by M. C. Planck
“You don’t think we cut those miles of stone out of the ground by hand, did you? I don’t know how it goes in your county, but in this one, the lord earns his keep.”
“Hail to the Lord Wizard!” someone immediately shouted, and everyone took a healthy drink from their mugs.
So there was magic involved. Christopher had never seen a wizard in action. Except for Master Flayn, who hardly counted, being only first-rank. Well, and Fae, but he preferred to forget about that.
“That’s an impressive feat,” Christopher agreed. After the hordes he had seen in the Wild, he felt every town should have these kinds of defenses. “I’d like to see that.”
“Then you’re in luck. I was just on my way to a setting.” The Captain drained his mug, looked into the empty bottom of it, and took a fresh mug from the person standing next to him. “One for the road,” he muttered, draining it in a single go as well, though not without spilling some down his bearded chin.
The Captain did not present a particularly impressive figure at the moment, being drunk, disheveled, and stinking of sweat and smoke. Christopher found his appearance so unusual that he spoke without thinking.
“Are you sure you’re ready to meet your boss?”
The Captain glared at him. “Unlike your peacocks, I know when not to act above my station.”
That was not altogether heartening.
“Besides,” the Captain said, with a grin that was supposed to be manly but only came out lopsided, “there’s no shame in fortifying your courage to meet the Lord Wizard.”
“Hail to the Lord Wizard!” came the automatic refrain. The Captain reflexively raised his own mug, even though it was empty.
Outside, he and the Captain walked through the well-lit streets, Torme following a respectful distance behind. The Captain did not make small talk, however, lost in his own thoughts.
On the edge of the city, there was a work gang milling around a long wooden form of a concrete mold. The scaffolding reached fifteen feet into the air and went on for thirty yards, where it joined a section of already finished wall.
“Wait here,” the Captain growled, and went to join a fancifully dressed man standing on the stone wall that abutted the wooden extension.
“I wish Lalania could see this,” Christopher told Torme. “She might understand what’s happening.”
“If wishes were wings, then beggars would fly,” Lalania whispered, stepping out of the shadows. “And if I were Joadan, you would be dead. Why don’t you have a guard detail with you?”
“He cannot display his army so brazenly,” Torme said, answering for him, although the truth was he just hadn’t thought about it. “And in any case a squad would only show weakness.”
“Fortuitously, his corpse will not care about other’s sensibilities,” she said. “In the future take more precaution, lest you stop caring altogether. Now try not to draw any attention. I do not wish to chance the wizard’s recognition.” Discreetly she pointed at the wall.
A black-robed figure moved slowly through the air, stopping to hover next to the Captain and his associate. Christopher gaped, impressed and diminished by the authority of a being that tread on air. Which was, of course, the point. Lalania could make a grand entrance when she wanted to, but flying in trumped everything.
There appeared to be a brief conversation, too distant to hear, and then the wizard turned his attention to the wooden wall. Christopher saw the wizard flick something outward from his hand, and then there was the sound of wood groaning and creaking as the load it bore changed. The wizard flew off, disappearing into the night sky above the illumination of the weak streetlights. The two men on the wall relaxed, and the work gang began carefully tearing down the wood.
“Wow,” Christopher said. He had not seen magic used on the scale of buildings before. Could they build a fort on the march? Could his enemies build a fort against him?
Stone masons fell to work, hammers banging, cleaning the flashing from the cracks in the mold and continuing the decorative grooves from the wall it was attached to.
“Why are they doing that?” Artistic license didn’t really seem likely to be the explanation here.
“I’m not sure.” Lalania was unhappy about not being sure. “I’ll find out.”
“I have a better idea,” Christopher said, seizing on the chance to shield Lalania from further dangerous investigations. “Let’s get them to tell us.” He started walking toward the Captain, but neither of his companions moved.
“Perhaps you should tell us your plan first, my lord, so that we might not foil it through ignorance.” Torme was being nice. What he really meant was, so they could stop him if it was hopelessly idiotic.
“Good idea,” Christopher agreed. This was what he had promoted Torme for, after all. “I’m going to suggest to the Captain that wall-building is more important than I thought. Therefore, I would like to assign the men he has in jail to the wall crew. But only if they are required to learn all aspects of the job.”
Lalania was impressed. Christopher was a little embarrassed by how much that meant to him. Torme agreed, too, but his approval just didn’t carry the same effect the pretty blonde’s did.
“I’ll explain it to your men,” she volunteered, “in such a way as to keep their eyes open without betraying their curiosity. And I’ll tell them they do it for me, so if they are questioned, they cannot implicate you as a spy-master.”
That was a good idea, too.
Torme volunteered, as well. “I’ll explain to the rest of the army that if they get in any more trouble, they’ll be out there digging mud too.”
“And I’ll talk to the architect.” Christopher figured talking shop with a civil engineer was something he could handle. The Captain and the fancy-dressed man from the top of the wall were heading their way.
