Sunrise Lands

Chapter Eighteen

Approaching Boise,

Idaho Provisional Capital,

United States Of America

June 10, CY23/2021 A.D.

It was an hour or so until sunset and the Boise road still headed northwest, though they'd turn east to enter the city itself. Shadows were beginning to fall around them, though the upper parts of the town walls and their towers were still brightly lit in the middle dis tance, and the white and scarlet fabric of the three teth ered hot-air balloons that hung several thousand feet above was even brighter. Higher still light flashed briefly from the canopy of a glider.

"It's all so… tidy," Rudi said, looking around and blinking in the bright summer sun. "Not a board loose or a building unpainted or one poor gasping weed left to propagate its kind."

Truck gardens occupied most of the land this close to the city, watered by canals and spinning windmills. There was a scattering of barns and sheds, and things like chicken coops and pigpens adding their pungencies to turned wet earth and compost, but not many houses close to the city proper-as usual, people close enough to walk out from the walls lived inside them. The pleasant tinkle and chug of running water sounded, and plenty of folk were out tending the vegetables and berry bushes and small orchards of apples and peach and cherry with hand tools and horse-drawn machines, or harvesting greens and early roots.

Many stopped to wave or shout greetings as the sol diers went by, and some of the closer ones stared at the obvious foreigners.

"So very, very, very tidy."

Rudi spoke with a mixture of mild scorn and grudging admiration. Mackenzies were farmers, and good ones, and that meant that they worked very hard indeed and admired hard workers and a neat job. But they stopped when they'd done enough to get the job done; it wasn't as if there was ever a scarcity of things that needed doing about a croft, and if you had any time to spare you spent it on dancing or a festival or a little fancywork like carving a god-post. Around here..

"You noticed?" one of his half sisters said dryly.

"Who could be missing it?" Rudi replied, his tone equally pawky.

"Yeah, you're riding along a road and you drop an apple core here and three people scold you and point to the waste bin," Ingolf confirmed.

"They don't feed apple cores to their pigs?" Edain said, puzzled.

"Yeah, but you've got to put it in the waste bin first. The official waste bin. That's the Approved Procedure. And if you think this is neat and tidy, wait until we get into town. The punishment for drunk-and disorderly is going around sweeping the streets up after the horses and oxen, with some sergeant kicking your ass while you do it."

The suburbs here around the modern city had been torn down with a thoroughness Rudi had never seen anywhere, even the foundation pads of the houses bro ken up; a last few metal frame buildings were being disassembled as they passed through, with bundles of girders lowered to the ground by cables and stacked on big ox-wagons to be hauled away for smithies and forges and fortress construction. The manicured look of the gardens was a little unusual. The walls ahead, though…

"Mount Angel is stronger," Father Ignatius said stoutly.

"It is that. On the other hand, it's also on the top of a four-hundred-foot hill," Rudi pointed out. "The which is a pimple in a plain of exceeding flatness. This is not."

Boise was on the east bank of its river; that ran in a blue band north-south, with three bridges crossing it and mountains rising not far beyond. The walls weren't just tall. Old high-rises had been built into them and infilled with concrete as well. Rudi was used to the giant struc tures of the ancients, but most of them were dead. Seeing them worked into something as natural and modern as the outer curtain wall of a fortress-town was eerie, and it gave the defenses an odd alien angular look.

Traffic was thick on the road; carts with farm produce, everything from baskets of eggs cradled in straw to bur lap sacks of potatoes and casks of wine and flats of early lettuce and green onions and radishes; bigger wagon trains with trade goods in bales and bundles and barrels; people on foot and horseback and an occasional flock of sheep or herd of cattle. They all pulled aside for the general's party; news of their coming had been flashed ahead by heliograph and semaphore-telegraph stations, running from hilltop to hilltop.

"Yeah, I wouldn't like to try to storm it," Ingolf said.

Rudi's eyes flicked ahead to Thurston. There wasn't much of a fuss over the ruler's arrival; he'd seen that the man didn't like pomp. As he watched, two riders came out of the gate and down the cleared lane to meet them, saluting briskly.

"Mr. President," the first said.

He was in uniform too, but a blue one with NATIONAL POLICE sewn on the shoulder, a plain-looking man in his thirties with a short-clipped mustache. The younger man beside him was in the camouflage cloth of Boise's army; his helmet hid his hair, but from the freckles and pale complexion Rudi thought it must be as red as his own mother's. The first man looked at Thurston, his eyes flicking to Rudi and the others.

"They're cleared," the ruler said. "I know they're most assuredly not out to kill me… which is more than I can say for my own guards."

