by Garon Whited
“Yes.”
“That’s why. I’ve never done it before. They were the very first. If it worked, I was going to tell you about it. If it had problems, I was hoping to fix it. And, most of all, I was hoping that it wouldn’t hurt them—or that we could stop it and fix them if it did.” I looked at the twins. They were smiling.
“How do you two feel?” I asked.
“Seldar tells us we are fine,” one of them said. I’m going to assume it was Malana.
“He has examined us with several spells,” Malena went on.
“He can find no harm to us,” Malana continued.
“We can’t find anything wrong, either.”
“But we’re still lightning-quick.”
“And we only practice an hour a day.”
“Instead of all afternoon, like the other knights.”
“We’re getting better, too.”
“Are we going to have to practice all day again?”
I held up a hand to stop them. If I hadn’t, I might not have ever gotten in a word.
“You’ll work with Kelvin,” I told them. “You’re likely to be teachers and coaches. Kelvin will give you people who need the most help, and you’ll tutor them.” I looked at Kelvin. “Fair?”
“I will be pleased to have them,” Kelvin admitted. “But, about the spell of skill?”
“That’s trickier,” I told him. “What I did was… well… how to put this? You know how to fight with a sword, right?”
Kelvin snorted. Stupid question, but I was leading up to something.
“Okay, you know what you’re doing. Now, let’s say we wrote a book, complete with drawings and other pictures, detailing exactly how to use a sword in every possible way. We take everything you know about using a sword and put it in the book. Would it be useful?”
Kelvin looked puzzled, then thoughtful.
“I suppose it would,” he allowed. “It would not be as good as a swordmaster.”
“Naturally not. But if we had a complete novice, we could give him the book and have him memorize everything in it before he showed up in the practice cavern. Would that help?”
“Tremendously.”
“That’s basically what I did,” I told him. “I took everything I ever learned about fighting with the sword and gave it to them. That didn’t do anything for their hands, just for their heads. They know what to do, and how, but they never actually did it. Like walking along that slack rope in the training room—you can see someone do it, understand that’s what you do, but until you’ve tried it, you don’t realize just how hard it is, and you need practice.” I nodded at the twins. “They practiced until they were exhausted and blistered, and every maneuver they did wrong, they knew it before they even finished the maneuver. Am I right?”
They nodded, in unison.
“There you go, Kelvin. That’s the spell.”
“That’s brilliant!” he declared. “Sire. Excuse me.”
“No problem; carry on.”
“When can we start using it on everyone?”
“Ah. Where does this knowledge come from, Kelvin?”
“From inside… oh,” he said, realizing that I would have to cast the spell, myself, every time.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s a complicated and unpleasantly difficult spell, Kelvin. I’m told that it risks madness for the caster. Any wizard competent to cast it probably doesn’t know much about swordplay. Anyone proficient enough with a sword—or any other weapon, for that matter—to make it worth the effort probably isn’t enough of a wizard to cast the spell. See the dilemma?”
“Could you not create a magic book, Sire?”
“I didn’t really put a book into… Hmm.”
“Sire?”
“Shush. I’m thinking.”
Could I build something that dropped a copy of my digested lifetimes of combat knowledge into someone else’s brain? Maybe. I’m uncomfortable with that idea, though; this spell is still too new and poorly tested. Plus, it developed some potential side effects that could easily be lethal if left unchecked. Building a magical Helmet of Instantaneous Skill that dropped a copy into someone’s brain struck me as more than a little reckless.
I suppose I could build something like a virtual-reality sparring room based on the headspace, or mental study. People could link up with Malana or Malena and get lessons at the speed of thought, which they could then go out and practice with their real bodies. That could work, but it would also stop being all that effective if and when Malana and Malena weren’t around. They’d be stuck in the role of glorified combat-data clerks.
