Prince of Outcasts (12 page)

The large bed had been replaced by two slightly smaller ones,
probably last night when the heliograph message came in. She didn't mind sharing with Herry at need, of course. . . .

Despite the fact that she thrashes about and snores and hogs the covers and has cold feet.

But it was nice to be in one place in the Protectorate outside her family's homes that actually understood they weren't lovers. Instead of elaborately pretending they didn't know something that wasn't so in the first place, and which she would have scorned to conceal if it
was
so.

Strange folk, Christians. Though it's wicked of Herry to take advantage of those who think she's a Royal favorite just for giggles.

“Remember the first time we met?” Órlaith said. “That was here, I think.”

“Not the first time we
met
,” Heuradys said, coming out of the bath suite still combing her damp and slightly frizzy hair.

There was a very nice sunken marble tub, salvaged long ago by one of her Nonni Sandra's programs and stored against the time of some favored noble's need. Norman Arminger had died before she was born, but the Spider of the Silver Tower had always been the brains of the Armingers in her opinion. Certainly the better long-term planner; her schemes were still producing useful things or skills or opportunities long after her death. Norman had been the Brute Squad and the obsessive dream and driving savage will in the first, terrible years of the modern world.

“It was just the first time I thought of you as a potential human being and someone of interest, my liege, not just a snotty little brat with interesting parents.”

“Sure, and we were both snotty little brats then, for all your pretensions to the wisdom of age!” Órlaith said, and looked around. “I remember the house was a lot plainer then. In fact I
think
I remember you could still smell the walls curing.”

The murals here now were classical-themed mosaics done in tiny squares of iridescent favrile glass, a method invented by the semi-legendary master-craftsman Tiffany in the time of the ancients and redeveloped by artisans
under her grandmother Sandra's patronage. The colors glowed in a way that was intense and delicate at the same time, with a surprising sense of depth; one mural showed a trio of dancing Graces in a flowering meadow that suggested Botticelli without imitating. The other had a long view of a white- columned temple on a blue-tinted rocky hill above a wine-colored sea, with a sacrificial procession in the foreground leading a garlanded bull up a narrow path between olive trees and pencil cypress to the music of double-flutes and cymbals.

Órlaith remembered seeing it for the first time about ten years ago. It was Delia de Stafford's taste, but aimed at Tiphaine's interests; like her adopted daughter she followed the Olympians, and Athana in particular. Delia was a witch, more or less of Órlaith's branch of the Old Faith though with less of the Gael.

She grinned as she buttoned her Montrose jacket and watched Heuradys struggling with her hose—it was particolored, of cotton knit and skin-tight, which made it an irritating struggle to get on unwrinkled when your legs were still slightly damp from the baths.

“Sure, and I'm glad I like kilts,” she said. “Why not a kirtle?”

Various types of headdress and kirtle over a blouse-shift were what Associate noblewomen wore in casual or semi-formal country settings rather than the formality—and discomfort and difficulty—of the close-fitted court cotte-hardie, which needed skilled help to get you into and out of.

Rather like plate armor, which is a good metaphor,
she thought, looking over at the armor-stands that bore their suits and shields, looking rather like the harness of invisible warriors.

The most elaborate versions of Protectorate court dress required on-the-spot sewing to don and pricking-out of seams to take off. They looked pretty when done well and were more varied than the Clan's quasi-uniform and Órlaith had enjoyed wearing them . . . just long enough for a ball or masque.

“I would, except that there's no formal guard here with you, and I'm
not going to put on anything that might slow my movements,” Heuradys said.

When she'd donned the snowy full-sleeved shirt and brown suede jerkin and rust-colored houppelande coat with its dagged sleeves she opened the leaves of the shrine that stood before the scene of sacrifice; it was much like a big Catholic prie-dieu, except that it was taller and designed for those who prayed standing rather than kneeling. The doors held a round disk of thin hammered gold worked around the edge with olive branches and a silver owl in its center, the design taken from an ancient Athenian drachma.

