by M. C. Planck
She shook her head sadly, and went back to scowling at the world.
“Also, you are assuming he will win. Though I love the man as much as you do, he will be newly minted, without the time to learn how best to use his rank.”
Christopher winced in sympathy. “Can’t Gregor and Cannan teach him what he needs to know?”
“I’m sure they could. If they had time.” With a final minatory glare, she flounced off to do whatever it was she did when she wasn’t haranguing him.
A trumpet blew, and the fort’s gates opened. A mounted patrol was returning. Christopher watched them troop into the main yard with only a little anxiety. They had suffered no casualties since he had returned, but the worry never went away completely.
Christopher sighed and went to find his adjutant.
“Kennet . . . call a staff meeting.”
“Sir.” The young man snapped out a salute and trotted off to arrange it. Christopher went to his cabin to array his arguments for battle. Briefly he considered just holding Karl down and force-feeding him a lump of tael. It might be easier.
“So that’s the situation,” Christopher finished. “I’ve no idea who to put forward to lead the next regiment. All of you have been here longer than I have, so I’m going to ask you for suggestions. Each of you must give me the name of a suitable candidate.”
He’d set it up this way on Lalania’s advice. Once Karl saw how short the list was, and how likely the new regiment was to go to someone unacceptable, he would be pressured to accept it for himself. The list of nobles would be whittled down until none remained, and adding a new one would be the only answer. Their clever plan, like so many plans, did not survive contact with the enemy.
“I have a name at hand, Brother,” Disa said immediately. “I nominate Ser Gregor.”
“Wait, what?” Gregor said, but Disa plowed on.
“He is intimately acquainted with your arms, holds the respect of your men, and has earned your trust a thousand times.”
Lalania tried to steer the conversation back on track. “No one doubts Ser Gregor’s qualities, Prelate, only his rank. King’s law requires the regiment be captained by no less than fifth, and Ser Gregor is but fourth.”
“I know this.” Disa was adamant. “But I also know you intend to promote a candidate if none suitable can be found. Promoting Ser Gregor would cost half as much as promoting anyone else.”
Christopher bit his lip and glanced around the room. Who had betrayed his secret? Surely not Lalania, since it was her plan too. Not Gregor, who seemed genuinely surprised by Disa’s argument, and in any case how would he have known? Cannan’s face was unreadable; Christopher wasn’t even sure he was paying attention to the conversation. Torme was also carefully inscrutable, but he always was. D’Kan was too obviously shocked by the mere suggestion to have had wind of it before.
Only in Karl’s eyes did he see anything amiss. Behind the ordinary serene indifference was the spark of triumph. The boy had outflanked him.
“Gregor is not mine to promote,” Christopher said.
“He can be,” Disa shot back. “He always intended to take a rank of priest next. Now that the White fields a war god, he can take your colors as easily as he can take the Blue.”
“He would be a poor priest with only a single rank of it,” Lalania said. An undiplomatic comment; the woman must be quite flustered.
“My lord,” Disa said, addressing her response to him rather than Lalania. “You have already bought the powers of a Curate, when you promoted me. For the mere price of the first rank the Church gave me, you can buy my freedom. For the price of promoting Ser Gregor, you can buy my fealty. I will serve him, as long as he serves you. And he will serve you as long as your new Church serves the realm.”
“Woman, hush,” Gregor said with a growl. “You embarrass me.”
She blushed, but she didn’t hush. “I embarrass myself, but only because it must be done.”
Torme leaned forward. “How will you serve us, Sister? Priests of the Bright Lady cannot join Marcius’s Church. Cardinal Faren would never allow such a commingling.”
“I will not serve you,” Disa said. “I will serve Ser Gregor. I owe Krellyan only the price of my first rank. I owe no one the price of my next three, as Brother Christopher named that a gift when he gave it. So for a trivial price I will be a free agent, and no one will think it unseemly that a wife cleaves to her husband.”
