A Meeting At Corvallis

by S. M. Stirling

  "Why?" Rudi asked, throwing off the towel and reaching for his clothes.

  "Because they're men," Mathilda said.

  "Well, so am I," Rudi said reasonably.

  "No, you're a boy. It's all right until your voice breaks. And they're commoners, even if the warriors are Associates. We're nobles."

  "I'm not," Rudi said. "Delia isn't either."

  "Well, you're sorta like a noble—I mean, your mom's the Chief of the Mackenzies, right? That's like being a count or something, so you're a viscount."

  "No, being Chief is not like being a count!" he said indignantly.

  "I know. I said sorta like. And Delia can be here because she's a servant, and a girl."

  "Oh. Weird," Rudi said. "You've got some really strange geasa here, Matti. And Delia's here to fish and swim and play with us, isn't she?"

  "Oh, no, young lord," Delia said—grinning as she came out of the water and wrapped herself in a towel. "I wouldn't dream of doing anything so presbumptuous."

  "Insolent wench," Tiphaine said calmly, following her to the fire.

  Rudi finished dressing and galloped his horse up and down the shore with Mathilda by him, then came back to the pier; they hobbled the mounts and threw a Frisbee around for a while before they got out fishing rods and folding chairs. Tiphaine was already there, with a fair-sized trout hanging in the water with a sharpened twig through its gills. The two cast their fly-lures out, and settled down to watch the water as the last shreds of morning mist burned off it, enjoying the plop of occasional fish jumping, the flight of wildfowl over the water and up into the steep green trees …

  "So, this is fly-fishing," Delia said, after a few minutes. "When does something happen?"

  "Something is happening," Tiphaine said from her recliner, making another cast. "We're fishing."

  "It looks a lot like sitting staring at the water to me, my lady," she said. "We could do that at the millpond."

  She got a book out of the picnic baskets and began reading aloud, pausing whenever anyone got a bite. Rudi pricked his ears with interest even though she stumbled over a word now and then; it was something like the older old-time stories, and there were even witches in it—though not good ones. And the names …

  "Isn't that name a lot like yours, Lady d'Ath?"

  "It's the same. When I was entered on the Association rolls I took a new one; a lot of people do that."

  "People in the Clan do, too, when they're Initiated."

  Tiphaine nodded. "And they had the same custom in the Society, I think, except that back then they kept the old name too. Mine was … Collette, originally. We picked the new ones out of a hat."

  "It's a pretty name, my lady," Delia said.

  "Yes, Lady Sandra thought so. But the character named that in the book is totally lame; all she does is get raped by a bandit named Joris, have a baby— who eventually kills Joris when it grows up—and then get massacred by some peasants. I would have picked Herudis or better still Lys, but in the book Lys is a witch and that wouldn't be … prudent. I think those books would be on the Index if they weren't favorites of the consort; she even had them reprinted. She named half the younger set in the Household out of them, it's quite a fad."

  "Shall I get the food ready?" Delia said, looking a little uneasy. "The fire's down to nice hot coals."

  Rudi pitched in to help, ignoring the girl's objections when she tried to shoo him away Mathilda looked a little guilty, and helped the men-at-arms clean the trout. Evidently anything to do with wild game was sufficiently noble, and Rudi got away with helping—just—because a picnic was like field cooking, which a warrior could do if servants were short.

  Weird people, he thought again. Work is work. Everyone has to work, or should, or how do things get done?

  The food was hamburgers in folds of waxed muslin, ready to be peeled off onto the grill, fresh pork sausages with sage and garlic, rolls and onions, a salad of pickled vegetables and early greens, and a honey cake with dried fruit and nuts in it. They added the trout, lightly brushed with butter, which was the best part of all, the flesh white and flaky and delicate. Bors—the senior man-at-arms—grinned at Rudi as he loaded a tray with food to take to his men.

  "I'm glad it's Lady d'Ath who got the fief," he said. "Even though she's working us until we drop. I thought it was sort of funny, at first, you know, a woman as lord. But she's tough as nails, and she knows how to look after the troops— I know nobles who wouldn't have thought to bring anything along for the rest of us, or just cheese and bread. Maybe that's why they wanted the little princess here with her, to learn that sort of thing."

