The Armored Saint Read online

Churic was simple, dressed in rags. He’d lived on Hammersdown’s charity his entire life, rocking back and forth on the village green. Heloise’s mother said that Churic’s mother had lustful thoughts so the Emperor had taken Churic’s mind when he was still in the womb. As long as Heloise had known Churic, he’d been as gentle as the sheep Callie protected, but now his face was purple, his words running together until they formed a single long shout, “Nuhnuhnuhnuhnuhnuh.”

  “Shut your damn hole!” Jaran shouted back. “Sacred Throne, what’s gotten into you?”

  Bertal looked up, saw Samson, and traded a long look with Jaran before putting on a forced smile. “Samson Factor! As I live and breathe. Good to see you!”

  Samson let go of Heloise’s hand. She fought the urge to reach for his again.

  “We had some trouble on the road,” Samson said. “All’s well here?”

  Bertal smiled so broadly, it looked like his cheeks hurt. He glanced nervously at Churic. “Of course all’s well! Why don’t we head to my shop and get to business, eh? Marda’s made some meat pies.” Samson’s eyes stayed on Churic. There was spit on the simpleton’s lips now, white and foaming.

  Austre jogged over to them. She was two winters older than Heloise, long black curls framing her face. She had taken a woman’s shape more quickly than Heloise, taller and fuller. Her eyes were dark and beautiful, but they were too wide, her face pale. “Hello, Master Factor. Would Heloise like to come play with Callie until you’re done? Papa’s about to take the flock in and I’ve the afternoon to gather hoxholly. I’ve got my betrothal dress too!” She said to Heloise, “Would you like to see it?”

  Samson glanced distractedly at Austre, “Thank you, Austre, but Heloise is here today as my apprentice. She’s to be working as well.”

  “Oh,” Austre said. “Well, maybe she can come later?” Heloise was happy to see her, and felt a stab of disappointment at missing the chance to run Callie through the tall grasses on the common, but the pall of fear that hung over the village made it short lived.

  “Look!” Churic jumped to his feet, prying his eye wide. “See the portal? I’m a gateway! Hell comes through me! The devils will soon be here!”

  Samson froze. “What did he say?”

  “Churic!” Jaran shouted, grabbing Churic’s shoulders. “Shut your damn yob and shut it now!”

  But Churic wouldn’t stop. “Wizard! Look! I’m a wizard! I bring hell to you all!”

  “What in the shadow of the Throne is this?” Samson’s eyes went hard.

  “It’s nothing!” Bertal said. “Mad ravings, is all. You know old Churic.” The fletcher laughed. Heloise thought it sounded more like a scream.

  “Hell!” Churic chanted. “Wizard! Devil! The portal in my eye! The portal in my eye!”

  “Damn you!” Jaran yelled, hurling Churic to the ground and kneeling on his chest, hands locked around his throat. “You will shut up or by the Emperor I will strangle you and leave you for the wolves.”

  “Don’t hurt him!” Heloise started forward, but Samson grabbed her collar, pulling her back.

  Churic kicked, gurgling.

  “Your girl’s got a kind heart. Nothing wrong with that!” Bertal said. “Anyway, that’s all sorted. Let’s to business.”

  “I’ll not do business today,” Samson grunted.

  “Papa,” Heloise began, thinking of the paper they’d lost to the mud.

  “Samson,” Jaran called to him, loosening his grip so Churic could take a whooping breath. “It’s nothing.”

  Samson stabbed an angry finger in the Maior’s direction. “That is not nothing. That is burning talk. I’ll not have dealings anywhere near it.”

  “It’s sorted!” Jaran shouted. “We both need the custom. Don’t leave without trade.”

  “He said ‘wizardry,’” Samson said. “He said he had the portal in his eye.”

  “He’s a madman!” Jaran let Churic draw another breath, tightened his grip again before he could speak.

  “Come on.” Austre tugged on Heloise’s hand. “Let’s leave the men to handle this and . . .”

  “It was the Order that troubled us on the road!” Samson shouted, pushing Heloise behind him. “They’re about, might even be close enough to hear! Ask them if they care for the mad!”

  “You don’t have to choke him!” Heloise said, struggling, her father’s big hand holding her fast.

