Gold Throne in Shadow

by M. C. Planck

  “Very well,” said Joadan, with a glitter of triumph in his eyes. “Were you not sent to dislodge me and claim my place?”

  “Um . . . yes?” Christopher was still struggling with the syntax of that completely spurious “not,” so he did not notice Lalania biting her lip.

  Joadan turned to the Captain and spread his hands, framing Christopher’s answer like a show-pony.

  “Indeed,” the Captain said, “a clear and present challenge to your station. By royal law you may respond with a challenge to your person.”

  “Now hold on a minute,” Christopher said.

  Joadan and the Captain ignored him, continuing their little play.

  “I do so.”

  “As Captain of the town and charged with maintaining the peace, I will oversee the terms,” the Captain said. “This is a personal challenge, between men of equal rank. There will be no secondaries and no stakeholders. Weapons shall be swords only, and all parties are forbidden from seeking revenge, whatever the outcome. Lord Curate, are you prepared?”

  This was directed at Christopher, and now the entire yard fell silent, waiting for his response.

  “No,” Christopher said. “I’m not prepared now or at any time in the future.”

  “You assert cowardice in front of your own men?” The Captain tilted his head back, as if presented with a bad smell. “Then present your ransom and depart the city.”

  “I cannot leave the city,” Christopher said. “The King ordered me here.”

  “He ordered your regiment,” the Captain answered. “In your absence I will assume command of it. The city remains protected.”

  Christopher floundered, reduced to desperation. “I’m not sure the King would agree.”

  “I am sure the King would not let a coward lead a regiment.” The Captain looked like he was ready to duel Christopher himself. “But you can ride to Kingsrock and take it up with him. Just as soon as you present your ransom. One hundred and two pounds of gold. Or tael, as you prefer.”

  That was a ridiculously large sum, even though it was only a fraction of what his last rank had cost. But that wealth was long spent; promoting Torme to first-rank had all but bankrupted him.

  The Captain shrugged at his silence. “If your pockets are empty, then we must withdraw from your head. Kneel, and I shall make it quick.” The Captain put his hand on his sword.

  Christopher had finally had enough. “Unless you’re trying to get in line,” he said to the Captain, “you can knock it off.” He turned to Joadan. “Do me the courtesy of answering my own question first. You know my reputation. What makes you think you can win?”

  “Reputation? A sword of lies and an unwitnessed miracle are less probatory than you might think. But the answer is simple: I have something worth fighting for. This is not the first risk I have engendered, and it will not be the last. The cause that drives me is worth any danger; the need I have for power and wealth cannot be tarried.”

  “I could be an ally in that cause.”

  “Perhaps you already are,” Joadan said. “The wealth from your head may lead to the final cure. If not, be assured it shall not go to waste.”

  “Then it’s settled,” the Captain said. “Here will do,” and he started scratching out a square in the dirt with his foot.

  “Krellyan’s law requires twenty-four hours before a duel. You cannot ask me to violate that.”

  “This is not the Saint’s land,” the Captain objected.

  “But I am his man. And I don’t want to have to face him after I’ve faced the lot of you. So go away and come back tomorrow.”

  The Captain did not want to give up. “I could arrest you for failure to pay. I don’t have to wait a day for that.”

  Joadan put out his hand to stop the Captain. “No. I accept the delay. It matters not; the portents will be as good tomorrow as they are today. And if not, then let the gods decide.”

  The Captain frowned at this betrayal, but he seemed to run out of threats. With an ill temper he marched his soldiers out again. Joadan followed them out, pausing at the gate only long enough to give Christopher a contemplative glare.

  “Shiiiiiii—” said Gregor.

  “Oh, hush,” Lalania said. “It is too early to panic. Wait until tomorrow. Then we can panic.”

  “Don’t you have work to do?” Christopher said to the gawking soldiers. They quickly resumed their tasks or invented ones if they happened to not have any.

  “What the hell was that all about?” he asked, once his little group had regained some sense of privacy.

