“My people,” he said into the silence. “A Mackenzie I was born, and among the very first begotten and born in this new time after the Change. A Mackenzie I shall be until I die. But Chief of the Clan, the Mackenzie Himself, I can never be.”
Another roar, this one of protest. Rudi waited it out.
“I am the Lady’s sword!”
That brought ringing silence, and he went on: “I am called by the Powers to be Ard Rí in Montival. The High King must be King of all his peoples and give good lordship and fair judgment to all; yes, and be seen to do that. I see men and women of our Clan from Sutterdown here, which is under the patronage of Apollo, the God who loves above all justice and due proportion in men and realms. Nor, by the Mare and the Raven and the Moon, does Rhiannon love it less.”
He shook his head. “Your Chief I cannot be. And therefore I cannot be tanist, the successor. You must chose another, while my mother can yet train your choice”
He stepped back, and ostentatiously crossed his arms again. Juniper quirked a smile as she took up the words: “Long ago, at our first Óenach Mór—and it’s considerably smaller that was!—”
That produced a startled laugh.
“I swore that I would be Chief only of a free folk. You may choose the Chief you will, and you may chose the Chief’s tanist.”
A low murmuring went through the throng, and then Oak Barstow stepped forward into the semicircle of firelight before the natural dais. His voice was more of a battle-shout than a bard’s, but it carried well enough. “I say that we should have none but the blood of Lady Juniper to be Chief of the Clan; this by our free choice. Who says aye?”
A roar, one loud enough to make her almost take a step backward; it took a moment for quiet to fall again, and she felt a prickle of tears. Partly of joy—that love and offered devotion made all the years of work and worry seem less hard. And partly a mother’s love of her children, for they would bear that burden after her.
“Lady Eilir has pledges to the Dúnedain,” Oak went on, in a fine carrying roar; bards with the outer Duns relayed his words. “The Rangers are our friends and kindred, but they are another folk with their own laws and ways. Lady Fiorbhinn is too young—”
“And would be better suited to run crowing through the treetops and fly to the Moon, than to be Chief of three children in a bathtub, let alone a great roynish Clan!”
Her clear young voice cut through effortlessly. There was a swelling ripple of laughter out to the edges of the great assembly. Oak’s booming laugh was loudest of all. The smile was still in his voice as he went on:
“That leaves only one of Lady Juniper’s children; and well she is suited to the task, as we all know. I call on the Óenach Mor to hail Maude Loring Mackenzie as Tanist of the Clan, to follow the Chief and learn from her and to be the Mackenzie in her turn. All for?”
“AYE!”
Juniper could see her daughter blink, as the force of the giant shout hit like a huge padded club at her chest.
“All against?”
There was a long silence; a few individuals stirred, began to rise, looked around the circle of those from their own Duns and sank down again. Oak’s laughter was loud again. “Well, that’s a first, just as this is the first Great Assembly not in the dùthchas of the Clan! But we should start the counting now, or it’s very tired we’ll be by tomorrow!”
CHAPTER NINE
CHARTERED CITY OF GOLDENDALE
COUNTY OF AUREA
PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION
(FORMERLY CENTRAL WASHINGTON)
HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL
(FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)
AUGUST 5, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD
Mathilda Arminger, now High Queen of Montival save for a few details concerning coronation ceremonies, groaned slightly as the ladies-in-waiting and the maids started to remove surcote and the long tight dress and the not-quite-crown with its silk veil. She’d been slightly daring, going back to the books—which was where the Association’s fashions had come from in the first place, really, before they took on a life of their own—and was wearing a formfitting kirtle of fourteenth-century style. The buttoned sleeves were normal, but these buttons were a full two inches apart, carved from golden tiger eyes into the Lidless Eye sigil of her house, leaving the cloth to stretch and show inch-wide medallions of her own flesh all the way up to three fingers below the shoulder, where her chemise started. The fabric was a peacock-patterned green silk, a precious rarity available only since a little trade with East Asia started up again in the last few years.
