The Sword of the Lady

by S. M. Stirling

  ″I can remember how much doing that made everyone love you in Association territory,″ she said dryly, and nudged him in the ribs. ″A couple of times.″

  ″Well, I get on well enough with Father Ignatius,″ he said. ″And Abbot Dmwoski at Mt. Angel.″

  ″That′s not going to help you with all the Catholics,″ Mathilda said. ″I like the Order of the Shield myself—they′re mostly very holy men, and to tell you the truth I think Father Ignatius is a saint—but a lot of the secular clergy and some of the other Orders really dislike them, so you can′t show them too much favor. You′ll have to watch that.″

  ″I′ll have you to watch it for me, praise the Gods!″

  She shook her head vehemently. ″No, Rudi. Artos! You′ll need to handle the Church directly, and not just in Portland′s territory. I can be Lady Protector there, but you′ll have to deal with the Archbishop-Cardinal; he′ll be Rome′s man to head the Church in the whole realm. That′s not just . . . preaching and the sacraments . . . that′s land, that′s wealth and influence, that′s power. It′s the only two universities in Montival apart from Corvallis, too.″

  Rudi mock-groaned. ″Next you′ll be saying I need to think about taxes!″

  ″You do,″ Mathilda said bluntly. ″A King needs his own revenues, that nobody else can interrupt, so—″

  ″So he can reward his supporters, yes, and buy weapons and make gifts and give aid in times of disaster. Matti, I′m not altogether gormless!″

  She flashed a smile. ″Sorry, darling. You′ll have the Lord Protector′s lands and dues and tithes through me, and so will our heir—″

  He winked at her, and she blushed and continued doggedly: ″But that will make its own problems.″

  ″Portland already weighs heavier in the realms of the Meeting than many like, true. But there′s Fred.″

  They both looked over to where the son of the first President of Boise was testing his long saber against Asgerd′s sword and shield.

  ″When he′s President there, he′s promised me that the US of Boise shall be part of Montival. It was his father′s dream to reunite the lands . . . and if this is a bit of a different way to do it, he′s content with that.″

  ″And he doesn′t insist on being the one ruling the whole, unlike his elder brother,″ she said. ″I′m glad. I like him, but I wouldn′t risk our chil drens′ inheritance just on that. Fred keeps his oaths, though; he′ll be a good vassal.″

  ″There is that. He hasn′t decided how to settle the succession there—″

  Mathilda smiled grimly; for a moment she looked very much like her mother, though in face and form she took more after Norman Arminger. When she spoke her voice was definite:

  ″I′ve come to know Virginia. Unless she′s childless, it′s settled. He just doesn′t know it quite yet.″

  Rudi shrugged; it wasn′t all that important. Fred was a young man yet, younger than Rudi. Any reasonable length of reign would make things solid.

  ″And Boise is smaller than the Association lands, but it has more than twice the population and wealth,″ he said. ″That′ll keep things in balance; that and bringing Pendleton and the rest of the eastern plains into the kingdom. For the future . . . there′s all the lands to the south of Ashland, empty.″

  She chuckled. ″Mom′s Westria Project.″

  They shared the joke, and Rudi went on airily: ″There′s just the little matter of beating the Prophet and Martin Thurston of Boise, the creatures, before we set all in order.″

  She nodded and took his arm. ″No great problem.″

  He looked out to sea to hide the bleakness that rested in his eyes for a moment.

  I calculate our odds as about even, when we have the Sword. And even then . . . how many will live to see the victory? How many will lie for the scald crows? There are victories that leave you with wounds that cannot fully heal. And not just in the Histories of the Dúnedain.

  ″Well, then, that′s the fate of the High West settled,″ Rudi said. ″Now let′s keep our fearless followers from recalling their stomachs by working them a bit more. You take one half, I the other, and we′ll play at storming and defending the poop deck by turns, eh?″

  He leapt lightly down to the main deck; despite his two-hundred-odd pounds of bone and muscle and armor he landed lightly as a cat.

