by M. C. Planck
The simplicity often left something to be desired. In this case he could not tell if his spell had any effect; the faint light that suffused the area and then faded merely told him the spell was done.
Fae immediately cast her detection again and then casually walked over to the book and picked it up. “Your god is strong,” she said, tracing her fingers on the spine of the book. “No magic is left,” and then, betraying her confidence, she closed her eyes while she opened the tome. But nothing exploded, and she relaxed again.
“The money-box?” Christopher asked, and she shrugged indifferently, turning the pages in covetous ownership. He opened the box, shook out a handful of gold. At least she was going to let him have the coins without an argument.
“You’ll need to make an inventory, of everything. Use what you can in our industries, but I don’t want you trying to run the shop.” He didn’t want to advertise that she was a wizard; her oath of fealty to him seemed likely to annoy other wizards rather than impress them.
“It would be profitless,” Fae agreed. “My time is better spent on your custom than others.” Now that she had everything she wanted, Fae was returning to the helpful person he had first hired.
On the way out, he realized that she had helped him in another way. She had made it clear that killing Flayn really had been his only option. Unfortunately, he probably couldn’t explain that to anyone, since the wand should probably remain secret. But then, no one else was looking for an explanation.
5
MAJOR TOM
He finally got to talk to Tom, and as always, the man proved to be a font of inspiration.
They were discussing Dereth’s complaint about the ore supply. “Shovels are plentiful, my lord,” Tom told him with a grin, “but fools to put behind them are becoming scarce. With all the wizards and craftsmen you’re making, not many are willing to settle for the honest labor of ditch-digging. Not to mention the heroics,” he added, sliding a little seriousness into his tone. “Were you to raise a private company, you’d tempt even our sober townies back to the sword.”
“I’ve been warned that a rabble will be arriving soon,” Christopher said. “Could you hire some of them?”
“They’ll not see much chance of glory at the end of a shovel. But yes, there should be sad sacks in that lot hungry enough to work for a living. I can probably double my crew, if that is what you desire.”
“Triple it,” Christopher said. “The more iron you make, the cheaper it gets. And we haven’t sold a stove to everyone yet.”
“A nice stove it is, too,” Tom agreed. “The wife loves it, and loves me the more for it. Your iron toys are fascinating to us all. You can’t imagine how hard it is to keep the lads working when your smiths are testing their guns.”
And thus the proverbial light went on, although in this world it was a carved lump of rock instead of a glass bulb.
“What if the men who worked for you got a rifle?” Christopher asked. “Wouldn’t that make the job more attractive?”
Tom was mystified. “And sure it would, my lord, but what is the meaning of this?”
“Militia,” Christopher said, gratified to see there was a word for it in this language. “What if we raised a militia? Armed citizens, for emergencies. Is that allowed?”
“We’re not a March county,” Tom objected. “There are no emergencies here. But yes, on the border of the realm, even ordinary men tend to keep a weapon close to hand.”
“So we tell them they can have a rifle, if they join the militia for five years. They can keep it after that. In the meantime, they have to stick around and serve, and that means they need a job.”
“But that means in not very many years, you’ll have a blooming lot of men with rifles running around loose.” Tom seemed to think he was protecting Christopher’s source of influence.
But Christopher didn’t care. An armed citizenry was no threat to his plans. Heck, it was his plan. He pretended nothing had been said and went on with his scheming.
“Could you run this? Organize the men, impose some discipline and practice? I’ll work your men into our schedule, for the rifle training, at least, but I don’t really have any officers to spare to run the outfit.” Not that it would be a problem. Tom was a veteran soldier, like every man over the age of nineteen in this county, and he ran his crew with a competence so effective Christopher had never even noticed them.
“You mean on top of managing your wagons, my lord?” Tom was saying yes, in his own charming way.
