The Protector's War (70 page)

He shook his head as the youngsters walked away; as they did, the two figures grew closer. “Christ Jesus, I didn't expect this sort of thing would be part of the job.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Loring said reminiscently. “There are times an officer has to be a father to his men. And at Tilford—well, you wouldn't be interested in an old man's maunderings.”

“You can learn by listening, or by getting whacked between the eyes with a two-by-four. I always found listening easier. Right now, let's go get dinner.” He grinned. “You haven't met Mike Jr. yet; he's still in a high chair. But feeding him, thank God, is something I can still unload on Signe and the nanny.”

He shrugged again, this time the sort of gesture a man made before settling down to a heavy task. “And tomorrow, it's back to work.”

 

The map room of Larsdalen had been a sun porch before the Change, with half its roof of glass, and tall windows on two sides. The leaders of the Bearkillers and their allies sat at a long table with the glass behind them and the maps before; the military apprentices had set out spirit lamps with pots of herbal tea and platters of oatmeal cookies studded with raisins, then left before the serious talking began. The evening sun gave excellent natural light; the maps looked as if they'd been drawn by hand post-Change, but by experts, and they showed the Pacific Northwest in considerable detail at half a dozen different scales. Nigel Loring appreciated the skill that had gone into them, and their value. Knowing what was where, which roads were passable…

“Everyone who hasn't met him, this is Sir Nigel Loring; he's given the Protector's nose a good hard yank; details are sort of classified. Sam Aylward knew him before the Change, and vouches for him. He was an SAS colonel then, and apparently ran the whole British army afterward, until he had a falling-out with the government there. Sir Nigel, this is Major Jones of the Corvallis University Militia,” Havel said.

The soldier was a slender, strong man in his thirties, in a green uniform that looked as if it was designed to be worn under armor, and glasses held on with a rubber strap. The map indicated that Corvallis lay south of the Bearkiller territories, and that it ruled a broad swath between the Williamette River and the Pacific.

“And Councilor Edward Finney of the agriculture faculty there.”

The councilor was a square-built man of about Loring's age; his hand was square as well, callused and strong. “I'm actually just a farmer,” he said. “Air force before the Change—logistics specialist; my dad owned a farm near town, and I got out, got back there. Pete, here, was a teaching assistant in the history department, and in the SCA. The university, or part of it, ended up running things in our area…long story.”

“Ed's an old friend, too,” Juniper said. “I knew his father well before the Change and we worked together afterward.”

“I wish we could say we represent Corvallis,” Finney said, nodding. “But we're only quasi-official here.”

“We represent
some
of Corvallis,” the younger man in green said sourly. “The part that takes the Protector seriously.”

Havel snorted softly. Loring looked over to Sam Aylward; the stocky noncom nodded slightly.
Right,
Loring thought.
A city-state run by committees…which means there'll be plenty who won't acknowledge a problem until it comes and bites them on the arse. Still, they can't be totally shambolic, or they wouldn't be alive now.

“Sir Nigel's brought us a good deal of information about the Protector's capacities and intentions,” Havel said. A grin: “Partly because the Protector didn't intend that he'd ever get loose to tell anyone about it, and indulged his taste for monologuing about the details of his own greatness. Sir Nigel, over to you.”

Nigel rose, cleared his throat, and began to recite: numbers, estimates, appraisals of men and weapons that he'd seen. He didn't need to look at the notes he'd made, but Signe Havel occasionally glanced down at her copies. When he finished, the faces of the Corvallans were longer than they'd been.

“Told you, Pete, Eddie,” Havel said.

“Yes, you did,” the soldier said glumly. “And
we
believed you all along. The problem is, our homegrown idiots are just going to say that means they're right to bend over backward—or forward—to avoid making the Protector angry.” He held up a hand. “Yeah, I know, Mike, that means they hope he'll break his teeth on you guys—or at least eat them last. And that's truly, deeply stupid. But it's so.”

Havel grunted sourly and looked at Loring. “So, you'd estimate he can put about ten thousand men into the field?”

“Allowing for minimal garrisons in the rest of his territories, yes,” Loring said. “If you don't mind me asking, what can you call up to fight him?”

Havel looked at his wife. “The Outfit's got about twenty-three hundred militia,” she said. “Infantry—pikes, crossbows, archers. And we've got some field catapults and a siege train.”

“Plus the A-listers,” Havel said. “Three hundred of them. Lancers and horse archers—you've seen them in operation.”

Sam Aylward spoke: “We Mackenzies've got about twenty-two 'undred; that's everyone who can pull a useful bow. No cavalry, but we can get some help from over the Cascades—the Central Oregon Ranchers' Association.”

Havel snorted again, louder this time. “CORA couldn't organize a fuckup in a whorehouse, pardon my French—every rancher over there thinks he's a king. They make Corvallis look like a miracle of discipline. Sorry, Pete, Ed.”

Juniper Mackenzie made a gesture. “Still, we can count on
some
help from that direction. The ranchers who've fought with us against the Protector before will turn out, and some others who want to stay on our good side, and if the CORA isn't good at deciding things itself, at least it won't stop them. Say five to eight hundred, depending on the season and what he's doing up along the Mount Hood country, and what they have to guard against on their frontier with Pendleton—that war's a blight on the whole neighborhood.

“Light cavalry,” she went on, looking over at Loring. “Bows and swords. Very mobile, and fine scouts.”

