Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (35 page)

Unfortunately his master did not survive the battle long enough to reward his loyal and valiant servant – and though the assassination of the Duchess had removed a powerful political obstacle from Marcadine’s path, it had also left the court in disarray as Duke Rard seized his nephew and nieces in the name of security and Jenerard, with much of the rest of the court, fled to the safety of Enultramar.  Marcadine alone was left answering to a fellow baron, Edmarin, a man who was the opposite of Marcadine in most ways.  Including valor.

For the last four years the count had been retired to his estates, ensuring their protection from more incursions from the Penumbra, ignoring Baron Edmarin, the Steward of the Realm, and quietly improving his holdings with the availability of cheap labor. 

He lived primarily in the baronial castle of Preshar, the largest in the county, when he wasn’t touring his other six estates.  Though he doubtless had more comfortable estates, since Timberwatch and its aftermath the big castle became his refuge as he dwelt on his failure to protect the Wilderlands or his liege.  That’s where Pentandra and Salgo found the laconic lord.

The mission to secure Marcadine’s support should have been left to Father Amus or Count Angrial, by all rights, she knew; the Warlord and the Court Wizard had neither the rank nor the portfolio for such an undertaking.  Yet Pentandra had met (and had a favorable opinion) of Marcadine four years before, and Count Salgo had known the man on campaign in Farise and Timberwatch.  It was decided that a less-formal appeal to the reluctant count might be more productive than an official summons to Vorone.

Pentandra was not thrilled with the duty, but a warm spell had settled in over Vorone, leading to a false spring thaw and subsequent flooding of the low sections of the town.  The sewers of the city were virtual rivers, now, and the entire place just seemed . . . soggy.  It was starting to mildew.  Arborn was making a journey across the Wilderlands to Bransei and wasn’t expected back for a fortnight.  She was happy to get out of the place for a few days.  Count Sagal and his men were good companions on the short two-day journey southwest of Vorone, and despite herself Pentandra found herself enjoying the excursion more than enduring it.

The guards at Preshar Castle were alert but relaxed when they arrived with a score of cavalry as an escort, and the castellan was polite and welcoming.  He escorted the two emissaries from court to his master’s solar and fetched them wine without betraying much about Marcadine’s mood.

The lord’s troubled expression was difficult to fathom when Pentandra met him again.  Through the exchange of formalities she tried to ascertain his thoughts without much success.  Only when he was reclining in his canopied chair with a cup in hand did she begin to understand him.

“So, has His Grace decided to finally impose his penalty on me for my failure?” the count asked, only a trace of bitterness in his voice.  “I’ve been expecting the call since I heard he had assumed power at Vorone.”

“To my knowledge, Count Marcadine, there
is
no failure in your service the Duke wishes to explore,” Pentandra soothed.  “Indeed, His Grace speaks only highly of your service.”

“I lost
thousands
of men and allowed my Duke and Duchess to be slain under my nose,” replied Marcadine bitterly.  “They call him the Orphan Duke, you know.  I was the one who made the lad an orphan.  It only stands to reason that he’d want retribution.  I heard how he dispatched Edmarin,” he added, with a grim smile.  “If any vassal can be slain for giving poor advice and counsel, I should have been there next to the bastard when judgment was passed.”

“No more than he wishes to punish the other soldiers who have loyally served the realm in victory and defeat, Marcadine,” Count Salgo assured him.  “Regardless of what his sire and dam may have said, done, and thought, Duke Anguin is his
own
man.  He sent us here to summon you to court, ‘tis true . . . but
not
as a prisoner.  He wishes to hear your oaths and bring you into the court.  He desires to invoke your support to re-establish the realm.  Or at least the northern parts of it,” he added.

“Considering Jenerard’s cronies own the rest, I can see why,” grumbled Marcadine.  “But why would he invite me back to court at all, after what I’ve done?”

“Because you are a well-respected and honorable man,” answered Pentandra smoothly, trying hard not to sound obsequious.  “You are a Wilderlord to whom the few remaining Wilderlords will look up.  Your lands were relatively undamaged in the war, and where they were they have largely recovered.  Duke Anguin understands that matters of politics transcend his personal feelings . . . but even if they didn’t, I don’t think Anguin holds you at fault for the goblin invasion.  Or the assassination of his parents.”

