Sword of the Bright Lady (34 page)

Christopher gave Niona a coat and uniform, while Karl unpacked the gear he'd brought for the knight.

“Sword and board,” Cannan mused, scowling at the longsword and shield. “Haven't used these in a while, but I suppose the theory is the same.”

Karl gave the boys instructions. “You'll refer to Ser as Goodman Barnner. You will not call him Ser or refer to his rank in any way. He is our secret weapon. Do not reveal this secret to the spies of the Invisible Guild.” He also told them to call Niona by the name Nick, and to pretend she was one of the boys. She'd cut her long and curly hair, so in the loose coat and helmet she almost looked the part.

They received a warm reception in Treyeing. The entire village was out waiting for them, along with a crowd of mummers, juggling, prancing, and making music, an impromptu festival. No, it was a circus, and he was the main attraction. His group took over the inn, setting up in the barroom where Christopher practiced his politicking, trying to remember the pointers that Svengusta had given him. He wanted these people to like him. The fact that it was Karl's hometown made it possible.

He answered the same questions over and over again, sticking to platitudes and generalities. The strange get-up of the boys was a popular topic, so Christopher expounded on it at length. He discussed the value of good clothing and made clear his intent to equip all the draftees in the same manner.

Karl held a demonstration, showing off each piece of the kit. The ladies all paid close attention to that.

“I'll pay for each piece you send your boys in with,” Christopher told them.
Everybody
paid close attention to that.

After sunset they repeated their performance from Knockford, though with fewer rockets. Christopher saw a lot of the same faces from town buying more bonds. He sold out of this village's allotment in four minutes.

He bought his troop dinner at the inn and beer for what seemed like half the village. His generosity was loudly cheered, even though he was spending their own gold on them. Lalania was a surprise guest for dinner.

“I won't see you again till you reach the next town, but I'm pleased to see you've still got all your purses.” She'd shown him some clever ways to carry them, where they would be harder to steal. “Congratulations on the addition to your troop.” She winked in Niona's direction. “I'm glad you did it. I can't imagine you getting through the next two weeks without bloodshed.”

“Let's hope you're right,” Cannan growled, already bored and edgy.

The days melted into a blur. Christopher was stretched to the limit, trying to be polite and friendly to an endless succession of farmers and their wives, girlfriends, children, and dogs. Every night they did another performance, and every morning they marched a few miles to the next village, where they started all over again.

They looped around the county and then headed south and east into Cannenberry, which was only technically adjacent, meeting Knockford at a single corner. They hit all the villages there, seeing new faces but not surprising anyone, since Lalania and others had already spread the word. Christopher belatedly realized he should have asked permission of the Vicars of the counties he was selling to. Then he realized he should have asked permission of Vicar Rana before he'd even started his demonstration. No wonder she was ticked at him.

His tour was limited to the northwestern part of the Kingdom, where most of the Church counties were and where the Church had the most influence. Christopher knew he couldn't sell any bonds outside of the Church counties, no matter how friendly. Their young men weren't part of his draft levee, and if nothing else, the rulers would want a cut.

They would be passing through only one non-Church-owned county on the way home, and Karl assured him that its lord was an ally. The Gold Throne that Niona had warned him of was far to the south; the druids and their uncertain loyalties were even farther east. He was restricting his travels to the safest possible path, and even so he ended every day frazzled by tension.

The Vicar of Cannenberry was an elderly man, the oldest person Christopher had seen in this Church of old men, and the friendliest, inviting Christopher's entire retinue to stay in the local church for free.

“You're very generous,” Christopher told him over dinner. “And you set a fine table.”

“I'm old,” the Vicar said, “I've nothing to save for. I'll die before my next rank, so I might as well spend my money.” He fed Niona's kittenhawk a bit of meat from his plate, having lured the animal away from her as soon as they sat down. It perched on his shoulder, purring and rubbing its whiskery face into his long white beard.

His Prelate, a middle-aged and efficient-looking woman, frowned.

“Banna doesn't approve,” the Vicar crackled. “But she's young, and she thinks it's her rank I'm spending.”

The woman blushed. “Brother, do not speak so ill of me to strangers.”

“Strange folk indeed,” the old priest said. “Did you know I once met a priest of Marcius? Long ago, when I was but a boy.”

“No,” Christopher said, excited. “Tell me about him, please.”

“He died young. They all did, lost on some distant battlefield, sooner or later. He was barely older than you are now.” The ancient patriarch's idea of young was apparently relative. “But he was not like you. He despaired, I think, of ever finding peace. And wise he was proved, for here I have lived a long life from that day, and he is gone, but war is still with us.”

“It is the cycle,” Cannan growled. Niona seemed to have placed herself under a vow of silence, carefully remaining neutral at Cannan's words and the Prelate's deepening frown.

