Judgment at the Verdant Court

by M. C. Planck

  And he would catch her. She knew, obviously had known, long before he did. In retrospect it was obvious. He desperately needed her help and expertise in precisely the areas she had just tripped him up.

  On top of all that, despite everything, he still thought of her as a friend. Even now she acted the part, and he believed her.

  She was watching his face, waiting for him to work through the logic. “Yes,” she said, once his indrawn breath signaled his surrender. She might have gone on to make a salacious comment, to suggest that she was his in any way he wanted her, that her duties did not stop at sundown. But she didn’t. She bit her lip, and said nothing. Something else she would not have done a day ago.

  He didn’t know if it was due to her promise to stop trying to seduce him, or if it wasn’t funny anymore now that he had the power to command her. It didn’t matter. She would leave his tangled emotions and aching desires alone, and he would breathe easier for it.

  So would his soldiers. “You’ve reassured the men that I was chaste, I assume? You know how much that means to them.” It came out bitterer than he had intended.

  “That you dare to say it, with your affiliation binding you to honesty, is more compelling than any song I can sing. And more grist for your legend. You walked into a nest of vipers and emerged without a scratch. No merely mortal man could have exercised such self-restraint.”

  Already she was earning her diplomatic keep. Her language was too carefully chosen. Glancing around, he noticed his guards would not catch his eye.

  “For crying out loud . . . already?” It wasn’t even noon yet.

  “Allow my College a little pride, Christopher. Let us at least hold the interest of ordinary men.”

  She had revealed the information in a way that would make it easy for him not to punish the men. And he shouldn’t. He hadn’t explicitly told them to refrain from extracurricular activities—not that he had thought it necessary to specify such an order between the hours of breakfast and lunch—but the fact was he had set them at liberty. On the other hand, if he wanted to instill a little discipline, Lalania would not oppose him.

  She had proven her worth, as if it had ever been in doubt. He opened the silver vial he wore around his neck and took out the purple rock inside. The stone she had given him had already merged with it, forming a single large lump, but it was a trivial matter to carve off a specific amount.

  “Is that enough?”

  Lalania was, for once, quiet. She nodded her agreement, without speaking.

  “I assume you’ll be even more useful to me as a minstrel? And that promoting you won’t invalidate our contract?” He thought of something cruel to say, a way to pay her back for all the times she had tread on his moral uprightness, knowing he wouldn’t be able to lie. “As my advisor, do you think this is an effective use of our resources? You’ll tell me if it isn’t, right?”

  She stared at him with agony and, underneath it, a definite streak of respect for the cleverness of his revenge. “Yes, I would tell you. I cannot lie to you for personal gain. And yes, it would make me more effective, granting me a new rank of magic.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the power to change my appearance.”

  There wasn’t really any need for that; she was already distressingly attractive.

  “Just think of all the money I’ll save on hair dye.” She was smiling now, making jokes like usual, but he could see the hunger in her eyes. Remembering the first time he had walked on air, he had to sympathize. Magic was fun.

  “And what else?”

  A wince. “A spell you have reason to despise. But understand, I am not a rapist. Any man I cannot tempt into my bed by ordinary craft I do not deserve. The spell has legitimate uses—talking your way past a suspicious guard, or gaining the trust of a suspected informer.”

  Both Christopher and his most loyal friend and subaltern Karl had been subject to the charm spell. It was an absolutely painless procedure, but the idea of it left a foul taste that was hard to erase.

  “I cannot deny how much I want this, Christopher. There are only half a dozen minstrels in the realm. None won the rank before their thirtieth year.”

  “And how old are you?” There was a real test of her new oath. No woman liked to reveal her age.

  “I don’t have to tell you everything, only what you need to know. But I brought up age, so I will tell you this time. I am twenty-three.”

  The woman was cynical and world-wise enough to be twice that age. It was a sad fact of medieval life that people became adults too young. On this world, with its bloody feast of souls and rigid hierarchies of power, it could only be worse.

  He pushed the purple stone across the table, letting it come to rest in front of her.

  “I’ve decided that your new powers are worth the cost.”

  She lifted the stone gently, like a luscious, delicate fruit. Looking at tael always made his mouth water. Although it had no taste or smell, the idea of eating it was universally appealing. Lalania parted her lips and put the little purple ball on the tip of her tongue. Taking away her hand she let it balance there, before curling her tongue into her mouth and swallowing.

  Christopher coughed and looked away. His guards were not so disciplined: they stared at the woman in slack-jawed lust.

  “Thank you, my Lord Vicar,” she said. “On behalf of my College, I thank you for your investment in us. We will not disappoint you.”

  He hadn’t done it for her College. Nor did he give two beans about her new rank of magic. He had done it for himself. The institution had assigned him her service; he had already won her friendship, but now he owned her gratitude. It was a position of debt she would have never let herself be placed in yesterday. The woman who so freely gave away her body had always understood that accepting a promotion would bind her against her will. He had bought her, but only after she had volunteered the price. He had manipulated her in such a way that she would never blame him for it, but would think it her own choice.