  "A Chief or an Armsman has to look after the warriors first," Rudi said seriously. That was something all his teachers agreed on. "He should never rest or eat in the field before they do, or sleep warm and dry when they can't."

  The soldier gave him a grave, approving nod. Rudi took his plate to sit beside Mathilda on the pier, looking out over the blue, unrestful water, where the wind cuffed white from the chop. He tucked in; the morning and the swim had given him an appetite, and some types of food always tasted better cooked over an open fire in wild country. After he'd satisfied the first pangs of hunger and was addressing a piece of cake he noticed … something.

  What is it? he thought.

  Tiphaine had been standing as she ate a hamburger, looked eastward towards the earth dam that held back the waters of Hag Lake, with a frown on her face. Rudi followed her gaze; there were a lot of ducks and geese taking to the sky there. Suddenly she flicked the remains of the food into the water and walked over to her courser, tightening the girths and slipping the bridle over its head.

  "Bors!" she said, swinging into the saddle and reining around. "Fayard! Alan! Get everyone ready."

  She set the horse at the upslope northward. Rudi felt a strumming inside, as if he were a string of the lute that lay abandoned by the lounger. The man-at-arms and the crossbowman did what they'd been told, with a quick, rough efficiency; Delia's eyes were wide with concern, and Mathilda's sparkled with excitement.

  "What is it?" she said.

  Rudi shook his head. Tiphaine had spurred up through a belt of light forest and out onto open meadow. That made her doll-tiny with nearly a mile's distance, and hard to see through the trees; he could see her coming back all right though, because she did it with reckless speed and casual skill. When she pulled up by the remnants of their fire her face had gone tight and hard, the ice gray eyes as blank as glass.

  "Abandon the packhorses," she said calmly. "Armed men headed this way, a dozen of them, most of a conroi—lancers in Protectorate gear, moving fast. And they've got the covers still on their shields."

  Bors swung into the saddle. "All lancers?" he said. "I'd have thought some crossbows would be a good idea, here, for support—it's a bit broken."

  He didn't seem surprised; the Protectorate's nobility had their own internal feuds, and raid and skirmish weren't unknown by any means.

  "Not if they're after the princess," Tiphaine said. "They wouldn't risk hurting her; the Lord Protector would keep anyone who did that alive—for months and months after they wanted to die. Now let's see what we can do about getting her away."

  The man-at-arms grinned; Rudi could see a little fear in his eyes, but it was way back. "I knew life would get less boring once you took over, my lady."

  * * * *

  Astrid of the Dunedain held up her hand. "That's fighting," she said, as the small column stopped.

  Alleyne's head turned; his hearing was about as good as hers. The harsh, flat, unmusical clamor of steel on steel carried a long way; the banging of sword on shield nearly as much, with shouts and the screams of men in pain. It was difficult to tell exactly where the sound came from, except northward; the winding trail and the steep ridge on either side played tricks with sound, and so did the deep forest all about. They looked at each other and nodded, reaching for the helmets at their saddlebows.

  This is too close to the place they're hold
ing Rudi, she thought. There are no coincidences. And aloud: "Go!"

  * * * *

  Rudi drew his bow and shot his last arrow. The shaft bounced off a man's helmet, and made him flick his head back instinctively. The impact wasn't enough to hurt, but it distracted him …

  With Tiphaine d'Ath before him, that was quite enough. The sword moved with a deceptive smoothness, darting out and back like the snap of a frog's tongue. A trail of red followed it through the air, and the man-at-arms staggered backward with his metal-backed gloves clapped to his face, dropping sword and shield. He fell and began to shriek as he rolled down the hill, the weight of his armor pulling him faster and faster until he struck a tree, grasping its roughness like a drowning man at sea, still pawing at his ruined eye. Then she was backing again as the other two pushed doggedly uphill, toiling, using their shields to hold her off. Metal on metal; she leapt backward and up, a broadsword hissing under her boot soles …

  "Here!" Mathilda cried. "I've got it spanned!"

