Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (74 page)

Within a few hours he returned a report that confirmed that Countess Shirlin was, indeed, one of Queen Grendine’s trusted advisors.  Indeed, she was one of the principals responsible for her son’s union with the Remeran merchant houses through the auspices of one of their daughters.  

Countess Shirlin’s reputation for dynastic match-making amongst the high nobility was profound, Pentandra learned, and her history at the Castali and Royal courts demonstrated a woman with an interest - some said obsession - in how each of the Great Houses of the Five Duchies paired up for dynastic reasons.  That made her a valuable resource for Grendine’s court  . . . and an incurable busybody for everyone else.

By midnight, Pentandra had some additional information about her, largely because Astyral gossiped with everyone and Minalan’s court wizard, Dranus, was
very
politically aware.  Their intelligence on the woman was not thorough, but it did prove revealing.

Shirlin was the second daughter of a Remeran great house, House Porone, when she married into power at a young age.  But her high station did not shield her from tragedy in her youth.  Countess Shirlen had married young and beautiful, and like so many women of her generation she’d been left a widow after a jousting accident.  Her second husband, an elderly man of a military bent, passed away not six months after taking her to wed.  

Despite her title (and perhaps because of her personality) she’d never remarried a third time.  Instead she had worked her way into the inner recesses of Rard’s court and eventually found herself the catspaw of the queen.

Left a widow by first a baron and then a count, the unlucky Shirlin had spent most of her dowry and most of her inheritance by the time her second husband died.  She was shopping around for a third husband of similar power and wealth - a difficult proposition at her age - when Queen Grendine intervened and brought her to court to handle important little tasks for her.  Like finding her son, Tavard, the heir to the throne, a perfect bride and mother.  That task now successfully concluded, and the goal of finding her daughter Princess Rardine a husband becoming more difficult, the Queen had sent the old busybody to harass her nephew for a while.

That was concerning to Pentandra and the other members of the inner court.  While there was no direct evidence Shirlin herself was an assassin, she was certainly a spy.  She certainly had other spies in her large retinue.  And she certainly brought at least a few who might be handy with a dagger in an unsuspecting back.  

Pentandra could see the queen’s strategy plainly, of course.  Grendine expressed grave reservations about Anguin’s rise to power in the past, in her recent letter.  She’d even warned him about the inspection tour her vicious daughter would be giving him if he didn’t run back to Castal like a good little boy.  

From Grendine’s perspective, without adequate supervision there was no telling what mischief the lad would bring on the duchies through his inexperience in governance.  She could hardly
insist
on oversight of his military on that basis, thanks to Count Salgo, or his foreign policy, thanks to Count Angrial . . . so Grendine had attacked the lad in the one area in which he was weakest:
his marital future.

By tradition it was a boy’s
mother
who helped with selecting a suitable bride, of course.  Especially among the upper nobility, where marriages were far more about rights and duties and land and property than they were about children or hearts.  But as Anguin’s mother was dead, it fell to his older female relatives to fill that void.  Grendine was simply trying to
help
her nephew by providing an
experienced
counselor on dynastic marriages.  

Which coincidentally provided Grendine with an eye and ear, and (when necessary) a voice at Anguin’s court.

The stratagem fooled no one, Anguin least of all.  He accepted the countess’ credentials grudgingly, and admitted her to his court as a matter of courtesy.  But the next time she spoke with him one-on-one, the Duke was still fuming about the temerity of his aunt when Pentandra met with him afterward.

“Can she not be content to rule the
rest
of the kingdom, and leave me and my little patch of woods in peace?” he complained at the special meeting of senior officers called by His Grace that evening. There seemed no better reason to call the meeting than to complain about Countess Shirlin, which seemed a shallow purpose . . . but then most of the ministers were all too aware of Queen Grendine’s subtle way of exerting her influence.  Pentandra was gratified that each of the lad’s senior advisors took the threat as seriously as she.

“Grendine will not be satisfied until you are as much her puppet as Tavard is,” remarked Salgo,  “From what my friends at the royal court say, she was extremely angry that you chose to leave her hospitality in the first place.  She’s been overheard calling you
‘that doltish boy’
and
‘the idiot in Alshar’
,” the Warlord added, helpfully.  Anguin winced, but he expected no less from his father’s sister.

“Who even said I wanted to
get
married?” demanded the Duke, crossly.  He’d been enjoying a regular stream of young female companions from both the court and the quarters of Lady Pleasure’s brothel.  The idea that he’d have to give up those young lovelies so soon after making their acquaintance did not appeal to the virile young man.  “I’m young, yet!  The
last
thing I need is a
wife!
”

“It does seem premature to consider the dynastic issues before we have successfully established security,” murmured Angrial, his mouth sucking on his pipestem as he contemplated the development.  “Yet her concern is not misplaced, merely . . .
premature.
 Nor realistically in her power to compel, if you are not happy about it, Your Grace,” reminded the Prime Minister.  

“I’m
not!”
the Orphan Duke agreed, emphatically.  “Not at
all!
 My friends, Angrial is correct, we
must
see to it that she does not interfere in our plans.”  Whether he was referring to Countess Shirlin or Queen Grendine was uncertain, but his opposition to both was clear.  He did
not
want to accede to their plans.  Particularly plans that might see him wed before he was ready, apparently.  

“I think we can manage an adequate watch on her,” agreed the Prime Minister, thoughtfully.  “And I do not think we need to fear her schemes.  In fact, we may well be able to turn this to our eventual advantage.  I recall the woman from court at Wilderhall.  She’s as subtle as a mace.”

