″Ah . . . not exactly,″ he said. ″Not just the now; we met upon the way. But they will be, if you take my meaning, and they′re my people now, their welfare my responsibility.″
″Well, they can all use a beer and a snack, I′m sure. Go on, eat! Und the beer′s our own brewing, Reinheitsgebot-style like my grandfather made it.″
Rudi grinned. ″That we all could use a bite and a brew is no more than the merest truth, and it′s a haven of warmth and welcome this is, after so long on the cold hard trail.″
He winked and went on: ″And yourself the ministering Goddess.″
Wanda smiled back at him; he heard Mathilda snort slightly beside him, and read her thought: he was charming the ladies again.
Well, there′s nothing wrong with charm, is there, acushla? he thought, a little defensively. Even our host looks pleased; I suspect he leaves the being a human being side of his existence to his wife . . . well, he could do worse. From the look and sound of her she′s good at it.
The platters were going around. He didn′t know if the guest cup and bite were a formal rite here as they would be among his people, but he′d found for thousands of miles of walking and riding eastward that sharing food and drink made you a guest indeed where there was any goodwill at all. The food was some strong pungent soft cheese on wedges of dark dense rye bread, its crust dotted with little nutty seeds and the whole warm from the oven and chewy and richly sour-sweet; there were pastries too, their hot flaky crusts buttery, full of grilled venison and onions and potatoes and a faint tang of herbs.
What Aunt Diana—who′d run Dun Juniper′s kitchens since the Change, and a restaurant before that—would call a Cornish pasty, or nearly, he thought happily, as the juices flooded his mouth.
The beer was in a mascar, a tall mug lathe-turned from hard maple wood, with foam dribbling over the edges, and—
″Oh, my,″ Edain said reverently, as he gasped and wiped the back of his other hand across his mouth. ″By Goibniu and Braciaca both, and that′s beer, by the blessin′! My thanks again, hearth-mistress!″
Rudi inhaled the bouquet respectfully himself, and then took a deep draught of the mahogany-colored liquid beneath the white foam. Flavors like chocolate and coffee slid across his tongue, acrid and nearly sweet at the same time, with a cool musty bite.
″My friend Timmy Martins Mackenzie, our brewmaster at Dun Juniper, could do no better and on one or two occasions has done worse,″ he said, and bowed again. ″And more I could not say.″
″Come in, then, come in—let′s get the children something, and you′ll all want good hot baths and soap, and—″
He gratefully surrendered to her bustling efficiency as she organized her household to bear everyone away. They′d be here some time, at least a month, and that was starting to look like a welcome respite.
Perhaps even long enough for letters to get all the way home; they might arrive before Yule.
Thanks to Matti′s little conspiracy, there are things that certain people need to know. And others must be told as well, whether I want to or not. How her mother will take it . . .
Rudi shuddered.
CITY PALACE THRONE AVENUE AND ARMINGER STREET ROYAL CITY OF PORTLAND PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION (FORMERLY THE CENTRAL LIBRARY, AT SW 10TH AND MORRISON STREETS) DECEMBER 12, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD
″My lady Regent, the special courier is here.″
Sandra Arminger looked up as the door opened; the cat in her lap made a querulous sound and gave her a resentful look as she st-opped scratching it under the chin. Outside the tall arched windows of her private presence chamber snow fell, straight down in a windless dark where the occasional street lantern glowed like a blurred smear. Within was the scent of floral sachets and the warmth of the hot-water radiators behind screens of marble fretwork, pale dim elegance of stone and silk and arched wood, the blazing colors of the rugs muted by the low setting of the hissing methane gas lamps.
A little of the chill within her melted at the news but her face remained impassive, framed in its cream-silk wimple bound with steel gray Madras pearls set in platinum mesh.
″Send him in immediately,″ she said to the gentleman of the chamber whose privilege it was to act as usher. ″And send word to the Chancellor and the Grand Constable that they are to attend on me as soon as convenient.″
She made a gesture, and a lady-in-waiting motioned the maids to turn up the lights, set out coffee and brandy and little sweet pastries and bowls of nuts on a table whose surface was rare woods and mother-of-pearl and lapis in the shape of peacocks and antelope.
