The Golden Princess: A Novel of the Change (Change Series) Page 25

  Resolutely she went on: “We’ll just give him and the others absolutely no grounds to complain in the House of Peers. And by the Protectorate law of succession you should get it, so they’d have right on their side if you didn’t. The Great Charter doesn’t mention anything about who gets the Lord Protector’s office, and local law always has precedence where there’s no specific provision in the Charter to the contrary. None of the Associate peerage is going to quarrel with an uncontestable hereditary succession by primogeniture in fee tail; they have too much invested in the principle. But if we put it aside . . . sure, and it would be in the nature of a free-for-all tale.”

  He frowned, winced when the feudal pun struck, and took a sip of his coffee, which he preferred black. She’d always found that just a little odd; austerity wasn’t generally his style, but even brothers had their complexities. After a moment he said thoughtfully:

  “I could do you public homage for it—I mean, as heir to the Lord Protector’s office. Heir to heir, as it were, since you aren’t going to take the throne for years anyway. That way, by the time Mom passes, God and the Virgin grant it be a long, long time”—he crossed himself again; he was devout, though no fanatic—“most people still around will have spent plenty of time accepting that the Lord Protector is the High King’s, or High Queen’s, hereditary vassal and always will be. That it’s not just a personal union because of Mom’s marriage to Dad. Nobody who’s got vassals of their own is going to publicly disrespect that, either.”

  “Right.”

  Johnnie’s plenty bright, just a little lazy about using it sometimes, she thought, and continued aloud:

  “It would be totally awkward to have Mom swear homage to me—even after I succeed to the throne.”

  He winced. “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? I mean . . . I just can’t imagine it.”

  She nodded. “But this will handle that neatly, you see? Separating the lines of the High Kingdom and the Protectorate.”

  “I can absolutely imagine doing homage to you,” he agreed, smiling a little. “Or Mom, for that matter.”

  His face went stark as his thoughts turned elsewhere, and she remembered descriptions of men sweating in fear when their grandfather gave them a glance.

  “And I can absolutely imagine leading Protectorate levies when we find out who killed our father. Find out in detail. Whoever they are, I want to see them burn. Not just their soldiers. Their lords. I want blood.”

  She nodded; he generally wasn’t a violent man, but now . . .

  “That plate won’t be stinted, Johnnie, I promise you. But you know the old saying.”

  “It’s a dish best served cold, yeah. We can’t go off with the crossbows half-spanned, we need more intel.”

  “Speaking of which, I ought to introduce you to the Jotei, to Reiko. Obviously that’s going to affect how we deal with this. Absolutely not her fault, the Three Spinners wove it in the deeps of time, but the quarrel did follow them across the ocean, so to say.”

  He grinned at her, chewing a mouthful of roll, swallowed, and put a purring smoothness in his tone—exaggerating for effect.

  “You want me to charm her? Got a dynastic marriage in mind, Sis? I hear she’s cute. Exotic foreign princess . . .”

  “Sweet Mother-of-All, no!” Órlaith said, sitting bolt upright. “Look, Johnnie, seriously, none of your tricks the now! She’s a Queen. Empress, actually. I know you think you’re Lady Flidais’ own sweet special gift to women, but we have to be very careful with these people! Promise? Otherwise I’ll damned well forbid you her presence and get Mom to back me up.”

  He made a little abbreviated court bow in his seat. “Of course, Orrey, my solemn oath. I was just tying your boot-laces together to see you trip. You’re a bit solemn at times. I’m not stupid, you know.”

  “No, but you’re a male and you’re nineteen.”

  “That makes me stupid?”

  “No, it makes you an engorged penis. With feet, but no brain except the Little Head half the time,” she said bluntly, and was glad to see him laugh. She went on:

  “And we do need to find out the full story. This isn’t just normal politics, Johnnie. Not even a normal war. Things like the House of Peers or some Count’s ambitions or who does homage to who for what . . . we can’t neglect them, but for that an ordinary sword forged out of an old leaf spring would do.”

