Shining Steel

Chapter Four

“I am a man under authority, having soldiers under me: and I say to this man, Go, and he goeth; and to another, Come, and he cometh; and to my servant, Do this, and he doeth it."-Matthew 8:9

The Elders were not pleased by the delay he requested; as John had expected, they doubted that the People of Heaven were actually a threat, or that Little St. Peter was actually guarded by machine guns on the walls. The letter answering his report suggested that Timothy might have been drinking, or that the guns on the walls were mere mock-ups intended to frighten the gullible.

John thought he recognized his maternal uncle's style in the letter's phrasing; old Lazarus Speaker-of-Gospel had a way with words. It was obvious that he and the others wanted to get on with the war against the Chosen. They did not want to hear about any threat less immediate, however dire that threat might eventually prove.

However, they had faith in their chosen representative, at least to some extent, and had not reached their current prominence by ignoring reality; they authorized him to leave his men encamped in Marshside, or wherever else he thought prudent, and get his scouting expedition over with as quickly as possible.

If John was not back by the first of June, Habakkuk would assume command and lead the attack against the Chosen, as planned.

He had to agree that that made a certain amount of sense, but it occurred to him that if the Heaveners were even more dangerous than he thought, then he might well not return-whereupon the attack on the Chosen would be more of a mistake than ever, quite aside from the unavoidable fact that the delay would give the Chosen more time to discover the True Worder plans. Still, he might be delayed by any number of trivialities; the Elders were assuming until shown otherwise that the Heaveners were harmless and that the attack on the Chosen should proceed, with or without Captain John Mercy-of-Christ.

He doubted the wisdom of that assumption, but he knew better than to argue further. He had won his main point; the attack would be delayed while he scouted out the new enemy.

He planned quickly. Matthew's party had been dispersed, and all but Timothy had vanished; perhaps they had somehow aroused suspicion. He would need to be very careful, and to avoid any appearance that might suggest anything out of the ordinary. Matthew's party had consisted of five men; that in itself might have drawn attention. His own expedition would consist of just three, not all men. He would go himself, of course; he would take Timothy, since he already had some experience of Little St. Peter; and he would need a woman to play the role of his wife. A family group would appear innocuous enough.

He dismissed the possibility of taking any of the camp-followers. There were none he could trust on such an expedition. None looked like a trader's wife, for that matter; all looked like what they were. Furthermore, they were the dregs of society, and were generally stupid and sloppy, quite likely to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. And he did not have time to send for someone respectable from True Worder lands.

That left the prisoners captured in the attack on Marshside. He would, he decided, take Miriam. He already knew her somewhat, and was convinced that she was intelligent. She had a proud bearing that would not be out of place in a trader's wife, and knew something of the area.

She hated him, but that would be no problem. Wives often appeared to hate their husbands, despite the Bible's teachings. She would nag at him, and if she got out of line he would beat her. She would not be stupid enough to expose the mission for what it was, since the Heaveners would surely kill her-if John didn't manage it before being captured or killed himself-along with Timothy and himself. That would be common sense on their part, in case her actions were part of some elaborate scheme. She might claim to be willing to die if she took her captor with her, but John did not believe it.

He would need to watch her closely, of course-but that, too, was in character for the role he intended to play.

Timothy could pass for a brother, a younger brother brought along to learn a trade at the family's behest.

A child or two might make the act still more convincing, but John did not think he could trust any child to stay in character.

Supplies-they would need supplies, both for the journey and as trade goods. Four horses, one for each of them and one for the packs. Good weapons-he would take one of the rifles and two, maybe three cartridges, as well as a good sword.

He sat back in his chair and planned carefully. He got only three hours’ sleep that night, but the party set out at noon the following day.

Miriam had made no protest, had not commented when John explained to her why he was taking her and why she could not afford to betray him to the Heaveners. She had simply stood staring at him, accepting it. She had said nothing at all.

When the supplies were packed and loaded she was brought out by two guards; she came without protest and mounted her horse silently. Someone had found her a riding skirt-John had not wanted her to ride sidesaddle for so long a journey, particularly since she had admitted to having travelled very little. She would be sore enough, he was sure, without having to worry about sliding off, and most of the traders’ wives he had seen had ridden astride. After all, it was virgins and expectant mothers who were prohibited from riding astride, and a trader's wife would be no virgin. Nor was Miriam, after the battle, though she had been before.

Timothy put up more resistance than Miriam, oddly; he had obviously been badly frightened by his first trip to Little St. Peter and the inexplicable disappearance of his comrades there. John had considered leaving him behind, but finally decided against it. Although Timothy protested that he had learned nothing of any value waiting at the inn, John pointed out that he knew more than anyone else in Marshside-for example, just where Little St. Peter stood, and where the inn lay within the walls.

The conclusive argument, however, was that John was quite willing to order him to go, whereupon a refusal would become desertion, to be punished by either flogging or hanging. Still visibly unhappy, Timothy re-packed his travelling clothes and followed the others up the hillside from Marshside.

The journey was a slow one; Miriam was not an experienced rider, and although she did not complain, she kept slowing her mount, forcing the others to slow with her, and at times John caught glimpses of her grimacing in pain. She invariably tried to hide such lapses, such signs of mere humanity, and John made no comment on them. Timothy did not appear to notice anything amiss; he was only too glad to allow his own horse to dawdle.