The wood into which it was set was highly polished olive itself, inlaid with images of the moon and a frieze of feathers patterned on the wings of a harfang, done in mother-of-pearl. When they were opened you saw the carved form of a standing woman, ivory flesh and golden robe. Against her thigh rested a shield painted with a grimacing snake-haired head, and a serpent coiled inside it; one hand held an upright spear, and the palm of the other supported a winged figure of Victory. On her head was a tall triple-crested helm, and her eyes were the shimmering gray of moonstone.

“Athana, great Goddess, ever have I, Heuradys d'Ath, prayed to You foremost of all, and unto You have I made the acceptable offerings. . . .”

Heuradys murmured the formula as she cleansed her hands and face with ritual drops of khernips, lustral water, lit dried olive twigs and incense in the offering bowl on its golden tripod, scattered a little barley in it and passed the owl feather through the smoke and touched it to eyes and lips. Then she poured wine and oil from the libation chalice on the flames, raised her arms with palms upward and softly chanted, her face rapt amid the scented smoke:

“I sing now of Thee;

Blessed and fierce, warlike Pallas, whose Olympian kind,

Bright and clear we ever find:

Thy far-famed altar upon the rocky height,

And olive groves, and shady mountains Thee delight:

In cunning plan rejoicing, who with subtle art and dire

And wild, the souls of mortals does inspire.

Maiden of the awesome mind,

Gorgon's bane, ever-virgin, blessed, kind:

Patron of piercing thought and craft well-understood,

Rage to the wicked, wisdom to the good:

Sprung from the head of Zeus, of splendid mien,

Purger of evils, all-victorious Queen.

Hear me, O Goddess, when to Thee I pray,

With supplicating voice both night and day,

And in my latest hour, give peace and health,

Propitious times, and necessary wealth,

And ever present, be shield and aid,

Much worshipped, art's parent, gray-eyed maid.”

After that and a moment of silent prayer she wiped the vessels clean, replaced everything and shut the doors with their shimmering mother-of-pearl inlay. Everyone here knew the split religious allegiances of House Ath—her brothers were Catholics—but sticking a thumb in the majority's eye would have been both unwise and discourteous. There were pagans in the Association and probably more than usual on this barony, but they stayed discreet.

“You know,” Órlaith said when they'd both completed their devotions, “after all that happened down south, it's a comfort to think that so many great Powers of the otherworld are inclined to us, and only one to the other side. Granted, it's a formidable One, and it turns out the Prophet was just one string on Its bow, but still . . .”

Heuradys started to nod, then cocked an eye at her. “It would be comfortable if we
knew
that,” she said thoughtfully. “Only we don't. We only know what we've met
so far
.”

“Reiko . . .” Órlaith began slowly. “Reiko said that her father once told
her he thought the Change was like a hard blow opening a door in the world, one that had been closing slowly for thousands of years. Just a crack at first, and then wider and wider.”

“And we don't know what's going to walk through,” Heuradys said. “Or what has already walked through, for that matter; Montival is big, but the world is far bigger. Let's leave superstitions like dualism to the Christians, shall we?”

Órlaith blinked. That was true, but profoundly disturbing and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it right now.

“You're such a comfort at times, Herry!”

“Well, it would be even more uncomfortable if I let you blunder confidently into things, my liege. And in the meantime, let's eat,” she said.

There was a knock on the door of the chambers even as Heuradys extended her hand towards it. It opened, and Tair looked through; he and his sister Rionach had been standing guard there.

“They've news for Herself, lady,” he said.

Órlaith recognized the servant in the tabard behind them. “News, Goodman Seffrid?” she said.

“A gentleman has arrived,” he said. “A Boisean gentleman, by the name of Alan Thurston, and a dozen retainers; they came overland.”

Órlaith whistled silently, and Heuradys gave her a glance.

“So much for getting away from politics!” Órlaith said. “Shut the door and they climb in the window, that they do!”

