Gold Throne in Shadow (8 page)

Fae saw his glance but stopped herself from defensively covering the wand. She was going to at least pretend she might let him have it.

“You cannot use this device,” she said. “Only wizards can.”

“And the Invisible Guild,” he said, mostly because that was about the only fact he could offer to the conversation.

“Yes,” she grimaced, “I suppose they can too. But they do not know the command word, and I do. I beg of you, give it to me, for my defense. I will make many enemies in your service, and you will not be here to protect me.”

“How do you know the command word?” he asked, curious.

“I convinced Flayn to tell me, once.” The brief flash of disgust on her face convinced him he didn't want to know more.

“About enemies,” he said, conceding. “What about Flayn's master? Will he come after either of us?”

“Wizards are not servants of a common cause, like you priests,” she said, dropping the flattery now that she had won her argument. “They are bound only by power and knowledge, and Flayn had little of those to offer.” The wand disappeared inside her sleeve, like a hermit crab into a new shell. “You have made no threat to the guild. They will not trouble you on the account of a first-rank shopkeeper.”

“What about you?” Christopher asked. “Is your promotion legal?” Even the craftsmen had rules about promoting people.

“I can read his spell-book,” she smiled in triumph, “and I have the tael from his head. Killing one's master for rank is time-honored and legitimate, if not particularly auspicious. No one will deny me.”

“Actually, we don't have the tael yet.” No one had harvested it, and he was hoping Fae would offer to do it.

“A technicality, which I will now remedy.” She chanted the words that drew the purple essence from the severed head and gravely handed the nugget over to Christopher. She didn't ask for a share, which he suspected meant she either wanted something else or the wand was worth more than she had let on.

“You get his spell-book, too?”

“Yes,” she answered, “for without it I am but a glorified apprentice. It is of no value to you; you could not sell it, nor could you buy its replacement for me. Had I earned my rank in the usual way, he would have given me a selection from it. Now I get it all.” But she was gloating out loud, so she changed the subject.

“It is most likely protected by a ward. But Flayn was only first-rank. He could not cast his own wards or afford much from others. You should use your spells now, to search the general quarters, in case he put up something new after I left. I will save my remaining magic for his bookcase.”

With her guidance, they swept through the back of the shop and then up the stairs to the living quarters. The mess was substantial, including dirty dishes in the sink. Flayn had not replaced his house-maid
cum
apprentice.

“I thought you told me once that every man you had slept with had a wife,” Christopher asked, too curious to realize how impolitic the question might be. “Where is Flayn's?”

“I was not counting him as a man,” Fae replied absently, studying the bookcase carefully. They had found no other traps or magic.

The bookcase was in plain sight. Fae had explained that the Invisible Guild could find anything hidden, so there was little point in bothering. Instead, the heavy leather-bound book lay there invitingly, right next to what looked suspiciously like a coin-box, just begging to be picked up.

“Isn't that dangerous?” Christopher asked.

“Ridiculously so,” Fae said. “But if anyone were to be accidentally vaporized, even the Vicar could not hold Flayn accountable. Every child knows not to touch a wizard's spell-book.

“The potential thief must decide if Flayn is bluffing. Either he wards with a spell so powerful he need not bother with anything else, or he pretends to. If the book were chained, or otherwise restrained, then it would be obvious that no fatal magic protected it.”

“Does it?” Christopher asked.

Fae cast her detection, touching her hands to her elbows before holding her left hand in front of her face and peering through the circle made by her thumb and forefinger. Christopher thought he saw a glint of light, as if she had palmed a lens. The wizard's arts seemed far more elaborate than his own magic. By know he knew better than to ask about guild secrets, though, no matter how intensely interesting.

“It claims to. There is magic, though I cannot tell if it is illusion or death, which is the entire point of this kind of ward. One version is cheap and harmless, one is expensive and fatal, and both look the same by design.”

Wizards were definitely a nasty lot.

“Flayn never boasted of it?”

“No,” she agreed, “he warned me, of course, as if I needed warning, but he did not boast. Still, that is a slim bridge, and this gorge is deep.”

“Maybe I can break the enchantment,” Christopher suggested.

“It should at least be safe to try.”

She stood back at the stairwell while he chanted the words of his spell. For him it was a simple matter of reciting the name of the Celestial glyph he had memorized this morning, plus the basic hand maneuvers necessary to direct the spell to its target.

The simplicity often left something to be desired. In this case he could not tell if his spell had any effect; the faint light that suffused the area and then faded merely told him the spell was done.

Fae immediately cast her detection again and then casually walked over to the book and picked it up. “Your god is strong,” she said, tracing her fingers on the spine of the book. “No magic is left,” and then, betraying her confidence, she closed her eyes while she opened the tome. But nothing exploded, and she relaxed again.

“The money-box?” Christopher asked, and she shrugged indifferently, turning the pages in covetous ownership. He opened the box, shook out a handful of gold. At least she was going to let him have the coins without an argument.

“You'll need to make an inventory, of everything. Use what you can in our industries, but I don't want you trying to run the shop.” He didn't want to advertise that she was a wizard; her oath of fealty to him seemed likely to annoy other wizards rather than impress them.

“It would be profitless,” Fae agreed. “My time is better spent on your custom than others.” Now that she had everything she wanted, Fae was returning to the helpful person he had first hired.