That brought a wince. "I thought you should know, sir, we found out how those men were infiltrated into the guard detail. We and Military Intelligence."

"Interservice cooperation. Wonders never cease," Thurston said dryly. "Go on, Commander Lamont."

"They were supposedly rotated down by Colonel Winder in Lewiston."

"Supposedly?"

The younger man beside the officer of police spoke up. "Three men were sent. Someone intercepted them on the way here, presumably killed them, and substituted ringers. Ringers who looked fairly similar and had extremely well forged papers… well-briefed ringers, too."

"They couldn't have hoped to keep that up long," Thurston said thoughtfully. "This isn't a very big country, not yet. But it nearly worked. Get me a report on procedures to make sure this doesn't happen again by ten hundred hours tomorrow. And start working on the real question."

"Sir?" the two officers spoke almost in unison.

"Why do they want to kill me? Even if it worked, the vice president would take over-and Moore would de clare war on them immediately. Which I'm now going to do anyway. So there's no upside for them, and they didn't even try to hide the fact that they were involved. Get to work on it. Why is always more important than how, in the long run."

They saluted and turned away. Rudi cleared his throat.

"Your guards aren't with you for long, then, sir?"

The ruler of Boise nodded. "Candidates for our OCS-Officer Candidate School-spend some time in my presidential guard detail. It gives me a chance to evaluate them."

Father Ignatius spoke: "Someone knows an uncom fortable amount about your security precautions, General. Specifically, the Prophet does."

"Yeah, padre, they do," Thurston said.

His eldest son broke in. Martin, Rudi reminded himself, as the man spoke.

"Sir, perhaps it would be better if you went to the Old Prison for now. It's easier to secure the perimeter there."

Thurston chuckled. "Captain, the day I lock myself up to avoid assassins, you may move for my impeachment. Besides which, given what happened… what if I'm locking the potential assassins up in there with me?

"It's not actually a prison," he went on to the oth ers, nodding southward. "It was, once, long before the Change. Good solid stone built compound, and we've improved it since, a couple of miles south of town."

"The… guests… then, sir?" his son went on. "The sixth regiment is there-more than enough for security, and I'll vouch for them."

The general president's eyebrows went up: "You weren't commander of the sixth, last time I looked, Martin, just a junior officer." Then to his guests: "Any takers?"

Rudi shook his head. "No, thank you, sir, if it's all the same." He smiled. "I've a fancy to see this town of yours."

"I should see to the sixth myself, then, sir," Thurston's son went on.

"You're still not regimental commander."

The younger man grinned. "No, sir. But I am in com mand of B Company, Sixth Infantry Regiment, and it's not fair to let my platoon leaders and company sergeant carry the can this long. Particularly with so many new men."

"Very well."

"Give my regards to Mother, sir."

"And mine to Juliet, Captain."

Thurston's elder son turned his horse aside, followed by a pair of others. The tall gates on the other side of the bridge were open; a squad did a neat maneuver as they rode through the gloomy thickness of the wall. Rudi looked around as they rode eastward towards what looked like an interior citadel, with a big building with a gilded dome catching the setting sun not far from it.

Much was what you'd expect from any modern city; pre Change buildings modified to new uses, or new ones built to infill empty spaces that wasted precious space within the fortifications. Ground floors were stores or workshops with their proprietors living above, though less spilled onto the sidewalks than even Corvallis's strict laws enforced. There was a public library, and a fair assortment of houses of worship: Catholic, varieties of Protestant including some he didn't recognize, a Mor mon temple of some size and a small Covenstead that had him smiling at the sign of the Triple Moon.

Thurston's younger son pointed out features-the big silo shaped granaries where blindfolded oxen turned capstans that raised barley and wheat by geared screws, the waterworks and sewage plant with the attached bio gas plant that provided illumination and purified sludge for the farms, the railroad station…

The clothes on the people were very old fashioned, though, even in new cloth: jeans and T-shirts and jack ets, knee-length skirts and even the odd collar and tie. People moved briskly, as Corvallans did, but without the animated knots of impromptu argument you always saw there. There were no street musicians or beggars as there would be in Portland or Newberg or Astoria in Association territory, and no rickshaws, though plenty of bicycles and pedicabs. And none of the street shrines and little touches Sutterdown had.

Plus there were a lot of uniforms. And big, colorful posters on four-sided hoardings at crossroads. The process was stone plate lithography; he'd seen examples in Corvallis advertising this and that, and in Portland for tournaments and saints' days and proclamations from the Regent. The themes here were quite different…

One he saw nearly every time showed five figures-a muscular soldier in the harness of a Boise regular, shield and sword in hand, an equally muscular male farmer or laborer with a spade, a woman with a pruning hook, another in a white coat with a test tube and a mother holding an infant. They all glared forward with square-jawed purpose, striding together in unison, and a legend beneath read in big block letters:

We're Building America with Our Sweat!

