He settled in a booth and Saba brought him a big mug of hot cider, to get the last of the chill out. Her father came with her; he looked formidable still despite the broad streaks of white in his dark beard and the kettle belly under his leather bib apron. His grin showed a full set of teeth and the hairy legs beneath his kilt were like grizzled tree trunks, even though he must have been a man grown and then some at the Change, which was a thing you saw less with every passing year.
The stories said that in those days people had com monly lived to eighty or a hundred or even more… but then, those stories said a lot of wild things: flying to the moon, talking-machine servants, sword blades made of fiery light, and islands filled with dinosaurs. Nowadays sixty was old, most places he'd seen, and few reached the Bible's threescore and ten.
"I hear you're from Wisconsin, Mr. Vogeler," Brannigan said, his voice a deep rumble.
Ingolf noted that he had less of the lilting local accent than his daughter, but there was wonder in his tone as he went on:
"Wisconsin! Haven't seen anyone from that far east since before the Change-wait, no, there was one, came all the way from upstate New York on a bicycle that first year. Big guy, went up north and became a knight or something. None since, though."
"We haven't seen many from the West Coast, either, Mr. Mackenzie," Ingolf said.
Brannigan chuckled; he seemed to be one of the jolly plump innkeepers of song and story. Which was lucky; in Ingolf's broad experience they were just as likely to be skinny po-faced tightwads soured on humanity in general and their customers in particular.
"Mackenzie is the Clan name, Mr. Vogeler, and there are going on for sixty thousand others! Just Tom will do, anyway."
"How much do I owe you, Mr. Brannigan… Tom?"
"Normally, half a silver dollar a day for a man and two horses, not counting drinks. Today and tomorrow, nothing."
At his puzzlement: "It's Samhain Eve. We set an empty place for a stranger at sunset tonight and tomorrow. A stranger from far away means double luck."
Brannigan's grin got wider. "You could be a god in disguise, after all!"
"I thank you kindly." He sipped the cider, and his brows went up. "And I thank you kindly! This is the best cider I've had since I left the Kickapoo country!"
He smacked his lips meditatively. There were herbs in it, and the scent had a deep fruitiness that was like a memory of September afternoons in the hills of home when the maples blazed. For a moment homesickness seized him, and he was back amid the bee murmurous orchards in April, looking down from a bluff across fields like rolling snow, with petals blowing in drifts over his father's house and onto the stark blue water of the river…
"Thank you for a taste of home," he said sincerely. "Join me in one? And that I will pay for."
He'd directed the invitation to both of them. Brannigan shook his head. "Maybe later. Business to attend to," he said.
A little to Ingolf's surprise, Saba nodded. "I will… if we're not too busy, Dad?"
"Nope, it's a slow night, everyone's getting ready for tomorrow," Brannigan said.
Then he made a gesture, index and little finger out stretched, the middle two folded down under the thumb. "Or out defying the fae, the young idiots. See you later, Mr. Vogeler."
She returned with the platters and some cider of her own, and sat across from him. He grinned and clinked his glass mug against hers, happier still when he saw she meant to eat with him. The odd grace she said over the food didn't put him off; you expected to meet strange customs far from home, and nothing here was as weird-or as nasty-as what he'd seen in the Valley of Paradise among the Prophet's folk.
"Your health, Saba," he said.
"And yours, Ingolf. To the Lord, to the Lady, to the Luck of the Clan!"
He was hungry enough that even with a pretty woman smiling at him the plate was the first priority. Everything that went into the food was something he might have had at his family's board-roast pork with cracklin' gravy, potatoes, carrots and cauliflower and broccoli, applesauce on the side, brown bread and but ter. The details were different; the outer cuts of the pork were crusted with herbs, chopped dried cherries in the gravy, potatoes whipped creamy with dill and garlic and chives, the vegetables steamed rather than boiled, and a fruity red wine to go with it all when his cider was drained.
Wholly homelike was the wedge of apple pie with whipped cream, and a piece of yellow cheese beside it, sharp and dry and crumbly, just right to cut the rich sweetness of the pie filling and the buttery taste of the crust.
"Now, that's real cheddar," he said, sighing with con tentment. "We Richlanders make good cheese; it was famous even before the Change, and this matches it. Is it yours?"
"No," she said. "It's from Tillamook-on the coast northwest of here, in Portland Protective Association country. That's where my man Raen was, trading for it, when the raiders landed."
"Sorry," he said awkwardly.
She smiled and sighed and patted his hand. "It's a year ago now, and he's in the Summerlands, waiting to come back… and he helped burn their ships at the water's edge. The Haida carry people off for slaves and steal and burn everything if they get a foothold; the raids are worse every year… Battle luck comes from the Mor rigu; a dozen others of our folk were there that day…"
She shook off the thought. "That's an interesting name, Ingolf. It sounds like one of ours."
"It's not usual back on the Kickapoo, either; it's after my grandfather's uncle," Ingolf said. "People used to tease me about it, when I was a kid. What are your children's names, if I may ask? You do have unusual ones here, except for a few like Tom."
"Ioruath's my boy; he's three," she said; her smile grew broader. "And Emer, my girl, she's just one; never saw her father, poor thing."
"Pretty names," he said. "But I haven't heard them before."
"We used to have the same names as most people-some of the older people still do; you know, Tom and John and Mary and David, that kind, like Dad. But a lot of people took other ones after the Change, when we turned back to the Old Religion. Names from the an cient stories that teach us about the Gods. Or they gave names like that to their children-my mother changed to Moira, and she changed me from Sally to Saba."
"I like Saba better," he said.
"So do I," she said, and wrinkled her nose at him. "I like Ingolf
… and nobody will tease you about it here. It isn't silly, like some of the ones they use up in the Protectorate. Odard and Raoul, I ask you!"
He took a moment to admire the sight of her. She'd switched to just her kilt and shirt and shoes, and everything he could see was just as he liked it; she was broad in the hips and shoulders and narrow in the waist, long legged, with strong round arms and the full bosom of a woman who'd borne and nursed children. Ingolf liked her frank eyes too, and the way she returned his interest without being coy about it.
He learned that she wove, and embroidered, and played the guitar, liked to hunt and fish in season. There was a small tattoo above the upper curve of her bosom and below the finials of her torc, a miniature strung bow that also suggested the crescent moon.
"What's that?" he asked, indicating it with his eyes.
She grinned at him. "Never seen a woman's breasts before, you poor man?" she teased, and laughed with him. Then she touched the tattoo. "That's the Warrior's Mark. I got that when I turned eighteen and passed the tests for the First Levy… the militia, you'd probably call it."
When she gathered up the empty plates and took them back to the kitchen he watched the sway of her kilt with unfeigned pleasure.
I could stay here awhile, he thought. I'm not broke by a long shot, and this is where the Voice and the dreams pointed. His mind tried to turn aside, but he forced it back. I'll need a base while I look around for… whoever it is I'm supposed to find.