The Sword of the Lady (9 page)

She flicked her wrist, and the ivory leaves of her long-handled fan opened out to make a tracery of tiny figures that showed children dancing around a maypole.

″By now we have a lot of fine makers, for practical things and for beautiful ones as well. And not just in my mother′s Household. This was a present from a friend, Lady Delia de Stafford.″

″Lovely!″ Kate said, taking it for a moment and holding it up against a light.

She hesitated and then went on: ″But . . . isn′t that dress . . . well, isn′t it all a bit cumbersome?″

Mathilda laughed. ″It certainly is if you don′t have a lady-in-waiting and a couple of maidservants to help you on and off with it,″ she said. ″Which I suspect was part of the point—that′s why it′s a noblewoman′s style.″

At home she wore male dress as often as her special status let her get away with it, and hated the constriction of the court fashion′s buttoned sleeves and bodice and the way you couldn′t lift your arms above your shoulders, and the long full skirts and the wrapped headdress, though even that was better than the tall cone-shaped ones. The two tunics and shift of commoner female costume were much more comfortable and less confining, but noblewomen could get away with that in only the most casual settings.

She′d have just chucked the clothes chest, herself—God and His Mother knew that they′d lost most of the gear they′d started out with in Bend at one emergency or another, which had included everything from battle and headlong flight to million-strong stampedes of mad buffalo. Now she was glad she hadn′t insisted; it made her feel a little less frightened and homesick, and it emphasized that she wasn′t
officially
just a prisoner here.

And the warm browns and golds of the silk and embroidery
did
complement her seal-brown hair and hazel eyes and warm light olive complexion. She wasn′t beautiful; her features took after her father′s, too bold and a little irregular, but she knew she could be striking.

″You look enchanting, your Highness,″ Odard Liu said.

He came up to them, a middle-sized young man, black haired and olive-umber of skin, slim and elegant in parti-colored hose and curl-toed shoes with little silver bells, trailing dagged sleeves and hood with tippets and gold-link belt, his slanted blue eyes amused and his lute over his back, troubadour fashion.

Some of the younger local gentry trailed after him, looking fascinated; the more so when he made an elaborate leg-bow and hand-flourish to both women, the long tail of his round flat nobleman′s hat fluttering and sweeping the floor as he drew it through the complex measure.

″And your Majesty is also enchanting in her own person, if I may be so bold,″ he went on to Kate Heasleroad. ″Your lord is to be envied for his wealth and power, but not least for the jeweled beauty of his consort.″

Everyone loves flattery, but keep in mind that when people deal with royalty they lay it on with a trowel,
Mathilda′s mother had told her once.
Your friend Odard at least does it with some style.

He′d also clung to the box with their last Court outfits inside like grim death, even when they were starving in that cave in the Rockies wondering if they′d have to eat the horses while the blizzards howled outside. He′d laid out gold here to have his gear repaired, too—and hers, to be sure.

″But though Iowa is rich and mighty, I say that only in Portland do we know how to praise fair ladies.″

Odard brought his lute around and strummed. His fingers teased out a stately tune, one of his own.

Oh, no!
Mathilda thought.
Not that one!

The chamber group had fallen silent. His smile was half warm and half a teasing pleasure in her embarrassment as he sang a chorus in a pleasant tenor:

 

″Odard, I
still
haven′t forgiven you for composing that,″ she said, and rapped his knuckles with her fan.

He grinned unrepentantly as he shook the hand and then went on: ″I was just telling these good fellows about the High Tournament of the Association.″

″Great stuff!″ one of them said enthusiastically. ″We have Reserve drills and National Guard muster days at the county fairs, but nothing that fancy. It sounds like a hell of a lot of fun!″

″Not when you′re smacked right off your horse and knocked silly and you throw up inside a closed helm and they have to unharness you with bolt cutters,″ Mathilda said with feeling. ″
Or
when a horse breaks something and screams until they put it down. I always hate that part.″

″Girls compete?″ Kate said, interested.

″The Princess is a special case, to be sure,″ Odard said smoothly. ″And of course the current Grand Constable of the Association—Lady Tiphaine, Baroness d′Ath. Apart from them, no, not very often. Though one young lady is always crowned Queen of Love and Beauty by the winner.″

Mathilda choked back a gurgling laugh. Two years ago Tiphaine d′Ath
had
won, and the Grand Constable had ridden up to the stands and dropped the crown from the point of her lance into the lap of her lady-in-waiting Delia de Stafford. At which the local bishop had nearly choked on the blessing, since everyone knew about Tiphaine and Delia.

That was
wicked
of her. Funny, yes, but wicked.

Though nobody spoke about it, unless they wanted to face Baroness d′Ath in a duel, which wasn′t anything a sane human being would do unless they were tired of life. Mathilda sighed a little, struck by sudden homesickness.

In the unlikely event that
I
ever win a tournament
—

She knew herself to be fair to middling at best despite a lifetime′s coaching by experts, without the supernal speed and skill that d′Ath used to compensate for men′s greater raw strength.

—I′m going to crown
myself
Queen of Love and Beauty and nobody else! Or maybe I could crown Rudi
King
of Love and Beauty . . . all the warrior saints witness he′s beautiful . . .

Odard went on, diplomatically ignoring her sudden flush:

″I′m surprised you don′t have tournaments here . . . weren′t there any Society people in Iowa? In most places which survived at all they did very well.″

A new voice broke in: ″Oh, there were some here in Des Moines. Dad said he found them very useful as instructors, the craftsmen and the fighters at least—the rest were . . . sort of flaky. He didn′t want anything to do with all that ceremonial they liked so much.″

Mathilda concealed a start. That was the Bossman, just breaking away from the people she
didn′t
want him talking to—the emissaries from Corwin in Montana, the red-robed and shaven-skulled priest of the Church Universal and Triumphant, and the hard-eyed officer of the Sword of the Prophet who′d been pursuing them ever since they left Oregon. Anthony Heasleroad saw her glare at them and motioned them away. Being here on sufferance themselves they went, not without glares of their own.