  She had the Sword of the Lady across the back of the chair. He looked at it and nodded as she said:

  “The Powers are at work here.”

  He touched his crucifix again; the conversation was tending into a region that prompted that. “You think these guests of ours are on the side of the Angels?”

  Most Christians in Montival believed that the Beings who’d aided her father on the Quest were just that—Angels, or possibly Saints, which he’d regrettably misconstrued as pagan deities. And that the Lady who’d gifted him with the Sword was their blue-mantled Queen of Heaven and Mother of God. Father Ignatius had had a visitation from Her in the mountain snows on that great journey, in which she’d called the warrior Benedictine to be Her knight.

  I don’t disagree, she thought. Only with the names the other way ’round, so to speak.

  She nodded. “Or at least the Nihonjin are on the side of humankind. I don’t think they’re stainless, but they’re good and bad on a human level according to our natures as They made us, which is to say as apes with a touch of wolf. That evil our parents fought and beat here in Montival is of the Powers too, Johnnie. That isn’t going away and it isn’t limited to the High Kingdom, it just takes different forms in different places.”

  He nodded. His Church recognized the constant power of their Adversary. In some ways it was an easier concept for him than for someone of the Old Faith.

  She frowned a little: “But . . . the Nihonjin weren’t lying to me, understand . . .

  “But?” he said.

  “They were leaving bits out, starting with what they were doing here in the first place. They didn’t arrive here by accident, or simply because they were chased, though they were. And they didn’t come here to talk to us, either, though they are eager to get our help now; they didn’t know we existed any more than we knew that they were there. I also get the feeling that there are internal tensions involved in their group.”

  “Never a Court without faction,” John said confidently. “And by your report, that’s their court in miniature your new friend has along with her.”

  “A couple of their high officers of State, at least. The heliograph messages from Herry say they’re relaxing a bit the now.”

  “She’d know, even with the language problems,” John said with a smile. “Probably she’s part of the reason—our Herry’s a hell of a lot more perceptive about people than your average knight. Her mother’s a wonder at setting people at their ease, too . . . the mother that wasn’t an assassin and former Grand Constable and Marshal of the High Kingdom and whatnot.”

  He liked Heuradys d’Ath, and it was mutual; they had a great deal in common. They’d been—very briefly—lovers a few years ago. That was how her brother had lost his virginity, in fact, in the stereotypical hayloft on Herry’s own manor out east. He’d been making up for lost time since she gently made it plain she didn’t have anything long-term in mind, and doing well enough to have a bit of a reputation. A Prince had advantages that way, even one who extremely conscientious about good lordship. She had to admit their parents had gotten that well and truly into his skull even when the Little Head was in operation, which apparently for males his age was no mean accomplishment. As well, he was wary about those looking for advantage in the bed of royalty.

  Being a Prince was something; when you added in being handsome, a man-at-arms who did quite well in tournaments, a more than talented singer, dancer and lutenist, and the best sort of dandy—one who could carry it off casually—the results were quite a swath. Considered in the abstract she had to admit he was charming; for starters he really liked women, liked the
ir company and liked talking to them, rather than just sniffing around them the way a drooling dog did with a pork-chop. Though it always looked faintly ridiculous to her when she saw him using his moves on some cooing, blushing, dewy-eyed female—or working a slightly different version on a barmaid with a forty-inch bust spilling out of her bodice, a full lower lip and freckles.

  But as Herry had said back when, it would have been rather odd if his sister had been able to see that side of John.

  He finished his omelet. “What’s the Empress the Empress of?” he asked.

  “Japan,” she said severely.

  “I mean in practice, as opposed to theory. There are plenty of Rovers out in the forests and deserts who’ve never heard of us. There’s not much to being ruler of empty ruins and wilderness with no people, either. So is it two villages and a pet ox, or what?”

  “They’ve got more people than there are either Mackenzies or McClintocks, but less than both together, I’m thinking, from what they’ve let drop,” Órlaith said. “Somewhere between a twentieth of what Montival has altogether and a tenth.”

  “Más o menos,” John said thoughtfully, waggling a hand.

