Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (40 page)

Well, it is our intention to do just that,
Pentandra lectured. 
We just have no real idea how.  But I’m guessing that magic will play a role.

It’s ambitious,
granted
the Gilmoran mage,
but I think you’re crazy to set yourself up for failure like that.  If Anguin is wise, he will do what he can to strengthen the north and allow his heirs to pursue their claim over the south.  Unless he wants to wrest Gilmora back from Castal, first, he mused.  That would be impressive enough of a feat to win him great support in Falas. 

Something will come up,
Pentandra replied.  It was more hope than promise, but she’d learned very quickly that politics was largely a matter of taking the initiative to exploit sudden opportunities that furthered your interests.  There were just too many players in the Kingdom, now, and within southern Alshar the possibility of something unexpectedly happening that would give Anguin the opening he needed to exploit was inevitable.  At least, that was what she kept reminding herself as she sat through gloomy meetings about austerity.

She couldn’t argue that Astyral was wrong – he knew far more about western politics than she.  And he was an astute player of the game, having secured a long-term appointment most barons would kill for.  But she didn’t think he understood just how determined the court – and Angrial – were about their mission.  Their goal was not just to restore the Wilderlands capital, so that the duke could claim some sort of legitimacy, but to retake the entire duchy from the rebels (and, eventually, the gurvani).

And that meant the south.  Though to the nobles of southern Alshar, it also meant Gilmora, cruelly stolen from the Black Duke by Castal’s sneaky negotiations.  That, she reasoned, sensing political opportunity, might be good leverage in the future. 

Of course, since an essential part of the southern rebels’ hold over the land seemed to be supported by the Brotherhood of the Rat – the parent criminal organization of Vorone’s Rat Crew – then making headway here, against these vermin, could lead to a far better chance at re-taking Enultramar. 

It was a grand, impressive dream, but it was the one upon which the hopes of the court depended.  Which meant that her work as a rat catcher might, in the long run, pay off in ways she couldn’t expect.

If only I had the gift of prophecy, she mused to herself as she continued working on the details of the night’s operation.  Then I could figure out whether I’m wasting my time with this . . . or doing absolutely vital groundwork. 

Not for the first time she realized that Court Wizard was not nearly as cushy as she was led to believe.  Nor for the last.

Chapter Thirteen

Show Horses & Work Horses

While Pentandra was still trying to contend with her many new duties – including the unbelievable number of meetings she was now required or invited to attend – she began to see just which of her fellow ministers were fully invested and involved in the business of the duchy, and which were merely holding place until someone – and she often wondered just who they thought would accomplish it – brought better times to Alshar.

In her mind she divided the two groups into work horses, like the many draught horses who pulled plows and wains – and show horses, those steeds the nobility husbanded for their pretty lines, shiny coats, and physical ability.  The nobility had entire breeds of horses nearly useful for anything but the tasks they were bread for, while the peasants who supported them used rounceys, common horses suited to nearly any purpose, to keep the world running.

It often depressed her just how many show horses the new court had among it. 

There were some, like Viscount Muros, the loyal Sea Lord who had been appointed Master of Wave but the duke, who sat in an office which no longer had much to do with the rest of the palace.  The Wilderlands had no navy, and while the post had been vital to the united duchy, being estranged from the vast maritime armada of Alshar made his appointment nominal, at best.  Yet Muros had no trouble dominating the conversations in the great halls of the palace at every opportunity, bragging of his marine prowess and mastery of shipcraft.

Others, like the nominal Lady of Fetes, Lady Landine, had active portfolios to work on, but precious little in the way of resources to do it.  While she was technically responsible for planning and executing the number of entertainments and celebrations the palace court was used to, virtually no funds for the office had been released by the Minister of Treasure, Viscountess Threanas, since she was confirmed in her position by the Duke.

Pentandra could see her point – when most of the court felt that the Duke was one riot away from being thrown out of his capital, it was difficult to encourage a celebration of his reign when there was no coin to do it.  Much of the funds which had been earmarked for such frivolities by the planning councils had already been spent on settling the palace’s considerable debt to local merchants.

That left Lady Landine moping around the palace, complaining bitterly about her situation and generally making herself a pain in the arse.

There were plenty of others.  When Anguin and Angrial were trying to build support for the restoration in Gilmora they had secretly sent word to houses there and in Alshar who were known to be loyal to the Dukes in the past, and invited them – quietly – to lend their support to the effort. 

A small army of adventurers and younger sons showed up on Anguin’s doorstep.  Not all of the volunteers were useful, for the immediate task, but once summoned it was difficult to make them go away.  So Angrial and Anguin pledged plenty of court positions to keep their visible support for the court high in the public’s mind, without really having a use for so many useless nobility cluttering the halls of the palace.

While that irritated Pentandra, especially when she had so much to do and her office was not even fully set up, yet, but she understood the politics enough to keep her resentment at bay while she carried out her own duties.

Nor was she the only “work horse” of the court irritated by the useless officers.  When she had a moment between meetings (the new Mirror array attendants in the first, and a consideration of rules and guidelines for the new office of Spellwarden in the second) she escaped to any number of small, comfortable rooms scattered about the palace.

Most of the senior court were unaware of these refuges, as they were primarily the haunt of senior servants and junior courtiers, but Pentandra was less concerned with social propriety, and more concerned with amenities.  Some of the tiny chambers were extremely well-situated, well-appointed, and better stocked than she might have imagined.

One such place was a small room over a walkway between two sections of the palace, one that overlooked a pretty garden (or, at least, it promised to be pretty come spring).  The tiny chamber could be reached three different ways, if you knew how to get to it, and inside the castellans had ensured that there was wine, water, mead, hydromel, beer, and sufficient food to keep the workhorses of the court well-refreshed. 

