Gold Throne in Shadow (2 page)

Faren stood by, scowling in anger, but not at Christopher. “You need not accept this insult,” he growled. The coachman was careful to remain stone-faced and unmoving, and yet his smirk hung in the air, summoned perhaps by sheer inevitability.

Christopher stood up, wiped his mouth. This was not the hardest thing he had ever done. He had walked into a hospital room once and told his mother that she was going to die because the doctors had done everything in their power and failed. “You have to beat this one on your own,” he had said, knowing it was impossible, knowing that she knew it too. After that, nothing else had ever seemed to deserve being called “hardest.”

Ignoring the quavering in his limbs, he climbed into the down-at-heel carriage. As the coachman shut the door, the invisible smirk faded like the worn window curtains. Courage was a concrete quantity here, like gold and iron. Injury and even death could be overcome with magic, on this wondrous and distant world; fear remained obdurate.

There was a time when he had gazed up at this city with curiosity and even desire, but that allure was dead now, buried under memories of torture. The close city streets and tall buildings no longer seemed friendly and familiar. They had become hostile, wedded to the establishment that abandoned him to his enemies. Even the magnificence of the Cathedral was tainted, a white blossom lying in the dirt, spoiled by muddy footprints.

The city crammed twenty thousand people onto a spire of rock sticking up from the surrounding farmlands. Those inhabitants watched Christopher's carriage incuriously, while he watched them with silent disdain. The towns run by the Church did not tolerate this kind of poverty, uncleanliness, and petty brutality.

Every town was short on men, having buried half of every generation on distant battlefields. But here in the city Christopher saw an abundance, the detritus left over after the thresher, boys warped and twisted by violence into men who could never return to a pastoral life.

The castle was impressive, as castles go, with soldiers of precision and dispatch manning the gates, bright pennants snapping in the wind, a solid projection of strength and defense against the monsters that roamed this world. But Christopher could see only the dungeons it hid in its depths.

This time he entered by the main hall, and his escort of blank-faced soldiers took him directly to throne room. This time there would be no sudden darkness of a sleep spell. Christopher's new rank put him beyond such simple measures. If they wanted to kill him now, he could put up a fight.

But not against the King. Although tael was invisible, the King's power was palpably radiant in the graceful way his brawny frame glided across the floor, the tael-enhanced reflexes obvious even in the way his fine fur cloak draped about him. The Saint was a giddying twelfth-rank, which put him two or three steps above the heads of other Churches; the King was one above that, the highest rank in the realm. Krellyan was a healer and could make bodies whole and living from a fingernail; Treywan was a warrior and, it had been patiently explained to Christopher until he signaled that he believed it, could defeat an entire regiment single-handedly.

If you let him use both hands, they added, he could quite likely defeat every unranked soldier in the Kingdom. All at once.

At least, that had been true when men had fought with swords and shields. Christopher's regiment had rifles and cannons. He was quite certain the King did not understand what that meant, and he was equally certain that failure of understanding was the only thing that would let him walk out of here alive.

He went to one knee on the plush green-and-gold carpet and bowed his head, the most elaborate protocol demanded in this prickly world where the man in rags just might be a powerful wizard with poor sartorial taste. The King finished his discussion with the courtiers lounging around the map table before dismissing them off to distant corners of the room. It was a farce, since the hall was staffed with guards and no doubt various magical observations, but the interview could now be less formal. For the King, that is; for Christopher, frankness and comfort were unimaginable.

“You don't look that different.” Treywan's voice was strong, but it had the beer-and-football bluster Christopher had always rolled his eyes at. Not here, of course. Christopher pictured the King speaking to him from atop a modern battle-tank, and decided the King could sound like whatever he wanted.

“Different than what, my lord?”

“Different than any other priest. And yet, you've caused more uproar than a sack of dragons.”

“I apologize, my lord. That was not my intent.”

“Nonsense,” the King guffawed, with an undercurrent of menace. “Your cleverness has paid off. You've gone from first- to fifth-rank in less than a year. An impressive advance. You are to be commended on your initiative.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Christopher said automatically, before feeling the thinness of the ice under his feet.

“I didn't say
I
was going to commend you,” mused the King. “I got no profit from your rise. That purple-tongued Cardinal of yours argued me out of my share. Said you had no commission, so I should look to Nordland and his commission for my cut. I almost did; if Nordland had taken his due from you, I would have taken mine from him. But the good Duke is too wroth to speak your name, let alone come and beg his tael from you.”

Christopher could only blush in embarrassment and anger. It was not his fault that Nordland had abandoned him. It wasn't even Nordland's fault, really. The man had made the best decision, given what he knew. Unfortunately the Duke had not understood black-powder weaponry any better than the King did.

“Now that you are fifth-rank,” the King said, “your Cardinal suggests that I give you a commission in your own right, so that I might never again be cheated out of my tax. To me it seems rather like closing the barn door after the horse is already at the neighbor's. Though if your meteoric ascent is not yet burnt out, perhaps I can still get some service out of you.”

