There was an added spice to the food, as well. Right down at the other end of the head table were the red-robed High Seeker from Corwin, and Major Graber of the Sword of the Prophet in the rough blue uniform his service wore beneath armor. The server there was setting out slices from the haunch of a suckling pig, but from their glares neither of the Church Universal and Triumphant?s men was going to enjoy his food.
Rudi looked at the emptied plate before him, added two slices of roast pork with crackling and mashed potatoes and steamed beets, and covered the meat and potatoes with gravy before happily lifting a forkful to his mouth. It was good honest food, fine materials well prepared, if a little blander than the cooks at Dun Juniper would have made it-no herb crust on the meat, for starters, or chives and minced onion with the potatoes. And nothing like the complicated cooking Portland?s nobility favored, where art warred with indigestion.
He chewed blissfully, looking at the Cutters again and nodding good cheer, raising his wineglass to them. Was it his imagination, or did wisps of steam float over the High Seeker?s head? ?Is deacair a bheith ag feadail agus ag ithe mine,? he murmured, sipping the indifferent vintage.
A plump Farmer next to him stopped putting butter on his broccoli and looked at him. ?What?s that?? he said. ?A saying of my mother?s people: It?s hard to whistle and eat at the same time,? Rudi replied, and got a blank look and uncertain smile.?And harder still to swallow when your gut is so tight with rage it aches. Bad for your digestion, that is; bad for your nerves; even worse for your disposition.?
And to be sure, it was better to eat before a fight, within reason, for the bit of added endurance. A prickling ran along the back of his neck as Graber narrowed his cold eyes; even without Ingolf?s warnings he would have suspected that if Bossman proved cooperative about the quest departing, the Cutters would not.
Indeed not. So, eat, but not too much, he thought, waving aside a second round of the serving platter and taking a slice of sour-cherry pie instead.
The Gods were at play tonight, and he one of the pieces they moved on Their board. He dropped a scoop of the ice cream on the pie.
Something sweet, for quick energy. It wouldn?t do to be heavy and slow. ?Right, listen up,? Ingolf Vogeler said.
He looked over the men his friend Jack Heuisink had brought from the family estate, Victrix Farm.
Well, there?s Jack. He doesn?t look like he?s let himself rust.
The heir to Victrix was in his midtwenties, a little shorter than Ingolf-just under six feet-but broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, with cropped dark red hair and a broad snub-nosed face, moving like a lynx. The dozen Heuisink retainers grouped around him in the dimness of the empty warehouse amid the ghostly smells of pine tar and fermented soy and freight more nameless, faces underlit by the blue flame of the alcohol lantern he?d put on an upturned barrel.
The household troops were from Victrix Farm?s National Guard Security Detail; what they called?deputies? back around his own home in the Free Republic of Richland.
And they actually look as if they?ll be useful, not just glorified muscle for keeping the vakis in line, he thought, tapping his sword hand thoughtfully on the plate vambrace on his left forearm.
Jack was a few years younger than the man from Wisconsin; about Rudi?s age, in fact. They?d met when he ran away to join Vogeler?s Villains up north in the Republic of Marshall during the Sioux War, and he?d spent more than a year with the free company Ingolf commanded in that…
Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition exercise in futile butchery and pointless destruction, which ended with the survivors on both sides right where they started, just poorer and less numerous and occasionally missing important body parts, Ingolf thought.
It wasn?t the only war Ingolf had fought in that finished that way, either; about par for the course, in fact. That was one reason he?d gotten out of the hired-soldier business.
But it was sure educational, if you survived. Real educational.
It had given Jack actual combat experience, and the Heuisinks? men were notably tougher-looking than the general run of their kind in Iowa, and almost certainly better trained; their coal-scuttle helmets and mail shirts were carefully browned, and their horse bows and long cavalry shetes looked like they?d seen use. Either Jack had worked them hard, or the Heuisinks had hired men who?d seen border duty beforehand, or both. Probably both.
Most importantly, none of them looked too nervous, just serious and paying careful attention; one was stolidly finishing a ham-and-cheese sandwich and licking a stray squirt of mustard off his fingers as he waited. All of them had given Ingolf a quick professional appraisal; a few had nodded in sober recognition when they met his eyes. Not of who he was, but of what.