Pentandra dropped into the nameless chamber as soon as she could, after a very frustrating meeting.  To her surprise, Coinsister Saltia, the plump nun serving as Assistant Minister of Treasure, was already there drinking an extravagantly large mug of beer.

“What sent you in to hiding?” the merry nun asked her, as she left the stairwell.  “I just had my arse chewed by Threanas, the . . . Ifnia save her,” she said, with nominal piety.

“What, this time?” Pentandra asked as she poured herself a half glass of mead.  She was not fond of the rich beer they liked in Vorone.  It was too thick and too bitter, much different than the gentle brews the Remerans drank.  “Did she discover you hiding pennies under your habit?”

“I’ve got room for more than pennies under here,” the nun assured her with a smile.  “But, no.  She’s far more concerned with our appalling trade imbalance than mere pennies.  And she thinks I – well, my temple – should be able to do something about it,” she said, sourly. 

“Could you?  And why does it matter?” Pentandra asked, relieved to be discussing someone else’s bureaucratic problems. 

“Well, our trade balance is pretty important,” the nun said, informatively.  “Every cart that goes south and every cart that goes north across the frontier is important.  The more we purchase from outside the duchy, the less actual money the duchy has,” she explained.  “Not the duke, mind, but the duchy – all of us, put together.”

“Why would you need to know that?”

“Because if we don’t, then soon there won’t be enough silver in town to actually purchase any of it,” she complained.  “Threanas thinks that there should be at least one wain headed south for every two headed north.  While that’s reasonable, I suppose,  it does beg the question of just what to put in those bloody carts,” she fumed.

“Well, we know iron and timber have limited value that close to the Wilderlands,” Pentandra pointed out.  “What else can we send?  That doesn’t compete with the local merchandise?”

“Exactly!” agreed Saltia, triumphantly.  “You have grasped it exactly!  There is really very little the Wilderlands can sell at market that isn’t well-covered by other regions already.  So chewing me out for not figuring out how to sell the Castali things we have and things they need is not terribly helpful!” she said, with a mixture of anger and dignity.

“What did Threanas suggest?” Pentandra asked, curious.

“Uh . . . what . . . why, she didn’t suggest anything, herself,” the nun confessed.

“Then you should have solicited her ideas,” suggested Pentandra, sipping the mead.  “Saltia, I don’t know how they do things at your temple, but in my experience when a superior gives you an impossible task, your best defense is to ask them how they would do it.  If you lack ideas of your own – and I can’t help you much, there – then it becomes much more difficult to be held accountable if the program you execute was their idea.  Next time, ask for her guidance,” she suggested.  “See what she has to say.”

“And if she proposes the impossible?” asked the nun, warily.

Pentandra shrugged.  “Then tell her you’ll study the matter and get back to her.  I did that to the poor common spellmongers concerning their regulation for nearly two years,” she admitted, smugly.  “Every time they came to me with a demand to set policy, I asked them to submit suggestions on how to do so.  Eventually, we spent more time on the suggestions than fixing the problem, but there was at least the appearance that we knew what we were doing.”

“You cannot
bluff
your way out of a trade deficit that grows by nine ounces of silver a day,” Saltia pointed out, tiredly.  “Numbers mean things, my friend.  With silver pouring out of the palace the way it has been . . .”

“Yes, but look what those expenditures did for the local economy,” Pentandra pointed out.  “When the palace settled its debts, nearly five hundred ounces of silver were injected into the artisans of Vorone!  And some of that will come back in revenues!”

“Well, certainly, we retired our small debt,” Saltia conceded.  “But only at the cost of going into debt with my temple,” she pointed out.  “And while we’re not the most ruthless of temples to borrow from, we do expect every penny to be paid back.  And interest,” she added.

“You will be,” Pentandra assured her.  “Those loans were secured by the Spellmonger.  And I happen to know he has a lot of capital sitting around, not doing anything particularly important.

“Which is the only reason I’m here,” reminded the nun.  “At this rate, it will take the duchy about six years to repay the funds advanced so far – if revenues continue to come in from Vorone.”

“What if they improve?” Pentandra asked, curious.

“Well, that depends entirely on how much the court – the duke – let’s face it, Viscountess Threanas – how much she wants to service that debt.”

“So why is the trade inequality such a big issue, then?”

“Because right now Vorone produces its own basic crafts and a number of luxuries, and almost none of them have a market outside of the Wilderlands,” the nun said, grumpily.  “It’s one thing if we can off-set the amount of silver fleeing the country by sending wagons south, but as it is?  We’ll be lucky to be here, come autumn, if something isn’t done.”

She could see the little nun’s point, but considering the much more pressing matters of state security and basic services, Pentandra could see no clear way out.  It would be difficult to notify the Treasury about the sudden disappearance of all of that ore and timber, for instance, without informing them of how it was sold without a single wain or barge being involved.  Or where the coin from the sale of such commodities went.  Or where several tons of wheat mysteriously came from.

It gave Pentandra a new appreciation of the power of magic, now that the Spellmonger had overturned the old order.

“I did propose that we make up for the shortfall with a lottery,” the nun proposed, quietly.  “Threanas did not seem to enthused by the idea,” she added.

“She’s from Enultramar, or near enough,” Pentandra pointed out.  “Even if she worships the Narasi gods, she’s familiar with the culture of the Sea Lords.  They do not look kindly on gambling,” she explained, which made the nun’s eyes grow wide. 

“But . . . but randomness and probability are the basis of all life!” Saltia said, scandalized.