She stepped out of the carriage, bundled in a long, shimmering ermine traveling cloak and holding the skirts of a rich cotte-hardi aside; the woman with the sword handed her down.
Her voice was warm and pleasant as she went on: "And her anamchara the Kel-Roquen Eilir Mackenzie! We meet at last! Mae govannen, ndek!"
Astrid grew conscious that she was about to hiss in sheer fury, and made herself take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It's just like her to know the Elven tongue, she thought. This means we'll have to he careful while she's around, because we can't tell how much of it she knows. Damn!
"Lady Sandra," she forced herself to say. "We had business at the consulate here, but we'll come back later."
Sandra Arminger's eyes were a dark brown just short of black, steady and clever and watchful. Her smile seemed to reach them, but with a secret amusement, as if she was always laughing at some secret joke at everyone else's expense; she was a good deal shorter than Astrid or Eilir's five-eight, doll-like before Hordle's hulking mass, but not in the least intimidated as she went on: "Lord Carl is a very competent man, but if you wish to discuss the unfortunate Sir Jason Mortimer … yes, I've heard about that … it'll save you time to talk to me. And Sir Alleyne, Master Hordle, how nice to see you again, even if you were naughty the last time."
She shook a finger at them. "You took me in completely! Not many men can say that. I look forward to our conversation."
"You're doubtless tired from your journey," Alleyne demurred. "Tomorrow is also a day."
"Not in the least, Sir Alleyne—"
"That's plain Mr. Loring," he said. "My father's the baronet."
"As you will. The roads are still good, even the I-5, now that it's mostly been cleared of obstructions. I'm perfectly fresh."
So that's how she got here, Astrid thought.
"And I changed out of my traveling garb before we got here."
The old interstate wasn't much used, since the center of the Valley held few folk south of the Association's territory these days, but over the years the various communities had pushed the dead vehicles aside, often in the course of salvaging useful parts like the springs and tires. It would be a very bold bandit indeed who'd attack Sandra Arminger with her household knights around her.
She probably had more than that, Astrid guessed. Another carriage, spare horses, more men-at-arms and some mounted crossbowmen. Left them at a hidden camp outside the settled zone before she came on to Corvallis.
Two days would be ample to cover the eighty miles between here and Portland. It was a bold move, but not foolhardy, if she had important business here. Alleyne looked at her and raised a brow. Astrid glanced at Eilir, and got an almost imperceptible nod, and the same from John Hordle.
"Thank you," Astrid said. "There's no point in wasting time."
Sandra inclined her head. "Ivo, Ruffin, Joris, Enguerrand," she said, and the men-at-arms came to attention without moving. "See to things. Tiphaine, with me."
The consul was a lanky blond man in his thirties with a face that showed no expression at all and a knight's little golden spurs on his boots, who stood aside with a little bow as Sandra swept past, and nodded to the Dunedain.
Funny names, Astrid said in Sign behind his back.
Mom said it's Court fashion in the Protectorate, Eilir replied. Taking names out of old books.
Silly, Astrid answered, and then blinked as John Hordle bit his lip and fought a laugh down into a wheeze. What are you laughing at? Never mind.
Lord Carl bowed them through into a conference room, and left silently at a slight movement of Sandra Arminger's fingers.
The room had been remade in Association style with a tapestry on either side of the fireplace, but there were bookshelves flanking the bow window that looked out over a winter-sere garden and a huge oak where a few dry yellow leaves yet clung; lilacs tapped their bare fingers on the glass. A long table of some polished reddish wood ran down the center of the room, with pens and ink, writing paper and blotting paper and little silver cups of fine sand to dust across a page when you were finished writing. Fire crackled in the hearth, shedding grateful warmth on the raw winter's day; the room held the scent of burning fir and of wax and polish and a sachet of dried roses on the mantel. Astrid was suddenly conscious that her boots might have been a little cleaner after tramping through the streets and mud earlier that day, and that it had been two days in the saddle since her last cold-water bath or change of underwear.
"Do be seated," Sandra said, stripping off her fur-lined gloves.
