A Meeting At Corvallis

by S. M. Stirling

  Rogelio Maldonado opened the cargo wagon up in cleverly arranged stepped metal trays on both sides, a staircaselike arrangement that reached almost down to the muddy surface of the village green. There was a tempting smell from bottles of perfume, and from trays of spices—curry powder, dried chilies, ground sage and sesame seeds; there were rock candy and crystallized ginger; toys and picture books and tops; cloth in bolts and little cakes of wild-indigo essence and saffron and madder. Ribbons and precious cotton sewing thread (and the newer, distinctly inferior linen variety for those who could not afford it) shared space with buttons and vied with tools and pans and pots and a few luxury foods like potted shrimp and pickled peppers and jams. There were also the miniature anvil and hammers and punches, last and awls, that proclaimed the travelers to be tinkers and shoemakers and repairers of leather goods as well. Bundles of wildflowers hung from twine set along the sides of both wagons, in the first stages of drying to make sachets.

  A crowd was already gathering from the homes and cottages along the single patched asphalt street of the settlement below Montinore Manor, drawn from wheel and loom and garden hoe and workbench by the noise and the gear and the prospect of a break in the dull round of days. There were three hundred souls in the village, a little more than average, most of them here on the Saturday half-holiday … holiday meaning for most it was time to do for themselves and their families instead of the landholder. A few in the crowd were probably servants from the manor or castle from the embroidered tabards, and a pair were off-duty soldiers in the padded gambesons usually worn below armor for protection, and now keeping their owners warm against the spring evening. She looked around, deliberately waking her memories; when you moved every couple of days that was necessary, or you could get lost because your mind used its map of some other familiar place.

  Yes, there was a glimpse of white off to the north and west, over low, rolling hills covered in leafy rows of vines—the manor house, a pre-Change mansion that had been the center of a vineyard estate. A little more west of north, and the brutal exclamation point of the tower of Castle Ath reared over a low hill, flying the black-and-red of the Lord Protector and the more complex heraldry of the new baronet; mountains green and forested rose beyond, and to the west. That was all demesne land. South more vineyards, east the old railroad tracks and the five open fields where the tenants had their strips of land, looking more settled every time they visited as the trees planted along their edges grew.

  Hmmm, Estella thought, considering as she danced. They're better-dressed than last time. Especially the peons. More shoes, too. And the place looks tidier, the church has been painted. As we heard, there's a new broom here …

  The fiddle squealed on as Papa unrolled the awnings above the slanted steplike trays of their goods. He claimed to have a little gitano blood, but it was probably not true, though she and her brothers looked the part—which in his rare moments of candor he admitted was what you got when you crossed Sonoran mestizo with small-town Arizona Anglo. The half-believed claim had gotten them help that let them live through the Change—she remembered little of that, since she had been barely ten—and nowadays some of the other tinerants were the genuine article, and it was the fashion among the rest to imitate it. Hiding in plain sight; if you were suspect and despised because you were a tinerant and a gypsy, you'd be less likely to be suspected of witchcraft.

  Other than size Montinore village was similar to hundreds of others in Portland's territories, which was no accident; they were built to a standard pattern out of the Lord Protector's history books. The church was brick, and a few of the free-tenant houses were pre-Change, ordinary frame structures covered in clapboard. Others had been moved here, hauled with ox-teams or disassembled and rebuilt. The peon cottages were all new-built from salvaged materials, one room and a loft, with a toolshed and chicken coop attached. Each house was on its own garden plot, a long narrow rectangle stretching back from the road; the tenant farmhouses had barns and byres attached on their larger allotments. There was a mill here, built on a water-furrow from a dam on the creek a few hundred yards away; the wheel wasn't turning right now. The bailiff's house stood near it, and the miller's, the two best in the village with the priest's cottage right behind.

  "Come buy!" Estella shouted again. "Come buy!"

  Suddenly an off-duty soldier grabbed her around the waist from behind, hands groping at her breasts. "I'll buy!" he said, laughing.

