A Meeting at Corvallis (27 page)

“Yeah, sprout?” she said, then bent down when he beckoned.

Rudi could smell the herbal wash on her braided brown hair, and the linseed oil on the chain-mail collar of her arming doublet; her smile was open and friendly. They got along well, and he'd known her off and on for most of his life, she having been part of Sam Aylward's household until just lately; she and Aoife were talking about handfasting, though most thought them too young. He didn't know her quite as well as he did Aoife, who'd lived in the Hall at Dun Juniper all his life….

But Aoife is a lot more strict about things. Better not to ask her; she'd be all questions.

He spoke quietly, not quite whispering: “Liath, could you get us some stuff? This is real important to Matti and me.”

“Sure. What?”

“Oh…ummm…a couple of candles, three cups, and could we borrow your war-paint kit? I know you've got it along. And two blessed wands.”

Liath's brown eyes went wide. She darted a look at Aoife and licked her lips. “Are you sure about that, Rudi?” she said seriously.

She's thinking she should tell Aoife,
Rudi thought, and pushed at her with his will. “Well, duh, would I be asking if I wasn't? C'mon, Liath, this is
real
important.”

She looked at Mathilda then; the girl nodded, her lips compressed into a line of determination, dark circles of worry and stress under her eyes. Rudi shifted from foot to foot.

“
Please,
Liath. We've gotta do it now, before the grown-ups get everything messed up.”

“OK. But if you get me in trouble—”

“Don't worry. Mom'll understand.”

Liath sighed. “OK. But keep it quiet, sprout.”

She strolled over to her own mount and made a show of checking its feedbag. Then she took a few small cloth-wrapped parcels from her saddlebags. Most Initiates on a long trip would have the basics for casting a Circle or spell-work with them. They sidled to the edge of the paved strip and waited until no eyes were on them; Liath leaned casually against the wall with her bow in her crossed arms, one boot heel up against the stucco, whistling as the wind scuffed dried leaves across the asphalt, and then Rudi vaulted into the open window.

Mathilda followed with something of the same eel-quick efficiency. The room within was empty and looked as if it had been deserted all their lives; the window on the other side was lodged open, and there was a rain-stain and a scattering of old leaves across the floor.

“What do we do?” Mathilda asked, a little breathless.

Rudi had the words memorized; such things came easily to him. Mathilda knew a lot less than most Mackenzies would, of course, though it wasn't a secret rite reserved for Initiates.

“Do we have to mix our blood in the cup and stuff like that?”

“Yeah,” Rudi said absently. “Sorta. We've got to mix our blood, but we mix the
drink
in the cups…” He closed his eyes and breathed out, feeling for what was
right
in this time and place.
OK, this will have to be a little different 'cause Matti's a Christian…
“OK…you've got your crucifix with you, right?”

Mathilda pulled the silver-and-diamond amulet from under her shirt and jacket. “Now, here's how we'll do it—”

Twenty minutes later they knelt facing each other. Matti lifted the cup to his lips; it was cold tea from Liath's canteen, acrid and pleasant.

“I drink deep from the cup that the Goddess offers to the Lord,” he said, then took the cup from her and held it for her.

“I drink deep from the cup that Mary held for her son,” Mathilda replied, her eyes solemn in the candlelight; the early winter night was coming.

They lit the candle between them from the other two, each holding one flame to the wick, and spoke the words together. Then they picked up their knives and each nicked the back of the other's right wrist; the touch of the steel was a gentle sting, and Mathilda concentrated with squint-eyed care as she made the tiny wound. His own hand moved in a single small, swift flick. They pressed the cuts against each other, the thin hot trickle of blood mingling as their wrists locked in the chilly, damp air of the room as the chant went on: “…I am your brother”—he paused a little so Mathilda could say
sister—
“…your parent and your child. I will teach you and from you I will learn. I am the shield on your shoulder, the sword in your hand, the lamp that lights your feet. By earth and air, by fire and water, by the blood we share and the steel that shed it, we are one soul! All my wisdom and all my secrets I will share with you, as long as this life endures. Until we meet in the world beyond the world,
so mote it be!
”

“Amen,” Mathilda added and signed herself, kissing the crucifix before she dropped it back around her neck.

“Oh, dear,” his mother's voice said. “Oh, dear. Oh,
dear
.”

Both of the children looked up, shocked from exultation back into the dying light of common day. Juniper Mackenzie and Sandra Arminger stood in the doorway, with Liath and Aoife and the dark-clad blond bodyguard in the background. The bodyguard looked amused; Liath looked as if she wanted her vital functions to stop right then and there; Aoife was scowling like a summer thunderhead.

“Oh, dear,” Juniper said again.

The two mothers shared a look. When the Lady of Portland spoke, it was with crisp assurance.

“Oh, shit.”

“What's
their
problem?” Tiphaine asked the barkeeper casually.

The Suds and Spuds was a respectable tavern near the riverside part of the city wall, but not fancy. A long room held tables and booths, a bar, a kitchen in the back and rooms upstairs; blackboards listed prices. And rather astonishingly there had been a four-piece chamber ensemble playing until a moment ago, students performing for food, beer and what tips the audience could afford. She herself was dressed like a local, of the same class as the laborers and roustabouts and carters who made up the clientele, or like a farmworker in town for a day—there were plenty of such, with a meeting of the Faculty Senate due soon, which was the story she'd given when she rented a room.

An equivalent riverfront place in a Protectorate town would probably be named the Slut and Brew—there was a well-known dive in Portland called exactly that—and conducted accordingly, with more noise and worse smells and without the clean sheets.

