Enchanter (Book 7) (55 page)

“But we’re winning,” Sir Vemas assured me.  “Slowly, carefully, but we have made some tremendous gains.  The gallows have been busy, and the Iron Band has received an entire company of new recruits.”

“And every morning there are a few fresh bodies in the street,” Jenser added, quietly.  “The Wood Owls have been tracking and hunting the worst criminals, those who elude and evade the city guard by day.  They townfolk started calling us Wood Owls,” he added, with a wicked grin that twisted his thin lips into an intimidating leer.  “We come out at night and leave dead rats behind.”

“Your very best men?” I asked Arborn.

“Gods, I hope not!” Jenser proclaimed, looking at his captain.  “The Wood Owls are . . . not like other Kasari.  Most have had difficult pasts, despite the council’s best efforts.  Some just prefer town life to the wood, and some are . . .”

“Cold blooded killers,” supplied Sir Vemas, without judgment.  “Silent stalkers without peer,” he boasted.  “They are too modest, Excellency.  A dozen men have waged a nightly war against hundreds, and have yet to be defeated.”

“That is impressive,” I agreed, though I understood why they were reluctant to boast.  The Kasari value life highly.  Even though they are incredible hunters, they do not delight in killing, they are reverent toward those who give their lives in the service of the lifeforce.  Killing humans, even when necessary, is a serious moral issue for them.  A Kasari assassin would have very little status in most councils, I knew.

Or perhaps I didn’t.  The very existence of such warriors suggested that the Kasari had come to terms with those among them who did not mind taking life.  And the fact that they answered to a Captain of Rangers was telling.

The wardens of Vorone told me about the various factions that controlled the city, the various court officials who still had ties with them, and the struggle they’d had to bring them to heel.  It had taken the execution of the old Captain of Guards and a purging of the corps, but Sir Vemas now had a reasonably uncorrupt unit to keep the peace and enforce the Duke’s will.

“Just how is the Duke’s will faring?” I asked.  That inspired some quick glances at each other, before Arborn spoke.

“Duke Anguin has taken control of the city,” he reported.  “He has begun to extend that influence among the nearby lords, and held court to dispense justice on those who have transgressed against his laws, and begun to collect his rightful tribute.”

“But how is he governing?” I asked, sipping the wine.  Not even close to the vintage from Rolone.

“With great deliberation,” offered Sir Vemas.  “I have not agreed with every decision His Grace has made, but he seems a fair man.”

“I see you said ‘man’,” I noted.  “His youth has not been an issue?”

Again, the exchange of looks.  “My lord,” Jenser, said, “when His Grace executed the former Prime Minister personally, in front of the throne, few considered his youth anything but an indication of his vigor.”  My eyebrows went up, more impressed by how well-spoken and mannered Jenser was than of Anguin’s personal participation in the dispensing of justice.

“Any sign of rebellion or conspiracy in the court yet?” I asked, casually.  “That can’t be far behind such reforms.”

“Not openly,” Sir Vemas admitted, after some thought.  “Not by the nobility, at least.  As long as His Grace controls the garrison, no single baron in the north has ventured to rebel.  Gods willing, it will stay that way.”

We continued to discuss the political situation for nearly an hour, draining two bottles of local red while we waited.  Vemas and I split that, mostly – even the Kasari of dubious reputation were temperate.

I was feeling fine, and we were laughing at some extremely fascinating stories Sir Vemas told about breaking up un-licensed brothels, when the ladies arrived.

Alya, of course, was wearing a bright green gown with Sevendor green trim, an intricate silver snowflake embroidered on the breast, enchanted to glow.  Her headdress was fairly simple, a wimpled white cone that rose six inches above her brow.

Pentanra, on the other hand, was garbed as a Ducal Court Wizard.  While there was no official regalia for the office, she had established a look, of sorts, that represented her position. She wore a long red gown of Remeran silk, matching slippers, with a hooded robe of cloth-of-gold over it.  She had contrived a pointed red cap similar in structure to a spellmonger’s cap, only bedecked with gems in Remeran style.  Over her shoulder she wore a sash bearing the sigil of the Court Wizard, and she carried her beautiful baculus with authority.