  “If ever there was a time to lie, that was it,” Lalania said. “Against no other would Joadan march in here and demand they indict themselves out of their own mouth. And yet the blame lies with you, Christopher. You have been indiscreet. Someone has heard of your instructions from the Cathedral and carried the tale to your enemies.”

  “Wait,” said Christopher, “how did you know what Krellyan said?”

  “Because you just told me,” she snapped. “Now you have indicted the Saint as well. Can you not learn the virtue of silence?”

  This would have been the perfect time to cast the spell of that same name. But he hadn’t memorized it again, having been too ashamed of the echoes of the first time he’d used it.

  “You assume the Curate is displeased with this turn of events,” Torme said. He was trying to defend his boss. Christopher knew he didn’t deserve it.

  “Nope, I blew it.” He tried to think of whom he’d discussed the matter with. Oda, but only in general terms, and she would seem to be above reproach. Other than that, he’d hardly spoken to anyone from this town, except . . .

  Alstanf.

  He’d thought of the man as a friend. He had forgotten that in feudal politics, there were no friends; only vassals and rivals, only the subdued and the soon-to-be subdued.

  “Okay, what do we do now?”

  “There’s not a lot we can do,” Gregor said. “Unless you’re hiding a fortune in your pants, and even then, I would council against it. You cannot let a challenge like this stand unopposed, or every sell-sword from East to West will be here on the morrow looking for their payout.”

  “Joadan’s not stupid. He wouldn’t challenge me if he didn’t have an ace up his sleeve.”

  “Oh, he does,” Lalania said. “A dirty trick, and probably more the source of Krellyan’s law than gentleness. He cast an augury. He’s probably been casting them for days, waiting for one that was unambiguously favorable. And thus he bravely walked in here knowing that the gods had predicted his victory—at least for the next hour.” Despite the scorn in her words, she sounded like she approved of the strategy.

  “So why throw it away by accepting a delay?”

  “Because you earned his respect,” Gregor suggested.

  “More likely, he realized that he had already won his victory—by winning the argument to force a duel. Thus, the augury was expired,” Lalania said.

  “Or he just hates you that much,” Torme said.

  Christopher looked to Karl, the man he always turned to for the final decision.

  “Ser Gregor is right: you must fight. The Captain is also right: you must win.”

  He had armor now, and rank, and a strong body unencumbered by old injuries. But Joadan had armor as well—the Yellow priest had been wearing a beautiful golden breastplate with elaborate curlicues and matching greaves—and the same rank, plus years more experience with magic despite being a decade younger. His sword looked a lot more expensive than Christopher’s. The only advantage Christopher could see was that he was a few inches taller than the other man. Having been routinely trounced by short Japanese sensei for decades, he didn’t feel that was an edge worth betting on.

  “I need to think,” Christopher said.

  But he couldn’t think about Joadan without thinking about Alstanf. Finally, to clear his mind, he went in search of the traitorous weasel. Lalania let him go with only a small squad; there was little danger that anyone woul
d try to kill a man who was already under a death sentence. She had used her wonderful intelligence skills to determine that the city generally assumed he was doomed. While Joadan was not notorious as a duelist, he was famously unimpeded; many other problems had been plowed through in the young man’s quest for fame and fortune.

  Christopher could relate; he understood the impetus.

  He found Alstanf in front of another brownstone, overseeing several shirtless young men loading a wardrobe into a wagon. When Christopher spoke his name from behind, he leapt into the air like a startled rabbit and cowered behind the furniture.

  “Just tell me why,” Christopher said, his anger evaporating in the face of such terror.

  “Flying buttresses,” Alstanf squeaked.

  Christopher turned up his empty palm to show that was not an answer. But only his right hand; these days his left stayed hitched onto his sword hilt.

  “I want to build flying buttresses. And I will never, ever build them here. The Captain promised to let me go. He said he would grant me release from the Wizard’s service. Forgive me, Christopher, but that was a boon that all your wealth and knowledge could never buy.”

