by M. C. Planck
“I don’t need more security. I just need you.”
She smiled. “Sweetly worded, but there are limits to what I can do. Yet there are limits to what the College can do, too. If we add agents in the capital that perforce means removing them from the provinces. And I would rather not be caught by surprise in either field.”
An idea began to form in his mind, half-shaped and misty. “Could you do more with more rank?”
“Always,” she said with a saucy smirk. “But we cannot pretend that rises to the bar of necessity you have established for promotion.”
The idea condensed, opaque.
“And yet it is my right to decide.”
“It is,” she said cautiously.
The silver vial hung heavy around his neck these days, although it was entirely psychological. Tael had no weight. He pulled it out from under his tunic and screwed it open. Inside were the winnings that Cannan’s sword had harvested, a solid lump that expanded to the size of a pomegranate when he took it all out. In this case, he poured out a smaller portion of precise quantity. It formed a tiny sphere in his hand, shining bright purple where the torchlight caught it.
Cannan, ever-present, glanced at him instinctively and then scanned the room on high alert. Lalania, the only other person in the room, managed to look both hungry and flirtatious at once.
“Is this enough?” he asked, unnecessarily.
“It is,” she agreed again. “It is cruel to make me argue against my own promotion, yet foolish to proceed. To raise me to Jongleur can only muddy the waters. Uma is Friea’s undisputed heir; you would throw the College as well as the kingdom into confusion with your intent.”
“On the contrary. You have argued for your case.” He handed her the lump before he could change his mind. Once the tael left his hand, he knew he had done the right thing. Whatever came next, Lalania had earned it.
She paused, her hand halfway to her mouth. “Tongues already wag. How shall they wave when I receive gifts from you? I cannot dress any more demurely without being mistaken for a widow. And I cannot keep this secret for very long. It will grant me a new rank of magic, which I will eventually use.”
“Use it right away,” he told her. “Leave your agents in the courts of the country lords. And leave the gossip to me.”
He watched her consume the purple ball. So did Cannan, the spectacle drawing his eyes away from watching for danger. It was a simple act fraught with the significance of life and death. In a single stroke, he had doubled the vitality of the woman and tripled her power. By his rough calculations, she was now a fourth-story figure: he could toss her out of a window on the fourth floor and her tael would be sufficient to let her walk way without a scratch. Cannan, although only third rank, was even more durable thanks to his profession; Christopher was somewhere around the fifteenth or sixteenth floor.
Once the tael was safely gone beyond recovery, Lalania frowned. “No good will come of this,” she warned.
“No,” he said, “I suppose it won’t.”
The idea taking shape in his mind formed a grinning leer. Good wasn’t the intent.
A week later he added fuel to the fire. He called his pet witch Fae and her coterie of apprentices to court. The woman had always been a sharp-featured beauty; now, with her cherubic two-year-old daughter in tow, she was a veritable Madonna. Her apprentices had mastered the art of fashion and no longer dressed like a peasant’s idea of a seductress. Instead, they dressed like actual seductresses. All of whom pitched at him for all they were worth even while they curtsied modestly in his presence.
“I’ve decided to promote you for your service to the realm.” The witches refined his sulfur. He had promoted them before, advancing them along the apprentice track. Today he handed each of them enough tael to reach the first true rank of wizardry.
The look on their faces was more powerful than all of Lalania’s art. Adoration beamed out, replaced by rapture when he nodded and they gulped down the tiny purple pellets.
“You are free of my tutelage,” Fae told them, hiding her resentment reasonably well. “Sooner than any apprentice ever dared hope. And yet not without merit. Our lord’s wisdom seals your rise.”
“Not entirely,” Christopher said. “I would prefer you keep an eye on them for the time being. To that end, I have a promotion for you as well.” He handed Fae a substantially larger ball of tael.
She was too calculating, too cynical, to give into simple adoration. Yet the invitation in her eyes was no less real. He had just promoted her two ranks, opening a new level of magic. The damage she had done with just the first level made this a seriously questionable act, but the ghost of the strategy in his head smiled on it.
“You reward us beyond our service,” she whispered. Only he could hear her despite the crowd gathered in the throne room. “You must know we would serve you however you desire. Trial our true feeling against the artifice of your troubadours. Let us shower you with our personal gratitude.”
It was a heady compliment delivered in a husky voice of desire. It was also relatively easy to resist. Fae scared him, and her girls evoked the same feelings a passel of tiger cubs did. Cute, but you wouldn’t want to be around them when they grew up.
The strategy took over his mouth and formed words. “Come to my chambers sometime,” he whispered. There were at least a dozen people in the room who would have read his lips, and that only counted the ones who worked for him. He added an unnecessary condition solely for the eavesdroppers. “Discreetly, if you please.” Fae didn’t need to be told; it was the nature of wizards to keep secrets.
Beside him he felt Lalania’s smile freeze. Her jealousy sent a little thrill through him, which was far more discomforting than all of Fae’s innuendo.
