The Sky-Blue Wolves

by S. M. Stirling

“I can do the administration, yes,” Tiphane said. “But you need to get a grip on the troops you’re going to be commanding in the field—let them see you, get a feel for them, take them through some large-scale maneuvers. Naysmith and Thurston are handling things in Japan, at the Omura Bay camp, well enough, aren’t they?”

  “Yes . . . I put Reiko in charge of selecting deployment areas there.”

  At Tiphane’s raised brow she continued: “I know, she’s a foreigner, those are Montivallan troops, and I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t have perfect confidence in her.”

  D’Ath’s eyes narrowed. “She’s hoping we’ll bleed the enemy for her while her farmers get their harvest in.”

  “Yes, that’s true. And it’s fair enough from their point of view. But the Nihonjin have a lot of experience defending their settlements. What I could be doing there that nobody else can is helping get our intelligence in order. The Japanese have a lot on the enemy, but it’s all tactical. And we know far too little about the Asian mainland. I’ve got the languages . . . any languages I need . . . and with the Sword I can make interrogations a lot easier.”

  “True, but your mother also wants you back for political reasons, which she’ll explain. And she wants Empress Reiko here, for at least a while, too. Don’t whine at me, Your Highness! Wars are political! I’m a technician of the sharp end, but I work for people like your mother . . . and you. I’m the point, you people are the hilt, and that’s where the sword is steered from.”

  “Mother has far more experience with the politics, too.”

  Tiphaine grinned, and this time there was an edge of gloating anticipation in it. “She has some surprises for you . . . and no, I’m not going to talk about it. You’ll get briefed at Todenangst, before you go down to Dun na Síochána to address the Congress of Realms and have such fun in endless meetings.”

  “Ah, the joy of it,” Órlaith said hollowly, and Heuradys snickered very quietly.

  She’ll just have to stand quietly a lot. I’ll have to listen and think about what a lot of intensely parochial and sometimes deeply stupid people say, at great length.

  “You’ll also be taking Johnnie back with you. And probably his new bride.”

  Órlaith’s eyebrows went up. “Your son’s doing a fine job commanding the Association contingent,” she pointed out. “He handled the charge at Pearl Harbor perfectly . . . and the rally afterwards, which is harder. You know as well as I do how hard it is to get men-at-arms to admit that chasing people needs horse-archers, light cavalry.”

  There was a slight flicker of softening in the hard sardonicism of d’Ath’s face; her relationship with Diomede d’Ath wasn’t biological—the heir to Ath was adopted—but close enough for all that, starting with holding Delia’s hands during the birth.

  “I’m glad to hear you confirm the reports. But we’ll be sending a lot more of the ironheads”—

  which was her private term for the Association’s warrior nobility

  —“with the second wave. Diomede’s only the heir to a barony.”

  “But he’s going to be a tenant in capite when he inherits,” Heuradys pointed out unexpectedly; that meant d’Ath was held directly from the Lords Protector in the chain of vassalage. “And his brother is heir to Count de Dad, pardon me, Count Campscapell.”

  “That still isn’t going to make Counts happy about obeying a baron,” Tiphaine said. “And House Ath are . . . eccentric.”

  “They obey you, and you’re a Baron and . . . more eccentric than any of us kids. For that matter, Lioncel and Diomede are both Catholics, unlike the rest of us.”

  “I don’t count; I’m a freak of nature,” Tiphaine said, and then gave a momentary death’s-head smile. “Also, Diomede doesn’t scare them and I do—I killed a lot of their daddies or grand-daddies in Lady Sandra’s purges after the Protector’s War. No, sliding John into the chain of command is a good idea.”

  “And Mother probably wants him to get some field command experience,” Órlaith said thoughtfully. “He did fine on our trip to South Westria after Reiko’s sword, but that was all small-scale. But will we be able to pry him loose from this new bride of his?”

  D’Ath sat, and so did Órlaith; Heuradys remained standing at parade rest, which happened to be the best position for a quick draw-and-strike with a longsword.

  “That’s not quite the problem,” the Grand Marshal said. “It’s more a matter of what she’ll do.”