“I don’t think I would be much of an asset to him . . .” Marcadine sighed, staring out of a window at the beautiful ridges beyond. 

“You’re one of the last sitting counts in the northlands,” Salgo informed him, “and your holdings remain prosperous.  They could be more so,” he added, meaningfully.  There were three deeds in their baggage that Pentandra knew about, deeds to nearby estates they could bribe him with, if necessary.   “The other barons look to you naturally for leadership.  If you support the Duke, then the others will be encouraged to do so.  That is . . . if His Grace does, indeed,
have
your support,” the Warlord asked, pointedly.

“I’ll not deny the Duke his legacy, or me my duty,” agreed Marcadine, slowly, after a pause.  Pentandra immediately felt better. 

One of her biggest fears was that the count would conflate his self-perceived failures with an enmity for the ducal house.  That wasn’t an uncommon rationalization for political posturing in feudal society, she knew, but hardly a productive one. 

But regardless of his personal feelings, Marcadine would not deny the legitimacy of the regime.  That was the most important concession of their trip.  Had he made a stand against Anguin in favor of the southern rebels, for instance, or even in favor of himself, then it would have made it nearly impossible to rule Alshar beyond Vorone’s walls. 

With Marcadine accepting his leadership and eventually swearing fealty, however, it became much less easy for the other barons south of Vorone to justify rebelling or denying Anguin’s legitimacy. 

“At the same time,” he continued, his eyes troubled, “I hesitate to add my full support to His Grace until he can prove himself worthy of the title.”

Pentandra skipped over the recriminations of honor Salgo was no doubt preparing and attacked the Count’s reasoning.  “What could His Grace do to appear worthy, in your eyes?” she asked, simply.

“See to our defense, for one thing,” answered Marcadine, grimly, as he poured wine for them both.  “Almost all of the northwestern Wilderlands are overrun by gurvani now.    The settlements east of there are savaged and under threat.  The southlands are ever at peril, and must be constantly vigilant against both goblins and bandits, now.  Seeing to a stalwart defense of the country should be his first priority, as the gods decree,” he declared.

“That is difficult to do without an army,” Salgo observed.  “And even harder without the support of the great nobles.  But His Grace intends to do just that.  Among the first orders of his reign has been the strengthening of his forces to protect the Wilderlands.” 

While that was technically true, Pentandra also knew that the focus of that military endeavor was more to protect the Duke from the nobles, not his people from goblins.  But there were troops under the ducal banner patrolling, at least as far as Tudry.  If they saw a goblin, they’d most likely chase it.  And that gave her a convenient segue into a subject she knew all of the remaining Wilderlords felt strongly about.

“His Grace feels that the time this damnable treaty Rard has forced upon us has purchased should be used to prepare ourselves against the inevitable battles to come.  If we cannot fight for what Alshar has lost, we can prepare against the day that we can.  He has already facilitated a string of castles on the borderlands,” she pointed out.  “There are plans to train and equip many of the refugees.  And he is considering fortifying Vorone, now.  But without troops from his nobles . . .”

“I understand, I understand,” Marcadine sighed, heavily.  “My support would be valuable.  And it sounds as if this lad does have ambition, and perhaps a lick of wisdom, which is more than I could say for his sire, the gods grant him peace.  But what is to keep him from becoming a tool of the courtiers?  Or turning his eyes toward the south, once he has the north pacified?”

“His Grace is focusing his attention on cultivating relationships with the northern nobles,” Salgo said, diplomatically.  “Only when the Wilderlands are secure will he consider dealing with the rebels of Enultramar.  Or perhaps his children will.  But for now he has no capital save for Vorone, and sees the need for none better.”

“I’ll consider it,” Marcadine finally agreed, after the state of the Wilderlands was discussed to his satisfaction, and he had a moment to reflect.  “If I am able, and of a mind, then I will visit Vorone and pay my respects. 
And
swear my fealty,” he added.  “I have not forgotten my duty. 

“But my price for this is simple:
restore order in the north.
  That rascal Edmarin kept demanding tribute in the name of the duke, and I sent him none – why pay to line his pockets, when he did nothing against the foe?  But if this orphaned duke can prove his mettle is better than his father’s, I’ll be happy to send my taxes to him.  And my sword, if need be.”

It was a positive meeting, Pentandra had to admit, and as she and Salgo rode away from the great stone castle, even the old count was feeling optimistic.