They both looked stunning.  We rose, and made appreciative comments about their efforts – with the Kasari ranger stumbling, and Arborn clumsily agreeing that Pentandra looked good.  It was painfully awkward to watch. 

The Kasari are a practical people, certainly – but surely one would think that in all of their rites they might mention that telling your wife she looks beautiful when she’s spent that much time, effort, and money to do so seems fairly elementary.  I could see why Penny was having problems.

As we left Pentandra and Arborn’s apartments and headed toward the throne room, Pentandra reached out to me, mind-to-mind.

You look like crap, Min
, she observed, thoughtfully.

Hey! I just got this outfit!

Your clothes look fine,
she agreed,
but your face looks like you’ve been . . . worried? Anxious? Afraid? Tired?

Well, which one?

I was just offering suggestions, and hoping that you’d supply the appropriate emotion.  What’s going on, Min?

It’s complicated.

It’s always complicated.  You want to see complicated, you should see my marriage.

I am.  It looks reasonably happy.  As long as Arborn doesn’t speak.

That’s the problem.  I can’t get him to speak. 

You were the one who wanted the strong, silent type,
I teased.

And you were the one who wanted the wholesome farmgirl,
she teased back.  But then she continued. 
And speaking of your lady wife, don’t be alarmed, but . . . there’s a spell on her.

It’s the dress,
I explained. 
It’s heavily enchanted.

It’s not the dress, Min,
she countered
.  I noticed something when we were talking. 

Then it’s the pregnancy,
I decided. 

It’ not the pregnancy, either.  I did a simple thaumaturgical essay, and while I can’t tell you who or why, there is a vein of magic around your wife.  A spell.   And not one of yours.

What do you mean?

I mean that someone has been interfering with Alya,
she said, with growing impatience.

I almost stopped, but Penny dug her baculus into the small of my back to keep me moving.

Interfere, how?
I demanded.

I don’t know, yet,
she admitted, worriedly. 
And that’s using the baculus.  All I could tell was that it was a psychomantic spell.  Subtle.  But extremely strong.

Someone is casting spells on Alya?
I asked alarmed.

That seems to be the case.  Who might do such a thing?

I knew exactly who was responsible.  The only one who
could
be responsible.  The one who had used similar sorceries to entrap me.  Baroness Isily.

I’ll look into it,
I promised. 
It could be nothing.

It’s not nothing, Min.  It’s Psychomancy!

I’ll look into it.  What kind of chaos are we walking into, tonight?

A simple court, appointment of a few positions, then a reception, with dancing afterwards.  But the people you need to beware of . . .
she began, and then filled my head with the names of Wilderlords, courtiers, and important townsfolk who Anguin was trying to cultivate. 

Among all of Vorone’s social classes, the nobility and burghers of the town had been the most reluctant to embrace Anguin, she explained.  They had grown accustomed to the casual corruption of the last four years, and many of them had turned the chaos into business opportunities with various factions.

The worst among them, of course, was the Brotherhood of the Rat.  The coastal-based criminal organization had been extending its grip inland for decades, after they controlled southern Alshar.  One of their captains had been here, in court, back during the last days of the late Duke Lenguin. 

The Brotherhood survived the fall of the Duke, and had transformed their operations in Vorone.  Instead of merely corrupting the court and increasing its political influence over the duchy, the Brotherhood had seen the decay of the summer capital as a financial opportunity. 

They’d flooded the town with thugs and gangsters.  Using smaller gangs as proxies, they had slowly taken control of about half of Vorone, and were closing in on the rest, when Anguin had returned to claim his patrimony. 

Penny’s efforts had led to a dramatic decrease in their territory, now – they were back to a few refugee camps and neighborhoods in the poorer sections of town, as well as points of strength throughout the city.  But Pentandra was hopeful they’d lose even that before midsummer, thanks to the pressure the Wood Owls were putting on them nightly.

