by M. C. Planck
All in all, an intimidating, if elegant, display.
“What do you want?” Christopher said.
“And good day to you, too, my Lord Vicar.” Joadan smiled at him. It appeared to be a genuine smile, which was even more disconcerting than the army at his back.
Christopher’s own army stood around with rather less military dispatch. Uncertain and mostly unarmed, they looked more like indolent peasants than soldiers. How Joadan had ridden into the village with so little warning was a real concern. Christopher had become so used to his military traffic dominating the road that he had forgotten other people could use it too.
“But as for what I want,” Joadan continued, “we for once have common cause. I have come seeking justice.”
“That seems,” Christopher said, “highly disputable.”
“What is not disputed is that a known murderer shelters under your wing. My purpose today is to lay claim to him, and escort him to the judgment of the Gold Throne. Please forgive my presumption, but you have given us leave to assume you will be sympathetic to such a mission.”
So his trip across the southern half of the Kingdom was now bearing rotten fruit. Nonetheless, Joadan was going to find the trip fruitless. He hadn’t turned Cannan over to the druids; he sure as hell wasn’t going to turn him over to the Gold Throne.
“Justice has already been served,” Christopher said. Cannan, standing at the foot of the steps, physically blocking any access to Christopher, didn’t bother to react to the discussion. He stood like a statue, the black sword resting point-first on the ground. “He atoned at the Cathedral.”
“Him?” Joadan shook his head, still smiling. “We have no interest in him. He has done no harm to us, however much he may have annoyed those thrice-damned druids.”
Christopher, hell-bent on defending Cannan, was thrown off-balance. “Then who?”
“A man who commits murder in cold blood. One who does not respect the laws of the land, or the wishes of his host. One who has killed a priest of our faith, and so far escaped retribution.”
Before Christopher could puzzle out whom he meant, Gregor stepped out from the chapel doors to stand next to Christopher on the steps.
“That rat’s death was an act of war.”
“He was a prisoner, and his death was illegal, as you knew at the time. But I have not come to banter words with you, Ser Gregor. I have come to speak to the noble and virtuous Vicar Christopher. Once it was not in your power to bring this rogue knight to heel, my lord, but now it is. Will you bind him over to those he has wronged? Does your White law have any hold over those you call friends?”
Christopher took a step down before he caught himself. Every fiber of his being wanted to stride across the ground, grab that smarmy bastard by the throat, and bounce his grinning head off the cobblestones until something broke.
Not mere civility stopped him. There was also the consideration that Joadan was in armor, and Christopher was not. And Joadan had already won their first duel under far more equal terms.
“You have no place to condemn me,” Christopher said. He managed not to spit the words. The hypocrisy was enough to make him gag. He knew full well that Joadan would have done the same thing. Black Bart’s priest had been a secret servant of the Shadow, and an enemy to both of them.
Another part of his mind reflected on the white-hot anger he was feeling. If he were still crippled by the ghost, he would have already attacked, Joadan’s apparent diplomatic status notwithstanding. He would have already started a battle. For surely this was the point of this tawdry exercise: to provoke open war between his little chapel and the full might of the Gold Throne.
The realization cooled him off enough to think. How could they even know these facts? Only Christopher and his people had been left alive after Bart’s failed attack in the woods.
And Cannan. Cannan, who had drunk too much and said too much to people he could not recall.
“No,” Christopher said. “I will not turn him over to you. If you want justice, you must apply to the Cathedral. I will send Gregor to atone; I will pay a ransom for your loss, but I will not commit a second wrong by putting a good man in your grasp.”
“Yet you did not hesitate to pull a bad man out from under the druid’s.”
Cannan spoke, his voice flat and hard.
“They let me go by choice. The Vicar’s words were sweeter than any wine you’ve ever poured. Now we will see if your golden tongue is sufficient to save yourself.”
