Sword of the Bright Lady (23 page)

“Nonsense,” Steuben declared. “Pater, your lights are pretty, but your alchemical tricks are no substitute for rank. Your men will die just as fast, only more expensively. The money would be better spent on ranking the best ones.” He gave Karl a look fraught with significance.

“We don't have the money,” Krellyan said, but nobody paid attention.

“You don't understand,” Christopher argued. “It's not lights I'll be using for war. You saw how far out those rockets went. I'm going to make weapons that do that, kill people at six hundred feet or more.”

“It's been tried before,” the captain countered. “They march out, brave and strong in their shining armor, their fine swords, their beautiful horses. And they die, to all manner of ludicrous monsters. Only rank can withstand the power of rank.”

“We don't have the money,” Krellyan said again, not any louder. This time something in his tone made everyone notice. “Even if I were to accept your scheme, we don't have the money.”

“I have a, uh, scheme for that, too.” Christopher produced the fruit of his latest novelty, bank notes made from Fae's paper and fine penmanship.

“What are these?” Krellyan asked as Christopher passed them around for inspection.

“It's called a bearer bond. See the date there? On that date, which is ten years from now, you can cash in the bond for that amount of gold. These are thousand-gold-piece bonds. The Church of Marcius is bound to give whoever holds this paper one thousand gold.”

“Your Church commands such exalted funds?” Krellyan asked with gentle disbelief.

“No, not yet. But I've got ten years to raise the money.”

“How?”

“By investing the money I get now. See, for me to give you that bond, you have to give me five hundred gold first. It's like a loan.”

“And you're going to invest the money in your magic weapons and get rich off booty from the battlefield,” Krellyan finished sadly.

“That's the general idea,” Christopher agreed. “Why is everybody shaking their heads?”

“It is the oldest con in the book,” Steuben declared sourly. “You take the money and invest it in a carriage trip to the farthest part of the world.”

“But I won't do that,” Christopher protested. He played his trump card. “You know I won't do that, Saint Krellyan. I can't. I don't have anywhere to run to.”

“What difference does it make?” Steuben asked. “If we don't have the money, then we can't buy your little slips of paper even if we were stupid enough to want to.”

“I'm not selling them to you,” Christopher said. “I'm going to sell them to everybody else. The townies. The peasants. I'm going to make bonds in denominations of one and two gold, and sell them for five and ten silver. I only need a few gold from each person.”

“You'd con our entire nation?” the captain squawked, stunned at the magnitude of Christopher's plot.

Krellyan sat quietly, thinking. “I do not know as much as you think I do. Tell me, what will you do if I forbid this?”

“I'll go somewhere else,” Christopher said, suddenly angry, sparked by the fear of rejection and abandonment. “Somewhere on this pathetic planet there must be somebody who understands vision, who can see the value of new things. You keep telling me Marcius put me here, guided my hands, but you balk at my every step. Why am I here if not to change things? Why are you trying to stop me from changing things?”

“Because I fear,” Krellyan said sharply, cutting off Christopher's rant. “I fear everything. I fear yesterday almost as much as I fear tomorrow. Twenty thousand people depend on me for protection, guidance, healing, and I fear to fail them. Tens of thousands more cry out to me for justice every day. I fear to fail them. I have far too many responsibilities, Pater, to not fear.

“Silence,” he commanded when Christopher opened his mouth. “Your point is made. And I know your mind as well, Captain. I am not blind to either the possibilities or the necessities. There is one person more I would hear. Karl, you are the voice of my common people. Tell me what you think of this.”

The young soldier's voice was uncharacteristically soft. “I am just an ignorant farm boy, so stupid he got drafted twice. I do not understand state policy or grand visions. Please do not put this responsibility on me.”

“I must,” Krellyan said, implacable but not without pity. “I would know your mind.”

Karl looked into the fireplace, and Christopher realized that it all came down to this. Karl was the man on the spot, who knew Christopher the most. He was the one who knew what was best for the common soldiers. Now the bond Christopher had begun to forge with the hardened young veteran would be tested to the extreme.

“I can only tell you this, my lord. If Pater Christopher goes to distant lands to pursue his scheme, I will go with him.”

Christopher had to turn away, to hide his eyes. He had never conceived of such a loyalty. He was awestruck by the courage this young man had, to stake his entire life, not just his future but even his past, on blind faith in another man.

Even Steuben was moved, blinking in surprise.

Krellyan was convinced. “We cannot risk losing such a servant,” the Saint said with a gentle smile. “Pater, I allow you to do as your conscience dictates. I will not oppose you in this endeavor, though I cannot aid you much.”

“There is more,” Christopher said, feeling utterly graceless. “I want the mineral rights to the Old Bog in Knockford. The current mining methods are hopelessly inefficient. I've consulted a local expert,” meaning Tom, “and I've calculated that the smiths are effectively paying two silver pieces for every barrow of ore. They don't know this, because they have to pay their apprentices anyway, so they think the labor is free, but those men could be doing something more productive, like making nails.” There were never enough nails.

“And worse,” he continued, “in the summer you can even see Journeymen digging their own ore.” Or so Tom had claimed. “That's a terrible waste of talent. I am certain I can provide the smiths with ore at one silver a barrow. That means they'll produce more, for less, which will make everybody richer. I'd like you to trade me the mineral rights to Old Bog for the next ten years, for those two bonds, on the condition that I sell ore at half price. I think it's a fair deal for you. And I need more metal than the current production methods can provide.”

The captain snorted. “It's the first sensible thing the Pater's said all night. By all means, knock some sense into those guildsmen.”

