The Protector's War (79 page)

“You'll never see a more intelligent four-year-old mare,” the wrangler said. “See how she's looking at us right now, thinking!”

Havel gave a snort of laughter, almost as loud as the horse. “Mister, she's not looking at us that way because she loves us, and that's a fact, by Christ Jesus.”

“You could easily train this one to rear up in battle and strike at the enemy!”

“Well, shit, yeah, and have her get a spear in her belly and leave me standing in front of someone's lance point with my thumb up my ass,” Havel said dryly.

“Lord Bear, I've been raising horses all my life and—”

The man stumbled to a stop at a cold gray-eyed gaze. Havel spoke over his shoulder. “Will, how long have you been wrangling?”

The middle-aged ex-Texan had been watching, squint-eyed. Now he spat into the dirt of the corral and scratched the back of his neck.

“Since my daddy put me on an old cow-pony, when my momma was still changing my diapers,” he said. “I've seen that look in a horse's eye before. Back when I was riding roughstock.”

Then he slipped between the bars and tried in his turn. “Whoa there, girl. Whoa, there, Donner. Easy, girl, easy, I don't mean you any harm 'tall.”

He got two paces closer than Havel had, and had to dodge teeth after a warning snort; Hutton went forward, into the space by its shoulder where a horse has trouble kicking, then backpedaled as it turned and struck with its head extended like a snake.

“That horse is a man-killer!” he swore.

Hutton backed for a moment to be sure the horse wouldn't charge, but it seemed satisfied to have driven him off. Then he turned to the Bear Lord, keeping a weather eye cocked on the mare.

“Mike, this man's right. That's a fine horse; don't think I've ever seen a better, for a war mount; good legs, short back, deep chest; she'll go like a jackrabbit with those haunches and she moves right pretty, as pretty as sun on water. Only you'd have to say it
was
a good horse, before this damn fool ruint it, tryin' to break her spirit. Look there, see? She's been whipped up under the belly. He's got her afraid of her own shadow, and killing mad at the whole human race besides. This shitheel ain't fit to break a pig's head in with a hammer, much less wrangle a horse.”

“My lord, for you, two hundred—”

He stopped and winced as Havel poked a finger like a steel rod into his chest; it hurt even through the leather jacket.

“Mister, I wouldn't get on that horse if
you
paid
me
to do it. When I go into a fight, I've got the enemy trying to kill me—I can't afford to worry about my own damn horse trying it too. I might give you fifty for her as breeding stock—no, I'm not going to risk my farm staff getting kicked into next Thursday. Not a penny, unless you want to trade a side of bacon for the hide and hooves.”

He turned away. The wrangler took off his battered Stetson and threw it down and stamped his riding boot on it, then glared murder at the horse. It was easy enough to see his thought; any likelihood of a sale had just publicly evaporated, and he wasn't going to go to the trouble and danger of taking her back east over the mountains.

Rudi murmured, just loud enough for his mother to hear: “He'll
kill
her! Kill her and feed her to his dogs!” Then, aloud, calm and happy: “What a waste!”

Rudi's clear young voice sounded like a bell of crystal, cutting through the murmur of the crowd; kilted Mackenzies and leather-clad ranchers and Bearkiller A-listers alike fell silent. A few of the Corvallans and traders from the Protectorate pointed and told each other who he was.

“A horse in a million, going to waste, Uncle Mike! All she needs is the right hand!”

Havel turned back, grinning across the paddock at the boy with his face. Will Hutton smiled too, at the boy's display of spirit. The Bearkiller lord laughed and waved, ignoring the fresh hopeful babbling of the wrangler.

“She's a good horse, all right, but she's spoiled, Rudi,” he called.

“I could ride her! Like an eagle on the wind!”

“Kid, if you can convince your mother to buy that horse, go ahead!” he called again, his voice warm and friendly. “I'll go halves on the price for a colt of hers, if Juney can magic her into not being crazy-mean.”

Signe Havel's voice was coolly neutral as she called: “I'll pay the man's price myself and give her to you if you
can
ride her, Rudi!”

The boy was off the fence and out in the middle of the corral before Juniper's astonishment-slowed grab was halfway to his plaid. The crowd was shocked into silence.

Mike Havel's voice was soft and commanding, a controlled contrast to the throttled fury and fear in his eyes: “
Get
out of there, Rudi. Back off to the fence. Do it now.”

