The Sword of the Lady (39 page)

She waited until he′d left, stumbling slightly with the weariness he could now acknowledge to himself. Certain habits were well engrained by a lifetime of weaving secrets; only when she was alone again did she use a letter opener to flick off the seals. The original bundle had undoubtedly included material for Stardell Hall in Mithrilwood, Dun Juniper, Mt. Angel and Larsdalen, sent on with someone else beside the polite young monk, but her spies could glean anything that had been left out here in at least three of the four.

And I don′t
think
any of them have infiltrated to my immediate Household.

She pulled paper towards her and dipped a fine steel-nibbed pen in the ink, careful to keep the lace at her sleeve off the surface of the sheet. No need to consult a code book; this was one she had thoroughly memorized, a private one she and her daughter shared with nobody and had never written down. Mathilda′s report made interesting reading, paced slowly as it was while she transcribed from the cipher. Her eyebrows went up as she read of the doings in Iowa, and then she felt the blood drain from her face as the final scene in the Bossman′s quarters unfolded, even as her daughter′s bold neat hand reassured her that it had ended well.

″There are times when it′s inconvenient to be an atheist,″ she murmured to herself. ″I simply don′t have anyone to be thankful
to
.
My eternal gratitude, O blind and ontologically empty dance of atoms,
just isn′t very satisfying, somehow.″

Then she smiled, warm and fond, at the younger woman′s description of the maneuverings after Anthony Heasleroad′s death:

″That′s my girl!″

Her eyebrows went higher, and she laughed aloud at her daughter′s defiant pride in what she′d gotten the other travelers to do on the deck of the schooner, and Rudi′s reaction.

″That
is
my girl,″ she said, with a glow of pride.

The last brief section was addressed from
Readstown, Free Republic of Richland
; simply that they′d arrived, and had been well received by the local lordling.

When she′d finished her work she sat back and sipped at a cup of coffee, absently pushing aside one of her Persians that was nosing around the little jug of cream on the tray. Another stamp-clash came through the door, and the usher′s voice:

″My lord the Count of Odell, High Chancellor of the Association! My lady the Baroness d′Ath, Grand Constable of the Association!″

They made a knee and kissed her extended hand in turn. ″Sorry, my lady,″ Conrad said. ″That War Finance Council meeting, you know. I couldn′t cut it without offending House Jones and House Gutierrez, even if neither of them can count to eleven without dropping their hose . . . and you did say
convenience
.″

″It′s important but not time-constrained,″ Sandra said. ″Better you than me on the War Finance business, Conrad. I know it′s important work, but accounting bores me like an auger.″

″CPA in good standing,″ Conrad said cheerfully, slapping his ample stomach; that had been his day job, back when she′d been a faculty wife and they′d both been members of the Society who just
played
at being nobility.

″And I was outside the city wall,″ Tiphaine said, as she poured them both stiff tots of the Larressingle Armagnac brandy, salvaged from the ruins of Seattle years ago. ″Watching our loyal levies squelch and slip and fall on their faces in the mud.″

″Read,″ Sandra said, forestalling the question and pushing her transcript across the table with a forefinger. ″It′s from Mathilda.″

Tiphaine nodded; her ice-colored eyes narrowed slightly in satisfaction. Conrad laughed and swore and slapped his thigh, which was his equivalent. The Grand Constable was in leather riding breeches and slightly muddy thigh-boots and a high-collared, long-sleeved tunic of black wool that looked a little damp; her pale bobbed hair was dark with melted snow. She tucked an owl-shaped pendant she′d taken to wearing into the neck of her tunic, poured her brandy into the coffee—Conrad winced to see the priceless pre-Change French liquor treated so—and sipped while she read.

″You were out drilling troops in
this
?″ the Chancellor said; he was in court working dress with the golden chain of office across his bull shoulders and barrel chest.

″Wars don′t get called off due to snow and cold and neither should training,″ she said absently, attention on the writing.

