"Peace be with you, my children," he called.
Their leader was a wiry dark woman about thirty, the only female in the squad, with a set of chevrons riveted to the short sleeve of her armor. She reined in half a dozen yards from Rudi once the surroundings had been searched and looked him over; first with businesslike appraisal, and then with a different sort of glance.
"And with your spirit, padre." Then: "All right-you, the tall, blond and handsome one," she said dryly, letting her bow rest on the horn of her cowboy style saddle. " Who the hell are you guys, and what the hell are you doing here? You're sure as shit not locals."
Her eyes took in their gear. Rudi knew she'd be see ing the quality of their horses and details of weapons and clothing, and also that they couldn't have gotten this far without more mounts and transport and equipment than was showing.
"We're travelers from the far West, from beyond the Cascades," Rudi said, putting calm and warmth into his voice-his mother had helped train it. "And we've got urgent news for your commander."
"For the president, eh?" She looked at him, then turned in the saddle. "Smith, tell Captain Valier we've got some wanderers who want to talk to the bossman. Rojas, take my binoculars, get up on that hill and keep an eye out for company. There may be more of them than they've mentioned."
"Sergeant!" they both barked, and turned their horses to obey.
The rest sat watching the comrades, while not ne glecting their surroundings either; not exactly hostile, but extremely businesslike. The infantry came into view, marching like a giant spear tipped centipede behind the eagle and the flag of the Republic…
Rudi took in the hoop-and strap armor, the heavy throwing spears and big oval shields, and then the of ficers, one to each eighty men, with the sideways crests on their helmets and vinewood swagger sticks in their hands…
"Bet I know what General Thurston's favorite historical reading is," he said softly.
"Yeah," Mathilda replied, equally sotto voce. "I rec ognize it all- Osprey Men-at-Arms 46, Roman Army from Caesar to Trajan."
Other volumes of those illustrated histories were a staple of military education in the Willamette; he sup posed he shouldn't be surprised they were used elsewhere, too. And wasn't Thurston supposed to have been a soldier before the Change, an officer of the old US Army, trained at West Point? Not all that many of them had survived.
They mostly died trying to feed people and keep order, Rudi thought. Well, against Fate even gods cannot contend, much less even the best of men.
Doubtless Thurston had studied a lot of military history. There was a battery of field artillery along with the troops, six dart casters and shot throwers, which wasn't something you expected out here-the mechanic arts weren't as advanced in the far interior. Or so he'd thought…
The scout sergeant motioned them off the road, and they reined aside politely. The standard-bearer passed, and then the first block of soldiers; Rudi whistled silently to himself as they didn't even glance aside.
"Now, that's discipline, by God," Odard said from his other side.
The Boise cavalry sergeant waved to the small group of horsemen that followed the block of infantry. One of them spoke to a signaler, and a bugle blatted. The entire column came to a halt-a step and a stamp and a short harsh shout, and every man was waiting like a statue. Another blat and they relaxed, reaching for their canteens or turning to stare at the strangers.
Rudi could hear a couple of them speaking softly to each other.
"… use the rest, by Jesus."
The other answered, in a mock-childish falsetto: "What are soldiers for, Daddy?"
The first grinned and poured a little water from his canteen into his hand before rubbing it over his dusty face. He made his voice deep and gruff as he answered: "To hang things on, my son."
Well, they're human after all and not machinery, Rudi thought; then he made his face solemn and straightened in the saddle as the command group approached.
That's him, he thought.
Lawrence Thurston was a tall man, about Rudi's height and built much like him, lean but broad in the shoulders. He wore the same armor as his men on foot; it looked adaptable that way. His helmet crest was transverse, but dyed in stripes of dark blue, red and white, and he carried a round shield marked in the same colors.