The boy laughed. “Don't worry, Uncle,” he said. “She knows me, you see.”

“Rudi,” Juniper called, her voice tight with urgency. “Do what Mike says. That's an order. I promise I won't be mad, just
do
it.”

“It's all right, Mom,” he said cheerfully, not three paces from half a ton of wild anger and lethal strength. “Really. Epona won't hurt me.”

Behind Juniper Sam Aylward and John Hordle and Eilir strung their bows and nocked arrows with quick sure movements. The rest of the party used ruthless elbows and shoulders to give them a clear field of fire, and Astrid and the Lorings poised to leap the fence. Astrid slipped her sword free of its belt and unbuckled, wrapping a length of it around her right hand so that she could snap it like a whip in the mare's face to drive her back.

Juniper swallowed, watching the horse shake its head and stare at the small form before it. Time seemed to slow, as if the air was become thick amber honey and she imprisoned in it like an unwary insect. Her own breath roared in her ears, and her heartbeat was like a great slow Lambeg drum beating beneath her throat, and every particle of dust was crystal clear and etched in memory. Her mouth opened to call the archers to shoot the horse down, but a hand closed about it, vast and impalpable. Instead she spoke in a flat tone of command:

“Wait. Wait and watch. Don't let anyone startle the beast.”

She could feel their incredulity, but the moment stretched, tighter and tighter like a rope hauling up some great weight, the only sound the very faint creak of the bowstaves. The honed razor edge of the broadheads glinted at the corner of her vision, etched with death.

“Epona,” Rudi said, and his voice was like the wind itself. “Epona.”

The horse shifted slightly, turning its head to watch him, small and un-threatening.

“Epona, you know me, my lady. You've always known me. From the days when we ran together in the country where the forever trees grow. I'm Artos.”

Juniper felt a small electric jolt, flaring through the power points of her body.
That's his Craft name!
she thought; her own interior voice was infinitely distant, as if she was disconnected from her body, but she could feel everything so immediately, even the slight prickle of the plaid's wool against her neck above the brooch. Sweat ran down her flanks and slid into her eyes, although the day wasn't hot.

I haven't even told
him
his Craft name! Who did? Chuck heard at the Wiccanning, but he wouldn't tell—

“We know each other, lady. No fear, ever again. You know me.”

Rudi took a single slow step forward, speaking in the voice of a harp, his small hands stroking the air to either side. Juniper felt as if those moments stretched into infinity, full of visions of the hooves hammering down on the small body, of the great square teeth sinking in and lifting him and shaking him like a rat. But the fear that choked her throat was nothing beside the greater power that held her motionless, as if a voice with the weight of worlds in it commanded.

Rudi spoke again: “Epona. We're together again, and it's all right.”

The proud neck arched, the mare snuffling at his face and hair. Rudi stroked her nose, then ran a hand down her neck, eased the bit out of her mouth. He made a slight disgusted sound as he threw it down—it was a chain-curb with a barbed lever to press within—and breathed into her nose, urging her around until she was facing the sun over the Cascades.

Then he grabbed a handful of mane and vaulted onto the great animal's back, his legs clamping down on her barrel. The horse reared again, bugling a neigh, then came down with its forefeet stamping in the dust, raising puffs that drifted away like yellow-brown clouds.

“You're Epona!” Rudi said, and this time his voice sounded the way a trumpet might, if it was young and happy. “Epona and Artos. We run, but we don't run away 'cause we're scared. Wait!”

There was a single moment of electric tension, and then he clapped his heels to the mare's ribs and leaned forward over her neck. She shot ahead as if launched from a catapult, and the crowd at the corral's gate flung themselves flat. That was needless; the mare's hooves would have cleared their heads if they stood on tiptoe. She landed like dandelion fluff and pivoted down a lane between two paddocks full of draft oxen in the same motion, scattering folk to either side, and disappeared into the open fields beyond to the west, lifting over a hedge like a great black eagle. Boy and horse dwindled as he flew down the long meadows beside the Sutter River; from here they could see for miles into the valley, and they became a speck and then invisible faster than seemed possible.

Signe Havel came up beside her, milk white and trembling. “Oh, God, Juney, I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me—”

She jarred to a halt as Juniper touched her on the sleeve and gave her one quick glance. “I don't have time to be angry now, Signe. And besides…I think I
do
know what came over you. Us.”

