The Sword of the Lady

by S. M. Stirling

  ″But though Iowa is rich and mighty, I say that only in Portland do we know how to praise fair ladies.″

  Odard brought his lute around and strummed. His fingers teased out a stately tune, one of his own.

  Oh, no! Mathilda thought. Not that one!

  The chamber group had fallen silent. His smile was half warm and half a teasing pleasure in her embarrassment as he sang a chorus in a pleasant tenor:

  ″So let the Hall ring for the Light of the North!

  For the Princess Mathilda—the Light of the North!″

  ″Odard, I still haven′t forgiven you for composing that,″ she said, and rapped his knuckles with her fan.

  He grinned unrepentantly as he shook the hand and then went on: ″I was just telling these good fellows about the High Tournament of the Association.″

  ″Great stuff!″ one of them said enthusiastically. ″We have Reserve drills and National Guard muster days at the county fairs, but nothing that fancy. It sounds like a hell of a lot of fun!″

  ″Not when you′re smacked right off your horse and knocked silly and you throw up inside a closed helm and they have to unharness you with bolt cutters,″ Mathilda said with feeling. ″Or when a horse breaks something and screams until they put it down. I always hate that part.″

  ″Girls compete?″ Kate said, interested.

  ″The Princess is a special case, to be sure,″ Odard said smoothly. ″And of course the current Grand Constable of the Association—Lady Tiphaine, Baroness d′Ath. Apart from them, no, not very often. Though one young lady is always crowned Queen of Love and Beauty by the winner.″

  Mathilda choked back a gurgling laugh. Two years ago Tiphaine d′Ath had won, and the Grand Constable had ridden up to the stands and dropped the crown from the point of her lance into the lap of her lady-in-waiting Delia de Stafford. At which the local bishop had nearly choked on the blessing, since everyone knew about Tiphaine and Delia.

  That was wicked of her. Funny, yes, but wicked.

  Though nobody spoke about it, unless they wanted to face Baroness d′Ath in a duel, which wasn′t anything a sane human being would do unless they were tired of life. Mathilda sighed a little, struck by sudden homesickness.

  In the unlikely event that I ever win a tournament—

  She knew herself to be fair to middling at best despite a lifetime′s coaching by experts, without the supernal speed and skill that d′Ath used to compensate for men′s greater raw strength.

  —I′m going to crown myself Queen of Love and Beauty and nobody else! Or maybe I could crown Rudi King of Love and Beauty . . . all the warrior saints witness he′s beautiful . . .

  Odard went on, diplomatically ignoring her sudden flush:

  ″I′m surprised you don′t have tournaments here . . . weren′t there any Society people in Iowa? In most places which survived at all they did very well.″

  A new voice broke in: ″Oh, there were some here in Des Moines. Dad said he found them very useful as instructors, the craftsmen and the fighters at least—the rest were . . . sort of flaky. He didn′t want anything to do with all that ceremonial they liked so much.″

  Mathilda concealed a start. That was the Bossman, just breaking away from the people she didn′t want him talking to—the emissaries from Corwin in Montana, the red-robed and shaven-skulled priest of the Church Universal and Triumphant, and the hard-eyed officer of the Sword of the Prophet who′d been pursuing them ever since they left Oregon. Anthony Heasleroad saw her glare at them and motioned them away. Being here on sufferance themselves they went, not without glares of their own.

  ″Dad always said you could afford to have people curse you in private, but not laugh.″

  Pride stiffened Mathilda′s spine, and she sank in the formal curtsey her tutors had drilled into her in girlhood. When she spoke her voice was cool courtesy:

  ″I′m sure your father was a very able man, my lord Bossman,″ she said. ″But so was mine; Portland lives, when all the other great cities on the West Coast died. And I assure you nobody laughed when he was styled Majesty or my lord. Not more than once, at least. Your Majesty.″

  Then Mathilda saw the glitter in his pale eyes. There was something not quite right there.

  ″You say that word ′Majesty′ with such conviction,″ Heasleroad said. ″I could get used to it . . . if people said it the way you do. And if I was sure you′re not trying to disrespect me.″

  Mathilda met his eyes. If he says kill her, the guardsmen will cut me down, she thought. You can see it in their eyes; most of them would do anything he said.

