Lawrence Thurston was a tall man, about Rudi's height and built much like him, lean but broad in the shoulders. He wore the same armor as his men on foot; it looked adaptable that way. His helmet crest was transverse, but dyed in stripes of dark blue, red and white, and he carried a round shield marked in the same colors.
When he pushed back the hinged cheek pieces of his helm and then slung it to his saddlebow Rudi saw the face of a man in his fifties, with some gray in his short sable cap of hair and hard blunt features, broad nose and thick lips. His skin was the dark brown that the pre-Change world had miscalled black, a shade that reminded Rudi of Will Hutton, the Bearkiller ramrod until last year. He rode with straightforward competence but not a natural horseman's seat, and his mount was a strong-bodied brown gelding, good without being in the least showy.
"Right, western Oregon," he said, looking them over.
His knob of a chin turned towards Mathilda and Odard. "You and the boy there are from Portland, the group that's resurrected King Arthur and the Round Table, right?"
Mathilda bridled at the words and the clipped tone. "We're Associates of the Portland Protective Association," she said curtly.
The twins smiled sweetly, and Ritva spoke before he could ask: "And we're the cuckoos who live in the woods and think they're elves," she said politely. "Though really that's just a scurrilous rumor and a narrow, bigoted stereotype."
"Mae govannen, cano," Mary added: Hello, General in Sindarin.
"Mae govannen," the general replied. "A secret language is sometimes useful."
"And Edain and I are Mackenzies," Rudi said.
Some men-and women, for that matter-had baraka, a force of personality that made them hard to resist; it was a gift of the Powers, and Thurston had plenty. Rudi had more experience than most with it, and set his mind like a wall. His voice was dry as he went on:
"You know… kilts… bagpipes… witchcraft… pagan gods."
The dark eyes considered him levelly for a long moment; then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"OK, I've spent my life trying to resurrect the United States. I don't think that's insane… but I'll agree it's obsessive," he said; there was a trace of a soft drawl ing accent in his voice, overlain with decades of Idaho. "The Scottish discarded the kilt for all but ceremonial reasons in the First World War because they used too much cloth. Trews were logistically more supportable. And there's no finer sound than bagpipes in battle. As to the rest, 'Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.' That's from the Constitution of the United States, which is your Constitution, too. Well met, all of you."
Then Thurston's eyes narrowed as he looked at Ingolf. "I recognize you, " he said. "My intelligence people debriefed you last year. Got a fairly wild story, along with some useful stuff on the eastern states and some even better information on the Prophet."
Ingolf nodded. "I didn't mind telling them what I knew. It was the pressing invitation to stay that had me doing a flit. Reminded me too much of Corwin."
Thurston shrugged. "I can always use more good men-and so can the country."
Then he turned back to Rudi. "I thought I placed your faces. I know who you all are, too; there's been a hell of an uproar out there in the West lately."
Mathilda winced, and Thurston noted it with a quick flicker of his eyes. He went on: "Why shouldn't I spank you and send you home to your parents?"
"Sure, and I didn't think you recognized our parents," Rudi observed.
And it's a wee bit impressive you know who we are. Has anyone taken a photograph of me?
There were cameras around, though not many, but they were large and distinctive and he didn't remember posing for one since before his voice broke.
Or does he have men keeping files on us, complete with sketches? Then after a moment: Not a bad man, really, I think… but very focused.
"I didn't think that you recognized the Portland Protective Association's sovereignty either," Mathilda observed.
"I don't recognize your parents," Thurston said. "Not as legitimate governments. But swords have a certain weight in themselves these days, and when I'm not in a position to immediately restore the nation's authority, I have to make tactical accommodations with de facto regimes. I could gain a fair bit of goodwill by handing the young lady there back to her mother."
A bleak smile. "I've had messages to that effect from Portland. Very emphatic messages, carried by men with titles that would be imposing if they weren't so funny."
"I'm the heir," Mathilda said quietly. "It's not that many years from now that I come of age, either, and I'll be the Protector then. You wouldn't win my goodwill that way… and I may live and rule a long time."
"A point," Thurston conceded. "On the other hand, if you get your fool neck chopped on this stunt, and I could have prevented it, your mother will be… very unhappy with me, for as long as we both shall live."
"And, well, that weight which you truly say swords have is why we turned out of our way to meet you," Rudi added blithely.
He let the accent he'd learned from his mother grow a little stronger as he went on:
"There are two hundred heavy swords waiting for you the now not ten miles away. Heavy and sharp, sure, and two hundred men to carry them, and every one a long ungainly dreadful bachlach thinking on you with dark and ugly intent, the creatures. The Church Universal and Triumphant's men-the Prophet's Cutters in person."
"Unit of the Sword of the Prophet, out of Corwin," Ingolf added. "Guardsmen commanded by a High Seeker."
Thurston's face changed, though most observers would have been hard-pressed to say exactly how. Rudi decided it was as if a buried playfulness had withdrawn further into the forged iron core of the man.
"Is that so?" he said softly. "I suggest we all get off our high horses and talk about it." Then: "Captain Thurston, we'll take a short rest break here."
"Mr. President!" barked a young officer who looked like a younger edition of the Boise ruler, then strode away shouting orders.
Thurston went on over his shoulder: "Sergeant. The map and table."
"Got it, Captain," a man behind him said.
Rudi dismounted and let Epona's reins drop; she'd stay still, unless he called her. The others tethered their mounts to convenient bushes, and they crowded for ward. The man who'd called Thurston a captain came back with a folding table covered in cork, then set it out and pinned a map to it, a modern one block-printed on rather thick cream colored paper. He was fair skinned under his tan, with a graying blond buzz cut and blue eyes in a nest of wrinkles, and otherwise enough like his commander to be his brother.
"Captain?" Rudi said quietly.
Thurston considered him for a moment, then gave a very slight nod of acknowledgment.
"Captain was the rank I held on March seventeenth, 1998-Army Rangers, Seventy-fifth, out of Fort Lewis near Seattle. Sergeant Anderson was with me before the Change."
For a moment the ruler's eyes were distant, looking down the road of years.
"Our team was one of the ones sent out to find out what the hell was going on… He'll acknowledge my self promotion to general in-chief and president pro tem when we retake Washington and hold national elections."
"Yes, sir, Captain," the man said stolidly.
"Sure, and we all have our nonnegotiable points," Rudi said gravely.
And the old Romans had a man next to a triumphant general who whispered, "Remember; you are human," in his ear. Not a bad idea.
Then the Mackenzie traced the road they were on with a finger, down southward towards the old reservoir. "They're making camp here-the most of them, with a net of scouts flung out…"