  A number of the Houses of the Associate nobility had originally been Spanish-speaking, and that tongue had influenced the north-realm’s version of English, though not as much as the archaic French of Norman Arminger’s obsessions. John had picked up stray expressions like that, then truly learned the language because its music and stories intrigued him.

  “More or less,” Órlaith agreed, and then suddenly made a choking sound.

  “What is it?” John asked with alarm.

  Órlaith put her hands to her head, wincing at the feeling of expansion, like an itchy swelling in the center of her brain for an instant. It wasn’t pain, but she wasn’t sure that wouldn’t be preferable.

  “Spanish . . . I just got Spanish . . . there are drawbacks to possessing the Sword, that there are . . . wait a minute . . . There’s that poem you like so much, I’ve heard you sing it a dozen times. . . .”

  Suddenly she began to chant, a slow smile lighting her face as she did, and felt the rough rolling majesty of the words in her mouth:

  “De los sos oios tan fuertemientre llorando,

  Tornava la cabeça e estavalos catando;

  Vio puertas abiertas e uços sin cañados,

  alcandaras vazias, sin pielles e sin mantos,

  e sin falcones e sin adtores mudados . . .”

  John made a clapping motion. “Nice! You’ve even got the old-fashioned pronunciation down. Better than I do, after years of work. See, it’s not all bad!”

  “No, it isn’t, that,” she said. “I can . . . I can feel that poem now. How it should taste. Arra, from the little bits I can remember, I can’t wait to get to a copy of Cervantes or de Vega!”

  He shook his head. “Back to business. So the Japan she’s Empress of isn’t enormous, but three hundred thousand people more or less isn’t so small, either.”

  She nodded. There were at least two dozen sovereign states in North America, kingdoms and republics and bossmandoms and tribes and self-governing monasteries (at least one of them Buddhist) and whatever. That was counting only ones well above the level of the single backwoods village or a band of musk-ox hunters on Baffin Island. A quarter or third of a million would be about middle-rank in that league, say on a level with the Kingdom of Norrheim. Montival was the giant, and that was because it was a confederation. On this continent only the Bossmandom of Iowa had even half as many folk in total, being much smaller but very densely populated by modern standards and actually having more people than it had before the Change.

  There still weren’t anything like a tenth as many people in the whole area between Panama and the Arctic as there had been the day before the Change.

  “Reiko’s lot are the descendants of what survived on offshore islands and a few settlements they’ve planted since,” Órlaith said. “It reminds me of what we’ve heard of Britain, only the Japanese ended up with a very nasty neighbor next door instead of an empty continent they could take over.”

  “They’re well-organized, though, from your reports, and Edain’s.”

  Órlaith nodded. “From what I’ve seen and what they’ve let drop without really meaning to—just the way they act and the assumptions they make—they’re organized right down to the boot-laces they don’t have. Much more tightly centralized than us, or most of Montival’s member realms . . . except perhaps the Bearkillers or Boise. Out of necessity. Something really nasty happened in Korea, much worse than just a collapse, and they’ve been living next-door to it ever since. We need to get our decks cleared here at home, because bad things are heading our way.”

  “Let’s go see Mom, then,” John said.

  Órlaith blotted her lips with the napkin. “If we can get her thinking and talking business, it’ll help. Help all around. And then we’ll duck out and have a bit of a chat with Reiko, you and I.”

  “Sounds good. I think I’ve done my immediate family duty here, and I’d appreciate something to do so I don’t have to keep turning corners and thinking where’s Father?”

  She raised her voice slightly. “Sir Aleaume!”

  There was a guard not too distant—close enough to hear a call, if not to overhear ordinary conversation; that was as much privacy as you could expect in a palace, particularly just after a King died by violence. The officer of the Protector’s Guard appeared a discreet minute later, his steel sabaton-shoes ringing on the marble tiles, and then going muted when he stepped on a rug. His helm was under his left arm as he saluted with a thump, his handsome albeit jug-eared face fixed under its fringe of rust-colored hair and his slightly slanted eyes haunted—it hadn’t been easy for him, returning as the commander who’d failed to keep the High King alive.

