by Susan Price
“The Elf-May be up there,” Isobel said.
Per stretched and said, appreciatively, “Good.” Those who heard him laughed.
“I locked her up there,” Isobel said crossly. “Leave her bide. She be—she be—a Grannam.”
Silence. Those who knew what Isobel meant waited eagerly, to see what would come of this. Those who didn’t stared at Isobel and each other.
“She be a traitor,” Isobel said. “She be in pay of Grannams.”
After a pause Per said, as if kindly explaining a difficult concept, “She be an Elf.”
“What of that? Is an Elf one of us? She came to me saying that it was no Grannams that shot thine daddy, but Elven.”
There was another silence as everyone tried to understand this. Gareth stood up, his tired brain at first fumbling after meaning. She’d said what? And then the implications hit him like a brick. Andrea had said that? Oh my God. How did she know? He looked around at the room full of armed savages he stood among. Why the hell tell them, anyway? Had the woman no sense at all?
“Elven shot my daddy?” Per said, sounding slightly amused. “Why would Elven shoot him?”
Gareth’s heart leaped when he noticed Per’s eyes on him. “It be nonsense!” he said. Weariness was falling away as his sense of danger increased. “Elven want peace, not war.”
Isobel set her fists on her hips. “That limmer be out to start trouble. To lose us our friends and set all against all. So I locked her up. And I ken what I’d do with her.”
What? Gareth wondered but didn’t dare ask, in case too many people agreed. The Sterkarms were in the habit of punishing wrongdoers in their isolated little community. A public whipping with a birch rod was common, or a few days locked up on bread and water. They might even hang or drown someone whose behavior they found really objectionable.
“What’s going on?” Patterson had come to stand beside Gareth. Glancing around, he saw more of the 21st men pushing up behind him. Were they still carrying their weapons, or had they left them out in the yard somewhere? “Something about Andrea?”
“What you must do with her,” Gareth said to the Sterkarms, “is hand her over to Elven. As our prisoner. We’ll deal with her.”
“Why would she say such a thing?” Per asked.
“Let me go up and speak with her,” Gareth said, and held up a hand to silence Patterson.
Sweet Milk, that big, grim-faced man, stood beside Per. “Let’s all hear her.”
“Let me speak with her first,” Gareth said. “I be an Elf too. I be sure I can find out what be wrong with her. Maybe it be a jest.”
“A jest!” Isobel said. “A killing jest indeed.”
Sweet Milk, calmly, quietly, said, “Bring her down here. Let her tell us all what she said, and whyfor. That be best.”
Per glowered at Sweet Milk, and at Gareth, a niggling irritation stirring into anger within him. The Grannams hadn’t killed his father? Then he had wasted time and effort—and dishonored his name with crime. How could it be true? Why even listen to such trash?
“I’ll fetch may,” Isobel said, her cheeks growing a little pink. Let the limmer have her say—then all would know that Isobel spoke the truth. Let the Elf-May condemn herself out of her own mouth, and then let’s see what to do with her! She turned toward the stairs, and the Elf-Man, Gareth, actually put his hand on her arm to stop her.
“I’ll go up and fetch her,” he said, before becoming aware of the sudden stillness around him and a certain tingle in the air. Looking up, sharply, uneasily, he looked into Isobel’s astonished and angry face, and saw Per looking at his hand on Isobel’s arm. His hand dropped to his side. “Sorry! Sorry—no offense. Just—if you’ll allow me to go up and—”
“Elf be keen to stop may speaking for herself,” Sweet Milk said.
“Aye,” another Sterkarm agreed. “Let’s hear her word for ourselves.”
Per was still looking at Gareth, and his stance was that spread-legged, loose-armed stance that could move quickly into anything. Gareth stepped back a couple of paces, putting a good distance between him and Mistress Sterkarm. “Mother,” Per said, though he still looked at Gareth, “fetch may.”
