by M. C. Planck
But Christopher needed a source of constant power, and the mill sat idle half the time. The iron fist of efficiency was about to descend on these pastoral, unsuspecting people, and Christopher was its top hatchet man. He tried not to think about that on the way to Dereth’s party.
The event was as tedious as a medieval coronation. It seemed half the town had crowded into the church hall to witness boring speeches and meaningless prayers. At the end of it all Dereth ate a small purple ball, everybody cheered, and kegs were knocked open, transforming the event into Oktoberfest in an instant. Christopher hoped the free-flowing booze would earn him a little forgiveness.
As it was, the smiths were less concerned with Christopher than they were with Karl. The contracts were still not issued, and no one knew why. Unable to discuss the matter without lying, Christopher attached himself to Dereth’s side, enjoying the smith’s family. The smith’s daughter was remarkably cheerful, considering her fiancé was lying cold and stiff in the church morgue.
“I have faith, my lord,” Dynae said, when he indelicately broached the topic. “He will have many brushes with death at your side, but you will never lose him.”
Christopher did not feel it was fair to call it a brush with death when somebody actually died, but he chose not to quibble. The girl might explain who she had faith in, and Christopher did not want that burden. Let Faren carry it, and the grief, if the boy did not come back.
Escaping the girl and her radiant complacency, he trapped Jhom in a corner alone when the man went to refill his mug for the seventh time.
“What do you think of this?” Christopher asked the young smith, handing him a schematic.
Jhom studied the paper with appreciation. “Drawing this lathe looks like it was almost as much work as building it would have been.”
“Could your father’s shop make it?”
“Of course. . . . What’s this part?” Jhom pointed to the bearing sleeve.
Christopher handed him another drawing, a schematic blow-up of the part.
“How many more of these are there?” Jhom asked with dawning comprehension.
Christopher grinned. “About two dozen,” he answered. “Still think your shop could make it?”
“Yes,” Jhom said loyally. “But it would take some time.”
“Time is one thing I hear you’ve got these days.”
“We won’t once Goodman Karl finally puts in his order.”
“Then you’d better get started.”
“How is it powered?” Jhom asked, leafing through the drawings. The young man was an engineer at heart. That didn’t mean Dereth was wrong, though. Christopher liked to think of himself as a pretty good engineer, but he handled a drill press like a pregnant elephant danced the ballet. Great machinists were born, not made, like artists and musicians.
But power was a topic Christopher didn’t want to discuss at the moment, so he changed the subject.
“I hear you trained for the priesthood as a boy.”
“A youthful indiscretion.” The smith’s joke could not hide his embarrassment.
“Nothing wrong with being a priest,” Christopher said with a wink, although he knew it wasn’t considered a particularly virile profession like soldiering or smithing. “But it’s even better to be a smith who can read and write. How are your sums? Do you do the books for your father?”
“Adequately,” Jhom said, close to blushing.
“Do you enjoy it?” But Christopher had gone too far, and Jhom’s face turned hard. “Journeyman, I did not come to mock you,” Christopher pleaded. “This is Crazy Pater Christopher here, who never means what everyone else means. I came to hire you. I want you to oversee building this lathe, and then I want you to oversee running it.”
“What has that got to do with sums?” Jhom asked, softening a little. Christopher apparently still had some credit left on that crazy card.
“Because I don’t want you to run the lathe, I want you to supervise it. I want you to hire other men to run this lathe and the other tools I’ll be making. I want you to take orders, pay salaries, buy raw materials, deliver finished goods, settle disputes, encourage the workers and satisfy the customers. I want you to run a shop. Not be a shop, but run one. One that can work according to drawings.
“Everybody likes you,” Christopher pointed out. “They don’t particularly like me. There’s a chance for both of us to gain here.”
“How big of a shop?” Jhom asked, reluctantly curious.
This was a delicate moment. “Pretty big. I’m thinking of hiring a few Seniors to work in it.”
Jhom was not unappreciative of Christopher’s ambition and grinned wryly. “That would be a shop worth running. And a challenge, too, to keep such noble horses pulling in the same direction.”
“There would be a salary involved. And a share of the profits.” But Christopher wasn’t going to offer to promote any more smiths.
Jhom was tempted but not yet ready to hop the fence, so Christopher stalled for time.
“Just think about it, Journeyman. Build this lathe for me and think about it.” He was trying to be subtle and patient, but it wasn’t his strong suit.
At the end of it all, when he was tired and ready to go home, he was ambushed. He walked through a door, heading for the stables, and found himself face-to-face with the unsmiling Vicar Rana.
“First smiths, and now millers? Is there no satiation for your greed?”
Small towns and secrets. He should have known.
“I’ll pay for it. Name a fair price.” Although, since he would be paying with paper, he wasn’t sure any price could be fair.
“No. We need merely wait until you are drafted, and then our lives can resume their normal course.”
Christopher shook his head reflexively. The machine economy he built to make weapons would, inevitably, revolutionize the making of other things. Nothing would be the same in his wake.
“The wagon of the world has changed direction, Sister,” he said in as neutral a tone as he could manage, “and now it is I who seek to keep your head from falling under the wheel.”