When he pushed back the hinged cheek pieces of his helm and then slung it to his saddlebow Rudi saw the face of a man in his fifties, with some gray in his short sable cap of hair and hard blunt features, broad nose and thick lips. His skin was the dark brown that the pre-Change world had miscalled black, a shade that reminded Rudi of Will Hutton, the Bearkiller ramrod until last year. He rode with straightforward competence but not a natural horseman's seat, and his mount was a strong-bodied brown gelding, good without being in the least showy.
"Right, western Oregon," he said, looking them over.
His knob of a chin turned towards Mathilda and Odard. "You and the boy there are from Portland, the group that's resurrected King Arthur and the Round Table, right?"
Mathilda bridled at the words and the clipped tone. "We're Associates of the Portland Protective Association," she said curtly.
The twins smiled sweetly, and Ritva spoke before he could ask: "And we're the cuckoos who live in the woods and think they're elves," she said politely. "Though really that's just a scurrilous rumor and a narrow, bigoted stereotype."
"Mae govannen, cano," Mary added: Hello, General in Sindarin.
"Mae govannen," the general replied. "A secret language is sometimes useful."
"And Edain and I are Mackenzies," Rudi said.
Some men-and women, for that matter-had baraka, a force of personality that made them hard to resist; it was a gift of the Powers, and Thurston had plenty. Rudi had more experience than most with it, and set his mind like a wall. His voice was dry as he went on:
"You know… kilts… bagpipes… witchcraft… pagan gods."
The dark eyes considered him levelly for a long moment; then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"OK, I've spent my life trying to resurrect the United States. I don't think that's insane… but I'll agree it's obsessive," he said; there was a trace of a soft drawl ing accent in his voice, overlain with decades of Idaho. "The Scottish discarded the kilt for all but ceremonial reasons in the First World War because they used too much cloth. Trews were logistically more supportable. And there's no finer sound than bagpipes in battle. As to the rest, 'Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.' That's from the Constitution of the United States, which is your Constitution, too. Well met, all of you."
Then Thurston's eyes narrowed as he looked at Ingolf. "I recognize you, " he said. "My intelligence people debriefed you last year. Got a fairly wild story, along with some useful stuff on the eastern states and some even better information on the Prophet."
Ingolf nodded. "I didn't mind telling them what I knew. It was the pressing invitation to stay that had me doing a flit. Reminded me too much of Corwin."
Thurston shrugged. "I can always use more good men-and so can the country."
Then he turned back to Rudi. "I thought I placed your faces. I know who you all are, too; there's been a hell of an uproar out there in the West lately."
Mathilda winced, and Thurston noted it with a quick flicker of his eyes. He went on: "Why shouldn't I spank you and send you home to your parents?"
"Sure, and I didn't think you recognized our parents," Rudi observed.
And it's a wee bit impressive you know who we are. Has anyone taken a photograph of me?
There were cameras around, though not many, but they were large and distinctive and he didn't remember posing for one since before his voice broke.
Or does he have men keeping files on us, complete with sketches? Then after a moment: Not a bad man, really, I think… but very focused.
"I didn't think that you recognized the Portland Protective Association's sovereignty either," Ma
thilda observed.
"I don't recognize your parents," Thurston said. "Not as legitimate governments. But swords have a certain weight in themselves these days, and when I'm not in a position to immediately restore the nation's authority, I have to make tactical accommodations with de facto regimes. I could gain a fair bit of goodwill by handing the young lady there back to her mother."
A bleak smile. "I've had messages to that effect from Portland. Very emphatic messages, carried by men with titles that would be imposing if they weren't so funny."
"I'm the heir," Mathilda said quietly. "It's not that many years from now that I come of age, either, and I'll be the Protector then. You wouldn't win my goodwill that way… and I may live and rule a long time."
"A point," Thurston conceded. "On the other hand, if you get your fool neck chopped on this stunt, and I could have prevented it, your mother will be… very unhappy with me, for as long as we both shall live."
"And, well, that weight which you truly say swords have is why we turned out of our way to meet you," Rudi added blithely.
