The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change (37 page)

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Authors: S. M. Stirling

Tags: #Fiction - Science Fiction, #Alternative histories (Fiction), #American Science Fiction And Fantasy, #Alternative History, #General, #Regression (Civilization), #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction - General, #Dystopias, #Fiction

BOOK: The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change
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“Oh, not as good as I hear it is for you folks, but until just recently, not so bad. We got left alone most of the time. Trouble with the fucking
wasichu
as you snakes call ’em every now and then, but what can you do? It’s a little late to say
There goes the neighborhood
.
“Nothing personal,” he added to Astrid, as Sheriff Woburn glowered a little.
“I’m a Númenórean myself,” Astrid pointed out. “House of Hador, probably.”
And one of your Real People is as blond as I am, so there
, she added to herself.
Honestly, it’s not like any of us were half-Elven or anything you could get
really
huffy-stuffy about.
Their followers and her
ohtar
had pitched camp; staking out horses on picket lines, sending working parties into the woods for dead-falls to use as firewood, and in the case of the locals unpacking food and setting to cooking dinner. That included steaks, fried potatoes, cowboy beans with garlic, bacon and onions, and frybread. Frybread with honey was one of her favorites, and after so long on cold trail rations it was all very welcome. As the evening fell the leaders leaned back against their saddles around a fire, sipping at chicory-root coffee improved with brandy. Sparks fled upward towards the bright stars as the wood cracked and popped, and a rhythmic
whoo-whoo-whoowhoo-whoo-whoo-whoo
sounded in the forest just upslope, a great gray owl proclaiming its territory to the world and especially to any other owls listening, before it set out on the evening hunt to feed the new chicks.
“So,” Eddie said, his hands busy loading a long-stemmed pipe. “OK, we still owe you one. We’ll get Red Leaf and Three Bears through to Montana. Now that we’re all supposed to be lovey-huggy with those Cutter maniacs, you can go through as Nez Perce trading horses or something.”
“The Cutters don’t have enough horses?” Alleyne asked, his officer’s mind working at the implications.
Eddie Running Horse grinned. “Not like
our
horses. Plenty of rich Ranchers and those priest-whatevers like fancy stock, let me tell you.”
He turned to the Sioux: “If pretending to be Real People doesn’t offend your dignity.”
“Bro, if it gets me back to Fox Woman and the kids alive, I’m all for it and I’ll make like a goddamn Pawnee. Or paint my face white and pretend to be a street mime, for that matter.”
His son made an inquiring sound. “Classical reference, I’ll explain later,” his father said, and then went on to the Nez Perce leader:
“Figure we could cut kitty-corner up into Drumheller and then go through the Dominions from there, it all being nice and flat along that way and not too far to their border with the Seven Council Fires.”
“Lady Sandra has given our friends a laissez-passer,” Astrid said.
At the uncomprehending looks, Alleyne amplified: “A diplomatic passport. Drumheller and Moose Jaw and Minnedosa have diplomatic relations with the Portland Protective Association; they’ll give Red Leaf and his son help and transport.”
“Doable,” Running Horse said. “Horse traders, or maybe hunters or trappers . . . that would be the best cover story, and you could stay in the panhandle almost all the way there; it’s a big country and not many people. With some good remounts, it wouldn’t take long at all this time of year. Except that the patrols’re checking a lot harder these days for draft dodgers, but you’re old enough that won’t be a problem and we could fix it up for your son here.”
A grin. “Maybe he could pretend to be deaf and dumb; I notice he doesn’t talk much anyway. Our good Sheriff Bob here could do an exemption certificate to explain why he’s not pounding his ass on a saddle in the U.S. Cavalry for the holy cause of national reunification. Which, let me tell you, we weren’t all that crazy about the
first
time.”
“I could,” Woburn said. “Not too often, but I’ve still got enough clout for an exemption. Though the way they’re centralizing everything in Boise these days, God knows how long that’ll last.”
