It involved jumping off a four-story building.
She was up and running before Ian’s question had time to get started. The thought of dropping her sword belt or quiver was rejected as she went, building speed; the heavier she was for this the better and there was not a fractional second to spare.
Unless a couple of extra pounds makes me miss and go crunch! Rhaich! Rhaich! Tulkas the Mighty, give John strength! Nessa, Dancer of Stars, give my feet wings! Dulu! Help, help! Mom!
Her feet hit the coping and she was soaring out over emptiness, only the thin-thread line ahead of her. Her gloved hands reached, grabbed for knotted rope, touched, slipped, she was scrabbling downward, falling…
An ape-long arm snagged at her and caught in her sword belt for an instant. That gave her time to clamp on with arms and legs, and a crazed memory of scrambling up his form as a child and swinging on his arms as if they were the tree limbs they resembled went through the memory that remained in muscle and nerve. A ham-broad hand boosted her up, and she stood on his shoulders and clamped her hands on the rough surface of the rope. A shock went through it, and she looked up to see Astrid clinging above her, legs neatly wrapped around the cable and one hand waving back at the roof.
“Show-off!” Ritva screamed. “Sometimes I just hate you, Auntie!”
The nose of the Curtis LeMay was down at a thirty-degree angle. It was still moving southward at a brisk clip, but it was also pivoting around the weight attached to the prow of the gondola, and the gondola was under the forward quarter of the gasbag. A three-hundred-foot length covered a lot of ground when it pivoted; the dangling lines swept across the roof, and frantic hands made them fast to old rusted stanchions and framework even as they were dragged across the gravel and crumbling asphalt. The blimp heeled far over as its broadside caught the wind, but the line to which Ritva clung swung back towards the building.
“-innocent!” Martin heard, in his mother’s voice. “Frederick is innocent! Martin killed his father to seize power! Frederick sent these people to rescue us, and we’re going willingly. Martin is a traitor who betrayed America and killed my husband. Cast him off, cast him down!”
The scaling ladders up the inside of the elevator shaft had chain sides and light metal batons for rungs. They’d fastened them to whatever projected, or in a couple of instances driven pitons into the concrete; the light infantry unit had mountaineering equipment in their packs. They’d simply ignored his attempts to lead them up the dark vertical rectangle.
Now he ignored them, kicking free of a clutching hand to swing across and clamp a hand on the ledge of the uppermost opening, then two, then chin himself and climb up. The first troops through had pried the rustbound elevator doors open with swords and boots; a broken gladius rested there. He pushed his way through the little antechamber, and out on the roof where a double file of crossbowmen waited, kneeling and standing with their weapons leveled.
The Curtis LeMay was tethered at nose and tail to the eastern side of the building, shuddering in the wind. The gusts of rain made a tattoo on its fabric, unfortunately not enough to drown the speaking-trumpet from the gondola.
“It’s true!”
That was his wife’s voice. Rage flowed through him, cold as treacle, like living clouds drifting in a universe without stars.
“I heard him confess it. He threatened to kill me if I talked!”
The shouts were directed down at the street, but they were perfectly audible on the rooftop as well. The men were listening. And they were intimidated by the huge bulk that towered over them, paralyzed into a perfectly receptive frame of mind. Calculations of the least-bad course of action flowed through him, pinning inevitability.
“Shoot,” he said, loud but not forced. “Both ranks, fire at the gondola. Now! ”
Silence stretched for a moment. Heads turned to look at him, eyes wide with horror under the rims of their helmets.
A centurion spoke, his voice shaking: “Sir, it’s your family. Your son is on board there!”
“I said shoot! I’ll have anyone who refuses executed for cowardice in the face of the enemy!”
He grabbed a crossbow and backhanded the man away when he tried to cling to it. Snuggle the weapon into his shoulder, breath in, breath out, hold it halfway and squeeze at the trigger, with the shouting face and the blowing blond hair in the aperture of the sights-
Tung.
