He looked as if he were about thirty, with raven-black braids hanging past his shoulders and halfway down the steerhide vest sewn with stainless-steel washers he wore as display and armor. He also had the nearly beardless ruddy-brown skin, high cheekbones and nar row black eyes of a full-blood Indian; his followers were all younger, and they ranged from looks much like his to tow hair and blue eyes. People had moved around a lot right after the Change, even out here where the die off hadn't been so bad, and then mostly copied the customs of whoever took them in. Or the customs those people put together out of half memories and legends in a world gone mad…
"So," he said, after looking them over. "You folks are from the Protectorate, right? And maybe the priest, too?"
Mathilda felt herself flush at the tone. He could tell where she and Odard and the servant came from by their dress-boots, baggy pants, and belted T-tunics worn over full-sleeved linen shirts. She and Odard had left off the golden spurs of knighthood and avoided the distinctive roll edged round hats with dangling side tails that nobles wore, using broad brimmed Stetsons instead. She flushed again as she realized that the man had seen her reaction.
The other Indians talked among themselves in a lan guage she recognized-Chinook Jargon-but couldn't speak. She didn't think they were making compliments, though; and they were probably using the tongue to psych out the intruders, since she knew they spoke English at home most of the time. Her temper boiled over.
"The charter of the Meeting at Corvallis says people from all member states can travel freely through the ter ritories of the others on peaceful and lawful business," she snapped. "Last time I looked, the Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs were members of the Meeting."
The men circling them bristled at that. "I'm in charge of this section of the council's border guards," their leader said sharply. "Foreigners have to give an account of themselves. You could be bandits or rustlers-we've lost some stock lately."
The priest raised a soothing hand.
"I'm Father Ignatius, from Mount Angel," he said. "We're peaceful travelers heading for Bend."
The narrow dark eyes of the Indian leader flicked from her to the priest, to Odard's politely watchful smile and to Alex's blankness.
I shouldn't have said anything, Mathilda told herself. I'm noticeable enough, in men's clothes.
That wasn't actually forbidden in the Association's territories anymore, but it was fairly rare.
"If you're heading for Bend, you're doing it way off the main road," the Indian said. "Except on the highway nobody travels our land without our leave."
"Yes, we are off the road," Ignatius replied in a friendly tone. "But just passing through nonetheless, and taking nothing but a little water and grass."
The other man thought for an instant and then gave a slight nod; his followers relaxed.
"Name's Winnemucca," he said, extending a hand.
The priest shook; there was a jostling and shifting of horses as the others of their party did. The Indian's eyes widened a little as he felt the sword calluses on Mathil da's hand, and the strength of it. His own was like a rawhide glove over living metal.
"Thank you for giving me your name," Father Ignatius said.
Winnemucca laughed, and some of the others grinned in more friendly wise.
"We've got a scholar with a sense of humor here," he said. Then to Mathilda's obvious incomprehension: "That's what Winnemucca means, in Paiute. He Who Gives. "
He leaned his hands on the horn of his saddle. "Maybe you'd like an escort south to CORA territory?"
Mathilda tried to hide her wince. Just what they needed; something to draw more attention!
I'm lucky photographs are so rare and expensive now, she thought despairingly. But it looks like I can't keep myself hidden for a single day. If only we could get farther from home…
"But maybe not, eh?" He Who Gives said. After a moment's pause: "You can be on your way then. If you're not looking for company, head a little west as you go south-we haven't moved our herds up that far yet."
He gave a high shrill call and wheeled his horse, shak ing his bow overhead. The others followed him like a torrent, until only the sound of their hooves was left, a faint fading rumble in the earth.
"Phew," Mathilda said, wiping her forehead.
"Your Highness, I thought for a moment there he'd made us," Odard said. "Or would have if the good father hadn't intervened."
"I think maybe he did," Mathilda said. "But maybe he'll keep his mouth shut, too. Let's get going. It's another day's ride to Bend."
Near Bend
Capital of the Central Oregon Ranchers Association
April 19, CY23/2021 A.D.
"Well, that's a relief," Ritva Havel said.
She looked at the dusty white road ahead of them as they ambled along behind the horses they were driving, and at the irrigated fields of wheat and potatoes and pasture to either side, divided by rows of poplars, drowsing under the afternoon sun. Puddles and lines of water glinted between the young green of the spring crops.
Her sister nodded. The Santiam Pass had been cold. They hadn't been caught in a bad snowstorm-you had to be really unlucky for that, towards the end of April, even over six thousand feet. But the ground beside the road had been wet and it had gone down to freezing every night they were up in the high country, often with sleet accompaniment. They were young and in hard con dition and they had the equipment they needed, but that didn't make it fun the way it would be in July, or even the way a winter hunting trip on skis could be.
Bend was three thousand feet lower than the summit of the pass, and it was sunny and mildly warm and Lord and Lady bless us dry this bright noonday, and the smells were of river water and turned earth and woodsmoke as well as everlasting pine sap as they came towards the city. The white fangs of the mountains-she could see Three-fingered Jack and the Sisters and Mount Jeffer son-were merely pretty from here. Up there at this time of year you soon started thinking they hated the tribe of men, like Caradhras in the histories of the War of the Ring. At least there weren't any orcs, or bandits either in this season.
"And I wish you wouldn't snore when we have to share the same little tent," Ritva went on to her sister.
"I do not snore!" Mary said indignantly. "Besides, our flet back at Mithrilwood isn't much bigger."
"Yes, you do snore, and at home there's a wall between our beds at least," Ritva said, and continued with ruthless logic: "Besides, I snore. And therefore you snore."
"How do you know you snore? I was never rude enough to tell you, " Mary said.
A boyfriend had informed Ritva that she snored like a water-powered ripsaw and slept with her mouth open-something not easy to express in Elvish, and it was among the reasons she'd dropped him-but she wasn't going to say that right now.
"How do I know you've been eating beans?" she said snidely instead, and they both laughed.
Epona chose that moment to start a purposeful move towards a cartful of baled alfalfa hay on the road before them. They both moved their mounts to cut her off, and the big black mare stood staring at them with one hind foot slightly raised, swishing her tail, ears just a bit back. For a horse, Epona was extremely intelligent, disturb ingly so; you could see the thoughts moving in her great dark eyes as she looked at you.
"Remember what Uncle Will said about her when she's doing that?" Ritva said.
"Yeah." Mary chuckled, and dropped into Texan accented English for a moment. " 'Girls, she ain't lookin' at us that way 'cause she loves us.' "