A Meeting at Corvallis (83 page)

“Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. That's all I can say.”

“Well, that sucks!” Mike Havel said, and started to laugh, then controlled it; not a good idea if his shattered ribs had punctured things inside, and there were a few last things to do.

“Aaron, you're a good guy and a good friend. Help look after my kids, will you? Face it, you were born to be an uncle!”

The doctor turned away and fell to his knees, sobbing into his hands. Havel looked up; there was a tree casting some shade, they must have carried him back on a stretcher, and the light dappled his face, dazzling glimpses of sun and blue through shifting green.

Pretty damn good world,
he thought.
Right to the end. This isn't a bad way to go, not bad at all. I've seen and heard a lot worse.

Then he pushed heavy eyelids up. “Hey,
alskling,
” he said.

Signe leaned forward; her hands felt very warm as they gripped his, which meant his was getting cold.

“Alskling,”
she said back, her eyes searching his.

“Look after the kids, and tell 'em I loved them; God knows it's true enough. Tell 'em I wish I could have seen them grow up. Never expected to be a dad…that was more fun than anything except you. Help look after the Outfit. Couldn't have done it without you, kid.”

“Goddamit, Mike, don't leave us!”

He grinned, feeling the fierce beat of her will even then. “We're both hammers, you and I, that's our problem—and Lord, didn't we make some lovely sparks together! Remember when we fought those bandits in the ruin, and it turned out to be a porn-video store? And I said
I still live,
and you thought it was Tarzan, and it was John Carter?”

Sleep was calling; she was nodding, crying and laughing at the same time. He went on: “Just…keep in mind…all the problems aren't nails, OK? And you're twenty-eight. That's how old I was when I met you the day of the Change, and my real life was just starting. Don't make this the end of yours.”

She kept hold of his hand; the words got softer despite his best efforts.

“Will,” he whispered. The weathered brown face leaned towards him. “You're boss of the Outfit for now. Don't forget that election come January. Listen to Signe and Ken and Eric and Luanne and all, but you're ramrod. Always…thought you should be…back at the start, remember? And you wouldn't take the job.”

He nodded and set a hand on Havel's for a moment, where his wife gripped it. “I'll do my best, Mike. Mighty big boots to fill.”

“Eric.” The blond head so like his wife's bent. “Brother…you always had my back…”

His eyes closed. A moment later he opened them again, watching all of them start. Then it was too much effort to speak; he'd managed all the essential things.

You did pretty good, Marine,
he thought, as the bright light faded above.
You found Signe and made some great babies with her. You fought that bastard Arminger to a standstill for ten years and then killed him. You got a lot more than you thought you would, when the plane's engines cut out over the Bitterroots.

It all became a tumble of images, and then suddenly his thoughts were clear for an instant:

I was father to the land. I saved my people. I was…King.

“By…earth,” he said, more of a movement of the lips than a thing of throat and air. “By…sky…”

Another breath, and it did hurt a little now. The next was harder. The women leaned over him, the mothers of his children. He blinked once more. His own mother, her black braids swinging as she rocked his hurt away. She was singing to him:

Field of the Cloth of Gold, Willamette Valley, Oregon
September 5th, 2008/Change Year 10

J
uniper Mackenzie woke with a start. The tent was dark, but dawn had broken outside; Nigel's bedroll was empty, and there was a stale cold smell, slightly fusty, that she associated with war. She scrambled into kilt and shirt, socks and shoes, then buckled and belted her plaid as she stood outside, breathing in freshness and wood smoke and cooking smells. A flight of geese went over high above, the first of the year heading south and sounding their long song.

The memory of sorrow clutched at her, like a hand at her throat as she heard the keening among her people, rising and falling and then rising again into a saw-edged wail of grief, the heavy silence from the orderly rows of the Bearkiller camp, the Latin chanting from the chapel-tent of the warrior monks. Nigel turned and she leaned into him, hugging fiercely.

“He was a brave man,” he said. “I've never met a braver.”

Her head nodded against the rough surface of his quilted tunic. “He was the father of my son.”

Then she took a deep breath, and another, standing and raising her head proudly, accepting the strength of his arm without leaning on it.

“And…he was the given sacrifice that goes consenting; the King who dies that the people may live,” she said. “I knew it from the beginning, but I didn't…he always laughed at the myths.”

“Even when he stepped into one,” Nigel said. “And now he's become legend himself.”

He shook himself, and she smiled despite her sadness as she felt him put on practicality like a well-tailored suit, even if it was a little threadbare at the cuffs.

“We heard some fighting from over there last night,” he said.

He nodded northward towards the Protectorate's camp…a Protectorate without a Lord Protector, now. Smoke rose over it, more than cookfires could account for.