Defending It with Our Blood!

Don't Get In Our Way!

Others exhorted people to buy Reconstruction Bonds, whatever those were, or to attend night schools, whatever those were-he suspected they weren't much like a Mackenzie Moon School-or most frequently of all to vote in the Regional Representation Referendum, whatever that was. The visual images all had that charac teristic style although they were obviously by many different hands; even the idealized farm cottages managed to look muscular and determined, somehow.

He wasn't all that surprised. Most communities he knew had their own underlying unity of style. You could tell Mackenzie artwork, even when it was something as utterly practical as a wooden lever and stump for break ing flax-there'd be a little knotwork on the end of the handle, or a Triple Moon.

"And what would a Regional Representation Refer endum be, General? I understand the three words, but put them together and it's a mystery."

Thurston was deep in thought. His younger son answered instead:

"Whether we should elect a new Congress and Senate, locally, since we can't exactly do it nationwide. Fa… the president just realized a while ago that the ones we've got are all going to die of old age pretty soon."

Thurston snorted and gave him a pawky look, but seemed to come out of his brown study.

Rudi judged his moment after they passed through another wall into an inner citadel, taller and stronger even than that around the outer city, with more of the high rises built into it. The echoing dimness of the en tranceway made good cover for his words as he mur mured, "General… your ghost would make a most fitting banner for a war of revenge. They tried to kill you, but they'd lose even if they succeeded and double if they failed. There's more to that plot than the bit Edain and I foiled."

Thurston gave him a hard grin. "You noticed? Yeah… and you're not just a pretty face, are you, Rudi Mac kenzie? I've been wondering about that. Where's the upside for him? And I will be making a declaration of war-if this isn't a casus belli I'm Jane Fonda."

"Who?" Rudi said.

"A witch from before the Change-and not in the complimentary sense of the word."

The citadel had a broad parade ground of good concrete several acres in extent, enough that the column of three hundred men didn't crowd it. The flat ground was surrounded by barracks and stables, armories and workshops and offices, plus a number of what looked like pre-Change houses with tiny stretches of lawn and garden.

"Major Winters, you may dismiss the column to quarters," Thurston said.

There was a bark of "Halt!" and "Left face!" then "Stand easy!" and "Dismissed!" The bulk of the troops filed off.

Thurston handed his horse's reins to a soldier in fa tigues of rough gray homespun and raised a brow as his thirty strong guard detail remained braced to attention.

"Excuse me," he said to Rudi. "I've got business to deal with, unless I miss the signs.

"Major?" he went on.

"Mr. President, the men of the guard detail request notification of the penalty you have in mind."

Boise's ruler raised his other eyebrow. "I've identified the security breach, Major, but if any further informa tion requires disciplinary action, rest assured you'll be informed."

The officer saluted and did a neat about-face before marching off. Watching Thurston's face, Rudi wasn't in the least surprised when the guards remained.

One corner of the Boise ruler's mouth quirked up very slightly. "I think I heard the order to dismiss given."

"Sir!"

It was the tall grizzled sergeant named Anderson; he'd been so quiet Rudi had almost forgotten his presence.

"Yes, Sergeant Anderson?"

"Sir, the men feel that some field punishment is in order."

The quirk in Thurston's mouth was almost noticeable this time. "Dick, are you telling me that the men are demanding a punishment?"

"Sir, as your guards-"

"I've seen some strange forms of insubordination in my time, but this is about it!"

Thurston's voice was a growl; his face was like a carv ing in dark wood as he looked at the rigid brace of the troops. The countenances framed by the brims and cheek pieces of the helmets were equally blank.

"Sergeant, give me a hand here."

Methodically, Thurston undid the snaps and buckles of his hoop armor. He handed the pieces to the noncom; when he'd finished not much of the man was visible. Rudi smiled to himself in silent applause as the general stalked out in front of the double file of guards.

"All right… pila… present!"

Each man flicked his throwing spear into the overarm position.

"Ready!"

The long javelins cocked back.

"Now, if there are any suicide assassins left in this presidential guard detail, take your best shot."

Thurston stood with his arms spread, then slowly turned in a circle. Silence followed; even the men and beasts moving about the big parade ground on various errands seemed frozen in place.

