A Sterkarm Kiss (26 page)

“I'll fetch may,” Isobel said, her cheeks growing a little pink. Let the limmer have her say—then all would know that Isobel spoke the truth. Let the Elf-May condemn herself out of her own mouth, and then let's see what to do with her! She turned toward the stairs, and the Elf-Man, Gareth, actually put his hand on her arm to stop her.

“I'll go up and fetch her,” he said, before becoming aware of the sudden stillness around him and a certain tingle in the air. Looking up, sharply, uneasily, he looked into Isobel's astonished and angry face, and saw Per looking at his hand on Isobel's arm. His hand dropped to his side. “Sorry! Sorry—no offense. Just—if you'll allow me to go up and—”

“Elf be keen to stop may speaking for herself,” Sweet Milk said.

“Aye,” another Sterkarm agreed. “Let's hear her word for ourselves.”

Per was still looking at Gareth, and his stance was that spread-legged, loose-armed stance that could move quickly into anything. Gareth stepped back a couple of paces, putting a good distance between him and Mistress Sterkarm. “Mother,” Per said, though he still looked at Gareth, “fetch may.”

Andrea stood by the tower's small, high window, peering out. She had heard the arrival of the returned ride and had tried to see what she could, constantly moving her head a fraction this way and that—but try as she might, the alleys were too narrow, and there were too many thatched roofs, and too many people crammed in the alleys, for her to glimpse more than bits and pieces of horses and riders as they passed. She'd been looking out for Per but hadn't seen him—or not any recognizable part of him, anyway. So she didn't know if he was still alive. And if he is, she thought, what has he done while he's been away? Has he killed?

Behind her the door opened, and startled, she spun around to see Isobel coming in.

“Come down now,” Isobel said.

Andrea stayed where she was. “Whyfor?”

“Come down,” Isobel said impatiently, and waited by the door.

Andrea knew that she didn't have a choice, and walked toward the door, but she was scared. She didn't know what she was walking into.

Isobel led the way down the narrow stone stairs. Several people were clustered on the landing, looking up with excited faces. As soon as they saw Andrea, they ducked back into the hall, calling out that she was coming.

Uh-oh, Andrea thought.

She stepped in through the doorway of the hall. One of the long trestle tables had been set up, and people were crowded, standing, around it, men to the fore, and women and children behind them. They had been talking before her appearance but now fell silent and stared at her intently. She felt exposed and in danger, and had to set her jaw to keep herself from cringing as she followed Isobel past them and past the long table. People pushed each other back to make way for them, and still they stared. Whispering broke out behind her.

Andrea was led to the hearth, with its big stone chimney hood carved with the Sterkarm badge, the Sterkarm Handshake. There, on a settle, with his big gazehounds at his feet, sat Per, with Sweet Milk beside him. Their helmets and jakkes were on the floor near them, and they still had on their long riding boots. Their shirts were rumpled and loose. Per's hair stood on end, from pulling his helmet off. He looked tired. I should be glad to see him alive, Andrea thought—and I am. But she could not rely on his support and favor as she'd been able to do in that other world. I must be careful, she thought. More careful than I have been, anyway.

Gareth stood beside the settle, leaning on it. He didn't look good. Exhausted, red eyed, and rather scared. Behind him, and behind the settle, were ranged the other 21st men, all of them unshaven and grimy.

“Good day to you, Mistress Elf,” Per said to her, and behind his dry politeness was a memory of the last time they'd seen each other, when they'd lain in bed together. “Tell me, who put my father in his grave?”

Andrea felt the eyes of everyone in the room settle on her, and briefly shut her own. Why don't I just say, “Grannams”? That was what everyone wanted her to say. But then they would only ask why she'd told Isobel something different. She opened her eyes and looked at Gareth, who, widening his eyes, seemed to be trying to signal something to her. She didn't know what. But he looked even more scared.

“Master Sterkarm,” she said, “I believe that Elf-Windsor ordered his Elves to shoot your father. I believe Big Toorkild was shot by an Elf, with an Elf-Pistol—and so were your father's brother and your cousin.”

Chatter broke out all around her—whisperings and exclamations that grew louder as everyone tried to be heard. Andrea was most conscious of Per's scowl and Gareth's expression of sick fright. But there was Patterson, too, his face sullen and darkening with blood.

Sweet Milk's quiet, deep voice broke through the chatter. “Whyfor do you believe this, Mistress Elf?”