“And according to the Rangers, a block of about five hundred of them is leaving right now—for the baronies along the Columbia, we think; they're worried about the Free Cities and the Jacks. We may not have to fight that great murdering battle after all.”

“And our folk?” she asked, knowing the answer.

“Grieving, but not downhearted. I wouldn't like to face them in a fight now.”

“Indeed!” she said. To herself:
With Mike's spirit behind the blade and the bow? No, no, and no three times!

They stood in line for porridge and bacon, and ate without tasting. The noise of grief died down, but not the reality of it, as the day dawned blue and dreaming over the golden stubblefields around them. Juniper felt herself moving in a shell of quiet, making herself attend to things—reports from spies, the camp disputes and pettiness that nothing stopped. Less than an hour later, a knight galloped out from the Association's camp with a white pennant snapping on his lance. Waiting with the other hastily assembled leaders Juniper was astonished to see the marks of tears and grief on the man's haughty young face as well, as he sat his curveting horse like one born there.

Well,
she chided herself.
And if there had never been a one who loved Norman Arminger, the man could not have done so much ill or ruled so long. And now he must account for all his deeds before the Guardians, in the place where Truth stands naked and lies are impossible, and choose his own course to self-forgiveness.

“I am envoy from the Lady Sandra Arminger, Regent of the Portland Protective Association for the Princess Mathilda,” he called.

O-ho, it's Regent she is now?
Juniper thought with a return of the cold calculation a Chief must be able to pull on like a garment; from the corner of her eye, she saw Signe's valkyr face close like a comely fist.
I wonder what the others over there think of that?

“She and her loyal Grand Constable, Count Renfrew of Odell, would come and speak peace with the other rulers gathered here,” he went on; was it her imagination that there was a slight stress on
loyal
? “She and he will come alone, if they have your pledge of armistice and safe-conduct from now until her return.”

Eyebrows rose. That was a major concession; it was also a show of strength, that she could come unguarded and with what must be her main supporter along…and also a sign of trust, of sorts. Sandra Arminger had always been a good judge of other people's scruples, even if she didn't have any herself.

Will Hutton spoke, his hard Texan drawl skeptical: “Anythin' else, boy?”

The knight's lips grew tighter, but he inclined his head. “Do you speak for this assembly, Lord Hutton?”

“I speak for the Bearkillers, by Mike Havel's last words,” he said. “These others are the leaders of free communities. We'll consult.”

Even then, the Protectorate knight sneered a little. “The Lady Sandra says that she would speak first with Lady Juniper Mackenzie, Chief of the Clan Mackenzie, and then with your leaders in council.”

Signe looked daggers at the Mackenzie chieftain, but Will Hutton smiled. “Wouldn't be tryin' to sow a little distrust here, would she? Sure. There's nothin' she can say to Juney that Juney won't tell us all. We'll meet her at the command pavilion over to there.” He pointed. “Whenever you're ready.”

“At once.”

The knight ducked his head, and wheeled his horse so abruptly that it reared as it turned; then it landed with a puff of dust from among the reaped wheat stems and galloped northward once more.

Well,
Juniper thought.
Well, well, well!

“Probably best this way,” Will Hutton said quietly as they walked towards the big open-sided tent. “We Bearkillers 'r too sore with it now. And Mike died so we wouldn't
have
to fight that big battle.”

“He was the father of my son,” Juniper replied, her tone equally quiet. “And I loved him too, Will.”

The older man nodded. “Figure so. But you didn't live with him day-in-day-out.”

Unwillingly, she nodded…
And Mike knew what he was doing when he gave Will the power. Signe would be too blinded by her rage.

Evidently “at once” meant what it said. “Alone” was something else; it included a driver for the light two-wheeled horsecart that Sandra rode in beneath a parasol, and a maidservant on a little rumble seat behind, and a groom to hold Conrad Renfrew's horse. The former consort sat erect and elegant; Renfrew dismounted first, standing at the wheel to hand her down from the vehicle as it bobbed on its springs.

Signe was close. The consort nodded to her. “We're both widowed today,” she said. “Let's see if we can keep too many more from sharing the condition.”

The tall, blond, young woman in armor looked down her straight nose. “My husband was a great and good man,” she said coldly, then stopped herself with an obvious effort.

Sandra nodded, the black mourning ribbons fluttering on her white headdress and framing cold pride. “And mine was a monster. But that, Lady Signe, doesn't mean I loved him any less than you did yours. And now if you'll excuse me…”

She swept into the command pavilion as if it were a gazebo in the grounds of Castle Todenangst, waiting an instant while the servant unfolded a chair and small side table and set out refreshments, even pouring coffee from a thermos.

