A Meeting at Corvallis (22 page)

“At least in winter the deer lasts long enough you can trade for something else before it goes off,” Hordle rumbled. “I take a good deal of fueling up, I do. It's not 'ealthy for me to go off me feed.”

Since he'd just put away three platters of crab cakes, several pounds of what he insisted on calling chips rather than French fries, and vegetables on top of it, nobody argued. The four of them had also shared a green salad, a scandalous luxury in January, when the winter-gardens were giving out; some of it came from the old University greenhouses, and it had cost as much as the rest of the meal together.

Astrid and Alleyne went first down the crowded sidewalk. Eilir watched with tender amusement as Astrid's hand moved out towards Alleyne's, drew back, then darted out and gripped his fingers. Her own arm was tucked through John Hordle's—which took some arranging, even though she wasn't a short woman by any means. Their eyes met, and Hordle's rolled up. She knew exactly what he was thinking:
Seven
months,
and they're just up to holding hands in public?

Eilir scowled at him and then gave her silent giggle; it
was
sort of funny, when you thought about it.
And sweet and sad at the same time.

Amusement died when they came up to the old brick-built Victorian structure that housed the consulate of the Protectorate, and alertness replaced it. A banner hung from the eaves to just over the door, night black save for a flame-wreathed Lidless Eye in gold and crimson.

Something's up,
she thought.

The building usually made do with the discreet plaque reading “Portland Protective Association” to keep from provoking the citizenry. The four-horse carriage that had just drawn up outside it was unusual as well, very like a Western stagecoach except much fancier and with pneumatic tires, with brass and lacquered leather and glazed windows with sashes drawn across them, and a different blazon on the doors—a blue-mantled Virgin Mary standing on a submissive-looking dragon.

Even after what must have been days of travel in the wintertime the vehicle still had a subdued dark gleam, and the horses looked reasonably fresh. The outriders were four men-at-arms in full fig: conical helmets with nasal bars that splayed out to cover the mouth over mail coifs, knee-length short-sleeved hauberks with the skirts split up the middle for riding, plate or splint protection on shins and forearms; the destriers had steel chamfrons on their heads and peytrals to protect their chests. They'd diplomatically left their lances somewhere else, their swords were peace-bonded, and their four-foot kite-shaped shields were slung diagonally across their backs from left shoulder to right hip by the
guige
straps, point-down like a country-singer's guitar in the old days. They swung down and let grooms lead their mounts away to the stables behind the house, taking position around the carriage facing out with their arms crossed over their chests, standing with a relaxed alertness like so many hunting dogs.

Two footmen had been riding on the back of the carriage, blue with the chill despite warm woolens. They leapt down and opened the door facing the sidewalk, and swung down the folding stair. A young maidservant in double t-tunic and long, embroidered tabard stepped down, a light suitcase in her hand, an elegant pre-Change French type surfaced with ostrich leather and closed with a built-in combination lock. Another woman followed her, dressed in Portland's idea of male civil garb and wearing a sword at her belt, which was more than a little odd in Association terms, and carrying a lute; she handed that to the servant when she saw the Dúnedain. The bundle slung over her back was probably a crossbow in a zippered nylon bag. Her plain, dark t-tunic had long sleeves that flared below the elbow; from the way it moved, Eilir suspected a mail lining, and a sheathed dagger strapped to her right forearm; she was in her early twenties, blond hair cut in a pageboy bob, with eyes the pale gray of the sea on an overcast winter's day, graceful features as hard and watchful as the guardian warriors'.

Look at her wrists and the backs of her hands,
Eilir thought, conscious of a quick, professional appraisal directed at her.
Look at her
eyes,
look at the way she
moves.
That's a fighter and a very good one.

Then a third passenger left the coach….

Astrid forced her hand back from the hilt of her sword and rested both hands on the broad, heavy belt that cinched her waist; she stood there bristling quietly with her face a beautiful, calm mask, something that would make anyone who knew her well nervous. Alleyne raised an eyebrow, and John Hordle muttered an oath; the passenger was someone they'd both met, when they came into Portland on the
Pride of St. Helens
last spring.

Sandra Arminger!
Eilir thought.

“Why, it's
Roquen
Astrid,
Hiril
of the Dúnedain!” Sandra Arminger said with a smile.

She stepped out of the carriage, bundled in a long, shimmering ermine traveling cloak and holding the skirts of a rich cotte-hardi aside; the woman with the sword handed her down.

Her voice was warm and pleasant as she went on: “And her
anamchara
the
Kel-Roquen
Eilir Mackenzie! We meet at last!
Mae govannen, ndek!
”

Astrid grew conscious that she was about to hiss in sheer fury, and made herself take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
It's
just
like her to know the Elven tongue,
she thought.
This means we'll have to be careful while she's around, because we can't tell how
much
of it she knows. Damn!

“Lady Sandra,” she forced herself to say. “We had business at the consulate here, but we'll come back later.”

Sandra Arminger's eyes were a dark brown just short of black, steady and clever and watchful. Her smile seemed to reach them, but with a secret amusement, as if she was always laughing at some secret joke at everyone else's expense; she was a good deal shorter than Astrid or Eilir's five-eight, doll-like before Hordle's hulking mass, but not in the least intimidated as she went on: “Lord Carl is a very competent man, but if you wish to discuss the unfortunate Sir Jason Mortimer…yes, I've heard about that…it'll save you time to talk to
me
. And Sir Alleyne, Master Hordle, how nice to see you again, even if you were naughty the last time.”

She shook a finger at them. “You took me in completely! Not many men can say that. I look forward to our conversation.”

“You're doubtless tired from your journey,” Alleyne demurred. “Tomorrow is also a day.”

