Gold Throne in Shadow (15 page)

Silly politics. “Then I'll do it for free.”

Joadan's sword sagged, as if it could not bear the weight of so much stupidity.

“Surely you must know, I took a vow: to pay for, and be paid for, every transaction; to neither give nor receive charity; to be only what I can be, not what others make of me. The Yellow Emperor would have my ranks for the sake of that vow. You offer me a choice between death and impotence.”

Apparently his metaphysics were even sillier. As a priest, Joadan was naturally bound to a certain code of conduct derived from the precepts of his Patron's affiliation. Christopher hadn't expected that code to be cripplingly stupid. His own religious vows were vastly less confining.

“And yet,” Joadan said, his sword rising up again to point at Christopher's throat, “you do me even further insult. Did you think your own power greater than mine? Does your god favor you with miracles instead of mere spells?”

“Sometimes,” Torme said. “This is the Lord Curate Christopher, whose mere survival is a miracle. You would be wise to reconsider your threats.”

Improbably, Joadan's face fell, and he turned to the side in disgust.

“Go,” he said. “Begone.”

Despite this welcome change of attitude, Christopher could not leave well enough alone. He had to ask. “Why?”

Joadan glared at him while answering. “The consequences of intemperate oaths. I swore to spare the hand that brought low the Baron Black Bartholomew, regardless of its color. That odious stain on my Church's honor is now expunged. And with this, my oath is expired. Our next encounter will not be similarly constrained. Now leave, as you entered: in silence.”

Christopher had to bite his tongue to stop himself from apologizing again. Instead he picked up his sword and sheathed it. His men followed him out quietly, Christopher not even trusting to speak to the poor butler, still standing against the wall. He settled for patting the man on the shoulder and grimacing an apology.

Standing on the street, watching the butler try to stand the broken door back in its place, and surrounded by a group of cautious but angry cabbage-sellers, Torme was the first to speak.

“I confess myself confused.”

“That makes two of us,” Christopher said. He took out his purse and started counting gold coins into the wagoneer's hand, until the man's face brightened. He added a few more, for good measure, and then led his squad down the street in a random direction, since he still didn't know which way was home.

“That seems unlikely,” Torme said, “as you are the author of my confusion. Why did you condone the Curate's child-beating? It is legal, of course, yet you spoke of life-saving.”

“That's the part that confused you?” Christopher said. “Okay, look, the kid has cystic fibrosis.” The words sounded wrong to him, and he realized they were in English. “Basically, he's drowning in his own snot. Joadan was clearing his lungs.”

“I have not heard of this disease. It must be in the advanced studies.”

That was nice of Torme, although of course Christopher had not actually undergone advanced studies. He wasn't even sure they existed.

“It's a genetic thing,” Christopher said, and again the word was in English. Torme nodded, pretending to understand, but Christopher stopped walking.

“Wait a minute. Maybe that's why Joadan can't cure him. The spell for diseases—it doesn't fix allergies, right?”

“One must treat allergic reactions as a poison. But of course you knew that,” Torme said, managing to look only a little alarmed at Christopher's ignorance.

Christopher backed up and tried a different tack.

“What spell cures birth defects?”

“You mean, like Charles's missing fingers?”

“Yes! Joadan's boy is like Charles, except what he is missing is, uh, not fingers. Something internal.”

“This would not seem to help. Only the Saint can regenerate, and Joadan can no more deal with him than he could with you.”

“Well, then, maybe he should switch sides.”

Torme frowned. “It is not perhaps as easy it seems. Particularly for a man already so far advanced in age and rank, and learned in theology.”

“Ah . . . sorry,” Christopher mumbled. Torme was not just the only person he knew who had switched teams; he was the only person he'd ever heard of switching. Making light of it was incredibly rude.

Torme acknowledged his apology by smoothly changing topics.

“Perhaps you were confused why he would loathe Black Bart. I can shed some light. Bart of course did not take his knights into his counsel. Nonetheless we detected hints of disagreement. At the time I took it for mere rivalry, but perhaps it was a sign of schism.”