″Now leave me,″ she said. ″Yes, you too, Jehane,″ she said to her confidential secretary, and the attendants all swept out in a dance of precedence and bobbing curtseys.
And silence fell, though she knew that she had only to raise her voice and someone would be there, as if by magic.
Sometimes that′s the hardest thing to take, she thought. Never really being alone anymore. They′re always there, listening, watching, may their dear loyal souls fry.
She′d wanted to be a Queen. The problem was that once you were, it wasn′t something you could take off with your clothes. The younger generation didn′t seem to have that problem; they weren′t playing roles, they were their roles. The doors opened again quietly—they were solid steel beneath the soft beauty of the rock-maple veneer, and ponderous—and the stamp and clash of guards coming to attention rang in the corridor without. Distantly there were voices singing, a chorus of boys practicing in the Great Hall for the festivities of the Twelve Nights:
″Adeste, fideles
Venite adoremus
Venite, venite
Ad Bethlehem—″
The courier looked as if he was still half-frozen, very tough and very tired, a lean brown-skinned young man with his dark hair in the bowl cut and tonsure favored by most Orders of Roman religious. Apart from that she′d have judged him to be a cavalryman of some sort, in anonymous padded leathers half soaked even through the outer gear he′d shed somewhere and with a strong aroma of horses and sweat about him. He went to one knee, took the packet from the glazed-leather case slung over his shoulder and offered it to her.
The first thing her eyes saw was Mathilda′s seal stamped in a disk of red wax, and a breath she hadn′t been conscious of holding sighed out. The heliograph lines had brought the bare news earlier, of course, and duplicates would be coming along by safer, slower routes. But actually seeing it was something else again.
For a long moment she paused . . . To be happy, she thought. Simply to be happy. It′s a rare feeling.
Then she read the dates on the outer covering, and one brow rose on her round, smooth middle-aged face.
″That was quick work,″ she said. ″Where did you start . . .″
At her enquiring look he amplified: ″Friar Matthew, my lady Regent. A Church courier and of the Order of the Shield of St. Benedict.″
″Where did you start with these, Brother Matthew? And how did they arrive?″
″I was told it came by our equivalents in the East—north from Richland through Marshall and Fargo, and then west through the Dominions—Minnedosa, Moose Jaw, Drumheller. There are intact railways along much of that route, and pedal cars, so it went quickly. I was at my Order′s new chapter house on our mission farm at Drumheller, and I carried it on snowshoes and skis over the mountain passes and down to Barony Vernon in the Okanogan country. Then by horse and rail to the Columbia and Portland. I came all the way myself rather than handing it on, as security was of the highest importance.″
″Thank you, Brother,″ she said.
She was conscious of the danger and toil behind the monk′s simple words, not to mention the skill a single man needed to stay alive in such country. Most of that route ran through empty wilderness, particularly as far north and east as he′d started; wilderness haunted by tigers and wolves and men who were worse than either, and by the monster storms raving down out of Alaska and the Yukon at this time o
f year that could bury an unlucky wayfarer twenty feet deep in a day.
″You′ve brought very good news, and have earned any recompense in reason, Brother Matthew,″ Sandra said; she had a carefully cultivated reputation for rewarding zeal in her service. ″And a good many unreasonable ones.″
The monk bowed his head. ″I swore both poverty and obedience, my lady. I did nothing beyond my duty.″
Sandra smiled. It was always slightly surprising and unsettling to run across a completely incorruptible man. Inconvenient sometimes, but still . . .
″Nevertheless . . . Hmmm. The Order of the Shield wanted some Crown land north of the demesne of Castle Oroville for mission work. I think that can be arranged. The Cistercians wanted it too, but they can apply for a grant elsewhere.″
″Thank you, my lady!″
″Now go. I hope your vows don′t preclude a mug of hot cider and a good supper and a warm bed in the Protector′s Guard barracks?″
He grinned, and suddenly under the tiredness and stern discipline you could see he′d been a boy not so very long before, and was still younger than her own daughter.