“That is not for you to say. This is my county and my responsibility. I must look out for its people to the best of my ability. I say, no more.”
He stood, blocked by her immobility, but only temporarily. She saw his calculation on his face and dared him on.
“Do it. Go over my head and yank on your pet saint’s chain.”
“I’ll have to.” He already had, with the seizure of the Old Bog. If he stopped to think of all the ways he had insulted the Vicar, he would be lost; she had every right to be angry, and he knew it. That his insults were the result of ignorance rather than malice was no more balm to him than it was to her. “And he will do it. It is for the good of the realm, Vicar. Not just the county.”
She stared at him, basilisk-like, slow and impassive.
“We should have barred our doors and let you freeze in the snow. But instead we showed you mercy, and now everywhere I look there are men with swords. Blood and death run riot in my streets, and my people burn with a fever of discontent I cannot cure and I cannot understand. The Lady does not reveal her path to me, and I fear of losing my step.”
Her gaze had drifted and now seemed focused on something in the distance. Christopher, unnerved by the dark tone, tried to shrug it off.
“Change isn’t always bad.”
“Like the man you are,” she said, shaking her head, “you do not understand. I do not understand either, but I feel. And I would throw you to the cold myself, except that I feel it is too late. The dam has burst, far, far upstream, and now we must prepare for the flood.”
A sharp spring storm blew through his village the next day, and when it passed, letting the sun shine unimpeded in the bright-blue sky, Cardinal Faren’s carriage rolled into the square.
Like a clown car, the vehicle disgorged a surprising number of unlikely figures, half a dozen hard-faced men in rough clothes. Karl followed them, unsmiling
, and then Faren, even less so.
“Mercenaries?” Christopher guessed. The men had that look.
“Police,” Faren said, his lip curling with the lie. “Our churches have guardsmen, and yours is entitled as well.”
“Trash,” Karl said, “swept from the gutters of Kingsrock. For food, shelter, and the booty you’ve won from Bart, they will protect you until the draft.”
“Squires,” one of the mercenaries said, kneeling and drawing his sword. He offered the weapon to Christopher, hilt first. “All at least the first Apprentice rank, none above the third. And we are Bright enough, as the Cardinal will attest, if not so lily-pure as Goodman Karl.” The rest of the men knelt behind him, though they had no weapons to offer.
Christopher recognized the sword as the one he’d taken from Hobilar and given to Karl. He turned a questioning look to Karl.
“They cannot serve me,” Karl had said. “They must be tied to your Church, not mine. And I cannot serve you. I told you I could not accept a sword from your hand, so do not chastise me for giving it back.”
Gregor had been appraising the men, and now he spoke approvingly. “A squire in armor is half a knight, and a knight inside stone walls is worth three. Bart would not dare attack you now with less than an army.”
“Then let us hope he does not bring an army,” Faren growled. “Our allies are sworn to our Church, not yours.”
“Can’t I appeal to the King for protection?” Christopher said.
“Not without pointing out that the Vicar is unable to provide it,” Faren answered, “which we would strongly prefer you not do. Indeed, Bart murdering you on her land could be cause for the King to unseat her.
“If you’re really worried,” Faren said, as an afterthought, “you could come stay in the Cathedral.”
Christopher shook his head. He wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything hiding in a monk’s cell.
“No thanks.”
Faren nodded, as if the answer was expected, and went inside to undo the most recent casualty. With a minimum of ceremony the Cardinal reached out and stuffed life back into Kennet’s body. It was, in its way, a compliment: Kennet received a man’s resurrection, not a boy’s.
Lalania stopped by on one of her intermittent visits. She breezed into the chapel, kissed Gregor warmly, flirted with the boys, and frowned at the mercenaries.
“What’s this lot?” she asked. The men eyed her with equal suspicion.
A bottomless pit that I shovel food and beer into, Christopher wanted to say. But instead he answered, “Karl felt I needed a bigger escort.”
“Supposing Bart does attack, how will you tell his army apart from yours?” Dressed in the black-enameled armor, the men did look like evil henchmen.
“It gets worse,” Christopher sighed. The pressure from all quarters had been too great, and Christopher had been forced to try on one of the suits of half-plate. Karl had appropriated the remaining one.
“Is Bart going to attack again?” Karl demanded.
Gregor, knowing the troubadour better, waited patiently for her to get around to it on her own.
“I don’t think so,” she said, turning serious. Effortlessly she managed to arrange things so that only Karl, Christopher, and Gregor could hear her. “You’ve stung him twice, Pater, and each one hurt. He knows you don’t have his ring, and he wants that more than your sword. I wouldn’t give a copper for Cannan’s health, though. Bart’s fifth rank again.”
“How is that possible?” Gregor could not conceal his dismay.
“He harvested two entire villages,” she answered, her voice angry and defeated.
“He cannot!” Gregor moved directly to outrage, skipping shock and disbelief along the way.
“He can do whatever the Dark he wants, on his land,” she snapped. “No lord will war over peasants. Yes, technically it is illegal, but that hardly seems to be a concern for him these days.
