Against the Tide tcw-3

by John Ringo

  “And there you put your finger upon it,” Mirta pointed out, tying off a knot. “Let me ask you something: Why were women in preindustrial societies considered second-class citizens?”

  “Because…” Megan paused and thought about it. “Because the men of the society kept them that way?”

  “To an extent,” Mirta replied. “To an extent. But you have to ask why it started. Did men and women wake up one morning and say: ‘Okay, the guys are in charge?’ Which came first, the chicken or the egg? More to the point, the human race went through a few hundred thousand year process of evolving a society where women were, almost invariably, chattel and second-class citizens. Even in most hunter-gatherer societies, despite the various tracts trying to disprove that unpleasant fact. Then, when technology started to dominate, women were suddenly empowered. What does that tell you?”

  “That you know the answers and aren’t willing to just give them,” Megan said, frowning.

  “The way to true understanding is to answer the question yourself,” Mirta replied, smiling as she sewed.

  “And the journey of a thousand miles often ends very badly,” Megan said with a grin. “But I get your point; that the difference was technology. But I don’t like the answer.”

  “Okay, let’s take a look at the current situation,” Mirta said. “Think in terms purely of economic value. The basis of the economy around here is small farming and sheep herding. What do small farmers do?”

  “Plow and harvest?” Megan asked.

  “Far more than that. But that will do. What do both require?”

  “An ox?” Megan laughed, taking a sip of herbal tea then thinking about it. “I don’t know, I’ve never done either.”

  “They require a good bit of upper body strength is the answer,” the seamstress replied. “To keep a plow straight requires constant adjustment, which means pointing, and often lifting, a huge chunk of wood and metal. And the faster you can plow the more you can plow and the more likely you are to get your crops in the ground at the right time. Or at least more crops. Now, despite genetic tinkering, women are weaker than men in upper body strength. We also don’t have the stamina for long-endurance, high-energy efforts that males do. Men can keep plowing or swinging a scythe long after women of equivalent condition and mass have dropped to the ground. Women are better in both, today, than males prior to genetic tinkering. But men are equivalently stronger. Sheep farming also requires a good bit of strength: You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to shear a sheep. Lifting bales of fodder or wool, throwing a bull to make it a steer, cutting with a scythe, these are all things that men can do better than women. A farm can be run by one woman and two or three men, but the same farm would require six or seven women alone. And they require the equivalent food level of the males. The work that women do in the culture is important, but, frankly, anything they can do, except making babies, can be done by a man. Women get the jobs they do, caring for the hearth, cooking food, sewing, because they cannot do the jobs men do as well as men. By and large, as an average.”

  “I don’t like that,” Megan said. “I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Don’t like it all you’d like.” Mirta sighed. “It’s truth. Now in some societies, Ropasa to an extent and from what I’ve heard Norau to a greater extent, it’s possible to mitigate the effects of the relative… worthlessness, and I chose that word precisely, of women. They have economically important jobs, clerks, managers, designers, that women can do as well as men. If they’re permitted to. Ropasa was well on its way to forcing women out of such jobs, though. With Sheida as queen of Norau they’re not going to start forcing women out very soon. I have no idea what it will be like in the long-run. But here it’s different. They are on the ragged edge of survival; they don’t have clerks and factory workers. And the most important people are not farmers or sheepshearers, but fighters, people who can hold a shield and swing a sword and stand up to the attack of Changed. To hold on to the land that they do have for farming and sheep raising.

  “Now, there are a few women, even here, who could probably do the job. But, by and large, the men can do it better. I suspect there were a few women at the beginning who told everyone they were just as good as any man. And I suspect that most of them died on some battlefield or another. Men died, too, but not in the same numbers. Because men are pretty well designed for fighting and women just aren’t. You could kill Paul because you used smarts and took him by surprise. Try to take on a male of equivalent strength, training and size in the middle of a battle and what will happen?”

  “He’ll kick my ass,” Megan admitted, looking over at Baradur who was watching with calm and unreadable eyes. “I still don’t like it.”

