“We can make rope out of duct tape,” said Pinecone.
Pernach objected, “We can’t waste tape for that! We’ll be fixing everything with it.”
“Let me try something.” Newman slid a knife blade under the bark on one of the split pieces. He moved along the edge, producing a strip an inch wide and ten feet long.
“Bark is brittle,” said Sweetbread.
“The outer bark is brittle. Inner has flex.” Newman ran the back of the blade against the strip. Grey bark flaked off, leaving a green ribbon.
Sweetbread felt the end of it. “That we can work with. We’ll need to braid it.”
“Hoy, make way!”
The shovel crew was getting close. House Applesmile cleared the wood from the marked path. Then they stood back to stay clear of the dirt flung by the shoveler.
***
Newman chewed his bite of roast venison slowly. Rain pounded on the roof of the pavilion. He’d go hunting in a drizzle but there wasn’t any point to it in this downpour. He couldn’t see far enough to shoot anything.
His stomach wanted the whole bite now. Newman did his best to stretch it out. Sweetbread only carved three ounce chunks off the roast. With no idea how long the rain would last the household’s food was being rationed.
The royal decrees issued since their arrival commanded everyone to not waste calories on unnecessary activity. So calisthenics were out as a way to pass the time. Newman was helping Goldenrod with her embroidery project, passing her a new spool of thread whenever she changed colors.
Sunlight penetrated the white canvas of the pavilion. On a sunny day the inside was well-lit as a good workroom. Today the rainclouds left it gray but there was still enough light to see by inside.
Subtle color differences were hard to make out in the gloom.
“This is tan, I need light brown,” snapped Goldenrod. She shoved the spool back at Newman.
He set his jaw and silently offered up his second guess. She took it with a grunted thanks.
Normally Newman would go for a walk when he felt this cranky. Slogging through the mud now wouldn’t improve his mood. This was the third time he’d held back from responding to one of her remarks. He didn’t want an argument. Nobody else wanted to listen to it either. Sweetbread had already stomped on some bickering between Shellbutton and Pinecone.
Eight people didn’t crowd a tent this big . . . until no one could escape it.
Goldenrod left her needle stuck in the fabric as she rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m sorry. I have such a headache. I shouldn’t be so bitchy.”
Mistress Tightseam looked up from her knitting. “When did you have your last soda?”
“Um, day before yesterday I guess?”
“Caffeine withdrawal. Unpleasant, but it’ll pass.”
“Oh.” Goldenrod looked down at Newman. “Sorry.”
He smiled. His hands mimed a neck rub.
She shook her head. “Thanks, though.”
There wasn’t really room to do massage anyway. They’d have to rearrange all the gear dragged in from outside to let people sleep.
A gust lifted the roof of the pavilion. Ropes creaked as they pulled taut.
Sweetbread stood up. “I don’t like that wind. Pass me the long rope.”
Redinkle produced the coil from a corner. Sweetbread unrolled it. He tossed the middle up several times. Finally it caught on a hook hanging from the ridgepole. The switched-off battery lantern dangling from the hook swayed as the rope brushed it.
“Pernach, Newman, take the corners.”
Newman moved to where he was pointed.
When the storm began they’d staked down the walls. Two tent stakes had been kept aside. Now Sweetbread tossed them to the younger men.
Pernach pounded his stake into place. To Newman’s relief the three pound sledgehammer was passed hand to hand across the tent instead of being tossed.
Once both stakes were placed Sweetbread flicked the ends of the rope to them. “Tie ‘em off. Not too tight. Just enough to keep it taut.”
Newman realized why they were doing this. The edges of the roof were held down by rope, but the center just had the weight of the ridgepole holding it down. Now the rope would add more tension.
The rain kept pouring.
***
Goldenrod led Redinkle and Shellbutton into the chiurgeon’s tent. It was packed solid. The air was hot with too many bodies in too small a space. The trio sat at Lady Burnout’s feet. There wasn’t any place else to go.
The messenger had asked for them by name and not said the purpose of the meeting. Goldenrod scanned the faces she could see from her position. All female, and none over thirty.
A few more women came in on the other side, squeezing the standers closer together.
“That’s all we’re going to get, I guess,” said Lady Burnout. “I don’t want to give this speech again, so you pass it along to anyone who missed the meeting.”
The whispers in the back died down.
“We’re in a disaster,” continued Burnout. “A slow motion one, but we’re going to lose people. We need to bust our butts to make sure we don’t all die.” She paused.
“There’s certain psychological reactions that kick in during disasters. One is pairing up. There’s already gossip about that happening. No shame, it’s normal.
“The next is having babies. Some on purpose, some because you’re too infatuated to think about consequences. More because there’s no way to get birth control refills in the wilderness.”
That sparked some nervous chuckles.
“Now. I will take it as a personal favor if nine months from now I’m not running from tent to tent trying to deliver twelve babies at once. You will want to have your babies some time when you can have my whole attention.”
A short haired woman stood up, pulling her friend up with her. “Then we don’t need to be here.”
“Sit down, Carnation,” snapped Burnout. “My pediatrician friends have dealt with plenty of lesbian parents.”