“Aye,” Gregor said with a growl. “One dead priest deserves another. Putting you in the fire will brighten a thousand days.” He took a small step forward.
Joadan did not stop smiling. “Strong words from naked men. Not even a scrap of mail covers you. Perhaps you think your virtue will turn the edge of a sword?” His men leaned forward in their saddles.
Some of Christopher’s soldiers in the crowd had rifles with them. They began to filter to the front, while men in the back slipped way, running toward their barracks and the armory. The situation was escalating dangerously. He was pretty sure his men would win this fight, but not certain, and in any case the cost afterward would be staggering.
Karl’s cavalry came to the rescue. The troop was returning early from its patrol, with Lalania riding next to him at the head of the column. She must have gone after them the instant Joadan had been seen. The horsemen were green recruits, and their rifles were empty. Still, their appearance restored order. The other soldiers fell back, sorting themselves into platoons at parade rest, which was the only safe and natural thing to do in Karl’s presence.
Karl split his troop, flanking Joadan’s men on either side. They brought their horses to a halt. Joadan’s knights leaned back now that they were faced with mounted foes.
Christopher spoke with a little more confidence. “When I took Cannan from the druids, I took him to the Cathedral. I will take Gregor there as well. He will serve whatever penance the Saint assigns. I will pay whatever ransom the law demands. You will have to content yourself with that.”
“Would you deny us the right to choose our own jurisdiction, as you have chosen yours?”
“The Saint will be fair. You know that.”
“Krellyan will be fair to the victim, and even to the accused. But he will not consider the law to be a party worth fairness. Yet we put great store by fairness to the idea of law, and serve its cause even when it causes us pain. How shall the Saint’s ruling be fair to us, then?”
Christopher’s opinion of bloody theologians was, at the moment, even lower than Lalania’s.
“If your law wanted jurisdiction, you should have kept Bart on your own land. Give it up, Joadan. I am not going to be talked out of this.”
“So now you inveigh us to keep to our own domain. Should you ever venture into our lands again, be prepared for a similar argument.”
Christopher shook his head. “Joadan, believe me, if I ever come to your lands again, I will be seeking it.”
Joadan stopped smirking. His easy smile was one of satisfaction now. He had paid Christopher back with interest. Christopher had chased him out of Carrhill. Now Joadan had effectively banished Christopher from half the Kingdom.
If only that were the end of it, Christopher might have welcomed it. But Joadan was not a man to sell his grudges cheaply. Christopher watched the yellow troop ride slowly down the road, escorted by his own brown-clad cavalry, and wondered what wicked plots were roiling in that golden-clad head. A shooting match might have ultimately been the less painful path.
Lalania slipped from her saddle and came over to the steps, shaking her blonde hair.
“That was not wise, Christopher. You’ve gone from trading in promises to dealing in threats.”
“I wasn’t going to give them Gregor. That was never going to happen.”
“Of course not. Yet you gave them a pretense for war, should you ever trespass on their lands again.”
“I cannot accept this,” Gregor said, his face strangely w
hite. “I can’t let my presence put you in danger. You should have thrown me to the jackals.”
Lalania stared at him, shocked. Christopher was surprised, too.
“I still could have claimed the protection of the Saint,” Gregor added, almost as an afterthought.
“The Saint wouldn’t have thanked me for that,” Christopher said. “I’m pretty sure you’re my problem, not his. And anyway, Gregor, they’re just wrong. They’re just baiting us.”
“They’re not entirely wrong. The rat had surrendered; you had asked me to stop. And I didn’t. I cared more for my own vengeance than I cared for how it would affect you, or anyone else.”
Christopher frowned. “Gregor, get real. I wanted the rat dead as much as you did.” The thought of turning the foul little priest over to the Saint, who would have had to let him go, still sickened him.
“No.” Gregor shook his head. “Even then you were swayed by his claim to immunity. Even then you saw the bigger picture.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Christopher waved his hands in dismissal. “I’ll pay them a ransom. That’s all they want, anyway.”
