Sword of the Bright Lady Read online

  There was that, too.

  From a drawer Rana produced a fistful of implements. She opened a glass inkwell and stirred it thoroughly with a round-ended slotted stick. Setting this aside on a bit of cloth already stained with ink, she smoothed out a slip of paper, dipped a quill, and wrote in deft looping strokes, returning to the inkwell after every few words. When she was finished writing, she blew gently on the paper while packing away her tools.

  Christopher watched in grave fascination, entranced by the incredible effort involved in such a simple task. This was the world he lived in now.

  “Take this to the vault clerk. Be wary. Should you lose it to carelessness or thievery, I will not make good your loss.”

  He went out into the hall, wondering at her words. They would seem obvious. Karl’s admonishment came back to him: the priests of the White were exacting.

  A cleaning woman directed him deeper into the church, where he eventually found a bored guard and a clerk behind an iron grate. The clerk took his receipt and gave him twenty-five gold coins.

  The coins were smaller than a dime, though thicker. They had ridged edges, implying a somewhat advanced minting technology, and a bearded, crowned face stamped on one side. Christopher couldn’t see any denominations or script. Not that a date would mean anything to him.

  Fenwick the stable-master had said the horse would need ten copper a day. That didn’t mean anything to him either.

  “How many coppers to a gold?” he asked.

  The clerk looked at him in surprise. “Ten by ten, as it always has been, Pater. Copper to silver, silver to gold.”

  “It’s only five tael to the gold,” the guard said.

  The clerk grimaced. “You and I need never worry about the price of tael.”

  Christopher looked down at his coins in dismay. Just feeding the horse would cost forty gold a year. Rana had implied an entire peasant family could live off of that.

  Walking back to the stables, Christopher tried to face the fact that the horse might be a luxury he couldn’t afford. When he reached Royal’s stall, the horse greeted him with a whinny and nosed affectionately at his shoulder.

  Karl came into the stable, looking for him. “Would you like to go into town and sell this now?”

  Christopher’s stomach sank, but Karl was lifting one of the saddlebags packed with Hobilar’s ridiculous armor.

  “You bet,” Christopher said with relief. He grabbed the other bag and slung it over his shoulder. A dozen steps reaffirmed his decision to sell the weighty stuff. “Where do we go?” he asked, hoping the answer was “not very far.”

  “Only one shop in town works in plate. So we must call on Senior Palek.”

  Karl strode through the town like a bulldozer, leaving little time for sightseeing. The streets were narrow and stuffed with unpredictable buildings, houses, barns, and workshops all freely intermingled. At least one building looked suspiciously like a grain silo. Children and livestock played in the streets, paying no particular attention to the two armed men.

  Palek’s forge was a busy place, with three men hard at work and a pair of apprentices running errands. The forge was covered only by a slatted roof, with three open walls. The smith was shirtless despite the weather. Palek, a solid, compact man with a black beard and bulging muscles, pounded a sheet of steel on an anvil, wearing a leather apron and a sheen of sweat.

  “Senior Palek,” Karl said, after they had been ignored for a bit.

  “Goodman,” Palek said. “Have you come to buy?”

  Karl had to wait before answering, while Palek struck three times at his metal.

  “We’ve come to sell. The Pater has a suit of armor he does not fancy.” Karl’s toe nudged the saddle bags where they sat in the dirt.

  The smith set his hammer down. “Not of his quality, perhaps?”

  Karl’s eyes narrowed. “The quality is not an issue. In any case it would not fit him.”

  Palek turned to Christopher. “Is it true you are marked for the draft?”

  Christopher nodded.

  “Then perhaps you wish to reconsider. You will not bemoan steel between your flesh and the enemy on the battlefield. I can refit it for you, Pater, or if you like, craft new pieces to your order.”

  “Um, no thanks.” Christopher had come here to raise money, not spend it. “I don’t think heavy armor is that valuable. I plan to do a lot of running away.”

  Palek’s face, never glowing, now darkened like a banked fire.

  “I can only give you one hundred gold,” he said, and turned back to his anvil.

