Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (75 page)

“He’s . . . a
tribesman!
” whispered the courtier.

“Indeed, he is,” conceded Pentandra.  “The Kasari are organized in tribal-like bands.”

“And a
savage!
” Countess Shirlin continued, nearly shrieking.

“
Hardly,”
Pentandra said, gently, wondering just how quickly she could kill the woman with magic.  Then how slowly.  “He’s literate, educated, and
very
intelligent,” Pentandra countered, allowing the disdain to be heard in her voice as she lectured the spy from Castal.  “He’s also a
senior officer
in this court,” she reminded the newcomer, “and entitled to the respect due his rank.  So what
can
I do for you, my lady?” she finished, a tad impatiently.

“Oh, I . . . I was just
introducing
myself,” Shirlin said, finally marshalling herself as she came to terms with Pentandra’s supposed scandal.  “To the ladies of the court,” she added, trying to regain control.  “I
know
it must be a terrible burden to keep things running without a duchess to keep order,” she pointed out.

“Actually, we’ve gotten along
quite
well,” Pentandra said.  “The duchy had a perfectly good one for years, but . . .” she said.  If Countess Shirlin was at all socially aware, she had at least heard the popular rumors that it was Grendine, not the Brotherhood of the Rat, who had slain the late Duchess of Alshar.  “We’ll manage to survive without a new one.”

“Well, for a few months, perhaps . . . but without good, solid
feminine
leadership, Lady Pentandra think you will find that the court becomes wracked by scandal all too soon,” she said, looking around suspiciously.  “We can’t have
that
, now, can we?  Such lurid scandals are a distraction!”

“We’re less concerned with sex scandals and far more concerned with
corruption,
Excellency,” Pentandra offered.  “Considering how poorly Edmarin managed Alshar – he was a
friend
of Her Majesty, wasn’t he?  Too bad – but with the people of the Wilderlands starving and without work, they have been far less concerned with who is doing what to whom in the palace as they are where their next meal will come from.”

“Well, of course, under these . . .
difficult
circumstances one should expect the common people to ignore impropriety,” Countess Shirlin mused, ignoring Pentandra’s point.  “But we can’t allow people to talk about the goings-on at the palace as if it were some mummer’s play!”

“Why
can’t
we?” challenged Pentandra.

“Uh . . .
what?
” Countess Shirlin asked, confused.

“Why
can’t
we?  Let people talk about the palace goings-on, I mean.  What harm does it do?”

“Why, why, it undermines the respect that the people have for the nobility!” she burst, her jowls nearly shaking she was so upset at the thought of mere commoner sneering at her social class.  “If they think that the nobles go around boffing like rabbits—”

“Which, from all observations, they
do,
” reminded Pentandra, causing Countess Shirlin to blush.

“—then they will not invest the palace with the deference which it is due!” she finished, breathlessly.  “They will think that the nobility is no better than, than . . .”

“The burghers?”

“Exactly!”
gasped Countess Shirlin.  “You have grasped it
exactly!”

“No, actually, from my observations the burghers seem far,
far
more invested in the fidelity of their marriages than the nobility in Vorone,” Pentandra informed her, calmly.  “The common people could actually care less what happens in the palace, as long as everything else in their lives is done properly.”

“But what will they
think?”
demanded Countess Shirlin, clearly aggrieved by the idea of mere scullery maids and stableboys gossiping about their betters.

“But why do you
care?
” countered Pentandra.  “Honestly, Excellency, this isn’t Castabriel – this isn’t even Wilderhall.  This is
Vorone
, and if she was a horse we’d likely cut her throat and leave her on the roadside.  But she’s
not
.  She’s the only capital we’ve got at the moment, and its people don’t give a
tinker’s piss
about what – or
who
– Duke Anguin does for amusement.”

“That seems a terribly regressive perspective from someone like
you
, my lady,” Countess Shirlin sniffed, critically.

“Someone like
me?
” Pentandra asked, surprised.  She was on her guard for the inevitable social attack, if she was not willing to immediately support Countess Shirlin’s attempt to build consensus - this was likely it.

“Someone from a distinguished and ancient house such as yours,” the woman clarified, with an attempt at diplomacy.  “One where the rules of propriety are traditionally observed.  I’m
certain
your ancestors would be . . .
upset
by your attitude.  But perhaps it has been your more
recent
acquaintanceships that have colored your perspectives on what is proper and what is not,” she added with the slightest sneer.  

The thinly-veiled reference to Arborn and his barbaric heritage did more than irritate Pentandra – she nearly summoned Everkeen and punished the woman arcanely.  But she understood politics well enough to know that burning the Queen’s clandestine representative to a cinder over a mild insult was likely to get her gossiped about in the wrong quarters.  

“Well, Excellency, while I’ll just have to muddle along with my damaged perspective, I think it’s important that you make the acquaintance of the palace ladies,” she said, in a friendly manner.  “Viscountess Threanas holds a weekly gathering, which is in two days’ time.  I’ll ensure you get an invitation,” she added.  

“
You’l
l ensure that
I
will get an invitation?” asked Countess Shirlin, amused and irritated at the same time at the thought that Pentandra had more influence with such things than she.

“It really isn’t a problem,” Pentandra said.  “In fact, I believe another new face will be there: Dowager Baroness Amandice.  She’s a local noblewoman who has been appointed by Duke Anguin to coordinate the Spring Wildflower Festival.  
Delightful
woman,” Pentandra assured.  “I’m sure the two of you will get along like
sisters!
”

*

*

*

Later that day Arborn contacted her by Mirror.  Not the big Mirror array she’d spent weeks setting up and tuning, in a small shop across the street from the palace, but the private one she kept stored in her baculus.

