Chapter Nineteen

Castle Ath, Tualatin Valley, Oregon

March 16th, 2008/Change Year 9

T his is sort of cool," Rudi said. "I like this better than Todenangst already."

Then he looked over at the girl beside him. "And your folks really didn't want to send you away, you know. They're just busy. That happens with my mom sometimes, and your mom and dad have a lot more to look after."

Mathilda wiped her forearm over her eyes and smiled. "Yeah, I know. Sometimes it just sucks when your parents have jobs like that, doesn't it?"

"Oh, tell me," Rudi said. He waved at the huge dappled stretch of countryside. "This is great, though."

"Well, I think it's even better from the Dark Tower at Castle Todenangst," Mathilda said judiciously. "But this isn't bad."

"That's the only thing I really don't like about home," Rudi said. "Even from the gatehouse towers, all you can see is the meadow and the mountains. But that's sort of the point-it's hard to get at."

Mathilda frowned slightly. "Then why do our castles have such great views?"

"I remember something Sir Nigel said," Rudi said. "Castles aren't just for stopping someone attacking you. They're bases to go out and fight people and control places, and for that you have to see the ground around."

"We sure can!" she grinned, tapping the heavy tripod-mounted binoculars.

They'd graced some tourist lookout-point once. Now they were part of a surveillance and message system that linked most of the Protectorate's castles, from here to Walla Walla and north to Puget Sound.

"Yeah, it's like being a god or an angel or something, with these."

They had a box to stand on, which let them reach the eyepieces, and a helper-what they called a varlet here-to move the tripod around for them.

The forty feet of the tower and the two hundred and fifty of the hill gave a splendid view of a countryside that was subtly different from what he was used to, looking like a painting tinted with old gold as the sun dipped towards the Coast Range westward. He could see two villages from here, with their houses and barns, worksheds and mills, surrounded by truck plots. Further out each had a set of five large fields; winter wheat, spring oats or barley, roots like turnips or potatoes, and two in clover for grazing and hay. Strips within each marked family holdings; there were meadows beside the rivers, and the vineyards and orchards mostly where pre-Change convenience had put them; manor houses had a big farm attached, the demesne. The main roads were well kept; potholes patched with asphalt, gravel and grading maintained on the smaller ones.

A train of ox-drawn wagons loaded with unknown boxes and sacks passed in the middle distance, heading south towards the railway stop there. Heading north was a troop of half a dozen horsemen; he looked through the glasses and saw it was a knight in bright tunic and tooled leather with golden spurs on his heels and a peregrine on his wrist. Beside him was a lady riding with divided skirts and embroidered leggings showing beneath, as gaudy and as haughty, bearing a goshawk; as he watched she unhooded it and the bird mantled, wings splayed for an instant before it leapt skyward in a torrent of strokes.

Rudi sighed; and again when he pivoted the binoculars westward. Barely two miles in that direction was trackless forest. Literally trackless since the hand of man was withdrawn, as lumbering roads were overgrown, and clearcuts sprawled into impenetrable tangles of undergrowth taller than a man through which Douglas fir and hemlock and red cedar saplings pushed. He could:

Nah. Make a realistic threat appraisal, the way Unc' Sam does. I'm a kid. Sure, I'm really, really good in the woods for a kid my age, but they've got some real woodsmen here. And Lady Tiphaine isn't just good, she's scary. They'd catch me and then they'd lock me up all the time. If someone does come to rescue me, that could screw everything up. The Luck of the Clan will help me, if I'm smart and wait for the Lord and Lady. Gotta be like Coyote, always waiting for the right moment for a trick.

The top of the tower was a featureless rectangle, fifty-five feet by forty-five, covered in thick asphalt paving, broken only by the trapdoor and a metal chimney in the middle of the eastern side, and by the turntable-mounted throwing engines crouching under their tarpaulins at each corner. They walked over to the western edge and looked down, Mathilda sitting casually in the gap between two merlons, with Rudi leaning by her side. The fighting platform on the inside of the circuit wall ended a dozen feet short of where it joined the tower's second story; the gap was covered by removable footbridges that ended in thick steel doors. A full-scale metal drawbridge joined the ground floor of the tower to the courtyard over a ditch bristling with sharpened, rust-reddened angle iron that surrounded the tower-keep on the inside. The drawbridge was down now, and the gates wide open, but two spearmen stood by the entrance.

Houses and barracks and workshops lined the inside of the wall, along with a chapel, all built in thickly plastered and whitewashed cinderblock, plain and serviceable; there were paved pathways, but most of the courtyard was graveled dirt. Savory smells came from the kitchens; scullions bustled in and out, and outside over pits full of white-glowing oak coals two yearling steers turned on spits, along with shoats, sending wisps of blue smoke skyward as cooks basted and brushed. Others rolled barrels up pairs of beams thrust slantwise through cellar doors. There was a cheerful bustle in and out through the main gates; relief was in the voices as well, for nobody had lost their post, and the new seigneur had ordered a feast on a scale that showed she wasn't the sort to squeeze every silver dime until it squeaked. The tenants and peons would pay for all in the end, but at least the staff would get a good feed out of it.

A female knight was very rare, but not enough to be bizarre or totally unheard-of, even as a fief-holder. And this one had the prestige of rescuing the princess, and capturing none less than the son of the Witch Queen, and having the favor of the Lord Protector and Lady Sandra.

Tiphaine d'Ath was busy at something else, over by the pells and targets where the castle garrison trained. Rudi grinned, and Mathilda did too: one of the men-at-arms froze in midstroke. Even at this distance they could tell how his face went white as new cheese under a weathered tan. The razor tip of his new liege-lady's sword rested very lightly against the throat of his mail coif; a slight push would crush his larynx, or even pierce the mail-she used a sword with a lighter blade and a longer point than most in the Protectorate.

"Not bad," she said, stepping back. "But you can all use some work with the blade, particularly the pointy bit on the end. A hint: it's supposed to go into the other guy. Any of you infantry care to try a bout? You'll have to use a sword sometimes as well as crossbow and spear."

Sir Ivo and Sir Ruffin were grinning as well, where they stood with their shields slung over their backs and their crossed hands resting on the pommels of their own drawn blades. None of the men-at-arms had been able to beat either, even Ruffin with his not-quite-completely recovered left arm, but some of them had lasted more than a few seconds. Then the new Lady of Ath had offered a hundred rose nobles and a promotion to anyone who could beat her:

"Tiphaine made them all look like dancing bears," Mathilda giggled.

"Yeah. She's good," Rudi said; he blinked away a memory of Aoife's neck suddenly running red, and her eyes going wide in shock. "I think maybe Aunt

Astrid's better, and maybe Lord Bear, but maybe not. And she's smart, too. Now they'll all go around boasting about what a swordswoman their new liege is."

Mathilda gave him an odd look. "I thought she was just making them look silly, and they'd hate it," she said.

"Well, yeah, she made them look like clowns. But they don't: you know… feel silly if she's Scathach come again with a sword," he said, blinking a little; he'd thought it was obvious. "Warriors are like that. If their leader can beat them, they want to believe they can beat anyone else easy, and that makes them feel sort of proud. It's a bit funny when you say it out loud, but that's the way it works, I guess here too."

"Yup," she said thoughtfully. "And I suppose 'cause Tiphaine's a girl, she has to show that she's better than anyone real quick."

"Well, yeah, around here, I suppose so. Dumb."

"I wonder if we could get her to tutor us with the sword, while we're here?" Mathilda said, still thoughtful. "Mom said we'd have a tutor for book stuff soon but she didn't say anything about phys-ed. I want to be real good. Like you say, it'll be handy someday. And it's fun anyway."