“About that,” Christopher said. “How much do you know about building roads—no, scratch that. Learn what you need to know about building roads, and then start with that travesty that pretends to lead to Kingsrock. And you already know the new regiment will require more wagons.”
Tom leaned on his shovel and contemplated Christopher, who was secretly pleased to see he had finally thrown the man off-balance.
“That’s a lot of arranging you’re asking one young fool to do,” Tom said.
“I guess it is,” Christopher said, pretending innocence. It was something he needed practice at. “I guess I better give you a pretty high title to go with it. How does Major sound?” Of course Tom had no idea what names Christopher had invented for his army organization, but it clearly sounded good.
Tom didn’t ask for a raise; he merely stood, dumbfounded. He already knew Christopher would give him one. That wasn’t the point. He was going to have a lot of heavily armed men doing what he told them to. On this planet, pretty much as on any other planet, that kind of status was its own reward.
“You won’t be needing this again,” Christopher said, and with deep satisfaction he took the shovel from Tom’s limp grasp.
The first of the oncoming crowd was someone he’d tried to hire before, and failed. The troubadour Lalania had refused to work for him, preferring her status as a free agent. Christopher was shamefully happy to see her anyway, and not just because of her long blonde hair and pretty smile.
“My lord Curate,” she curtsied deeply, “I like what you’ve done with your face.” His nose was no longer slightly crooked, his skin now smooth and unblemished, but her flirtations were only for fun. Christopher surprised them both by hugging her.
“Help,” he begged. “Tell me everything I’m supposed to know.”
“A mortal life is too short for that, but I did not come without presents.” She introduced the Baronet Gregor like she was displaying a trained bear, a treatment the armored knight bore with patience.
“You’ve done well by yourself,” Gregor said. He had helped Christopher fight Black Bart several times, including the last and most desperate battle, any of which would have been lost without the blue knight’s sword.
“Um,” Christopher said, less concerned with past success than current dangers. “I couldn’t have got here without your help.”
“I can see I should have stayed and helped you more,” Gregor said. “I had no idea you had the capacity for so much mischief. I’m sorry to have missed all the fun.” The destruction of Black Bart had been somewhat eclipsed by the battle with the goblins, at least in terms of sheer slaughter.
Karl never let niceties get in the way of business. “It’s not too late to fix that. The Curate is hiring.”
Gregor was a man of action himself. “Partners, or fealty?” he asked.
“Salary,” Karl said, and Gregor shook his head in disappointment.
“But if you’ll allow me, perhaps I’ll hang around and freelance for a bit. It’s worked out for me in the past.” Though Gregor made a joke of it, Christopher was sure it meant there was a real need for his presence.
“You are always welcome, Ser Gregor,” he said. “More than welcome.”
“Not many of those who are to come will find salary acceptable, either,” Lalania warned.
“Then maybe they’ll go away,” Christopher said. “Can you tell me what’s coming? Are they ranked or just commoners?”
“Some of both, though mostly t
he latter. Still, I suggest you find a more courteous way to disappoint them.”
Christopher latched on to her. “That’s the first thing you can tell me.”
“You truly do not seek associates?” she asked. “You would travel all but alone?”
“I’d love to have Cannan and Niona.” Cannan was the most physically intimidating person he’d met, outside of the monstrous Black Bart. Having him onside was quite comforting. And his wife was a druid of amazing skills and more amazing equanimity. Christopher had become quite attached to both of them while they were all marching around the country, trying to lure the Invisible Guild into an attack.
“An unlikely match to your Church that would be,” she laughed, “but they are still in the Wild, and beyond my trace.”
“How about Baronet D’Arcy?” he suggested. Lord Nordland’s Ranger would be the perfect addition, short of the magical Niona, and he had enjoyed teaching Christopher’s scouts his woodsman skills. Lalania just rolled her eyes.
“You would hire away Nordland’s liegemen? Have you not done enough to the man? No, Christopher, I will not even inquire.”