It was low cut from the very edge of her shoulders down to the middle of her breastbone, covering all but the very highest beginning swell of her breasts. There were drawbacks; she couldn’t lift her elbows above breast level, and it had required tight lacing, but there was less sheer bulk of fabric than with most court cote-hardies, which meant something in this weather. The overrobe was a very loose surcote, open at the sides from under her arms to hip level, of chocolate jacquard brocade with silver and gold flames broidered along the edges.
The ladies lifted off the surcote, unlaced the kirtle down her back and unbuttoned the arms, which felt as if she’d suddenly been released from a set of prisoner’s irons. Then they coaxed the three inches of tight sleeve down her arms and swept the whole affair away, which left her with the chemise—cotton thickened to double layers in places to make sure sweat didn’t stain the silk. Nimble fingers took care of the buttons and hooks and removed the fabric, and she felt almost cool as the air hit her skin.
Thankfully the day’s heat was fading anyway now that the stars were out and she could escape the interminable banquet in the Great Hall below.
Where eyes bugged at this outfit, for various reasons. I suspect a lot of the women were taking careful notes!
The solar of Castle Goldendale was most of the way up the dojon tower of the keep and four sets of high arched windows marked the center of each wall, all open now and letting in a very pleasant cooling breeze. One corner of the big square room had a fireplace, empty and swept and garnished with bouquets of roses and dahlias and geraniums now; the other held the spiral staircase. The walls were pale plaster carved in spiderwork Gothic low-relief patterns and the floor was mosaic tile, light blue with a border of green and yellow flowering vines. A few colorful modern rugs were scattered across it.
Westward the new-risen moon shone on distant snow peaks, like a dream of cool peace in the purple night. Below the lights of the little town were coming on, the warm glow of lanterns and candles, the evening bells from the cathedral and the other churches—there were six, in a town of four thousand, plus a chapel that the other varieties of Christian used in rotation, a small synagogue and a once-clandestine and now merely inconspicuous covenstead.
Outside the walls with their pacing sentries were the tented camps of the gathering armies. They were there to protect the town, of course, but she couldn’t blame the citizens and the local fief-holders from feeling nervous at having so many armed men around, and right in the middle of harvest at that.
“Hose and houppelande, please, mesdames,” she said, when they’d gotten her down to her underwear.
Another chemise, plain this time, then the tight hose of bias-cut linen; she’d gotten used to pants on the Quest, and she’d always been able to get away with practical dress more than most noblewomen, because of her birth and training. Right now she had a reasonable excuse, too. A plain set of shirt, jerkin and loose houppelande coat was a lot more comfortable than anything else respectable for someone of her rank, and she would be on campaign soon.
Though an arming doublet and suit of plate is actually more uncomfortable than a cote-hardie, hard though that would be to believe if I hadn’t experienced both. Which is something not many people have done.
At least she didn’t have to feel morally uncomfortable about kicking someone out of their quarters. County Aurea was Crown demesne land, and Castle Goldendale was held by an appointed senesc
hal rather than as an autonomous fief; it had been built as a headquarters and strongpoint during the wars against the Free Cities of the Yakima League to the north.
A man-at-arms of the Protector’s Guard came trotting and clanking up the stairs, thumped his fist to his breastplate and bowed as the staff set out a collation and left.
“Grand Constable d’Ath, Your Highness.”
“Admit her, thank you,” Mathilda said.
Good old Tiph, she thought warmly, as the familiar light quick steps sounded on the stone risers.
Then: And there are probably tens of thousands of people who wouldn’t believe that anyone could think of Lady Death that way.
They hadn’t had her around all their lives, of course; hadn’t been her pupil in matters warlike. And those were also people who hadn’t realized at about the age of eleven that quite a lot of people wanted to kill everyone named Arminger, and that a major reason they couldn’t was that Tiphaine d’Ath induced extremely well-merited soiled-breeches fear in the enemies of her family and House.