  “What?” Karl exclaimed. “Hobilar paid you at least six!”

  Palek grunted. “The Pater crippled my best customer and now denigrates my craft. I find myself in an ungenerous mood.”

  “I could get three hundred for it in Kingsrock,” Karl said.

  “This is not Kingsrock, Goodman.”

  Wordlessly Karl hefted both saddle bags from the floor and walked away. Christopher had no choice but to follow him out into the wintry streets again.

  “Is it really worth that much?” Christopher asked. He’d felt the smith was within his rights to offer so little. There couldn’t be much of a market for such elaborate work: the only other armor he had seen was chain mail and helmets.

  “Possibly,” Karl said, “but Kingsrock is crawling with prickly nobles on the lookout for an easy profit. You would be challenged to a dozen duels within the hour.”

  Briefly, very briefly, Christopher considered making a career as a duelist. It would be the quickest way to amass money in this brutal world.

  Then common sense, and the memory of the gut-twisting fear all three times he had faced Hobilar, reasserted itself.

  Karl had noticed his flight of fancy.

  “Don’t even think it. The Saint will not let you risk yourself so freely. You still owe him three years as a healer.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Christopher said, meaning it as a joke.

  Karl shook his head. “You are a novice priest. You would be challenged by battle-hardened knights. None of whom would be foolish enough to let you cast two spells before engaging. No one would bet on your victory at any odds.”

  “So Hobilar . . .” Christopher couldn’t finish the sentence. Apparently he had been in more danger than he had known.

  “Hobilar was an idiot,” Karl said. “Even so, I counted on only your survival.”

  “Could you take this junk to Kingsrock and sell it for me?” Christopher asked. “I’ll give you a cut. Say, ten percent?”

  Karl peered at him, as if he were seeing him for the first time. “Yes, if you like, Pater. I can have the chain mail repaired, as well.”

  “That would be great,” Christopher said. “And call me Christopher.”

  8.

  WINDOW SHOPPING

  Christopher still wanted to talk to a smith, so after Karl disappeared down the long road to the east, Christopher asked for directions to Dereth’s. Unwilling to trust his horsemanship around dogs and children, he left the high-tempered stallion in the stall and walked through the mud and snow that passed for streets.

  When he passed a glass-fronted shop, with a neatly arranged bay window display, he stepped inside for a moment to get out of the cold. The tinkle of the bell as he opened the door, the scent of wax and incense, the soft glow of the overhead lights, were so familiar that he forgot what planet he was on until his sword banged against a table leg.

  The shop-girl, a striking young woman dressed in a provocative outfit of dark-blue silk, eyed Christopher with all the contempt of a Saks clerk staring at a homeless bum. Christopher started to mutter his apologies but forgot what he was going to say when he realized exactly what was on display in the store window.

  Books.

  The rest of the store was a magpie’s nest of colored bottles, indescribable instruments, and odds and ends as varied as a bag of feathers and a cage of live crickets. But the books were only in the window display.


  He was drawn to the window, mesmerized by what knowledge he might find, until he picked up a book and thumbed through it. It was bound in leather, with heavy pages of neatly trimmed parchment.

  It was also completely blank. All of the books were.

  What kind of shop sold empty books?

  He turned to look quizzically at the clerk, but she was watching him with such alarmed puzzlement that he couldn’t bring himself to ask what obviously would be a stupid question. Instead, he put the book down and moved to the next shelf.

  Here he found paper, stiff, heavy, and eggshell white. He thumbed through a sheaf for a minute before realizing what was wrong. There wasn’t enough of it. The whole shelf held a few dozen sheets of letter-sized paper, in small stacks. A single ream of copier paper would put the entire store to shame.

  “If you please, lord,” the clerk said. Christopher jerked his hand away, like a schoolkid caught reading magazines in the corner store.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “The standard rate,” she answered, “Five sheets for two gold.”

  He stared at her in amazement.

