the Rat Crew in the Market ward without much to show for it, this week she had
plenty
to report.

Indeed, the news was all over the town and beginning to seep into the palace.  The last several nights reports of strange figures with the heads of animals skulking through the night had been made to the city watch.  Bodies had been found, brutally slaughtered.  Rumors of a new force in town, a force from the northern backcountry, were spreading.