“You have a dirty mind.”
“That’s why I married so young. Well?”
“Well . . . neither of us hesitated arranging for the fourth date.”
“Aha!” This time the digging stick made a ‘klock’ sound as she thrust it into the dirt. “Damn, rock.”
Both of them worked to dig out the fist-sized stone. Goldenrod flung it toward the river.
“Whether he’s your boyfriend or not, how’s he handling this disaster?”
Goldenrod grinned. “Struggle for survival in a strange land he’s fine with. It’s all the customs of the Kingdom he has trouble learning.”
“You’re dating a survivalist?”
“No. Ex-Army. He was in the combat zone. Twice, I think. Not sure. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”
Redinkle tried to shove the digging stick in again. Her hands slipped on the shaft. “Trade?”
“Sure.” Goldenrod stood up and started stabbing the soil. Redinkle knelt with the ladle.
“So not the kind to panic.”
Goldenrod laughed without breaking her rhythm. “Hell, no. That’s how I first noticed him. The company was expecting a visit from Corporate. All the managers were in a tizzy, rushing around and arguing. Then a machine caught on fire. Now they were yelling ‘Call the fire department’ and ‘Evacuate the building.’ Newman walked over, blasted it with a fire extinguisher, unplugged it, blasted it again, and went back to what he was working on. Never said a word.”
“Good guy to have around.”
“If he sticks around.”
“I haven’t noticed him eyeing anyone else. Crap. This one’s roots go deep. Poke it some more?”
Goldenrod gave the dirt around the stubborn plant half a dozen stabs. “Try now.”
The ladle levered out the whole plant. “Got it.”
“Newman won’t eye anyone else on a date. It’s his duty to pay attention to me, so he does. But at work he notices everybody.”
“So it’s good you’re on a date with him.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like a trapped him into being with me and he’d have to chew off a leg to escape.”
Redinkle laughed. “Be serious. He’s never had it so good. And there’s not much competition for you even among the married women. And the single ladies—sheesh. Watching the singles pair up for the disaster makes me glad I’m married.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“That’s ‘cause you never come to the stitch and bitch. You miss all the gossip. Hey, I know. When it’s time to plant, invite everybody our age. We’ll stand around the edge of the field and put the cuttings in moving inward. It’ll be a sowing circle.”
Goldenrod kicked dirt in her face.
Spitting out grit didn’t keep Redinkle from laughing.
They both looked up as running steps sounded. “Lady Goldenrod?” called the young man. She recognized him as Bellows, an apprentice.
“Yes?” she answered.
“Master Forge presents this to you with his compliments.”
She traded him the digging stick for the new tool. The shaft was fresh-carved wood. The hoe blade was at a right angle to it. The neck was twice as thick as the one in her mother’s garden shed. The blacksmith didn’t have modern steel to work with so it probably needed the extra strength.
“Gimme some room, honey.”
Redinkle scrambled aside.
The hoe blade swung into the soil, pulling up a divot. Another swing chopped it in half, and sliced into the soil beneath. A dozen swings later the soil was more finely divided than any other spot in her plot.
She rested it on the ground and took a few deep breaths. “My thanks to Master Forge. Please tell him this is superb work.”
“I’ll do that, milady. May I keep this for the next one he makes?” The apprentice hefted the digging stick.
She nodded. He sped off.
“I guess you won’t need me any more,” said Redinkle.
“We’re going to take turns. I can’t keep that up long without a rest. But it’s a much better tool.”
She moved to the corner where she’d started breaking ground and went through it again. “So are any of the single girls eyeing Newman?”
“Oh, sure. He’s brought in more meat than any other three hunters combined. Right now that’s like captain of the football team.”
Redinkle let Goldenrod stew for a few moments before continuing.
“But being Little Miss Horticulture makes you head cheerleader, so they’re afraid to try.”
***
Master Sweetbread thought the rhino meat Newman brought back as his share would be best stewed. He chopped it up and put it in the pot with cubes of vineroot and a pinch of the precious spices. Then it went over the fire to simmer for hours.
