A Meeting At Corvallis

by S. M. Stirling

  "Amen," Mathilda added and signed herself, kissing the crucifix before she dropped it back around her neck.

  "Oh, dear," his mother's voice said. "Oh, dear. Oh, dear."

  Both of the children looked up, shocked from exultation back into the dying light of common day. Juniper Mackenzie and Sandra Arminger stood in the doorway, with Liath and Aoife and the dark-clad blond bodyguard in the back- ground. The bodyguard looked amused; Liath looked as if she wanted her vital functions to stop right then and there; Aoife was scowling like a summer thunderhead.

  "Oh, dear," Juniper said again.

  The two mothers shared a look. When the Lady of Portland spoke, it was with crisp assurance.

  "Oh, shit."

  * * * *

  "What's their problem?" Tiphaine asked the barkeeper casually.

  The Suds and Spuds was a respectable tavern near the riverside part of the city wall, but not fancy. A long room held tables and booths, a bar, a kitchen in the back and rooms upstairs; blackboards listed prices. And rather astonishingly there had been a four-piece chamber ensemble playing until a moment ago, students performing for food, beer and what tips the audience could afford. She herself was dressed like a local, of the same class as the laborers and roustabouts and carters who made up the clientele, or like a farmworker in town for a day—there were plenty of such, with a meeting of the Faculty Senate due soon, which was the story she'd given when she rented a room.

  An equivalent riverfront place in a Protectorate town would probably be named the Slut and Brew—there was a well-known dive in Portland called exactly that—and conducted accordingly, with more noise and worse smells and without the clean sheets.

  "Them?" the barkeeper said, polishing a glass and looking at the two men. "They got fired, and they're not happy about it. Wouldn't have pegged them for whiners, but you never know." He set the glass down and wiped the bar down with the rag. "Didn't you hear about the murder at Hatfield's? Man got his throat cut while those two were supposed to be guarding him. It's a three-day wonder. You want a beer, or what?"

  Tiphaine nodded, and the man took a mug down and filled it from the wooden barrel as she grabbed a handful of pretzels from an orange plastic bowl on the bar. He slid the chipped mug over to her and she sipped; it was passable, and coolish if not cold. The two men were definitely Harry and Dave, looking sullen. There was a fair crowd in, and some of them were listening to the two of them holding forth.

  "—not even any severance pay, and our rent due next week. And Dave here is getting married this spring. It wasn't our fault. How are we supposed to keep a roof over our heads?"

  "There's this thing called saving, and some of us do it every payday," a stevedore said, getting a general laugh. "Anyway, even this time of year you can get something, work on a salvage crew in Albany, whatever. It may not pay as well as what you had, but you blew that off, didn't you?"

  Tiphaine leaned an elbow on the bar, standing with one foot on the brass rail. Her hair was up under a woolen cap, which was believable enough, since even with a woodstove the place wasn't what you'd call hot. Lady Sandra's traveling gear had included a selection of contacts to turn her eyes an unremarkable brown. With a little artfully applied padding under her clothing and subtle differences in stance and walk it was unlikely anyone would connect her with the Association's consulate.

  "I heard those loonies who live in the woods and think they're some sort of fairies cut that guy's throat," she said aloud. "The hired swords, the Rangers. Knocked you guys out and just killed him, like that—" She snapped her fingers. "Hell of a thing you should get the boot because Hatfield's weirdo friends like killing people. And collecting their heads. I heard they've got boxes full of heads, right here in town."

  That got the conversation going again; of course, unless you were on the road, the main reason for coming to a tavern rather than staying at home of an evening was to schmooze and gossip. The noise level went up as the pro-Dunedain, anti-Dunedain and the more numerous who-the-hell-are-they-anyway factions started exchanging ill-informed opinions, louder and louder. More people were coming in, too, as the sun went down.

  Eventually she used the noise and crowding to sidle over to where Harry and Dave were sitting in a booth along the back wall. They were still nursing their first beers, and the waitress had been giving them the hairy eyeball as space got more scarce and time passed.

  "Mind if I join you?" she said. "Wendy Madigan's my name."

