Thurston snorted and gave him a pawky look, but seemed to come out of his brown study.
Rudi judged his moment after they passed through another wall into an inner citadel, taller and stronger even than that around the outer city, with more of the high rises built into it. The echoing dimness of the en tranceway made good cover for his words as he mur mured, “General . . . your ghost would make a most fitting banner for a war of revenge. They tried to kill you, but they’d lose even if they succeeded and double if they failed. There’s more to that plot than the bit Edain and I foiled.”
Thurston gave him a hard grin. “You noticed? Yeah . . . and you’re not just a pretty face, are you, Rudi Mac kenzie? I’ve been wondering about that. Where’s the upside for him? And I will be making a declaration of war—if this isn’t a casus belli I’m Jane Fonda.”
“Who?” Rudi said.
“A witch from before the Change—and not in the complimentary sense of the word.”
The citadel had a broad parade ground of good concrete several acres in extent, enough that the column of three hundred men didn’t crowd it. The flat ground was surrounded by barracks and stables, armories and workshops and offices, plus a number of what looked like pre-Change houses with tiny stretches of lawn and garden.
“Major Winters, you may dismiss the column to quarters,” Thurston said.
There was a bark of “Halt!” and “Left face!” then “Stand easy!” and “Dismissed!” The bulk of the troops filed off.
Thurston handed his horse’s reins to a soldier in fa tigues of rough gray homespun and raised a brow as his thirty strong guard detail remained braced to attention.
“Excuse me,” he said to Rudi. “I’ve got business to deal with, unless I miss the signs.
“Major?” he went on.
“Mr. President, the men of the guard detail request notification of the penalty you have in mind.”
Boise’s ruler raised his other eyebrow. “I’ve identified the security breach, Major, but if any further informa tion requires disciplinary action, rest assured you’ll be informed.”
The officer saluted and did a neat about-face before marching off. Watching Thurston’s face, Rudi wasn’t in the least surprised when the guards remained.
One corner of the Boise ruler’s mouth quirked up very slightly. “I think I heard the order to dismiss given.”
“Sir!”
It was the tall grizzled sergeant named Anderson; he’d been so quiet Rudi had almost forgotten his presence.
“Yes, Sergeant Anderson?”
“Sir, the men feel that some field punishment is in order.”
The quirk in Thurston’s mouth was almost noticeable this time. “Dick, are you telling me that the men are demanding a punishment?”
“Sir, as your guards—”
“I’ve seen some strange forms of insubordination in my time, but this is about it!”
Thurston’s voice was a growl; his face was like a carv ing in dark wood as he looked at the rigid brace of the troops. The countenances framed by the brims and cheek pieces of the helmets were equally blank.
“Sergeant, give me a hand here.”
Methodically, Thurston undid the snaps and buckles of his hoop armor. He handed the pieces to the noncom; when he’d finished not much of the man was visible. Rudi smiled to himself in silent applause as the general stalked out in front of the double file of guards.
“All right . . . pila . . . present!”
Each man flicked his throwing spear into the overarm position.
“Ready!”
The long javelins cocked back.
“Now, if there are any suicide assassins left in this presidential guard detail, take your best shot.”
Thurston stood with his arms spread, then slowly turned in a circle. Silence followed; even the men and beasts moving about the big parade ground on various errands seemed frozen in place.
“All right‚ then,” Thurston growled. “You young idiots, if I didn’t think you were trustworthy, I’d have had you disarmed. No punishment for the assassination at tempt. Personnel security review isn’t your responsibility. For this indiscipline, one week confinement to barracks and one week’s stoppage of pay. Now slope spears and dismissed, damnit! I want a bath and I’m hungry. I’m too old for this shit and my wife’s got supper cooking.”
As they marched off, he turned to Rudi and his com panions. “You’re all invited. Sergeant Anderson will arrange your quartering . . . after he stows that armor.”
* * * *
We know the Sun was Her lover
As They danced the worlds awake;
And She lay with His brilliance
For all Their children’s sake.