Matti's no dummy, Rudi thought with approval. A Chief has to think of things like that.

"Her friend Katrina was your tutor, wasn't she?"

"Yup," Mathilda said. "Arms, gymnastics, and riding. I don't know if she was that good-" She nodded towards the exercise ground. "I was only just eight back then, you know, too little to know much. But she and Tiphaine used to spar a lot, and people would come to watch. They did all sorts of things together."

"Like Aoife and Liath," Rudi said absently.

Down below, the row of spearmen and crossbowmen were respectfully declining more practice bouts with Tiphaine d'Ath; several of them were smiling as they did so. She nodded to the two knights, and both of them attacked immediately, not wasting time on preparations beyond unslinging their shields. He leaned over the parapet and wished he were a little closer, absently hooking a hand into the back of Mathilda's belt as she bent forward as well.

There was a fast, violent clash, steel-on-steel and beating in sharp cracks on the big kite-shaped shields, and then Ruffin's blade went flying as a shield edge slammed into his forearm just above the wrist. People dodged the pinwheeling length of sharp metal; sparring with real battle swords was a bit of a show-off thing. But even then they kept looking as Tiphaine drove Ivo before her; at last he leapt forward, trying to knock her back shield-to-shield, and she spun like a dust devil, tripped him neatly and tapped the point of her blade between his shoulders before helping him up.

"Well, not really like that," Mathilda said; then her brows flew up in shocked surmise.

Rudi looked up at her. "Oh? I thought it was probably like that-I can usually tell things about people, you know. But I can't be sure, 'cause I never, like, saw them at the same time."

She frowned, and looked over to see that the varlet was out of hearing distance. When she spoke it was quietly: "You'd better not tell anyone else you think that," she warned. "You could get her into a lot of trouble."

"Oh? Oh, yeah. Sure, no problemo. Tiphaine's not so bad."

Mathilda hesitated. "I'm sorry about Aoife and Liath. They were great, and: I sort of think it was my fault. If I hadn't gone under the trees-"

Rudi let the grief flow through him and past him. "It wasn't your fault, Matti. I mean, we were right there, only a mile and a half from the gates of the dun. Who could have known? Even Uncle Dennis just said not to go beyond the watchpost, and we didn't get that far. Tiphaine and her bunch pulled it off really slick."

The garrison cheered and shouted as they watched the brief, spectacular match, then formed up again; Tiphaine addressed them with her sword blade resting on her right shoulder, and the other hand on her hip, shield with its new blazon hanging off her left by its guige.

"Sir Ivo and Sir Ruffin are damned good. I won't settle for anything but the best in my menie," she said. "So you're all going to be working hard from now on. When the call comes, you're going to be facing pikes and crossbows or Bearkiller lances or Mackenzie longbows, not wooden posts and targets. Anyone who doesn't like the idea can go hire on with someone else, like maybe as bouncers at the Slut and Brew in Portland."

That got a general laugh, and blades flourished in salute. "And now let's get cleaned up before the feast; I don't know whether this gambeson is trying to drown me or marry me, and if I get any hungrier I'm going over there to hack that cow apart personally. Dismissed!"

She sheathed the sword without looking down, then passed weapons belt and shield to one of the varlets. The smile was off her face as she turned to look up at the tower top; the wall was casting shadow over the courtyard, but her hair still burned bright in a stray beam.

Yeah, gonna have to be real careful, Rudi thought, ducking back. She doesn't jool easy.

Then his stomach rumbled; it had been a long while since the picnic lunch in the carriage. Mathilda punched his shoulder.

"Let's get ready for dinner," she said. "I'm clemmed."

"You're gonna have to stop talking like that," Rudi said as they walked over to the head of the stairs. "You sound like a kiltie!"


****

The great dining hall was the whole ground floor of the keep. With no resident lord, it had been used as an armory and storehouse until now, and spears and crossbows still stood racked around the inside of the massive concrete walls. The slight tang of oiled metal was now overlain by the sweet scent of burning fir and the savory smells of roast beef and pork, chicken and duck, vegetables and spiced gravy and fresh wheat bread. There were no openings in the two walls that faced the outer world, and only thin slits for firing through on the pair that overlooked the courtyard through thick ferroconcrete. The inside walls were plain apart from whitewash, and the concrete floors hastily covered with mats of woven straw. Open gates and portcullis let in air grown a little chill with the spring evening, but the stars were many and bright save where the moon hung on the horizon. Torches burned in brackets outside, mostly for show; the bonfires in the courtyard gave both light and warmth to the commons feasting there on tables set on the drawbridge and close by it, sending flights of sparks drifting skyward.

A fire in the great inner hearth kept the room warm despite draughts, thigh-thick fir logs crackling and booming on the iron dogs and making an occasional spit of sparks and sending out a strong, wild scent. Gasoline lanterns hanging from the ferroconcrete beams that crisscrossed above kept it bright; draughts flickered the only hanging in the room, the new banner of Ath hanging behind the high seat. The tables were set up in a T, with chairs at the upper end and benches lower down. Tiphaine sat at the center of the top bar; Mathilda and Rudi had the honor seats on her right, with Ivo and Ruffin and their soon-to-be wives just beyond; the priest of Ath, Father Peter, sat on her left along with the captain of the men-at-arms and his wife and two of their older children. Beyond the big gilt ceremonial saltcellar that marked off those of lower rank sat the ordinary men-at-arms and their families, below them the other soldiers of the garrison, their families, the primary officers of the estate and their families.

The steward was on his feet, directing carvers and servers and pourers with a white wand in his hand; a yearling shoat with an apple in its mouth stood on one stand, and a quarter of beef on another, smoking and cooling a bit before the carving.

Father Peter was a slightly plump young man with a friendly looking face; he stood and said a long grace, ending with a blessing on the Lord Protector, the Defender of the Faith, and Pope Leo. When he sat again the new overlord of Ath stood in her turn. Silence fell amid the crowded tables, and an instant later from those outside the tower gate as well, broken only by the crackle and pop of burning resinous wood. When she spoke, it was in a clear cold voice that carried without being particularly loud.

"The Portland Protective Association, through the Lord Protector and Lady Sandra, have granted seizin of this domain of Ath and its manors to me and my heirs, as tenants-in-chief, with the right of the high justice"-which meant she could hang-"the middle"-which meant she could imprison and flog-"and the low." That meant fines and extra service.

"To all the folk of the Domain of Ath I promise fair justice and good lordship, defense against attack to the limit of my strength, and punishment of wrongdoers. From them I expect due loyalty and service. I will take what the law of the Association allows, neither more nor less."

She gave a quick sidelong glance at the two knights who would hold part of it for her, and then down the table at the garrison and the officers who would carry out her will.

"And so will everyone else," she said, a slight note of warning in a tone gone flat. "I will not tolerate insolence from underlings; nor will I tolerate their mistreatment by any in my service, whether on the rolls of the Association or not."

After a moment's delay there was a cheer from the lower table, and from those seated outside. Tiphaine judged the tone and cocked an eye at the steward, who kept his face carefully blank; doubtless he was reassessing any scams he had running. She went on: "While I'm at it, we have the Princess Mathilda here as our guest, entrusted to the care of the Domain of Ath by the Lord Protector himself. This is an honor I'm sure we'll all strive to deserve."

You'd better, her tone added. Every one of you.

"And also with us is Rudi Mackenzie, son of the Chieftain of the Clan Mackenzie-"

She hesitated as Rudi came to his feet and bowed slightly to her. "Thank you, Lady dAth," he said, his treble loud and steady. "I also honor the Lady of Ath for her care of me in: ummm: difficult circumstances. I swear by: " He cocked an eye at the priest. ": by my holy things and by hers that I will not try to escape from her lands until the war ends, or my people come for me, so long as I stay here with the princess."