  You think that's funny, pig? Let's see how you laugh at this. But no, better not be too emphatic.

  Fortunately he wasn't wearing his hauberk, which would make it easier to reach behind and grab so … and then he howled and let her go.

  "That would be renting," she said sweetly, as he bent and rubbed at himself and laughed—it had been more of a playful tweak than a real wrench-and-twist. "Ask someone else, soldier, and don't believe all the stories you hear about tinerant girls."

  Then the steward was there holding his white staff, with the fat bailiff in tow; she let the tambourine fall silent along with the fiddle. Both were looking more sour-faced than usual, and the bailiff's even more loathsome son looked more like a sulky boar than he had the time before.

  "You have your permit?" Wielman said.

  Her father bowed—the whole family did, except for Estella and her mother, who curtsied. Then he produced the stamped, signed authorization they had for travel and petty trade; it was countersigned by a bishop and several priests, all of them deceived by the ostentatious piety of the Maldonado family. Such permits were something the PPA gave out only grudgingly, and only because they knew that otherwise swapping and barter would go on underground.

  Which they do anyway, Estella thought. Along with a good deal else, by the Lord and Lady!

  "You can stay four days and nights," he said at last, after checking that the signatures were up-to-date and taking the bag of "gifts" her father offered, along with the regulation fee; the bailiff got another. "We have a new lord … lady … here, so be careful. I don't have the right of the High Justice, but she does."

  And nobody would care if she used it on tinerant trash, Estella thought, grim behind her smile.

  * * * *

  Later that night Estella walked away from the bonfire where a sudden ah from the gathered crowd said her brother Carlos had swallowed the sword. They had done well today, in coin and in supplies and barter—the miller had sold them three bolts of the lovely woolen twill that his daughters wove and two great sacks of shelled filberts in return for a set of big metalworker's files salvaged from the ruins of Olympia, and they'd picked up enough flour, spuds and flitches of bacon and hams to last for two weeks in trade for sundries. Tomorrow they would start repairing pots and making shoes …

  And speaking of the miller and his daughter, she thought with a smile. It will be good to see Delia again. I could use cheering up, and she is fun.

  Delia waited behind the millrace scaffolding, where deep shadow made the night even blacker, and the fires and noise were comfortably distant; if anyone noticed she'd gone from the crowd around the wagon, they'd suspect the reason, though hopefully not the person, for she'd cheerfully flirted with half a dozen, including the undiscouraged soldier. Water gurgled by overhead, making the spring night chilly and damper than elsewhere, with a scent of wet earth and soaked wood; Estella pulled her shawl over her shoulders.

  But she can get us in the mill, which has a nice comfortable pile of grain sacks, she thought with a warm glow of anticipation.

  They exchanged the murmured recognition signals, as much to cater to the younger woman's sense of drama as from real need—both had been raised witches—and the ritual kiss of greeting; both were tailored to be meaningless to someone outside the hidden Coven network. When she tried for a real kiss, though …

  Estella laughed ruefully at the dodge; a relationship conducted at month-long intervals just didn't have a long shelf life.

  "Well, you've found someone at last," she said, taking the other by t
he hands and giving them a squeeze. "Alas!"

  "Yes, I have … can we still be friends? You're not angry?"

  "Of course we'll be friends! We always were, for years before we were lovers. And I always said I couldn't be here for more than visits, remember. We were lucky to have what we had; the memory will always be warm."

  Delia grinned in the darkness. "Well, now maybe I should be angry! Aren't you sad at all? Disappointed?"

  "I'm heartbroken, mi coraz&oaccent;n. Have they hitched you to the bailiff's son, with his pig face and little curly tail?"

  Delia laughed. "As if! I'd be sobbing on your shoulder and asking for comfort if that had happened! And you, heartbroken? You've probably got a girl in every village."

  "Only half a dozen," she said, with some exaggeration. "Boys in one or two," she went on, and laughed at the other's grimace. "Purist! But tell me who, then. I hope you're not being careless!"

  The girl was practically dancing with delight. "You'll never guess!"

  "Of course not; that's why I asked."

