The Sword of the Lady Page 14

  He′ll know each one of his new herd by its looks and maybe by a name within a few days, the Mackenzie thought. But he couldn′t say the number until I told him. They have forgotten a good deal, his folk!

  The horses ran reckless through the dark until they were out of the fire′s path, and some miles to the west of it. Then they slowed, freed to fear for their legs once more. The whole horizon behind them was turning ruddy where the fire spread out into a front miles long, as if the dawn was coming hours early, and the hot dry smell of it was slow to fade. Then the animals began to slow, down from a gallop to a canter and then to a walk as the night drew its cloak about them once more. The riders touched them up again, half a mile at a trot and half at a walk; that was harder as the horses grew calmer and started to resent this interference with their rest, or to notice that there were strange individuals of their own kind among them without a recognized place in their hierarchy.

  Prairie fires were dreadful, and they could travel faster than a horse and scorch your lungs out when the flame front passed you, but they were also routine—from what the Southsiders told him they happened every year as soon as the tall grass went dry, started deliberately to spur fresh growth, or by friction or lightning strikes. Beasts and humans both were used to them.

  Which is one reason why there′s so little mark of man left in this land, he thought. With fires like that every year, all that could burn has, of that you may be sure.

  As if to illustrate the point a silo loomed out of the darkness ahead; tall as many a castle tower, and as broad, but canted to one side, and the lower part was cracked open where years of fires past had buckled the sheet metal plates away from the frames. Someday soon a strong wind would catch it and send it to the ground; in the end it would be a stain on the soil.

  It′s a pity we have no metalworker′s tools, and no great fund of time, he thought. We could teach the Southsiders to make proper brigandines. Or at least scale shirts . . .

  Then he snorted quietly to himself. He′d never thought he would catch the teacher′s passion—learning had always been his pleasure—but the situation made it tempting. Rudi Mackenzie had known such people all his life; his mother sitting endlessly patient, coaxing out the music within a novice bard′s fumbling eagerness; Sam Aylward′s callused hand giving him a genial ear-ringing slap on the back of the head when he let his attention wander at the archery butts; Aunt Judy listing the uses of a plant′s roots and leaves in a way that made it more a game than a lesson and then holding the blossom up as she said:

  And this . . . this the Mother gives us this for pretty, so She can laugh when She sees us smile.

  Or even Mathilda passing on her mother′s ideas of what it meant to be a King to Fred Thurston, as they rode east.

  ″But I′m not the best of teachers, even for blade and bow,″ he murmured to himself. ″Too hasty, I′d have said. Well, to travel is to learn, eh?″

  The rest of their party was waiting for them there by the ruin. There were younger men—the Southside Freedom Fighters seemed to account a male ready to fight at about fifteen—and a few bold women, and the youngster with the limp and the strong voice who was the closest thing they had to a bard.

  ″I′ll make this a telling word for you, Jake,″ he said. ″All these horses! Even Old Jake the sailor man never got so many. Jake sunna Jake, big man who hands out bows n′ horses!″

  Jake made a gesture of dismissal, but Rudi could see he was pleased at the thought of the praise song. The rest mounted up silently and kept the stolen horses moving; Epona snorted a little. She wasn′t as young as she had been, but she could keep this pace a lot longer than these scrubby beasts.

  ″There!″ Jake said.

  It was nearly dawn now; the hour between dog and wolf, as the saying went, when you could first tell the difference between a black thread and a white. The air wasn′t exactly cold, but there was a hint of cool in it as it dried the sweat on Rudi′s face and arms, a token that autumn wasn′t impossibly far off. The road was a long stretch of open ground in the ocean of the grass; there were trees along it, short scrubby fire-scarred oaks and cot tonwoods and sycamores, growing up through cracks in the pale faded asphalt that protected them. The rest of the Southsiders ran shrieking and dancing with glee to meet the warriors, until Jake cursed them imaginatively for nearly spooking the new horses. That made them a little quieter, except for the children and—until thumped—the dogs.

