A Meeting at Corvallis (23 page)

She looked up at Astrid and raised a brow. The younger woman made herself refrain from licking her lips by an effort of will, feeling more than a little rushed. She'd expected to come into these talks with all the advantages. It wasn't working out quite like that, somehow.

“We'll turn him over when his steward sends us five years' yield,” the Lady of the Dúnedain replied curtly. “In cash or equivalents in cloth, horses, tools and provisions of types and quantities to be agreed. We won't release him until the ransom is paid in full.”

“Five years' mesne tithes?” Sandra said. “Oh, come now. The standard ransom in the Protectorate is
two
, for men captured in a private quarrel, and this
was
private war, not one between realms.”

“I'm not interested in how you pay each other off,” she replied firmly. “Five years.”

Sandra put her elbows on the arms of her chair, steepling her fingers together and tapping them gently on her lips. That let the brow of her wimple shadow her face while she thought.

“How's this, then,” she said after a moment. “Make it two and a half years, and I'll pay the entire sum to you in cash right away. That'll save you a good deal of trouble, and spare you Sir Jason's company, which frankly I always found tedious myself.”

Silence ran heavy for a moment. Then Astrid went on: “We wanted to make the ransom heavy to send a message,” she said. “We don't want your
yrch
trespassing on our land. Three and a half years.”

Sandra laughed softly. “My dear girl—” At Astrid's expression, she modified that: “My dear
Roquen
Astrid, I don't intend to make him a
gift
of the money. Rest assured that he'll pay back every barley grain of it. If it's any comfort to you, the humiliation of paying
me
will be even greater. Shall we say three years?”

“We should have taken his head with the scum he hired,” Alleyne said, his voice quiet and cold. “That would teach others not to attack us on our own ground.”

Sandra sipped at her goblet. “You killed his brother-in-law and liege-lord,” she pointed out. “It's only natural for him to be a bit ticked.”

I
killed his brother-in-law and liege lord,
Eilir signed.
While he was trying to kidnap or kill my brother Rudi on
our
own land. Rising thrust that cut the femoral artery, not to mention the testicles. He should have worn a metal cup under the hauberk.

Sandra's eyes flicked to Astrid and she made a questioning
hmmmm
? Astrid translated the Sign without being in the least convinced of the Portlander's ignorance. Sandra shrugged.

“Well, well, at that point you'd already kidnapped
my
daughter on
my
own land, and Eddie…Baron Liu…was trying to get her back, with your brother as a wergild,” Sandra said, and for a moment something showed behind her eyes.

Then she smiled charmingly. “These chains of grievances go in both directions. For example, you also killed Katrina Georges, Mathilda's tutor who I sent along to be with her in her captivity.”

“That was me, actually,” Astrid said. “I shot her in the back with a broadhead after we Dúnedain disposed of your ambush party. She was killing a Mackenzie with a sword at the time, as I recall. Some
tutor
.”

“She was Mathilda's physical-education tutor,” Sandra chuckled, and the glacier eyes of the young woman behind her chair shifted to Astrid, going slightly wider and then narrowing. Arminger's wife went on: “And Tiphaine Rutherton here was a good friend of Katrina's; they were both members of my Household from shortly after the Change. I don't doubt she'd like to pay you back for killing her friend. Wouldn't you, Tiphaine?”

“Yes, my liege,” Rutherton said, her voice as unemotional as water running over polished stones. Heat radiated from it. “Very much, in fact.”

“So you see, there's a certain symmetry to all this. But back to practicalities. If you take my offer, you get the money immediately. Otherwise you'll be negotiating with dowager Baroness Liu, Sir Jason's sister. I don't think you'll do better, and things may well drag out. Lady Mary would have been pleased if Sir Jason had succeeded, but right now she's rather annoyed with him—for failing, and for embarrassing her politically in the process.
I'm
rather annoyed with him, which is why I'm making this offer. The debt will hold him like a choke chain on a disobedient hound. I'll even make him lease out the hunting rights on his woodland to help pay it, which will grieve him no end since he dearly loves to pursue the boar.”