What I needed for this was a way to put everything I knew into an artificial construct—say, a specialized golem—and have it do the combat skill imprinting, instead of using the twins. The problem is, golems aren’t really strong on that point. Bronze is capable of independent thought, of course, but that’s because she has a living spirit that animates her, rather than a set of spells that follow rules. What I needed was something more like Bronze, but designed to think on its own, sort of an A.I….
I fished out my computer core and regarded it, still thinking.
If I enchanted that computer core, made it a quasi-living thing, like building a golem, could I construct a mental aspect and transfer it in there? Could I make it the spirit of the crystal? If so… if I went back through the gate and got more computer cores, could I also make other crystals with other skills? Weaving, cooking, pottery, shipbuilding, agriculture, physics, medicine…
What effect would it have on a society where knowledge is something you can just have without effort? At least with the physical skills it still requires discipline and work before that knowledge is useful. Is it important to have the discipline necessary to obtain the knowledge in the first place? Or does having the knowledge inspire you to use it?
On the other hand, some knowledge requires discipline to avoid using. Knowledge is power, and power is a temptation.
“Kelvin, take Malana and Malena with you. And send someone to bother me when it’s time for dinner.”
“Ah… it’s time for dinner about now, Sire.”
“Your timing is atrocious,” I observed, and set aside the crystal. “All right. Let’s go to dinner.”
Dinner was very pleasant. I ate a great deal while watching the room, and I liked what I saw. People were… how shall I put this? Getting along. They were either going out of their way to be… mannerly? Courteous, in the sense of being courtly? I’m not sure what word I want. They were exercising genuine politeness and courtesy toward each other without regard to rank or station. Belted knights with squires next to them addressed their “inferiors,” such as the people on waiter duty, with words like “please,” “thank you,” and “could I trouble you,” instead of “You. Fetch.”
Was it the squires? Young boys, each sitting beside his knight, awed to be at the High Table of the King, amazed to be served—some probably amazed to find they could eat as much as they wanted—and watching. Did those wide, watching eyes have the same sobering effect on everyone? When someone is looking up at you, does that force you to stand taller?
I hoped so. What I want is a society that has a high regard for personal responsibility and social niceties. I think my original mistake with Karvalen was trying to start a school without much regard for the society around it. Since I didn’t change the way people thought, the culture didn’t change much. Hopefully, I’m setting a good example—and where I’m not, hopefully I can get away with a case of “Do as I say, not as I do, because I’m a monster and you aren’t.”
We’ll see.
During the meal, several musicians played, along with a couple of acrobats, a juggler, and several dancers. I mentioned the acrobat and the juggler to Kelvin; balance and hand-eye coordination are good skills, and ones we should encourage in knights. He agreed, mostly because I’m King, I think, and promised to work on it.
Seldar’s girlfriend sat alone. Well, there were people next to her and they kept
trying to talk to her, but she seemed uninterested. She was a pretty little blonde and I almost expected someone to be overly persistent. But nobody made themselves a pest; there was only idle table chatting. Clearly, she missed Seldar.
That made me wonder if I was ruining anybody’s family life. The knights work hard all day at becoming more dangerous than they were the day before; does Kelvin give them adequate time off to be with their families, or to go get a family? Good question. Maybe we can set up some sort of rotation schedule so that every day some of them have the day off. Maybe Kelvin already has.
When sunset started, I excused myself. People pointedly failed to notice my temporary absence. Apparently, it’s just one of those things you don’t talk about. I appreciate that.
Afterward, someone brought me another goblet of blood and set it on the table; I put a finger on the rim before it could crawl over the lip and head for me. It’s not that it would make a mess, but it’s creepy to watch and people were still eating.
Malana and Malena got up and took the floor after a string trio finished a set. They had their light, wooden swords out and bowed in my direction before taking guard positions. Their routine—if it was a routine—was remarkably fast. It was also remarkably popular. I guess it’s kind of like hot babes with big guns; on a certain visceral level, it’s quite appealing. They danced back and forth between the firepits, spinning, striking, parrying, the long tails of their braids whipping about.
