The Sunrise Lands

by S. M. Stirling

  Three men already in the saddle cantered over and pulled up with casual ease, leaving the reins lying loose on their mounts’ necks. One wore a mail shirt, and the other two had breastplates of cowhide boiled in vine gar and strengthened with chevrons of thin steel splints painted brown; they all had curved swords at their belts, full quivers over their backs and round shields at their saddlebows marked with the intermingled S/R of their ranch. The man in the mail shirt had a horse tail mounted on the top of his helmet as a crest as well.

  None of the three men had drawn swords, but they all had their short, powerful horn-and sinew recurve bows in their hands and a shaft on the string. They drew up a fair distance away, and kept their eyes moving to make sure there weren’t more strangers hidden in the trees.

  “Howdy,” their leader—the one with the mail shirt and the horse-tail crest—said. “You folks know you’re on Seffridge Ranch land? Mind tellin’ where you’re from, and where and what your business might be?”

  Rudi nodded. “Hello. We two are Mackenzies from over the Cascades,” he said. “And our friend here is from out east—far east, from beyond the mountains, not from Pendleton,” he added. CORA and Pendleton don’t mix well. “We’re here to see Mr. Brown.”

  The cowboy’s brows went up; he was a leathery man of about thirty, with sandy colored stubble on a sun-tanned face and blue eyes already cradled in a network of wrinkles.

  “You want to see the Rancher his own self?” he said, sounding dubious. “I’m line boss here in this section. You got something to say, say it to me.”

  Behind him, one of the men muttered: “Not even saddle tramps.”

  Rudi nodded, concealing his amusement. People on this side of the mountains attached a lot of importance to your horses, and they looked down on men who traveled far afoot. He liked horses well enough himself and considered Epona one of his best friends, but he thought the attitude ridiculous.

  “Mr. Brown is expecting us,” he said. “Who we are is between him and us, sure, and our business likewise. No offense, but he wouldn’t be thanking you for asking too many questions. If he thinks we’re wasting his time . . . well, in his own house he’d be able to deal with that the way he thought best, wouldn’t he?”

  The cowboy gave a brisk nod, which set the horse tail on his helmet bobbing.

  “He’s had a good deal to do with Mackenzies before, I know that,” he said thoughtfully, eyes narrowing. “And he’s got a fair passel of guests to home right now, all of ’em foreign.”

  Then he came to a decision, and called over his shoulder: “Cody! Hank! Tommy! Git over here! Rest of you, there’s plenty to do. We got eight hundred head to move.”

  Cody looked enough like him to be his younger brother and probably was; Hank was even younger, but dark and thickset; Tommy was about sixteen, a slender redhead. They were armed and equipped like the first three; so was every man here and a fair number of the women.

  “These folks are here to see the boss. Tommy, you get back to the homeplace and let him know. Cody, Hank, cut them out horses and take ’em on down to the house.”

  The three travelers stood and watched the ranch hands break camp. Most mounted up and moved out to get their herds moving north into the old national forest. The rest finished dousing their fires and policing up their gear, ready to resume their slow journey up to the sum mer pastures where they’d live until fall. One young girl came over shyly and gave them each a buttered biscuit with a piece of bacon in it. A few of the others looked dubious, and he caught a mutter of, “Witches.”

  Cody and Hank brought them saddled horses. They seemed to be watching as the three mounted, and half hoping they’d do so with a clumsy scramble. Rudi smiled, put a hand on the cantle and vaulted easily into the sad dle, feet finding the stirrups. They followed the old road, riding off the broken pavement to spare the hooves; the potholes had been filled in roughly to keep it passable to wagons, but dirt was easier on the horses’ feet.

  After an hour or two the two young cowboys were chattering merrily, and asking questions about the strangers’ gear.

  “Them longbows don’t look too handy,” Cody said dubiously.

  “The dead pine,” Rudi replied conversationally, nocked a shaft, drew and shot in one supple motion, before the cowpony he was riding had time to crab.