“A wife?” Lalania said, perhaps more sharply than she intended.
“Yes. We are already betrothed, though we set our wedding date for after my release from the draft.”
Everyone looked at Gregor.
“I should have told you earlier,” the knight said, “but I did not want to influence your decisions, Christopher. She is still yours to command for two more years.”
Christopher rubbed his face with both hands. “This is not what I had in mind.”
“Perhaps not, my lord, but it is wisdom nonetheless,” Disa said.
“Will you truly turn from your family’s gods and serve Marcius?” Torme asked Gregor.
“Aye,” the blue knight said, “and for much the same reason as you.”
“With your permission?” Torme asked, and waited until Gregor nodded. He cast a spell and stared intently at Gregor for a moment. Then he turned to Christopher and spoke, with his face fixed in that hard way when he was going to say something Christopher might not want to hear.
“If you would have my counsel, I would give it.”
Christopher sighed, a mixture of exasperation and relief. “Of course, Torme. That’s what Faren sent you to do.”
“I, for one, would welcome Ser Gregor as our Brother.”
“Well,” Christopher said to Gregor, “as Torme comprises half of the Church of Marcius, and I comprise the other half, it appears that decision is unanimous. But will it work? Can we convince the King to give you the regiment?”
“The law is on our side,” Lalania said. “Still, with kings, that is not always enough. We will need to go to the Concord and beg his permission.”
Christopher took out his silver vial and split his remaining tael in half, handing one of the lumps to Gregor. “The final decision is up to Marcius. I can give you the tael, but I can’t give you the god’s blessing.”
“I do not expect that will be a problem,” Torme said.
Christopher would have to face the Concord alone. Lalania explained that retinues weren’t allowed; this was a gathering of peers only. Yet the party that rode the highway to Kingsrock was substantial. In addition to the score of cavalry that seemed to accompany him everywhere these days, Gregor had come along for the trip in case the King wanted to meet with him afterward. Cannan would not leave Christopher’s side until he was forced to, and was prepared to spend the entire evening in front of the castle gate. A shameless display of loyalty, Lalania said, that would only cause jealousy, but Cannan ignored her. And of course Lalania was there; she was even going to the party, though not with Christopher.
“We bards always have a standing invitation,” she said, smiling sweetly. “It’s the only event we play for free, and only if we are allowed free access.”
“Will Uma be there?” he asked.
“Of course. But you may not recognize her, and if even you do, it would probably be best not to say anything. She may be playing a role. The Skald, on the other hand, you may greet freely. She attends as a guest, not as a servant. If at all possible, seat yourself at her table. She may be able to protect you from your worst enemy—that is, to say, yourself.”
It was a true statement. Christopher was extremely uncomfortable with the coming ordeal. He would be completely alone with virtually the entire nobility of the realm. He could do no more than acknowledge the Saint, lest he appear too close. None of the other members of the Church would be attending.
“Wait,” he said, “why isn’t the Cardinal going? Surely it’s safe enough.” Normally the Saint and the Cardinal were never together outs
ide of the Cathedral, for the same reason that airline pilots and copilots never ate the same meal. But if it were possible to assassinate the entire Concord, then the realm was as good as toast. Anything that could defeat that much massed power could surely defeat it in detail.
“Your Cardinal suspects the peerage of stupidity. Namely, that if they do not see White robes, they will forget how many counties are governed by the White. In this, as in most things, your Cardinal appears astute. So he sends the Saint alone into that den of liars, and hopes for the best. Your best hope is to say as little as possible, as often as possible.”
The only bright spot was that Lalania was letting him off easily in the wardrobe department. She had conceded that wearing his uniform would strike the right tone, marking him as a servant to the King regardless of his rank.
“Most lords don’t want to look like working men, but you do. Let them think you a buffoon, if you can,” she had said. She had also seemed surprised when he nodded in agreement. “How is it you have so little pride?”
