“You could do it.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to do it. What sort of reaction did you get?”
“I subtly pointed out that the manor-lords and their tenants would make a lot of money by having so many hungry wage-packets walking around, and that the city was creaming off a lot of gold,” Mathilda said. “They’re nervous, but reassured. It was worth sitting through one banquet. Rudi managed to escape because it was all Associates and they needed to be reassured by one of their own. Or at least that was his excuse! Plus he had some Mackenzie politics to take care of after the military stuff, and he really did have to handle that himself.”
Tiphaine sipped at the wine. “His Majesty just gave me my marching orders; I’m off tomorrow. Well, the army he just gave me is off tomorrow, I’m probably going to have to arrive first and last to chivvy everyone along, particularly the Yakima contingents who aren’t used to working with the Association. Including them is a good move in about four separate ways, but I’m going to have to sweat to make it work the way he wants.”
Mathilda tried to imagine Tiphaine doing anything else with a mission, and failed.
“Rudi’s brilliant about that sort of thing,” she said instead, with a glow of pride. “Not just a pretty face! Young for it, but he’s a first-rate general.”
“I’ve observed that,” Tiphaine said dryly; she had been one of his trainers, during his months every year in Association territory since the Protector’s War.
Then with something that might have been the barest hint of a wink: “He’s even sort of cute… for a guy.”
“You’re impossible!” Mathilda said.
“No, just improbable. Fortunately only stories have to be plausible; real life just has to exist. Otherwise I’d simply refuse to believe the Sword of the Lady was there at all, for example. Now, what’s on your regal mind?”
“First, let Delia know that I’m sorry you two-and Rigobert-couldn’t be there for the wedding up at Castle Corbec. We’re going to have a commemoration ceremony after the war in the Cardinal-Archbishop’s cathedral in Portland, and I want Delia as one of the Matrons of Honor.”
“Thanks, she’ll love that. We’ll come and she can be matron enough for both of us,” Tiphaine said, refilling her glass. “What’s the serious business?”
“Ah, there’s some information I need. Chancellor Ignatius has his old boss Abbot-Bishop Dmwoski working on getting an overall view of the CUT’s espionage and infiltration operations in our territory.”
“Good choice, Matti,” Tiphaine said judiciously. “He was uncomfortably smart when he was fighting against us, and he’s still plenty sharp even if he is semiretired. Plus he has extensive contacts. We need some people who aren’t rushing around being too busy to see the big picture.”
Mathilda nodded agreement. “And the CUT’s going to be a long-term problem even if we manage to decapitate them. Right now he’s getting down to the bottom of the House Liu matter. Incidentally I’m going to swear Huon Liu as one of my squires tomorrow and take his sister Yseult into the household as a lady-in-waiting later; if she’s got the smarts, and I think she does, I’ll have work for her.”
Tiphaine frowned into her glass. “Are you sure that’s wise? Speaking of decapitation I did do in several of their relatives, one way or another… chopped their mother into dog-meat scraps personally and with my own hands, for starters. Had a nasty turn with the rabid bitch infecting me somehow, like a bite from a mad dog.”
Mathilda sighed. “Those were necessary measures. I think their personal experiences will make them know, not just know but really understand, that it was necessary. That’s also why I’m having Dmwoski brief them fully, not just pump them for their perspective. They’re smart kids, and besides I owe a rather large debt in that direction for what Odard did. Right now I want you to give me your own impression of what happened with Guelf Mortimer and that agent right after the Battle of Pendleton.” She quirked one corner of her mouth up. “Or the Cluster-Fuck of Pendleton, as I understand you christened it.”
Tiphaine shrugged. “I’m actually rather proud of how I handled that. A fighting retreat may not get the bards and troubadours excited, but it’s technically the most difficult battlefield maneuver, especially with an army made up of contingents from all over, none of whom love each other that much… good practice for the opening phases of this campaign, in fact. Oddly enough, Guelf Mortimer helped a good deal while we were breaking contact, him and Sir Constantine ‘Raging Bull’ Stavarov. Stavarov’s just an obnoxious idiot, of course.”
