"They're cleared," the ruler said. "I know they're most assuredly not out to kill me… which is more than I can say for my own guards."
That brought a wince. "I thought you should know, sir, we found out how those men were infiltrated into the guard detail. We and Military Intelligence."
"Interservice cooperation. Wonders never cease," Thurston said dryly. "Go on, Commander Lamont."
"They were supposedly rotated down by Colonel Winder in Lewiston."
"Supposedly?"
The younger man beside the officer of police spoke up. "Three men were sent. Someone intercepted them on the way here, presumably killed them, and substituted ringers. Ringers who looked fairly similar and had extremely well forged papers… well-briefed ringers, too."
"They couldn't have hoped to keep that up long," Thurston said thoughtfully. "This isn't a very big country, not yet. But it nearly worked. Get me a report on procedures to make sure this doesn't happen again by ten hundred hours tomorrow. And start working on the real question."
"Sir?" the two officers spoke almost in unison.
"Why do they want to kill me? Even if it worked, the vice president would take over-and Moore would de clare war on them immediately. Which I'm now going to do anyway. So there's no upside for them, and they didn't even try to hide the fact that they were involved. Get to work on it. Why is always more important than how, in the long run."
They saluted and turned away. Rudi cleared his throat.
"Your guards aren't with you for long, then, sir?"
The ruler of Boise nodded. "Candidates for our OCS-Officer Candidate School-spend some time in my presidential guard detail. It gives me a chance to evaluate them."
Father Ignatius spoke: "Someone knows an uncom fortable amount about your security precautions, General. Specifically, the Prophet does."
"Yeah, padre, they do," Thurston said.
His eldest son broke in. Martin, Rudi reminded himself, as the man spoke.
"Sir, perhaps it would be better if you went to the Old Prison for now. It's easier to secure the perimeter there."
Thurston chuckled. "Captain, the day I lock myself up to avoid assassins, you may move for my impeachment. Besides which, given what happened… what if I'm locking the potential assassins up in there with me?
"It's not actually a prison," he went on to the oth ers, nodding southward. "It was, once, long before the Change. Good solid stone built compound, and we've improved it since, a couple of miles south of town."
"The… guests… then, sir?" his son went on. "The sixth regiment is there-more than enough for security, and I'll vouch for them."
The general president's eyebrows went up: "You weren't commander of the sixth, last time I looked, Martin, just a junior officer." Then to his guests: "Any takers?"
Rudi shook his head. "No, thank you, sir, if it's all the same." He smiled. "I've a fancy to see this town of yours."
"I should see to the sixth myself, then, sir," Thurston's son went on.
"You're still not regimental commander."
The younger man grinned. "No, sir. But I am in com mand of B Company, Sixth Infantry Regiment, and it's not fair to let my platoon leaders and company sergeant carry the can this long. Particularly with so many new men."
"Very well."
"Give my regards to Mother, sir."
"And mine to Juliet, Captain."
Thurston's elder son turned his horse aside, followed by a pair of others. The tall gates on the other side of the bridge were open; a squad did a neat maneuver as they rode through the gloomy thickness of the wall. Rudi looked around as they rode eastward towards what looked like an interior citadel, with a big building with a gilded dome catching the setting sun not far from it.
Much was what you'd expect from any modern city; pre Change buildings modified to new uses, or new ones built to infill empty spaces that wasted precious space within the fortifications. Ground floors were stores or workshops with their proprietors living above, though less spilled onto the sidewalks than even Corvallis's strict laws enforced. There was a public library, and a fair assortment of houses of worship: Catholic, varieties of Protestant including some he didn't recognize, a Mor mon temple of some size and a small Covenstead that had him smiling at the sign of the Triple Moon.
