The Sword of the Lady (34 page)

″And there is their High Seeker, their adept,″ Ignatius said. ″He has . . . resources. I would not care to meet him again either, except at great need.″

Silence fell for a moment. Then Ingolf stretched his thick arms, rubbed one hand across his short-cropped brown beard and spoke:

″The Ohio route′s got its problems anyway. Lots of dams and bridges. And then the Appalachians.″

Ignatius raised a brow. ″I had heard that more survived there than anywhere else in the east.″

″Yah, that′s the problem, Father. Mostly in the lowlands near the dead cities they′re barely human. But there aren′t very many of them either. Eaters who got through the first year, well, a lot still died before they could learn how to catch rabbits or deer when people got scarce. Not a lot of their kids lived, either, between starving and the way most of their parents were insane by then. Mind you, with a winnowing like that the ones who did live to grow up are as dangerous as rats—man-sized, really smart rats.″

Rudi tapped a thumb on his lips. ″Living in the wilds is a thing which requires much skill,″ he said. ″Look at our poor Southsiders and how pig-ignorant they were . . . and they were farther west, and they were
clean
, as they put it.″

Ingolf′s hand covered what had been West Virginia, eastern Kentucky, southern Ohio and western Pennsylvania.

″Up in the hollers, the back hills where they could hide out from the refugees or fight them off . . .″

″They kept more knowledge?″ Ignatius asked. ″That accords with what the Church has heard.″

Ingolf nodded: ″I′ve talked to a few salvagers who went that way. They grow corn and truck, raise a little stock, and they were mostly hunters before the Change. A few even know how to make cloth or do some smith ing. Some of them are decent enough, even if they′re mighty standoffish. But then right in the next holler there′s maybe a little clot of families that got through the dying time by eating outsiders if not each other, and still like a little BBQ stranger with their grits when they can get it. Or they may kill you for your gear, which means you′re just as dead, even if they leave the bodies alone.″

″There would be far more of them than there are close to the dead cities, too,″ Rudi said thoughtfully. ″If they farm, and are skillful hunters.″

How much food a land produced was always of concern to a warrior; food supplies set the limit on the number of people, hence of fighters.

″A
lot
more, and they′ve got better weapons and tools, and from what I hear they′re . . . not as crazy. You can′t just bull through with a troop, the way you can in the lowlands. Parts of northern Wisconsin are pretty much like that too, I′m afraid.″

″A choice between evils, so,″ Rudi said, as his mouth quirked. ″It′s a wonder and a bemusement to me, so it is, that you find so many who
want
power. If you get it what goes with it? Late nights peering at maps and listening to reports, hard work and harder decisions.″

Father Ignatius smiled. ″My son, that you feel so makes it much more likely you will use power well.″

″And if you don′t get the power, other people make the decisions and you just have to put up with them,″ Mathilda pointed out.

″To be sure,″ Rudi said. ″And now, my friend, how will we be received at your brother′s steading? For it would be the most convenient place to prepare for the next stage if we take that way. And
if
we′re welcome.″

Ingolf scowled, and his strong worn hands knotted together.

″I′m not sure,″ he said bluntly. ″At worst . . . well, Ed always liked money. Not that he′d lie or cheat for it, but he′s . . . tight, and loves a bargain. He′d sell us what we need even if he can′t stand the sight of me. Or someone in the neighborhood would. Beyond that I can′t say. We were barely speaking to each other when I left, and he′d have stayed up to check that the sun rose in the East if I said it did, but that′s a long time ago.″

Rudi propped his elbows on either side of the empty bowl, his chin on his thumbs and his lips on his knuckles; red-gold hair fell across his eyes, but he′d memorized the map anyway. Decision jelled.

″We′ll go up the Wisconsin, and then the Kickapoo,″ he said firmly. ″We need a base to prepare for the next leg. If your brother′s holding is open to us, good; if not him, then another. We′ve gold enough, but there are preparations we must make. Not least, the Southsiders need every sort of instruction, useful as they are.″

 

 

 

Ritva Havel looked over to where Virginia Kane was cold-shoeing a horse, with half a dozen Southsiders looking on, and Edain holding the beast′s head and soothing it.