“But a good Anvil,” Mathilda said with a chuckle, pouring herself a glass of the wine.
It was a local vintage from the Columbia gorge, a red Malbec with a taste of plums and herbs in its inky purple depths.
Anvil was a phrase Tiphaine had taught her, originally coined by Conrad Renfrew back when he was Grand Constable; someone solid iron from ear to ear whether he had a helmet on or not, useful primarily for dropping on or throwing at the enemy like a large hard heavy weight. And if the anvil broke… you got another anvil.
“If you can imagine an Anvil with a really bad temper and testosterone poisoning,” Tiphaine said. “Guelf, besides being a traitor had delusions of intelligence… and if he’d been twice as smart as he thought he was, he’d have been a half-wit. I did submit a full report on the business, though.”
“You don’t have to hint if you think I’m wasting your time, Tiph. I’ve read the report and Ignatius forwarded it to Dmwoski; it’s got all the facts but nothing more. What I want is the rest of it, all the details, how it felt at the time. I need to get what Mom calls the gestalt of the whole business. Also I have to know how much to tell Huon and Yseult. I’m not going to hide the essentials but there may be personal details they don’t need to know. They’re going to be here in a while, they’re fighting traffic on the rail line from Portland, but we’ll have time.”
Tiphaine sighed; the younger woman knew that talking about her own emotional states was something her Grand Constable didn’t like, as in would rather juggle live squid in a confessional booth. She also knew that likes and dislikes weren’t all that important to Tiphaine d’Ath when business was involved.
“Well,” Tiphaine said, letting her head fall back against the sofa and closing her eyes. “We finally managed to shake the CUT light cavalry off and consolidate around Hermiston, right on the old border we got after the Protector’s War.”
“Just a strip along the south bank of the river there, though.”
“Right, I spent my last day or so there securing the south flank with the CORA levies, who had all the organized cohesion of a bucket of snot. I left the rearguard there and headed back to Portland to get my finger on the pulse and start getting ready for the next enemy offensive because them getting Pendleton really screwed our position, especially south of the Columbia. Nothing between them and the Cascades except the CORA, barring Odell, though we had the castles along the river at the dams and bridges. The first thing I knew about what was going on was-”
TOWN RESIDENCE OF THE BARONS OF FOREST GROVE 878 SOUTHWEST GREEN AVENUE SUBURBS, CROWN CITY OF PORTLAND (FORMERLY PORTLAND, OREGON) PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL (FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA) SEPTEMBER 21, CHANGE YEAR 23/2021 AD
Tiphaine d’Ath woke to the sound of a little bell tinkling, and made the hand on the hilt of the sheathed dagger under her pillow relax. It was a little dangerous to wake her up directly when she’d been in the field, though even unconscious she knew Delia’s touch. She could tell Delia was not in the bed, though. At seven months gone she was a significant weight, dipping even a really good pre-Change mattress like this one.
She sighed, rubbing one hand over her eyes. Candles and two alcohol lanterns lit the room and she couldn’t tell what time it was, or for a moment where she really was. Her eyelids were a little crusted with sleep, but they didn’t burn as badly as they had when she’d collapsed into bed whenever-itwas before. She’d had a vicious migraine yesterday too, the usual one you got if you wore a helm all day with the inside padding tight around your head and were clouted a couple of times to boot, but by now it was down to a slight throb. She could still feel every overstretched tendon, bruise, wrench and minor abrasion and nick.
Long dismal experience told her that getting up and moving would warm the injured muscles and make her feel a little better. The rest needed willow extract and time; more time than it used to, at that. Her sword hand and wrist in particular felt as if someone had driven a laden wagon over them. Her page Lioncel de Stafford was standing by the bed, muffling the little bell he’d rung and looking disgustingly young-which he couldn’t help, at twelve-and fresh and blond and rested.
She sat up, running her fingers through her own tangle of pale hair and then spreading her hands out and looking at them:
