A Meeting At Corvallis

by S. M. Stirling

  "You had an odd way of showing it, sending assassins to Sutterdown Horse Fair and attacking my camp in the night, killing my people and wounding my own son near to death!"

  "Parents are entitled to rescue their children from kidnappers—"

  "Ladies!" Franks said; that had the advantage of fitting both the old etiquette and the new. "Lady Juniper, what do you mean by a general peace? Don't you have a treaty with the Association? We do, and we've been reasonably satisfied with it."

  "With all respect, Mr. President, you don't have a frontier with the Protectorate. We do, and we've not had six months without an incident—which is one way of describing some lad down with a crossbow bolt through his belly, or houses burned or stock stolen. What we want is an agreement that doesn't depend on Norman Arminger's word or the goodwill of his barons, the which are worthless and nonexistent respectively."

  "I protest!" That was Lord Carl. "Mr. President, is a friendly power to be insulted before you?"

  Havel stood again. "Norman Arminger is no man's friend," he said; the Protectorate baron flushed. "So what we're proposing—and Abbot Dmwoski concurs—is that we need a general agreement on collective security. Everyone agrees to treat any attack on any one of the Willamette Valley outfits as an attack on all and to send their forces to repel it."

  He grinned. "We're perfectly willing to have everyone gang up on us if we invade the Protectorate. It would help if some of the rulers around here weren't murderous warlord bastards—"

  Lord Carl shot to his feet. "And the Bearkillers are a democracy, Lord Bear?" He bore down on the title with sardonic relish.

  "Hey, we're ready to elect a House of Commons if you do," Havel said. "In fact, we're thinking of doing it anyway."

  "Thoughts are worth their weight in gold," the Protectorate noble said.

  "OK, how's this: we'll let anyone in Bearkiller territory who wants to move to the Protectorate do it—they can if they want to, we don't go around sticking iron dog-collars on people—and you do the same on your own side of the border. We'll call it 'voting with their feet.' Let's see who's got how many people after a couple of years. Hell, a fifth of our farmers are refugees from that shitheap you guys run."

  The baron flushed; the penalties for a peon or bond-tenant trying to leave an Association fief were fairly gruesome, assuming they survived recapture.

  Sandra Arminger intervened, her voice full of sorrow: "Then you're holding my child to political ransom?" she said.

  Juniper's eyes narrowed. "I prefer to think of it as rescuing her from an unwholesome environment," she snapped.

  Sandra's lips tightened, the more so as laughter rose in the background. She turned to the dais. "Mr. President, I appeal to Corvallan law."

  "Yes, there are matters of law involved," Franks said. "Now … Lady Astrid? You represent an independent state now, I understand?"

  "Mae govannen, lords of the city. I speak for the Dunedain Rangers. We hold Mithrilwood in trust for all honest folk; we fight evildoers and dangerous beasts, and we guard caravans, and we fight the minions of the Lidless Eye. Who are in league with bandits and evildoers."

  Sandra rose, swift and graceful. "Mr. President, do we have to listen to someone who's so obviously mentally … challenged? This isn't the Third Age of Middle-earth, after all."

  That got a laugh too. Mike Havel cocked his head at the sound; judging by that, he thought there was probably a claque at the heart of it, paid to guffaw at the crucial places. Not that it wasn't funny, when you thought about it.

  "No," Astrid said calmly. "This isn't the Third Age."

  Hmmm. I notice she's not denying it's Middle-earth. Still, I suppose in a sense it is.

  "But," she went on, smiling very slightly, "good and ill have not changed since then, and it is the part of every one of us to discern them, whether in the Silver Wood or here in your city, Mr. President."

  Beside him Havel heard his wife choke slightly, and whisper: "Oh, Jesus, you … you little dork!"

  "Then you might explain the boxes full of heads," Sandra Arminger said dryly.

  "Those were bandits," Astrid said simply. "They attacked us in Mithrilwood; they were led and guided by Sir Jason Mortimer. Unfortunately, he's dead now too."

  "Very unfortunately," Sandra said, her voice pawky. "Or fortunately, if he had a different story to tell. The severed heads aren't inclined to speak much either. This is hearsay—"

  Franks cut in. "And this isn't a court, Lady Sandra."

