Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (16 page)

“Ah, you
would,
Baron,” Anguin nodded, pleased.  “Thank you for being forthcoming.  Would you further say that another man, in your position, who made such a declaration should be considered trustworthy, due to his willingness to hear accusations against his honor?” he asked, conversationally.

The baron straightened even further.  “I certainly
would
, Sire.  A man who is unafraid to hear such things in the presence of gods and men as witness is
clearly
confident in his administration.  Such a man is trustworthy, in my experience.  If he need not defend his honor, then his honor is likely intact.”

“And
you
would employ such a man?  Give him duties and responsibilities, based on his demeanor?”

“If he does not fear accountability for his past actions, then that indicates a trusty man,” declared the baron.  “Particularly if his lineage and honor support him in that regard.”

“Of course, we wouldn’t want to ignore lineage, or honor,” Anguin agreed, nodding thoughtfully, as he stepped down and addressed the kneeling prisoner.  “Only by investing trust in such institutions can a Duke be assured of
worthy
advisors.”  If Anguin’s subtleties were lost on his wayward vassal, they weren’t lost on Pentandra.  Anguin’s respect for both had been challenged by his captivity after his parent’s death.  He was allowing that emotion to guide his actions, now.  Perhaps not the wisest course of action, she considered, but certainly understandable.

“That has always been wisdom, as I understood it, Your Grace,” nodded the baron, relaxing.  He nodded toward the clergy to the right of the throne.  “A man willing to swear an oath in front of the gods and their hallowed priests is rightly accounted a trustworthy and loyal man.”

“So there is really no need to render such an oath, or put such a terrible burden of decision upon you, based on your answer,” Duke Anguin observed reasonably as he circled the man.  If Edmarin didn’t realize his danger, Pentandra did.  She stifled the urge to say something, but knew that would be improper and unwelcome.  But the anticipation was excruciating.  It was like watching someone ride a horse over a cliff.

“Nay, Sire.  My very willingness to do so would satisfy any
reasonable
man of my veracity and accountability.”

“That is your advice?”

“No better counsel have you heard today, Your Grace,” assured the baron.

Duke Anguin continued his circling until he regarded the portly baron’s face, again.  The contrast between the two men was stark – one in his maturity, in his nightshirt, in fear for his life.  The other young, headstrong, and in the tight-fitting leather armor the Duke favored while traveling. 

“Yet the day began when you first spoke,” noted the Orphan Duke quietly.  “I’ve had no other counsel this day.” He turned and regarded the throne on the dais, dusty with disuse.  “You say your counsel is sound,” he said, as he stared at the throne his father had once occupied.  “My father, the gods give him grace, said that a good duke had to depend upon the wisdom and counsel of his barons.”

“I often heard him say such things myself, Your Grace!” Edmarin agreed, faithfully.

“He said they were the duke’s conscience, a chorus of wisdom and counsel that would help guide the ship of state.”  There was a note of doubt and regret in Anguin’s voice, Pentandra detected, and she wondered what journey the lad was taking, here in the great Stone Hall. 

“He also said that foolish and unwise counsel should be ripped out
ruthlessly
,” he continued, drawing his sword suddenly and turning.  With an adept twist of his shoulder the blade neatly pierced the dirty nightshirt of the baron, who was as shocked as any of the witnesses.  Anguin stabbed the shiny blade around the vicinity of Edmarin’s navel and deep within his gut while the portly noble quivered, his eyes wide in terror and pain.

But Duke Anguin was not done.  “In my opinion, Baron Edmarin, that was very
bad
counsel you just gave me.  My father may have depended upon the advice of his great nobles, but he is dead now.  I am not.”

“Your Grace!”
squeaked the man, shocked at the sight and sensation of bright steel protruding from his bowels.  Blood began to stain the front of the nightshirt.  “Mercy!  I have not been . . . been
tried
, I—”

“Tried?  You have not been accused of any crime,” Anguin said gently but furiously, as he inched the blade further into the man’s quivering body.  “There is no trial, no accusation, here, Baron Edmarin.”  Pentandra watched the disappointment on Father Amus’ face, and the discomfort on the faces of the rest of the clergy, as the young duke impetuously put Edmarin to death.

“By ancient custom and right, an Alshari duke holds the power of life and death over the vassals in homage to him,” Anguin continued to lecture, “and failure of
service
is akin to failure in
war
.  That is treason, from my studies.  I execute you now, in my own name and by my own hand, for the crime of giving me
bad advice
, Baron Edmarin. 
Treasonous
advice.  As such, your lands and property will be confiscated by the coronet, and your heirs turned out.  You, Baron Edmarin, may die with your title.  No other heir of your blood or House Eith shall bear it ever again.” 

With a final, decisive twist the duke withdrew his blade and allowed the gibbering nobleman to try in vain to keep his insides within his skin.  Anguin wiped his traveling sword on the filthy nightshirt as the baron moaned and screamed.  Just as his bladder added to the pool of foul liquid on the paving, Anguin sheathed his sword.

Pentandra stifled the urge to squeak, now.  She was no stranger to violence, but she was no admirer, either, and the duke’s actions had been swift and unexpected. 

“Post a guard over him,” the young duke ordered.  “No one is to render him any aid or assistance until dawn.  If the gods grant him life to see another day, cauterize the wound and put him in a cell,” he announced.

“Leave him here, in the throne room, Sire?” asked Father Amus, a note of disapproval in his voice.

“Here, Father.  In the sight of everyone.  I
will not tolerate
deceit or faithlessness from my court, and I wish all to know it.”

Pentandra suddenly realized why the young duke had taken this particular path, as soon as he’d arrived at the palace.  She was impressed.  She learned more details, later, when she had time to discuss the matter with the others on the Council, in private, but she realized that the act of brutality had been more than the frustrated rage of a new-made duke – it had been a calculated political ploy.

