Sword of the Bright Lady (26 page)

That night was the last night Tom and Fae would be dining with them. Christopher was going to miss Tom's good cheer. He wouldn't miss having Fae around that much. It wasn't that she was unpleasant, just that she was, well, distracting.

Belatedly he realized he needed to warn Helga. “Um. We're going to have a dozen of those louts living here soon. Can you cook for that many people?”

Helga's eyes widened. She said yes anyway.

Over the next few days Helga got a practice run, as she fed batches of applicants at Karl's suggestion and Christopher's expense. Any complaints Christopher might have made were silenced by the way their eyes widened at the hams and sausages bought from the tavern.

While Karl ran them through the village like an obstacle course, Christopher struggled to master drafting with pen and ink. Frankly, he felt the boys had it easier.

On Tenday they had the largest crop, as it was the weekend and the last day for the trials. Karl was satisfied with the turnout.

“We've drawn most of the eligible boys in the county. I'll make my final picks tonight. Then we can go to town tomorrow and spend some more of your money.”

He had told all the boys the announcement would be made at Knockford Church at the start of the week, and they'd better be there if they were interested. He wasn't thoughtless about it, though. He'd told at least half the boys they didn't need to worry about showing up.

One of those unlucky ones sought out Christopher after the regular afternoon ride. He was a short, skinny kid, missing three fingers on his right hand: Charles, the tavern-master's son.

“Begging your pardon, Pater,” he stammered. “Karl said I could talk to you.”

“Of course you can,” Christopher replied, “but not about the class. He's picking his own students. And aren't you too young anyway?”

“I was born a few days before the cutoff,” Charles said. “But I'd rather go out with you, and my parents said I could go early if I did.” Understandable enough, given that Christopher had already saved the boy's life once. “Karl didn't pick me, on account of I can't wield a spear with only one finger.” Krellyan's regeneration was expensive. It wasn't going to be used on a peasant when he didn't need it. He could still work in his father's tavern. “But Karl said to tell you I can read and write.”

That was interesting. Even Karl wasn't literate. When he had signed as a witness on the mineral rights to Old Bog, Karl had laboriously printed out his name like a sacred engraving. It was the only word he knew how to write.

“How is this?” Christopher asked.

“Sister Margaret taught me,” the boy answered, “I want to be a priest after the draft.”

“You can write with only one finger?” Christopher asked, curious.

“Oh no, Pater, I write with my left hand.”

Christopher raised his eyebrows. “Then why don't you use a spear in your left hand?”

The boy looked at him in dismay. “You can't do that, Pater, you'll break the shield wall.”

Christopher steered the conversation back to more familiar ground. “Can you do sums?”

“Yes, Pater, a little.”

“Let's have a test then. Here, add up all the numbers between one and fifty.” He handed Charles a sheet of paper that he'd already ruined with bad drafting.

While the kid scratched away, Christopher discussed his trip to town with Helga. She wanted things, like pots and pans and mixing bowls.

“If you expect me to feed an army,” she sniffed, “you have to spend like a lord.”

Christopher agreed and suggested she hire a girl or two part-time to help. Much to his relief, she accepted.

The kid was finished, so Christopher went over to check his work. “And the answer is—wait, no, don't tell me—” He closed his eyes, worked the Fibonacci formula in his head. “Twelve hundred and seventy-five.”

Charles's eyes grew wide for a moment, then narrowed again. “You knew the answer in advance,” he accused, before he remembered he was talking to an adult and added, “Pater.”

Christopher laughed. “Okay, pick a different number.” The kid rattled off a two-digit number, and Christopher gave him the answer. He had spirit: he came back with a three-digit number. Christopher told him the result and then asked, “Are you willing to check that one? It could take a while . . .”

“Is it magic?” the boy asked in defeat.

“No,” Christopher said, “it's craft. And I'll teach it to you, if you want.”

The boy's eyes shone. “Yes, Pater, I would like that.”

“Then here's your job. You keep track of everything we buy and use for the troop, and tell me when we need to buy more. The last thing I want to do is find out we've got eleven loaves of bread when we need twelve.” He didn't actually care about bread, but managing ammunition stores for an army would be more accounting than he could bear. If he could teach this kid how to do it, he wouldn't have to.

The boy nodded again, bubbling over with excitement.

“Go tell Karl what I said. And come with us to Knockford tomorrow.”

When he went to the tavern for his afternoon pint with Svengusta, there was a stranger in the bar. Strange, because women were so rarely allowed in the hallowed drinking hall. This exception was understandable, however—long blonde hair, a generous endowment over a thin waist, and a young heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and red, full lips.

She was singing and accompanying herself on a lute. She was very good, and very pretty, but not enough to melt the ice. The villagers had not overcome the memory of the mummers, and remained suspicious and cold. When the song was finished, to a silent crowd, she gave up and approached Svengusta and Christopher's table.

In a sweet voice, she asked, “May I join you, Paters?”

“Of course,” Christopher answered. “Have a seat.”

When she sat down, he leaned back and casually covered his mug with his free hand, copying Svengusta.