It gave her a pang to hear Sweet Milk addressing her so formally, so distantly. She took a deep breath and launched into her explanation all over again: the nature of the wounds; the softness and size of lead balls; the narrowness, hardness, and velocity of Elf-Bullets. She even tried—since they were listening—to explain about the sound she'd heard behind her on the hillside, and about silencers and night sights.

Per's face was furious and baffled. Sweet Milk rose from the settle and turned to look at the Elves behind it. “Elf-­Patterson—what say you to this?”

Patterson understood that well enough; and Gareth had been whispering a translation of Andrea's words. “It's bullshit. She doesn't know what she's talking about. She's mad.”

Andrea sighed. What do men always say—in any time, in any dimension—when women disagree with them? She's mad, she's hysterical, she doesn't know what she's talking about, she's only a woman. A chill touched her. This wasn't the 21st, with its laws against discrimination.

Everyone looked to Gareth for his translation. For a moment he was oblivious, but then tripped over his tongue to tell them what Patterson had said. Andrea continued to watch Patterson. The man had spoken quite calmly, even with bravado, and he stood at ease now, staring her in the eye—but he'd been just a little too quick to call her mad; and there was something a little too studied about his manner. The eyes of some of his men were scared. They knew all too well—they'd seen—what might happen to them if the Sterkarms believed her. True, they had their Elf-Weapons; but they were also outnumbered.

“It was you, wasn't it?” Andrea said, speaking to Patterson in English. “You were the sniper. You shot Toorkild. In cold blood. Why aren't you translating this?” she asked Gareth.

“I think we'd better have a care here,” Gareth said, very conscious that some of the Sterkarms had picked up 21st-­century words and phrases. One of the 21st men said, “Mad cow.”

Patterson grinned. “Trying to get us all fucking beheaded, girlie?”

Per was looking from one to another, unable to catch enough words to understand what was said. His temper was rising. If the Elves wanted them dead, why had they helped him to take his revenge on the Grannams? Why had they risked Elvish lives to help him? And the Elves wanted peace. “Whyfor speak you these things?” he demanded of Andrea. He remembered how she'd lain with him, and had seemed so gentle and loving—had she been lying to him and working for the Grannams? And when the Grannam men had come to attack him, just before his father had been shot, she'd been with him then—waiting for a chance to stab him in the back? “You Grannam-loving bitch,” he said, and made a grab for her hair. She pulled back out of his way.

“Hey, hey.” Gareth stepped between them. He was trembling with fright but still found himself stepping between this Sterkarm killer and the object of his anger.

“She wants to make trouble between us and Elven,” Isobel said.

Andrea's pretty, scared face, with its large eyes and soft mouth, reminded Per of the tenderness he'd felt for her; and that sent a fierce pang through his heart and guts. Rage flared up and he drew his dagger. “I'll treat her same as that Grannam bitch.”

Gareth's heart skipped when he saw the dagger. He could feel it tearing into his own flesh. He felt his knees weaken. It would be easy, and so much safer, to stand aside and let Andrea defend herself.

But he'd done that already—he'd stood aside while Grannam women and children were murdered and burned. That had been easier—they'd been history-book people. Andrea was a 21st sider like himself. There'd been nothing he could do to save the Grannams. There was something he could do here. So although his voice squeaked in his tight throat and he felt sick to his stomach, he looked into Per's eyes, which were alight. It was the most frightening thing he'd ever done.

“Mistress Mitchell is an Elf,” he said, his voice shaking. “We, Elven, will arrest her and take her back to Elf-Land. It is for us, Elven, to punish her, not for you.” His belly quailed as he saw a silver flash in Per's eyes. Oh God; he's going to stab me.

“You're going to
arrest
me?” Andrea said incredulously, in 21st-side English. “For
what
? On what authority?”

“Shut up, for God's sake, haven't you said enough?” In Sterkarm English, he said, “If you harm her, we will withdraw our favor. We will give you no more help against Grannams.”

Per stared at him, and Gareth stared back, afraid to do anything else, afraid that even so much as glancing away would trigger Per's attack. He daren't look down, but he knew there was a long, wicked dagger in Per's left hand, somewhere about hip height. Its point would go into his guts …

Then Sweet Milk touched Per's shoulder and spoke in his ear. Per turned his head a little aside to hear it, and relaxed slightly.

