"Pleased to meet you, Miss Havel," he said, and shook hands. "Ingolf always did have more luck than he deserved."
"I keep telling him that," Mary said, smiling.
"He's not the only lucky one," Ritva said, and introduced herself. "And if you play dice with her, use your own."
That turned into a general exchange of names. Heuisink's hand was hard and strong in Rudi's; he could see the same instant calculation in the other's eyes as they measured each other- this one is dangerous. Then the Hawkeye looked along the line of travelers.
"Well, you've assembled another prime bunch of plain old-fashioned cutthroats," he said to Ingolf when the introductions were done.
"Even if they're prettier than we were on average," he added gallantly, with a slight bow to the twins and Mathilda and Virginia.
"Rudi's ramrod of this outfit, besides having the misfortune to be my future brother-in-law," Ingolf added. "I'm number two."
Heuisink's eyes went wider. "Where's Kaur and Singh and Jose and the others? Everyone wondered what the hell happened when the Villains didn't make it back from that crazy salvage trip to the East Coast. Hell, we thought you were all dead and eaten by the wild men."
"Everyone but me is dead," he said; the pleasure of the meeting leached out of Ingolf's face for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and pushed away grief with a visible effort: "Christ, it's years ago now. I haven't forgotten, though; and we're here to get some answers, among other things."
Heuisink grunted as if he'd been belly-punched. "Jesus, all of them?"
"Backstabbed by that little shit Kuttner… and that's something we need to talk to the Colonel about. But that's old news. The latest is we're here from the West Coast. Oregon, by God!"
That brought a silent whistle. "You are one traveling son of a bitch, Ingolf. How'd you get through the Sioux?"
"We spent a while in a hocoka, as a matter of fact."
The younger man ostentatiously craned his neck to look at the back of Ingolf's head. "And you've still got your hair?"
"Not only that, you're now addressing Iron Bear, adopted member of the Kiyuska tiyospaye of the Ogallala," he said. "Mostly courtesy of Rudi here, and Miss Kane."
"That I have got to hear about."
"How's the family? And Cecilia?"
"Dad's fine and meaner than ever, Mom's fine, my brothers and sisters are all fine-Louise got married to Sheriff Clausen's son Hauk over by Dubuque this May-and Cecilia and I just had a kid, a boy this time-"
"Congratulations!"
"-and young Ingolf is doing fine and crawling like a maniac, driving her and the nursemaid crazy. The farm's fine, our vakis are fine, and let's get the hell home! Man, we've got some serious talking to do! And drinking!"
He turned to his men: "Mitch, hightail it back to the house and tell my father we've got guests, Ingolf among 'em."
The man climbed into the saddle and trotted away down the road that led north from the little town. Heuisink turned to the rest of the travelers and waved.
"Let's get your traps on the wagons. Our house is your house, and any friends of Ingolf's are friends of ours! Stay a week, stay a month, stay as long as you damned well please."
Ingolf said his friends here were well-to-do, Rudi thought. They must be, to have nothing but smiles for ten hungry guests!
The land near Valeria had been intensely cultivated in small orchards and large gardens by the townspeople, the rows of lettuce and carrots and potatoes, sweet corn and onions and turnip greens against dirt black as coal. Beyond that was shaggy common pasture for their beasts, and then more of the same.
A ride always seems longer in open country like this, Rudi thought, as they turned off the road and under a tall timber gate with a hanging sign:
Victrix Century Farm est. 1878. Colonel Abel Heuisink, prop.
Then beneath that, in different lettering:
Emergency Evacuation Center and Registered Farm #21,726
"Almost home," Ingolf's friend Jack said. "This is my family's land, from here on."
Rudi's brows went up slightly; all he could see was land right now, rippling with grass sometimes chest-high on a horse, no houses or even tilled fields.
"What's the significance of the number?" he asked.
