″Are you all right, anamchara mine?″ Rudi said, his arm holding her against his shoulder.
Blood was spattered across his face, some of it his own, but the wildness was fading from it, leaving only the warm blue-green gaze that had been in her life so long.
″No,″ she said. ″But I will be now.″
CHAPTER TEN
EMERGENCY COORDINATOR′S RESIDENCE CHARTERED CITY OF DUBUQUE PROVISIONAL REPUBLIC OF IOWA SEPTEMBER 14, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD
″He′s ... dead,″Kate Heasleroad said numbly.
″Yes, he is, Kate. You can grieve later. You have to do things! Now!″ Mathilda Arminger spoke firmly. The pain in her arm and ribs was like white ice playing up into her shoulder, but she kept the bandaged limb hugged against her aching side. The bandages were wet—the priest said she needed stitches—but she could attend to that later; there weren′t any bone spikes prodding into her lungs, for all that each movement of her chest was like breathing in molten lead.
If I move very carefully, I′ll be all right.
The younger woman′s eyes were blank as she repeated: ″He′s . . . dead. Tony′s dead.″
She began to rock back and forth, moaning. Mathilda suppressed an impulse to bury her hands in her hair and shriek in frustration. The urge to slap the other woman across the face was even stronger but she repressed it, even when Rudi raised one palm and mimed the action.
″That only works in stories,″ she said decisively.
″Well, we′d better do something, anamchara mine. The wheels are going to come off the wagon here, and soon. The Bossman dead, Denson dead . . . If we don′t just run for the docks they′ll be looking for someone to blame . . .″
″I know what to do, and I′m not going to leave Kate without help now of all times. I owe her. Get this place in order, would you, Rudi? I′ll be right back.″
The nursery was down a corridor and through a pair of light swinging doors; she put one foot ahead of the other, with a determination that brought beads of sweat to her face. It had room for more than one infant, and the walls had an attractive modern mural of animals and flowers. That showed clearly, for the wall-mounted gaslights had been turned up. The boy rested on his back in a padded crib, dressed in a pink jumpsuit and looking up at a mobile of cutout cats and dogs and birds, taking an occasional dab at it with one chubby paw. The noise had woken him, but he wasn′t frightened yet. Kate had said that he was a good baby.
The children of the Coordinator of Dubuque were elsewhere tonight, probably to their parents′ eventual intense relief, but there was a sadness to the scattered toys—wooden blocks, a beautiful pre-Change doll with blond hair, a rocking horse with a carefully repaired stirrup. The nurse was a middle-aged woman in a print dress; she stood before Tommie Heasleroad′s crib with an aluminum baseball bat clenched in her hands and an expression of wild determination on her rather horsy face.
That grew greater as she took in the newcomer′s alien—and blood-spattered—clothes and disheveled hair. Mathilda paused for an instant to take a necessary deep breath and pitch absolute confidence into her voice. The nursemaid deserved it if possible, rather than having the boy taken from her—she was obviously ready to sell her life for his.
And it wouldn′t do to bleed all over him, Mathilda thought for an instant of half-crazed humor before she spoke:
″Your mistress needs her son with her. It′s quite safe now, but you must bring him to her.″
She turned, and the nurse scooped up the child and followed . . . although she kept the bat in one hand.
Mother was right. Just act as if there′s absolutely no doubt you′ll be obeyed, and chances are you will be. The more so when people are frightened.
It had been only moments, but the room was in order when she returned, if you didn′t count the pooled blood, and white-faced servants were stumbling to clean that up with cloths and mops. The bodies of the dead Cutters and guardsmen had been carried away; Anthony Heasleroad had been laid out, his body covered with something that had probably started as an embroidered tablecloth, and his eyes closed. Mary and Ritva were there too, looking the worse for wear. Mary had a bruise that would cover a full half of her face and was talking in Sign, leaning against Ingolf as she did and squinting as the swelling nearly closed her one good eye:
They had a ship waiting. Left a small rearguard and got away—heading south. It′s Chaos and Old Night out there now, Rudi.
