Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (38 page)

“What is this?” Bloodfinger spat contemptuously.  “Do you think you can dance around like a bunch of mummers and expect us to turn on each other?  Go drown in pig shit, you—”

That was Andolos’ cue to clobber Bloodfinger in the face with his fist.  To his credit, the criminal took the blow with a minimum of drama, and while his stream of invective was halted, the angry, calculating look in his eye only grew more intense.

“Pay heed,” warned Vemas, harshly, “the Master of the Wild dislikes his messages to go astray. 
One
rat in Vorone will be allowed to live, to depart with the Master’s message. 
One
.  All the others will be slain as easily as a fox slays a vole.  Either
be
that Rat . . . or be gone.  You have until the dark of the next moon to decide.”

“What makes you think that the Crew is going to believe such rubbish?” scoffed the gangster, bravely.  “You have
no idea
how many we are, or where-”

“We know far more than you think,” Sir Vemas cackled, theatrically.  “The Wild is always watching, and every creature is its spy!  Do you think you deal with mere ruffians?  Every piss you take is noted, Rat.  Every time you lay your head, it is seen.  Yes, even within your precious warrens where you think you are safe,
we know what occurs
.  Do you think the Master is incapable of infiltrating a mere gang of thugs such as yours?  Do you think every ear you whisper into is loyal?  How many of your own men stand here now, under a mask, mocking you in their thoughts?”

That had been an essential part of Vemas’ (actually, Pentandra’s) plan: make Ransung Bloodfinger as paranoid as possible.  He was the most temperamental gang leader, the one most prone to risky moves and unexpected fits of violence.  The idea that his own ostensibly loyal men were now staring at him, mockingly, under the masks infuriated him.

In actuality, none of the Woodsmen were Rats, of course.  Nor were any of the other crew captains captive, only Bloodfinger.  But by implanting in his mind the
idea
that his fellows in the Crew were actively conspiring against him in secret, it was hoped that they could convince the violent ruffian to take action on his own. 

Pentandra ensured his cooperation , quietly using her baculus under her long, musty-smelling robe to manipulate the man’s emotional responses.  It was somewhat sophisticated Blue Magic – the dangerous discipline known as Psychomantics – but Pentandra was not unskilled in its use, for a dabbler.  There were plenty of occasions in the pursuit of Sex Magic that Psychomancy came in handy. 

But she had underestimated the additional leverage that her strange new artifact gave her.  As Sir Vemas continued to threaten Bloodfinger, her intended desire to enflame the crimelord’s paranoia manifested in a far more complex iteration of the spell than she’d anticipated.  Her baculus eagerly invaded the man’s mind and dictated his emotional responses to the idea of conspiracies against him with breathtaking efficiency. 

Now, Pentandra realized, no matter how far-fetched an idea Bloodfinger heard, if it could be construed as an attack against him, it would be.  When the hints that Opilio the Knife and Harl the Huntsman were sending spies and assassins into the docks made their way to his ears, Pentandra realized, he would seize on the idea and respond viciously . . . and recklessly.

“
One
Rat,” Vemas whispered to the man hoarsely.  “
One
survivor.”  When he nodded to Carastan, the big guardsman slugged the Rat across the back of the neck with a sandbag, sending him back into unconsciousness.  Two other guardsmen began wrapping him up in a threadbare tapestry, in preparation for transporting him back to the docks. 

Just how they planned to leave the unconscious crimelord was up to their judgment, but Pentandra had a sudden idea.  The Woodsmen had littered the little room with various bits of cut greenery to confuse Bloodfinger and add credence to the idea that they were a rustic, woods-loving people.  She selected a pinecone about the size of her palm and handed it to the two men who would return Bloodfinger.

“Here,” she urged.  “When you put him back, try to do something interesting to him with this,” she proposed, handing the cone to one of the men.  He looked at her blankly for a moment through the holes in his mask, but then Pentandra heard the grin in his voice as he agreed.

