by M. C. Planck
“You can turn invisible?” Christopher wondered if assassins could do that. It would make catching one a thousand times harder. He started to ask and then stopped. This was another question that, once phrased, was already answered.
“Some wizards spent all their time that way,” the wizard said. “I don’t know how. It’s a bloody annoyance when you can’t see your own hands. And soon as you pick something up, it disappears too. Do you have any idea how hard it is to fill a wine glass when you can’t see the wine or the glass?”
“No,” Christopher said, suspecting that it was twice as hard if one was half as drunk as the wizard usually seemed to be.
“I should make you invisible someday, and then you could find out. Wait, there’s an easier way. Close your eyes.”
Christopher contained his sigh and held out a hand for the bottle.
In a stroke of inspiration, he remembered how blind people did it. He tipped his thumb in the glass, so he could feel when it was full, and he held the bottle by the neck, with his other thumb protruding slightly. Now it was just a matter of moving his hands together slowly.
“Huh,” the wizard said. “Pretty clever.”
“Thanks, but I can’t take the credit. Someone else taught it to me, long ago.” Christopher looked at the very full glass, and decided he’d earned the whole thing.
“Erm.” The wizard stared at Christopher, and he was reminded that the man was, technically, a genius. Lalania had sworn that wizardry required a phenomenal mind to master, especially the higher ranks. “I did some research. Cast your horoscope, that sort of thing. Might have even consulted with a demon. Or not.” He scratched his beard, which for the wizard was a sure tell. Genius or not, the man should never let himself be suckered into a poker game. “I came up with nothing. It’s like you didn’t even exist until a year ago.”
“Is that possible? That I didn’t exist, I mean.”
The wizard grunted in amusement. “Yes, it’s possible. You could be a construct. It’s even possible for it to be true and for you to not know it.”
Christopher gripped the arm of the chair to stop from falling out of it.
“I am,” he said. “I am a construct. The Saint said he raised me from an empty skull. That means my entire body is made out of . . . magic.” He lifted his glass and drained it, trying to find an anchor to reality. The wine burned his throat, blocking out everything else for a few blessed seconds.
“This just now occurred to you?” the wizard asked.
“I didn’t think about it before.” Why would he? Who would ever think about such a thing, if they didn’t have to? Who on Earth had ever been destroyed and resurrected, to be in a position to have to think about it? He set the empty glass down and tried to pretend his dizziness was from the rush of alcohol.
“Well, you can relax,” the wizard said. Reassurance from him was so uncharacteristic that it rang true. “Revivification magic doesn’t work that way. It reaches into the past, to the instant just before your death, and pulls you into the now.”
Christopher sagged with relief. “So I’m . . . me?” He realized it had to be true. When the Saint had brought him back, his legs had still been mangled from the torture. He had awoken in the same old broken body he had died in, not a nice fresh new one. “But what about the past? Wouldn’t they notice my body was suddenly missing?” How could there have been a skull left, if he had been pulled back into the future?
“Well, they didn’t, did they? So no, they must not have. I’m not sure how it works; it’s not really my specialty. I know it’s not a copy, though. Otherwise you could do it again. Imagine that—they revive you half a dozen times, and now there’s not enough room in your sock drawer to last the week. Though you raise a good point. Normally constructs are immune to revivification magic.”
There was still room for doubt. In his memory the transition from Earth to here was instantaneous; he had been in the desert for one footstep and in the snow for the next. He had always assumed that was because he wasn’t paying attention to where he was walking, a common enough occurrence for him, but what if it was because this body had only begun existing here, with the memories of there somehow copied over?
Why even assume the memories were real? The Saint had openly doubted Christopher’s claim to be from Earth, or even that such a place existed. What proof did he have that Earth was real?
He put his hand to his pocket, but his pickup truck key was not there, misplaced or lost some time ago since it had no value here. Assuming it had ever existed, and wasn’t just a false memory itself.
But he could rely on other people’s memories. He and the wizard Flayn had first quarreled over that key, setting into motion a sequence of events that had ended in violent death. Fae had witnessed it all from start to finish.
That left only his miraculous appearance on Prime, and the Saint had found the notion of a random portal hardly worthy of a raised eyebrow. The simplest solution still pointed to his being really him. Thus the key had really existed, and by extension, the whole of Earth was saved.
“So the Saint proved I’m real.” He leaned back, as empty as the wine bottle.
“Not necessarily. You could be a god’s avatar. I’m guessing divine magic works differently on them.”
Christopher thought back to his conversation with the demi-god Marcius. That was unequivocal; one did not make ambiguous deals with one’s own avatars.
“No,” he said, “I’m afraid not. I’m just a middle-aged man with a good education.”
“Sure you are.” The wizard was grinning now. “And I’m a cheese-maker’s apprentice. Go ahead and keep your secrets—we’ve all got ’em. But if you’re planning anything big, I’d like a chance to choose sides first.”
Winning friends and influencing people—that was exactly what he was supposed to be doing. But his so-called friends kept torturing him with terrifying revelations, while requiring him to conceal his own truths.