Cannan had answered for him. “It’s not that. It’s that his pride is so great he takes no heed of what those popinjays think.”
Gregor had laughed himself into a coughing fit while Lalania frowned. Christopher tried to reassure her, but she would have none of it.
“We can only hope they are not as perceptive as your guard dog. For all our sakes, Christopher, try to be normal for once.” Then she cleaned his clothes, hair, and face with magic, kissed him on the cheek for luck, and sent him off.
So now he was walking over the drawbridge to go to a fancy ball. But the glittering royalty held no attraction for him. He did not see shining knights and charming princesses. All he saw were dangerous men and women, unbound from the rule of law or even reason by the possession of unnatural powers. Realizing he was one of them—even gravity now surrendered its grasp at his command—was not in any way comforting.
He had counted on his earthly experience to inure him to spectacle. What could these people do that Hollywood’s special effects had not already prepared him for? As it turned out, plenty.
The main room was a clean, neat pasture with a stream running through it and the bright starry night sky above. The effect was so perfect he could not tell if it were mere illusion or if walking through the doorway had transported him to a new place. When he bent down next to the stream and put his finger in it, he realized it was wine instead of water. A crystal goblet floated up out of the wine to hover in front of him. Stupefied, he reached for it as if it were a phantasm, and almost dropped it when the weight became real in his hand.
From somewhere came gentle music. He looked around, hoping to locate a bard or two. Instead, a handsome man in blue-and-white silks found him.
“You need not kneel,” he said. “The glass will rise to your hand.”
“Ah,” Christopher said, standing up. Small groups of well-dressed people stood throughout the grassy field, like any cocktail party. Except for the swords. His new companion had a sword, too, a long straight blade with a blue gem the size of a tangerine for the pommel.
The man had been looking at Christopher’s sword, too. “I take it from the shape of your blade that you are the new priest everyone is talking about.”
“Yes. Ah, I am Christopher, Vicar of Marcius.” The urge to hold out his hand was overwhelming, so he hooked his right thumb in his belt.
“I have the privilege of being the Earl of Istvar, but I am also a servant of Eldir. Thus we have something in common, you see.”
Christopher put his left hand to good use, taking a sip of wine. It was surprisingly flowery.
“I’m sorry, Lord Earl, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
The Earl looked surprised. “I just meant we are both priests. Though I confess, the idea of a White war priest is hard to credit.”
“I agree, Lord Earl.” It was hard to credit, and getting harder every day.
“I see you take after your Saint.” The Earl apologized. “We shall have no theological squabbles here. If we started, there would be no end of it.”
Christopher nodded distractedly, looking around the room. The Earl watched him for a moment.
“Who might you be looking for?”
“The King,” Christopher said. “I want to talk to him.”
The Earl made a noncommittal sound. “I begin to perceive why my cousin has such harsh words of you. You set your station high. Tell me, is not the company of an Earl sufficient?”
Christopher turned his attention back to the Earl. “Did you say cousin?”
“Yes,” the Earl replied, “I did. The Duke of Nordland is my cousin, by marriage.”
“I’m sorry,” Christopher said.
The Earl raised his eyebrows.
“I mean, I’m sorry about Lord Nordland. I didn’t intend to offend him.”
“And yet you managed, all the same.”
“I’m good at accidents,” Christopher said. “It’s one of my specialties.”
“I take it back,” the Earl replied. “You’re not very much like your Saint at all. Your tongue is sharper than your sword.”
Christopher found himself nettled by the remark. “My sword is plenty sharp enough, I think.”
The Earl stared at Christopher intently, his hands lowering to his waist. Christopher could feel the menace under the man’s elegant, graceful stance. He raised his own hand, palm out, in surrender.
“I’m sorry, Lord Earl. I seemed to have done it again.”
