Gold Throne in Shadow (13 page)

7

WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

T
hey traveled south through two counties friendly to the Church though not under its direct control. He recognized some of the countryside, having chased Black Bart this way on a desperate hope and enchanted horses. The speed he missed, since everything takes forever with men and wagons. The desperation he would have been happy to have not met again. The danger he faced now was less immediate, but it was also unlikely to be solved by a bag of dynamite.

The receptions they got in the towns and villages along the road were not much comfort. No one stared like they had in Knockford, though every so often he saw curious glances, as if a community orchestra, long loved despite its haphazard attention to melody, had suddenly managed to play a piece flawlessly. Too much exposure to this, and those quirked eyebrows might turn into questions.

But then he realized the crowds were only commoners. The local lords and professional classes did not even bother to notice his army. Once again, inconceivability was as good as invisibility, and he finally started to relax.

Samerhaven was a Church fief, and a quarter of his men were from there, but the town met them with the same simple joy that Knockford had shown the first time around, merely admiration for clean uniforms and snappy marching. No dangerous visions slept here, behind inscrutable eyes. Or perhaps they were all just better actors. Except for the local Vicar, a middle-aged man who exuded competence, caution, and the smell of a man under siege. He viewed the army with barely concealed disapproval.

“You continue on the morrow, I assume,” he said to Christopher.

“We'll not trouble you, Brother,” Christopher replied, without perhaps as much friendliness as the appellation suggested. “We brought our own supplies.”

The Vicar did not appreciate his tone, and returned it. “So many pretty frocks cannot fail but to draw the attention of mad wolves, who exist solely to despoil. And my own people will be emboldened, demanding that I patrol my borders with a finer comb.”

“Perhaps you should,” Christopher said, before he thought about it.

“A man who lives next to a hungry bear does not roast over an open flame,” the Vicar answered. “My nest is not safely in a forest of birch.” Unlike Knockford, Samerhaven shared borders with counties ruled by the Gold Throne.

As usual, Christopher had to apologize. “I'm sorry, Brother. Yes, we make haste to Carrhill. But my wagoneers will be regular travelers on your roads. Will security be a problem?”

“Send nothing worth stealing in them, and no.” The Vicar accepted the apology, though it didn't make him any happier. “Food and ale should be safe enough. Your treasure you must personally accompany.”

“What treasure?” Christopher asked, mystified.

“Your winnings from the hunt.” The Vicar was almost as mystified. “Unless you plan to keep them for yourself?”

Torme spoke up for his boss. “We serve our own chapter, Lord Vicar, not the Saint's.”

“So you do,” the Vicar mused, rocking back on his heels. “I am not entirely certain what that means.”

“Neither are we,” Christopher had to admit. But he could see reflected in the Vicar's appraising eyes how much it would shake up the local politics.

Carrhill itself was a pleasant surprise. The town was girded in stone walls fifteen feet high, and more than one layer of them, all dominated by a tower that was the tallest structure Christopher had seen in this world. Narrow and straight, it reached at least a hundred feet into the air, and at the peak illusionary torches burned permanently.

The local regiment seemed reasonably professional, with plenty of crossbows, pikes, and chain mail. Their commander introduced himself as Captain of the Wizard's Guard, with the respect due to Christopher's superior rank.

“Your men are surprisingly well dressed for the Lady's draft,” he observed.

“Thank you,” Christopher decided to say. He wanted respect, yes, but the covetous look in the Captain's eyes was a bit unsettling. “Now perhaps you could fill me in on the current situation.” He knew practically nothing. The feudal system did not generate intelligence dossiers.

“That idiot Fairweather got himself eaten,” the Captain complained, “and his regiment dissolved before the week was up. We hung a few deserters, but then someone claimed we didn't have the right, being as they had no lord, and so the rest slipped away. We were already short the other regiment, for reasons never explained, so your arrival is duly welcome.”

“There are supposed to be two regiments here?” Christopher asked. Were they going to send somebody else?

“Usually,” the Captain said. “But your Lady's draft regiments are rather larger than normal, and so they count as both from the bean-adder's point of view. Not that I am complaining. A few years ago we had one of yours out here, and the boys were relatively well-behaved and quite helpful at our perennial hobby of wall-building. I presume these fancy clothes will not alter that?”

“I hope not,” Christopher said, although he didn't think he wanted his army put to use as free construction labor.

“I confess I would prefer an armored regiment,” the Captain said. “And those half-spears they bear are too short for wall-work. You must at least supply them with pikes.”

That was one good point about this place. “You need not worry about that,” Christopher grinned. “They're more like crossbows than spears, and behind a good stone wall my men are undefeatable.”

“I had heard some rumors to that effect,” the Captain acknowledged. “But I dismissed them, as I do all rumors. No offense intended, Curate, but I will continue to do so. I am charged with the defense of this town, and I must see to it to the best of my capacity.”

Just as Christopher was about to be impressed by the integrity of the man, he continued. “Our local weapon-smiths can fulfill your needs, at a reasonable cost despite the urgency of the order. I know which ones are competent and which ones are charlatans, so you need not worry on that score.”