"All right' then," Thurston growled. "You young idiots, if I didn't think you were trustworthy, I'd have had you disarmed. No punishment for the assassination at tempt. Personnel security review isn't your responsibility. For this indiscipline, one week confinement to barracks and one week's stoppage of pay. Now slope spears and dismissed, damnit! I want a bath and I'm hungry. I'm too old for this shit and my wife's got supper cooking."

As they marched off, he turned to Rudi and his com panions. "You're all invited. Sergeant Anderson will arrange your quartering.. after he stows that armor."

Rudi let his hands fall as the soft-voiced hymn ended and the sun sank below the battlements to the west.

Edain and the twins did the same and they stood in si lence for a moment, heads bowed over crossed arms, then looked at one another and smiled.

As they turned to go back down the stair from the fortress wall he adjusted his bonnet with the spray of raven feathers in the clasp over his left eye; you had to spruce yourself a bit for dinner with the ruler of a foreign land, for form's sake and the Clan's credit. Dressing up for a Mackenzie was simplified by the fact that everyone wore kilt and plaid, except for a few older or pregnant women who preferred the arsaid. You just changed from the everyday ones into the ones you kept for festival, added a few fancies and you were set.

In his case the fancies included a leaf-green Montrose jacket with worked silver buttons down both sides; cravat and ruffled jabot; a sgian dubh with a hilt of silver and black bone tucked into his right knee sock; silver brooch at shoulder and silver buckles on his shoes wrought in curling knots picked out with turquoise. And a formal sporran, tooled black leather edged with badger fur rather than the rather battered and scruffy article he wore every day, which usually held odds and ends like a lump of wax and spare bowstrings or a half-gnawed hardtack biscuit.

Edain's outfit was a slightly scaled-down version of Rudi's, made by his mother's careful hands from the shearing of the sheep and the pulling of the flax on-and she was a loom mistress second only to Juniper Mackenzie among the clan. The main difference was that his formal coat was dyed a dark russet with Saint-John's-wort-Melissa Aylward called it his calm jacket.

Ritva followed his eyes and snickered. "And you were saying there were a lot of uniforms around here," she said. "At least they're different uniforms. Mackenzies are always going on about how free they are and how they can do just whatever suits their fancy and it's true-as long as they fancy a pleated skirt and a blankie over the shoulder. All in the Clan tartan."

Rudi raised one brow and took in their identi cal clothes; black pants, belts, jerkins with the silver tree-crown-stars…

"Hey, that's family, " Mary protested, tossing her golden hair. "Besides, these aren't uniforms. They're outfits. Say what you like about the Dunedain, we've got style."

They turned and went down the spiral stairs to the parade ground. The risers ran widdershins-Kerr-handed, they'd said in the old days, after a clan that were mostly lefties-to pin an attacker's shield arm to the inside. The others were waiting for them at the bottom; Father Igna tius had simply put on a clean robe, and Ingolf was in his usual good plain eastern-style roll-necked sweater and long coat. The two from Portland, however…

"Sure, and it's blinding them you'll be," Rudi said dryly.

Odard and Mathilda had both brought suits of the lat est Court fashion, suitable for a banquet at Castle Todenangst or the High Palace in Portland. Tight hose, tooled shoes with upcurled toes sporting little silver bells, tu nics with long dagged sleeves dropping down from the elbows, jeweled belts and dagger hilts. Odard's outfit was even particolored, wine red on the left and dark in digo blue on the right, not counting the golden fleurettes along the hems and seams; a spray of peacock feathers flared backward from the livery badge at the front of his roll edged hat with the dangling tail. Matti was a little more somber in brown velvet, but the heraldic shield on her chest had the lidless eye picked out in genuine rubies and jet…

Rudi flung up a hand. "Aieee!"

Odard snorted and examined with satisfaction the little golden chains that held the snowy linen of his fretted cuffs.

"You're just damned jealous, because you're stuck with that skirt and blanket," he said. "I return your envy with the lofty, pitying compassion suited to a Christian gentleman of good birth and coat armor."

Rudi grinned and told him where he could put his sympathy. "With a hay fork," he added.

"Peasant," Odard said genially.

They walked towards the house where the ruler of Boise lived. It was an unremarkable building, substan tial but not grand-redbrick and white trim and shut ters, two stories tall with dormered windows on the roof, of a type that had been old before the Change and often copied since. There wasn't much sign of pomp about it, save for the Stars and Stripes over the door and the two sentries in polished armor on either side. They snapped to attention with a clank and stamp and rustle, rapping their spear butts on the flagstones of the veranda.

"Come in, please," a soft voice said from inside as the door opened. "I'm Cecile Thurston."

