The Sword of the Lady

by S. M. Stirling

  Conrad′s facial nightmare of thick white keloid scars made his laugh even more alarming than that gravelly sound would have been otherwise. A steward with a white tabard and ivory baton made a gesture, and two pages brought trays from the other—much plainer—tent twenty yards away. They set out a platter of sandwiches, petit fours, and chilled pinot grigio wine with seltzer and waited, demure in their black livery of silk hose and pourpoint jackets embroidered with the d′Ath arms, curl-toed shoes of gilded leather cutwork and fezlike brimless hats.

  ″Your sons make such charming and efficient pages, Lady Delia,″ Sandra Arminger said. ″With such large, pink, shell-like, quivering ears.″

  Delia took the hint: ″Lioncel, Diomede,″ she said, and made a graceful gesture.

  The boys—blond Lioncel was twelve, dark Diomede two years younger—bowed in unison and walked backward until the distance was outside easy hearing, even with keen young ears. Tiphaine took a sandwich. The PPA′s liege lady Sandra and Tiphaine′s lady-in-waiting and chatelaine Delia—My girlfriend-for-the-last-fourteen-years Delia, Tiphaine thought, with a familiar flicker of resentment at the necessity for discretion. Best not to get out of the habit of being careful, though—shared a liking for dainty little things on manchet bread with the crusts cut off and some parsley on the side; in this case potted shrimp in aspic, deviled ham with minced sweet Walla Walla onions, or cucumber. Since this was Tiphaine′s own personal fief, there were also some substantial examples of bacon, lettuce, and tomato with mayo on sourdough. She smiled a little as she bit into one, savoring the smoky taste of the apple-cured meat and fresh, melting-ripe tomatoes and almost-warm crusty bread.

  ″What′s the joke, darling?″ Delia asked.

  They′d been together since Kat died in the Protector′s War, and she knew that slight curve of Tiphaine′s lips was the equivalent of a grin or even a chortle.

  The baroness shrugged, swallowed, blotted her lips with a linen napkin and said: ″A pleasant memory. The only pleasant memory our unlamented pseudo-Pope Leo ever gave me, but it made up for all the rest.″

  These days the local branch of the reunified Church was just annoying to someone like her, guarded by rank and powerful patronage. She pretended to be a good Catholic with sardonic relish and with gritted teeth the clergy pretended to believe her; Delia did the same, and was a secret witch to boot and High Priestess of a coven. But Norman Arminger had been literally medieval on the subject of gay people, as on much else, and his psychopathic pet ″Pope″ Leo had been worse.

  About the time her husband died Sandra Arminger had found out that the real Catholic Church had survived—a remnant had fled dying Rome behind the halberds of the Swiss Guard and ended up in the little Umbrian hill town of Badia, still their HQ—and that they′d managed to call a conclave to elect an equally real Pope. To lay the groundwork for reunion the Lady Regent had delegated schismatic Leo′s tragic, timely and officially accidental demise to Tiphaine, who′d been her wetwork specialist of choice back then.

  ″One sane Pope half the world away by sailing ship is much less trouble than a deranged one right next door,″ Sandra acknowledged. ″We needed our own Church immediately after the Change, but by that time Leo was . . . a problem.″

  Tiphaine′s smile grew a little wider. Sandra was fond of an old Russian saying: When a man causes you a problem, remember: no man, no problem. The recollection of the look on his starved-eagle ascetic face when he saw her step silently from behind an arras in his private chambers and hold up the hypodermic . . .

  I smiled then, too, she thought, happily nostalgic. That was a good day. We did a lot of housecleaning around then.

  ″Ah, if tombstones were only honest—how many would read died of being an inconvenience to the powerful,″ Conrad said genially.

  He was obviously following at least some of her thoughts; Delia winced slightly, for the same reason. She was a gentle soul.

  ″It′s not as if it was a personal impulse,″ Tiphaine said, mildly defensive. ″As the Lady Regent said, the man needed killing.″

  ″And you certainly didn′t leave muddy footprints all over the place,″ Conrad said admiringly. ″Very neat. Until just now I actually thought there was an outside chance it was really natural causes.″

  ″I don′t screw up. And I had a lettre de cachet with me just in case, anyway,″ she pointed out.

