A Meeting At Corvallis

by S. M. Stirling

  "Why, Nigel, it's beautiful!" she said. But if a gift, why not at Yule? Aloud she went on: "Dennie's work?"

  "Eilir found the wood, Astrid the ivory and opals, and I did the basic shaping and metalwork, with some help from Sam Aylward. Dennis very kindly managed the inlay and carving."

  He went down on one knee before her and took the box in his hands. "At first I thought I might use the traditional ring," he went on steadily, meeting her eyes. "But then I had a bit of an inspiration. At least I hope so, my dear!"

  He held the box up for her, and she unhooked the little brazen latch and opened it. A soft ah! escaped her as she looked within. It was a ring, but of a size to fit around her neck rather than a finger, glowing against the dark velvet that lined the interior of the box; a torc, the ancient royal emblem of the Gael, the gold of it worked in a delicate tracery of leaf and vine. The open ends swelled into a lunar disk and a flame-wreathed sun opposite each other, carved of moonstone and amber.

  "Nigel, it's beautiful!" she cried softly, and took it up. "You really thought about this, didn't you?"

  His smile was shy, oddly charming on the weathered, middle-aged face. "I tried."

  Juniper started to put it around her neck, spreading the soft metal a little, then hesitated. "This is meant as an engagement torc, isn't it, Nigel my heart?"

  "Yes, my dear. I hope it'll do, until I have a wedding gift—besides myself, that is."

  Her smile broadened. She settled it around her neck; it was snug when she let the circle close again with the Sun and Moon on her right and left collarbones. The metal was surprisingly heavy for all its delicacy, and a bit cold. It warmed quickly; she felt her breath grow a little short, and more so after she leaned forward and took his face between her hands and kissed him.

  "Then I'll take it in the spirit it's given," she said after a moment. "Beauty, and love, and friendship."

  They clasped hands and looked at each other, then laughed. Her smile grew impish for an instant. "The child will need a father, after all."

  She laughed delightedly at his astonishment. "No, I'm not, not yet—that would be a miracle, and from the wrong mythos! But I'm still under the Moon, and I always wanted three, you know! For the symbolism? And this time I get to keep the man to help with the chores, which will be a nice change."

  "My dear … darling Juniper … you've made me a very happy man, and I hadn't expected to be happy again, you know."

  "Not nearly as happy as I intend to make you!" she went on, standing and taking him by the hand. "I've waited long enough."

  "And so have I," Nigel said.

  He moved with a lithe suddenness and she was swept up in his arms; she could feel the compact strength in his chest and arms.

  "First door on the right," she murmured.

  * * * *

  Second roof to the right, Tiphaine thought.

  The Hatfields had built their business up gradually, and the result was a complex of boxlike buildings joined to each other higgledy-piggeldy, each with its own tin roof, or covering of salvaged asphalt roofing tile. She avoided the metal as much as possible; even in her soft-soled climbing boots, it was hard to avoid making noise on it, and it was dangerously slippery when wet—and during a Willamette Valley winter, it would be wet about ninety-nine percent of the time. Luckily the Hatfields hadn't skimped, and the roofs had solid, heavy-duty plywood or planks nailed to the stringers beneath the waterproofing layer, so they didn't creak much. The sky was overcast, and the streetlights were turned down with dawn near. That made it near enough to pitch-dark up here as no matter, and in her matte-black outfit she was effectively invisible. Everything was covered save for a slit in the tight hood that let her see, and the skin around her eyes was blackened with charcoal.

  Katrina had said once that made her look like a raccoon. She stopped for an instant; let the fury wash through her and over her without tensing her muscles or disturbing the even tenor of her breathing. Then she went on, walking step by step, careful to keep below the ridgeline. She crossed it flat on her belly, moving with cautious speed. Sir Jason Mortimer was in a second-story storeroom on this side, with only two guards, according to what the consulate knew. Nobody in Corvallis knew how to keep their mouths shut, evidently.

