great assembly. Oak’s booming laugh was loudest of all. The smile was still in his voice as he went on:
“That leaves only one of Lady Juniper’s children; and well she is suited to the task, as we all know. I call on the Oenach Mor to hail Maude Loring Mackenzie as Tanist of the Clan, to follow the Chief and learn from her and to be the Mackenzie in her turn. All for?”
“AYE!”
Juniper could see her daughter blink, as the force of the giant shout hit like a huge padded club at her chest.
“All against?”
There was a long silence; a few individuals stirred, began to rise, looked around the circle of those from their own Duns and sank down again. Oak’s laughter was loud again. “Well, that’s a first, just as this is the first Great Assembly not in the duthchas of the Clan! But we should start the counting now, or it’s very tired we’ll be by tomorrow!”
CHAPTER NINE
CHARTERED CITY OF GOLDENDALE COUNTY OF AUREA PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION (FORMERLY CENTRAL WASHINGTON) HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL (FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA) AUGUST 5, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD
M athilda Arminger, now High Queen of Montival save for a few details concerning coronation ceremonies, groaned slightly as the ladies-in-waiting and the maids started to remove surcote and the long tight dress and the not-quite-crown with its silk veil. She’d been slightly daring, going back to the books-which was where the Association’s fashions had come from in the first place, really, before they took on a life of their own-and was wearing a formfitting kirtle of fourteenth-century style. The buttoned sleeves were normal, but these buttons were a full two inches apart, carved from golden tiger eyes into the Lidless Eye sigil of her house, leaving the cloth to stretch and show inch-wide medallions of her own flesh all the way up to three fingers below the shoulder, where her chemise started. The fabric was a peacock-patterned green silk, a precious rarity available only since a little trade with East Asia started up again in the last few years.
It was low cut from the very edge of her shoulders down to the middle of her breastbone, covering all but the very highest beginning swell of her breasts. There were drawbacks; she couldn’t lift her elbows above breast level, and it had required tight lacing, but there was less sheer bulk of fabric than with most court cote-hardies, which meant something in this weather. The overrobe was a very loose surcote, open at the sides from under her arms to hip level, of chocolate jacquard brocade with silver and gold flames broidered along the edges.
The ladies lifted off the surcote, unlaced the kirtle down her back and unbuttoned the arms, which felt as if she’d suddenly been released from a set of prisoner’s irons. Then they coaxed the three inches of tight sleeve down her arms and swept the whole affair away, which left her with the chemise-cotton thickened to double layers in places to make sure sweat didn’t stain the silk. Nimble fingers took care of the buttons and hooks and removed the fabric, and she felt almost cool as the air hit her skin.
Thankfully the day’s heat was fading anyway now that the stars were out and she could escape the interminable banquet in the Great Hall below.
Where eyes bugged at this outfit, for various reasons. I suspect a lot of the women were taking careful notes!
The solar of Castle Goldendale was most of the way up the dojon tower of the keep and four sets of high arched windows marked the center of each wall, all open now and letting in a very pleasant cooling breeze. One corner of the big square room had a fireplace, empty and swept and garnished with bouquets of roses and dahlias and geraniums now; the other held the spiral staircase. The walls were pale plaster carved in spiderwork Gothic low-relief patterns and the floor was mosaic tile, light blue with a border of green and yellow flowering vines. A few colorful modern rugs were scattered across it.
Westward the new-risen moon shone on distant snow peaks, like a dream of cool peace in the purple night. Below the lights of the little town were coming on, the warm glow of lanterns and candles, the evening bells from the cathedral and the other churches-there were six, in a town of four thousand, plus a chapel that the other varieties of Christian used in rotation, a small synagogue and a once-clandestine and now merely inconspicuous covenstead.
Outside the walls with their pacing sentries were the tented camps of the gathering armies. They were there to protect the town, of course, but she couldn’t blame the citizens and the local fief-holders from feeling nervous at having so many armed men around, and right in the middle of harvest at that.
“Hose and houppelande, please, mesdames,” she said, when they’d gotten her down to her underwear.
Another chemise, plain this time, then the tight hose of bias-cut linen; she’d gotten used to pants on the Quest, and she’d always been able to get away with practical dress more than most noblewomen, because of her birth and training. Right now she had a reasonable excuse, too. A plain set of shirt, jerkin and loose houppelande coat was a lot more comfortable than anything else respectable for someone of her rank, and she would be on campaign soon.
Though an arming doublet and suit of plate is actually more uncomfortable than a cote-hardie, hard though that would be to believe if I hadn’t experienced both. Which is something not many people have done.
At least she didn’t have to feel morally uncomfortable about kicking someone out of their quarters. County Aurea was Crown demesne land, and Castle Goldendale was held by an appointed seneschal rather than as an autonomous fief; it had been built as a headquarters and strongpoint during the wars against the Free Cities of the Yakima League to the north.
A man-at-arms of the Protector’s Guard came trotting and clanking up the stairs, thumped his fist to his breastplate and bowed as the staff set out a collation and left.
“Grand Constable d’Ath, Your Highness.”
“Admit her, thank you,” Mathilda said.
Good old Tiph, she thought warmly, as the familiar light quick steps sounded on the stone risers.
Then: And there are probably tens of thousands of people who wouldn’t believe that anyone could think of Lady Death that way.
They hadn’t had her around all their lives, of course; hadn’t been her pupil in matters warlike. And those were also people who hadn’t realized at about the age of eleven that quite a lot of people wanted to kill everyone named Arminger, and that a major reason they couldn’t was that Tiphaine d’Ath induced extremely well-merited soiled- breeches fear in the enemies of her family and House.
In theory I don’t really approve of Tiph, Mathilda thought, as she smiled in greeting. She’s an unrepentant sinner in a lot of ways. In practice I’m extremely glad to have her around and besides that I like her and Delia. I hope my children will have the chance to be glad of it as well; a dynasty can’t have too many loyal, able supporters. Or friends. Swords about a throne.
“Your Majesty,” Tiphaine said, making a leg-bow and sweeping off her hat.
“My lady Grand Constable,” Mathilda said. “Or as some dare call you… Tiph.”
That startled a rare snort of laughter out of her. Mathilda went on: “Sit down and have a drink, Tiph. You look as if you could use one.”
Tiphaine was in boots and trews and padded arming doublet with mail grommets under the arms. All were black; that was part of her image, and also better for not showing stains. She looked dubiously at the furniture-one of Mother’s salvage teams had furnished the domestic parts of this castle from a raid on a Gustav Stickley exhibit in a Seattle museum-and then decided her war-gear wasn’t going to do any harm to the Craftsmanschool solidity. She poured herself a glass of wine from the delicate Venetian-style glass decanter turned out recently in a Portland workshop and sat back, easy as a cat-though a tired cat pushing forty now.
“And no formality in private, Tiph. We don’t have time.”
“I’ve been jumping around like a Tinerant tambourine dancer,” the Grand Constable admitted. “You look a bit frazzled too, Matti. Are the local nobility and burghers adequately soothed and stroked about having armies assembling in their fields? Better you than me for that, frankly.”