He let the accent he'd learned from his mother grow a little stronger as he went on:
"There are two hundred heavy swords waiting for you the now not ten miles away. Heavy and sharp, sure, and two hundred men to carry them, and every one a long ungainly dreadful bachlach thinking on you with dark and ugly intent, the creatures. The Church Universal and Triumphant's men-the Prophet's Cutters in person."
"Unit of the Sword of the Prophet, out of Corwin," Ingolf added. "Guardsmen commanded by a High Seeker."
Thurston's face changed, though most observers would have been hard-pressed to say exactly how. Rudi decided it was as if a buried playfulness had withdrawn further into the forged iron core of the man.
"Is that so?" he said softly. "I suggest we all get off our high horses and talk about it." Then: "Captain Thurston, we'll take a short rest break here."
"Mr. President!" barked a young officer who looked like a younger edition of the Boise ruler, then strode away shouting orders.
Thurston went on over his shoulder: "Sergeant. The map and table."
"Got it, Captain," a man behind him said.
Rudi dismounted and let Epona's reins drop; she'd stay still, unless he called her. The others tethered their mounts to convenient bushes, and they crowded for ward. The man who'd called Thurston a captain came back with a folding table covered in cork, then set it out and pinned a map to it, a modern one block-printed on rather thick cream colored paper. He was fair skinned under his tan, with a graying blond buzz cut and blue eyes in a nest of wrinkles, and otherwise enough like his commander to be his brother.
"Captain?" Rudi said quietly.
Thurston considered him for a moment, then gave a very slight nod of acknowledgment.
"Captain was the rank I held on March seventeenth, 1998-Army Rangers, Seventy-fifth, out of Fort Lewis near Seattle. Sergeant Anderson was with me before the Change."
For a moment the ruler's eyes were distant, looking down the road of years.
"Our team was one of the ones sent out to find out what the hell was going on… He'll acknowledge my self promotion to general in-chief and president pro tem when we retake Washington and hold national elections."
"Yes, sir, Captain," the man said stolidly.
"Sure, and we all have our nonnegotiable points," Rudi said gravely.
And the old Romans had a man next to a triumphant general who whispered, "Remember; you are human," in his ear. Not a bad idea.
Then the Mackenzie traced the road they were on with a finger, down southward towards the old reservoir. "They're making camp here-the most of them, with a net of scouts flung out…"
He looked at Ritva, and Mary quickly tapped the locations, describing each lookout post in detail.
"Only two hundred?" the general mused.
"It's an ambush," Ingolf pointed out.
"And surprise is the greatest force multiplier left, now that nuclear weapons don't work," Thurston agreed, rubbing a finger on his chin. "But why would the Prophet's men be on my territory? They're fully occupied with their war against New Deseret, according to my reports."
Rudi coughed into one hand. "Ah… as it happens, we were traveling with some folk from there, for safety's sake. But… "
His finger moved on the map again. "… we were heading east, so, well south of here. The Cutters wouldn't have seen us. The Deseret folk are still down there, on their way to home. We spotted the Cutters and turned north to warn you."
Mathilda spoke: "If you know anything about the Prophet-and you're closer to him than the Protector ate is, General Thurston-you'll know he's insatiable. If he gobbles up the Saints, you're next. Why haven't you helped them?"
And it's not tact that you excel in, is it, Matti? Rudi thought.
Thurston stared at her, his face bleak. "Young lady, I don't approve of theocracies-the Prophet's, or New Deseret's. Granted they aren't murderous lunatics like the Unawhacker, but there's the principle of the thing. They've been offered help, if they rejoin the nation and accept separation of Church and State."
Well, there's the little thing of the delayed elections in Boise, Rudi thought, but did not say aloud. That collection of two-score graybeards you call the Senate and the House of Representatives haven't been chosen by anyone since before I was born, from all I hear.
"In any case, they're here now, " Rudi said. "And I understand you claim this territory. In the immediate rather than theoretical sense, that is."
"I do," Thurston said shortly. "Let me think for a moment, please."