The Baron had been appointed by one of the Kingdom Prime Minister’s aids, when a Steward for Vorone was needed.  He’d selected a friend, a local powerful baron who had often conspired with Castal in the past over skirting the edicts of the Alshari dukes.  As a royal appointee, Anguin would have a difficult time getting rid of the man, once he could hide behind the cloak of his royal office. 

But he was also technically Anguin’s
vassal
, and as such he was under his authority first.  An actual trial and inquest for corruption would be lengthy, involve lawbrothers and witnesses, and plenty of influence from abroad to manipulate the outcome.  This way not only was the problem resolved – legally – but Anguin had removed a dangerous piece from the board before it could be brought to bear on him. 

There would be no question of a transition, now.  The old Steward was dead – or would be before dawn, she could see, as he fell to his knees in a puddle of his own juices.  There was no need for another, with Anguin seated at Vorone. 

“Count Salgo, if you would be good enough to have our men finish securing the palace, I feel the need for at least a little sleep tonight,” Anguin requested.  “Tomorrow is Yule, after all.”

*

*

That first night in the decrepit palace was busy for Pentandra, and she found herself borrowing magical power to stay awake and alert to get through her mission. 

The seizing of power did not stop with the death of Baron Edmarin.  The entire palace had to be secured before she could rest.  Pentandra had duties assigned to her, just as everyone in the Duke’s party had, and hers were specifically magical in nature. 

The restorationists had spent nearly a year at one of the Duke’s estates in northern Gilmora, planning and plotting for this night, and they had left no detail unconsidered.  Agents of the Duke, sent by Father Amus secretly, had infiltrated the town and even the court to provide the party the intelligence they required before they acted. And many of those agents had long-enough familiarity with the details of the palace during happier days to know where the political assets were stationed.

The restorationists’ goal was simple: as close to a bloodless assumption of power as possible.  By seizing the palace quickly and establishing control, and by countering the lackluster garrison with the crack troops of the Orphan’s Band mercenaries hired for the purpose, Duke Anguin and his advisors hoped to prevent any hint of resistance to his rule from forming. 

Pentandra had been in favor of the stratagem as the wisest – not to mention least violent – course of action.  But it also ensured a busy night for her.  As court wizard her duties involved establishing proper wards and magically securing certain areas of the palace.  Among them was the late Baron’s personal treasury, as well as the Ducal treasury.  She used her prepared magemap of the palace to get to her destinations without getting lost in the architectural monstrosity, and took a young nun of Ifnia’s order, Coinsister Saltia, to help. 

She’d gotten to know the woman in the last few weeks of preparation.  She was chubby, under her nun’s habit, and entirely devoted to her vocation as priestess.  She even insisted on rolling dice before acting, as a tribute to Ifnia’s holy randomness.  But tonight the nun was anxious, fearing reprisals or hidden traps around every corner.  Pentandra didn’t have the heart to tell her about the Baron’s lackluster execution, and the profound unlikelihood that there would be a palace uprising against the Duke.  She wanted the priestess alert.

Saltia stood guard while Pentandra summoned her new baculus and cast the spell on the treasury.  A fiendishly complex spellbinding kept anyone less powerful than herself from going in either vault door without her permission.  Saltia tried the vault door herself, and pronounced herself satisfied.

Pentandra was also detailed to secure the prison wing, a long vaulted series of underground chambers below the front of the palace.  There was a strong possibility that the cells within housed political prisoners who would prove loyal to Anguin, as well as anyone who had gained the ire of the Steward. Anguin wanted all of them interviewed, when the time came, and wanted no one secreted away before he could notice them. 

She put the turnkey asleep with one spell and secured the others magically with a less-complicated spellbinding before she hurried to secure the final vault on her list.  Pentandra supposed she could have reasoned with the man, producing orders or someone in clear authority, but the truth was she didn’t have the time for that.  And the records stored within the Office of Lands & Estates was exceedingly important.

The cavernous tomb where the records of land ownership of the various fiefs in Alshar were kept had no intrinsic wealth inside, but it was the only record of who owned what and what taxes they owed the coronet. While she doubted anyone would steal them, a good many people could gain by their sudden and mysterious destruction during a change of regime.  The records were perhaps more valuable to the young Duke than the treasury.  Without those documents his realm truly
would
be broken.

By the time she had finished her rounds and rejoined the other ministers around the throne in the Stone Hall, not even magic was keeping the weariness at bay any more. 

She listened to Bold Asgus’ grinning report to Anguin that the Orphan’s Band mercenaries had secured every part of the palace, from gatehouse to the inner chambers, and secured the garrison.  She stifled a yawn as the big mercenary captain gleefully told how the only time his men had been challenged they subdued the guard so quickly he hadn’t made a sound.  Then it was her turn to speak.

Pentandra dutifully reported her mission successfully concluded, assured the court that no one would lay a hand on coin, prisoner, or deed without her assent, and then begged a few hours of sleep.  Duke Anguin gratefully granted her that, after thanking her for her service. 

That was when Pentandra realized she didn’t have any
place
to sleep, in this strange, chilly old palace.  She ended up wandering out of the great doors and down a passage until she found a storeroom containing old draperies and tapestries waiting to be mended or used for special occasions. 

Worse than a servant’s bindle, she noted, but she had slept in worse places on the trail or in the field.  After taking the Kasari rites, a warm pile of musty tapestries looked terribly inviting.  She thankfully curled up under her cloak on the lumpy rolls and was instantly asleep.  After nine hours on horseback and another five scurrying through the bowels of the palace, she could have slept on broken crockery.