“Marcadine can bring as many as seventy lances from this barony alone!” he smiled as they rode through the castle village.  “That will go a long measure toward restoring confidence in the palace.”  But then he frowned.  “Of course, insisting on order, when the greatest factor in our disorder is the lack of men such as himself
establishing
order, makes this a confusing negotiation.”

“It seems as if Count Marcadine has done what he can, here in Preshar,” Pentandra noted approvingly.  This far south from Vorone there was little sign of the suffering the war had brought the region.  There were no shiftless refugees, hungry vagabonds, or blank-eyed men willing to kill for a meal idling in the village square.  Instead everyone she saw worked with industry and purpose to prepare for the spring plowing and planting.  “If we could only get the other estates running like this . . .”

“Not through ducal decree, we can’t,” grumbled Salgo.  “Estates run best when the men running them profit from their industry.  All of those deserted estates and empty domains will fare much better when there are proper Wilderlords in charge.”  Popular and well-deserving men had been granted titles to estates near Vorone with considerable generosity.  Most of the grants included small stipends or relief from tribute that would make it easier for them to recruit the freemen needed to farm their lands.  But the expectation that they produce, and quickly, was strongly laid upon them.

That, in turn, had provided some much-needed work for some of the peasants in the camps.  Now that spring was nigh, the new lords’ agents and representatives were hiring entire families from the encampments and paying for them to relocate to the nearby estates as quickly as the roads were clear.  That reduced the load on the relief kitchens and the pressure for low wages for day labor in town.  When the new plan to secure the palace was announced in a week, much of the remainder of the surplus labor market would dry up. 

“Especially now that Anguin makes plans to fortify Vorone . . . such as they are,” agreed Pentandra.  “Once a new keep and wall construction is underway, a lot of this equivocation about how serious Anguin is about staying will also dry up . . . I hope.”

It was clear to all that Vorone made a splendid summer capital, but that it was woefully inadequate to take on the responsibility all year long.  Especially not without a fortress of some size nearby to protect the Duke and his court. 

Convincing the Duke that a more secure place than the palace was necessary to his regime wasn’t that difficult.  He was a bright young man who understood that the palace at Vorone had never been intended to be defended, just enjoyed.  The motte-and-bailey castle that had once dominated the town was long-replaced by the sprawling palace complex.  While there were areas of the palace considered secure, the nominal security of a stout door and a stone wall was nothing compared to the strength of defense a true fortress would provide.

To that end Duke Anguin was considering building a strong outbuilding or refuge keep on the site of the royal garrison’s quarters.  Pentandra had been in favor of the move, as had most of the rest of the court.  Once the first plans for that were made there would be thousands of man-hours available – at great cost to the duchy.  Sister Saltia and Viscountess Threanas were shaking their heads doubtfully over the (in their perspective) needless expense of a castle in an unthreatened town. 

But Pentandra, and others on the council, saw the merit and had supported the idea in counsel – earning her no favor with either woman.  Her experience among the working class of the market quarter had given her a broader perspective, however.  As she saw it, the project would put people back to work, put coin in pockets, and encourage the workers to spend at market.  It would provide a realistic place of refuge in the case of an attack – not large enough to fit the entire town, perhaps, but certainly large enough to shelter many and give them something to put up a fight for.  It would help uplift the desperately poor and keep the artisans happy with the additional work.  And it would provide a physical symbol of Anguin’s military dominance on the skyline.

“Nothing lets the people know who is in charge than the sight of a castle under construction,” Salgo agreed.  He’d been in favor of the project himself.  Though he preferred to lead men on the open battlefield, the old general understood implicitly the kind of political and economic power a castle brought to a regime.  “The fact that it will be built on the site of that useless garrison makes it all the more desirable.  You say your friend Carmella can do it?”

“With magic?  In two year’s time, I’d wager,” Pentandra shrugged.  “She’s done wonders with her small crew at Salik Tower.  She really has refined the construction techniques we pioneered last year.  That little pele tower is as good as a regular keep now, from what I understand, and her apprentices and associates have been building model siege engines to practice the craft of defense.  She thinks she can cut corners and save coin by re-using the bricks and stones from some of the ruined castles in the Penumbra.”

“Of which there are a plentitude.  Won’t that be prohibitive, to cart it all the way down here through a war zone?” asked the Warlord.