Pentandra had almost forgotten the impressive gift Minalan had given her at her wedding reception – not just her baculus and a new case for her witchstone.  He’d made her a small but powerful spell using a Sympathy Stone that allowed two people to communicate across long distances, with a couple of bowls of water or the like to act as the mechanism.  What was said over one half of the stone would be relayed instantly to the other.  

Arborn rarely used the device unless he was going to be unexpectedly delayed and needed to inform his wife.  It wasn’t that he was afraid of magic, as some suspect the Kasari all were, but that he preferred to limit his use to when absolutely necessary.

This time the need was pressing.  On his way back from discussing things with the wild tribes, he and his men had been overtaken by . . .
something.

“I knew not what it was, at first,” he told her over the spell.  His voice was distant and tinny, as if he was at the bottom of a rain barrel, but she could hear him clearly.  “It lead two squadrons of gurvani cavalry, but it was human in form.”

“Human . . . in
form?
 But not in . . . ?”

“You would understand if you saw it,” Arborn decided.  “He was their master, there was no doubt.  But he did not . . . act
human
.  Little things.  Like his eyes glowing, and his skin flaking off.  But it was a human body, human voice.  Just no human heartbeat. Or human mind.”

“How could you tell
that?
”

“When I stabbed him in the chest he didn’t fall down,” Arborn said over the device, dryly.  “That was my
first
hint.”

“That’s pretty decisive,” she agreed, crossing her arms uncomfortably.  

“It was undead,” he pronounced.  “Only not like the normal undead I’ve seen.  It had intelligence, wit, and moved with incredible alacrity.  There’s more,” Arborn added through the tiny enchantment.  “More I thought you needed to know.  While we dueled, and my men had at his companions, we spoke.”

“That seems awfully friendly with a bad guy,” Pentandra pointed out.

“There was some cursing involved, I promise,” Arborn grinned, despite himself.  But then it faded.  “As we fought he taunted me, in particular.  He wanted me to know that the Kasari had failed, and that Korbal the Demon God of the Mindens was loose on the world and plotting his revenge.  I had to point out to him that the Kasari were never in charge of his security.”

“Clearly, or he wouldn’t be out,” Pentandra praised.  The Kasari might be considered barbarians by the rest of the duchy, but when they committed to a course of action they did it well.

“Exactly,” Arborn nodded.  “We do things
right.
 Or at least
better.
 In any case, he told me that Korbal was free and gathering his forces.  He’s working directly with the goblins and Sheruel, too, from what that thing said.  And there’s even worse news.  He’s specifically hunting and capturing
Alka Alon.
 For purposes unknown.  But if I was a wagering man, I’d consider the fact that this . . .
thing
in a human body was clearly
not
human.  In fact, it spoke like an Alkan more than a man.”

“If the gurvani are kidnapping Alka Alon, I’m guessing it’s for sacrifice, not for any particular attachment to them.”

“I figured something as sinister,” nodded her husband in the tiny piece of thaumaturgical glass.  “But in case I do not make it back, I wanted
somebody
to know.”

That was one of the first times Arborn had ever voiced doubts over his own survival.  From the casual way he did it, Pentandra was concerned.

“What do you
mean? Of course
you’ll make it back!” she chided.  “You’re just a few dozen leagues away.”

“That depends on whether or not we encounter another one of . . .
those
.  Or anything else vicious.  The Timber Road is littered with bones, and there are bandits and worse traveling its length.  Bandits and goblins are easy to contend with, but that undead . . . he was
powerful
.  He was fast.  He was strong.  It took everything we had to slay him,” he confessed, guiltily.

“Arborn!” Pentandra said, concerned.  “Are you all right?”

“Unwounded,” he assured.  “But tired.  I just thought you should know this.  From what he said, there will be many more like him, soon.  Indeed, they may already be within the bounds of Vorone,” he predicted.

“
That
doesn’t bode well,” she agreed, pursing her lips.  “I will inform Minalan, at least.  He should know.  And he’ll tell the Alka Alon, if they don’t already know.  We might be responsible for Sheruel, in some weird way, but Korbal is an
Alkan
problem.”

“Not if he makes himself
our
problem,” her husband countered.  “I’m serious, Penny, that thing went toe-to-toe with
five Kasari raptors
and nearly won.  If Jerics hadn’t bound his legs when he did we’d all be dead.  But perhaps not permanently.  This thing roused his companions, gurvan and hound, after we’d slain them once already,” he reported, darkly.

“I
really
hate undead,” Pentandra said with a shudder.  

She tried not to get excited by the fact that that was the very first time Arborn had ever called her “Penny” as opposed to “Pentandra”.  She didn’t know why she thought that a milestone, but it was.  “By all accounts, historical and legendary, Korbal was a master necromancer.”

“And now he’s ensconced in one of the most powerful Alkan fortresses ever built, guarded by dragons, able to unleash his experiments on us at will,” sighed her husband.  “And reach out
four hundred leagues
from his base deep into the Alshari Wilderlands.”

As grim as the news was, this was the most substantive conversation Pentandra had gotten from her husband in
weeks
, even when he was home.  After she signed off, wishing him a safe –
safer
– journey, she immediately contacted Minalan, mind-to-mind, to tell him.