  They looked at her, surprised, but shook her hand and gave their names. When the waitress came around again she looked at Tiphaine with raised brows. "Another for me," she said. "And get my friends here a shot of vodka each, with beer chasers. What've you got to eat?"

  "Fish stew, or mutton and barley," she said. "Bread and fixings come with it. Five cents all up. Or you can have a side of French fries for an extra penny."

  "I'll have the fish stew," Tiphaine said; it smelled all right, and the price was modest enough to suit her cover. "You guys? It's on me."

  "Sure," Dave said; he looked to be the brighter of the two. "And you're doing this 'cause you like our faces or something?"

  "Nah, I need the town news," she said easily. "My folks and I work in a dairy, a little place near Philomath, up Woods Creek, and they sent me in with a wagonload of butter on the railway. Everyone'll want the latest when I get home."

  The two men looked at each other. Then they began to talk.

  This could be an opportunity, she thought, as they took turns to pour out their grievances while she spooned up the fish stew … which wasn't bad, with chunks of white chum salmon, onions, carrots and potato; the bread was good, if a little rougher than the white variety the Lord Protector's court ate.

  Trouble is, I'm not entirely convinced. Something not quite right. A little too smooth.

  These two were too coherent and sure of what they were about. Most people told a story with a lot of umms and aaahs and disagreements, even if they'd seen the same thing—especially if they had. Nothing was more unreliable than human memory, and when she went in after Sir Jason she'd shot these two full of enough babble-juice to confuse a Dominican.

  Their story is too much like a story. They're not bewildered enough at what happened to them. Smells wrong.

  "You guys going to testify at the hearings?" she asked, when they'd run down.

  "Ummm … I don't know," Dave said. "Hatfield's got a lot of pull with the Economics Faculty. Might screw up our chances of getting another job."

  Hmmm. A perfect opportunity to bribe them to badmouth Hatfield and the Dunedain, possibly too perfect. Decision firmed. They're bait. Someone's keeping an eye on them, most likely, which means they're keeping an eye on me.

  "Well, I hope things turn out all right for you two," Tiphaine said. "I hate to see the high-and-mighties putting the boot into a couple of working men."

  She left an extravagant nickel tip for the waitress and went back to the washrooms, sitting in a stall thinking hard until the room was empty save for her. Then she opened the window at the rear; it was a tight fit, being small and high up on the wall, but she hopped up on a sink, wiggled through and came to her feet in the alley. Something scuttled away from her …

  "Ms. Rutherton," a voice said.

  * * * *

  Eilir watched the Association warrior come out of her crouch after a quick, flickering examination of her surroundings. High, blank walls on two sides; Al-leyne and Astrid at one end of the alley, John Hordle and her at the other.

  Tiphaine smiled and pulled off her knit cap. "You can't possibly hold me prisoner," she pointed out. "And disposing of my body in a walled city … not easy. So I'll walk out to the street now, and if you try to stop me … why, I'll start to scream. People are odd in Corvallis; if you scream, they run towards you instead of away."

  "We don't plan to kill or capture you," Alleyne said. His mouth was slightly pinched—he didn't like this part. "We're here to offer you something you want very badly, in return for telling the
truth to the Faculty Senate."

  She laughed at him. "What exactly do you have that I could want?"

  Eilir felt John Hordle shift beside her. She took time out to nudge his ankle; this was no time to improvise.

  "Me," Astrid said, standing forward a little. "My oath to meet you with any weapon you choose, in the wilderness, right after the Faculty Senate finishes its meeting."

  Eilir could see a flush wash up Rutherton's neck and face, and her nostrils flared. "You mean that?" she said, tilting her head to one side. Then: "Yes, you do. And I suppose your boyfriend there would be waiting to kill me, after I won?"

  "No," Alleyne said. "The deal includes two horses, a hundred and sixty rose nobles, and free passage to wherever you please, so long as it isn't Bearkiller or Mackenzie land."

  "Corvallis," she said. "Or there's always the Yakima towns, or Boise … "

  Astrid shook her head. "That's all moot, because I'll kill you," she said. "But you'd have the satisfaction of trying."

