by M. C. Planck
“Okay. You can stop telling me now.” Fae in explanatory mode was just as mystifying as she was in silent mode. “Look, we just made small batches. So if it explodes, it will be a small explosion. And the stuff’s still wet.”
“The next step is to dry it?”
“Yes, but without exposing it to fire, since it will eventually . . .”
Fae, not waiting for him to finish, passed her hand over the mixtures while muttering something in a language he almost recognized. When she was done the mixtures had changed color, losing their rich blackness and turning grayer, dry as dust.
“How did you do that?”
“The same way I made your sulfur. I separated out the impurities—in this case, water.”
He gaped at the buckets of white crystal he had spent so much effort purifying. But Fae shook her head.
“I am only the first Novice rank. A pound a day is my limit.”
“But we’ll need barrels of the stuff.” Apparently the nascent study of chemical engineering would survive its first contact with magic.
Fae’s thin lips closed in disapproval. “Even a great wizard would balk at barrels, and why not? A pinch to trigger the spell is all that is normally required.”
“We’re not doing magic. And we’re going to need barrels of paper, too.”
“What will you do with it all?”
“Burn it,” he said with a grin and was rewarded with a look of proper horror.
Now came the moment of his own trepidation, however. He had launched down this path with no guarantee of success. Even if he had done every step correctly, it was within the realm of raw possibility that he was wasting his time. Perhaps the rules were different here. He could not conceive of any set of physical laws that preserved the chemistry of the human body and yet banned a simple combustion reaction between oxygen and carbon. But so far his inability to conceive of impossibilities had not proven to be a hindrance.
He made firecrackers out of her fine white paper and his gray powder, and touched them off with a burning twig. Three refused to ignite, two spit sparks, one shot across the room like a rocket, but the sixth one went off with a bang that made Fae jump and fixed a lopsided smirk on his face that threatened to become permanent.
Helga ran into the room, armed with a large wooden spoon. “What was that?” she cried.
“An experiment,” Fae said, with what Christopher felt was an unnecessary level of acerbity.
“The sound of the world changing,” he answered. The poet may have been right about the world ending in a whimper, but science was right about the beginning: it always started with a bang.
Over the next few days he exposed Fae to more experiments, setting fire to every salt and powder he could find. Copper dust burned green; iron made gold. Svengusta had an old tub of soaking salts that made orange flames. Mixed with black powder, these would provide the colors of his fireworks. When Dereth delivered the steel tube, Christopher showed her how to make rockets out of paper and glue, inventing corrugated paper along the way.
Tom spent his days mining or logging, and Helga had chores of her own, so that left Christopher and Fae together for hours in the chapel. Eventually Fae stopped working and stared at him pensively.
“You trust me with much,” she said. “And yet you do not seek to bind me with oaths or threats.”
“I didn’t realize that was necessary.”
“Flayn thought it so. For the wizards, knowledge is power. They do not share their secrets lightly.”
“Knowledge is always power—for everybody,” he agreed. “It’s just that this is only a small part of my plans. If you leave, you won’t find out the rest of them.” The girl had a sharp mind, and it had been enraptured with the bits of science he had thrown out. As long as he had new things to teach her, he assumed she would stay.
“There is another tie that binds. Yet you shrink from intimacy.” She put her hand on his, and he reflexively pulled away, proving her point.
“I have a wife,” he said.
“So did every man I’ve ever slept with,” she countered. “If your wife were a queen or some great power, then men would just laugh at you for being a well-trained dog. But she cannot reach you here, so people assume you’re insane.”
“Not far off the mark,” he muttered glumly. Often he was convinced of the same thing. But then he would stub his toe or something equally mundane and realize it was all too real to be a hallucination. “Wait, what about religious devotion? Surely some priests dedicate themselves to the Lady and forgo other women?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Like I said, insane.”
He had to laugh. “At least we agree on that. But then, we also agree that you’re not the slightest bit interested in me, and you’re only bringing it up because you want to bind me to you .”
She smiled at him, a chess player complimenting her opponent on a well-played move.
It wasn’t her that he wanted to impress, though. That night, at the dinner table, he asked Tom if he could borrow his shovel.
Tom politely declined, explaining, “It’s a delicate piece of equipment. Best used only by the well-trained.”
“I think you can trust him, Tom. The Pater’s a specialist in dirt,” Svengusta said. “Especially night-soil.”
“Fine,” Christopher said. “Then I won’t show you what Fae and I have been up to.”
“I think we already know what that looks like,” Svengusta said with an inebriated giggle.
Helga threw the old man a minatory glare. “Big Bob needs to keep closer track of your account, I fear.”
“You can help, Sven. I’ll need an empty field, one away from houses or stables.”
Svengusta laughed so hard he almost fell off the bench. “Your wizardry requires the most unlikely components. You would work miracles with manure and dirt and empty fields. But I warn you, if what you wind up with is a dirty, smelly field, no one will be impressed.”
When the boys showed up for night duty, Christopher stopped them before they got their coats off.
“We’re all going out,” he said, “for an experiment.”
