by M. C. Planck
“Fair enough,” Svengusta said. “We need not stand on ceremony out here in the fields, as it were. It’s no Kingsrock with its ‘by your leave, lords’ and ‘begging my pardon, ladies.’”
Helga giggled, overcoming her momentary confusion, and turned back to her chores.
Christopher realized that while he might know how to talk, he still didn’t know what to say. He ate his porridge in silence, considering what would be a safe way to ask questions about last night’s vision.
Before he finished either task, he heard the double doors in the main hall open, and the tramp of feet. Karl came into the kitchen, carrying a bundle of cloth.
“You’re not still on your knees, so I assume it worked.” Without waiting for an answer, he tossed the bundle to Christopher. “Get dressed. The trial starts in half an hour.”
“So soon?” Svengusta said.
“Best to deal with hungry wolves quickly. Every day Hobilar spends here is a danger to your villagers. In town at least the Vicar can keep an eye on him.”
“It’s not an eye he needs, but a leash,” Svengusta said. “Here in settled lands, every jackass that buys a rank acts like he’s the hero of the ages.”
Karl’s lips formed a flat, thin line, the closest to a smile Christopher could imagine on that hard face. “You banter that word lightly, given present company.”
“Pshaw,” the old man said. “Brother Christopher here has done more to earn his rank than any novitiate, simply by hewing to his affiliation for so long.”
“If being good in the face of evil were sufficient for a battlefield promotion, we should all be lords by now.”
“So we should.” Svengusta threw the young soldier a look charged with meaning. “So we should.”
“No matter.” Karl changed the subject before Christopher could ask what they had been talking about. “Your chapel will serve as a courthouse. Afterwards the Pater will transfer to Knockford, for his training.”
“How soon?” Helga asked, her dismay obvious.
Karl was unpitying. “Say your good-byes now. He’s been drafted.”
Helga gasped, and Svengusta turned a shade paler.
“A bit long in the tooth for that, isn’t he?” the old man said.
“As you noted, rank must be earned. By your leave, Paters.” The soldier tipped his head and marched away to join the noise still ongoing in the chapel hall.
Christopher picked at the bundle Karl had given him, until he recognized it as a priestly robe, unadorned but reasonably white. When he looked up to compare it with Svengusta’s robe, he saw the old man watching Helga and turned to see what she was doing.
Helga was at the fireplace overseeing a pot, her back to them, but it was obvious that she was crying.
“Helga,” Svengusta said, “he is a priest and skilled with weapons. Do not weep yet.”
Christopher finally found a question to ask. “Why is being drafted worse than being stalked by Hobilar?”
Svengusta looked at him with sorrow. “Each winter, all the boys who are sixteen are sent to the draft for three years of service. Only half of them return.”
“Half?” Christopher choked. “Half of . . . all of them?”
“Yes,” Svengusta said. “All are called, even the townsmen, even the scions of the nobles. Of course, those rich enough to buy ranks are much more likely to survive, but even they pay their share of dying.”
“But can’t they be . . . revived?”
Svengusta looked at him mildly. “And who would pay? What a staggering cost that would be, even if anyone could afford it. And in many cases, with the bodies lost on distant battlefields, it is not even an option.”
How could a society survive such a continuing holocaust? Who did all the farming? How did women find men to marry?
Helga’s flirtations suddenly became understandable.
“It is not thus in your land?” Svengusta asked gently.
“No. Not even close. Such a casualty rate is . . . unthinkable.” Fifty percent of every generation! Christopher’s mind reeled under the weight of such terrible numbers.
“Then you are indeed tragically separated from your home.” The old man sighed. “Still, the ones who return are the good ones. They are the strong, the blessed, the brave. They take wives and mistresses, and the realm thrives. They learn trades and crafts, and forget about the horrors of war until it is time to send their own sons into the thresher. Then they drink, and hope.”
Faren had tried to warn him, but Christopher had ignored the Cardinal. He had been so focused on going home that he blanked out the dangers.