“Schism?” Christopher couldn't imagine how that could occur. He was under the assumption that if he were screwing up, Marcius would appear and set him straight. Wouldn't it work the same for everyone else?

“Your own existence has caused division in the White. Imagine how much more so if our affiliation did not command us to humility. In other faiths, where personal power is a direct sigil of divine favor, there is somewhat less . . . cooperation.”

“Don't the gods have anything to say about that?”

Torme looked at him askance. “A priest expects to meet with his god but once, at his initiation, and that is a rigidly formal affair. Even a mere conversation with a god must be hedged on all sides by limits and restrictions, else risk violating the sacred compact.”

That didn't really describe his interaction with Marcius. Christopher felt it might sound like name-dropping to bring it up, though.

“Well, if there is a split in the Gold Church, maybe we can use it to drive out Joadan.”

His assistant didn't look very happy with the thought, but he held his tongue.

“What is it? Damn it, Faren told you to be frank with me. You defer too much to my judgment. I need you to be more assertive. You need to tell me when I'm making a mistake.”

“I completely agree,” Torme said, perhaps thinking of the most recent debacle, though still too polite to mention it.

Christopher took out his little silver vial, opened it, and poured out a precise amount of purple.

“I'm sorry I took so long to do this. Write to Dereth and tell him you'll need a sword.”

Torme was polite and grave. “As you will, my lord.”

But the man was not invulnerable, and he had to ask the question that preyed on him, as it must on anyone in his position. “What if the Marshall does not accept me?” Acolyte-ranks did not require the direct approval of the god, but a full rank did.

Christopher shrugged, unconcerned. “I don't expect that to be the case.” He did not consciously realize they were the same words the Saint had said to him, over a year ago. “Now tell me: what's wrong with my plan?”

Torme put the pellet of tael in his mouth before answering.

“It seems profitless to wash the walls with mud.”

That was an excellent point. It would not be an improvement to replace the likes of Joadan with the likes of Black Bart. He would have to think of something else. And soon—Joadan would likely be eager to provoke another confrontation, one that Christopher wasn't sure he could win and was even less sure he wanted to.

“You should not be seen in this state,” Torme said, unbuckling the remnants of Christopher's chain mail. His shirt came away with it, having been reduced to rags. “Your dignity would suffer for it.”

Torme took off his own shirt and handed it over. Christopher objected, saying, “What about your . . .” but he trailed off into shocked silence when he saw the scars on Torme's back. Old and long healed, but the sight still sent a sympathetic twinge down his spine.

“I am a commoner for one more day. And commoners have no dignity,” Torme answered. Hefting the tattered mail over his shoulder, he took the lead, and Christopher and the men followed him home.

8

A NIGHT ON THE TOWN

T
he army loved him, but they were young men. For the first few days, just cleaning and settling into the barracks sufficed to keep them busy. Inevitably, though, the town they were embedded in began to lure their gaze and drain their attention. Christopher stepped up the busywork, but he knew that very soon someone would slip and do something foolish like sneaking out. And then he would have to dispense real punishment.

Torme knew it too. “'Tis hard to tell the men they cannot venture out at night for a drink or two, especially when you are paying them drinking money.”

“Do you think we can hold out till Karl gets here?” Letting this pack of boisterous young men loose on this town would create problems Christopher had no idea how to handle.

“No,” Torme said, insensitive to Christopher's desire for an easy answer. “My suggestion would be to put them under the command of the Captain, building walls and training with pikes.” The pikes had started arriving, and Torme had declared them to be of acceptable quality and only twice as expensive as they should be.

But Christopher was not going to turn command of his army over to anybody else. He had a brief moment of sympathy for the UN Peacekeeping forces, who were routinely expected to do just that. Back when he was a civilian, it hadn't seemed like a big deal, and he had authoritatively shaken his head in dismay at the foibles of military officers. Now the shoe was on the other foot, and it pinched.