The butt punched at him and the bolt whipped out. Even as it did, something covered Juliet, taking her out of the sights. Instants later the cables were released. Weights fell from the keel of the gondola, the emergency ballast, plummeting down into the street. The airship jerked upward as if wrenched by an invisible hand, dwindling southward under a sky dark with thunder. A few bolts fell back, and Martin stood impassive, with the rain sluicing down his face like tears.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
COUNTY OF THE EASTERMARK CHARTERED CITY OF WALLA WALLA PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION (FORMERLY EASTERN WASHINGTON) HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL (FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA) AUGUST 23, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD
G rand Constable Tiphaine d’Ath nodded and looked at her watch once more, eyes narrowing with calculation as her mind returned to business after the brief family digressions:
“Now he is due. Let’s see if we can get this crowd of cow-country yokels organized. The Count should be-”
A harsh chorus of trumpets from the city’s gate-towers made her look up.
“Speak of the Devil and-” Rigobert murmured.
The north gate of the city was open, though heavily guarded. Wagons were pouring in over the patched, faded asphalt, mostly loaded with grain and produce; livestock on the hoof added its own pungencies. The crossbowmen were diverting refugees who couldn’t work or fight or who had young children in tow, off to holding camps where they’d be shuttled east, and sometimes that required explanations. Occasionally of the sort that you administered via a smack with the metal-shod butt of the weapon, but not too many. Even the peasants knew how highly relative the safety of Walla Walla was and were unwillingly willing to see their most vulnerable moved farther from the path of the invasion.
“-and de Aguirre appears,” Tiphaine finished.
The brassy scream came again from the gatehouse, and a file of foot soldiers double-timed out to make a lane by holding their pole arms horizontally and pushing. Everyone who could moved off the double-lane roadway. The lord of Walla Walla rode out from under the teeth of the portcullis and across the drawbridge in a rumbling drumbeat of hooves, threading his way through with a mercifully small entourage of household men-at-arms and hangers-on. They spurred over to the command group by the railway siding at a round canter and reined in a respectful fifteen paces away before they dismounted.
Spraying dust and gravel on someone afoot was bad manners.
Felipe de Aguirre Smith, the current Baron Walla Walla and Count Palatine of the Eastermark was in his early twenties. His father had been one of Norman Arminger’s recruits from the rougher side of society. A gangbanger, in fact, what the euphemistic family histories churned out by tame troubadours and the College of Heralds called a freelance man-at-arms -but he’d adjusted well.
It had helped that he was more than intelligent enough to realize that when you were the government you sheared the sheep rather than skinning it; Norman hadn’t promoted many stupid hard cases to high positions and those few hadn’t lived long enough to breed for the most part, given the high turnover in those days. And he’d married a prominent local woman too, named Smith of course, which had eased matters considerably. Like others in their position they’d both taken up Society customs, at first to curry Norman’s favor and then with a convert’s zeal. The world right after the Change had been gruesome enough that pretending the previous eight hundred years hadn’t happened or didn’t matter had real and broad-based appeal.
The first Count had also died in the early stages of this war, during the battle of Pendleton nearly two years ago. She had known his son slight
ly for years on a social basis, since the Association’s higher nobility wasn’t all that large, and dealt with him fairly often since in her professional capacity. Tiphaine’s private judgment was that he was quite good as a knight, and at least competent as a commander. But a bit of a worrywart and inclined to dither while trying to cover every possible contingency, when the weight of overall responsibility came crashing down on his shoulders. Which was unfortunate, since even a bad decision was usually better than no decision at all.
So don’t put him in situations where he has to make strategic decisions at the quickstep, she thought. He’s fine at tactics and has plenty of experienced advisers on his staff. Just point him in the right direction and tell him what to do and he’ll keep trying his best until the ax hits where the chicken gets it. And his vassals respect him, which is the important thing.