In theory I don’t really approve of Tiph, Mathilda thought, as she smiled in greeting. She’s an unrepentant sinner in a lot of ways. In practice I’m extremely glad to have her around and besides that I like her and Delia. I hope my children will have the chance to be glad of it as well; a dynasty can’t have too many loyal, able supporters. Or friends. Swords about a throne.
“Your Majesty,” Tiphaine said, making a leg-bow and sweeping off her hat.
“My lady Grand Constable,” Mathilda said. “Or as some dare call you . . . Tiph.”
That startled a rare snort of laughter out of her. Mathilda went on: “Sit down and have a drink, Tiph. You look as if you could use one.”
Tiphaine was in boots and trews and padded arming doublet with mail grommets under the arms. All were black; that was part of her image, and also better for not showing stains. She looked dubiously at the furniture—one of Mother’s salvage teams had furnished the domestic parts of this castle from a raid on a Gustav Stickley exhibit in a Seattle museum—and then decided her war-gear wasn’t going to do any harm to the Craftsmanschool solidity. She poured herself a glass of wine from the delicate Venetian-style glass decanter turned out recently in a Portland workshop and sat back, easy as a cat—though a tired cat pushing forty now.
“And no formality in private, Tiph. We don’t have time.”
“I’ve been jumping around like a Tinerant tambourine dancer,” the Grand Constable admitted. “You look a bit frazzled too, Matti. Are the local nobility and burghers adequately soothed and stroked about having armies assembling in their fields? Better you than me for that, frankly.”
“You could do it.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to do it. What sort of reaction did you get?”
“I subtly pointed out that the manor-lords and their tenants would make a lot of money by having so many hungry wage-packets walking around, and that the city was creaming off a lot of gold,” Mathilda said. “They’re nervous, but reassured. It was worth sitting through one banquet. Rudi managed to escape because it was all Associates and they needed to be reassured by one of their own. Or at least that was his excuse! Plus he had some Mackenzie politics to take care of after the military stuff, and he really did have to handle that himself.”
Tiphaine sipped at the wine. “His Majesty just gave me my marching orders; I’m off tomorrow. Well, the army he just gave me is off tomorrow, I’m probably going to have to arrive first and last to chivvy everyone along, particularly the Yakima contingents who aren’t used to working with the Association. Including them is a good move in about four separate ways, but I’m going to have to sweat to make it work the way he wants.”
Mathilda tried to imagine Tiphaine doing anything else with a mission, and failed.
“Rudi’s brilliant about that sort of thing,” she said instead, with a glow of pride. “Not just a pretty face! Young for it, but he’s a first-rate general.”
“I’ve observed that,” Tiphaine said dryly; she had been one of his trainers, during his months every year in Association territory since the Protector’s War.
Then with something that might have been the barest hint of a wink: “He’s even sort of cute . . . for a guy.”
“You’re impossible!” Mathilda said.
“No, just improbable. Fortunately only stories have to be plausible; real life just has to exist. Otherwise I’d simply refuse to believe the Sword of the Lady was there at all, for example. Now, what’s on your regal mind?”
“First, let Delia know that I’m sorry you two—and Rigobert—couldn’t be there for the wedding up at Castle Corbec. We’re going to have a commemoration ceremony after the war in the Cardinal-Archbishop’s cathedral in Portland, and I want Delia as one of the Matrons of Honor.”
“Thanks, she’ll love that. We’ll come and she can be matron enough for both of us,” Tiphaine said, refilling her glass. “What’s the serious business?”
“Ah, there’s some information I need. Chancellor Ignatius has his old boss Abbot-Bishop Dmwoski working on getting an overall view of the CUT’s espionage and infiltration operations in our territory.”
“Good choice, Matti,” Tiphaine said judiciously. “He was uncomfortably smart when he was fighting against us, and he’s still plenty sharp even if he is semiretired. Plus he has extensive contacts. We need some people who aren’t rushing around being too busy to see the big picture.”