“I’m not planning anything,” he said automatically. The wizard stared at him with sardonic amusement until his conscience forced him to retract the lie.
“I mean . . .” He couldn’t think of anything clever to say, so he had to surrender the truth. “Fine. If or when I do something—big—I’ll let you know.”
“Good enough for me. In the meantime, try to keep your head down. The less attention you attract, the less shares of the pie you’ll have to give out.”
That would be hard, given that the wizard had ferreted this much out with magic. “Won’t other wizards ask the same questions you did?”
“I don’t think any others can. It may surprise you to learn that I am the ranking wizard in the realm. It’s not a popular profession. Dealing with demons and all tends to be fatal if you’re the careless type. And most people are careless.”
Fae hadn’t said anything about demons. Well, she hadn’t actually told him anything about how her magic worked.
The wizard was musing over the competition. “There’s that hack that works for the King. And that tyro over in Dalenar, and of course the bloody Witch of the Moors. A few lackeys playing court jester for barons. A couple of dozen first-rankers making a living as shopkeepers. I wouldn’t trade a bucket of piss for the lot of them.”
And to think Christopher had spent all that time worrying about the fearful Wizard’s Guild.
The wizard corrected himself. “Well, maybe the witch. Anyway, your real problem is other priests. But if they divine you and come up with nothing, they’ll just assume your patron is blocking them. It’s not unheard of for some new hero to pop up out of obscurity, with a prophesied destiny and enough luck to pull it off. Although . . . usually they’re a lot younger.”
“Cheers to you, too,” Christopher said, raising his glass. The wizard laughed, and after only two more bottles, Christopher got to go home.
Cannan was waiting for him at the foot of the tower, exchanging baleful looks with the wizard’s doorman. A squad of his cavalrymen lounged around as w
ell, looking positively insolent. Christopher let them. He didn’t want any of the townspeople getting too friendly with his forces. He couldn’t protect them from his assassin. The only way he was safe was hiding in the vast stone barracks, now occupied only by his cavalry escort.
In the morning he rode out with a foggy head but a clear conscience. Finally he was going where choices were easy, where the good guys were on his side and the bad guys had fangs. And where idle conversations over a bottle of wine didn’t make him question his sanity.
Gregor and Lalania caught up with them on the road south. The knight seemed different somehow. Less reserved, or perhaps just more relaxed.
“It went well?” Christopher asked.
“No,” Lalania complained. “Your Saint did not merely make a show of it, as I had hoped. He cast the spell for real, and now that grinning idiot is insufferably cheerful.”
Christopher cocked an eyebrow at Gregor.
“It’s true,” the knight said. “I feel like a new man. Or more accurately, like a man who has been given a second chance.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually done anything terribly wrong,” Christopher said.
“Neither did I, or so I told myself. But it adds up. All the little compromises you make, all the times you give yourself a pass without meaning to. Without realizing it. All the things you put in a box to be dealt with later. It feels good to just throw the damn box out and start over.”
Christopher glanced at Lalania, thinking about her previous comments on the process of atonement.
“Don’t even get me started,” she warned him with a glare.
“And the ransom?” he asked, changing the subject for her.
“Your Saint made Gregor hand it to the Gold Apostle personally. He got down on one knee and asked forgiveness. From that monster! I swear to the gods, Christopher, I nearly vomited to see that. I cannot imagine how the Dark crowed about it. I cannot imagine how the Bright went home early from the taverns, rather than listen to the talk of their shame.”
Christopher looked at Gregor with concern.
“It was hard,” Gregor admitted. “But it was a good bargain.”
“How in the nine hells was it good?” Lalania exploded.
“They’re down a priest,” Christopher said. “All we’re out of is a handful of tael. If we do that another hundred times, we’ll be broke, but they’ll all be dead.”
The minstrel stared at him, while Cannan chuckled. Well, as much as an angry bear could be said to chuckle.
“We’re Bright,” Gregor said. “Not stupid.”
Lalania was silent, thinking under creased brows. Today her hair was auburn, radiant in the sun and full of curls. “How, exactly, do you square that with your vaunted fairness?”
Christopher shrugged. “If the Gold Apostle asked me, I’d tell him exactly what our strategy is. But he won’t ask, and he wouldn’t understand the answer if he did. The reason he accepted a public humiliation and a ransom in exchange for the life of one of his people is because that’s all he values it at. To recognize that it was a bad deal requires him to understand that people are worth more than tael. And that, I’m guessing, is not a realization he can make.”
“If he valued the life of his servants over what they could do for him, then he wouldn’t be Black,” Torme explained. “Bartholomew never looked at us as anything but animated swords, to do his bidding or die trying. In return, we never viewed him as aught but a thunderstorm, to be endured while hoping the lighting struck elsewhere.”
Gregor was nodding in agreement.
“Gods,” Lalania said, “you’ve all become theologians. Pray tell me the Ranger is still sensible, or have you ruined him as well?”
“He’s what he always was,” Christopher said. In his eyes that wasn’t a compliment. The boy should have learned or grown or something from all the tragedy he’d been through. He hardly seemed any different than before he had died.