  “I thought she was pregnant?”

  “She is. Somewhere between three and four months, so that she’ll be well recovered by the time you sail for the fall campaign.”

  “Ah, not the excessively maternal type.”

  “No more than I am. Sorry, Herry.”

  “Why apologize for the truth?” Heuradys said.

  Órlaith went on: “What’s she like, then?”

  “She reminds me a little of me at that age.”

  “Murderous? Ambitious?” Heuradys said. “Murderously ambitious?”

  D’Ath leaned over and poked her in the jerkin. “Mannerless whelp. But yes, to a certain extent. She keeps herself close. Delia likes her, but . . .”

  “Mom likes most people,” Heuradys said.

  “Unlike me, but I like her too . . . respect her, rather.”

  Órlaith frowned. Who John married wasn’t really her business, not on a personal level, but it would affect things that were her concern all her life.

  “I’ll have to make an occasion to have a chat,” she said.

  “You can look her over and make your own judgment,” d’Ath agreed.

  “And vice versa, Mom,” Heuradys said.

  “That too,” Órlaith agreed. “It’s a two-way process.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Well, aren’t you the big girl! Pip thought, settling herself into the comfortable armchair and looking at Órlaith where she stood at her ease. And now we get a chance to chat; the welcoming banquet was just a bit formal.

  Her new sister-in-law and prospective High Queen was a full five inches taller than her own very respectable five-six and moved with an unconscious gliding dancer’s gracefulness and stood with a tensile readiness that said . . .

  Oh, bloody dangerous, this one! Her heels never touch the ground hard when she walks, even. And Miss Henchwoman behind her is another of the same. Delia’s daughter . . . looks a little like her . . . a little like her very theoretical husband the Count via that turkey-baster people gossip about. . . .

  Órlaith gave an impression of being almost slender, until you looked closer, or at things like the way her forearms flowed into her hands without much of an indent at the wrists. The kilt she wore—the pleated knee-length skirt-like philabeg, not the enormous blanket-like Great Kilt—and the plaid pinned at the shoulder with a gold-and-rubies broach done in swirling Celtic knotwork, the loose drawstring linen shirt and knit knee-hose and buckled shoes . . . it all looked indecently comfortable, even compared to the maternity kirtle she was wearing herself.

  But a bit drafty, outside, even with a coat. Surprising people took the style up in a cold damp place like this . . . on the other hand, think of Skye, think of Lewis, think of bloody Caithness, think of a place even bleaker and colder than bleak, cold and dank merry sodding England.

  She had an excuse for taking the chair, since she was definitely starting to have more symptoms of her condition. Lady Delia had cheerfully told her they were entirely normal and would get worse, along with slightly swollen legs and intense sleepiness at odd moments.

  And gigantic, very sensitive tits, and rolfing unpredictably though that’s dying down at last, thank God, and peeing at unbelievably frequent intervals. And I must admit, it would all be more difficult in Townsville’s climate. I cannot imagine Mummy doing this at all, even once. It’s . . . so . . . inelegant. But then, chopping people up with kukri knives
was messy too, and she did that quite a bit.

  The room was medium-sized, part of a suite for the heir to Montival that covered two floors of the Silver Tower, with its own interior staircases and ingenious arrangements that let the exterior access be quickly cut off, and speaking-tubes extending upward and down. A pine-scented fire crackled in the hearth and spat occasional sparks against a screen, and what appeared to be a large painting of leaves and branches occupied most of one wall; if you looked closely you could see disturbing-looking faces peering out of it. Below it was a low rectangular table, with two six-inch statuettes on it—a blue-robed woman who was not the Virgin Mary . . . or maybe in a way was . . . and a man with the head and antlers of an elk, caught in the middle of an ecstatic dance.

  There were a few other things on the table: a dagger, a chalice, a book bound in glossy brown leather, what looked like a wand . . .

  Because it is a wand, stupid!

  . . . and a little censer that held a stub of incense that gave the air a slight tang under the smells of furniture-wax and books and the fire and the gaslights.

  “My aunt Fiorbhinn—aunt on my father’s side, his younger half-sister Fiorbhinn Loring Mackenzie—did that,” Órlaith said, nodding her head towards the painting behind the altar.

