“Lot o’ people fed from these fields,” Hordle said. Unspoken: And they all died when food couldn’t travel far anymore. “No need to farm most of it now, loik the lad says.”
Eilir Signed: But we know St. Hilda’s still there. Sheriff Woburn said it’s thriving, in fact. And it’s friendly; it should be, the way you guys rescued them from those awful bandits back in the day. He said he’d have the Abbess . . . Reverend Mother Dominica . . . warned to expect us. We need local help approaching Woburn at his own ranch. There’s sure to be some sort of government surveillance.
Ritva winced slightly at the reminder of what was fairly ancient history to her, because the tendrils of it came down to her own time. The bandits’ leader, the self-proclaimed Duke Iron Rod, had turned out to be working with Norman Arminger, who’d tried to push the PPA’s borders this far in the early days—Lewiston was the head of navigation on the Columbia-Snake system. Eddie Liu, the first Baron Gervais, had been his liaison with them, supplying weapons and advice; he’d been the Lord Protector’s right hand in any number of malicious plans. But his son had been Odard Liu, and he’d been one of the nine questers who’d gone to Nantucket. He’d saved Mathilda’s life in battle at least once on the journey, and might well have saved them all in Iowa by the way he’d kept the mad tyrant Anthony Heasleroad amused and distracted.
And he’d died just short of the goal on the shores of the Atlantic, in a last stand that left him lying like some paladin from a Chanson with a broken sword in his hand and dead Moorish corsairs in a ring around him. She’d watched him die, making his last farewells calmly despite the bone-spears in his lungs and smiling as he felt the breeze of Azrael’s wings.
Not fair to blame us in the younger generation for our parents’ sins. You have to keep that in mind a lot with the PPA. Odard could be a pain in the ass, especially all that time when he was trying to get into our pants just so he could notch the Havel Twins on his belt, but he really shaped up on the Quest and got over himself. That last part of it he was like an obnoxious brother you love anyway.
“We should approach them carefully, even with the password from Woburn,” Astrid said. “The probability of running into enemy agents goes up very sharply from now on, and nothing attracts the eye like group movement. This here would be a good place to keep the horses; there’s cover, water, and grazing. And the tiger’s scared off a lot of the game, so hunters are less likely to stumble across us.”
Hmmm, Ritva thought. You know, she’s right. I haven’t seen any elk or black-tails or buffalo or antelope for the last hour or so. And there should have been sign of muskrat and beaver around here, it’s prime for them.
“Kitty might ’ave a go at the ’orses,” Hordle mused.
“Not too likely, with say, four guards,” Alleyne said and nodded thoughtfully. “This is rich land in high summer, and a tiger would have to be very hungry indeed to try for something guarded by that many humans. Easier to go out where it usually hunts, and cats don’t go looking for fights.”
Eilir nodded. Unlike humans. We should do a sneak. Here, west of the monastery, through these wooded hills. Then we can send one or two people down to make contact.
“Let’s do it,” Astrid said. “Time presses, the armies are already moving toward battle in the West, and Operation Lúthien must succeed in time. Coneth, you’re in charge here.”
A short, olive-skinned young woman silently bowed with hand on heart.
“I’m leaving . . . Hírvegil, Tarachanar and Ýridhrenith with you. Hold and keep close concealment for three days, and then use your initiative if we haven’t returned.”
Ritva felt a moment’s sympathy as Coneth gulped slightly and bowed again.
“N’i lû e-govaded ’ wîn, Hiril,” she said, which meant Until we meet again, Lady, roughly.
Rangers had discipline; within fifteen minutes a rope corral had been made on a dry spot shielded by half a dozen willows for the remuda, the pack-beasts offsaddled and the gear and supplies covered by camouflage nets, and the stay-behind party were busy building a concealed blind—what Dúnedain called a flet—in the limbs of the biggest cottonwood. The rest of the band switched to fresh horses and remounted.
“By pairs, at ten-minute intervals, and be careful not to cross each other’s paths. Gwaenc—we go!” Astrid said.