Her smile invited Astrid to share in the hapless Sir Jason's woe. The Dunadan had to make a conscious effort to reject that complicity and the momentary warmth it brought. She glanced around at the others instead, reading their expressions as her own qualified yes.

It really
would
be more convenient. They'd have the gold, the distilled yield of two hundred people working two square miles of good land for three years, and they'd have it right here, in the Valley's best-supplied marketplace, or at least the best for tools and clothing and weapons. And they needed more trained warhorses, which were hideously expensive whether you spent money or your own time.
Everyone
was buying them.

So why is she making things convenient for us?
Astrid thought.
Perhaps she's afraid he'll talk…and there's no reason at all to relieve her anxiety.
Then, aloud: “I presume you're here for the meeting of the Faculty Senate or something like that?” she said.

Sandra nodded.

“So are we,” Astrid went on. “So we'll hand him over on Sunday, when everything's finished. We have a use for him until then.”

Sandra's expression remained the same, but Astrid didn't need the sudden pressure of Alleyne's foot on hers beneath the table to realize that the dart had hit.

“I'd really rather have him now,” Sandra said. “If it's all the same to you.”

“Is that a condition for paying the ransom?” Alleyne asked, a sharp note in his voice.

“No,” she replied easily. “Not at all; if you want to keep seeing Sir Jason's scowling face that long, you may. As long as he's in reasonable health when you hand him over, you'll have the money—one hundred and sixty rose nobles in gold, or any mix of gold and silver you wish at the usual exchange ratios.”

“Agreed,” Astrid said promptly, and at Sandra Arminger's nod the four rose and left.

“That one is formidable,” Sandra Arminger said softly, speaking to the snapping flames in the fireplace. “Quite mad, that's beyond doubt, but formidable. And she will grow more so. All of them will. If they live. This would be a great pity.”

“My lady—” Tiphaine began, going to one knee, naked eagerness on her face.

“No,” Sandra said, and there was iron in her voice. She turned in her chair so that she could see the younger woman. “If she, either of them, or the men, were to die just now…You will do
nothing
that could link me to an assassination in Corvallis while the peace lasts, do you hear?
Do
you?”

Tiphaine bowed her head. Sandra went on in more friendly tones: “But there
is
the matter of the egregious Sir Jason. Something must definitely be done to ensure he isn't the star of their little PowerPoint presentation to the Faculty Senate.”

The other woman nodded, though the computer reference went over her head, then froze as Sandra extended a finger almost to her nose.

“Listen to me, Tiphaine. I took you
and
Katrina in after the Change, trained you, and found you work you liked better than breeding heirs for some oaf in an iron shirt. I kept your little secret from the priests, or at least from official notice. His Holiness wouldn't approve of your…lifestyle choices, if he knew about them.”

“I am my lady's grateful and faithful servant.”

“Yes, you are,” Sandra agreed aloud. To herself:
And the younger generation can say things like that and not seem silly at all. It's distinctly weird sometimes, like living in a dream…focus, woman, focus! This isn't a game and the stakes are very high. Mathilda—

She leaned forward, gripping the arms of the chair. “But so was Katrina. Your dearly departed girlfriend
failed
me, Tiphaine. You'd better not.”

“No, my lady.” Tiphaine's tongue touched her lower lip briefly. “There will be nothing to link any…events to you. If necessary, I will retreat rather than risk exposure. I'll work alone. Or possibly with Joris…no, he's good, but he doesn't take orders well.”

“I'm glad you noticed that; I think our good Joris Stein has a self-esteem problem.” At Tiphaine's raised eyebrow: “Too much of it, and largely unjustified. And an excess of entrepreneurial spirit. As to the ladies of the Dúnedain…eventually, we may arrange for you to settle your scores.”