Astrid ground her teeth; she hadn't planned on asking for permission. The maidservant handed the gloves and heavy traveling cloak to another and then took three steps backward and stood waiting, with her hands folded in front of her with fingers linked, and her eyes cast down. Briefly, Astrid wondered why the girl didn't run for it; perhaps she had family back up in the Protectorate, or possibly Sandra Arminger was smart enough to treat her personal staff well.
Probably, not possibly. Don't underestimate an enemy!
The servant pulled humble obscurity over herself like a cloak of invisibility. The woman in the dark tunic and breeches didn't; behind her ruler's right shoulder she stood silent and immobile with her hands folded inside the wide sleeves of her black tunic, pale eyes looking nowhere in particular … and she was as easy to ignore as a spearpoint pointed at your nose. All four of them gave her a single long, considering glance and then stopped looking at her, but Astrid could tell everyone kept her location in mind.
Refreshments were offered and—politely—declined. Sandra Arminger warmed her hands on a goblet of mulled wine that smelled of expensive spices. She did look tired, and not only because she was fifteen years older than Astrid. There were dark circles under those piercing eyes, and she sighed in relief as she sank back in the comfortable cushioned chair; she wore no jewelry apart from the silver-link band around her linen headdress, and a simple chain bracelet bearing an odd-looking coin.
"I always enjoyed Society events before the Change," the consort of Portland's ruler said. "But there are times when I miss being able to slop around in sweats … not to mention just getting into a car and going somewhere, especially after a trip like this. God alone knows what it'll be like when the roads and bridges have washed and worn away. But I know you youngsters aren't interested in hearing us decrepit fogies talk about the good old days."
She held out a hand, palm-down over the table. The maidservant took a book from the shelves and slid it forward under her fingers. It had a black-leather binding, and gilt-stamp letters on the spine beneath the Lidless Eye. They read: Fiefs of the Portland Protective Association: Tenants in Chief, Vassals, Vavasours and Fiefs-minor in Sergeantry. That meant among other things that the maidservant wasn't just a maidservant; she could read at least, which a lot of people her age in the Association's territories couldn't. Sandra flipped the book open, then turned two pages over to find precisely the entry she wanted.
"The mesne tithes from Sir Jason's manor of Loiston—"
She raised a brow at them, and they all nodded to show they were familiar with the Association's terminology. Mesne tithes were what a fief-holder paid his own overlord for seizin of the land, part of which would be passed on to the Lord Protector by the tenant-in-chief.
"—amount to eight hundred silver dollars yearly, or fifty-seven rose nobles in gold," she went on, running a finger down a list of figures. "That's notional, money of account. Most of it is paid in kind, and he's assessed to maintain three crossbowmen, three spearmen and two mounted men-at-arms for the war-levy of Barony Gervais. Besides his own service in arms and eighty days castle garrison duty for a man-at-arms and three footmen annually in time of peace, and the usual boon-work from his tenants for roads, bridges and fortifications."
She looked up at Astrid and raised a brow. The younger woman made herself refrain from licking her lips by an effort of will, feeling more than a little rushed. She'd expected to come into these talks with all the
advantages. It wasn't working out quite like that, somehow.
"We'll turn him over when his steward sends us five years' yield," the Lady of the Dunedain replied curtly. "In cash or equivalents in cloth, horses, tools and provisions of types and quantities to be agreed. We won't release him until the ransom is paid in full."
"Five years' mesne tithes?" Sandra said. "Oh, come now. The standard ransom in the Protectorate is two, for men captured in a private quarrel, and this was private war, not one between realms."
"I'm not interested in how you pay each other off," she replied firmly. "Five years."
Sandra put her elbows on the arms of her chair, steepling her fingers together and tapping them gently on her lips. That let the brow of her wimple shadow her face while she thought.
"How's this, then," she said after a moment. "Make it two and a half years, and I'll pay the entire sum to you in cash right away. That'll save you a good deal of trouble, and spare you Sir Jason's company, which frankly I always found tedious myself."
Silence ran heavy for a moment. Then Astrid went on: "We wanted to make the ransom heavy to send a message," she said. "We don't want your yrch trespassing on our land. Three and a half years."
Sandra laughed softly. "My dear girl—" At Astrid's expression, she modified that: "My dear Roquen Astrid, I don't intend to make him a gift of the money. Rest assured that he'll pay back every barley grain of it. If it's any comfort to you, the humiliation of paying me will be even greater. Shall we say three years?"