  “You will not have reason to complain of its quality. I adhere to the accepted formula. I collect the materials from virgin plant and earth, and only at the most auspicious times. Each sheet is made on a separate day, so that no contagion occurs. You may be assured that our paper is suitable for either arcane or divine purposes.”

  Simple lack of industrial process wasn’t enough. No, they had to go and add sheer superstition.

  “What if I didn’t want magical paper? What if I just wanted a thousand sheets of plain old wrapping paper?”

  She arched her eyebrows in disdain.

  “Master Flayn would not deign to set aside guild regulations. Worse, he would charge you double for an order of such magnitude.”

  Christopher stepped away from the paper, momentarily dazed by the absurdity, and found himself in front of a shelf of tiny bottles filled with colored powders. They were labeled with curious symbols, which suggested they were chemicals rather than soap powders or seasonings. These symbols were sharp and angular, but unlike the Celestial text they did not change in front of his eyes and suddenly reveal their meaning. He looked to the clerk for help.

  She wasn’t there to be helpful. “If you cannot read alchemical script, it seems unlikely you could profit from alchemical supplies.”

  “Just tell me which one is sulfur.”

  She explained slowly and carefully. “The yellow one.”

  There was, in fact, only one bottle of pale-yellow powder. With a resigned sigh, Christopher picked it up.

  “How much?”

  “Two gold, or one if you supply your own vial.”

  There wasn’t more than an ounce in the bottle. Carbon would be free, scraped from any fireplace; he knew where to get potassium nitrate for the mere cost of his dignity. But he would need sulfur by the pound, and at this price gunpowder would be too valuable to burn.

  It didn’t seem rational. The priests and the peasants treated a gold coin as valuable, yet it wouldn’t buy hardly anything in this shop. It was as if he had stumbled into a different world.

  Which reminded him. He retrieved the truck key from his pocket and approached the counter.

  The girl retreated from his approach until she bumped into the wall, eyes locked on the key in fear.

  “Um,” Christopher said. “I was wondering if I could trade this.” He put the key on the counter. The girl started breathing again.

  “I cannot bargain on Master Flayn’s behalf. If you would but wait a moment.” She slipped through a curtain, leaving Christopher uncomfortably alone.

  After enough time that he had to twice stop himself from drumming his fingers on the counter, the girl returned, followed by a thin man in indigo robes with flowing black hair and a nose crooked in permanent disdain.

  The girl reached for the key but hesitated; the man gave her a sharp glance, and she snatched it from the countertop. When nothing happened, she handed the key to the man in ill-concealed relief.

  “It’s just a key,” Christopher said.

  “To what?” the man, evidently Master Flayn, snapped in a tone as arch as his nose.

  “Nothing useful now,” Christopher admitted, “but I thought you might be interested in the rare material.”

  “You claim this is true-silver?” Before Christopher could reply, Flayn forcefully pressed the key on the countertop. “It is naught but dross.” Flayn contemptuously tossed the bent key to Christopher’s side of the counter.

  “Hey!” Christopher picked up the ruined key and stared at it. “It’s aluminum.”

  “I have never heard of such a substance.”

  “That’s how rare it is.”

  “Indeed. So rare as to have no known value.”

  “How about an exchange? What I really want is a barrel of sulfur.”

  Flayn glared in outrage. “You want immense quantities of my finest material components in exchange for a lump of worthless tin? Produce gold or get out of my shop.”

  Christopher returned the glare. “You bent my key.”

  “I provided you with a professional assessment at no cost. I now revise that decision and demand the full price of one hundred gold.”

  Overcome with frustration, Christopher shot back. “Nothing in this shop is worth gold, least of all your stupid opinions.”

  His face a mask of ice over a boiling fury, Flayn lifted his hand and pointed to the door.

  “Go.”

  Christopher retreated in defeat. Outside, in the cold, he stood and considered the disastrous encounter. It did not seem entirely commensurate with his actions.

  Behind him the door opened, and the clerk stepped out, arms folded against the chill. She glanced over her shoulder into the empty shop before speaking to him.

  “You must forgive Master Flayn his temper. The wizards exist only at the sufferance of your Church, and he for one finds the strictures cloying. But as the only licensed paper-seller in town, he cannot refuse you.”

