Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (71 page)

One thing that had become quite clear in the last week: whatever shreds of Anguin’s sexual innocence had once been there were long gone.  The Orphan Duke was getting cocky, by all accounts, since his evenings became so invested in the antics of the “maidens” of the House of Flowers.  While there had been no reports of pregnancy yet, with
that
many young maidens haunting his bedchamber it was only a matter of time.

That’s part of the problem – everything Ishi is doing seems perfectly reasonable and rational, on the face of it, but it’s starting to have dramatic consequences that those fools at court can’t see!  I need your perspective, Min, and whatever leverage you can bring to bear on her.

I’ve got to go to the Chepstan Fair next week,
he told her, after a moment’s thought
, and thanks to Arathanial’s little war, I’m obligated to go.  But I can attend this masque, in honor of my good friend, Duke Anguin.  I’ll risk my own duke’s wrath, for that.  If he’s even paying attention to me,
he added, sounding like a sullen little boy.

You just need to get out in the world for a night or two,
she proposed persuasively. 
Bring Alya, make up a costume, bring a few gifts, be your charming self . . . and get this damned love goddess out of my hair for me so I can
do my godsdamned job!

I will, I will,
Minalan assured her
.  I promise.  I’m not sure how, yet, but I’ll at least study the situation. 

While it wasn’t the resounding endorsement of her efforts and pledge of support she wanted, she also knew getting Minalan involved held dangers of its own. 

He’d been moody and wracked with melancholy lately, and Pentandra had no real idea why.  His lands were secure, his children and wife were safe, and he was doing some truly spectacular things with enchantment, now – things that hadn’t been done since the Magocracy.  He had the unflagging respect of his peers and colleagues and wealth beyond his wildest dreams.

So why did he sound so damned depressed?
  Perhaps he really
did
just need to get out of Sevendor, come to the Wilderlands for a few days, and get his bearings. 

Whatever you can do, Min,
she said, gratefully.
  Now just get this goddess out of my face, and half of my problems will melt away.

Chapter Twenty-Five

A Conspiracy Unmasked

“You,
” Pentandra said, a smile cracking her face, “look like a
proper
young lady of the court, now!”

“I
hate
it!” Alurra complained.  “My skin feels raw, my hair feels naked, and these clothes . . . they
itch
. . .”

She picked at the smart new day gown, in sturdy mustard-yellow cotton.  The shade suited her tanned skin and blonde hair, though not perfectly.  The three other bolts of cloth Pentandra had chosen for Alurra were far more complementary, once they were turned into gowns fitted to the girl. Until then, this was acceptable.

The dress had been made by the palace seamstress for a courtier’s wife years ago, paid for, but never collected -- the poor woman was consumed in the invasion   Though not a perfect fit, it was a lot better than the shapeless shift and bag-like overtunic Alurra had worn since she’d arrived in Vorone.  It actually demonstrated that she had a shape, for instance, under her baggy clothes.  And there was room to grow. Pentandra guessed by Alurra’s frame and age that she would need it, sooner rather than later.

“It won’t itch so much when your proper underthings are delivered,” Pentandra promised as she eyed the dress critically.  “You’ll just have to endure for a few days.  Just . . . try not to
scratch
in front of other people,” she suggested.

Alurra faced her, her eyebrows cocked critically.  “Why not?”

“It’s considered impolite.  As are a few other things I’ve seen you doing,” she added, with a sigh.  “The dresses and the shoes--”

“Oh, Ishi’s saggy titties, the
shoes!”
wailed Alurra, miserably.  Lucky the raven, exiled for the fitting to the top of the unused looking glass, squawked his sympathies with his mistress.  “Why does
anyone
wear shoes if it isn’t snowing out?” Alurra demanded, crossly.

“Because we are
civilized
folk,” Pentandra lectured, firmly, “not wild barbarians or freeholders.  
You
might have been born a Wilderlands peasant, my dear, but that is no excuse for not handling yourself in public with poise and manners, especially in the palace.”

“I just don’t see the bloody
point!
” Alurra fumed, squirming in the gown uncomfortably.  “Is this how noble folk dress
all
the time?”

“That’s how
most
folk dress most of the time,” Pentandra assured her.  “But to return to my earlier point, our social awareness -- how we talk and act around other people -- communicates just as much as our words.  Often much more.  In court that can be
particularly
important.  At court, you should assume first and foremost that everyone you meet is working for their own best interest, and if they can see an advantage in exploiting even perceived flaws, they will.  Letting such folk know our true selves is a vulnerability few can afford.  So we conceal our true selves behind a system of conformity and society, while we each strive to further our true goals.”

“But that means you’re just lying to each other all the time to get what you want,” accused Alurra.

Pentandra frowned.  “Consider the importance of what we do here,” she began.  “This is the center of politics in the Wilderlands.  That might not sound important, but that’s because you do not understand the nature of politics.  At its root, politics is the peaceful allocation of scarce resources.  The Duke acts to ensure that the people, the nobles, and the clergy each have what resources they need to uphold their part of society.  The Duke’s job, as mandated by holy writ, is to ensure that the common folk have peace and order, the clergy has stability and resources, and the nobles have swords, horses, and castles.  

