"Well, he's so far up the bell curve that I'm tempted to believe it myself, sometimes. It's not natural -and I helped train him these past twelve years, on his visits."
"I do believe in his legend," Sandra said, then chuckled quietly at Tiphaine's raised brow. "Oh, not the pagan gods; they're as much a myth as Jehovah or the Risen Christ, whatever dear Juniper thinks. Myths are lies; but I believe in the power of myths the way I believe in rocks… rulers have had the various pantheons carry ing water for them since the first con man met the first sucker, and priestcraft was born. That was long enough ago that they were probably both walking on their knuckles."
Mathilda took up her shield and walked out to face Rudi. The mail hauberk she wore rippled in smooth gray white, a treasure that had taken a team of experts more than a year to make from double coils of titanium wire.
"And my daughter?" Sandra asked.
Tiphaine pursed her lips; her duties had included the warlike part of the Princess's education since the girl turned nine. She also knew that Sandra Arminger hated inaccurate information with a passion.
"It's a disadvantage being a woman, of course, even if it's not as much of one as our macho idiots think. The Princess is… very good, enough to hold her own on most battlefields. About as good as Odard, say. That means she's better than him in natural talent, since he has an extra twenty odd pounds of muscle on his upper body. And she really works at it. But she's not in the same class as Rudi. Not in mine, either, frankly. She's fast, far faster than average, and very strong for her weight… but Rudi's faster than that."
Sir Odard was standing ready again with the referee's white baton. He waited until they faced off, then brought it down sharply and shouted, "Kumite!"
Tiphaine hesitated for a moment, then went on: "He's faster than me-and I've lost only a hair off my best speed so far."
Tiphaine was a little past thirty five, and she'd been an up-and-coming junior gymnast before the Change, only out of the running for future Olympics because she was too tall. Sandra had rescued her and seen the possibilities…
"And he's strong even for his size; he can lift and toss twice his own body weight, even in a full hauberk. I've got a lot more experience, which makes up for it… so far."
"Interesting," Sandra said, narrowing her eyes. "Of course, Mathilda will be ruling, not fighting with her own hands. She only has to be good enough to win respect among, as you so accurately put it, our macho idiots. Iron on their shirts, iron between the ears."
Tiphaine chuckled slightly, which was the equivalent of a belly laugh for her.
"And the joke is?" Sandra Arminger said; normally the remark would have won only a slight narrowing of the eyes in amusement.
"Here we are in the Land of the Iron Shirted Ma chos, and the people making the decisions at the top are nearly all women. You, my lady, me… Mary Liu, the Dowager Baronesses of Dayton and Molalla. And Juniper Mackenzie and Signe Havel, down south."
Sandra's own laughter was warm and genuine. "Well, not so surprising, Lady d'Ath, Grand Constable of the Association. So many of the first generation of the male upper nobility got themselves killed, one way or another."
"That happens in this business," Tiphaine replied, tap ping at the long hilt of her own blade. "You have to be smart and lucky to die old-which our distinguished chancellor looks to be doing. I probably won't," she added clinically. "Too many people hate me and more will before it's over. You should start grooming possible replacements."
Mathilda and Rudi were circling, the big round topped kite shaped shields up under their eyes, longswords held over their heads hilt forward. Mathilda attacked first, boring in with a fixed snarl visible even from above and through the bars of the practice helmet.
"Haro, Portland! Holy Mary for Portland!"
"Morrigu! Morrigu! Blackwing!"
Blades clashed, banged on shields, rattled on mail, thrust and cut and parry in arcs that glittered silvery cold in the winter sunlight, striking at head, hip, thigh, neck without pattern or warning. The supple young bodies moved with a beautiful minimalism despite the weight of the metal confining them.
"Mathilda seems very determined," her mother said.
The heir to Portland moved aside from a shield-up rush by letting one bent knee relax and swing her out of the way, cutting at the back of Rudi's leg with a vi ciously economical swipe. He caught the blow aimed at his hamstring on the long tail of the shield, whirled…
"Oh, she is. She's got the anger, the fire in the belly; most of the best fighters do. She hates being taken lightly or coming in second in anything, which I can sympathize with, and it drives her hard. It's like fuel, once you learn to ride it rather than be ridden."
"Rudi, on the other hand, always struck me as a very sunny-spirited boy," Mathilda's mother observed.
Tiphaine's long fingers tapped at the vines carved into the marble of the balustrade. "True… and he kills with out fear, or anger, or hate, with regret even, simply be cause it's necessary. That's rare, and it's rarer still among the really first-rate. God help the enemy that finally frightens him or makes him mad."
When they went back into the chambers, Tiphaine sank to one knee and formally kissed Sandra's hand.
"My lady liege," she said. "I'd better start getting things ready, if you scent a war."
"My dear, as one evil bitch to another… it's beginning to smell very much like that."
Alone, Sandra sat again and toyed with the cat that leapt into her lap, teasing it with the ends of her wimple. She had always found that an aid to thought.
"Hello? Mother?" Mathilda said, as the guards thumped the door shut behind her.
"Ah!"
The slight figure in the chair started, and the cat gave a silent meow and jumped down. Mathilda turned and called, "Agnes! The lights, please."
A silent maid-cum-secretary in double tunic and tabard came out and turned up the gaslights and returned to wait against the wall at the far end of the chamber, hands folded.
"I was deep in thought, love," her mother said. "Is it dinnertime already?"
The early January sun had set; Oregon was farther north than you might think from the climate, and the winter days were short. Soon the yellow flame made the mantels glow bright, and Mathilda sank down on the rug near Sandra's feet, taking off her hat; it was the usual round flat type with a roll of cloth around the edge and a broad silk tail at one side.
"Not quite. I thought I'd sit with you awhile, if that's OK and you're not too busy. I always enjoy sparring with Rudi; it makes me better even though he wins. But I don't like it as much as he does."
"Likes to fight, does he?" Sandra said thoughtfully.
"Oh, yeah. He says there are only two reasons to fight."
"Which are?"
"Joy and death."
Her mother's brows went up. "Joy in death?"
"No, no… For joy, to stretch yourself with a friend; or death, to kill as quickly as you can. Nothing in between." She frowned. "I can see what he means, but it isn't that way for me, not most of the time. I mean, I like practicing with arms, but you put a sword in Rudi's hand and he's… transported."
"And waxes poetic about it. He's a young man of some depth, our Rudi… but if it's going on for dinner time, you should change to a cotte-hardi for the meal," Sandra said gently. "We'll have important company. You have to wear skirts occasionally, you know, or… ah. .. people will talk."