  “Again, don’t like it all you want,” Mirta grinned. “There’s more and it’s worse, but I’ll let someone else cover that one. But that’s some of the reasons that this group fell into ‘traditional’ roles so fast.”

  “How do you stop it?” Megan asked. “I don’t want my granddaughters as drudges to some man!”

  “You don’t even have daughters, yet, dear,” Mirta pointed out. “Bit early to worry. But I know what you mean. Well, I’ll be interested to see what Norau is like. I’m sure that Sheida has thought of this and if she hasn’t I’m sure that Edmund will have brought it up. I know both of them, by the way, and they will remember old Mirta,” she added with a chuckle. “Oh, the stories I could tell about those two!”

  “You never told me you knew them,” Megan said, cocking her head to the side. “When was this?”

  “Long time ago, girlie,” Mirta replied. “Back in the old days when they were just king and queen of the Society in Norau. They were quite the item for a while. Then Sheida made the mistake of introducing Edmund to her sister and that was all she wrote.”

  “How old are you?” Megan asked. The woman had always been reticent about her age. In the harem it had made sense; Paul tended to prefer young women and Mirta looked to be in her early twenties. And she could act like a teenager on cue.

  “One hundred and forty-seven,” Mirta replied. “Don’t look it, do I?”

  “Not a bit,” Megan admitted. “And you’re still fertile?”

  “Didn’t start ovulating until the Fall,” Mirta pointed out, tying off a last knot and holding up the dress. “Better?”

  “Very nice,” Megan admitted. The seamstress had taken the basic shapeless dress and brought in the waistline, added material to the sleeves so they fell in a V, cut down the front and embroidered the edges. “Very nice.”

  “I can’t wait to get decent fabrics again,” Mirta said with a sigh. “It’s the one thing I miss about the harem. But I could only make those dreadful lingerie outfits there. I’m looking forward to making real dresses again. Crinolines and ruffs and properly formed bodices!”

  “How did you keep from getting pregnant with Paul?” Megan asked, not to be dissuaded.

  “Always knew when to present myself and when to look uninteresting,” Mirta said. “Kept track of days when I was fertile and avoided him then. Called the ‘rhythm’ method and it works remarkably well if you’re careful. Not as well as tansy, I’ll admit. I was glad when you started stocking that. But I could only filch the raw; I didn’t dare grab your distillate. You know that stuff is lethal, right?”

  “I tested it carefully,” Megan admitted. “Stealing my herbs. You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

  “The one and only,” Mirta said with a grin.

  “And thanks for explaining the… social conditions to me. It makes it a bit easier to accept even if I don’t like it.”

  “Oh, I don’t like it either,” Mirta said. “And I think it’s going to be hard to change now that it’s established. Especially given the fact that the economic conditions reinforce it. Get some power mills in here and it will improve. But until then…” She shrugged in resignation. “Well, it’s late and your ship’s supposed to arrive in the morning. I’d say get some rest.”

  “I think
I will,” Megan said. As she stood up Baradur stood up also and headed to the door to the corridor, stepping through and checking both ways before preceding her towards her room.

  She watched the back of her bodyguard for a moment in puzzlement.

  “Baradur, you were listening to the conversation I had with Mistress Mirta?”

  “Yes, mistress,” the bodyguard answered.

  “Does your clan hold women to be second-class citizens?” she asked.

  “No, mistress,” he said, turning to look at her and grinning. “The women of the Chudai would never permit it!”

  “Do they fight?” she asked.

  “No, mistress, not unless our homes are attacked,” the bodyguard said, turning back to watch the corridor. They entered a narrow stairway going up to the high turret that had been set aside for her use. “Then they fight very hard; no one fights like Chudai woman at doorstep. And they take care of the home. But we men are always fighting and so they must take care of the farm, too. And they have voice in council. My mother is headwoman of our village. There is headman too, Barahadur Ju. He is war leader.”

