“Think I didn’t know?” she said, forestalling it.
“Yeah, well,” she said. “We were . . . well, sort of waiting, you know, Skipper?”
Waiting to be sure we were here for good
, Alston thought. Rapczewicz had been married, back up in the twentieth. But the Event was as final a method of divorce as death, and considerably more so than a
decree nisi
.
“Congratulations,” Alston said aloud, glancing from her to Dr. Coleman.
A bit May-September, but I’m not in a position to talk.
“Just one thing, Sandy. Get married by all means, but if you get pregnant before this spring’s operations,
I’ll
perform an operation on
you
. A hysterectomy, with a blunt butterknife. I’m goin’ to need my XO.”
“Sure, Skipper,” Rapczewicz said, grinning in relief. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The guests joined in carrying the dishes back into the kitchen, then trooped back into the front parlor with drinks, and plates of dried-cranberrry muffins and cookies. Alston looked at them a little wryly.
Lost in time, and we still play bridge and have Christmas dinner parties.
It was such a workaday crowd, among the period-piece splendors of the mansion. One of the better things about the Event was that it had amputated the social pyramid at both ends, though. No masses of poor, and by definition nobody on the island could be rich these days.
They exchanged the gifts piled under a miniature tree, then Coleman sat down at the piano and began tinkling something vaguely Straussian from the book of sheet music someone had given him. Swindapa pulled her up by the hand and did a creditable waltz.
Where the hell did she learn that?
Alston wondered. They’d never danced together before; she felt rusty by comparison.
Damn, this is nice. She really is graceful as a deer
. Sweet-smelling, supple, strong, looking at her with that guileless smile she knew full well covered an unself-conscious, inventive randiness.
Damn
,
and here I thought I was the cold, self-contained type. . . .
Several of the other couples rose to dance as well. “Can I cut in?” Cofflin asked after a moment.
“Sure, but with who?” Alston said, smiling secretly to see him blush. “And who leads?”
“You were really warning Sandy, weren’t you?” he said quietly as they danced off. His style was basic-competent. “I don’t think fighting’s an ‘unlikely contingency we should be prepared for’ with this British expedition, is it?”
“Hell, no.” They swayed aside to avoid a table. “Should have cleared the room for this. . . . Unlikely? No, not with Walker over there. If he’s cleared out of Britain, that’s one thing. If he hasn’t . . .”
“You get to kick some Iraiina butt?” Cofflin said gently.
“I confess, wouldn’t be the least pleasin’ thing in the world.” Her eyes touched Swindapa, where she led Ian Arnstein through the steps. “Think, though, Jared. King William Walker, wherever he is, is a deadly threat to us. We’re not talkin’ about a Lisketter here. He knows too much. The knowledge will make the locals dangerous to us, and if Walker gets enough power,
he’ll
be dangerous to us—as the only potential limit to his power, he
has
to strike at us. It’s the way he’ll think, believe me.”
“I do believe you,” Cofflin sighed. “Worse luck. Ayup, I’ll back anything within reason at the Meeting.” His face hardened. “God
damn
Walker.”
“May God damn him indeed. But I’ll do my best to help.”
“Friends come!” Walker shouted at the top of his lungs. “Friends come! Friends come!”
That was Iraiina law; if you didn’t call out three times when you approached a steading, you were assumed to be hostile. In this case it was purely formal; Daurthunnicar’s scouts had seen him some time ago. Several of them were mounted, with simple pad saddles and stirrups. Bastard trumpeted a challenge at their mounts, and he reined him in sharply; the quarterhorse swiveled its ears back, but he’d taught it to know better than to buck. Walker would still be very glad when there were a couple of his get old enough to break to the saddle—mares would do, a gelding by preference, of course. Riding an uncut stallion was taking machismo to absurd lengths.
