Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (27 page)

“You have many stout supporters here, Your Grace,” Pentandra reassured him. 

“Three hundred, maybe five hundred swords I can depend upon in a town of thousands.”

“And at least one wizard’s rod,” Pentandra said, producing her baculus dramatically.  “I’ll take care of your Rat problem, Your Grace.  And I will recruit your warmagi.  And I will help keep the magi in support of you.”

“Thank you, Lady Pentandra,” the young man said, formally, though Pentandra could see how close he was to being overcome by the weight of his position.  “Perhaps if I can manage to hold on to power until spring, we can make this work.”

*

*

That night Arborn finally returned from his duties on the road.  He wore a troubled expression as Pentandra helped his snowy cloak off of his great shoulders.

“What’s wrong, my love?” she asked, concerned, before she even kissed him.

“We were ranging north of town today, assessing security beyond the camps.  We found gurvani signs.  More than just spies.”

“Goblins?” Pentandra asked, alarmed.  “This close to Vorone?”

“In the winter the gurvani can range much further,” he explained, “as many of the streams and rivers are frozen over.  But this was no raiding band,” he continued, as he took off his swordbelt and hung it on a peg.  “This was a scout patrol.  Fell hounds and archers who watched by night.  Not enough to do more than harass a patrol.  But it is an ill sign,” he said, grimly.  “The closest gurvani settlements are more than a hundred miles from here.”

“Doesn’t that violate the treaty?”

“Somehow I doubt the details were shared with every illiterate band,” snorted Arborn.  “It is not a good sign.  The refugees in those camps have no defenses against even a light raid, save the force of their numbers.”

“What will be done?”

“I’ve had a squadron of my men ride in pursuit of them, to ensure they do not commit any mischief on their way back to their lands.  And I informed Count Salgo.”   Technically Arborn’s Kasari were Ducal Woodwards, under the Ducal Master of Wood, but in practice they functioned as Arborn’s private force.  “I would have preferred it was a simple raid.  It implies that Vorone is being watched, and there is only one reason to watch a place so closely during the depths of winter.”

“Preparation for attack?”

“Of one sort or another,” agreed Arborn grimly as he took a seat and took out a pipe.  Pentandra helpfully lit it with magic before he could pull a taper from the fire.  He nodded in thanks.  “They might have been observing, or they might have been meeting someone.  There were human tracks in the area, too,” he added.  “Townsman’s shoes, not boots or bare feet.  But the signs were too scattered to determine when they were made, exactly.”

Pentandra didn’t know what she found more disturbing, the idea gurvani developing confederates in Vorone, or Arborn admitting that he couldn’t tell exactly what had happened from the tracks. 

“It does make sense for the gurvani to infiltrate the town, if they want to destroy it eventually,” she reasoned.  “And they can’t very well do that themselves.”

“We must discover the identities of these turncloaks and put an end to their spying,” her husband declared, more forcefully than she expected.  “How can any human being deal with such foul folk?”

“Not everyone is as noble in ideal as the Kasari,” Pentandra pointed out.  “In fact, almost no one is.  Most people will do what they feel they have to in order to survive.  Some people are so opportunistic that they will even betray their own kin in order to survive.  Like the Soulless,” she reminded him.  The captured, branded slaves of Sheruel who had sold their souls to him in order to survive, slaying five or more of their fellow human beings on the sacrificial stone in tribute to the dark lord, were legendary in the Wilderlands.  Their horrific choice had grown legendary in the Wilderlands.

“How can they live with themselves?” he asked, disgusted.

“They are
alive
,” Pentandra said, simply.  “They fear death so much that they will do whatever they can to cling to life.  They were forced into that by circumstance, and made the choice under duress. 

“What is more disturbing are those humans among us who see the gurvani as merely another side in a war, one that may be traded and bargained with.  Where there is silver available, the folk who will struggle to get it care not what they have to do.  There are a lot of desperate people in Vorone.  There are likely many who would be willing to betray their race for even the illusion of hope.”

“Then we must find a way to give them real hope,” Arborn sighed, heavily.  “We cannot protect the people if some of them are willing to betray us all.”  Pentandra felt gratified by the admission.  Too often she became frustrated with her husband’s laconic nature.  They had already enjoyed evenings of awkward silence as she silently screamed at him to talk to her, but he had kept his thoughts close. 

“That’s what we’re working on,” promised Pentandra, sliding into Arborn’s lap.  The move took the big man by surprise, but in moments his arm encircled her waist.  She relaxed into his shoulder and stared into the fire. 

It was a small gesture, but she felt the pressure and stress of her day draining away as if by a spell.  She looked around.  The chamber was still far from what she would have chosen, the bed barely passable, and the décor featured far more cows than was seemly, but at least the place was cozy.  It was the first place that she had felt at home – at home with her husband. 

She extinguished the magelights.  She really didn’t need them for what she did next.

Chapter Eight

A Nest Of Rats

The streets of the Market ward were piled with the excessive snow that the gods had sent before midwinter.  Only the trickling open sewer that ran through the center of the cobbled streets was clear of snow, turning instead into a vile stream of partially frozen brownish-black slush that wise travelers avoided.  A footpath was worn along each side of the sewer that was only marginally better footing than the center.

Most of the shops were still in a holiday mode through inertia alone, doing their best to allure last-minute patrons (including the sudden influx of mercenaries) with special prices or bargains.  

Fresh-cut boughs of cedar, holly and spruce were tied to every doorway with red ribbons, and holiday banners were frequent, if threadbare.  But the entire display looked forced to Pentandra’s critical eye.  The faces on the merchants were sour, not merry, when they thought no one was looking.  The snow and the cold had soured the mood of the townsfolk, who were used to far milder winters in Vorone.