  Rudi confined his attention to the wagons. A long breath of relief at the lack of serious damage escaped him as they walked about; only the last one had been thoroughly looted, and that was the one that had carried the expedition′s stores. They were all big, even for road vehicles carrying five or six tons each, the rubber-tired steel wheels nearly as tall as Edain, and the hoops of the blackened canvas-covered tilts were nearly twice his height above the roadway. The outsides showed scorch marks—from that fire Ingolf had described, when the Cutters ambushed his men here, and from later ones, but the pavement acted as a firebreak until the swift flame front passed. Someone had cut slits in the canvas on each and pulled out a few of the rectangular steel boxes. The locks had been sledged off; he opened one of them.

  ″Ah,″ Edain said behind him, as he pulled out the picture within and propped it against one wheel. ″Now that′s . . . something, by Brigid of the Bright Mind and Lugh of the Many Skills.″

  It was a painting, near man-high, and undamaged save for splintering around the frame where it had been tossed roughly back into the box by some wild-man disappointed it wasn′t anything useful.

  ″Now, I wonder who he was?″ Rudi murmured after a moment.

  A young man, in black clothing a little like what Associates wore, but different in detail; a white ruff stood all around his neck, and the sword he rested one hand on was a rapier with an intricate hilt. The more Rudi looked the more were the intricacies he saw—yet the more it was also a whole, a thing in itself. You could see the haughtiness in the heavy-lipped, strong-nosed face, and the way the columns and domes behind focused attention on the figure in the foreground. The glow of rich fabrics brought out the olive of the man′s complexion, and the glint off a ruby in his ear . . .

  Edain gave a wordless sigh, and Rudi nodded. They came of a folk who respected a skilled maker above all things save courage and loyalty.

  ″That′s something which makes me feel better about doing this,″ the older Mackenzie said. ″I′ll never be a friend of Iowa′s Bossman, and it may be that he sent Ingolf to fetch this out of nothing but vanity . . . but he′ll keep it safe, sure and he will. And his great-grandchildren′s subjects will thank him for it.″

  Edain nodded. ″What′s that number down there?″ he said, indicating the bottom of the frame with the end of his bow.

  ″A date, in the Christian fashion, from the year their God was born,″ Rudi said. ″The year it was painted, I′d say.″

  The stocky archer whistled softly; he recognized the system, though Mackenzies of their generation mostly reckoned from the time of the Change.

  ″More than four centuries ago!″ he said.

  Jake stood silent, then stooped to peer more closely at the painting as the sun brightened.

  ″Bitchin′ tough stud,″ he said after a moment. ″Some Bossman, right?″

  ″Right you are,″ Rudi said, reflecting—not for the first time—that ignorant wasn′t the same thing as stupid.

  ″The Iowa-man, he wants this just ′cause it looks good?″

  Doubt was in his tone. Rudi replied:

  ″No. Because having such things of beauty will make others respect him more.″

  ″Yeah. Tha′ big-man thinkin′,″ Jake said with satisfaction. ″They rich, in Iowa. Do things for looks good.″

  ″That′s one of the better things about being rich,″ Rudi said.

  And Matti′s mother has scoured the museums and mansions of the west coast for a generation now, he mused. And Corvallis has too. We Mackenzies and the Bearkillers perhaps a l
ittle less, but we′ve found our share.

  It was still only a fraction of what had been lost; for a moment his soul ached with the thought of it. Then:

  ″Life is for the living, though. There′s never an end to what beauty a maker can summon, and we and our descendants just as well as the ancestors. Let′s to work!″

  He stowed the painting reverently in the box, and he and Edain heaved it back into place. Then he dismissed it from his mind.

  The wagons had been gifted from the Bossman′s store, probably from his arsenals, when Anthony Heasleroad hired Ingolf and his company—Vogeler′s Villains, they′d been called—for the trip to the east coast, and virtually everything in them was cunningly made of stout fireproof metal. Their beds curved up gently at front and rear, and the bottoms and sides were riveted and caulked sheet steel, able to float like a boat when crossing a ford. Frames within held the crates and boxes with the salvage; the wheels were forged and welded steel, with rims as broad as two palms. A tongue twelve feet long protruded from the front axle of each for the first pair of horses; it ended in a crossbar on which was mounted the chains that ran to the rest of the team.

