The conversation went general after that; the Thur stons saw them to the door later. The big central enclo sure of the citadel was only half-darkened; there were crescents burning on the towers around it, and gaslights around the perimeter, and guards walking their rounds. Still, it had the sad slightly chilly horses-and-woodsmoke smell of nighttime in a fortress, and it was easy enough to halt everyone in a place where it was impossible to be overheard.
"Something smells," Rudi said bluntly.
Nobody looked like they disagreed. "That was the most counterproductive assassination attempt I've ever seen or heard of," Odard said thoughtfully.
"Guaranteed to produce just the wrong results if any thing went pear-shaped," Edain agreed. "So unless these Cutter people are stupid-"
"They aren't," Ingolf said flatly.
"By no means," Father Ignatius said. "Wicked, and I would say almost worshippers of evil in some senses, but extremely efficiently so for the most part."
"Then there's something crooked going on," one of the twins said. "Someone's angling for the Boromir Award."
"By which you mean treachery, in the common tongue," Mathilda said with heavy patience. "Is it really important to us? We're just passing through."
"We want to keep alive while we pass through, or we'll be staying-six feet under," Ritva said.
"There is that," Rudi said. "They were trying to kill us, too. And the assassination… it would probably have worked if we weren't there. But then what would they have gained, with Thurston and his sons dead? They aren't his heirs anyway, are they?"
"No," Father Ignatius said. "There's a vice president, Colonel Moore, who is an old friend of the general's and beyond suspicion. And a competent man."
"We need to get a bit of a grip on what's going on here," Rudi said. "Since we're guests… or at least it wouldn't be the wisest thing to leave right now, as it were."
Chapter Nineteen
Boise, Idaho Provisional Capital,
United States Of America
June 11-15, CY23/2021 A.D.
The practice ground occupied the clear space just inside the city wall, paved with blocks of asphalt cut from old roads. It was mostly deserted with sunset only a half hour off. Mostly…
Edain unstrung his bow and held out his hand. Six of his arrows were neatly grouped in the bull's eye and one more had been pushed three inches out by a backdraft; none of the others had come close to matching that. The sight made him a little nostalgic; it had been years since he did much shooting at a beginner's target like that.
"Here!" the Boisean cavalryman who'd proposed the match said, and slapped green bills into his hand.
He did it hard enough to sting, if Edain's hand hadn't been covered with calluses as thick as his own. As it was, there was a dull thock sound.
"Many thanks," Edain said, as several of his comrades followed suit. "And sure, anytime you feel like shooting a few again…"
Garbh rose and came over, looking up in his face and wagging her tail slightly because she sensed his enjoy ment. He'd been raised to know the value of a dollar, mostly because it represented sweat and sore muscles, often his own, and partly because even near Dun Juni per clansfolk didn't use coined money much, still less the paper kind. Bets like this were just for fun, though; found money you could waste without being guilty about it, like a prize for winning a game at a festival.
The infantrymen who'd been watching laughed, slapping one another on the back, which produced a series of tonk sounds as hard palms hit steel armor; then they started collecting their bets from the horsemen of the cavalry troop who'd shot against him, or who'd bet on those who did. It had been natural enough to fall in with them; they were all conscripts doing their term of service, and close enough to his own age.
Their grins were the reverse of the cavalry's sulks. The remaining cavalry woman smiled, though; she was Rosita Gonzales, the sergeant who'd greeted them back on the road. And she'd seen him shoot before, for real, at that.
"Notice I wasn't putting any money on you losing," she said.
"Why am I not surprised, Rosita?" he said, batting his eyelashes theatrically. "Would a lady as brave, beautiful and skilled as yourself be anything but wise? Now, if I could spend some of these fine winnings on a drink for the both of us, that would set the flower crown of spring upon my happiness, so it would."
She snorted laughter. "Yeah, try to butter me up. I'm too old for what you've got in mind, kid! Or you're too young for me."
