by M. C. Planck
“It is a cheap price for what you give them in return, Christopher.” Lalania was holding her new lyre, something she did a lot of these days. She never let the thing out of her sight anymore. Christopher was pretty sure she slept with it.
“And what is that?” he asked.
“Immunity,” she said. “This is your land now. If another Bart comes to make war, they need take no action.”
“Yes, that too,” Faren said. “We no longer need be responsible for the trouble you cause.”
“How does the village make so much gold?” Christopher wondered aloud. In the year he’d lived here, he had seen hardly any coinage.
“It’s not gold, but wheat and barley you’ll be paid in,” Svengusta explained. “You’ll need a bigger purse if you expect to take your money shopping.”
That was all right. Grain was something he needed now. In sheer point of fact, it would be the same grain he’d been buying from Vicar Rana.
“Wait . . . didn’t those taxes used to go to Knockford?”
“Indeed,” Svengusta said. “You’ve picked the Vicar’s pocket. No doubt she would like to hang you for a thief, but now you’re her equal in rank. She can’t boss you around anymore.”
“Like she ever could,” grumbled Faren. “Still, you need not fear her vexation. She is as happy to be rid of the responsibility for you as any of us.”
Gregor leaned forward earnestly. “You don’t happen to have another village to spare, do you? We’ve got another regiment to feed.” Gregor was earnest a lot these days. Christopher kind of missed the old happy-go-lucky errant knight he had been.
“I would sooner give you my left foot,” Faren said. “You were never our burden. We need not buy your release.”
Gregor chuckled, and well he should. The Saint would be giving him ten thousand gold for the new regiment. More money than one man could carry, no matter how big his purse, though Christopher knew it would not be enough.
“I’ll have to sell more bonds.” Christopher wondered how many times he could do this before the people stopped falling for it.
“Isn’t iron making you plenty of gold?” Svengusta asked. “You’ve drained the country of roustabouts and farm hands. Every peasant who doesn’t own a plow seems to be working for you.”
Christopher didn’t know how his businesses were doing. He’d ridden past Knockford without stopping, unwilling to face the Vicar on an empty stomach.
A problem solved when Helga finally emerged from the kitchen, followed by two girls bearing dishes of food. Christopher wondered why she wasn’t carrying one herself—it wasn’t like her to merely oversee work instead of doing it—until he saw that she was carrying enough as it was.
“Oh my gods,” he said. “You’re pregnant.”
“A brilliant diagnosis,” Svengusta said, bursting with laughter. “And I was afraid all those hours spent teaching you medicine were wasted.”
“You didn’t know?” Lalania asked Christopher, surprised.
“Congratulations,” Faren said. “When are we to be blessed? Though from the look of it, it must be soon.”
“Next week,” Helga confirmed. “The midwife says it will be a boy. But Pater says she is full of old wives’ tales, and no real magic. Can you tell, Christopher?”
“I don’t know,” Christopher said. Did he have a spell for that?
“A foolish waste of power, if he could.” Faren dismissed the idea. “In any case, you’ll know soon enough.”
Christopher thought of something that would be far more useful than a sonogram. A blood test. “Who is the father?” he asked.
The room went silent. Helga blushed, on the verge of tears, and Lalania shook her head in dismay.
“You wisely built a barn to hold your horses. You should have built a fortress to hold your tongue,” she chided Christopher. “She cannot name the father to you until she names it to him, and clearly she has not done so, or she would have already told us who the father was.”
“Oh.” Christopher belatedly realized it had to be Karl. He started to ask, but stopped when he discovered he wouldn’t know what to say if it wasn’t.
“Ser Gregor,” Lalania said. “Disa is now released from the draft. This implies your wedding is imminent. Have you considered the guest list? If you wish to invite your friend Karl, you will need to do so soon. He has a long trip to make.” She watched Helga’s face while she said this. Helga blushed a color of a different character, and even Christopher could read the answer.
“We should probably invite the bride, too,” Gregor said.
“Then I must get to work.” Lalania stood up from the table, apparently ready to begin at once. “We cannot give you a peer’s wedding, but we must come close. This bond must be seen to eclipse her old one. And she deserves it—both of you do.” Lalania seemed almost wistful, so she turned to Christopher and changed the subject. “Who will you leave in charge of the fort?”
It was really a question about who would not get to come to the wedding. “Torme, I guess.”
“You should promote another Pater,” Faren said. “One priest is not enough for so many, and you spend perilous little time at your post.”
It was worse than that. Torme and Christopher did not have the extraordinary healing power of the priests of the Bright Lady.
“About that. . . . My regiment is supposed to have two healers. I need replacements.”
“Only because you keep promoting them out of the position!” Faren exclaimed. “How is it we must bear the price of your profligacy?” It was just for show, though. The old man always enjoyed haggling.
“Careful,” Svengusta warned. “He may wind up being your lord soon enough, and then you’ll have reason to regret your hard words.”
“Gods preserve us,” Faren said, passing his hand over his eyes. “I’ll have nightmares for a week now.”
