A Meeting at Corvallis (58 page)

With that, the master of Portland bowed himself, towards the man with the crosier. The cleric acknowledged the gesture with an inclination of his head, and then turned his eyes on Rudi. He met them, and a distinct jolt ran through him—almost the way it did when he met his mother's eyes after she'd Called the Lady, but without the warm comfort of it.

Uh-oh,
the boy thought.
There's Someone
there.
And that One is no friend to us, or to anyone.

“Our Lord Protector is both just and merciful,” the former Bishop Landon Rule said. “Yet there is also the matter of the boy's spiritual welfare. Surely the hand of God is seen here, that he has been delivered from the Satan-worshippers on the same day as our own lord's daughter, and in despite of the evil will of the Queen of Witches. I myself will see to his instruction, and in time his baptism.”

Mathilda began to speak. “But—”

Her mother silenced her with a touch on the lips that anyone more than a pace away would have thought a caress. “Of course, Your Holiness,” she said. “Eventually, that must be done, as all must be brought to the comfort of Holy Church.”

The churchman hesitated, then inclined his head in turn and raised a hand in blessing. The sonorous Latin sounded over the crowd and the thrones before he turned to go.

Oh,
Rudi thought, relaxing and noticing sweat under his armpits and on his face.
That was scary. More scary than the Protector.

“What the
fuck
were you thinking of, Sandra?” Arminger barked, striding back and forth. “Now I'm publicly committed!”

“For the present, my love, for the present,” Sandra said soothingly. “Have some wine.”

“It's a bit early,” he snarled again. “And don't try to distract me, Sandra. You know I don't like to be upstaged like that without warning. I
am
the Lord Protector, by God!”

“Some coffee, then?”

They were in one of the small presence rooms of his own chambers, high in the Tower of the Eye that rose from the southern face of the keep's wall; this was the last chamber the elevator reached, and the stairs above led to one more and then the rooftop. With the shape of the hill and the rise of the tower, that put them three hundred and fifty feet above the floor of the valley, looking down on the tree-bordered blue of the Willamette and the meadows between. That made the tall window and small balcony outside possible without compromising the castle's defenses; it was open, and impatiens fluttered in the boxes around the balcony, gold and purple and blue, adding their mite to the scents of spring and the river and the incense that burned in a holder in a wall niche.

Within, the chamber was floored in hardwood parquet, graced with Persian rugs; the walls held tapestries and bookshelves, and pictures—a Rubens and a Monet. The table at which Sandra sat was genuine Renaissance work, Venetian, with inlays in exotic woods and lapis; it had belonged to Bill Gates once, and Arminger's salvage team had found what were probably the computer magnate's bones not far away from it when they were combing likely locations in Seattle. His agents had plundered mansions and museums from San Simeon to Vancouver for treasures, and as far east as Denver; the best for him, the rest for gifts to his new baronage and the Church.

Usually that gave him a glow of satisfaction. Not today…

“Do stop pacing, darling. You're making me think of those panthers in the menagerie.”

He turned and planted his hands on the table. “What
happened?
Did your better nature get the best of you, or what?”

Sandra laughed, a relaxed trill. “My love, you know me better than that. I don't
have
a better nature. And in the unlikely event that I ever did, it certainly didn't survive the Change. Remember who told you to…and I quote…
go for it
exactly ten years ago, minus fourteen days?”

He relaxed and threw himself into a chair, running the thumb of his sword hand along the ivory panels in the arm-rest; it has been William Randolph Hearst's once.

“Then why?” he said, in a tone that wasn't mild, but lacked the rasp of a minute before. “What did you have in mind? And why the hell didn't you ask me first?”

“Darling, I don't have a better nature, but I
do
have a lively sense of our own interests. And of how you can forget them in the heat of the moment sometimes.”

One brow went up. “I want that witch-bitch to
suffer
. She's been a pain in our arse since a couple of months after the Change. I want her to suffer, then I want to watch her die by inches.”

“Oh, granted. Remember how you felt when Mathilda was kidnapped? She's feeling all that now, and more. As to dying, that can always be arranged.”

Grudgingly, he nodded. “OK, and your people pulled it off—that was initiative. But I had something more in mind for Rudi; involving an iron cage and some cosmetic surgery.”

She held up a finger to forestall him. “You're a brilliant man, my love, but you tend to forget something—you can only kill someone
once
. Likewise with cutting off their nose. And as for revenge, it's a dish better eaten cold. I think knowing she's been defeated and lost everything and we have her son and
then
killing her would be sufficient for the Witch Queen. And then young Rudi could be
very useful
to us. Do we really want to have our men potshotted by Mackenzies behind trees for the next twenty years, after we've taken the rest of the Valley?”