  ″All of you! We have to learn to fight with a ship as a battlefield. We′ll divide into two teams and each into three squads. Hrolf Blood-ax and Ulfhild Swift-sword, you′ll be with me . . .″

  The big Bjorning grinned, setting aside his murderous weapon for the practice version. Ulfhild nodded silently, but her face flushed with pleasure at the new use-name.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CORSAIR SCHOONER BOU EL-MOGDAD APPROACHING NANTUCKET JANUARY 16, CHANGE YEAR 24/2023 AD

  Dawn made shadows across the moving deck. Rudi stretched and drew his sword, saluted the glow where the rising sun was about to break over the horizon and began a slow routine that gradually quickened. There was enough space on the main deck just behind the foremast to work out, if you were careful—and being careful was part of the training. A longsword and a tall man′s arm had a great deal of reach, but endless practice had given him a reflexive grasp of where every bit of edge and point would go. It wasn′t quite as certain on the pitching deck of a ship, and he needed to do better with that.

  A little like horseback, but not entirely. It′s fortunate indeed that I enjoy the sword, he thought. For I′d have to spend just as much time at it if I didn′t. Also, I wouldn′t be as good at it, and would die . . . die sooner, at least.

  When he finished he was sweating despite the cold that bit at his nose and ears and made the inside of his nostrils stick occasionally. He steamed a little, in fact, and not just the deep puffs of white breath. That warmth wouldn′t last more than a few seconds if he stayed still, with this wind out of the northeast that lashed his shoulder-length mane backward from his face beneath the headband. He sheathed the sword on the belt hung from a belaying pin in the collar around the mast, put his waterproof parka back on and buckled on the belt over it. Nobody else but the deck watch was up yet. This was the day they expected to make landfall, and the hold was stuffy and crowded, but the others preferred it to early rising.

  Or most did. Someone was standing on the fantail by the war engine; he recognized a Bjorning voice, and a woman′s—not Asgerd, but deeper and rougher. Ulfhild Swift-sword, then. And she was chanting softly, facing northwards along the white track of the schooner′s wake, with arms raised at either side and palms upward. There was a dreamy yearning in her tone that made him blink in surprise.

  ″Skadhi, shining goddess

  Hear me, ice-bright beauty

  Your winter white wards Midgard

  As Ulfhild sails the whale′s-bath

  To drighten lord is oath-bound

  Ring-giver fares to Utgard

  And Skadhi′s shield-maid follows

  Yare am I for battle

  So Skadhi, stand by Ulfhild

  She-wolf fights ′gainst trollcraft

  Holy huntress, help me!″

  ″People will always surprise you,″ Rudi murmured very softly to himself. ″For their minds turn upon themselves in coil and counter-coil. We do not ever know ourselves completely. How can we know another?″

  He waited until she was finished to walk up the short ladder staircase to the poop. The two men at the wheel nodded to him—one was a Southsider, the other a corsair. Ulfhild had already turned; she gave him a short dignified inclination of the head and then met his eyes, standing proudly with her left hand on the hilt of her sword. He liked that. Norrheimers didn′t truckle to their Gods or to their chieftains either.

  ″Good morning, Ulfhild Swift-sword,″ he said. ″Today we make landfall.″

  ″Good morning, lord,″ she said. ″I am ready.″

  Which was about as many words as they′d exchanged since the oath she′d sworn, apart from orders. She hesitated, and he waited
patiently, withdrawing the edge of his self. There was a trick to that, almost like hunting, which drew folk out.

  ″The others are awake,″ she said.

  They′d turned the captain′s cabin over to the womenfolk of the party; a little inconvenient for the two wedded couples, but on balance the best way to handle the crowding of the ship as a whole.

  ″May I ask you a question?″ He nodded, and she went on: ″Why did you arrange the quarters that way, lord?″

  ″Princess Mathilda′s folk have different ways from mine. They′re . . .″

  He hesitated; modest wasn′t exactly what he meant. ″Much more shame-fast about their skins, I think you would say. You can′t always take account of that when men and women are together on a campaign, but there′s no harm in doing so when you can.″

  ″I understand,″ she said. Then more hesitantly: ″I don′t think your betrothed . . . the Princess Mathilda . . . likes me, lord. Have I offended her?″

  ″No,″ Rudi said.