Lalania gave the architect a dismal glance. The closer they got, the worse he looked. Christopher wasn’t that certain of local costumes, but he was pretty sure the man was wearing his vest inside out. He was considerably overweight—which was a rarity in this world, given how expensive food was—and unkempt, with what little hair he had left straying in all directions. “Fair enough,” Lalania muttered, and disappeared into the darkness.
Torme covered Lalania’s departure by taking his own as soon as the Captain arrived. “By your leave, Curate,” he said with a salute, and strode off.
“Impressive work,” Christopher said to the architect. “Did you also design the tower?”
“No, the tower has stood forever,” the architect burbled. He was drunker than the Captain. “And though I have thankfully seen it up close only once, it was made by a different process. No need for peasants to labor, or men to oversee their labors.”
“If he did that for the walls, he could spare us this nightly ordeal,” the Captain grumbled. He meant himself and the architect, of course, not the men who dug in the mud.
“But then we could not build walls so fast. Transforming mud to rock must be less taxing than summoning it out of nothing.”
“How fast do you build them?” Christopher asked.
“One every night, for the last ten years. And the presence of the wizard never gets any easier to bear. Did you know, tonight he asked me about my wife?” The architect grimaced.
“You’re married?” The Captain was surprised.
“No,” the architect said. “But if I was, I wouldn’t want my family to come to his attention.”
“Captain,” Christopher interjected, “I think an appropriate punishment for my men would be to assign them to the walls. Just the ones who are in jail, I mean.”
The Captain shrugged, no longer concerned with petty details. “Settle it with Alstanf,” he grumbled, and stalked off.
“Pleased to meet you,” the architect introduced himself. “I style myself Esquire Alstanf, though I confess I have no rank of any kind. Only skill, for what little it is worth.”
“I am apparently the Lord Curate Christopher. You can just call
me Christopher.”
Alstanf quirked an eyebrow but accepted the informality. “Well, Christopher, would you like to join me in a drink? I feel the need of relaxation.”
The architect didn’t look like he needed any more drinks. But Christopher wanted to talk to him, so he said yes. “Just not The Hanging Tree, please. That place scares me.”
“I’ve no desire to haunt the Captain’s company any more than I have too,” Alstanf agreed. “I know a quiet tavern. The girls aren’t as pretty, but they’re twice as friendly and half the cost.”
The girls weren’t as pretty. They weren’t girls, either, being closer to thirty. But they were friendly instead of brazen, the dozen patrons in the tavern were talking in low voices, and the ale was a fair price. Even for the pale lager that was the only drink Christopher found potable.
“So how did you get into the wall business?” he asked Alstanf, leaning back on the padded bench and getting comfortable.
“My father was a stonemason, but I didn’t have the hand for it. My eye was good, though, so I made a living laying out lines and drafts. I went where the work took me, living a free and easy life, if a bit thin at times. After the war, I knew there would be work here, so I came. And now I am trapped.”
“Trapped?” The man was comfortably wealthy. The clothes, the weight, and the way he tipped the waitress attested to that.
“It’s true the wizard pays me well. But I dare not think of leaving. He would send some Dark spell after me, to fetch or punish me. And I am so very sick of building walls. I laid out the plans years ago. Now there is nothing for me to do but oversee the labor, which never changes. All I have to look forward to is some unimaginable catastrophic failure, for which I will no doubt be blamed.”
“Well,” Christopher said, trying to be helpful, “the ulvenmen could come back. Then people would appreciate your walls.”
“Perish the thought!” Alstanf exclaimed, and upended his mug. “With my luck, they’d throw down the walls with magic, and we’d all be dog food within the hour.”
“Is that possible?” The walls were raised by magic. If they could be lowered by magic just as easily, that would rather severely reduce their value.
“Not according to the wizard. He claims the scrollwork we do on the face of the walls prevents the spell from being reversed. But I worry all the same. It is my nature.” He called for another drink.
“What about ordinary siege efforts?” Christopher was wondering how big he should be making his cannons.
“The stone is not granite, for which the masons are most grateful. Still, it is stone, ten feet thick and fifteen feet high. It will hold for many days against trebuchets. And because each piece is a solid block, it will hold against undermining. But I ask you the question I ask everyone: How high can an ulvenman jump?”
Christopher had to admit he didn’t know.
“Neither does anyone else. If it is sixteen feet, my walls are as wasted as my life.”
“Another layer, then?” Doubling the blocks would make the walls absurdly high.
“It’s not as simple as stacking blocks. The bottom would have to be wider, to support the weight.”
They spent the rest of the evening talking about stress-to-weight ratios. All in all, the best evening Christopher had spent out in a long time. Alstanf even paid for the drinks.
When he went to leave, he found Torme and a squad of soldiers patiently waiting outside.
“Why didn’t you just come get me?” he asked, chagrined that he had kept them idle.
“It’s not our place to, sir. Weren’t you engaged in espionage?”
He had been, and successfully, too. He now knew far more about wall-building than his men would learn at the end of a shovel.
“Also,” Torme added, “I put the men in lockdown. So being here means I don’t have to listen to their complaints. We can sneak you in tonight, so you won’t have to listen to them either, but tomorrow they will be hard to contain without direct orders from you.”