And if they are nervous, it?s because they?re not used to cities, not because it?s their first fight, Ingolf thought.
Aloud:?Jack, you?re in tactical command.?
And they know you, so they?re less likely to run screaming if something real bad happens. ?Come fast when I call,? he finished aloud.
Jack nodded; he raised his voice a little when he replied and came to attention and saluted smartly: ?Yes, sir, Captain Vogeler!?
One of his eyes drooped a little in a wink as Vogeler returned the gesture. None of these men knew Ingolf from Adam except possibly in Jack?s war stories, but they?d grown up around the Heuisinks. None of them were going to be much impressed by the fact that he?d been a paid soldier and salvager all his adult life; they certainly wouldn?t give a damn about his birth into a Sheriff?s family in the wilds of Wisconsin, which was desolate dirt-faced yokeldom?s native land to an Iowan. Deference by the master?s son and heir would make them a lot more likely to do what Ingolf told them, which could be crucial.
Christ, I wish I had my old Villains with me, he thought.
Not for the first time, and only partly because they?d all been close comrades whom he missed bitterly even now; that had come from years of serving together, and they?d all known what they were doing and known each other?s capacities.
Or I wish that we were doing this with just Rudi?s bunch. Yah, yah, there?s only ten of us, but at least we?ve been in hairy situations together, and I can be sure they?re all first-class. These guys are strangers, except for Jack. And when I did know him he was a wild youngster, not a married man with kids. Hope he hasn?t changed too much.
Worrying about the mission as a whole kept him from worrying about Mary, too. She was up there on the rooftops right now. Or possibly on her way back already, depending when the Cutters made their move.
Goddamn Edgar Denson and his plan. What was it Doc Pham used to say when someone got too fancy?
The Readstown physician had doubled as a teacher in the hamlet?s school and director of their amateur theatricals. When the stage directions got complex he?d say?Too many notes, Herr Mozart.? That about describes it.
Denson was smart, no two ways about that. But he wasn?t a soldier, not really; he was an intriguer and politician who did some fighting now and then. Certainly not one who?d had years of firsthand experience of how easy it was for the wheels to come off a plan when it met the one the other guy was driving.
Your enemy always has a plan too, the swine. That?s why we call them?the enemy.? ?Thanks again,? he said to Jack, as they shook hands one last time before they buckled their gear.
The other man?s hand lacked much of the little finger and the tip of the next; he?d gotten that putting it between a Sioux tomahawk and Ingolf?s face. ?Hell, Captain, you saved my life a lot more often than I saved yours, back when. Mainly because you knew what you were doing and I didn?t.?
Ingolf shrugged.?It was my job. But you?ve got family responsibilities now, Jack.?
The Iowan cinched his sword belt and shrugged to settle it on his hips; he was wearing a jointed two-piece breastplate and flexible tassets to protect his thighs. Iowa had the best metalworkers in this part of the world, and his family could afford the finest. ?That?s really why I?m here,? Jack replied.?My kids are going to be around for the next si
xty years, God willing, and by then they?ll have grandkids. These Cutters… they may not get to Iowa soon, but if they aren?t stopped now they?ll be here in force someday.?
Ingolf nodded.?Christ, Jack, why aren?t there more who can see that??
Jack grinned.?You?re expecting people to be sensible now, Captain? How you?ve changed!? ?Point. I wish Mary and Ritva would get back here,? he said. ?What?s going on out there??
Ritva Havel raised her head, slowly, leaving just her eyes above the ridge of the roof and brought the night glasses to them; beside her Mary used a monocular.
Their heads and most of their faces were covered by a knitted cap of wool made in the irregular very dark taupe color that faded into an urban background better than black. It was full night-the moon was down-and from above the gaslights at the corners of the streets hid more than they revealed, killing much of her night sight no matter how carefully Ritva squinted and looked aside. The building where the Cutters were quartered was unlit… which was significant in itself.
She took a deep breath, feeling her blood pump and senses extend themselves outward. It wasn?t particularly nice air in itself-this town burned coal too, like most in Iowa, and it was heavy with wet and still too warm for comfort. Sweat trickled and ran down her flanks, making the coarse dark linsey-woolsey and supple leather of her Dunedain working garb cling and chafe.