There was silence and a murmur after that; Tiphaine bowed, but the pale gray eyes narrowed slightly in the strong-boned impassive face; he knew she'd noticed the careful reservations in his oath.

"Thank you, young lord. As you mentioned, there is unfortunately war between the Association and the Clan and its allies at present. Therefore our other guest will be treated with all respect, but let no man allow Rudi Mackenzie beyond the gates of this castle, save with my immediate leave on each occasion, and with such escort as I order."

But I bet I'd wouldn't have been allowed out of the tower at all if I hadn't promised, Rudi thought, keeping any satisfaction off his face.

Tiphaine inclined her head again, beckoning to a guard and murmuring in his ear before she raised her glass and went on: "To the Portland Protective Association, to the Lord Protector, to my liege the Lady Sandra. May God and the Saints have them in their keeping. And to our spiritual father, Pope Leo, and to Holy Mother Church, our guides on the path of salvation."

Everyone rose and lifted their glasses; except Rudi, of course, who politely stood but left the small glass by his plate. Tiphaine raised one pale brow and shrugged very slightly as she saw the untouched wine.

Ruffin's voice boomed out in the pause that followed the toast: "And to our noble liege and good leader, Tiphaine d'Ath, God bless her!"

"And on that note, let's eat," Tiphaine said, and sat down to cheers.

A hum of conversation followed, and the steward's voice: "My lady, here we have a soup of pickled clams, black cod, and smoked dried shrimp with seal-lions, mushrooms and ginger," he announced. "With it, we have a chilled pinot gris from your manor of Montinore, and beaten biscuits with new butter."

"Mmm, thanks!" Rudi said to the servant who put the bowl before him. He blew on a spoonful and swallowed; Dun Juniper wasn't well placed for fish, except mountain trout. "That's good."

The server was a friendly looking girl in her late teens, slender, with long black hair and clear blue eyes and freckles across high cheekbones above a tip-tilted nose; she seemed a little surprised that he'd talk to her, and gave him a broad white smile before she moved on. She wore a double t-tunic, the longer green one to her ankles and the shorter russet-colored over-tunic to her thighs, both of good wool woven in a herringbone pattern, and over both a black linen tabard embroidered with the new arms of the Lady d'Ath. The belt under it was embroidered cloth as well, and skillfully done.

Tiphaine noticed the clothing as the servant ladled soup into her bowl, glancing aside and then up at her face, and then at the tabard again.

"That's fine needlework, girl," she said. "Your own hand?"

Rudi listened without seeming to. That was a trick his mother had taught him; you just let the information flow in, without straining or trying to stop it in your head. And he was in a place where he had to know everything he could, for his life's sake.

"Yes, my lady, thank you," she said, casting her eyes down after meeting the landholder's for a moment.

"And done quickly, to get my arms on the tabard with only a few days' notice."

The girl looked up again and smiled shyly. "People are always telling me I should slow down, so they'll be something weft when old age looms. But I just needle them more, so they lose the thread."

Tiphaine d'Ath gave a snort of startled laughter, then looked at the tunics. "The pun's bad but the weaving's good. Is that yours as well?"

"My own and my sisters', my lady. My mother wove before the Change, and she taught us."

"What's your name? Are you with the castle staff?"

"I'm Delia Mercer, my lady; my father keeps your mill in Montinore village as free tenant, and I serve three days a week for half the year as part of my family's boon-work. Usually in the manor house there."

Tiphaine made a noncommittal sound and nodded, and the girl moved on. When she had, the Association noble turned to the cleric on her left.

"Having that girl serving at table is a waste, Father Peter," she said. "I noticed that some of the bond-tenants and a lot of the peons here don't have enough to wear, if they're in rags when the new lord shows up. We grow enough flax and shear enough wool, from the books; I want every family to have enough to wash and dry a set while they're wearing one. Two sets of working clothes and a best outfit for Church or weddings or funerals; nothing fancy, but not rags either. And underdrawers. Filth breeds disease and I won't tolerate it on my land. Men without warm clothing can't work as well in bad weather, either."

"Very true, my lady. The free-tenants and many of the bond-tenants already do well enough, but the rest, and the peons: The, ah, policy of the steward was to sell most of the demesne yield of wool and flax to realize the profit to the domain in cash."

That meant it had been the Lord Protector's policy, probably, unless the steward wanted the sales to produce a cash flow so he could subtract a share. Tiphaine ate a biscuit and then crumbled another in her fingers as she thought.

"False economy, and against the Association's local self-sufficiency policy. Plus, typhus is no respecter of persons, and besides, it's a waste not to have the peon girls working at something in the slack seasons. I'll buy the extra spinning wheels and looms in Forest Grove or Portland if we don't have a carpenter who can make them, and we can run classes when the harvest's in; we'll use one of the tithe barns. From the look of it, Delia's mother would be a good teacher."

"I'm afraid she's dead, poor soul. Late last year. I think it was cancer, but I'm not sure. It was a hard passing. Her father borrowed more than they could afford for drugs-for the pain, you see." The priest crossed himself. Tiphaine repeated the gesture; there wasn't much anyone could do about cancer these days, except pray.

The priest went on: "And: the family is not the most pious in the domain. Not that I have anything specific to say against them, but I sense mental reservations."

"Is there much dissent here, then?"

"No, no, nothing too bad-I don't think there's a coven or anything of that nature. A little grumbling now and then. I think it's a wonderful idea, my lady, but perhaps some other: "

Tiphaine shrugged. "Father, the cure of souls in my villages is your business, and the parish priests' under your guidance. But the worldly welfare of this land and its people is now my concern. We could have her and her sisters give the lessons in weaving and spinning to the peon girls-it takes ten spinners to keep a weaver supplied, anyway. The cloth might even be good enough to sell, which would give the poorer families something profitable to do with their winters, and enrich the domain as well. You'd know who would be suitable: we'll discuss it on Monday. I'd like to have a regular conference with you, the steward and the Montinore bailiff anyway."

Rudi didn't follow all of that, but it was interesting. The soup plates were taken away. The steward's voice boomed out again, and they were replaced by plates of small skewers of chicken and duck, grilled with a spicy-sweet plum glaze and served over noodles in a spicy cream sauce, and on the side fresh bread spread with garlic-butter paste and lightly flame-grilled. The carvers' great knives flashed down in the center of the hall, almost long enough to be shortswords and sharper, since they didn't have to worry about turning an edge on bone. The plates came by with meat and steamed vegetables and potatoes, and the same girl served him.

"Gravy, young sir?" she asked.

"Yes, please," he said; that went well with potatoes roasted in the dripping. He especially liked the scrunchy bit from the outside of the roast, and they'd used some sort of tingly hot sauce on the young pig.

Delia poured gravy from a ladle: and as she did, she drizzled it in a pattern he recognized, then poured more to hide it.

Rudi's eyes went wide with shock. "Thank you," he said, and cleared his throat, reaching for the salt shaker to cover his start.

The girl moved on. Matti looked around, still grinning from a joke Sir Ivo's leman Debbie had told her. Her cheeks were flushed. The children had only the one full glass of wine before it was replaced with apple juice and water, but hers had gone to her head a little.

"Oh, it's so good to be back with my own people, Rudi!" she said; then put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry.'"

"Nah, don't worry, Matti. You could handle it, so I guess I can."

Dessert was ice cream, and little round pastries baked with sliced brandied pears in their centers, the glazed flaky crusts around that drizzled with chopped hazelnuts. Rudi ate two and was thinking wistfully about another one-there was something in it that was really good and brought out the taste of the fruit, probably some sort of spice that wasn't available outside the Protectorate any more.