  That ancient crone of a skald was not the only one who could play the game.

  With a brief word, he said the blessing over his meal that would render it harmless and toxin-free. The meat had long gone cold. He didn’t ask to have it warmed. Right now he didn’t feel like he deserved it.

  He spent the rest of the day in the library, reading books at random, trying to get a feel for the intellectual history of this world. Their obsession with the supernatural was aggravating: far too many books would state some difficult problem, and then appeal to the reader to commune with gods or demons for the answer.

  The other notable topic was significant by its absence. The dreaded hjerne-spica hardly made an appearance. The Black Harvest was presented as a bogeyman, waiting in the dark to snap up undeserving realms with weak kings and foolish nobles. The Skald had spoken of it as historical fact; the books described it as myth.

  As history, it explained a lot of observations Christopher had already made. The level of technology, the lack of ruins, the uncommon fluidity of their feudal society. They simply hadn’t had time to build very much, and before they would get the chance, the harvest would reduce them to starting over. It also helped explain the nonexistence of genetic diversity—everybody he had seen looked like they had stepped out of a Norwegian tourist video, which made sense if they were all descendants of a small group. It was the sort of topic he’d really like to discuss with an outside observer—like, for instance, his erstwhile patron Marcius. Why hadn’t the god mentioned any of this stuff in the first place?

  When he realized he was doing the same thing the books did—turning to the supernatural for explanations—he decided it was time for bed.

  When his guard detail opened the door, he was surprised to see it was dark. The Loremasters had let him read through dinner. There was a covered plate of food waiting for him in his room. The College had found the perfect solution to the problem of dragging him out of the library to eat or explaining to his guards why he coul
dn’t take food into that room of irreplaceable paper.

  This was exactly the kind of diplomatic skill he needed to wage his covert revolution. Recruiting the College to his side was worth the trip. He’d made the right decision. As he drifted off to sleep in the downy comfort of the feather mattress, with its silk-lined sheets, he wondered whose idea it had really been.

  When Christopher stepped out of his chamber in the morning, he was surprised to see two soldiers standing outside the door.

  “Were you there all night?”

  “Not us, sir, but some of us were. We switched off every two hours.”

  “That probably wasn’t necessary. I’m sure the security of the College is adequate.” No doubt it was better than what two unranked men could provide, despite the firepower of their carbines. There were all sorts of spells that could only be defeated by sheer rank.

  “It was them we were protecting you from, sir.”

  He started to argue with the guard, until he realized they weren’t protecting his life.

  Karl had warned him. His celibacy was no longer his choice. It had become part of his contract with his men.

  Remembering that one of them had recently died in his service, he decided he didn’t have any room to complain.

  “Thank you, soldier. Let’s get some breakfast for the road.” The sooner he left this place behind, the easier his life would be.

  Lalania was waiting for him in the dining room, accompanied by Uma and an absurdly attractive raven-haired woman with an awe-inspiring bustline who brought a bowl of porridge to his table.

  “Remember that you are welcome here at any time, Christopher.” The dark-haired woman spoke with the Skald’s voice. “We are honored by your presence.”

  He had last seen her in the presence of a null-stone, where she could not hide her age behind magic—and where Uma could not hide her disfigurement. Here, in the hard light of day, they were both younger and more beautiful than Lalania. His love of honesty warred with pity, until he remembered what they did with their illusions.

  “Thank you, Lady Friea. Your hospitality has been . . .” He looked at his men wolfing down bowls of porridge while pretty women brought them milk and honey, giggling and touching them familiarly. “. . . superfluous.”

  “We try,” she said with a wink. “We are sorry that you must rush off. We had to hurry through Lala’s graduation ceremony.”

  Lalania was dressed more modestly than usual. She also had a new instrument in her hands, a gold-painted harp of some kind. She bowed, showing it off.

  “I’ve given my lute to another student, with best wishes and high hopes for her education. The lyre is the instrument of the minstrel. It advertises my status, to your credit. Or it would be, if I wore your colors.”

  He didn’t have any colors. His men dressed in brown, which was a neutral, meaningless shade in this hue-obsessed world, where supernatural affiliation and personal moral development were measured in primary colors. The color he was entitled to was white. He had a suit of armor painted like that, but he couldn’t imagine anything made of cloth staying white for more than five minutes in the swamplands his army now occupied.

  “We could get you one of our coats, I guess.” The huge, floppy leather duster would render Lalania just another shapeless form in his army.

  Come to think of it, that was a marvelous idea.

  Lalania didn’t seem quite so sold on it. “As your advisor, I have to tell you that a man of your rank would normally dress his companions differently. Such as a white fur cloak, trimmed in blue, with fastenings of ivory or pearl.”

  “Blue?” Uma said. “Wouldn’t blood red be more appropriate for a war-priest?” Blue was the color of law; red was violence unchecked. Green and yellow were the more common, muted degrees of good and evil. Christopher understood this well enough now to frown at Uma’s jibe.