“Indeed,” Christopher said, trying not to be too sardonic. “Perhaps you could give me an estimate?”

“I'll send someone to your quarters,” the Captain replied. At least he wasn't going to hold his hand out for the bribe here at the gates.

“When do I see the Lord Wizard?” Christopher asked.

The Captain boggled, caught by surprise. “Never, if you're lucky. Why the Dark would you want to?”

Torme came to the rescue. “My lord merely intends courtesy.”

“Then let him inflict it upon the Gold Curate,” the Captain suggested with a sly smile, a man anticipating a good cockfight.

Christopher had been hoping to win over the wizard, or least see the lay of the land, before facing the competition. But after his dealings with the King,
not
dealing with the wizard was probably the best option.

Their quarters turned out to be huge stone halls attached to the inner set of walls. Although sparsely furnished with tables and bunks best described as firewood, they at least had ample space for the men.

The walls appeared to be made of layered stone blocks, but this was deceptive. The blocks were just a patterned facing carved into a solid piece of stone. Christopher searched the wall for dozens of feet but could find no seam or joining. Just another reminder that nothing here was what it seemed.

The men were settling in well enough under their officers, so Christopher decided to pay the one courtesy call he could count on to be both friendly and genuine.

“I'm going to the White chapel,” he told Torme, and slipped out before the man could protest.

The weather was warm, sometimes unpleasantly so. Despite the heat the city did not stink as much as Kingsrock. Perhaps it was because this city was spread out more, not being confined to the top of a rock, or perhaps it was merely that this city had fewer people. Some buildings even looked empty.

Those buildings were of normal construction, made of brick and thatched roofs, rather than the solid rock of the barracks and walls. The people were browned by the sun and favored muted colors and light, loose clothes. They were polite enough when Christopher asked directions, but they were not friendly and gave him as wide a berth as they dared.

He could hardly blame them, walking around with a sword on his hip. It was still uncomfortable compared to Knockford, where he was a local hero, or even Kingsrock, where there were enough swordsmen to render him anonymous, so it was with relief that he slipped into the wooden chapel at the end of a short alley.

The building didn't look like a chapel; it looked like a warehouse that had been repurposed into a sick ward. At the moment most of the two dozen beds were empty. A stout woman sat at one bed, talking to a patient, while a much younger woman intercepted him at the door.

“Please, Ser, put your sword aside,” she said earnestly enough, although from her face he could tell she did not expect success.

“It's okay,” he said.

“By law, Ser, but our custom is different. We ask that you respect that if you wish to make use of our services.”

“No, I mean, I'm one of you.” He had worn the thing in front of both the Saint and the King. How could it not be acceptable here?

“Then all the more reason you should respect us,” she said gravely.

She was a very small woman, barely more than a girl. He could have squashed her with the flat of his hand. Christopher suspected this was why she had been given this job; there were a few men in the room wearing the white aprons of an orderly, but they were careful not to look his way.

With a sigh at his own ineptness he unstrapped and disarmed. She smiled brightly, almost making up for how graceless he felt, and put the sword in a wooden chest by the door. By then the older woman had made her way to Christopher and greeted him with cautious optimism.

“Do I have the honor of addressing the Lord Curate Christopher?”

“Prelate Oda, I assume?” He reached out a hand to shake with, while she looked at it perplexedly.

“I am, and good welcome to you, Curate.”

This was far more formal than he expected. “Is there someplace we can talk privately?” he suggested.

“Of course, Curate.” Oda led him through the room to double doors on the far side. Along the way he wondered at the patients lying in bed. What was the point of a hospital when spells cured you in an instant?

After passing a storeroom, a kitchen, and what looked like a dormitory, she finally settled in a small, cramped office lit by a solitary light-stone. Black slates were stacked on the desk and shelves, this world's reusable answer to expensive paper. Apparently Rana's generosity hadn't extended quite this far. Oda offered him a stool and waited until he was seated before taking one herself.

“Can we dispense with all of this, Sister?” he said, his tolerance for protocol already exhausted. At the last word her face lit up with a genuine smile.

“My apologies, Brother. I had been told you were . . . unusual, but I thought it wise not to assume anything.”

“Surely you don't treat Faren this way.”

“Faren would not wear a sword into my chapel,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “But to fairly answer you, the Cardinal has never stepped foot in this city, nor would he dare to without leave from the Lord Wizard.”

So Christopher was more alone than he had realized. Faren wouldn't be rolling up in his coach and bailing him out anytime soon.

“Is permission hard to get?”

“I wouldn't know,” she said. “I've never seen the Lord Wizard either. I was born here, so after I served in the Cathedral for a while, I took it upon myself to return. The good Captain frowned but did not arrest me, and after a few years it became obvious that he would not. From this we deduce that the Lord Wizard at least tolerates my existence. But then, I am hardly a threat to him, being only fourth-rank.”

“Wait,” Christopher said. “I showed up with an army. Will he view me as a threat?”