  There was a slight hush around them; even Kate stiffened, until the Bossman chuckled and nodded. People relaxed, and the bubble of silence collapsed inward again.

  She felt a slight trickle of sweat down her spine, more than the heavy clothing and sticky-warm night warranted, and sipped at the sweet strong liquor again. That wouldn′t have happened at the Palace at home, or Castle Todenangst. Sandra Arminger killed when she had to, with the cool dispassion of a housewife selecting a chicken. But not from spite or for the pleasure of it.

  Darling, people should be afraid of the ruler′s power, she′d said to her daughter. They shouldn′t live in terror of the Throne′s whims—that can make men willing to kill even if it means dying, just to end the uncertainty. The surest way to drive a dog dangerously crazy is to punish and reward unpredictably, and people aren′t that much different.

  An intense longing for that cool quiet voice filled her, and their evenings together in the Silver Tower, talking or listening to the minstrel or playing chess or just sitting together reading . . .

  I even miss Mom′s damned Persian cats shedding all over me! I′m even looking forward to how mad she′s going to be at me for running away with Rudi on the quest!

  A little to her right Odard slid his right hand away from his left sleeve. She wasn′t surprised that he′d managed to get a knife and conceal it. But she was suddenly, shockingly aware that he′d been ready to attack Heasleroad if he ordered her cut down. One thing desperate times did was show you who your friends really were. She′d had her doubts about Odard before they left home.

  And I really doubted it when he said he loved me. Now I′m not so sure. Which is . . . messy. I don′t love him that way . . . do I? More like a brother.

  ″Your family were Society people, then?″ Iowa′s Bossman said to the baron of Gervais.

  ″Ah . . . not exactly, my lord Bossman,″ Odard said cautiously. ″My father Edward Liu was a freelance man-at-arms before the Change, and gained the golden spurs afterward. He rose high in the Lord Protector′s service and was ennobled and granted Barony Gervais to hold as tenant-in-chief, for his loyalty and valor.″

  Mathilda winced slightly behind a polite smile and nod. Her father Norman Arminger had been in the Society for Creative Anachronism, but not all his first followers had been of its Households. A lot of them had been like Odard′s father Eddie Liu—freelancers, bandits, mercenaries—what they called gangsters back before the Change, or Mafiya like old Alexi Stavarov with his reptile eyes.

  Dad had to use what was to hand, she told herself. The others didn′t understand what had to be done, that so many had to die if anyone at all was to live. Yes, Dad wanted power. What conqueror or founder of a dynasty hasn′t? But if he hadn′t gotten it, Portland would have been like Seattle or LA, nothing but bones and ruins and wilderness.

  Instead there were hundreds of thousands of people in the Association′s territories in the Columbia Valley, villages and towns, the living fields that fed humankind, the churches and proud castles . . .

  Even Eddie Liu wasn′t that bad. He was always nice to me, at least.

  ″But my mother was of a Society household,″ Odard said. ″And of course both the Princess′ parents were, and they gave a lead to things. The Lord Protector was a very great man, and his lady has ruled us with justice and wisdom since his death.″

  And your mother has lethally pissed my mother off, Odard,
Mathilda thought. She′s been intriguing with the CUT. You know and I know Mother . . . the Lady Regent . . . will have her head for it.

  That wasn′t a metaphor; it meant an appointment with a wooden block and a man in a black hood with a very large ax, the latter a privilege reserved for the execution of those of noble blood. Ordinary people just hung by the neck.

  Where does that put you, Odard? I know you′re loyal to me here and now, but a mother is a mother. When we get back . . .

  ″And that . . . Rudi fellow?″ Heasleroad said.

  ″His mother was . . . is . . . a bard,″ she said.

  Mathilda fought down a smile as she remembered how indignant Lady Juniper had gotten when a teenaged Mathilda Arminger thoughtlessly suggested that being The Mackenzie was more dignified for one of noble blood than busking.