"Oh, that's our farm number… back at the Change, every farm that could keep going got a registration number, 'cause all the farmers were sworn in as deputies and Justices of the Peace to handle the evacuation. Last count I heard, there are…"
His eyes went up in the gesture of a man remembering a number: "Fifty-two thousand four hundred and thirty-two Registered Farmers in the Provisional Republic of by-God Iowa. Dad's a Sheriff too, of course… It's about another two miles to the house; that's square in the middle of our land."
The size of a Baron's fief in Portland, Rudi thought. Not much compared to a lot of ranches-but this isn't sagebrush where you need five acres for a single sheep, by Brigit's Sheaf!
"It's a fine stretch of country you have," he said sincerely.
The whole of Iowa was apparently laid out in squares a mile on a side with roads along the edges, and would probably look as geometric as a chessboard from a balloon or glider. That distance meant the Heuisink property must be at least two square miles, and probably three or four… which was very big even by local standards. Rudi looked around himself. Grazing stretched on either side as they entered the estate, but it was neatly fenced, with old-style posts and barbed wire, or in places by bristling hedges of multiflora rose.
Herds of black hornless cattle moved over the fields, their glossy hides tight with good feeding, and horses-some massive Percherons, others tall long-legged beasts that reminded him of Epona-as well as square-bodied sheep, still looking a little naked as their fleeces grew back from the spring shearing. There were herds of black-and-white pigs too, looking like giant moving sow-beetles as they ranged belly-deep in pasture; he could hear them grunting and snuffling as they fed. Occasionally animals of all varieties would wander over to a pond dug in the corner of a field to drink, or to a trough kept full by a skeletal windmill.
The younger man nodded with obvious pride. "None better in the state, and my family have held it since my great-great-grandfather's day; well, parts of it, at least. All of it's useable, too. You go a couple of days' ride north and half the country's gone back to swamp again, but ours is naturally dry."
"This looks to be as good for pasture or grain as you could want," Rudi agreed with perfect sincerity.
Though I might say something of the sort even if I weren't sincere at all, he thought, smiling to himself.
You couldn't go wrong complimenting a man's horses and cattle or his land. He didn't add that he thought it as boring a stretch of the Mother's earth as he'd come across, barring some that were even flatter.
I've seen enough prairies since we left home that they don't bewilder me anymore. At first he'd had a subconscious conviction they weren't moving at all, even when he knew they were. I still miss having something to measure distance by-woods, hills, mountains in the distance.
The land here wasn't really flat, not compared to some of the tabletop country he'd seen and-endlessly-ridden across. It had a very slight roll to it, enough that vistas opened out and closed in again, though slowly. There were few trees, only a clump of oaks and hickories and poplars here and there or a row along the edge of a field, and apart from the cottonwood and burr-oak groves along the banks of the odd slow-moving trickle of creek they all looked to have been planted by human hands rather than the will of the Mother. The grass by the side of the road was sometimes high enough to nearly hide the view beyond, though.
They rode at the pace of the wagons, which were loaded with heavy goods, brick and tile and tools and bolts of cloth and boxes that might be anything, and big bevel and wheel-gears strapped on top of one, machinery for some sort of mill. Besides the teamsters there were six mounted guards in crested helms and mail-shirts, armed with shete and bow; Heuisink had introduced them a
s our National Guard security detail.
Rudi mentally translated that as my father's household troops.
"Chief?" Edain said quietly, pulling his horse in beside Rudi's when the Iowan noble drifted ahead to Ingolf's side.
"Yes?"
"This is good land," he said, and offered a clump of grass with clods of earth attached that he'd stopped to cut out of one of the fields by the roadside. "You could plant bootlaces here, and by Brigid's Cauldron it would come up bootlaces!"
Rudi hefted the clod as they rode, and rubbed some of the black dirt between his fingers and smelled it. It was full of fine roots, and compressed easily like sponge cake when he squeezed some between thumb and forefinger, the good crumb structure keeping it moist days after the last rain. The scent was rich and almost meaty, as much like well-rotted mulch as soil. He touched his tongue to it, and the taste was neutral, without any acid sourness or alkali bitterness either.
