Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (77 page)

The stony reception she garnered during her introductions to the group only got worse when Countess Shirlin began making small comments that amounted to criticisms of the ladies of the court.  Such as glancing at Sister Saltia, who was much loved by the court despite her usually disheveled appearance, and muttering,

“I don’t know how they do things
here
, but in Wilderhall the nobility and the clergy dine
separately!”

She compounded her social error a few moments later when she attempted a direct strike against the way things had evolved in court by wondering aloud at Viscountess Threanas’ leadership . . . based on her
rank.

“In Wilderhall, traditionally the
highest
ranking lady of the court presides over these things, Viscountess,” she said, rather loudly, as the women seated themselves around the chamber.  As only Alshar employed the noble title “viscount”, usually reserved for the nobles in charge of the small but heavily-populated upland regions of Enultramar, and the other ducal courts skipped right from Baron to Count, it was natural for the Castali woman to employ the smear.

Nearly everyone stopped and stared at her for a moment, until proprietary forced them to continue or make a remark.  Threanas countered the veiled attack coolly as she took her seat at the unofficial head of the table.  

“As I am the highest ranking
Alshari
lady in residence at the palace, I’m certain you will find that requirement well met,” she said, in a compelling voice.  “Until His Grace takes a wife, or we are joined at court by Countess Jaramine, I think I can manage the responsibilities seniority has thrust upon me.”

“Oh, I was just uncertain of the
protocol
,” Countess Shirlin assured her, fooling no one.  

“We do not stand overmuch on protocol, these days, I’m afraid,” Lady Bertine said, pouring tea for the Countess.  “This early in the restoration there is just too much to accomplish to be worried by such frivolous things.”

Countess Shirlin was not convinced.  “There is
always
time for proper protocol,” she said, smoothly.  “Why, Her Majesty was just saying the other day, ‘in matters of protocol and manners we elevate ourselves above the animals, the gurvani and the common folk and closer to the realms of the gods.’”

“Yes, Her Majesty is a
stickler
for protocol,” Threanas replied, tersely.  “Whereas here at Vorone we have always considered all the women of the court our sisters, regardless of rank or class.  If a nun is a loyal retainer of His Grace, then denying her equitable participation in the workings of court serves neither her nor the Duchy.  We learn
much
from having our ecclesiastic sisters here,” she said, smiling to the nuns at the table.

“Well,” Countess Shirlin said, clearing her throat nervously, as she began to see Threanas as the reigning power, here.  “Let us rejoice in their fellowship, then, for piety is the duty of us all, as Her Majesty often says.”

“Actually,” Sister Saltia said, biting her lip, “when we gather at these weekly teas, we like to . . . ‘take off the habit at the door’, so to speak,” she said, with delicacy.  “This is the
one
place, the
one
time during the week where we can put aside our piety or our husbands or our work and enjoy
each others’
company.  We’re all just girls, here, noble, common, or ecclesiastic.  We’re just
women.
”

“There is no
‘just’
about us!” Threanas objected.  “My dear Saltia, whether we have taken sacred orders, become wives and mothers, or dedicated ourselves to service
we
are the spine that holds the palace together!” she said, fervently.  “Let there be no mistake.  Our brave men may defend our walls and command our armies, but if it wasn’t for the ink-stained fingers of femininity behind the scenes, they’d all starve to death in their helplessness.  The women of this court are its
greatest
strength.  
Respect
that,” she suggested to the nun.  
“Always
respect that.  Now, my dear, can you let us know about the status of payments to your temple?  I understand that we are actually ahead of our terms by a surprisingly large margin . . .”

Apparently Countess Shirlin was not anticipating such serious discussion of policy in a palace ladies’ tea, because as soon as the nun began reeling off numbers and payment schedules and monthly revenue figures, and the conversation turned to those numbers and not to whom they should marry off Anguin, the older woman’s eyes began desperately searching the room . . . as if she was seeking
some
ally to use as leverage as she was upstaged by a portly nun droning on about interest rates.

“This is
delightful
,” she lied, as she interrupted Saltia’s stirring tale of alternative repayment plans, “but I cannot believe that you ladies have an important festival approaching in a few weeks and you aren’t worried about your
garb!”

Pentandra moaned to herself, but she appreciated the reaction of her fellows around the table.

Sister Saltia snorted in an unladylike fashion.  “Gosh, I think I have my outfit picked out,” she said, fingering the simple cloth of her habit she wore constantly.  

Viscountess Threanas, already on guard against the Countess, sniffed derisively.  “I imagine after
thirty years
attending balls and masques at this palace I can find
something
in my press that no one currently living has seen before,” she said, snidely.

Pentandra shrugged.  “I’m going to wear something magical.  As usual,” she dismissed.  In truth she
was
actually concerned about her outfit for the masque . . . but not
that
concerned.  One of the advantages of being a mage was the ability to enchant your clothing to produce a number of impressive effects.  While she enjoyed that element of both fashion and magic, it was hardly something she spent a lot of time thinking about . . . not when she was chasing Rats, running the arcane bureaucracy, and trying to plan a long-term defense for Alshar.  

“But you can’t all be ready, already,” protested Countess Shirlin.  “Usually for a ducal ball every woman in the palace is atwitter with what gown they’ll wear!”

“I’m afraid that the political restoration has interrupted the normal social flow, and we’re just getting back to the rhythm of life afterwards,” Pentandra offered the Countess, diplomatically.  But like most diplomatic overtures, the friendly tone concealed a dagger.  “When the
previous
duchess was so viciously and cruelly assassinated in her bed, it took us all by surprise.   While we are restored, we are not yet recovered.”