They camped early that evening, after covering so little ground that John almost imagined he could still see Marshside in the distance. He knew that was nonsense; they had gone up and down several ridges and across some badlands, and had put enough distance behind them that even on a plain Marshside would have been below the horizon, but still he had the feeling that all he would need to do would be to walk back up the slope of the last ridge and there it would be, just as he had left it.

With that thought in mind, he considered the possibility of Miriam slipping away while he slept, and making her way back to Marshside. Even if his men there were to recognize her and demand an explanation-which they might not, as one female prisoner looked much like another to experienced soldiers-she would be quite capable of devising one. An ambush on the road, John and Timothy dead-that would do well enough until he got back himself.

Or she might cut his throat while he slept and then return to Marshside, which would be safer for her.

Accordingly, before he settled down to sleep, he wrapped the voluminous riding skirt around her, pinning her arms to her sides, and tied it securely in place. The trailing end of the rope he then tied to the handle of the cooking pot that hung from its folding tripod over the campfire. The skirt would keep the rope from chafing or cutting off her circulation. He thought she might well be able to work her way free in time, but her struggles, he judged, would bring down the pot and tripod with enough noise to wake Timothy and himself.

She made no comment at these preparations, and in fact had not said a word since their departure, but when he had finished she sneered at him unmistakably.

Timothy seemed puzzled by such excessive precautions, but knew better than to say anything that might be construed as criticism of his commanding officer.

John was not bothered by Miriam's derision or Timothy's confusion. He knew that he was being more cautious than might seem necessary, but he preferred excessive caution to recklessness. Fewer men died of caution.

The next morning Miriam was visibly stiff, and awkward in mounting, treating John and Timothy to a flash of leg before she got the riding skirt in place. John toyed idly with the thought of raping her after all-but morning was not the time, and Timothy was with them. Timothy would have no objections, John was sure, to anything his commanding officer might care to do, but his presence still acted as a deterrent. John mounted his horse and led the way.

They camped that night on another undistinguished hillside, and by then John had forgotten his earlier lascivious interest in Miriam. For her part, she was utterly exhausted, her entire body aching, and John saw nothing particularly attractive about his dishevelled and dirty prisoner. He wrapped her up once again, though less carefully, and took no interest in the feel of her body through the heavy fabric.

The following day was similar, save that Timothy seemed to be growing ever more nervous. John tired of coaxing his companions onward, and they made camp early.

As they were eating a sparse supper of dried mutton and beans, John asked Timothy, “How much further?"

Timothy started. “How much further to what?"

“To Little St. Peter, of course."

“Oh. Ah, not far, sir. A few hours."

“Good,” John said, lifting the meat to his mouth.

“Yes, good,” Timothy echoed. He stared at the road stretching out to the east.

After they had eaten and tidied up and taken turns in the bushes John attempted to chat, to get to know his companions better, and to question Timothy further about his earlier journey. Miriam would say nothing at all, however, and Timothy's answers, which had to be carefully coaxed out of him, were brief, inconsequential, and often totally inappropriate to the question. John quickly gave up. He bound Miriam in her skirt for the night and went to sleep, leaving Timothy staring at the dying campfire.

The next morning Timothy and one of the horses were gone; hoofprints were visible on the road westward, back toward Marshside. John stared after him in disgust.

“He'll hang for this,” he announced.

Miriam, still tied in her skirt, finally broke her long silence with a great barrage of howling, derisive laughter.

“Oh, the great warrior, such an inspiration to his men!” she called.

John suppressed an urge to slap her; instead he simply left her bound while he prepared and ate his breakfast. When he was done he released her and handed her the leftover scraps.

“Don't think this changes anything,” he said. “We're still going to Little St. Peter, and you still can't afford to betray me."

“How can one betray an enemy?” she countered.

He made no answer, merely lifted her into the saddle.

It was mid-afternoon of that fourth day, the twentieth of April, when they finally reached Little St. Peter.

The town sat atop a hill, surrounded by a wall of stone braced with heavy beams of nearwood; at each corner stood a tower, and atop each tower a machine gleamed dully in the amber daylight. Looking at them, John was uncertain whether they were, in fact, machine guns; they appeared ridiculously large. There could be no doubt, however, that they were weapons. As the two travellers rode up the highway toward the western gate the guns on either side were kept trained directly at them.

Four soldiers were lounging at the gate; one called out perfunctorily, “In the Name of the Lord, Our God, state your business."

“Peaceful trade, by Christ's mercy,” John replied.

“Name yourselves, and your faith."

“Joel Meek-Before-Christ and my wife Miriam, of the Church of the Only God.” The Church of the Only God had been a small tribe comprising three villages along the westernmost extreme of the Upper New Jordan; John's cavalry had obliterated all three two years before. Since no one had escaped, he doubted the news had reached Little St. Peter.

“What are you selling?"

John shrugged. “A little of this, a little of that; woolens, mostly."

The soldier asked one of his comrades, “Do you want to bother searching?"

“Ah, let him go in,” the other replied.

The first shrugged and pushed open the gate. “Pass, friend, into Little St. Peter, free in faith under the protection of the People of Heaven. Amen."

“Amen,” John replied, startled by the open renunciation of any claim to the One True Religion. He spurred his horse and rode into the town, Miriam close behind, the pack horse trailing.