  Sandra smiled, with a faraway reminiscent expression of her own:

  ″The bearer has done what has been done by my authority, and for the good of the State. I always loved actually writing that . . . milady.″

  ″Tiph never had one stolen by a dashing Gascon musketeer, either,″ the Count of Odell said. ″And God knows she had enough of them pass through her hands—or did you just use the first and not bother having a fresh one made up for every job, d′Ath?″

  ″No, a new letter every time. I′ve still got all the old ones, stamped canceled in red ink.″

  ″You′re joking, right?″

  Delia shuddered and rolled her eyes. ″No, she isn′t. A whole file of them, all on parchment and all tied up with ribbons.″

  ″That′s sort of sick, you know?″ the Count of Odell laughed.

  ″We all have our hobbies, Conrad,″ Tiphaine said, pouring herself a glass of the fizzy white wine, and taking a sip that tasted of flowers and almonds and oranges. ″The Regent has her cats. You and Lady Odell are always on about those roses of yours. Delia loves babies.″

  Sandra turned to Delia and asked politely: ″And how is little Heuradys?″

  The younger woman brightened. ″Teething, poor lamb, my lady. But″—she caught Tiphaine′s eye and abbreviated the details to—″still cute as a button.″

  ″Oh, cute as a puppy,″ Tiphaine agreed. ″She′s going to be fair, like Lioncel.″

  And this is the last one!

  Three was a smallish family these days, and Delia had wanted to try again for another daughter to balance the set, but . . .

  We′re retiring that turkey baster, if I have anything to say about it! Which admittedly I may not.

  ″However, babies are much harder to housebreak,″ she finished. ″Plus puppies don′t need to be found dowries or fiefs when they grow up.″

  ″And on that note,″ Sandra said more seriously. ″What do you make of the situation? Not the details—the larger picture.″

  As always she was in combinations of gray and white, with silver gilt buttons down the sleeves and bodice of her cotte-hardi. A Persian kitten rested in a small basket on her lap, and dodged a paw out at the dangling trails of the wimple now and then.

  ″The enemy are still not pressing us very hard,″ she added, reaching in a hand and running a finger down its head; the little beast turned on its back and began to wrestle with the digit as she tickled its stomach. ″I expected them to be more aggressive.″

  ″The dance starts soon,″ Tiphaine said, and went into the details.

  Conrad nodded agreement when she′d finished. ″It′s a persisting strategy. Subtle, for an alliance. The sum total of a whole lot of little fights is more predictable than one or two big ones where luck and generalship can overcome the odds.″

  Unlike the older noble, Tiphaine reached for a second sandwich. Benefits of an active metabolism, she thought, as she marshaled reports and observations in her mind. Perks of running around wearing sixty pounds of steel half the time. Also good food makes me feel less pessimistic.

  Sandra pursed her lips and tapped a finger on them. ″I′m surprised our enemies are being so . . . farsighted. They′re both young men—Prophet Sethaz is barely thirty, and General-President Martin Thurston of Boise is younger still. In my experience, patience isn′t a quality of which men that age show any great fund.″

  ″Sethaz is . . . I′m not sure if he′s altogether human,″ Tiphaine said. ″He′s certainly mad and I wouldn′t rule out the stories of demonic possession.″

  Conrad grunted agreement. Sandra raised one elegant brow; her brown eyes were
a little surprised.

  ″Et tu, Tiphaine?″

  ″I′ve had too much contact with the CUT to doubt that something very strange is going on out there in the Valley of Paradise,″ she said. ″Strange and . . . unpleasant. You taught me to evaluate the evidence, my lady, not reject it because it conflicted with my assumptions. And you heard about Lady Astrid′s headache?″

  Sandra′s brow went up. ″That was supernatural?″ she said.

  Conrad snorted. ″Damned straight it was. I′ve seen Tiph draw, spin a hundred and eighty degrees, cut a dragonfly in half on the wing, sheath the blade and be back where she started in about a second,″ he said. ″Astrid′s just as good.″

  ″Just as fast, certainly,″ Tiphaine said with hard-won professional detachment.

  The Hiril Dúnedain had killed her lover Katrina during the Protector′s War in the course of the botched first attempt to get Mathilda back from the Mackenzies. Tiphaine didn′t dwell on the memory; it was too stressful.

