"Later, unless he's going to die," Rowan said impatiently to the Rangers' medico.
"Can we lift this without tackle?" Daniel Barstow said dubiously, kicking at the railcar. It rocked slightly under his boot, with a clatter and crunch.
"It's no heavier than a compact, from the report and the look of it," Juniper said. That comparison meant nothing to the younger Mackenzies, and she saw the puzzlement in their eyes. She corrected himself: "Than a draft horse, or a twenty-foot wall log."
"We can do it," Rowan said confidently.
The big blacksmith spat on his hands and reached under the prow of the vehicle for the forward frame. Everyone else crouched and put their shoulders to the sides of the railcar and prepared to lift and shove. Juniper did herself; she was strong for her size, and every bit counted when the twelve had to shift a hundred pounds each.
"And one: and two: and three."
With a unified grunt they stood, and the twelve hundred pounds of wood and metal came with them.
"Ready: step," Juniper said, feeling her thighs trembling with the strain, grunting each time a foot came down. Don't let this come down on anyone's instep. Feel for the footing. "Step: step: step: "
Wheezing, gasping, they paced forward and lowered the railcar onto the next section of track. One snatched his boot free from under a wheel at the last second, and went white, but that and a few splinters and a little torn skin on some palms were the only injuries; it helped that they all had hinds toughened by years of hard labor. Juniper bent to tear a clump of grass free and use it to scrub with a grimace of distaste at the left shoulder of her brigandine, where blood leaking through the floorboards had stained it.
"See who can fit into those mail shirts," she said quickly.
One of the ragged laborers came up. "Ma'am-" he began.
"That's Lady Juniper, the Mackenzie," Rowan said sharply.
Juniper made an impatient not now gesture; Rowan had always been a lot more protective of her titles and dignity than she was.
"Ah, Lady, ma'am-you need to know the signals the scout car was using? 'Cause me and Jerry and Luke, we know 'em pretty good. We've been doing this for a year now, since the cow died and Dad couldn't: well, for a year now."
"Lady Juniper's luck!" someone muttered. Juniper began to smile.
Rowan grinned too. "All right, let's get those rails looking good again," he said. "Hup, hup!"
"Hup yours, Row," Sanjay said, as he bent to help lift the length of steel rail back into its chairs. He was smiling himself.
Crossing Tavern, Willamette Valley, Oregon
May 13th, 2007 AD-Change Year Nine
Well, that's an incomplete report if I ever heard one, Mike Havel thought. Something important here, though:
He made a small sign with his hand, saw Hutton's nod.
"And they fell into it, neat as neat could be," Juniper finished, to general applause.
Sir Nigel inclined his head. "Very smoothly planned and carried out, Lady Jumper," he said sincerely.
"Oh, Juniper or Juney," she replied, with an urchin grin. "If you only knew how tired I get of titles!"
"Juniper, then, if you'll call me Nigel." His smile was genuine too. "That sort of guerrilla operation is more difficult to bring off, since the Change."
"So Sam tells me," Juniper said, resting a hand for a moment on the stocky bowman's shoulder. "If I know anything about fighting, I learned it from him."
"You couldn't wish for a better teacher," the baronet said, and smiled back. "But it does show considerable native wit to learn so well."
"Figure I'll turn in," Will Hutton said with a yawn. "We can fill in the rest tomorrow."
Good old Will, Havel thought. Always picks up on what's needed And Juney can fib with the best of them. Comes from all that storytelling, I suppose. Sir Nigel seems to take a hint well, too.
The Crossing Tavern's staff bustled in and cleared the plates. When they left, Havel and Signe confronted Juniper and Sam Aylward across the table; the fire burned low, and the candles as well, scenting the room with the smells of fir-sap and beeswax, tinting the rug-hangings on the wall with gleams of color that were all shades of red.
"So, what really happened?" Signe said; her voice wasn't exactly cold, but it was curiously flat.
"Pretty much what I said," Juniper replied. "It's what happened next that needs to be private, for now, until we can all figure out what to do about it."
Barony of Molalla, Willamette Valley, Oregon
May 10th, 2007 AD-Change Year Nine
I feel completely absurd, Juniper thought. It would be too bad entirely to die looking like someone eight years old dressed up in her parents' clothes.
The knight's helmet was bad enough; it had to be padded with a pair of spare kneesocks so that it wouldn't fall down to the level of her upper lip. Wrapping up in the cloak and sitting on a haversack to look taller:
Three of the original engine-team and a volunteer stood at the levers; four Mackenzies of suitable size had donned the gear of the dead crossbowmen. It all looked fairly convincing, unless you got close enough to see faces: or smell the sewer-and-slaughterhouse stinks of violent death.
"Here they come," one of the clansfolk said.
The knight's seat had turned out to be a swivel, a padded luxury from some office. Juniper used it to turn and look past the lever-pump and over the south-facing rear of the railcar, as her clansmen raised two paddles like oversized Ping-Pong rackets and began using them to semaphore a message: All clear four miles up the road, in this case. Normal procedure was for the railcar to dart ahead and then back, from what they'd been able to gather.
The train approached, at a plodding walking pace-the Hereford and Angus steers weren't going to hurry for anyone. There were six rail wagons in the train, each about forty feet long and pulled by eight hitch of oxen. The first held a dozen crossbowmen, eight heavy infantry carrying long spears, a man-at-arms and a tall flag with Baron Mo-Ialla's standard; the next four were piled high with cargo under lashed tarpaulins. The last was a covered traveling carriage; part of the roof was a flat space with deck chairs and a table with an umbrella in its center. It was pulled by six big black horses, which was pure swank unless they planned on getting ahead of the freight wagons later, or switching the team around and heading back this way.
The locals said five wagons were normal, not six. Something unexpected, and in a fight, unexpected usually means bad.
There were more horsemen than they'd expected too, walking their mounts beside the slow-moving train, and there were other saddled mounts trailing along behind the rail carriage on a leading line, saddled but with their stirrups looped up.
Call it off? she thought. They could. Just give the signal and streak ahead: No. I've promised that farmer and his friends. You piled up a debt with Fate when you made a promise, and if you refused to pay when it was due, it was invariably collected later-usually at the worst possible time. We go ahead.
Juniper raised her hand and waved; the train would think it a friendly gesture, and Sam would know it for the go-ahead. The passenger carriage rumbled over the little bridge that crossed Milk Creek.
Or the Rubicon, she thought, her heart thudding, then slowing as she made herself breathe steadily as the train came on at the immemorial pace of the ox. Let them come on, let them get well past, your trusty railcar scouts have checked all this ground for you:
A sound came from the bridge then, a giant's hissing roar. Thermite didn't work quite the way it had before the Change, but it still got very, very hot-more than hot enough to turn the wooden trestle of the bridge into an instant inferno of black smoke and licking yellow flame. Even a few of the oxen looked over their shoulders in surprise at the noise and stink; the men reacted like a kicked-in ant's nest. The frantic milling went on for only seconds before a trumpet blatted; the spearmen hopped down from the leading wagon and trotted towards the rear, forming up before a horseman who waved them on ahead.