As their primary means of income was extorting protection money from burghers and merchants, it had taken some time to get used to doing business more-or-less honestly.  But there were still plenty who wanted to purchase their success.  Some were ambivalent about the Duke, some directly opposed.  But none wanted to be excluded from a court function.  Or executed for corruption.

The hall was the same one I’d met Anguin’s late parents in, the one which I’d blatantly used threats and extortion and bribery to get the man out of his throne and into a saddle to defend his realm.  It had also gotten him and his wife killed, afterward, so I felt kind of bad about that. 

The hall looked shabbier now than then, though it had been strewn with flowers and decorations of the season.  The theme of the night was the Woodlands that surrounded Vorone.  The servants had eschewed the usual antlers-and-anchor motif of Alshari nationality for a pure celebration of the rugged northern forests.  The political message was clear: the rebellious maritime south was, for the moment, forgotten in favor of the robust Wilderlands culture.  Fresh boughs hung from the ceiling, and lanterns were strung throughout the hall among them. 

It was a smaller crowd and a smaller court than his parents boasted, too – a mere two-hundred guests and courtiers and half again as many servants.  But it was a livelier crowd, too.  I watched as Jenser quietly worked the room, exchanging silent looks and glances with Arborn, with the occasional nod or hand sign thrown in.  Arborn and his men saw this as an opportunity to get close to those courtiers he suspected of corruption.  He might have gotten closer if he and Arborn had no both donned owl masks.  The Kasari are great trackers, but they tend to lack social subtlety.

The business end of the court was delightfully short.  Anguin, wearing a fox mask with a miniature coronet between its ears, his regal blue doublet bearing an oversized fox tail, doffed his mask after the processional and welcomed us all to his affair with little ceremony.

He made six quick appointments, mostly monks and nuns to administrative posts in the city, and then accepted the fealty of a vassal who hadn’t made it to the regular spring court.  He congratulated the garrison captain on putting down a recent riot, gave public appreciation to the efforts of the bureaucracy that was putting the Duchy aright, and thanked the townsfolk for their civic-mindedness and embrace of their duty. 

That was it; he adjourned court and began the reception, leaping from his throne and replacing his mask before joining the crowd.  The musicians began an instrumental piece while the trestles around the room began to be filled with food by the servants.  The dance master called the first pavane of the evening, one of the stately strut-around-in-our-pretty-clothes-and-clever-costumes dances, and someone brought me a cup of wine.

There was a riot of costumes on the dance floor, I observed as I sipped and watched.  Stately-looking lords and ladies slowly stepped and twirled, their tunics and formal gowns topped with simple dominoes or complex constructions: a magnificent horsehead, or a ferocious bear, or a sad-looking goat; many women had come as birds, and decorated their mantles and gowns with feathers.  Others came as does, with fanciful antlers and ears, or daring raccoons with bushy tails.  A few dashing courtiers had gone to great lengths with impressive masks that covered the whole head, and whose mouths and eyes and ears could move without the aid of magic. 

Pentandra produced a mask of red-gold feathers and the sharp beak of a falcon, to match her husband’s owl, a tiny magelight behind the yellow gem on its brow.  Alya and I wore matching masks suggesting mountain lions, with ears and whiskers.  She had me attach a matching tail to my belt, and put tufts of fur under my sleeves, and I humored her.  I’ve never been a fan of such entertainments.  They had always seemed like a needless indulgence of the idle rich to flatter their own vanity.  If you want to have a party and drink, why dress up like it’s a festival day?

But now I saw them for what they really were: social events designed to establish position and precedence, influence and power.  Under those masks and within those gowns were the people who ran the town and, ultimately, the struggling Duchy.  The center of the vortex was Anguin, the Duke, but the men and women who competed for his attention had followers of their own.  Proximity to him brought power, but it also brought distractions.