“Them?” the barkeeper said, polishing a glass and looking at the two men. “They got fired, and they're not happy about it. Wouldn't have pegged them for whiners, but you never know.” He set the glass down and wiped the bar down with the rag. “Didn't you hear about the murder at Hatfield's? Man got his throat cut while those two were supposed to be guarding him. It's a three-day wonder. You want a beer, or what?”

Tiphaine nodded, and the man took a mug down and filled it from the wooden barrel as she grabbed a handful of pretzels from an orange plastic bowl on the bar. He slid the chipped mug over to her and she sipped; it was passable, and coolish if not cold. The two men were definitely Harry and Dave, looking sullen. There was a fair crowd in, and some of them were listening to the two of them holding forth.

“—not even any severance pay, and our rent due next week. And Dave here is getting married this spring. It wasn't
our
fault. How are we supposed to keep a roof over our heads?”

“There's this thing called
saving,
and some of us do it every payday,” a stevedore said, getting a general laugh. “Anyway, even this time of year you can get something, work on a salvage crew in Albany, whatever. It may not pay as well as what you had, but you blew that off, didn't you?”

Tiphaine leaned an elbow on the bar, standing with one foot on the brass rail. Her hair was up under a woolen cap, which was believable enough, since even with a woodstove the place wasn't what you'd call hot. Lady Sandra's traveling gear had included a selection of contacts to turn her eyes an unremarkable brown. With a little artfully applied padding under her clothing and subtle differences in stance and walk it was unlikely anyone would connect her with the Association's consulate.

“I heard those loonies who live in the woods and think they're some sort of fairies cut that guy's throat,” she said aloud. “The hired swords, the Rangers. Knocked you guys out and just killed him, like that—” She snapped her fingers. “Hell of a thing you should get the boot because Hatfield's weirdo friends like killing people. And collecting their
heads
. I heard they've got boxes full of heads, right here in town.”

That got the conversation going again; of course, unless you were on the road, the main reason for coming to a tavern rather than staying at home of an evening was to schmooze and gossip. The noise level went up as the pro-Dúnedain, anti-Dúnedain and the more numerous who-the-hell-are-they-anyway factions started exchanging ill-informed opinions, louder and louder. More people were coming in, too, as the sun went down.

Eventually she used the noise and crowding to sidle over to where Harry and Dave were sitting in a booth along the back wall. They were still nursing their first beers, and the waitress had been giving them the hairy eyeball as space got more scarce and time passed.

“Mind if I join you?” she said. “Wendy Madigan's my name.”

They looked at her, surprised, but shook her hand and gave their names. When the waitress came around again she looked at Tiphaine with raised brows. “Another for me,” she said. “And get my friends here a shot of vodka each, with beer chasers. What've you got to eat?”

“Fish stew, or mutton and barley,” she said. “Bread and fixings come with it. Five cents all up. Or you can have a side of French fries for an extra penny.”

“I'll have the fish stew,” Tiphaine said; it smelled all right, and the price was modest enough to suit her cover. “You guys? It's on me.”

“Sure,” Dave said; he looked to be the brighter of the two. “And you're doing this 'cause you like our faces or something?”

“Nah, I need the town news,” she said easily. “My folks and I work in a dairy, a little place near Philomath, up Woods Creek, and they sent me in with a wagonload of butter on the railway. Everyone'll want the latest when I get home.”

The two men looked at each other. Then they began to talk.

This could be an opportunity,
she thought, as they took turns to pour out their grievances while she spooned up the fish stew…which wasn't bad, with chunks of white chum salmon, onions, carrots and potato; the bread was good, if a little rougher than the white variety the Lord Protector's court ate.

Trouble is, I'm not entirely convinced. Something not
quite
right. A little too smooth.

These two were too coherent and sure of what they were about. Most people told a story with a lot of umms and aaahs and disagreements, even if they'd seen the same thing—especially if they had. Nothing was more unreliable than human memory, and when she went in after Sir Jason she'd shot these two full of enough babble-juice to confuse a Dominican.

Their story is too much like a
story.
They're not bewildered enough at what happened to them. Smells wrong.

“You guys going to testify at the hearings?” she asked, when they'd run down.

“Ummm…I don't know,” Dave said. “Hatfield's got a lot of pull with the Economics Faculty. Might screw up our chances of getting another job.”

Hmmm. A perfect opportunity to bribe them to badmouth Hatfield and the Dúnedain, possibly
too
perfect.
Decision firmed.
They're bait. Someone's keeping an eye on them, most likely, which means they're keeping an eye on
me.

“Well, I hope things turn out all right for you two,” Tiphaine said. “I hate to see the high-and-mighties putting the boot into a couple of working men.”

She left an extravagant nickel tip for the waitress and went back to the washrooms, sitting in a stall thinking hard until the room was empty save for her. Then she opened the window at the rear; it was a tight fit, being small and high up on the wall, but she hopped up on a sink, wiggled through and came to her feet in the alley. Something scuttled away from her…

“Ms. Rutherton,” a voice said.

Eilir watched the Association warrior come out of her crouch after a quick, flickering examination of her surroundings. High, blank walls on two sides; Alleyne and Astrid at one end of the alley, John Hordle and her at the other.

Tiphaine smiled and pulled off her knit cap. “You can't possibly hold me prisoner,” she pointed out. “And disposing of my body in a walled city…not easy. So I'll walk out to the street now, and if you try to stop me…why, I'll start to scream. People are odd in Corvallis; if you scream, they run towards you instead of away.”