Aylward looked at his ex-commander as well. “Ranchers and their cowboys,” he said. “The ranches are like hamlets these days, they took in a good many of the townsfolk who survived the Change. It's very…decentralized over there, so the CORA as a whole doesn't have to vote for war. The ranchers aren't what you'd call well organized, but they can fight well enough by bits and pieces, as it were.”

“Which gives us maybe six thousand against his ten thousand,” Havel said, breaking a cookie in half. “And apart from my A-list, ours are part-timers, and his are all full-time fighting men, all well equipped. OK, say he has to leave some at home to keep the farmers under control; it's still not good odds, particularly since about two thousand of his are knights and men-at-arms—heavy cavalry and damned hard to stop. And he's got a better battering-train than we do, and we've got a lot less in the way of fortifications. Besides which, standing siege would let him destroy everything we've spentten years building up.”

Everyone looked at the two from Corvallis. Reluctantly, Peter Jones spoke: “We could put seven thousand in the field with a general call-up. But that would require a council resolution and a referendum vote, if our own territory weren't invaded.”

“Ah, participatory democracy,” Loring said, his tone neutral.

Edward Finney flushed slightly: “When the people who're going to fight do the voting, they really mean it!”

Which was true, but didn't entirely make up for being late to the party.

“He's still not going to attack before the harvest,” Signe Havel said. “The logistics are bad otherwise.”

“If he's planning on some sieges he'll bring—”

Loring sat back and let the others argue; he was the stranger here, and thought himself lucky to be allowed to listen in, despite the pleasant informality of arrangements. Instead he watched the faces. A man—or a woman—could lie to you with words, but it was harder to deceive a third party—particularly about character.

Yes, our Lord Bear would make a good friend and a very dangerous enemy,
he thought.
Just the man for a sudden deadly blow with no warning.

He recognized the type; Sam Aylward was another, solid noncommissioned officers, perfectly capable of running a company and of seeing that lieutenants didn't mess things up too badly before they learned their trade. Both capable of a good deal more under the right circumstances.

And young Lord Bear has come a long way…I suspect most dynasties were founded by men much like him. Wit enough, even if he's no genius, but willpower to spare. Not half so dangerous as his wife, though, I would venture. Beautiful to a fault, yet she reminds me a bit too much of Queen Hallgerda. And I rather think she's a good deal more intelligent, not to mention personally formidable. Mr. Havel is welcome to her.

The two from Corvallis had the harassed look of good men doing their best in a situation that they knew was beyond them. Sam Aylward—
he
looked a little different, and not just because he was nearly a decade older. He didn't seem as detached as he would have been at a briefing before the Change; the matter at hand obviously touched him in more than a professional manner.

He's more settled,
Loring thought.
He was always a fine soldier, but a bit lost out of uniform. Glad to see he's found a home. And we could have used him back in England after the Change.

And then there was Juniper Mackenzie. He noticed that she spoke little, but tended to quiet arguments when she did, and help keep people focused. And her voice was interesting in itself, softly musical, the American accent he'd always found rather harsh and flat softened by the trace of a brogue.

West-Irish, at that, I think she said. Fine figure of a woman, too. Pretty in a colleen fashion, but with character too—someone interesting has been living in that face. Friendly, but I suspect there's a volcano of a temper under that red hair as well.

He'd known Witches before; a good few had survived in England by geographical accident or prescient flight to somewhere remote—two dozen had hidden out in the New Forest, evaded the mobs by some cascade of miracles, and greeted the king's men when they came surveying. Juniper seemed to have her feet planted more firmly in the earth than most of the breed that he'd met. At that moment she looked up and met his eyes; there was a slight jolt that left him blinking, and then she winked at him. He hid his smile, smoothing down his mustache with a finger, then bent his attention back to the discussion. When it ended, she cleared her throat.

“That leaves the question of where to keep Mathilda Arminger.” At Havel's quick glance she went on: “Come now, Mike, it's not as if it would stay a secret for long, wherever we put her, sure. You can hide people in a city, but those days are gone, and all we have are villages where everyone knows everything about everybody—we could scarcely chain her up in a cabin in the woods. Too many saw her at that fight in Molalla's territory, for what happened to stay secret for long. Too many of my folks
and
his.”

Havel exchanged another glance with his wife. “She's got to stay somewhere safe, at least.”

Juniper nodded. “That leaves either here or Dun Juniper—unless Corvallis would like to keep her, as neutrals?” The two emissaries of the city-state made quick fending-off gestures, and Loring hid another smile.

“Well, then, Dun Juniper for the present. It's out of the way, and as strong as any of our holds, and farther from Protectorate territory,” Juniper said, with a trace of reluctance in her voice. “Though if anyone would care to volunteer to take her off my hands…”

Signe Havel nodded slowly and unwillingly. “For now that's the best option, yes,” she said.

“Sure, Signe, and we can reconsider later if it seems wise,” Juniper agreed. “From what I've heard back, she's not the sweetest-tempered guest ever received in my Hall. But moving her across the valley would be far too risky…”

Hmmm, something there,
Loring thought.
But there's something about Lady Juniper's voice that makes it hard to stay angry with her, I think.

“Yeah, it would be an invitation to a raiding party,” Signe conceded. “She'd better stay at your place for now.”

A little surprised at himself, Loring spoke: “It might be a good idea to give her some additional guards. I and my son and John Hordle have more than a little of experience at clandestine operations between us, before the Change and after it. And we'd like to see a little more of the neighborhood, since we seem likely to settle here at the last.”

“Good idea—” Signe and Mike Havel's voices tripped over each other. Havel cleared his throat and continued: “
Very
good idea. Arminger has some sneaking-around-the-woodshed types himself.”