“I am not so old yet that I am blind,” the Vicar giggled, smiling openly at Niona. “But you are welcome here, at least while I rule. Bright is Bright. At my age, one can hardly tell the difference anymore.

“But you,” he said, turning back to Christopher. “You are something new. You come marching in with a retinue, but not soldiers. You bear a rod of wonder and fire, but not magic. You are something I have never seen before, and that is rare indeed.” The Vicar's gaze pierced Christopher, and he understood that the old man had guessed more than he had said.

“I am,” Christopher admitted, “something of a novelty in these parts.”

“This gives you a little time,” the Vicar said cryptically. “But people become accustomed quickly. Your boys, for instance, are laughable, with their leather coats and silly sticks. But that perception could change overnight, for the smallest of reasons, and then we would have to explain why a Brother of the Church leads an armed host.”

The Vicar had neatly pointed out the dilemma Christopher was trapped in. The more his boys and his tricks impressed people, the less the Invisible Guild would bother him, but the more the entrenched power structure would notice him. And he'd already had a taste of the trouble that would be, in the style of Black Bart.

Christopher mumbled something inconsequential. He hadn't thought that far ahead.

The Vicar shook his head, amused. “Krellyan was always a cautious lad. Now he has let you grasp the tail of a dragon. As soon as you let go, it will turn around and devour you. I cannot decide if this is because Krellyan believes you can tame the dragon or wants to see you consumed. Let us hope no one else can decide either.”

Either conclusion was bad for somebody. If people thought Krellyan was really backing him, then the Saint would have to answer for his growing disturbances. If people thought Krellyan wanted him dead, he was likely to wind up that way.

“It's only a matter of the draft,” Karl said, pushing the party line.

“Of course,” the Vicar agreed. “And we will be happy to give you gold for your pretty lights and vainglorious dreams. The people assume Krellyan will refund their money when you die. I know, Brother, you said nothing of the sort, but people see what they want to see. You cannot speak truth to a man who will hear only a comforting lie.”

These priests were quite prickly about the difference between truth and falsehood. Christopher agreed with them: a lie of omission was just as bad as a lie of commission. The Vicar was looking for assurance that Christopher was not allowing people to deceive themselves on his behalf. But how could he give that?

At a loss for anything better, he answered, “I'm too young to die.”

The old Vicar nodded, as if that was somehow an adequate response, and called for the next course of the meal.

Dinner was merely three courses, not seven or more like a gourmand from Earth would have. But it was still the best meal he'd eaten since he got here. Fresh greens—Christopher assumed there was magic involved in that—delicate sauces, bits of unidentifiable meat on skewers with unidentifiable fruit. And real bread, fresh and light, with herbed butter. Even Cannan felt compelled to admire it, in his way.

“You're going to spoil those boys, feeding them like this,” he growled. “They'll get fat and soft.”

“You don't have to eat it,” Karl said. “You could set a heroic example.”

“But I want to get fat and soft,” Cannan grinned. “Especially at someone else's table.”

“We do not eat like this every day,” the Prelate said. “Only on special occasions.”

“Which I make up as fast as I can,” the Vicar smiled. “I fear that my funeral will be the last special occasion these parts will see for some time.”

“The peasants never eat like this,” Niona said, but softly.

“They will at least once. I've made explicit instructions in my will. The one thing I am saving for.”

“You'd have them celebrate your death?” the Prelate said reflexively. This was obviously an old and practiced argument between them.

“I'd have them just celebrate. But if I do it while I'm still alive, I'd have to listen to them beg for it again. This way I get the pleasure of the idea without the cost.” He winked at the table and his discomfited Prelate.

His generosity did not end at dinner. After the performance he had his clerk announce to the crowd that he would personally buy fifty gold worth of Christopher's bonds. Since he would certainly not live to collect on them, this was an act of real faith. The crowd noticed and responded accordingly.

In the last village of Cannenberry, just before they passed north to Copperton, they relaxed in an inn after another performance. The weather was turning toward pleasant, and the saddlebags of bonds and rockets were steadily being replaced by saddlebags of gold.

Christopher found himself at a table with a mug of ale—not the usual bitter black beer, but a smooth pale lager, and an extremely pretty and flirtatious young woman. The hour was late, so the small barroom had fewer than a dozen people in it, half of whom were from Christopher's company. He was exhausted from politicking and at ease from the success of his endeavor so far.

The girl was friendly. More than friendly. It had been an awfully long time since he'd picked someone up in a bar, and he was pretty sure it didn't used to be this easy, but he was too relaxed to worry about it. Every time she spoke, her teeth sparkled and her eyes flashed, and Christopher felt warm and comforted.