Gold Throne in Shadow (21 page)

So now he stood in his barracks courtyard, arrayed in plate and mail with a head full of spells and a heavy heart. The Captain had sent over a man earlier to lay out a dueling square in red ribbon. At least there would be no crowd of townsmen; the only audience would be his own soldiers. Playing a home game should have been an advantage. Somehow it didn't feel like that to Christopher. These men weren't just expecting him to win; they required it. Failing would not only get him killed but would put them back into the peasant's harness. Just keeping his head seemed like enough of a burden to carry on his shoulders.

The Captain and his plate-clad squad of halberdiers waited outside the gate until Joadan's party arrived. The Gold Curate had brought a pair of servants with him, wearing livery but apparently unarmed. Christopher's soldiers stood at attention in steady rows along the walls. They were also unarmed. They had left their rifles indoors, at Karl's specific order.

Gregor had been aghast. “No wonder Joadan challenges you in your lair. Not only do you command your men to meekness; you disarm them. When Joadan looks out over these ranks, his knees will not tremble, and he will not be weakened by the fear that if he wins, a hundred angry men might descend on him. Even such a tiny edge can turn a duel. Why disarm yourself?”

“Because they might well do something,” Karl had said. “It will be hard enough to keep them alive if Christopher falls; should they commit treason by firing on the Curate, the entire regiment will hang as a body. The Captain wants them for slaves; the Lord Wizard only wants them for the tael in their heads.”

Torme had memorized a detection spell, the one aid he would be allowed to render. He would verify that Joadan had not come into the duel with pre-cast magic. Christopher wasn't entirely sure why those rules should apply to priests, but Gregor explained that was what made it a duel.

“This way at least pretends to be fair. If you load up on magic and then jump somebody, that's just an ambush.”

The enemy now paraded through the gates, or at least the soldiers did. The Captain sauntered, and Joadan walked with simple, purposeful steps. Christopher took his place inside the ring opposite Joadan, and the Captain walked between them.

“Do you both declare yourself free of outside magic, as per the well-established rule?”

“I do,” both men said, which Christopher would have found hilarious if he hadn't been so nervous.

Torme cast his spell, but neither of Joadan's servants approached Christopher. Apparently the Yellow priest would take his word for it, just as Bart had done.

“He is free of enchantment,” Torme reported, “but both his blade and armor are ranked.” Then Torme retreated from the square, unable to even wish Christopher luck without creating the suspicion of magical interference.

The Captain backed up, grinning widely.

“Then begin,” he said, bringing his still mail-clad hands together in a ringing clap.

The duel started somewhat anticlimactically, as both men immediately began chanting spells. The panther appeared, as expected, and sprung ten feet across the ground at Christopher. But he had raised his protective spell, and the beast bounced off an invisible wall and fell to the ground. It landed on all fours, hissing and spitting.

Joadan did not react to this setback, instead launching into another spell. Christopher charged him; the panther intercepted. It could not touch him, but neither could he force his way past it. If he tried, the act would shatter his protection.

Balked, Christopher started another spell of his own. He felt a bit of sympathy for the audience; this chanting could go on for quite a while yet. But Joadan apparently felt he had enough advantage. The panther circled around Christopher, blocking his retreat, and Joadan leapt at him with rather more alacrity than one would except from under so much armor.

Christopher sidestepped and parried, hoping the action would disconcert Joadan as much as it had Karl, back when they had practiced for Hobilar's duel. Whether or not the gambit succeeded was rendered irrelevant when Joadan's sword sliced neatly through his own. He had not yet cast the sword blessing; mere steel could not stand against the permanent enchantment on Joadan's blade.

To be fair, it had also been a clumsy parry.

Though he had not expected the duel to end so quickly, it was still the anticipated outcome. He dropped the ruins of his sword and raised his hands in surrender. Again.

“I yield.”

Joadan paused in mid-stroke, a remarkable feat of discipline given the battle-lust in his eyes.

“You have your ransom now?”

“No,” Christopher said, “and neither am I willing to vacate the city.”

Joadan raised his sword.

“But in lieu of that, I offer you a service. I shall perform a single task at your direction, and we will call it square.”

Intelligent man that he was, Joadan paused his killing stroke to satisfy his curiosity.

“What service could you possibly render me, short of your head and your absence?”

“I can write a letter.”

Joadan's eyes narrowed, and his sword slowly inched up.

“To the Saint.”

The Yellow priest froze like a statue, finally anticipating what came next.

“To cure your boy at my expense.”

Joadan spoke through clenched teeth. “I have searched across the realm for a cure. I came here, to serve the Lord Wizard, solely to convince him to search across the planes. And yet you claim it lies under my nose all along?”

“It's a birth defect, Joadan. At a—” there was no word for
molecular
, “structural level. A regeneration should fix it. I can buy that service, even if you can't. But you can claim it from me on the field of battle.”

Complete silence, for uncomfortable moments, while Joadan stared at him. The audience held their breath—amazingly, even the Captain stood without jeering, although the look on his face was more dismay than anticipation.

The silence was broken by a popping sound. The cat had turned into golden feathers again, and was now gone.

“You have earned my respect for your acuity,” Joadan said quietly. “You may find in the future that you regret that status.”

Well, Christopher hadn't exactly expected a thank-you card.

Joadan sheathed his sword, turned on his heel, and marched out of the ring with squared shoulders.

The Captain spat in disgust. “Dark gods, you White priests can't even do this right.”

