Gold Throne in Shadow (27 page)

“Soldiers must kill,” she answered. “But they need not grin about it.”

“He's just making the best of a bad situation.” Christopher couldn't quite figure out how he had become Gregor's advocate, but he told himself it was because he wanted peace in his camp. Guilt over destroying the blue knight's relationship with the beautiful troubadour surely couldn't be part of it.

“He could make better, if he cared to try,” Disa said cryptically, and then she changed the subject to other matters.

In only five days, they had changed the landscape. Like a cloud of locusts they stripped the hill bare, stacking logs in neat piles to dry while the overseers marked out trenches for the molds. Like a nest of ants, they dug mud from the swamp, carried in long lines of men with baskets up the hill, and filled the wooden structures. It was a small hill, which was just as well, since Christopher had only committed the wizard to ten walls. Still, that was nine hundred feet of circumference, which would cover the hilltop. With another fifty yards of swampland cleared behind, and the flat, open plain in front, Christopher would not fear
Tyrannosaurus rex
himself.

The tenth night since they had left town, he had his men light a massive bonfire. D'Kan was perplexed.

“Won't that risk attracting attention before we are ready for it?”

Christopher had almost forgotten about the ulvenmen. But there was a specific attention he needed to attract.

“I'm expecting an air drop,” he grinned, anticipating it would baffle the Ranger. But D'Kan nodded sagely and refused to be surprised when the black shape of the wizard glided into the firelight.

“Lord Wizard,” Christopher greeted him, remembering the night they had spent drinking. Christopher's men, having no such protection, shied away from the sinister robes dangling in midair.

“You were right,” the wizard said. “I could see your bonfire from the city, once I'd gone high enough. Yet it is nigh twenty miles.”

There was nothing else in the swamp making light, so there was no competition. Christopher knew that, having sent Kennet up just the night before.

“What about the journey?” Christopher asked. Even without superstition, flying at night through this crazy world would be terrifying. Who knew what would spring out of the nearest star-lit cloud?

“I was hidden until I reached your camp,” the wizard said matter-of-factly. “So do not expect me to come out here and rescue you. Not only does the trip take an hour, it depletes me of spells.”

“I don't,” Christopher answered. “Your job is defending your people. Losing a whole city is far worse than losing a regiment.”

The wizard shook his head, a negative motion that somehow still signaled approval. “Your greed is as lively as a Yellow. I am well aware that you left my domain so you would not owe me taxes on your gains, but I am surprised to see you turning down my share from ordinary combat.”

Christopher blushed. He hadn't realized this secondary motivation was that obvious. Technically being outside the borders of the realm, he would owe a tael-tax only to the King.

“Fear not.” The wizard sounded like he was laughing, although the illusion he wore wasn't really consistent with humor. “I have never claimed a tael-tax on ulvenmen, and I'll not start now. If people want to risk their lives killing monsters, I'll not dissuade them, near or far. Nor will I come to your rescue and steal your thunder. That's the King's job. The only thing you need fear from me is admiration for your sharp practice. I would think a White priest to be shamed at words of praise from a Black wizard.”

“I don't mind being shamed, as long as I'm richer for it,” Christopher said with a grin. He knew the wizard wasn't really Black, but he could hardly compromise the carefully constructed false persona in public. “Speaking of which, I saved a bottle of wine for you, in case turning mud to stone is thirsty work.”

“Just one,” the wizard said. “I still have to find my way home.” He glided off to work his magic on the wall. His flight spell lasted considerably longer than Christopher's.

Only after they had finished the bottle, while Christopher was trying to explain to the wizard why you could see a fire from the air when you couldn't see it from the ground—apparently these people did not know their world was round—did it occur to Christopher how much trust the wizard had shown in drinking his wine. Karl would have had an apoplectic fit over such a security breach if Christopher had done the same. Though the wizard was highly ranked, he could still be killed, and poisoned wine would be an ideal opening shot.

This was the price of a life of paranoid solitude—once you did trust someone, you trusted them too much. After the wizard had zoomed off into the night, Christopher discussed it with his political officer.

Torme dismissed his speculations. “You are White, Brother. Of course he trusts you. He knows that should you become his enemy, you will send him an invitation before attacking, and you'll probably heal him after the battle to boot.”

“Are we really that inept?” Christopher asked. No wonder the Church didn't have an army.

“So I have always been taught,” Torme said. “Always the Dark crows about the stupidity of the Bright. And yet . . .”

“Yet what?”

Torme shook his head. “I have seen more power in your train than in any place I have looked in this world. I cannot explain it. But I believe it. And in any case, I am now White myself. If you did not send that invitation, I would deliver it by hand.”

“Not to worry,” Christopher laughed. “He's on our side.”

“For now,” Torme said. “For now.”

The wizard had departed for the last time the night before. Now Christopher surveyed his new fortress.

