That's irritating, she thought. Lip-reading is hard enough even when people enunciate properly!
There was wonder in the Corvallan's eyes as she looked down the row of mounted Dunedain, with the brace of baggage-carts bringing up the rear. The column of twos had halted with a single surge and stamping, and the Rangers sat their horses nearly motionless: except for wondering eyes on the watch-balloon overhead.
"Mae govannen," Astrid said graciously. "Or in the common tongue, well met."
Eilir smiled to herself at the way the militia soldiers' eyes were bugging out; Astrid had laid herself out for Yule presents, and the entire column of Dunedain was wearing the new black tunic-vests with the silver tree, stars and crown, while Eilir herself held the banner with its cross-staff. They'd also agreed that if the Rangers were to be a thing they lived rather than did in their spare time they should look more alike, and not like Bearkillers or Mackenzies on holiday. The pants felt strange on her legs, and she missed her kilt and plaid, but she supposed she'd get used to it again: and they'd also agreed they could wear what they liked when visiting their kinfolk.
I used to think this was goofy, she mused, rolling her eyes down at the tunic for an instant. Of course, I did always think they were sort of cool as well, and it looks less goofy with us all dressed this way.
The Larsdalen artisans had done them well, and the mesh-mail-and-nylon lining was very comforting, when you didn't have time for real armor.
Dread Lord and merciful Mother-of-All, I don't even really remember what it was like when nobody was trying to kill me.
There were three men with the column not in the new: well, Alleyne had called it the national costume. Alleyne himself was in his suit of green-enameled plate armor, with his visor up but the heater-shaped shield with its five roses on a silver background on his left arm, and a long lance in his right, the butt resting on a ring welded to his right stirrup-iron. John Hordle wore a green mail shirt, and an open-faced sallet helmet pushed up until it rested on the back of his head, with his bow and long sword worn crosswise across his back; the cob he rode had a goodly share of Percheron in it, which was only fair considering that he weighed more than Alleyne did riding armored cap-a-pie in steel.
Sir Jason Mortimer was in the pants and quilted gambeson he'd worn under his armor, complete with old bloodstains, and cuffs that ran through a ring on the pommel of his saddle securing his right hand; he looked frowsy and disheveled, even apart from the way his shield-arm was in a sling. Nobody had hurt him, and his wounded shoulder had been competently tended, but they hadn't been all that considerate either; he'd spent Yule locked up in a storage shed near Mithrilwood Lodge, with a lump of salt pork, waybread, water and a bucket for his necessities.
They'd made him empty the bucket himself, too.
"Ah: Lady Astrid: "
The militia lieutenant was floundering, but she knew who she was talking to. There weren't many in the Valley who'd fail to recognize Astrid and Eilir together. Then she visibly pulled herself together, shifting her glaive into the crook of her left arm.
"What's the purpose of your visit to Corvallis, Lady Astrid?" she said politely. "And who are those with you?"
"We come to speak the truth before the people and Faculty Senate; what other business we have in Corvallis is our own. And those with me are the Ohtar and Roquen of the Dunedain Rangers," Astrid said loftily.
"Ah: "
Well, when you're with Astrid, things are never dull, Eilir thought, delighted. Then she signed to Little John: Have pity on the nice lady with the glaive, excessively biggish boyfriend, and translate. I doubt she knows Sign or Sindarin.
"That's squires and knights," the big man said in his bass voice. "I don't suppose you speak Elvish, ma'am?" he added, his little brown-amber eyes twinkling.
"Ah, where were you planning on staying?" the militiawoman said, blinking again. "You understand, such an, ummm, imposing force-"
All the riders had helms and some sort of body armor besides their swords and bows; four carried long horsemen's lances as well.
"We're staying with Master William Hatfield," Astrid replied, pulling a folded letter from her saddlebag and handing it down. "Or at least leaving our horses and gear with him; he stands surety for us. And our prisoner."
"Ummm," the lieutenant said, a variation on her previous nonverbal placeholder as she read. The You can't keep prisoners in Corvallis! she obviously wanted to say died silent.
"Errrr: I know Bill Hatfield. OK, I suppose: Who is this man?"
Alleyne cut in. "He's Sir Jason Mortimer, from the Protectorate. He won't be hurt on Corvallan soil," he said. "Or at all, really. We captured him in company with bandits; leading bandits on a raid, in fact."
"You're going to accuse him before a court, or the Faculty Senate?" Chen said sharply.
"We're going to show him to the Senate, yes," Alleyne replied.
Everyone looked a little gloomy at that. Sir Jason had resolutely refused to cooperate, and the Dunedain didn't go in for the toenails-and-burning-splints forms of persuasion. Which wouldn't work here anyway. If he kept his mouth shut, there went most of the public-relations effect of capturing him in the first place.
Maybe we should just have chopped his head off anyway, Eilir thought. Though of course:
"We're also going to arrange his, you might say, repatriation with the Association's consul here," Alleyne went on.
Meaning we're going to squeeze him until his eyes pop out, Eilir thought happily.
Running an embryo nation had turned out to be unexpectedly expensive, with endless things they needed to get; and besides, by rights they should have whacked the man's head off with the rest, who were only his tools after all.
Besides, the way the Association works, Liu's widow will have to cough up to help him.
In the end it would all come out of the people who worked Mortimer's lands, but he probably took as much as he could from them anyway. The payments on the ransom would have to be subtracted from his own income, unless he wanted his peasants to die, revolt or run away in despair. Bad as they were, the Protectorate's nobles had learned that you couldn't skin the sheep if you wanted to shear it next year, and there was more work than hands to do it everywhere these days.
The rest of the formalities took only a few minutes, not much longer than required to peace-bond their swords. Few of the Rangers had visited Corvallis before; they stared about them in wonder as they crossed the northernmost bridge. Fog covered the water, but the current made odd swirling patterns in it, and Celebroch moved uneasily under her, feeling the toning of the swift water against the pilings through her hooves. Barges and boats and booms of logs for timber moved beneath, dim and half-seen; a few sported tubby masts and gaff sails, and more were tied up along the waterfront. Eilir ran a soothing hand down her mount's neck, and again when they passed through the inner gate and the city wall and the Arab mare shied at the bustle of the crowded street.
The Stone Houses, Astrid signed. Fallen from their former greatness, aren't they?
Eilir looked at her, slightly alarmed; it was possible-not likely, but possible-that her anamchara would decide that this decayed city needed a princess or two to lead it back to greatness, and you didn't need three guesses to know who'd be in that role. And she just might pull it off: she'd brought off crazy schemes before. Perhaps she could have brought off the ones Eilir had talked her out of, as well.
Or maybe they'd just have gotten us all killed, Eilir thought, searching for inspiration. Help!
"Little do they know our labors in the distant wilds, that keep them safe,'' Alleyne said before she could sign, and Astrid nodded.