The Golden Princess: A Novel of the Change (Change Series) (28 page)

He liked Heuradys d’Ath, and it was mutual; they had a great deal in common. They’d been—very briefly—lovers a few years ago. That was
how her brother had lost his virginity, in fact, in the stereotypical hayloft on Herry’s own manor out east. He’d been making up for lost time since she gently made it plain she didn’t have anything long-term in mind, and doing well enough to have a bit of a reputation. A Prince had advantages that way, even one who extremely conscientious about good lordship. She had to admit their parents had gotten that well and truly into his skull even when the Little Head was in operation, which apparently for males his age was no mean accomplishment. As well, he was wary about those looking for advantage in the bed of royalty.

Being a Prince was something; when you added in being handsome, a man-at-arms who did quite well in tournaments, a more than talented singer, dancer and lutenist, and the best sort of dandy—one who could carry it off casually—the results were quite a swath. Considered in the abstract she had to admit he was charming; for starters he really
liked
women, liked their company and liked talking to them, rather than just sniffing around them the way a drooling dog did with a pork-chop. Though it always looked faintly ridiculous to her when she saw him using his moves on some cooing, blushing, dewy-eyed female—or working a slightly different version on a barmaid with a forty-inch bust spilling out of her bodice, a full lower lip and freckles.

But as Herry had said back when, it would have been rather odd if his
sister
had been able to see that side of John.

He finished his omelet. “What’s the Empress the Empress of?” he asked.

“Japan,” she said severely.

“I mean in practice, as opposed to theory. There are plenty of Rovers out in the forests and deserts who’ve never
heard
of us. There’s not much to being ruler of empty ruins and wilderness with no people, either. So is it two villages and a pet ox, or what?”

“They’ve got more people than there are either Mackenzies or McClintocks, but less than both together, I’m thinking, from what they’ve let drop,” Órlaith said. “Somewhere between a twentieth of what Montival has altogether and a tenth.”

“Más o menos,”
John said thoughtfully, waggling a hand.

A number of the Houses of the Associate nobility had originally been Spanish-speaking, and that tongue had influenced the north-realm’s version of English, though not as much as the archaic French of Norman Arminger’s obsessions. John had picked up stray expressions like that, then truly learned the language because its music and stories intrigued him.

“More or less,” Órlaith agreed, and then suddenly made a choking sound.

“What is it?” John asked with alarm.

Órlaith put her hands to her head, wincing at the feeling of
expansion
, like an itchy swelling in the center of her brain for an instant. It wasn’t pain, but she wasn’t sure that wouldn’t be preferable.

“Spanish . . . I just got Spanish . . . there are drawbacks to possessing the Sword, that there are . . . wait a minute . . . There’s that poem you like so much, I’ve heard you sing it a dozen times. . . .”

Suddenly she began to chant, a slow smile lighting her face as she did, and felt the rough rolling majesty of the words in her mouth:

“De los sos oios tan fuertemientre llorando,

Tornava la cabeça e estavalos catando;

Vio puertas abiertas e uços sin cañados,

alcandaras vazias, sin pielles e sin mantos,

e sin falcones e sin adtores mudados . . .”

John made a clapping motion. “Nice! You’ve even got the old-fashioned pronunciation down. Better than I do, after years of work. See, it’s not all bad!”

“No, it isn’t, that,” she said. “I can . . . I can
feel
that poem now. How it should
taste
.
Arra
, from the little bits I can remember, I can’t wait to get to a copy of Cervantes or de Vega!”

He shook his head. “Back to business. So the Japan she’s Empress of isn’t enormous, but three hundred thousand people more or less isn’t so small, either.”

She nodded. There were at least two dozen sovereign states in North
America, kingdoms and republics and bossmandoms and tribes and self-governing monasteries (at least one of them Buddhist) and whatever. That was counting only ones well above the level of the single backwoods village or a band of musk-ox hunters on Baffin Island. A quarter or third of a million would be about middle-rank in that league, say on a level with the Kingdom of Norrheim. Montival was the giant, and that was because it was a confederation. On this continent only the Bossmandom of Iowa had even half as many folk in total, being much smaller but very densely populated by modern standards and actually having more people than it had before the Change.