  And so it was. Christopher left the man in peace, thinking.

  He could name at least one drawback to Krellyan’s rule. Spending twenty-four hours contemplating a fight did not make it easier to face.

  Lalania and Gregor had quizzed him over his first encounter and then given him the benefit of their tactical wisdom when it came to selecting his spells. For instance, he had assumed that the panther or whatever it was would not be an issue, having seen it blasted into smithereens. Gregor had gently set him straight while Lalania stared at him, and Torme had found a defense suggested in one of his novice-training books.

  So now he stood in his barracks courtyard, arrayed in plate and mail with a head full of spells and a heavy heart. The Captain had sent over a man earlier to lay out a dueling square in red ribbon. At least there would be no crowd of townsmen; the only audience would be his own soldiers. Playing a home game should have been an advantage. Somehow it didn’t feel like that to Christopher. These men weren’t just expecting him to win; they required it. Failing would not only get him killed but would put them back into the peasant’s harness. Just keeping his head seemed like enough of a burden to carry on his shoulders.

  The Captain and his plate-clad squad of halberdiers waited outside the gate until Joadan’s party arrived. The Gold Curate had brought a pair of servants with him, wearing livery but apparently unarmed. Christopher’s soldiers stood at attention in steady rows along the walls. They were also unarmed. They had left their rifles indoors, at Karl’s specific order.

  Gregor had been aghast. “No wonder Joadan challenges you in your lair. Not only do you command your men to meekness; you disarm them. When Joadan looks out over these ranks, his knees will not tremble, and he will not be weakened by the fear that if he wins, a hundred angry men might descend on him. Even such a tiny edge can turn a duel. Why disarm yourself?”

  “Because they might well do something,” Karl had said. “It will be hard enough to keep them alive if Christopher falls; should they commit treason by firing on the Curate, the entire regiment will hang as a body. The Captain wants them for slaves; the Lord Wizard only wants them for the tael in their heads.”

  Torme had memorized a detection spell, the one aid he would be allowed to render. He would verify that Joadan had not come into the duel with pre-cast magic. Christopher wasn’t entirely sure why those rules should apply to priests, but Gregor explained that was what made it a duel.

  “This way at least pretends to be fair. If you load up on magic and then jump somebody, that’s just an ambush.”

  The enemy now paraded through the gates, or at least the soldiers did. The Captain sauntered, and Joadan walked with simple, purposeful steps. Christopher took his place inside the ring opposite Joadan, and the Captain walked between them.

  “Do you both declare yourself free of outside magic, as per the well-established rule?”

  “I do,” both men said, which Christopher would have found hilarious if he hadn’t been so nervous.

  Torme cast his spell, but neither of Joadan’s servants approached Christopher. Apparently the Yellow priest would take his word for it, just as Bart had done.

  “He is free of enchantment,” Torme reported, “but both his blade and armor are ranked.” Then Torme retreated from the square, unable to even wish Christopher luck without creating the suspicion of magical interference.

  The Captain backed up, grinning widely.

  “Then begin,” he said, bringing his still mail-clad hands together in a ringing clap.

  The duel started somewhat anticlimactically, as both men immediately began chanting spells. The panther appeared, as expected, and sprung ten feet across the ground at Christopher. But he had raised his protective spell, and the beast bounced off an invisible wall and fell to the ground. It landed on all fours, hissing and spitting.

  Joadan did not react to this setback, instead launching into another spell. Christopher charged him; the panther intercepted. It could not touch him, but neither could he force his way past it. If he tried, the act would shatter his protection.

  Balked, Christopher started another spell of his own. He felt a bit of sympathy for the audience; this chanting could go on for quite a while yet. But Joadan apparently felt he had enough advantage. The panther circled around Christopher, blocking his retreat, and Joadan leapt at him with rather more alacrity than one would except from under so much armor.

