Nightlord: Sunset

by Garon Whited

  He seemed nonplussed. “Nor will it do aught for you!”

  “I’ll settle for it not kidnapping my friends,” I suggested, and turned my back on him to walk away.

  “That is not what happened!” he shouted.

  I paused, then turned around. “Were you there?”

  “No, but what happened—”

  “—is the Hand came and grabbed my lady while I was gone; they did not even have the courage to face me, the one they really wanted!” I interrupted, striding forward to stick a finger in his face. “As for your outcasting, I’ve been an outcast from your pathetic mockery of salvation from the first time I ever saw your so-called holy works!” I shouted, still advancing, shaking that finger in his face and forcing him to backstep. “And if I ever see another member of your inquisitors or investigators or whatever you want to call them, I’ll kill them on sight like the rabid dogs they are!” When I yelled the last bit, I shuffled him back over the edge of a swords ring and he tripped, landing hard and wetly.

  Around us, there was a thick silence. I risked a glance at the faces; most were openmouthed. A few were carefully schooled to show no emotion at all. Here and there, I saw grins.

  “You will rue this day!” the priest said to me, shaking a muddy fist. “The darkness will claim you at the end, and you will go down swallowing curses!”

  “Get out of my sight, priest, before I turn you into a pig so you can wallow more effectively.”

  “You dare not touch me! I am a priest of the Light!”

  It wasn’t as impressive as it could have been. Sitting there in the mud, he gathered what dignity he could, but it wasn’t much.

  I squatted down next to him. “Didn’t you just cast me out?” I asked. “That means I don’t owe you anything at all, not even respect. If I were you, I’d be a bit more concerned about my worldly hide. Although you’re safe from being turned into a pig; you’ve managed that well enough on your own.” I eyed the glop he was in.

  “My faith protects me,” he snapped, working his way to his feet. I rose with him.

  “Not from mud,” I observed. “Nor from steel. Beat it, or I’ll beat you.”

  He gave me a look of withering disdain and squelched away in a huff. There was some snickering, but well-muffled. I shook my head and watched him go.

  “Sir?” came a question.

  “Hmm? Yes?” I asked, turning to a tired-looking man in armor; I knew I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t place his name. He had his helm off, held under one arm, and his hair was pulled back into a braid.

  “Art not thou afraid of the wrath of god?”

  “Sure,” I admitted. “But that chubby guy in the muddy robes isn’t a god. These bastards get fat on threatening everyone with eternal damnation; how are they different from any other robber? They blackmail people with the threat of damnation; that makes them crooks to me. Besides, if a god wants to tell me something, I’m sure it can without help from a priest. What do I need them for?”

  The expression on his face was a study.

  “That’s it, show’s over,” I said, waving my hands to shoo everyone. “Break it up.”

  I suspected there would be a lot of talk at dinner. And that the Duke would want to see me again.

  The Duke did. I hadn’t been seated in the dining hall for longer than ten minutes when a pair of unsmiling men in the Duke’s livery came up and respectfully requested my presence. Now. Right now.

  I went. Not far; just to the head table to stand before it with my escorts.

  “That’s him!” said the portly priest, pointing pontifically at me. He had cleaned up and dressed more formally.

  “Calm yourself, Marel,” said the Duke. He leaned forward over his dinner and eyed me. “It is not often I see a man twice in the same day about his criminal offenses,” he observed. “Having escaped the headsman once, few wish to risk it again so soon.”

  I bowed the best I knew how. “Of what do I stand accused, your Grace?” I tried to ignore the itching feeling around my neck.

  “I am told that you assaulted the good priest, here.”

  “I shouted at him and waved a finger in his face, but I never touched him, your Grace.”

  “Why?”

  “He pronounced me outcast of the Church, your Grace, and seemed to think I should feel chastised therefore.”

  The Duke regarded the priest, Marel. “Did he lay his hands upon you?” he asked.

  The priest drew himself up with an air of haughty dignity. “He did not dare to touch the blessed vestments of faith, lest the power of the Light should strike—”

  “Yes, yes, thank you,” the Duke said, interrupting. “He never actually touched you. Very well. He’s outcast of the Church and apparently unafraid of your dooms. I see no reason why you should expect deferential treatment. Your person is still inviolate under law as long as you do not strike the first blow; be glad of that. Now begone, the both of you.”

  I bowed to the Duke and returned to my dinner while Marel sputtered and turned pinkish about the ears.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 11TH

  The Duke wasn’t finished with me. After dinner, he sent for me again, privately. Standing in his living room, I was alone as specified in the summons.

  “I see that you have had a rather active career,” he noted.

  I nodded. “More than I like, your Grace.”

  He sighed. “You shall be no end of trouble. Not so?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, your Grace.”

  “I mean that you’re going to butt heads with the priests like a young rams in spring. That you and that young fool of Xavier’s get are going to come to blows again. That you are going to make my smooth and organized army into armed and divided camps.”

  I thought about it. “I hope not, your Grace.”

  “You’ve done a fine job of it so far,” he answered, dryly.

  It was nighttime, so I couldn’t blush. I know I looked embarrassed. I felt ten years old again, being gently scolded for boyish overexuberance.