That was part of the reason that, despite their best commercial efforts, there was the dearth of potential customers walking up and down the High Street.  A few monks were dutifully trudging back and forth dispensing blessings and begging, and a few older women were hurrying along on errands, but the only real paying customers in sight seemed to be a few clumps of off-duty Orphans and new-come lords of Anguin’s party.  With the guard and the garrison both confined to quarters pending review, and the weather overhead threatening to bring down yet more snow, most of the pious retreated to their homes directly after services on Temple Day.

“What a depressing place,” she sighed.  

“Do you jest, my lady?” asked Sir Vemas, who was escorting her through the Market ward on a simple reconnaissance mission.  “This is the
happiest
place in Vorone.  Of course, each of these merchants is particularly eager for our coin, because last summer the Crew began insisting on payments for their protection.  Protection
from
the Crew, of course.”

“That’s awful!” Pentandra said, wrinkling her brow.  There was something . . .
odd
about the leftover Yule decorations, she felt, but she couldn’t quite place why.

“Those who didn’t pay were beaten.  The fees were modest, at first, but once the High Street got used to paying them, they couldn’t object when they were suddenly rose.  Now the thugs enjoy nearly unlimited ‘credit’ here.  They take what they want from whom they want, almost never pay, and if the merchants object their protection fees get raised.”

“What happens when they refuse to pay?” Pentandra asked, stepping around something she really didn’t want to identify . . . or touch the hem of her skirts.

“
That,
” Sir Vemas said, nodding toward a burned-out spot between a cobbler’s shop and a tinsmith.  The space was an ashen ruin, the stout timbers that remained of the structure scorched and blackened under the snow.  The buildings on either side and behind it were undamaged, though they were all connected.  “It’s really masterful work, an arson like that,” he said, admiringly, with black humor.  “It happened at night.  Killed the entire family, after the tanner refused to pay.  Burned nearly everything of value within, but stopped short of the walls.”

“Magic?” she asked, surprised.

“I thought so too, when we investigated,” Vemas admitted.  “Master Astyral was in town at the time, and we imposed upon him to take a look.  No magic.  Just a
masterful
use of accelerants.  A bundle dropped down the chimney,” he explained.  “The outer covering was saturated with toxic oils that produced a noxious gas that killed them all, when it smoldered.  Then when it burned through a paraffin-soaked layer it ignited a nasty alchemical substance that burned hot, then exploded across the room to spray everything in sight with flaming oil.  A very quick fire, and hot . . . but it burned out quickly.  Within the fireplace, in a fold of inflammable cloth, was the corpse of one very well-cooked rat.”

“It sounds like magic to me – alchemy,” reminded Pentandra.

“The Brotherhood have employed alchemists since they were a band of pirates,” assured Vemas.  “Aye, and magi, too.  Some of their crews specialize in such things.  They have traditional recipes for them, part of their institutional arsenal.  It indicates a more sophisticated presence – and a far harsher response – than the criminals of past times.”

“So how do we fight against that?” Pentandra asked.  She had her own ideas, but she wanted to hear what the young constable had to offer on the subject.

“In many ways, my lady.  My father dealt with crime in this town for many years.  He used to explain how such gangs operate, as a point of vocational information.  You cannot simply post guards at every crossroads and expect crime to dissipate.  Gangs are highly adaptable and quickly withdraw, regroup, and reform their organization around whatever institutional obstacles you put in their path.  In my sire’s day the gangs were local fellows, pickpockets, gamblers, moneylenders and whoremongers of the worst sort . . . but they respected certain rules.  Something like
this
never would have happened,” he said, gesturing at the blackened ruin of the tanner’s shop.

“So, how do we fight them?” she repeated, enjoying the handsome young man’s dramatic presentation.

“We fight them by first identifying them and then eliminating them, root and branch,” proposed Sir Vemas, boldly.  “If you want to choke a nest of Rats to death, you cut off their food supply.  In this case, their food supply is coin from their illicit businesses.”

“Can you not arrest the representatives who show up to demand the fees?”

“We could fill the prisons and gibbets with them, and there would always be more.  And they would change their procedures quickly to avoid such traps.  Policing is only part of the solution.  Institutional edict is another, but one must be careful with that,” he said, with professional reflection.  “Often when the regime imposes a new edict, it only creates new opportunities for them to profit.”

“How do you propose to approach the problem, then?” she asked, for the third time.  Some men did enjoy the sound of their own voice, she reflected.  In this case it was endearing, not annoying.  After living with stoic Arborn, she enjoyed the conversation.

“The one thing a criminal organization is prey to is
competition
,” the constable said, with a calculating look in his eye.  “They will expend
tremendous
resources to fight over even marginal operations as a matter of territory and social position within the organization.  The Crew began here five or six years ago in a very small way.  Four years ago, around the time of the assassination of the duchess, they were one of five gangs active in the city.  Two years ago they went to war over the Market Ward with the two largest competitors until they destroyed them and cowed the other three out of the way, or absorbed them entirely.  Now they control most territories worth having in town.

“But,” he continued, dramatically throwing back his mantle, “what if they were attacked not by guardsmen and lawbrothers in front of magistrates, but a
new
underworld gang?” proposed Vemas, mischievously.  “What if a new force suddenly attacked them at their weakest points, without warning, and without regard to the ‘rules’ they’ve imposed on the other remaining gangs?”

“I would imagine they would lash out in confusion and mistrust,” Pentandra nodded, approvingly.  “But wouldn’t that be dangerous?”

“That depends entirely on the way the operation is managed,” conceded Sir Vemas.  “If it is executed thoughtfully and with good intelligence on the foe, then the dangers can be mitigated.  One must merely understand their weaknesses and know how best to ruthlessly exploit them.”