Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (65 page)

Well, he took your words as counsel,
she reported dutifully. 
Within a week of arriving he had the palace straightened out.  Two weeks after that he had the town in hand.  There have been a few executions, some exiles, and some imprisonments, and the Iron Band got about a hundred unexpected recruits . . . . but we’re making progress.  We’re working on the countryside now – there are bandits everywhere, mostly refugees turned highwaymen for the lack of better options.  And the refugees are starving, of course. 

Have you ever met a well-fed refugee?

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that – if you’d seen what I have, you wouldn’t jest. 

Thankfully, Minalan changed the subject.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t one she was prepared to discuss, and his inquiry caught her off guard. 
How is married life?

Married life?
  What
married life?
  Pentandra found herself complaining, when given the opportunity.  She realized as the words came tumbling out that she had an abundance of pent-up feeling about it, and virtually no one to whom she could turn for sympathy, advice, or guidance.  If Minalan was foolish enough to ask, her subconscious didn’t see any reason to spare him the result.  And she had a lot of feeling built up inside her, since they’d come to Vorone.

I see Arborn maybe two days in a week, as he’s hunting bandits in the woods most of the time.  Which is fine, of course, because we don’t really need bandits in the woods, but we’ve got bandits actually running large parts of the town and that’s where we need his focus. When he is here he barely speaks, we sit and stare at each other, and he hasn’t . . . it’s been hard, re-adjusting,
she said.  She tried hard to sound confident, but she knew it came across as misery.

It takes time,
Minalan soothed. 
You’ll settle in.

It’s even worse now that we’re living in the palace,
she complained. 
But I didn’t summon you to complain,
she said, redirecting herself admirably. 
This is business.  Of a sort.  I’ve run into someone you know, and she wanted me to give you her regards.

Really?  Who is that?
Minalan asked, innocently.  Pentandra could tell he’d gone on his guard at the question, and the innocence was mere affectation.  That confirmed her worst suspicions.

The goddess of love, sex, and beauty?
she offered, accusingly.
  Ishi?  She’s been
hanging around the palace.
  Hanging around Vorone.  She revealed herself to me, and spoke very highly of her recent dealings with you.

There was a long pause before Minalan answered.

Oh.             

That’s what I said!
Pentandra exploded.
  Min, do you care to explain to me how you’ve been consorting with strange divinities and
not telling me about it? 
Because that bitch has the entire town in an uproar, and I’ve just about had
enough!

Calm down, calm down!
Minalan urged, which did nothing to calm Pentandra down.  She reflected about how telling someone to calm down almost never had the desired effect. 
What’s going on?

Pentandra sketched how her meeting with “Lady Pleasure” had gone, and without confirming too many specifics for him she told him how she was certain of the true identity of the woman.  Minalan didn’t sound surprised when she told him.  That just made her madder.

You realize that we’re supposed to be doing this . . . this . . . whatever we’re doing, we’re supposed to be doing it
together?
  That was our agreement!

I know, I know!
Minalan said, lamely. 
This was . . . unexpected.  And unforeseen.  Hard to drop into casual conversation, not in any way that will get you believed.  Honestly, Pen, if I had said ‘oh, by the way, Ishi dropped by the other day.  We had lunch.  It was fun’ would you have believed me?

When stated like that, she could start to see his perspective.  It was natural to take accounts of divine visitations with skepticism.  But the sudden intrusion of the deity on his life explained some of Minalan’s recent moodiness, she decided. 
No.  Probably not.  I’d think you were just bragging.

Exactly.  Dealing with . . . her is complicated, by definition.  She’s very . . .

Yes, she is,
Pentandra agreed coolly, without the need for elaboration. 
So why does she think possessing an old bag and starting a brothel in the wilderness is some kind of favor to you?  That’s what I can’t understand.

It’s complicated,
Minalan repeated sullenly. 
Just keep an eye on her, okay?  Let me know if she does anything . . . untoward.

Like seducing half of the Alshari court?

Let’s hope that’s all she does.

You are not inspiring much confidence,
Pentandra observed.
Minalan, I know you’re under house arrest, or internal exile, or whatever it is right now, but how can I possibly deal with a goddess running roughshod over this town?

I don’t know, Pen,
he admitted. 
If I do, I’ll think of something.  Have you considered consulting a priest?

This is a little out of their jurisdiction,
Pentandra replied. 
There isn’t even a real temple to Ishi in Vorone, surprisingly.  Just a shrine.  And her activities seem far less concerned with religion than they do commerce. 

Just watch her,
Minalan repeated. 
If things get really out of hand, I’ll see what I can do.

*

*

*

Pentandra spent the rest of the day in a daze, trying to come to grips with her predicament.  She’d expected to have rivals at court – you couldn’t put three women in a room and not have them compete and conspire against each other – but to have one of them also be a reasonably powerful goddess was not something she’d imagined. 

The insidious thing about Lady Pleasures slow and pleasant conquest of the court was that the townsfolk genuinely
felt
a need to celebrate.  Not just the coming of the Orphan Duke to the capital, or even the return of Spring, but there was a desperate need to celebrate just being alive after the last few years. 

The townspeople greeted Lady Pleasure’s participation in the planning and execution of the festival eagerly.  They did not care if she ran a brothel.  The old standards that held such enterprises as ignoble or scandalous had eroded under the neglect of Wilderlands society to the point where having a whoremonger as a civic leader was not an impediment to her leadership.

