Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (25 page)

“And after this housing crisis is over . . . I get
new
quarters?”

“I shall do my best to provide them for you,” the Prime Minister assured.  “Come springtime, Ishi willing, there will be a lot more room at the palace.  And time and opportunity to construct what we do not already have.”

“Then I accept,” she said, simply.  “If the price of bloodthirstiness is a new office and decent quarters, how can I say no?”

It occurred to her that she couldn’t.  But then she’d known women who would have leapt at the chance to get a grand new home at the palace and wouldn’t have even counted the bodies it took to get them.

At Alar she had flouted academy policy and rented a suite in the town, only nominally “living” in the tiny cell in which they expected scholars of magic to exist . . . and earning the ire of the masters.  In Castabriel she had selected spacious quarters for her role as Steward of the Arcane Orders, but she had quickly found a more comfortable existence just outside of the capital, at her beloved Fairoaks estate. 

In Sevendor she had quickly fled the quaint quarters Minalan had given her in his barbaric old castle and had a hall constructed – at the expense of her father and his friends – so that she could enjoy her comforts.  Even in the wilds of Kasar she had found a way to take shelter in her own manner, rather than depend on other’s ideas of comfort.

But now that she was married, she had more than one person’s comfort to consider.  It did not matter that Arborn would have been as comfortable in a makeshift shelter as a palace – more – it mattered that suddenly Pentandra had to take his needs into consideration, as well as her own. 

Chapter Seven

Troubled Times

The activity in the palace did not subside during the next week as the jubilation waned and the reality of a cold, snowy winter in Vorone set in for the townsfolk.  The temple bells welcoming the Duke home had been silent for days, and the sense of joy and celebration – and, in some quarters, fright and despair – had slackened and settled, like snow that has been around for a while.  Some were even bitter.  The elation of some people had quickly turned to disappointment when their lives did not instantly transform to the better.  After the holiday the price of bread was still high, the cost of their daily labor – if any – was still low, and their lives looked little better under the Duke as it had under the Steward.

Worse, from their perspective, was the arrival of another thousand Orphans’ Band mercenaries and the remainder of the Duke’s party, late from Gilmora, four days after Yule.  Only the whores seemed pleased with that development - and there was a gracious plenty of them, working in the streets as far as the edge of the Northside quarter where Pentandra lived to the site of most of the town’s brothels along Perfume Street and Glassblowers Street. 

For everyone else it just meant more rough-looking mercenaries patrolling the town and driving up the price of bread.  They still had to toil and worry, and they no longer even had Yule to look forward to.

For Pentandra, the arrival of the rest of the Orphan’s Band and Anguin’s remaining supporters meant temporarily abandoning the office and quarters she’d never properly moved into as they were used for the overflow of nobility.  That delayed any meaningful progress she could make towards re-establishing her office, which was frustrating.  But Alshar had functioned for several years without a Court Wizard, so it could survive a few more weeks, she reasoned.

She disliked the old Court Wizard’s chambers, anyway.  The position had not been an important one in the old Alshari court, and hence it had been given little consideration in the placement of its offices and chambers.  Pentandra hoped to change that, during the transition.  Graciously ceding her official quarters to become a barracks for His Grace’s fiercest supporters was actually a step in that plan.  With her new mandate to work with the burghers’ officers to bring some order and justice to Vorone, she had reason enough to avoid the palace for the moment.

She began working out of Spellmonger’s Hall, in Northside, instead.  She’d stopped there previously, by night, to introduce herself to the caretaker and allow him to confirm her use with Minalan, but she’d been so busy since that she had not spared the time to set up housekeeping.  Some of her baggage was still at the palace, somewhere, she knew – nothing important, but it contributed to her sense of insecurity. 

The quarter of the town where the Wilderlords built their homes-away-from-castle were still well-guarded, despite a great many of the mansions and halls being vacant, the lords who owned them dead and their lands lost.  Some of the fine townhomes had been inhabited by the dispossessed who could prove title to them or bribe their way past Edmarin’s corrupt officials to lay claim to them.