They blinked against the incandescent mantles of the gaslight in the hallway, amid a clean smell of wax and floor polish and faint appetizing cooking odors; a black-and-white cat stared at Rudi and the others with the usual cool insolence from halfway up a staircase. The woman greeting them was tallish and in her forties, in a dress with a full knee length skirt, her long hair light brown where it wasn't gray.

"But you can call me Cecile," she said, giving a sudden brilliant smile aimed at him and Edain. "I know what you did for Larry."

It took him a moment to realize that Thurston was Larry to this comfortable-looking woman. There wasn't any physical resemblance to Juniper Mackenzie-Cecile Thurston was three inches taller, for starters-but she reminded him of his mother a little.

They all shook hands and made introductions. Young Frederick Thurston was there, in a neat green uniform; and two girls of about seven and twelve, who turned out to be named Jaine and Shawonda. Both were staring at him-the older particularly, with her eyes virtually bulging.

Oh, and I hope that's not going to be awkward, Rudi thought. Sweet Foam-born One, none of your jokes, now!

He knew the effect he had on a lot of females, and liked it very much-when they were of age. Crushes by youngsters ranged from a boggart-level nuisance to a full-blown pain in the arse. Then Odard and Matti saved the moment by bowing-the elaborate leg-forward, hat off, bent-knee flourish an Associate used with a lady of high rank who was also their host.

Cecile Thurston smiled. "My, that's impressive!"

Mathilda chuckled. "Theoretically I should curtsy, but it always looks absurd when you're wearing hose yourself."

"You could all probably use a drink," Cecile said. "Come on into the living room and let me take your coats… well, cloaks…"

The living room had a good rug, sofas and tables and upholstered chairs-most of it looking like modern work but made to late pre-Change patterns, which gave it all an old fashioned look. The two young girls' stares turned considering as they took the whole party in; they reminded him forcefully of his younger half sisters Maude and Fiorbhinn. Particularly the younger, Jaine, who looked somehow as if a whole lot of crack ling energy would burst loose any moment and make her slightly frizzy dark hair stand out in all directions, despite her careful grooming and clean frock. The elder girl was quieter, with a round face and an unfortunate spray of pimples.

"I bet you're a prince from foreign parts," young Jaine said to him after a moment of awkward silence. "You look the way a prince should."

Rudi grinned. "Not quite," he said. "My mother's a Chief, and I'm sort of… an assistant Chief."

"Oh," she said. "Like a prince is an assistant king, I guess.. " Then she brightened and looked at Mathilda. "Are you a princess?"

"Well… yes, actually," Mathilda said.

Rudi judged she was taken a little aback at princesses being rhetorically classed with unicorns and dragons and other exotic creatures of mythology. After all, prin cess was simply her job description, and not even one she'd asked for or wanted all that much.

Jaine frowned. "I thought princesses had to be beautiful? You're sort of pretty, I guess, but…"

Edain choked over a sip from his wineglass. Rudi managed to smooth his face into polite impassivity before he caught Mathilda's wilting glare. She knew he'd had to swallow a laugh.

"And don't princesses wear beautiful long dresses with jewels and stuff like that?"

Mathilda nodded solemnly. "Sometimes I do. But I'm traveling and they're too heavy and the skirts catch your legs and you can't move your arms very well in one. And all the buttons!"

Rudi smiled a little to himself, and saw Odard smoothing away an identical expression. Evidently he'd also heard Matti when she went into full it's like being in irons rant on the cotte-hardi.

"Oh," Jaine said, sounding a little disappointed. "I thought it would be fun to wear dresses like that. But," she added generously, "what you've got on now is cool too. Sort of like what people on playing cards wear."

She frowned. "Why've you got the Sign of Evil on your chest, though?"

"Ah…" Mathilda looked down. "It's hereditary. It's not the Sign of Evil. It just means that the Throne is supposed to be all-seeing to detect enemies and evildoers."

Jaine turned to Odard: "You're not a prince either, I guess? You're not as handsome as he is, but you're dressed like a prince."

"I'm a baron," he replied helpfully. "That's sort of like-"

"A wicked feudal oppressor!" Jaine said delightedly, clapping her hands together. "I've read about that in school. Do you have a castle and a dungeon?"

"A castle, a small town, six manors-four held for knight service by my vassals, two in demesne-ten villages and a hunting lodge," Odard said.

"And dungeons? With racks and rats and straw and guys in black hoods and stuff?" she said with gruesome relish.

"No. The High Court of Petition and Redress doesn't like that sort of thing these days. And I'm not all that wicked or oppressive… all my peasants would leave if I were, and then where would I be?"

"Broke, and earning your own living," Rudi said. "And that wouldn't suit you at all, at all, Odard."

