by M. C. Planck
In a sweet voice, she asked, “May I join you, Paters?”
“Of course,” Christopher answered. “Have a seat.”
When she sat down, he leaned back and casually covered his mug with his free hand, copying Svengusta.
A grimace flashed briefly across her face, but in the same pleasant tone she said, “I’ve played to friendlier morgues.”
“We had a bit of Invisible Guild trouble,” Svengusta explained. “They were disguised as mummers, so you can see how the lads are a bit touchy.”
“Perhaps you could inform them I am not of the Black Brotherhood, Pater,” she said evenly. “I’ve not made a copper since I got here.”
“Perhaps I could,” the old priest nodded, “if I knew it to be true.”
“I’m certified with the College!” she snapped. Recovering her poise, she tried politeness again. “What makes you think I’m with the Guild?”
“The College doesn’t mean much in these parts,” Svengusta said. From his tone, Christopher inferred he didn’t think it meant much in other parts, either. “And I don’t think you are with the Guild. I just don’t know you aren’t.”
“Fortunately, I’m not terribly concerned with what you think,” she dismissed him. “I came to talk to Pater Christopher, the first priest of War in the Church of the Bright Lady in over half a century.”
“No comment,” Christopher said.
“I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
“Whatever it is, my answer is no comment. You’re either a spy or a gossip.” Though he’d meant to say journalist.
“Is such suspicion indicative of the nature of your new Church?” she asked pointedly.
“See,” Christopher said, “that’s why I don’t want to talk to you. You’ll go away and tell people stuff like that. If I don’t say anything to you, then at least you can’t twist my words around.” He’d been interviewed on TV once, back home, on some trivial local matter, but the experience had taught him a lesson. If you didn’t have your own press agency, you were at the mercy of the journalists. On Earth, they were a notoriously merciless profession. He took it for granted this was one of those universal constants that held everywhere.
“I can say good things about your Church, too, Pater,” she offered smoothly.
“That would be even worse,” Christopher grumbled before he remembered he wasn’t talking to her.
“You don’t want publicity?” She sounded genuinely surprised. “Every priest wants his Church on the lips of every mouth. Why would I believe you are different?”
“See, more questions I don’t want to answer. Why don’t you ask me something I can answer? Ask me what color the sky is. Or if I like green eggs and ham.”
“Your reticence tells me there is a story here.” She smiled, unable to completely hide her triumph.
Despite his best efforts, she’d painted him in a corner. “Fine, I’ll give you a story.” She would keep digging until she got something, and there were some things he’d rather she not dig up. “Two weeks from now, in Knockford, I’m going to demonstrate a new craft. It’s called pyrotechnics, and it’s an exciting new business opportunity.”
“Pyrotechnics aren’t new. Wizards do it all the time.”
“Ah, but they use arcane arts. This is just craft.” He realized he’d probably just made an enemy of every wizard in the world. “But it in no way competes with wizard stuff. It’s different.”
“How is it different?” she asked, keenly penetrating his obfuscation.
“First you tell me what you know about wizard pyrotechnics, and then I’ll tell you how it’s different.” That was a good idea. Get her talking so he could shut up.
“I know you summon fire from the ground. I know you have a magic sword. I know you spend money like water, even though you were a beggar three weeks ago.”
“That’s not about pyrotechnics,” Svengusta interjected. “Except maybe the first part.”
“What do you want from me?” Christopher asked. “Why are you here?”
“I collect and distribute information,” she said. “That’s what I do. And I try to make a living along the way.”
“Or, to put it plainly,” Svengusta said, “you wander around looking for something you can take advantage of. Like looking for gold under rocks instead of working for it.”
She grinned. “I prefer my version, although yours is not without merit.” She clearly enjoyed the thrust and parry of verbal combat. If she got a hold of the bored and lonely Fae, she’d know everything within minutes.
“I can use some publicity,” Christopher announced. “I want a good turnout for my demonstration. I want people to be ready and willing to invest money. I want them to know I am going out next year with the draft, to fight with our boys and to bring back as many as I can. I want people to know I’m honest, upright, and devilishly handsome.” He also wanted people to know his sword wasn’t magical, but Faren had explicitly forbidden him from saying that.
“Devils aren’t handsome,” she remarked. “You have a strange way of speaking.”
“Oh, yes,” Svengusta agreed. “He speaks like a madman. But if you pay careful attention, you’ll notice that everything he says is insane.”
“If I give you money, will you spread the news I’ve just told you?” Christopher pressed.
“Depends on how much,” she said casually.
“How much would it cost for you to spread just that news and nothing else?”
She grinned wickedly. “Maybe it’s not gold I’m after.” She started playing footsy with him under the table.
“That’s all you’ll get.”
“So that’s true as well, is it?” she smirked. “You prefer the company of your boys?”
He was really tired of this. “Why is it,” he said with ugly curiosity to Svengusta, “that every cheap whore you turn down assumes you must be a pederast?” He knew he would regret his pettiness, but right now he was simply angry.
“I’m not cheap,” the woman protested with a grin, utterly unstung by his attack.
“The Pater honors his wife’s memory,” Svengusta said. “The fact that you’ve never had a man who could remember your name the next day does not speak for all men.”