″You′ve got a general staff and unit commanders for that,″ Conrad said, in a half-scolding tone; she′d been his second-in-command for years. ″I let them do their jobs and I did mine when
I
was Grand Constable.″

″Your average man-at-arms has a short attention span and a skull that′s iron from ear to ear even without a helm, Conrad. It′s necessary to keep reminding them how tough I am. Otherwise I have to kill men occasionally just to make the others pay attention, which creates its own problems. I don′t look as repulsively fearsome as you, and I pee in a different position, remember.″

Then she tapped her free finger on the dateline of the dispatch. ″Barely two months for news from east of the Mississippi. That′s very good. We still haven′t got what they sent from Iowa.″

″We probably won′t,″ Conrad said. ″The CUT is clamping down hard on the guerillas in occupied New Deseret, and that′s the only way of bridging eastern Idaho unless you go around to the north.″

Tiphaine smiled as she read, a hungry expression. Conrad held out his hand wordlessly and she handed him the sheets she′d finished.

″Ah!″ he said, skimming rapidly. ″Now,
that
looks promising! Satan′s arse, with piles like acorns! Now the CUT has got most of the Midwest lethally mad at them! Corwin has a
genius
for making enemies.″

″So did Norman,″ Sandra said. ″And it is
extremely
promising. Iowa is a long way from Montana, but from the description they potentially outweigh the CUT by a very considerable margin.″

″The logistics will be murder,″ Tiphaine said. ″But even a small percentage of a big enough sum is still large.″

Conrad read the pages as the Grand Constable slid the sheets over to him, occasionally glancing at the rather coarse brown linen-rag paper of the original, then frowned—which turned his scarred face into something even more grotesque.

″Damn, it still hits me sometimes! Two months
is
fast now. I keep remembering FedEx.″

Sandra nodded. She′d made a much better adjustment to the Changed world than most adult survivors—her girlhood heroines had been Eleanor of Aquitaine with Catherine de′ Medici a close second, and she′d spent a good deal of her time with the Society making believe that she
was
someone like that, even in the old world. And of course being a sovereign and waited on hand and foot eliminated much of the sheer inconvenience of existence without high-energy technologies.

And it
still
hits me sometimes too, at moments like this. There are some things that no amount of hand labor can duplicate.

A decade and a half younger, Tiphaine was untroubled by the look the two shared. Instead she murmured:

″It
is
more convenient now that we′re at peace with the Drumhellers. That gives us a route right around the CUT and Boise both. Suitable for intelligence and communications, if not armies, given that the Canadian Rockies are in the way.″

Conrad scowled for a moment. ″The Dominions are scared of the CUT too; they′ve got a border with them, or at least Drumheller and Moose Jaw do, and if they′ve got any sense they′ll join in. But I still say we should have held out for more of the Peace River country. It′s rich, and it′s got a big labor force—″

Sandra went
tsk
. ″Which means it is full of contumacious Canuks with bows, Conrad, who really wouldn′t appreciate our handing it out in fiefs over their heads.″

″We did just that in plenty of other places.″

″That was in the first Change Years. We were dealing with terrified hungry refugees who′d do anything for help and had nowhere to turn. It′s different now. Things have . . . jelled. In any case, that′s for another day, provided that we survive the present war. Read! There′s something rather interesting after they left Iowa.″

She could tell when he came to the part on the boat.

″They hailed him
High King
?″ Conrad of Odell spluttered. His skin turned red under the thick white keloid. ″
Mathilda
hailed him as High King of . . . what the hell is Montival?″

″Everything, evidently,″ Tiphaine d′Ath said crisply. ″Everything from here to Idaho, down to California and north to the limits of Association territory, I imagine, at least. Perhaps California too, if we ever get the Westria Project going. Hmmm. Montival is actually not a bad name, now that the old State boundaries are so meaningless.″

″Goddammit, she′s giving it all away, the—″

Sandra cleared her throat: ″Conrad, we′re old friends, but I think you′re about to say something on the order of
dumb little twat
about my daughter Princess Mathilda, the heir to Portland. Don′t. It would be
rude
as well as inaccurate.″