Where Her fingers touched the sky
Silver starfire sprang from nothing!
And She held Her children fast in Her dreams.
There was a glory in that forest
As the moonlight glittered down;
And stars shone in the wildwood
When the dew fell to the ground—
Every branch and every blossom;
Every root and every leaf
Drank the tears of the Goddess in the gloaming!
There came steel, there came cities
Wonders terrible and strange,
But the light from the first-wood
Flickered down until the Change.
And every field, every farmhouse,
Every quiet village street
Knew the tears of the Goddess in the gloaming!
Now the Sun comes to kiss Her
And She rises from Her bed
They are young—and old—and ageless
Joy that paints the mountains red.
We shall dance in Their twilight
As the forests fall to sleep,
And She whispers in our ears the word remember!
Rudi let his hands fall as the soft-voiced hymn ended and the sun sank below the battlements to the west.
Edain and the twins did the same and they stood in si lence for a moment, heads bowed over crossed arms, then looked at one another and smiled.
As they turned to go back down the stair from the fortress wall he adjusted his bonnet with the spray of raven feathers in the clasp over his left eye; you had to spruce yourself a bit for dinner with the ruler of a foreign land, for form’s sake and the Clan’s credit. Dressing up for a Mackenzie was simplified by the fact that everyone wore kilt and plaid, except for a few older or pregnant women who preferred the arsaid. You just changed from the everyday ones into the ones you kept for festival, added a few fancies and you were set.
In his case the fancies included a leaf-green Montrose jacket with worked silver buttons down both sides; cravat and ruffled jabot; a sgian dubh with a hilt of silver and black bone tucked into his right knee sock; silver brooch at shoulder and silver buckles on his shoes wrought in curling knots picked out with turquoise. And a formal sporran, tooled black leather edged with badger fur rather than the rather battered and scruffy article he wore every day, which usually held odds and ends like a lump of wax and spare bowstrings or a half-gnawed hardtack biscuit.
Edain’s outfit was a slightly scaled-down version of Rudi’s, made by his mother’s careful hands from the shearing of the sheep and the pulling of the flax on—and she was a loom mistress second only to Juniper Mackenzie among the clan. The main difference was that his formal coat was dyed a dark russet with Saint-John’s-wort—Melissa Aylward called it his calm jacket.
Ritva followed his eyes and snickered. “And you were saying there were a lot of uniforms around here,” she said. “At least they’re different uniforms. Mackenzies are always going on about how free they are and how they can do just whatever suits their fancy and it’s true—as long as they fancy a pleated skirt and a blankie over the shoulder. All in the Clan tartan.”
Rudi raised one brow and took in their identi cal clothes; black pants, belts, jerkins with the silver tree-crown-stars. . . .
&nbs
p; “Hey, that’s family,” Mary protested, tossing her golden hair. “Besides, these aren’t uniforms. They’re outfits. Say what you like about the Dúnedain, we’ve got style.”
They turned and went down the spiral stairs to the parade ground. The risers ran widdershins—Kerr-handed, they’d said in the old days, after a clan that were mostly lefties—to pin an attacker’s shield arm to the inside. The others were waiting for them at the bottom; Father Igna tius had simply put on a clean robe, and Ingolf was in his usual good plain eastern-style roll-necked sweater and long coat. The two from Portland, however . . .
“Sure, and it’s blinding them you’ll be,” Rudi said dryly.
Odard and Mathilda had both brought suits of the lat est Court fashion, suitable for a banquet at Castle Todenangst or the High Palace in Portland. Tight hose, tooled shoes with upcurled toes sporting little silver bells, tu nics with long dagged sleeves dropping down from the elbows, jeweled belts and dagger hilts. Odard’s outfit was even particolored, wine red on the left and dark in digo blue on the right, not counting the golden fleurettes along the hems and seams; a spray of peacock feathers flared backward from the livery badge at the front of his roll edged hat with the dangling tail. Matti was a little more somber in brown velvet, but the heraldic shield on her chest had the lidless eye picked out in genuine rubies and jet. . . .
