Gold Throne in Shadow (7 page)

The women working in the shop grew still and quiet, while Torme struggled not to stare. Karl, of course, was just Karl.

“I suggest you accept, Christopher,” he said conversationally. “Wizards rarely pledge fealty beyond apprenticeship.”

“Then—why?” Christopher could not fathom this sea change in the woman.

“Your advance is rapid,” Torme softly explained, “and your purse is generous. Many will kneel to clutch at your cloak, to climb up the ranks in your shadow.

“Not all will pledge to your cause, as I have,” he added with only a very little defensiveness, “but there is no shame in pledging to your rise. The crumbs from your high table are fortunes to the low.” The cost of rank doubled every step; for the price of Christopher's last promotion, they could have made thirty-two first-rank wizards.

“I'm not going to be promoting people willy-nilly,” Christopher objected in plain contradiction to the fact that he had been promoting ordinary craftsmen since he'd first gotten his hands on tael. “I've got big plans, and I need all the tael I can get,” he said with just a little defensiveness of his own. After all, craft-ranks were a fraction of the price of a professional one, and their skills were necessary to his schemes.

But Fae was part of his plans, too. He needed her magic, and she knew it. He had already made this commitment and accepted responsibility for her career when he'd hired her away from Flayn. “What does this bind me to?” he demanded angrily.

“You are bound to promote her as her service warrants,” Torme said, “or so is the rule in my experience.” Torme had the most experience, having been both warrior and priest now. “Of course, there is sufficient wrangling over the niceties to strangle a pig. I cannot imagine it would be less so with wizards.”

“Do with me as you will, my lord,” Fae said, and arched her neck in submission, exposing her fine white throat. Christopher had the very concrete experience of being trapped between a rock and a hard place.

“Get up, Fae,” he growled in defeat. He wanted to lather on the disclaimers and exceptions, but he knew it wouldn't matter. No speech he could give would trump their ancient customs. In the brief flash of her eyes as she stood, he thought he saw something like genuine happiness, and his tongue was stilled.

“You should probably promote Torme, too,” Karl suggested that night over dinner in the chapel. The stone hall, still the biggest room in the village, no longer served as sleeping quarters for a gang of boys or as a chemical refinery. Without conscious intent on Christopher's part, it had become the center of his empire. For a medieval lord, that meant it served as reception, lecture, and dinner hall. Mealtimes were not such simple affairs here; a lord showed who mattered and who didn't by who got to sit at his table. For Christopher, this had grown to be a very large table. “A first-rank would be adequate to the ordinary scrapes and bruises the regiment sustains on a daily basis.”

“Cost,” Christopher grumbled through a slice of bread. His lurking distrust made the argument seem more compelling, at least to him.

“A strange Church you have, Brother, that promotes wizards ahead of priests.” Christopher couldn't tell if Svengusta was really objecting or just bringing the topic up to be dealt with before it rotted into something truly ugly.

“I do not question,” Torme said, alarmed that anyone might think he did. This annoyed Christopher even more. Living under the likes of Black Bart had left the man with a far too healthy dose of respect for authority.

“You should,” Christopher told him. “I'm not going to cut your head off for asking questions, but if you let me walk into snake pit without speaking up, I might. After all, Faren sent you to me to give advice.” Advice he wasn't sure he wanted to take.

“The regiment normally has two priests of the Bright Lady,” Karl continued. “Whose time is not consumed by the duties of command.” Damn it, whose side was he on? Well, the regiment's, of course.

“We have an entire new regiment to outfit, come this winter,” Christopher countered, “and an old one to almost totally reequip. Plus I'm having some new, more expensive toys made. So, cost.”

“Speaking of new recruits,” Karl changed the subject, his opinions having been made known, “I am surprised they are not here yet.”

“Who?” Christopher asked, confused. The new boys wouldn't start training until midsummer.

“The hangers-on, my lord,” Torme explained, “the shiftless, the landless; free-booters and mercenaries. Because you are White, and a priest, they know they can expect healing and fair treatment.”

“Because you spent a fortune reviving commoners,” Karl said, “they will flock to you like fleas to a dog.”

Svengusta tried to rescue him. “Because you will not pay them, they will flee just as quickly.” The men currently under his command were draftees, compelled to service for three years. Only Karl and the senior officers drew pay.

“I want to start paying the men,” Christopher admitted sheepishly. “Not much, a few gold a year. Just some pocket change.”

“Which they will squander on women and drink,” Karl objected. Nobody had paid him for his two draft terms. “Do not waste your money.”

“It is not entirely without profit,” Torme intervened. “A salary excuses the Curate from expectations of sharing the spoils.”

The man was sharper than he had appeared. And apparently taking to heart the command to raise unpleasant questions.

“It's true,” Christopher sighed, though he hadn't exactly thought of it in those terms until now. “I am not going to promote any warriors.” Tael was too valuable to waste on mere physical strength. He had guns for that.

Torme looked at Karl with obvious concern, and perhaps even sympathy. Karl was pretty clearly the kind of guy who normally got promoted to warrior-ranks. But Karl's face was bland, and Christopher knew that the young man wholeheartedly approved of his policy. It was a position far too foreign and difficult to explain, so Torme would just have to deal with it on his own.