  Tiphaine Rutherton closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and smiled a hungry smile. "Agreed. Knives, fought estrappado," she said, and turned on her heel. Astrid and Alleyne had to turn sharply as she pushed between them without another word.

  I have a bad feeling about this, Eilir thought. And not just because the Association fighter had specified a knife duel with left wrists tied together. Quite bad.

  * * * *

  Sandra Arminger dusted the surface of the letter with sand and waved it gently back and forth to dry for an instant. "My compliments to the noble Faculty Senate, and this is my reply," she said. "I'm most pleased to comply with their request."

  The messenger bowed his head and took the page from her hand, then carefully slid it into a leather-bound folder. When he had left Sandra sat toying with the lower edge of the peplum pinned atop her wimple, twisting the sheer fabric around a finger where it fell over her shoulder. The flames burned blue and red and gold over the coals in the fireplace, and one of the consulate cats brushed around her skirts before jumping to her lap and curling up for a nap; papers and books littered the table.

  Tiphaine Rutherton stood by the side of the fireplace, as relaxed as the cat, with her hands in her sleeves.

  "I find this rather odd," Sandra said carefully. "You don't think anything can be made of the men this merchant Hatfield had guarding Sir Jason, now that they've been dismissed?"

  "No, my lady," Tiphaine said. "I don't think they were really dismissed. They were bait. The other side is trying to turn the situation to their advantage."

  "Ah, that would be young Signe," Sandra said. "Clever girl! She's been quite annoying."

  "And that's why I slipped away after sounding the two laborers out. You did emphasize that discretion was of the essence."

  Sandra's eyes narrowed as she lifted the letter the messenger had brought.

  "Yes, I did, didn't I?" she said. "But now the Dunedain have requested that you be there when the Foreign Relations Committee meets. Some of the Corvallans are very annoyed at all this commotion in their orderly little city. The political situation is quite delicately balanced … and it is very important that Corvallis stay neutral when we move against the Bearkillers and the Mackenzies and those annoying schismatic monks at Mount Angel. Which will happen soon; the Lord Protector would prefer it be after the next harvest at the latest."

  "My lady, they were expecting something to happen, but not the way I approached. None of them saw my face, when I … attended … to Sir Jason. They did hear my voice, so they know it was a woman. I'm the obvious suspect, but they have no proof. All they can do is swear that a dark-clad, masked woman trounced the four of them and fled … and that sounds pretty unlikely."

  "Did you, by the way? Trounce them, that is. I know you're very capable, but … "

  "Well … no. I managed to get away from them, though, which wasn't easy. Told secondhand, it sounds pretty much the same thing, and that's useful."

  "It does, and it is," Sandra said. "I'm not annoyed with you, child. Simply a little puzzled. At least we've taken Sir Jason off the board. He was deplorably impulsive."

  Tiphaine's calm face snarled for an instant. "He was a pig!"

  Sandra chuckled. "Well, yes, but if we were to stick knives in all the pigs on. the Association's rolls, we'd have a lot of pork and very few living noblemen," she pointed out. "At any rate, at worst we can convince the noble Senate and public opinion here that getting mixed up in a messy business like this is bad; at best, we can shift the blame onto our enemies. Well done."

  She extended a hand, palm-down. Tiphaine went to one knee and took it, kissing the knuckles formally and then rising to leave with a bow. Of course, in strict form she ought to have curtsied, but unless you were wearing a skirt that wasn't really practical.

  Odd, Sandra Arminger thought idly. I spent most of my youth in jeans, but even to me a woman in pants is starting to look vaguely indecent. Habit is lord of us all, I suppose.

  She picked up the quill pen—she found them more aesthetically satisfying than the surviving reservoir types—and brushed the swan feather meditatively across her lips. The cat on her lap blinked its eyes open and rolled on its back, reaching for the feather with both paws; she teased it until it decided to jump down and groom.