By the smell their neighbors the Wolfheads were grilling their share.
Everyone was working on some task around the cookfire. Newman had a dozen leaf-blade arrowheads from Master Forge. Goldenrod fletched the shafts he attached them to. Mistress Tightseam patched ripped clothing.
The sound of tramping feet mixed with jingling metal told of armored men going by. The group stopped in front of the Wolfhead encampment.
Lady Stitches’ voice sounded, making an announcement. It wasn’t loud enough for anyone in House Applesmile to make out the words. Newman turned to look. The Wolfhead tents blocked his view. A royal guard stood by the corner, wearing full armor.
When Stitches finished everyone started yelling. Pernach stood up to go investigate but Sweetbread waved him back down.
The uproar became even louder. And angrier. Then Wolfhead Alpha’s voice cut through it. “Stand down, boys! Stand down!” He repeated it until everyone else was silent. He stopped. After a couple minutes of rustling and clanking the armored royal guards tramped away.
Sweetbread told his young men to let things calm down before bothering anyone for the story.
The story came to them.
Strongarm came around the corner and approached House Applesmile’s cooking fire. “May I join you?”
“Pull up a haybale,” answered Sweetbread.
One was already close enough. Strongarm sat, putting a bowl beside him.
“So what the hell was all that?” burst out Pernach.
Strongarm took a deep breath. “Their Royal Majesties decreed that rhinos being majestic, their meat shall be for the exclusive use of Their Court.”
Reactions ranged from Pinecone’s astonished cursing to Tightseam’s disappointed sigh. Newman was silent.
“But Lady Stitches graciously allowed three-eighths as a finder’s fee.”
“Thus averting a riot?” asked Tightseam.
“It pretty much was a riot. Some shoving. A broken chair. The ugly moment was when Borzhoi put his helmet on and a guard drew on him. Not a rattan tourney sword. Steel. Looked sharp, too.”
Pinecone gasped. “Damn. What did you do?”
“Nothing. I waited for orders. While holding onto a tent pole I could get out with one yank. I figure seven feet of oak with a blunt spike against two and a half feet of cheap Paki steel is a fair fight.”
“And after the fight?” asked Sweetbread. He stirred the stewpot.
“We’d have a dozen dead royal guards, maybe four dead Wolfheads, and war with the crown. The Alpha was right to shut us down.”
Pernach said, “But, damn. Taking food off people’s tables?”
“Not now,” said Tightseam.
Sweetbread tasted his ladle. “This is ready. Let’s have it before Stitches drops by to chat.”
He gave Strongarm a wary eye. At past Kingdom events he’d fed the young fighter without hesitation. Hospitality was a virtue. But he’d always brought twice as much food as he’d need for a weekend. Now . . .
Strongarm shifted on the bale, opened his mouth, closed it without saying anything.
“I appreciate you inviting me on the scavenger run,” Newman said to him.
That put a thoughtf
ul expression on Sweetbread’s face. “Would you like to join us for dinner, young man?”
“Yes, my lord, thank you. I’ve always admired your cooking.”
Rhino meat had a strong taste, but no one complained. When the pot cooled fingers went in to collect the last of the broth.
Wolfhead Alpha strolled by with Mistress Vixen on his arm. His eyes met Sweetbread’s. A jerk of his chin pointed toward the bluff. Sweetbread stood, offered his arm to Tightseam, and followed.
Clean-up was handled by the younger set, including Strongarm. Once everything was put away, he returned to his encampment to “see what the new marching orders are.”
Newman invited Goldenrod out for a walk in the woods. She wasn’t surprised—eight people in one tent left little privacy for fooling around—but he didn’t seem in a mood for smooches.
Other couples outside the walls were, so they had to wander a while before finding a spot private enough for Newman. He turned and faced her nose to nose.
Goldenrod popped up to kiss him.
“Hey,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
She glanced back at the camp. “We are out of there.”
“No. I mean, let’s go to the mountains.”