But at least I?m doing something instead of sitting and worrying! she thought. Real Ranger work.
The door opened. There was only a moment?s gleam of muted light, noticeable because it caught at the edges of honed steel. The Cutters? armor was partly metal, but mostly lacquered leather the color of dried blood, not very conspicuous in the dark. They came out in disciplined silence, with only a very slight clatter of harness and bootheels on pavement. A rough count showed forty or fifty; not all the survivors of the troop Graber and the Cutter magus had brought east with them, but well over half.
And unless Denson lied to us, about now he?ll A brighter light flickered and then steadied. Edgar Denson of the State Police strolled forward, half a dozen of his men behind him, their shetes drawn. According to the plan he?d insisted on he was going to hold the Corwinites in conversation for a few moments, enough for the two Dunedain to flit back and put the rest into motion. She wouldn?t put it past him to have some elaborate triple cross in mind, but so far, so good.
She glanced aside and met her sister?s one eye above the face-covering mask-hood. Their thoughts ran in perfect harmony:
Just a moment more, to make sure Mr. Denson is doing what he promised. ?Halt,? the Iowan said to the Cutter party.?Care to explain why you?re all out at night, and armed??
Graber was in the lead, but the red-robed Seeker pushed past him before he could do more than clap his hand to the hilt of his blade. ?I-see-you,? the Cutter priest said.
Fingers of icy slime caressed her at the sound. Memories cracked open like a too-fresh scab, although it had been a year since that encounter in the snow-thick forests of the Teton slopes. It wasn?t fear that made her want to flee the Cutter priest?s presence, exactly. More an elemental disgust. This was something that shouldn?t be in the world, and it made everything around her suddenly seem alien, alien and slightly decayed. Some part of her expected to smell rot from her own flesh. ?What?? Denson said. ?I-see-you,? the Prophet?s man said again, staring into his eyes.
The voice sounded suffused, as if it was swollen with freight beyond what words could bear, as if meaning itself would tear apart at the weight and leave words to rattle empty through human skulls. ?You-are-mine. Eternally. For-a-beginning.?
Ritva could hear Mary?s breath hiss out, a slight sound in the night. It had been a Seeker who cut the eye out of her face. And Ritva who killed him, which had been like a battle in a bad dream, against an opponent who wouldn?t die. Denson had courage. He cleared his throat, but when he spoke his voice was calm and sardonic. ?Hey, don?t you guys know voodoo only works on people who believe in it??
The Seeker laughed. There was no joy in the sound; listening to it made you doubt the possibility of joy for a second. But there was considerable satisfaction. ?Does your sword only cut those with faith in it?? he said, in tones more human.?You have pledged and taken the fruits. Now all is demanded.?
Sorta human, Ritva thought. Sorta-kinda.
Denson bristled.?I never took anything from you!?
The laugh sounded again, and Ritva fought an impulse to drop the glasses and jam the heels of her hands over her ears. ?We have no need to buy men?s souls. You give yourselves to Us. And you have listened to our counsel for a very long time.? ?Fuck you, you lunatic!?
The Seeker shrugged.?What is that you wear around your waist, man?? he asked. ?It?s what I use to hold up my pants and for my shete, when I?m not pointing it at some asshole I?ve suddenly decided needs killing,? the secret policeman said, his voice gone hard.
He waggled the long curved horseman?s weapon, the point rising until the razor-edged six inches on the back of the blade hovered near the Cutter?s throat. ?You may have lost the concept out in Montana along with regular baths and brushing your teeth, but it?s called a belt in this part of the world,? he went on.?Anymore questions about civilized fashions?? ?You lie,? the High Seeker said casually.?It isn?t a belt; it is a giant rattlesnake. What a fool you are, to wear a deadly serpent around your body!?
Denson started to laugh himself. Then Ritva saw his face shift, as one hand dropped to his midriff. He gave a single high shriek and dropped his sword. He struck convulsively at himself before the steel rang on the pavement, scrabbling and pounding… and then pitched to the ground, twitching. Her own breath caught as she saw his purple, distended face and the foam on his lips. Then her throat clenched tighter still, as her eyes dropped to his right hand.