The rest of the company hadn't switched to water, except for the priest, and things were getting a bit more uproarious than they would at most Mackenzie gatherings, except on special occasions. Which this was, of course, but:

Occasional snatches of song came from the lower tables, and roaring choruses from outside in the courtyard. Tiphaine was moving with her usual feline grace, but it looked as if she had to think about it a little, and occasionally a feral grin broke through her calm front as she looked around.

Yeah, she's realizing it's really real, Rudi thought judiciously.

The priest asked a question. Tiphaine shrugged. "God knows," she said. "We got a good swift punch in the nose from the kilties and they killed the March-warden, and the damned Corvallans showed up to help the Bearkillers, I'll tell you that much. Whether we'll come back for a second round and try-"

Then she frowned and stopped and went on more carefully. "-is of course up to the Lord Protector, however his servants may have failed him."

To cover the remark she signed for more wine. Delia bent over her shoulder with the decanter, and whispered something in her ear as she did; the seigneur of Ath gave another startled snort of laughter and then smiled down into her glass before she replied, equally quiet-voiced, nodding as she did so.

Just then Mathilda's nurse waddled forward and bent to touch Tiphaine's shoulder. The blond woman with the pale eyes started, then stopped her hand moving towards her dagger.

"Oh, yes, you're right. Time for the children to get to bed. Party's getting a bit rough for the kiddies."

She stood, leaning one hand on the table. It took a minute and then a shout to produce a drop in the roar of noise, a valkyr call that might have cut through the noise on a battlefield; Ruffin's girlfriend was sitting on his lap now, feeding him bits of pastry between her lips, and things were less decorous elsewhere.

"To the Princess Mathilda, our Protector's heir!" she called, and a blast of cheers answered until the great concrete room rang with the echoes.

Mathilda rose and everyone bowed. That was the signal for all the youngsters to withdraw, some carried asleep by their mothers, and the priest left as well. Rudi rose and brushed himself with his napkin; the tunic he was wearing was some sort of silk stuff, and it caught crumbs something fierce. Bending that way let him catch what Tiphaine muttered to herself after the toast; he had very good ears.

"And I hope when it's her turn the snippy little bitch does a better job than her Daddy's doing right now."

Ooooh, he thought, as they turned past the guards and up the darkness of the spiral staircase. I bet she'll wish she hadn't said that, if she remembers it.

The two floors above the hall were the lord's private quarters; Mathilda was yawning and her nurse puffing and wheezing by the time they reached the fourth level just below the tower top, which held the guest suites. She waved good-bye to him as they went into their rooms; he heard a muffled squeal from hers that sounded like: a kitten!

His own chambers had tile over the concrete floor, wallpaper with a floral pattern, a nice-looking rug and a small fireplace currently banked but sending out comfortable warmth. There was also a little bathroom with a toilet and sink and a shower that had hot water if you asked an hour ahead of time; it struck him as a bit superfluous. The castle had a perfectly good bathhouse of the type Dun Juniper used, with shower and hot and cold plunges-two, in fact, one with fancy fixtures for the lord and his family and another in plain concrete for the commons.

The bedchamber also had a table of some shiny, carved wood with writing gear and a good lamp-lit right now-and cupboards and bookshelves, with stuff he and Matti had picked out before leaving Castle Todenangst. That included a lot of his favorites and a couple by Donan Coyle he'd never read himself- Sir Guilliame, and The West-Country Rising, which Sir Nigel had told him about. Someone had put a glass of milk and a plate of raisin-oatmeal cookies beside the big four-poster bed; he stretched and yawned and reminded himself to thank whoever did it.

People around here don't say thanks enough when someone does something nice for them, he thought. The Threefold Law is going to smack some of them good and hard, if they don't watch out. And over by the window:

His breath caught, and he walked over, stepping up on the footstool beneath it. The opening was narrow, too narrow for a grown man to get through even if the wall hadn't been four feet thick, and shaped like a V with its broad side in the room and the narrow part looking out-there was a hinged glass window, but it was an arrow-slit and nothing else. He could have gotten through it, with a little squeeze, but there was no point-it was nearly forty feet down onto sharpened steel, where the inner moat separated the keep from the courtyard. He'd checked that first thing this afternoon.

But in the brackets beside the window was a bow; his bow, neatly strapped in its leather carrying case, with his quiver and dirk, just the way they'd been when he was taken prisoner, when Aoife died.

He put his face against it, drawing in the familiar scent. Tears rolled down his face and onto the soft breyed leather. After a while they stopped, and he went into the bathroom to splash water on his face, and then to brush his teeth and undress. Then he took the candle and holder from beside the bed, lit the wick at the lamp, turned that out and carried the candlestick over to a bookshelf on the north face of the room.

He made a space for it after sketching the sign of Invocation, then knelt and watched the candle, making himself breathe until he really felt things-how tired and full he was, how the carpet was prickly under his feet, how people outside were singing as they danced around the bonfires; something like "Life is a lemon/And I want my money back," whatever that meant. His mind went quiet as he imagined ripples spreading in a pond, smoothing themselves out until there was only the glassy water, still and silent but with shapes moving in the depths.

After a while he began to chant himself, softly:

"Your Sun is gone and Your Moon will follow;

Mother-of-All, my thanks for the day given me to weave;

Father and Lord, for the strength to follow Your path-"

When he blew out the candle and got into the bed, he was asleep before he'd finished arranging the pillow.


****

Tiphaine Rutherton woke and winced, throwing her left forearm over her face; then she smiled, letting it grow into a grin as she remembered that she was now Lady Tiphaine d'Ath, baronet. Things got hazy after she arrived yesterday afternoon, but she remembered that quite well.

The title had a very nice ring to it, even when her head felt like an Inquisitor had a steel band around the temples and was turning the tightening screw, and the dim light of the narrow window stabbed through closed eyelids. Not to mention the vague nausea: Then she winced again, when the effort of smiling made her temples pound even worse. She didn't do this often, but the sensation wasn't exactly unfamiliar either. Her bladder suggested that getting up was fairly urgent, however much she hated the thought.

Oh, God, a band of Eaters crapped in tbe fur that's growing on my tongue. I didn't drink that much, did I?

She cautiously removed her arm, blinked gummy eyes open and saw an empty wine bottle on the bedside table. That led her gaze down to the floor; another bottle lay on its side on the rug peeping out from under a tunic.

That's cherry brandy, half full. God, I was mixing my drinks! I shouldn't drink that much, even at a celebration. I do impulsive things when I drink too much and I can't afford to be reckless.

She rolled over, coming up to one elbow; the mattress was too soft and she'd have to do something about:

A fan of tousled black hair rested on the next pillow, with bright blue eyes peering out through it. Delia the seamstress brushed back her locks, smiled up at Tiphaine and wiggled her fingers.

"Hi!" she said. "You snore, my lady."

That wasn't my tunic I saw, either.

Tiphaine closed her eyes again, then flopped back and stared at the bed canopy above her. Oh, God. The room smelled of lavender sachet inside the stuffing of the pillows, fresh sheets, snuffed lamp wicks, perfume, stale wine and, slightly but definitely, of sex.

Then her eyes opened wide, despite the too-bright dimness; the memory of leading a conga-chain came back to her in flashes of exhilaration and whirling torchlight, dancing around the castle courtyard, then up a stair and around the curtain-wall fighting platform.

"Look, I did ask you to go to bed with me, didn't I?" she said.

Because my self-esteem might not survive the shock if I just threw you over my shoulder and went reeling up the stairs like Sappho the Cimmerian. And it would sort of deconstruct my don't-abuse-the-peasants speech, although that looks like a happy smile you've got on. Plus it wouldn't do my reputation any good to get into a fight with the Church right after getting the estate. Oh, please, God, tell me I wasn't that stupid with the senior priest of the Domain watching!