Rudi stood at the top of the stairs, and Father Ignatius at the base; between them they limited the men allowed up to a few of the most important, the ones who came with armed retinues at their backs, and a doctor with her black leather case. The doctor set to work, but the potentates milled around, taking in the dead Bossman with exclamations of horror or in more than one case with blank, calculating expressions while turning to look at each other. A few seemed nauseous; well, the stink was bad, particularly if you hadn′t seen many battlefields.
Kate looked up from her fugue when the nursemaid held out her child. She snatched the boy; he whimpered, but then she controlled herself and turning her clutch into a firm comforting grip.
Seize the moment, Mathilda thought, and bent to put her good hand on Kate′s shoulder, willing strength down it.
″Kate!″ she said. ″Your husband′s dead but your son lives. You must act for him, and act now.″
″What . . . what should I do?″
The edge of hysteria drained out of her voice in the course of the sentence, and she straightened.
″You must summon your affinity . . .″ Mathilda said, and saw blank incomprehension. ″Your vassals and liegemen . . . oh, Mother of God, your supporters, Kate. The ones who′ll rally to your son and have fighting men behind them. The ones who owe land and office to your family!″
″But I′m not . . . I′m just . . .″
″You′re the mother of the heir, unless you let him be dispossessed,″ she said. ″Think of him and you can do it.″
″I don′t know what I′d say!″
″I′ll help. I remember what Mother did, after my father was killed in the Protector′s War. Just for starters—″
ST. RAPHAEL′S CATHEDRAL CHARTERED CITY OF DUBUQUE PROVISIONAL REPUBLIC OF IOWA SEPTEMBER 25, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD
″Christ on a crutch,″ Abel Heuisink said, his voice pawky-dry as the gathering before the cathedral doors massed and waited in a murmuring churn. ″Thanks so very much. Because of you, Kate′s going to pull it off. So we get more Heasleroads.″
Rudi grinned at the look of grudging respect the elder Heuisink shot towards Mathilda, where she stood three steps down from the hastily erected dais, bright in the court dress of an Association princess. He took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air, enjoying even the pull and itch of his wounds as they continued their healing. None were serious . . . and the feeling meant he was alive, alive on a bright fall day with years yet before him. The best part about a fight was surviving it . . . until you didn′t, of course.
Doesn′t miss a trick, my Matti! he thought. And Kate′s a more apt pupil than I′d have thought.
″Don′t blame me,″ Rudi said. ″Sure, and it′s Mathilda who managed the politics, for the most part, with Odard next. They both learned it in the Lady Regent′s school.″
″Lady Regent?″
″Mathilda′s mother, Lady Sandra, Regent of the Portland Protective Association.″
″Yeah, you mentioned her. She′s good at politics, this Lady Sandra?″
″Oh, you have no idea, my friend. At the game of thrones, there′s none like her in all the world.″
You couldn′t quite call the chair that had been set out on the dais a throne; but with its massive size and glowing inlays of jewels and rare woods and semiprecious stones, you couldn′t quite say it wasn′t, either. The morning sun made it blaze and sparkle; careful hands had buffed and polished away the patina of age that it had kept all the way to the museum in Boston, and from there westward in Ingolf Vogeler′s caravan.
″No, dammit,″ Abel said; this time the frustration in his voice was bleak and bitter. ″And if it starts it would be a civil war with about five sides, some of whom would make Tony look like the second coming of Thomas Jef ferson.″
Who . . . ah, Rudi thought.
He′d learned some of the history of the old Americans, though he′d preferred George Washington, himself—more of a man of deeds and less a creature of words.
The Iowan went on: ″And it would go on until every county in the State was a country, and fighting all the others. Tony′s father knew about divide and rule, you betcha. That′s why Tony lasted as long as he did—even with old Tom gone, and even when most people knew how useless Tony was, nobody could agree on who′d take over, and how.″
A slight smell of incense from the funeral mass lingered, under the autumnal smells of burning leaves and cut grass and the wild silty smell of the river not far distant. The Cardinal-Archbishop of Des Moines was here, and he wasn′t quite adding his blessing to the proceedings . . . but then again, you couldn′t say he wasn′t either, and he was in full fig of vestments and miter and crozier. Father Ignatius stood just behind his right shoulder, in plain Benedictine robes, but leaning forward occasionally to murmur a word in his ear, to the evident frustration of his own entourage.