Rudi flung up a hand. “Aieee!”
Odard snorted and examined with satisfaction the little golden chains that held the snowy linen of his fretted cuffs.
“You’re just damned jealous, because you’re stuck with that skirt and blanket,” he said. “I return your envy with the lofty, pitying compassion suited to a Christian gentleman of good birth and coat armor.”
Rudi grinned and told him where he could put his sympathy. “With a hay fork,” he added.
“Peasant,” Odard said genially.
They walked towards the house where the ruler of Boise lived. It was an unremarkable building, substan tial but not grand—redbrick and white trim and shut ters, two stories tall with dormered windows on the roof, of a type that had been old before the Change and often copied since. There wasn’t much sign of pomp about it, save for the Stars and Stripes over the door and the two sentries in polished armor on either side. They snapped to attention with a clank and stamp and rustle, rapping their spear butts on the flagstones of the veranda.
“Come in, please,” a soft voice said from inside as the door opened. “I’m Cecile Thurston.”
They blinked against the incandescent mantles of the gaslight in the hallway, amid a clean smell of wax and floor polish and faint appetizing cooking odors; a black-and-white cat stared at Rudi and the others with the usual cool insolence from halfway up a staircase. The woman greeting them was tallish and in her forties, in a dress with a full knee length skirt, her long hair light brown where it wasn’t gray.
“But you can call me Cecile,” she said, giving a sudden brilliant smile aimed at him and Edain. “I know what you did for Larry.”
It took him a moment to realize that Thurston was Larry to this comfortable-looking woman. There wasn’t any physical resemblance to Juniper Mackenzie—Cecile Thurston was three inches taller, for starters—but she reminded him of his mother a little.
They all shook hands and made introductions. Young Frederick Thurston was there, in a neat green uniform; and two girls of about seven and twelve, who turned out to be named Jaine and Shawonda. Both were staring at him—the older particularly, with her eyes virtually bulging.
Oh, and I hope that’s not going to be awkward, Rudi thought. Sweet Foam-born One, none of your jokes, now!
He knew the effect he had on a lot of females, and liked it very much—when they were of age. Crushes by youngsters ranged from a boggart-level nuisance to a full-blown pain in the arse. Then Odard and Matti saved the moment by bowing—the elaborate leg-forward, hat off, bent-knee flourish an Associate used with a lady of high rank who was also their host.
Cecile Thurston smiled. “My, that’s impressive!”
Mathilda chuckled. “Theoretically I should curtsy, but it always looks absurd when you’re wearing hose yourself.”
“You could all probably use a drink,” Cecile said. “Come on into the living room and let me take your coats . . . well, cloaks . . .”
The living room had a good rug, sofas and tables and upholstered chairs—most of it looking like modern work but made to late pre-Change patterns, which gave it all an old fashioned look. The two young girls’ stares turned considering as they took the whole party in; they reminded him forcefully of his younger half sisters Maude and Fiorbhinn. Particularly the younger, Jaine, who looked somehow as if a whole lot of crack ling energy would burst loose any moment and make her slightly frizzy dark hair stand out in all directions, despite her careful grooming and clean frock. The elder girl was quieter, with a round face and an unfortunate spray of pimples.
“I bet you’re a prince from foreign parts,” young Jaine said to him after a moment of awkward silence. “You look the way a prince should.”
Rudi grinned. “Not quite,” he said. “My mother’s a Chief, and I’m sort of . . . an assistant Chief.”
“Oh,” she said. “Like a prince is an assistant king, I guess . . .” Then she brightened and looked at Mathilda. “Are you a princess?”
“Well . . . yes, actually,” Mathilda said.
Rudi judged she was taken a little aback at princesses being rhetorically classed with unicorns and dragons and other exotic creatures of mythology. After all, prin cess was simply her job description, and not even one she’d asked for or wanted all that much.
Jaine frowned. “I thought princesses had to be beautiful? You’re sort of pretty, I guess, but . . .”