  Ordinarily she didn't like improvising on this scale, but Jason Mortimer's ill-timed raid had left her with no alternative, and the damage control had worked. Granted, there was that absurd ritual the children had gone through …

  Which seems to have been their own idea, unless that Mackenzie woman is much better at deception than I am at penetrating same, she thought. Still, it may be inconvenient. Matti doesn't seem to have changed much in one way, she's still very self-willed … well, not surprising considering her parentage. I'm not surprised she's fallen under the boy's spell; he's quite charming. Now, something could be made of that, perhaps?

  Schemes spun their way through her mind; it was dangerous to have a rigid plan for an unpredictable future, that made you too like to try and force events back onto a track rather than adapt to them, but you did need to prepare for contingencies. Yes … that might be quite useful.

  "But why do I have this sense that something is eluding me?" she asked herself softly. "It all seems to be proceeding as well as could be expected, yet ..

  * * * *

  Bowers Rock State Park had lain on the south bank of the Willamette north of Corvallis, where the river turned in an S-curve to avoid low hills; now it was just another piece of uninhabited riverbank, and upstream were islands and more serpentine reaches.

  It had been swampy even before the Change; since then entropy had undone the works of men far faster than they'd been built, as floods burst levees and dams, silt and leaves and slumping lands clogged drains and culverts. Sloughs and disused gravel pits dotted the area; dead reeds rustled in the cold wind from the north, and tossed the branches of fir and alder, cottonwood and oak, a long creaking groan beneath the whistle of the air. The natural levee along the river was densely grown with tall trees and brush; elsewhere many trees were dead as encroaching wetland killed their roots, with fresh saplings growing on spots of slightly higher ground and tangled brush nearly everywhere. The air was heavy with the chill, silty smell of standing water and vegetable decay, and the air was thick with moisture turning bit by bit into ground fog, kept to tatters and patches by the stiff breeze.

  Sam Aylward grinned to himself as he knelt behind a bush. He was cold, and one thigh ached a bit where an Argentine bullet had broken it in '82, and his shoulder would stiffen up if he didn't watch it, and he could have been home playing with Fand and Edain while dinner cooked. He should be leaving this sort of thing to the youngsters he'd spent the last decade training, too. Yet this was a chance to use a hugely difficult set of skills that he didn't want to rust; everything hurt more, but he could still do it. Nobody had seen the small party of Mackenzies as they filtered slowly in from the east, not unless you counted deer and feral catt
le.

  Although this is just the roit bit of bush for one of those sodding tigers to den up, he thought; they bred fast, and a lot of the older ones were still maneaters when they got the chance. Even then a corner of his mind had time to curse the sentimental idiots who'd turned so many loose from safari parks and zoos after the Change. Haven't seen any pugmarks yet though …

  His eyes scanned the ground ahead, where a clump of oaks and Douglas firs occupied a higher hummock. That's where the idle bastards should have put a sentry, up one of the trees in a blind, with a pair of binoculars. They hadn't, he was pretty sure of that, and there weren't any lookouts covering it either. He was close now, close enough to smell the woodsmoke, though he couldn't see a plume.

  He made a soft clicking sound with his tongue, impossible to filter out of the background unless you knew what you were listening for. Then he moved forward from clump to clump, pausing every fifty paces with the ghillie cloak around him like a shaggy, twig-sewn blanket. A crackling branch off to the left made him halt motionless, even as he winced inwardly. That was the price you paid for working with strangers … but the man had done the right thing by stopping.

  After a moment he moved forward again. Stories to the contrary, you couldn't move through brush or forest without making noise. The saving grace was that the forest made noise of its own all the time, and if you froze when you put a foot wrong the sound would vanish into the background, especially when there was a nice lively wind like this. A head might come around when they heard a crackle, but if they didn't see movement or hear anything else right away, they tended to let it go. You couldn't investigate every noise that might be someone.

  Slow and careful, that's the ticket.

  He made another careful sound as he eeled into the slightly higher ground that bore the trees, one that would announce that he was where he'd intended to go. The surface here wasn't exactly dry, but at least it wasn't outright bog. A fallen alder gave shelter to the west, thick with young seedlings growing about the nurse-tree's rotting trunk.