“Can we get any others like him?” Christopher really wanted an experienced woodsman to keep training his own scouts, but he wasn’t even sure where they lived. Niona had merely described her home as being east of Knockford, and Cannan wasn’t even from there.
“No Ranger will serve you for salary,” Lalania said. “Why do you insist on assuming money can buy everything?”
A difficult question to answer. Because it can where I came from introduced topics he did not care to discuss with the bard, like, for instance, where he came from. Helga saved him by announcing lunch and then monopolizing the troubadour with topics feminine, like dresses and fashion. Only afterwards, when Torme and the officers returned to their duties, did they get the chapel to themselves. Helga brought them beer, and Christopher finally got to explain the militia plan to his informal council.
“A clever ploy,” Svengusta complimented him. “You cannot raise a paid company without the Saint’s consent, which he cannot grant you for reasons political. But you pay your ditch-diggers with jobs and arms, not gold.”
“They will be of little value to you,” Gregor warned. “You cannot take them into the Wild or deploy them in other counties.”
“I don’t need to,” Christopher said. “I just want them for defense.”
“Against what?” Lalania snapped. An awkward silence ensued, so Christopher changed the subject.
“Have my rifles made an impression? Do you think I could sell them to other people?”
“I confess even I am dubious of their value,” Gregor answered. “It seems too incredible to be true, though I know it must be.”
“The Church of the Bright Lady will buy your arms,” Karl promised. “Their police,” Karl refused to call the retired and soft men soldiers, “already favor crossbows, and your weapon is in all ways superior.”
“But that amounts to only a few dozen,” Svengusta said. “In any case, why would you want to arm the regiments of other lords?”
In the new silence, Christopher tapped his thumbs together patiently. Sooner or later they would stop asking him questions he could not afford to answer.
“If Gregor can’t even believe it,” he asked Lalania, “then what do people believe? Why did the King send me to a choice assignment, if it really is one?”
“They believe you have a Patron,” she said. “A powerful entity that aids you in secret, perhaps invisible, perhaps remaining in the Wild to come at your summons.”
“He does have a Patron,” Svengusta objected. “He serves a god.”
“Gods do not intervene so blatantly,” she countered. “One does not need to be a theologian to know that.”
“It is a choice assignment,” Gregor said. “So much so that my accompanying you there will arouse no questions at all. Who wouldn’t want to do a little hunting in the company of a healer?”
“Especially one with such a powerful, albeit unknown, ally. I think this is the mark, Christopher.” Lalania said. “They seek to test the power of your guardian. After all, it might have been an artifact with a single use that saved you before. Hunting ulvenmen is the sort of low-level constant danger that reveals true rank. Why not try the wood with someone else’s ax?”
“And if you get eaten by an ulvenman, then their problem is reduced to someone else’s indigestion,” Svengusta pointed out helpfully.
“If that’s what they want me to do, then I should do something else,” Christopher said.
“You mean we aren’t going to hunt ulvenmen?” Gregor made a sad face.
“What a perfect opportunity that would be for an assassin,” Karl said. “Or an angry lord, with a small but mobile band of knights and an impeccable woodsman for a guide.”
“You don’t think Nordland would stoop to that?” Gregor said, slightly alarmed.
“No, I don’t think so,” Lalania said, “but Karl is right. It would be foolish to ignore the possibility.”
“So what else do I do?” Christopher asked. The King had all but ordered him to the hunt. “Didn’t somebody tell me cavalry was the monster’s weak point?”
“Yes, it is,” Gregor agreed. “But you have none.”
“I have money and soldiers. Isn’t that enough?”
Karl actually looked pained. “That is out of my expertise, Christopher. I can only teach boys to ride; I cannot train them to fight from horseback. That is the province of the knights.”
Christopher made a face, annoyed by yet another socially imposed restraint on knowledge. Gregor waved it away with one hand.
“It’s not that special,” the knight said dismissively. “The only thing standing between Karl and knighthood is tael, not ability. I can teach him everything he needs to know.”