Why did I have to be the one person sent down to make contact? Ritva thought a little sourly underneath the pine trees. I’m not really a diplomatic type. Oh, well, it’s part of the job.
Most of the Rangers were farther back, keeping watch in all directions. Eilir looked at her and smiled a little impishly; you could see her mother Juniper Mackenzie in her then, though her face was longer.
Then the world seemed to shift a little. With a tiny shock Ritva noticed that there were more small lines beside her eyes, and not just weariness and the weathered look of those who were often outdoors regardless of rain or season. Eilir Mackenzie-Hordle was growing older.
Whoa. It’s just being away two years. She looks fine and I’m older too—not a teenager anymore.
Eilir was a mother and near to middle age now, though it would be a trim handsome middle age. It was natural, the Doom of Men . . . but somehow it felt as if the ground had stirred.
Mary and I went to join the Rangers because Mom seemed like a prematurely old fuddy and granddad was dead and the Rangers were all young like us . . . and because the Histories spoke to our souls, of course. And Aunt Astrid was family, and Eilir was for all practical purposes except Mom never really liked Lady Juniper but come on, Rudi’s my half brother, get over it, Mom. Mithrilwood was like an endless game that never had to stop. But it’s not a game, it’s life. I’m grown up now.
Eilir’s grin got wider; a lifetime spent lipreading had also made her uncannily acute at following expressions.
You’re growing up, niece of my anamchara, she Signed. Even Astrid and I did that, you know, eventually. Mithrilwood isn’t Neverland, nor yet Aman the Blessed. It’s just home and the place my children were born, which is fine enough and more.
Ritva replied in Sign herself, which was policy where even low voices might be overheard: Ah . . . sorry . . . I was just wondering, Why me? really. For this contact mission.
Really?
When you were used to it, Sign could convey dry pawky irony as well as any tone of voice.
Eilir went on briskly: Well, we picked you because you’re the most experienced Ranger we have here who’s not well known yet. We four are. I’m deaf, my beloved little John’s freaking fee-fi-fo-fum huge, Alleyne looks like, well, Alleyne, and Astrid is ... Astrid, she Signed. And because you’re younger and people pay less attention to the young. Because you’re a woman and people feel less threatened by women—Manwë and Varda alone know why. Plus tall fair people fit in even more here than most places. Take a look, familiarize yourself with the layout.
She handed over the precious Zeiss glasses and Ritva leveled them across a low-cut stump; the woods on the hill above the settlement were obviously carefully managed and healthy. St. Hilda’s Monastery lay below them, the shadows just beginning to lengthen. From the look, most of it had been there before the Change, but there had been a great many alterations and more than a few additions. The core building was built of bluish-gray stone, twin-towered, as much like a castle as a church, and surprisingly modern in appearance; the lower windows had been sealed. There was a brick wing that had the alien boxy look of late pre-Change work, and a stretch of buildings off to the north.
Farther out were truck gardens, fairly substantial orchards, and a big neatly laid-out farm with fields of varied crops separated by board fences and rows of poplars; a few hundred acres of wheat and barley rippled, yellow streaks showing amid the light green. More recent construction surrounded by fenced paddocks was probably barns, storehouses and workshops; the tall arms of a timber-framed windmill were unmistakable, though the sails were feathered and bare right now. Several well-kept dirt roads led away, east and north and so
uth; they were fairly busy, wheeled traffic and bicyclists and folk on foot.
All in all it looked like a prosperous town, or perhaps a great noble’s estate, except that there were no obvious defenses. Though the twin-towered church could easily be turned into a fort: the chronicle Astrid had written of the Bearkiller journey westward, The Red Book of Larsdalen, said that the bandit lord Iron Rod had done exactly that.
They all gathered at the back of the hillock to see her off, except for the lookouts, of course. Most of that was to take turns examining her from head to toe; you always did that when you could, before a clandestine insertion. Nobody caught everything, and a different pair of eyes was always welcome.
