The Tears of the Sun (55 page)

The first Count had also died in the early stages of this war, during the battle of Pendleton nearly two years ago. She had known his son slightly for years on a social basis, since the Association's higher nobility wasn't all that large, and dealt with him fairly often since in her professional capacity. Tiphaine's private judgment was that he was quite good as a knight, and at least competent as a commander. But a bit of a worrywart and inclined to dither while trying to cover every possible contingency, when the weight of overall responsibility came crashing down on his shoulders. Which was unfortunate, since even a bad decision was usually better than no decision at all.

So don't put him in situations where he has to make strategic decisions at the quickstep,
she thought.
He's fine at tactics and has plenty of experienced advisers on his staff. Just point him in the right direction and tell him what to do and he'll keep trying his best until the ax hits where the chicken gets it. And his vassals respect him, which is the important thing.

Count Felipe swung down from his courser, a fine sixteen-hand black. He was in civilian dress but the daywear version of it, what a nobleman wore when he was out hunting or traveling in warm weather; turned-down thigh boots with the golden spurs of knighthood on the heels, tight doeskin riding breeches, baggy-sleeved linen shirt beneath long T-tunic with his arms on an embroidered shield, cinched by a broad sword belt of studded and tooled leather and a round chaperon hat. A little taller than Tiphaine, and with something of the same leopard build, male version. His square face was clean-shaven but with pale olive skin and the blue jowl of a man who needed the razor often, his eyes dark brown with green flecks, his thick bowl-cut hair a black so complete it had blue highlights.

“My lady Grand Constable,” he said, sweeping off his hat and making a bow.

That was tactful. As a Count, he greatly outranked her status as a mere baron, albeit she was a tenant-in-chief like him rather than the vassal of some higher nobleman; but as Grand Constable she had the pull on
him
, particularly since the
arrière-ban
had been called and martial law declared.

“My lord Count,” she said, matching the gesture with a microscopically lesser bow, which was tactful but firm; then they shook hands.

“And my lord de Stafford,” de Aguirre said.

This time the bows exchanged matched; a Marchwarden and the Count Palatine of the Eastermark were precisely equivalent, though one title was hereditary and the other wasn't.

“It's extremely good to see you here, my lady . . . and the army you brought, frankly. If you and my lord the Marchwarden could accompany me to the City Palace, we've arranged a dinner.”

At her expression he smiled, looking tired and dogged. “A working dinner, not a banquet, my lady. No jugglers or musicians. We've been . . . very busy. I've invited those most crucial to the defense of the city and County.”

She nodded. “By all means, my lord. That would save considerable time, in fact; I'd planned on calling you and your chief vassals together for something similar tomorrow.”

He turned to de Stafford. “Baron Tucannon arrived yesterday and has been giving me a lively account of your doings, my lord.”

“The regard is mutual, my lord. A fine commander and true knight.”

De Aguirre turned back to Tiphaine: “And if it won't offend your well-known martial hardihood, my lady, one night in a place with hot water and soft beds might provide a pleasant memory in the coming campaign.”

This time she smiled, at least with her eyes. “By all means, my lord Count. Hardship when necessary, but not necessarily hardship.”

That startled a laugh out of him, as squires brought up their horses; also coursers, not the precious destriers they rode into a formal battle.

She turned her head to Rigobert as they rode under the gate, after the usual glance most people made at the barred fangs of the welded-steel portcullis above. The groin-arched tunnel stretched ahead, loud with the metallic echo of horseshoes on asphalt; overhead just beyond the reach of a mounted man's lance the grillwork of the murder-holes gleamed, where men waited with cocked crossbows and cauldrons of hot oil and hoses that could spray napalm.

“Barony Tucannon,” Tiphaine said, calling up the files in her head, mostly from last year's edition of:

After a moment she went on: “Tucannon . . . That's Maugis de Grimmond, isn't it? Youngish, red hair, ears like a bat. Vassal of the Count, rights of Low, Middle and High Justice, thirty-six thousand acres, twelve manors, held on standard service terms for fifty men-at-arms, fifty light cavalry, spearmen and crossbowmen in proportion and the mesne dues and public service things, and the usual forest rights in the Blue Mountains . . . and he has that beautifully placed castle. He's not much at Court though he did the Battle Staff course at the University in your bailiwick, I've only met him a few times in passing. Is he capable?”

“Very,” de Stafford said. “Wasted rusticating in that arse-end of nowhere barony, I'd say, but he likes it there. That and his family are all he really cares about. He's been a great help so far, though. And could be more of one, if things turn out as badly as we expect. Quite crucial, in fact.”

Ingolf Vogeler woke, yawned, stretched comfortably and for a moment just enjoyed feeling clean and reasonably well rested between linen sheets and snuggled close to his wife. Then another knock came on the door and he realized the first one had woken him up.

He was wearing drawers and Mary was in a long shirt that would do for a shift. From what he'd seen, the Association folk were about as modest about skin as his own people . . . which wasn't something you could just assume when you traveled far. Places had started out different before the Change and gotten more so, fast, when the world closed in again and each area was isolated from the other's ideas and customs. And some were left to stew in whatever lunacy had bubbled to the top when a charismatic madman took charge. He'd seen places where you'd get attacked for taking off your shirt—men would.

“Come in,” he said.

The door opened and a servant girl came through with a tray that held a steaming pot of something aromatic. Probably not coffee or real tea this far from the coast, and not chicory either from the smell; after a moment he identified it as peppermint tea. A moment after that he really looked at the shadows cast through the window.

“Holy . . . holy things, what time is it?”