“Go exploring?”
“No. Well, some. Find a homestead and settle down, just us.”
“What?”
Newman spoke low and fast. “The Kingdom is a pressure vessel. It’s going to explode. There’s going to be blood. When neighbors kill neighbors the grudges last forever. We have to escape while we can.”
She stepped back. “Ye gods, you’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious. Do you want to wake up in a tent on fire? Shit like that happens in civil wars.”
“It won’t be that bad. They’ll fix things.”
“How? All the checks and balances of this government were left behind on Earth. All that’s left is people with unlimited power. It’s going to their heads.”
“Government doesn’t work because of rules. It works because people want to make it work. We have good people. I trust them.”
Newman was angry. “Those good people let it get bad enough to almost kill people tonight. Will they fix it fast enough to keep someone from getting killed?”
So was she. “Whether they do or not, I’m not leaving. These people are friends. The closest thing I have to a family. I’m staying with them.”
He looked at her. Then looked off in the distance. He was thinking of going by himself. The realization terrified her.
“Look,” she said. “Be practical. Two people, just with what we can carry? How good a shelter can we build? What happens when we get sick, or hurt? How do we fix metal tools that break? How bad are the winters here?”
Only one moon of the three was up. Its light left the side of Newman’s face toward her dark. He still faced the mountains.
“And when the killing begins?” he asked.
Goldenrod tried to imagine it. She knew he didn’t need to, he’d been in the middle of worse. “If the Crown executes Master Sweetbread I’ll run away with you.”
He let out a long sigh. “I can leave before a fight. I can’t quit in the middle of one.”
“Sweetbread and Wolfhead Alpha are working to prevent that fight right now. Let’s help them.”
Newman turned toward her and spread his arms. Goldenrod fell into the embrace.
Two Weeks After Arrival
Newman remembered how to make a fire by rubbing sticks together. Or rather he remembered that he’d done it as a Boy Scout. That was enough for him to be dragooned into teaching a class for a half-dozen commoners who hadn't packed matches.
After an hour of trial and error he had some blackened tinder. The students had copied all his mistakes. A couple had quit in frustration, but others took their place. Strongarm confined his heckling to carrying over a stack of firewood “for when you succeed.”
Smoke appeared in Newman’s tinder. He spun the stick a few more times to heat it then picked up the board to drop the tinder onto the waiting pile of kindling. Some gentle blowing produced an actual flame. As it spread he added some twigs. Some broken sticks went on next. Strongarm offered a split piece of log. Newman put that on the downwind side. When it caught he flopped onto his back.
“It can be done,” he proclaimed, drawing applause from the onlookers.
When the worst of the muscle aches faded Newman sat up again. He added a few sticks to keep his demonstration fire going. Then he went around the circle watching everyone else work. Goldenrod didn’t need any suggestions. He squatted down next to her friend Redinkle. “Keep the stick turning all the time. If you take a break, even for a moment, it cools off.”
“Right,” answered Redinkle, “I’ll work on that.”
He kept going around. A couple had let the tinder fall away from where the drill pressed into the board. He pushed it back into place for them.
Strongarm took over an abandoned set of sticks. Newman made him focus on control instead of force—“Keep the end turning on the same spot, not moving around”—and left him to it.
Goldenrod started the second fire.
“Cheater. Bet your boyfriend gave you extra lessons,” snarked Redinkle.
Goldenrod just laughed at her.
The other students eventually ignited kindling or gave up. Redinkle and Strongarm were the last two still trying. When his kindling sprouted flames, she cursed at him. “How the hell did you start it so fast? I’ve been at this three times longer than you have.”
Strongarm showed his palms. “Calluses, sugarpie. I can twirl harder than your pretty pink smooth hands.”
“Not so pretty now.” She lifted a hand off the stick to show a burst and bleeding blister.
Newman said, “I think you should stop for today. That needs a bandage.”
Redinkle glared at him. “No, dammit, I’m going to start this fire.”