The boys’ faces lit up, and they went back outside gabbling in excitement. Apparently word of his every act was public knowledge, or at least speculation. By the time they reached the field, they had attracted a flock of villagers.
Tom dug a hole for him in the frozen earth and put Dereth’s iron tube in, jamming it down on its spike so it stood straight up. Christopher loaded a rocket in the tube and threaded the long fuse through the hole at the bottom.
“Who wants to do the honors?”
The young man who had carried out the lit candle refused to surrender it, so he got the privilege by default.
“Now set that on fire,” Christopher said, pointing to the end of the fuse, “and then run like the devil is behind you.” Then Christopher pushed the crowd back a good thirty feet.
The lad bent over the hole, dropped the candle, and ran back on wings of pure excitement. Christopher could relate; village life was boring. Anything new was candy for the young.
The ground erupted in fire and smoke, flames shooting up five feet high. There was a tremendous boom and children screamed.
“The grain size is too large,” Christopher said absently to Fae while scanning the sky. He had wanted the slower propulsion of a large grain, not the explosive force of fast-burning fine-ground powder. Now he was worried too much powder had burned outside the tube, and his rocket would hit the ground before it exploded.
It failed to explode at all, landing a hundred feet away like a poor dead bird.
“No, leave it be,” he warned the boys. Best to wait in case the fuse was just slow. He went forward to load the next rocket.
Walking back to the safety line, he noticed everyone staring at him. “What?” he said.
“Gods, boy, those flames! It looked like you opened a gate to Hell!” Svengusta exclaimed.
“I know,” Christopher said sadly. “I made the grain si
ze too big.”
“That . . . cloud . . . is coming toward us,” Helga whimpered.
It was true. The huge pillow of white smoke was slowly drifting their way as it dispersed.
“I know,” Christopher said even more sadly. “I don’t know how to make smokeless powder.”
“Is it dangerous, I think the question is,” Tom asked with a bit of an edge in his voice.
“Oh, no, not at all. It just smells bad.”
With extreme bravery, another lad set off to light the next one. This time he was only halfway back when the ground exploded in a vast plume of white smoke. The rocket was nowhere to be seen, shredded into nonexistence by the blast.
“That,” he said to Fae, “is what happens when you make the grain too small.” And the fuse too quick, but he could see from her face that didn’t need mentioning.
The third attempt burst into a pale-green star globe high above the village, and the audience burst into spontaneous applause. Fireworks, like sex and money, were a universal crowd pleaser. Christopher barely noticed; his hopes had been fulfilled by the violent self-destruction of the second rocket. Like all scientific experiments, the proof lay in the mundane results; the sparkly lights were for the public.
“That’s what I’m going to show the Saint,” he told his companions. “What do you think?”
Svengusta wasn’t terribly sanguine. “It’s a pretty entertainment, I’ll grant you, but I’ve seen wizards do better. I don’t think it will get you out of the draft.”
“I also fail to see how this will make us rich,” Fae said.
“I’m not even sure it can pay for itself,” Tom said, watching the crowd disperse. “Especially if you give it away for free.”
Leave it to Tom to state the obvious. His original problem remained: an inexhaustible need for money.
He set Fae to making more paper, this time by the quarto instead of one sheet at a time. The stench of a paper mill overwhelmed Tom’s coal-cooking experiments. Christopher countered with the mound of ripe manure he was collecting. All of this finally resulted in a visit from the town elders, led by Svengusta.
“Gods, boy, this place stinks!” Svengusta exclaimed. The villagers reassured Christopher that they loved their crazy priest, but the smell was getting out of hand. Christopher wasn’t terribly sympathetic. The whole village reeked like a pigsty on the best of days, even in the middle of winter. He was dreading warm weather.
“It’s only for a little while,” he reassured them. “Both Tom and Fae will be moving back to Knockford soon and taking the stink with them. Now please, let me buy you all a drink.”
Svengusta cheered the suggestion, and they all retired to the tavern, where Christopher coughed up a pair of gold coins.
Afterward, Svengusta congratulated him on how he’d handled the situation. “We’ll make a parish priest out of you yet.”
“Only if you’re there to lead, and then sell out, every insurrection. Thanks for saving me—again.”
“Precious little reward I get for it,” Svengusta sighed in pretended despair. “A few beers, a bit of pretty around the house, and exploding wheat fields.”
“If I might ask,” Tom said, “when are we planning to move back to town?” Fae perked her ears, too reserved to say anything but obviously deeply interested in the answer.
“When Karl shows up with more money,” Christopher said. He had been profligate with his fortune; now he was promising to spend money he didn’t have yet.
Later Svengusta cornered him alone. “I cannot pretend to understand what you are doing, but I can see you need this more than I.” Svengusta put down a leather bag that clanked. Curious, Christopher opened it to find a hoard of coins, copper, silver, and even gold.
“Where did this come from?”
“My stipend from the Church,” Svengusta said. “I give away as much as I can without encouraging indolence, but my wants are few and my needs fewer. I had thought to leave it all to the Church, or possibly Helga, when I am gone. But if you need it now, that would seem a better use.”
