Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (83 page)

“Magic,” Pentandra shrugged.  “It only lasts for a day or so, and it makes you feel like you have mud on your face after a few hours, but it can get you through a rough day with a pretty face.  You are dismissed,” she informed the maid.  “And you are hereby condemned to enjoy this evening’s entertainment.  Let’s get the boys and go, Alya.  I’ll get the costumes on the way.  We don’t want to be
too
fashionably late.”

It had been a major coup for her to secure the Spellmonger’s attendance to the masque.  Minalan was hugely popular in most circles in Alshar, with notable exceptions.  Hailed as the savior of Tudry (though he’d threatened to burn it down), the hero of the Battle of the Lantern, and the mastermind behind the Battle of Timberwatch, which had blunted the first wave of the invasion, there were few left in the Wilderlands who didn’t know who the Spellmonger was or what he’d done in defense of the region.

More, his visible and enthusiastic support for Duke Anguin was a key to the security of the realm.  While most were unaware that this support extended to loan guarantees to the Temple of Ifnia to keep the government running, enough of the right sort of people did to bolster confidence in the regime.  Having Minalan and his wife here, now, was a tangible demonstration of that support.  He was doing a huge favor for her by merely showing up.

Now it was time to return the favor – and her friend looked like he needed one.  

Minalan’s face looked unnaturally tired and drawn under his smiles and grins, and he seemed as preoccupied as Alya.  Some of the spark had gone out of him, somehow, and his eyes seemed more wary than merry.  The kind of eyes that really needed to be sleeping, but were too focused on obligation to make the sacrifice.

She opened a connection to him, mind-to-mind.

You look like crap, Min
, she told him.

He looked down at his spotless doublet.  
Hey! I just got this outfit!

She rolled her eyes, though he couldn’t see the expression.
 Your clothes look fine,
she agreed, patiently,
but your face looks like you’ve been . . . worried? Anxious? Afraid? Tired?

Well, which one?
he demanded, irritated.  

Pentandra snorted.  As if it made a difference.

I was just offering suggestions, and hoping that you’d supply the appropriate emotion,
she explained.  The very fact he’d reacted that way told her that something was, indeed, amiss.
 What’s going on, Min?

It’s complicated.

It’s always complicated,
she objected.
 You want to see complicated, you should see my marriage.

I am,
he said, nodding silently toward her husband’s back as the descended the stairs.
 It looks reasonably happy.  As long as Arborn doesn’t speak,
he added, wryly.

That’s the problem,
she confessed.
 I can’t get him to speak.  

You were the one who wanted the strong, silent type,
Minalan pointed out.  That had been one of the reasons she’d claimed she could not ever marry him herself, because he was too short and couldn’t shut up.  It had been a joke at the time, but considering who she’d fallen in love with and married, she had to reluctantly admit that he had a point.  But that did not mean she could spare him a counter-accusation.  

And you were the one who wanted the wholesome farm girl,
she observed.  That seemed like an opportune moment to bring up the results of her cursory inspection.  A man should know if his wife is enchanted.  Or at least enchanting.   
And speaking of your lady wife, don’t be alarmed, but . . . there’s a spell on her.

It’s the dress,
Minalan dismissed, glancing toward Alya.  
It’s heavily enchanted.

It’s
not
the dress, Min,
she countered
.
 He could be
so
dim, sometimes.  When would he learn to trust her judgment?
 I noticed something when we were talking.  

Then it’s the pregnancy,
he offered, hesitantly.  

It’ not the pregnancy, either,
she said, a little frustrated with his denial.  Magic didn’t lie.  Minalan
of all people
should know that.
  I did a simple thaumaturgical essay, and while I can’t tell you who or why, there is a shroud of magic around your wife.  A spell.   And not one of yours.

What do you mean?
 Trygg’s twat, why were all men so dim?

I mean that someone has been interfering with Alya,
Pentandra enunciated in his mind with growing impatience.

Minalan halted, just for a moment, at the news.  Pentandra used Everkeen to gently urge him to resume.  They couldn’t be late, not for this.   