There
still
weren’t anything like a tenth as many people in the whole area between Panama and the Arctic as there had been the day before the Change.

“Reiko’s lot are the descendants of what survived on offshore islands and a few settlements they’ve planted since,” Órlaith said. “It reminds me of what we’ve heard of Britain, only the Japanese ended up with a very nasty neighbor next door instead of an empty continent they could take over.”

“They’re well-organized, though, from your reports, and Edain’s.”

Órlaith nodded. “From what I’ve seen and what they’ve let drop without really meaning to—just the way they act and the assumptions they make—they’re organized right down to the boot-laces they don’t have. Much more tightly centralized than us, or most of Montival’s member realms . . . except perhaps the Bearkillers or Boise. Out of necessity. Something really nasty happened in Korea, much worse than just a collapse, and they’ve been living next-door to it ever since. We need to get our decks cleared here at home, because bad things are heading our way.”

“Let’s go see Mom, then,” John said.

Órlaith blotted her lips with the napkin. “If we can get her thinking and talking business, it’ll help. Help all around. And then we’ll duck out and have a bit of a chat with Reiko, you and I.”

“Sounds good. I think I’ve done my immediate family duty here, and I’d appreciate something to
do
so I don’t have to keep turning corners and thinking
where’s Father?
”

She raised her voice slightly. “Sir Aleaume!”

There was a guard not too distant—close enough to hear a call, if not to overhear ordinary conversation; that was as much privacy as you could expect in a palace, particularly just after a King died by violence. The officer of the Protector’s Guard appeared a discreet minute later, his steel sabaton-shoes ringing on the marble tiles, and then going muted when he stepped on a rug. His helm was under his left arm as he saluted with a thump, his handsome albeit jug-eared face fixed under its fringe of rust-colored hair and his slightly slanted eyes haunted—it hadn’t been easy for him, returning as the commander who’d
failed
to keep the High King alive.

Probably he was most dreading his own father’s return: Baron Maugis de Grimmond was Grand Constable of the Association and a man of notoriously high standards.

“Your Highness!” A nod to John. “Your Highness!”

“Sir Aleaume, Prince John and I will be visiting Barony Ath—Montinore Manor, to be exact. We’ll be taking a detail from the Protector’s Guard.”

Because if they tried to get out of Todenangst
without
one, the uproar would swallow the day even if her mother or the Lord Chancellor didn’t get involved . . . and both of them would. She continued briskly:

“Nothing extravagant, a dozen men at arms led by a reliable knight who can keep his eyes front and mouth shut, and spearmen and crossbowmen in proportion likewise. The ones who were with us in the south would do nicely, and I’d like to show that they’re not in any disfavor. Ah, yes, make sure Droyn Jones de Molalla is one of them too.”

Since she’d borne the Sword she had no problem recalling names—anyone she’d seen even once, in fact. But she’d known the escort well anyway, since they’d traveled together for more than a month on that final trip. There was gratitude in the knight’s eyes as he inclined his head; it was an indication that
he
wasn’t in disfavor, or his men.

“And from the High King’s Archers, Your Highness?”

“No, Captain Edain has enough to do.”

Mother’s known Old Wolf a long time, and he grew up with Da as foster-brother,
pretty much. They went on the Quest together, all of them. She needs him around now and I’ll let him focus on that.

“Have a hippomotive laid on, and horses waiting at the Forest Grove station.”

That way they’d be there before lunchtime; hippomotives could
move
and it was barely a morning’s journey all up that way.

“Inform Dame Emilota that she’s to send only the minimal selection of baggage.
Strictly
minimal, this is a matter of State and there won’t be much socializing.”

And if the order comes through you, I don’t have to spend
another
hour talking her out of making a Royal Progress out of it. And with the court in mourning, she may actually not grumble too much.

“Your Highness . . . may I command the detail personally?”

Surprised, she looked at him; that was very junior duty for someone of his rank.