Lalania galloped ahead of the column, where D’Kan was doing his alleged scouting. Torme watched her go.
“Should someone warn the boy?” he asked. It was a rhetorical question; the young Ranger would never take such counsel from the older men. What young man ever had?
Riding into the fort, Christopher felt a weight being lifted from his shoulders. At first he thought it was the welcome he got from his men, but then he understood that it was that his men were still fit to welcome him. He had left them in the Wild, and in his absence they had tamed it. The road was lined with gravel, the ring of clear ground had been expanded around the walls, and the buildings inside were now solid logs instead of hastily assembled branches and twigs.
Disa embraced Gregor fervently, and he returned it, but only for a moment. Then both of them came to listen to the officer’s report.
“Aside from crocodiles, we have seen nothing worth shooting since you left. Though we rode only close patrols.”
Christopher nodded in satisfaction before realizing what the good news implied. “I guess we’ll have to expand the range of our patrols. And,” he sighed, “put myself and Gregor in the random rotation. D’Kan and Torme, too.” As miserable as the duty sounded, Christopher knew he’d get soft and useless if he didn’t carry his share of the load.
“I ride with the Vicar,” Cannan said.
Christopher nodded, accepting the limitation. “We’ll wear regular uniforms, and ride with different men each time. Hopefully they won’t be able to pick us out.”
“Then you won’t be riding Royal or Balance,” Karl said. “Just as well; we’ll save their strength for the real battles.”
“And when will those be?” Christopher asked.
Karl shook his head. “The enemy has been soundly beaten. They will not return without overwhelming force.”
Christopher was pretty sure that was exactly what several thousand ulvenmen were supposed to have been.
Torme nodded in agreement. “Then we must take the fight to them, before they build that strength. Our patrols must go deep, to harry them and provoke a response before they wish to give it.”
Lalania was wrong. He wasn’t surrounded by theologians; he was surrounded by strategists. He felt like he should tell her that. She would probably find it comforting.
13
PARTY DRESS
Christopher slapped his face, and his hand came away wet with sweat and condensation and bug juice. Staring at his palm, he did not recognize it. Calluses mixed with dirt, and the remains of a huge black horsefly, obscured the flesh underneath. He wiped it off on his pants leg.
He had told Karl not to spare him, and the young man had taken him at his word. Christopher’s first season of training in Burseberry had made him strong. This sojourn had made him tough. Karl had pushed, and he had responded in ways he had forgotten were possible. His regenerated body had no weak points, no lingering injuries, no excuses.
Nor was he bound by mundane limitations. Bodybuilders had to wait a week for their torn muscle fibers to regrow before they could tear them again. Christopher healed himself every night. Between magic and Karl, Christopher had gained hard and bulging muscles he couldn’t even name. He was unquestionably in the best shape of his life.
And yet both Gregor and Cannan easily put him to shame. Their strength and precision showed every time they sparred with him. He could only compete with them because of the imbalance of tael. It was strange, perhaps, that he should practice swordsmanship in a camp full of rifles. But the ranked men were not there to carry guns. Their job was to kill things that couldn’t be shot.
He never sparred with Karl anymore. The last time he had tried had left him utterly depressed. Karl was still harder and leaner than Christopher, but the young man had no tael. Karl’s cynical prediction about the perquisites of rank had proven correct: sparring with the unranked was like sparring with the blind.
That so much skill and spirit should be trumped by what amounted to no more than money had to be soul crushing. Christopher knew he could only gues
s at how badly. The world he had come from had long ago come to terms with the unfair advantage of wealth. Even the Olympics, once the ultimate amateur competition, had thrown in the towel. But this world had no such social protections. A man was judged only by his physical power, and tael gave the knights unquestionable supremacy. Strength was its own virtue, however a man came by it.
Christopher glanced over the training yard, where Karl was leading a bayonet drill. Every night he resolved to confront his best officer and order him to accept a promotion to rank, so that he might lead an army instead of a squad. Every day he watched Karl lead the men with only the strength nature had given him, and held his tongue.
Lalania didn’t hold hers, however. “The Concord will not wait for your conscience, Christopher. Nor will the fate of your soldiers wait for Karl’s prickly pride. You must act now.”
He started to make an excuse, but she cut him off.
“Today I actually mean it. We have only a few weeks left, and there is much to be done besides spending your fortune. Karl’s promotion will need a public witnessing. Then he will need equipping: arms and armor, a horse, and magic befitting his rank.”
“Isn’t that just more spending?”
“Yes, but it takes time to arrange. We should have started long ago. Going from commoner to baron in a single step is already pushing the limits of credulity. Your fabulous wealth will make it believable, but no man wants to owe the respect of his rank solely to another’s reputation.”
That would go double for a man like Karl.
Lalania scowled. “At least one duel is inevitable.”
Again, something likely to go double with a man like Karl.
“Maybe that will work in our favor,” Christopher mused. “If we tell him he can knock down a few lordlings, perhaps Karl will go for it.”
Lalania scowled harder, this time at him.
“Don’t be stupid. Once you unleash Karl on the nobility, how will you call him off before they are all dead?”