The Sword of the Lady

by S. M. Stirling

  ″Your turn,″ the Count of Odell said, nodding towards the pheasants skimming over the ground.

  ″Thanks, Conrad,″ Tiphaine said.

  This was one of the Five Great Fields of her manor of Montinore, and the three hundred acres of brown-blond wheat stubble with clover pushing up below provided plenty of cover. The ring of hawthorn hedge and wide-spaced poplars around it were full of good places for nesting, and even conscientious gleaners didn′t get all the fallen grain that attracted quarry.

  ″Three gets you five that cock pheasant makes it to the hedge,″ the older noble said.

  The big black-gray peregrine on her wrist crouched and bated with a bristle of feathers as she slipped free the hood, and a faint sweet ring from the silver bells on its bewit-straps as the talons closed and relaxed in anticipation. It knew what the sudden coming of the light meant. Then its mad slit-pupil yellow eyes flared dark as they fixed themselves on the prey; she could feel the strength of its grip on her wrist through the thick leather of the glove.

  ″Done,″ Tiphaine replied. ″Go for it, Riot Grrrl.″

  She tossed the arm up in a quick throwing arc and the bird flung itself skyward, soaring upward in a widening gyre with a harsh skri-skri-skri. The wind of long graceful wings was cool on her cheek and neck for an instant, in the mild dry warmth of a Willamette summer′s day.

  The covey′s alarm suddenly turned panic-stricken as the incarnate shadow of deep ancestral fear fell across them; they scattered, spattering away like water popping on a hot griddle. Frenzied, the male pheasant tried to outrace the circling doom rather than going for cover, his long tail feathers streaming as he strove for height.

  ″Stop taking the air, you idiot,″ the Count of Odell said sourly. ″She′s twice as fast as you are!″

  Tiphaine watched the dance of life and death in the cloudless blue above with eyes the color of moonlit glaciers, and smiled with a very slight curve of the lips. It made everything seem more intense for a moment, from the feel of the great muscles moving between her thighs to the smells of equine sweat and oiled leather, sweet crushed clover and dry dusty earth.

  ″That′s a lovely falcon you′ve got there,″ Conrad said, following the flight of the peregrine. ″And she′s going to cost me some money, dammit. Alaskan?″

  She nodded. ″Aleutian.″

  ″Must have cost you,″ he said.

  Trade was sparse from those remote islands, and had to run the gauntlet of Haida pirates in the Queen Charlottes and the Inland Passage. Only the most expensive luxury goods could bear the costs.

  ″Worth it,″ she replied. ″Northern birds always fly better, especially in yarak.″

  The Association nobles reined in and watched the falcon climb; the bird sitting hooded on Conrad Renfrew′s wrist was a big dark brown mews-bred Harris Hawk with chestnut shoulders and white banding on the base and tip of its tail. It had already taken two rabbits and a duck today. Despite which . . .

  It′s hardly falconry at all with a Harris, Tiphaine thought.

  She privately considered that species to be like Irish setters with feathers and talons. Unlike pretty well all other birds of prey they were social hunters, coursing in flocks in the wild, and they were affectionate to their handlers in ways other breeds just weren′t. That and the ease with which they could be bred in captivity made them favorites.

  They do everything but lick your hand and lift a leg to pee.

  ″You′ve got a good eye for a falcon,″ he admitted.

  ″I always did identify with predators. Back before the Change″—

  Conrad had been over thirty then; she′d been fourteen. They′d both survived the first Change Year when the vast majority of the human race had not, but the experience divided as much as it linked them. His generation were of the old world; those a few years younger than she were Changelings. She hung between—

  ″my bedroom was plastered with pictures of hawks and wolves and tigers and leopards.″

  The Count of Odell′s hideously scarred face quirked in a smile. ″Isn′t it usually horses with girls that age?″

  ″Usually. I preferred things with fangs or claws or both.″

  ″Why am I not surprised, Lady Death?″ he said, using the common pun on her title.

  ″Well, I had a Melissa Etheridge poster on the wall too.″

  ″Who . . . oh, she was a musician, right? I think I′ve heard you do some of her stuff now and then.″

  ″Right. Serious crush on her at the time.″

  That had been an eventful spring. She′d turned fourteen in January, met Katrina Georges in February when the other girl transferred to Binnsmeade Middle School, won a medal at the Oakridge gymnastics meet at the beginning of March, and then on the seventeenth the world had ended, at 6:15 p.m. Pacific Time.

