The Sword of the Lady Page 8

He′d set up an exercise program when they put him in this cell, which for a wonder he had to himself—except for the miniature inmates in the cornshuck mattress. The sit-ups and chin-ups and push-ups and running in place ought to have left him tired enough to sleep easily, but the stinks and snores from the other cells kept him wakeful.

  Now he lay on his back with his hands behind his head, a tall powerfully built man just short of thirty, with a pleasant battered face and a nose that had healed a little crooked long ago after an encounter with the blunt end of a Sioux tomahawk, brown hair and short-cropped beard, and dark blue eyes now half closed. He was barefoot, and his trousers and undershirt were getting a little gamy, but he′d known worse conditions—as a hired soldier in a free company, and then as a salvager leading a gang working the dead cities.

  Memories drifted through his mind on the verge of sleep. His home, Readstown, the day he′d left with the volunteers who were going to fight the short glorious war against the Sioux, turning to watch petals from the blossoming apple orchards blowing like frothing white mist down towards the river. Mountain-tall towers in Chicago, scorched and leaning against each other like drunken giants long asleep, with their feet in swirls of lake water running in whitecaps through rivers that had once been streets. Dawn breaking up like thunder out of the Atlantic—he′d been one of the few men from the civilized lands to see that, since the Change. That weird little village on Nantucket, and the even weirder . . . place . . . that shared the island with those refugees out of time. Mary′s one bright blue eye laughing at him, as she reached for him with long-fingered slender hands.

  Mountains rearing above the half-built bulk of the Temple in Corwin . . .

  He awoke with a shudder; he′d been back there for a moment. His chest heaved under a film of sweat, and he called up something they′d taught him in the Valley of the Sun this last winter, in the Monastery of Chenrezi—a mandala, and a chant. The patterned figure began to turn, drawing his mind into its depths, and heart and breath slowed.

  Heels beat a staccato on the concrete, hobnails grating. A bright Cole-man lantern showed, and then the man carrying it as he turned the corner. None of the other occupants complained, even if they felt inclined; the man wore the harness and uniform of the State Police, not the turnkeys. They were the Bossman′s personal retainers, and widely—and justly—feared. And this one had Captain′s bars on the shoulders of his plain mail shirt; he carried a cloth-wrapped bundle as well.

  Edgar Denson, by God! Ingolf thought, with a sudden prickle. Come to kill me in person? Possibly. Though he′d probably have brought a crossbow if he had that in mind.

  The State Policeman kicked a three-legged stool over and sat, one foot sweeping the scabbard of his shete aside as he did. The distance was close enough for easy conversation—but just beyond reach if Ingolf lunged against the bars. He was bigger than the policeman, and at least ten years younger, since Denson had to be with a couple of years either side of forty.

  He′s a tough son of a bitch, but I could take him one on one. Somehow I don′t think that′s going to happen.

  ″You know, you′re a pain in the ass,″ Denson said conversationally, leaning forward with his palms on his knees. ″Ordinarily I′d think you should have been ′killed while resisting arrest.′ Or ′while trying to escape.′″

  Urrrk! Ingolf thought.

  That was not what you wanted to hear from a high officer of the all-powerful secret police and general Brute Squad.

  ″Anthony Heasleroad would have been sort of annoyed if you′d killed me before anyone asked questions,″ Ingolf pointed out, his voice carefully neutral. ″He wanted to find out what happened to four wagons full of salvaged artwork.″

  There was a flicker of respect in the other man′s cold gray eyes, and he ran a hand over his close-cropped graying blond hair.

  ″Yeah, there is that . . . especially since he really believes you about his man Kuttner being a spy and finking you out to the Cutters.″

  ″He does?″ Ingolf said, keeping his voice from squeaking by an effort of will.

  ″Yeah. You know, a lot of people think Tony is just a stupid, crazy spoiled brat. They′re only about half right, and only about half the time.″

  ″If he believes Kuttner was a spy and ratted me and my Villains out, why am I here?″ Ingolf ground out, clutching at the bars to burn the rage out of his muscles. ″Why aren′t the Cutters in here?″

  Denson grinned, a remarkably evil expression. ″I didn′t say he wasn′t crazy. I didn′t say he wasn′t a spoiled brat. I just said he wasn′t stupid . . . when he bothers to think.″

  ″What would he say if he heard you voicing that opinion?″ Ingolf asked, forcing calm on himself.

