I should think! There’s a fool who came a gutser and no mistake.
“But if you’re one of my blood . . . my mother and my sibs . . . if you touch or wear the Sword, you can tell if someone is trying to deceive you. Though if they really believe they can walk on water, you’ll hear the sincerity, not the insanity. Someone . . .”
Her mouth twisted. “Someone who had his mind tampered with got quite close to me lately. I couldn’t tell because he didn’t know.”
“What happened?”
“I nearly died . . . and he did. He died well, at the end, but he’s still dead.”
Alan Thurston, Pip thought with a chill. Who I met thousands of miles away . . . if distance applies to the place we were.
Órlaith shook herself and continued more lightly: “And irony and jokes can be sort of ambiguous.”
“But not a direct question?” Pip said. And to herself:
Good grief, what a bonus for a merchant!
“Then there’s nothing anyone can do but tell the truth as they know it or lapse into a telling silence. My father warned me before I . . . inherited it . . . that you had to be careful about using it. He left it on the stand as much as he could.”
“You suffered some disillusionments?” Pip guessed.
When you think about it, absolutely knowing when people were trying to put one over on you could make human relationships a bit difficult.
“Some, but fewer than you might think; folk here in Montival have known about the Sword since before I was born, and that my parents would wear it when they were giving judgment or the like. The flatterers and would-be corrupt placemen betook themselves elsewhere.”
Probably the Court with the lowest arse-kisser quota in human history! she thought, her mind racing through the implications. Órlaith went on:
“There were some disappointed hopes. For example I learned that Herry”—she nodded to the doorway, and Pip realized she meant the knight, Heuradys—“really does love me like a sister . . . like an impulse-ridden younger sister who’s occasionally not fit to be let out without a keeper. And here I thought she was exaggerating. Or hoped so.”
Pip snorted. “Sounds bloody useful. What was your father warning you about?”
“That it’s an invitation to be a bad bachlach of a bully nobody feels safe around,” Órlaith said. “And to feel righteous about it, which is worse, and to go sour on the human race in general. One of the few times I saw my da really lose his temper was when a man jumped off a castle tower rather than face him carrying the Sword; what angered him was that others laughed about it.”
I’d be tempted to laugh, too, I suppose . . . if I didn’t know or didn’t like the man. On the other hand, if he was a decent sort who’d just made one mistake . . . or was afraid of being asked about something really private . . .
Órlaith nodded, following her thought: “If you can’t fib or even shade things to someone as powerful as a monarch, you have no defenses at all.”
“Ah. And people couldn’t hide what they felt about you which would— Goodness, that would be . . . what was the word . . . a negative feedback cycle!”
There was a collation on the table between them: actual tea and coffee over spirit lamps, finger food and a bottle of wine in a cooler. Pip poured herself a glass, and one for Órlaith when she got a nod. Suddenly she felt quite hungry, which was a switch for today, and she slid several of the oysters arrayed on a bed of crushed ice into her mouth—they were small and had an intense, almost coppery flavor that all at once tasted ambrosial—took a bite of the brown bread that went with them, and loaded a plate with some of the spiced liverwurst on rye, deviled eggs, and bits of this and that.
“I noticed you were off your feed a bit at that banquet—the boredom at official functions here is paralyzing, but the food’s good,” Órlaith said as Pip leaned back and began to daintily shovel it in.
“This preggers thing does very odd things to my appetite,” Pip said. “I suppose I’m not supposed to call you Your Highness in private?”
“Órlaith will do, or Orrey if you prefer,” Órlaith said; the name was actually pronounced Ooor-lah, more or less. “Since we’re sisters. Not that I want you pulling my hair, or bursting into tears and shouting you hate me before you run out of the room, which Vuissance did once.”
Then she sighed. “I envy you the baby . . . just a wee bit, you understand.”
“You can have the chundering twice a day,” Pip said with a shudder. “Though that’s dying down, thank God.”