  Birthday, first love, victory, then the laws of nature Change while you′re on a camping trip. Killed my first man five days later and couldn′t believe how easy it was. But I do miss CDs and my Walkman sometimes. Calling for the minstrel just isn′t the same.

  The thought was odd; it had been a long time since she remembered the Change much, or thought of herself as Collette Rutherton rather than the name Sandra had chosen for her when she became an Associate of the PPA. Conrad′s generation always had one mental foot planted in the old world, however hard they tried to pull it out or deny it; hers remembered it, but as though seen faded through multiple panes of glass . . . except on the rare occasions when it came flooding back to make the now seem like a mad dream for an instant.

  To those a few years younger, the Changelings, it was a fable.

  And I envy them that. Envy them and fear it a little. Even Delia . . . I love her but I don′t understand her sometimes. The kids are even worse. They don′t just take this world we′ve made naturally. They think but they don′t think about thinking the way I do sometimes and Conrad and Sandra and the other oldsters do all the time. The Changelings . . . it′s like they′re in a dream. So am I, but I know it. They never wake up or know they′re dreaming.

  ″Ah,″ Tiphaine said, pulling off her tinted glasses and shading her eyes with the hand that held them.

  A second later Conrad pushed his mirrorshades up onto the bald dome of his head and muttered something under his breath—probably damn as the falcon selected the cock pheasant′s gaudy gold-and-green plumage for its target.

  The peregrine stooped out of the sun, folding its wings and turning itself into a blurred streak of purpose. There was a faint thud from the air above, a puff of feathers against the bright afternoon sky.

  ″She binds!″ Tiphaine said, and didn′t add: I win.

  The two birds spun groundward locked together by the attacker′s talons. They struck with a thump on the wheat stubble not far away; the peregrine shrieked its triumph and its rage, mantling and darting its ripping beak downward with cruel precision. Everyone cantered over and pulled up; the falconer dismounted and whirled his feathered lure on the end of its cord with a rattling humm. The bird cocked an eye at it and jumped, then consented to be hooded again and fed from the hand. Varlets picked up the pheasant and added it to the basket, giving the neck a quick twist to make sure.

  ″That′s enough for verisimilitude,″ Conrad said with a sigh. ″Duty calls, and so does lunch.″

  Tiphaine nodded and turned her horse. They heeled their mounts into a faster pace, towards the little unwalled pavilion where the others waited. Conrad looked around at the stubble field.

  ″Nice work,″ he said. ″You can hardly see where the individual strips are.″

  Montinore manor operated on the usual PPA system; the peasant families each held scattered strips in all of the Five Fields, and the crops—winter wheat, spring oats and roots like turnips or potatoes, grass and clover for fodder—were rotated through the fields in turn. Back in the early days the semi-communal arrangement had let a few real farmers supervise hordes of refugee suburbanites who′d never before done anything more rural than curse the dandelions
in their lawns. Nowadays it made it easy for the manor lord to exact his share of the crop and labor service on the demesne.

  Tiphaine shrugged. ″I′ve got good reeves on my estates and a first-rate seneschal,″ she said. ″And Delia keeps them from dipping into the till while I′m away, which is too often. I like living here, and to hell with Portland and Castle Todenangst. I′m sick of spending my days in armor; being Sandra′s assassin and duelist was fun, but Grand Constable is just work. Damn the Prophet, damn the United States of Boise, and damn this war too.″

  ″Now you know why I was so glad to unload the job on you.″ Conrad shrugged in turn. ″Be glad you′ve got a nice defensive war you can really get your teeth into. We′d likely be fighting about now even if Boise and Corwin hadn′t gotten big eyes. Sandra hasn′t had us spend the last decade and change building castles and saving up money and training troops for nothing.″

  Tiphaine sighed. ″You′re right, of course. She′s not any less ambitious than Norman was, just a hell of a lot more patient and sneaky. Oh, well, she′s the sovereign.″

  ″Until Mathilda comes of age,″ Conrad said, and grinned like the ornament on a cathedral waterspout. ″That′s going to be interesting.″

  ″Then it′ll be the Changelings′ turn. I suspect by then a lot of things will be different.″

  They drew rein near the pavilion, under the branches of the great garry oak that shaded it; Tiphaine returned the salute of the Guard captain with a curt nod and a lift of her riding crop.

