Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (15 page)

“Pram, see Baron Edmarin is brought to me immediately, regardless of whatever vice he fell asleep enjoying, nor should he bother to dress for the occasion if it delays his arrival.”

The old steward tried to hide his pleasure at the thought.  “I trust Your Grace will not be disappointed, then,” he said, smoothly.  “And what shall I tell Baron Edmarin is the reason his repose is being interrupted at this late hour, on the eve of Yule?  I am certain he will demand an answer, Your Grace.”

Anguin’s face was harsh.  “Tell him that the bells of midnight are near tolling, and he is summoned by his lord for the first court of Yule.  And if he argues . . .” the young duke said, his eyes narrowing, “take a few of my gentlemen with you to persuade him.  Forcefully.

“The rest of you, please refresh yourselves as you need for a moment, and then join me in the Stone Hall.  Tomorrow we can speak to the rest of the palace.  Tonight, I take what is mine from those who would steal it from under me!”

Chapter Three

A Duke’s Curiosity

Pentandra shared a quiet moment with Arborn, as they both used the latrine off of the entrance hall after performing their initial duties.  A very nervous servant girl, sleep still clouding her eyes while she performed her unexpected duty, held a basin of cold water for them to splash on their faces, while another sleepy maid stood by with towels. 

Pentandra gratefully freshened her face with the frigid water, then spoke a spell and heated it to steaming before plunging her long, cold fingers back into it a second time.  Her riding gloves had been adequate for keeping the cold at bay, but after so long on the road she felt the chill in her bones. 

“Magic,” sniffed Arborn, when he realized what she’d done.

“That’s what I do, Husband,” she agreed.  Arborn didn’t exactly disapprove of magic, but he was still unused to it in his life.  “It is one of the many luxuries of being a mage.  Thank you, dear,” she said, smiling at the homely servant girl who tried to dry her hands.  The towel was far rougher than it appeared and chafed her fingers.  “Is there any sign of resistance, yet?”

“Not that I can see,” he shrugged.  “Count Salgo thinks it will take a few days for organized resistance to form, if it does.  He fears a commoner’s revolt more than an attempted rebellion.”

“I’m honestly more concerned with vermin than villeins,” Pentandra declared, eying the privy door distastefully.  “This place is filthy!  And at Yule!  Was there no feast?  No visitors?” she asked the girls.  They looked at each other guiltily.

“Only Baron Edmarin’s usual friends and family, my lady,” the taller girl admitted.  “They had a right feast back in his chamber.  There was a service in chapel.  And we each got a new cap and slippers from the castellan.  But no feast for all, as they did when we were children.  Or games.  No gifts.  Not enough money, the Baron says.”

“And not enough for proper drudges, either!” snorted Pentandra, looking up at the tangle of cobwebs over the privy door.  “Thousands of refugees outside of the city walls, and they can’t find
someone
who will clean for a loaf of bread?”

“There is much amiss here, my darling wife,” Arborn agreed.  “It must be set to rights one step at a time.” 

A call came from down the corridor, and a moment later the night steward Pram led a portly middle-aged man in a linen nightshirt, his hands in iron manacles, flanked by two mailed knights, towards the Stone Hall.  Count Salgo, looking quite satisfied with himself, followed behind.

“This appears to be the first step, there,” Pentandra observed.  “Shall we go?  I don’t think we’re going to want to miss this.”

*

*

“They call me the Orphan Duke of a Broken Duchy,” Anguin said, a trace of wry bitterness in his voice, as he addressed the great empty hall from his father’s dusty throne after the belfries of the temple district tolled midnight.  A hastily-laid fire crackled at one end of the broad Stone Hall, but the long disuse had left a residue of dust and cobwebs everywhere, and the air was still cold enough to see your breath. Pentandra quietly cast a few small magelights around the throne when she arrived to supplement the lamps the servants brought.  She almost immediately regretted being able to see into the corners of the disused hall.