He threw back the hood of his cloak. It was a typical English winter day of the better variety: fleeting patches of sun, interspersed with gray overcast and occasional chill drizzle. He’d almost prefer a hard freeze and some snow, but that didn’t happen often in southern Hampshire. It was amazing how cold the Nantucket-made armor and underpadding were, when you thought of how uncomfortably hot they could be in warm weather. He’d be glad to change over to the set of fancy duds in the leather trunk the packhorse was carrying. The fields were a sodden sort of green, patched with brown and occasional puddles. Mud sucked at the horses’ hooves, coating their lower legs and spattering the trousers of their riders. The smell was rich and earthy, mixed with damp wool from their cloaks. Those were woven from raw fiber, unfulled, with the grease still in it; he was surprised at how well they shed water, almost as good as a rubber slicker.
There were other changes around Daurthunnicar’s
ruathaurikaz
, besides stirrups and horseshoes. It had gotten bigger, and one of the new buildings was made of horizontal logs. A couple of wheelbarrows were leaned up against the walls of buildings; it was amazing how much difference those made. Beside the bronze-casting workshop was a small ironworking smithy, and instead of all the women grinding grain by hand, two male slaves walked around a rotary quern pushing at a beam, linked to it by chains from their iron collars.
The heads nailed above the hall doorway were very much in the local tradition, though. None of them had had time to weather down to skulls.
Cuddy nodded to the gristmill. “Great what you can find in books, isn’t it, boss?”
Walker grinned. “Actually, I got that one out of a movie, Bill,” he said.
He’d suggested they use horses here on the mill when he built it for them; that would be quite practical with the new harness he’d introduced. Everyone had looked at him as if he’d recommended eating their own children. Odd people, the Iraiina.
“You know, if we
did
stay here, we could be running the place in about five years,” he said to Bill Cuddy. “Running the whole of England.”
The former machinist grunted and looked around at the trampled mud, pigs rooting for slops, a blue-fingered girl in a tattered shift milking a scrubby little cow into a bucket carved out of a section of log.
“This?” he said. “Run
this
, boss?”
“Well, Walkerburg’s already a lot better. Not as much already built as in Greece, yeah, but less opposition, too.”
“You thinking of changing the plan, boss?”
“Just a notion. The climate here sucks dead dog farts, I give you that. I’ll think about it.”
They swung down out of the saddle, armor clanking. He’d kept the conversation with Cuddy quiet; Ohotolarix was picking up English fast, and there were things he preferred to keep private. Retainers came up to take their beasts, and two unsaddled Bastard and led him gingerly off to the round corral where the hobbled mare waited. By the time they got there they were being dragged by the horse, rather than vice versa. His enraged squeal cut through the air.
There were a lot of horses in the other pens, and four extra chariots stood in a wicker-walled shed.
Well, well,
he thought, drinking off the ceremonial horn of beer that marked you as a guest. Another tribe, ready to talk alliance with the Iraiina.
Our efforts are bearing fruit
. And some Tartessians were there, lounging about the entrance, trading warmth for fresh air.
“Good to see you again, blood-brother,” Isketerol said, shaking wet from his own cloak; by the look of him, he hadn’t been here long. “We should talk, later.”
“That we should, later.”
The
rahax’
s hall was thronged with warriors and guests tonight, heavy with the smells of woodsmoke and cooking and beer and damp dog from the hounds that lay growling amid the feasters’ feet. Daurthunnicar came down from the carved seat along the southern wall to greet him and lead him to the stool of honor at his right hand. Over to the left were half a dozen visitors; they wore their long furtrimmed woolen jackets and went without the leggings Iraiina wore this time of year, and their hair was in twin braids rather than the single ponytail of Daurthunnicar’s folk. Easterners, an embassy from one of the Kentish tribes. Looking rather sullen, but polite enough.
Or scared
.
A huge platter of smoking roast pork was borne in before the
rahax.
He directed the server to carry a portion of the loin to Walker. The American smiled at her; she was Daurthunnicar’s daughter, a statuesque blond young woman with gold on her wrists and in her braids. The
rahax
was really doing him honor. That was the champion’s portion of the carcass, too.
As he reached for the meat, someone shouted. Walker looked up sharply.
“No! No!”
It was an Iraiina, one of Daurthunnicar’s own followers, with a holding not far from the high chief’s. A big man, but not one ounce of it fat; his shoulders were a solid knot of muscle. Face and arms were seamed with scars, although the man couldn’t be more than thirty, and he had a formidable collection of gold arm rings, a tore, and a checked plaid tunic that clashed horribly with both. He stamped and roared:
“No! Why should this outlander get the hero’s meat? Let him eat husks with swineherds!”
