″No, dammit,″ Abel said; this time the frustration in his voice was bleak and bitter. ″And if it starts it would be a civil war with about five sides, some of whom would make Tony look like the second coming of Thomas Jef ferson.″
Who . . . ah,
Rudi thought.
He′d learned some of the history of the old Americans, though he′d preferred George Washington, himself—more of a man of deeds and less a creature of words.
The Iowan went on: ″And it would go on until every county in the State was a country, and fighting all the others. Tony′s father knew about divide and rule, you
betcha
. That′s why Tony lasted as long as he did—even with old Tom gone, and even when most people knew how useless Tony was, nobody could agree on who′d take over, and how.″
A slight smell of incense from the funeral mass lingered, under the autumnal smells of burning leaves and cut grass and the wild silty smell of the river not far distant. The Cardinal-Archbishop of Des Moines was here, and he wasn′t quite adding his blessing to the proceedings . . . but then again, you couldn′t say he wasn′t either, and he was in full fig of vestments and miter and crozier. Father Ignatius stood just behind his right shoulder, in plain Benedictine robes, but leaning forward occasionally to murmur a word in his ear, to the evident frustration of his own entourage.
″Then isn′t a compromise that spares this rich land from death and burning a good thing?″ Rudi asked. ″You′ve been long at peace, and I′ve seen war; an ugly thing, and a war of brothers is uglier yet. Not the ugliest of all things, true, but to be avoided if you can do so with honor.″
Troops stood in double columns, down on either side of the strip of red carpet that led to the cathedral′s doors. Half were State Police, looking professional and tough in their polished mail but rather subdued beneath the stiff discipline; the ruler they′d upheld and the commander they′d hated and feared and adored both gone at once.
The other half were Farmers′ and Sheriffs′ retainers, more motley in their gear but solemn with the occasion, and with Jack Heuisink and Ingolf Vogeler at either end to bully-damn them into order; the fact that the younger man was on crutches seemed to make it easier for him if anything.
Behind the dais stood Jake sunna Jake and
his
followers. Rudi suppressed a chuckle at the sight; Edain had managed to get them into kilts of something quite similar to the Mackenzie tartan, at which they′d been wildly enthusiastic, and reasonable body armor, which they liked even better, and civilized barbers had shave faces and trim hair, which they′d liked very little. He′d even found flat Scots-style bonnets. They leaned on their hickory longbows, grinning like so many timber wolves contemplating a flock of sheep. Their pose wasn′t even the rough Clan approximation of standing to attention, but they were quiet enough—they were hunters, after all.
Abel sighed. ″I′ve been compromising since the Change for just that reason. Because I had to do it. It would be nice to get my own way for once—and I′m
right
, goddammit. We should be a democracy again, before people forget that there was such a thing.″
A roll of drums and a blare of trumpets sounded. Kate Heasleroad came through the doors of the cathedral, from where she had stood vigil before her husband′s coffin. With her was the nursemaid, and in her arms young Tommie, quiet but with his face wet with uncomprehending tears.
And he′ll never know his father
, Rudi thought with a pang.
He′d met his own blood-sire quite a few times, but not enough to
know
him; there had always been the matter of Signe Havel, Mike′s wife, and he hadn′t been officially acknowledged as the Bear Lord′s son until after the man′s death.
Still, all things considered, little Tommie′s orphaning may be for the best; even love can ruin you, if it′s done wrongly, a difficult feat but one his father would certainly have pulled off. I was lucky. A boy could do far worse than have the story of Mike Havel to pattern himself on, and the living Nigel Loring to show him daily what it is to be a man. Not to mention the likes of Chuck Barstow and Sam Aylward.
″Legends change, Colonel Heuisink,″ Rudi said to his companion. ″One will do as well as another, as long as people—the lords and the folk both—hold to them truly, love the story they tell and try to live rightly by them. It′s when people
betray
the dreams they have together that they bring real sorrow upon a land.″
Heuisink gave him a long look. ″Yeah, legends change. But you youngsters . . . especially
you
youngsters, you and your friends, make me wonder. Like I wonder about my sons, but more so.″
Kate wasn′t quite dressed in a cotte-hardi either, or wearing a crown, though she′d wanted to. Mathilda had talked her out of that; both would be too alien here, for now. But her long gown and the tiara in her hair were stately enough, and the expression on her face was stern and remote as she looked out over the crowd.