  You could use a longbow from horseback, particularly when the target was directly to the left; it just wasn’t easy. Snap, and then an instant later the shaft was quivering like an angry wasp in the trunk of the dead ponderosa pine a hundred and twenty yards away, while birds flung themselves skyward from it in alarm.

  Cody gave him a look and cantered his horse across the slope to retrieve the shaft. He tried tugging it out, then gave up and dug at it with the point of his knife. When he came back he was shaking his head ruefully.

  “OK, mister, you can shoot with that beanpole there,” he said. “My daddy went west with the Rancher in the War of the Eye and he told me about Mackenzie longbows . . . still, I’d say a saddlebow is handier.”

  He raised his own weapon, copied from pre-Change recurve hunting bows, to illustrate what he meant; it was around four feet long, with flat-section laminated limbs that curled forward at the tips.

  “It certainly is, when you’re riding,” Rudi acknowl edged. “The longbow holds up better in wet weather, though.”

  Ingolf shook his head. “Not if you’re careful about varnish.”

  “And that doesn’t matter as much out here, where it don’t rain all the damn time like I hear it does over the mountains,” Cody added.

  They spent a pleasant hour talking bows, horses and hunting as they traveled. Then the men drew rein and looked southward as they came out of the last of the forest, where it trailed off into the occasional stunted juniper amid grass and sage and wildflowers.

  Cody smiled, obviously expecting them to be impressed. “Quite somethin’, ain’t it?” he said proudly.

  Ahead was open country, and they looked down onto a plain of sagebrush and bunchgrass green with spring and splashed by yellow bee plant. It was cut by a small river lined with cottonwoods, running westward towards a stretch of marsh. Water glinted in the diversion ditches that irrigated fields of dark alfalfa and a patchwork of other crops; cattle and horses and sheep and long-necked alpaca moved over the broad pastures beyond under the eye of mounted herders.

  “That’s the homeplace,” the cowboy said, waving at a clutch of buildings, toy-sized in the middle distance. “There aren’t many so fine.”

  A little village clustered there around the low-slung fieldstone ranch house, amid a wider setting of corrals, bunkhouse, paddocks and big barns of old-style sheet metal and newer ones of sawn boards; the square stone tower at one corner of the big house was probably new, too. John Brown’s holding had been a good sized spread even before the Change, and afterwards he became one of the movers and shakers of CORA, the Central Oregon Ranchers’ Association. He’d annexed several smaller ranches that didn’t have good natural water, and as much of the old national forest as he wanted to claim and had the men to hold.

  Couple of hundred people, more or less, Rudi thought. Pretty much what one of our farming duns has, or a Bear killer strategic hamlet, or a knight’s-fee manor up in the Protectorate. Though there may be nearly as many out at the line camps this time of year.

  That wasn’t many for tens of thousands of acres, but the bones of the earth were closer to the skin here than they were in his lush homeland west of the mountains, and Brown had taken in as many townsfolk as he could feed after the Change. The cowboy clucked to his mount and they all moved forward again. Half a dozen more riders were on guard; two came up to escort them in, one of them with a light lance bearing the rancher’s sigil on the pennant.

  “They say Bend is a lot bigger,” Cody went on. “But I say you’d travel plenty and find nothing better than this!”

  Ingolf blinked, caught Rudi’s eye, and lifted a brow.

  Yeah, it’s not much of a much
ness, the Mackenzie acknowledged with a slight shrug. But sure, if they want to get excited over it, let’s not be a wet blanket about it, eh? And it’s probably a nice enough place to live. I don’t like big cities myself.

  There was no wall around the settlement, but all the houses were stone, with fireproof tile or sheet metal roofs; all the windows could be closed with steel shut ters that had narrow slits for shooting arrows, and angle iron posts set in concrete stood ready to carry tangles of barbed wire if need be. You could see how the ma sonry improved from the earlier houses to the later ones as hands gained skill, but they were all built thick and strong. The snout of a Corvallis-made catapult peeked over the top of the tower.