And you can't hunt runaways with dogs anymore, he thought.

Odard's father had been an enthusiastic hunter of runaway peons, with a pack of sight hounds trained to kill, and a busy torture chamber. Though to be fair, that sort of thing had been over before Odard's voice broke; it had been part of the settlement at the end of the War of the Eye that anyone could move if they wanted to. It was amazing how the Portland Protective Association's standards of management changed once the implications of "voting with the feet" sank in.

The interrogation continued relentlessly: "What do you do, then, if you're not being wicked and oppressive?"

Odard was looking a little bewildered; children were more strictly kept in the Protectorate. He probably hadn't had much to do with kids in his own household since he was one himself.

"Ah… I keep the garrison up to scratch, drill the mi litia, keep order, collect the taxes, see the demesne farms are managed properly and the tithes paid, preside at ses sions of the court baron, throw out the first baseball of the season…" Odard said.

"Oh," Jaine said. "Boring stuff, like Dad does."

Her brother cleared his throat. "Excuse her," he said. "We don't get that many foreigners here."

"We're all Americans," his mother said soothingly. "Have a canape."

The word was only vaguely familiar to Rudi; evidently it meant things like bits of liver paste and capers and cav iar on crackers. At home Mackenzies would have called it a nibblement; Sandra Arminger referred to them as petit fours or, when she was being obscure, faculty fodder.

Jaine's older sister cut in with a question for the twins: "And you two are elf-friends?"

There were bookcases on one wall of the living room, across from the fireplace. Rudi's eyes flicked in that di rection. Yes, a set of what Aunt Astrid insisted on calling "the histories," and looking well-read.

"Well, we sure would be if there were any elves around to be friends with right now," Ritva said.

"Provided they liked us, " Mary said pedantically. "Which we can't tell, really. Who knows? They might be all snooty and condescending."

Seeing disappointment, Ritva went on: "But we do live in a flet and talk Elvish. Well, Sindarin, not High-Elvish. That's for special occasions."

Both the Thurston sisters looked interested. "Say something in Sindarin!" Shawonda exclaimed.

"Ummm…"

The twins looked at each other, cleared their throats, and sang a few verses instead-they had pleasant sopranos, as well trained as you'd expect in a Dunedain, and they were very good at two-part harmony. Mackenzies liked to sing, but Astrid's Rangers couldn't say, "where's the outhouse?" without a chorus sometimes.

It was Rudi's turn to nearly choke on his wine, and he saw Mathilda flush with annoyance-she had a catlike obsession with propriety, sometimes. It sounded pretty-Elvish always did-but rendered into what Dunedain called the common tongue the song would have gone:

Astrid had pitched an absolute fit when they translated that one, a couple of years ago, and another when they started singing it in taverns as they passed through and rumors started spreading about what the lyrics actually meant.

Songs just didn't get more luridly gross than "The Ballad of Eskimo Nell."

"That's beautiful," Shawonda said, and sighed. "And are you on a quest?"

This one would be prime Ranger bait, back home, Rudi thought. She'd be off to the woods in a flash.

Aunt Astrid's bunch attracted that sort of romantic the way cowpats did flies. To be fair, they did a lot of good work to earn their keep.

"Well, we're not qualified to quest for rings or anything like that," Ritva said solemnly. "We're still young and just finished our ohtar training three years ago. You have to be twenty-one to be a Roquen, a knight. Mostly back home we find lost livestock or children, and track down man-eaters or bandits or fugitives, and guard caravans or explorers going into dangerous country."

"It's sort of like being a town watchman… a policeman, you say here."

"But with more trees and lots and lots of venison."

"And squirrel stew and wild greens."

"We'd like to do a quest, of course."

"We're working our way up from minor things," Mary continued.

"Like questing for Bilbo's pen and inkstand," her sister specified.

"Or Galadriel's tea strainer."

"Or Arwen's hand lotion pump."

"And right now, our klutzy big brother's magic sword-he's always losing things. Dumb-blond syndrome."

"But you're blond. Blond er. His hair is sort of red and blond but yours is just yellow."

"Yeah, but we're girls, which makes up for it."

Shawonda laughed; then her mother pointed through an archway. "You two go help get the first course out."

To Rudi and the others: "I'm sorry, but they're very excited-I know they can be a bit of a trial at times."

"Not at all," Rudi said, as Mathilda and Odard mur mured much less sincere disclaimers. "They remind me of my sisters… my mother's younger daughters, not the Terrible Two here."

"They remind us of us," Mary or Ritva said.

"Now you're getting nasty, " Mathilda said dryly.