And in any case, the alternative seemed to be a one hundred percent chance of fatality.
“I should change,” Christopher said, and he went into the bunk-room to put on his new clothes.
4.
A TRYING EXPERIENCE
Svengusta’s chapel had been transformed. Cardinal Faren had a high seat in front of the fireplace, though Christopher could see it was just a stool on two pews, and his impressive bench was merely double-stacked pews covered in drapes. But he could only see this because he came in from the kitchen hallway. Viewed from the perspective of the sparse audience, it was imposing. The room was half-full of peasants, concentrated close to the double doors.
Christopher sat at one pew, feeling Halloween-ish in plain white robes and tennis shoes. Hobilar, still wearing armor and sword, lounged on a pew on the other side of the room with a bottle in his hand. The only apparent sign of courtesy was his bare head. Probably he just couldn’t drink through the helmet.
“With your permission, Ser,” Faren said, and when Hobilar indulgently nodded, he began a prayer while Hobilar took a drink from his bottle.
Christopher felt the same unseen pressure that he had experienced in the church. If it affected Hobilar, the man did not reveal it.
“Now, Ser Hobilar, what seems to be the trouble?”
“You’ve got a rat in your church, and it belongs to me.” Hobilar’s voice was not slurred; the bottle was just for show. Sadly, Christopher’s impression of Hobilar was not improved by understanding the knight’s words.
“A remarkable assertion,” Faren said. “But please, for the sake of formality, outlay your actual charges.”
Hobilar leaned forward. “Felonious assault upon a member of the gentry.” He enunciated the phrase carefully, as if he had been coached to it, before lapsing into ordinary speech. “The thrall hit me with a weapon.” He jabbed in Christopher’s direction, spilling wine from the bottle. “You know the penalty. We all know the penalty.”
“Is this true?” Faren asked Christopher. “Did you strike Ser Hobilar?”
Again, Christopher found himself unable to lie. Not that he would have, anyway.
“I did. But—”
The Cardinal waved him to silence. “So much is established. But let us see what other facts there are. Dynae of Knockford, please come forward.”
The pretty girl timidly advanced up the center of the hall, dressed much as she had been the last time Christopher had seen her. The audience held their breath; this was clearly where their sympathies lay.
“Goodwoman, you were present during this altercation?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said in a stronger voice than Christopher would have expected. “But I did not see them fight. I ran away when Ser Hobilar drew his sword.”
“What’s this?” the Cardinal said. “Drew his sword?” He turned to the knight. “Ser, surely you are aware that felonious assault requires that there be no provocation.”
The knight didn’t flinch. “The rat insulted me. I merely drew so that he would recognize my superior rank.”
“Insulted? What were his exact words? Assuming they are not too indelicate to repeat in public, of course.”
Christopher could see a red flush crawling up the knight’s neck.
“He butted in where he was not wanted. Then he ordered me out—as if I were to take orders from a peasant!”
“Out?
Out of the chapel? This battle took place here, inside?” Faren looked comically surprised.
Hobilar growled. “Inside, outside, what darkling difference does it make?”
“Pater Svengusta, perhaps you can tell the court why the accused was in your chapel.”
The old man stood up from his seat halfway back in the hall. “He was, and is, my guest, Cardinal.”
“And why do you extend hospitality to this man?” the Cardinal asked with careful innocence.
“He is entitled to it, as a Brother of the Lady,” Svengusta answered equally blandly.
Hobilar exploded. “What knavery—?”
“Calm yourself, Ser.” Faren’s voice was hard as steel now that the trap had been sprung. “You will have your chance to speak.” He turned to Christopher. “You are, then, in the service of the Lady?”
Christopher started to say “Yes,” but no words came out. He had to change his answer to one that was unambiguously true, and even then the hair on the back of his neck prickled.
“Yes, Cardinal. I pledged to an aspect of the Lady.”