Órlaith did a little friendly nibbling to keep her company—unlike Pip she’d done the banquet full justice—and sipped at her wine, politely waiting for the hormonally-stoked hunger pangs to be satisfied.
“So, you’ll understand one of the advantages of the Sword is that you can sum someone up faster and more reliably,” she said when Pip progressed to the cherry-tarts and miniature apple-cinnamon pastries with clotted cream and hazelnuts. “Like getting a running commentary on what they say and what they mean, and triangulating from there.”
Pip felt a prickle of alarm. “You have a summation of me, Órlaith?”
Another of those grins; friendly enough, but with a hard edge.
“Yes. I’m thinking you’re a ruthless bitch of the purest water, and that you weren’t a pirate before you got trapped in that Baru Denpasar place . . . not quite.”
Pip felt herself bristle, and fought it down. “I was in a slightly edgy line of work,” she observed. “And I didn’t end up slightly dead, either.”
Órlaith laughed. “You’re talking to Norman Arminger’s granddaughter here, Pip. You’ve been here for weeks, you must know what that means.”
Pip put her head to one side. “You don’t seem to be as upset about that as Johnnie. He wallows in it slightly, now and then.”
Órlaith shrugged. “Johnnie’s a Catholic. Guilt comes naturally to him,” she said. “I’m a witch, and we don’t.”
Pip chuckled; she could see the point. It had never taken with her, but then she was the descendant of a long line of titled scoundrels on her mother’s side, and Scots colonial adventurers . . . or plunderers . . . on her father’s, and she was Anglican Rite.
“And Norman is dead. He was a bad man who did much evil and would have been and done worse if he’d lived. But if he’d never been, or died in the Change, this”—she rotated her wineglass in a slow circle—“would be ruins and bones. And Mike Havel, my other grandfather, was a hero . . . but also a very hard man. Honorable, but hard, a bad man to cross and a bad enemy to have, as many found out to their loss and cost and often enough the cost was their lives. Norman Arminger among them! This world we’ve been given is not for those who can’t be hard and use a hard hand, at need.”
“John’s a fighter too,” Pip said. “I saw that the hour we first met, when I sailed the Silver Surfer out to rescue the Tarshish Queen from the Pallid Mask’s men, in the harbor at Baru Denpasar.”
“Ah, but that’s not quite the same thing, is it now? I don’t doubt Johnnie was brave as a lion—before we got separated at Topanga, I saw him in action against the Eaters in San Francisco.”
Biters, Pip thought; that was the Australian term.
“And in the desert countries south of that. And he’s grown up, just a bit, while he was off on his adventures.”
“There . . . really wasn’t much choice, where he was . . . trapped,” Pip said slowly. “If he hadn’t stood fast, he’d have been dead, or mad, or a puppet of . . . the King in Yellow demon . . . god . . . whatever the bloody hell it was.”
Órlaith nodded. “And glad I am to see that, and thankful for your role in it, for I love him dearly even if I ruffle him a bit at times. But speaking of choices, you got yourself before a priest with Johnnie with effortless ease, and he slippery as a greased pig about commitment since he started showing an interest in girls . . . which
he did rather early. Many a one clutched hard at him, but he slipped free with a sad squeal, until you caught him.”
“We’re in love,” Pip said, with a slight edge of frost. “You’ll know that’s true.”
“Yes, it is. . . . Which is why we’re having this nice friendly conversation, eh? He’s not stupid in any way or form, our Johnnie, but around you he’s like a steer in a slaughterhouse just after the man with the sledgehammer has done his business. Mind, I’ve seen him the same way before, but never struck so hard . . . and never to the point of the altar.”
Pip sipped at the wine, keeping her voice under careful control. It was another of those delicious flinty whites.
“That’s . . . interesting. So, you don’t mind your little brother being hitched to a ruthless bitch?”
“To a very intelligent ruthless bitch who does love him . . . and has his interests, which are to say her interests, at heart?”
“Well, I’m glad you think I’m intelligent.”
