All of the men here had the startling muscle definition that Martins showed; it went with the trade. All were younger as well, several much bulkier, but he didn't think any of them was much stronger. An equal number of women sat among them, and a round dozen children of toddler age and above tumbled about on the flagstone floor amid the dogs. Martins had his son on his lap and a daughter beside him in the big chair at the head of the table; he and his wife seemed to have adopted a good many more-a good many even by Nantucket's post-Event standard-and his followers were breeding enthusiastically as well.
"Yeah, man," he said quietly to Arnstein. "Came in about an hour ago-didn't want to mention it, while, like, you-know-who was here. Don't want to tempt him to pile up any more bad karma, you know? Figure he's used to you staying over on visits by now."
Arnstein fought down trembling eagerness while he ate, the food sitting leaden on his stomach.
"Hey, you dudes gotta remember to eat your vegetables," Martins went on earnestly, looking down-table at his followers. "Natural fibers're essential to, like, cleaning out your impurities. Too bad we ain't got any brown rice."
The journeymen and apprentices looked a little bewildered. Vegetables were poverty foods here; the great nobles ate meat and some bread and fruit, and success was defined by how closely you could imitate them. They obediently shoveled down steamed cauliflower and broccoli with cheese sauce nonetheless.
If he suggested they paint themselves blue, they'd probably do that too, Ian thought whimsically. It was interesting to speculate on what the blacksmith subculture was going to be like here in a generation or two.
He managed to make himself wait until the ice cream was carried in-even then he couldn't resist snagging a bowl-and headed up the stairs. His anticipation was enough to overcome his usual revulsion at the long-bearded carved dwarves who upbore the balustrade. In his room he turned up the lanterns on the working table and took up the leather satchel tossed carelessly on the quilt-hidden in plain sight.
The heavy coarse paper of the envelope crackled around his fingers as he broke the seals. Within was a sheet written in a hand he recognized; for a moment he simply sat with the letter in his hand. Then he set it down and read:
"King's pawn to…"
He smiled. Now, there's a cipher. A substitution code, based on their favorite responses to the listed chess moves. Cryptographers back up in the twentieth could probably break it fairly easily, with their supercomputers and staffs of experts. Walker-or even Mittler? I don't think so.
Further inside the packet was another, and he lifted out the infinitely precious treasure; not forgetting to put his ice-cream bowl on the other side of the room and wash and carefully dry his hands first with the jug-basin-towel set provided.
"Oh, excellent," he said softly.
The watermark was perfect; mainly because it was Great Achaea's royal watermark, and that of the Temple of the Threefold Hekate. The handwriting was near-perfect, too; Walker's smooth hand with the little extra pressure on the "t," a very occasional splotch where too much pressure was applied.
Got a bit of buried anger there, Walker-me-lad, bubbling under that smooth exterior. And Alice Hong's. Slants backward. Ooooh, look at those spiky i's and the little horns on the w's. Classic. Got some unassimilated trauma lurking around there, don't you, you monstrous little bitch?
"Well, come on now, Ian," he said. Now I'm channeling Doreen. This place is driving me crazy. "It's not really their writing, just a very very good imitation."
Dear Wilclass="underline" Hi! Got to tell you, studmuffin, the telestai really have their testicles in a twist about the latest strategic-readjustment-of-forces. You said it; we need some victories. Or at least we need to throw someone out of the sled for the wolves… and guess who I think it should be? I've got some ideas about how, too, that you'll just love.
God, that was even her style, the giggling little-girl descriptions of how she planned to "operate"… did anyone really still use words like "wee-wee" for penis? The choice of words was perfect, worth all the effort and risk of getting samples. Walker's people had been pretty good about destroying documents with important information. They'd been much less careful about casual notes concerning nothing in particular. The Walker was good, too:
Sic transit gloria His Krautness, babe. Heels have clicked for the last time; we'll get some major credit out of it, too. A King should always have at least one seriously unpopular minister around for occasions like this. It's a pity in a way, I wanted to keep our tame Kraut around a little longer, but on second thoughts it's time for him to go…
The date was in April… Yes, by God, April 1. That was the crowning touch.
"Of course, that means we have to have a victory about then for these to fit. Not a problem; if we don't by then, Odikweos won't move, nohow."
And he himself would die. Most probably exactly the way pseudo-Hong described in these precious pages. They'd been taken from real life, after all.
There were at least a hundred bodies around the gates, lying in the inevitable posture of the dead left on a battlefield-backs arched and limbs splayed as decay and gas build-up had their way with them. Brigadier McClintock grunted as he swung his binoculars back and forth. It was a common scene in Sicily, this February of the Year 11.
"What did they do, just charge right in?" he said.
"That's exactly what they did," Marian Alston-Kurlelo replied grimly, not taking her field glasses from her eyes.
The wind shifted and brought the gagging reek strongly down the road that wound up to the fort. She decided she was getting very sick of the smell of rotting human flesh combined with the bitter scents of burning. The damp freshness of the Sicilian upland winter and the bright sunlight through sky washed clean by yesterday's rain made it worse. Birds hopped and heaved and squabbled around the bodies; Walker must have given them this type of feast on a regular basis.
She shifted her attention to the countryside 'round about. Not very Sicilian, she thought.
Eagle had been through the Mediterranean several times before the Event, on training-show-the-flag voyages; a tall ship made great PR. Central Sicily in the twentieth was a wasteland of rock, scrubby maquis and scraggly crops, and the tumbled remains of worked-out mines. Makers of spaghetti Westerns used it as a good stand-in for Arizona, and it was full of crumbling gray villages where the only living things were ancient crones in black tottering along under huge bundles of brushwood. Or sitting and staring at you with hooded, bitter eyes.
Here it was a sea of branches, oak and hazelnut and pine shaggy on the sides of the hills, giving way to savannas of scattered trees and tall green grass on the flats. Some land had been cleared for contour-plowed fields of wheat and barley and clumps of fig and olive and soft fruits around the remains of a megaron-hall, an Achaean-style manor house; that was still smoldering, along with its outbuildings. She pointed a little further, to another collection of wrecked structures-most of those long, low-slung ergastulae, half-underground slave barracks surrounded by a fence of spiked bars and overlooked by the stump of a watchtower. Beside them was an ugly yellow gash on the side of the hill, pockmarked with the black mouths of tunnels, and a short thick smokestack.
"Sulfur mine," she said. "And see the collection of crosses around it?"
"Surely do," McClintock said tightly. "So the miners came up here and hit the fort after they'd finished off the overseers?"