Gareth dared to draw a deeper breath. He said, “I have other offers and favors from Elven to talk over with you—offers that will win you much wealth and fame—but if you harm any of us, that will all be forgotten.”

A murmur of curiosity went through all the Sterkarms gathered in the hall. Per lowered his dagger. “Elven favor traitors?”

Gareth gave Andrea a push, sending her behind the settle to join the other Elves, who didn't look at her with friendliness. “We will punish her,” Gareth said, “but we do not allow outsiders to punish our own—any more than do Sterkarms.”

The Sterkarms acknowledged the truth of that, were even flattered by it. Per returned his dagger to its scabbard. “What be these other offers and favors?”

Gareth took another deep breath. The tremors that ran through him were now of relief. He sat down on the settle, feeling shaky. He'd managed well, he thought. He must mention it in his report to Windsor. “How would you like,” he asked, “to fight for us in Elf-Land?”

19

16th Side: Peace on the Border

In the great hall of the Bedesdale Tower, the trestle table was still set up. Per sat at one end, in the settle that had been dragged from the fireside, with Sweet Milk and Isobel on either side of him. On long benches on either side of the table sat the Elves, as well as several favored Sterkarm men. Wooden dishes of bread were set on the table before them, with crocks of butter, cold mutton, and jugs of small beer. The table was surrounded by lesser men, standing, and women and youngsters, listening with folded arms.

“All that you win while fighting for us is yours to keep,” Gareth said. “Elven will take nothing of it. All we ask is that you win.”

There was a cautious murmur of approval from those around the table, especially those standing. They liked the sound of this, but they were looking to the head of the table to hear what their leaders thought before becoming more vocal. However, they'd made their wishes clear.

Andrea listened in astonishment. There were many questions she wished to ask—such as: Who were the Sterkarms going to fight in Elf-Land? Windsor had always hated Marketing and Accounts, but setting the Sterkarms on them was over the top even for Windsor, surely? Or was the Inland Revenue the target? At that moment, though, she didn't feel secure enough to ask rude, probing questions and draw attention to herself again. She had no friends in the room, not even among the Elves.

Per, inside the hood of the settle, was consulting with Sweet Milk and Isobel. Leaning forward, he said, “We are at feud with Grannams. We need Elven's help against
them
before we fight battles for Elven.”

“And you shall have it,” Gareth said. “I have power to promise you that. More Elf-Soldiers, more Elf-Weapons. I promise you solemnly that Sterkarms will be lords of the border, with no enemies, because they will have no enemies left.”

The Sterkarms stirred and whispered. Andrea, looking around, saw glinting eyes and grins that made her hair move. They liked the sound of that, too.

“This help,” Gareth said, “will be in part payment for your help in Elf-Land.”

“Master Elf,” Per said, “I can no take my men and horses to Elf-Land now. Who will fight Grannams when they come for revenge?”

“You forget that we are Elven,” Gareth said. “We will take you into Elf-Land, and we will bring you back here, to Man's-Home, one eye blink after you leave. In that eye blink, in Elf-Land, you might fight for a year—or two, or three, though it will no take that long. But however long it takes, you will be away from home for only one blink of an eye. I swear.”

There was a long silence while everyone thought this over; then a gentle murmur as they explained it to one another, to make sure they understood—and then a babble of confusion, delight, amazement, fear.

Andrea sat still and silent in shock. She had almost forgotten that what Gareth proposed was possible, because the Time Tube had always operated with a policy of keeping time in sequence on both sides of the Tube, to avoid problems of “Tube lag.” But of course, so long as they were returned to a time
after
they left, it could be fractions of a second later.

“I can also promise you,” Gareth said, “that Elven will be left here to guard tower even for that moment you'll be away—”

“We do no all live in Bedesdale,” said one of the Sterkarms seated at the table. Indeed, Sterkarms were scattered thickly over the country, and even across the border, in what was rightly England. There were many Sterkarm towers and bastle houses, all of which needed defending.

“We will send men with—with rockets, to every tower,” Gareth said. “And—and—besides this, and besides help in defeating the Grannams once and for all, and besides taking no share of your booty, we will also pay you for fighting for us! We will pay you in Elf-Cloth, and Elf-Clothes, in wee white pills, and whisky, and—”

“Elf-Carts?” Per said. “Rocket shooters?”

“We will talk about that,” Gareth said.