His eyes narrowed. “I can soon put a stop to
that
sort of thing. Guerilla wars don't happen if you don't care how many you kill.”

“Yes, Norman, I realize that,” she said, and her voice hardened slightly. “And then we'd have more empty fields, wouldn't we? Instead of farms that can pay us taxes…not to mention furnish very useful fighting men when the time comes to put the so-called Free Cities League of the Yakima in their place. Or even the United States of Boise and New Deseret.”

“Ah,” he said, taken aback. “You think that's possible? A tributary enclave? Perhaps along the lines of the Highlands and the Scots kings in the times of Wallace and Bruce…But young Rudi might not cooperate…on short acquaintance he strikes me as a stubborn sort. Giving his mommy-bitch the chop would likely put him off.”

“Children forget—that was why I decided to risk everything to get Mathilda back now. We can do a great deal with Rudi
if
we play things carefully, and with the Mackenzies,” Sandra said. “After all, there's the example of their little golden-haired prince to follow, isn't there? Into the arms of Mother Church, into loyalty to the Lord Protector, into pointing those distressingly effective bows the right way…”

Arminger felt the anger leave him. “Now that
is
something to consider.” He felt thought replace the rage. “He does seem to be a charismatic little bastard, doesn't he? He had Ruffin and Ivo eating out of his hand, if you noticed—”

“I did.”

“—and I think he even got your Tiphaine warmed up a bit, which is a miracle His Holiness Leo ought to canonize him for. He's got nerve, too, I'll grant him that.”

“Very charismatic. Very intelligent too, from what the reports say. And a very good friend of Mathilda's.”

Arminger's hand halted as he lifted the coffeepot from the spirit-stove on the tray. “You're not serious?”

“Well, you might give it a thought. That's rather speculative, but…”

“But any noble family Mathilda married into would be uncomfortably powerful, yes,” he said. “Two sugars?”

He added the lumps and slid the coffee over the table, smiling as she sipped delicately. He'd always thought of himself as something of a wolf, or perhaps a tiger. By way of contrast his wife reminded him of something small and deadly and precise; a viper, for instance, or a stiletto, or some exotic highly evolved wasp.

“Ah, where would I be without you, my love?” he said affectionately.

“In very much the same place, but with only half the taxpayers,” she said, smiling at him. “Once more we play bad cop—”

“—and worse cop,” Arminger said, and laughed. “By God, now I'm looking forward to dinner!”

“And in the meantime…” She grinned at him, stretching in the chair and linking her hands behind her head. “I've always found this
quattrocento
furniture a turn-on. It's naughty, like fornication in a museum.”

He smiled and unbuckled his sword belt, moving forward. Just then a bell by the door to the suite rang; it was controlled by a cable from the guardroom two stories below. The rulers looked at each other; only a
real
emergency would make the officer of the day interrupt a private conference.

“What now?” Norman Arminger said, striding over to the speaking tube. “This had better be
important,
and not just more excuses from Alexi.”

Near West Salem, Willamette Valley, Oregon
March 5th, 2008/Change Year 9

“N
ow this is going to be awkward,” Mike Havel said grimly, looking up at the sun.

It was late afternoon now. Out on the field before them the A-listers charged again; enemy infantry stopped in a sudden bristle of spears. Once more the flicker of arrows showed as the Bearkiller cavalry reversed and rode away shooting. Once more crossbow bolts harvested some of them.

More bright, eager young kids who half killed themselves to get that scar between the eyebrows,
Havel thought.
Cost of doing business. Christ, I decided I didn't like being a soldier before the Change, then I had to go and become King afterwards.

The northern men-at-arms waited behind their footmen. Out on the right, towards the river, the Protectorate's crossbowmen were slugging it out with their Bearkiller equivalents, and not enjoying it; there were twice as many of them, but the Outfit's shooters were firing three or four times as fast, and didn't have to stand up to do it. The spearmen there edged closer under the cover of that exchange, but they were leaving a trail of dead and writhing wounded to do it. Stretcher parties moved behind their line as they did behind his. Right now they were paying higher than he was, but the tables would be turned when they came to within arm's reach.

“Trumpeters, signal
cavalry withdraw left,
” Havel said.
Wish it would rain,
he thought; but the weather stayed obstinately nice, mixed sun and cloud.

The A-listers obeyed the trumpet signal, breaking off and returning to their position beside and a little behind the artillery. The six pieces still in operation opened up again. Three roundshot smashed into the upraised shields of the spearmen on the enemy's west flank, but the infantry ignored their losses and kept coming. They were only five hundred yards from his own front now; Havel could hear the shouting of officers keeping them under control, keeping them to a steady marching pace against the impulse to run forward. The whole formation edged towards the river to get away from the throwing engines, though, which put them in the path of more crossbow bolts.

