Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (39 page)

“Why not both?” Anguin proposed with a shrug.  “From what I have seen and been shown, the eastern domains are all but deserted.  There is room for realms between the great river and the Pearwoods.  If we peppered the region with magi, and seeded it liberally with peasants, that might season it well enough to withstand any serious assault.  And perhaps provide some revenue, down the river.”

“Magi alone won’t be able to do it, I’m afraid,” Astyral said, shaking his head.  “Such an effort will require a tremendous amount of labor, even with magic.”

“Yet magic can reduce the need,” reminded Pentandra.  “With a score of plowing and reaping wands, for instance, thrice as much land can be farmed by the same number of peasants, with higher yields.  At least according to Olmeg the Green,” she admitted.

“We won’t even get to the spring planting, if we don’t get some help sooner,” Anguin said, quietly.  “The price of seed is untenable.  Father Amus has been exploring some issues within the town.”

That sounded serious, from the young duke.  Pentandra stopped, her tea cup half way to her lip. “What kind of issues, Your Grace?”

“For the last three years the grain merchants from Castal have been savagely manipulating the markets in Vorone,” he sighed.  “There isn’t nearly enough grain being grown as surplus on the local estates to feed the town anymore, and in order to make up for the deficit Edmarin brought in grain merchants from Wilderhall.  At great expense,” he added, “for every sack of wheat that crosses the frontier is subject to a Castali tax.  He allowed them to set prices, as long as they were kept reasonable and the palace was supplied. 

“But that meant that every spring since my parents died, when the peasants were planting and plowing, the prices would rise higher than temple steeples.  Four times what they were at harvest,” he said, frowning.  “They use the scarcity to improve their profits, and charge the same on every sack whether it was grown here or taxed by Castal!”

“What can we do about such things, Your Grace?” Astyral asked, his fingers spread.

“Figure out a way to lower that price,” Duke Anguin said, sourly.  “Two ounces of silver for a bushel of wheat is going to put bread out of reach of many, if we don’t.”

The standard price was seven silver pennies per bushel, Pentandra knew.  Even that was a lot, by her standards.  Commodities were not her specialty, but her cousin Planus invested in them regularly.  He had made a fortune or two just in cotton futures. 

“How much grain would it take to off-set their prices, do you think?” she asked, her eyes glazed over as she calculated.

“From what I understand, Vorone’s market sells about a ton of grain a day, on average,” considered the duke.  “That doubles as peasants buy seed corn in the spring.  If we could just ensure that there was a sufficiency . . .”

“Would thirty or forty tons of wheat do it?” Pentandra asked, finally.

“That would keep them from having control over the price,” agreed the duke.  “But getting it through Castal would be tricky.  My idiot cousin has his men control how much crosses the frontier as a support for his own markets.  Letting thirty or forty tons of grain go by is going to startle them.”

“Bide a moment, Your Grace,” she begged, glancing at Astyral.  Then she contacted her cousin, mind-to-mind.  It was much, much easier to do now that she had her overlarge stone and her baculus to help cast the spell.

Pentandra!
Planus’ mental voice shouted at her enthusiastically. 
How is married life?

As exciting as it sounds,
she dismissed. 
Hey, have you been down to the market lately?

Just this morning,
he admitted. 
Why?

What was the price of wheat, if you don’t mind me asking?  And if you remember?

Well,
her cousin said, after a long and thoughtful pause,
funny you should mention it.  There was a bumper crop of wheat and barley from Moros and Morone, in the north.  They sent it south to sell, but it arrived just as the corn harvest from Sendulus arrived in port, so . . . about six pennies per sack, he decided.  For wheat.  Four pennies for oats.  Three for maize.

A sack held about two bushels, she knew. 
How many could you get me?  By the end of the week?

All you need,
Planus assured.
The market is lousy and prices are dropping. Are you considering changing professions?  Or just taking up baking?

