Amateur choirs struck up "Silent Night" as he walked up the wharf and up Main Street; it was anything but, though. The big covered market to his left where the old A amp;P had been was roaring, food stalls mainly, handing out eggnog and sausages in buns and grilled lobster tail on a stick and baked apples. A lot of mulled cider was going around, too, and these days cider had quite a kick. Main was pretty well clear of spectators except on the packed sidewalks and at every window and side street, but a big bunch of Fiernan dancers circled 'round him as he went up it; this was an important festival time for them, too, when Moon Woman danced the reluctant Sun back to warm the earth.
At least we persuaded the chariot boys not to sacrifice their horse, bull, and hound right here, he thought-and before the Alban War back home, they'd have given Sky Father a man, too, so the boss-god would be strong enough to chain the Wolf that would otherwise eat the sun and leave the world in eternal darkness.
They probably do still do that over there, when nobody's looking, treaty or no treaty.
At the head of Main he climbed the steps of the Pacific Bank. "Merry Christmas!" he called.
"Merry Christmas!" the thousands roared back-or versions of "Happy Solstice Festival" in a round dozen languages. The dancers went into a whirling, cartwheeling frenzy.
"Light 'em up!"
There were half a dozen big Christmas trees down the middle of the street, strung with an amazing assortment of ornaments pre-and post-Event; he rather liked the little carved painted horses that some of the Alban immigrants made. At his wave tapers were lit and touched to dozens of candles set on branches-and each tree had its own watcher with a bucket of water, now; those weren't electric lights…
A sleigh pulled up at the steps, and he climbed in; Martha was already there. At least this year there was enough snow to use a sleigh; you couldn't always count on that. The team that pulled it was a pair of glossy hairy-hoofed giants, Brandt Farms' contribution to the festivities. Jared Cofflin resigned himself to ho-hoing his way 'round town as the horses took off in a silver jingle of bells and thump of platter-sized hooves on packed snow. The driver whistled under his breath as they drove, but at least it wasn't a carol.
Moving through the streets, the sleigh seemed to carry its own bubble of yellow light in a world of snow-streamers. Carolers and impromptu games of street hockey and people just moving about for the pleasure of it waved.
"Dispatch came in just now," Martha murmured in his ear. "Package from Marian and 'dapa, and the details on the text of the agreement with Tartessos. And a radio from Doreen in Hattusas… that's got some significant material in it. She wants authorization for a plan with some really radical potential…"
"Ho, ho," Jared said hollowly. Chief executives, policemen, and parents had something in common-they were always on call. "Let me have it."
When he got home at last it was a relief to sink into an armchair in his own living room, with the hideous fungus off his face, sensible clothes on, a fire crackling, and a glass of eggnog of his own at his elbow while he supervised the opening of presents and the smells from the kitchen made his nose twitch. His parents had always kept the day itself for going to church, and he and Martha had kept that up once they had a brood of their own.
Marian's two enjoyed their own presents; especially what their mothers had sent back from the Tartessian lands, a sack of precious oranges and lemons-those were expensive luxuries these days-parkas and gloves of beautifully tanned lynx skins, and a pair of olive-wood bokken. What brought the real squeals was a package of letters, though.
"Uncle Jared! We've got a brother] A real baby brother]"
"Ayup," he said, as they bounced around making plans for things they would do to and with him-you'd have thought the lad was eight, not a nursing infant.
And we've got a peace with Tartessos, thank God, he thought, closing his eyes for a second and thanking God indeed. There were entirely too many new names on the fresh stone slab down by the Town Building, but fewer than he'd feared.
Please, may we get rid of Walker without paying too much of
a butcher's bill. Enough. It's Christmas; you can worry tomorrow.
"Did you get any letters, Uncle Jared?" they asked.
"Ayup," he said. "From your mothers, and from Aunt Doreen. But they were business."
"Like, let the revels begin!" John Martins said, and repeated it in the gloriously ungrammatical Achaean. Ian Arnstein had grown used to in the past few weeks and visits. Odikweos allowed it, as long as the guards were along.
It was chilly and rainy outside, rather than actually cold; but the interior of Rivendell's main hall was warm and brilliantly lit. Part of that was excellent lanterns; much of it was a half dozen wrought-iron candelabra hanging by hand-forged chains from the rafters. Those were elaborately carved, in varying styles; the walls were done with murals that Barbara Martins probably thought were Tolkienesque, but actually owed a good deal more to Disney.
Tacky beyond words, Ian Arnstein thought, taking a pull at the mulled wine. Especially the big eyes.
The ironwork wasn't, though. Not the candelabra, done in the shape of phoenixlike birds holding the candles in their beaks, nor the elaborate curvilinear dragons whose claws clamped the roaring pine logs of the hearths on either side. Floridly romantic, yes, but it had the integrity of a craftsman who worked with a skill that let him precisely realize in the real world the vision he saw alone with himself.
You took Martins a good deal more seriously, after you'd seen his work, or seen him work. That seemed to apply to his second, unauthorized occupation as well.
A roar went up from the dozen or so adults sitting down the long table as the food came in-several turkeys bred up from imports via Tartessos, and a small roast pig, with mounds of bread and vegetables on the side. The strong good smell spilled into the hall, mixing with the resin scent of the burning wood and an undertone of damp dog and wool and silt from the tumbling stream outside. A fresh warm scent of evergreen underlay it, from the big fifteen-foot fir standing amid a pile of presents in one corner.
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.