Sword of the Bright Lady (13 page)

“And you'll be Karl the screw-up instead of Karl the brave,”
Christopher said.

“If you save one boy's life,” Karl grated, “I'll count the trade fairly done.”

Christopher was hoping to save a lot of lives. He had no idea who the enemy was, but if the war had lasted all of Cardinal Faren's life, then the two sides must be evenly matched. Christopher was pretty sure he could tilt the balance.

On the other hand, tradition was a strong force, as evidenced by the machinations the Saint and Karl were going through to change the simplest of arrangements. Christopher would need vast quantities of genius, diplomacy, and money to revolutionize this society in under a year. What he had was a recipe for gunpowder from a TV show, the ability to insult people without speaking their language, and the change in his pockets.

He hadn't had a chance to take stock of his resources yet. There always seemed to be something more important to do, like avoid being stabbed to death. Here, on the placid ride to town on the gentle back of the broad, strong horse, he dug under his borrowed, tattered cloak and priestly robes to see what he had brought with him.

The answer was not much. Two quarters and a key. The shiny quarters were only nickel cladding over copper. Passing them off as silver pieces would be an act of counterfeiting, and he had committed enough crimes already.

His truck key was aluminum, which might be worth something, if they knew what aluminum was. He seemed to recall it was valuable in Napoleon's day, but he didn't know if medieval smiths even knew of its existence.

“Who would be interested in curiosities from other worlds?”

Karl's face darkened.

“No one sane.”

Popularizing technology might be harder than he thought.

“That is to say,” Karl continued, “only a wizard, and you would be foolish to deal with them at all. I would suggest selling it to the first magician you see, at whatever price he offers, and forgetting about it. Talk of other worlds can only lead to trouble.”

“Why is that?” Christopher asked.

“Because only monsters live in the outer planes, and not by choice. They are banished there, by the powers of the gods, constantly plotting and scheming to trick some poor mortal into opening a pathway here so they may slaughter and plunder.”

Saint Krellyan seemed to have been proven right. Chatting about the ancestral home of Man was not likely to win him any friends or influence.

“It's just something I picked up in my travels,” Christopher said. “But if you think it's dangerous, then a wizard might think it's valuable.”

“You are a priest of the White now,” Karl said. “You cannot misrepresent the facts, even by omission. Do not spoil your affiliation before you have discharged your duties to the army.”

Christopher wanted to ask what he meant, but that would likely lead to Karl asking him why he didn't already know, and that might lead to questions Christopher didn't want to answer, especially if he couldn't dissemble. Questions like where he and the strange metal had come from in the first place.

“Fair enough,” he said.

Karl pursed his lips, as if he had said too much already. Christopher felt a twinge of sympathy. It was clearly not normal for the young commoner to spend so much time explaining basic facts to an older, ranked priest. It must disturb his view of the world.

But then, Christopher had his own disquiets. Wracking poverty on an alien world was only one of them. His thumb went to his last asset, idly spinning it on his finger. A plain gold wedding band. It was the only physical link he had to his wife and the life he had left behind.

A life in disarray by now. How long had he been here? By now they would have found his truck abandoned at the river, his dogs waiting patiently by its side. The police would be unsympathetic; only another husband run off in the middle of the night. She would not believe that. She would wait for him, as she had for all the long years before they met. As he had waited, unaware of what he was waiting for until it burst on him like a surprise party in a darkened room, and afterwards all was chaos and joy.

And now she would sleep in a cold bed, without even knowing the reason why. The pain of it struck at his heart with the force of an ax. By comparison Hobilar's many hurts had been mere pinpricks. He doubled over, clutching at the pommel of the saddle in impotent rage. He would suffer a thousand more cuts, cripple a thousand more Hobilars if he had to.

“Are you unwell?” Karl asked from across the road.

“My apologies,” Christopher answered. “I was thinking of the difficulties ahead.”

“Fair enough,” Karl said.

After they had stabled, watered, fed, and rubbed down their horses—a horse wasn't like a car you could just park—they went into the church. Karl turned Christopher over to a lanky young man who introduced himself as Pater Stephram.

“If you wish to draw on your account,” Stephram told him, “you will need to speak to the Vicar Rana. Be warned that while you consider the money to be your own to spend as you like, the Vicar may have other ideas.”

A troublesome notion. Christopher frowned, and Stephram good-naturedly offered an explanation.

“Some of us thought to have a celebratory dinner, in honor of the return of the Church of Marcius. When we went to apply for an advance on our salary, the Vicar denied us and set us to double watch-hours as well.”

“I'm sorry,” Christopher said.

“You have no need to apologize for that,” the young man said graciously. “Although when the girls caught sight of Hobilar and his maimed arm, they lost their taste for merriment. So the evening would have been futile.”

By this time they had passed several other white-robed members of the Church, whose average age seemed about half of Christopher's. This included at least one attractive young woman who captured Stephram's discreet gaze long enough to interrupt their conversation. The ambience was much like being back in college.

At least until his fellow priests and priestesses caught sight of his sword. Then their smiles turned uncertain. Christopher was surprised the first few times, because he had forgotten he was wearing the thing. The realization that he was comfortable enough with the sword to forget it made him no happier.

Stephram abandoned Christopher at the Vicar's office. Briefly Christopher considered retreating until he could divest himself of the sword, but it was too late. Stephram had opened the door and waved him inside.

The Vicar was the stout woman he had seen on his first trip to the church. She had been alarmed to see him then; now she seemed positively wary.