“Not in the least, Sir Alleyne—”

“That's plain Mr. Loring,” he said. “My father's the baronet.”

“As you will. The roads are still good, even the I-5, now that it's mostly been cleared of obstructions. I'm perfectly fresh.”

So that's how she got here,
Astrid thought.

“And I changed out of my traveling garb before we got here.”

The old interstate wasn't much used, since the center of the Valley held few folk south of the Association's territory these days, but over the years the various communities had pushed the dead vehicles aside, often in the course of salvaging useful parts like the springs and tires. It would be a very bold bandit indeed who'd attack Sandra Arminger with her household knights around her.

She probably had more than that,
Astrid guessed.
Another carriage, spare horses, more men-at-arms and some mounted crossbowmen. Left them at a hidden camp outside the settled zone before she came on to Corvallis
.

Two days would be ample to cover the eighty miles between here and Portland. It was a bold move, but not fool-hardy, if she had important business here. Alleyne looked at her and raised a brow. Astrid glanced at Eilir, and got an almost imperceptible nod, and the same from John Hordle.

“Thank you,” Astrid said. “There's no point in wasting time.”

Sandra inclined her head. “Ivo, Ruffin, Joris, Enguerrand,” she said, and the men-at-arms came to attention without moving. “See to things. Tiphaine, with me.”

The consul was a lanky blond man in his thirties with a face that showed no expression at all and a knight's little golden spurs on his boots, who stood aside with a little bow as Sandra swept past, and nodded to the Dúnedain.

Funny names,
Astrid said in Sign behind his back.

Mom said it's Court fashion in the Protectorate,
Eilir replied.
Taking names out of old books.

Silly,
Astrid answered, and then blinked as John Hordle bit his lip and fought a laugh down into a wheeze.
What are
you
laughing at? Never mind.

Lord Carl bowed them through into a conference room, and left silently at a slight movement of Sandra Arminger's fingers.

The room had been remade in Association style with a tapestry on either side of the fireplace, but there were bookshelves flanking the bow window that looked out over a winter-sere garden and a huge oak where a few dry yellow leaves yet clung; lilacs tapped their bare fingers on the glass. A long table of some polished reddish wood ran down the center of the room, with pens and ink, writing paper and blotting paper and little silver cups of fine sand to dust across a page when you were finished writing. Fire crackled in the hearth, shedding grateful warmth on the raw winter's day; the room held the scent of burning fir and of wax and polish and a sachet of dried roses on the mantel. Astrid was suddenly conscious that her boots might have been a little cleaner after tramping through the streets and mud earlier that day, and that it had been two days in the saddle since her last cold-water bath or change of underwear.

“Do be seated,” Sandra said, stripping off her fur-lined gloves.

Astrid ground her teeth; she hadn't planned on asking for permission. The maidservant handed the gloves and heavy traveling cloak to another and then took three steps backward and stood waiting, with her hands folded in front of her with fingers linked, and her eyes cast down. Briefly, Astrid wondered why the girl didn't run for it; perhaps she had family back up in the Protectorate, or possibly Sandra Arminger was smart enough to treat her personal staff well.

Probably, not possibly. Don't underestimate an enemy!

The servant pulled humble obscurity over herself like a cloak of invisibility. The woman in the dark tunic and breeches didn't; behind her ruler's right shoulder she stood silent and immobile with her hands folded inside the wide sleeves of her black tunic, pale eyes looking nowhere in particular…and she was as easy to ignore as a spearpoint pointed at your nose. All four of them gave her a single long, considering glance and then stopped looking at her, but Astrid could tell everyone kept her location in mind.

Refreshments were offered and—politely—declined. Sandra Arminger warmed her hands on a goblet of mulled wine that smelled of expensive spices. She
did
look tired, and not only because she was fifteen years older than Astrid. There were dark circles under those piercing eyes, and she sighed in relief as she sank back in the comfortable cushioned chair; she wore no jewelry apart from the silver-link band around her linen headdress, and a simple chain bracelet bearing an odd-looking coin.

“I always enjoyed Society events before the Change,” the consort of Portland's ruler said. “But there are times when I miss being able to slop around in sweats…not to mention just getting into a car and
going
somewhere, especially after a trip like this. God alone knows what it'll be like when the roads and bridges have washed and worn away. But I know you youngsters aren't interested in hearing us decrepit fogies talk about the good old days.”

She held out a hand, palm-down over the table. The maidservant took a book from the shelves and slid it forward under her fingers. It had a black-leather binding, and gilt-stamp letters on the spine beneath the Lidless Eye. They read:
Fiefs of the Portland Protective Association: Tenants in Chief, Vassals, Vavasours and Fiefs-minor in Sergeantry.
That meant among other things that the maidservant wasn't
just
a maidservant; she could read at least, which a lot of people her age in the Association's territories couldn't. Sandra flipped the book open, then turned two pages over to find precisely the entry she wanted.

“The mesne tithes from Sir Jason's manor of Loiston—”

She raised a brow at them, and they all nodded to show they were familiar with the Association's terminology. Mesne tithes were what a fief-holder paid his own overlord for seizin of the land, part of which would be passed on to the Lord Protector by the tenant-in-chief.

“—amount to eight hundred silver dollars yearly, or fifty-seven rose nobles in gold,” she went on, running a finger down a list of figures. “That's notional, money of account. Most of it is paid in kind, and he's assessed to maintain three crossbowmen, three spearmen and two mounted men-at-arms for the war-levy of Barony Gervais. Besides his own service in arms and eighty days castle garrison duty for a man-at-arms and three footmen annually in time of peace, and the usual boon-work from his tenants for roads, bridges and fortifications.”