The whole hall was thrown into confusion. Men stood, yelled into each other’s faces, shook fists as pro- and anti-Walker factions coalesced. Some of the women were screaming too with excitement, and the easterner guests weren’t bothering to hide their smiles. Daurthunnicar surged erect, frowning like a thundercloud, and waved his sword—everyone else had to hang his weapons on the wall—until the uproar died off to a low babble. He yelled at the big Iraiina:
“You shame your
rahax
by insulting his guest! The man he has made
wehaxpothis,
a chief among our tribe. You shame the brave warriors who have sworn to follow him.”
Ohotolarix certainly seemed to feel so; he was half off the bench, fingering his eating knife and glaring blue-eyed murder. Walker reached out and put a hand on his arm, gently urging him back to his seat.
“No, this is good,” he murmured. “Wait—remember what I told you. Anger is like fire, a fine servant but a poor master. The fool will fall on his own words.”
Daurthunnicar was shouting: “He has brought victory and much booty to the camps of the Iraiina, new things to make us strong. Your forefathers are ashamed, Tautanorrix son of Llaunnicarz!”
“No!” the strongman declared. “He is nothing but a wizard. He offends against old custom and law, his slant-eyed wife is a witch, and the gods and Mirutha will shun us for harboring them, stealing our luck. Send him away, lord, or better still, cut his throat in the grove and make a bonfire of his goods and followers, to appease the Mighty Ones.”
More uproar, with Daurthunnicar shouting louder than anyone. Walker stayed relaxed, leaning back with his horn of beer.
Totally clueless,
he thought. These people didn’t have the least conception of government, or even of war, really. They fought like tigers individually or in small groups, but their sole idea of a war was a series of big raids, until one side or the other got sick of it and moved out or paid tribute. And this near-riot was their concept of how to settle policy questions.
He waited until the shouting had passed its peak, then rose to his feet. “Hear me, lord,” he called, not raising his voice much but pitching it to carry through the swell as if it were storm-roar at sea.
“Hear me. This fool and son of slaves—”
Tautanorrix roared again, wordless, his face turning purple.
“—has offered you offense by breaking the peace of your hall, like a mannerless swineherd. As your handfast man, let me punish him.”
Near-silence fell through the firelit dimness of the big turf-walled hall.
“And since he might fear my sword is enchanted, let us fight here and now with only the weapons the gods give to every man,” he went on, holding up his clenched fists. That provoked a surprised rumble. “To the death, of course.”
Laughter at that, fists and the pommels of knives pounding trestle boards until the pottery tableware rattled.
That bitch Alston wasn’t completely wrong,
he thought.
This
is
a lot like a biker gang.
Guts and toughness were everything. He’d put his stock up considerably by challenging Man Mountain here, and he’d have lost everything if he’d backed down.
Daurthunnicar’s fork-bearded face swung back and forth between them, little blue eyes narrowed. On the one hand, Tautanorrix was a valued supporter. On the other, Walker had made the chief rich—and unlike virtually every other subchief of the tribe, he’d consistently deferred to his patron, thrown his weight behind him in council, and given him shrewd advice on how to increase his own power, make himself a real king. The idea was strange to the Iraiina chieftain, but he’d taken to it like a Russian to vodka. And Walker had a strong following of his own among the younger Iraiina warriors.
The rumbling voice of the high chief went on:
“You are both warriors of note, forward in shedding blood and manslaying, generous in feeding the Crow Goddess. Indeed, it might be said that you’re among the best of us. If you fought, the tribe would lose whoever died.” A long pause. “But words have been passed which cannot be brought back. Hear the word of the
rahax
! Let these men fight. Let the Wise Man see that no enchantments are used, only strength and skill and luck.”
More rousing cheers from the warriors and warrior guests and their women, and cat-yowls of excitement as the betting began. Daurthunnicar was a shrewd leader in his way; he knew when to rule by taking this pack of wolves in the direction it wanted to go. Tautanorrix bellowed with glee.