Christopher was not sure how to answer this. He did not want to appear to threaten the King with boasts of exploits to come. At the same time, he wanted that commission. He ignored the fact that his destruction of an army of monsters should be counted as service to the Kingdom. He knew by now that the King, indeed every noble in the land, would not see it that way. There were always armies of monsters to destroy. One more or less could hardly be counted as an achievement.

He settled on something safe and trite. “I will do my best, my lord.”

“I will not be cheated again,” the King said, unnecessarily. This time the menace was naked.

The conversation galled Christopher. The King could just ask for his share, instead of threatening him. Christopher could even pay it, though it would leave him penniless. But apparently the Church wielded some influence, because the King dropped the issue and turned to the map table.

“I'm sending your regiment to Carrhill. A choice assignment: the ulven hunt is a popular pastime among the lower gentry. A chance for a bit of sport, and of course, tael. Many a knight has won a rank or two that way, perhaps even to the peerage. And your boys can fulfill their commitment safely in the city, as long as they do useful work and cause no trouble. I'm sure the lads will appreciate that over sleeping in the Wild.”

County Carrhill had been overrun by ulvenmen some years ago. The town had barely withstood the attack; the countryside had been devastated. Now the realm kept an army stationed there to augment the county's local regiment. Christopher thought about barn doors and horses. He was wise enough not to speak.

“Word has it,” the King baited him, “that your regiment can defeat hordes of monsters entirely on its own. Without you. So I'll not deny you the hunt. In fact, I encourage you to roam the swamp, searching for wandering bands of rabid dog-men. I am overdue for some tael from your hand.”

“I will do my best, my lord,” Christopher repeated.

“See that you do,” the King snapped, annoyed that his lure had not drawn a bite. But Christopher simply didn't know how to respond to it. Yes, in fact, his regiment had defeated a horde of monsters virtually on its own. The torturers must have told the King the truths they extracted from Christopher's mind. Clearly the King did not believe the simple facts. As usual, nobody was telling Christopher what they did believe.

He decided to change the subject, a risky proposition with kings, but still safer than the current topic. “May I ask, my lord, who commands the King's regiments in Carrhill?” He wasn't sure how far up the chain of command he had moved.

“Why, you do,” grinned the King wolfishly. “Unless you can extract Baron Fairweather from whatever ulven cooking pot he's stewing in.”

“There is no Marshall of the South,” Faren explained, examining the parchment of Christopher's commission. “Nordland's command of the North is largely ceremonial, but the southern border cannot manage even that amount of coordination.” They were eating now, the tension of the King's interview having left Christopher famished.

Returned to the safety of the Cathedral, Christopher's normal argumentativeness was restored. Jabbing at the rock-hard yellow substance in the butter dish, he said, “That's stupid. What if all the monsters attacked at just one spot? How would a defense be organized in time?”

Faren raised an eyebrow around a mouthful of trout. “Why would they do that? We are not at war with another nation; we are defending the borders of civilization from wild creatures. In any case, I presume the monsters are no more able to set aside their squabbles than we are.

“And it is precisely those squabbles we must discuss,” Faren continued seriously. “Until now, you have been protected.” Christopher thought of all the people who had tried to kill him, and the ones who had actually succeeded, but decided not to interrupt. “Now you are truly ranked. The tael in your head alone is a prize worthy of great violence. Your status as a member of our Church earns you our enemies automatically; your status as the head of your own chapter leaves you without our allies. Your arsenal does not include charm or diplomacy; Nordland is one of our Church's staunchest friends, yet if he saw you drowning, he would cross the road only to put his foot on your head.”

The Cardinal glared at him until he gave up his abuse of the butter dish and put it down, surrendering his full attention to the old man. “But of course you already know all this. I only bring it up to put what you do not know into perspective. Much of the south falls under the dominion of the Gold Throne.” Christopher had met only one priest of the Yellow, and in the very short time they had together before someone killed the man, Christopher had formed a deep and lasting revulsion for murderous pedophiles. “I know you,” Faren warned, no doubt seeing Christopher's feelings on his face, “and I know that you cannot hold your tongue. But you must learn to, for the sake of your own survival. Not only is the Gold Throne wealthy and completely unscrupulous, they are also capable of intelligence and sophistication. Not all are mewling cowards who prey on children. Most importantly, their Patron is equal to our own, and power is an argument that cannot be denied. In our contest for the support of the independent lords, you cannot dismiss Dark out of hand simply because it is wicked.”

“And you want me to win some of those independent lords over to my side,” Christopher said. Sadly, because he knew how unlikely that would be.

“Yes,” growled Faren, “you must make alliances of your own. You are in politics now. Your army exposes you to the lords; precedence exposes you to the duelists.” Faren had warned him, long ago, when he had first agreed to a duel with the insufferable Hobilar, that the consequences would be unending.

“You need not try so very hard in this case,” Krellyan said, handing him a slice of neatly buttered bread. “The Lord of Carrhill is a wizard of dark repute and unlikely to look upon you favorably. Nonetheless, there is something you can do to advance our cause. The wizard takes no sides in religion; thus we have a chapel there, but so does the Gold Throne. We would have the field rendered uncontested.”