  Probably he was most dreading his own father’s return: Baron Maugis de Grimmond was Grand Constable of the Association and a man of notoriously high standards.

  “Your Highness!” A nod to John. “Your Highness!”

  “Sir Aleaume, Prince John and I will be visiting Barony Ath—Montinore Manor, to be exact. We’ll be taking a detail from the Protector’s Guard.”

  Because if they tried to get out of Todenangst without one, the uproar would swallow the day even if her mother or the Lord Chancellor didn’t get involved . . . and both of them would. She continued briskly:

  “Nothing extravagant, a dozen men at arms led by a reliable knight who can keep his eyes front and mouth shut, and spearmen and crossbowmen in proportion likewise. The ones who were with us in the south would do nicely, and I’d like to show that they’re not in any disfavor. Ah, yes, make sure Droyn Jones de Molalla is one of them too.”

  Since she’d borne the Sword she had no problem recalling names—anyone she’d seen even once, in fact. But she’d known the escort well anyway, since they’d traveled together for more than a month on that final trip. There was gratitude in the knight’s eyes as he inclined his head; it was an indication that he wasn’t in disfavor, or his men.

  “And from the High King’s Archers, Your Highness?”

  “No, Captain Edain has enough to do.”

  Mother’s known Old Wolf a long time, and he grew up with Da as foster-brother, pretty much. They went on the Quest together, all of them. She needs him around now and I’ll let him focus on that.

  “Have a hippomotive laid on, and horses waiting at the Forest Grove station.”

  That way they’d be there before lunchtime; hippomotives could move and it was barely a morning’s journey all up that way.

  “Inform Dame Emilota that she’s to send only the minimal selection of baggage. Strictly minimal, this is a matter of State and there won’t be much socializing.”

  And if the order comes through you, I don’t have to spend another hour talking her out of making a Royal Progress out of it. And with the court in mourning, she may actually not grumble too much.

  “Your Highness . . . may I command
the detail personally?”

  Surprised, she looked at him; that was very junior duty for someone of his rank.

  “Of course, if you wish, Sir Aleaume,” she said; then she blinked.

  That might actually be a good idea.

  “My thanks, Your Highness. All should be in readiness within two hours.” He bowed, saluted again, wheeled and tramped off.

  Órlaith sighed and rubbed her face. “Let’s get to it, then, Johnnie.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Barony Ath, Tualatin Valley

  (Formerly northwestern Oregon)

  High Kingdom of Montival

  (Formerly western North America)

  June/Minazuki 1st, Change Year 46/2044 AD/Shohei 1

  “How are the men doing, General?” Reiko asked.

  They were trotting down to the salle d’armes beside the little lake; it was a mild June day with a few fleecy clouds in a slightly hazy blue sky, perhaps a little warmer than it would have been on a June morning on Sado-ga-shima, perhaps a little less humid, though both were well within the range she was accustomed to.

  The two of them were wearing hakama and the padded upper jacket used for serious drill, with boiled and varnished leather practice armor of an almost-familiar type over it, the wire-fronted helmets under their arms. Both were sweating freely from the stretching routines and forced-pace kata and a moderate three-mile run up and down hill with an occasional sprint, ready for some serious exercise.

  “The men are well enough, Majesty. The barracks in the castle are . . . barracks. Certainly nothing any real samurai would complain of, far better than shipboard. The roof is solid, it’s dry, and there are cots and clean bedding and a bathhouse.”

  The practice weapons to match the armor would be at the salle, as the Montivallans called their dojo. She carried a naginata, and their real swords were at their sides, of course; just as two of the Imperial Guard were following a dozen paces behind. She couldn’t remember walking under the sky without a guard and a blade of some sort at her own side since she turned twelve and was presented with an adult kimono by her mother at her mogi ceremony . . . and with a wakizashi from her father’s hands, an heirloom by the master-smith Kunihiro. The latter had caused some controversy, for giving a weapon at all and for a sword rather than a naginata.