“A service I can pay you for,” Christopher suggested, and the blue knight laughed at having been outmaneuvered.
“Will you charge me, then, for Karl teaching me what he knows? If these rifles of yours are here to stay, then I suppose I should learn how to use them.”
“I have no secrets from you,” Christopher said, and then had to modify his statement to remain within the bounds of strict honesty. “On that score, I mean.” This made yet another uncomfortable silence, but Lalania was back on her game and smoothly changed direction.
“That dispenses with the commoners. Now what of the ranked? Strong alliances keep the peace, Christopher. To be perceived as standing alone invites assault. Because you are not of the Bright Lady, some may think that the Church will not defend you as it would its own. Because Gregor is bound to you only by friendship, they may think that he will not be bound to vengeance.”
“We have a saying here,” Svengusta interjected, before Christopher had time to register his confusion, “that perhaps is not known to you. Tael is thicker than blood. Your retinue would be expected to avenge you, even more so than your kin, and that expectation would keep you safe.”
No one had told Svengusta the secret of Christopher’s origin; nonetheless he had clearly guessed more than he had ever told anyone else. He had been the first person to speak to Christopher, and he alone seemed to remember that Christopher was truly foreign to this place, needing even ordinary convention explained to him.
But if Lalania was given any more time to think about it, she might be making guesses of her own. Quickly he lurched ahead with the conversation.
“I just can’t afford it.” Although he didn’t know how much tael he needed to get home, it was safe to assume it was going to be a lot. Also, he wasn’t trying to make a new group of aristocrats; he was trying to empower the ordinary folk. “And I don’t think I can trust anybody who shows up here, anyway.”
Lalania sighed. “So you will force us to protect you out of pity and friendship, at our own expense, and make it as hard as possible in the bargain.”
“Oh no,” Svengusta said. “He could make it much harder. Trust me on that.”
>
The laughter masked, though it could not erase, the blush that crept up Christopher’s neck.
“Lala, you’re smart,” he said. “Figure out a way I can give you some money, too.” He’d offered her a salary every time he’d seen her, but she was as prickly about her free-agent status as the knight.
“That’s not so hard,” she said. “First you open your purse, and then you hand me the coins.”
“Will you sing for us?” asked Helga, excited. Christopher was embarrassed at the mercenary transaction, but Lalania smiled indulgently.
“Of course I will,” she said, “and I will write Christopher a pretty speech to give his petitioners.” Turning to him, she lectured. “The commoners you can defer to Karl, but because I am not your servant, I cannot represent you to the ranked. This you must do yourself, and though they are low, you cannot afford discourtesy. You will say the words I tell you to say, and spend the money I tell you to spend.”
Christopher nodded his grateful surrender.
The days that followed were difficult for Christopher. Not physically: the technical details all went well. Every day one or two people would present themselves in his chapel, kneeling before him while he recited Lalania’s speech. They ranged from the ragged to the heavily armored, the academic to the muscular, men and women, young hopefuls and aging has-beens. He disappointed them all and then fed them a banquet while Lalania sang and played her lute. The food was fabulous, because Lalania was directing Helga’s kitchen; the speech was effective, because Lalania had written it; and the music was elegant and graceful, perfectly suited to an air of sorrowful but necessary refusal. The petitioners went away satiated, if not satisfied. The troubadour turned Christopher’s military lecture hall into a refined court of nobility, through genius and unending labor. All he had to do was sit there and act the part.
Which was the difficulty. He did not like playing nobility, even when he knew it was merely an act. And it would be graceless to complain when everyone else was working so hard, so he couldn’t even vent. Most of all he worried that Karl might come to think of him as actual nobility. He dared not broach that topic with the young veteran; Karl would be offended at any doubting of his loyalty, and in any case, openly discussing the democratic leanings of his army officers was probably a bad idea in general.