Thurston's younger son pointed out features-the big silo shaped granaries where blindfolded oxen turned capstans that raised barley and wheat by geared screws, the waterworks and sewage plant with the attached bio gas plant that provided illumination and purified sludge for the farms, the railroad station…
The clothes on the people were very old fashioned, though, even in new cloth: jeans and T-shirts and jack ets, knee-length skirts and even the odd collar and tie. People moved briskly, as Corvallans did, but without the animated knots of impromptu argument you always saw there. There were no street musicians or beggars as there would be in Portland or Newberg or Astoria in Association territory, and no rickshaws, though plenty of bicycles and pedicabs. And none of the street shrines and little touches Sutterdown had.
Plus there were a lot of uniforms. And big, colorful posters on four-sided hoardings at crossroads. The process was stone plate lithography; he'd seen examples in Corvallis advertising this and that, and in Portland for tournaments and saints' days and proclamations from the Regent. The themes here were quite different.. ..
One he saw nearly every time showed five figures-a muscular soldier in the harness of a Boise regular, shield and sword in hand, an equally muscular male farmer or laborer with a spade, a woman with a pruning hook, another in a white coat with a test tube and a mother holding an infant. They all glared forward with square-jawed purpose, striding together in unison, and a legend beneath read in big block letters:
We're Building America with Our Sweat!
Defending It with Our Blood!
Don't Get In Our Way!
Others exhorted people to buy Reconstruction Bonds, whatever those were, or to attend night schools, whatever those were-he suspected they weren't much like a Mackenzie Moon School-or most frequently of all to vote in the Regional Representation Referendum, whatever that was. The visual images all had that charac teristic style although they were obviously by many different hands; even the idealized farm cottages managed to look muscular and determined, somehow.
He wasn't all that surprised. Most communities he knew had their own underlying unity of style. You could tell Mackenzie artwork, even when it was something as utterly practical as a wooden lever and stump for break ing flax-there'd be a little knotwork on the end of the handle, or a Triple Moon.
"And what would a Regional Representation Refer endum be, General? I understand the three words, but put them together and it's a mystery."
Thurston was deep in thought. His younger son answered instead:
"Whether we should elect a new Congress and Senate, locally, since we can't exactly do it nationwide. Fa… the president just realized a while ago that the ones we've got are all going to die of old age pretty soon."
Thurston snorted and gave him a pawky look, but seemed to come out of his brown study.
Rudi judged his moment after they passed through another wall into an inner citadel, taller and stronger even than that around the outer city, with more of the high rises built into it. The echoing dimness of the en tranceway made good cover for his words as he mur mured, "General… your ghost would make a most fitting banner for a war of revenge. They tried to kill you, but they'd lose even if they succeeded and double if they failed. There's more to that plot than the bit Edain and I foiled."
Thurston gave him a hard grin. "You noticed? Yeah… and you're not just a pretty face, are you, Rudi Mac kenzie? I've been wondering about that. Where's the upside for him? And I will be making a declaration of war-if this isn't a casus belli I'm Jane Fonda."
"Who?" Rudi said.
"A witch from before the Change-and not in the complimentary sense of the word."
The citadel had a broad parade gr
ound of good concrete several acres in extent, enough that the column of three hundred men didn't crowd it. The flat ground was surrounded by barracks and stables, armories and workshops and offices, plus a number of what looked like pre-Change houses with tiny stretches of lawn and garden.
"Major Winters, you may dismiss the column to quarters," Thurston said.
There was a bark of "Halt!" and "Left face!" then "Stand easy!" and "Dismissed!" The bulk of the troops filed off.
Thurston handed his horse's reins to a soldier in fa tigues of rough gray homespun and raised a brow as his thirty strong guard detail remained braced to attention.
"Excuse me," he said to Rudi. "I've got business to deal with, unless I miss the signs.
"Major?" he went on.
"Mr. President, the men of the guard detail request notification of the penalty you have in mind."
Boise's ruler raised his other eyebrow. "I've identified the security breach, Major, but if any further informa tion requires disciplinary action, rest assured you'll be informed."