And the half of
being
a Queen is to
look
like a Queen. For what is rank, but people′s belief that you hold it?
″Wonder what?″ Rudi said.
″About living by our legends. People have always done that. The trouble with you″—he smiled wryly—″the trouble with the younger generation, is that they′re living
in
legends. Being eaten by them, maybe. Does that make you more human than we oldsters were, or less? Certainly it makes you different. It′s like you don′t live by them, you live them out. Act them out, without noticing you do. You don′t . . . talk to yourselves inside your heads as much as we did.″
Rudi frowned, then nodded with slow respect. ″You′re not the first I′ve heard say something of the sort,″ he replied thoughtfully. ″But few have put it so neatly. To be frank, from my side it seems that you of the ancient world often hardly lived at all, just watched yourself living.″
They stared at each other in perfect mutual incomprehension for a moment. Then Rudi grinned.
″Mostly it′s:
And you Changelings are weird, the lot of you!
″ he said.
Heuisink laughed ruefully. The arc of open garden before the great church held several hundred prominent Sheriffs and wealthy or influential Farmers, mayors and National Guard commanders; men of consequence from all over the Provisional Republic, summoned by the semaphore-telegraph net, and brought here as fast as light railcars could travel—which was forty miles an hour or even better, with relays working the pedals. Beyond the fence and a line of spearmen the hill and the streets beyond were crowded with the burghers and commons of Dubuque—sleek traders and brokers and shipowners, solid shopkeepers and skilled craftsmen, ragged day laborers who had nothing to sell but the strength of their arms.
Kate waited for a long second, just long enough for quiet to fall, and not quite long enough for the murmurs to grow again. Then she raised a hand; the bugles blew once more, and the warriors beat blades on their shields, or stamped the steel-shod butts of their weapons down on the pavement, or flourished their bows. When the harsh martial noise stopped, the silence could have been cut with a knife.
″Sheriffs, Farmers and people of the Provisional Republic of Iowa,″ she said into it. ″Anthony Heasleroad, my husband, your Bossman, is dead. Murdered by foreigners who he gave hospitality as his guests, murdered on Iowan land by agents of the cultist madman of Corwin. Will you let this stand?
Will we let our leader be murdered by savages from Montana
? Will Iowa, proud Iowa, our home, the last home of American civilization, let this stand?
Can they do this to us?
″
″Oh, now that′s clever,″ Rudi murmured softly. ″You are your mother′s daughter, Matti; I wouldn′t have thought of it so quickly, perhaps.
Us
is a powerful word, and it′s a sorry excuse for a man who isn′t moved by the pull of shared blood. It′s no accident we of humankind took wolves to share our hearths and work and to guard our children, for we too are creatures of the pack.″
The surprised grumble from the audience turned into a sudden roar:
″No! No! No!″
Abel Heuisink′s generation-long feud with the Bossman′s family was forgotten for a moment as he shouted with the others. Fists rammed into the air, and the soldiers shouted with the rest, landholders′ retainers and State Police together, until their officers cursed and cuffed them into quiet. The men of note took longer to subside, and the vast crowd of ordinary folk beyond longer still;
their
voices were like a great beast′s snarl in a nighted forest.
Rudi felt a little prickle up his spine at the sound. He kept a tactful silence himself; he was a foreigner here too, and he judged the temper of the time not overly friendly to outsiders.
″What do we say to these murderers? What is our answer?″ Kate called.
″War!″
a voice called, and others joined it:
″War! War!″
Abel Heuisink started and half turned. A little way beyond amid the notables was a knot of younger men, the sons and in a few instances the grandsons of the oldsters around them—Odard Liu in the midst of them, and the closest to him all the men he′d made his cronies. They had started the call, but others took it up.