“Of course, if you wish, Sir Aleaume,” she said; then she blinked.

That might actually be a good idea.

“My thanks, Your Highness. All should be in readiness within two hours.” He bowed, saluted again, wheeled and tramped off.

Órlaith sighed and rubbed her face. “Let’s get to it, then, Johnnie.”

Barony Ath, Tualatin Valley

(Formerly northwestern Oregon)

High Kingdom of Montival

(F
ormerly western North America)

June/Minazuki 1st, Change Year 46/2044 AD/Shohei 1

“H
ow are the men doing, General?” Reiko asked.

They were trotting down to the
salle d’armes
beside the little lake; it was a mild June day with a few fleecy clouds in a slightly hazy blue sky, perhaps a little warmer than it would have been on a June morning on Sado-ga-shima, perhaps a little less humid, though both were well within the range she was accustomed to.

The two of them were wearing
hakama
and the padded upper jacket used for serious drill, with boiled and varnished leather practice armor of an almost-familiar type over it, the wire-fronted helmets under their arms. Both were sweating freely from the stretching routines and forced-pace
kata
and a moderate three-mile run up and down hill with an occasional sprint, ready for some serious exercise.

“The men are well enough, Majesty. The barracks in the castle are . . . barracks. Certainly nothing any real samurai would complain of, far better than shipboard. The roof is solid, it’s dry, and there are cots and clean bedding and a bathhouse.”

The practice weapons to match the armor would be at the
salle
, as the Montivallans called their dojo. She carried a
naginata
, and their real swords were at their sides, of course; just as two of the Imperial Guard
were following a dozen paces behind. She couldn’t remember walking under the sky without a guard and a blade of some sort at her own side since she turned twelve and was presented with an adult kimono by her mother at her
mogi
ceremony . . . and with a
wakizashi
from her father’s hands, an heirloom by the master-smith Kunihiro. The latter had caused some controversy, for giving a weapon at all and for a sword rather than a
naginata
.

You must prepare, my Reiko-chan,
he’d said to her privately then, after they’d knelt in silence for a while with the blade between them.
So that for those yet unborn there may be the brush and the poem and the
chanoyu
, for us today there must be a sword in the hand. And in our souls, the steel.

The only time she
hadn’t
actually had live steel on her person since were occasions of State when protocol dictated that an attendant walk behind her with the weapon just ready to her hand.

Egawa seemed to read something of her thoughts. He inclined his head before he went on more lightly:

“There’s even a field outside for
besuboru
.”

“Ah, they play that here?” Reiko said.

It was the most popular non-martial sport back home; she enjoyed it occasionally herself.

“Yes, a few differences in the rules but the same game. And the local people are friendly—in fact some—”

He coughed. Reiko smiled without showing it in the slightest. If she had been a man he was reporting to, even so exalted a man as her father, he would have joked about
how
friendly some of the local peasant girls had been to the exotic and romantic visitors. Instead he went on with scarcely a stumble:

“In fact, the food is too good, if anything. Like festival food. I haven’t eaten so much
gyoza
and
yakiniku
and
tonkatsu
on successive days in my whole life. Captain Nakamura is working them hard, he’s fully recovered from his wounds and it was best to give two days complete rest anyway, but it might be good to suggest something plainer for everyday diet.”

Reiko nodded gravely. The Montivallans had somehow found a couple of Japanese cooks—they didn’t
look
very Japanese, and none of them
spoke the language beyond words relating to the kitchen and they mispronounced those, but they could produce something quite like the fancier varieties of the homeland’s style. Except that rice was regarded as a luxury product here, which was a major distinction: her language used the same word for
cooked rice
and
meal
, but noodles were a perfectly acceptable substitute. Nothing except the raw fish was of precisely the same taste or texture as it would have been at home, but it was much easier for her followers than dealing with a completely alien cuisine.

Which is important not for itself, but again as a gesture,
she thought.
I am not sure we would have been so thoughtful to strangers, in such a crisis. Of course, we have less to spare and we are not in a position to choose peace or war as we please and as we think honor dictates.