“Pick the best ones, and give them a night's leave. Make sure they understand that if they misbehave, there will be no more leave for anyone.” He hoped that would buy him a few nights.

As he sat brooding in his office that night, awaiting the roar of a riot or some other disturbance to reveal his incompetence, the dreaded knock came.

“Sir, permission to enter,” a young sentry said. Christopher had been training his men how to talk to him, and he much preferred “Sir” to the ostentatious “my Lord Curate.”

“Granted, Private,” he answered. His men had also been training him how to speak to them, and he felt like he was making progress.

The door opened to a slightly flustered young soldier and a strikingly attractive woman dressed in peasant's clothes somehow arranged to give the distinct impression of harlotry.

“She said you would want to see her, sir,” the soldier apologized, as Christopher began shaking his head in anger.

“What an absurd breach of protocol,” he began to lecture, but then the woman interrupted him.

“Take it easy on them, Christopher. I had to work to get this far.” The woman shook out her hair, changed her posture in some subtle way, and suddenly was Lalania again.

The soldier stood, waiting for release or blame. Christopher could hardly give him the latter, so he made the best of it. “Very well, Private. Dismissed.” Damn it, if he had known the man was going to exit with that lascivious grin, he wouldn't have let him go so easily.

“Where have you been, and why are you dressed like that?” he demanded of the girl.

“The answer to both of those questions should be self-evident,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Do you see me reproaching you for your whoring around?”

“But I don't,” he said automatically.

“I am so tired of hearing that,” she said, but not really to him. “Peace. You asked for my help, now take it.”

He really did need help, so he shut up and listened.

“Your wizard is a careful man. And yes, man he is, despite the rumors. Once a week he takes a woman into his tower for the night. Very discreetly, I might add. It took me days to find out where and when the selection was made.”

“Oh, Lala!” he exclaimed. “You didn't . . .”

“This is my job,” she answered, angry now. “Do not dare to look down on me. When I am done with my appointed tasks, there are not headless bodies lying everywhere.”

If it was a rationalization, it was a good one.

“But it's not your job to take such risks,” he said, because he could always find something to argue. “If he had suspected you were working for me, he would have burned us both.”

“Or worse,” she agreed, jaunty again now that the topic was mere danger. “But he has great confidence in his power. Each morning he wipes the girl's mind, so she can recall nothing of what occurred the night before.”

“So you gained nothing? Why even try, then?”

“Because trying costs nothing. If I cannot remember, then I can hardly complain.”

Christopher tapped the desk in annoyance. Either she was talking metaphysics or justifications; either was a waste of time.

“Because I am not a credulous peasant girl. That kind of magic is beyond his reach,” she said, sitting on his desk and stopping his hand with hers. “If not, it would be a fact worth knowing. I prepared myself against the more probable but lesser spell, and was proved right.”

“More danger,” Christopher complained. “What if he noticed?”

“Not with magic,” she laughed. “I am only first-rank. And magic is all he sees. The foolishness of the high; they forget that common sense and cleverness can oft slip thaumaturgical puissance. So now I can tell you what he would rather you did not know.”

That sounded dangerous in and of itself. But knowledge was power, and he wasn't going to turn down Lalania's sacrifice.

His face must have revealed his concern, because Lalania grinned at him. “The first and most important thing he does not want you to know is that he is a balding, paunchy, middle-aged man of a thoroughly pedestrian nature. The only unpleasantness I faced was boredom. My skills were wasted on him; clumsy peasant girls are all he can conceive of.”

Christopher did not want to know what skills she was referring to.

“He wears Black to frighten and cow, but he is too wedded to personal gain to be anything but Yellow. He never leaves the tower unless cloaked in robes and illusion intended more to disguise than to terrify. He lives and breathes plot and counterplot, scheme and stratagem. He is desperately lonely, up there in that tower with nothing but his magic and his baleful contingencies, yet so subsumed by paranoia that it has never occurred to him he is his own jailer.