by M. C. Planck
“Name a reasonable amount, Fae, and I’ll think about it.”
After all that, the masculine reek of the forge was a relief. Standing in the din of machinery, bellows, fires, and hammers, he nodded approvingly. Dereth yammered on about smelting, but all Christopher could pick out of the noise was that everything was fine.
“More cannons,” Christopher shouted. “Especially the big ones.”
Jhom had papers for him to sign, new contracts for new men. And the inevitable question about promotions.
“Sure,” Christopher said. “Double our staff. Just get me those new rifles.”
“A profitable season, my lord?”
Since there was no hope of Christopher reaching seventh, he could afford to be generous. The leap from six to seven was so large that even a fraction of it seemed like profligate spending. The crumbs from his table, indeed.
“You could say that. How is the mill coming along?” Their only sources of power were the four water bottles, and they were already running them in two shifts. Building his own mill farther up the river was the next logical step, even if it would apparently take longer than he planned to stay on this planet.
“Well enough, my lord, but we could use a dozen more.”
Christopher would have to invent steam engines soon. He wasn’t looking forward to it, since he had only the vaguest idea of how they worked. You heated water, and the steam pushed on something. He was pretty sure it was more involved than that, though.
“So build them. How are the other goods selling?” Wagon axles and stoves were just the beginning.
Jhom grinned, finally on a topic he could brag about.
“We have all but destroyed the smithies of Sprier and Montfort. Their forges cannot compete with our prices. Soon those men will be in our shop.”
Another reason for the lords to be pissed at Christopher. This was like bailing out a papier-mâché ship. Every time he dipped the bucket, he knocked another hole in the hull.
“Won’t their lords be angry about that?”
“No,” Jhom reassured him, “I am not that foolish. I will not hire the lords’ armor smiths. Not that I could, since you do not promote men above Senior. And since townsmen do not pay taxes, the lords will not even notice the lesser smiths are gone. If anything, they will appreciate the import taxes on what we ship back.”
It was all coming up roses. At least, as long as Christopher kept the money flowing. The bulk of the factory’s income was military equipment.
“What about Palek? Is he going broke, too?” The independent smith had reason enough to hate Christopher. He didn’t want to give him more.
“No, my lord. The men in this town who do not work for us have adapted. They do not try to make the things our factory does. They have learned to specialize.”
They probably weren’t happy about it, though. Christopher had taken a profession that was as much artistry as labor and turned it into factory work. All he had to offer in return were regular paychecks and the excitement of powered machinery. He wasn’t sure that was enough.
But he didn’t have a choice. He needed guns, cheap. This society needed them. It needed lots of things, cheap, so that the many could wield as much influence as the few.
Then Jhom gave him the latest toy, and like any boy, he had to rush back to the village to play with it.
Lalania found him at the shooting range, an hour before sunset.
“There you are,” he said, relieved that she had finally shown up. He had no way of contacting her on his own.
“Here I am,” she replied. She seemed different somehow, distracted and unfocused.
“Did you hear about Niona?”
“Yes,” she answered, and he understood. He had never seen her depressed before.
“I’m going to revive her brother. I paid for it already.” It was the only good news he had to offer.
“Do not expect him to return to your call. That is not their way. Not everyone lives by your Church’s dogma, Christopher.”
Damn but she could take the wind out his sails. The trick was that she was always right.
“Should I send the body back to the Druids, instead?”
A sigh. “It is too late. They have but a week, and you dallied too long.”
It wasn’t dallying, but he didn’t want to argue with her. He hadn’t known, and no one had told him, and he probably couldn’t have gotten the boy home any quicker anyway. And now, he wasn’t even sure he could find the body. They hadn’t bothered to label the parts that went in the resurrection barrel. Just making sure there was only one finger-bone from each corpse had seemed adequate at the time.
“Then I’ll try it my way. I even paid to restore his rank, Lala. It was the best I could do.”
“Does that excuse work for you?” she said, piercing him with her gaze. “The best you can do? Is that enough to let you sleep at night?”
“What else is there? We didn’t know Cannan would go nuts. We don’t even really know what happened.” He was arguing with her, though his words were for himself.
“It is your choices I fear, not his. He destroyed only himself and the Lady Niona. Yet look at what you are doing.”
He looked at the pistol in his hand. It didn’t seem that perilous.
“Not that.” She rolled her eyes in frustration, the thespian in her unable to resist dramatics.
“You mean the army?” he asked. She would already know of their victory, of course, and probably of the price.
“I don’t think so.” The strange Lalania returned, the uncertain and hesitant girl. “I think it’s Knockford. I tell myself the changes are merely temporary, the result of your showering of wealth on one little town. I tell myself it’s just a local hero made good, and that it means nothing in the long run. But I do not believe it.”
“What do you believe?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“I don’t know. But I was hoping you would come to the College and explain it to wiser heads than mine.”
Her College was the only institution of higher learning he’d ever heard about in this realm. He’d been trying to figure out how to wrangle an invitation out of her, and now she was just offering one.