Count Felipe swung down from his courser, a fine sixteen-hand black. He was in civilian dress but the daywear version of it, what a nobleman wore when he was out hunting or traveling in warm weather; turned-down thigh boots with the golden spurs of knighthood on the heels, tight doeskin riding breeches, baggy-sleeved linen shirt beneath long T-tunic with his arms on an embroidered shield, cinched by a broad sword belt of studded and tooled leather and a round chaperon hat. A little taller than Tiphaine, and with something of the same leopard build, male version. His square face was clean-shaven but with pale olive skin and the blue jowl of a man who needed the razor often, his eyes dark brown with green flecks, his thick bowl-cut hair a black so complete it had blue highlights.
“My lady Grand Constable,” he said, sweeping off his hat and making a bow.
That was tactful. As a Count, he greatly outranked her status as a mere baron, albeit she was a tenant-in-chief like him rather than the vassal of some higher nobleman; but as Grand Constable she had the pull on him, particularly since the arriere-ban had been called and martial law declared.
“My lord Count,” she said, matching the gesture with a microscopically lesser bow, which was tactful but firm; then they shook hands.
“And my lord de Stafford,” de Aguirre said.
This time the bows exchanged matched; a Marchwarden and the Count Palatine of the Eastermark were precisely equivalent, though one title was hereditary and the other wasn’t.
“It’s extremely good to see you here, my lady… and the army you brought, frankly. If you and my lord the Marchwarden could accompany me to the City Palace, we’ve arranged a dinner.”
At her expression he smiled, looking tired and dogged. “A working dinner, not a banquet, my lady. No jugglers or musicians. We’ve been. .. very busy. I’ve invited those most crucial to the defense of the city and County.”
She nodded. “By all means, my lord. That would save considerable time, in fact; I’d planned on calling you and your chief vassals together for something similar tomorrow.”
He turned to de Stafford. “Baron Tucannon arrived yesterday and has been giving me a lively account of your doings, my lord.”
“The regard is mutual, my lord. A fine commander and true knight.”
De Aguirre turned back to Tiphaine: “And if it won’t offend your well-known martial hardihood, my lady, one night in a place with hot water and soft beds might provide a pleasant memory in the coming campaign.”
This time she smiled, at least with her eyes. “By all means, my lord Count. Hardship when necessary, but not necessarily hardship.”
That startled a laugh out of him, as squires brought up their horses; also coursers, not the precious destriers they rode into a formal battle.
The only thing lacking will be Delia. But I have to set an example and she’s not mobile right now anyway. And she is at least far, far west of here and right next to a castle.
She turned her head to Rigobert as they rode under the gate, after the usual glance most people made at the barred fangs of the welded-steel portcullis above. The groin-arched tunnel stretched ahead, loud with the metallic echo of horseshoes on asphalt; overhead just beyond the reach of a mounted man’s lance the grillwork of the murder-holes gleamed, where men waited with cocked crossbows and cauldrons of hot oil and hoses that could spray napalm.
“Barony Tucannon,” Tiphaine said, calling up the files in her head, mostly from last year’s edition of:
Fiefs of the Portland Protective Association: Tenants In Chief, Vassals, Vavasours and Fiefs-minor in Sergeantry.
After a moment she went on: “Tucannon… That’s Maugis de Grimmond, isn’t it? Youngish, red hair, ears like a bat. Vassal of the Count, rights of Low, Middle and High Justice, thirty-six thousand acres, twelve manors, held on standard service terms for fifty men-at-arms, fifty light cavalry, spearmen and crossbowmen in proportion and the mesne dues and public service things, and the usual forest rights in the Blue Mountains… and he has that beautifully placed castle. He’s not much at Court though he did the Battle Staff course at the University in your bailiwick, I’ve only met him a few times in passing. Is he capable?”
“Very,” de Stafford said. “Wasted rusticating in that arse-end of nowhere barony, I’d say, but he likes it there. That and his family are all he really cares about. He’s been a great help so far, though. And could be more of one, if things turn out as badly as we expect. Quite crucial, in fact.”