The pale, flabby, unshaven face of Baron Edmarin stared in drunken confusion at his young liege.  Edmarin had angrily protested his treatment, demanding to be released and threatening the heads of all involved.  He was under the illusion that he was suffering a bit of Yuletide drunken humor in extremely poor taste.  Being confronted by the truth of the matter did not convince him.  Even after Count Salgo had introduced him to Duke Anguin and forced him to his knees in front of the throne, Edmarin had thought it a joke and the young man on the ornate chair an imposter, and said as much.

Only when he saw and recognized old Father Amus did he realize that he was, indeed, in front of his lawful sovereign. 

His manner had quickly turned from indignant to frightened, and the more Duke Anguin spoke – and the more authority his youthful voice carried – the graver his expression became. 

“My parents are
dead
,” Duke Anguin continued.  “Of my living family, my two sisters are near hostages and the rest want me a puppet or dead.  The greatest part of my dominion is in rebellion, ironically enough, in support of my House but not in favor of its sole male heir.  I am . . . I am the necessary linchpin to bind the wheel of Castalshar together, a useful tool and troublesome ally.  I gave up a life of comfortable captivity and nominal political power for the danger of self-exile into the last remnant of my realm. 
Why would I do that, Excellency?”

“Why, I know not, Sire!” the flabby, filthy Steward admitted, nervously.  But the courtier’s mind, even drunk, worked quickly, Pentandra noted.  He would try to talk his way out of danger, she saw.  “Why
would
you leave the comforts of the royal court for this troubled land?  Surely you have more pressing matters of state than reigning over this . . . ancient hall,” the baron said, tactfully, looking around at the decrepit room.

“I am so gratified that you honored me to ask, Baron,” Anguin said.  It was difficult to determine whether his tone was mocking or serious.  “The truth of the matter is that my comfortable captivity afforded me the ample chance to study in seclusion.  Do you read, Baron?”

“A bit, Your Grace,” the man admitted.  “I know my letters.  I don’t read books.  I usually get my scribe to read my reports.”

“You really should consider the hobby,” Anguin advised, congenially.  “With little else to turn my mind to, I indulged in the rare luxury of tutors and books.  As my seclusion was, I was assured, for my own safety, I took advantage of the time to my best effect.  I read the great histories, the books of the various gods, the Books of the Conquest, and the lore of my own house.” 

He paused, looking at the slovenly man in whose care that house had been entrusted. “I learned mine is a great house: descended from great mariners, powerful warriors, and cunning woodsmen.  We are the Alshari, on the edge of the world, yet as strong and brave and potent as any men in Callidore.  Would you not say that is accurate, Baron?”

“Why, of course, Your Grace!” the man hurried to agree with the patriotic declaration.  “The deeds and wisdom of your House are well known to all!  As is the strength of the Alshari!”

“True enough,” agreed Anguin.  “It’s a heady legacy of greatness for a man to aspire to.  Yet I take strength in the tales of their brave deeds. 

“So why
would
I continue to skulk in safety hundreds of leagues from my realm when the legacy of my house
demands
I see to my duty?”

“I . . . I . . . Your Grace, I know not!” the confused man said. 

“You don’t seem to know much at all, then, for a man entrusted to keep my realm in trust for me until my majority, Baron Edmarin,” Anguin said, his mood shifting darkly.  “I find that
disturbing
.  Would you say you have given
good service
in your term here?” he asked, pointedly.

“I have done the best I could with what little resources I had, Your Grace!” insisted the baron, tears welling up in his eyes. 

“Have you . . .
really
?” asked Anguin, his eyes narrowing.  “Would you be willing to swear an oath to that effect?”

“I . . . of course, Sire!  Any oath you wish!”

“And if some should come forth to contest the veracity of that oath?  Would you challenge them?”

“Ch-challenge them, Sire?” the man asked, suddenly still. “A contest?”

