All that would come next was drama and ceremony. The specifics and the legalities of it had been hammered out already in a marathon late-night session, in which she and Griffin and the surviving council members had hashed out what had to happen, and by whose authority. What remained now was an act not of politics, but of necessary theater.
The amber light blinked rapidly several times in succession, then turned red. The red flashed once—twice—three times, and went green. Tara drew a breath and spoke.
“People of Northwind!” She had her eyes on the main tri-vid camera, as though it were a person standing there, and her voice was pitched for the microphones to pick it up without distortion. In her childhood as the media darling of The Republic’s diplomatic corps, she had grown up doing this sort of thing, and she had not forgotten the technique. “It is my sorrowful duty to acknowledge that Finnegan Cochrane, your Legate, died in the fighting for this city. With so much rebuilding to be done, his place cannot go unfilled for long. Therefore, I am giving you my most trusted General, Michael Griffin—the man who held Red Ledge Pass against the Wolves last summer, and who came to the relief of this city only days ago—to be your Legate, and to oversee Northwind’s defense and recovery in my absence.”
She paused a few moments for reaction from the unseen audience, then continued. “General Griffin!”
“My lady?”
The man was looking stalwart and forthright in his dress uniform, in spite of the rain and the wind. She’d have to check the recording afterward to see if he came across as well on the tri-vid as he did in person. In his new position, it would be a great help to him if he did.
“Do you accept this assignment?” she asked. Not that there had ever been any question. Michael Griffin was as loyal as Ezekiel Crow had been treacherous. Whatever his Countess had asked of him, he had always stood ready to do.
This time was no exception. “Yes, my lady.”
“Then care for Northwind as I would care for Northwind, while I and my regiments are away. We leave within the week for Terra.”
2
Ruth Elliot Fletcher’s House
Kildare, Northwind
Prefecture III
February 3134; local winter
Night had fallen in Kildare, on the far side of the Rockspires from Tara, and a cold dry wind was blowing down the suburban street where Will Elliot’s sister lived. Will, who was visiting his family on a thirty-six-hour leave, found Kildare’s semiarid winter weather an unsettling change from the still-deep snows of the mountains. Too many changes, too fast, he thought, and wasn’t completely certain he was thinking about the weather.
He’d flown by civilian short-hop aircraft from a small landing field in the western foothills of the Rockspires to the airport in Kildare, using his leave orders to get priority passage. He was wearing a clean and freshly pressed uniform. All of his civilian clothes had stayed behind in a footlocker at Fort Barrett when he went with General Griffin’s force to the relief of Tara, and they weren’t likely to catch up with him any time soon. For his own part, after going from the baking heat of the dry season on Kearney’s Oilfields Coast to the subzero cold and deep snow of a mountain winter, with hard fighting at the end of it, the chance to be wearing something besides dirty summer-weight fatigues was a blessing all by itself.
Now he stood on the front steps under the porch light of his sister’s house, waiting to ring the doorbell. This visit would mark the first chance he’d had to spend time with his family since the end of last summer’s fighting, when he’d helped his mother salvage what she could from the rubble of the Liddisdale house. Jean Elliot hadn’t been happy then to learn that her only son was going off to Fort Barrett on the Oilfields Coast, a long way from the mountains. She’d be even less happy now.
Will realized that he was hesitating, his finger poised above, but not quite touching, the doorbell button. That was irony for you, he reflected. He’d lain in wait for Anastasia Kerensky’s soldiers at the gates of Castle Northwind with less trepidation.
But that, as his friend and fellow Sergeant Lexa McIntosh would say, was because all that the Steel Wolves could do was kill him. His family, on the other hand, could always choose to make a scene. Not his mother by herself, but with his oldest sister involved… Ruth fretted about things, and she liked to spread the joy around.
She’d leaned on Will all during his growing up, pushing him to make something of himself, by which she apparently meant “find a job in an office somewhere instead of spending all your time hiking around the mountains.” His chosen work as a wilderness guide had not pleased her at all. He still didn’t know—though he suspected—what she thought of soldiering.
All right, he thought. Buck up and do it.
He pressed the button. A bell rang inside, and a moment later his sister Ruth opened the door. She said, “Will!” as though she hadn’t expected him and enfolded him in a warm hug. He noticed with surprise that she was crying.
He patted her hair awkwardly. “Here, now, Ruthie. What’s that all about?”
“I’m just glad that you’re still here. The things we heard—” She pulled away and blinked her eyes dry again. “Come in, come in. Dinner’s almost ready, and mother has the good silver out.”
He followed Ruth into the bright lights and good food smells of the house. His nose recognized the scents of roast leg of lamb and his mother’s homemade false-mint jelly, and of mashed purpleroot with lots of butter. His stomach, after too many weeks in a row spent living on field rations, growled in happy anticipation. He saw that the good silver was out indeed—his mother had thrown the entire set into the back of the electric runabout, along with a change of clothing and her wedding pictures, when she left Liddisdale last summer just before the Wolves came through—and the white tablecloth on the big table. Everywhere Will looked, he saw evidence of how the house had been made polished and orderly, and set up to look its best. It was as if the family had gotten ready for the visit of a well-regarded stranger, instead of the homecoming of a son and a brother.
Ruth’s husband John Fletcher was in the dining room already, along with Annie, Isobel, and young John. Jean Elliot brought in the leg of lamb from the kitchen and set it in the center of the table, then gave Will a tight hug while her three grandchildren looked at him with admiring eyes.
There was a place set for him at the table. He took his seat and Ruth’s husband began carving off slices of lamb. Will found that he had to work hard not to eat too fast, after so many meals lately spent eating quickly and moving on to the next camp, the next fight. He needed to set a good example for the children, he told himself sternly, and not forget his manners.
They all spoke at first of little things, weather and school and John Fletcher’s work as a long-distance trucker, but after a while his mother said, “It’s good to have you with us again, Will. I’ve been that worried.”
“You shouldn’t be,” he said. He laid his fork down long enough to tap his Sergeant’s stripes with one finger. “They made me a Sergeant. That means I’m a deal too canny to let myself get killed.”
His sister Ruth gave an eloquent and disbelieving sniff, and Will shot her a warning glance: Don’t say something and get her upset. For a wonder, Ruthie caught his meaning and held her tongue.
Young John was still in primary school, and full of a newly discovered hero worship. “Did you fight in the city?” he asked. “The news channels all say that it was fierce.”