“Draft dodgers?” Alleyne said, a keen hunter’s attention on his face. “There’s discontent with the current ruler’s policies, then?”
Running Horse laughed hollowly as he reached out to the fire and lit a pine splint from it:
“Discontent? Oh, no, no,
hell
, no. We all just
love
to die to make that buffalo-headed whistle-ass would-be emperor with a Julius Caesar complex down in Boise the fucking king of the world. If you don’t believe me, just ask
him
, or read one of the posters plastered on every wall between Drumheller and Utah.”
He lit the pipe, passed his palm over it, puffed and handed it to Astrid with a ceremonious two-handed gesture; she took a puff, fought not to cough at the fiery itch in her lungs and handed it on around the circle herself.
“Said Imperial Wannabe is also known as
Martin Thurston
,” Eddie added sardonically. “Also known as General-President of the United States Martin Thurston, and according to rumor now Beloved-of-the-Prophet-Sethaz Martin Thurston. Jesus, his dad was slow enough about getting an election going, but at least he
did
eventually get around to it and he was pretty evenhanded even while he was using the Emergency Powers Act. Official line from Number One Son is that we’ll have elections when the quote present emergency situation unquote is over. Which means sometime around the Fucking Fifth of Never, is my guess.”
“Yup, that’s about what I figured,” Woburn said in his slow deep twanging voice. “Or if we do, they’ll be ‘elections’ the way a gelding is a stallion.”
I doubt anyone elected
you
two
, Astrid thought.
Though I don’t doubt you’re popular enough. And anyone who doesn’t like the way Alleyne and Eilir and John and I run the Rangers is perfectly welcome to leave.
The Sheriff went on quietly: “My boy Tom died at Wendell when we fought the Corwin . . .
maniacs
is a pretty good word, Ed.”
“You should hear what our
tiwe-t
and
tiwata a-t
, our medicine people, say about them.”
“And ours,” Red Leaf put in.
“About the same’s what the preachers say,” Woburn said. “And the Mormons hate ’em like poison . . . Wendell, that was a fight that needed fighting; that and helping the Deseret folks. I wouldn’t be having this here conversation if old General Larry Thurston were still alive.”
“You knew him?” Astrid asked. “Personally, I mean.”
If he had, it had been after she went through. Of course, a good deal could happen in twenty-five years. Thurston had been one more refugee trying to get out of metro Seattle then.
“Yeah. I worked with him when we joined up with Boise, which was relatively peaceful, back in Change Year Four. OK, he was always a serious hard-ass, but he was an honest man too, and he meant it about putting the country back together, as near as anyone could after the Change. Then suddenly after the battle at Wendell back two years ago the President was dead and his boy was running things.”
“Which I recall you weren’t altogether against,” the Nez Perce chief said.
“Not at first. I knew Martin was smart. But then we were
allied
with the Prophet, who’s all of a sudden supposed to be helping us restore America, and then we’re fighting off in the west. And the story about Frederick Thurston being behind his father’s death. Damned suspicious I said right off, you’ll recall.”
“Not too loudly,” Eddie added.
“Nope. Lately things have happened to folks who got too loud about being unhappy.
Or
who say they don’t think young Fred was to blame for his father’s death, especially if it sounds like they had Martin in mind instead.”
“Like, Fred Thurston is any better than his big brother?”
“
Much
better,” Astrid said firmly. “And we have eyewitness testimony that it was Martin who killed his father. Finished him off after the Prophet’s men wounded him, that is. And strong suggestive evidence that he let his father’s command center be attacked by the Cutters in the hope that the President would be killed. In collusion with the Prophet.”
Woburn nodded slowly. “Yeah. I can see that. And . . .” He hesitated. “That’s what Mrs. Thurston thinks, too. Thinks that blond bitch he married put him up to it, as well. Not that he needed much persuasion, probably.”
Eddie Running Horse sat upright. “You never mentioned
that
, Bob!”
