"No, I'm not sure, exactly. Though they say he's a law-abiding sort, not one who chops off heads on a whim," Rudi replied cheerfully.
Mathilda nodded. "On the other hand, from what Mom and Lady d'Ath and Count Odell told me, as far as he's concerned, he's president pro tem of the United States, and everyone else who claims authority within the old borders is bandit scum who deserves hanging."
"Well, he's not the only one with that delusion," Ingolf said dryly. "Every second bossman out East called himself president back in the old days, from the stories my father and uncles told. Some still do-the Bossman of Des Moines lists it right after governor of Iowa when he's being formal. Ours in Richland doesn't bother anymore."
"Not so much of that backward nonsense in the Wil lamette," one of the twins said pridefully. "We've got sensible, modern titles, like the Bear Lord or the Chief of Clan Mackenzie or the Hiril Dunedain."
"Or the Lord… Lady… Protector," Odard said. "And barons and counts." He glanced slyly at Father Ignatius. "And sovereign bishop abbots, of course."
"The mayor of Mount Angel is elected by the people," Ignatius said, frowning. "The abbot bishop conducts the Order's business, not that of the secular population."
Which means running outposts across half the north west, Rudi thought. And the mayor listens most attentively to what Dmwoski tells him, to be sure.
"There's the Faculty Senate in Corvallis," the other twin said judiciously. "They're weird. But not as weird as having a president, like something out of the old days."
Everyone nodded. "We are out in the backwoods here," Rudi said. "Let's remember to be diplomatic, even when they're being odd."
"I'm always diplomatic when heavily outnumbered by armed strangers," Odard said with a small dry smile.
"Prudence is a virtue," Father Ignatius said. More thoughtfully: "I wonder how long the ghost of the United States will haunt men's minds? As long as Rome's did in Europe in the last Dark Age?"
They turned their horses north and shifted a little forward. Ingolf leaned close to Rudi while the clatter of hooves covered his voice.
"Is that why Odard's always so polite and diplo matic?" he murmured. "As far as he's concerned, we're armed strangers who outnumber him?"
Rudi blinked. "Hadn't thought of it that way," he replied, equally quietly, then put it out of his mind; he had more immediate worries.
Though it fits him uncomfortably well, the creature. Have to think about that sometime.
Mathilda's horse shifted over towards him as they waited. "Rudi. .. anamchara, why are we really doing this?"
Rudi sighed. "Partly because I think if the Prophet wants to kill Thurston, we want to preserve him," he said. He hesitated a minute and went on, very softly: "And to be sure… the Powers have sent me on this journey. But I'm not altogether Their puppet. Or so I like to think."
The Boise scouts came in sight. They were a file of eight light cavalry spread out in a fan centered on the road. All of them were well equipped with saber at waist, bow cases at their knees, short chain mail shirts and flared bucket helmets modeled on the old army's style; the armor was covered with mottled camouflage cloth. Their swords stayed in the sheaths, but they were riding with arrows on the string, and they swung out to check the open country on either side of the western party with professional thoroughness. Rudi held up his open hands in the peace sign; the others sat their horses, trying hard to radiate harmlessness. Father Ignatius smiled benignly and signed the air as the strangers drew closer.
"Peace be with you, my children," he called.
Their leader was a wiry dark woman about thirty, the only female in the squad, with a set of chevrons riveted to the short sleeve of her armor. She reined in half a dozen yards from Rudi once the surroundings had been searched and looked him over; first with businesslike appraisal, and then with a different sort of glance.
"And with your spirit, padre." Then: "All right-you, the tall, blond and handsome one," she said dryly, letting her bow rest on the horn of her cowboy style saddle. " Who the hell are you guys, and what the hell are you doing here? You're sure as shit not locals."
Her eyes took in their gear. Rudi knew she'd be see ing the quality of their horses and details of weapons and clothing, and also that they couldn't have gotten this far without more mounts and transport and equipment than was showing.
"We're travelers from the far West, from beyond the Cascades," Rudi said, putting calm and warmth into his voice-his mother had helped train it. "And we've got urgent news for your commander."
"For the president, eh?" She looked at him, then turned in the saddle. "Smith, tell Captain Valier we've got some wanderers who want to talk to the bossman. Rojas, take my binoculars, get up on that hill and keep an eye out for company. There may be more of them than they've mentioned."
"Sergeant!" they both barked, and turned their horses to obey.
The rest sat watching the comrades, while not ne glecting their surroundings either; not exactly hostile, but extremely businesslike. The infantry came into view, marching like a giant spear tipped centipede behind the eagle and the flag of the Republic…
Rudi took in the hoop-and strap armor, the heavy throwing spears and big oval shields, and then the of ficers, one to each eighty men, with the sideways crests on their helmets and vinewood swagger sticks in their hands…
"Bet I know what General Thurston's favorite historical reading is," he said softly.
"Yeah," Mathilda replied, equally sotto voce. "I rec ognize it all- Osprey Men-at-Arms 46, Roman Army from Caesar to Trajan."
Other volumes of those illustrated histories were a staple of military education in the Willamette; he sup posed he shouldn't be surprised they were used elsewhere, too. And wasn't Thurston supposed to have been a soldier before the Change, an officer of the old US Army, trained at West Point? Not all that many of them had survived.
They mostly died trying to feed people and keep order, Rudi thought. Well, against Fate even gods cannot contend, much less even the best of men.
Doubtless Thurston had studied a lot of military history. There was a battery of field artillery along with the troops, six dart casters and shot throwers, which wasn't something you expected out here-the mechanic arts weren't as advanced in the far interior. Or so he'd thought…
The scout sergeant motioned them off the road, and they reined aside politely. The standard-bearer passed, and then the first block of soldiers; Rudi whistled silently to himself as they didn't even glance aside.
"Now, that's discipline, by God," Odard said from his other side.
The Boise cavalry sergeant waved to the small group of horsemen that followed the block of infantry. One of them spoke to a signaler, and a bugle blatted. The entire column came to a halt-a step and a stamp and a short harsh shout, and every man was waiting like a statue. Another blat and they relaxed, reaching for their canteens or turning to stare at the strangers.
Rudi could hear a couple of them speaking softly to each other.
"… use the rest, by Jesus."
The other answered, in a mock-childish falsetto: "What are soldiers for, Daddy?"
The first grinned and poured a little water from his canteen into his hand before rubbing it over his dusty face. He made his voice deep and gruff as he answered: "To hang things on, my son."
Well, they're human after all and not machinery, Rudi thought; then he made his face solemn and straightened in the saddle as the command group approached.
That's him, he thought.