″Not in the least! Thank you, my lady Regent, and I will remember you and the Princess in my prayers.″
She waited until he′d left, stumbling slightly with the weariness he could now acknowledge to himself. Certain habits were well engrained by a lifetime of weaving secrets; only when she was alone again did she use a letter opener to flick off the seals. The original bundle had undoubtedly included material for Stardell Hall in Mithrilwood, Dun Juniper, Mt. Angel and Larsdalen, sent on with someone else beside the polite young monk, but her spies could glean anything that had been left out here in at least three of the four.
And I don′t think any of them have infiltrated to my immediate Household.
She pulled paper towards her and dipped a fine steel-nibbed pen in the ink, careful to keep the lace at her sleeve off the surface of the sheet. No need to consult a code book; this was one she had thoroughly memorized, a private one she and her daughter shared with nobody and had never written down. Mathilda′s report made interesting reading, paced slowly as it was while she transcribed from the cipher. Her eyebrows went up as she read of the doings in Iowa, and then she felt the blood drain from her face as the final scene in the Bossman′s quarters unfolded, even as her daughter′s bold neat hand reassured her that it had ended well.
″There are times when it′s inconvenient to be an atheist,″ she murmured to herself. ″I simply don′t have anyone to be thankful to. My eternal gratitude, O blind and ontologically empty dance of atoms, just isn′t very satisfying, somehow.″
Then she smiled, warm and fond, at the younger woman′s description of the maneuverings after Anthony Heasleroad′s death:
″That′s my girl!″
Her eyebrows went higher, and she laughed aloud at her daughter′s defiant pride in what she′d gotten the other travelers to do on the deck of the schooner, and Rudi′s reaction.
″That is my girl,″ she said, with a glow of pride.
The last brief section was addressed from Readstown, Free Republic of Richland ; simply that they′d arrived, and had been well received by the local lordling.
″I will report further before we leave; this is probably the last occasion we′ll be able to send letters back for some time since we now face a plunge into the wilderness. Duplicates of my dispatches from Dubuque are enclosed and these will go by a different route. All my love, dearest mother and liege-lady, and may God and the Virgin and all the company of Saints hold you and the PPA and all of Montival safe. Mathilda.″
When she′d finished her work she sat back and sipped at a cup of coffee, absently pushing aside one of her Persians that was nosing around the little jug of cream on the tray. Another stamp-clash came through the door, and the usher′s voice:
″My lord the Count of Odell, High Chancellor of the Association! My lady the Baroness d′Ath, Grand Constable of the Association!″
They made a knee and kissed her extended hand in turn. ″Sorry, my lady,″ Conrad said. ″That War Finance Council meeting, you know. I couldn′t cut it without offending House Jones and House Gutierrez, even if neither of them can count to eleven without dropping their hose . . . and you did say convenience.″
″It′s important but not time-constrained,″ Sandra said. ″Better you than me on the War Finance business, Conrad. I know it′s important work, but accounting bores me like an auger.″
″CPA in good standing,″ Conrad said cheerfully, slapping his ample stomach; that had been his day job, back when she′d been a faculty wife and they′d both been members of the Society who just played at being nobility.
″And I was outside the city wall,″ Tiphaine said, as she poured them both stiff tots of the Larressingle Armagnac brandy, salvaged from the ruins of Seattle years ago. ″Watching our loyal levies squelch and slip and fall on their faces in the mud.″
″Read,″ Sandra said, forestalling the question and pushing her transcript across the table with a forefinger. ″It′s from Mathilda.″
Tiphaine nodded; her ice-colored eyes narrowed slightly in satisfaction. Conrad laughed and swore and slapped his thigh, which was his equivalent. The Grand Constable was in leather riding breeches and slightly muddy thigh-boots and a high-collared, long-sleeved tunic of black wool that looked a little damp; her pale bobbed hair was dark with melted snow. She tucked an owl-shaped pendant she′d taken to wearing into the neck of her tunic, poured her brandy into the coffee—Conrad winced to see the priceless pre-Change French liquor treated so—and sipped while she read.