Armed with assurances of Vicar Rana’s peaceableness, Christopher risked a trip into Knockford. Guards waved him through the new gate into a town he hardly recognized.
Buildings were going up, and only some of them were his. People he didn’t know were choking the streets, and some of them didn’t seem to know whom he was. Only the church stood unchanged.
His fellow clergy gave him a warm welcome, helped no doubt by Cannan’s remaining outside. A young acolyte, Sister Mariche, went so far as to hug him with tears in her eyes.
“I am to be promoted for the draft,” she told him. “I was so scared, but then they said it would be with you.”
“We’ll take care of you,” he reassured her, but privately he was concerned. The girl seemed too soft and clean to go to war. Not to mention young. He sought out Vicar Rana with the intention of changing her mind, forgetting that he was supposed to be placating her.
It didn’t matter either way. Rana was as immobile as always.
“Mariche is the same age that Disa was for her draft. A foolish girl now, but you will make a priestess of her. Both she and the Church will profit from the experience.” Rana sat behind her desk and eyed him like a toad staring down a particularly fat housefly. “We are to make four healers for you this year, and beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Disa volunteered,” he said. At least he thought that was the story she’d told.
“And so did Mariche. She accepted promotion knowing the cost. Speaking of promotions, don’t you owe us a fee for the priestess you stole? And do not even think to offer in gold; we are uncommonly short on tael as it is.”
Christopher wondered if she would ever let that particular mistake die. He tried to hand over the small purple lump for Disa’s release, but Rana wouldn’t take it.
“You might as well give it directly to Mariche,” she said.
He drummed his fingers on the table, annoyed. “I don’t want her to think she is bound to me.”
Rana smiled sweetly at him. “You need not worry on that score. She will not forget who trained and raised her.”
Implying, of course, that he had forgotten.
Rana wasn’t trying to bind Mariche to Christopher; she was trying to bind him to the girl. Christopher could see her conniving as clearly as he could see that it would work. Handing people their life’s dream was addictive. Once you started, it was hard to stop.
“Who else am I getting?” he asked.
“One from each of our counties. All women, I am afraid.”
Clearly the Vicars felt service in one of his regiments was the easiest duty a woman could ever hope for. And the safest. He didn’t know how he was going to deal with a gaggle of young women in an army of teenage boys, but then he realized he didn’t have to. He could put Lalania in charge of that. Not that she would make the chastest chaperone, but at least anything that happened would be consensual.
“I also wanted to apologize for Burseberry. I didn’t know they were going to do that.”
“If I let you start apologizing for all the trouble you’ve caused me, we would both die of age before the end. Save your breath for my son. He has need to speak with you. Now begone, and let me work.”
There were papers piled all over her desk, but he was pretty sure she actually enjoyed dealing with problems like that. He could relate. The time he spent with his drawings was the only vacation he got anymore.
The interview with Rana went so well he decided to tackle Fae next. Going out the back door of the church, he found Cannan engaged in a silent staring match with one of Rana’s police. As they walked through the streets he asked about it.
“Just passing the time. Better than being mewled to death by your church kittens,” the knight said.
“Well, we’re about to deal with the queen of cattery,” Christopher warned him.
At the door to Fae’s office, he reached for the handle, convincing himself that he didn’t need to knock first. He owned the place, after all. Cannan leapt in front of him.
“You must let me open strange doors, and enter first into new rooms,” Cannan said. “The tart claims portals of all kinds can be rendered dangerous by magic or craft.” By “tart” Christopher knew he meant Lalania, which was one of the nicer terms he used for her.
Christopher followed the big man inside. One of Fae’s apprentices greeted them with the faintest touch of superciliousness. Normally girls, especially young and attractive ones, fluttered in Cannan’s presence. This one, however, was as fresh as lemonade on a summer’s day. Christopher wondered if the cause was arcane power or merely Fae’s tutelage.
Cannan took no notice of it, scanning the room for danger.
“Is your mistress about?” Christopher asked.
“Of course, my Lord Vicar. If you will but wait a moment.” The apprentice bowed and slipped out of the room. Christopher was amazed to be left to cool his heels in his own building.
When Fae waddled into the room, he redefined amazement in context of the unexpected sight before him.
“Oh my gods,” he said. “You’re pregnant.”
“As you say, my lord.” Fae was serenely self-confident, leaning on her apprentice for support as she sank into a chair. “Yet I assure you we will meet your production quotas.”
Flustered, he stuck to business. “I was going to ask you to double them. And do some experiments, for next year.” He’d been making drawings for the future. Nothing that would be ready for this campaign, but it was time to start looking toward the next one. He handed Fae a sheaf of diagrams and notes.
She pretended to look at them before saying the inevitable. “If you would have more magic, you must have more rank. I believe my apprentices are ready for their second grade, which will not incidentally double our capacity.”
He handed her a small purple stone from his silver vial. She crossed her hands and then opened them to show empty palms, an act of either magic or sleight of hand. It was hard to tell the difference. Watching her he noticed she was wearing a lot of jewelry.
“Business has been very good, my lord. Your books are in order, and your account at the church is up to date.”