“All right,” he said to the commanders of his militia. “Our job now is to get out of here without turning a setback into a disaster. We back up to Brush College Road. The crossbow companies get on their bikes and belt out of here, west, and make for Larsdalen. The pikes will retreat through the ruins—the cleared road's narrow enough we can't be flanked. The A-listers will hang on their flank so their lancers can't pursue.”

Bicycles could outrun horses, but only if they got a bit of a start, say a mile or two.

“Ah…Lord Bear, that leaves all of
them
and just four hundred of
us,
” the commander of the pike phalanx said. “What do we do then?”

“That's going to be the awkward bit,” Havel said. “Signe, you oversee the withdrawal of the crossbows.”

She was white about the lips, but she nodded.

“I'll stay with the pikes, of course. We'll back up Glenn Creek Road, and then the creek itself, moving west. We'll have to abandon the artillery, but it can't be helped. Their cavalry won't be able to get at us there.”

But their crossbowmen will shoot us to shit,
he didn't say aloud.
With a little luck, we might be able to get half of the pike companies away. We can turn on them a couple of times, make them use mainly spearmen to follow us up. Those crossbows of theirs can't stop a charge by firepower alone.

“Ready?” he said, and saw grim nods. “Then—”

Signe waved to get his attention, and then pointed to Chapman Hill. He looked south to the lookout station, and managed to keep his face calm while he read:

Two thousand repeat two thousand bicycle-borne troops approaching from the southwest along Doaks Ferry Road. Forward scouts on Glen Creek Road.

It couldn't be his reinforcements. They wouldn't be anything near two thousand strong. The blinking heliograph continued; it was as unemotional as ever, of course, but somehow it seemed to have a tone to match the clamping feeling in his lower belly.

Force does not properly reply to my request for code of the day. Will continue to signal as long as possible.

“Serious pucker time,” he murmured to himself.

Some of the militia captains were gaping at him; he relayed the message. “Signe,” he went on. “Inform Eric of this, will you? And tell him you're in command.”

So he won't do something nobly suicidal,
he thought.
The kids need a mother and an uncle, because they're not going to have a dad, not after this. Maybe California is a good idea. Be a while before the Protector gets down there.

He had the enemy to the front, what could only be more enemy behind him, and the river to the east. If he tried to run west they'd be all over him like ugly on an ape.

“You all know what this means,” he said quietly, as his wife spurred her horse westward towards the only force mobile enough to break out of the trap. “The only thing we can do for our families now is kill as many of the enemy as possible before we go down. I take full responsibility. We'll form a half circle with our backs to the river—the swamp will cover us. Any questions?”

A few hasty swallows. Someone raised a hand.

“Yeah?”

“I'm not limber enough to kiss my own ass good-bye, especially wearing this fucking breastplate. Anyone care to do it for me?”

“By rights, that ought to be my job,” Havel said, feeling a flush of pride as a grim chuckle ran around the half circle facing him. “But you can ask Lord Alexi to do the honors. Let's get going.
Hakkaa Paalle!
”

“Hakkaa Paalle!”

Near Castle Todenangst, Willamette Valley, Oregon
March 6th, 2008/Change Year 9

“Whoa, girl. Whoa, pretty lady! Where did
you
come from?”

Sir James Wickham raised his eyebrows at the mare that had jumped the fence to join the herd. He'd cursed the roll of the dice that gave him this duty—looking after the reserve destriers was important work, but deadly dull, and there was a girl among the castle staff who'd given him a sidelong look. Here he was stuck with the smell of horseshit, keeping strange horses trained for aggression from fighting for dominance when they were penned too close, and to top it all off he had to do it in full war harness. Because there was a war on, as if anyone was going to raid within a mile of Castle Todenangst!

Now he forgot the serving-girl and his own annoyance; the black mare was a lot more interesting than anything else out here at the edge of the war-camp.

Big 'un,
he thought as she cantered around the edge of the crowded meadow. A few of the other horses nickered challenge at her, but she ignored them with lofty disdain.
Big and beautiful. Christ and the Saints, that one's fit for the Protector's stud! She took a seven-board fence as if she were stepping over a dead man. And wouldn't I love to have her myself!

Sixteen hands and a bit, warmblood with a strong dash of Arab, and young—four or maybe even a little less, early teens in horse years. Enough muscle and bone to carry a man in full armor, but a floating gait like thistledown. Spring sunlight brought out the gloss of her black coat and mane, where mud hadn't spattered up her legs and onto her belly and chest. Some idiot had left her saddled for far too long, and it was an odd-looking saddle as well, a tiny thing.