  Yes.

  Everything looked the same as it had through binoculars from a taller building not far away. Her chamois-gloved fingers went to her belt. The sling was of leather like her gloves, equally butter-soft, yearling doe hide tanned with brains. The cup at the bottom was just the right size for the projectile, an egg-shaped thing of sand molded with wax. Lead or stone were too likely to kill …

  I miss my crossbow, she thought, as she systematically tightened and relaxed muscles to keep them limber while she crouched in the near-freezing dampness.

  She had a little beauty, a pre-Change model with a 7x scope and a built-in crank for reloading, its skeleton body all synthetics and carbon composites, half the weight of a standard modern wood-and-steel military model and just as powerful. Out of the question to use it here and now. This was taking a long time, but it all depended on how big the guards' bladders were. Hopefully they wouldn't come down to pee in chorus, but that wasn't likely. One would stay by the door at all times; from the files, Hatfield didn't hire incompetents. Right now that would help her. They were concentrating on keeping Mortimer prisoner, not on protecting him.

  Ah. Her mind slipped effortlessly back into full alertness. A door swung open, then banged shut again as a spring took it. She looked away to make sure the momentary glow of lamplight through it didn't lessen her night vision, then back. I was right. The man unbuttoned and let loose on a heap of straw and manure near the center of the L formed by the two buildings, with his back to her. There really wasn't much point in staying inside and using a pot, when there was a dungheap so close, and only the house here had a connection to the city sewer system. It was another two hours before either man was due to be relieved.

  The stream of urine smoked in the cold, wet air. Tiphaine took the ends of the sling in her right hand and the cup in her left, holding it taut but not tight. She kept the position while the man shook off and buttoned back up; it would look suspicious if he wet himself. Then …

  Up from the crouch, smooth and steady. A single sweep around her head, and release. Cloven air hummed, a subdued whirr and swish. Then a dull, wet thump.

  Bull's-eye, the huntress thought.

  The man fell limp as a half-full sack of grain. Behind the mask the Association warrior's lips skinned back from white teeth. She waited nonetheless, counting the seconds against her heartbeat—which was a useful technique for keeping calm in itself. A half minute passed, and another. The quiet remained absolute, the loudest sound a dog barking for a few moments. She started to move, then froze: footsteps on the street outside, beyond the fence to her right, loud and careless. Her head turned; just a flicker of motion through the boards of the fence, a rhythmic tapping—

  Watchman on patrol, she thought; that was a nightstick. No, they call them police officers here. He didn't call the hour, or that all was well, either, as he would have in Portland, or check non-nobles for their night-pass. Sloppy.

  The steps faded off into the distance. She waited only a few seconds beyond that; much longer and the guard's partner would come to see what was going on. A rope and grapnel were looped around her shoulder like a bandolier, and she set the two rubber-sheathed hooks on the guttering, over a bracket where the thin metal would be strong enough to bear her weight. The rope dropped twenty feet to the brick pavement of the yard, and she slid down it with the cord locked between her shins. A flick, and the grapnel came loose and fell into her hands.

  Half a dozen strides took her to the fallen man. She checked his breathing; it was slow and natural, and the shot had only broken in three pieces when it flattened against his skull, which made it easy to pick up. He hadn't injured himself falling, which was to be expected—most people fell much more skillfully if they were completely li
mp. Then she peeled back the eyelids to confirm that she hadn't scrambled his brains either; knocking someone out and not doing lasting harm was a lot more difficult than you might think, hard enough with a cosh, requiring real skill with a sling.

  Moving with careful speed she opened a leather case on her belt and took out a small hypodermic, pinching a fold of flesh on the inner thigh before she injected him. Working the limp form over her shoulders in a fireman's lift took only an instant. A slight grunt escaped her as she rose; the merchant's man weighed at least a hundred and eighty, better than forty pounds more than she did. It was all solid muscle, too … but then, so was she, if built along more graceful lines. Her nostrils twitched slightly in distaste at the beer-sweat-and-horses scent of him. From the downy blond beard, this was Harry Simmons; the other guard was Dave Trevor, black-haired and clean-shaven, probably because he couldn't raise serious face-fuzz yet. They were both young.