  “Damn you, Samson!” the Maior shouted. “We both know he’s no wizard! He’s mad!”

  “And we both know that doesn’t matter,” Samson replied. “The Order won’t care. They’ll Knit you. And you’re not even a day’s walk from my home and hearth, you bastard. I’ll not have my family Knit because you can’t keep a muzzle on your dog.”

  Jaran’s face turned white, red spots showing on his cheeks. “Samson . . .”

  “No more talk. You’d best choke him until he stops kicking,” Heloise’s father seethed, “or cut out his tongue and run him out. For our sake if not your own.”

  “He’s simple,” Jaran said. “He’ll die out there.”

  “Then that is as the Emperor wills,” Samson snarled. “Better him than mine.”

  Samson turned and dragged Heloise so hard that she had to take great, leaping steps to keep up with him. Callie set to barking, a steady, accusing stream that followed them out to the trail home.

  Heloise was quiet for a long time, anger at the injustice warring with her fear of the look on her father’s face.

  They walked without speaking for as long as Heloise could stand. “Papa, the Maior said he wasn’t a wizard. There was no portal in his eye. The Order would have seen that, even if they came.”

  Samson only shook his head, the fury in his eyes fading to sadness.

  The look made her bold. “That’s the truth, isn’t it? Churic isn’t a wizard, he’s just simple?”

  “Yes,” Samson nodded. “Jaran spoke truth.”

  “Then why . . .” Heloise began.

  “Better to Knit than permit,” Samson recited from the Writ. “What happens if Churic really is a wizard and the Order lets it pass?”

  “The portal in his eye opens and the devils come through,” Heloise recited from memory. “But he’s not a wizard.”

  “Aye,” her father nodded, “but it doesn’t matter. Churic’s life, the lives of all of Hammersdown are nothing against what would be lost should a devil come through the veil. If there’s even the smallest chance that Churic might be telling truth, the Order cannot risk it. Remember this. If you ever hear words of wizardry, loose talk of the veil or what lies beyond, you run straight to me, you hear? Better that we handle it in the village than let it pass to the Order. Remember what you saw on the road today. That is what comes of letting matters like this go unattended.”

  She remembered the words of the Writ. This we believe: That the Emperor stood for all mankind during the great battle for the future of the world. That He cast the devils back into hell. That, gravely wounded, He used the last of His life to draw the veil shut between the world and hell, sealing the devils away forever. He died and was reborn as the divine Imperial Soul, immortal, His unblinking eye ever turned on the safety of His empire, on keeping the veil shut.

  For a thousand years, humanity had known not peace, but life at least, which was more than they could expect should the devils return.

  But sometimes, they did return.

  There were men and women who thought themselves above the Imperial Writ, who wanted the wizardry that flowed like water in hell, who were willing to reach beyond the veil to get it. Such people knew great power for a time, but sooner or later, the portal in their eye would open, and they would turn from people into doorways, and the devils would come through.

  Suffer no wizard to live.

  When a wizard was discovered, the Order came to put the matter right. They took no chances. Even talk of wizarding meant there was a chance the veil had been rent.

  And what was rent, must be Knit.

  “Will they
kill him, Papa?” Heloise asked. “Will they cut out his tongue?”

  Samson looked sad. “They will if they are wise, but men are soft when it comes to their own. Churic may be simple, but he is someone’s son, and Jaran would not have kept him through so many winters if there wasn’t at least one in Hammersdown with sympathy for the man.”

  “Are the devils so bad? Have you ever seen one?” Heloise asked.

  “No one has, poppet. No one but the Order.”

  “Then how do we know they’re real?” Heloise asked.

  Samson looked annoyed. “Because the Writ tells us, girl. Because the Order reminds us. The devils are real, and they are terrible, and we must be ever vigilant for their return.”

  That didn’t make sense, but what Heloise wanted was to feel safe, to feel like she and her father were on the same side, and so all she said was, “Yes, Papa.”

  There was a part of Heloise’s stomach that churned and whirled, a sick ball deep in her middle. That part could not forget the dead woman’s face, her swollen tongue gray, and cracked lips. That part told Heloise that even though her father’s words made a cruel kind of sense, this wasn’t the way things were supposed to be.