“Sure. I’d like to talk to some scholars. Especially if their archives go back further than the Church’s.” He hadn’t found very many answers there.
“Just like that, you’ll go?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You’ll have to leave your army behind. We’ll be traveling toward Nordland’s territory and must rely on discreetness rather than armed force. It could be dangerous.”
“I don’t think Nordland is going to hunt me down.” He’d met the Duke at the crossroads and received nothing worse than insults.
“You have other foes besides Nordland.”
Yes, like his assassin. But he was looking forward to meeting her face-to-face. Maybe if he stripped himself of his escort, she would come after him instead of those around him.
“I’ll chance it. Unless you know a reason I shouldn’t.”
She hesitated again, and he almost became worried. But she shook her shiny blonde hair in denial.
“You know, Lala, you’re in danger too. Just by being around me.”
A wan smile. “Yes, that thought has occurred to me. More than once.”
“Then let me give you a present.”
“A promotion?” she asked. “I’m only halfway to Minstrel. A dip in your pocket and my lifelong dream comes true.”
He winced. He hadn’t planned on being that generous.
“I’m joking, Christopher. I can’t take a promotion from your hand. That would mark me as your servant, and then I really would be chained to your side. For tradition, and for my own safety.”
As always, she let him off easily.
“I was thinking something more personal. Like this,” and he put the pistol in her hands. “It’s one of a kind.” It cost as much as a carbine, since it required just as many steps by magic-wielding s
miths to make. He wasn’t about to complain about the price now. Although it lacked the range and punch of the big rifle, it was small enough to put in a bread box, and that was a value all its own. “It won’t kill a buffalo, but against unranked thugs, it’s as good as six dead men. It occurred to me that you might find that useful.”
“I might,” she admitted. “Although a magic wand would be just as effective, and more convenient.”
Without thinking, he explained. “I already gave that to Fae. She probably needs protection, too.”
“Fae has a wand?” Lalania shook her head in dismay. “Gods, Christopher, you need to learn to stop giving away secrets so readily. But now that you have, at least name the kind, so I know.”
He didn’t bother to blush at her admonishment. He already kept the secret of his origin from her, and that was enough. “She called it a wand of fire.”
“A clumsy instrument for my tastes. Rarely do I need to vaporize an entire roomful of people. So there, you can stop feeling bad and show me how to use your present.”
Standing behind her, he guided her hands to the correct firing position. Eagerly explaining the mechanics and theory of firearms, he did not notice how closely their bodies touched until she fired the first shot. The recoil pushed her back, and for a moment her hair in his face confused him. He remembered standing behind another woman, teaching her how to use a gun. His hands on her soft skin, her arm crooked inside his, shoulders nestled inside the arc of his arms.
She turned her face to his, an inch away. Point-blank range.
“I missed you,” she said.
“You mean Gregor. You missed Gregor.” He stepped away from her, tried to collect his scattered emotions.
“You’re the reason I missed Gregor. I don’t know what you said to him, but you must be quite the orator to convince a man to give up sex.” She was teasing him now, which was vastly easier to take.
“I didn’t convince him. He’s crazy about you, Lala. But I think he realized you don’t feel the same.”
“No,” she said, “I don’t. He’s a good man. No, he’s a great man. But he’s obviously not my man. I’m not sure I’m meant to have one. I mean, just one.” Now she was being salacious. That was not an improvement.
“Seriously,” she said, without a trace of seriousness, “if you didn’t want me for yourself, why did you chase off Gregor?”
“I didn’t chase him off. You let him go.”
“He wasn’t mine to hold.”
“You certainly treated him like yours.” He thought of the way she had led Gregor around, a dire beast on an invisible leash.
“Is it any different than how you treat him?”
Now he did the blushing. “He’s a volunteer.”
“I don’t recall any complaints about the wages I paid.” She leered in a sultry, sophisticated way. The effect was intoxicating, her clear blue eyes inviting him in for a swim.
He took the pistol, broke open the cylinder, and started reloading it. “Okay, you win. Let’s get back to the lesson.”
Graciously she let him have the last word and turned her attention to the pistol. Its complexity was no challenge for her, and an hour and several boxes of ammunition later she had mastered the basics. Now all she needed was practice.
What he needed was relief. He found it at dinner, where Lalania became the friend she had always been, just another member of his little group, chattering away with Svengusta and Helga.
The next night Lalania put on a performance for the troops. Armed with a lute, a ridiculously low-cut blouse, and an absurdly short skirt, she reduced his recruits to leering imbeciles. After that, Christopher decided getting her out of town as soon as possible was a priority.
So a few days later he got up at the crack of dawn, saddled his horse, and slipped out with the sunrise. Lala dressed like a man for the trip, with her hair tucked under a pot helm and her bountiful chest wrapped up tight in an overcoat. Christopher was much relieved.
Both of them were armed, if unarmored. Lalania wore her slender, thin sword and had a crossbow strapped to one side of her saddle. Since Christopher was also wearing a sword and helmet, they looked like dangerous people. Lalania assured him this would deter ordinary thugs and ruffians, while still not broadcasting their rank and identity to everyone they passed.