The blond woman clasped a hand over her own mouth. The crowd waited, spilling into the corral but leaving a space near the gate where Mike Havel stood like a statue.

When Rudi returned he sat with back erect and one hand on his hip, the other resting lightly on the curve of the arched neck; Epona's hooves struck the ground with a ringing sound, like the cymbals of a conqueror. She stood silently as Rudi flung a leg over her neck and slid to the ground and into Mike Havel's arms.

The Bear Lord was weeping. His voice was hoarse as he folded the boy into an embrace and spoke: “My son, my son!”

And everyone heard that, too,
she thought.
Oh, Powers, what have You done to us?
After a moment:
And what song is it that You are playing this time, with us as Your instruments?

 

“OK, this time
you
fucked up, Signe. Bad. Really, really bad.”

Signe's face was still pale under its honey tan, and she was silent for long moments.

The guesthouse had been a bed-and-breakfast before the Change; even within the new wall, Sutterdown still had plenty of room, and the four-poster bed and flock wallpaper were pretty enough. There wasn't room enough to pace, though, so he went and looked out the window ahead. There was plenty of light in the crowded streets below, even though it was an hour after the late summer sunset—lantern-and candlelight from windows, torches, and southward, on its hilltop, the balefire boomed and danced behind the black outlines of the covenstead's pillars, and he could see figures dance about it under a thutter of drums.

“Mike…Juney said…”

He turned. “Yeah.
She
thinks Big JuJu made you do it, though only because you wanted to at some level anyway. But you know something, Signe? Smart as she is other times, when that subject comes up Juney is fucking
crazy.
Like you hadn't noticed? I seem to remember you saying so yourself. And second thing, I don't believe in Big JuJu.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, in a small voice.

“
Sorry
doesn't cut it. You tried to kill a kid—my kid, specifically, but there's a matter of principle involved, and you should have noticed
that
too. I'm telling you now, Signe, that if you want us to stay together, you never, ever try anything even remotely like this again. Got it?”

She nodded, and he went on: “It's late. Let's sleep.” A wry quirk of the lips. “The Protector's man is arriving tomorrow, to talk about
Arminger's
kid.”

Sutterdown, Willamette Valley, Oregon

August 24th, 2007 AD—Change Year Nine

J
uniper received the Protector's ambassador in Sutterdown's town hall, which had once—long before the Change—been a church; the broad high-ceilinged room that had been the nave was usually used for public meetings these days, plus dances and sundry social events; banners and wheat sheaves and horns-of-plenty on the walls remained from the last such. His party carried a flag of truce, and in any event the horse fair itself was peace-holy, sacred to Epona and sanctuary for all but those formally outlawed.

Which Eddie Liu
should
be. And we're in for a blizzard of formality,
Juniper thought. Then:
Sacred to Epona
…

She shivered slightly at that thought and instead watched Eddie Liu approach, the boots of his party sounding hollow on the hardwood floorboards. Mackenzies with bows across their backs and spears grounded before them waited silent and motionless along either side of the aisle, looking a little strange in the Victorian-era room with its plastered roof and tall arched windows, and a mixed crowd waited behind them. Tom Brannigan sat beside her, and Sam Aylward on the other side; Mike and Signe Havel were at one end of the table, Mathilda Arminger at the other, and the Clan's banner of antlers and moon hung on the wall behind. Conspicuously, the Clan's Bearkiller allies had their sheathed swords lying on the table before them; equally, the ambassadors were unarmed—even Mack, Liu's giant two-legged Doberman, though he could probably pluck a normal man apart. From the crowd behind the Clan's spearmen, she could see Little John Hordle giving the massive figure of the bodyguard a considering glance.

Juniper glanced at the half-dozen following Liu and Mack, tramping stolidly in a column of twos. They were supposedly servants, clerks and attendants, but they all had the broad-shouldered, thick-wristed build of men who swung swords for hours every day, and from their slightly rolling walk they rode just as often. Hard-faced young men, wary and silent, their eyes flicking across the faces around them in unfriendly appraisal. She was reminded of nothing so much as a group of large, silent, hungry and not-very-sweet-natured cats.

Protectorate knights,
she thought. Too young to have been among the SCA recreationists or gangbangers or university students who'd made up Arminger's earliest cadre, but certainly their younger siblings, and those of their friends and retainers.

And more dangerous than the first set, this younger generation. They're not
just
thugs. Which doesn't mean they aren't thugs, too.