  “Why do you think you do it that way?” Megan asked, walking carefully. The stairwell was unlighted and the stone steps were slippery.

  “Has always been that way,” Baradur replied. “Chudai are an old people. Always have been fighters. Women want male babies but a girl is accepted and loved. Women tell tales of old days when other tribes would kill girl babies as worthless. But not the Chudai. We came from far away, long ago. We were fighters for this land, for Briton and the kings and queens and the empress, all over the world. In time, there were no more wars and some of us settle here. But we kept our old ways, the way of the rifle and bow and kukri, the ways of our speech and the ways of our living. Now there are wars again, and the Chudai can live again.” He turned to her and grinned again, the round face barely visible except his teeth. “Is very good times.”

  “Are you telling me you prefer this?” Megan asked, aghast.

  “Prefer, mistress?” Baradur asked as they exited the stairwell. He checked the corridor beyond and then stopped, thinking. “If could change the world back, would. But Chudai are born to war. Baradur was born with kukri in hand coming out of mother’s belly. Learned rifle, bow, kukri, sneak, from father. Can touch deer on its flank, so quiet move. Can kill one man in tent in sleep and leave others sleeping. Was born to live this life, mistress. Would change back, but not for Baradur, for all the other poor bastards born to other life.”

  “You are a very strange person, Baradur,” Megan admitted as they reached her door.

  “Everyone say that about Chudai, mistress,” Baradur admitted with a grin. The bodyguard checked the room carefully, then came back out. “But nobody says we’re easy to kill. Will live with that. Good night, mistress.”

  “Good night, Baradur,” Megan said, entering the candle-lit room. “Long day tomorrow. Get some rest.”

  * * *

  “Can I ask where we are this time, skipper?” Herzer said, coming up on the quarterdeck with a mug of coffee in his hand. The deck of the ship was bloody cold after the relative warmth below and he cupped the mug for its warmth.

  “Thirty kilometers from the entrance to the loch or fjord or whatever it is,” Skipper Karcher said, leading him over to the binnacle where a small light illumined the charts. “One hour until dawn; we’ll be in sight just after. We may have to tack once to make the entrance clearly, but no more than that.”

  “What about launching dragons?” Herzer asked.

  “Do we need them?” Karcher said with a shrug. “The invasion fleet is approaching Balmoran from last word; there shouldn’t be any enemies around to speak of.”

  “There are dragons in Briton,” Herzer pointed out. “I’d like to at least have Silverdrake up, if not more. Frankly… well ma’am, I’d suggest a full formation.”

  Karcher looked at him in the pallid light and frowned.

  “Is that a request of my dragon contingent XO?” Karcher asked. “Or the representative of Admiral Talbot?”

  “I think… that’s the request of the representative of Duke Talbot,” Herzer said after a moment’s thought. “Whether it’s for protection, or show, I’d like to have a full flight of dragons up. Ma’am.”

  “You got it,” Karcher replied with a shrug. “Launch at dawn?”

  “And send messages to the support ships to be prepared to launch their Silverdrake just afterward, ma’am,” Herzer noted. “And more to the mer to give underwater coverage. I’ll be on the first ship’s boat in; Commander Gramlich will have the dragon contingent to herself.”

  “What about your girlfriend?” the skipper asked.

  “I think that Bast should accompany me,” Herzer said after a moment’s thought. “I base that upon some of Her Majesty’s comments.”

  “Agreed,” Karcher replied. “Well, Major, make it so.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  Megan was shivering in the cold wind from the northeast as the small fleet sailed down the loch. The sails had been sighted at dawn off the entrance and the girls, along with a fair contingent from the castle, had hurried down to the stone dock that was Clan McClure’s pretensions to a port.

  It had turned out to be earlyÑthe ships were nowhere close to making anchorÑand it had been a long cold wait. But the wait was almost over now. She saw ship’s boats being lowered over the side of the carrier just as one of the girls behind her gasped.