  Our Captain-General is a Lyse Alderman. Goes by Shropshire, I think. These city lords aren’t named for their trade. His badge is a winged Palantine, a sainted devil-slayer. This is meant to comfort the levy, I think, but it’s off. Palantines are devil-slayers, aye. But not one of them survived the contest.

  —From the journal of Samson Factor

  CHAPTER 2: TINKER’S FORGE AND RANGER’S GIFT

  The journey home took the rest of the day. Hammersdown had chilled them both, and Samson spoke no more of taking joy in the day, or of anything else, not even humming to fill the silence as he always did. Heloise clung to his hand, needing the safety that his calloused palm conveyed, even if it did make her feel like a child.

  When at last the Lutet sentry tower reared above the treetops, Samson cupped his hands and shouted. “’Ware the tower! Wake up, Danad, you old idiot.”

  But it was the face of Danad’s son, Ingomer, that appeared over the wooden edge. “Sorry, Master Factor. I must have dozed off.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me, young master Clothier. Where’s the Maior?”

  “With the Tinkers, I think,” Ingomer said. “What news from the road?”

  “The Order is riding for Frogfork, and Churic’s finally flipped his cap. Could mean trouble.”

  “Let me know what the Maior says.”

  Samson grunted assent and led Heloise beneath the tower’s broad beams. Their house was in the shadow of the tower, but Samson turned away from it and up the rutted track that led from the common green to the Tinkers’ workshop. “When did Ingomer get old enough to stand sentry?”

  Heloise laughed. “Last winter, Papa. You wrote the scroll, remember?”

  “How did I get so damned old?” Samson grumbled.

  The sun was just beginning its slow journey behind the treetops as the Tinkers’ house came into view. A long, low passageway linked the house and the even larger workshop, its slate roof exceeded only by the steeple of the Emperor’s shrine just off the village common. A large opening at the peak vented black smoke, and Heloise felt the heat long before she reached the huge double doors.

  Samson tried the great bronze ring, pulling until he grunted. He looked up at Heloise, embarrassed. “Locked?”

  “Not locked,” Heloise said, taking hold of the ring. “You just have to lift first, and then they swing right open.” The thick wood creaked as the door swung wide.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You and Basina Tinker are attached at the hip.”

  The heat of the workshop hit Heloise like a wall, a thick dampness that had her sweating before she drew breath.

  Barnard Tinker stood talking to Sald Grower, while Sigir, the Maior of Hammersdown, impatiently waited for the tinker’s attention. Barnard was nearly twice the size of Sald, his tan skin stretched over a mountain range of muscle, marked by the burn scars common to all tinkers. His two sons, Guntar and Gunnar, were smaller versions of their father, with bronzed skin and powerful shoulders. They followed their father’s example of shaving their heads, which glistened with sweat. They offered Heloise only a short glance before turning back to their work.

  Basina Tinker was the mirror of her brothers, save that she kept her hair, a nod to her inevitable duties as wife and mother. She was like Austre, older and taller than Heloise, and more womanly, save the strong muscles of her arms and the bronze luster of her skin. She smiled as Heloise appeared and Heloise thought she had never seen anyone so beautiful in all her life.

  Sigir was thick and tall like Samson, with darker hair and softer hands, a thick moustache that hung to his chest. His chain of office was polished to a high shine.

  The fruits of the family labor were scattered all around, plow blades and cistern pipes, wheel rims and pry bars. Metal reflected the light cast by the molten glow of the crucible that dominated the workshop’s far end, the huge cauldron bubbling with molten iron.

  The light from the crucible played around a plain bronze door, set into the thick pitch-soaked logs of the workshop’s wall. Behind it lay the Tinkers’ vault, where they stored their Imperial commissions, secret and safe.

  “Sigir, I’m glad you’re here . . .” Samson began.

  “Whatever it is will keep for a moment,” Sigir said. “I’ve been waiting here since—”

  “Stumps need hauling, Master Maior, won’t be another moment.” Sald brushed his hair from his eyes and gave a short bow to Heloise. “Miss Factor.”

  Heloise curtsied.