Lawrence Thurston had founded the United States of Boise—of
America
, he'd maintained until his death, though it actually governed only most of the old state of Idaho and parts of Nevada and Montana. His son Frederick ruled Boise now as a member-realm of the High Kingdom, duly elected by local custom every seven years against any opponent who wanted to run and didn't mind making a complete waste of their time and being something of a joke.

“So far, so good,” Heuradys murmured, echoing her thought.

The problem was that Lawrence Thurston's
eldest
son Martin had killed his own father unbeknownst to most and had ruled Boise during
much of the Prophet's War as parricide, usurper, ally and ultimately puppet of the Prophet Sethaz and the Church Universal and Triumphant. It had been a civil strife for that folk, until her father killed him at the Horse Heaven Hills and then took Boise a little later by a personal
coup de main
with Fred.

Martin's wife Juliet had defected to the Montivallan side while he still lived and ruled; not because she disapproved of the murder and usurpation that made her a queen with a prospect of becoming an empress, but because of what Martin had become as the Prophet's Ascended Masters gnawed at his soul.
That
had made her recoil in horror. Her second son—born after her husband's death—was called Alan. He and his mother and sibling had lived quietly on a remote ranch since the war and taken no part in public affairs.

Forgetting, and by the world forgot,
Órlaith thought; that was what had made it unnecessary for Fred to kill them, which he'd been reluctant to do in any case.
But apparently Alan's not willing to hide anymore. He'd be about my age. I don't blame him for being restless . . . but it may be a foolish thing.

“He sent this card, Your Highness,” the servant said, holding out a little silver card-tray, a habit the Association ladies had picked up from the perennially popular Austen novels.

She took the paper on it and unfolded it, breaking the daub of wax that held the folded rectangle of cream linen-rag paper together. Within was a visitor's card that read:

Captain Alan Thurston (United States Army, reserve)

Hali Lake Ranch, District of Latah

And beneath it a sign, not one she recognized at all; like a triskele, but as if the central point were a writhing knot and the arms like irregular question-marks, the whole in yellow on a circle of black. It was probably a cattle-brand; most interior Ranchers used theirs as the rough equivalent of an Associate noble's coat-of-arms.

Or a like a Japanese
mon
,
she thought; she'd come to appreciate those for their spare elegance.

Heuradys leaned in to read it, touching the Sword lightly as she did
with her hip, which was unusual. Órlaith blinked at a feeling of . . . something. It vanished when she tried to grasp it, and she shrugged and turned back to the message.

The paper itself bore a brief note addressed to
The Lord of this manor, or the senior official in residence
, asking leave to stay for a party on its way to the muster of the realm. Actually there hadn't been a general muster yet, only a specific call-up, but everyone suspected what was coming, and there was a general obligation to help.

“We'll have to invite him and his retainers to dinner, at least,” Heuradys said. “Convey the usual compliments, Seffrid. A seat for him at the high table, of course, and his folk below according to their rank and station.”

“It may make things a little awkward,” Órlaith said.

Heuradys grinned like a wolf. “What, the fact that
your
father killed
his
father at the Horse Heaven Hills with that magical Sword you're wearing right now?” she said. “How could that possibly disturb the succession of courses at dinner? Blood feuds with the soup, epic revenge over the salad, the clash of steel with the entrée and a five-minute skewered-liver dying oratorio with the sweet?”

Órlaith gave her a jaundiced look and then shrugged. “Well, my grandfathers killed each other too,” she said. “My parents learned to deal with it, and sure, he'll just have to do the
same.”

A
BOARD
THE
T
ARSHISH
Q
UEEN

C
ERAM
S
EA

O
CTOBER
12
TH

C
HANGE
Y
EAR
46/2044 AD

“K
ill,” Thora Garwood said.