Delia laughed, a sort of gurgling chuckle, and came up on one elbow in her turn. "Actually, my lady-"

"Oh, hell, we're in the same bed."

"-my lady: Tiphaine, I asked you if you wanted to see the designs I put on my underwear, since you liked my needlework so much," she said. "You let me in by the postern wall-gate."

"Ah."

"You even said, That's really lovely embroidery on the hem, I like the flowers, before you pulled my drawers off, too. Then you said, Pretty as an orchid and-"

"Ah."

"I won't tell Father Peter if you don't." Then she put a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. "I'm sorry, but you were so cool and elegant at first and now you look so: so rumpled."

Tiphaine smiled again despite herself, made another noncommittal ah sound, swung her legs down and stood. She steadied herself against one of the bedposts and squinted at the sun glinting through glass into the big bare room through the narrow window-slit. If she remembered correctly, that one faced east-and if she remembered correctly, the sun rose in the east, too. In which case it was still fairly early; there was barely a gleam there, and it still looked rosy.

As if to confirm it, a rooster decided to tell the world he owned it. That set off a chorus of them, mostly sounding a bit further away, doubtless from coops in the hamlet outside the castle gates. She repressed an impulse to put her thumbs over her ears and walked in a straight line to the arched doors of the bathroom; blinked around at the unfamiliar facility for a moment, turned up the lamp, used the toilet, ran a big sink full of cold water and immersed her head, then drank several large glasses despite a minor rebellion from her stomach- hangovers were mostly dehydration. Of course, the rest of it was toxins. A groping hand found a bottle of aspirin, and she followed a few of those with still more water and dunked her head again.

I look like a debauched dandelion, she thought, regarding the dripping image in the mirror.

Her face was surrounded by tangled wet tufts of blond hair pale enough that even water couldn't darken it much. She raked at it with her fingers to get some of the sleep-snarls out, and wished she could cut it shorter than the pageboy bob. Then she kneaded her neck muscles with her thumbs to get the blood flowing again, working hard. She also smiled at herself as memory of the recent past returned; it didn't make her body feel any better right now, but it put the sensations in perspective.

That was really nice, mutually so. There were certain aspects of enthusiasm impossible to counterfeit. You are not only the most deadly warrior in the Association, you are not only the newly ennobled holder of this castle and fief, you are one hot babe, Tiphaine d'Ath!

She felt a degree of smug self-satisfaction, and a little relief. The last couple of times she'd been to bed with anyone, it had been sort of sad; the absolutely last time a month ago she'd been so miserably blitzed beforehand that she woke up next to a guy, which had meant not only serious yuk- euuww! euuww! cootie-shudders whenever she thought about it but mad panic while she waited to see if the bunny died. This had been just: very nice.

I guess I've got rock-star charisma and my own groupies now. In the last months before the Change she'd had a desperate crush on Melissa Etheridge, and long involved fantasies about saving her from a stalker or a speeding truck. Is that a hickey on my neck? Yup. At least it's the only one that'll show when I'm dressed. I think I like this girl. Shy, she ain't.

She took another drink of water, and then after considering the taste of the stuff in the glass she reached for her toothbrush. She needed it badly and with mouthwash to follow; either that or a corpse-eating plague rat had died in the pipes some time ago. Most of the furnishings in the lord's quarters of Castle Ath were very sketchy, because the Protector had used Montinore manor house when he visited the area, but the bathrooms had been installed during the original construction as the labor-gangs went from site to site, with fittings salvaged from luxury homes in the Portland area. This was all marble tile and creamy whiteness and faucets of polished bronze, big fluffy towels on racks of rare hardwood and etched glass panels around the shower stall. Someone had put scented soap out, as well as a wide range of toiletries; there was even pre-Change toilet paper, or a good imitation. And there was hot water on tap, as much as she wanted all to herself, something only a fief-holder could have these days.

Should I invite Delia in for a shower? Regretfully-and cautiously-she shook her head. Not enough time. I need to sweat the poisons out soonest, anyway.

She still felt a little more human as she returned to the bedroom drying her hair on a towel. Delia was up, pulling on her second tunic and belting it, which looked interesting as she stretched and bent.

I must he recovering. Youth, health, lots of exercise and no vices, that's the ticket. Well, no vices except pouring cherry brandy on top of pinot noir sometimes.

Tiphaine's smile had less of a wince in it this time. "Sorry we don't have time for a snuggle, Delia, but you'd better run before people see too much. You're a sweet girl, and I don't want you getting in trouble."

The young woman came over and embraced her; the kiss was even more interesting than the view and went on for a while.

"Father Peter's not a sheet-sniffer like some. He doesn't notice stuff unless you make him. Besides, I know you'll protect me, my lady Tiphaine."

Nobles, even the few gay ones, didn't end up before an ecclesiastical morals court very often; the military caste wasn't going to let the Church get that much power. Still, not very often wasn't the same thing as not ever:

"Sweetie, my power here is vast and my liege-lady's power in the realm is vaster still, but the Hounds of God are no joke, and they and Father Peter work for the same boss, and the Hounds are sheet-sniffers. Keep that lovely mouth shut about this and everything will be fine, OK?"

"Until next time?"

"Right. Now scoot!"

Tiphaine opened the door and checked the corridor both ways before the girl slipped out; it was windowless and very dark. There were a couple of empty rooms on this floor and no resident servants or established routine as yet, and it wouldn't be much trouble for Delia to slip out looking as if she was dusting or fetching or something. Then she dressed herself, rummaging in the unfamiliar closets and their mostly new contents for a familiar drill outfit of quilted tunic in coarse gray patched linen, and scuffed black buckskin pants stained with white patches of sweat-salt. After that she stamped her feet into her boots, and buckled padded leather support straps on her wrists.

The temptation to tidy up before she left was strong-she was compulsively neat, and hated leaving Delia personal things to the care of others. That was an eccentricity she could get away with, when those quarters were one small chamber or less wherever the Lady Sandra was in residence, which was all even a fairly prominent member of the Household could expect. But picking up after herself would be perilously close to drogeance, here at home in her own fief. The temptation to shower first was even stronger, but she pushed it down.

Got to punish myself for carelessness, she thought, buckling on her sword belt and walking down the stairs, left hand automatically on the hilt to keep the chape on the end of the scabbard from bumping on the stone. Besides, I'd just be getting all sweaty again right away.

She'd been right about it being early; things had been put to right a bit the night before, but the morning cleanup in the hall was just getting started. She walked out, blinking at the increasing brightness and returning her own nod and salute to the clank and crash as the gate guards slapped spears against shields.

Note to self; get all the shields repainted, soon. My arms, Quartered with Lady Sandra's.

The day outside was just on the brisk side of cool, with the smell of dew on dusty concrete and dustier gravel still strong, but there were no clouds in the sky and it felt like it would be a perfect spring day when the sun was a little higher and dispelled the shadows within the courtyard. A scent of old smoke from the bonfires lingered, but the scorched circles had been swept up, and the firepits outside the kitchens were being shoveled clear as she watched, the ashes carted away in big plastic trash barrels for leaching into lye and making soap. A train of two-wheeled oxcarts dumped loads of split firewood there- boon-work dues, by the way the drivers turned around at once and got going towards their own affairs-and scullions began to stack the billets against the kitchen walls. Birds pecked at the ground, and flew up in swirls when someone came too close, particularly when it was one of the patrolling cats. She'd given orders that none of those were allowed over the inner drawbridge into the tower, and her sinuses already felt better than they ever had in the Household.