  And up we go. You're the luckiest man in Corvallis tonight, did you know that, Harry? Although you and Dave may not think so in the morning. But if I'd been planning this op, I'd have killed you both and set a fire to cover it.

  Walking in a crouch she moved crabwise to the door under the heavy weight. This was the tight part of the operation. It was a simple frame door with a knob, salvaged from some house in the suburbs, and it swung open soundlessly. The light within seemed bright to her night-adjusted eyes, but it was dim enough, a trickle from the lantern at the top of the stairs. That was turned down low, but she could see that this end of the big open space of the warehouse first floor was nearly filled with burlap sacks holding something— oats, from the slightly sweetish smell, and a pile of empty sacks as well. That would do nicely.

  Tiphaine let the man slide to the ground at the foot of the stairs, face-up; the construction was open, simple two-by-fours and planks, honest carpentry but nothing fancy. Then she slid the haversack off her back for an instant. Inside the black-leather sack were a number of padded compartments, and some held bottles—the label read Vat 69, though it was actually an ordinary brand of Corvallan rotgut made from potatoes. A real bottle with the original contents would buy you the price of a plow team.

  A little of the liquid went into his mouth; then she recorked the bottle and put it into Harry's hand. Then she reached out and stepped on the bottom stair, hard. It creaked with a satisfying loudness, and she made a single silent bound into the pile of empty sacking. That gave her an excellent view of the stairs from behind.

  Light flared as the wick in the lantern was turned up. It didn't move, though, which meant that the excellent Dave wasn't bringing it with him to the stairs. Stringers and plywood creaked over her head as he came to the head of the stairs, looking down.

  "Harry? What the fuck's taking you so long? Are you taking a piss, or a vacation? Harry?" He paused at the sight of the limp body sprawled below. "Harry? You all right, man?"

  There was a very slight sound, one she recognized without effort. Steel on leather, a knife coming out of a sheath. It went back in when the booted feet and shapeless wool trousers were halfway down the stairs.

  "Have you been drinking? And on the job, you stupid bastard? The boss will have your balls for this!"

  Another deep breath. The man bent to examine his friend, grunting in puzzlement as he saw the stopper was still in the neck of the liquor bottle, and presenting her with a perfect target. She opened another case on her belt, took the pad of damp cloth in her hand.

  Be quick, now. He'll smell it, otherwise.

  She leapt. Dave was bigger than she, and strong as an ox, but she had surprise on her side … and the pad clamped tight over his mouth and nose. He staggered and thrashed, fell to the earth, tried to crawl. For a moment she thought she would have to resort to an old-fashioned thump on the head, and then Dave sprawled beside his friend. A second hypodermic made sure he wouldn't wake up prematurely; the cocktail contained scopolamine for amnesia, and something else that produced a splitting steel-band-around-the-brow headache. The overall effect was very much like going on a bender and being very, very sorry that you had when you woke up.

  Then she moved, and quickly, dragging them both back into the darkness beneath the stairs one after the other. She opened the Vat 69 again, sniffed with a wince—wine was her drink of choice, and she had a weakness for cherry brandy, but couldn't stomach even the better brands of whiskey. And this stuff was vile even by whiskey standards. She poured a little onto their clothes and, taking care to raise his head so he wouldn't choke, into Dave's mouth. That and the empties she left scattered around would make it very hard for them to deny in the morning that they'd drunk themselves into insensibility.

  She looked at the label, then giggled silently and spent a few extra seconds rearranging the unconscious bodies and removing clothing. Let them try to explain that to whoever found them! A few empty but still-fragrant bottles scattered around added detail.

  Maybe this way is better after all. Never a dull moment in Lady Sandra's service!