“You told the truth about your background . . . though with a few sins of omission, eh? That was intelligent. And you genuinely love Johnnie. That’s pretty much what he needs, I think. And you did save his life . . . or his soul, at the same time. So I think that perhaps we’ll be friends when we have the time, and that in the meantime we’re going to be able to do useful work together, eh? For the family business you’ve married into.”
“Right,” Pip said. “And what particular work did you have in mind?”
“Why, the war west-over-sea, of course.”
“Why not speak directly to John?”
“I will; he’ll be appalled to learn he’s to command the Association contingent. A great many ironclad men-at-arms and valorous, troublesome ironheaded noblemen.”
Pip blinked. “Is he ready for that?” she said. “He’s quite young. . . .”
“And you no older. But yes, he’s been trained to it all his life, no less than I. And he’ll have able help for the technical side of things; Diomede d’Ath, Heuradys’ brother, will be his chief of staff.”
“Will that be a problem?”
“With some it might be, but with Diomede . . . no. What he’ll most need to do, and need the most help with, is to keep the nobles in order, and they mostly young men eager for accomplishment . . . glory and fame and honor. They’ll snap at one another, and at John if he allows it. He’ll need your help and advice, and you’ll need to have all the feuds and alliances of the Associate Houses at your fingertips for that.”
“Lady Delia will have all that in detail,” Pip said. “And will be glad to fill me in, I’m a quick study . . . and you’ll be there too, won’t you?”
“Yes. But he’s used to having me hector him to get off his arse and work, and to be sure in the past I’ve been a trifle . . . tactless about it, now and then. So there are times he just lets it roll off him, like hail off a turtle, so.”
Big sister bullied him and stormed in and told him to shut down the music and stop the party and buckle down, Pip translated. Perhaps with justification, perhaps without, but that stops now, big sister.
“John’s a very able man,” Pip said carefully. “And he’s a young man, but not a boy any longer.”
Then her hand moved to her belly. “And he’s going to be Lord Protector here.”
And my daughter . . . or son, I suppose . . . is going to be Protector after him. Let everyone be very sure of that.
“And that’s the very point!” Órlaith said. “He’s a grown man with a baby on the way, and I can’t tell him what to do anymore . . . well, no, I actually can tell him what to do, but as High Queen, not his sister. I have to back off on that now, or I’ll put his back up and there’ll be friction we can’t afford. It’s one of the drawbacks of monarchy that it’s all tied up with who threw who’s doll out the window in the nursery, I suppose. But since you come to it fresh, and you’re John’s partner in all things . . .”
Pip’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I’m sort of tied down,” she pointed out, patting herself.
“Not after . . . say, the late summer.”
“Are you encouraging me to neglect my maternal responsibilities?” Pip said . . . lightly.
“Pshaw. You’re the partner of a Prince, nobody expects you to wash the baby’s clouts yourself, or even nurse her, necessarily—up here in the north-realm wet-nurses are a common custom. And you’re John’s true partner now—the child sort of, ummm, symbolizes it. And fatherhood will be a duty nobody imposes on John but himself; I’ve noticed he’s better at those.”
Pip stopped, closed her mouth. She’s telling me she wants me to be John’s active partner in whatever command he gets, she thought.
“Well, and I wouldn’t have pegged you as a temptress . . . Orrey.”
Pip finished her wine and switched to the Hawaiian coffee. “Let’s go into more detail. For example, Lady Delia loves children.”
“And she’s good at it, too, so—”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LOST LAKE
CROWN FOREST DEMESNE
(FORMERLY NORTH-CENTRAL OREGON)
HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL
(FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)
JUNE 20TH
CHANGE YEAR 47/2045 AD
(PLACES OUT OF SPACE, AND TIME)
“Are you absolutely sure, Mother?” Órlaith Arminger Mackenzie asked.
“My darling, when have you known me to be unsure about a decision of State after I’ve announced it? I won’t say I’m always right, but I don’t open my mouth about it at all unless I’m at least sure.”