The tinder, board, stick in her hand, and waiting kindling, twigs, and sticks all burst into flame together. Flames climbed onto Redinkle’s sleeves, skirt, and hair.
Newman tackled her, rolling her over in the grass until she wasn’t burning. Goldenrod threw a bucket of water onto the fire. “How the hell did that happen?” asked Newman.
“Who cares? She’s hurt.” Strongarm picked Redinkle up and trotted toward the chiurgeon’s tent. As the pain overcame shock she started screaming. Goldenrod followed. Newman only paused to tell an onlooker to put the fires out before chasing them.
One glance was enough for Lady Burnout to tell the patient sitting on her examining table “Off.” Strongarm, Newman, Goldenrod, and apprentice chiurgeon Elderberry were all needed to hold Redinkle on the table. “First degree on face and legs. Third degree on hands.” She stepped back and thought for a second.
“What are you doing?” said Goldenrod.
“Triage. Will all three of you work to keep her bandages clean?”
“Yes, milady.” “Yes’m.” “Aye, my lady.”
“Then we’ll do it. Here, give her this.” Burnout handed a scarce hydrocodone pill to Goldenrod.
With a little water and whispers of, “You’ll be all right,” Goldenrod managed to get the pill down Redinkle’s throat.
“Now, boys, this will be the hard part,” said Burnout. “I need to remove the damaged tissue, put on some ointment, then bandage her. That’s going to hurt like hell. You have to hold her arms still so I can work on her.” They nodded. “Let’s do it.”
Everyone was relieved when Redinkle passed out.
***
Newman led Constable over to the fire. Six piles of ash surrounded some unburnt firewood. Redinkle’s stood out by its flatness. The other fires had still been charred sticks when put out. Hers was pure ash.
“Who started the one that burned her?” asked Constable.
“I don’t know. She was working on her own drill, but she couldn't keep it going long enough to heat it up. I tried to get her to give up and try again tomorrow. Then
it all just burst into flame, even the wood she wasn’t working on.” Newman pointed at the ashes of the sticks stacked up to feed the fire after the twigs.
“Anyone mess with her stuff?”
“No. It just went poof.”
“Son, you make it sound like it just magically burst into flame, and I don’t believe in magic.” Constable had retired after thirty years as a cop, and could produce the look when needed.
“Sir, if you don’t believe in magic, how do you think we’re here?” asked Newman.
***
They waited two more days before asking Redinkle. Lady Burnout came by once a day to apply ointment. “You’re a lucky young lady. That’s the fastest I’ve ever seen such burns heal. I think you’ll even recover full function in both hands.”
“Thanks,” said Redinkle.
Newman stepped forward. “Red, while you’re awake, could you tell us how it happened again?”
She glanced over his shoulder at Constable. “Like I said before. I said I’d keep trying, I gave the drill an extra hard twist, then the whole stick was burning in my hand. Don’t you believe me?”
“I do,” said Newman. “Could you try something for me?”
“What?”
He held out a paper receipt from his wallet. “Imagine this bursting into flame.”
“You think I burnt myself?”
“I don’t know. Let’s test it.”
“Goddammit.” Redinkle glared at the paper. Flames sprung up along the edges. Newman dropped it. It was grey ash before it reached the grass.
“Now I’ll believe in magic,” said Constable.
***
Pernach wasted no time putting his wife’s new power to work. Once Lady Burnout declared Redinkle healed he dragged her out to the clearing in the woods where he and Pinecone had been making charcoal.
“I don’t know what you need me for,” she complained. “You’re burning stuff just fine.”
The clearing was covered with stacks of drying wood, ash, bits of charcoal, and wood chips. In the center a pile of dirt fumed.
“It’s not fine.” Pernach picked up a piece of wood charred on one end. “Our results are uneven. Some of the wood doesn’t burn at all. When we open vents to spread the fire we wind up burning it to ash. We’re getting a twenty or thirty percent yield. It’s cutting into Master Forge’s production.”
The Lost War Page 7