The stone walls were being carved, not merely in decorative swirls. Men were drilling narrow firing ports instead of the wider sawtooth crenellations necessary for crossbows. Inside the ring of stone, buildings were being raised. Crude ones, made out of the scraggly lumber from the marsh, with tent-cloth roofs, but still a marked improvement over sleeping in the open. Regular latrines, stone hearths, storage pits, and stables dotted the grounds. The best lumber went into making the gate, bound with strips of iron brought from the city in wagons. The men had complained about carrying thick bars of metal and heavy barrels of nails. They weren't complaining now.

Nor had they complained, even once, about dragging the cannons through the swamp. Seeing them ensconced in regular intervals around the walls gave everyone a deep sense of security.

The single greatest difficulty in supplying a fort was their easiest achievement. Instead of trying to dig a well in this muddy sinkhole, they had their magic water bottle, a gift from the Saint. The thick bronze vase shot out clean, cool water like a firehose on command. It had been invaluable in turning dirt to mud. Now it supplied them with uncontaminated water for drinking and cooking.

“We'll need to send the wagons for more supplies tomorrow,” Karl said.

Christopher sighed. Having created a safe haven for all of them, it was already time to split his forces and send men into danger.

“Do you think we can exterminate the dinosaurs?” he asked D'Kan. “Or at least teach them to fear our guns and stay away from our horses?”

“Probably not.” D'Kan was merciless. “And if you could, then something worse would just move into their place. At least the dinosaurs are mostly interested in your mounts. Ulvenmen would always aim for your men first.”

Perversely, Christopher felt the loss of the innocent animals more than his soldiers. He couldn't revive the horses.

D'Kan must have guessed his feelings. “You still mean to revive your common soldier?”

“Of course,” Christopher said.

The Ranger shook his head. “No wonder they banished you to this miserable swamp.”

It was an echo of the sentiment Captain Steuben had voiced in the Cathedral. The head of the Saint's bodyguard and loyal to the cause without question, Steuben had nonetheless frowned dubiously at Christopher's mass revival of common soldiers. Thanks to the hateful speech of his assassin, Christopher understood why. He wondered if D'Kan did.

“Pretend I don't understand that, and explain it to me.”

D'Kan looked at him in surprise but gave a pragmatic answer Christopher had not considered. “What man would serve another lord if he could serve you? You force them all to revive their own or lose them to your banner. Instead they chose to put you where your policy will bleed your coffers dry with petty deaths.”

Karl had a counterargument. “Why would any lord care if common men chose to serve Christopher instead of them?”

D'Kan laughed. “Then who would groom their horses? But they should care, more than they know. If they understood what your rifles could do, they would kill you out of hand.” He was still grinning, so he couldn't be that attached to the established social order.

“Let's not tell them, then,” Christopher suggested.

“You need not fear my tongue,” D'Kan answered. “You know what binds me to you. For the rest, I care not a fig. But surely you understand they are not completely stupid. Sooner or later, they will understand your advantage. What will you do then?”

“I'll sell them guns.”

Finally D'Kan was startled. “I know you do not jest, but I do not understand. You would put a weapon in the hands of your rivals? Truly you wear the White too tightly, a blindfold across your eyes.”

“It's not my rivals I will be arming,” Christopher muttered, nettled, even though he knew he should keep his mouth shut. But his secret was safe. D'Kan simply could not envision a world without feudal privilege, and he merely stared at Christopher in wonder.

“Ser D'Kan, I would have you accompany us as guide. At least for this first trip.” Karl was returning to business, and Christopher only had one comment to offer.

“You don't have to ask him, Karl. You outrank him.” Karl was second-in-command, by Christopher's rules.

D'Kan stiffened. But after a few deep breaths, he relaxed.

“Let this be another fact we do not tell them. To place the ranked under the command of the common is an insult of staggering proportions. I bear it only for the sake of my vengeance; I ask you not to compound my burden with public shame.”

Christopher couldn't leave well enough alone. He never could.

“That's not true, D'Kan. That's not the only reason you bear it.”

The Ranger frowned at him.

“You bear it because you know it's right. Because you know Karl is capable. Because you know that command should come from ability, not tael.”

He was afraid he'd made the Ranger angry, but after a moment the young man grimaced.

“My lord, living with the unvarnished truth is your burden, not mine. Spare me your insights and leave me my illusions.”

Despite his original reserve, D'Kan had proven unable to resist imparting his knowledge to an eager audience. Christopher's scouts were shaping up nicely under his tutelage, and the Ranger was almost as proud of them as Christopher was.

“Do you want me, or Gregor and Disa?” Christopher asked Karl.

“The latter, and Torme as well. You do not need political advice out here in the wilderness, and we may need more healing than one priest can provide.”

That was Christopher's entire staff in one tasty horse-basket. But Karl was not reckless. He also took all of the cavalry and three platoons of infantry. And he took Christopher's flying privileges.

“You simply cannot risk leaving the fort while we are gone. If you were laid low outside the walls, who could succor you?”

“You see,” Christopher said to D'Kan, “it's not only you who bows to the will of Major Karl. You get to go have a drink in the city, and I get put under house arrest.”

D'Kan smiled at the joke, but in his eyes Christopher thought to see a hint of confusion, a glimmer of a distant vision of how things
could
be.