  Then she took the keys and Dave's belt-knife and headed up the stairs, automatically placing her weight to one side to minimize creaking. The floor above was mostly open storage areas as well, holding bundles of redolent tanned hides, but across one end of the building was a set of three small, heavily timbered rooms with metal doors, used for light, high-value goods. There were two stools and a basket that had held a meal near the one farthest from the stairs; the lamp stood on a barrel. A grille was set in the door. She looked through; Sir Jason was on a cot, the room otherwise bare.

  "Hissst!"

  The sleeping man was snoring slightly, flat on his back; that was doubtless because of the wounded shoulder. Pain had grooved lines in the young knight's face as well, and there was a thick, fair stubble on it.

  "Hissst!"

  This time he woke, rubbing at his face with his good hand. Good. He has to see and recognize me, or this could get awkward. She knew him fairly well, and while his impulse control was poor, his reflexes and muscles weren't. Amateurs also tended to underestimate the difficulties of a resisting subject …

  "Quiet, Sir Jason! It's me, Tiphaine Rutherton, of Lady Sandra's Household."

  She pitched her voice to a low, conversational tone, less likely to carry or be noticed than a whisper. Sleep struggled with comprehension on the knight's face. His notorious bad temper won out as he came to the grille and she pulled back the mask for an instant so that he could see her.

  "Yes, I recognize you. Little Tiphaine, the tomboy lady-in-waiting. Perhaps you've decided you like me after all? Get me loose and I'll forgo the dowry."

  Mother of God, not now! she thought; that had been two years ago. Aloud: "I'm here on my liege-lady's orders, Sir Jason."

  "Dyke!" he spat with sudden fury—more than a casual insult, where the writ of the Holy Office ran; a cold shudder of rage and fear went over her skin.

  Then he went on more calmly: "Well, get me out of here, woman! Those maniacs weren't just going to bankrupt me, they were planning on dragging me through Corvallis like a dancing bear."

  "Just a second, Sir Jason," she said, putting the key in the lock.

  The man tried to push past her as the door swung open; that gave her the perfect position to stamp on his instep, a thrust-kick with the heel of her left foot. He jackknifed forward with a slight, shrill squeal of pain as the small bones there cracked like twigs breaking, and then the knife in her hand came down—the pommel, not the blade. It smacked into his right collarbone with a muffled wet snap that left the man with two crippled arms; she followed it up with a swift whipping blow to the larynx, then pushed him back into the little windowless room. He fell backward across the cot, turning as he tried to scrabble away from her. That let her pounce again, one knee in the pit of his stomach and her left hand gripping the longer hair at the front of his head, jerking it to one side to press his face into the bedding.

  "Lady Sandra didn't send me here to get you out," she said. "She sent me here to shut you up, yo
u loud-mouthed moron."

  He was still conscious enough to feel the cold kiss of steel; then she rammed the blade up under his breastbone, angling slightly to the left. It was an ordinary single-edged belt-knife, more tool than weapon, but eight inches of sharp steel would do the job anyway.

  "And you know," she went on to the still-twitching corpse, "I really don't like it when anyone except another dyke calls me a dyke."

  Tiphaine left the knife where it was; if there were any useable prints on the horn of the hilt, they'd be the unconscious Dave's. Now, to get out, she should be able to use the courtyard door …

  "Hold it! We don't want to harm you!"

  A head rose, a man standing on the stairs. Blond, sharp-featured; enough like her to be her brother, ironically enough. No way back. Decision and action followed together; she closed her eyes to get the advantage of a crucial second's adjustment, whirled, kicked over the lamp and leapt forward over his head as it winked out. Darkness descended, not absolute but shocking to anyone expecting the light to continue. In midair she twisted and drew her legs up, and landed in a crouch behind him; wood rapped painfully against her shin, but she didn't fall. Instead she was in a perfect three-point stance, two feet and left hand supporting her, the right fist curled back to her ear.