It was several days before Fae took him up on the offer. She had sequestered Sigrath’s old apartments in the castle and seemed to be establishing it as a second residence. With their promotions, the apprentices could now handle the powder mill in Knockford, leaving Fae free to take up the role of court wizard. That was a position he could not deny her, but he was still surprised to turn around in his own bedchamber at night and find her standing there.
Cannan had his sword out in a heartbeat, raised to strike. The woman ignored him, her face serene above the flimsy lace pretense of a dress she wore.
“My lord,” she said, bowing low.
“How did you get in here?” Christopher asked. “Did anyone see you?” He wanted to add “In that ridiculous outfit,” but decided not to introduce the topic.
“I assure you, my lord, I was unseen. Your bards picked over Master Sigrath’s possessions quite thoroughly but could not deny me his spell-books. Your benefice already manifests itself.”
He was pretty sure that was a complicated way to say that she could now turn herself invisible. Everything about the woman was complicated.
“That’s great,” he said, and handed her a bathrobe. “Put this on. You must be cold.” It was always cold in the castle.
“If you insist,” she answered, taking the robe without looking at it.
“That she comes alone implies she also evaded the bard,” Cannan observed. He was glaring at her.
“The lady is skilled,” Fae conceded in a way that made it clear she was about to backhand the lady with a compliment, “but few are skilled enough to defeat magic.”
That was the point of his strategy. His enemies were drowning in magic. He wasn’t going to beat them with skill.
“Tell me about divinations,” he said, sitting on a chair next to the fireplace. She took another chair and folded the robe across her lap.
“An odd choice, Christopher.” She cocked her head at him, and he almost laughed. The very instant he wanted something from her, their relationship reverted to a first-name basis. “Divination is more oft associated with divinity. For the arcane it is generally limited to inspection of the here and now.”
“Scrying isn’t about the here.” Keeping up points with her was both ins
tinctive and necessary in any conversation.
She smiled condescendingly. “I meant here as in ‘on this plane.’”
It was also hard.
“But I assume you mean foretelling,” she continued. “It is normal for the head of state to demand a generic divination every week. I would assume you do it yourself, though. Or perhaps the Cardinal?”
He did let the Cardinal do it. The old man had volunteered and understood how to interpret the results better. Faren had assured him that if the realm were going to be destroyed, he’d have a week’s forenotice, though anything less dire than that was likely to slip through the net.
“I do mean forecasting. How does it work?”
She looked at him for moment. “Not as well as one would hope. A week’s advance is normally the limit. At best it reveals the probable course of events; should someone else divine that you have divined their plan, they may well change their plans and thus invalidate your foreknowledge. At worst the entity you contact has no knowledge of the affairs that concern you. Gods and demons have vast sight, yet it falls far short of omniscient. Events can be concealed by high-rank magic; facts no longer in the memory of the living may be unknown to even the greatest power. But why haven’t the bards already explained this?”
He sighed. In a minute she was going to lecture him for revealing secrets. Namely, that the College could not do forecasting, which is why they couldn’t answer his questions.
“They did,” he said as truthfully as he could. “As much as they know. I wondered what a wizard’s take on it is.”
“My take is that it’s not worth the risk. For you to chat with an extraplanar entity is business as usual. For us it is fraught with peril. We do not wish to be servants or allies of such creatures. They do not wish to reveal anything for free. Binding a demon to physical service is straightforward and relatively safe. Asking it for advice is asking for trouble.”
“I think the Wizard of Carrhill did it once.”
“I am not surprised. He takes inordinate risks.”
Christopher thought about the woman’s precious toddler, sleeping elsewhere in the castle, and looked at her dubiously.
She colored, slightly. “I concede the point. Being in your presence seems to provoke rashness.”
As always, she found a way to make it his fault.
“A week? That doesn’t seem to leave room for decades-spanning prophecy.”
“Prophecy is a different matter. The gods can make promises about the future because they have the power to make them come true regardless of what anyone else does.”
He hadn’t thought of it that way.
“Have you been exposed to a prophecy?” she asked. She aimed for coy, but her naked hunger for secrets pushed it into lustful territory. Not a good place to be with her dressed like that.
“I don’t think so.” Marcius had offered him hopes, not prophecies.
“Then count yourself blessed.”
He harrumphed. That was not a description anyone would assign to his place, wedged between dragons, elves, evil squidlings, and inscrutable gods.
“But I trust you did not summon me here to discuss spell-craft. We could do that at court.” With an artful shrug, she managed to make her dress even more revealing. “Surely you have other topics in mind.”
“Not really,” he said. He looked away from her to stare into the fire, unable to insult her to her face. Especially because it would become a lie if he kept staring at her.
“If not me, then let me summon one of my girls. Or all of them. It would mean much to them. To any woman.”
“I’m not—” he started, but she interrupted him.
“You are reasonably strong, acceptably handsome, and incredibly wealthy. Your meteoric rise is a beacon of virtue, the gods own stamp on the quality of your character. You are kind to the point of bewilderment and lethal beyond imagination. You are the stuff of dreams of every fresh-blooded girl on this plane.”