  Delia took a long breath and accepted the crossbow Norman Arminger's child had taken from beside the fallen Alan. It was heavy, too heavy and long for a child to aim, but the weaver's arms and shoulders were strong from long years at the loom and wheel. What made Rudi bare his teeth was the desperate clumsiness of her grip. In fact—

  "Duck!" he yelled.

  Tiphaine did, spinning aside from a thrust and out of the path of the bolt. The tung of the steel bow releasing was not over when the crack of impact sounded, and one of the enemy screamed a curse and threw his shield aside; the thick, heavy missile had gouged far enough into it to wound his left forearm.

  "Oh, Goddess, I nearly shot her!" Delia moaned.

  The mistress of Ath slid forward again, moving to her left into the man's now-shieldless side. He turned desperately to keep his face to her, but blocked his comrade at the same time. Their swords struck, sparked, slid down to lock at the guards. The dagger in her left hand punched up with the twisting drive of her arm and shoulder and hip behind it, the narrow point breaking the links of riveted mail under his short ribs. The man went to his knees and clutched at himself. She skipped back once more; the slope was more gentle now, flattening to the hilltop meadow. The last man-at-arms began a rush, then stopped and ducked back beneath his shield as he met the smile and glacier eyes and realized that the odds were now even. That made him slip, the long grass crushed into slippery pulp under his boot soles, holding him for an instant while he scrabbled for balance and his weight pinned the bottom edge of his kite-shaped shield into the dirt. Tiphaine bounced back with a long running lunge, and the point went home over the shield and into his face with a crackle of breaking bone and shattering teeth.

  Rudi wheeled at Delia's scream. Another armored man had her, his left arm clamping her close behind his shield and the right holding the edge of a sword to her neck; he recognized the china blue eyes—Joris Stein. None of them had noticed his approach from the rear.

  "Bravo, Tiph," he said as she freed her blade with a jerk and wheeled, poised in a perfect stance. "You're good, and I'd be the last man to deny it. Checkmate, though. This black-haired piece of peasant ass is your squeeze, isn't she? Can't fault your taste; she smells fine. It's true what they say; blonds like us have more fun."

  Tiphaine straightened, flicking the sword and dagger to the sides, shedding a spatter of red from the blades; she was panting deep and slow, sweat and red blood running down her face, her own from a nick on one cheek mingling with sprays from others.

  "I should have known," she said. "That was always your idea of misdirection; have somebody else grab them by the nose while you snuck up to corncob them."

  "And you were always too subtle for your own good, Tiph. This time my approach worked, though, didn't it?"

  "Not quite yet," she said. "What's the word, Joris?"

  The knight's face moved; you could tell he was smiling behind the coif. "Simple. I'm here for the witch-brat, dead or alive—preferably alive. The Lord Protector wants him, and as a loyal vassal you'll hand him over, right? Do that and you get your fucktoy back intact. I think that's important to you, Tiph; you were always the sentimental type."

  "Compared to you, I suppose I am … which is a judgment on both of us, when you think about it."

  "And you get to keep the princess, so you don't look too bad."

  "You've got a written decree?" she asked, her voice that cool water-flowing-on-rock tone again.

  She walked towards him as she spoke, with her hands out to either side and the blades pointing down, looking at him from beneath pale brows with eyes the color of ice at the edge of a winter pond. Each step was delicately precise. Calmly, she went on: "Somehow I don't think you do, seeing as you just pitched into us without warning, and I don't think those were Household regulars. Not unless Conrad's letting the standards slip."

  "Of course there's nothing in writing. And not one step closer. I know exactly how far you can lunge, all right? We sparred often enough."

  "Where did you get that conroi of so-called men-at-arms, though? Clown school?" she asked, halting, seemingly casual and relaxed.

  Joris shrugged, and Delia took a sharp breath as the sharp edge dimpled the white skin of her throat. A tiny, slow trickle of blood started.

  "They were the best I could get on short notice, for a job like this, who wouldn't ask too many questions. Still, they were good enough to soak up crossbow bolts. And now that you and your trusty vassals have conveniently killed them, I don't even have to split the money."

  "Well, I do have an explicit order from the consort to keep Mathilda and Rudi here. Orders from my liege. Who's also yours, last time I looked."