The officer saluted and did a neat about-face before marching off. Watching Thurston's face, Rudi wasn't in the least surprised when the guards remained.
One corner of the Boise ruler's mouth quirked up very slightly. "I think I heard the order to dismiss given."
"Sir!"
It was the tall grizzled sergeant named Anderson; he'd been so quiet Rudi had almost forgotten his presence.
"Yes, Sergeant Anderson?"
"Sir, the men feel that some field punishment is in order."
The quirk in Thurston's mouth was almost noticeable this time. "Dick, are you telling me that the men are demanding a punishment?"
"Sir, as your guards-"
"I've seen some strange forms of insubordination in my time, but this is about it!"
Thurston's voice was a growl; his face was like a carv ing in dark wood as he looked at the rigid brace of the troops. The countenances framed by the brims and cheek pieces of the helmets were equally blank.
"Sergeant, give me a hand here."
Methodically, Thurston undid the snaps and buckles of his hoop armor. He handed the pieces to the noncom; when he'd finished not much of the man was visible. Rudi smiled to himself in silent applause as the general stalked out in front of the double file of guards.
"All right… pila… present!"
Each man flicked his throwing spear into the overarm position.
"Ready!"
The long javelins cocked back.
"Now, if there are any suicide assassins left in this presidential guard detail, take your best shot."
Thurston stood with his arms spread, then slowly turned in a circle. Silence followed; even the men and beasts moving about the big parade ground on various errands seemed frozen in place.
"All right' then," Thurston growled. "You young idiots, if I didn't think you were trustworthy, I'd have had you disarmed. No punishment for the assassination at tempt. Personnel security review isn't your responsibility. For this indiscipline, one week confinement to barracks and one week's stoppage of pay. Now slope spears and dismissed, damnit! I want a bath and I'm hungry. I'm too old for this shit and my wife's got supper cooking."
As they marched off, he turned to Rudi and his com panions. "You're all invited. Sergeant Anderson will arrange your quartering. .. after he stows that armor."
****
We know the Sun was Her lover
As They danced the worlds awake;
And She lay with His brilliance
For all Their children's sake.
Where Her fingers touched the sky
Silver starfire sprang from nothing!
And She held Her children fast in Her dreams.
There was a glory in that forest
As the moonlight glittered down;
And stars shone in the wildwood
When the dew fell to the ground Every branch and every blossom;
Every root and every leaf
Drank the tears of the Goddess in the gloaming!
There came steel, there came cities
Wonders terrible and strange,
But the light from the first-wood
Flickered down until the Change.
And every field, every farmhouse,
Every quiet village street
Knew the tears of the Goddess in the gloaming!
Now the Sun comes to kiss Her
And She rises from Her bed
They are young-and old-and ageless
Joy that paints the mountains red.
We shall dance in Their twilight
As the forests fall to sleep,
And She whispers in our ears the word remember!
Rudi let his hands fall as the soft-voiced hymn ended and the sun sank below the battlements to the west.
Edain and the twins did the same and they stood in si lence for a moment, heads bowed over crossed arms, then looked at one another and smiled.
As they turned to go back down the stair from the fortress wall he adjusted his bonnet with the spray of raven feathers in the clasp over his left eye; you had to spruce yourself a bit for dinner with the ruler of a foreign land, for form's sake and the Clan's credit. Dressing up for a Mackenzie was simplified by the fact that everyone wore kilt and plaid, except for a few older or pregnant women who preferred the arsaid. You just changed from the everyday ones into the ones you kept for festival, added a few fancies and you were set.
In his case the fancies included a leaf-green Montrose jacket with worked silver buttons down both sides; cravat and ruffled jabot; a sgian dubh with a hilt of silver and black bone tucked into his right knee sock; silver brooch at shoulder and silver buckles on his shoes wrought in curling knots picked out with turquoise. And a formal sporran, tooled black leather edged with badger fur rather than the rather battered and scruffy article he wore every day, which usually held odds and ends like a lump of wax and spare bowstrings or a half-gnawed hardtack biscuit.