  Delia leaned forward and whispered in her ear. "Tiphaine … d'Ath!"

  Estella felt her eyes go wide in shock, unseen in the darkness. She grabbed the other by the shoulders:

  "She didn't hurt you?" she asked sharply, then shook her head. "No, evidently not—"

  "Oh, Estella, it wasn't like that at all. I practically dragged her off!"

  A soft whistle. "Dangerous! You couldn't be sure she wouldn't turn you over to the priests!"

  "Well, it was a bit scary at first. She looked sort of … forbidding, you know? Beautiful, but like a sword blade would look if it walked. But I felt prettier when she looked at me, so I took a chance. She's sweet, and was so lonely—her friend who'd been with her forever died last year."

  Yes, killed trying to kidnap Lady Juniper's son, Estella thought. And this one succeeded, and left some of our brothers and sisters dead behind her.

  Slowly, she went on aloud: "Querida, you are taking a big risk here. Think how the soldiers are, think how all the castle people are, like rattlesnakes in a bucket. Because this woman likes to make love with you doesn't mean she loves you."

  "It isn't just that. When we're alone we talk about our lives, and play games—she's teaching me chess—and laugh, and she plays the lute and we sing … "

  Estella winced at an unexpected stab of jealousy, as much for the privacy and safety as anything else; it was easier to arrange your life when you had your own castle. Not that I would have one on a bet!

  "Darling, she's an Associate. She has been an Associate since the Change, in the Protector's Household—"

  "The consort's."

  "She was still raised to kill people for a living, and take what others grow and make, by threat of death and pain. The Associates are the sword arm of the Church, and the Church burns witches. Nice is not something the Portland Protective Association are very good at; killing and taking, that is what they do. Think what might happen if you two quarreled, or you yourself changed your mind … "

  "No, really, she's not like most of them! Not just to me—she's starting a spinning and weaving school for the peon women, with me and Rose and Claire to teach, and she's buying the equipment—and she spent fifty rose nobles on cloth, so people wouldn't have to wait until then to have decent clothes, and she's gotten Wielman and the bailiff and Keith the Pig under control so they're not squeezing people nearly so bad, and she keeps the soldiers in line. And hardly anyone's been whipped or put in the stocks unless they really deserved it."

  That's all interesting, but it doesn't necessarily mean she's nice, just smart and foresighted, Estella thought. Let's not argue. I recognize the tone. This poor girl has fallen hard. I hope she is not hurt too badly, but such is life. We must not let it endanger the Craft … but it could work to our advantage, as well. She will hear things and see things she would not otherwise.

  "And she's like an older sister to the Princess Mathilda—Mathilda's nice too—and to Rudi. I gave Rudi the pattern—"

  "How?" Estella asked sharply.

  Delia giggled. "In some gravy, so nobody else could see—he wouldn't have himself, if he weren't so sharp. We haven't said a word beyond that, but he knows, and it makes him feel better. His poor mother must be so worried, and he's homesick and lonely sometimes, but like I said, Tiphaine treats him like her own family.''

  "That will be a relief to Lady Juniper. We can pass it on … never mind how. And if we must, we can have you pass a message to him. The risk, though! He's still not quite ten years old. That's why we don't tell children about the Craft until they're older than that, and able to keep secrets."

  "Not with Rudi. He's a wonderful kid, so brave! And smart too. He's teaching me my letters, well, how to read them better, and he tells lovely stories about how the Mackenzies live. And you can see the Lord and Lady walk with him, all the time, not just at the special times."

  She hesitated. "Can we have an Esbat while your family are here? Since Mom died"—her voice caught for a moment—"we haven't had a High Priestess, and nobody else knows all the things she did, not here or in the other villages. She was teaching me, but I hadn't learned nearly as much as I need. Dad was so sorry we couldn't have a passing rite for her. We couldn't find her books, either."

  "Good!" Estella said. "If you can't find them, the Hounds of God can't either."

  Delia nodded, completely serious for the first time in their meeting. Excellent, Estella thought. She may be eighteen and infatuated to giddiness, but she knows that is a matter of life and death. Aloud, the tinerant went on.