Wielman the steward was bustling towards the Keep gate with a crew, looking nervous as a man herding cats, probably because it was a scratch gang and he was doing two men's jobs; or possibly nervous because he now had a superior resident full-time, and one with enough time to keep a close eye on him. He stopped when she turned towards him, obviously anxious to get to work but unable to dodge a conversation, and his laborers halted behind him in a wave of curtseys and bows.

Delia needed time and distraction to get clear: which was a pain in the ass; nobody except a very strict priest would so much as blink at a tenant-girl slipping out of a male nobleman's room in the morning, except for an admiring chuckle.

"Splendid welcoming feast last night," she said. Then she smiled slightly. "Haven't enjoyed myself so much in months."

"Thank you, my lady. We're all at sixes and sevens, of course, with so little notice of your arrival-you should have a domestic steward or a butler here at the castle, if you're going to take up residence, so I can concentrate on my own work where my offices and the records are. I can move some people up from Montinore and my wife has a young cousin who'd suit."

"Do that," Tiphaine said. "I leave it in your capable hands, Goodman."

Meaning, don't bother me with details, and yes, getting jobs for your relations is a legitimate perk, as long as they don't screw up too badly.

Aloud she went on, lest he get too enthusiastic: "Just enough staff that I can offer suitable hospitality: the cook we had last night will do fine, some assistants, and as many cleaners and maids and such as are needed to keep things tidy. Some of them can commute up from the manor until winter at least, it's only two miles by bicycle. Or you could hire some of the soldiers' wives."

"Very well, my lady, but the Protector and his guests always brought their own body servants on visits," he went on. "Do you have an, ah, valet, or lady's maid who'll be arriving? Or should I find someone suitable from the domain?"

Tiphaine shook her head. "I don't need someone to hand me a towel or comb my hair."

Some people thought that was a status symbol; she considered it a waste of scarce labor. A tenant-in-chief who was a mere baronet could get away with that much informality, though a baron couldn't. She'd need a squire or two eventually, of course, but that was something entirely different. Squires were apprentice knights, and supposed to be of good family. Which so far meant related to someone lucky enough to get into the Association early on. She had Katrina's elder brother's kids in mind for that, particularly since he'd been killed out east last year fighting the cowboys and they didn't have a landed inheritance.

"Ummm-" The steward cleared his throat and seemed, without actually doing it, to glance discreetly aside as he lowered his voice. "But surely you'll at least need someone to look after your wardrobe full-time, my lady? The more since you'll have, ah, two sets. Repairs, replacements, cleaning: I was thinking of the miller's daughter from Montinore village; her name is Delia. She's an excellent needlewoman by hand or sewing machine, she can weave figured work on the loom, and she's used to household ways and manners. She could use the valet's room that gives off the lord's chamber."

Tiphaine gave him a cool, considering glance, tapping her fingers on her sword hilt, head tilted to one side.

Clever. Dangerously so, she decided, her eyes narrowing and lips thinning into an expression that had been the very last thing a number of men ever saw, starting in her fourteenth year. This time it said: I'll know exactly who's responsible for any rumors.

She'd get in trouble if she just had the men-at-arms hang him for no particular reason; fines from the Court of Petition and Redress, penances from the Church: Casual killing had gone out of style since the wild early years, at least where middle-class types like Wielman were concerned. But when you added all that together she wouldn't have nearly as much trouble as he would, dangling from a noose on the gallows down the road and putting on a dinner party for the crows and ravens until his bones dropped off one by one.

One part of taking reasonable precautions was thoroughly intimidating any subordinate who even dreamed of knuckling his way up the greasy pole by a threat of outing her.

So much went by in a flicker as she kept up the stare. A few seconds later a little sweat showed on Wielman's forehead, and he dropped his eyes.

Good, now you know better than to try and blackmail me.

"You're right," she said. "She'd be very suitable. See to it. Deduct an adult's boon-work from her family's dues and put her on the rolls as a free retainer. I'm going to start spinning and and weaving classes for the peon women later this year; she could handle that, and possibly her sisters as well. Set up a loom-room here in the castle or down in Montinore when you get the time, and see about ordering more spinning wheels and equipment-locally if you can, in Forest Grove if you can't, in Portland as a last resort. And in the meantime, send to market for some cloth, and we'll make a start-enough to keep us going until we get production ramped up. I'm not going to have my workers looking like scarecrows. Delia can oversee the sewing, too."

Putting Delia in charge of those projects would be a sensible thing to do even if they didn't get along otherwise.

But I think I'm going to really like that girl, and not just when I'm in a state of lustful, drunken horniness; she's cheeky as a sparrow, she's not afraid of the priests, and she made me want to laugh even when I had a hangover. Plus she's awesome cute, and I think she likes me, not just the career prospects.

As he bowed his head and turned to go with a murmured of course, my lady, Tiphaine contemplated the square of raked, rolled gravel in front of the barracks with less than enthusiasm; it held a dozen upright oak posts six feet tall, resting in metal sleeves set into the ground, and climbing frames, some of them dangling knotted ropes. Then she went into the salle d'armes; Ath wasn't big enough to have separate ones for different ranks. The one it did have occupied the ground floor of part of the barracks block built against the west side of the court, opposite the tower-keep and the gate. Inside was a big, bare room with a wooden floor, rolled mats against the walls, some gymnastic equipment, weights, a few Nautilus machines and mirrors on one wall, with a corkboard on another carrying a map of the castle and the patrol paths around it, and a duty roster.

People slightly older than herself told her that dojos had been like this before the Change. She didn't remember, since she hadn't studied the martial arts then, though she'd been a state-level gymnast and track-and-fielder in middle school. Today she began with a series of stretching exercises and kata.

Now I know what it's going to be like to he seventy, and arthritic, she thought after a moment. But she gritted her teeth and persisted, then did a routine on the parallel bars and vaulting horse, and some tumbling on the mats, stopping now and then to drink from the water fountain.

After the sweat started and joints and tendons loosened a bit she ducked into the ready room and picked up a blunt practice sword and heavy wicker training shield-a middling-sized four-foot shield, since she was tall for a woman and about average for a man. Then she went back outside, setting the shield's bandolier-like guige strap around her neck. That took part of the weight, and she could use it to sling the kite-shaped defense over her back with a quick readjustment.

Tiphaine took stance in front of one of the six-foot posts, left foot advanced, left fist up under her chin, which put the upper arc of the shield just under her eyes and the point at about knee level; the convex triangle almost completely covered her body. The sword went up overhead, hilt forward.

"Ya- hi!" she shouted from the bottom of her lungs, and attacked. "Haro!"

A chip of tough oak flicked out, even though the practice sword had neither point nor edge. It was also a lot heavier than her real blade, but that was all to the good-a woman had to work harder to build upper-body strength, and train harder to maintain it, one of life's manifold injustices. Eighty minutes later she stepped back and let the rounded tip of the sword fall to the ground, propping the hilt against her body and working her hand and shaking it. Every impact on the unyielding hardwood jarred back into her wrist and arm, and the hand felt as if someone had driven a wagon loaded with bricks over it; she was breathing deeply but not panting, and her sodden clothes clung as if she'd waded through a river.

The experience was familiar, and pleasant enough normally; she'd done at least as much and usually much more six days in seven since her fourteenth year. In Lady Sandra's Household, she'd usually done hours of classwork afterwards, too; the consort insisted on her personal retainers getting book-learning as well.

