Gold Throne in Shadow (11 page)

“I wanted to see how my roads were coming along,” Christopher said, “but obviously you've got other projects in the works.”

“I can do two things at once,” Tom laughed, and his wife threw a carrot at his head in outrage. “But let us retreat to the main hall of the glorious mansion you've bought me and discuss manly things over a beer.

“All is in hand, my lord,” Tom assured him somewhat more seriously after draining half a mug in one shot. “It turns out that roads are mostly comprised of labor. Which I no longer have a shortage of. My men would like to know when they get their guns, but for now they'll do with just your word.”

“Probably not for a year or more,” Christopher winced.

“They'll hold as long as you need. In truth it's me that drives the eager wagon. I've always wanted to be a High Commander, with swaggering bravos under my heel.”

“So if I give you the command of the militia of the entire town, you'll swell up and explode?”

Tom smiled happily at him. “Like a puff pastry in the wrong oven. But will you really give away rifles to just anyone?”

“Not yet,” Christopher admitted, “but eventually, I would like to see at least half the men in the town able to rally to its defense.”

“If these weapons are what your lads say they are,” Tom said, “that would be a stout defense indeed.”

“And probably under the command of the Vicar,” Christopher said, “instead of me. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

“I can charm that old dragon as easily as I can whistle,” Tom smiled, “or more honestly, I can certainly charm her better than you.”

That was undeniable, and Christopher had to grin.

“Speaking of charming,” he lowered his voice, “are you still being a fool?”

“The weather's cooled off as of late,” Tom admitted, “not that I've minded. But I've been careful not to provoke any wrathful scorning, so I think you have nothing to fear on that account.”

“That's good to hear,” Christopher said, although Fae in Tom's bed was probably less likely to cause trouble than any other place she could be.

“I'll not ask,” Tom said seriously, “why you'll take fealty from a pretty bird but won't hear her sing. It's not my place. But others take note, and an answer might be handy to have.”

“I have a wife,” Christopher said.

“That's not entirely an answer. Yet you wear the White, and your word is your bond, so I suppose it will do. Why you gave your wife a vow of chastity is another question altogether, one men will likely not ask. Questions like that have a way of sparking foolish notions in others,” he said with a broad wink, as his wife brought a plate of rolls to the table. She would have thrown one at his head, but bread was too expensive for that.

6

HARD DUTY

A
fter a long and cheerful dinner Christopher rounded up his posse at the church to head for home. But Karl was missing. A ghost of a worry brushed through his mind. Without any purchase in fact, it drifted away.

Until he got to the shop, to see Karl standing in front of the glass door, the handle still in his hand, and a peculiar look on his face.

“Not you, too,” Christopher said. Not that he really had a right to complain about what adults did in their free time.

But Karl did not answer. He let go of the door and stepped into the street, only to stop moving again.

“Rethinking the wisdom of that choice?” Christopher asked. It seemed awfully early for buyer's remorse.

“It does seem foolish, my lord,” Karl said. “I apologize. It won't happen again.”

The ghost came back with a vengeance, a banshee howl accentuating the unprecedented form of address that Karl had just used.

“Since when do you call me that?” Christopher said, angry and unhappy.

“Since I behaved so stupidly,” Karl said, before his face betrayed his confusion.

Anger bled into suspicion, driven by Karl's uncharacteristic indecision. Almost without conscious thought, Christopher cast a detection spell, having had them on his mind since the looting of Flayn's shop.

The lingering trace of magic on Karl erased all misgivings, replacing them with a towering rage. Christopher threw open the door so violently a glass panel shattered, and he blew into the shop like a storm front bellowing thunder.

“FAE!”

She did not answer the summons, and in Christopher's mind her guilt was now clear. Behind him Karl followed, eyes narrowed and jaw set in a grim scowl.

“Fae!”

They went up the stairs, two at a time. Christopher knew he should have felt worried or frightened, but he was too angry.

“Fae.”

She sat on her disheveled bed, in a silk nightgown, and tried to answer him.

“Why do you—” but her voice broke, and she looked down at the floor, unable to continue.

“What have you done, woman?” Christopher growled.

“What did you do to me, witch?” Karl snarled.

“You have no cause for complaint!” Fae cried, shocked by Karl's anger. “I gave you only pleasure.”

Christopher tried to put a check on his wrath.
Do not let her compound the crime
, he felt more than thought, and so he cast the spell that bound tongues to truth. She watched him silently, her face pale and drawn like a frosted glass vase.

“Did you use magic against Karl?” he demanded, when the spell was live. “Did you lay an enchantment on him?”

“What of it?” she cried, defiant now. “Am I a hideous crone, to sicken him with the deed? Any man in town would gladly take his place. I placed no bond on him, laid no further demands at his door. What man can honestly say I wronged him?”

“I can,” Christopher said. “That's rape, Fae. Rape! What would the Cardinal do, if Karl had held you down and done the same to you?”

“He would hang me for the deed,” Karl answered, “even for the sake of a foul witch.”

“I did him no violence!” Fae sobbed.