John reeled backward; her wooden practice blade had come in just over the curve of his shield and thumped him behind the ear in the gap between the bevor and the edge of his sallet helmet. It wasn't a dangerous blow from a blunt stick wound with cloth and muffled by the padded coif under the helm, but it hurt like blazes for a moment and made his knees wobble. There were men standing by to make sure nobody went over the side by accident, but by now he was as used to the pitch of the deck as he'd ever been to solid land. Which was fortunate, because besides the risk of drowning the ship had picked up the usual hangers-on common in these waters, and tall stiff triangular fins broke the long low ripples of their wake now and then. The crew amused themselves and provided some fresh food by fishing for them, if you could call hooks as long as your arm reeved through pulleys on the boom and raised by geared winches
fishing
.

He brought his own lath sword up in acknowledgment and knocked up his visor, blinking as the world expanded from the narrow bright slit to a wider field that included Thora's grinning face and Deor leaning against the rail behind her; he had stripped, doused himself with buckets
filled overside and was wiping his wiry, muscular torso down with a wet cloth soaked in a small amount of their precious fresh water. Fighting in armor always made you sweat like a steam-bath, and the sun here had a tropic bite not quite like anything he'd felt before, even in south Westria.

“I don't think that would actually have
killed
me,” he added, probing at the new bruise with a gauntleted finger and wincing.

“No, but you'd have been frozen for long enough for me to stab you through the eyeslit,” she said.

He sighed, handed his shield and wooden sword to Evrouin and moved aside to let his valet strip off the armor. The stiff breeze cut through the sodden clothing beneath like a benediction; it was warm here, but that felt cool as his body shed heat and ached with a good tiredness. He stripped down to the skin too and emptied three buckets over himself; the water was deliciously cool but not cold.

Deor wrung out the towel, dunked it in a bucket and tossed it to him before he went to assist Thora with her gear.

“That was the thing that struck me most when we got south of Gibraltar,” he said. “
Warm
seawater.”

Ruan came over—he'd been doing the routine Mackenzies did when they couldn't actually shoot, drawing his bow and then slacking off, over and over—and said:

“Bend your head forward, Prince. . . .” He prodded at the mark where the blade had struck with a healer's care. “No, I don't think it's serious. Any dizziness? Pain in the head?”

“Both but just for a moment. I feel fine now.”

“Good, but tell me or the ship's physician right away if that comes back, the which it probably won't but might, so.”

John nodded. He'd had mild concussions, and it was something you had to take seriously. You also had to practice frequently to keep yourself honed sharp, and they were all quite conscious that two of the enemy ships who'd pursued them all the way from Topanga were still there, doggedly on their tracks. They might be fighting for their lives at any moment.

“You've got an edge on me in speed,” John said to his partner, and was surprised to see her shake her head.

Thora Garwood, called Swiftsword, took anything martial very seriously. From sheer love of the craftsmanship of the thing, he thought, as well as the way Bearkillers were raised. She was a warrior born; St. Michael must have blessed her in her cradle.

“No, not as we stand. A few years ago, yes, I was faster than you are now, by a hair. I never had the sort of speed your sister's friend Heuradys does, she's almost freakish that way, and I think Órlaith has a tiny bit on me, even as I was at my peak.”

“How'd you get that cut in on me, then?” John said in frustration. “I saw it coming—part of me did—but I just couldn't get anything in its way in time, or me out of it!”

“I moved my sword through a shorter distance,” the Bearkiller said. “Mind you, you've probably improved a lot in the last six months. Some real fighting will do that. Training only takes you so far.”

He finished with the towel, repeated Deor's wring-and-rinse, and handed it to her as the scop shrugged back into his breeks; he left the long shirt-tunic off for now, in weather so fine and mild. Thora rinsed and wiped down as he had while John dressed; Bearkillers didn't have much in the way of inhibitions about skin and didn't make much of a distinction between men and women that way. Mackenzies even less so, and he'd spent enough time in the dúthchas that he could appreciate the view without it disturbing him. The Guard crossbowmen had spent most of their lives in the Association territories before this venture, and were carefully not staring as they practiced with wooden sword and buckler.