“In Vorone, that is
particularly
difficult, because right now there is a desperate need . . . and few resources to speak of.  So unless we want to see what little society we have devolve into pure warlordism, under which no one really gets what they need, politics becomes keenly important.  And our business here at court becomes all the more vital.”

“So that’s why you get to lie to each other all the time to get what you want,” Alurra said, crossing her arms.  

Pentandra struggled for patience and took a deep breath.  “In the pursuit of order and security,” she continued, beginning to wonder if Alurra would work out here at the palace, after all, “those charged with the task of ensuring them must meet, plan, and allocate what resources they have in common, under the Ducal household.  

“That’s the
court.
 It’s made up of the senior officials, usually appointed by the Duke, who make policy and hire people to execute it.  It’s comprised of the senior clergy, who provide a number of essential services to the people and require the duke’s maintenance, oversight, and guidance.  But also his support.  It's made up of the military, who are charged with defending the people and the clergy.  It’s made up of commercial interests, who see to the transportation and delivery of vital supplies and goods.  It’s made up of a Court Wizard, responsible for overseeing the magi of the realm and regulating their affairs.

“But it's also made up of nobles representing thousands of people to whom they are ultimately answerable.  Each of those nobles, each of those clergymen, each of those warriors are all seeking to gain the most resources they can with as little compromise as possible.  So court frequently becomes a marketplace of power, position, money, and duty . . . but mostly money.  In the process of advocating for your office, it isn’t necessarily the best idea to reveal what resources, power, or money you have control over, lest others seek to use it as leverage in the pursuit of their own interests.  Therefore . . . we all have to wear . . .
masks
. . . to
portray
a particular appearance.  While it’s commonly understood that the appearance is false, we use this polite fiction to protect our positions and further our goals,” she concluded.

“That’s just
stupid!
” Alurra fumed.

“It’s as vital to human interaction as sniffing each others’ butts is to canine society,” proposed Pentandra, searching for a metaphor the girl could understand.  She usually had a dog or two from the palace’s domesticated pack following her around, and in a few short days she had learned the names and habits of every cat in the place . . . while forgetting most of the human names she was introduced to.  

“I . . . I guess I can see that,” the blind girl eventually said with an angry shrug.  “But wouldn’t it be
easier
to just sniff each others’ butts instead of dressing like a bunch of mummers?”

“We dress appropriate to our station and the occasion,” Pentandra continued to lecture as she picked up a silver brush from her table and began brushing her apprentice’s hair.

The palace barber had taken especial care to comb and wash the mop of hay-colored hair before he had skillfully trimmed it . . . but the way Alurra moved her head around uncomfortably showed she was not used to the feel of it yet.  “If we were to go to a festival in a Wilderlands hamlet, then it wouldn’t be appropriate to wear a mere shift and smock, would it?”

“I don’t know!” Alurra said, annoyed.  She cringed every time the brush went through her hair.  “I’ve only been to
one
festival, for
half
a day, and I wore what I
always
wear!”

“Well, you aren’t in a Wilderlands hamlet anymore, you are in a town; more, you are in the capital of the Duchy.  And most importantly, you are in the household of one of the senior members of the court.  Me.  Each of those facts has bearing on your dress, your actions, your demeanor.  You can get away with some indulgence, because of your infirmity,” Pentandra said, finally being able to see Alurra’s pretty eyes behind her hair, “but blindness is no excuse for poor manners and rustic behavior.”

Alurra sighed, her shoulders sagging.  “I
know,
” she said, flatly.  “Antimei warned me that you would ‘transform’ me.  I was hoping it would be into a frog, or a racquiel, or perhaps a bear -- I’ve always wanted to be a bear!  
Not
a ‘proper young lady’!” she said, bitterly.

“Antimei
predicted
this?” Pentandra asked, intrigued.

“Yes,” Alurra said, miserably.  “It’s part of the story.  You teach me how to walk and talk and dress until I am as regal as the archmagi of old,” she said, mockingly, as if quoting her least favorite part.  “My feet will ache, my throat will be sore, and I’m going to make a lot of embarrassing mistakes.  
Still
want to do this?” she asked, pleadingly.

“If it is fated,” Pentandra shrugged, “who am
I
to argue?”

“I
hate
prophecy!” Alurra declared unhappily.  “You’re going to teach me how to
dance
. . . I’m
not
going to be good at it . . .”

“What about magic?” Pentandra asked, suddenly.  “Does your story give you any insight about how I can teach you
magic?
”

“Well, I’ve already learned a
bunch
of stuff,” Alurra boasted.  “I sit in the office and I listen, sometimes.  I pick up things.  I learned about atomi and some basic alchemy,” she said, sagely.  “Positive and negative charges, arcane and electrical forces . . . it made so much sense!  But the only thing Antimei ever told me about you teaching me is that you borrow a stone from the Spellmonger to do it.”

“Borrow . . . a stone . . . from Minalan?  A
witch
stone?”

“No,” Alurra said, dismissively, “some sort of other magical rock.  It’s supposed to help me figure out how to learn about all that . . .
book
stuff,” she said, distastefully.  “Its like a bunch of them all in one . . . stone.  Does
that
make any sense?”