“You did violence to his mind,” Christopher said. “You did violence to his rights.”

“The Church will hang you for this,” Karl proclaimed in righteous wrath. “Commoner though I be, I am theirs, and not yours to trifle with. You will hang.”

“You dare not!” she screamed. “He needs me. I alone will keep his secrets and make his sky-fire. I am his, and your Church will not touch me, for he needs me.”

Even in the midst of the red fury in his eyes; even in the grief and shame he felt for his part in the making of the witch, and thus this terrible ordeal; even through all of that, Christopher could not help but notice that these people spoke in terms of property, not rights. Drawing a deep breath, he put aside his ethical indignation and answered in their language.

“I need you as an apprentice,” he told her, “not as a wizard. What I put in your head, I can take out. I can hang you, revive you, and reduce you to just an apprentice again.”

“You would not!” she cried, outraged at the expense he dared, but he was standing in the zone of truth too. Her eyes danced wildly, seeking escape. Though her hands did not twitch, Christopher said it anyway.

“If you reach for that wand, I will cut you down and burn your body next to Flayn's.”

The pretty face quivered and then cracked, blubbering, all pride and will vanquished in an instant. “Forgive me,” she cried, tears falling like lonely raindrops, “please forgive me. The power went to my head. All my life to be a toy, but once to hold another in my hand.

“I am sorry.” She wrenched the words from her torn and bleeding heart and then collapsed in a weeping heap, her black hair in disarray, her fine white skin red and crumpled.

“I cannot forgive you,” Christopher said heavily, astonished at the hard scales on his own heart. “You must ask Karl for that.”

“You'll not get forgiveness from me,” Karl laughed barkingly, as if the very concept were absurd. “But I will withhold my judgment, for as long as you serve our master. Should you ever fail him again, I will have my vengeance, and no amount of rank will protect you.”

Fae's tears washed her face and Christopher's anger, the flame in his heart slowly quenching under the deluge. Karl stood like iron, revealing neither pain nor sorrow. Christopher wanted to avenge the proud young man, to honor him, but Fae was just a foolish child with a dangerous toy. Flayn had not seen fit to promote her. Christopher had. He could not escape his share of the blame.

“I'm sorry,” he said, but Karl would not understand. The soldier would hold only Fae responsible, and Christopher could not even argue with him. Karl had been severely wronged, and he had the right to deal with it as he chose. The truly guilty would just have to accept it.

“I will not fail you again, my lord,” she sobbed. “I will earn my pardon, and even Karl the Cruel will not begrudge me. You will see, I am still valuable to you.”

Christopher could not afford to feel sympathy for her. “See that you do,” he growled, and left the room and the cloying stench of shame.

Outside, in the street, he tried to apologize to Karl again. “I am sorry for the harm you suffered from me and mine.”

“Do not trouble yourself, Christopher,” Karl said. “Now the witch is truly bound to you, for you can take her head whenever you please. As for me, I am a soldier. I have had worse duties.” Christopher was wounded by the perfect normalcy in the young man's voice. He watched helplessly as Karl put his suffering in an iron chest and locked it with chains of unyielding discipline. Not that he expected tears, but Karl would not even acknowledge that he had been touched.

Late that night, finishing the long day in his chapel, he observed a subtle interchange, a brief glance from Karl and a well-disguised flush from Helga. So the man would dress his wounds, refill his self-esteem, and restore his manliness at the girl's expense. Christopher was saddened to see the damage shared around, but what could he do? If he ordered Karl to leave her alone, he surely would, though Helga would hardly thank him for it. Who was he to deny them solace and pleasure, simply because it was driven by hurt instead of love?

He had been disappointed, many years ago, to discover that words could not fix everything. Now he was disappointed again, discovering that even magic could not fix everything.

“You haven't hired the new men yet?” Standing in the machine shop yard, Christopher struggled not to snap angrily. He understood that things moved more slowly in a world without clocks and telecommunications; still, he paid Jhom to take care of things. After Fae's betrayal, he was in no mood to countenance failure on the smith's part.

The smith was unsympathetic, meeting Christopher's glare with a mulish frown of his own.

“I cannot lure men away from ditch-digging when rifles are given as freely as shovels. And my own men glance askance. They ask why they may make rifles but may not wield them.”

“So you want a militia program for your shop, too?” Christopher let himself think it all the way through. “But not so much under Tom's command.”

“My men do know and trust me best,” Jhom suggested humbly. “They already work as a team under my direction.”

A chance to recruit the Vicar's son into his militia was too good to pass up.

“I have given Tom the ultimate command. But there will be too many men for him to oversee them all. The militia will have to be organized into platoons and companies, and he will need other officers.”

Jhom was considering it. “What position would I hold, under this scheme of yours?”

“Second only to Tom,” Christopher promised. “Captain of your own company.” He tried to ignore the twinge of conscience at the promotion of officers based on politics instead of ability. Jhom was, after all, an effective leader.

And a reasonably honest man. He did not try to usurp Tom, instead nodding his head in approval. “You reward your man's loyalty with your own. I was second in your service, so I will be second in this.”