″War! War! War!″ The chant spread, and then the commons joined in, like a thousandfold echo of Pacific surf upon basalt cliffs:
″WAR! WAR! WAR!″
Rudi blinked a little in surprise when the hoarse bellow cut off at Kate′s gesture, quiet rippling out from the dais to the edge of sight. She turned and held out her arms, and the nursemaid set her son in them.
″My boy′s father is dead,″ she said. ″And all the promise of a new generation that went with him, a generation born since the Change and tempered in these times of trial.″
Rudi grinned to himself. He hadn′t come across a single land in his travels where the younger generation weren′t itching to take over from their elders, the more so because they were impatient with habits of mind born before the Change. A few of the notables were past sixty, like Abel Heuisink, but most were a generation or so younger and accompanied by grown children who were learning the family business of ruling at first hand by example and observation the way most trades were passed on now. Those were the ones shouting the loudest . . .
The crowd of townsfolk beyond were mostly those who′d been born since the old world died, or at least didn′t remember it well.
Kate went on: ″But his son lives—named for the man who saved us all when the Change came. Gentlemen, Sheriffs, Farmers and people of our great Provisional Republic, I cannot protect my son alone.″
She held the boy over her head in a sudden gesture.
″I need your help. Will you promise that help? Can I depend on you? Will you give me the wisdom of your counsel, the strength of your arms, the courage of your loyal hearts?″
The bellow that answered her was enough to make the glass in the cathedral′s great windows rattle audibly. Glancing aside Rudi could see doubt on many faces, but others shone, exalted . . . and even the doubters were looking around them and reckoning odds, and then mostly joining in. A corner of his mouth twisted up.
Matti′s mother
had
used that tactic shamelessly among the Associates in the months that followed Norman Arminger′s death at the end of the War of the Eye, trotting her daughter around like an icon. She hadn′t been the only one to use the method in those days, either. Sandra had employed more vivid words than those Mathilda was putting in Kate′s mouth, but even then the Associates had been used to the
concept
of dynastic loyalty. These Iowans had to be led gently, into things they felt already but had no set form of words to express.
″Farmers, Sheriffs, and people; I will do nothing unconstitutional. The Assembly and the State Senate must be consulted. But will you swear, here and now, to uphold my son′s rights against this enemy from beyond our borders?″
Which makes no sense if you think about it—the only threat to young
Tommie′s
position right now is from his fellow countrymen—but few of these folk are thinking much right now,
Rudi knew.
And by the time they might, they′ll be committed. She′s made her son, vengeance for his father and the insulted dignity and honor of Iowa one and the same thing. And that honor their own.
The people bellowed approval. So did some of the notables, particularly the younger ones. The rest took it up with a half-second′s lag.
Kate Heasleroad glared at Abel Heuisink as he pushed his son′s wheelchair through the door. The conference room was large; the long oval of the mahogany table was enough for a score of seats, but it stretched beyond that to tall windows that showed the hilly streets of Dubuque and a glimpse of the Mississippi beyond that. A pot on a sideboard gave off the rich smell of real coffee, only slightly cut with chicory, and a tray of pastries rested beside it; the scent mingled with city smoke and the cut grass of the lawn outside. Nobody had bothered with the amenities yet. The former Bossman′s wife hadn′t even sat down, and her guards bristled behind her.
″You′re not taking what belongs to my son, Colonel!″ she snapped.
The elder Heuisink shrugged. ″I
can′t
take what you think belongs to your son, Kate,″ he said. ″You just fixed it that way, you and your friends.″
Rudi kept his face calm, but there was a grin behind it at the expression on the face of the Bossman′s widow. Then it turned shrewd; she stared at the spare seamed face of the older man, and she nodded slowly. The armed men behind her relaxed infinitesimally, sensing that it wouldn′t come to blades and blood on the parquet floor, not just yet. Some of the politicians did too, and others looked at each other in puzzlement.
″Thank
him
for pointing it out,″ he went on, and nodded to Rudi. ″Though I like to think I′d have thought of it. But that might have taken too long, and a day′s a long time in politics. Especially politics conducted with sharp pointed things.″