She smiled to herself as a red flush chased pallor across the face of the young woman in black. When Tiphaine rose and bowed and withdrew, she turned to the maidservant.

“These people who bottle up their passions…” She made a
tsk
sound between her teeth. “Now go and see if my bath's ready, would you, child? And tell Lord Carl that I require his attendance at dinner and conference with his intelligence officers afterwards. We're going to need something a bit more subtle than head-bashing for what I have in mind.”

Corvallis, Oregon
January 11th, 2008/Change Year 9

“N
igel!” Juniper Mackenzie said in glad surprise as the door opened.

“My dear,” the Englishman said, blinking his slightly watery blue eyes and shedding his cloak and sword belt; he was dressed for travel in winter…and not in a kilt.

“I thought you had other business?” she went on. “And you didn't come all the way across the Valley by yourself?”

“I did have business,” he said, smiling with a little constraint in it. “But it's finished…and that's what I'm here in Corvallis to talk about.”

“But come in, and have something hot to drink!”

He did, putting a parcel on the mantelpiece and warming his hands before the fire, then taking the cup and draining it. The little sitting room in the Clan's Corvallan guest-house was warm and cozy enough, with a low blaze in the hearth, and windows closed against a cold slow rain.

“Mathilda's having a nap,” Juniper said, nodding to the corridor. “She's overexcited, poor thing. You've heard—”

“Yes, I spoke with Eilir, and heard about Mistress Arminger,” the Englishman said, smoothing down his mustache with a forefinger. “Ah…I was…that is, Eilir knew I was coming here to meet you, in any case. With a, um, present.”

Well!
Juniper thought.
He's nervous! That's not something I've seen often!

He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He also took the package down from the mantelpiece, unwrapping the scrap of cloth that enfolded it and silently handing it to Juniper. Within was a box of hardwood about the size and thickness of a hardcover book, seasoned amber-colored bigleaf maple streaked with darker color, the curling grain brought out by rubbing and polishing. A Triple Moon had been inlaid on the surface in ivory, waxing and full and waning—and She alone knew where the ivory had come from. The Chief of the Mackenzies turned it in her hands, and saw that on the other side the wood had been carved in the likeness of a wild, bearded face, a man with curling ram's-horns on his brow; the features were brought out by the carving alone, but the eyes were milky-white opals that seemed to shine with an inner light.

“Why, Nigel, it's beautiful!” she said.
But if a gift, why not at Yule?
Aloud she went on: “Dennie's work?”

“Eilir found the wood, Astrid the ivory and opals, and I did the basic shaping and metalwork, with some help from Sam Aylward. Dennis very kindly managed the inlay and carving.”

He went down on one knee before her and took the box in his hands. “At first I thought I might use the traditional ring,” he went on steadily, meeting her eyes. “But then I had a bit of an inspiration. At least I hope so, my dear!”

He held the box up for her, and she unhooked the little brazen latch and opened it. A soft
ah!
escaped her as she looked within. It
was
a ring, but of a size to fit around her neck rather than a finger, glowing against the dark velvet that lined the interior of the box; a torc, the ancient royal emblem of the Gael, the gold of it worked in a delicate tracery of leaf and vine. The open ends swelled into a lunar disk and a flame-wreathed sun opposite each other, carved of moonstone and amber.

“Nigel, it's beautiful!” she cried softly, and took it up. “You really
thought
about this, didn't you?”

His smile was shy, oddly charming on the weathered, middle-aged face. “I tried.”

Juniper started to put it around her neck, spreading the soft metal a little, then hesitated. “This is meant as an
engagement
torc, isn't it, Nigel my heart?”

“Yes, my dear. I hope it'll do, until I have a wedding gift—besides myself, that is.”

Her smile broadened. She settled it around her neck; it was snug when she let the circle close again with the Sun and Moon on her right and left collarbones. The metal was surprisingly heavy for all its delicacy, and a bit cold. It warmed quickly; she felt her breath grow a little short, and more so after she leaned forward and took his face between her hands and kissed him.