I’ll look less conspicuous without this sword, Ritva Signed, though she’d feel naked without it, too. Straight long swords aren’t much used here, from what we’ve heard.
Ian hadn’t learned the finger-tongue yet, but he understood when she undid her weapons belt, and silently held out his own with the stirrup-hilted curved saber and bowie. Sabers were the second-most-common long weapon in Idaho, after the wider-bladed cutting sword known as a shete. She slipped it out of the sheath and tried the balance; somewhat heavy for her wrist, but the weight wasn’t thrown as far forward as she expected. You could thrust with this, though not as well as with the double-edged blade the Dúnedain usually carried.
She buckled the belt, drawing it in to the last notch and working the leather there to make it look used before tucking the tongue in and out, and checked herself over.
Ian was helpful again: “That braid is sort of distinctive too.”
Eilir clucked her tongue in agreement, and Ritva sighed and turned, kneeling and letting her quick fingers undo their own work.
The Ranger fighting braid did what it was supposed to do—keep your hair out of your eyes when you were moving quickly—and it was ornamental, running from brow to nape in a series of intricate tucks and plaits. Unfortunately, nobody else but the Folk of the West used it, as far as she knew. Also it was impossible to keep up all by yourself.
And Mary and I aren’t always together anymore. Good luck with Ingolf, sis, and I still wish I’d won the toss for him. Though Ian is refreshingly nice, I think. I have got to stop being attracted to Bad Boys like Hrolf. They don’t change.
Eilir tapped her on the crown of her head to show it was done; now her wheat-colored hair fell halfway down her back in a single simple braid, tied off with a plain rawhide thong at the end.
None of them were in the special Dúnedain field kit right now; they’d packed that away and picked up bits and pieces of local gear to give the right mixed look and plausible little details of craftsmanship and style. Only the wealthy or their close retainers dressed in new or nearly new matched outfits, now that the last reserves of pre-Change salvage had worn out or rotted. Standing out from the patchwork masses was one of the main reasons the upper classes spent lavishly on that look.
Ritva wore stout nondescript boots and doeskin pants and a long pullover linsey-woolsey shirt, a broad-brimmed low-crowned hat and a kerchief around the neck drawn through a leather ring, all none too clean after their long journey. A sheepskin coat worn bald in places was rolled and strapped to the blanket behind her saddle; her recurve in its scabbard by her knee would pass as the type anyone might use, and a quiver and round shield were as much part of outdoor wear as shoes. She had laced leather arm-guards and steerhide gauntlets, though armor would have been going too far.
All in all, she looked like many another thousand cowgirls here in the mountain and range country.
Except where the Cutters run things, she thought with a scowl. They think women in pants are an abomination. But then, they think pretty well everything is an abomination. From the way most of them smell, soap included.
Here in notoriously well-policed Idaho it wasn’t even so very odd that a comely young woman would come into a town by herself. She’d still be noticed; strangers were always noticed. The only places she’d ever been where that wasn’t so were a handful of large cities. And there weren’t more than a handful of large cities in the world a generation after the Change, a world where the overwhelming majority lived in places the size of St. Hilda’s or smaller.
“I’m off to Bree,” she said, and Aunt Astrid chuckled.
“Let’s hope there aren’t any alarming and unexpected delays with your contact.”
St. Hilda’s wasn’t entirely without defenses. A quartet watching some blackcoated Angus in a meadow noticed as she cantered along with a pack-horse on a leading string, and three set arrows to their bows as they legged their horses closer while another drew a shete.
Closer, and she could see that the archers were women, and the man with the shete was a hard-worn thirty and with only two fingers on his mutilated left hand. That could have been an accident in half a dozen trades, but she would bet on a sword-cut. He rode close and checked her over, noting the rolled pup tent, duffel bag and camping gear on her spare horse.
“Your name?” he said, sheathing the blade.
“Jane Cross,” she said, falling into a ranch-country rasp.
It was actually the accent of the Bend country just across the Cascades from the Willamette and Mithrilwood, but it would pass anywhere in the interior in a casual conversation with people expecting a stranger. Local ways of speech had diverged widely in the last generation now that twenty miles was a good day’s journey again and everyone from farther than that a de facto foreigner.