While she caught her breath she looked around, and found the castle had thoroughly come to life. Two men-at-arms and a double pair of crossbowmen trotted out through the main gate on routine patrol against bandits, lances in rest and crossbows across backs; spearmen and more crossbowmen paced their rounds on the fighting platform, or watched from the towers. Bread was baking in the kitchens, and the rich, earthy smell made her acutely aware of being famished. Iron rang on iron in the smithy, and a grinding wheel made a tooth-gritting sound as it bit into metal. Carpenters' hammers knocked; children and dogs ran about, and mothers called to them from the windows of their apartments. Two girls with broad straw hats and skirts kirted up carried a load of laundry in through the gates between them in a big wicker basket with handles on either side, and a wagon full of cut fodder followed. The doors of the chapel were open, and Father Peter's housekeeper swept it out, giving Tiphaine a curtsey as she noticed her gaze. She was a buxom young woman with caf-au-lait skin set off by the-expensive-saffron of her tunics and headdress, which made the new overlord of Ath wonder slightly about the priest's lack of interest in sheets:

And a number of the garrison were working out; many of them looked more the worse for wear than she'd felt when she woke. Tiphaine had only a vague throb of headache now, and a hot shower and breakfast would cure that. One of the diligent ones was Sir Ivo.

"Hi," she said as he stepped back and rested his blade over one shoulder; he'd put his hauberk on for the drill, which was conscientious of him. "Where's Ruffin?"

The young knight grinned at her and pointed the sword towards the second story of the barracks. The two and their lemans had slept there in cubicles usually occupied by the senior married men-at-arms, since Mathilda and Rudi were in the keep's guest suite; everyone had bumped the one below him out of their quarters, until a couple of rankers ended up on hay in the stables.

"Maybe the arm's still bothering him. But I doubt it. They got thin partitions up there, my lady," he said. "It sounded like he and Joyce were celebrating again."

"Christ Jesus, I hope for her sake he brushed his teeth first," Tiphaine said, and they both laughed; you didn't get dainty in the field.

Then she looked critically at the garrison troops at practice. "You know, Ivo, the men-at-arms weren't half bad hand-to-hand, and the infantry's drill is OK and none of them are really fat, but some sure got tired 'way too fast. That'll get you killed as easily as not knowing the counters when it's for real-no rest breaks. We need to schedule more aerobic conditioning and sweat them hard."

"Yeah, no dispute, my lady. But remember a lot of them have been out here in the ass-end of nowhere since the castle was built."

"This isn't the ass-end of nowhere. Barony Chehalis is."

Ruffin chuckled; neither of them liked the Stavarovs. "OK, this is within wiping distance of the ass-end of nowhere. It's too far north to skirmish with Bearkillers most times, and too far west for Mount Angel or the Mackenzies, and too far south for a levy against the Yakima towns. And these guys, they're old men. Some of them are thirty, or even more."

The remark made perfect sense in their trade. Endurance got harder to keep up after your twenties, but there was more to it than that. Men who'd come to the warrior's life as adults after the Change were rarely really first-rate by the standards of the generation who'd trained since puberty.

"They're what we've got and I want their stamina built up," she said. "I'll run 'em up and down the stairs to the walls in armor for a couple of hours every second day. Any of the footmen who can't take it, we'll give early retirement. And find some tenant's kid to train as a replacement. There's always some who don't want to spend the rest of their life staring up the ass of a plow-ox. Also, I want to get them working on unconventional stuff, not just fighting in ranks. Mackenzies are too damned good at sneaking around."

"Tell me," he said fervently. "We'll have to check on the ones settled on the manors with me and Ruffin, too. Likely they're worse than this bunch and spend most of their time farming their fiefs-in-sergeantry."

He paused, and almost shuffled his feet. "Ah, my lady, I want to say thanks again, for giving Debbie and me our chance. I'd have been glad to get something east of the mountains, even, much less prime land like this. Sorry if I was, you know, a bit of an asshole to start with."

"You got over resenting the position I pee in, Sir Ivo," she said, slapping him on the arm with the flat of the practice blade. "Joris didn't get over it and you may notice he's not here."

Despite the fact that he could take you or Ruffin, easy, she did not add. You two I can trust. Joris: I'd trust him to win in a fang-in-ass competition with a rattler.

Aloud she went on: "And hell, I've been known to do a convincing imitation of the aforesaid orifice myself, from time to time. Hel lo!"

That was prompted by the appearance of Rudi Mackenzie and Princess Mathilda. They were in children's versions of practice gear, padded gambesons of thick, quilted linen and small helmets with barred face-shields and boiled-leather protectors on elbows and knees. A ripple of silence followed in their wake as they walked through the gates and over to the practice ground, and a ripple of curtsies and bows for Mathilda's rank. In a way it was a damned nuisance to have them here while she was trying to settle in and get a feel for the place; in another it was a tremendous honor and responsibility, of course.

That's Lady Sandra for you. Do well, and you get rewards – and more work. I've learned a lot from her, not least how to handle people. And of course, it's not only more work, hut a chance to get in good with the heir, and it must he part of her plans for Mathilda, too. Wheels within wheels within wheels.

The two had shields and swords suited for their size as well, from the armorers at Castle Todenangst; except for the size and the lack of point or edge on the blades, they were better gear than many knights could command. Tiphaine and her vassal leaned on the hilts of their weapons and watched. Boy and girl did their stretches, then began practicing strikes and counters on the air.

"Hey, not bad," Ivo said quietly to her. "The Protector's kid is good, but the kiltie brat is better. He's got the right instincts, too-just throws the switch and goes for it. I mean, he'd have killed me dead with that dirk if the jacket hadn't been lined with mail on the torso. And Ruffin's shield-arm still isn't quite right."

Tiphaine grinned, and spoke in the same undertone as she watched: "The princess is pretty good, though. A good friend of mine"-the grief echoed, but a little less strongly each time-"was tutoring her before she was kidnapped last year, and I dropped in on it now and then. She was promising then and it looks like she kept it up."

"Yeah," Ivo said critically as they switched to sparring.

Both the adults leaned a little closer; that was both more interesting and more dangerous, hence requiring more supervision. Tiphaine pursed her lips. Neither showed much of the usual childish awkwardness or beginner flailing- most kids couldn't free-spar with any profit until they were a year or two older than these, not having enough hand-eye coordination. What they were doing was very basic, of course, and the blows were still light, but they were moving beautifully; she'd seen plenty of trainees of twelve or thirteen who did no better. Mathilda had made serious progress since the raid that kidnapped her, rather than going back, and she suspected trying to keep up with Rudi was part of that.

The male knight nodded and confirmed her unspoken judgment: "It's not that Mackenzie sword-and-buckler stuff, or Bearkiller targe-and-backsword. Someone's been teaching them both our style, or something close to it."

"That'd be the Englishmen," Tiphaine said. "The Lorings. I saw them work out last year when they were staying with the Household. They're good, both of them; the young one was really good."

"Yeah-watch it, kid! Careful with the princess!"

Mathilda staggered, wobbling loose-jointed after a strong backhand cut went boonnggk across the side of her practice helmet.

Rudi Mackenzie waved acknowledgment, then went over to his partner and steadied her, his own blade under his left arm.

"You OK, Matti?"

"Sure. Wow! I didn't see that coming!"

"You gotta remember how the helmet blocks things in the corner of your eye," Rudi said. "Sir Nigel taught me this trick on how to keep moving your head-want to see it?"

"That's enough for the morning," Tiphaine broke in firmly. "Time for a shower and breakfast. At your ages too much is as bad as not enough. You can overstrain your bones and tendons."

The children nodded obediently, and helped each other out of the gear and bundled it up neatly. Mathilda looked at her guilelessly. "Could you give us some lessons, Lady d'Ath?"

Tiphaine grinned back, more genial than most who knew her a little would have thought likely. "I think I could squeeze that in, Princess, for you and your friend there. Now let's go get cleaned up."