  Or not by doing anything in particular, he thought, which was what she′d actually meant. Aloud he went on:

  ″Some people just don′t take to each other. I have no ill to say of you; you fought well at Kalksthorpe, and you′ve worked hard and obeyed orders without complaint since. And you are sworn to me, not her. Tell the Princess that we′ll be having a conference in there as soon as it′s clear; her, myself, the Moorish captain, Ingolf and Father Ignatius.″

  She hurried off, with an air of relief.

  ″We just nearly there,″ Abdou al-Naari said twenty minutes later.

  The captain′s cabin of the Bou el-Mogdad had touches of lavishness; inlaid wood, mother-of-pearl in traceries of alien script, thick cushions of butter-soft red leather, hanging lanterns of intricate metal fretwork wrought in brass and silver. Rudi admired the workmanship—there were few things Mackenzies valued more highly—and the neatly compact folding tables, chart case and cupboards for instruments, racks for weapons and armor. There was also a shelf of books, mostly older works on navigation and geography in French, pre-Change guidebooks for travelers giving details of cities on the western side of the Atlantic, and several volumes of poetry in languages he didn′t recognize. Besides leather and cloth and lamp oil the room smelled surprisingly of some faint flowery scent.

  Right now, five tightly bound bedrolls rested against the walls, or against the cushioned couch below the slanting stern windows. Rudi and Edain had the little cabin to the port, Ignatius and Ingolf the one to starboard, and the rest of the crew had the hold and forecastle, carefully arranged so that the corsairs were always shadowed by at least one of his war band.

  The lanterns glowed, dispelling the last of the dawn twilight, and Rudi′s closest stood around the table and looked at the map, with the dividers and set square atop it. More and more cold bright sun spilled through the skylight as the night died, flowing clear as diamond.

  They all held bowls in their hands and plied spoons as they thought. The Bou el-Mogdad had a well-fitted galley but she′d been down to dried dates, dried salt fish, a little rice and weevily sorghum by the time the corsairs reached Kalksthorpe. Rudi had restocked before they sailed, and this was steel-milled oats cooked with dried blueberries and honey, welcome for stoking the fires. Nowhere on a wooden ship was completely dry, or less than cold on these seas in this season. He hadn′t grudged the Moorish captain a monopoly of his coffee set and beans; it was a rarity for the very wealthy in Montival, but the man came from a land where it was common and he was used to it. Abdou sipped at a cup as he indicated the map. Rudi had to admit the scent was intoxicating, though the Moors brewed it thick and strong enough to melt a spoon.

  ″We sight Sorcerer′s Isle today, if this wind holds,″ the rover captain said.

  He traced their course; southeast down to just below the hook of Cape Cod, and then across the wind west and south towards Nantucket. That had been a little more tricky, a shorter leg but needing more time; these were shoal waters, and the shallows had shifted unpredictably since the charts were made.

  ″And that fast sail. No troubles,″ Abdou said.

  There had been one ship flying the White Ensign of Greater Britain, but it had simply come close enough for King-Emperor William′s men to hail them and check that they weren′t Moors. That conversation had taken place with the Imperials′ twenty-four-pounder catapults pointing at them out of open firing ports in the steel hull, and a team at the pump handles of a flamethrower. Rudi had prudently sent all the hostage seamen below before the warcraft reached speaking distance.

  ″Really, should give me ship back, for such goodish sail working,″ the corsair went on, his voice elaborately reasonable.

  ″And then you awaken from the pleasant dream, Abdou, weeping for the fading beauty of it in the cold light of dawn,″ Rudi said dryly.

  We′ll never be friends, he thought. If I hadn′t needed him I wouldn′t have sworn him safety, and then the Kalksthorpe folk could have hung him and dedicated the sacrifice to the High One for all I cared.

  It was a King′s duty to see pirates dead without excessive formality, and a very needful one. What was a King for, if not to see that his folk could sleep sound in their beds and know they′d be able to keep what they grew and made? Still . . .

  But he′s a brave man and no fool, and a likeable rascal. Though doubtless I′d feel a wee bit less charitable if it was my coasts and folk he and his kind threatened.

