Going back into the hell of Seattle for someone a full month after the Change must have required a trip all the way around Robin Hood's barn, and the Horned Lord's own luck. He mentally revised his one tough bastard estimation of General Thurston upwards a notch.
Then Cecile went on: "And here's Larry now."
The front door opened again; Rudi caught the draft of cooler air, and the crash and thump of the sentries. Thurston senior's voice came, muffled as if he were talking over his shoulder.
"… and have the mobilization orders on my desk for signature by oh nine hundred tomorrow, Major. Staff plan seventeen-C."
Thurston's younger son turned at the words, quivering a little like an eager hunting dog; he was just the age to long for his first war. His father visibly forced the scowl off his face as he came in and greeted his guests. Cecile handed him a cocktail of the type Rudi had turned down in favor of wine; in his experience hard liquor just be fore a meal stunned your taste buds. The ruler of Boise looked as if he needed it, though.
He gave them all a nod, then turned to Father Ignatius. "Did you mention you were an engineer, padre?"
The priest signed assent. "We all study the basics, sir," he said. "The knight brethren are actually more often in command or advisory positions, you see. We have to be able to lay out a fort or build a siege engine. Or plan a town or an irrigation system and pumps."
"You might like to take a look at some of our stuff while you're here, then."
"I'd appreciate it, sir," the priest said.
He was as calmly polite as always, but Rudi noticed a flare of interest in the dark eyes. Rudi wasn't surprised that Thurston would know a man's interests… and not surprised that he had no small talk, either.
"It's a pity we didn't get more of your missions out here," the general went on. "We could have used them."
Ignatius nodded. "But there are others who need it far more," he said. Then a rare charming smile: "You've done too well to need us."
They went into the dining room and the meal came out: potato and leek soup first, then a rack of lamb-nicely and slightly pink in the center-with a plum-honey garlic glaze, scalloped potatoes and steamed new vegetables. Those were welcome. The salad of early greens was much more so; Rudi forwent the dressing. Traveling usually meant living on a winterlike diet of bread and salted and smoked meats, with vegetables dried or pickled or in jars. It was good to taste seasonal delicacies like fresh tomatoes again. The bread was excellent too, less crumbly than that made from the Willamette's soft wheat-Portland's court ate something similar, from flour imported down the Columbia from the Palouse country.
At last the dessert-peach pie-was finished and the younger children sent off with a minimum of protest.
"Excellent dinner," Odard said courteously, as they moved back to the living room for coffee and liqueurs. "My compliments to the cook."
"Thank you," Cecile Thurston said, showing a dimple as she smiled. "You're looking at her."
Mathilda looked a little less surprised; but then, she'd spent part of many years at Dun Juniper, where Rudi's mother always did her share of the kitchen chores.
"You're in a bit of a fix," Thurston said bluntly, when the drinks had been poured. "What the hell were your folks thinking, anyway?"
"A fix? That I knew before I left," Rudi said wryly. "And if we told you exactly why we were heading east-well, it makes sense in our terms, but I doubt you'd be agreeing."
Thurston raised an eyebrow."Heading for Nantucket? Yeah, I've gotten some rumors about the place, and if there's some hint about the Change I sure as hell would like to know. And there was our friend Ingolf's not-very complete story to add spice. This isn't the time, though, with the fighting getting worse."
Rudi spread his hands. "Sir, when would it be this right time? There's been war and rumor of war from here to the Atlantic since the Change, and I don't expect it to much improve before I'm old and gray, so."
"According to my intelligence people, it's pretty damned bad east of here-the Prophet's boys beat the Snake River Army-that's one of New Deseret's main field forces-east of Pocatello, and it'll be under siege soon. Then they'll head for Twin Falls… which is entirely too close to my border. There's fighting down in what used to be Utah, too. It's all coming apart and there are raiding parties everywhere: Corwinites, deserters from both sides, freelancers and mercenaries and gen eral road-people bandit scum. It'd be a poor payment for saving my life and my boys' to send you into that."
The companions exchanged sober glances. "That all went to hell in a handbasket woven lickety split," Ingolf said. "New Deseret was holding up pretty well when I went through last year."
Thurston held out a broad palm and turned it as if it were a seesaw on a pivot, at first slowly and then with a snap.
"They spread themselves too thin and let the Cutters get inside their decision curve. Walker-he's the Prophet's main commander-is a bastard but a smart one, and he managed to mousetrap a lot of their infantry down south. Sort of a replay of Manzikert… a battle about a thousand years ago. He was army before the Change. After that he kept them rocked back on their heels and their coordination broke down. When the balance tips, things go from slow to fast real fast."
Ingolf gave a grunt and a nod, the sort you did when somebody said something you knew was true by experience. Rudi looked at him.
"Yeah, the general's right. It's like fighting one-on-one with someone who's about as good as you are; you know how that is."
Rudi made a gesture of acceptance. "Back and forth until someone makes a mistake… and they get hurt and then they can't recover and then it's all over but the last strike?"
"Yeah, that's about it, on a bigger scale. If you don't have a margin for error, error kills you."
Everyone else in his group signaled agreement. None of them had fought in a real war except Ingolf, but they'd all been in skirmishes and fights on a more personal level.
"Will you help them now, Larry?" Cecile said, surpris ing Rudi a little; she'd been very quiet during most of the dinner, and he'd pegged her as the type who did her consulting in private. "I told you we should have intervened last year."
"Yeah, I will," Thurston said absently, looking up at the ceiling. "I'd have done it earlier, if they hadn't been so damned stubborn. "
"Stubborn as you, Dad?" Frederick Thurston said.
"Just about. I should have softened my terms and they should have realized how deep the shit they were in was earlier. But if I hit the Prophet's men now, they'll still be weakened from taking out New Deseret and they won't have had a chance to consolidate. If we get lucky, we might be able to break them and take Montana and Wyoming too. And this assassination thing will keep the politics simple, thank God. They screwed up and I'm going to… ah, take advantage of it."
Then his eyes snapped back to the present. "But it's going to be a pain in the ass for you people. I regret that-I owe you seriously-but there's nothing I can do about it. I do suggest you stick around Boise for at least a little while, to see who jumps where. I'll let you have the best intelligence I can on developments."
The conversation went general after that; the Thur stons saw them to the door later. The big central enclo sure of the citadel was only half-darkened; there were crescents burning on the towers around it, and gaslights around the perimeter, and guards walking their rounds. Still, it had the sad slightly chilly horses-and-woodsmoke smell of nighttime in a fortress, and it was easy enough to halt everyone in a place where it was impossible to be overheard.