“Not the way she’ll do it,” Pentandra said, biting her lip before she launched into a long discussion about the advantages of transdimensional enchantments like the hoxter pockets and artifacts like the bricking wands.  “By using magic she can pare at least a third of the cost away, and not have to worry about opening and defending a quarry.  From what I understand that is a long, expensive process.  There are plenty of grand old places that were ruined in the invasion she can pull from.  Including some currently owned by the gurvani,” she added.  “That’s the sort of thing the Order of Hesia specializes in.”

“To see a real keep go up in just a few years?  That would be worth some coin,” chuckled Count Salgo.  Most castles took years, even decades, to finish without magic.  The larger they were the harder they were to finish.  “In truth, I feel naked in that town without a decent wall to hide behind.”

“How are you going to convince the garrison to leave?” she asked the old soldier, curious.  While the garrison’s nominal leader was willing to cooperate with Anguin’s regime, most of his lieutenants were loyal to King Rard, who had made their appointments.  And who paid their salaries.

“I’m going to convince the Royal Minister of War to send them out on exercises,” Salgo said, smugly.  “Just over the summer, I think.  They can go and patrol the Ring with the Iron Band, or practice against the Tudrymen, for all I care.  But if we can get them out of the barracks for any length of time we can begin work on the site.  And as soon as we begin work, they’ll have to find someplace else to live.”  Count Salgo was a military man, but he could not abide useless soldiers.  The men of the royal garrison counted as such, to his mind.  They were unwilling to attack, unable to defend, and unprepared to fight anything more grueling than rioters. 

“And with more support from the great nobles, we shouldn’t need them there before long,” nodded Pentandra. 

“If Marcadine shows up, then the other barons will also likely show,” he qualified.  “If he doesn’t, then they
might
. . . but they’ll feel no obligation about swearing to our lad.” 

That’s what many in the court had been calling the Orphan Duke in private:
“our lad”
.  It wasn’t quite a resounding show of confidence and conviction, but it was always said with defiance and affection. 

Pentandra just hoped their lad appreciated the number of people willing to risk themselves and their prosperity to see him succeed.  With hopeful days like this one, that actually seemed like a possibility.

Chapter Eleven

The Woodsmen Of Vorone

Vorone was blessed by a few sunny, warm days of a false spring before midwinter officially marked the waning season, allowing the piles of filthy slush in the streets to finally release weeks’ worth of ordure into the sewers and into the rivers.  When Pentandra returned to the town, there were even a few disoriented daffodils that had been fooled by the thaw, peeking their shoots out of the snow.

The warmth was a mixed blessing, for a variety of reasons.  Commerce flourished as folk actually came outside for a few days to do more than get firewood or water from the well.  The markets were full of townspeople as they stocked up on supplies and enjoyed a few days’ sunshine before the inevitable late-season blizzard the weatherwise had foretold buried them once again.   Coin changed hands.  The roads opened up a bit, and some of the nearby estates that had been snow-locked since before Yule sent people to market.

But the same roads that brought honest folk to Vorone also brought the desperate from the camps.  Hundreds of vagabonds and urchins poured into Vorone in the sunshine, begging and stealing anything they could get their hands on despite the vigilance of the town watch.  Pentandra saw the desperate faces with prominent cheekbones from hunger and malnutrition on her way to and from the palace every morning.  If the winter had been harsh for the town; it had been unbearable in the camps that surrounded it.

The business of the court since the Restoration had grown beyond mere assessment and repair, as new officers began their duties and old officers proceeded with new guidance and fresh resources.  The new Master of Works had been charged with a half-dozen emergency projects to help secure the city, and the new Master of Hall had been tasked with cleansing and provisioning the palace and its stream of new arrivals.  Both men set their staffs to work with purpose.

The column of supporters the Duke’s party had gathered in Gilmora finished arriving, and between the newcomers and the Orphan’s Band, the place was bursting at its decorative seams.  Pentandra’s official office was now a barracks for useless but important aristocrats, until they could secure quarters in the crowded city.  She had ensured that the offices archives and the treasury, such as it was, was secure and spellbound, but apart from that there was little she could do about the situation.

Without an office, staff, or access to records much of what she could do in her official capacity was limited.  She made contact with the important magi in the area, mind-to-mind, to make them aware of her new position and spread the word of Duke Anguin’s rule.  With the Wilderlands roads snowed under and impassable, communication between scattered settlements was sparse – if it wasn’t for magic. 