  Because it might be the sort of confidence you get killed for hearing.

  ″He′d laugh, like he did when I told him to his face. He thinks it′s funny. It is, when you look at it right. I need him just as much as he needs me, and the way I need him means I do all the work and he gets all the fun. I′ve told him that, too.″

  ″Must be a refreshing change, someone telling him what they really think.″

  ″Hell, he′s had people lying to him to get stuff all his life, and like I said, he′s not stupid. He′s gotten pretty good sensing it. And then there are all the people who swear they think he′s a devil of a good fellow, and he knows better than to believe that . . . So he realized Kuttner was stringing him; he just didn′t realize it was more than the usual get-on-the-gravy-train stuff.″

  A slight wince. ″And it makes me and the Staties look bad; we didn′t figure him for a plant, either.″

  For a moment Ingolf wondered what it must be like to be Bossman Anthony Heasleroad, Governor and President Pro Tem, the wealthiest and most powerful man on the North American continent. He felt one corner of his mouth quirk up involuntarily in an emotion uncomfortably hanging somewhere between pity and schadenfreude.

  ″Yah, he must be about the loneliest man on earth,″ he mused.

  Denson shrugged. ″Kate actually loves the fat, ugly bastard, poor girl. God knows why. Oh, yeah, and his son loves him too, but Tommie′s only eighteen months old. And old Bossman Tom doted on him. Apart from that . . . you said it, Sheriff Vogeler.″

  ″Captain Vogeler, if you have to use something besides my name. I earned that. My dad was a Sheriff, but my elder brother inherited the title. The pompous asshole.″

  Another chuckle. ″Vogeler, I′m not surprised you made your hometown too hot to hold you, and your friends are just as bad. That priest who was with you was seen going into the Catholic Cardinal′s palace—and it wouldn′t be good politics to try to muscle in there, even though I suspect he gets in and out without our noticing, somehow. The other four, the black kid and the three women, haven′t been found, and I don′t think they′re just waiting for you to get the chop. That sensitive spot between my shoulderblades starts getting an arrow-itch every time I go outdoors. And the two we did catch are the Bossman′s pets now. They′re giving him ideas.″

  ″I thought you State Police were the Bossman′s loyal muscle. What do you care what ideas he gets?″

  ″We are,″ Denson said, and pulled a pipe out of a case at his belt. ″And don′t play dumb with me.″

  To Ingolf′s surprise he pulled out the wanderer′s battered briar as well and filled and lighted it, before handing it to him through the bars.

  ″Your two friends in the playing-card costumes are telling the Bossman he should be a King with everyone swearing homage on bended knee. And telling Kate Heasleroad that she should be Queen. He likes the idea. So does she, though I think it′s mostly the thought of having a crown and a fancy dress like that Princess . . .″

  ″Princess Mathilda.″

  ″Yeah, Mathilda Arminger . . . has. I said Kate loved Tony. That′s pretty good evidence she′s not too bright, hey?″

  ″Tony is King, near as no matter, Denson,″ Ingolf pointed out. ″That′s the way they think out west, anyway—Mathilda′s
and Odard′s bunch of them, at least. They′re nuts for that knights-and-castles stuff. Some of the castles are pretty damned impressive, too; not as big as Des Moines, but high. And you wouldn′t want to meet their heavy cavalry in a bad mood, believe you me.″

  ″No shit. Actually it all sounds pretty workable. Not all that different from the way we do things, but more . . . polished. More regularized, you know, sort of as if a lot of the kinks and rough spots had been worked out.″

  Ingolf nodded; he′d had the same thought, when he was west of the Cascades. If you subtracted the castles and coats of arms, the Association′s territories had the same setup as most parts of the Midwest; refugees from the cities and their children—grandkids too, just lately—working for landowners, the landowners owing allegiance to bigger landowners who managed the local defenses, and all of them to an overboss. Although the Farmers and Sheriffs in Richland—his own homeland in what had been southern Wisconsin—were a lot less high-and-mighty about it than here in Iowa, and the Bossman of the Free Republic was a lot closer to first among equals than either of the Heasleroads, father or son.