“This is nothing less than Grendine’s attempt to control Anguin from afar, now that he is out of her immediate influence,” Father Amus observed, angrily.  “We
cannot
let her get away with that!”

“We
won’t
,” soothed Pentandra.  “But his capacity to wed and strike an alliance against the royal house is clearly a threat to the queen.  Until he stands before a priestess, we can delay this process and use it to our political advantage as long as possible.  As far as Countess Shirlin, I’ll keep an eye on her.  One reason that Grendine sent a woman is that without a sitting duchess right now, that’s a weak spot in court.”

“Do all courts get clogged up with dowagers like this?” Anguin wondered aloud.  “First Lady Plea—Baroness Amandice, and now this . . .
woman
.”

“It’s fairly common,” shrugged Angrial, smoking his pipe contemplatively.  “Some even use the occasion to force the duke to find them new husbands.”

“And now she wants me to force me to be a new husband!” Anguin said, disgusted.  

“You just leave her to
me
, Your Grace,” Pentandra promised.  “The ladies of the court and I will keep her in line.”

After the brief meeting, Pentandra headed over to the palace office of the Constable, which made her own operations look positively expansive by comparison.  The two-room office was smaller than her reception area, and half of the second room was occupied by an iron cage.  Sir Vemas was there with another guardsman, whom he dismissed as soon as he saw Pentandra.

“So, what happened with Master Luthar?” she asked from the doorway without preamble.

“He is currently in the dungeon, awaiting his legal advocate,” Sir Vemas reported, pleased.

“But . . . he
wasn’t
one of the conspirators named by the rebels,” Pentandra pointed out.

“You caught that, did you?” Sir Vemas grimaced.  “No, not
technically
.  Technically, he had nothing to do with the aborted uprising at all.”

“Then why was he charged?” she demanded.

“Convenience, my lady,” Sir Vemas sighed.  “We couldn’t find anything to stick to Luthar,
legally.
 He’s too good, his people too disciplined.  Even the spy missions your apprentice has been helping me with have been frustrating, because the man never speaks of his guilt, even in private.  And he frequently uses codes and misdirection.  He’s sneaky,” summarized the constable.

“An important consideration in a crime lord,” Pentandra agreed.  “But if he wasn’t
named
as a conspirator how can we legally—”

“Under the Laws of Luin . . . we
can’t,
” admitted Sir Vemas.  “But the enterprise was a ploy.  Either he will keep his mouth shut and risk execution based on the testimony of some unnamed prisoner, or he allows himself to be questioned in court under a truthtell.  And in cases of treason, as I mentioned, there is
no
restriction about what kinds of questions we could ask him.  And he would be compelled to answer . . .
truthfully.
 That includes the names of his superiors in the south, the names of his confederates here, where his treasures are hidden and who he has turned to his influence within the palace,” Sir Vemas relayed, each item ticked off a fingertip.

“Only he’s
not
guilty!”

“He’s
plenty
guilty,” Sir Vemas countered.  “Just not of
this.
 So we’ll use this as a feint to get him to spill the kettle on what he knows, even though it incriminates him.  Which is
perfectly
legal . . . under the Laws of Kulin.”

There was that name again.  By invoking the God of Thieves and Tricksters, Sir Vemas was reminding her that they acted not merely as instruments of justice in the court, but as agents of its preservation.  The Laws of Kulin justified all manner of deceit and treachery in the name of state security, and framing an ostensibly innocent man for
one
crime to get him to inform about
another
was well within the limits of that mandate.  

But it didn’t make Pentandra feel very well about the matter.  Not at all.

*

*

*

Her first opportunity to meet one-on-one with the Dowager Countess Shirlin came the very next day, when the Countess made the rounds of the senior staff offices to introduce herself.

Pentandra sat through her dull introduction dutifully, but without a hint of interest.  Countess Shirlin was just too disciplined and too skilled to let slip anything that could help the Duke or incriminate the Queen.  As far as anyone knew, she was merely there to advise the Duke on his
marital
prospects.

She stopped by Pentandra’s office mid-morning on a courtesy call, as Pentandra was approving the fourteen names of apprentices aspiring to take their master’s examinations this summer.  The dowager swept into the office in her attractive new gown, a purse full of opinions, and an arrogant, insulting attitude that Pentandra disliked at once, breezed past Pentandra’s protesting secretary, and showed herself into Pentandra’s office.

“Ah, Lady Mage!  Lady Pentandra anna Benurvial, if I’m not mistaken?” she said, when Alurra reluctantly led her to a chair in Pentandra’s office.

“Actually, I am Lady Pentandra anna
Kasari
, if you want to be technical,” Pentandra replied, bowing to the senior lady.  “I was married last autumn.  But I’m still settling on a name,” she added, guardedly.  The confession was a blow to Countess Shirlin.

“Married?
 And
I
didn’t hear of it?” the woman asked, shocked.  “My dear, you are one of the most influential magi in the
kingdom,
and . . .
no one
heard of your wedding?” she asked, scandalized.

“It was a small affair, in Kasar,” Pentandra demurred.  “Very quaint.  Quite romantic.  So what can I do for you today, Excellency?”

But Countess Shirlin would not let the subject go.  As she sat huffed in the visitor’s chair, she seemed to want to accuse Pentandra of a crime.  Luckily for her, social embarrassment was akin to crime in her mind.   “
You
. . . married . . . a
Kasari?
” she asked, her eyes glazed in disbelief.

“Why yes,” Pentandra purred, enjoying the old bat’s discomfort.  It was much akin to the reaction she expected her mother would have, if she even
knew
about the Kasari.  “My husband is Captain Arborn, the Ducal Master of Wood.  He is a captain of the Kasari Rangers,” she explained.