women’s cheerful chat and banter. It’s not normal for visitors to show up unannounced in the middle of a blizzard. There might be something wrong. Rose waits on the stone terrace, bundled up in a bright woolen shawl, allreds and rusts and oranges, as if she could banish, with bold wielding of the spectrum, the approaching gloom of night. Her often stern face is lit with a womanly anticipation, and N’Doch recalls that according to the girl, this Hal, if it’s him at all, is Rose’s lover. The girl is there next to her, front and center to greet him, but she’s still looking worried. Even more so than usual.
He hears a soft rhythmic chink, metal against metal. The riders fade into view at last, darker shadows rising up through a field of darkening gray. They are hooded, and wearing epaulets of snow. N’Doch realizes he’s gripping his stick as if his life depended on it. He relaxes his fingers inside his gloves, but not his stare. Margit rides ahead, then two men abreast and one behind. Reflexively, N’Doch susses out the power structure: Margit, of course, the guide. Then the Chief Honcho, the tall guy on the left, alert but relaxed. To the right, the challenger. He decides this due to the tense, forward jut of the guy’s chin and the angled slope of his shoulders. And then behind, erect and on edge, the Bodyguard. N’Doch thinks this one looks less sure of himself than the others, but all three of these guys look as tough as any gang leader he’s ever known. For that matter, so does Margit. He can almost smell the aura of blood and gunpowder they bring with them. Well, no, probably not gunpowder. Not yet. He looks for weapons, sees none. Now he wishes he’d taken Papa Dja up on some of those history books he was always offering. He’d like to know what to expect.
They pull up in the center of the yard. Margit vaults off her horse and the dogs fall silent, like this is some sort of signal. The women crowd around immediately, reaching for bridles and reins, calling out greetings. The horses are steaming. Ice stiffens their manes and tails, mounding up in the straps and buckles of the tack. A laden packhorse straggles in out of the gloom and is led aside.
The tall man on the left swings stiffly out of his saddle. He shrugs back his hood, brushing snow from the folds of his cloak. In the glow of lantern light, N’Doch catches a metallic glint in the wide cuffs of the man’s gloves, and in the close-fitting headgear worn under his hood. Curious, N’Doch steps in a little closer, until he can make out the fine steel links meshed together, and understands that theman has on body armor.
Chain mail.
The term floats up from some memory of an ancient history vid. Wow, N’Doch marvels. I’m seeing knights in armor.
The Honcho wears a tired, apologetic air. But he calls over his shoulder to the Bodyguard in the low kind of voice that carries, casual with command. “You may uncover, Wender.”
“Yes, my lord.”
My lord.
N’Doch’s never heard anyone say that for real before, and it might strike him funny if this wasn’t clearly such serious biz. The musician in him relishes the addition of a few bass notes to the symphony of women’s voices he’s listened to for so many days. And he notes approvingly that Margit has been sensible about security. Before shoving off his hood, the Bodyguard yanks down the blindfold he’s worn for the inward journey and lets it hang knotted at his throat. He blinks and looks around.
The Honcho hauls off a glove and combs back his mesh headpiece, revealing cropped gray hair, a damp, weathered face worn thin with travel, and a flash of red within the darkness of his cloak. N’Doch studies him. An older man, not old. Still strong and vital, but with a lifetime’s hard messages revising his features. Raven has come forward to meet him and is holding his horse’s bridle. His smile speaks mostly of relief as he bends to plant a quick kiss on her cheek. “Can’t fight worth a
He hears a soft rhythmic chink, metal against metal. The riders fade into view at last, darker shadows rising up through a field of darkening gray. They are hooded, and wearing epaulets of snow. N’Doch realizes he’s gripping his stick as if his life depended on it. He relaxes his fingers inside his gloves, but not his stare. Margit rides ahead, then two men abreast and one behind. Reflexively, N’Doch susses out the power structure: Margit, of course, the guide. Then the Chief Honcho, the tall guy on the left, alert but relaxed. To the right, the challenger. He decides this due to the tense, forward jut of the guy’s chin and the angled slope of his shoulders. And then behind, erect and on edge, the Bodyguard. N’Doch thinks this one looks less sure of himself than the others, but all three of these guys look as tough as any gang leader he’s ever known. For that matter, so does Margit. He can almost smell the aura of blood and gunpowder they bring with them. Well, no, probably not gunpowder. Not yet. He looks for weapons, sees none. Now he wishes he’d taken Papa Dja up on some of those history books he was always offering. He’d like to know what to expect.
They pull up in the center of the yard. Margit vaults off her horse and the dogs fall silent, like this is some sort of signal. The women crowd around immediately, reaching for bridles and reins, calling out greetings. The horses are steaming. Ice stiffens their manes and tails, mounding up in the straps and buckles of the tack. A laden packhorse straggles in out of the gloom and is led aside.
The tall man on the left swings stiffly out of his saddle. He shrugs back his hood, brushing snow from the folds of his cloak. In the glow of lantern light, N’Doch catches a metallic glint in the wide cuffs of the man’s gloves, and in the close-fitting headgear worn under his hood. Curious, N’Doch steps in a little closer, until he can make out the fine steel links meshed together, and understands that theman has on body armor.
Chain mail.
The term floats up from some memory of an ancient history vid. Wow, N’Doch marvels. I’m seeing knights in armor.
The Honcho wears a tired, apologetic air. But he calls over his shoulder to the Bodyguard in the low kind of voice that carries, casual with command. “You may uncover, Wender.”
“Yes, my lord.”
My lord.
N’Doch’s never heard anyone say that for real before, and it might strike him funny if this wasn’t clearly such serious biz. The musician in him relishes the addition of a few bass notes to the symphony of women’s voices he’s listened to for so many days. And he notes approvingly that Margit has been sensible about security. Before shoving off his hood, the Bodyguard yanks down the blindfold he’s worn for the inward journey and lets it hang knotted at his throat. He blinks and looks around.
The Honcho hauls off a glove and combs back his mesh headpiece, revealing cropped gray hair, a damp, weathered face worn thin with travel, and a flash of red within the darkness of his cloak. N’Doch studies him. An older man, not old. Still strong and vital, but with a lifetime’s hard messages revising his features. Raven has come forward to meet him and is holding his horse’s bridle. His smile speaks mostly of relief as he bends to plant a quick kiss on her cheek. “Can’t fight worth a
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