“Any of you recognize her?” he asked sharply.

“No, my lord,” the head groom said respectfully, shaking his head. “Never seen her before in my life, and I think I'd remember; that's a fine horse. But there's a lot of bloodstock here with the army.”

Wickham nodded in turn. The groom was a decade and change older than the knight, nearly forty, and very good at his job—otherwise he wouldn't be working at the Protector's principal country residence. Instead of replying the younger man walked farther on the dung-littered, close-cropped grass of the paddock, extending a hand and talking soothingly.

“Whoa, girl. Steady there…” In a slightly different tone: “By God, someone was riding her without a bit! That's just a hackamore! And that's a kid's saddle, look at the stirrup-leathers.”

The horse snorted and tossed its head as he approached, turning three-quarters on and looking at him out of one eye. It tossed its head again as he ran a hand down its arched neck, and stamped one foot on the ground. That made a faint ringing sound, like a muted, far-off cymbal.

This is the first horse I've ever seen in all my life without a single fault I could find,
he thought.
What a pity if nobody could claim her!

“You're a good-natured lady too, I bet,” he said.
You'd have to be, if a kid was riding you. Even so, what a stupid risk—this is a warhorse if I've ever seen one. What the hell…

He eased the bridle off and gave it a look. It was a perfectly standard piece of harness, new-made but from well-tanned leather kept supple with neat's-foot oil and hard work, perhaps a little simpler and lighter than most; the metalwork was plain brass and stainless steel and someone had cleaned it carefully not too long ago. The saddle was elementary, a mere pad, even lighter than an English hunting saddle, and secured by a single girth. He unbuckled that as well, lifting it off her back, and then the saddle blanket, marveling at the condition of the muscles of her back and barrel. Leaving a saddle on a horse for days was a crime, although possibly she'd just run off. But whoever owned her had cared for her very well indeed before that. He cast a quick look at her hooves, which was easier when she picked one up and pawed at the turf. They were sound, and the shoes looked fairly new, and as if the farrier knew his business.

“Get me a hobble,” he snapped over his shoulder, offering a piece of dried apple in one palm.

The horse took it, then turned away again; it twitched its skin when he tried to stroke its neck again. The head groom picked up the light pad saddle and turned it over in work-hardened hands.

“Sir James,” he said suddenly. “Look at this!”

The knight drew himself out of a dream. It had been a very pleasant dream; nobody claimed the mare, he performed some heroic deed right where the right person could see it in the battles to come…title on the estate near Walla Walla he'd been half promised…the Protector gave him the stud services of his Salafin, and he bred him to this proud beauty to produce the perfect destrier…

“What is it?” he asked sharply.

“Look,” the groom said simply, holding up the saddle.

There was a design on the flap, tooled into the fine-grained brown leather with an awl. A circle flanked by two crescents pointing out to left and right….

“Jesus!” he said, crossing himself and taking half a step back, scrubbing his hand against his side. “Hecate's moon. The Witch-mark!”

“Should I get a priest, my lord?” the groom said expression-lessly.

“Yes. And get the officer of the day—Lord Burton. And
get me that hobble
.”

An under-groom came running with it an instant later. He took it in his own hands and advanced again, stooping.

“So, so, so, quietly there, girl—”

“Watch out!”

Sir James managed to get an arm up before the hoof hit his face. It was a forward flick with the forehoof, not a milling downward strike, and only the bone of his arm broke midway between elbow and wrist as the sheet steel of the vambrace bent. His breath hissed out at the spike of shrill, cold agony up the nerves of his arm, and he curled around it. More pain as a stamp cracked ribs through mail and padding, and then the mare was away and took the fence in a floating leap that brought a gasp of wonder to him, even through the agony in arm and chest.

Hands lifted him a little, and he cursed breathlessly. “Carefully, oaf! It's a sprung rib and a broken arm. Get a doctor.”

So much for my visible heroism,
he thought.
I'm not going anywhere except very carefully to the toilet for the rest of
this
campaigning season.

“That was one beautiful horse, though.”

Tail and mane like flags, it paced away northward.

Near Mount Angel, Willamette Valley, Oregon
March 6th, 2008/Change Year 9

“Nigel!” Juniper said, and seized him for a quick, fierce hug before stepping back.

“My dear,” Nigel Loring said, slightly shocked at how haggard Juniper's face had grown. “I heard. I seriously don't think they'll hurt him, though. They'll want to make use of him.”

Juniper nodded. “They'll expect fear for him to wear me down, the which I will not allow,” she said stoutly. “And since there's nothing we can do about it now, let's attend to what we
can
do.”