  "He's dead, all right," Astrid said. "We were keeping him to speak here, and an assassin came in the night, over the roof; clad all in black, so we didn't see her face, but she was very quick, and we did hear her voice." Her eyes went to the relaxed shape behind the Protectorate's table. "The voice of that woman there. Where were you on the night Jason Mortimer died, Tiphaine Ruther-ton?"

  The blond woman smiled. "Me? I was curled up with a good book at the consulate, Lady Astrid," she said. "Isn't it enough you see elves, without adding ninjas?"

  That got a laugh that was mostly genuine; for the first time, Astrid looked startled and worried. Right, Havel thought. That was too convenient to be real. Damn, but it would have been nice to do a Perry Mason!

  Sandra Arminger caught the byplay, and smiled a small, secret smile. Franks rapped sharply on the wood of his lectern. "I repeat, this is not a criminal court, or a court of any sort," he said shortly. "I have to say, Lady Astrid, that you're not helping your cause by bringing these feuds into Corvallis."

  "It's not we who are doing that," Juniper said. "Mr. President, I draw your attention to the codebook we captured this spring from the late Baron Liu, the Association's Marchwarden of the South. We've decoded it—"

  "Made it up?" Sandra Arminger murmured, loud enough to be audible on the dais; her skeptical expression could be seen from much further away.

  "—and it shows plans to attack Corvallis and Newport. Sir Nigel Loring here can tell you how the Protector tried to force him to salvage nerve gas from the old Army storage dump at Umatilla to support this attack. We've had copies of the coded plans and their plain intent printed up and distributed."

  "This entirely fictional attack," Sandra Arminger said, raising a hand in a brushing-away gesture. "Really, Mr. President! Secret codes, ninjas, weapons of mass destruction … need we take any of this seriously? We could instead focus on facts. It is a fact that the Bearkillers and Mackenzies are deliberately blocking the trade routes between Corvallis and Portland, despite the natural unity of the Willamette Valley. It is a fact that … Ms. Larsson and her friends … have graduated from playing harmless games in the woods to chopping heads off wholesale, and dragging people in chains into your city. And it is a fact that the Association wishes to end this anarchy and open the railway between Corvallis and Portland once more, to our mutual benefit."

  Franks knocked on the podium before him again to still the murmurs that swept through the bleachers. Havel scanned them; then his head snapped to the entrance. Another Mackenzie …

  Sam Aylward Mackenzie, he thought. Looking like a fox in a henhouse. And the good Major Jones, as well. Kreegah, tarmangani!

  Jones curtly ordered the guards to stand aside; he and Aylward walked forward to stand before the dais.

  "I hope there's some good reason for this interruption," Franks said sharply as the militia officer saluted, with his helmet held under his left arm.

  "Mr. President, members of the noble Faculty Senate and the Popular Assembly, there is," he said grimly.

  Havel grinned like a shark as the Corvallan began to speak, an expression Signe echoed. Sandra Arminger rested easily in her chair, elbows on the armrests and steepled fingers under her chin. When Jones was finished, the rumble of the crowd had taken on a distinctly hostile air …

  "Lady Sandra, do you have any explanation for this?"

  "Several, Mr. President," she said easily. "Starting with the fact that anyone can wear a blazon or a surcoat or a helmet of a particular type. Major Jones doesn
't have any of these supposed Protectorate men-at-arms with him, does he? Any documentary proof? It's scarcely our responsibility if bandits are operating on Corvallan territory; we of the Association have our problems with the scum as well."

  Jones scowled and clenched the hand that rested on his sword hilt into a fist, but Aylward tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.

  "I can only report what I saw, Mr. President. But as a citizen, I do say that this—combined with the affidavit of Brother Andrew of the Mount Angel border patrol—strongly supports Lady Astrid's argument that the Portland Protective Association, or elements in it, are acting in cooperation with the bandit gangs. In this case, I saw Corvallan citizens being kidnapped as slaves with my own eyes."

  "But apparently did nothing about it," Sandra Arminger put in.

  Ah, that was a mistake, Havel thought. This time the growl from the audience was ugly; Jones was a popular man, and too many people knew him personally for a slander to have much effect.