Svengusta’s point was not so easily brushed aside. The woman tipped her head and apologized. “I’m sorry, Pater, that was churlish of me. When did you lose your wife?”
“More questions,” Christopher said. He could hardly tell her he was the one who was lost. “I’m tired of your questions. You haven’t answered any of mine yet. You seem to think I should give you information for nothing.”
“Not exactly,” she countered. “I have information to trade. I can tell you the names, records, and ranks of four knights who are on their way here to take your sword, and if need be, your head, in a duel.”
“I won’t be fighting any duels. I’m done with that. But if you can give me the names of four Invisible Guild thugs, I’d gladly chat about my sex life.”
“I’m no friend of the Guild. If I had names I would have already turned them over to the Vicar. I could use the gold.”
Christopher took a gold piece from his purse. “Then use this. Spread the word about my demonstration. Emphasize how it’s a good investment opportunity.”
“Give me two gold, and it will spread twice as fast,” she grinned.
He handed over another. If it shut her up, it was worth it.
“I am not your enemy, Pater,” she said softly. “I came to see if you were Bright or Dark. Now that I know, you will receive one less challenge, on my account.”
“He’s a servant of the Lady,” Svengusta said with disgust. “Of course he’s Bright.”
“He’s a priest of War,” she countered. “Who knows what that means? Certainly not your brethren in Copperton.”
“Were you going to challenge me?” Christopher asked with some surprise. A woman with tael would be as deadly as a man. She didn’t look dangerous, but tael was invisible.
“No,” she laughed, “not in a duel, at least. But there is a certain Baronet Gregor who takes my counsel dear, and he will not do violence against the Bright. I am Lalania the troubadour, and I will execute your commission faithfully.”
Then she took her leave, like an actress walking off a stage. Everybody watched, despite their hostility. She was extremely attractive.
“I don’t think this is what Faren had in mind,” Svengusta mused. “Guild thuggery is one thing. An invasion of dueling nobility is something else. What are we going to do?”
“Give them something else to talk about,” Christopher said. “I just have to get through the next two weeks.”
15.
RECRUITING DRIVE
The next morning Christopher and Karl set out for town, taking all five of their boys with them. They were armed with cudgels and a generous supply of throwing stones. Christopher felt the troop was well-prepared for an ambush by pigeons, or even possibly an angry hedgehog.
“I don’t want to hear any whining about carrying rocks to Knockford,” Karl admonished them. “This is just the beginning. Welcome to the army.” They took this to mean all of them had been picked, so of course it was all right with them.
They were halfway to town when they met a party coming from the other direction. A man and a woman, both shaggy, mounted on horses that were equally shaggy. The woman was dressed in forest-green garlands, with a black crow perched on her shoulder, nestling into her long, curly black hair; the man was in dark-red metal, his horse an equal for Royal. This fact was not lost on the two steeds, who locked eyes and snorted, demanding the other yield the trail. Merely passing them was going to be an ordeal, except of course there was more to it than that.
“Pater Christopher,” the man said, “I presume.”
“Yes,” Christopher answered, “and no, I won’t duel you. You have no provocation. If you attack me, you’ll fight us all and be arrested to boot. You wasted your time. Sorry, go home.”
The woman said something to her man in a low voice, and he seemed disappointed.
“Not even if I wager a purse of gold against your sword?” he asked. “A friendly contest, without killing, and may the best man win?”
Now that was tempting. He could lose that duel, and the sword, and be done with it. But then he wouldn’t be a trouble magnet anymore, and Faren wouldn’t be happy.
“No, sorry, but thanks for asking.” But he had an idea. If this fellow was so keen on fighting, maybe he could be convinced to do some of Christopher’s. “However, there are a number of other, ah, adventurers looking for me, or so I’m told. They’ll be interested in dueling.”
“You recruit me as your champion, untested?” the man laughed.
“Can I do that?” Christopher asked Karl. “Can I hire this guy to fight duels for me?”
“Yes,” Karl said, “if he’s willing.” Karl addressed the other man. “May I ask your rank, Ser?”
“Only a Baronet,” he replied, “but don’t let that fool you.” He was built like a barrel, if barrels were six feet tall. “I can beat any man my own rank in a duel.” He didn’t sound like he was boasting, just relating a fact.
“That’s good enough for me,” Christopher said. He didn’t really care about losing the sword. His plan only required that it look good so Faren couldn’t ride his case. Karl’s approval would be enough for that. “Is it good enough for you?” he asked Karl.
“He bears a two-handed sword,” Karl said, referring to the five-foot-long monstrosity hanging from the pommel of the other man’s horse, “a duelist’s weapon. A shield is preferred on the chaos of battlefield, and a longsword is sufficient to slaughter unranked enemies. The greatsword is for bringing down large targets. So, yes, I would bet on him in a duel.”
“Excellent!” Christopher started to address the Baronet. “Ser, uh . . .” Didn’t people ever introduce themselves by name in this world?
“Cannan,” supplied the man.
“Ser Cannan, here’s my offer. If anybody your rank or lower challenges me to a duel, you get to fight it. If you win, you can keep their stuff. If you lose, I’ll give up my sword.”
