"We shouldn't load too much," Ritva said.
They both knew you ended up foraging or buying locally eventually on a long trip; that was why modern trade routes tended to detour around deserts, unlike the pre Change interstates. But…
"I think Rudi's going to be taking us through out-of the-way places where foraging takes real time. With a twenty footer we can afford a little weight, and Denks will help us with stowing the loads. Let's see… barreled salt pork, smoked hams, bacon, jerky, hardtack in sealed boxes, dried beans, dried peas, dried fruit, shelled nuts, cornmeal, whole-meal wheat flour, yeast in sealed packets, milled oats with molasses for fodder, sea salt…"
"Did you notice who got stuck with the chores on this glorious quest?" Ritva added as they came out of a feed store several hours later, squinting up at the after noon sun over the Cascades. "Admittedly we're the ones who can do it without attracting much attention, but… They'll have us fetching the tea, next."
"Well, if we're spending other people's money, let's blow some on plastic containers "-in English perforce; nobody had come up with a Sindarin equivalent-"for the bulk foodstuffs-less chance of weevils, if we're careful. Those old trash barrels are getting ragged, but the fifty gallon kind are still good."
"Expensive, but they're worth it." Ritva nodded, then looked down at the list again. "Just the weapons, and we're done."
The proprietor of A. E. Isherman's Fine Arms and Armor knew them of old and greeted them beaming under the swinging sign-THE RIGHT TO BUY WEAPONS IS THE RIGHT TO BE FREE-not far from the old Town Hall. He was a short dark strong-featured man of about forty with shoulders like a blacksmith, two fingers missing from his left hand and a remarkable set of scars that ran from the angle of his jaw under the rolled top of his sweater. They looked very much like someone had tried to tear out his throat with their teeth once, and come quite close to succeeding.
"If it isn't my favorite elf-maidens," he said with a grin and a bow that showed the little knit skullcap on the back of his head. "On your own this time, eh? Still ohtar or have you been promoted to Roquen yet?"
Ritva smiled slightly and caught the let's play vibe from her sister. Ish was one of the ones who couldn't tell them apart when they were putting it on.
" Ohtar. But we're not elves," she said loftily.
"It's the Fifth Age," Mary continued. "The Age of Mortal Men. And Mortal Women. The Fourth Age ended with the Change."
"There haven't been any elves around for a long, long time," Ritva continued.
"Not since the early Fourth Age, probably."
"The elves all departed into the Uttermost West long ago; everyone knows that."
"Which is even farther west than Oregon."
"We just talk Elvish."
"Isn't it interesting, though: the kids at Stardell Hall are probably the first people in Middle Earth to speak it from the cradle for… well, nobody knows how long ago the Third Age was, really."
His head went back and forth like someone watching a tennis ball, and then he shook his head and made a broad welcoming gesture.
"Only the best for the Rangers, mortals or not. Come on in."
They both made a respectful gesture to the little silver scroll beside the door as they entered. The big siding clad frame building had been a fishing outfitter's store in the old days; despite the new skylights and a couple of good modern lanterns it was rather dim inside, and the new potbellied stove probably didn't keep it very warm in winter either.
There was an enticing smell to the weapon shop of Isherman, though: the sharp acrid scents of oiled steel and brass, the richer mellowness of leather and seasoned cedarwood, boxes of horn and sinew and wicker baskets full of gray goose flight feathers. Spears and polearms gleamed in horizontal racks or rested with their butts in wire cages like sheaves of demonic pruning hooks; bundles of arrows bristled from barrels, and arrowheads rested gleaming in little kegs. Armor stood on old store mannequins, looking like ghostly headless warriors in the gloom, and helmets hung like bunches of huge grapes from the ceiling.
Isherman didn't manufacture most of it, but he had contacts with plenty of the best craftsfolk east of the mountains, and some west of them-Ritva recognized a set of Sam Aylward's bows.
"We'll be taking quite a bit," Mary said, looking at her list again, and began mentioning quantities.
"Going on a long trip, Ms. Havel and Ms. Havel?" Isherman asked when she'd finished. "The Rangers getting a big caravan together? Planning to start your own war?"
"Ish, what's the polite way to say 'if I wanted you to know, I'd tell you'?"
He stroked his black chin beard with the remaining digits on the mutilated hand and looked at the two young women.
"There is no polite way to say that, Ms. Havel… though it's usually men saying it to ladies."
"Shall I think of a more impolite way to say it?" Ritva inquired with a bright, cheerful smile.
Isherman shrugged and smiled himself as he waved a hand at two chairs in front of a table he used as a desk. It held ledgers, piles of paper, and several inkwells and sets of trimmed quills.
"Isaac!" he called to one of the teenaged sons who worked with him. "Some clover tea and honey and biscuits for our guests!"
"Aha, serious haggling is in store," Mary said, and rubbed her hands. "Gell!"
Ritva left her to it; her sister had more natural talent in that direction, though neither of them was really in Isherman's league. She drank some of the sharp-sweet tea and nibbled at a shortbread biscuit rich with pinyon nuts while the samples were brought out and gravely considered.
Everyone on the expedition had their own personal armor and sword, custom-made and better than Isherman's best, but you always needed spare arrows and makings, and bits and pieces to maintain your war har ness in trim and repair damage, down to little bottles of fine linseed oil for keeping the straps supple. A few good bows were also advisable; bows were fragile. And while a first-rate sword could be passed down several generations with proper care, even the best shield was lucky to survive one hour of strong arms and heavy blows; they ended up buying a couple for each member of the party, adjusted to their height and heft, both ordinary round ones and the big kite-shaped Norman style Association nobles used.
"And twenty lances. Knight's lances, ashwood," Mary said.
The long poles were another thing that was unlikely to make it through more than one fight. So…
"And another twenty spare shafts," Ritva amplified.
Isherman's eyebrows went up, and he looked as if the urge to ask questions were about to make steam come out of his ears. Instead he shrugged and showed them what he had in stock. The weapons were ten feet of gently tapering wood, with a head like a narrow two-edged dagger a foot long heat shrunk onto the end and a weighted butt cap to make it balance two-thirds of the way back from the point. These were the very latest type, with a hand guard like a small shallow steel bowl fastened just ahead of the grip.
"Good spring steel for the lance heads, and properly retempered, not just ground down," he said.
"Ish, you never try to short anyone on quality," Mary said severely. "Prices the Gods couldn't afford, yes; quality problems, no. And don't tell me how it pains you to part with the lances. Out here, they're not real popular."
"I'll go down another twenty dollars, but no more." The man shrugged with a wry smile. "Inferior gear would get my customers killed, not to mention my reputation. So, is it a deal?"
"Deal."
Both the sisters shook with him to seal it; he added an omayan and they invoked the Lord and Lady and the spirits of the Uttermost West. The proprietor looked happy-sort of-as Ritva took out her checkbook; it would be insulting for him to look too happy, since that would mean he'd diddled them to an excessive degree. She dipped the quill pen in the inkpot on top of his desk and made one out to Isherman's Fine Arms and Armor, drawn on the Dunedain Rangers' account at the First National, and carefully noted the amount in the registration book at the back.