A grimace flashed briefly across her face, but in the same pleasant tone she said, “I've played to friendlier morgues.”

“We had a bit of Invisible Guild trouble,” Svengusta explained. “They were disguised as mummers, so you can see how the lads are a bit touchy.”

“Perhaps you could inform them I am not of the Black Brotherhood, Pater,” she said evenly. “I've not made a copper since I got here.”

“Perhaps I could,” the old priest nodded, “if I knew it to be true.”

“I'm certified with the College!” she snapped. Recovering her poise, she tried politeness again. “What makes you think I'm with the Guild?”

“The College doesn't mean much in these parts,” Svengusta said. From his tone, Christopher inferred he didn't think it meant much in other parts, either. “And I don't think you are with the Guild. I just don't know you aren't.”

“Fortunately, I'm not terribly concerned with what you think,” she dismissed him. “I came to talk to Pater Christopher, the first priest of War in the Church of the Bright Lady in over half a century.”

“No comment,” Christopher said.

“I haven't asked you anything yet.”

“Whatever it is, my answer is no comment. You're either a spy or a gossip.” Though he'd meant to say journalist.

“Is such suspicion indicative of the nature of your new Church?” she asked pointedly.

“See,” Christopher said, “that's why I don't want to talk to you. You'll go away and tell people stuff like that. If I don't say anything to you, then at least you can't twist my words around.” He'd been interviewed on TV once, back home, on some trivial local matter, but the experience had taught him a lesson. If you didn't have your own press agency, you were at the mercy of the journalists. On Earth, they were a notoriously merciless profession. He took it for granted this was one of those universal constants that held everywhere.

“I can say good things about your Church, too, Pater,” she offered smoothly.

“That would be even worse,” Christopher grumbled before he remembered he wasn't talking to her.

“You don't want publicity?” She sounded genuinely surprised. “Every priest wants his Church on the lips of every mouth. Why would I believe you are different?”

“See, more questions I don't want to answer. Why don't you ask me something I can answer? Ask me what color the sky is. Or if I like green eggs and ham.”

“Your reticence tells me there is a story here.” She smiled, unable to completely hide her triumph.

Despite his best efforts, she'd painted him in a corner. “Fine, I'll give you a story.” She would keep digging until she got something, and there were some things he'd rather she not dig up. “Two weeks from now, in Knockford, I'm going to demonstrate a new craft. It's called pyrotechnics, and it's an exciting new business opportunity.”

“Pyrotechnics aren't new. Wizards do it all the time.”

“Ah, but they use arcane arts. This is just craft.” He realized he'd probably just made an enemy of every wizard in the world. “But it in no way competes with wizard stuff. It's different.”

“How is it different?” she asked, keenly penetrating his obfuscation.

“First you tell me what you know about wizard pyrotechnics, and then I'll tell you how it's different.” That was a good idea. Get her talking so he could shut up.

“I know you summon fire from the ground. I know you have a magic sword. I know you spend money like water, even though you were a beggar three weeks ago.”

“That's not about pyrotechnics,” Svengusta interjected. “Except maybe the first part.”

“What do you want from me?” Christopher asked. “Why are you here?”

“I collect and distribute information,” she said. “That's what I do. And I try to make a living along the way.”

“Or, to put it plainly,” Svengusta said, “you wander around looking for something you can take advantage of. Like looking for gold under rocks instead of working for it.”

She grinned. “I prefer my version, although yours is not without merit.” She clearly enjoyed the thrust and parry of verbal combat. If she got a hold of the bored and lonely Fae, she'd know everything within minutes.

“I can use some publicity,” Christopher announced. “I want a good turnout for my demonstration. I want people to be ready and willing to invest money. I want them to know I am going out next year with the draft, to fight with our boys and to bring back as many as I can. I want people to know I'm honest, upright, and devilishly handsome.” He also wanted people to know his sword wasn't magical, but Faren had explicitly forbidden him from saying that.

“Devils aren't handsome,” she remarked. “You have a strange way of speaking.”

“Oh, yes,” Svengusta agreed. “He speaks like a madman. But if you pay careful attention, you'll notice that everything he says is insane.”

“If I give you money, will you spread the news I've just told you?” Christopher pressed.

“Depends on how much,” she said casually.

“How much would it cost for you to spread just that news and nothing else?”

She grinned wickedly. “Maybe it's not gold I'm after.” She started playing footsy with him under the table.

“That's all you'll get.”

“So that's true as well, is it?” she smirked. “You prefer the company of your boys?”

He was really tired of this. “Why is it,” he said with ugly curiosity to Svengusta, “that every cheap whore you turn down assumes you must be a pederast?” He knew he would regret his pettiness, but right now he was simply angry.

“I'm not cheap,” the woman protested with a grin, utterly unstung by his attack.

“The Pater honors his wife's memory,” Svengusta said. “The fact that you've never had a man who could remember your name the next day does not speak for all men.”

Svengusta's point was not so easily brushed aside. The woman tipped her head and apologized. “I'm sorry, Pater, that was churlish of me. When did you lose your wife?”