"We should have taken his head with the scum he hired," Alleyne said, his voice quiet and cold. "That would teach others not to attack us on our own ground."
Sandra sipped at her goblet. "You killed his brother-in-law and liege-lord," she pointed out. "It's only natural for him to be a bit ticked."
I killed his brother-in-law and liege lord, Eilir signed. While he was trying to kidnap or kill my brother Rudi on our own land. Rising thrust that cut the femoral artery, not to mention the testicles. He should have worn a metal cup under the hauberk.
Sandra's eyes flicked to Astrid and she made a questioning hmmmm? Astrid translated the Sign without being in the least convinced of the Portlander's ignorance. Sandra shrugged.
"Well, well, at that point you'd already kidnapped my daughter on my own land, and Eddie … Baron Liu … was trying to get her back, with your brother as a wergild," Sandra said, and for a moment something showed behind her eyes.
Then she smiled charmingly. "These chains of grievances go in both directions. For example, you also killed Katrina Georges, Mathilda's tutor who I sent along to be with her in her captivity."
"That was me, actually," Astrid said. "I shot her in the back with a broadhead after we Dunedain disposed of your ambush party. She was killing a Mackenzie with a sword at the time, as I recall. Some tutor."
"She was Mathilda's physical-education tutor," Sandra chuckled, and the glacier eyes of the young woman behind her chair shifted to Astrid, going slightly wider and then narrowing. Arminger's wife went on: "And Tiphaine Rutherton here was a good friend of Katrina's; they were both members of my Household from shortly after the Change. I don't doubt she'd like to pay you back for killing her friend. Wouldn't you, Tiphaine?"
"Yes, my liege," Rutherton said, her voice as unemotional as water running over polished stones. Heat radiated from it. "Very much, in fact."
"So you see, there's a certain symmetry to all this. But back to practicalities. If you take my offer, you get the money immediately. Otherwise you'll be negotiating with dowager Baroness Liu, Sir Jason's sister. I don't think you'll do better, and things may well drag out. Lady Mary would have been pleased if Sir Jason had succeeded, but right now she's rather annoyed with him—for failing, and for embarrassing her politically in the process. I'm rather annoyed with him, which is why I'm making this offer. The debt will hold him like a choke chain on a disobedient hound. I'll even make him lease out the hunting rights on his woodland to help pay it, which will grieve him no end since he dearly loves to pursue the boar."
Her smile invited Astrid to share in the hapless Sir Jason's woe. The Dunadan had to make a conscious effort to reject that complicity and the momentary warmth it brought. She glanced around at the others instead, reading their expressions as her own qualified yes.
It really would be more convenient. They'd have the gold, the distilled yield of two hundred people working two square miles of good land for three years, and they'd have it right here, in the Valley's best-supplied marketplace, or at least the best for tools and clothing and weapons. And they needed more trained warhorses, which were hideously expensive whether you spent money or your own time. Everyone was buying them.
So why is she making things convenient for us? Astrid thought. Perhaps she's afraid he'll talk … and there's no reason at all to relieve her anxiety. Then, aloud: "I presume you're here for the meeting of the Faculty Senate or something like that?" she said.
Sandra nodded.
"So are we," Astrid went on. "So we'll hand him over on Sunday, when everything's finished. We have a use for him until then."
Sandra's expression remained the same, but Astrid didn't need the sudden pressure of Alleyne's foot on hers beneath the table to realize that the dart had hit.
"I'd really rather have him now," Sandra said. "If it's all the same to you."
"Is that a condition for paying the ransom?" Alleyne asked, a sharp note in his voice.
"No," she replied easily. "Not at all; if you want to keep seeing Sir Jason's scowling face that long, you may. As long as he's in reasonable health when you hand him over, you'll have the money—one hundred and sixty rose nobles in gold, or any mix of gold and silver you wish at the usual exchange ratios."
"Agreed," Astrid said promptly, and at Sandra Arminger's nod the four rose and left.
* * * *
"That one is formidable," Sandra Arminger said softly, speaking to the snapping flames in the fireplace. "Quite mad, that's beyond doubt, but formidable. And she will grow more so. All of them will. If they live. This would be a great pity."