″Then isn′t a compromise that spares this rich land from death and burning a good thing?″ Rudi asked. ″You′ve been long at peace, and I′ve seen war; an ugly thing, and a war of brothers is uglier yet. Not the ugliest of all things, true, but to be avoided if you can do so with honor.″
Troops stood in double columns, down on either side of the strip of red carpet that led to the cathedral′s doors. Half were State Police, looking professional and tough in their polished mail but rather subdued beneath the stiff discipline; the ruler they′d upheld and the commander they′d hated and feared and adored both gone at once.
The other half were Farmers′ and Sheriffs′ retainers, more motley in their gear but solemn with the occasion, and with Jack Heuisink and Ingolf Vogeler at either end to bully-damn them into order; the fact that the younger man was on crutches seemed to make it easier for him if anything.
Behind the dais stood Jake sunna Jake and his followers. Rudi suppressed a chuckle at the sight; Edain had managed to get them into kilts of something quite similar to the Mackenzie tartan, at which they′d been wildly enthusiastic, and reasonable body armor, which they liked even better, and civilized barbers had shave faces and trim hair, which they′d liked very little. He′d even found flat Scots-style bonnets. They leaned on their hickory longbows, grinning like so many timber wolves contemplating a flock of sheep. Their pose wasn′t even the rough Clan approximation of standing to attention, but they were quiet enough—they were hunters, after all.
Abel sighed. ″I′ve been compromising since the Change for just that reason. Because I had to do it. It would be nice to get my own way for once—and I′m right, goddammit. We should be a democracy again, before people forget that there was such a thing.″
A roll of drums and a blare of trumpets sounded. Kate Heasleroad came through the doors of the cathedral, from where she had stood vigil before her husband′s coffin. With her was the nursemaid, and in her arms young Tommie, quiet but with his face wet with uncomprehending tears.
And he′ll never know his father, Rudi thought with a pang.
He′d met his own blood-sire quite a few times, but not enough to know him; there had always been the matter of Signe Havel, Mike′s wife, and he hadn′t been officially acknowledged as the Bear Lord′s son until after the man′s death.
Still, all things considered, little Tommie′s orphaning may be for the best; even love can ruin you, if it′s done wrongly, a difficult feat but one his father would certainly have pulled off. I was lucky. A boy could do far worse than have the story of Mike Havel to pattern himself on, and the living Nigel Loring to show him daily what it is to be a man. Not to mention the likes of Chuck Barstow and Sam Aylward.
″Legends change, Colonel Heuisink,″ Rudi said to his companion. ″One will do as well as another, as long as people—the lords and the folk both—hold to them truly, love the story they tell and try to live rightly by them. It′s when people betray the dreams they have together that they bring real sorrow upon a land.″
Heuisink gave him a long look. ″Yeah, legends change. But you youngsters . . . especially you youngsters, you and your friends, make me wonder. Like I wonder about my sons, but more so.″
Kate wasn′t quite dressed in a cotte-hardi either, or wearing a crown, though she′d wanted to. Mathilda had talked her out of that; both would be too alien here, for now. But her long gown and the tiara in her hair were stately enough, and the expression on her face was stern and remote as she looked out over the crowd.
And the half of being a Queen is to look like a Queen. For what is rank, but people′s belief that you hold it?
″Wonder what?″ Rudi said.
″About living by our legends. People have always done that. The trouble with you″—he smiled wryly—″the trouble with the younger generation, is that they′re living in legends. Being eaten by them, maybe. Does that make you more human than we oldsters were, or less? Certainly it makes you different. It′s like you don′t live by them, you live them out. Act them out, without noticing you do. You don′t . . . talk to yourselves inside your heads as much as we did.″
Rudi frowned, then nodded with slow respect. ″You′re not the first I′ve heard say something of the sort,″ he replied thoughtfully. ″But few have put it so neatly. To be frank, from my side it seems that you of the ancient world often hardly lived at all, just watched yourself living.″
They stared at each other in perfect mutual incomprehension for a moment. Then Rudi grinned.