  “Well, what shall I do with you?” he wondered aloud, fingers laced under his chin, elbows on the arms of his chair. He eyed me speculatively. “I suppose I could send you on a scouting foray across the river, since those often fail to return. I could send you back as unsuitable and demand a different tithe of troops from Eastgate—but the season is late, and it would be spring before a new levy could arrive. Or I could lock you in a cell and leave you there to rot so that you fracture my army no further.”

  I really didn’t like any of those options. I said so. Tactfully.

  “Is there no other course?”

  The Duke remained thoughtful. “I suppose it is possible—not likely, but possible—you will take heed of my warning and cease to be a trouble to me. Despite your fractious effects, you are a powerful fighter and, at least among some, well-liked. You are also a wizard, and that in itself is a power; your curative effects among the foot soldiers do wonders for their morale.”

  “Your Grace… I have no intention of being a trouble to you,” I said, and I meant it. He was a nice enough old guy, and more decent than most people in authority I’ve ever known. “Having this brought to my attention tells me I must take steps to avoid further headaches and late-night audiences. With your Grace’s permission, I will do so.”

  He eyed me critically. “Very well. But the next time I need to have you brought before me, you will be in chains. Are we clear?”

  “Crystalline, your Grace.”

  “You may go.”

  I went.

  I walked for a while through downtown. Baiting priests and humiliating Peldar were fine in and of themselves, but the Duke was right. It wasn’t good for the army. Oh, sure, it was entertainment, but it was also something to polarize on; people on Peldar’s side against the wizard, people on my side against the… well, whatever they thought of him as. People on the priests’ side, because they believe, people on my side because they don’t.

  The last thing you wan
t to have is a question in your mind about whether or not the guy beside you will leave you to die in a battle. And wasn’t that what we were doing here? Waiting for a battle?

  I made myself a vow to be a team player for however long I stayed.

  Onward to the whorehouse!

  Sure enough, I had clients stacking up. A lot of previous clients showed up with their money; more clients showed up with money in advance. Prove you can do what you say and people will pony up the cash, especially when the paying customers go first. I also saw several wizards hanging around, loitering over drinks. At a bet, they would be watching my spellmanship and trying to figure out how to do it. It’s a valuable trick. I didn’t mind. I doubted they’d manage to duplicate it; they wouldn’t have any idea why it worked. And if they figured out a way to make it work, so what? People wind up being healthier? My heart bleeds at the horror of it.

  “All right, all right! Line it up!” I ordered. “I can only handle one person at a time! People paying in advance, to the right! People who will pay tomorrow, to the left, and have a seat; I’ll get to you after the paying customers.”

  There was grumbling, and not a few left. Many of them returned with a silver coin. After a while, a nasty itch is worth anything to be rid of—ask anyone who has ever been afflicted with poison ivy. Or a toothache. They didn’t just come to get the pox removed or a horrible rash taken care of; they came with all the little ills to which the flesh is heir. I’d have thought the other wizards would have dealt with some of these problems, but apparently they fixed everything they know how to. If you’re a specialist in bleeding wounds, a toothache isn’t something you’re well-equipped to handle…

  One man, with a seeping wound under an eyepatch, asked me, “Can y’bring back me eye, wizard?”

  I looked it over. It had been pierced some time ago, a week or more, and was a festering sore that wept a yellowish fluid. Nasty.

  “I can try. I don’t know if it will see again, but it will stop weeping and should stop hurting.”

  “Then it’s worth a silver. Get on.”

  I took a little extra time with that one. I killed the infection and drained it of fluid first. Then I wrapped power around his good eye, mapping it. This I mirror-imaged, flipping it around and fitting the framework into the mess of his bad eye. A bit of a twist to his body’s metabolism to crank up the healing processes and focus them on the injured organ…

  I was hoping the framework would help his body regenerate. A scarred mess where an eyeball once was isn’t something I’d like to have. The framework of that spell was there to make sure that everything at least looked okay when it grew back. I was hoping for more, but… well, I just don’t know enough about eyeballs; my degree is in physics, not medicine.

  Still, I spent a good twenty minutes on it. People were wondering what was going on; it isn’t much of a show unless you can watch the magic moving. All they could see was some handwaving and muttering on my part.

  “All right,” I said, finally. “That’s the best I can do for now. It may see again, it may not. If I’m still around when it stops getting better, maybe I can do more with it then. But that’s all I can do with it now.”

  He got up and gingerly touched his cheek and brow. “It’s not hurtin’,” he observed.

  “Nor should it. Come back tomorrow and let me see it, though.”

  “I will.”

  “Next!”

  Soldiers tended to come in groups; I didn’t know the Squire was requiring them to pay him a silver for the group up front as a cleaning fee, followed by a silver apiece to me for the work. I found that out later in the evening. Not that I minded; it was good business on his part.

  I should mention that Hellas was near at hand all night. She would fetch me things as I asked for them and I paid her lavishly. Clean cloths and watered wine, mainly, for cleaning off some of my patients. I lectured them on hygiene endlessly while Hellas skipped back and forth to wash filthy rags.