  ″Best to approach from the north,″ he said aloud, with an uncomfortable feeling that Abdou had followed the thought. His finger showed where the harbor entrance opened between its breakwaters.

  ″Though from what the guidebook says it may have silted up,″ he added. ″We may have to go in with the longboat.″

  ″It′s not just more ruins from before the Change,″ Ingolf said. ″I don′t know . . . but I don′t think we′ll just . . . walk in.″

  He set his bowl aside and wiped his mouth with the back of one big hand, elaborately unconcerned, but his battered features were tight-held. One thick finger rested a little to the west of the town′s hatch of streets.

  ″This is where I landed, back . . . uff da, four years ago! There′s a village there. Partly refugees from the mainland who came after the Change, a couple of families . . . but Injuns, too. Injuns who′d never heard of white men, or seen iron or corn. We walked through the woods to what the maps said should be the center of Nantucket Town, on the harbor there and . . . that′s where it all happened. But it wasn′t anything like what the books say. No houses, no open fields or recent scrub—forest, old, old forest. Oak trees that had been growing two or three hundred years. And chestnuts . . . the books say all the chestnuts in this part of the world died of a blight nearly a century before the Change.″

  Abdou nodded impassively, but Rudi could see his Adam′s apple move. The Moor′s voice was calm when he spoke; like anyone who dealt with extreme danger routinely, he knew that the best way to tame fear was simply to ignore it, refuse to admit it even, so that it couldn′t build on itself. If you kept the body calm, it calmed the mind.

  ″You to understand, we would have use for island there. Good safe place within range of dead cities to water ship, take on wood, not be possible many savages . . . Eaters, you say . . . like are in dead cities, near dead cities.″

  ″It would make a good base, you mean.″

  ″Yes, base. But we not try many year from now, ah, you say, for many years now? Only one harbor, and . . . when ships get close, crews say many things. Lights, head hurting. Sometimes just find they far away again and—″

  He reached out to his chronometer where it hung on the wall and slid one finger across the glass, as if moving the hour hand ahead.

  —″time is . . . gone. Maybe rest of island better. Maybe not. Not try.″

  ″I′ve reason to believe we′ll be allowed in,″ Rudi said. ″And—″

  A cry came, and the ringing of a bell: ″Sail ho!″

  Abdou almost jostled
him in the doorway; they all leapt up the stairway to the poop. The ocean reached crisp blue to the horizon, with a wind out of the north that chopped icy spray from the running whitecaps. The lookout was Edain, long since past his illness. He scrambled down the rigging—harder than on a square-rigger′s ratlines—and pointed westward.

  ″Two-master, Chief. Looks a lot like this ship.″

  Rudi′s brows went up. ″All hands on deck,″ he called. ″Battle stations.″

  He noticed how the corsair′s bosun—Falilu, the man′s name was—gave a quick glance at his skipper and received a nod before obeying. Whistles and bells called the crew. Metal shields went into prepared slots in the rails, giving the defenders a rampart against boarders. Nets were rigged above that; folk helped each other into their armor, and set out garlands of stone shot for the catapults, sheaves of arrows and javelins for humans. Long boarding pikes were ready to hand. The rover crew weren′t armed, but they helped with the labor.

  He turned his head to Abdou al-Naari as the rushing drumbeat of feet and cries subsided. The last sound to cease was the crink . . . crink . . . as the war engines were cranked to full compression, and the multiple click . . . click . . . sounds as their triggers engaged. Abdou had been allowed to keep his binoculars, if not his sword; they were needful for his work conning the ship. He leveled them now, and breath hissed between his teeth.

  ″Is ship Gisandu,″ he said, when the oncoming vessel was still doll-tiny. ″Shark, English word. Jawara captain.″

  ″Why would he be here?″ Rudi asked.

  ″I do not know,″ Abdou said, and then hid his distress under an iron calm. ″How know we come here? I did not until you say! Jawara know-think me dead. No Kaolaki captain come here. And Gisandu short supplies, have cargo, not want to meet Empire ship. Makes no . . . no sense . . . not go home.″

  ″Would your Jawara try to rescue you?″