“I'm sorry,” he said, indicating his sword with an open-handed gesture.

“You need not apologize for that,” she answered. “It is the symbol of your devotion. But if you are looking for faults to apologize for, I can give you a definite, if inexhaustive, list.”

Christopher winced. “I didn't mean to cripple him.”

“Again you apologize for the wrong reason. Hobilar must look to Krellyan for succor now, and that may be the only thing that can draw that man into the light.”

“What should I apologize for?”

“Dueling in the first place, and winning in the second. Had you lost, Krellyan would have made good your ransom, as he has too much invested in you already. Hobilar would be satisfied instead of enraged, the townsfolk would soon forget the affair instead of gossiping day and night, and the world would roll on undisturbed. Instead you lay your stiff neck in front of the wagon of the world like a log, either to jolt us all or see it crushed.”

Christopher wanted to apologize again, but he bit his tongue. He was planning on putting a lot more bumps in the road. He changed the subject instead.

“I was wondering if I could withdraw some money against my salary.”

“Why would the Church of the Bright Lady pay a priest of Marcius a salary?”

He found himself gritting his teeth and forced his jaw to relax.

“How am I to survive, then?”

“You have funds,” she answered. “At our expense, since we will never recover the money from Hobilar. In any case you need only survive until the end of the year. Then the King will feed and clothe you, although admittedly not in the best style.”

Christopher had other plans for that money. He stood, fuming silently.

“Understand,” the Vicar said, “I could feed a peasant family for a decade on what Krellyan has given you for Hobilar's ransom. Long enough for a boy to grow into a farmer, or a girl to become a wife. If you wish to parade around in horse and armor, you will find no sympathy from me.”

She stared back at him, defying him to refute her logic.

But he couldn't.

“I understand,” he said. “Still, I need money.” The horse would need to be fed, at the very least.

“Of course,” she said. “You will not want to live solely off of Svengusta's charity.”

There was that, too.

From a drawer Rana produced a fistful of implements. She opened a glass inkwell and stirred it thoroughly with a round-ended slotted stick. Setting this aside on a bit of cloth already stained with ink, she smoothed out a slip of paper, dipped a quill, and wrote in deft looping strokes, returning to the inkwell after every few words. When she was finished writing, she blew gently on the paper while packing away her tools.

Christopher watched in grave fascination, entranced by the incredible effort involved in such a simple task. This was the world he lived in now.

“Take this to the vault clerk. Be wary. Should you lose it to carelessness or thievery, I will not make good your loss.”

He went out into the hall, wondering at her words. They would seem obvious. Karl's admonishment came back to him: the priests of the White were exacting.

A cleaning woman directed him deeper into the church, where he eventually found a bored guard and a clerk behind an iron grate. The clerk took his receipt and gave him twenty-five gold coins.

The coins were smaller than a dime, though thicker. They had ridged edges, implying a somewhat advanced minting technology, and a bearded, crowned face stamped on one side. Christopher couldn't see any denominations or script. Not that a date would mean anything to him.

Fenwick the stable-master had said the horse would need ten copper a day. That didn't mean anything to him either.

“How many coppers to a gold?” he asked.

The clerk looked at him in surprise. “Ten by ten, as it always has been, Pater. Copper to silver, silver to gold.”

“It's only five tael to the gold,” the guard said.

The clerk grimaced. “You and I need never worry about the price of tael.”

Christopher looked down at his coins in dismay. Just feeding the horse would cost forty gold a year. Rana had implied an entire peasant family could live off of that.

Walking back to the stables, Christopher tried to face the fact that the horse might be a luxury he couldn't afford. When he reached Royal's stall, the horse greeted him with a whinny and nosed affectionately at his shoulder.

Karl came into the stable, looking for him. “Would you like to go into town and sell this now?”

Christopher's stomach sank, but Karl was lifting one of the saddlebags packed with Hobilar's ridiculous armor.

“You bet,” Christopher said with relief. He grabbed the other bag and slung it over his shoulder. A dozen steps reaffirmed his decision to sell the weighty stuff. “Where do we go?” he asked, hoping the answer was “not very far.”

“Only one shop in town works in plate. So we must call on Senior Palek.”

Karl strode through the town like a bulldozer, leaving little time for sightseeing. The streets were narrow and stuffed with unpredictable buildings, houses, barns, and workshops all freely intermingled. At least one building looked suspiciously like a grain silo. Children and livestock played in the streets, paying no particular attention to the two armed men.

Palek's forge was a busy place, with three men hard at work and a pair of apprentices running errands. The forge was covered only by a slatted roof, with three open walls. The smith was shirtless despite the weather. Palek, a solid, compact man with a black beard and bulging muscles, pounded a sheet of steel on an anvil, wearing a leather apron and a sheen of sweat.

“Senior Palek,” Karl said, after they had been ignored for a bit.

“Goodman,” Palek said. “Have you come to buy?”

Karl had to wait before answering, while Palek struck three times at his metal.

“We've come to sell. The Pater has a suit of armor he does not fancy.” Karl's toe nudged the saddle bags where they sat in the dirt.

The smith set his hammer down. “Not of his quality, perhaps?”

Karl's eyes narrowed. “The quality is not an issue. In any case it would not fit him.”

Palek turned to Christopher. “Is it true you are marked for the draft?”

Christopher nodded.

“Then perhaps you wish to reconsider. You will not bemoan steel between your flesh and the enemy on the battlefield. I can refit it for you, Pater, or if you like, craft new pieces to your order.”