“Then I'll take it in the spirit it's given,” she said after a moment. “Beauty, and love, and friendship.”

They clasped hands and looked at each other, then laughed. Her smile grew impish for an instant. “The child will need a father, after all.”

She laughed delightedly at his astonishment. “No, I'm not, not yet—that
would
be a miracle, and from the wrong mythos! But I'm still under the Moon, and I always wanted three, you know! For the symbolism? And this time I get to keep the man to help with the chores, which will be a nice change.”

“My dear…darling Juniper…you've made me a very happy man, and I hadn't expected to be happy again, you know.”

“Not nearly as happy as I intend to make you!” she went on, standing and taking him by the hand. “I've waited long enough.”

“And so have I,” Nigel said.

He moved with a lithe suddenness and she was swept up in his arms; she could feel the compact strength in his chest and arms.

“First door on the right,” she murmured.

Second roof to the right,
Tiphaine thought.

The Hatfields had built their business up gradually, and the result was a complex of boxlike buildings joined to each other higgledy-piggeldy, each with its own tin roof, or covering of salvaged asphalt roofing tile. She avoided the metal as much as possible; even in her soft-soled climbing boots, it was hard to avoid making noise on it, and it was dangerously slippery when wet—and during a Willamette Valley winter, it would be wet about ninety-nine percent of the time. Luckily the Hatfields hadn't skimped, and the roofs had solid, heavy-duty plywood or planks nailed to the stringers beneath the waterproofing layer, so they didn't creak much. The sky was overcast, and the streetlights were turned down with dawn near. That made it near enough to pitch-dark up here as no matter, and in her matte-black outfit she was effectively invisible. Everything was covered save for a slit in the tight hood that let her see, and the skin around her eyes was blackened with charcoal.

Katrina had said once that made her look like a raccoon. She stopped for an instant; let the fury wash through her and over her without tensing her muscles or disturbing the even tenor of her breathing. Then she went on, walking step by step, careful to keep below the ridgeline. She crossed it flat on her belly, moving with cautious speed. Sir Jason Mortimer was in a second-story storeroom on this side, with only two guards, according to what the consulate knew. Nobody in Corvallis knew how to keep their mouths shut, evidently.

Yes.

Everything looked the same as it had through binoculars from a taller building not far away. Her chamois-gloved fingers went to her belt. The sling was of leather like her gloves, equally butter-soft, yearling doe hide tanned with brains. The cup at the bottom was just the right size for the projectile, an egg-shaped thing of sand molded with wax. Lead or stone were too likely to kill…

I miss my crossbow,
she thought, as she systematically tightened and relaxed muscles to keep them limber while she crouched in the near-freezing dampness.

She had a little beauty, a pre-Change model with a 7x scope and a built-in crank for reloading, its skeleton body all synthetics and carbon composites, half the weight of a standard modern wood-and-steel military model and just as powerful. Out of the question to use it here and now. This was taking a long time, but it all depended on how big the guards' bladders were. Hopefully they wouldn't come down to pee in chorus, but that wasn't likely. One would stay by the door at all times; from the files, Hatfield didn't hire incompetents. Right now that would help her. They were concentrating on keeping Mortimer prisoner, not on protecting him.

Ah.
Her mind slipped effortlessly back into full alertness. A door swung open, then banged shut again as a spring took it. She looked away to make sure the momentary glow of lamplight through it didn't lessen her night vision, then back.
I was right.
The man unbuttoned and let loose on a heap of straw and manure near the center of the L formed by the two buildings, with his back to her. There really wasn't much point in staying inside and using a pot, when there was a dungheap so close, and only the house here had a connection to the city sewer system. It was another two hours before either man was due to be relieved.