They sat.
“So. If you have pills, keep taking them. Same with caps and cups and whatever. Condoms—the day of single use condoms is over. Wash them—very gently—and let them dry unrolled. Test them by filling them with water and looking for drips.”
That produced a few “ewwws” from the back.
“Next option. The rhythm method. Don’t laugh, it works if you do it right. Peak fertility is two weeks after the start of your period. Keep your legs crossed three days on either side to be safe. If you’ve been on the pill you’ll need a couple months to establish a pattern after you run out, sometimes longer. Talk to me about it if your cycle isn’t regular.”
Burnout waited for a few grumbles to die down.
“Yes, the boys will get cranky. Hand jobs and blow jobs. They work. Normally I’d suggest breaking up with him if he’s being a jackass but I know there’s not many extra men out there.”
“What about anal sex?” someone asked.
Lady Burnout shrugged. “It’s an option. But we’re not getting more lubricant delivered, and we don’t have easy hot water. So hygiene’s an issue. It’ll be worse when we run out of soap.”
“What happens when we run out of tampons?” came a wail from a girl sitting on the examining table.
“Not my department,” said Burnout.
Goldenrod popped up. “Ragbag,” she said. “Sew a little pillowcase, stuff it with cattail fluff, or, well, we’ll find something.” She sat back down.
“Thank you. Work together ladies, we all have something to contribute. Now I’ll let you go.”
The crowd streamed out, seeking cool air. Goldenrod hung back. “My lady?”
Lady Burnout lifted her eyebrows.
“Mistress Filigree had three homebirths. I think she knows some of the theory of midwifery too.”
“Yes, I talked to her already. But don’t tell the youngsters. I want them scared.”
***
“Toss me the
soap!” called Pernach.
Redinkle was more relieved than annoyed to hear her husband’s voice. “Where have you been all day? And go get it yourself. You know where it is.”
Pernach stayed in the lane between tents. “You don’t want me in the tent. We were conscripted for privy detail. We need a bath.”
Behind him Pinecone nodded in agreement.
“A bath wouldn’t hurt you either,” said Goldenrod to Newman.
He looked at the blood staining his clothes from butchering the deer, or near-deer, or whatever they were going to call it. “Right.”
Going down the bluff reminded him he wasn’t used to operating in rough terrain any more. Broken plants showed where other people lost their footing and slid down. His legs were feeling the effort after hiking for miles with the hunting party. The other two didn’t seem bothered.
“You’re enjoying this,” Newman said.
“Hell, yeah. I’m not hauling a sixty gallon tank of shit around,” answered Pernach.
“Or having the Royal Guards hassle us,” agreed Pinecone.
“Guards?”
Pernach skirted a patch where the path was trampled into mud. “Eight of us on the detail. Six of the Queen’s Royal Guards to protect us. Not doing any of the work.”
“Spearpoint pitched in with the carrying when we slipped,” offered Pinecone.
“Until his sergeant told him to stop.”
Pinecone held out a steadying hand when Newman reached the steepest part. “At least they didn’t hit either of us.”
Newman stopped walking. “The guards were hitting people?”
“Just that guy Stonebridge,” said Pernach. “He was slacking.”
“Damn. Did the guards threaten you?”
“No . . . but I made sure they could see me working hard.”
The bluff flattened out into a smooth flood plain. A brief walk brought them to the river bank. Signs were up with arrows marking upstream for drawing water, downstream for bathing and dumping trash. Another said, “Wading only—No Swimming.” A two foot length of purple tentacle was nailed to it.
Newman pointed to some guys splashing water on themselves among a few rocks. “That looks like a safe spot.”
***
Mistress Seamchecker had been thrilled with the taste of the cooked vineroot slices. As they walked back to House Applesmile, Goldenrod brainstormed with Newman on experiments for planting and cultivating the vegetable.
“Good day, Master Orrery,” said Goldenrod.
“Hello, my dear. How are you?” Orrery cocked an eye at Newman. Goldenrod performed introductions.
The craftsman was interrogating Newman about the construction of his bow when shouting broke out.
“Hey, look at that one! It’s not a bird, it’s a plane.”
“No, it’s Superman,” someone quipped.
“It is a plane. It’s flying in a straight line. There’s a city out there!” said a third.
Orrery ducked into his tent, emerging with a massive set of non-medieval binoculars. It only took him a moment to spot the object the crowd was pointing at. He twitched.
“Goldenrod, my dear, please tell me what you see.” He passed her the binoculars.
She needed a bit longer to find it. She handed the binoculars to Newman without a sound.
Newman didn’t have any trouble focusing in. They were similar to field glasses he’d used in the Army.
The object had looked like a plane to his naked eye—a black cross, wings rigid. Magnified the body was reptilian. A trickle of smoke trailed from one of the oversized nostrils. The bat-like wings flapped once then went stiff again.
Newman lowered the binoculars. “It’s a dragon.”
Goldenrod and Orrery sighed in relief at his confirmation. The craftsman took them back for another look. “Yes, looks like a dragon to me too. Hell of a place we’ve landed in.”
