Gold Throne in Shadow (35 page)

“Yes, my lord,” Christopher agreed. “Though the ulvenmen came out of nowhere, so I can't say they won't do it again. But we killed a lot of them.”

“How?” Nordland spluttered, finally giving into outrage.

Christopher was in a bind. Half a year ago he had wanted to brag about his rifles. Now he wanted to downplay their power, at least until every peasant had one. He tried to come up with another reason for his victory. “The wizard built us a fort of stone. My riflemen are very strong in a fort.”

“Do you take us for
fools
?” Nordland came perilously close to hissing, which was unnerving coming from a man of his dignity.

Wincing, Christopher realized the Duke thought he'd brought up forts as a calculated insult. He really needed Torme here, but the man's head was rotting uselessly in a bucket. The thought that he was arguing with these people instead of reviving his dead annoyed him, and he gave in to anger himself. “Go and see for yourself, then.”

“Not likely,” the King said. “The swamp is unbearable this time of year, and that wizard is unbearable in any season. We'll take your word for it, since you've put your money behind it.” The King, having been paid, was prepared to be satisfied. But Christopher knew Treywan wasn't going to share it with the rest of this army, and so they would resent him for having dragged them out here and then sent them home without even a chance of making a profit.

“I'm sorry to have wasted your time,” Christopher said as loudly as he could without shouting, “but I did not expect to survive. The ulvenmen tried to rush us. If they had been more cautious, I would still be trapped in that fort. And then I would have needed your help.”

He didn't think they were convinced. And how could they be? He had warned that three thousand slavering monsters were storming toward civilization, and now a dozen dirty men in leather coats were claiming to have cracked the thunder clouds and sent them scuttling. It didn't seem very believable, even to him.

“But any who wish to see for themselves are welcome in my garrison. My men will feed you as best they can. My priestess will heal you. If you want to use my fort as a base to hunt ulvenmen, I'll make you as welcome as I can.”

“Does he speak truth?” the King asked Faren, who had been standing quietly to the side.

“For the most part,” Faren said. “He doesn't actually want anyone to use his fort as a hunting lodge. He's much too cheap for that.”

The King roared in amusement, and a round of laughter went through assembled knights.

“If we hurry, we can make Cannenberry by nightfall,” the King said to his mounted entourage. Turning to Faren, he added, “Your Vicar sets a fine table, which I freely confess endears him to me. Will we see you there?”

“Of course, my lord,” Faren replied politely. “Although I would have a word with this young jackanapes first.”

“Have a basketful,” laughed the King. “Then thresh them out until you discover his secret. I would do it myself, but apparently my inquisitors are useless.” Casually the King referred to Christopher's brutal torture, reminding everyone of his unimpeachable authority. Christopher found it crass.

But he hung his head in silence and deference while the King turned and galloped off. He was careful to give Nordland no offense as the Duke glowered at him, before following the rest of the entourage. He even avoided staring at the disgruntled feudal levies, as the army disintegrated into angry buzzing chaos and spilled out in random directions. They hadn't been invited to Samerhaven for a meal, and now they would have to find their own ways home.

“Where is Torme?” Faren asked, still smiling his false smile.

“In one of those wagons,” Christopher answered, still hanging his head in an approximation of humility. “In a barrel. A small one.”

“Do you have many barrels?” Faren nodded like he was agreeing with a comment about the weather.

“Sixty-four. And twenty-four of them are the small ones.”

Faren turned his face away from the army and stroked his beard.

“Gods, Christopher. You bring us weeks of labor.”

“I can pay,” Christopher said, obdurate. “If you need to make a profit, raise your prices.”

“As always, you underestimate us. We are not ungrateful to your soldiers for their heroism. But we fear to be seen as your lackeys. For Krellyan to dance to your tune every season is to invite questions.”

“That's why I said you can raise your prices. Then people will know you're just taking advantage of my inexhaustible wealth.”

Faren stroked Royal's head, and the horse snuffled at him affectionately. Faren softened his face and his voice. “What really happened out there?”

Christopher sighed, letting go of his anger and frustration. “We fought our asses off, Faren. For one terrible night we clung to life by our fingernails. We thought we were dying to give the Kingdom a few hours more preparation for a horde of ulvenmen. And then I come out here and get this. . . .”

“This is better than I had hoped, Christopher. The King did not arrest you, Nordland did not ride you down on the spot, and no one denounced you. You must admit, your victories are suspicious.”

Christopher wanted to be offended at their ingratitude, but he couldn't be. He knew perfectly well that the lords should be suspicious of him. He was plotting a democratic upheaval, after all. So he changed the subject.

“I need to get these wagons to the Cathedral. I'm stretched to the limit with preservation spells.”

“That would be unwise,” Faren mused. “You should not be riding in the same direction as the rest of the peerage of the realm. I will take your wagons. Captain Steuben and his knights accompany me; they will provide adequate protection. Although we won't tell him what he is protecting. I don't think he would be happy.”

Christopher managed a weak grin. Steuben would chew his ear off if he knew. The man had already warned Christopher what his generosity to commoners would earn him, and now he would be one big “I told you so.”

“Can I go to Knockford first? I need supplies.”

Faren sighed, but he didn't say no. “Give Samerhaven a wide berth. And keep your wits sharp. I would warn you of the danger, except it seems you carry danger with you. Dare I ask how Disa and Karl fared?”