The stream of urine smoked in the cold, wet air. Tiphaine took the ends of the sling in her right hand and the cup in her left, holding it taut but not tight. She kept the position while the man shook off and buttoned back up; it would look suspicious if he wet himself. Then…

Up from the crouch, smooth and steady. A single sweep around her head, and
release
. Cloven air hummed, a subdued whirr and swish. Then a dull, wet thump.

Bull's-eye,
the huntress thought.

The man fell limp as a half-full sack of grain. Behind the mask the Association warrior's lips skinned back from white teeth. She waited nonetheless, counting the seconds against her heartbeat—which was a useful technique for keeping calm in itself. A half minute passed, and another. The quiet remained absolute, the loudest sound a dog barking for a few moments. She started to move, then froze: footsteps on the street outside, beyond the fence to her right, loud and careless. Her head turned; just a flicker of motion through the boards of the fence, a rhythmic tapping—

Watchman on patrol,
she thought; that was a nightstick.
No, they call them police officers here.
He didn't call the hour, or that all was well, either, as he would have in Portland, or check non-nobles for their night-pass.
Sloppy.

The steps faded off into the distance. She waited only a few seconds beyond that; much longer and the guard's partner would come to see what was going on. A rope and grapnel were looped around her shoulder like a bandolier, and she set the two rubber-sheathed hooks on the guttering, over a bracket where the thin metal would be strong enough to bear her weight. The rope dropped twenty feet to the brick pavement of the yard, and she slid down it with the cord locked between her shins. A flick, and the grapnel came loose and fell into her hands.

Half a dozen strides took her to the fallen man. She checked his breathing; it was slow and natural, and the shot had only broken in three pieces when it flattened against his skull, which made it easy to pick up. He hadn't injured himself falling, which was to be expected—most people fell much more skillfully if they were completely limp. Then she peeled back the eyelids to confirm that she hadn't scrambled his brains either; knocking someone out and not doing lasting harm was a lot more difficult than you might think, hard enough with a cosh, requiring real skill with a sling.

Moving with careful speed she opened a leather case on her belt and took out a small hypodermic, pinching a fold of flesh on the inner thigh before she injected him. Working the limp form over her shoulders in a fireman's lift took only an instant. A slight grunt escaped her as she rose; the merchant's man weighed at least a hundred and eighty, better than forty pounds more than she did. It was all solid muscle, too…but then, so was she, if built along more graceful lines. Her nostrils twitched slightly in distaste at the beer-sweat-and-horses scent of him. From the downy blond beard, this was Harry Simmons; the other guard was Dave Trevor, black-haired and clean-shaven, probably because he couldn't raise serious face-fuzz yet. They were both young.

And
up
we go. You're the luckiest man in Corvallis tonight, did you know that, Harry? Although you and Dave may not think so in the morning. But if I'd been planning this op, I'd have killed you both and set a fire to cover it.

Walking in a crouch she moved crabwise to the door under the heavy weight. This was the tight part of the operation. It was a simple frame door with a knob, salvaged from some house in the suburbs, and it swung open soundlessly. The light within seemed bright to her night-adjusted eyes, but it was dim enough, a trickle from the lantern at the top of the stairs. That was turned down low, but she could see that this end of the big open space of the warehouse first floor was nearly filled with burlap sacks holding something—oats, from the slightly sweetish smell, and a pile of empty sacks as well. That would do nicely.

Tiphaine let the man slide to the ground at the foot of the stairs, face-up; the construction was open, simple two-by-fours and planks, honest carpentry but nothing fancy. Then she slid the haversack off her back for an instant. Inside the black-leather sack were a number of padded compartments, and some held bottles—the label read Vat 69, though it was actually an ordinary brand of Corvallan rotgut made from potatoes. A
real
bottle with the original contents would buy you the price of a plow team.

A little of the liquid went into his mouth; then she recorked the bottle and put it into Harry's hand. Then she reached out and stepped on the bottom stair, hard. It creaked with a satisfying loudness, and she made a single silent bound into the pile of empty sacking. That gave her an excellent view of the stairs from behind.