Just expanding mine.  I’ll arrange for transport shortly, but go ahead and acquire about forty or fifty tons. 

Under your name?

Open the account under the Duke of Alshar’s name,
she decided
.  I’ll act as agent, but he’s paying for it. 

Alshar?  That’s a long way to cart grain, Penny,
he cautioned.

We’re magi, we don’t cart grain anymore, remember?
she chided. 
We still have those supply wands from last year.  You just cram the grain into one of them, and I’ll take it out on this side.

We can do the payment the same way,
he decided, approvingly. 
I do loathe carrying around a lot of coin.  Very well.  I shall prepare it.  It should be ready within the week,
he assured her.
  But only for my dearest cousin, in celebration of her nuptials, would I—

Yes, yes, I get it,
Pentandra smiled to herself. 
I owe you.
 

As long as we have an understanding,
Planus agreed. 

“The grain problem is handled,” she announced a moment later, once she had opened her eyes and waited for a polite break in conversation.  “With a little help from Sevendor and my cousin, we should be able to flood the market with cheap corn and keep the merchants from making much profit.  The poor will have a decent chance to eat this spring.  And we’ll be avoiding Tavard’s tax collectors,” she added, explaining the spell.  As the duke had witnessed such magic on the Long March last year, he understood how she proposed to deliver and pay for it.

“That’s amazing,” smiled the young duke.  “And the fact that Castal loses out makes it all the better!”

“What other matters does Your Grace have for us to solve today?” asked Astyral, charmingly. 

“Keeping the riots at bay would be nice,” the duke said, his expression changing.

“I’m working on that, Sire,” Pentandra assured him.  “In fact, tonight should prove decisive.”

*

*

There was a sense of dread and expectation in the air on the street that night.  While Briga’s festival had not been the days of debauchery that Yule had produced, Midwinter was often the first social occasion anyone had since the solstice. 

But with the Orphan’s Band patrols gone from the cold, foggy street, replaced by lightly-armed watchmen, the nightly twilight war between the Rat Crew and the Woodsmen heated up.  The dark, animal headed figures could be seen skulking in shadows, their heavy swords concealed within their dark cloaks.  The Rats, too, had tried to make a showing on the streets at night, posting guards and watchers at the edges of their territories, nervously watching for the mysterious Woodsmen.  Most common folk eschewed the lure of social drinking and gossip in favor of an early night. 

Those who clung to the streets after midnight were rarely there to celebrate the Flame That Burneth Bright; they were far more inclined to invoke Kulin Evershadow, the patron of thieves and footpads.  Or Pram the Blessed, patron of distillers and barmen, worshiped with hangovers and fountains of vomit.  Or even Ishi’s less-expensive caress. 

But regardless of their religion, those who wandered abroad in Vorone were wary.  The days’ riots in the Temple quarter had inspired dread and despair in many of the common folk, as had the departure of the Orphans’ Band.  Even the arrival of the four barons – and a handful of magelords – hadn’t served to calm them.  There was a palpable sense of fear hovering over the town.

Pentandra herself was wary.  After her busy day at court, it was time for her to transform from Court Wizard to crimelord as she coordinated the major effort this evening.  It wasn’t easy – this was perhaps the most elaborate foray the Woodsman had made.  This wasn’t a simple stalk-and-slaughter mission, as the Woodsmen were used to performing on the Rats they caught away from their holes.  This was a kidnapping, and the timing had to be just right.

In a way, the chaos the Rat Crew seeded in the Temple ward and in the refugee camps aided their efforts.  There were few abroad on the streets that night, near the docks where their plan would be executed.  The covered coach was prepared, the guards and watchers were in place, and she’d cast the spells necessary for this part of the operation in advance.  Things should go off without a hitch.

As she finished going over the plan she and Sir Vemas had concocted to put pressure between the various factions of the Crew, she felt the whisper of mental contact as someone attempted to contact her, mind-to-mind.