  The horse harness was missing, of course—from what Ingolf said, the Cutters had set a fire to force the Villains to abandon the train; they′d unfastened the horses at the last minute and galloped them clear. Luckily the wagons were built to be controlled by someone riding the front left horse, not by complex arrangements of reins. Unluckily, they needed at least eight pair each; and the horses he had available hadn′t been trained for it. Some of them might be harness-broke; the wild-men tribes around here did use light two-wheeled carts sometimes, or travois. Most were trained only to the saddle.

  And that badly, he thought.

  ″This is going to be a riding by the nightmare,″ Edain said cheerfully, looking at the stack of wood and leather the Southsiders had brought along and rubbing his hands. ″What I wouldn′t give for a proper saddler′s workshop now. Or a carpenter′s. Or even some drills and spokeshaves, I′m thinkin′.″

  Badly cured leather, often little more than rawhide; logs and baulks of ash and hickory, and that was the sum of their materials. They′d both helped with harness-maker′s work and done their own minor repairs in the business of farm and field, but neither of them was what a Mackenzie would call expert at it.

  ″Well, we′ll need . . . call it thirty-two horse collars,″ Rudi said. ″Thank Goibniu Lord of Iron that the trace chains are still sound! We′ll make the collars of ash and pad them.″

  ″Another bit to entertain the folk at home, when we can find time to write,″ Edain said, grinning.

  Rudi laughed. ″We′ll be in Nantucket by the time that tale arrives,″ he said. ″They′ll be reading what we wrote from Chenrezi Monastery, in the Valley of the Sun, about now. The Luck of the Clan willing, considering how many hands the letters must go through, so.″

  Edain made an invoking sign with his right hand, then clenched both and worked his arms in an unconscious gesture to loosen the muscles before a heavy task.

  ″Best we measure the horses, first. Then—″

  DUN JUNIPER CASCADE FOOTHILLS, WESTERN OREGON SEPTEMBER 6, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD

  The packet of letters was thick; the messenger from Bend had come over the old Santiam Pass, and down to Dun Juniper in the western foothills as fast as relays of horses would carry him. Sutterdown was the logical first stop . . . but the man was not just a messenger of the Central Oregon Rancher′s Association; he was a retainer of Rancher Brown, an old friend of Juniper Mackenzie. He′d cut across to Dun Juniper, staggered in to lay the saddlebags before her, and then been half carried away to the baths and the guesthouse.

  Some of the letters she set aside for forwarding; those from Mary and Ritva Havel, to their mother Signe at the Bearkiller headquarters of Larsdalen, and to the Hiril Dúnedain, their commander as Rangers and not so incidentally their aunt Astrid. And of course the sealed report from Father Ignatius to Abbot-Bishop Dmwoski, and Odard Liu′s to his mother and to Sandra Arminger up in Portland. She sighed at that.

  ″Probably a plea for clemency, poor boy,″ she said; the sympathy in her voice was entirely for the young man.

  And if ever anyone deserved an ax across their neck, Mary Liu is the one. A spell in the Summerlands, a talking-to from the Mother, better luck next time . . . She′s never forgotten Eddie Liu′s death, well deserved as it was. Nor will she give over seeking vengeance while she lives, or pouring poison into poor Odard′s ear. He might be something considerable of a man, if he could be kept away from her long enough!

  ″I doubt Lady Sandra will send Mary Liu to the headsman. Not until Mathilda is safely back in Association territory, and doesn′t need Odard′s help,″ her handfasted man Nigel Loring said, in an English accent to the manor born.

  ″House arrest does seem unusually . . . indecisive . . . for Sandra,″ Juniper agreed.

  Mathilda had done two letters, one to Sandra and one to her, but she laid hers aside to wait until she′d read the missive from her son.

  Rudi′s was in two parts. One an armsman′s report to his Clan Chief, succinct and terse. Even in that there were things that raised her brows: someone else might have discounted the dream vision as a delusion born of the wound fever he′d been suffering while they sheltered in that cave against blizzards and foemen. She did not.

  So old One-Eye is taking a hand in this as well, eh? Well, my boy is a hero, right enough, and he a collector of such. But he′s not yours yet, Terrible One!