"My lady—" Tiphaine began, going to one knee, naked eagerness on her face.
"No," Sandra said, and there was iron in her voice. She turned in her chair so that she could see the younger woman. "If she, either of them, or the men, were to die just now … You will do nothing that could link me to an assassination in Corvallis while the peace lasts, do you hear? Do you?"
Tiphaine bowed her head. Sandra went on in more friendly tones: "But there is the matter of the egregious Sir Jason. Something must definitely be done to ensure he isn't the star of their little PowerPoint presentation to the Faculty Senate."
The other woman nodded, though the computer reference went over her head, then froze as Sandra extended a finger almost to her nose.
"Listen to me, Tiphaine. I took you and Katrina in after the Change, trained you, and found you work you liked better than breeding heirs for some oaf in an iron shirt. I kept your little secret from the priests, or at least from official notice. His Holiness wouldn't approve of your … lifestyle choices, if he knew about them."
"I am my lady's grateful and faithful servant."
"Yes, you are," Sandra agreed aloud. To herself: And the younger generation can say things like that and not seem silly at all. It's distinctly weird sometimes, like living in a dream … focus, woman, focus! This isn't a game and the stakes are very high. Mathilda—
She leaned forward, gripping the arms of the chair. "But so was Katrina. Your dearly departed girlfriend failed me, Tiphaine. You'd better not."
"No, my lady." Tiphaine's tongue touched her lower lip briefly. "There will be nothing to link any … events to you. If necessary, I will retreat rather than risk exposure. I'll work alone. Or possibly with Joris … no, he's good, but he doesn't take orders well."
"I'm glad you noticed that; I think our good Joris Stein has a self-esteem problem." At Tiphaine's raised eyebrow: "Too much of it, and largely unjustified. And an
excess of entrepreneurial spirit. As to the ladies of the Dunedain … eventually, we may arrange for you to settle your scores."
She smiled to herself as a red flush chased pallor across the face of the young woman in black. When Tiphaine rose and bowed and withdrew, she turned to the maidservant.
"These people who bottle up their passions … " She made a tsk sound between her teeth. "Now go and see if my bath's ready, would you, child? And tell Lord Carl that I require his attendance at dinner and conference with his intelligence officers afterwards. We're going to need something a bit more subtle than head-bashing for what I have in mind."
Chapter Seven
Corvallis, Oregon
January 1lth, 2008/Change Year 9
"Nigel!" Juniper Mackenzie said in glad surprise as the door opened.
"My dear," the Englishman said, blinking his slightly watery blue eyes and shedding his cloak and sword belt; he was dressed for travel in winter … and not in a kilt.
"I thought you had other business?" she went on. "And you didn't come all the way across the Valley by yourself?"
"I did have business," he said, smiling with a little constraint in it. "But it's finished … and that's what I'm here in Corvallis to talk about."
"But come in, and have something hot to drink!"
He did, putting a parcel on the mantelpiece and warming his hands before the fire, then taking the cup and draining it. The little sitting room in the Clan's Corvallan guest-house was warm and cozy enough, with a low blaze in the hearth, and windows closed against a cold slow rain.
"Mathilda's having a nap," Juniper said, nodding to the corridor. "She's overexcited, poor thing. You've heard—"
"Yes, I spoke with Eilir, and heard about Mistress Arminger," the Englishman said, smoothing down his mustache with a forefinger. "Ah … I was … that is, Eilir knew I was coming here to meet you, in any case. With a, um, present."
Well. Juniper thought. He's nervous! That's not something I've seen often!
He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He also took the package down from the mantelpiece, unwrapping the scrap of cloth that enfolded it and silently handing it to Juniper. Within was a box of hardwood about the size and thickness of a hardcover book, seasoned amber-colored bigleaf maple streaked with darker color, the curling grain brought out by rubbing and polishing. A Triple Moon had been inlaid on the surface in ivory, waxing and full and waning—and She alone knew where the ivory had come from. The Chief of the Mackenzies turned it in her hands, and saw that on the other side the wood had been carved in the likeness of a wild, bearded face, a man with curling ram's-horns on his brow; the features were brought out by the carving alone, but the eyes were milky-white opals that seemed to shine with an inner light.
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