“Lady Juniper, my master Norman Arminger, the Lord Protector of the Portland Protective Association and liege lord of its dependencies, sends his greetings,” Eddie Liu said formally. That sort of thing always sounded a little strange in his Brooklyn accent. “I speak in his name and with his voice.”

Equally formally, he went to one knee, removed his silver-banded hat and bowed his head, and so did his followers, in unservantlike unison. Several of them also made an unconscious gesture with their left hand and foot, to move nonexistent sword sheaths out of the way. Kneeling was Protectorate protocol, and they had to show the same respect for a foreign head of state that he would for a public audience with the Lord Protector.

“As I speak for the Clan Mackenzie, being Chief of the Clan by the Clan's choice, and I send my greetings to him through you, Baron Liu,” Juniper said coldly.

I'd really like to send a spear through the both of you, you little weasel,
she thought, but did not let it show.

“I acknowledge you as his ambassador. So long as you and yours don't break my peace, you are safe.” She allowed herself a chilly smile. “And if you do break it, I will kill you.” Then she leaned forward a little. “All right, my lord of Gervais, what is your message?”

“The Lord Protector wants his daughter back, of course,” Liu said. “He sent me because you didn't answer your mail. And he wants me to check on her.”

“Returning her is going to take more than a request,” Juniper said dryly. The girl's face was white and strained.

“The Lord Protector protests at your breaking the laws of war, and the truce agreed in Change Year Four,” Liu went on doggedly.

He ignored the snicker of laughter from the audience, and Havel's audible snort. So did Juniper.

“I've protested border violations by Protectorate nobles and border commanders rather frequently,” she said, and paused for a second to let
Not least by you, Eddie Liu, Marchwarden and Baron Gervais
come through without the need for words. “But that's ground we've covered before.”

To her surprise, Liu nodded. “Yeah, Lady Juniper, the Protector thought you might see it that way. He also wants me to check that Princess Mathilda's all right—that you're treating her right—and to bring some of her stuff. If you're not treating her right, he wants me to warn you that he threatens war.”

“He threatens war every time he notices we're still breathing and not taking orders from him,” Juniper said. “But despite that, we're still breathing—and still free.”

Liu's hand clenched on an absent sword hilt, which was an indication of how long it had been since the Change in itself. Juniper held up a hand to silence the baying laughter of her people, and then indicated Mathilda with it.

“You can see the girl's in good health—we don't harm children. As for how she's treated, she's sleeping in the same room as me and my son, eating at the same table, and not doing anything my son doesn't.”

Liu's lips thinned. That wasn't how she was treated at home, of course, but he could scarcely complain now, after the Mackenzie chieftain proclaimed that Mathilda was being handled like her own child.

He ducked his head. “I'd like to talk to the princess myself,” he said. “And I've brought some of her things—her favorite horse, some clothes, her cat, and a lady-in-waiting. The Protector won't begin serious negotiations unless you allow her to have her belongings.”

Juniper's eyebrows went up, as Mathilda gave a little bounce of glee.

I wonder if that's for the horse, the cat, or the nanny?
she wondered. But…that implied he
would
negotiate seriously if she
did
allow it.

If only his word were good, we might get a nonaggression treaty useful as something besides toilet paper out of this. Unfortunately, his word
isn't
good the minute you're not holding something over his head. I don't know what we're going to do with Mathilda, really…

“That at least seems reasonable, Lord Gervais,” she said cautiously. “Let's arrange it.”

 

“Hi, kid,” the Marchwarden said. “You OK, Princess?”

Mathilda smiled broadly and hugged him. “Sure, Eddie,” she replied. “I'm fine—but I miss Mom and Dad.”

“Yeah, they miss you too,” the blue-eyed man with the Asian face said. “Your goddamn cat missed you plenty, going by the way he's been yelling his head off all the way here.”

Odd,
Juniper thought, watching with her arms crossed on her chest; she and Astrid were alone with Liu and Arminger's heir in an office room, bare now save for a table and chair. Astrid stood in a corner, with her long single-edged sword drawn, the point resting at her feet, her strange silver-streaked eyes chilly in their focus on Liu.

Juniper wouldn't have wanted to be the object of that gaze; you could forget what else Astrid was, if you thought only of her eccentricities or her loopy charm. It was wise to remember what happened when she used that sword. Movement like moonlight flickering on water as it tumbled over rapids, a beautiful smiling image of inescapable death.

