Sword of the Bright Lady (33 page)

“How accurate is it?” he asked, thinking that she might give a less biased answer than he would get from a priest.

She looked at him curiously. “Like all magic, it can be defeated, and the higher your rank, the easier. But a high-rank thief is not going to be out there picking peasant's pockets.”

“No, they'll be picking mine.”

“Like this?” she said innocently, handing him one of his purses.

“Am I that easy of a mark?” he moaned.

“Only when you're lost in that wonderland you visit betimes. I don't know what's there, but it must be passing strange, because you go there whenever you learn something that every child knows.”

With a sharp pang, he thought of the druid's kittenhawk. Maggie would be entranced by the cute little monster, and it would probably love her, like all cats did. He wished she could see it. He wished he could see her.

“I did it again, didn't I?” he said ruefully, as the bard handed him all three of his purses, shaking her head in dismay.

“In any other man, I would suggest he needed a woman. Yet hold your tongue, Christopher, I will not challenge your virtue tonight. I am wise enough to know I cannot compete with a ghost.

“But do not let your grief consume you,” she added softly. “There is yet this world before you.”

It's not grief
, he wanted to say,
she is still alive, although she does not know that I am
. But instead he put it away from him and turned his attention to the task at hand.

The troop was lined up, letting the townsfolk get an eyeful. They kept good order, despite the jeering from the younger boys. The older men opined that it was the queerest kit-up they'd ever seen, those short, pointy sticks and long, floppy coats. Karl nodded his head as if that was obvious and intentional. Then he stood on the back of Fingean's wagon and addressed the crowd.

“Pater Christopher would like to say a few words,” Karl announced simply, and reached down to help Christopher onto the wagon. Christopher was mildly annoyed that all of the chain mail and leather he was wearing made him appreciate the help. Karl, after all, was wearing the same, and he had leaped into the wagon like a cat.

“Um, thank you all for being here,” Christopher started. He knew he was supposed to open with a joke, but he didn't have any. “There's a few things I want to say, and then we'll get on to the show.”

Everybody cheered at that.

“This,” he said loudly, holding up one of Fae's block-printed bonds, “is called a bearer bond. You can see—” he illuminated it with a light-stone “—that it says one gold on it.”

“We can't read!” shouted a drunken heckler. The crowd laughed.

“In that case, it says a thousand gold,” Christopher responded. They laughed at that, too, which meant it was an easy crowd. “No, seriously, it says one gold. But I'll sell it to you for only five silver.” He let them think about that just long enough and then went on. “Now, it's also got a date on it, which is ten years from now. When that date comes, ten years from today, you bring me back this piece of paper, and I'll give you one gold. See how that works? You give me five silver today, ten years later I give you ten silver.

“It's like a loan,” he explained. “An investment in the Church of Marcius. The god saw fit to give me a sword. Somehow he forgot the huge pile of gold.” That got another laugh, thank goodness. “But you know as well as I do that wars require gold as well as swords. And you all know I'm going out next year, with the draft. I'll take my sword, but I'd like to take something more. I'd like to make some new weapons, for me and the boys, but I'll need money. So I'm going to show you what those weapons might look like, and I'm hoping afterward you'll show me your money.”

“Now listen up,” Karl barked. “It's loud, it's fiery, and it smells like Hell cracked open. Pregnant women, small children, and dogs are to be sent home.”

That got their attention, as Christopher knew it would. They all pressed forward, the better to see.

The boys had formed a square around Charles, who'd loaded the first rocket into the launching tube. Karl gave the go-ahead, and Charles gave a respectable imitation of a salute before lighting the fuse. Some of the crowd were from Burseberry, so they were busy telling everyone else what to expect, but it was still a shock when the rocket boomed up into the air, trailing sparks and smoke in the gentle twilight. Even several of his troopers ducked their heads reflexively.

