Gold Throne in Shadow (40 page)

The sickness sank to the pit of his stomach, and Christopher struggled not to throw up.

“We felt pretty much the same way. The objection was withdrawn, and Lord Boniface won his decimation. As I understand it, it won't be quite enough. But the Prelate has graciously agreed to make up the difference out of his own pocket.”

“It's happening now?” The thought that such bloodshed should be occurring a few miles away, and due to Christopher's own actions, however well-intentioned or justifiable, made him dizzy with hatred.

“My news is weeks old, Christopher. By now the deed is done. We stalled it for as long as we could: Bart died seasons ago. We gave the peasants what respite we dared and a chance to build up some tael through more . . . natural processes. Now they have a priest who can cure disease. Their lot arguably has improved. But should some amateur paladin waltz in and kill this lord, before he's even pretended to have a chance to save for his replacement, the Gods only know what burden would be dumped on those poor people next.”

“Will he? Will he save for his replacement?” It seemed far more likely that a Black priest would pocket it all for his own advance, and the future be damned.

“To suggest otherwise is to lay a charge of treason at his door. And surely no one would be so impertinent as to do that, without both a wealth of evidence and an army to back it up.”

Christopher had an army. Lalania must have noticed the calculations writ across his face.

“Do keep in mind that evidence of such a crime is yet impossible to assemble, insomuch as the lord has the right and expectation to advance his own cause, at least until the end of his career is reasonably in sight. Baron Boniface is not yet forty. Spending tael on his own advancement is not yet considered irresponsible. Very convenient for all of us, wouldn't you agree?”

Having a conversation with Fae was expensive. Having one with Lalania was actively painful. He was pretty sure that his social interactions with attractive young women back on Earth had been no worse than embarrassing.

“Indeed, how lucky for the old codger. Out of pure speculation, motivated by no more than idle curiosity, what would be considered too old to advance one's own rank?”

“Legally, threescore-and-ten, of course.” Lalania announced that fact with a tone that marked it as common and obvious knowledge. Which it probably was, to anyone born and raised around tael. “Practically, it depends on how much you fear a knife in the back. If you're still strong enough to paralyze your likely heirs with terror, you can get away with anything. If no one is certain it's their inheritance you're consuming, you can get away with more.”

“How about if you'd just like to not offend people of good sense and high moral dudgeon?”

“Then it depends on how much and how long those people can expect to get out of you. As a convenient example, consider Faren Califax, Cardinal of the Church of the Bright Lady. The old geezer is pushing seventy with something less than a ten-foot pole, though his exact age is as well hidden as can be expected by simpleminded doves with a self-righteous fetish for babbling truth, regardless of its effect on themselves or others.”

He'd never heard his Church described in quite those terms. Other than the charge of simpleness, he wasn't sure it was an illegitimate description. Lalania was using the necessity of maintaining a disguise to give him a taste of how other people might see his affiliation.

“Were he to advance himself to Prophet, the mewling kittens of the Bright would be horrified. Not only is he old enough that they could expect only a relatively few years of service out of such a huge expense, but he wouldn't gain any particular advantage, since he can already revive the dead. In their eyes a handful of extra spells does not seem worth the price.”

“And it's not like the man needs the rank,” she continued. “Despite their protestations of benevolence, when was the last time you saw a priest of the White put on armor and take his place at the front lines? No, they always fight from behind a line of low-rank or even unranked meat, brave men who have nothing but bits of metal to face the monsters of the wild.”

Christopher almost protested, despite where they were having this conversation. He'd done his share of donning armor and taking hits. He'd seen Vicar Rana face down Black Bart with only two uncertain spells standing between her and his savage blade. And Disa had volunteered for the war, even when she was only first-ranked and completely unarmed. True, he couldn't imagine the Saint or Cardinal Faren in armor, but it didn't make any sense to do that. Their healing power was vastly more useful in the second row, where it could keep the first row standing long past any man's ability to hold the line on his own.

Before he could frame this argument in words, he understood that Lalania had already heard it. Being sensible, she would even agree with it. But not everyone in this world would find a claim of efficiency to be an adequate excuse for what appeared to be cowardice.

“The worst of it is, the Cardinal himself would no doubt hew to these same arguments. Never mind that through personal courage and dedication he has won his way to a rank that befits him. Never mind that he has employed this power in almost selfless devotion to his social inferiors. Never mind all that: he is expected to live like a beggar in his own church, not even having the right to enjoy his own magic for his own purposes. The Saint, his alleged patron, won't even regenerate the old man on a regular basis without charging him the same fee any wandering lickspittle with a fat purse is charged. A fee, mind you, that is out of reach for the Cardinal, since every penny he earns by healing goes straight to the Church's pocket, and he has nothing to live on but a pathetic stipend barely more than a tradesman earns.”

Christopher didn't know how much they paid the Cardinal, but he knew it didn't matter; the price of high rank dwarfed all other considerations. As a first-level priest, he had lived comfortably on a fistful of gold. As the master of a commercial empire, he knew his partners in the smithy were earning sacks of the stuff. As a freelance adventurer and head of his own chapter, he'd spent the equivalent of two hundred pounds of gold just for his last promotion.

“And they call this brotherhood?” Lalania said with a polished sneer. “Better to call it hoodwinkery, that a man should do so much and yet profit so little. How wise can such a man be? How hard will he fight for a Church that takes and takes and takes but returns him nothing? Can you blame people for doubting the strength of this Church, when their priests have so little invested and are so far yet untested in battle?”