Edain's outfit was a slightly scaled-down version of Rudi's, made by his mother's careful hands from the shearing of the sheep and the pulling of the flax on-and she was a loom mistress second only to Juniper Mackenzie among the clan. The main difference was that his formal coat was dyed a dark russet with Saint-John's-wort-Melissa Aylward called it his calm jacket.
Ritva followed his eyes and snickered. "And you were saying there were a lot of uniforms around here," she said. "At least they're different uniforms. Mackenzies are always going on about how free they are and how they can do just whatever suits their fancy and it's true-as long as they fancy a pleated skirt and a blankie over the shoulder. All in the Clan tartan."
Rudi raised one brow and took in their identi cal clothes; black pants, belts, jerkins with the silver tree-crown-stars…
"Hey, that's family, " Mary protested, tossing her golden hair. "Besides, these aren't uniforms. They're outfits. Say what you like about the Dunedain, we've got style."
They turned and went down the spiral stairs to the parade ground. The risers ran widdershins-Kerr-handed, they'd said in the old days, after a clan that were mostly lefties-to pin an attacker's shield arm to the inside. The others were waiting for them at the bottom; Father Igna tius had simply put on a clean robe, and Ingolf was in his usual good plain eastern-style roll-necked sweater and long coat. The two from Portland, however…
"Sure, and it's blinding them you'll be," Rudi said dryly.
Odard and Mathilda had both brought suits of the lat est Court fashion, suitable for a banquet at Castle Todenangst or the High Palace in Portland. Tight hose, tooled shoes with upcurled toes sporting little silver bells, tu nics with long dagged sleeves dropping down from the elbows, jeweled belts and dagger hilts. Odard's outfit was even particolored, wine red on the left and dark in digo blue on the right, not counting the golden fleurettes along the hems and seams; a spray of peacock feathers flared backward from the livery badge at the front of his roll edged hat with the dangling tail. Matti was a little more
somber in brown velvet, but the heraldic shield on her chest had the lidless eye picked out in genuine rubies and jet.. ..
Rudi flung up a hand. "Aieee!"
Odard snorted and examined with satisfaction the little golden chains that held the snowy linen of his fretted cuffs.
"You're just damned jealous, because you're stuck with that skirt and blanket," he said. "I return your envy with the lofty, pitying compassion suited to a Christian gentleman of good birth and coat armor."
Rudi grinned and told him where he could put his sympathy. "With a hay fork," he added.
"Peasant," Odard said genially.
They walked towards the house where the ruler of Boise lived. It was an unremarkable building, substan tial but not grand-redbrick and white trim and shut ters, two stories tall with dormered windows on the roof, of a type that had been old before the Change and often copied since. There wasn't much sign of pomp about it, save for the Stars and Stripes over the door and the two sentries in polished armor on either side. They snapped to attention with a clank and stamp and rustle, rapping their spear butts on the flagstones of the veranda.
"Come in, please," a soft voice said from inside as the door opened. "I'm Cecile Thurston."
They blinked against the incandescent mantles of the gaslight in the hallway, amid a clean smell of wax and floor polish and faint appetizing cooking odors; a black-and-white cat stared at Rudi and the others with the usual cool insolence from halfway up a staircase. The woman greeting them was tallish and in her forties, in a dress with a full knee length skirt, her long hair light brown where it wasn't gray.
"But you can call me Cecile," she said, giving a sudden brilliant smile aimed at him and Edain. "I know what you did for Larry."
It took him a moment to realize that Thurston was Larry to this comfortable-looking woman. There wasn't any physical resemblance to Juniper Mackenzie-Cecile Thurston was three inches taller, for starters-but she reminded him of his mother a little.
Sunrise Lands c-1 Page 44