  Christopher sidestepped and parried, hoping the action would disconcert Joadan as much as it had Karl, back when they had practiced for Hobilar’s duel. Whether or not the gambit succeeded was rendered irrelevant when Joadan’s sword sliced neatly through his own. He had not yet cast the sword blessing; mere steel could not stand against the permanent enchantment on Joadan’s blade.

  To be fair, it had also been a clumsy parry.

  Though he had not expected the duel to end so quickly, it was still the anticipated outcome. He dropped the ruins of his sword and raised his hands in surrender. Again.

  “I yield.”

  Joadan paused in mid-stroke, a remarkable feat of discipline given the battle-lust in his eyes.

  “You have your ransom now?”

  “No,” Christopher said, “and neither am I willing to vacate the city.”

  Joadan raised his sword.

  “But in lieu of that, I offer you a service. I shall perform a single task at your direction, and we will call it square.”

  Intelligent man that he was, Joadan paused his killing stroke to satisfy his curiosity.

  “What service could you possibly render me, short of your head and your absence?”

  “I can write a letter.”

  Joadan’s eyes narrowed, and his sword slowly inched up.

  “To the Saint.”

  The Yellow priest froze like a statue, finally anticipating what came next.

  “To cure your boy at my expense.”

  Joadan spoke through clenched teeth. “I have searched across the realm for a cure. I came here, to serve the Lord Wizard, solely to convince him to search across the planes. And yet you claim it lies under my nose all along?”

  “It’s a birth defect, Joadan. At a—” there was no word for molecular, “structural level. A regeneration should fix it. I can buy that service, even if you can’t. But you can claim it from me on the field of battle.”

  Complete silence, for uncomfortable moments, while Joadan stared at him. The audience held their breath—amazingly, even the Captain stood without jeering, although the look on his face was more dismay than anticipation.

  The silence was broken by a popping sound. The cat had turned into golden feathers again, and was now gone.

  “You have earned my respect for your acuity,” Joadan said quietly. “You may find in the future that you regret that status.”

  Well, Christopher hadn�
��t exactly expected a thank-you card.

  Joadan sheathed his sword, turned on his heel, and marched out of the ring with squared shoulders.

  The Captain spat in disgust. “Dark gods, you White priests can’t even do this right.”

  “Peace is restored,” Torme said, “and a boy is saved. The goals of the White are advanced, even though you are denied your entertainment.”

  The Captain stared at Torme, rolling his tongue behind his teeth. Christopher expected a threat or at least a reprimand, but the Captain spat again and stalked off.

  “Praise the gods,” Lalania said. “I have never seen a better match of winning by losing. But you took a terrible risk, Christopher. The likes of Black Bart would have cut you down before you finished speaking.”

  That Joadan was not the likes of Black Bart was the entire reason Christopher had done this. He preferred a Gold Throne to an Iron one, and he was certain the Saint would too. But for once, he took Lalania’s words to heart and kept his mouth shut.

  “Your sword,” Torme said, handing him the pieces sorrowfully.

  Christopher shrugged. He had a spell for that.

  He stood at the city gates the next day, watching Joadan’s servants drive a pair of heavily loaded wagons through it. The Yellow Priest was leaving immediately for Kingsrock and was making plain his intention not to return.

  Christopher walked into the road next to Joadan’s horse and handed up the letter.

  “You don’t have to go,” he said.

  “I have what I came for,” Joadan said. “There is nothing left for me here.”

  His horse cantered out of the gate, withers and head high. Despite that, and Joadan’s fine words, it was retreat all the same, and everyone knew it. To stay and act as if Christopher’s act of mercy meant nothing would rub against Joadan until it broke his vows.

  The townsfolk did not take the lesson to heart, however. Where Christopher saw goodwill, they saw only incomprehensible metaphysics. They would freely grant him the quality of cleverness. A reputation for kindness he would have to earn the old-fashioned way.

  And without Lalania’s help. Her patience for standing still had finally run out, and she was on the road again. The consolation prize was that Gregor was staying behind. “You promised me ulvenmen heads,” he said, “and I’m not leaving until I get some.”