All the more terrifying to see, because you know what
she's
seeing is ancient glories and heroes out of song and story.
Even when shrieking ruin kicked its heels and loosened its bowels in a last rattle at her feet.

Sam Aylward might have been a better choice in the unlikely event something went violently wrong, but possibly not, and he was off organizing the trip back to Dun Juniper. Liu ignored Astrid as if she were a wall ornament; but then, there had never been any doubt about his nerve, and he knew her safe-conduct was good.

It was disorienting to see a child beaming at him, though.
Hard it is to think of anyone actually
liking
Eddie Liu…I suppose some people must, though. His mother, perhaps; and he has a wife and children of his own. And it would serve his ends to have Mathilda his friend from childhood, which he's smart enough to recognize.

Mathilda was indifferent to the boxes of clothing, but she gave a cry of delight when the carrying case with the airholes was opened. A mewling growl came from within; she lifted out a large, black, very unhappy cat and cried: “Saladin!”

They don't travel well,
Juniper thought, watching the beast's mad lemon yellow eyes and noting its ruffled fur and bottled tail.
Particularly in a box strapped to a packsaddle.

“That tom is fixed, isn't he?” she asked.

It was unlikely to be much happier in Dun Juniper, away from its territory and forced into association with a half-dozen strange felines. Spraying was something she didn't need. What had Mike called cats once?
Little furry Republicans.

“Oh, yes,” Mathilda said, lifting it up under the forelimbs, which made its hind pair splay open. “And he's a
good
cat. Well, he likes to break things and claws furniture sometimes and he'll bite if he doesn't like the way anyone but me pets him, and he sort of hates other cats, but apart from
that
he's a good cat.”

He's a cat with murder on his mind,
Juniper thought, amused, noting ears laid back and whiskers bristling and claws slipping out of their sheathes.
Even if he lets you hold him like that normally, he's not in the mood right now, by the cats who draw Freya's chariot!

“Better put him back in the box for now,” she said.

“The other Kat's waiting,” Liu said, with a hint of a nasty edge to his smile.

Mathilda's brows went up. “Dad sent Katrina?” she said, surprise in her voice. “Oh, that's OK,” she said, turning to Juniper. “She's one of my tutors. Not my nanny, though. But Nan's sort of old, she's over
forty,
so I suppose they didn't want her taking a rough trip.”

Juniper nodded, slightly surprised that either of the Armingers would show a servant that much consideration, and made a gesture of assent. Liu bowed and went to open the door. A woman came through: youngish, of medium height, with hair cropped to a halo of black curls, a rather hard good-looking face, and impassive blue eyes. She was dressed in practical traveling garb, not the trailing dresses upper-crust females in the Protectorate usually affected.

“Lady Katrina,” Liu said, inclining his head.

“My lord,” she replied distantly, returning the gesture. Then a genuine smile for Mathilda: “Hi, sprout! You OK?”

“Why does everyone keep
asking
me that?” Mathilda said, a little of the old waspish note in her voice. “Sure. You, Kat?”

“You bet, sprout, except that we're both in bad company here.”

“Oh, they're not so bad, for rebels,” Mathilda said generously. “Sort of weird, but OK. Did you hear about Rudi and the horse nobody else could ride?”

“Yes. Did you see it?”

“No.” Mathilda pouted slightly and kicked at the floor. “I was watching this guy with a dog that climbed up a ladder.” More brightly: “But Rudi showed me the horse later. Hey, it's a
real
pretty horse!”

“That's good; I've got Lion with me for you to ride, by the way. Everyone's been treating you properly?”

“Well, not properly like Mom and the people back home do. But nobody's been mean to me at all and sometimes things are fun. I just miss home and Mom and Dad and everyone.”

Katrina bent the knee to Juniper. “Katrina Georges, Lady Juniper,” she said.

Juniper cocked an eye at the way the young woman moved. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, and extended a hand.

Georges looked uncertain for a moment whether Juniper expected a handshake or a suppliant's kiss on the fingers, then took it in a quick firm clasp. There was a ring of callus around the forefinger and thumb of her right hand, and the grip was very strong when Juniper squeezed a little. Some things just couldn't be disguised.

Aha,
she thought; then aloud: “What exactly do you tutor Mathilda in, Ms. Georges?”