The Tears of the Sun (69 page)

That started with the hose, also skintight and bias-cut; Sandra had told her once that it was amusing beyond words that the macho toughs of the warrior aristocracy had all ended up shaving their legs and wearing something quite close to pre-Change panty hose.

It is funny, if you think of it that way. I'd forgotten what panty hose were . . . and she didn't say, but I think part of the gleam in her eye was that it means
I
shave my legs and wear panty hose too, of course, which also wouldn't have happened without the end of the world.

Her hose were onyxine black, as was the sleeveless neck-to-thigh jerkin of butter-soft doeskin that went on next, fastened up the front with ties of braided black silk. Her shoes were black chamois as well, except for the gold buckles that secured them at each ankle, and the toes turned up—moderately, not the exaggerated length that high Court fashion decreed. The loose black knee-length houppelande overrobe had obsidian buttons and a collar open at the front and ear-high behind; the lower hem was dagged, and so were the turned-back sleeves that hung almost as low, showing the rich dark forest-green jacquard lining.

She put her arms out horizontally while the pages fastened the belt of tooled black leather around her waist. The purse on one side was largely ornamental, but the dagger on the other was ten inches long and fully functional, for all the tooling and silver cutwork on the sheath.

Lioncel insisted on getting on a stool and combing her hair, though strictly speaking that was no longer his duty, and carefully placed the chaperon hat of the nobility on her head. It was round and black, with a broad brim of rolled cloth and a long flat green tail called a liripipe down the back; he arranged the end over her right shoulder. Then he gave the livery badge above her brow a quick buff; it was Sandra's arms quartered with her own.

Two pages brought a flat carrying case. Lioncel used a key to open it, and drew out the gold chain of office he placed around her neck; with similar reverence he pinned the knot of ribbons that was Delia's favor on her upper sword-arm.

“You can carry the sword, Lioncel,” she said.

He started to grin and then composed his face gravely though his blue eyes sparkled with excitement; he'd managed to make himself quite presentable, too, in a dark brown outfit with a squire's brimless flowerpot hat.

You didn't wear a long sword to a formal meal; not these days, when Eaters or enemies were less likely to crawl down the chimney or burst through the door between the soup and the main course waving rusty kitchen knives and lusting for your flesh or at least your dinner and shoes. But a squire would carry hers behind her with the belt wound around the scabbard, sign of the High Justice and her jurisdiction throughout the Association by right of office. It was a more practical reminder than a gold chain with a heraldic medallion, since the hilt would be within reaching distance. And in the Association they didn't bother to deny that Justice carried a sword.

“Sir Rodard,” she added as she signed the pages away and picked a rose out of a vase, trimming it and threading the stem through a buttonhole, leaving the great red bloom at her throat. “Did you send that girl in with the towels?”

“Yes, of course, my lady,” he said, coming through the door and looking her over critically. “Splendid, my lady. Just the right touch of the sinister amid the dark elegance.”

“Why did you do that, may I ask?”

“Modesty, my lady. It wouldn't be fitting for a man to carry the towels into your bathing chamber.”

“Rodard, how many times have we ended up squatting over the same trench in the field?”

“This is the City Palace of the Counts of the Eastermark, my lady.”

“Bullshit. I think it was your perverse sense of humor.”

“I have been well trained in skill and courtesy, my lady.”

Tiphaine's face was blank save for a very slight lift of the eyebrow at the unspoken,
by you
.

Rodard had changed out of the plain set of battle armor; he'd be sharing the watches outside her door, but right now he was in a modest, sober set of gentlemen's evening garments, a simpler version of what she was wearing.
With
a sword, though, and she knew that particular outfit had a lining of very fine mesh-mail in the houppelande. He and his brother were very good swordsmen; she'd trained them herself, passing on what Sandra's instructors had drilled into her along with a fund of lethal experience that spanned two decades now. Along with many other skills.

“Armand's on duty right now, isn't he?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good. Get a crossbow; ordinary Armory pattern issue model. No quarrels, just the bow. Bundle it up and put it somewhere in the dining hall we'll be going to. Get it done right now, then tell Lioncel where it is before we go in.”

“At once, my lady,” he said and was gone.

“My lady?” Lioncel said.

“Was that a
question
, squire?”

“No, my lady.”

There was a stamp and clash outside the door when she left; five crossbowmen in three-quarter armor came to attention, and three men-at-arms headed by Armand. She returned the salute and nodded aside slightly. The new-made knight stepped close enough not to be overheard.

“How would you get into those guest chambers, Sir Armand?”

Armand had the curved semicircular visor of his sallet helm up; it stuck out like the brim of a billed cap as he turned his head thoughtfully upward.

“Up the old elevator shafts to the storage levels,” he said after a tensecond pause. “If they're anything like what I've seen in pre-Change buildings elsewhere they'll be very climbable.”

Then another pause, and: “Hide until around three o'clock in the morning, then rappel down to one of the windows of the suite I wanted. A diamond-coated cutting cable would go through those grills in a few minutes; they're just mild steel. I'd have used alloy there, myself, even if it's harder to work into pretty vines.”

“How long?”

“The trip down and getting into the suite, fifteen minutes. Depending on how alert my lord the Count's guards are; but usually, men don't look up.”

“My thoughts exactly. Your suggestion?”

“Four men awake at all times in our quarters, moving in pairs between the rooms in the guest suite, beside the guard on the door here.”

“See to it. And would you have any difficulty in getting into the palace, given the perimeter wall and security arrangements you saw?”