Juniper followed and sat across from her, studying the face and form she'd never seen so close before. The Protector's widow sat half-turned in her chair; sunlight from outside the pavilion and through the striped cloth made the pale colors of her cotte-hardi and headdress glow in the dimness inside the tent, the mourning ribbons like shadows across the brilliant white, a subdued glitter of lapis and silver from the buttons. The air smelled of hot canvas and crushed grass and coffee; Sandra sipped, apparently as relaxed as she'd have been in a castle solar, and picked up one of the little watercress sandwiches with the crusts cut off, nibbling.

“Well,” the Chief of the Mackenzies said at last, into that silence and Sandra's slight catlike smile. “What do you have to say for yourself, then?”

“That I protected your son, when my husband would have killed him,” she said promptly, and the smile grew slightly. “Several times, in fact.”

Juniper winced slightly.
True enough and there's no getting around it. Still…

“You're not a good person at all, really, are you?” she asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.

“No, I'm not,” Sandra agreed, and shrugged. “And you are, and yet you won anyway. Unfathomable are the works of God.” A pause. “And many are the marvels, yet none so marvelous as humankind.”

“You agree we've won?”

Another shrug. “Well, somewhat. A chunk of our army has melted away. What's left isn't big enough to fight you, the Grand Constable tells me, although it would cost you many lives to overrun us and we could probably get away even if you tried. Besides, how long will your farmers stay here, when there's work to do at home? They came to stop us invading their land, and that's…no longer on the program.”

Juniper looked aside. Conrad Renfrew was standing like an armored fireplug in the open. Eric Larsson was not far away, glaring at him. The Association's general looked at him, shrugged and walked over. The younger man bristled like a wolf at a stranger on his pack's territory, then nodded reluctantly and answered whatever it was the count said.

Sandra went on: “But the Grand Constable is loyal to me…and Princess Mathilda. It's quite extraordinary, but he has no wish to be Lord Protector himself.”

“Ah, but some others do.”

“But they can't agree on a candidate, and none of them alone has anything like the strength of the combined loyalists. We can
all
go home, haul up our drawbridges, and wait—the harvest is in the storehouses behind our walls and gates. And in a little while, after you're tired of sitting outside the moat and making rude gestures, you'll have to go home to your farms and villages too, before we taunt you once again.”

Her face was calm but her eyes twinkled; Juniper fought down an answering smile as Sandra went on.

“For that matter, if you split your army up to watch castles, Conrad tells me there are things he could do which might reverse the whole result. And Pope Leo is still talking about a Crusade, you know. He has quite a popular following.”

Juniper smiled herself, grimly. She was prepared for that, and there was an edge in her tone when she replied: “But speaking of farmers, before we have to go home we can pay
your
farmers a visit. We don't have to take castles. All we have to do is take the farmers who want to go with us…and then you can set your men-at-arms to plowing your fields, and follow along with a bag of wheat slung around your neck, sowing the good earth yourselves.”

The wimpled head nodded. “There is that. But if you really wanted to do that, you wouldn't be talking to me now, would you?”

Juniper sighed. “We can't make you tear down your castles. We can't occupy your territories and make you reform that dreadful system you've established. We
can
wreck you, but only with much loss of precious life and a risk of the same to ourselves, and what was left of you would still be a deadly threat. We can't cross the Columbia at all, and much of your strength is there these days. Yet we can't just let you put the Protectorate back together as it was, either—you're smarter than your late, unlamented husband, bad cess to him, the creature. You wouldn't make the same mistakes.”

Sandra Arminger's small left hand closed on the arm of the chair; she made it relax, but there was something in her eyes, like a red spark moving in the depths.

“I'm less ambitious than Norman was,” she said carefully. “And I know when to stop. My primary goal is to pass his inheritance on to my daughter, intact.”

“That's probably even true. However, you're also just as vindictive as he was, if far more subtle. I'm not going to rely on your loving kindness and better nature, so.”

Sandra gave a small snort of laughter. “Granted. I don't
have
a better nature. So?”

“So, we—the Mackenzies, and I'm sure we can persuade everyone else—will recognize you as Regent of the Association, against the time of your daughter's majority, which will be when she's twenty-six. We will even help you enforce it against any noble who disputes your claim—we need a single authority to deal with, not a mass of robber barons raiding as the whim takes them.”

“But,” Sandra said. “There's always a ‘but.'”

“There are conditions. Several of them, in fact.”

At her raised eyebrow, Juniper went on: “First, you must withdraw from the territories in the Pendleton area you occupied last year. We'll agree not to occupy them either.”

A sigh. “We've already ordered the garrisons there to withdraw; we needed the men. And with so many nobles and even heirs dead, there isn't the demand for new fiefs anymore. Agreed. They're a bunch of hicks and boors out there anyway.”