  ″Sir Lothair.″

  He wore half-armor like the two-score mounted crossbowmen, and a peaked Montero cap with a long curling feather at one side, what she′d have called a Robin Hood hat in her youth. The dozen lancers nearby were in full fig, armored cap-a-pie on barded destriers, blazing steel statues with their visors down and eyes invisible behind the narrow vision slits. The men-at-arms would be feeling like buns in a bake oven right now, combined with a sauna. She′d experienced it often enough, and would again unless the enemy were civilized enough to fight only in cool weather.

  Though oddly enough, when the weather′s really cold, full armor doesn′t give you any warmth at all.

  ″My lady Grand Constable,″ he said after a moment′s scrutiny for form′s sake. ″My lord Chancellor. You are recognized and may pass.″

  Grooms took the horses as they dismounted, and the hunt servants brought up their count of pheasant and duck, quail and rabbit, for the semiritual inspection.

  They are, indeed, very dead, Tiphaine thought with a trace of whimsy as she looked at the limp, bloodied forms and prodded one with a gloved finger. And someone should eat them very soon in this warm weather.

  She went on aloud as Conrad handed his hawk and perching glove to his falconer: ″The game to good Father Mendoza, with my compliments.″

  She nodded towards the steeple of the village church a mile westward across the great common field, rising above trees and red-tiled roofs, with the Coast Range green-blue beyond it. They′d give the parish priest, his household and some of the ill or indigent a couple of good dinners.

  Slyly: ″And tell him that my lord the Count of Odell has graciously donated five rose nobles for the almshouse fund.″

  ″Gold? I didn′t say anything about ′three gets you five′ in gold,″ Conrad said, alarmed; that was a month′s wage for a mounted man-at-arms.

  ″Even for someone who started out as an accountant you are such a cheapskate, Conrad. You′ve got the whole Hood River Valley in your fief, for God′s sake. And two toll bridges. And a chartered town to tax. I′m a lowly baroness with a few manors. Show some class.″

  She stripped off her gauntlet and held it out. He unwillingly dropped the little dime-sized coins inside; she folded the long cuff over and into the wrist, then tossed it into the game basket.

  ″Go,″ she said.

  The varlet gulped thankfully and jogged away. Listening to the higher nobility exchanging badinage wasn′t comfortable for someone that low on the food chain, though it would probably make excellent gossip at the village taverns, crowded as they were with the entourages of the visitors.

  The pavilion was Sandra′s, and hence in exquisite taste—heavy oiled silk striped white and blue on a hidden framework of galvanized poles. Bullion tassels all around the edges were woven with glass strips that chimed lightly when they touched. Rugs covered the ground, glowing with designs of flowers and vines in wine red and green and blue. A light folding table and chairs of carved reddish wood stood within; it was quite private, and even the men-at-arms and crossbowmen of the Protector′s Guard were at a discreet distance.

  Tiphaine removed her round roll-brimmed noble′s hat with the broad trailing tail and joined Conrad in two elaborate leg-and-hand-flourish bows to the pair of noblewomen within. One was Delia de Stafford, blue-eyed and black-haired and delicately beautiful and thirty to her own thirty-eight, and dressed in a daring new mode she′d pioneered for semiformal occasions away from court. It was based on what commoner women wore; a long light under-tunic and knee-length over-tunic, but with gauzy silks and lots of lace making it a fantasy in white and lavender instead of utilitarian plainness. A belt of old woven gold held a jewel-hilted ceremonial dagger to show that she was an Associate, and the equally symbolic ring of silver keys that marked her as Chatelaine of Barony d′Ath.

  The other was Sandra Arminger, Lady Regent of the PPA, in a conservative pearl gray and white cotte-hardi and a silk headdress confined in a net of platinum and diamonds. To her Tiphaine and Conrad added a bend of the right knee that touched the carpet for an instant.