A deep silence fell on the hall. Per talked quietly with Sweet Milk as Isobel leaned to listen. Slowly, voices rose around them as everyone discussed what had been said.

Per struck the flat of his hand on the table, making a loud, sharp noise. There was quiet. Looking at Gareth, Per said, “In Elf-Land, whom shall we fight?”

Andrea sat straighter, waiting for Gareth's answer. This was what she was fascinated to know.

“You will not be fighting Elven,” Gareth said. “Or—no Elven like us. You will no be fighting Elven with weapons like ours. Do no fear that.”

Per looked puzzled. He spoke with Sweet Milk while chatter broke out again. Raising his voice, Per said, “If no Elven like you, then what kind of Elven? How many kinds of Elven be there?”

“There be many different Elf-Lands,” Gareth said. “Some of them are like ours, and some of them are like yours. We want you to gan into an Elf-Land very like yours and fight our enemies there, who are very like you, and—”

“Oh my God!” Andrea said, as it broke on her what this was all about. People glanced at her but were too interested in what else was being said to pay much attention.

“They have weapons like ours?” Per said.

“Very like yours,” Gareth said. “Swords, lances, pistols.”

“Whyfor have you need of us?” Per asked. “Your weapons knock down towers.”

“Ah,” Gareth said, “but we needed you to lead us to tower. We needed you to lead us to where Grannams were in ambush. That is why we need you in Elf-Land. You know land, you know how to cross it. You can be of priceless help to us.”

“We dinna ken land in Elf-Land,” Per said. “It be no our land.”

“It be exactly like this land,” Gareth said. “Elven that live there look exactly like you.”

Astounded comment and chatter broke out again. Andrea leaned on the table and put her head in her hands. “They look like us?” Per said.

“It be Elf-Work. They will make themselves look like you—to trick you. They be shape-changers. But they be not you. And if you will help us defeat them, we will pay you generously.”

An outburst of words broke on them from all sides; but the Sterkarms probably didn't find the proposal as strange as Andrea did. The idea of mortal men being recruited to fight the Elves' battles in Elf-Land was in their folklore—and so too was the notion that Elf-Land—or at least, some Elf-Lands—were identical to their own world and only subtly, magically different, so that people could step into them and never know that they'd left their own world and fate behind. They had many stories of people going into Elf-Land for an hour or a day and finding, on their return, that years had passed, so there was nothing new to them in the idea that time moved at different speeds in different worlds. And, of course, everyone knew that Elves were shape-shifters and could, if they chose, take on all sorts of forms.

Per struck the table again, calling for silence. “We need to talk about this. We'll give you an answer tomorrow, Master Elf.”

Gareth nodded. “Shall we withdraw to our bowers? And meet here tomorrow?”

“That would be well.”

And the two sides parted, the Elves going out to their sleeping quarters above various storerooms in the courtyard. Andrea, as she went down the tower steps, had no doubt what the answer would be. The Sterkarms, turn down the chance of a fight, the chance of plunder, fame, and wealth? The Devil would turn nun first.

“Gareth,” she called as they ducked out of the tower's low door into the courtyard. Her voice was tight. She didn't want to talk to him and knew that he didn't want to talk to her. “I need to have a word with you.”

He gave her the barest glance over his shoulder. “Tomorrow. I'm exhausted.”

“I
need
to talk to you now.” She walked at his shoulder. “I want an explanation.”

He turned and faced her. “Who are you to demand explanations? You could have got us all killed!”

Patterson and his men were walking ahead, on their way to their own sleeping quarters. Patterson turned back. “Got woman trouble, Gareth?”

The others laughed. “Need rescuing?”

They were all coming back, with jeering laughs and menacing swagger, all of Patterson's men. Andrea found her breath catching in her throat. She knew they were all angry with her. It would be a mistake to let them see she was scared. Looking Patterson in the eye, she said, “On whose orders did you shoot Toorkild?”

That stopped him short for a second, but then he gestured as if knocking away a fly. “Give it a rest, you mad mare.”

“Are you saying that you didn't shoot him?” Andrea watched his face. “Why deny it? Ashamed?”

A spark of anger lit in his eye. “I'm not ashamed of anything I've ever done. After all”—he grinned—“I've never fucked you.”

The other men sniggered. One clapped Patterson on the back.

Inwardly Andrea trembled with anger and nerves, but she refused to be either humiliated or intimidated. “Then you did do it. On whose orders?”