She was stretching herself and trying the local dishes. Some of the foods were just horrible—the pungent cheeses came in that category in her opinion—and some were treacherous; ice cream tasted delicious but gave her nasty stomachaches. Others were quite pleasant once you deliberately stopped looking for the familiar. The scrambled eggs with scallions, for instance, or sweet rolls with raisins.

Egawa’s thoughts had been running parallel to hers. “Majesty, as far as
gaijin
know how, they are treating us like greatly honored guests.”

He’d been particularly pleased when he learned the set of rooms she’d been given was called the
Royal Suite
and used when the monarchs of this land and their kin came calling on the barons of Ath.

He went on: “They are doing that though we have brought them terrible misfortune. Why? They revered their High King much as we did Saisei Tenno, I can see that now. And they know we are weaker than they; you can tell they’re surprised anything civilized survived in Japan at all.”

This path to the
salle
ran down a steep slope, terraced with stone retaining walls; the flat spaces created were planted in colorful flowers, red-and-white
komakusa
, which they called bleeding heart here, blue-and-white columbine, fuchsia, lupine, hollyhocks and more between neatly trimmed lilac bushes. They trotted easily down the steep switchback stairs, treating going downhill as a rest and timing their words to their deep controlled breath. At first glance it was just the local love of masses
of very vivid colors, until you noticed the swarms of bees, colorful moths and butterflies, and—

“Uso!”
Reiko exclaimed in delight. “I don’t believe it!”

They both stopped, to stare at a swarm of astonishing little birds smaller than her thumb,
hovering
as they stuck their slender beaks into the flowers. Their wings blurred like those of bees or dragonflies as they did, but they were unquestionably birds, not insects. One of them came and did a slow circuit around her head only a few inches away, a brilliant tiny orange jewel making a humming sound like a giant bee. Then it zipped back towards the flowers. They seemed to be combative little things, buzzing about in furious challenge if another came near their chosen blossom, pursuing each other through the garden in aerial dances of angry grace.

“Ijona,”
she murmured, smiling a little; even the eyes of the grim Guard samurai swiveled a little.

“Extraordinary, Majesty,” Egawa agreed. “I think these plantings are for these . . . little creatures.”

She frowned slightly as they turned and resumed their trot, and the previous conversation: “I think . . . I think they
do
think of us as honored guests. It is extremely important to them that when we met we fought the same enemy.”

“Hai, Heika,”
Egawa said; he could understand that in his bones.

“And they . . . most of them, Crown Princess Órlaith in particular . . . do not blame us for her father’s death. They blame the
jinnikukaburi
—it helps much that their Haida enemies were at the side of the ones who killed him. He had fought these pirates before, when he was a young man, and since. Everyone here knows they are enemies, so any allies of theirs would be the same. And I think the Princess sympathizes with us . . . with me particularly . . . since we have suffered the same loss at the same hands. I understand; I feel much the same. Her father seems to have been a man of . . . exemplary character, to judge from his accomplishments.”

She felt half-admiring, half-resentful about that.

My
father was a very great man, wise and strong, gentle when he could be and hard
when he must,
she thought.
Truly and justly his era is called
Rebirth
. He never ceased to work for our people, night and day. He died for them. But what he was able to accomplish was so . . . so cramped by comparison to what Órlaith’s could do. Fate was less kind to him than he deserved.

Railing against Fate was unbecoming futility, and resenting the Montivallans for their better fortune would be ungracious and foolish . . . but she had to fight the temptation.

“You can judge a man by the hole his going leaves in the world,” Egawa agreed, and grunted thoughtfully again. “I wish we could make some definite alliance, Majesty.”

“So do I. Grand Steward Koyama has been sounding out Marshal d’Ath.”

“Good, though I wish my English was capable of handling subtleties so that I could join them.”

He added dryly: “At first I thought he had simply vanished into the library here, Majesty.”

“It
is
tempting.”