Beyond him came a shout of
disssaaa!
Captain Ishikawa was practicing too; if anything, he was more conscientious than the Montivallans. In his case he was having four of his sailors throw pieces of firewood from the ship's galley at him, and converting them to useful kindling with swift turn-and-strike routines. The wood was light pine, unlikely to damage an edge.

“Besides,” Thora said, as she twisted back into her knit-cotton drawers and halter.

Which oddly enough was
more
interesting than nakedness in a way, particularly purely utilitarian nakedness. She went on:

“Unless you're training as a duellist, there's a limit to how much one-on-one like this does you good in a real fight—a melee, I mean, a battle. Yes, it keeps up your speed and endurance and blade placement, but there's too much time to think and make plans and it gets you used to having everything important right in front of you. Bad for your situational awareness.”

John nodded as he thought back to the scrambling chaos of the fighting on the Bay, and the night raid in the Chatsworth Lancers' territory down south.

“I can see your point,” he said. “But what's to do about it? Something like the melee event at a tournament, I suppose . . .”

She tied the cloth belt of her long-sleeved shirt, which she wore to protect her redhead's skin from the savage equatorial sun, and nodded.

Deor chuckled softly. “Oh, you may regret asking that, brother bard,” he said. “You just made a suggestion for more arms-play to Thora Swiftsword. I've had her beating on me the world around. . . .”

“Keeping you alive the world around,” she retorted with a smile.

Then: “What we'll do about it is have our own miniature melee. You and me and Deor. Two against one, and so on. That'll be fun, and useful too.”

“Yes, lots of fun,” John said hollowly, and Deor laughed aloud.

“Sort of like an orgy, but with swords,” the scop said.

“I wouldn't know,” John said, trying to summon Christian rectitude. “Never been to an orgy.”

“It's overrated,” Deor said. “Two is company, three is choreography and while I'm fond of dancing I prefer to do it upright.”

John found he
could
blush, tropical tan or no.

Thora snapped her fingers. “We'll get Ishikawa in on it too. Completely different style, that will be useful; the katana's a bit like a
kriegsmesser
, but faster. It doesn't do to teach your reflexes as if you'll always be up against people who fight like your sparring-partners. And Ruan and
some of the crossbowmen, a couple at a time. And Ishikawa's sailors use the
naginata
, defense against polearms is good. . . .”

John nodded; that
would
also make the whole process more interesting, like a jam session with a strange musician. Fighting drill was an acquired taste for him, but he'd long ago decided that since he had to do it and quite often, he might as well like it.

“I'd better go up and see what's happening with our enemies,” he said, settling his real sword in the frog of his arming belt.

The
Tarshish Queen
was a merchantman, not a naval vessel, but he still went up the starboard gangway to the quarterdeck, and saluted the Crowned Mountain and Sword flying from the gaff at the stern. Ashore the position of honor for a flag was a matter of height, but at sea it was the rearmost that took precedence; hence Benny the Beaver, Corvallis' national ensign, was at the mizzen, and the Feldman & Sons house flag of a stylized schooner slanting upwards was on the main.

“Your Highness,” Captain Feldman said gravely.

“They're still there, I see, Captain,” John said with a sigh.

The two hard-to-see dots to stern were about a mile apart from each other and a mile and a bit behind their ship; their hulls were blue and the sails a neutral faded gray, hard to pick out. He hadn't expected the two
Chosŏn
ships to be gone, though it would have been a profound relief not to have three or four hundred cannibal savages and disconcertingly civilized diabolists—who were also savage cannibals—on his tail.

He said so, and Moishe Feldman shook his head. “Closer to two hundred by now,” he said. “They couldn't have had enough rations in store to feed crews that size, not when they'd already just crossed the Pacific east-to-west, and probably not enough water either, even with full tanks to start with. What's that Mackenzie story, about the cats trapped on the island with nothing to eat . . . ?”

“The Kilkenny Cats,” John said hollowly.