COUNTY OF THE EASTERMARK BARONY OF TUCANNON MANOR OF GRIMMOND-ON-THE-WOLD (FORMERLY SOUTHEASTERN WASHINGTON STATE) PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL (FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA) AUGUST 19, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD
Ingolf Vogeler woke, yawned, stretched comfortably and for a moment just enjoyed feeling clean and reasonably well rested between linen sheets and snuggled close to his wife. Then another knock came on the door and he realized the first one had woken him up.
He was wearing drawers and Mary was in a long shirt that would do for a shift. From what he’d seen, the Association folk were about as modest about skin as his own people… which wasn’t something you could just assume when you traveled far. Places had started out different before the Change and gotten more so, fast, when the world closed in again and each area was isolated from the other’s ideas and customs. And some were left to stew in whatever lunacy had bubbled to the top when a charismatic madman took charge. He’d seen places where you’d get attacked for taking off your shirt-men would.
“Come in,” he said.
The door opened and a servant girl came through with a tray that held a steaming pot of something aromatic. Probably not coffee or real tea this far from the coast, and not chicory either from the smell; after a moment he identified it as peppermint tea. A moment after that he really looked at the shadows cast through the window.
“Holy… holy things, what time is it?”
The servant girl smiled. “It’s eleven of the clock, my lord,” she said. “Lord de Grimmond said that we should let you sleep, you’d been fighting for us and then working hard with the troops and the wounded late into the night.”
She was unremarkable in every respect, and dressed in a plain good outfit of a short knee-length tunic over a long ankle-length one, with a shirtlike shift underneath and a kerchief on her head and stout shoes. The smile was welcome, though; late though it had been everyone in the little town of Grimmond-on-the-Wold had turned out to help with the wounded by torch and lantern light, and they’d pitched in for the Richlanders and Sioux just as hard as they had for their own folk. It was nice to be a valued ally, even if it was mainly because they were scared spitless at what was coming at them.
I would be too. Hell, I am scared. I was a prisoner in Corwin, even if I don’t remember all of it-and don’t want to. I know what the Cutters are, and Boise’s in bed with them. Not so sure about God being the way Mom thought, but the Devil? You betcha.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting the polished wooden tray.
Mary sat up and murmured thanks as well, reaching for a cup.
“Luncheon will be in an hour, my lord, my lady; en famille, in the gazebo court. Lord
de Grimmond said to tell you that everyone you want to contact immediately will be there.”
“Lord de Stafford?”
“He’s gone, my lord. He left his regards and said he had to get back to his main force to make sure everything was ready. He didn’t say ready for what, my lord.”
She bobbed a curtsy and left, with the quick step of someone who has important work waiting.
“What time did we get to bed?” he said, rubbing his face, doing it carefully because of a couple of bruises. “I feel indecent, lying up this late. There’s a lot to do.”
Mary made an indelicate slurping sound as she sipped the hot tea; he followed suit. The acrid-sweet liquid seemed to clear the cobwebs from his mind, enough for him to notice that there was a bandage on his right forearm, and from the dull ache underneath a couple of stitches, not quite sharp enough to be real pain. It was a familiar feeling, and a familiar place-that was the most vulnerable part of a swordsman’s anatomy and he had the white scar lines on his skin to prove it, this would just be one more. You could wear a vambrace, but he’d always thought the minute loss of speed wasn’t worth it most of the time.
He worked the fingers, testing the feeling in his arm and the degree of play; nothing serious, and he could use it hard at a pinch, though ideally he’d wait a few days before putting any strain on it.
“When did we go to bed or when did we get to sleep?” Mary asked, working her eyebrows and grinning. “As I recall, you weren’t that tired. At first.”
“Well, a soldier learns to-”
“Sleep and eat and whatever, whenever he can. I am a Ranger, darling. Same saying. C’mon, they’ve got showers here. Solar heating system, all the hot water we want on tap.”
“Didn’t we shower last night?”
“How often do you get the chance? Without waiting for the water to heat, even?”
The Tears of the Sun tc-5 Page 40