″All right, I won′t,″ he said, a tun of a man in black velvet and gold and heraldic colors, with the sweat of anger on his bald dome. He rubbed it with a hand like a spade before mastering himself and going on: ″But why, why,
why
did you raise her to be such a . . . such a . . .″

″
Romantic
is the word you′re looking for, Conrad,″ Tiphaine said. ″But she′s not, really. She′s hardheaded enough, in modern terms. Changeling terms. She′s just . . .
good
.″

The smile grew a little broader. ″Not something any of
us
three have to worry about.″

″And I raised her to be
that
because I want to build something for her that will last,″ Sandra said. ″Remember what Napoleon said to Talley rand.″

Tiphaine thought for a moment and then nodded. Conrad stopped in midrant and looked at her before he spoke, in the tone used with quotations:

Sandra smiled and completed the anecdote with the diplomat′s reply:

″
Yes, sire. You can do anything with such bayonets . . . except sit on them
. Evil has a short half-life, Conrad. Only a man like Norman—and a woman like me—could have built the Association, given what the times were like at the Change. To make it a living thing that survives us all . . . I′ve found that other methods are necessary. And to really consolidate it needs someone like my Mathilda.″

″But she′s giving away our sovereignty! Sandra—having the Corvallis Meeting always looking over our shoulders since the Protector′s War is bad enough, but
this
!″

Tiphaine sat silent, a considering frown on her face. Sandra stroked the Persian cat on her lap with one hand, and waggled a finger at her Chancellor with the other.

″Conrad, Conrad, Conrad,″ she said—or almost purred, with the smile of a cat contemplating a mouse squeaking under its paw. ″You don′t think
I′ve
gone soft, do you? You′re not looking at the big picture!″

″I′m not?″ he said.

″Of course not. You′re thinking in pre-Change terms.″

Sandra held up one soft, well-manicured, not-quite-plump hand; her eyelids drooped in an expression of purely political but still sensual enjoyment.

″Here we have the High King, Rudi—or Artos the First, as his enthusiastic young friends hailed him. When this message gets about, half the nobles in the Association will be crying him hail as well—″

″Three-quarters of those under thirty,″ Tiphaine put in.

″True. And all the burghers and peasants. All the Clan Mackenzie, of course; though dear Juniper will find some way to feel anguished and guilty about it. Witch Queen or not, you can tell she was raised Irish Catholic! And all the Rangers will
swoon
. Well, not Alleyne Loring or his pet troll Hordle, but certainly Eilir, she′s Rudi′s half sister after all. And most of all the
Lady
of the Dúnedain.″

″They′ll start dry-humping and creaming their hose in every
flet
,″ Tiphaine said, with a slight stark smile. ″Astrid particularly, you′re right about that, my lady. The demented bitch may get pregnant again just from contemplating the coronation ceremony.″

Sandra nodded. ″It′s precisely the sort of romantic froth they adore. The Bearkillers . . . well, many of them will be enthusiastic too, if not dear Signe. Rudi
is
the son of their precious Bear Lord, after all. And isn′t it pleasant to think of Signe striding about kicking the Larsdalen furniture and thinking of how her own dear little lad Mike Jr. should have it, but never will, because he′s been done out by his bastard half brother Rudi
again
?″

″The woman can certainly nurse a grudge,″ Tiphaine said.

You′re speaking with unconscious irony, my dear
, Sandra thought affectionately, as she nodded agreement to her protégé.
Or as the kettle said to the pot: My, how sadly sooty and grimy is your backside!

She added aloud in a meditative tone: ″I think that she′s never really been able to get over that little premarital infidelity of Havel′s with Juniper
because
it only happened once. That and Rudi being his spitting image, with three inches and strawberry blond hair added.″

″Are you saying that there′s nothing we can do to stop this High King of Montival nonsense?″ Conrad said.