On the way out, he realized that she had helped him in another way. She had made it clear that killing Flayn really had been his only option. Unfortunately, he probably couldn't explain that to anyone, since the wand should probably remain secret. But then, no one else was looking for an explanation.

5

MAJOR TOM

H
e finally got to talk to Tom, and as always, the man proved to be a font of inspiration.

They were discussing Dereth's complaint about the ore supply. “Shovels are plentiful, my lord,” Tom told him with a grin, “but fools to put behind them are becoming scarce. With all the wizards and craftsmen you're making, not many are willing to settle for the honest labor of ditch-digging. Not to mention the heroics,” he added, sliding a little seriousness into his tone. “Were you to raise a private company, you'd tempt even our sober townies back to the sword.”

“I've been warned that a rabble will be arriving soon,” Christopher said. “Could you hire some of them?”

“They'll not see much chance of glory at the end of a shovel. But yes, there should be sad sacks in that lot hungry enough to work for a living. I can probably double my crew, if that is what you desire.”

“Triple it,” Christopher said. “The more iron you make, the cheaper it gets. And we haven't sold a stove to everyone yet.”

“A nice stove it is, too,” Tom agreed. “The wife loves it, and loves me the more for it. Your iron toys are fascinating to us all. You can't imagine how hard it is to keep the lads working when your smiths are testing their guns.”

And thus the proverbial light went on, although in this world it was a carved lump of rock instead of a glass bulb.

“What if the men who worked for you got a rifle?” Christopher asked. “Wouldn't that make the job more attractive?”

Tom was mystified. “And sure it would, my lord, but what is the meaning of this?”

“Militia,” Christopher said, gratified to see there was a word for it in this language. “What if we raised a militia? Armed citizens, for emergencies. Is that allowed?”

“We're not a March county,” Tom objected. “There are no emergencies here. But yes, on the border of the realm, even ordinary men tend to keep a weapon close to hand.”

“So we tell them they can have a rifle, if they join the militia for five years. They can keep it after that. In the meantime, they have to stick around and serve, and that means they need a job.”

“But that means in not very many years, you'll have a blooming lot of men with rifles running around loose.” Tom seemed to think he was protecting Christopher's source of influence.

But Christopher didn't care. An armed citizenry was no threat to his plans. Heck, it
was
his plan. He pretended nothing had been said and went on with his scheming.

“Could you run this? Organize the men, impose some discipline and practice? I'll work your men into our schedule, for the rifle training, at least, but I don't really have any officers to spare to run the outfit.” Not that it would be a problem. Tom was a veteran soldier, like every man over the age of nineteen in this county, and he ran his crew with a competence so effective Christopher had never even noticed them.

“You mean on top of managing your wagons, my lord?” Tom was saying yes, in his own charming way.

“About that,” Christopher said. “How much do you know about building roads—no, scratch that. Learn what you need to know about building roads, and then start with that travesty that pretends to lead to Kingsrock. And you already know the new regiment will require more wagons.”

Tom leaned on his shovel and contemplated Christopher, who was secretly pleased to see he had finally thrown the man off-balance.

“That's a lot of arranging you're asking one young fool to do,” Tom said.

“I guess it is,” Christopher said, pretending innocence. It was something he needed practice at. “I guess I better give you a pretty high title to go with it. How does Major sound?” Of course Tom had no idea what names Christopher had invented for his army organization, but it clearly sounded good.

Tom didn't ask for a raise; he merely stood, dumbfounded. He already knew Christopher would give him one. That wasn't the point. He was going to have a lot of heavily armed men doing what he told them to. On this planet, pretty much as on any other planet, that kind of status was its own reward.

“You won't be needing this again,” Christopher said, and with deep satisfaction he took the shovel from Tom's limp grasp.

The first of the oncoming crowd was someone he'd tried to hire before, and failed. The troubadour Lalania had refused to work for him, preferring her status as a free agent. Christopher was shamefully happy to see her anyway, and not just because of her long blonde hair and pretty smile.

“My lord Curate,” she curtsied deeply, “I like what you've done with your face.” His nose was no longer slightly crooked, his skin now smooth and unblemished, but her flirtations were only for fun. Christopher surprised them both by hugging her.

“Help,” he begged. “Tell me everything I'm supposed to know.”

“A mortal life is too short for that, but I did not come without presents.” She introduced the Baronet Gregor like she was displaying a trained bear, a treatment the armored knight bore with patience.

“You've done well by yourself,” Gregor said. He had helped Christopher fight Black Bart several times, including the last and most desperate battle, any of which would have been lost without the blue knight's sword.

“Um,” Christopher said, less concerned with past success than current dangers. “I couldn't have got here without your help.”

“I can see I should have stayed and helped you more,” Gregor said. “I had no idea you had the capacity for so much mischief. I'm sorry to have missed all the fun.” The destruction of Black Bart had been somewhat eclipsed by the battle with the goblins, at least in terms of sheer slaughter.

Karl never let niceties get in the way of business. “It's not too late to fix that. The Curate is hiring.”

Gregor was a man of action himself. “Partners, or fealty?” he asked.

“Salary,” Karl said, and Gregor shook his head in disappointment.

“But if you'll allow me, perhaps I'll hang around and freelance for a bit. It's worked out for me in the past.” Though Gregor made a joke of it, Christopher was sure it meant there was a real need for his presence.

“You are always welcome, Ser Gregor,” he said. “More than welcome.”