“And a story,” Lalania said sourly. “They will make a fine tale out of this. They will say that the only difference between Bright and Dark is that one is honest about their crimes.”
Christopher folded his arms in satisfaction. “Good.”
Lalania frowned at him. “How do you figure?”
“At least they’ll stop thinking of us as weak.”
“The Vicar speaks truly,” Torme said from the chapel doorway, his carbine on his shoulder. “The Iron Throne respects only strength. That Joadan rode away empty-handed will say more than any tune they can whistle.”
“Joadan used to think of you as weak,” Lalania said to Christopher. “Now he takes you as a serious threat. Do you find the alteration preferable?”
“No,” Christopher answered honestly. “But it was always inevitable.”
Somehow he rode out of Burseberry without seeing Helga again. The girl had been all but hiding from him and Karl. Obviously Karl couldn’t deign to notice, but it bothered Christopher. All of his girls seemed to be deserting him. Even Lalania had given it a rest.
But the swampland called to him. It was his duty to share the biting flies and sweating humidity with his men. Lounging around the village and drinking cold lager was making him feel guilty. Worse, it was making him feel like a feudal lord. When he finally got around to asking Big Bob where the barkeeper had found ice this time of year, the man had confessed that Fae’s apprentices had delivered several blocks of the stuff as proof of their newfound abilities. Now every sip of cool beer made him feel privileged.
On the other hand, the ice was just going to melt anyway, so he didn’t stop drinking cold brews. He just felt bad about it, until Karl finally gave the order and he and his cavalry troop set off once again, riding south.
He also felt bad about abandoning Gregor. The knight was going to Kingsrock, to see the Saint and undergo the atonement spell, at Lalania’s insistence.
“You promised,” she had told him. “Gregor has to go now or forfeit your protection. And you’ll need to give him tael, to pay for the spell, and to pay a ransom for the dead priest.”
“But we can’t send Gregor out alone, now that he’s a marked target.”
Lalania sighed at him. “We are all marked targets, merely for standing in your shadow. But we can’t hide under your wings all the time. Then we’d stop being targets, and become liabilities.”
“The girl is right,” Gregor said sourly. He’d been in a surprisingly bad mood for the last few days. “I’m not afraid of the Dark. It’s not like we were on friendly terms before, and yet I managed to survive.”
“Only thanks to me,” Lalania said.
“And armor.” Christopher was feeling guilty about sending Cannan out alone and naked. “But you lost your armor, because of me.” The blue knight had spent his entire professional career in armor, had been defined, in part, by the quality of armor he had worn. And for Christopher’s sake, he had left his lying in a swamp.
“I gained a rank,” Gregor answered. “It’s a fair trade, for me. Not so much for you.”
“At least let me send a squad of cavalry with you.”
Gregor frowned. “If you make me appear weak, that will only encourage them to attack.”
“Then we’ll make the Vicar look strong instead,” Lalania said. “I’ll ride with you, and you’ll surrender your sword to me. It will look as if you are being sent in under arrest. I need to visit Kingsrock, anyway.”
“What? We just got back from there,” Christopher objected.
“Yes, well, I’m already out of blue cheese. Gregor and I will rejoin you at your blasted swamp as soon as possible.”
Lalania agreed to take four of his mercenaries, after Karl agreed he could spare that many from protecting the supply column.
So now Christopher crawled south at the pace of wagons, without music or pretty girls accompanying him. It was enough to cure him of feudal lordliness, and he started to feel better.
Two days later he was forced back into the role of lord while the Vicar of Samerhaven grilled him on his plans for the future. Christopher had only stopped by on his way through as a courtesy call, and now he was facing the Spanish Inquisition. He sat in front of the Vicar’s desk, feeling like a schoolboy called to the principal’s office.
“You have instilled a ridiculous sense of pride in our young men. While that is well enough for those under your command, what about those who train for the next draft? How will they reconcile this spirit with the realities of life as an ordinary soldier in an ordinary lord’s army?”