“Now, since we’re all dressed up,” Sir Vemas announced, “let’s not let the effort go to waste!”

The struggle against the Rats had become a nightly affair, by Briga’s Day.  The Woodsmen were careful, never attacking one of the Rats until they were alone and outnumbered.  As the days grew in length and the snows melted the animal-headed horrors who stalked the Crew in the night left behind them a trail of conquered foes.  A strongman here, with his throat slit in a public privy.  A sneak thief there, stabbed in the back as he relieved himself against the back of a building.  Another was found under a bridge, his head thirty feet away.  Every murder was deliberate and designed to enflame suspicion.  When Opilio’s men started going everywhere in pairs, the Woodsmen changed their tactics.

Pentandra scryed into Opilio’s dark office and learned that he planned to raid a shop owned by Harl the Huntsman, one of Opilio’s most fierce rivals in the organization, whom he suspected was behind the Woodsmen.  Sir Vemas counted that as a fortunate enough opportunity to strike. 

Since their first combats Opilio’s remaining men had been forced to be more bold in their approach to their thuggery . . . but apparently felt inspired by their mysterious foes.  They had taken to donning masks of their own when they wished to escape identification, for example beating a rival crew into submission: those of giant black rats. 

The masks were crude, compared to the court masks the Woodsmen wore, but they did serve to guard their identities.  When four masked Rats pillaged a clandestine game of dice regularly sponsored by one of Harl’s men, they left three of their erstwhile mates from Harl’s Crew behind, bleeding to death, in retribution for the perceived war. 

But the Woodsmen’s rumors had done their work.  As the rat-masked ruffians were walking back to the Market ward, they themselves were ambushed by the Woodsmen, who slew three of the rogues in speedy fashion before the fourth ran off.  Doffing their masks and moving about their business quickly made the appearance and disappearance of the Woodsmen a mysterious and treacherous rumor, nothing more.  After losing a half a score of his men, Opilio was half-crazed with suspicion. 

That’s when it was felt best to strike again.               

“Poor, poor rat,” Vemas clucked as he counted out the last of the stolen silver.  “Ten thugs gone, over a thousand silver vanished, and more than half of his ‘clients’ have paid him off.”

“That has to be the most maddening thing,” chuckled Carastan.  “To have that much money on the books and yet so little in the coffers . . . and every time he gets more, it evaporates.”

“How long until he loses his temper, I wonder?” Mastril speculated.  “He’s got to be going mad with paranoia by now.”

“Oh, he is, he is,” Fen the Quick agreed.  “I shadowed him around that barber’s shop all day, and he was screaming and shouting like he’d been stung.  His men all have that glazed, frightened look in their eye.”

“But what can he do, against a foe who won’t stand and fight?” asked Pentandra. 

They found out the next day.  One of the early beneficiaries of the Woodsmen’s largesse, a cobbler on Hide Street, was discovered in a vacant lot, frozen in the cold of night, his hands, feet, and face smashed with his own hammer. 

There was nothing that the little man could have told Opilio and the Crew about the Woodsmen. They had been meticulous about hiding their identities and their operations from the people they were helping. 

But the idea that the rats had gnawed the innocent man to death and destroyed his family to discover that intelligence angered Pentandra and recommitted the guards to their course of action.

Chapter Twelve

The Politics Of Alshar

“Well, that went better than I expected,” the Orphan Duke said philosophically in his chambers that afternoon, after the court session regarding the barons swearing fealty was over.  He invited (which was a polite way to say “ordered”) a select few advisors to attend him.  Pentandra and Astyral had been among them.

The selection was a clear message to the mundane lords, some of whom were beginning to grow suspicious of the role that magi played in the new court.  From Pentandra’s perspective, the message Anguin was sending to them by her inclusion was simple: m
agic was here to stay in the Wilderlands.
 