When they finally crossed guards and locked, they stopped, relaxed, stepped back, and bowed in my direction again. The cheering was considerable.
If anyone was upset at having women as knights, I couldn’t spot it. I think everyone there knew the twins were as worthy as anyone. Either that, or people were concerned enough about their own worthiness to give the twins the benefit of the doubt. Judge not lest ye be judged, and all that.
Then they produced a third wooden sword and laid it on the table, grinning. There was a hushed “Ooooo!” from the assembly.
I pretended to sigh and picked up the wooden weapon. What the hell. I clanked around the table to the middle of the floor, struck an en garde, and waited.
They reminded me of Davad, the dama I’d known while I was Baron Xavier’s wizard. They were fast, accurate, and surprisingly strong. They circled me, tried to keep me between them, and did their absolute best to make my breastplate ring.
For my part, there were a number of interesting things going on.
My only real goal was to avoid being hit. I could have shifted into hyperdrive, broken both of their weapons, tapped them on the head and over the heart, and wound up back in my seat before the broken weapons hit the floor. I didn’t because that wasn’t the point; they wanted to show off, and they wanted me to help. So we did. I danced around, avoiding or parrying everything, while they kept maneuvering and striking. It was actually a lot more fun than I expected. The dinner crowd loved it.
I was also starting to… well, I suppose I was starting to recognize what they were doing. It was becoming familiar, as though I’d seen it before. I also recognized in myself a desire to strike back; maneuvers appeared in my mind and hands, parry-feint-thrust, dodge-parry-parry-cut, guard-turn-parry-dodge-spin-thrust! I had to restrain myself from attacking. I wouldn’t have hurt them, of course, but the impulse for a proper reply to their attacks kept growing stronger as our mock fight went on.
Maybe I should show up for weapons drill more often. Apparently, I’ve digested a lot of information, but, like the twins and anybody else, I need to incorporate what I know into my reflexes.
For the moment, though, I decided to take a few risks, to show off a little. And if I got tagged by one or both of them, so what? It would make them look good. I tried to arrange things so I could duck under simultaneous swings, or twist out of line of simultaneous thrusts, or sweep both of their blades out of line with a single swipe of my own. Theatrical stuff you don’t see on the battlefield, but you do see in movies.
It confused them a little. I wasn’t doing practical things, so they didn’t recognize them. It didn’t stop them, of course; it might even have helped a little by forcing them to adapt their ancient-knowledge skills to new and different things, thus making the skills more solidly their own. You never know.
Finally, after five minutes or so—which is a long time to be dancing around with swords—I managed to fight my way to the main table, back up against it, and reach behind me while holding them both off. I found my empty goblet, but pretended that it wasn’t empty.
I attacked, carefully, driving them back a pace or two, then skipped back, opening the distance. I saluted with my wooden sword, briskly, and raised my goblet to them. They stopped, stood straight, saluted in return.
They also blushed quite a lot at the way the cheering echoed all around the hall.
I spoke with Tyma and her father after dinner; Tyma denied any knowledge of the rumors Prince Jorgen told me. Apparently, she and Minaren aren’t the only way rumors are born. I accepted that.
Torvil reported on the progress of the armor; it was growing in nicely. Also, his armor stood up to the arrow and crossbow tests with amazing results. Since he knew I wanted it tested thoroughly, he’d also had people with axes try to chop it to bits. It was heavily scored, starred, and even chipped in places, but it was basically intact. Admittedly, some of those blows would probably have broken a bone, or at least wrenched a joint, but the person inside would be essentially intact.