There were thousands of volumes, including both works that had simply not survived the Change in Japan and a wide selection of new material. Montival was at least sporadically and indirectly in contact with much of the world, and the Grand Steward was in a position to satisfy a lifetime’s curiosity in one mad gulp. His resistance and focus on the essential had been very creditable.

She went on: “But I must consider how to . . . to make them understand my father’s . . . visions.”

He looked uncomfortable, and more so when she added quietly: “Which I have now had myself. Three nights in succession, unmistakably this time. Very much as Saisei Tenno described them, but . . . very vivid. And while his was . . . general, I see
myself
in them.”

She swallowed, feeling the sensation of terrible thirst again. That dread, and the shadow of towers. Eight heads in darkness, and a long hissing . . .

“Majesty . . . have you spoken of that with Grand Steward Koyama?”

“No,” she said. “Not yet.”

“He is an extremely intelligent man, and has much scholarly knowledge,” Egawa said.

It would have been grossly impolite for him to directly urge her, but there was no harm in pointing out the
reasons
for doing something. The two men had a certain rivalry, but there was also a solid mutual respect.

She nodded. “Yes. But he has read so much of the world before the Change that sometimes he is not quite at home in this one, my
bushi
, even if he has lived in it most of his life. Not as you and I are at home. You see what I mean?”

His heavy scarred features knotted. “Yes, Majesty. Yes, I think I do.”

“Do not forget why we came on this voyage in the first place, General Egawa. It was not to make alliance with Montival. We did not know that this place
existed
. Koyama was the most reluctant of you all. Finding Montival allows him to . . . repurpose the expedition in his mind, into something more . . . mundane.”

She could see that he would have preferred to do exactly that himself—the prospect of a strong alliance against their enemies had given him hope, something in sparse supply for far too long. The desperation which had made her father’s vision at least a little plausible was less in proportion.

“Majesty . . .” he began.

“No, General Egawa. Saisei Tenno’s reasoning remains completely valid. And consider the . . . sacred weapon the Montivallan High Kings bear. The
shintai
.”

He did, baring his teeth a little. Even just lying in its scabbard, it was a mental punch in the solar plexus, the worse the more closely you looked. She drove the point home as if it were the steel of her naginata:

“The possibility of an alliance is
related
to our original mission. I have asked, discreetly. The Sword they carry was found after a quest that seemed as mad as ours. It is their founding epic—a very recent one by our standards, as if Yamato Takeru were someone your parents knew, but I suppose every story has to start somewhere.”

He nodded. “
Hai
, Majesty. So sorry; I worry.”

“Saisei Tenno decreed when we left that both at home and on the
expedition there should be no worry until one year had passed, and no despair for two.”

There was a very slight trace of the affection she felt in her voice as she spoke, though what she said was literally true. An Emperor could order that. People would worry just the same, of course, but they would be much less likely to show it. If you did not act on an emotion or display it, for all practical purposes it might as well not be there. More, human beings being what they were, suppressing the appearance of an emotion reduced the thing itself. She could see Egawa following the argument through and accepting it.

They ran onto the flat and slowed to walk into the
salle
, pausing to slip out of their boots and into soft practice shoes. The two Guardsmen took stance at either side of the entrance; she could tell they and their commander would have preferred to keep both at her heels, but she had forbidden. The complex was entirely of post-Change construction, a set of cloisters with big barn-like rooms, and courtyards enclosing different terrain.

It was handsome in a severely plain fashion she liked, built of stone and the long, straight timbers so enviably abundant in this land of tall mountain forests. Evidently maintaining it for the gentry of the fief was one of the baron’s duties. The ground outside provided woods, hill and bare grassland for the students’ use and mounted work. There were certain necessary, fundamental likenesses to the dojos she had grown up with, just as
hakama
and breeks had a similarity based on their common function of enclosing human legs.

A bit more surprising had been real common elements. The unarmed combat techniques here were closely similar to what she’d learned, and even used bits of mangled Japanese terminology. And there were Nihon-style practice weapons,
bokken
and
naginata
s; they studied them a little here, though in the main their styles were based on European models she hadn’t been aware existed. It was a little flattering, if you thought about it.