Which he was unwilling to give, since it struck him as cruelty to keep them all but caged in the barracks. On the other hand, letting them out was only sending them to the Captain’s cage, and from there to the mud-pits.
Though he was prepared to siege, assault, and storm the fortifications of a thousand monsters, he was wholly inadequate to the task of disciplining two hundred rowdy young men. This whole leadership thing was harder than it looked from the outside.
“We’ve got to come up with a plan,” he said.
“But not tonight,” Torme suggested.
Christopher had found the lager a bit too agreeable, so he had to concede the point. In fact, he had to lean on Torme for a minute, until he got his bearings.
“I miss my wife,” he said, overcome by a deep wave of longing.
“I’m sorry, sir?”
He had spoken in English. “Never mind, Torme. Just take me home. And make absolutely certain Lalania does not disturb me tonight.” He did not think he could trust himself in this condition.
9
DEFEAT FROM THE JAWS OF VICTORY
Christopher’s entry into town had gone largely unnoticed. Gregor’s did not. When the knight came trotting through town on his giant warhorse, swathed in gleaming blue armor, and at the head of a column of twoscore smartly dressed cavalry, everyone came out to see. They lined the streets, with work-stained hands and happy faces.
“He’s getting quite a hero’s welcome,” Christopher said to Lalania. They were waiting for the horsemen inside the barracks ground, but they could see the parade reaction through the gates.
“Of course they are. Another lord, come to kill ulvenmen. Who here would not find that salutary?”
A little girl sitting on her father’s shoulders cheered, and Gregor waved his hand at her in majestic acknowledgment. Lalania sniffed in exasperation.
The troop cantered in between the blocks of riflemen standing in formation on the grounds. They brought their horses to a stop or, rather, made a credible attempt at one, only a few of the animals needing to be pulled back into line. Horses don’t like standing still any more than schoolchildren do, and the cavalry was still learning. Christopher didn’t care how they looked on parade, anyway.
Karl walked his horse over, slipped off it, and snapped to attention in a single movement. His horse stood perfectly still, of course.
“Reporting for duty, Colonel!”
“At ease, Major. Dismiss your men.” Christopher’s only guide to military talk was a healthy dose of WWII movies.
Gregor nodded hello at Christopher, but his eyes were only on Lalania. Suddenly she dashed out to the horses and gracefully sprang in the saddle in front of him. But facing the wrong way, so she could smother him in kisses.
So much for military protocol.
The cavalry dismounted and promptly followed Torme out of the gate again to be stabled in town, as their quarters did not account for the needs of a cavalry regiment. Christopher had reserved a stall in the officer’s barn for Gregor’s horse. Karl and Gregor rode that way, and Christopher went to wait for them in his office.
Karl showed up twenty minutes later. Like all cavalrymen, he fed, watered, brushed, and cared for his mount first. His superior officers came second. His own needs came a distant third.
But in the privacy of Christopher’s office, the two men could be friends, not fellow officers.
“Any trouble?” Karl asked, and Christopher brought him up to date.
“Yes, you must have an escort at all times,” Karl said, agreeing with Lalania’s judgment, and “No, we cannot keep the men caged here,” he said, agreeing with Christopher’s. “Let me go out with a few tonight and see if I can find a solution.”
“And what about Gregor?” Where was the knight, anyway?
“I left him in the stables. He had more than his horse to care for.”
In the stables? The girl was unbelievable.
“But,” Karl continued, “that is a partial answer to
your question. As long as you hold the troubadour’s attention, you hold his.”
Another delicate balancing act for Christopher to perform.
“Let’s talk about guns,” Christopher suggested. He wanted to know if there were any problems with the carbines. At least those would be problems he could solve.
Gregor and Lalania joined them for dinner in the officer’s mess, the knight in an irrepressibly good mood.
“I owe you a favor, Christopher. Riding at the head of your column like a captain was an exhilarating experience.”
An experience that should have been Karl’s. Not that they would have reacted to Karl that way. He had no title. But Christopher already had Karl’s loyalty. It was Gregor’s he needed now. Wincing inside at the necessity of politics, he made the knight another offer.
“If you really enjoy it, I could make it permanent.”
Lalania cut him off at the knees. “No, you can’t. They were not cheering Gregor. They were cheering Duke Nordland. A blue knight with a cavalry troop, and one whose name is linked to yours.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Christopher was incredulous. He was pretty sure he knew how she had spent the last few hours, and it didn’t leave room for intelligence-gathering.
“I deduced it. Then I went outside your barracks and asked.” On the other hand, people would talk to her, openly and easily, in a way that Christopher’s rank would never let them talk to him.
Gregor was crestfallen but shook it off. “All the same, they cheered.”
“I only bring it up,” Lalania said, “to prepare you. Any minute now the Captain will come to pay his respects to the Lord Duke. I think we should disappoint him politely.”
A sentry entered the room and snapped to attention, and Christopher rolled his eyes in disbelief. Lalania’s absurdly precise timing had to be a product of her tael. He’d never found exactly what her profession’s powers were, and he was pretty sure she would never tell him all of them.