  “Sacred Throne,” Barnard said, “the whole village is in my workshop today. Everyone mind themselves while I get Sald settled.”

  Barnard led Sald to the workshop’s side door. A pair of oxen stood outside, one of Barnard’s tinker-made yokes over their shoulders. Long metal rods extended from the yoke, running down the creatures’ legs to leather straps at their ankles. Barnard turned to the great pile of seethestone stacked beside the door, bundled in salted cheesecloth to keep it dry. He took up a knife from one of the worktables and cut off a small piece and some of the cheesecloth, wrapping it carefully and passing it to Sald. “Keep that dry. Even a drop of water will have it boiling.”

  Sald held the seethestone as if it were a poisonous snake. Barnard grinned as he handed him a mug of water. “You don’t have to be frightened of it, Master Grower. Keeping it dry will suffice.”

  Sald nodded, and moved to the tiny metal canister on the top of the yoke. “Seethestone’s already in there,” Barnard said. “Put the stuff I just gave you in your pocket, in case you run out before the job’s done. Just add the water.”

  Sald looked doubtfully at Barnard as he opened the canister. He held the mug over it, hesitated. Barnard rolled his eyes. “It’s not wizardry, Sald. Just dump it in.”

  Sald emptied the mug into the canister. Heloise heard the seethestone sizzling at the water’s touch, could smell the high, acrid tang of the smoke that came wafting out. Sald jumped back, and Barnard reached across, slapping the canister lid shut. “Once you wet it, you don’t want to let any out. Don’t forget that if you have to charge it again. And don’t touch it when it’s wet. It’ll burn you worse than boiling water.”

  Sald raced to gather up the oxen’s steering lines where they lay coiled at its side, as the pipes running from the canister began to rattle. “Not much to remember,” Barnard said. “If the engine dies, just put in the rest of the stone and wet it again. A single mug will do.”

  Sald nodded. “You’re sure you won’t take coin . . .”

  “Not from you,” Barnard said, gesturing to a big, ancient-looking tree stump squatting near the workshop wall. Long chains were already lashed to it, trailing back to the oxen’s harness. “Have the yoke back by nightfall. You should be able to pull all the stumps you like with that engine on your team.”

  “I’ll
take care of your stump,” Sald said, “and I’ll bring you a sack of cabbages when I bring the yoke back. It’s mighty generous of you, Master Tinker.”

  “All our riches come from the Emperor,” Barnard waved. “We must not be miserly with them.”

  Sald nodded, flicked the leads, and clucked the oxen into motion. The stump was enormous, and the taproot must have been deep within the earth, but the rods on the tinker-yoke pushed in perfect time with the animal’s footsteps, and it came dragging out of the ground with a sound like a great ripping of cloth.

  The oxen lurched forward, unused to the power in the tinker-yoke. They stumbled, found their feet, and the stump bounced along the track back toward Sald Grower’s patch.

  “Pulling a stump and a sack of cabbages?” Samson asked. “That’s all the rent you’ll charge for a day’s use of a tinker-engine?”

  Barnard shrugged. “Cheaper than having to keep my own team of oxen. Besides, Sald’s a neighbor and a friend.”

  “You can throw a stone from one end of Lutet to the other. Everyone’s a neighbor and a friend.”

  Barnard shrugged again. “The Emperor is my judge.”

  “Not sure he’s going to think you a better man for giving away your shirt. Though if I had that sweet honey from the Emperor’s own purse, I suppose I could afford to be more generous too.” He jerked his chin at the sealed vault door. “Is that why the Order is about? Are they picking up one of their commissions?”

  Barnard shook his head. “If they were, I’d have told you already. You think I’d leave a friend in doubt?”

  “The Order’s about?” Sigir asked.

  “Aye,” Samson replied. “That’s why I’ve come. We met them on the road to Hammersdown.”

  “Do you still want to talk business?” Barnard asked Sigir, but the Maior ignored him, eyes locked on Samson.

  Heloise knew she should listen to her father and the Maior talk. The Order being nearby was important, and the Maior might have questions for her. But Basina made it all seem less important somehow. Heloise smiled shyly at her, and Basina grinned back, the crucible’s light playing on the muscles of her arms.