  ″Stress″ is mostly the result of not being allowed to kill some asshole you really want to slice and dice.

  ″Something is going on,″ Conrad said grimly. ″And I lost my belief in the absolute reign of impersonal natural laws about twenty-four years ago. There′s something else at work in the universe. And it doesn′t seem to like us much.″

  ″A point,″ Sandra said reluctantly.

  She was that rarity these days, an atheist to the core, a complete materialist and rationalist. Tiphaine had been one herself, until recently, though they were both pious enough in public. As Sandra said, God was a myth but religion was as real as rocks and far more useful to rulers.

  Now I′m . . . not sure anymore, Tiphaine thought. I′m still not sure about God, that is, but the devil is starting to look awfully convincing. I′m going to have to have a talk with Delia about aligning with some protective spook or other. Even if I′d rather pull out my own toenails with my teeth.

  She went on aloud, her voice coolly neutral:

  ″And Thurston is just too smart for comfort. He is having riverboats built in Pendleton, with the locals and the CUT supplying materials. Sethaz lets him do that—the Cutters have those religious taboos about machinery. But as long as we hold the castles and walled cities along the Columbia we can strike north or south at the flank of any invader and we have superior water transport for our logistics.″

  ″Clear enough, then. Let′s not get bogged down in military details at this point,″ Sandra said. ″I leave that to you, my lady Grand Constable, and to the Chancellor. What′s the state of morale, Conrad?″ she went on.

  The thick-bodied man looked at the wineglass in his hand and said grudgingly: ″Uneven. The older nobles are being effusively loyal—and will stay that way as long as we keep the enemy outside our boundaries. If they get inside and it looks profitable to start cutting deals . . .″

  He shrugged, and Tiphaine mentally followed suit. Norman Arminger had built a feudal kingdom, albeit a strong one; his personal obsession had been the eleventh-century Norman duchy and its offshoots. Homegrown varieties of neo-feudalism without the PPA′s elaborate organization and terminology . . .

  Or our spiffy boots and radical-cool costumes, she thought.

  . . . were certainly common in other areas of the continent, and evidently overseas as well. But.

  But while loyalty is the great feudal virtue, unfortunately treachery is the corresponding vice, Tiphaine thought; history had been a compulsory subject in Sandra′s Household. And the older generation had to learn about loyalty, while treachery was something they already knew very, very well indeed. All those gangers . . .

  Sandra had never pretended to be any sort of soldier, and generally didn′t try to joggle her subordinate′s elbows—unlike her husband′s practice. At politics, however . . .

  ″I′ve looked over the list of tenants-in-chief you want to summon to the muster,″ the Lady Regent went on. ″It′s approved, with the following modifications.″

  She reached into an attaché case on the ground beside her and slid the typewritten schedules to them. Tiphaine took hers and her eyebrows went up. Tenants-in-chief held their land directly from the Throne on payment of mesne tithes—a share of their income—and service of knights, men-at-arms and foot soldiers of set number and equipment on demand. Part of the Grand Constable′s job was to see the troops were ready and call them up at need. The total numbers here were the same as her recommendations for the opening stages of the campaigning season, but some of those summoned were awkwardly placed.

  Then she smiled thinly as the reasoning sprang out at her. The initial levies of House Stavarov, the Counts of Chehalis up near Puget Sound, were summoned for the war in the east and the rally point at Walla Walla—the Counts themselves, their menie of household knights and paid men-at-arms, spearmen and crossbowmen, their castle garrisons, their subinfeudiated vassals and their menies. The third string, the peasant militia and town levies, were detached for service under the Warden of the Coast March against the nuisance-verging-on-threat of Haida raiders. Which meant . . .

  Conrad spoke first. ″Ah . . . Uriah the Hittite, my lady?″

  If there′s anyone who would change sides when a Cutter army arrived in front of his castle gates, it′s Count Piotr Alexevitch Stavarov.

  ″I′ve nearly killed Piotr at least three times,″ Tiphaine said meditatively. ″Isn′t there a saying that it′s the things you didn′t do that you regret at the end of your life?″

  And Conrad′s not looking too upset. He had that run-in with Piotr during the Protector′s War, when the idiot got half his command killed trying to rush a bunch of Mackenzies head-on. There′s still bad blood there.