The servant girl smiled. “It's eleven of the clock, my lord,” she said. “Lord de Grimmond said that we should let you sleep, you'd been fighting for us and then working hard with the troops and the wounded late into the night.”

She was unremarkable in every respect, and dressed in a plain good outfit of a short knee-length tunic over a long ankle-length one, with a shirtlike shift underneath and a kerchief on her head and stout shoes. The smile was welcome, though; late though it had been everyone in the little town of Grimmond-on-the-Wold had turned out to help with the wounded by torch and lantern light, and they'd pitched in for the Richlanders and Sioux just as hard as they had for their own folk. It was nice to be a valued ally, even if it was mainly because they were scared spitless at what was coming at them.

I would be too. Hell, I
am
scared. I was a prisoner in Corwin, even if I don't remember all of it—and don't want to. I know what the Cutters are, and Boise's in bed with them. Not so sure about God being the way Mom thought, but the Devil? You betcha.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the polished wooden tray.

Mary sat up and murmured thanks as well, reaching for a cup.

“Luncheon will be in an hour, my lord, my lady;
en famille
, in the gazebo court. Lord de Grimmond said to tell you that everyone you want to contact immediately will be there.”

“Lord de Stafford?”

“He's gone, my lord. He left his regards and said he had to get back to his main force to make sure everything was ready. He didn't say ready for what, my lord.”

She bobbed a curtsy and left, with the quick step of someone who has important work waiting.

“What time did we get to bed?” he said, rubbing his face, doing it carefully because of a couple of bruises. “I feel indecent, lying up this late. There's a lot to do.”

Mary made an indelicate slurping sound as she sipped the hot tea; he followed suit. The acrid-sweet liquid seemed to clear the cobwebs from his mind, enough for him to notice that there was a bandage on his right forearm, and from the dull ache underneath a couple of stitches, not quite sharp enough to be real pain. It was a familiar feeling, and a familiar place—that was the most vulnerable part of a swordsman's anatomy and he had the white scar lines on his skin to prove it, this would just be one more. You could wear a vambrace, but he'd always thought the minute loss of speed wasn't worth it most of the time.

He worked the fingers, testing the feeling in his arm and the degree of play; nothing serious, and he could use it hard at a pinch, though ideally he'd wait a few days before putting any strain on it.

“When did we go to bed or when did we get to sleep?” Mary asked, working her eyebrows and grinning. “As I recall, you weren't
that
tired. At first.”

“Well, a soldier learns to—”

“Sleep and eat and whatever, whenever he can. I
am
a Ranger, darling. Same saying. C'mon, they've got
showers
here. Solar heating system, all the hot water we want on tap.”

“Didn't we shower last night?”

“How often do you get the chance? Without waiting for the water to heat, even?”

“Point,” he said. “Very definite point. Have to keep this bandage dry somehow, though.”

“I'll soap and rinse and dry you again. Thoroughly, very thoroughly. And whatever.”

When they came out again, dressed for the day in a clean set of the rough clothing you used when traveling or fighting, the bedding had been stripped from the four-poster and their own kit was on the bare frame, neatly strapped up into their saddle-rolls. Ingolf looked around the room again, this time by daylight. An experienced eye told him that nothing except the double-glazed sash windows was pre-Change; he'd worked for years running a salvager outfit making trips deep into the wildlands to loot the dead cities. It hadn't been that different from his previous job as head of a troop of paid soldiers; in fact, they'd included a lot of the same people.

That lack of old-world goods was a little rare; most places had a mixture, with more new-made as the years went on. The rest of the room was just a big rectangle with pleasantly shaped wooden furniture in the rather twisty PPA Gothic style, armor-stands for their harness and weapons, exposed but smoothly planed and attractively carved beams above, a floor of polished western larch, and a couple of alpaca rugs patterned in vivid geometric patterns of black and red and off-white. A fireplace was built into one wall, a closed model with a metal door in its tiled face, empty now with summer. The only fancy touch was a Catholic prie-dieu in a corner, with an image of an armored woman with a halo in the central panel of the triptych facing it.

“St. Joan,” Mary said, making a reverence with hands pressed together before her face. “She's their patron here, and a powerful one when you're fighting invaders.”

He was still figuring out the Dúnedain attitude towards religion. It seemed to include cheerfully stealing everything from anyone; sort of like the Old Religion of Rudi's bunch but with different names. He'd been brought up a conventional but not very intense Catholic himself, and gotten careless about it in his wandering years. Since Nantucket, he'd become increasingly unwilling to be skeptical about
anyone's
approach to the supernatural, which caused its own difficulties. He didn't feel comfortable with treating faith as a buffet lunch, either.

He also noticed the windows were deep-seated, confirming his initial impression that the manor was built by ramming moist earth down hard between frames and then letting it air-cure, what some called
pisé
. The natural texture of well-made rammed-earth
pisé
was like a coarse porous stone, often with the impress of the framing still visible, but the interior here was smoothly plastered and the outside whitewashed. One of the advantages of the material was that it was no great trouble to make it as thick as you wanted; at this second-story level it was over a yard through. They had fittings for steel shutters, too, and the wall surround on the window wasn't square, it was beveled in. That would let you step up to a slit in the shutter and shoot an arrow or crossbow bolt through it easily at any angle under full protection.

Uh-huh,
he noted.
Wall all around the manor gardens, too. Nothing to a siege train or field catapults, say twelve-pounders, or even just regular troops with assault ladders, but you could put the whole village in here for a while and stand off bandits or a casual raid easy. Rammed earth's not quite as strong as concrete, but it's more than halfway there once it's had time to cure and it's a lot cheaper and easier to come by. Good stuff, as long as you can keep too much water off it.