  “At those prices?” Christopher shook his head.

  She pursed her lips. “As a mere apprentice, I occasionally produce materials not suitable for sale. I might be persuaded to share some of those, for purely nonofficial uses.”

  “That doesn’t sound . . . regulation.”

  “I am only an apprentice. Guild rules do not apply to me. Still, discretion would be necessary or I would suffer Flayn’s disapproval.”

  It sounded like she was risking a lot more than her boss’s anger. “If you start breaking guild rules as an apprentice, I don’t think they’re ever going to let you in.”

  For the first time her face revealed true emotion, a bright and bitter hurt.

  “I do not think Flayn ever intends to promote me. He gains too much from having an apprentice. I work for nothing, and—” she stopped abruptly.

  Christopher could guess the rest. This time there was nothing he could do. Flayn might be taking advantage, but he wasn’t committing a crime. This woman was far too clever to be forced by mere threats.

  “He says I am not ready for advancement. But when he tires of me, I shall be pronounced unfit and he will take another foolish girl’s guild fee with promises and flattery.”

  “What can I do about it?”

  “Buy my apprenticeship. As Fae the apprentice, I am constrained; as Fae the free craftsman, I will provide you paper and sulfur at prices you find acceptable.”

  Christopher wasn’t sure he could keep a horse. A pretty young clerk had to be a luxury he couldn’t afford. But either her or Flayn’s chemistry was necessary.

  “How much would it cost?”

  She was surprised. “One hundred and sixty gold, of course. And then at least eighty a year in salary.”

  That was a lot of money. Fae saw his dismay and started withdrawing, folding inwardly. He spoke quickly before she could turn back into the shop.

  “It will take me some time to raise th
e money. I might need more than just paper and sulfur. I assume you can read and write. Can you do math?”

  “Somewhat,” she said. “Though Flayn did not teach me the advanced formulas.”

  He didn’t know what that meant, but he was pretty sure it didn’t mean calculus.

  “I can’t teach you magic,” Christopher told her, “but I can teach you things Flayn never dreamed of. Will that be enough?”

  “Not if I thought I could be a wizard,” she admitted, “but I no longer believe that lie.”

  Dereth’s forge did nothing to inspire him. It was little more than an anvil under a lean-to. Palek’s forge at least had workers, which had made the place feel like industry. Dereth’s lonely little workshop looked like a hobby. Snow drifted over the unfired hearth.

  Dereth answered his knock with a quizzical look and two small children peeping out behind him.

  “Greetings, Pater. What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to talk shop. There are some things I’d like made.”

  “Of course, Pater.” Dereth, bare-shouldered, stepped out of the house and went to the forge area, apparently unaware that it was freezing outside. Christopher sighed and followed him.

  “Doesn’t look like you’ve been working much,” he said, more as a conversation starter than a well-considered comment.

  “No,” Dereth said. “I’ve had only enough to keep us from starving. A consequence of ill-chosen words. But once Goodman Karl releases the contracts, I’ll be busy enough.”

  Christopher bit his lip. As much as he wanted to warn Dereth that there would be no armor contracts this year, he didn’t want to annoy Karl more. Also, he wasn’t sure how to explain that the money Dereth would have made had been spent on making him a priest.

  “Have you thought about—branching out? For instance, I could use some heavy-cast steel pipe.” It was the best way he could think of to describe a cannon barrel.

  “I only work in iron, Pater. For steel you should see the Seniors.”

  “I have, but they don’t seem to like seeing me.”

  Dereth chuckled in commiseration.

  “What if I showed you how to make steel?” Christopher pressed. Some half-remembered college professor had felt it necessary to describe the Bessemer process, on the theory that his mechanical engineering students should know where the steel they used came from. It couldn’t be that hard to figure out the details, once you knew the secret. And the secret was simple: the right amount of carbon in the iron, neither too much nor too little. Ancient smiths had either burned it off or ignored it altogether; the concept of moderation instead of purity was modern.