  Astrid rose, and spoke in that beautiful, cool voice: "We Dunedain Rangers spend our time in the wilderness, fighting bandits and maneaters. Some of us have died fighting them."

  And she didn't mention the orcs of the Dark Lord. That must have taken real discipline!

  "We guard caravans"—she named a few Corvallan merchants who'd hired them—"and nobody has complained that we didn't do the job properly. Our work benefits everyone in the Valley, and beyond."

  Havel came to his own feet. "Mr. President, I and my Outfit have always been friendly to this city. We and the Mackenzies and Mount Angel have all found it worthwhile to help the Rangers, the Dunedain Rangers, in their work. They're doing things we don't have the time for. Leaving aside the bigger issues, we'd like Corvallis to do likewise. It's only fair to chip in, since you're getting the benefits."

  Several of the guards around the rim of the old basketball court began to thump the butts of their glaives on the floor. Someone shouted Vote! and others took it up, until the great building echoed and rang with the thunder of the chant: "Vote! Vote! Vote!"

  * * * *

  "Well, we didn't get the alliance we hoped for," Juniper said.

  "No," Mike Havel replied. "But we will. Not right away, but we will. Ms. Arminger played a weak hand pretty good, but I think she knows it too. Astrid and Eilir got their bunch recognized in Corvallis, and that's a start. Plus I think that codebook made a lot of people real thoughtful. Every bit of weight on our side of the balance counts. And the Protector took a heavy public-relations hit."

  "Not so bad a one as I'd have liked," Juniper observed. "Alas, would that it were like a story, where you capture the enemy's secret plan and they're undone at a stroke."

  "No, Arminger's bitch played defense very well," Signe said. "And you saw that bit at the end of the coded sequence—he's read the list."

  Juniper chuckled unkindly; then her voice grew sober. "There's one thing that's bothering me, then, Mike, Signe. If Sandra knows the Corvallans will ally with us eventually … what will her husband do when she tells him?"

  Mike Havel looked at his wife. He could tell the same thought was running through both their minds.

  Well, shit. He'll strike before that can happen, is what.

  Signe scowled over at the Protectorate party; an attendant was draping a spectacular ermine cloak around Sandra's shoulders, a waterfall of shining black-streaked white fur that swung to her ankles. It must be heavy, but there was a coach drawn up to spare her the effort of walking in it; the space immediately outside the entrance was kept clear for the VIPs.

  "I wonder what went on there—" Havel began, and then stopped as Tiphaine walked towards the Dunedain party. "And wouldn't I like to be a fly on someone's head there!"

  "So," Astrid said, sneering slightly. "Bauglannen i gos?" Which meant "you chickened out, neener neener," more or less. "Didn't like the thought of that knife duel?"

  "Not at all," Tiphaine said, with a smile of amusement copied from Sandra Arminger, and none the worse for that. "I'm going to kill you, all right. But you haven't suffered enough yet."

  She turned on her heel, throwing a final word over her shoulder: "I don't know if I'll be able to bring myself to kill you, in the end—because by then, it's going to be a relief."

  Chapter Nine

  Dun Fairfax, Willamette Valley, Oregon

  March 5th, 2008/Change Year 9

  "Whoa, there," Sam Aylward said; he could see his stepdaughter Tamar heading his way down the lane from the Dun, with her pair of little red-and-white oxen following behind pulling a two-wheeled cart. "Dinner's on its way. Steady, steady. Whoa, boys."

  This would be the last furrow; the field was a little under five acres, gently rolling land near the southwest part of his farm and on the boundary line between Dun Fairfax and Dun Carson; he could see plow teams at work over there too, now and then. Four miles to an acre, back and forth with a double-bottom riding plow that left a yard-wide swath of turned earth; they'd started on this field when the sky was just turning gray with dawn. It was an hour past noon now, and he'd driven the two-horse team back and forth the full twenty miles at about the speed of a man walking briskly, with ten-minute rests every hour. The disks ahead of the plow-blades cut into the sod of the lea-pasture with a long shhhhsshsh, and then the shares made a multiple crinkling tink sound beneath it as the thicker roots of the sainfoin parted before the steel.