He let some others take turns to confirm it. A few who’d hoped for rescue wept. Most took it calmly.
The least calm reaction was a motherly rant. “No, you’re not. One, it would eat you. Two, we can’t eat gold. Three, you have work to do here.”
***
Master Sweetbread made an experiment for dinner. Mashed vineroot baked with diced sausage mixed in. House Applesmile unanimously declared it a success.
Pinecone was scraping the burnt bits off the bottom of the pot when Lady Stitches arrived, four men in armor at her heels.
“What do you want, my lady?” asked Master Sweetbread. “I promise you I haven’t brewed any beer since we arrived.”
Stitches’ face was flushed with embarrassment. She read off the paper in her hand. “By royal decree, all feminine sanitary supplies in excess of three day’s personal use are to be turned in for redistribution.”
“Seriously?” demanded Goldenrod.
“I have the order from Their Majesties’ own lips.”
“This is bullshit,” she said.
Stitches’ frown grew deeper. “I have been authorized to search your belongings.”
Redinkle said, “Fine.”
She emerged from the tent with a box of tampons and emptied half of it into the guard’s sack. “That’s keeping three days’ worth.”
Goldenrod and Shellbutton made their contributions next.
Stitches turned to Tightseam. “And you, Mistress?”
“You’re six years too late for that, girl,” she snapped.
The lady in waiting blushed. “Thank you all.”
The group marched off.
No one spoke until shouting broke out in the neighboring Wolf Heads encampment.
“I guess Queen Camellia forgot to pack supplies,” said Goldenrod.
Redinkle turned to Tightseam. “Mom, I didn’t think you’d hit menopause yet.”
“Hush, dear. I didn’t but there’s no need for the Court to know.”
Chuckles ran around the cookfire.
“Does the emergency rule really mean the king has the authority to confiscate everyone’s property?” asked Newman.
“Aye,” said Sweetbread. “The populace cheered a blank check. Besides, under normal law the Crown can decree any laws or actions it cares to.”
“No checks or balances at all? How’d the Kingdom last so long like that?”
“Oh, we have checks.” Sweetbread settled into his story-telling slouch. “First off that monarchs only reign for six months at a time. And there’s no way to predict who’ll be next. So that’s an incentive to not make rules they’d have to live under.
“Second restraint is tradition. If all your friends give you dirty looks for changing things you don’t change much.
“Third is that the Kingdom takes effort to visit. If the King takes the fun out of things nobody shows up the next weekend. Then bards sing about the King of the Empty Hall.”
One of the odd native birds went ‘cough-cough’ on the ridgepole of their tent.
“None of that applies right now, of course. What we still have is peer pressure, trying to convince them that something is unwise.”
“Which works better if you’re a Peer,” quipped Redinkle.
“Fortunately for you you’re descended from a pair of them.”
“Peers are former kings and queens?” asked Newman. The lecture he’d received on the drive down hadn’t stuck very well.
Goldenrod answered, “Yes. Plus the knights, and master organizers, and master crafters.”
“Which is where Tightseam and I come in,” said Sweetbread. “There needs to be a meeting of the Crafter Council.”
“Talk to them about guards hitting the privy cleaners,” said Pinecone.
***
“You wished an audience with me, my lord Autocrat?” King Ironhelm let the flap fall shut behind him as he entered Autocrat’s tent.
“Your Visiting Majesty, thank you for allowing me to see you.” Autocrat Sharpquill waved his staffers out. They exited through the other side, leaving their chalk slates and abaci behind.
“Your Majesty. I must beg you to not disrupt the peace of this Kingdom.”
This again. Ironhelm didn’t let his reaction show. “How so?”
“You’re subverting the food distribution plans.”
“The giving of alms is a royal duty.” Not that King Estoc and Queen Camellia practiced much charity.
“That is so. But we’re in a survival situation here. We need everyone working to their utmost, not hanging around begging.”
‘Everyone’ did not include royals or their courts. There’d been pointed complaints from the Court when Ironhelm and his two squires pitched in on the fence building.
“I have not encouraged anyone to beg. We simply pass our excess along to the needy.”
“There should not be so much excess for you to give away. You and yours receive the same ration as everyone else in Court.”
Which was half again what everyone not in Court was receiving. Some of the gatherers were passing food to King Ironhelm and Queen Dahlia because they didn’t trust the Autocrat’s system to get it where it was needed. Protecting them was another duty.
“We eat sparingly. It’s not like we’re manual laborers needing to keep our strength up. And my wife and her ladies sometimes find something when on their constitutionals.”
Sharpquill smiled. “Of course. It’s the distribution that’s the real problem. People hanging around waiting for you to show up at the common pavilion or Chiurgeon’s tent or wherever, when they should be working.”
Ironhelm thought it would be easier to keep people working if they were compensated instead of conscripted, but it wasn’t his Kingdom. “I was asked to not distribute alms after the official dinner. So we found other times and places.”
“We’ve set up a bonus program giving extra food to those who’ve earned it through hard labor or taking on dirty jobs. It would be best if your excess was donated to that.”
The Lost War Page 5