“Peace is restored,” Torme said, “and a boy is saved. The goals of the White are advanced, even though you are denied your entertainment.”

The Captain stared at Torme, rolling his tongue behind his teeth. Christopher expected a threat or at least a reprimand, but the Captain spat again and stalked off.

“Praise the gods,” Lalania said. “I have never seen a better match of winning by losing. But you took a terrible risk, Christopher. The likes of Black Bart would have cut you down before you finished speaking.”

That Joadan was not the likes of Black Bart was the entire reason Christopher had done this. He preferred a Gold Throne to an Iron one, and he was certain the Saint would too. But for once, he took Lalania's words to heart and kept his mouth shut.

“Your sword,” Torme said, handing him the pieces sorrowfully.

Christopher shrugged. He had a spell for that.

He stood at the city gates the next day, watching Joadan
'
s servants drive a pair of heavily loaded wagons through it. The Yellow Priest was leaving immediately for Kingsrock and was making plain his intention not to return.

Christopher walked into the road next to Joadan's horse and handed up the letter.

“You don't have to go,” he said.

“I have what I came for,” Joadan said. “There is nothing left for me here.”

His horse cantered out of the gate, withers and head high. Despite that, and Joadan's fine words, it was retreat all the same, and everyone knew it. To stay and act as if Christopher's act of mercy meant nothing would rub against Joadan until it broke his vows.

The townsfolk did not take the lesson to heart, however. Where Christopher saw goodwill, they saw only incomprehensible metaphysics. They would freely grant him the quality of cleverness. A reputation for kindness he would have to earn the old-fashioned way.

And without Lalania's help. Her patience for standing still had finally run out, and she was on the road again. The consolation prize was that Gregor was staying behind. “You promised me ulvenmen heads,” he said, “and I'm not leaving until I get some.”

But Christopher found himself disappointed, watching Lalania and Gregor discuss her departure. There was no passion. A subtle thing, but he had become used to it, so it was remarkable by its absence.

10

TROUBLE IN BED

T
he privilege of the city was a grand thing to have. He strolled into Oda's clinic, leaving his squad of troopers and his sword at the door. She greeted him with a warm smile and assigned him his first patient, a cherubic two-year-old girl with whooping cough. Or, at least,
a
whooping cough. Christopher didn't know precisely what disease she had, and he didn't care. He invoked the spell, speaking in Celestial and placing his hand on her head, and her eyes cleared instantly. The child giggled at him, grabbing at his hand, while the mother made grateful beacons of her eyes.

His duty done, he was free to leave. Walking to the door, he felt the eyes of the other patients on him. He was spared the burden of diagnosis and triage. Oda made all those hard decisions. He just showed up, snapped his fingers, and basked in adoration. Then he swaggered off in his fancy clothes, followed by his heavily armed and high-spirited bravos. What happened next should not have surprised him.

As he was retiring to his quarters for sleep, he thought the two guards on duty were grinning more than usual. Since people had been smiling at him all day, he did not pay any attention to it, just as he ignored the bits of cloth lying on the ground at their feet.

These little details nagging at his consciousness were not enough to alert him. Only when he saw the body lying in his bed did they come boiling to the surface, screaming of wrongness and danger.

The spell left his lips instantly as he clutched out at the figure, and it froze. Now that he thought about it, the figure hadn't been doing much in the first place. Mostly lying around languidly and provocatively.

He had his sword halfway out of its sheath before he realized that there was a girl in his bed. Whether that was a testament to his reflexes or his paranoia wasn't clear.

Resheathing the sword, observing the paralyzed body, he finally had time to recognize that it was a fresh-faced girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, with long black hair, a lovely figure, and no clothes.

She was stark naked. The significance of the pile of cloth outside his door chimed in. And the leers on the faces of his guards.

He spoke the release word in Celestial, freeing the girl from his spell. She gasped a little in shock before opening her arms invitingly. Or trying; she was too nervous to manage actual seductiveness.

“Who are you, and why are you here?” His tone was perhaps more brusque than the situation demanded, but she was quite attractive, and it had been over a year since he had seen his wife.

“My name is Ugewne, my lord.” Her voice was trembling between schoolgirl sweetness and harlot-level huskiness. “I am here to serve you.”

“Who sent you? And how did you get past my guards?”

She was wilting under the interrogation, pulling her arms in to cover herself. “No one, my lord. And I walked past them. Do I not please you?”

“I'm sure you're a nice girl.” Or an extremely accomplished actress, pretending that perfect mix of hesitancy and desire that spelled innocence. “But you should go.” She made him feel like a teenager. He did not want to feel that way, right here, right now. He did not want to act on those kinds of feelings.

Stunned by his dismissal, she burst into tears and fled the room, not even stopping to collect her clothing. Christopher followed her halfway, helplessly.

“What the Dark do you mean letting her in here like that?” he barked at his guards, relieving his frustration in anger.

“I'm sorry, my lord. It is their custom. And a fine custom indeed. We did not know it would displease you.”

In the face of his anger they reverted to the most flattering of titles. Deflated, unable to lash out at anyone, Christopher spun his wedding ring with his thumb.

“I made a vow, Private. I can't accept this custom. Whatever it is.” Massaging his temple, he indicated her clothes. “Catch up to her, give her my apologies. And her clothes. Please, explain it to her.” He almost handed the soldier a gold piece to give the girl but decided that might be taken the wrong way. He couldn't solve every problem with money.

The soldier had already saluted and departed by the time he was done with these ruminations.