  "I'll talk to my parents, and see what we can do. But first you must tell me all about Rudi; where he's kept, and what he does each day. Leave nothing out." She sensed a hesitation. "This is for the Old Religion, and for the Queen of Witches."

  "Well … OK. I don't suppose it can hurt."

  Near Cherry Grove, Tualatin Valley, Oregon

  April 10th, 2008/Change Year 10

  Astrid tapped him on the sleeve. There, the gesture said.

  Alleyne could see it too, the faint shimmering blink of a campfire ahead, wavering through half a mile of forest and brush and a gathering ground-mist that muffled the strong, musty scent of rotting leaves and fir needles and cones. He stroked the soft blond stubble on his chin—shaving while moving fast and secretly through the woods wasn't very practical—and compared the lie of the land about him to the map in his head, then nodded.

  Astrid made a sound beneath her teeth, held up two fingers and tapped them to right and left, and half-glimpsed figures spread out and moved forward. The nighted forest was not quite pitch-black, but fairly close to it; they'd left their war cloaks behind with the horses further up the slope of Mt. Richmond for the sake of speed and quietness. Here the unpeopled mountains that stretched west to Tillamook and the ocean met the cultivated eastern lowlands in a maze of twisting valleys. The one ahead was called Patton—not, he thought, for the general—and held the upper stretches of the Tualatin River. There was a village called Cherry Grove a few miles to their west, lately rebuilt on the pre-Change ruins because there was a good fall of water for a mill. Its fields stretched eastward along the valley this mountain overlooked on either side of the river, and there the contacts they were to meet should be camped. They'd picked the location because the little hamlet on the edge of the mountains had no manor and no garrison to speak of. That made it a little safer, but not much.

  So that campfire is them … or they were discovered, and it's an ambush. Well, no time like the present.

  Astrid and he eeled forward. The hillside had been logged off recently enough that the trees were only fifty or sixty feet high above them, and there was plenty of bush; even after better than a year gone he was still conscious of how different the sounds were from an English wood at night, sharper and harsher, with more buzzing and clicking of insects. The birds were surprisingly similar, though he missed the nightingales. They ghosted downslope; once a red fox leapt aside in panicked
surprise as they passed from tree to tree, and shot off with a crackle of leaves under churning paws. He grinned to himself at that, since it was like meeting an old friend from Hampshire. As if to remind him where he was, from somewhere in the northern darkness came the appalling, rowling screech of a cougar, probably just after it dropped on a passing deer, or perhaps in disappointment after it missed.

  They went to their bellies a hundred yards from where woods gave way to the scrubby pasture where the wagons waited; beyond that was a road, and beyond that a field of some sort—probably grain, from the strength of the scent of wet earth. A few dogs lay around the fire, and a pot bubbled above it, and something roasted on a wooden spit close beside it; that was the best way to do small game, and let you catch the drippings in a pan. The smells made his stomach cramp, since they'd had nothing but cheese and waybread today.

  A last halt, and Eilir and John came in on either side, quiet and slow. The big man put his mouth next to Alleyne's ear: "Nothing. We've got scouts out on all sides now."

  Astrid smiled and rose. "Mae Govannem" she called.

  The figures around the fire rose; one spilled something in his haste, and began an abortive snatch for a hunting bow.

  * * * *

  "I hadn't expected them to come it the heavy gypsy quite so much," John said to him quietly as he passed to get a refill from the pot.

  Alleyne made a subdued noise of agreement; the rabbit stew was taking most of his attention, nicely thick with peas and onions, and fresh bread as well. It was true, though. He'd met a few real Rom before the Change, and some since in Gibraltar, and they generally weren't nearly so much like a Romantic-era operetta, all headscarves and earrings … Of course, a few clans of an extremely traditional variety had survived in remote Carpathian valleys, and they'd drifted westward since to get away from ongoing chaos and warfare there, where the die-off hadn't been quite as complete as it had in the lands west of the Elbe.