“’We?’”
Countess Shirlin asked, amused, speaking directly to Pentandra for the first time since her awkward interview in her office.  “You are a
Remeran
, are you not?  I’m surprised that you share the . . .
Alshari
perspective.”  The way she pronounced the word Alshari left little doubt in anyone’s mind how she felt about the region . . . and its people.  

A quick glance told her that the rest of the court ladies felt similarly about Shirlin.  Pentandra’s ire flared as she saw the sharp looks around the room.  “I
married
an Alshari man,” she reminded the Countess, gently.

“I thought you married a barbarian Kasari?” Countess Shirlin asked, her tone insulting and confused.  

“As I am certain any of the ladies at this table can assure you, regardless of my husband’s origins and heritage, he is one of the most
admired
men in Vorone.  And we are both wholehearted supporters of the rightful Duke of Alshar,” she added.   “Indeed, we are both sworn to do anything in our power to protect him.”

Countess Shirlin was quiet, after that, finally understanding that the consensus of opinion at the Tea would be against her long before it supported her.  Snubbed on her attempts to first put down the clergy and then undermine the ladies of the court in their confidence, Countess Shirlin shrewdly changed her tactics about the time Lady Pleasure arrived, late, for the event.

That’s when Pentandra started to relax about the entire affair.  Between Threanas and Lady Pleasure, Countess Shirlin had irritated two of the most powerful women in the Wilderlands.  While she thought Threanas was a stuffy old bat, she was Alshar’s stuffy old bat, and she was more than capable of defending herself from Shirlin’s feeble attacks.

If Shirlin thought that Threanas was a vulnerable target in the group, she nearly pounced on Lady Pleasure’s perceived vulnerabilities.  

The Dowager Baroness finally showed up a half-hour late for the Tea – alone for once – in a spectacular pink riding gown embroidered prettily in green around the collar and cuffs.  Countess Shirlin was instantly effusive in her praise for the dress, which was cut in a Castali style, and for the beauty and poise of its wearer.

But she also mistakenly considered the late arrival of a mere baroness to the proceedings worthy of her criticism, and her target more than worthy of her disdain.  It was a cheap ploy, Pentandra knew.  Shirlin focused her conversation on the younger, less well-positioned ladies of the court and sought to unite them against the older women, through subtle (and not so subtle) social manipulation, implied threats, and flattery.

When Baroness Amandice insisted on being referred to by the court (and by Countess Shirlin) as ‘Lady Pleasure’, a steely self-assuredness came over the Castali courtier.   An old dowager, such as herself, only with the aspect of youth and beauty?  One with a quirk for grandiose names?  Countess Shirlin smiled, after the introduction. She had found her target.

Pentandra watched, fascinated, as the bitchy matron from Wilderhall decided to pick a fight with the goddess of love and beauty.

“Is that the dress you’ll be wearing to the Flower Festival?” she began, cordially enough.

“The
Wild
flower Festival,” Amandice corrected, automatically.  She picked at the skirt.  “This?” Lady Pleasure asked, amused.  “Oh, not at
all.
 One must have something
new
to celebrate the new season, don’t you think, Excellency?”

“Well, my friend Her Majesty often says that new gowns make new women of us all,” Shirlin quoted, absently, as she tried to discover some point of social leverage against the beautiful woman.  Lady Pleasure decided not to wait on the arrival opportunity, and made some herself.

“Interesting,” Lady Pleasure observed.  

“Oh, Her Majesty is filled with sage advice,” assured Shirlin, finally happy to see her name dropping had gotten some traction with the court.

“Not the observation – that’s trite and simple-minded – but your
enduring
fascination with the Queen.  It’s almost as if you are afraid of having an opinion she
might
object to, so you merely borrow hers.  Tell me, does she mind?  Or do you have her permission to ransack her conversational closet?  Oh, those are
delightful
slippers, are they suede?” she asked, changing the subject of the conversation far too quickly for Countess Shirlin to keep up with.

A moment later the Castali noblewoman tried again to insist on her social importance, this time through criticizing the palace itself . . . and attempting to segue into a conversation where she felt she had more depth.

“Has anyone noticed the appalling number of brazen young sluts parading through the corridors?” she asked, sniffing disgustedly.  “I understand the worldly ways of court life, but this is unreasonable!  It’s like a
forest
of tarts out there!  Why, on my way here I saw two of them doing . . . well, Trygg forbid what they were doing, but it was
completely
inappropriate for the palace!  
Someone
should speak to the captain of the guard about the number of filthy whores he’s admitting!”

“Really?”  Viscountess Threanas asked, mildly.  While she was of much the same opinion, she recognized that Countess Shirlin had marched herself defiantly into the jaws of Lady Pleasure.  Those were her girls, after all, and even Threanas had to admit that they were well-behaved, compared to the other courtesans who haunted the palace.  The Minister of Treasure might have been unpleasant and rigid, but she appreciated the threat to the court by Shirlin’s inclusion.  She was clearly looking forward to watching the coming verbal dismemberment.  “From what I understand, the palace guard is quite in favor of the number of nubile maidens lingering in our halls.”

That was a far cry from Threanas’ usual moralizing, Pentandra realized.  Threanas had wisely recognized that supporting a mere rival, Lady Pleasure, over the interloping Countess served the court best . . . and if that meant compromising her stated principals for pragmatic purpose, she was more than capable.

“That is precisely my point!” fumed the countess.  “We simply must restrict those vile sluts to the street where they belong!  It’s disgraceful and improper!  It puts Duke Anguin in jeopardy.  I’ve seen this sort of thing before,” she warned, “and it rarely ends well.  When you let disgusting sluts and vile whoremongers into the palace, soon disease and scandal follow!  Her Majesty would never permit such indecencies!  Why, if no other reason, we
must
find a suitable bride for His Grace to
prevent
any of those whores from stealing the throne away from him!”