She didn't have to make her pretend case quite so convincingly.

“No, there is only one explanation for such a man. Weakness, innate and incurable. We should not be surprised that he has only ever fathered daughters, save for one son who fell in his first year of draft, like any weakling.”

Christopher hadn't even known Faren had children. Or a wife.

“The Iron Throne is hard, but it is strong. Those who sit in it may bleed, but they will not break. They will not shrink back from harsh deeds, and they will not be deceived. Instead, they will do the deceiving. They will not be beaten; they will administer the beatings. The world is a hard place. Only a fool would put his life in soft hands.”

Lalania had a way of making everything she said sound like she believed it. Christopher knew she was only acting. It unnerved him all the same.

“I never quite thought of it that way.”

“I know,” she said in a softer voice. “We leave the road here. I'll not chance Feldspar town if I don't have to. It's not the kind of place you would want to see, anyway.”

No, it probably wasn't.

In the darkening twilight they picked their way through fields and hedgerows. Although he occasionally saw hovels with smoke rising from their chimneys, no one challenged them. Night finally arrived, and still Lalania led him down deer trails and backways through the cooling land. Royal was tired enough and familiar enough with her mare to follow it without argument, a feat he'd never seen before.

The glittering, brilliant stars filled the sky, setting Christopher to wondering. Where was he, in absolute terms? He thought the center of the galaxy was supposed to be a gigantic black hole. But then, he had no reason to assume he was still in the Milky Way. He tried to think of a way to phrase the question so that Lalania's College would understand it. In the absence of any concrete definition his imagination had expanded her College to something akin to Oxford, with orreries and old logbooks full of astronomical observations. Except this College, with access to magic, might well have made the trip to other planets by now.

It was incongruous to be thinking about space travel from the back of a horse, so he stopped. Instead, he tried to pay attention to where he was, but he failed. He was as lost as he had ever been.

Late in the night they finally came across a road. After following it for a few minutes they came to an inn, ramshackle and dirty even in the darkness, yet still promising more comfort than the gloomy night.

Lalania slipped from her saddle and knocked on the front door. Eventually a fat, surly man in a filthy apron opened the door and glared at her.

“We're closed.”

“We have gold,” she replied. “Send a boy out to see to our horses.”

The man wiped his hand on his apron before holding it out, palm up. “You won't like the company. Don't say I didn't warn you.”

“I never like the company,” she said. A clink of metal and the man's hand disappeared behind his apron.

“Jiminy! We got guests! Get your arse out here!” The innkeeper disappeared. A moment later a tall, lanky man with a shock of orange hair stepped out into the night, holding a light-stone. He stared at Christopher.

“One mare, one destrier. See that you feed it oats.” Lalania was talking directly to the man, who seemed to be ignoring her. When she was done, though, he ducked his head in acknowledgment and led them around to the barn.

There were at least a dozen horses already stabled there. Royal perked up his ears and began issuing challenging snorts. Jiminy pointed to the last two empty stalls and started to leave the barn.

“Hey,” Lalania called after him. “Leave the light.”

Jiminy flipped it through the air at her without breaking stride, and then he was gone.

“I thought you said you liked this inn.”

“It appears to be under new management. I don't recognize either of those men. Nonetheless, it's the only choice we have.”

“We could sleep in the barn.” The stench of horses was overwhelming, but it might be tolerable from the hayloft.

“A right insult that would be to the innkeeper. In fact, so would blessing your food. Tonight, Christopher, we'll just accept what they serve us. The less attention we attract, the better.” This time she stayed with him while he squared away Royal, brushing down where the saddle straps crossed his chest and combing the brambles out of his mane.

Loaded down with the saddlebags, he followed Lalania back to the front of the inn. She pushed the door open, and they went inside. Christopher immediately began missing the barn.

Two groups of surly men lounged around the main room, drinking. Christopher dumped his bags at the foot of an empty, rough-hewn table and sat down. Lalania sat next to him, making herself more inconspicuous than he had thought possible.

A timid blonde girl approached them with bowls of stew and mugs of beer on a tray. One of the men pinched her as she passed, and she almost dropped the tray. Christopher started to say something, but Lalania kicked his shin under the table.

“Hey now,” called a man from across the room. “Keep your filthy paws off.”

The offender glared at his challenger. For an instant Christopher thought a fight would break out on the spot. Then the pincher backed down.

“Nothing worth pawing, anyway. No more meat than a dog's bone.” He turned his attention to his table, where his fellows chuckled appreciatively.

After that, Christopher didn't have the heart to tell the serving girl how miserable the stew was. He ate as much as he could bear and tried to wash it down with the bitter, dark beer. Lalania picked at her bowl, equally uninspired.

The girl went around the room with another tray of mugs. Her erstwhile champion stared at the pincher, who pretended to be oblivious to the tension. The man leaned back, apparently casually, just in time to elbow the girl in the backside.

Amazingly, she didn't spill any mugs. The champion glowered even darker; the offender smirked; the girl worked her way to Christopher's table, and now he was the subject of her champion's minatory glare.

He tried to ignore the affair, looking down at his plate and feeling small. He could hardly defend himself, since he hadn't done anything yet. Best to let it slide. Then the serving girl stabbed him in the side of the neck with a dozen feathered darts.