″Dad always said you could afford to have people curse you in private, but not laugh.″

Pride stiffened Mathilda′s spine, and she sank in the formal curtsey her tutors had drilled into her in girlhood. When she spoke her voice was cool courtesy:

″I′m sure your father was a very able man, my lord Bossman,″ she said. ″But so was mine; Portland lives, when all the other great cities on the West Coast died. And I assure you
nobody
laughed when he was styled
Majesty
or
my lord
. Not more than once, at least. Your Majesty.″

Then Mathilda saw the glitter in his pale eyes. There was something not quite
right
there.

″You say that word ′Majesty′ with such
conviction
,″ Heasleroad said. ″I could get used to it . . . if people said it the way you do. And if I was
sure
you′re not trying to disrespect me.″

Mathilda met his eyes
. If he says
kill her
, the guardsmen will cut me down
, she thought.
You can see it in their eyes; most of them would do
anything
he said.

There was a slight hush around them; even Kate stiffened, until the Bossman chuckled and nodded. People relaxed, and the bubble of silence collapsed inward again.

She felt a slight trickle of sweat down her spine, more than the heavy clothing and sticky-warm night warranted, and sipped at the sweet strong liquor again.
That
wouldn′t have happened at the Palace at home, or Castle Todenangst. Sandra Arminger killed when she had to, with the cool dispassion of a housewife selecting a chicken. But not from spite or for the pleasure of it.

Darling, people should be afraid of the ruler′s power
, she′d said to her daughter.
They shouldn′t live in terror of the Throne′s whims—that can make men willing to kill even if it means dying, just to end the uncertainty. The surest way to drive a dog dangerously crazy is to punish and reward unpredictably, and people aren′t that much different.

An intense longing for that cool quiet voice filled her, and their evenings together in the Silver Tower, talking or listening to the minstrel or playing chess or just sitting together reading . . .

A little to her right Odard slid his right hand away from his left sleeve. She wasn′t surprised that he′d managed to get a knife and conceal it. But she was suddenly, shockingly aware that he′d been ready to attack Heasleroad if he ordered her cut down. One thing desperate times did was show you who your friends really were. She′d had her doubts about Odard before they left home.

And I
really
doubted it when he said he loved me. Now I′m not so sure. Which is . . . messy. I don′t love him that way . . . do I? More like a brother.

″Your family were Society people, then?″ Iowa′s Bossman said to the baron of Gervais.

″Ah . . . not exactly, my lord Bossman,″ Odard said cautiously. ″My father Edward Liu was a freelance man-at-arms before the Change, and gained the golden spurs afterward. He rose high in the Lord Protector′s service and was ennobled and granted Barony Gervais to hold as tenant-in-chief, for his loyalty and valor.″

Mathilda winced slightly behind a polite smile and nod. Her father Norman Arminger
had
been in the Society for Creative Anachronism, but not all his first followers had been of its Households. A lot of them had been like Odard′s father Eddie Liu—freelancers, bandits, mercenaries—what they called gangsters back before the Change, or Mafiya like old Alexi Stavarov with his reptile eyes.

Dad had to use what was to hand,
she told herself.
The others didn′t understand what had to be done, that so many had to die if anyone at all was to live. Yes, Dad wanted power. What conqueror or founder of a dynasty hasn′t? But if he hadn′t gotten it, Portland would have been like Seattle or LA, nothing but bones and ruins and wilderness.

Instead there were hundreds of thousands of people in the Association′s territories in the Columbia Valley, villages and towns, the living fields that fed humankind, the churches and proud castles . . .

Even Eddie Liu wasn′t that bad. He was always nice to
me
, at least.

″But my mother
was
of a Society household,″ Odard said. ″And of course both the Princess′ parents were, and they gave a lead to things. The Lord Protector was a very great man, and his lady has ruled us with justice and wisdom since his death.″

And
your
mother has lethally pissed
my
mother off, Odard
, Mathilda thought.
She′s been intriguing with the CUT. You know and I know Mother . . . the Lady Regent . . . will have her head for it.

That wasn′t a metaphor; it meant an appointment with a wooden block and a man in a black hood with a very large ax, the latter a privilege reserved for the execution of those of noble blood. Ordinary people just hung by the neck.

Where does that put you, Odard? I know you′re loyal to me
here and now
, but a mother is a mother. When we get back . . .

″And that . . . Rudi fellow?″ Heasleroad said.

″His mother was . . . is . . . a bard,″ she said.

Mathilda fought down a smile as she remembered how indignant Lady Juniper had gotten when a teenaged Mathilda Arminger thoughtlessly suggested that being The Mackenzie was more dignified for one of noble blood than busking.

Chiefing it is as dignified as pumping out a cesspit, the which is needful work too
, she′d said indignantly.
And I′m of the blood of plain dirt farmers and workingmen. A bard I was and a bard I shall be until the Hunter comes for me, and I will make music in the Lands of Summer for the simple joy of it!

Then she′d sung—a beautiful a cappella piece that ended:

 

 

The smile was in Mathilda′s voice for a moment as she went on:

″Lady Juniper Mackenzie,
the
Mackenzie of the Clan Mackenzie. There was a war . . . her forces captured me during a raid. Then my father′s took me back and captured Rudi, and then the Bear Lord and the Lord Protector fought between their armies and killed each other—it′s a very long complicated story.″