That was an important point for Anguin to make to his more established vassals.  Despite the important role they played in the restoration, there was plenty of resentment about their (her) influence in the Duke’s ear. 

But Anguin was no fool, by cultivating the relationships.  The mundane barons of the south were just not as vital to the future of the realm as the magi who held the north against the gurvani.  Pentandra felt gratified that the Duke recognized that.

She was less excited about the attention he had focused on her office and her profession. 

“How so, Sire?” asked Astyral, gracefully pouring wine for the three of them. He had arrived in the night with a generous party from Tudry.  “Were you expecting the barons to revolt on the spot?  That would have been awkward,” he admitted.

“It has happened before,” Anguin pointed out.  “Nine barons in Enultramar threw their chains at the feet of my ancestor, Durguin.  The Nine Viscounts Revolt lasted twenty years.”

“Your Grace is a scholar,” Astyral said, approvingly.

“I was raised for three years in a monetary of Huin,” he replied.  “I know the history of my own house.”

“Different circumstances entirely,” Pentandra dismissed, shaking her head.  She wasn’t as familiar with Alshari politics as Remeran, but the incident was well-known.  “These barons need you more than you need any one of them individually.”

“That realization is probably the only thing that kept them from rebelling,” Anguin said, as he flopped into his canopied chair.  “But I did anticipate more objection to your appointment to Lord Steward of Tudry.  And Azar as Baron of Megelin.”

“On what basis could they object?” snorted Pentandra.  “They’ve been doing the jobs for years, anyway.  They might as well get the titles and recognition for it.”

“Exactly,” agreed Anguin.  “Still, the barons are always eager to cling to their prerogatives, and some of them – Dasion in particular – are not terribly pleased by the ascendency of the magi in Alshar.”

“If the good baron is that concerned,” Astyral drawled, “then I invite him to come north and replace me at my post.  Indeed, I would entertain a direct trade of responsibilities and prerogatives.  I think he would reconsider his position
quite
rapidly.”

“No doubt,” agreed Anguin with a humorless smile.  “He is unlikely to take you up on that offer.  But he and the other barons did raise some interesting questions.  I thought I might take counsel with you both on them.”

“Such as, Sire?” asked Pentandra.

“Well, I have been repeatedly cautioned against becoming involved with the Arcane Orders, because wizards are notoriously demanding, outrageous, and untrustworthy.  Yet I have been restored to the throne a month or more, and you have
yet
to demand even one outrageous thing of me, or convince me to entertain any evil plots.”  He looked from one mage to the other.  “What kind of wizards
are
you?”

“The
prudent
sort, Your Grace,” Pentandra laughed.  “The only things I might have asked the coronet for are the ones you’ve granted today: raising the magi who have been protecting the realm to their proper stations. 
And
to refurbish my quarters,” she added, casually.

That was such a common request by now that it did not merit a comment.  Duke Anguin looked around at his magical vassals, none of whom had hesitated to take the oath of fealty.  “Yet here I am in need of your service, my friends.  I was not bluffing, when I told the barons that I would be depending more heavily on the magi in the north.  Already the greatest centers of power are under your control. 

“But I need
more
,” he insisted.  “I need magelords and warmagi who are willing to stand and fight, and defend the land.  More, I need them smart enough to administer them without courting ruin.  And I need them loyal enough so that I can depend upon their obedience in emergencies and their compliance with my rule in peace times.”

“There are several magi I can think of who fit that bill, Your Grace,” Astyral affirmed.  “Starting with Magelord Terleman, recently released from Ducal service.  If you wanted a leader who could spearhead a resettlement, you could do worse than Terleman.  If you can retain him.”

“I cannot speak for his abilities in war, save to recall his reputation, but he is a powerful mage,” agreed Pentandra.  “Yet I would also ask Your Grace to consider non-warmagi.  Master Thinradel, for instance, is a mage of proven temperament and administrative abilities.”