Sword of the Bright Lady by M.C. Planck Page A

for a servant.”
    â€œThat’s what we have gods for,” Faren said. “The nobles protect us from monsters, and the gods protect us from the noble-minded. By all means, sell it off. I would just as soon not have a White priest clanking around in plate armor.”
    â€œAnd the sword,” the younger soldier said, clearly envious. “It is from Master Sigfried’s forge in Kingsrock.”
    Hobilar’s sword was the same style as Karl’s, distinguished only by the brass crossguard instead of iron. Christopher leapt at the chance to repay some of his debt. “Karl, you take it. I already have a sword.”
    Karl hesitated. “I cannot accept arms from your hand, Pater. I am sworn to Krellyan’s service. I do not want to create the image of a conflict of loyalty.” It was obvious he wanted the sword, though. It was an excellent blade, made of even better steel than Christopher’s katana.
    â€œIt’s a gift, Karl,” Christopher said. “Like the one you gave me.”
    Faren grunted in appreciation. “At least his cleverness runs both ways. True enough, Karl, you gave a gift without expectation of recompense. The Pater can gift you likewise.”
    In the most awkward movement Christopher had yet seen out of the guarded young man, Karl took Hobilar’s sword and sheathed it. He handed his previous blade to the older of the guards, who examined it appraisingly before placing it in his sheath and passing his down to the younger, who in turn replaced his own.
    Faren raised Hobilar’s purse and eyed it critically. “This should cover your additional expenses, Sven, until Pater Christopher can draw on his account.” He threw the leather pouch to the old man, who promptly handed it off to Helga.
    â€œI have an account?” Christopher said.
    â€œYou do now,” Faren answered. “The ransom for a first rank is three hundred and twenty gold, which we owe you for the miserable soul of that wretched failure of a knight.” Christopher marveled at the exactness of the price, even though he didn’t know what the numbers meant.
    Faren had more instructions for Christopher. “You’re subject to the rules of formal society now. In Church lands you need to show cause to force a duel, so you aren’t completely exposed, yet I do not think we should put your tact and discretion to the test. In the village you probably won’t meet any gentry to offend, so you’ll stay here until you report for the draft. Pater Svengusta can finish your education.”
    Christopher was not quite ready to be abandoned. “I still need Karl to tell me the rest of the rules.”
    â€œPerhaps a wise investment of time,” Faren said. “If you are willing, Goodman, I think myself and the guards adequate to contain our disarmed prisoner.”
    â€œI’ll stay on for a few days,” Karl said. “My business in town would profit from an absence.” He turned to face Christopher. “Your villagers will want to celebrate. Let us join them to raise a pint to the Lord of Luck. The day is done, we’re still alive, and there’s a warm fire and cold beer. The god deserves his due.”

    If Christopher had been paying, he was certain he wouldn’t have drunk so much. But the tavern crowd found it in their hearts to toast their champion and would have none of his money. Which he still didn’t have, he reflected drunkenly.
    â€œI need to get some money,” he whispered loudly to Karl as the three men staggered back to the chapel. Karl wasn’t nearly as inebriated, despite having consumed twice as much, though he was still heavily impaired. Christopher was relieved to see that no cruelty lay under the man’s ice. If anything, Karl threatened to turn maudlin.
    â€œDon’t we all,” Karl muttered. Then he stopped just outside the chapel to relieve himself, leaving Christopher to hold up the