Andrea stood by the tower’s small, high window, peering out. She had heard the arrival of the returned ride and had tried to see what she could, constantly moving her head a fraction this way and that—but try as she might, the alleys were too narrow, and there were too many thatched roofs, and too many people crammed in the alleys, for her to glimpse more than bits and pieces of horses and riders as they passed. She’d been looking out for Per but hadn’t seen him—or not any recognizable part of him, anyway. So she didn’t know if he was still alive. And if he is, she thought, what has he done while he’s been away? Has he killed?
Behind her the door opened, and startled, she spun around to see Isobel coming in.
“Come down now,” Isobel said.
Andrea stayed where she was. “Whyfor?”
“Come down,” Isobel said impatiently, and waited by the door.
Andrea knew that she didn’t have a choice, and walked toward the door, but she was scared. She didn’t know what she was walking into.
Isobel led the way down the narrow stone stairs. Several people were clustered on the landing, looking up with excited faces. As soon as they saw Andrea, they ducked back into the hall, calling out that she was coming.
Uh-oh, Andrea thought.
She stepped in through the doorway of the hall. One of the long trestle tables had been set up, and people were crowded, standing, around it, men to the fore, and women and children behind them. They had been talking before her appearance but now fell silent and stared at her intently. She felt exposed and in danger, and had to set her jaw to keep herself from cringing as she followed Isobel past them and past the long table. People pushed each other back to make way for them, and still they stared. Whispering broke out behind her.
Andrea was led to the hearth, with its big stone chimney hood carved with the Sterkarm badge, the Sterkarm Handshake. There, on a settle, with his big gazehounds at his feet, sat Per, with Sweet Milk beside him. Their helmets and jakkes were on the floor near them, and they still had on their long riding boots. Their shirts were rumpled and loose. Per’s hair stood on end, from pulling his helmet off. He looked tired. I should be glad to see him alive, Andrea thought—and I am. But she could not rely on his support and favor as she’d been able to do in that other world. I must be careful, she thought. More careful than I have been, anyway.
Gareth stood beside the settle, leaning on it. He didn’t look good. Exhausted, red eyed, and rather scared. Behind him, and behind the settle, were ranged the other 21st men, all of them unshaven and grimy.
“Good day to you, Mistress Elf,” Per said to her, and behind his dry politeness was a memory of the last time they’d seen each other, when they’d lain in bed together. “Tell me, who put my father in his grave?”
Andrea felt the eyes of everyone in the room settle on her, and briefly shut her own. Why don’t I just say, “Grannams”? That was what everyone wanted her to say. But then they would only ask why she’d told Isobel something different. She opened her eyes and looked at Gareth, who, widening his eyes, seemed to be trying to signal something to her. She didn’t know what. But he looked even more scared.
“Master Sterkarm,” she said, “I believe that Elf-Windsor ordered his Elves to shoot your father. I believe Big Toorkild was shot by an Elf, with an Elf-Pistol—and so were your father’s brother and your cousin.”
Chatter broke out all around her—whisperings and exclamations that grew louder as everyone tried to be heard. Andrea was most conscious of Per’s scowl and Gareth’s expression of sick fright. But there was Patterson, too, his face sullen and darkening with blood.
Sweet Milk’s quiet, deep voice broke through the chatter. “Whyfor do you believe th
is, Mistress Elf?”
It gave her a pang to hear Sweet Milk addressing her so formally, so distantly. She took a deep breath and launched into her explanation all over again: the nature of the wounds; the softness and size of lead balls; the narrowness, hardness, and velocity of Elf-Bullets. She even tried—since they were listening—to explain about the sound she’d heard behind her on the hillside, and about silencers and night sights.
Per’s face was furious and baffled. Sweet Milk rose from the settle and turned to look at the Elves behind it. “Elf-Patterson—what say you to this?”
Patterson understood that well enough; and Gareth had been whispering a translation of Andrea’s words. “It’s bullshit. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s mad.”
Andrea sighed. What do men always say—in any time, in any dimension—when women disagree with them? She’s mad, she’s hysterical, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, she’s only a woman. A chill touched her. This wasn’t the 21st, with its laws against discrimination.
