Astrid made a sound beneath her teeth, held up two fingers and tapped them to right and left, and half-glimpsed figures spread out and moved forward. The nighted forest was not quite pitch-black, but fairly close to it; they'd left their war cloaks behind with the horses further up the slope of Mt. Richmond for the sake of speed and quietness. Here the unpeopled mountains that stretched west to Tillamook and the ocean met the cultivated eastern lowlands in a maze of twisting valleys. The one ahead was called Patton-not, he thought, for the general-and held the upper stretches of the Tualatin River. There was a village called Cherry Grove a few miles to their west, lately rebuilt on the pre-Change ruins because there was a good fall of water for a mill. Its fields stretched eastward along the valley this mountain overlooked on either side of the river, and there the contacts they were to meet should be camped. They'd picked the location because the little hamlet on the edge of the mountains had no manor and no garrison to speak of. That made it a little safer, but not much.
So that campfire is them: or they were discovered, and it's an ambush. Well, no time like the present.
Astrid and he eeled forward. The hillside had been logged off recently enough that the trees were only fifty or sixty feet high above them, and there was plenty of bush; even after better than a year gone he was still conscious of how different the sounds were from an English wood at night, sharper and harsher, with more buzzing and clicking of insects. The birds were surprisingly similar, though he missed the nightingales. They ghosted downslope; once a red fox leapt aside in panicked surprise as they passed from tree to tree, and shot off with a crackle of leaves under churning paws. He grinned to himself at that, since it was like meeting an old friend from Hampshire. As if to remind him where he was, from somewhere in the northern darkness came the appalling, rowling screech of a cougar, probably just after it dropped on a passing deer, or perhaps in disappointment after it missed.
They went to their bellies a hundred yards from where woods gave way to the scrubby pasture where the wagons waited; beyond that was a road, and beyond that a field of some sort-probably grain, from the strength of the scent of wet earth. A few dogs lay around the fire, and a pot bubbled above it, and something roasted on a wooden spit close beside it; that was the best way to do small game, and let you catch the drippings in a pan. The smells made his stomach cramp, since they'd had nothing but cheese and waybread today.
A last halt, and Eilir and John came in on either side, quiet and slow. The big man put his mouth next to Alleyne's ear: "Nothing. We've got scouts out on all sides now."
Astrid smiled and rose. "Mae Govannem" she called.
The figures around the fire rose; one spilled something in his haste, and began an abortive snatch for a hunting bow.
"I hadn't expected them to come it the heavy gypsy quite so much," John said to him quietly as he passed to get a refill from the pot.
Alleyne made a subdued noise of agreement; the rabbit stew was taking most of his attention, nicely thick with peas and onions, and fresh bread as well. It was true, though. He'd met a few real Rom before the Change, and some since in Gibraltar, and they generally weren't nearly so much like a Romantic-era operetta, all headscarves and earrings: Of course, a few clans of an extremely traditional variety had survived in remote Carpathian valleys, and they'd drifted westward since to get away from ongoing chaos and warfare there, where the die-off hadn't been quite as complete as it had in the lands west of the Elbe.
And this gentleman and his wife are rather obviously ordinary Americans of Mexican and what-they-call-Anglo-here descent, he thought. Bits of mispronounced Romany notwithstanding: Is there anybody in this country who isn't putting it on?
"Te auel mange bakht drago mange wi te avav po gunoy," he said with malice aforethought. And it was true; luck was all they needed, and they were in a bit of a dungheap. Mind you, we need a great deal of luck.
Mr. Maldonado looked slightly panic-stricken, then shrugged, looking trapped by the circle of firelight that wavered on the gaudily painted wagons to either side.
"I'm afraid I have only a little of the old language," he said, and his wife gave a wry smile.
Eilir winked at him from behind the man's back. And we're not actually Nu-menoreans, she seemed to be saying. But it's fun, so why not?
Turning back, he caught a twinkle in Astrid's eye; you could never be quite sure: and he remembered King Charles and the smock frocks and Morris dancing. Perhaps it was a seeking after reassurance, given the terrible shock of the Change and its aftermath.
The younger Ms. Maldonado unfolded a map and a sheaf of notes. She looked the part; she might have stepped out of a tavern in Gibraltar, in fact, with that creamy olive skin and lush figure, the pouting lower lip Astrid elbowed him in the side, and he grinned, a little apologetically. The young woman went on.
"This is the layout of Ath castle; the barracks, the inner Keep, the guest rooms where the princess and Rudi sleep. And I have the patrol and guard schedules."
"Excellent," Astrid said. "You must have good sources inside the castle: no, don't tell me, I don't need to know."
Estella Maldonado shrugged interestingly, with something oddly wry in her smile. "Sources very close to the top," she said.
"Hmmm. We could come in from the west," Hordle said, tracing one thick finger over the paper. "Around this big lake-"
"Hag Lake," Estella supplied. "People seldom go there, particularly this early in the year. It's said to be haunted by a hag who cursed a band of Eaters after the Change-"
Castle of Ath/Hag Lake
Tualatin Valley, Oregon
April 15th, 2008/Change Year 10
"I just want you to find me charming and wise;
I just want you to find me somewhere inside-"
Tiphaine let the tune die, leaning back against the pillows with a calf over her knee, idly strumming the lute, watching Delia sew for a moment before she spoke: "You know, sweetie, your dress sense is a lot like Lady Sandra's. At least, you pick the same sort of stuff for me that she used to tell me to wear when I was in the Household. Black with white and gold accents for me, brown and russet and silver for Kat-Kat had dark hair and fair skin and blue eyes, like you."
Bright morning light streamed in through the narrow eastern window; sunrise and sunset were the best-lit times in the tower bedchamber. The air was cool and fresh, made more so by the sprays of cherry blossom in vases on tables and mantelpiece and the headboard of the bed.
Delia replied as her fingers moved deftly with needle and thread and fine cambric linen: "So, what's she really like? Lady Sandra, I mean?" she asked, holding the fabric up. "Besides having good taste in clothes. I brought her some hot rolls once, that my mother baked, when the consort was visiting Montinore Manor. I was really nervous, I was just fourteen then, and she said thank you very nicely. I thought she was wonderful."
Lucky you didn't meet her husband, then, Tiphaine thought, surprised at the surge of protective anger she felt. Hey, I guess I really do like her a lot.
The girl continued: "Is she really sinister and cruel and evil, the way the stories say?"
Tiphaine reached over and took a stem of raw asparagus from a bowl by the table that also held the first snowpeas of the season, and crunched on it, savoring the fresh, intense, nutty-green flavor, like eating springtime, or what she imagined fresh grass tasted like to a horse. She looked at the file of accounts tossed aside on the bedcover; they kept saying you're in the nobility now, tra-la, anyway; that didn't make them less boring but it did help.