″I wish we were on the ship,″ she said, beneath the
tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .
of the hammer.

Mary shrugged. ″We hailed Rudi as High King,″ she pointed out. ″A King consults who he wants to. Besides, you get a meeting much bigger than four and a leader and you waste too much time talking. Ingolf′s smart and so are the others.″

Ritva grinned. ″You′re willing to let him do the talking? Must be love.″

″Well, yes, but it hasn′t turned my brain to mush, sis,″ she said.

The Southsider women they′d called drifted in and squatted in front of her, the light of the fire turning their faces ruddy and lying warm on her own back. A few were holding toddlers or nursing babies, which would make her next talk a bit easier. She′d done similar ones with young Rangers . . . but at least they didn′t have to be introduced to the concept of
soap
. Not most of them, at least—you got some very odd recruits from little hole-and-cranny parts of the Willamette and the mountains southward towards Ashland and the old California border.

″Now,″ she said, when they had gathered. ″Remember how I told you the Lady′s Cauldron is the source of everything?″

At the blank looks, she went on: ″The belly of the Big Strong Bitch? It′s, ah, like a
pot
. Things come out of it. The whole world, all the people and animals and things.″

That brought more nods; they′d gotten that much from the talks on the Old Religion, and they were pathetically grateful for a story that made
sense
of the world as something but malevolence and chaos.

″Well, we′re women, you see. So we have a special link to Her. We′re Her made manifest in the world. And like her, we can give or withhold the fertility of our, ummm,
pots
.″

Frowns of puzzlement. ″You mean, tell the studs they can′t fuck? They wouldn′t like that,″ one said; she thought it was Jake′s woman.

A pause, and the Southsider went on: ″
I
wouldn′t like that.″

Ritva had enough exposure to the tribe′s dialect now that she could follow it; her mind translated it into more-or-less standard English. And they′d already modified their way of speech a little in return, though it was complicated by the way they did their best to imitate Rudi and Edain.

″Ah . . . yes, but not just that. We can give or withhold the gift of children because we′re sovereign . . . because we have . . . ah, because we can do magic like the Big Strong Bitch.″

″You mean spook-stuff so you can fuck and not get littles unless we want?″

″Yes! Exactly!″

That brought an eager brabble. The Southsiders lost so many of their children, especially the ones born in the winter, that the thought of spacing them to match the seasons was alluring. From books she′d read in Larsdalen and Stardell Hall, wandering hunters had always done that, even if farmers often didn′t. A woman couldn′t deal with more than one infant who had to be carried at a time. In this as so much else the Southsiders were worse off than the most primitive human tribes of ancient times.

Eyes went wide as she held up a small coil of copper beads with a dangling silk thread below.

″Now, you see how this looks like the sacred serpent I showed you? What you do is put this—″

 

″High Seeker? Master Dalan?″ Major Peter Graber said, as the chanting faded.

He was glad he′d waited until after the evening prayer to talk to the priest; the sun was down beyond the trees in the west, and it would make their conversation more private. The morale of the Sword of the Prophet was like iron, the men were ready to die as they were commanded . . . but even iron had flaws.

And I always liked this time of day
, he thought inconsequentially.

The magic blue and green of it, and the slight hush that fell as the breeze died and the birds sang their last, and then the first stars blossoming in the east. Today there was a thin crescent of moon as well, high and ghost-pale southwards. It was a moment when the spirit could fly free. He sighed and returned to the business of the Church . . . which was also the business of the spirit, after all.

The man who called himself High Seeker Dalan had always been a little more solid-seeming than the most of his kind, who usually looked gaunt and scrawny. Right after the fight in Dubuque this one had been like a ghost for days, eating and drinking if you put food in his hands, but otherwise motionless.