The Cardinal blinked but smoothly carried on. “And this device—” He pointed to the guard, who brought forward the shattered halves of Christopher’s bokken. “Was this the instrument of assault?” The Cardinal held the two broken ends together and spoke a word. Like a street magician he flourished the wooden sword, now made whole and unbroken. Christopher gaped, but no doubt that was the intended effect. “This seems oddly familiar. Why is that?”
Svengusta raised his hand again. With something like awe, he said, “It is a wooden copy of the favored weapon of Marcius, Consort of the Bright Lady.”
Dramatically, Faren turned to gaze upon the wooden frieze hanging over his shoulders. The crowd followed, drawing in its collective breath.
“What were you doing with this holy symbol?” the Cardinal asked Christopher, after everyone had had a moment to contemplate the amazing significance of it all.
“I was practicing a, uh, sword dance, when Hobilar and the girl came in.” The word “kata” didn’t seem to be in his newfound vocabulary.
The Cardinal turned back to the knight. “I declare your case invalid.”
“What?” Hobilar screeched, but the Cardinal stopped him cold.
“You interrupted a priest at his devotions in his chapel. When you drew a weapon on him, he thrashed you. What else did you expect? Attacking a priest in his own church! To avoid further bloodshed, he sensibly fled to Knockford and reported your crime to the authorities.”
The knight was dumbfounded. Christopher was impressed, too; the spin was worthy of anything politicians back home could do.
“That’s not what happened at all!” the knight shouted.
“Which part,” the Cardinal said, “do you dispute?”
“This man was no priest when he struck me, regardless of what costume you’ve dressed him in now!”
The Cardinal raised his eyebrows. “Ser Hobilar: would you have me believe that a commoner, armed with a chunk of firewood, defeated you, a knight of rank? Is this what you wish to assert?”
Hobilar blinked.
“In any case,” the Cardinal said, “he is clearly a priest now. Therefore, the punishment you seek no longer applies. Now that the facts are revealed, all is seen to be a misunderstanding. But no harm is done: your head and your honor are intact. I consider the matter closed.”
Hobilar glowered, his jaw slack. Christopher let out his breath, unaware that he had been holding it. The Cardinal had saved him with a magnificent verbal sleight of hand.
Just as he was beginning to believe it was all over, Hobilar rose to his feet in triumph.
“If he is of rank,” Hobilar said, “then I invoke my noble privilege.”
“Ridiculous!” the Cardinal snapped. “You cannot duel a priest!”
The knight shouted back. “A priest cannot assault a knight! And yet he did! I demand satisfaction!”
Hobilar’s incessant bullying finally broke something in Christopher. Unthinking, he leapt to his feet and shouted back.
“I’ll give you all the satisfaction you can handle, buddy.”
The knight looked at him with surprise, as if he had forgotten Christopher was even in the room. The audience also stared silently, but worst of all was Faren’s shocked look of betrayal.
“Impossible!” Faren declared, though his voice had lost its certitude. “I cannot allow such a travesty.”
“I know my rights,” Hobilar growled. “Either this man hangs, or he dies on my sword. This is the law.”
“I am the law here,” Faren said. “This court will take a short recess, so that we may all cool our tempers. You,” he jabbed at Christopher, “come with me.” He stomped off his bench and into the kitchen. Hobilar sat down with a grin, enjoying a celebratory drink.
Karl followed Christopher into the kitchen, as tight on his heels as any sheepdog ever chased an errant ewe. Christopher felt his defiance melting. It was one thing to stand up to a bully; it was something else to be called to the principal’s office.
“What,” the Cardinal said, “in black blazes were you thinking, boy?”
Christopher hadn’t been thinking, really.
“Perhaps you sought to bluff,” Karl said. “But you can’t bluff a man against the rocks. Hobilar is said to be deep in gambling debt and desperately in need of a ransom.”
“He’ll not take one from a priest of the Bright Lady,” Faren declared. “That is a precedent I cannot allow.”
“I’m not sure,” Christopher said, “that I am a priest of the Lady.”
Faren glared at him, questioning his sanity.