  People were finishing breakfast or already at work, but they stopped to watch the strangers ride in. The smith was a brawny brick-thick man in a leather apron and sweat stained shirt beneath; he and his assistants paused while he plunged a white-hot knife blade into a quenching bath before they came out to wave. Many of the other folk came out also, from saddlers’ shops and bowyers’ and a big open-sided shed where carpenters were putting together something complex—probably a pivoting hay lift.

  “Mackenzies! ” the smith called, sounding happy to see them, a white grin splitting his sweat- and soot-streaked face. The man went on: “I trained in Dun Carson!”

  Rudi reined aside and leaned over to shake his hand; it was hard as something carved out of cured leather, and strong even by the young clansman’s standards.

  “Cernunnos and Brigid bless you, then, friend,” he said.

  “Goibniu strengthen your hand,” the smith replied; it sounded a little odd in the flat twanging range-country drawl.

  Now that Rudi looked, there was a mask of the Lord of Iron over the hearth, together with the crossed spears and cow horns—not as conspicuous as the patron deity of smiths would have been in a Clan settlement, but there. He made a reverence to it before he rode on. Most of the people here were Christians—there was a small Protestant church, and an even smaller Catholic chapel. He hoped it didn’t cause the smith any trouble, but it probably wouldn’t. Even a generation after the Change, metalworker’s skills were still rare enough to be very valuable, and the CORA charter allowed freedom of religion.

  Along one enclosure paced a great black mare, looking like another species amid the rough coated ranch quarter horses. Epona whinnied indignantly when Rudi rode by with only a wave—John Brown, Rancher of Sef fridge, was an old friend of the family, but he might get a bit huffy if Juniper’s son stopped to greet his horse first. There were other western horses there as well, Epona’s two daughters, and a clutch of sixteen-hand warmblood destriers that dwarfed the smaller range breed and out weighed them by a third or more. He didn’t recognize them, though the four dappled Arabs his twin half sisters rode for serious business were familiar.

  Rancher Brown stood to meet them on the veranda that wrapped around the old stone ranch house, a leathery man in his sixties with thinning white hair and skin wrinkled like a relief map but still erect and strong.

  “You fellas get on back to the herd,” he called to Cody and Hank. “Tell Smitty I know these folks and was ex pectin’ ’em. And don’t any of you go flappin’ your lips about it.”

  Then he beamed at Rudi and came forward to shake his hand after he dismounted.

  “Not that it’ll matter, seein’ as Smitty and his crew aren’t coming back down for quite some while. You’re looking all growed up, boy,” he said.

  “This is Edain Aylward Mackenzie and Ingolf Vogeler, friends of mine,” Rudi said. “And you’re looking the same as ever, Uncle John.”

  He’d been sixteen the last time the rancher came west of the mountains on CORA’s affairs, but Brown and Juniper Mackenzie had done business from the first Change Year, and they’d fought the Protector together even before the War of the Eye.

  “And you’re a liar,” the older man said with a wry smile. “Mirrors still work, boy. Come on in, all of you. All your other friends are here.”

  All two of them? Rudi thought, a little puzzled. And they’re my sisters . . . well, half sisters . . . what are the twins up to now?

  The big living room held leather-upholstered furni ture, racked weapons on the walls and a bearskin rug and more sheepskins on the floor; there was a mounted cougar head over the wide stone hearth. The twins were there, grinning their sly little fooled you, ha ha grins, but they weren’t alone by a long shot. Mathilda and Odard had the grace to keep their faces straight. A thin inconspicuous man he recognized as some sort of hanger-on to Odard was there too, and a warrior-monk from Mount Angel, a dark close-coupled man with swordsman’s wrists.

  Yes, he was there that night . . . his name’s Ignatius. That’s nine, he thought, his mouth thinning with anger. Well, now I know where the destriers came from.

  He looked at his half sisters. They saw his face and did a creditable imitation of what he thought of as their aunt Astrid’s elf-lord-with-a-pickle-up-the-ass expression of hauteur.

  “Let me guess,” he said heavily. “You didn’t have to tell her”—he looked at Mathilda—“so you could get her in on it without technically breaking your promise. And Matti, you heard something from your mother, so you could tell them”—he nodded to Odard and his servant—“what you’d heard from her.”