Despite herself, Pentandra watched the preparations with a kind of anxious interest.  Regardless of her origins or intentions, Lady Pleasure’s staff of prostitutes and servants was adept at organizing and executing the festival.  The many, many obstacles to such an event seemed to melt away with a smile or a whisper when her girls were running errands on her behalf.  One by one they melted away like the last of the snowfall.

Over the next few days more tangible symbols of Lady Pleasure’s performance began to be seen around Vorone.  One by one the homes and halls of the Market ward began hanging banners portraying wildflowers on their walls or over their doors.  The stately residences in the North ward began cleaning and sprucing up for the first time in years, as pairs of maidens sweetly invited them to participate in the festivities.

Pentandra found herself in the middle of an argument at her regular mid-week meeting with the rest of the council over whether or not to attempt a tournament in conjunction with the event . . . and successfully argued that there was not adequate time to promote such a contest beyond the local region.  Anguin and Salgo settled for an archery contest and swordplay competition instead.  That pleased Salgo, as the Wilderlands folk were adept with their great bows and needed the incentive to practice.  That pleased Anguin because he positively
hated
jousting.

Through it all Pentandra had to suppress the urge to scream in the middle of the discussion
You idiots! Can’t you see what she’s doing to you?  Can’t you see what she’s doing to us
all?

The problem was that what she was doing was
working
.  Not since she had come to Vorone had Pentandra seen such an enthusiastic outpouring of civic pride.  People were taking responsibility for the garbage outside of their homes, the muck in their sewers, the herbs and flowers in the quaint planters and window boxes were thriving, and even the weather seemed to cooperate.  The normal spring rainstorms mostly came at night, while the days were sunny and warm.

People were
excited
for the stupid festival.  It was almost as if it had the favor of the gods.

In the middle of it all, Lady Pleasure was frequently seen at the palace overseeing the preparations . . . and they seemed to encompass nearly every office, including her own.  A request from the Duke for magical entertainments on the night of the festival was received by her office, as was a request for advice about dealing with potential petty crime.

“All of this nonsense is lovely, it really is,” grumbled Sister Saltia at luncheon in the great hall, a few days after her meeting with the madame.  “But it all seems so
pointless
, considering the state the Duchy is in.  Thank the gods that tournament idea was killed – that would have lost us coin for certain!”

“I thought Ifnites loved the thought of such contests?” Pentandra pointed out.  The temple was almost universally responsible for overseeing the betting at them, for a percentage.

“We do,” the plump nun agreed, fingering her golden infinity symbol.  “But only if they’re likely to make money.  Enough to justify the work.  This one wouldn’t,” she said, flatly.  “You were right, there isn’t enough time to promote it properly, and without a slate of popular contestants, it’s not going to draw enough wagerers to make it worthwhile.  Maybe next year,” she reflected.

“I’m more concerned that we’re fiddling around with this instead of dealing with the critical problems,” agreed Lady Bertine.  “We took tribute from four large estates this week, but because the quotas were set by Duke Lenguin, and haven’t been changed, we took them in iron ore and not grain,” she said, miserably.  “Now we have a warehouse full of yet more useless rocks and a town full of hungry people.  Have you
seen
what a loaf of bread is going for, Huin forbid?” she asked, scandalized.

“Father Amus assures me that this is a seasonal fluctuation brought on by the need for seed corn,” Sister Saltia said, defensively.  “Once the first crop of the season is in the ground, prices will ease up.  The grain merchants will import more and costs will stabilize.”

“Not bloody likely,” Lady Bertine, who delighted in sharing bad news, snorted.  “I’ve penned at least a half-dozen letters begging Castali merchants to ship grain to deal with the shortage.  The replies haven’t been encouraging.  Duke Tavard has imposed high tariffs on grain leaving his duchy.  And more on iron entering it.”

“Why?” asked Saltia, confused.  Her ecclesiastic training had kept her largely insulated from feudal politics, so Pentandra explained.

“Because Prince Tavard – who is also Duke Tavard of Castal – is a jealous little prick,” she provided.  “I don’t know if he’s heard about Anguin’s restoration –no, of course he heard, it was on the Mirror Array – but he doesn’t want a strong rival anywhere in sight.  If he can use his influence to keep Anguin and Alshar weak and feeble, he will.  That includes keeping grain from flowing into Alshar from Castal, and Alshari iron and timber from flowing south into Castali markets.”

“She’s right,” agreed Bertine, between spoonfuls of soup.  “The local grain merchants are in league with them, too, to keep the prices high.  Our barns and silos are empty and our warehouses are full of ore we can’t sell.  Meanwhile Castali silos are bursting with grain,” she said, miserably, “and Alshari ore commands a high price!  Tavard is starving Alshar and denying us the ability to sell iron to his own profit.”

“Well, the Duke should
do
something!” Saltia said, naively.  Pentandra exchanged a knowing glance with Bertine.  She didn’t like the older woman much, but she did respect her political opinion.

“Sister, he
is
doing something about it,” she revealed.  “He’s instructed the court to investigate the matter and take action.”

“But . . . but . . .
we’re
the court,” Saltia said, the realization of the responsibility just hitting her.  “What
are
we doing about it?”

“Discussing why this Wildflower Festival is a distraction from the impending rise in the price of bread, and how
something needs to be done about it,
” Pentandra replied.  “So if you have any concrete ideas on how to feed the town until the crops come in without going heavily into debt to the grain merchants, I would
dearly
love to hear them.”

“Can’t you just . . . just turn the ore
into
grain, Lady Pentandra?” asked Saltia, biting her lip hesitantly.