  ″But a King doesn′t have quite as much need for the State Police,″ Denson said, smiling like a shark. ″The only reason we haven′t done anything about ′em is those Cutters from Montana. They′ve been telling Tony the Bossman should be a fucking God. Provided he follows the—what do they call that funny-farm fake Bible of theirs?″

  ″The Dictations. And the Book of Dzur. That′s how they run things, which I′ve seen firsthand,″ Ingolf said.

  Along with some other things I′m not going to mention, because you′d think I was crazy. And being a prisoner in Corwin . . . you do go crazy. I don′t think I realized how much until I began to recover, in Chenrezi Monastery.

  ″But I think they have their own Prophet in mind for the job, and nobody else,″ he said aloud.

  ″That′s about what I thought,″ Denson said. ″Besides, that everyone-is-dirt-beneath-your-feet and soulless-minions-of-the-Nephilim stuff is just far too tempting. I′m all for the Bossman′s authority, but let′s not get ridiculous.″

  He produced a silver flask from his belt and took a nip. Without looking around he also lashed out with one foot, and connected with a set of fingers that were gripping the bars of the next cell at the sight of the liquor. The hairy face behind them jerked backward, swearing—quietly—and disappeared.

  ″Which sort of presents me with a problem,″ he said. ″They′ve also been telling the Bossman that you and your friends should all get the chop, soonest.″

  ″That′s the sort of advice Tony Heasleroad usually listens to,″ Ingolf said sourly.

  There was a certain freedom in his position. Denson′s confiding mood confirmed it; the man was probably talking more freely to him than he could to anyone else, because he didn′t expect one Ingolf Vogeler to be around very much longer. One way or another. Though he wondered at his letting the other prisoners eavesdrop.

  Ah, he thought. He wants to judge my reactions before he risks letting me out of the cage even for an instant, even at the end of a catchpole.

  ″I get it,″ Ingolf said, snapping his fingers with a look of sardonically exaggerated surprise. ″You′re going to sit there and tell me all your evil plans before you kill me.″

  ″Christ, no, I saw that movie before the Change,″ Denson said genially.

  He extended the flask—cautiously, at arm′s length, so that Ingolf could just reach it but not the other man′s hand. It was peach brandy, well-aged, smooth and sweet, and went well with—at least temporary—relief.

  ″Ah, that′s sippin′ liquor,″ Ingolf said. To himself: Phew. He needs me for something. Needs me alive.

  ″Thanks.″

  ″You′re welcome,″ Denson said, taking it back. ″No, when I′m going to kill someone I just kill them, fast and quiet. Dead men don′t figure a way to turn the tables on you.″

  Ingolf felt an unwelcome stab of emotion; it took him a moment to recognize it as hope. That made the inside of his head itch.

  Careful, he told himself as his breath caught involuntarily. You can′t afford to get muddleheaded.

  ″So I figure I need to get that hard-ass Graber and even more that lunatic they call a High Seeker out of town, and hopefully your bunch too. You can all go off and kill each other somewhere else, and we can get on with life. Tony will be annoyed, but he′ll get over it when he finds some new toys. If I had you all chopped against his orders, he might . . . probably would . . . start thinking of me as a threat.″

  ″And that wouldn′t do. He might get antsy.″

  ″Oh, you′ve got no idea. Our boy has a well-developed sense of self-preservation.″

  ″The Corwinites probably have plans of their own,″ Ingolf said.

  ″Yeah. The other guy usually does, the dirty bastard.″ Apropos of nothing, Denson went on: ″You′re not old enough to remember the Change, are you?″

  ″Nope,″ Ingolf said. ″Not really. I remember the flash of light and the headache, but not much before that and not much more after, not for years. I wasn′t even six then.″

  ″Yeah, I can′t remember much of when I was six either.″ Denson nodded.

  ″I do remember how scared everyone was.″

  ″Yes,″ Denson said; the flask halted for a moment halfway to his lips, then came down again. ″I was old enough to know.″

  When he went on his eyes were locked on nothing, on a vision that gave them a haunted bleakness Ingolf recognized. He′d grown up seeing it in his father, and the other adults.