In a way it was reassuring to have enemies who were just unambiguously evil. On the other hand, it was obscurely disgusting—it made you feel hating them was a sort of loathsome intimacy. It was even more
upsetting when you realized that basically it was sheer luck who'd ended up like them and who hadn't. There was nothing about Koreans or the former inhabitants of Los Angeles that naturally inclined them to become puppets of the Adversary. It might just as well have been him, if things had gone differently in Montival. . . .

“That still gives them an edge of four to one. I take it they're not going to give up,” he said.

“Not while they have enough hands left to tend the sails,” Captain Feldman said, then added casually: “I hate stern chases.”

There was a crack-tung sound, faint over the distance. A finned bolt splashed into the cerulean blue of the waves several hundred yards behind his ship. He gave an ironic wave.

“Fire away and waste your ammunition, you overoptimistic
mamzrim
. . . . But I don't dislike the chase nearly as much as getting caught.”

John nodded, looking around at the
Tarshish Queen
. The weeks since the unnatural storm abated had seen her transformed from a near-wreck to something much more like the taut ship who'd dropped out of Newport several months ago. If you looked closely you could see evidence of the long hard grind of skilled effort that had repaired the storm's damage, or much of it. The mizzenmast above their head creaked ominously every once in a while beneath the woolding. . . .

“What about the
Stormrider
?”

Feldman shrugged eloquently, ending with a gesture that flipped his hands palm-upright.

“Your Highness, the only thing we
know
about where she is, is
not here
. If she came through the first blow she might have run back to Topanga—we told Captain Russ that the Princess was there—or he might have tried to follow what he thought might be our course. Since
we
didn't know what that was for a couple of days, how could he? Could be anywhere from Hawaii to Cairns by now, or show up in an hour . . . but I wouldn't bet on it. Not anything I couldn't afford to lose, at least.”

The Bosun padded up and knuckled her brow, blue eyes worried in her weathered pug face and her striped cotton shirt and pantaloons
sopping and clinging to her stocky, knotty frame. On this merchantman she doubled as master-wright, in charge of under-way repairs under the ship's officers.

“Cap'n, Mr. Radavindraban's compliments, survey complete, and we've done everything we can with that leak from the sprung strake for'ard.”

“Details?” Feldman said.

John recalled that they'd taken an enemy roundshot at the waterline back in the Bay and the storm had worsened the damage. Beyond the fact that it was the reason they were leaking he hadn't paid overmuch attention, except to do what the experts said he should, which was mostly pull a spell on the pumps every day.

“If we tighten the jacks any more on the stick she'll crack out, right through the hull. Isn't just bashed in anymore, it's flexing both ways with every pitch, you can hear the sodding thing crunch and the planks creaking, spewing oakum. And it's no good spiking bars across the gap, that's just chewing at the parts as aren't busted. We need to beach her and come at it with some of the planking off, scarf in a join and peg it, then re-plank and caulk, if we can't get at a shipyard. Otherwise it'll get worse as she works. If it comes to another blow . . .”

She shrugged less elegantly than her Captain but just as eloquently; she wasn't telling the owner-commander of the
Queen
anything he didn't know, but evidently she felt it bore repeating.

“Water in the hold?”

“Gaining on the pumps now, but slow, skipper. A couple of inches in the last day, more or less. But we're a little down by the head, I'd say. It's going to get worse every bloody day until we fix her. Or we sink.”

Water was jetting over the side, pushed by the pumps rigged in the hold. John flexed his hands, which were more callused than sword-drill had made them; everyone took their turn. Though that continuous telltale jet itself was information to the enemy. Every inch of sail was set, and the wind was steady but light, the sails just taut and making the ship a thing of geometric grace as it went forward with a roll that took the bowsprit in a slow hypnotic rise and fall against deep-blue ocean and pale-blue sky. There was
very little pitch, since they were running only a little off the wind and the swells were long and smooth with only an occasional whitecap.