Mathilda nodded agreement. “And the CUT’s going to be a long-term problem even if we manage to decapitate them. Right now he’s getting down to the bottom of the House Liu matter. Incidentally I’m going to swear Huon Liu as one of my squires tomorrow and take his sister Yseult into the household as a lady-in-waiting later; if she’s got the smarts, and I think she does, I’ll have work for her.”
Tiphaine frowned into her glass. “Are you sure that’s wise? Speaking of decapitation I did do in several of their relatives, one way or another . . . chopped their mother into dog-meat scraps personally and with my own hands, for starters. Had a nasty turn with the rabid bitch infecting me somehow, like a bite from a mad dog.”
Mathilda sighed. “Those were necessary measures. I think their personal experiences will make them know, not just know but really understand, that it was necessary. That’s also why I’m having Dmwoski brief them fully, not just pump them for their perspective. They’re smart kids, and besides I owe a rather large debt in that direction for what Odard did. Right now I want you to give me your own impression of what happened with Guelf Mortimer and that agent right after the Battle of Pendleton.” She quirked one corner of her mouth up. “Or the Cluster-Fuck of Pendleton, as I understand you christened it.”
Tiphaine shrugged. “I’m actually rather proud of how I handled that. A fighting retreat may not get the bards and troubadours excited, but it’s technically the most difficult battlefield maneuver, especially with an army made up of contingents from all over, none of whom love each other that much . . . good practice for the opening phases of this campaign, in fact. Oddly enough, Guelf Mortimer helped a good deal while we were breaking contact, him and Sir Constantine ‘Raging Bull’ Stavarov. Stavarov’s just an obnoxious idiot, of course.”
“But a good Anvil,” Mathilda said with a chuckle, pouring herself a glass of the wine.
It was a local vintage from the Columbia gorge, a red Malbec with a taste of plums and herbs in its inky purple depths.
Anvil was a phrase Tiphaine had taught her, originally coined by Conrad Renfrew back when he was Grand Constable; someone solid iron from ear to ear whether he had a helmet on or not, useful primarily for dropping on or throwing at the enemy like a large hard heavy weight. And if the anvil broke . . . you got another anvil.
“If you can imagine an Anvil with a really bad temper and testosterone poisoning,” Tiphaine said. “Guelf, besides being a traitor had delusions of intelligence . . . and if he’d been twice as smart as he thought he was, he’d have been a half-wit. I
did submit a full report on the business, though.”
“You don’t have to hint if you think I’m wasting your time, Tiph. I’ve read the report and Ignatius forwarded it to Dmwoski; it’s got all the facts but nothing more. What I want is the rest of it, all the details, how it felt at the time. I need to get what Mom calls the gestalt of the whole business. Also I have to know how much to tell Huon and Yseult. I’m not going to hide the essentials but there may be personal details they don’t need to know. They’re going to be here in a while, they’re fighting traffic on the rail line from Portland, but we’ll have time.”
Tiphaine sighed; the younger woman knew that talking about her own emotional states was something her Grand Constable didn’t like, as in would rather juggle live squid in a confessional booth. She also knew that likes and dislikes weren’t all that important to Tiphaine d’Ath when business was involved.
“Well,” Tiphaine said, letting her head fall back against the sofa and closing her eyes. “We finally managed to shake the CUT light cavalry off and consolidate around Hermiston, right on the old border we got after the Protector’s War.”
“Just a strip along the south bank of the river there, though.”
“Right, I spent my last day or so there securing the south flank with the CORA levies, who had all the organized cohesion of a bucket of snot. I left the rearguard there and headed back to Portland to get my finger on the pulse and start getting ready for the next enemy offensive because them getting Pendleton really screwed our position, especially south of the Columbia. Nothing between them and the Cascades except the CORA, barring Odell, though we had the castles along the river at the dams and bridges. The first thing I knew about what was going on was—”
TOWN RESIDENCE OF THE BARONS OF FOREST GROVE
878 SOUTHWEST GREEN AVENUE
SUBURBS, CROWN CITY OF PORTLAND
(FORMERLY PORTLAND, OREGON)
Emberverse 08: The Tears of the Sun Page 22