  ″No, no,″ Sandra said. ″I′m not telling you to get them killed. We need every man, from what you and Lady d′Ath say. But if men must die, why not men from the menie of County Chehalis? They do their duty, and the Stavarovs are weakened.″

  She held two small, beautifully manicured hands out palm up and mimicked a balance, raising first one and then the other. The Grand Constable nodded.

  ″I can make the adjustments easily enough, my lady,″ she said. ″The logistics are a little more difficult, but not enough to matter.″

  ″The younger nobles are eager for a fight,″ Conrad went on, and Tiphaine nodded silent agreement.

  ″Ordinary people are . . . frightened, my lady Regent,″ Delia said, a frown on her oval face as she joined the conversation.

  She′d been a miller′s daughter here in Montinore village before she met Tiphaine. When it came to how the commons thought, she had a better instinctive grasp than any of them, despite all the Regent′s spies. Sandra and Conrad Renfrew had been founders of the Association, of course, and Tiphaine had been raised as an Associate. Delia went on:

  ″They′re nearly as frightened of having the Throne weakened and the nobles unrestrained if we lose as they are of Boise and the CUT. What′s helping a lot is the stories and songs about Princess Mathilda and Rudi and the rest, particularly with the younger people.″

  She was near-as-no-matter a Changeling, too, which helped. Tiphaine had noticed that the older generation tended to miss things, and she did too, albeit less often.

  ″Ah, yes,″ Sandra murmured, with a secret smile. ″How helpful of dear Juniper to compose and spread them. Between her and the Church preaching a holy war, we′re well covered on the propaganda front.″

  I′ve never seen you so openly furious as you were when you found out Mathilda had scooted off east with Rudi, Tiphaine thought. I actually had to talk you out of sending the army haring off eastward to drag her back. But trust the Spider of the Silver Tower to adjust and see the advantages!

  ″My lady, I think you′re underestimating the impact of these . . . songs . . . that are going the rounds,″ Tiphaine warned. ″As Delia said, the same technique is more effective nowadays, since so manymore are Changelings. Yes, it′s convenient right now—but it will have political consequences after the war to
o, provided we win, that is. Ignoring Mackenzie propaganda hurt us badly in the Protector′s War.″

  Sandra frowned; she′d known her husband′s weaknesses, but—

  But then she actually loved him, Tiphaine thought; she′d hated Norman Arminger herself, and feared him as she feared few men. Loved him despite his screwing everything that moved and shaking what didn′t, and his general skankiness. Leaving aside the mass murder and so forth; that was just business, though he enjoyed it.

  ″The latest . . . this vision of the Virgin telling Father Ignatius to look after Mathilda . . .″ Sandra said. ″I like that one very much indeed. It makes anyone who challenges her rights a blasphemer. And the cream of the jest is that Ignatius probably believes it himself—everyone knows the Order of the Shield of St. Benedict is outside our influence. Mt. Angel is cool to the Protectorate at best. They fought us in the war, after all.″

  ″The Princess was already popular,″ Delia said. ″Everyone who met her liked her. The commons love her. They . . . ah . . .″

  ″Look forward to her rule.″ Sandra nodded, with a wry twist to her mouth.

  Tiphaine could read her thought: And they′ll never love me.

  Respect and fear, yes; the smarter ones realized how she held the barons in check; but love, no. Too many memories of the early days remained raw, among the ordinary people. And for different reasons, among the Associates as well. Norman Arminger had taken Machiavelli′s dictum that it was better for a ruler to be feared than loved rather literally.

  ″This . . . this quest thing . . . it′s made her more like an icon,″ Delia continued. She hesitated again. ″Rudi too. The Sword of the Lady . . . it′s not just the people who follow the Old Religion. The rest think of the Virgin, you see? And Ignatius′ vision added to that. They think Rudi is the hero who returns, the one who comes back to save his people when the evil day arrives and things look their worst.″

  Sandra chuckled, a gurgling sound that made her cool brown eyes warm for a moment.

  ″Certainly dear Rudi has all the qualifications for a legendary hero. He′s very young, and he′s very handsome, and he′s very strong, and he′s very brave, and he′s very . . . not stupid.″