Interfere, how?
he demanded.  There was panic in his manner.

I don’t know, yet,
she admitted, worriedly.  
And that’s using the baculus.  All I could tell was that it was a psychomantic spell.  Subtle.  But extremely strong.

Someone is casting spells on Alya?

That seems to be the case,
she agreed.
 
But that begged a serious question, particularly in light of the fact that Minalan had not even noticed.  It smacked of treachery.  
Who might do such a thing?

I’ll look into it,
Minalan offered, his tone guarded.  It was not the reaction Pentandra was expecting after informing him his wife might be enchanted.  
It could be nothing.

It’s not nothing, Min.  It’s Psychomancy!
 Was he
really
that dim?  Or that much in denial?  Or was there something else going on?

I’ll look into it,
he repeated as they arrived at the Stone Hall, where the ball was just commencing.  His assurance did little to pacify Pentandra’s misgivings about Alya.  But then she wondered what
her
response might be, if someone told her that Arborn was under a spell.  

She watched Minalan take a deep breath when he saw the mass of courtiers gathered already, masks and costumes donned for the occasion.
 

What kind of chaos are we walking into, tonight?
he asked.

That, at least, she could answer.  

A simple court, appointment of a few positions, then a reception, with dancing afterwards.  But the people you need to beware of are mostly congregating around the front table, to the far right.  You recall Count Marcadine and his wife?  The Prime Minister, Count Angrial, of course, and Count Salgo, the Warlord you picked out yourself.  That plump little nun, there, that’s Sister Saltia, and she’s the representative of Ifnia’s temple.  She controls access to the coin.  Then there’s Viscountess Threanas, who controls the flow of coin and keeps the accounts.  Then . . .

Pentandra continued a rapid-fire explanation of all of the major players in court, their allegiances and the status of their political factions, and the like.  

There was a dearth of the small contingent of Sealords who had come to support the rightful Duke, but that was understandable, after the aborted uprising a week before.  Few Sealords wanted to attract the ire of the indignant Wilderlords, who viewed the entire affair as short-sighted and poorly conceived.

There were plenty of local rural aristocracy at the ball.  The Spring Wildflower Festival was a popular shopping event – not as commercial as an actual fair, perhaps, but several noble houses used the trip as an excuse to procure supplies for the spring planting season after a long winter.  If they hurried they could return to their estates after the festival and arrive in time for plowing.  More than a score of landed knights and lords from beyond a two-day ride had made the journey, Pentandra knew, all wanting to get a look at this new Duke of theirs.  

Anguin (actually, Angrial) made a point of hosting them as if they were barons.  It was good for aristocratic morale, and it gave them a taste of the life they imagined for themselves back on their humble little manors.  They danced in the palace hall and drank the Duke’s wine and feasted like kings.  

They seem pretty enthusiastic about the masque
, Minalan noted.

Some of these country knights haven’t been away from their estates in years and were thrilled to receive the invitation.  They’re the easy ones to impress.  Most of them live just above the level of their peasants, so any hall with more than three chambers is a mansion.  But the town’s petty nobility and the burghers are much harder to impress,
she explained
.  

They usually are,
Minalan agreed.

They’ve seen dukes and duchesses, festivals and masques before.  They’re still getting used to not having to pay for access to the court, as they did under Edmarin.  Some of them are pissed because Anguin has made regulations that have impacted their businesses.  This next round of appointments should remove the last of Edmarin’s cronies from office and replace them with more accountable parties.  While that’s great for the duchy, the new regulators are going to pinch the profits of those who are used to bribery to get their wares to market.  Ah, there’s our lad!
she added, as the herald entered the hall ahead of the Duke.

Our lad?
Minalan asked.

Oh, that’s just what we call him around court,
she explained.  
Anguin doesn’t seem stuffy enough to be a duke yet.  He’s more like that eager kid in the village you want to encourage, but who occasionally gets overconfident and irritating.  

Oh, like I was,
he quipped.

“Are you two speaking mind-to-mind?” Arborn whispered in her ear.

“Yes,” she whispered back.  “Why?”