The heat of the fireplace beat at his face. He blurted out the only thing he could say, the simplest truth. “I don’t want to be. I just want to be me.”
She stared at him, much as she had stared at the mysterious and powerful ring he had once asked her to destroy.
“Nothing you have ever done or said is as mystifying as that.”
At this point it was pretty mystifying to him, too. He feared it might just be habit.
“And yet,” she said, every word dragged out of her grudgingly, “there can be no greater defense against divination. Whatever wellspring drives you resists the analysis of the sane and sober. It stinks of divine providence. Only one force can hide secrets from the gods.”
Tired of walking into her rhetorical traps, he simply waited.
She smiled at him. “Another god, of course. Your Patron works through you.”
I am not your plaything. The memory of the words echoed in his mind. How much he had in common with his human enemies; how little he shared with his nonhuman allies.
Fae stood up, wrapping the fluffy robe about herself. “I presume you wish my discreetness to discreetly fail. This is a service I can render, although it pains me that any would be foolish enough to think my secrets can be plundered against my will. You need not worry; I will play my part as instructed. I fear you too much to do otherwise. As do all who serve you. Only your foes are protected from the terror of your mysteries.”
She turned to Cannan and acknowledged him for the first time. “If you would be so kind as to see to the door, Ser.”
Cannan glared at her much as he had at the Wizard of Carrhill, back in Lalania’s tent years ago. When he turned away long enough to open the door, she vanished.
After a moment Cannan spoke. “How long am I supposed to hold this door open?”
Christopher held up his hand in a pause. There was no reply. After a moment he said, “I guess that’s good enough.”
Cannan closed the door. “Just to be clear. I’m not taking this one off your hands. You don’t pay me enough for that.”
10
THE BRIDGE
The remains of another season swirled around his horse’s feet, maple leaves in many colors swept along by a brisk autumn wind. A crimson leaf blew from the ground and clung to his boot. He glanced down in melancholy. The years were beginning to pile up; he felt the weight of them on his memories, pressing them into flat images.
The present was alive and vibrant. He was stronger and healthier than he had ever been on Earth. He still sparred regularly with Cannan and Gregor, Karl kept him in the exercise yard, and the simple acts of everyday life were so much more active here. Leadership could not be asserted from a desk in a world without telephones. He had to personally see to problems in the field, visit his delegates in the flesh, and traverse an entire kingdom.
This should have been easy because he had many ways to fly. Unfortunately, all of them were limited to two or three people at a time. He had made a promise to his army long ago that he would not leave them behind again. Given all he expected of them now, it was one promise he dared not break. So he traveled the countryside on horseback, accompanied by dozens of armed and armored cavalrymen. He stood in the saddle for hours as his huge warhorse trotted over distances that would have taken minutes in the leather-cushioned luxury of a car.
Royal was in his prime. The horse was as healthy as . . . well, extremely healthy. The dedication of the palace grooms was the best care an animal could have. When that failed, there was always magic. The destrier loved to run at the head of a herd, snorting and stepping high. Christopher had inquired discreetly and been told he could expect another four years before age would begin to slow and weaken the beast. It felt like a deadline.
He didn’t dare ask how many more years before age would affect him. The people of the kingdom generally underestimated his age, which Lalania assured him was a benefit. Growing up in modern comfort had left him soft but also unscarred and unused, and Krellyan’s regeneration had removed what little scars he had ear
ned. Here, the rigors of preindustrial life that made people so strong also wore them out early. Despite the fact that he could not regenerate teeth or limbs, he still had potent healing magic. He could expect to be a swordsman long past the time any professional on Earth would have to retire. Perhaps two or even three more decades.
A long time. Too long, for those flattening memories to endure; and yet, not long enough. A century of ruling would not bring in enough tael to achieve his goal. And he was pretty sure the kingdom didn’t have a century’s worth of patience.
An avatar of that impatience waited for him at the bridge. His troop had run cross-country for the sake of security and the animals. Royal, like all horses, hated the new concrete paving that Christopher was pouring all over the country. It was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, the draft horses that moved every pound of food from farm to town and city no longer had to struggle against grasping mud. On the other hand, the pavement rang hard under their steel-shod hooves. Christopher was not sure which was better for the animal’s long-term health. Not that it mattered; the roads effectively increased the food supply of the realm as fewer crops were lost to transport and spoilage. The welfare of the animals would never trump the welfare of the people who owned the animals.
He dismounted and slowly led Royal onto the paved road, waiting for his troop. Although he rode at the front of the column most of the time, whenever they came to a chokepoint like a bridge or hedge-gate, half his men would go through first. Christopher had learned to respect thresholds.
In this case, they held back. The man at the bridge was a nobleman. He had the right to speak to Christopher directly. At Christopher’s approach, he stood straight and clasped his hands behind his back.
“Well met, my lord,” the young man said, inclining his head in respect. Rangers did not bow.
“Well met, Ser D’Kan,” Christopher replied, although the pleasantry might well qualify as a lie. This meeting, so far from the formality of court, could only be bad news.
“Ser Cannan,” the Ranger said, acknowledging the red knight at Christopher’s side.