Following her advice, he snuck out of the village and left his escort behind, with only a note of explanation left on his desk to stave off their worry. He knew they would be upset, but Lalania had convinced him that discreetness would be better than a show of force.
15
MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM
The weather wrecked their disguise. As the sun rose, the temperature followed it, summer not yet ready to yield to autumn’s dominion. Lalania slowly shed clothing throughout the morning, stuffing her helmet and eventually her coat into her saddlebags. It didn’t seem to matter, though. Since they had left the road after Cannenberry town, traveling through backwoods and open country, they had not seen a single person. A few plowed fields and smoke from distant villages were the only proof that this land was inhabited.
The horses ambled along while Lalania plucked at her lute and told Christopher stories, mostly of the bawdy variety. She assured him they were the popular ones. He was certain she was right, but they weren’t the kinds of stories he wanted to hear right now. With her blouse open to the summer heat and her hair loose around her shoulders, the bard’s innate attractiveness was impossible to ignore. At this pace it would be four or five long days before they reached her College. The trip could be made in three, with hard riding, but they were swinging south to avoid Kingsrock. Lalania felt the danger of encountering their enemies was too great there.
Christopher was worried about a different danger. His self-control had limits. Lalania wasn’t some innocent peasant girl engaging in a distasteful custom. She was a peer, an equal. Her rank put her in the same class as himself, one of the few instead of one of the many. And her affection for him was genuine, born out of her knowledge of his character and not merely his wealth and power. She was intelligent, witty, charming, and thoroughly in control of her own destiny. All of the traits Christopher found attractive in a woman.
All of the things that had drawn him to Maggie.
But he had not known Maggie when she was this young. He had not known her when her skin was still soft and fresh, untouched by the years. He had been so grateful to finally find her that he had not noticed. They had shared their scars and the stories that went with them, the history that had made them who they were. He called them the wasted years, the years they had spent before they had met each other, but Maggie had always looked forward. They would gain the rest of their scars together, she had said.
Except now he had no scars. His skin was more than just unmarked; he could pass for a man half his age, even if he did not glow with youth like Lalania. He was richer, in relative terms, than he could ever have hoped for back home. He had power here that was not even imaginable on Earth. He was respected, for his inner convictions as well as his actions, his moral worth an objective quality like the color of his armor. In all ways this world had been good to him. In all ways but one.
When they made camp for the night, stretching bedrolls under the trees by a cozy fire, Lalania cooked while he brushed down the horses. It had seemed like a reasonable division of duties, until she served him a bowl. He had been too long in this world: a woman cooking for him meant things now that it shouldn’t have.
“Was dinner acceptable, my Lord Vicar?” she asked playfully, when they were done. He had felt too awkward to speak while he was eating, but of course it had been acceptable. It had been delicious, and not just in the campfire-everything-tastes-better way. Living with the army had largely removed that effect, anyway. Lalania was simply a better cook than Helga.
Or Maggie.
He grunted something noncommittal and went to check on the horses. Uselessly, since he’d just finished seeing to them. Royal pricked his ea
rs at his approach, but when he saw it was only Christopher, the stallion put his head down again and went back to sleep. They wouldn’t need a guard tonight, Lalania had said. The horses were as good as watchdogs, and in any case, it was unlikely a common brigand could kill Christopher in his sleep.
His mind was wandering, trying to avoid the current topic. Being attacked by murderous thugs would be easier to deal with than Lalania’s flirtations. Sighing, he turned back to the camp.
Lalania had stretched her bedroll out next to his, and now she reclined on it, waiting for him. When she saw his gaze on her, she sat up and began to undo her blouse.
“Stop it,” he said.
She looked up at him, her blue eyes shining in the firelight, framed in tousled golden hair. “Will you make me beg, Christopher? Because I will.”
“Will you make me beg? Stop it, Lala. Just stop.”
“It’s just sex. Just sleep with me, damn it. Just once, Christopher, is that so much to ask?”
“Yes,” he said, because it was.
“I know you don’t have a pact. That might fool your army, but I know better. I know you find me attractive. So tell me why you won’t do what common sense tells you to do.”
“Tell me why you’re so Darkling insistent on seducing me.” She’d been trying from the first moment she’d met him.
“Because you’re kind, and generous, and good. Because you’re handsome, now that your nose is straight. Because you’re the only man who’s ever denied me. Because it’s been weeks since I’ve had a good lay. Gods, Christopher, because I want you. Isn’t that enough?”
“No,” he said, because it wasn’t.
“Tell me why,” she said, and he was startled to see tears in her eyes. “At least tell me why.”
“Because I’m not staying. I have a job to do, Lala, and then I’m going to leave. I’m going to go home. To my wife.”
“I won’t hold you. I just want this one night.”
That wasn’t a promise he could make. He felt the knife-edge under his feet; he instinctively knew that if he let himself sink too deeply into this world he would never have the strength to tear himself free.