  ″People are always saying how lucky Iowa was. It didn′t feel that way then. The whole world had just dropped out from under our feet. If the fucking laws of nature can change on you, what can you count on? Most people were . . . you know how a cow or a pig looks when you hit it on the head with the hammer, just before you cut its throat?″

  Ingolf nodded at the familiar image; the only people who didn′t know that were those too exalted to ever slaughter their own food or so poor they didn′t eat meat, both small minorities in this part of the world. Denson snorted at the automatic agreement.

  ″Yeah, you′re a Changeling, all right. Back then, even here in Iowa most people didn′t know how that looked, ′cause they′d never seen an animal butchered unless they worked in a slaughterhouse. Even farmers hadn′t. Hell, I hadn′t.″

  ″Whoa,″ Ingolf said, shocked despite himself.

  He′d known things were very different back then, but—

  ″Not around Readstown. My dad butchered deer; he was a hunter even before the Change. I do remember that. And one of my uncles raised pigs and slaughtered them and smoked his own bacon.″

  ″Wisconsin. The Kickapoo country in Wisconsin at that—the sticks.″

  ″Yah, we′re all ignorant cheeseheads, I′ve heard that before. You still had it lucky here.″

  ″Everyone says that, because we′ve got as many people now as before the Change. That′s after a generation of everyone breeding like crazy—hell, the kids are even useful, now, instead of swallowing a fortune in college tuition. Back around the Change enough people here died that life got real cheap, real fast. Only a few saw what had to be done if we weren′t all going to die. Get the city people out to the farms, get the farms rerigged to work with hand tools, get tools made, get the food in the silos and such stored before it went bad, get the livestock out of the confinement pens before they died, organize the Amish as instructors so we could plant a crop that first year . . .″

  ″Wise people like you, I suppose,″ Ingolf said.

  He′d noticed that people who′d been adults before the Change tended to think that they were smarter than their children. When they were actually just more . . .

  What was the word? Right, introspective. Always watching themselves watching themselves watching themselves. Sometimes I wonder why they didn′t just disappear up their own assholes.

  Denson grinned. ″No. I was sixteen then, scared spitless, but
old enough I remember it pretty good. Dad was like some crazy preacher then, spreading the gospel—that drove it into my head good and hard. He was number three or four in the State Police; though he drafted me, soon enough. And Tom Heasleroad, he really knew what had to be done, and saw the opportunities, if you know what I mean. Abel Heuisink saw it too, damn him, and he was in the State government like Tom.″

  ″I′ve met him. We stayed at his place.″

  ″He′s no fool, just . . . in his old age he′s turned into what they used to call a flaming liberal.″

  ″You mean he′s a free spender?″ Ingolf said, puzzled; the Heuisinks had struck him as generous even for rich, well-born landholders, but not wasteful.

  ″Nah. The word′s changed meaning—changed back, actually; I looked it up once when I noticed. We could close him down, but he′s got supporters. And Anthony likes to have an official opposition . . . keeps all the other groups competing to make sure he doesn′t deal them in. Plus he knows Abel isn′t a friend of mine, personally, and neither is your friend Heuisink Junior. Balance of power stuff.″

  ″Jack doesn′t like you either, no. His father worked with your father, though.″

  ″Yup. Holding his nose while he did. Trouble was, they weren′t the real bossmen back then. The guys right at the top were sitting around wringing their hands, or putting Band-Aids on gut-stabs, shuffling the deck chairs on the Titanic—″

  He paused at Ingolf′s look of incomprehension and shrugged, amending the phrase:

  ″Fiddling while things burned, when we didn′t have any time to waste. They couldn′t get their heads around what had happened. Not fast enough.″

  ″So Tom Heasleroad and old Abel Heuisink and your dad took over,″ Ingolf said. ″And of course, Tom and your late father just had to keep running things because the Emergency never quite stopped.″

  Denson laughed. ″Pretty much. Though that bastard Heuisink really would turn everything over to the vakis″—which was Iowa slang for evacuee, the ex-townsmen and their descendants who were the Farmers′ labor force—″which I admit just between me and you wouldn′t mean everyone starving to death, not anymore, since these days they know something about working the land, but that′s politics.″