By daylight Pentandra could see the sad estate of most of her neighbors.  The aristocratic survivors living in exile in refuge while the goblins roamed their abandoned homes were just as desperate as their former peasants who lived in camps outside the wall, they were just more fortunate.  Many had depleted what savings they escaped with and sold off most of their possessions to survive.  Despite their grand residences, the displaced nobility had little to sustain themselves in Vorone. After four years, that had left dozens of noble houses near penniless as any villein.

Still, the mansions remained guarded from squatters and criminals by order of the Steward, Baron Edmarin (who saw the value of the real estate was implicit on its protection), and deeds to the finest of the abandoned properties had been sold at dear prices, or rented cheaply to favorites at the palace.  Sire Koucey’s former townhome, which she learned was called Brandmount Hall in the town records, was safely nestled among the other fine houses, and even had a caretaker.  Minalan had installed a crippled warmage in semi-retirement in the cellar room, and he’d managed to keep the place safe and in good repair.

The morning Pentandra collected the new Constable, Sir Vemas, from the palace and brought him there to inspect it was cold but clear, a strong, cold west wind blowing ash and soot into the dark sewer they followed back to Northside.  She’d elected to ride, instead of walk, that morning, and instructed the caretaker to saddle her horse for the short trip to the palace and back.

“Isn’t Magelord Minalan going to take issue with you appropriating his property?” asked Sir Vemas, as he escorted her back through the slushy streets.

“He’d better not – he
owes
me,” she snorted.  “He uses my barge, my estate in Castabriel, and the Order’s hall in Sevendor at
his
convenience.  He can loan me this place for a few months.”

“I see you and the Spellmonger are indeed well-acquainted,” he said, with just enough subtlety in his voice to hint at intimacy. 

“We were involved, back at school,” she said, casually.  “For a brief time - more as professional colleagues than lovers.  But he is an old and dear friend, and just about everyone underestimates the debt we all owe him.”

“So you still bear him affection?”

“We are partners in this madness,” she reflected with a smile.  “And good friends.  It is my job to keep him safe and organized.  It’s his job to make dangerous decisions and wear a funny hat.”

“It sounds like a remarkable relationship,” Sir Vemas smiled.  “My pardon, but I cannot help but wonder how your lord husband views your close relationship.”

“Arborn and Minalan are friends,” Pentandra replied.  “Good friends, who respect each other . . . well, far more than either should, frankly.  Arborn understands my work with Minalan is important, and Minalan has no designs on my virtue, believe me.”

“As I said, a remarkable relationship,” Sir Vemas nodded, as they turned the corner to her street.  “Huin’s hoe!  Is that a
spider web
on your front door?”

Minalan had left a spell that displayed a large green snowflake glowing menacingly on the front door.  Even people who had no idea what the device was knew enough not to molest the home. 

Pentandra rolled her eyes.  “Gaudy!  It’s just a bit of decorative magic.  That’s a snowflake, what they look like when you use magesight and examine them closely.  The Spellmonger’s badge, and emblem of Sevendor.  But that’s Min’s style.  Loud but effective.” 

She summoned her baculus and examined the place with highly augmented magesight for the first time.  She had been far too busy to invest her attention in the place, even though she’d spent a week under its roof, and she was curious.   The internal structure and roofing were intact and in good repair, she quickly saw, and the place seemed relatively free of vermin.  Satisfied, she put the tool back into her ring and allowed Sir Vemas to help her dismount.

“Speaking of gaudy,” the constable murmured, “that seemed a bit . . .
flashy,
didn’t it?”  He looked around at the few folk in the road, mostly women, servants, and older children sweeping their thresholds clear of snow, chopping kindling or fetching water.