Edain choked over a sip from his wineglass. Rudi managed to smooth his face into polite impassivity before he caught Mathilda’s wilting glare. She knew he’d had to swallow a laugh.
“And don’t princesses wear beautiful long dresses with jewels and stuff like that?”
Mathilda nodded solemnly. “Sometimes I do. But I’m traveling and they’re too heavy and the skirts catch your legs and you can’t move your arms very well in one. And all the buttons!”
Rudi smiled a little to himself, and saw Odard smoothing away an identical expression. Evidently he’d also heard Matti when she went into full it’s like being in irons rant on the cotte-hardi.
“Oh,” Jaine said, sounding a little disappointed. “I thought it would be fun to wear dresses like that. But,” she added generously, “what you’ve got on now is cool too. Sort of like what people on playing cards wear.”
She frowned. “Why’ve you got the Sign of Evil on your chest, though?”
“Ah . . .” Mathilda looked down. “It’s hereditary. It’s not the Sign of Evil. It just means that the Throne is supposed to be all-seeing to detect enemies and evildoers.”
Jaine turned to Odard: “You’re not a prince either, I guess? You’re not as handsome as he is, but you’re dressed like a prince.”
“I’m a baron,” he replied helpfully. “That’s sort of like—”
“A wicked feudal oppressor!” Jaine said delightedly, clapping her hands together. “I’ve read about that in school. Do you have a castle and a dungeon?”
“A castle, a small town, six manors—four held for knight service by my vassals, two in demesne—ten villages and a hunting lodge,” Odard said.
“And dungeons? With racks and rats and straw and guys in black hoods and stuff?” she said with gruesome relish.
“No. The High Court of Petition and Redress doesn’t like that sort of thing these days. And I’m not all that wicked or oppressive . . . all my peasants would leave if I were, and then where would I be?”
“Broke, and earning your own living,” Rudi said. “And that wouldn’t suit you at all, at all, Odard.”
And you can’t hunt runaways with dogs anymore, he thought.
Odard’s father had been an enthusiastic hunter of
runaway peons, with a pack of sight hounds trained to kill, and a busy torture chamber. Though to be fair, that sort of thing had been over before Odard’s voice broke; it had been part of the settlement at the end of the War of the Eye that anyone could move if they wanted to. It was amazing how the Portland Protective Association’s standards of management changed once the implications of “voting with the feet” sank in.
The interrogation continued relentlessly:“What do you do, then, if you’re not being wicked and oppressive?”
Odard was looking a little bewildered; children were more strictly kept in the Protectorate. He probably hadn’t had much to do with kids in his own household since he was one himself.
“Ah . . . I keep the garrison up to scratch, drill the mi litia, keep order, collect the taxes, see the demesne farms are managed properly and the tithes paid, preside at ses sions of the court baron, throw out the first baseball of the season . . .” Odard said.
“Oh,” Jaine said. “Boring stuff, like Dad does.”
Her brother cleared his throat. “Excuse her,” he said. “We don’t get that many foreigners here.”
“We’re all Americans,” his mother said soothingly. “Have a canapé.”
The word was only vaguely familiar to Rudi; evidently it meant things like bits of liver paste and capers and cav iar on crackers. At home Mackenzies would have called it a nibblement; Sandra Arminger referred to them as petit fours or, when she was being obscure, faculty fodder.
Jaine’s older sister cut in with a question for the twins: “And you two are elf-friends?”
There were bookcases on one wall of the living room, across from the fireplace. Rudi’s eyes flicked in that di rection. Yes, a set of what Aunt Astrid insisted on calling “the histories,” and looking well-read.
“Well, we sure would be if there were any elves around to be friends with right now,” Ritva said.
“Provided they liked us,” Mary said pedantically. “Which we can’t tell, really. Who knows? They might be all snooty and condescending.”
Seeing disappointment, Ritva went on: “But we do live in a flet and talk Elvish. Well, Sindarin, not High-Elvish. That’s for special occasions.”
The Sunrise Lands Page 46