  Chiefing it is as dignified as pumping out a cesspit, the which is needful work too, she′d said indignantly. And I′m of the blood of plain dirt farmers and workingmen. A bard I was and a bard I shall be until the Hunter comes for me, and I will make music in the Lands of Summer for the simple joy of it!

  Then she′d sung—a beautiful a cappella piece that ended:

  ″I ha′ harpit you up to the Gods′ own thrones,

  I ha′ harpit your midmost soul in three;

  I ha′ harpit you down to Anwyn′s dell,

  And ye would make a Chief of me?″

  The smile was in Mathilda′s voice for a moment as she went on:

  ″Lady Juniper Mackenzie, the Mackenzie of the Clan Mackenzie. There was a war . . . her forces captured me during a raid. Then my father′s took me back and captured Rudi, and then the Bear Lord and the Lord Protector fought between their armies and killed each other—it′s a very long complicated story.″

  Not least because the various sides tell different versions and I′m not altogether sure which one is true, if any, even though I was there myself for part of it. I was too young to know a lot of what went on.

  Aloud: ″After the Protector′s War Rudi and I spent time with each other′s peoples every year as part of the peace settlement, so we were raised together a lot of the time. We′re, umm, very good friends.″

  ″Extraordinary,″ the Bossman said. ″My mother used to read me stories like that—Richard the Lionheart, Robin Hood . . .″

  ″I always sympathized with the Sheriff of Nottingham, myself, my lord,″ Odard said. He raised his hands with a charming grin. ″After all, he was on the side of law and order.″

  ″Rudi′s a . . . very able man, too,″ Mathilda said. ″I′m sure he′ll get your wagons back, your Majesty.″

  The glitter came back. ″He′d better.″

  The bossman moved away, and Kate began chattering about something inconsequential. Mathilda smiled and nodded, keeping mental track in case she should say something, without really listening—another skill she′d learned at court.

  The problem is that I sort of recognize the way he looked at me—besides the mad whimsy that might order me killed on an impulse. Lord Piotr de Chehalis did too, once—and his interest in a woman starts at the eyebrows and stops above the knees, she thought, remembering a polite discussion of the latest ballad of courtly love that had turned into a brief wrestling match in an alcove.

  I didn′t enjoy convincing him he wasn′t as irresistibly attractive as the fifth brandy told him he was—

  Which she′d done via a ringing slap across the chops that left him bleeding from lips cut against his own teeth, no maidenly restraint there. She wasn′t as strong as the burly blond noble, but she′d trained to the sword all her life and there had been plenty of power behind the blow. He′d taken it in silence, bowed, turned and left, not being suicidal enough to draw on her or strike back even when drunk—that had been in Castle Todenangst, the heart of House Arminger′s power.

  And besides the Protector′s Guard ready to come at the first call, Tiphaine d′Ath had been in the next room. The Grand Constable would have cut him to pleading, sobbing ribbons on the dueling field and then stood watching him bleed to death by inches, her head cocked slightly to one side and that chilly little smile on her lips. The thought made Mathilda shiver a little even now. Even with nothing said those iceberg-colored eyes had narrowed a little and followed Piotr as he stalked out. Pursing her lips while her left hand′s fingers moved like graceful cables of living steel on the long hilt of her sword, and her right turned a hothouse rose beneath her nose.

  Tiphaine liked killing people who annoyed her, men particularly; and she′d been as protective of Mathilda as a mother cat with a kitten as far back as the heir to the throne of Portland could remember. It was rather like having a friendly tiger running tame in the house; you could forget the nature of the beast except that every now and then the claws slid free for a moment.

  Piotr never spoke to me again except formally, which pleased me well enough. And it would be very, very reassuring to have Baroness d′Ath here now. Or to be back in Todenangst. Or anywhere I wasn′t in Anthony Heasleroad′s power.

  But the only rescue she was likely to get was one she or her friends came up with themselves.

  Mary pierced with sorrows, pagan though he is, Rudi was also born of woman. Help him! Help us all!