"You're right," he said, dusting his hands off and spitting aside. "As good as any I've ever seen. Easy to work, too, I'd think. They do have a mortal lot of it here, don't they?"
There was fine farmland in the Willamette Valley, but not fifty thousand square miles of it in a solid block. That was more ground than everything from Bend and Sisters to the ocean and from the Columbia to the old California border south of Ashland, desert and mountain and dense Douglas fir woodland and the whole Willamette put together.
"And all this bit here belongs to Ingolf's friend?"
"Since that sign," Rudi said.
Edain shook his head, frowning. "That's not right," he said. "Not decent, by the womb of the Mother and the blood of the Corn King! One family shouldn't have that much."
"My friend, it's in total agreement I am," Rudi said; Mackenzie crofts differed a bit in size, but not even the wealthiest had much more than one family could till with a little help at harvest. "But mentioning it wouldn't be very tactful, if we're to be guests. We need this man's help. Also we're outlanders here."
Edain nodded and dropped back, half scowling as he looked around at the land about, half in sheer sensuous enjoyment of it; for it was a sight to delight the eye of someone who'd worked the earth since he could toddle, the thick pell of life on it promising food in plenty for man and beast.
Heuisink was obviously bursting with curiosity and even more eager to drag Ingolf away for reminiscence and questions, but he made a determined effort to be polite; he dropped back to talk with Rudi and the others every few minutes.
"The house is another half mile ahead of us."
"Fine stock," Rudi said, as a stallion went pacing along the roadside fence, brown hide rippling and neck arched.
"Dad was a breeder even before the Change," Jack Heuisink said proudly. "Pedigree stock. We've won State Fair blue ribbons three times in the past five years."
"Handsome beasts," Rudi acknowledged. "I don't think I've seen finer."
Though I was more impressed yet by the pasture; and the fact that your herds can't keep up with it. For all their feeding, it's stirrup-high out there in places.
After a while they came to cultivated land in big square fields; he rough-estimated four or five hundred acres. The wheat and oats and barley had all been reaped, and green clover was poking up through the blond stubble. The flax looked about ready to pull, the last of its blue flowers gone by and the plants chest-tall and browning, and there were low-growing rows of sugar beets. Some of the other crops were odd to his eye. Back in the Willamette maize was a garden vegetable, grown to eat boiled or to be canned in mason jars or pickled with tomatoes and onions in relish.
Here there was acre after acre of it, the heads just tasseling out now and casting a faint haze of gold over the distant part of the green block. The stalks were nearly as tall as a mounted man; you could look down endless rows, and the clatter of the leaves made a strange rustling sound that surged and died with the wind. More fields were growing some bushy plant.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Soybeans," Heuisink said, surprised. "You don't have them? They're mighty useful."
"I've heard of them," Rudi said. Mostly from my mother, who hates tofu with a passion. "The climate's not right for them in our country. Or for maize either."
The younger man laughed. "It's hard to imagine farming without beans and corn!"
Then he inhaled deeply and smiled; an overpowering sweetness marked a hayfield, where five horse-drawn mowers in a staggered row cut knee-high alfalfa and laid it in windrows to dry. The workers waved their hats at young Heuisink, and he returned the gesture with his billed cap.
"Pretty good year, so far," he said with satisfaction. "No blight on the alfalfa, either. What do you grow out there?"
"Alfalfa, to be sure. Wheat and barley, oats, potatoes, orchards-" He and Rudi talked crops and weather for a little while-another topic of conversation that was good almost anywhere, since life itself depended on it. When they came in sight of the house -evidently he meant the whole settlement by that-Rudi blinked a little in surprise. There were some of the things you'd expect; turn-out pasture for dairy cattle and working stock surrounded by board fences, a couple of big orchards-apple, pear, cherry-which looked young, but flourishing, and a twenty-acre tract of garden truck. Some of the early apples were starting to turn ripe, glowing red through the green leaves.
But…
"There's no wall!" he said.