Everyone looked to Gareth for his translation. For a moment he was oblivious, but then tripped over his tongue to tell them what Patterson had said. Andrea continued to watch Patterson. The man had spoken quite calmly, even with bravado, and he stood at ease now, staring her in the eye—but he’d been just a little too quick to call her mad; and there was something a little too studied about his manner. The eyes of some of his men were scared. They knew all too well—they’d seen—what might happen to them if the Sterkarms believed her. True, they had their Elf-Weapons; but they were also outnumbered.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Andrea said, speaking to Patterson in English. “You were the sniper. You shot Toorkild. In cold blood. Why aren’t you translating this?” she asked Gareth.
“I think we’d better have a care here,” Gareth said, very conscious that some of the Sterkarms had picked up 21st-century words and phrases. One of the 21st men said, “Mad cow.”
Patterson grinned. “Trying to get us all fucking beheaded, girlie?”
Per was looking from one to another, unable to catch enough words to understand what was said. His temper was rising. If the Elves wanted them dead, why had they helped him to take his revenge on the Grannams? Why had they risked Elvish lives to help him? And the Elves wanted peace. “Whyfor speak you these things?” he demanded of Andrea. He remembered how she’d lain with him, and had seemed so gentle and loving—had she been lying to him and working for the Grannams? And when the Grannam men had come to attack him, just before his father had been shot, she’d been with him then—waiting for a chance to stab him in the back? “You Grannam-loving bitch,” he said, and made a grab for her hair. She pulled back out of his way.
“Hey, hey.” Gareth stepped between them. He was trembling with fright but still found himself stepping between this Sterkarm killer and the object of his anger.
“She wants to make trouble between us and Elven,” Isobel said.
Andrea’s pretty, scared face, with its large eyes and soft mouth, reminded Per of the tenderness he’d felt for her; and that sent a fierce pang through his heart and guts. Rage flared up and he drew his dagger. “I’ll treat her same as that Grannam bitch.”
Gareth’s heart skipped when he saw the dagger. He could feel it tearing into his own flesh. He felt his knees weaken. It would be easy, and so much safer, to stand aside and let Andrea defend herself.
But he’d done that already—he’d stood aside while Grannam women and children were murdered and burned. That had been easier—they’d been history-book people. Andrea was a 21st sider like himself. There’d been nothing he could do to save the Grannams. There was something he could do here. So although his voice squeaked in his tight throat and he felt sick to his stomach, he looked into Per’s eyes, which were alight. It was the most frightening thing he’d ever done.
“Mistress Mitchell is an Elf,” he said, his voice shaking. “We, Elven, will arrest her and take her back to Elf-Land. It is for us, Elven, to punish her, not for you.” His belly quailed as he saw a silver flash in Per’s eyes. Oh God; he’s going to stab me.
“You’re going to arrest me?” Andrea said incredulously, in 21st-side English. “For what? On what authority?”
“Shut up, for God’s sake, haven’t you said enough?” In Sterkarm English, he said, “If you harm her, we will withdraw our favor. We will give you no more help against Grannams.”
Per stared at him, and Gareth stared back, afraid to do anything else, afraid that even so much as glancing away would trigger Per’s attack. He daren’t look down, but he knew there was a long, wicked dagger in Per’s left hand, somewhere about hip height. Its point would go into his guts …
Then Sweet Milk touched Per’s shoulder and spoke in his ear. Per turned his head a little aside to hear it, and relaxed slightly.
Gareth dared to draw a deeper breath. He said, “I have other offers and favors from Elven to talk over with you—offers that will win you much wealth and fame—but if you harm any of us, that will all be forgotten.”
A murmur of curiosity went through all the Sterkarms gathered in the hall. Per lowered his dagger. “Elven favor traitors?”
Gareth gave Andrea a push, sending her behind the settle to join the other Elves, who didn’t look at her with friendliness. “We will punish her,” Gareth said, “but we do not allow outsiders to punish our own—any more than do Sterkarms.”
