Now, that changes the equation completely, Tiphaine thought. Our preemptive strike just got preempted.
"And there was something going on at the Bossman's house last night," Gonzalez said. "Fighting, and then a fire. Then we were ordered out to beat the bushes all around the town, with the priority on anyone trying to break west. Meanwhile it looked like the whole force was getting ready to move in your direction. As soon as those Pendleton tontas got their thumbs out."
Ah, Tiphaine thought. Astrid's little black op didn't go as planned. But it didn't go entirely pear-shaped either, not if they're looking for fugitives rather than putting the heads on spears outside the gate.
"I can make it back if you let me go right now," Gonzalez said. "My squad are all in on it and they'll cover for me. Any longer and I've got to stay."
"Rodard, release her and give her back her weapons and her horse. Then get to Rancher Brown and tell him I need two hundred of his men, or as many more as he can get here within half an hour, ready for a running fight. Armand, send for Sir Ivo and Sir Ruffin, and then arm me. And call for couriers!"
She dipped her precious steel-nibbed pen into the ink bottle, and wrote:
To the Regent: I have confirmed the authenticity of the enclosed.
Then she threw that in a preaddressed courier bag and handed it to the first of the messengers, a slender whipcord man in leathers.
"Get this to the forward railway station for forwarding to Portland, maximum priority," she said, and was writing again before he'd left the tent.
By the time Sir Ivo arrived she'd sent six messages out, several clerks were writing out more, and the camp noise was beginning to swell as getting-up turned into frantic-scramble.
Ivo pulled up before the open flap and swung out of the saddle; he was wearing an old-style hauberk and conical helmet, and the loose mail and padding made him look even more troll-like than usual. Ruffin was on his heels, with his mail coif still hanging down behind and his squires scurrying behind him with visored sallet helmet and shield and lance. Ivo pushed his helm back by the nasal bar and looked at her as she stood to let the squire fasten the more elaborate modern gear on her, bending and twisting a little occasionally to make sure the adjustments were correct.
"This to First Armsman Barstow, over with the Mackenzies," Tiphaine went on to one of the clerks, who beckoned to a courier. "Ruffin, you're in charge here until I get back."
"Back?" he said.
"Something needs doing, and I don't have time to brief you. Ivo, get me two conroi of the Household men-at-arms." Those were at full strength; that was a hundred lances. "Full kit, now."
He left at the run. She went on: "Ruffin, the enemy's strength is much higher than we expected-Boise regulars and the Prophet's men are here, about two thousand of each."
He grunted as if someone had hit him in the stomach; that turned even odds into something like two-to-one against the allied force.
"We're going to have to fight to break contact, rock them back on their heels, then use the cavalry to hold them off while the infantry retreat. Get the heavy stuff moving out now. If it can't be on the rails or roads in an hour, burn it."
The last of the armor went on, the metal sabatons that strapped over her boots to protect her feet. She stepped over to the table and sketched with her finger on the map. "Put the Mackenzies here, and-"
Ruffin was nodding soberly as she concluded: "I should be back in about an hour. If I'm not, get this army out. Concentrate our troops at the Dalles, but alert the border forts as well."
"I'll handle it, my liege," he said; the heliograph network would flash it all over the Association by the end of the day, and the news would be in Corvallis by midnight. "God go with you."
"Or luck," she said, with a cruel smile as she thought of her immediate errand.
Astrid Larsson had killed Katrina Georges, back in the War. Tiphaine's own oaths meant that she had to do her very best to rescue the Hiril Dunedain and her husband and soul-sister and brother-in-law
…
Which will be sulfuric acid on her soul, if only I can pull it off.
Armand handed her the sword belt; she ran it around her hips twice and buckled it, tucking the double tongue through, and then pulled on her steel gauntlets. The coif confined her braided hair, and she settled the sallet helm with its expensive lining of old sponges on her head and worked the visor. Daylight vanished save for the long horizontal bar of the vision slit, then returned as she flicked the curved steel upward again.
A groom led her destrier Salafin up, and she swung into the high war-saddle. Armand handed her the shield and she slung it diagonally over her back like a guitar in the old days, the rounded point down to her right. By then the CORA light horse were ready, and the block of tall lances and steel-clad riders and barded horses that marked the Portlander men-at-arms, with their arms blazoned on their shields.
"My lords, chevaliers, and esquires of the Association!" she called.
She reined in ahead and turned the war-horse to face them as she drew her sword; the barding clattered as the big black gelding tossed its head and mouthed the bit. "Our souls belong to God, our bodies and our lives to our liege-lady-"
"A cheer for the Princess Mathilda!" someone called from the ranks of the knights.
"Haro!" rang out from a hundred throats.
Tiphaine blinked, as horses caracoled and lances were tossed in the air in a blaze of pennants. She'd had Sandra Arminger in mind. Sandra was respected, and feared. The Grand Constable was feared, and respected. Evidently Mathilda was…
Loved? she thought, as she thrust her blade skyward. Well, she's their generation. I suppose a lot of hopes are riding on her.
"-and our swords belong to Portland! You have given your oaths; now you shall fulfill them, and I at your head. "
Oddly enough, Chateau generals were obsolete now that real chateaux had made a comeback. She chopped the longsword forward.
"Haro! Holy Mary for Portland!"
The destrier stepped out beneath her, and the light horse from the CORA fanned out eastward. Beside her Rodard held the banner of the Lidless Eye, and the black-and-crimson of it fluttered in a cool breeze from the distant Pacific. The winter rains were coming…
I wonder what the hell happened with our pseudo-elf's plan? Tiphaine thought, beneath the running assessment of terrain and distances playing out against the map in her head. Usually she's pretty good, or at least she has the luck you expect for small children and lunatics.
"Here," Astrid Larsson said.
She didn't need to take the radium-dial watch out of the leather-covered steel case at her belt; even in the deep darkness of the tunnels, her time-sense was good. This was just short of midnight, time enough for the Bossman's party to really get going above, and for everyone to punish the wet bar hard. Pendleton men drank deep at a fiesta, by all accounts.
They had a single lamp lit. She saw Eilir put her hands against the concrete blocks of the wall ahead of them and close her eyes.
I can feel the music and the dancing from above, she signed. Sounds like quite a do!
Good, Astrid replied. Get the line of retreat ready for us, anamchara!
Eilir sped off down the tunnel with her four helpers and their burdens. Astrid put her left hand on the hilt of her longsword and tapped the silver fishtail pommel against the blocks: tap, and then tap-tap-tap.
A wait, while she listened to the blood beating in her ears. The air was cool and dry here, and dusty, but there was a faint living smell that the rest of the tunnels hadn't had, more like a storeroom. There was even a slight scent of spilled wine soaked into flooring. Behind her there was a slight clink and rattle as the others of the Ranger assault party did their final equipment check. Astrid took a deep breath and touched her weapons and gear; beside her Alleyne did the same and gave her a thumbs-up.