″You were out drilling troops in this?″ the Chancellor said; he was in court working dress with the golden chain of office across his bull shoulders and barrel chest.
″Wars don′t get called off due to snow and cold and neither should training,″ she said absently, attention on the writing.
″You′ve got a general staff and unit commanders for that,″ Conrad said, in a half-scolding tone; she′d been his second-in-command for years. ″I let them do their jobs and I did mine when I was Grand Constable.″
″Your average man-at-arms has a short attention span and a skull that′s iron from ear to ear even without a helm, Conrad. It′s necessary to keep reminding them how tough I am. Otherwise I have to kill men occasionally just to make the others pay attention, which creates its own problems. I don′t look as repulsively fearsome as you, and I pee in a different position, remember.″
Then she tapped her free finger on the dateline of the dispatch. ″Barely two months for news from east of the Mississippi. That′s very good. We still haven′t got what they sent from Iowa.″
″We probably won′t,″ Conrad said. ″The CUT is clamping down hard on the guerillas in occupied New Deseret, and that′s the only way of bridging eastern Idaho unless you go around to the north.″
Tiphaine smiled as she read, a hungry expression. Conrad held out his hand wordlessly and she handed him the sheets she′d finished.
″Ah!″ he said, skimming rapidly. ″Now, that looks promising! Satan′s arse, with piles like acorns! Now the CUT has got most of the Midwest lethally mad at them! Corwin has a genius for making enemies.″
″So did Norman,″ Sandra said. ″And it is extremely promising. Iowa is a long way from Montana, but from the description they potentially outweigh the CUT by a very considerable margin.″
″The logistics will be murder,″ Tiphaine said. ″But even a small percentage of a big enough sum is still large.″
Conrad read the pages as the Grand Constable slid the sheets over to him, occasionally glancing at the rather coarse brown linen-rag paper of the original, then frowned—which turned his scarred face into something even more grotesque.
″Damn, it still hits me sometimes! Two months is fast now. I keep remembering FedEx.″
Sandra nodded. She′d made a much better adjustment to the Changed world than most adult survivors—her girlhood heroines had been Elea
nor of Aquitaine with Catherine de′ Medici a close second, and she′d spent a good deal of her time with the Society making believe that she was someone like that, even in the old world. And of course being a sovereign and waited on hand and foot eliminated much of the sheer inconvenience of existence without high-energy technologies.
And it still hits me sometimes too, at moments like this. There are some things that no amount of hand labor can duplicate.
A decade and a half younger, Tiphaine was untroubled by the look the two shared. Instead she murmured:
″It is more convenient now that we′re at peace with the Drumhellers. That gives us a route right around the CUT and Boise both. Suitable for intelligence and communications, if not armies, given that the Canadian Rockies are in the way.″
Conrad scowled for a moment. ″The Dominions are scared of the CUT too; they′ve got a border with them, or at least Drumheller and Moose Jaw do, and if they′ve got any sense they′ll join in. But I still say we should have held out for more of the Peace River country. It′s rich, and it′s got a big labor force—″
Sandra went tsk. ″Which means it is full of contumacious Canuks with bows, Conrad, who really wouldn′t appreciate our handing it out in fiefs over their heads.″
″We did just that in plenty of other places.″
″That was in the first Change Years. We were dealing with terrified hungry refugees who′d do anything for help and had nowhere to turn. It′s different now. Things have . . . jelled. In any case, that′s for another day, provided that we survive the present war. Read! There′s something rather interesting after they left Iowa.″
She could tell when he came to the part on the boat.
″They hailed him High King?″ Conrad of Odell spluttered. His skin turned red under the thick white keloid. ″Mathilda hailed him as High King of . . . what the hell is Montival?″
The Sword of the Lady Page 29