“Why didn’t you invest it?” Christopher asked.
“In what?”
It was a good point. There wasn’t exactly a managed 401(k) fund around. Retirement planning consisted of stuffing money under your mattress. Or wait—that was what you did with paper money. Nobody would want to sleep on a pile of coins.
“Thank you,” Christopher said, “but you have given me something more valuable than money.”
Svengusta kicked the bag, eliciting a protesting jingle. “Are you mad? What could be worth more than hard cash?”
“An idea,” Christopher said.
“Not another one!” Svengusta exclaimed. “Take the money and be satiated, if you value the quality of my sleep.”
12.
DOOR-TO-DOOR SALESMAN
After days of gray skies, cold winds, and hard labor, Karl appeared like sunrise on a three-day weekend. Helga beamed, Tom grinned, and even Fae made a point of being noticed while ignoring him. Svengusta laughed to see Karl casually toss the bundle of chain mail into Christopher’s lap, where the weight of it almost knocked him to the floor.
“I leave you alone for a week, and you start killing people without me.”
Christopher blushed. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Gods forbid you should ever intend on slaughter, then.”
It seemed like the perfect opening.
“About that,” Christopher said. “I’d like to make a presentation to the Saint. And the quartermaster of the draft. I want to commandeer the draft budget.”
“Everybody wants to,” Karl said. “Why would we care what you want?”
“When you see what I have to show you,” Christopher answered, “I think you’ll want me to, too.”
Karl studied him through narrowed eyes before answering. “The Saint is a busy man. His time is too valuable to waste.”
Christopher thought about the twin points in time that ruled his life: the approaching draft and the receding Earth.
“I have less time to waste than the Saint,” he said.
“Very well,” Karl said. “I will beg an audience and trust you not to make fools of us both. Pack your bags.”
“What, now?” But of course now. The layers of bureaucracy he had subconsciously expected did not exist in this world of personal contacts and loyalties.
Christopher hurriedly packed for the trip, Tom and Helga repacking everything behind him so it actually fit into the saddlebags, while Karl watered his horse. Helga wrapped yesterday’s bread and cold bacon in a dishcloth for their lunch.
Returning from the stable, Karl frowned in disapproval.
“Wear the armor,” he said. “On that horse you will look a thief without it.”
Christopher noticed that Karl had already replaced his own armor, and his horse carried a shield and crossbow as well. The omnipresent sword Christopher could understand; samurai had worn theirs everywhere, as a sign of honor and class. But the wealth of rough, well-used weaponry that surrounded Karl at all times suggested an unnerving level of savagery in the world outside the little village. Without further remarks he struggled into the chain mail.
They rode for the rest of the day, stopping only for the horses’ sake. It was allegedly spring now, but someone had forgotten to turn off the ice machine. They avoided contact as much as possible, and when they did see people they didn’t say hello. Karl wore a scarf over his face so he wouldn’t be recognized, almost a bandit’s mask. Between that and their swords, the peasants were careful to look the other way. Here was fear, finally, and Christopher felt like an outlaw, the stark contrast to his role as village clown rubbing against him as uncomfortably as the saddle.
They ate a cold lunch on the road, thanks to Helga’s competence. Christopher had been too busy to see how she dealt with Karl’s return. It didn’t matter. Karl was in soldier mode and oblivious to women. He hadn’t even reacted to Fae.
But he had noticed. On a deserted s
tretch of dirt road, hardly more than a trail, he interrogated Christopher about his living arrangements.
“You’ve become quite a lordling, Pater. Manservants and pretty girls.”
“They’re part of my plan of world domination,” Christopher replied, trying to be funny but too cold and tired to carry it off.
“How do you know they are not agents of the Invisible Guild?”
A terrible thought he had not even considered.
Karl shook his head at Christopher’s stricken silence.
“The correct answer is, because Pater Svengusta has known them all their lives. Still, it would be wise to pay the Vicar for a truth-spell sometime.”
They spent the night in a village tavern, Karl conversing brusquely with the innkeeper and paying for a single room that he blocked shut by dragging the bed in front of the door. “Use the chamber pot if you have to,” he said, and went to sleep instantly.
The next day they turned into a well-kept country estate just after noon. A pair of stable hands greeted them in the stable, although saving their comforting words for the horses. Christopher didn’t see any armed guards until the door of the manor house was opened by the most competent-looking soldier Christopher had yet seen, outside of Karl. Well, and the sickening Hobilar.
The soldier recognized Karl without speaking, but he wanted a name from Christopher.
“Pater Christopher, um, sir,” he answered, uncertain of how to address the soldier.
“Ser,” corrected the man without any visible offense.
“This is the captain of the Saint’s guard,” Karl explained.
“Such as it is,” the man grunted. He was thirty-something, tall and powerfully built. He had on a light chain shirt and wore a longsword and oversized dagger. “Knight-Captain Steuben,” he formally introduced himself, and inclined his head at Christopher in a way that made Christopher think of Prussians. At least he didn’t click his heels.
“Can I ask why I’ve met the Saint twice but never seen you?” Christopher asked.