Cannan looked at his woman, who answered in a delicate voice. “It will at least keep the blade in the hands of the Bright.”
“Well, priest,” Cannan said, “I agree. For a time, at least.”
“I think it’s only for the next two weeks, anyway,” Christopher said. “After that I hope people will have found better things to worry about.”
Cannan laughed at that, obviously amused at Christopher’s naïveté, but all he said was, “I’ll need five gold a day for expenses.”
That was a staggering sum for two weeks of protection—more than he was paying Fae for an entire year of labor. But looking at the huge, armored man, he felt butterflies in his stomach. Cannan was no playboy amateur like Hobilar. He was a bona fide warrior. The idea of facing down more of these was sickeningly frightful.
“Agreed,” he said weakly.
They dismounted for formal introductions. Christopher began to appreciate Karl’s point of view when the nobleman introduced his horse as Bloodfire and asked for Royal’s name, yet failed to notice Karl, despite the fact that the young man was covered in chain mail and armed to the teeth.
The lady Niona, introduced as Cannan’s wife, talked to both the horses in what Christopher guessed was the same language Faren had used. The horses paid rapt attention to her, but Christopher was distracted by the creature on her shoulder. He had assumed it was a bird before; up closer, it looked like a cat.
After that they could ride side by side, although Christopher was terrified.
“I’m not a very good horseman,” he warned Cannan. “If mine goes berserk and starts a fight with yours, I won’t have a clue what to do.”
“I think I can control my mount, Pater. As long as you can control your troop.” He winked broadly at the four ragged boys behind them. Niona and Karl had fallen to the back of the column, giving the warhorses plenty of room.
“Ha,” Christopher said, “that’s just the beginning. We’re going to town to get more.”
He would have explained further, but he was distracted by the sight of Niona’s cat launching itself into the air like a falcon, gliding out ahead of them, its broad black wings spread wide.
As they neared town, a rider approached from the east, obviously another duelist, his bright-silver armor glinting in the sun and his great bay stallion running with ease. He galloped up to the party, pulled alongside.
“You’re too late, Faulkner,” Cannan grinned. “But it’s good to see you again.”
“Goddarkdamnit, Cannan,” cursed the new man from under a bushy mustache. “I rode out here for nothing?” He consoled himself with a cheery thought. “Well, at least I can watch you hack him in half. Maybe I’ll learn what it is you’ve been bragging about.”
“Oh no,” Cannan said, “I’m his champion. He bought me off, he did.”
“Ha ha! . . . Damn, you’re serious.” He eyed Christopher speculatively. “Just how good is that sword? Maybe I’ll challenge you after all.”
“It’s not that good,” Christopher said. “I don’t see why everybody’s making a fuss over it. I mean, if it were a really super-powered sword, you’d think people would be afraid to face it in a duel. But no, they’re just lining up.” That wasn’t violating Faren’s rule, exactly.
“Will he let you use it?” the knight asked Cannan.
“If he wants to, sure,” Christopher answered for him.
“Gods! All right, I’ll pass. Which way is the damn tavern? This town does have one, doesn’t it?”
“Two streets down, to the left, Ser,” Karl said, surprisingly helpful. The knight nodded his thanks and galloped off.
“It’s not that we aren’t afraid of your magic blade,” Cannan explained. “I like all my bits and pieces attached. But a sword like that could make a man’s career. Now about that gold, Pater.” Christopher pulled out his purse,
hefted it sadly, and tossed the whole thing to Cannan, who snatched it out of the air with ease. “When you need me,” Cannan added, “I’ll be in the aforementioned tavern.” He galloped after the other man, followed by his lady.
“Are they all like that?” Christopher asked Karl.
“No,” the young veteran responded. “Those are the good ones.”
Christopher stood in Fae’s new workshop and tried not to say anything, since he couldn’t say anything nice. The place was a wreck. Fae stood in the front room with the poise of a dancer walking through a muddy street. Tom just grinned at both of them.
“It needs some work, true enough, but I can do that, and your purse will thank me for it.”
Like all the other shops in town, it doubled as workplace, retail outlet, and housing. Both Tom and Fae were living in it now.
“Is it safe?” Christopher asked, frowning at the way the roof sagged.
“We have nothing the Invisibles would want to steal,” Tom said, misinterpreting his concern. “And when I passed Flayn in the street yesterday, he didn’t so much as wink at me.”
“That won’t last long. About the guild, I mean. I’ll make arrangements at the church vault.” Once he started printing bonds, he’d need a safe place to store them.
Fae smiled sweetly, which on her was completely unconvincing. “As long as you’re going to the vault, we need more money. I’ve made these purchases on your pledge to pay.” She handed him a list of expenses, itself an expensive act since it was written on fine white paper.
Back to the church he went. The Vicar ambushed him there, steaming in anger.
“Do you exist solely to plague me?” she growled.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not terribly sorry, “but I am raising the troop under Faren’s orders.”
“A pox on that,” she snapped, still fuming. “Training boys for the inevitable is nothing to be ashamed of. But did you need to bring a druid into my town?”