  Up out of the water seals were erupting. No, not seals, selkie, each with a metal crossbow on his back. They spread out along the beach that flanked the dock and took up formation, whipping their bows off their backs to cover the area. She didn’t know how long they had been watching but she had noticed seal heads around since she’d arrived.

  As she watched, the water began to boil with dolphin bodies, and the occasional pike-toting mer surfaced, looking around sternly, then settling back into the water. It was clear that someone was taking no chances in this landing; the land and water were covered.

  As she thought that, she looked up. The ship coming to pick her up was, after all, a dragon-carrier. And, sure enough, right in the sun to the east was a flight of dragons. More dragons were dropping off the masts of the lesser ships, small, brightly colored dragons that ascended into the hazy sky with breathless speed. Suddenly it was as if the air was filled with dragons, spiraling in, their riders signaling to the carrier and the carrier signaling in turn.

  All of this movement had distracted her from the approaching boats and she didn’t look back at them until the lead boat scraped on the stone of the pier. Sailors scrambled up with lines but just as quickly a truly huge man in legion armor leapt to the pier, his hobnail boots striking sparks on the stone.

  He was an imposing figure, well over two meters of metal and leather. His Roman-style helmet was buckled at the chin and the flaps covered his face except for a bit of nose and shadowed eyes. Little else could be seen of him between cloak, armor and kilt. The man strode over to where Megan waited, flanked by Laird McClure, and dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

  “Mistress Travante, Major Herzer Herrick, UFS Ground Forces. I have been tasked by Queen Sheida to ensure your protection until we can bring you, and your people, to safety in Norau.” As he said this he unbuckled his helmet and then looked up. “I am yours to command.”

  He looked up into Megan’s eyes and she felt her heart literally stop, frozen by fiery green eyes.

  * * *

  “Bast, just this once, let me make the frigging entrance, okay?” Herzer growled. “It’s my job.”

  “Okay, lover-boy,” Bast said, hitting him on the shoulder hard enough to be felt through the armor. “But you’re just pawing the ground over actual harem girls to rescue and you know it.”

  “Key-holder,” Herzer pointed out. “Council member by default. Meddle not in the affairs of wizards for they are subtle and quick to anger. This girl killed Paul Bowman; I’m not
sure I’d want to date somebody that could do that.”

  “You do more than date me, boyo!” Bast pointed out.

  “So why’d she have to do it?” Herzer said with a grin as he put on his helmet.

  “TouchŽ,” Bast replied.

  The women and Gael were all watching the dragons, as planned, although there was one fellow, a short, stocky, dark-skinned little bastard of a fighter by the look who was watching the approaching boats warily. Herzer jumped to the dock as fast as the sailors detailed to run the lines but his foot slipped on the slimy stone of the pier, causing a jet of sparks. He leaned forward and made it appear as if that was the standard way for a Blood Lord to arrive on a potentially hostile pier, then turned on his heel and marched to the awaiting group. Most of the women were dressed in clothes that were shapeless and simple but there was one in the group, a tall bird-woman apparently, who was naked except for a coating of down.

  Herzer dragged his eyes from the bird-woman to the much less spectacular brunette who was wearing a chain from which a councilor’s Key dangled. He dropped to one knee and recited his prepared lines.

  “Mistress Travante, Major Herzer Herrick, UFS Ground Forces. I have been tasked by Queen Sheida to ensure your protection until we can bring you, and your people, to safety in Norau.” He was unbuckling his helmet as he recited them and when he was done he looked up into her eyes. “I am yours to command.”

  The last words were strangled as he felt a jet of adrenaline dump into his system. The only time he’d felt this way was in battle, a tough one with enemies that had a serious chance of killing him. His skin was flushed and he knew he was, frankly, staring.

  So this was what they meant by love at first sight.

  * * *

  When Bast saw the woman freeze, and heard Herzer stumble over his lines, she mentally sighed. Time to break in a new boy-toy. But she was continuing to scan the women that had accompanied the council member and let out a joyous cry at one face.