“Because it’s
rude
, when you’re with other people,” her husband reproved.

That made Pentandra’s nostrils flare.  “This is
business
, Arborn,” she said, sternly.  “Magi business.  Some things should
not
be spoken of aloud.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Alya suggested to Arborn.  “Half the time I am speaking with Minalan, I don’t know if he’s actually listening to me or to someone else.”

“
Mae Sgowtiaid yn gwrtais,”
her husband muttered.

“I am not
being
discourteous!” Pentandra objected.  “Do I get upset if you make birdcalls in conversation?” she asked, reminding him of an episode from their courtship.

“That was different,” he said, stiffly.  “I had to signal my men!”

“And I have to
brief my boss
,” she hissed, insistently.  “Discussing Order business in public can be dangerous.  Speaking mind-to-mind reduces the number of eavesdroppers dramatically,” she pointed out, dryly.

Arborn didn’t respond, but it was clear he did not approve of the behavior.  Pentandra shrugged it off.  There were plenty of things about his work she didn’t like.  

The herald called the court to order, and everyone stood quietly and respectfully as young Duke Anguin, wearing a cunningly-made and utterly realistic fox mask (complete with a miniature silver coronet perched jauntily between its tiny ears) and a deep blue doublet, also appeared to be sporting a ridiculously large fox’s tail on his belt that he stroked and used almost as a scepter.  

He wisely doffed his mask after the processional, bowed to the court, and welcomed everyone to enjoy the masque after a short piece of ceremonial business.

Anguin announced six appointments that the court had been anticipating for over a month.  Vital offices of state: inspectors, magistrates, and civil administrators charged with keeping the duchy beyond the walls of Vorone functioning.  

The Duke held control of the city, but until these men and women were in place and working, the idea of “the duchy” was a polite fiction.  Drawn largely from clerical orders, often considered less corruptible than secular appointees, these representatives of the Duke’s power were as important (if not more important) than the number of lances he could field.

Then there was the matter of the Baron of Midlands.  Possessed of one of the few fiefs remaining in Alshar that could be properly considered Riverlands, the baron had enjoyed the relative protection and safety of his distance from Vorone and the invasion. 

As his Midlands fief was also strategically placed along the long, lonely road through the edge of the Land of Scars that led to the great protective fortress that was the only way to the south, now in the hands of the rebels, his fealty was considered vital by both Sealords wishing to restore Anguin’s rule in Enultramar, and by Wilderlords wishing to keep avenging rebel armies at bay.  Any force moving either north or south would need his support, and his castle, if they were to come through Alshar.

While some might have used this political leverage for their own gain, it was clear to Pentandra that the baron did not relish his unique position.  Indeed, he had been sending letters to the Duke for weeks, now, pretending some excuse or another for why he had yet to take his oath.  

The Prime Minister’s responses had grown increasingly terse, until a personal order from Anguin forced the issue.  The baron was here, however reluctantly, and if he wanted to return to his idyllic domains he would have to do so as a loyal, sworn vassal of Anguin’s.

The ceremony went quickly and without particular note, a diplomatic response to what might have been considered a personal slight.  The look on Angrial’s face as the baron completed the oath and received back the tokens of his office was one of relief.  The Duchy could not afford even the appearance of acrimony among its remaining peers.  Calling undue attention to the baron’s tardiness was not politically wise.

Pentandra had to admit to herself, Anguin looked quite dashing as he administered the oath.  While the court had been disturbed by the scandalous amount of time the young man now spent with the Maidens, he had not been
completely
wasting his hours.  Under that mask he was well-groomed, his hair neatly trimmed, and his costume was impeccably brushed.  He looked every inch the vital young monarch the Wilderlords needed to look up to.  

And she had to admit, there was a certain self-confidence that his time with the misnamed Maidens had afforded him.  Where he had been hesitant and cautious in his authority when he arrived at the palace, he now surveyed the hall and his court like a proper lord of his people.

Unfortunately, Pentandra could already see the price Anguin was paying for his wisdom.  It came with a growing awareness of the great responsibility he now bore.  And a certain arrogance.  While he was eager to test the limits of his power and authority, he was also appropriately scared of failure, and aware of the tenuous nature of his nascent state.  