“They're fine. I promoted Disa to Prelate, by the way. We thought we would need her healing for the siege.”

“On behalf of the Saint, I thank you for your contribution to our Church.” Faren was duly impressed.

“Too bad it's not tax-deductible.” Christopher tried to make a joke out of it. Faren ignored it with a quirked eyebrow.

“And yourself?”

“Vicar,” Christopher admitted, “but after you're done raising my men and restoring Torme's and D'Kan's rank, I won't be able to make seventh.”

“Gods.” Faren put his hand to his brow, massaged the worry lines there. “You really did kill thousands of ulvenmen.”

“About fifteen hundred, we think. But it was the dinosaur riders that really paid off.” Those monsters would have eaten Nordland's cavalry for lunch. The only thing that had saved Christopher was fifteen feet of stone.

“Your handful of men have spared the Kingdom a terrible blow. And yet you ride from this meeting in disfavor. Do you know how to avoid this, Christopher? Do you understand how to earn the lords' trust, instead of their suspicion?”

“No,” Christopher admitted.

“It is a simple expense of tael. And yet, though I know you to be generous to a fault, I know you will not do it. Simply promote your men. As many as you can, to first-rank. Make them knights, and the mantle of hero will rest comfortably on their shoulders. The realm will admire them, instead of squinting at them through narrowed eyes.”

“No,” Christopher sighed. He wasn't here to create an elite group of heroes. Trying to find a way to explain it to Faren, he said, “Even if I could afford it, how could I promote the next draft?”

Faren grimaced. “Why would you want to? We cannot give you another regiment. Next year's recruits must serve a different lord, and we cannot even say who. It would be typical of the King to give them to Nordland. Logical, even.”

Christopher did some grimacing of his own. “We'll see about that.” He still had enough tael left over to promote someone to the fifth-rank. Karl didn't want a promotion, but for the sake of the men, he might reconsider.

With a snort, Faren waved Christopher off. “I have enough of my own problems. I don't need to hear about yours. Keep your head low and do not tarry long from your post. But do not worry about your dead. They are our men, too.”

The hostility of the recent encounter put this ready friendship into stark relief. “Thank you,” Christopher said, meaning it. Galloping over to his cavalry, he informed them of the change of plans.

They trusted Faren, too. They would have died without hesitation to protect the dead bodies in their care, but they turned them over to one old white-haired man with relief. Only the wagon drivers would accompany Faren.

Freed of the wagons, the horsemen doubled their speed and headed by back roads and byways for the heart of Christopher's empire.

He had been in the swamp so long he had forgotten that the season was changing. Here in Burseberry the mornings were crisp and cool, and soon his training camp would shut down for the harvest season.

But not yet. The lead sergeant, the mercenary turned draftee known as Bondi, had turned the recruits out for inspection. They stood in wobbly lines, hardly more than boys, scared of the future, of Bondi, and, of course, of Christopher. It was hard to remember that his men had been like this only a year ago.

He knew he was supposed to say something inspiring. But all he had was the truth.

“You owe me three years,” he told them. “Don't think you'll get out of that by dying. Fix it in your head. No matter what, you're coming back to do your time.”

They didn't know what to make of that, and Christopher didn't know how to explain it to them. The memory of snapping jaws and barrels of bodies could not be communicated in words.

But afterward, in private quarters, Bondi could guess. “Another battle, my lord Curate?”

“Over sixty dead. But we won. It's Vicar now.”

Bondi nodded in satisfaction while Svengusta laughed.

“Just watching your rise makes me dizzy,” the old man said. “It's like you strapped your arse to one of your rockets.”

“And Karl?” Helga asked, with more direct interest than she had ever shown before.

“He's fine. Torme and D'Kan bought it this time.” He realized they didn't know who D'Kan was. “Niona's brother.” Then he realized they didn't know about that either, and he had to tell them the sad news.

Helga burst into tears and ran out of the room. He was a little surprised that she didn't turn to him for comfort, like she used to. Not that he had any to offer.

Svengusta was always thinking of others first. “Lalania will be hard set over this, Christopher. She will blame herself for not predicting his fall and intervening to redirect it. Her College thinks it can influence even the decisions of madmen.”

Christopher was far more sympathetic to Lalania's view than Svengusta's. He had encouraged the man to violence, had profited off of his dueling, even when Lalania had warned him that Cannan was shirking his good manners. He had ignored the man's growing brutality, unwilling to see it as long as Niona pretended it wasn't there.

At least he wouldn't have to tell the troubadour. She would almost certainly have ferreted out the news on her own.

Normalcy tried to return. Bondi went back to his duties, and Christopher started in on paperwork. But Svengusta overruled him.

“Set down your rank for a while,” the old man said, “and come have a drink in the tavern, like old times. Your duty can wait till tomorrow.”

The villagers welcomed him like he had never left, and they didn't ask for news. Instead, they talked about the weather, horses, and pigs. At first, he fretted, feeling like there was something more important he should be doing, but in the end Svengusta was proved right. The evening, with its thoroughly mundane and predictable sameness, was both relaxing and invigorating. Relaxing because no one expected anything of him except a report on how often it rained in the swamp. Invigorating because it reminded him what he was doing all of this for, anyway.

The only notable change was that everyone was drinking lager now, in a sign of solidarity with their weak-bellied favorite priest.