  Juniper Mackenzie’s second husband had been English, and of the Loring family, who were of Norman blood . . . though of a much more dutiful and law-abiding and usually rather poorer variety than the Balwyns, of whom they were distant cousins.

  “Fiorbhinn’s the mystic in the family in that generation. And an artist and a filí, the Mackenzies say. Which is as pretentious as troubadour in its way, but there you are.”

  “You’re not a Mackenzie yourself?” Pip asked. “I thought you were. There’s the kilt, and you talk that way.”

  Although not as strongly as Juniper does, and in a slightly different way.

  “Well, I am more or less, but I didn’t grow up there full-time the way my father did—I and my sibs pretty well got to choose what we’d call ourselves.”

  “Johnnie says you moved about a lot.”

  “Ah, with his trademark whinge, I’ve no doubt. Actually he enjoyed it—what child doesn’t like camping out a bit and seeing strange sights?”

  Pip snorted; she had an instinctive urge to spring to his defense, but John did have a tendency to act put-upon at times.

  Though after meeting his family, I understand it better. Talk about your strong personalities! Aloud she went on:

  “And filí means, precisely? Some sort of musician? Or magician? Or both?”

  “Both; a sacred bard, more or less; pretty much what Deor’s folk mean by scop.”

  “Deor’s . . . well, I suppose he is a magician, of sorts. Which turned out to be damned useful. Just not the pointy-hat, throwing-fireballs sort.”

  “Fiorbhinn’s very like that; of course, she and Deor both studied with Grandma Juniper. You may have noticed how his Mist Hills people are about the ancient Saxons . . . as far as they’re concerned they are the ancient Saxons . . . and the way the Associates are always dropping in bits of Old French into things—” Órlaith said.

  “Bother and bugger, have I! It’s like going swimming with the Lady of the Lake! And then Richard the Lionheart stops by for tea . . . with the Count of Campscapell, no doubt.”

  That was a bit snide; there was a legend that Richard had loved men, which was not necessarily true. The Count of Campscapell most definitely was that way, in a very manly-muscular, battle-scars and butch finery sort of manner. Associate garb actually leant itself to that, with its macho peacockery of tight hose and padded crotches.

  “Mackenzies are like that about things Celtic—a broad term from which they grab bits and serve them up blended like an Irish stew. Grandmother Juniper says it used to bother her. . . .”

  “It wasn’t her idea? Because she’s quite Celtic.”

  “She comes by it honestly; Highlander on her father’s side a long ways back and a mother who grew up speaking Erse on Achill Island in Ireland. Things were . . . looser here then, the Change had jellified everything and it took a while to firm up in new shapes.”

  Órlaith touched her kilt and plaid. “These started with a warehouse full of blankets they salvaged and then they took it up as a uniform, more or less. But she eventually learned to . . . go with the flow, as she puts it. Fiorbhinn, now, she wears a filí’s robe, the idea for which she got out of a book . . . what did Juniper call it . . . a D&D player’s manual . . . when she was a little girl.”

  Pip blinked, calling up a memory. “Oh, that game they used to play?”

  It had been a game about the sort of thing her mother and Pete and Fifi had actually done as salvagers under Royal Warrant in reality, minus the eldritch elements . . . which seemed to have crept in too by the time Pip took the Silver Surfer north from Darwin.

  Though I did eventually send her home with a really fabulous cargo . . . wish I could have seen Pete and Fifi’s faces when they saw it and read: For your trouble! I’m off to marry a handsome Prince. . . .

  “Is she as spooky as your grandmother Juniper?”

  Órlaith grinned. “As spooky? That’s a judgment call; I’ve seen Grandmother do some very spooky things indeed. I’d be after saying Fiorbhinn’s more showy about it.”

  The rest of the walls were mostly in polished-wood bookshelves crowded with volumes both pre- and post-Change . . .

  I’ve managed to stop saying Blackout to myself, Pip thought. Next thing you know I’ll be able to say vassal without wanting to slap a knee and roll about laughing.