“Indeed,” the Earl said. “I came to tell you that my cousin intends a duel, and almost challenged you myself. I confess I am truly astonished at your talent for fatal accidents.”
I told you so didn’t seem like the best response. Instead, Christopher said, “I don’t want to duel anybody. Least of all the Duke. For the sake of peace, Lord Earl, tell me how I can appease him without fighting.”
“For the sake of honor, you cannot. However, you need not tremble yet. My cousin has considered that you are not of an equal rank. Therefore, he delays his satisfaction until such time as you are. Should that day come, which admittedly seems unlikely for a man of your advanced years, you will have to face the Duke in single combat. Although the strength of your rank and your magic should render your chances of surviving reasonably high, do not fail to have your ransom in hand. My cousin does believe you have lightened his purse, and many are inclined to agree.”
Christopher sighed. It was always about money. In this case honor and bloodshed were mixed in, but only to spice the wine. At the bottom of the cup was tael.
He almost offered to pay on the spot, until he realized the ransom for an eighth rank was more than he had left. Gregor’s promotion had rendered him almost poor.
“Please let your cousin know I am grateful for his forbearance.”
The Earl nodded. “To say nothing of mine. Still, honor is served, and we should not quarrel amongst ourselves. There are plenty enough deserving of our ire. And you are not without your qualities. Sparing us the presence of the Baron of Baria is a true boon.”
Judging by the quality of his grin, the Earl didn’t seem to have any of Lalania’s reservations on that matter.
“Nonetheless, it would be wise if you spared my cousin the pleasure of your company this day. Or any day; I do not think he can tolerate any more accidents on your part.”
Christopher nodded in agreement again, and kept a silent smile plastered on his face until the Earl was safely gone. Then he turned and walked the other way.
He wandered across the lawn, looking for the King or at least someone he knew, when he spotted a handsome woman in blue taffeta and white hair standing among a small group of elegant ladies. The Skald wore no magic here to disguise her age. He joined them with relief.
“Lady Freia,” he said. He was trying to figure out how to address the other women when he recognized one of them.
“Lady Nordland,” he said. Unable to bear her cold blue eyes, he bowed low, but eventually h
e had to stand up again.
“If you could have bowed to my lord husband, it would have saved us all much grief.” The sorrow in her voice was more painful to him than the glare in her eyes. “Why did you not tell us you had a guardian that would snatch victory from certain defeat?”
Christopher managed to quell his immediate impulse to explain, using charts and diagrams if necessary. It wouldn’t be of any help now. He swallowed his retort, too. That wouldn’t help either.
“I tried, my lady,” he said. “I am sorry I failed.”
She looked at him without speaking. Turning to the other women, she tipped her head. “I beg your leave, Lady Ariane, Lady Friea. If you will excuse me?”
“Of course, my dear.” The Skald smiled graciously while Lady Nordland left, her smile turning to amusement as she watched Christopher watching the Lady leave.
“You have a way with the ladies, Christopher. A way worth remarking on, although I don’t know many men would care to follow it.”
“Humph,” Christopher said. “You should see me with druids.”
The other woman laughed at him, which he found strangely comforting.
As if summoned by some invisible signal, a pretty girl in a painted-on green dress and long blonde hair hung herself off Christopher’s arm, relieving him of his half-empty glass.
“I, for one, find it a great relief,” Lalania said. “The Vicar is perhaps the only man in this room who can talk to a woman without turning the conversation to romance.”
“Our burden and our blessing,” the Skald said. “Every hour they spend between the sheets is an hour they aren’t killing each other.”
“True enough,” said the Lady Ariane. “A man only has two uses, and both of them involve his sword.” She eyed Christopher appraisingly. “Sadly, skill in both is rarely encountered.”
“A deficiency I have not yet found rectified,” Lalania said. “Despite long and professional inquiry. But if you will excuse the Vicar, duty calls. He needs must speak with our King.” She finished the wine and let go of the glass. It floated off under its own power.