  There was a sweet, sappy smell to the cut ryegrass and clover, beneath the rich earthy-mealy scent of the wet earth turning away from the moldboards in twin curves; the soil was just damp enough to make for easy plowing, without being wet enough to puddle and damage the tilth under hoof and share. Earthworms and grubs moved in the furrows of dark brown dirt, and white-winged birds swooped down to feed with shrill cries. His dogs Garm and Grip were over by the fencerow, watching him work—they'd lost interest in leaping and snapping at the flock some time ago.

  I daresay they'd rather be out hunting, he thought with a tired grin. Me too, you idle furry bastards!

  He reached down and worked the lever that raised the business part of the sulky plow out of contact with the soil, then guided the big blocky-headed roan draught-horses onto the narrow strip of grass beside the fence and the young hawthorn hedge growing up through it, a few yards from the field-gate on the northern side. Then he slid down to the ground with a grunt, worked his shoulders and rubbed at the small of his back; riding the machine was a lot easier than holding the handles of a single-furrow walking plow, but it still wasn't anything like sitting in an armchair, either.

  Not to mention the pleat-marks in the skin of your arse from sitting on a kilt, he thought, rubbing those affected parts too.

  His first care was for the horses; he freed them from the traces and let them bend their heads to crop at the grass of the verge. They'd been working since dawn's first red tinge showed over the Cascades, but they weren't sweating much, just enough to make the musky, homey scent strong in his nostrils as he stroked their thick necks, a familiar counterpoint to the cake-rich smell of turned earth. It was a clear midday after several weeks' gentle off-and-on rain, sunny with a high white haze and a few clouds, but the temperature was just on the right side of brisk and perfect for outdoor work. He was glad it wasn't any warmer. You had to be careful not to overheat big horses like these Suf-folks; they could keel over on you if you did, and they were still fantastically scarce and valuable. And they were good-hearted beasts, who deserved fair treatment.

  Then he turned and called into the field: "Oi, there! Time for dinner! Harry! Miguel!"

  The other two men were harrowing the ground he'd plowed, getting the tilth ready; this field was going into oats, and the dark brown soil had a rippled smoothness after the disks had chopped apart the clods and mixed in the last of the grass and clover. They hadn't knocked off just because they saw him finish, which pleased him—doing the work yourself wasn't half as tiring as trying to keep a slacker's nose to it. Neither of these had that proble
m.

  This was getting into the busy part of the year again, after the lull of midwinter. It was time to plow and plant the spring-sown crops, the barley and oats, hops and roots and truck, time for the sheep and cattle to drop their young, time for wool-shearing and time to heat up the long battle with the weeds.

  "Oi! Miguel!" Aylward called again. " 'arry!"

  Miguel Lopez halted the two yoked oxen he'd been leading and unhitched them from the harrow, leaving it where it could take up the work again immediately; he was a dark, stocky man of about thirty who'd arrived last spring as a refugee from the Protectorate, along with his wife and two children. A refugee from the Barony of Gervais in particular, though he'd been born in Jalisco and come north with his parents years before the Change. The younger man out there was Aylward's cousin-by-marriage, son of his wife's youngest aunt.

  He kept on, seemingly deaf …

  Aylward sighed. "Oh, bugger." Louder: "All right then, it's time for dinner, Húrin!"

  Many younger Mackenzies took new names out of the old Celtic myths when they came of age and were sworn as Dedicants of the Old Religion— Harry's sister Jeanette was now named Liath. Harry himself had been hanging around Astrid and Eilir and their gang, so he'd gone the whole hog and picked a label out of the books that lot were crazy for; he waved back at Aylward when he heard the name he'd chosen, and not before. He was a little past eighteen, lanky and strong, with longish hair of a color between light brown and dark yellow, and stubborn enough to make a piece of black walnut root look flexible. He'd probably go off with the Rangers full-time soon, which was a pity since he was a good, solid worker around the farm and handy with tools, but the Dunedain did valuable scouting and bandit suppression. He'd earned it; he was a fine shot, better than average at fieldcraft and useful with a blade as well.

  And Samkin Aylward isn't going to cark at a country lad who wants to go for a soldier. At least Húrin wasn't supposed to be some poncing elf's name …

  "Hi, Dad!" Tamar called as she got closer, waving; she was fourteen just now, a gangly tow-haired girl with a round face much like her stepfather's.