The Sterkarms acknowledged the truth of that, were even flattered by it. Per returned his dagger to its scabbard. “What be these other offers and favors?”
Gareth took another deep breath. The tremors that ran through him were now of relief. He sat down on the settle, feeling shaky. He’d managed well, he thought. He must mention it in his report to Windsor. “How would you like,” he asked, “to fight for us in Elf-Land?”
19
16th Side: Peace on the Border
In the great hall of the Bedesdale Tower, the trestle table was still set up. Per sat at one end, in the settle that had been dragged from the fireside, with Sweet Milk and Isobel on either side of him. On long benches on either side of the table sat the Elves, as well as several favored Sterkarm men. Wooden dishes of bread were set on the table before them, with crocks of butter, cold mutton, and jugs of small beer. The table was surrounded by lesser men, standing, and women and youngsters, listening with folded arms.
“All that you win while fighting for us is yours to keep,” Gareth said. “Elven will take nothing of it. All we ask is that you win.”
There was a cautious murmur of approval from those around the table, especially those standing. They liked the sound of this, but they were looking to the head of the table to hear what their leaders thought before becoming more vocal. However, they’d made their wishes clear.
Andrea listened in astonishment. There were many questions she wished to ask—such as: Who were the Sterkarms going to fight in Elf-Land? Windsor had always hated Marketing and Accounts, but setting the Sterkarms on them was over the top even for Windsor, surely? Or was the Inland Revenue the target? At that moment, though, she didn’t feel secure enough to ask rude, probing questions and draw attention to herself again. She had no friends in the room, not even among the Elves.
Per, inside the hood of the settle, was consulting with Sweet Milk and Isobel. Leaning forward, he said, “We are at feud with Grannams. We need Elven’s help against them before we fight battles for Elven.”
“And you shall have it,” Gareth said. “I have power to promise you that. More Elf-Soldiers, more Elf-Weapons. I promise you solemnly that Sterkarms will be lords of the border, with no enemies, because they will have no enemies left.”
The Sterkarms stirred and whispered. Andrea, looking around, saw glinting eyes and grins that made her hair move. They liked the sound of that, too.
“This help,” Gareth said, “will be in part payment for your help
in Elf-Land.”
“Master Elf,” Per said, “I can no take my men and horses to Elf-Land now. Who will fight Grannams when they come for revenge?”
“You forget that we are Elven,” Gareth said. “We will take you into Elf-Land, and we will bring you back here, to Man’s-Home, one eye blink after you leave. In that eye blink, in Elf-Land, you might fight for a year—or two, or three, though it will no take that long. But however long it takes, you will be away from home for only one blink of an eye. I swear.”
There was a long silence while everyone thought this over; then a gentle murmur as they explained it to one another, to make sure they understood—and then a babble of confusion, delight, amazement, fear.
Andrea sat still and silent in shock. She had almost forgotten that what Gareth proposed was possible, because the Time Tube had always operated with a policy of keeping time in sequence on both sides of the Tube, to avoid problems of “Tube lag.” But of course, so long as they were returned to a time after they left, it could be fractions of a second later.
“I can also promise you,” Gareth said, “that Elven will be left here to guard tower even for that moment you’ll be away—”
“We do no all live in Bedesdale,” said one of the Sterkarms seated at the table. Indeed, Sterkarms were scattered thickly over the country, and even across the border, in what was rightly England. There were many Sterkarm towers and bastle houses, all of which needed defending.
“We will send men with—with rockets, to every tower,” Gareth said. “And—and—besides this, and besides help in defeating the Grannams once and for all, and besides taking no share of your booty, we will also pay you for fighting for us! We will pay you in Elf-Cloth, and Elf-Clothes, in wee white pills, and whisky, and—”
“Elf-Carts?” Per said. “Rocket shooters?”
“We will talk about that,” Gareth said.
A deep silence fell on the hall. Per talked quietly with Sweet Milk as Isobel leaned to listen. Slowly, voices rose around them as everyone discussed what had been said.