  “Enough, ladies.” The Skald smiled indulgently, belying the authority in her tone. “The Vicar is not interested in fashion, only practicality. Brown serves for him, and it will serve for you, Lala.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I will be honored to serve as you see fit. But you might want to invest in a real wardrobe, in case you are ever called before the King.”

  She really meant, in case she was ever called before the King. Christopher already had been, and he’d worn his army uniform.

  “I’d rather not.” He left it to his audience to determine which, exactly, he’d rather not.

  “It may be unavoidable,” the Skald warned him. “Your path takes you through Kingsrock.”

  He and Lalania had ridden off the roads and through Black counties to avoid that place. Except, of course, they had really been riding to the Bloody Mummers.

  “So Nordland’s not a danger anymore?” He tried not to sound too annoyed at having been misled.

  “I would not go so far as that,” Lalania said, doing a very good job of not being ashamed. “But you have a dead man to escort to your Cathedral. No one can find provocation in that.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Two days to Kingsrock, another day and a half to Knockford. Assuming you wish to ride a hard pace, and not a killing pace. Your horses have burnt weeks of fat in the last three days. They need time to recover, as do your men.”

  The men had the temerity to snicker over that.

  “Well, let’s get moving.” He was starting to worry about his fort, out there in the swamp. It had been many days since he had left. What if the ulvenmen had returned? “I’ve got an army waiting for me.”

  “Give us an hour, Christopher, and we can set your mind at rest on that score.” The Skald had pitched her voice for his ears alone.

  He almost asked how, but of course the answer would be the same as it always was. Magic.

  Turning to Kennet, he issued the order he’d been trying to give for the last twenty-four hours. “Corporal, be ready to ride in one hour.” He stood up from the table. “Lady Friea, is there anything you need from me?”

  “Your presence would indeed be helpful. After you have dined, please join us in the east parlor.”

  He picked up his bowl, now gone cold. “Lead on. I’ll eat on the way.”

  “Your first lesson in scrying,” Lalania whispered to him. “Names have power.”

  The Skald recited a list of names with the same cadence Christopher would have used on a phone number.

  “Karl Treyeingson, son of Aelf, in the reign of Treywan, the Church of Krellyan, the army of Christopher Sinclair.”

  So this was why nobody used their names. Christopher had been handing out his supernatural address to everybody he met, setting himself up for an unknown amount of unwanted attention.

  Murmuring in a strange tongue, both liquid and harsh at the same time, the Skald lit candles of various sizes and set them around her crystal ball in a complex pattern. The flames changed color as they burned; their reflections and refractions in the crystal coalesced and danced until they took shape, forming a suddenly clear image in the center of the ball. Karl, frowning at a group of soldiers.

  “You call that clean?” he barked. “Try again. This time you have only thirty seconds.”

  The men fell about their rifles with ramrods and patches. Christopher nodded approvingly. The swamp was filthy. He hadn’t invented bluing yet; mud in the barrels would rust his guns like a plague.

  “Are you reassured all is well?” Uma asked him. She was doing the talking now that the Skald was busy maintaining her concentration on the spell.

  “Can you scan the surrounding countryside?” Why send scouts into danger when they had this?

  “No,” Uma replied, dashing his hopes. “We need an individual to target. If you are satisfied, we have a long list of other people we’d like to check up on.”

  “The ulvenman shaman. You should check on him.” Christopher would love to know what that monster was up to.

  “Does he have a name?” Uma was being sarcastic; she knew perfectly well the two had nev
er been formally introduced. Christopher could not even be sure it was a he. “Bring us a name, or series of names, that identifies your foe and no other. Until then, you have given us too little to waste our time on. Even if we could create a link to an ulvenman shaman, how would we know it was your ulvenman shaman, and not some other creature that threatens some other kingdom in some other corner of the endless expanse of the plane of Prime?”

  That was another question he really wanted to ask, but didn’t dare. How big was this world? The Skald had apparently reassured herself that Christopher wasn’t a magically disguised brain-eating squid, but she still didn’t know he was from another planet. If he started asking about cosmology, she might figure it out.

  Uma had already dismissed him, turning her attention to the Skald. He let Lalania lead him out of the room, while she finished Uma’s list of disclaimers.

  “Do not ask us to scry on peers, priests, or wizards. The spell can be detected, so we do not normally look in on those we don’t wish to offend. They generally do us the same courtesy in return.”

  He was beginning to appreciate why she was always so careful with her words. Who knew who was watching? The choice of location for the other night’s conversation with the Skald made more sense now. Under the protection of the null-stone, they could speak without fear of being overheard.

  The second lesson Lalania was trying to impart to him was more immediate: don’t annoy people with high ranks and unknown powers. Climbing into the saddle at the head of his column of men, he hid his rueful grin. Lalania would be no more successful at educating him on that topic than Cardinal Faren had been.

  2

  HOME TO ROOST

  Riding the highways with a dozen armed men presented only one danger, and that was to his purse. Feeding, rooming, and stabling the horde was expensive, and even Lalania couldn’t bargain for a better price. He traveled like nobility, so he paid like nobility. His men and horses were locusts, consuming everything in their path and leaving behind nothing but gold. His gold.