"Now, why would you be thinking I had something in mind?" he said.
" 'Cause I know guys your age are hard-ons with legs and you always have something in mind."
"Not more than every thirty heartbeats or so. And you're not too old for anything you choose," he said.
Sincerely, since she was short of thirty and comely if you liked women wiry and dark and muscular. Which he did; being nineteen, he liked them almost any way except elderly or unripe or wolverine trap ugly.
"Keep smiling like that and I'll lose my resolve to be good, so I'm off." She paused to rumple Garbh's ears, which the mastiff permitted, having been introduced. "See you later."
Edain shook his head and put the folded bills in his sporran, watching her depart-or at least the part working in her rather tight black leather riding breeches-and sighed.
"Christ, man, how'd you get Iron-ass Gonzales so friendly?" one of the foot soldiers said.
"Not iron, I'd say; just pleasantly squeezable, from the look of things," he said, strolling over to retrieve his ar rows. "Not that I've had the opportunity to test the notion, alas."
"Ah, I always thought she liked girls. Maybe it's your skirt she likes."
"Which would show good taste," Edain said. "For it's true I like both the wearing of the kilts and the kissing of the girls myself."
Which got him more laughs; he snorted and slid the unstrung longbow into the carrying loops.
"No, it's me winsome charm and the archery that wins the ladies, and I don't doubt it'll work here in the big city too."
"You wish. It's pretty good duty otherwise, being stationed here in the capital, but with all the goddamned army swinging dicks around you can't get laid without paying for it, and even that's expensive as fucking-you know what I mean-hell. Two-fifty a day and your keep is good money out in the sticks, someplace like Lewis-ton, but it doesn't go too far here in Boise."
There were half a dozen of the soldiers, and they were all friendly now.
Now that I've earned them all a week's pay or more, he thought.
Most of them came from little farms and villages that didn't sound all that much different from Dun Fairfax, if you allowed for the fact that they were Christians of various sorts-Protestants and Catholics and Mormons, he thought, though he wasn't altogether clear on the dif ferences and none of them seemed to be much bent out of shape about it either. He'd been nervous and out of place in General Thurston's house, but these lads he understood right off.
"Thanks for the tip on the bets," one of them said; he was a towhead named John Gottberg, and the file closer, which meant roughly a corporal. " I heard about the thing where you and your bossman saved the president's life, but most of those donkey dongs were just in from road patrol and hadn't got the word."
He extended his hand towards Garbh-cautiously, which wise men did, with a dog who weighed a hundred and twenty pounds and came up above their waist.
"Friend!" Edain said.
She sniffed politely but didn't radiate anything beyond tolerance.
"She's a bit of a one man dog," Edain said.
"Best kind. Hunting dog?"
"Hunting, guard… raised her from a pup, that I did."
"Nice to see the burro bangers taken down a bit," said a freckle-faced redhead called Kit Mullins, returning to the discomfiture of the cavalry. "Fuckers think they're hot shit 'cause they come from ranches and ride around. We're the backbone of the army, by God. It's us who stand and take it and dish it out when the metal hits the meat."
>
That made the first one thoughtful: "Maybe Iron-ass really likes your looks; she didn't tell them."
"And maybe she made a bit on side bets," another said.
Edain shook his head. "It's Rudi she'd really like to meet. The Chief has a way with the girls and that's a fact."
"So, this guy Rudi you're traveling with, he's your king or something out west? They say you've got kings and knights and weird shit like that out there."
"No, he's the Chief's tanist," Edain said. "Ummm… by Chief I mean the head of the clan, the Mackenzie herself herself. She presides over the Clan, and he's her… understudy."
"So it's like a king, or what do they call it, a crowned prince?"
"Not in the least! The Chief's the Chief because the clan assembled hailed her-many's the time over the years-at the Beltane festival. And we hailed Rudi, too, as tanist, just now. And we'll hail him as Chief too, when his mother dies or steps down, free and open for all to see, and any benighted ijeet who wants turnips and cowpats thrown at him could stand up and ask for the same."