That kind of worry never went away, she knew.  She had endured it in the early days of organizing the Arcane Orders, and still felt a twinge of it when she dealt with some piece of Order business.

And, she realized, it was the same sort of responsibility she now felt toward her husband.  His failures and successes were now part of
hers
, and there was a heavy burden in that realization.  She looked over at her husband and looked past the ridiculous mask.  

Yes, he’s mine, now.  For good or ill, he’s my responsibility.

It was a harder thing for her to grasp than she could have expected, partially because of Arborn’s brilliant competence in so many endeavors.  Had he been a normal man, that burden would have somehow been lighter . . . and her attraction to him diminished, she also realized.   There was an exciting danger to being the wife of such a man.  The risk of social estrangement was high, if things did not fare well between them.  But worse, the idea of ever being parted from Arborn made her physically ill.  

Nor did he demand much from her, as a wife.  He brought tremendous understanding to their unique situation, not to mention a willingness to depart from social norms for the sake of pragmatism.  The idea that he could not cook his own breakfast or sew a rent in his stockings was laughable.  The idea that she could not contend with matters of household accounts or discuss matters of grave import was likewise laughable.  But there remained a feeling of responsibility that, she feared, would forever leave her in doubt.  

Suddenly she wondered how he was faring in his own position at court, whether he needed her help, whether he was happy.  He so rarely spoke of such things.  Not to her, anyway.  Now she felt like a crappy wife for not asking him of her own accord.  The fact that she both dreaded and craved the answer to that last question was confusing . . . but then, tonight everything seemed a bit confusing.

What the hells is in this wine?

She watched blankly as Anguin graciously thanked the town watch for assisting in putting down the latest riots north of town.  She’d heard about that this morning.  

This time the riots had started over a distribution of free bread from a group of abbeys in town that had purchased some of the windfall of cheap grain for the purpose.  It was more bread than most of the poor bastards had seen in a year.  Things were going well until a few of the camp’s thugs tried to take over distribution from the unarmed monks, and a fight broke out.  The fight quickly escalated to a riot.  

The good news was that three of the nine people killed were identified as part of the Crew, albeit low-level members.  Their heads were now decorating the palace gate.

After a few more considered recognitions, particularly of the hard-working palace clerks and certain civic-minded townsfolk who had been vocal supporters of the new regime, he adjourned the business portion of the court by leaping boldly from the throne, replacing his fox mask and then calling for wine.  

The minstrels took that as a cue to begin playing, and shortly much of the crowd thinned in the center and thickened along the walls as dancers took their places.

Everyone donned their masks at that signal.  Pentandra had hers in a silken pouch, a visage made to look like a falcon that she’d found in the market.  The red-gold feathers perfectly complemented her gown.  For Arborn she had found a handsome brown falcon, with an accent gem (augmented to glow by magic) between its colorfully-painted eyes to emphasize them.  

She was pleased that Minalan and Alya had made the effort to bring delightfully detailed masks of some feline – Castali mountain lions, Minalan insisted.  The ears and cheeks were made of rabbit fur, but the craftsman had worked it closely until it actually resembled a ferocious cat.  

Of course the disproportionately long whiskers gave both masks a comical aspect that kept them from being
too
severe.  Even more adorably, they both had stuffed cat tails attached to the back of their belts and tufts of fur peeking out from sleeves and collar.  It had to itch, but Alya didn’t seem to mind and Minalan was trying to be a good sport about the ridiculous costume.

“Time to go be the Spellmonger,” Pentandra whispered to him, and pushed him toward a crowd of officials.  

Minalan stumbled a bit but kept going.  He looked rough.  More than she’d let on.  There was
something
weighing on him, she guessed, something he wouldn’t discuss.  

Something that likely involved Baroness Isily, shadowmage and former assassin, Pentandra guessed.  The rumors of her recent pregnancy also were rife with the idea that Master Dunselen was not, in fact, the father of the child who would inherit his barony, one day.