It bled, where the palm was pierced by the loosened pin of his belt buckle. ?Thiach iluuvea gail, Heru Denson,? Mary observed, dropping back into Sindarin. ?No, he isn?t very bright. Wasn?t.? ?He wouldn?t listen to us, and now look what it got him. And us.? ?And there goes our crucial delay. Well, maybe Denson?s retainers will attack them-?
The men behind Denson wavered, got a good look at their commander, then threw away their weapons and took to their heels. From the sounds they were making, the State Police troopers didn?t intend to stop until they hit the Mississippi-or Nebraska, if that street led west. She very much doubted they planned to stop and inform the authorities of what had happened… not that anyone would believe them in time if they did.
I don?t know if I believe it myself, she thought in some corner of her mind. There are stranger things in the Histories, but this is the Fifth Age of the World. Or maybe the Sixth!
All the Cutters except the Seeker formed into a column, quick-timing down the night-empty street in a harsh clatter of leather and hobnails on pavement. The Corwinite priest stayed a moment and raised his arm until it pointed at the two Dunedain, where they should have been invisible in the blackness. ?There-is-no-escape-for-one-they-have-touched.?
Mary nodded.?Uh-oh,? she said, very softly. ?I know what uh-oh means,? Ritva replied.?It means we?re fucked .? A tile grated under a foot behind them, where the grapnel holding their climbing rope was hooked into the roof?s gutter. ?Kill,? the High Seeker said.
Then he turned and walked after the troopers of the Sword of the Prophet. The two Dunedain whirled, as the trio of men swung up onto the edge of the roof. Curved knives gleamed in their hands, and the moonlight glittered from the steel and from eyes empty of humanity. Those eyes blinked in perfect unison. They weren?t Seekers, just Corwinite soldiers of the Sword, but something of the red-robed magus was there in those blank faces. A nullity that was less than emptiness, one that hungered for existence and hated it at the same time.
It?s as if they?re contagious, somehow.
Ritva had a sudden flash of memory. Long ago she?d been on her belly behind a fallen fir tree in the mountains east of Mithrilwood, watching a pair of scrub jays feeding their nestlings. Something had made her turn her head,
and a rattlesnake as long as her forearm had been there, behind the same sun-warmed log. It had turned its long patterned head and looked into her eyes. Looking into the eyes of the Church Universal and Triumphant?s men was like that…
Except that she had a feeling that if their eyes stayed locked long enough the same reptile gaze would be on both ends. ?Varda and Manwe aid me!? Ritva said. Then:?Im suu ei thiach men!?
Sweat suddenly drenched her, but she felt better: I fart in your general direction might not be as dignified as a call on the Lord and Lady, but it helped.
Beside her Mary was still, motionless with something beyond Ranger training, as if she was once more in the Seeker?s grip as she had been that day the eye was cut out of her head. The bow in Ritva?s hands came up. If she had thought about the action it would have stopped, but she forced her mind not to consider it. Ten thousand hours of practice had graven the movement into brain and bone and muscle, as much as breathing or walking. There was the slightest creak, as yew and horn and sinew bent and flexed and stretched. ?Kill,? they whispered through identical smiles, their voices overlapping so that the sound was a sibilant blur:?Kill/kill/kill/ Kkkiiiillll.?
And attacked. Their movements were jerky, but perfect and unerring on the irregular surface of the curved tiles. Behind them something moved, planes of shining jet that receded into infinity, as if constructs greater than worlds squeezed down to interact with the tiny space of the planet, of this rooftop in one place and time. The soot-covered laurel-leaf arrowhead touched the cutout through the riser of her recurve, right above the black-gloved knuckle of her left hand. The fingers on the bowstring seemed locked, but she breathed out and let the waxed linen cord roll off the pads.
Snap.
The string lashed at the bracer on the inside of her left forearm. Ach ingly slow, the arrow began its flight; she could see the way the fletching rippled, and how the slight curve in the fashion the feathers were set to the cedarwood made the whole spin as it flew. She couldn?t be seeing it move; the distance was less than thirty feet, and the shaft would be traveling at two hundred feet per second. In this darkness it should be a blurred streak at most.
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