"So hailing, that's like an election?"
"A bit. Everyone makes speeches and we all argue ourselves blue and we have a show of hands. And then there's games and a lovely great feed, and singing and dancing and music and drinking and sometimes a bit of a punch-up on the sidelines."
"Sounds like quite a party!"
"It is that. It's supposed to be very Celtic, which is what they called clansfolk in the old days. And Beltane bowers… the girls like the blossoms. Puts them in the mood to worship the Goddess, as it were. And speaking of parties, what do you say to a few beers?"
"Hey, mostly, 'Hello, my dear beer!' " Gottberg said.
Edain checked the fletching of the last arrow as he slid it back into the quiver. He caught the glances the squad gave one another, and this time kept his look of innocent friendliness without letting the grin show. They were a lot like the lads back home, which meant they were always ready to put one over on an outsider, friendly or not.
"What do you say we do a little pila practice?" Gott berg went on, elaborately casual. "And low man buys the first two rounds? It's not too different from throw ing a hunting spear… I'll bet you use hunting spears sometimes…"
"Oh, sometimes, but mostly bows. I'm not much with spears… I wouldn't turn down a sporting bet with you lads, though."
They walked over to the pila targets, shapes of tight rolled matting on wooden posts. Those at least resem bled men with shields, which was good. He'd never yet fought an enemy or hunted a beast who was round and colored white and red in concentric circles. They weren't very far away-only about twenty yards-but then the heavy javelins were short-range weapons. The pila were piled in neat tripods with the big oval shields stacked against them and the helmets hung by the chinstraps. The young men put the helmets on and clipped their cheek pieces in place before picking up the shields and javelins.
Good, Edain thought. Practice the way you're going to do it for real, or as close as you can.
Thoughts like that always sounded a bit like his father's voice.
"Two throws each," the file closer said. "Kit, get a couple of spares for Eddie here."
It took a moment for Edain to realize he was an Eddie, locally. While he struggled with the thought, the Boisean noncom took a step forward, shield up. The spear went back and then forward in a long blurred arch. There was a thunk! as it sank through the center of the target and into the wooden pole within. The second matched it, a handbreadth lower down. Both sank as the long iron shanks behind their points bent.
"Now that's clever," Edain said. "So they can't throw them back at you, eh?"
The file closer nodded. "And if it goes into a shield, whoever's holding it has to throw it away or spend time trying to pull the pila out. You want to go next?"
"Oh, I'll wait and see how the rest of your lads do," Edain said innocently.
Or he thought it was innocently; Gottberg was a little older than the rest of his file, a bit older than Edain himself, and shrewd.
Most of them were nearly as good as their corpo ral. When they'd finished the twelve throws, only four spears had missed or glanced off, and most of the ones that hit were solidly planted through the wicker or in the central pole. The Boise soldiers knew their business, and they had the strong limber bodies of well fed young men who'd worked and trained hard all their lives.
They'd most likely all inherited keen eyes and steady hands too; even in fortunate areas like this, not many weaklings had lived through the Change and its aftermath to breed more of their kind.
I can't lose either way, Edain thought. If I'm last man, I buy them more beer and they get talkative. If I'm not, I get more respect
… and they'll be more likely to speak freely, eh? And I hate to lose; so may Cernunnos guide my hand!
He hefted the spear he'd been handed, which had a much dinted shaft and an iron shank that looked as if it had been straightened any number of times. It was a practice weapon; well balanced, but probably a little off center. And it was as heavy as a battle spear, or nearly, which was not meant to be thrown.
"Ground and center, ground and center," he murmured to himself.
Edain was wearing his brigandine, which was fair, but that was a hair less hampering than the cuirass of steel bands and hoops that was their equivalent. He didn't use the solid face front step and-throw method the local men did; that was designed for use with a great twenty-pound shield in your left hand to balance you. Instead he took a half sideways skip forward and put all his body into it with a snapping twist. Throwing something this heavy that far took real effort; his breath hissed out between clenched teeth.