“He was already fifth when he came for you the second time. After he was revived from your duel, he spared no time in lowering his people. But killing his knights put a real crimp in his stride. He was close to the point of rebellion with the harvesting, and now he has hardly any loyal servitors. He wants to harvest another village and make more knights, but he needs the knights first to keep the villages under control.”
“How do you know all this?” Gregor demanded. “Tell me you did not go into his lands to do your spying.”
“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” she said breezily, but Gregor was white-eyed and angry at her terrible risk.
“How did he get away from us?” Karl always focused on the pragmatic.
“That I don’t know yet,” she said. “Obviously he has powerful friends to provide him with magic. But it was a low device. I am certain it transported him no more than a few hundred feet. He was away from his estate too long to account otherwise.”
“So if we had pursued him hard, we might have had him then,” Karl said.
“Not at all,” Lalania said. “You forget his army of Invisible thugs. The good news is, they never back a losing horse. Bart’s defeat has forfeited their support.”
“He has forfeited his right to rule,” Gregor declared with impotent anger.
“We should take the fight to him, then,” Christopher said. The best defense was always a good offense. “Can we?” But everybody was staring at him. “What? It’s an honest question.”
“You want to increase your holdings already? You’ve barely finished decorating this one.” Lalania was laughing at him. “No, you can’t. Assuming you could march your gang over there without interference, you’d still have to face his men-at-arms. And assault his keep. And on his lands, his powerful friends could show up and disintegrate you, and no one would object. Finally, who would you put in his place? Kingsrock looks the other way when a lesser lord inherits or buys land, but they won’t stand for a knight rank taking it. We’d need a peer to hold the title.”
“The rules seem rather stacked against me.”
“They are,” Gregor said. “That’s the point of rules.”
“Look at the bright side,” Lalania said. “You’ve beaten him every time you’ve seen him and made a handsome profit in the bargain.”
“I didn’t make so much profit the second time. In fact, I spent all of it getting ready for his next attack.”
The troubadour twisted her pretty mouth into a sort of smile. “Welcome to the game of thrones, Pater.”
“And at the expense of a lot of villagers,” Christopher said, getting to the real root of his objection. “Not ours, but his—but human beings nonetheless.”
“You can’t be held to account for his actions,” Gregor said instantly, but Christopher could see that the girl wasn’t so certain.
Karl was even less sympathetic than the knight. “You sound as if the death of those peasants was a bad thing. Their suffering is over, and they’re not toiling to enrich the Dark anymore. With any luck we can get him to harvest his entire county.” The young man was the only peasant here. No one dared to object to his bitter assessment of life as the property of a wicked monster.
“When you’re drafted, Pater, you’ll be protected somewhat by the commander of your regiment,” Lalania soothed. “And more protected by sheer anonymity. Eventually the word will get out that you have neither the sword nor the ring.” He’d told both of them the truth about the sword. Nobody was going to die for a lie on his account. Well, no more than already had. “Until then we will stand by you,” she swore. He noticed she didn’t hesitate to volunteer Gregor’s help, which was particularly galling since she never stayed long at the chapel.
“I appreciate that,” Christopher said, grateful for whatever she chose to give. “If you can keep me alive until the draft, then I’ll take it from there. I’ve got plans of my own. I just need time.”
“And money,” she said pointedly.
“Well, of course,” Christopher said. “That goes without saying.”
22.
FIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD
Less than a week later, Karl’s paranoia was validated. When the two boys on watch at the front door quietly slipped into unconsciousness, the backup watch—a mercenary taking his ease at the fireplace—silently raised the alarm.
Christopher was shaken awake by Karl with a hand over his mouth. He pulled on pants and boots, grabbed his sword, and went out into the hall.
The boys were helping the mercenaries with their armor, Karl and Gregor in their midst. No one was talking. The two young men at the doorway were still asleep, undisturbed.
Karl signaled to wait, pointed at Christopher’s armor. Christopher shook his head. He didn’t have time for that. Instead he grabbed Charles and went back into his room. His digging crew had appreciated the invention of blasting sticks; now it was time to see what this world thought of the classic nail bomb.
He got his satchel, pulled out a hooded lantern and gave it to the boy. While Charles lit the candle in the little tin box, Christopher found Kennet. He pulled a cardboard tube wrapped in a layer of nails out of the satchel, made throwing motions, and handed Kennet the satchel and the tube. Charles came up, and the two silently nodded their understanding.
Another boy made the mistake of passing too close to a shuttered window. In the dim glow of the one light-stone they always left uncovered in the ceiling, he cast a gentle shadow, and the thunk of a crossbow bolt impaling the wooden shutter was startling.
“They know we’re up,” Karl said. He was only halfway into his armor. Christopher looked around, but all his boys already had helmets and pants on, so he peeked through a window.
Two large wagons were pulling up south of the village. In the starlight he could see figures moving. He stepped away from the window before they decided to shoot him.
“A lot,” he announced. Another peek and, “Dammit, they’re opening the barn!” He stepped away again rather than watch his fortune in horseflesh run out into the hands of the enemy. At least they wouldn’t take Royal.