Everyone else, of course, already understood. Even the officers, the men who had come to him as mercenaries and now served as draftees, had long ago unconsciously accepted that they would never rise in Christopher's service. They could not climb over Karl, and Karl was not going anywhere, not even to the first craft-rank of the warrior profession, a relatively trivial expense. In fact, several of the men had gone down the ladder, having died and been restored to life but not to their craft-ranks. Although they weren't complaining about it.

Torme papered over the awkward pause in the best possible way, by changing the topic. “Some of those who seek to serve will already be ranked,” Torme suggested. “One can rent for cheaper than one can buy.”

“And buy you must,” Karl said. “It is unheard of that a man of your standing should be served by none lesser. Tongues will wag and for good reason: you are exposed. The love of your men is little buffer against the powers of rank.” The Invisible Guild had powers that confounded common sense, or so people kept saying.

“Get me Gregor,” Christopher said. “We know we can trust him. Maybe we can finally afford to hire him.”

“I do not think a knight of his stature will serve for salary,” Karl said. “You may have to accept fealty from more than just your witch.”

“You are going to take her with you, I hope,” Svengusta said. “A sharp bird like that should be kept under a close hood.”

“Erm, no,” Christopher said. “She still has work to do here.” Also, he wasn't sure he wanted to find out which bond was stronger: her oath to him or her loyalty to the wizards. Specifically, the wizard of Carrhill.

Svengusta shook his head in dismay. “As if she wasn't enough trouble before, when she was just a nose-in-the-air shopgirl. Now she is a Darkling wizard.”

“Pater!” objected Helga. She did not tolerate that kind of speech at her table. Also, she seemed to like the woman, which mystified Christopher completely.

“She won't be a wizard until tomorrow,” Christopher said, as if that were any solace. “But she's going to help me go through Flayn's shop. Maybe he left us a surprise.”

“Oh, I'm sure he has,” Svengusta laughed. “Just as sure as I am that it won't be nice.”

Fae bowed to him with rigid formality. She had always held herself above ordinary folk, despite having been born one, and now she exuded the reek of power. Christopher was of half a mind to throw a snowball at her head. But he did not have the heart to deny her the playacting that went with her new status. He had not spent all his life in dreams of this moment. Fae was no worse than a starlet with her first international blockbuster, or even just a community theater celebrity with her first rave review.

“Mistress Fae,” he said, knowing the title would please her, and seeing his reward in the thin smile that threatened to become genuine, “are you prepared?”

“Yes, my lord,” she replied, and he supposed he would have to accept that title in return.

“Good. Then tell me what we do.” He only had so much formality in him.

“We may enter the shop,” she said. “I am certain that much is safe. If your men could undo the door. . . .” They had nailed it shut with broad wooden boards and now came forward with crowbars. Once they had pried it free of obstacles, Christopher reached for the handle. Torme leaned forward and stopped him.

“You are not expendable, my lord,” he said. Before Christopher could rebuke the man for his gracelessness, Fae opened the door.

This is what Faren had sent the man to do, but Christopher didn't have to like it.

He followed her inside, at a distance of ten feet, which seemed acceptable to his sentinel.

“We will require no others,” Fae announced, and Torme closed the door behind them, staying outside. At least he didn't throw a motherly glare at Christopher.

“You have prepared your detection spells, my lord?” Fae asked.

“Yes, and stop calling me that.” There was no audience here.

“Of course, my lord,” she agreed, ignoring him completely. “Let us examine the body first. Here in the public area of the shop there should be no dangers.”

She coolly gazed down on the decapitated body of her former mentor and paramour. Christopher still found the scene sickeningly unreal and had to struggle not to look away. Fae chanted a brief spell, knelt to the body, and passed her hands above it in a searching manner. She tugged open garments, obviously looking for something specific, and her impassiveness was not enough to block the satisfaction when she found it. From a loose sleeve she withdrew a thin wooden wand with a sparkling red gem affixed to the end.

“What is that?” he asked, already guessing it was what Flayn had been reaching for.

“One of the few secrets he did reveal to me. Men are so boastful.” She laid the wand across her arm, admiring it.

“And it is?” Christopher prompted.

“It is only because I have sworn fealty to you that I may tell you my secrets. It is only because Flayn is dead that I may reveal his. Do not blame me for not having told of you this before, Christopher.” Funny how when she wanted something from him, she was able to remember his name.

But she still hadn't told him what it was. He pointed at the wand and shrugged his shoulders, trying to drag information out of her with his bare hands.

“A wand of fire,” she said, and though he did not know exactly what that meant, he understood from her tone why she had to seek forgiveness for not telling him.

“It is old, though, and close to exhaustion. Otherwise Flayn could not have afforded it. He did not know how many charges remain, and I cannot know either. There is at least one; quite likely that is all there is.”

“How dangerous is it? Could he have killed me with it?” Christopher asked.

“You are only fifth-rank,” she said dismissively.

That was a resounding yes, and he looked at the wand with appraisal. Something like that could come in quite handy on the battlefield.