"They remind me of my sister," Edain said, and then grinned, suddenly looking a lot less adult than his nineteen years. "But sure, and I won't hold it against them."

Rudi looked at the mantelpiece. There were a few framed pictures there. One showed a much younger General-President Thurston in the uniform of the old American army, standing with his arm around Cecile; she was holding a baby in the crook of one arm. The picture was in color, and it had an archaic sharpness to it.

His brows went up in surprise. "You and your hus band met before the Change, then, Mrs. Thurston… Cecile?"

"Just before-we were married in the spring of 1997," she said. "Martin arrived in a hurry… and he's been that way ever since!"

"But then… I thought General Thurston was sent out of Seattle? You went with him?"

She shook her head and smiled, fond and proud. "No. He came back for me and Martin."

The smile died. "We were hiding in the cellar of the colonel's house. That was after the mutiny, and things were… very bad. The MREs were all gone and I would have had to go out to look for food in a day or two. And there he and Sergeant Anderson were."

Rudi glanced at his friends. They were looking as impressed as he was, even Edain, who was a crucial few years younger. They'd all heard the stories. The only people who got out of most big cities alive after the Change were the ones who ran, and ran fast, before things went totally bad; the only exception they knew was Portland, and there Mathilda's father and his bul lyboys had burned large sections down and driven most of the survivors out to die.

Going back into the hell of Seattle for someone a full month after the Change must have required a trip all the way around Robin Hood's barn, and the Horned Lord's own luck. He mentally revised his one tough bastard estimation of General Thurston upwards a notch.

Then Cecile went on: "And here's Larry now."

The front door opened again; Rudi caught the draft of cooler air, and the crash and thump of the sentries. Thurston senior's voice came, muffled as if he were talking over his shoulder.

"… and have the mobilization orders on my desk for signature by oh nine hundred tomorrow, Major. Staff plan seventeen-C."

Thurston's younger son turned at the words, quivering a little like an eager hunting dog; he was just the age to long for his first war. His father visibly forced the scowl off his face as he came in and greeted his guests. Cecile handed him a cocktail of the type Rudi had turned down in favor of wine; in his experience hard liquor just be fore a meal stunned your taste buds. The ruler of Boise looked as if he needed it, though.

He gave them all a nod, then turned to Father Ignatius. "Did you mention you were an engineer, padre?"

The priest signed assent. "We all study the basics, sir," he said. "The knight brethren are actually more often in command or advisory positions, you see. We have to be able to lay out a fort or build a siege engine. Or plan a town or an irrigation system and pumps."

"You might like to take a look at some of our stuff while you're here, then."

"I'd appreciate it, sir," the priest said.

He was as calmly polite as always, but Rudi noticed a flare of interest in the dark eyes. Rudi wasn't surprised that Thurston would know a man's interests… and not surprised that he had no small talk, either.

"It's a pity we didn't get more of your missions out here," the general went on. "We could have used them."

Ignatius nodded. "But there are others who need it far more," he said. Then a rare charming smile: "You've done too well to need us."

They went into the dining room and the meal came out: potato and leek soup first, then a rack of lamb-nicely and slightly pink in the center-with a plum-honey garlic glaze, scalloped potatoes and steamed new vegetables. Those were welcome. The salad of early greens was much more so; Rudi forwent the dressing. Traveling usually meant living on a winterlike diet of bread and salted and smoked meats, with vegetables dried or pickled or in jars. It was good to taste seasonal delicacies like fresh tomatoes again. The bread was excellent too, less crumbly than that made from the Willamette's soft wheat-Portland's court ate something similar, from flour imported down the Columbia from the Palouse country.

At last the dessert-peach pie-was finished and the younger children sent off with a minimum of protest.

"Excellent dinner," Odard said courteously, as they moved back to the living room for coffee and liqueurs. "My compliments to the cook."

"Thank you," Cecile Thurston said, showing a dimple as she smiled. "You're looking at her."

Mathilda looked a little less surprised; but then, she'd spent part of many years at Dun Juniper, where Rudi's mother always did her share of the kitchen chores.

"You're in a bit of a fix," Thurston said bluntly, when the drinks had been poured. "What the hell were your folks thinking, anyway?"

"A fix? That I knew before I left," Rudi said wryly. "And if we told you exactly why we were heading east-well, it makes sense in our terms, but I doubt you'd be agreeing."

Thurston raised an eyebrow."Heading for Nantucket? Yeah, I've gotten some rumors about the place, and if there's some hint about the Change I sure as hell would like to know. And there was our friend Ingolf's not-very complete story to add spice. This isn't the time, though, with the fighting getting worse."