He'd started with a yellow burster, in his opinion the weakest of his effects. The crowd loved it anyway. Then there was nothing for him to do but worry while Charles loaded and fired the dozen rockets he'd set out for tonight's show. The sparklers almost provoked a stampede before people realized they burned out before reaching the ground. He felt the green and blue double-bursts were suitably impressive. Nothing like the professionals at home, of course. Still, it was adequate for the amateur effort that a small town like this would be able to afford.

“This one is serious,” Karl warned for the last rocket. It was the traditional show-closer: the bomb. Christopher had ground the powder finer than ever before. His worst fear was that the launch would fall short and into the crowd, but of course the Church would just charge him to patch them all up again. He was stunned when the rocket worked perfectly. Literally stunned. The boom shook the wagon he was on.

Once the girls stopped screaming, everybody applauded. Karl raised his light-stone, called for silence.

“Those sticks the boys have aren't much, right now,” Christopher shouted. “But I'd like to make them do something like that.” Not exactly, of course. He wasn't going to make pretty colors. “But I need your help. I'm not asking for charity; I'm asking for an investment. This is a chance for you to do good, set aside some money for your future while doing good, helping out our boys.” He felt like a damn TV evangelist, playing to their patriotism, fear, and greed.

An utterly unexpected voice boomed out from the crowd. “Is it true,” Cardinal Faren shouted, “that the Saint has already invested one thousand gold of his own personal funds in your Church?” Of course he knew it was, but he gave Christopher the perfect opening.

“Yes, Cardinal Faren, that is the absolute truth,” Christopher confirmed, and the crowd drew in its breath. Even though the Saint was a rich man, a thousand gold was a lot of money.

“Then I cannot fail to do my part,” Faren answered, catching Christopher totally by surprise. “Put me down for one hundred gold.”

The crowd gasped. Yet the miracles were not at an end. Young Tom Fool shouted out his contribution. “Even I can give a gold to the cause! God knows the boys will need it more than I!”

Men started to raise their hands. Christopher could see the glint of gold and silver, hear the clink of coins. They crowded forward, and then Karl held up his light-stone like the Statue of Liberty, a beacon of hope, a dream of pride.

“The Pater put a weapon in my hands, and I brought down Black Bart,” he said into the suddenly quiet crowd, their silence a gathering before the storm. “Let him put a weapon into the hands of our boys, and see what they can do!”

Christopher sold out in the first five minutes.

“I'm sorry,” he shouted at the milling crowd, “we're out of bonds. I've got some more that I'm taking to the other counties, to give them a chance to buy in. And this is just the winter issue; I'll have some more at the end of spring. But for now they're all gone, and I thank you.”

And then he had to run and hide, before they asked any more questions.

Seeking refuge in the church, he was discovered by the Vicar.

“That was quite a show you put on,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “How much did you raise?”

He knew he couldn't be evasive. “Two and a half thousand gold.”

“Who would have thought they had so much to spare?” She shook her head unbelievingly. “I am concerned that they have spent emotionally and not wisely. Will you refund their purchase, if they find they are short of money?”

“Of course,” he answered, “we'll always buy the bonds back at the purchase price. You know,” he suggested, trying to be casual, “they can also trade them to each other. They're bearer bonds, so we'll honor whoever holds the note in ten years. Rather than walk all the way down to the church and cash it in, they could give it to somebody else instead of giving them five silver.”

Rana was not fooled. “You would turn paper into gold?” she asked, her brows furrowing. “Will they not wake up from your enthrallment and see through this swindle on the morrow?”

“I don't think so. I know it seems like a new idea to you, but where I come from, nobody uses anything but paper money.”

Her eyebrows twitched. “I know you do not have the gall to lie to me, so this must be truth. And is it also truth that you will make weapons of your sky-fire, to arm our boys? Or is this just another one of Faren's public fantasies, which a less charitable person might name as simple lies?”

“No, it's not a fantasy. I don't know how well they will work, yet, but I assure you, my Lady, those weapons are all that stand between me and your battlefield. And, at the risk of exhausting your credulity, I will tell you: where I come from, nobody uses swords anymore.”