Christopher was pretty sure the real question was, Are you going to give them rifles? But the Vicar was too politically astute to come right out and ask.
“I am hoping that they are assigned to someone . . . friendly.”
The Vicar frowned. “The King assigns our draft levies where he thinks best. We cannot interfere with that.”
“It doesn’t hurt to ask,” Christopher said. “I’m trying to come up with a short list of names for the King. People who would be able to properly employ our draftees’ unique training.”
“A short list it must be, by necessity. To command a regiment requires at least the fifth rank.”
Christopher grinned. “Well, then, I can put your name down.”
“An ill-formed jest. I am not capable of leading an army. Nor is any other priest of the Bright Lady.”
That wasn’t true. Cardinal Faren would make an excellent strategos. Then Christopher remembered that generalship in this world was still coterminous with swordsmanship.
“Then perhaps you could help me by suggesting some names.”
“The Baron of Parnar is a good man, and old enough that he is unlikely to engage in foolish adventures. However, for that very reason, the King is unlikely to favor him. There is another, more obvious choice. A man who is righteous, generous, careful, ambitious, and wildly successful.”
“Really? Who?” Christopher liked the sound of this fellow. He could use a dozen of them, starting yesterday.
The Vicar looked at him without pity. “Lord Duke Nordland.”
Christopher drummed his fingers on the Vicar’s desk. “Like I said, it’s going to be a short list. Really short.” The Blue Duke might be everything the Church wanted in a lord, but he lacked the creativity that Christopher needed. Trying to teach the Duke a new way to fight would have been hard enough in the best of circumstances. After the goblin debacle, it would be impossible.
“You must learn to set aside your personal differences for the sake of the Kingdom.” The Vicar was lecturing him like a headmaster talking to a bright but difficult student. Christopher found it very galling, particularly since it was exactly the sort of thing he might say.
“It’s not just me, Brother. I can’t put my men under him. Half their spirit comes from standing fast where he fled. Can you imagine him
looking into their faces and seeing that every day? He’d be hanging them for insubordination on an hourly basis.”
“True enough,” the Vicar agreed, shaking his head sadly. “But Nordland is a force for good. You must find some way of healing this rift and putting it behind you.”
Christopher knew exactly what it would take to resolve the issue. It would take Nordland admitting his way was wrong. And since Nordland’s way was the King’s way, that admission wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. But heretical treason probably wasn’t the solution the Vicar was looking for.
“I’m already over it. I’ll meet Nordland halfway to anywhere. But he needs to learn from his mistakes, and I can’t help him with that. Maybe you can.” That was a good idea. Sic these lecturing moralists on the Duke for a while, and maybe they’d give him a break.
The Vicar grimaced. “I am afraid there is little one of my station can say to a Lord Duke that would carry any weight. Why, I routinely fail to talk sense into my own Church brothers.”
Carrhill wasn’t any less wearying, but in a different way. With the wizard, Christopher had to be careful not to offend him, while concealing the fact that he was being careful. If the wizard suspected he was being patronized or played, he would likely become unpleasant, and Christopher had a healthy respect for how unpleasant a wizard who pretended to be an undead monster could be.
He settled on honesty, combined with focusing on the wizard’s good points, which were admittedly few and far between. The wine the man served was one of them. Christopher had no idea where the stuff came from, but it was light and fragrant and very, very potent.
“How goes the flying?” the wizard asked. Talking shop was about all they had in common. Since it was unlikely to lead to thorny moral discussions, Christopher didn’t mind.
“I hardly get to do it anymore. My security detail says it’s too risky.”
The wizard chuckled. “I used to only fly while invisible. Then I realized that zooming around without being seen meant that the only things that would attack me would be things that could see me. And since anything that can see an invisible wizard is ten times worse than anything that can’t, I just stopped leaving the city.”