″Mostly it′s: And you Changelings are weird, the lot of you!″ he said.
Heuisink laughed ruefully. The arc of open garden before the great church held several hundred prominent Sheriffs and wealthy or influential Farmers, mayors and National Guard commanders; men of consequence from all over the Provisional Republic, summoned by the semaphore-telegraph net, and brought here as fast as light railcars could travel—which was forty miles an hour or even better, with relays working the pedals. Beyond the fence and a line of spearmen the hill and the streets beyond were crowded with the burghers and commons of Dubuque—sleek traders and brokers and shipowners, solid shopkeepers and skilled craftsmen, ragged day laborers who had nothing to sell but the strength of their arms.
Kate waited for a long second, just long enough for quiet to fall, and not quite long enough for the murmurs to grow again. Then she raised a hand; the bugles blew once more, and the warriors beat blades on their shields, or stamped the steel-shod butts of their weapons down on the pavement, or flourished their bows. When the harsh martial noise stopped, the silence could have been cut with a knife.
″Sheriffs, Farmers and people of the Provisional Republic of Iowa,″ she said into it. ″Anthony Heasleroad, my husband, your Bossman, is dead. Murdered by foreigners who he gave hospitality as his guests, murdered on Iowan land by agents of the cultist madman of Corwin. Will you let this stand? Will we let our leader be murdered by savages from Montana? Will Iowa, proud Iowa, our home, the last home of American civilization, let this stand? Can they do this to us?″
″Oh, now that′s clever,″ Rudi murmured softly. ″You are your mother′s daughter, Matti; I wouldn′t have thought of it so quickly, perhaps. Us is a powerful word, and it′s a sorry excuse for a man who isn′t moved by the pull of shared blood. It′s no accident we of humankind took wolves to share our hearths and work and to guard our children, for we too are creatures of the pack.″
The surprised grumble from the audienc
e turned into a sudden roar:
″No! No! No!″
Abel Heuisink′s generation-long feud with the Bossman′s family was forgotten for a moment as he shouted with the others. Fists rammed into the air, and the soldiers shouted with the rest, landholders′ retainers and State Police together, until their officers cursed and cuffed them into quiet. The men of note took longer to subside, and the vast crowd of ordinary folk beyond longer still; their voices were like a great beast′s snarl in a nighted forest.
Rudi felt a little prickle up his spine at the sound. He kept a tactful silence himself; he was a foreigner here too, and he judged the temper of the time not overly friendly to outsiders.
″What do we say to these murderers? What is our answer?″ Kate called.
″War!″ a voice called, and others joined it: ″War! War!″
Abel Heuisink started and half turned. A little way beyond amid the notables was a knot of younger men, the sons and in a few instances the grandsons of the oldsters around them—Odard Liu in the midst of them, and the closest to him all the men he′d made his cronies. They had started the call, but others took it up.
″War! War! War!″ The chant spread, and then the commons joined in, like a thousandfold echo of Pacific surf upon basalt cliffs:
″WAR! WAR! WAR!″
Rudi blinked a little in surprise when the hoarse bellow cut off at Kate′s gesture, quiet rippling out from the dais to the edge of sight. She turned and held out her arms, and the nursemaid set her son in them.
″My boy′s father is dead,″ she said. ″And all the promise of a new generation that went with him, a generation born since the Change and tempered in these times of trial.″
Rudi grinned to himself. He hadn′t come across a single land in his travels where the younger generation weren′t itching to take over from their elders, the more so because they were impatient with habits of mind born before the Change. A few of the notables were past sixty, like Abel Heuisink, but most were a generation or so younger and accompanied by grown children who were learning the family business of ruling at first hand by example and observation the way most trades were passed on now. Those were the ones shouting the loudest . . .
The Sword of the Lady Page 23