Rudi spread his hands. "Sir, when would it be this right time? There's been war and rumor of war from here to the Atlantic since the Change, and I don't expect it to much improve before I'm old and gray, so."

"According to my intelligence people, it's pretty damned bad east of here-the Prophet's boys beat the Snake River Army-that's one of New Deseret's main field forces-east of Pocatello, and it'll be under siege soon. Then they'll head for Twin Falls… which is entirely too close to my border. There's fighting down in what used to be Utah, too. It's all coming apart and there are raiding parties everywhere: Corwinites, deserters from both sides, freelancers and mercenaries and gen eral road-people bandit scum. It'd be a poor payment for saving my life and my boys' to send you into that."

The companions exchanged sober glances. "That all went to hell in a handbasket woven lickety split," Ingolf said. "New Deseret was holding up pretty well when I went through last year."

Thurston held out a broad palm and turned it as if it were a seesaw on a pivot, at first slowly and then with a snap.

"They spread themselves too thin and let the Cutters get inside their decision curve. Walker-he's the Prophet's main commander-is a bastard but a smart one, and he managed to mousetrap a lot of their infantry down south. Sort of a replay of Manzikert… a battle about a thousand years ago. He was army before the Change. After that he kept them rocked back on their heels and their coordination broke down. When the balance tips, things go from slow to fast real fast."

Ingolf gave a grunt and a nod, the sort you did when somebody said something you knew was true by experience. Rudi looked at him.

"Yeah, the general's right. It's like fighting one-on-one with someone who's about as good as you are; you know how that is."

Rudi made a gesture of acceptance. "Back and forth until someone makes a mistake… and they get hurt and then they can't recover and then it's all over but the last strike?"

"Yeah, that's about it, on a bigger scale. If you don't have a margin for error, error kills you."

Everyone else in his group signaled agreement. None of them had fought in a real war except Ingolf, but they'd all been in skirmishes and fights on a more personal level.

"Will you help them now, Larry?" Cecile said, surpris ing Rudi a little; she'd been very quiet during most of the dinner, and he'd pegged her as the type who did her consulting in private. "I told you we should have intervened last year."

"Yeah, I will," Thurston said absently, looking up at the ceiling. "I'd have done it earlier, if they hadn't been so damned stubborn. "

"Stubborn as you, Dad?" Frederick Thurston said.

"Just about. I should have softened my terms and they should have realized how deep the shit they were in was earlier. But if I hit the Prophet's men now, they'll still be weakened from taking out New Deseret and they won't have had a chance to consolidate. If we get lucky, we might be able to break them and take Montana and Wyoming too. And this assassination thing will keep the politics simple, thank God. They screwed up and I'm going to… ah, take advantage of it."

Then his eyes snapped back to the present. "But it's going to be a pain in the ass for you people. I regret that-I owe you seriously-but there's nothing I can do about it. I do suggest you stick around Boise for at least a little while, to see who jumps where. I'll let you have the best intelligence I can on developments."

The conversation went general after that; the Thur stons saw them to the door later. The big central enclo sure of the citadel was only half-darkened; there were crescents burning on the towers around it, and gaslights around the perimeter, and guards walking their rounds. Still, it had the sad slightly chilly horses-and-woodsmoke smell of nighttime in a fortress, and it was easy enough to halt everyone in a place where it was impossible to be overheard.

"Something smells," Rudi said bluntly.

Nobody looked like they disagreed. "That was the most counterproductive assassination attempt I've ever seen or heard of," Odard said thoughtfully.

"Guaranteed to produce just the wrong results if any thing went pear-shaped," Edain agreed. "So unless these Cutter people are stupid-"

"They aren't," Ingolf said flatly.

"By no means," Father Ignatius said. "Wicked, and I would say almost worshippers of evil in some senses, but extremely efficiently so for the most part."

"Then there's something crooked going on," one of the twins said. "Someone's angling for the Boromir Award."

"By which you mean treachery, in the common tongue," Mathilda said with heavy patience. "Is it really important to us? We're just passing through."

"We want to keep alive while we pass through, or we'll be staying-six feet under," Ritva said.

"There is that," Rudi said. "They were trying to kill us, too. And the assassination… it would probably have worked if we weren't there. But then what would they have gained, with Thurston and his sons dead? They aren't his heirs anyway, are they?"

"No," Father Ignatius said. "There's a vice president, Colonel Moore, who is an old friend of the general's and beyond suspicion. And a competent man."

"We need to get a bit of a grip on what's going on here," Rudi said. "Since we're guests… or at least it wouldn't be the wisest thing to leave right now, as it were."