The rancher-Sheriff chuckled dryly. “Well, now, what were we saying about what happened to folks who went around flapping their lips a lot, these days? Yeah, I know Cecile. And I know some other people who know her, people who live in Boise and can pass word along.”
“Ah,” Astrid said neutrally, feeling things moving in her head, like the Watcher at the Ford beneath the waters by Durin’s Doors. “That is quite interesting, Sheriff.”
“Poor lady, I sure don’t envy her any, stuck in Boise with that son of hers, and two daughters to look after,” Woburn said. “It’d take a hard man to harm his own kin, but if the rumors are right Martin’s exactly that sort of hard man. Bad man, come to it.”
“Perhaps something could be done about that,” Astrid said, her eyes looking beyond the circle of fire for a while. “That would let young Frederick tell everyone the truth and hope to be believed, if his mother was backing him up.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Woburn said, taking a final ceremonial puff on the pipe. “He’s fallen in with some mighty strange company—this Artos fellow we hear tell of, and those knights-in-armor people and all.”
“Hey, let me tell you about Rudi,” Three Bears said, speaking up in the company of his elders for the first time. “That’s what his friends, Fred Thurston included, were calling him when he showed up in
our
country. Then—”
Astrid smiled to herself as the highly colored tale of adventure and derring-do sounded. Even compared to the Histories it made a stirring epic; and her nieces were involved with it too, to the honor of the Dúnedain and her House.
“OK, that’s impressive,” Woburn said, and Eddie nodded. “But I’m still not sure . . . I don’t want to see Idaho invaded.”
“That’s see
the United States
invaded, Bob,” Eddie said. “And if you don’t believe me—”
“Just ask Martin Thurston, yeah,” Woburn said. “It’s still our home, whatever it gets called.”
He wrapped his hand in a kerchief to reach out and pour more chicory from the tin pot balanced on a stone at the edge of the fire. At his raised brows Astrid held out her own cup. He went on as he clunked the pot back on the fire:
“Still, fighting and killing and burning on our own land . . . and then what? Those weirdos building
castles
here?”
“No, that’s not what we had in mind at all,” Alleyne said smoothly. “We . . . we Rangers and the other free communities . . . fought the Portland Protective Association and beat them, ourselves.”
More or less beat them
, Astrid admitted to herself.
Beat them enough that they abandoned any ambitions to conquer the rest of us. And that may be as much due to Norman Arminger dying as anything else; they got less greedy without him to drive them on. Or more patient, perhaps. Certainly Sandra is. Saruman in a cotehardie, if you ask me.
“They’re just one power among many, and nobody’s going to let them hand out fiefs,” her husband went on. “But we do think it’s time we stopped having wars among ourselves.”
Astrid waved her cup. “Why should we fight each other? There’s all the land and all the game and all the grazing any of us need or our children’s children will need for a very long time. Trade will make us richer than stealing.”
She signed and one of her
ohtar
handed her two small sealed bags of waxed paper, each exuding a faint rich scent.
“For example . . .”
She handed them to Woburn and Running Horse.
“The real bean?” Woburn said reverently.
“Jesus!” the Nez Perce chief whispered.
Astrid nodded. She’d never liked coffee all that much herself, despite Swedish and Danish ancestors, but she
did
love tea, and it had been a good day when the real leaf started trickling in through Astoria and Newport.
“We Rangers make our living guarding caravans and putting down bandits in peacetime, and believe me, the bandits enjoy the holiday when we’re on war-duty. And this is the new world, the Changed world. We can’t have a government that ties everything up in paper and forms anymore. The land is too
big
.”
“Got a point there,” Woburn said. “Still . . .”
“Wouldn’t it be better for Boise to be part of something bigger, but still fully autonomous within its own borders?” Alleyne asked. “And for the ruler in Boise to leave the rest of Idaho to govern themselves in most things, rather than taking your young men and crops and horses for its wars? Especially if, umm,
Reunification
could come anyway.”
“With a
King
?” Woburn asked, shaking his head.

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