“What’re you doing in these parts?”
“Lookin’ for respectable work and a bunk, before summer’s past, sir. Maybe some place to settle.”
“You don’t look hungry.”
A shrug. “Rabbits ain’t hard to come by, but . . .”
He nodded understanding. Anyone with the right tools and skills could feed themselves for a while in the wilds in the warm season, though even then it was risky to travel alone. A simple sprain or fall could kill you with nobody there to help. Winter would be deadly. Plus even if there was much empty game-rich land between settlements all of it anywhere near civilization was claimed by somebody, who’d eventually run off a vagrant hanging around the fringes. You had to; neglecting that was how bandit gangs got started.
“How come you’re wanderin’ loose?”
“My Rancher up in the Panhandle country had to let some hands go, what with the war and the taxes. Got no kin there now, my folks is dead and they were from Spokane way back. Don’t know how they’ll manage without us, but—”
She shrugged. The man nodded, a little sympathy softening his hard scarred face.
“You’re not the only one on the road. The good Sisters do what they can, but times is hard hereabouts too. All the younger menfolk gone with the call-up, and fewer hands to do the work and taxes higher than ever so the Ranchers have trouble payin’ the ones they do have.”
She looked at the wounded hand; it was healed, but the mutilation must have been fairly recent from the purple flush still around it. He shrugged. “Damn Protectorate shellbacks got me at Pendleton last year, the knightboys. Anyway, tell ’em up at the convent that Seven-Finger Jack passed you through.”
She nodded respectfully, and walked her horse forward as he reined aside.
Rudi would have left Idaho alone if Martin Thurston hadn’t allied with the CUT and attacked us, she thought. He is a wicked man, a parricide and a bad ruler and he must be put down, but I wish we didn’t have to kill and maim honest farmers and herdsmen to do it. If we can bring all these lands into the new High Kingdom and under the King’s Peace, people can live safely by their own firesides and reap what they sow. Now that’s worth fighting for!
“Even worth dying for,” she murmured very quietly to herself. “Though I’d rather not. It’s a fine summer’s day and I’m young yet.”
She rode past a gate. There were tents up in what was usually a pasture, and more in the orchard beyond; their occupants seemed to be mostly women and children. Closer to the main buildin
gs of the abbey several long sheds were under construction, with work-crews pounding earth down between the moveable frames and trimmed logs and shingles waiting to make rafters and roof.
One of the workers looked up and then climbed down the ladder to walk over towards her; Ritva politely dismounted and even more politely hung her saber from the saddle over the bow-scabbard. The greeter was a nun, not much older than Ritva and with her dark robe kirted up to her knees, showing practical denim pants and boots beneath. Her sleeves were rolled back from hands thick with mud, and more splashed on her cheeks and her off-white headdress.
“Seven-Finger Jack said to tell you he’d passed me through,” Ritva said, and gave her cover story again.
“I’m Sister Regina,” the nun said. “Welcome to St. Hilda’s! I’d shake hands, but—”
A laugh, and a wave of a capable-looking muddy paw.
“What can we do to help you, child of God?”
“Ah . . . I’m looking for a place I can sleep safe and not be bothered ’cause I’m female while I look for work,” she said. “I’m more than willing to pitch in with anything here, too. I can rope and brand, do any sort of ranch job with stock or crops, milk and churn, spin and weave. I’m not afraid of sweat and I’m not picky.” She put on a scowl. “I tried the army, but they’ve got this fool new regulation against women, even if they can pass the tests and volunteer. Didn’t used to be like that in the old General’s time! Not for the cavalry, at least.”
Sister Regina smoothed a scowl of her own with what was obviously an effort of will.
“We live by the Rule of St. Benedict here,” she said, pointedly looking at the worn, sweat-stained hilt of Ritva’s borrowed saber. “We insist on peacefulness. There is no room for quarrels here.”
Emberverse 08: The Tears of the Sun Page 10
