They're good sorts, Ivo and Ruffin, she thought. It didn't even occur to them they could dump their girls and find better matches, now that they've got manors in fief. And I can trust them to back me come what may. Lady Sandra knows how to pick 'em.
She sat down and began eating with growing enthusiasm; the cook had heard that she liked her eggs over easy but the whites weren't liquid; the bacon was Canadian-style; the hash browns had bits of chili and onion; and best of all her stomach had settled back to normal. Even the chatter wasn't too bad, if you unfocused your ears and just heard it as a happy babble, like a mountain brook.
"We'll get you two settled in today and show you to your fiefs," she said to the knights, mopping at a yolk with some toast. "And you can swear me homage on Sunday after morning mass. Then we get busy. Sitting on the veranda watching the tenants work isn't on the schedule, and hunting can wait until after wine-harvest. You've got competent bailiffs, and your good ladies can see to setting up housekeeping and finding cooks and shopping for household gear on their own."
They nodded; Ruffin gave a mock-theatrical groan and then winked at Joyce, who bounced up and down in glee at the thought of being turned loose in the vast warehouses of salvaged luxuries the Association kept for its elite. Several of the nearby males paused to look over at the results of the bouncing, even confined in a cotte-hardi.
Christ have mercy, Tiphaine thought; one of the few things she and Katrina had disagreed about was whether shopping was fun in itself, or just more fun than standing naked in a hailstorm while juggling live squid.
That switched the conversation from weddings to home improvement; Tiphaine did her best to blur it into background noise, and signaled the servant for another plate. The manors they'd be swearing service for had been in the Protector's demesne since the area was resettled in late fall of the first Change Year, and the spring of the second. That meant a good bailiff, probably picked originally because they knew something about raising food. Norman Arminger had raked the survivors for such from the day he announced his Protectorate, and sent out raiding parties to capture/rescue as many farmers as he could before they were eaten out by the refugees, or just eaten plain and simple, so they could instruct the ignorant urban survivors who made up most of the labor pool and future peasantry-that was one reason for the simple system of five fields per village. But the manor houses themselves would be bare inside, empty and waiting.
When her plate was empty likewise, Tiphaine cleared her throat and spoke: "Yes, Joyce, you can probably get a gold chandelier and a swinging love seat and a four-poster."
The younger woman recognized the tone and fell silent, still smiling. Tiphaine went on: "Ivo, Ruffin, what I want is to get the menie in order. Right now what we've got is sorta-kinda good enough to keep one of the Grand Constable's inspectors from blowing through the roof and ordering floggings all 'round. Just. Sorta-kinda is not good enough for me. Next time the ban is called, the Domain of Ath is going to put the sixty best-trained fighting-men in the Association at my horse's tail if we have to kill them all to do it."
They nodded enthusiastically, being men who took their profession seriously. "Is that why the Lord Protector picked this fief for you, my lady?" Ivo asked. "He knew you'd slap the garrison into shape and do it quick?"
"That was probably one of the reasons," Tiphaine said judiciously. "Believe me, there's always more than one reason behind the Protector's decisions, and at least four behind Lady Sandra's."
"Can Rudi and I come along on the ride, Lady d'Ath?" Mathilda asked.
She'd either learned or inherited her mother's way of making a request sound like an exquisitely polite but definite command nobody could dream of disobeying. Unlike her mother she didn't have the might of the Protectorate to back it up: yet, but she would someday, which was a good thing to keep in mind. Rudi said nothing, nibbling on a piece of toast and doing his best to be beatifically uninvolved. Tiphaine looked at him narrowly.
Well, it would be the best way to keep an eye on him, she thought. He did promise, and I think he takes it seriously. Plus keeping him cooped up and going stir-crazy would be the best way I know to make him mad enough to try and run. Of course, he also wants to get to know the area in case he gets a chance to escape within the wording of that realllllly careful promise. But I can't turn Mathilda down without a good reason, and it'd make trouble to make him stay here if she went.