It wasn’t the best time.  Yet better she settle any issues now, and not when they were in the middle of their mission this evening.

Pentandra!
Came Astyral’s mental “voice”. 
Where are you?  Azar and I want to go investigate the wonders of the Street of Perfume, and wanted a native guide!

Pentandra thought of the dangers lurking on that brightly-colored part of town and considered warning her friend.  But she knew Astyral would just laugh at danger.  He was a deadly warmage, one of the best, and he had both a Gilmoran’s sense of class and style as well as a low and suspicious mind – which meant that he, more than anyone else she could think of, was likely proof against the temptations of that street.

She considered recruiting him instead for her mission, but there was already enough debate about the place of magi in the new court.  Besides, if Astyral got involved, he’d be more inclined to ask questions than just do what needed to be done.  For this operation they didn’t need a warmage, they needed subtlety. 

You go ahead
, she urged
.  I’ve got some court business tonight to attend to. 

Aw, Penny!
complained Astyral. 
We were counting on you for some introductions!  We don’t want to be treated like rubes from the country!

You and Azar
are
rubes from the country
, she quipped. 
You realize that Vorone is the largest town in the Wilderlands?

Yes, and the fourteenth largest in Alshar
, Astyral replied, drolly. 
I’m enjoying this pretense at being a duchy as much as anyone, Pentandra, but . . .

We’ll get to retaking the south,
she promised. 
Besides, I thought you were a Gilmoran?  I thought your folk hated the Alshari?

Not at all!
Astyral said, sounding hurt at the suggestion. 
My family were loyalists to Alshar – mostly.  We only reluctantly accepted the Second Peace of Barrowbell, not that we had much choice.  Despite the economic advantages that accrued to the nobles with the switch in allegiance, don’t think it’s without issues.  There are plenty of old Cotton Lord families which would like to see themselves Alshari, not Castali.

Well, now we’re all in one big happy kingdom, so it really doesn’t matter much, anymore.

Except to the rebels in Enultramar,
he reminded her. 
They think it matters.  Hells, that’s one reason that they’re rebelling.  They felt Anguin’s line was too conciliatory, and they wanted more traditional leadership.  Meaning one of his easily-manipulatable first and second cousins in Falas or Roen.  So when the opportunity came, the southern Alshari figured that losing the Wilderlands, after already losing Gilmora, was a fair price to pay if it also lost them Anguin. 

That doesn’t seem very . . . feudal,
she replied.

Oh, it’s not – don’t forget, the basic feudal system was developed under the Narasi.  Before that, it was households of Sea Lords and Coast Lords who dueled for control of Alshar.  They worked through alliances between great houses, decentralized authority descended from their maritime culture.  That’s what they want to return to, a time when a man’s power established him, not necessarily his birthright.  They’ve seen too many weak Narasi dukes in the last century.

We can still restore him to power,
Pentandra countered. 
Eventually.  Once things are stable here.

My dear, I love you like a sister,
Astyral drawled into her mind,
but when it comes to Alshari politics you have much to learn, Pentandra.  You can’t just push Anguin to the front of the room, point out he’s the rightful heir, and expect to have the court fawn over him.  Traditionally the older families of Alshar prefer to see some proof of worthiness in their monarchs before they invest them with that kind of duty.

Wouldn’t rescuing the Wilderlands from certain demise count?
demanded Pentandra.

Only if Anguin n can transform it into a new fleet,
Astyral reported. 
The southerners don’t have much use for it, otherwise.  Face it, Penny, as smart as the lad is – and I’m impressed with him, don’t mistake me – the Wilderlands is likely to be the only part of Alshar he ever controls as Duke.  Taking the south militarily is laughable, with the resources he has now.  And doing it without a navy would be insane.  Unless you can beat the Sea Lords at sea and the Coast Lords on land, it’s going to be tough to break the alliance that rules Falas now.