  Mathilda smiled and mimed clapping. “And nine is traditional.”

  The twins nodded seriously at that.

  Father Ignatius spoke before Rudi could ask: “The abbot guessed,” he said succinctly.

  Mathilda went on: “It will give you a better chance, Rudi. And this is important. The Prophet thinks so ...”

  Ritva and Mary nodded vigorously. “We ran into a CUT preacher in Bend, and he started a riot we got sucked into. Not a nice bunch.”

  Mathilda gave them a quelling glance and continued: “. . . and so does your mother. I don’t know about the Prophet, but I’ve always taken Lady Juniper’s ideas seriously.”

  He nodded, touched despite his irritation. And nine . . . that many aren’t really more conspicuous than five, but another four good sword arms might make the difference in a tight spot. It’s luck and the whim of the Trickster either way. Judgment call.

  There wasn’t much sense in pitching a fit; he had no way of stopping Mathilda from following him except to turn back himself.

  Of course, when and if we get back . . . Oh, sweet Mother-of-All, what if I come back and she doesn’t?

  “You realize your mother will kill me?” Rudi wasn’t quite sure whether he was serious or not. “If something happens to you, she’ll kill me slowly.”

  I like Sandra, but . . .

  She’d saved his life when he was her husband’s pris oner as a child during the War of the Eye—saved it several times, in fact. And she’d always been kind to him when he was visiting afterwards, and he’d learned a good deal from her. The problem was . . . he wasn’t a kid anymore. With Sandra, you never knew. Was she capable of acting nice for twelve years as an act of calculation, just to get on your good side?

  Oh, yeah. She’s capable of it, no doubt about it. But would she be after doing it the now?

  Sandra’s daughter looked a little daunted, and then brightened—probably thinking that it would be the bet ter part of a year before she saw her mother again, or more.

  “That’s the least of your worries,” Mathilda pointed out. “For now, at least. Mom’s back in Portland or Castle Todenangst.” A grin, half-ironic. “And even the Spider’s reach has limits.”

  Of a sudden, Rudi threw back his head and laughed. It would be a year, and he was still young enough for twelve months to seem like a long time.

  “Well, when you’re right, you’re right,” he said; her smile warmed him. “And Matti—I’d have done exactly the same thing in your place.”

  He turned and introduced the others. Odard had seen Ingolf before, and met Edain once or twice, and was smooth as ever, but when he and Vogeler shook, their forearms clenched a little as each took a squeeze.
Rudi hid his smile at that—two strong men taking each other’s measure, a bit like two strange dogs bristling and stalking around stiff-legged and then sniffing each oth er’s behinds. The more so as Ingolf was a tried fighting man, and Odard just enough younger to be extra touchy about the fact that he wasn’t.

  “Pleased to meet you again, Sheriff Vogeler,” Odard said when they’d finished.

  He worked his right hand a little. That was a mark of a certain respect, and so was the form of address; Association nobles didn’t always admit that the titles of eastern sheriffs were comparable to their own . . . and Odard was technically a baron now himself, while Ingolf was a younger son and landless wanderer.

  “Pleased to meet you again, Baron Gervais,” Ingolf said, impeccably polite.

  He didn’t flex his hand. That might mean he’d won the little unspoken exchange—he was bigger and heavier boned, after all—or it just might mean that he had six years more experience and was better at hiding things. Or both; probably both.

  Behind them, Rudi saw the three young women exchange a glance and roll their eyes skyward ever so slightly. He knew exactly what they were thinking: Men. That made him cock an ironic eyebrow at them.

  Girls have their own way of playing who’s-the-boss; if we do it like dogs, they’re more like cats, he thought. It’s sneakier, usually, but it’s the same game, sure. And they can play our way if they want.

  He shivered slightly, inwardly, at a memory. Tiphaine d’Ath had told him once that she even had an advantage at it; she skipped the preliminary strutting and chest beating flourishes men expected and just killed whoever she thought was a threat. Of course, that had its draw backs too; it made her hated almost as much as she was feared. Let the fear weaken, and the hate would become active.