“I'll have to discuss it with our legal expert, Cardinal Faren,” Krellyan said, “but I suppose you aren't asking for anything I can't give.”

“One last thing, my lord,” Christopher winced. “I need credibility. I need to be able to tell the people that you've paid me a thousand gold for my bonds. You have, of course, because you've given me the mineral rights to Old Bog, which are worth at least that much. But they won't buy unless you do, and who could blame them?”

Captain Steuben was frowning storm clouds.

“No,” Krellyan said sadly, “I cannot do that. It is too close to a lie. If you must have my name, then you must have my gold. I will send a cheque with you, for one thousand gold drawn from my personal account. I will keep these bonds as fair exchange. You will send me four more of these bonds, made out to the Church, for the rights to Old Bog. Assuming Faren tells me I am allowed to dispense public property so freely.”

Christopher stammered. “You have been incredibly generous, my lord. Again. I don't know how to thank you.”

“I object,” Steuben said. “I know my objection is irrelevant, but I object all the same. It is the height of folly to lend your august name to this unknown priest, no matter how pure his intentions. He could, after all, make an honest mistake—like for instance getting himself killed in a duel—and then where would we be?”

“In another bind that requires Cardinal Faren's legal legerdemain to extricate us.” Krellyan smiled. “Thus, I will give him the final say on both these matters. I will not oppose you, Pater, yet I will only support you if Faren thinks it right. I hope you understand.”

“I do,” Christopher said. “It's only fair.” He didn't know how Faren would react to these proposals, but he couldn't deny that it was fair.

13.

ROAD TRIP

In the morning they got a late start, Karl unable to decline a breakfast invitation from the Saint. Krellyan was a wonderful host, and Christopher was remembering what living a civilized life was like. Not
that
civilized, though: there wasn't any running water or central heating.

The journey back was considerably more relaxed. When Christopher mentioned it, Karl explained.

“We are riding away from the Saint. I don't care if danger follows us now.”

Reflecting on that loyalty finally forced Christopher to ask the question that had plagued him since the night before.

“I don't want to pry, Karl, but I don't understand. Why did you take my side?”

“Can't I want the draft to be armed, too? If you can truly make these weapons, then it is worth a try. Steuben was right, in his way. Alchemical tricks have been tried, and so have conventional arms. But he's wrong because we haven't tried
your
tricks.”

That wasn't what Christopher was getting at. The man had practically sworn fealty. He tried to figure out how to ask about it delicately but failed.

“I don't think that's enough, Karl,” he finally said. “I don't think you really believe my weapons will help.”

“No,” Karl admitted. “I don't believe they'll make a difference. I believe you believe it, but my cynicism remains untroubled by hope.”

“Then . . . why?” Christopher couldn't understand. If Karl didn't believe in his plan, why would he pledge his life to it?

“Because,” Karl said.

They rode in silence for a while. Karl seemed to be struggling, and when he spoke again, it was as if it were against his will.

“Because I hear it in your voice,” he said, “every time you say the word King. Or knight. Lord. Gentry. You hate them. Your eyes flinch every time they are mentioned. Even Captain Steuben, a man of unquestionable honor, made you blink.”

“I don't hate Steuben,” Christopher protested. The man was clearly devoted to Krellyan, who trusted him implicitly. More impressive from Christopher's point of view was that the man could completely and utterly disagree with him while remaining polite and reasonable.

“No,” Karl agreed. “You don't hate Steuben. But you hate
them
.”

It was true, of course. American-born, Christopher had an automatic distaste for the aristocratic. He was proud to be from a country that had never had royalty. He couldn't even accept the hierarchy of the Church. His respect for Krellyan and Faren did not stem from their high office or wealth but from the fact that they were honest, moral, and could literally raise the dead.

All the nobility could do was kill people, and Christopher didn't find that terribly impressive. It certainly didn't seem an adequate justification for feudal privilege.

“Is it that obvious?” he conceded with worry.

“No.” Karl laughed like a dog barking. “The inconceivable is as good as invisible. How is it possible that one should hate them? They protect us. They put their bodies, their lives, and sometimes their very souls between us and the monsters of the Dark. We exist by their sufferance, by their sacrifice. The reason we're not dog food rotting in a pen until some ulvenman decides we're soft enough to eat is because of the gentry. They fight for us, fight monsters we cannot. Their swords stand between us and degradation, despoilment, and death. How is it possible to hate them, our protectors? How can we begrudge them the prettiest girls, the choice cut of the joint, a few trinkets of gold? They have earned their right to rule, because without them there would be no human beings to rule over.”

Christopher realized he might need to revise his original judgment. On Earth, all the nobility had protected the peasantry from were other nobles. Man had no predators left by the time civilization existed. But on this world, the tigers and wolves didn't merely compete with man; they preyed on him. And they had swords and armies, too, and magic. Maybe feudalism made sense here.

“How is it possible to hate them?” Karl said again, his bitterness uncontainable. “No one knows that you do, because to do so is against all sense.”

“But you do,” Christopher said, revelation striking belatedly.

“I do,” Karl said sullenly. “Without rhyme or reason I hate their privilege, their airs, their lofty superiority. They are entitled, but I hate them anyway.”

“Which is why you didn't accept a promotion,” Christopher concluded sadly. “You couldn't bear to become what you hated.”

“You see, Christopher,” Karl said, “my actions are those of a madman. For a useless anger I throw away wealth and honors, and pledge to causes that are without hope. You are just my latest insanity.”

“But I'm not crazy,” Christopher protested. “This is going to work, I know it is.”

“They all say that, don't they?” Karl mused.