Good!
The throw had the smooth heavy to-light flow that said it was going where it should as it left his hand. It arched higher than the others had… and then his lips moved in a silent curse as it wobbled in flight.
Thunk.
The long pyramidal point of the spear clipped a little twist of osier from the wicker figure's notional head as it went by, and then banged into the asphalt a half dozen yards farther on.
"Not bad," Gottberg said, taking off his helmet and scratching vigorously. "Most newbies can't even get a pila to go that far."
The redhead named Kit looked at him narrowly; he'd be the one buying the first two rounds if Edain wasn't. "I thought you said you only used bows?"
"No, I said I mostly used bows," Edain said, grinning. "Sometimes we use spears-hunting boar in thick country, when you want something heavy at close range. Aren't you glad I didn't put money on it, eh?"
Several of the others laughed. Kit smiled, if a little sourly. "Here," he said. "Try this one-it didn't bend and it's better than those old clunkers from the practice bin."
Edain caught the tossed spear with a smack of palm on wood. It was a better weapon; he could feel it in the swoop and sway as his arm rocked back under the impact. He made a half bow.
"Nar laga Ardwinna do lamh," he said formally.
He didn't speak the old language-only a few schol ars did, and Rudi and his mother and his sisters Fiorb hinn and Maude, of course-but he'd learned a few of the Chief's sayings, as most people in the Clan did.
"May the Huntress never weaken your hand," he repeated in English.
Breathe in, breathe out, and… throw.
Shunk.
This time he speared the target through the inner edge of the shield. Not the best throw-just good enough to win him next to-last place.
Kit sighed. Edain held out his hand. "We're low men on the pole, so let's split those first two rounds," he said.
The redhead shook the outstretched hand. That won him more acceptance than he'd hoped for. The file shed and racked their armor at the gatehouse barracks. Edain did the same with his brigandine and bow and quiver, though it made him feel a bit naked so far from home and among strangers.
"Let's get that beer," Gottberg said. "And something to eat."
"They don't feed you?" Edain asked,
surprised. A lord usually did, at least keeping table for his full-time warriors.
"Sorta-kinda." Kit grinned. "It's on the list of Soldier's Superstitions."
At Edain's raised brow he went on: "We all get it on a printed sheet when we're called up, with the rest of the paperwork. It's sort of a list of things soldiers believe. Like, 'It is very unlucky to get a spear in the guts on a Friday.'"
Gottberg went on:"The one he's thinking of is,'When the sun rises in the east, it is a sign that we shall have stew for dinner.' "
"Mystery meat stews with desecrated vegetables. And they say the stuff with it is beer. I say the quartermaster's horse has something bad wrong with its kidneys."
"We'll go to the Fife and Drum instead. That's where a lot of guys go off duty. It's a bit pricey but not too bad and it's all fighting men."
"I'm not much of one for brawling in taverns."
"Oh, they don't brawl there. Because-"
****
The city of Boise was an orderly, law-abiding place, like the rest of the United States governed from there. People mostly liked it that way, and those who didn't tended to meet the National Police and then either dance the hempen hornpipe on air or spend many sad and stress ful years working under extremely unsympathetic management in the National Infrastructure Reconstruction Battalions.
The Fife and Drum tavern was orderly and law-abiding too, usually, but the National Police didn't go there. Nor did the military police, nor did officers, and it wasn't a place where a civilian would last long either.
The loud raucous sawdust-floored atmosphere re minded Edain of some places he'd seen in Corvallis, stu dent hangouts around the university. The smell was the same-gaslights, cooking food, beer. There was a little more sweat, and the voices were harder, somehow, and there were a lot of battered weapons and hacked shields on the walls, down to one made from a pre-Change traffic sign with a spear that looked like a kitchen knife on a stick beside it.
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