Islander-style except for their near-naked toddler, but obvious immigrants. Behind them was a clamoring pack—she thought she recognized several farmers, a straw boss from one of the timber mills, and the owner of the boatyard among them.
Swindapa began to rise, then sank back as the proprietor of the inn went over, drying his hands on a corner of his apron.
“Thought you did, Sarah,” he said.
“Thought I did too, Ted.”
Swindapa did rise then, smiling, when mutual bewilderment became too obvious. She returned chuckling.
“They speak Goldenhill dialect,” she said. “Thicker than honey—I’m not surprised the sheriff couldn’t make hoof or horn of it and the poor couple were frightened out of the seven words of English they had between them. The sheriff will put them up in the Town Hall tonight and find someone to explain about contracts.”
Alston nodded approval and threw down her napkin. Everyone was short of labor, but that was no excuse for taking advantage of ignorance. Her inner smile grew to a slight curve of full lips. Jared’s seen to that. By the time the immigrant couple had put in five years they’d speak the language and be eligible for citizenship; a few years more, and they’d probably have a farm or boat or shop of their own, and be down at the docks clamoring for a chance at a hired hand themselves. And their kids would be in school.
There had been times in the Coast Guard when she’d wondered what the hell she was doing—on the Haitian refugee patrol, for instance.
Or “cooperating” with those cowboy assholes in the DEA and BAFT, she thought. If you had to be hired muscle, it was nice to work for an outfit run by actual human beings.
They took their saddlebags out; the inn’s groom had horses waiting, four-year-old Alba/Morgan crosses. Alston swung into the saddle, heeling her mount out into the road.
“Worth fighting for,” Swindapa said, indicating the town with an odd circling motion of her head.
“Let’s go tell it to the Marines, love,” Alston replied.
“Yeah, it’s coming along okay, man,” the blacksmith said, his long, sheeplike face neutral.
William Walker was always a little careful around John Martins. For one thing, the Californian ironworker hadn’t come along to Alba willingly, like the rest of his American supporters. That had taken a knife to the throat of his woman, Barbara. For another, Walker suspected that under his vaguely Buddhisty hippy-dippy exterior, Martins was capable of a really serious dislike.
“Well, should we go for a converter, or should we do the finery-chafery method?”
He looked around the raw little settlement. Walker had been to Greece a couple of times up in the Twentieth, once on Coast Guard business and once on holiday. This looked very different from what he remembered. The plain of the Eurotas River stretched away on either hand, about forty miles of it from where it left the northern mountains to where it reached the sea. More mountains lined it on either side, and they weren’t the bare limestone crags of the twentieth century, either. There hadn’t been nearly as much time for the goats and axes of men to do their work; these uplands were densely forested, pine on the higher elevations, mixed with evergreen oak and chestnut and ilex further down. The glade in which they stood was waist-high grass; the wind down from the heights smelled of fir sap. Not quite like Montana—for a bitter moment he remembered the snow peaks of the Rockies and the wild, clean smell—it was warmer, somehow, in a way that had nothing to do with the air temperature. Spicier, with scents like thyme and lavender.
“Hey, I’m just a blacksmith, man,” Martins said, hefting the sledge in his hand. “You get me iron, and I can work it.”
Walker pushed his face closer to Martins’s. The Californian was a tall man, as tall as himself, and ropily muscular. Older, of course—in his late forties now—with a ponytail more gray than brown
Swindapa began to rise, then sank back as the proprietor of the inn went over, drying his hands on a corner of his apron.
“Thought you did, Sarah,” he said.
“Thought I did too, Ted.”
Swindapa did rise then, smiling, when mutual bewilderment became too obvious. She returned chuckling.
“They speak Goldenhill dialect,” she said. “Thicker than honey—I’m not surprised the sheriff couldn’t make hoof or horn of it and the poor couple were frightened out of the seven words of English they had between them. The sheriff will put them up in the Town Hall tonight and find someone to explain about contracts.”
Alston nodded approval and threw down her napkin. Everyone was short of labor, but that was no excuse for taking advantage of ignorance. Her inner smile grew to a slight curve of full lips. Jared’s seen to that. By the time the immigrant couple had put in five years they’d speak the language and be eligible for citizenship; a few years more, and they’d probably have a farm or boat or shop of their own, and be down at the docks clamoring for a chance at a hired hand themselves. And their kids would be in school.
There had been times in the Coast Guard when she’d wondered what the hell she was doing—on the Haitian refugee patrol, for instance.
Or “cooperating” with those cowboy assholes in the DEA and BAFT, she thought. If you had to be hired muscle, it was nice to work for an outfit run by actual human beings.
They took their saddlebags out; the inn’s groom had horses waiting, four-year-old Alba/Morgan crosses. Alston swung into the saddle, heeling her mount out into the road.
“Worth fighting for,” Swindapa said, indicating the town with an odd circling motion of her head.
“Let’s go tell it to the Marines, love,” Alston replied.
“Yeah, it’s coming along okay, man,” the blacksmith said, his long, sheeplike face neutral.
William Walker was always a little careful around John Martins. For one thing, the Californian ironworker hadn’t come along to Alba willingly, like the rest of his American supporters. That had taken a knife to the throat of his woman, Barbara. For another, Walker suspected that under his vaguely Buddhisty hippy-dippy exterior, Martins was capable of a really serious dislike.
“Well, should we go for a converter, or should we do the finery-chafery method?”
He looked around the raw little settlement. Walker had been to Greece a couple of times up in the Twentieth, once on Coast Guard business and once on holiday. This looked very different from what he remembered. The plain of the Eurotas River stretched away on either hand, about forty miles of it from where it left the northern mountains to where it reached the sea. More mountains lined it on either side, and they weren’t the bare limestone crags of the twentieth century, either. There hadn’t been nearly as much time for the goats and axes of men to do their work; these uplands were densely forested, pine on the higher elevations, mixed with evergreen oak and chestnut and ilex further down. The glade in which they stood was waist-high grass; the wind down from the heights smelled of fir sap. Not quite like Montana—for a bitter moment he remembered the snow peaks of the Rockies and the wild, clean smell—it was warmer, somehow, in a way that had nothing to do with the air temperature. Spicier, with scents like thyme and lavender.
“Hey, I’m just a blacksmith, man,” Martins said, hefting the sledge in his hand. “You get me iron, and I can work it.”
Walker pushed his face closer to Martins’s. The Californian was a tall man, as tall as himself, and ropily muscular. Older, of course—in his late forties now—with a ponytail more gray than brown
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