“My lady, it's commendable that the Count feels no need of any great precautions against his people.”

“Plain English, please, Sir Armand. Could you get in, and unobserved?”

“My lady, Rodard or I could do that at any time of day or night. Naked, while riding on a grizzly bear and playing a mandolin.”

“My thoughts exactly, for the second time.”

Lord Rigobert met her at the top of the main staircase. He was in much the same type of outfit as she, except that his houppelande and hose were parti-colored, scarlet on the right and pale gold on the left, and the liripipe was much longer, reaching to the level of his belt of gold links wrought in twining patterns with cabucon-cut garnets for the grapes. She had to admit that he could carry it off magnificently, and it went well with the arrogant jut of his short golden beard and large, shapely but scarred warrior hands. He bowed her forward, giving her a step's precedence.

“Lord Rigobert,” she said quietly over her shoulder.

They walked downward past an honor guard on the landing where the staircase turned to the ground floor; that was the family quarters, and she was pleased to see strong grillwork doors on either side, evidently closed and guarded at night.

Not
totally
trusting. Or his father wasn't, and established the routine.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Does it strike you that this city is probably swarming with every possible variety of enemy agent?”

“Not a bit, Lady Tiphaine,” Rigobert said. “The influx of refugees and troops from everywhere on our side and other strangers and general confusion would make it nearly impossible for anyone to slip in unnoticed.”

“Ha ha big fucking ha, Rigobert, everyone's a court jester tonight.”

“My guard captain is taking precautions, entirely serious ones.”

“So is mine, but we need to talk to the Count after the dinner; I don't think he's considered the implications of us all being here for this one night.”

 

As promised, the dinner was relatively small and select. The dining chamber was medium-sized, and windowless; the gaslights on their bright, expensive incandescent mantels showed murals of sporting scenes set in the Blue Mountains on the walls, with hounds coursing a stag on one side and a grizzly bear at bay before hunters with spears on the other. Those were far enough from the T-shaped table that she was fairly confident that nobody could eavesdrop through hidden grills, even with a focusing horn behind it.

A herald blew a short note as Tiphaine entered, then announced her, without the annoying bellow some used:

“Lady Tiphaine d'Ath, Baroness of Ath and tenant-in-chief, Knight-Commander of the most noble order of the Golden Horseshoe, Grand Constable of the armies of the Portland Protective Association! Lord Rigobert Gironda de Stafford, Baron Forest Grove and tenant-in-chief, Marchwarden of the South!”

The usher directed her to the seat on the Count's right; and there was a sudden tormenting smell of things grilled and boiled and simmered as the wheeled trays came in. The archbishop rose and said an elaborate grace; he was three seats to the left of the Count. The ceremonial jeweled saltcellar was at the junction of the upper and lower tables; the Count, his lady, principal landed vassals and noble officers like the city castellan were at the upper table. She noticed Baron Tucannon, both because of the distinctive red hair and because they'd been discussing him earlier. And if she was any judge, a number of the other vassal barons were listening to him very carefully.

Below the salt were the important commoners. Those included the Lord Mayor of the city, the guildmasters who headed their militia regiments, and a middle-aged abbess and a younger attendant in the dark blue habit and white wimple of the Sisters of Compassion, a medical order who'd spread widely in the last generation and who were apparently in charge of the hospital and clinics in the area.

Tiphaine did more listening than speaking as the meal was served; the locals were talking business, and to the point, although they were also often taking up arguments and discussions they'd been at for months or years. Most of them seemed to be in good heart, and not just because of the Sword and the return of Rudi and Mathilda.

Meanwhile she ate; tiny venison sausages with candied apples, a green salad with goat cheese and the famous sweet onions of the area, a
frito misto
of seasonal vegetables, and . . .

She chewed a bite slowly and swallowed. “That is possibly the best steak I've ever tasted,” she said. “And I
like
steak.”

Tender, the firm marbled meat brushed with an oil infused with garlic and herbs before it was put on the grill, slightly seared at high heat on the outside and red in the center . . .

“We have sacrificed a good deal of our demesne herd of Aberdeen Angus,” Countess Ermentrude said. “With the disturbed conditions it was necessary.”

She was a pale willowy young woman in a chocolate-colored cote-hardie and twin-peaked headdress, about five months pregnant and with a roundvoweled accent that Tiphaine took a moment to identify as from one of the very northernmost baronies.

Sandra had always encouraged marriages between distant fiefs and lordly families of different backgrounds, to keep the PPA's elite united. In fact, it was one reason why noble houses were strongly encouraged—required, practically speaking—to send some of their scions to Portland and Todenangst and the university at Forest Grove for a few years to mingle with their peers of the same ages.

The abbess spoke, unexpectedly; she'd been silent except when something relevant to her Order's area of operation had come up, and she and her attendant had been dining sparely on the salad and the excellent local bread, drinking water rather than the equally excellent local wines.

“The Lady Countess fails to note that most of those cattle were donated to our clinics and the public soup kitchens we and the regular clergy have established for the displaced,” she said.

I don't think that's brown-nosing, she really likes her,
Tiphaine decided.
Evidently Ermentrude takes her duties seriously.

A lord's wife was supposed to be the one who organized welfare measures in the lord's fief; it was a real and demanding job, if done properly. Unofficially she was also supposed to be the voice whispering in his ear that tempered justice with mercy. Delia certainly worked hard at both in Ath and Forest Grove.