It was the end of a clear warm day, the first day of summer, which meant it was still a bit chilly here in the forested uplands of the Low Cascades north of Mount Hood, chill, but not cold enough to make their breath smoke. The wind fluttered her shoulder-length hair beneath her Mackenzie bonnet, the bleaching of tropic suns fading to let the natural deep yellow with just a hint of fire show. It was much the same shade as red alder leaves turned in the fall, and there were plenty of those around now, still bright green against the darker shades of the Douglas fir and cedar, mountain hemlock and white pine.
To breathe that air was like drinking meltwater off a glacier, and it was full of the smells of pine and fir-sap, and the pungent beginnings of woodsmoke, but she was comfortable as it fluttered the edge of the plaid slung over her shoulder and the pleated knee-length kilt. It was all homelike, after Hawaiʻi and the southern oceans, and she’d be leaving soon.
Best to take a taste of home with me.
The sky was an aching blue, save for a band where the setting sun made crimson streaks westward across the little clearing and turned the great perfect cone of Mount Hood to gold and copper southward. A bald eagle went by in majesty not far overhead, and a pair of ravens larger than any she’d ever seen kept watch from a nearby branch.
And there were many other places in Montival as beautiful or perhaps even more so, according to an individual’s tastes.
What a land of glories this kingdom of ours is, a land fit for heroes and Gods and giants!
But this was as close as anyone who wasn’t of the line of the High Kings, or their handfasted mate, could come to Lost Lake now. Her father and mother had bound that place to themselves, to the blood they bore and mingled, to the land and the Powers that warded it, with the Sword of the Lady. Nobody had approached even this fringe of it since the Kingmaking, at the founding of Montival.
Guards weren’t necessary to enforce that. Something about this place turned the mind and eye and foot aside unless the time and the person was right; it wasn’t hostile, but these woods and waters were . . . other. You had to be some distance away before you could even find it on a map.
“For a war like this, far overseas, we need a High Queen regnant, the High King’s heir, one who’s sworn to the land,” soon-to-be Queen Mother Mathilda Arm
inger said and nodded crisply.
And one who doesn’t have an Associate’s dagger, passed between them unspoken. Reluctantly, I think she’s right about that.
Her round middle-aged face was lined with grief, olive-hued against the snowy white of a linen wimple bound with a chain of platinum and diamond and ruby, and her healthy but slightly stout form was wrapped in an ankle-length robe lined with ermine over a simple dagg-sleeved kirtle of fine cream-colored wool bound by a metal-link belt that bore a tooled-leather purse . . . and her Associate’s dagger.
With a wry grin she continued. “Don’t worry, daughter of mine, I won’t dump all the administrative details on you right away! You’ll be off west-over-sea with your friends again as soon as the grain’s ground and baked, and I’ll be finding the barrels of hardtack and the catapult-bolts and boxes of water-purification pills. And the money, and tearing my hair out when some small-town newspaper says something particularly stupid.”
“I’d like to be able to stay longer, with you and the sibs—”
“No, you wouldn’t, no matter how much you’ll miss us while you’re away,” her mother said dryly, with a slight twist of the lips. “I remember being your age and having great tasks to do, my darling, and dreams burning like fire in the heart. The only real reason you came back at all was to get more troops, of which there’s no shortage clamoring to join you.”
Órlaith spread her hands in a rueful gesture. “It’s been a long time since the Prophet’s War.”
Mathilda snorted. “Not just young idiots, either; plenty my age. And I had to take you by the ear to make you stay long enough for this.”
“Half-true, Mother!” Órlaith said. “I’ve seen wonders and terrors and things beautiful and strange abroad, and made good friends, but there’s nothing grander than this Montival of ours that you and Father built.”
Mathilda shook her head. “We led the building, yes, but it was the fruit of many hands, and hearts, and minds”—she crossed herself—“and the will of God.”
The Sky-Blue Wolves Page 19