That was something else she added to her list of new duties: establishing a working Mirror node here in Vorone.  The operations she had seen in Castabriel and Sevendor had been impressive.  Messages were communicated through pools of water and carefully-contrived spells from one node to the other – for a small fee.  They were run by the Arcane Orders, and as Vorone had no real chapterhouse here, as Court Wizard she was the wizard responsible for developing the Mirror array by default. 

That meant hiring more wizards, finding a place to house the node, and securing the enchantments she needed from Minalan and magical craftsmen.  Pentandra could probably have figured out how to do it herself, but while she was technically a thaumaturge Minalan had an entire manufactory of enchanters working on such things.  That wasn’t really her area of interest.  And without a secure area dedicated to the task, establishing a Mirror node would have to wait until she had an office.  And assistants.

Until then, her business with the court involved less savory pursuits.

The melting snow brought other revelations to light as corpses found their way to the surface of the snowbank that had concealed them for weeks, possibly.  Dozens of bodies were found across Vorone in the next few days.  Many were poor unfortunates who had no better place to take shelter, and who died in a tomb of snow.  Others, mostly in the proximity of taverns and inns, had slit throats or bashed heads.  And still others had a single drop of blood frozen in their left ear, and no other wound. 

Those were the ones who found their afterlife beginning in Pentandra’s cellar, the day after she returned to Vorone from her errand to Count Marcadine.

“Why are there six corpses in my cellar?” she asked Constable Vemas, one morning, over tea.

“They were the six definitely slain with a Rat’s Tail,” he explained, merrily, as he poured the hot water for her.  “Six corpses who crossed paths with our villains.”

“And they are in my cellar . . . why?”

“I thought that would be the best place for you to work on them,” he pointed out, as he offered her honey.

“Me, work on them?  How?”

“Magically,” he explained.  “If you, my dear wizard, can use your eldritch powers to determine who these men were and why they were targeted, that gives us valuable insight on the Crew’s present operations.  And perhaps clues to their other cells.”

“How so?”

“All of these men were slain and concealed since Yule.  Normally, as I understand things, most criminal operations are put on hold during such periods of heavy weather.  Thieves and thugs cannot get to work if everyone else is home.  So these men,” he said, gesturing to the six burlap-wrapped packages in the cellar below, “have had to been
particularly
naughty to stir the Crew to send such a message during a fallow period.”

“You are assuming that the ‘official’ method of execution would be reserved only for those who they thought needed to be made a message of,” she concluded.

“That is their traditional method,” the handsome Constable agreed.

“So what do you wish me to determine?”

“Their identities, for one.  Then the identities of their murderers.  Any information you could provide about the nature of the quarrel would be helpful,” he added, after consideration.

“You place a great store in my powers,” she said, evenly.  There just weren’t spells written for that sort of thing.  She would have to improvise. 

“The second greatest mage in the kingdom should be able to level some keen insight into the affair,” he continued, diplomatically.  “And as your husband is ranging the northern roads for a few days, I’m assuming that you may find your evenings lacking in entertainment.”

“So snuggling with a corpse or six is an idle amusement?” she sighed.  “What my social life has become!”

As it turned out, Pentandra’s baculus, for which she was having a difficult time finding a name, did most of the work for her.  As she cast her gaze over the half-dozen victims, the magic rod helpfully assembled key details for her review, things she might not have thought to consider on her own.

“The first is Wilderborn,” she declared, moments after beginning.  “A fifth child, well-bred until his teenage years, then near-starved for a few years.  He’s come out of it recently.  He has worked as a smith, armorer, or ferrier recently.  His fingers recently wore three rings, two of silver, one of gold.  Judging by his shoes he was a frequent visitor to the docks and taverns of every sort.”

“Good, good,” the constable nodded, making notes on parchment, as well as sketching the body elegantly with his pen.  “Anything else?”

Pentandra bent her rod closer to the body, and willed it to do a more in-depth inspection.  “Yes,” she said, a few moments later.  “He was terrified just before he died.  Terrified and resentful, as if he’d been betrayed.  He’d recently had a tooth pulled, and gotten a shave . . . something about the barber.  The barber was the man who betrayed him,” she said, with a measure of assurance.  “Where was this man found?”