We got the armor and went back to watch Kammen and Seldar grow their shells. I took the time to work some enchantments into Torvil’s armor. I was mostly concerned with a low-level repair enchantment. He wasn’t going to be able to take it to Kavel and have him hammer out dents, after all. This led me to another idea. The enchantment that repaired the armor could be linked to stresses inside it. Anywhere it didn’t encounter enough interior pressure, it should shrink; anywhere it had too much pressure, it should grow. This would, suitably adjusted, would allow the armor to snug itself down on the wearer and change itself to fit. People don’t stay the same shape forever, after all.
I did pay some attention to the strengthening enchantment, however. Most enchanted armors have a magical matrix that helps hold the metal together. My version strengthens the bonds between atoms; this should work exceptionally well in carbon polymers.
I still need to work on that inertia-shedding spell, both for me when I’m in hyperdrive and especially for armor. I’d rather a catapult stone didn’t jelly someone inside their armor. Come to that, I also need to learn the flying spells Tort’s promised to teach me. And I need to experiment with that computer core…
While Torvil kept watch over Kammen and Seldar, I went up to my chambers. Tort was asleep, unfortunately; I didn’t wake her. I did remember to tell the mountain that I needed a space under the bed, though.
In my workroom, I settled down with the computer core first. Maybe it’s just my innate feeling of inadequacy in the face of unknown technology, but I still felt a little miffed about my failure to get any response out of the thing in its own environment. Now, though, it was in my ballpark.
Interlude
Parrin regarded the hand-drawn map on the surface of the table. It was a very good map by local standards. It actually attempted to show some of the more significant aspects of terrain, approximated the shape of rivers, marked the course of roads, and seemed to have some consistent idea of scale.
A number of carved figures occupied the table, grouped together in armies and fleets. Along the southern coast of Rethven, several small, wooden models of ships pretended to ride at anchor. In the Eastrange, more small models—these figurines representing monstrous soldiers—clustered near the southern tip. A few monstrous figurines were farther north, in Vathula, but Parrin ignored them.
He ordered the fireplace stoked hotter; a servant moved quickly to comply. Parrin clutched his shawl more tightly about his shoulders.
Pieces moved here, pieces moved there…
Mochara, surrounded by wooden armies, yes, that would be a good start. They might even take it, although Parrin had his doubts. The purpose wasn’t to conquer. This move was to expend the troops from Vathula, weaken three of the coastal cities, and further provoke the current King of Karvalen.
And, maybe, to get some interesting ideas on how to eradicate armies. The loss of the Vathulan forces at the mountain was still a mystery. Parrin hated mysteries. The loss of the troops accomplished his goal; the forces of Vathula were terribly depleted and no longer a factor in Halar’s invasion of the Rethven region. At least, it seemed that way. There was still a slim chance that all those missing troops were just sitting in Karvalen and waiting to be used against him in some unforeseen flanking maneuver.
It was enough to cost him much-needed sleep.
The only consolation was the knowledge that, one way or another, he would find out.
He finished moving his pieces on the map and decided the Mochara campaign was good.
Then he turned his attention to the figurines in Rethven and started to deploy them. War in the shattered kingdom was hardly a rarity, but some of these moves had never been seen before. Some of them would make no sense, either… unless someone could fathom the motive behind them.
He chuckled briefly at the thought. The trick was to deplete armies just enough to be believable, but keep enough force to be useful afterward. It was a delicate balance, but there was some margin for error.
Once armies were in play, the wars would inevitably follow. The retaking of the Rethven territories would be simplicity itself. Then he could turn his attention to preparations for the wars against the viksagi, the claiming of the Sea of Grass, and then the Undermountains. After that, he would need a sizable fleet to reach Kamshasa and Iranesh, but if a beachhead in either country could be established, the other would be placed in a precarious position.
But everything hinged on one piece in particular.
Chess is all about capturing the King. If one cannot persuade the King to come out, one must remove the other pieces, one by one, until he is open and vulnerable. The rooks were well-defended and the knights far too well-prepared. There was no Queen, and pawns are all too easy to sacrifice. Either of the bishops, though, would do quite nicely…