  Nor was she surprised to read of the encounters with the Seekers sent from Corwin. Juniper already knew of the Prophet′s reckless abuse of the hidden Powers.

  Although, knowing, my skin crawls, that it does. Fools! To meddle so with such things! The Threefold Return will be upon them soon or late with a weight like falling mountains . . . but how many will be caught in their web of malevolence first?

  The other was a son′s to his mother, and it was rambling and warm, and interspersed with tales that brought a smile to her lips, and sketches of places and people done by his anamchara, Mathilda, and his half sisters—Rudi could draw a map that looked like a professional′s, but that was the limit of his draughtsmanship.

  So that′s this Abbot Dorje, she thought.

  An ageless face, wrinkled and grave, but somehow with a boy′s merriment in the eyes, and a finger raised in half-serious admonishment at the unseen artist.

  ″I′d like to meet him, sure an′ I would,″ she said aloud.

  Her mother′s West-Irish Gaeltacht lilt was strong in her voice. She′d long since given it full rein; if her folk were determined to imitate it at least they should have a real model from Achill Island rather than the older generation′s vague memories of Hollywood′s idea of how an Irishman sounded. Though to the youngsters, what had started as half a jest among their parents or grandparents was simply the way they spoke.

  ″And he thinks well of Rudi, which is a mark in his favor.″

  ″So does this Master Hao,″ Nigel said.

  That sketch was of a face ageless in a different way, hard and square atop a sinewy neck. ″Hmmm. That girl does have a talent for the pencil. There′s a man of his hands, and no mistake, as Sam would say.″

  Then with a little wonder, and a finger stroking meditatively across the white of his neat mustache:

  ″Who′d have thought that a Buddhist monastery would end up ruling a lost valley in the wilds of Wyoming? Even if they were having a conference in a hotel there when the Change struck.″

  Juniper grinned a little impishly; it made the laughter lines beside her leaf green eyes suddenly stand out. There were many; she was his junior by more than a decade, but still fifty-four herself this year, and there was nearly as much gray as fox-red now in the hair that fell to her shoulders. There had still been a little yellow in his white mustache when they met, and for that matter some hair on a head now egg bald.

  ″And who′d have thought that a clan of
Celts such as ours—″ she began.

  ″Pseudo-Celts, darling, inspired by your charisma.″

  ″—would spring up in Oregon? And the most of it was their idea, not mine, the spalpeens!″

  ″I understand you did say they′d have to live like a Clan, as it was in the old days,″ Nigel observed; that had been nearly a decade before he arrived.

  ″I just meant we′d have to pull together! The trappings . . .″

  She shrugged helplessly. ″In any case, stranger things have happened.″

  ″You converting me, for example,″ Nigel pointed out.

  She snorted. ″You′re as polite to the Lord and Lady as you were to the Church of England—and not one bit more!″

  He smiled and spread hands a little spotted with age. ″Whatever you say, my dear.″

  ″And it was whatever you say, Padre, to the parson, too, eh?″

  ″Whatever you say, my dear,″ he replied. ″But I assure you my courtesy to the regimental chaplain did not extend quite so far as it does with you.″

  They both chuckled. Then her face grew grave again.

  ″It′s the longest we′ve ever been apart, my boy and I,″ Juniper Mackenzie said. ″Rudi left April sixteenth of last year. Sixteen months almost to the day.″

  ″And now we know where he′s been, old girl,″ Sir Nigel Loring said, putting his hand over hers.

  ″And that he was wounded near to death! And the arrows were cursed, from the description.″

  ″Infected, at least. And we know that he′s recovered and well,″ he went on relentlessly.

  She turned her hand and they linked fingers. The midday meal was just cleared away, and the two of them were sitting on the dais at the head of the long trestles while those on kitchen duty cleared away the last of it and took up the tables themselves. A lingering smell of it—cold minced mutton pie, salads, steamed cauliflower, cheese and breads and biscuits—remained, and the acrid scent of her rosehip tea. From the outside came the clatter of looms, the rising-falling hum of spinning wheels, the whirr of treadle-driven sewing machines and the rattling clang of a smith′s hammer, the neigh of a horse. All the sounds of a working day mixed with talk and laughter and snatches of song, or now and then voices raised in argument.