  When I was out of customers, it was after midnight. The place was still going strong, especially now that people were feeling very merry indeed. I had Hellas sit still while I made sure she hadn’t caught anything from handling their dirty linen.

  “My lord?” she asked, while I concentrated.

  “Hmm?”

  “How long will you remain?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, absently. “A day, a week, a year. I don’t know. I never know.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. I finished washing out her system and gave her a fistful of silver.

  “But,” I added, watching her eyes widen, “it is possible you will be able to afford something better than this.”

  She accepted the silver, but looked sad. “I do not think so, my lord.”

  “Why not?”

  “I thank you for your kindness, lord, but I have no real way to earn my keep, and few enough are desperate enough to spend coin on such as I.” She glanced at her silver-laden hands and blushed. “That is, lord… I mean…”

  I smiled at her and chuckled a little. “Hellas, consider something for me.”

  “Lord?” she asked, looking miserably embarrassed.

  “Why do I hire you as my assistant?”

  Her brows drew together. “I …”

  I nodded at her hands. “For that, I could have the services of any lady in the house, and for things much worse than washing rags. Why you?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak.

  “Well, think about it,” I said, still smiling. I rose and dusted my hands together. “I should be back tomorrow night—”

  “Hoy, Sir Wizard!” shouted a soldier. He had a tankard in either hand and a grinning face. “I’ve not a spot to me anywhere, and I’ve a mind to drink! Join me!”

  I accepted the tankard thrust against my chest. “I really can’t—”

  “And bard! You there! Strike up that tune of yours! He’s here!”

  I skidded to a verbal halt. Yes, there was a musician, complete with a lute, and he looked shocked to see me. Puffy, slashed sleeves, flashy doublet and hose, all in bright colors. Yep; that was the guy from Baret. I headed toward him, my newfound companion trailing behind.

  “I understand you’ve written a little song?” I asked. He nodded, eyes wide. “I’d love to hear it.”

  He licked his lips and nodded. It’s not like he could really do anything else. It took him a minute to tune up, and the place quieted down while he did, although the whispering picked up a lot.

  “The Ballad of the Wizard Knight,” he declaimed. I give him this; his voice didn’t crack. Then he started to sing.

  I come from a place where music is extraordinarily complicated and live performances are often the worst work of an artist. That’s not the case here; music is still complicated, but if you don’t do it live, you don’t do it at all.

  He was great. I swear, I don’t think I’ve ever heard singing and playing like that. It was so great, in fact, I nearly missed what he was actually saying.

  I’m not eight feet tall. I don’t call down the fires of heaven. I don’t whistle up storms at my back when I’m feeling wrathful. I don’t crack mountains in twain. I don’t split temples at the foundations. At least, I’m pretty sure I don’t. I would remember that sort of thing. I’m pretty sure I would.

  But damned if he didn’t almost make me believe I did! Whoever this character was he sang about, he was bloody impressive. He did a lot of the things I’d done in Baret, plus a few I’d never heard of, except he did them with style. I resolved to remember as much as I could—heck, with this for inspiration, I might manage to actually appear to have panache. It was hard to remember he was singing about me.

  Poetic license, I gather. Still, it was a great song. People were howling and pounding on the tables and basically being all sorts of enthusiastic all over the place. A few were even staring openmouthed—at me.

  One of these latter tugged at my sleeve after the song ended. He shouted, barely audible over the whooping, �
�Is that you?”

  I pointed at the bard. “Ask him.”

  My admirer’s eyes got wider after the minstrel’s reply. I didn’t hear it; I was sitting quietly, debating with myself. Having a PR man is a good thing, usually, and I know that stories grow in the telling…

  I don’t know how this will affect things. Oh, sure, people will recognize my name—people I’ve never even met. But I wonder if there will be those who want to make a name for themselves coming to hunt me down. I’m reminded of the Fastest Gun in the West problem. If you’re the Fastest Gun in the West, then every other gunslinger wants to try you so he can be the Fastest Gun in the West. It’s a losing proposition.

  I don’t like being hunted. The only good news I could see was that any idiots who came after me would be the kind who laughed in the face of death and charged all-out for glory; those are easier to deal with.

  Still, nothing might come of it except a few people trying to buy me drinks and say they actually met me. I really don’t know. I’ve never been famous before.

  Then, out of the blue, inspiration hit me like a meteor impact.

  The minstrel was sweating; that was strange, since the performance was over. Then I realized I’d been sitting quietly and scowling. I smiled at him and beckoned to him; he quickly disengaged from a conversation and glided over.

  “My lord?” he asked, making a leg.

  “You’ve been talking to people, haven’t you?”

  “My lord has a discerning eye and a mind quick with wits.”

  “Do you want a steady job?”

  He blinked. “I could consider a position under a suitable patron,” he replied, carefully.

  “Come with me.” I gave him my best Do It Now tone and, lo, he followed as I led him outside.

  Once safely out of earshot of the majority of the world, we took a walk down the now-frozen streets. It was starting to snow. The warm front had moved on and its brother, the cold front, had come to town.

  “I have in mind a particular problem that needs someone with tact, discretion, and the ability to travel anywhere. Would you describe yourself as such a man?”