“I felt like it. Now, come on. Put Gareth down, and let's get you locked up in your pigpen for the night.”

“Leave her,” Gareth said, sounding tired to death. When Patterson still stayed where he was, Gareth snapped, “For God's sake!” He was annoyed with Andrea too, but Patterson's crudity was unbearable.

Patterson shrugged. “Please yourself.” He turned and ambled away, his men laughing and sniggering with him, looking back at Gareth and Andrea and laughing again.

Andrea turned away from them and said to Gareth, “You're sending the Sterkarms through to fight—well, the other Sterkarms. That's right, isn't it?”

Gareth sighed. “You've figured it all out. Why ask me? I just want to lie down and sleep.” He started walking toward his bower.

Andrea walked at his side. “Why? Why order such a thing? Is it just spite?”

“It's a business decision, as always,” Gareth said.

“I suppose blowing people apart, burning people alive—that's all business as usual? Trade by other means?”

Her words brought back to Gareth, with great vividness, some of the things he'd experienced recently. The smell of burning human fat and meat. A woman's severed head. He'd been hoping not to think much of these things ever again. The contempt in Andrea's voice too—a woman's voice—made him feel as if some tender inner part of him was being sandpapered.

“Are you okay?” Andrea asked.

“I just want to lie down. Sleep.”

She said nothing more but followed him to his bower and was closely behind him on his ladder. She was in the room with him before he could do or say anything about it. With a groan he unlaced and pulled off his boots and lay down on the bed.

Andrea shut the door and seated herself on a chest against the wall. “Tell me about this business decision.”

He groaned and rubbed his hand over his face. “Oh, leave me alone.”

“No. I shan't go away and I shan't shut up until you tell me. Come on. Tell me.”

Gareth sighed. “It's no big deal. If you have two dimensions open, then you have twice the trade, don't you?”

“But Windsor made a real mess of things in—with—with the other Sterkarms.”

“In 16th-side A,” Gareth said. “Yeah. We alienated the natives. So when we came here—16th-side B—we went out of our way not to do that. We laid on trips to Elf-Land, clothes, truckloads of aspirin, whisky—we were Mr. Nice Guy, we really were. And James Windsor”—his tone took on an accusing note—“worked harder than anybody. Promoting peace. Fostering an alliance between the Sterkarms and the Grannams.”

“I'm not an idiot,” Andrea said. “The Sterkarms didn't attack the Grannams, and—”

“No, they'd never do that, would they?” Gareth's voice was sharp.

“
This
time they didn't. And
this time
the Grannams didn't attack the Sterkarms.”

Gareth, resting his forehead on his hand, turned his head sidelong and looked at her.

“The men who attacked the Grannams,” Andrea said, “were Patterson's men, dressed as 16th siders. The men who attacked the Sterkarms were our men too—21st siders. Weren't they? Both sides thought they were being attacked by the other, but they were being attacked by 21st siders. By us. And when everyone was outside, fighting, all the floodlights went on. And there were snipers on the hillside in the dark, picking off Toorkild. And Richie Grannam. And—all the leaders,” she said wonderingly. “Gobby Per. Everyone Per might listen to …” She looked at Gareth. “Why?”

Gareth gave a slight, weary smile. “Promoting peace?”

“By starting a war?”

“Look. You've got the Grannams, and you've got the Sterkarms. There's Beales, too, and—oh, dozens of others. Always at each other's throats, always raiding, always fighting. As I understand it, we already tried asking them nicely, in 16 A—just cut it out and pack it in, we said. They took no notice. How would you have stopped them? Would they have stopped if we'd paid them, do you think?”

Andrea grimaced and shrugged. “No,” she admitted. That was what FUP had done, more or less, in what she'd have to learn to call 16 A. The Sterkarms had taken their payments, asked for more, and gone on raiding and feuding anyway.

“And do you really think the wedding alliance would have stopped them for long?”

“Well, yes, it might.” Andrea thought about it. “No. Not really.”

“The trouble always was, they were too finely balanced. No one family had any superiority over another. So it went on and on and on, in low-grade power struggles. Solution? Make one side overwhelmingly powerful.” He saw realization dawn in Andrea's face. “Yeah. Back the Sterkarms against the Grannams. Make the Sterkarms top dog.
That's
how you make peace.”

“Peace for FUP to trade,” Andrea said.