Rana charged him interest for storing his gold. That might explain the Vicar’s recent good mood.
He wanted to ask the obvious question, but the experience with Helga had convinced him he didn’t know how to do it politely. He looked around the room, but no one here was going to help him. Lalania would have known how to ask, but then, Lalania probably already knew the answer.
“Do you need anything? Can I help?” he asked instead.
She looked at him disparagingly. “I was a woman before I was a wizard, my lord. I know how to do this.”
“Cat’s claws indeed,” Cannan said dryly.
Christopher had to take his leave then, before he ruined everything by laughing.
Outside he promised Cannan the rest of the day would be easier, because they would only be talking to men. Cannan was unimpressed.
“They are your servants. Therefore they will always seek to mislead you to their own gain. It is the nature of servitude and rank.”
“They’re really more like partners,” Christopher said.
Not that anyone could tell from the way Jhom bowed and scraped when they entered the factory. The man was being obsequious, which was a sure sign he wanted something. Cannan was indifferent enough not to smirk, for which Christopher was duly grateful.
After a mildly self-aggrandizing speech Jhom presented his latest accomplishment, a tunic of finely meshed chain mail. Christopher was impressed, but Cannan held it up in one hand and complained.
“It is too light.”
“The weight is misleading,” Jhom said. “This is steel, not iron. Tests show my mail is stronger than the ordinary grade, if not quite so good as a Master’s. But it has another virtue that no Master can ever hope to match. I can sell that tunic for a quarter of the current market price and still show a profit.”
No more “Ser” or “my lord” now. Jhom’s servility was only skin deep; it evaporated once objective evidence of his skill was on display. Even Cannan was impressed.
“Twenty-five gold for such a piece? You will beggar the armorers of the Kingdom.”
“I was thinking fifty,” Jhom said. “They’ll beggar half as fast with twice as much profit to us.”
Christopher grinned. “I read the law books in the Cathedral, and they say I can sell any goods to any county.” It would be a double play. He would be taking money out of the pockets of the lords, selling them armor that was useless against his guns. “But I wanted to ask you first, in case you think there will be complaints.” He had gotten lucky with the wizard’s guild and paper. This time he would look before he leaped.
“None,” Jhom said, his hands spread in grandiose expanse. “The Masters will sniff and make plate. The Journeymen will complain and make nails. The realm will be better armed, which will please the King, and the soldiers will bless your name for lightening their load.”
There was always a catch. Christopher knew that, and he knew Jhom knew it too.
“What are you not telling me?” he asked.
Jhom shrugged. “There may be some baseless whining about the manufacturing process. It is, after all, wholly untraditional. But soldiers are not superstitious wizardlings. Steel is steel, and the armor will prove itself in their hands.”
Christopher grinned again, of a somewhat different nature. “Show me what you mean by untraditional.” That Jhom had not mentioned it up front meant it must be pretty bad.
Jhom raised his eyebrows. “But it was your design. Here, come and see.”
A new room in a new building contained new things. Christopher’s wire-pulling machines, manned by half a dozen laboring young men. Jhom had taken the concept of division of labor and run with it.
“This is the heart of the operation,” Jhom said. “We produce wire in such a profundity that we scarce know what to do with it all. I will sell the raw wire, too, to any who want it. And if we thicken the strand here, and leave out that step there, we can make nails by the barrelful.”
Christopher stood on the factory floor, lis
tening to the sounds of turning gears, smelling the heat of iron, feeling the bustle of activity from man and machine. It was as close to home as he had ever been in this world.
“They’ll get used to it,” Christopher said. “They’ll have to.” Adopting new manufacturing techniques would only annoy the smiths who had to compete against them. The soldiers wouldn’t care how their armor was made.
“Well,” Jhom said, “there’s also this.” He opened another door. In this room a dozen young women sat around half-finished chain mail tunics, with curious tools in their hands.
“The last step is like weaving, though it’s steel instead of cloth. I made a special clamp and plier, so that even a girl can link the rings. I figured they already know how to weave, and your witch already employs women in your name, so you would think it all right. The girls need something to do part-time, and they can always use the money.”
Christopher could already guess Jhom was saving money, too. He certainly wouldn’t be paying the women as much as he would have to pay a man. That hardly explained this radical step, though.
“I do approve, Jhom, though you’re going to have to give them a raise. I won’t let your apprentices get out of work that easily.”
“It’s not a matter of money, but muscle,” Jhom said. “Every man has a hammer or a shovel in his hands these days. If women don’t do this, it won’t get done.”
Christopher laughed, long and hard. Jhom stared at him askance, clearly not getting the joke, but Christopher couldn’t help it. He’d been worried about creating change, about starting the industrial revolution in a feudal economy, and Jhom had gone and given birth to Rosie the Riveter.
“Make sure you pay them what any weaver would be paid,” he told Jhom. The rest would take care of itself, eventually.
Cannan had been examining the tunic closely. “Do you have more of these?” he asked Jhom.
“Dozens,” Jhom answered. “For the Vicar’s cavalry, first. Only then for other customers.”