“You are mad,” she scowled, though not really at him, “Charming, in your way, yet utterly mad. Yet the Saint pretends to believe you. So now I must question, is he mad, or is it me? No, do not object, every madman is sincere in his madness, and I do not doubt your sincerity. I must trust that Krellyan works to some secret end.

“One thing I am certain of. You do the work of the gods. Always they seek to trouble us most when we think the danger is least. And for half a hundred years we have done well. Too well, perchance. Have we forgotten that war and death lurk just over the border? Have we grown too soft? I do not know, but I choose to interpret your existence as a compliment from the gods. Obviously I have done too well at making peace and justice, and thus I deserve their troublesome meddling the most.

“But if I find you've gulled us, I'll feed your heart to my dogs,” she finished, “and the White be damned.”

He didn't know if she actually owned any dogs, but he was sure he could take her at her word. If she had to, she'd buy some just for the occasion.

19.

THICK AS THIEVES

In the morning they got a late start. This annoyed Karl unreasonably, but they needed to give Cannan and Niona time to visibly leave town, circle back to the village, and intercept them on the road.

Karl took out his frustration by lecturing the boys on security. “This was the last honest sleep you'll get for two weeks,” he told them. They'd all slept in the church last night, but from now on they'd be sleeping in inns, taverns, or possibly barns. “You'll not leave the Pater alone for even one heartbeat. You'll not notice food, or warmth, or pretty girls. You'll not forget the day's password or challenge, and if someone does, you
will not
tell them what it is. You will immediately tell me.

“Iron discipline is our only defense against magic,” he explained to Christopher. “They can change your mind as easily as they can change their face, but they can't change a protocol.”

Christopher declined to ask how easily they could change their face. That was obviously one of those things he was supposed to already know.

The day was pleasant, not warm yet but no longer chilled. Spring was still thinking about coming to this land, although the clouds in the east might scare it off for a while longer. Their little column strolled along the road north to the next village—Karl's hometown, as it happened—and even Karl could not keep up a frown. Fireworks, uniforms, and being on the road were the sorts of things that made young men everywhere giddy.

Their cheerful promenade was violently interrupted when a bush by the side of the road roared and leaped out at them, swinging a still-leafy club. Karl drew his sword and shouted orders while the boys scattered like headless chickens.

Christopher had just enough time to wonder why Royal seemed to be the sole creature not reacting before the crossbow bolts started flying. One barely missed his ear, two went in directions that could be called “forward” only by the most charitable stretch, and one lone bolt sank wetly into the apparition on the roadside.

“Ow,” the bush said, and started laughing. “By the Dark, Pater, your troop is more of a danger to you than it is to anyone else. Dammit, that hurt. Why did that hurt?” Cannan pulled the crossbow bolt out of his chest, dropping the bush he had skinned and worn like a hide.

“Gods, Ser!” Christopher exclaimed. “Someone could have been hurt!”

The big man looked up at him, too surprised to be angry at the reprimand. “Who?” he said quite reasonably. “I've got the ring on, and if your boys can't be trusted with those bolt-throwers, best we know that now.”

Christopher opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. The knight had a point. The army back home was always extra careful with live ammunition exercises, but they couldn't heal soldiers on the spot, reattach severed limbs, or, if need be, revive the dead. That kind of leeway made for a lot more training options.

Also, life was cheaper here, and violence simply more acceptable. In any case, Karl's glare was for his troop, so the knight must be in the right.

“You idiots almost killed the Pater, you know that, right?” Karl barked at his blushing boys. “Where's your battle line? Why aren't those bows reloaded yet?”

Niona slowly came out of the woods. Her delicate advance seemed to indicate that she didn't think being shot would be fun.

“I told you, husband, it is only partial protection,” she explained patiently. “And you are unarmored.”

“It's just a scratch,” he said defensively. “Although I suppose if it had hit me in the nuts, I wouldn't be laughing.” He laughed at that.