****

It certainly beats washing with river water scooped up in a helmet, and half the army copping a look, she thought a few minutes later, looking around at the bathroom of her suite with unbleared eyes as she stripped off the sodden practice outfit and turned up the wall-lamp. What's this?

This turned out to be liquid soap scented with lavender and rosemary. Unlimited hot water of their very own was a luxury that few enjoyed these days, which was why most places had some sort of communal bathhouse; Tiphaine soaked until the last tension left her neck muscles and then walked back out into her bedchamber wrapped in a big fluffy towel.

It had been thoroughly cleaned up while she was under the spray, and the rest of her baggage unpacked. Her field armor stood on a stand in one corner, and her parade set beside it, very similar except that the hauberk and coif were made from burnished stainless-steel wire, and the helm and vam-braces and greaves from chrome-plated metal-harder to work, and thus fiendishly expensive. There were fresh sheets and a new coverlet on the big four-poster bed, a set of riding clothes laid out, and fresh sachets of dried flowers scented the air. A fire was laid ready to light in the swept and scrubbed hearth of the fireplace, and the glass wall-lamps had full reservoirs; right now the tall, narrow window/arrow-slits provided enough light, unless you wanted to read.

Her pictures had also been set out by the bedside. There was a small silver-framed one of her parents and brother, whose whole neighborhood had vanished in one of the first great fires before she got back to Portland. And a fold-out set of three of her and Katrina; one in their Girl Scout uniforms, another taken not long after they entered Lady Sandra's Household, still looking like they had ten pounds between them and starving to death, and a last one six years old, of them both in hauberk and helm, when they'd turned eighteen and been sworn onto the Household rolls as full members and Associates of the PPA. They looked very solemn in that, with their arms around each other's shoulders.

Or so she'd thought, when an expressionless Lady Sandra took the picture, with the very last priceless frame of Zeiss film for the camera. In fact Katrina was holding two fingers up in rabbit-ears behind Tiphaine's helmeted head.

And nobody told me until it was developed!

Someone had also left a golden daffodil on the pillow, with a red ribbon around it tied in the shape of a heart, and another in front of the pictures. Tiphaine picked up the one on the pillow, clipped the stem with her dagger, tucked it behind one ear, and went down into the Hall, smiling quietly to herself and tucking the knot into a pouch at her waist.

I really think I am going to like that girl.

Ruffin and his Joyce had joined the party there, and Ivo and Debbie; they were deep in wedding plans, and Mathilda was listening raptly; the two women rose to give Tiphaine a curtsey before diving in again. Rudi looked frankly bored, and was focusing on his food. She didn't blame him. Debbie was an amiable ditz, in her opinion, but at least smart enough that you didn't always want to gag her with her wimple after five minutes of conversation. Joyce was good-natured and loyal and had cheerfully put up with the hardships court and camp held for the leman of a man-at-arms, and was admittedly eye-stopping, sexpot gorgeous in a big-eyed, big-hair, buxom way that had never appealed to Tiphaine. She supposed the woman was very attractive overall, if you weren't put off your feed by the very thought of having sex with someone whose IQ was about the same as a large dog's.

Say a golden retriever, hut with the added disadvantage of being able to talk and doing it nonstop, mostly about the puppies – pardon me, children – she wants. How on earth does Ruffin stand it? Ah, well, breeders: somebody has to do it, she thought indulgently, and returned their greeting with a nod.

Everyone gave an odd glance at the flower behind her ear, which was not the sort of gesture she usually went in for, but nobody commented as she took the high central seat and a servant brought her breakfast from the dishes kept warm over spirit-lamps on a sideboard; four eggs, a dozen rashers of bacon, fried green pickled tomatoes, hash browns and toast.

They're good sorts, Ivo and Ruffin, she thought. It didn't even occur to them they could dump their girls and find better matches, now that they've got manors in fief. And I can trust them to back me come what may. Lady Sandra knows how to pick 'em.

She sat down and began eating with growing enthusiasm; the cook had heard that she liked her eggs over easy but the whites weren't liquid; the bacon was Canadian-style; the hash browns had bits of chili and onion; and best of all her stomach had settled back to normal. Even the chatter wasn't too bad, if you unfocused your ears and just heard it as a happy babble, like a mountain brook.

"We'll get you two settled in today and show you to your fiefs," she said to the knights, mopping at a yolk with some toast. "And you can swear me homage on Sunday after morning mass. Then we get busy. Sitting on the veranda watching the tenants work isn't on the schedule, and hunting can wait until after wine-harvest. You've got competent bailiffs, and your good ladies can see to setting up housekeeping and finding cooks and shopping for household gear on their own."

They nodded; Ruffin gave a mock-theatrical groan and then winked at Joyce, who bounced up and down in glee at the thought of being turned loose in the vast warehouses of salvaged luxuries the Association kept for its elite. Several of the nearby males paused to look over at the results of the bouncing, even confined in a cotte-hardi.

Christ have mercy, Tiphaine thought; one of the few things she and Katrina had disagreed about was whether shopping was fun in itself, or just more fun than standing naked in a hailstorm while juggling live squid.

That switched the conversation from weddings to home improvement; Tiphaine did her best to blur it into background noise, and signaled the servant for another plate. The manors they'd be swearing service for had been in the Protector's demesne since the area was resettled in late fall of the first Change Year, and the spring of the second. That meant a good bailiff, probably picked originally because they knew something about raising food. Norman Arminger had raked the survivors for such from the day he announced his Protectorate, and sent out raiding parties to capture/rescue as many farmers as he could before they were eaten out by the refugees, or just eaten plain and simple, so they could instruct the ignorant urban survivors who made up most of the labor pool and future peasantry-that was one reason for the simple system of five fields per village. But the manor houses themselves would be bare inside, empty and waiting.

When her plate was empty likewise, Tiphaine cleared her throat and spoke: "Yes, Joyce, you can probably get a gold chandelier and a swinging love seat and a four-poster."

The younger woman recognized the tone and fell silent, still smiling. Tiphaine went on: "Ivo, Ruffin, what I want is to get the menie in order. Right now what we've got is sorta-kinda good enough to keep one of the Grand Constable's inspectors from blowing through the roof and ordering floggings all 'round. Just. Sorta-kinda is not good enough for me. Next time the ban is called, the Domain of Ath is going to put the sixty best-trained fighting-men in the Association at my horse's tail if we have to kill them all to do it."

They nodded enthusiastically, being men who took their profession seriously. "Is that why the Lord Protector picked this fief for you, my lady?" Ivo asked. "He knew you'd slap the garrison into shape and do it quick?"

"That was probably one of the reasons," Tiphaine said judiciously. "Believe me, there's always more than one reason behind the Protector's decisions, and at least four behind Lady Sandra's."

"Can Rudi and I come along on the ride, Lady d'Ath?" Mathilda asked.

She'd either learned or inherited her mother's way of making a request sound like an exquisitely polite but definite command nobody could dream of disobeying. Unlike her mother she didn't have the might of the Protectorate to back it up: yet, but she would someday, which was a good thing to keep in mind. Rudi said nothing, nibbling on a piece of toast and doing his best to be beatifically uninvolved. Tiphaine looked at him narrowly.

Well, it would be the best way to keep an eye on him, she thought. He did promise, and I think he takes it seriously. Plus keeping him cooped up and going stir-crazy would be the best way I know to make him mad enough to try and run. Of course, he also wants to get to know the area in case he gets a chance to escape within the wording of that realllllly careful promise. But I can't turn Mathilda down without a good reason, and it'd make trouble to make him stay here if she went.

"Sure," she said.

Mathilda clapped her hands. Rudi smiled, and the gray-green eyes glowed in the shadowed dimness of the tower's hall.

Загрузка...