Now he just looks like he′s dying, instead of already dead,
Graber thought.

He fought down resentment at how many of his men
had
died on this trip; he′d crossed the border into the Sioux territories with two hundred effectives. Currently he had eighty-four . . . and that included two men who probably wouldn′t recover.

″We must consult,″ he went on.

A jerky nod. ″Yes. Come.″

The bitter smoke of the burnt ship drifted this far, but he didn′t think the crews of the Iowan warships would pursue; the ruins of Cairo weren′t far away, and they′d already had a brush with an Eater band. They′d also shot several deer, fat with autumn, and a wild pig, and the carcasses of the beasts were roasting and stewing with foraged herbs and roots as the leaders talked. He judged the men were cheerful enough, except for the handful of Iowan converts; the Sword of the Prophet was always tasked with the most difficult missions, including the ones where death was almost certain. They knew as well as he that their lifestreams would be bright among the Ascending Hierarchy if they fell in the Church′s service.

His stomach rumbled at the smell of the meat, and the scent of wheat cakes cooking on the griddles, but he ignored it; a man of the CUT learned to command the flesh by the power of the
atman
, though only the adepts had the ultimate mastery. The soulless were the slaves of their
Sthula-Sarira
, the gross and merely material body, which meant they were little more than walking corpses. One more sign that their only reason for existence was to serve the True Spirit and the community of believers.

″Hail Maitreya!″ he began, when they′d walked a little way from the fires—but well within his perimeter of hidden scouts.

The blessing was always a safe opening gambit with the clergy.

″Master Dalan?″ he went on.

″Hail . . . to the Youth of Sixteen Summers.″

The priest made the proper reply, his voice starting out rusty, as if he was remembering how to speak.

″We have to decide what to do, High Seeker,″ Graber said carefully. ″Should we try to push through to this Nantucket place and
wait
for the soulless misbelieving sons of the Nephilim? Or should we try to intercept the enemy again?″

They′d tried that and failed repeatedly, though by narrow margins. Graber wasn′t particularly disturbed; if you kept trying, eventually you either succeeded or died. He hadn′t died yet. The High Seeker′s head turned to the north, as if his bruised-looking eyes were probing through the substance of the densely wooded hills.

″They may try to take the northern route,″ he said. ″They will not come up the Ohio, not when we might be waiting for them.″

Graber waited. That was a military judgment, and as such it was his to make. As it happened, he agreed. Catching Artos has been like trying to grab an oiled rattlesnake with his bare hands; nearly impossible, and deadly dangerous when you finally did it. And the others with him were nearly as bad. Not least, they all had a damnable talent for getting locals to fight for them.

″Bring me a prisoner,″ Dalan said.

The officer turned his head and barked a command. Soon two of his troopers frog-marched one of the Eater captives between them. He had his hands tied before him, and a sheathed shete thrust through between his elbows and back; they steered him with it. Graber′s nose wrinkled; everyone smelled after a while in the field—this was the first opportunity they′d had to boil water in some time—but the savage was rank even by the standards a soldier learned. Worse than a High Line cowboy in midwinter.

A crude loincloth and the leggings held to it by thongs were his only clothing. For the rest he was an unexceptional man, perhaps in his twenties though looking older with his shaggy hairiness and ground-in dirt; the hair and beard were brown, the eyes a hazel green. Scrawny and not very tall, but that was to be expected.

The High Seeker held up his personal amulet, worn on his left wrist and studded with amethyst, symbol of the Seventh Ray. He murmured something: Graber caught the name of
Djwal Khul
, a great lord of the Ascending Hierarchy who dealt with communication and knowledge.

″Possibilities increase exponentially,″ the High Seeker said . . . in a normal conversational tone, but as if to himself. ″Capacity to affect foam linkages and tap base energy is greater but so is need.″

Good that he is not talking to
me
,
Graber thought.
I do not understand and do not wish to. Hail Serapis Bey! I serve the Fourth Ray. The Church also needs those who can deal with the material.