"Sure," she said.
Mathilda clapped her hands. Rudi smiled, and the gray-green eyes glowed in the shadowed dimness of the tower's hall.
Chapter Twenty
Near Dallas, Willamette Valley, Oregon
April 2nd, 2008/Change Year 10
"T hanks," Michael Havel said, gripping Alleyne Loring's hand. "Christ Jesus, but I wish I was going with you!"
The little party of Dunedain and Bearkillers waited in the gathering shadows beneath the edge of the trees, some already mounted, some holding their mounts' reins. Westward the sun sank over the Coast Range, casting their shadows towards the croplands. Eastward a strategic hamlet stood a mile away, behind its ditch and mound and stone-and-concrete wall, with an A-lister's fortified steading not far off, within mutual supporting distance. As he shook hands with the Bearkiller lord Alleyne saw a bright blink of light from those walls as a militiaman's steel caught the dying light. The rich smell of plowed earth came on the wind, mingling with the fresh fir-sap scent of the great forests westward, and the horse-leather-wool-oiled-metal scent that meant action.
"We'll get him back, sir," Alleyne said, giving a squeeze back.
The word came naturally; this was a man you had to respect, even if he was a bit of a rough diamond. His wife, on the other hand, was a stunner-not better-looking than Astrid, which wouldn't be humanly possible, but more human. Her blue eyes were steady on his as she nodded; then she stepped forward and gave him a hug, which was pleasant enough even though she was wearing a mail hauberk. Like the rest of the Rangers, the young Englishman was in mottled camouflage-patterned clothing of green and brown, with a brig-andine covered in the same material, and a war cloak rolled behind his saddle. They all carried sword and bow, but this mission could only be done by stealth and speed, not hammer blows.
"I pray to God you do," Signe Havel said sincerely. "And take care of my little sister, too." She looked at the others. "All of you take care."
Havel went on: "I wish you could take more supplies, but you're right to limit the load. Still, it's better than a hundred and fifty miles by the paths you're going to be following, and the mountains can be cold and wet this time of year."
There were a dozen of them, and only half as many pack horses, beside the riding animals. Alleyne smiled. "By now I've spent enough time in your Ore-gonian forests to feel quite at home, I assure you."
"Yeah, well, the Coast Range isn't quite the same as Silver Falls," he said.
Astrid stirred where she stood contemplating the sunset. "That's Taur-i-Mithril, or in the Common Speech-"
"-Silver Falls State Park," Havel said, smiling his crooked smile. "You take care too, Sis. Get the kid, and get out."
"We will," she said, and Eilir and John Hordle nodded. "And it's time to go. We want to get as far as we can before moonset."
Havel nodded. Alleyne swung into the saddle and turned his mount westward, touching it into a fast walk and bending his head as they passed beneath the branches of the oak at the head of the trail. A last look showed him Michael Havel staring after him, and pounding his right fist into the hollow of his other palm.
Village of Montinore, Tualatin Valley, Oregon
April 8th, 2008/Change Year 10
"Come and hear!" Estella Maldonado said. "Come and buy! Come and laugh!" She circled the wagon dancing and rattled the tambourine in the air as her mother played her fiddle from the driver's seat, and her brothers juggled cups and eggs and daggers, flinging them high to catch the evening sun. They were slender, dark-haired, olive-skinned young men, dressed gitano -style in dark pants and baggy shirts, boots and spangled vests, with kerchiefs bound around their hair and big gold hoop earrings, and daggers-just barely of legal size- thrust through their sashes. She was younger-twenty to their twenty-two and -three-and wore a silk kerchief herself, but her strong black hair flowed waist-long behind it; a flounced scarlet skirt swung around her calves as she swayed her hips, and a red bodice thrust her full bosom up into the low-cut, embroidered white blouse, enough to show an enticing amount without quite bringing down the wrath of some village priest. Her jewelry was gaudy and abundant and quite genuine; it was a convenient way to store the family assets: and fun.