Astrid and Alleyne went first down the crowded sidewalk. Eilir watched with tender amusement as Astrid's hand moved out towards Alleyne's, drew back, then darted out and gripped his fingers. Her own arm was tucked through John Hordle's-which took some arranging, even though she wasn't a short woman by any means. Their eyes met, and Hordle's rolled up. She knew exactly what he was thinking: Seven months, and they're just up to holding hands in public?
Eilir scowled at him and then gave her silent giggle; it was sort of funny, when you thought about it. And sweet and sad at the same time.
Amusement died when they came up to the old brick-built Victorian structure that housed the consulate of the Protectorate, and alertness replaced it. A banner hung from the eaves to just over the door, night black save for a flame-wreathed Lidless Eye in gold and crimson.
Something's up, she thought.
The building usually made do with the discreet plaque reading "Portland Protective Association" to keep from provoking the citizenry. The four-horse carriage that had just drawn up outside it was unusual as well, very like a Western stagecoach except much fancier and with pneumatic tires, with brass and lacquered leather and glazed windows with sashes drawn across them, and a different blazon on the doors-a blue-mantled Virgin Mary standing on a submissive-looking dragon.
Even after what must have been days of travel in the wintertime the vehicle still had a subdued dark gleam, and the horses looked reasonably fresh. The outriders were four men-at-arms in full fig: conical helmets with nasal bars that splayed out to cover the mouth over mail coifs, knee-length short-sleeved hauberks with the skirts split up the middle for riding, plate or splint protection on shins and forearms; the destriers had steel chamfrons on their heads and peytrals to protect their chests. They'd diplomatically left their lances somewhere else, their swords were peace-bonded, and their four-foot kite-shaped shields were slung diagonally across their backs from left shoulder to right hip by the guige straps, point-down like a country-singer's guitar in the old days. They swung down and let grooms lead their mounts away to the stables behind the house, taking position around the carriage facing out with their arms crossed over their chests, standing with a relaxed alertness like so many hunting dogs.
Two footmen had been riding on the back of the carriage, blue with the chill despite warm woolens. They leapt down and opened the door facing the side- walk, and swung down the folding stair. A young maidservant in double t-tunic and long, embroidered tabard stepped down, a light suitcase in her hand, an elegant pre-Change French type surfaced with ostrich leather and closed with a built-in combination lock. Another woman followed her, dressed in Portland's idea of male civil garb and wearing a sword at her belt, which was more than a little odd in Association terms, and carrying a lute; she handed that to the servant when she saw the Dunedain. The bundle slung over her back was probably a crossbow in a zippered nylon bag. Her plain, dark t-tunic had long sleeves that flared below the elbow; from the way it moved, Eilir suspected a mail lining, and a sheathed dagger strapped to her right forearm; she was in her early twenties, blond hair cut in a pageboy bob, with eyes the pale gray of the sea on an overcast winter's day, graceful features as hard and watchful as the guardian warriors'.
Look at her wrists and the backs of her hands, Eilir thought, conscious of a quick, professional appraisal directed at her. Look at her eyes, look at the way she moves. That's a fighter and a very good one.
Then a third passenger left the coach:
Astrid forced her hand back from the hilt of her sword and rested both hands on the broad, heavy belt that cinched her waist; she stood there bristling quietly with her face a beautiful, calm mask, something that would make anyone who knew her well nervous. Alleyne raised an eyebrow, and John Hordle muttered an oath; the passenger was someone they'd both met, when they came into Portland on the Pride of St. Helens last spring.
Sandra Arminger! Eilir thought.
"Why, it's Roquen Astrid, Hiril of the Dunedain!" Sandra Arminger said with a smile.
She stepped out of the carriage, bundled in a long, shimmering ermine traveling cloak and holding the skirts of a rich cotte-hardi aside; the woman with the sword handed her down.
Her voice was warm and pleasant as she went on: "And her anamchara the Kel-Roquen Eilir Mackenzie! We meet at last! Mae govannen, ndek!"
Astrid grew conscious that she was about to hiss in sheer fury, and made herself take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It's just like her to know the Elven tongue, she thought. This means we'll have to he careful while she's around, because we can't tell how much of it she knows. Damn!
"Lady Sandra," she forced herself to say. "We had business at the consulate here, but we'll come back later."
Sandra Arminger's eyes were a dark brown just short of black, steady and clever and watchful. Her smile seemed to reach them, but with a secret amusement, as if she was always laughing at some secret joke at everyone else's expense; she was a good deal shorter than Astrid or Eilir's five-eight, doll-like before Hordle's hulking mass, but not in the least intimidated as she went on: "Lord Carl is a very competent man, but if you wish to discuss the unfortunate Sir Jason Mortimer: yes, I've heard about that: it'll save you time to talk to me. And Sir Alleyne, Master Hordle, how nice to see you again, even if you were naughty the last time."
She shook a finger at them. "You took me in completely! Not many men can say that. I look forward to our conversation."
"You're doubtless tired from your journey," Alleyne demurred. "Tomorrow is also a day."
"Not in the least, Sir Alleyne-"
"That's plain Mr. Loring," he said. "My father's the baronet."
"As you will. The roads are still good, even the I-5, now that it's mostly been cleared of obstructions. I'm perfectly fresh."
So that's how she got here, Astrid thought.
"And I changed out of my traveling garb before we got here."
The old interstate wasn't much used, since the center of the Valley held few folk south of the Association's territory these days, but over the years the various communities had pushed the dead vehicles aside, often in the course of salvaging useful parts like the springs and tires. It would be a very bold bandit indeed who'd attack Sandra Arminger with her household knights around her.
She probably had more than that, Astrid guessed. Another carriage, spare horses, more men-at-arms and some mounted crossbowmen. Left them at a hidden camp outside the settled zone before she came on to Corvallis.
Two days would be ample to cover the eighty miles between here and Portland. It was a bold move, but not foolhardy, if she had important business here. Alleyne looked at her and raised a brow. Astrid glanced at Eilir, and got an almost imperceptible nod, and the same from John Hordle.
"Thank you," Astrid said. "There's no point in wasting time."
Sandra inclined her head. "Ivo, Ruffin, Joris, Enguerrand," she said, and the men-at-arms came to attention without moving. "See to things. Tiphaine, with me."
The consul was a lanky blond man in his thirties with a face that showed no expression at all and a knight's little golden spurs on his boots, who stood aside with a little bow as Sandra swept past, and nodded to the Dunedain.
Funny names, Astrid said in Sign behind his back.
Mom said it's Court fashion in the Protectorate, Eilir replied. Taking names out of old books.
Silly, Astrid answered, and then blinked as John Hordle bit his lip and fought a laugh down into a wheeze. What are you laughing at? Never mind.
Lord Carl bowed them through into a conference room, and left silently at a slight movement of Sandra Arminger's fingers.