No sign of defensive works at all, not even the earth berm and barbed wire a farmstead in law-abiding Corvallis territory would have. The settlement looked obscurely naked without it, like a man fully dressed save for his missing kilt. Every single Mackenzie dun had a good log palisade around it at the least, with a blockhouse at the gate-Clan law required it.
Jack Heuisink nodded pridefully. "We have order here in Iowa! And have since the Change-or nearly. Well, we've got an emergency fort we keep up with the neighbors, over there about a mile, but we don't live in it, the way I hear they do in some places. We just keep it maintained and stocked."
And sure, I suppose it is a prideful thing not to need walls, Rudi thought.
It showed how strong Iowa was on its borders, and how well patrolled inside them. He'd noted that few men or women went armed here, too, unless they were warriors by trade.
But on the other hand, things can change. And they can change much faster than the time needed to build a wall. Whereupon the memory of pride, my friend, would be no consolation as you sat in that fort and watched your home burn, at all, at all.
Ingolf had dropped back into hearing range. "You've also got Nebraska and Marshall between you and the Sioux, Jack," he said dryly. "And Richland north of you, and Kirkville south. They've got walls around their settlements, you betcha. And there's the Mississippi between you and the wild men eastways, and you've got a river-navy for that."
"Well, yeah, Captain," he said. "But things here never did go to hell the way they did in a lot of places."
He turned to Rudi: "Dad says there was just so much damned food around that folks here had to make a real effort to starve; silos and elevators in the towns, bins on the farms, trains and trucks stopped on the roads and rails stuffed with grain. Things got bad enough, but there are almost as many people in Iowa now as there were before the Change."
"I can believe it," Rudi said. "I'd never imagined that there could be so much good land in one place."
"And it was all cultivated then-corn and beans, beans and corn, right out to the horizon, land that's pasture now or not used at all," the younger Heuisink said. "Lots of cattle and hogs, too, though they kept them penned up so tight a lot died before Dad and the others could get them out to the fields. Still, there was plenty left once they got things organized."
"And until the Change it all fed tens of millions far away who did not survive," Father Ignatius said, and crossed himself. "Madonna, intercede for them. Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison."
The two younger men looked at him. Now, that's true, but I wouldn't have thought of it, Ru
di mused.
"Yeah, we were lucky, Padre," Jack said gravely.
"Then you would do well to add wisdom to it, my son," Ignatius said. "For however much luck God sends, sinful man can-"
"-manage to screw the pooch somehow or other," Odard cut in.
Then he made a graceful gesture of apology when the priest frowned at him; Mathilda stifled a giggle. Ignatius looked stern, but he had to fight to keep one corner of his mouth from quirking up.
And he's no older than Ingolf, Rudi thought.
"That is one way to put it, Baron Gervais. Ah, we have arrived," the priest said.
The core of Victrix Farm was a tall house, three stories of white-painted clapboard with a shingle roof and wraparound verandas at ground level and above. It was flanked by two others much the same, looking as if they'd been put in since the Change and joined by roofed galleries, and all set amid lawns and flowerbanks behind windbreaks of tall old trees; evening's shadows flickered across the white walls and graceful windows, and a yellow lamp-flame lit in one of the upper windows as they watched.
The great barns and sheet-metal sheds, the silos and granaries, workshops and corrals were downwind to the east, and a substantial village lay on either side of the road southward. The cottages were smaller but mostly frame and white-painted like the house, obviously built of materials salvaged from the dead suburbs and stretching back in short lanes on either side of the road that led to the master's dwelling, shaded by trees that looked about a generation old. A few houses converted to storage sheds were of lime-washed rammed earth, relics from the years of resettlement; Rudi estimated the hamlet had room for two hundred people, give or take and assuming the normal three or four children per household.
A bit fewer than you'd expect from the cultivated land, he thought, in the quick estimate any farmer-or warrior-could make.
This Victrix place had around four hundred acres of plowland and lea, not counting rough pasture; and apparently excellent equipment to go with the fine fat land-reapers, disk-plows, mowing machines, hay balers, cultivators, and threshers-so they probably produced a hefty surplus as well.
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