roadway, and she saw the tracks of mule deer, whitetails, antelope and feral cattle and bison and the churned patches where wild boar had fed, besides smaller game innumerable. There were wolf and bear and cougar here too, and sometimes tiger wandered in for a while from the mountains or the river swamps, though the predators were fewer and wary.
Like me, she thought. I’m rare and wary, all right. And I still don’t like this area. It’s even better hunting ground than Barony Ath’s share of the Coast Range forests, but…
In her lands in the Tualatin Valley you could pretend the Change had happened centuries ago, that it was a legend. Most people preferred that, and she did too. She had been young then, after all, still flexible, able to get on with her life. Well over half of it had been lived since then.
But Portland was where she’d been born, and lived all her life until the Change. That was long ago, but every so often something around here would jog her memory-the precise silhouette of Mt. Hood’s white cone over some trees-and the ghosts of buildings and cars and people would return in her mind’s eye.
Though it is good hunting ground. Most animals like the edge of a forest better than the depths, and this is all edge. When Heuradys is an old lady dandling her grandchildren, it’ll be like Sherwood and the roots will have ground most of the ruins into the dirt.
Sandra Arminger did a little genteel hawking now and then for form’s sake, or rode to hounds in the sense that she sat on a small gentle horse for an hour or so while other people chased the game, and then she went home. She’d also been known to remark that most hunting was far too much like wallowing in the mud with wild animals for her taste. The New Forest had other uses, though. Interlachen Prison was one, another of Norman Arminger’s mad whims.
He was an evil bastard, but not a stupid one, Tiphaine thought. And there was a touch of demented brilliance to him at times. Well, fairly often, in fact.
She’d always hated the man with excellent reason and she’d inwardly rejoiced when he was killed, along with the better part of a million other people, for all her loyal service to House Arminger. The only sorrow in it for her had been the grief Sandra had had to suffer through. But there were occasions when she thought she understood a little of what Sandra had seen in him-which was a disturbing thing in itself.
The forest thinned out a little as she approached the Columbia. The narrow spit of land known as Interlachen lay between Blue Lake and Fairview Lake, each sixty acres or better of shallow water. Wide channels had been dug at either end of the ridge to turn it into an island in the middle of a shallow marshy swale of water and reed beds and trees.
Guard towers loomed on both sides of the eastern channel; the western channel had two courses of walls. Tiphaine approved as her bona fides were scrupulously checked before the spear points and crossbows went up, and she was rowed across, with the horses and her party stashed in a barn on the shore. The Grand Constable leapt out of the boat onto the narrow bench and waited for the postern beside the main gates to be opened; it was all rather like a castle, but focused mainly inward rather than outward. The medium security prisoners were all in the main building closest to her, which had a conventional enough layout for a jail, plus the quarters of the Seneschal and the guards and their families. A large bare cobbled yard separated it from the maximum security block, known as Fen House. Norman had said the best place to hide a prison was inside a prison.
And laughed. It was a joke after his own heart.
Sir Stratson came to meet her and escorted her through the next few doors to the exercise yard and across it. He looked as mournful as ever. She couldn’t imagine living here and not going insane, though the garrison seemed contented enough. They had boating and fishing, and poaching she supposed, and their families cultivated gardens nearby. Otherwise…
“So, have there been any changes since you sent that dispatch, Sir Stratson?”
There was no need to specify which prisoner she was inquiring after.
“No, about the same since she came out of her fugue. She works on that white-work embroidery… there’s more than enough light in there most of the day. Eats, takes care of herself. She’s a boring prisoner, to be sure. Whines and frets, demands and puts on airs. Nothing out of the ordinary for one of the upper-upper caught out in their peculations.”
“And what does she remember of the missing months?”
“Nothing. She was truly annoyed about my cutting her hair. She doesn’t remember anything. And she doesn’t believe it, either. Thinks I drugged her like they did at Castle Gervais, won’t believe what month it really is even with the weather and all.”
Tiphaine studied the Warden as they waited for the guards to open the inner gates. He was a very fair- skinned man and only slightly taller than she, ruddy faced with a grizzled ring around the bald dome of his head, merging into a whiskers and a floppy mustache. His dark eyes were alert enough, but the long lines on his horsey face told of a weariness that wasn’t really physical.
He’s what, late forties, early fifties. He’d have been younger than I am now at the Change, she thought clinically. Younger than Delia is now, in fact, though a man grown. He didn’t go mad back when like so many, but my guess is he’s never forgotten or completely adapted and he’s been perfectly content to rusticate here, keeping watch and doing the occasional session of questioning and watching the grass grow and the birdies fly. Norman did know how to find the right man for the right job. It’s not just politics now, though. There’s a. .. call it religious aspect. I don’t know how he’ll react to that.
They entered the high security wing of the prison. Tiphaine grimaced.
Fen House. Norman’s joke.
Everyone assumed that Fen House was a house, as in house arrest. It helped keep the families quiet.
Not least by soothing their consciences. Most of them don’t like the ones who end up here, if only because they put their kin at risk by lethally pissing off the Crown. They can think they’re in comfortable detention and forget about them. No, Norman was not stupid.
She stood in a broad room, three stories tall. The south wall behind her was mostly seven clerestory windows each stretching up two of the three. Directly in front of her was a large clear space. Two half-levels were above. Each contained three cells. Bare bars left them completely open to sight. The men walking a measured beat on the archers’ walkways around the empty space at the second- and third-story levels could see every detail of each cell, and reach them with their crossbows at need. The place smelled of damp and lye soap; the spring light came in, but it didn’t seem to really rest on the cheerless brick and concrete.
Here on the ground floor under the cells was a kitchen with a batteredlooking woodstove and bunk beds slung for the guards. Once again, the line of sight was completely open. There were toilets and a urinal, tucked under the stairs that climbed the east and west walls. A quiet woman sat in the middle cell; a large sheet of white over her lap. Tiphaine frowned; Mary looked so ordinary.
Well, not every mad evil bitch has mad evil bitch written on her face.
“Has she said anything of a religious nature?”
Stratson looked uneasy. “I’m not much for religion, never was.. .”
Which is probably one reason he likes to be alone out here, Tiphaine thought. I can sympathize to a certain extent. This High Medieval Holy Church thing always grated on me, not to mention Delia, even after I got to pay antiPope Leo a visit.
“Is it relevant?” he continued. Then he sighed. “This Church Universal and Triumphant thing, right?”
“Right. Either she chose treason as a way to keep her family on what she thought was the winning side, or she actually converted. You have to understand people’s motives to predict what they’ll do.”
“England had considerable troubles that way, under the Tudors and Stuarts,” Stratson said, surprising her a little. “But, well, no. Nothing religious. She’s just a rather stupid woman… How old was she at the time of the Change?”
Tiphaine reflected. “Young. I think, maybe fourteen, not that much older than I was. I remember that the Regent was quite angry when Eddie Liu proposed. But the Protector insisted that it was a good match and a different time, so her age wasn’t so much an issue. It turned out to be a match made in heaven.”
Stratson surprised her again, this time by laughing. “Or in hell, if those two suited each other,” he said. At her look: “I met Eddie Liu… Eddie Scar-face… a few times, m’lady. He was here a fair bit in the Lord Protector’s day.”
Tiphaine nodded; even by the standards of the early years of the Protectorate Eddie had been ripe. And not as smart as he thought he was, though he’d had the elemental good sense not to presume on his close relationship