“I pledged to Marcius,” Christopher said. The Cardinal looked so surprised, Christopher felt the need to make an excuse. “It was his idea.”
“You mean to claim that Marcius personally intervened to select you as his representative?”
“Um. Yes?” Put that way, it didn’t sound very convincing.
A rap from outside interrupted them. Karl stepped over to the blanket-shrouded remains of the door and ripped them down, one hand on his sword hilt.
Svengusta frowned at him from outside, looking at his twice-ruined doorway.
“Cardinal, I believe you need to see this,” Svengusta said. Behind him was a short, powerfully built man carrying a long package wrapped in a blanket. The man bowed and sweated, far more nervous than anyone else Christopher had seen dealing with priests. But he couldn’t be a criminal. By his dress he was clearly a craftsman. By those arms, Christopher was going with blacksmith as his trade.
“Forgive my presumption, Lord Cardinal,” the man begged.
“None needed, Journeyman. You have a right to be here,” the Cardinal answered. Explaining to Christopher, he said, “This is the girl’s father, Dereth.”
The man looked guiltily at the bundle in his arms and launched into an explanation. “Some seasons ago, I displeased certain members of the guild by poorly chosen remarks. Hence I found myself with more time than work. My pride was chafed, and I thought to prove something to myself, though I am not by rank licensed to make weapons.”
“So you made one anyway.” Faren shrugged. “That’s not a crime, as long as you don’t sell it or stick it in anybody. Why is this relevant?”
“I thought to make something that none could accuse me of illegal commerce yet would still display my skill. Oft times I have visited Pater Svengusta’s chapel, to give thanks to the statue of the god for safe travel for me and mine, especially for my daughter, who has walked many times to and from this village, and often alone.”
Apparently the Cardinal did not find the heedless ways of lovestruck girls to be pertinent. His hands twitched, seeking an opportunity to interrupt the smith and send him packing.
Dereth got the hint and skipped to the end. “And so I made this.”
He unwrapped the blanket to reveal the sword inside.
Not just any sword, but a katana, the naked blade lying on the woolen b
lanket draped over the man’s arms. The suba was iron instead of bronze, but otherwise it was a perfect copy of Marcius’s weapon from the wooden frieze. Christopher hungered for a closer look. With a weapon like that, Hobilar’s armor would hardly matter.
Faren’s reaction was surprising. The Cardinal was speechless.
“I thought I served my own pride and pleasure, my lord,” the smith said humbly, “but now I dare to think I served the will of the Bright Lady.”
“May I see that?” Christopher asked, entranced.
Everyone else looked to the Cardinal for permission, who nodded approval while frowning in dismay.
The smith reverently offered the weapon’s hilt to Christopher. Even in the confined space of the kitchen, he could tell it was an excellent match for him. It was exactly the right length and weight for his height. But more importantly, it seemed alive in his hand.
“No clearer sign can I imagine,” the Cardinal said slowly. “This must be the work of Marcius. Your coming was prepared for.”
“Nonsense,” Christopher replied. “You heard the smith, he had his own reasons. It’s just coincidence.” He could accept alien super-science, but he wasn’t about to surrender to mysticism. Christopher was only half involved in the conversation. The sword in his hand kept distracting him, like it wanted to be swung. He studied it closely. “Did you hammer-weld in an edge of harder iron?” he asked the smith.
Dereth looked crushed. “No, Pater. I did not know to do this.”
“It’s okay,” Christopher reassured him. “It’s still an excellent blade. But with the superior tensile strength of the steel backing, you can afford to put a sharper edge of brittle iron here.”
“You know much about swords for a priest,” Karl said flatly.
“It’s a hobby of mine.” Christopher wasn’t sure how to define kendo or explain his fascination with ancient Japanese martial history. “Say, how much would something like this cost?” Traditional Japanese techniques meant six months of work for such a sword.
“I cannot sell it, Pater,” the smith said. “I am not licensed. But I gift it to you, as the gods command. Also,” he added, “there is the trivial matter of my daughter.”