Tiphaine leaned forward to whisper in Sandra's ear again. Her murmur was very quiet, but Juniper's daughter Eilir had been deaf from birth. Lip-reading was a skill she'd learned in order to teach, like Sign.
"My Lady Regent, I don't think this is the time to play Evil Bitch Deathmatch Hardball."
Sandra shrugged. "I do tend to let the game of thrones become an end in itself," she said. With a little malice: "And so do you intend to have your archers leave their crofts and march two hundred miles over the mountains, Juniper dear? And to stay and rule badlands full of Rovers and Indians and Ranchers who are a great deal less civilized than our friends of the CORA?"
That is a point, Juniper thought ruefully.
Mackenzies had few full-time fighters, unlike the Protectorate. And the clansfolk had no desire at all for outland conquests; to start with, there was plenty of good land closer to home waiting for the plow.
"I was thinking we'd all send troops," she said, feeling slightly sick at what necessity made her say.
The waste of war; the blood of our best, and crops not grown, cloth not woven, land not brought back under cultivation, and what we do grow and make taken and destroyed like some ancient sacrifice while our children go without. But it is necessary. And we've had twelve years of peace, more or less. Best not to ask too much of the Powers.
Conrad snorted. "And who will run this collection of odds and sods we all contribute? The Meeting? An army run by a committee? A committee of… how many members does the Meeting have now? Sixteen? A committee of sixteen who have to agree unanimously before they wipe their… noses? Oh, please. Why not just have the troops cut their own throats? It would save time, trouble and expense."
Signe made a small grunting noise of unwilling acknowledgment, and Eric Larsson laughed aloud. They both had the little scar between the brows that was the mark of the Bearkiller A-list; that elite required its members to study military history as well as mastering sword and lance, horse and bow. Nigel's face kept the relaxed calm he used as a mask in situations like this, but his wife could feel how he radiated motionless agreement.
Juniper patted his knee under the table and went on: "And in command… the Dunedain Rangers. Everyone trusts them, and there aren't enough of them to get delusions of superpowerhood."
Sandra looked blank for an instant, then gave Juniper a glance of coolly irritated respect. Juniper sighed as the Regent stroked the Persian cat. It was going to be a long evening.
And Rudi… my son, my son, where are you now?
TheScourgeofGod
CHAPTER THREE
The Prophet's council was made that day
When he called to him warrior and sage
"The Lady's Sword travels to the East
The Sword itself to take in hand;
Against that blade we cannot stand
And on his path he saves the weak
Who we would break."
Counsel they took, evil in shadow
Against the hero, the Witch-Queen's son From: The Song of Bear and Raven
Attributed to Fiorbhinn Mackenzie, 1st century CY
"No, we should Not kill them all, General Walker," Sethaz said, without looking away from the window.
Twin Falls had been the northern anchor of New Deseret, a rich city with many fine craftsmen, thrifty merchants, and surrounded by irrigated fields the Saints tilled with skill and ceaseless labor. Now
… from four stories up, he could still smell the cold ash and the bodies trapped under the rubble, or hanging from crosses outside the ruined walls. Survivors were rebuilding the fortifications.
Much had been lost in the sack. That had been regrettable but necessary; both as an example, and for the sake of the troops, who'd had a long frustrating campaign until then and needed to…
What did they say in the old days? Sethaz thought. Then: Ah, yes, "blow off steam."
He had no mental picture to go with the proverb. Supposedly certain types of low-pressure steam engines still functioned after the Change-the large, heavy ones they'd called atmospheric engines -but such were banned in the Church Universal and Triumphant's territories. He could feel a certain cold something moving at the back of his mind, a lowering rage at the very thought. With practiced ease, he forbade his mind to imagine the forbidden thing.
Odd, he thought. I don't remember what I did in the sack, either. Just… flashes and glimpses. Nobody else will talk about it unless I command them. That was right after the old Prophet died.
Something had happened to him then. He didn't like to think about that, either. Instead he looked at his triumphant soldiers in the avenue below. A caravan of loot was shaping up; the soldiers guarding it were a mixed lot, range-country levies equipped in everything from standard CUT lacquered-leather armor to mail-shirts to vests of boiled cowhide to simple sheepskin jackets sewn with a few washers. They were all well mounted and armed, though, and they seemed cheerful.
Cheerful enough to sing from the Dictations as they mounted up and got things going with a crackle of whips and waving lariats:
"Keepers of the Flame!
Sons of Dominion are we!
From before the crux of Time-"
"The men are in good spirits," he said calmly.
General Walker ducked his head; Sethaz could see the motion faintly reflected in the glass.
"My lord Prophet, that battalion's from Havre District-"
"The Runamuk, Rippling Waters and Sweetgrass levies? Rancher Smith commanding?"
"Yes, my lord Prophet," Walker said, blinking a little at the younger man's grasp of detail. He went on:
"And they're being released from active duty. Of course they're cheerful; they're going back to their home ranges and their herds, with a couple of girl-slaves each to screw and do the camp chores, and as much booty as their packhorses can carry. It's the ones who're stuck here I worry about."
The Prophet of the Church Universal and Triumphant was a man of medium height, sharp-featured, with a swordsman's wrists and a bowman's broad shoulders, his cropped hair and chin-beard brown and his eyes an unremarkable greenish hazel… until you looked deeply into them. He turned from the window and looked at him across the antique plainness of the room, which could have been pre-Change, down to the broadloom carpet and Home Depot office furniture.
The alien surroundings made Sethaz inclined to snap; he restrained himself with a practiced effort of will, pushing away the image of the soldier hanging by his ankles over a slow hot fire.
Walker was a little independent minded… but then, with slow communications, you didn't want a general who referred all his decisions to headquarters, either. His family had been among the first in the Bitterroot country to accept the Dictations, and they had prospered mightily.
And since the…
Since the old Prophet died, Sethaz thought, his mind shying away from the memory of that day. Since my stepfather's lifestream rejoined the Ascended Hierarchy.
… Since then he'd been more than properly respectful. There was even a little fear in the bony face with its close-cropped head and tuft of chin-beard, worn in imitation of Sethaz' own. And a film of sweat on his forehead, but it was summer and the man wore armor and padding.
"Oh Heir of Sanat Kumara-"
The Prophet made an impatient gesture. Walker shrugged and went on more naturally:
"The damned Mormons just aren't giving up, lord Prophet. We've beaten their field armies and formally speaking we occupy everything north of Salt Lake City, but we're getting constant harassment from guerillas and the remnants of their armies lurking in the mountains and deserts. We don't dare split our troops up into small enough parcels to plant a garrison in every hamlet, we'd get eaten alive in little pieces if we did. But their civilians are the guerillas' source of food, shelter and information. Our lines of communication are longer than I like, too."