  Joris tensed, and his voice went from friendly conversational to a snarl for an instant: "You always got the plum jobs—she always favored you and Kat! It wasn't right!"

  "Well, Joris, that was because she knew if a situation like this ever did come up, you'd be the one who'd rat her out for a higher offer."

  "I suppose you can't be bought?" he spat.

  "No, you're the one who can't be bought, Joris. That's the problem. You can only be rented. And she's not going to be happy with you for putting her daughter right in the middle of a running fight, either."

  "That's why we didn't do any shooting."

  "Oh, that'll make it all right, then."

  "The Lord Protector's orders take precedence," the knight said, cheerful again. "Also, unless you hand the witch-brat over—I'll be leaving him to the Hounds, by the way, so the Lord Protector gets a pass from the missus—I'm going to cut your little bed-buddy's throat, and I don't think you're into necrophilia, right? Not really practical considering the anatomy."

  "No, you're not going to do that, Joris," she said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because if you did kill her, you still wouldn't get the boy, and I'd kill you very slowly instead of quickly."

  "I'll take my chances," Joris said. "I wouldn't like to face you on even terms, Lady d'Ath, I admit it. You're fucking unnatural in more ways than one. But me in full harness and you in that fancy riding outfit? Yeah, I like those odds. The armor and shield make up for the speed, and I've got you beat on strength and reach."

  Mathilda spoke, her voice hot with anger. "You'd better let her go, Sir Joris."

  The blue eyes flickered to her without the least particle of attention being diverted from Tiphaine. "This is a very bad woman, Princess," he said. "They both are. You'll understand when you're older."

  The girl's temper overflowed and she stamped her foot, immediately regretting the gesture, face flushing brick red and burying her hands in her hair. "I'm nine, not four, you oaf—nearly ten! I'm old enough to remember your face and I'll see you broken on the wheel someday unless you let her go!"

  Joris laughed, but there was the slightest edge of uncertainty in it. Rudi knew what he must do. He shouted as he ran in, and the bow was in his hands like a spear. Like a spear he thrust it up at the knight's face, aiming for his right eye. T
he response was automatic, when the shield was pinned immobile by the woman he held behind it; he cut backhanded at the threat to his face. The sword flicked out, the heavy blade moving with the blurring speed of a strong man's trained wrist and shoulder. It cracked through the tough yew and flashed within a fraction of an inch of Rudi's nose, even as the boy threw himself flat with a yell. That saved him, but it put him flat on his back as the longsword drew back to pin him to the ground like a butterfly on a board. What was left of the bow cracked uselessly against the shin-guard as he flailed it at the walking armored tower.

  Skrinngg.

  Tiphaine's sword came down across Rudi's body, like a slanting rafter. It bent under the impact of Joris' heavier blade, but the fine steel sprang back and the man's weapon buried itself in the dirt. Joris wrenched at it with desperate strength, and in the same instant used his shield in a slamming blow against her. That wasn't as effective as it might have been, with a suddenly screeching and madly clinging Delia on his arm, but Joris Stein was very strong. And with Tiphaine d'Ath at less than arm's reach he was striking for his life, as a man might lash out when he discovered an adder coiled under his pillow.

  She had leapt headlong to cover Rudi's body, with no choice but to sacrifice balance. Now the double blow of shield and sword knocked her own blade from her hand, and sent her rolling half a dozen paces with Delia falling on her with a squawk.

  Rudi lay on the ground, clutching as if it were his mother as well as the Mother. Black wings seemed to flap about him, gauzy as veils, more solid and vaster than worlds. A deep thudding came from the soil as the blade was wrenched free and rose to kill, like a great heart throbbing …

  Crack.

  The hooves would have killed an unarmored man. They hurt Joris Stein badly, even in the diamond instant of concentration, when every dream of for-tune and rank seemed to be glittering just beyond the point of his sword. He dropped as the great black mare reared again, her forefeet milling like a deadly circle of steel war-hammers, bugling out her challenge. Curled beneath his shield he felt the frame crack and the tough plywood shatter as the pile-driver feet stamped downward with half a ton of bone and muscle behind them, the loops coming free of the inner surface as it broke.