  Although technically I should curtsey, she thought. It looks ridiculous in pants, though.

  ″My liege lady and Regent,″ she said. And: ″My lady Delia.″

  ″If you two are finally finished slaughtering harmless birds and quite small animals we can get to work,″ Sandra Arminger said.

  She folded the Weekly Trumpet she′d been reading—it was turned either to the crossword puzzle or to an article headlined: ″Feudalism: God′s Will Or Just Common Sense?″—and tossed the newspaper on top of two illustrated magazines, Tournaments Illuminated and The Associate′s Town and Castle Journal. Then she extended her hand to both of them in turn for the ritual kiss of homage.

  ″The social cover story for this is a bit of hawking,″ Conrad of Odell pointed out. ″It helps to actually do some hawking.″

  Tiphaine nodded, standing hipshot at catlike ease with her left hand on the hilt of her longsword. A falconry party was something you could invite only chosen people to, without offending anyone—or at least without giving them formal reason to be offended, as exclusion from a Council meeting would. Even if everyone knew it was really a political conclave before the Council.

  ″Though we′ll miss the boar hunting this year, with the war,″ she said with a sigh, looking westward.

  Montinore village was in the foreground, just across the road and railway that led south to Newburg; beyond that was the white manor house, the fields and hilly vineyards and orchards of her demesne, and then the stark square tower and walls of Castle Ath on its height, ferroconcrete covered in pale stucco, like a fortress in a picture book with banners streaming from the turrets.

  After that started the great forests of the Coast Range, mile after mile of quiet umber shade. She thought of the quick belling of hounds through the glades in the chill October air, and the quarry at bay beneath a half-fallen fir tree . . .

  ″Fighting with pigs?″ Sandra said, sipping at a glass of scented herbal tisane that tinkled with ice. ″In freezing mud? While it′s raining? This is recreation?″

  ″It′s not quite as much fun as hot sweaty sex,″ Conrad acknowledged. ″But in the right season you can do it more often, or at least for longer.″

  ″Speak for yourself, Odell,″ Tiphaine said with an expression that had the shadow of a wolf′s grin behind it. ″Not all of us have your limitations.″

  Delia smothered a chuckle, and Sandra sig
hed.

  ″Children, children. Oh, sit down, Tiph,″ she went on, tucking a lock of graying brown hair back under her wimple. ″You do tend to . . . loom over one.″

  ″My lady Regent is . . . a dimensionally challenged person,″ Tiphaine said; Sandra was five-two, and still slight in her fifty-fourth year. ″I was fourteen when you took me and Kat into the Household and I was already taller than you. I can′t help looming.″

  ″You can′t help being a big blond horse of a woman, you mean, d′Ath,″ Conrad said. ″That′s why you′d never have made it to the Olympics.″

  She nodded, although she had a whipcord-and-steel length of limb that made her look quite slender at first glance. The Olympics had been her dream before the Change, but . . .

  But in fact I was already too tall and still growing. Gymnasts were all munchkins, like muscular little steroidal pixies. I′d have ended up a Phys Ed teacher or a girls′ basketball coach or something. Or, maybe if I′d switched to track and field—

  ″Whereas I just cast a welcome shade,″ Conrad continued smugly, slapping dust off his blocky torso.

  His chair creaked a little as he sat. The Chancellor of the Portland Protective Association was no taller than Tiphaine—around five-ten—but he′d always been shaped like a fireplug made of bone and muscle. Now that he was past fifty and not taking the field anymore he′d added some solid flesh to that, and he grunted with relief as he sat, running one spatulate hand over the shaven dome of his bullet-shaped head.

  ″That′s one way of saying I′m getting fat, Odell.″

  Tiphaine sat with more than her usual leopard grace and crossed ankle over knee. Conrad grunted again as he reached to take a handful of shelled hazelnuts and walnuts from a Venetian glass bowl on the table, salvage from some museum.

  ″You too shall be in your fifties sometime, my lady Grand Constable,″ he said, tossing one of the nutmeats into his mouth. ″In precisely twelve years, in fact.″

  ″Possibly, my lord Chancellor,″ Tiphaine said. In the unlikely event someone doesn′t kill me first. ″But I don′t think the years shall weigh quite so heavily on me as they do on you.″