  . . . and maps and folios and very elegant versions of filing cabinets, all looking as if they’d been well-used. Armchairs and a desk with a typewriter and tables with more documents and books heaped on them made up most of the rest of the furniture. The invitation from the newly-arrived Crown Princess to drop by for refreshments and chitchat had been a politely worded summons, and it pointedly hadn’t included the Crown Princess’ brother John.

  As she watched, Órlaith unbuckled her sword belt . . .

  Make that the “belt of the capital T, capital S, The Sword,” Pip thought, uneasily eyeing the . . . Yes, yes, it’s a bloody enchanted sword! And Empress Reiko has one too! It’s The Castle of the Magical Swords!

  Looking at the Sword of the Lady, you couldn’t tell, there wasn’t any glow or humming of magical tunes . . . but somehow you most assuredly could tell.

  God, how Uncle Pete would love this! I hope I get a chance to tell Aunt Fifi what her native Oregon is like these days!

  Heuradys d’Ath took it, carefully holding the arrangement of heavy tooled black leather and stainless-steel buckles and fittings so that no part of the weapon or its sheath touched her; the henchwoman looked like a nine-tenths version of Órlaith below the neck, except that she was in hose and houppelande, and above it you could see the resemblance to Delia de Stafford and the Count of Campscapell, whom she’d briefly met.

  And there’s a certain family likeness to Tiphaine, too, but that’s biologically imposs— No, wait. It’s really in the way she moves and some of her expressions. Training and early exposure, I suppose. Though I’m pretty sure she’s straight. And my oath, I bet she’d be fast in a fight.

  D’Ath spoke to Toa. “Want to go into the next room and have a beer and hash over the hunt Mom Two told me about? She says you’re not going to leave a boar alive in the Columbia Valley if this keeps up. We can exchange lies and brags.”

  “You’re a hunter like yer Mum?” Toa said.

  D’Ath grinned. “Oh, yes. I’ve been hunting demon-possessed Korean cannibals just lately, but boar are more fun and more tasty.”

  “How do you know about the way the Korean cannibals taste?” Toa asked politely, and snorted at her touché gesture.

  “We’ve got tiger here, as well, if you like something a bit more b
itey.”

  “Got ’em in Townsville and around Darwin too—and lions in the drier parts, and cheetahs and giraffes and elephants and every bloody thing. I blame Werribee Open Range Zoo.”

  “I must go there someday!” Heuradys replied; then added seriously: “You can relax. There’s no other way into this chamber besides the door. Except through several feet of concrete and steel.”

  Toa snorted. “You hope, right?”

  “This overgrown termite farm of a castle is lousy with secret passages and hidden chambers, like a bad chanson with masked villains popping out from behind the tapestries every third verse and brandishing daggers, but there aren’t any here.”

  Toa glanced at Pip, leaning on his broad-bladed spear, and she nodded; everything in here did look very solid. The two walked out through the far door, which had a pointed arch carved in low relief with acanthus leaves. It was left open, but the distances made anyone overhearing them unlikely unless they shouted.

  “You may have heard what the Sword can do,” Órlaith said as she settled down across the low stone-slab table with its wrought-bronze legs. “It’s out of range now.”

  “I’ve heard that it lets you tell when someone’s telling porkies?” Pip asked. “And now I’m free to fabricate? Liberated to lie? Empowered to equivocate?”

  “Yes,” Órlaith said, and grinned. “Porkies . . . I like that. When you’re wearing the Sword . . .”

  “You mean when you’re wearing the sword. I notice that your, ah, knight there didn’t touch it.”

  “It probably wouldn’t harm her. But we did have a case of someone trying to steal it, when I was a girl. There were people who didn’t really believe in it, back then.”

  “And?”

  “The guards rushed in when they heard the screaming; they said afterwards he used it.”

  “Used it on them?”

  “On himself. You wouldn’t think a man could cut off three of his own limbs, even with that sword . . . it’s got an indestructible edge like a glass razor, by the way . . . but apparently he managed to manage it, so you might say. Since then we’ve been cautious. The guards are to keep fools away from it, not to guard it from them. You might say the alternate name is Foolkiller Sword.”