“What?  The rod?”  She considered and then shrugged.  “I am a magelord and the Ducal Court Wizard.  This is a dangerous and desperate city.  Its best people know that quickly, to avoid misunderstandings.” 

She mounted the steps and looked back down at the women and servants who were staring.  Most were still unaware that the Court Wizard was living in their neighborhood, and gawked like she was a Tree Folk.  She was tempted to do an even flashier display of her power, the kind that would send them shrieking back behind their doors, but she restrained herself.  She was representing Anguin and the rest of the court.  She had a responsibility – no, a clear mandate – to make the people of Vorone feel safe, not uncertain.

Sir Vemas followed her around dutifully as he inspected the hall for suitability.  The hall itself was in almost acceptable shape now after her furious Yuletide cleaning.  The upper chambers had been barely used, the caretaker (a lame warmage named Surduin) keeping to the kitchen and storerooms on the lowest floor.  Pentandra led Sir Vemas on a tour of the chamber above, where she and Arborn slept, and then the third floor loft chamber. 

It was dusty, of course, but still dry, by the state of the cobwebs.  The only bed in the chamber was a simple wool-stuffed tick that was only comfortable if you were a rustic Wilderlord enjoying the fleshpots of Vorone - or a ranger more used to sleeping in the wild than under a roof.  To Pentandra’s critical eye it looked more suitable to a Remeran flophouse than a noble’s chamber.  Arborn’s men had departed with him, leaving the place empty, but tidy.  That was the Kasari way.

“The food stores in the kitchen were scant, and need to be augmented. - I’m working on putting up proper provision, but with palace livery there just hasn’t been the incentive yet.  The crockery and tableware are adequate, for a rustic hall, but the kitchen is primitive, at best.”  Her recent experience cooking as part of the Kasari rites of marriage gave her a newfound respect for such things. 

“It’s unlikely we will need a formal dining area,” he quipped as he peered through the loft’s gable window. But then his attention was captured by something out of the tiny third-floor window through a crack in the shutters.

“What is it?” Pentandra asked, curious.

“Oh, just a neighbor of yours: ‘Lord Camron’.  A gentleman who owns that handsome hall of southern white brick – that’s a symbol of wealth and status, in Vorone.  Quite an elegant gentleman.  Beautiful wife.  Social, keeps to himself, never starts trouble, never runs short of funds, even in this economy.  One of Northside’s leading nobles.  He’s also the crimelord who controls about a third of the town under the name Master Luthar,” he added casually.  It took a moment for Pentandra to catch up.

“He . . .
what?
  The head of the Rat Crew is my
neighbor?
”

“Oh, you’ll have no trouble from him.  He is above reproach.  He’d no more have violence done in his witness than a dowager aunt would.”

“You don’t know my Aunt Gantala,” Pentandra chuckled.  “But you’re
certain
he’s a crimelord?”

“Oh, without a doubt.  The heads of each of the gangs report directly to him, through agents.  His hands never get blood on them.  But they do get a lot of silver.  From what I can tell, he’s secretly sending tribute back to the Brotherhood in southern Alshar.  About three thousand ounces of silver a season.  That’s a
lot
of silver that goes out of Vorone and never comes back.”

“Then why don’t you arrest him?”

“On what charge?  As I said, he’s above reproach.  A leading noble.  No, ‘Lord Camron’ gives freely to the poor, sends alms to the refugee camps, and is a pious patron of several temples.  He’s developed close relationships with several magistrates and constables in the past.  He’s well known and popular at court, though he holds no official position.”

“I see,” nodded Pentandra.  “And his gangs?”

“A ruthless pack of murderous cutthroats.  Mostly of their thugs are local fellows who were already inclined toward casual violence.  But their leaders and stalwarts are usually southerners, wharf rats from Enultramar, rogues from the slums, or bandits from the back country who have had a few years as brothers themselves before they came north.  They’ve brought a sophistication and organization to the locals that makes it nearly impossible to bear witness to them doing anything in front of a magistrate.”