He took a turn, boots scrutching in the dirt and rock, armor rattling. A few of his officers tried to speak to him, but he waved them curtly aside. The soldiers waited, leaning on their four foot shields or their long javelins, a few munching hardtack crackers or chewing stolidly on board-tough strips of jerky.
Then the black general nodded as if to himself. "We'll go see about the Cutters. And then we'll see about you youngsters."
After a moment, he went on softly: "And perhaps we can also find out who told the Prophet's men I was coming this way."
Sure, and I wouldn't want to be that man when our good General Thurston finds out, Rudi thought.
He'd known a fair number of very hard men, good and bad, starting with his own blood father and Mathilda's dreadful sire, and he suspected he'd met another here.
"You're walking into their trap?" Mathilda asked, curious.
Thurston smiled. "It's only a trap if you don't know about it."
Rudi nodded to himself as Ingolf chuckled. "And if you know it's a trap, it's still a trap… for the other guy."
And that's something to remember.
****
The Boise wagonmaster had taken over the Cones toga with a nod of approval at the vehicle's state as he added it to the column's baggage train, but nobody had objected to the westerners getting their fighting gear out. The infantry marched in their armor as always, but the camp auxiliaries had put on light mail or studded-leather jackets too.
"I'm thinking this will be a footman's fight," Rudi said, thoughtfully shrugging to settle his brigandine and resting his longbow over his shoulder. "At least on our side."
"Couldn't we have an earthquake or a bit of a stampede or a flood, something of that order instead?" Edain asked. "It's a bit soon after the last fight for my taste, to be sure."
"It's in total agreement I am," Rudi said sardonically. "But I doubt the Prophet agrees."
Edain sighed. "That's the thing, Chief, innit?" He looked at the ground, and then the sky. "And I wasn't asking for a flood or earthquake, understood?"
Everyone was acting nonchalant, which was surpris ingly hard when you expected homicidal lunatics to attempt your life at any instant. The high hills pulled back on the right, but to the east they were still close to the road. Rudi sang softly in Gaelic as he walked:
Oh, fhag mi ann am beul a brugh
M'eudail fhein an donngheal dhubh…
She recognized it easily enough, but didn't know more than the odd word or phrase most Mackenzies dropped into their conversation now and then. Those were rote copied from Juniper just as so many imitated her accent, and others imitated them. Often badly and to her exasperated annoyance, though it had grown natural enough to the second generation, who'd picked it up from their parents just as they did any other part of their native tongue.
"What's it mean?" she went on.
"Ummm…"
Rudi thought hard; his mother's mother's birth speech was a splendid one for song and poetry and flights of fancy, but not especially easy to translate. It had always been the secret way he and his mother spoke together, at least until his younger half sisters Maude and Fiorbhinn picked it up as he had, sung to them in their cradles.
Aloud he went on: "It's a song about a brown-haired girl…"
Mathilda grinned at him and tucked one seal-colored lock under her coif with its covering of lustrous silvery-gray titanium mail. "Keep going!"
"I'd render it more or less like…
I left yesterday in the meadow of the kine
The brown haired maid of sweetest kiss,
Her eye like a star, her cheek like a rose;
Her kiss has the taste of pears."
He hadn't seen her blush often lately. She did now, and clouted him on the shoulder. Since he was wearing a padded doublet with short mail sleeves and collar under the brigandine torso armor, it was more symbolic than anything else.
"You're just missing all the Mackenzie beauties daz zled by your looks and lineage," she said dryly, after clearing her throat. "Well, I'm no light heeled witch-girl to be charmed onto her back with poetry."
"Alas," he said, rolling his eyes at her with a theatrical sigh. "What a pity. It's such a nice strong shapely back that it's a true pity it sees so little use."
Then they both laughed; though Rudi acknowledged to himself there was a little truth to his anamchara 's ac cusation. There were only three women on the expedi tion, after all-and two of them were his sisters, while the third was a very good friend and determined virgin.
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