  DES MOINES CAPITAL, PROVISIONAL REPUBLIC OF IOWA BOSSMAN′S COMPOUND SEPTEMBER 5, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD

  ″At least I′m not hanging up by my thumbs,″ Ingolf Vogeler said to himself, looking up at the gray cracked concrete of the cell′s roof and breathing the smells of iron and old sweat and piss and less pleasant things. ″Or being hammered with lead-lined hoses. Or being strung up and hammered. Yet. Rudi′s got a couple more days before the month is up.″

  It was too dark now to read the graffiti. He′d spent several days tracing the opinions of a generation of prisoners about the Heasleroads, father and son. The standard of literacy had gone down but the sentiments were pretty uniform—and he agreed with every one of them. He′d been tempted to add his own, at length. He′d been born a Sheriff′s son back home in the Free Republic of Richland and sat through schooling every winter until he was fourteen or so, his family being masters of broad acres and able to spare his labor without hardship.

  But it was always possible that it would make things worse. Venting was a luxury he could only afford if he gave up every scrap of hope, and he couldn′t do that. For Mary′s sake if not his own, and for the others.

  ″Here′s my plan!″ someone screamed in a cell down the row. ″Just listen! First we catch the rats and train them and then—″

  ″Shut up!″ half a dozen others bellowed, until the madman drifted off into grumbles and then snores.

  ″Fucking politicals!″ one of the other voices yelled, and gave the bars of his cell a rattling kick before he lay down again. ″Fucking loonies, every goddamned one of you!″

  The common prisoners were genuinely angry. Sleep was the only real escape from the State Prison, at least for the hard-cases who made it to this pen inside the perimeter wall of Des Moines′ inner citadel. The other ways out led to places that were even worse. The main punishment for of fenses against the—permanent—Emergency Regulations was life at hard labor. Which only meant four or five years in the salvage gangs or quarries or in the mines grubbing out coal, or a miserable decade if you were rented out as a part of a convict chain gang. The Heasleroads thought capital punishment was wasteful, save in exceptional cases. And far too merciful.

  Anthony will probably make an exception for me, if Rudi doesn′t get those wagons to the bridge on time. Or maybe even if he does.

  The close confinement here was a compliment, in a way; it meant they were taking his capacity to do harm seriously, even if they didn′t believe it had been a Cutter spy who′d betrayed him and Vogeler′s Villains when they were nearly back to the Mississippi with the plunder of Boston′s galleries. Here the Church Universal and Triumphant was a barely noticed oddity somewhere far, far out west, beyond Nebraska and the ranchers and the Sioux. He′d learned
better, painfully . . .

  And Rudi′s quite a guy, but he′s not going to pull four Conestoga wagons two hundred miles by himself. Or even with that damned spooky black mare of his, and Edain to help. And even if he did, I somehow doubt Tony Heasleroad will pay up on the bet. Though Rudi may actually have a better chance at it than I would. The Villains just cut their way through and back—he doesn′t have any blood feuds among the wild-men.

  ″Back in goddamned Iowa,″ he muttered, with a quirk of the lips. ″Nothing′s gone right since I took that Boston job from Tony H.″

  He sighed, remembering one place near Boston. It had a four-story internal courtyard with a mosaic floor and a marble throne in it, still dimly lit by the great pyramidal glass roof at the top, unbroken by some miracle. The galleries around it had held some things that had riveted him, even in that place of hideous peril; paintings, carved wood, a curious statue with its hand upraised in blessing and an infinite compassion in the ancient stone face. Treasures and wonders beyond knowing lying doomed behind dusty glass, looming up out of the darkness as their lanterns passed, then fading into oblivion. They′d had a list to salvage, but it was a fraction of that one single treasure house.

  And if we′re lucky, the stuff we did get is still in those steel boxes on the wagons.

  The keepers had solidly boarded the doors and windows to preserve their charges, before they went off to meet their deaths. He′d admired that at the time, and the more so as he saw what was within. There had been this wall of stained glass like nothing he′d seen in all his life, far too large and fragile to take . . .

  I got to see that. It came all the way from Europe! And I met Mary. That was better than right. Hmmm. Unless meeting the one woman you want to settle down with just makes this worse? Giving you more to regret, you betcha.