“Yes, Baron, Alshari law says that if a witness should contest your sworn oath in court, you have the right to challenge him to combat before he presents his evidence for judgment.  That’s the proper reading of Luin’s Law, is it not, Father?”

“Yes, Sire, I believe you have interpreted it correctly,” the old monk agreed.  That was Lawfather Jodas, who Father Amus had persuaded to come out of his retirement and recruited to become the new Minister of Justice.  “An oathtaker may fight his challenger to prevent evidence from being heard.  The gods will favor the righteous or the faithful, says the Book of Luin.”

“So if you were to swear a sacred oath in the presence of this court that you have
faithfully
and
honorably
overseen my realm in my absence, with no thought to your own enrichment –
as you are willing to do
– and a man stood forth to challenge that oath, would you, Baron, take up arms against him or his champion in your defense?  Or would you be so certain of your good management of my estates that you would be willing to withstand any and all such claims before this court and your liege . . . though you knew it meant your
death
to receive an unfavorable judgment in such circumstances?”

The baron looked wildly around the room at all of the strangers and all of the courtiers he had bullied and bargained with over the years.  Any of them, Pentandra could see, could provide ample evidence to cause a claim to be laid.  There didn’t seem to be anyone in the hall who he hadn’t metaphorically screwed.

“Your Grace wishes to know what
I
would do, in such an occasion?” Baron Edmarin asked, swallowing hard.  Sweat was now pouring off of his unshaven face.

“I do,” assured Duke Anguin lightly, as he regarded the man. 

“But . . .
why?
” asked the baron, plainly.  “I haven’t
sworn
the oath!”

“I’m curious,” explained Anguin. 

“Curious, Sire?”

“While away in Castal in study, I heard many reports of your governance here in Vorone.  So I became curious.”

“Curious,” the Baron repeated, dumbly.  “Your Grace was . . . curious?”

“By the gods, yes I was, Baron. 
Quite
curious.  So I ask you to indulge my curiosity on this one matter:
should
you be asked to repeat the oaths you took regarding your position and duties, in my presence, and
should
there be some to challenge that oath,
would
you defend your honor by the sword . . . or would you rely on your own truthfulness, good governance, and the grace of the gods to protect you from any possible evidence brought before me?  It’s something I’m
quite
curious about.” 

He looked at the man thoughtfully, and not unsympathetically.  “One could even say that it is a mere matter of counsel, a hypothetical situation.  The sort of thing for which a Duke should be able to rely on his great nobles’ opinions with confidence, wouldn’t you say, Baron Edmarin?”

“I . . . I suppose it would be, Sire,” the Baron agreed, once the term
hypothetical
had been mentioned.  That, it seemed, took away the potential for tragedy, in the baron’s mind. 

Pentandra wondered what game Anguin was playing.  The dark-eyed lad looked casual, for a moment, leaning back and crossing his legs at the ankles.  Edmarin certainly seemed to see the possibility of persuasion in his quiver, Pentandra saw.  She caught Arborn’s eye, but he wasn’t focused on the proceedings as much as everything else. 

“Then . . .
advise
me, as you are sworn to.  You are the man who would know this thing best, and under your oath to my house I call upon you, Baron Edmarin of House Eith, to
advise
me. 
What would you do?”

“H-hypothetically, Sire?”

“As no oath has been sworn, it is, I assure you, an
entirely
hypothetical situation, Baron Edmarin,” the young man said in soothing tones.  “I am merely curious as to your response.”

‘I . . . that is, if I
was
. . . under such an oath,” the portly man began, sweat pouring freely from his balding head and down his face, even in the chill of winter, “I suppose I . . . I would rely on my good works in the name of your House, Your Grace!” 

He finished more confidently, with a hint of practiced posturing and affected humility in his delivery, Pentandra decided. 
She
certainly didn’t trust him.  He reminded her of a ripe sow struggling to free himself from a one-way trip to market.