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Feeding, burping, and tucking-in over, the child went to sleep again with limp finality.
"That's a relief, after Heather," she said, sliding back into the bed. "She always wanted to stay up and play. Where was I?"
"Aywo! Cold hands!"
"The water's cold," Marian said reasonably. "You'd object a lot more if I hadn't washed them."
"Mmmmm. Did we… how's it go… suck in Isketerol with the hostage scheme, or did he suck in us?"
"That's 'sucker,' sugar, 'sucker him,' or 'take him in.' We'll find out in about ten years, I suspect…"
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
December. 10 A.E.-Nantucket Town, Republic of Nantucket
December, 10 A.E.-Rivendell, Kingdom of Great Achaea
February, 11 A.E.-Central Sicily, Kingdom of Great Achaea
February, 11 A.E.-Syracuse, Kingdom of Great Achaea
April, 11 A.E.-Central Anatolia, Kingdom of Hatti-land
Why in the name of God didn't we deep-six this ridiculous so-called tradition right after the Event?" Jared Cofflin demanded.
"Because keeping it up made people feel better," Martha Cofflin said succinctly. "We did condense it. Hold still."
He did, as she stuck the white mustache to his upper lip. At least he wouldn't be sweating as much in this damned Santa suit when they got outside; late December in Nantucket was God-damned cold, Gulf Stream or no Gulf Stream. The Coast Guard tug was warm enough, with the boiler right below this miniature bridge. Not far away her skipper pulled on a lanyard, doing a creditable imitation of "Jingle Bells" in a series of cheery toots from the steam whistle.
The little side-wheeler swung in alongside the T-sectioned pier at the head of Old North Wharf. A huge crowd was waiting, big white snowflakes falling on fur caps and knitted toques, children held up to see or sitting on their parents' shoulders. More snow hung on rooftops, and made a white tracery of the rigging of sloop and schooner and square-rigger across the width of the harbor. Lanterns gleamed everywhere, soft flame light in the pearly fog, and hissing torches stood high; behind them the church spires and rooftops showed like outlines in a Currier amp; Ives print.
"Ho, ho, humbug," Cofflin muttered.
Back before the Event, the Christmas Stroll had just meant more work for then-Chief of Police Jared Cofflin. At least that hadn't changed…
The crowd cheered as he shouldered his sack and walked down the gangplank. He waved back, gri
Amateur choirs struck up "Silent Night" as he walked up the wharf and up Main Street; it was anything but, though. The big covered market to his left where the old A amp;P had been was roaring, food stalls mainly, handing out eggnog and sausages in buns and grilled lobster tail on a stick and baked apples. A lot of mulled cider was going around, too, and these days cider had quite a kick. Main was pretty well clear of spectators except on the packed sidewalks and at every window and side street, but a big bunch of Fiernan dancers circled 'round him as he went up it; this was an important festival time for them, too, when Moon Woman danced the reluctant Sun back to warm the earth.
At least we persuaded the chariot boys not to sacrifice their horse, bull, and hound right here, he thought-and before the Alban War back home, they'd have given Sky Father a man, too, so the boss-god would be strong enough to chain the Wolf that would otherwise eat the sun and leave the world in eternal darkness.
They probably do still do that over there, when nobody's looking, treaty or no treaty.
At the head of Main he climbed the steps of the Pacific Bank. "Merry Christmas!" he called.
"Merry Christmas!" the thousands roared back-or versions of "Happy Solstice Festival" in a round dozen languages. The dancers went into a whirling, cartwheeling frenzy.
"Light 'em up!"
There were half a dozen big Christmas trees down the middle of the street, strung with an amazing assortment of ornaments pre-and post-Event; he rather liked the little carved painted horses that some of the Alban immigrants made. At his wave tapers were lit and touched to dozens of candles set on branches-and each tree had its own watcher with a bucket of water, now; those weren't electric lights…
A sleigh pulled up at the steps, and he climbed in; Martha was already there. At least this year there was enough snow to use a sleigh; you couldn't always count on that. The team that pulled it was a pair of glossy hairy-hoofed giants, Brandt Farms' contribution to the festivities. Jared Cofflin resigned himself to ho-hoing his way 'round town as the horses took off in a silver jingle of bells and thump of platter-sized hooves on packed snow. The driver whistled under his breath as they drove, but at least it wasn't a carol.
Moving through the streets, the sleigh seemed to carry its own bubble of yellow light in a world of snow-streamers. Carolers and impromptu games of street hockey and people just moving about for the pleasure of it waved.
"Dispatch came in just now," Martha murmured in his ear. "Package from Marian and 'dapa, and the details on the text of the agreement with Tartessos. And a radio from Doreen in Hattusas… that's got some significant material in it. She wants authorization for a plan with some really radical potential…"
"Ho, ho," Jared said hollowly. Chief executives, policemen, and parents had something in common-they were always on call. "Let me have it."
When he got home at last it was a relief to sink into an armchair in his own living room, with the hideous fungus off his face, sensible clothes on, a fire crackling, and a glass of eggnog of his own at his elbow while he supervised the opening of presents and the smells from the kitchen made his nose twitch. His parents had always kept the day itself for going to church, and he and Martha had kept that up once they had a brood of their own.
Marian's two enjoyed their own presents; especially what their mothers had sent back from the Tartessian lands, a sack of precious oranges and lemons-those were expensive luxuries these days-parkas and gloves of beautifully ta
"Uncle Jared! We've got a brother] A real baby brother]"
"Ayup," he said, as they bounced around making plans for things they would do to and with him-you'd have thought the lad was eight, not a nursing infant.
And we've got a peace with Tartessos, thank God, he thought, closing his eyes for a second and thanking God indeed. There were entirely too many new names on the fresh stone slab down by the Town Building, but fewer than he'd feared.
Please, may we get rid of Walker without paying too much of
a butcher's bill. Enough. It's Christmas; you can worry tomorrow.
"Did you get any letters, Uncle Jared?" they asked.
"Ayup," he said. "From your mothers, and from Aunt Doreen. But they were business."
"Like, let the revels begin!" John Martins said, and repeated it in the gloriously ungrammatical Achaean. Ian Arnstein had grown used to in the past few weeks and visits. Odikweos allowed it, as long as the guards were along.